afterwards went anywhere else. Madelon had the most lively,
pleasant recollections of the stout motherly landlady, whose
store of bonbons and confitures had been absolutely endless.
Of all her friends in this class, Madame Bertrand had been the
one to whom she had most attached herself, and now it was
almost with the feeling of finding herself at home that she
saw the hotel before her.


The door stood open, and she went into the small hall, or
rather passage, which ran through the house, ending in another
door, which, also open, afforded a green view of many currant
and gooseberry bushes in Madame Bertrand's garden. To the
right was the staircase, to the left the _salle-à-manger_, a low
room with two windows looking on to the Place, and furnished
with half-a-dozen small round tables, for the hotel was of too
unpretentious a nature to aspire to a _table d'hôte_; the floor
lacked polish, and the furniture was shabby, yet the room had
a friendly look to our homeless Madelon, as a frequent
resting-place in such wanderings to and fro as had been hers
in former years. She went in. A man was sitting at one of the
tables, a tall bottle of red wine at his side, and a dish of
cutlets before him, eating his late _déjeuner_, and reading a
newspaper; whilst a waiter moved about, arranging knives and
forks, table-napkins, and _pistolets_, with occasional pauses
for such glimpses of the outer world as could be obtained
through the muslin curtains hanging before the somewhat dingy
windows.

"Is Madame Bertrand at home?" asked Madelon, coming up to him.