"I have just seen the fiacre turn into the Rue Petit-Banquier. That is what made me run so."
"How do you know that it was the same fiacre?"
"Because I took notice of the number, so there!"
"What was the number?"
"440."
"Good, you are a clever girl."
The girl stared boldly at her father, and showing the shoes which she had on her feet:--
"A clever girl, possibly; but I tell you I won''t put these shoes on again, and that I won''t, for the sake of my health, in the first place, and for the sake of cleanliness, in the next. I don''t know anything more irritating than shoes that squelch, and go ghi, ghi, ghi, the whole time.
I prefer to go barefoot."
"You are right," said her father, in a sweet tone which contrasted with the young girl''s rudeness, "but then, you will not be allowed to enter churches, for poor people must have shoes to do that. One cannot go barefoot to the good God," he added bitterly.
Then, returning to the subject which absorbed him:--
"So you are sure that he will come?"
"He is following on my heels," said she.
The man started up.
A sort of illumination appeared on his countenance.
"Wife!" he exclaimed, "you hear.
Here is the philanthropist. Extinguish the fire."
The stupefied mother did not stir.
The father, with the agility of an acrobat, seized a broken-nosed jug which stood on the chimney, and flung the water on the brands.