“At least,” he said, leeringly, “she is a fine figure of a woman. She dates, like myself, from the era of the _Bien-aimé_, when women knew how to walk and to hold themselves; and to reveal themselves, too. _Oh, je m’entends bien!_ I have been entertained in the _Parc aux cerfs_, M. Thibaut.” I could certainly believe it. This effete old carpet-admiral? Had he ever smelt salt water? I could understand, perhaps, that he had crossed in the packet to the land of fogs. But now he was to exhibit himself to me in a more honourable aspect--to confess the man under the powder and the rubbish. We stood close by where the wall was pierced by the running sewer. The whole yard was alive with laughter and babble; and now and again one would leave a friend or party of triflers and, kneeling down over the infected sink, would call some name through the opening. Then, summoned to the other side, Lucille, poor _ange déchu_, would exchange a few earnest pitiful words with husband or brother or lover, and her tears, perhaps, would fall into the gushing drain and sanctify its abomination to him. Was not that for love to justify itself in the eyes of the most unnatural misogynist? Now there came up to the trap a pale little fellow--the merest child. It was little Foucaud, the son of Madame Kolly. This poor lad must be held a man (God save him!) when misfortune overtook his family; but the scoundrels had the grace to consign his younger brother to the company of his mother on the woman’s side. And here, through this sink opening, the two babes would converse in their sad little trebles two or three times a-day. “How now, my man?” said St Prest; for the boy stood wistfully watching us, his hands picking together and his throat swelling. Then all at once he was weeping. The old fop gently patted the heaving shoulders. “Oh, monsieur,” said the youngster, in a hoarse little voice, “the cold of the stones is in my throat and on my chest.” “What then, child! That is not to be guillotined.” “But I cannot cry out so that he shall hear me; and if we do not talk I know nothing.” In a paroxysm of agitation he threw himself down by the sewer. “Lolo, Lolo!” he tried to call; but his voice would not obey his will. And then M. de St Prest did a thing, the self-sacrificing quality of which shall be known in full, perhaps, only to the angels. He took the lad under the arms and, lifting him away, himself knelt down in all his nicety by the sink and put his mouth to the opening. “The little Foucaud,” he piped, “desires to see his brother!” Presently he looked up. “He is here, child.” “Oh, monsieur! will you explain that I cannot speak, and ask him how is _maman_?” The message was given. I heard the poor little voice answer through the wall: “_Maman_ sends her love to you. She has not wept so much the last night, and she has been sleeping a little. It is Lolo, who loves you well, that tells you this.” I assisted St Prest to rise.