“Surely you did not merely see the gendarmes? you were instructed to question everybody.”

“That is precisely what I did, madame.  I saw the schoolmaster, and I spoke to the other persons who had employed the lad.  They all told me that he was a good-for-nothing.  The schoolmaster remembered that he had been a liar and a bully.  Now he’s a thief; that makes him perfect.  I can’t say otherwise than I have said, since you wanted to know the plain truth.”

La Couteau thus emphasized her statements on seeing that the lady’s suffering increased.  And what strange suffering it was; a heart-pang at each fresh accusation, as if her husband’s illegitimate child had become in some degree her own!  She ended indeed by silencing the nurse-agent.

“Thank you.  The boy is no longer at Rougemont, that is all we wished to know.”

La Couteau thereupon turned to Mathieu, continuing her narrative, in order to give him his money’s worth.

“I also made the other apprentice talk a bit,” said she; “you know, that big carroty fellow, Richard, whom I spoke to you about.  He’s another whom I wouldn’t willingly trust.  But it’s certain that he doesn’t know where his companion has gone.  The gendarmes think that Alexandre is in Paris.”

Thereupon Mathieu in his turn thanked the woman, and handed her a bank-note for fifty francs—­a gift which brought a smile to her face and rendered her obsequious, and, as she herself put it, “as discreetly silent as the grave.”  Then, as three nurses came into the refectory, and Monsieur Broquette could be heard scrubbing another’s hands in the kitchen, by way of teaching her how to cleanse herself of her native dirt, Constance felt nausea arise within her, and made haste to follow her companion away.  Once in the street, instead of entering the cab which was waiting, she paused pensively, haunted by La Couteau’s final words.

“Did you hear?” she exclaimed.  “That wretched lad may be in Paris.”

“That is probable enough; they all end by stranding here.”

Constance again hesitated, reflected, and finally made up her mind to say in a somewhat tremulous voice:  “And the mother, my friend; you know where she lives, don’t you?  Did you not tell me that you had concerned yourself about her?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Then listen—­and above all, don’t be astonished; pity me, for I am really suffering.  An idea has just taken possession of me; it seems to me that if the boy is in Paris, he may have found his mother.  Perhaps he is with her, or she may at least know where he lodges.  Oh! don’t tell me that it is impossible.  On the contrary, everything is possible.”

Surprised and moved at seeing one who usually evinced so much calmness now giving way to such fancies as these, Mathieu promised that he would make inquiries.  Nevertheless, Constance did not get into the cab, but continued gazing at the pavement.  And when she once more raised her eyes, she spoke to him entreatingly, in an embarrassed, humble manner:  “Do you know what we ought to do?  Excuse me, but it is a service I shall never forget.  If I could only know the truth at once it might calm me a little.  Well, let us drive to that woman’s now.  Oh!  I won’t go up; you can go alone, while I wait in the cab at the street corner.  And perhaps you will obtain some news.”