But too many plain, unvarnished truths had cropped up in the course of the last round of my Aunt's Flower Garden; and the ladies were out of humor. Madame de Montparnasse, frigid, Cyclopian, black as Erebus, found that it was time to go home; and took her leave, bristling with gentility. The tragic Honoria stalked majestically after her. Madame Desjardins, mortally offended with M. Dorinet on the score of Rosalie's legs, also prepared to be gone; while M. Philomène, convicted of hair-dye and _brouillé_ for ever with "the most disagreeable girl in Paris," hastened to make his adieux as brief as possible. "A word in your ear, mon cher Dorinet," whispered he, catching the little dancing-master by the button-hole. "Isn't it the most unpleasant party you were ever at in your life?" The ex-god Scamander held up his hands and eyes. "_Eh, mon Dieu_!" he replied. "What an evening of disasters! I have lost my best pupil and my second-best wig!" In the meanwhile, we went up like the others, and said good-night to our hostess. She, good soul! in her deafness, knew nothing about the horrors of the evening, and was profuse of her civilities. "So amiable of these gentlemen to honor her little soirée--so kind of M'sieur Müller to have exerted himself to make things go off pleasantly--so sorry we would not stay half an hour longer," &c., &c. To all of which Müller (with a sly grimace expressive of contrition) replied only by a profound salutation and a rapid retreat. Passing M. Lenoir without so much as a glance, he paused a moment before Mdlle. Marie who was standing near the door, and said in a tone audible only to her and myself:-- "I congratulate you, Mademoiselle, on your admirable talent for intrigue. I trust, when you look in the usual place and find the promised letter, it will prove agreeable reading. J'ai l'honneur, Mademoiselle, de vous saluer." I saw the girl flush crimson, then turn deadly white, and draw back as if his hand had struck her a sudden blow. The next moment we were half-way down the stairs. "What, in Heaven's name, does all this mean?" I said, when we were once more in the street. "It means," replied Müller fiercely, "that the man's a scoundrel, and the woman, like all other women, is false." "Then the whisper you overheard" ... "Was only this:--'_Look in the usual place, and you will find a letter_.' Not many words, _mon cher_, but confoundedly comprehensive! And I who believed that girl to be an angel of candor! I who was within an ace of falling seriously in love with her! _Sacredie_! what an idiot I have been!" "Forget her, my dear fellow," said I. "Wipe her out of your memory (which I think will not be difficult), and leave her to her fate." He shook his head. "No," he said, gloomily, "I won't do that. I'll get to the bottom of that man's mystery; and if, as I suspect, there's that about his past life which won't bear the light of day--I'll save her, if I can." CHAPTER XXXV. WEARY AND FAR DISTANT.