Quick-witted as she was, Cecile darted a glance at him.  The friend he spoke of was himself.  Good heavens would her dream come true?  She ended by bravely saying:  “Listen, monsieur; you are so kind that you really ought to do me a last favor.  It would be to come with me and see Norine at once.  You alone can talk to her and prevail on her perhaps.  But let us walk slowly, for I am stifling, I feel so happy.”

Mathieu, deeply touched, walked on beside her.  They turned the corner of the Rue de Miromesnil, and his own heart began to beat as they climbed the stairs of Madame Bourdieu’s establishment.  Ten years ago!  Was it possible?  He recalled everything that he had seen and heard in that house.  And it all seemed to date from yesterday, for the building had not changed; indeed, he fancied that he could recognize the very grease-spots on the doors on the various landings.

Following Cecile to Norine’s room, he found Norine up and dressed, but seated at the side of her bed and nursing her babe.

“What! is it you, monsieur?” she exclaimed, as soon as she recognized her visitor.  “It is very kind of Cecile to have brought you.  Ah! mon Dieu what a lot of things have happened since I last saw you!  We are none of us any the younger.”

He scrutinized her, and she did indeed seem to him much aged.  She was one of those blondes who fade rapidly after their thirtieth year.  Still, if her face had become pasty and wore a weary expression, she remained pleasant-looking, and seemed as heedless, as careless as ever.

Cecile wished to bring matters to the point at once.  “Here is your chocolate,” she began.  “I met Monsieur Froment in the street, and he is so kind and takes so much interest in me that he is willing to help me in carrying out my idea of renting a room where you might live and work with me.  So I begged him to come up here and talk with you, and prevail on you to keep that poor little fellow of yours.  You see, I don’t want to take you unawares; I warn you in advance.”

Norine started with emotion, and began to protest.  “What is all this again?” said she.  “No, no, I don’t want to be worried.  I’m too unhappy as it is.”

But Mathieu immediately intervened, and made her understand that if she reverted to the life she had been leading she would simply sink lower and lower.  She herself had no illusions on that point; she spoke bitterly enough of her experiences.  Her youth had flown, her good-looks were departing, and the prospect seemed hopeless enough.  But then what could she do?  When one had fallen into the mire one had to stay there.

“Ah! yes, ah! yes,” said she; “I’ve had enough of that infernal life which some folks think so amusing.  But it’s like a stone round my neck; I can’t get rid of it.  I shall have to keep to it till I’m picked up in some corner and carried off to die at a hospital.”

She spoke these words with the fierce energy of one who all at once clearly perceives the fate which she cannot escape.  Then she glanced at her infant, who was still nursing.  “He had better go his way and I’ll go mine,” she added.  “Then we shan’t inconvenience one another.”