"Ah, dear ring," she murmured, "once you were his, and you shall
be his again. You shall be on his finger, and perhaps touch his
heart. Dear ring, ma chere petite de ma coeur, cherie de ma
coeur. Je t'aime, je t'aime, oui, oui. You are his; you were
mine once too. To-night, just one night, I'll keep
you--then--to-morrow, you shall go where you can save him."
The loud whistles and horns of the little ones rose on the balmy
air next morning. No one would doubt it was Christmas Day, even
if doors and windows were open wide to let in cool air. Why,
there was Christmas even in the very look of the mules on the
poky cars; there was Christmas noise in the streets, and
Christmas toys and Christmas odours, savoury ones that made the
nose wrinkle approvingly, issuing from the kitchen. Michel and
Madame Laurent smiled greetings across the street at each other,
and the salutation from a passer-by recalled the many-progenied
landlady to herself.
"Miss Sophie, well, po' soul, not ver' much Chris'mas for her.
Mais, I'll jus' call him in fo' to spen' the day with me. Eet'll
cheer her a bit."
It was so clean and orderly within the poor little room. Not a
speck of dust or a litter of any kind on the quaint little
old-time high bureau, unless you might except a sheet of paper
lying loose with something written on it. Titiche had evidently
inherited his prying propensities, for the landlady turned it
over and read,--
LOUIS,--Here is the ring.
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