s. Another time she had
passed her childhood in a great chateau on the Loire. She seemed utterly
indifferent as to the manner in which her hearers would piece together
these dislocated bits of her existence.

As may be imagined, in these fantastic recitals, vanity reigned
triumphant, the vanity of a chattering paroquet. Bank and money, titles
and riches, were the texts of her discourse. Rich she certainly was.
She had a small hotel on the Boulevard Haussmann; she had horses and
carriages, gorgeous furniture in most questionable taste, three or four
servants, and led a most indolent existence, trifling away her life
among women like herself, less confident in her bearing, perhaps,
than they, from her provincial birth and breeding. This, and a certain
freshness, the result of a childhood passed in the open air, all kept
her somewhat out of the current of Parisian life, where, too, being so
newly arrived, she had not yet found her place.

Once each week, a man of middle age, and of distinguished appearance,
came to see her. In speaking of him, Ida always said "Monsieur" with an
air of such respect that one would have supposed him to be at the court
of France in the days when the brother of the king was so denominated.
The child spoke of him simply as "our friend." The servants announced
him as "M. le Comte," but among themselves they called him "the old
gentleman."

The old gentleman was very rich, for madame spared nothing, and there
was an enormous expenditure going on constantly in the house. This was
managed by Mademoiselle Constant, Ida's waiting-maid. It was this woman
who gave her mistress the addresses of the tradespeople, who guided her
inexperience through the mazes of life in Paris; for Ida's pet dream and
hope was to be taken for a woman of irreproachable character, and of the
highest fashion.

Thus it will be seen into what state of mind the reception of Father
O------ had thrown her, and in what a rage she left his presence. An
elegant coupe awaited her at the door of the Institution. She threw
herself into it with her child, retaining only sufficient self-command
to say "home," in so loud a voice that she was heard by a group of
priests who were talking together, and who quickly dispersed before this
whirlwind of furs and curled hair. In fact, as soon as the carriage-door
was closed, the unhappy woman sank into a corner, not in her usual
coquettish position, but overwhelmed and in tears, stifling her sob