We placed Mignonne in a large armchair; several obliging people lent a hand, and we carried Mignonne to the neighbor's house before she recovered consciousness. The doctor accompanied her, and said that he would not leave her. Madame Potrelle remained, to pray beside the dead child. I left the house, as sad and gloomy as a stormy day. I sought a solitary quarter, for the sight of the world oppressed me. "What had that young mother done," I said to myself, "that she should be deprived of her child, who was her only comfort and joy on earth?" A fortnight had passed since little Marie's death. I had not as yet had the courage to go to see Mignonne; I was afraid that the sight of me would make her unhappy, for it would inevitably remind her of her daughter. But did not she think of her always, poor woman? Not by striving to banish a memory from the heart do we succeed in resigning ourselves to it with less bitterness; on the contrary, grief is pacified and soothed by speaking freely and often of those we have lost. I had called at Madame Dauberny's, but was told that she had gone into the country for a few days. Of Rosette I heard nothing at all. One hot summer's day, I decided to go to see Mignonne. I had left her in charge of decent people who were deeply interested in her. The doctor had promised to see her constantly, and that was why I had postponed my visit. We often have courage to bear our own troubles, but find it wanting when we must face those of other people. When I arrived at Madame Potrelle's lodge, I found the good woman there. I hardly dared to question her. She divined my hesitation and anticipated my wishes. "Madame Landernoy has been very sick, monsieur; for five days, we thought she would die; but she has finally recovered her health, or at least the consciousness of her misfortunes; for I don't call it health myself, when she cries all the time and only eats so as to keep up her strength. At last, about four days ago, she insisted on coming back to her own little room upstairs. The neighbor didn't want her to; but the doctor said: 'She mustn't be thwarted, it will make her worse.'--So she's come back. Oh! monsieur, if you could have heard her sobs when she saw the child's cradle; and now she keeps her head bent over it all the time, as if she was looking for her; and she says: 'It's all I've got left of her. I can't cry anywhere but over her cradle, for I don't know where she is--I haven't got anything of hers. Nobody can find the poor woman's child, and I can't go and kneel by her grave!'--Ah! monsieur, it is very painful to hear that, and to see that poor young thing crushed under the weight of her grief, and refusing, sometimes for whole days, to budge from her little one's cradle!" I made no reply, but went up to Mignonne's room. I found her door closed. I could hear nothing; profound silence reigned. I knocked gently on the door. After a moment, I heard Mignonne's sweet voice: "Who is there?"