In one of these alleys, there lived at that time a man named Jean Monette, who was tolerably well stricken in years, but still a hearty man.  He was a widower, and, with an only daughter, occupied a floor, au quatrieme, in one of the courts; people said he had been in business and grown rich, but that he had not the heart to spend his money, which year after year accumulated, and would make a splendid fortune for his daughter at his death.  With this advantage, Emma, who was really a handsome girl, did not want for suitors, and thought that, being an heiress, she might wait till she really felt a reciprocal passion for some one, and not throw herself away upon the first tolerable match that presented itself.  It was on a Sunday, the first in the month of June, that Emma had, as an especial treat, obtained sufficient money from her father for an excursion with some friends to see the fountains of Versailles.

It was a beautiful day, and the basin was thronged around with thousands and thousands of persons, looking, from the variety of their dresses, more like the colors of a splendid rainbow than aught besides; and when, at four o’clock, Triton and his satellites threw up their immense volumes of water, all was wonder, astonishment, and delight; but none were more delighted than Emma, to whom the scene was quite new.

And, then, it was so pleasant to have found a gentleman who could explain everything and everybody; point out the duke of this, and the count that, and the other lions of Paris; besides, such an agreeable and well-dressed man; it was really quite condescending in him to notice them!  And then, toward evening, he would insist they should all go home together in a fiacre, and that he alone should pay all the expenses, and when, with a gentle pressure of the hand and a low whisper, he begged her to say where he might come and throw himself at her feet, she thought her feelings were different to what they had ever been before.  But how could she give her address—­tell so dashing a man that she lived in such a place?  No, she could not do that, but she would meet him at the Jardin d’Ete next Sunday evening, and dance with no one else all night.

She met him on the Sunday, and again and again, until her father began to suspect, from her frequent absence of an evening—­which was formerly an unusual circumstance with her—­that something must be wrong.  The old man loved his money, but he loved his daughter more.  She was the only link in life that kept together the chain of his affections.  He had been passionately fond of his wife, and when she died, Emma had filled up the void in his heart.  They were all, save his money, that he had ever loved.  The world had cried out against him as a hard-hearted, rapacious man, and he, in return, despised the world.

He was, therefore, much grieved at her conduct, and questioned Emma as to where her frequent visits led her, but could only obtain for answer that she was not aware she had been absent so much as to give him uneasiness.  This was unsatisfactory, and so confirmed the old man in his suspicions that he determined to have his daughter watched.