My answer was a salutation that might express—"I congratulate you."
She was about to speak, when the carriage moved on. Truly she was adorable, under a little rice straw bonnet trimmed with cherry ribbons. Luxury became her marvelously.
That evening I received the following note: "I must talk with you. I long to see you; you will not come to me; I dare not present myself at your door. What is to be done?"
I went to the address she indicated. She occupied all of a hotel in one of the streets parallel to the Champs Elysees. Tapestries, Venetian chandeliers, Florentine frames, porcelains of Sevres, Dresden, Japan, inlaid furniture, Etageres, Jardiniers, mantel ornaments of the time of Louis XVI,—any one can imagine it all,—beautiful drawings by Vidal and de Beaumont, pictures of Isabey and d'Voillemot.
I asked no questions, she made no explanations. After she had given me a seat, I said:
"What have you to tell me now?"
"Nothing, I wanted to see you."
"Why."
"Just to see you. You bring back pleasant reminiscences."
"Are you not happy?"
"I deserve a better fate, I assure you."
She wept, then dried her eyes in a three-hundred francs handkerchief. We heard the bell ring, a little maid appeared, and spoke a few words of English to her mistress, who answered readily in the same tongue. The maid went out, came back in five minutes, spoke again and was answered. She repeated this performance five or six times while I was in the parlor.
"Perhaps I'm intruding," and I rose to leave.
"No, stay," she said, "those are my creditors."
I learned that her life was one of confusion, luxury and debts. She spoke again—"How badly I have fol-
