I seldom cared in these days for what was going on in the busy outside world; but this morning, my attention having been drawn to the subject, I amused myself, as I paced to and fro, by watching the eager faces of the little throng of idlers.  Presently I fell in with the rest, and found myself conning the placard on the tree.

The name that met my astonished eyes on that placard was the name of Hortense Dufresnoy.

The sentence ran thus:—­

“Grand Biennial Prize for Poetry—­Subject:  The Pass of
Thermopylae,—­Successful Candidate, Mademoiselle Hortense Dufresnoy.”

Breathless, I read the passage twice; then, hearing at a little distance the shrill voice of the importunate newsvender, I plunged after him and stopped him, just as he came to the—­

“Frightful murder in the Rue du Faubourg Saint ...”

“Here,” said I, tapping him on the shoulder; “give me one of your papers.”

The man’s eyes glittered.

“Only forty centimes, M’sieur,” said he. “’Tis the first I’ve sold to-day.”

He looked poor and wretched.  I dropped into his hand a coin that would have purchased all his little sheaf of journals, and hurried away, not to take the change or hear his thanks.  He was silent for some moments; then took up his cry at the point where he had broken off, and started away with:—­

—­“Antoine!—­state of the Bourse—­latest despatches from the seat of war—­news of the day—­only forty centimes!”

I took my paper to a quiet bench near the fountain, and read the whole account.  There had been eighteen anonymous poems submitted to the Academy.  Three out of the eighteen had come under discussion; one out of the three had been warmly advocated by Beranger, one by Lebrun, and the third by some other academician.  The poem selected by Beranger was at length chosen; the sealed enclosure opened; and the name of the successful competitor found to be Hortense Dufresnoy.  To Hortense Dufresnoy, therefore, the prize and crown were awarded.

I read the article through, and then went home, hoping to be the first to congratulate her.  Timidly, and with a fast-beating heart, I rang the bell at her outer door; for we all had our bells at Madame Bouisse’s, and lived in our rooms as if they were little private houses.

She opened the door, and, seeing me, looked surprised; for I had never before ventured to pay her a visit in her apartment.

“I have come to wish you joy,” said I, not venturing to cross the threshold.

“To wish me joy?”

“You have not seen a morning paper?”

“A morning paper!”

And, echoing me thus, her color changed, and a strange vague look—­it might be of hope, it might be of fear—­came into her face.

“There is something in the Moniteur” I went on, smiling, ’that concerns you nearly.”

“That concerns me?” she exclaimed. “Me?  For Heaven’s sake, speak plainly.  I do not understand you.  Has—­has anything been discovered?”