Fortunately, Mademoiselle Josephine did not lack presence of mind or experience. She flew to Fleurange, knelt beside her, raised her head, and supported her in her arms. Then she drew a smelling‐bottle from her pocket to revive her, and while showing her these attentions she racked her brains to guess what could have caused one so robust and generally so calm to faint in this mysterious way. All at once she noticed the newspaper, which had fallen at the young girl’s feet. “Ah!” she said, “she read something in that medley, perhaps some bad news; but, merciful heavens! what could it have been to produce such an effect?—Dear child,” she continued, looking tenderly at the pale and lovely face resting on her shoulders, “she said yesterday she never fainted but once in her life, and that was at our house in Paris two years ago when she was overcome by weakness and hunger.” Poor Mademoiselle Josephine! compassion, and the remembrances thus awakened, doubly affected her, and her eyes were still filled with tears when Fleurange opened hers with an expression of surprise soon followed by an indistinct recollection. She rose slowly up, but, before mademoiselle could aid her, she threw her arms around her old friend’s neck. “O dear mademoiselle!” she murmured, “did you know it?—did you know it?” Poor Josephine had never been so embarrassed. To say she was totally ignorant of the point was to invite a confidence quite unsuitable at such a moment, and a contrary reply would also have its inconveniences. She therefore took refuge in an innocent subterfuge. “Well, well, my poor child, what use is there in speaking of it now? Be calm, and do not say anything at present. We will talk about it another time. Be easy,” she added at a venture, “everything will be arranged if you take what I am going to give you.” Then aiding Fleurange to rise, and placing her in a chair, she ran for a glass of water, into which she poured a few drops of _eau de mélisse_—a genuine panacea in her estimation—which she held to the young girl’s lips. Fleurange drank it all, and then gave a long sigh. “What happened to me?” she said. “Nothing. You were only faint. That is all.” “That is strange, for I never faint.” And she passed her hand over her forehead. “O my God! I remember it all now,” she suddenly exclaimed. “But is it true? May not this be false—a mere idle tale?” “Who can tell?” replied mademoiselle vaguely. “That is quite possible. They say so many things.” “But tell me all you know.” “No, no, not now, Gabrielle, not now. You are not able to hear it. Do as I say, and we will talk about it at another time.” Fleurange made no reply. A moment after, she rose. “I am well now,” she said; “I feel revived.”