taken refuge in the laundry. It was there that Madame Desvarennes found
her, playing, plainly dressed in a little alpaca frock, her pretty hair
loose and falling on her shoulders. She looked astonished at what she
had seen; silent, not daring to run or sing as formerly in the great
desolate house whence the master had just been taken away forever.

With the vague instinct of abandoned children who seek to attach
themselves to some one or some thing, Jeanne clung to Madame Desvarennes,
who, ready to protect, and longing for maternity, took the child in her
arms. The gardener's wife acted as guide during her visit over the
property. Madame Desvarennes questioned her. She knew nothing of the
child except what she had heard from the servants when they gossiped in
the evenings about their late master. They said Jeanne was a bastard.
Of her relatives they knew nothing. The Count had an aunt in England who
was married to a rich lord; but he had not corresponded with her lately.
The little one then was reduced to beggary as the estate was to be sold.

The gardener's wife was a good woman and was willing to keep the child
until the new proprietor came; but when once affairs were settled, she
would certainly go and make a declaration to the mayor, and take her to
the workhouse. Madame Desvarennes listened in silence. One word only
had struck her while the woman was speaking. The child was without
support, without ties, and abandoned like a poor lost dog. The little
one was pretty too; and when she fixed her large deep eyes on that
improvised mother, who pressed her so tenderly to her heart, she seemed
to implore her not to put her down, and to carry her away from the
mourning that troubled her mind and the isolation that froze her heart.

Madame Desvarennes, very superstitious, like a woman of the people, began
to think that, perhaps, Providence had brought her to Cernay that day and