execute the commission herself. A moment later she came back with La
Couteau.

The doctor was now settling money matters. Eighty francs a month for the
nurse; and forty-five francs for her board and lodging at the agency and
Madame Broquette's charges. Then there was the question of her child's
return to the country, which meant another thirty francs, without
counting a gratuity to La Couteau.

"I'm going back this evening," said the latter; "I'm quite willing to
take the little one with me. In the Avenue d'Antin, did you say? Oh! I
know, there's a lady's maid from my district in that house. Marie can
go there at once. When I've settled my business, in a couple of hours, I
will go and rid her of her baby."

On entering the office, La Couteau had glanced askance at Mathieu,
without, however, appearing to recognize him. He had remained on his
chair silently watching the scene--first an inspection as of cattle at
a market, and then a bargaining, the sale of a mother's milk. And by
degrees pity and revolt had filled his heart. But a shudder passed
through him when La Couteau turned towards the quiet, fine-looking
child, of which she promised to rid the nurse. And once more he pictured
her with her five companions at the St.-Lazare railway station, each,
like some voracious crow, with a new-born babe in her clutches. It was
the pillaging beginning afresh; life and hope were again being stolen
from Paris. And this time, as the doctor said, a double murder was
threatened; for, however careful one may be, the employer's child often
dies from another's milk, and the nurse's child, carried back into the
country like a parcel, is killed with neglect and indigestible pap.

But everything was now settled, and so the doctor and his companion
drove away to Grenelle. And there, at the very entrance of the Beauchene
works, came a meeting which again filled Mathieu with emotion. Morange,
the accountant, was returning to his work after dejeuner, accompanied by
his daughter Reine, both of them dressed in deep mourning. On the morrow
of Valerie's funeral, Morange had returned to his work in a state of
prostration which almost resembled forgetfulness. It was clear that he
had abandoned all ambitious plans of quitting the works to seek a big
fortune elsewhere. Still he could not make up his mind to leave his
flat, though it was now too large for him, besides being too expensive.
But then his wife had lived in those rooms, and he wished to