now our self-confessed dolt turned back from a half-hour's walk,
concluding there might be an answer to his note. "Surely Madame John
will appear this time." He knocked. The shutter stirred above, and
something white came fluttering wildly down like a shot dove. It was his
own letter containing the fifty-dollar bill. He bounded to the wicket,
and softly but eagerly knocked again.

"Go away," said a trembling voice from above.

"Madame John?" said he; but the window closed, and he heard a step, the
same step on the stair. Step, step, every step one step deeper into his
heart. 'Tite Poulette came to the closed door.

"What will you?" said the voice within.

"I--I--don't wish to see you. I wish to see Madame John."

"I must pray Monsieur to go away. My mother is at the _Salle de Conde_."

"At the ball!" Kristian Koppig strayed off, repeating the words for want
of definite thought. All at once it occurred to him that at the ball he
could make Madame John's acquaintance with impunity. "Was it courting
sin to go?" By no means; he should, most likely, save a woman from
trouble, and help the poor in their distress.

Behold Kristian Koppig standing on the floor of the _Salle de Conde_. A
large hall, a blaze of lamps, a bewildering flutter of fans and floating
robes, strains of music, columns of gay promenaders, a long row of
turbaned mothers lining either wall, gentlemen of the portlier sort
filling the recesses of the windows, whirling waltzers gliding here and
there--smiles and grace, smiles and grace; all fair, orderly, elegant,
bewitching. A young Creole's laugh mayhap a little loud, and--truly
there were many sword-canes. But neither grace nor foulness satisfied
the eye of the zealous young Dutchman.

Suddenly a muffled woman passed him, leaning on a gentleman's arm. It
looked like--it must be, Madame John. Speak quick, Kristian Koppig; do
not stop to notice the man!

"Madame John"--bowing--"I am your neighbor, Kristian Koppig."

Madame John bows low, and smiles--a ball-room smile, but is frightened,
and her escort,--the manager,--drops her hand and slips away.

"Ah! Monsieur," she whispers excitedly, "you will be killed if you stay
here a moment. Are you armed? No. Take this." She tried to slip a dirk
into his hands, but he would not have it.

"Oh, my dear young man, go! Go quickly!" she plead, glancing furtively
down the hall.

"I wish you not to dance," said the young man.

"I have danced already; I am g