ssing with
her not only his Sunday but every evening when he was not engaged.
During these long hours Rigolette was, as usual, merry and laughing;
Germain tender, attentive, serious, and often somewhat sad. This
sadness was his only drawback, for his manners, naturally good, were not
to be compared with the foppery of M. Girandeau, the commercial
traveller, alias bagman, or with the noisy eccentricities of Cabrion;
but M. Girandeau by his unending loquacity, and the painter by his
equally interminable fun, took the lead of Germain, whose quiet
composure rather astonished his little neighbour, the grisette.

Rigolette then had not, as yet, testified any decided preference for any
one of her beaux; but as she was by no means deficient in judgment, she
soon discovered that Germain alone united all the qualities requisite
for making a reasonable woman happy.

Having stated all these facts, we will inquire why Rigolette was sad,
and why neither she nor her birds sang. Her oval and fresh-looking face
was rather pale; her large black eyes, usually gay and brilliant, were
slightly dulled and veiled; whilst her whole look bespoke unusual
fatigue. She had been working nearly all the night; from time to time
she looked sorrowfully at a letter which lay open on a table near her.
This letter had been addressed to her by Germain, and contained as
follows:

"PRISON OF THE CONCIERGERIE.

"MADEMOISELLE:--The place from which I address you will
sufficiently prove to you the extent of my misfortune,--I am
locked up as a robber. I am guilty in the eyes of all the world,
and yet I am bold enough to write to you! It is because it
would, indeed, be dreadful to me to believe that you consider me
as a degraded criminal. I beseech you not to condemn me until
you have perused this letter. If you discard me, that will be
the final blow, and will indeed overwhelm me. I will tell you
all that has passed. For some time I had left the Rue du Temple,
but I knew through poor Louise that the Morel family, in whom
you and I took such deep interest, were daily more and more
wretched. Alas, my pity for these poor people has been my
destruction! I do not repent it, but my fate is very cruel. Last
night I had stayed very late at M. Ferrand's, occupied with
business of importance. In the room in which I was at work was a
bureau, in which my employer shut up