assailed her from the first, nor
that feeling of unreality and staginess with which the Frenchwoman's
attitude had originally struck her.

Yet she tried to be kind and to be cordial, tried to hide that coldness
in her manner which she felt was unjustified.

"It is all very praiseworthy on your part, Madame," she said somewhat
lamely. "Madame...?" she added interrogatively.

"My name is Candeille--Desiree Candeille," replied the Frenchwoman.

"Candeille?" exclaimed Marguerite with sudden alacrity, "Candeille...
surely..."

"Yes... of the Varietes."

"Ah! then I know why your face from the first seemed familiar to me,"
said Marguerite, this time with unaffected cordiality. "I must have
applauded you many a time in the olden days. I am an ex-colleague, you
know. My name was St. Just before I married, and I was of the Maison
Moliere."

"I knew that," said Desiree Candeille, "and half hoped that you would
remember me."

"Nay! who could forget Demoiselle Candeille, the most popular star in
the theatrical firmament?"

"Oh! that was so long ago."

"Only four years."

"A fallen star is soon lost out of sight."

"Why fallen?"

"It was a choice for me between exile from France and the guillotine,"
rejoined Candeille simply.

"Surely not?" queried Marguerite with a touch of genuine sympathy.
With characteristic impulsiveness, she had now cast aside her former
misgivings: she had conquered her mistrust, at any rate had relegated
it to the background of her mind. This woman was a colleague: she had
suffered and was in distress; she had every claim, therefore, on a
compatriot's help and friendship. She stretched out her hand and took
Desiree Candeille's in her own; she forced herself to feel nothing but
admiration for this young woman, whose whole attitude spoke of sorrows
nobly borne, of misfortunes proudly endured.

"I don't know why I should sadden you with my story," rejoined Desiree
Candeille after a slight pause, during which she seemed to be waging
war against her own emotion. "It is not a very interesting one. Hundreds
have suffered as I did. I had enemies in Paris. God knows how that
happened. I had never harmed anyone, but someone must have hated me and
must have wished me ill. Evil is so easily wrought in France these days.
A denunciation--a perquisition--an accusation--then the flight from
Paris... the forged passports... the disguise... the bribe... the
hardships... the squalid hiding places.... Oh! I