distress, on a certain musty old Mainzerhof, and I found him sitting over a smouldering fire in a vast dingy chamber which looked as if it had grown gray with watching the ennui of ten generations of travellers.  Looking at him, as he rose on my entrance, I saw that he was in extreme tribulation.  He was pale and haggard; his face was five years older.  Now, at least, in all conscience, he had tasted of the cup of life!  I was anxious to know what had turned it so suddenly to bitterness; but I spared him all importunate curiosity, and let him take his time.  I accepted tacitly his tacit confession of distress, and we made for a while a feeble effort to discuss the picturesqueness of Cologne.  At last he rose and stood a long time looking into the fire, while I slowly paced the length of the dusky room.

“Well!” he said, as I came back; “I wanted knowledge, and I certainly know something I didn’t a month ago.”  And herewith, calmly and succinctly enough, as if dismay had worn itself out, he related the history of the foregoing days.  He touched lightly on details; he evidently never was to gush as freely again as he had done during the prosperity of his suit.  He had been accepted one evening, as explicitly as his imagination could desire, and had gone forth in his rapture and roamed about till nearly morning in the gardens of the Conversation-house, taking the stars and the perfumes of the summer night into his confidence.  “It is worth it all, almost,” he said, “to have been wound up for an hour to that celestial pitch.  No man, I am sure, can ever know it but once.”  The next morning he had repaired to Madame Blumenthal’s lodging and had been met, to his amazement, by a naked refusal to see him.  He had strode about for a couple of hours—­in another mood—­and then had returned to the charge.  The servant handed him a three-cornered note; it contained these words:  “Leave me alone to-day; I will give you ten minutes to-morrow evening.”  Of the next thirty-six hours he could give no coherent account, but at the appointed time Madame Blumenthal had received him.  Almost before she spoke there had come to him a sense of the depth of his folly in supposing he knew her.  “One has heard all one’s days,” he said, “of people removing the mask; it’s one of the stock phrases of romance.  Well, there she stood with her mask in her hand.  Her face,” he went on gravely, after a pause—­“her face was horrible!” . . .  “I give you ten minutes,” she had said, pointing to the clock.  “Make your scene, tear your hair, brandish your dagger!” And she had sat down and folded her arms.  “It’s not a joke,” she cried, “it’s dead earnest; let us have it over.  You are dismissed—­have you nothing to say?” He had stammered some frantic demand for an explanation; and she had risen and come near him, looking at him from head to feet, very pale, and evidently more excited than she wished him to see.  “I have done with you!” she said, with a smile; “you ought to have done