dame Lucette's last song of real life
pointed a moral.

Joan's bright face did not cloud on that account. Paul Verlaine, taking
the air in the Boulevard Saint Michel, had he chanced to notice the dry
husk of that Cabaret Latin, might have composed a chanson on the vanity
of dead cafes; but this sprightly girl had chosen her residence there
chiefly because it marched with her purse. Moreover, it was admirably
suited to the needs of one who for the most part gave her days to the
Louvre and her evenings to the Sorbonne.

She was rather late that morning. Lest that precious hour of white light
should be lost, she sped rapidly across the place, down the boulevard,
and along the busy Quai des Grands Augustins. On the Pont Neuf she
glanced up at another statuesque acquaintance, this time a kingly
personage on horseback. She could never quite dispel the notion that
Henri Quatre was ready to flirt with her. The roguish twinkle in his
bronze eye was very taking, and there were not many men in Paris who
could look at her in that way and win a smile in return. To be sure, it
was no new thing for a Vernon to be well disposed toward Henry of
Navarre; but that is ancient history, and our pretty Joan, blithely
unconscious, was hurrying that morning to take an active part in
redrafting the Berlin treaty.

At the corner of the bridge, where it joins the Quai du Louvre, she met
a young man. Each pretended that the meeting was accidental, though,
after the first glance, the best-natured recording angel ever
commissioned from Paradise would have refused to believe either of them.

"What a piece of luck!" cried the young man. "Are you going to the
Louvre?"

"Yes. And you?" demanded Joan, flushing prettily.

"I am killing time till the afternoon, when I play Number One for the
Wanderers. To-day's match is at Bagatelle."

She laughed. "'Surely thou also art one of them; for thy speech
betrayeth thee,'" she quoted.

"I don't quite follow that, Miss Vernon."

"No? Well, I'll explain another time. I must away to my copying."

"Let me come and fix your easel. Really, I have nothing else to do."

"Worse and worse! En route, _alors_! You can watch me at work. That must
be a real pleasure to an idler."

"I am no idler," he protested.

"What? Who spoke but now of 'killing time,' 'play,' 'Number One,' and
'Bagatelle'? Really, Mr. Delgrado!"

"Oh, is that what you are driving at? But you misunderstood. Bagatelle
is near the polo ground