“Marie Lebleu.”

Madame Broquette, who, without presuming to interfere with a doctor, had retained her majestic air which so fully proclaimed the high respectability of her establishment, now turned towards her daughter:  “Herminie, go to see if Madame Couteau is still there.”

Then, as the girl slowly raised her pale dreamy eyes without stirring from her chair, her mother came to the conclusion that she had better execute the commission herself.  A moment later she came back with La Couteau.

The doctor was now settling money matters.  Eighty francs a month for the nurse; and forty-five francs for her board and lodging at the agency and Madame Broquette’s charges.  Then there was the question of her child’s return to the country, which meant another thirty francs, without counting a gratuity to La Couteau.

“I’m going back this evening,” said the latter; “I’m quite willing to take the little one with me.  In the Avenue d’Antin, did you say?  Oh!  I know, there’s a lady’s maid from my district in that house.  Marie can go there at once.  When I’ve settled my business, in a couple of hours, I will go and rid her of her baby.”

On entering the office, La Couteau had glanced askance at Mathieu, without, however, appearing to recognize him.  He had remained on his chair silently watching the scene—­first an inspection as of cattle at a market, and then a bargaining, the sale of a mother’s milk.  And by degrees pity and revolt had filled his heart.  But a shudder passed through him when La Couteau turned towards the quiet, fine-looking child, of which she promised to rid the nurse.  And once more he pictured her with her five companions at the St.-Lazare railway station, each, like some voracious crow, with a new-born babe in her clutches.  It was the pillaging beginning afresh; life and hope were again being stolen from Paris.  And this time, as the doctor said, a double murder was threatened; for, however careful one may be, the employer’s child often dies from another’s milk, and the nurse’s child, carried back into the country like a parcel, is killed with neglect and indigestible pap.

But everything was now settled, and so the doctor and his companion drove away to Grenelle.  And there, at the very entrance of the Beauchene works, came a meeting which again filled Mathieu with emotion.  Morange, the accountant, was returning to his work after dejeuner, accompanied by his daughter Reine, both of them dressed in deep mourning.  On the morrow of Valerie’s funeral, Morange had returned to his work in a state of prostration which almost resembled forgetfulness.  It was clear that he had abandoned all ambitious plans of quitting the works to seek a big fortune elsewhere.  Still he could not make up his mind to leave his flat, though it was now too large for him, besides being too expensive.  But then his wife had lived in those rooms, and he wished to remain in them.  And, moreover, he desired