She gave them to me, and then she started off with her nursling. It was all arranged very quickly, as you see." "Certainly, monsieur, I have nothing to reproach you for, up to that point--except the _layette_, which you might have bought." "That is to say, which you should have bought beforehand." "Oh! monsieur, when one is travelling all the time, has one any opportunity to make purchases?" "In that case, madame, when could I have bought it, as I was travelling with you?--Besides, is that sort of thing a man's business?" "Well, monsieur, let us drop that and return to the nurse. You heard from the child through her? you sent her money?" "I never heard from the nurse, madame, for the very simple reason that I did not give her my address; I refrained, from prudential motives; and then too we were always in flying camp at that time, and I really don't know what address I could have given her." "Then, monsieur, you must have written to her?" "Mon Dieu! that is what I expected to do, and to send her some money; and then I would have given her an address, _poste restante_, so that she might answer me. But at that point difficulties arose. Imagine, if you please, that, when that woman gave me her name and address, I did not take the precaution to write them down at once; we were in such a hurry, so completely upset! What with giving my clothes for the _layette_, and the child's crying, and your sending to ask what was going on--in short, I didn't write down the confounded address at the time, feeling sure that I should remember it. The nurse went away. We had a thousand things to do: I had to obtain money to resume our travels, and we were constantly beset by the fear of being discovered by your husband.--As you will remember, we started for the Pyrenees as soon as you were in a condition to endure the journey." "I know all that--well?" "At last, one fine day, you asked me about the child. I answered: 'She is well; she must be all right.' But that reminded me that I had neglected to send the nurse any money since the little one came into the world, six months before. I said to myself: 'Pardieu! I must repair that neglect.'--I instantly wrote a few lines in haste, but when it came to writing the woman's name and address, I could not possibly remember them! She was from Picardie, and her first name was Marguerite; but Marguerite what? there are Marguerites everywhere! And the name of that wretched village--I could not remember that either!--I said to myself: 'A little patience and it will come back to me.'--Six more months passed and I thought again of the child; I tried once more to remember the nurse's address; but I could not recall it!" "And you kept telling me that the child was well!" "What would you have had me tell you? I couldn't say that she was ill, because I didn't know.--In short, for nineteen years I have tried very often to think of that address, but it hasn't come back to me yet."