“And yet I was once just like that,” thought Godefroid, blowing his fire.  “What a fine specimen of the bourgeois of to-day!—­gossiping, inquisitive, crazy for equality, jealous of his customers, furious at not knowing why a poor sick woman stays in her room without being seen; concealing his wealth, and yet vain enough to betray it when he thinks it will put him above his neighbor.  That man ought to be the lieutenant of his company.  I dare say he is.  With what ease he plays the scene of Monsieur Dimanche!  A little more and I should have made a friend of Monsieur Cartier.”

The old man broke into this soliloquy, which proves how Godefroid’s ideas had changed in four months.

“Excuse me, neighbor,” said Monsieur Bernard, in a troubled voice; “I see you have sent that gardener away satisfied, for he bowed civilly to me on the landing.  It seems, young man, as if Providence had sent you to me at the very moment when I was about to succumb.  Alas! the hard talk of that man must have shown you many things!  It is true that I received the half-yearly payment of my pension two weeks ago; but I had more pressing debts than his, and I was forced to put aside my rent for fear of being turned out of the house.  I have told you the state my daughter is in, and you have probably heard her.”

He looked uneasily at Godefroid, who made him an affirmative sign.

“Well, then, you know it would be her death warrant, for I should then be compelled to put her in a hospital.  My grandson and I were fearing that end this morning; but we do not dread Cartier so much as we do the cold.”

“My dear Monsieur Bernard,” said Godefroid, “I have plenty of wood; take all you want.”

“Ah!” said the old man, “but how can I ever return such services?”

“By accepting them without difficulty,” said Godefroid, quickly, “and by giving me your confidence.”

“But what are my claims to so much generosity?” asked Monsieur Bernard, becoming once more distrustful.  “Ah! my pride and that of my grandson are lowered indeed!” he cried bitterly.  “We are compelled to offer explanations to the few creditors—­only two or three—­whom we cannot pay.  The utterly unfortunate have no creditors; to have them one must needs present an exterior of some show, and that we have now lost.  But I have not yet abdicated my common-sense,—­my reason,” he added, as if he were talking to himself.

“Monsieur,” replied Godefroid, gravely, “the history you gave me yesterday would touch even a usurer.”

“No, no! for Barbet, that publisher, the proprietor of this house, is speculating on my poverty, and has sent the Vauthier woman, his former cook, to spy upon it.”

“How can he speculate upon you?” asked Godefroid.

“I will tell you later,” replied the old man.  “My daughter is cold, and since you offer it, I am reduced to accept alms, were it even from my worst enemy.”

“I will carry in some wood,” said Godefroid, gathering up ten or a dozen sticks, and taking them into Monsieur Bernard’s first room.  The old man took as many himself; and when he saw the little provision safely deposited, he could not restrain the silly, and even idiotic smile with which those who are saved from a mortal danger, which has seemed to them inevitable, express their joy; for terror still lingers in their joy.