I made such a sudden movement that Balloquet cried:

"What struck you then? cramp in the leg? a twist in the tendon, perhaps?

That catches you sometimes in walking."

"No, I--I turned my foot. But you said: 'It's all over!'--What is it that's all over? Do you mean that you are already the fortunate vanquisher of that lady?"

"No, no! not at all! just the opposite! I said it was all over, because she gave me my walking ticket, I mean my dismissal. Oh! but she did it in the most amiable, the most courteous way--impossible to take offence.

You were quite right when you told me that I should waste my time."

I was conscious of a thrill of satisfaction, of happiness, that I could not describe. Poor Balloquet! I pitied him then. I pressed his arm affectionately, and said:

"Come, tell me the whole story, my friend."

"Oh! it didn't last long. I offered my arm, as I say, and she accepted it at last. On my way, I resumed my role of gallant--I believe that I even ventured upon a declaration of love. We drank quite a lot at dinner, you know.--Your Rosette would do well to marry a dealer in sponges!--In short, I was very animated, my words flowed like running water. She made no reply whatever.--'It's because she is moved,' I said to myself. We reached her door, and I asked permission to go upstairs for a moment. That was a little abrupt, I agree; but when one has heated the iron so hot----"

"Well?"

"At that, the lady halted in front of me and said, in a tone at once ironical and imposing: 'Monsieur Balloquet, the day is at an end; all that you have said to me thus far I have listened to as a sort of continuation of the impromptu excursion to the country which made us acquainted. During a day of follies, it is not against the law to say foolish things. To-morrow, it would be unbecoming. You are very agreeable, monsieur, and you are Rochebrune's friend; in that capacity, I shall always be glad to see you when chance brings us together. But let there be no more talk of love between us, monsieur; that is a pa.s.sion to which I have said adieu. And if I should have a fancy to renew my acquaintance with it, I tell you frankly that I should not apply to you for that purpose. So, au revoir, and no ill feeling!'--With that, she held out her hand, pressed mine warmly, and shut her door in my face. Well, my friend, on my word of honor, I am not in the least offended with her; for she's no coquette; she doesn't lure you on with false hopes, but says to you at once: 'It's like this and like that!'--You know what to expect. I will be true to Satine. Poor Satine!

But I'll tell her to put less rose on her gloves. Never mind; she's a fine woman, is Madame Dauberny; I can't understand why you've never thought of making love to her."

Did he propose to set up as an echo of Baron von Brunzbrack?

When Balloquet left me, I squeezed his hand so hard that I made him cry out. Really, he was a very good fellow, was Balloquet, and I was very fond of him! How in the devil could I ever have dreamed that Frederique would listen to him? There was not the slightest bond of sympathy between them.

Now that I was no longer tormented by that business, I remembered Mignonne and Madame Potrelle, and how coldly and absent-mindedly I had listened to what that good woman told me. Mignonne's child was ill, and the poor mother was in need of a thousand things to nurse her properly!

Suppose I should go to see her, to encourage her? She would receive me ill, perhaps; but, no matter! I no longer felt in the mood to take offence.

I started for Rue Menilmontant. Madame Potrelle uttered a cry of surprise when she saw me; then she said:

"Mon Dieu! monsieur, have you come to take back the work that young woman needs so much?"

"No, no, far from it! But this morning I was--preoccupied, and I paid little attention to what you told me."

"That's so; monsieur wasn't like what he usually is; but, _dame!_ everyone has his own troubles."

"I would like to see Mignonne, Madame Potrelle, and see for myself what her child's condition is. Do you think she will receive me?"

"Oh! yes, monsieur. She receives anybody now, if they say they know anything about children's health."

I ran quickly up the five flights. I stopped to take breath before mounting the last narrow, dark staircase. When I reached the top, I heard a sweet, melancholy voice singing:

"'Veille, veille, pauvre Marie, Pour secourir le prisonnier.'"

Mignonne's door was thrown wide open, for it was summer, and in that way she admitted a little air and light to her chamber, which, as we know, had no window but the round hole in the ceiling.

I stepped forward; Mignonne's back was turned toward the door; she was on her knees beside a cradle placed on two chairs. The cradle was covered with a pretty piece of flowered chintz; a flounce of the same material about the base concealed the little straw mattress on which children usually lie. It had almost a luxurious look, in striking contrast with the other contents of that poor chamber; but the most poverty-stricken mother always finds a way to adorn her child's cradle.

At that moment, Mignonne was trying to put the child to sleep by singing to her and rocking her.

I stopped in the doorway; she did not turn. She did not hear me; she had no eyes or ears for anything but her daughter. She was speaking to her:

"Well! don't we propose to go to sleep to-day, Mademoiselle Marie? Don't we propose to shut our lovely eyes? Oh, yes! we have very lovely eyes, but we must sleep, all the same; that will do us good! And then, mamma wants you to. Do you hear, dear child? mamma wants you to. Oh, yes! you hear me; you smile at me. Ah! she holds out her little arms, she wants me to take her! Mon Dieu! but it would do her so much good to sleep! But I must do what you want me to, mustn't I?"

She bent over the cradle and took up the child; then she stood up, and saw me. She cast a sad glance at me, in which I no longer saw any trace of alarm.

"Excuse me, madame," I said, stepping forward; "I ventured to come to see you, because Madame Potrelle told me this morning that your little Marie was ill. I studied medicine a little, long ago; I shall be happy if I can a.s.sist you with advice, which you may follow if you think it good!--Ah! she is very pretty, dear child!"

"Isn't she, monsieur?"

And Mignonne smiled when she saw me gazing at her daughter, who was really beautiful and already bore much resemblance to her mother. But her pretty features were drawn and worn, and denoted some internal trouble; her eyes too were sad, and it is with the eyes that children express their feelings before they have learned to talk.

"How old is she, madame?"

"Almost fifteen months, monsieur."

"She seems very big for that age, and I have no doubt that it is her precocious growth that makes her ill."

"Do you think so, monsieur? Yes, that must be one of the causes. She is very large for fifteen months; and yet she isn't stout, she isn't too big, like the children that are abnormal!"

"Allow me to feel her pulse."

I took the child's hand; the skin was dry and burning. Mignonne read in my face that I was not satisfied with that examination.

"She's feverish, isn't she, monsieur?"

"A little; growing fever; that ought not to alarm you."

"Oh! do you think she will get well, monsieur?"

"Certainly I do, madame. Her condition doesn't even seem to me serious enough for you to be worried about her."

"But, monsieur, it's more than a month that she's been like this; sometimes she's better for a day or two; then she laughs and sings--yes, monsieur, I give you my word that she sings, poor dear! To be sure, I don't suppose anybody but her mother can understand her. But then she falls back into this sort of prostration, the fever comes back, and she refuses everything. Mon Dieu! then I don't know what to do to bring a smile back to her lips. Do you suppose that she's in pain? The poor little things can't tell us where they feel sick. But she will get well, won't she, monsieur?"

"I have always believed, madame, whenever I have stood beside a man or woman whom the doctors had given over, that they might still recover, for I believe more in G.o.d than in man; I have more faith in divine Providence than in human skill, and I do not think that we know as yet all the resources of nature. But when the sufferer is a child, a creature so fresh and new in life, to despair of its recovery seems to me rank blasphemy; because in that young plant, just born, there must be the sap of youth and strength and maturity. Children become very ill in a very short time, and recover their health as quickly; their eyes, sad and haggard to-night, will laugh again to-morrow; often nothing more than a ray of sunshine is needed to effect that happy change."

"Ah! monsieur, you restore my courage!"

"You must never lose it when you are nursing a sick person. I suppose that you have a doctor?"

"Yes, monsieur; but he doesn't come often. He doesn't say much of anything. But I hope he'll come to-day; I expect him."

"Would you like me to send another one?"

"Oh! no, monsieur; I have confidence enough in this one."

"Adieu, madame! Don't grieve, don't fatigue yourself too much; remember that you must retain your own health in order to nurse your child. With your permission, I will call again to inquire for little Marie."

"Yes, monsieur."