The girl clutched his arm, and said in suppressed tones, "Where is Gustave?" "Gustave Rameau? I have no idea. Do you never see him now?" "Never,--perhaps I never shall see him again; but when you do meet him, say that Julie owes to him her livelihood. An honest livelihood, Monsieur. He taught her to love verses--told her how to recite them. I am engaged at this cafe--you will find me here the same hour every day, in case--in case--You are good and kind, and will come and tell me that Gustave is well and happy even if he forgets me. _Au revoir_! Stop, you do look, my poor Frederic, as if--as if--pardon me, Monsieur Lemercier, is there anything I can do? Will you condescend to borrow from me? I am in funds." Lemercier at that offer was nearly moved to tears. Famished though he was, he could not, however, have touched that girl's earnings. "You are an angel of goodness, Mademoiselle! Ah, how I envy Gustave Rameau! No, I don't want aid. I am always a--_rentier_." "_Bien_! and if you see Gustave, you will not forget." "Rely on me. Come away," he said to De Mauleon; "I don't want to hear that girl repeat the sort of bombast the poets indite nowadays. It is fustian; and that girl may have a brain of feather, but she has a heart of gold." "True," said Victor, as they regained the street. "I overheard what she said to you. What an incomprehensible thing is a woman! how more incomprehensible still is a woman's love! Ah, pardon me; I must leave you. I see in the procession a poor woman known to me in better days." De Mauleon walked towards the woman he spoke of--one of the long procession to the bakery--a child clinging to her robe. A pale grief- worn woman, still young, but with the weariness of age on her face, and the shadow of death on her child's. "I think I see Madame Monnier," said De Mauleon, softly. She turned and looked at him drearily. A year ago, she would have blushed if addressed by a stranger in a name not lawfully hers. "Well," she said, in hollow accents broken by cough; "I don't know you, Monsieur." "Poor woman!" he resumed, walking beside her as she moved slowly on, while the eyes of other women in the procession stared at him hungrily. "And your child looks ill too. It is your youngest?" "My only one! The others are in Pere la Chaise. There are but few children alive in my street now. God has been very merciful, and taken them to Himself." De Mauleon recalled the scene of a neat comfortable apartment, and the healthful happy children at play on the floor. The mortality among the little ones, especially in the quartier occupied by the working classes, had of late been terrible. The want of food, of fuel, the intense severity of the weather, had swept them off as by a pestilence. "And Monnier--what of him? No doubt he is a National Guard, and has his pay?"