eer," and whom he had in
fact placed there to oversee everything, the manager first of all--was
not so austere as her duties would lead one to believe, and readily
yielded to the charm of a _petit verre_ or two of "right cognac," or
to a game of bezique for fifteen hundred points. So he dismissed the
nurses and tried to harden himself against whatever might happen. What
did happen? A genuine Massacre of the Innocents. So that the few
parents who were possessed of any means at all, mechanics or tradesmen
of the faubourgs, who had been tempted by the advertisements to part
with their children, speedily took them away, and there remained in the
establishment only the wretched little creatures picked up under
porches or in the fields, or sent by the hospitals, and doomed from
their birth to all manner of ills. As the mortality constantly
increased, even that source of supply failed, and the omnibus that had
departed at full speed for the railway station returned as light and
springy as an empty hearse. How could that state of affairs last? How
long would it take to kill off the twenty-five or thirty little ones
who were left? That is what the manager, or, as he had christened
himself, the register of deaths, Pondevez, was wondering one morning
after breakfast, as he sat opposite Madame Polge's venerable curls,
taking a hand at that lady's favorite game.

"Yes, my dear Madame Polge, what is to become of us? Things cannot go
on long like this. Jenkins won't give in, the children are as obstinate
as mules. There's no gainsaying it, they'll all pass out of our hands.
There's that little Wallachian--I mark the king, Madame Polge--who may
die any minute. Poor little brat, just think, it's three days since
anything went into his stomach. I don't care what Jenkins says; you
can't improve children, like snails, by starving them. It's a
distressing thing not to be able to save a single one. The infirmary
hasn't unlimited capacity. In all earnestness this is a pitiful
business. Bezique, forty."

Two strokes of the bell at the main entrance interrupted his monologue.
The omnibus was returning from the station and its wheels ground into
the gravel in unaccustomed fashion.

"What an astonishing thing!" said Pondevez, "the carriage isn't empty."

In truth the vehicle drew up at the steps with a certain pride, and the
man who alighted crossed the threshold at a bound. It was an express
from Jenkins with important news; the doctor would