the steps of the staircase one by one, stopping
frequently to wipe his forehead; then, on arriving on the landing, where
was his room and that of Clarice, he was obliged to lean his head
against the wall, for he felt his legs fail him. He stood silent and
hesitating, when he thought he heard Bathilde's voice crying. He
remembered the poor child, and this gave him courage. At the door,
however, he stopped again; then he heard the groans of the little girl
more distinctly.

"Mamma!" cried the child, in a little voice broken by sobs, "will you
not wake? Mamma, why are you so cold?" Then, running to the door and
striking with her hand, "Come, my kind friend, come," said she; "I am
alone, and I am afraid."

Buvat was astonished that they had not removed the child from her
mother's room; and the profound pity which the poor little creature
inspired made him forget the painful feeling which had stopped him for a
moment. He then raised his hand to open the door. The door was locked.
At this moment he heard the porter's wife calling him. He ran to the
stairs and asked her where the key was.

"Ah!" replied she, "how stupid I am; I forgot to give it you as you
passed."

Buvat ran down as quickly as he could.

"And why is the key here?" he asked.

"The landlord placed it here after he had taken away the furniture,"
answered she.

"What! taken away the furniture?" cried Buvat.

"Of course, he has taken away the furniture. Your neighbor was not rich,
M. Buvat, and no doubt she owes money on all sides. Ah! the landlord
will not stand tricks; the rent first. That is but fair. Besides, she
does not want furniture any more, poor dear!"

"But the nurse, where is she?"

"When she saw that her patient was dead, she went away. Her business was
finished, but she will come back to shroud her for a crown, if you like.
It is generally the portress who does this: but I cannot; I am too
sensitive."

Buvat understood, shuddering at all that had passed. He went up quickly.
His hand shook so that he could scarcely find the lock; but at length
the key turned, and the door opened. Clarice was extended on the ground
on the mattress out of her bed, in the middle of the dismantled room. An
old sheet was thrown over her, and ought to have hidden her entirely,
but little Bathilde had moved it to seek for her mother's face, which
she was kissing when he entered.

"Ah, my friend," cried she, "wake my mamma, who sleeps still. Wake her,
I beg!