h floor to inquire after the health of his former friend, her
whom he used to call the excellent, the worthy Madame Gerdy.

It was Noel who let him in, Noel, who had doubtless been thinking of
the past, for he looked as sad as though the dying woman was really his
mother.

In consequence of this unexpected circumstance, old Tabaret could not
avoid going in for a few minutes, though he would much have preferred
not doing so. He knew very well, that, being with the advocate, he would
be unavoidably led to speak of the Lerouge case; and how could he do
this, knowing, as he did, the particulars much better than his young
friend himself, without betraying his secret? A single imprudent word
might reveal the part he was playing in this sad drama. It was, above
all others, from his dear Noel, now Viscount de Commarin, that he wished
entirely to conceal his connection with the police.

But, on the other hand, he thirsted to know what had passed between the
advocate and the count. His ignorance on this single point aroused his
curiosity. However, as he could not withdraw he resolved to keep close
watch upon his language and remain constantly on his guard.

The advocate ushered the old man into Madame Gerdy's room. Her
condition, since the afternoon, had changed a little; though it was
impossible to say whether for the better or the worse. One thing was
evident, her prostration was not so great. Her eyes still remained
closed; but a slight quivering of the lids was evident. She constantly
moved on her pillow, and moaned feebly.

"What does the doctor say?" asked old Tabaret, in that low voice one
unconsciously employs in a sick room.

"He has just gone," replied Noel; "before long all will be over."

The old man advanced on tip-toe, and looked at the dying woman with
evident emotion.

"Poor creature!" he murmured; "God is merciful in taking her. She
perhaps suffers much; but what is this pain compared to what she would
feel if she knew that her son, her true son, was in prison, accused of
murder?"

"That is what I keep thinking," said Noel, "to console myself for this
sight. For I still love her, my old friend; I shall always regard her
as a mother. You have heard me curse her, have you not? I have twice
treated her very harshly. I thought I hated her; but now, at the moment
of losing her, I forget every wrong she has done me, only to remember
her tenderness. Yes, for her, death is far preferable! And yet I do not
thin