So it was not to be wondered at that we did not see him. Clélie mentioned him to her young friend, but Mademoiselle's interest in him was only faint and ephemeral. She had not the spirit to rouse herself to any strong emotion. “I dare say he's an American,” she said. “There are plenty of Americans in Paris, but none of them seem a bit nearer to me than if they were French. They are all rich and fine, and they all like the life here better than the life at home. This is the first poor one I have heard of.” Each day brought fresh unhappiness to her. Madame was inexorable. She spent a fortune upon _toilette_ for her, and insisted upon dragging her from place to place, and wearying her with gayeties from which her sad young heart shrank. Each afternoon their equipage was to be seen upon the Champs Elysées, and each evening it stood before the door waiting to bear them to some place of festivity. Mademoiselle's _bête noir_, the marquis, who was a debilitated _roue_ in search of a fortune, attached himself to them upon all occasions. “Bah!” said Clélie with contempt, “she amazes one by her imbecility--this woman. Truly, one would imagine that her vulgar sharpness would teach her that his object is to use her as a tool, and that having gained Mademoiselle's fortune, he will treat them with brutality and derision.” But she did not seem to see--possibly she fancied that having obtained him for a son-in-law, she would be bold and clever enough to outwit and control him. Consequently, he was encouraged and fawned upon, and Mademoiselle grew thin and pale and large-eyed, and wore continually an expression of secret terror. Only in her visits to our fifth floor did she dare to give way to her grief, and truly at such times both my Clélie and I were greatly affected. Upon one occasion indeed she filled us both with alarm. “Do you know what I shall do?” she said, stopping suddenly in the midst of her weeping. “I'll bear it as long as I can, and then I'll put an end to it. There's--there's always the Seine left, and I've laid awake and thought of it many a night. Father and me saw a man taken out of it one day, and the people said he was a Tyrolean, and drowned himself because he was so poor and lonely--and--and so far from home.” Upon the very morning she made this speech I saw again our friend of the sixth floor. In going down-stairs I came upon him, sitting upon one of the steps as if exhausted, and when he turned his face upward, its pallor and haggardness startled me. His tall form was wasted, his eyes were hollow, the peculiarities I had before observed were doubly marked--he was even emaciated. “Monsieur,” I said in English, “you appear indisposed. You have been ill. Allow me to assist you to your room.” “No, thank you,” he answered. “It's only weakness. I--I sorter give out. Don't trouble yourself. I shall get over it directly.”