It was midnight when Beaufort was found, and he was partially drunk. Kent caught him by the arm, and heard that his business had not been completed to-day, but was--once more--"certain for next week." Completed or not, however, Kent had to have money, and he made the circumstances clear, a task which, in his companion's condition, was somewhat difficult. He said that they were in new quarters, penniless, and that the woman demanded a deposit; their luggage was detained at the Garins', and could not be recovered unless he paid the bill, or, at all events, a substantial portion of it. In the meanwhile, they possessed literally nothing; a good round sum on account of his claim was absolutely essential. Billy was "tremendously grieved." He answered that he could "manage--twenty francs." And he repeated with emotion that "he never deserted a pal." In the end Kent extracted fifty, and, secretly relieved even by this, but dog-tired, dragged himself down the rue Blanche towards the hotel. Cynthia was waiting up for him, reading a sheet of an old newspaper that had lined one of the drawers, to keep herself awake. She heard the result of his expedition with gratitude. They could now give the proprietress what she wanted, and would be able to buy a hairbrush and one or two other immediate necessaries. She kissed him, and retired to the next bedroom, where she prayed that the child would allow her a good night. Kent, whose fatigue was so great that it was a labour to undress, bade her call him if he could help her in any way. It seemed but a few minutes afterwards that he was startled back to consciousness by the baby's crying, and, listening in the darkness, he heard Cynthia moving about. Blundering to the door with half-opened eyes, he found her trying to quiet the boy, and to heat some food at the same time, and the weariness of her aspect made his heart bleed. The fire, which had been built up to last until the chambermaid's entrance, had gone out, and rocking the child on her lap with one hand, the girl, semi-nude, held a saucepan with the other over the flame of a candle. She rebuked him for coming in, for, "poor fellow! he must be so tired." He took the saucepan from her and, fetching the candle from his own room, held the food to warm over both flames, while Maternity paced the floor. A clock in the distance told them that the hour was three. At last a tremor stirred the placid surface of the milk. The baby was fed, and coaxed to repose again. And, oblivious now of everything but the need for sleep, they dropped upon their beds and slept. CHAPTER XIX "Good-morning, monsieur. Here is the chocolate." "Good-morning. And madame, has hers been taken in?" "Ah, three hours ago!... Look, it is a beautiful day, monsieur!"