And then, whilst listening also, I learnt that a certain Marcelle played the chief rôle in the story: Marcelle, blithest of Mürger’s younger daughters, Marcelle the _vraie gamine_, Marcelle the lively little lady who always wore a bicycling suit, yet never bicycled; who appeared seventeen, but in reality was twenty-two; who danced down the Boul’ Mich’ arm-in-arm with the students—she the gayest of the party, her step the lightest, her Chinese lantern the largest; who was liked by one and all, and to whom everyone was _mon cher_.... Marcelle the Candid! A brunette, she took it into her head to become a blonde. “C’est chic d’être blonde,” she cried: then some days later appeared on the Boul’ Mich’ with flaxen hair. And she drew attention to this striking metamorphosis, exclaiming: “Inspect me; stare at me! Am I not ravishing? Isn’t it a success? Such a dye! Only five francs a bottle—a large bottle—also perfumed!” And drank a toast... “to the new colour!” And vowed that, with it, began a new era. And afterwards, when relating reminiscences, naïvely explained: “That was in the days when I was a brunette.” And constantly sang, in a shrill voice, that favourite sentimental ballad, _Les Blondes_.... Marcelle the Sympathetic! Each student found in her a patient, a friendly listener. She was ready to bear with chaotic, interminable narratives of jealousies, worries, woes. She would propose a drive, a long drive, in an open cab—the grievance to be unfolded on the way. “Tell the _cocher_,” she would say to the student, “to choose a deserted route—so that you may rage and despair, and weep as much as you please. Open your poor heart, _mon cher_. Keep nothing back. _Allez_, you can trust Marcelle.”... Marcelle the Sentimental, the Nature-loving! After a noisy luncheon-party in the country, she would command an adjournment to the wood. Childlike she sought for flowers, running hither and thither, uttering shrill little cries of astonishment and rapture. And lingered and lingered in the wood. And vowed she would not return to Paris before the departure of the very last train. And asked naïve questions about the moon and the stars. And murmured: “How sweet is the country, how exquisite!”—shrinking nevertheless from the bats and mosquitoes. And went to bed immediately upon reaching Paris—so as not to spoil “the impression” of the country. And dreamt happily, dreamt as she had never dreamt before—“mon cher!” Bright Marcelle; and, in spite of her follies, admirable Marcelle! The shabby, solitary women—the faded Mimis, the Musettes of years ago—had in her a friend. Had?... Had; but have no longer. “_Murdered!_” said the woman in the red dress—huskily—in Madame Bertrand’s hospitable milk-shop, of Marcelle the Blonde. Murdered; but no matter how. Murdered; and lying in a room, round the corner, with candles burning by the death-bed.