“But that will make another half-month’s money,” said she.

At this La Couteau put on her most frigid air:  “Well, what would you have?  It isn’t my fault.  One can’t let your child die, so one must incur the necessary expenses.  And then, if you haven’t confidence in me, say so; send the money and settle things direct.  Indeed, that will greatly relieve me, for in all this I lose my time and trouble; but then, I’m always stupid enough to be too obliging.”

When Madame Menoux, again quivering and anxious, had given way, another difficulty arose.  She had only some gold with her, two twenty-franc pieces and one ten-franc piece.  The three coins lay glittering on the table.  La Couteau looked at them with her yellow fixed eyes.

“Well, I can’t give you your five francs change,” she said, “I haven’t any change with me.  And you, Celeste, have you any change for this lady?”

She risked asking this question, but put it in such a tone and with such a glance that the other immediately understood her.  “I have not a copper in my pocket,” she replied.

Deep silence fell.  Then, with bleeding heart and a gesture of cruel resignation, Madame Menoux did what was expected of her.

“Keep those five francs for yourself, Madame Couteau, since you have to take so much trouble.  And, mon Dieu! may all this money bring me good luck, and at least enable my poor little fellow to grow up a fine handsome man like his father.”

“Oh! as for that I’ll warrant it,” cried the other, with enthusiasm.  “Those little ailments don’t mean anything—­on the contrary.  I see plenty of little folks, I do; and so just remember what I tell you, yours will become an extraordinarily fine child.  There won’t be better.”

When Madame Menoux went off, La Couteau had lavished such flattery and such promises upon her that she felt quite light and gay; no longer regretting her money, but dreaming of the day when little Pierre would come back to her with plump cheeks and all the vigor of a young oak.

As soon as the door had closed behind the haberdasher, Celeste began to laugh in her impudent way:  “What a lot of fibs you told her!  I don’t believe that her child so much as caught a cold,” she exclaimed.

La Couteau began by assuming a dignified air:  “Say that I’m a liar at once.  The child isn’t well, I assure you.”

The maid’s gayety only increased at this.  “Well now, you are really comical, putting on such airs with me.  I know you, remember, and I know what is meant when the tip of your nose begins to wriggle.”

“The child is quite puny,” repeated her friend, more gently.

“Oh!  I can believe that.  All the same I should like to see the doctor’s prescriptions, and the soap and the sugar.  But, you know, I don’t care a button about the matter.  As for that little Madame Menoux, it’s here to-day and gone to-morrow.  She has her business, and I have mine.  And you, too, have yours, and so much the better if you get as much out of it as you can.”