ve set it there. I gave up all hope of seeing the beautiful
_Marie_ again.

"You remember, _mon ami_, the pretty little houses along the Rue de
Paris, at Passy, with the linden trees in front of them, and the clear
marble door-steps?"

"_Tres bien, mon cher abbe._"

"It is not many months since I was passing by them, and saw at the
window of one, the same sad face which I saw last at the grave. I went
in, _mon ami_. I made myself known as the attendant on her father's
death. She took my hand at this--ah, the soft white hand."

The abbe sipped his wine.

"She seemed sadly in want of friends, though there were luxuries
around her. She was dressed in white, her hair twisted back, and
fastened with a simple gold pin. Her sleeves were loose, and reached
but a little way below the elbow; and she wore a rose on her bosom,
and about her neck, by a little gold chain, a coral crucifix.

"I told her I had made numerous inquiries for her. She smiled her
thanks.

"I told her I had ventured to inquire, too, for the friend, Remy, of
whom her father had spoken; at this she put both hands to her face,
and burst into tears.

"I begged pardon; I feared she had not found her friend.

"'_Mon Dieu!_' said she, looking at me earnestly, '_il est_--_il etait
mon mari!_'

"She burst into tears. What could I say? He is dead, too, then?"

"'_Ah, non, non, monsieur_--worse--_Mon Dieu! quel mariage!_' and she
buried her face in her hands.

"What could I do, _mon cher_? The _friend_ had betrayed her. They told
me as much at Passy."

Again the abbe stopped.

"She talked with a strange smile of her father; she wanted to visit
his grave again. She took the rose from her bosom--it was from his
grave--and kissed it, and then--crushed it in her hand--'Oh, God!
what should I do now with flowers?' said she.

"I never saw her again. She went to her father's grave--but not to
pick roses.

"_She is there now_," said the abbe.

There was a long pause. The abbe did not want to speak--nor did I.

At length I asked if he knew any thing of Remy.

"You may see him any day up the Champs Elysiens," said the abbe. "Ah,
_mon ami_, there are many such. Poverty and shame may not come on him
again; wealth may pamper him, and he may fatten on the world's smiles;
but there is a time coming--it is coming, _mon cher_, when he will go
away--where God judgeth, and not man."

Our dinner was ended. The abbe and myself took a _voiture_ to go to
Pere la Ch