WHAT was she to do with thirty francs when she had calculated that they must at least have one hundred? She turned this question over in her mind sadly as she walked along by the fortifications. She found her way back easily. She put the money into her mother's hand, for she did not know how to spend it. It was her mother who decided what to do.

"We must go at once to Maraucourt," she said.

"But are you strong enough?" Perrine asked doubtfully.

"I must be. We have waited too long in the hope that I should get better. And while we wait our money is going. What poor Palikare has brought us will go also. I did not want to go in this miserable state...."

"When must we go? Today?" asked Perrine.

"No; it's too late today. We must go tomorrow morning. You go and find out the hours of the train and the price of the tickets. It is the Gare du Nord station, and the place where we get out is Picquigny."

Perrine anxiously sought Grain-of-Salt. He told her it was better for her to consult a time table than to go to the station, which was a long way off. From the time table they learned that there were two trains in the morning, one at six o'clock and one at ten, and that the fare to Picquigny, third class, was nine francs twenty-five centimes.

"We'll take the ten o'clock train," said her mother, "and we will take a cab, for I certainly cannot walk to the station."

And yet when nine o'clock the next day came she could not even get to the cab that Perrine had waiting for her. She attempted the few steps from her room to the cab, but would have fallen to the ground had not Perrine held her.

"I must go back," she said weakly. "Don't be anxious ... it will pass."

But it did not pass, and the Baroness, who was watching them depart, had to bring a chair. The moment she dropped into the seat she fainted.

"She must go back and lie down," said the Baroness, rubbing her cold hands. "It is nothing, girl; don't look so scared ... just go and find Carp. The two of us can carry her to her room. You can't go ... not just now."

The Baroness soon had the sick woman in her bed, where she regained consciousness.

"Now you must just stay there in your bed," said the Baroness, kindly. "You can go just as well tomorrow. I'll get Carp to give you a nice cup of bouillon. He loves soup as much as the landlord loves wine; winter and summer he gets up at five o'clock and makes his soup; good stuff it is, too. Few can make better."

Without waiting for a reply, she went to Carp, who was again at his work.

"Will you give me a cup of your bouillon for our patient?" she asked.

He replied with a smile only, but he quickly took the lid from a saucepan and filled a cup with the savory soup.

The Baroness returned with it, carrying it carefully, so as not to spill a drop.

"Take that, my dear lady," she said, kneeling down beside the bed. "Don't move, but just open your lips."

A spoonful was put to the sick woman's lips, but she could not swallow it. Again she fainted, and this time she remained unconscious for a longer time. The Baroness saw that the soup was not needed, and so as not to waste it, she made Perrine take it.

A day passed. The doctor came, but there was nothing he could do.

Perrine was in despair. She wondered how long the thirty francs that La Rouquerie had given her would last. Although their expenses were not great, there was first one thing, then another, that was needed. When the last sous were spent, where would they go? What would become of them if they could get no more money?

She was seated beside her mother's bedside, her beautiful little face white and drawn with anxiety. Suddenly she felt her mother's hand, which she held in hers, clasp her fingers more tightly.

"You want something?" she asked quickly, bending her head.

"I want to speak to you ... the hour has come for my last words to you, darling," said her mother.

"Oh, mama! mama!" cried Perrine.

"Don't interrupt, darling, and let us both try to control ourselves. I did not want to frighten you, and that is the reason why, until now, I have said nothing that would add to your grief. But what I have to say must be said, although it hurts us both. We are going to part...."

In spite of her efforts, Perrine could not keep back her sobs.

"Yes, it is terrible, dear child, and yet I am wondering if, after all, it is not for the best ... that you will be an orphan. It may be better for you to go alone than to be taken to them by a mother whom they have scorned. Well, God's will is that you should be left alone ... in a few hours ... tomorrow, perhaps...."

For a moment she stopped, overcome with emotion.

"When I ... am gone ... there will be things for you to do. In my pocket you will find a large envelope which contains my marriage certificate. The certificate bears my name and your father's. You will be asked to show it, but make them give it back to you. You might need it later on to prove your parentage. Take great care of it, dear. How ever, you might lose it, so I want you to learn it by heart, so that you will never forget it. Then, when a day comes and you need it, you must get another copy. You understand? Remember all that I tell you."

"Yes, mama; yes."

"You will be very unhappy, but you must not give way to despair. When you have nothing more to do in Paris ... when you are left alone ... then you must go off at once to Maraucourt ... by train if you have enough money ... on foot, if you have not. Better to sleep by the roadside and have nothing to eat than to stay in Paris. You promise to leave Paris at once, Perrine?"

"I promise, mama," sobbed the little girl.

The sick woman made a sign that she wanted to say more, but that she must rest for a moment. Little Perrine waited, her eyes fixed on her mother's face.

"You will go to Maraucourt?" said the dying woman after a few moments had passed. "You have no right to claim anything ... what you get must be for yourself alone ... be good, and make yourself loved. All is there ... for you. I have hope ... you will be loved for yourself ... they cannot help loving you ... and then your troubles will be over, my darling."

She clasped her hands in prayer. Then a look of heavenly rapture came over her face.

"I see," she cried; "I see ... my darling will be loved! She will be happy ... she will be cared for. I can die in peace now with this thought ... Perrine, my Perrine, keep a place in your heart for me always, child...."

These words, which seemed like an exaltation to Heaven, had exhausted her; she sank back on the mattress and sighed. Perrine waited ... waited. Her mother did not speak. She was dead. Then the child left the bedside and went out of the house. In the field she threw herself down on the grass and broke into sobs. It seemed as though her little heart would break.

It was a long time before she could calm herself. Then her breath came in hiccoughs. Vaguely she thought that she ought not to leave her mother alone. Someone should watch over her.

The field was now filled with shadows; the night was falling. She wandered about, not knowing where she went, still sobbing.

She passed the wagon for the tenth time. The candy man, who had watched her come out of the house, went towards her with two sugar sticks in his hand.

"Poor little girl," he said, pityingly.

"Oh!..." she sobbed.

"There, there! Take these," he said, offering her the candy. "Sweetness is good for sorrow."