waistcoat, discolored by use, showed below the sleeves of his
coat, and above the trousers, and no doubt served instead of a shirt.
Philippe wore a green silk shade with a wire edge over his eyes; his
head, which was nearly bald, the tints of his skin, and his sunken face
too plainly revealed that he was just leaving the terrible Hopital du
Midi. His blue overcoat, whitened at the seams, was still decorated
with the ribbon of his cross; and the passers-by looked at the
hero, doubtless some victim of the government, with curiosity and
commiseration; the rosette attracted notice, and the fiercest "ultra"
was jealous for the honor of the Legion. In those days, however much the
government endeavored to bring the Order into disrepute by bestowing
its cross right and left, there were not fifty-three thousand persons
decorated.

Agathe trembled through her whole being. If it were impossible to love
this son any longer, she could still suffer for him. Quivering with this
last expression of motherhood, she wept as she saw the brilliant staff
officer of the Emperor turn to enter tobacconist's and pause on the
threshold; he had felt in his pocket and found nothing. Agathe left the
bridge, crossed the quai rapidly, took out her purse, thrust it into
Philippe's hand, and fled away as if she had committed a crime. After
that, she ate nothing for two days; before her was the horrible vision
of her son dying of hunger in the streets of Paris.

"When he has spent all the money in my purse, who will give him any?"
she thought. "Giroudeau did not deceive us; Philippe is just out of that
hospital."

She no longer saw the assassin of her poor aunt, the scourge of the
family, the domestic thief, the gambler, the drunkard, the low liver of
a bad life; she saw only the man recovering from illness, yet doomed to
die of starvation, the smoker deprived of his tobacco. At forty-seven
years of age she grew to look like a woman of seventy. Her eyes were
dimmed with tears and prayers. Yet it was not the last grief this son
was to bring upon her; her worst apprehensions were destined to be
realized. A conspiracy of officers was discovered at the heart of the
army, and articles from the "Moniteur" giving details of the arrests
were hawked about the streets.

In the depths of her cage in the lottery-office of the rue Vivienne,
Agathe heard the name of Philippe Bridau. She fainted, and the manager,
understanding her trouble and the necessity of taki