she was being robbed,
that the other was speculating on her distress. She made a gesture of
surprise and revolt at the idea of having to give so much money--that
money which she found so hard to earn. No end of cotton and needles had
to be sold to get such a sum together! And her distress, between the
necessity of economy on the one hand and her maternal anxiety on the
other, would have touched the hardest heart.

"But that will make another half-month's money," said she.

At this La Couteau put on her most frigid air: "Well, what would you
have? It isn't my fault. One can't let your child die, so one must incur
the necessary expenses. And then, if you haven't confidence in me, say
so; send the money and settle things direct. Indeed, that will greatly
relieve me, for in all this I lose my time and trouble; but then, I'm
always stupid enough to be too obliging."

When Madame Menoux, again quivering and anxious, had given way, another
difficulty arose. She had only some gold with her, two twenty-franc
pieces and one ten-franc piece. The three coins lay glittering on the
table. La Couteau looked at them with her yellow fixed eyes.

"Well, I can't give you your five francs change," she said, "I haven't
any change with me. And you, Celeste, have you any change for this
lady?"

She risked asking this question, but put it in such a tone and with such
a glance that the other immediately understood her. "I have not a copper
in my pocket," she replied.

Deep silence fell. Then, with bleeding heart and a gesture of cruel
resignation, Madame Menoux did what was expected of her.

"Keep those five francs for yourself, Madame Couteau, since you have to
take so much trouble. And, _mon Dieu_! may all this money bring me
good luck, and at least enable my poor little fellow to grow up a fine
handsome man like his father."

"Oh! as for that I'll warrant it," cried the other, with enthusiasm.
"Those little ailments don't mean anything--on the contrary. I see
plenty of little folks, I do; and so just remember what I tell you,
yours will become an extraordinarily fine child. There won't be better."

When Madame Menoux went off, La Couteau had lavished such flattery and
such promises upon her that she felt quite light and gay; no longer
regretting her money, but dreaming of the day when little Pierre would
come back to her with plump cheeks and all the vigor of a young oak.

As soon as the door had closed behind the haberdasher, Ce