ing the
pleasures of a beautiful evening, watching, in the golden sky, around the
spires of Ste.-Chapelle, a large flock of swallows assembling for their
approaching departure.

At nightfall, after dining, he resolved to baffle his impatience by
working all the evening and retouching one act of his drama with which he
was not perfectly content. He went to his room, lighted his lamp, and
seated himself before his open manuscript. Now, then! to work! He had
been silly ever since the night before. Why should he imagine that
misfortune was in the air? Do such things as presentiments exist?

Suddenly, three light, but hasty and sharp knocks were struck upon his
door. Amedee arose, took his lamp, and opened it. He jumped back--there
stood Louise Gerard in her deep mourning!

"You?--At my rooms?--At this hour?--What has happened?"

She entered and dropped into the poet's armchair. While he put the lamp
upon the table he noticed that the young girl was as white as wax. Then
she seized his hands and pressing them with all her strength, she said,
in a voice unlike her own--a voice hoarse with despair:

"Amedee, I come to you by instinct, as toward our only friend, as to a
brother, as to the only man who will be able to help us repair the
frightful misfortune which overwhelms us!" She stopped, stifled with
emotion.

"A misfortune!" exclaimed the young man. "What misfortune? Maria?"

"Yes! Maria!"

"An accident?--An illness?"

Louise made a rapid gesture with her arm and head which signified: "If it
were only that!" With her mouth distorted by a bitter smile and with
lowered eyes, talking confusedly, she said:

"Monsieur Maurice Roger--yes--your friend Maurice! A miserable
wretch!--he has deceived and ruined the unhappy child! Oh! what
infamy!--and now--now--"

Her deathly pale face flushed and became purple to the roots of her hair.

"Now Maria will become a mother!"

At these words the poet gave a cry like some enraged beast; he reeled,
and would have fallen had the table not been near. He sat down on the
edge of it, supporting himself with his hands, completely frozen as if
from a great chill. Louise, overcome with shame, sat in the armchair,
hiding her face in her hands while great tears rolled down between the
fingers of her ragged gloves.

ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS:

Good form consists, above all things, in keeping silent
Intimate friend, whom he has known for about five minutes
My good