such
sufferings as hers extinguish every other feeling in a father's heart.
As for fame, what is that to one who sees an open grave before him?"

"I will come and see you this evening; they expect Halpersohn at any
time, and I shall go there day after day until I find him."

"Ah, monsieur! if you should be the cause of my daughter's recovery, I
would like,--yes, I would like to give you my work!"

"Monsieur," said Godefroid, "I am not a publisher."

The old man started with surprise.

"I let that old Vauthier think so in order to discover the traps they
were laying for you."

"Then who are you?"

"Godefroid," replied the initiate; "and since you allow me to offer you
enough to make the pot boil, you can call me, if you like, Godefroid de
Bouillon."

The old man was far too moved to laugh at a joke. He held out his hand
to Godefroid, and pressed that which the young man gave him in return.

"You wish to keep your incognito?" he said, looking at Godefroid sadly,
with some uneasiness.

"If you will allow it."

"Well, as you will. Come to-night, and you shall see my daughter if her
condition permits."

This was evidently a great concession in the eyes of the poor father,
and he had the satisfaction of seeing, by the look on Godefroid's face,
that it was understood.

An hour later, Cartier returned with a number of beautiful flowering
plants, which he placed himself in the jardinieres, covering them
with fresh moss. Godefroid paid his bill; also that of the circulating
library, which was brought soon after. Books and flowers!--these were
the daily bread of this poor invalid, this tortured creature, who was
satisfied with so little.

As he thought of this family, coiled by misfortunes like that of the
Laocoon (sublime image of so many lives), Godefroid, who was now on
his way on foot to the rue Marbeuf, was conscious in his heart of more
curiosity than benevolence. This sick woman, surrounded by luxury in the
midst of such direful poverty, made him forget the horrible details of
the strangest of all nervous disorders, which is happily rare, though
recorded by a few historians. One of our most gossiping chroniclers,
Tallemant des Reaux, cites an instance of it. The mind instinctively
pictures a woman as being elegant in the midst of her worst sufferings;
and Godefroid let himself dwell on the pleasure of entering that chamber
where none but the father, son, and doctor had been admitted for six
years. Nevert