asily. She put the money into her mother's hand, for she did not
know how to spend it. It was her mother who decided what to do.

"We must go at once to Maraucourt," she said.

"But are you strong enough?" Perrine asked doubtfully.

"I must be. We have waited too long in the hope that I should get
better. And while we wait our money is going. What poor Palikare has
brought us will go also. I did not want to go in this miserable
state...."

"When must we go? Today?" asked Perrine.

"No; it's too late today. We must go tomorrow morning. You go and find
out the hours of the train and the price of the tickets. It is the Gare
du Nord station, and the place where we get out is Picquigny."

Perrine anxiously sought Grain-of-Salt. He told her it was better for
her to consult a time table than to go to the station, which was a long
way off. From the time table they learned that there were two trains in
the morning, one at six o'clock and one at ten, and that the fare to
Picquigny, third class, was nine francs twenty-five centimes.

"We'll take the ten o'clock train," said her mother, "and we will take a
cab, for I certainly cannot walk to the station."

And yet when nine o'clock the next day came she could not even get to
the cab that Perrine had waiting for her. She attempted the few steps
from her room to the cab, but would have fallen to the ground had not
Perrine held her.

"I must go back," she said weakly. "Don't be anxious ... it will pass."

But it did not pass, and the Baroness, who was watching them depart, had
to bring a chair. The moment she dropped into the seat she fainted.

"She must go back and lie down," said the Baroness, rubbing her cold
hands. "It is nothing, girl; don't look so scared ... just go and find
Carp. The two of us can carry her to her room. You can't go ... not just
now."

The Baroness soon had the sick woman in her bed, where she regained
consciousness.

"Now you must just stay there in your bed," said the Baroness, kindly.
"You can go just as well tomorrow. I'll get Carp to give you a nice cup
of bouillon. He loves soup as much as the landlord loves wine; winter
and summer he gets up at five o'clock and makes his soup; good stuff it
is, too. Few can make better."

Without waiting for a reply, she went to Carp, who was again at his
work.

"Will you give me a cup of your bouillon for our patient?" she asked.

He replied with a smile only, but he quickly took the lid from a
sauc