irotteau clasped his hands as if to pray,
and wept with distress at the sight of human horrors that his own
pure soul was incapable of suspecting. As frightened as though he had
suddenly found himself at the edge of a precipice, he listened, with
fixed, moist eyes in which there was no expression, to the revelations
of his friend, who ended by saying: "I know the wrong I do in abandoning
your cause; but, my dear abbe, family duties must be considered before
those of friendship. Yield, as I do, to this storm, and I will prove to
you my gratitude. I am not talking of your worldly interests, for those
I take charge of. You shall be made free of all such anxieties for the
rest of your life. By means of Monsieur de Bourbonne, who will know
how to save appearances, I shall arrange matters so that you shall lack
nothing. My friend, grant me the right to abandon you. I shall ever be
your friend, though forced to conform to the axioms of the world. You
must decide."

The poor, bewildered abbe cried aloud: "Chapeloud was right when he said
that if Troubert could drag him by the feet out of his grave he would do
it! He sleeps in Chapeloud's bed!"

"There is no use in lamenting," said Madame de Listomere, "and we have
little time now left to us. How will you decide?"

Birotteau was too good and kind not to obey in a great crisis the
unreflecting impulse of the moment. Besides, his life was already in the
agony of what to him was death. He said, with a despairing look at his
protectress which cut her to the heart, "I trust myself to you--I am but
the stubble of the streets."

He used the Tourainean word "bourrier" which has no other meaning than
a "bit of straw." But there are pretty little straws, yellow, polished,
and shining, the delight of children, whereas the bourrier is straw
discolored, muddy, sodden in the puddles, whirled by the tempest,
crushed under feet of men.

"But, madame, I cannot let the Abbe Troubert keep Chapeloud's portrait.
It was painted for me, it belongs to me; obtain that for me, and I will
give up all the rest."

"Well," said Madame de Listomere. "I will go myself to Mademoiselle
Gamard." The words were said in a tone which plainly showed the immense
effort the Baronne de Listomere was making in lowering herself to
flatter the pride of the old maid. "I will see what can be done,"
she said; "I hardly dare hope anything. Go and consult Monsieur de
Bourbonne; ask him to put your renunciation into prope