Now there came up to the trap a pale little fellow—the merest child. It was little Foucaud, the son of Madame Kolly. This poor lad must be held a man (God save him!) when misfortune overtook his family; but the scoundrels had the grace to consign his younger brother to the company of his mother on the woman’s side. And here, through this sink opening, the two babes would converse in their sad little trebles two or three times a-day.
“How now, my man?” said St Prest; for the boy stood wistfully watching us, his hands picking together and his throat swelling. Then all at once he was weeping.
The old fop gently patted the heaving shoulders.
“Oh, monsieur,” said the youngster, in a hoarse little voice, “the cold of the stones is in my throat and on my chest.”
“What then, child! That is not to be guillotined.”
“But I cannot cry out so that he shall hear me; and if we do not talk I know nothing.”
In a paroxysm of agitation he threw himself down by the sewer.
“Lolo, Lolo!” he tried to call; but his voice would not obey his will.
And then M. de St Prest did a thing, the self-sacrificing quality of which shall be known in full, perhaps, only to the angels. He took the lad under the arms and, lifting him away, himself knelt down in all his nicety by the sink and put his mouth to the opening.
“The little Foucaud,” he piped, “desires to see his brother!”