hold of the velvet mask by that part which covered the cheeks, and feeling that her thumb was wet, looked at it.

It was not only wet, but reddened. The mask had fallen upon one of the spots of blood which, we have already said, stained the floor, and from that black velvet outside which had accidentally come into contact with it, the blood had passed through to the inside, and stained the white cambric lining. “Oh, oh!” said Montalais, for doubtless our readers have already recognized her by these various maneuvers, “I shall not give back this mask; it is far too precious now.”

And rising from her seat, she ran towards a box made of maple wood, which inclosed different articles of toilette and perfumery. “No, not here,” she said, “such a treasure