Notwithstanding the impossibility, Mad. de Fleury proceeded; and bidding her talkative footman wait in the entry, made her way up the dark, dirty, broken staircase, the sound of the cries increasing every instant, till, as she reached the fifth story, she heard the shrieks of one in violent pain. She hastened to the door of the room from which the cries proceeded; the door was fastened, and the noise was so great, that though she knocked as loud as she was able, she could not immediately make herself heard. At last the voice of a child from within answered, “The door is locked--mamma has the key in her pocket, and won’t be home till night; and here’s Victoire has tumbled from the top of the big press, and it is she that is shrieking so.” Mad. de Fleury ran down the stairs which she had ascended with so much difficulty, called to her footman, who was waiting in the entry, despatched him for a surgeon, and then she returned to obtain from some people who lodged in the house assistance to force open the door of the room in which the children were confined. 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 Mad. 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 ça!”--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 Mad. 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 Mad. de Fleury, to whose questions she made no answer. “Where are you hurt, my dear?” repeated Mad. 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 Mad. 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.