"Well, I felt my skin go goosey, for I saw what was going on in her
mind, and how she was remembering what had happened to her some time,
somewhere; but there wasn't a tear in her eyes, and I never saw her cry-
never once, m'sieu'--well, but as brave as brave. Her eyes are always
dry--burning. They're like two furnaces scorching up her face. So I
never found out her history, and she won't have the priest. I believe
that's because she wants to die unknown, and doesn't want to confess.
I never saw a woman I was sorrier for, though I think she wasn't married
to the man that left her. But whatever she was, there's good in her--I
haven't known hundreds of women and had seven sisters for nothing. Well,
there she is--not a friend near her at the last; for it's coming soon,
the end--no one to speak to her, except the woman she pays to come in and
look after her and nurse her a bit. Of course there's the landlady too,
Madame Popincourt, a kind enough little cricket of a woman, but with no
sense and no head for business. And so the poor sick thing has not a
single pleasure in the world. She can't read, because it makes her head
ache, she says; and she never writes to any one. One day she tried to
sing a little, but it seemed to hurt her, and she stopped before she had
begun almost. Yes, m'sieu', there she is without a single pleasure in
the long hours when she doesn't sleep."

"There's my canary--that would cheer her up," eagerly said Jean Jacques,
who, as the story of the chirruping landlady continued, became master of
his agitation, and listened as though to the tale of some life for which
he had concern. "Yes, take my canary to her, madame. It picked me up
when I was down. It'll help her--such a bird it is! It's the best
singer in the world. It's got in its throat the music of Malibran and
Jenny Lind and Grisi, and all the stars in heaven that sang together.
Also, to be sure, it doesn't charge anything, but just as long as there's
daylight it sings and sings, as you know."