ty as I now did, I knew little and cared less for
these academic crises. The success of one candidate was as unimportant
to me as the failure of another; and I had more than once read the
crowned poem of the prize essay without even glancing at the name or the
fortunate author.

Now it happened that, pacing to and fro under the budding acacias of the
Palais Royal garden one sunny spring-like morning, some three or four
weeks after the conversation last recorded, I was pursued by a
persecuting newsvender with a hungry eye, mittened fingers, and a shrill
voice, who persisted in reiterating close against my ear:--

"News of the day, M'sieur!--news of the day. Frightful murder in the Rue
du Faubourg St. Antoine--state of the Bourse--latest despatches from the
seat of war--prize poem crowned by the Academie Francaise--news of the
day, M'sieur! Only forty centimes! News of the day!"

I refused, however, to be interested in any of those topics, turned a
deaf ear to his allurements, and peremptorily dismissed him. I then
continued my walk in solitary silence.

At the further extremity of the square, near the _Galerie Vitree_ and
close beside the little newspaper kiosk, stood a large tree since cut
down, which at that time served as an advertising medium, and was daily
decorated with a written placard, descriptive of the contents of the
_Moniteur_, the _Presse_, and other leading papers. This placard was
generally surrounded by a crowd of readers, and to-day the crowd of
readers was more than usually dense.

I seldom cared in these days for what was going on in the busy outside
world; but this morning, my attention having been drawn to the subject,
I amused myself, as I paced to and fro, by watching the eager faces of
the little throng of idlers. Presently I fell in with the rest, and
found myself conning the placard on the tree.

The name that met my astonished eyes on that placard was the name of
Hortense Dufresnoy.

The sentence ran thus:--

"Grand Biennial Prize for Poetry--Subject: _The Pass of
Thermopylae_,--Successful Candidate, _Mademoiselle Hortense Dufresnoy_."

Breathless, I read the passage twice; then, hearing at a little distance
the shrill voice of the importunate newsvender, I plunged after him and
stopped him, just as he came to the--

"Frightful murder in the Rue du Faubourg Saint ..."

"Here," said I, tapping him on the shoulder; "give me one of your
papers."

The man's eyes glittered.

"Only