out of mischief she thought it wisest to leave them alone. And so
she left them in the present instance, pushing her window open as
she sat and knitted, for the air was warm and balmy, and the long
rays of sunshine streaming across the square were of the hue of a
ripe nectarine just gathered, and the delicate mouldings and
traceries and statues on the porch of the Cathedral appeared like so
many twinings of grey gossamer web glistening in a haze of gold. Now
and then neighbours passed, and nodded or called a greeting which
Madame Patoux answered cheerily, still knitting vivaciously; and the
long shafts of sunshine grew longer, casting deeper shadows as the
quarters chimed. All at once there was a cry,--a woman's figure came
rushing precipitately across the square,--Madame Patoux sprang up,
and her children ran out of the porch as they recognised Martine
Doucet.

"Martine! Martine! What is it!" they all cried simultaneously.

Martine, breathless, dishevelled, laughing and sobbing alternately,
tried to speak, but could only gesticulate and throw up her hands in
a kind of ecstasy, but whether of despair or joy could not be
guessed. Madame Patoux shook her by the arm.

"Martine!--speak--what is it!"

Martine made a violent effort.

"Fabien!--Fabien--" she gasped, flinging herself to and fro and
still sobbing and laughing.

"Mon Dieu!" cried Madame in horror. "Is the child dead?"