In an instant, M. Ravinet was by her side.

One of the women, the wife of the gentleman in the first story, held the
head of the girl on her arm, and the poor child looked around with that
blank, unmeaning eye which we see in mad-houses. They spoke to her; but
she did not answer; evidently she did not hear.

"Never mind!" said the merchant, "she is saved; and, _when_ the doctor
comes, he will have little else to do. But she must be attended to, the
poor child, and we cannot leave her here alone."

The bystanders knew very well what that meant; and yet hardly any one
ventured timidly to assent, and say, "Oh, of course!"

This reluctance did not deter the good man.

"We must put her to bed," he went on; "and, of course, she must have a
mattress, bedclothes and blankets. We want wood also (for it is terribly
cold here), and sugar for her tea, and a candle."

He did not mention all that was needed, but nearly so, and a great deal
too much for the people who stood by. As a proof of this, the wife
of the broker put grandly a five-franc piece on the mantlepiece, and
quietly slipped out. Some of the others followed her example; but they
left nothing. When Papa Ravinet had finished his little speech, there
was nobody left but the two ladies who lived on the first floor, and the
concierge and his wife. The two ladies, moreover, looked at each other
in great embarrassment, as if they did not know what their curiosity
might cost them. Had the shrewd man foreseen this noble abandonment of