On the next floor there was a smith at work, filing so earnestly that he did not hear the screams of the children. When his door was pushed open, and the bright vision of Madame de Fleury appeared to him, his astonishment was so great that he seemed incapable of comprehending what she said. In a strong provincial accent he repeated, "_Plait-il_?" and stood aghast till she had explained herself three times; then suddenly exclaiming, "Ah! c'est ca;"--he collected his tools precipitately, and followed to obey her orders. The door of the room was at last forced half open, for a press that had been overturned prevented its opening entirely. The horrible smells that issued did not overcome Madame de Fleury's humanity: she squeezed her way into the room, and behind the fallen press saw three little children: the youngest, almost an infant, ceased roaring, and ran to a corner; the eldest, a boy of about eight years old, whose face and clothes were covered with blood, held on his knee a girl younger than himself, whom he was trying to pacify, but who struggled most violently and screamed incessantly, regardless of Madame de Fleury, to whose questions she made no answer. "Where are you hurt, my dear?" repeated Madame de Fleury in a soothing voice. "Only tell me where you feel pain?" The boy, showing his sister's arm, said, in a surly tone--"It is this that is hurt--but it was not I did it." "It was, it _was_!" cried the girl as loud as she could vociferate: "it was Maurice threw me down from the top of the press." "No--it was you that were pushing me, Victoire, and you fell backwards.--Have done screeching, and show your arm to the lady." "I can't," said the girl. "She won't," said the boy. "She cannot," said Madame de Fleury, kneeling down to examine it. "She cannot move it; I am afraid that it is broken." "Don't touch it! don't touch it!" cried the girl, screaming more violently. "Ma'am, she screams that way for nothing often," said the boy. "Her arm is no more broke than mine, I'm sure; she'll move it well enough when she's not cross." "I am afraid," said Madame de Fleury, "that her arm is broken." "Is it indeed?" said the boy, with a look of terror. "Oh! don't touch it--you'll kill me; you are killing me," screamed the poor girl, whilst Madame de Fleury with the greatest care endeavoured to join the bones in their proper place, and resolved to hold the arm till the arrival of the surgeon.