it," she replied; "I have been here three months. Lest
anything should happen, it might be well for you to give me your
address."

"I am with Madame Gravois, in the Rue Bienville."

"Madame Gravois, in the Rue Bienville," she repeated. "I shall remember.
A demain, Monsieur." She courtesied and went swiftly into Mrs. Temple's
room. Seizing my hat, I opened the door and found myself in the dark
street.

CHAPTER VII. THE DISPOSAL OF THE SIEUR DE ST. GRE

I had met Helene de St. Gre at last. And what a fool she must think me!
As I hurried along the dark banquettes this thought filled my brain for
a time to the exclusion of all others, so strongly is vanity ingrained
in us. After all, what did it matter what she thought,--Madame la
Vicomtesse d'Ivry-le-Tour? I had never shone, and it was rather late to
begin. But I possessed, at least, average common sense, and I had given
no proof even of this.

I wandered on, not heeding the command which she had given me,--to go
home. The scent of camellias and magnolias floated on the heavy air of
the night from the court-yards, reminding me of her. Laughter and soft
voices came from the galleries. Despite the Terror, despite the Faubourg
Saint-Antoine, despite the Rights of Man and the wars and suffering
arising therefrom, despite the scourge which might come to-morrow, life
went gayly on. The cabarets echoed, and behind the tight blinds lines of
light showed where the Creole gentry gamed at their tables, perchance in
the very clubs Madame la Vicomtesse had mentioned.

The moon, in her first quarter, floated in a haze. Washed by her light,
the quaintly wrought balconies and heavy-tiled roofs of the Spanish
buildings, risen from the charred embers, took on a touch of romance.
I paused once with a twinge of remembrance before the long line of the
Ursuline convent, with its latticed belfry against the sky. There
was the lodge, with its iron gates shut, and the wall which Nick had
threatened to climb. As I passed the great square of the new barracks,
a sereno (so the night watchmen were called) was crying the hour. I
came to the rambling market-stalls, casting black shadows on the river
road,--empty now, to be filled in the morning with shouting marchands.
The promenade under the willows was deserted, the great river stretched
away under the moon towards the forest line of the farther shore,
filmy and indistinct. A black wisp of smoke rose from the gunwale of a
flatboat, and I s