ly. This is a very quiet humdrum story, when it is compared
with the dramas of society, provincial and Parisian, which the _Gazette
des Tribunaux_ is constantly presenting to its readers.

When I reached Paris it was forgotten. Miss Tayleure had moved off to
Tours--for economy some said; to break new ground, according to others.
There had been diplomatic changes. The English society had received
many accessions, and suffered many secessions. I went to my old haunts
and found new faces. I was met with a burst of passionate tears by Lucy
Rowe, end honest Jane, the servant. Mrs. Rowe was lying, with all her
secrets and plots, in Pere Lachaise--to the grief, among others, of the
Reverend Horace Mohun, who would hardly be comforted by Lucy's handsome
continuance of the buttered toast and first look at the _Times_. Lucy,
bright and good Lucy, had become queen and mistress of the
boarding-house--albeit she had not a thimbleful of the blood of the
Whytes of Battersea in her veins. But of the Rue Millevoye presently.

I came upon Bertram by accident by the Montmartre cemetery, whither I
had been with a friend to look at a new-made grave. As I have observed,
Bertram had reached a very low ebb. He avoided his old thoroughfares. He
had discovered that all the backs of the Tuileries chairs were towards
him. Miss Tayleure had had her revenge before she left. He had heard
that "the fellows were sorry for him," and that they were not anxious to
see him. The very waiters in his cafe knew that evil had befallen him,
and were less respectful than of old. No very damaging tales, as I have
said, were told against him; but it was made evident to him that Paris
society had had enough of him for the present, and that his comfortable
plan would be to move off.

Cosmo Bertram had moved off accordingly; and when I met him at
Montmartre he had not been heard of for many months. I should have
pushed on, but he would not let me. A man in misfortune disarms your
resentment. When the friend who has been always bright and manly with
you, approaches with a humble manner, and his eyes say to you, while he
speaks, "Now is not the time to be hard," you give in. I parted with my
fellow-mourner, and joined Bertram, saying coldly--"We have not met,
Bertram, for many months--it seems years. What has happened?"

The man's manner was completely changed. He talked to me with the cowed
manner of a conscious inferior. He was abashed; as changed in voice and
expr