evously overrated her capacity to bear--to
suffer. Instead of lightening the load she had assumed, the discovery
of her sister in the beloved had doubled it.

She had schooled herself to believe that to be near the object of her
love would be enough. She had thought that all else, being impossible,
might be subordinated to the great pleasure of presence. That to serve
him daily, to share after a fashion his smiles and sorrows, to be at
his elbow with her sympathy and counsel, would be her happiness,--all
that she could ask for in this world. It would be almost as good as
marriage, n'est-ce pas?

Fouchette was in error. Not wholly as to the last assumption; it was a
false theory, marriage or no marriage. Countless thousands of better
and more intellectual people have in other ways found, are finding,
will continue to find, it to be so.

Mlle. Fouchette's tactical training in the great normal school of
life had not embraced Love. Therefore no line of retreat had been
considered. She was not only defeated, she was overwhelmed.

All of her theories had vanished in a breath.

Instead of finding happiness in the happiness of those whom she loved,
it was torture,--the thumbscrew and the rack. It was terrible!

How could she have imagined that she might live contentedly under this
day after day?

The malice of Lerouge had been but the knock-out blow. It seemed to
her now that his part was not half so cruel as that one kiss,--the
kiss of Andree's, that had stolen hers, Fouchette's, from his warm
lips!

Yes, it was finished.

There was nothing to live for now. Her sun had set. The light had gone
out, leaving her alone, friendless, without a future.

The fact that she had herself willed it, brought it about, and that
she earnestly desired their happiness, made her despair none the less
dark and profound.

She felt that she must get away,--must escape in some way from the
consequences of her own folly.

She precipitated herself down the narrow stairs at the risk of her
neck and darted down the Rue St. Jacques half crazed with grief. She
had made no change in her attire, had not even paused to restrain the
blonde hair that fell over her face.

Rue St. Jacques is in high feather at this hour in the evening. It is
the hour of the jolly roysterer, male and female. Students, soldiers,
bohemians, and bums jostle each other on the corners, while the dame
de trottoir stealthily lurks in the shadows with one eye out for
po