the thought that he had known this poor girl in her
innocence and youth, and the Gerards' name spoken in such a place,
filled the young man's heart with a singular sadness. He could only say
to Rosine, in a voice that trembled a little with pity:

"You! Is it you?"

Then she became red and very embarrassed, lowering her eyes.

Maurice had tact; he noticed that Rosine and Amedee were agitated, and,
feeling that he was de trop, he arose suddenly and said:

"Now then, Margot. Come on! these children want to talk over their
childhood, I think. Give up your acrostic, my child. Take my arm, and
come and have a turn."

When they were alone Amedee gazed at Rosine sadly. She was pretty, in
spite of her colorless complexion, a child of the faubourg, born with
a genius for dress, who could clothe herself on nothing-a linen gown, a
flower in her hat. One who lived on salads and vegetables, so as to buy
well-made shoes and eighteen-button gloves.

The pretty blonde looked at Amedee, and a timid smile shone in her
nut-brown eyes.

"Now, Monsieur Amedee," said she, at last, "it need not trouble you to
meet at Bullier's the child whom you once played with. What would have
been astonishing would be to find that I had become a fine lady. I am
not wise, it is true, but I work, and you need not fear that I go with
the first comer. Your friend is a handsome fellow, and very amiable, and
I accepted his attentions because he knew Margot, while with you it is
very different. It gives me pleasure to talk with you. It recalls Mamma
Gerard, who was so kind to me. What has become of her, tell me? and her
husband and her daughters?"

"Monsieur Gerard is dead," replied Amedee; "but the ladies are well, and
I see them often."

"Do not tell them that you met me here, will you? It is better not. If
I had had a good 'mother, like those girls, things would have turned out
differently for me. But, you remember, papa was always interested in his
politics. When I was fifteen years old he apprenticed me to a florist.
He was a fine master, a perfect monster of a man, who ruined me! I say,
Pere Combarieu has a droll trade now; he is manager of a Republican
journal--nothing to do--only a few months in prison now and then. I
am always working in flowers, and I have a little friend, a pupil at
Val-de-Grace, but he has just left as a medical officer for Algeria.
I was lonely all by myself, and this evening big Margot, whom I got
acquainted with in the s