For ten minutes Virginie had been walking back and forth before a cookshop, beside which was the small establishment of a linen-draper. Virginie had not noticed the proprietress, because she had no eyes for anything but the chickens; but through the gloves, ribbons and drygoods in her window, the tradeswoman had noticed Virginie, whose strange behavior was calculated to arouse curiosity. Women have a sentimental instinct which enables them to understand at once what men cannot divine in an hour, or what they cannot divine at all. The young linen-draper saw in Virginie's eyes that it was not gluttony that caused her to stand in contemplation before her neighbor's merchandise. She went out of her shop by the rear door,--her yard and that of the cookshop were the same,--entered the cookshop, purchased a fine, fat chicken, wrapped it in two thicknesses of paper, and returned to her own shop by the same road. Then she stood in her doorway and looked at Virginie, not knowing how to proffer her gift. For some time Virginie paid no heed to the young woman; but the latter gazed at her with such a meaning expression, and seemed so anxious to speak to her, that Virginie walked toward the shop-door. The young tradeswoman at once said to her, in a low tone and blushing hotly: "Madame, you have forgotten your purse, haven't you? If you would allow me to offer you----" And as she spoke, she thrust the chicken under Virginie's arm, trembling as if she had done a ridiculous thing; but one often trembles much more when doing a kind deed. Virginie could only squeeze the young woman's hand and say: "You guessed my plight. Ah! if you knew how happy you have made me! if you knew why--But you will see me again; I will come again to thank you and pay my debt to you." "Yes, yes, madame," said the young tradeswoman; and she retreated, sorely embarrassed, to the back of her shop, while Virginie, light as a feather, tripped gayly homeward, her chicken under her arm, saying to herself: "I knew that I'd get one! I never lose hope, I don't!" However, the chicken had not yet reached Auguste. At a street corner, Virginie, who probably was looking at her feet and nothing else, was roughly jostled by a man who knocked the chicken to the ground. "You infernal idiot!" cried Virginie, stooping to pick up the chicken. But her voice caught the ears of the man who had jostled her, and who had simply apologized and kept on his way. He stopped, retraced his steps and exclaimed in his turn: "Why--yes! ten thousand bayonets! it's Mamzelle Virginie! Morbleu! perhaps she'll be able to tell me something about him." "Hallo! it's Bertrand!" said Virginie, as she recognized the ex-corporal; "it's good old Ber--But what am I saying! he's a villain, an ungrateful, hardhearted wretch, and I don't like him any more. Let me carry my chicken--don't hold me, monsieur."