“No, possibly they are not,” he said, returning and finding the shutters thrown back.

By a sad accident, which mortified him extremely, he happened to see, late in the afternoon,—­hardly conscious that he was looking across the street,—­that Madame John was—­dressing.  Could it be that she was going to the Salle de Conde?  He rushed to his table, and began to write.

He had guessed aright.  The wages were too precious to be lost.  The manager had written her a note.  He begged to assure her that he was a gentleman of the clearest cut.  If he had made a mistake the previous afternoon, he was glad no unfortunate result had followed except his having been assaulted by a ruffian; that the Danse du Shawl was promised in his advertisement, and he hoped Madame John (whose wages were in hand waiting for her) would not fail to assist as usual.  Lastly, and delicately put, he expressed his conviction that Mademoiselle was wise and discreet in declining to entertain gentlemen at her home.

So, against much beseeching on the part of ’Tite Poulette, Madame John was going to the ball-room.  “Maybe I can discover what ’Sieur de la Rue is planning against Monsieur over the way,” she said, knowing certainly the slap would not be forgiven; and the daughter, though tremblingly, at once withdrew her objections.

The heavy young Dutchman, now thoroughly electrified, was writing like mad.  He wrote and tore up, wrote and tore up, lighted his lamp, started again, and at last signed his name.  A letter by a Dutchman in French!—­what can be made of it in English?  We will see: 

“MADAME AND MADEMOISELLE: 

“A stranger, seeking not to be acquainted, but seeing and admiring all days the goodness and high honor, begs to be pardoned of them for the mistakes, alas! of yesterday, and to make reparation and satisfaction in destroying the ornaments of the window, as well as the loss of compensation from Monsieur the manager, with the enclosed bill of the Banque de la Louisiane for fifty dollars ($50).  And, hoping they will seeing what he is meaning, remains, respectfully,

“KRISTIAN KOPPIG.

“P.S.—­Madame must not go to the ball.”

He must bear the missive himself.  He must speak in French.  What should the words be?  A moment of study—­he has it, and is off down the long three-story stairway.  At the same moment Madame John stepped from the wicket, and glided off to the Salle de Conde, a trifle late.

“I shall see Madame John, of course,” thought the young man, crushing a hope, and rattled the knocker.  ’Tite Poulette sprang up from praying for her mother’s safety.  “What has she forgotten?” she asked herself, and hastened down.  The wicket opened.  The two innocents were stunned.

“Aw—­aw”—­said the pretty Dutchman, “aw,”—­blurted out something in virgin Dutch, ... handed her the letter, and hurried down street.