Caught In The Net | Page 2

Perou would be out of the question. The chambers in every

floor of the house are divided into small slips by partitions, covered
with canvas and paper, and pleasantly termed rooms by M. Loupins.
The partitions were in a terrible condition, rickety and unstable, and the
paper with which they were covered torn and hanging down in tatters;
but the state of the attics was even more deplorable, the ceilings of
which were so low that the occupants had to stoop continually, while
the dormer windows admitted but a small amount of light. A bedstead,
with a straw mattress, a rickety table, and two broken chairs, formed
the sole furniture of these rooms. Miserable as these dormitories were,
the landlady asked and obtained twenty-two francs for them by the
month, as there was a fireplace in each, which she always pointed out
to intending tenants.
The young woman whom M. Loupins alluded to by the name of Rose
was seated in one of these dreary dens on this bitter winter's day. Rose
was an exquisitely beautiful girl about eighteen years of age. She was
very fair; her long lashes partially concealed a pair of steely blue eyes,
and to a certain extent relieved their hard expression. Her ripe, red lips,
which seemed formed for love and kisses, permitted a glimpse of a row
of pearly teeth. Her bright waving hair grew low down upon her
forehead, and such of it as had escaped from the bondage of a cheap
comb, with which it was fastened, hung in wild luxuriance over her
exquisitely shaped neck and shoulders. She had thrown over her ragged
print gown the patched coverlet of the bed, and, crouched upon the
tattered hearthrug before the hearth, upon which a few sticks
smouldered, giving out hardly a particle of heat, she was telling her
fortune with a dirty pack of cards, endeavoring to console herself for
the privations of the day by the promise of future prosperity. She had
spread those arbiters of her destiny in a half circle before her, and
divided them into threes, each of which had a peculiar meaning, and
her breast rose and fell as she turned them up and read upon their faces
good fortune or ill-luck. Absorbed in this task, she paid but little
attention to the icy chilliness of the atmosphere, which made her
fingers stiff, and dyed her white hands purple.
"One, two, three," she murmured in a low voice. "A fair man, that's
sure to be Paul. One, two, three, money to the house. One, two, three,

troubles and vexations. One, two, three, the nine of spades; ah, dear!
more hardships and misery,--always that wretched card turning up with
its sad story!"
Rose seemed utterly downcast at the sight of the little piece of painted
cardboard, as though she had received certain intelligence of a coming
misfortune. She soon, however, recovered herself, and was again
shuffling the pack,--cut it, taking care to do so with her left hand,
spread them out before her, and again commenced counting: one, two,
three. This time the cards appeared to be more propitious, and held out
promises of success for the future.
"I am loved," read she, as she gazed anxiously upon them,--"very much
loved! Here is rejoicing, and a letter from a dark man! See, here he
is,--the knave of clubs. Always the same," she continued; "I cannot
strive against fate."
Then, rising to her feet, she drew from a crack in the wall, which
formed a safe hiding-place for her secrets, a soiled and crumpled letter,
and, unfolding it, she read for perhaps the hundredth time these
words:--
"MADEMOISELLE,--
"To see you is to love you. I give you my word of honor that this is true.
The wretched hovel where your charms are hidden is no fit abode for
you. A home, worthy in every way to receive you, is at your
service--Rue de Douai. It has been taken in your name, as I am
straightforward in these matters. Think of my proposal, and make what
inquiries you like concerning me. I have not yet attained my majority,
but shall do so in five months and three days, when I shall inherit my
mother's fortune. My father is wealthy, but old and infirm. From four to
six in the afternoon of the next few days I will be in a carriage at the
corner of the Place de Petit Pont.
"GASTON DE GANDELU."
The cynical insolence of the letter, together with its entire want of form,

was a perfect example of the style affected by those loiterers about
town, known to the Parisians as "mashers;" and yet Rose did not appear
at all disgusted by the reception of such an unworthily worded proposal,
but, on the contrary, rather pleased by its contents.