And that was what made the dormitory lugubrious and silent, without any of the little outbursts of anger emphasized by clenched fists, without any of the shrieks that show the even red gums, whereby the child makes trial of his strength and of his lungs; only an occasional plaintive groan, as if the soul were tossing and turning restlessly in a little diseased body, unable to find a place to rest. Jenkins and the manager, noticing the unfavorable impression produced upon their guests by the visit to the dormitory, tried to enliven the situation by talking very loud, with a good-humored, frank, well-satisfied manner. Jenkins shook hands warmly with the overseer. "Well, Madame Polge, are our little pupils getting on?" "As you see, Monsieur le Docteur," she replied, pointing to the beds. Very funereal in her green dress was tall Madame Polge, the ideal of dry nurses; she completed the picture. But where had the Empress's secretary gone? He was standing by a cradle, which he was scrutinizing sadly, shaking his head. "_Bigre de Bigre!_" whispered Pompon to Madame Polge. "It's the Wallachian." The little blue card, hanging above the cradle as in hospitals, set forth the nationality of the child within: "Moldo-Wallachian." What cursed luck that Monsieur le Secretaire's eye should happen to light upon him! Oh! the poor little head lying on the pillow, with cap all awry, nostrils contracted, lips parted by a short, panting breath, the breath of those who are just born and of those who are about to die. "Is he ill?" the secretary softly asked the manager, who had drawn near. "Not in the least," replied the audacious Pompon, and he walked to the cradle, poked the little one playfully with his finger, rearranged the pillow, and said in a hearty, affectionate voice, albeit a little roughly: "Well, old fellow?" Roused from his stupor, emerging from the torpor which already enveloped him, the little fellow opened his eyes and looked at the faces bending over him, with sullen indifference, then, returning to his dream which he deemed more attractive, clenched his little wrinkled hands and heaved an inaudible sigh. Oh! mystery! Who can say for what purpose that child was born? To suffer two months and to go away without seeing or understanding anything, before anyone had heard the sound of his voice! "How pale he is!" muttered M. de La Perriere, himself as pale as death. The Nabob, too, was as white as a sheet. A cold breath had passed over them. The manager assumed an indifferent air. "It's the reflection. We all look green." "To be sure--to be sure," said Jenkins, "it's the reflection of the pond. Just come and look, Monsieur le Secretaire." And he led him to the window to point out the great sheet of water in which the willows dipped their branches, while Madame Polge hastily closed the curtains of his cradle upon the little Wallachian's never-ending dream.