d a
gold piece on the instrument, "You are alone to-day."

She started, looked up quickly, and passed on.

"The 'Marquise' is in a lofty mood," said the Italian, stooping as he
spoke, and picking the gold piece from the ground. "Take it, Vicomte, it
is yours, since she would have none of it."

Frederic uttered a sullen oath.

"And this has been going on for two months!" Fernando laughed, as he
stated this as a fact, "and every day the Marquise--by the way, why is
she called by that name!--repels the homage of the Vicomte!"

"Do you spend all your time watching me, Fernando? Take care, patience
has its limits!"

"I am glad to hear it. You bear too much from this girl!"

Frederic caught his arm. "Listen to me, Fernando, my brain reels with
mad projects. Help me to avenge myself on Fanfar--help me to carry off
this girl, and I belong to you, body and soul!"

"Well said!" answered the Italian, "as the bargain is concluded, suppose
we go to dinner?"

"But this girl?"

"We will talk of her to-night, and I am quite sure you will have no
reason to complain of me!"

CHAPTER XXIV.

THE MARQUISE.

Forty-eight hours have elapsed since the scenes we have described in the
last chapter, and the day is Mardi Gras. Opposite the Cafe Turc, which
in 1824 had a European reputation, stood a house of squalid appearance,
inhabited, because of the low rent at which rooms could be obtained, by
a number of modest tradespeople, who for the greater part of the year
carried on the numerous booths on the Square.

Before describing this picturesque corner of old Paris, unknown to the
present generation, we will enter this house to which we have alluded,
and which bore the number 42 of the Boulevard du Temple. In a room on
the fifth floor, the girl who was called the Marquise was finishing her
toilette before the mirror. A poor little room enough, with its faded
wall paper, its narrow bed pushed into the corner, its two chairs and
pine table. The window closed but imperfectly, and the wind blew out the
curtain like a sail. Colored prints were fastened against the wall, and
everything was exquisitely clean. A white napkin was spread upon the
table, and the bed had snowy curtains. The mirror at this moment was
worth more than any from Venice, for it reflected a charming Greuze-like
face.

The singer was twisting up her rebellious curls, and endeavoring to
bring her hair into some kind of order. Her complexion was exquisite,