When Paul lay on the ground, unconscious, after he had been wounded on the head and arm by his fall, Bastringuette had hastened to the spot; and seeing Sans-Cravate walk rapidly away, she had partly divined the cause of the younger man's deplorable condition.

"Mon Dieu! mon Dieu!" cried the girl; "they have been fighting—or, rather, Sans-Cravate insisted on fighting this poor boy, who ain't strong enough to stand up to him. And it must have been jealousy that made Sans-Cravate do it—because he saw me talking to Paul. I'm the cause of his hard luck—or my beastly coquetry, my foolish idea of changing lovers, when I was well off. But that's how it always is in love; when you're well off, it bores you, and you want to change; when you're badly off, you stay as you are."

While she talked thus to herself, Bastringuette did what she could for the young messenger. The people who had collected talked about carrying him to the nearest hospital, but Bastringuette cried out at the word:

"I guess not much! You don't catch me letting this poor boy go to the hospital while I have a decent place to take him to! He must have rooms somewhere himself; but as he can't talk just now, he can't tell us where they are. Anyway, it will be more convenient for me to nurse him and make herb tea for him in my room; for these boys never have a kettle fit to boil water in."

So the flower girl sent for a cab; they lifted the wounded man into it, after she had bandaged his head and arm as well as she could; then she gave her address—Rue des Martyrs, near the barrier—and when they arrived there, Paul was taken up to her room, with the assistance of the cabman and the concierge, and placed on her bed.

As may be imagined, Bastringuette's domicile was not luxurious. Her apartment consisted of a bedroom and closet, on the fifth floor, under the eaves. She called it the sparrows' entresol.

The furniture was very modest: a wooden cot-bed, a cherry commode, six cane-seated chairs,—or rather six chairs that needed to be reseated,—a small table, a mirror, a foot-warmer, and a stove. So much for the bedroom. As to the closet, it contained a row of pegs, on which nothing was ever hung. But the aspect of the bedroom was not unpleasant and did not indicate downright poverty, thanks to the spotless cleanliness that prevailed.

The bed was surrounded with calico curtains, always very white; there were also two little curtains of the same material at the window, taking the place of one large one. On the commode, on the little table, and on the window sill, there were almost always flowers, some in pots, some in blue carafes. Flowers were Bastringuette's one luxury, and more than once she had breakfasted on a crust of bread in order to have flowers during the winter, when she did not sell them.

After placing Paul on the bed, Bastringuette went to one of her neighbors and asked her to go for a doctor. The tall girl was popular in the house, because she was light-hearted and clever; and they loved to hear her talk, and repeat in her homely language all the flattering speeches made to her by the men who bought flowers of her.

When they learned that the flower girl had a wounded man in her room, the neighbors all wanted to help: one went for a doctor, another for a druggist; this one had a remedy of her own preparation, that one an infallible ointment; so that when Paul opened his eyes he found himself surrounded by women of all ages, all talking at once, and all anxious to cure him, offering ointment, herb tea, plasters, and blisters, each with at least three phials in her hand. Luckily for the wounded man, the doctor came and restored peace among the women, who were disputing with one another as to whose remedy should be preferred. The doctor began by throwing all the phials out of the window, then turned his would-be confrÈres out of the room; and having examined the patient, found that the wound on the head was severe but not dangerous, that he had sprained his arm when he fell, and that what he most needed were rest and good nursing.

Paul looked about the room in amazement. When the doctor had gone, Bastringuette said:

"Now, try to be calm and quiet; let me take care of you, and don't talk! the doctor says you mustn't. You're in my room; that vexes you, perhaps, but, dame! I didn't know your address, and I wouldn't let you be taken to the hospital. It don't put me out a bit, don't you be afraid; I'm my own mistress, and I snap my fingers at what folks say! I know well enough that there's some people always ready to see something wrong in whatever anyone does, and who'll think you're my lover. I don't care for that. There was a time when I'd have liked right well to have you, I don't deny it; I had fallen in love with you; you made my head queer, like a sunstroke. And that was when I turned my back on poor Sans-Cravate! I made a great success of that. You told me right out that you loved somebody else—and then—there was what I heard, what I found out about you. I saw plain enough, then, that you was too far above me—by the way you acted. Hush! don't speak, the doctor says you mustn't. You don't like what I say, so I'm done, it's dead; I won't mention it again. When chance let me into your secret, you made me swear to keep quiet about it; but that's no reason why I can't tell you, between ourselves, that it's a noble thing you're doing, and you ought to have the prize of virtue, the prize of—— Well, you're moving your lips, so I'll shut up. Now, go to sleep, or try to go to sleep; and when you wake up, perhaps you'll have a pleasant surprise—no one knows!"

"You are too good," murmured Paul, in a weak voice; "but I am in your way here; you ought to have let me——"

"Hold your tongue this minute! I ought to have let you be taken to the hospital, eh? That would have been a sweet thing to do! when I was the cause of it all—yes, it was my nonsense! If I hadn't made eyes at you—in fact, if I hadn't tried to catch you, would Sans-Cravate have hit you? Now, he hates me, and he's quite right; but he's all wrong to fight you, because it ain't your fault. Come, go to sleep; the doctor said you must sleep; and I tell you again that you ain't in my way; I've got another bed in the closet, and I'll sleep on that. I'm going out to get the medicines the doctor ordered; I shan't be gone long."

Bastringuette left the room; and Paul closed his eyes, praying heaven to deal kindly with him, because his existence was still necessary.

Toward evening, after several hours of restless slumber, he opened his eyes; two faces were leaning over him, waiting for the moment of his awakening. Paul uttered a cry of surprise when he recognized Elina.

"Yes, it's Mamzelle Elina," said Bastringuette; "it's your sweetheart. I went and waited for her at her dressmaker's door, so's to tell her what had happened to you, and I had an idea she'd come back with me. That's why I said perhaps you'd have a pleasant waking-up."

Paul held out his hand to the little dressmaker, who gazed at him with eyes full of love and tears as she said:

"Oh, my friend! you are wounded! what a misfortune! But still I'm very happy that Bastringuette came and told me. She told me how it occurred, too. A horrid drunken man pushed you and knocked you down; she happened to be passing and saw you lying on the ground, unconscious, and had you brought here to her room. She's a dear, good girl, and she loves you almost as much as I do. I should have been so anxious, so unhappy, when I didn't see you! I should have thought again that you had stopped loving me. But now I'll come and see you every day; yes, monsieur, every day; in the morning when I go to my work, and at night before I go home to my aunt's.—What is it, monsieur? don't you want me to?"

"If your aunt should find it out," Paul murmured, "she would scold you, and I don't want to expose you to——"

"What an extraordinary man!" cried Bastringuette; "he's willing to be loved, but he don't want anybody to do anything for him. Bless my soul! mademoiselle will get up a little earlier and go home a little later—what a hardship! She'll tire herself, perhaps, to get here a little sooner; but she'll see you, and that'll do you good and her too."

"Oh! yes, my dear," said Elina, "let me spend every minute I am at liberty with you; let me help Bastringuette; I shall be so happy when I see you getting better every day! and the first time you go out, you will lean on her and me. Oh! you shall see how I can take care of you, too; I look like a light-headed little thing, but I won't be that any more; I mean that you shall be satisfied with me."

The young invalid felt the tears roll down his cheeks when he saw how fond they were of him; and he was so moved to find himself the object of such sweet and loving attentions, that he could not speak; but he looked from one to the other of the girls who stood beside his bed, and his eyes probably told them all that was taking place in his heart, for Bastringuette exclaimed, with her customary bluntness:

"Oh, well! if we're going to be sentimental, and all three of us cry, we shall make a pretty mess of it; it'll give him the fever, and he won't get well. The doctor said he mustn't be excited, and we've done nothing else!"

Elina sat down beside the bed, took one of the injured man's hands in hers, and said to him in a low, very low tone:

"Does it do you any harm to see how much I love you? More's the pity if it does; I'll tell you every day. And if my aunt should find out that I come to see you, why, I'll say: 'Paul is going to be my husband, aunt; and a woman has a right to nurse her husband.'"

While the little dressmaker said to her lover all that her heart prompted her to say, Bastringuette went to one of her neighbors and borrowed a wretched mattress, which she carried into her closet; then she threw some old clothes on it, and said to herself:

"I shall sleep well enough there; anyway, a nurse can't sleep much."

Elina, having to return to her aunt, left them with regret, saying:

"Until to-morrow!"

Then, after administering to her patient a draught prescribed by the doctor, Bastringuette lay down on the mattress on the floor of the closet.

"I'll be on hand if you make the least movement," she said to Paul.

Early the next morning, Elina was at the flower girl's, bringing some sugar and a small jar of preserve.

"It's my right to help take care of him," she said to Bastringuette. "My aunt gives me so much a day for my food, and I can afford to pinch myself a little for my poor Paul."

That seemed natural enough to Bastringuette, for she would have done as much.

If the certainty of being loved had been sufficient to restore the young messenger's health, Paul would have been cured in a very short time. But such was not the case; unluckily, the patient's mind was constantly occupied by other thoughts. He was worried and alarmed by his helpless plight, and the wound on his head, instead of cicatrizing, became more serious, because it was complicated by a sharp attack of fever.

The two girls redoubled their zealous attentions to the patient; Bastringuette passed part of the night with him; Elina sometimes arrived before daybreak, and often remained very late in the evening, having succeeded in making her aunt believe that she worked late at Madame Dumanchon's. Both of them deprived themselves of the most essential necessities of life, so that the sick man need lack nothing; but neither of them complained nor would have consented to surrender the place she occupied.

One evening, after a day during which the fever had not left him for an instant, Paul looked about and saw that Bastringuette was alone in the room. She had gone into a corner, so that the invalid might not see her eat the piece of dry bread of which her evening meal consisted. Paul called her, and she hastened to his side after thrusting her bread into her pocket.

"What day is it?" he asked, fixing his eyes, bright with fever, on Bastringuette's.

"What day? This is Tuesday."

"No, not that; what day of the month?"

"Oh! it's the twenty-fourth."

"The twenty-fourth! Why, how long have I been sick?"

"It was the fifth you got so used up! I remember it very well; it was a Thursday."

"The fifth; so I've been here nineteen days?"

"Well, what if it was fifty? I can understand that it bores you to be sick, but ain't you well taken care of here? Don't Mamzelle Elina and I do all that's necessary, all the doctor says?"

"Ah! yes, my good Bastringuette—indeed you do too much! But to-morrow's the twenty-fifth. Great God! It can't be postponed. That thought, Bastringuette, is what gives me the fever and keeps me from getting well."

"What thought? Come, speak out, tell me what you want me to do. I'll do it right away."

"Oh! yes, yes! you will do it, won't you?"

"Do you want me to swear?"

"No. Listen: that old lady, at whose rooms you met me, on Vieille Rue du Temple——"

"Madame Desroches?"

"Yes; I absolutely must send her some money."

"Money! Mon Dieu! as if——"

"Oh! I am well aware that you haven't any, my poor girl! I know that you and Elina deprive yourselves of everything in order to take care of me."

"No, no—nonsense! The druggist gives me the medicines for nothing."

"Listen. To-morrow morning, early, you must go to my room—the key is in the pocket of my jacket. It's on Rue du Faubourg-Saint-HonorÉ, No. 10. Go up to the fifth floor, the door on the left. There you will find sixty francs in the table drawer."

"Ah! what luck!"

"Wait a moment: you are to take that money, also a frock-coat, a pair of black trousers, and a black waistcoat, which you will find in a small wardrobe. They are all in good condition, almost new, I wear them so seldom. However, if you think they are not enough, take all the linen you can find—four shirts, some sheets——"

"Mon Dieu! what am I to do with all those things?"

"Take them to the Mont-de-PiÉtÉ, and get forty francs on them, which you will put with the sixty; for to-morrow,—yes, to-morrow, the twenty-fifth,—you must carry a hundred francs to Madame Desroches. You must do it, do you hear?"

"Noble young man! What! you mean to go on doing without everything, to——"

"Hush, Bastringuette! you must carry that sum to-morrow to the widow of my benefactor. If that isn't done, I feel that I shall never get well."

"Oh! in that case, I'll go. Never you fear! I'll do everything you've told me, and she shall have the money to-morrow. But suppose your concierge won't let me carry the things away?"

"There isn't any concierge."

"In that case, it will soon be fixed up."

"Good! I thank you, Bastringuette. And you won't mention this to Elina?"

"Oh! dear me, no! as long as you don't want her to know your good deeds."

"I am simply doing my duty. If only heaven will permit me to finish what I have undertaken! I was so happy to think that, in a few months more—— However, you'll go to-morrow, won't you, Bastringuette?—By the way, one word more: Madame Desroches will ask you, no doubt, why I haven't been to see her for so long a time, and why I have sent you with the money. You must tell her that I sent you because I had to leave Paris, to go on a short journey for the house in which I am employed. Don't forget that."

"No, I won't forget anything."

Paul slept more quietly, thinking that the person whose self-constituted protector he was would not have to suffer by reason of the misfortune that had befallen him. That night his sleep refreshed him, and when he woke he saw Elina's pretty face leaning over him, and, in the background, Bastringuette, whose eyes seemed to express a wish to speak to him.

"Oh! what joy!" cried Elina; "you have slept till much later to-day. It's almost eleven o'clock. Luckily, I had a dress to deliver, so I was able to come back."

"And I feel much better," said Paul.

Bastringuette seized the opportunity, when she was giving the invalid his draught, to whisper in his ear:

"Your errand is done. She has the hundred francs."

Paul could not reply, but his look expressed his satisfaction. From that day the fever abated, and the young man soon became convalescent.