ou can arrange matters.
There's an account with the poultry woman. The poor girl owed a little
everywhere; she didn't keep things in very good shape these last few
years. The laundress left her book the last time she came. It amounts to
quite a little,--I don't know just how much. It seems there's a note at
the grocer's--an old note--it goes back years. He'll bring you his
book."

"How much at the grocer's?"

"Something like two hundred and fifty."

All these disclosures, falling upon Mademoiselle de Varandeuil, one
after another, extorted exclamations of stupefied surprise from her.
Resting her elbow on her pillow, she said nothing as the veil was torn
away, bit by bit, from this life, as its shameful features were brought
to light one by one.

"Yes, about two hundred and fifty. There's a good deal of wine, he tells
me."

"I have always had wine in the cellar."

"The _cremiere_," continued the concierge, without heeding her remark,
"that's no great matter,--some seventy-five francs. It's for absinthe
and brandy."

"She drank!" cried Mademoiselle de Varandeuil, everything made clear to
her by those words.

The concierge did not seem to hear.

"You see, mademoiselle, knowing the Jupillons was the death of her,--the
young man especially. It wasn't for herself that she did what she did.
And the disappointment, you see. She took to drink. She hoped to marry
him, I ought to say. She fitted up a room for him. When they get to
buying furniture the money goes fast. She ruined herself,--think of it!
It was no use for me to tell her not to throw herself away by drinking
as she did. You don't suppose I was going to tell you, when she came in
at six o'clock in the morning! It was the same with her child. Oh!" the
concierge added, in reply to mademoiselle's gesture, "it was a lucky
thing the little one died. Never mind, you can say she led a gay
life--and a hard one. That's why I say the common ditch. If I was
you--she's cost you enough, mademoiselle, all the time she's been living
on you. And you can leave her where she is--with everybody else."

"Ah! that's how it is! that's what she was! She stole for men! she ran
in debt! Ah! she did well to die, the hussy! And I must pay! A
child!--think of that: the slut! Yes, indeed, she can rot where she
will! You have done well, Monsieur Henri. Steal! She stole from me! In
the ditch, parbleu! that's quite good enough for her! To think that I
let her keep all my keys--I never k