cold; and well
on in the afternoon it had begun to rain. It was not a downpour--the
water did not fall from the clouds in regular drops--but the clouds
themselves had, as it were, laid themselves down in the streets of Paris
and there slowly condensed into water.

No matter how people might seek to shelter themselves, they got wet on
all sides. The moisture slid down the back of your neck, laid itself
like a wet towel about your knees, penetrated into your boots and far up
your trousers.

A few sanguine ladies were standing in the _portes cocheres_, with their
skirts tucked up, expecting it to clear; others waited by the hour in
the omnibus stations. But most of the stronger sex hurried along under
their umbrellas; only a few had been sensible enough to give up the
battle, and had turned up their collars, stuck their umbrellas under
their arms, and their hands in their pockets.

Although it was early in the autumn it was already dusk at five o'clock.
A few gas-jets lighted in the narrowest streets, and in a shop here and
there, strove to shine out in the thick wet air.

People swarmed as usual in the streets, jostled one another off the
pavement, and ruined one another's umbrellas. All the cabs were taken
up; they splashed along and bespattered the foot-passengers to the best
of their ability, while the asphalte glistened in the dim light with a
dense coating of mud.

The cafes were crowded to excess; regular customers went round and
scolded, and the waiters ran against each other in their hurry. Ever and
anon, amid the confusion, could be heard the sharp little ting of the
bell on the buffet; it was la _dame du comptoir_ summoning a waiter,
while her calm eyes kept a watch upon the whole cafe.

A lady sat at the buffet of a large restaurant on the Boulevard
Sebastopol. She was widely known for her cleverness and her amiable
manners.

She had glossy black hair, which, in spite of the fashion, she wore
parted in the middle of her forehead in natural curls. Her eyes were
almost black and her mouth full, with a little shadow of a mustache.

Her figure was still very pretty, although, if the truth were known, she
had probably passed her thirtieth year; and she had a soft little hand,
with which she wrote elegant figures in her cash-book, and now and then
a little note. Madame Virginie could converse with the young dandies who
were always hanging about the buffet, and parry their witticisms, while
she kept account