And the doctor went to the bed and lifted the only mattress that there was on the straw; Virginie did the same on the other side, and thus they carried Auguste to the floor below and laid him upon the only bed in the room. "Where will you sleep, mademoiselle?" queried the doctor. "Oh! that don't worry me, monsieur. I'll bring down the straw bed from upstairs; indeed, I shan't feel like sleeping as long as he's sick." The doctor looked at her again, then wrote a prescription and took his leave, promising to come again early the next morning. When Virginie was alone, she looked at the prescription and tried to read it. "Bless my soul!" she muttered, "how badly these doctors write! like cats. 'Syrup of--infusion of'--No matter, the druggist will understand; this much is clear, that here's syrups and infusions--consequently, money. Poor Auguste! I'm quite sure he hasn't any. And I haven't much more. But never mind--I have got to find some. He gave me enough when he was rich. I must go at once and get whatever he needs." Virginie took her purse and went out to buy what was required for the draught the doctor had ordered. She did not amuse herself by babbling with the concierge, but made haste back to her room to nurse the sick man. His fever had changed to delirium; he did not know her, and he seemed to be much worse. Virginie nursed him with redoubled zeal. She succeeded, not without difficulty, in making him take the potion prescribed for him. She did not take one moment's rest during the night; she was constantly beside the sick-bed, leaving it only to return to her work. Her work was making linen garments, for since her opportunities for pleasure had fallen off, she had realized that in order to live something more was required than fine eyes and a fetching smile. This work brought her but little money; but she redoubled her efforts when she had Auguste to care for. While she worked, Virginie kept her eyes on the invalid. "Poor boy!" she would say to herself; "his travels evidently didn't bring him luck. But how does it happen that good old Bertrand isn't with him? He must be dead, not to be with Auguste. He was a true friend, he was! not like those popinjays who swindled him! And Denise, who loved him so dearly! If she knew he was in this condition! Suppose I should write to her? But no, that might make Auguste angry; perhaps he's seen her again, and they've had a row; one can never tell! I must cure him first; then he will tell me all his adventures." The doctor came the next day, as he had promised; he was unable as yet to give a definite opinion, but he agreed to come again in the evening, and told Virginie to follow the same treatment.