I suspect," said Maverick.

_"Bah! pauvre femme!"_

And the philosopher titillated his nostril until he sneezed again and
again.

"And the Doctor," continued Papiol,--"does he suspect nothing?"

"Nothing. He has counselled me to make what amends I may by
marrying--you know whom."

"_Pardieu!_ he is a good innocent, that old friend of yours!"

"Better than you or I, Papiol."

"_Cela va sans dire, mon ami._ And _la petite_,--the little
bright-eyes,--what of her?"

"She is unsuspicious, but hints at a little cloud that overshadows her
domestic history, and tells her lover that it shall be cleared up before
she will marry him, or any other."

"Ta, ta! It's an inquisitive sex, Maverick! I could never quite
understand how Julie should have learned that her little one was still
alive, and been able to trace her as she did. I think the death was set
forth in the Gazette,--eh, Maverick?"

"It certainly was," said Maverick,--"honestly, for the child's good."

"Ha!--honestly,--_bon_! I beg pardon, _mom ami_."

And Papiol took snuff again.

"Set forth in the Gazette, _en regle_, and came to Julie's knowledge,
as I am sure; and she sailed for the East with her brother, who was a
small trader in Smyrna, I believe,--poor woman! To tell truth, Papiol,
had she been alive, loving Adele as I do, I believe I should have been
tempted to follow the parson's admonition, cost what it might."

"And then?"

"And then I should give _petite_ an honest name to bear,--honest as I
could, at least; and would have lavished wealth upon her, as I mean to
do; and made the last half of my life better than the first."

"Excellent! most excellent! considering that the lady is dead, _pauvre
femme_! And now, my dear fellow, you might go over to your country and
play the good Puritan by marrying Mees Eliza,--_hein_?"

And he called out obstreperously,--

"_Garcon!_"

"_Voici, Messieurs!_"

"_Absinthe,--deux verres._"

And he drummed with his fat fingers upon the edge of the marble slab.

"_Mon Dieu!_" said Maverick, with a sudden pallor on his face, "who is
she?"

The eyes of Papiol fastened upon the figure which had arrested the
attention of Maverick,--a lady of, may-be, forty years, fashionably, but
gracefully attired, with olive-brown complexion, hair still glossy
black, and attended by a strange gentleman with a brusque and foreign
air.

"Who is she?" says Maverick, in a great tremor. "Do the dead come to
haunt us?"

"You