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.
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