a bunch of it," continued the young man, as the other examined the
lock.

"There are two women who have hair like that," said
Villeroy,--"Fouchette and the girl who goes with Lerouge. Now, which
is it?"

"Her name is Remy,--Mademoiselle Remy," observed Massard; "and, as
George says, she's a beauty----"

"Which cannot be said of La Savatiere."

"No; and yet----"

"Lerouge keeps his beauty mighty close," interrupted Massard. "I never
saw her but once, and she reminded me of that little devil, Fouchette,
who stands in with the police, or she would have been locked up a
dozen times."

"Very likely," observed Villeroy.

* * * * *

It was now Mardi Gras, and the whole Ville Lumiere was en fete. The
left bank of the Seine, the resort of nearly twenty thousand students,
was especially joyous.

There was one young man, however, who chose to be alone, and he stood
apart from the world, leaning over the worn parapet of the Pont Neuf,
gazing idly on the rushing waters of the Seine.

Jean Marot loved the noble span that for more than three hundred years
had connected the ancient Isle de la Cite with the mainland. A long
line of kings, queens, emperors, princes, princesses, and noblemen of
every degree had lived and passed the Pont Neuf. Royal knights, stout
men-at-arms, myriads of mailed warriors and citizen soldiers,
countless multitudes of men and women, had come and gone above these
massive stone arches of three centuries.

Yet the young man thought not of these. His mind was occupied by one
little, slender, fair-haired woman, and that one unattainable. Had he
analyzed his new mental condition, he might have marvelled that the
little winged god could have aimed so straight and let fly so
unexpectedly. True love, however, does not come of reasoning, but
rather in spite of it. And, to do Jean's Latin race justice, he never
thought of doing such a thing, and thus spared his love being reduced
to a palpable absurdity. The bronze shadow of that royal Latin lover,
Henri IV., looked down upon the modern Frenchman approvingly.

A sharp shower of confetti and the laughter of young girls roused the
young man from his revery and brought his thoughts down to date.

"Monsieur has forgotten that Boulevard St. Michel is en fete," said a
rich contralto voice behind him.

He turned to receive a handful of confetti dashed smartly in his face
and to look into a pair of bold black eyes.

"Mon Die