"How cold she is now!" said the poor mother, touching lightly the icy hand and arm of her daughter. "She is very cold; one hour ago she was burning; it is fever; happily, she does not know she has it. How cold she is! this covering is so thin! I would put my old shawl on the bed; but if I take it from the door, where I have hung it, some of those drunken men will come and look through the cracks, as they did yesterday. What a horrible house! If I had known what kind of place it was before I paid in advance, we should not have stayed here; but I did not know—when one has no papers—could I think that I should ever have need of a passport? When I left Angers in my own carriage, could I have thought—but this infamous—because the notary has pleased to rob me, I am reduced to the most frightful extremity, and against him I can do nothing. Oh, the notary, he does not know the frightful consequences of his robbery!
"Alas! yes, I never dare tell my child my fears—not to grieve her; but I suffer; I have fever; I can hardly sustain myself; I feel within me the germs of a malady—dangerous, perhaps—my bosom is on fire; my heart throbs. Oh, if I should fall sick—if I should die! No, no! I will not—I cannot die—leave Claire—alone, abandoned in Paris—can it be possible? No! I am not sick, after all—what do I feel? A little heat, a heaviness about the head, caused, no doubt, from my uneasiness—from cold—oh, it is nothing serious!
"Come, come, no more of such weakness. It is by cherishing such ideas, it is in listening thus, that one falls really sick. And I have the time, truly! Must I not occupy myself in finding some work for Claire and myself, since this man, who gave us engravings to color—"
Then, after a pause, she added, with indignation, "Oh! this is abominable, to offer this work at the price of Claire's—to take from us this miserable means of existence, because I would not allow my child to go and work at his rooms! Perhaps we may find work elsewhere; but when one knows nobody, it is so difficult! When one is so miserably lodged they inspire no confidence; and yet, the small sum that remains once gone, what shall we do? what will become of us?
"If the laws leave this crime unpunished, I will not—for, if fate pushes me to the end—if I do not find the means to emerge from the atrocious position in which this wretch has placed me and my child, I do not know what I shall do—I shall be capable of killing him—I— this man—then they can do what they will with me. Yes—but my child? my child?
"To leave her alone, abandoned—ah! no, I do not wish to die! for this, I cannot kill this man. What would become of her? She, at sixteen—she is young, and pure as an angel; but she is handsome—but misery, hunger, abandonment—what may they not cause? and then—and then—into what abyss may she not fall?
"Oh! it is frightful—poverty! frightful enough for any one; but perhaps more so for those who have always lived in opulence. I cannot beg—I must absolutely see my child starve before I can beg! What a coward—yet—"
Two or three violent knocks at the door made her tremble, and awoke her daughter with a start.
"Mamma, what is that?" cried Claire, sitting up in bed; then, throwing her arms around her mother's neck, who, very much alarmed, pressed her child to her bosom, "Mamma, what is it?" repeated Claire.
"I do not know, my child; but do not be afraid, it is nothing: some one knocked; it is, perhaps, the letter we expect."