carpet gave a sense
of luxury and deadened the tramp of footsteps; a marble mantel-piece was
surmounted by a mirror, and supported a handsome bronze clock and two
bronze ornaments. The furniture was of solid mahogany. A nameless French
odour pervaded the atmosphere, delicate, subtle, but unmistakeable. And
out of the open window, one could see a series of other lighted windows,
all of exactly the same tall graceful design, opening in the middle by
the same device and the same metal handle that had to be turned in order
to open or close the window. Within, the rooms obviously modelled
themselves on the one unvarying ideal. A few figures could be seen
coming and going, busy at work or play. Above the steep roofs, a
blue-black sky was alive with brilliant stars.

"_Merci;_" Madame required nothing more.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

"... Rushes life on a race
As the clouds the clouds chase;
And we go,
And we drop like the fruits of the tree,
Even we,
Even so."

Just at first, it was a sheer impossibility to do anything but bask and
bathe in the sunny present, to spend the days in wandering incredulously
through vernal Paris, over whose bursting freshness and brilliancy the
white clouds seemed to be driven, with the same joy of life. The city
was crammed; the inhabitants poured forth in swarms to enjoy, in true
French fashion, the genial warmth and the universal awakening after the
long capricious winter. It was actually hot in the sun, and fresh light
clothing became a luxury, like a bath after a journey. The year had
raised its siege, and there was sudden amity between man and Nature.
Shrivelled man could relax the tension of resistance to cold and damp
and change, and go forth into the sun with cordial _insouciance_. In
many of the faces might be read this kindly amnesty, although there were
some so set and fixed with past cares that not even the soft hand of a
Parisian spring could smooth away the lines, or even touch the spirit.

These Hadria passed with an aching pity. Circumstance had been to them a
relentless taskmaster. Perhaps they had not rubbed the magic ring of
will, and summoned the obedient genius. Perhaps circumstance had
forbidden them even the rag wherewith to rub--or the impulse.

Sallying forth from the _pension_, Hadria would sometimes pause, for a
moment, at the corner of the street, where it opened into th