embles, the gutters steam, the
houses shake at the passing of the wagons, of the heavy drays rumbling
round the narrow streets. On a sudden the marquis stops; he has found
what he wanted. Between the black shop of a charcoal-seller and the
establishment of a packing-case maker, whose pine boards leaning on the
walls give him a little shiver, there is a wide door, surmounted by its
sign, the word BATHS on a dirty lantern. He enters, crosses a little
damp garden where a jet of water weeps in a rockery. Here is the gloomy
corner he was looking for. Who would ever believe that the Marquis de
Monpavon had come there to cut his throat? The house is at the end, low,
with green blinds and a glass door, with a sham air of a villa. He asks
for a bath, and while it is being prepared he smokes his cigar at the
window, with the noise of the water behind him, looks at the flower-bed
of sparse lilac, and the high walls which inclose it.

At the side there is a great yard, the court-yard of a fire station,
with a gymnasium, whose masts and swings, vaguely seen from below, look
like gibbets. A bugle-call sounds in the yard, and its call takes the
marquis thirty years back, reminds him of his campaigns in Algeria, the
high ramparts of Constantine, the arrival of Mora at the regiment, and
the duels, and the little parties. Ah! how well life began then! What a
pity that those cursed cards--ps--ps--ps--Well, it's something to have
saved appearances.

"Your bath is ready, sir," said the attendant.

At that moment, breathless and pale, Mme. Jenkins was entering Andre's
studio, where an instinct stronger than her will had brought her--the
wish to embrace her child before she died. When she opened the door (he
had given her a key) she was relieved to find that he was not there, and
that she would have time to calm her excitement, increased as it was by
the long walk to which she was so little accustomed. No one was there.
But on the table was the little note which he always left when he went
out, so that his mother, whose visits were becoming shorter and less
frequent on account of the tyranny of Jenkins, could tell where he was,
and wait for him or rejoin him easily. The two had not ceased to love
each other deeply, tenderly, in spite of the cruelty of life which
forced into the relations of mother and son the clandestine precautions
of an intrigue.

"I am at my rehearsal," said the note to-day, "I shall be back at
seven."

This attent