Chapter Xix—occupying One’s Self With Obscure Depths

“How is the poor little wounded girl?” he inquired.

“Madame Fabantou seems to me to be better,” went on M. Leblanc, casting his eyes on the eccentric costume of the Jondrette woman, as she stood between him and the door, as though already guarding the exit, and gazed at him in an attitude of menace and almost of combat.

“She is dying,” said Jondrette. “But what do you expect, sir! She has so much courage, that woman has! She’s not a woman, she’s an ox.”

“You are always too good to me, Monsieur Jondrette!”

“Jondrette!” said M. Leblanc, “I thought your name was Fabantou?”