A day or two of continuous strain and hopelessness, and then under the auspices of the _Pompes Funèbres_ and the clergy of the parish, the poor body of Cécile Fortinbras was laid to rest. Not till then did any one send word to Félise. Even Madame Robineau agreed that it was best she should not know. As she had left Chartres, self-willed and ungovernable, so, on the receipt of the news of her mother’s death, might she leave Brantôme. Her appearance amid these squalid happenings would be _inconvenable_. “I have no reason to love Félise,” she added. “But she is a young girl of our family, and it is not correct that she should see such things.” When the train carrying Madame Robineau back to Chartres steamed out of the Gare Montparnasse, both men drew a breath of relief. “_Mon ami_,” said Bigourdin. “The Bible taught the Church the beautiful history of Jesus Christ. The Church told a Bishop. The Bishop told a priest. The priest told the wife of the sub-prefect. The wife of the sub-prefect told the wife of the mayor. The wife of the mayor told the elderly, unmarried sister of the corn-chandler, and the unmarried sister of the corn-chandler told Clothilde. And that’s all she (Clothilde) knows about Christianity. Still,” he added, in his judicious way, “she is a woman of remarkable virtue. She has a strong sense of duty. Without a particle of love animating her heart, she has just spent three days and nights without sleep, food or fresh air. It’s fine, all the same.” “I am not ungrateful,” said Fortinbras. They entered a café for the sake of shelter from the bitter January wind, and they talked, as they had done lately, of many intimate things; of the past, of Martin, of the immediate future. Fortinbras would not accompany Bigourdin to Brantôme. His presence would only add poignancy to the grief of Félise. It was more impossible now than ever to undeceive her, as one could not speak ill of the dead. No; he would remain in Paris, where he had much to do. First he must move from the Rue Maugrabine. The place would be haunted. Besides, what did one old vagabond want with two rooms and a kitchen? He would sell his few belongings, and take a furnished room somewhere among the chimney-pots. . . . Bigourdin lifted his _petit verre_ of Armagnac, and forgetting all about it, put it down again. “What I am going to tell you,” said he, “may seem cynical, but it is only common sense. Do not leave the Rue Maugrabine without having searched every corner, every box, every garment, every piece of furniture.” “Search?—what for?” “The little economies of Cécile,” said Bigourdin. Fortinbras put up a protesting hand. Instinct revolted. “Impossible!” he declared.