would last.

"Monsieur has had two hundred persons this morning, and there are
eight to be turned off," said Lavienne. "You will have time to pay
your early visit, sir."

"Here, my boy," said the lawyer, turning round and taking Horace by
the arm; "here are two addresses near this--one in the Rue de Seine,
and the other in the Rue de l'Arbalete. Go there at once. Rue de
Seine, a young girl has just asphyxiated herself; and Rue de
l'Arbalete, you will find a man to remove to your hospital. I will
wait breakfast for you."

Bianchon returned an hour later. The Rue du Fouarre was deserted; day
was beginning to dawn there; his uncle had gone up to his rooms; the
last poor wretch whose misery the judge had relieved was departing,
and Lavienne's money bag was empty.

"Well, how are they going on?" asked the old lawyer, as the doctor
came in.

"The man is dead," replied Bianchon; "the girl will get over it."

Since the eye and hand of a woman had been lacking, the flat in which
Popinot lived had assumed an aspect in harmony with its master's. The
indifference of a man who is absorbed in one dominant idea had set its
stamp of eccentricity on everything. Everywhere lay unconquerable
dust, every object was adapted to a wrong purpose with a pertinacity
suggestive of a bachelor's home. There were papers in the flower
vases, empty ink-bottles on the tables, plates that had been