CHAPTER XXIV.
THE MARQUISE.
Forty-eight hours have elapsed since the scenes we have described in the last chapter, and the day is Mardi Gras. Opposite the Café Turc, which in 1824 had a European reputation, stood a house of squalid appearance, inhabited, because of the low rent at which rooms could be obtained, by a number of modest tradespeople, who for the greater part of the year carried on the numerous booths on the Square.
Before describing this picturesque corner of old Paris, unknown to the present generation, we will enter this house to which we have alluded, and which bore the number 42 of the Boulevard du Temple. In a room on the fifth floor, the girl who was called the Marquise was finishing her toilette before the mirror. A poor little room enough, with its faded wall paper, its narrow bed pushed into the corner, its two chairs and pine table. The window closed but imperfectly, and the wind blew out the curtain like a sail. Colored prints were fastened against the wall, and everything was exquisitely clean. A white napkin was spread upon the table, and the bed had snowy curtains. The mirror at this moment was worth more than any from Venice, for it reflected a charming Greuze-like face.
The singer was twisting up her rebellious curls, and endeavoring to bring her hair into some kind of order. Her complexion was exquisite, her big dark eyes were full of sunshine, and her lips were beautiful and fresh. She fastened on her muslin cap, and then the graceful hands fluttered about her dress arranging that also.
Suddenly a deep sigh, apparently from the next room, reached her ear. She ran to the communicating door, and, opening it cautiously, looked in.
"Poor woman!" she said to herself, "she is awake. I wonder if she suffers still."
Then a voice called, "Cinette! little Cinette!"