make herself heard. At last the voice of a child from within answered,
"The door is locked--mamma has the key in her pocket, and won't be home
till night; and here's Victoire has tumbled from the top of the big
press, and it is she that is shrieking so."

Madame de Fleury ran down the stairs which she had ascended with so much
difficulty, called to her footman, who was waiting in the entry,
despatched him for a surgeon, and then she returned to obtain from some
people who lodged in the house assistance to force open the door of the
room in which the children were confined.

On the next floor there was a smith at work, filing so earnestly that he
did not hear the screams of the children. When his door was pushed open,
and the bright vision of Madame de Fleury appeared to him, his
astonishment was so great that he seemed incapable of comprehending what
she said. In a strong provincial accent he repeated, "_Plait-il_?" and
stood aghast till she had explained herself three times; then suddenly
exclaiming, "Ah! c'est ca;"--he collected his tools precipitately, and
followed to obey her orders. The door of the room was at last forced
half open, for a press that had been overturned prevented its opening
entirely. The horrible smells that issued did not overcome Madame de
Fleury's humanity: she squeezed her way into the room, and behind the
fallen press saw three little children: the youngest, almost an infant,
ceased roaring, and ran to a corner; the eldest, a boy of about eight
years old, whose face and clothes were covered with blood, held on his
knee a girl younger than himself, whom he was trying to pacify, but who
struggled most violently and screamed incessantly, regardless of Madame
de Fleury, to whose questions she made no answer.

"Where are you hurt, my dear?" repeated Madame de Fleury in a soothing