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 crisis was over. From that moment nothing on earth would have induced Fifi to marry Louis Bourcet.

She did not, of course, put this in words, but sent poor Louis off with her promise to marry him in a month. Nevertheless, by one of those processes of logic which Fifi could not formulate to save her life, but which she could act up to in the teeth of fire and sword, the promise to marry Louis Bourcet settled for all time that she would not marry him.

Up to that moment all had been vague, agitating, mysterious and compelling. She felt herself driven, if not to marry Louis Bourcet, to act as if she meant to marry him. But once she had promised, once she had something tangible to go upon, her spirit burst its chains, and she was once more free. She had no more notion of marrying Louis Bourcet then than she had of trying to walk on her head. And she felt such a wild, tempestuous joy—the first flush of happiness she had known since the wretched lottery ticket had drawn the prize. She was so happy that she was glad to escape to her own room. She carried in her hand the picture of Louis Bourcet, and did not