dence
of it, however, except, now and then, a slight alteration in her
voice.

As to Maxence, he would vainly have tried to conceal the passionate
interest with which he was listening to these unexpected confidences.

"Have you, then, never seen your benefactress again?" he asked.

"Never," replied Mlle. Lucienne. "All my efforts to reach her have
proved fruitless. She does not live in Paris now. I have written
to her: my letters have remained without answer. Did she ever get
them? I think not. Something tells me that she has not forgotten
me."

She remained silent for a few moments, as if collecting herself
before resuming the thread of her narrative. And then,

"It was thus brutally," she resumed, "that I was sent off. It
would have been useless to beg, I knew; and, moreover, I have never
known how to beg. I piled up hurriedly in two trunks and in some
bandboxes all I had in the world,--all I had received from the
generosity of my poor mistress; and, before the stated hour, I was
ready. The cook and the chambermaid had already gone. The man who
was treating me so cruelly was waiting for me. He helped me carry
out my boxes and trunks, after which he locked the door, put the
key in his pocket; and, as the American omnibus was passing, he
beckoned to it to stop. And then, before entering it,

"'Good luck, my pretty girl!' he said with a laugh.

"This was in the month of January, 1866. I was just thirteen. I
have had since more terrible trials, and I have found myself in much
more desperate situations: but I do not remember ever feeling such
intense discouragement as I did that day, when I found myself alone
upon that road, not knowing which way to go. I sat down on one of
my trunks. The weather was cold and gloomy: there were few persons
on the road. They looked at me, doubtless wondering what I was doing
there. I wept. I had a vague feeling that the well-meant kindness
of my poor benefactress, in bestowing upon me the blessings of
education, would in reality prove a serious impediment in the
life-struggle which I was about to begin again. I thought of what
I suffered with the laundress; and, at the idea of the tortures
which the future still held in store for me, I desired death. The
Seine was near: why not put an end at once to the miserable
existence which I foresaw?

"Such were my reflections, when a woman from Rueil, a
vegetable-vender, whom I knew by sight, happened to pass, pushing