to him when he went away, like a lost, mangy dog that runs along after a pitying passer-by.
Its dark surface streaked with delicate colours, this horrible sink flowed, open to the sky, the whole length of the leprous road leading to the factory. With insolent sluggishness it sought the branch of the river whose waters it dishonored. The dwellers upon the banks of the river, humble folks who were dependent upon the all-powerful factory, murmured among themselves but did not dare complain too loudly. Confident of their submission, the owners kept adjourning the great expense of covering this cesspool. An epidemic of cholera, breaking out in the middle of August, gave them, however, something to think about. Provoked and stimulated by the noxious exhalations of the drain, the scourge struck the factory quarters more cruelly than any other. The working people died like flies. Although the survivors feared famine should they protest openly against the stench, the Dobouziez family thought they could win over the population, secretly rising against them, and came to the relief of the stricken families. But their almost forced generosity expended itself without good grace, without tact, without that pity which enhances kindness and distinguishes true charity from made-to-order philanthropy. To the charitable Felicité had been entrusted the distribution of alms. Occupied in this direction, she had less chance to watch Laurent, and he profited by this laxity in taking an occasional furlough.
One opaque and coppery evening he was making his way toward the factory-quarter. While walking slowly down the long workingman's street, sordidly lit at great intervals by a smoky lantern, his attention, more finely sharpened and more subtle than usual, was dis-
