"You remember, mon ami, the pretty little houses along the Rue de Paris, at Passy, with the linden trees in front of them, and the clear marble door-steps?"
"Très bien, mon cher abbé."
"It is not many months since I was passing by them, and saw at the window of one, the same sad face which I saw last at the grave. I went in, mon ami. I made myself known as the attendant on her father's death. She took my hand at this—ah, the soft white hand."
The abbé sipped his wine.
"She seemed sadly in want of friends, though there were luxuries around her. She was dressed in white, her hair twisted back, and fastened with a simple gold pin. Her sleeves were loose, and reached but a little way below the elbow; and she wore a rose on her bosom, and about her neck, by a little gold chain, a coral crucifix.
"I told her I had made numerous inquiries for her. She smiled her thanks.
"I told her I had ventured to inquire, too, for the friend, Remy, of whom her father had spoken; at this she put both hands to her face, and burst into tears.
"I begged pardon; I feared she had not found her friend.
"'Mon Dieu!' said she, looking at me earnestly, 'il est—il etait mon mari!'
"She burst into tears. What could I say? He is dead, too, then?"