I passed a wretched night. I was eager to know if Madame Dauberny had allowed Balloquet to escort her, and if he had made any progress in my friend's good graces. Why was I so eager to know that? I myself could not understand. As I was not that lady's lover, as I had never thought of mentioning the subject of love to her, ought I to take it amiss that others should mention it? I began to believe that one could be jealous in friendship as well as in love. If FrÉdÉrique should have a lover, that would lessen the attachment that she seemed to entertain for me; doubtless that was the reason why it pained me to think that she should allow anyone to make love to her. That was selfishness, I admit; but what was I to do?

I arose early. I was strongly inclined to call on Balloquet, but I had forgotten his address. I had an idea that it was CitÉ VindÉ; but what should I ask him. Should I not cut a very absurd figure, going there to question him? No, I would not go. Still, I would have liked to know whether he walked home with FrÉdÉrique.

While I was hesitating, uncertain as to what I should do, Pomponne opened my door and announced with emphasis:

"Madame Potrelle, concierge or portress!"

The good woman came in, bowing and apologizing for disturbing me. I asked her what brought her there.

"Mon Dieu! monsieur, I have come again about that poor woman—Madame Landernoy. I wanted to know if monsieur's intentions were still the same."

"What do you mean? what intentions?"

"About the work—about her taking care of monsieur's linen."

"What difference does it make whether my intentions are the same, as that young woman is convinced that I have none but evil ones? as she believes that I am laying a trap for her, in concert with those scoundrels who deceived her? Faith! Madame Potrelle, one gets tired of being constantly suspected. If it is pleasant to do good, it is painful to come in contact with ingrates. In fact, I confess that your tenant had gone wholly out of my mind, and I assure you that you would not have heard from me again."

"Oh! mon Dieu! monsieur, I can understand that. But still, if you knew how miserable that young woman is at this minute! For near a month her child has been sick—suffering all the time; the little creature needs the fresh air; so the mother takes her child out to walk, and meanwhile she don't do any work; but her little Marie's health before everything! She was a sweet little thing. She's fourteen months old already—how time flies! Madame Landernoy goes without everything herself on the child's account; and now she hasn't got any work—or what little she does get is such poor stuff—eight sous a day! Think of taking care of a child with that! So I happened to think of you, monsieur, because you were always so kind to that young woman; and I've always judged you right, I have! And I says to Mignonne: 'I'm going to see Monsieur Rochebrune and ask him for some work.'—And this time she says: 'Yes, go! go!' For she looked at her little girl, who seemed to be in pain; and what wouldn't she do to get the means of helping her!"

"And she will go so far as to accept work from me?"

"Oh! you mustn't blame her, monsieur; misfortune makes people unjust so often! Does monsieur refuse?"

"No, certainly not. Look over my commode and my closets, and take whatever you choose."

The good woman made haste to examine my effects. She made up a large bundle of linen, hastily, as if she were afraid I would change my mind; then she rolled it all up in her apron, saying:

"Will monsieur take an account of what I've got?"

"No, Madame Potrelle, that is quite unnecessary; I know with whom I am dealing, and I am not suspicious myself."

The concierge thanked me, bowed again, and took her leave, saying that the work would be attended to immediately.

Is it conceivable that during all the time that Madame Potrelle was talking about her tenant, I thought of nothing but FrÉdÉrique and Balloquet? Ah! how small a thing it takes to give a new turn to our thoughts! We are kind or cruel to others only as it gratifies our caprices. That truth is most discreditable to mankind!

I had not fully determined what course to pursue, but I decided to go out; and at my door I found myself face to face with Balloquet, who was coming to see me.

"Ah! I am delighted to find you, my dear Rochebrune!"

"And I to see you. Shall we go upstairs?"

"It isn't worth while; we can talk as well, walking."

"Very good. What have you to tell me?"

"I was coming to talk to you about Madame Dauberny. Ah! my friend, what a woman! what a physique—to arouse passions!"

"I see that you are in love with her already. Well! did you overtake her yesterday?"

"Yes, I overtook her on the street. She didn't want to accept my arm, but I insisted, and she yielded."

"Ah! she took it, did she? And you escorted her home?"

"Naturally."

"And—and—how does your passion progress?"

"It's all over! oh! it's all over, absolutely!"

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 rÔle 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 passion 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 SatinÉ. Poor SatinÉ! 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 FrÉdÉrique 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 MÉnilmontant. 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:

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 assist 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 God 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."

I stepped forward and kissed the child on the forehead; her eyes fastened upon me in evident amazement. Mignonne, too, looked closely at me when I kissed her little one. But she made no objection, and responded sadly to my salutation as I left the room.

I went downstairs, and found the concierge watching for me, combing one of her cats the while.

"Well, monsieur, did you see my tenant and her little sick girl?"

"Yes, madame; I did my best to revive hope in Mignonne's heart. Her child is not well, still I think she isn't in danger. What does the doctor say?"

"Dame! the doctor shakes his head; he always says when he goes away: 'We shall see.'"

"He doesn't compromise himself. Meanwhile, take this money, Madame Potrelle, and see to it that the young woman and her child want nothing."

"Oh! how kind you are, monsieur! But all this money—— Why, how much have you given me? A hundred and fifty francs!"

"That's an advance on the work Mignonne is going to do for me."

"An advance! But she'll never take such a sum of money, monsieur!"

"That is why I give it to you. Pay for the medicines; there's no need of Mignonne's knowing anything about it."

"But, monsieur, suppose she should ask me how I got it?"

"Arrange it to suit yourself, Madame Potrelle; say that the druggist doesn't charge anything for medicines furnished to sick people who live under the eaves; lie, if necessary: there are cases where lying is no sin. And when this is gone, come to me at once and get more—without saying anything to Mignonne."

"Ah! monsieur, what you're doing—— Well! if anyone should ever speak ill of you in my presence, he'd get Brisquet in his face. This is Brisquet I'm combing."

"Au revoir, Madame Potrelle! I'll come again in a few days to hear about little Marie."