"It must be heavenly, mademoiselle, to walk in the streets quite alone,"
said one of Mademoiselle Brun's pupils to her one day.

"It is," was the reply; "especially near the gutter."

But this afternoon there was no conversation, for the literature class
knew that Mademoiselle Brun was in a contrary humour.

"She is looking at that dear Denise with discontented eyes. She is in a
shocking temper," had been the whispered warning from mouth to mouth.

And in truth Mademoiselle Brun constantly glanced down the length of the
schoolroom to where Denise was sitting. But a seeing eye could well
perceive that it was not with Denise, but with the schoolroom, that the
little old woman was discontented. Perhaps she had at times a cruel
thought that the Rue des Saints Peres, emphasized as it were by the Rue
du Cherche-Midi, was hardly gay for a young life. Perhaps the soft touch
of spring that was in the March air stirred up restless longings in the
soul of this little grey town-mouse.

And while she was watching Denise, the cross-grained old nun who acted as
concierge to this quiet house came into the room, and handed Denise a
long blue envelope.

"It is addressed in a man's handwriting," she said warningly.

"Then let us by all means send for the tongs," answered Denise, taking
the letter with a mock air of alarm.