Thus Marcel was cursing love, when Zulma came and knocked at his door.

XC.

LE CYGNE DE LA CROIX.

  “As soon as she comes
  The Hostess looks hard: 
  —­My beauty no ceremony,
  The supper is ready;
  Come in, come in, my beauty
  Come in, and no more noise
  With three gallant captains
  You shall spend the night.”

  (Popular Songs of France).

Madame Connard, a widow, and the landlady of the Cygne de la Croix, a godly and right-thinking person, made a significant grimace when she saw a young girl, quietly dressed, entering her house, with no other luggage than an old band-box.

But when she handed her the card of Monsieur Tibulle, judge of the Court at Vic, president of the Society of St. Vincent de Paul, and member of the Committee for the protection of poor Young Girls, her grimace changed into a gracious smile.

She soon gave her a room and asked her what she wanted to eat, informing her, however, that it was a fast-day and that, consequently, she had not much choice.

—­Whatever you like, said the dancer; I am convalescent; I have a good appetite, and I accommodate myself to everything:  don’t give then the best which you have, but the cheapest.

—­The little thing is sharp, thought Madame Connard; and she added aloud:  A young lady, recommended by Monsieur Tibulle, need not fear that she will want for anything.  Consider what you would like, my little dear, and don’t disturb yourself about the rest.  And since you are ill, the Church allows us to give you meat to eat.

She went out in the meantime, and an hour afterwards she herself served a dinner which would have made the most greedy of curates envious, and washed down with that light wine, acrid but heady, which the slopes of the Meurthe produce.

The dancer, like a true child of Bohemia, dined heartily, and without needing to be asked.  She was at her coffee, when she heard a whispering in the corridor, and a little cracked voice, which said: 

—­I am a little late, dear Madame, but I have been kept by Monseigneur.  Has the little one behaved well?

—­Like an angel, Monsieur Tibulle, and a demon for beauty.

—­Yes, yes.  This will be a fine acquisition for the Church.  A soul snatched from Satan, dear Madame, snatched from Satan.  We shall make something of her.

—­Ah, how happy you gentlemen are to snatch in this way pretty little souls from hell.  We, poor women, have not that power.

—­But you prepare the ways.  You open them, dear Madame Connard; everything has its purpose, its purpose, its purpose.

—­Well, Monsieur Tibulle, proceed to yours.  It is number 10.  I leave you.

And she quietly half-opened the door of No. 10, into which Monsieur glided like a shadow, saying in his tremulous voice: