Mardi-Gras had come and folly reigned supreme at Paris. Opposite the Café Turque, which had already at that time a European reputation, stood a small poverty-stricken house. It was No. 48 Boulevard du Temple, and was inhabited by poor people.
In a small but cleanly room on the fifth story a young girl stood before a mirror arranging her toilet. The "Marquise," for it was she, looked curiously out of place in her humble surroundings.
A dark, tightly fitting dress showed her form to perfection, and the dark rose in her hair was no redder than the fresh lips of the young girl. The little singer gave a last glance in the mirror, smoothed back a rebellious curl, and seized her guitar to tune it.
A low moan came from a neighboring room. The street-singer immediately opened the curtained door and slipped into the room from which a cry now came.
"Louison—little Louison!"
"The poor thing—she has woke up," sighed the girl as she approached the small bed which stood in the equally small space.
"Mamma, how goes it?" she asked.
The form which lay on the bed looked almost inhuman. The cadaverous face was half burned and the bloodshot eyes, destitute of eyebrows, could not stand the least ray of light. The hands were horribly burned, and her laugh exposed her toothless gums.
"Thirst, Louison," stammered the woman, pulling her long gray hair over her eyes.
"There, mamma, drink," said Louison, bending tenderly over the poor woman.