es not excuse a boor." And
Lerouge somewhat roughly elbowed him to one side.

The insult from Lerouge was nothing. Jean never thought of that. She
had come, she had ignored him, she had gone,--the woman he loved!

He stood speechless for a moment, then staggered away, his self-love
bleeding.

Unconsciously he had taken the direction they had gone, slowly groping
his way rather than walking, next to the iron fence of the Luxembourg
gardens, past the great School of Mines, along the Boulevard St. Michel
towards the Observatory. Like a drunken man he stuck close to the walls,
and thus crossed the obtuse angle into Rue Denfert-Rocherau. Hesitating
at the tomb-like buildings that mark the entrance to the catacombs at
the end of that street, he leaned against the great wrought-iron grille
and tried to collect his thoughts.

He remembered now; this was where he had gone down one day to view the
rows and stacks of boxes and vaults of mouldering bones. Yes, he even
recalled the humorous idea of that day that there were more Parisians
beneath the pavements of Paris than above them, and that they slept
better o' nights.

The cold wind stirred the branches, and they grated against the fence
with a dismal, sighing sound.

"Loves another!"

Was it not that which it said?

"Loves another!" in plain and well-measured cadence.

And the word "l-o-v-e-s" was long and sorrowfully drawn out, and
"another" came sharply decisive.

He wandered on, aimlessly, yet in the general direction of Montrouge.
Fouchette,--yes, she had told the truth. He--where was he?

The streets up here were practically deserted, the entire population,
apparently, having gone to the boulevards. Here and there some
rez-de-chaussee aglow showed the usual gossippers of the concierges.
Now and then isolated merrymakers were returning, covered with
confetti, having exhausted themselves and the pleasures of the day
together.

Rue Halle,--he remembered now, though he scarcely noted it.

All at once his heart gave a bound. His mind came down to vulgar
earth. It was at the sight of a solitary woman who sped swiftly round
the corner from the Avenue d'Orleans and came towards him. Her stout
figure between him and the electric light cast a long shadow down the
street,--the shadow of a woman in bloomer costume, with a hat perched
forward at an angle of forty-five degrees.

It was Mlle. Madeleine.

What could she be doing here at this hour,--she, who lived in Ru