lover. She had believed that he loved her; but she had been neither foolish nor vain. She had said to herself some times, with a sigh, that an ignorant girl like her could not be the only love of a poet. Without doubt he would be attracted by other women, would charm them -- he was so charming-would be unfaithful to her. It would all pass, all end; she knew it well. She had only hoped that he would keep for her some little place in his friendship, that he would always have a little tenderness for her who had brought him happiness in his unhappy youth. He had sworn it to her a hundred times. If only she could see him, come near him-oh! not often; when he wanted her to take care of him, for example, if he were illshe would have been contented with a thoughtless caress, such as one gives in passing to the dog at the gate. But no; he had sent her away harshly, brutally. Oh! the wretch and the ingrate! And he had thrown to her, as a last outrage, that miserable money! Money! she no longer wanted anything. Her Jean had broken her heart. She should die! yes, she should die! And if death did not come, ah, well, there was water under the bridges and charcoal at the brazier's!

Nelly put her hand brusquely over her mouth. "What are you saying, poor little one?"

Prostrate before her rival, with her head on her knees, Mariette was silent, and now she wept, wept, wept.

Looking at the poor deserted child, Nelly felt herself moved with an immense pity. So, the unhappiness which she had under her eyes was her own work. In truth for the first time that she truly loved she was unfortunate. She could not be happy in doing such a wrong. And in pitying that poor little Mariette, whom Jean had sacrificed to her, she felt a confused sentiment of envy. She had never known herself that passion, so simple and sincere, that sweet grief. Mariette spoke of killing herself; certainly she would not do it. But, after all, she could die. She had loved, she had lived; hers had been a short but enchanted youth. Oh! how Nelly envied her that beautiful dream, even at the price of so bitter an awakening! But looking again at her victim, grief-stricken, with the great tears continually rolling from beneath her closed eyelids, pathetic

as a wounded bird, Nelly's kind heart was touched, and she was seized at the same time with a vague disgust, the beginning of a dislike for that Jean, for that egoist and charming poet, to whom she had so imprudently promised herself, in whom she had inspired, it must be confessed, that cruel deed, and who soon would make her suffer in her turn, without doubt, since she loved him.

"Tell me, my dear," she said to the young girl, who was a little calmer, "do you know for whom you are abandoned?"

"Alas! no," replied Mariette. "For some time I have seen that Jean was not the same to me. But I had so much confidence in him I smothered my suspicions; I even reproached myself for them. But the very existence of Jean was changed; he goes to the theatre now. And there, I suppose, he may have found some beautiful actress far more charming than I, with rich dresses, luxurious belongings, and those coquettish ways which make a man jealous. Ah! that is it certainly; I am lost in advance. For I, I only know how to love like a fool my Jean, and I have nothing to give him but my poor heart."

And while Mariette, in stammering words, poured out her grief, in the heart of Nelly Robin a desire was born-ah! a desire which hurt her, but imperious, irresistible-and this was it, that she should renounce Jean, and give him back to that poor little girl. She knew life; she knew what she would abandon. At thirty she loved for the first time, and it was delicious; it was very hard to pluck from the heart that tardy growth of love. It would never thereafter spring up again, she was certain of it. And it was not only Jean that she regretted, but the sentiment that she felt for him. Yes, it was hard! but the beautiful girl had passed through all manner of evil without losing at heart popular generosity and plebeian equity. Because her odorless bouquet of camellias had become distasteful to her, was that a reason why she should rob the child who passed her of her poor bouquet of violets worth two sous but fragrant? Lovely madame with three toilets a day, you would do the same, I am persuaded. You carry into your love affairs neither vanity nor self-love, and if the lover of your best friend should attempt to make love to you, it would be to you, I doubt not, excessively disagreeable. Agree with me,

young girl had first discreetly rappedalas! as if at a stranger's. But Jean, in his exasperation, had heard nothing. She appeared suddenly before him, intimidated, and lifting her eyes toward her ungrateful friend with the appealing, faithful look of a beaten dog.

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Nelly was not mistaken. A comparison of the two women flashed upon the imaginative poet--their two loves. How could he have thought of giving up that sincere child for a vain and perverse girl? He was seized with horror, and then came Mariette to be his consolation. Jean ran toward her, and strained her passionately to his heart. "Forgive me!" he said in a trembling voice; forgive me, my own, my Mariette! You are candor, you are sincerity, you are true happiness and honest love! And I was going to betray you, abandon you, for a deceiver, for a wretch! But it is all over, I swear to you, and as in the old days I hid nothing from you, here, read," he added, handing her the letter, "and see for what a worthless woman I was about to make you suffer so much, and become so infamous and so cowardly!"

Mariette, intoxicated and stupefied with happiness, seated herself, trembling, on a chair; and while the poet, fallen at her knees, hid his face, blushing for shame, in Mariette's lap, she read the strange letter and the name signed to it-Nelly Robin! So it was for Nelly Robin that Jean would have left her. It was to Nelly Robin that she had that very morning confided her unhappiness. And understanding at last the generous deceit and the magnanimous sacrifice of her rival, Mariette was touched to the depths of her heart.

VIII.

Now thirty years had passed since then, and the two old friends who have told me their story on a bench on the Esplanade des Invalides, on a warm afternoon in the early spring-time, were none other than Mariette and Nelly. Both sprung from the ranks of the people and from poverty, they had returned there in their old age, driven by adverse fate.

The poetic destiny of Jean Delly was a meteor. It burned only to disappear quickly. Soon after the success of the Night of Stars, and the book of verse which followed it and gave to the literary world the hope that a great poet was born, he became ill, languished, worked

no more. At scarcely twenty-five he died, worn out by consumption, in the arms of his faithful Mariette, to whom, egoist to the end, he left not even his name. With the scanty resources that were left to her, the poor girl hired a little store, trying to live by her trade. But she was neither clever in business nor adroit at her trade; her establishment did not succeed; and she was too happy, thanks to the little money still left her, to buy the stock and good-will of a newsstand in the Gros-Caillou, where she vegetated, selling stationery and newspapers. Her capacity for suffering died at the bedside of Jean, in the long nights of watching, and her heart closed forever at the last sigh of the poet. Moreover, her feminine charm, all her grace and freshness, faded soon. Little by little, through hard work, through grief, through solitude, she gave up, and became rapidly an old woman, with her cape and linen bonnet.

Nelly, on the contrary, remained beautiful until forty, and continued her life of gayety at St. Petersburg until she was stricken down by paralysis. Her fall was sudden and terrible. Returning to Paris almost powerless, she lived there some time on what she had saved from the wreck, and the sum received from a benefit given her at St. Petersburg. But being without foresight, she soon knew misery again. Her old admirers were dead or scattered. She was forced to accept from some of her comrades of other days, happier or wiser than she, the humiliating position of a friend in need, to whom one gives, now and then, a louis or an old dress. Soon even such wretched alms failed her. Her wearying distressand her infirmities were tiresome. Then, even in her unhappiness, the wretched woman took a little courage. She remembered that, after all, when she was young, she had been ill clad, and often breakfasted on a sausage that was not over-good. As an old actress, she could count on help, very little, but regular, from the Administration des Beaux-Arts and some charitable societies. She sold her last flaunting rags, hired a garret in an obscure quarter near the Champ de Mars, and resigned herself to living in poverty, but without ignominy.

And so one day, to buy her Petit Journal, Nelly Robin, who had had princes of blood at her feet, but whose aspect at present was that of an old wool-carder,,

entered the shop of Mariette-Mother Mariette, as they commenced to call her at the Faubourg.

They had met but once in their life, but at what an unforgettable hour! They looked a long time at each other, and, notwithstanding their faces so cruelly ravaged, they recognized at last the look which never changes.

"But-you are Mariette?"
"You are Nelly Robin!"

And, with hearts beating, suffocated with emotion, the two women approached each other, seized hands, and embraced, weeping. They lived every day to talk of the past. Mariette told Nelly then how grateful she had always been to her for having once spared her; and Nelly could tell Mariette that that love which she had given up before the unhappiness of her rival, had been the sole love of her wild life, at the bottom so sad.

There was to them both an infinite sweetness in speaking of the beloved dead. In remembering him they loved each other. They soon decided to live together, and the good Mariette took the best care in her power of the invalid, and little by little the old actress, by force of example, learned habits of order and neatness. The partnership of their two miseries became supportable. How neat and respectable the two old friends were on the day when they made me their confidant! One would have taken them for two very respectable old ladies, I as

sure you. With what an affectionate gesture Mariette warmed in her hands the almost powerless hand of the paralytic! And how the eyes of Nelly Robin burned with gratitude in looking at her friend, those eyes, still lovely, which had once fired with desire the theatreful of spectators!

"You can have no idea, monsieur, of her devotion to me." said the aged actress, in finishing her story. "But she is a treasure, that Mariette! And so ingenious, so economical! With our four sous together, we lack nothing, truly. Never a complaint, an impatient word, though I am always sick and very troublesome. The most tender girl could do no more. And why is she thus, I ask you. Because, once upon a time, a long while ago, I saw her unhappy and I had a good heart. Tell me if for so little should she think herself my debtor."

But the other interrupted her with a look, and I shall never forget the deep and passionate tone with which she said these words: