y, I still had a little money left, and so I bought a
stock of groceries in my own name; but in less than six months the stock
was eaten up, and we were cast into the street. What was to be done?
Vantrasson drank worse than ever; he demanded money when he knew that I
had none to give him, and he treated me even more cruelly than before.
I lost courage--and yet one must live! Oh, you wouldn't believe it if
I told you how we have lived for the past four years." She did not tell
him, but contented herself with adding, "When you begin to go down hill,
there is no such thing as stopping; you roll lower and lower, until you
reach the bottom, as we have done. Here we live, no one knows how; we
have to pay our rent each week, and if we are driven from this place, I
see no refuge but the river."

"If I had been in your position, I should have left my husband," M.
Fortunat ventured to remark.

"Yes--it would have been better, no doubt. People advised me to do
so, and I tried. Three or four times I went away, and yet I always
returned--it was stronger than myself. Besides, I'm his wife; I've paid
dearly for him; he's mine--I won't yield him to any one else. He beats
me, no doubt; I despise him, I hate him, and yet I----" She poured out
part of a glass of brandy, and swallowed it; then, with a gesture of
rage, she added: "I can't give him up! It's fate! As it is now, it will
be until the end, until he starves, or I----"

M. Fortunat's countenance wore an expression of profound commiseration.
A looker-on would have supposed him interested and sympathetic to the
last degree; but in reality, he was furious. Time was passing, and the
conversation was wandering farther and farther from the object of his
visit. "I am surprised, madame," said he, "that you never applied to
your former employer, the Count de Chalusse."

"Alas! I did apply to him for assistance several times----"

"With what result?"

"The first time I went to him he received me; I told him my troubles,
and he gave me bank-notes to the amount of five thousand francs."

M. Fortunat raised his hands to the ceiling. "Five thousand francs!" he
repeated, in a tone of astonishment; "this count must be very rich----"

"So rich, monsieur, that he doesn't know how much he's worth. He owns,
nobody knows how many houses in Paris, chateaux in every part of the
country, entire villages, forests--his gold comes in by the shovelful."

The spurious clerk closed his eyes, as if he