by wrong, had departed out of him in the neighborhood of that warm

bed and that suffering woman, whom he was nursing under the

influence of her feverish heat and of remembered delights. He

leaned over her and pressed her in a close embrace, while despite

her unmoved features her lips wore a delicate, victorious smile.

But Dr Boutarel made his appearance.

"Well, and how's this dear child?" he said familiarly to Muffat,

whom he treated as her husband. "The deuce, but we've made her