Louise ran to tell the good news to her mother.
It is a shameful thing to speak of, but we are not telling tales of pleasant sins; we are telling of true facts, which it would be better, no doubt, to pass over in silence, if we did not believe that it is needful from time to time to reveal the martyrdom of those who are condemned without bearing, scorned without judging; shameful it is, but this mother answered the daughter that they had already scarce enough for two, and would certainly not have enough for three; that such children are useless, and a lying-in is so much time lost.
Next day a midwife, of whom all we will say is that she was a friend of the mother, visited Louise, who remained in bed for a few days, and then got up paler and feebler than before.
Three months afterward a man took pity on her and tried to heal her, morally and physically; but the last shock had been too violent, and Louise died of it.

The mother still lives; how?
God knows.
This story returned to my mind while I looked at the silver toilet things, and a certain space of time must have elapsed during these reflections, for no one was left in the room but myself and an attendant, who, standing near the door, was carefully watching me to see that I did not pocket anything.
I went up to the man, to whom I was causing so much anxiety.

"Sir," I said, "can you tell me the name of the person who formerly lived here ?" "Mademoiselle Marguerite Gautier." I knew her by name and by sight.
"What!" I said to the attendant; "Marguerite Gautier is dead ?" "Yes, sir." "When did she die ?" "Three weeks ago, I believe." "And why are the rooms on view ?" "The creditors believe that it will send up the prices.

People can see beforehand the effect of the things; you see that induces them to buy." "She was in debt, then ?" "To any extent, sir." "But the sale will cover it ?" "And more too." "Who will get what remains over ?" "Her family." "She had a family ?" "It seems so." "Thanks." The attendant, reassured as to my intentions, touched his hat, and I went out.
"Poor girl!" I said to myself as I returned home; "she must have had a sad death, for, in her world, one has friends only when one is perfectly well." And in spite of myself I began to feel melancholy over the fate of Marguerite Gautier.
It will seem absurd to many people, but I have an unbounded sympathy for women of this kind, and I do not think it necessary to apologize for such sympathy.
One day, as I was going to the Prefecture for a passport, I saw in one of the neighbouring streets a poor girl who was being marched along by two policemen.

I do not know what was the matter.