Once or twice Marie gave her food,
and the poor creature attached herself to her like a dog, followed her
upstairs and lay across her door. After a while Madame Didier admitted
her into her room at times, and let her share her poor meals, and sleep
on a heap of sacking outside the door. Perine, in such prosperity, was
as happy as a queen. It is true that Plon at first objected, but Marie
could persuade him into anything, and he only grumbled.
On one winter day, Marie was stooping over the stove stirring something
in an earthen pipkin; Perine, seated on the wooden stool, leaned forward
and watched her operations with excessive interest. Perhaps for want of
an intelligent companion, Madame Didier was in the habit of
soliloquising aloud, and at this moment she was saying cheerfully:
"Not much, to be sure, but something! I should have liked a carrot or
two, but in these hard times that would have been extravagant. And,
after all, there is some credit in making good soup out of nothing at
all. If one could run here and there in the market--'A pound of your
best veal, monsieur'--'A bunch of those fine turnips, and a stick of
celery, madame'--well, truth obliges me to admit that it is possible
the soup would have a finer flavour, but there would not be the
satisfaction of seeing it grow out of a few onions a crust of bread, and
a pinch of salt.
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