Mardi-Gras had come and folly reigned supreme at Paris. Opposite the CafÉ Turque, which had already at that time a European reputation, stood a small poverty-stricken house. It was No. 48 Boulevard du Temple, and was inhabited by poor people.

In a small but cleanly room on the fifth story a young girl stood before a mirror arranging her toilet. The "Marquise," for it was she, looked curiously out of place in her humble surroundings.

A dark, tightly fitting dress showed her form to perfection, and the dark rose in her hair was no redder than the fresh lips of the young girl. The little singer gave a last glance in the mirror, smoothed back a rebellious curl, and seized her guitar to tune it.

A low moan came from a neighboring room. The street-singer immediately opened the curtained door and slipped into the room from which a cry now came.

"Louison—little Louison!"

"The poor thing—she has woke up," sighed the girl as she approached the small bed which stood in the equally small space.

"Mamma, how goes it?" she asked.

The form which lay on the bed looked almost inhuman. The cadaverous face was half burned and the bloodshot eyes, destitute of eyebrows, could not stand the least ray of light. The hands were horribly burned, and her laugh exposed her toothless gums.

"Thirst, Louison," stammered the woman, pulling her long gray hair over her eyes.

"There, mamma, drink," said Louison, bending tenderly over the poor woman.

The woman drank eagerly the glass of milk offered, and then muttered softly to herself.

"It is so warm, I am burning, everywhere there are flames."

The poor woman was crazy, and no one would have ever recognized in her, Louise, the wife of the landlord Jules Fougeres.

The reader will have guessed long since that Louison, the street-singer, was none other than Fanfaro's lost sister. The young girl, however, did not know that the poor woman she so tenderly nursed was her mother.

Louison had once lost herself in the woods, and in her blind fear had run farther and farther until she finally reached an exit. As she stood in a field sobbing bitterly, a man approached her and asked her who she was and where she had come from. The child, exhausted by the excitement of the last few days, could not give a clear answer, and so the man took her on his arm and brought her to his wife, who was waiting for him in a thicket. The man and his wife carried on a terrible trade; they hovered about battlefields to seek prey, and more than one wounded man had been despatched by them if his purse or his watch attracted the robbers' attention. Nevertheless, these "Hyenas of the battlefield" were good and kind to the lost child; they treated her just like their own children, of whom they had three, and at the end of the war, in consequence of the good crop they had secured on the battlefield, they were possessed of sufficient competence to buy a little place in Normandy.

Louison grew up. An old musician, who discovered that she had a magnificent voice, took pride in teaching the child how to sing, and when on Sundays she would sing in the choir, he would enthusiastically exclaim, "Little Louison will be a good songstress some day, her voice sounds far above the others."

An epidemic came to the village soon after, and at the end of two days her foster-parents were carried away, and Louison was once more alone in the world.

The nuns of the neighboring convent took the child, taught it what they knew themselves, and a few years passed peacefully for Louison.

A thirst to see the world took hold of her; the convent walls stifled her, and she implored the nuns to let her wander again. Naturally her request was refused, and so Louison tried to help herself.

One dark, stormy night she clambered over the garden wall, and when the nuns came to wake her next morning for early mass, they found her bed empty and the room vacant.

Singing and begging, the child wandered through Normandy. In many farmhouses she was kept a week as a guest, and one old woman even presented her with a guitar, which a stranger had left behind.

The proverb "all roads lead to Rome" would be more true in many cases if it said they lead to Paris; and thus it was with Louison. After a long and difficult journey she reached the capital, the El Dorado of street singers from Savoy; and, with the sanguine temperament of youth, the fifteen-year-old girl no longer doubted that she would support herself honestly.

In a miserable quarter of the great city, in the midst of people as poor as herself, Louison found a habitation. The wondrous beauty of the girl soon attracted attention, and when she sang songs on some street-corner she never failed to reap a harvest. At the end of four weeks she had her special public, and could now carry out a project she had long thought of. She went to the inspector of the quarter and begged him to name her some poor, sickly old woman whom she could provide for.

"I do not wish to be alone," she said, as the inspector looked at her in amazement, "and it seems to me that my life would have an aim if I could care for some one."

Petitions of this kind are quickly disposed of, and on the next day Louison received an order to go to another house in the same quarter and visit an old mad woman whose face had been terribly disfigured by fire.

Louison did not hesitate a moment to take the woman, whose appearance was so repulsive, to her home. When she asked the crazy woman, who gazed at her, "Mother, do you wish to go with me?" the deserted woman nodded, and from that day on she was sheltered.

Who could tell but that Louison's voice recalled to that clouded memory the recollection of happier days? Anyhow the maniac was tender and obedient to the young girl, and a daughter could not have nursed and cared for the poor old woman better than Louison did.

The sobriquet of the "Marquise" had been given to Louison by the people of the quarter. She was so different from her companions; she looked refined and aristocratic, although her clothes were of the cheapest material, and no one would have dared to say an unkind or bold word to the young girl.

As the old woman handed the empty glass back to the girl, Louison cheerfully said:

"Mother, I must go out; promise me that you will be good during my absence."

"Good," repeated the maniac.

"Then you can put on your new cap to-morrow."

"The one with the ribbons?"

"Yes."

"Oh, then I will be good."

The poor thing clapped her hands, but suddenly she uttered a cry of pain.

"Ah!—my head—it is burning!"

Louison, with heavenly patience, caressed her gray hair and calmed her.

"Ah! where is the box?" the maniac complained after a while.

"To-morrow I will bring it to you," said the songstress, who knew the whims of the sick woman.

"Do not forget it," said the old woman; "in that box is luck. Oh, where did I put it?"

She continued to mutter softly to herself. Louison allowed her to do so, and slipped into the other room. It was time for her to go about her business. This being Mardi-Gras, she expected to reap a rich harvest. As she was about to open the door, she suddenly paused; she thought she heard a voice, and listened. A knock now sounded at the door, and Louison asked:

"Who is there?"

"A friend," came back in a loud voice.

"Your name?"

"You do not know me."

"Tell me your name."

"Robeckal; please admit me."

The young girl did not open at once; an indefinable fear seized her. Suppose the vicomte, who had followed her all over, had at last found out where she lived?

"Well, are you going to open?" cried Robeckal, becoming impatient.

Hesitatingly Louison pushed back the bolt, and with a sigh of relief she saw Robeckal's face; no, that was not the vicomte.

"H'm, mademoiselle, you thought perhaps that I was a beggar?" asked Robeckal, mockingly.

"Please tell me quickly what you want," cried Louison, hurriedly. "I must go out, and have no time to lose."

"You might offer me a chair, anyway," growled Robeckal, looking steadily at the handsome girl.

"I told you before I am in a hurry," replied Louison, coldly; "therefore please do not delay me unnecessarily."

Robeckal saw that the best thing he could do would be to come to the point at once, and grinning maliciously, he said:

"Mademoiselle, would you like to earn some money?"

"That depends—go on."

"Let me first speak about myself. I am an extra waiter. Do you know what that is?"

"Yes, you assist in saloons on Sundays and holidays."

"Right. For the past three days I have been at The Golden Calf, just in the street above."

"Ah, by Monsieur Aube?"

"Yes. The landlord would like to treat his guests to-day to some special amusement, and so he said to me last night, 'Robeckal, do you know of anything new and piquant!'

"'The "Marquise," master,' I replied.

"'But will she come?'

"'H'm, we must ask her. How much do you intend to spend?'

"'Twenty francs.'

"'Good,' I said, 'I will ask her,' and here I am."

Louison had allowed Robeckal to finish. The man displeased her, but his offer was worth considering. Twenty francs! For the young girl the sum was a small fortune, and her heart ceased to beat when she thought of the many little comforts she could provide her protÉgÉe with it.

"Did not Monsieur Aube give you a letter for me?" she asked, still hesitating.

"No, mademoiselle. Do you mistrust me?"

"I did not say that, but I cannot decide so hastily. I will be at the Golden Calf in a little while, and give the gentleman my answer."

"Mademoiselle, tell me at once that you don't care to go, and I will get the man without arms, who will do just as well. He won't refuse, I warrant you."

With these words, Robeckal took out a card and pointed to two addresses thereon. The first was Louison's address, the second that of a street-singer who was well known to the young girl. Louison no longer doubted.

"I shall come," she said firmly; "when shall I make my appearance?"

"At eight o'clock."

"And when will I be done?"

A peculiar smile, unnoticed by Louison, played about Robeckal's lips.

"I really do not know," he finally replied, "but it will be between ten and eleven. With such good pay a minute more or less won't make much difference."

"No, but it must not be later than midnight."

"On no account, mademoiselle; if you are afraid, why, I will see you home," Robeckal gallantly cried.

"Good—tell Monsieur Aube I shall be punctual."

"Done. I suppose, mademoiselle, you will not forget to give me a portion of the twenty francs? I was the one, you know, who brought it about."

"With pleasure."

"Then good-by until this evening."

Robeckal hurried down the five flights of stairs. In front of the house a man enveloped in a wide mantle walked up and down.

When he saw Robeckal, he anxiously asked:

"Well?"

"It is settled."

"Really? Will she come?"

"Certainly."

The man in the cloak, who was no other than Fernando de Velletri, let some gold pieces slip into Robeckal's hand.

"If everything goes all right, you will get five hundred francs more," he cried.

"It is as good as if I had the money already in my pocket. Besides, the racket is rather cheap, for the little one is a picture."

"So much the better," laughed the Italian.

While the worthy pair were discussing their plans, Louison went as usual to the boulevards and sang her pretty songs.

In the Golden Calf, Monsieur Aube's restaurant, things were very lively. The guests fairly swarmed in. The landlord ran busily to and fro, now in the kitchen turning over the roast, then again giving orders to the waiters, pulling a tablecloth here, uncorking a bottle there, and then again greeting new guests. On days like this the place was too narrow, and it always made Aube angry that he could not use the first story. The house belonged to an old man, who had until recently lived on the first floor, but since then new tenants had moved in, who were a thorn in the saloon-keeper's side. He had tried his best to get rid of them, advanced the rent, implored, chicaned, but all in vain. They stayed.

If they had only been tenants one could be proud of; but no! The family consisted of an athlete who called himself Firejaws; his daughter Caillette, a tight-rope dancer, a clown called Mario, and a young acrobat, Fanfaro. Every day the troupe performed on the Place du Chateau d'Eau, and, besides this, people visited the house under the pretence of taking lessons from Fanfaro in parlor magic.

These visitors, strange to say, looked very respectable; most of them appeared to be old soldiers. They certainly had no need to learn magic.

The large hall was filled to the last seat, and the waiters ran here and there with dishes, when an elegant equipage drove up and immediately afterward the stentorian voice of the landlord cried:

"Jean, the gentlemen who have ordered room No. 11 have arrived. Conduct them upstairs."

The gentlemen were the Vicomte de Talizac, Arthur de Montferrand and Fernando de Velletri. Jean led them to the room, and began to set the table.

"Tell me, Frederic," began Arthur, as he threw himself lazily in a chair, "how you got the idea of inviting us to this hole for dinner?"

The waiter threw an angry look at Arthur, who had dared to call the Golden Calf a hole.

"My dear Arthur," said the vicomte, coldly, "have patience yet a while. It is not my fashion to speak about my affairs in the presence of servants."

Jean hastily drew back, and only the thought of losing his tip prevailed upon him to serve his customers.

"Now we are alone," said Arthur, "and we'll finally find out all about it—"

"I must beg your pardon once more," interrupted the vicomte, "but before dessert I never bother about serious affairs."

"Ah, it is serious then," remarked Arthur. He knew that Talizac was often short and feared that he was about to ask for a loan. The young men dined with good appetite, and as the waiter placed the dessert upon the table, the vicomte threw a glass filled with red wine against the wall and exclaimed:

"Champagne, bring champagne!"

"Well, I must say that you end the Carnival in a worthy way," laughed Velletri.

"Bah! I must drown my troubles in champagne," replied the vicomte, shrugging his shoulders. "I tell you, my friends, I had a conversation with my father to-day which made me wild."

"Ah, it was about your marriage, no doubt!" said the Italian.

"Yes. The marquis wants me to go to the altar in fourteen days. That would be a fine thing."

"But I thought the marriage was a good one for both sides; the fortune of the Salves—"

"Oh, bother with the fortune!" interrupted the vicomte.

"And, besides, the young countess is very beautiful," continued Arthur.

"Beautiful?" repeated the vicomte, mockingly; "not that I can see. She puts on airs, as if the whole world lay at her feet, and poses as such a virtuous being. And yet I really believe she is no better than other people; I—"

"Frederic," interrupted Velletri, warningly; he feared that the vicomte would inform young Montferrand what had occurred between his bride and the acrobat.

"Well," said Arthur, hastily, "I hope that when Irene de Salves becomes your bride you will be more pleasant to her."

"Really, Arthur, you have such antediluvian notions," laughed the vicomte; "formerly we said that marriage was the grave of love; but if there has been no love beforehand, it follows that the grave will remain empty. No, my friends, if I am bound by marriage ties, I authorize you both to hunt on my ground, and it will give me pleasure if you score a success. Who knows? The countess is, perhaps, less prudish than she seems."

"Perhaps I shall make use of the permission," laughed Arthur, carelessly.

"I wish you joy. I haven't the stuff of a jealous husband in me, and the freedom I ask for myself I grant to others!"

"That is unselfish," said the Italian; "not every one is so liberal with his wife."

"Bah! the wife of a friend is decidedly more piquant than one's own, and who knows but that I may revenge myself later on. I—"

At this moment a clear, fresh girlish voice was heard coming from downstairs, and the first verse of a ballad by Romagnesi was delightfully phrased. The young men listened attentively to the simple song, and when at the end of the same a storm of applause followed, Arthur clapped his hands too.

"What a pity," he said, "that one cannot hear this nightingale nearer."

"Why should not that be possible?" cried the vicomte, springing up as if electrified.

Fernando grew frightened. This idea might disturb his plan.

"What is there in a street-singer?" he contemptuously asked.

Talizac, however, who was under the influence of the champagne he had drunk, did not understand the hint, and angrily exclaimed:

"Now she shall just come upstairs; first she must sing to us, and then—"

"And then?" repeated Arthur curiously.

"Ah, it is merely a little surprise we arranged for the little one," observed Velletri, with a cynical laugh.

"What! a surprise?"

"Yes."

"And she does not suspect anything?"

"Nothing."

"Well, I am curious to see the little one; let us call Aube, he can show his singer to us."

"Gentlemen, no folly," warned Velletri, "we are not in the Palais Royal here, and in some things the mob does not see any fun."

"I will attend to the people downstairs," said Arthur, while the vicomte rang loudly.

When the waiter came he received the order to send the landlord up, and in less than five minutes the latter came and bowed respectfully to the guests who had drunk so much champagne.

"Monsieur Aube," began the vicomte, "who is the little bird that sings so beautifully downstairs?"

"A young, modest, and very respectable girl, gentlemen."

The young men burst into loud laughter.

"A saint, then?" exclaimed Arthur.

"Really, gentlemen, she is very virtuous and respectable."

"So much the better," said the young men to Aube. "We would like to take a good look at the little one. Send her up to us so that she can sing a few songs for us, and at the same time put a few more bottles on the ice."

Monsieur Aube did not know what to do.

"What are you waiting for?" asked the vicomte, in a maudlin voice.

"Gentlemen, the little one is so pure," said the landlord, earnestly.

"Are we going to ruin her?" exclaimed Talizac, with a laugh. "She shall sing, and we will pay her well for it. She shall get a hundred francs; is that enough?"

The landlord considered. He knew Louison was poor, and he said to himself he had no right to prevent the pretty girl from earning so much money. Moreover, she was not called "The Marquise" for nothing, and Velletri's mien reassured the host. So he came to the conclusion that there was no danger to be feared for his protÉgÉe. Even if the other two were drunk, the Italian was sober; and so the host finally said:

"I will send the little one."

As the landlord entered the hall, Louison was just going about and collecting. The crop was a rich one, and with sparkling eyes the songstress returned to her place, to give a few more songs, when Aube drew her into a corner.

"Louison," he softly said, "I have got a good business to propose to you."

"What is it, Father Aube?"

The landlord, somewhat embarrassed, stammeringly answered:

"If you desire you can make one hundred francs in fifteen minutes."

"So much? You are joking?"

"Not at all; you sing two or three songs, and the money is earned."

"Where shall I sing?"

"Here in my house, on the first story."

At this minute the hall-door opened and loud laughter came from above. Louison looked anxiously at the host and asked:

"Who wants to hear me?"

"Some guests, Louison; high-toned guests."

"Are they ladies and gentlemen, or only gentlemen?"

"Gentlemen, jolly young gentlemen."

"And if I go up will you stay in the neighborhood?"

"Certainly; this house is my house, and you are under my protection."

Louison considered. One hundred francs was a treasure with which she could do wonders. A comfortable chair could be bought for the invalid, wine and other strengthening things kept in the house, and—

"I agree," she said, picking up her guitar; "when shall I go up?"

"Directly, Louison, I will accompany you."

"H'm, what does that mean?" exclaimed a solid-looking citizen as he saw Louison go up the stairs; "is the performance over?"

"No," said Aube to his guests, "Louison will sing more later on. Have a little patience."

When the landlord and the young girl entered the room of the young men, Aube was agreeably surprised at seeing that the vicomte had disappeared. He was perfectly calm now. It had been the vicomte of whom Aube had been afraid, and with a light heart he left the apartment.

"'Marquise,' will you be so kind as to sing us a song?" asked Arthur, politely.

Louison's modesty began to have a good influence on him, and he already regretted having assisted Talizac in his plan.

Louison tuned her instrument and then began to sing a pretty little air. Montferrand and Velletri listened attentively, and when she had ended they both asked her in the most polite way imaginable to sing another song. Louison did not wait to be coaxed; she began a simple ballad and sang it with melting sweetness. Suddenly she uttered a loud scream and let her guitar fall. Frederic de Talizac stood before her.

"Continue your song, my pretty child," giggled the vicomte; "I hope I have not frightened you?"

As he said this he tried to put his arm around Louison's waist.

She recoiled as if stung by a rattlesnake.

"I will not sing any more," she said firmly; "let me go."

"Nonsense, my little pigeon, you remain here," said the vicomte huskily, placing himself in front of the door, "and for each note you sing I will give you a kiss."

The poor child was paralyzed with fear. She threw an agonizing look upon the drunken man's companions, and when she saw them both sit there so calm and indifferent, her eyes sparkled with anger.

"Miserable cowards!" she contemptuously exclaimed. "Will you permit a drunken scoundrel to insult a defenceless girl?"

Arthur sprang up. A flash of shame was on his classically formed features, and turning to Talizac he hastily said:

"She is right, vicomte; are you not ashamed?"

"Are you speaking to me?" laughed Talizac, mockingly. "I really believe you wish to be the Don Quixote of this virtuous Dulcinea del Toboso! No, my friend, we did not bet that way; the girl must be mine, and I should like to see the man who will oppose me."

He grasped Louison's arm; the young girl cried aloud for help, and the next minute the vicomte tumbled back struck by a powerful blow of the fist. Montferrand had come to the street-singer's rescue.

The vicomte roared like a wild bull, and, seizing a knife from the table, rushed upon Arthur. The two men struggled with one another. The table fell over; and while Louison unsuccessfully tried to separate the combatants, Velletri looked coolly at the fray.

"Help! murder!" cried Louison in desperation. She did not think of escape. She hoped Aube would make his appearance.

The landlord had really hastened up at the first cry, but at the head of the stairs Robeckal had held him tight and uttered a peculiar whistle. Two powerful men came in answer to the signal, and seizing the host in their arms, they bore him to a small room where the brooms were kept. Aube imagined his house had been entered by burglars. He threw himself with all his force against the door, he cried for help, and soon a few guests who had been sitting in the restaurant came to his assistance and rescued him.

"Follow me, gentlemen," cried the landlord, angrily. "It is a dastardly conspiracy! Upstairs there they are driving a poor, innocent girl to despair. Help me to rescue her. It's the 'Marquise.' Oh, heavens! her cries have ceased, she must be dead!"

Twenty men, in company with the landlord, rushed into the young men's rooms. Louison was no longer there, and in the centre Montferrand and the vicomte were still fighting with one another. Montferrand had already taken the knife away from the drunken man, when the vicomte angrily rushed at Arthur and hit him in the neck. A stream of blood gushed from the wound, and with a low moan the wounded man sank to the ground.

Before he could rise to his feet again, Velletri had seized the vicomte by the arm, and in spite of his resistance dragged him down the stairs. When Aube looked around for them, they had already left and not a trace of Louison could be found.

"Merciful God!" he despairingly cried, "where is the poor child? I promised her I would protect her, and now—"

"The scoundrels have abducted her!" exclaimed Arthur, who had in the meantime recovered. "It was a shrewdly planned piece of business."

"Abducted her? Impossible!" cried the landlord, looking at Arthur in amazement. "Who are the men?"

A crowd of guests had gathered about Arthur and the landlord, and while a barber tried to stanch the still bleeding wound, Montferrand bitterly said:

"One of the scoundrels bears a noble old name. Shame over the nobility of France that it tolerates a Talizac and Fougereuse in its ranks."

"Who speaks of Talizac and Fougereuse?" cried a fresh voice, and a very handsome man approached Monsieur Aube.

"Ah, Monsieur Fanfaro," said the landlord vivaciously, "Heaven sends you at the right time. Forget all the troubles and the cares I have caused you; I will never say another word against athletes and acrobats, but help us!"

"What has happened?" asked Fanfaro in astonishment. "I just came home and found every one in the restaurant excited. I asked, but no one knew anything, so I hurried here. Tell me what I can do for you; I am ready."

"May God reward you, Monsieur Fanfaro; oh, if it is only not too late."

"Monsieur Aube," asked Fanfaro, politely, "what is the matter?"

"A young girl—it will bring me to my grave when I think that such a thing should happen in my house—I—"

"Landlord," interrupted Arthur, "let me tell the story to the gentleman.

"Unfortunately," continued Montferrand, turning to Fanfaro, "I am mixed up in the affair myself. I let myself be persuaded by the Vicomte de Talizac—"

"I thought so," growled Fanfaro.

"And his friend Velletri to accompany them here—"

"Velletri? The Italian spy? The tool of the Jesuits, who treacherously betrayed his own countrymen, the Carbonari?" asked Fanfaro, contemptuously.

"Really, you are telling me something new," replied Arthur, "but it served me right. Why wasn't I more particular in the choice of my companions! Well, this worthy pair have abducted a young girl, a street-singer."

"The scoundrels! Where have they carried the poor child to?"

"God alone knows! I only heard here about the plan, but the scoundrels did not inform me where they intended to bring the poor child," replied Arthur, feeling ashamed at having had even the slightest connection with the affair, and inwardly vowing never again to have anything to do with the scoundrels who bear noble names.

"But the girl, no doubt, has relatives, parents or friends, who will follow her traces?"

"No," replied Aube, "she is an orphan, and is called the 'Marquise.'"

"Why has she received that sobriquet?"

"I do not know. She is a very respectable girl."

"Where does she live?"

"Not far from here, No. 42 Boulevard du Temple, fifth story. Robeckal, an extra waiter, who, as I have since found out, is a cunning scoundrel, had engaged her for to-night."

"If Robeckal had a hand in the affair then it can only be a scoundrelly one!" exclaimed Fanfaro, with a frown.

"Do you know him?"

"Unfortunately, yes; tell me what more do you know?"

"Not much. The 'Marquise' lives with an old, poor crazy woman, who lost her reason and the use of her limbs at a fire. The young girl, whose name is Louison—"

"Louison?" cried Fanfaro, in affright.

"Yes; why, what is the matter with you?"

"Nothing; tell me how old is the girl?"

"About sixteen."

"My God, that would just be right; but no, it cannot be."

"Monsieur Fanfaro," said Montferrand, gently, "can I do anything for you, you seem to be in trouble?"

"Oh, I have a horrible suspicion, I cannot explain it to you now, but the age and the name agree. Ah, that infamous Talizac! again and again he crosses my path; but if I catch him now, I will stamp upon him like a worm!"

"Do you intend to follow the robbers?"

"Certainly, I must rescue the girl."

"Monsieur Fanfaro," said Montferrand, "do with me what you will, I will help you!"