ninth, to-morrow, the street. Joseph
Frowenfeld was hurt; her dependence upon his good offices was gone. When
she thought of him suffering under public contumely, it seemed to her as
if she could feel the big drops of blood dropping from her heart; and
when she recalled her own actions, speeches, and demonstrations in his
presence, exaggerated by the groundless fear that he had guessed into
the deepest springs of her feelings, then she felt those drops of blood
congeal. Even if the apothecary had been duller of discernment than she
supposed, here was Aurora on the opposite side of the table, reading
every thought of her inmost soul. But worst of all was 'Sieur
Frowenfel's indifference. It is true that, as he had directed upon her
that gaze of recognition, there was a look of mighty gladness, if she
dared believe her eyes. But no, she dared not; there was nothing there
for her, she thought,--probably (when this anguish of public disgrace
should by any means be lifted) a benevolent smile at her and her
betrayal of interest. Clotilde felt as though she had been laid entire
upon a slide of his microscope.

Aurora at length broke her reverie.

"Clotilde,"--she spoke in French--"the matter with you is that you have
no heart. You never did have any. Really and truly, you do not care
whether 'Sieur Frowenfel' lives or dies. You do not care how he is or
where he is this minute. I wish you had some of my too large heart. I
not only have the heart, as I tell you, to think kindly of our enemies,
those Grandissime, for example"--she waved her hand with the air of
selecting at random--"but I am burning up to know what is the condition
of that poor, sick, noble 'Sieur Frowenfel', and I am going to do it!"

The heart which Clotilde was accused of not having gave a stir of deep
gratitude. Dear, pretty little mother! Not only knowing full well the
existence of this swelling heart and the significance, to-day, of its
every warm pulsation, but kindly covering up the discovery with
make-believe reproaches. The tears started in her eyes; that was
her reply.

"Oh, now! it is the rent again, I suppose," cried Aurora, "always the
rent. It is not the rent that worries _me_, it is 'Sieur Frowenfel',
poor man. But very well, Mademoiselle Silence, I will match you for
making me do all the talking." She was really beginning to sink under
the labor of carrying all the sprightliness for both. "Come," she said,
savagely, "propose something."

"W