emen were whirling around as well. It's
true; I am not telling fibs. Why, don't you believe me, mamma dear?"

Helene's continued silence was beginning to vex Jeanne. She nestled
closer, and gave her mother's hand a shake. But, perceiving that she
drew only a few words from her, she herself, by degrees, lapsed into
silence, into thought of the incidents of that ball of which her heart
was full. Both mother and daughter now sat mutely gazing on Paris all
aflame. It seemed to them yet more mysterious than ever, as it lay
there illumined by blood-red clouds, like some city of an old-world
tale expiating its lusts under a rain of fire.

"Did you have any round dances?" all at once asked Helene, as if
wakening with a start.

"Yes, yes!" murmured Jeanne, engrossed in her turn.

"And the doctor--did he dance!"

"I should think so; he had a turn with me. He lift me up and asked me:
'Where is your mamma? where is your mamma?' and then he kissed me."

Helene unconsciously smiled. What need had she of knowing Henri well?
It appeared sweeter to her not to know him--ay, never to know him well
--and to greet him simply as the one whose coming she had awaited so
long. Why should she feel astonished or disquieted? At the fated hour
he had met her on her life-journey. Her frank nature accepted whatever
might be in store; and quietude, born of the knowledge that she loved
and was beloved, fell on her mind. She told her heart that she would
prove strong enough to prevent her happiness from being marred.

But night was coming on and a chilly breeze arose. Jeanne, still
plunged in reverie, began to shiver. She reclined her head on her
mother's bosom, and, as though the question were inseparably connected
with her deep meditation, she murmured a second time: "Do you love
me?"

Then Helene, her face still glad with smiles, took her head within her
hands and for a moment examined her face closely. Next she pressed a
long kiss near her mouth, over a ruddy spot on her skin. It was there,
she could divine it, that Henri had kissed the child!

The gloomy ridge of the Meudon hills was already partially concealing
the disc of the sun. Over Paris the slanting beams of light had yet
lengthened. The shadow cast by the dome of the Invalides--increased to
stupendous proportions--covered the whole of the Saint-Germain
district; while the Opera-House, the Saint-Jacques tower, the columns
and the steeples, threw streaks of darkness over the right b