the rest matter? Ah! if he had been alone in the world.
But he had his mother to think of;--he belonged to this brave-hearted
woman, who had saved him from suicide already. "I will not yield, then;
I will struggle on for her sake," he muttered, like a man who foresees
the futility of his efforts.

He rose, and had nearly finished dressing, when he heard a rap at his
chamber door. "It is I, my son," said Madame Ferailleur outside.

Pascal hastened to admit her. "I have come for you because the woman you
spoke about last evening is already here, and before employing her, I
want your advice."

"Then the woman doesn't please you, mother?"

"I want you to see her."

On entering the little parlor with his mother, Pascal found himself in
the presence of a portly, pale-faced woman, with thin lips and restless
eyes, who bowed obsequiously. It was indeed Madame Vantrasson, the
landlady of the model lodging-house, who was seeking employment for the
three or four hours which were at her disposal in the morning, she said.
It certainly was not for pleasure that she had decided to go out to
service again; her dignity suffered terribly by this fall--but then
the stomach has to be cared for. Tenants were not numerous at the model
lodging-house, in spite of its seductive title; and those who slept
there occasionally, almost invariably succeeded in stealing something.
Nor did the grocery store pay; the few half-pence which were left
there occasionally in exchange for a glass of liquor were pocketed by
Vantrasson, who spent them at some neighboring establishment; for it is
a well-known fact that the wine a man drinks in his own shop is always
bitter in flavor. So, having no credit at the butcher's or the baker's,
Madame Vantrasson was sometimes reduced to living for days together upon
the contents of the shop--mouldy figs or dry raisins--which she washed
down with torrents of ratafia, her only consolation here below.

But this was not a satisfying diet, as she was forced to confess; so she
decided to find some work, that would furnish her with food and a little
money, which she vowed she would never allow her worthy husband to see.

"What would you charge per month?" inquired Pascal.

She seemed to reflect, and after a great deal of counting on her
fingers, she finally declared that she would be content with breakfast
and fifteen francs a month, on condition she was allowed to do the
marketing. The first question of French cooks, o