“There, mother; you shall not drink plain cold water any more! Here is sugar, here is charcoal, and in my pocket I have half a dozen herbs in leaves. Ah! what luck! you will be cured right away! I can nurse you nicely now.”
“What does this mean, my dear? where did you get all these things? You hadn’t a sou just now. Explain yourself, Georget, I insist.”
“Why, yes, yes, never fear, I am going to tell you the whole story; but let me light the stove first, and then, while I blow my charcoal, I will tell you how Providence came to our assistance. Where is the stove? Ah! there it is. This will light very quickly, I know, although the bellows isn’t any too good.”
“Did you get all these things in the house, my son?”
“Yes, mother; you see, first of all, I went down to borrow from the concierge, Monsieur Baudoin; but it wasn’t any use for me to knock at their door, I couldn’t wake them, they’re worse than deaf people. So then I was coming up again in very low spirits, indeed, I believe I was crying, when the door on the third landing opened, and the gentleman who lives there came out to me. Oh! this thing proves, mother, that people very often say foolish things, or that it’s very wrong to judge a person by his appearance. For that gentleman that they call the Bear, that gentleman that never speaks to anybody, and that everybody makes stupid jokes about, why, he took me into his room, and gave me all these things for you, because I told him that you were sick; and he didn’t even let me thank him!—Ah! you miserable charcoal! you’ve got to burn! Now I am going to put some water over the fire.”
“But, my dear, this is an enormous loaf of sugar, and it is almost whole; you ought not to have borrowed so much as this.”
“As if that gentleman would listen to me! He says: ‘Take this!’ and if you try to remonstrate, he shouts: ‘Hold your tongue!’ and it’s impossible to prevent him from doing what he wants to.—Ah! my fire is going at last!”
“But this Monsieur Malberg—for the gentleman of the third floor is named Malberg—I have never met him; what sort of looking man is he, Georget? You must have had a good look at him, didn’t you?”
“Oh, yes! mother; why, he’s a man neither young nor old. At first sight, I am sure that you would take him to be older than he really is, because when a person never laughs, that makes him look older. He may be somewhat over fifty years old; his face is not ugly, not by any means, but his features have a sort of stern expression; his eyes are always gloomy and melancholy, and there are great wrinkles on his brow; his eyebrows are heavy, and his hair must have been black, but it’s a little gray now. When he fixes his great brown eyes on you, it frightens you; and yet I got used to them, for his expression is neither unkind nor contemptuous; it’s—I don’t know just how to describe it—it’s sort of compassionate, or sorrowful; and his voice, which sounds harsh at first, is much less so when he’s talked to you for some time. You see, mother, that gentleman isn’t like most people; oh, no! he makes you respect him, and it comes natural to obey him, and you don’t dare to say anything.”
“Really, my dear, you make me long to know this gentleman; when I am able to go out, I shall go to thank him. And did you tell him——”