“Good-by!  Take care of yourself!” cried La Couteau; “you will make me miss my train.  And I’ve got the return tickets, too; the five others are waiting for me at the station!  Ah! what a fuss they would make if I got there too late!”

Then, followed by Mathieu, she hurried away, bounding down the stairs, where she almost fell with her little burden.  But soon she threw herself back in the cab, which rolled off.

“Ah! that’s a good job!  And what do you say of that young person, monsieur?  She wouldn’t lay out fifteen francs a month on her own account, and yet she reproaches that good Mademoiselle Rosine, who has just given me four hundred francs to have her little one taken care of till his first communion.  Just look at him—­a superb child, isn’t he?  What a pity it is that the finest are often those who die the first.”

Mathieu looked at the infant on the woman’s knees.  His garments were very white, of fine texture, trimmed with lace, as if he were some little condemned prince being taken in all luxury to execution.  And the young man remembered that Norine had told him that the child was the offspring of crime.  Born amid secrecy, he was now, for a fixed sum, to be handed over to a woman who would quietly suppress him by simply leaving some door or window wide open.  Young though the boy was, he already had a finely-formed face, that suggested the beauty of a cherub.  And he was very well behaved; he did not raise the faintest wail.  But a shudder swept through Mathieu.  How abominable!

La Couteau quickly sprang from the cab as soon as they reached the courtyard of the St. Lazare Station.  “Thank you, monsieur, you have been very kind,” said she.  “And if you will kindly recommend me to any ladies you may know, I shall be quite at their disposal.”

Then Mathieu, having alighted on the pavement in his turn, saw a scene which detained him there a few moments longer.  Amid all the scramble of passengers and luggage, five women of peasant aspect, each carrying an infant, were darting in a scared, uneasy way hither and thither, like crows in trouble, with big yellow beaks quivering and black wings flapping with anxiety.  Then, on perceiving La Couteau, there was one general caw, and all five swooped down upon her with angry, voracious mien.  And, after a furious exchange of cries and explanations, the six banded themselves together, and, with cap-strings waving and skirts flying, rushed towards the train, carrying the little ones, like birds of prey who feared delay in returning to the charnel-house.

And Mathieu remained alone in the great crowd.  Thus every year did these crows of ill omen carry off from Paris no fewer than 20,000 children, who were never, never seen again!  Ah! that great question of the depopulation of France!  Not merely were there those who were resolved to have no children, not only were infanticide and crime of other kinds rife upon all sides, but one-half of the babes saved