CHAPTER XXXVI.
[LOST AGAIN.]
How Stella has looked forward to this ball! how carefully and bravely she has cleared away all the obstacles which seemed at first to stand in the way of her pleasure! how eagerly and industriously she has gathered together her little store of ornaments, has tastefully renovated her old Venetian ball-dress! how she has exulted over Zino's note, in which with kindly courtesy he has begged her to accord to his friend Edgar Rohritz the pleasure he is obliged to deny himself! And now--now the evening has come; her ball-dress lies spread out on the sofa of the small drawing-room at the 'Three Negroes;' but Stella is lying on her bed in her little bedroom, in the dark, sobbing bitterly. For the second time she has lost the porte-bonheur which her dying father put on her arm three--nearly four years before, and which was to bring her happiness. She noticed only yesterday that the little chain which she had had attached to it for safety was broken, but the clasp seemed so strong that she postponed taking it to be repaired, and to-day as she was coming home, about five o'clock, fresh and gay, her cheeks flushed, her eyes sparkling with the excitement of anticipation, and laden with all sorts of packages, she perceived that her bracelet was gone. In absolute terror, she went from shop to shop, wherever she had made a purchase, always with the same imploring question on her lips as to whether they had not found a little porte-bonheur with a pendant of rock-crystal containing a four-leaved clover,--a silly, inexpensive trifle, of no value to any one save herself. But in vain!
Almost beside herself, she finally returned to her home, and told her mother of her bitter distress; but the Baroness only shrugged her shoulders at her childish superstition, and went on writing with extraordinary industry. She has lately determined to edit an abstract of her work on 'Woman's Part in the Development of Civilization,' for a book-agent with whom she is in communication, and who undertakes to sell unsalable literature. It seems that the abstract will fill several volumes! In the midst of Stella's distress, the Baroness begins to bewail to her daughter her own immense superabundance of ideas, which makes it almost impossible for her to express herself briefly. And so Stella, after she has hearkened to the end of her mother's lament, slips away with tired, heavy feet, and a still heavier heart, to her bedroom, and there sobs on the pillow of her narrow iron bedstead as if her heart would break.
There comes a knock at the door.
"Who is it?" she asks, half rising, and wiping her eyes.
"Me!" replies a kindly nasal voice, a voice typical of the Parisian servant. Stella recognizes it as that of the chambermaid.
"Come in, Justine. What do you want?"
"Two bouquets have come for Mademoiselle,--two splendid bouquets. Ah, it is dark here; Mademoiselle has been taking a little rest, so as to be fresh for the ball; but it is nine o'clock. Mademoiselle ought to begin to dress: it is always best to be in time. Shall I light a candle?"
"If you please, Justine."