As he passed the table he caught sight of the ham on which the pedler’s knife had made sad havoc. D’Argenton turned pale. Remember that the ham was sacred, like his wine, his mustard, and mineral water. “What! the ham, too!” he exclaimed. Charlotte, utterly stupefied by such audacity, could only mechanically repeat his words. “I said, madame, that they ought not to cut the ham, that such pork was too good for such a vagabond. But the little fellow does not know much yet, he is so young.” Jack by this time was quite alarmed at what he had done, and could only beg pardon in a troubled tone. “Pardon, indeed!” cried the poet, giving way, as it must be admitted he rarely did, to his temper, and shaking the boy violently, exclaimed, “What right had you to touch that ham? You knew it was not yours. You know that nothing here is yours; for the bed you sleep on, for the food you eat, you are indebted to my bounty. And why should I care for you? I know not even your name!” Here an imploring gesture from Charlotte stopped the torrent of words. Mother Archambauld was still in the room, and listening with eagerness. The poet turned away suddenly, and rushed up stairs, banging the door after him. Jack remained, looking at his mother in consternation. She wrung her pretty hands, and again implored heaven to tell her what she had done to merit such a hard fate. This was her only resource in the serious perplexities of life; and, naturally, her question remained unanswered. To add the finishing touch to the discomfort of the house, D’Argenton was now taken with one of “his attacks,” a form of bilious fever. Charlotte petted and soothed him, and waited upon him by inches. The sister-of-charity spirit, that lies in the depths of every womanly nature, made her love her poet the more because he was suffering. How tenderly she protected his nerves! She laid a woollen cloth on the table under the white one to soften the noise of the plates and the silver. She piled the Henry II. chair with cushions, and had her rolls of hot flannels and her tisanes in readiness at all hours of the day and night. Sometimes the poor little woman was fearfully rebuffed and mortified by a fretful exclamation from the poet. “Do be quiet, Charlotte; you talk too much!” This illness brought the good-natured doctor to the house once more. Charlotte met him in the hall. “Come quick, doctor, our dear poet is suffering,” she said, anxiously. “Nonsense, my dear; he only wants a little amusement.”