random, obeying the push of every chance elbow, I was
brought to a quarter where trees planted in clusters, or towering
singly, broke up somewhat the dense packing of the crowd, and gave it a
more scattered character. These confines were far from the music, and
somewhat aloof even from the lamps, but there was sound enough to
soothe, and with that full, high moon, lamps were scarce needed. Here
had chiefly settled family-groups, burgher-parents; some of them, late
as was the hour, actually surrounded by their children, with whom it
had not been thought advisable to venture into the closer throng.

Three fine tall trees growing close, almost twined stem within stem,
lifted a thick canopy of shade above a green knoll, crowned with a
seat--a seat which might have held several, yet it seemed abandoned to
one, the remaining members of the fortunate party in possession of this
site standing dutifully round; yet, amongst this reverend circle was a
lady, holding by the hand a little girl.

When I caught sight of this little girl, she was twisting herself round
on her heel, swinging from her conductress's hand, flinging herself
from side to side with wanton and fantastic gyrations. These perverse
movements arrested my attention, they struck me as of a character
fearfully familiar. On close inspection, no less so appeared the
child's equipment; the lilac silk pelisse, the small swansdown boa, the
white bonnet--the whole holiday toilette, in short, was the gala garb
of a cherub but too well known, of that tadpole, Desiree Beck--and
Desiree Beck it was--she, or an imp in her likeness.

I might have taken this discovery as a thunder-clap, but such hyperbole
would have been premature; discovery was destined to rise more than one
degree, ere it reached its climax.

On whose hand could the amiable Desiree swing thus selfishly, whose
glove could she tear thus recklessly, whose arm thus strain with
impunity, or on the borders of whose dress thus turn and trample
insolently, if not the hand, glove, arm, and robe of her lady-mother?
And there, in an Indian shawl and a pale-green crape bonnet--there,
fresh, portly, blithe, and pleasant--there stood Madame Beck.

Curious! I had certainly deemed Madame in her bed, and Desiree in her
crib, at this blessed minute, sleeping, both of them, the sleep of the
just, within the sacred walls, amidst the profound seclusion of the Rue
Fossette. Most certainly also they did not picture "Meess Lucie"