"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.
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