“Madame,” said Finot’s uncle and cashier, “your son is in so unfortunate a position that his friends find it absolutely necessary to ask you to share the somewhat heavy expense which he is to them.  He can no longer do his work at the office; and Mademoiselle Florentine, of the Porte-Saint-Martin, has taken him to lodge with her, in a miserable attic in the rue de Vendome.  Philippe is dying; and if you and his brother are not able to pay for the doctor and medicines, we shall be obliged, for the sake of curing him, to have him taken to the hospital of the Capuchins.  For three hundred francs we would keep him where he is.  But he must have a nurse; for at night, when Mademoiselle Florentine is at the theatre, he persists in going out, and takes things that are irritating and injurious to his malady and its treatment.  As we are fond of him, this makes us really very unhappy.  The poor fellow has pledged the pension of his cross for the next three years; he is temporarily displaced from his office, and he has literally nothing.  He will kill himself, madame, unless we can put him into the private asylum of Doctor Dubois.  It is a decent hospital, where they will take him for ten francs a day.  Florentine and I will pay half, if you will pay the rest; it won’t be for more than two months.”

“Monsieur, it is difficult for a mother not to be eternally grateful to you for your kindness to her son,” replied Agathe; “but this son is banished from my heart, and as for money, I have none.  Not to be a burden on my son whom you see here, who works day and night and deserves all the love his mother can give him, I am the assistant in a lottery-office—­at my age!”

“And you, young man,” said the old dragoon to Joseph; “can’t you do as much for your brother as a poor dancer at the Porte-Saint-Martin and an old soldier?”

“Look here!” said Joseph, out of patience; “do you want me to tell you in artist language what I think of your visit?  Well, you have come to swindle us on false pretences.”

“To-morrow your brother shall go to the hospital.”

“And he will do very well there,” answered Joseph.  “If I were in like case, I should go there too.”

Giroudeau withdrew, much disappointed, and also really mortified at being obliged to send to a hospital a man who had carried the Emperor’s orders at the battle of Montereau.  Three months later, at the end of July, as Agathe one morning was crossing the Pont Neuf to avoid paying a sou at the Pont des Arts, she saw, coming along by the shops of the Quai de l’Ecole, a man bearing all the signs of second-class poverty, who, she thought, resembled Philippe.  In Paris, there are three distinct classes of poverty.  First, the poverty of the man who preserves appearances, and to whom a future still belongs; this is the poverty of young men, artists, men of the world, momentarily unfortunate.  The outward signs of their distress are not visible, except under the microscope of a