--the gift of their love. Still, they were enraptured. To both of them
she owed equally, and more than ever it was a question which would be
the happy man.

Listen! When they are gone to call on her one afternoon she was not at
'ome. What had happened? I shall tell you. There was a noodle, rich--
what you call a "Johnnie in the Stalls"--who became infatuated with her
at the Ambassadeurs. He whistled "Partant pour le Moulin" all the days,
and went to hear it all the nights. Well, she was not at 'ome because
she had married him. Absolutely they were married! Her lovers have been
told it at the door.

What a moment! Figure yourself what they have suffered, both! They had
worshipped her, they had made sacrifices for her, they had created for
her her grand success; and, as a consequence of that song, she was the
wife of the "Johnnie in the Stalls"!

* * * * *

Far down the street, but yet distinct, the organ revived the tune
again. My Frenchman shuddered, and got up.

"I cannot support it," he murmured. "You understand? The associations
are too pathetic."

"They must be harrowing," I said. "Before you go, there is one thing I
should like to ask you, if I may. Have I had the honour of meeting
monsieur Tricotrin, or monsieur Pitou?"

He stroked his hat, and gazed at me in sad surprise. "Ah, but neither,