red me with a feeling of relief!

I naturally expected that the old Frenchman would return with me to his
niece, and tell me what had happened. To my surprise, he begged that
I would excuse him, and left me without a word of explanation. I found
Jeanne walking up and down her little sitting-room, flushed and angry.
Fragments of torn paper and heaps of flowers littered the floor; and
three unopen jewel-cases appeared to have been thrown into the empty
fireplace. She caught me excitedly by the hand the moment I entered the
room.

"You are my true friend," she said; "you were present the other night
when I sang. Was there anything in my behavior on the stage which could
justify men who call themselves gentlemen in insulting me?"

"My dear, how can you ask the question?"

"I must ask it. Some of them send flowers, and some of them send
jewels; and every one of them writes letters--infamous, abominable
letters--saying they are in love with me, and asking for appointments as
if I was--"

She could say no more. Poor dear Jeanne--her head dropped on
my shoulder; she burst out crying. Who could see her so cruelly
humiliated--the faithful loving daughter, whose one motive for appearing
on the stage had been to preserve her father's good name--and not feel
for her as I did? I forgot all considerations of prudence; I thought of
nothing but consoling her; I took her in my arms; I dried her tears; I
kissed her; I said, "Tell me the name of any one of the wretches who has
written to you, and I will make him an example to the rest!" She shook
her head, and pointed to the morsels of paper on the floor. "Oh, Ernest,
do you think I asked you to come here for any such purpose as that?
Those jewels, those hateful jewels, tell me how I can send them back!
spare me the sight of them!"

So far it was easy to console her. I sent the jewels at once to the
manager of the theater--with a written notice to be posted at the stage
door, stating that they were waiting to be returned to the persons who
could describe them.

"Try, my dear, to forget what has happened," I said. "Try to find
consolation and encouragement in your art."

"I have lost all interest in my success on the stage," she answered,
"now I know the penalty I must pay for it. When my father's memory
is clear of reproach, I shall leave the theater never to return to it
again."

"Take time to consider, Jeanne."

"I will do anything you ask of me."

For a while we were sile