“Oh! no, monsieur! but when a fellow doesn’t know which way to turn! I went down and knocked at the concierge’s door; I wanted to borrow a little sugar and some charcoal of them; but they didn’t answer; I suppose they sleep too sound!” “So you live in the house, do you?” “Yes, monsieur, at the top, under the eaves; I live there with my mother, who is the widow of my father, Pierre Brunoy, who was a soldier, a non-commissioned officer, who left the service on account of a wound. Oh! he was a fine man, was my father! He was a draughts-man, he had lots of talent, and he used to make designs for ladies who embroider; we were happy then; but he died. My mother undertook to keep a little smallwares shop, to earn enough to educate me; but she didn’t succeed, for no one paid her. Then, as she works very well on linen, she began to work for people, and I, knowing that I ought to help mother, whose health isn’t very good, and who has weak eyes, I said to myself: ‘I will be a messenger, for I could never find a place, although I can read and write and figure; or else I should have to work without pay for a long while and I must earn money right away to help mother.’--So I started in as a messenger; for there isn’t any foolish trade, so I was told;--and--that’s all, monsieur.” The gentleman of the third floor listened attentively to Georget, and when he had finished, said to him: “Come with me.” “Where, monsieur?” “Into my room, of course.” “What for, monsieur?” “You will see; come.” The youth placed his tallow-dip on the floor, and followed the gentleman; his heart was still heavy, for he didn’t understand how the person who occupied the handsome apartment on the third floor could need his services so late. Monsieur Malberg passed through a reception room very carefully polished, and into a beautiful dining-room. There he stopped, opened a large sideboard, took out a loaf of sugar, which was hardly touched, and placed it in Georget’s hand, saying: “Take this!” The poor boy looked at him with an almost dazed expression, and murmured: “What is this, monsieur?” “Don’t you see that it is sugar?” “Sugar, oh, yes! but this great loaf,--who’s all this for?” “For your mother, of course! Didn’t you tell me that she hadn’t any and that she was sick?” “Oh! is it possible, monsieur, that you are so kind as--but this is too much, monsieur, too much.” “Hush, and come with me.” This time Monsieur Malberg went into his kitchen, where Georget followed him, holding the loaf of sugar in his arms. The gentleman pointed to a large box without a cover, which stood under the stove, saying: “Take that box; there’s charcoal in it.” “Oh! how kind you are, monsieur! How can I thank you for----” “It isn’t worth while, I don’t like thanks; take this box, I say.” “Yes, monsieur, but be sure--I will return all this; pray believe me. Oh! I will work to pay my debt.”