"Well, then, I knew a young girl, who had been a sort of companion to me when I was in prison; she afterwards died in a hospital, and what do you think? Her body was given to the surgeons for dissection!" murmured the shuddering Fleur-de-Marie. "That is, indeed, a frightful idea! And do these miserable anticipations often trouble you, my poor girl?" "Ah, M. Rodolph, it surprises you that, after my unhappy life, I can feel any concern as to what becomes of my miserable remains! God knows, the feeling which makes me shrink from such an outrage to modesty is all my wretched fate has left me!" The mournful tone in which these words were uttered, and the bitter feelings they contained, went to the heart of Rodolph; but his companion, quickly perceiving his air of dejection, and blaming herself for having caused it, said, timidly: "M. Rodolph, I feel that I am behaving very ill and ungratefully towards you, who so kindly brought me out to amuse me and give me pleasure; in return for which I only keep talking to you about all the dull and gloomy things I can think of! I wonder how I can do so!--to be able even to recollect my misery, when all around me smiles and looks so gay! I cannot tell how it is, words seem to rise from my lips in spite of myself; and, though I feel happier to-day than I ever did before in my life, my eyes are continually filling with tears! You are not angry with me, are you, M. Rodolph? See, too, my sadness is going away as suddenly as it came. There now, it is all gone, and shall not return to vex you any more, I am determined. Look, M. Rodolph, just look at my eyes,--they do not show that I have been crying, do they?" And here Fleur-de-Marie, having repeatedly closed her eyes to get rid of the rebellious tears that would gather there, opened them full upon Rodolph, with a look of most enchanting candour and sweetness. "Put no restraint on yourself, I beseech you, Fleur-de-Marie: be gay, if you really feel so; or sad, if sadness most suits your present state of mind. I have my own hours of gloom and melancholy, and my sufferings would be much increased were I compelled to feign a lightness of heart I did not really possess." "Can it be possible, M. Rodolph, that you are ever sad?" "Quite possible, my child, and true. Alas! the prospect before me is but little brighter than your own. I, like you, am without friends or parents; what would become of me if I were to fall ill and be unable to earn my daily bread,--for I need scarcely tell you I live but from day to day, and spend my money quite as fast as I obtain it?"