Virginie walked along the street, with no very clear idea as to where she was going; she cudgelled her brains to think of somebody who might accommodate her, but the memory is often in default when one asks it the name of a true friend. If Cézarine had been in Paris, Virginie would not have hesitated to call on her, because she knew her kindness of heart; but Cézarine was then on the track of her Théodore, who had left the capital, and her Théodore was likely to lead her a long way. Virginie's other acquaintances offered too unpromising a prospect; there were several to whom she would not have dreamed of applying. However, the result of her reflections was always the same:--"I must have a chicken for Auguste, and I will have one. I don't know just how I shall do it; but whenever I've taken it into my head to do a thing, I've always succeeded in doing it, and it's often been a question of things much more interesting than a chicken; it would be a deuce of a go, if I couldn't acquit myself creditably in the matter of a little chicken!" And Virginie stopped in front of poultry shops and cookshops; she walked back and forth, cudgelling her brains to no purpose; she found no money, and she heaved a sigh as she gazed at the delicacies with which she desired to regale the convalescent. The amusing faces that Virginie made--her decent dress did not indicate want--and the way she glared at the roast chickens, made the passers-by smile now and then, for they saw in the grisette's emotion only an outburst of gluttony; and she, seeing them smile as they looked at her, muttered between her teeth: "The idiots! Suppose they do laugh in my face--what difference does that make to me? Isn't there one of them who will be polite enough to offer me a chicken? Men are getting to be brutes!"