ore a little rustic porch, half hidden by the
luxuriant branches of the vine which clustered round it.

"Now, Fleur-de-Marie, here we are. Are you pleased with what you see?"

"Indeed I am, M. Rodolph. But how shall I venture before the good person
you mentioned as living here? Pray do not let her see me,--I cannot
venture to approach her."

"And why, my child?"

"True, M. Rodolph; I forget she does not know me, and will not guess how
unworthy I am." And poor Fleur-de-Marie tried to suppress the deep sigh
that would accompany her words.

The arrival of Rodolph had, no doubt, been watched for; the driver had
scarcely opened the carriage door when a prepossessing female, of middle
age, dressed in the style of wealthy landholders about Paris, and whose
countenance, though melancholy, was also gentle and benevolent in its
expression, appeared in the porch, and with respectful eagerness
advanced to meet Rodolph.

Poor Goualeuse felt her cheeks flush and her heart beat as she timidly
descended from the vehicle.

"Good day, good day, Madame Georges," said Rodolph, advancing towards
the individual so addressed, "you see I am punctual." Then turning to
the driver, and putting money into his hand, he said, "Here, my friend,
there is no further occasion to detain you; you may return to Paris as
soon as you please."

The coachman, a little, short, square-built man, with his hat over his
eyes, and his countenance almost entirely concealed by the high collar
of his driving-coat, pocketed the money without a word, remounted his
seat, gave his horses the whip, and disappeared down the _allee verte_
by which he had entered.

Fleur-de-Marie sprang to the side of Rodolph, and with an air of
unfeigned alarm, almost amounting to distress, said, in a tone so low as
not to be overheard by Madame Georges:

"M. Rodolph! M. Rodolph! pray do not be angry, but why have you sent
away the carriage? Will it not return to fetch us away?"

"Of course not; I have quite done with the man, and therefore dismissed
him."

"But the ogress!"

"What of her? Why do you mention her name?"

"Alas! alas! because I must return to her this evening; indeed, indeed,
I must, or--or she will consider me a thief. The very clothes I have on
are hers, and, besides, I owe her--"

"Make yourself quite easy, my dear child; it is my part to ask your
forgiveness, not you mine."

"My forgiveness! Oh, for what can you require me to pardon you?"

"For not ha