speaks of her
because he is so proud."

But Belisaire did not bring her. He returned in a very unhappy frame
of mind, from the reception he had received. His wife, with her child
asleep on her lap, talked in a low voice to a neighbor, in front of a
poor little fire--such a one as is called a widow's fire by the people.
The two women listened to Jack's painful breathing, and to the horrible
cough that choked him. One would never have recognized this unfurnished,
dismal room as the bright attic where cheerful voices had resounded such
a short time before. There was no sign of books or studies. A pot of
tisane was simmering on the hearth, filling the air with that peculiar
odor which tells of a sickroom. Belisaire came in.

"Alone?" said his wife.

He told in a low voice that he had not been permitted to see Jack's
mother.

"But had you no blood in your veins? You should have entered by force
and called aloud, 'Madame, your son is dying!' Ah, my poor Belisaire,
you will never be anything but a weak chicken!"

"But, had I undertaken such a thing, I should simply have been
arrested," said the poor man, in a distressed tone.

"But what are we going to do?" resumed Madame Belisaire. "This poor boy
must have better care than we can give him."

A neighbor spoke. "He must go to the hospital, as the physician said."

"Hush, hush! not so loud!" said Belisaire, pointing to the bed; "I'm
afraid he heard you."

"What of that? He is not your brother, nor your son; and it would be
better for you in every respect."

"But he is my friend," answered Belisaire, proudly; and in his tone was
so much honest devotion that his wife's eyes filled with tears.

The neighbors shrugged their shoulders and went away. After their
departure, the room looked less cold and less bare.

Jack had heard all that was said. In spite of his weakness he slept
little, and lay with his face turned to the wall, with eyes wide open.
If that blank surface, wrinkled and tarnished like the face of a very
old woman, could have spoken, it would have said that in those pitiful
eyes but one expression could have been seen, that of utter and
overwhelming despair. He never complained, however; he even tried, at
times, to smile at his stout nurse, when she brought him his
tisanes. The long and solitary days passed away in this inaction and
helplessness. Why was he not strong in health and body like the people
about him, and yet for whom did he wish to labor? Hi