Yvonne's cheeks flushed and her eyes sparkled under the little mask, as she leaned over the velvet railing and gazed at the bewildering spectacle below. Great puffs of hot, perfumed air bore the crash of two orchestras to their ears, mixed with the distant clatter and whirl of the dancers, and the shouts and cries of the maskers.

At the end of the floor, screened by banks of palms, sat the musicians, and round about, rising tier upon tier, the glittering boxes were filled with the elite of the demimonde, who ogled and gossiped and sighed, entirely content with the material and social barriers which separate those who dance for ten francs from those who look on for a hundred.

But there were others there who should not by any means be confounded with their sisters of the ``half-world.''

The Faubourg St Germain, the Champs Elysées, and the Parc Monceau were possibly represented among those muffled and disguised beauties, who began the evening with their fans so handy in case of need. Ah, well – now they lay their fans down quite out of reach in case of emergency, and who shall say if disappointment lurks under these dainty dominoes, that there is so little to bring a blush to modest cheeks – alas! few emergencies.

And you over there – you of the ``American Colony,'' who are tossed like shuttlecocks in the social whirl, you, in your well-appointed masks and silks, it is all very new and exciting – yes, but why should you come? American women, brought up to think clean thoughts and see with innocent eyes, to exact a respectful homage from men and enjoy a personal dignity and independence unknown to women anywhere else – why do you want to come here? Do you not know that the foundations of that liberty which makes you envied in the old world are laid in the respect and confidence of men? Undermine that, become wise and cynical, learn the meaning of doubtful words and gestures whose significance you never need have suspected, meet men on the same ground where they may any day meet fast women of the continent, and fix at that moment on your free limbs the same chains which corrupt society has forged for the women of Europe.

Yvonne leaned back in her box with a little gasp.

``But I can't make out anyone at all,'' she said; ``it's all a great, sparkling sea of color.''

``Try the field glasses,'' replied Gethryn, giving them to her again, at the same time opening her big plumy fan and waving it to and fro beside the flushed cheek.

Presently she cried out, ``Oh, look! There is Mr Elliott and Mr Rowden, and I think Mr Clifford – but I hope not.''

He leaned forward and swept the floor with the field glass.

``It's Clifford, sure enough,'' he muttered; ``what on earth induces him to dance in that set?''

It was Clifford.

At that moment he was addressing Elliott in pleading, though hazy, phrases.

``Come 'long, Elliott, don't be so – so uncomf't'ble 'n' p'tic'lar! W't's use of be'ng shnobbish?'' he urged, clinging hilariously to his partner, a pigeon-toed ballet girl. But Elliott only laughed and said:

``No; waltzes are all I care for. No quadrille for me – ''

The crash of the orchestra drowned his voice, and Clifford, turning and bowing gravely to his partner, and then to his vis-à-vis, began to perform such antics and cut such pigeonwings that his pigeon-toed partner glared at him through the slits of her mask in envious astonishment. The door was dotted with numerous circles of maskers, ten or fifteen deep, all watching and applauding the capers of the hilarious couples in the middle.

But Clifford's set soon attracted a large and enthusiastic audience, who were connoisseurs enough to distinguish a voluntary dancer from a hired one; and when the last thundering chords of Offenbach's ``March into Hell'' scattered the throng into a delirious waltz, Clifford reeled heavily into the side scenes and sat down, rather unexpectedly, in the lap of Mademoiselle Nitouche, who had crept in there with the Baron Silberstein for a nice, quiet view of a genuine cancan.

Mademoiselle did not think it funny, but the Baron did, and when she boxed Clifford's ears he thought it funnier still.

Rowden and Elliot, who were laboriously waltzing with a twin pair of flat-footed Watteau Shepherdesses, immediately ran to his assistance; and later, with a plentiful application of cold water and still colder air, restored Mr Clifford to his usual spirits.

``You're not a beauty, you know,'' said Rowden, looking at Clifford's hair, which was soaked into little points and curls; ``you're certainly no beauty, but I think you're all right now – don't you, Elliott? ''

``Certainly,'' laughed the triumvir, producing a little silver pocket-comb and presenting it to the woebegone Clifford, who immediately brought out a hand glass and proceeded to construct a ``bang'' of wonderful seductiveness.

In ten minutes they sallied forth from the dressing room and wended their way through the throngs of masks to the center of the floor. They passed Thaxton and Rhodes, who, each with a pretty nun upon his arm, were trying to persuade Bulfinch into taking the third nun, who might have been the Mother Superior or possibly a resuscitated 14th century abbess.

``No,'' he was saying, while he blinked painfully at the ci-devant abbess, ``I can't go that; upon my word, don't ask me, fellows – I – I can't.''

``Oh, come,'' urged Rhodes, ``what's the odds?''

``You can take her and I'll take yours,'' began the wily little man, but neither Rhodes nor Thaxton waited to argue longer.

``No catacombs for me,'' growled Bulfinch, eyeing the retreating nuns, but catching sight of the triumvirate, his face regained its bird-like felicity of expression.

``Glad to see you – indeed I am! That Colossus is too disinterested in securing partners for his friends; he is, I assure you. If you're looking for a Louis Quatorze partner, warranted genuine, go to Rhodes.''

``Rex ought to be here by this time,'' said Rowden; ``look in the boxes on that side and Clifford and I will do the same on this.''

``No need,'' cried Elliott, ``I see him with a white domino there in the second tier. Look! he's waving his hand to us and so is the domino.''

``Come along,'' said Clifford, pushing his way toward the foyer, ``I'll find them in a moment. Let me see,'' – a few minutes later, pausing outside a row of white and gilt doors – ``let me see, seventh box, second tier – here we are,'' he added, rapping loudly.

Yvonne ran and opened the door.

``Bon soir, Messieurs,'' she said, with a demure curtsy.

Clifford gallantly kissed the little glove and then shook hands with Gethryn.

``How is it on the floor?'' asked the latter, as Elliott and Rowden came forward to the edge of the box. ``I want to take Yvonne out for a turn and perhaps a waltz, if it isn't too crowded.''

``Oh, it's pretty rough just now, but it will be better in half an hour,'' replied Rowden, barricading the champagne from Clifford.

``We saw you dancing, Mr Clifford,'' observed Yvonne, with a wicked glance at him from under her mask.

Clifford blushed.

``I – I don't make an ass of myself but once a year, you know,'' he said, with a deprecatory look at Elliott.

``Oh,'' murmured the latter, doubtfully, ``glad to hear it.''

Clifford gazed at him in meek reproof and then made a flank movement upon the champagne, but was again neatly foiled by Rowden.

Yvonne looked serious, but presently leaned over and filled one of the long-stemmed goblets.

``Only one, Mr Clifford; one for you to drink my health, but you must promise me truthfully not to take any more wine this evening!''

Clifford promised with great promptness, and taking the glass from her hand with a low bow, sprang recklessly upon the edge of the box and raised the goblet.

``A la plus belle demoiselle de Paris!'' he cried, with all the strength of his lungs, and drained the goblet.

A shout from the crowd below answered his toast. A thousand faces were turned upward, and people leaned over their boxes, and looked at the party from all parts of the house.

Mademoiselle Nitouche turned to Monsieur de Sacrebleu.

``What audacity!'' she murmured.

Mademoiselle Goujon smiled at the Baron Silberstein.

``Tiens!'' she cried, ``the gayety has begun, I hope.''

Little Miss Ducely whispered to Lieutenant Faucon:

``Those are American students,'' she sighed; ``how jolly they seem to be, especially Mr Clifford! I wonder if she is so pretty!''

Half a dozen riotous Frenchmen in the box opposite jumped to their feet and waved their goblets at Clifford.

``A la plus jolie femme du monde!'' they roared.

Clifford seized another glass and filled it.

``She is here!'' he shouted, and sprang to the edge again. But Gethryn pulled him down.

``That's too dangerous,'' he laughed; ``you could easily fall.''

``Oh, pshaw!'' cried Clifford, draining the glass, and shaking it at the opposite box.

Yvonne put her hand on Gethryn's arm.

``Don't let him have any more,'' she whispered.

``Give us the goblet!'' yelled the Frenchmen.

``Le voila!'' shouted Clifford, and stepping back, hurled the glass with all his strength across the glittering gulf. It fell with a crash in the box it was aimed at, and a howl of applause went up from the floor.

Yvonne laughed nervously, but coming to the edge of the box buried her mask in her bouquet and looked down.

``A rose! A rose!'' cried the maskers below; ``a rose from the most charming demoiselle in Paris!''

She half turned to Gethryn, but suddenly stepping forward, seized a handful of flowers from the middle of the bouquet and flung them into the crowd.

There was a shout and a scramble, and then she tore the bouquet end from end, sending a shower of white buds into the throng.

``None for me?'' sighed Clifford, watching the fast-dwindling bouquet.

She laughed brightly as she tossed the last handful below, and then turned and leaned over Gethryn's chair.

``You destructive little wretch!'' he laughed, ``this is not the season for the Battle of Flowers. But white roses mean nothing, so I'm not jealous.''

``Ah, mon ami, I saved the red rose for you,'' she whispered; and fastened it upon his breast.

And at his whispered answer her cheeks flushed crimson under the white mask. But she sprang up laughing.

``I would so like to go onto the floor,'' she cried, pulling him to his feet, and coaxing him with a simply irresistible look; ``don't you think we might – just for a minute, Mr Rowden?'' she pleaded. ``I don't mind a crowd – indeed I don't, and I am masked so perfectly.''

``What's the harm, Rex?'' said Rowden; ``she is well masked.''

``And when we return it will be time for supper, won't it?''

``Yes, I should think so!'' murmured Clifford.

``Where do we go then?''

``Maison Dorée.''

``Come along, then, Mademoiselle Destructiveness!'' cried Gethryn, tossing his mask and field glass onto a chair, where they were appropriated by Clifford, who spent the next half hour in staring across at good old Colonel Toddlum and his frisky companion – an attention which drove the poor old gentleman almost frantic with suspicion, for he was a married man, bless his soul! – and a pew-holder in the American Church.

``My love,'' said the frisky one, ``who is the gentleman in the black mask who stares?''

``I don't know,'' muttered the dear old man, in a cold sweat, ``I don't know, but I wish I did.''

And the frisky one shrugged her shoulders and smiled at the mask.

``What are they looking at?'' whispered Yvonne, as she tripped along, holding very tightly to Gethryn's arm.

``Only a quadrille – `La Pataude' is dancing. Do you want to see it?''

She nodded, and they approached the circle in the middle of which `La Pataude' and `Grille d'Egout' were holding high carnival. At every ostentatious display of hosiery the crowd roared.

``Brava! Bis!'' cried an absinthe-soaked old gentleman; ``vive La Pataude!''

For answer the lady dexterously raised his hat from his head with the point of her satin slipper.

The crowd roared again. ``Brava! Brava, La Pataude!''

Yvonne turned away.

``I don't like it. I don't find it amusing,'' she said, faintly.

Gethryn's hand closed on hers.

``Nor I,'' he said.

``But you and your friends used to go to the students' ball at `Bullier's,''' she began, a little reproachfully.

``Only as Nouveaux, and then, as a rule, the high-jinks are pretty genuine there – at least, with the students. We used to go to keep cool in spring and hear the music; to keep warm in winter; and amuse ourselves at Carnival time.''

``But – Mr Clifford knows all the girls at `Bullier's.' Do – do you?''

``Some.''

``How many?'' she said, pettishly.

``None – now.''

A pause. Yvonne was looking down.

``See here, little goose, I never cared about any of that crowd, and I haven't been to the Bullier since – since last May.''

She turned her face up to his; tears were stealing down from under her mask.

``Why, Yvonne!'' he began, but she clung to his shoulder, as the orchestra broke into a waltz.

``Don't speak to me, Rex – but dance! Dance!''

They danced until the last bar of music ceased with a thundering crash.

``Tired?'' he asked, still holding her.

She smiled breathlessly and stepped back, but stopped short, with a little cry.

``Oh! I'm caught – there, on your coat!''

He leaned over her to detach the shred of silk.

``Where is it? Oh! Here!''

And they both laughed and looked at each other, for she had been held by the little golden clasp, the fleur-de-lis.

``You see,'' he said, ``it will always draw me to you.''

But a shadow fell on her fair face, and she sighed as she gently took his arm.

When they entered their box, Clifford was still tormenting the poor Colonel.

``Old dog thinks I know him,'' he grinned, as Yvonne and Rex came in. Yvonne flung off her mask and began to fan herself.

``Time for supper, you know,'' suggested Clifford.

Yvonne lay back in her chair, smiling and slowly waving the great plumes to and fro.

``Who are those people in the next box?'' she asked him. ``They do make such a noise.''

``There are only two, both masked.''

``But they have unmasked now. There are their velvets on the edge of the box. I'm going to take a peep,'' she whispered, rising and leaning across the railing.

``Don't; I wouldn't – '' began Gethryn, but he was too late.

Yvonne leaned across the gilded cornice and instantly fell back in her chair, deathly pale.

``My God! Are you ill, Yvonne?''

``Oh, Rex, Rex, take me away – home – ''

Then came a loud hammering on the box door. A harsh, strident voice called, ``Yvonne! Yvonne!''

Clifford thoughtlessly threw it open, and a woman in evening dress, very decolletée, swept by him into the box, with a waft of sickly scented air.

Yvonne leaned heavily on Gethryn's shoulder; the woman stopped in front of them.

``Ah! here you are, then!''

Yvonne's face was ghastly.

``Nina,'' she whispered, ``why did you come?''

``Because I wanted to make you a little surprise,'' sneered the woman; ``a pleasant little surprise. We love each other enough, I hope.'' She stamped her foot.

``Go,'' said Yvonne, looking half dead.

``Go!'' mimicked the other. ``But certainly! Only first you must introduce me to these gentlemen who are so kind to you.''

``You will leave the box,'' said Gethryn, in a low voice, holding open the door.

The woman turned on him. She was evidently in a prostitute's tantrum of malicious deviltry. Presently she would begin to lash herself into a wild rage.

``Ah! this is the one!'' she sneered, and raising her voice, she called, ``Mannie, Mannie, come in here, quick!''

A sidling step approached from the next box, and the face of Mr Emanuel Pick appeared at the door.

``This is the one,'' cried the woman, shrilly. ``Isn't he pretty?''

Mr Pick looked insolently at Gethryn and opened his mouth, but he did not say anything, for Rex took him by the throat and kicked him headlong into his own box. Then he locked the door, and taking out the key, returned and presented it to the woman.

``Follow him!'' he said, and quietly, but forcibly, urged her toward the lobby.

``Mannie! Mannie!'' she shrieked, in a voice choked by rage and dissipation, ``come and kill him! He's insulting me!''

Getting no response, she began to pour forth shriek upon shriek, mingled with oaths and ravings. ``I shall speak to my sister! Who dares prevent me from speaking to my sister! You – '' she glared at Yvonne and ground her teeth. ``You, the good one. You! the mother's pet! Ran away from home! Took up with an English hog!''

Yvonne sprang to her feet again.

``Leave the box,'' she gasped.

``Ha! ha! Mais oui! leave the box! and let her dance while her mother lies dying!''

Yvonne gave a cry.

``Ah! Ah!'' said her sister, suddenly speaking very slowly, nodding at every word. ``Ah! Ah! go back to your room and see what is there – in the room of your lover – the little letter from Vernon. She wants you. She wants you. That is because you are so good. She does not want me. No, it is you who must come to see her die. I – I dance at the Carnival!''

Then, suddenly turning on Gethryn with a devilish grin, ``You! tell your mistress her mother is dying!'' She laughed hatefully, but preserved her pretense of calm, walked to the door, and as she reached it swung round and made an insulting gesture to Gethryn.

``You! I will remember you!''

The door slammed and a key rattled in the next box.

Clinging to Gethryn, Yvonne passed down the long corridor to the vestibule, while Elliott and Rowden silently gathered up the masks and opera glasses. Clifford stood holding her crushed and splintered fan. He looked at Elliott, who looked gloomily back at him, as Braith entered hurriedly.

``What's the matter? I saw something was wrong from the floor. Rex ill?''

``Ill at ease,'' said Clifford, grimly. ``There's a sister turned up. A devil of a sister.''

Braith spoke very low. ``Yvonne's sister?''

``Yes, a she-devil.''

``Did you hear her name?''

``Name's Nina.''

Braith went quietly out again. Passing blindly down the lobby, he ran against Mr Bulfinch. Mr Bulfinch was in charge of a policeman.

``Hello, Braith!'' he called, hilariously.

Braith was going on with a curt nod when the other man added:

``I've taken it out of Pick,'' and he stopped short. ``I got my two hundred francs worth,'' the artist of the London Mirror proceeded, ``and now I shall feel bound to return you yours – the first time I have it,'' he ended, vaguely.

Braith made an impatient gesture.

``Are you under arrest?''

``Yes, I am. He couldn't help it,'' smiling agreeably at the Sergeant de Ville. ``He saw me hit him.''

The policeman looked stolid.

``But what excuse?'' began Braith.

``Oh! none! Pick just passed me, and I felt as if I couldn't stand it any longer, so I pitched in.''

``Well, and now you're in for fine and imprisonment.''

``I suppose so,'' said Bulfinch, beaming.

``Have you any money with you?''

``No, unless I have some in your pocket?'' said the little man, with a mixture of embarrassment and bravado that touched Braith, who saw what the confession cost him.

``Lots!'' said he, cordially. ``But first let us try what we can do with Bobby. Do you ever drink a petit verre, Monsieur le Sergeant de Ville?'' with a winning smile to the wooden policeman.

The latter looked at the floor.

``No,'' said he.

``Never?''

``Never!''

``Well, I was only thinking that over on the Corner of the Rue Taitbout one finds excellent wine at twenty francs.''

The officer now gazed dreamily at the ceiling.

``Mine costs forty,'' he said.

And a few minutes later the faithful fellow stood in front of the Opera house quite alone.

Ten

The cab rolled slowly over the Pont au Change, and the wretched horse fell into a walk as he painfully toiled up the hill of St Michel. Yvonne lay back in the corner; covered with all her own wraps and Gethryn's overcoat, she shivered.

``Poor little Yvonne!'' was all he said as he leaned over now and then to draw the cloak more closely around her. Not a sound but the rumble of the wheels and the wheezing of the old horse broke the silence. The streets were white and deserted. A few ragged flakes fell from the black vault above, or were shaken down from the crusted branches.

The cab stopped with a jolt. Yvonne was trembling as Rex lifted her to the ground, and he hurried her into the house, up the black stairway and into their cold room.

When he had a fire blazing in the grate, he looked around. She was kneeling on the floor beside a candle she had lighted, and her tears were pouring down upon the page of an open letter. Rex stepped over and touched her.

``Come to the fire.'' He raised her gently, but she could not stand, and he carried her in his arms to the great soft chair before the grate. Then he knelt down and warmed her icy hands in his own. After a while he moved her chair back, and drawing off her dainty white slippers, wrapped her feet in the fur that lay heaped on the hearth. Then he unfastened the cloak and the domino, and rolling her gloves from elbow to wrist, slipped them over the helpless little hands. The firelight glanced and glowed on her throat and bosom, tingeing their marble with opalescent lights, and searching the deep shadows under her long lashes. It reached her hair, touching here and there a soft, dark wave, and falling aslant the knots of ribbon on her bare shoulders, tipped them with points of white fire.

``Is it so bad, dearest Yvonne?''

``Yes.''

``Then you must go?''

``Oh, yes!''

``When?''

``At daylight.''

Gethryn rose and went toward the door; he hesitated, came back and kissed her once on the forehead. When the door closed on him she wept as if her heart would break, hiding her head in her arms. He found her lying so when he returned, and, throwing down her traveling bag and rugs, he knelt and took her to his breast, kissing her again and again on the forehead. At last he had to speak.

``I have packed the things you will need most and will send the rest. It is getting light, dearest; you have to change your dress, you know.''

She roused herself and sat up, looking desolately about her.

``Forever!'' she whispered.

``No! No!'' cried Gethryn.

``Ah! oui, mon ami!''

Gethryn went and stood by the window. The bedroom door was closed.

Day was breaking. He opened the window and looked into the white street. Lamps burned down there with a sickly yellow; a faint light showed behind the barred windows of the old gray barracks. One or two stiff sparrows hopped silently about the gutters, flying up hurriedly when the frost-covered sentinel stamped his boots before the barracks gate. Now and then a half-starved workman limped past, his sabots echoing on the frozen pavement. A hooded and caped policeman, a red-faced cabman stamping beside his sleepy horse – the street was empty but for them.

It grew lighter. The top of St Sulpice burned crimson. Far off a bugle fluttered, and then came the tramp of the morning guard mount. They came stumbling across the stony court and leaned on their rifles while one of them presented arms and received the word from the sentry. Little by little people began to creep up and down the sidewalks, and the noise of wooden shutters announced another day of toil begun. The point of the Luxembourg Palace struck fire as the ghastly gas-lamps faded and went out. Suddenly the great bell of St Sulpice clashed the hour – Eight o'clock!

Again a bugle blew sharply from the barracks, and a troop of cavalry danced and pawed through the gate, clattering away down the Rue de Seine.

Gethryn shut the window and turned into the room. Yvonne stood before the dying embers. He went to her, almost timidly. Neither spoke. At last she took up her satchel and wrap.

``It is time,'' she whispered. ``Let us go.''

He clasped her once in his arms; she laid her cheek against his.

*

The train left Montparnasse station at nine. There was hardly anyone in the waiting room. The Guard flung back the grating.

``Vernon, par Chartres?'' asked Gethryn.

``Vernon – Moulins – Chartres – direct!'' shouted the Guard, and stamped off down the platform.

Gethryn showed his ticket which admitted him to the platform, and they walked slowly down the line of dismal-looking cars.

``This one?'' and he opened a door.

She stood watching the hissing and panting engine, while Gethryn climbed in and placed her bags and rugs in a window corner. The car smelt damp and musty, and he stepped out with a choking sensation in his chest. A train man came along, closing doors with a slam.

``All aboard – ladies – gentlemen – voyageurs?'' he growled, as if to himself or some familiar spirit, and jerked a sullen clang from the station bell. The engine panted impatiently.

Rex struggled against the constraint that seemed to be dividing them.

``Yvonne, you will write?''

``I don't know!''

``You don't know! Yvonne!''

``I know nothing except that I am wicked, and my mother is dying!'' She said it in low, even tones, looking away from him.

The gong struck again, with a startling clash.

The engine shrieked; a cloud of steam rose from under the wheels. Rex hurried her into the carriage; there was no one else there. Suddenly she threw herself into his arms.

``Oh! I love you! I love you! One kiss, no; no; on the lips. Good-bye, my own Rex!''

``You will come again?'' he said, crushing her to him.

Her eyes looked into his.

``I will come. I love you! Be true to me, Rex. I will come back.''

Her lover could not speak. Doors slamming, and an impatient voice – ``Descendez donc, M'sieu!'' – roused him; he sprang from the carriage, and the train rolled slowly out of the smoke-filled station.

How heavy the smoke was! Gethryn could hardly breathe – hardly see. He walked away and out into the street. The city was only half awake even yet. After, as it seemed, a long time, he found himself looking at a clock which said a quarter past ten. The winter sunshine slanted now on roof and pane, flooding the western side of the shabby boulevard, dappling the snow with yellow patches. He had stopped in the chilly shadow of a gateway and was looking vacantly about. He saw the sunshine across the street and shivered where he was, and yet he did not leave the shadow. He stood and watched the sparrows taking bold little baths in the puddles of melted snow water. They seemed to enjoy the sunshine, but it was cold in the shade, cold and damp – and the air was hard to breathe. A policeman sauntered by and eyed him curiously. Rex's face was haggard and pinched. Why had he stood there in the cold for half an hour, without ever changing his weight from one foot to the other?

The policeman spoke at last, civilly:

``Monsieur!''

Gethryn turned his head.

``Is it that Monsieur seeks the train?'' he asked, saluting.

Rex looked up. He had wandered back to the station. He lifted his hat and answered with the politeness dear to French officials.

``Merci, Monsieur!'' It made him cough to speak, and he moved on slowly.

Gethryn would not go home yet. He wanted to be where there was plenty of cool air, and yet he shivered. He drew a deep breath which ended in a pain. How cold the air must be – to pain the chest like that! And yet, there were women wheeling handcarts full of yellow crocus buds about. He stopped and bought some for Yvonne.

``She will like them,'' he thought. ``Ah!'' – he turned away, leaving flowers and money. The old flower-woman crossed herself.

No – he would not go home just yet. The sun shone brightly; men passed, carrying their overcoats on their arms; a steam was rising from the pavements in the Square.

There was a crowd on the Pont au Change. He did not see any face distinctly, but there seemed to be a great many people, leaning over the parapets, looking down the river. He stopped and looked over too. The sun glared on the foul water eddying in and out among the piles and barges. Some men were rowing in a boat, furiously. Another boat followed close. A voice close by Gethryn cried, angrily:

``Dieu! who are you shoving?''

Rex moved aside; as he did so a gamin crowded quickly forward and craned over the edge, shouting, ``Vive le cadavre!''

``Chut!'' said another voice.

``Vive la Mort! Vive la Morgue!'' screamed the wretched little creature.

A policeman boxed his ears and pulled him back. The crowd laughed. The voice that had cried, ``Chut!'' said lower, ``What a little devil, that Rigaud!''

Rex moved slowly on.

In the Court of the Louvre were people enough and to spare. Some of them bowed to him; several called him to turn and join them. He lifted his hat to them all, as if he knew them, but passed on without recognizing a soul. The broad pavements were warm and wet, but the air must have been sharp to hurt his chest so. The great pigeons of the Louvre brushed by him. It seemed as if he felt the beat of their wings on his brains. A shabby-looking fellow asked him for a sou – and, taking the coin Rex gave him, shuffled off in a hurry; a dog followed him, he stooped and patted it; a horse fell, he went into the street and helped to raise it. He said to a man standing by that the harness was too heavy – and the man, looking after him as he walked away, told a friend that there was another crazy foreigner.

Soon after this he found himself on the Quai again, and the sun was sinking behind the dome of the Invalides. He decided to go home. He wanted to get warm, and yet it seemed as if the air of a room would stifle him. However, once more he crossed the Seine, and as he turned in at his own gate he met Clifford, who said something, but Rex pushed past without trying to understand what it was.

He climbed the dreary old stairs and came to his silent studio. He sat down by the fireless hearth and gazed at a long, slender glove among the ashes. At his feet her little white satin slippers lay half hidden in the long white fur of the rug.

He felt giddy and weak, and that hard pain in his chest left him no peace. He rose and went into the bedroom. Her ball dress lay where she had thrown it. He flung himself on the bed and buried his face in the rustling silk. A faint odor of violets pervaded it. He thought of the bouquet that had been placed for her at the dinner. Then the flowers reminded him of last summer. He lived over again their gay life – their excursions to Meudon, Sceaux, Versailles with its warm meadows, and cool, dark forests; Fontainebleau, where they lunched under the trees; St Cloud – Oh! he remembered their little quarrel there, and how they made it up on the boat at Suresnes afterward.