hed before him once more. Was it even a real
lupus? Might it not rather be some unknown form of ulcer of hysterical
origin? Or ought one to admit that certain forms of lupus, as yet but
imperfectly studied and arising from faulty nutrition of the skin, might
be benefited by a great moral shock? At all events there here seemed to
be a miracle, unless, indeed, the sore should reappear again in three
weeks', three months', or three years' time, like La Grivotte's phthisis.

It was ten o'clock, and the people in the carriage were falling asleep
when they left Lamothe. Sister Hyacinthe, upon whose knees La Grivotte
was now drowsily resting her head, was unable to rise, and, for form's
sake, merely said, "Silence, silence, my children!" in a low voice, which
died away amidst the growling rumble of the wheels.

However, something continued stirring in an adjoining compartment; she
heard a noise which irritated her nerves, and the cause of which she at
last fancied she could understand.

"Why do you keep on kicking the seat, Sophie?" she asked. "You must get
to sleep, my child."

"I'm not kicking, Sister. It's a key that was rolling about under my
foot."

"A key!--how is that? Pass it to me."

Then she examined it. A very old, poor-looking key it was--blackened,
worn away, and polished by long use, its ring bearing the mark of where
it had been broken and resoldered. However, they all searched their
pockets, and none of them, it seemed, had lost a key.

"I found it in the corner," now resumed Sophie; "it must have belonged to
the man."

"What man?" asked Sister Hyacinthe.

"The man who died there."

They had already forgotten him. But it had surely been his, for Sister
Hyacinthe recollected that she had heard something fall while she was
wiping his forehead. And she turned the key over and continued looking at
it, as it lay in her hand, poor, ugly, wretched key that it was, no
longer of any use, never again to open the lock it belonged to--some
unknown lock, hidden far away in the depths of the world. For a moment
she was minded to put it in her pocket, as though by a kind of compassion
for this little bit of iron, so humble and so mysterious, since it was
all that remained of that unknown man. But then the pious thought came to
her that it is wrong to show attachment to any earthly thing; and, the
window being half-lowered, she threw out the key, which fell into the
black night.

"You must not play any more, Soph