is poor?"

"All young M. de Saint-Remy's wealth came from his mother."

"What of that,--how could he leave his father?"

"His father would not accept anything from him."

"Why?"

"That is a question to which I cannot reply, my dear child; but I have
heard it said by my poor brother that this young man was reputed vastly
generous. Young and generous, he ought to be good. Learning from me that
my husband had been his father's intimate friend, perhaps he will
interest himself in trying to find us work or employment. He has such
high and extensive connections, that this would be no trouble to him."

"And then, perhaps, too, we could learn from him if M. de Saint-Remy,
his father, had not quitted Angers before you wrote to him: that would
account for his silence."

"I think, my dear, that M. de Saint-Remy has not kept up any connection
with--Still, we cannot but try."

"Unless M. d'Orbigny replies to you favourably, and I repeat, I don't
know why, but I have hopes, in spite of myself."

"It is now many days, my dear, since I wrote to him, telling him all the
causes of our misfortunes, and yet to this time we have no reply,--none.
A letter put in the post before four o'clock in the evening reaches
Aubiers next morning, and thus we might have had his answer five days
ago."

"Perhaps, before he replies, he is considering in what way he can best
be useful to us."

"May Heaven hear thee, my child!"

"It appears to me plain enough, mamma, if he could not do anything for
us, he could have written at once, and said so."

"Unless he will do nothing."

"Oh, mamma, is that possible? to refuse to answer us, and leave us in
hope for four days--eight days, perhaps; for when one is miserable we
always hope."

"Alas, my child, there is sometimes so much indifference for the
miseries persons have never known!"

"But your letter--"

"My letter cannot give him any idea of our actual disquietude, our
constant sufferings; my letter will not depict to him our unhappy life,
our constant humiliations, our existence in this horrid house,--the
fright we have but this instant experienced. My letter will not describe
the horrible future which is in store for us, if--But, my love, do not
let us talk of that. You tremble,--you are cold."

"No, mamma, don't mind me; but tell me, suppose all fails us, the
little money we have in the box is spent,--is it possible that, in a
city as rich as Paris, we shall both die of hunger and mise