Let us leave PhilÉmon DubottÉ to return to his wife, casting languishing glances at all the passably pretty women he meets on his way; let us leave Lucien Grischard to muse upon possible methods of earning money without departing from the pathway of honor; and Fanfan Dodichet to cudgel his brains to invent a practical joke to play on Monsieur Mirotaine, who regaled his company with cocoa; and let us follow AdhÉmar, who had no schemes in his head except that of a comedy of which he was just planning the dÉnouement.

Our author followed the boulevard; he walked rather slowly, paying no attention to the passers-by; but suddenly he stopped short, or rather turned and flew toward a lady a few yards away, whose dress had taken fire as she walked over a burning match which one of those gentlemen who have the noble habit of smoking while they walk had thrown away, after lighting his cigar or his pipe, without even taking the trouble to step on it and extinguish it. If our friends would do so much, they would at least relieve women from the risk of such dangerous accidents; but what does a smoker care if a dress does burn, and its wearer too? He has his smoke, and the rest is all right. In very truth, we have good reason to exclaim: O tempora! O mores!

The lady's dress was of some thin material; the flame rose quickly to her waist, and she had not discovered that she was on fire; but when she was suddenly conscious of being seized by two strong arms, which arrested and stifled the flames at the risk of burning themselves, the lady uttered a shriek, and demanded of the man in whose embrace she was by what right he presumed to take her in his arms. AdhÉmar replied by pointing to her dress, one side of which was badly burned.

"Mon Dieu! monsieur, I understand now," she exclaimed. "Pray forgive me! Was I really on fire?"

"Yes, madame; you must have walked over a lighted match; I happened, luckily, to be within a few steps; and although I do not always see what is taking place beside me, I did see the flame just as it was beginning to make rather rapid progress; and I hastened to your assistance without stopping to ask your permission; I thought that you would not take it ill of me."

"Ah! monsieur, I am so grateful to you! But you have burned yourself!"

"Only a little, on the left hand. It's a mere trifle."

Meanwhile, the idlers and other inquisitive folk, who always come up when the danger is over, began to collect around the lady and AdhÉmar.

"What is it?"

"What has happened?"

"A lady burned——"

"Throw water on her!"

"It's all out. Her dress is baked a little, that's all."

"She can buy another."

"What about the gentleman who is so close to her?"

"It was probably he who burned her—with his cigar."

"Then he ought to be arrested and taken to the police station."

"Why, no; he's the one who extinguished the lady; and got a pretty burn on his left wrist into the bargain."

"The deuce! if he plays the fiddle, that will bother him."

The hero and heroine of the adventure hastened to force their way through the crowd and to go into a pharmacy, which, luckily, was only a few steps away.

The lady sat down, and asked for a glass of orange water, to restore her strength after the shock she had received. AdhÉmar showed the druggist his burned wrist, which was first bathed in cold water, then covered with something guaranteed to heal the burn in a short time. But he had to submit to have his arm bandaged and to carry it in a sling for a while, for the wound was of considerable size.

While all this was being done, our two friends had time to look at each other, and—which was natural enough—tried to make out each other's individuality. The person who had nearly been burned to death was about twenty-five years of age, tall and slender and well built; her face, which usually wore a grave expression, became very attractive when she smiled; her black eyes were beautiful and very expressive, and the eyebrows which surmounted them were thin, but perfectly arched. Her hair was black, her Niobe-like nose but slightly prominent. Taken all in all, she was a very comely person; she was stylishly dressed, and her manners denoted high social position.

AdhÉmar discovered all this while his arm was being dressed. On her side, the lady had scrutinized the man who had rendered her such a signal service, and we know that the scrutiny could not be unfavorable to him.

"Mon Dieu! monsieur, I am terribly distressed. You are really badly burned," she said, while AdhÉmar's wrist was being bandaged.

"Oh! no, madame; it will very soon be all right."

"Yes," said the druggist, "very soon; but you will probably carry the mark of this burn to your dying day."

"Well, it will be an honorable scar!—Pray consider, madame, that you might have been seriously burned; what does this amount to, compared with the danger by which you were threatened?"

She made no direct reply, but looked down at her dress and cried:

"It is impossible for me to go out in this condition; the whole skirt of my dress is burned. Is there no way of getting a cab?"

"Surely, madame," the druggist replied; "I will send for one for you."

"I shall be greatly obliged to you, monsieur."

AdhÉmar, the bandaging being completed, seemed to hesitate as to what he should do; but at last he bowed, and said to his companion:

"As you have no further need of my services, madame, I will take my leave of you."

The lady blushed slightly, but she detained AdhÉmar, saying with some hesitation:

"Excuse me, monsieur, for keeping you longer; but I should be very glad to know the name of the gentleman who risked his—who was badly burned in my service?—Mon Dieu! I am too presumptuous—I beg your pardon."

"There is nothing presumptuous in your request, madame; on the contrary, it is most flattering to me."

And, as he spoke, AdhÉmar took his card from his pocket and handed it to her. She took it, looked at it eagerly, and her face assumed an expression of satisfaction.

"I know you already by name and reputation," she said, looking up at AdhÉmar with a smile; "I have had the pleasure of seeing most of your plays, and I congratulate myself upon this opportunity of telling the author how many pleasant moments I owe to his talent."

AdhÉmar could not control a feeling of pride, which showed itself on his face. What dramatic author, poet, or novelist would be entirely insensible to such praise, especially when it is uttered with a charming smile by an intelligent mouth? From the mouth of a fool a compliment sometimes has a foolish sound, and sometimes produces an absurd effect.

"I am very fortunate, madame," AdhÉmar replied, "if my works have afforded you any diversion; your praise almost makes me vain of my success. Do you like the theatre, madame?"

"Very much, monsieur."

"And you go often?"

"Why, yes, as often as a woman can go who is all alone in the world and must always find some friend who is willing to go with her; for a lady cannot go to the theatre alone; it is neither amusing nor proper."

"Ah! madame is—madame has no——"

"I am a widow, monsieur."

"That is what I meant to say, madame. Forgive me—I am the presumptuous one—but I should be very happy to know——"

"For whom you have risked your life and burned yourself, and whether the person was worth the trouble?"

"Oh! madame, pray believe that that is not what I was about to say. In the first place, it seems to me that every person who is in danger deserves to be assisted, whatever her appearance or her rank. But with you, madame, I could not be otherwise than flattered to have had this adventure. I see that my question was indiscreet, and I withdraw it."

"And I, monsieur, on the contrary, am determined that you shall know whom you rescued so unselfishly; I like to believe that you will not regret your action."

"It is enough to see you and talk with you, madame, to form a most favorable opinion of you, and——"

"Oh! you know that it is not safe to trust to appearances, monsieur. They are very deceitful, especially in Paris. Take this—take it, I beg you!"

As she was speaking, she had taken from a dainty little reticule the card which she offered to AdhÉmar; he took it at last, and put it in his pocket without glancing at it.

The messenger returned and informed the lady that her carriage was waiting. She thanked him, and was about to go, after bowing to AdhÉmar, when he offered her his hand, saying:

"Will you not allow me to escort you to your carriage, madame?"

"With great pleasure, monsieur."

They went out of the druggist's shop together, the lady having passed her arm through her escort's, because the sight of a gentleman leading a lady by the hand, on the boulevard, in broad daylight, would have caused all the loiterers to stop and stare; less than that is enough to attract the attention and arouse the curiosity of the Parisian, who is excessively prone to loiter, and seizes on the wing every possible opportunity to kill time.

They soon reached the carriage, which the lady entered; then she said to AdhÉmar:

"It may be that your injured arm will pain you if you walk, monsieur. Will you not allow me to take you home, or wherever you wish to go?"

"You are a thousand times too kind, madame; but I do not desire to cause you so much trouble, and I assure you that my hand doesn't pain me at all."

She did not insist, but pursed her lips as one does when one is annoyed. Then she bowed low to AdhÉmar, and said to the cabman:

"No. 40, Rue de Paradis-PoissonniÈre."

The cabman closed the door, mounted his box, and drove away; and AdhÉmar, standing on the same spot, looked after it, muttering:

"Why on earth did I refuse to let her drive me home? What a fool a man is, sometimes! You long for a thing—for it would have given me great pleasure to spend a longer time with her—and you refuse it! Why? I haven't any good reason to give myself, even. But, yes, I have one! She is good-looking, I feel certain that she would attract me, that I should speedily fall in love with her; and I do not propose to fall in love again! But does that purpose involve a resolution not to form an agreeable intimacy? And then, what right have I to assume that this lady would have listened to me?—Let us see what her name is. As for her address, I remember that; she told the cabman loud enough."

He took the card from his pocket and read:

"Nathalie Dermont—nothing more; and there's no widow on the card. Why is that omitted? But still, if her husband has been dead some time, she's not bound to go on styling herself widow. She's an exceedingly attractive woman! A pretty face and figure, and nothing stupid about her! Ah! that is the principal thing to guard against; for a stupid woman is deadly! However, I haven't wasted my day, at all events."