_That_ was an old woman, in a bonnet which had spent six months in a
show-case, a very pretentious gown and a faded tartan shawl, whose
face had been buried twenty years of her life in a damp lodge, and
whose swollen hand-bag betokened no better social position than that
of an ex-portress. With her was a slim little girl, whose eyes,
fringed with black lashes, had lost their innocence and showed great
weariness; her face, of a pretty shape, was fresh and her hair
abundant, her forehead charming but audacious, her bust thin,--in
other words, an unripe fruit.

"That," replied Bixiou, "is a rat tied to its mother."

"A rat!--what's that?"

"That particular rat," said Leon, with a friendly nod to Mademoiselle
Ninette, "may perhaps win your suit for you."

Gazonal bounded; but Bixiou had held him by the arm ever since they
left the cafe, thinking perhaps that the flush on his face was rather
vivid.

"That rat, who is just leaving a rehearsal at the Opera-house, is
going home to eat a miserable dinner, and will return about three
o'clock to dress, if she dances in the ballet this evening--as she
will, to-day being Monday. This rat is already an old rat for she is
thirteen years of age. Two years from now that creature may be worth
sixty thousand francs; she will be all or nothing, a great danseuse or
a marcheuse, a celebrated person or a vulgar courtesan. She has worked
hard since she was eight years old. Such as you see her, she is worn