Three days only were left to me; I cast up anxious glances each morning of my stay, but there was nothing but the placard and a bit of the veil to be seen--the little shoe was gone. My last evening I passed with the abbe, and came away late. I stopped five minutes on the corridor, just outside the wicket; the moon was shining bright, and the stars were out, but the window at the top of the court was dark--all dark. PART II. Poor Clerie! but I have told his story,[A] so I will not tell it again. It made a sad greeting for me on the lips of the abbe, when I first came back to the city after a half year's absence; and it will not, I am sure, seem strange that seeing the abbe in his priest-robes, and hearing his sad tale of poor Clerie, I should forget entirely to ask about the little shoe, or the tall gentleman of the attic. Nevertheless I did, as I went out, throw a glance up to the window of the court--alas! there were more panes broken, the placard was gone, the veil was gone--there was nothing but a flimsy web which a bold spider had stretched across one of the comers. I felt sure that the last six months had brought its changes to other houses, as well as the house of Clerie. I thought I would just step round to the conciergerie of the neighboring hotel, and ask after Monsieur Very; but before I had got fairly into the court I turned directly about, and walked away--I was afraid to ask about Monsieur Very. I felt saddened by the tale I had already heard; it had given, as such things will, a soft tinge of sadness to all my own thoughts, and fancies, and hopes. Everybody knows there are times in life when things joyful seem harsh; and there are times, too--Heaven knows!--when a saddened soul shrinks, fearful as a child, from any added sadness. God be blessed that they pass, like clouds over the bright sky of His Providence, and are gone! I was afraid to ask that day about Monsieur Very; so I walked home--one while perplexing myself with strange conjectures; and another while the current of my thought would disengage itself from these hindering eddies, and go glowing quick, and strong, and sad--pushed along by the memory of poor Clerie's fate. I knew the abbe would tell me all next day--and so he did. We dined together in the Palais Royal, at a snug restaurant up-stairs, near the Theatre Francais. We look a little cabinet to ourselves, and I ordered up a bottle of Chambertin. [Footnote A: Fresh Gleanings, pp. 132, 133.] The soup was gone, a nice dish of _filet de veau_, _aux epinards_, was before us, and we had drank each a couple of glasses, before I ventured to ask one word about Monsieur Very. "_Ah, mon cher,_" said the abbe--at the same time laying down his fork--"_il est mort!_" "And mademoiselle--" "_Attendez_," said the abbe, "and you shall hear it all." The abbe resumed his fork; I filled up the glasses, and he commenced: