Then, folding the little being in her arms, she flees away with the
agility of a cat, and is lost to sight in a corridor which, judging
by the odour, must lead to some kitchen.

I enter my own quarters.

"Therese, who can that young mother be whom I saw bareheaded on the
stairs just now, with a pretty little boy?"

And Therese replies that it was Madame Coccoz.

I stare up at the ceiling, as if trying to obtain some further
illumination. Therese then recalls to me the little book-peddler who
tried to sell me almanacs last year, while his wife was lying in.

"And Coccoz himself?" I asked.

I was answered that I would never see him again. The poor little
man had been laid away underground, without my knowledge, and,
indeed, with the knowledge of very few people, on a short time after
the happy delivery of Madame Coccoz. I leaned that his wife had
been able to console herself: I did likewise.

"But, Therese," I asked, "has Madame Coccoz got everything she needs
in that attic of hers?"

"You would be a great dupe, Monsieur," replied my housekeeper, "if
you should bother yourself about that creature. They gave her notice
to quit the attic when the roof was repaired. But she stays there
yet--in spite of the proprietor, the agent, the concierge, and the