“But if it should,” said Madame John pleadingly.

“And break the law?” asked ’Tite Poulette, impatiently.

“But the law is unjust,” said the mother.

“But it is the law!”

“But you will not, dearie, will you?”

“I would surely tell him!” said the daughter.

When Zalli, for some cause, went next morning to the window, she started.

“’Tite Poulette!”—­she called softly without moving.  The daughter came.  The young man, whose idea of propriety had actuated him to this display, was sitting in the dormer window, reading.  Mother and daughter bent a steady gaze at each other.  It meant in French, “If he saw us last night!”—­

“Ah! dear,” said the mother, her face beaming with fun—­

“What can it be, Maman?”

“He speaks—­oh! ha, ha!—­he speaks—­such miserable French!”

It came to pass one morning at early dawn that Zalli and ’Tite Poulette, going to mass, passed a cafe, just as—­who should be coming out but Monsieur, the manager of the Salle de Conde.  He had not yet gone to bed.  Monsieur was astonished.  He had a Frenchman’s eye for the beautiful, and certainly there the beautiful was.  He had heard of Madame John’s daughter, and had hoped once to see her, but did not but could this be she?

They disappeared within the cathedral.  A sudden pang of piety moved him; he followed.  ’Tite Poulette was already kneeling in the aisle.  Zalli, still in the vestibule, was just taking her hand from the font of holy-water.

“Madame John,” whispered the manager.

She courtesied.

“Madame John, that young lady—­is she your daughter?”

“She—­she—­is my daughter,” said Zalli, with somewhat of alarm in her face, which the manager misinterpreted.

“I think not, Madame John.”  He shook his head, smiling as one too wise to be fooled.

“Yes, Monsieur, she is my daughter.”

“O no, Madame John, it is only make-believe, I think.”

“I swear she is, Monsieur de la Rue.”

“Is that possible?” pretending to waver, but convinced in his heart of hearts, by Zalli’s alarm, that she was lying.  “But how?  Why does she not come to our ball-room with you?”

Zalli, trying to get away from him, shrugged and smiled.  “Each to his taste, Monsieur; it pleases her not.”

She was escaping, but he followed one step more.  “I shall come to see you, Madame John.”

She whirled and attacked him with her eyes.  “Monsieur must not give himself the trouble!” she said, the eyes at the same time adding, “Dare to come!” She turned again, and knelt to her devotions.  The manager dipped in the font, crossed himself, and departed.

Several weeks went by, and M. de la Rue had not accepted the fierce challenge of Madame John’s eyes.  One or two Sunday nights she had succeeded in avoiding him, though fulfilling her engagement in the Salle; but by and by pay-day,—­a Saturday,—­came round, and though the pay was ready, she was loath to go up to Monsieur’s little office.