“She is suffering from hepatic colic. She will be on her feet again in a few days.” And, tearing from his memorandum book a leaf on which he had written some lines, he added, addressing Mother Fétu: “Listen to me. You must send this to the chemist in the Rue de Passy, and every two hours you must drink a spoonful of the draught he will give you.” The old woman burst out anew into blessings. Hélène remained seated. The doctor lingered gazing at her; but when their eyes had met, he bowed and discreetly took his leave. He had not gone down a flight ere Mother Fétu’s lamentations were renewed. “Ah! he’s such a clever doctor! Ah! if his medicine could do me some good! Dandelions and tallow make a good simple for removing water from the body. Yes, yes, you can say you know a clever doctor. Have you known him long? Gracious goodness, how thirsty I am! I feel burning hot. He has a wife, hasn’t he? He deserves to have a good wife and beautiful children. Indeed, it’s a pleasure to see kind-hearted people good acquaintances.” Hélène had risen to give her a drink. “I must go now, Mother Fétu,” she said. “Good-bye till to-morrow.” “Ah! how good you are! If I only had some linen! Look at my chemise—it’s torn in half; and this bed is so dirty. But that doesn’t matter. God will requite you, my good lady!” Next day, on Hélène’s entering Mother Fétu’s room, she found Dr. Deberle already there. Seated on the chair, he was writing out a prescription, while the old woman rattled on with whimpering volubility. “Oh, sir, it now feels like lead in my side—yes, just like lead! It’s as heavy as a hundred-pound weight, and prevents me from turning round.” Then, having caught sight of Hélène, she went on without a pause: “Ah! here’s the good lady! I told the kind doctor you would come. Though the heavens might fall, said I, you would come all the same. You’re a very saint, an angel from paradise, and, oh! so beautiful that people might fall on their knees in the streets to gaze on you as you pass! Dear lady, I am no better; just now I have a heavy feeling here. Oh, I have told the doctor what you did for me! The emperor could have done no more. Yes, indeed, it would be a sin not to love you—a great sin.” These broken sentences fell from her lips as, with eyes half closed, she rolled her head on the bolster, the doctor meantime smiling at Hélène, who felt very ill at ease. “Mother Fétu,” she said softly, “I have brought you a little linen.” “Oh, thank you, thank you; God will requite you! You’re just like this kind, good gentleman, who does more good to poor folks than a host of those who declare it their special work. You don’t know what great care he has taken of me for four months past, supplying me with medicine and broth and wine. One rarely finds a rich person so kind to a poor soul! Oh, he’s another of God’s angels! Dear, dear, I seem to have quite a house in my stomach!”