In a strong provincial accent he repeated, "_Plait-il_?" and
stood aghast till she had explained herself three times; then suddenly
exclaiming, "Ah! c'est ca;"--he collected his tools precipitately, and
followed to obey her orders. The door of the room was at last forced
half open, for a press that had been overturned prevented its opening
entirely. The horrible smells that issued did not overcome Madame de
Fleury's humanity: she squeezed her way into the room, and behind the
fallen press saw three little children: the youngest, almost an infant,
ceased roaring, and ran to a corner; the eldest, a boy of about eight
years old, whose face and clothes were covered with blood, held on his
knee a girl younger than himself, whom he was trying to pacify, but who
struggled most violently and screamed incessantly, regardless of Madame
de Fleury, to whose questions she made no answer.
"Where are you hurt, my dear?" repeated Madame de Fleury in a soothing
voice. "Only tell me where you feel pain?"
The boy, showing his sister's arm, said, in a surly tone--"It is this
that is hurt--but it was not I did it."
"It was, it _was_!" cried the girl as loud as she could vociferate: "it
was Maurice threw me down from the top of the press."
"No--it was you that were pushing me, Victoire, and you fell
backwards.--Have done screeching, and show your arm to the lady.
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