oice, fresh and beautifully toned, reached his
ears more and more distinctly.

She was singing a popular tune,--one of those songs which are
monthly put in circulation by the singing cafes--

"To hope! O charming word,
Which, during all life,
Husband and children and wife
Repeat in common accord!
When the moment of success
From us ever further slips,
'Tis Hope from its rosy lips
Whispers, To-morrow you will bless.
'Tis very nice to run,
But to have is better fun."

"She is in," murmured Maxence, breathing more freely.

Reaching the fourth story, he stopped before the door which faced
the stairs, and knocked lightly.

At once, the voice, which had just commenced another verse stopped
short, and inquired, "Who's there?"

"I, Maxence!"

"At this hour!" replied the voice with an ironical laugh. "That's
lucky. You have probably forgotten that we were to go to the
theatre last night, and start for St. Germain at seven o'clock
this morning."

"Don't you know then?" Maxence began, as soon as he could put in a
word.

"I know that you did not come home last night."

"Quite true. But when I have told you--"

"What? the lie you have imagined? Save yourself the trouble."

"Lucienne, I beg of you, open the door."

"Impossible, I am dressing. Go to your own room: as soon as I am
dressed, I'll join you."

And, to cut short all these explanations, she took up her song again:

"Hope, I've waited but too long
For thy manna divine!
I've drunk enough of thy wine,
And I know thy siren song:
Waiting for a lucky turn,
I have wasted my best days:
Take up thy magic-lantern
And elsewhere display its rays.
'Tis very nice to run,
But to have is better fun!"

XXVI

It was on the opposite side of the landing that what Mme. Fortin
pompously called "Maxence's apartment" was situated.

It consisted of a sort of antechamber, almost as large as a
handkerchief (decorated by the Fortins with the name of dining-room),
a bedroom, and a closet called a dressing-room in the lease.
Nothing could be more gloomy than this lodging, in which the ragged
paper and soiled paint retained the traces of all the wanderers who
had occupied it since the opening of the Hotel des Folies. The
dislocated ceiling was scaling off in la