hes of men, a near approach to the object
that had seemed so desirable in the distance, had stripped off the mask
and left the real countenance exposed. There was nothing unusual in
this; it was merely following out a known law of nature.

CHAPTER VII.

The morning of the 14th June arrived. Paris is then at its loveliest
season. The gardens in particular are worthy of the capital of Europe,
and they are open to all who can manage to make a decent appearance.
Adrienne's hotel had a little garden in the rear, and she sat at her
window endeavoring to breathe the balmy odors that arose from it. Enter
it she could not. It was the property, or devoted to the uses, of the
occupant of the rez de chaussee. Still she might look at it as often as
she dared to raise her eyes from her needle. The poor girl was not what
she had been two months before. The handkerchief wanted but a few hours
of being finished, it is true, but the pale cheeks, the hollow eyes and
the anxious look, proved at what a sacrifice of health and physical
force I had become what I was. As I had grown in beauty, the hand that
ornamented me had wasted, and when I looked up to catch the smile of
approbation, it was found to be care worn and melancholy. Still the
birds did not sing the less sweetly, for Paris is full of birds, the
roses were as fragrant, and the verdure was as deep as ever. Nature
does not stop to lament over any single victim of human society. When
misery is the deepest, there is something awful in this perpetual and
smiling round of natural movements. It teaches profoundly the
insignificance of the atoms of creation.

{rez de chaussee = ground floor}

Adrienne had risen earlier than common, even, this morning, determined
to get through with her task by noon, for she was actually sewing on
the lace, and her impatience would not permit her to resume the work of
the milliner that day, at least. For the last month she had literally
lived on dry bread herself; at first with a few grapes to give her
appetite a little gratification, but toward the last, on nothing but
bread and water. She had not suffered so much from a want of food,
however, as from a want of air and exercise; from unremitting, wasting
toil at a sedentary occupation, from hope deferred and from sleepless
nights. Then she wanted the cheering association of sympathy. She was
strictly alone; with the exception of her short interviews with the
milliner, she conversed with no one. H