“She can still weep!” whispered Bixiou.  “A strange sight,—­tears from dominos!  It is like the miracle of Moses.”

“How burnt up!” cried Joseph.

“In the fires of repentance,” said Flore.  “I cannot get a priest; I have nothing, not even a crucifix, to help me see God.  Ah, monsieur!” she cried, raising her arms, that were like two pieces of carved wood, “I am a guilty woman; but God never punished any one as he has punished me!  Philippe killed Max, who advised me to do dreadful things, and now he has killed me.  God uses him as a scourge!”

“Leave me alone with her,” said Bianchon, “and let me find out if the disease is curable.”

“If you cure her, Philippe Bridau will die of rage,” said Desroches.  “I am going to draw up a statement of the condition in which we have found his wife.  He has not brought her before the courts as an adulteress, and therefore her rights as a wife are intact:  he shall have the shame of a suit.  But first, we must remove the Comtesse de Brambourg to the private hospital of Doctor Dubois, in the rue du Faubourg-Saint-Denis.  She will be well cared for there.  Then I will summon the count for the restoration of the conjugal home.”

“Bravo, Desroches!” cried Bixiou.  “What a pleasure to do so much good that will make some people feel so badly!”

Ten minutes later, Bianchon came down and joined them.

“I am going straight to Despleins,” he said.  “He can save the woman by an operation.  Ah! he will take good care of the case, for her abuse of liquor has developed a magnificent disease which was thought to be lost.”

“Wag of a mangler!  Isn’t there but one disease in life?” cried Bixiou.

But Bianchon was already out of sight, so great was his haste to tell Despleins the wonderful news.  Two hours later, Joseph’s miserable sister-in-law was removed to the decent hospital established by Doctor Dubois, which was afterward bought of him by the city of Paris.  Three weeks later, the “Hospital Gazette” published an account of one of the boldest operations of modern surgery, on a case designated by the initials “F.  B.”  The patient died,—­more from the exhaustion produced by misery and starvation than from the effects of the treatment.

No sooner did this occur, than the Comte de Brambourg went, in deep mourning, to call on the Comte de Soulanges, and inform him of the sad loss he had just sustained.  Soon after, it was whispered about in the fashionable world that the Comte de Soulanges would shortly marry his daughter to a parvenu of great merit, who was about to be appointed brigadier-general and receive command of a regiment of the Royal Guard.  De Marsay told this news to Eugene de Rastignac, as they were supping together at the Rocher de Cancale, where Bixiou happened to be.

“It shall not take place!” said the witty artist to himself.