MADEMOISELLE ELISE.

BY EDWARD FRANCIS.

I.

M. Lorman, director of the Theatre Royal, Rocheville, stood at a window of Mademoiselle Elise’s apartment that looked on the Rue Murillo, Paris.  His gloves were drawn on, he carried his hat and stick, and he waited impatiently—­now smoothing his grey moustache, now looking at his watch, now tapping his well-polished boot with the tip of his cane.  Then he turned his back to the window and began to walk to and fro.  At the second turn, he paused before a picture—­a little water-colour sketch—­that hung from the wall.  It was a painting of a girl dressed in a rich costume of the Empire.  Her slight figure was bent a little forward, and her tiny hands drew back a pale green skirt, just so much as to show one dainty pink shoe.  M. Lorman adjusted his spectacles to make a closer inspection.

The door of the room opened, and Mademoiselle Elise came in, carrying an open note-book in her hand.

Mademoiselle was about twenty-four years of age, and not tall, her figure was slender and well-proportioned, her dress fitted perfectly.  Her hair and eyes were dark, her lips thin.  When she talked her features grew animate, and she became beautiful.

“Yes,” she said, “you may take rooms for me at the Hotel St. Amand.  I want to be close by the cathedral.”

Then she looked at the picture.

“Did you recognise me?”

“Of course.  But who did it?  It is charming.”

“It is very nice.  Bouvard painted it and gave it to me.  I am very fond of it.”

“It is an excellent likeness!”

“I think it is.  I am vain enough to be proud of it.  But tell me—­what shall I do with myself at Rocheville?”

“As if you were ever at a loss!  You will have enough society; and there are the students and the officers—­”

“Bah!  I am sick of them all.  I shall turn recluse and spend all my days in some quiet nook by the sea.  After Paris, one hates society.”

“After Paris,” said M. Lorman, “one hates many good things.”

He laughed self-complacently, and held out his hand.

“Good-bye.”

She went with him to the hall, and waited, leaning against the table and breaking to pieces a shred of grass that she had taken from a vase, while he drew a great packet of loose papers from the breast-pocket of his coat, and tried to discover the time of his train.

“Who will play the dance in ‘Le vrai Amant?’” she asked.

“Monsieur Raoul—­a man who fiddles for love of the thing.  He is a hunchback, or nearly so, and will interest you.”

“Why will he interest me?”

Monsieur, as he answered, ran his gloved finger slowly down the line of close figures.

“He will interest you for several reasons.  Firstly, because he plays superbly and asks for no pay.  He is rich.  Secondly, because he is clever and dislikes women; and, finally—­because you won’t understand him.”