her
thin, bent shoulders wrapped up in an old black shawl, had already
forgotten her own grief and only thought of the happiness of others, as
she slowly dragged herself up Montmartre Hill. When she reached the
butcher's shop in front of the mayor's office, she remembered a request
of her mother's; and as is always the case with the poor, a trivial
detail is mixed with the drama of life. Louise, without forgetting her
thoughts, while sacrificing her own heart, went into the shop and picked
out two breaded cutlets and had them done up in brown paper, for their
evening's repast.

The day after his conversation with Louise, Amedee felt that distressing
impatience that waiting causes nervous people. The day at the office
seemed unending, and in order to escape solitude, at five o'clock he went
to Maurice's studio, where he had not been for fifteen days. He found him
alone, and the young artist also seemed preoccupied. While Amedee
congratulated him upon a study placed upon an easel, Maurice walked up
and down the room with his hands in his pocket, and eyes upon the floor,
making no reply to his friend's compliments. Suddenly he stopped and
looking at Amedee said:

"Have you seen the Gerard ladies during the past few days?"

Maurice had not spoken of these ladies for several months, and the poet
was a trifle surprised.

"Yes," he replied. "Not later than yesterday I met Mademoiselle Louise."

"And," replied Maurice, in a hesitating manner, "were all the family
well?"

"Yes."

"Ah!" said the artist, in a strange voice, and he resumed his silent
promenade.

Amedee always had a slightly unpleasant sensation when Maurice spoke the
name of the Gerards, but this time the suspicious look and singular tone
of the young painter, as he inquired about them, made the poet feel
genuinely uneasy. He was impressed, above all, by Maurice's simple
exclamation, "Ah!" which seemed to him to be enigmatical and mysterious.
But nonsense! all this was foolish; his friend's questions were perfectly
natural.

"Shall we pass the evening together, my dear Maurice?"

"It is impossible this evening," replied Maurice, still continuing his
walk. "A duty--I have an engagement."

Amedee had the feeling that he had come at an unfortunate time, and
discreetly took his departure. Maurice had seemed indifferent and less
cordial than usual.

"What is the matter with him?" said the poet to himself several times,
while dining in the little restau