orner--but it was only once, poor
young man. He is at least very gentle and well-conducted."

So it was not to be wondered at that we did not see him. Clelie
mentioned him to her young friend, but Mademoiselle's interest in him
was only faint and ephemeral. She had not the spirit to rouse herself to
any strong emotion.

"I dare say he's an American," she said. "There are plenty of Americans
in Paris, but none of them seem a bit nearer to me than if they were
French. They are all rich and fine, and they all like the life here
better than the life at home. This is the first poor one I have heard
of."

Each day brought fresh unhappiness to her. Madame was inexorable. She
spent a fortune upon _toilette_ for her, and insisted upon dragging her
from place to place, and wearying her with gayeties from which her sad
young heart shrank. Each afternoon their equipage was to be seen upon
the Champs Elysees, and each evening it stood before the door waiting to
bear them to some place of festivity.

Mademoiselle's _bete noir_, the marquis, who was a debilitated _roue_ in
search of a fortune, attached himself to them upon all occasions.

"Bah!" said Clelie with contempt, "she amazes one by her
imbecility--this woman. Truly, one would imagine that her vulgar
sharpness would teach her that his object is to use her as a tool,
and that having gained Mademoiselle's fortune, he will treat them with
brutality and derision."

But she did not seem to see--possibly she fancied that having obtained
him for a son-in-law, she would be bold and clever enough to outwit
and control him. Consequently, he was encouraged and fawned upon, and
Mademoiselle grew thin and pale and large-eyed, and wore continually an
expression of secret terror.

Only in her visits to our fifth floor did she dare to give way to
her grief, and truly at such times both my Clelie and I were greatly
affected. Upon one occasion indeed she filled us both with alarm.

"Do you know what I shall do?" she said, stopping suddenly in the midst
of her weeping. "I'll bear it as long as I can, and then I'll put an end
to it. There's--there's always the Seine left, and I've laid awake and
thought of it many a night. Father and me saw a man taken out of it one
day, and the people said he was a Tyrolean, and drowned himself because
he was so poor and lonely--and--and so far from home."

Upon the very morning she made this speech I saw again our friend of the
sixth floor. In going