In the mean time the whole fleet with its spoils had been floating steadily down with the powerful current. Amidst the wrangle of contending voices, and with some angry altercation, the police boat and its accompanying consorts were towing the yet unknown object and its silent burden towards the shore. This was not an easy job, since the river becomes more narrow as it threads the city, and the current proportionately stronger, and the undertow caught at the low-hanging mass as if determined to bear it down to the morgue just below. They had been carried under the Pont de Bercy and were drawing near the Quai d'Austerlitz. Finally they got ashore at the Gare d'Orléans. "Parbleu! it's a little chiffonnière!" "Truly!" "She has evidently fallen into the river with her basket on her back." They had now, in the rapidly growing daylight, discovered the character of the object that held her in its embrace. In fact, when half a dozen stout fellows had attempted to lift the whole thing out of the water the rags had dropped out unseen and were borne away by the current, leaving the light empty pannier and the body of the child in their hands. And the men marvelled at the resistance they had encountered. A messenger had been at once despatched for medical assistance. The great hospital of Salpêtrière was near at hand. "May as well take her to the morgue," muttered one. "Soon enough,--soon enough," replied the river policeman. "Follow the custom." Notwithstanding the general opinion that it was too late, a rough boatman had torn off a section of his flannel shirt and was chafing the cold little hands, while another rubbed the legs and a third tried to restore respiration. These people were familiar with cases of drowning, and knew the best and simplest immediate first aid by heart. To their very great surprise a few minutes sufficed to show that the child was still alive. By the time the doctor arrived she gave decided signs of returning animation. Under the influence of his restoratives she opened her eyes. "Tartar!" she gasped. "What's that, little one?" inquired the doctor, bending low over her. She still lay on the stone quai, a laborer's coat beneath her extended figure. "Tar--Tartar," she repeated, again closing her eyes. "Oh, mon Dieu! I remember now. That wretch!--it could not have been!" "Maybe it's her dog," suggested a man. "Yes,--Tartar----" "There, my child,--don't! Is it the dog?" "Yes,--tell me----" "Oh, he's all right.--Say!" He hailed the group gathered about the other victim of the river. "How's the dog?" "All right, Monsieur le Docteur!" Fouchette heard and brightened perceptibly. The doctor increased the effect by observing that the dog was coming around all right. "But he's had a pretty close call." "So it was Tartar, after all," whispered Fouchette. "Dear Tartar!" "A brave dog, Tartar,--stuck to you to the last," put in the policeman. "Truly!"