Here the little watchmaker, proud of his happy knack of rounding a period, looked at Lucius for admiration; but seeing impatience rather than approval indicated in his visitor’s countenance, he gave a brief sigh, inwardly denounced the unsympathetic temperament of the English generally, coughed, stretched out his neat little legs upon the yellow-velvet footstool, stuck his thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat, and continued thus: ‘Briefly, sir, Félicie Dumarques had returned. She had arrived during that pitiless storm in a fiacre from the station, with luggage. My housekeeper had heard the vehicle stop, and had run to the door in time to see the traveller alight and enter the next house. She had seen Félicie’s face by the light of the street-lamp, which, as you may have observed, is near my door, and she told me how sadly the poor girl was changed. “She looks as her mother did a year or two before she died,” said Margot. “Her cheeks are thin, and there is a feverish spot of colour on them, and her eyes are too bright. They have made her work too hard in her situation. She was evidently not expected last night, for the servant gave a scream when she saw her, and seemed quite overcome with surprise. Then Mademoiselle Dumarques came down, and I saw the sisters embrace. ‘Félicie!’ said Hortense. ‘Thou art like the dead risen from the grave!’” And then the door shut, and my housekeeper heard no more.’ ‘You saw Félicie yourself, I suppose, afterwards?’ ‘Yes. She passed my door now and then; but rarely, for she seldom went out. Sometimes I used to run out and speak to her. I had known her from her cradle, remember, and she had always seemed to like me in the days when she was bright and gay. Now she had an air that was at once listless and anxious, as if she had no interest in her present life, but was waiting for something—sometimes hoping, sometimes fearing, and never happy. She would speak to me in the old sweet voice that I knew so well—her mother’s voice; but she rarely smiled, and if ever she did, the smile was almost sadder than tears. Every time I saw her I saw a change for the worse; and I felt that she had begun that journey we must all take some day, even if we live to the age of the immortal Voltaire.’ ‘Did any one ever come to see her—a gentleman—an Englishman?’ inquired Lucius.