iving them lollipops. The _citoyenne_
Thevenin, picking out the pretty ones, would wash their faces, kiss them
and put flowers in their hair. She fondled them with a gentle air of
melancholy, because she had missed the joy of motherhood,--as well as to
heighten her fascinations by a show of tender sentiment and to practise
herself in the art of pose and grouping.

She was the only member of the party neither drawing nor painting. She
devoted her attention to learning a part and still more to charming her
companions, flitting from one to another, book in hand, a bright,
entrancing creature.

"No complexion, no figure, no voice, no nothing," declared the
women,--and she filled the earth with movement, colour and harmony.
Faded, pretty, tired, indefatigable, she was the joy of the expedition.
A woman of ever-varying moods, but always gay, sensitive, quick-tempered
and yet easy-going and accommodating, a sharp tongue with the most
polished utterance, vain, modest, true, false, delightful; if Rose
Thevenin enjoyed no triumphant success, if she was not worshipped as a
goddess, it was because the times were out of joint and Paris had no
more incense, no more altars for the Graces. The _citoyenne_ Blaise
herself, who made a face when she spoke of her and used to call her "my
step-mother," could not see her and not be subjugated by such an array
of charms.

They were rehearsing _Les Visitandines_ at the Theatre Feydeau, and Rose
was full of self-congratulation at having a part full of "naturalness."
It was this quality she strove after, this she sought and this she
found.

"Then we shall not see 'Pamela'?" asked Desmahis.

The Theatre de la Nation was closed and the actors packed off to the
Madelonnettes and to Pelagie.

"Do you call that liberty?" cried Rose Thevenin, raising her beautiful
eyes to heaven in indignant protest.

"The players of the Theatre de la Nation are aristocrats, and the
_citoyen_ Francois' piece tends to make men regret the privileges of the
noblesse."

"Gentlemen," said Rose Thevenin, "have you patience to listen only to
those who flatter you?"

As midday approached everybody began to feel pangs of hunger and the
little band marched back to the inn.

Evariste walked beside Elodie, smilingly recalling memories of their
first meetings:

"Two young birds had fallen out of their nests on the roof on to the
sill of your window. You brought the little creatures up by hand; one of
them lived and