At The Villa Rose

There she lived honestly but miserably. The slimness of her figure

and a grace of movement which was particularly hers obtained her

at last a situation as a mannequin in the show-rooms of a modiste.

She took a room on the top floor of a house in the Rue St. Honore

and settled down to a hard and penurious life.

"I was not happy or contented--no," said Celia frankly and

decisively. "The long hours in the close rooms gave me headaches

and made me nervous. I had not the temperament. And I was very

lonely--my life had been so different. I had had fresh air, good

clothes, and freedom. Now all was changed. I used to cry myself to

sleep up in my little room, wondering whether I would ever have

friends. You see, I was quite young--only eighteen--and I wanted

to live."

A change came in a few months, but a disastrous change. The

modiste failed. Celia was thrown out of work, and could get

nothing to do. Gradually she pawned what clothes she could spare;

and then there came a morning when she had a single five-franc

piece in the world and owed a month's rent for her room. She kept

the five-franc piece all day and went hungry, seeking for work. In

the evening she went to a provision shop to buy food, and the man

behind the counter took the five-franc piece. He looked at it,

rung it on the counter, and, with a laugh, bent it easily in half.

"See here, my little one," he said, tossing the coin back to her,

"one does not buy good food with lead."

Celia dragged herself out of the shop in despair. She was

starving. She dared not go back to her room. The thought of the

concierge at the bottom of the stairs, insistent for the rent,

frightened her. She stood on the pavement and burst into tears. A

few people stopped and watched her curiously, and went on again.

Finally a sergent-de-ville told her to go away.

The girl moved on with the tears running down her cheeks. She was

desperate, she was lonely.

"I thought of throwing myself into the Seine," said Celia simply,

in telling her story to the Juge d'Instruction. "Indeed, I went to

the river. But the water looked so cold, so terrible, and I was

young. I wanted so much to live. And then--the night came, and the

lights made the city bright, and I was very tired and--and--"

And, in a word, the young girl went up to Montmartre in

desperation, as quickly as her tired legs would carry her. She

walked once or twice timidly past the restaurants, and, finally,

entered one of them, hoping that some one would take pity on her

and give her some supper. She stood just within the door of the

supper-room. People pushed past her--men in evening dress, women

in bright frocks and jewels. No one noticed her. She had shrunk

into a corner, rather hoping not to be noticed, now that she had

come. But the novelty of her surroundings wore off. She knew that

for want of food she was almost fainting. There were two girls

engaged by the management to dance amongst the tables while people

had supper--one dressed as a page in blue satin, and the other as

a Spanish dancer. Both girls were kind. They spoke to Celia

between their dances. They let her waltz with them. Still no one

noticed her. She had no jewels, no fine clothes, no chic--the

three indispensable things. She had only youth and a pretty face.