money then, and besides, I can make lace, and I thought it would not be long before Antoine and I got married.  But he had left the house of business for which he had worked, and they knew nothing of him at his lodgings, and there were ever so many of my letters on the table in the conciergerie unopened.—­So I could learn nothing, for no one knew where he had gone, and little by little the money I had brought with me went in food for me and Bambin.  Then somebody told me that Maman Paquet had a room to let that was cheap, and I went there and tried to live on my lace-making, always hoping that Antoine would come to find me.  But the air of the pace was so horrible—­oh, so horrible after our village!—­and I got the fever, and fell sick, and could do no work at all.  And by degrees I sold all the things I had—­my lace-pillow and all—­and when they were gone the old woman wanted me to sell Bambin, because he was clever, and she was sure I could get a good price for him.  But I would rather have sold the heart out of my body, and so I told her.  Then she was angry, and turned us both out, Bambin and me, and we went wandering about all day till at last I got very faint and tired, for I had been ill a long time, monsieur, and we had nothing to eat, so that I lost my senses and fell in the road all at once, and a cart went over me.  Then the people picked me up, and carried me here, but none of them knew Bambin, and I had fainted and could tell them nothing.  So they must have driven him away, thinking he was a strange dog, and had no right to follow me.  And when my senses came back I was in the hospital, and Bambin was gone, and I thought I never should see him again.”

She sank down on her pillow and drew a great sigh of relief.  It had evidently comforted her to tell her story to sympathetic listeners.  Poor child!  Scant sympathy could she have found in Maman Paquet’s unwomanly breast and evil associations.  We were silent when she had finished, and in the silence we heard through the open window the joyous song of the birds, and the hum of the bees wandering blithely from flower to flower, laden with their sweets,—­sounds that never cease through all the long summer days.  Alas! how strange and sad a contrast it is,—­the eternal and exuberant gladness of Nature’s soulless children,—­the universal inevitable misery of human lives!

Presently the religieuse who had the charge of the adjoining ward opened the door softly and called Eugene.

“Monsieur, will you come to No. 7 for a moment?  Her wound is bleeding again badly.”

He looked up, nodded, and rose from his seat.

“I must go for the present, Gervais,” said he.  “If you stay with our little friend, don’t let her disarrange her arm.  The ribs are all right now, but the humerus is a longer affair.  Au revoir!”

But I found Noemi too much excited and fatigued for further conversation; so, promising to take every possible care of Bambin and to come again and see her very soon, I withdrew to the adjoining ward and joined Eugene.