“Alas! what have I done?” said the poor girl, bending over her candle, and bursting into tears that fell on the unopened letter.  “And what shall I do!  It may be wrong to open it—­and worse not to.”  Like her sex, she took the benefit of the doubt, and intensified her perplexity and misery by reading and misconstruing the all but unintelligible contents.  What then?  Not only sobs and sighs, but moaning and beating of little fists together, and outcries of soul-felt agony stifled against the bedside, and temples pressed into knitted palms, because of one who “sought not to be acquainted,” but offered money—­money!—­in pity to a poor—­shame on her for saying that!—­a poor nigresse.

And now our self-confessed dolt turned back from a half-hour’s walk, concluding there might be an answer to his note.  “Surely Madame John will appear this time.”  He knocked.  The shutter stirred above, and something white came fluttering wildly down like a shot dove.  It was his own letter containing the fifty-dollar bill.  He bounded to the wicket, and softly but eagerly knocked again.

“Go away,” said a trembling voice from above.

“Madame John?” said he; but the window closed, and he heard a step, the same step on the stair.  Step, step, every step one step deeper into his heart.  ’Tite Poulette came to the closed door.

“What will you?” said the voice within.

“I—­I—­don’t wish to see you.  I wish to see Madame John.”

“I must pray Monsieur to go away.  My mother is at the Salle de Conde.”

“At the ball!” Kristian Koppig strayed off, repeating the words for want of definite thought.  All at once it occurred to him that at the ball he could make Madame John’s acquaintance with impunity.  “Was it courting sin to go?” By no means; he should, most likely, save a woman from trouble, and help the poor in their distress.

Behold Kristian Koppig standing on the floor of the Salle de Conde.  A large hall, a blaze of lamps, a bewildering flutter of fans and floating robes, strains of music, columns of gay promenaders, a long row of turbaned mothers lining either wall, gentlemen of the portlier sort filling the recesses of the windows, whirling waltzers gliding here and there—­smiles and grace, smiles and grace; all fair, orderly, elegant, bewitching.  A young Creole’s laugh mayhap a little loud, and—­truly there were many sword-canes.  But neither grace nor foulness satisfied the eye of the zealous young Dutchman.

Suddenly a muffled woman passed him, leaning on a gentleman’s arm.  It looked like—­it must be, Madame John.  Speak quick, Kristian Koppig; do not stop to notice the man!

“Madame John”—­bowing—­“I am your neighbor, Kristian Koppig.”

Madame John bows low, and smiles—­a ball-room smile, but is frightened, and her escort,—­the manager,—­drops her hand and slips away.

“Ah!  Monsieur,” she whispers excitedly, “you will be killed if you stay here a moment.  Are you armed?  No.  Take this.”  She tried to slip a dirk into his hands, but he would not have it.