e lovely Madame Jenkins, with a very
marked inflection of respect for that personage out of the _Thousand
and One Nights_, of whom all Paris had been talking for a month; then,
after a moment's hesitation, she whispered between the heavy hangings,
very softly, very lovingly, for the doctor's ear alone: "Be sure and
not forget what you promised me."

It was probably a promise very difficult to keep, for, at the reminder,
the apostle's brows contracted, his smile froze upon his lips, his
whole face assumed an incredibly harsh expression; but it was a matter
of a moment. The faces of these fashionable physicians become very
expert in lying, by the bedsides of their wealthy patients. With his
most affectionate, most cordial manner, and showing a row of dazzling
teeth, he replied:

"What I promised shall be done, Madame Jenkins. Now, go in at once and
close your window. The mist is cold this morning."

Yes, the mist was cold, but white as snow; and, hovering outside the
windows of the comfortable coupe, it lighted up with soft reflections
the newspaper in the doctor's hands. Over yonder in the dark, crowded,
populous quarters, in the Paris of tradesmen and workmen, they know
nothing of the pretty morning mist that loiters on the broad avenues;
the bustle of the waking hours, the passing and repassing of
market-gardeners' wagons, omnibuses, drays loaded with old iron, soon
chop it and rend it and scatter it. Each passer-by carries away a
little of it on a threadbare coat, a worn muffler, or coarse gloves
rubbing against each other. It drenches the shivering blouses, the
waterproofs thrown over working dresses; it blends with all the
breaths, hot with insomnia or alcohol, buries itself in the depths of
empty stomachs, penetrates the shops which are just opening their
doors, dark courtyards, staircases, where it stands on the balusters
and walls, and fireless garrets. That is why so little of it remains
out-of-doors. But in that open, stately portion of Paris where Dr.
Jenkins' patients lived, on those broad tree-lined boulevards, those
deserted quays, the mist soared immaculate, in innumerable waves, as
light and fleecy as down. It was compact, discreet, almost luxurious,
because the sun, slothful in his rising, was beginning to diffuse soft,
purplish tints, which gave to the mist that enveloped everything, even
the roofs of the rows of mansions, the aspect of a sheet of white
muslin spread over scarlet cloth. One would hav