of afflicted persons
whom he would benefit.

A timid ring of the bell made him start violently, and he was angry with
himself for being so nervous, he who was always master of his mind as of
his body.

He opened the door, and a man dressed like a laborer bowed humbly.

"I beg your pardon for disturbing you, sir."

"What do you want?"

"I called on account of my wife, if you will be so good as to come to
see her."

"What is the matter with her?"

"She is about to be confined. The nurse does not know what to do, and
sent me for a doctor."

"Did the nurse tell you to come for me?"

"No, sir; she sent me to Doctor Legrand."

"Well?"

"His wife told me he could not get up on account of his bronchitis. And
the chemist gave me your address."

"That is right."

"I must tell you, sir, I am an honest man, but we are not rich; we could
not pay you--immediately."

"I understand. Wait a few minutes."

Saniel took his instruments and followed the laborer, who, on the way,
explained his wife's condition.

"Where are we going?" Saniel asked, interrupting these explanations.

"Rue de la Corderie."

It was behind the Saint Honore' market, on the sixth floor, under the
roof, in a room that was perfectly clean, in spite of its poverty. As
soon as Saniel entered the nurse came forward, and in a few words told
him the woman's trouble.

"Is the child living?"

"Yes."

"That is well; let us see."

He approached the bed and made a careful examination of the patient, who
kept repeating:

"I am going to die. Save me, doctor!"

"Certainly, we shall save you," he said, very softly. "I promise you."

He turned away from the bed and said to the nurse:

"The only way to save the mother is to kill the child."

The operation was long, difficult, and painful, and after it was over
Saniel remained a long time with the patient. When he reached the street
a neighboring clock struck five, and the market-place had already begun
to show signs of life.

But in the streets was still the silence and solitude of night, and
Saniel began to reflect on what had occurred during the last few hours.
Thus, he had not hesitated to kill this child, who had, perhaps, sixty
or seventy years of happy life before it, and he hesitated at the death
of Caffie, to whom remained only a miserable existence of a few weeks.
The interests of a poor, weak, stunted woman had decided him; his, those
of humanity, left him perplexed, irresolute, weak,