until she was aroused from her meditations by the sound of an active and
youthful step upon the creaking stairs. "He has come back," she gasped;
and with the agile movement of a cat she again concealed the letter
in its hiding-place, and she had scarcely done so, when Paul Violaine
entered the miserable room. He was a young man of twenty-three, of
slender figure, but admirably proportioned. His face was a perfect oval,
and his complexion of just that slight olive tint which betrays the
native of the south of France. A slight, silky moustache concealed his
upper lip, and gave his features that air of manliness in which they
would have otherwise been deficient. His curly chestnut hair fell
gracefully over a brow upon which an expression of pride was visible,
and enhanced the peculiar, restless glance of his large dark eyes. His
physical beauty, which was fully equal to that of Rose, was increased by
an aristocratic air, popularly believed to be only found in the scions
of noble families. The landlady, in her moments of good humor, used to
assert her belief that her lodger was a disguised prince; but if this
were the case, he was certainly one that had been overtaken by poverty.
His dress, to which the closest attention had been paid, revealed the
state of destitution in which he was,--not the destitution which openly
asks for alms, but the hidden poverty which shuns communication and
blushes at a single glance of pity. In this almost Arctic winter he wore
clothes rendered thin by the constant friction of the clothes brush,
over which was a light overcoat about as thick as the web of a spider.
His shoes were well blacked, but their condition told the piteous tale
of long walks in search of employment, or of that good luck which seems
to evade its pursuer.

Paul was holding a roll of manuscript in his hand, and as he entered
the room he threw it on the bed with a despairing gesture. "A failure
again!" exclaimed he, in accents of the utmost depression. "Nothing else