Boiled shrimps, rice, claret-and-water, bread—­they were dining well the day before execution.  Dining is hardly correct, either, for Clotilde, at least, did not eat; they only sat.  Clotilde had, too, if not her unknown, at least her unconfessed emotions.  Aurora’s were tossed by the waves, hers were sunken beneath them.  Aurora had a faith that the rent would be paid—­a faith which was only a vapor, but a vapor gilded by the sun—­that is, by Apollo, or, to be still more explicit, by Honore Grandissime.  Clotilde, deprived of this confidence, had tried to raise means wherewith to meet the dread obligation, or, rather, had tried to try and had failed.  To-day was the ninth, to-morrow, the street.  Joseph Frowenfeld was hurt; her dependence upon his good offices was gone.  When she thought of him suffering under public contumely, it seemed to her as if she could feel the big drops of blood dropping from her heart; and when she recalled her own actions, speeches, and demonstrations in his presence, exaggerated by the groundless fear that he had guessed into the deepest springs of her feelings, then she felt those drops of blood congeal.  Even if the apothecary had been duller of discernment than she supposed, here was Aurora on the opposite side of the table, reading every thought of her inmost soul.  But worst of all was ’Sieur Frowenfel’s indifference.  It is true that, as he had directed upon her that gaze of recognition, there was a look of mighty gladness, if she dared believe her eyes.  But no, she dared not; there was nothing there for her, she thought,—­probably (when this anguish of public disgrace should by any means be lifted) a benevolent smile at her and her betrayal of interest.  Clotilde felt as though she had been laid entire upon a slide of his microscope.

Aurora at length broke her reverie.

“Clotilde,”—­she spoke in French—­“the matter with you is that you have no heart.  You never did have any.  Really and truly, you do not care whether ‘Sieur Frowenfel’ lives or dies.  You do not care how he is or where he is this minute.  I wish you had some of my too large heart.  I not only have the heart, as I tell you, to think kindly of our enemies, those Grandissime, for example”—­she waved her hand with the air of selecting at random—­“but I am burning up to know what is the condition of that poor, sick, noble ‘Sieur Frowenfel’, and I am going to do it!”

The heart which Clotilde was accused of not having gave a stir of deep gratitude.  Dear, pretty little mother!  Not only knowing full well the existence of this swelling heart and the significance, to-day, of its every warm pulsation, but kindly covering up the discovery with make-believe reproaches.  The tears started in her eyes; that was her reply.

“Oh, now! it is the rent again, I suppose,” cried Aurora, “always the rent.  It is not the rent that worries me, it is ‘Sieur Frowenfel’, poor man.  But very well, Mademoiselle Silence, I will match you for making me do all the talking.”  She was really beginning to sink under the labor of carrying all the sprightliness for both.  “Come,” she said, savagely, “propose something.”