melancholy-looking spot on the old
heights of Montfaucon. The grottos and bridges, the precipices and pine
groves, seemed to add to the general dreariness. But there was something
artificial and romantic in the place that pleased Ida by its resemblance
to a park. She allowed her dress to trail over the sand of the alleys,
admired the exotics, and would have liked to write her name on the
ruined wall, with the scores of others that were already there. When
they were tired with walking, they took their seats at the summit of the
hill, to enjoy the superb view that was spread out before them. Paris,
softened and veiled by dust and smoke, lay at their feet. The heights
around the faubourgs looked in the mist like an immense circle,
connected by Pere la Chaise on one side, and Montmartre on the other,
with Montfaucon; nearer them they could witness the enjoyment of the
people. In the winding alleys and under the groups of trees young
people were singing and dancing, while on the hillside, sitting amid
the yellowed grass, and on the dried red earth, families were gathered
together like flocks of sheep.

Ida saw all this with weary, contemptuous eyes, and her very attitude
said, "How inexpressibly tiresome it is!" Jack felt helpless before this
persistent melancholy. He thought he might make the acquaintance of some
one of these honest, simple families, and perhaps in their society his
mother might be cheered. Once he thought he had found what he wanted.
It was one Sunday. Before them walked an old man, rustic in appearance,
leading two little children, over whom he was bending with that
wonderful patience which only grandfathers are possessed of.

"I certainly know that man," said Jack to his mother; "it is--it must be
M. Rondic."

Rondic it was, but so aged and grown so thin, that it was a wonder
that his former apprentice had recognized him. The girl with him was a
miniature of Zenaide, while the boy looked like Maugin.

The good old man showed great pleasure in meeting Jack, but his smile
was sad, and then Jack saw that he wore crape on his hat. The youth
dared not ask a question until, as they turned a corner, Zenaide bore
down upon them like a ship under full sail. She had changed her plaited
skirt and ruffled cap for a Parisian dress and bonnet, and looked larger
than ever. She had the arm of her husband, who was now attached to one
of the custom-houses, and who was in uniform. Zenaide adored M. Maugin
and was absur