lowers were engulfed. But in the midst of all this I am very unhappy,
madame."

A tear of rage fell from his eyes and affected the countess.

"You men have such a passion for singularity."

"And you?" said Thaddeus.

"I know Adam so well that I am certain he could forget me for some
mountebank like your Malaga. Where did you first see her?"

"At Saint-Cloud, last September, on the fete-day. She was at a corner of
a booth covered with flags, where the shows are given. Her comrades,
all in Polish costumes, were making a horrible racket. I watched her
standing there, silent and dumb, and I thought I saw a melancholy
expression in her face; in truth there was enough about her to sadden a
girl of twenty. That touched me."

The countess was sitting in a delicious attitude, pensive and rather
melancholy.

"Poor, poor Thaddeus!" she exclaimed. Then, with the kindliness of a
true great lady she added, not without a malicious smile, "Well go, go
to your Circus."

Thaddeus took her hand, kissed it, leaving a hot tear upon it, and went
out.

Having invented this passion for a circus-rider, he bethought him
that he must give it some reality. The only truth in his tale was the
momentary attention he had given to Malaga at Saint-Cloud; and he had
since seen her name on the posters of the Circus, where the clown, for
a tip of five francs, had told him that the girl was a foundling, stolen
perhaps. Thaddeus now went to the Circus and saw her again. For ten
francs one of the grooms (who take the place in circuses of the dressers
at a theatre) informed him that Malaga was named Marguerite Turquet, and
lived on the fifth story of a house in the rue des Fosses-du-Temple.

The following day Paz went to the faubourg du Temple, found the house,
and asked to see Mademoiselle Turquet, who during the summer was
substituting for the leading horsewoman at the Cirque-Olympique, and a
supernumerary at a boulevard theatre in winter.

"Malaga!" cried the portress, rushing into the attic, "there's a fine
gentleman wanting you. He is getting information from Chapuzot, who is
playing him off to give me time to tell you."

"Thank you, M'ame Chapuzot; but what will he think of me if he finds me
ironing my gown?"

"Pooh! when a man's in love he loves everything about us."

"Is he an Englishman? they are fond of horses."

"No, he looks to me Spanish."

"That's a pity; they say Spaniards are always poor. Stay here with me,
M'ame Chapuzot;