her gown, undraping a little shoe, high-heeled, with its ribbons
dangling, untied. So heavenly she was, so unfitted to stoop, so
qualified to charm and command! Perhaps she had seen David coming,
and had waited for his help there.

Ah, would monsieur pardon that she occupied the stairway, but the
shoe!--the naughty shoe! Alas! it would not remain tied. Ah! if
monsieur _would_ be so gracious!

The poet's fingers trembled as he tied the contrary ribbons. Then he
would have fled from the danger of her presence, but the eyes grew
long and cozening, like a gypsy's, and held him. He leaned against
the balustrade, clutching his bottle of sour wine.

"You have been so good," she said, smiling. "Does monsieur, perhaps,
live in the house?"

"Yes, madame. I--I think so, madame."

"Perhaps in the third story, then?"

"No, madame; higher up."

The lady fluttered her fingers with the least possible gesture of
impatience.

"Pardon. Certainly I am not discreet in asking. Monsieur will
forgive me? It is surely not becoming that I should inquire where he
lodges."