A week is gone; le jour des noces arrived; the marriage was solemnized at St. Jacques; Mdlle. Zoraide became Madame Pelet, nee Reuter; and, in about an hour after this transformation², “the happy pair,” as newspapers phrase it, were on their way to Paris; where, according to previous arrangement, the honeymoon³ was to be spent. The next day I quitted the pensionnat. Myself and my chattels⁴ (some books and clothes) were soon transferred to a modest lodging⁵ I had hired in a street not far off. In half an hour my clothes were arranged in a commode, my books on a shelf, and the “flitting” was effected. I should not have been unhappy that day had not one pang⁶ tortured me — a longing⁷ to go to the Rue⁸ Notre Dame¹ aux Neiges, resisted, yet irritated by an inward resolve to avoid that street till such time as the mist of doubt should clear from my prospects⁹.

It was a sweet September evening — very mild, very still; I had nothing to do; at that hour I knew Frances would be equally released from occupation; I thought she might possibly be wishing for her master, I knew I wished for my pupil. Imagination began with her low whispers, infusing into my soul the soft tale of pleasures that might be.

“You will find her reading or writing,” said she; “you can take your seat at her side; you need not startle her peace by undue¹⁰ excitement; you need not embarrass her manner by unusual action or language. Be as you always are; look over what she has written; listen while she reads;

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