he room. "But what is
here?" continued I, brushing up to the next door.

The concierge caught me by the arm, and drew me back. Then he raised
himself forward on tip-toe, and whispered, "_C'nt le Monsieur Very._"

I knew from its position it must have been the little casement which
looked upon the corridor. There was another door opposite; I brushed
up to this, and was again drawn back by the concierge.

"Who is here?" said I.

"_La Mademoiselle Marie_," said the concierge, and put his finger on
his lip.

"Is she young?" said I, following the concierge down the stairway.

"_Oui, monsieur._"

"And pretty?"

"_Oui, monsieur._"

"I have never seen her," said I.

"_Ma foi_, that is not strange, monsieur."

"And she has been here--?"

"A month."

"Perhaps she is rich," said I.

"_Mon Dieu!_" said the concierge, turning round to look at me, "and
live in such a chamber?"

"But she dresses richly," said I.

"_Eh bien!_ you have seen her, then!" exclaimed briskly the little
concierge.

By this time we were in the court again. My search had only stimulated
my curiosity tenfold more. I half fancied the concierge began to
suspect my inquiries. Yet I determined to venture a single further
one. It was just as I was carelessly leaving the court--"_Mais_, _la
mademoiselle_, is, perhaps, the daughter of Monsieur Very, eh,
monsieur?"

"_Ma foi_, I cannot tell you, monsieur," said the little
concierge--and he closed his door.

I told the abbe of my search. He smiled, and shook his head.

I described to him the person of Monsieur Very, and told him he must
keep his eye upon him, and, if possible, clear up the strange mystery
of the window in the court.

The abbe shook his finger doubtingly, yet gave me a half promise.

Three days only were left to me; I cast up anxious glances each
morning of my stay, but there was nothing but the placard and a bit of
the veil to be seen--the little shoe was gone. My last evening I
passed with the abbe, and came away late. I stopped five minutes on
the corridor, just outside the wicket; the moon was shining bright,
and the stars were out, but the window at the top of the court was
dark--all dark.

PART II.

Poor Clerie! but I have told his story,[A] so I will not tell it
again. It made a sad greeting for me on the lips of the abbe, when I
first came back to the city after a half year's absence; and it will
not, I am sure, seem strange that seeing the abbe in his priest-r