"Please, sir, I want an emetic for my husband, who is ill."
"What sort do you want, citizeness?" asked the dispenser of drugs.
"Any sort, as long as it does not cost more than eleven cents."
This exact amount struck Maillard, for it will be remembered that eleven coppers were the findings in Beausire's pockets.
"Why should it not cost more than that?" inquired the chemist.
"Because that is all the small change my man could give me."
"Put up some tartar emetic," said the apothecary to an assistant, "and give it to the citizeness."
He turned to attend to other demands while the assistant made up the powder. But Maillard, who had nothing to do to distract his attention, concentrated all his wits on the woman who had but eleven cents.
"There you are, citizeness; here's your physic," said the drug clerk.
"Now, then, Toussaint," said the woman, with a drawl habitual to her, "give the gentleman the eleven cents, my boy."