flickered in a sort of fog caused by the fetid
atmosphere of the ill-ventilated room.

The magistrate himself was not the least picturesque figure in the midst
of this assembly. He had on his head a rusty cotton night-cap; as he had
no cravat, his neck was visible, red with cold and wrinkled, in contrast
with the threadbare collar of his old dressing-gown. His worn face had
the half-stupid look that comes of absorbed attention. His lips, like
those of all men who work, were puckered up like a bag with the strings
drawn tight. His knitted brows seemed to bear the burden of all the
sorrows confided to him: he felt, analyzed, and judged them all. As
watchful as a Jew money-lender, he never raised his eyes from his books
and registers but to look into the very heart of the persons he was
examining, with the flashing glance by which a miser expresses his
alarm.

Lavienne, standing behind his master, ready to carry out his orders,
served no doubt as a sort of police, and welcomed newcomers by
encouraging them to get over their shyness. When the doctor appeared
there was a stir on the benches. Lavienne turned his head, and was
strangely surprised to see Bianchon.

"Ah! It is you, old boy!" exclaimed Popinot, stretching himself. "What
brings you so early?"

"I was afraid lest you should make an official visit about which I wish
to speak to you before I could see you."

"Well," said the lawyer, addressing a stout little woman who was still
standing close to him, "if you do not tell me what it is you want, I
cannot guess it, child."

"Make haste," said Lavienne. "Do not waste other people's time."

"Monsieur," said the woman at last, turning red, and speaking so low as
only to be heard by Popinot and Lavienne, "I have a green-grocery truck,
and I have my last baby to nurse, and I owe for his keep. Well, I had
hidden my little bit of money----"

"Yes; and your man took it?" said Popinot, guessing the sequel.

"Yes, sir."

"What is your name?"

"La Pomponne."

"And your husband's?"

"Toupinet."

"Rue du Petit-Banquier?" said Popinot, turning over his register. "He
is in prison," he added, reading a note at the margin of the section in
which this family was described.

"For debt, my kind monsieur."

Popinot shook his head.

"But I have nothing to buy any stock for my truck; the landlord came
yesterday and made me pay up; otherwise I should have been turned out."

Lavienne bent over his master, and whispered