She called for a quantity of meringues and nougat, and finished by a glass of wine. Jack followed her example, but with more moderation, his great grief having filled his eyes with unshed tears and his heart with suppressed sighs.

When they left the shop the weather was so fine, although cold, and the flower-market of the Madeleine so fragrant with the sweet perfume of violets, that Ida determined to dismiss the carriage and return on foot. Briskly, and yet with a certain slowness of step, that indicated a woman accustomed to admiration, she started on her walk, leading Jack by the hand. The fresh air, the gay streets and attractive shops, quite restored Ida’s good-humor. Then suddenly, by what connection of ideas I know not, she remembered a masqued ball to which she was going that night, preceded by a restaurant dinner.

“Mercy! I had forgotten. Hurry! little Jack—quick!” She wanted flowers, a bouquet, a dozen forgotten trifles: and the child, whose life had always been made up of just such trifles, and who felt as much as his mother the subtile charm of these elegances, followed her in high glee, delighted by the idea of the fκte that he was not to see. The toilette of his mother always interested him, and he fully appreciated the admiration her beauty excited as they went through the streets and into the various shops.

“Exquisite! exquisite! Yes, you may send it to me—Boulevard Haussmann.”

Madame de Barancy tossed down her card, and went out, talking gayly to Jack of the beauty of her purchases. Suddenly she assumed a graver air. “Remember, Jack, what I say. Do not tell our good friend that I went to this ball; it is a great secret, It is five o’clock. How Constant will scold!”

She was not mistaken.

Her maid, a tall, stout person of forty years, ugly and masculine, rushed toward Ida as she entered the house.

“The costume is here. There is no sense in being so late. Madame will not be ready in season. No one could make her toilette in such a little while.”

“Don’t scold, Constant. If you only knew what had happened. Look!” and she pointed to Jack.

The factotum seemed utterly out of patience. “What! Master Jack back again! That is very naughty, sir, after all you promised. The police will have to come and take you to school; your mother is too good.”

“No, no, it was not he. The priest would not have him. Do you understand? They insulted me!” Whereupon she began to cry again, and to ask of heaven why she was so unhappy. What with the meringues and the nougat, the wine and the heat of the room, she soon felt very ill. She was carried to her bed; salts and ether were hastily sought. Mademoiselle Constant acquitted herself with the propriety of a woman who is no stranger to such scenes, went in and out of the room, opened and shut wardrobes, with a certain self-possession that seemed to say, “This will soon pass off.” But she did not perform her duties in silence.

“What folly it was to take this child to the Fathers! As if it was a place for him in his position! It would not have been done certainly, had I been consulted. I would engage to find a place for this boy at very short notice.”

Jack, terrified at seeing his mother so ill, had seated himself on the edge of the bed; where, looking at her anxiously, he in silence asked her pardon for the sorrow he had caused her.

“There! get away, Master Jack. Your mother is all right. I must help her dress now.”

“What! You do not mean, Constant, that I must go to this ball. I have no heart to amuse myself.”

“Pshaw! I know you, madame. You have but five minutes. Just look at this pretty costume, these rose-colored stockings, and your little cap.”

She shook out the skirts, displayed the trimming, and jingled the little bells which adorned it, and Ida ceased to resist.

While his mother was dressing, Jack went into the boudoir, and remained alone in the dark. The little room, perfumed and coquettish, was, it is true, partially illuminated by the gas lamps on the boulevard.