Yes, go; I wish you may die
like a dog."

"Just go and see if you can find some ether," said Mlle. Michonneau to
Mme. Vauquer; the former, with some help from Poiret, had unfastened the
sick man's clothes.

Mme. Vauquer went down to her room, and left Mlle. Michonneau mistress
of the situation.

"Now! just pull down his shirt and turn him over, quick! You might be
of some use in sparing my modesty," she said to Poiret, "instead of
standing there like a stock."

Vautrin was turned over; Mlle. Michonneau gave his shoulder a sharp
slap, and the two portentous letters appeared, white against the red.

"There, you have earned your three thousand francs very easily,"
exclaimed Poiret, supporting Vautrin while Mlle. Michonneau slipped
on the shirt again.--"Ouf! How heavy he is," he added, as he laid the
convict down.

"Hush! Suppose there is a strong-box here!" said the old maid briskly;
her glances seemed to pierce the walls, she scrutinized every article of
the furniture with greedy eyes. "Could we find some excuse for opening
that desk?"

"It mightn't be quite right," responded Poiret to this.

"Where is the harm? It is money stolen from all sorts of people, so
it doesn't belong to any one now. But we haven't time, there is the
Vauquer."

"Here is the ether," said that lady. "I must say that this is an
eventful day. Lord! that man can't have had a stroke; he is as white as
curds."

"White as curds?" echoed Poiret.

"And his pulse is steady," said the widow, laying her hand on his
breast.

"Steady?" said the astonished Poiret.

"He is all right."

"Do you think so?" asked Poiret.

"Lord! Yes, he looks as if he were sleeping. Sylvie has gone for a
doctor. I say, Mlle. Michonneau, he is sniffing the ether. Pooh! it is
only a spasm. His pulse is good. He is as strong as a Turk. Just look,
mademoiselle, what a fur tippet he has on his chest; that is the sort
of man to live till he is a hundred. His wig holds on tightly, however.
Dear me! it is glued on, and his own hair is red; that is why he wears
a wig. They say that red-haired people are either the worst or the best.
Is he one of the good ones, I wonder?"

"Good to hang," said Poiret.

"Round a pretty woman's neck, you mean," said Mlle Michonneau, hastily.
"Just go away, M. Poiret. It is a woman's duty to nurse you men when you
are ill. Besides, for all the good you are doing, you may as well take
yourself off," she added. "Mme. Vauquer and I will tak