A STORY: IN TWO PARTS.BY IK. MARVEL.PART I.I have said that the AbbÉ G—— had a room in some dark corner of a hotel in the Rue de Seine, or Rue de la Harpe—which of the two it was I really forget. At any rate, the hotel was very old, and the street out of which I used to step into its ill-paved, triangular court, was very narrow, and very dirty. At the end of the court, farthest from the heavy gateway, was the box of the concierge, who was a brisk little shoemaker, forever bethwacking his lap-stone. If I remember right, the hammer of the little cordonnier made the only sound I used to hear in the court; for though the house was full of lodgers, I never saw two of them together, and never heard them talking across the court from the upper windows, even in mid-summer. At this distance of time, I do not think it would be possible for me to describe accurately all the windings of the corridor which led to the abbÉ's door. I remember that the first part was damp and low, and after it I used to mount a crazy stone staircase, and at the top passed through a passage that opened on one side upon a narrow court; then there was a little wicket of iron, which, when it turned, tinkled a bell. Sometimes the abbÉ would hear the bell, and open his door down at the end of the corridor; and sometimes a lodger, who occupied a room looking into the last-mentioned court, would draw, slyly, a corner of his curtain, and peep out, to see who was passing. Sometimes I would loiter myself to look down upon the lower windows in the court, or to glance up at story resting above story, and at the peaked roof, and dot of a loop-hole at the top. A single small door opened into the court, and occasionally an old woman, or bustling, shabbily-dressed man would shuffle across the pavement; the faces at the windows seemed altogether sordid and every-day faces, so that I came to regard the quarters of the abbÉ, notwithstanding the quaint-fashioned windows and dim stairway, and suspicious quiet, a very matter of fact, and so, very uninteresting neighborhood. As the abbÉ and myself passed out sometimes together through the open-sided corridor, I would point into the court, and ask who lived in the little room at the top. "Ah, mon cher, I do not know," the abbÉ would say. Or, "who lives in the corner, with the queer narrow window and the striped curtain?" "I cannot tell you, mon cher." Or, "whose is the little window with so many broken panes, and an old placard pinned against the frame?" "Ah, who knows! perhaps a chiffonier, or a shopman, or perhaps—" and the abbÉ lifted his finger, and shook his head expressively, and continued, "It is a strange world we live in, mon ami." What could the abbÉ mean? I looked up at the window again; it was small, and the panes were set in rough metal casing; it was high up on the fourth or fifth floor. I could see nothing through but the dirty yellow placard. "Is it in the same hotel with you?" said I. "Ma foi, I do not know." I tried to picture satisfactorily to my own mind the appearance of the chamber to which the little window belonged. Small it must be, I knew, for in that quarter few were large even upon the first floor, and looking upon the street. Dirty, too, it should surely be, and comfortless, and tenanted by misery, or poverty, or sin, or, very likely, all together. Possibly some miserly old wretch lived there, needing only a little light to count up his hoard, and caring little for any intrusive wind, if it did not blow away his treasure. I fancied I could see him running over the tale of his coin by a feeble rushlight—squat, perhaps, on the dirty tile-floor—then locking his box, and placing it carefully under the pillow of his straw pallet, then tip-toeing to the door to examine again the fastening, then carefully extinguishing the taper, and after, dropping into an anxious, fevered sleep. I even lingered very late at the abbÉ's room, to see if I could detect the old man; but there was never any light to be seen. Perhaps it was the home of some poor gentleman who had seen better days, and whom necessity obliged to deny himself the poor luxury of a centime light. Possibly it was a little shopman, as the abbÉ had suggested, struggling with fortune—not scrupulous in honesty, and shunning observation; or it might be (who could tell) a sleek-faced villain, stealing about in the dusk, and far into the night, making the dim chamber his home only when more honest lodgers were astir in the city. All sorts of conjectures came thronging on me, and I cast my eyes up, day after day, at the little window, hoping some change of appearance might give plausibility to some one of my fancies. Week after week, however, the corridor wore its old quietude; the striped curtain in the wing window, and the yellow placard in the suspicious window at the top, still kept their places with provoking tenacity; and I could never, with all my art, seduce the good I dare say I might soon have neglected to look up at all, had I not observed one day, after my glances had grown very careless, and almost involuntary, a rich lace veil hanging against the same little window where had hung the placard. There was no mistaking it—the veil was of the richest Mechlin lace. I knew very well that no lady of elegance could occupy such apartment, or, indeed, was to be found (I mean no disrespect to the abbÉ) in that quarter of Paris. The window plainly belonged to some thievish den, and the lace formed a portion of the spoils. I began to be distrustful of late visits to the abbÉ's quarters, and full of the notion of thievish eyes looking out from the strange window—I used half to tremble as I passed along the corridor. I told the abbÉ of the veil, and hinted my suspicions. "It is nothing," said he, "princes have lived in worse corners." "And yet you are not curious to know more?" "Mon cher, it is dangerous to be too curious, je suis un prÊtre." Some days after—it was on a winter's morning, when a little snow had fallen—I chanced to glance over into the court on which the mysterious window looked, and saw the beautiful foot-mark of a lady's slipper. It was scarce longer than my hand—too narrow and delicately formed for a child's foot, least of all the foot of such children as belonged to the Rue de Seine. I could not but associate the foot-track—so small, so beautiful, and so unlocked for in such scene—with the veil I had seen at the window. Through all of my morning's lesson—I was then reading La Grammaire des Grammaires—I could think of nothing but the pretty foot-track in the snow. No such foot, I was quite sure, could be seen in the dirty Rue de Seine—not even the shop-girls of the Rue de la Paix, or the tidiest Llorettes could boast of one so pretty. I asked the abbÉ to walk with me; and as we passed the corridor, I threw my eye carelessly into the court, as if it were only my first observation, and said as quietly as possible, "Mon cher abbÉ, the snow tells tales this morning." The abbÉ looked curiously down upon the foot-marks, ran his eye rapidly over the windows, turned to me, shook his head expressively, and said, as he glanced down again, "O'etait un fort joli petit soulier." (It was a very pretty little shoe.) "Whose was it?" said I. "Mon cher, I do not know." I still kept up, day after day, my watch upon the window. It shortly supplied me with an important link in the chain of observations. I saw lying within the glass, against which the veil yet hung, nothing more nor less than the same little shoe, I thoroughly believed, which had made the delicate foot-marks on the snow in the court. Not a prettier shoe could be seen on the Boulevards, and scarce one so small. It would have been very strange to see such delicate articles of dress at any hotels of the neighborhood, and stranger still to find them in the humblest window of so dismal a court. There was a mystery about the matter that perplexed me. Every one knows, who knows any thing about Paris, that that part of the city along the Rue de Seine, between the Rues Jacob and Bussy, and though very reputable in its way, is yet no place for delicate ladies, not even as a promenade, and much less as a residence. It is assigned over, as well by common consent as custom, to medical students, shop-men, attorneys, physicians, priests, lodging-house keepers, market-men, sub-officials, shop-women, second-class milliners, and grisettes. Indeed a delicate lady—and such only, I was sure, could have left the foot-print in the court, and be the owner of the shoe I had seen—could hardly pass through the Rue de Seine without drawing the eyes of all the lodgers on the street. Dried up hag faces would have met the apparition with a leer; the porters would have turned to stare, and she would have had very suspicious followers. I loitered about the outer court of the hotel, under pretence of waiting for the abbÉ, in hope of seeing something which would throw light upon the mysterious occupant of the chamber. But the comers and goers were all of the most unobtrusive and ordinary cast. I ventured to question the concierge concerning his lodgers. They were all bons gens. "Were there any ladies?" The little shoemaker lifted his hammer a moment while he eyed me—"But one, monsieur; the wife of the old tobacconist at the corner." I asked about the windows in the little court, beside which I passed—did they belong to his hotel? He did not think it. I prevailed on him to step with me a moment into the corridor, and pointed out to him the window which had drawn so much of my attention. I asked if he knew the hotel to which it belonged? He did not. It might be the next, or the next after, or down the little alley branching out of the Rue de Seine. I asked him of the character of the neighborhood. It was a good neighborhood, he said—a very reputable neighborhood. He believed the lodgers of the quarter to be all honnÊtes gens. I took occasion to loiter about the courts of the adjoining houses, frequently passing the opposite side of the way, with my eye all the time upon the entrance gates. The lodgers seemed to be even inferior to those who passed in at the court where the abbÉ resided. One individual alone had attracted my attention. He was a tall, pale man, in the decline of life, dressed in a sort of half-uniform; he walked with a stooping gait, and seemed to me (perhaps it was a mere fancy) as much weighed down by care as years. Several times I had seen him going in or coming out of the court that opened two doors above the abbÉ's. He was unlike most inhabitants of the neighborhood in both dress and air. I ventured to step up to the brisk little concierge in the court one day, and ask who was the tall gentleman with the tarnished lace who had just entered? "It is un Monsieur Very," said the concierge. "And poor Monsieur Very lives alone?" said I. "How should I know, monsieur?" "He always walks alone," said I. "It is true," said the concierge. "He has children, perhaps?" said I. "TrÈs probable," said the concierge. He was little disposed to be communicative, yet I determined to make another trial. "You have very pretty lodgers," said I. "Pardon, monsieur," said he, "I do not understand you." "Pretty—very pretty lodgers," said I. "You are facetious, monsieur," said the concierge, smiling. "Not at all," said I; "have I not seen (a sad lie) a very pretty face at one of the windows on the back court?" "I do not think it, monsieur." "And then there are no female lodgers?" "Pardon, monsieur—there are several." Here the little concierge was interrupted by a lodger, and I could ask no more. I still, however, kept up my scrutiny of the attic window—observed closely every female foot that glanced about the neighboring courts, and remitted sadly my attention to the Grammaire des Grammaires, in the quiet room of my demure friend the abbÉ. Sometimes, in my fancies, the object of wonder was a young maiden of the noblesse, who, for imputed family crimes, had hid herself in so humble a quarter. Sometimes I pictured the occupant of the chamber as the suffering daughter of some miserly parent, with trace of noble blood—filial, yet dependent in her degradation. Sometimes I imagined her the daughter of shame—the beloved of a doating, and too late repentant mother—shunning the face of a world that had seduced her with its smiles, and that now made smiles the executioners of its punishment. In short, form what fancies I would, I could not but feel a most extraordinary interest in clearing the mystery that seemed to me to hang about the little window in the court. Unconnected with the foot-track and the slipper, the window on the court would have been nothing more than half the courts to be seen in the old quarters of Paris. Or, indeed, the delicate foot-prints, and articles of female luxury would have hardly caught attention, much less sustained it with so feverish curiosity, in any one of the courts opening upon the Rue de Rivoli, or Rue Lafitte. The concierge next door, I was persuaded, knew more of his inmates than he cared to say. I still, as I have said, glanced my eye, each morning, along the upper angles of the court, and sidled now and then by the gate of the neighboring hotel; but the window wore its usual look—there was the veil, and the placard, and the disjointed, rattling sash; and in the neighboring court was, sometimes, the tall gentleman picking his way carefully over the stones, and sometimes the stumpy figure of a waiting woman. Some ten days after my chat with the neighbor concierge, I reached the hotel of the abbÉ an hour earlier than my usual morning visit, and took the occasion to reconnoitre the adjoining courts. The concierge, my acquaintance of the week before, was busy with a bowl of coffee and a huge roll; and, just as I had sidled up to his box for a word with him, who should brush past in great apparent haste, but the pale, thin gentleman who had before attracted my observation. I determined to step around at once into the open corridor of the abbÉ's hotel, and see if I could detect any movement—so slight even as the opening or shutting of a door in the chamber of the narrow window. It was earlier by a half hour at the least than I had ever been in the corridor before. The court was quiet; my eye ran to the little window—at a glance I saw it had not its usual appearance. A light cambric handkerchief, with lace border, was pinned across it from side to side; and just at the moment that I began to scrutinize what seemed to me like a coronet stitched on the corner, a couple of delicate fingers reached over the hem, removed the fastening, first on one side, then on the other—the handkerchief was gone. It was the work of an instant, and evidently done in haste; but I still caught a glimpse of a delicate female figure—sleeve hanging loose about the arm a short way below the elbow, hair sweeping, half curled and half carelessly over a cheek white as her dress, and an expression, so far as I could judge, of deep sadness. I shrunk back into a shadow of the corridor, and waited; but there was no more stir at the window. The yellow placard dangled by one fastening; a bit of the veil was visible, nothing else, to tell me of the character of the inmate. I told the abbÉ what I had seen. The abbÉ closed his grammar, (keeping his thumb at the place,) shook his head slowly from side to side, smiled, lifted his finger in playful menace, and—went on with his lesson. "Who can it be?" said I. "Indeed, I cannot tell you, mon ami," said the abbÉ, laying down his book with a look of despair. The morning after I was again in the corridor a full half hour before my usual time, but the window wore its usual air. The next day, again I was an hour beforehand, and the abbÉ had not put off his priest robe, in which he goes to morning mass; still there was no handkerchief at the little window—no wavy mesh of hair—no taper arm—no shadowy form moving in the dim chamber. I had arranged to leave for the south in a few days, and was more than ever anxious for some explication of the mystery. A single further mode only occurred to me; I would go to the concierge next door, and under pretence of looking for rooms, would have him conduct me through his hotel. It had dismal corridors, and steeper stairways than even the abbÉ's. I was careless about the second and the third floors; and it was not till we had mounted a half dozen crazy pair of stairs, that I began to scruti It was long before I caught sight of my old point of observation in the neighboring corridor. The room was small, and was covered with singular ancient hangings, with a concealed door, which the concierge opened into a charming little cabinet. How many more concealed doors there might have been I do not know. I put my head out the window, and looked down in search of the strange casement; it was not below. Then I looked to one side—there was the long window with a striped curtain. I looked to the other side—another long window. I looked up—there at length it was, over my left shoulder. I could see plainly the yellow placard, and heard it flapping the casement. I asked the concierge if he had no rooms above. "Oui, monsieur—a single one; but it is too high for monsieur." "Let me see," said I—and we mounted a miserably dim staircase. There were three doors; the concierge opened the nearest to the landing. "La voici, monsieur." It was a sad little affair, and looked out by just such a loop-hole as was the object of my curiosity, upon a court I did not know. "It will never do," said I, as I came out of the room. "But what is here?" continued I, brushing up to the next door. The concierge caught me by the arm, and drew me back. Then he raised himself forward on tip-toe, and whispered, "C'nt le Monsieur Very." I knew from its position it must have been the little casement which looked upon the corridor. There was another door opposite; I brushed up to this, and was again drawn back by the concierge. "Who is here?" said I. "La Mademoiselle Marie," said the concierge, and put his finger on his lip. "Is she young?" said I, following the concierge down the stairway. "Oui, monsieur." "And pretty?" "Oui, monsieur." "I have never seen her," said I. "Ma foi, that is not strange, monsieur." "And she has been here—?" "A month." "Perhaps she is rich," said I. "Mon Dieu!" said the concierge, turning round to look at me, "and live in such a chamber?" "But she dresses richly," said I. "Eh bien! you have seen her, then!" exclaimed briskly the little concierge. By this time we were in the court again. My search had only stimulated my curiosity tenfold more. I half fancied the concierge began to suspect my inquiries. Yet I determined to venture a single further one. It was just as I was carelessly leaving the court—"Mais, la mademoiselle, is, perhaps, the daughter of Monsieur Very, eh, monsieur?" "Ma foi, I cannot tell you, monsieur," said the little concierge—and he closed his door. I told the abbÉ of my search. He smiled, and shook his head. I described to him the person of Monsieur Very, and told him he must keep his eye upon him, and, if possible, clear up the strange mystery of the window in the court. The abbÉ shook his finger doubtingly, yet gave me a half promise. Three days only were left to me; I cast up anxious glances each morning of my stay, but there was nothing but the placard and a bit of the veil to be seen—the little shoe was gone. My last evening I passed with the abbÉ, and came away late. I stopped five minutes on the corridor, just outside the wicket; the moon was shining bright, and the stars were out, but the window at the top of the court was dark—all dark.
PART II.Poor Clerie! but I have told his story, I thought I would just step round to the conciergerie of the neighboring hotel, and ask after Monsieur Very; but before I had got fairly into the court I turned directly about, and walked away—I was afraid to ask about Monsieur Very. I felt saddened by the tale I had already heard; it had given, as such things will, a soft tinge of sadness to all my own thoughts, and fancies, and hopes. Everybody knows there are times in life when things joyful seem harsh; and there are times, too—Heaven knows!—when a saddened soul shrinks, fearful as a child, from any added sadness. God be blessed that they pass, like clouds over the bright sky of His Providence, and are gone! I was afraid to ask that day about Monsieur Very; so I walked home—one while perplexing myself with strange conjectures; and another while the current of my thought would disengage itself from these hindering eddies, and go glowing quick, and strong, and sad—pushed along by the memory of poor Clerie's fate. I knew the abbÉ would tell me all next day—and so he did. We dined together in the Palais Royal, at a snug restaurant The soup was gone, a nice dish of filet de veau, aux epinards, was before us, and we had drank each a couple of glasses, before I ventured to ask one word about Monsieur Very. "Ah, mon cher," said the abbÉ—at the same time laying down his fork—"il est mort!" "And mademoiselle—" "Attendez," said the abbÉ, "and you shall hear it all." The abbÉ resumed his fork; I filled up the glasses, and he commenced: "You will remember, mon cher, having described to me the person of the tall pale gentleman who was our neighbor. The description was a very good one, for I recognized him the moment I saw him. "It was a week or more after you had left for the south, and I had half forgotten—excuse me, mon ami—the curiosity you had felt in the little window in the court; I happened to be a half hour later than usual in returning from mass, and as I passed the hotel at the corner, I saw coming out a tall gentleman, in a cloak trimmed with a little tawny lace, and with an air so different from that of most lodgers in the neighborhood, that I was sure it must be Monsieur Very." "The very same," said I. "Indeed," continued the abbÉ, "I was so struck with his appearance—added to your interest in him—(here the abbÉ bowed and sipped his wine) that I determined to follow him a short way down the street. He kept through the Rue de Seine, and passing under the colonnade of the Institute, crossed the Pont de Fer, continued along the quay as far as the gates of the garden—into the Rue de Rivoli, and though I thought he would have stopped at some of the cafÉs in the neighborhood, he did not, but kept steadily on, nor did I give up pursuit until he had taken his place in one of the omnibuses which pass the head of the Rue de la Paix. "A week after, happening to see him, as I came home from Martin's, under the Odeon, I followed him again: I took a place in the same omnibus at the head of the Rue de la Paix. Opposite the Rue de Lancry he stopped. I stopped a short way above, and stepping back, soon found the poor gentleman picking his feeble paces along the dirty sideway. "You remember, mon cher, wandering with me in the Rue de Lancry; you remember that it is crooked and long. The poor gentleman found it so; for before he had reached the end he leaned against the wall, apparently overcome with fatigue. I offered him assistance; at first he declined; he told me he was going only to the HÔpital St. Louis, which was now near by. I told him I was going the same way, upon which he took my arm, and we walked together to the gates. The poor gentleman seemed unable or unwilling to talk with me, and at the gates he merely pulled a slip of paper from his pocket to show the concierge, and passed in. I attended him as far as the middle hall in the court, when he kindly thanked me, and turned into one of the male wards. I took occasion presently to look in, and saw my companion half way down the hall, at the bed-side of a very feeble-looking patient of perhaps seven or eight-and-twenty. "There seemed a degree of familiarity between them, more than would belong to patient and physician. I noticed too that the attendants treated the old gentleman with marked respect; this was, I fancy, however, owing to the old gentleman's air, for not one of them could tell me who he was. "I left him in the hospital, more puzzled than ever as to who could be the occupant of your little chamber. He seemed to me to have seen better days; and as for your lady of the slipper, it was so long before I saw any female with Monsieur Very, that I began to think she had no existence, save in your lively imagination." Here the abbÉ sipped his wine. "You saw her at length, then?" said I. "Attendez. One evening I caught a glimpse of the tall gentleman going into the court of his hotel, with a lady closely muffled in black upon his arm." "And she had a pretty foot?" "Ah, mon ami, it was too dark to see." "And did you see her again?" "Attendez. (The abbÉ sipped his wine.) For a month I saw neither monsieur nor mademoiselle. I passed the court early and late; I even went up to St. Louis, but the sick man was gone. The whole matter had nearly dropped from my mind, when one night—it was late, and very dark—the little bell at the wicket rung, and presently there was a loud rap at my door. It was the concierge of the next court; a man he said was dying, and a priest was wanted. "I hurried over, and followed the concierge up, I know not how many stairs, into a miserable little chamber. There was a yellow placard at the window—" I filled the abbÉ's glass and my own. "Poor Monsieur Very," continued the abbÉ, "was on the couch before me, dying! The concierge had left the chamber, but there was still a third person present, who scarce seemed to belong to such a place." The abbÉ saw my earnestness, and provokingly sipped his wine. "This is very good wine, monsieur," said the abbÉ. "Was she pretty?" said I. "Beautiful," said the abbÉ, earnestly. I filled the abbÉ's glass. The garÇon had taken away the fricandeau, and served us with poulet roti. "Had she a light dress, and long, wavy ringlets?" said I. "She was beautiful," said the abbÉ, "and her expression was so sweet, so gentle, so sad—ah, mon ami—ah, pauvre—pauvre fille!" The abbÉ had laid down his fork; he held his napkin to his face. "And so poor Very died?" said I. "It was a sad sight," said the abbÉ. "And he confessed to you?" "I was too late, mon ami; he murmured a word or two in my ear I could not understand. He confessed to God." "And mademoiselle—" "She sat at the foot of the couch when I went in, with her hands clasped in her lap, and her eyes fixed on the poor gentleman's face; now and then a tear rolled off her cheeks—but she did not know it. "Presently the dying man beckoned to her. She stole softly to the head of the couch, and laid her little white hand in his withered fingers. "'Marie,' said he, 'dear Marie, I shall be gone—soon.' "The poor girl burst into tears, and gathered up the palsied hand of the old man in both hers, as if she would not let him go. "'Marie,' continued he, very feebly, 'you will want a friend.' "Again the poor girl answered by a burst of tears. She could say nothing. "'I have seen Remy,' continued the old man, still addressing the girl, who seemed startled at the name, notwithstanding her grief. 'He has suffered like us; he has been ill, too—very ill; you may trust him now, Marie; he has promised to be kind. Marie, my child, will you trust him?' "'Dear father, I will do what you wish,' said the girl, weeping. "'Thank you, Marie,' said the old man, and he tried to carry the white hand to his lips, but he could not. 'And now, Marie—the little locket?' "Marie stepped softly across the chamber, and brought a small gold locket, very richly wrought, and put it in the old man's hand; the old man raised it toward his face. "'A little more light, dear Marie,' said he. "Marie stepped to the window and removed the yellow placard. "'A little more—light, Marie,' said the old man, feebly. He was getting lower and lower. "Marie set the door ajar, and, stepping to the window, she pulled a little handkerchief from her pocket, and tried to rub some of the dust from the glass. "'Light, Marie; dear Marie—more light!' He said it scarce above his breath, but she heard it, and looked at me. I shook my head. She saw how it was, and caught the stiffening hand of the old man. "'Dear, dear father!' and her tears streamed over it. Her sobs roused the old man for a moment. "'Marie,' said he, and he raised his hand with a last effort, till it rested on her head, 'Marie—God bless you!' "I could hear nothing now but the poor girl's sobs. The hand of the old man grew heavier and heavier on her head. She sunk down till her knees touched the rough floor of the chamber, and her face rested on the couch. Gradually the hand of the old man slipped down and lay upon her white, smooth neck. "Presently she lifted her eyes timidly till they looked on the eyes of the old man—they must have looked strangely to her. "'Father, dear father!' said she. There was a little clock at the foot of the couch, and it ticked very—very loud. "The poor girl gave a quick, frightened glance at me, and another hurried look into the fixed eyes of the old man. She thought how it must be; ah, mon ami, if you had heard her cry, 'Mon Dieu! il est mort!—il est mort!'" For a moment the abbÉ could not go on. "She was right," continued he, presently, "the old man was dead!" The garÇon removed the chicken, and served us with a dozen or two of oysters, in the shell. For ten minutes the abbÉ had not touched his wine—nor had I. "He was buried," resumed the abbÉ, "just within the gates of Pere la Chaise, a little to the right of the carriage way. A cypress is growing by the grave, and there is at the head a small marble tablet, very plain, inscribed simply, 'À mon pere, 1845.' "I was at the burial. There were very few to mourn." "You saw mademoiselle?" "Yes, I saw her; she was in deep black. Her face was covered with a thick black veil—not so thick, though, but I could see a white handkerchief all the time beneath; and I saw her slight figure tremble. I was not near enough to hear her sobs, when they commenced throwing down the earth upon the coffin. "Oui, mon ami, I saw her walk away—not able to support herself, but clinging for very weakness to the arm of the man whose face I had seen at St. Louis. They passed slowly out of the gates; they entered a carriage together, and drove away." "It was Remy, I suppose?" said I. "I do not know," said the abbÉ. "And when did you see her again?" "Not for months," said the abbÉ; and he sipped his wine. "Shall I go on, mon cher?—it is a sad story." I nodded affirmatively, and filled the abbÉ's glass, and took a nut or two from the dish before us. "I called at the hotel where monsieur had died; mademoiselle had gone, the concierge could not tell where. I went to the hospital, and made inquiries for a Monsieur Remy—no such name had been entered within a year. I sometimes threw a glance up at the little window of the court; it was bare and desolate, as you see it now. Once I went to the grave of the old man—it was after the tablet had been raised; a rose-tree had been put at the foot of the grave. I did not know, but thought who must have set it there. I gave up all hope of seeing the beautiful Marie again. "You remember, mon ami, the pretty little houses along the Rue de Paris, at Passy, with the linden trees in front of them, and the clear marble door-steps?" "TrÈs bien, mon cher abbÉ." "It is not many months since I was passing by them, and saw at the window of one, the same sad face which I saw last at the grave. I went in, mon ami. I made myself known as the attendant on her The abbÉ sipped his wine. "She seemed sadly in want of friends, though there were luxuries around her. She was dressed in white, her hair twisted back, and fastened with a simple gold pin. Her sleeves were loose, and reached but a little way below the elbow; and she wore a rose on her bosom, and about her neck, by a little gold chain, a coral crucifix. "I told her I had made numerous inquiries for her. She smiled her thanks. "I told her I had ventured to inquire, too, for the friend, Remy, of whom her father had spoken; at this she put both hands to her face, and burst into tears. "I begged pardon; I feared she had not found her friend. "'Mon Dieu!' said she, looking at me earnestly, 'il est—il etait mon mari!' "She burst into tears. What could I say? He is dead, too, then?" "'Ah, non, non, monsieur—worse—Mon Dieu! quel mariage!' and she buried her face in her hands. "What could I do, mon cher? The friend had betrayed her. They told me as much at Passy." Again the abbÉ stopped. "She talked with a strange smile of her father; she wanted to visit his grave again. She took the rose from her bosom—it was from his grave—and kissed it, and then—crushed it in her hand—'Oh, God! what should I do now with flowers?' said she. "I never saw her again. She went to her father's grave—but not to pick roses. "She is there now," said the abbÉ. There was a long pause. The abbÉ did not want to speak—nor did I. At length I asked if he knew any thing of Remy. "You may see him any day up the Champs Elysiens," said the abbÉ. "Ah, mon ami, there are many such. Poverty and shame may not come on him again; wealth may pamper him, and he may fatten on the world's smiles; but there is a time coming—it is coming, mon cher, when he will go away—where God judgeth, and not man." Our dinner was ended. The abbÉ and myself took a voiture to go to Pere la Chaise. Just within the gateway, a little to the right of the carriage-track, were two tablets, side by side—one was older than the other. The lesser one was quite new; it was inscribed simply—"Marie, 1846." There were no flowers; even the grass was hardly yet rooted about the smaller grave—but I picked a rose-bud from the grave of the old man. I have it now. Before I left Paris, I went down into the old corridor again, in the Rue de Seine. I looked up in the court at the little window at the top. A new occupant had gone in; the broken glass was re-set, and a dirty printed curtain was hanging over the lower half. I had rather have seen it empty. I half wished I had never seen Le Petit Soulier.
|