Thus saying, the Bacchanal Queen was very sincere; she fully intended to keep her word, for her heart was not yet completely corrupted.  Misery and want had been with her, as with so many others, the cause and the excuse of her worst errors.  Until now, she had at least followed the instincts of her heart, without regard to any base or venal motive.  The cruel position in which she beheld Jacques had so far exalted her love, that she believed herself capable of resuming, along with Mother Bunch, that life of sterile and incessant toil, full of painful sacrifices and privations, which once had been impossible for her to bear, and which the habits of a life of leisure and dissipation would now render still more difficult.

Still, the assurances which she had just given Jacques calmed his grief and anxiety a little; he had sense and feeling enough to perceive that the fatal track which he had hitherto so blindly followed was leading both him and Cephyse directly to infamy.

One of the bailiffs, having knocked at the coach-door, said to Jacques:  “My lad, you have only five minutes left—­so make haste.”

“So, courage, my girl—­courage!” said Jacques.

“I will; you may rely upon me.”

“Are you going upstairs again?”

“No—­oh no!” said Cephyse.  “I have now a horror of this festivity.”

“Everything is paid for, and the waiter will tell them not to expect us back.  They will be much astonished,” continued Jacques, “but it’s all the same now.”

“If you could only go with me to our lodging,” said Cephyse, “this man would perhaps permit it, so as not to enter Sainte-Pelagie in that dress.”

“Oh! he will not forbid you to accompany me; but, as he will be with us in the coach, we shall not be able to talk freely in his presence.  Therefore, let me speak reason to you for the first time in my life.  Remember what I say, my dear Cephyse—­and the counsel will apply to me as well as to yourself,” continued Jacques, in a grave and feeling tone—­“resume from to-day the habit of labor.  It may be painful, unprofitable—­never mind—­do not hesitate, for too soon will the influence of this lesson be forgotten.  By-and-bye it will be too late, and then you will end like so many unfortunate creatures—­”

“I understand,” said Cephyse, blushing; “but I will rather die than lead such a life.”

“And there you will do well—­for in that case,” added Jacques, in a deep and hollow voice, “I will myself show you how to die.”

“I count upon you, Jacques,” answered Cephyse, embracing her lover with excited feeling; then she added, sorrowfully:  “It was a kind of presentiment, when just now I felt so sad, without knowing why, in the midst of all our gayety—­and drank to the Cholera, so that we might die together.”

“Well! perhaps the Cholera will come,” resumed Jacques, with a gloomy air; “that would save us the charcoal, which we may not even be able to buy.”