his cashmeres still browsing on the plains of Tibet, and his rosewood
furniture still growing in the forests of the New World.

The schoolboy was soon replaced by a Breton gentleman, with whom Mimi
was soon rapidly smitten, and she had no need to pray long before
becoming his nominal countess.

Despite his mistress's protestations, Rodolphe had wind of some
intrigue. He wanted to know exactly how matters stood, and one morning,
after a night during which Mademoiselle Mimi had not returned, hastened
to the place where he suspected her to be. There he was able to strike
home at his heart with one of those proofs to which one must give
credence in spite of oneself. He saw Mademoiselle Mimi, with two eyes
encircled with an aureola of satisfied voluptuousness, leaving the
residence in which she had acquired her title of nobility, on the arm of
her new lord and master, who, to tell the truth, appeared far less proud
of her new conquest than Paris after the rape of Helen.

On seeing her lover appear, Mademoiselle Mimi seemed somewhat surprised.
She came up to him, and for five minutes they talked very quietly
together. They then parted, each on their separate way. Their separation
was agreed upon.

Rodolphe returned home, and spent the day in packing up all the things
belonging to his mistress.

During the day that followed his divorce, he received the visit of
several friends, and announced to them what had happened. Every one
congratulated him on this event as on a piece of great good fortune.

"We will aid you, oh poet!" said one of those who had been the most
frequent spectator of the annoyances Mademoiselle Mimi had made Rodolphe
undergo, "we will help you to free your heart from the clutches of this
evil creature. In a little while you will be cured, and quite ready to
rove with another Mimi along the green lanes of Aulnay and
Fontenay-aux-Roses."

Rodolphe swore that he had forever done with regrets and despair. He
even let himself be led away to the Bal Mabille, when his dilapidated
get-up did scant honor to "The Scarf of Iris," his editorship of which
procured him free admission to this garden of elegance and pleasure.
There Rodolphe met some fresh friends, with whom he began to drink. He
related to them his woes an unheard of luxury of imaginative style, and
for an hour was perfectly dazzling with liveliness and go. "Alas!" said
the painter Marcel, as he listened to the flood of irony pouring from
his friend