Between two goddesses can no man stand, not even the maiden wooer of the great goddess Chance, when a greater than she has claimed him. The woman with the dark eyes moved away, but _le petit_ is beside her. ‘’Léna, how long the day has been! But the night comes, ah, the night comes--at twelve?’ She gives him one look from unfathomable eyes, that provoke, yet answer, and passes on to a seat at the next table. _Le petit_, with bowed head and unsteady step, but with a flame in his eyes, passes out into the air to render an account of his stewardship. * * * * * Once more the softly-lighted room. The ghost of the feast has his clutches now upon the band of revellers; yea, a gloom is upon them; even wanes the smile of Gortchakow, prince of Russian philosophers. ‘_Enfin!_’ says the President, and at his voice all turn, to see _le petit_ come in at a side door, and stand silent in the shadow. All eyes are upon him--surely he looks depressed. ‘Zey ’ave plucked ’im, my children, zey ’ave plucked ’is one leetle feazer,’ is Gortchakow’s sorrowful but smiling comment. ‘What luck, my son?’ says the President, gravely. For answer, _le petit_ opens his coat, and before nine pairs of hungry eyes he pours forth what seems a never-ending stream of gold and notes on to the table. A howl of amaze and delight bursts forth, and _le petit_ is enveloped in several pairs of arms, until he wriggles out, and dives under the table, where he sits in comparative security, while the President pays the bill, divides the spoil, and delivers a homily upon ‘_le chance_,’ rendered palatable by bumpers of champagne. Great God! And is it only twenty years since I sat under that table?--only twenty!! * * * * * Once more the ‘Place,’ but now the hum and throb has given place to the passion-fraught stillness of the Southern night. Closed are the rooms and the cafés; the last strains of the band have died away; the croak of belated frogs, an occasional laugh, and the snatch of a song from belated humans, are the only sounds that come to the ears of _le petit_ as he wends his cautious way to the longed-for meeting. A French window opening on to a balcony, ten feet from the ground,--what is this to a sailor, under cover of the night? Now he is up, and gazing with all his eyes through the half-open window into a dimly-lighted room. Sights fair and horrible, many, have I seen in my tempest-driven life, ay, many, but never, by the gods, have I seen sight fairer, and yet more horrible, than that which met _le petit’s_ fascinated gaze through those half-drawn blinds. The figure of the loved one is stretched on the couch, dreaming, with look of expectation and delight in the half-closed eyes.