Chamberss Edinburgh Journal, No. 450 | Page 5

money? Perhaps she was
starving: there is so much misery in Paris!' continued Mademoiselle de
Varenne, after a pause.
'She was very pale and thin,' said the hairdresser; 'but then so are the
generality of our young citizens. Do not make yourself unhappy about
it, mademoiselle; I shall see her again, probably, and shall endeavour to
find out every circumstance respecting her.' With these words, M.
Lagnier respectfully took leave, having by one more expressive glance
testified his delighted approval of the alteration which had taken place
in the young lady's appearance.
Adelaide, having summoned her maid, continued her toilet in a listless
and absent manner. Her thoughts were fixed upon the young girl whose
beauty had been sacrificed for hers, and an unconquerable desire to
learn her fate took possession of her mind. Her intended disposal of the
morning seemed quite to be forgotten; and she was on the point of
forming new plans, very different from the first, when the lady to
whose care she had been confided during the absence of her father from
town, entered the apartment, and aroused her from her reverie by
exclaiming: 'Ah, you naughty girl! I have been waiting for you this half
hour. Was not the carriage ordered to take us to the Tuileries?'
'Yes, indeed, it was; but I hope you will excuse me: I had almost
forgotten it.' And Adelaide immediately related to her friend the
circumstance which had occurred, and begged her aid in the discovery

of Lucille. Madame d'Héranville laughed--reasoned, but in vain; and,
finding Adelaide resolved, she at length consented to accompany her
upon the search, expressing as she did so her entire conviction that it
would prove useless and unsatisfactory.
The day was spent in visits to the principal modistes of Paris; but from
none could any information be gained concerning the young flower-girl.
None had ever even heard her name. Adelaide was returning home,
disappointed, but not discouraged. Still resolved to continue her
endeavours, she had just announced to Madame d'Héranville her
intention of visiting upon the following day the shops of an inferior
class, when the carriage was suddenly arrested in its course by the
crowd of vehicles which surrounded it, and they found themselves
exactly before the door of a small warehouse of the description she
alluded to. She was about to express a wish to enter, it being still early,
when her attention was attracted by two persons who stood conversing
near the door, and whose voices, slightly raised, were distinctly audible.
They had excited the interest and curiosity of both Adelaide and her
companion by the earnestness of their manner, and by the expression of
sorrow depicted upon the countenance of the elder speaker, a young
man of about twenty-five years of age, who, from his costume, as well
as accent, appeared to be a stranger in Paris.
'I have promised--will you not trust me?' he said in a half-reproachful
tone; and Adelaide bent eagerly forward to catch a glimpse of the
young girl to whom these words were addressed; but her face was
turned away, and the large hood of a woollen cloak was drawn over her
head, almost completely concealing her features.
'I do trust you,' she said in reply to the young man's words--'I do indeed.
And now, good-by, dear André; we shall meet again soon--in our own
beautiful Normandie.' And she held out her hand, which he took and
held for an instant without speaking.
'May I not conduct you home?' he asked at length.
'No, André; it is better that we should part here. We must not trust too
much to our courage, it has failed us so often already.' And as she

spoke, she raised her head, and looked up tearfully at her companion,
disclosing as she did so a face of striking beauty, although worn and
pallid to a painful degree, and appearing even more so than it really
was from the total absence of her hair. The tears sprang to Adelaide's
eyes. In the careworn countenance before her she read a bitter tale.
Almost instinctively, she drew forth her purse, and leaning over the
side of the carriage, called 'Lucille! Lucille!' But the young girl did not
hear her; she had already turned, and was hastening rapidly away, while
André stood gazing after her, as if uncertain of the reality of what had
just occurred. He was so deeply engrossed in his reflections, that he did
not hear his name repeatedly pronounced by both Adelaide and her
friend. The latter at length directed the servant to accost him, and the
footman was alighting for that purpose, when two men turned quickly
the corner of the street, and perceiving André, stopped suddenly, and
one of them exclaimed: 'Ah, good-evening, Bernard; you are just the
very