III.

IN the meanwhile Henri Blaireau had
paid the last offices to his friend in the
Cemetery of the Innocents—at that time the
place of burial for half the people of Paris—
and had written an account of his
untimely death to the elder Bodry at Lyons,
informing him that all his son's effects were
under seal. These pious duties performed, he
directed his thoughts to what concerned
himself. But he found the study of the law much
more distasteful to him now than it had even
been before. In vain he pored over Pandects
and delved into Digests; nothing came of it;
one object always kept floating between his
eyes and the page, which neutralised all his
toil; and that object was the smiling face of
Madeleine Gombert.

"How unfortunate," he constantly reflected,
"that I should have presented myself in the
name of another man! She had never seen
Henri Bodry—not even friendship subsisted
between them; her regret, if she feels any,
must all be on my account, and I—unhappy
wretch that I am!—I have made myself my
own rival! If Monsieur Gombert had
accepted the invitation to the funeral, I could
then have explained my poor friend's
caprice, but to attempt to do so now would
expose me to I know not what odious
accusations."

This hourly Jeremiad made him, of course,
much less of a lawyer and much more of a
lover than ever, and it always ended in his
throwing aside his books and wandering
forth to the Rue Saint Martin.

One rainy evening, weary of pacing up and
down the dark, damp street without any
reward, he stood up for shelter in the porch
of Saint Merri. The vesper service was going
on, and, thinking the inside of the church
more comfortable than the out, Henri
Blaireau pushed open the little baize door
and entered. The interior was nearly as
obscure as the street he had left, for Saint
Merri is a large church, and was very dimly
lighted. The congregation, as thin as it
generally is at vespers on a raw, foggy, wet
winter's evening, seemed to consist of only a
few old women, and Henri roamed
undisturbed through the aisles, thinking, as usual,
of Madeleine Gombert. He had twice crossed
the small lateral chapel which stands on the
south side of the building without noticing
that anyone was there; but the third time he
passed, his attention was attracted by a female
figure kneeling before an altar dedicated to the
Virgin. Something besides curiosity prompted
him to stop and gaze. He did more than
stop; he drew nearer, placing himself
discreetly behind a massive pillar, the better
to obtain a view of her face. For some time
she remained absorbed in prayer. At length
she raised her head, and the lamp above the
image of Our Lady shedding its rays full on the
worshipper, revealed to him the features of
Madeleine Gombert. He uttered an exclamation
of surprise, at which Madeleine looked
round in the direction from whence the sound
proceeded; but she soon withdrew them,
unable, apparently, to penetrate the gloom. Once
more she prayed, and Henri felt an almost
irresistible longing to cast himself on his
knees before the same altar and pray there,
too. But the fear of disturbing her made him
pause, and while he hesitated she rose.
She did not perceive that she was not alone
in the chapel, and came up to the spot where
he stood. He put out his hand and caught
her by the sleeve. She turned quickly, and,
lighted by the altar lamp, beheld, close
to her, the countenance of the man for the
repose of whose soul she had just been
praying. The sight was enough to startle
the strongest nerves. " Heaven! Monsieur
Henri! " she cried. " Save me, Mother of
Grace! " and as fast as her feet could carry
her she rushed to the chancel door.

To run after her was Henri Blaireau's
first impulse, but he had not gone three yards
before he tripped over an old woman who
was fast asleep (at her prayers) in the aisle,
and came down on the pavement with a
crash. In the midst of a furious scolding,
Blaireau picked himself up as well as he
could, and then, remembering for the first
time what was due to the proprieties of
a church, desisted from further pursuit. To
quiet the old woman, whose occupation
(besides praying) was the letting of rush-
bottomed chairs to the pious, he gave her
all the sous he had in his pocket, and then
stole away on tip-toe, thinking himself lucky
in not having drawn on his head the
fulmination of the officiating priest. Once
outside, he quickened his steps; but all his
haste was vain: he only arrived within sight
of Monsieur Gombert's door to see the skirt
of Madeleine's garment disappear as the
portal was closed.

Could he not find a lodging in the Rue St.
Martin,—could he not find a lodging in the
very house where Monsieur Gombert dwelt?

He resolved to return next day and see
about it. Fortune might be more propitious
the next time he encountered the beautiful
Madeleine; at all events, he would enjoy
the melancholy pleasure—this is the way
a lover always puts it—of seeing the object
of his affections, even if he were himself
unseen.

Mademoiselle Gombert said nothing to her
father about her fright in the church of St.
Merri, but she made a confidante of Petronille.
The old bonne crossed herself on
hearing the fearful tale, and asked a great
many questions. In what form did the
apparition present itself,—did it wear a shroud,
—was it very pale,—did it speak,—had it a
smell of sulphur ? All that Madeleine could
say in reply was, that the spirit appeared to
her to be dressed in the usual male costume,
and looked exactly like Monsieur Henri
Bodry.