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The reader will eagerly admit that however faulty this young man’s course of reasoning, his conclusion was correct. For mark what he did.

He went to his room, which was already growing dark, shut his window, lighted his big Dutch lamp, and sat down to write. “Something must be done,” said he aloud, taking up his pen; “I will be calm and cool; I will be distant and brief; but–I shall have to be kind or I may offend. Ah! I shall have to write in French; I forgot that; I write it so poorly, dunce that I am, when all my brothers and sisters speak it so well.” He got out his French dictionary. Two hours slipped by. He made a new pen, washed and refilled his inkstand, mended his “abominable!” chair, and after two hours more made another attempt, and another failure. “My head aches,” said he, and lay down on his couch, the better to frame his phrases.

He was awakened by the Sabbath sunlight. The bells of the Cathedral and the Ursulines’ chapel were ringing for high mass, and a mocking-bird, perching on a chimney-top above Madame John’s rooms, was carolling, whistling, mewing, chirping, screaming, and trilling with the ecstasy of a whole May in his throat. “Oh! sleepy Kristian Koppig,” was the young man’s first thought, “–such a dunce!”

Madame John and daughter did not go to mass. The morning wore away, and their casement remained closed. “They are offended,” said Kristian Koppig, leaving the house, and wandering up to the little Protestant affair known as Christ Church.

“No, possibly they are not,” he said, returning and finding the shutters thrown back.

By a sad accident, which mortified him extremely, he happened to see, late in the afternoon,–hardly conscious that he was looking across the street,–that Madame John was–dressing. Could it be that she was going to the Salle de Conde? He rushed to his table, and began to write.

He had guessed aright. The wages were too precious to be lost. The manager had written her a note. He begged to assure her that he was a gentleman of the clearest cut. If he had made a mistake the previous afternoon, he was glad no unfortunate result had followed except his having been assaulted by a ruffian; that the Danse du Shawl was promised in his advertisement, and he hoped Madame John (whose wages were in hand waiting for her) would not fail to assist as usual. Lastly, and delicately put, he expressed his conviction that Mademoiselle was wise and discreet in declining to entertain gentlemen at her home.

So, against much beseeching on the part of ‘Tite Poulette, Madame John was going to the ball-room. “Maybe I can discover what ‘Sieur de la Rue is planning against Monsieur over the way,” she said, knowing certainly the slap would not be forgiven; and the daughter, though tremblingly, at once withdrew her objections.

The heavy young Dutchman, now thoroughly electrified, was writing like mad. He wrote and tore up, wrote and tore up, lighted his lamp, started again, and at last signed his name. A letter by a Dutchman in French!–what can be made of it in English? We will see:

“MADAME AND MADEMOISELLE:

“A stranger, seeking not to be acquainted, but seeing and admiring all days the goodness and high honor, begs to be pardoned of them for the mistakes, alas! of yesterday, and to make reparation and satisfaction in destroying the ornaments of the window, as well as the loss of compensation from Monsieur the manager, with the enclosed bill of the Banque de la Louisiane for fifty dollars ($50). And, hoping they will seeing what he is meaning, remains, respectfully,

“KRISTIAN KOPPIG.

“P.S.–Madame must not go to the ball.”

He must bear the missive himself. He must speak in French. What should the words be? A moment of study–he has it, and is off down the long three-story stairway. At the same moment Madame John stepped from the wicket, and glided off to the Salle de Conde, a trifle late.