“Come and see me to-morrow morning,” said Pillerault, showing himself.  “I will get you the money from one of my friends, at five per cent.”

“Hey! if it isn’t the worthy Pere Pillerault!  Why, to be sure, he’s your uncle,” she said to Constance.  “Well, you are all honest people, and I sha’n’t lose my money, shall I?  To-morrow morning, then, old fellow!” she said to the retired iron-monger.

* * * * *

Cesar was determined to live on amid the wreck of his fortunes at “The Queen of Roses,” insisting that he would see his creditors and explain his affairs to them himself.  Despite Madame Birotteau’s earnest entreaties, Pillerault seemed to approve of Cesar’s decision and took him back to his own room.  The wily old man then went to Monsieur Haudry, explained the case, and obtained from him a prescription for a sleeping draught, which he took to be made up, and then returned to spend the evening with the family.  Aided by Cesarine he induced her father to drink with them.  The narcotic soon put Cesar to sleep, and when he woke up, fourteen hours later, he was in Pillerault’s bedroom, Rue des Bourdonnais, fairly imprisoned by the old man, who was sleeping himself on a cot-bed in the salon.

When Constance heard the coach containing Pillerault and Cesar roll away from the door, her courage deserted her.  Our powers are often stimulated by the necessity of upholding some being feebler than ourselves.  The poor woman wept to find herself alone in her home as she would have wept for Cesar dead.

“Mamma,” said Cesarine, sitting on her mother’s knee, and caressing her with the pretty kittenish grace which women only display to perfection amongst themselves, “you said that if I took up my life bravely, you would have strength to bear adversity.  Don’t cry, dear mother; I am ready and willing to go into some shop, and I shall never think again of what we once were.  I shall be like you in your young days; and you shall never hear a complaint, nor even a regret, from me.  I have a hope.  Did you not hear what Monsieur Anselme said?”

“That dear boy! he shall not be my son-in-law—­”

“Oh, mamma!”

“—­he shall be my own son.”

“Sorry has one good,” said Cesarine, kissing her mother; “it teaches us to know our true friends.”

The daughter at last eased the pain of the poor woman by changing places and playing the mother to her.  The next morning Constance went to the house of the Duc de Lenoncourt, one of the gentlemen of the king’s bedchamber, and left a letter asking for an interview at a later hour of the day.  In the interval she went to Monsieur de la Billardiere, and explained to him the situation in which Roguin’s flight had placed Cesar, begging him to go with her to the duke and speak for her, as she feared she might explain matters ill herself.  She wanted a place for Birotteau.  Birotteau, she said, would be the most upright of cashiers,—­if there could be degrees of integrity among honest men.