I did not recover at once from the sensations caused by the two visits I had received. I knew that my liaison with Rosette would not last long; and when a thing is bound to end a little sooner or a little later, one is prepared for it. Moreover, since my peregrinations among the aunts, I had not had the slightest confidence in Rosette.

But FrÉdÉrique! That she should look coldly on me because I had busied myself in behalf of a young woman who was in trouble surprised me, I admit. She was kind-hearted herself; why was she unwilling that other people should have that good quality?

I was tempted for a moment to go to her; but I reflected that it would be almost equivalent to asking her forgiveness for doing a kind action without her leave. I felt that I must retain my dignity. So much the worse for those who see evil everywhere and in everything!

All this reflection and hesitation detained me at home much later than usual, and the day was far advanced when I arrived at Rue MÉnilmontant. Madame Potrelle was not in her lodge, which was deserted. I hastened upstairs; but my heart was oppressed by a melancholy presentiment: was the poor child worse?

When I reached Mignonne's room, I found there, besides the unhappy mother, the doctor, the concierge, and a neighbor.

Mignonne was weeping and calling her daughter; at last she fell back on her chair, speechless and motionless.

"Little Marie is no more," said the doctor, in a low voice; "she died only a minute ago, after a slight convulsion. The child could not recover; I knew it all along; but the poor mother will not have it that she is dead. Still, we must take her away."

Poor mother! poor child! I had arrived too late! I could not have prevented that catastrophe, and yet I was deeply grieved that I had delayed so long. The old concierge leaned over Mignonne and burst into tears; the other woman did the same. I walked to the cradle and looked in. Poor little girl! the last struggle had gone gently with her, for her face was not changed; on the contrary, it seemed that with death she had found peace and rest, that she was happy in having ceased to suffer. Her sweet face seemed to smile; I stooped to kiss the forehead of that angel who had made so brief a sojourn on earth.

Mignonne, who was apparently absorbed by her grief, when she saw me, sprang to her feet, pushed the doctor away, and came to me, crying:

"Here you are! here you are! How late you have come! But you will make her drink, won't you? You will bring the dear child back to life; for she isn't dead! oh, no! God has not taken my daughter away from me! Here, here, take her; why don't you make her drink? Open her lips; you see that she doesn't cry, that she doesn't refuse!"

And she stooped over to lift the child, covering her with tears and kisses. Then she suddenly uttered a loud shriek and pressed her to her heart.

"Cold! cold!" she cried. "Why is that? Warm her, monsieur, warm her, I say! You can see that she is dying!"

It was a heartrending scene. Even the doctor could not restrain his tears. But luckily Mignonne lost consciousness. We took advantage of that moment to carry her away, the doctor and I. The neighbor who was present lived on the same street, two houses away; she offered to take the young mother in and keep her as long as her condition required.

We placed Mignonne in a large armchair; several obliging people lent a hand, and we carried Mignonne to the neighbor's house before she recovered consciousness. The doctor accompanied her, and said that he would not leave her. Madame Potrelle remained, to pray beside the dead child. I left the house, as sad and gloomy as a stormy day. I sought a solitary quarter, for the sight of the world oppressed me.

"What had that young mother done," I said to myself, "that she should be deprived of her child, who was her only comfort and joy on earth?"

A fortnight had passed since little Marie's death. I had not as yet had the courage to go to see Mignonne; I was afraid that the sight of me would make her unhappy, for it would inevitably remind her of her daughter.

But did not she think of her always, poor woman? Not by striving to banish a memory from the heart do we succeed in resigning ourselves to it with less bitterness; on the contrary, grief is pacified and soothed by speaking freely and often of those we have lost.

I had called at Madame Dauberny's, but was told that she had gone into the country for a few days. Of Rosette I heard nothing at all.

One hot summer's day, I decided to go to see Mignonne. I had left her in charge of decent people who were deeply interested in her. The doctor had promised to see her constantly, and that was why I had postponed my visit. We often have courage to bear our own troubles, but find it wanting when we must face those of other people.

When I arrived at Madame Potrelle's lodge, I found the good woman there. I hardly dared to question her. She divined my hesitation and anticipated my wishes.

"Madame Landernoy has been very sick, monsieur; for five days, we thought she would die; but she has finally recovered her health, or at least the consciousness of her misfortunes; for I don't call it health myself, when she cries all the time and only eats so as to keep up her strength. At last, about four days ago, she insisted on coming back to her own little room upstairs. The neighbor didn't want her to; but the doctor said: 'She mustn't be thwarted, it will make her worse.'—So she's come back. Oh! monsieur, if you could have heard her sobs when she saw the child's cradle; and now she keeps her head bent over it all the time, as if she was looking for her; and she says: 'It's all I've got left of her. I can't cry anywhere but over her cradle, for I don't know where she is—I haven't got anything of hers. Nobody can find the poor woman's child, and I can't go and kneel by her grave!'—Ah! monsieur, it is very painful to hear that, and to see that poor young thing crushed under the weight of her grief, and refusing, sometimes for whole days, to budge from her little one's cradle!"

I made no reply, but went up to Mignonne's room. I found her door closed. I could hear nothing; profound silence reigned. I knocked gently on the door. After a moment, I heard Mignonne's sweet voice:

"Who is there?"

"It is I, madame; pray let me come in."

She evidently recognized my voice, for she opened the door at once. She looked earnestly at me, and said, pointing to the cradle with a heartrending expression:

"Why do you come now? She isn't here any longer; you can't do anything more for her; and I—oh! I don't need anything now."

She fell, exhausted, on a chair. But I stood in front of her and said, in a respectful and firm tone:

"I have one more duty to perform. Be good enough to come with me, madame; take your bonnet and shawl, and come with me, I beg. I ask it in your daughter's name."

Mignonne gazed at me in surprise; but I had no sooner mentioned her daughter, than she rose, hastily put on what she needed, and was ready in a moment.

I went downstairs first, and she followed me. MÈre Potrelle stared when she saw us pass her door; but I did not stop. I had come in a cab, which was waiting at the door. I asked Mignonne to get in, and she complied without asking any questions. I took my seat beside her; the cabman knew where to take us, and we drove away.

Mignonne did not open her lips, and I respected her silence. Thus we traversed the distance that separated us from the cemetery of PÈre-Lachaise. Our cab stopped at the gate of that place of repose. I alighted first, and gave my hand to Mignonne. When she recognized the place where we were, she seemed to feel a sudden shock; her eyes brightened, she looked into my face, then eagerly seized my hand and walked beside me, never relaxing her grasp; I felt her hand tremble in mine.

I led her for some time through the paths between the graves. At last, I stopped on the summit of a hill where there was a sort of enclosure formed by a number of cypresses. I led her into that enclosure, where there was a monument as simple as the body beneath it. It was a flat stone, lying on the ground, with a white marble column standing at its head. On that column was an angel flying away from a cradle, and at the base these words only:

HERE RESTS MARIE LANDERNOY

That modest monument was surrounded by newly planted flowers, and the whole was enclosed by a low iron fence. I opened the gate, of which I had the key, and pointed to the stone, saying simply:

"Your daughter is there."

The young woman, who had followed me in silence, but trembling nervously for a reason which I could well understand, gazed vacantly at the little cenotaph at first; but when she read her daughter's name on the marble, she uttered a cry, fell on her knees as if to thank heaven, then rose again, weeping, threw herself into my arms, and pressed me to her heart, murmuring:

"My friend! my friend! And I was suspicious of you! Oh! forgive me! I love you dearly, now! My daughter is lying there; I can come now and pray upon her grave, and tend and renew the flowers that surround it. Ah! I breathe more freely now; you have given me courage to keep on living."

"I have something else here," I said, taking from my pocket a carefully folded paper, which I handed to Mignonne.

The young woman took the paper, and a flush of joy overspread her face; she covered her daughter's hair with kisses, then threw herself into my arms once more.

"Oh! thanks! thanks, my friend! I have not lost everything; I have something of her! Her soft, fine hair—I have it all, and it will never leave me! Ah! you have almost made me happy! Let me thank you again."

She laid her head on my shoulder and wept profusely; but the tears were soothing and assuaged her grief.

Then she knelt beside the gravestone. I walked away in order not to disturb her meditation and her prayers.

At last, after spending a long time beside her daughter, Mignonne returned to me; but she was no longer the same woman as when she left her room. Her sombre grief, her wild glance, had given place to an expression of pious melancholy and placid resignation.

I took her back to her home; on the way, I tried, not to combat her regrets, but to make her understand that the most unhappy of mankind are not those who are taken away from this world.

When we returned, Madame Potrelle looked at us, and was surprised beyond words at the change that had taken place in her tenant; but she dared not question us. Mignonne ran to the good woman and kissed her.

"Oh! I am no longer so wretched as I was! I have just been praying at my daughter's grave; I've got the key; there are flowers all around it; I am going to take care of them. Marie will be glad. See, I have all her hair; and it's to him, to monsieur, my best friend, that I owe it all! Ah! you were quite right when you told me that I made a mistake to distrust him!"

I bade Mignonne adieu, in order to escape Madame Potrelle's eulogium. The young woman offered me her hand, saying:

"Now I will come myself to get the work you are good enough to give me. You will allow me to do it, won't you?"

"I do more than that, I beg you to; and, in the interest of your health, I urge you to look carefully after all my linen; for there is nothing like work to distract one's thoughts."

Mignonne speedily fulfilled her promise; she appeared one morning, alone; she desired to show me that she no longer had any suspicion of me. I talked a few minutes with her. We spoke of her daughter, the subject in which she was most deeply interested. The people who are afraid to speak of those they have lost are the ones who wish to forget them at once. When one does not wish to forget the dear ones who are no more, why should one shrink from speaking of them?

Then I went out, after saying to her:

"The keys are in all the drawers. Look over everything, and take away what you choose. That is your affair; and my servant has orders to obey you like myself, if you need anything."

Several weeks passed thus. At first Mignonne came every four or five days, then a little oftener, then every other day; and I frequently found her established in my quarters, and working there; for she had said to me one day:

"When there isn't much to mend, perhaps one shirt, or one waistcoat, it is hardly worth while to carry it home, if it doesn't annoy you to have me do it here."

And as it did not annoy me in the least to have her work in my rooms, as I observed with delight that her grief was more calm, more resigned, and that when she was busily employed there she had much more distraction than in her own chamber, I urged her to work there whenever it was convenient for her to do so.

Pomponne alone seemed very much puzzled because that young woman did her sewing in my apartment when I was not there; especially as Mignonne was not talkative, and as I had forbidden him to presume to ask her any questions.