ld not stay to hear me thank him, and was half way down the
first flight before my sentence was finished. Just as I was going back
into my room, and about to close the door, he called after me from
the landing.

"_Hola, amigo_! When my picture is done, I mean to give a bachelor's
supper-party--chiefly students and _chicards_. Will you come?"

"Gladly."

"Adieu, then. I will let you know in time."

And with this, he broke out into a fragment of Beranger, gave a cheerful
good-night to Madame Bouisse in the hall, and was gone.

And now to enjoy my picture. Now to lock the door, and trim the lamp,
and place it up against a pile of books, and sit down before it in
silent rapture, like a devotee before the portrait of his patron saint.
Now I can gaze, unreproved, into those eyes, and fancy they are hers.
Now press my lips, unforbidden, upon that exquisite mouth, and believe
it warm. Ah, will her eyes ever so give back the look of love in mine?
Will her lips ever suffer mine to come so near? Would she, if she knew
the treasure I possessed, be displeased that I so worshipped it?

Hanging over it thus, and suffering my thoughts to stray on at their own
will and pleasure, I am startled by the fall of some heavy object in the
adjoining chamber. The fall is followed by a stifled cry, and then all
is again silent.

To unlock my door and rush to hers--to try vainly to open it--to cry
"Hortense! Hortense! what has happened? For Heaven's sake, what has
happened?" is the work of but an instant.

The antechamber lay between, and I remembered that she could not hear
me. I ran back, knocked against the wall, and repeated:--

"What has happened? Tell me what has happened?"

Again I listened, and in that interval of suspense heard her garments
rustle along the ground, then a deep sigh, and then the words:--

"Nothing serious. I have hurt my hand."

"Can you open the door?"

There was another long silence.

"I cannot," she said at length, but more faintly.

"In God's name, try!"

No answer.

"Shall I get over the balcony?"

I waited another instant, heard nothing, and then, without, further
hesitation, opened my own window and climbed the iron rail that
separated her balcony from mine, leaving my footsteps trampled in
the snow.

I found her sitting on the floor, with her body bent forward and her
head resting against the corner of a fallen bookcase. The scattered
volumes lay all about. A half-filled portmanteau stood