find ours in the street.  When we unmasked in the theatre, you know, I did not know you were my landlord, and you did not know that I could not pay a few picayunes of rent.  But you must excuse those tears; Clotilde is generally a brave little woman, and would not be so rude as to weep before a stranger; but she is weak to-day—­we are both weak to-day, from the fact that we have eaten nothing since early morning, although we have abundance of food—­for want of appetite, you understand.  You must sometimes be affected the same way, having the care of so much wealth of all sorts.”

Honore Grandissime had risen to his feet and was standing with one hand on the edge of the lofty mantel, his hat in the other dropped at his side and his eye fixed upon Aurora’s beautiful face, whence her small nervous hand kept dashing aside the tears through which she defiantly talked and smiled.  Clotilde sat with clenched hands buried in her lap, looking at Aurora and still weeping.

And M. Grandissime was saying to himself: 

“If I do this thing now—­if I do it here—­I do it on an impulse; I do it under constraint of woman’s tears; I do it because I love this woman; I do it to get out of a corner; I do it in weakness, not in strength; I do it without having made up my mind whether or not it is the best thing to do.”

And then, without intention, with scarcely more consciousness of movement than belongs to the undermined tree which settles, roots and all, into the swollen stream, he turned and moved toward the door.

Clotilde rose.

“Monsieur Grandissime.”

He stopped and looked back.

“We will see Palmyre at once, according to your request.”

He turned his eyes toward Aurora.

“Yes,” said she, and she buried her face in her handkerchief and sobbed aloud.

She heard his footstep again; it reached the door; the door opened—­closed; she heard his footstep again; was he gone?

He was gone.

The two women threw themselves into each other’s arms and wept.  Presently Clotilde left the room.  She came back in a moment from the rear apartment, with a bonnet and veil in her hands.

“No,” said Aurora, rising quickly, “I must do it.”

“There is no time to lose,” said Clotilde.  “It will soon be dark.”

It was hardly a minute before Aurora was ready to start.  A kiss, a sorrowful look of love exchanged, the veil dropped over the swollen eyes, and Aurora was gone.

A minute passed, hardly more, and—­what was this?—­the soft patter of Aurora’s knuckles on the door.

“Just here at the corner I saw Palmyre leaving her house and walking down the rue Royale.  We must wait until morn—­”

Again a footfall on the doorstep, and the door, which was standing ajar, was pushed slightly by the force of the masculine knock which followed.

“Allow me,” said the voice of Honore Grandissime, as Aurora bowed at the door.  “I should have handed you this; good-day.”