Nothing pacifies the wretched so quickly as to find that someone else shares their distress. Denise listened to Virginie’s entreaties; she exerted herself to summon her courage; she wiped her eyes, rose, and said with a long-drawn sigh:
“I’ll go back to the village then.”
“Yes, my dear girl, that’s the wisest thing you can do.”
“But suppose he should come back, madame?”
“Well, I’ll let you know, I’ll come and tell you; I promise to do my utmost to learn something about him.”
“Ah! how good you are, madame!”
“Why, no—the trouble is that you’re a slip of a girl who ought to be kept under glass.”
“Monsieur le concierge,” said Denise, “if you hear anything about Monsieur Auguste, don’t forget to ask where he is, and find out where a person can write to him.”
“Ja, mamzelle.”
“Don’t you be afraid, little Denise: I’ll come often and ask Dutchy if he knows anything. He’s a good fellow, though he does smoke all the time, is Monsieur—What’s your name?”