ng at her anxiously, he in silence asked
her pardon for the sorrow he had caused her.

"There! get away, Master Jack. Your mother is all right. I must help her
dress now."

"What! You do not mean, Constant, that I must go to this ball. I have no
heart to amuse myself."

"Pshaw! I know you, madame. You have but five minutes. Just look at this
pretty costume, these rose-colored stockings, and your little cap."

She shook out the skirts, displayed the trimming, and jingled the little
bells which adorned it, and Ida ceased to resist.

While his mother was dressing, Jack went into the boudoir, and remained
alone in the dark. The little room, perfumed and coquettish, was, it
is true, partially illuminated by the gas lamps on the boulevard. Sadly
enough the child leaned against the windows and thought of the day that
was just over. By degrees, without knowing how, he felt himself to be
"the poor child" of whom the priest had spoken in such compassionate
tones.

It is so singular to hear one's self pitied when one believes one's self
to be happy. There are sorrows, in fact, so well concealed, that those
who have caused them, and even sometimes their victims, do not divine
them.

The door opened--his mother was ready.

"Come in, Master Jack, and see if this is not lovely."

Ah! what a charming Folly! Silver and pink, lustrous satin and delicate
lace. What a lovely rustling of spangles when she moved!

The child looked on in admiration, while the mother, light and airy,
waving her Momus staff, smiled at Jack, and smiled at herself in the
Psyche, without at that time asking heaven why she was so unhappy. Then
Constant threw over her shoulders a warm cloak, and accompanied her to
the carriage, while Jack, leaning over the railing, watched from stair
to stair, moving almost as if she were dancing the little pink slippers
embroidered with silver, that bore his mother to balls where children
could not go. As the last sound of the silver bells died away, he turned
towards the salon, disturbed and anxious for the first time by the
solitude in which he ordinarily passed his evenings.

When Madame de Barancy dined out, Master Jack was confided to the tender
mercies of Constant. "She will dine with you," said Ida.

Two places were laid in the dining-room that seemed so huge on such
days. But very often Constant, finding her dinner anything but cheerful,
took the child and joined her companions below, where they feasted
gayly