She had, now, no one in the whole world but her niece, and she prayed the Almighty every night to preserve her this relative to close her eyes.

A little egotism was mingled with this final love of her old age.

She felt herself affected in the slight consolations that still assisted her to live, when it crossed her mind that she might die alone in the damp shop in the arcade.

From that time, she never took her eyes off her niece, and it was with terror that she watched her sadness, wondering what she could do to cure her of her silent despair.
Under these grave circumstances, she thought she ought to take the advice of her old friend Michaud.

One Thursday evening, she detained him in the shop, and spoke to him of her alarm.
"Of course," answered the old man, with that frank brutality he had acquired in the performance of his former functions, "I have noticed for some time past that Therese has been looking sour, and I know very well why her face is quite yellow and overspread with grief." "You know why!" exclaimed the widow.