It was the exclamation by which, in his neat tavern, I had recognized
my brave old friend Joliet: it was impossible, by the same shibboleth,
to refuse longer an acquaintance with his daughter.

My entertainer, in fact, was no other than Francine Joliet, grown
from a little female stripling into a distracting pattern of a woman.
Twelve years had never thrown more fortunate changes over a growing
human flower.

[Illustration: A VIRTUOSO.]

The acquaintance being thus renewed, I could not but remember my last
conversation with Joliet--his way of acquainting me with her absence
from home, his mention of her godmother in Brussels, and his strange
reticence as I pressed the subject. A slight chill, owing perhaps to
the undue warmth of my admiration for this delicate creature, fell
over my first cordiality. I asked a question or two, assuming a kind,
elderly type of interest: "How do you find yourself here in Carlsruhe?
Are you satisfactorily placed?"

"As well as possible, dear M. Flemming. I am a bird in its nest."

"Mated, no doubt, my dear?"

"No."

"You are not a widow, I hope, my poor little Francine?"

"No." She blushed, as if she had not been pretty enough before.