he will make a lot of money by going to America," she said. Then
she was silent for a few moments. "_Mon Dieu!_" she sighed, at last.
"How long the day has been!"

It was the beginning of many long days for Fleurette. Reginald did not
write from Cherbourg or cable from New York, as he had promised, and the
return American mail brought no letter. The days passed drearily.
Sometimes, for the sake of human society, she accompanied the tourist
parties of the Agence Pujol; but the thrill had passed from the Morgue
and the glory had departed from Versailles. Sometimes she wandered
out by herself into the streets and public gardens; but, pretty,
unprotected, and fragile, she attracted the attention of evil or
careless men, which struck cold terror into her heart. Most often she
sat alone and listless in the hotel, reading the feuilleton of the
_Petit Journal_, and waiting for the post to bring her news.

"_Mon Dieu_, M. Pujol, what can have happened?"

"Nothing at all, _chere petite madame_"--question and answer came many
times a day. "Only some foolish mischance which will soon be explained.
The good Reginald has written and his letter has been lost in the post.
He has been obliged to go on business to San Francisco or Buenos
Ayres--_et, que voulez-vous?_ one cannot have letters from those places
in twenty-four hours."

"If only he had taken me with him!"

"But, dear Mme. Fleurette, he could not expose you to the hardships
of travel. You, who are as fragile as a cobweb, how could you go to
Patagonia or Senegal or Baltimore, those wild places where there are no
comforts for women? You must be reasonable. I am sure you will get a
letter soon--or else in a day or two he will come, with his good, honest
face as if nothing had occurred--these English are like that--and call
for whisky and soda. Be comforted, _chere petite madame_."

Aristide did his best to comfort her, threw her in the companionship of
decent women staying at the hotel, and devoted his evenings to her
entertainment. But the days passed, and Reginald Batterby, with the
good, honest face, neither wrote nor ordered whisky and soda. Fleurette
began to pine and fade.

One day she came to Aristide.

"M. Pujol, I have no more money left."

"_Bigre!_" said Pujol. "The good Bocardon will have to give you credit.
I'll arrange it."

"But I already owe for three weeks," said Fleurette.

Aristide sought Bocardon. One week more was all the latter dared allow.

"