n artist
friend, whose studio was in Carondelet Street just off of Canal, had
rented to him for a workroom a little loft above the studio. It had
one window looking out over roofs and chimney-pots upon the western
sky, and another down into the studio itself. It is right to say
friend, although there was no acquaintanceship until it grew out of
this arrangement. The artist, a single man, was much Claude's senior;
but Claude's taste for design, and love of work, and the artist's
grave sincerity, simplicity, and cordiality of character--he was a
Spaniard, with a Spaniard's perfect courtesy--made a mutual regard,
which only a common diffidence prevented from running into
comradeship.

One Saturday afternoon Claude, thirsting for outdoor air, left his
eyrie for a short turn in Canal Street. The matinee audiences were
just out, and the wide balcony-shaded sidewalks were crowded with
young faces and bright attires. Claude was crossing the "neutral
ground" toward Bourbon Street, when he saw coming out of Bourbon
Street a young man, who might be a Creole, and two young girls in
light, and what seemed to him extremely beautiful dresses; especially
that of the farther one, who, as the three turned with buoyant step
into Canal Street to their left, showed for an instant the profile of
her face, and then only her back. Claude's heart beat consciously, and
he hurried to lessen the distance between them. He had seen no more
than the profile, but for the moment in which he saw it, it seemed to
be none other than the face of Marguerite!

CHAPTER XIII.

THE CHASE.

Claude came on close behind. No; now he could see his mistake, it was
not she. But he could not regret it. This was Marguerite repeated, yet
transcended. The stature was just perceptibly superior. The breadth
and grace of these shoulders were better than Marguerite's. The hair,
arranged differently and far more effectively than he had ever seen it
on Marguerite's head, seemed even more luxurious than hers. There was
altogether a finer dignity in this one's carriage than in that of the
little maid of the inn. And see, now,--now!--as she turns her head to
glance into this shop window! It is, and it isn't, it isn't, and it
is, and--no, no, it is not Marguerite! It is like her in profile,
singularly like, yet far beyond her; the nose a little too fine, and
a certain sad firmness about the mouth and eyes, as well as he could
see in the profile, but profiles are so de