All at once, however, she raised a loud exclamation of horror: "Oh! he has hurt himself, the poor little fellow." And at once she snatched the scissors from the child, who sat there laughing with a drop of blood at the tip of one of his fingers. "Oh! good Heavens," murmured Norine, who had turned quite pale, "I feared that he had slit his hand." For a moment Mathieu wondered if he would serve any useful purpose by fulfilling the strange mission he had undertaken. Then it seemed to him that it might be as well to say at least a word of warning to the young woman who had grown so calm and quiet, thanks to the life of work which she had at last embraced. And he proceeded very prudently, only revealing the truth by slow degrees. Nevertheless, there came a moment when, after reminding Norine of the birth of Alexandre-Honoré, it became necessary for him to add that the boy was living. The mother looked at Mathieu in evident consternation. "He is living, living! Why do you tell me that? I was so pleased at knowing nothing." "No doubt; but it is best that you should know. I have even been assured that he must now be in Paris, and I wondered whether he might have found you, and have come to see you." At this she lost all self-possession. "What! Have come to see me! Nobody has been to see me. Do you think, then, that he might come? But I don't want him to do so! I should go mad! A big fellow of fifteen falling on me like that--a lad I don't know and don't care for! Oh! no, no; prevent it, I beg of you; I couldn't--I couldn't bear it!" With a gesture of utter distraction she had burst into tears, and had caught hold of the little one near her, pressing him to her breast as if to shield him from the other, the unknown son, the stranger, who by his resurrection threatened to thrust himself in some degree in the younger lad's place. "No, no!" she cried. "I have but one child; there is only one I love; I don't want any other." Cécile had risen, greatly moved, and desirous of bringing her sister to reason. Supposing that the other son should come, how could she turn him out of doors? At the same time, though her pity was aroused for the abandoned one, she also began to bewail the loss of their happiness. It became necessary for Mathieu to reassure them both by saying that he regarded such a visit as most improbable. Without telling them the exact truth, he spoke of the elder lad's disappearance, adding, however, that he must be ignorant even of his mother's name. Thus, when he left the sisters, they already felt relieved and had again turned to their little boxes while smiling at their son, to whom they had once more intrusted the scissors in order that he might cut out some paper men. Down below, at the street corner, Constance, in great impatience, was looking out of the cab window, watching the house-door. "Well?" she asked, quivering, as soon as Mathieu was near her.