d a lamp-shade which once, in his own home, had
excited his childish imagination--an ugly lampshade of blue pasteboard
upon which was printed a nocturnal fete, the illuminations upon the
ducal palace being represented by a row of pin-pricks.

Once more I repeat it, never travel alone, and above all, never go
to Venice alone and without love! For young married people in their
honeymoon, or a pair of lovers, the gondola is a floating boudoir, a
nest upon the waters like a kingfisher's. But for one who is sad, and
who stretches himself upon the sombre cushions of the bark, the gondola
is a tomb.

Toward the last of January, Amedee suddenly returned to Paris. He would
not be obliged to see Maurice or his young bride at once. They had been
married one month and would remain in the South until the end of winter.
He was recalled by the rehearsals of his drama. The notary who had
charge of his affairs gave him twelve thousand pounds' income, a large
competency, which enabled him to work for the pure and disinterested
love of art, and without concessions to common people. The young poet
furnished an elegant apartment in an old and beautiful house on the
Quai d'Orsay, and sought out some of his old comrades--among others Paul
Sillery, who now held a distinguished place in journalism and reappeared
a little in society, becoming very quickly reconciled with life.

His first call was upon Madame Roger. He was very glad to see Maurice's
mother; she was a little sad, but indulgent to Maurice, and resigned to
her son's marriage, because she felt satisfied that he had acted like a
man of honor. He also went at once to Montmartre to embrace Louise and
Madame Gerard, who received him with great demonstrations. They were not
so much embarrassed in money matters, for Maurice was very generous
and had aided his wife's family. Louise gave lessons now for a proper
remuneration, and Madame Gerard was able to refuse, with tears of
gratitude, the poet's offer of assistance, who filially opened his purse
to her. He dined as usual with his old friends, and they had tact enough
not to say too much about the newly married ones; but there was one
empty place at the table. He was once more seized with thoughts of the
absent, and returned to his room that evening with an attack of the
blues.

The rehearsal of his piece, which had just begun at the Comedie
Francaise, the long sittings at the theatre, and the changes to be
made from day to day, were a