Here Lucius lingered a little while, in meditative mood, looking down at the noble curve of the widening river—the green Champagne country on the opposite shore—and thinking of the life that had ended in such deep sadness. Then he gathered a sprig of mignonette for Lucille, put it carefully in his pocket-book, and departed in time to catch the midday train for Paris. CHAPTER III. JULIE DUMARQUES. Mademoiselle Dumarques had thriven in a quiet steady-going way. She had not risen to be a court milliner. She did not give fashions to Europe, America, and the colonies, or employ the genius of rising draughtsmen to design her costumes. She was of the _bourgeoisie_, and lived by the _bourgeoisie_. Her abode was a second floor in one of the quiet respectable streets in that half-deserted quarter of Paris which lies on the unfashionable side of the Seine; an eminently gloomy street which seemed to lead to nowhere, but was nevertheless the abode of two or three important business firms. Here Mademoiselle Dumarques confectioned gowns and bonnets, caps and mantles, on reasonable terms, and in strict accordance with the fashions of last year. Lucius ascended a dingy staircase, odorous with that all-pervading smell of stewed vegetables which is prone to distinguish French staircases—an odour which in some manner counterbalances the advantages of that more savoury _cuisine_, so often vaunted by the admirers of French institutions to the discredit of British cooks. A long way up the dingy staircase Lucius discovered a dingy door, on which, by the doubtful light, he was just able to make out the name of ‘Mademoiselle Dumarques, Robes et Chapeaux.’ He rang a shrill bell, which summons produced a shrill young person in a rusty-black silk gown, who admitted him with a somewhat dubious air, as if questioning his ability to order a gown or a bonnet. The saloon into which he was ushered had a tawdry faded look. A few flyblown pink tissue-paper models of dresses, life size, denoted the profession of its occupant. A marble-topped commode was surmounted by a bonnet, whose virgin beauties were veiled by yellow gauze. The room was clean and tidily kept, but was spoiled by that cheap finery which is so often found in a third-rate French apartment. A clock which did not go; a pair of lacquered candelabra, green with age, yet modern enough to be commonplace; a sofa of the first empire, originally white and gold, but tarnished and blackened by the passage of time; chairs, velvet-covered, brass-nailed, and clumsy; carpet threadbare; curtains of a gaudy imitation tapestry. Mademoiselle Dumarques emerged from an inner chamber with a mouthful of pins, which she disposed of in the band of her dress as she came. She was tall, thin, and sallow, might once have been passably good-looking, but was in every respect unlike the portrait of Félicie.