otice it. Exhausted by the feverish
energy with which he had demanded his favorite remedy, he made an effort
to change his position, and, with his back turned to his two nurses, he
again muttered: "Wine! wine!" after which nothing more was heard of him
but a stentorous breathing, that plainly showed the state of his lungs,
which were beginning to congest.

"I suppose I must go and fetch his wine!" said the Cardinal, restoring
to her pockets, with some ill-humor, the cargo she had just pulled out
of them.

"If you don't want to go--" began Madame Perrache, always ready to offer
her services.

The fishwife hesitated for a moment; then, reflecting that something
might be got out of a conversation with the wine-merchant, and sure,
moreover, that as long as Toupillier lay on his gold she could safely
leave him alone with the portress, she said:--

"Thank you, Madame Perrache, but I'd better make acquaintance with his
trades-folk."

Then, having spied behind the night-table a dirty bottle which might
hold about two quarts,--

"Did he say the rue des Canelles?" she inquired of the portress.

"Corner of the rue Guisarde," replied Madame Perrache. "Monsieur
Legrelu, a tall, fine man with big whiskers and no hair." Then, lowering
her voice, she added: "His number-six wine, you know, is Roussillon,
and the best, too. However, the wine-merchant knows; it is enough if you
tell him you have come from his customer, the pauper of Saint-Sulpice."

"No need to tell me anything twice," said the Cardinal, opening the door
and making, as they say, a false exit. "Ah ca!" she said, coming back;
"what does he burn in his stove, supposing I want to heat some remedy
for him?"

"Goodness!" said the portress, "he doesn't make much provision for
winter, and here we are in the middle of summer!"

"And not a saucepan! not a pot, even! Gracious! what a way to live. I'll
have to fetch him some provisions; I hope nobody will see the things I
bring back; I'd be ashamed they should--"

"I'll lend you a hand-bag," said the portress, always ready and
officious.

"No, I'll buy a basket," replied the fishwife, more anxious about what
she expected to carry away than what she was about to bring home to
the pauper. "There must be some Auvergnat in the neighborhood who sells
wood," she added.

"Corner of the rue Ferou; you'll find one there. A fine establishment,
with logs of wood painted in a kind of an arcade all round the shop--so
like, you'd