s correct. For mark what he did.

He went to his room, which was already growing dark, shut his window,
lighted his big Dutch lamp, and sat down to write. "Something _must_ be
done," said he aloud, taking up his pen; "I will be calm and cool; I
will be distant and brief; but--I shall have to be kind or I may offend.
Ah! I shall have to write in French; I forgot that; I write it so
poorly, dunce that I am, when all my brothers and sisters speak it so
well." He got out his French dictionary. Two hours slipped by. He made a
new pen, washed and refilled his inkstand, mended his "abominable!"
chair, and after two hours more made another attempt, and another
failure. "My head aches," said he, and lay down on his couch, the better
to frame his phrases.

He was awakened by the Sabbath sunlight. The bells of the Cathedral and
the Ursulines' chapel were ringing for high mass, and a mocking-bird,
perching on a chimney-top above Madame John's rooms, was carolling,
whistling, mewing, chirping, screaming, and trilling with the ecstasy of
a whole May in his throat. "Oh! sleepy Kristian Koppig," was the young
man's first thought, "--such a dunce!"

Madame John and daughter did not go to mass. The morning wore away, and
their casement remained closed. "They are offended," said Kristian
Koppig, leaving the house, and wandering up to the little Protestant
affair known as Christ Church.

"No, possibly they are not," he said, returning and finding the shutters
thrown back.

By a sad accident, which mortified him extremely, he happened to see,
late in the afternoon,--hardly conscious that he was looking across the
street,--that Madame John was--dressing. Could it be that she was going
to the _Salle de Conde_? He rushed to his table, and began to write.

He had guessed aright. The wages were too precious to be lost. The
manager had written her a note. He begged to assure her that he was a
gentleman of the clearest cut. If he had made a mistake the previous
afternoon, he was glad no unfortunate result had followed except his
having been assaulted by a ruffian; that the _Danse du Shawl_ was
promised in his advertisement, and he hoped Madame John (whose wages
were in hand waiting for her) would not fail to assist as usual. Lastly,
and delicately put, he expressed his conviction that Mademoiselle was
wise and discreet in declining to entertain gentlemen at her home.

So, against much beseeching on the part of 'Tite Poulette, Madame John
w