then, what must I do?" asked Clotilde, vanquished, won over.

But at this moment the doctor's pestle was heard in the silence, with
its continued rhythm. And the victorious Felicite, who was about to
speak, turned her head uneasily, and looked for a moment at the door of
the adjoining chamber. Then, in an undertone, she said:

"Do you know where the key of the press is?"

Clotilde answered only with an artless gesture, that expressed all her
repugnance to betray her master in this way.

"What a child you are! I swear to you that I will take nothing; I will
not even disturb anything. Only as we are alone and as Pascal never
reappears before dinner, we might assure ourselves of what there is in
there, might we not? Oh! nothing but a glance, on my word of honor."

The young girl stood motionless, unwilling, still, to give her consent.

"And then, it may be that I am mistaken; no doubt there are none of
those bad things there that I have told you of."

This was decisive; she ran to take the key from the drawer, and she
herself opened wide the press.

"There, grandmother, the papers are up there."

Martine had gone, without a word, to station herself at the door of the
doctor's chamber, her ear on the alert, listening to the pestle, while
Felicite, as if riveted to the spot by emotion, regarded the papers. At
last, there they were, those terrible documents, the nightmare that had
poisoned her life! She saw them, she was going to touch them, to
carry them away! And she reached up, straining her little legs, in the
eagerness of her desire.

"It is too high, my kitten," she said. "Help me; give them to me!"

"Oh! not that, grandmother! Take a chair!"

Felicite took a chair, and mounted slowly upon it. But she was still too
short. By an extraordinary effort she raised herself, lengthening her
stature until she was able to touch the envelopes of strong blue paper
with the tips of her fingers; and her fingers traveled over them,
contracting nervously, scratching like claws. Suddenly there was a
crash--it was a geological specimen, a fragment of marble that had been
on a lower shelf, and that she had just thrown down.

Instantly the pestle stopped, and Martine said in a stifled voice:

"Take care; here he comes!"

But Felicite, grown desperate, did not hear, did not let go her hold
when Pascal entered hastily. He had supposed that some accident had
happened, that some one had fallen, and he stood stupefied at what