The Dream | Page 4

of a little bird that had just fallen from its nest.
They went in. Hubert shut the door, while Hubertine, bearing her
burden, passed through the front room, which served as a parlour, and
where some embroidered bands were spread out for show before the

great square window. Then she went into the kitchen, the old servants'
hall, preserved almost intact, with its heavy beams, its flagstone floor
mended in a dozen places, and its great fireplace with its stone
mantelpiece. On shelves were the utensils, the pots, kettles, and
saucepans, that dated back one or two centuries; and the dishes were of
old stone, or earthenware, and of pewter. But on the middle of the
hearth was a modern cooking-stove, a large cast-iron one, whose
copper trimmings were wondrously bright. It was red from heat, and
the water was bubbling away in its boiler. A large porringer, filled with
coffee-and-milk, was on one corner of it.
"Oh! how much more comfortable it is here than outside," said Hubert,
as he put the bread down on a heavy table of the style of Louis XIII,
which was in the centre of the room. "Now, seat this poor little creature
near the stove that she may be thawed out!"
Hubertine had already placed the child close to the fire, and they both
looked at her as she slowly regained consciousness. As the snow that
covered her clothes melted it fell in heavy drops. Through the holes of
her great shoes they could see her little bruised feet, whilst the thin
woollen dress designed the rigidity of her limbs and her poor body,
worn by misery and pain. She had a long attack of nervous trembling,
and then opened her frightened eyes with the start of an animal which
suddenly awakes from sleep to find itself caught in a snare. Her face
seemed to sink away under the silken rag which was tied under her chin.
Her right arm appeared to be helpless, for she pressed it so closely to
her breast.
"Do not be alarmed, for we will not hurt you. Where did you come
from? Who are you?"
But the more she was spoken to the more frightened she became,
turning her head as if someone were behind her who would beat her.
She examined the kitchen furtively, the flaggings, the beams, and the
shining utensils; then her glance passed through the irregular windows
which were left in the ancient opening, and she saw the garden clear to
the trees by the Bishop's house, whose white shadows towered above
the wall at the end, while at the left, as if astonished at finding itself

there, stretched along the whole length of the alley the Cathedral, with
its Romanesque windows in the chapels of its apses. And again, from
the heat of the stove which began to penetrate her, she had a long attack
of shivering, after which she turned her eyes to the floor and remained
quiet.
"Do you belong to Beaumont? Who is your father?"
She was so entirely silent that Hubert thought her throat must be too
dry to allow her to speak.
Instead of questioning her he said: "We would do much better to give
her a cup of coffee as hot as she can drink it."
That was so reasonable that Hubertine immediately handed her the cup
she herself held. Whilst she cut two large slices of bread and buttered
them, the child, still mistrustful, continued to shrink back; but her
hunger was too great, and soon she ate and drank ravenously. That
there need not be a restraint upon her, the husband and wife were silent,
and were touched to tears on seeing her little hand tremble to such a
degree that at times it was difficult for her to reach her mouth. She
made use only of her left hand, for her right arm seemed to be fastened
to her chest. When she had finished, she almost broke the cup, which
she caught again by an awkward movement of her elbow.
"Have you hurt your arm badly?" Hubertine asked. "Do not be afraid,
my dear, but show it to me."
But as she was about to touch it the child rose up hastily, trying to
prevent her, and as in the struggle she moved her arm, a little
pasteboard-covered book, which she had hidden under her dress,
slipped through a large tear in her waist. She tried to take it, and when
she saw her unknown hosts open and begin to read it, she clenched her
fist in anger.
It was an official certificate, given by the Administration des Enfants
Assistes in the Department of the Seine. On the first page, under a
medallion containing a likeness of Saint Vincent de Paul, were the

printed prescribed forms.