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 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
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 LOS ANGELES 
 
 GIFT OF 
 
 California ^tate Library 
 
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 Sec. 15. Books may be taken from the Library by the 
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 torney-General and the Trustees of the Library. 
 
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 ^
 
 SEVEN YEARS, 
 
 AND OTHER 
 
 T A.LES. 
 
 BY 
 
 JULIA KAVANAGH, 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 NATHALIE," "ADELE," "THE TWO SICILIES, 
 
 &c. &c. 
 
 THREE VOLUMES IN ONE. 
 
 NEW YOEK: 
 D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, 
 
 549 & 561 BROADWAY. 
 
 1872.
 
 ?R 
 
 
 SEVEN YEARS. 
 
 -•« . — • — 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Of all the venerable places of Pai-is, the Marais may be 
 entitled peer and prince. Other places may boast antiquity 
 more remote ; — none can vie with the recollections of past 
 splendour which still linger around this. Here, under the 
 reign of the most magnificent monarch of France, once revelled 
 the gayest and most luxurious of the French nobility. Here 
 they raised noble and enduring mansions, which the hand of 
 time long respected, and which the hammer of the leveller 
 now shamelessly pulls down one after the other, reckless and 
 regardless of the liistorical tokens it is destroying ; sweeping 
 away memorials of Louis Quatorze, whom his contemporaries 
 styled the Great, dwellings still haunted by the frolics of nis 
 nobles and the gaieties of his court beauties, and consigning 
 them all to dust and oblivion with philosophic indifference and 
 impartiality. 
 
 The Marais, however, is not all pulled down. It is still 
 celebrated for its open stately streets, which trade is slowly in- 
 vading, for its large hotels, which commerce now possesses, and 
 for the broad airy gardens which every now and then extend 
 at the back of those lordly-looking abodes, filling the whole 
 neighbourhood with the sweet spring fragrance of young 
 lilac trees, or the rich summer perfume of invisible roses in 
 bloom. 
 
 In one of the finest streets of the Marais there stood some 
 years ago a noble-looking mansion, which answered to number 
 two. The lofty gateway and arches, the sculptured windows, 
 and cast-iron balconies ; the high slate-covered roof ant the 
 tall star^ks of chimneys that topped all, like the battlements of 
 a city, bespoke the importance of this dwelling. Yet through 
 that arched gateway, which stood ever open, appeared un-
 
 4 SEVEN TEARS. 
 
 mistakeable tokens that if stone and mortar were stout aa 
 ever, the mutability of fortune had aifected this once splendid 
 abode. Several boards, nailed ou the wall by the staircase, 
 and covered with painted characters, referred you to the various 
 iuhabitants of the mansion, and corresponded to other sign- 
 boards dangling from the iron balconies. Lamps were to be 
 had on the second floor; buhl furniture on the third; a lace- 
 mender tenanted the fourth ; the lodgers of tlie fifth were too 
 humble to claim public attention by any mural inscription. 
 They were satisfied to exist, and left the dignity of boards and 
 signs to their betters. 
 
 Every Paris house is built round a ynrd, and the more an- 
 cient the house, the wider this yard is: the rule at least hag 
 few exceptions. The yard or court of this house, for it de- 
 served the name, was square, paved, aud surrounded with 
 walls and windows, out of which various heads often peeped, — 
 heads that did not exactly recall the aristocratic type or the 
 splendid attire of the courtiers of Louis Quatorze. Rough 
 unshaved faces and blue blouses for the men, plain white caps 
 aud cotton dresses for the women, made tlie contrast as strik- 
 ing as any republican heart need have wished it. This was 
 indeed the democratic part of the abode; it had nothing to do 
 with the substantial and decorous tenants of the second, third, 
 and fourth floors. Two mean, dark, and modern staircases 
 led to the various lodgings of that coiir, which Madame Grand, 
 the portress of the whole liouse, held in supreme contempt, 
 not to say abhorrence : whereas a real genuine old staircase, 
 coeval with the house itself, — a staircase that opened near the 
 door of the lodge under shelter of the gateway, — conducted 
 with gentle aud easy ascent to those apartments with windows 
 on the street, which had Madame Grand's particular favour, aa 
 being tenanted by decent people, and especially, for the world 
 is the same all the world over, hy people of substance. 
 
 The English system of building is not favourable to the de- 
 velopment of staircase; narrow, wooden, and mean, it climbs 
 up two floors and an attic, and, having done what it had to do, 
 it stops. It may be covered with carpet or oil-cloth, or it may 
 not be covered at all, — a mean staircase it is, and will be ou to 
 the end. 
 
 The continental staircase aims at grandeur ; it may not 
 always attain its object, but a sort of dignity is the result of 
 the attempt. The staircases of the Marais, and especially 
 when they claim the seventeenth century as the date of their 
 existence, are famous for their stateliness. The broad and
 
 SEVEN YEAKS. 
 
 low stone steps ascend slowly, guarded by iron banisters rich 
 in folinffe and renaissance ornanicnts. Such a staircase was 
 that of this particular house : too grand by far for the lamps 
 on the second floor, for the buhl furniture on the third, and 
 the lace-mending business on tlie fourth, but by no means un- 
 suited to the quiet, ^ady-like tenant of the premier ctage, 
 Madame la Roche. 
 
 Madame la Roche was born in number two, like her 
 mother and her mother's mother before her ; for this house, 
 which was ber property, always descended In the female line, 
 and vn number two Madame la Roche, who was seventy and 
 more, devoutly hoped to live and die. The house had under- 
 gone many changes in passing through various hands, but the 
 handsome suite of rooms on the first floor had remained almost 
 unaltered since they were first fitted up and furnished for the 
 great-grandmother of Madame la Roche, who entered them a 
 youthful bride of seventeen. 
 
 The furniture was handsome, substantial, and good, and a 
 constitutional indolence, hereditary in the lady proprietresses 
 of the place, had resisted the insidious innovations of fashion. 
 Accordingly the museum of Cluny itself scarcely boasted more 
 treasures in carved cabinets, inlaid tables, precious china, and 
 curiosities of all sorts, than did the rooms of Madame la 
 Roche, who was lazily glad to be possessed of so many valua- 
 bles, but who in reality, and save for the sake of old family 
 associations, did not care one rush about them all. 
 
 In these large, roomy, and comfortable rooms, that looked 
 out on the street and ignored the vulgar yard behind, IMadame 
 la Roche lived on all the more pleasantly that she possessed 
 and enjoyed the privilege and luxury of a garden, which, 
 though small, rivalled the suspended gardens of Babylon, 
 being like them artificially raised above the common level of 
 this world. 
 
 Number two was a corner house. 
 
 Madame la Roche's rooms ended in and gave out on a 
 square terrace, which formed the angle of two streets, and in- 
 terposed between both the green sward of a little pelouse, the 
 silver spray of a diminutive fountain, and the foliage and 
 flowers of luxuriant lilac aiid laburnum trees. A bosquet 
 covered with roses, where Madame la Roche liked to sit, and 
 a handsome aviary, completed the delights of the place. To 
 crown all, it was not overlooked by more than a dozen win- 
 dows ; some people, indeed, might have thought this too 
 much, but Madame la Roche, who bad never done any thnig
 
 b SEVEN YEARS. 
 
 in her life, had nothing to hide, and would have iivea in a 
 glass house with perfect satisfaction to herself 
 
 In this garden, for a garden it was, a young girl walked 
 gathering flowers, on a lovely May morning, some years ago. 
 It was early yet ; the gras'; sparkled with dew, which falls alike 
 not merely ou the good and the wicked, but on city guilt and pas- 
 toral innocence ; the fragrance of the lilac and of the laburnum 
 was almost overpowering ; the little fountain splashed merrily in 
 its stone basin edged with bright flowers, and the birds in the 
 aviary sang their most gleesome carols, whilst daring sparrows 
 pecked the seed scattered by the wealthy little prodigals, and 
 hopped about pert and free in the sanded walks. The young 
 girl paused in the patli she was following, put her hand in a 
 tiny apron pocket, drew out some crumbs, which she scattered 
 at her feet, and immediately an eager crowd gathered around 
 her fearless and confident. 
 
 The young girl looked at them with a pleased and tri- 
 umphant smile, unconscious that, as she stood there with her 
 flowers in her hand, she afforded a subject of contemplation to 
 a tall and stout young upholsterer opposite, who stood conven- 
 iently ou a ladder, not indeed for the purpose of looking at her, 
 for he was hanging up chairs in his newly-opened shop, but who 
 yet made the most of the advantage he derived from this ele- 
 vated position by taking a survey of the garden and its early 
 tenant. 
 
 She was very young, barely sixteen, and even fastidious 
 eyes might have been pleased with her light supple figure and 
 graceful motions ; but, though her dark hair neatly plaited 
 shone in the sua, though her mobile face had all the expres- 
 sive vivacity of the Parisian type, if the name of type can in- 
 deed be given to anything belonging to that complex race, the 
 young girl was not pretty. Her complexion was pale and even 
 sallow, and she was decidedly thin. Her attire was neat but 
 simple; a little cotton print dress and white collar and sleeves 
 proved her to be a true Parisian in taste and toilette. 
 
 The sparrows were fed, and, resuming her task of gather- 
 ing flowers, the young girl was turning round, when her quick 
 eye perceived, above the low stone wall that surrounded the 
 garden, the full outlines of a masculine fiice. She did not 
 pause in her task, but darting a second glance, she endeavoured 
 to discover to whom the face belonged. She perceived the 
 ladder, and standing on it the charmed gazer, whose eyes 
 seemed rivetted on her every motion. She also saw, though 
 he did not, two or three workingmen in the shop, curiously
 
 SEVEN YEAES. 7 
 
 watching their master on the ladder, and evidently unable to 
 guess what he was looking at so intently. She could even in 
 the mornino; stillness of the streets overhear their comments 
 on the subject. 
 
 " The master is studying the design of Madame la Roche'a 
 window draperies," said one man. 
 
 " Real Louis Quinze style, I believe," replied another. 
 
 The young girl, determined to undeceive them, though not 
 cariijg to appear, here raised her voice, and began to sing in 
 tones so young and gay as to prove very clearly that the in- 
 dividual on the ladder might have some more modern object 
 to contemplate than the Loviis Quinze draperies of Madame 
 la Roche. 
 
 " Oh ho ! " said the first of the two speakers in the shop. 
 
 The other laughed without restraint. 
 
 The young man on the ladder coloured to the very temples, 
 and slowly descended ; the young girl in the garden, delighted 
 at his exposure, continued singing as any lark, and did not 
 enter until her apron was full of flowers. She then pushed 
 open a glass door, and stepping into a handsome dining-room, 
 gaily lit with the morning sun, she began settling her flowers 
 in a pair of old blue china vases, that looked made to set off 
 their brilliant colours. 
 
 Presently one of the doors of the dining-room opened, and 
 a short, stout, and round woman, long past middle age, put 
 her head in, and said coaxingly : 
 
 " Fanny, dear, can you come ? '' 
 
 " Not on any account," calmly replied Fanny ; " you see, 
 Marie, how I am engaged." 
 
 " Why yes, so you are," answered Marie, " so you are. I 
 always tell Charlotte so." And her head vanished. 
 
 Presently another door opened, and another female face, 
 older, calmer, and paler than Marie's, made its appearance. 
 
 " Child," it said, " I think it is time to attend to that 
 ironing." 
 
 " I shall see to nothing till I have settled my flowers," re- 
 belliously replied Fanny. 
 
 There was a pause as of doubt, then the head vanished, 
 the door closed, and Fanny was left mistress of the field. She 
 continued her task like one too much accustomed to such victo- 
 ries to care for them ; but the low twinkling of a silver bell was 
 heard in a room within. At once Fanny threw down her 
 flowers, and darted away to answer the summons.
 
 8 SEVEN YEAE8. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Madame la Roche was sitting in an arm-chair in her room 
 Heavy damask curtains half hid the lofty bed ; ancient en- 
 gravings and tarnished portraits in oval frames hung on the 
 walls ; lady-like knick-nacks were scattered about on spindle- 
 legged tables. Pots-pourris, vases of every shape, screens and 
 stands numberless, made a pretty confusion about the place. 
 The window was open, the morning air came in and breathed 
 gently over Madame la Roche, who sat, as we said, iu an arm- 
 chair, with composure in her calm face, and the happiness of 
 repose in her hands gently folded on her knees. A loose morn- 
 ing gown robed her person, a pretty morning cap framed her 
 face, soft, aged, and fair ; a face on which care had left few 
 lines, and these few time had gently smootlied away. 
 
 At her hand stood a small table, on which was placed the 
 little silver dinner-bell with which Madame la Roche had sum- 
 moned attendance, and which the young girl had so promptly 
 answered, that it had scarcely ceased to ring before the lady's 
 door opened, and Fanny appeared on the threshold. 
 
 " My dear, it was Marie I rang for," said Madame la 
 Roche, smiling. 
 
 " But I was there in the dining room," replied Fanny, a 
 little jealously, " there was no harm in coming." 
 
 " Oh ! no," meditatively said the elder lady, " I do not 
 think there can be harm in that. Well, child, I rang to say 
 that I think I shall breakfast in the garden this morning." 
 
 " I shall get it all ready," cried Fanny, with great eager- 
 ness. " In five minutes I shall come for you." 
 
 " Very well, my dear," placidly replied Madame la Roche ; 
 " yoii need not hurry ; ten minutes will do." 
 
 But Fanny was already gone. With a calm wonder at the 
 strange hastiness of youth, Madame la Roche again leaned 
 back in her chair, smoothed her lap, and once more folded up- 
 on it her dimpled white hands, hands made for idleness, or, as 
 Madame la Roche would have said in the polite and courtly 
 speech with which she clothed her thoughts, " hands which 
 Nature had intended for repose." 
 
 Fortune had kindly seconded Nature in the case of Madame 
 la Roche. She was born, nursed, and reared in affluence. She 
 married young a rich lawyer, who soon left her a widow, with 
 a handsome fortune and an only child, a daughter, who mar
 
 SEVEN YEARS. y 
 
 ried early like lier mother, and like her mother was wedded to 
 happiness and prosperity. 
 
 Thus, with few cares and sorrows, with little to trouble her, 
 and almost nothing to do, Madame la Roche had led the 
 smoothest of smooth lives, and calmly reached her seventieth 
 year. She had a kind heart, an amiable temper, a very easy 
 disposition, and only a few passive faults, from which no one 
 had ever sufiered. Her life had been spent in the house in 
 which we now find her ; here she was born, and here, like her 
 predecessors, she devoutly hoped to die, " as late as I can," she 
 smilingly added. In the meantime Madame la Roche kept a 
 man-servant, a cook, two maids nearly as old as herself, and, 
 instead of the parrot or lap dog which every lady worn in years 
 is expected to possess, a merry girl of sixteen, named Fanny, 
 who happened to be the god daughter of her maid Charlotte. 
 With the chatter of Fanny Madame la Roche amused herself; 
 when her garden and rooms did' not afford her sufficient exer- 
 cise she took a drive in an ancient family carriage, and called 
 on a few friends, whom every now and then she invited to din- 
 ner. Every Sunday she went to hear mass and vespers in the 
 neighbouring church. How the rest of her time was spent 
 Madame la Roche would have found it hard to say, but though 
 she might certainly have led a more useful life, even scandal 
 herself could not say that her existence could be more harm- 
 less than it was. Her temper was all but perfect, and it was 
 almost a matter of history that no one had ever seen Madame 
 la Roche disturbed. 
 
 Still as five minutes went by, then ten, and even fifteen, 
 and as neither Fanny nor breakfast appeared, Madame la 
 Roche wondered gently, moved in her chair, and finally 
 stretched out her hand and rung again with just a touch of 
 impatience. Tliis first call not being answered, she renewed 
 it, and presently the door opened, Marie appeared, and walked 
 in with a resolute look. We have already said that Marie 
 was short, round and stout; we may add that she now wore 
 a conical Norman cap, that she had a red face, a quick eye, a 
 quick tongue, and considerable vigour of mind and body. 
 Fastidious people thought Marie rather fiery, and spoke about 
 her temper, but it was agi'eed that her heart was in the right 
 place, — f(ir it seems this useful organ is not always where it 
 should be in the human frame, — and this advantage was held 
 BujQacient to counteract many fanlts. 
 
 " Marie," began Madame la Roche, "I have rung twice." . 
 
 " I was ironino-," said Marie shortly, " doing Madame 
 1*
 
 10 SEVEN YEARS. 
 
 Charlotte's work. Besides,, Madame knows this is my time 
 for putting on my cap." 
 
 Madame la Roche did not attempt to dispute the latter ar- 
 gument. The hat of Gessler himself was not a sterner emblem 
 of absolute power in ill-fated Uri, than the lofty cap of Marie 
 in Madame la Koche's household. She added to its' importance 
 by referring to it in a stately fashion, that admitted of no 
 joking or light talk on the subject. And every one accordingly 
 stood in secret or acknowledged dread of it ; every one from 
 Madame la Roche downwards, save Fanny, who was a spoiled, 
 irreverent child, and afraid of nothing the sun shone upon. 
 
 " Could not Fanny have helped you to iron ? " said Mad- 
 ame la Roche. 
 
 " Fanny ! " cried Marie, firing up, " Fanny was in the gar- 
 den gathering flowers. I did not think Madame would turn 
 upon Fanny ! " 
 
 " Dear me ! " exclaimed Madame la Roche, " I did not 
 think of that ; the dear child cannot be in two places at once, 
 of course." 
 
 " There is nothing Fanny does not do to please Madame, 
 I am sure." 
 
 " I never complain of her," placidly said Madame la 
 Roche; " I am sorry you do sometimes, Marie." 
 
 " I, Madame ? " Marie looked suffocated, to use the French 
 idiom. 
 
 " Yes, I heard you grumbling this morning because the 
 flaps of your cap were not ironed out to your liking. I do 
 not wish to hear Fanny grumbled at." 
 
 " Oh ! if Madame begins at my poor cap," sarcastically said 
 Marie. 
 
 " Dear me," plaintively said her mistress, " it is not your cap 
 I care about just now, but my breakfast, which I cannot get." 
 
 Before Marie could open her lips and say she was and had 
 long been aware that Madame did not care about her or her 
 cap either, the door opened, and Charlotte appeared like a 
 dove of peace. Marie snuffed and tossed her head. She and 
 Charlotte were inseparable foes of forty-five years' standing, 
 united but on one point — love for Fanny, though each affected 
 to consider the other the enemy, or at least the antagonist, of 
 this common darling. 
 
 Charlotte was short and stout like Marie, though she did 
 not in the least resemble her. Hers was a mild breadth of 
 countenance, a placid weight of figure, to which the vivacious 
 Marie had no claim. Like Marie, she had a temper of her
 
 SEVEN YEAKS. 11 
 
 own, but it was sweet and honeyed even whilst it provoked, 
 and, bee-like, stung to the quick. Charlotte was a widow, and 
 had nursed Madame la Roche's daughter, in virtue of which 
 office she assumed a calm dignity nothing could ruffle, and 
 which did more than anything else to disturb Marie's equa- 
 nimity. 
 
 How Madame la Roche got on between these two domi- 
 neering spirits no one exactly knew. Both treated her like 
 their peculiar property, but after different methods. Marie 
 thought it good to rouse her mistress, and Charlotte to 
 smooth her down. Madame la Roche let them both have 
 their way, happy if she could now and then have hers. But, 
 as we said, Charlotte now came as a dove of peace, and, ig- 
 noring Marie's aggi'essive sniff, she said soothingly : 
 
 " Breakfast is ready, if Madame will come out to it." 
 
 Madame la Roche rose and took Charlotte's arm. Marie 
 looked on wrathfuUy, and asked sharply : " May I know what 
 Madame rang for ? " 
 
 " I do not feel very strong," evasively replied Madame la 
 Roche, " give me your arm too, Marie." Thus supported on 
 either side, the gentle and politic lady walked through stately 
 rooms out into the terrace-like garden, where Fanny stood 
 beaming with smiles ready to receive and lead lier to the 
 bosquet. Here, though she had taken somewliat more than 
 five minutes to prepare it, she had certainly provided a most 
 dainty looking little dejeuner. A snow-white cloth covered 
 the rude garden table. Eleo-ant sevres china waited for the 
 rich coffee in the old silver coffee-pot ; croissants, a very 
 pleasant French cake, a variety of small loaves, and pats of 
 fresh butter, appeared on several plates. The two old ser- 
 vants uttered exclamations of delight. 
 
 " Beautiful ! " said Charlotte. 
 
 " No one does it like her ! " cried Marie. 
 
 " My dear," said Madame la Roche smiling, "your reward 
 shall be to breakfast with me." 
 
 " And wewill wait on you both," zealously volunteered Marie. 
 
 Fanny was too much accustomed to such favours to dis- 
 pute them. She sat down opposite her kind protectress and 
 breakfasted with her without using a bit of ceremony, either 
 in accepting the compliment, or in allowing her god-mother or 
 Marie to wait on her. 
 
 It was no unusual event to sec Madame la Roche break- 
 fast in the garden ; yet numerous heads soon appeared at the 
 various windows that overlooked it, for the laudable purpose
 
 12 SEVEN TEAKS. 
 
 of watching the proceedings below, and of overhearing such 
 Bnatches of the conversation as might rise upwards ; to which 
 impertinent survey Madame la Roche and Fanny both re- 
 nained indifferent. That Marie felt more on the subject than 
 they did a remark uttered by Charlotte soon made apparent. 
 
 " How red you are in the face, Marie," she kindly remarked, 
 — " quite pimply." 
 
 " Perhaps I am, and perhaps I am not," shortly said 
 Marie, 
 
 " A great deal depends on temper," pursued Charlotte, " as 
 I often told my daugliter Monica, who is now in America with 
 her good-for-nothing husband, poor dear, — as I often told her, 
 ' look at me, child, you see what a clear, smooth complexion I 
 have ; all temper, love, all temper. Be passionate, and you 
 will be red ; be calm, and you will be clear and pale.' No 
 one knows what temper has to do with complexion." 
 
 " Temper or complexion, I know this much," wrathfully 
 said Marie, " that if I had the head of that fellow up there 
 under ray right arm, and that of the grinning little monkey by 
 him under my left arm, I should squeeze them both soundly ! " 
 
 " Dear me, what an extraordinary wish ! " said Madame 
 la Roche, putting down her cup and looking calmly surprised. 
 *' I once heard of a Roman Emperor who wished all the world 
 had but one head — but do you know, Marie, it would hurt 
 you," added Madame la Roche, suddenly struck with that 
 practical objection to Marie's plan. 
 
 "I should not care," recklessly said Marie, " I hate look- 
 ers-on." 
 
 " Let them look," good-naturedly replied Madame la 
 Roche ; " they like to see the birds, I dare say, and the 
 flowers, and Fanny." 
 
 " It is all Marie's cap," remarked Charlotte; " she will not 
 believe that Parisians never will get accustomed to those high 
 steeple- like caps." 
 
 " I have worn my Norman cap sixty years,'' — loftily began 
 Marie. 
 
 " And more," put in Charlotte, — " sixty-five years at 
 least, Marie." 
 
 " Take away the things," hastily said Madame la Roche, 
 rising ; " Fanny, my love, give me your arm and show me the 
 new flowers." 
 
 The new flowers were as far from the scene of contest as 
 the limits of the garden allowed. They had been set at the 
 foot of the low wall that overlooked the street. Madame la
 
 SEVEN TEAKS. 13 
 
 Eoclie bent over tbera as if to inhale their fragrance, then 
 looking down at the newly-opened shop opposite, she said 
 slowly : " Fanny, ray dear, who is that young man that never 
 took his eyes off of you whilst we were at breakfast ? " 
 
 Fanny's eyes were deceitfully raised to every third and 
 fourth floor of every surrounding house, as with a look ol 
 great innocence she answered : " I see no young man, Mad- 
 
 ame." 
 
 No, my dear, not up there, but down below in the up- 
 holsterer's shop there is a very tall young man, who looked at 
 you so much whilst we were at breakfiist, that I scarcely think 
 it was the first time he did it. Do you know who he is ? " 
 
 " The master of that new upholsterer's shop, I believe," 
 replied Fanny. 
 
 " Can you read his name for me, my dear ? " 
 
 " Jean Baptiste Watt," said Fanny, casting a careless 
 glance over the gilt letters of the new shop. 
 
 " Very well," said Madame la Roche, drawing herself up 
 slightly, " I shall give Monsieur Jean Baptiste Watt one or 
 two further trials ; and if he continues to stare so at you, I 
 shall politely request him to discontinue his impertinence, and 
 remind him that it is rude and unneighbour-like to intrude 
 even his looks on the privacy of two ladies enjoying themselves 
 in their own garden." 
 
 Fanny smiled demurely, and Madame la Roche, satisfied 
 with the lofty resolve to which she had arrived, took a turn 
 round her garden, and enjoyed her pelouse, her fountain, and 
 her birds, like the owner of thirty acres. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Fanny was a dressmaker by trade. She went out to work 
 almost every day. She fed the birds or gathered flowers be- 
 fore she left, whilst Madame la Roche was still in her room. 
 How, therefore, could her protectress Avatch over the good or 
 bad behaviour of their young neig!ibour ? And as it so hap- 
 pened that Fanny neitlier complained of him nor alluded to 
 him in any fashion, the matter slipped out of tlie good lady's 
 mind, and Jean Baptiste Watt looked, or did not look, at his 
 pleasure. Charlotte, who never put her foot in tiie garden 
 when she could help doing so, exercised no surveillance over 
 her god-daughter, and when Marie entered its precincts it wag 
 to scowl up at the window of the two ofienders on whose heads
 
 14 SEVEN YEA.ES. 
 
 she had longed to visit the condign punishment Madame la 
 Roche deprecated. On the low regions of street and shop 
 Mai'ie rarely cast a look. 
 
 We need scai-cely say that Jean Baptiste Watt went on 
 looking, — so long, at least, as Fanny would give him an oppor- 
 tunity, which was but seldom, the young girl being of a coy 
 nature, willing enough to tantalize him with a glimpse of her 
 young face, half seen amongst green shrubs and slender trees, 
 but by no means inclined to afi'ord him a full and convenient 
 object for contemplation. Matters might have gone on thus, 
 however, for ever so long, but for the unexpected interference 
 of Monsieur Noiret. 
 
 Monsieur Noiret was one of Madame la Roche's oldest 
 friends. He was sixty years odd ; a dry and withered, but 
 stately old gentleman, stronger, more active, and healthier 
 than many a younger man. He was a gentleman of the old 
 school too ; he wore a queue, small-clothes, black silk stock- 
 ings, and shoes with gold buckles to them. His features were 
 sharp, yet not without a quiet humour tinged with sarcasm ; 
 his keen brown eyes twinkled beneath his strong grey eye- 
 brows with mischievous light, and his white teeth gleamed, 
 almost too white and sharp, behind his full good-humoured 
 mouth. To these particulars we need only add, that Monsieur 
 Noiret was a bachelor, that he enjoyed a comfortable income, 
 and that several times a year he dined in state with Madame 
 la Roche. He had been dining with her on this particular 
 day, one of the brightest in June ; the meal was over, and was 
 followed by the traditional cup of black coffee, which Madame 
 la Roche and her guest took in the garden, with Fanny as 
 waiter. 
 
 The evening was clear and calm ; not a breath of air 
 stirred the roses of the bosquet, now in full bloom, and to 
 whose hue Monsieur Noiret, more courteously than veraciously, 
 compared Fanny's cheek. 
 
 " Yes, the child is not amiss," said Madame la Roche, 
 looking kindly at her favourite. " She grows, too, does she 
 not. Monsieur Noiret ? " 
 
 " Like a lily," said Monsieur Noiret, smiling his fullest 
 Bmile ; " straight, fair, and modest, but with more than a lily's 
 power to blush." 
 
 Fanny, with whom Monsieur Noiret was no favourite, 
 looked disdainful, as much as to imply that she did not blush 
 on his account. 
 
 " And Fanny has admirers, I perceive," continued Mon-
 
 SEVEN YEAES. 15 
 
 gieur Noiret, leaning back in bis cbair and glancing carelessly 
 at tbe opposite shop. " That tall yellow-haired upholsterer 
 has a decided admiration for Fanny." 
 
 " That young man's behaviour is getting indecorous, 
 loftily said Madame la Roche; "I really must interfere." 
 
 Monsieur Noiret whistled. 
 
 " An old offender, I see," he shrewdly remarked. " Oh, 
 Fanny, Fanny ! " 
 
 " Fanny has nothing to do with it, Monsieur Noiret ; do 
 advise me." 
 
 Monsieur Noiret waved his hand with a deprecatory ges- 
 ture, that implied, " I cannot; excuse me ; " and with a covert 
 look at Fanny that said, " not in her presence, if you please." 
 
 Madame la Roche took the hint, and gently said to the 
 young girl : " You may take these things away, my dear." 
 
 Fanny, nothing loth, took up the tray and entered tho 
 house. 
 
 " My dear Monsieur Noiret, what shall I do ? " piteously 
 exclaimed Madame la Roche ; " I had some thoughts of alight- 
 ing from my carriage at this young man's door, and seriously 
 requesting him not to look up in that strange way ; but on re- 
 flection it seems to me you cannot quarrel with people for look- 
 ing, can you. Monsieur Noiret ? " 
 
 " Certainly not, — especially for looking at youth and 
 beauty, — else I sliould be in a sad plight myself," added Mon- 
 sieur Noiret, " having always had a strong bent that way. 
 Bat, my dear Madame, I thought Mademoiselle Fanny be- 
 came very rosy when I spoke of this yellow-haired young man, 
 who since her departure looks most blank and melancholy. 
 Do you suppose she takes any interest in him ? " 
 
 " Oh dear, no ! " exclaimed Madame la Roche, rather 
 stiffly. 
 
 " Those things have been," smiled Monsieur Noiret, as if 
 he just then remembered something of the kind witliin his own 
 experience ; " but whatever may be the feelings of Mademoi- 
 selle Fanny," he added, " I take it for granted that her ad- 
 mirer gets little encouragement, else he would not feed so hun- 
 grily on mere looks." 
 
 " But what am I to do ? " sighed Madame la Roche ; " I 
 do not want to keep poor Fanny out of the garden, and it ia 
 not decorous that she shoidd be looked at in that strange 
 way " 
 
 " It is most indecorous," said Monsieur Noiret. " Well, 
 my dear Madame, I see but one thing to do. To send for that
 
 10 SEVEN" YEARS. 
 
 yoimg man on some upholstery concern, and drop him a gen 
 tie hint." 
 
 Madame la Eoche eagerly grasped at the suggestion. 
 
 " Of course, of course," she said ; " I want sonte new gar- 
 den chairs. What is it, Marie ? " she added, addressing the 
 owner of the Norman cap who tlien appeared on the threshold 
 of the ghiss-door leading from the house to the garden. 
 " Marie," she added, without waiting for an answer, " will you 
 just step down and tell Monsieur Watt that I should like to 
 speak to him on business ? If he can come at once he will 
 very much oblige me." 
 
 Marie was not a submissive servant. She had both a way 
 and a will of her own, but the presence of Monsieur Noiret 
 rendered her docile for once ; and though she went away mut- 
 tering to herself about evening dews and damps, and people 
 who never knew that they were getting old, she obliged her 
 mistress, which was the chief thing. Her stout figure and for- 
 midable cap were soon seen at tlie upholsterer's door by Mon- 
 sieur Noiret ; the former firmly planted on the pavement, the 
 latter nodding imperatively at Jean Baptiste Watt, who, yield- 
 ing to its summons, put by the evening pipe he was enjoying, 
 and stepped across the street to comply with Madame la 
 Roche's request. Marie slowly brought up the rear, as if to 
 prevent the possibility of escape. 
 
 " Is he coming ? " asked Madame la Roche, who was 
 watching Monsieur Noiret's face. 
 
 •* He is coming," emphatically replied Monsieur Noiret. 
 
 Even as he spoke Jean Baptiste Watt appeared at the en- 
 trance of the garden, and slowl}^ approached the spot where 
 Madame la Roche was sitting. The young upholsterer was 
 tall, broad-shouldered, and strong. He might be twenty-three 
 or more ; he certainly looked older. He had a calm, open, 
 manly face, serene blue eyes, with a shrewd twinkle in thera, 
 and firm silent lips that told of a tenacious purpose and strong 
 will. His regular features entitled him to the epithet of 
 good-looking, though a certain want of vivacity and imagina- 
 tion in theui denied him all claim to the meaning of the com- 
 prehensive and wonderful word of " handsome." He was a 
 Fleming, as his name indicated, but he wore the dress of a 
 Parisian working man ; the grey blouse and trousers, and a 
 cloth casquette, which he quietly doffed as he appx-oached 
 Madame la Roche. 
 
 This lady was favourably impressed by his appearance, 
 and looked at him with a pleased and puzzled expression.
 
 SEVEN YEARS, 17 
 
 " Madame wishes to speak to me," he said. 
 
 " Yes," hesitatingly replied Madame La Roche. " Yes 
 I think I should like some garden chairs." 
 
 " I am an upholsterer," said the young man. " I can pro- 
 cure you garden chairs, but I do not make them." 
 
 His voice and manner were both phlegmatic and cold. 
 
 " I see, I understand," said Madame La Roche, and, not 
 knowing how to get on, she gave Monsieur Noiret an appeal- 
 ing look. He smiled compassionately, gently threw himself 
 back in his chair, and thus took the matter in hand. 
 
 " Monsieur Watt, it is not merely garden chairs Madame 
 la Roche requires, but an awning to protect her from the sun 
 first of all, and also to screen her from indiscreet looks that 
 are apt to find their way to this garden. I believe an awning 
 of stout cloth, say striped red and white, scolloped at the edge, 
 and held by strong poles, will answer her purpose very well. 
 But perhaps you do not make awnings. Monsieur Watt? " 
 
 Monsieur Watt did not answer. He looked amazed 
 and confounded at the prospect Monsieur Noiret so cruelly 
 held out. No doubt a visionary awning, striped red and 
 white, and artistically scolloped, the work of his own hands 
 too, already stretched before his mind's eye along the ridge 
 of wall above which he had so often seen the graceful tonn of 
 Fanny lightly moving; but awakening- as from a dream, he 
 said with a strong: eli'ort : 
 
 " I can n)ake an awnino; for Madame." And takina; out 
 his metre measure, he began methodically calculating the 
 height and breadth of the proposed awning. Monsieur Noiret 
 watched and enjoyed his proceedit-gs, but Madame la Roche, 
 who had ever been more remarkable for kinduess of heart than 
 for logic or consistency, exclaimed compassionately : 
 
 " Mou Dieu, Monsieur AV^att ! I do not care about that 
 awning; if you will only not look up here so much as to get 
 Faniiy noticed in the neighbourhood, we will not put it up at 
 all But, you see, you are very tall, and so your eyes natu- 
 rally look up, and people might misconstrue, Monsieur Watt." 
 
 Monsieur Watt, fairly taken by surprise, reddened like a 
 boy on liearing this speech ; but soon rallying he said coolly : 
 
 "I will put the awning, or not, at Madame's pleasure; I 
 am an upholsterer, and it is my business to comply with the 
 orders of customers ; but as to not looking," he added with 
 an emphatic smack of his lips, " Jean Baptiste Watt uses the 
 eyes which the Almighty gave him, and asks no one's leave as 
 to how and when he is to look,"
 
 18 SEVEN TEAKS. 
 
 This defiant speecli, wliicli was uttered witt a full look at 
 Monsieur Noiret, amused that gentleman exceedingly, but 
 completely disconcerted Madame la Roche. 
 
 " What an obstinate young man," she murmured. " Well, 
 well, put up the awning. Monsieur Watt. How much will it. 
 cost ? " 
 
 "Two hundred and twenty-five francs." 
 
 " So much ! " exclaimed Madame La Roche, opening her 
 eyes ; " can you make it no cheaper ? " 
 
 " Not a sou." 
 
 " Well, well, never mind," said the easy lady, " put it up 
 all the same." 
 
 An expression of conflicting emotions appeared on thej 
 young man's face. He hesitated, stammered, coughed, and at 
 length spoke to the following purport : 
 
 " I am new in business, and naturally anxious to secure 
 customers. Still, as I believe Madame is putting up that awn- 
 ing chiefly on my account, I think that Madame will spare 
 some expense by putting up a wooden trellis, covered with 
 creeping plants. It will cost less, look prettier, and answer 
 the purpose better than any awning." 
 
 " I shall like it a great deal better," cried Madame la 
 Roche. " How much will it cost. Monsieur Watt ? " 
 
 " A gardener will tell Madame best," answered the young 
 man civilly, but coldly. " I have the honour to bid Madame 
 a good evening." 
 
 And, without casting a look at Monsieur Noiret, he re 
 Bumed his casquette, left the garden, and was once more seen 
 standing on his door-step leisurely smoking, and all before 
 Madarae la Roche had recovered from the surprise into which 
 his bluntness, honesty, and coolness had thrown her. 
 
 " What an extraordinary young man," she exclaimed at 
 length ; " very stubborn though, and very tiresome, I suspect." 
 
 " I wonder what Mademoiselle Fanny will say to all this ? " 
 put in Monsieur Noiret. 
 
 " She shall know nothing," said Madame la Roche ; " she 
 would fall in love directly, and slie is too young. But tbat 
 young man must not lose by his disinterestedness; I shall 
 work you a chair. Monsieur Noiret, and he shall make it up." 
 
 "Then pray do not tell him so," said Monsieur Noiret 
 rising, " or he will certainly stuff the scat with pins, and put 
 an odd nail or two in the back ? " 
 
 " What an extraordinary fancy ! " exclaimed Madame la 
 Roche ; " you do not think he could be so wicked ? "
 
 \ 
 
 \ 
 
 SEVEN TEAKS. 19^ 
 
 " Humph ! it was I suggested the awning. And he looks 
 desperately in love." 
 
 Madame la Roche granted the force of the argument, and 
 gently thanked Heaven that she had never been in love. 
 Which remark Monsieur Noiret heard with the compassion it 
 merited. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Madame la Roche was by far too discreet to drop a word 
 to Fanny of what had passed. 
 
 " No, Marie," she said to her maid, as the latter helped her 
 to undress that evening, " no,- Fanny is a good girl, but if she 
 were to know the state that poor young man is in, it might 
 have some eifeet upon her. 1 never was in love, thank Heaven, 
 and married Monsieur la Roche out of duty to my dear 
 mother, who said he would make a good husband ; but the 
 truth is, Marie, I was once very near being in love with a 
 linen-draper, just because my nurse, like a foolish thing as she 
 was, said that young man looked bewitched whenever I entered 
 the shop. I confess I wa,s beginning to take a liking to going 
 into that shop, when I luckily married Monsieur la Roche, 
 and an end was put to all that nonsense." 
 
 We are sorry to say that Marie did not give this sensible 
 speech the respectful hearing it certainly deserved. She was very 
 much provoked with every one : with her mistress for talking 
 of getting a trellis put up ; with Jean Baptiste Watt for look- 
 ing at Fanny ; and with Fanny for being looked at. Mai-ie 
 liked the garden as it was; she liked to see and be seen; to 
 lean with arms folded above the wall that overlooked the 
 street, and exchange shrill contests with any passing enemy 
 below. The trellis threatened to be the destroyer of all her 
 pleasures and habits, and Marie was resolved that it should 
 nut be put up. For this it was necessary to bring matters to 
 a crisis, and she saw no better means of accomplishing her 
 object than to attack Fanny ; not by coarse reproaches or 
 violent scolding, — Marie loved the young girl too much to use 
 either, and, to say the truth, she Was alsu too much in fear of 
 this pert little tyrant, who managed to rule the whole house, — 
 but by those delicate arts which are omnipotent all the world 
 over, and which Fanny in particular was too young and inex- 
 perienced to compete with. 
 
 After seeing her mistress safe in bed, Marie, who never 
 took long to mature her plans, proceeded straightway to the 
 
 > 
 I
 
 20 SEVEN YEARS. 
 
 room where Fanny slept, and where she found the young girl 
 working busily by the light of a solitary candle. It was a 
 small, neat room, which Madame la lloche had taken a pecu- 
 liar pleasure in decorating, and which many a wealthier girl 
 than Fanny might have envied her, so prettily and coquet- 
 tishly was it furnished. 
 
 '■ My darling," said Marie, entering, " why will you spoil 
 }Our eyes with that bad light ? " 
 
 " Spoil my eyes ! " saucily said Fanny, " nothing spoils 
 them." 
 
 " I dare say not — I dare say not," sighed Marie, sinking 
 down on a chair ; " that poor Jean Baptiste Watt knows 
 something about it. Well, well. I do not pity him ; that 
 screen will only serve him right." 
 
 " Screen, what screen ? " asked Fanny. 
 
 " Dear me, child, do you not know ? Did you not see him 
 in the garden this evening ? Were you not present when he 
 had that long talk with Madame ? " 
 
 Fanny did not know what Marie meant. She had seen no 
 one ; she had heard nothing. 
 
 " Ah, to be sure, of course not ! " exclaimed Marie, sud- 
 denly remembering; " well, you know, child, that big, fat, 
 stupid-looking Fleming opposite, the upholsterer, who always 
 does so stare at you." 
 
 " I have never looked at him," sharply interrupted Fanny, 
 " and therefore he may be fat, stupid, and all you like, for all 
 I know." 
 
 "Of course, of course," soothingly said Marie; "well, 
 child, Madame and Monsieur Noiret sent for him." 
 
 " I do not see what Monsieur Noiret had to do with it.'' 
 again interrupted Faimy, who looked red and vexed. 
 
 " Nothing, certainly," approvingly said Marie ; " but it 
 seems they sent for him, and scolded him about his looking, 
 and all that." 
 
 " Marie, what do you mean by all that ? " asked Fanny, 
 looking solemn. •' Do you meau to say that I have ever 
 taken the least notice of that young man, — that I should know 
 him in the street ?" 
 
 " My darling, no one dreams of blaming you, — no one in- 
 deed ; the young man is nothing in this ; the screen is all to 
 my seeming." 
 
 " What screen ? " 
 
 " Ah I there it is, what screen, indeed ! It seems neither 
 threats nor entreaties would make him promise not to look at
 
 SEVEN YEARS. 21 
 
 you in the garden, so Monsieur Noiret said a screen — a 
 wooden trellis with a creeping vine — was the only cure, and a 
 screen there is to be all round the garden, and we are to he 
 locked up like the Grand Turk's wives." 
 
 " Madame la Roche may put up the screen of course," 
 said Fanny, looking very angry and very dignified, " but once 
 it is up I shall not put my fo.jt in the garden." 
 
 " Then all the blame will be thrown upon me," ejaculated 
 Marie, " for, to say the truth, child, I was not to have told 
 you. Nothing would convince Madame but that if you once 
 knew about this young fellow, you would fall in love with him." 
 
 " I ! " exclaimed Fanny. 
 
 " Do not mind it, child, it is all Charlotte's doing, I have 
 no doubt." 
 
 " I do not care who has doiie it," cried Fanny, exasperat- 
 ed, '' but this I know, that if the screen is put up, I shall not 
 put my foot in the garden again." 
 
 " Stick to that, dear," said Marie shrewdly, " stick to 
 that, and we shall have no screen, you may rely upon it." 
 
 Every one knows the potent efi'ect of contradiction, 
 especially in the discreet season of youth. As much through 
 shyness as through prudence, Fanny had shunned the perti- 
 nacious looks of Jean Baptiste Watt, but now the spirits of 
 curiosity and of disobedience were both roused, and Fanny 
 got up at least half an hour earlier than usual the next morn- 
 ing, to see what this fat, stupid, big Fleming was really like. 
 She went into the garden, she fed the birds in the aviary, and 
 the sparrows on tlie grass ; she tied up drooping flowers, and 
 spent an hour in these tasks, and did not once see the face of 
 Jean Baptiste Watt. He sat in his shop stuffing a sofa ; but 
 though he might have seen her, and though he certainly must 
 have heard hei', for she sang to herself, he never raised his 
 head once. 
 
 " He is a Fleming, and he is stupid," thought Fanny, all 
 the more vexed that sHie was conscious of having watched for 
 an admiration she had disdained hitherto. She resolved not 
 to give him another thought. Yet at twelve she was in the 
 garden again, and again she saAV Baptiste working hard, and 
 never raising his look towards Madame la Roche's premises. 
 "They have frightened him," thought Fanny, with something 
 like contempt. And she resolved to see if he could abstain 
 from looking one whole day. Madame la Roche was out in 
 her carriage, making her round of calls ; Charlotte and Marie 
 wore busy within ; the June evening was balmy and mild
 
 22 SEVEN YEAES. 
 
 Fanny took out her work to the garden, and, seating herself 
 near the wall, she sewed busily, now and then clipping off', with 
 her scissors, a withered leaf from a neighbouring shrub, or 
 casting a careless look below. Women and girls were filling 
 their pails at a fountain, children were playing in the middle 
 of the street, and Jean Baptiste Watt stood on the threshold 
 of his door leaning against the jamb, with sadly folded arms, 
 smoking a huge pipe with slow relish, and looking at Fanny 
 with all his might. 
 
 The young girl had given him up, and indeed had forgotten 
 him, when, casting her eyes towards his shop, she made the 
 discoveiy. An expression of great severity found its way tc 
 Fanny's face. She rose slowly, folded up her work, took in 
 her chair, and disappeared for the evening. Indeed, Fanny 
 was, or fancied herself, very angry, and straightway went to 
 Marie, to whom she told what had happened, adding some try- 
 ing comments on the personal appearance as well as on the 
 behaviour of her admirer, and concluding with the declaration 
 that the sooner the screen was put up the better. 
 
 " Well, perhaps it is," pensively ejaculated Marie, " for 
 there is no knowing but you might be tempted to give the 
 young fellow a look now and then." 
 
 " I ! " interrupted Fanny. 
 
 " Yes, my dear, just as you might look at the door, or at a 
 horse and car in the st:eet; but men are so dreadfully conceited 
 that this one would never fancy he is no more than a door or 
 a horse in your sight, ;;nd of course you cannot tell him so. 
 Yes, the trellis is certaii.Iy best, unless, indeed, he should fancy 
 you are peeping at him ihrough it." 
 
 " Peeping, and at him ! " indignantly exclaimed Fanny. 
 
 "Yes, dear, all conceit, of course ; but still not unlikely. 
 Men are so. The best of them would not feel a bit surprised 
 at being told, Monsieur, the queen's daughter is dying for 
 you." 
 
 Fanny was confounded : to be suspected of peeping at a 
 Monsieur Watt through a trellis was more than pride could 
 tolerate, and Marie followed up her advantage with so much 
 skill, that the young girl once more declared she would not 
 put her foot in the garden if once the screen were put up. She 
 said so not merely to Marie, but to Madame la Roche nerself, 
 when that lady remotely alluded to the subject, and spoke of 
 the heat of the sun, and the staring of the neighbours. 
 
 " I shall be very glad, of course, to be rid of the staring of 
 that impertinent upholsterer," said Fanny, speaking very fast,
 
 \ 
 
 \ 
 
 \ 
 
 SEVEN TEAE8. 2S\ 
 
 " but for all that, once tlie screen is up, I shall not enter the 
 
 garden." 
 
 " My dear ! " gravely exclaimed Madame la Eoche. 
 
 " I know he would think I am peeping at him from behind 
 it," pursued Fanny, looking hot and vexed. 
 
 Madame la Roche was very much perplexed. _ She hesi' 
 tated : it was weak to yield to a child like Fanny ; it was com- 
 mitting her authority ; but then it was so easy. 
 
 " I really do not like to hurt that young man's feelings," 
 she apologetically said to Monsieur Noiret ; " on reflection, too, 
 I think it would make him conceited. Then it would certainly 
 spoil our garden, and Marie thinks it would make people take 
 more notice than if we put up nothing at all ; and as Fanny 
 does not care about the young man's looking — we will leave 
 matters as they are." 
 
 Monsieur Noiret smiled politely, and thus Marie won the 
 day, and Jean Baptiste Watt was allowed to use his eyes. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 From that day forward Fanny took a decided, though dis- 
 creet, liking to the little garden. No one could accuse her of 
 going there for the mere purpose of idling away an hour, for 
 she never went without her work, and she sat in the bosquet 
 of roses most decorously sewing. No one could say, either, 
 that she wished Jean Baptiste Watt to look at her, for the 
 spot she chose to sit in was by no means within range of his 
 eyesight ; in short, it was difficult to say that Fanny went to 
 the garden for any other reason than that she liked it, and that 
 it was pleasant, in the freshness of summer mornings and the 
 cool of summer evenings, to sit and sew there ; to hear the 
 birds sing, to see the jet of sparkling water rise in mist and 
 spray, and fall back in its stone basin; to enjoy the verdure of 
 grass and trees, and, instead of a room ceiling, to feel above 
 her head the clear blue Paris sky. 
 
 Madame la Roche was of too easy and confiding a temper 
 to dream of suspecting Fanny; Charlotte was too busy within 
 and too indolent to trouble herself about her god-daughter's 
 doings, and only the busy, vigilant, mistrustful owner of the 
 Norman cap was left to keep watch over the young girl. She 
 did so ostensibly at first, leaning over the wall and looking 
 down defiantly at the upholsterer below ; then, reflecting that 
 this was too frank and imprudent a laying of herself open to
 
 24 - SEVEN YEAE8. 
 
 the enemy, she withdrew like an artful spider to the retreat of 
 some young shrubs and trees, behind which she lurked in 
 watch of the heedless fly opposite ; of this too she tired in time 
 and entered the house, where she stood behind curtains, or 
 ascended the staircas.e and took her post at landing windows, 
 like a warder in his turret; all to no purpose: Marie became 
 convinced of a truth, which it had not taken Fanny two days to 
 ascertain: Jean Baptiste Watt looked up no more. _ Pride, 
 sense, both perhaps, had won that victory over passion : the 
 young Fleming had not waited for the threatened screen to bo 
 put up ; he had forestalled it by the effort of will, and thus 
 won one of the greatest triumphs he could well win. 
 
 " The impertinent conceited fellow ! " exclaimed Marie ; 
 " does he mean anything by it ? " 
 
 " What should he mean ? ' impatiently replied Fanny, 
 " who wants him to look ? " 
 
 '• He is sly," said Marie, " he is sly, child ; I warrant, for 
 all his demureness, that many a corner of his eye finds its way 
 up here. " 
 
 Fanny did not reply, but hung her head over her work and 
 sewed fi.st. 
 
 There is no knowing how long matters might have gone 
 on so. Fanny might have worked in the garden the whole 
 summer long, and Baptiste might have stuffed sofas and chairs 
 in his shop, and looked up from the corner of his eye, as Marie 
 said, but for an event which no one could possibly have fore- 
 seen, and which brought matters to a crisis. 
 
 Fanny rose ony morning in her usual health. She went 
 out to the garden, as her wont was when she spent the day 
 at home, and she sat and sewed there. Towards noon her 
 head ached ; by evening she felt feverish ; in the night she 
 awoke seriously ill. A doctor was sent for by dawn ; he de- 
 clared that Faimy had a fever of the worst kind, and pronoun- 
 ced her life in danger. How did the news reach Baptiste 
 Watt ? Perhaps he missed Fanny from the garden and made 
 inquiries ? Certain it is, that on the evening of the third day 
 of Fanny's illness, Jean Baptiste Watt, pale and haggard- 
 looking, rang the bell at Madame la Roche's door, and asked 
 to speak to the mistress of the house. 
 
 It was Marie who opened. Speedy and sharp came her 
 answer. 
 
 " You cannot see Madame." 
 
 And she was shutting the door in his face, when Baptiste 
 quickly interposed his hand and prevented her purpose.
 
 SEVEK YEABS. 25 
 
 " I must see her," he said coolly; " and I will," he added 
 entering the ante-room. 
 
 " You will ? " said Marie, amazed at his audacity. 
 
 Baptiste shut the door, sat down on the first chair at hand, 
 put his hat on the floor between his legs, and said with an in- 
 crease of phlegm : 
 
 " I shall not stir from this place till I have seen Madame 
 la Eoche." 
 
 " And though you should stay here till morning, you shall 
 not see her," indignantly cried Marie. 
 
 There is something exquisitely provoking in the stolidity of 
 big people. Conscious of his size, strength, and immoveable 
 purpose, Baptiste Watt did not deign to stir or speak. His 
 ideas were naturally few, and he liad now brought all his en- 
 ergies to bear on one particular idea, — that it was requisite he 
 should see Madame la Boche in order to know the truth about 
 Fanny ; more he was not equal to. But this he was so firmly 
 resolved upon, that nothing and no one could have made him 
 move from where he now was. Marie threatened, scolded, and 
 waxed red, and finally left him tliere, and went to find Char- 
 lotte, who was ironing in the kitchen. 
 
 " Charlotte ! " she exclaimed, " do exert yourself for once, 
 ai:d go to that Fleming out there ; I cannot make him move 
 from the ante-room, and I am determined he shall not see 
 Madame." 
 
 " It is very strange that you should have let him in," mis- 
 trustfully replied Cliariotte, who saw a trap in this speech. 
 " I always said so to Monica. ' Never let a man in, my dear, 
 unless you wish him to stay. Ah, well, it is hard to have but 
 one child, and to have her whipped off to America for you, by 
 a good-for-nothing fellow, who gave himself out as earning five 
 francs ten a-day, and who never did make three, Monica,' I 
 said." 
 
 " I never heard anything like it," interrupted Marie, 
 stamping her right foot. " I a.sk you to help me to turn out a 
 man, and you talk of Monica's husband to me." 
 
 " I know you have been wanting this curling iron all day," 
 replied Charlotte ; " but if you think to make me leave it and 
 my place here by your stories of men a,nd all that, you are very 
 much mistaken. I scorn such arts, thank Heaven." 
 
 " The woman is mad," charitably exclaimed Marie. " As 
 to that young giant, we shall see what the broomstick will do, 
 and whether he will brazen that out." 
 
 And there is uo knowing to what extremities Marie, who had 
 2
 
 26 
 
 SEVEN YEAKS. 
 
 a violent temper, might have proceeded, if Madame la Roche 
 had not happened to cross the ante-room and to see Baptistc 
 sitting there. She gave him an astonished look, which, rising 
 at her approach, lie answered with great caliuuess. 
 
 " I know Madame has every right to be surprised at seeing 
 me here," he said, " but I could live no longer in that state of 
 suspense. I know Madame is good, and that she will tell me 
 the truth about Mademoiselle Fanny. Is she really so very ill 
 as the people say ? " 
 
 The mild blue eyes of Madame la Roche fell with gentle 
 compassion on the worn, unhappy face of the speaker. 
 
 " Poor young fellow ! " she said half to herself; " why yes," 
 she added aloud, " yes, our poor little darling is very ill. We 
 are in great trouble about her, Mons-ieur Watt, — very great 
 trouble ; I really do not know what I shall do if we should 
 lose the dear child," added Madame la Roche, bursting into 
 tears, " so good, so afi'ectionale as she has always been. The 
 doctor says she is very ill, and — dear me, Monsieur Watt, I 
 hope you are not going to faint ! " added Madame la Roche, 
 startled at the young man's appearance. 
 
 He had turned white, then yellow; his eyes stared vacantly 
 at the wall before him ; his heavy hand grasped the back of 
 the chair on which he had been sitting, and the whole of his 
 strong frame shook like an undermined column. Madame la 
 Roche stepped over to him, bewildered and frightened, alid 
 fancied that she was propping him, because she pushed her lit- 
 tle upraised hands against his strong shoulders. 
 
 " Good heavens ! " exclaimed Marie, dropping the broom- 
 stick as she entered, " that elephant is in Madame's arms." 
 
 " Get me some vinegar, Marie," agitatedly exclaimed 
 Madame la Roche, " the poor child is fainting ! " 
 
 " The poor child ! " cried Marie. 
 
 " Get me some vinegar, I say," again exclaimed her mis- 
 tress. " Do you want him to drop ? " 
 
 " No, for it would not be easy to pick him up again," said 
 Marie ; " let Madame help me to put him on the chair, and 
 then we shall see about the vinegar." 
 
 In a second it was done. Baptiste sat on the chair sup- 
 ported by Madame la Roche, whilst Marie zealously rubbed 
 his nose with vinegar. 
 
 " Poor child, poor child," said Madame la Roche, with 
 tears in her eyes. 
 
 " If Madame calls that man a child " — said Marie. 
 
 " Yes, Marie, I do. He is but a big child, a poor foolish
 
 SEVEN TEARS. 2Y 
 
 boy with a boyish heart. Let him aloiie. Do you want to 
 take his skin off with that vinegar ? Let him alone, I say, he 
 is coming round." 
 
 Baptiste was coming round indeed, for with returning con- 
 sciousness he uttered a deep groan, stared at Madame la 
 Roche and Marie, and, rising, he opened the door and left 
 them both without uttering a word. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 " Was there ever such an unmannered bear ? " exclaimed 
 Marie, wroth and amazed at siich extraordinary behaviour. 
 
 " Let him alone, poor boy," compassionately exclaimed 
 Madame la lioehe, " let him alone ; he takes away a sore heart 
 with him ; and I do not like your severity, Marie; indeed I do 
 not. Besides, what brought you here ? you should be with 
 Fanny. Is she in a condition to be left alone after what the 
 doctor has said ? " 
 
 " The doctor is an impostor," replied Marie. " He pre- 
 tends that Fanny is ill, just because he wants to be made 
 much of if she recovers. I know him. Why, he made the 
 poor child ill with his last medicine; and I shall tell him so," 
 added Marie, walking away with the cool self possession of one 
 long used to rule. 
 
 " They are too much for me, that is the truth," sighed 
 Madame la Roche ; " I sometimes wish I had not such attach- 
 ed servants, and could manage matters a little my own way ; 
 but I sujipose it is no use now." 
 
 With this despondent conclusion Madame la Roche would 
 probably have remained satisfied this time, as she had been 
 satisfied many a time before, if she had not received a further 
 and more irritating instance of tliat domestic rebellion, in the 
 centre of which she lived. She had scarcely left the ante- 
 room, when an impatient ring at- the door announced the ar- 
 rival of Docteur Leroy, the most impatient of men. Mario, 
 nundful that she had just been sent to Fanny's room, would not 
 stir thence; Charlotte, suspecting a trap in the ring, remained 
 at her ironing ; the cook had some all-important mess on the 
 fire, and did not stir ; in short, every one's business proved to 
 be no one's business, and, as a third furious riue; was heard, 
 Madame la Roche herself went and admitted the doctor, who 
 bounced in red as a turkey-cock, and scarcely calmed down 
 on seeing the mistress of the house.
 
 28 SEVEN YEAES. 
 
 " Madame," he began, " your servants — " 
 
 " I have none. Monsieur Leroy," interrupted Madame \s 
 Roche. "I have masters, but no servants." 
 
 " Discharge them," said Docteur Leroy, walking on to 
 Fanny's room, — " discharge them, Madame." 
 
 Fanny, who was sleeping, awoke as he entered. The doc- 
 tor felt her pulse, and, with a satisfied look, declared the fever 
 had abated considerably. 
 
 " Indeed," he added, turning to Madame la Roche, who 
 had followed him in, " indeed, Madame, I think we may pro- 
 nounce it all but gone : the effect, you see, of that last excellent 
 potion, which has been faithfully administered, as I perceive 
 from that empty phial. I believe I predicted the result." 
 
 "Yes, I remember," faltered Madame la Roche; "I am 
 so glad, Docteur, I am so glad, and so much indebted to you." 
 
 " Science, Madame," modestly replied Docteur Leroy, 
 " science, no more." 
 
 Marie, who had heard them both with her arms folded 
 across her ample person, and her head and its lofty accom- 
 paniment gently nodding time to their words, now opened her 
 lips, and slowly and deliberately uttered the ominous sen- 
 tence : 
 
 " I hate imposition." 
 
 Docteur Leroy was a fiery and impatient man, but he was 
 also a lofty man, and it was with the strongest assumption 
 of loftiness that, looking at Madame la Roche, he exclaimed : 
 
 " Madame ! " 
 
 But Madame la Roche only looked feeble and piteous. 
 
 " I say I hate imposition," reiterated Marie; " and I say 
 that Fanny has had no other illness than that which some 
 abominable medicine has given her. I say too, sir, that the 
 last excellent potion you ordered is here," she added, produc- 
 ing a basin in which she had irreverently thrown it, " and Fanny 
 is well, precisely because she did not take it." 
 
 The Docteur's temper here got the better of his dignity. 
 
 " Woman ! " he exclaimed, " do you know that I can get 
 you turned away for this? Do j'ou know it, I say? " 
 
 The daring nature of this speech completely took away 
 Marie's breath. 
 
 "Get me turned away! " she screamed at length with a 
 derisive laugh, " get me tux'ued away ! — ha ! ha ! " 
 
 Docteur Leroy became very red. 
 
 " Madame," he said, turning to Madame la Roche, " I 
 cannot attend this young girl again until you command your
 
 SEVEN YEARS, 29 
 
 servauts. What the consequences to my patient may be I 
 know not. I wash my hands of the whole ati'air." 
 
 So saying he took his hat and loftily walked out. 
 
 " Marie, what have you done ?" said Madame la Roche, 
 sinking down on a .chair ; " how shall we manage with poor 
 dear Fanny ? " 
 
 " If Madame will only look at poor dear Fanny," replied 
 Marie, '' she will see how much the little chit is to be pitied ! " 
 
 Madame la lioclie was surprised, there is no denying it; 
 Fanny was laughing, not loud, indeed, for she Vias too weak, 
 but with such good will that tears were running down ber 
 cbeeks. 
 
 " The child was never ill," triumphantly resumed Marie, 
 " and so I would have told that young elephant, if I had 
 known what he was so mad about; it would have been better 
 than all the vinegar." 
 
 Madame la Koche thought that Fanny either did not hear, 
 or, bearing it, did not understand this speech, so little impres- 
 sion did it seem to produce upon ber, so pale and calm did 
 she look as it was uttered ; but in the course of the day Mad- 
 ame la Roche was undeceived. 
 
 Marie bad left the room, and the young girl was alone 
 witb ber protectress. She was certainly, and spite Docteur 
 Leroy's ominous adieu, getting nmcli better, — so much better, 
 that Madaiue la Roche began to rally round to Marie's opinion, 
 and to think that Fanny had never been very ill. Slie was 
 also coming round to the belief, which was never long shaken 
 in ber mind, that Marie was a wonderful woman, and wiser 
 than Docteur Leroy or any one else besides, when a low voice 
 roused her by the following remark : 
 
 "Dear Madame, who was it Marie called a jouug ele- 
 phant ? " 
 
 Madame la Roche glanced down at Fanny's face. It 
 looked utterly quiet and unconscious, and the good lady 
 searched for an ambiguous answer, but found none better than 
 the very phiin one : 
 
 " My dear, it was Monsieur Watt." 
 
 Fanny's brown eyes opened wide, — no doubt with surprisa 
 
 " Monsieur Watt ! what Monsieur Watt? " 
 
 " Our neighbour the upholsterer, my dear." 
 
 " How odd ! what did he come for, Madame ? " 
 
 *' My deal', do you not know ? " rather gravely asked Mad- 
 ame la Roche, who feared that Fanny was indulging in a little 
 duplicity.
 
 30 SEVEN YEAKS. 
 
 Fanny coloured and pouted. Know ! why should she 
 know ? Monsieur Watt might be come for business. How 
 could she tell ? 
 
 " Well, perhaps you cannot," replied good-natured Mad 
 ame la Roche ; " but the truth is, he came to ask after you." 
 
 " What ailed him, then ? What did Marie mean by vine 
 gar ? " asked Fanny. 
 
 Here again the truth came to Madame la Roche's lips. 
 
 "My dear, he was anxious about you, and I imprudently 
 told him you were, as I thought, in some danger ; so the poor 
 young fellow nearly fainted." 
 
 " Very foolish of him," pettishly said Fanny ; " I wish he 
 would not." 
 
 " My dear, there is no harm in it." 
 
 " I wish he would not," persisted Fanny, " he is tiresome." 
 
 " He will not come any more," said Madame la Koche. 
 " I shall let him know you are well again, and he will stay 
 away." 
 
 " I hope he will," said Fanny. 
 
 Her hope was fulfilled. Baptiste, with whom kind Mad- 
 ame la Roche had a personal and private communication on 
 the subject, kept aloof, and Fanny recovered rapidly and un- 
 disturbed. 
 
 But who can answer for the caprices and the wayward 
 turnings of a girl's heart, especially when that girl is sixteen, 
 arid has been spoiled and ^^etted from her infancy upwards ? 
 
 Fanny's temper did not improve with her returning health. 
 She was peevish, fretful, impatient. It was very plain some- 
 thing ailed her. 
 
 " I cannot imagine what is the matter with the child," pri- 
 vately said Madauje la Roche to her two confidential advisers, 
 Charlotte and Marie; " nothing pleases her. She used not to 
 be so." 
 
 " Grirls never know what they wish for," replied Charlotte, 
 " nor yet what is good for them. I had a cousin, who was as 
 happy as the day was long, but who was never quiet till she 
 ran away with a married man." 
 
 Charlotte's habit of thus getting out of present matters 
 into some past history was a great source of annoyance to Ma- 
 rie's fiery temper, and a frequent cause of quarrel between her 
 and Fanny's god-mother. 
 
 " And what has the running away of your foolish cousin 
 with a married man to do with Fanny being dull ? " she asked. 
 ' Where is the married man in this, if you please ? "
 
 SE^TSlSr YEARS. 31 
 
 " There may be one yet," was Charlotte's composed reply, 
 
 Marie gave her a withering look, but scorning to be drawn 
 on dangerous ground, where Charlotte's irritating coolness 
 and thorough skill ever gave her every advantage, she broke 
 rather than entered on the real matter at issue, by saying 
 hotly : 
 
 " And I say Fanny is in love with that young elephant 
 ( pposite " 
 
 ''■ Oh, no ! ' exclaimed candid Madame la Koche. " I am 
 sure she does not like him at all." 
 
 Marie gave her mistress a look of infinite pity, and asked 
 dryly : 
 
 " Shall I find out whether she does ? " 
 
 " I object to that," quietly said Charlotte; " to find out 
 would be to make the child fall in love directly, whicb is by 
 no means to be desired. Unless I know more of that young 
 man, I shall allow nothing of the kind. I have had enouglx 
 of Monica's unlucky marriage. My daughter has been whip- 
 ped off to America. I will not have my god-daughter whip- 
 ped off to Flariders, Belgium, Holland, or such places." 
 
 This broke up the conference, and poor Madame la Roche 
 remained perplexed between her two advisers, whose last 
 thought seemed to be to give her anything like real ^advice; 
 but this opposition of Charlotte's produced upon Marie the 
 effect opposition of any kind invariably brought about. With- 
 out in the least considering the right or wrong of the matter, 
 she did not allow an hour to elapse before she entered the 
 shop of Jean Baptiste Watt, and with a gently ironical air 
 asked to speak to him in private. 
 
 " Why not ? " phlcgmatically replied Baptiste, rising from 
 his work, and leading Marie into the back parlour, a gloomy 
 room, whicli he rendered more gloomy by closing the door. 
 " Will you sit down ? " he asked, pointing to a chair. 
 
 " No," shortly replied Marie. " I did not come here to 
 sit, but to talk." Baptiste nodded, as much as to say, " I am 
 listening," 
 
 " May I ask," resumed Marie, looking both shrewd and 
 searching, " may I ask to know, sir, what you meant by com- 
 ing in the other day, and fainting in our ante-room ? " 
 
 " I explained my purpose to Madame la Roche," he re- 
 plied coolly ; " that is enough." 
 
 " Does that mean, sir, that you will say nothing to me ? " 
 
 " I have nothing to say to you," said Baptiste. 
 
 '•■ Very well, sir," wrathfully replied Marie, " I xpight
 
 32 SEVEN YEAKS. 
 
 have assisted you with Fanny, but mark my words, I shall 
 not be your friend in that quarter." 
 
 Baptiste Watt was never a (|uick speaker ; he now seemed 
 to think over his reply ; at length it came forth : 
 
 " I have nothing to do with Madeuioiselle Fanny. I have 
 never spoken to her. Why do you bring her name in ? " 
 
 " Why do you stare at her ? " indignantly asked Marie ; 
 " why do you stare at lier ? " 
 
 Baptiste shook his head gloomily. 
 
 " You mistake," he said, " you mistake ; I have not look- 
 ed at her for weeks. It was an annoyance and a trouble to 
 her, I believe, and I have given it up." 
 
 " Very well, sir, very well," angrily replied Marie, " make 
 much of yourself, do. I thank Heaven that I never had any- 
 thing to do with your sex ; that T never would," added Marie 
 with significant emphasis, " good morning, sir." 
 
 " Good morning," phlegmatically replied Baptiste, and 
 opening the parlour door, he saw her out ; but Marie had not 
 crossed the threshold door before Baptiste was again at his 
 work. 
 
 Marie did not boast of her errand or its ill-success, but 
 the whole day long she brooded over a scheme of revenge, 
 which was destined to be destroyed in its very birth by events 
 stronger than her will. 
 
 It so chanced that Fanny was more fantastical than ever 
 on that afternoon. Nothing pleased her, though she wished 
 for many things; Madame la Roche, who was alone with her, 
 bore all these caprices with the easiest good humour, only 
 saying once or twice, " My dear child, what can ail you ? " 
 
 To which Fanny replied with an impatient, " Oh ! nothing 
 ails me." 
 
 " But I think something does ail you," at length rejoined 
 Madame la Pvoche ; " yes, I really think something does ail 
 you." 
 
 Fanny looked provoked, but did not answer. 
 
 " I have just received a very unexpected visit, and have had 
 a long conversation with my visitor," pursued the elder lady. 
 *' I thought it would spare you some trouble if I repeated to 
 you what pa-ised, v/ithout bringing Monsieur Watt himself to 
 say it. My dear, you need not colour up so ; it is very nat- 
 ural ; the young man likes you, and wants to marry you ; not 
 now, of course, — you are too young, and he is only beginning 
 business, and he is a very sensible young man ; but it seems 
 that was the meaning of his looking up so much ; so if you
 
 SEVEN YEAKS. 33 
 
 like him, we ueed uot put up tlie screen, which always hung so 
 heavy on my mind ; for I felt as if it should have been put up, 
 yet I could not gather courage to see to it. And now, my 
 dear, all lies with vou. Say yes or no." 
 
 Fanny threw her arms around the nock of Madame la 
 Roche. " Dear Madame,"' she said, " I do not want to say 
 yes or no. I am too young, I do not know my own mind." 
 
 '' My dear, it must be no, then," said Madame la Roche, 
 very gravely. 
 
 " But I do not want it to be no." impatiently replied 
 Fanny; " he is big and stupid, and a Fleiniug, but still 1 like 
 him very well. I know he took my illness to heart, and I like 
 him. Surely, I need not say that I shall marry him for that." 
 
 " My dear, it must be yes or no," persisted Madame la 
 Koche. Upon which Fanny pouted and looked so dismal, 
 that the kind-hearted lady rose, left the room, and held a 
 solemn council with her two prime ministers. The debate 
 was long and stormy. Charlotte, still mhidful of the loss of 
 Monica, was for not giving this designing Fleming a foot in 
 the place ; Marie, resentfully remembering her recent repulse, 
 vehemently denounced him as an impostor, second only to 
 Docteur Leroy. 
 
 Madame la Roche withdrew, deeply perplexed by the un- 
 usual agreement of two who never agreed ; but her perplexity 
 did not last long, for scarcely had she retired to her room to 
 think over it five minutes, when Charlotte mysteriously en- 
 tered. 
 
 " Madame knows how much I like peace and a quiet life," 
 she significantly began, " and Marie has such a dreadful tem- 
 per, and flies out so, that one cannot be too careful; I have 
 therefore come to tell Madame my real opinion in this matter, 
 and it is, that it is best to let the chikl have her own way ; but, 
 of course, Madame will do as she pleases." 
 
 With tliis kind permission Charlotte retired, leaving 
 Madame la Roche very much inclined to avail her.self of the 
 leave and advice she had received ; but in considerable un- 
 easiness of mind, considering what Marie would say, should 
 she venture to do so. From this second perplexity she was 
 relieved by the appearance of Marie, who, luckily unconscious 
 of Charlotte's covert desertion, walked in and roundly said to 
 her mistress: 
 
 " Madame may think what she likes, but it is no use going 
 contrary to girls; and since Fanny has set her mind on that 
 young elephant, the best thing is not to go contrary to her,
 
 34 SEVEN YEARS. 
 
 but just let her have her will, and she will get sick of him of 
 her own accord." 
 
 '' There is a great deal of sense in what you say, Marie," 
 replied her mistress; '' but if I thought Fanny was trifling 
 ■with that young man, I would have nothing to do with it, I 
 have a feeling for him." 
 
 Marie gave Madame la Roche a compassionate look, and 
 went away with an "Ah, well!" at the idea of having any 
 feeling for anything in masculine shape, that spoke volumes 
 touching her opinion of the male sex. But there were mat- 
 ters on which Madame la Roche could be obstinate, and after 
 an interview and a conversation of some length with Jean 
 Baptiste Watt, she went back to the room where Fanny sat 
 alone, read her a gentle homily on the wickedness of trifling 
 with an honest young man ; and finally exacting no promises, 
 but leaving all to Fanny's good sense and good feeling, she 
 informed her that Baptiste was coming to see her. 
 
 " I have warned him that you do not pledge yourself," 
 she continued, " that this is a mere friendly visit ; it now lies 
 witli you not to deceive him, which would be cruel and 
 wicked." 
 
 Fanny did not reply ; she was sitting in an arm-chair, her 
 bead resting on a pillow, her hands folded on her lap; a faint 
 blush rose to her pale and wasted cheeks, her lids fell, and her 
 lips parted to murmur some inaudible assent. 
 
 " My dear, we take it for granted," readily said Madame 
 la Roche ; '' and I believe here he is." 
 
 The door opened, and Baptiste, red, confused, and affected, 
 spite all his phlegm, entered the room. 
 
 " Our neighbour. Monsieur Watt, has called to see you, 
 my dear," said Madame la Roche with great dignity ; " pray 
 take a chair, Monsieur Watt." 
 
 Monsieur Watt, who looked exceedingly uncomfortable, 
 nevertheless did as he was bid, and looking at Fanny, seemed 
 to ask for something besides the icy nod with which he had 
 been welcomed. But, spite the kind efforts of Madame la 
 Roche to compel the young girl to talk, it is doubtful whether 
 she would have done more than open her lips, but for the un- 
 expected entrance of Charlotte and Marie. • 
 
 Both the prime ministers of Madame la Roche, like other 
 prime ministers in this, entertained a secret and scarcely dis- 
 guised pity for the judgment of their sovereign. To both 
 occurred the same doubt concerning the propriety of allowing 
 Fanny to meet with Baptiste Watt under no other surveiilanco
 
 SEVEN YEAES. 35 
 
 than that of their simple mistress, and both, accordingly, 
 scarcely heard him enter, when they separately proceeded to 
 the room where the interview was taking place. On meeting 
 they exchanged covert glances, each believing the other 
 taken by surprise, and expecting signs of war, waiting for 
 which, one took up her position on the left side of Fanny, and 
 the other on the right. Madame la Roohe looked annoyed, 
 and Baptiste confounded ; Fanny, understanding the drift of 
 this simultaneous vist, and resenting it greatly, resolved on 
 rebellion, and, calling up her most gracious looks and smiles, 
 began a lively conversation with Baptiste. 
 
 " I am so much obliged to you for calling, Monsieur Watt," 
 she said; " you cannot imagine how dull I feel, locked up as 
 I am from morning till night. Do give me some news of the 
 world : I know nothing." 
 
 And whilst, charmed and surprised at the change, Baptiste 
 was meditating what answer to give her, Fanny, without wait- 
 ing for his reply, started a new subject of conversation, and 
 kept up the burden of the discourse with an ease that showed 
 how little she felt the task. When Baptiste rose to go, she 
 smiled, held out her hand, and graciously said: "You will 
 come again, Monsieur Watt, will you not ? " 
 
 Baptiste looked at Madame la lloche, who smiled and 
 sighed as she said : 
 
 " Of course Monsieur Watt will come again." 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Baptiste came again ; and moreover Madame la Roche 
 managed matters so cleverly that Marie and Charlotte were 
 kept out of the way, and he saw Fanny in her presence, which, 
 she was so easy and good-natured, might almost be called 
 seeing her alone. Fanny, indeed, was very coy, very high 
 and fantastic, but still she was pleasant with it all, and Bap- 
 tiste was too much smitten not to be charmed with her, how- 
 ever she might be. 
 
 They thus had two or three meetings, which, that there 
 might be no impropriety in it, and that neighbours might make 
 no odd conjectures and begin to talk about little Fanny, 
 Madame la Roche rendered imperative and business-like, by 
 consulting Baptiste on a set of chairs she and Fanny were go- 
 ing to work, — a vast undertaking, in which it might be con- 
 fidently predicted that Madame la lloche would act the part
 
 36 SEVEN TEAKS. 
 
 of sleeping partner, and Fanny do tlie real business of the 
 firm. Baptiste had a good deal to say on this important 
 matter. He had to help the two ladies to choose patterns ; 
 he had next to submit to their approbation the designs of the 
 chairs, to consult them on gimp, fringe, gilt nails, &c., and he 
 might have come to and fro a dozen times with ease, if, with 
 all her easy good-nature, Madame la Roche had not brought 
 matters to a crisis. 
 
 Fanny was now well, though still too weak to resume her 
 work ; her kind friends at least thought so, and kept her at 
 home. Madame la Roche was of opinion that early walks were 
 the best thina: for her, ar.-d that nowhere would or could 
 Fanny get such pure bracing air, as in Madame la Roche's 
 ancestral garden. Around these demesnes she accordingly 
 took her every- morning, declaring there was nothing like gentle 
 exercise in the open air for bodily health. 
 
 These walks Madame la Roche and Fanny took alone, and 
 thus, after Baptiste had paid two or three of a series of visits 
 that threatened to be endless, Madame la Roche had the op- 
 portunity of talking seriously, as she called it, to her little 
 protegee. 
 
 " Oh ! Madame, do look at that bird," exclaimed Fanny, 
 stopping before the avairy and laughing at a white cockatoo, 
 gravely blancing itself on its perch. 
 
 " Yes, my dear, but I must talk about Monsieur Watt to 
 you." 
 
 No one can answer for the strange fancies of girls. A sud- 
 den and ludicrous resemblance between the cockatoo and her 
 admirer struck Fanny, and she laughed until the tears ran 
 down her cheek. Madame la Roche was puzzled at this strange 
 merriment; still more puzzled when Fanny explained its 
 cause ; and gravely, though kindly, she assured the young girl 
 she saw no likeness between those two individuals, — the cocka- 
 too and Jean Baptiste Watt, — an assurance that nearly sent 
 Fanny off again. For, of course, she knew they were not 
 alike ; a pretty thing if they were ! 
 
 " My dear," said Madame la Roche, " you must not laugh 
 about these things, especially this morning, for I want to talk 
 to you quite seriously about Baptiste. You know, my dear 
 be cannot keep coming here. It is out of the question." 
 
 Fanny looked very blank. 
 
 " It is out of the question," resumed Madame la Roche ; 
 " Monsieur Noiret is surprised at my allowing so much inter- 
 course between you. It seems I have been quite foolish."
 
 SEVEN YEARS. 37 
 
 " I detest Monsieur Noiret ! " cried Fauny, lookiug ready to 
 shed tears. 
 
 " My dear, Monsieur Noiret is your best friend," said 
 Madame la Roche. 
 
 " Oh, no, not he. He broke my doll when I was a child, 
 and I have hated hira ever since." 
 
 " It was an accident, my love." 
 
 " Madame, he trod on it on purpose. I saw his heel on 
 her poor face. I declare I still hear the crash, and I hate 
 him ! My best friend ! oh, no, you are my best friend, dear 
 Madame." And Fanny gently and tenderly twined her arms 
 around Madame la lioche's neck. 
 
 " Yes, my dear," said that lady, " but Baptiste must not 
 come any more, — or if he comes," she added, looking Fanny 
 in the face, " it must be as your betrothed husband." 
 
 Fanny did not reply. 
 
 " ^Vhy not agree to marry him, say two years hence," pur- 
 sued the elder lady ; " his pi'ospects are good, his character is 
 excellent, it is a good offer, and you seem to like him ? He 
 certainly likes you dearly ; what more is needed in marriage ? 
 But trifle with him, my dear, you must not ; so pray make up 
 your mind. Will you have him ? " 
 
 Thus pressed. Fanny did make up her mind, and from that 
 day Jean Baptiste Watt was an accepted suitor. The be- 
 trothal took place that same evening with some solemnity in 
 the old drawing-room, which Madame la Koche never used un- 
 less on state occasions, and in the awful presence of Charlotte 
 and Marie, who stood looking on like two grim statues of 
 watchfulness. But there was nothing to watch. Madame la 
 Roche sat in her chair and made a gentle little speech to Bap- 
 tiste, who stood twirling his cap in his hand with rather an 
 awkward look, and to Fanny who stood by him, short and 
 saucy, though endeavouring to look both meek and demure. 
 
 " My dear children," said Madame la Roche, " with your 
 choice I have nothing to do. You have both chosen for your- 
 selves, — I hope and trust you have chosen wisely ; but itrith 
 your behaviour, before that choice is made legal and binding, 
 I have something to do in the way of good counsel. You must 
 be very patient, Baptiste ; you, Fanny, must be very good, — 
 but, dear me," interrupted Madame la Roche, who was getting 
 tired, " I need say no more, you know all about it, — give him 
 your hand, Fcinny, and let it be over." 
 
 Fanny did as she was bid ; Baptiste grasped her hand with 
 some emotion.
 
 38 SEVEN YEAKS. 
 
 " Fanny," he said, addressing her for the first time Ly her 
 Christian name, " Fanny, do you really mean it, — do you like 
 me ? " 
 
 " I forbid Fanny to answer that question," said the calm 
 voice of Charlotte; ''no girl entertaining an atoai of self-re- 
 spect ought to tell a man she likes him, until she has been mar- 
 ried to him a sufficient length of time to know her own mind." 
 A deep silence followed these ominous words. Marie was 
 thinking how to contradict them without taking the part of 
 JJaptiste ; Madame la Roche did not dare to oppose what she 
 could not help considei-ing too harsh a sentence ; and 13aptiste, 
 confounded and somewhat di-^mayed, looked from Charlotte to 
 bis betrothed, and from her again to her god-mother. Fanny 
 watched him a little while, then darting a rebellious look be- 
 hiud her, she raised lierself up on tiptoe, and whispered as near 
 Baptiste's ear as she could reach : 
 
 " My good old Baptiste, do you mind no one but Fanny." 
 He took both her hands, and grasping them, looked hard 
 in her face. 
 
 " Say you like me, say you really do ! " he exclaimed with 
 some force. 
 
 Fanny was half frightened at his earnestness. 
 " I really do,'- she replied, " but let my hands go, pray 
 do." 
 
 Baptiste released her hands, but first he stooped and kissed 
 her on either cheek. 
 
 Two screams of hoiror arose from the statues behind, but 
 Fanny only laughed and blashed, and Madame la Boche, 
 rising, did not wait for attack to defend the culprit. 
 
 " It is all right," she said, nodding ; " when I was be- 
 trothed to Monsieur la Boche in this very room, fiftj'-three 
 years ago, he did precisely the same thing ; only," she added 
 with a gentle touch of reproof, " he first requested my dear 
 mother's permission." 
 
 Baptiste reddened and stammered an apology. 
 *' Only you see, Madame," he added, '" there are things 
 that upset a man, and to have my little Fanny forbidden to 
 say she liked me was more than I could bear. And with all 
 due respect to those whom I must respect, of course," added 
 Baptiste, looking firmly at Charlotte and Marie, and drawing 
 Fancy's arm within his own, " this girl is mine or she is not. 
 If she is mine," he continued strongly, '' she must like me, or—" 
 " Now do not be foolish," interrupted Fanny, shutting hia 
 mouth with her little fingers ; " I shall like you just as much
 
 SEVEN YEAKS, 39 
 
 as I please, neither more nor less." And, meek as a lamb, 
 Baptiste submitted. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 Two years had slipped by. 
 
 Madame la Roche had' fallen fast asleep in her chair. The 
 fire burned brightly, the hiinp !<hed a subdued light, the room 
 was warm within; without the night was stormy, the rain 
 beat against the window shutters, the wind moaned round the 
 street corner, — in short, nothing was wanted to make au even- 
 ing nap comfortable and pleasant. 
 
 But human happiness is fleeting; the heavy street door 
 opened and closed again with a hollow sound; Madame la 
 Roche started, sighed, and awoke. 
 
 " Alone ! " she said gently, " they always leave me alone ; 
 they are very tiresome." 
 
 She said it in the softest voice, a voice that suited her 
 pleasant face, framed in white hair and a dainty lace cap, a 
 voice that did no.t jar with the quiet enclosed room, warm and 
 shrouded, in which Madame la Roche was left to the solitude 
 she lamented. 
 
 It was her bed-room ; one of those chambres a coucher 
 salons that have so long scandalized decorous English travel- 
 lers. Here Madame la Roche received her visitors and 
 friends. The drawing-room, the real salon, was kept for state 
 occasions, like the betrothal of Fanny, that occurred seldom, 
 and the bed-room, with its old, yet valuable furniture, pro- 
 fusely ornamented with brass rods, knobs, and handles, did 
 duty instead. Madame la Roche seemed made for that room, 
 she suited it so well with her lace cap, wadded silk dress, and 
 nice black mittens on her little white dimpled hands ; and 
 that she was really made for it she probably thought herself, 
 for she seldom left it, now especially that winter and cold 
 had both set in. But if she liked her room, she particularly 
 objected to being left alone in it, and therefore on awakening 
 from her evening nap, and finding herself in utter solitude, 
 she said with her usual gentleness of tone and speech : " They 
 arc very tiresome." 
 
 Scarcely were the words uttered, when Marie, the head 
 ofi"ender, for it was her especial duty to be with Madame la 
 Roche whilst that lady slept, entered the room. 
 
 "Marie," began Madame la Roche, "I thought it was 
 agreed you were to sit and sew here while I slept."
 
 40 SEVEN YEARS. 
 
 " If I had not Madame Charlotte's work to do as ■ivell as 
 my own," strongly replied Marie, " I might attend to all nij 
 duties, but when 1 am left to open the door and all that, I can- 
 not exactly be sitting with Madame." 
 
 " And Fanny," said Madame la Roche. 
 
 " Oh ! if Madame finds fault with Fanny " — ironically 
 began Marie. 
 
 " No such a thing," interrupted her mistress, " and I beg 
 that you will not find fault with her, — I do not like it." 
 
 " Nor do I," said Marie, darting a wrathful look at the 
 door, or more probably at some one lurking within its shadow, 
 " and I think that if people cannot make themselves be loved, 
 they had better be quiet. Come in. Monsieur Baptiste, and 
 do not stand there like a post." 
 
 This adjuration not having had a sufficiently speedy effect, 
 Marie resolutely dragged in our old friend, Jean Baptiste 
 Watt, who came in towerip.gto the ceiling of the room, which, 
 to his seeming confusion, he pretty well half filled. 
 
 " I declare," said Marie, breathless, " that boy is as big as 
 a young elephant — and as stupid too, I think," she added, 
 muttering. '" Well, now, what have you to say to Madame 
 about Fanny ? for I know your errand beforehand, I warn 
 you." 
 
 And, prepared to fight her little friend's battles, Marie 
 folded her arms, and putting her head on one side, looked sar- 
 castically at Baptiste. He was but little altered, and still 
 looked the same calm, steady, phlegmatic Fleming he had 
 looked two years before. 
 
 " Good evening, Baptiste," said Madame la Roche, return- 
 ing his greeting with a gentle nod ; " are not matters going on 
 well between you and Fanny ? What have you done ? " 
 
 " Yes, what have you done ? " suspiciously asked Marie, 
 • I am sure you are in the wrong." 
 
 " Pel haps I am," phlegniatically replied Baptiste, " at all 
 events, Marie, I do not come to accuse her. I only want what 
 Madauie can get for me, and what I cannot got for myself; a 
 fair, straightforward answer." 
 
 " You must have patience, you really must," said Madamo 
 la Roche. " Fanny cannot be hurried." 
 
 " I have waited these two years," replied Baptiste, sedately. 
 " I have been put ofi:' from one three months to another, — I 
 cannot wait for ever." 
 
 " You really must be patient," again said Madame la 
 Roche.
 
 SEVEN YEARS. 41 
 
 Baptiste looked at her earnestly. 
 
 " Madame," he said, " from the morning when I saw Fanny 
 gathering flowers in your garden I liked her. I said so to 
 you, to her god-mother, and to her. We were betrothed. 
 Every one that knew me said I had done a foolish thing. 1 
 was new in business, but I had good prospects, and two hun- 
 dred francs a year of my own; and though I might have 
 looKed for a wife with money, and though every one says I am 
 fond of money — and so I am, and who is not ? — I never asked 
 for a sou with Fanny. What you promised, Madame, you 
 promised of your own accord." 
 
 " Well, 1 am willing to keep to my word," said Madame la 
 Roche. 
 
 " But Fanny will not keep to her word," resumed Baptiste, 
 looking gloomy. " I like her dearly, — she knows it, and 
 laughs at me for my pains. Well, men arc fools if they are 
 all like me. When I thought all settled a year ago, Made- 
 moiselle Fanny told me she did not like my shop, with the back 
 parlour, the bed, the table, and two chairs. Then, when she 
 saw me exasperated, she put out her hand, patted me on the 
 arm, and said if I would only wait three months, we should 
 see. Well, men ai-e fools ! I waited three months, and was 
 put off for another three months, because she was too young. 
 After that came three months because she did not know her 
 own mind ; and for the same reason I have been put off until 
 now, but I will wait uo longer, — I told her so yesterday; she 
 only laughed, but I am resolved, I am ; and in your presence, 
 Madame, and with your permission, Fanny shall give me a 
 plain yes or no this evening." 
 
 Madame la Roche had heard him out with the sleepy pla- 
 cidity of her nature, — Marie, with folded arms, that boded 
 war, and an ominous smile. 
 
 " And so," she said, wagging her head gently from side to 
 side, " that is what you are come for. Monsieur Baptiste, to 
 abuse the poor dear child; to me, her friend, and to Madame, 
 her protectress. You amaze me, sir, you amaze me 1 " 
 
 " I have told the truth," sturdily said Baptiste, " and 
 Fanny will not deny a word of it ; besides, all I ask for is a 
 plain yes or no." 
 
 " And why should you get it ? " resumed Marie. 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " Yes," said Marie strongly, and looking at Madame la 
 Roche, " why should Fanny give him, or any one else, a plain 
 yes or no as he calls it, unless she so pleases ? "
 
 42 BEVEN YEAES. 
 
 This stroDo; assertion of female rights startled Madame la 
 Roche. 
 
 " Well, Marie." she said gently, " I really think Fanny 
 ought to do that." 
 
 " Oh ! if Madame turns against her," said Marie, with 
 lofty indignation, " I need not wonder that Madame Charlotte 
 should take the young man's part, in preference to her own 
 god-daughter's." 
 
 " By the way," meditatively said Madame la Eoche, " T 
 think we ought to consult with Charlotte, she is the child's 
 god-mother, she can advise her ; yes, call Charlotte." 
 
 Marie tossed her head, and nodded her lofty cap, and it is 
 doubtful whether, being gifted with an independent turn of 
 mind, she would have obeyed the order of Madame la Roche, 
 — whom she considered as much intended by Providence for 
 her, Marie's comfort, as she, Marie, was meant for Madame la 
 Roche's convenience, — if Charlotte, drawn by an intuitive 
 knowledge of what was going on, had not made her appear- 
 ance with a freshly-ironed cap in her hand, by way of apology 
 for her intrusion. 
 
 " Charlotte, we want you ! " exclaimed Madame la Roche 
 with a sigh, " Fanny is not getting on with Baptiste. Had 
 you not better interfere ? " 
 
 From the tone of Madame la Roche, Charlotte concluded 
 that Marie had sided with the lover ; and, of coursa, she took 
 part with Fann3^ 
 
 " I do not wish to contradict Madame," she said decor- 
 ously, " nor to oppose Madame, but there arc ways of dealing 
 with girls, and when lovei's will not take those ways, girls will 
 be oifended and show it." 
 
 •' I do not see that," put in Marie. 
 
 Charlotte ignored the remark, and pursued : 
 
 " My god-daughter has been used to admiration, which she 
 deserves. Monsieur Baptiste does not admire her enough." 
 
 " I do not admire her enough ! " cried Baptiste, " why, 
 what more can I do than wish to marry her ? Is not that 
 admiration ? " 
 
 " Besides, Fanny is not such a fool as all that," observed 
 Marie, stoutly. 
 
 " I have long been awai-e that my god-daughter was dis- 
 liked in this house," resignedly said Charlotte, " but I never 
 before heard lier called a fool. I hope that gross word haa 
 been applied to her for the first and last time, — iii ray pres- 
 ence, at least."
 
 .-.EVEN YEARS. 43 
 
 " Marie, hold jour tougue ! " hastily exclaimed Madame la 
 Roche, who, tliough Marie haduot yet uttered a word, thought 
 it best to forestall the offence by the prohibition, " Charlotte, 
 be silent ! Baptiste, I beg you will not add another syllable. 
 I can scarcely wonder at your not getting on with Fanny, 
 when I see how you upset my whole household. And alto- 
 gether," added Madame la Koche, sinking back in her chair 
 exhausted with this long speech, and this unusual exertion of 
 authority, " altogether, I think we had better leave this mat- 
 ter to Fanny. Let her say and do as she wislies." 
 
 " Madame," coolly said Baptiste, " that is exactly what I 
 wish for, let her give me a plain yes or no. I know there is a 
 foolish little fellow opposite, who looks after her; but that," 
 added Baptiste with a tragic frown, " is a matter to be settled 
 between him and me." 
 
 He did not proceed : a light tap was heard at the door, 
 and almost immediately Fanny eutei'ed. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 Two years had altered Fanny. She was not much taller, 
 it is true, but she had grown decidedly plump. The freshness 
 of a rose had settled on her cheeks, which two dimples adorned. 
 And with her bright black eyes, red lips, and white teeth, 
 Fanny looked and was a very pretty girl indeed. Yet these 
 charms, though real, could scarcely account for the fascination 
 of which Baptiste was victim. He had loved, when Fanny 
 was a slim, sallow girl, whom most people thought plain. With 
 his fondness her beauty had nothing to do. And who, that 
 scanned her neatly-fitting merino, her tiny apron, in the 
 pockets of which her hands rested with coquettish grace, who, 
 above all, that saw the white fantastic cap perched on tlie top 
 of her head, could suppose that Fanny miglit become the hero- 
 ine of a love tragedy, or, at least, of a melo-drama. It seemed 
 absurd ; comedy, light, careless comedy, was written in the 
 whole aspect of the Parisian girl. As well might two men 
 draw swords about a butterfly, as quarrel for the preference of 
 this flighty, pert-looking little creature. 
 
 But there is no accounting for tastes. Baptiste was a 
 grave, sober Fleming ; yet no sooner did Fanny make her ap- 
 pearance in the room of Madame la iloche, than he turned red, 
 then pale, and in -short, betrayed every sign of strong emotion. 
 On seeing him. Fanny pouted like a naughty child who ex-
 
 4.4 SEVEN TEAKS. 
 
 pects a scolding, and knows that the said scolding is de« 
 served. 
 
 " Fanny," mildly said Madame la Koclie, "what is tho 
 meanhig of all this ? Why do you tritie with an lionest man 
 like Baptiste ? I fear it is wrong, my dear child, really wrong." 
 
 " Wrong ! " indignantly muttered Marie. 
 
 Fanny stood leaning against a rosewood commode, her 
 hands still in her pockets, her eyes downcast, her whole aspect 
 expressing wilfulness and caprice. With some emotion Bap- 
 tiste spoke. 
 
 " Fanny, I did not come here to torment you. I merely 
 want a plain answer from you. Tell me once for all, ' Bap- 
 tiste, I dislike you,' and I shall trouble you no more." 
 
 Fanny smiled prettily without looking up, and did not seem 
 in the least inclined to pronounce this harsh sentence. It was 
 Charlotte who spoke for her. 
 
 " Dislike him," she said with a sneer, " things had come to 
 a pretty pass when a man expected to be disliked by a pretty 
 girl." 
 
 "But I do not dislike you at all, Baptiste," mildly said 
 Fanny. 
 
 " Well, then, Fanny, have me," he urged ; " once for all, 
 say yes. Madame approves our marriage, your god-mother 
 Charlotte agrees to it ; I am well off." 
 
 " Yes, yes, I know," said Fanny, looking amiable; "you 
 liave two hundred francs a year, a shop, a back parlour, a bed, 
 a table, and two chairs : I know it all by heart." 
 
 Baptiste gave her so moody a look, that Marie audibly ut- 
 tered the word ' v/retch ! ' and that even Madame la Roche 
 observed : 
 
 " Well, but you must have patience, you know." 
 
 " Monsieur does not condescend to have patience." said 
 Charlotte ; " a girl must throw herself into his arms. I never 
 heard anything like it, — it is abominable." 
 
 "I do not see why Fanny should marry just yet," said 
 Madame la Roche, with a touch of querulousness ; " she is very 
 young." 
 
 " I am not against marriage," observed Charlotte with irri- 
 tating mildness, " uo, certainly not ; but yet I know that if I 
 had waitea, say five years, to marry, I might have chosen and 
 fared diiierently. My husband was a good sort of man, but 
 he was a working-man, and five years later I might have had 
 a captain ; over and over he told me so." 
 
 " I thought he had a wife," said Marie.
 
 SEVEN YEARS. 45 
 
 " Madar.ie ! " ejaculated Charlotte with wrathful majesty. 
 
 " Hush ! " said Madame la Roche, without heeding them. 
 Baptiste still looked at Fauny with steady gloom. She smiled 
 at the fire, apparently unconscious of his look. 
 
 " Fanny," he said, " a plain yes or no." Fanny bit her lip, 
 coloured to her very hair, and looking at him steadily, she said : 
 
 " No." 
 
 Baptiste turned extremely pale ; his eye grew dull and 
 lustreless, his lip quivered, his voice was scarcely audible as 
 he said : " Thank you, Fanny," and, without remembering the 
 presence of Madame la Koche, he walked out of the room. 
 
 " Dear me, how very strange," said Madame la Roche, 
 looking startled. 
 
 " Served him right," sturdily said Marie. 
 
 " Then you did not like him after all, Fanny ?" pursued 
 the lady. 
 
 " Like him ! " almost screamed Marie, " who could like 
 such a boor ? " 
 
 Fan-ny said nothing : she looked calm and unconcerned, 
 but rather thoughtful. 
 
 " Still I am afraid you have trifled with him, my dear," 
 eaid Madame la Roche, " I really am." 
 
 Marie was going to break out, but Fanny forestalled her. 
 Madame la Roche was trying to look stern, but Fanny looked 
 archly in her face, and Madame la Roche's anger melted away 
 in a half smile. At once Fanny put in her easy justification. 
 
 " I like him, Madame, I really do ; but not enough to 
 marry him, and go and live with him in that little hole of a 
 shop, with the back parlour, &c. I should die with ennui 
 there, I know 1 should, or run away, which would be worse. 
 Is it not better, then, to have done with him now, than marry 
 him and repent ? " 
 
 " Of course it is," said Marie, stoutly. 
 
 " That child has a deal of sen.se," said Madame la Roche. 
 
 " Sense ! " cried Marie, " she is made up of sense." 
 
 " Yes, she is a clever little thing," said Madame la Roche, 
 and tliey both looked admiringly at Fanny, who seemed 
 strangely puzzled at all this praise. Perhaps Jt did not strike 
 her that sense was her particular quality ; she did not, how- 
 ever, attempt to dispute the fact, but implying by her looks 
 that Madame la Roche and Marie were welcome to admire her 
 as much as they pleased, she took her usual seat by the fireside. 
 
 Charlotte, who had been lingering about the room, now 
 thought proper to finish Baptiste's business by observing :
 
 46 SEVEN YEAES. 
 
 " I am sorry for that young man, I really am ; though 
 coarse and obtuse, he was gooduatured, and, I believe, honest." 
 
 " Baptiste is not coarse," said Fanny, looking vexed. 
 
 " Big, my dear, big, decidedly big," said Charlotte. 
 
 " Big ! " echoed Fanny ; but unable to deny the impeach- 
 ment, she added no more, and turning to Madame la lloche, 
 she quietly asked what she was to read. On this hint, Char- 
 lotte and Marie withdrew, whilst Madame la Roche medita- 
 tively replied : 
 
 " Mariette is too flimsy, I think we will have the Three 
 Masked Ladies." 
 
 Accordingly in a clear voice Fanny began : " The mid- 
 night bell was tolling, when three ladies, masked and clothed 
 in black, appeared in the place of Notre Dame." 
 
 " Fanny ! " exclaimed Madame la lloche, — ^whose placidity 
 all the horrors of the French romantic school could not dis- 
 turb, — " Fanny, it was a good offer! It is almost a pity you 
 rejected that you':g man." 
 
 " Perhaps it is," demurely said Fanny, and going on with 
 the Three Masked Ladies, she thought : " and suppose I should 
 regret it, cannot I get him back again ? "I have only to open 
 the window, look out, and let him see me, and all is right." 
 
 In this easy frame of mind Fanny read on till ten struck. 
 She then laid down her book and Marie appeared, bearing a 
 small tray with a glass and decanter. Madame la Roche took 
 her frugal supper of toast and hot wine and water, allowed 
 Marie and Fanny to undress her, and entering the downy bed 
 that closed around her, she softly said from behind the damask 
 curtain : 
 
 " Marie, do not tease Fanny about Baptiste; I know he is 
 a good fellow ; but since she does not care about him, we 
 must not tease her." 
 
 And, closing her eyes, Madame la Roche fell fast asleep, 
 oblivious of Baptiste, love, Marie, and everything. 
 
 " Tease Fanny about him ! " muttered Marie, " very likely, 
 indeed ! " 
 
 It did not seem probable, but the spirit of contradiction 
 is strong, and it had sufficient power over Marie to make her 
 scold Fanny not exactly in favour of Baptiste, but about him. 
 Charlotte, who was present, mildly defended her god'daughter, 
 and her mildness having, as usual, the effect of oil on Marie's 
 fiery temper, a dire quarrel was the result. Fanny heard them 
 botli with evident impatience, and put an end to the argument 
 by saying saucily :
 
 SEVEN YEARS. 47 
 
 " I did not have Baptiste because I did not like bini, and 
 I do not know why I did not like him; but if I did like him, 
 I would have him to-morrow." 
 
 And, tired of hearing about Baptiste, she went to her 
 room. It was close to Madame la Roche's. Like that lady's 
 apartment, it looked out on the street. The shop of Baptiste 
 was exactly opposite. From that shop there came a sti-eak of 
 light, which Fanny watched on the window curtains. She 
 lay awake, though in bed. Madame la Roche was sleeping 
 calmly in the room on her right ; Marie and Charlotte were 
 quairelliiig — but no longer about Baptiste — in another room 
 on her left; but she could not sleep like one, nor forget like 
 the others. Perhaps her conscience pricked her; perhaps 
 the pity of the young is stronger than the sympathy or than 
 the anger of age. 
 
 " What can he be doing ? " she thought, and she got up to 
 see. The street was silent ; eleven was striking ; she drew 
 back the curtains and looked. 
 
 Baptiste was hard at work ; he was finishing a chair for 
 Madame La Roche — a cliair which Fanny had worked, — the 
 last of the memorable set begun two years before, but the 
 nature of his task did not mollify her displeasure at the tact 
 that, after parting from her, Baptiste could work. She gave 
 the dark and dingy little shop a scornful look ; live there, 
 indeed ! her eye fell with disdain on the sturdy figure of the 
 young Fleming, nailing and hammering by the light of a 
 wretclied tallow caudle. 
 
 '' Much trouble there is on his mind ! " thought Fanny, 
 vexed at her needless pity ; " see how he works to earn a few 
 francs; that man loves nothing but money," — and dropping 
 the curtain, she wont back to bed, and soon slept soundly. 
 
 For Fanny had grown pretty, and with her beauty she had 
 acquired admirers, a circumstance to which no pretty girl is 
 indiffei-ent, and which had thrown Baptist'^'s love considerably 
 in the shade. 
 
 " I like him ; I really do," she often thoijght ; " but then, 
 why should I marry so soon ? " which prudent reflection, the 
 aversion she felt to exchange a pleasant home for tlie gloomy 
 little back parlour and a business life, very much strengtiiened. 
 And thus little by little her love had grown weak, and she 
 could bear to part from Baptiste with little emotion, and after 
 parting froui him she could sleep.
 
 4:8 SEVEN -lEAKS. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 Early the next mornino; there came a ring; at Madame la 
 Roche's door; it was Fanny who opened. Baptiste stood be- 
 fore her with the chair on his head. 
 
 " Good morning, Mademoiselle Fanny," he said civilly. 
 
 " Good morning," she replied shortly, for she thought he 
 must have worked all night, avaricious creature ! 
 
 " I have brought back Madame la Roche's chair." 
 
 " Put it here," said Fanny, showing him into a back room. 
 
 " I have done my best with it," said Baptiste, giving her a 
 doubtful look ; " I think she will like it." 
 
 '' I dare say she will." 
 
 Baptiste sighed and turned away, then turned back. 
 
 " Fanny," he said, " I may have spoken harshly last 
 night; I am sorry for it. I hope you bear me no ill-will." 
 
 " Ill-will ! " said Fanny, laughing, " ill-will ! what for ? " 
 
 Baptiste hung his head, and said slowly : 
 
 " For no particular reason. Fanny ; but since you bear me 
 no ill-will, I suppose we are at peace." 
 
 Fanny yawned a little behind her dimpled hand at what 
 she considered the prosiness of her former lover, and shivered 
 slightly, for the doors were all open, and the wind was whist- 
 ling in ?harply, but she tried to remain thoroughly good- 
 humoured, and to say with a pleasant patronizing nod, " Yes, 
 Monsieur Baptiste, we are at peace." 
 
 Baptiste stroked his chin and smiled ; he was wondering 
 perhaps at two years wasted, at the blindness and folly of his 
 own heart, but he made no comment. 
 
 " Good morning, Mademoiselle Fanny," he said, civilly, 
 and he slowly walked down stairs. 
 
 Fanny went to work as usual that day, and came back at 
 eight. She found Marie very busy, and rather out of temper. 
 The daughter of Madame la Roche, Madame Dupuis, and her 
 child, had come, " and settled themselves down," as Ma,rie 
 termed it, in the quiet dwelling of their relative. 
 
 " They are come to stay ? " asked Fanny. 
 ., " Of course they are; Monsieur Dupuis is going out of 
 town, and must needs pack his wife and child upon us. I 
 wonder at the man. Just hear how that child screams; poor 
 Madame la Roche's head must be splitting by this ; and then 
 it is ' Marie, run and fetch us some biscuits ; Marie, some 
 milk; Marie, call the coal-heaver to take away the naughty
 
 SEVEN YEARS. 49 
 
 child ! ' I wish people who have children would let people 
 who have none, and would have none, be quiet once for all. I 
 think, too," she added, giving a fiery look to Charlotte, who 
 was knitting placidly in a corner of the kitchen, " I think it 
 very strange, I say, that those who nursed the mothers give 
 themselves so little trouble about the children, but leave it 
 all to others." 
 
 Charlotte stuck one of her knitting needles in her hair and 
 looked meditative. 
 
 "A sweet child Was Mademoiselle Cecile," she said, " and 
 her boy is just like her. Her very portrait : a sweet child." 
 
 " I wish you had the sweet child to yourself then," hotly 
 said Marie, " for I have enough of him. A little wretch I call 
 him." 
 
 " Bless his heart," said Charlotte, resuming her knitting. 
 
 " And Baptiste," said Fanny, " has he been again ? " 
 
 " Baptiste ! pray what should bring Baptiste here ? " 
 sharply answered Marie. 
 
 " He is not paid for his chair." 
 
 " Child, let Madame settle that, and do not mind Baptiste 
 nor his chair neither. Surely there is enough trouble on our 
 minds without him." 
 
 " But Marie, his shop is shut, and Madame Leroux says he 
 is gone." 
 
 " Gone ! ay, gone to the barrier to drink." 
 
 " Baptiste never drinks," said Fanny, looking vexed. 
 
 " Bear me, child, do not fly at me ; the lad will turn up 
 again and come for his money. I wish that were all we had 
 to teaze or vex us just now." 
 
 Marie could think but of her own troubles and wrongs ; and 
 even when Fanny succeeded in convincing her that Baptiste 
 was really gone, all Marie answered was : " Well, let him be 
 gone ! who regrets him ? ' 
 
 " No one," shortly said Fanny ; and there the matter ended. 
 
 Madame Dupuis was as quiet a little lady as her mother, yet 
 she and her child succeeded in upsetting Madame la llocbe's 
 peaceable household. Before three days were over, the man- 
 servant and the cook threatened to give notice, and Marie gave 
 her mistress the news, with a sullen satisfaction that spolic of 
 secret wrongs endured with ill-subdued resentment. 
 
 Madame la Roche was sitting in her arm-chair in her pleas- 
 ant bed-room; her daughter occupied the cluiir wl)ich was -for- 
 merly Fanny's, and the child sat on the carpet, strewed with toys. 
 
 " Yes, Madame, go they will," said Marie. 
 8
 
 50 SEVEN YEAKS. 
 
 " How very stranf2;e ! " exclaimed Madame la Roche, look- 
 ing more bewildered than dismayed. " What can ail them, 
 Cecile ? " 
 
 Her daughter, thus addressed, looked helpless, as if too 
 strong an eii'ort had been required from her sluggish intelli- 
 gence, but compelled herself to reply : 
 
 '• I really cannot tell, maman. They must be very unrea- 
 sonable. Marie, will you tell the cook that I shall want some 
 more of that panade for Charles ? " Marie smiled grimly. 
 " And also tell her to stew me down the calf's foot, and will you 
 tell the coachman that we shaU take a drive this afternoon ? " 
 
 " The horses have taken cold, Madame ; and really the 
 cook cannot attend to the dinner and to everything." 
 
 Madame Dupuis seemed astonished. 
 
 " Oh ! then, you will do it, Marie," she placidly suggested. 
 
 " Madame forgets that I have all Monsieur Charles's things 
 to iron, and that Madame Charlotte will do nothing." 
 
 " Well, then, let it be Fanny," put in Madame la Roche; 
 " Fanny is very neat and handy." 
 
 " Fanny is very ill in bed," said Marie. 
 
 " Dear me, what ails her ? " 
 
 " Her head aches." 
 
 " Ah ! I have such bad head aches ! " sighed Madame 
 Dupuis. 
 
 " I hope she will be well this evening," said Madame la 
 Roche, anxiously. 
 
 "It is not likely," drily replied Marie, "she has been un- 
 well these two days, and is only getting worse." 
 
 '* Two days ! and you never told mc, Marie." 
 
 " Madame never asked about Fanny,'' replied Marie, look- 
 ing deeply injured, " and of course it was not my place to in- 
 trude Fanny upon Madame." 
 
 Madame la Roche looked guilty and penitent. 
 
 " Dear me, I am very sorry," she said, " but where is she ? " 
 
 '' Fanny is in her room, Madame." 
 
 " And I never heard her ! " 
 
 " Perhaps Monsieur Charles made too much noise," was 
 the pointed reply. 
 
 "I must go and see her," said Madame la Roche, with a 
 sigh ; •' Cecile, cannot that child be induced to make less 
 noise ? " 
 
 " No, maman," placidly replied her daughter, looking at 
 Charles, who was flinging his toys about with great vigour,
 
 SEVEN YEARS. 51 
 
 " no, I assure you Monsieur Dupuis and I have often tried, 
 but we never could induce birn to be more quiet." 
 
 " I'd induce him ! " muttered Marie. 
 
 Peaceable Madame La Roche submitted, however, without 
 demur, and prudently shunning the immediate vicuiity of her 
 grand-child, she left the apartment and entered Fanny's room. 
 
 Fanny was up and dressed, but looking so ill and so wretched, 
 that Madame la Roche was quite shocked at the change iu her 
 appearance. 
 
 She sat down by her, took her hand, which was burning, 
 and kindly asked what ailed her. 
 
 " Nothing, Madame," was the low reply, listlessly spoken 
 
 " You seem feverish," said Madame la R,oche. 
 
 " My head aches a little ; but indeed it is nothing." 
 
 " How very odd that you should look so ill about nothing,' 
 simply suggested Madame la Roche. 
 
 Fanny turned very red, then pale, then she said : 
 
 " I assure you Madame, that if you suppose I am thinking 
 of Baptiste— "■ 
 
 " My dear child, why should I think that ? " 
 
 She seemed surprised at the suggestion. 
 
 Fanru did not speak, but with some emotion she turned 
 her head away from the mild astonished look of the elder lady. 
 This simple little act, however, proved fatal to her composure, 
 for, to avoid a glance more benevolent than penetrating, she 
 looked through the window into the street, and there she saw 
 exactly facing her the closed shop of Baptiste, with the words 
 To Let on the shutters. 
 
 This was more than Fanny could bear. She hid her face 
 in her hands and burst into tears. 
 
 " Dear me ! " said Madame la Roche, very much amazed. 
 
 Fanny cried and sobbed as if her heart would break ; at 
 length she ceased, and, looking up, she said : 
 
 " I dare say, Madame, you thick I am crying for Baptiste ; 
 but that is not it ; yet it is about him I am crying, I do not 
 deny it. Madame, I could bear to think that I have lost him 
 by my own folly, bat I cannot bear to remember how that 
 same folly has driven an honest man to ruin : that is what 
 cuts me." 
 
 " Dear me ! " again said Madame la Roche, not knowing 
 what else to say on such short warning ; but her miud gradually 
 rallied and came round to its natural point ; she gave 
 Fanny's hand a kind and compassionate squeeze, and said 
 gently
 
 52 SEVEN TEARS. 
 
 " My dear child, do not exaggerate. Baptiste is gone, it 
 is true, and I am sorry for the poor fellow ; but since you did 
 not like him, what was to be done ? You must not suppose, 
 moreover, that he will go to ruin for having left his shop. I 
 dare say it was not a thriving business." 
 
 " But, Madame, do you not know that he has enlisted," 
 said Fanny, " that he is a soldier ; that he may be sent to 
 Algeria and killed ? " 
 
 " Enlisted ! oh, dear no ; depend upon it you are mis- 
 taken." 
 
 " Indeed, Madame, I am not ; the person who told me saw 
 him in his regimentals ; and his regiment is gone many leagues 
 away by this." 
 
 Madame la Roche looked gently sceptical, and Fanny had 
 to talk a great deal before her protectress was finally con- 
 vinced. When she was at length persuaded that Baptiste was 
 a soldier, and was really gone, she said gently : 
 
 " Well, it is a pity ; but what is to be done ? you did not 
 like him." 
 
 " But I do like him," cried Fanny, fairly provoked at sc 
 much blindness, " and I do not want him to be shot. Oh ! 
 dear, what shall I do ? " 
 
 " I suppose I have forgotten all about the ways of girls ! " 
 ejaculated Madame la Roche. " Well, my dear, do not cry so, 
 only tell me this : if Baptiste were to come back and ask you, 
 would you marry him now ? " 
 
 " Marry him ! " said Fanny, drying her eyes, and looking 
 very much as if all her perversity were coming back with the 
 question, " but since he is far away, Madame ? " 
 
 " My dear, you really must give me a yes or a no. I can 
 do nothing without that." 
 
 There was a great struggle between love and pride, but 
 love prevailed ; and though not without many hesitating sighs 
 and blushes, Fanny at length confessed that if Baptiste would 
 but forgive her and come back, he should have no reason to 
 complain of her. 
 
 " Well, my dear, do not fret. I shall do my best," said 
 Madame la Roche rising, and leaving Fanny to such comfort 
 as these words suggested, she went and called Marie to a secret 
 council. 
 
 Marie remained mute on learning that Fanny was fretting 
 for Baptiste ; but though she looked very much amazed, she 
 declared that she knew it all along.
 
 SEVEN TEAES. 53 
 
 " I knew what the girl was frettiug for, Madame. I knew 
 it quite well." 
 
 " Dear me, I did not, Marie." 
 
 " Oh ! no, Madame was too busy with Monsieur Charles 
 to think of poor little Fanny ; poor dear ! " 
 
 " lleally, Marie, you surprise me. If you knew the truth, 
 why did you not come and tell it to me ? If I had known the 
 young man had enlisted — " 
 
 " He did it to break the poor child's heart," wrathfully in- 
 terrupted Marie. " Rely upon it, Madame, that was his 
 motive." 
 
 " The young man has been hasty," mildly said Madame la 
 Roche, " still his own feelings suffered." 
 
 " Feelings ! " interrupted Marie again, " does Madame 
 believe men have feelings '/ " 
 
 This was so general a question, and it involved so many 
 delicate matters and recollections, that Madame la Roche 
 paused ere she auswercd with a sigh : 
 
 " We will not talk about that now, Marie ; the question is 
 to get this young man back, since Fanny wishes for him." 
 
 " So I think," said Marie, with whom Baptiste was neither 
 more nor less than a flesh and blood toy, which had hit Fanny's 
 fancy ; and she no more thought of finding fault with the 
 young girl's choice than the tender parent, whose darling 
 choses a harlequin doll, quarrels ^¥ith the pleasure which the 
 hideous thing affords the beloved child. 
 
 " But it may not be easy to get him back," said Madame 
 la RoGhe. 
 
 Marie groaned, and confessed that men were monsters now 
 and then. 
 
 " But we will do our best," pursued the gentle lady, " only 
 you must help me. Marie." 
 
 Then followed a long and close conversation, chiefly re- 
 lating to the best means to be adopted for securing the return 
 of the fugitive, and in which so many plans were proposed and 
 rejected, that, by the time it was over, Madame la Roche was 
 fairly exhausted. 
 
 Marie generously took pity on her mistress, and remarked : 
 
 " Let Madame take no trouble about the cook or coach- 
 man, — I will make them stay, whether they like it or not. I 
 should like to hear them grumble about Monsieur Charles 
 again ! A fine spirited little fellow ! And as to Madame 
 Charlotte, who hates her own god-daughter, I know, she shall 
 hear a piece of my mind before the day is out."
 
 54: SEVEN TEAKS. 
 
 Upon wlaich Marie, who was the soul and spirit of the 
 household, rushed to the kitchen, settled the cook and the 
 coachman in a twinkling, and fought a dire battle with 
 Charlotte, — if that can be called a battle of which the fighting 
 was all on one side : the enemy, like Wellington at Waterloo, 
 conquering by dint of silent stubbornness, and, what was even 
 more provoking, taking to herself the merit of future success, 
 without incurring the risks of failure. 
 
 "Ay, ay," she calmly said, going on with her knitting, and 
 taking advantage of such acknowledgments as had escaped 
 Marie durino- the heat of the contest, " [ know what the child 
 wants." 
 
 " Well, and what does she want ? " asked Marie. 
 
 Charlotte's reply was an allusion to the history of her 
 father's sister, whose lover returned after fifteen years. 
 
 " And what has that to do with Fanny ? " indignantly asked 
 Marie. 
 
 A supercilious smile was Charlotte's only answer. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 Promises are sweet ; they lead on the wings of Hope to 
 the happy land of Desire, that favored abode of youth. The 
 parting words of Madame la Roche had buoyed up Fanny ; all 
 was right, or would be ; Baptiste would come back, forgive, 
 and be forgiven. She cared for no more, and gave no thought 
 to the future beyond these fair hopes. 
 
 But though Madame la Roche had promised, nothing ap- 
 peared to come of her word<. Baptiste neither returned nor 
 wrote. No fond, happy, and forgiving lover came back to the 
 light and imprudent girl, who did not know her own mind, and 
 had trifled with her own heart. Perhaps it could not end so 
 easily : strange and deep must have been the despair which had 
 led the calm phlegmatic Fleming to take this impassioned step : 
 a despair not easi'ly soothed, a step not readily revoked. Bap- 
 tiste loved deeply ; too deeply, no doubt, to submit to lose 
 Fanny, and yet stay near her, breathe the same air, and, may 
 be, see his inconstant mistress favor a happy rival It was 
 easier to throw up business, future prospects, and all for which 
 he had hitherto lived, than to remain and behold that dreary 
 result. Better become a soldier, be sent off to Algeria, and 
 eliot by some Arab, and have an end of it all, than linger and 
 suffer from a pain which, though it may pass away with time, is
 
 SEVEN YEAKS. 55 
 
 intolerable whilst it lasts. And perhaps because he had suf- 
 fered so much, Baptiste did not come back. Fanny said 
 nothing, but the roses forsook her cheek, the light fled from 
 her eyes. She did not complain ; she even said she felt re- 
 markably well, and she looked wretchedly ill. Madame la Roche 
 was concerned ; Marie was cross ; and Charlotte, whom a fit of 
 rhouraatisra kept to her bed, was gently peevish, — love and 
 lovers were all nonsense. There was but one real thing in life, 
 and that was rheumatism; Fanny heard her, and did not argue 
 the point, she felt too sad and too weary. 
 
 Everything else went on as usual in the little houseliold, 
 that is to say, everything continued to be upset by Madame 
 Dupuis and her child ; even the placid mother of the former 
 leeuied heartily wearied of this long, tiresome visit, and was 
 leard to observe once or twice : " How very long Monsieur 
 Dupuis is staying." 
 
 At the end of a week the cloud which had been hanging 
 over tlie family became a settled gloom. Marie, with eyes and 
 face on fire, took Fanny aside one evening to say to her vehe- 
 mently : 
 
 " Fanny, never think of that wretch again ; mind my words, 
 never think of him." 
 
 " Very well," said Fanny, with tolerable calmness. 
 
 The same evening Madame la Roche likewise spoke to the 
 young girl ; her language was more gentle, but the meaning 
 was the same. 
 
 " My dear child," she said mildly, " I have done my best, 
 and I have failed ; try and forget Baptiste." 
 
 " Yes, Madame," said Fanny, with apathetic calmness. 
 
 Charlotte, too, thought proper to impart the information 
 to her o;od-dauo;hter, and to add to it a dose of comfort and 
 advice, judiciously mingled. 
 
 " Child," she said to Fanny, who was sitting with her, 
 " you will live to know that love is a folly. Have I not been 
 married, and do I not know all about it? Forget that big 
 Fleming, my love ; forget him, and depend upon it you will 
 sleep sound at night, eat well in the day, and come round. 
 Bless you, you will marry some other man some day. Yes, 
 my love, and have a dozen of children, I dare say. I had a 
 friend once, whose name was Jeanne, and who was desperately 
 in love three times, and ended by marrying a man she did not 
 care a pin about, and who made her as happy as the day waa 
 long." 
 
 What could Fanny answer to this, especially when Char-
 
 56 SEVEN YEAES. 
 
 lotte concluded by declaring to her that life held but one real 
 trouble, and that its name was rheumatism ! 
 
 Fanny did not conti'adict ; she did not answer ; but she 
 thought of Baptiste from morning till night, and from night 
 till morning. 
 
 Fanny was melancholy ; Marie was kept in a state of per- 
 manent indignation by the exacting ways of Madame Dupuis 
 and her boy ; Charlotte was cross, and could not be spoken to; 
 and all this sadness, wrath, and ill-temper acted on easy 
 Madame la Koehe. She could not refrain from some secret 
 murmurs. " It was love, tiresome love, that had done it all. 
 Until love came they were happy. Fanny was merry ; there 
 was even something pleasant about the quarrels of Charlotte 
 and Marie : but now all was wrong, all was upset." Madame 
 la Roche could not indulge in such thoughts without looking 
 disturbed and unhappy; and Madame Dupuis, at length be- 
 coming aware of the fact, observed one evening, as she sat with 
 her mother : 
 
 " Maman, is anything the matter 1 " 
 
 "Nothing, my dear. Fanny, go and fetch me the second 
 volume of Racine from the library, if you please." 
 
 Fanny, who sat with the two ladies embroidering at a frame 
 a little apart, rose and obeyed. 
 
 The library was an old-fashioned piece of furniture, filled 
 with many old-fashioned books. It stood in the dining-room, 
 which it half filled, and was rarely opened. Fanny put down 
 on a table the light she had brought with her ; and instead 
 of looking for the second volume of Racine, she sat down in 
 the nearest of the old-fashioned arm-chairs around her, and 
 yielded for a while to the luxury of solitary despondency. 
 Baptiste had been gone three weeks ; it was a week since 
 Marie and Madame la Roche had bid her cease to hope. Oh ! 
 what a long dreary week she had spent ; sewing all day, — 
 coming home at night to sit in that dull weary room, where the 
 two ladies spoke in subdued murmurs, by the fireside, and 
 where the boy stamped and shouted, whilst her needle for ever 
 went in and out the canvass on which she was working the first 
 of a new set of chairs for Madame la Roche. "And is it 
 possible!" thought Fanny, groaning, "that I am to live for 
 ever so 1 How ditierent a life I might have had with him ! I 
 disliked the shop and the back room ; they were better any day 
 than this dull stupid life I lead here, fretting myself to death 
 for what cannot be, and for what is." 
 
 And by " what is " Fanny did not understand merely her
 
 SEVEN YEARS. 57 
 
 own troubles — she had distracting visions of a dusty and way- 
 worn soldier, of a wounded man, of death-beds in tented camps, 
 of war and all its horrors. Her heart swelled, her tears flowed, 
 and leaning her head on the table near which she sat, she cried 
 long and bitterly. 
 
 " Fanny ! " said a voice behind her. 
 
 Fanny looked uji with a cry. 
 
 Baptiste, pale, haggard, and worn, but Baptiste in flesh and 
 blood, stood behind her. 
 
 Of what avail are resolves in life ? Fanny had thought 
 that if she saw Baptiste again she would meet him with peni- 
 tent sorrow ; Baptiste had firmly resolved that before he for- 
 gave his sinning mistress, he would make her agree to a regu- 
 lar series of conditions ; and when they met, Fanny could only 
 laugh and cry fur joy, and throw her arms around his neck, 
 like a happy child ; and Baptiste could only take her in his 
 arms and hold her fast like a treasure lost, long sought for, 
 and found at last. It was Fanny, moreover, who made all the 
 conditions. 
 
 " You must never go away again," she cried. 
 
 " Never ! " said Baptiste, who was too happy to do more 
 than echo her words and look at her ; and who, moreover, for- 
 got that this submission was by no means what he had in- 
 tended. 
 
 " And you must never be so foolish as to think I do not 
 like you." 
 
 " Very well," said Baptiste, meek as a lamb ; and who 
 would have gone on promising till morning, if Fanny had not 
 suddenly asked : 
 
 " And how and why did you come back, sir ? " 
 
 The countenance and manner of Baptiste underwent a com- 
 plete change. 
 
 " Madame la Roche wrote to me," he replied ; " she wanted 
 to buy me out, but though people say I am fond of money, it 
 is not the money of others 1 am fond of, so I thanked her and 
 declined. Still 1 could not help thinking of you ; so at last I 
 made up my mind, I bought myself out, and came back." 
 
 Fanny reddened and bit her lip. 
 
 " I suppose Madame la Roche wrote to say I was breaking 
 my heart about you, — I wonder you believed her." 
 
 Baptiste put Fanny away ; he was pale but cool, his brow 
 was calm but resolute, and his look was settled and ahuost 
 cold. " Fanny," he said, " we will say little, but it shall be td 
 the purpose. When will you marry me ? "
 
 68 SEVEN YEAES. 
 
 The dawning rebellion of Fanny fled as by magic. 
 
 " When you please," she said, trying to smile ; " you have 
 travelled from a sufficient distance to have your way." 
 
 If Baptiste had followed his own will he would have said, 
 " Let it be in a week," but generosity prevailed over passion, 
 and he merely said : 
 
 " Then, Fanny, let it be this day month." - 
 
 " Very well," sa-d Fanny ; " if my god-mother, Marie, and 
 Madame la Roche agree to it, this day month let it be." 
 
 " I have your word," impressively said Baptiste. 
 
 " My word of honour," said Fanny, laying her left hand 
 on her heart, and giving him her right hand with a grand air. 
 
 " Mind, Fanny, this day month," repeated Baptiste, se- 
 cretly uneasy at the delay, though of his own fixing. 
 
 Fanny laughed gaily. 
 
 " Do not be tiresome," she said, " you will often wish it 
 undone before the year is out." 
 
 " The year will be out in six weeks, Fanny." 
 
 " Oh ! if you begin finding out all the stupid things I 
 say," began Fanny hotly, " we shall never have done," she 
 would have added, but had not time. 
 
 Madame la Roche, surprised at the non-appearance of 
 Fanny with the second volume of Racine, and thinking that 
 the young girl must have fainted away alone, and be lying in 
 a swoon in one of the arm-chairs, had kindly come out herself 
 to see what the matter was. A sound of voices which she 
 heard before opening the door changed the current of her 
 thoughts from a fainting fit to an invasion of thieves ; and 
 Baptiste was so altered, and his presence was so unexpected, 
 that if she had not seen the smile on Fanny's lips, Madame la 
 Roche might have persisted in the latter belief. 
 
 " It is I, Baptiste Watt, Madame," said the young man, 
 perceiving he was not recognised ; " I am come back and Fanny 
 has promised to marry me this day month." 
 
 " To-day is Friday," said Madame la Roche, nervously, 
 " not this day month, Baptiste, to-morrow month." 
 
 " As Madame pleases," replied Baptiste, looking red and 
 annoyed. 
 
 " But how very odd that you are come back ! " exclaimed 
 Madame la Roche with retrospective wonder ; " you wrote that 
 you would not." 
 
 " I beg Madame's pardon, I only wrote that I did not wish 
 to be bought out by Madame, but I bought myself out, and 
 here 1 am."
 
 SEVEN TEAKS. 59 
 
 "You are very independent," said Madame la Eoche, a 
 little testily. " Well, well, Fanny shall have the fifteen hun- 
 dred francs I promised on her wedding day." 
 
 " Fifteen hundred francs is a nice sura," said Baptiste, 
 looking pleased, "and I do not deny that I would rather have 
 it with Fanny than not, though it will not make me a bit 
 fonder of her." 
 
 He lot)ked so fondly at the young girl as he spoke, that 
 Madame la Roche felt convinced Fanny would be a happy wo- 
 man. She felt moved, and very much inclined to shed a few 
 tears, when the propriety of making him appear before Char- 
 lotte suddenly occurred to her. 
 
 " You must speak to Charh)tte," she said gravely ; "Char- 
 lotte is the child's god-mother, and we can settle nothing with- 
 out her." 
 
 Fanny smiled archly at her lover in a way that said plainly: 
 "You know ')etter than that, do you not?" but slipping her 
 arm within his, she led him at once to the presence ot her god- 
 mother. 
 
 Marie was sitting with Charlotte, whom rheumatism still 
 kept captive, for somehow or other the two enemies were not 
 happy apart, and Marie held it her duty to rouse Charlotte, to 
 stir her up by gentle discourse. The soothing down of in- 
 valids she held an egregious mistake. " Sickly people are al- 
 ready low," thought and said Marie, " it is rousing they want. 
 Therefore rouse them up." Acting on this judicious and be- 
 nevolent principle, she gave her spare time to Charlotte, with 
 whom she sat several hours daily, anxiously exerting herself 
 to rouse her. It happened indeed that Charlotte roused Marie 
 as often as Marie roused her ; but this reversion of their natural 
 positions Marie kindly disregarded, and persevered in her en- 
 deavours. 
 
 The two friends were engaged as usual, when Madame la 
 Roche opened the door of Charlotte's room, and ushered in 
 Baptiste and Fanny. Charlotte showed no great signs of 
 wonder ; she was not in the habit of betraying her emotions, 
 but Mai'ie, who was more unsophisticated, stared at Baptiste 
 in mingled surprise and wrath. 
 
 '* Well, sir," she began. 
 
 " Marie, you must not scold," interrupted her mistress ; 
 " the young man is a very good young man, though a little 
 flighty" — Fanny looked demurely at her betrothed, who seemed 
 surprised at this definition of himself — "and rather too disin- 
 terested for this present state of society."
 
 60 SEVEN YEARS. 
 
 " Humpli ! " grumbled Maria, wlio had always held Baptiste 
 close and rather avaricious. 
 
 " I know what I am saying," testily resumed Madame la 
 Roche ; " hut, as I said, he is a good young man, and Fanny 
 likes him, and they are to be married to-morrow month, and 
 they are come to get the consent of their friend and god- 
 mother, Charlotte." 
 
 Charlotte, who sat in an arm-chair, whence indeed she could 
 not move, nodded and smiled blandly. 
 
 " I knew," she said, " that my eflforts for the happiness of 
 these young people could not long remain unavailing ; but I 
 expected Baptiste sooner." 
 
 " Sooner," sneered Marie, " sooner ! why how then could 
 Monsieur make our poor child fret herself pale and ill for his 
 sake if he came back ? No, no, he must stay away of cpurse, 
 and Fanny must wait his leisure." 
 
 " There, sir," said Fanny, " you hear how badly you have 
 behaved, I hope you will show yourself penitent." 
 
 " He show himself penitent ! " screamed Marie. 
 
 "No, no, you really must not scold," said Madame la 
 Roche. " I am an infallible judge of character, and I know 
 that Baptiste will make an excellent husband." 
 
 Marie gave her mistress a look of infinite compassion, for 
 she was accustomed to keep Madame la Roche in a state of 
 mental suljjection, and could not see without pity so futile an 
 attempt at liberty, but not deigning to discuss the point, and 
 pleased at the happy face of Fanny, she said with some lof- 
 tiness : 
 
 " Since the young man has shown a proper sense of his 
 errors, he is welcome to my forgiveness." 
 
 Baptiste reddened, and was going to object to be forgiven, 
 but the fingers of Fanny were laid on his lips, and his mouth 
 was effectually stopped. 
 
 " I give my consent to his marriage Avith Fanny," re- 
 Bumecl Marie with great majesty, " and I allow him to embrace 
 me." 
 
 This permission Baptiste received with a suspicious look, 
 as if he thought it part of the forgiveness, and Fanny had to 
 frown and shake her head, and even to give a sly push behind, 
 before the obstinate young giant would move a step toward the 
 stately Marie. She beheld his hesitation with a benevolent 
 Bmile, and as sovereigns see the awe and embarrassment their 
 presence creates. Still smiling, she held up one cheek, then 
 the other, and when the salute was over, she said blandly :
 
 SEVEN YEARS. 61 
 
 " As to the wedding ; do you not think, Baptiste, it will 
 do very well this day three months V 
 
 " I suppose you mean six months," said Charlotte, quietly. 
 " I hope my god-daughter is not going to be so indecorous as 
 to marry oft" in a hurry." 
 
 Bantiste did not answer ; but he looked so sullen and so 
 ulack, that Fanny, half frightened, slipped her arm within his, 
 and gave him an appealing look, which cleared his face at once, 
 and made hiin half smile. 
 
 " Thank you, Marie, thank you, Charlotte," he said phleg- 
 matically, " but Fanny and I think a month long enough to 
 wait." 
 
 " Of course it is," said Madame la Roche. " No, Marie, 
 no, Charlotte, you really must not oppose the poor children. 
 Any one can see they will have no peace of mind till they are 
 married." 
 
 A remark which, though innocently uttered, yet verged so 
 much on indecorum, called for due reproof Marie thought fit 
 to take this task on herself, and set her 3imple mistress to 
 rights. Ignoring, therefore, the imprudent words Madame la 
 Eoche had uttered, Marie said lofti] f . 
 
 " In the meanwhile. Monsieur Watt, I shall suggest your 
 seeing Fanny as little as possible. Decorum you know, Bap- 
 tiste, decorum." 
 
 " Aye to be sure, decorum," put in Madame la Roche, who 
 felt she had gone too far ; " Fanny has not been reared like a 
 common girl. Monsieur Watt. She is an orphan, and has been 
 under my special care ever since she was three years old ; and 
 you see, Daptiste, it is precisely because you are to marry her 
 that you ought to see her as little as possible." 
 
 Baptiste looked confounded, and Fanny mischievously 
 demurred. 
 
 " And I even suggest," put in Charlotte, " that Baptiste 
 should go to some little distance and keep out of the way." 
 
 " That," said Baptiste, coolly, " is impossible. I must 
 prepare a home for Fanny ; but since you object to my seeing 
 her, why I will not do so without your consent." 
 
 He bowed to Madame la Roche and to Charlotte and Marie, 
 and, taking Fanny's hand, he simply said : 
 
 " Good bye, 1 anny ; we shall soon meet." He dropped 
 ner hand and turned away, leaving them all rather surprised 
 at the quiet dignity of his manner. Fanny stood awhile irres- 
 olute, then darted after him, and reached tte door as he was 
 Dpening it.
 
 62 
 
 SEVEN YEARS. 
 
 " You tiresome man," she said petulantly ; " why do you 
 mind them? do you not know that it shall be as I like, and 
 not as they like ; and do you suppose I am not going to sec 
 you for a month '? " 
 
 But Baptiste shook his head, and sturdily resisted the 
 temptation. 
 
 " One word, one man," he said bravely, " I shall see you 
 when they like, Fanny." And, not trusting himself with a 
 look, he slowly and heavily walked down-stairs. 
 
 " He is very stupid ! " thought Fanny. '• When they like, 
 and is not that when I like. Monsieur Baptiste '? " 
 
 " A very remarkable young man," said Madame la Eoche, 
 to Marie, " and a very strong will." 
 
 " Trust Fanny for twisting him round her little finger," 
 knowingly said Marie. 
 
 Fanny, who had returned, stood behind them : she over- 
 heard Marie's words, and smiled wistfully at the future. She 
 did not seem to see Madame la Roche, or to think of going 
 back to her work in that lady's room. She stood like one in 
 a dream, and Madame la Roche with her usual good nature 
 kindly smiled, and saying, " I shall not want you any more 
 this evening, child," she returned to the cheerful apartment 
 where she had left her daughter. 
 
 " Was the book lost?" asked Madame Dupuis. 
 " Ah ! Cecile, this is a strange world, and I cannot think 
 what possesses men and women, to make it stranger. But 
 they will love and be wretched, and marry too, — it is sur 
 prising." 
 
 " Amazing ! " said Madame Dupuis, " especially when 
 people are poor." 
 
 " Fanny is not exactly poor," began Madame la Roche. 
 "Dear me," interrupted Madame Dupuis, opening her 
 languid eyes, " is little Fanny in love ; is she going to 
 marry ? " 
 
 " Yes, my dear, she actually is, and she is going to leave 
 me, too." And in the fulness of her heart Madame la Roche 
 related to her daughter Fanny's history. 
 
 Madame Dupuis heard it with little interest. She was 
 not unkind, she was very cold ; her heart was heavy and dull, 
 and she never thoroughly apprehended the troubles or con- 
 cerns of others. She thought it strange that Fanny should be 
 in love, and want to marry. 
 
 " But, my dear, you married," objected her mother.
 
 SEVEN" YEARS. 63 
 
 Madame Diipuis looked as if she thought that quite anoth- 
 er sort of thing-. 
 
 " And I married," pursued her mother, " so I suppose it is 
 the general lot." 
 
 But still 31adame Diipuis thought it singular that Fanny 
 should leave an agi-eeable and comfortable house like her 
 mothei's for such a home as a working-man could offer. 
 
 " Perhapo there is no home like one's own home after Jtll," 
 sighed Madame la Eoche. " But I shall miss my little 
 Fanny, ay, and sorely too." 
 
 Madame Diipuis said nothing, hut she stared at her moth- 
 er, whose eyes were dim, and she seemed to think this the 
 strangest of all. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 Partly through pique, partly through pride, Fanny took 
 no steps, that is to say, expressed no wish, to see Baptiste until 
 the month was nearly out. He kept strictly to his word, and 
 chose the middle of the day, when she was not within, to call 
 on Charlotte and Marie, and settle with them matters relative 
 to the approaching event. Thus he reopened his shop, set up 
 once more his little stock, resumed his business, and prepared 
 that dingy home for the presence of his bright and gay be- 
 trothed. Fanny, whom he had deferentially consulted through 
 the medium of her god-mother, replied by the same means, 
 that he was to act as he pleased, and that she, Fanny, would 
 be satisfied with whatever he did. 
 
 " I shall do my best," replied Baptiste ; " a man can do 
 no more." 
 
 They thus reached, without meeting, the Thursday that 
 preceded the Saturday on which they were to be married. To 
 the great surprise of Marie, Fanny said to her in the morning : 
 
 "Marie, god-mother is too ill to accompany me, so you and 
 I must go and spend this evening with Baptiste. Will you 
 tell him so, if you please? " 
 
 " My dear child," said Marie, solemnly, " you mean, I sup- 
 pose, that we must ask Baptiste to come here. It would be 
 better not to meet him till Saturday morning, but since you 
 wish it, let it be." 
 
 " No, Marie, not here. I wish to see him and the place 
 too ; so please to tell him so." 
 
 Marie demurred, spoke of propriety and the world, and
 
 64 SEVEN YEAKS. 
 
 delivered an excellent homily on decorum ; but Fanny waa 
 obstinate. 
 
 " There is no impropriety in my going with you," she said ; 
 "and as we have only the street to cross, it is very hard if we 
 cannot do so without the world being apprised of it ; besides, 
 we shall only stay an hour or so ; and, I tell you, I must see 
 Baptiste, speak to him, and look at the house I am to live in." 
 
 " Marie offered no further resistance ; she knew of old that 
 when Fanny was determined on anything it must come to pass, 
 aud that to submit with a good grace to the will of this little 
 despot was her best policy. Baptiste, accorc'ingly, was warned 
 of the lionour he was to receive ; he showed no extraordinary 
 degree of elation, but enough of htmest, substantial, hearty 
 pleasure beamed in his honest blue eyes, to make Marie say 
 kindly : 
 
 " Make no extraordinary preparations to receive us, Bap- 
 tiste ; we are only paying you a flying visit." 
 
 " I shall do what is right," said Baptiste, sturdily. 
 
 The day was wet and dreary ; night came early, and set 
 dark and starless over the Marais. At a quarter past eight 
 the street door of Madame la Roche's house opened to let out 
 Maiie and Fanny. MutRed in heaps of cloaks and shawls, 
 Marie had some trouble in moving ; Fanny, bare-headed, and 
 with a light silk handkerchief on her shoulders, skipped across 
 in a moment, and stood waiting on the threshold of the shop 
 for her slow companion. 
 
 " Good evening, Fanny,'^ said Baptiste, in a low moved 
 voice ; " this is kind of you." 
 
 " And it would have been very kind of you. Monsieur Bap- 
 tiste, to have come across and helped me over that abominable 
 mud," testily said Marie, entering the shop and closing the 
 door. 
 
 " You told me I was not to show myself," said Baptiste, 
 astonished. 
 
 " And pray who could see you on this black night ? some 
 people are very tiresome ; they always take one at one's 
 word." 
 
 " I am afraid you will always find me so," said Baptiste 
 slowly : " when a person says a thing, I think that person 
 means it." 
 
 He spoke to Marie and looked to Fanny, who stood smil- 
 ing, casting furtive looks about the shop, and seeming pleased 
 with its aspect. 
 
 Baptiste's honest face beamed with pleasure and pride, and
 
 SEVEN TEAKS. 65 
 
 * 
 
 throwing open the door of the back room, he said with some 
 stateliness : 
 
 " Please to walk in, ladies." 
 
 " Keally this is nice," said Marie. 
 
 Fanny said nothing, and Baptiste, who had expected some 
 slight degree of praise, seemed disappointed. He closed the 
 door, drew chairs round the fire, and sat down with a slightly 
 clouded brow. 
 
 Yet to one who had seen this room formerly, and who saw 
 it now, Baptiste had done wonders. A bright paper, scat- 
 tered with roses and jonquils, enlivened the dark walls. A 
 marble slab had re-placed the wood of the mantel-piece. A 
 handsome mirror above it, with a small gilt time-piece, and 
 china vases for flowers — though no uncommon luxury in Paiis, 
 where every one has a clock and a looking-glass, — gave the 
 place a gay look. The room, indeed, had not got any larger 
 than it was formerly, but ihe new chairs, covered with bright 
 red damask, were lighter and less cumbersome than the old 
 ones ; thin muslin curtains enclosed the bed in its recess, 
 where it looked lofty like a throne ; on the small round table, 
 pushed on one side that the three might find room around the 
 blazing wood fire, there was a tray covered with a white cloth, 
 under which imagination might revel and conceive a world of 
 dainties. Baj^tiste saw Fanny give it a stolen look, and he 
 smiled, for he knew that his betrothed had a sweet tooth. 
 
 " Well, Fanny," he said, unable to keep in, " what do you 
 think of this nice little room to sit and work in, eh "?" 
 
 " Where is the window V asked Fanny, who knew that 
 this room was lit from the shop, and almost as dark at noon- 
 day as at night ; but Baptiste smiled, rose, and pointing to a 
 narrow curtained opening in the wall, which the bed had con-* 
 cealed from Fanny's view, he triumphantly said : 
 
 " There ! " 
 
 " Yes," he resumed, enjoying Fanny's surprise, " I per- 
 suaded the landlord to let me have it made. The look-out is 
 not very gay, but when the sun shines on the wall opposite, it 
 becomes quite cheerful." 
 
 " And the kitchen," said Fanny, gravely ; " I hope you 
 have not forgotten that, Baptiste. This room is too pretty and 
 nice to cook in." 
 
 Baptiste laughed, walked to the wall, opened a cupboard, 
 and displayed to Fanny, who did not know whether to laugh 
 or cry at the sight, a complete kitchen within. A kitchen in a 
 cupboard is one of those continental contrivances which be-
 
 66 SEVEN TEARS. 
 
 wilder an English imagination ; but a kitchen in a cupboard 
 is really a practicable thing, and better than no kitchen at all. 
 Breast high, and in the centre, a space was devoted to tlie 
 round receptacles for charcoal fires, which do all the fine 
 French cookery ; how or where the smoke went Fanny could 
 not see : but around the range she saw hanging on nails the 
 requisite number of pots and pans, and she could not but con- 
 fess that nothing was wanted. It was a complete kitchen. 
 
 " Baptiste, how did you think of that ?" she asked, when 
 be closed the cupboard and resumed his seat by her side. 
 
 " I did not think of it," replied Baptiste, with evident regret, 
 " it was ray working-man, Joseph." 
 
 " Never mind, you did it, and I am very much obliged to 
 you all the same, Baptiste." 
 
 Here she looked again at the tray, and Baptiste, calling 
 her a little " friande," rose once more, and handed round some 
 hot punch and cakes. 
 
 " Very appropriate on this cold night," said Marie, whose 
 good humour was remarkable ; " you have a great deal of 
 judgment. Monsieur Baptiste." 
 
 Baptiste smiled, and filled her glass twice for the once that 
 he filled his and that of Fanny, who said it was strong, and 
 made her head ache, and that she preferred the cakes and 
 sweets. 
 
 " Strong ! " said Marie, amused, " child, this is ladies' 
 punch, quite harmless." And she held out her glass and winked 
 at Baptiste, who seemel slightly surprised, but dutifully re- 
 plenished her tumbler. But, like many harmless people, this 
 innocent punch had tricks of its own ; Marie always averred 
 that it was weak as water, yet scarcely had she taken this last 
 glass, than her head dropped on her shoulder in a state of 
 pleasant drowsiness, and her body sank back in the deep and 
 warm arm-chair which Baptiste had borrowed from his shop 
 for her use. 
 
 " Marie is sleepy," said Fanny, with the self-possession 
 women display in those cases. 
 
 "Yes," said Baptiste hesitatingly, "the heat of the fire, 
 you see." 
 
 A long silence followed, during which the crackling of the 
 wood on the heurth and the calm snoring of Marie in her chair 
 alone were heard. 
 
 Fanny sat straight on her chair, with her hands folded on 
 her lap, and her eyes fixed on the fire, and Baptiste sat look- 
 ing at her, and feeling a great deal too happy to be quite
 
 SEVEN TEAKS. 67 
 
 comfortable. When he saw the girl whom he had liked so long, 
 and remembered that on the next day but one she would come 
 and share this pleasant little home with him, his heart filled, 
 and he could only sigh with pleasure. 
 
 " Fanny," he said at length, " I hope you will be happy." 
 
 Fanny looked up at him very earnestly, but did not answer 
 one word. 
 
 " If I thought you would not," resumed Baptiste, looking 
 at the fire, " it would make me wretched. I would rather 
 give you up this moment than think, she will regret having 
 married me." 
 
 ' " I shall not regret it," said Fanny, smiling quietly, " why 
 should I ? I feel very good this evening, Baptiste, and I am 
 sure you will help me to be good ; you will have patience with 
 me ; you will not take a hasty word for more than it means." 
 
 "No," said Baptiste. 
 
 " Why should we not be happy f she added after a while. 
 'We are both young — I am scarcely eighteen, you are not 
 twenty-five. We have the world, work, some money, and 
 kind friends before us. Why should we not be happy?" 
 
 She spoke gravely, and looked at him with unwonted 
 seriousness. Baptiste hesitated, then gave a look at Marie, 
 and said : 
 
 " Fanny, you have never fairly told me that you really 
 liked me. Tell me so now." 
 
 "I shall have to say it after to-morrow," said Fanny; 
 " once is enough." 
 
 Baptiste looked disappointed. 
 
 " What ails you f asked Fanny, frowning ; " am I a girl 
 to do what I do not like doing ? I have agreed to marry you ; 
 is not that enough ? ought you not to be satisfied V — 
 
 " Perhaps I ought ; but you speak so lightly, so coldly, 
 always in jest." 
 
 Fanny laughed and looked mischievous. 
 
 " If you go on so I shall get naughty," she said ; " I must 
 tell you how to manage me once for all, Baptiste," she added 
 confidentially. " You must not love me like the apple of your 
 eye, spoil me a good deal, and rule me like a little child, — •! 
 am not fit to have my own will, that is the truth." 
 
 Baptiste looked bewildered, then rueful. 
 " I shall never be able to manage that," he said ; " rule you 
 like a little child, but how?" 
 
 " As if I were to tell you !" cried Fanny, looking vexed, " I 
 never heard anything like it."
 
 68 SEVEN YEARS. 
 
 " And you will never get that from me," said Baptiste, with 
 a sad shake of the head. " I can love a woman honestly a:?d 
 faithfully, and love none but her." 
 
 Fanny stamped her foot. 
 
 " Indeed," she said, " well, you had better love some i)ne 
 else. I warn you, I am dreadfully jealous." 
 
 " Are you '? " phlegmatically replied Baptiste. " But I can- 
 not rule a woman," he added, calmly continuing his former 
 speech. " No, Fanny, I must respect my wife, and if she is a 
 child, how can I respect her?" 
 
 " Oh ! tliat will never do," exclaimed Fanny, " I tell you I 
 have been spoiled and j)etted, and if you treat me so grandly, 
 I shall feel dull." 
 
 Baptiste looked thoroughly disconcerted. 
 
 Fanny spoke his secret fears : she would be dull with him. 
 And, what was worse, he knew not, even remotely, how to 
 keep this gay young girl in joy and good humour. The mix- 
 ture of fondness, teaching, and authority which Fanny herself 
 held requisite for their mutual happiness, Baptiste could not 
 practise. He could only love and honour like any knight of 
 old. 
 
 Fanny saw his troubled looks, and was sorry. She rose 
 from her chair, she went up to his, and standing by him with 
 friendly grace, she said cheerfully : 
 
 " Do not be afraid, Baptiste, we shall not be able to help 
 being happy. I feel sure of that. As I said a while ago, we 
 have some money, kind friends, work to do, and the world 
 before us. What more is wanted f 
 
 Baptiste could have said that he wanted Fanny to love him 
 as he loved her, — with a love deep set and beyond the reach 
 of change ; luit wdiere was the use? This cheerful, light little 
 girl liked him as well as she could like. She would not be- 
 come a ditterent woman just because they were going to be 
 married the next day but one. He folded his arms with a 
 sigh and looked up at her ; there she stood by him, pretty, 
 gay. beaming, an image of graceful cheerfulness, but looking 
 as liglit as a feather. 
 
 " I must marry her after to-morrow," thought Baptiste, 
 with a sort of calm despaii', '' not merely because I am bound 
 to her, but because I cannot do without her, and yet I shall be 
 wretched and she will not be happy. I shall spend money 
 and waste time to please her fancy, and get a jest and a laugh, 
 or a yawn of ennui, for my pains ; and yet I must do it with
 
 SEVEN YEARS. 69 
 
 my eyes open, just as I came back and bought myself out at 
 her bidding." 
 
 " What ails you? what are you thinking of? " asked Fanny, 
 displeased at his gloomy looks and at his silence. 
 
 " Of you," he replied calmly. 
 
 " Then you might look more amiable," she said shortly, and 
 she walked back to her chair looking vexed. 
 
 "What o'clock is it? '" asked Marie, wakening up with a 
 gtart. "Eleven! Fanny, are you dreaming? we were to be in 
 at ten. Monsieur Baptiste, there is magic in that chair ; it 
 made me fall asleep, it positively did. Fanny, put on my 
 shawl." 
 
 She had risen : Fanny rose too, and wrapped Marie in the 
 shawls and cloaks which she had held indispensable to the 
 preservation of her health. Baptiste silently assisted in the 
 task, and, scarcely speaking, saw them out ; but he was of a 
 taciturn temper, and not accustomed to many words. Marie 
 saw nothing in his silence, especially as his adieu had all the 
 req^uisite cordiality. 
 
 "You may embrace me," kindly said Marie #is they parted, 
 " and Fanny, too, I allow it." Baptiste had already complied 
 with the first part of this precept, he now turned to Fanny 
 with some hesitation. He took her in his arms, and stooping, 
 for though not unusually short, she looked a mite near him, 
 he kissed her with a sigh. 
 
 " Good night, my dear little Fanny," he said fondly ; 
 "like me at least as much as you can." 
 
 "If you wish for it do not ask for it," saucily said Fanny ; 
 "you know I am possessed with the spirit of contradiction. 
 Good night, Baptiste." 
 
 And with a nod half friendly, half careless, she left him 
 standing on the door-step looking after her in the dark night, 
 and thinking bitterly : " that girl will drive me mad, I know 
 she will." 
 
 The street was quickly crossed ; a knock at the street 
 door without and a pull at the porter's cordon within, soon 
 brought Marie and Fanny within Madame la Roche's house. 
 The lodge was dark, for the concierge had retired to her bed. 
 but her wrinkled face, peering through the frill of a nighl 
 ^ap, api)eared behind the panes of tlie glass door. 
 
 " Who is there ? " asked her shrill voice. 
 " Dear me, Madame, you might put on your spectacles and 
 look," loftily replied Marie, between whom and this dignitary
 
 70 SEVEN YEAKS. 
 
 there existed a constant feud, and whose natural irascibility 
 the punch might have heightened. 
 
 " There is no need for that, Madame," replied the lady of 
 the lodge, with much dignity ; " no one who liears you need 
 look at you in order to identify you." 
 
 " Madame," began Marie, turning pale with wrath. 
 
 " Madame," interrupted Madame Grand, " we will have 
 no discussion, if you please. I am sleepy, it would moreover 
 disturb the house, which is, I thank Heaven, a quiet one ; but 
 I shall feel very much obliged to you if you will take up this 
 letter to your mistress. It came as I was going to bed, and I 
 could not of course take it up-stairs. 
 
 She held forth a letter, which Fanny took, for Marie would 
 have seen her hand burned before she would have stooped to 
 an act of so much meanness, and put an end to the conversa- 
 tion by closing her glass door and retiring to the privacy of 
 her sleeping apartment, viz., an alcove or recess in the lodge. 
 
 " Mark my words, Fanny," said Marie, darting a wrath- 
 ful look at the dark glass door, behind which her enemy had 
 retreated, "• mark my words, that Avoman will not end well." 
 
 There is no denying that, on hearing a prediction which 
 might apply to a scapegrace of fifteen, but Avas scarcely suited 
 to three-score, the lady of the lodge longed to come forth and 
 resume the battle, but dignity and prudence alike kept her 
 where she was — in bed, and satisfied with this easy victory, 
 Marie went up-stairs once more elate. 
 
 The staircase, like all French staircases, was lit with a 
 lamp, hung midway in the spiral hollow, that went from the 
 top to the bottom of the house. A sort of half gloom was the 
 result. But in addition to the imperfect light thus diifused, 
 another lamp, fixed to the wall close by the door of Madame 
 la Eoche, shed its glow on her landing. It was there, and 
 just as the door had closed upon him, that Marie and Fanny 
 met Monsieur Noire t. They thus enjoyed a- good view of his 
 active figure, and Monsieur Noiret likewise had the advan- 
 tage of recognizing Marie's portly person and Fanny's pretty 
 face. 
 
 " Good evening, Marie," he said blandly, " we are old 
 friends, eh*? Good evening, little Fanny, you are going to 
 get married, I hear." 
 
 " Yes, sir, I am," shortly replied Fanny, with whom 
 Monsieur Noiret was no favourite. 
 
 " Yes, sir, we are old friends," said Marie ; " old friends
 
 SEVEN YEARS. 71 
 
 in years of our own, sir, and in the time we have known each 
 othur, sir." 
 
 "Precisely," replied Monsieur Noiret, showing his teeth 
 again. "Good evening, Marie; good night little Fanny." 
 
 He pinched her cheek, nodded to them both, and went 
 down humming a tune. 
 
 " A pleasant gentlemen thirty three years ago," said 
 Marie, with a sigh ; " ah, child, if I had liked ! " 
 
 She shook her head and sighed ay-ain as thev entered. 
 
 " If I had liked," she ' pursued, " I might have been 
 Madame Noiret. I might, indeed, and then no low creatures 
 in lodges would have had their say at me." 
 
 Fanny did not reply, she entered her room, sat down on a 
 chair, and burst into tears. 
 
 " Bless me," cried Marie, " you do not mind that low 
 creature "? " 
 
 " Oh ! Marie," said Fanny, sobbing, " I am wretched " 
 
 " Never mind her, child." 
 
 " Oh ! I do not ; it is Baptiste. I feel and I see it, we 
 shall not be happy together : I am sure of it." 
 
 And her tears flowed afresh. Marie stared and asked 
 what she meant. 
 
 " He likes me too much," said Fanny. " I like hiin very 
 much to he sure ; but not so much as he likes me ; he sees it, 
 it exasperates him, and it already bores me. What will it 
 be when we are married 1 " 
 
 " My dear," said Marie, much relieved, " do not trouble 
 yourself about that. I never heard wives complaining that 
 their husbands teased them by too much love." 
 
 " Baptiste will always be fond of me," said Fanny, red- 
 dening. 
 
 " Yes, dear, but not more than you will like," pacifically 
 replied Marie ; " give me Madame la fJoche's letter, and do 
 not trouble yourself about Baptiste's excessive love. It will 
 calm down, my dear, it will calm down." 
 
 Fanny looked very vexed, but did not answer one word. 
 Marie took the letter and left the room. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 A DOOR had formerly led from the bed-room of Madame 
 la Roche to that of Fanny ; as both rooms were accessible by 
 eitlxer doors, that one had been suppressed, that is to say, a
 
 72 SEVEN YEARS. 
 
 chest of drawers had been placed against it on Fanny's side ; 
 on Madame la Roche's it remained visible, though unused : 
 but that door, it is scarcely necessary to say, could not 
 exclude sound, and Fanny, as she sat alone, fretting at Bnp- 
 tiste's over fondness, and vexed at the mere thought that this 
 troublesome affection might grow less, could not help hearing 
 the discourse between Madame la Roche and Marie in the 
 next room. 
 
 "Marie, where have you been?" asked the lady's voice; 
 to which Marie's sturdy tones replied : 
 " Only at Baptiste's, Madame." 
 
 There was a pause before the voice of Madame la Roche 
 was heard again. 
 
 " Was Fanny with you 1 " 
 
 " Of course, Madame. Is this the nightcap Madame 
 means to wear ? " 
 
 " Mai-ie, I am very much surprised. I thought it was 
 agreed the young man was to l)e'kept at a distance 1 " 
 " Fanny wished it, Madame." 
 
 " I do not say there was any harm in it ; but I think, 
 Marie, it would have been respectful to tell me about it." 
 
 '• And not to stay out till eleven, without leave," pat in 
 the voice of Madame Dupuis. 
 
 " No one is any thing in this house," observed the voice 
 of Charlotte. " My own god-daughter is not mine ; but I 
 have always been used so, and I will never believe that if 
 Monica had not been advised to it she would have gone off to 
 America." 
 
 " May I ask what Monica has to do with my taking Fanny 
 over to Baptiste's this evening 1 " calmly inquired Marie, with 
 whom this referring of Charlotte's to something or other that 
 had nothing to do with the matter in hand, was a constant and 
 irritating grievance. Charlotte was opening her lips to an- 
 swer, and war was imminent, when Madame Dupuis again 
 
 said : 
 
 " I wonder you went out without leave, Marie." 
 
 This second interference of her mistress's daughter prob- 
 ably irritated Marie, for in anything but a pleasant voice she 
 observed, " that she did not know she had two mistresses." 
 
 " Marie, you are very rude," said Madame la Roche, " I 
 beg you will not answer my daughter so." 
 
 " I always spoke my mind to Mademoiselle Cecile when 
 she was a child," put in Marie, with great spirit, " and I can- 
 not leave off now."
 
 SEVEN TEARS. 73 
 
 " I know you are an attaelied friend, more than a servant," 
 said Madame la Roche, " but, still, Marie, you are too rude. 
 The world has seen and commented on it. It is my duty to 
 put a stop to it." 
 
 " Maman has been a great deal too indulgent," put m 
 Madame Dupuis. 
 
 " Cecile, do not interfere. I am quite able to direct my 
 own servants. Yes, Marie, I must put a stop to it. You talk 
 too loud ; moreover, you are always quarrelling with the por- 
 tress, Madame Grand, a thing I have the greatest objection 
 to. What were you and she saying this evening 1 Cecile 
 and I actually heard the noise up here." 
 
 " I know Madame always takes the portress's part," indig- 
 nantly said Marie ; " but I did not expect to be turned upon 
 this evening, because, as Fanny knows and can say, I resented 
 that Madame the portress should give me a letter to caiTy, 
 which it is her bounden duty to deliver to the mistress of the 
 house." 
 
 " A letter ! dear me, Mai'ie, how very odd you should 
 keep it all this time, and stand talking there. Who knows 
 but it is of importance ! Give it to me. Just look at it 
 Cecile, and tell me what it is. You may read it aloud. I 
 have no secrets from Maiie and Charlotte." 
 
 " It is from a Monsieur Dauray," said the voice of Mad- 
 ame Dupuis. 
 
 " I know no one of the name ; go on, my dear." 
 
 Madame Dupuis read : 
 " Madame, 
 
 " I have not the honour of being acquainted with you, and 
 yet I must wound your heart with the most painful news. I 
 keep the inn of the Lion d' Argent, in the, town of Laval. A 
 gentleman, a stranger, came here yesterday, and took the 
 room number one. This morning we found him dying in his 
 room ; he had committed suicide; at least we think so, from 
 the only words we heard him utter : ' I am a ruined and dis- 
 aonoured man, — I will not live dishonoured.' Tiiat gentle- 
 man, Madame, I write it with sorrow, is Monsieur Dupuis, 
 your son-in-law." 
 
 Here Fanny, who had been listening, with sudden anxiety 
 heard a fearful scream, and a heavy fall on the floor. 
 
 Scarcely knowing how, Fanny rushed out of her room 
 into that of Madame la Roche, and there beheld a picture she 
 never forgot. Madame la Roche stood in her white night- 
 dress, looking more amazed than horrified ; Madame Dupuis 
 4
 
 74 SEVEN YEAES. 
 
 lay on the floor at her mother's feet, and a dark stream of 
 blood was pouring from her lips down on the letter which 
 she still held ; Marie stood in the act and attitude in which 
 the news liad found her, — holding with one uplifted hand a 
 decanter of \v;iter, and a glass in the other ; Charlotte sat and 
 stared, and the lamp burned calmly, and the fire blazed cheer- 
 fully, on this scene of woe. The white frightened face of 
 Fanny at the door broke the spell that petrified them ; Mad- 
 ame la Roche groaned and fainted ; Marie dropped decanter 
 and glass with a crash, and rushed forward in time to catch 
 her mistress ; Fanny knelt on the carpet, and tried to raise 
 the head of jNIadame Dupuis, and to stop the blood that still 
 flowed from her white lips, though more slowly. 
 
 " What shall we do ] What shall we do 1 " cried Marie 
 distracted ; " jMadame is as cold as a stone, I cannot rouse her 
 a bit. Help me, Charlotte." 
 
 But Charlotte did not stir. She seemed paralyzed and 
 groaned on her chair. 
 
 " Marie," said Fainiy, in a low strange voice, " can you 
 carry Madame into my room "? if you can, do so, and do not 
 be in a hurry to wakrn iK-r." 
 
 JNIarie turned round from her senseless mistress, and 
 stared at Fanny, who merely said, " Look." 
 
 The pale head of Madame Dupuis still rested against the 
 young girl's lap ; her eyes were open, but her features were 
 white and rigid as marble. 
 
 " Dead ! " said Marie, bewildered. 
 
 " Dead ! " screamed Charlptte, suddenly springing to her 
 foster-daughter's side. 
 
 " Ay, dead — dead ! " echoed Fanny, clasping her hands, 
 " dead in a ntoment." 
 
 Ay, Fanny, dead in a moment ; called from all the little 
 follies of life to grief, and from grief to death. Take the les- 
 son to heart, and keep it there ! 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 Baptiste was not superstitious ; but happy dreams influ- 
 ence the waking moods of the wisest, and his dreams that 
 night were of so rosy a hue, that he must needs be cheerful 
 the next morning. He got up early, opened his shop, took 
 down the shutters, and looked up with a smile at Faimy's 
 window. Her curtains moved slightly ; he did not see her.
 
 SEVEN YEAKS. Y5 
 
 indeed, but he felt sure that she ^xas slyly watching him. 
 Baptiste shook his head. 
 
 " That girl will give me a world of trouble," he thought, 
 " but a world of joy too — that is the truth." 
 
 And he began stuffing a sofa with horse-hair, and singing 
 as he worked : an unusual token of cheerfulness. 
 
 " The master is merry to-day," said Joseph, his working- 
 man, who walked in as he spoke. 
 
 " A man can well be merry when he is going to marry a 
 pretty girl the morrow," replied Baptiste with a knowing nod, 
 " you will find that out yet, Joseph." 
 
 Joseph shrugged his shoulders, and said he was too poor 
 to marry. His master slapped him on the back, and said 
 kindly : 
 
 '' Work, Joseph ; do not drink ; work, and I will help 
 you, and you will put money by ; and if in two yeai's' time 
 you cannot many, my name is not Baptiste Watt." 
 
 " Will the master get me a wife like Mademoiselle 
 Fanny ? " asked Joseph, demurely. 
 
 Baptiste laughed till his blue eyes shone. 
 
 " Get you a girl like Fanny, ah ! my lad, girls like that 
 are not got every day. Every day ! / never saw another 
 like her." 
 
 " Nor I," sighed Joseph, with mock envy. He thought 
 Fanny a pretty girl, but lie thought, too, that there were 
 plenty twice as handsome everywhere around him. 
 
 "The fiict is," pursued Baptiste, sitting down, and looking 
 meditative, " that Fanny deserves a better match than Bap- 
 tiste Watt ; but human nature is selfish, and I cannot help 
 being selfish and taking her. It is human nature, Joseph, 
 human nature." 
 
 Joseph philosophically replied that it was, and set to work. 
 But though Baptiste felt thoroughly happy, he could not 
 work : he was haunted with a vision of Fanny in the white 
 silk dress which Madame la Roche had kindly provided, and 
 to which Madame Dupuis had added the tulle veil and orange 
 wreath. Marie had let him into a secret : at seven, b^'fore 
 going to her work, Fanny M'as to try on this bridal attire ; 
 and she, Marie, had added, " that she would do what she could 
 tor him," — which meant, Baptiste supposed, that she would 
 kindly procure him a sight of his beloved, if he would only 
 be in the way ; now it was just upon seven, and Baptiste was 
 longing to go, and hesitating to do so. " The little thing will 
 only laugh at me," he thought, with a deep sigh ; " let her, —
 
 76 SEVEN TEAES. 
 
 I cannot help it." And giving Joseph a few orders, he rose 
 left the shop, crossed the street, entered the house of Madame 
 la Roche, for the wide gate stood ever open, and, without be- 
 ing seen by the portress, he went up to the first-floor by a 
 back staircase. He rang, expecting Marie to open ; it was 
 Fanny who came. On seeing him she burst into tears, and 
 flung her arms round his neck. Baptiste turned pale, he knew 
 that something dreadful had happened, and swift and sudden 
 came the thought : "I shall not marry Fanny to-morrow." 
 He closed the door, which had remained open ; he drew 
 Fanny to his breast, and kissed her again and again ; and 
 Fanny, her shyness and her coquetry all gone with grief, kept 
 her arms around him, and laid her head on his shoulder, where 
 she sobbed freely. At length she became more calm and 
 looked up. Baptiste had taken her into that quiet dining-room 
 where he had found her that day month. He had sat down, 
 and still holding her fast, he looked with an aching heart at a 
 white dress covered with muslin, lightly thrown on a chair, 
 and an orange wreath near it ; Marie had placed them there 
 for five minutes on the preceding evening, and forgotten them 
 in the sudden calamities of the night. 
 
 " Oh ! Fanny, my darling little Fanny," said Baptiste 
 with a groan, " what is it ? what has happened 1 " 
 
 " Then you do not know ? " asked I'anny. 
 
 ■"' I know nothing," said Baptiste, with another groan ; " I 
 left, my work, I crossed the street to see you with those jjretty 
 whire things on." 
 
 " Poor fellow," said Fanny, softly stroking his cheek and 
 cryn-g again ; " poor fellow ; it is not a wedding we shall 
 have to-morrow, Baptiste, but a funeral, — Madame Dupuis is 
 dead " 
 
 " Dead ! Fanny, dead ! " 
 
 " Ay, dead, killed by grief." She told him the whole 
 story in a few words. 
 
 A third groan expressed Baptiste's feelings. 
 
 " Faimy," he said at length, " I am a wretch ; God knows I 
 am sorry for the poor lady, for the child, for the mother ; but 
 still, Fanny, I cannot help thinking too that I shall not have 
 you to-morrow. Ah ! why were we not married a week ago 1 
 Well, well, it is of little use to think of that now. What can 
 I do for them, Fanny 1 " 
 
 " Nothing, Baptiste. We have sent for Monsieur Noiret, 
 that old friend of Madame la Roche's, you know ; he will see 
 to the funeral."
 
 SEVEN YEAES. 77 
 
 Baptiste groaned again, and asked to see Marie. 
 
 " You cannot see her," replied Fanny, shaking her head, 
 " she is "with Madame la Roche, who, poor lady, has spent the 
 night in tc-ars and sorrow ; but if you will come in to my 
 gud-mother, I dare say she will like to see you." 
 
 She rose and led the way to her god-mother's room. 
 
 Charlotte was up, sitting in an arm-chair, and looking 
 with a bewildered glance on the little orphan, who was play- 
 ing merrily at her feet. 
 
 " Papa is gone," he was singing ; " he is gone. lie will 
 not come back ; he will not come back." 
 
 " Well, Monsieur Baptiste," said Charlotte, looking at 
 him, and groaning, " you see what life is, — death without 
 warning, children singing above their fathers' graves. I hope 
 and trust that you will have the wisdom to give up all the 
 vanities of life." 
 
 " If by the vanities of life you mean Fanny," said Baptiste, 
 drawing the young girl's arm within his, " I declare that noth- 
 ing shall make me give her up." 
 
 " I wonder at you ! " querulously said Charlotte. " Death 
 is in the house, and you must needs talk nonsense ; 1 wonder 
 at you. Charles, be quiet." 
 
 *' Can I be of any use to you 1 " asked Baptiste. 
 
 Charlotte sighed, 
 
 " I am broken with pains," she answered, " if you have an 
 easier chair than this I should like it ; if not, do not mind. 
 Anything will do fur me." 
 
 Baptiste was surprised at a request, which to him savoured 
 of the vanities of life, but he said it should be complied with ; 
 and perceiving tliat his presence was not required, and was 
 more likely to lead to disturbance than to be of use, he bade 
 Charlotte good morning and retired. Fanny saw him out. 
 As they parted, Baptiste said with a heavy sigh : 
 
 " Fanny, I know I am wretch to speak of it, but you must 
 promise to marry me at least this day three months." 
 
 " No, Baptiste, 1 cannot do that; but I will promise to 
 marry you when you like, for I know that you will like noth- 
 ing which is not right." 
 
 Still Baptiste looked unhappy, and ill at ease. Fanny 
 took both his large heavy hands in her own, and looking up 
 at him, said simply : 
 
 " Baptiste, perhaps I ought not to speak of that now either ; 
 but like you I feel that I must. I know I grieved you last 
 night ; I know you thought me light and too careless ; per-
 
 78 SEVEN YEARS. 
 
 haps I was ; perhaps I even grumbled at your over-fondness 
 for me. Ah ! Baptiste, when death and sorrow fell so heavily 
 around me, when 1 knelt on the floor, with the head of the 
 poor dying lady on my lap, my thought flew to you, and 1 
 felt it was a good thing to be so much, so fondly loved by a 
 good man." 
 
 Never before had Fanny spoken so kindly. Baptiste 
 looked down at her much moved, and from his disappoint- 
 ments drew comfort. " She has a good little heart," he 
 thought, " and I was a fool not to see it." 
 
 " Go now," said Fanny, rather sadly ; " if you stay people 
 will say that we make love whilst the house is in mourning." 
 
 " Are you sure you do not want me, Fanny 1 " 
 
 " Quite sure." 
 
 Thus dismissed, Baptiste left, sighing, as he went down the 
 staircase, the old proverb, " Man proposes, God disposes," 
 which applied wonderfully to his present case. 
 
 As he passed by the lodge, Madame Grand put out her 
 dry withered face and beckoned him in. 
 
 ^ " Well, Monsieur Watt," she said mysteriously, " you 
 know the news. Sad, eh 1 sad,— very. And vi^hen do you 
 get married ? " 
 
 " This is no time to talk of weddings," coldly answered 
 Baptiste. 
 
 Madame Grand peered in his face and nodded. 
 
 " A shrewd man ! " she said, " a shrewd man. Yes, Mon- 
 sieur Watt, you do well to mind what you are about. 1 smell 
 changes, Monsieur Watt ; I smell changes, and so do you. 
 A word to the wise," and she nodded and winked at poor 
 Baptiste, who stared and walked away without having appre- 
 hended her meaning. 
 
 •' Ay, ay," soliloquized Madame Grand, when he was gone, 
 " he will never marry that saucy little Fanny who took the 
 letter from me last night, and never so much as looked at me : 
 the little monkey ! We shall see what sort of a figure big 
 Marie will cut now. I am sorry for the old lady, but she is 
 a simpleton, and if people will be simple, why they must bear 
 the consequences, that is all." 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 The funeral was over, and Madame la Roche was sitting 
 in her room, listening vaguely to Monsieur Noiret. That
 
 SEVEN YEAES. 79 
 
 gentleman had made some sad discoveries : he had found that 
 Madame la Roche's fortune was placed mider the control of 
 her son-in-law, but what the unfortunate man had done with 
 it, whether he had gambled or squandered it away, as well 
 as his own, Monsieur Noiret could not discover. One thing 
 he saw plainly, — the money had vanished, and Madame la 
 Roche was literally left destitute. Monsieur Noiret had just 
 been imparting the painful news with as much caution as he 
 thought required to present hysterics or a fainting fit, and he 
 was expecting a burst of tears at the very least, when, to his 
 great surprise, Madame la Roche, whose grief, like her temper, 
 was composed and meek, calmly contradicted him. 
 
 " No, no. Monsieur Noiret," she said with a sigh, " it is 
 all a niistake, depend upon it. I have indeed suffered a severe 
 calamity ; I have lost my dear child and her husband, but the 
 money is all right enough. Would to Heaven the unhappy 
 man had trusted to me, and asked me for some of that worth- 
 less money, which cannot give me back my poor daughter." 
 
 Monsieur Noiret coughed behind his hand, and lo(jked con- 
 siderably puzzled. He was not at all so sure as Madame la 
 Roche that she had so much of that worthless money to spare 
 as she fancied, but how to convince her of this melancholy 
 truth did not seem easy. 
 
 Monsieur Noiret stroked his chin, thought a while, and, 
 without attempting to argue the case with Madame la Roche, 
 he said simply : 
 
 " May I ask, my dear Madame, how your fortune is in- 
 vested ? " 
 
 " Oh ! dear yes. Monsieur Noiret, I have no secrets from 
 you. The best part of my money is in the three per cents ; 
 the rest in railwav shares. Altogether five hundred thousand 
 francs." 
 
 " Capital ! " said Monsieur Noiret. 
 
 " Oh ! capital, of course. Ah ! the money is safe enough, 
 and if I only had my poor dear child — " a burst of tears con- 
 cluded the sentence, 
 
 " Shares and papers of the kind are valuable things," said 
 M. Noiret. " 1 have no doubt you kept yours very safely. 
 May I ask to see them ? " 
 
 " Monsieur Dupuis, my poor son-in-law, had them," said 
 Madame la Roche, with a sigh. " I gave them to him to keep 
 and manage for me." 
 
 " They must be lost then," said M. Noiret, " for they have 
 not been found amongst his papers."
 
 80 SEVEN YEAES. 
 
 " Lost ! " said Madame la Roche, " but they are mine." 
 
 " Were," suggested M. Noiret. " Now, unfortunately; 
 they are the property of some other person." 
 
 She stared at him in amazement, but with a dim revelation 
 of the calamity she had refused to believe in. Gently but 
 firmly he pursued his advantage, and by going over and over 
 again the same ground, he convinced Madame la Roche that 
 she was a poor and destitute woman. She burst into tears 
 and clasped her hands. 
 
 " The poor child," she cried, " the poor child. It does not 
 matter for me, I am an old woman, but the poor child ! " 
 
 Monsieur Noiret administered the comfort usual in such 
 cases. He spoke of Providence, and held out delusive visions 
 of helping friends, and some unknown good that was to turn 
 up, until Madame la Roclie was pretty well pacified, after 
 which he said thoughtfully : 
 
 " I am sorry though this house is not yours." 
 
 " What ! " exclaimed Madame la Roche, astounded. 
 
 " Yes," he resumed, " it is disagreeable, it is unpleasant ; 
 but you know you became security for Monsieur Dupuis six 
 months ago ; a mere matter of form, as we then thought, but 
 a very serious matter it turns out now. He has left debts, 
 and of course his creditors will come down upon you. I am 
 very sorry, I really am ; but patience is the best remedy." 
 
 This was the merest fiction ; patience was no remedy at 
 all in the present case : but Madame la Roche did not think 
 of that. She stared at Monsieur Noiret in mingled amaze and 
 incredulity. She had signed some paper or other, to be sure, 
 but that she had thus alienated licr ancestral property, that 
 she had only left herself the bed she slept on and the clothes 
 she wore, seemed too much for belief. Monsieur Noiret's 
 bask was neither gracious nor pleasing, but he conscientiously 
 persevered in it, and Madame la Roche was convinced. She 
 cast a dreary look around her luxurious and comfortable home, 
 then she hung her head and said in a low voice : 
 
 " 1 thought to die here ; but the will of God be done." 
 
 Again Monsieur Noiret spoke words of comfort, but this 
 time Madame la Roche could not heed him. 
 
 " My poor servants ! " she ejaculated. " You must tell 
 them., Monsieur Noiret, I have not the heart. They were all 
 to be pensioned off at my death. God help them, poor 
 souls." 
 
 " Very unpleasant, certainly," said Monsieur Noiret, as 
 he rang the bell. It was Fanny who answered it.
 
 SEVEN YEARS. 81 
 
 *' My dear," said Monsieur Noiret, " will you be kind 
 enough to call the servants togetlier, and bring them here? 
 Madame la Roche has a communication to make to them." 
 
 Fanny bent her head in token of acquiescence and van- 
 ished. In a few minutes the door opened again, and the little 
 household of JMadame la Roche appeared. Charlotte and 
 Marie stood foremost ; behind them stood the cook and coach- 
 man, who had only been ten years in the family, and were 
 still held new-comers. Fanny remained a little apart, hold- 
 ing Charles by the hand. 
 
 Monsieur Noiret took a pinch of snufF, smiled a good- 
 humoured smile, and said cheerfully : 
 
 " Well, my friends, life is made up of ups and downs, as 
 we all know. You are aware that a sad calamity has befollen 
 your excellent mistress, — she has lost money, and much more 
 than money. I dare say I need scarcely tell you that her 
 household must be broken up. Indeed, Madame la Roche 
 leaves this house for a home too narrow to receive her and 
 you." 
 
 The cook burst into tears, and sank in the arms of the 
 coachman, who seemed considerably affected, and muttered 
 something about not minding some wages owing. But JNIon- 
 sieur Noiret at once waved his hand, and dej)recated any such 
 ofter. 
 
 " Thanks, thanks," he said, " but there is no need for that. 
 Madame la Roche merely wished me to inform you that she 
 could keep you no longer."' 
 
 " And does Madame mean to say that I am going to leave 
 her ? " said Marie, wrathfully, nodding her cap at Monsieur 
 Noiret, and for once forgetting that they were old friends. 
 *' Why, what would she do without me 1 she is no more fit to 
 take care of herself than a baby." 
 
 Before Monsieur Noiret could reply, Charlotte had calmly 
 observed : 
 
 " Of course nothing that has been said concerns me. I have 
 been forty-five years with Madame, and it is absurd to sup- 
 pose I could leave her." 
 
 The cook, who had partly recovered her first emotion, was 
 likewise going to enter a protest against leaving Madame, and 
 would no doubt have found excellent arguments to prove that 
 Madame la Roche could not possibly do without her, when 
 Fanny quietly stepped across the floor, and going up to 
 Madame la Roche, who sat mute and pale in her chair, she 
 said gently : 
 
 4*
 
 82 SEYEN YEAKS. 
 
 " Dear Madame, you cannot remain alone, it is out of the 
 question. You want us to take care of you and little Charles ; 
 indeed you do, and we will stay with you." 
 
 " My dear," began Madame la Roche, " my money — " 
 
 " I will earn money for you, and Marie, and Charlotte, and 
 the boy there," said Fanny cheerfully ; " and I do not care 
 what happens — I will never leave you." 
 
 She spoke with an earnestness that flushed her cheek and 
 lit her eyes. It was the beautiful story, for ever young and 
 true, of faithful human love, stronger than calamity or grief. 
 It was Ruth saying again to Naomi, — " Thy people shall be 
 my people, and thy God shall be my God." 
 
 Madame la Roche looked at the faithful girl, at the orphan 
 child, at the two old servants, whose savings, she remembered 
 it now, had been swallowed up with her handsome fortune, 
 and she wrung her hands in sore distress. With a keenness 
 of vision to which long prosperity had not used her, she saw 
 the melancholy future before her, and in that future — brief 
 though her years must necessarily make it — Fanny, worn with 
 ceaseless toil, and consuming youth, beauty, and love, in a 
 self-appointed task ! Madame la Roche did not speak, but 
 groaned and clasped her hands. 
 
 " My good friends," said Monsieur Noiret, waving his 
 hand, " your mistress, as you see, is considerably affected ; be 
 so kind as to withdraw and leave me with her, she and I have 
 much to discuss together." 
 
 This was a fiction ; Monsieur Noiret had little or nothing 
 more to say to Madame la Roche, but the assertion produced 
 the desired effect ; the cook and coachman withdrew first ; 
 Marie and Charlotte followed, and Fanny closed the door, and 
 left Monsieur Noiret and Madame la Roche once more alone. 
 
 Their discourse was brief A few words of curt and com- 
 mon-place consolation passed Monsieur Noiret's lips, then he 
 rose, bade Madame la Roche a good afternoon, and left her so 
 crushed by the unexpected misfortune it had been his un- 
 pleasant task to reveal, that she allowed him to depart without 
 seeing him to the door, or summoning a servant to open it for 
 him. 
 
 The omission was supplied by Fanny, who sat in the din- 
 ing-room, with her arm passed around the neck of Charles, 
 for whose amusement she had taken a book of engravings 
 from the library, and which he now looked at as it lay open 
 on her lap. 
 
 On hearing Monsieur Noiret's step Fanny looked up, and
 
 SEVEN TEAKS. 83 
 
 percemng that he was alone, she wanted to rise and open the 
 door for him, but Monsieur Noiret would not allow it. 
 
 " Go on and amuse the child, my dear," he said, " it makes 
 a charming picture," and he looked rather hard at Fanny, on 
 whose cheek the flush of recent emotion still lingered. 
 
 " My dear," said he, resting his hand on the back of her 
 chair, " I have known you long. Allow me to ask if you are 
 aware of the pledge you have given to Madame la Roche, who, 
 poor thing, wishes for no such sacrifice from you. I under- 
 stand you were going to marry, too : pray how will you 
 manage that now 1 No one can serve two masters. You 
 cannot belong to Madame la Roche and this little fellow," he 
 added, touching the child's fair head, " and belong also to 
 your betrothed." 
 
 " Baptiste would not wish me to be ungrateful," said 
 Fanny. 
 
 " My dear, a man wants the woman he likes for himself," 
 was Monsieur Noiret's answer. 
 
 The young girl seemed much moved ; perhaps she had 
 not yet thought of that ; her lids fell ; her lips quivered. 
 
 " God will provide," she said at length. 
 
 " Very pious and proper," said Monsieur Noiret, smiling; 
 " well, my dear, I do not disapprove ; I only wished to know 
 if you had reflected on the consequences of your offer. I see 
 you have. I wish you joy. Good afternoon." 
 
 Fanny rose mechanically, and saw Monsieur Noiret to the 
 door. When she came back, Charles was as eager as ever 
 about the picture-book, but Fanny heard him with an abstracted 
 glance and thoughts far away. For the first time she felt the 
 burden heavy and unforeseen that was falling on a youth 
 hitherto so smiling and so fair. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 Within a few days blue bills were placarded all over the 
 front of number two, advertising it for sale by auction. It 
 was soon disposed of, and to such advantage, that the proceeds 
 of the sale more than covered the sum for which Madame la 
 Roche had rendered herself liable. Her furniture remained 
 h T own, an unexpected piece of good fortune, on which 
 Monsieur No'ret congratulated her, 
 
 " It is extremely valuable," he said, " and will bring in a 
 good deal."
 
 84: SEVEN TEAES. 
 
 " Then I must sell it ! " sighed Madame la Roche. 
 
 " My dear Madame, you would not dream of keeping sc 
 much capital lying idle." 
 
 " I suppose not," again sighed Madame la Roche, " but I 
 am sorry to part from the old things. I was used to them." 
 
 Monsieur Noiret granted the force of the argument, but 
 began nevertheless to speculate on the probable value of an 
 ebony cabinet, and the very same day brought a dealer to 
 inspect it. The cabinet produced a sum that partly reconciled 
 Madame la Roche to its loss ; blit when day after day she 
 saw the old familiar rooms despoiled of the handsome and 
 substantial furniture that had adorned them so long ; when 
 Dresden, Sevres, and Indian china vanished from buhl and 
 marqueterie stands and tables, — when these too, took their 
 leave, with pictures and family plate no longer to be hoarded 
 up with gentle family pride, the pang became so severe, that 
 with something like energy she said : 
 
 " I must go. Monsieur Noiret ; I must, before all is gone. 
 I cannot stay till the rooms are bare. I must go." 
 
 But where to go to was the question. The cook and 
 coachman had both left, shedding tears ; but the child, Fanny, 
 Marie, and Charlotte had remained to share the fortunes and 
 the home, such as it might be, of Madame la Roche. To find 
 a home for those three persons, besides herself and the child, 
 was no easy task ; and yet separation was not to be thought 
 of. Marie boldly scouted the mere suggestion that her mis- 
 tress could do without her. " Madame is hepless," she said, 
 " helpless as a baby." Marie did not add, " and I, Marie, 
 am strong yet and able to work for my old mistress." She 
 kept these thoughts in her own heart, and so naturally did 
 they spring, that maybe Marie scarcely knew they were there. 
 Charlotte was in reality as devoted to her mistress as her old 
 fellow-servant, but she viewed matters differently. To every 
 one, save Madame la Roche, Charlotte, the savings of whose 
 lifetime had perished in the catastrophe, called Monsieur 
 Dupuis a swindler, and wound up the account of her wrongs, 
 which were but too real, by declaring that Madame la Roche 
 was bound in duty and honour to take care of her. She 
 rather perversely omitted saying how one, who could not take 
 care of herself, was to take care of others. This view of the 
 subject Charlotte discarded. Yet, in the main, she came tc 
 the same resolve with Marie. She would live and die with 
 her dear mistress. 
 
 Fanny said least and felt most ; grave, thoughtful, and
 
 SEVEN" TEARS. 85 
 
 sad, she kept her thoughts and projects locked in her own 
 heart. When she spoke of the liiture, she ever used the 
 significant pronoun " we," tliat bound her destiny with that 
 of her kind protectress. Both she and Marie saw the case 
 more clearly than Charlotte ; like Charlotte, indeed, they were 
 fully resolved to live and die with Madame la Roche, but with 
 a full consciousness of the burden that was falling on the 
 youth of one and on the age of the other, 
 
 Madame la Roche was the last of her family ; her son-in- 
 law was the native of a remote province, whence he had come 
 to Paris, obscure and poor. Save his aged grand-mother, 
 Charles Dupuis had no one, and, save a young girl and two 
 old servants, she was friendless. Monsieur Noiret was willing 
 enough to oblige Madame la Roche by helping her to dispose 
 of her furniture to the best advantage, but Avhen she spoke of 
 seeking a new home he politely acquiesced, without offering 
 to assist her in a search that might have committed him in 
 some degree to future help. 
 
 It was Fanny who, of her owm accord, took the lead, — found 
 a little apartment at some distance from their present dwell- 
 ing, — had a few articles of Madame la Roche's furniture 
 transferred to it, and who, in short, did what was to be done, 
 and saw to everything. 
 
 Thanks to her exertions, and something like a fortnight 
 after the house had passed into the hands of its new owner, 
 Madame la Roche could rise one morning and say, " Well, let 
 us go." 
 
 It was a cold dreary morning : a leaden sky hung 
 over Paris : a thin white snow w-as falling ; it whitened the 
 roofs of houses, and became converted into grey mud on the 
 street pavement ; but the quiet paths of Madanie la Roche's 
 little gai'den were unsullied. The snow had gathered over 
 them all night, and no foot-print had stained its whiteness. 
 Snow lay on the roof of the little aviary, empty of its once 
 gay tenants ; snow had replaced the roses of the bosquet, be- 
 neath wdiich Madame la Roche liked to sit ; snow toviched 
 with white streaks the bare branches and slender trunks of 
 the laburnums and lilacs Fanny loved. Every favourite spot, 
 every pleasant memorial of the past, wore the same death- 
 like hue, the same lunereal shroud. 
 
 Yet with a restlessness not habitual to her, Madame la 
 Roche, spite the snow that fell above and that lay cold below, 
 would enter that little garden again, walk over every inch of 
 it, and bid all farewell.
 
 86 SEVEN YEAK8. 
 
 " 1 liked it so much ! " she said to Fanny, who accom 
 panied and supported her, " it was my Versailles, my St. 
 Cloud. I envied no one their parks and gardens, — this little 
 place was as much to me as theirs to them. Not that it was 
 so very little, Fanny, was it 1 For there are the four paths 
 that wind and meet and divide, so that you might spend an 
 hour in following them out ; then there is the bosquet, and 
 the basin, and the aviary. Ah ! well, Fanny, they may say 
 what they like, and laugh at it — I say it is a pleasant place, 
 and that to sit in that bosquet, with the roses above your 
 head, and the birds singing, and the water splashing, is as 
 pleasant a thing as one can wish for on a summer's day. Ah ! 
 well, it is all over ; we need not set honey-suckle next year, 
 nor put up a trellis that Bapiiste may not look at you. It is 
 all over, nnd I am but an old simpleton to stand dreaming 
 here of old pleasures and old times, without thinking that this 
 same snow is falling on my poor child's grave; would it fell 
 on mine, Fanny, would it fell on mine ! " 
 
 Tears flowed down her withered cheeks, and her hands 
 trembled as she clasped them. 
 
 " And what would the poor child do without you 1 " asked 
 Fanny, gently. But Madame la Eoche shook her head des- 
 pondently. 
 
 " Of what use am I to him, or to any one ? " she asked ; 
 and without waiting for the reply, she added, " let us go. I 
 am keeping you here in the cold, and what for ? old dreams, 
 old thoughts, and what for ! " 
 
 They re-entered the house, they crossed the rooms more 
 than half stripped of their contents ; a few minutes more, they 
 stood on the threshold of the apartment. Charlotte led the 
 child by the hand ; Marie, laden with umbrellas and boxes, 
 was going down-stairs, grumbling. 
 
 " Shut the door, child, and give the key to Madame Grand," 
 said Madame la Roche, and she too went down to the fiacre 
 waiting for them below. 
 
 Madame Grand was considerably affected at the departure 
 of her old mistress. She was even more profuse in her ex- 
 pressions of regret than Madame la Roche — little used to 
 compassion implied or spoken — could well bear. She shrank 
 from it with a fastidious sensitiveness, for which she internally 
 checked herself, and which she so far conquered outwardly as 
 to say : 
 
 " 1 am very much obliged to you, Madame Grand." But 
 with a little touch of consequence she added :
 
 SEVEN YEAK8. 87 
 
 " You have always been a faithful domestic. Good bye; 
 I have recommended you to the new landlord." 
 
 That she should be recommended by any one, and especial- 
 ly by so fallen a person as Madame la Roche, seemed to strike 
 Madame Grand dumb. She stared amazed, whilst ]\ladame 
 la Roche passed on, entered the fiacre, took Charles on her 
 knees, and was followed by Fanny and Charlotte, leaving 
 Marie behind to fight a dire battle with the coachman, who 
 declared that all the packages he saw could not and should not 
 enter his vehicle. After a short and fierce contest, the coach- 
 man was conquered ; Marie entered the fiacre exulting and 
 dragging her property after her and the carriage drove slowly 
 away. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 The fiacre stopped before a poor, mean-looking house, in a 
 narrow and not over clean street. 
 
 " It looks worse because this is such a bad day," said Fan- 
 ny, looking wistfully at Madame la Roche. 
 
 " My dear, it will do ; let us be thankful for the shelter 
 of a roof." 
 
 " Thankfnl for the shelter of a roof," querulously put in 
 Charlotte, whose temper followed the variations of her rheu- 
 matism ; " I suppose Madame would be thankful if we were 
 put under a shed like horses." Ah ! well, I have told Monica 
 she would repent the day she went to America ; but maybe 
 it is I shall repent the day I stayed in Paris." 
 
 This last remark, however, was more muttered than spoken, 
 and was not heard or heeded by Madame la Roche, whom 
 Fanny assisted to alight, and who, giving the dull dirty-look- 
 ing house and the gloomy porter's lodge a half frightened look, 
 clung to the young girl's arm, as a male head, with a cotton 
 handkerchief tied around it, and a grisly beard by way of 
 adornment, looked out of the dark cave-like opening, and 
 growled more than asked : 
 
 " What do you want 1 " 
 
 " "VVe are the new lodgers," replied Fanny. 
 
 " And you must needs come in a fiacre, eh 1 why not 
 walk, too grand, eh 1 well, then, let me tell you this is no 
 place for grandeur," with which the head vanished, and a ham- 
 mei'ing was heard within. 
 
 " is that the porter ? " asked Madame la Roche, in a 
 whisper.
 
 88 SEVEN YEARS. 
 
 " Yes, madame, but do not mind him ; I am sure he is a 
 good-natured man, though he grumbles so ; he helped me to 
 carry up half the things, and left his work — he is a shoemaker 
 — to do it, and he grumbled the whole way. It is his way." 
 
 " Yes, I suppose it is his way," sighed Madame la Roche, 
 and catching a glimpse of a yard like a well, she went up the 
 steep staircase, learning the pain and bitterness of new ways 
 at every step of the four floors that led her to her new homec 
 
 She was pale and exhausted by the time they stopped be- 
 foi*e a narrow wooden door, very unlike the handsome mas- 
 sive entrance of her old abode. Fanny took a rusty key 
 from her pocket, opened the door, and led Madame la Roche 
 into a square room, wdiere a deal table and a few chairs made 
 a poor show. 
 
 " This is our sitting room, kitchen, and dining-room," said 
 Fanny, passing hastily through it, — " and this is Charlotte and 
 Marie's room," she said — entering a double-bedded room 
 scarcely better furnished, — " and this is your room," she ad- 
 ded, pushing open a door, and leading the way into a room, 
 which, though small, was a dainty little boudoir when com- 
 pared to the other two. 
 
 A pretty paper covered the walls ; clean white curtains 
 half hid Madame la Roche's bed, the very same in which she 
 had slept for fifty years and more ; the little crib of Charles 
 was placed near it ; there was a carpet on the floor ; opposite 
 the fire-place, in which a bright fire burned cheerfidly, Madame 
 la Roche recognised a little rose-wood commode, that had 
 always been a great favourite of hers. A glass and time-piece 
 adorned the mantle piece, and by the fire her own favourite 
 chair and stool seemed to await h-er. 
 
 " My dear, what have you been doing ? " said Madame la 
 Roche, much moved. " This is not right." 
 
 " Not right ! " put in Marie, who came up sturdy as ever, 
 though somewhat short of breath, " not right ! I say it is all 
 as it should be. Eh ! Charlotte 1 " 
 
 " Madame has been used to conveniences, and Madame 
 must have them, come what will," said Charlotte, gravely. 
 
 '• But your rooms," said Madame la Roche, sighing, " why 
 should they be so bare and so cold 1 " 
 
 " We like them so," curtly replied Marie ; " and there is 
 one comfort," she added, nodding her lofty cap, which reverses 
 of fortune had not induced her to relinquish, " there is one 
 comfort too, I told that coachman a bit of my mind before we 
 parted."
 
 SEVEN TEAES. 89 
 
 " And where do you sleep, Fanny l " asked Madame la 
 Roche, suddenly remembering that she had seen no provisions 
 for the young girl. 
 
 " In a closet, — oh, it is all right," hastily replied Fanny ; 
 and she at once engaged the attention of Charles by giving 
 him his toys, -which lie was rather clamorously claiming, and 
 diverted the mind of Madame la Roche from all present topics 
 by calling her to look at a cage suspended in the window, and 
 which held a superannuated canary, the only one Madame la 
 Roche had consented to keep. 
 
 " Poor fellow," she sighed, " he is old and useless, like 
 me," and she sank in the arm-chair, whilst Fanny amused the 
 child, and Charlotte and Marie made preparations for luncheon. 
 Madame la Roche looked on sad and troubled, but did not 
 dream of offering help, which would indeed have been indig- 
 nantly rejected. 
 
 Wealth and ease have their moral disadvantages even for 
 the best and the wisest. Madame la Roche was accustomed 
 to be waited on, and she could not relinquish the habit at 
 once. She was accustomed that others should be busy, whilst 
 she sat idle and looked on, a habit of indolence which her 
 years had rendered a second nature, and of which she was her- 
 self scarcely conscious. Loolcing round her warm and com- 
 fortable room, she soon forgot that the other rooms were 
 rather chill and bare, and sitting in her easy chair, she did not 
 remember that the two old servants and the young girl, who 
 had united their destiny to her own, were not — though of more 
 active habits — much more used to hard and coarse work than 
 Madame la Roche herself. 
 
 Luncheon was soon ready. Marie cooked it, and perform- 
 ed prodigies ; Fanny brought it in, for Madame la Roche was 
 served in her own room, a stateliness against which she pro- 
 tested in vain. The meal, a plain one after all, for it consisted 
 merely of a cotelette au gratin, with two potatoes for the plat 
 au legumes, and a solitary apple for the dessert, was scarcely 
 begun, when a ring announced a visitor, and Fanny, who 
 aswered it, admitted Monsieur Noiret. 
 
 Monsieur Noiret was, as usual, in good spirits, — he joked 
 with Marie, he pinched Fanny's cheek, he patted the head of 
 Charles, who eyed him askance, and looking benevolently at 
 Madame la Roche, at the bright fire by which she sat, at the 
 pleasant little room, at the comfortable meal on the table. 
 Monsieur Noiret exclaimed cheerfully :
 
 90 SEVEN TEAKS. 
 
 " Why, this is all as it should be ! I congratulate you, my 
 dear friend, on the pleasant home you have found." 
 
 Madame la Roche laid down the bit she was carrying tc 
 her mouth : the word home brought with it rememlaranceg 
 still too fresh and too trying ; but though tears stood in her 
 eyes, she compelled herself to reply : " God is very good to 
 me, I am very thankful." 
 
 " Of course, of course," said Monsieur Noiret, still cheer- 
 ful. '' By the way, I am going to the country, and bef()re 
 going, I called to settle some little matters with you. Do you 
 know, I think that the sum-total brought in by your furniture 
 will bring you in no less than four hundred francs a year. 
 Very handsome, is it not? Of course it would bring in more 
 if you would have an annuity, but then that would die with 
 you, and there would be nothing left for that fine little fellow. 
 Well, what do you say to that 1 Shall I send my homme 
 d'affaires to manage that for you 1 1 am going to the country, 
 otherwise I should be most happy to take the whole charge of 
 this little business." 
 
 " As you like, if you please," said Madame la Roche. " T 
 am very much obliged to you." 
 
 " Do not mention it," replied Monsieur Noiret rising, 
 " you are highly welcome, and do not stir, I beg. I am 
 rather in a hurry on account of going into the country, else J 
 should not leave you so early." 
 
 And gracious and buoyant as ever, Monsieur Noiret de- 
 parted. 
 
 " Going into the country," grumbled Marie, as the door 
 closed upon him ; " ay, ay, we know what that means. Mind 
 my words, Charlotte, Monsieur Noiret will come no more." 
 
 '• Madame is in want of no one, friend or foe," said Char- 
 lotte, witli much dignity. 
 
 " I never before heard that people were in want of ene- 
 mies," sharply said Marie. 
 
 " Nor I," composedly replied Charlotte, " so, if you please, 
 we will say no more about it." 
 
 The invitation not to speak was one which Marie always 
 particularly resented, and which would probably have led to 
 some bitter altercation, if Fanny, issuing from Madame la 
 Roche's room, had not appeared, holding up her fore-finger in 
 a warning attitude. " Madame is sleeping," she said softly. 
 
 " Poor dear," sighed Charlotte, " she has not slept this 
 many a night. I hope no one will have the heard-heartedness 
 to waken her."
 
 SEVEN TEARS. 91 
 
 Marie felt the implied insult, but had virtue enough tc 
 resist the provocation and keep her peace. 
 
 Monsieur Noiret, being in the country, could not call any 
 more ; but his solicitor came, an honest man, and one of few 
 words, who speedily put Madame la Roche in possession of 
 her new income, amounting to four hundred francs, as Mon- 
 sieur Noiret had announced. When this matter was satisfac- 
 torily settled the solicitor withdrew, and, like Monsieur Noiret, 
 was seen no more. 
 
 " Four hundred francs a year," said Madame la Roche to 
 her little assembled family ; " it does not seem much, and yet 
 it is pleasant to have something left, though but a mite." 
 
 " Let not Madame inind," stoutly said Marie, " we can 
 work, and we will, too. I can earn twenty francs a month, 
 which makes two hundred and forty francs a year." 
 
 " And I can earn two francs a day," said Fanny, " which 
 makes seven hundred and twenty fraucs a year. If Madame 
 adds that to four hundred and two hundred and forty, she will 
 find it makes quite a pretty income." 
 
 " Why, so it does ! " exclaimed Madame la Roche, dazzled 
 at this miexpected vision of prosperity ; '• thirteen hundred 
 and sixty francs a year. Quite a large sum." 
 
 " Quite, " said Fanny, gaily, " aud therefore Madame is to 
 take no thought, no care, and no trouble, but leave us to 
 manage all." 
 
 " I should like to know how you are going to manage 
 all those fine things, " rather tartly asked Charlotte, as soon 
 as they were withdrawn from Madame la Roche's presence. 
 
 " God knows ! " replied Fanny, suddenly despondent ; 
 " but yet it must be done." 
 
 " Ay, ay, it must be done, " said Marie. 
 
 " If that bad man had not taken away all my poor savings," 
 sighed Charlotte, " I could now live like a lady." 
 
 " I wonder you think of yourself when a real lady like 
 Madame is I'educed to four hundred francs a year," hotly said 
 Marie. " I wonder. " 
 
 " And I wonder you cannot leave oif quarrelling, " inter- 
 rupted Fanny ; " doors and walls are thin, and suppose Ma- 
 dame should hear you ? " 
 
 This suggestion eifcctually secured silence.
 
 92 SEVEN YEARS. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 MoNSiEUK NoiRET kept up the polite and convenient fic- 
 tion of being in the country. 
 
 He probably conceived "that he was not called upon to do 
 any more for Madame la Roche than he had done ; it may be 
 too, that he thought he had done plenty, for he ceased his visits 
 and allowed his old friend to shift for herself, as a matter of 
 course. 
 
 Baptiste, who had kept in the back-ground, now came for- 
 ward and quietly did his best. 
 
 " If Madame will allow me," he said, respectfully address- 
 ing Madame la Roche, " I think I can improve matters a 
 little. Upholsterers have experience in these things." 
 
 Madame la Roche thanked him, and gave him full autho- 
 rity to act as he pleased. So because he was an upholsterer, 
 and had experience in those things, Baptiste began making 
 some wonderful changes. He first of all discovered that his 
 shop was full of useless furniture. A little chintz sofa, which 
 had found no purchaser, an easy chair, stools, carpets, curtains, 
 all equally useless to him, were quickly transferr-^d from his 
 shop to the apartment of Madame la Roche. The change was 
 too great not to strike her ; still, not being of a suspicious turn 
 or temper, she only marvelled a little, then demurred gently : 
 
 " Baptiste you are doing too much, " she said. " I cannot 
 allow it. Some of that furniture must be useful to you." 
 
 " I shall put nothing more, Madame, " replied Baptiste, 
 who h;id done by this, and had only a few more pictures to 
 hang up. 
 
 His conduct was variously commented upon in the little 
 circle. Madame la Roche was moved by the kindness, but she 
 had been too long used to money to feel the value of Baptiste's 
 conduct. Charlotte, whom he had unfortunately offended by 
 an illusion to selfishness, wiiich she unluckily took as a per- 
 sonal reflection, querulously declared the young man was good, 
 but conceited, and especially overrated. Marie grumbled loud, 
 and darted fiery suspicious looks at him, Fanny said nothing, 
 but Baptiste uneasily noticed that her own brown eyes rested 
 on him with a sad lingering expression. He never questioned 
 her ; he never asked why she looked so, or what ailed her ; he 
 went on with his scdf-imposed task, sturdily resolved en an end 
 which he kept to himself. 
 
 In the mean while Miirie went out as a day-servant in a
 
 SEVEN TEARS. 93 
 
 quiet family close by ; Fanny had resumed her occupation as 
 a dressmaker ; Charlotte took care of Charles, the only thing 
 she was fit for, and Madame la Roche did nothing : to do 
 nothing had unfortunately been the occupation of her whole 
 lifetime. 
 
 Madame la Koche was not what might be called a selfish 
 woman. 
 
 Her own comfort and happiness were not and had not been 
 her only aim in life, but it had so happened, that she had had 
 no other great object to engross her attention, and that she had 
 taken a habit of being comfortable, easy, indolent, and helpless, 
 like many a moneyed lady. Sacrifices she did not take for 
 granted, but she was not always conscious of them. She soon 
 forgot that Baptiste's furniture filled her rooms, it seemed so 
 natural to have things comfortable. She did not dwell long on 
 the hardship of Marie and Fanny having to support her and 
 her grand-child. Siie had always seen them busy; they did 
 not mind working, and it seemed so like as things should be, 
 that want should not come near her. That she might ever be 
 cold or hungry was more than Madame la Roche could possibly 
 conceive. 
 
 Thus a few weeks had passed. The day had been cold, 
 though fine ; it was freezing now, and Madame la Roche, her 
 two old servants, Fanny, and the i;liild, were gathered in the 
 front room, and around one light and one fire. Poverty had 
 levelled distinctions, and broken down barriers that had never 
 been very potent. 
 
 Madame la Roche sat in the ea-y chair worked by Fanny. 
 Baptiste had bought it back at the sale, for the use of the 
 young girl's protectress. Placid and settled grief was in her 
 features. She sat, as of old, with her hands on her knees. 
 She was watching her little grand-child, who, nestled on 
 Fanny's lap, was learning his Jetters from a large spelling- 
 book. Mane was sewing vigorously by the light of a tallow 
 candle, and Charlotte, groanir.g with rheumatic pains, that 
 prevented her from stirripg out of her arm-chair, — another 
 gift of the provident Baptiste, — was holding a mild argument 
 with her usual antagonist. To Fanny's annoyance they were 
 talking of Baptiste. 
 
 " I never liked him," said Marie, strongly, " and when I 
 do not like, why I do not ; but I do say that he has behaved 
 well." 
 
 " Baptiste has been very kind," sighed Madame la Roche.
 
 94 SEVEN TEAKS. 
 
 " Very," resumed Marie, " hut I do say it is time he 
 should leave it off." 
 
 " He really has done enough," interrupted Madame la 
 Roche. 
 
 " Leave off coming here," pursued Marie, " what does he 
 want ? It is loss of time to him, and no gain to us," 
 
 " The young man is not understood," >said Charlotte, in a 
 mild tone of voice that implied she would set both right ; " he 
 is conceited, neither more nor less." 
 
 " Poor Baptiste ! " ejaculated Fanny, but she spoke low, 
 and no one heard her. 
 
 " The young man is conceited," repeated Charlotte ; " he 
 has an exaggerated opinion of his own importance, but he 
 is not amiss." 
 
 " He has behaved very well," said Marie, significantly 
 glancing at Charlotte's easy chair, and at the comfortable 
 stool under her feet, " and when one knows how to manage 
 him, one can get anything out of Baptiste. But, thank 
 Heaven, my spirit always was above that." 
 
 Charlotte acknowledged the taunt with a smile and 
 merely replied : 
 
 " Baptiste has good points, and can be taught his place. 
 A knowledge much older persons do not always arrive at." 
 
 A severe answer rose to Marie's lips, but charity checked 
 it. She remembered that Charlotte was a useless member 
 of their little household, and compassionate delicacy silenced 
 the reproving words, to which the tlesh would fain give vent. 
 She took a lofty air, that implied : " I could crush you 
 but I will not," and sewed on with renewed vigour. 
 
 A ring at the door was heard. 
 
 " I suppose it is Baptiste," snappishly said Marie, " at 
 this hour, too ! I marvel at him ; stay where you are, Fanny, 
 I shall go and open." 
 
 Fanny, who had half risen, sat down again, and Marie 
 opened the door of the room where they were sitting, and 
 which was also the first that a visitor must needs enter. 
 
 Baptiste appeared on the threshold, carefully holding 
 a picture, an old family portrait which he had undertaken 
 to frame anew with a frame in his shop, '* quite useless to 
 him," and which he now brought back to Madame la Roche. 
 
 She received him with her usual kindness, thanked him for 
 the trouble he had taken, and made him sit down by her. 
 Baptiste replied rather at random ; he was watching Fanny, 
 who scarcely minded him. and was still engrossed with the
 
 SEVEN TEAKS. 
 
 95 
 
 child. The calm repelling looks of Charlotte, or the stern 
 forbidding glances of Marie, both of which said : " what 
 brings you here ?" Baptiste did not mind, although he un- 
 consciously answered the question they conveyed. 
 
 " Madame."' said he, addressing Madame la Roche, " I hope 
 you will not think me troublesome, if I mention a matter 
 relative to myself, and solicit your kind attention." 
 
 "Certainly not," replied Madame la Koche, "certainly 
 not, Baptiste; you have a right to talk about yourself; for 
 it seems to bo a thing you never do. Indeed, I fancy you 
 think a great deal too much about others. Do you know, it is 
 quite a nice frame you have put around the portrait of my 
 dear grandmother." 
 
 " It was lyii'.g all but useless in my shop," muttei-ed Bap- 
 tiste. 
 
 "I am sorry to hear that," musingly replied ^Madame la 
 Roche ; " I fear your business is not quite thriving just 
 
 now." 
 
 Oh yes, it is," he rather quickly answered ; " I am doing 
 very well, Madame." 
 
 " So much the better," she placidly rejoined, " but I 
 thought the reverse, from the number of useless things you 
 had lying on your hands. And what was it you wanted to 
 say, Baptiste ?" 
 
 The voice of Baptiste stuck in his throat, he looked at 
 Fanny, who turned red and pale, and he was going to sjwak, 
 when Marie, laying down her work, observed calmly : 
 
 " Of course. Monsieur Baptiste, all that nonsense is over — 
 for a time at least," she added, hesitatingly. 
 
 " But I was to have married Fanny in another day," urged 
 Baptiste, rather earnestly. 
 
 Madame la Ptoche sank back in her chair and wept slowly. 
 Marie audibly uttered the word " wretch." 
 
 Baptiste heard her with more amazement than wrath, and 
 as he had one of those slow pertinacious tempers, which are 
 not easily disconcerted, he waited until Madame la Roche 
 gently wiped her eyes, to resume calmly : 
 
 " I am sorry to have grieved Madame, I was far from sup- 
 posing that I should do so." 
 
 " It is no fault of yours, Baptiste," gently said 3Iadame la 
 Roche ; " I am nervous, aod cannot think calmly of that sad 
 day. But really, Baptiste, with the people leaving all those 
 things on your hands, — frames, tables, and even sofas and
 
 96 SEVEN YEARS. 
 
 chairs, — I cannot think your business to be a flourishing one, 
 or such as will allow you to marry." 
 
 Baptiste looked disconcerted at the argument, but he soon 
 rallied, and assured Madame la Roche his circumstances were 
 good. 
 
 " Well, but you know I cannot give Fanny those fifteen 
 hundred francs which I had promised," she resumed, " and 
 that makes a great difference." 
 
 " I am aware of that, Madame, but though the fifteen hun- 
 dred francs would have been welcome, I can do without them. 
 My plan is this," he resumed : to " marry Fanny, and to ask 
 Madame, her godmother," he added, looking at Charlotte, " to 
 live with us." 
 
 By ridding Madame la Roche and Marie of a useless 
 member of their family, Baptiste thought to atone for the loss 
 he must make them sustain in depriving them of Fanny's 
 services and earnings. But the plao, though excellent, was 
 destined to meet with unqualified opposition from two influ- 
 ential persons. Marie opposed it because she had not sug- 
 gested it, or had not been consulted about it ; Charlotte, 
 because she held it as neither more nor less than a premedi- 
 tated affront to her dignity. 
 
 " Young man," she said with a lofty wave of the hand, 
 " know your place, knov/ your place, My place," she added, 
 looking hard and nodding at Marie, " my place is here, and 
 nowhere else." 
 
 " Monsieur Baptiste," sharply said Marie, " I have plenty 
 wherewith to try my temper; plenty, I assure you ; you will 
 oblige me by not briugiug a iiornet's nest about my ears. 
 As for your proposal to marry Fanny, it is absurd, quite ab- 
 surd." 
 
 " No, no," gently sio-hed Madame la Roche, " not absurd ; 
 but still, Baptiste, do you not think it might be put ofl" ? 
 Surely there is plenty of time for marriage ? " 
 
 Baptiste looked at the three women, i'erhaps he thought 
 this but a poor return for some kinduess, but, without liugci'- 
 ing on this thought, he turned to Fanny. She sat by the tire, 
 her head leaning against the mantel-shelf, silent tears slowly 
 coursing down her pale cheeks. The child still sat on her 
 knees, and looked at her wondering. Baptiste felt hurt, he 
 rose. 
 
 " Fanny," he said, " it rests with you." 
 
 Fanny looked at him earnestly. 
 
 " No, Baptiste," she said, " that cannot be."
 
 SEVEN YEARS. {J7 
 
 " Is that your promise ? " asked Baptiste, stung to the very 
 heart. 
 
 She did not reply. He looked round him, and said Ijusk- 
 ily : " Good night, ladies." Then he turned away and left the 
 room undetained. 
 
 Baptiste had got down to the second floor, when a light 
 hand laid on his arm made him turn round. On the step above 
 him he saw Fanny with tears on her cheek. 
 
 " Oh ! Baptiste," she said in a subdued voice, " how can 
 you leave me so ? Do you not see it is because I like you that 
 I will not marry you ? You do not know what it would be 
 to take me I What a sad burden I should bring with me ! 
 Baptiste, it would be four to provide for, and worse, far worse, 
 believe me — to please." 
 
 "I will bear with anything to have you," said Baptiste, 
 taking her in his arms. 
 
 " And I like you too well to have you," said Fanny, hang- 
 ing down her head. 
 
 " Fanny, that cannot be," resumed Baptiste, " that cannot 
 be. Think of it well, — it is parting forever. If you send me 
 away thus, I will not seek you again, Fanny." 
 
 Pier heart failed her ; her head swam, her hand trembled 
 in his. Baptiste would keep to his word, sturdily and stoutly 
 he would. She knew it, and a pang like that of death seized 
 her whole being. 
 
 " Baptiste, is that our parting ? " she asked in a low voice ; 
 " can we not part, since part we must, like two friends whom 
 Providence divides, but who love each other for all that '? " 
 
 " No," said Baptiste, clasping her more closely ; " you 
 are my wife, Fanny, or you are not. And now, Fanny, if you 
 love me, now is the time to show it. Will 3"ou marry me ? " 
 
 " It would be your ruin; I cannot," said Fanny, in a low 
 faint voice. 
 
 " Are those your last words ? " asked Baptiste, releasing 
 her. 
 
 " They are," she replied, leaning against the banisters for 
 Bupport. 
 
 " Then good night, and good bye. You never liked me.' 
 
 He went down, and did not look back.
 
 98 . SEVEN YEAKS. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 Fanny went up like one stunned. She entered tlie room 
 where Madame la lloebe and the two old servants were sitting, 
 and she resumed her ehair, without uttering a word. The 
 three looked at her, feeling rather frightened at her white 
 face ; but Faun}' did not speak. Madame la Roche at length 
 said : 
 
 " My dear child, have you not tried yourself too far ? " 
 
 To which Fanny replied in a low voice : 
 
 " Madame, what I have done I would do again." 
 
 " Of course," said Marie, with a strength of look and ac- 
 cent meant to veil some secret uneasiness. " Fanny has too 
 much sense not to know this is no time for marriage, and all 
 such follies." 
 
 " I am surprised at the young man's extraordinary pre- 
 sumption," observed Charlotte ; " of course he was encouraged 
 in, as well as advised to, his recent conduct ; but still I am 
 surprised." 
 
 " May I request to know what you mean to insinuate by 
 encouraged and advised ? " asked Marie, laying down her 
 work. 
 
 " I really cannot allow any more of this," said Madame la 
 Roche, nervously ; " it is late ; besides, I really cannot." 
 
 " I always knew Madame took Charlotte's part," reproach- 
 fully remarked Marie, " always. It is nothing new to me, 
 whatever some people may think." 
 
 To this taunt Charlotte did not reply, but rising, she 
 piously thanked Heaven that she knew her place, that she had 
 always known it, and that no one had ever needed to remind 
 her of the necessity of keeping her place. Marie seemed ex- 
 asperated, and Madame la Roche, folding her hands, looked 
 piteous and imploring. 
 
 " Poor Baptiste ! " thought Fanny, " it would have v 
 ,im mad." 
 
 Magnanimity made Marie keep silent, but when Charlotte 
 had left the room she turned to Fanny and said sharply : 
 
 " I trust that the unfortunate young man, who lias proved 
 an apple of discord, will not come here in a hurry." 
 
 "it is not likely," replied Fanny, with slight bitterness 
 " he is no longer of any use, why should he come here V " 
 
 " Fanny, my dear ! " mildly said Madame la Roche.
 
 SEVEN YEARS. 99 
 
 " Madame," said Fanny, firmly, " I regret nothing; I am 
 content that things should be as they are." 
 
 " I am not surprised at this," put in Marie, looking in- 
 jured ; " that big booby was always more in her eyes than any- 
 thing or any one else." 
 
 Fanny did not reply ; Madame la Roche wrung her hands 
 and looked distressed. 
 
 " Oh ! why did I lose my money ? " she ejaculated. 
 
 " I did not think Madame would turn on me," said Marie, 
 with a meek resignation that seemed borrowed from Charlotte; 
 " but, thank Heaven, I can bear with many things. Come 
 along, Monsieur Charles, it is time for you to go to bed." 
 And taking the child by the hand, she left the room. 
 
 Madame la Roche looked at Fanny, whose head was resting 
 once more on the corner of the mantel-shelf. In the young 
 girl's heart, too, had rung that bitter cry : " Oh, why did I 
 lose my money ? " 
 
 Ay, it was money-loss did it all. A little money, and these 
 three would, as of old, have quarrelled but to make her happy. 
 No other strife, but how best to please her, their darling, need 
 have arisen amongst them. And now her happiness, her 
 pleasure, seemed their last thouglit; she might fret and break 
 her heart about Baptiste, — the coldness of age, the sadness of 
 experience and of poverty, would make them think lightly of 
 her trouble. 
 
 A gentle voice roused her from these sad thoughts. 
 
 " My dear," said Madame la Roche, " I fear you have tried 
 yourself too much." 
 
 Fanny smiled bravely. 
 
 " Madame," she said, " I would do it over again — were it 
 to be done," she added sadly. 
 
 Madame la Roche felt that the young girl would acknowl- 
 edge no more, and though her mind was tender and delicate, 
 and could pity love troubles, even in the midst of her own 
 sorrows, it was not subtle or ingenuous enough to extract the 
 acknowledgment of grief from a sad young heart. She gave 
 Fanny a pitiful look, and feeling unable to comfort her, she 
 rose, and bidding her a good night, hoped " she would try and 
 sleep." 
 
 Madame la Roche went to her room, and Fanny to her 
 little bed in the closet ; but the sound sleep of youth came not 
 near her. She sighed and wept, and sighed again, and was 
 glad to see the dull light of morning creeping in, and to get up 
 to the dull cares of the day. She prepared the breakfast as
 
 100 SEVEN TEARS. 
 
 usual, and as usual she did it neatly and handily without 
 noise or seeming trouble ; but her sorrow slept in her own 
 heart, unallayed and undisturbed by the screaming and scold- 
 ing that went on around her. 
 
 " Monsieur Charles, will you be quiet ! " said Marie, in a 
 voice of subdued indignation, that for a moment at least 
 checked the boy. He was galloping across the room astride 
 on an old cotton umbrella, but he stopped when Marie told him 
 to let his grandmother sleep. 
 
 " She was always a late sleeper," added Marie, turning to 
 Charlotte, " and it is not because the dear lady is poor that 
 she is not to sleep. That costs nothing at least." 
 
 " Time enough to waken to care and sorrow," groaned 
 Charlotte. 
 
 " Very true," approvingly remarked Marie. 
 
 There was this particular beauty in the quarrels of Marie 
 and Charlotte, that they ended every evening. Every morn- 
 ing these two enemies woke friends, and began on a fresh 
 score. Thus their pastime was never over, and they could 
 agree and disagree to their life's end and to their heart's con- 
 tent. A ceaseless quarrel would not have answered the pur- 
 pose by any means ; whereas these intervals of truce gave 
 something like zest to the battle. On the principle of peace 
 they now agreed that Madame la Roche could not do better 
 than sleep in the morning, and on the principle of war they 
 soon emitted different opinions on sleep in general, and on 
 dreams in particular. 
 
 " The best sleep is the last," said Charlotte. 
 
 " I like tlie first best," replied Marie. 
 
 " Perhaps your early dreams are the pleasantest," said 
 Charlotte, smiling. 
 
 " Perhaps they are," retorted Marie. 
 
 " They may refer to your early years and triumphs," con- 
 timied Charlotte, sweetly. 
 
 " Ah ! well," sighed Marie, '• if early sleep makes early 
 dreams, you may well like the last sleep best. You need not 
 dream of your husband — poor man." 
 
 Charlotte inquired into her exact meaning, and why she 
 used the adjective poor. 
 
 " I know, I know," sagaciously said Marie, " and so do 
 many besides me," she added, sotto voce. 
 
 " Never was any good got by keeping low company," 
 sighed Charlotte. 
 
 " Please to explain," rejoined Marie.
 
 SEVEN TEARS. 101 
 
 " I know, I know," was the quiet retort. 
 
 On these first random shots followed a sharp fusillade, and 
 when Fanny awoke from her sad dreams she found herself in 
 the very din of war. She looked at them listlessly, whilst the 
 beseeching voice of Madame la Roche was heard exclaiming 
 from within : 
 
 " Charlotte, what is the matter ? " 
 
 At once Charlotte went in to her mistress. 
 
 " Ay, Fanny, let her go and tell her story to Madame,* 
 said Marie, " let her, Fanny, — we scorn her." 
 
 " Breakfast is ready," said Fanny, cold and passive. She 
 laid the cloth, and filled out two large coffee cups with the 
 beverage in which the French excel. In a smaller cup of 
 Sevres china she poured rich chocolate. The cup had been 
 Madame la Roche's breakfast-cup since she was a bride. 
 Chocolate of the choicest quality was the breakfast she pre- 
 ferred ; with pardonable extravagance, and spite altered cir- 
 cumstances, her two old servants would not hear of her giving 
 it up. 
 
 Charlotte soon came out of her mistress's room, took the 
 chocolate, and carried it in with a grand air. Charles, who 
 always shared his grandmother's dainty, slipped in after her. 
 
 Marie sat down and took her breakfast, without waiting for 
 her fellow-servant. 
 
 " Do like me, Fanny," she added, addressing the young 
 girl, " do not mind her ; treat her with contempt, and take 
 your breakfast." 
 
 " I am not hungry," replied Fanny. 
 
 " Not hungry, child ; you do not mean to say that you 
 mind her? take your breakfast, Fanny, and let her go on as 
 she likes, and despise it all." 
 
 Spite this touching exhortation, Fanny did not eat, and 
 Marie had finished her solitary meal by the time Charlotte 
 condescended to come forth and sit down to her coffee, which 
 Fanny had kept warm. 
 
 "Thank Heaven," said Marie, rising from the table, 
 " thank Heaven, I never eat the bread of idleness. I work, 
 and I am proud to work," she added, pinning on her shawl. 
 
 " Some pcoplj are in independent circumstances, and need 
 Qot work," placidly said Charlotte. 
 
 This was almost more than Marie, going out as a day- 
 servant for the general good, could bear with patience. Rut 
 she controlled herself as she thought, and said mildly : 
 
 " I thank Heaven that if I have to earn my bread by going
 
 102 SEVEN YEARS. 
 
 out, a hard fate at my age, I am at least appreciated where t 
 go. Madame le Brun is already as fond of me as if I had 
 been years with her. It is Marie here, and Marie there, and 
 Marie every thing. If I only would go and live with her I 
 might do so. It was only last night that she said to me : 
 ' Marie, I wonder at a girl of your spirit remaining as you are ; 
 I wonder at you. Come with me and make me comfortable, 
 ani I will make you happy, and after I die, Marie, you shall 
 be provided for.' ' No, no, Madame,' I replied, ' I cannot do 
 that; I have my dear mistress, who, though not dependent 
 upon me, requires me ; then I must dress Monsieur Charles, 
 the little darling, in the morning : and there is my little Fan- 
 ny, a good work-woman, but a little giddy, flighty thing, who 
 requires an older and a wiser head than her own to rule her ; 
 and then, Madame,' I added, ' there is a poor old thing, a 
 helpless fellow-servant of mine, Madame, who has nothing but 
 my poor earnings, Madame, and I would die, Madame, and I 
 would have my right hand cut off, Madame, before I would 
 forsake her, Madame.' ' Very pi-oper,' said Madame le Brun; 
 ' I admire you, Marie; stick to her, poor old thing; do not 
 forsake her, Marie. If you do, who will mind her ? " 
 
 Here Marie stopped, perhaps because she was out of breath, 
 perhaps because she wished to see what effect she had pro- 
 duced. Charlotte Avas still drinking her coffee, the contents 
 of which she longed to throw in the face of her devoted fel- 
 low-servant. A few words, slowly uttered, comprised her re- 
 venge. 
 
 " You see, Fanny," she said, addressing the young girl, 
 " you see what age can do. It impairs body, mind, memory, 
 all, and makes us what you behold," she added, casting on 
 Marie a look of deep compassion. 
 
 " What is the matter ? " asked the soft plaintive voice of 
 Madame la Roche, who appeared on the threshold of the 
 room. " What have you been saying ? " 
 
 Swiftly did Marie reply with a short laugh : 
 
 " Oh ! nothing, Madame. Charlotte, though she knows I 
 am younger than Madame, throws my age in my face. We 
 are both in second childhood, Madame. However, I can 
 work, thank Heaven. And there is this comfort at least, that 
 Madame Charlotte cannot say I am a dependant upon her." 
 
 So saying, Marie majestically went out, slammed the door, 
 and in going down, slipped and fell. 
 
 The sound of her fall brought out the whole family and a 
 neighbour on the landing. They found Marie senseless with
 
 SEVEN TEAKS. 103 
 
 the pain. Not without trouble, for she was a great weight, 
 they carried her iu, and laid her on a bed. A little vinegar 
 soon restored her to consciousness. Without saying a word, 
 Marie sat up, felt her foot, groaned with pain, then sank back 
 and burst into tears. 
 
 " Oh ! my work, my work," she moaned. " My work and 
 my wages ! I have sprained my ancle." 
 
 Charlotte bent over her and kissed her. 
 
 " Never mind, dear,'' she said, " I'll do your work for 
 you." 
 
 Marie did not reply, but turned her face to the wall and 
 cried bitterly. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 Marie had indeed sprained her ancle, and the doctor, who 
 was immediately called in, coolly declared she should not stir 
 for six weeks. 
 
 " But I must," said Marie; " I have work to do." 
 
 " You cannot," he replied. 
 
 "She shall not," declared Charlotte. "We have been 
 fellow servants forty years and more, and it will go hard in- 
 deed if I cannot work whilst Marie stays quiet." 
 
 Marie was considerably affected by these generous senti- 
 ments, and as she really could not move, she submitted with 
 tolerable grace to Charlotte's patronage. 
 
 Charlotte's rheumatism was indeed so far better that she 
 could supply Marie's place with Madame le Brun ; but if she 
 went out and worked, Fanny had to spend many days at home 
 to attend on the patient. 
 
 Madame la Roche was too inexperienced and too delicate 
 for the task, so that Charlotte's devotedness was a very doubt- 
 ful piece of economy. This Fanny vainly tried to make her 
 understand. Charlotte was too happy in her magnanimity to 
 give it up so easily. 
 
 Yet, strange to say, Marie, as she got better, grew tired of 
 kindness ; she became more than usually irritable and fantas- 
 tic, and Fanny paid the penalty of her caprices. Nothing 
 would do her one evening, but that the young girl should go to 
 Madame Grand's, and claim a book of dreams, formerly lent 
 in times of amity to that lady. 
 
 " But I am so busy," objected Fanny, " and Charlotte 
 passes the door every day."
 
 104: SEVEN YEAE8. 
 
 *' And do you suppose I am going to ask Charlotte ? " waa 
 the indignant reply. " Charlotte, who gives herself such airs 
 just because she goes to Madame le Brun in my stead ! No, 
 child, thank Heaven, I am not quite so mean, and you shall 
 either get me that book, or I shall do without it till I am well 
 again." 
 
 " Very well, I shall go," replied Fanny ; and she thought, 
 " it is evening, I shall not see Baptiste, nor will he see nie." 
 
 Yet it was not without emotion that Fanny reentered once 
 more the well-known street, caught a gliu)pse of Baptiste's 
 shop, and crossed the threshold of the old number two. 
 
 " Uh, Fanny ! " said Madame Grand, who had put her head 
 out to see who it was, " well, my dear, how are you, and whom 
 do you want ? " 
 
 " Marie sends me," replied Fanny, who folt the patronizing 
 tone ; " she lent you a dream-book formerly, and must trouble 
 you for it now." 
 
 Madame Grand lauglied and seemed amused. 
 
 " A dream-book ! tell hex-, my dear, that she dreamt it. 
 Bless you, child, I have not and never had such a thing. 
 Poor Marie, she is getting old, I see. But just come here, my 
 dear, I have a word or two to say to you." 
 
 Fanny reluctantly complied, and drew near Madame 
 Grand, who confidentially whispered : 
 
 " I am very sorry about Baptiste. I assure you we all 
 think you very ill used. I cannot bear to look at the man." 
 
 " I do not complain of Baptiste, I have no right," said 
 Fanny, coldly. 
 
 " No right ! " echoed Madame Grand. " The man who was 
 to have married you marrying another girl, and a little pink- 
 eyed thing, too. No right ! Why, child, what do you mean ? " 
 
 " That Monsieur Watt was free to marry, and does me no 
 wrong." 
 
 She still spoke calmly, for, to say the truth, she did not be- 
 lieve a word Madame Grand had uttered. 
 
 " Well, well, people will be proud," muttered Madame 
 Grand, not looking well pleased ; " as you like, my dear; but, 
 let me tell you, other people know best." 
 
 " Good evening," coldly said Fanny, and she turned away 
 apparently unmoved. 
 
 She left the house and the street without having seen 
 Baptiste, or cast a look towards his shop. Coming, she had a 
 vague unacknowledged hope that they might meet by chance, 
 and that this meeting, though fruitless, might yield to both a
 
 SEVEN TEAKS. 105 
 
 (sort of bitter joy. But now Fanny bad no sucb bope or wisb. 
 Sbe bastened away like one pursued, and did not slacken ber 
 pace till all danger of meeting was over. So far tbe words of 
 Madame Grand had borne tbeir fruit. 
 
 "VVben tlie young girl reentered the bouse sbe found Chai-- 
 lotte, who had just come in, anytbing but pleased at her absence, 
 and at tbe cause of it, which Marie had not chosen to conceal. 
 Magnanimity, though sweet, wearies in the end, and Cliarlotte 
 was getting tired of being magiianimous ; accordingly, when 
 Fanny brietiy delivered Madame Grand's message, to the pur- 
 port that that lady had not and bad never bad a dream-book, 
 Charlotte exclaimed, without waiting for Marie's reply : 
 
 " A dream-book ! Absurd. I had an aunt who believed 
 in dreams, and who missed marrying a captain, because the 
 night before he made his proposal sbe had dreamed of carrots." 
 
 " I am very fond of young carrots," softly said Madame la 
 Kocbe, hoping to allay tbe storm, but only added to its force, 
 by giving Marie time to subdue the first bursts of her anger, 
 and meditate before sbe aimed her blow. 
 
 Charlotte had sat down on a chair like one tired. 
 
 " How very fatigued you look," said Marie. 
 
 "Not I," curtly replied Charlotte, " not L How is your 
 ancle ? " 
 
 " Almost well, thank you. I know you feel this over-exer- 
 tion, but it will soon be over, I shall soon be well again." 
 
 " My dear Marie," kindly observed Charlotte, " I did not 
 like to say so, because I would not hurt your feelings, but it 
 is time you should know tbe truth : you need not return to 
 Madame le Brun's." 
 
 " What ! " said Marie. 
 
 "You need not return to Modame le Brun's. I am sorry 
 to say sbe has not shown a proper sense of gratitude to you. 
 Her language and ber tone are not resj^ectfub" 
 
 " Ab ! bab ! " said Marie, with sceptical irony. 
 
 " Sbe has quite hurt my feelings," pursued Charlotte ; 
 '• ' that old Marie was a bore,' sbe says, ' and tbe charcoal she 
 used to burn, my dear ! such waste, sucb extravagance ! As 
 for ber cooking, it was poor in tbe extreme. She tried three 
 times to fricasse a chicken, and sbe could not. Sbe woul'l 
 not, my dear. I am sorry for her ancle, but I am not sorry 
 to be rid of ber ; I really am not. You suit me much better.' 
 You do not call that gratitude, do you ? " added Charlotte, 
 turning to Marie.
 
 106 SEVEN YEAES. 
 
 " I call it a scandalous invention," replied Marie, trem- 
 bling witli passion. 
 
 " Time will show," said Charlotte, calmly, " time will 
 show. I might tell you a great deal more that Madame le 
 Brun says, but where is the use ? it would only exasperate you, 
 and I do not want to do that," kindly added Charlotte. 
 
 " Oh, dear ! " sighed Madame la Roche, " why did I lose 
 my money? I had always heard the poor were so good and so 
 kind to each other, but I am afraid, I really am, tliat their 
 poverty makes them bitter, and that they only know how to 
 snap, snarl, and bite." 
 
 " I suppose Madame means that for me," said Marie. " I 
 was never told before that I was given to biting." 
 
 " I think it is a judgment on us about that poor Baptiste,' 
 resumed Madame la Roclae ; " we did not behave well to him ; 
 we really did not." 
 
 Fanny smiled with some bitterness, but wer^t on with her 
 sewing. This allusion to Baptiste restored sudden peace be- 
 tween the contending parties. 
 
 " Oh ! if Madame takes Baptiste's part," began Marie. 
 " If she thinks we have not behaved well to that pre- 
 sumptuous young fellow ! " said Charlotte. 
 
 " Dear me, I think nothing," said Madame la Eoche, 
 rather frightened, and hoping by this declaration to be on the 
 safe side. But tliough respectful in form, the reproaches of 
 her two old servants might have been bitter in spirit, if, 
 looking up at them both, Fanny had not said : 
 
 " I do not care to hear Baptiste praised, for no one knows 
 half the good of him that I do ; but I will not hear him 
 blamed by those who have no right to blame him." 
 
 This rather peremptory speech diverted the storm from 
 Baptiste to Fanny; she received reproaches, remonstrances, 
 and arguments with freezing coldness, and heard them 
 without a word. 
 
 " I am sure she still thinks of him." said Marie. 
 " I always shall," said Fanny, speaking for the first time. 
 "Well, then, my dear," said Charlotte, after a pause, "do 
 not. For some days I have known what I must tell you 
 now." 
 
 " I do not believe it," interrupted Fanny, turning very 
 red ; " I know what you mean, but I do not beiieve it ; you 
 have been misinformed." 
 
 '• I tell you, child, I read it with my own eyes at the doox 
 of the Mairie : Baptiste Watt is going to get married,"
 
 SEVEN YEAKS. 107 
 
 Fanny clasped her hands tightly, and seemed to gasp foi 
 Lix-ath, but she soon recovered, and said quietly : 
 
 '• Oh ! very well," and she resumed her work with assumed 
 calmness 
 
 This incident broke the tide oi war, but did not prevent 
 Marie from brooding uneasily over the words of Charlotte. 
 
 Such indeed was the result of her meditations, that she 
 I osolved to put the gratitude of Madame le Brun to speedy 
 proof. She knew it was that lady's intention to send Charlotte 
 out at two the next day, and at two, accordingly, Marie 
 dressed herself and went out. Her ancle was now almost 
 well, and it was little trouble to her to walk, and with a cool 
 and deliberate air she called on her former mistress. 
 
 Madame le Brun lived on a second floor in a quiet house. 
 She was a widow of forty odd, a thin, nervous, eccentric 
 lady, who received Marie like an utter stranger. 
 
 " Madame does not seem to recognise me," said Marie, 
 rather huffed. " I am Marie." 
 
 " Oh ! dear me, Marie ! yes, I remember, she was very 
 stout, and something happened to her foot." 
 
 " I am Marie," said Marie again. 
 
 "Yes, yes, I see. I liked her very much." 
 
 This seemed favorable, though it was rather puzzling, 
 when one was present, to be treated like a past and absent in- 
 dividual. However, Marie was determined to take the best 
 view of the case, and she observed strongly : 
 
 " Madame says she likes me, but if I were to believe Char- 
 lotte—" 
 
 '' Do not mention her," interrupted Madame le Brun, 
 shivering, " I detest her." 
 
 Marie beamed again. 
 
 " Dear me, what can the poor thing hive done ?" she 
 asked, seeming shocked. 
 
 " All sorts of things," replied Madame le Brun ; " she 
 has broken china and denied it." 
 
 Marie shook her head, and confessed that to break and 
 then deny was very like Charlotte, 
 
 " Besides, I am sick of her," resumed Madame le Brun. 
 
 " And that is the best reason of all," said Marie, with a 
 triumphant chuckle ; " I suppose Madame does not mean to 
 keep her." 
 
 " iS^o, indeed." 
 
 " And when shall I return to Madame ?" asked Marie, 
 with her most insinuating smile.
 
 108 SEVEN TEAKS. 
 
 " I shall let you know," graciously replied Madame le 
 Brun ; " good morning." 
 
 " And not a word about the charcoal or the fricasse," tri- 
 umphantly thought Marie, going home ; " I knew it was all 
 invention — I knew it." 
 
 Marie could scarcely keep in for the rest of the day, and 
 when evening came and Charlotte returned from Madame le 
 Brun's, and imprudently indulged in the following bit of 
 boasting : 
 
 " I wonder, Marie, you could not succeed in attaching 
 Madame le Brun to you ! She might have been a most useful 
 friend. I do nothing to please her, nothing beyond my duty, 
 and she is always so gracious and civil. She liked my fricasse 
 chicken very much to-day. ' Charlotte, you excel in that,' 
 she said, ' and as to how you make five bushels of charcoal 
 last three weeks — why, it amazes me.' " 
 
 When we say Charlotte spoke thus, and Marie heard her, 
 Marie could not help saying : 
 
 " I thiuk, Charlotte, I shall be rendering you a service by 
 telling you the truth. I called on Madame le Brun to-day; 
 I had a little private and confidential conversation with her, 
 and I was sorry to learn she was not quite pleased with you. 
 The china you have broken, and your denial of it, have 
 amazed her, to say the least. Charcoal and fricasse are not 
 every thing, my dear Charlotte — there must be trust, there 
 must be trust ; and, to make a long story short, as I am to re- 
 sume my services with Madame le Brun, the best thing you 
 can do is to drop off of your own accord, and not be told to 
 stay at home." 
 
 " Oh ! that is it, is it ?" said Charlotte, with a freezing 
 smile ; " you think me easily managed, I perceive, but all I 
 say is this : you do not know Madame le Brun, and I do ; at 
 least, I think so. She told me you had been there to-day. 
 She made no mystery of it, I promise you." 
 
 " Yes, yes, I know," said Marie, with a prim smile." 
 
 " Dear me, who can be ringing at this hour ?" exclaimed 
 Madame la Roche. " It sounds like Baptiste's ring, — but it 
 cannot be Baptiste." 
 
 " Oh, no ! " said Fanny, rising to open the door, " it ia 
 not Baptiste." 
 
 It was not Baptiste, but a round-faced buxom woman, in a 
 white cap, who asked " if Charlotte lived there." 
 
 " You might say Madame," put in Charlotte, from her 
 chair.
 
 SEVEN YEAES. 100 
 
 " Madame, if jou like," replied the buxom woman, with a 
 good-humored smile, " we will not quarrel about it." 
 
 " What is your errand ?" asked Madame la Roche, with a 
 quiet dignity, which the woman acknowledged by directing to 
 her all her further discourse. 
 
 " I am sent by Madame le Brun," she said, " to tell 
 Madame Charlotte that here is her money," — and she laid 
 down a few five-franc pieces on the table, — " and that she need 
 not come any more." 
 
 " I knew it," Marie could not help exclaiming, " I knew 
 it; but Madame Charlotte would not believe me — not she! 
 Well, well, pride will have a fall ! And when am I to call on 
 Madame le Brun ?" she added, brightening up. 
 
 " When you like," replied the woman, smiling. 
 
 " Tlien tell Madame le Brun I shall be with her to-morrow 
 at eleven," said Marie, with dignity. " Tell her that. But 
 perhaps you will not see her before that time ? " 
 
 " Not see her ! " said the woman smiling, " why, I am her 
 servant." 
 
 " What ! " cried Marie, whilst Charlotte burst into a loud 
 laugh. 
 
 "I say I am her servant," replied the woman, "but you 
 may come all the same, and if you are the stout old woman 
 called Marie, as I suppose, please to bring back the key of the 
 dining-room cupboard you took away. Good evening, ladies." 
 And with a cool nod around, the buxom good-humoured woman 
 took her leave and closed the door. 
 
 Madame la Roche, confounded that such strange things 
 should take place in her presence, uttered not a word. Marie 
 stai'ed at the wall opposite her, muttering broken words, in 
 which " stout old woman " and " the key of the dining-room 
 cupboard " recurred three times. Charlotte looked vacantly 
 at the three pieces on the table, but she saw them not; and yet, 
 of all that had passed, these three coins impressed Fanny 
 most. 
 
 " Fifteen francs ! " she thought, " and I have not more than 
 twenty, and our rent is coming on." 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 So sore a blow did not, unfortunately, conduce to the peaco 
 of the little family. Charlotte and Marie threw on each other 
 the blame of Madame le Brun's defection, which might have
 
 110 SEVEN YEAES. 
 
 been more safely attributed to that lady's capricious temper , 
 and they left the result to the anxious thoughts of Fanny, who 
 from the first had been purse keeper. Matters had been draw- 
 ing to a crisis for some time, and the young girl was at length 
 obliged to speak plainly to Madame la Roche, and tell her 
 without disguise in what position they stood. 
 
 Madame la Roche clasped her hands, and looked piteous. 
 
 " No money," she said, " and dissension and strife from 
 morning till night. Formerly Marie and Charlotte quarrelled ; 
 but it was in the kitchen or in the dining-room, and one did 
 not hear it always ; and then one had the comfort of knowing 
 that tbey liked it ; but now they have nothing else to do, and 
 they are ever at it, and we are all together, and I declare my 
 head aches with the din." 
 
 " Yes, it is tiresome," apathetically said Fanny. Her heart 
 was full of her own troubles, and the annoyances of Madame 
 la Roche sounded idle and weak. Besides, Madame la Roche 
 had suggested no cure to the great trouble of all — want of 
 money, and of this Fanny reminded her gently : 
 
 " What is to be done, Madame ? " she asked. " That my 
 god-mother and Marie should quarrel is tiresome ; but that 
 thei'e should be no money in the house seems worse." 
 
 " I suppose it is," said Madame la Roche, with evident 
 distress ; " well, Fanny, all this quarrelling has set me thinking 
 for some time, for really the noise alone is too much, and I 
 think now we must act. I shall write a letter, and you must 
 take it, to Monsieur Nolret." 
 
 " Monsieur Noiret I " echoed Fanny with a slight start, 
 " he has never come near us, Madame." 
 
 " He is like the woidd, my dear," sighed Madame la Roche ; 
 " yet if he can assist us without detriment to himself, he will do 
 so. I shall write the letter, and you will take it." 
 
 Fanny raised no further opposition ; the letter was written, 
 and without even inquiring into the nature of its contents, 
 the young girl took it to Monsieur Noiret. 
 
 Monsieur Noiret was an old bourgeois of the old school ; 
 he had lived in comfortable style in a comfortable apartment 
 of a house in the Marais, not far from the former residence ot 
 Madame la Roche. Fanny shunned the street in which Bap- 
 tiste still resided, and took a turn to reach Monsieur Noiret's 
 dwelling. It was a venerable old mansion, built round a court- 
 yard, the centre of which was a little garden, with a few young 
 lilac trees budding into verdure, for March was nearly over 
 and spring had begun, and with spring flowers, green leaves
 
 SEVEN YEARS. Ill 
 
 and the song of birds had come. In sunny rooms on the 
 second floor resided Monsieur Noiret. A demure-looking ser- 
 vant, in a close white cap, and with a curious twinkle in her 
 grey eyes, answered Fanny's hesitating ring, and slowly eyed 
 her from head to foot. 
 
 " Monsieur Noiret," said Fanny. 
 
 " He is at luncheon," replied the demure servant. 
 
 " Can I wait until he has done ? " 
 
 " Yes, you may sit here." 
 
 And Fanny was ushered in, and told to sit down in a green 
 ante room with plain oak chairs. 
 
 " You are very young, if you are come for the place," said 
 the demure servant ; " Monsieur does not like young girls." 
 
 " I am not come for the place," said Fanny, " I bring a 
 letter." 
 
 " Oh, a letter ! I thought you Avere come for the place : 
 I am leaving ; L am going to get married " Her grey eyes 
 twinkled again as she said it ; she seemed in a communicative 
 mood. Fanny, however, heard her without apparent emotion 
 or interest ; a profound apathetic indifi'erence spread for her 
 over every high or low detail of life. 
 
 " Who is there V " asked Monsieur Noiret's voice from 
 within. 
 
 " Fanny, from Madame la Roche," said the young girl, ad- 
 dressing the servant who went in with the message, and pre- 
 sently came out again and ushered Fanny into a comfortable 
 dining-room, painted oak color, and furnished with plain ma- 
 hogany and red morocco. Before a table covered with a sub- 
 stantial meal sat Monsieur Noiret. He smiled graciously to 
 Fanny, and pointed to a chair. 
 
 " And what news from Madame la Roche f he asked, his 
 white teeth shining. 
 
 " I bring a letter, sir." 
 
 "A letter!" said Monsieur Noiret, carving the leg of a 
 cold capon ; " and have you any reason to suppose, my dear, 
 that it requires to be read immediately — that it cannot wait 
 half an hour, for instance f 
 
 " I think it can wait, sir." 
 
 " Well, then, ray dear, we will let it wait," rejoined Mon- 
 sieur Noiret, making two mouthfuls of the capon's limb ; " but 
 ''if reading be injurious to digestion, talking, on the contrary, 
 is excellent, and therefore let us talk. Are you married yet f 
 
 Fanny gave a start like one that receives an unseen blow,
 
 112 SEVEN YEARS. 
 
 but soon mastered this involuntary emotion, and said quietly 
 enough : 
 
 " No, sir." 
 
 Monsieur Noiret laid down his knife and fork, and said 
 emphatically : 
 
 " Are you not going to marry, Fanny? " 
 
 "No, sir." 
 
 " Tell me all about it," he resumed. 
 
 " There is nothing to tell, sir," rather shortly replied the 
 young girl. 
 
 " I see, I see, — a lovers' quarrel, soon to be made up." 
 
 " No, sir," deliberately said Fanny ; " for excellent reasons 
 I broke off my engagement with Baptiste, and he, availing 
 himself of his liberty, is going to marry another girl three days 
 hence. Making up is out of the question." 
 
 Monsieur Noiret whistled, and finished his meal in pro- 
 found silence. When he had drunk his last glass of claret, and 
 vainly pressed Fanny to drink with him and take a biscuit, he 
 deliberately opened and read Madame la Roche's letter. He 
 smiled as he finished it, and folded it u]), then rising he said 
 to the yoimg girl : " Fanny, you have never seen this place of 
 mine ; come and have a look at it. Marianne, who has the keys, 
 shall show us the way." 
 
 Fanny would rather have said nay, but fearing to displease 
 the friend to whom Madame la Roche had appealed foi- assist- 
 ance, she rose in token of acquiescence with Monsieur Noiret's 
 wish. Marianne took a long time to hear her master's sum- 
 mons, which was the more surprising, that having been stand- 
 ing behind the dining-room door the whole time of his conver- 
 sation with Fanny, she must have been aware of his intentions. 
 When she came at length, she had to spend another quarter 
 of an hour in hunting for the keys, and when the keys were 
 found, she plainly asked Monsieur Noiret what he wanted 
 them for. 
 
 He smiled, showed his two rows of sound white teeth, and 
 patting her cheek, said kindly : 
 
 " Get married, my dear, get married." 
 
 Thus lectured, Marianne showed the way, and her master 
 and Fanny followed. 
 
 There was wealth and comfort in Monsieur Noiret's home. 
 The salon was large, handsome, and substantial ; the bed- 
 rooms were comfortable and plain ; the liitehen. the laundry, 
 and all theii appurtenances, were models of cleanliness and in- 
 genious contrivance. To crown all, Monsieur Noiret took care
 
 SEVEN YEAES. 113 
 
 to display to Fanny's view a goodly store of household pro- 
 visions, and a handsome stock of shining old plate, not tc 
 speak of a large mahogany press piled up high with choice 
 damask linen. 
 
 " This is my town house,'* he said, when the survey was 
 over ; " my country house you must see later. It is more of 
 a farm than of a villa, with cows, calves, hens, chickens, and 
 rather a pleasant orchard full of fruit ; but, as I said, you will 
 see that later, and now, Marianne, you may take the keys and 
 leave us." 
 
 Marianne would rather have stayed, but her master's eye 
 enjoined obedience, and this time he secured privacy by send- 
 ing her on an errand. 
 
 When Monsieur Noiret found himself once more alone with 
 Fanny in the dining-room, he began pacing it up and down, 
 and taking a grave look, he said, addressing the young girl, 
 who remained standing : 
 
 " And now, Fanny, we will come to business. Do you 
 know what there was in the letter of Madame la Roche ? " 
 
 " No, sir, I do not." 
 
 "Then I will tell you. It seems my two old friends, 
 Marie and Charlotte, would be better apart, and Madame la 
 Roche, hearing that Marianne is going to get married and 
 leave me to solitude, expects me to take either — she allows 
 me my choice — of the two old ladies. Now, Fanny, you have 
 seen my household. I leave it to you to say if eitner stout 
 old Maria or rheumatic old Charlotte is equal to the task of 
 keeping everything in the order I like, without having another 
 servant under her." 
 
 Fanny was obliged to acquiesce in the correctness of this 
 remark. Monsieur Noiret, still walking up and down the 
 room, continued : 
 
 " I always said that, rather than have a servant and a 
 housekeeper, I would marry ; but I am, and have always been, 
 particular. I like youth, beauty, health, a good heart, and a 
 good temper. You have them all," added Monsieur Noiret, 
 stopping short before Fanny, " and 1 have always had a liking 
 for you. If you will be my wife, say so. I shall provide for 
 the family you leave ; take either Charlotte or Marie to keep 
 you company ; make you mistress of all I have whilst 1 live, 
 and of half my property after my death." 
 
 Monsieur Noiret spoke seriously, with his rich brown eyes 
 fastened full on Fanny's face. The young girl heard him tirst 
 with a mute surprise tliat suspended every other feeling, then
 
 114 SEVEN YEARS. 
 
 a painful blush overspread her countenance, and coldly turning 
 hei' head away, she said quietly : 
 
 " I am very much obliged to you, sir, but I cannot be your 
 wife." 
 
 " My dear child," said Monsieur Noiret, with his unpleas- 
 ant smile, " I did not mean you to decide so hastily. This 
 proposal expresses no new thought ot mine, though it be new 
 to you. It requires reflection and consideration, my dear. 
 You feel sore, no doubt, about your former lover, and no won- 
 der ; but remember that I am not asking you for love. I labor 
 under no illusions. I am strong, and I enjoy good health, but 
 I am old ; I know it, and if I wish for a young wife, it is be- 
 cause I like youth, but I do not expect youth to be fond of me. 
 I believe, however, that I could make you happy ; I have the 
 means and the inclination. You are a good little thing, and 
 in time you would like me as much as I should wish or expect 
 you to like me. You see I am reasonable ; besides, I give you 
 time to think over it. Say a week. With regard to Madame 
 la Eoche's letter, tell her simply what you have seen, and how 
 impossible it is for me to comply with her request. And now, 
 my dear," adde ! Monsieur Noiret, " as I have kept you some 
 time, and as you seem anxious to go, I will delay you no longer. 
 A week hence I shall call on Madame la Roche and hear your 
 answer." 
 
 " You may hear it now, sir," said Fanny : '• I cannot be 
 your wife." 
 
 " My dear," replied Monsieur Noiret, with a smile, " you 
 know nothing about it yet. This day week I shall call on 
 Madame la Eoche." And with his politest smile and bow, he 
 saw her to tlie door. 
 
 A reply, that would have disturbed the excellent opinion 
 Monsieur Noiret had conceived of Fanny's temper, rose to the 
 young girl's lips, but she remembered that she did not possess 
 the right to alienate from Madame la Eoche a friend, such as 
 he was, and she held her peace. 
 
 Yet she went home in a strange fever ; Baptiste was going 
 to marry, she had read his name and that of his betrothed on 
 the bill of tlie Mairie ; after to-morrow he was to marry in the 
 little parish church in which they were to have been united ; 
 but still this did not seem such utter separation from him as to 
 be asked to become Monsieur Noiret's wife. To belong to that 
 old man, to live with him in his comfortable and stately, but 
 rather gloomy, home, to move in another circle, and become a 
 member of another world, to be, in siiort, Madame Noiret,
 
 SEVEN TEARS. 115 
 
 seemed a change so strange and so entire, that no extremity, 
 Fanny thought, couhl bring her to it. 
 
 In this mood she reached home, and found Madame la 
 Eoche looking on hopelessly, whilst Marie and Charlotte, to 
 whom she had unfortunately confided the contents of her note 
 to Monsieur Noiret, were both vehemently declaring, that no 
 consideration should induce them to enter that gentleman's 
 house, no matter in what capacity. 
 
 Fanny, who had got to be a little bit of a misanthrope of 
 late, .smiled with some bitterness at the useless strife. 
 
 " You need not trouble, eitlier of you," she said, coldly ; 
 " Monsieur Noiret will have neither Marie nor Charlotte, unless 
 on a condition with which 1 shall certainly not comply.'" 
 
 " A condition ! what condition, my dear," asked Madame 
 la Roche. 
 
 Fanny involuntarily grew pale then red, then she said 
 with forced calmness : 
 
 " He wants me to be his Avife." 
 
 "His wife!" exclaimed Madame la Eoche, "that proud old 
 Monsieur Noiret wants to marry you ? " 
 
 " The condescension of the otfer had not struck me," said 
 Fanny, hurt at this view of the subject. 
 
 " Nor need it," put in Charlotte ; " my god-daughter could 
 have better offers any day." 
 
 " If I had not been a fool," said Marie, " I might have been 
 Madame Noiret years ago. Well, child, you will scarcely 
 refuse that, will you 1 " 
 
 " It is a good offer," approvingly said Madame la Roche. 
 
 Fanny heard them wdth amazement ; she had fancied that 
 they would be indignant and angry, and their complacency in 
 what revolted her, was a blow she had not anticipated. 
 
 " So you all wish me to go away and leave y<m." 
 
 " I do not, I do not," cried Charles, starting up from his 
 toys on the floor, and springing on her lap ; " do not go, 
 Fanny, do not." 
 
 Fanny kissed him, and cried as if her heart would break ; 
 for it seemed to her in the bitterness of that hour as if that 
 child's affection were the only disinterested liking left to her. 
 Love had forsaken her, and old affection seemed sordid and 
 low. She kissed Charles, dried her eyes, and said coldly : 
 
 " I will not marry Monsieur Noiret."
 
 116 SEVEN YEAK8. 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 Youth is severe ; no sad knowledge of life, no bitter ex- 
 perience of human weakness have taught it the virtue and the 
 value of leniency. 
 
 Fanny was hurt, and hurt to the very heart, to find that 
 Madame la Roche and the two women, who had so long been 
 her devoted and faithful friends, could wish her to become 
 Monsieur Noiret's wife. She forgot the advantages they saw 
 in this union for her ; she forgot that Marie and Charlotte had 
 never looked on Baptiste with particular favour, and that, 
 more or less advanced in life as they all three were, they 
 could not think so much about Monsieur Noiret's wrinkles 
 and yeai's as she did. Indeed, to do them justice, they saw 
 chiefly that ]\Ionsieur Noiret was rich, that he could give 
 Fanny every comf )rt, and many luxuries, and though they 
 were also conscious that by this fortunate marriage peace and 
 comfort would be restored to their own narrowed circle, this 
 thought came second, even as Fanny's happiness came first. 
 But the advantages they prized so highly Fanny thought 
 nothing of, and she could see but one cogent motive for the 
 open or indirect methods they took to press her " into selling 
 herself to an old man," as she bitterly called it. 
 
 If Madame la Roche sighed and said : 
 
 " My dear, he would make you so comfortable." 
 
 " And he would pay the rent," was Fanny's internal reply. 
 
 If Charlotte looked grand and suggested : 
 
 " Would you feel nothing to hear yourself called ' Mad- 
 ame Noiret 1 ' " 
 
 Fanny moodily thought : 
 
 " You want me to become Madame Noiret, that you, as 
 Madame Noiret's god-mother, may rule Monsieur Noiret's 
 house." 
 
 If ]\farie hinted : 
 
 " Child, show your spirit to that low Baptiste." 
 
 Fanny felt angrily : 
 
 " She wants to drive me into it, that she may remain here 
 alone and in comfort with Madame la Roche." In short, in 
 every w^ord that was uttered, in every look that was given, 
 Fanny read self-interest. This was but the natural reaction of 
 a heart too long indulged, of a temper that had never been 
 controlled, of a happy youth that had never known trouble or 
 Borrow. But this misanthropic mood could not last long ;
 
 SEVEN TEARS. 117 
 
 Fanny soon returned to the nntural tenderness of her heart 
 and gentleness of her disposition, and then, indeed, no longer 
 looking with prejudiced eyes on the advice she got, she began 
 to endure the strange torment of knowing that there was a 
 remedy to the many cares and troubles she saw, that this 
 remedy lay in her own hands, but that she would not use it. 
 
 The little family were in great trouble ; Madame la 
 Roche's four hundred francs a year and Fanny's earnings 
 could not support five persons ; rent was coming due, and 
 money was growing sliort ; distress had the effect of subduing 
 for a while the ceaseless quarrel-s of Charlotte and Marie ; 
 they grumbled indeed, but in low dismal voices that had 
 scarcely a touch of the old liveliness. Madame la Roche said 
 nothing, but she looked at Charles, the only merry one 
 amongst them all, and wiped away silent tears from her pale 
 face. To look on and to kno\v, " with a word I could make 
 them all happy, I could turn that grief to joy," was a trial 
 indeed : a trial on which Monsieur Noiret had shrewdly cal- 
 culated as a chance of success. His liking for Fanny, which 
 had come w^ith her beauty, was the liking old men feel for 
 young girls. He had too much sense to expect her to be fond 
 of hlm^but he had too little iliith in the love of youth not to 
 think tliat, if she married him, he would easily make her for- 
 get Baptiste and all such early dreams ; a handsome dress 
 now and then, a cashmere shawl, with even a sprinkling of 
 diamonds if necessarv, — Monsieur Noiret had his mother's 
 jewel-box in store, — were in his opinion palliatives to every 
 feminine ailliction, especially \\hen the sufferer was a poor 
 working girl, raised from the obscurity of a dressmaker to the 
 dignity of a young bourgo(>ise. 
 
 About Monsieur Noiret's thoughts Fanny did not trouble 
 herself much ; the sad faces at home were arguments more 
 powerful than the temptation of his gifts, but against both 
 rose a reproachful image : the sorrowful look of Baptiste, that 
 seemed to follow her saying : '• Did you leave me for tliis ? " 
 
 " I will have done with that at least," desperately thought 
 Fanny, as she rose on the Saturday morning that was to see 
 Baptiste wedded ; "I will see him married to that girl, who- 
 ever she may be, and forget him as if he had never been." 
 
 Without"^ breathing a word of her purpose, and merely 
 going out as if to work as usual, Fanny took her way to the 
 church in which the ceremony was to be performed. It was 
 an old church which has since been pulled down to make way 
 for modern improvements : the gloomy, gothic building had
 
 118 SEVEN YEARS. 
 
 few claims to beauty of any kind ; the ceiling was low, the 
 flooi' was damp and dark with age ; the pictures on the walls 
 had a dingy look ; the altar looked poor and bare ; only a few 
 old men and women were listening to the mass which a priest 
 was saying. Fanny went on to the vestry, and calmly asked 
 the sacristan at what hour Monsieur Watt was to be married 
 
 " At eleven," he replied, " and at the high altar." 
 
 She thanked him, and went and chose her place in the 
 right aisle, — a chair behind one of the pillars, — thence she 
 could see, unseen, whatever passed in the nave. 
 
 It was ten ; Fanny had only an hour to wait. Only ! is 
 that the word, indeed, wherewith to describe the heart-sick 
 expectation with which she sat and prayed and wept, and felt 
 ten times over that it was best for her to fly and leave the 
 place, and not see again the faithless lover whom she had no 
 right to blame, yet could not absolve ? For ever came the 
 secret cry : " he might have loved me moi'e ; he need not have 
 forsaken me so soon." 
 
 In the mean while preparations for the forthcoming cere- 
 mony were being made ; the altar was decorated ; velvet 
 cushions fi-inged with gold were placed for the bridal pair ; 
 velvet chairs were set in rows for the bridal party ; eleven 
 struck, — the priest in white vestments issued from the vestry, 
 and up the nave a rustling of silk and a sound of steps an- 
 nounced the approach of the " noce." Fanny felt very sick, 
 she closed her eyes, and leaning her head against the cold pil- 
 lar, she would not see. At length she gathered courage. 
 " What did I come here for, and lose a day's work, but to 
 know? " she asked of herself, and opening her eyes she looked at 
 the altar. The bride and bridegroom were kneeling before it : 
 the bride was a pretty girl iu white, who looked all the pret- 
 tier for her veil and orange wreath, but Fanny did not heed 
 her ; with fixed amazed eyes and parted lips she looked at the 
 bridegroom — a short, slim, and sallow young man, not in the 
 least like Baptiste. 
 
 " There is some mistake," thought Fanny, relieved at not 
 seeing what she had dreaded, but pained at a delay that spoke 
 of a new pang to be undergone, But as she cast a hasty and 
 impatient look on the bridal party, as on persons concerned 
 in doings that no longer interested her, Fannji could scarcely 
 repress a scream on perceiving Baptiste a beholder, like her- 
 self, of the marriage ceremony. 
 
 He stood grave and sad, looking on with folded arms and 
 bent look. He was attired in holiday black, and was evi-
 
 SEVEN YEARS. 119 
 
 dently a member of the bridal party. The truth flashed across 
 Fanny's mhid. The bridegroom was his cousin and name- 
 sake, of whom she had often heard him speak, and who had 
 probably come down to Paris to get married. The bride 
 might now be who and what she liked; Fanny's heartbeat, 
 her head swam, and leaning her forehead on the chair before 
 her, she lost consciousness. The sound of voices behind hei 
 wakened the young girl. 
 
 " She is pi-aying ! " whispered one voice. 
 
 " She is sleeping," said another voice, in a loader key, 
 " and it is a shame to come to a church to sleep in it." 
 
 With a start Fanny looked up ; the lights on the altar 
 were extinguished : bride, bridegroom, and bridal party had 
 vanished. It was as if she had dreamed it all, so quiet and 
 silent was now the old church. But too vivid for a dream 
 rose before her the scene she had witnessed. Fanny did not even 
 go to the vestry to inquire : there was no need ; Baptiste was 
 not married, she knew it, she felt it ; she thought herself fool- 
 ish and mad to have even for a moment believed that, within 
 a month of their parting, he could have thought of another 
 woman, and, witliout heeding the owners of the two voices 
 who had passed such strictures on her supposed slumbers, she 
 sent a fervent thanksgiving to the Almighty, then rose from 
 her chair, and swiftly left the church. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 Light and giddy with feverish joy, Fanny skipped dow^n 
 the church steps, like one treading on air. She felt thoroughly 
 happy ; she had not a thought, not a care ; everything was 
 bright and cheerful, h-ova the grey sky that lowered above the 
 house roofs, to the muddy pavement along which she tripped 
 light and gay as a little fairy. 
 
 On her way home Faimy passed a toy-shop ; she had 
 passed it going, but for ol)vious reasons she had not seen it ; 
 now she saw it, and thought of poor little Charles at home, 
 who had said the evening before : 
 
 " Grandmamma,, why do I not have any toys now ? " and 
 of Madame la Roche's sad answer : <' Because we are poor, 
 child." 
 
 Fanny thought of this, and her heart was full. She put 
 her hand in her pocket and felt a five-franc piece in it. It was 
 more than enough ; Fanny walked into the shop, and delib-
 
 120 SEVEN YEAES.. 
 
 erately purchased a horse and car, for twenty-five sous. She 
 walked out thinking how pleased Charles would be, and how 
 kind Madame la Roche would enjoy his pleasure ; then she 
 wondered if she could not please her too. in a more direct 
 fashion. She looked in at a pastry-cook's ; that was Madame 
 la Roche's favourite tart in the window, 
 
 Fanny could not resist it, she walked in, and came out 
 with the tart, which proved a more expensive purchase than 
 even the horse and car. " But neither Marie nor Charlotte 
 will touch a mite of it," tliought Fanny, " they will leave it 
 all to Madame la Roche and the child ; what shall I brinw to 
 them ? " 
 
 She hit on no hotter expedient than to walk in to the char- 
 cutier's shop. The charcutier bears but a faint likeness to his 
 English brother, the dealer in pork, bacon, and ham. The 
 charcutier sells neither butter nor poultry, and he scorns eggs 
 and rabbits. His shop is adorned, without, by fresco paint- 
 ings of what may be called the Dutch school. Plump 
 sausages and hams, with the most tempting mixture of fat and 
 lean, show the triumph of the painter's art. Within, mirrors, 
 marbles, and delicious viands fulfil the promis-s held forth 
 without. The buxom charcutit'rt^, with her white cap, rosy 
 cheeks, red lips, round figure, and white apron and tucker, is 
 herself a fair proof of tlie excellence and solidity of the goods 
 in which she deals. These are most seduciugly displayed on 
 the white marb'e counter behind which she stands smiling. 
 Potted meats, quivering jellies, compounds of pork and veal, 
 mysterious meat cheeses, fair pink sausages ready for the hiss- 
 ing frying-pan, tender pork cutlets, dinde tarcie, cold veal, all 
 lie there before you adorned — as if such charms needed height- 
 ening — with pinlc paper roses and white paper frills, daintily 
 cut. Of the strings of l)laek pudding hanging about, of the 
 trophies in the shape of goodly hams M'hich the walls display, 
 of petit lard, even though it come from Strasbourg, we say 
 nothing : they are there to fill up. The counter and its dain- 
 ties will ever absorb the love and attention of the gently gor- 
 mandizing sons and daughters of Paris. 
 
 Into such a palace did Fanny enter. Dinde farcie was her 
 extravagant choice, and when she left the shop she had ten 
 sous in her pocket. But Fanny was not in a mood to trouble 
 herself about money : she was in a temper to defy care, to 
 laugh at the future, to rejoice in the present, and make those 
 around her rejoice. Tired and laden, but glad with all that, 
 Fanny went home.
 
 SEVKN YEARS. 121 
 
 It was the child who admitted her. On seeing the horse 
 and car he uttered a scream of delight, at once took possession 
 of them, and ran off with his prize to the room of Madame la 
 Roche. She came out amazed to see who had lieen so gener- 
 ous, and found Fanny in the act of laying the tart on a plate. 
 She caught a glimpse too of the dinde farcie, and unable to 
 understand the meaning of all this, she asked with mild sur 
 prise : 
 
 " My dear child, what has brought you back from your 
 work 1 '"' 
 
 " I did not go to work," said Fanny, blushing. 
 
 " And how did you get those things 1 Who gave them 
 to you 1 " 
 
 " I bought them," answered Fanny, hanging down her head, 
 
 Madame la Roche felt and looked bewildered, and Char- 
 lotte and Marie, who now caiue out, felt and looked like their 
 mistress. Charles alone, who was whipping his horse and car 
 about the room, shouted and laughed without surprise. 
 
 " 1 know you like this, Madame," continued Fanny, point- 
 ing to the tart, " so I brought it to you. This," she added, 
 designating the meat, " is for Marie and my god-mother. It 
 is long since we had a treat. I hof>e I have not done wrong ? 
 I do not think 1 have." 
 
 " There is no harm in it," despond ingly replied Madame 
 la Roche, whose pale cheek bore the traces of recent tears, 
 " but this is scarcidy a day for rejoicing." 
 
 " I do not suppose Fanny thinks we are going to eat meat 
 on Saturday, a fast-day," gravely observed Charlotte. 
 
 " I never thought about that," replied Fanny, disconcerted 
 at having forgotten it. 
 
 " And I think," said Marie, " I think it is very lucky the 
 landlord, who lias just called in to insult Madame because she 
 cannot pay her rent the very day it is due, I think it is lucky 
 he did not meet Fanny coming up the staircase laden with 
 toys, and cakes, and tarts, and capons, and turkeys, instead of 
 being at her work like a sensible girl." 
 
 " Do not be severe," sighed Madane la Rcjche, " the poor 
 child meant kindly, and that is my favourite tart, and you 
 know how fond you are of dinde farcie ; and look at Charles, 
 the dear little fellow is beside himself with joy. She meant it 
 kindly, and if we had only money for the rent, I dare say we 
 should enjoy it very much." 
 
 But she sighed again as she came to the close of this long 
 speech, and her eyes filled with tears. 
 
 6
 
 122 SEVEN YEARS. 
 
 The joy of Fanny was considerably damped by the way 
 in which her treat was received. She put her dainties away 
 without a word, whilst Marie said with marked emphasis : 
 
 " Have you got any money, child ? " 
 
 " 1 have not," said Fanny, 
 
 " No more have we," austerely said Charlotte. " A strange 
 time, my dear child, for such extravagant fancies, and meat on 
 a Saturday." 
 
 "I have got a few francs left," mildly put in Madame la 
 Roche. 
 
 Fanny sighed deeply. The weight of care she had awhile 
 forgotten sank on her anew. Baptiste was not married, true; 
 Baptiste was still fond of her, she felt sure of it : but grim 
 poverty faced her, and the helpless women and the uncon- 
 scious child, none the less. 
 
 She rose, and said resignedly : 
 
 " I shall go and \\ ork ; better half a day's work than none." 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 Fanny was ready to go out the next morning, when a 
 sharp ring was heard at the door : she went and opened : it 
 was the rough and grisly porter, with his cotton handkerchief 
 tied round his heavy Ijrow^s. 
 
 " He is come about the rent," thought Fanny, trembling 
 from head to foot ; but she none the less civilly requested the 
 porter to come in. 
 
 " Why should I come in 1 " he asked suspiciously. " I 
 have only come up to tell you a bit of my mind ; people who 
 are so grand — " 
 
 " Do not, pray do not," interrupted Fanny, casting a timid 
 look tow^ards the inner rooms, and evidently afraid lest 
 Madame la Roche should hear ; " I hope yet that we shall 
 find the means of paying that money, though God knows 
 how," she added in a low despairing voice. 
 
 " You had better find the means quickly then," said the 
 porter, roughly, " for I may as well tell you that Mademoi- 
 selle is in the liouse, and means to pay you a visit." 
 
 " JNIademoiselle ! who is Mademoiselle ? " asked Fanny. 
 
 " The landlord's sister, and let me tell you that, though 
 she makes less noise than her brother, who storms and raves, 
 yhe is a great deal more troublesome than he is. That is all 
 I had to say. Good morning." He nodded and left her dis-
 
 SEVEN YEAKS. 123 
 
 tracted at the prospect of the coming visit. She went to 
 Charlotte and Marie, and told them what the porter had said ; 
 but they could give her no counsel. Their calm lives had 
 been spent in the peaceful Ijosoin of prosperity ; they knew 
 nothing of poverty ; they had no practical experience of debts, 
 or of the poor ways and means by which troublesome appli- 
 cations may be warded off. To pay what was owing seemed 
 the only plan offered to them. 
 
 " But I have got no money," said Fanny. 
 
 " No, child, and you never will have whilst you go and 
 buy toys and cakes, and capons and turkeys," said Marie. 
 
 " I cannot imagine what possessed her yesterday," re- 
 marked Charlotte. " She is as stingy as can be on other 
 days, but yesterday being a fast day, she must needs buy 
 dinde farcie." 
 
 " Do not, pray do not," entreated Fanny, " I hear a step 
 on the staircase, it must be that lady ! What shall we do 1 
 wdiat shall we do ? " 
 
 A mild modest ring was heard even as she spoke ; her 
 face red and burning with shame, Fanny went and opened. 
 
 It was Mademoiselle, the landlord's sister, and the joint 
 proprietress of the house. A meeker and more demure-look- 
 ing lady Fanny had never seen. Her fair hair was smoothed 
 away from her high and white forehead ; her drooping lids 
 ix^odestly veiled her blue eyes ; decorum was written in her 
 grave and mild features, in her slightly bending figure, in her 
 subdued manners. 
 
 " Madame la Roche," she said, mildly. 
 
 " She will come presently," faltered Fanny ; " will you 
 sit down and wait 1 " 
 
 " With pleasure," sedately replied Mademoiselle. She 
 took a chair, and looked benevolently at Charlotte and Marie. 
 
 " A fine morning," she said. 
 
 " Oh, very," replied Marie, brightening at this amicable 
 opening ; and she kindly added : " Madame la Roche will be 
 pleased to see Mademoiselle : the gentleman who came yes- 
 terday was not civil." 
 
 " Indeed : " said Mademoiselle. " Ah, well, my brother 
 is a little noisy at times ; I like to do things quietly." 
 
 " Of course," said Marie, " so much better ; especially," 
 she added, with her most gracious smile, " when people, 
 though not able, are willing." 
 
 "To be sure, quite willing," said Mademoiselle. 
 " Most willing ! " emphatically echoed Marie.
 
 124 SEVEN YEAK8. 
 
 " We shall settle this little matter without trouble," said 
 Mademoiselle, casting a quiet look around her. " I under- 
 stand Madame la Roche has been well off. I have no doubt 
 she has kept some lady-like trinkets, or scraps of lace, that 
 may help us to come to a proper understanding." 
 
 Marie stared, but did not answer. Mademoiselle con- 
 tinued : 
 
 *• It is a settled plan with my brother and me never to allow 
 rent to run on ; but whereas he insists on money, I am satisfied 
 with valuables. A jewel, a watch, a chain, nay, even a piece 
 of furniture will pay a quarter's rent: if the value exceeds 
 the amount due, it is deducted from the next quarter." 
 
 " If Madame la Roche had such valuables," replied Marie, 
 firing up, " she would not wait to be asked for her rent in 
 order to pay it. She would sell and pledge them, and no one 
 would know her poverty." 
 
 " Then if Madame la Roche cannot pay the rent we must 
 part," suavely said Mademoiselle ; " we never allow rent to 
 run on." 
 
 Trembling with indignation, Marie was going to answer, 
 when Madame la Roche appeared. 
 
 With quiet dignity she bowed to Mademoiselle, and re- 
 quested to know her errand. Mademoiselle mildly answered 
 that she had come for the rent. 
 
 " I have no money now," said Madame la Roche, in a low 
 voice. 
 
 " And no valuables 1 " asked Mademoiselle. 
 
 " None." 
 
 " Then I am soriy for it : we must part." 
 
 " And you will detain the furniture 1 " said Madame la 
 Roche. 
 
 " I see no other means." 
 
 " Very well, Madame," replied Madame la Roche, in a 
 tone that said : " Your errand is over." 
 
 Mademoiselle felt it, for she rose and cast around a look 
 that was scarcely pleasant spite its meekness. Fanny, who 
 had looked on with helpless calmness, opened the door to let 
 her out, and thereby spared IMonsieur Noiret the trouble of 
 ringing. That gentleman and Mademoiselle exchanged excla- 
 mations on meeting : they were acquainted, it appeared. 
 
 "How very fortunate !" said Monsieur Noiret, "I have 
 been looking for you these three weeks. Pray allow me to 
 exchange a few words with you — I am sure my good friend 
 Madame la Roche will raise no objection."
 
 SEVEN TEAKS. 125 
 
 Madame la Roche said he might command her place, and 
 was going to leave the room, but he would not allow it. 
 
 " It is no secret," he said, with his ready smile, " only a 
 bit of news for Mademoiselle. I have seen your nephew," he 
 added, turning towards her. 
 
 Mademoiselle's l)lue eyes lit with a fiery spark. 
 
 " Where — how — when ! " she exclaimed. 
 
 " In the Palais Royal, with three young fellows, a month 
 ago." 
 
 The intelligence brought no great amount of pleasure oi 
 sweetness to Mademoiselle's face. Her nephew, a spend 
 thrift, a gambler, and a runaway, was a thorn in her side, a 
 sore spot in her life. 
 
 " I shall stop him yet," she said, clenching tightly an 
 ample reticule which she carried about on rent days, and which 
 her lodgers knew well. " I shall stop him yet. And you, 
 Madame," she added, looking sourly at Madame la Roche, 
 " please to bear my last words in mind, and to have those 
 eighty francs by to-morrow morning. No rents run on here." 
 
 "Dear me!" said Monsieur Noiret, seeming surprised, 
 " would you prefer the eighty francs to-day 1 " Madenioiselle 
 looked at him. 
 
 " Of course I should," she at length answered. 
 
 Monsieur Noiret put four Napoleons in her hand. Mad- 
 emoiselle counted and weighed them, gave him a receipt in 
 exchange, and walked out without a word. 
 
 " 1 am so glad I was able to relieve you of that troublesome 
 woman," said Monsieur Noiret to Madame la Roche, " she is 
 a leech. Did she not propose purchasing or exchanging 
 something 1 " 
 
 " She did ! " cried Marie, who was bursting with wrath, 
 " she did. As if Madame kept valuables when she wanted 
 money ! " 
 
 " Monsieur Noiret, I am obliged to you," said Madame la 
 Roche, whose tears were flowing, " but God only knows when 
 I shall be able to pay you." 
 
 " A trifle, a trifle ! " said Monsieur Noiret, glancing at 
 Fanny ; " I came at this early hour on account of that young 
 creature." 
 
 Fanny, who was sitting apart with Charles on her lap, 
 looked up on being thus indirectly addressed. 
 
 " The fact is," said Monsieur Noiret, " that Madame des 
 Granges, a friend of mine, has asked me for a clever seam-
 
 126 SEVEN YEAKS. 
 
 stress, and as I believe her terms are better than those Fanny 
 gets, I came early to give our little friend the intimation/' 
 
 Fanny's face cleared at once. If Monsieur Noiret came 
 to procure her work, must it not be that he had given up thai 
 odious plan of marriage ? She thanked him with a warmth 
 that made him smile, and receiving from him a line for 
 Madame des Granges, she exclaimed eagerly that she would 
 go at once ; and at once, glad perhaps to escape from his 
 presence, she went. 
 
 The tide had turned to prosperity. Madame des Granges 
 received Fanny very favourably ; agreed to pay her one-third 
 more than she received from the dressmaker who gave her oc- 
 casional work, and finally secured her services for the next 
 day. 
 
 A weight of care seemed removed from Fanny as she came 
 home that evening. The rent was paid ; three months' peace 
 was secured ; she had found profitable work ; and, crowning 
 blessing of all, Baptiste was not married. No wonder she 
 climbed up the four steep flights of stairs with a light and 
 happy heart. 
 
 She found Madame la Roche in smiles, and Charlotte and 
 Marie a;racious. 
 
 " Anything new ? " she asked gaily. 
 
 " No," replied Charlotte, " nothing, unless that Monsieur 
 Noiret is to come this evening." 
 
 Fanny felt the blow, but tried to smile. 
 
 '• A most extraordinary piece of good fortune that he 
 should have dropped in just in time to pay Madame's rent," 
 said Marie. 
 
 " I suppose you mean to lend Madame the money," cor- 
 rected Charlotte. 
 
 " You may call that lending," said Marie, strongly, " I do 
 not." 
 
 " I do," said Charlotte ; " Madame would scorn it other- 
 wise." 
 
 " I am past scorning," said Madame la Roche, with a resig- 
 nation not free from bitterness," " the hand of God is on me, 
 and I yield to what I cannot prevent ; I submit to humilia- 
 tions I have no right and no power to reject." 
 
 Fanny was moved to the very heart. 
 
 " Dear Madame," said she, going up to her former protec- 
 tress, and taking her hands as she sat down at her feet; " dear 
 Madame, all is not over : if Monsieur Noiret has been so kind 
 as to lend you that money, cannot I work and pay it back ? "
 
 SEVEN TEABS. 127 
 
 " Fudge," said Marie, " j-ou cannot." 
 
 This was but too true. Fauny felt the sting and started, 
 and vainly tried to look brave. 
 
 " I know what Fanny can do," mildly said Charlotte ; " she 
 can give IMousieur Noiret his answer, and not have him coming 
 here any more and insulting Madame." 
 
 Fanny turned very pale : it seemed as if a net were draw- 
 ing round her, and tightening her on every side. 
 
 Madame la Roche looked up, and said with some dignity : 
 " Charlotte and Marie, we will have no more of this. Mon- 
 sieur Noiret lent me that money of his own accord : I beg that 
 he may come here or not, at his pleasure, and that you will 
 not tease or torment Fanny. She has said she would not mar- 
 ry him : that is enough." 
 
 " Did you tell him so, Madame ? " asked Fanny, brighten- 
 ing with sudden hope. 
 
 " No, my dear," hesitatingly replied Madame la Roche, " I 
 have not told him so, but he has given me to understand that 
 he would like to come and see me now and then ; I have no 
 doubt you will have more than one opportunity of letting him 
 see and feel your meaning." 
 
 The head of Fauny sank despondently on her bosom, she 
 clasped her hands with a troubled look, that did not escape 
 Marie or (;harlotte : the poor girl was beginning to hesitate, 
 but she struggled against her own weakness, and saying with 
 assumed calmness, *■' I shall never be Monsieur Noiret's wife," 
 she rose and prepared the evening meal. 
 
 Monsieur Noiret's plans were carefully laid : he had calcu- 
 lated his chances well. He would not tease or torment Fanny, 
 but he would not let her forget him either. To be an invisi- 
 ble benefactor, dropping a quarter's rent, and then vanishing 
 conveniently, until he could again be useful, by no means 
 formed part of Monsieur Noiret's schemes. 
 
 He came that evening, and spent a quiet hour with Madame 
 la Roche. He scarcely looked at Fanny, who took care to 
 keep apart. When he spoke to her, his manner was not that 
 of an accepted or of a rejected lover. It was both cool and 
 calm, and gave her no right to complain or show mistrust. At 
 nine he rose and took his leave. 
 
 " Good evening, my dear Madame," said he, kissing the 
 hand of Madame la Roche, " I shall soon call again. Good 
 evening, Charlotte. Good evening, Marie, we are old friends, 
 eh ! Good night, little Fauny. I shall soon call again," 
 
 The door had scarcely closed upon him, and Fanny had
 
 128 SEVEN YEAES. 
 
 scarcely broathetl, relieved at his departure, when Charlotte 
 said thoughtfully : 
 
 " A fiue old gentleman ! " 
 
 " Old ! " echoed Marie, "Monsieur Noiret is quite a young 
 man." 
 
 " Ay, ay," smiled Charlotte, " he is an old friend of 
 yours." 
 
 " I cannot allow this," said Madame la Roche, distracted- 
 ly, " I really cannot. If you must needs quarrel about some- 
 thing, pray look out for another bone besides Monsieur Noiret, 
 to whom we are so much indebted." 
 
 " Madame has already spoken of my biting and snarling," 
 said Marie, looking injured, " but now she calls me a dog in 
 plain speech. I will bear much, but not this, and I will 
 starve." 
 
 " Supper is ready," drily said Fanny, And Marie forgot 
 her resolve to starve, and sat down to her evening meal just as 
 usual, 
 
 Fanny alone did not eat. She said she was not hungry, 
 and she spoke the truth. It had been her task to let Monsieur 
 Noiret out that evening, and as he turned round and bade her 
 a last good night, he had given her a smile and a look Fanny 
 could not mistake. 
 
 " God help me," she thought ; " we are falling into that 
 man's power, and I am the price he wants, God help me." 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 Monsieur Noiret came often ; he soon came every even- 
 ing. No more was said about his visits in the little family. 
 Madame la Roche did not mention the subject to Fanny, nor 
 did Fanny broach it with her. Even Charlotte and Marie 
 proved studiously discreet, and did not tread on forbidden 
 ground. 
 
 The visits of Monsieur Noiret did not add, however, to 
 the common prosperity. Charlotte and Marie could find 
 nothing to do, and what were Madame la Roche's four hundred 
 francs a year, and Fanny's daily earnings, to support a family 
 with ? Not half enough ! 
 
 The young girl's health and spirits sank under the pressure 
 of so many cares and so much trouble. Madame la Roche re- 
 verted uneasily to her altered looks, but Monsieur Noiret gal- 
 lantly declared that Fanny looked as pretty as ever. Beyond
 
 SEVEN YEARS. 129 
 
 this polite speech he did nothing to lighten her anxiety. His 
 continued presence only irritated the young girl, and at length, 
 unable to bear any longer the suspense in which it kept her, 
 Bhe one day asked Madame la Roche if she had given Monsieur 
 Noiret her answer. 
 
 " My dear," hesitatingly said Madame la Roche. " Mon- 
 sieur Noiret told nie he was not in a hurry, so what could I do ? " 
 
 " Then perhaps he comes here on mj account," said Fanny, 
 moodily. 
 
 " 3Iy dear, we cannot tell him not to come," uneasily re- 
 plied Madame la Roche. " I hope you will do nothing indis- 
 creet, he is our only friend now." 
 
 " I shall say and do nothing, Madame," resignedly replied 
 Fanny. " This is your house, not mine." 
 
 "And how much money have you got now, child ? " hesi- 
 tatingly asked Madame la Roche. 
 
 " I have none," answered Fanny ; " Madame des Granges 
 said to-day she would pay it all in a lump." 
 
 " Dear me ! " said Madame la Roche, looking startled, 
 " that is not convenient for us, is it ? " 
 
 " No, Madame, it is not." 
 
 " I have not a franc left ; how shall we manage ? " 
 
 " We must try and get credit," said Fanny, making a 
 strong eiFort. 
 
 " I wonder if Monsieur Noiret would lend me any more 
 money," doubtingly observed Madame la Roche. 
 
 Fanny did not reply. What right had she to say, " you 
 must not borrow from him ? " None. She submitted, but 
 with a heart heavy with forebodings. Monsieur Noiret came 
 in the evening. What passed between him and Madame la 
 Roche, Fanny only knew the next morning when that lady put 
 a gold piece in her hand, and said sadly : '' My dear, make this 
 go as far as you can ; it is all I shall ever get, for it is all I 
 shall ever ask for from that quarter," 
 
 "Twenty francs," thought Fanny, "and we are four with- 
 out the child ! " Careful as she was, she could not make the 
 money last more than a few days ; her own money, though it 
 had reached the lump stage, did not make an amount sufficient 
 to satisfy the lady who employed her, — for being one of those 
 kind persons who like to manage the affairs of the poor, she 
 patted Fanny's cheek, and told her benevolently that she was 
 saving it up for her, lest she shoukl spend it in frivolities. 
 
 " Well, but you are not going to stand that, are you ? " 
 asked Marie of Fanny, one evening. 
 6*
 
 130 SEVEN YEARS. 
 
 " It is hard," replied the young girl, " but I am afraid of 
 losing the custom." 
 
 " Custom, indeed, a pretty custom ! You will never do in 
 the world, child." 
 
 Fanny did not answer, and Marie took a resolve, on which 
 she forthwith acted without thinking it necessary to apprize 
 Fanny of her intention. Under pretence of calling on an old 
 friend she went out, and proceeded at once to the house of 
 Madame des Granges, who so kindly kept Fanny's money in a 
 lump for her. 
 
 Madame des Granges rented a very handsome apartment 
 in a stylish house ; she kept a footman, who was cook as well, 
 and maid-of-all-work ; and a lady's-maid, who dressed grandly, 
 and was suspected to be a governess on the sly to the five young 
 Des Granges. It was this potentate who received Marie, and 
 recognizing her for having seen her once or twice with Fanny, 
 she graciously asked what she wauted. 
 
 " Only to say a few words to Madame," replied Marie, with 
 a prim smile. 
 
 The lady's-maid feared her mistress was not visible, but 
 would inquire. She vanished behind a damask hanging, and 
 presently returned, requesting Marie to follow her in to 
 Madame's bed-room. 
 
 Madame was dressing, and her maid remained in the room 
 to assist in her toilet. In a gracious voice Madame des Granges 
 nodding at Marie, said amiably : 
 
 " ^^y good woman, what do you want with me at this hour? " 
 
 Some people like being called good ; others have an objec- 
 tion to it. To the latter class Marie belonged. " She might 
 be a good woman, or she might not, but what was that to 
 Madame des Granges, or any other Madame ? Nothing, that 
 she knew of." Bristling up, therefore, with a sense of injured 
 dignity, yet smiling a grim smile that vainly tried to be sweet, 
 Marie replied : 
 
 " I beg pardon for disturbing Madame at this hour ; but I 
 believe Madame has been so kind to my Fanny as to keep her 
 money in a lump for her." 
 
 " Yes," replied Madame des Granges, with an approving 
 look, " I always do. Young people in that class of life are so 
 improvident ; they spend their money in such trifling, foolish 
 things, that on principle I keep it up for them. You may, 
 therefore, set your mind at ease, my good woman ; what Fanny 
 has said to you is quite correct, I keep her money in a lump 
 for her."
 
 SEVEN TEAES. 131 
 
 " Very kind of Madame," said Marie, " but if Madame 
 would not mind giving me Fanny's money, I could put it out 
 at interest," — this was a gratuitous fib, but Marie was not 
 scrupulous, — " at a good interest, I mean. It is Fanny's own 
 wish, — only the silly thing did not not like mentioning it to 
 Madame, — as if it could make any difi'erence to Madame 
 whether the money was in her drawer or in a bank." 
 
 This was most provoking, and Madame des Granges was 
 fairly exasperated ; for this kind lady had the habit of making 
 lumps of all the money she could decently keep from trades- 
 people and servants. The maid who was fastening her flounced 
 silk dress knew the meaning of the word ' lump ; ' the man- 
 servant, who was then listening behind the door, knew it ; 
 every one knew it who had anything to do with Madame des 
 Granges, and that she should be compelled to refund a ' lump,' 
 howsoever insignificant, was so dangerous a precedent, that 
 she could not contemplate it without alarm and displeasure. 
 
 " I am very much surprised," she said drawing herself up 
 with great majesty ; " I am surprised, indeed, at so strange a 
 proceeding ; but ingratitude is the common reward of benevo- 
 lence like mine. You will give Fanny this amount," she 
 added, putting down on the table four five-franc pieces, '* and 
 you will inform her that I dispense with her service henceforth." 
 
 Marie took the money, curtsied, and feeling, as she after- 
 wards said, that it was all done for, she thought she might as 
 well have her revenge. Politely, therefore, but with a sting- 
 ing politeness, she said : 
 
 " I am sorry it inconvenienced Madame to let me have 
 that money ; if Fanny and I had known it, we would willingly 
 have given Madame more time." 
 
 " 8how the woman out," loftily said Madame des Granges. 
 
 "Ah! she will not call me a good woman now," thought 
 Marie, exulting in her success. And being one of those happy 
 persons with whom the gratification of temper is paramount, 
 Marie left the house neither disheartened nor disconcerted by 
 the remembrance that through her kind exertions Fanny had 
 lost a customei". 
 
 " Nothing like sticking up for one's own, child," soliloquized 
 Marie, addressing an imaginary Fanny as she went home. 
 " Let yourself be trod on, and you will be trod on ; stick up for 
 your rights, and you will be respected." 
 
 In this triumphant and congratulatory frame of mind 
 Marie went home.
 
 132 SEVEN YEAES. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 Madame la Roche was talking with Monsieur Noiret, 
 Fanny was preparing tl:e sober supper, of wliich the family 
 partook every evening ; and Charles, tired with play, was sleep- 
 ing in Charlotte's arms, when Marie made her appearance. 
 With that want of all ceremony which had ever characterized 
 her, Marie, spite the presence of Monsieur Noiret, at once in- 
 formed every one present of what had occurred ; but she did so 
 in her own fashion. 
 
 " There, child," said she, throwing down the money on the 
 table, " there is your money. My opinion is, that without me 
 you might have done long enough without it." 
 
 The plate Fanny held nearly dropped from her hand. 
 
 " You have been to Madame des Granges ? " she said, look- 
 ing frightened. 
 
 '' Yes, child ; and trouble enough I had in getting these 
 few silver pieces from her. I would be ashamed to be a lady 
 and not be able to pay for the work I got done." 
 
 " T hope there is no mischief done," uneasily said Fanny. 
 
 " Mischief, my dear ! " put in Charlotte, " I can tell you 
 what mischief there is, — you had better never go near Madame 
 des Grau2;es again." 
 
 " That is not it, surely ! " said Fanny, giving Marie an un- 
 easy look. 
 
 Marie put a brave face on the matter. 
 
 " Of course it is," stoutly replied Marie ; " you would not 
 go to a woman that does not want to pay you, would you ? No. 
 Besides, even if you did, my dear, it would be of no use, 
 Madame des Granges is deep : seeing me determined, she 
 thought it best to draw in her horns, and she accordingly mut- 
 tered something about having no more work for you, with 
 which we parted " 
 
 Fanny forgot the presence of Monsieur Noiret : she only 
 felt the calamity. She sank down on a chair, and clasped her 
 hands, exclaiming : 
 
 " God forgive you, and help us, Marie. She was my last 
 customer." 
 
 " Some people mar where they meddle," begun Charlotte. 
 
 Madame la lloche extended her pale thin hand. 
 
 " Hush," she said gently, but in a voice of command, and 
 with the self-possession which good breeding imparts, she rc- 
 eumed her conversation with Monsieur Noiret, who had looked
 
 SEVEN YEARS. 133 
 
 cn keenly though silently, whilst Fanny returned to her prepa 
 rations, and Marie and Charlotte were sulkily silent. Mon- 
 sieur Noirct soon rose, and looking hard at Fanny, he said 
 quietly : 
 
 " I am sorry for what has occurred. I am acquainted with 
 few ladies, and I cannot give another customer instead of the 
 lost one ; but Fanny knows there is an easy remedy for all this 
 uneasiness." 
 
 The lips of Fanny opened to give Monsieur Noiret his an- 
 swer once for all, but she met the startled look of Madame la 
 Boche, and checking herself, she merely bent her head as much 
 as to say, " I know it." 
 
 " oh ! you will think it over," said Monsieur Noiret in his 
 cheerful voice ; " that is all I wish for, my dear, — all I wish 
 for. Good evening, ladies, good evening." And with a grace- 
 ful wave of his hand he left them. 
 
 The supper was silent. Fanny was pale as death : Madame 
 la Roche, guessing what passed in the young girl's mind, looked 
 at her pitifully; Charlotte and Marie seemed agreed on a silent 
 truce. Periiaps they, too, were meditating on Monsieur Noi- 
 ret's last words, on Fanny's looks, and speculating on the prob- 
 able issue of both. 
 
 We have said that Fanny slept in a sort of closet, which 
 was barely large enough to hold her bed. She always was the 
 last up, and on this evening she stayed later up than usual. 
 At length, however, she lay down, and prepared for a sleep- 
 less night. 
 
 She had not been long in iDed, when, wrapped in a shawl 
 and holding a candle, Madame la Roche appeared by her bed- 
 side. Fanny sat up startled, and was going to ask what ailed 
 her, or what had hajDpened, when the lady signed her to be si- 
 lent and lie down. 
 
 " My dear," she softly said, bending over her, " do not fret, 
 do not trouble ; do not think of what Monsieur Noiret said, aud 
 do not mind either Charlotte or Marie, if they urge you. 
 They mean well, but they think all the happiness of life is in 
 money : they know nothing about it, and do not mind them. 
 All will be well yet: I have a plan I will talk of with you to- 
 morrow, aud now good night, and sleep." She kissed her, and 
 withdrew softly, without having allowed the young girl to ut- 
 ter a word. 
 
 Fanny wondered at first what Madame la Roche's projects 
 could be, then soothed, spite of herself, by a vague hope, she 
 sighed with relief, and closing her eyes soon slept soundly.
 
 134 SEVEN TEAKS. 
 
 At breakfast the next morning Madame la Roche unfolded 
 her plans ; smiling, with a content to which her mild but sad 
 face had long been a stranger, she said cheerfully : 
 
 " I wonder I never thought of it before ; but I have often 
 heard that good ideas are slow to come. It is singular, I do 
 not see why it should be so. Well, this is what I have thought 
 of," she added, displaying a little painted fan on the table. 
 *' You know how much my fan has been admired. The people 
 of the shop who mounted it declared it was a beautiful work of 
 art, and that they would willingly give twenty francs for one 
 like it. Now you know, Fanny, my dear, that I painted it in 
 three mornings. Twenty francs in three mornings ! why, tbat 
 makes forty francs a week, and one hundred and sixty francs 
 a month ! Besides that, Fanny can learn, and paint fans too, 
 in a very short time. JSfow, my dear child, do not look so 
 startled. It is not difficult. This is how it is done. I have 
 a set of pieces of card-board, you know, with the flowers, birds 
 and butterflies all perforated. Where I fiud a vacant place I 
 put a colour, then I finish ofi", and I have produced a rose, a 
 pink, or a bird, as the case may be. A circle does for the rose, 
 a triangle for the pink, an oval for the bird. I add the head 
 and tail afterwards; the head at one end and the tail at the 
 other, of course. Our master at school used to call this geo- 
 metrical drawing, and really the effect is very pretty ; then the 
 grouping is all my own, to be sure. " And with innocent vanity 
 Madame la Roche opened the fan, which, thanks to its bright 
 colours, plenty of gilding, and the grouping, really looked very 
 pretty. 
 
 " If I had all the fans I have painted and given away," 
 sighed Madame la Roche, " I should have quite a fortune by 
 this. Well, well, I gave them freely, and it is wrong to grudge 
 a gift." 
 
 Marie and Charlotte had too long looked on their mistress 
 as on a superior fairy, gitted with every accomplishment, to 
 doubt the beauty of the tans and consequently their success. 
 Fanny was not quite so confident or so sanguine ; but she too, 
 from her childhood upwards, had learned to respect the artistic 
 talents of her protectress, and though she timidly objected that 
 perhaps so many fans as Madame la Roche could paint might 
 not be saleable, the fans themselves found in her a ready and 
 devout believer. Madame la Roche felt no sort of doubt on 
 the subject. Inexperience of life and its trials supplied in her 
 the hopefulness of youth, and produced results apparently 
 similar. Confident of success, she talked and laughed with
 
 SEVEN YEARS. 135 
 
 unusual liveliness, and as soon as the meal was over, she went 
 out with the fan in her pocket, and Charles by the hand. 
 
 " It is a fine thing Madame has thought of," observed 
 Marie, as she was making the beds : " it will be the making of 
 Monsieur Charles, pretty dear." 
 
 " I did not think Madame was going to paint fans in her 
 old age, nor that the child of my dear foster-daughter was to 
 rely on fans for a fortune," replied Charlotte. 
 
 " It is well people have not the evil eye, as well as an evil 
 tongue," angrily exclaimed Marie, throwing a counterpane on 
 the bed with a revengeful air, " else Heaven have mercy on 
 us. We should be in a pretty state." 
 
 " The belief in the evil eye is an ancient superstition," 
 placidly answered Charlotte. " I have heard of remote prov- 
 inces and of aged people who still cherish it." 
 
 This was one of the speeches that usually exasperated 
 Marie, and which by urging her to make some bitter and vehe- 
 ment reply, invariably led to a dire quarrel. 
 
 And a severe encounter no doubt took place, but Fanny 
 heard no more, for she went out on a domestic errand, and 
 remained some time away. When she came back Madame la 
 Roche had returned, and was sitting in her arm-chair by the fire- 
 side. A look at her face told Fanny what the fate of Madame la 
 Roche's errand had been. Pale and sad she sat, her hands 
 folded on her knees, her look listlessly fastened on the child 
 playing on the rug as gaily as if his future were couleur de 
 rose. Marie and Charlotte sat a little apart, one sewing, the 
 other doing nothing, and both gloomy. 
 
 " Well, my dear," said Madame la Roche, speaking with 
 an eff"ort, " I have received another strange proof of the insin- 
 cerity of the world. When I was a rich lady, and got fans 
 mounted, I painted beautifully; now that I am a poor woman 
 and want to earn my bread, my painting is all trash. Yes, 
 my dear, that same fan which they praised so much formerly 
 is trash now." 
 
 " Dear Madame, do not mind them," said Fanny, much 
 moved. 
 
 " My dear child, I should not care if it were not that we 
 are as we are, so miserably poor." 
 
 She sighed, and closing her eyes sank back in her chair 
 with an air of weariness. 
 
 " Some one else may like the fans," timidly suggested Fanny. 
 
 But if inexperience sometimes gives the sanguine hopes of 
 
 you^h to age, it never bestows the wonderful elasticity of that
 
 130 SEVEN YEARS. 
 
 happy time of life to declining years. Madame la Roelie's 
 dreams had been rudely dispelled ; tbcy could not know a 
 second birth. 
 
 " No, child," she said, sighing, " I perceive I have been de- 
 ceived. It does not matter much, so far as I am concerned 
 I thought my fan pretty and valuable, and it is worthless ; no 
 it does not matter about my little amour-propre; but why 
 cheat myself willingly ? I will not : indeed, I could not." 
 
 " Bonne mamau," said Charles, " you promised me a gun, 
 where is it ? " 
 
 Madame la Roche took up the child on her knees, and 
 kissed him silently. 
 
 " Child," she said, " I was glad when you were born, and 
 when your poor mother died it seemed a comfort to have you 
 left : but now I think that if you were in your little grave I 
 should not fret or cry much. I should think, God has taken 
 him away to spare him a v.'orld of trouble and care." 
 
 The round face of Charles lengthened, and his bright eyes 
 grew fixed as he heard this. Charlotte threw her handkerchief 
 on her face and sobbed from behind it, and Marie, looking at 
 Fanny, said moodily: 
 
 " Well, Fanny, if I had in my power what you have in 
 yours, matters should not be as they are." 
 
 Before Fanny could reply, Madame la Roche looked up 
 and said gravely, " I beg, Marie, and once for all, that Fanny 
 may never be urged on that subject again." 
 
 " Ay," thought Faun}', pressing her hand to her aching 
 forehead, " it all lies with me ! I can make them happy with 
 a word, and it seems so easy." 
 
 But uo more was said on the subject. Madame la Roche 
 tried to rally, and succeeded indifferently; Charles resumed 
 his gambols; Marie and Charlotte picked up a quarrel about 
 nothing, and Fanny was left to her own thoughts. The day 
 seemed dull and heavy ; evening brought Monsieur Noii'et with 
 his brisk cheerfulness ; if he noticed the gloom cast on the little 
 family he took care to seem unconscious of it, and was as po- 
 lite and gallant as if addressing a circle of smiling faces. 
 Similar to this were the next day and the next evening. On 
 the third morning Fanny rose pale as death. 
 
 " Something ails her," said Marie to Charlotte. 
 
 " She looks like Monica on the day she went to America," 
 sententiously replied Charlotte. " Now, Monica, I said, mind 
 what you are about. It is all very well to go to America, but 
 to come back is another thing."
 
 SEVEN TEAKS. 137 
 
 " What has America to do with Fanny's white face ? " iior 
 patiently asked Marie. " She is not a map, is she ? " 
 
 " Perhaps you think she is," replied Cliarlotte, coolly. " I 
 like the girl too much to find any likeness." 
 
 " A saint could not stand that," wrathfully began Marie. 
 
 " Peace, peace," said Madame la Roche, appearing ; " I 
 will have quietness ; Fanny, my dear, what ails you ? " 
 
 " Nothing, Madame," replied Fanny, with a cold abstracted 
 manner. 
 
 " Are you going out ? " asked Madame la Roche, seeing that 
 she put on her shawl. 
 
 Fanny said she was. 
 
 " And where are you going ? " 
 
 " I want air," eA-asively said Fanny. Madame la Roche 
 gave her a compassionate look, and went back to her room, 
 Marie and Charlotte exchanged furtive glances, but did not 
 utter a word till the door had closed on Fanny. 
 
 " She has made up her mind, then," said Marie, whom a 
 natural infirmity rarely allowed to keep her rnind to herself; 
 " she is as white as paper." 
 
 " Paper is not always white," replied Charlotte; "there 
 is brown paper and blue paper." 
 
 " I never heard anything like it," exclaimed Marie, exas- 
 perated ; " I tell you what, Charlotte, the same house can- 
 not hold us long. It cannot." 
 
 " It need not," placidly said Charlotte ; " when Fanny is 
 Madame Noiret, I shall of course go and live with my god- 
 daughter. Summer is coming on, and I shall enjoy country 
 air." 
 
 To this taunt, for a taunt it was, Marie having often de- 
 clared that she would live with Fanny in the event of her 
 marriage, the owner of the Norman cap now only replied with 
 an attempt to whistle, and an emphatic bah ! 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 At twelve Charlotte discovered that she wanted to go 
 out; and at once Marie made a similar discovery. Madame 
 la Roche saw them depart with apathetic listlessness, and only 
 asked if they would not take out Charles. 
 
 " I am going to the Faubourg St. Germain," said Charlotte, 
 *it is too far." 
 
 Marie was going to the Rue St. Honore, and though that
 
 188 SEVEN TEARS. 
 
 happened to be the opposite direction, it was also too far for 
 the child to accompany her. 
 
 " Oh ! very well," listlessly said Madame la Roche, and 
 she resumed her sad contemplation of the decaying embers 
 on the hearth, for spring time though it was, the morning was 
 chill. 
 
 Marie was going to the Rue St. Hon ore, but unaccount- 
 ably her steps took another direction, and before half an hour 
 was over she crossed the threshold of Monsieur Noiret's house, 
 and was admitted by Monsieur Noiret's servant into that gen- 
 tleman's sitting-room. 
 
 " Eh ! my old friend Marie," he said jocularly ; well, what 
 news, Marie ? " 
 
 " Good news, sir," knowingly said Marie. " Good news." 
 
 Monsieur Noiret had passed the age when the heart beats 
 and the cheek flushes ; but a sparkle of triumph, nevertheless, 
 lit his brown eye ; and a slow smile, a genuine smile, display- 
 ed his shining teeth. 
 
 " Good news ! " he repeated ; " sit down, Marie, and tell 
 me those good news." 
 
 " Fanny has made up her mind." 
 
 " About what ? " placidly asked Monsieur Noiret. 
 
 " Monsieur knows." 
 
 " I shall know when you tell me, IMarie." 
 
 " Monsieur knows," repeated Marie, who was of a stvibbom 
 turn. " I came to tell Monsieur, and also to warn Monsieur 
 about Charlotte. It dues not become me to speak ill of an 
 old fellow-servant to whom I am attached, and for whom I 
 would work my poor bo les bare ; but all 1 say is this, if 
 Monsieur Noiret takes Charlotte in his house he will repent it 
 as long as he lives." 
 
 " Not exactly," said Monsieur Noiret, smiling, " not ex- 
 actly. I never repent anything more than a day ; for when 
 what I have done docs not suit me," continued Monsieur 
 Noiret, " I undo it." 
 
 Marie was rather disconcerted, and coughed from behind 
 her hand ; but she soon rallied and observed : 
 
 " I can assure Monsieur that Charlotte does not think of 
 that, and that she contemplates spending her life with Mon- 
 sieur." 
 
 " Very curious," said Monsieur Noiret, smiling ; " Char- 
 lotte has not been gone five minutes, and she averred the same 
 thing of you." 
 
 The eyes of Marie shot fire.
 
 SEVEN YEARS. 139 
 
 " Oil ! if Charlotte has been here," she said, " I can im- 
 agine what she has been saying of me." 
 
 " Very kind things," replied Monsieur Noiret ; " in short, 
 much about what you have been saying of her." 
 
 This did not seem to soothe Marie much; for she observ- 
 ed, with considerable asperity : 
 
 " Then I suppose it is all settled, and that she is to come 
 here. All I can say is. Monsieur will repent it," 
 
 " Dear me, this is very singular," said Monsieur Noiret ; 
 " something has happened that requires me to be favored with 
 your presence, or with that of Charlotte, but I cannot possibly 
 learn what it is from either one or the other." 
 
 " Did not Charlotte tell Monsieur ? " asked Marie, bright- 
 ening. 
 
 " Not more than you have done," replied Monsieur Noiret; 
 " I am supposed to be a sphinx, and to guess riddles." 
 
 " Dear me, to think of it. Well, then, since Monsieur 
 wishes to know the truth, I must tell it in plain words. Fanny 
 jas made up her mind." 
 
 " To what ? '■' said Monsieur Noiret. 
 
 " To become Monsieur's wife, I suppose," said Marie, 
 curtseying. 
 
 " Hem ! " said Monsieur Noiret, giving her a keen look, 
 " did Fanny say so V 
 
 " Young girls never say so," sharply replied Marie. 
 
 " Oh, yes they do — sometimes," replied Monsieur Noiret, 
 *' and I have no doubt that if Fanny has made up her mind 
 she will say so. In the mean while, my dear creature, and 
 until the little thing has fairly spoken, we will consider that 
 nothing, actually nothing, has happened." 
 
 " But Fanny has made up her mind," obstinately said 
 Marie. 
 
 " Very well," placidly replied Monsieur Noiret. " I shall 
 say a few words to her to-night ; and to-morrow or after to- 
 morrow," he graciously added, " we can discuss those other 
 matters that brought you and Charlotte here to-day." 
 
 This was a polite dismissal : Marie curtsied again, and left 
 in a suspicious mood, convinced that Charlotte had forestalled 
 her, and anything but pleased with the success of her errand. 
 
 And yet in one respect Marie was right enough. Fanny's 
 mind was made up, and when she left the house that morning 
 she seemed to be treading upon air. Light and swift as a 
 vision she passed through streets, and went up and down lanes 
 and alleys, seeing nothing, feeling nothing, — absorbed in one
 
 140 SEVEN TEARS. 
 
 thought that eifaced every other. At length she stopped before 
 the shop of Baptiyte, and pushing open the door she entered. 
 
 Baptiste was alone, making up an account. He looked up 
 with the slowness habitual to him, and saw Fanny standing 
 before him looking at him with sad eyes, and pale as death. 
 
 Strong man as he was, Baptiste shook and grew white. 
 For a while he could not move^ but sat and looked amazed at 
 this pale vision. It may be that Fanny misunderstood his 
 silence, for, raising her hand with a deprecating gesture, she 
 said meekly : 
 
 " Baptiste, am I welcome? " 
 
 " You ask it ! " broke from Baptiste's full heart, "you ask 
 if you are welcome, Fanny ! " and rising he went towards her. 
 
 Fanny sat down on a chair, and hid her burning face in 
 her hands. Baptiste thought she was crying, and that some- 
 thing dreadful hrid happened. 
 
 "What is it ? " he cried: "nothing to you, surely," he 
 added, eyeing her uneasily, as if, even though he saw her be- 
 fore him, he scarcely thought her safe ; " what is it, Fanny ? " 
 
 " Nothing," she answered, looking up, and uncovering her 
 red face, " nothing, only what do you think of my coming to 
 you, Bapti.^te ? " " 
 
 " That you are in trouble," he simply replied, " and that 
 you want me." 
 
 " Yes, that is it," said Fanny, with a touch of bitterness; 
 " if I did not want you I should not be here, and you know it. 
 Well, Baptiste, I do not care what you think ; you are the 
 only friend I have left, and I come to you. Help me to bear 
 up, or I shall sink. Tell me you are fond of me, spite of all 
 tliat has passed, or I shall get reckless and do something des- 
 perate that shall end it all." 
 
 Baptiste took both her hands in his, and clasped them with 
 tender tirmness. 
 
 " Fanny, my little Fanny," he said, " what is it ? Tell 
 me all, tell me everything." 
 
 " They want me to mai-ry old Monsieur Noiret," said 
 Fanny, hanging down her head, " and I will not — I cannot." 
 
 Baptiste set his teeth. 
 
 " Marry that old man ! " he said, " marry any man — not 
 whilst I am alive, Fanny. You are my wife, or as good as my 
 wife, and all the mischief is that you will not be my wife out- 
 right." 
 
 " I cannot — I cannot," cried Fanny, desperately. " Oh ! 
 if I but could, Baptiste, what a world of care it would spare
 
 SEVEN TEAKS. 141 
 
 me. But T cannot. They want me too nmcli, and I like you 
 too well to cast that burden on you. But I wish that old man 
 would not come, and I wish they would not sigh and look as 
 they do. I know the poverty and want of our wretched home, 
 and my heart feels ready to break. This is why I came to 
 you. I have no one else to fly to for strength and succour, 
 and if I stay alone I am undone — I am undone." 
 
 " I am a wretch to have forsaken you, my poor little dar- 
 ling,'' said Baptiste, with tears in his eyes, " but do not fret, 
 my heart, my treasure ; say nothing when you go home. Let 
 them sigh, let them look as long as they like. I shall drop in 
 this evening as if nothing had happened ; and when that old 
 gentleman sees me," added Baptiste, grimly, " I am very much 
 mistaken if he does not drop oft", eh ? " 
 
 Fanny lauohed through her tears : trust and comfort came 
 to her with Baptiste's honest voice and look. 
 
 " With that good friend," she thought, " surely all will be 
 well yet." 
 
 And full of faith and hope she gave Baptiste her hand, and 
 smiled brightly as she said : 
 
 " What possessed me, Baptiste, ever to let you leave me ? 
 I ought to have known that I could not do without you. 
 Ought I not?" 
 
 Baptiste's eyes sparkled. 
 
 " I do think you are fond of me," he said. " I have often 
 thought you were not ; but since we parted I thought over 
 many things, and I felt it in my heart : Fanny likes me." 
 
 " Couceit, mere conceit," said Fanny. "I want you just 
 now to send oft' Monsieur Noiret, that is all And so good 
 bye." 
 
 iShe nodded, and was gone. 
 
 " She may say what she likes," thought Baptiste, " that 
 girl is fond of me." 
 
 Fanny let him rejoice in tlie triumphant conviction, and 
 went home. Of what had happened she said nothing : she 
 had always been able to keep her own counsel, and she thought 
 it would be time enough to speak when Baptiste showed him- 
 self. Fanny, indeed, might have been more open had she sus- 
 pected the mistake under'whicli her friends laboured, but she 
 did not, and she helped to deceive them in perfect good faith. 
 
 '• My dear, you look feverish," said Madame la Koclie 
 anxiously. " I do not know Avhen I have seen you with such 
 a colour."
 
 142 SEVEN YEARS. 
 
 Fauny blushed, and said something about a headache, 
 which was not, we fear, quite correct. 
 
 Marie spoke next. 
 
 " Girls are so," she said, " they cannot be like other peo- 
 ple ; they must colour and look foolish, one never knows why. 
 What is there in marriage that upset them so ? They are all 
 mad to be married, and yet when it comes to the point, they 
 are as fantastical as princesses." 
 
 Fanny looked and felt puzzled ; there seemed something in 
 this speech that applied to her, but more that did not. She 
 thought it most prudent not to reply. 
 
 " Girls are not always so anxious to get married," said 
 Charlotte, who could not lose the opportunity of contradic- 
 tion ; " it depends on the advice they get, and if Monica had 
 not been ill advised I will not believe that she would even 
 have gone off to America." 
 
 " Fanny," said Madame la Roche, wishing to know more, 
 and to put an end to the contest, " you were a long time out; 
 where have you been ? " Fauny reddened more than ever, 
 and remained mute. 
 
 " Never mind, dear, never mind," quickly said Madame la 
 Roche, unwilling to distress her, " all in good time, I have no 
 doubt." 
 
 Fanny thought so too, and did not speak. Charlotte and 
 Marie exchanged significant looks ; evidently Fanny had had 
 a private conversation with Monsieur Noiret. It was strange 
 tliat she had not seen him at home in their presence, but 
 Fanny was a fanciful girl, and liked to do things her own 
 way. 
 
 Madame la Roche came to the same conclusion ; with 
 mingled surprise and relief she saw that Fanny seemed very 
 happy; there was a ready smile on her lips and a light in her 
 eyes to which both had long been a stranger : "I suppose it is 
 having made her mind up," thought Madame la Roche : " I 
 always feel much lighter when I have made my mind up 
 Poor Baptiste ! I wonder how he will bear it." 
 
 In this discreet silence on both sides the day passed: 
 Fanny thinking herself suspected, Madame la Roche, Char- 
 lotte, and Marie concluding all was right : none on either 
 Bide holding it necessary to speak. Unsuspicious of the ap- 
 proaching storm, Madame la Roche dropped asleep after 
 dinner. 
 
 It was early yet, when a ring was heard at the door. 
 Fanny started up, joyous but a little flurried. She knew Bap-
 
 SEVEN YEARS. 143 
 
 tiste's ring, and opened with a trembling hand, yet with a 
 happy smile, that faded away on beholding Monsieur Noiret. 
 
 He did not appear to lieed or see her blank looks. He 
 entered gay, smiling, cheerful ; he directed his most amiable 
 bow and greeting to Madame la Roche, and as he sat down by 
 her side, he nodded to Charlotte and Marie, and looked hard 
 at Fannv. Her countenance revealed none of the sio-ns Mon- 
 sieur Noiret had been led to expect. Uneasy and disturbed 
 at his visit, she sheltered her face behind Charles's curly head, 
 and looked with the child at a book on her lap. 
 
 " Charles is learning how to read," said Monsieur Noiret. 
 
 "I know all my letters ! " cried Charles, proudly. 
 
 " No wonder, with such a teacher ! " resumed Monsieur 
 Noiret, still looking hard at Fanny. She felt the child was 
 but a means of drawing attention to her, so she c|uietly put 
 him away, and rose apparently to take some work in hand. 
 
 Marie, who was burning to briug matters to a crisis, 
 hastened to observe in an under voice : 
 
 " The most industrious girl." 
 
 " A treasure to a husband I " put in Charlotte. 
 
 Monsieur Noiret smiled, and Fanny, red as tire, dropped 
 the linen she was going to darn, and turuiug towards Monsieur 
 Noiret her flushed and angry face, she said to Marie : 
 
 " You know I detect sewing." 
 
 Monsieur Noiret laughed, and looked more pleased than 
 shocked at this little burst of temper. Fann3', who felt greatly 
 annoyed, glanced at him with as nmch haughtiness as she could 
 venture to put in her look, but even as she gaz^d she became 
 conscious of a singular change in Monsieur Noiret's face; it 
 darkened visibly ; his brows knit slightly, and his dark eyes 
 shone from beneath them with something like fierceness. 
 
 Fanny turned round startled, yet not quite unconscious of 
 the cause of so strange a change. The door which she had 
 neglected to close on Monsieur Noiret had opened again, and 
 Baptiste was standing on the threshold. 
 
 Fanny cast a troubled and anxious look around her. 
 Charlotte and Marie looked confounded ; Madame la Eoche 
 utterly amazed ; and Monsieur Noiret black and defiant. At 
 once he guessed the truth, or rather he went beyond it. 
 Madame la Roche, her two servants, and Fanny, he comprised 
 in one mean ph)t to entrap and cheat him, and though he was 
 too gentleman-like to show any temper, there was scarcely any 
 mistaking the smile with which he rose and bade Madame la 
 Roche good evening.
 
 144 SEVEN YEARS. 
 
 " Good evening, my dear Madame," he said, with his most 
 urbane smile, "no apologies, I beg; I hold myself fortunate 
 in having seen you this evening. I may not have like pleasure 
 in haste. I perceive I was not expected so very early ; I 
 think I did come rather too early ; but friendship discards all 
 ceremony. Good evening ; I entreat you not to stir." 
 
 With a courtly bow all round, Monsieur Noiret stepped 
 out. pinching Fanny's cheek as be passed by her. 
 
 " You are very young, my dear, to act a double part," he 
 said blandly, " you are very young. Good night." 
 
 He waved his hand to her, and walked out past Baptiste, 
 who mechanically stepped aside to make way for his rival, and 
 who, fortunately for that gentleman, had not heard the parting 
 speech Fanny had received from him. As for Fanny, she was 
 too much taken by surprise to resent on the moment the impu- 
 tation it conveyed. 
 
 When the door had closed on Monsieur Noiret, Baptiste 
 looked around him. Not one face, not even Fanny's bade him 
 welcome. The young girl was shocked and frightened at 
 Monsieur Noiret's words. Madame la Roche looked as if she 
 had gazed on Medusa's face ; and Charlotte and Marie were 
 fairly boiling over with wrath at an intrusion which, in their 
 opinion, ruined everything. 
 
 It was lucky for Baptiste that he was of a phlegmatic 
 temper, else he might have been disconcerted at so strange a 
 reception ; as it was, he looked calmly around him, and seeing 
 that Fanny was only startled, he troubled himself but little 
 with the rest. 
 
 Madame la Roche was the first to speak. She clasj)ed her 
 hands and wrung them, 
 
 " I owe Monsieur Noiret a hundred francs," she moaned, 
 " and he looked as I never saw him look before." 
 
 She spoke half wildlj^, and for a moment she was certainly 
 unconscious of Baptiste's presence. 
 
 " A hundred francs," he said, quietly. " I beg Madame's 
 pardon for meddling in what concerns me not, but I can let 
 Madame have two hundred francs, before to-morrow morning." 
 
 " You, Baptiste," said Madame la Roche, opening her 
 eyes and shaking her head sadly, " and what should 1 take 
 your money for ? " 
 
 " Ay," put in Marie with much energy, " what should 
 Madame take your money for ? " 
 
 Baptiste neither looked at nor answered the last speaker.
 
 SEVEN YEARS, 145 
 
 He fastened his clear blue eyes on Madame la Roche, and 
 said with respectful firmness : 
 
 " Madame has reared Fanny, who is all but my wife ; all 
 I have is hers, and all she has is Madame's. I have a little 
 money just now, and it is heartily at Madame's disposal." 
 
 " Sti-auge presumption ! " meditatively said Charlotte, 
 commenting upon it. 
 
 But Madame la Roche's eyes grew dim. 
 
 " It is Gfod's will ! " she sighed, " ay, verily it is God's 
 will that I should be humbled, that my old age should be 
 a burden on their youth. Come here, Baptiste, here by me. 
 I see Fannjr and you are reconciled : well, 1 am glad, Baptiste, 
 I am, and I will not stand any more between you — you must 
 marry." 
 
 Fanny looked frightened, and Charlotte and Marie utter- 
 ed exclamations, but Madame la Roche held up her hand 
 and enjoined silence. 
 
 " Hush ! " she said, with something like sternness. 
 "What right have three old useless lives to stand for ever 
 between two young things ? We have made their hearts 
 sore enough, as it is. Come here, Fanny. 
 
 Fanny obeyed. She seemed bewildered, and like one 
 who had lost all power of resistance. Madame la Roche 
 took the young girl's hand, and put it in Baptiste's, theu 
 sank back in her chair with evident relief. 
 
 Baptiste stood face to face with his betrothed ; her hand 
 lay in his, and for once since their first betrothal, there was 
 no resistance, no denial in Fanny's looks. He f|ue.-tioned her. 
 " Well, Fanny," he said, clasping her hand tightly, " what do 
 you say? " 
 
 Fanny raised her eyes to his ; her lips parted ; like one un- 
 able to contend auj' longer, she uttered words of assent. 
 
 " As you please, as you like." 
 
 The face of Baptiste fell, he released the hand of Fanny 
 with a rueful sigh, and looking at Madame la Roche, he said, 
 rather dismally : 
 
 "No, Madame, no, that must not be; God knows I love 
 Fanny as I love my life, — but there is no denying it, if we 
 were to marry just now it might interfere with the duty she 
 owes you and others, and so we must even wait. Fanny 
 said so long niso, for thouo-h she does not care to show it, she 
 nas more sense in her little finger than I have in my whole 
 body ; but I would not mind her, and trouble and grief nearly 
 befell us both. But now," added Baptiste, with manful 
 7
 
 146 SEVEN YEAKS. 
 
 calmness, " now, Madame, my mind is made up, — and I am 
 willing to wait as long as Fanny pleases, as long as is 
 needed," resumed Biiptiste, with a thoughtful sigh, that show- 
 ed he did not think himself on the eve of his wedding-day. 
 
 Madame la Roche raised her head and looked at Fanny. 
 The young girl stood before Baptiste, gazing at him with a 
 smile, half sad, half happy, on her face. 
 
 " You know best," sighed Madame la Roche ; " but since 
 you must or will wait, you must see Fanny as often as you 
 like, and be as one of us." 
 
 To this plan neither Baptiste nor Fanny raised any objec 
 tion ; but Marie boldly attempted to interfere. 
 
 " Has Madame reflected ? " she began. 
 
 "I have," interrupted Madame la Roche, rather testily, 
 " and I will not hear one word against it." 
 
 Marie turned up her eyes and shook her head, but sub- 
 mitted for all that. 
 
 Monsieur Noiret's money was paid the very next morn- 
 ing, and before he had even time to ask for it. Whether he 
 still thought that an attempt to deceive him had been made, 
 and been defeated by chance alone, or whether he acquitted 
 Madame la Roche and Fanny of the unworthy design, was 
 more than either knew. He came no more, and gave his re- 
 sentment at what had occurred no active or outward shape. 
 
 A heavy burden now fell on Baptiste. True, Marie found 
 a little work to do, and Fanny wa,s fortunate enough to secure 
 permanent employment ; but still the wants of the house were 
 many, and Baptiste never waited to see them twice before 
 they were supplied, and time, weary time, passed away, and 
 he seemed no netirer an end he never forgot, though he never 
 mentioned it. 
 
 Sometimes, not often, for the indulgence was perilous, 
 Fanny looked at him wistfully, as much as to say : " When 
 will it all end, Baptiste ? " 
 
 And Baptiste by a shrewd nod seemed to answer : " All in 
 good time, Fanny, all in good time." And thus four years 
 passed away. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 The March sun shone brightly. The day was fine. Charles 
 said and thought so. " Bonne maman says it will not rain," 
 he said, stopping short before Fanny, who sat sewing, and 
 he looked at her wistfully.
 
 SEVEN YEAKS. 147 
 
 Fanny sighed, but did not reply. 
 
 " And this is a holiday," pursued Charles, who had grown 
 up into a fine strong boy, and Avho was handsome too, and 
 tolerably good. 
 
 Fanny sighed again. 
 
 " Poor child," she said, half aloud, " he wants a walk, and 
 exercise would do him good." 
 
 Charles had heard her ; he flung his arms around her neck. 
 
 " Oh ! yes, Fanny, do, do ! " he exclaimed, '• do take me 
 out." 
 
 But Fanny, who, though still very pretty, had grown very 
 sober and very grave, shook her head with mild denial. 
 
 " It is a holiday for you, but not for me," she said ; " you 
 see yourself that I must sew." 
 
 " You could do it to-night," whispered Charles ; " I know 
 you often sit up by the sly, burning candle ends — I see you." 
 
 Fanny blushed. 
 
 " I do not do it by the sly," she said, " but I make no 
 noise, because I do not wish to waken them." 
 
 " Yes, and you do not want Baptiste to know," suggested 
 Charles, nodding. " Baptiste says it injures your eyes, and 
 he does not like it. Baptiste is very fond of you." 
 
 "Of course he is," said Fanny, quietly; "have you only 
 just found that out, Monsieur Charles '? " 
 
 Monsieur Charles looked piqued, and said he had known 
 it a long time. 
 
 " Oh ! " said Fanny, slowly. 
 
 " Yes," pursued Charles, " I have." 
 
 " Baptiste told you, I suppose ? " 
 
 " Oh ! no, he did not tell me." 
 
 Fanny questioned no more, but Charles's wish of imparting 
 information was too strong to be resisted, so he went on. 
 
 " I know it, because the evening you were out late, Baptiste 
 walked about the rooms, and struck his forehead, and said to 
 bonne maman, ' I shall go mad if anything has happened to 
 that girl.' Charlotte ancl Marie said nothing had happened to 
 you, but he would not mind them, and he was not quiet till 
 you came in." 
 
 " And what did Baptiste say then ? " asked Fanny, to 
 whom the circumstances recalled by Charles, came back like a 
 dream. 
 
 "Say! oh, he said nothing. And now, Fanny, do take 
 ine out."
 
 148 SEVEN YEAKS. 
 
 "■ Go into the next room, and see if Charlotte or Marie want 
 anything," said Fanny. 
 
 Charles obeyed all the more readily that, he concluded, this 
 duty over, he and Fanny would take the walk he so longed for. 
 
 Fanny was working in the front room, minding the dinner 
 as well as her sewing. In the second room were, as of old, 
 the two beds of Charlotte and Marie, but alas ! these two beds 
 were now never vacant. Charlotte was a paralytic ; she could 
 not even sit up. A low fever had long been wasting Marie. 
 Weary days and weary nights were now the lot of the two suf- 
 ferers. Conversation, laments for youth and strength long 
 gone, for old times and old happiness, mixed with an occasional 
 tiff, by way of interlude, were now their chief solace. 
 
 " Ah ! Marie, times are changed since I entered the house 
 of Madame la Eoche," sighed Charlotte, whilst Fanny and 
 Charles were talking in the next room. " I remember you 
 well, when Mademoiselle Cecile, Heaven give her poor soul 
 peace, was a baby in arms, and you were as fine a Norman 
 girl as ever was seen." 
 
 " I used to be called la belle Normande" replied Marie, lift- 
 ing up her pale head, in which two sunken eyes shone with 
 unnatural fire. " People knew me from my cap." 
 
 " It became you," murmured Charlotte ; " you looked well 
 in that cap, Marie, remarkably well." 
 
 " A rosy face and a pair of black eyes would look well 
 under anything," sighed Marie ; " but I liked my cap, I con- 
 fess I did. It reminded me of my native jDlace, a pretty vil- 
 lage, with the Seine flowing through, and a clean white 
 church. Yes, Charlotte, I liked it, and when I took it off the 
 last time, and took to my bed, Charlotte, I felt it was all over 
 with me, ay, all over." 
 
 " Not all over," said Charlotte, " you can stir, I cannot." 
 
 " Stir," moaned Marie, " stir ! would I could not — would 
 I were in my grave, and not a burden on them all." 
 
 " I do think it singular that you will persist in wishing to 
 die," said Charlotte, with a touch of asperity ; " you know I 
 have a positive presentiment that I shall not survive you, and 
 to speak of your grave is just to wish me to be buried." 
 
 '• I suppose I may wish my own death," said Marie, sharp- 
 ly ; " as to the death of other people, and as to their presenti- 
 ments, pray what have I to do with them % " 
 
 " You have nothing to do with them," replied Charlotte, 
 with some of her old provoking calmness. " You are a passive
 
 SEVEN YEAKS. 149 
 
 agent, a sign-post like, you do not know what you indicate, 
 but others see and feel it." 
 
 " A sign-post," said Marie, rallying a little ; " a sign- 
 post," she added, turning round, " ah ! well, times are changed 
 indeed." 
 
 It was at this critical moment that Charles opened the 
 door, and putting in his fair curly head, said glibly : 
 
 " Fanny sends me to know if you want anything." 
 
 " Fanny might come herself," said Marie crossly ; " she 
 might come and sit here with me, instead of leaving me to be 
 insulted by her god-mother." 
 
 Charles coloured up. He loved no one, not even his grand- 
 mother, as he loved Fanny, and to touch her was to rouse all 
 his childish ire. 
 
 " Fanny cannot be in two places at once," he said hotly, 
 " and she cannot be here and mind the dinner in the next 
 room." 
 
 " I always thought that to have a god-child was better 
 than having a child of one's own," sighed Charlotte, from her 
 bed, " but it is not. My daughter left me to go off to Amer- 
 ica, and my god-daughter will not even sit in the room with 
 me. Ah ! well, it is a weary world, a weary world." 
 
 " Then you want nothing ? " said Charles, looking sulkily. 
 
 "Nothing!" almost screamed Charlotte, "nothing! did 
 the child say '? Why am I not to eat and drink ? — and have 
 I had luncheon?" 
 
 Marie only moaned and said, " She never got her drink 
 nor anything." 
 
 Charles came back to Fanny with the information that 
 Charlotte was very cross and wanted her luncheon, and that 
 Marie was very cross and wanted her drink. 
 
 " Well, Charles, do you think we can go out and take a 
 walk, and leave these two poor helpless sufferers who are cross 
 only because they suffer, — do you think we can go out and 
 take pleasure, and leave them alone ? " 
 
 Charles hung his head and did not reply. 
 
 " And now go in to your poor grandmamma," said Fanny, 
 " this is the time when she likes you to read to her." 
 
 Charles looked very blank. 
 
 " I do not like to read to bonne maman," he said, with 
 more frankness than duty, " it is tiresome." 
 
 "Poor child, I dare say it is," ejaculated Fanny, "but, 
 Charles, if you do not learn early to do what you do not like,
 
 150 SEVEN TEAKS. 
 
 you will find it a hard, very hard lesson when you are a man, 
 And now go and be good. Your grandmamma expects you." 
 
 Charles obeyed, for under new, though tender, discipline, 
 he had grown obedient, but before going, he threw his arms 
 around Fanny's neck and said coaxingly : . 
 
 " You will ask Baptiste to buy me a drum, will you not "? " 
 
 " Why not ask him yourself? " said Fanny. 
 
 " Because he does not mind me, but he does whatever you 
 ask him to do." 
 
 Fanny could not help smiling, but she would promise 
 nothing, and Charles, compelled to feed on hope, went to 
 Madame la Roche's room. 
 
 It was still a pretty, pleasant room, a little retired spot, 
 which the cares and anxieties of the outer regions were not al- 
 lowed to penetrate. 
 
 There was a kind and gentle conspiracy from Marie down 
 to Charles, to keep Madame la Eoche in ignorance of troubles, 
 which she would have felt too keenly, considering her utter want 
 of power to suggest even a remedy for them. The caution was 
 not superfluous : Madame la Roche had grown so weak during 
 the last three years, that she seldom left the house. To sit 
 by her Avindow, in her arm-chair, to enjoy sunshine in fair 
 weather, a bright fire in cold and frost, and to do nothing but 
 linger on through life, was now her lot. She bore this feeble- 
 ness and decay with the gentleness and patience of her nature. 
 She might even have been called cheerful, so calm was the 
 look of her mild blue eyes, so sweet the smile that lingered 
 on her pale lips. Her greatest, perhaps her only, pleasure 
 was to watch Charles growing up a fine healthy child, with 
 some generous qualities, and not more than childhood's usual 
 amount of faults. 
 
 She now saw him come in with a brightening look and a 
 ready smile. " Right, child," she said, " you did well to 
 come, I felt dull, and I do, not to have you every day. I 
 suppose he must go to school," added Madame la Roche, 
 soliloquizing, " but yet one would like to have him, for the 
 little one has to live." 
 
 "Baptiste says I must know a great many things," said 
 Charles, alarmed at a speech in which he saw intimations of 
 being kept from school for the gratification of his grand- 
 mamma. 
 
 " Baptiste is an angel," sighed Madame la Roche. 
 
 Charles looked incredulous.
 
 SEVEN YEAKS. 151 
 
 '•' Angols have got wings," he said, evidently holding the 
 argument unanswerable. 
 
 " You will know better when you are older," said Madame 
 la Roche ; " and now read nie something, child." 
 
 " Shall I read you the story of Aladdin and the Wonder- 
 ful Lamp ■? " asked Charles, who was tired of the classical 
 authors whom, to form his taste and improve his morals, Mad- 
 ame la Koche put into his hands. She seemed slightly sur- 
 prised at the suggestion, but good-humoredly replied he might 
 read what he pleased. So Charles perched himself upon a 
 chair, and read how the tailor's son married the Sultan's 
 daughter. 
 
 Madame la Roche closed her eyes because it was unneces- 
 sary and painful to keep them open, and she kept them closed 
 because she was soon fast asleep. But zealously, with un- 
 flagging zeal, Charles read on. He knew the tale by heart in 
 all its windings ; no matter, it was a wonderful tale, and 
 thrilled him through and through for all that. And whilst 
 the grandmother slept, and the happy child read, Fanny, 
 after administering to the wants of the two poor patients, 
 after soothing them down with kind words and a kiss, was 
 working hard and fast. " If I could only lighten the load oS 
 Eaptiste," she thought. 
 
 And Baptiste in his shop was working with equal ardor. 
 
 "I know that girl sits up at night," he thought; "if I 
 could only make more money, and save her poor eyes — my 
 little darling, would I were a rich man for your sake !" 
 
 Noble hearts, with whom love was not selfish, with whom 
 the performance of duty was not the cold absence of love. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 Towards dusk, Fanny slipped down stairs, and timidly 
 looked in at the grim porter. 
 
 " Any news. Monsieur Fecard ? " she asked. 
 
 " News ! what news should there be 1 " he roughly replied. 
 
 " I cannc^t tell," said Fanny, " you see the papers." 
 
 " What if I do ? Am I bound to be a newspaper for the 
 lodgers 1 " 
 
 Fanny sighed, but did not answer. All this roughness 
 was the price she had to pay every evening for intelligence 
 they were too poor to purchase. Madame la Roche missed 
 her ne-wspaper, and, so far as she could, it was Fanny's pleas-
 
 152 SEVEN TEAKS. 
 
 lire to supply the loss. If Baptiste had but guessed this he 
 wouhi have given Madame la Roc-he two newspapers, rather 
 than have his little Fanny reduced to such shifts ; but the 
 young girl was careful to conceal such necessities from his 
 watchful eye, — better than any one she knew the heavy bur- 
 den her love had brought hira. For this, putting away pride 
 and shame, slie stole down every evening to Monsieur F^card, 
 who, after rebuffing her, ended by giving her a condensed ac- 
 count of the day's paper. And so he did this evening too, 
 and that in the following fashion : 
 
 " A child run over on the boulevards." 
 
 '• How very shocking ! " said Fanny. 
 
 " Then w^hat do you want to know it for 1 " asked Mon- 
 sieur Fecard ; ' do you not know that newspapers are made 
 up of accidents, and murders, and fighting? Why, there was 
 a fire last night in the Faubourg St. Germain : a house burned 
 down." 
 
 " No one in it," nervously said Fanny. 
 
 " There ! you want to have people burned too — I never 
 heard any thing like it. I suppose you will be pleased to 
 hear that a man murdered his wife, then shot himself in Vau- 
 girard ? Yes, yes, all that is in your way." 
 
 " What could he murder his wife for ? " exclaimed Fanny, 
 turning pale. 
 
 " For love, of course, or jealousy, if you like. As to 
 politics, I never trouble my head about them. Monsieur 
 Thiers is in ; and the king is gone to Neuilly, and they talk 
 of a war, — but what do I care about it all 1 " 
 
 Monsieur Fecard hammered away, and Fanny, understand- 
 ing that he had no more intelligence to give, thanked him 
 softly, and stole up again. 
 
 Carefully, and without affectation, she imparted her little 
 stock of news to Madame la Roche, who said with much 
 naivete : 
 
 " My dear, you are as good as a newspaper. Where did 
 you learn all those wonderful things 1 Going about ! A 
 house burned in the Faubourg St. Germain ! I wonder if it 
 was JMadame Guignol's 1 " 
 
 Charlotte and Marie too, had their questions and com- 
 ments ; and with a touch of the spirit of old times, that made 
 Fanny happy, Marie exclaimed : 
 
 " She always was a wonderful girl." 
 
 And now the day was over, and every one slept save 
 Fanny : Madame la Roche in her room ; Charlotte and Marie
 
 SEVEN YEAE8, 153 
 
 in theirs, and Charles in the front room, where his crib had 
 been placed that he might be near Fanny in her closet, and 
 not waken his grandmother too early. 
 
 Fanny was still sewing ; she had some work to finish, and 
 she sewed hard and fast. Now and then her needle flagged, 
 as the street door opened and closed again with a heavy sound ; 
 now and then she started as a step came up the staircase, and 
 when nothing came of opening door or ascending step, Fanny 
 sighed. There is no denying it, she was expecting some one 
 — Baptiste, we need scarcely say. He came every evening. 
 No matter what the weather might be, he came. Of late, 
 whether it was that he had so much to do that he could not 
 com.e earlier, or that he found it pleasanter to see Fanny when 
 she sat alone by the crib of the sleeping child. Monsieur Bap- 
 tiste managed not to come until he was pretty sure to have 
 Fanny to himself. He did not stay later in consequence, and 
 Fanny raised no objection to the arrangement. That hour of 
 quiet converse, of remote plans, of hopes that might never re- 
 ceive their fulfdment on earth, was the only solace of two 
 hard-tasked lives. 
 
 It was, therefore, with a little hart-sickening that Fanny 
 sa»v the time pass that should have brought Baptiste ; it was 
 with mingled impatience and uneasiness that she heard a heavy 
 shower pattering against the window panes, and thought : 
 " tiresome old Baptiste," — Baptiste was so far promoted to 
 conjugal honours, that he was regularly called old Baptiste, — 
 " he will get wet." 
 
 There seemed every likelihood of it if he was out in that 
 rain ; it came down furiously, and just as it. was at its height, 
 the street door shut with a loud clap. Fanny felt sure it was 
 Baptiste. She ran to the door, opened it, and listened on the 
 staircase. A firm, but rather heavy step was coming up, and 
 presently Baptiste appeared emerging from the gloom, sjuiling, 
 and good-humoured as ever, but dripping from head to foot. 
 
 Fanny welcomed him with a reproach. 
 
 " Oh ! why did you come 1 " she said ; " you are wet 
 quite wet ; you will be ill after this. You are very tiresome, 
 Baptiste." _^- — 
 
 Baptiste received these reproaches with groat placidity. 
 And, indeed, though Fanny did the best to knit her smooth 
 brow into a frown, her brown eyes were so kind, and her 
 voice was so soft, spite its chiding, that even a more exacting 
 lover than Baptiste need not have complained. Nor did he ; 
 he entered the room, took off his cloth cap, shook his wet 
 7*
 
 154 SEVEN TEAES. 
 
 clothes, and sitting down by the stove, proceeded to dry him- 
 self with quiet philosophy. Fanny sat opposite him and re- 
 sumed her work. 
 
 " Every one well 1 " asked Baptiste. 
 
 " My god-mother and Marie are as usual ; Madame la 
 Eoche complained of fatigue ; Charles had a head-ache." 
 
 " And vou, Fanny 1 " 
 
 " Oh, Tarn well." 
 
 " Put down that sewing, pray do." 
 
 Fanny put it down with a smile ; for she thought, " I shall 
 sit up and finish it to-night." 
 
 " Do you know, Fanny," said Baptiste, after a meditative 
 pause, " that it will not do so ; no, it really will not. 1 must 
 get you another table ; that one is too large, and takes up too 
 much room." 
 
 " Well, perhaps it does," thoughtfully said Fanny. 
 
 This requires explanation. Baptiste and Fanny had got so 
 far familiarised with their position, that they well nigh con- 
 sidered themselves married, and were in the habit of settling 
 together sundry domestic concerns, like two old married 
 people. The position of certain pieces of furniture in that 
 little back room, which had been so long expecting Fanny's 
 presence, was a frequent subject of friendly debate ; Baptiste 
 found a particular pleasure in altering and improving his be- 
 loved's future home. Three times, at least, had he renewed 
 or changed the whole ameublement, and there was especially a 
 certain table, which might have been said to have travelled in 
 and out and round the room, more than falls to the lot of 
 most tables. 
 
 This table Baptiste had now decided on removing alto- 
 gether : it was too large. And Fanny agreed with him. But 
 that was not all. Baptiste had another plan which he impart- 
 ed to his mistress. 
 
 " Fanny," he said after another pause, " it is not the table 
 I fear that is too large, but the place that is too small. We 
 shall never be able" to live in it, especially if God sends us 
 children, as I hope He will ; no, the place is too small. We 
 must have a country house." 
 
 " What i " exclaimed Fanny, bewildered. 
 
 " I lino""' what I am saying," resumed Baptiste, with a 
 grave smile " I n'^^e ^^^^ thinking about it this week past. 
 Just listen "' '* ' -, , , , 
 
 ,. Fanny shook her head an' ^""^'^ i^icredulous ; but she 
 listened for all that.
 
 SEVEN TEARS. 155 
 
 " I saw a piece of land just outside the barrier yesterday," 
 resumed Baptiste, " a nice long bit, fit for a house and a garden 
 at the end. Now I thought that would be pleasant. A house 
 here, a little garden with a few flowers and truit trees, a quiet 
 little place overlooking green fields, and to which Fanny and 
 I could go every Saturday night, nor dream of coming back 
 till Monday morning. I tell you, Fanny, that for you and 
 the children such a place would be worth its weight in gold. 
 It would be life and health," 
 
 Fanny smiled at the ardour with which he spoke. She 
 smiled at the happy visions his words called forth. She saw 
 herself a matron, a mother with children at her knee, sons 
 and daughters growing up around her, and she felt what every 
 woman feels who dreams of sweet home ties. 
 
 " Now confess that would be just the thing," said Baptiste, 
 who was watching her face. 
 
 Fanny awoke with a start. 
 
 " And if we have no children," she said. " God does not 
 send them to all." 
 
 " No children ! " echoed Baptiste, looking blank, " no chil- 
 dren ! Well, Fanny, if we have none, we shall suppose it is 
 for the best. I once knew a man who was glad to have none," 
 musingly continued Baptiste, " and he gave an odd reason for 
 "t too." 
 
 " What reason ? " 
 
 " Why, that a woman had been sent to the galleys last 
 week, and tliat a man was to be guillotined next Monday. 
 He seemed to think the man might be his son and the woman 
 his daughter. I cannot say I ever thought of that : though, 
 to be sure, children are not always sent as a blessing ; but 
 children or no children, why should we not have a little coun- 
 try place to breathe pure air in after being locked up a whole 
 week ? " 
 
 " Why ! " answered Fanny, " for no reason that I know 
 of — unless that we cannot." 
 
 " There I have you. Mademoiselle," triumphantly rejoined 
 Baptiste. " Let me tell you that the piece of ground I saw 
 yesterday was for sale ; let me tell you that I went and found 
 out the landlord, and that it will go hard indeed if we do not 
 come to terms." 
 
 " But the money ! " exclaimed Fanny. 
 
 " What do you call that ? " asked Baptiste, producing an 
 old morocco pocket-book, which he opened, and whence he 
 exultingly drew forth several bank notes, which he thumbed
 
 156 SEVEN YEAES. 
 
 carefully and placed beneath Fanny's eyes ; " is that money 
 eh ? " he resumed, drawing in his breath ; " but perhaps you 
 object to paper, Mademoiselle; well, then, here is gold for 
 j'^ou." And an old purse followed the pocket-book ; through 
 its silk meshes gleamed many a Napoleon, Poor little Fanny 
 was dazzled. 
 
 " Is all that money yours ? " she cried, clasping her hands 
 in amazement. 
 
 " Every sou of it," replied Baptiste ; " ah ! well, my mind 
 is easy at last. I am not used to have secrets from you, 
 Fanny, and that paper and gold have given me the night- 
 mare : that is the truth." 
 
 " Then you have had it a long time ? " 
 
 " I have been scraping up these two years. This will 
 more than do for the land : as to the house," added Baptiste, 
 a little ruefully, " I shall have time to scrape up for that too, 
 I dare say, for we are not making haste to get married. Well, 
 never mind, what do you say to my plan, Fanny ? " 
 
 " It seems too happy," she replied, her eyes growing dim. 
 " We have had so much trouble and care, that it seems too 
 happy to think of having a pleasant little country house of 
 our own, — of course I mean of the plainest, but still a place 
 of our own, — where we could breathe fresh air, see green 
 fields, and have a few flowers. But, Baptiste, the flowers will 
 Want watering once a day at the very least. What shall we 
 do?" 
 
 Baptiste scratched his head and looked puzzled, but only 
 for a while. " Ah ! bah ! " he soon said, " can I not go out 
 every morning and water your flowers, and bring you a nose- 
 gay to cheer your poor heart throughout the day 1 I would 
 say that you should live there altogether, but you see, Fanny, 
 I am too selfish. I must have you both day and night." 
 
 "You do not suppose I want to live there by myself?" 
 impatiently asked Fanny ; " why, who is to mind the shop 
 and answer csutomers when you are out ? " 
 
 " Who but my wife ? very true, Fanny, very true. And 
 yet it is a sin to let that house lie empty a whole week. You 
 have no idea what a pretty place it will be. Just look here." 
 
 Again Baptiste opened his poket-book ; but this time he 
 only tore out a blank leaf, on wliieh, with the aid of a pencil, 
 he began drawing a house for Fanny's benefit. 
 
 " There," he said, " do you see it now ? That is the door ; 
 these are the three front windows : that is the roof; I need 
 not put on th-e chimney — the builder will see to that."
 
 SEVEN TEAES. 157 
 
 " But I should like to see the inside of the house," petu- 
 lantly said Fanny, who was looking over his shoulder at the 
 neat sketch he had drawn, for Baptiste, having often to alter 
 or even to compose designs for his upholstery, had got to be 
 something of a draughtsman. 
 
 " Then you shall see the inside," he complacently de- 
 clared ; "just watch my pencil, that is all. Those two strokes 
 are the passage which runs through the house to the garden ; 
 on the right are the dining-room and kitchen ; the kitchen 
 looks on the garden." 
 
 " Why so 1 " asked Fanny. 
 
 " That you may have the smell of the roses whilst you are 
 cooking, that is all. On the other side of the passage are two 
 bed-rooms. If we should want room later," philosophically 
 added Baptiste, who evidently thought himself destined to 
 be a patriarch, " we can just throw up another floor. Eh ! 
 Fanny ? " 
 
 But Fanny scarcely heeded him. She was crying, and 
 with a familiarity very unusual to her coy and capricious 
 temper, she had laid her head on Baptiste's shoulder. 
 
 " Do not talk so," she said, " it pains me. Oh ! Baptiste, 
 my good old Baptiste, I shall never live in that pretty little 
 house with you — never — never — I should be too happy." 
 
 '' My darling, do not speak so," said Baptiste, looking sad 
 and troubled, and involuntarily drawing her closer to him as 
 he hpoke ; " there is the money for the land, and the rest to 
 build the house with will come too, God willing." 
 
 Ay, Baptiste, when we are grey. Oh ! I am wicked some- 
 times, quite wicked. It seems so hard to spend a youth as we 
 spend ours, apart, forever apart." 
 
 " It is hard," said Baptiste, moodily. 
 
 Fanny gave him no reply. She slowly left his side. He 
 rose and walked alwut the room with some agitation. His 
 calm Flemish blood was not easily stirred, but when he 
 thought of shortening this long courtship of his, it tingled 
 in his veins, and removed reason from her throne. But not 
 in vain was Baptiste gifted with that precious dower — ^judg- 
 ment. Once, when Fanny proved faithless, it had given way 
 before despair, and Baptiste, cool, calculating Baptiste Watt, 
 had enlisted. But Fanny loved him now, and Baptiste could 
 be patient. He sighed, took Fanny's hands in his, and said 
 emphatically : 
 
 •' No, Fanny, we shall marry before we are grey, take my 
 word for it."
 
 158 SEVEN TEAES. 
 
 " I am not in a hurry," tartly said Fanny. 
 
 But Baptiste was a philosopher, and pursued without heed- 
 ing the rebuff: 
 
 " And in the mean time we will build the house, and trust 
 that God will let us live in it in His own good time." 
 
 Whatever Fanny thought of that prospect, she did not 
 contradict her lover. To do so was to tread on dangerous 
 ground. She heard him, her hands in his, sad resignation on 
 her averted face. Whilst she stood thus shunning his glance, 
 her eyes fell on the crib of forgotten Charles. The child was 
 sitting up, his eyes wide open, staring at them with all his 
 might. Fanny released her hands from Baptiste's clasp, and 
 went up to the boy. 
 
 " Charles, what ails you ? " she said, uneasily. 
 
 " My head aches," he replied. 
 
 She took his hand, and dropped it frightened, — it felt like 
 fire. 
 
 " The child is ill," she whispered to Baptiste, " look at 
 him, his face is scarlet." 
 
 Baptiste felt alarmed, he himself could not have said 
 why. 
 
 " I shall go and look for a doctor," he said, looking for his 
 cloth cap, " There is nothing like taking care in time." 
 
 " Why, you do not think the child is ill, do you ? " ex- 
 claimed Fanny, forgetting that she had just declared he was ; 
 " besides, it is too late." 
 
 " I do think the poor little fellow is ill," replied Baptiste, 
 gravely, " and it is not ten yet ; so it is not too late. 1 shall 
 be back in no time." 
 
 And, without waiting for remonstrance or reply, Baptiste 
 was gone. 
 
 " Lie down," said Fanny, bending over the child, who 
 obeyed with a moan, and again said that his head ached. 
 
 True to his word, Baptiste speedily came back with the 
 doctor ; a mild grave man, who occasionally attended on 
 Madame la Roche and Marie. Fanny had carefully closed 
 the door between the front room where she sat, and that where 
 Charlotte and Marie slept, — thus hoping to conceal from 
 them and their mistress, the doctor's visit. The medical man 
 felt the child's pulse, gave a look at his face, and said calmly, 
 but positively : 
 
 " Do not be alarmed. I hope and trust it will be nothing : 
 but it is scarlatina." 
 
 " I knew it ! " exclaimed Baptiste, " he looked just like
 
 SEVEN TEAKS. 159 
 
 my neighbour's children — and they died," he added inter- 
 nally. 
 
 "Scarlatina!" echoed Fanny, frightened. "Oh! this is 
 a judgment on me for the wicked thoughts I had this evening." 
 
 " I told you not to be alarmed," said the medical man, 
 gently, " there is no immediate cause for fear. Keep him 
 warm. I shall call again to-morrow." 
 
 He left them still amazed at the suddenness of this unex- 
 pected blow. 
 
 " Poor boy, poor lad," said Baptiste, who still saw the 
 two little white coffins comins; out of his neighbour's house. 
 
 " And you — and you ! " exclaimed Fanny, with sudden 
 terror ; " oh ! Baptiste, go, go — if you were to take that 
 disease and die ! — go, for God's sake go, and if you love me, 
 do not enter this place till the child is well. Promise that 
 you will not." She hung from him, and looked up in his face 
 with mingled entreaty and endearment. 
 
 " And if 1 may die, may not you ? " replied Baptiste. 
 " Oh ! Fanny, never say that, and never bid me shun a danger 
 you must bear." 
 
 Baptiste's voice was inexorable. All Fanny's prayers and 
 tears could obtain was, that he would leave her there and 
 then ; but as they parted he added stubbornly : 
 
 " Mind, 1 shall come to-morrow." 
 
 " I knew, I knew it was too happy," thought poor Fanny, 
 when left alone ; " I knew it could not be. There must be 
 trouble, there must be woe, to make up for all my idle, happy 
 years. Good bye to the house and garden now. I shall 
 never be Baptiste's wife, never, never." 
 
 And with a heavy foreboding heart she sat the whole night 
 long by the child, who tossed and moaned on his little bed, 
 oppressed with burning fever. 
 
 I CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 It was only on wakening early the next morning that 
 ?vfadame la Roche learned the truth. Fanny entered her 
 room, sat down by her bed, and told it her as tenderly as pos- 
 sible. 
 
 " Scarlatina ! " exclaimpd Madame la Pvoche, sinking back 
 on her pillow, from which she had partly risen ; " scarlatina," 
 she added, clasping her hands, " ah .' God help us." 
 
 " The doctor says there is no danger .*js yet, and that there
 
 160 SEVEN YEARS. 
 
 may be none. And really, Madame, I think he is not so 
 feverish this morning " 
 
 " 1 must get up and see him," said Madame la Roche, rising, 
 " my poor boy, my poor child, he was reading Aladdin's 
 Lamp to me yesterday, but 1 remember he did not finish it." 
 
 " He will finish it yet," said Fanny, trying to look cheer- 
 ful, and helping Madame la Roche to dress. As she crossed 
 the room where Chaidotte and Marie lay, each in her bed 
 awake and moaning, two complaining voices arrested her. 
 
 " A sad wakening for Madame," said Charlotte plaintive- 
 ly ; " if even I could be up to mind him as I minded his 
 mother ! but no, he must be left to a foolish little thing like 
 Fanny, who thinks more of talking with her lover than of 
 minding the dear child." 
 
 Fanny blushed very much on perceiving that the previous 
 evening's discourse had been partly overheard by her god- 
 mother. 
 
 " Yes, yes," said Marie, who had heard something too, 
 " Mademoiselle shuts our door, and leaves two poor old help- 
 less things in the dark, whilst she sits and laughs with her 
 beau." 
 
 " I thought you were asleep," faltered Fanny. 
 
 " Asleep ! " said Marie, " whilst you and Monsieur Bap- 
 tiste were talking away about houses and gardens, and that 
 poor child was ill with fever ! No — no, we were not asleep." 
 
 " It was Baptiste who went for the doctor," said Fanny, 
 rallying, " and you did not know this morning that the doctor 
 had come, so 1 cannot help thinking you must have been 
 asleep part of the time at least." 
 
 But Marie tossed in her bed, partly with fever, partly with 
 anger. 
 
 " So the doctor came, and you did not ask me if I wanted 
 to see him ! " she exclaimed indignantly. " Perhaps you will 
 say 1 am not ill." 
 
 "He will come again this morning," mildly said Madame 
 la Roche, " and oh ! Marie, do let the poor child have peace. 
 Any one can see she has had no sleep all night." 
 
 Marie, whose ill-humour was more the result of disease 
 than of unkindly feeling, allowed herself to be mollified, and 
 holding out her hand to Fanny, she said afl'ectionately : 
 
 " Poor child, you will have a good riddance of two cross 
 old things when we are gono. Will she not, Charlotte? " 
 
 " I was always of opinion that prudent people spoke for
 
 SEVEN TEARS. 161 
 
 themselves, and not for their neighbours," replied Charlotte, 
 with considerable dignity. 
 
 Marie leaned on one elbow : a contest seemed inevitable ; 
 but Fanny succeeded in checking it for once. 
 
 " You are not two cross old things," she said, trying to 
 look gay, " you are two darlings ; and your breakfast is 
 ready." 
 
 She brought their meal in as she spoke ; she served Marie 
 first, as best able to help herself, then she sat by her god- 
 mother's bed, and fed her like a child. 
 
 " Ah ! well, all flesh is but grass," sighed Marie, putting 
 away the bowl of soup she could scarcely taste. " There was 
 a time when I thought appetite would never fail me, and I 
 cannot eat what a child would make a mouthful of; and then 
 to see a stout woman like Charlotte fed with a spoon like a 
 baby. It is pitiable, — pitiable. Fanny, never marry, it is 
 all vanity, — all vexation of spirit." 
 
 " I am not going to marry just yet," replied Fanny, with 
 a touch of impatience. 
 
 " Ay, but you think about it." 
 
 " I think about my poor little Charles who is lying ill and 
 moaning, and who did not sleep all night," was Fanny's reply, 
 " and I think about you, and my poor god-mother, and 
 Madame la Roche, and all sorts of things besides getting 
 married." 
 
 " Yes, dear, but you think of that too," persisted Marie, 
 determined to have the last word, 
 
 Fanny might not, however, have left it to her but for the 
 arrival of the doctor. 
 
 " Mind you send him to me," said Marie, holding Fanny's 
 dress to compel her attention, " or if you do not, tell him my 
 head aches." 
 
 Fanny raised her finger warningly, and whispered : 
 
 " Let me go, Marie ; I want to go down for something or 
 other, and meet the doctor on the staircase as he leaves Charles. 
 He may tell me more than he will to Madame la Roche." 
 
 Marie seemed bewildered at this intimation of danger, but 
 she obeyed. She listlessly released Fanny's dress, and let 
 her go. The young girl passed swiftly through the outer 
 room, and slipped down-stairs, scarcely heeded by Madame la 
 Roche, who, sitting by the child with his hand in hers, listened 
 anxiously to every word uttered by the doctor. 
 
 Fanny's excuse for an errand was soon accomplished. Yet 
 in her fear of missing the doctor, she ventured to question the
 
 162 SEVEN YEAE8. 
 
 cross porter, who, perhaps because she did her best to soothe 
 him, seemed twice as cross with her as with any one else. 
 
 " Do you know if the doctor is gone, Monsieur Fecard?" 
 she asked timidly, standing on the threshold of the lodge. 
 
 Monsieur Fetiard raised his turbaned head, for the cotton 
 handkerchief around it was part and parcel of his existence, 
 and bending towards Fanny his not over-clean face, which a 
 half-shaved beard did not improve, he said roughly : 
 
 " The doctor— what doctor ? " 
 
 " Our doctor. Monsieur Fecard." 
 
 " And how should I know your doctor, or do you suppose 
 there is only one doctor in the world, eh ? " 
 
 Fanny did not answer ; she had caught the sound of a step, 
 and knew it was the doctor coming do\v'n. She waited for 
 him at the foot of the stairs. He saw her, nodded, and would 
 have passed by without speaking, but she stopped him with 
 the question : 
 
 " Pray, sir, how is the child ? Pray, sir, tell me the truth," 
 she added imploringly, " some one must know it, and 1 have 
 most strength to bear." 
 
 " If I could say positively that there is no danger I would," 
 said the doctor kindly ; " but though I do not deny that the 
 poor little fellow is very ill, I see no reason to give up hope 
 as yet. There, take courage, my good girl, take courage." 
 And giving her a gentle nod and a pat on the cheek, he went 
 his way. 
 
 Fanny was stunned. She had spoken of danger, but with- 
 out believing in it, and now the doctor spoke of danger as 
 certain, of hope as doubiful, and taking her at her word, as 
 one able to bear, he had disguised nothing from her. Fanny 
 loved the child dearly ; she had toiled for him day and night ; 
 she had sacrificed much to his welfare. The thought that he 
 could die filled her with dismay. Unable to go up and face 
 Madame la Roche at once, she sat down on the last step of the 
 staircase, and tried to gather strength. 
 
 " May I ask what you are doing there?" said Monsieur 
 Fecard, putting his head out of the lodge. " Do you mean to 
 take up the staircase and prevent people from going up and 
 dowaV 
 
 " I shall get up when any one comes," said Fanny, sub- 
 missively. " Pray let me stay here a while, Monsieur Fecard, 
 I do not want tliem to know 1 have seen the doctor." 
 
 " Then why do you cry, if you do not want them to know] '
 
 SEVEN YEAKS. 163 
 
 was Monsieur F^card's rough question. Fanny did not an- 
 swer. 
 
 " You cry, — you cry, because you think there is no trouble 
 like your trouble. I suppose people who have been well off 
 cannot get it out of their heads tliat their children are not of 
 the same flesh and blood with the children of the poor. No, 
 no, they are Sevres porcelain, and we are baked clay, — tliat 
 is it, eh 1 " 
 
 " I was the child of poor parents," said Fanny, quietly, 
 " but if I had been her own child, Madame la Roche could not 
 have been kinder to me than she was." 
 
 " Humph ! " growled the porter suspiciously, — for he was 
 a prejudiced democrat ; " and so the little fellow is ill ! " he 
 added ; " well. Mademoiselle Fanny, you think a great deal 
 of your trouble, — what do you think of mine 1 I had seven 
 children and a wife, all in this lodge, in this house. The land- 
 lord threatened to turn me out ; he said it was outrageous — 
 that when he took me I had but one child, and that he would 
 not allow seven squalling children in a room six feet square. 
 I told him he might turn me out when he pleased, but that if 
 he sent my seven little things to starve in the streets, just for 
 the sin of being born, I would not answer for what I might 
 do, as I might turn desperate. The landlord showed me later 
 that he was a kind man ; then I thought him a coward, — for 
 he certainly spoke no more of turning out me or mine. Well, 
 Mademoiselle Fanny, you sit listening there with all your 
 ears, and yet you guess well enougli how it ended. The seven 
 little things that annoyed the whole house with their squalling 
 are quiet now. Gone, all gone. They dropped off like ripe 
 fruit from a tree ; one after the other I took them to the cem- 
 etery. When the last went, their mother, who had kept up 
 till then, took to her bed, lingered a few months, and died too. 
 It was then the landlord showed his real heart, which was 
 kind ; he had paid the doctor who attended my little things, 
 and he saw my poor wife to the grave. Well, as I said, the 
 place is quiet now. I sit and work alone, and hammer away, 
 and grumble at every one, and never forget my seven little 
 ones, — no, not one hour in the day. For a long time I could 
 not look on children. I have got over that ; but when I see 
 people fretting over small troubles, I think of mine. You 
 look very pitiful. Mademoiselle Fanny, but you seem able to 
 say nothing, — say nothing — say nothing," said Monsieur Fe- 
 card, hammering at the sole of a boot, " I cannot bear being 
 comforted."
 
 164 SEVEN TEAKS. 
 
 There was, indeed, something in his look as he spoke, that 
 told of one whom consolation, hoAvever well meant, was more 
 likely to exasperate than to calm. Fanny was going up with 
 out saying a word, when he looked out of his lodge and whis- 
 pered hoarsely : 
 
 " I shall be sweeping the staircase this afternoon : just 
 come out when you hear me, to ask me not to make any noise, 
 and then you can tell me how the child is getting on." 
 
 " I shall," said Fanny, and she went up slowly, thinking 
 over Monsieur Fecard's troubles, until the sight of Charles's 
 flushed face, as she entered the room where he lay with Mad- 
 ame la Roche sitting by him, made her forget the porter's 
 grief in her own present anxieties. 
 
 " My dear, how long you have been gone," said Madame 
 la Roche. " I am sorry you missed the doctor." 
 
 " I went for some candied sugar for Charles," said Fanny, 
 " I promised him some the other day." 
 
 " I am not hungry," said Charles, " I shall never be hun- 
 gry or eat again, — never." 
 
 " My darling, do not say that," exclaimed his grand- 
 mother, uneasily. " You will get well and eat again," 
 
 But Charles persisted in declaring that he would eat no 
 more. 
 
 The words seemed prophetic to Madame la Roche. She 
 clasped her trembling hands,- and tears streamed down her 
 cheeks. Fanny, too, felt very much inclined to cry. Charles 
 was a dear child, but there was no denying that he had a de- 
 cided relish for sweets, cakes, and pleasant food of any kind. 
 To hear him declare that he had done with these delights, and 
 to see him lying sick and feverish in his little crib, was to re- 
 ceive indeed a sad forewarning of what a few days might bring 
 forth. And Fanny, as we said, felt a great mind to cry ; but 
 she soon checked it. " Cry," she said to herself, " what for 1 
 and what good will it do 1 None, but a great deal of mis- 
 chief Now is the time to be brave, as Baptiste often says I 
 am, and brave I will be." 
 
 And brave to the best of her power Fanny was. 
 
 " Surely, Madame," she said to Madame la Roche, " you 
 know better than to mind what a child says. Eat again ! why 
 he will eat before a week is out." 
 
 " I know I am very weak," deprecatingly observed Mad- 
 ame la Roche, " I know I am, Fanny," 
 
 " No, no, you are not ! " exclaimed the young girl, who 
 had no wish to be too brave, " it is I who am rough and rude,
 
 SEVEN YEAES. 165 
 
 all because I do not wish to give in. Nor will I, no indeed, I 
 will not." 
 
 And to show the strength of her resolve, Fanny went in 
 at once to Charlotte and Marie, cheered them with a tew 
 bright words, made Madame la Roche's room clean and tidy, 
 then went back to the little sick bed, and insisted on being 
 left there, 
 
 " You need rest," she said to Madame la Roche, " you 
 want a little comfort in your arm-chair, and it is rest and 
 comfort to me to sit by my little Charles." 
 
 In short, Fanny had so many arguments all excellent, that 
 Madame la Roche ended by yielding. 
 
 The day passed wearily enough ; the child slept heavily, 
 or lay in his crib oppressed with fever. Every quarter of an 
 hour' Fanny was called away by the querulous voices of Char- 
 lotte and Marie, and when she went ui to them their worn 
 and anxious faces turned towards her, as they asked in a 
 breath : 
 
 " Well, how is he 1 " 
 
 "Just about the same," replied Fanny, trying to look 
 cheerful, as if " the same " were good news. 
 
 Madame la Roche was more patient. She put no ques- 
 tions, 'but every now and then slie left her room and came 
 and bent over the child's crib, with a sad and troubled look, 
 that went to Fanny's very heart, perhaps because it was given 
 silently, because she who looked so went away again without 
 uttering a word. She spoke but once : it was to mutter as 
 she turned from the bed : " Why must the old live, and the 
 young go 1 " 
 
 The evening had set in : every thing was quiet. Madame 
 la Roche and Fanny were sitting l)y the child's bed, they were 
 silent ; but through the open door of the )iext room the voices 
 of Charlotte and Marie were heard indulging in that subdued 
 lamentation which had become like the Greek chorus of the 
 little household ; its repining reproaches and exhortations not 
 much more heeded by Fanny and Madame la Roche than by 
 the heroes of the ancient drama. 
 
 " He seems very listless," whispered Madame la Roche, 
 glancing from the boy's flushed face and closed eyes to 
 Fanny's pale and worn countenance, 
 
 " He feels it more at night," was the young girl's slow 
 reply. She was listening to the well-known step coming up 
 the staircase ; before he rang she was at the door to open it 
 for him.
 
 166 SEVEN YEARS. 
 
 " How is the child ? " were the first words uttered by 
 Baptiste, who, long before Fanny had wakened Madame la 
 Roche in the morning, had come to put the same question. 
 
 " No worse, I hope," was Fanny's reply. Baptiste en- 
 tered, and was welcomed by Madame la Roche with the cor- 
 diality due to so tried a friend. On hearing the sound of his 
 voice, Charles, with whom Baptiste was a favourite, opened 
 his languid eyes, and brightened up a little. Baptiste sat 
 down by the bed, and looked ruefiilly at its little suffering 
 tenant. 
 
 " What can I do for you, my fine little fellow ? " he asked. 
 
 " Nothing," was the low reply. 
 
 " What shall I give you, — cakes, sweets ? " 
 
 " No, no," moaned Charles, " 1 shall never eat again." 
 
 " For God's sake, child, do not say that ! " exclaimed 
 Madame la Roche, clasping her hands with anguish ; " do not, 
 do not — it breaks my heart." 
 
 Charles looked at her without understanding the cause of 
 so much grief 
 
 " And must I give you nothing 1 " persisted Baptiste. 
 
 The child's face brightened. 
 
 " Give me a drum," he said, with something like eagerness. 
 
 " A drum ! " said Baptiste, taken by surprise, " well, why 
 not 1 You shall have a drum to-morrow." 
 
 " No, no, — now," said the boy, feverishly, " give it to me 
 now, Baptiste." 
 
 " Well, you shall have it now, if the shop be not shut," 
 said Baptiste, stoutly. " I shall be back in five minutes, 
 Fanny." 
 
 He started up and hurried down stairs, and stayed away 
 not five minutes, but an hour and a half. At length his step 
 was heard again. 
 
 " That is Baptiste," said Madame la Roche. 
 
 " Bringing me the drum," said Charles. 
 
 " My dear, it is late ; I dare say Baptiste could not get it." 
 
 But Fanny had already opened the door, and Baptiste had 
 entered holding the drum aloft. Charles stretched out his 
 eager hands to receive it. 
 
 " Ay, there it is," said Baptiste, wiping his shining fore- 
 head ; " all the shops around here were shut, so I had to go to 
 the boulevards for it ; otherwise I should have been here 
 earlier." 
 
 Of his trouble Baptiste did not speak.
 
 SEVEN YEAKS. 167 
 
 Fanny had placed the toy in tlic cliild's hands ; he felt it 
 all over with something like joy, tlien he said : 
 
 " I shonid lilve to sit up and play a little." 
 
 Fanny supported him in her arms ; Madame la Roche 
 held the drum, and Baptiste placed the sticks in his fingers. 
 Charles looked at them, vaguely smiling, and with his little 
 feeble hands he tried to beat the French boy's ran-tan-plan. 
 He only awoke broken uneven sounds, but still he beat on. 
 It was a pitiable sight : the unconscious child playing even in 
 the jaws of death, and smiling in the three weeping faces 
 around him ; for they all wept : Madame la Roche, slow bit- 
 ter tears ; Fanny as if her heart would break, and Baptiste 
 like a child. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 For a week the child was in danger ; for a week Fanny 
 worked by day, and watched by night. In vain Madame la 
 Roche wanted the young girl to sleep, and said she would sit 
 up ; Fanny would not listen to the suggestion. She was 
 young, she said, and well able to bear it. No more would 
 she heed Marie's suggestion of bringing in the child's crib and 
 placing it by her side ; for Marie, being already unable to 
 sleep, concluded she was therefore fit to watch, and resented 
 the rejection of so well-contrived a plan. 
 
 " But young people are conceited, that is the truth of it," 
 she remarked to Charlotte ; " they will be in the riglit, and 
 are not ashamed, not they, to prove their elders in the 
 wrong." 
 
 " Very true ! " sighed Charlotte. " I once knew as con- 
 ceited an old woman as ever was. I was then fifteen, and 
 wanted to thread her needle for her. ' Child, you are blind,' 
 she said, ' blind as a mole,' " 
 
 " The old story," murmured Marie, but she had made a 
 promise to Fanny that during Charles's illness she would not 
 quarrel with Charlotte, and, strange to say, she kept it. 
 
 For a week, as we said, the child was in danger ; then one 
 morning the doctor kindly patted him on the head, and said 
 emphatically : 
 
 " There, he will do now — ^I need not come to morrow." 
 
 Fanny cried for joy ; Madame la Roche cried ; Baptiste'g 
 eyes were dim ; and tears marked the rejoicings of Charlotte 
 and Marie. Charles alone laughed and beat his drum, and,
 
 168 SEVEN TEARS. 
 
 to his grandmamma's infinite satisfaction, showed tokens of 
 reviving appetite. 
 
 Spite her fatigue, Fanny felt very happy. Charles was 
 getting well ; he had passed safely through his dangerous dis- 
 ease, and every one around him had escaped the contagion. 
 Once more the heavy clouds cleared away from the horizon, 
 and the pleasant visions this mischance had rudely dispelled, 
 were again floating before the young girl's eyes. 
 
 Happy and dreamy she sat, with Charles and Baptiste. 
 Madame la Roche had been persuaded to go to bed and rest ; 
 Charlotte and Marie were sleeping ; Charles was talking to 
 Baptiste, and Fanny was dreaming. 
 
 " I wonder if Baptiste will soon see about that house," she 
 thought, " I mean about the land, of course, the house must 
 come later. Well, it will be a place ! I shall have roses and 
 geraniums — I like geraniums — and lilacs and laburnums, in 
 memory of old times ; and Madame la Roche always liked 
 them. Madame la Roche — where will she be then 1 gone, gone 
 — and I dare to dream of happiness, and lay plans on a grave." 
 
 She cast a troubled look around her, then calmed down, 
 and smiled as she saw Baptiste's honest fice, and listened to 
 the talk between him and Charks. The boy was treating his 
 friend to fragments from the story cf Aladdin and his Lamp. 
 Baptiste was not of an imaginativi' turn. He heard him, 
 amazed to think that such extravagant nonsense should be 
 put into the hands of children ; this criticism, however, he 
 kept to himself, and only made one dry remark, on hearing 
 Charles expatiating on the garden where trees bore rubies 
 and emeralds, by way of fruit. 
 
 " Ay, ajf," said Baptiste, " they grew thick enough, I 
 warrant you; thick as lies, no doubt." 
 
 " But it is a story," said Charles. 
 
 " Yes, child, I know. Emeralds and rubies never do grow 
 so thick, unless in stories — go on." 
 
 And right willingly Charles went on, whilst Fanny listened. 
 Oh ! for a pluck at one of those wonderful trees ; for just one 
 of those sparkling apples or peaches, whatever they might be ! 
 "I know what I should do with it," thought Fanny; "I 
 would go with it to the king ; he would buy it at once, and set 
 it in the crown of France ; and Baptiste and I would get mar- 
 ried, and buy a little chateau, where Madame la Roche and 
 Charles, and Charlotte and Marie, would all live with us ; and 
 truly we would all be as happy as so many kings and queens." 
 
 A plaintive voice disturbed this agreeable meditation.
 
 SEVEN TEAES. 169 
 
 " Fanny," called Marie, from within, " Fanuy come to me." 
 
 Fanny started, and went at once. 
 
 Marie was sitting in her bed, so ghastly pale, that Fanny 
 uttered a subdued exclamation of alarm. 
 
 " I am very ill," said Marie, in a low voice, " I am going to 
 die, I know I am." 
 
 " What is she saying? " asked Charlotte, nervously, " who 
 talks about dying?" 
 
 " Nonsense," said Fanny, trying to smile, " Marie feels 
 faint, that is all." 
 
 She called Baptiste, and whilst she supported Marie, re- 
 quested him to bring her a glass of water and eaii de Jlturs oC 
 oranger, a specific much in use with the French ; but though 
 Marie raised the glass to her lips, it brought back no colour to 
 her cheek, no light to her eyes. 
 
 " No use — no use," she said, sinking back on her pillow : 
 " my day has come ; I am dying, I know I am, and Charlotte 
 says she will soon follow me." 
 
 " Who talks about my dying ? " said Charlotte, " I know 
 I heard my name." 
 
 " Go for the doctor," whispered Fanny to Baptiste, and she 
 went in to waken Madame la Roche, whilst Charlotte indig- 
 nantly wondered what they me;int by bringing Baptiste into 
 her room, and by not answering her when she spoke. 
 
 Gently though Fanny called her, Madame la Roche awoke 
 with a start, and exclaimed : 
 
 " The child has had a relapse ! " 
 
 " No Madame," replied Fanny, in her lowest voice, " but 
 Marie looks very ill ; Baptiste is gone for the doctor ; yet I 
 think i.t may do her good if you will get up and say a few 
 words to her." 
 
 " Marie ill," exclaimed Madame la Roche , " I bade her 
 good night, and she then looked just as usual. Are you sure, 
 child, you are not mistaken ? " 
 
 " Quite sure, Madame," replied Fanny, rather sadly, for 
 she had seen death written in Maiie's face. 
 
 " I shall get up at once," said the lady ; " my poor old 
 servant ! she has often said it : Madame, you will bury us 
 both." ^ 
 
 Fanny returned to Marie, and found her lying very quiet, 
 but still wearing the same look that had startled her. Char 
 lotte had closed her eyes, and seemed to be thinking. Ch:' !js 
 was playing alone in the next room, neither knowing w^^i un- 
 
 8
 
 170 SEVEN YEARS. 
 
 derstanding what was passing. Madame la Koche came out 
 and sat by Mario. 
 
 " Marie, what ails you ? " she asked. " Are you in pain ? " 
 
 " No. Madame — but T am dying." 
 
 Madame hx lloche was startled at the calmness with which 
 Marie spoke. 
 
 " Impossible," she said ; " you are ill, I know, you have 
 been ill a long time, but it is only some sudden faintuess you 
 now feel," 
 
 '' I am dying," repeated Marie, " and Fanny might have 
 spared herself a doctor's fee ; he is a kind gentleman, and has 
 got Monsieur Charles through, but he will do me no good — 
 luy time i.s come, and I must go." 
 
 She spoke in a tone of settled conviction that silenced the 
 words on Madame la Roche's lips, and kept Fanny mute. 
 The return of Baptiste broke on their silence. He looked 
 disappointed and annoyed : the doctor was in the country at- 
 tending some distinguished patient, and his assistant was en- 
 gaged. 
 
 " I tell you I want no one to help me to die," said Marie, 
 a little testily, " no one but a priest, if you will go for one, 
 Baptiste." 
 
 Madame la Roche was a good woman, but she belonged to 
 the wide class of individuals, with whom a cassock in a sick 
 room was a sure omen of death. 
 
 " Dear me," she said, nervously, " will not to-morrow do, 
 Marie ? " 
 
 " And if the thief should come to-night ? " answered Marie ; 
 " like a thief in the night ; Madame, you know it as well as 
 I do." 
 
 Madame la Eoche felt helpless and weak. She looked at 
 Fanny, she looked at Baptiste, she clasped her hands, and 
 seemed to ask for aid. 
 
 " Marie will die none the sooner if a good man comes and 
 comforts her in Grod's name," said Fanny, resolutely. " Bap- 
 tiste go for the cure." 
 
 The obedient Baptiste went. 
 
 '* I should like to see Monsieur Charles though before I 
 go,' said Marie, after a while; " Fanny, wheel in his little 
 crib to me." 
 
 Fanny wheeled it in, and presently Charles, who had fallen 
 fa.st asleep, found himself by the sick woman's bed. She 
 looki-'.l disappointed when her glance fell on his slumbering 
 face.
 
 SEVEN YEARS. ITl 
 
 " T should have liked to have seen his nice blue eyes 
 again," she s:iid, " but no matter, I know them by heart. God 
 bless him, he will bury the old, and be a comfort to the young; 
 take him away, take him away. I have that to say, I could 
 not say if I looked on his little quiet face." 
 
 Fanny removed the child, who had not wakened, then came 
 back to the foot of the bed, and Marie fixed her lustrous eyes 
 on the young girl's face, and raising a fore-finger, said warn- 
 ingly : 
 
 " Mind, Fanny, no waste of money about funeral or all 
 that. It does the poor dead body no good, and the living 
 suS"er for it. I have helped to drain Baptiste's purse long 
 enough. No, child, nothing of that ; a little mound of earth, 
 a black cross, and grass, will do for an old servant who has 
 outlived her time, since she can wait no more on her mistress, 
 but must be waited on hei'self." 
 
 "We need not talk about all that, Marie," quietly said 
 Fanny. 
 
 " And if it pleases me to talk ! " testily said Marie, " if 7 
 like to settle what is to be done for me." 
 
 " Ay Marie, but you grieve us," and the tears that stood 
 in Fanny's eyes showed these were not empty words. 
 
 " She always was a soft-hearted little thing," said IMarie, 
 turning to Madame la Roche; "I have seen that child cry 
 over a dead sparrow, cry for hours. And now she cries over 
 me, and never thinks : What a good riddance ! so much less 
 between me and liberty, and with liberty love, and all that ! 
 No, no, not she." 
 
 Marie's utterance of the last words was not sufficiently dis- 
 tinct for Fanny to apprehend their full meaning ; but Madame 
 la Roche did, and casting a look from Marie to Charlotte, who 
 lay in her bed with folded hands and closed eyes, and think- 
 ing of herself, as great and heavy a burden as either of her 
 two servants, she thought too : " Ay, Marie, you are right 
 enough, it would be well if she were rid of the whole of us — 
 and free." 
 
 And now came a sad and solemn scene ; Baptiste had re- 
 turned, and brought with him the curd, a grave and quiet man, 
 too much used to death-bed scenes not to remain calm and 
 composed through all their sadness. Marie tliauked him 
 warmly for coming. 
 
 " I did my duty," he quietly replied, sitting down by her. 
 He glanced round the room as if wishing to remain aloup- with 
 the dying woman.
 
 172 SEVEN YEARS. 
 
 " Yes, yes, tliey will all go," said Marie, " and you will not 
 mind Charlotte, Monsieur le cure. I shall speak low, so that 
 she shall not hear a word I shall say to you, and you may 
 think this is a ward in an hospital, as it is, indeed, with poor 
 little Fanny for nurse and doctor. 
 
 " It will do," said the cure, as they were left alone, and 
 bending his ear to her lips, he heard her confession. When he 
 had given her absolution, Charlotte spoke. 
 
 " Now, sir," she said, " as this is a ward in an hospital, 
 }icrhaps you will hear me too." 
 
 The priest looked at her. He saw no signs of death in her 
 worn face ; but approaching death was not needed for him to 
 comply with her request. He did so at once. 
 
 When Charlotte, too, had ceased the record of her sins, the 
 priest opened the door. Madame la lloche, Fanny, and Bap- 
 tiste re-entered and knelt around the bed, whilst the cure ad- 
 ministered the last sacraments of the church to the dying 
 woman, for really dying Marie was, though still composed and 
 calm. In collected speech she thanked the priest — who, after 
 lingering to say a few kind words, now took his leave —for 
 having come so readily. 
 
 ' I know it was a late hour to trouble you at," she said, 
 " but I feared I could not wait till morning, that is the truth 
 of it." 
 
 " I shall come again to-morrow morning," said the cure, 
 q ;etly. _ 
 
 Marie did not contradict, but she smiled as he went. 
 
 Indeed, sudden as was the warning, it was apparent to all 
 around her that Marie was sinking fast. Her mind began to 
 wandei", strange speeches found their way to her lips. 
 
 " And who will iron Madame's caps when I am gone ? " she 
 asked once, looking hard at Fanny. " Not Charlotte, you 
 know." 
 
 No one answered. A little later she said, not seemino: 
 conscious that she spoke in Charlotte's hearing, " I always liked 
 Charlutte; we quarrelled, I know, but I liked her. She will 
 miss me — but not long — not long. There is an old story that 
 if two oxen draw the same plough together for a few years, 
 and that if one goes the otlier follows," — then turning to Mad- 
 ame la Roche, she took her hand and said impressively : 
 " Madame, God bless you — you have been a good mistress to 
 me. God bless you. I wish your two servants could stay 
 with you a little while yet, but you see God takes them away
 
 SEVEN YEARS. 173 
 
 when they are useless, — it is right — it is right. His holy will 
 be done." 
 
 She spoke no more. Her eyes grew heavy and dull, a sigh 
 passed her lips, and Marie was gone 
 
 Madame la Roche and Fanny wept in silence. Baptiste 
 looked at the dead woman's face, and seemed strucked with 
 amazement and grief, and they none of them saw that Char- 
 lotte, recovering sudden strength and power in the shock of the 
 moment, had sat up in her bed, and was staring at them all 
 with rigid face and stony eyes. She sank back on her pillow 
 unheeded and unseen, but with death in her heart. 
 
 French law compels speedy burial. On the following day 
 but one Marie was buried in the cemetery of Montmartrc. 
 Her funeral, though plain, was not such as she had requested ; 
 but Baptiste would not consent to economy. 
 
 " The woman who helped to rear my little Fanny," he said, 
 ' shall not have a charity funeral whilst Baptiste Watt has a 
 franc in his pocket. She shall have a place of her own in the 
 cemetery, and a stone with her name on it over her grave." 
 
 And Baptiste spoke as stoutly as if he had to resist oppo- 
 sition which no one dreamed of. Madame la Roche not con- 
 ceiving that she had the right to interfere between Baptiste 
 and what he considered his duty, and Fanny not having the 
 inclination, Charlotte alone spoke : 
 
 " Baptiste need not be so very lavish of his money," she 
 said, " he will have another funeral before the week is out." 
 
 She spoke gi-avely, and the uneasiness her words, confirmed 
 by her aspect, created in Madame la Roche and Fanny, divert- 
 ed the first strength of their grief for the loss of one who. 
 though often cross-grained, had been none the less the true 
 and faithful friend of many years. They sent for the doctor, 
 who had returned to town. He found nothing the matter 
 with Charlotte, nothing, at least, beyond her usual ailments, 
 nor did she say that much ailed her ; she complained of no 
 pains ; she only persisted in declaring that she was to die soon. 
 Nothing could weaken a belief that was calculated to work its 
 own fulfilment. 
 
 The third day after Marie's death Charlotte began to 
 sicken. " Now is the time," she said ; " the two oxen that 
 have drawn the same plough for so many years cannot remain 
 long apart. She is gone, and I am going." 
 
 Arguments, the gentlest reasoning, did not shake Charlotte's 
 conviction. " Let me be quiet," she said, a little impatiently,
 
 1Y4: SEVEN YEAltS. 
 
 " you always -will know better than I know. Yet I suppose 
 this concerns me." 
 
 And with the same calmness that Marie had shown, though 
 with such difference as the difference of temper naturally 
 warranted, Charlotte began to prepare for what she called the 
 last journey. Her first act was to send for the cure, who 
 came rather surprised to find her presentiments so soon ful- 
 filled. 
 
 " Marie was a good girl," said Charlotte, but she alwaya 
 put off everything to the end: I will not do like her." 
 
 Nor did she, for she lingered four days after the priest's 
 visit. The end, as she called it, came on a bright April morn- 
 ing, when Fanny and Madame la Roche were with her. 
 
 " Marie," she said, " Marie, make haste, Madame wants 
 you." 
 
 And uttering the words she sank back and died. 
 
 Madame la Roche calmly closed her eyes, and gently kiss- 
 ing her withered cheek, said softly : 
 
 "I outlive them all, Fanny; Marie, who dressed me on 
 my wedding day, Charlotte, who nursed my only child. I am 
 alone now — alone." 
 
 Fanny took her hand and kissed it. " Baptiste and I will 
 be your children and your faithful servants," she said. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 The grief of Madame la Roche was calm like her gentle 
 nature. She missed them both, as she said ; but then she 
 would add, with a smile that smote Fanny's heart, " I shall 
 soon go to them." 
 
 " Pray do not say that," the young girl would exclaim, 
 " pray do not." 
 
 " Very well, my dear, I shall not," was the quiet reply 
 and Madame la Roche said it no more. 
 
 " But she thinks it," Fanny said to Baptiste, " she thinks 
 it, and it grieves me." 
 
 She dropped her work, and leaned her head upon her hand. 
 She was sitting alone with Baptiste ; between them burned 
 the lamp ; near them stood the bed of the sleeping child ; but 
 the door of the next room was open, and no repining at being 
 forsaken, at lovers and their selfishness, came from the silent 
 beds. Madame la Roche was in her room, for it was some- 
 what late.
 
 SEVEN TEARS. 1Y5 
 
 " Fanny," said Baptiste, with a suddenness that startled 
 her. 
 
 " What is it ? " she asked, looking up. 
 
 " Is not this very like the evening -when Monsieur Charles 
 was taken ill with scarlatina ? To me it seems so like. Do 
 you remember what we spoke of that evening ? " 
 
 " Yes," slowly replied Fanny ; " you wanted to buy land 
 and build a house." 
 
 " Fanny, the land is bought, and the house is built." 
 
 " I understand," said Fanny, quietly, " the money is 
 spent." 
 
 " Just so, my good little girl ' the money is gone : the 
 doctor, the two funerals, and the two graves — Heaven have 
 mercy on their poor souls — took it all. And now, Fanny, 
 why do I tell you this ? Firstly, because, being almost my 
 wife, you have a right to know ; secondly, because, though I 
 dreamed of that house, and of that particular bit of land till 
 my brain seemed turned inside out, I would not have you 
 think a moment, Fann}-, that I regret having spent the money. 
 No, I am grieved for the two poor old souls that are gone ; 
 but though I am fond of money — and who is not ? — I would 
 not call back one sou of this. Not one sou, Fanny." 
 
 Fanny held out her hand to Baptiste, who squeezed it 
 carefully, and returned it respectfully to its owner. 
 
 " And now," he continued, " that is not all. We must 
 think of Madame la Roche. The little fellow," he added, 
 glancing fondly at Charles in his crib, " is getting on finely; 
 but Madame la Roche is weak, and. she gets weaker everyday, 
 to my seeming." 
 
 " She doiis," said Fanny. 
 
 " Well, then, we must see to that. The fine weather is 
 getting on, — what do you say to taking her to the country ? " 
 
 Fanny looked at Baptiste. " More expenses upon you," 
 she said. 
 
 " Not heavy expenses," he replied ; " besides, it will do 
 you good, too, Fanny. You are getting pale." 
 
 " And how shall I work in the country ? " she asked. 
 
 *' I can manage and keep you in work." 
 
 " And how shall I see you ? " exclaimed Fanny, bursting 
 into tears. 
 
 " I shall go and see you often," said Baptiste, very much 
 moved. " But you must not cry, Fanny, you must not. We 
 have put -our shoulder to the plough, and we must not draw 
 back. We have taken a heavy duty on ourselves. We have
 
 176 
 
 SEVEN YEARS. 
 
 given it already six years of our existence, six of our best 
 years, we must not grudge what remains ; I will not hide from 
 you, Fanny, tliat it went hard against me at first. I could 
 not see why I must needs s:icrifie-e so much, but now I do; 
 and seeing it, 1 am, thank God, willing to do my duty." 
 
 " Because you are belter than I am," humbly said Fanny. 
 
 " We will not talk about that," replied Baptiste, " but 
 where is the use of hiding it, Fanny ? Whilst Madame la Roche 
 lives, we cannot marry. We cannot ask a delicate lady, 
 reared in luxury, to live in a room behind our shop, without 
 killing her. Poverty she can and must endure, but not a 
 change of all her habits and feelings. And we cannot marry 
 and keep up this separate home — we are too poor, or ratlier we 
 are not rich enough. Besides, the children ! " added Bap- 
 tiste, whose thoughts ever^ran in the patriarchal line. "No, 
 no, Fanny," he resumed stoutly, " we keep free to do our duty, 
 as you always said, and though marriage may be, nay, is de- 
 lightful, it is not liberty." 
 
 There was too much sound sense in this for Fanny not to 
 acquiesce in Baptiste's decision. 
 
 '^' Let it be as you please," she said, submissively. 
 
 Several days had elapsed. The morning was bright, and 
 Madame la Roche, as usual, seemed languid. Charles was at 
 school. 
 
 " Baptiste says we must take a drive in the country," said 
 Fanny, rather abruptly. 
 
 " Dear me ! " exclaimed Madame la Roche, with a sigh, 
 " I fear that will be very expensive." 
 
 " Oh ! for once," said Fanny, smiling. 
 
 " Well, you and he know best, surely." 
 
 " The carriage is below waiting," said Fanny. 
 
 "Dear me! then it was all settled," said Madame la 
 Iloehe, with a start. 
 
 " Yes, Madame, it was all settled," gaily replied Fanny. 
 
 Madame la Roche smiled good-humouredly. " I am an old 
 child," she said, " it is but right and fitting" that like a child 
 I should be treated." 
 
 Fanny helped her to get ready, then assisted her down 
 stairs to the carriage, a phxin one, but with two stout horses 
 well fitted for a drive in the open country. Madame la Roche 
 involuntarily smiled as she entered it, and as it drove away 
 from the door her face beamed with pleasure. It was so long 
 Bince she had enjoyed the pleasant motion, so long since pass-
 
 SEVEN YEAES. 177 
 
 'ing swiftly through crowded streets, she had leaned back in 
 ihat dreamy indolence long habit had made dear 
 
 But when they had passed the barriers ; when after strag- 
 gling houses came fields, with the young green wheat waving 
 freely beneath the summer wind ; when farm-houses, with farm- 
 yards, where hens cackled and pigs grunted, appeared before 
 them ; when wind-mills, with outspread arms, rose in the dis- 
 tance, and the dusty road passed through a homely yet pleas- 
 ing landscape, Madame la Roche brightened beneath tho 
 watchful gaze of Fanny, and said with a happy sigh : 
 
 " Ah ! this is delightful ! I almost wish Charles were with 
 us ; but I dare say I ought not : the child must study." 
 
 " Still it would be pleasant to have him," said Fanny. 
 " What a pretty place this is, Madame." 
 
 " Very pretty," replied Madame la Roche ; " tell the man 
 to stop, my dear." 
 
 A graceful little village, with bright white houses and 
 green orchards, rose before them. A modest church, with its 
 belfry and a large golden cross, overlooked with a motherly 
 air the clustering dwellings below. A look of peace, comfort, 
 and almost of prosperity, hung over the whole place. 
 
 " Baptiste said there was a house here where we could 
 rest awhile and get some milk," hesitatingly said Fanny, and 
 without waiting for Madame la Roche's reply to this dubious 
 speech, she made a sign to the coachman, and they drove up 
 the main street of the village. 
 
 The carriage stopped before a plain white house, with green 
 door and shutters, and fruit-trees nodding over the garden 
 wall at the back. 
 
 " But this does not look like a place of public refresh- 
 ment," uneasily observed Madame la Roche. 
 
 The words had scarcely fallen from her lips when the door 
 opened. Baptiste appeared on the threshold, and Charles 
 bounded out to meet them with shouts of glee. 
 
 " This is very kind," slowly said Madame la Roche ; " but 
 I fear Baptiste has put himself out sadly." 
 
 " Not at all, Madame," stoutly said Baptiste, assisting her 
 to alight ; " this is not my busy time in Paris, and I like to 
 look at fields now and then." 
 
 They entered the house, met by the glimpse of a sunny 
 courtyard and green garden. Baptiste showed them into two 
 pleasant rooms on the ground-fioor : a little sitting-room on 
 the front, and a double-bedded room at the back, both fur- 
 
 8*
 
 178 SE^rEN YEAKS. 
 
 nished with great simplicity, but with a certain taste never- 
 theless, that could not escape Madame la Roche. 
 
 " Had you the doing of these rooms, Baptiste ? " she asked, 
 sitting down on a little chintz-covered sofa. 
 
 "This is your place, bonne niaman," hastily cried CharleSj 
 who could keep his peace no longer, '' you and Fanny are 
 going to live here." 
 
 Madame la Roche looked at Baptiste, who seemed very 
 much embarrassed. 
 
 " The doctor ordered Madame country air," he said hesi- 
 tatingly, " and I found these rooms for a mere trifle ; of course 
 it cost me nothing to furnish them up, so I thought that if 
 Madame and Fanny were here it would do them both good, — 
 besides that. Monsieur Charles could come now and then for a 
 holiday." 
 
 " And there is such a garden ! " cried Charles. 
 
 " The air is said to be very good," timidly put in Fanny, 
 who began to fear that Madame la Roche was displeased. But 
 displeasure was not the cause of her silence. She looked from 
 one to the other with a sad wistful look, and sighing, she 
 bowed her head, whilst two tears slowly trickled down her 
 pale cheeks. 
 
 " Poor children," she said, " poor children, is that the end 
 of all your little love plans, — to cater and care for a poor old 
 woman like me ? " 
 
 " Madame, it makes me happy, and it makes Baptiste 
 happy, too," simply said Fanny. 
 
 " That it does," said Baptiste. 
 
 But Madame la Roche shook her head. 
 
 " No, no," she said, speaking from the fulness of her heart, 
 " no, no, it is not the aim of youth to think of a poor old 
 woman. It is not right that everything should be given up 
 for me. You would already have married Fanny but for me, 
 Baptiste, and now must I rob you of the only pleasure you 
 have left, looking at her ? — for I know you like to look at her. 
 I have watched you often — I have seen you — you like to look 
 at her." 
 
 Baptiste did not deny the soft impeachment. " Yes, 
 Madame," he said, " I like to look at Fanny, but I can look 
 at her without seeing her; I know her face by heart. Besides, 
 with Madame's permission, I shall come out every Sunday, so 
 that I shall not quite lose the sight of Mademoiselle Fanny's 
 face." 
 
 " No, no," said Madame la Roche, growing more and more
 
 SEVEN TEAES. 179 
 
 troubled ; " no, no, that must not be. I cannot allo-w it. You 
 mutt live by yourselves, and I must look on and do witliout 
 you as much as I can. I may linger on many years, and dc 
 you mean to say, Baptiste, that you -will not marry Fanny till 
 1 die ? " 
 
 Baptiste scratched his head and looked at Fanny, as he 
 often did when his ready wit was at fault. Fanny laughed 
 coftly and put in : 
 
 '• Dear me, Madame, Baptiste is not at all in a hurry. He 
 Las so many things to mind and to do, that he does not feel 
 time slipping away ; and as I do not mean to marry till I am 
 twenty-five at the least, he has taken a good dose of patience to 
 last him for three years yet." 
 
 " 1 do not believe her, Baptiste," said Madnme la Eoclie, 
 " therefore I am sure you need not mind her. We both know 
 her of old." 
 
 "Bonne maman, why will you not stay hero?" asked 
 Charles, looking uneasy, " it is a nice place." 
 
 " Madame has not seen the garden yet," suggested Bap- 
 tiste, perceiving that Madame la Eoche's resolve was begin- 
 ning to waver. She did not reply, but rose, and leaning on 
 Fanny's arm, she followed Charles, who eagerly showed the 
 way. They crossed a square court, the child pushed open a 
 trellis gate, and they entered an enclosure, half garden, half 
 orchard, and which low walk, covered with vines and peach 
 trees, divided from other gardens. A central and broad walk, 
 covered with a treille — the treille is a gallery of trellis up and 
 over which the vine creep:^ — extended cool and green to a little 
 pond, from the centre of which rose a tiny jet of water clear 
 and white ; bright flowers of every hue grew around it ; green 
 shrubs, that looked very like gooseberry bushes and currant 
 trees, divided this garden from a little potager or kitchen-gar- 
 den behind. 
 
 " It is no great place, as Madame sees," said Baptiste, 
 coming up to Madame la Boche ; " cabbages and strawberries 
 are not ashamed to grow here : those are apple and cherry 
 trees : it is a simple little place, owned by a decent widow, who 
 has those two rooms to spare, and who will do anything for 
 Madame, or let Fanny do it." His eye appealingly sought the 
 eyes of Madame la Roche. She sighed and answered : 
 
 " I never could say no ; yet if ever I ought to say no it is 
 now. But where is the use ? if you did not persuade me, 
 Fanny would ; let it be as you wish, Baptiste." 
 
 Baptiste, who looked thoroughly happy at his success, now
 
 180 SEVEN TEAES. 
 
 Browed Madame la Roche over the rest of the garden. There 
 was not much more to see, and at length they came to a 
 wooden bench in an arbour, on which she sat down a while. 
 Giving a look to Fanny and Charles, who were far behind, 
 Baptiste said impressively : 
 
 " I should like to say a few words to Madame." 
 
 " Speak, Baptiste." 
 
 " 1 fear Madame overrates the little I am doing now; but 
 I should like Madame to understand that in my own mind I 
 have not done, and do not do, half enough." 
 
 " I have DO claim on you, or any one," sadly said Madame 
 la Roche. 
 
 " Madame has reared Fanny, and Fanny is my w^ife," re- 
 plied Baptiste, with unusual energy. " If I were to do ten 
 times as much as I am doing, I should not do half enough." 
 
 "vWell, there is one comfort," said Madame la Roche, in 
 a voice so low that Baptiste was not sure he had heard her 
 rightly, " it will not last very long." And looking up in his 
 face with a wistful smile, she added, cheerfully : " Well, Bap- 
 tiste, as you please, as you like." 
 
 Charles here came running towards them, breathless and 
 beaming with joy. 
 
 " Fanny says lunch is ready," he cried eagerly ; " come, 
 pray come." 
 
 Madame la Roche rose, and taking the arm of Baptiste, 
 she slowly left the arbour, Charles preceding them both at a 
 full gallop, in the vain hope of quickening their leisurely pace. 
 
 They found Fanny in the little sitting-room, standing by 
 a round table, on which a snow-white cloth set off a plain but 
 tempting meal of cold chicken, salad, fruit, and pleasant coun- 
 try wine, not Medoc or clos vougeot certainly, but with the 
 taste of the vine fruit on it, for all that. 
 
 Madame la Roche, who seemed to have recovered all her 
 cheerfulness, sat down ; she put Fanny on her right, and Bap- 
 tiste on her left; Charles sat between them, under the especial 
 surveillance of Fanny, and exactly opposite his grandmother, 
 who now and then looked at him, and from him to Baptiste, 
 with a mild and meditative look. 
 
 When the meal was over they all went to sit again in the 
 garden. Madame la Roche took the arm of Baptiste, who led 
 her to the arbour, and there, whilst he and Fanny stood, she 
 said : 
 
 " It may be that I reared Fanny like my own child ; but 
 for you, Baptiste, I never did anvtlung; yet you have been a
 
 SEVEN TEAKS. 181 
 
 Bon to me. My son I shall henceforth consider you, and when 
 I am dead it will gratify me if Charles should take your name, 
 and be your eldes^t son and the elder brother of your children, 
 That is all I can do to show you, Jiaptiste, that I am grateful 
 to you. It is not much, it is uothiug; but God is said to bless 
 the love of the aged, for He has put a special value on their 
 good will, and I hope and trust that mine will not prove fruit- 
 less to you and yours." 
 
 Baptiste looked both gratified and embarrassed by this 
 speech. 
 
 " If Madame thinks me worthy of being her son," he said, 
 " I will not refuse the honour. I am a tradesman indeed, a 
 workiog-man, but an honest man could be son to a queen for 
 all that. At the same time, Madame overrates what I have 
 done. It really is very little. As to Monsieur Charles," he 
 added, laying his hand on the head of the boy, who looked up 
 at him with settled gravity, " I have loved him like my own 
 child, ever since he had scarlatina, and if he takes the name 
 of Watt, he will take an honest name, though not a great one; 
 but, with Madame's permission, we will let him decide that 
 matter as he grows up. I am not proud, but I should not like 
 him to repent it." 
 
 Madame la Roche smiled. Fanny passed her arm within 
 Baptiste's, and said with fond mockery : 
 
 " Did Madame ever hear Baptiste make such a long speech 
 before? I never did, and I doubt if I ever shall again," she 
 added gravely, " his eloquence is exhausted." 
 
 " Do not mind her, Baptiste," said Madame la Roche, 
 " she talks so because she likes you." 
 
 " Mind her ! " echoed Baptiste, shaking with subdued 
 laughter, " mind Fanny! Oh! Madame, I have long given that 
 up. I should have lost my senses years ago if I minded her." 
 
 " Very well, sir," said Fanny, looking much piqued, " you 
 shall not have the trouble of minding me any more to-day." 
 She loosened her arm from his, and darted oflf, calling Charles, 
 who readily followed. 
 
 " She will come back," said Madame la Roche. 
 
 " No," said Baptiste, calmly, " I do not think she will, 
 but I cannot help it. Fanny would drive me wild if I did not 
 put her down a little now and then. She sulks a while, then 
 comes round of her own accord, and is pleasanter than ever." 
 
 From which speech Madame la Roche perceived that, slow 
 and heavy as Baptiste was, he had acquired some practical 
 knowledge of the best way to manage his warm-hearted, but
 
 182 SEVEN YEAKS. 
 
 capricious mistress. Most stoical, indeed, was the firmness he 
 displayed under her present displeasure. Fanny did not ap- 
 pear for the rest of the day, and Eaptiste did not look for her: 
 she was even out of the way when it was time for him to go, 
 and JBaptiste merely said : 
 
 " 1 am sorry Fanny is not here, for me to hid her good 
 night; " but he said it cheerfully, and went away without be- 
 traying any signs of emotion. And yet Baptiste was thought- 
 ful, perhaps he was even sad by the time he reached the end 
 of the village, and sat on a stone waiting for the public convey- 
 ance that was to take him on to Paris. 
 
 The evening was fine and bright ; rosy clouds flushed the 
 pale and lofty sky ; large and beautiful the stars came forth ; 
 the country round was quiet, and seemed to sink into repose ; 
 a balmy breath came from fields and orchards, but Baptiste 
 saw and heeded nothing. " That girl is tiresome," he thought. 
 " She knows I am going ; she knows it makes my heart ache 
 to go without having a parting look from her, and yet she 
 hides just to vex me. God forgive her, the mischievous little 
 monkey." 
 
 He sighed, and started as a rose was thrown plump in his 
 face. Baptiste looked up, and there, standing on a bank be- 
 fore him, he beheld Fanny and Charles looking at him and 
 laughing. His face lit up and his blue eyes sparkled with joy. 
 
 " Ah, Fanny," he said, rising and advancing towards her, 
 " that is like a good little girl." 
 
 " What is ? " asked Fanny ; " do you mean to say that I 
 came here to see one who chose to leave without bidding me 
 good evening ? I beg you will think no such a thing. I came 
 because Madame wished me and Charles to take a walk in the 
 fields, that is all." 
 
 But Baptiste knew better ; he leaped up on the bank, and 
 was by her side clasping her hand, and looking at her fondly. 
 
 Fanny smiled, and sent ofi' Charles to gather the wild 
 flowers which grew in profusion everywhere around them. 
 
 " So you thought to go ofi^ so ? " she said, when they were 
 comparatively alone. " Very proper behaviour, indeed — you 
 will make a nice husband, sir." 
 
 But Fanny had, unconsciously, touched a dangerous chord. 
 Baptiste seized both her hands. 
 
 " Fanny — Fanny ! " he cried, " how long is this to last ? 
 Life is short, and youth is still shorter. I sometimes think I 
 am mad to give you up as I do, day after day. What other joy 
 s>r pleasure, but you, have I ever thought of? Never one.
 
 SEVEN TEARS. 183 
 
 Fanny, never one ! And we cannot, the wisest and the most so 
 bar of us, we cannot live without something. There are times, 
 Fanny, when I feel it too much. When I want you so, tliat 
 it drives me crazy. What was I thinking of when you threw 
 that rose at me ? I was thinking, if my little Fanny were my 
 wife, she would not dare to serve me so. She could not, which 
 is better still. What wife would have the heart to let her 
 husband go without a word, without a kiss? i\nd until thai 
 little torment is my wife, she will treat me thus — I thought all 
 that, Fanny — and now I tell you, we mut<t get married soon." 
 
 His hands trembled as they clasped hers ; he spoke with a 
 subdued vehemence that made Fanny's heart sink, for passion 
 in the calm is always terrible to behold. She felt conquered 
 and weak, a mere woman in man's power, without the strength 
 to resist or protest. She looked up at the calm sky, wonder- 
 ing why right was so hard a battle to win, and why what was 
 easy was not ever right. 
 
 "Baptiste," she said, in a low sad voice, "I will do what 
 you please, what you like." 
 
 The calm submissive tone, the acquiescent words, dispelled 
 at once Baptiste's outbreak of passion. He relaxed his hold 
 of Fanny's hands, his head fell, and by the time Charles came 
 bounding back to them with his hands full of tlowers, and his 
 face flu^hed with pleasure, Baptiste was almost calm. 
 
 " Poor little Fanry," he said, " I tease and trouble you for 
 nothing, and you have twice as much sense as I have, but you 
 see a word at the wrong time will upset the wisest, of which I 
 am not. Heaven knows. Well, these are fine flowers — and that 
 is the coach coming, so good night, and good bye." 
 
 And not trusting himself with a word or a look, Baptiste 
 left them abruptly, and jumping down the bank, entered at 
 once the carriage, which was rattling past, and rolled down 
 the stony road without stopping. 
 
 Fanny stood and looked like one dreaming. The moon 
 was rising, when, taking the child's hand, she slowly went back 
 throvigh quiet fields to the little house where Madame la Roche 
 sat waiting. 
 
 " Vv^'ell, my dear, it is all made up," she said, cheerfully. 
 
 " Oh yes, Madame, all made up," echoed Fanny, trying to 
 look gay ; but Madame la Roche detected the efi'ort, the sad 
 look, the wan cheek, the listless smile. She took the young 
 girl's hands and pressed them kindly : 
 
 " You will soon be Baptiste's wife," she said, " I am sure 
 you will."
 
 184 SEVEN YEARS. 
 
 " We are not in a Imrry," replied Fanny^ smiling;. 
 
 " No, my dear, but you will soon be his wife for all that.' 
 
 Fanny got nervous. 
 
 " Oh ! pray Madame," she exclaimed, " have no present! 
 ments, pray do not." 
 
 '' 1 cannot help it," said Madame la Roche ; " there always 
 have been presentiments in our family, and I think it was by 
 living with me and in the old house so long, that Marie and 
 Charlotte took theirs. I assure you, child, such things are 
 contagious. But I see it makes you fret. We will say no 
 more about it." 
 
 Fanny went to rest "-ith a troubled heart. What if 
 Madame la Roche were going to die too! What if her free- 
 dom were to spring from +hat gentle grave ! The thought 
 sickened her. She prayed ardently, fervently for anything — 
 anything but that sad liberty. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 The presentiment of Madame la Roche took time for its 
 fulfilment. That summer passed, and still she lived, and not 
 merely did she live, but her health improved with country air. 
 Sometimes she said : 
 
 " I really feel as if I were getting strong. It is very 
 strange, for I know my time is running short, of course it is; 
 and yet I certainly feel stronger than when I came here." 
 
 " And is not that what Baptiste wanted ? " Fanny would 
 answer gaily ; " is it not for that we are here ? " 
 
 " Well, you certainly look better," meditatively replied 
 Madame la Roche, " you look rosier, you are plumper. Has 
 Baptiste noticed it ? " 
 
 Fanny did not know, but thought that Charles, too, was 
 impioved ; to which Madame la Roche assented. The boy 
 was with them; the village boasted a tolerably good day- 
 school, of which he was a pupil, and where, according to the 
 master's report, he made very fair progress. He spent his Sun- 
 days and holidays at home with his grandmother, Fanny, and 
 Baptiste, who, no matter what the weather might be, never failed 
 to come. Perhaps without those weekly visits neither he nor 
 Fanny could have borne this long separation. As it was, they 
 endured it very well, until, with autumn and the first chill 
 blasts, came reunion. 
 
 On a cool though clear October morning Madame la Roche
 
 SEVEN YEAKS. 185 
 
 Fanny, and the cliild returned to Paris. The face of Madame 
 la Iloclie saddened as she entered the crowded streets ; poor 
 Fanny, to whom winter brought the daily society of Baptiste, 
 was glad, and could not prevent joy fi-om beaming in her face. 
 Charles, like all children, was delighted with the change. As 
 they entered the house Madame la Roche sighed : it was 
 darker and more dismal than she had thought it. 
 
 " How black the yard looks," she whispered, as, leaning 
 on Fanny's arm, she painfully ascended the four floors that led 
 to their apartment, " and how unpleasantly Monsieur Focard 
 growled as he gave you that letter : I am afraid, I really am, 
 that he is a bad-tempered man — and not very clean." 
 
 " He is kinder than he looks," said Fanny, " and do you 
 know, Madame, I like this old house : it feels friendly." 
 
 " Does it ? " sadly answered Madame la Roche. 
 
 They had reached the door ; it opened before they had 
 time to ring, and Baptiste stood smilhig on the threshold, 
 ready to bid them welcome. 
 
 " That is why Fanny feels the house friendly," said 
 Madame la Roche, smiling. " Well, so do I, too, with such a 
 friend." 
 
 But do what she would she looked melancholy, her eyes 
 grew dim as she entered the silent rooms that spoke too elo- 
 quently of her old servants. 
 
 " Poor Charlotte, poor Marie ! " exclaimed Madame la 
 Roche, " it seems unnatural to have survived them so long. 
 But I shall soon go ; I feel it, child, I feel it." 
 
 Fanny did not now think quite so much as at first of Madame 
 la Roche's presentiments, and without answering remarks that 
 seemed to require no answer, she handed Madame la Roche 
 the letter which she had received from Monsieur Fecard. 
 
 "It came last night," said Fanny, "but Monsieur Fecard 
 knew we were to be here this morning, so he did not for- 
 ward it." 
 
 " A letter ! " musingly said Madame la Roche, holding it 
 in her hand, " Why, no one ever writes to me now. What 
 can it be about, and from whom ? All my old friends have 
 forsaken me — they really have." 
 
 " Perhaps it is from Monsieur Noiret," hesitatingly sug- 
 gested Fanny. 
 
 " Oh no, child, it is not. Monsieur Noiret is too much a 
 man of the world to care any more about me — no — no." 
 
 She broke the seal as she spoke. Something strange there 
 was in that letter, for Madame la Roche read it three times
 
 186 SEVEN TEAKS. 
 
 over, before she believed in its contents. " Fanny," she said 
 at length, " your presentiment did not deceive you — Monsieur 
 Noiret is dead ! " And she sank dovfn in a chair and burst 
 into tears. 
 
 Fanny did not weep, but she was shocked. She remem- 
 bered kindnesses, which, though not disinterested, were yet 
 kindnesses ; perhaps too she remembered Monsieur Noiret's 
 love for her, and wondered what she would have felt had she 
 married him and been left a widow. 
 
 " You would have been a rich woman," said Baptiste, who 
 stood close by, who had heard all, and was watching her, and 
 thus seemed to answer her secret thoughts. Fanny looked up 
 and smiled sadly. 
 
 " A rich woman," she said, in a low tone, " but at what 
 price, Baptiste? It would have been a hard struggle to have 
 loved that old man, and it would have been shameful not to 
 love him. Thank Grod, apart from losing you, thank God. I 
 say that I «as naved from this." 
 
 " Tljis is a hard case ! " ejaculated Madame la Roche, clasp- 
 ing lier hands; " a very hard case ; I wish I knew what I feel 
 exactly. It seems to me I am sorry, truly sorry, for Mon- 
 sieur Noiret's death. And yet I cannot help being glad, not 
 at his death, — no, I am sure it is not at that, but at those five 
 hundred francs a year he has left me ! " 
 
 " Five hundred fnincs a year ! " echoed Fiinny. 
 
 " Yes, dear. So hi ; lawyer says, and he would not deceive 
 me. But I repeat it, I am truly sorry he is dead. Monsieur 
 Noiret, my old friend, v/ho long did his best to serve me, and 
 who, it appears, had not entirely forgotten me, as I thought ; 
 but we are very prone to judge and think evil -we are." 
 
 Monsieur Noiret had, indeed, bequeathed five hundred 
 francs a year to Madame la Roclie, only for her lifetime, it is 
 true, but still the bequest, prompted by compassionate regret 
 for the past, was unexpected. Her first perplexed feeling of 
 not knowing whether she was glad or sorry over, Madame la 
 Roche was quietly pleased at this little piece of good fortune. 
 
 " I am glad, I really am," she said, with a sparkle in her 
 blue eye; " I know that Baptiste need not now spend all his 
 money on me, and, Baptiste, will you do me a favour ? will you 
 make me happy ? " 
 
 " And marry Fanny," said Baptiste, smiling. 
 
 " Just so : but how did you know I meant that ? " 
 
 " I saw it in Madame's eyes." 
 
 " Yes, marry Fanny. I am now quite a rich woman. 1
 
 8EYEN TEARS. 187 
 
 have nine hundred francs a year. Lei me have the happiness 
 of seeing Fanny yonr wife before I die." 
 
 Baptiste looked at Fanny, whose lips uttered no denial. 
 
 " Very well," said Baptiste, emphatically, " this day month, 
 Madame." 
 
 " Let me see, is to-day Friday ? " anxiously interrupted 
 Madame la Roche. "You know how uulucky it was of you, 
 Baptiste, to fix on a Friday seven years ago." 
 
 " To-day is Thursday," said Baptiste. 
 
 " Thursday will do," replied Madame la Boche, "and you 
 can see Fanny as often as you please. Neither Charlotte nor 
 Marie are here to interfere." 
 
 Silent tears accompanied the last words, but Baptiste was 
 in too great a fever at this unexpected decision, and Fanny was 
 too much troubled at this sudden change in all her plans, for 
 she had made up her mind not to marry till she was grey, to 
 soothe the sad recollections Madame la Roche cherished. 
 
 " Mind, Fanny," said Baptiste, as they parted, " it must be 
 in a month this time ; you may stay with Madame la Roche 
 whilst she lives, but I cannot have another disappointment. I 
 cannot." 
 
 " There will be none," said Fanny, positively ; " Madame 
 la Roche says I have acquired the ftxculty of presentiment from 
 living with her, and take my word for it, there will be none." 
 
 " God hear you, Fanny." 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 There was no disappointment. On a mild November day 
 Fanny and Baptiste were married quietly and happily. 
 
 No crowd of guests escorted them to the altar, no rejoicing 
 friends sat down with them at that day's dinner, but Charles 
 was merry, Fanny looked happy, and Baptiste looked happier, 
 and happiest of all looked Madame la Roche. 
 
 " I wish I could tell you both how glad I am," she said, 
 simply, " and I really think that if he saw you now so good, 
 so pleased, Monsieur Noiret too would be glad to have brought 
 about, or helped to bring about, this your happy wedding day, 
 for I know I should never have been able to persuade you to 
 marry without that little legacy of his." 
 
 Baptiste looked puzzled, and Fanny smiled mischievously. 
 
 " I am not sure there is so much cause for congratulation,'"
 
 188 SEVEN YEARS. 
 
 slie said ; " did Madame overhear the man at the Mairie this 
 morning ? " 
 
 " Do you mean the mayor, who made you make that dread- 
 ful promise to obey Baptiste ? " asked Madame la Roche, for 
 Vfhy woman should obey man, she could not imagine ! 
 
 " Oh ! no, not the mayor," said Fanny, " but a man who 
 said to another : ' I remember her : she was a pretty girl seven 
 years ago.' " 
 
 " He knew nothing about it," roundly said Baptiste. 
 " You were not pretty seven years ago : you were sallow and 
 thin ; but you became pretty as time went on ; did she not, 
 Madame ? " 
 
 " I always thought Fanr.y good looking," said Madame la 
 Koche, with mild gravity. 
 
 " At all events, the man said I was pretty seven years ago, 
 which means plainly I am not now. So you see, my poor 
 Baptiste, you have got an ugly old wife." 
 
 " He was a fool," stoutly said Baptiste, " and you — you — 
 I had almost said you are not much wiser ; but that would not 
 be civil, nor yet would it be my meaning. Glance in that 
 looking-glass, or rather ask Madame if you are old and ugly. 
 Bah ! you are prettier than ever." 
 
 " I really think she is," said Madame la Roche, " I really 
 do." 
 
 " I hope, at least, I am wiser than I was seven years ago," 
 demurely said Fanny, " that I will make Baptiste a better 
 wife than I might have made him tiien." 
 
 " Not a bit, — not a bit," said Baptiste, nettled, " you are 
 the same flighty creature "you were, and you will plague my 
 life out — I know you will. But I may blame myself I 
 like you as you are, and foolish, flighty, giddy bird as you are, 
 I am glad to have you." 
 
 " They must want to be alone," thought Madame la Roche, 
 " it is natural, on their wedding day, — they must have many 
 new thoughts and feelings to impart to each other. I am 
 afraid I cannot go out and leave them ; but why should they 
 not go out and leave me ? " 
 
 She accordingly proposed that Baptiste should take Fanny 
 out, but neither Baptiste nor his bride appeared to have the 
 new thoughts and feelings Madame la Roche had apprehended. 
 
 " They knew each other by heart," Fanny said, " and had 
 nothing to learn from solitude." 
 
 " But you miglit like being alone," persisted Madame la 
 Roche. " It seems natural, though, to be sure, I cannot re-
 
 SEVEN YEAES. 189 
 
 member I had anything very particular to say to Monsieur la 
 Eoche the day we were married." 
 
 " Madame," said Baptistc, simply and gravely, " we have 
 married, and been glad to marry, but it was not to run away 
 from you, or feel you in the way of our new happiness, — God 
 forbid. Whilst you live, Fanny shall stay with you like a 
 good daughter, and may you live long ! I am quite happy to 
 have her so." 
 
 Madame la Roche shed a quiet tear, but did not remon- 
 strate, whilst Charles, whose lengthened face betrayed his ap- 
 prehensions that Baptiste was going to take Fanny away 
 altogether, brightened considerably on hearing she was to stay. 
 
 Tills was their wedding day, and their wedding life. 
 
 The winter passed in peace, happiness, and comfort 
 Baptiste managed so that Madame la Roche's accession of in- 
 come went to pay Charles's superior schooling. Baptiste con- 
 fessed he was ambitious for the child. " If he is to take the 
 name of Watt," he said, " I wish him to be an honour to it : 
 and if he is not, I wish to do for him at least what his grand- 
 mother did for Fanny my wife." 
 
 As usual, Madame la Roche remonstrated, then yielded. 
 She yielded likewise when, warmth and summer having re- 
 turned, Baptiste insisted that she, Fanny, and Charles should 
 go once more to that pretty little home in the country which 
 he had made for them the year before. 
 
 " It will be the last summer that I shall trouble Baptiste 
 so," she said to Fanny; ''next year I shall be with Charlotte 
 and Marie, and you will be with your husljand." 
 
 " Madame, — Madame, — 1 do not believe in your pre- 
 sentiments," gaily said Fanuy. 
 
 "My dear," said Madame la Roche, with mild surprise, 
 " have you forgotten that you, too, have acquired the factdty 
 by living with me ? Have you forgotten your remarkable 
 presentiment about Monsieur Noiret's death '? " 
 
 Fanny did not venture to contradict this inference. She 
 had done so once before, and Madame la Roche had remained 
 rather sore at the imputati<jn on her accuracy and memory. 
 
 We need not write the story of that summer, it had none. 
 We need but relate what happened on a Sunday evening in 
 early September. 
 
 It was a beautiful evening and mild. 
 
 " I think I should like to sit out," said Madame la Roche. 
 
 Baptiste led her out into the little garden, and helped her 
 to recline in the deep arm-chair, whicli her increasing weak-
 
 190 SEVEN TEARS. 
 
 ness required even there. He placed her within view of the 
 calm Llue and yellow sky, and of the low circle of hills that 
 met it. The flowers were breathing forth all their fragrance ; 
 the air came perfumed from the surrounding gardens, yet Mad 
 ame la Roche looked around her with mild apathy. Toe 
 languid to take pleasure in what she saw, she enjoyed it 
 dreamily. 
 
 •' This is almost as beautiful as Flanders," thoughtfully 
 said Baptiste. 
 
 " Almost ! " echoed Fanny. 
 
 " Yes, almost, Madame Watt, for, let me tell you, there is 
 no place like Flanders, whatever you may think." 
 " Is not Flanders flat ? " asked Madame la Roche. 
 " Very flat, Madame, and that is why it is so beautiful ! " 
 " Indeed ! " she mildly rejoined. 
 
 Fanny had gathered a few flowers. She now put them on 
 Madame la Roche's lap, who smiled at her, but scarcely looked 
 at them. 
 
 " Here is your favourite flower, the rose," said Fanny. 
 " Thank you ; all flowers are beautiful, but I have no 
 favourites now ; the world is fading away from before me, and 
 I am leaving it a little more every day, and all its beauty, too, 
 Fanny." 
 
 " Do you feel unwell ? " uneasily asked Fanny. 
 '•No, child, I feel very well. Will you go and fetch me my 
 handkerchief, if you please "? " 
 
 Fanny went ; as soon as her back was turned, Madame la 
 Roche laid her hand on Baptiste's arm, and looking up at 
 him, she said : 
 
 "Baptiste, you have been a son to me, and a mothei^'s 
 blessing be upon you. Your trial will soon be over. I am 
 going away ; do not look so uneasy, it is a great blessing to 
 you and to me. My life has been a long useless life ; but it 
 might be longer than it is. I might live on and be a per- 
 petual bar between Fauny and you, for she will not leave me, 
 and I am too old and too troublesome to be with you. I am 
 thankful, therefore, to go and let you be together, and I say 
 all this I scarcely know why ; perhaps because it relieves me 
 — perhaps because I fear 1 might, if I waited too long, not 
 say it at all." 
 
 Before Baptiste had time to reply, Fanny came up with 
 the handkerchief She read at once the disturbed meaning ol 
 her husband's face, and said quickly : 
 " Is Madame unwell ? "
 
 SEVEN YKAKS. 191 
 
 " No, child ; but I was telling Baptiste what a long useless 
 iife mine Las been, and I say so to you as well as to him. 
 Thank God, child, that when you are my age you can look 
 back on your youth, and find more there than old Madame 
 la Roche in hers." 
 
 " Ah, Madame ! " said Fanny, looking pained, " you 
 grieve us by speaking so. Why will you hold yourself such a 
 sinner ? " 
 
 " A lamb ! " said Baptiste, " a meek, innocent lamb." 
 
 Madame la Roche looked at the sinking sun, and the plain 
 that spread a field of gold to the base of bluish hills. 
 
 " I dare say it is all beautiful," she said, after a long gaze ; 
 " but I do not seem to see it ; I only see days spent with 
 nands folded on my lap, and idleness in my heart and brain." 
 
 She said no more : when the sun had set, aud the last red 
 glow had departed from the sky, Madame la Roche rose and 
 reeotered the house. She grew more feeble from that day, and 
 when autumn opened she died. Gentle and unrepining, she de- 
 parted from life with a smile on her lips; with uoub but good 
 and holy thoughts in her heart. Almost her last words were 
 a blessing to Fanny and Baptiste, a prayer to (Jharles to obey 
 his adopttd parents. 
 
 She died in the qiriet village where Baptiste's filial care 
 had given her such happy days ; but though the village church- 
 yard was a beautiful aud shady place, Bajjtiste would not let 
 her sleejj there. 
 
 " No, no," he said, " expense aud trouble are nothing — 
 Madame la Roche shall be with her two faithful old servants 
 at her feet, like a lady : besides, they were with her in life, 
 why should they be divided from her in death ? " 
 
 As Baptiste said, so was it done. VVheu he returned from 
 the funeral with poor little Charles, whose eyes were red with 
 weeping, and whose heart was very heavy with grief, he took 
 him to his upholsterer's shop, where Fanny, now for the first 
 time in her husband's home, was waiting for them. 
 
 " Monsieur Charles," he said to him, " this is the place we 
 live in ; in many respects it would not be suited to you, aud 
 therefore I have resolved to put you in a boarding-school, 
 where you will be properly educated. You can come and see 
 us every Sunday, aud if you will hold me as your father, and 
 Fanny as your mother, you will make us happy." 
 
 "I will, I will," cried Charles, sobbing. " I will be called 
 Watt." 
 
 " Later, not now," inflexibly said Baptiste, " you must re-
 
 192 SEVEN YEARS. 
 
 pent nothing; but 1 may say it without boasting, Watt is an 
 honest name no one need be asliamed of. Well, Charles, I 
 have not much more to say : in that pretty little garden oppo- 
 gite I saw Fanny for the first time, some years ago. Your 
 kind and good gra-iidniother owned that house, and was a rich 
 lady, but never think of the money that is gone, my boy ; re- 
 member her in your prayers, but never think of the money, 
 though it is a useful and a very excellent thing. Think of 
 the work you have to do, and do it bravely, and trust me for 
 that, money v/ill come too." 
 
 " I do not want money, — I do not care about it," despond- 
 ently said Charles. 
 
 Baptiste was going to argue him out of this dangerous ro- 
 mance, but Fanny laid her fingers on her husband's lips, and 
 silenced him. 
 
 " It will all come to him," she whispered. 
 
 " Perhaps it will, and perhaps it will not," doubtfully said 
 Baptiste ; " at his age I knew what money was and its value ; 
 but have your way, both of you." 
 
 The next day Charles, though not without many tears, 
 went to school. When Baptiste came home he found Fanny 
 with rather a sad face, but very busy in the back room. He 
 went up to her, and laying hia hand on her shoulder, he said 
 fondly : 
 
 " Well, my little Fanny, you are beginning housekeeping. 
 God speed you ; but you know what I told you last night. 
 The funeral and Charles's schooling have taken away all our 
 money. We must pinch and spare, as if we were ever so 
 young a couple, and just beginning business." 
 
 '' Very well," said Fanny, cheerfully, " we will do it, and 
 be happier than if we had cared for ourselves alone, and had 
 never had to do it." 
 
 Baptiste looked down at his wife, and smiled — a smile in 
 which there was no regret for the past, but much of calm hap- 
 piness in the present. 
 
 Dear have they bought that happiness, and paid the full 
 price; may it stay with them long, a faithful and abiding 
 guest !
 
 SEVEN YEARS. 193 
 
 THE CHEAP EXCUKSION. 
 
 Cheapness! What wonflerfullj clever things are done and 
 thought of in thy name — what mighty sums saved — what plea- 
 sures realised ! We shall not, however, celebrate thy praises 
 in an essay. The philosophy of clieapness may be best detailed 
 in a story — the story of a terribly saving couple whom we 
 lately heard of in Paris. 
 
 The morning of the fete of St. Cloud shone bright and 
 beautiful, and Monsieur Krukaine, who had set himself on en- 
 joying a holiday, was anxious to be off. " I think, my dear, 
 it is time to start," said he to his wife ; " as we mean to walk, 
 it will be wise for us to go before the heat comes on." 
 
 " Well, Monsieur Krukaine," screamed a shrill voice from 
 an inner room, " you may be off if you like ; but Alexander's 
 face is not washed, and my things are not on yet, and I shan't 
 hurry either." 
 
 M. Krukaine looked at his watch and groaned ; but he 
 knew by experience that to endeavour to hasten Madame Kru- 
 kaine's preparations would only occasion further delay : so after 
 ascertaining once more that it was really a tine day, he glanced 
 over the newspaper with as much composure as he could preserve. 
 
 This was a great day in the life of the Krukaines. who had 
 long looked forward to it with keen anticipations of the pleasure 
 it was to afford them. St. Cloud is a pretty village on the 
 banks of the Seine, at a short distance from Paris. It pos- 
 sesses a palace and very handsome gardens, which on the fete 
 day of the patron saint of the place are thronged with visitors, 
 and offer a very gay appearance. The Krukaines were retired 
 grocers in comfortable circumstances ; their elder children were 
 settled in the world, but the youngest, Alexander Krukaine, a 
 boy about nine years of age, still remained with his parents, 
 who resided in the Rue de 1' Arbresec, near the Place Dauphine. 
 As the heavy cares of life were over for them, ]\I. and Madame 
 Krukaine might have been considered very happy people, but 
 for the unlucky parsimony of their habits. Nothing, literally, 
 seemed so difficult to M. Krukaine, as to spend a few IVcUics 
 for any purpose not strictly indispensable. To save money 
 was his first consideration in everything; and his contriv 
 9
 
 V)4: SEVEN YKAKS. 
 
 ances to get cheap bargains, and conduct matters on all oc 
 casions cheaply, were most exemplary. Unfortunately, his 
 cheap often turned out dear purchases, when all the cost was 
 counted ; hut better luck was hoped for next time ; and failure 
 accordingly only led to new experiments. Madame had not 
 originally been a votary of cheapness ; but from living in an 
 atmosphere of economical devices, she at length rivalled her 
 husband in saving, and after that it would have been difficult 
 to say who was the cleverest in scenting out a bargain, or in 
 contriving means for holding in money. In carrying out their 
 projects, they stoically deprived themselves of the most innocent 
 pleasures, lest they should cause any expense. They declared 
 that their means would not allow them to see company. As 
 every one knew this to be false, the Krukaines were soon called 
 selfish, avaricious people ; but to this they remained perfectly 
 indifferent ; M. Krukaine, who piqued himself on being a phi- 
 losopher, remarking that as calumny was the usual reward of 
 merit, they had no right to be surprised at the treatment they 
 experienced from their neighbours. If the truth must be told, 
 they were rather glad, than otherwise, at the turn which re- 
 ports took against them. They had the pleasure of thinking 
 they were unjustly persecuted, and this pleasure they had the 
 satisfaction of enjoying without cost: it was a cheap way of 
 getting amusement. \ 
 
 Such being their disposition, it was not without mature 
 deliberation that the Krukaines had decided on going to the 
 fete of St. Cloud ; but the beauty of the weather rendered the 
 temptation irresistible ; besides they determined to spend so 
 very little, that it would be scarcely worth mentioning. A 
 circumstance, which increased their wish of seeing tlie fiHe was, 
 that several lodgers of the house in which they resided had 
 resolved to go to it in a party, and s})oke enthusiastically of 
 the pleasures they anticipated from the excursion. The Kru- 
 kaines had been invited to join them, but had churlishly re- 
 fused ; for as M. Krukaine prudently observed, " What was the 
 use of going with other jieople when you could gain nothing 
 by them? " They accordingly determined to go alone. Mad- 
 ame Brenu, a sarcastic widow, who lived on the same land- 
 ing with them, and who was to be one of the pic-nic party, did 
 indeed make some malicious and spiteful remarks about stingy 
 and unsociable people ; but as Madame Krukaine loftily ob- 
 sei ved, in emulation of her husband's philosophy, " She was 
 abovt; such things, and should treat the woman's impertinence 
 with the calm contempt it merited."
 
 SEVEN YEAKS. 195 
 
 Though M. Krukaine, after waiting a very long time, 
 ended by thinking Madame would never be dressed, she was 
 ready at last, and appeared in the full glory of a bright yellow 
 bonnet and brick-red shawl ; which, though somewhat out of 
 dace, were still as good as new. On her left arm she carried a 
 large and heavy basket, well stored with provisions for the day ; 
 and in her right hand she brandished an old blue parasol, Avith 
 which she rather viciously poked Alexander Krukaine, a dull 
 sleepy-looking boy, who bore the infliction, and the "go on" 
 that accompanied it, with an irritating, don't care, dogged sort 
 of look. 
 
 "Well, Monsieur Krukaine, do you mean to stay here all 
 'day ? " asked Madame, turning on her husband. 
 
 " Certainly not," replied Monsieur Krukaine, whistling 
 and walking down-stairs, whilst Alexander obeyed another 
 poke, and another "go on," and followed his father. 
 
 The. said father needs no particular description. He was a 
 thick common-place looking man, possessed of a tolerable share 
 of good nature ; but long habit had enabled him to lay this 
 superfluous quality under such remarkable control, that few 
 persons could have suspected its existence. A thoroughly good- 
 humoured temper alone betrayed to the penetrating eye of keen 
 observers the genial light which Monsieur Krukaine so care- 
 fully hid beneath the bushel of worldly prudence. 
 
 Softly and tenderly did Madame Krukaine close the door 
 of her apartment ; slyly and triumphantly did she slip the 
 key in her pocket, and why, forsooth ! oh, weakness of great 
 minds ! lest Widow Brenu should hear her ! We cannot deny 
 it ; Madame Krukaine, who was afraid of no one, dreaded with 
 mortal fear the piercing eye, the ready ear, the pitiless tongue 
 of Widow Brenu ; and fate had, with perverse ingenuity, 
 brought this enemy to the very threshold of the Krukaiues, by 
 lodging her in the same house, and on the same second-floor 
 landing. " This time she did not hear me," thought Madame 
 Krukaine, exultingly. Her foot was on the first step of the 
 staircase, in the act of going down, wlien Monsieur Krukaine, 
 who felt in a most unphilosophical hurry to be off, shouted from 
 the foot of the staircase : 
 
 "Madame Krukaine. are you coming or nott" 
 
 Madame Brenu was in the act of soaping her merry round 
 face, when she heard Monsieur Krukaine"s voice. At once she 
 flew to the door, opened it, and beaming witli mischievous 
 glee, she confronted Madame Krukaine, who eyed her coldly 
 and sternly.
 
 196 SEVEN YEAKS. 
 
 " Good morning," said Madame Brenu. 
 
 " Good morning," loftily replied Madame Krukaine ; " I 
 hope you are quite well ? " 
 
 " Ob, quite ; dressing to go to St. Cloud. Are you really 
 going too'?" 
 
 " We are." 
 
 " You will find it expensive," said Madame Brenu, shrewd- 
 ly, " dreadfully expensive." 
 
 " That is our own business," frigidly said Madame Krukaine, 
 and she was going down stairs, when Madame Brenu, who was 
 a dreadful woman, precisely because she always did what she 
 pleased, laid her fat hand on the basket and unceremoniously 
 lifted up the lid. The leg of a fowl caught her quick eye. 
 " Capon ! " she cried, amazed, •' cold capon ! Madame Kru- 
 kaine, how did you make up your heart ? " 
 
 "Madame Krukaine, are you coming?" again shouted 
 Monsieur Krukaine from below. 
 
 " Yes, Monsieur Krukaine, I am coming," replied Madame, 
 in great wrath, and bending over the banisters to reply, " and 
 you will very much oblige me by coming and fetching your 
 basket. I need not tell you that it is not for my own consump- 
 tion I provided its contents, and if you tulll eat, I think you 
 may work." 
 
 Monsieur Krukaine was at first confounded at this extraor- 
 dinary address, but he soon came to the right conclusion. 
 " Madame Brenu has been at her," he thought, and he went up. 
 
 He found the two ladies engaged in keen though polite 
 battle. 
 
 " I am very much obliged to you, Madame," said Madame 
 Krukaine, drawing her thin lips tight, " I am very much 
 obliged to you." 
 
 " Do not mention it," good-humouredly replied Madame 
 Brenu, " I hope you may enjoy yourselves. We shall. Mon- 
 sieur Theodore, the lawyer's clerk, brings his flute, and Mon- 
 sieur Ledru his guitar, then we each take something to eat with 
 us. I have a fine melon and — but dear me, Monsieur Krukaine, 
 how did you make up your mind to buy a capon ? — A pdte, 
 too ! I assure you no one will believe it." 
 
 Monsieur Krukaine winked his right eye at Madame Brenu, 
 and smacking his lips emphatically, replied : 
 
 '•• Madame, we shall believe it when the time comes." 
 
 Madame Brenu looked but half convinced, and did not 
 seem able to make np her mind to believe in the capon, but,
 
 SEVEN TEAKS. 197 
 
 dropping that part of the subject, she gave her neighbour a 
 rueful look, and pursued : 
 
 " And you will actually carry that heavy basket all the 
 way to St. Cloud ! well Monsieur Krukaine 1 admire you. We 
 have hired a char-a-banc to take us there and back, but Mad- 
 ame Krukaine would not go in a char-a-banc ; too proud, 
 ehr' 
 
 Madame Krukaine would have returned a wrathful reply, 
 but her husband, who did not care a rush for Madame Brenu's 
 talk (all wind, he wisely observed), only winked his right eye 
 the harder, and tapping his nose, said shrewdly : 
 
 " There's a bottle of Bordeaux with the capon, Madame 
 Brenu, a bottle of Bordeaux." 
 
 And with this they descended. 
 
 " That was cutting, eh '? " said Monsieur Krukaine to his 
 wife. 
 
 "Very cutting, indeed," ironically replied Madame Kru- 
 kaine, as the voice of Madame Brenu was heard proclaiming to 
 the whole house : " Do you know the news ? The Krukaines 
 are going to St. Cloud, and they are taking a cold capon, and 
 a bottle of Bordeaux. I saw the leg of the fowl, but I do not 
 believe in it." 
 
 " All wind, all talk," philosophically said Monsieur Kru- 
 kaine, and to show his contempt for it, he began whistling. 
 
 The day wa line, but it was warm too. Monsieur Kru- 
 kaine, who carried the basket, was soon in a profuse heat. 
 He had not walked ten minutes when he paused, and observed 
 gravely : 
 
 " My dear, I think we shall be very much flitigued by the 
 time we reach St. Cloud. Had we not better ride there 1 " 
 
 " Ride, indeed ! " echoed Madame, with some asperity, 
 " and how 1 " 
 
 " Perhaps this countryman, who seems to be going our 
 way, might give us a lift," shrewdly replied Monsieur Kru- 
 kaine, winking at a large cart, covered with white canvas, and 
 drawn by a stout white horse, standing at the corner of a 
 street, and which evidently belonged to a queer-looking brown- 
 visagecl countryman in a blue smock frock, who stood smok- 
 hig his pipe at the door of a wine-shop. 
 
 " I do not much like the look of that cart," said Madame 
 Krukaine. 
 
 " Never mind the look, my dear," eagerly replied her hus- 
 band ; " countrymen are soft ; and think of the pleasure of 
 riding for next to nothing ! "
 
 198 SEVEN TEAES. 
 
 He went up to the soft countryman, and made the pro. 
 posal ; it was favourably received, and in the short space of 
 half an hour the bargain was struck. For a very small sum, 
 which by dint of haggling Madame Krukaine reduced to a 
 very trifling one, the countryman agreed to take them to St. 
 Cloud. The whole family accordingly got up, Monsieur and 
 Madame Krukaine exchanging looks of congratulation on their 
 excellent bargain. 
 
 But there is a shady side to everything in this world, and 
 it so happened that the cart, which was well laden with sacks 
 of corn, went rather more slowly than the Krukaines could 
 have walked. 
 
 "We shall never get there," said Madame. 
 
 " My dear friend," soothingly observed Monsieur Kru- 
 kaine to the countryman, " you have a good strong whij) ; 
 could you not urge your horse a little 1 " 
 
 The countryman took out his pipe, and stared in profound 
 amazement at Monsieur Krukaine. 
 
 " That horse has never been whipped in his life," he said 
 at length, " and my opinion is that if I were to touch him he 
 would stand stock still. But if you want him to go faster it 
 is easily done." 
 
 The countryman made a peculiar noise with his tongue, 
 and away flew the white horse at a gallop. The cart was not 
 on springs, and the road was stony ; within five minutes 
 Madame Krukaine was reduced to the verge of apoplexy, 
 ^lonsieur Krukaine shouted in the countryman's ear, and shook 
 and pulled him, but the countryman only shrugged his shoul- 
 ders, as much as to say : " What can 1 do? " Upon which 
 Monsieur Krukaine, being reduced to actual desperation, and 
 suddenly remembering the eflect the whip was to produce, 
 seized it, and plied it vigorously around the horse's legs ; but 
 strange to say, the white horse, on being whipped for the first 
 time in his life, instead of standing stock still, whisked his tail, 
 kicked up his heels, and galloped all the fiister, never stopping 
 indeed, until he felt tired, and the Krukaines were fairly black 
 in the face. 
 
 " I think we shall get down," said Monsieur Krukaine, as 
 soon as he had breath enough to speak. 
 
 Madame, who was wholly exhausted, assented faintly, but 
 though the countryman raised no sort of objection to their 
 alighting, he did raise so very great an objection to their goirig 
 away without paying him the amount agreed on, that the 
 Krukaines, unable to find it in their hearts to pay for a ride
 
 SEVEN TEARS. 199 
 
 and go on foot, sulkily adhered to the original plan and 
 bargain. 
 
 " But I beg, sir," said Madame Krukaine, with great as- 
 perity, as she resumed her seat, " I beg, sir, that you will 
 leave off that horrid smoking." 
 
 " I should be most happy to oblige a Parisian lady," said 
 the soft countryman, gravely, " but if I do not smoke my 
 horse will not go, and when I do not want him to go, and yet 
 wish to smoke, I must get down. And that is how and why 
 you found me at the door of the wine-shop this morning." 
 
 This out]-ageous story was received by the Krukaines with 
 ili-disguised scorn ; but they prudently remembered that they 
 were in the countryman's cart, and ventured on no open sign 
 of incredulity. Slowly and lazily they crept at true snail's 
 pace along the hot sunny road, when a sound of light spring- 
 ing wheels, with which lilended the murmur of a flute and the 
 tinkling of a guitar, was heard behind. Monsieur and Madame 
 Krukaine exchanged conscious looks, and Madame drew back, 
 but hc'r yellow bonnet was too conspicuous, and rapidly as 
 the char-a-banc flew past, Widow Brenu saw and recognised 
 them. With a loud and sarcastic laugh she rose from her 
 seat, and with out-stretched finger she pointed them out to the 
 whole party, who raised an ironical cheer, as the light vehicle 
 passed by, bequeathing a thick cloud of dust to the slow jolt- 
 ing cart. 
 
 " A cart is just as good as a char-a-banc," philosophically 
 obsei'ved Monsieur Krukaine. 
 
 " I prefer a cart," said Madame ; " a char-a-banc is so 
 vulgar." 
 
 The countryman winked at them, and emphatically uttered 
 the word : 
 
 " Economical ! " 
 
 " My dear," said INIonsieur Krukaine to his wife, " what 
 is there in that basket ? " 
 
 " A cold roast capon, a salad, a pate, a tart, and a bottle 
 of Bordeaux," replied Madame. 
 
 Having thus convinced the countryman that, though they 
 rode in a cart, they were people of substance, the Krukaines 
 did not open their lips until St. Cloud was reached, when, to 
 their infinite comfort, they alighted. 
 
 " Good morning," said the countryman, with a knowing 
 look, " a cheap ride, eh ? " The Krukaines did not deign him 
 a I'eply, but walked away with silent scorn. 
 
 They had come so slowly along, that it was now about
 
 200 SEVEN YEARS. 
 
 twelve, and the Krukaines soon discovered that they wert 
 hungry. Their first care, therefore, was to select a convenient 
 spot where they might take a slight repast. They were quar- 
 relling on the subject — for Madame Krukaine wanted to re- 
 main within sight of the fete, and her husband as energetically 
 remonstrated against this course — when the good lady sud- 
 denly gave a shriek of horror, and exclaimed, in a tone of the 
 deepest dismay, " the l)asket ! " 
 
 M. Krukaine turned hastily round, filled with prophetic 
 dread ; the basket, wliieh shoidd have been on his wife's arm, 
 was gone. 
 
 " In the cart ! " screamed Madame ; " you left it in the 
 cart." 
 
 " I think, my dear, it would l^e more correct to say you 
 left it. What had I to do with the basket 1 " 
 
 " I say you left it, Monsieur Krukaine : had I not Alex- 
 ander to mind ? You ought to be asliaiiied of yourself — a new 
 basket I bouglit only the other day, besides a cold roast capon, 
 a salad, a pate, a tart, a brittle of wine, a porcelain dish, and 
 a damask cloth. Well, I do compliment you on your day's 
 work. Oh, you may sneer av/ay ! " 
 
 M. Krukraine here suggested that the cart might not be 
 gone yet, and he accordingly ran back to the spot where they 
 had alighted ; but vain hope ! no trace of it remained — cart, 
 basket, cold capon, wine, pate, salad, and tart, all had van- 
 ished. This was the more provoking, that it was very rarely 
 the Krukaines ventured to indulge in such luxurious fare as 
 they had promised themselves for that day, M. Krukaine's 
 hunger silenced his philosophy for a while, and he slowly 
 returned to the spot where he had left his wife in a very bitter 
 mood, which the thought of the capon on which the country 
 man was going to feast rendered particularly desponding. 
 
 " W^ell, sir," triumphantly exclaimed Madame Krukaine, 
 " where is the basket ? — your basket, sir ! " 
 
 " It is useless to talk of it now, my dear ; the question is, 
 What shall we eat ? " 
 
 " You may eat what you like. Monsieur Krukaine ; but 
 surely you cannot be very hungry, or you would not have 
 loft your l)asket behind you." 
 
 Without heeding this taunt, M. Krukaine immediately pro- 
 ceeded to a restaurateur's, where, on paynig an extravagant 
 price, he procured some cold meat, a loaf of bread, and a bottle 
 Df wine. With these provisions the family made a very 
 indifferent meal, the relish it might otherwise have afforded
 
 SEVEN YEAKS. 201 
 
 them being destroyed by the consciousness of tneir loss. 
 When the repast was over — and, as Madame Krukaine bitterly 
 observed, it did not hist h)ng — M. Krukaine proposed that 
 they should take a walk ; his wife sullenly consented ; and 
 they accordingly went over the gardens, looked at the fete, 
 and endeavoured to admire the fine prospects around thrm. 
 But it was in vain they sought to be amused ; disappointment 
 and vexation damped their joy, and a cloud even came over 
 M. Krukaine's philosophic spirit every time he thought of the 
 cold capon. As though to increase their annoyance, it so hap- 
 pened that, in going through one of the pleasant woods near 
 the gardens, they came to a grassy spot which had been chosen 
 by the pic-nic party for their resting-place. A large table- 
 cloth had been spread on the grass ; the meal was laid out 
 upon it, and, though a somewhat heterogeneous one, it looked 
 sufficiently tempting to awaken keen feelings of regret and 
 envy in the Krukaines. It was also remarkably aggravating 
 to see in what good spirits the whole party seemed to be. 
 M. Theodore's flute and M. Ledru's guitar were giving forth 
 sweet sounds for the amusement of the company, and to the 
 great delight of a few children who were amongst the pic-nic 
 party, and danced on the grass with a glee which showed their 
 entire satisfaction. This sight produced a great effect on 
 Alexander Krukaine's feelings, which had hitherto been in a 
 dormant state ; he perceived at a glance the enjoyments of 
 which he had been deprived, and insisted on joining the party 
 forthwith. His parents peremptorily refused ; and as they 
 had fortunately escaped Madame Brenu's eye, they hastened 
 to leave the spot whilst still unseen. Alexander felt ag- 
 grieved ; this feeling increased when Madame Krukaine posi- 
 tively forbade him to go near the stalls, temptingly covered 
 with toys and sweets ; and snappishly declared that too much 
 money had already been thrown away on that day for her to 
 think of squandering any more by the most trifling purchase. 
 There was a good deal of stubbornness in Alexander Krukaine's 
 disposition ; he was, moreover, accustomed to great indulg- 
 ence, and on the present occasion he thought himself extremely 
 ill-used. To show a proper sense of his wrongs, he spared no 
 pains to render both himself and his parents thoroughly un- 
 comfortable. This was easily effected. Whenever they 
 wanted to rest, he insisted on going on ; and when, on the 
 contrary, they wished to walk, he declared himself too fitigued 
 to proceed. "Madame Krukaine scolded, M. Krukaine remon- 
 strated and threatened by turns ; but nothing could produce 
 9*
 
 202 SEVEN TEAES. 
 
 the least effect on Alexander, who was now roused to a state 
 of dogged resistance. 
 
 The Krukaines were heartily glad when evening came 
 on. M. Krukaine, who felt a most unphilosophic appetite, 
 hinted something about having dinner ; but Madame sharply 
 observed that they had already dined ; and though her husband 
 felt this to be a most lamentable fiction, he was compelled to 
 acquiesce. The question was now how they were to go home. 
 They endeavoured to secure some conveyance, for fatigue had 
 so far conquered their feelings of avarice, as to make them 
 willing to sacrifice a few francs to comfort. But this was the 
 hour when every one was returning — the most insignificant 
 vehicle suddenly rose in importance, and extravagant sums 
 were asked and given for a seat. 
 
 " We will walk home," indignantly exclaimed Madame 
 Krukaine, on beholding this deplorable state of things ; and as 
 her husband seconded the heroic resolve, they set out imme- 
 diately. The evening was close and sultry, and before they 
 had walked a quarter of a league, Alexander Krukaine, exas- 
 perated by this forced march, sat down by the roadside, and 
 expressed his solemn detcrminalion of not going one step 
 further. His parents walked on, pretending to leave him be- 
 hind : but Alexander, who had grown accustomed to mis- 
 fortunes, remained insensible to this one, and was fast asleep 
 by the time they returned near him. What was to be done ? 
 M. Krukaine suggested a sound whipping as soon as they should 
 roach home. But as this afforded no present relief, his wife 
 sharply bade him hold his peace, and began a long recriminat- 
 ing speech, by which she clearly proved that all their sufferings 
 originated in M. Krukaine's loss of the basket. They were 
 still in this dilemma, when a fiacre drove up to the door of a 
 villa, near which they were then standing. A gentleman came 
 out of the house and stepped into the coach. " Place Dau- 
 phine," said he to the coachman, who nodded and took his seat. 
 
 M. and Madame Krukaine exchanged a rapid look of 
 intelligence. Place Dauphine was close to their abode ; the 
 seat at the back of the fiacre was wide ; the night was dark, 
 no one could see them. In short, after a very brief hesitation, 
 they seized on the slumbering Alexander, and sprang up 
 steathily on the convenient seat, whilst the unsuspecting coach- 
 man drove oft'. 
 
 The Krukaines actually chuckled with exultation at the 
 success of their stratagem. There was something so truly 
 delightful in the idea of riding home for nothing that it made
 
 SEVEN YEAES. 203 
 
 them forget the miseries of the day. It is true that they were 
 rather uncomfurtably seated, and that Alexander, who seemed 
 determined to drown the remembrance of his woes in sleep, 
 was every minute in danger of falling off; but, as M. Kru- 
 kaine wisely remarked, " What would be the use of philos- 
 ophy, if it did not teach us to bear patiently such trifling 
 inconveniences 1 " 
 
 They accordingly bore their trials with exemplary forti- 
 tude, until they discovered, to their dismay, that it was begin- 
 ning to rain, or, as Madame Krukaine bitterly declared, " to 
 pour." The unhappy lady opened her parasol in the vain hope 
 of sheltering her bonnet ; but the only consequence of this 
 arrangement was to transfer to it some of the blue of the 
 parasol. She fortunately remained unconscious of this un- 
 looked-for result, and entertained herself by lamenting the 
 loss of her husband's basket, as she persisted in terming it. M. 
 Krukaine was thoroughly fatigued and hungry. These were 
 sufficient evils even for a sage, and he accordingly fell fast 
 asleep, heedless alike of Madame's scolding and of the rain 
 which poured upon him. It was not until the fiacre stopped 
 that he wakened with an alarmed start ; but be immediately 
 recollected the necessity of silence, and alighted noiselessly. 
 His next task was to take down Alexander, who was still fast 
 asleep, and to rouse Madame Krukaine, who had followed the 
 example of her husband and son. These delicate proceedings 
 were conducted with so much discretion, that neither the 
 tenant of the fiacre nor the coachman suspected what was 
 going on. Whilst there was a chance of detection, the Kru- 
 kaiues prudently remained within the deep shadow of one of 
 the neighbouring houses ; but as soon as the fiacre drove away, 
 M. Krukaine, who felt uncomfortably cool about the head, 
 exclaimed, " My dear, will you be kind enough to give me my 
 hat?" 
 
 " Your hat ! " indignantly echoed his wife ; " what have 
 I to do with your hat, sir ? " 
 
 M. Krukaine was stupefied by this new misfortune. Though 
 he had evidently lost his hat whilst sleeping behind the fiacre, 
 he refused to believe in this melancholy truth, and repeatedly 
 declared there must be some mistake, that it could not be. 
 Mudaiue Krukaine listened to her husband's lamentations 
 with bitter triumph, and sarcastically asserted that she felt 
 delighted at what had occurred. This was extremely aggra- 
 vating, and her spouse took it in very ill part ; he and Mad- 
 ame therefore quarrelled on the subject until they grew tired
 
 204r SEVEN YEARS. 
 
 of it ; after wliich they began to think of going home. Bnl 
 though they knew they ought to be within a very short dis- 
 tance of their dwelling, they could never succeed in finding 
 the turn which led to it : they at first ascribed this to the 
 darkness of the night. 
 
 " Most extraordinary, to be sure ! " exclaimed M. Kru- 
 kaine, rubbing his eyes to ascertain that it was not in them the 
 mistake lay. " Will you be kind enough to tell me the name 
 of this place ? " he asked of a man who happened to be pass- 
 ing by. _ 
 
 " Place Dauphine," was the answer. 
 
 M. Krukaine breathed freely, and next inquired for the 
 way leading to the Rue de 1' Arbresec ? 
 
 " I don't know the street." 
 
 M. Krukaiue's doubts returned. Perhaps this was not the 
 Place Diiuphine ; but the man reiterated his assertion. Then 
 where was the Rue de I'Arbresec ? The man again declared 
 he did not know. 
 
 " But, my friend," coaxingly observed M. Krukaine, " let 
 me tell you it must be very near this spot." 
 
 " And let me tell you," testily answered the man, " there 
 does not exist such a street in all Versailles." 
 
 " Versailles ! " echoed M. Krukaine in a hoilow tone. 
 
 " Versailles ! " screamed Madame Krukain-3, 
 
 Alas, they were indeed in Versailles, which possessed a 
 Place Dauphine as well as Paris ! The unhappy couple, for- 
 getting all their causes of dissent, looked on one another in 
 mute despaii'. Versailles was much farther from Paris than 
 St. Cloud; the rain still fell heavily; a neighbouring clock 
 struck twelve ; in short, their misery seemed complete. M. 
 Krukaine, whose imagination seemed affected by the misfor- 
 tunes of the day, scrupled not to declare that they were per- 
 secuted by an inexorable fatality. One moment he felt 
 tempted to defy his destiny ; but on second thought, he re- 
 solved to delay doing this until he should be safely home — an 
 event which, as he bitterly observed, did not seem likely 
 to occur for some time yet. In the mean while Madame 
 Krukaine, who, according to her own assertion, had been pre- 
 pared, since the loss of her basket, for everything which had 
 occurred, learned from the individual who had apprised them 
 of their melancholy situation, that they would find a little inn in 
 one of the neighbouring streets, where they might probably gain 
 admittance for the night. It was not without much difficulty 
 that the unhappy Krukaines succeeded in discovering thia
 
 SEVEN YEARS. 205 
 
 place of refuge, and in rousing the inmates, who on beholding 
 their pitiable condition, consented to receive them, although 
 they wore unprovided with a passport. But even when they 
 found themselves in a comfortable room, and to all appearance 
 safe, M. Krukaiiie remained sceptical, and refused to believe 
 that their misfortunes were over. 
 
 " Don't think yourself safe yet, my dear," he gravely ob- 
 served to his wife, as they retired for the night ; " we are the 
 victims of fatality." 
 
 M. Krukaine's first act on wakening the next morning, and 
 on ascertainino- thouo-h he declared himself astonished at such 
 an escape, that he had not been spirited away during the night, 
 was to send for a hatter, in order to replace the indispensable 
 article of wearing apparel he had unfortunately lost. Of 
 course he was dreadfully cheated ; the hatter knew that he lay 
 at his mercy, and made the most of his advantage ; but M. 
 Krukaine was now prepared for anything, and he bore the im- 
 position with a kind of desperate resignation. Madame Kru- 
 kaine did not yield so readily to the decrees of fate ; she gazed 
 with unutterable dismay on her bonnet, to which her parasol, 
 through the agency of the rain, had imparted a green tint ; 
 and like those struck by some sudden calamity, she remained 
 incredulous, and long refused to believe in the reality of this 
 lamentable metamorphosis. When the Krukaines had break- 
 fasted — and they now felt a sort of recklessness at whatever 
 expenses they might incur — they secured a vehicle, of which 
 the owner engaged to take them to their own door for what 
 M. Krukaine termed an enormous sum; but this was of little 
 consequence, as he had made up his mind to submit to all the 
 exigencies of destiny until he found himself at his own door 
 in Paris. There they arrived at length, after undergoing, as 
 he observed hi a melancholy tone, a series of unparalleled mis- 
 fortunes. They had indeed the appearance of travellers 
 returning from a disastrous voyage. Madame Krukaine's 
 features were haggard and fatigued ; Alexander looked stu 
 pefied and dirty ; and though M. Krukaine had suffered least 
 in outward appearance, his startled air plainly bespoke the un- 
 happy victim of fatality. 
 
 The tainily had no sooner alighted from their conveyance, 
 than they perceived the sarcastic countenance of Madame 
 Brenu looking down on them from her window. 
 
 " Why," she screamed out, " where have yDu been all this 
 time ? we were so uneasy ; I hope you enjoyed yourselves. We 
 had quite a delightful day of it, I assure you ; dined in the
 
 206 SEVEN TEAKS. 
 
 wood, and came home just in time to escape the rain. I hope 
 you did not get wet. But dear uie, what is the matter with yout 
 bonnet ? Green ! I declare ; surely it was yellow yesterday ? 
 And where is your basket ? Ah ! empty of all the good things 
 by this, I dare say ?" And so the provoking woman went on, 
 whilst the unhappy Krukaines, now resigned to anything, did 
 not even attempt to retort, but retired to their apartment. 
 
 For several days the Krukaines could think of nothing but 
 the disasters which they had met with in the pursuit of 
 pleasure ; and M. Krukaine clearly proved to his wife that a 
 more unhappy couple had never gone to the fete of St. Cloud. 
 His next act was to ascertain the precise sum they had spent 
 in their unlucky expedition. After a good deal of nice calcu- 
 lation, he found that, including the loss of basket and hat, 
 besides the total ruin of the bonnet and parasol, their expenses 
 amounted to fifty-seven francs twenty-five centimes. Madame 
 Krukaine raised her eyes and clasped her hands as she 
 heard this lamentable result, from which she concluded that 
 it was perfect ruin to think of pleasure — a sentiment in which 
 her husband entirely acquiesced. But even this soothing 
 delusion was not granted to the Krukaines ; for as Madame 
 Brenu took good care to inform them of the exact sum which 
 had been spent by the whole pic nic party, they soon perceived 
 that there are two methods of economising — one by which 
 pleasure can be procured at a moderate expense, whilst serious 
 loss and inconvenience are too frequently entailed by the other. 
 The effect produced by this discovery is not yet known ; but 
 it is thought that the fit of rheumatism from which M. Kru- 
 kaine sufi'ered shortly after the fete of St. Cloud, considerably 
 softened the 'rigidity of his economy, whilst the loss of her 
 yellow bonnet produced a similar eifect on Madame Krukaine's 
 feelings. 
 
 Though the Krukaines have not yet had the magnanimity 
 of acknowledging their mistake, they have lately manifested 
 signs of improvement in a more liberal style of living. What 
 must be considered a good sign of approaching common sense 
 was an observation which Madame made the other day to a 
 neighbour, " that she was afraid there is no way of getting a 
 franc for a centime;" or, as this wise saw may be Anglicised 
 for general benefit, " there is no getting a shilling foe a 
 
 BIXl'SNCE."
 
 SEVEN YEARS. 207 
 
 THE CONSCRIPT. 
 
 It was a mild spring afternoon, with balmy breezes coming 
 fiom distant fields to shut in Paris streets. Flowers bloomed 
 in window pots, and birds twittered and sang in cages ; the 
 sky was blue, with a sprinkling of soft white fleecy clouds, and 
 though there was not much of it to be seen from La Rue des 
 Perches, — it exists no longer, if indeed it ever existed under 
 that name, — though, if you stood iu the very centre of that 
 street and looked up, you could only see a strip of azure with 
 the uneven outline of dark and dingy roofs on eitlier side, yet 
 even that glimpse of sky was so cheering and so blue, that it 
 was enough to make your heart light for many a day. Anti- 
 quity has a charm of its own, but old as the Rue des Perches 
 was, we can scarcely say that we regret it now it is gone. It 
 was a long tortuous street, with shops like dens, and tall 
 wretched-looking houses and alleys, which timid people would 
 not have liked to enter. Yet it was not a populous street — 
 quite the reverse ; it was rather quiet and lonely-looking, for, 
 above all, it looked poor, and the really poor place is not that 
 where a great many people live, but that where no one can 
 live. 
 
 At the poorest and loneliest end of the Ruo des Perches 
 there stood a very small and dark fruiterer's shop. A few 
 withered cabbages and some stale fruit placed at the door 
 made a melancholy show, and on the shelves within were sym- 
 metrically arranged baskets, which, though kindly supposed 
 by customers to contain something, were in reality quite 
 empty. 
 
 Mathieu Giraud, Fruiiier, 
 
 was written in large and half-effaced white letters above the 
 door of this humble abode, and the very beauty of the spring 
 day only made the withered cabbages, the stale fruit, and the 
 dark shop, look more miserable. 
 
 There was no one in that shop ; but in a small back room 
 beyond it two women were seated. They f^poke but little, and 
 busily plied their needles, though one of them occasionally 
 glanced towards the shop, as if expecting some customer to 
 enter ; but the precaution was needless ; it remained vacant ;
 
 208 SEVEN YEARS. 
 
 and at every glance the wonian sighed, and once more resumed 
 her work. The back room was small, and almost bare. A 
 dingy bed, half hidden in a recess, a table, and a few chairs of 
 painted deal, were all the furniture it contained. It was dark, 
 moreover, as all back rooms have been from time immemorial, 
 and the dull glimmering light which streamed from the high 
 narrow window appeared to increase rather than diminish tho 
 natural gloom of the place. The two women were seated near 
 the liglit, which fell full upon them. They were both some- 
 what advanced in years ; and their pale and wrinkled features 
 bespoke a life of poverty and care. They wei e sisters, but, 
 notwithstanding their relationship, very different in temper 
 and personal appearance. Antoinette Griraud, the fruiterer's 
 ■wife, was tall and thin, a simple, meek-looking woman, long 
 accustomed to misfortune, to which she had at length submit- 
 ted with a kind of indifference, proceeding more from a broken 
 spirit than from resignation. Ma tante Anne, or Aunt Anne, 
 the name under which her sister was generally known, was, on 
 the contrary, a brisk little creature, full of spirit and fire, with 
 many mysterious winks, and nods, and prophetic hints, which 
 it was not given to everybody to understand. She was a firm 
 believer in dreams, and held cards, as a means of divination, 
 in great reverence ; indeed, she trusted to them, and her 
 nightly visions, in almost every important occurrence of her 
 life ; and, notwithstanding her repeated failures, held her faith 
 in them unchanged. It might, indeed, have been supposed 
 that Anne lived for the mere purpose of dreaming As she 
 liad never been married — her unlucky dreams having, she said, 
 always come in the way just as she was on the point of con- 
 tracting a matrimonial engagement — she had for many years 
 resided with her sister Antoinette : thus, however, escaping 
 only a few of tlie cares of matrimony. The two females had 
 been for some time sewing in silence, when Antoinette, paus- 
 ing in her work, suddenly observed in a melancholy tone : 
 
 " No, no, I have no hope, Anne ; my poor Jean will not 
 get a good number. His father and I have always been un- 
 lucky, and we shall be so to the end." And the old woman 
 shook her head despondingly. 
 
 " Ha ! Antoinette," replied Anne, with mysterious solem- 
 nity, " if Jean had only listened to me he would have con- 
 sulted Mademoiselle Leuormand before she died, and then we 
 should have known what number he was to get, and whether 
 he was to be a soldier or not. But no ; he always said it was 
 throwing away money. Young people don't believe in any-
 
 SEVEN YEARS. 209 
 
 thing now-a-days." And Anne shook her grey head even 
 more sadly than her sister. 
 
 " If I were only dead, they could not take Jean from 
 you," said a low broken voice, which proceeded from the bed 
 in the recess. 
 
 " Did you speak, Mathieu ? " inquired Antoinette, going 
 up to the couch of her paralysed husband. 
 
 " Ay, ay," he muttered, without making a direct reply, 
 " Heaven help us; our poor Jean has no chance." 
 
 " Ay, he has no chance," sadly repeated his wife, resuming 
 her seat. 
 
 Mathieu and Antoinette Giraud had been married for 
 many years, and had begun their wedded life with every pros- 
 pect of happiness. In one sense they had indeed been per- 
 fectly happy; but so far as worldly matters were concerned, 
 they had had to endure all the trials of poverty and misfortune 
 combined. After struo-gling; for some time afirainst the diffi- 
 culties which surrounded them, they had at last been obliged 
 to give in, and leave their neat and comfortable fruiterer's shop 
 in the Rue St. Honore for one in the centre of the city. 
 Scarcely had they removed to their new lodgings, when 
 Mathieu became paralysed. This unhappy event cast upon 
 his wife the sole burden of attending to the shop and support- 
 ing the family. To this task, notwithstanding her strenuous 
 efibrts, Antoinette would have proved wholly inefficient, but 
 for the aid she received from her only son, then a youth of fif- 
 teen. Jean Giraud was scarcely out of his apprenticeship, 
 though he had the heart and courage of a man ; he was a lock- 
 smith by trade, but, on account of his youth, he did not earn, 
 with all his industry, more than a few francs a week. On 
 this scanty sum, and the little that Antoinette and Anne 
 made by their sales in the shop, and their exertions in the 
 shape of needlework, the whole family contrived to live : no 
 easy task, considering that old Mathieu's illness was very ex- 
 pensive. Still, they did live, and, as Antoinette often proudly 
 observed, " without owing a single sou to anybody." 
 
 The French working-classes have, generally speaking, a 
 deep and wholesome horror of debt. 
 
 As Jean grew oldei", his earnings increased, and some com- 
 fort began to reign in the little family. A few hundred franca 
 even went to the savings' bank ; but this was only a provision 
 for the approaching time when Jean would probably be 
 snatched from his parents to enter the army, according to the 
 laws of the French conscription. The fated epoch had now
 
 210 SEVEN YEARS. 
 
 arrived : Jean was twenty-one ; and on the next day he was, 
 with the other youths of the neighbourhood, to proceed to the 
 Mairie ; and there, in the presence of the mayor, to draw forth 
 from an urn a roll of paper on which a number was inscribed. 
 If the number was a low one, such as 12, 25, or even 40 or 
 50, Jean Giraud must bid his parents farewell, and become a 
 soldier ; but if it was a high one, as, for instance. 80, 90, or 
 100, there was little or no chance of his being ever called upon 
 to fight for his country, and he might quietly remain at home. 
 Had he, moreover, been a widow's son, or afflicted with any 
 awkward deformity, this would have sufficed, whatever num- 
 ber he drew, to exclude him from the service. This was why 
 Mathieu, reo;rettino- his own useless life, observed with a 
 groan, that his poor Jean had no chance; whilst Antoinette, 
 thinking of her son's muscular and well-knit frame, echoed 
 with a sigh, " Ay, he has no chance." 
 
 A melancholy silence had followed these last words, and 
 Antoinette was in the shop attending on a customer, when Ma 
 tante Anne mysteriously drew a pack of cards from her pocket, 
 and muttering to herself, began dealing thein out, and spread- 
 ing them on the table before her. For some time she eyed the 
 cards with apparent satisfaction. 
 
 " All goes on well, Antoinette," she eagerly said, addressing 
 her sister, who now came in from the shop : "just look: here 
 is an ace of diamonds, which signifies good news; then here are 
 plenty of clubs, which mean money ; and now see if the card I 
 am going to turn up is not a good one ? " 
 
 As she spoke she In id the ace of spades upon the table. 
 " Oh ! " she cried in consternation, " the ace of spades ! Why, 
 I can have no hope after this ! But 'tis all of a piece. I 
 dreamt of a rat last night. Ah ! poor Jean, all is ruined ; the 
 ace of spades ! " and she rocked herself in her chair with every 
 token of despair. 
 
 '' What ! has anything happened to Jean ? " inquired a low 
 and tremulous voice behind. 
 
 Anne and Antoinette both turned round somewhat hastily ; 
 but more, however, to greet the new-comer than to testify their 
 surprise at her unexpected appearance. 
 
 She who thus anxiously inquired after Jean was a pretty 
 brunette, about eighteen, with glossy black hair smoothed un- 
 der her little white cap, and very brilliant dark eyes. Her 
 dress, though remarkably plain and simple, had that indescriba- 
 ble air of neatness which characterises the better elass of the 
 Parisian grisettes, and added even a new charm to her attrao-
 
 SKVEN YEARS. 211 
 
 tive little person, Marie, for such was the iiame of the pretty 
 grisette, was a gileticre, or waistcoat-maker, and being an 
 excellent work-woman, sometimes earned no contemptible sum 
 by her industry. She resided in the same house with the 
 Girauds, and, if the truth must be told, had for the last six 
 months been betrothed to Jean, whose parents loved her almost 
 as tenderly as the young man himself. Marie of course took 
 great interest in the question of Jean's coming fate, as the 
 two lovers had agreed to postpone their marriage until all was 
 over. If he was so fortunate as to draw a good number, the 
 wedding was to take place in less than a twelvemonth ; if, on 
 the contrary, he became a soldier, Jean and Marie would have 
 to wait eight years for the fulfilment of their happiness. 
 
 Marie's spirits were not cast down by this alternative. 
 She was an orphan, and had been early taught self-reliance 
 and trust in Providence. Hope had indeed become so habit- 
 ual to her, that she would have indulged in it even under des- 
 perate circumstances. In this disposition she was upheld not 
 only by the buoyancy of youth, but also by her natural giod 
 sense, which led her to contemplate even misfortune under its 
 most advantageous aspect. Besides, as she sometimes philo- 
 sophically observed, " God was for all ; for both rich and poor." 
 It must, however, be confessed that, notwithstanding her phi- 
 losophy, Marie felt no little anxiety to know the result of 
 Jean's trial on the next day. Eight years was a long period 
 to pass without perhaps seeing him more than once or twice ! 
 And even less selfish considerations led her to fear this result 
 when she reflected on the unhappy condition to which his ab- 
 sence would reduce his parents. As she entered the back 
 room on this evening, and heard Aunt xVnne mention the 
 name of her betrothed in a tone of despair, Marie, therefore, 
 felt some uneasiness ; and receiving no reply to her first 
 question, she anxiously repeated, " Has anything happened to 
 Jean ? " 
 
 " No, Marie," sadly replied Antoinette ; " 'tis only the 
 old story : to-morrow is the day." 
 
 " Ay, to-morrow is the day," sorrowfully echoed Anne ; 
 " and depend upon it poor Jean will go. I did not turn up 
 an ace of spades, or dream of a rat, for nothing." 
 
 " Oh ! is that all? " said Marie, somewhat relieved 5 "he 
 has still a chance, I hope." 
 
 " A chance ! " doubtfully answered Antoinette ; " have we 
 not always been unlucky ? No, no, we have no chance. If 
 even Jean was lame, or wanted a few teeth, or — "
 
 212 SEVEN TEAKS. 
 
 " Well," interrupted Marie, laughing in spite of her real 
 grief, " I am not sorry, for my part, that he is not exactly as 
 you would wish him to be. But," added she, more gravely, 
 " you must not get into low spirits, Madame Giraud ; though 
 you have not been very happy as yet, it is true, still a day 
 comes at last for the poor as well as for the rich." 
 
 Here Mathieu sighed audibly, and IMarie approached the 
 old man's bed. 
 
 " How are you this evening, Monsieur Giraud ? " said she, 
 gently. 
 
 Mathieu gazed on her tenderly, but made no reply. He 
 had known and loved Marie for years ; for when he first fell 
 ill, his wife and sister-in-law being sometimes compelled to 
 leave him alone, tlie young waistcoat-maker would then come 
 and sit by his bedside with her work, cheering him with her 
 pleasant laugh and merry song. It is indeed quite charac- 
 teristic of the grisette that she always sings, and she has even 
 prettily and poetically been called " the lark of Paris." 
 Never, surely, was there a merrier lark than Marie. From 
 staying occasionally near the old man, she at last came to 
 spend with him a few hours everyday; this was mostly in 
 the evening time, when Jean came home from work. The 
 young mail would then sit at the head of his father's bed, 
 whilst Marie was working at the foot. It was thus their 
 courtship began, to the great delight of old Mathieu, who was 
 never happier than when he could thus see them together, and 
 who now dwelt with bitter grief on their approaching separa- 
 tion. 
 
 " If I were dead," said he, sadly gazing upon her, " you 
 could be his wife." 
 
 Marie's eyes filled with tears ; but striving to hide her 
 feelings, she observed with apparent cheerfulness : " And why 
 not whilst you are alive. Monsieur Giraud ? " 
 
 " Because Jean will have a bad number," replied the old 
 man, in the same desponding tone. 
 
 " Well, really," exclaimed Marie, with some impatience, 
 '' you all seem quite determined that it should be so. Aunt 
 A.nue has turned up an ace of spades, and of course Jean 
 must be a soldier ; Madame Giraud says that she is poor and 
 unlucky, and that there is no chance for him ; and even you, 
 Father Giraud," she added in her most caressing yet reproach- 
 ful tone — " even you must needs put in that, if you were dead, 
 I should be his wife ! Beally this is too bad. I came here to 
 seek for a little comfort, and not only find none for myself
 
 SiiVEJSr YEAES. 213 
 
 but cannot even aiFord any. I suppose," she pettishly con- 
 tinued, " Jean will be as bad as the rest of you when he comes 
 home." 
 
 As she spoke thus, the door leading from the shop to the 
 back room opened, and Jean entered. 
 
 Jean Giraud was, indeed, as his mother had averred, not 
 so fortunate as to be afflicted with any personal deformity. 
 Far from it. He was tall, well-made, and good-looking; and 
 his curly chestnut hair, dark blue eyes, and fresh colour, pro- 
 claimed him to belong to the real Frank race of his country. 
 But on this evening a cloud sat on his usually open brow, and 
 notwithstanding his efiorts to conceal his feelings, the restless 
 glance of his eye, and the occasional nervous twitching of his 
 lips, betrayed his secret anxiety. Jean Giraud was as much 
 of a hero as any of his countrymen ; he certainly was not of a 
 timid disposition, and personal apprehensions had nothing to 
 do with his present feelings. His only thoughts were for his 
 parents. What were they to do when he was gone ? Who 
 was to support them in their present helpless condition ? For 
 Antoinette and her sister earned very little, and what the shop 
 brought in was barely sufficient to pay the rent and taxes. 
 Jean's mind brooded on these thoughts until he was well-nigh 
 distracted. Though he loved Marie most tenderly, still it was 
 not the prospect of parting from her that now saddened him : 
 she was eighteen, and he twenty-one; they were both young, 
 and might wait even eight years and yet be happy. liJut his 
 parents ! he sti-ove to think no more of the subject, but in 
 vain. 
 
 As he entered the back room whore the little family and 
 his betrothed were seated together, Jean, however, endeavoured 
 to assume somethino; like cheerfulness. He whistled a tune 
 with even more than usual glee, bade Marie good-evening with 
 a merry joke, and, sitting down at the head of his father's bed, 
 declared he had never been so hungry for supper. Antoinette 
 rode silently, and, assisted by Marie, began laying the things 
 on the table. The supper was a frugal one, consisting merely 
 of some bread, cheese, and wine. They all sat down to it in 
 silence, Jean in vain endeavouring to appear cheerful, in order 
 to induce his mother and aunt to imitate his example. Scarce- 
 ly was the meal over, when Antoinette, overcome by her feel- 
 ings, burst into tears. 
 
 "Why, maman, what is tlie matter?" exclaimed her son 
 with astonishment.
 
 214: SEVEN YEAES. 
 
 "Ah, Jean! what were you whistling?" she sorrowfully 
 replied. 
 
 Jean started, for he had been humming the tune of the 
 Parisienne, a favourite military song. 
 
 " Ay, ay," said Anne, mystically shaking her head, " 'tis 
 only another token. I did not turn up the ace of spades for 
 nothing." 
 
 " Well, and let us suppose, after all, that he should get a 
 bad number," resolutely observed Marie, "he will not die for 
 it — nor shall we, I hope. I know what you are going to say, 
 Jean," she quickly added, noticing her betrothed's- sorrowful 
 look as it rested on his mother , " but I feel very dull in my 
 room up stairs ; what if, when you are gone, I should lodge 
 here? Madame Giraud could take care of my money for me, 
 and I am sure that would be a great relief; for though I do 
 not earn much, still sometimes I don't know what to do with 
 it, little as it is." 
 
 " Marie ! " exclaimed Jean, in an agitated tone. 
 
 " I won't be interrupted," peremptorily said his betrothed ; 
 " besides, Monsieur Jean, this does not concern you, for it is 
 all to be whilst you are away : your only business will be to 
 write us such amusing letters as may make us laugh heartily." 
 
 " And if he goes to Algeria ? " observed his mother, in a 
 faltering tone. 
 
 " Well," replied Marie, with a faint attempt to smile, " he 
 will perhaps catch Abd-el-Kader, and become marshal of 
 France." But unable to control her emotion any longer, she 
 buried her face in her hands, and fairly burst into tears. 
 
 " Marie ! " cried Jean, reproachi'ully, — but he also could 
 get no further; and leaning his brow upon his hand, he looked 
 very fixedly at the table. 
 
 " Well, well," said Marie, after a brief though sad pause, 
 " all is not desperate yet. God is for the poor as well as for 
 the rich, and perhaps He will leave us Jean." 
 
 The next morning was as bright and fair a one as was ever 
 seen in spring, and the sun shone quite merrily into Madame 
 Giraud's shop, where, with Ma tante Anne, Antoinette was 
 engaged in arranging everything, though the thoughts of both 
 were certainly but little engrossed by their mutual occupa- 
 tion. 
 
 " Antoinette ! " suddenly said Anne, " do you know what I 
 dreamed of last night ? " 
 
 " No," replied her sister, slightly starting ; " what was it 
 about, Anne ? "
 
 SEVEN TEARS. 215 
 
 " I dreamed that Jean had a black spot on his forehead." 
 
 " Well, atjd what does that mean ? " 
 
 " That means that he will have a bad number." 
 
 " Heaven have mercy upon us ! " sorrowfully observed An- 
 toinette ; " but perhaps, sister, you are mistaken ? " 
 
 " Mistaken ! " echoed Anne, with undisguised wonder ; 
 " would indeed I were ; but you know, Antoinette, I was 
 never mistaken yet in a dream ; besides," she muttered to her- 
 self, " I shall try the cards by and by, and then we shall know 
 all about it." 
 
 " Hush ! " said Antoinette, "here is Jean ; it is of no use 
 to sadden the poor fellow." 
 
 Jean indeed entered the shop dressed, and, as his poor 
 mother declared, with a faint attempt to smile, quite spruce. 
 Though not looking particularly merry, he did not seem to be 
 very sad ; he was calm and composed ; for if he felt acutely, 
 still his pride would not allow him to betray any unbecoming 
 emotion in the presence of his comrades who were to accom- 
 pany him to the Mairie. After greeting his mother and aunt, 
 Jean entered the back room, and sat down by his father's bed- 
 side. The old man was asleep, but he soon awoke ; and taking 
 his son's hand between his own, gazed upon him with melan- 
 choly tenderness. 
 
 " Jean, my boy," said he, in a low tremulous voice, " think 
 of your poor father whilst you are away, and of your mother 
 too ; perhaps you will never see them again. Ah ! this will 
 be a sore blew to Antoinette," he added, in a mournful tone. 
 
 Jean rose, and walked about the room : all this was truly 
 hard to bear. 
 
 He found it harder still when he sat down to breakfast be- 
 tween his mother and Marie, whose red eyes and pale cheeks 
 testified that she had spent a sleepless night. The meal was 
 a silent one, but it was nearly concluded when Anne entered 
 the room. She was more than usually grave, and shook her 
 head in a most prophetic and Sibyl-like manner. "What Ls 
 the matter, Anne ? " tremulously inquired Antoinette. 
 
 " L have just been dealing out the cards in my room." 
 
 " Well," anxiously said the poor mother, " what about 
 Jean ? " 
 
 " I have seeu the number he is to get." 
 
 " Ah ! which is it ? " eagerly a^ked Madame Giraud. 
 
 " Jean will get number l!7," replied iVnue, solemnly. 
 
 "A bad number ! " faintly echoed Antoinette.
 
 216 SEVEN YEABS. 
 
 " Maman," almost angrily exclaimed Jean, " can anything 
 so foolish affect you thus ? " 
 
 " Foolish ! " cried Anne, indignantly ; " ha ! young people 
 don't believe in anything now-a-days. I only grieve for you, 
 Jean, that I am in the right; would indeed I were wrong, and 
 that you were not to get that ugly number 27 ! " 
 
 Jean knew his aunt's obstinacy on this head, and, unwill- 
 ing to irritate her uselessly, he dropped the subject. 
 
 When the breakfast was over — and a cheerless one it was 
 — all arose, for it was time for Jean to depart. He first went 
 to^ his father's bedside. Old Mathieu caused himself to be 
 raised on his couch, and in a low broken tone muttered a heart- 
 felt benediction over his son, whilst the weeping Antoinette 
 stood near him. From his parents Jean turned to Aunt Anne, 
 who very affectionately embraced him, but muttered something 
 at the same time about his unfortunate incredulity, and num- 
 ber 27. Marie alone seemed collected and calm, and though 
 she was sad, a smile of hope played around her lips. 
 
 " Be of good cheer, Jean," said she, giving him her hand : 
 " God is for us all, for the poor and the rich. Be of good 
 cheer ; should even the worst happen, we will strive to bear it 
 patiently." 
 
 Jean gazed affectionately on his betrothed, and once more 
 embracing his weeping mother, precipitately left the house, not 
 daring to trust himself with a look beliind. 
 
 We will not endeavour to describe the hours of anxious ex- 
 pectation that followed — liours that actually seemed days, so 
 slowly and tediously did they drag along. Antoinette, under 
 pretence of seeing to the shop, was constantly looking in the 
 street for Jean ; whilst Anne every quarter of an hour went 
 up-stairs to her room with a aiy.sterious look, and came down 
 again with a clouded brow and ominous glance. The infection 
 seemed to have caught Murie herself; for though she sat with 
 her work near Mathieu's bed, the old man sadly remarked that 
 her needle often flagged, and, for the first time since many 
 days, that she had no merry song to cheer him. Then there 
 were two or three old neighbours who occasionally peeped in 
 and out with wo-begone features, holdine mysterious confer- 
 ences with Aunt Anne, and startling her poor sister by dismal 
 tales of many a young and handsome conscript whom they had 
 known, and who had fallen, poor fellow, in his first battle. In 
 short, they were all as comfortably miserable as they could be, 
 when Marie, unable to bear her impatience any longer, left 
 her work, and going to the shop-door, looked out into the
 
 SEVEN YEAES. 217 
 
 slroet. It was vacant, and no token of Jean was to be seen. 
 With a sioli rilie once more entered the back room; she had 
 scarc;'Iy, however, reached the threshold, when she suddenly 
 paused, and turned pale : a loud shout had echoed at the 
 iurthe.st end of the street. 
 
 " The conscripts ! " said Antoinette, in a low tone. 
 
 " So soon ! " answered Marie, with seeming indifference ; 
 " don't you think it miiy be something else ? " 
 
 " No, no," replied x\ntoiuette, in a feverish voice ; " it is 
 the conscripts ; I hear their music." 
 
 The merry sounds of a fiddle inight, indeed, as she spoke, 
 be heard at the end of the street. Supported by Marie, for 
 she was nearly overcome with emotion, and followed by her 
 sister, the poor mother proceeded to the fnmt door, whilst 
 Mathieu prayed fervently in his bed. 
 
 When they looked out, the conscripts still stood somewhat 
 far down in the street. Their Iiats Avere ornamented with tri- 
 colorcd favours, and the number each had drawn, whether good 
 or bad, was fixed in his hatband, and visible even at a dis- 
 tance. But Antoinette and Marie vainly strove to distinguish 
 Jean in the crowd. 
 
 " I see him ! " at length cried Marie, turning pale. 
 
 '' Ha ! where is he ? what is his number ? " simultaneously 
 exclaimed the two sisters, less clear-sighted than their young 
 companion. * 
 
 " There — there beyond : he looks round this way ; but I 
 can see nothing of his number." 
 
 " Ay, ay, I see him now," eagerly remarked Aunt Anne ; 
 " and alas ! poor boy, I can see his number too. Ah ! I knew 
 it— L>7 ! " 
 
 " It is not 27," hastily observed Marie ; " for see, Aunt 
 Anne, Jean holds up his hat for us to see it : the number be- 
 gins with a one, and then there is a nought." 
 
 " Ay, ten," said Anne ; " worse still than 27 ; I knew it 
 was a bad one." 
 
 " No, it is not ten," continued Marie, in a tone tremulous 
 with emotion, " there is another nought — it is a hundred ; " 
 and falling down on a chair, she burst into tears, whilst Jean 
 rushed into the shop, waving his hat with triumph. 
 
 We will not endeavour to describe the scene that followed — 
 Old Mathieu's joy, Antoinette's silent rapture, and Marie's 
 bright smiles. Aunt Anne, though greatly delighted, was very 
 mucii surprised : both her dreams and cards had for once sig- 
 nally failed. As for the dream, it was, she averred, quite her 
 10
 
 218 SEVEN YEARS. 
 
 own mistake, for evidently the spot on Jean's forehead meant 
 nothing : it should have been on his hat, to prove at all signifi- 
 cant ! Then she had most probably misdealt the cards; such 
 an error could never otherwise have happened — nay, she even 
 recollected something about a hundred ! Further tha,n this 
 Aunt Anne would never yield when remonstrated with on the 
 subject. It is, however, worthy of remark, that her faith in 
 dreams and cards seemed rather shaken, as she henceforth in- 
 dulged in much less speculation concerning them than she had 
 formerly been in the habit of doing. As for the old neighbours, 
 they were very much pleased, but not so much surprised ; they 
 were almost certain all would turn out well, but had not said 
 so, lest they should excite expectations that might be deceived. 
 But to return to the conscript and his family. 
 
 The day was spent by them in much happiness ; indeed 
 there was almost too much of this quality in it. The event 
 was so delightful, so unexpected, so everything that was 
 pleasant, that Antoinette, Anne, Marie, and Jean were quite 
 bewildered. Mathieu seemed alone a little sensible. Towards 
 evening they had, however, grown calmer, and after supper, 
 sat up to make plans for the future — the only apparent conse- 
 quence of which was, their separating very late. When Marie 
 at length rose to depart, and bent over Mathieu to bid him good- 
 night, she could not resist the temptation of whispering to 
 liim — " Well, Father Giraud, do you wish to die now ? " 
 
 " No, Marie," said he, gazing on her affectionately ; " no, 
 not yet." 
 
 "And you, Madame Giraud," playfully said the young 
 girl, turning towards Antoinette, '' don't you think we poor 
 folks are sometimes as happy as the rich, if not a great deal 
 more so ? " 
 
 " Ay, and ten times as happy," warmly replied Antoinette, 
 who was now quite merry. 
 
 " No, not ten times," smilingly observed Marie ; " for you 
 know God watches over both rich and poor." 
 
 The sequel need scarcely be told. In less than a year Jean 
 and Marie were married, and old Mathieu, though still para- 
 lysed, declared himself so happy at the event, that he expressed 
 his readiness to die ; which has not, however, prevented him 
 from living ever since, and rejjeatiug the same wish on the birth 
 of his son's first child, which, being a girl, will give its parents 
 no uneasiness on the subject of the conscription. Jean and 
 Marie have not grown very rich, but they have left the Hue des 
 Perches, for a pleasa;nt airy street in the suburbs, and a fresh
 
 SEVEN YEABS. 219 
 
 ^/een-shop, where the cabbages are never withered, and which 
 is so frequently visited by the children of the neighbourhood, 
 that no fruit grows stale in it. Antoinette superintends the 
 general concerns of the houvse, Anne has taken charge of the 
 little Marie, whose horoscope she persists in formally drawing 
 on every anniversary of her birthday. Jean attends to his 
 work ; and Marie, though she still contrives to earn a few 
 francs with her waistcoats, attends to the shop, and, as old 
 Mathieu declares, gladdens the whole place with her merry 
 song. " And yet," as she often observes, " how strange that 
 all this happiness should have depended on one insignificant 
 little number ! " It is true Marie generally closes this philo- 
 sophical remark by quoting her favourite saying ; but it is, we 
 hope, too well impressed on the mind of the reader to require 
 repetition, 
 mmiuo 
 
 GAIETY AND GLOOM. 
 
 Among the passengers on board a steamer which one morn- 
 ing left Dover for Calais, was a young Englishman of some- 
 what fashionable appearance, who seemed to shun as far as 
 possible all contact with his fellow-travellers : wrapped up in 
 mysterious silence, he proceeded, on landing, by the first dili- 
 gence which departed for Paris. All we have to say concerns 
 this young gentleman, and we may as well tell his history at 
 once. 
 
 Frank Mai'low was the son of a respectable London mer- 
 chant, who had given him an education at Eton, which fully 
 qualified him in that very easy art — the art of spending. To 
 do justice to Frank Marlow, he took very kindly to this piece 
 of ingenuity. In little more than two years after the old gen- 
 tleman's death, he had got through his handsome patrimony ; 
 a mere wreck was all that remained ; and here he was, a self- 
 exiled man, seeking for oblivion in the obscurities of Paris. 
 
 Like most persons who have gone through a fortune, Frank 
 was full of terrible notions about tlie rapacity of mankind. He 
 had been cruelly used by his so called friends. The world was 
 .all a mass of deceit. " Vanity of vanities, all is vanity," was 
 his song, and a very appropriate song, too, for all exhausted 
 prodigals to sing. Frank, at eight-and-twenty, was a gloomy 
 misanthrope, a hater of everybody ; though there was only one
 
 220 SEVEN YEARS. 
 
 man on the wide earth whom he should have despised, and that 
 was himself. 
 
 Frank souo;ht oblivion. He wanted to live no one knew 
 where ; and the more obscurely he could hide himself, he 
 thought he should be the happier. Several lodgings were tried 
 in Paris, but thej proved too garish and cheerful. In' one 
 house he heard the sound of a flageolet, whieli was enough. 
 Horrid, deceitful villains — all bad people are merry ! At 
 length he fell upon a lodging quite to his fancy. It was on a 
 fourth floor of a tall old-fashioued building — so exceedingly tall 
 and narrow, that it seemed as if it had been squeezed out of 
 shape by the houses which leant upon it. This uncomfortable- 
 looking tenement was situated in a dull, narrow street, into 
 which very little sun ever shone. It had the air of a great, 
 long grave ; just the kind of abode for people who take a fancy 
 to be miserable. 
 
 Satisfactory as the new lodging was in many respects, a 
 day or two's experience showed the morose young English- 
 man that, if he wanted to be perfectly beyond the reach of 
 gaiety, Paris was the worst place in the world to which he 
 could have come. The landlady, Madame Bernard, was an 
 exceedingly merry, sweet-tempered person. As the wife of an 
 operative locksmith, who did not enjoy good health, the mother 
 of several children, the protector of a poor orphan niece, 
 Adele, and the mistress of a very limited accommodation, she 
 may be supposed to have had some tolerable reasons for 
 being careworn ; but not all these things, nor the gloomy, 
 gravelike street in which she lived, could force a sigh from 
 her bosom. She was always as bright as a streak of .sun- 
 shine. While toiling in her little den of a kitchen, whose 
 only light was that of a sepulchral-looking lamp, the French- 
 woman was as blithe as any uncaged lark. 
 
 It was perhaps because Frank did not see much of this 
 gaiety that he did not feel seriously disti'essed about it. His 
 interviews with Madame were few and short. Her principal 
 visit was to kindle his fire, and serve his coffee in the morn- 
 ing, and on such occasions she usad to launch out a iittle in 
 the way of gossip, believing, kind soul, that Monsieur had 
 some great grief which needed to be assuaged by conversation. 
 Among other sutjjects on which she expatiated was that of 
 neighbours — a fruitful one to landladies all the world over. 
 In spite of himself, Frank, found that Madame Bernard's 
 gossip was worth listening to, for it gave a sort of insight into 
 human nature.
 
 SEVEN YEARS. 221 
 
 First on the good dame's list came a mysterious couple. 
 Monsieur and Madame Dezille, who seemed to live in a pinch- 
 ed kind of a way. Madame was a tall, pale, melancholy-look- 
 ing woman, who appeared to carry in her mind some ponderous 
 secret, and was always embroidering purses. Her husband 
 was a comical-looking little man, who was never seen but in a 
 long great-coat, that fell down to his heels. The most incom- 
 prehensible thing about him, however, was his practice of re- 
 maining at home all day, and his going out at night, aud 
 never returning till past two in the morning, to the great 
 wrath of the portress, who, out of pure spite, averred that he 
 was a mouchard, or secret spy of the police. She even once 
 called him so to his face ; but Monsieur Dezille, far from 
 making any contradictory reply calculated to enlighten her on 
 the subject, listened to her with provoking complacency, and 
 quietly bidding her good-morning, walked up-stairs. 
 
 The great secret at length came out. It was discovered, 
 to the satisfaction of the portress and her lodgers, that Mon- 
 sieur Dezille repaired every evening to a public ball behind 
 the Palais Royal, where his office consisted in taking care of 
 the canes and umbrellas belonging to the dancers, for which 
 dignified occupation he received the munificent salary of sixty 
 francs (about £2 8s.) a month, as long as the ball was open — ■ 
 that is to say, during the winter season only. How he and his 
 wife lived througliout the a-emainder of the year was more than 
 any one could telL From the moment that these circumstances 
 were known to them, the portress and lodgers ceased to inter- 
 est themselves any further in the fate of the humble pair; 
 but Marlow observed — and the trait impressed him with a 
 favourable opinion of her character — that whereas Madame 
 Bernard had formerly looked with a suspicious eye on her 
 ueio-hbours, she now no sooner knew them to be honest, thouoh 
 poor, than she immediately gave them tokens of her good- 
 will by numerous little attentions she had formerly neglected 
 to pay. 
 
 Somehow or other — perhaps because they instinctively saw 
 the truth and simplicity of her character — the shy and proud 
 couple grew more condescending ; aud though evidently su- 
 perior, in education at least, to the locksmith and his wife, 
 they freely conversed with them, until they at last came to be 
 on very amicable terms together. And then, but not till 
 then, did Madame Dezille confide to her simple good-natured 
 friend the secret which weighed on her soul. " Monsieur De- 
 zille " — she scorned the vulgar term of her husband — " was
 
 222 SEVEN TEAKS. 
 
 not merely what he seemed to be : he was more — he was a poet 
 and an author." Madame Bernard heard with silent awe. " Like 
 that of other great men, his life had been a perfect romance. 
 He was a god-son of a reigning potentate — a German one," 
 added Madame Dezille, with strong emphasis, " whose valet 
 bis father had been for many years whilst he was exiled in 
 France by his rebellious subjects." 
 
 Then followed a thrilling narrative of pei'secutions, im- 
 prisonments in deep dungeons, and hair-breadth escapes over 
 high castle walls, all of which had been endured and effected 
 by Monsieur Dezille in foreign lands, through the enmity of 
 his unnatural god-ftither, whom he had unluckily ofiended; 
 until, after innumerable difiiculties, he succeeded in reaching 
 his native coviutry, where, like another Othello, he won his 
 Desdemona by the history of the sufferings his youth had un- 
 dergone. All this Madame Bernard, good, simple soul, heard 
 with reverend belief Indeed it is very probable that it was 
 almost all true ; and, far from diminishing or abridging the 
 narrative, which she the very next day repeated to Marlow 
 she rather increased its bulk by a few additional embellish' 
 ments of her own, which she very innocently and uncon- 
 sciously bestowed on Monsieur Dezille's adventures. 
 
 The occupier of the third apartment on the landing was a 
 morose, surly old bachelor, named Ricord, whom everybody 
 disliked — even the kind Madame Bernard, if indeed she ever 
 disliked anybody — and who played on an old fiddle, as cross 
 and croaking as himself. It was some time before Marlow 
 discovered this circumstance; and even when it became known 
 to him, he was reconciled to it by the character of the musi- 
 ♦■^ian, which, as described by Madame Bernard, who had 
 learned it from the portress, was anything but cheerful or 
 lively. 
 
 Several months passed away, during which Marlow, whose 
 only amusement was listening to Madame Bernard's morning 
 conversation, felt very dull, yet nevertheless persisted in his 
 misanthropic mode of existence. One cold winter's day, when 
 he was as usual poring over the " Journal des Debats," and 
 occasionally listening to his landlady, he gradually drew away 
 his attention from the newspaper to bestow it on Madame 
 Bernard. She was talking of Monsieur and Madame Dezille 
 with more than customary animation. 
 
 " Yes, sir," she continued, for she had been speaking for 
 Bome time, " I met Madame Dezille on the stairs last uight, 
 and she told me everything about it. Monsieur Dezille has
 
 SEVEN YEARS. 
 
 223 
 
 just fiuislied a superhe comedy, all about kings and queens. 
 Monsieur," addressing Marlow, "has heard, I suppose, that 
 his father was valet to a German sovereign, so that he of 
 course knows everything about these great people ; and his 
 god-father, with all the princes and princesses, are to be in it; 
 and when it is acted, it will create little less than a revolution 
 in Grermany ; for Madame Dezille says that when he read it 
 to her, it made her hair stand all on end, it was so awful. 
 But what shows, moreover, that it is certainly a good comedy 
 is, that Monsieur Dezille, after treating all his friends and 
 comrades of the ball-room where he goes in the evening, read 
 it to them, and could scarcely go on with it for their applause. 
 Indeed they all to a man declared that the director of the 
 Theatre Francais would be astonished to hear it ; that it would 
 be one of the fine plays of the classic boards; and so delighted 
 were they, and so heartily did they dri«nk his health, that Mad- 
 ame Dezille, poor woman, sighed and turned up her eyes whilst 
 she was telling me about it. So I spoke to Bernard this 
 morning, and we agreed to ask Monsieur and Madame Dezille 
 to come and spend the evening with us, and be merry. We 
 shall have some cider, with roasted chestnuts and pancakes, 
 and Monsieur Dezille has promised to read his comedy. Per- 
 haps," continued Madame Bernard, with an insinuating smile, 
 " Monsieur would like to hear the comedy ? I am sure we 
 should be very happy — " But here the gloom that suddenly 
 gathered over Marlow's features as she spoke, warned her 
 that this was dangerous ground, so, correcting herself, she 
 hastily added, " But I suppose Monsieur does not much care 
 about such things ? " 
 
 It was not, however, at her presumption that Marlow felt 
 incensed ; he had too much good sense to take in ill part an 
 offer he knew to be kindly meant; but his misanthropical no- 
 tions were terribly shocked to perceive that his landlady and 
 her husband — a locksmith too — were going to indulge them- 
 selves in a party, one of those dangerous and pernicious amuse- 
 ments which had ruined him, " and will ruin many more," he 
 bitterly thought, " whilst the love of luxury and ostentation 
 are to be found upon earth. Ay," he continued in a thought- 
 Tul mood, " I see it all even now : these people are as credu- 
 lous and simple as their neighbours are knowing and selfish ; 
 they will allow themselves to be duped and flattered ; the par- 
 ties will be renewed, always of course at their expense, until 
 they have nothing more to bestow. They will then be laughed 
 at for their pains ; the husband, disgusted with his comfortless
 
 224 SEVEN YEARS. 
 
 home and his wife's ill temper, will become a drunkard; and 
 as for the poor children, beggary and starvation await them." 
 
 " Will Monsieur be at home this evening? " inquired the 
 cheerful voice of Madame Bernard. 
 
 " No ; I am going out for the day," abruptly replied 
 Marlow. 
 
 " Must I keep Monsieur's fire in ? " she continued, with 
 unalterable good-humour. 
 
 This time Marlow answered in a milder tone, that she 
 need not take the trouble, as he would not come home till 
 late in the evening. 
 
 The day was fine and frosty, so our hero immediately 
 sallied out, fully determined not to return until Monsieur and 
 Madame Dezille and the comedy were all fairly despatched. 
 He took a long walk; but as, after all, the day was not yet 
 half spent, he resolved to call upon the only acquaintance he 
 had formed in Paris. His friend lived far away ; Marlow did 
 not reach his dwelling till dusk, and, as ill luck would have 
 it, did not find him within. In a rather sulky mood, he now 
 resolved to go home ; but as though to increase his ill-humour, 
 there came on a thaw, accouipaaied with a drizzling raiu, which 
 promised to last for the whole evening. He was unprovid- 
 ed with an umbrella, and could not find a single cab or omni- 
 bus until he was within five minutes' walk of the street in 
 which he resided. It was nine o'clock when he reached his 
 quatrieme eiage, thoroughly tired, drenched to the skin, and, 
 »bove all, highly irritated against his landlady, to whose un- 
 lucky party he ascribed his mishap. 
 
 As he usually left his key in Madame Bernard's keeping, 
 he was now obliged to kooek at her door in order to procure 
 it from her. No sooner had he reached the lauding, than the 
 sounds of several voices within, mingling with occasional 
 bursts of laughter and applause, greeted his ear. As his sum- 
 mons had evidently not been heard or heeded, Marlow, with- 
 out further ceremony, entered the kitchen, and called out for 
 Madame Bernard ; but the good dame, who was busy frying 
 pancakes over the stove, — which was so contrived that any 
 such simple cookery could easily be eifected through its means 
 — apparently did not hear him, for she made no reply. Mai-- 
 low impatiently advanced, but paused vdien he reached the 
 glass-door which divided him from the dining-room, where all 
 the party were assembled ; for, notwithstanding his ill-humour, 
 be was not quite averse to obtain a cursory view of Madame
 
 SEVEN YEARS. 225 
 
 Bernard's guests. Owing to her accurate description, he soon 
 recognized every one of them. 
 
 With the exception of Madame Bernard herself, and of 
 her niece and the childi-en, who were busy roasting chestnuts, 
 they were all seated round the table, on which stood an old- 
 fashioned lamp, which shed its light around, and enabled Mar- 
 low to take a full view of their countenances. In the most 
 comfortable and easy chair, near the warm stove, sat his old 
 crabbed neighbour of the fiddle, whom he had met once or 
 twice on the staircase. He could at first scarcely believe his 
 eyes, and thought it must be some error of liis ; but a strange- 
 ly fashioned and antiquated-looking instrument, which lay on 
 the table, fully confirmed the fact. Madame Dozille, who sat 
 next to him, was as usual embroidering a purse ; whilst her 
 husband, the man of the comedy, with bent brow and fierce 
 aspect, read something from a manuscript before him ; and to 
 enforce or illustrate his meaning, occasionally struck his 
 clenched fist on the table, making the wine-glasses and the 
 old fiddle itself ring again. The locksmith, good man, listen- 
 ed with much gravity and awe; and when he succeeded in 
 catching Monsieur Dezille's eye, and saw that it was the 
 proper time for him to do so, applauded with all his might. 
 Marlow listened in the hopes of catching something ; but what 
 between the hissing of Madame Bernard's pan, and his im- 
 perfect knowledge of French, he could only distinguish the 
 words of " traitor " — "perfidious monarch, tremble and fear," 
 &c., very frequently repeated. Growing somewhat impatient, 
 Marlow was on the point of entering the room, at the immi- 
 nent risk of destroying the effect of the best passage in Mon- 
 sieur Dezille's play, when the latter, who was closely eyeing 
 Madame Bernard's motions, hastened to wind up the critical 
 scene with a kind of fierce flourish, threw his manuscript on 
 the table, and, in the excitement of the moment, recklessly 
 swallowed down a burning cake just hot from the pan. His 
 kind hostess gazed upon him with alarm; but Monsieur 
 Dezille was perfectly cool and composed ; it seemed, as Mad- 
 ame Bernard afterwards observed, as though nothing could 
 have an efl'sct upon him. 
 
 Thinking the moment favourable, Marlow now opened the 
 door, and thrusting his head into the room, sharply called 
 out: 
 
 " Madame Bernard." 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 " My key." 
 
 10*
 
 226 SEVEN YEAKS. 
 
 In a moment Madame Bernard was by bis side, pouring 
 fortb excuses for baving given Monsieur tbe trouble of coming 
 so far ; " but then," she added, apologetically, " I did not 
 think Monsieur meant to come home so early. However, 
 Monsieur's fire will be ready in two minutes ; but bless me ! 
 Monsieur is wet to the bone. Will not Monsieur come in and 
 dry himself at the stove ? " 
 
 Marlow stiffly thanked her and refused. 
 
 " Indeed, sir, you will take your death of cold," persisted 
 Madame Bernard, and she added such pressing arguments and 
 entreaties, that wearied at length witb her remonstrances, and 
 Bomewhat tempted, too, by the warm atmosphere of the room, 
 he consented to enter, concluding that he should only stay a 
 few minutes after all, and took a seat near the stove, upon 
 which Adele was now warming some wine for him, this beiug, 
 in Madame Bernard's estimation, an excellent preservative 
 against a cold. The French of every class possess an instinc- 
 tive politeness, which teaches them that nothing can be more 
 disagreeable to a stranger than to excite too much observation. 
 Thus on this occasion, with whatever real curiosity they might 
 have been disposed to eye " the proud Englishman, who spoke 
 to nobody," Madame Bernard's guests showed no token of it : 
 and politely making room for Marlow, took as little notice of 
 him as possible. 
 
 Everything went on as though he had not been there. 
 Two bottles of cider were brought out, and uncorked in great 
 ceremony by the locksmith, whose health and that of Madame 
 Bernard was drunk by every one present ; a compliment which 
 was duly acknowledged and returned. The cider (it cost ten 
 sous, or fivepence a bottle) was pronounced delicious. Marlow 
 was amongst the first invited to test its merits, but as he re- 
 fused in a very peremptory and morose tone. Monsieur Ber- 
 nard had tact enough not to use any pressing. The hot roast- 
 ed chestnuts were next produced in a large earthen dish, and 
 every one immediately began peeling and eating them with 
 relish. This is a favourite amusement in France, both with 
 children and grown-up people amongst the poorer classes, who 
 particularly enjoy it by the fire-side on cold winter evenings. 
 Its general merit is, that it does not interfere with conversa- 
 tion ; and so Marlow soon found, for the table having been re- 
 moved, every one drew round the stove,, and became very 
 chatty. 
 
 Monsieur Dezille was evidently the wit of the party ; he 
 oould not open his mouth to swallow a chestnut, or utter
 
 SEVEN TEAJiS. 227 
 
 a bon-mot, but the locksmith was ready to laugh and be 
 amused, whilst Madame Dezille admiringly turned up her eyes. 
 Even old Monsieur Ricord's grim features occasionally relaxed 
 into an approving smile; as to the niece and children, they 
 were in perfect ecstacies, laughing and clapping their hands 
 with glee at everything they saw or heard. But as he wit- 
 nessed the mirth and enjoyment of those around him, Marlow's 
 gloom and ill-humour increased : he sat apart, scowling on the 
 company, or smiling with undisguised contempt at Monsieur 
 Dezille's most brilliant witticisms, and often impatiently glanc- 
 ing towards the door, as though wishing for Madajne Bernard's 
 reappearance. All advances to conversation he scornfully re- 
 pelled. 
 
 Once or twice, however. Monsieur Dezille, who longed to 
 enter into a literary controversy with him, adroitly made a 
 few preliminary remarks on the weather, having heard that 
 this was a favourite subject with all Englishmen ; and thence 
 suddenly plunged deep into epic poetry and the art of ballad- 
 making, the latter of which he placed far above the former, as 
 being much more interesting, and certainly more difficult. 
 
 " And this Monsieur Do-zille ought to know," here put in 
 Madame Dezille, looking up from her purse, " for he writes 
 charming ballads." 
 
 " Does he write epics ? " satirically asked Marlow. 
 
 " I cannot say that I ever condescended to make the at- 
 tempt," loftily replied Monsieur Dezille, cracking a chestnut. 
 
 " Poets are fools," dogmatically said Marlow, " and poetry 
 is folly." 
 
 " Ay, that it is," sourly said the owner of the fiddle, 
 speaking for the first time since the entrance of Marlow. 
 
 " How people can lose their time, and waste paper in 
 writing at all — " began Marlow. 
 
 '• Is moi-e than I, as a man of sense, can imagine," put in 
 Monsieur Ricord. 
 
 And so they went on, Marlow continuing his sharp attack 
 on authors aijd poets in general, in the abuse of whom be was 
 materially assisted by Monsieur Ricord. who, though avoiding 
 the mild deprecatory glance of Madame Dezille, was twice as 
 fierce and pungent as himself, all his natural crabbedness having 
 seemingly returned. Monsieur Dezille heard them both with 
 much philosophical composure, smiled once or twice upon them, 
 and as he made no reply, soon silenced them on that subject 
 at least; for Monsieur Ricord, who, when once aroused, waa 
 not easily quieted, finding no more to say on poets and poetry,
 
 228 SEVEN TEARS. 
 
 launched out into the praises of his fiddle, the only earthly 
 object for which, it was asserted, he felt any love or sym- 
 pathy. 
 
 Now this very fiddle had long been a source of annoyance 
 to our hero ; its dismal squeaking sounds had more than once 
 wakened him out of his sweetest morning slumbers ; and then 
 its owner had a knack of harping upon one peculiar string, 
 which so jarred with Marlow's delicate nerves, that he was not 
 at all sorry to find an opportunity of retaliating. Besides, 
 why did the Bernards invite this disagreeable old man to their 
 party ? Monsieur Dezille and his comedy were already bad 
 enough. So, without further fear or mercy, he began abusing 
 the unfortunate fiddle; and, spite of the groans and indignant 
 remonsti-ances of its owner, clearly showed it to be ill-made, 
 old, crazy, and out of tune. 
 
 " Monsieur," said Ricord, in a voice tremulous with pas- 
 sion, " will you allow me to ask if you know what a fiddle 
 is ? " 
 
 " There never was such a detestable old thing as ihat,'''' 
 was the only reply of Marlow, scornfully pointing to the 
 fiddle. 
 
 It was in vain that the gentle Madame Bernard, who was 
 now in the room distributing the pancakes, cast a beseeching 
 glance towards him, as though to beg for his silence, and even 
 once or twice hinted that his wine was warm and his fire lit. 
 He eyed her sternly; and as his bile was fairly roused, he 
 suddenly turned upon her, and in a style which the bitterness 
 of his feelings rendered almost eloquent, began a pointed 
 attack on the extravagance of those persons who endeavour to 
 rise above their station in life, by imitating the follies of their 
 superiors. As this was a subject which always inspired Mar- 
 low with ready and forcible arguments, his words soon pro- 
 duced a visible effect upon his listeners. Gradually a cloud 
 came over the honest and merry visage of the locksmith ; even 
 Madame Bernard looked somewhat doubtful, as though she 
 did not feel quite certain of being in the right; and the 
 children instinctively drew away from the Monsieur Anglais, 
 whom the old bachelor still eyed with indignant feelings. 
 Monsieur Dezille alone preserved an unalterable serenity ; and 
 whilst the others allowed their cider to stand still, and the 
 pancakes to grow cold, he enjoyed both with unabated gusto. 
 
 When Marlow at length came to a pause in his discourse, 
 Madame Bernard observed — " I am afraid Monsieur's fire will
 
 SEVEN TEAES. 229 
 
 be out now ; but if Monsieur will stay here till I light it 
 again — " 
 
 " No, thank you," intorrnpted Marlow, who, as he felt 
 conscious of having clamped, if not destroyed, the enjoyments 
 of all present, experienced certain twinges of conscience ; " I 
 ehall go to bed directly ; " and taking the light which his 
 hostess offered him, without, howev'er, her usual cordiality, he 
 retired to his apartment, endeavouring to persuade himself that 
 he had no reason to repent of what he had done, since he had 
 merely given the Bernards a bitter, though salutary lesson. 
 
 When he reached his room, he found that, according to 
 Madame Bernard's prognostication, his fii-e was quite out — 
 worse still, he had forgotten, in his excitement, to take the 
 hot-sugared wine prepared for him by his kind landlady ; his 
 clothes were not half dry ; he was cold, and felt in a miserable 
 plight. Somehow or other his remorse began to revive : hw 
 certainty of having acted rightly was not now quite so strong : 
 nay, he even fancied he might be in the wrong. 
 
 " After all," said he abstractedly, seating himself opposite 
 the blank and dreary fire-place, "what great harm did those 
 honest people commit in amusing themselves cheerfully and 
 innocently ? They were not idle ; for, save the locksmith, 
 and the little author, and the old bachelor, every one was oc- 
 cupied. The author's wife was embroidering a purse; Madame 
 Bernard had been mending her husband's socks ; and I think 
 that even the little girls were busy with their samplers. All this 
 was very right. Tiicu how much," continued Marlow, " may 
 they have spent ? Why, a franc or two ! Surely that is not too 
 much for a little of that honest cordial enjoyment which I so 
 wantonly destroyed ? Yes, I have deprived them of their in- 
 nocent mirth : I see it all. Madame, Bernard and her husband 
 are bitterly reflecting on their folly, and cast cold looks on 
 their guests, who begin to experience the galling feeling that 
 they have ceased to be welcome; the very children are sulky 
 and sleepy, and every one is thoroughly miserable ; and this," 
 he exclaimed aloud, with great warmth — " this is my doing ! 
 Nay, it shall not be said that when I see an error I do not 
 know how to repair it. I will go in to them this minute, and 
 cheer and comfort them, if, indeed, it be still in my power to 
 do so." And so saying, he rose from his seat, and with a 
 hasty stride proceeded towards the door ; but when his hand 
 was on the lock, he paused. " What excuse shall I give for 
 going in again ? " said he to himself. " Pshaw ! did I not 
 leave my hot wine behind me, and is not my fire out ? ' he
 
 280 SEVEN TEAKS. 
 
 added witli a shiver; and witliout further delay he opened his 
 door, and advanced towards iLat of the Bernards, from which 
 he was only divided by the landing. He had not, however, 
 gone a step, before he paused with sudden surprise. Surely 
 it was an error? But no; his ear did not deceive him : the 
 merry sound of a fiddle was proceeding from the apartment 
 within. It so chanced that, on coming out a few minute :) be- 
 fore, Marlow had left the outer door of Madame Bernard's 
 kitchen half open, as he now perceived by the streak of light 
 which lit up the landing. Impelled by strong curiosity, ho 
 approached the door, and without entering, peeped in. Owing 
 to the glass door, he could partly discern what was going on in 
 the second room. 
 
 To his indignant astonishment, the individuals whom he 
 had left, according to his belief, in a state of desponding gloom 
 and melancholy, were now evidently in high glee, and enjoying 
 themselves to the best of their power. The old bachelor, who 
 seemed quite merry, was scraping away on his fiddle with in- 
 dignant vehemence, as though to clear it from Marlow's ca- 
 lumnious aspersions; Monsieur Dezille was lustily singing one 
 of his own songs to its accompaniment, whilst the locksmith 
 merrily beat time on the table, and the children and the niece 
 danced at the other end of the room. The melancholy 
 Madame Dezille herself looked happy for once : Madame Ber- 
 nard only looked as she ever did look — the most cheerful and 
 contented of human beings. To crown the whole, Marlow 
 distinctly recognised in the black mug which amicably stood 
 between the old bachelor and Monsieur Dezille, the identical 
 one into which his hot-sugared wine had been poured. His 
 interference was evidently quite unnecessary to restore a good 
 feeling amongst all present. However contradictory it may 
 appear, Marlow was by no means delighted at this unexpected 
 result, but retired to rest in high dudgeon with himself, his 
 landlady, and the whole world. 
 
 When he awoke the next morning, his natural good sense 
 restored him to a better feeling. He perceived the folly and 
 unrea'^onableness of his expectations. Why should others 
 deprive themselves of innocent enjoyments to please or indulge 
 his misanthropic whims ? " Surely," he added with a sigh, 
 " this world is often sad enough for many of us ; let a few at 
 least find some pleasure in it." 
 
 When Madame Bernard, therefore, came to light his fire 
 and prepare his breakfast, he received her quite cheerfully . 
 and after making a few general remarks, candidly expressed
 
 SEVEN TEAKS. 231 
 
 his regret at having said anything on the preceding evening 
 that might have damped the enjoyments of herself and her 
 gnests. 
 
 With much simplicity and earnestness, Madame Bernard 
 assured him he need not trouble himself on that account ; that 
 he had not at all destroyed their pleasure ; and indeed that 
 they had never been merrier than after he was gone. 
 
 Marlow was disconcerted for a moment, but he soon rallied : 
 and being determined to do his duty to the end, continued hia 
 discourse, and very clearly proved to his landlady that both 
 she and her husband could not possibly do a wiser thing than 
 to enjoy themselves occasionally with their friends. 
 
 Madame Bernard, who perhaps knew all this as well as 
 he did, and, maybe, too, a good deal better, heard him very 
 patiently, and when he had done, merely observed — "Why, 
 sir, as my husband has to work hard all the week, and is not 
 very strong, it is only fair he should get a bit of amusement 
 now and then." 
 
 " Very right," approvingly replied Marlow; "but might 
 you not select your guests more judiciously? Now, that 
 Monsieur Dezille and his comedy seemed to be rather absiird." 
 
 " Well, sir, we are ignorant people, that do not understand 
 much of these matters; but Joseph says he likes to hear 
 Monsieur Dezille talk, because, as he knows more than him- 
 self, he can always gather soiuething useful from him. Then 
 he and his wife are rather nice people, and, to tell you the truth, 
 sir, rather poor, though too proud to own it. Yet as I knew 
 that Madame Dezille had had no fire these last three days, cold 
 as they have been, 1 asked her to come in to teach one of the 
 girls how to embroider purses, which she, poor soul, very will- 
 ingly did, and warmed herself at the same time. Then I 
 said how glad Bernard would be to hear her husband's comedj^ 
 So he came too ; and as I thought he sometimes went without 
 his supper, I made a few pancakes, and Bernard got a bottle 
 or two of cider. It did not cost much after all — only two 
 francs — and it made us all glad and merry, and they ue\ er 
 suspected anything." 
 
 Though he had always thought his landlady a simple, good- 
 natured sort of woman, Marlow had by no means been pre- 
 pared for the delicacy of feeling this last trait betrayed. For 
 a while he remained silent, but determined to make another 
 objection. He observed — " But what motive could induce you 
 to invite that cross old man and his abominable violin '? " 
 
 " Ah sir," reproachfully exclaimed Madame Bernard, " how
 
 232 SEVEN YEARS. 
 
 Borry I was when you abused that violin so ! He values it 
 above anything else ; and no wonder too, for it belonged to his 
 only brother, who died many years ago ; and he often talks of 
 that brother, and says, with tears in his eyes, bow beautifully 
 he played upon that very instrument; and indeed he seems 
 to think it is the only violin upon earth; but that is only 
 because it was his brother's. I can assure you. Monsieur, that 
 he is not so crabbed as he seems. He is a tender-hearted 
 creature. I have looked into his room, and actually seen him 
 sobbing, as if his heart were like to break, over that poor vio- 
 lin. Wliat an affectionate remembrance he must have of his 
 brother ! " 
 
 " Well, if such is the case, I am really sorry to have ever 
 said a word against it," replied Marlow, rather moved ; " but 
 I thought this old gentleman was no favourite of yours, and in 
 deed he seems to be cross and surly enough." 
 
 " Well, sir," said Madame Bernard, in a grave and some- 
 what penitent tone, " we should never judge by appearances, 
 for he is not half so cross as T thought him, though I should 
 never have known it but for Madame Dezille ; and this is one 
 of the very things which, though I did not find it out till before 
 yesterday, made me like her still more. Would you believe 
 it, sir, both she and her husband have, for the whole winter, 
 been attending on that old man, who is almost always laid up 
 with the gout, and is no friend or relation of theirs ? And 
 they say that, with all his crossness, he is very kind, and 
 wanted to do something for them out of pure gratitude ; but 
 seeing that he was almost as poor as themselves, they refused, 
 and that was what made him so ill-tempered with Monsieur 
 Dezille last night, though I believe they were friends again 
 long before they parted. And you now see, sir, how it was we 
 could not do less than invite him also." 
 
 As Marlow had nothing to reply, and did not seem inclined 
 for further conversation, Madame Bernard soon left him to his 
 own reflections, little suspecting that it was her discourse which 
 caused this deep fit of musing. " Well," thought he, when he 
 was alone, " how little I knew of all the genuine kindness, 
 charity, and feeling which lay concealed under the homely as- 
 pect of those worthy people, whose innocent enjoyment I en- 
 deavoured to destroy. Now that I think better of it, I no 
 longer wonder at their cheerful, happy faces. But how pure 
 and blessed," he added with a sigh, " is that dower of a con- 
 tented spirit — the art of enjoyment- — since it can shed such 
 genuine delight over what were otherwise insipid and flat, and
 
 SEVEIT YKAK8. 233 
 
 invest an old fiddle, a bottle of cider, and a few chestnuts and 
 pancakes, with more real pleasure than is to be found in these 
 splendid entertainments where guests only bring with them the 
 weariness and ennui of worldly minds ! " 
 
 Frank Marlow was a cured man. We will not assert that 
 it was exclusively Madame Bernard's party, and the thoughts 
 it awakened, which wrought a reformation in his mhid. He 
 was already tired of inactivity, and a few letters from a friend 
 in EuD-land had contributed to arouse him from his morbid 
 lethargy. He saw that all along it had been himself, not the 
 world, which was to blame — that the earth may become a 
 scene of gloom or gaiety, misery or happiness, just as we use 
 its bounties. In less than three weeks he announced to his 
 landlady his intention of returning home. She heard him with 
 regret : and as he had in the mean while effected a reconcilia- 
 tion with Monsieur Dezille and the owner of the violin, every- 
 body was truly sorry to part from him. Mai-low himself felt 
 some emotion when the hour came ; but Eiighmd, which was 
 before him, and the hope of retrieving his fallen fortunes, soon 
 banished the transient feeling. 
 
 He brought enei'gy and perseverance to his new task, and 
 in a few years was in as prosperous circumstances as ever. All 
 his former extravagance seemed to have vanished ; he did not, 
 however, fall into the contrary extreme, but always entertained 
 his friends in a nu^llller suitable to his station in life ; still they 
 frequently heard him observe, that the most pleasant party he 
 had ever seen had only cost one shilling and eightpence ; 
 " though to be sure," he added with a smile, " what was wanting 
 in good cheer, was amply made up by kind hearts, contented 
 spirits, and the genuine art of enjoyment." 
 
 Should the reader feel any wish to learn the fate of the 
 Bernards and their neighbours, we can only inform him that 
 they are still residing in the same house. Monsieur Drzille's 
 comedy has not yet been acted, but it continues, with old Mon- 
 sieur ilicord's violin, to form the delight of the whole landing. 
 Upon the whole, they are much in the same state as when 
 Frank Marlow saw them ; neither richer nor poorer, but aa 
 merry and good-humoured as ever.
 
 284 SEVEN TEAKS. 
 
 THE LITTLE DANCmG-MASTER. 
 
 PoLYDORE Jasmin was, as he said himself, " a professor of 
 the Terpsiehorean art ; " in plainer terms, a danciug-master. 
 Being a short-legged, dumpy little man, nature did not seem 
 to have intended him for any extraordinary feats of agility ; 
 but an irresistible vocation had enabled him to overcome every 
 physical obstacle. As he was a married man, and the father oi 
 seven children, he remained poor in spite of the almost super- 
 natural industry with which he applied himself to his art both 
 day and night. Instead of owning a handsome and fashionably 
 situated salon de danse, he was allowed to waste his talents in 
 a damp cellnr-like room, looking on the yard of a dingy house 
 in the Hue St. Denis, where he daily revealed the mysteries of 
 the light muse to the smart shopmen and pretty grisettes of the 
 neighbourhood. 
 
 Still, Monsieur Jasmin was a contented, and, even a happy 
 man: the lightness and buoyancy of his pz'ofession seemed to 
 have passed into his heart. His manners, however, were very 
 grave and dignified ; and when he danced, he became so solemn 
 that his pupils, like th;^ courtiers of the Grand Monarque on a 
 similar occasion, remained struck with awe at the imposing 
 sight. To say the trutli, M. Jasmin had a respect for dancing; 
 he looked upon it as a very grave affair, and could not bear to 
 hear it lightly spoken of, or turned into ridicule. If anything 
 could tend to increase M. Jasmin's natural equanimity of tem- 
 per, it must have been the high opinion he entertained of his 
 art, his own person, and his family. Madame Polydore Jasmin, 
 according to him, possessed the gift of eternal youth; at least 
 he solemnly declared — and he believed it — that she had not 
 altered in the least since the day of their first meeting, when 
 her coal black eyes, rosy cheeks, and pleasant smile first won 
 his tender heart. Others averred that cares and anxiety had 
 rendered the poor woman pale and thin, and that she was only 
 the shadow of her former self; but of this he saw and knew 
 nothing, and his love for his wife remained unabated. She was 
 a good, simple-hearted woman, well deserving of afi'ection, and 
 entii-ely devoted to her family : her love and veneration for her 
 husband were unbounded : she entertained, moreover, the 
 deepest respect for dancing, and looked upon M. Jasmin as the
 
 SEVEN YEARS. 235 
 
 high priest of that mysterious art. The children of this wor- 
 thy couple were like their parents — contented, good-humoured, 
 and simple-hearted : their education was very carefully attended 
 to ; for there had not been danced a pas in France since the 
 days of Louis XIV. with which they were not thoroughly 
 accjuainted. 
 
 Amongst the few acqaaintances of M. and Madame Jas- 
 min, who were rather shy and reserved, was one of their neigh- 
 bours, M. Bourreux, a disagreeable, satirical old man, who 
 bad no children, was thought to be in easy circumstances, con- 
 tinually talked about making his will, and seemed privileged 
 to say whatever he pleased, without giving offence to any of 
 the families which he daily visited — teasing the children, an- 
 noying the parents, and turning the household arrangements 
 into ridicule, during the whole time of his stay. On a fine 
 summer evening this amiable individual condesceiKled to pay 
 M. Jasmin a visit. To the dancing-master's surprise, he was 
 unusually gracious. The high polish of Madame Jasmin's 
 bees'-waxed floors seemed to transport him with admiration : 
 by an adroit transition he contrived to connect the subject with 
 M. Jasmin's proficiency in his art; and he was so eloquent on 
 both topics, that the heart of the dancing-master's wife swelled 
 with pride, whilst equally gratifying feelings agitated her hus- 
 band. In his sudden fit of amiability, M. Bourreux even at- 
 temi)ted to pat the heads of the children, and say a few kind 
 words, but they all drew away with instinctive mistrust. 
 "When his stay had been somewhat prolonged, M. Bourreux 
 rose to depart; but as though suddenly recollecting himself, 
 he turned towards his host, and with a bland smile observed, 
 " My dear Monsieur Jasmin, allow me to congratulate you 
 before I go; I am indeed delighted." 
 
 M. Jasmin opened his eyes very wide, and seemed be- 
 wildered ; his wife looked at him as though for an explanation. 
 M. Bourreux continued : " It is perhaps indiscreet in me to 
 mention this so early ; but I really could not command my 
 feelinjis." 
 
 The dancing-master and his wife exchanged glances : 
 " What could this mean ? " 
 
 " What ! " exclaimed the visitor ; " can you be unac- 
 quainted with an event concerning you so nearly ? Nay, 
 then, let me have the pleasure — " And without finishing the 
 sentence, he drew a newspaper from his pocket, and handed it 
 with a smile to M. Jasmin. The dancing-master mechanically 
 glanced over the paragraph pointed out by M, Bourreux; but
 
 236 SEVEN TEARS. 
 
 scarcely liad he read a few lines, when he became very pale, 
 and ?ank down on a seat. 
 
 " What is the matter, Polydore ? " cried the alarmed 
 Madame Jasmin. 
 
 " 'Tis only the effect of joy," coolly remarked M. Bour- 
 reux ; " he will soon come round." 
 
 iiiit instead of coming round, M. Jasmin betrayed increas« 
 ing emotion; his little grey eyes twinkled with tears; and 
 mournfully shaking hih head, he exclaimed in a broken tone, 
 " Poor fellow ! I taught him how to dance : is it now come 
 to this ? " and with another shake of the head, expressive of 
 the deepest melancholy, he allowed the paper to fall to the 
 ground. Madame Jasmin hastily picked it up, looked over 
 the paragraph which had so affected her husband, and fairly 
 bui-st into tears, whilst M. Bourreux eyed theiu both with un- 
 disguised contempt. Not to keep the reader in suspense, we 
 will state that the paper so officiously produced by M. Bour- 
 reux announced the death of Jacques Jasmiu, merchant of 
 New Orleans, where he had died of the yellow fever, on the 
 eve of returning to his native country with a large fortune. 
 As the deceased was a cousin of M. Jasmin, of whom he had 
 not heard for several years, the golden consequences of this 
 event chiefly struck M. Bourreux, who, when be saw the pal- 
 try light in which his friends beheld it, began to look upon 
 theui as more shallow and foolish beings than he had till then 
 thought them to be. M. and Madame Jasmin were in the 
 mean wliile relieving their grief by enumerating, as is usual in 
 Buch cases, the manifold virtues of the deceased. 
 
 " So good-teuipered ! " exclaimed Madame. 
 
 " So willing to learn too ! " observed her husband. 
 
 " 'J'he newspaper says he died immensely rich," urged M. 
 Bourreux. 
 
 " He deserved it," warmly cried M. Jasmin. " Poor lad ! 
 when he went away, ten years back, to seek his fortune, ' Trust 
 me, cousiii Jasmiu,' says he, ' I shall make my way ; and hon- 
 estly too,' he added proudly ; for he was proud, poor Jacques 
 was." 
 
 " Ay, and don't you recollect how, when you slipped the 
 piece of gold into his little trunk, he pressed your hand, and 
 cuuld not speak "? " observed Madame Jasmiu, wiping her 
 eyes. 
 
 " I declare," replied her husband with surprise, " I had 
 forgotten all about that. Well, he was welcome to it; but it 
 was a loan, not a gift ; and indeed, if ever his children come
 
 SEVEN YEAES. 23T 
 
 to France, I shall remiud them, in a polite manner of course, 
 of the debt." 
 
 " Your cousin was never married, and has left no chil 
 dren," sharply said M. Bourreus. 
 
 " Well, I might have known that," replied M. Jasmin ; 
 " for when he was going away, ' Cousin,' says he, ' I shall 
 never marry but a pretty lively Frenchwoman like Madame 
 Jasmin.' " Here the daucing-raaster tenderly glanced towards 
 his wife, who positively blushed. 
 
 " Well, but do you also know," impatiently exclaimed M. 
 Bourreux, " that your cousin has left no will ? " 
 
 " What about it ? " calmly asked M. Jasmin. 
 
 " What about it ? " almost indignantly echoed his neigh- 
 bour ; " why, if he died childless, and without making a will, 
 does it not follow that his large fortune — two millions of 
 francs, the newspajjers say — must be divided amongst his re- 
 lations V " 
 
 M. Jasmin opened and rolled his eyes in a manner which 
 showed that the thouii;ht now occurred to him for the first 
 time. For awhile he seemed lost in thought, then incredu- 
 lously exclaimed it could not be ; a sentiment in which his wife 
 fully concurred. On hearing this, M. Bourreux becan:ie in- 
 dignant, then satirical, and at last, by a natural transition, 
 quite sentimental. He begged of his dear frie;;ds to believe 
 him — what interest had he in deceiviusjf them ? The dancing;- 
 master and his wife at length allowed themselves to be con- 
 vinced ; and after giving a few more tears to the memory of 
 Jacques, they agreed that the intelligence must be true. M. 
 Bourreux having thus accomplished his errand, departed, 
 leaving them to their own retiections. These were dismal 
 enough ; and what with their grief for the death of Jacques 
 Jasmin, and their joy of becoujing at once so rich, the wm-thy 
 couple spent, upon the whole, a rather miserable evening. 
 
 By the next morning they were more composed, and had 
 settled how to act. The whole family immediately went into 
 mourning, for what less could be done to honour the memory of 
 a mau who left them a fortune ? Besides this, M. Jasmin had 
 to write to his Norman cousin, M. Legros, who was the only 
 other heir of the deceased. The next and still more impor- 
 tant step, was to remove from their present " low neighbour- 
 hood, to a more convenient residence." So at least said 
 Madame Jasmin, who had a secret taste for gra}ideur. 
 
 " And Monsieur Jasmin's pupils '? " objected some prudent 
 aeighbouis.
 
 238 SEVEN YEAJRS. 
 
 Madame Jasmin assumed a remote look, and hinted that 
 her husband had thoughts of giving up teaching. " He thinks 
 it fair to beginners," she said kindly, " and though he may be 
 induced to take a few pupils, it will be more for his own 
 amusement than for profit." 
 
 The prudent neighbours withdrew in high dudgeon. " Oh ! 
 that was it, was it ? the Jasmins were getting too grand for 
 the Eue St. Denis. Very well, very well, time would show." 
 
 But Madame Jasmin was reckless, ambition had invaded 
 her heart, and for once that eager passion held sovereign em- 
 pire in that hitherto humble region. A foshionable apartment 
 in the Chaussee d'Antin was found and at once taken posses- 
 sion of. A few hundred francs, the careful savings of years, 
 were lavi.shly spent on the necessary changes of furniture. 
 " The rent was horribly dear," Madame Jasmin confessed, but 
 why deny it ? she took secret pleasure in its dearness, — there 
 is a comfort which the simple and ignorant do not suspect in 
 the dearness of things. " It is dear," there is the pity, " but 
 I can actually squander all that money," there is the comfort ; 
 the soothina; thoug-ht. 
 
 This fashionable apartment nominally consisted in four 
 rooms, but was really all salon^ every other convenience being 
 sacrificed to that one room. The kitchen was a square hole, 
 where daylight had never penetrated ; the dining-room could 
 hold only about four full-grown persons at a time ; and* al- 
 though the salon or drawing-room was handsome and well-pro- 
 portioned, it unfortunately happened that the only spot in 
 which the sofa could possibly be put, was precisely against the 
 only door that led into the bed- room. This door, which would 
 otherwise have spoiled the symmetry of the room, was supposed 
 to be there incognito, and was papered over like the rest of the 
 walls, in order to keep up the delusion ; but as the bed-room, 
 like the kitchen, had no window, the architect had humanely 
 caused a few panes of glass to be inserted into the higliest 
 portion of the door already mentioned ; so that, with a little 
 complaisance on the part of visitors, they might be supposed 
 to be out of view altogether. 
 
 After a long consultation, M. and Madame Jasmin agreed 
 that the sofa must be put against the door, and that, as the 
 glass panes fortunately opened and shut like a real window, 
 the aperture should serve to introduce them into their sleeping 
 apartment. It is true it was somewhat narrow; but, as M. 
 Jasmin wisely observed, " you had only to step upon the sofa, 
 pass your head through the opening, and you were sure to come
 
 SEVEN YEAES. 239 
 
 down, most probably on the bed, and without being more than 
 slightly grazed at the utmost." Notwithstanding these advan- 
 tages, the dancing-master and his wife had not been three days 
 in their new apartment before they were sick of it. 
 
 "I declare," piteously exclaimed Madame on the third 
 morning, " that I can bear this no longer. To get in and out 
 of a bed-room in that fashion, and a dozen times a day, is 
 enough to exhaust one." 
 
 "" We shall get accustomed to it in time," was Monsieur 
 Jasmin's comforting reflection. He was a bright-minded little 
 man, and looked at the rosy side of things. 
 
 " And I say that I cannot bear it," reiterated the lady 
 with some asperity, and as she felt really fatigued, she sat 
 down on a chair. Monsieur Jasmin looked perplexed. 
 
 " What is to be done ? " he asked, giving his wife a dubi- 
 ous look. 
 
 " I really do not know," she replied, dismally ; " my mind 
 and my cookery are alike bewildered with that blacli kitchen ; 
 and if the seven children must be locked up in the dining- 
 room for fear of soiling the drawing-room paper, I really 
 think we might throw them in the Seine at once." 
 
 Monsieur Jasmin was too kind and indulgent not to feel 
 more pity than resentment for this little burst of temper. 
 
 '' My dear," he said, with mild gravity, " it was your sug- 
 gestion to luck them up." 
 
 " Monsieur Jasmin," impatiently interrupted his wife, 
 " are you or are you not a i icli man '? If you are, let us have 
 a better place to live in than this. If you are not, let us go 
 back to the Rue St. Denis." 
 
 " My dear," said Monsieur Jasmin, still mildly, but with a 
 great increase of gravity, " I really do not understand you. I 
 cannot and I will not go back to the Rue St. Denis. The pupils I 
 had there have not chosen to follow me here ; it is not my place 
 to return to them. We are virtually separated. With regard 
 to your suggestion of taking a larger apartment, I should have 
 much pleasure in acceding to it, but for one or two tiifiing ob- 
 jections : we are, as you know, rather short of money, and 
 though there can be no doubt that a vast fortune will come iu 
 to us with the rapidity usual in such cases, I need not tell 
 you, my love, tliat it has not come yet." 
 
 Monsieur Jasmin spoke with a solemnity which sti'uck re- 
 pentance in the gentle breast of Maiuune Jasmin. Tears start- 
 ed to her eyes, and being an impulsive little woman, she rose 
 and threw her arms around the neck of Polydore, whom she
 
 240 SEVEN TEAKS. 
 
 embraced penitently. Monsieur Jasmin had a soft heart, and 
 that dignified composure, which he made a point of preserving, 
 was forsaking him fast, when a violent ring at the bell made 
 the affectionate little couple start rather abruptly. 
 
 " There, my dear," said Monsieur Jasmin, with a pleasant 
 smile, " compose yourself, that ring brings good news." 
 
 He went and opened. 
 
 Before him stood a short thick-set man in a great coat and 
 comforter, and with an enormous carpet bag in his right 
 hand ; behind the short man rose a tall and thin lady, who 
 looked strung with parcels and baskets, and behind her again 
 appeared two round, dumpy, burly boys, each carrying a 
 band-box. 
 
 Monsieur Jasmin opened his mouth and eyes, and could 
 not speak. He had recognised his Norman cousin. Monsieur 
 Legros ; the tall lady must be Madame Legros, and the two 
 boys, Monsieur Legros's two sous ; the extent of the forth- 
 coming calamity bewildered him. 
 
 " Quite well, thank you," said Monsieur Legros, answering 
 a question Monsieur Jasmin had not put. " Come in Alex- 
 andrine, come in, boys." 
 
 And they actually entered the dining room, reckless of 
 the fearful way in which they filled the place. 
 
 Monsieur Legros sat down, took off his hat and comforter, 
 wiped his foreb.ead, and having informed his wife and sons 
 to make themselves at home, he turned to his cousin Polydore, 
 and winking shrewdly, he laid his forefinger on the side of his 
 nose, and emphatically said, "Well."' 
 
 " I do not understand," said Jasmin, watching with an- 
 guish the proceedings of Madame Legros, who was slowly un- 
 stringing her parcels. 
 
 " You do not understand ! " echoed Monsieur Legros ; 
 " why, sir, I mean what news about the business that biings 
 us here ? " 
 
 " None as yet," answered Monsieur Jasmin. 
 
 "None," echoed M. Legros witli a frown, and as thou-h 
 he strongly suspected his cousin of having fraudulently ab- 
 stracted the two millions for his own benefit. " Well, do you 
 know," he continued, with a look meant to be particularly 
 cutting in case M. Jasmin was guilty — " do you know, I think 
 this very strange." 
 
 " To say the truth, so do I," ingenuously replied the 
 dancing-master. 
 
 M. Legros coughed doubtfully and in a manner to snow
 
 SEVEN YEARS. 241 
 
 that, for the present, he would not decide on so grave an 
 affair ; but that he would, nevertheless, keep his eye on 
 Jasmin. 
 
 " In the mean while," he added, following aloud his train 
 of thought, " 1-et us make ourselves at home. I knew that 
 living in hotels is horribly dear," pursued M. Legros, taking 
 oft~ his great coat, " so I have resolved to give you, cousin 
 Jasmin, a proof of my friendship by boarding and lodging 
 with you." 
 
 " We have very little room," feebly began M. Jasmin. 
 
 " My dear fellow, do not mention it, no apologies. All 
 will do excellently well ; Madame I^egros and I can sleep 
 here," said he, rising and looking into the salon, " the two 
 boys will do admirably in your kitchen, wherever it is. A 
 few mattresses, feather beds, sheets, and blankets are all we 
 require. Ah ! Madame Jasmin, how do you do?" he blandly 
 added, as that timid lady, who had taken refuge in the kitchen, 
 now appeared with the seven young Jasmins in the rear ; 
 " allow me to introduce my wife, Madame Legros. You did 
 not expect that petite surprise," he added, with a knowing 
 wink. 
 
 Madame Jasmin confessed faintly tl;at she did not. 
 
 " Never mind, cousine, it comes all the pleasanter. You 
 are, I have no doubt, an excellent cook ; the boys — look up, 
 Adolphe, look u[i, Auguste — and your children will be friends 
 in no time, and Jasmin, Madame Legros, and T, shall go out 
 sight-seeing, for it is Madame Ijcgros's Hrst visit to the 
 capital." 
 
 Madame Jasmin looked at her Inisband, and Monsieur 
 Jasmin looked at her, and the kind-hearted, simple-minded 
 little couple, unable to frame an ungracious, inhospitable re- 
 fusal, made the best of a bad bargain, and liade their Norman 
 cousins welcome. 
 
 We will not attempt to descrilte the sufferings M. Jasmin 
 and his family had to endure during the first week of the stay 
 of their relatives. Matters went on, however, as M. Ijcgros 
 had predicted. The unfortunate Madame Jasmin cooked from 
 morning till night ; the children agreed or quarrelled as their 
 fancy led them ; and whichever they did, always made such a 
 fearful noise, that the lodger who resided underneath offered 
 M. Jasmin a certain sum on condition of his removing instasiily, 
 which, from a sense of dignity, he refused to do. lUit the 
 woist of it was, that the luckless dancing-muster was com- 
 pelled to show his cousins about, not only over all Paris, but 
 11
 
 242 SEVEN YEAES. 
 
 also over every portion of the surrounding ct.nntry that had 
 ever possessed the least celebrity. M. and Madame Legroa 
 were determined to make the best of their stay. As though 
 to increase M. Jasmin's deep mortification, no tidings whatever 
 could be had of Jacques Jasmin's fortune, a circumstance 
 which caused M. Legros to hint, in a dark manner, that he 
 strongly suspected the newspaper paiagraph of being entirely 
 groundless, and that he was not even far from considering his 
 cousin as accessory to the fabrication which had been the means 
 of involving him in tiavelling expenses — and all in order to 
 gratify M. Jasmin's selfish wish of enjoying the company of 
 himself and his amial)le family! M. Jasmin protested such an 
 idea had never even entered his mind ; but this of course only 
 increased M. Legros's suspicions. " But look ye, sir," he add- 
 ed in a threatening tone, "it would be better for you never 
 to have made a dupe of me, sir ; for I protest I shall leave 
 neither this city nor this house, sir, until I have ascertained 
 the truth of the whole aflTair." 
 
 This was an awful threat, and M. Jasmin felt it in all its 
 force. But the gracious virtue of hospitality had too deep a 
 root in the dancing-master's gentle heart for him to do what 
 nine out of ten people would have done in his stead. 
 
 " No, he could not bid his cousin leave his house, and seek 
 himself some other home." 
 
 " I am sick of my life with them," exclaimed Madame 
 Jasmin, with a feeble burst of tears. 
 
 " My dear, I would do anything to please you," said her 
 husband, tenderly, " but think of our social position ; think of 
 my profession ! " 
 
 The honour of dancing was at stake. Madame Jasmin felt 
 it, and provided herself with a new dose of patience. 
 
 And so matters went on. Monsieur Legros became more 
 and more suspicious, Madame Legros dropped haughty hints, 
 the quarrels of the two young Legros' and the seven young 
 Jasmins daily acquired a .more bitter and vindictive char- 
 acter, the sight-seeing nearly wore M. Jasmin off his legs, and 
 the feeding of so many people rapidly emptied his pockets, and 
 nothing was heard of Jacques Jasmin and his two millions, 
 save through the medium of Monsieur Bourreux. who dropped 
 in every day to ask " if the millions were coming '? " To which 
 Monsieur Jasmin would mildly reply, " not yet." and Monsieur 
 Legros Avould snarl an angry " no." Monsieur Bourreux at first 
 appeared annoyed and disappointed ; but he soon grew recon- 
 ciled to the circumstance ; it even Sv;emed to afford him a pe-
 
 SEVEN YEARS. 243 
 
 culiar sort of pleasure, as was evident by the chuckle of satis- 
 faction with which he alluded to it. One morning, when the 
 whole family were at breakfast in the drawing-room — the only 
 room which could contain them — M. Bourreux made his ap- 
 pearance at an earlier hour, and with a more agreeable and 
 pleasant look than usual. On being asked to partake of the 
 morning meal, he readily consented ; and whilst Madame Jas- 
 min was' pouring him out a cup of coffee, cheerfully hummed a 
 merry tune. M. Legros opened the conversation by asking if 
 there were any news. 
 
 "Why, yes, there are," answered M. Bourreux, with great 
 liveliness ; " and very good news too. What do you think now 
 of your cousin Jacques not being dead"?" 
 
 " Not dead ! " echoed M. Legros, laying down his cup in 
 indignant astonishment ; " not dead ! " 
 
 "Yes; excellent, is it not?" chuckled M. Bourreux, rub- 
 bing his hands. "But perhaps you don't believe it? Eead 
 this, my dear sir — read this ! " and with tlie utmost complais- 
 ance he handed a newspaper to M. Legros. The paragraph to 
 which he drew his attention merely stated that it was with the 
 greatest pleasure the editor announced to the public that the 
 merchant of New Orleans whose demise had been so deeply 
 lamented a few weeks ago, was still in the enjoyment of excel- 
 lent health, the report having originated entirely through a 
 mistake. As M. Legros,. read this aloud, M. Jasmin had his 
 full benefit of the intelligence. It would be difficult to state 
 exactly what the dancing-master's feelings were : he was rather 
 disappointed at the loss of a fortune ; but he was still better 
 pleased to think that Jacques Jasmin was alive, observing 
 aloud, in the simplicity and openness of his heart, that it was 
 a great comfort. 
 
 " And do you call that a comfort, sir ? " cried M. Legros 
 in a rage. " Do you know, sir," he continued, scowling ution 
 him fearfully, " that these words would lead me to suspect that 
 you have agents in New Orleans by whose means you contrived 
 to spread this report? But no! " he exclaimed, checking him- 
 self, " 1 will not believe it ; nor will I believe that Jacques 
 Jasmin is alive : it is a moral impossibility ; and as there is no 
 name mentioned in this statement, I am authorised to believe 
 either that it is utterly false — a scandalous fabrication — or that 
 it does not in any manner relate to my deceased cousin." 
 
 " But suppose it is true ? " observed M. Bourreux. 
 
 " I will suppose no such thing !" exclaimed the irascible M. 
 Legros.
 
 244 SEVEN TEAKS. 
 
 " Well, but it may be true," persisted the other ; " and 1 
 ask how you would behave in case your cousin Jacques were tc 
 come home unexpectedly ? " 
 
 " Sir," gravely replied M. Legros, " I should consider my- 
 self a deeply injured man, and require a compensation ; but 
 admitting that my deceased cousin could come home, which I 
 consider impossible, I should think myself justified in not 
 recognising him, as I have a very faint recollection of his 
 person." 
 
 " Ah, but I remember him quite well," here interposed M. 
 Jasmin with a knowing look. 
 
 " I would not recognise him on your authority," hastily 
 exclaimed his cousin ; " indeed I should consider the whole 
 affair so extremely suspicious, that I would turn my pretended 
 cousin out of doors directly." 
 
 " A very prudent course indeed ! " observed M. Bourreux 
 with a sneer. " But," continued he, changing the conversa- 
 tion, " I have more news ; and an excellent joke they will 
 make too," he shrewdly added. " You must know, neighbour," 
 addressing M. Jasmin, " that your old lodgings are let — you 
 would never guess to whom ? Well, not to keep you in sus- 
 pense — to a dancing-master, who has now all your scholars ; so 
 you see you are fairly in for it;" and M. Bourreux chuckled 
 very merrily at the idea. 
 
 This was pouring oil on M. Legros's wounded spirit : he 
 laughed very long and very loud ; so did his wife and his two 
 boys. Madame Jasmin made a faint attempt to smile ; her 
 husband, seeing that his friends enjoyed the joke so much, 
 thought it must be a capital one, though he could not exactly 
 see where the point of it lay : he therefore laughed as much as 
 he could ; but his eyes glistened, and his lips quivered, as he 
 thought of his seven children, and wondered what he should 
 do. 
 
 " Well," said M. Bourreux, who had finished his breakfast 
 by this time, " now tliat I have made you so merry and com- 
 fortable, I think I shall go." And away he went with a very 
 satisfied air. 
 
 Still, it must be confessed that no particular signs of mirth 
 or comfort were shown by the individuals whom he left behind 
 him. Madame Jasmin had gone into the kitchen to cry : 
 Madame Leeros seemed to think that she had been mortally 
 offended by her cousins, for she scarcely deigned to look upon 
 them ; her husband, who believed more in the truth of the 
 newspaper paragraph than he chose to confess, was exceedingly
 
 SEVEN YEARS. 245 
 
 snarl isb and ill-tempered ; M. Jasmin was overwhelmed by 
 the news of the rival dancing-master : a repjitation of twenty 
 years' standing had been overthrown in a moment. After an 
 hour's deep meditation, M. Legros rose, and stating that he 
 was going out, asked his wife to act ompany him ; in a few 
 minutes they walked out, without requesting, as usual, their 
 cousin to accompany them. M. Jasmin was not sorry for this ; 
 for, to say the truth, he wanted to speak to lais wife. When 
 they were alone, the children being all stowed away in ^he 
 dining-room, he began pouring his sorrows into her faithful 
 bosom, accusing himself of folly, and lamenting his impru- 
 dence. Madame Jasmin consoled him as well as she could : 
 "he had done everything for the best, and everything might 
 yet turn out well." M. Jasmin was easily comforted ; he tried 
 to persuade himself matters were not desperate, and that the 
 best thing he could do would be to see about it directly. What 
 " seeing about it " meant, neither he nor his wife exactly 
 knew ; but it must have been something pleasant, for it caused 
 them to brighten up immediately. In order to effect this it 
 was necessary to dress and go out : the first of these operations 
 was not half over when a ring came at the bell. Madame Jas- 
 min ascertained, by peeping through the keyhole, that it was a 
 stranger. The worthy couple were in a terrible dilemma : M, 
 Jasmin could not take refuge in the dining-room, for tlie nine 
 children were there fighting as usual ; neither could he enter 
 the kitchen lest the grease off some of the plates and saucepans 
 should contaminate his new suit of clothes ; it was impossible 
 for him to remain in the salon, for there was no other place in 
 which to receive the stranger : in short, M. Jasmin saw that 
 his toilet must be finished in the bed-room. There was no 
 time to lose ; so hastily catching up his clothes, he jumped upon 
 the sofa, darted through the window, and alighted safely on 
 the bed. Scarcely was this delicate operation concluded, when 
 the stranger was ushered in by his wife. 
 
 " Is Monsieur Jasmin at home?" he inquired. 
 
 " Yes, sir," she somewdiat hesitatingly replied. 
 
 " Could I speak with him 1 ' 
 
 " Oh, certainly, in a few minutes," answered INIadame Jas- 
 min, wondering how^ ever her husband was to get out. 
 
 " He is a dancing-master, I believe 1 " continued the stran- 
 ger ; and on being answered in the affirmative, " Is he usually 
 moderate in his terms 1 " 
 
 Madame Jasmin was going to answer " exceednigly so ; " 
 but her husband, who had been extremely fidgetty and ner-
 
 246 SEVEN TEAKS. 
 
 vous since the beginning of the interview, now thought it 
 proper to interfere. Standing on the bed, he therefore thrust 
 his head through the window, and coughed gently. The stran- 
 ger immediately gave a start, and looked up. " Good morn- 
 ing, sir," affably said M. Jasmin ; '^ I believe you want to 
 speak to me *? " 
 
 " You are Monsieur Jasmin, then ? " observed the stran- 
 ger, with the greatest gravity. 
 M. Jasmin bowed. 
 
 " And I believe you are a dancing-master 1 " 
 " 1 have that honour," replied M. Jasmin ; " but if we are 
 to speak on professional matters, will you allow me — " And 
 by an appropriate gesture he indicated his wish to come out. 
 " Oh, by all means ! " cried the stranger. 
 Out accordingly in more senses than one the dancing-mas- 
 ter did come, performing the awkward feat with truly profes- 
 sional grace and agility ; and, as he was now quite dressed, 
 looking very dignified indeed. 
 
 The stranger did not even smile ; and when M. Jasmin 
 had taken a seat, resumed the conversation as though nothing 
 fiad occurred. After several inquiries, he suddenly asked, 
 " Did you not formerly reside in the Rue St. "Denis ? " 
 When M. Jasmin had answered in the affirmative, the stran- 
 ger dryly observed he thought it was a great pity he had 
 ever left that neighbourhood. This mysterious speech led the 
 dancing-master to conclude that his visitor resided in that 
 quarter himself; and as, from the nature of his questions, he 
 looked upon him in the light of a future pupil, he began to 
 feel nervously alive to the danger of losing him beforehand. 
 
 " Ah ! sir," said he, sadly shaking his head, " it was indeed 
 a melancholy event that brought me here ! " And as though 
 he had known him for years, he began relating to his visitor 
 how he had learned the death of Jacques Jasmin, and had been 
 induced to remove to his present lodgings. " Poor fellow," 
 he added with glistening eyes, " I taught him how to dance ! — 
 poor Jacques ! " But there is yet hope," said he, checking him- 
 self; " yes, sir, there is yet hope : cousin Legros says he could 
 not recognise him, but I am sure I should. I have him even 
 now in my mind's eye — a tall, good-looking young man ; taller 
 and younger than you, sir, a good bit, with darker hair too, 
 and more colour. Oh, I should know him instantly ! " 
 
 " Well," said the stranger rather ironically, " if your cousin 
 is alive, what becomes of your fortune '? " 
 
 " Sir, I will not think of that," manfully replied M. Jas-
 
 SEVEN YEAKS. 247 
 
 mill ; " it is his, not mine. I confess that I shall feel sorry to 
 have ever heard of his death, as this has been the cause of a 
 few disagreeal)le circumstances; but I shall feel still more 
 pleased, sir, to hear that he is alive. But really there is quite 
 enough of this. I believe you wished to speak to me on pro- 
 fessional matters : my terms are very moderate " he added, 
 with an insinuating smile. 
 
 The stranger looked embarrassed. " Why, to say the 
 truth " — he began, and then paused hesitatingly. 
 
 As M. Jasmin was wondering what this could mean, the 
 drawing-room door opened, and M. Legros majestically stalked 
 in. Without regarding the presence of the stranger, who, on 
 seeing him, discreetly retired to the other cud of the room, he 
 indignantly exclaimed, " Well, sir, I am satisfied now ; I know 
 everything. Yes, sir," he fiercely continued, " I have been 
 making inquiries, and have actually learned that Jacques Jas- 
 min, or rather an impostor, taking the name of my deceased 
 and respected relative, has been seen this very morning in the 
 Eue St, Denis inquiring after you ! " 
 
 " Thank God for it ! " fervently exclaimed the dancing- 
 master. " He is then alive and well, and Monsieur Bourreux 
 was right." 
 
 " Sir," said his cousin, with a glance of withering con- 
 tempt, " you are mad, wretchedly insane ; if I had my will, 
 you should be sent to Charenton [the Parisian Bedlam]. If 
 you were not so blind and deluded, I could prove to you, as 
 clearly as two and two make four, that Monsieur Bourreux's 
 intelligence was a vile calumny on the character of our late 
 cousin, inasmuch as it accused him of the grossest inconsist- 
 ency — namely, of being dead at one time, and actually alive 
 again in less than two weeks afterwards ! Where is the news- 
 paper 1 " 
 
 Whilst the eye of M. Legros was wandering about the room 
 in search of the paper, it chanced to alight on the stranger, 
 who was looking at him very fixedly. On meeting his glance, 
 M. Legros started back, and even turned pale ; but rapidly 
 recovering his presence of mind, he folded his arms upon his 
 breast, and in a tone and attitude of defiance, exclaimed, 
 " Well, sir, what about it ? I suppose you are going to say 
 you are Jacques Jasmin, and that I recognise you ! You are 
 mistaken, sir ; I shall do no such thing : the flict is, I do not 
 recognise you ! " 
 
 " Jacques ! " cried M. Jasmin, sinking down on a chair in 
 the heiglit of his astonishment.
 
 248 SEVEN YEARS. 
 
 " Oh ! " ironically observed M. Legros ; " I suppose, sir^ 
 yori recognise him : very good, sir. I have a witness, mind 
 you, who has heard you say you would ; so that it is evidently 
 quite premeditated ! " 
 
 " Jacques ! Jacques ! can it indeed he you % " exclaimed 
 the dancing-master, without heeding M. Legros. 
 
 Jacques Jasmin — for the strange visitor was no other — 
 merely smiled in reply, and warmly shook his relative by the 
 hand. M. Polydore Jasmin, with all his simple-heartedness, 
 was somewhat of a formalist ; and though his eyes were filled 
 with tears as he gazed on the altered and sunburnt features of 
 his long-lost cousin, he gravely folded him in his arms, and 
 kissed him on each cheek, according to the old French tasliion, 
 which, though wearing away, is still in use among the middle 
 and lower classes, and all the partisans of the old school. 
 
 " Very w^ell, gentlemen, very well," indignantly exclaimed 
 M. Legros, as he witnessed these friendly proceedings with 
 very ferocious feelings — " very well, you might have waited 
 to kiss each other until I was gone ! 1 shall soon rid you of 
 my presence; but before I go, you shall hear some of imy 
 mind. You, sir," — to Jacques — " I look upon as a swindler, 
 seeking to involve your unhappy relatives in expenses ; and 
 you, sir," — to M. Jasmin — " are a mean hypocrite. I have 
 the honour to bid you both good-morning : my innocent 
 family shall no longer undergo the contamination of this 
 roof" With this M. Legros walked out of the room in a 
 very stately manner. Wheli he stood on the threshold of 
 the apartment, however, he turned liaek to inflict a last blow. 
 
 " My dear fellow," said he, smilingly addressing the danc- 
 ing-master, " I must give you a friendly piece of advice before 
 I go : '' learn to dance, my dear sir — learn to dance I " 
 
 M. Jasmin had heard himself called a mean hypocrite ; 
 and being naturally good-tempered, and inclined to make al- 
 lowances for the blighted hopes of a disappointed heir, he had 
 borne this unjust treatment with the greatest equanimity. 
 But there are limits to endurance ; and when M. Legros ven- 
 tured on making the audacious remark above recorded, M. 
 Jasmin started to his feet in a fit of ungovernable fury, and 
 seized on the object nearest to him, with the firm intention of 
 throwing it at M. Legros's head. Although this object hap- 
 pened to be a large arin-cliair, he lifted it up with the greatest 
 ease, and would actually have accomplished his design, but 
 for the interference of Jacques Jasmin, and the preci^^itate re- 
 treat of ]\L Legros, who rushed down the stairs in a state of
 
 SEVEN" YEARS. 249 
 
 great terror, calling out murder all the way, and followed by 
 his screamina; wife and children. As soon as M. Jasmin's 
 momentary anger had subsided, he felt very much ashamed 
 at having so committed himself. He would even have run 
 after M. Legros, to apologise for his inhospitalde hastiness ot 
 temper, but the terrified gentleman was already out of sight. 
 This made M. Jasmin very Tuicomfortable. The only reflec- 
 tion that alleviated his distress was, that what he had done 
 was merely in defence of his art, and so far excusable. By 
 repeating this a number of times, he confirmed himself in the 
 belief that personal feelings had in no manner influenced his 
 conduct, and that his art alone had been insulted — an impres- 
 sion which Jacques Jasmin carefully refrained from removing. 
 When the dancing-master's mind had recovered its usual equa- 
 nimity, he hastened to introduce his cousin to his wife, who 
 had rushed in from her post behind the door (where she had 
 been listening till then) on hearing the altercation between M. 
 Legros and her husband. Though not quite so astonished as 
 M. Jasmin liad expected her to be, she was nevertheless very 
 hysterical, and might even have fainted away, if the continued 
 whining which proceeded from the dining-room had not re- 
 called her to the necessity of giving the children a good scold- 
 ing. Jacques Jasmin having, however, interceded for them, 
 they were forgiven, and at his request allowed to enter the 
 drawing-room immediately. 
 
 We will not dwell upon the manner in which the day — 
 which, notwithstanding the many disappointments it brought 
 with it, was truly one of happiness — was spent by the family 
 of M. Jasmin, nor on the long account which Jacques had to 
 give of himself. His history was simple enough, and will be 
 easily detailed in a few words. The first of the newspaper 
 paragraphs, which had caused such a series of mistakes, turned 
 out to be false in every respect. Jacques did not possess two 
 millions of francs ; he had not much more than one ; worse 
 still, he was married— to a Frenchwoman, however — and was 
 the father of several children, so that all chance of inhci-iting 
 his fortune was at an end ; yet, strange to say, M. Polydore 
 Jasmin seemed quite happy on hearing this, and actually 
 rubbed his hands with glee. But the most singular portion 
 of Jacques Jasmin's history was, that the piece of gold which 
 he had received from his cousin at the epoch of their parting 
 had partly been, he said, the means of making his fortune. 
 This struck M. Jasmin as one of the most extraordinary cir- 
 ciimstance^ he had ever heard, and made so deep an impres- 
 
 11*
 
 250 SEVEN TEAKS. 
 
 sion on his imagination, that for a long time afterwards he 
 mentioned it to every one he knew as a great natural curi- 
 osity ; for, he observed, there must have been some virtue in 
 the gold : it could not have happened otherwise ; so at least 
 says Madame Jasmin. 
 
 As it had never occurred to the simple-minded dancing 
 master that he had anything to expect from his rich relative, 
 he felt somewhat surprised when, on che second day which 
 followed his first visit, Jacques Jasmin hinted that, as he had 
 been the involuntary means of causing him to remove front 
 his old quarters to a neighbourhood wholly unsuited to his 
 circumstances, he felt it his duty to provide him with new 
 lodgings. M. Jasmin would not at first hear of this ; but he 
 at length consented, and in a few days he was comfortably 
 settled" with his femily in a large and airy apartment in a part 
 of the town equally removed from the commercial Rue St. 
 Denis and the fashionable Chaussee d'Antin, Here the danc- 
 ing-master rapidly found scholars ; but as they did not pay 
 him very liberally, he might still have repented leaving the 
 Rue St. Denis, if it had not occurred to Madame Jacques Jas- 
 min, who turned out to be a very pretty and amiable woman, 
 that, as her family was rapidly increasing, it would be a pru- 
 dent and economical plan to settle a certain annual sum on 
 their cousin, on condition of his engaging to teach his art to 
 their children, with all the new pas that might come out. 
 Her husband, who is partly suspected of having suggested it, 
 immediately submitted this plan to his relative, who, after 
 mature deliberation (for although he said nothing about it, the 
 clause of the new pas was to him a great objection), adhered 
 to it, and foithfully performed his part of the agreement, 
 always being in mortal fear lest some new pas should come 
 out without his knowledge, and render him guilty of what in 
 his eyes would have been direct perjury. 
 
 It was shortly after these events that M. Jasmin wrote a 
 long letter to M. Legros, in which, after tendering the most 
 satisfactory apologies, he gave him a detailed account of 
 Jacques Jasmin's marriage, his family, and what he had done 
 for him personally. M. Legros, instead of being pacified, 
 considered the dancing-master's epistle as a direct insult on 
 his feelings. The only answer he condescended to return to 
 it was, that he left Polydore and Jacques Jasmin to the work- 
 ings of their own consciences ; but that, for his part, he could 
 never forgive them. Strange to say, M. Bourreux was glad 
 to hear of M. Jasmin's good fortune : he might have been still
 
 SEVEN TEAKS. 251 
 
 better pleased, perhaps, had matters turned out otherwise ; 
 but he was pleased. As it has been discovered, in the 
 Rue St. Denis, that his only fortune consists in an annuity 
 which must die with him, and that, consequently, he has no 
 property to bequeath, his importance is very much dimin- 
 ished ; but it is pleasant to reflect that his temper is greatly 
 improved. 
 
 The Jasmin family are happy and comfortable. M. Jas- 
 min has been somewhat troubled liy the polka mania, but he 
 is reconciled to it now. He thinks his wife prettier than ever, 
 and idolizes his children. Upon the whole, he may be de- 
 scribed as that human curiosity — a happy and contented indi- 
 vidual. He has entirely forgotten that he once thought him- 
 self rich, though it is said he still remembers the miseries he 
 had to endure in his fashionable apartment. 
 
 A SOIEEE m A PORTER'S LODGE. 
 
 There were porters formerly in Paris, now there are not. 
 The porter was followed by the concierge, and to the concierge 
 has succeeded a nondescript being, male or female, for whom 
 there exists as yet no appropriate name. The portress was 
 rough, bearish and snappish ; she wore a cotton gown, and a 
 cotton kerchief was often set of one side on her head. The 
 concierge was more of a bourgeoise, and had a middle-class 
 look about her, but the lady who has succeeded to both of 
 these is different altogether. She is more of what was for- 
 merly understood by the fallen word of genteel : she lives on 
 the ground-floor in an elegant apartment with sofes and arm- 
 chairs. She speaks to you in exquisite French, pure and pre- 
 cise, and she smooths lier hands as she talks ; she is musical 
 too, and has a piano for her children ; her husband has a sol- 
 dier like look, and wears something like a bit of red ribbon in 
 his button-hole, but he is not often seen. In short, these are not 
 porters ; they condescend to guard the gates of a stately man- 
 sion, and to answer inquiries they keep a chai-woman, who 
 takes up the letters — but you must give up all claim to pene- 
 tration^ tact, and good breeding, if you attempt to mix up 
 these genteel decayed people with the low-bred, loud-tongued, 
 and thoroughly vulgar porters and portresses of old times.
 
 252 SEVEN TEAES. 
 
 There are conservatives everywhere. Some cross people 
 regret the old race. They hated them whilst they had them, 
 but they are gone, and they weep. 
 
 " They had their virtues," they say, " and at all events 
 they were not like these.'''' 
 
 Well, in those good old times there lived, a few years 
 ago, two Parisian porters, who already verged on the con- 
 cierges. It was agreed on all hands that Monsieur and Mad- 
 ame Bichonnet were not ordinary porters. They resided in 
 the handsomest house of a respectable street of Paris ; their 
 lodge, situated on the ground-floor, on the left-hand side of the 
 passage, at a convenient distance from the staircase, was large 
 and airy, and looked upon the street. Their duties, which 
 consisted in attending to the door, and keeping the house 
 clean, were unusually light, and very liberally remunerated — 
 considering that, like all the members of their worthy class, 
 they were lodged rent free, and kept by their landlord and 
 the joint contributions of the lodgers in wood and candle-light 
 all the year round, without mentioning the presents they reg- 
 ularly received on New- Year's Day. In short, M. and Mad- 
 ame Bichonnet were, as the reader can see, very comfortable 
 people in their way ; and they might have been perfectly 
 happy, had not an unlucky spirit of ambition taken possession 
 of their hearts, and made them resolve to shine, no matter at 
 what cost. They gave parties to which the whole neighbour- 
 hood was invited ; and so conspicuous did they render them- 
 selves, that the lodge of the Bichonnets became ere long a 
 term synonymous with the focus of porter-scandal and refine- 
 ment. " Need we say the envy, the ridicule, the heart-burnings, 
 the tittle-tattle they raised around them 1 They lived in hot 
 water, and enjoyed it. " The fate of genius, my love," said 
 Monsieur Bichonnet, rubbing his hands, and addressing Mad- 
 ame Bichonnet, " the distinguishing mark of our superiority 
 over the common and vulgar herd." 
 
 " I know they all hate me," murmured Madame Bichon- 
 net. 
 
 " Ha, ha," chuckled Monsieur Bichonnet, " I like it ; they 
 hated Napoleon, too, but he made them quake ! Let them — 
 let them ! " 
 
 For be it said en passant, it is quite an error to suppose 
 that every one likes being loved. Love is sweet, but to some 
 tempers hatred is far sweeter. To Monsieur Bichonnet it was 
 an acknowledgment of superiority : to Madame Bichonnet it 
 was a comfortable soothing proof of the badness of the world
 
 SEVEN TEARS. 253 
 
 and the treachery of friends ; but it is time to describe thia 
 remarkal)le couple. 
 
 Like many ilhistrious individuals, the porter and his wife 
 did not, however, differ greatly from the common race of 
 mortals. Madame Bichonnet was a tall, muscular, raw-boned 
 woman, whose florid complexion beamed with health, but who 
 was, nevertheless, in a very delicate state ; for, as she fre- 
 quently assured her lodgers and friends in a low, languishing 
 tx)ne, " she knew she was in a deep decline, and had already 
 given up all worldly thoughts." M. Bichonnet was a thin, 
 tan-skinned little man, with a bright, restless, brown eye, and 
 a highly pragmatical and consequential eye-brow. He seldom 
 spoke, but the little he did say, was all concerning his rank 
 and importr.nce in society. He had also a few profound ideas 
 on politics, and " our duties to our fellow-mon," of which he 
 occasionally allowed his friends to catch a glimpse ; for as 
 those ideas were so very deep, thoy could scarcely be said to 
 fathom them. Amongst M. Bichonnet's favourite notions, was 
 the firm belief entertained by him, ever since the year 1830, 
 that Louis Philippe had not six months to remain on the 
 throne. This assertion, which he made with many mysterious 
 nods and hints, had given him, amongst the timid and prudent 
 people of the neighbourhood, a reputation of carbonarism. It 
 was even strongly suspected by some wise heads that the con- 
 vivial parties given in his lodge were otdy banquets offered to 
 republicans in disguise. These malicious rumours, did not, 
 however, prevent M. and Madame Bichonnet from resolving 
 to have a party on Twelfth Night of the year 183-. Accord- 
 ing to the usual custom, they were to have a cake ; and in the 
 earlier part of the evening M. Bichonnet went out to order it 
 at the pastry cook's before the arrival of the guests, leaving 
 his wife, or, as he loved to call her, his spouse, alone in the 
 lodge, seated in a soft-cushioned arm-chair, opposite the fire, 
 and dozing very comfortably ; for, under pretence of making 
 up for her bad nights, Madame Bichonnet was always dozing. 
 She had not been long alone when her husband came in. Ap- 
 proaching the fire, he ceremoniously observed, " The night is 
 very cold, my dear ; 1 must beg your leave to keep on my 
 hat." 
 
 M. Bichonnet would never have committed the solecism 
 of doing such a thing without liis wife's permission. Madame 
 Bichonnet merely nodded assent, and seemed to expect some- 
 thing else ; but as her husband remained silent, she said, aftei 
 a panse, " And the cake, my dear 1 "
 
 254 SEVEN TEAKS. 
 
 " The cake is in the oven, my love. I looked at it and 
 fastened my eye on the pastry-cook. ' That is the cake, — 
 mind, that is the one,' I said, ' that and no other.' He laid 
 his hand on his heart, and 1 kept my eye upon him. I know 
 he hated me just then ; but — but 1 rather like that." 
 
 And Mousier Bichonnet stood on the rug with his hands 
 behind his back, in the memorable attitude. 
 
 " Of course it is a good cake 1 " said Madame Bichonnet, 
 opening one eye. 
 
 " My love ! " said Monsieur Bichonnet, with mild re- 
 proach ; then he added softly and impressively : " it is a 
 large, golden-coloured cake." 
 
 "• Perhaps I shnll never live to eat another," mournfully 
 sighed Madame Bichonnet. " Will it be here soon ? " she 
 added, after a pause. 
 
 " In less than half an hour, my dear." Another pause. 
 
 " Will it be quite hot 1 " asked Madame, opening her half- 
 shut eyes. 
 
 " Quite hot." 
 
 The portress muttered something which sounded like a 
 hum of satisfaction, and remained silent. In less than half an 
 hour the cake arrived, carried by the pastry cook's boy. 
 
 Monsieur Bichonnet stood and ftistened his mesmeric eye 
 on the lad, who bore the look like a genuine gamin, that is to 
 say, most impudently. The porter was convinced of the 
 identity of the cake, and with a lofty wave of the hand dis- 
 missed the boy. 
 
 " Go, lad," he said. 
 
 " Au revoir, Pere Bichonnet," was the audacious reply. 
 
 The boy was gone, but Monsieur Bichonnet stood rooted 
 to the rug, aghast and mute ; a pastry cook's boy had called 
 him " Pere Bichonnet." At length he recovered, and smiled 
 at the youthful sally, like a magnanimous Newfoundland who 
 disdains to resent the bark of a young cur. 
 
 " The cake will get cold," rather snappishly said Madame 
 Bichonnet. 
 
 " My dear, I beg your pardon," said her husband, with a 
 start. 
 
 At once he placed the cake between two earthen dishes 
 which had been kept warming for this purpose ; and, as ^lad- 
 ame Bichonnet observed, " it really looked like a cake you 
 might wish to eat on your death-bed." Some time elapsed, 
 and though it was past seven, none of the guests an ived. 
 Madame Bichonnet, who sat near the cake, and smelt it, be-
 
 SEVEN TEAKS. 255 
 
 came very impatient at this mireasonable delay, and in a quer 
 ulous tone inquired " if they were coming ? " Her husband 
 answered he did not know, but that he strongly suspected M. 
 and Madame Miroiton, with their young ladies, — he scorned 
 the vulgar expression of daughters, — would soon make their 
 appearance ; upon which Madame Bichonnet observed, with a 
 significant smile, they had done well to invite M, Tourneur 
 to come. 
 
 Monsieur and Madame Bichonnet had both a gentle pas- 
 sion : they were fond of match-making. Monsieur Bichdnnet 
 said " he felt it was a duty he owed to his fellow-men." Mad- 
 ame Bichonnet never assigned any reason for her liking, but 
 when good-natured people repeated to her what other good- 
 natured people had said : " that she liked the wedding-dinner," 
 Madame Bichonnet turned up her eyes and clasped her hands, 
 and asked " how she could think of such things, with one foot 
 in the grave 1 " We will not say what was or was not the 
 truth, but this we can safely declare : the Bichonnets never 
 gave a party without having at the same time some matri- 
 monial campaign in view. 
 
 On this occasion the person for whose conjugal felicity 
 they felt so livt'ly an interest was a young shoemaker, M. Tour- 
 neur, who had recently settled in the street, and whose hand- 
 some shop was precisely opposite the window of the lodge. 
 Antoine Tourneur was not yet a rich man, but his business 
 promised well ; his character was irreproachable, and though 
 he could not exactly be termed handsome, good temper was 
 written on his frank open features. He had, moreover, that 
 smart, tidy look so characteristic of the Parisian journeyman. 
 Indeed, Madame Bichonnet averred, that of all the shoemakers 
 who met at Montmartre on St. Crispin's day — their yearly 
 festival — he undoubtedly cut the most gallant figure ; and 
 that the dark mustache which he wore, notwithstanding his 
 peaceful avocation, was perfectly irresistible. It is true tliat, 
 though possessed of those advantages, Antoine Tourneur had 
 not expressed to Madame Bichonnet the least wish for a wife ; 
 but as she concluded that he wanted one, she resolved to pro- 
 vide him with one without delay. Fortunately for her pur- 
 pose, she found two ladies — in the street too — who seemed 
 quite willing to enter into her views. Perhaps it will be 
 objected that one lady was enough for the purpose^ ; l)ut the 
 prudent portress was of another opinion ; she thought that if 
 one did not suit, the other might ; and that, in all cases, they 
 would set one another off. This had been her plan hitherto ;
 
 266 SEVEN YEAES. 
 
 and, to say the truth, she had vast experience in those mat 
 ters. 
 
 The eldest of those Ladies — both of whom were ^ve\\ known 
 to Tourneur, whose customers they were — was Mademoiselle 
 'Jrsule, the staymaker, who lived next door to him. She was, 
 according to her own assertion, twenty -five years of age ; but 
 her features — without speaking of common report, which said 
 ten — assigned her at least six or seven more summers. She 
 was thin and withered-looking ; she dressed very richly and 
 tastily ; and there was certainly nothing vulgar about her. 
 It was reported that she had money in the bank ; and this, as 
 Mademoiselle Miroiton, her rival, spitefully observed, was 
 her only attraction. It was seemingly a powerful one, for it 
 had enabled her to refuse several good offers of marriage. 
 Mademoiselle Miroiton, who was a dressmaker, and a daugh- 
 ter of one of the neighbouring porters, had no money like 
 Mademoiselle Ursule ; but she was a good figure, had a bril- 
 liant complexion, a tolerable quantity of glossy dark hair, and 
 a sparkling, though rather scornful, black eye ; so that, as 
 Madame Bichonnet wisely concluded, if Antoine Tourneur 
 liked beauty. Mademoiselle Miroiton would do remarkably 
 well for him ; whereas, if he preferred wealth, Mademoiselle 
 Ursule would be quite the thing. Having first delicately 
 sounded the two ladies, and found them very favourably dis- 
 posed, she next invited them to come and spend with her 
 " The Evening of the Kings," as Twelfth Night is termed, in- 
 timating to them that Antoine Tourneur would be there, with 
 only a few friends. 
 
 Just as Madame Bichonnet's patience was exhausted, and 
 she oliserved very snappishly that the cake was quite ruined, 
 a knock at the door announced the arrival of her expected 
 guests. 
 
 Monsieur Bichonnet stretched his arm, and pulled a brown 
 string like a bell-rope, and wdiich — as all visitors of Paris 
 Know — is a sort of magic string, wherewith, without so much 
 as stirring from his chair — the French porter raises the lock 
 of the ponderous street door, and lets or keeps you in at his 
 pleasure. On this occasion Monsieur Bichonnet w^as magnani- 
 mous ; he admitted the visitors : they came in rushing, gig- 
 gling, screaming. Madame Bichonnet turned pale. All the 
 Miroitons had come. An Olympic frown gathered on the 
 smooth brow of Monsieur Bichonnet, and he drew himself 
 up rather stiffly. The Miroitons had taken a liberty. They
 
 SEVEN TEAES. 257 
 
 had brought all the young Miroitons, who had not been 
 asked. 
 
 The glass-door of the lodge flew open ; in rushed two 
 romping Miroitons of the luale sex, and of the ages of seven 
 and nine. A prim little girl of twelve followed ; then Mon- 
 sieur and Madame Miroiton, a corpulent couple, and lastly, 
 Mademoiselle Miroiton, who laughed rather loudly at some- 
 thing Antoine Tourneur was whispering in her ear. 
 
 " Ah ! how good you are to have all come," said Madame 
 Bichonnct, faintly, for she thought of the size of her cake. 
 
 Madame Miroiton had a sharp temper. 
 
 " No, we did not all come," she said shortly, " poor Jules 
 is always sacrificed," — a stabbing look at her husband, — '•' he 
 must stay and mind the lodge, poor lamb." 
 
 " I really do not see why he should," was the very unex- 
 pected rejoinder of Monsieur Miroiton. " My lodgers have 
 not behaved so generously on New-Year's Day, that the 
 pleasures of any member of my fomily should be sacrificed to 
 their convenience," added Monsieur Miroiton, looking round 
 impressively. " Adolphe, go and fetch your brother ; tell him 
 to rake out the fire, and extinguish the lamp, and come direct- 
 ly. Last New-Year's Day brought me in five francs from 
 the first-floor, three from the second, ten and fifty centimes 
 from the rest of the house, — total, eighteen francs fifty cen- 
 times. I put it to the company present, Is the liberty of my 
 family to be sacrificed for that miserable sum 1 Adolphe, go 
 and fetch your brother." 
 
 Monsieur Miroiton sat down smilingly. Now the irrita- 
 ting part of this speech was, that it held forth hopes impossible 
 to realize, and that Monsieur Miroiton knew it. 
 
 " Sit down, Adolphe," said Madame INIiroiton, to her 
 youngest son. " Your brother Jules would not come noio 
 after the affi'ont that has been put upon his feelings." She 
 darted another angry look at her husband, and sat down too. 
 
 This little family-squabble was barely over, when a gentle 
 lady -like tap was heard at the glass window of the lodge, and 
 Mademoiselle Ursule appeared. She was, as usual, very ele- 
 gantly attired. 
 
 " What airs she gives herself " whispered Mademoiselle 
 Miroiton to her sister, who replied with a prim smile of as- 
 sent. 
 
 " I hope Mademoiselle Ursule is quite well," patronizingly 
 observed Monsieur Bichonnet.
 
 258 SEVEN YEARS. 
 
 " Quite well," was the stately reply, " I thank you. It is 
 cool this evening." 
 
 Mademoiselle Ursule sat down, carelessly displayed a deli- 
 cate cambric pocket-handkerchief, and meaning just then to be 
 highly disdainful, she superciliously applied a scent-bottle to 
 an aristocratically-shaped nose, and frigidly answered every 
 remark dropped by either of her hosts. Matters would not 
 have gone on very comfortably had not the remaining guests 
 gradually appeared. Madame Bichonnet had asked them to 
 fill up the vacant spaces of her tableau, now quite thronged 
 with the young Miroitons. These individuals were two lady's 
 maids who resided in the house, and a mysterious melancholy- 
 looking young man, who lived nobody knew how, and always 
 sang comic songs wherever he wa.s invited. 
 
 When they were all seated, and there was some talk of 
 cutting up the cake, Madame Bichonnet perceived a circum- 
 stance she had hitherto overlooked : there were in all 1-3 indi- 
 viduals present. Now amongst Madame Bichonnet's weak- 
 nesses was the vulgar belief, that when 13 persons met one of 
 them must certainly die within the year. On noticing this 
 ominous fact, she therefore gave a very dismal groan, and in- 
 timated to her friends they need not have any fear, as she was 
 certainly the doomed one. Everybody immediately sympa- 
 thised with her, with the exception of Madame Miroiton, who, 
 being a strong-minded woman, loudly asserted that this was a 
 weakness she must overcome, and that she would not encour- 
 age her in it by sending h<nTie one of her children. Antoine 
 Tourneur gallantly offered to absent himself, but Madame 
 Bichonnet would not hear of it. 
 
 " Bichonnet." 
 
 " My love." 
 
 " Go and ask Rosine to join us." 
 
 " At once, my dear," replied the obedient Bichonnet, with 
 whom to hear was to obey. 
 
 " Well, what are you moaning for 1 " stoutly said Madame 
 Miroiton. 
 
 Madame Bichonnet looked at the cake meant for nine peo- 
 ple, and destined to be eaten by fourteen, and remembering 
 the greedy young Miroitons, she thought she had a right to 
 moan ; but she desperately replied that nothing ailed her, and 
 submitted to fate. 
 
 " Madame Bichonnet," here put in Mademoiselle L'rsule, 
 " may I ask who is tlie person ?if . Bichonnet has gone to 
 fetch ? Of course the person is reputable ; but still, my dear
 
 SEVEN TEARS. 259 
 
 Madame Bichonnet, there are limits, social limits, ^Yhich every 
 one does not feel inclined to transgress, and I should like to 
 know who that Rosine is. Not a cook, I hope ! " 
 
 " Oh ! dear no," cried Madame Bichonnet, seeming shock- 
 ed at the bare idea, " I have a house of cooks ! " 
 
 " So coarse ! " said the lady's maids. 
 
 " Rosine is a bonnet-maker," said Madame Bichonnet ; 
 " she lives in one of the attics ; a very nice girl, whom I like 
 to encourage." 
 
 The entrance of Rosine, who came in shrinkingly behind 
 M. Bichonnet, precluded any further comments. 
 
 Although Ruse was " a nice girl," her entrance into the 
 lodge was witnessed Avitli anything but pleasure by Made- 
 moiselle Ursule and tlie daughter of the Miroitons. The for- 
 mer, especially, was highly indignant : the idea of associating 
 with a bonnet-maker seemed to her perfectly preposterous ; 
 and, notwithstanding the beseeching and timid glance which 
 the young girl cast towards her, Mademoiselle Ursule imme- 
 diately set her down for an artful, designing creature, and ap- 
 plied her scentrbottle to her nose with great contempt. 
 Mademoiselle Miroiton was at first equally annoyed ; but on 
 noticing the paleness of the new-comer, who was, moreover, in 
 deep mourning, she immediately made room for her near her- 
 self, concluding that the contrast would greatly enhance the 
 brilliancy of her own complexion, and the freshness of her 
 attire. 
 
 The first impression which Rosine's appearance was cal- 
 culated to pr(iduce, was not indeed to her advantage. But 
 though she might at first be thought plain, few persons who 
 examined her closely thought so long. Her features were not 
 remarkably regular, but she had a profusion of tair silken 
 tresses, which beamed like gold beneath her black crape cap, 
 eyes of a deep azure blue, dark eyebrows and eyelashes, and 
 a sweet smile and pleasant voice, which rendered her at times 
 quite fascinating, notwithstanding the languid and sickly ex- 
 pression her features had contracted during a life of privation 
 and poverty. Having lost ht>r mother a few months back, 
 she was now an orphan ; and as she was not a native of Paris, 
 she had remained wholly friendless and alone in the great city. 
 Fortunately, however, she found some employment in the 
 house of a great milliner, who lived in the street ; and al- 
 though she had to toil almost constantly, in order to earn 
 enough for her support, she was never heard to repine or tc 
 complain.
 
 260 SEVEN YEAES. 
 
 A gentle, complying temper, that made her reluctant to 
 utter the unpleasant word " no," had, spite her secret reluc- 
 tance, induced her to accede to M. Bichoainet's request, and to 
 join the party in the lodge. When the guests had resumed 
 their seats, and the lodge door had once more enclosed them 
 all in an atmosphere of warmth and comfort, Antoine Tour- 
 neur, looking round him, said : 
 
 " There are two bottles of champagne here : I volunteer 
 that we should uncork them." 
 
 " Wait ! " anxiously cried Madame Bichonnet, too anxious 
 to remember her politeness, " wait, Monsieur Tourneur, if 
 you please. Bichonnet ! " 
 
 " My love," replied Monsieur. 
 
 " Take the key of the first-floor lodgers, if you please." 
 
 " I have it, my dear," said Monsieur Bichojmet, taking 
 down one of the keys hanging on a row of pegs. 
 
 " Open the front door," pursued Madame, " enter the 
 dining-room, open the buftet ; in the right-hand corner you 
 will find champagne glasses ; take fourteen and bring them 
 down if you please, Bichonnet." 
 
 " Yes, my love." 
 
 Monsieur Bichonnet took a light and departed on his er- 
 rand ; but he was scarcely gone when he returned empty- 
 handed, and lofty indignation beaming on his expressive coun- 
 tenance. 
 
 "■ The dining-room door was locked ! " he said, impressively 
 rolling his eye round on the company. 
 
 " Locked ! " said JNIadame Bichonnet, sitting bolt upright. 
 
 " Locked ! " repeated Monsieur, and he sat down. 
 
 " Can we not manage with tumblers 1 " suggested Antoine 
 Tourneur. 
 
 " Impossible, Monsieur," said Madame Bichonnet, " drink 
 champagne out of tumblers ' no, no, I hope we are not come 
 to that yet. But what amazes me, is the insolence and dupli- 
 city of these people. What do they leave the key of the 
 outer door for if they lock the inner one ? " 
 
 " It is a trap, an insulting trap," said Monsieur Bichonnet. 
 
 The Miroitons agreed that it was abominable, but suggest- 
 ed no remedy to this lamentable state of things. One of the 
 lady's maids, seeing that there was some chance of the cham- 
 pagne r'^maining in the bottles, for want of the all-important 
 glasses, at length hinted that she might perhaps get them from 
 their cook, provided an invitation accompanied the request. 
 The prospect of a fifteenth partaker of the cake almost upset
 
 SEVEN YEARS, 261 
 
 Madame Bichonnet's equanimity, and Mademoiselle Ursule 
 so solemnly protested that she would walk out if a vulgar 
 cook came in, that the lady's maid declared she would get 
 the glasses without the invitation, on which errand she accord- 
 ingly departed, and within ten minutes she returned, bringing 
 champagne glasses for the grown-up members of the com- 
 pany, and liquor glasses for the junior Miroitons. 
 
 " I see through it," audibly whispered Madame Miroiton 
 to her husband. Madame Bichonnet ignored the remark, and 
 Mademoiselle Ursule, restored to good-humour by the non-ap- 
 pearance of the cook, despatclied one of the young Miroitons 
 for three dozens of those Ilheims biscuits, without which 
 orthodox drinkers assert that champagne cannot be drunk. 
 
 In the mean while a great deal of talking went on in differ- 
 ent parts of the company : M. Bichonnet, who was more than 
 usually dignified, conversed in a mysterious tone with M. 
 Miroiton, a simple-minded man, discussing the respective 
 merits of Thiers and Guizot, and assuring him, in a low, sub- 
 dued voice, that l)ef(ire six montlis he might expect to see 
 Louis Philippe dethroned. On hearing this piece of intelli- 
 gence, the pacific M. Miroiton looked uneasily round, and with 
 a cough of dismay, inquired of his friend how he had learned 
 this. M. Bichonnet gave a mysterious nod, and merely said 
 " he knew it." 
 
 " But, my good Monsieur Bichoiuiet," urged tlie alarmed 
 Miroiton, " I hope you have no ill-v/ill against the king 1 " 
 
 " Sir," solemnly replied Bichonnet, " I entertaiu no evil 
 sentiment against Louis Philippe ; fate has never thrown us to- 
 gether, and we have, I may h;ay, nothing in common eitlier in 
 feelings or opinions ; but it is my duty to my fellow-men to 
 inform them, wlieti the opportunity occurs, that before six 
 months have passed over their heads, be will have ceased to sit 
 on the throne of France." And leaving M. Miroiton in a state 
 of unutterable dismay, he turned from him with a mysterious 
 glance, as though thinking that enough had been said on the 
 subject. 
 
 Whilst this political discussion was going on, Mesdames 
 Bichonnet and Miroiton were eno-ao-ed in informinc; one another 
 of tlie faults and merits of their respective lodgers. Madame 
 Miroiton greatly inveighed against the avariciousness of hers; 
 Madame Bicliom.et made no similar complaints, but only la- 
 mented the want of politeness which existe.l in their conduct 
 towards her.
 
 262 SEVEN TEAES. 
 
 " They really are not polite," she added, sighing; " if a 
 letter comes they want me to take it up at once." 
 
 " Absurd ! " said Madame Miroiton. 
 
 " Ridiculous ! " gently suggested Madame Bichonnet, " and 
 quite useless, for I never do take up letters. I do not on 
 principle." 
 
 " Quite right." 
 
 "Then there is the first-floor lodger. Would you believe 
 it, Madame Miroiton, he gets vexed because I read his news- 
 paper before sending it up to him." 
 
 Madame Miroiton stared. 
 
 " A fact, my dear Madame Miroiton, a fact. In short, 
 they have all of them gone to such lengths that Monsieur 
 Bichonnet and I have been obliged to draw up a little code of 
 regulations, of which they each possess a fair copy. Here is 
 ours ; and she read aloud : 
 
 " Firstly. — All lodgers are particularly requested to scrape 
 and wipe their shoes before they go up-stairs, that they may not 
 give undue trouble to Monsieur Bichonnet. 
 
 " Secondly. — Lodgers are not allowed to have children, un- 
 less born hi the house, in which ease they shall not be expelled ; 
 or to keep dogs, cats, or birds, or to receive visitors accom- 
 panied by these animals. 
 
 " Thirdly. — Lodgers are warned not to play or practise on 
 any musical instrument whatsoever, under penalty of instant 
 dismissal." 
 
 " Very judicious," said Madame Miroiton. 
 
 " And yet, spite of that," replied Madame Bichonnet, 
 " there is a piano in the house. How it got in no one knows. 
 Bichonnet declares it must have been hoisted up from the 
 street ; I am convinced it was smuggled in under the aspect 
 of a huge chest of drawers. I never half believed in that big 
 chest of drawers ; but now that the thing is in we cannot expel 
 it ; we cannot even discover where it is, as soon as we go to make 
 inquiries; in short, it is the misery of our lives. But to re- 
 sunie : 
 
 •' Fourthly. — On account of Madame Bichonnet's delicate 
 health lodgers are requested never to stay out later than twelve 
 o'clock at night. After that hour M. and Madame Bichonnet 
 will feel themselves under the painful necessity of not admit- 
 ting them. N. B. Lodgers can coine in at any hour on paying 
 a fine of fifty centimes (five-pence.)" 
 
 On hearing this admirable code, Madame Miroiton sighed, 
 and only wished they could have it too ; but their lodgers were
 
 SEVEN YEARS. 263 
 
 BO restive, they would never agree to it, and Miroiton could 
 never be induced to propose it to them. 
 
 " We never propose those thiugs to our lodgers," supercil 
 iously observed Madame Bichonnet. " We do them, and they 
 submit as a matter of course. Bichoimet thinks that the dis- 
 cipline lodgers undergo from their porters conduces to the 
 peace of the state : it breaks them in to the rest. Only one 
 tiling that we tried did we fail in : we wanted to have an iron 
 bar fixed to the open door, so retrenching the space through 
 which people pass, that only thin individuals could get in and 
 out. We wanted to do away with the basket and parcel nui- 
 sance. But they got savage ; they applied to a magistrate, 
 who would not allow the bar; for once we were conquered." 
 
 W^hilst the two ladies were thus engaged in laying down 
 the laws of the social world to which they belonged, the young- 
 er portion of the company had gathered round Antoine Tour- 
 neur, whose good-humour rendered him a general favourite. 
 The young man who sang the comic songs, and the two lady's 
 maids, whom Madame Bichonnet had invited because they 
 were neither young nor pretty, as much as through any other 
 motive, listened to his sallies in silence; but the Miroiton part 
 of the family were in perfect eestacies. Mademoiselle Ursula 
 was too genteel to seem much amused ; but as her vigilant eye 
 noticed that though his discourse was directed towards her and 
 Mademoiselle Miroiton, yet his glances more frequently wan- 
 dered in the direction of llosine, she began to look very su- 
 perciliously on the young milliner once more, setting her down 
 as an " artful designing creature." As somebody said some- 
 thing about the champagne, which had in the mean while been 
 forgotten, Madame Bichonnet proposed to cut up the cake 
 first. This was accordingly done, but who was to hand it 
 round ? To ask Mademoiselle Miroiton to do so was to oifend 
 Mademoiselle Ursule, and vice versa. By putting the office on 
 llosine, Madame Bichonnet thought to keep clear of mischief, 
 and she accordingly did so. 
 
 Ptosine complied with the request, and performed her task 
 with mingled modesty and grace, which Mademoiselles Ursule 
 and Miroitou, both agreeing for once, internally pronounced 
 sad affectation. Antoine was the last person to whom she 
 handed his sliare of the cake, and perliaps for this reason, or 
 perhaps because, as Mademoiselle Miroiton now began to 
 think, he was engaged in gazing on the young milliner, he 
 neglected to examine his portion of the cake, in order to see
 
 264 
 
 SEVEN YEAES. 
 
 whether it contained the bean always inserted in it, and which 
 renders him to whose lot it falls king for the evening. 
 
 The young man who sang the comic songs immediately 
 discovered that he had not the beau ; the lady's maids found 
 out as much; Madame Miroiton declared she had not got it; 
 all her children echoed the words ; M. Bichonnet did not 
 speak, not thinking it dignified ; and M. Miroiton, because his 
 mouth was full. 
 
 " I suppose Mademoiselle Ursule is queen ? " ironically ob- 
 served Mademoiselle Miroiton. 
 
 " I am not queen," sharply answered the stayraaker, with 
 a tone and look which seemed to say she might have been if 
 she would. 
 
 Mademoiselle Miroiton coloured, and in a softened tone 
 said to Antoine, " Are you king, Monsieur Tourneur ? " 
 
 Antoine started, and turning his eyes from Rosiue, for the 
 first time opened his portion of the cake. No sooner had he 
 done so, than the dark bean appeared, enshrined in the yellow 
 crust. Immediately a loud cry of " Tourneur is king ! Long 
 live the king ! " resounded in the lodge. Antoine laughed, 
 and bowing, intimated his wish of speaking ; but the loyalty 
 of _ his new subjects was not thus easily checked, and the 
 Miroiton part of the company especially showed their delight 
 by making an unusual noise. When he was at last allowed 
 to speak, he returned thanks in a short speech, and concluded 
 by drinking the health of all present. No sooner had he 
 raised his glass to his lips, than the cries of " The king drinks ! 
 Long live the king ! " again echoed round. But when this 
 first excitement had somewhat subsided, Antoine was re- 
 quested by Madame Bichonnet to use his privilege, and name 
 a queen for the evening. On hearing this, Mademoiselle 
 Miroiton looked modestly on her plate, whilst Mademoiselle 
 Ursule applied her scent-bottle to her nose. 
 
 " Ho, ho ! '' continued Madame Bichonnet, with a knowing 
 wink, and glancing towards the spot where Mademoiselle 
 Miroiton and the staymaker were both seated, so that it could 
 not be known precisely to which of the two she meant to 
 allude, " I think I know who will be queen." 
 
 She paused, struck aghast with astonishment and dismay — 
 for Antoine had, with a low bow, placed the bean in the glass 
 of Rosine, thus proclaiming her queen for the evening. 
 
 A deep ominous silence followed this daring act. Madame 
 Miroiton gazed on Madame Bichonnet with an indignant 
 glance, as much as to say, ''• You see it ! " and Madame
 
 SEVEN YEAKS. 265 
 
 Bichounet turned up her eyes, and clasped her hands hi 
 amazement. M. Miroiton did not seem to know what to make 
 of it ; and M. Bichonnet solemnly shook his head two or three 
 times, like one whom uuthiug can astonish. On perceiving 
 Antoiue's meaning, liosine had coloured deeply, and, by the 
 timid deprecating look she cast around, seemed to iujploro in- 
 dulge!. ce for her involuntary fjiult. But the singer of comic 
 songs was staring p(nnt-blank at tlie wall; the two lady's 
 maids, who readily took their cue, seemed, by the glances they 
 exchanged, to say, " What a shocking creature ! " tlie looks 
 of the Miroitons ;iiid the Bichouuets were equally stern and 
 forbidding. Mademoiselle Miroiton was too desperately in- 
 censed to strive to hide her i'eelings ; and though Mademoiselle 
 Ursule partly triun)phed in the mortiheation suH'ered by her 
 younger and more; attractive rival, her whole attitude showed 
 the consciousness of injured dignity. Antoine alone looked 
 kindly on her, and seemed to resent very n;uch the manner in 
 which the object of his choice was treated. Tlie truth was 
 that, having perceived the drift of Madame Bichonnet's hints 
 and allusions, he had felt piqued at being disposed of without 
 his consent, and v.'ould have asked either of the lady's maids 
 to be queen sooner than Mademoiselle Miroiton or Made- 
 xnoisello Ursule. Wisiiing to relieve Bosine from her embar- 
 rassment, he drank her health with studied politeness ; but 
 when he cried out, " Long live the ipieen ! " no voice save M. 
 Bichonnet's, who lolt himself bound in honour to reply, 
 echoed his. Poor lloslne grew pale, and laid down her uu- 
 tasted glass, whilst Antoine frowned on the silei:t and rigid 
 Miroitons. Willing, however, to make an effort towards con- 
 ciliation, the young shoemaker said with a ssuile, addressing 
 the company, " Ladies and gentlemen, let me hope you will 
 drink the health of your queen." 
 
 The melancholy-looking young man who sang the comic 
 songs immediately drank a glass of wine, first muttering 
 something which might sound as an assent to or a protest 
 against the toast, just as the parties were inelined ; but no 
 one else pledged Antoine. Mademoiselle Miroiton, indeed, 
 eyed him with great contempt, yawned audibly, and looking 
 at her mother, carelessly observed it was late enough to go 
 home. To this Madame Miroiton assented, and rising im- 
 mediately, helped her daughter to put on her cloak and bonnet 
 — for Mademoiselle Miroiton had lately assumed this badge of 
 distinction.^ It was in vain that Madame Bichonnet begged 
 of them to' stay a little longer; they smiled scornfully in reply 
 12
 
 266 SEVEN YEAKS. 
 
 to all her intreaties ; whilst, heedless of his wife's indignant 
 glance, IM. Miroiton, determined to make the best of the little 
 time left, hastily gulped down two or three glasses of 
 champagne. 
 
 "Pray, do stay," urged Madame Bichonnet. 
 
 "No, ma'am, thank you," dryly answered Mademoiselle 
 Miroiton. " I can assure you, ma'am, we are not blind ; we 
 can see very well through your schemes, and those of other 
 people." 
 
 " Yes, indeed we can," echoed her mother, with a scornful 
 toss of the head ; whilst even M. Miroiton, roused at last, and 
 having now quite done with the champagne, repeated, " Ay, 
 sir, we can," addressing M. Bichonnet ; and with his wife on 
 one side, and his daughter on the other, stalked out of the 
 lodge, followed by his children, and closed the stieet door be- 
 hind him with a thundering slam. 
 
 When they were gone — she would have scorned to do it 
 before — Mademoiselle Ursule rose ; and though she only 
 opened her lips to say " good-night," the manner in which 
 she uttered the words spoke volumes. The singer of comic 
 songs, perceiving that his services were no longer necessary, 
 departed, under pretence of seeing her home — she lived in the 
 house opposite ; and the two lady's maids took the same op- 
 portunity of saying something about their mistresses — who were 
 both out' — wanting them, and left the lodge, where only 
 Antoine, Rosine, with the porter and his wife, now remained. 
 After their departure, Antoine made several ineffectual at- 
 tempts to create a little mirth; the Bichonnets weie both 
 dismally solemn ; and Rosine, who began to fear she had been 
 the occasion of a vast deal of mischief, was too ill at ease to 
 enjoy herself any longer. Seeing the uselessness of his efforts, 
 Antoine at length took leave of his hosts, without taking any 
 particular notice of Rosine. 
 
 When he was gone, M. Bichonnet turned towards the 
 young milliner, and in a solemn tone began, " Mademoiselle, 
 I feel it is a duty I owe to my fellow-men — " But there was 
 something in Rosine's mild appealing glance which seemed to 
 reprove him : he paused, looked embarrassed, and observed in 
 a gentler tone, "Well, well, I see you understand me; and so 
 - — good-night." Rosine made no reply ; but rising somewhat 
 proudly, she retired, bitterly regretting having accepted the 
 unlucky invitation, which had so disturbed the harmony of the 
 
 evenmg. 
 
 Several days elapsed, during which nothing of importance
 
 SEVEN YEARS. 267 
 
 seemingly occurred. 3Iademoiselle Ursule, who, since the 
 Evening of the Day of the Kings, had taken upon herself the 
 office of observing whatever was going on in the street, never- 
 theless found the opportunity of making several curious and 
 interesting remarks. Thus she noticed tliat, on the Friday 
 which followed that memorable evening, Madame Bichonnet, 
 notv.ithstanding the delicate state of her health and the 
 severe cold actually left her lodge, and ventured to cross the 
 street, in order to enter the abode of the Miroitons ; that she 
 remained there upwards of an hour ; and that, when she left 
 at last, her features wore the expression of one highly satisfied 
 with the success of a momentous enterprise. Mademoiselle 
 Ursule, moreover, perceived that a very unusual agitation pre- 
 vailed in the porter's lodge : through some mysterious means 
 she even learned that, during the course of the day, several 
 secret conferences took place between Madame Bichonnet and 
 the cook of the first-floor lodgers. M. Bichonnet hhnself 
 seemed more solemn and dignified than ever. At last the 
 important truth came out : the Bichonnets were, on the next 
 Sunday, to give a dinner, to which the Miroitons and Antoine 
 Tourneur were invited. The mystery was, however, kept up 
 until the Saturday afternoon. It then happened that the 
 portress let out an inkling of the fact to one of her neigh- 
 bours, the consequence of which was, that, in less than five 
 minutes, Mademosielle Ursule entered the shoemaker's shop. 
 
 " Sir," said she, addressing Antoine Tourneur, who stood 
 behind the counter, " I am in want of a pair of shoes ; will 
 you take my measure ? " The young man bowed, and very 
 politely led the wiiy to a little back parlour, where the stay- 
 maker took a seat, and in a very slow and s.tately manner gave 
 him numberless instructions concerning the size, colour, and 
 shape of her chaussure. Although Antoine heard hor patiently 
 to the end, Mademoiselle Ursule seemed to mistake the nature 
 of his feelings, for she observed, " I see you are in a hurry, 
 and I am sorry to detain you; but as I sliall be very busy 
 next week, and as I shall not see you until the shoes a.re 
 made — " 
 
 " What ! " interrupted Antoine, " do we not meet to-mor- 
 I'ow evening ? " 
 
 " Where should we meet, sir? " asked the staymaker, with 
 much seeming surprise. 
 
 " At Madame Bichonnet's, of course," said the young man. 
 
 Mademoiselle Ursule seemed to endeavour to recollect who 
 the Bichonnets were ; then, as though suddenly remembering,
 
 268 SEVEN YEARS. 
 
 she loftily observed, " Oh, bless nie, no ! I shall spend to-mor 
 row at home, sir, with poor dear Rosine. " 
 
 " And is not Mademoiselle Rosine to be there either ? " 
 eagerly asked Autoiue, whose features expressed some disap- 
 pointment. 
 
 '' Really, Monsieur Tourneur," sharply observed the spin- 
 ster staymaker, ''you must have an extraordinary opinion of 
 myself and Rosine, to imagine that, after the insults we have 
 there endured, we could ever be induced to cross again the 
 threshold of Madame Bichonnet's lodge." 
 
 " I beg your pardon," confusedly answered Antoine ; 
 " but when Madame Bichonnet spoke of my meeting pleasant 
 company to-morrow, I really thought she meaut you." 
 
 Though somewhat soothed by the compliment, Mademoi- 
 selle Ursule smiled with unutterable scorn. " Sir," she loftily 
 said, " I will not speak of myself ; I will speak of Rosine, whom 
 Mademoiselle Miroiton has maliciously slandered, for what 
 motive I know not " — Mademoiselle Ursule uttered the words 
 in so significant a tone, as to leave no doubt but she was per- 
 fectly aware of it — " and whonij but for me, she would have 
 deprived of the means of earning her bread." Antoine looked 
 up with astonishment : the staymaker continued — " Rosine 
 works for a great milliner, who resides in the house where 
 Mademoiselle Miroiton's parents are porters. Since the Even- 
 ing of the Kings, this creature has so contrived her vile in- 
 sinuations, that Rosine has been refused any more work. See- 
 ing her pass by the day before yesterday all in tears, I called 
 her in, and, as she can fortunately stitch very neatly, engaged 
 her to work for me on the instant, so that she shall have work 
 in spite of the whole Miroiton brood." 
 
 " And has everything really happened as you relate it ? " 
 very gravely asked Antoine. 
 
 " Exactly so, sir," dryly replied Mademoiselle Ursule. 
 " Pray do not forget my shoes. Good-day to you. I sup- 
 pose," she carelessly added, " you go to the Bichonnets' to- 
 morrow ?" 
 
 Antoine bowed in token of assent ; and without seeaiing 
 to notice the smile and glance of contempt wliich she cast upon 
 him, he ceremoniously conducted Mademoiselle Ursule to the 
 door. The staymaker went home, sorely puzzled to make out 
 the shoemaker's real intentions, and quite disposed to quarrel 
 with him for taking no heed of poor neglected Rosine, and 
 dining with those odious Miroitons and Bichonnets; but 
 though in such ill-humour, that her first act on entering the
 
 SEVEN YEAES. 269 
 
 Tcoi'k-room was to scold Rosine for some imaginary fav;lt, she 
 had enough of self-control not to say a word about Antoine 
 Tourneur, or the step she had taken. Perhaps the reader will 
 feel surprised to see the staymaker now taking part for tlie 
 young girl whom she treated with such contempt on the Even- 
 ing of the Kings; but Mademoiselle TJrsule did not pique 
 herself in the least of acting upon logical principles : she 
 boasted that she had " strong feelings and lively sensibilities 
 — that she was the creature of impulse," &c. — v/hich of course 
 explained everything. The truth was that, although, as she 
 herself truly asserted, she had never experienced the passion 
 of love, she had, however — partly through Madame Bichon- 
 net's hints — begun to think lately that her young neighbour, 
 M. Tourneur, might prove an acceptable partner for lite. His 
 politeness she construed into a deeper feeling, veiled by pro- 
 found respect ; and although she felt no strong aflection for 
 him, yet there is no knowing to what pity might have led even 
 her rather unsusceptible heart, when the rivalry of Mademoi- 
 selle Miroiton awoke all her jealous feelings, and for the pres- 
 ent stifled tenderer emotions. ■ 
 
 When Rosine entered the porter's lodge on the evening of 
 the festival, she immediately looked upon her as on another 
 rival, and found her artful, designing, &c. It is very likely 
 this impression might never have been effaced, if Mademoiselle 
 Miroiton had not chanced to take precisely the same view of 
 the subject; which Mademoiselle Ursule no sooner saw, than 
 she immediately perceived that she must have been in the 
 wrong. There could be no possible sympathy between her and 
 her rival. When she learned the unworthy treatment the 
 young milliner had met with from the porter's daughter, she 
 felt highly indignant; and, as much for a feeling of justice, as 
 from the wish of annoying Mademoiselle Miroiton, she took 
 ner into her employment. As she was naturally kind-hearted, 
 the simplicity and gentleness of Rosine soon charmed her ; 
 and reilecting — for, from his conduct on the Evening of the 
 Kings' festival she began to suspect she might have been de- 
 ceived in Antoine's feelings — that she had lived too long single 
 to resign herself to the many tribulations of wedded life, and 
 that it would be highly imprudent in her to trust herself to the 
 fickleness of man, ^he prudently resolved to discard Antoine 
 altogether : a task which she found the easier, that her heart 
 had never been in the least afiected. But though she might 
 be quite willing to give him up for herself, she was anything 
 but desirous that Mademoiselle Miroiton should enjoy the
 
 270 SEVEN TEAES. 
 
 triumpli of supplanting her; indeed, as she had a shocking 
 temper, she felt it quite a charity to prevent their union. In 
 short, she resolved that it should not be her fault if her rival 
 ever became Madame Tourneur. It is true Autoine did not 
 seem very deeply smitten ; but then there was no knowing 
 what arts might be employed. Ah ! if he only knew what a 
 dear good creature Kosine was ; and much prettier than 
 Mademoiselle Miroiton too ! There could be no doubt about 
 that ! Indeed it was no difficult task : a shockingly vulgar 
 creature ! She herself, though not quite so fresh perhaps, 
 might venture to compare. But even in her thoughts Made- 
 moiselle Ursule was modest : she hated to speak of her per- 
 sonal advantages ! 
 
 Such being her feelings on this subject, it is no matter of 
 wonder that Mademoiselle Ursule should be exceedingly cross, 
 when, on the Sunday afternoon, she perceived the Miroitons 
 proceeding to the Bichonuets' ; but when she actually saw 
 Antoine taking the arm of Mademoiselle Miroiton, dressed out 
 in all her finery, and who, as she averred, cast a glance of 
 ironical triumph on her as she passed by, her anger broke out 
 in vehement denunciations against the faithlessness of men in 
 general, and Antoine Tourneur's want of spirit in particular. 
 Rosine gently endeavoured to say a few words for the culprit, 
 but she was immediately silenced by the indignant staymaker. 
 
 Several days elapsed, and notwithstanding her anxiety on 
 this subject. Mademoiselle Ursule could not ascertain how the 
 dinner of the Bichonnets had passed. The cook of the first- 
 floor lodgers indeed informed her of the number of dishes 
 served on the table, but further than this her knowledge did 
 not extend, and the triumphant bearing of Mademoiselle 
 Miroiton alone left her room to conjecture the issue of this 
 important event. Towards the middle of the week, Autoine 
 Tourneur brought home Mademoiselle Ursule's shoes himself. 
 The staymaker received him very stiffly in the presence of 
 Kosine, whose eyes seemed riveted on her work, and sharply 
 observed that the shoes did not fit. Contrary to her expecta- 
 tion perhaps, Autoine, far from disputing the fact, readily ad- 
 mitted it, and instantly off"ered to make her another pair. 
 Mademoiselle Ursule, who was taken by surprise, and felt 
 somewhat conscience-stricken — for the shoes were, in reality 
 an excellent fit — abruptly replied, that as she wanted them 
 for the foll:)wing Sunday, she must keep them such as they 
 were.
 
 SEVEN YEARS. 271 
 
 " You can have the other pair by Saturday morning," 
 calmly replied Antoine. 
 
 Still Mademoiselle Ursule objected; but taking up the 
 shoes, the young man showed her so plainly they did not fit, 
 that she at length gave up the point, and consented to have the 
 other pair made. This being decided, Antoine, who seemed in 
 no great hurry to depart, entered into a very animated conver- 
 sation with Mademoiselle Ursule, and after exchanging a few 
 words with Rosine, at length took his leave. 
 
 *' Well," said the staymaker, now greatly mollified, " I must 
 confess that, with all his faults, Monsieur Tourneur is really a 
 nice young man. And you see, Rosine, what might happen, if 
 I only wished for it." Rosine started, and looked somewhat 
 surprised. Misunderstanding her feelings. Mademoiselle Ur- 
 sule complacently continued : " Yes, my dear, did I not prefer 
 leading a single life, I might be Madame Tourneur ; but 
 though I may give up this prospect, it is not in order to 
 s,ee that odious Mademoiselle Miroiton marry him; and really, 
 child, I wonder you did not take more notice of him just now ; 
 ■who knows what may happen ? " She paused, and nodded 
 very significantly. But Rosine coloured, and looked unusually 
 grave. 
 
 On the following Saturday Antoine called with the shoes, 
 which were this time an admirable fit ; so at least Mademoi- 
 selle Ursule said, aod Antoine did not contradict her, although 
 he made a longer stay than the last time, and was still more 
 lively and pleasant. But notwithstanding his indirect attempts 
 to enter into a conversation with her, Rosine was so silent and 
 reserved, in spite of Mademoiselle's encouraging nods and 
 winks, that the staymaker gave her a good scolding when the 
 young man was gone — upbraiding her for her prudery, stiffness, 
 and so forth. To her reproaches Rosine mildly but firmly an- 
 swered : 
 
 " I will not appear to misunderstand you ; but, with the 
 exception of a very simple mark of politeness, what reason has 
 Monsieur Tourneur given me to think that he looks upon me 
 otherwise than as a stranger ? And he being rich, and I poor, 
 what would his opinion be of me if I seemed to think differ- 
 ently ? " 
 
 " Very well, my dear," bitterly replied her friend; " see 
 him married to Mademoiselle Miroiton, and live and die an 
 old maid, if such is your choice." 
 
 Rosine made no reply, and here the subject was dropped. 
 Although the shoes which Antoine had made for Mademoiselle
 
 272 SEVEN YEAES. 
 
 Urpule were perhaps the best shoes that had ever been made 
 (so she said at least), Ihey were worn out m an incredibly 
 short space of time; the consequence of which was, that she 
 had to or'ler another pair. She* next discovered that she 
 sadly wanted winter boots ; then, as spring was coming on, a 
 pair of summer ones. She even asserted that Eosine had 
 notliing fit to put on her feet ; that her shoes were too nar- 
 row ; that they hurt her; and, in short, tbat M. Antoine Tour- 
 ncur must take her measure. It was in vain for Rosine to 
 protest against this; she was compelled to submit. The con- 
 sequence of this was, that Antoine, who always made it a point 
 ■ — doubtless out of pure politeness ^ to take the measure and 
 bring home the shoes and boot.-, himself to his customers, was 
 seldom less than two or three times a-week at Mademoiselle 
 Ursule's house. 
 
 We must now return to M. and Madame Bichonnet, whom 
 we have neglected too long. On the evening of the second 
 Sunday v^hich followed that, on which they gave the dinner to 
 the Miroitons, they were seated as usual in their lodge, 
 Madame Bichonnet dozing in her arm-chair, and her husband 
 looking on the fire, and thinking of nothing, or, as he more ele- 
 gantly expres.sed it, " wrapped in profound meditation," when 
 they were suddenly startled by a loud knock at the street-door. 
 M. Bichonnet pulled the string pilaced near him for this purpose, 
 the door opened, and Mademoiselle Ursule showed her thin and 
 prim countenance at the other side of the gla.'^s casement which 
 divided the lodge from the passage, and through means of 
 which M. Bichonnet could reconnoitre every one who entered 
 or left the house. 
 
 " Is Mademoi.'^elle Bosiue at home ? " she hastily inquired. 
 " Bless me, what shall I do ? " she continued in a tone of deep 
 disappointment, on being answered in the negative. 
 
 " I believe," politely answered M. Bichonnet, " Mademoi- 
 selle Rosine has gone to vespers." 
 
 "Oh, dear no," smilingly replied Mad(-moiselle Ursule; 
 " ehe is gone to take a walk with her betrothed ! " 
 
 " Her betrothed ! " echoed the astonished porters. 
 
 " Yes," carelessly rejoined the staymaker ; "she is to be 
 married to Monsieur Antoine Tourneur next Sunday week. 
 I wanted to see her, in order to know whether she would have 
 her wedding-dreys of white tulle or muslin. But I dare say 
 the muslin will look best. But bless me, now I think of it, 
 she must be at home by this time, and I to stand talking here ! 
 Good-night, Monsieur; good-night, Madame Bichonnet." And
 
 SEVEN YEAKS. 273 
 
 Mademoiselle Ilr^nle hastened away, with a look of the great- 
 est consequence, leaving the porters so astonished, that it wag 
 several minutes before they recovered from the surprise into 
 which she had thrown them. 
 
 " Poor Mademoi.'-elle Miroiton ! " exclaimed Madame Bi- 
 chonnet, clasping her hands, and turning up her eyes, " I 
 thought to have drunk her health at her marriage-dinner be- 
 fore I died ; but it is all over now ! " 
 
 " My dear," solemnly said M. Bichonnet, " this is what 
 comes of mingling with people beneath you ; this is — " 
 
 " Nay, Bichonnet," mildly interrupted his v;ife, " Rosine is 
 a sweet-tempered girl, and she will really do better for An- 
 toine than Mademoiselle Miroiton, with her high spirit. I 
 daresay if I were to give her somv:!thing, just a bit of lace, on 
 the occasion of her marriage, it would not be thrown away ; 
 and I should like to see Antoine happily settled before T die. 
 I am afraid the ceremony might afi'ect my nerves ; though I 
 believe I should go, if they were to ask us to the dinner." 
 
 " But, my dear, think of Mademoiselle Miroiton," gravely 
 observed her husband. 
 
 " Really I don't care about Mademoiselle Miroiton," 
 sharply replied Madame Bichonnet; " her airs are insupport- 
 able ; whereas I always liked dear little Rosine." 
 
 " I believe, my dear," solemnly said M. Bichonnet, " that 
 you are in the right. If they ask us, we will go to the dinner. 
 To be friendly with them is our greatest duty towards our fel- 
 low-men." 
 
 In short, it required very few arguments to convince this 
 worthy couple that Antoine Tourneur could not have made a 
 better choice than in the person of the modest little milliner, 
 whom they henceforth treated with the most flattering distinc- 
 tion. On the next Sunday-week Rosine and Antoine were 
 married, to the triumph of Mademoiselle Ursule, and the de- 
 spair of Mademoiselle Miroiton. M. and Madame Bichonnet, 
 who were amongst the guests, were delighted with the whole 
 affair; which, indeed, they asserted, they had wished for and 
 foreseen from the beginning. But though the bride and bride- 
 groom were polite to them, there was not in their behaviour 
 the warmth and cordiality which marked their intercourse with 
 Mademoiselle Ursule. This dilierence became still mure 
 marked after their marriage ; for whereas the staymaker was 
 almost constantly their guest, the porters received no further 
 invitations. Madame Bichonnet now began to think poor 
 Mademoiselle INliroiton had been sadly used, and she called ou 
 12*
 
 274 SEVEN YEARS 
 
 her for the purpose of condoling with her misfortune; but the 
 young lady, who had a high spirit, shut the door in her face, 
 and informed M. Bichonnet's landlord of the code of regula- 
 tions he had set up in his house; the consequence of which 
 was, that the porters were discharged, and left the neighbour- 
 hood, " with the consciousness," as M. Bichonnet said, " of 
 having vainly endeavoured to serve his fellow-men." 
 
 About a year after his marriage — need we say it proved a 
 happy one ? — Autoine met M. Bichonnet in a remote neigh- 
 bourhood. He inquired after the health of Madame Bichonnet, 
 and learned that it had greatly improved since they had 
 opened a commercial establishment. Antoine looked surprised. 
 *' Yes," continued the former porter with his usual dignity, 
 " we sell fried potatoes on the Pont-Neuf." 
 
 Antoine smiled, and wishing him every success, bade him 
 farewelL Six months later he met him again. He was more 
 thin and dignified than ever. Antoine hoped his affairs were 
 in a flourishing state. 
 
 " No, sir, they are not," loftily replied M. Bichonnet ; " the 
 year has been dreadful for trade, and we have suffered like 
 everybody. I suppose you have suffered too ? " 
 
 " No, indeed; I was never better of" 
 
 " That is strange ; all the tradespeople we know failed. But 
 we have not, mind you. No, no, sir ; we have given up the 
 potatoe concern, it is true, but our honour is unsullied." 
 
 " And where are you now ? " asked Antoine. 
 
 " We have a porter's lodge in the Faubourg St Antoine. 
 A poor place, sir. Ah ! times are changed since we eat the 
 Kings' cake with you in our comfortable lodge." 
 
 Merely inquiring for his direction, Antoine took leave of 
 M. Bichonnet. The same evening he held a long and private 
 conference with his wife. Mademoiselle Ursule saw that some- 
 thing was going to take place; and though too proud to ques- 
 tion them, she used her eyes and ears without scruple. The 
 next morning she learned that Antoine was to call on his land- 
 lord, who resided in the house where Rosine had formerly 
 lived, and which he had lately bought from its original posses- 
 sor. What could Antoine want with him ? For several days 
 she could learn nothing, but the truth at last became apparent. 
 Ou a fine morning, a small cart-load of furniture, led by M. 
 Bichonnet, and with Madame Bichonnet perched on the top of 
 a very high bedstead, stopped at the door of the house oppo- 
 site. As Madame Bichonnet nodded and smiled very benig- 
 nantly to her, there could be no doubt about it. On learning
 
 SEVEN TEAES. 275 
 
 that Antoine had recommended the Bichonnets to his landlord, 
 who was in want of porters, Mademoiselle was at first highl;^' 
 indignant. Rosine, however, succeeded in pacifying her, by 
 mentioning their unhappy state, and reminding her that if Mad- 
 ame Bichonnet had not entertained a wholesome apprehension 
 of sitting down to a table when there were thirteen persona 
 present, they would never have become acquainted. As for 
 Mademoiselle Miroiton, she entered into a desperate rage on 
 perceiving her ancient enemies once more in possession of their 
 stronghold. She even sought out every opportunity of injur- 
 ing them ; but the porters had been tauglit by misfortune. 
 They still occasionally gave parties, but avoided notoriety, and 
 condescended to behave more politely to their lodgers. Ill- 
 disposed persons asserted, however, that the new landlord's 
 presence alor.e prevented M. Bichonnet from carrying on mat- 
 ters with as high a hand as formerly. 
 
 As for Madame Bichonnet, she was marvellously improved 
 in health, and went about the house quite briskly, considering 
 her delicate state — for she still spoke occasionally of her ail- 
 ments, and indulged in dismal forebodings of not living be- 
 yond the spring; but, as Mademoiselle Ursule charitably 
 observed, this was " through habit." Misfortune had not, 
 however, soured Madame Bichonuet's placid temper. She 
 spoke kindly of every one, and never said anything worse of 
 Mademoiselle Miroiton than that, " Poor thing! so, notwith- 
 standing every efibrt she nmde, she could not get married 
 after all. It grieves me to the heart ; but indeed I always 
 thought her too high-spirited for matrimony ! " 
 
 We have dwelt somewhat lightly ou the married life of 
 Antoine and Bosine ; but it is happy, and what more could be 
 said ? Mademoiselle Ursule, whose somewhat irritable temper 
 they bear with the most praiseworthy patience, is still their 
 best and most constant friend : they are thoroughly happy and 
 prosperous, in the moral and worldly sense of the w ords. 
 
 The Bichonnets are still in their old lodge : they have 
 left off a good deal of their selfish worldliness — would we 
 might say all ! — and are quite cured of the temptation of 
 match-making. For indeed, as M. Bichonnet loftily observes, 
 it hardly becomes the dignity of a French porter to meddle in 
 such affairs ; and he very much doubts whether his duty to 
 his fellow-men does not forbid it entirely. The last tidings 
 we had of the Bichonnets declare that, on the 6th of January 
 last, an enormous twelfth-cake was cut up in their lodge ; the 
 persons present were, besides the hosts, Antoine Tourneur,
 
 276 SEVEN TEAKS. 
 
 with his wife and two children, Mademoiselle Ursule, and tho 
 melancholy young man who sings the comic songs, and who 
 declared, that though they were flot yet thirteen, there was no 
 knowing what might happen in time, winking as he spoke tow 
 ards Madame Tourueur and the children ; a joke which ob- 
 tained much success, and is not yet forgotten in the neighbour- 
 hood. The same young man is said to have paid great attention 
 to Mademoiselle Ursule. As she is resolved to remain single, 
 this must be a calumny ; and yet it may be true enough, for 
 Mademoiselle Ursule herself was the person who originated the 
 report. On the same evening M. Bichonnet also confidentially 
 informed one of his guests — which, it is not known — that Louis 
 Philippe had only a very short time to remain on the throne. 
 He prudently refrained from saying how long, for fear the 
 police might seek to involve him in some political conspiracy. 
 
 A COMEDY IN A COURT-YAKD. 
 
 Every one knows that Paris is no longer what it was. It 
 has been pulled down and rebuilt : every old street, every old 
 nook and corner which antiquarian lore hallowed and wor- 
 shipped, has been cleansed away from the face of the land. 
 Broad clear streets lined with palaces have replaced the 
 narrow, winding, and most picturesque street of old times, the 
 street in which two carriages could not meet without creating 
 an uproar, for it was impossible for either to pass unless the 
 other retrograded, and which should give way was a battle to 
 be long and obstinately fought ; that street, in short, which 
 no one who walked in it once ever forgot, has become a myth 
 as we write. 
 
 Contemporary with the street was the archway that led 
 into the court-yard. Both were well worthy of remark : the 
 archway for its ancient well-worn carving, the court-yard for 
 the epitome of human life it held \\ ithin its walls ; for the 
 little world that, unconscious and careless of the great world 
 around, moved and lived thei-e. Such a court-yard there ex- 
 isted a few years ago in the very heart of Paris. There it may 
 be still, but we confess that the chances against this are many ; 
 we assume its continued existence without warranting it. 
 
 This court-yard was ancient and gloomy ; the houses were
 
 SEVEN YEARS. 
 
 277 
 
 tall and high ; a glimpse of sky appeared between the lines of 
 lofty i-oofs, and in the ever-open arch of the entrance was framed 
 a quaint picture of an antique shop, with yards of red and 
 white calico coming down from the second-floor and fluttering 
 in the wind : besides this shop, which stood in the street, the 
 inhabitants of the court-yard had the prospect of cabs, ears, 
 and vehicles of every description, that met and came at a 
 ptand-still opposite the arch, and had their battles there some- 
 thing like twenty-five times and three-sevenths in the course 
 of the day. The author of this accurate calculation was Mon- 
 sieur Gant, an ancient public scrivener, the oldest inliabitant 
 of the court-yard, and, beyond all doubt, the chief dignitary 
 of the place. 
 
 Some thirty years before the opening of this narrative 
 Monsieur Gant had entered a narrow, wooden mansion of 
 venerable antiquity, and which, according to tradition, had be- 
 longed to three public scriveners before him. It stood high, 
 like a Swiss chalet, so that torrents might flow underneath it 
 and beat against its wooden walls in vain. It had wheels like 
 the car of Juggernaut, and, as Monsieur Gant triumphantly 
 said : " I can go where I like without stirring from my table ' 
 ay, I can actually be transported from one end of Paris to the 
 other, for, like the snail, I bear my mansion with me ! " But, 
 to the honour of his magnanimity be it said, Monsieur Gant 
 was never known to use this formidable privilege. No, not 
 even to the length or the bi-eadth of the court was his dwelling 
 ever known to move. Satisfied with the knowledge of its power 
 of locomotion, and indolent, perhaps, by nature, it stayed still, 
 aided to this by the fact that a team of four horses or the ex- 
 ertions of a dozen men alone could have set it stirring. With- 
 out examining, however, the causes of its tranquillity, the in- 
 habitants of the court felt no alarm from its vicinity, and looked 
 at the curling white smoke which rose steadily out of its 
 solitary chimney with no more alarm than the Campanians of 
 the last two thousand years have felt in gazing at the cloud 
 which ever hangs over the sullen brow of Vesuvius. 
 
 Thus motionless and majestic Monsieur Gant's mansion 
 stood in a shady corner of the court, near a stone fountain, 
 half way between a washerwoman's tubs and an applewoman's 
 stall. A faded curtain interposed its dusty texture betwixt 
 M. G-ant's window and the vulgar gaze, whilst, by a neatly- 
 written bill, fixed with wafers to a pane of glass, the scrivener 
 modestly informed the public of his readiness to indite or copy 
 out epistles in the French language, at a very moderate price
 
 278 
 
 SEVEN TEAKS. 
 
 The personal appearance of M. Gant was by no means re- 
 markable. He was a thin, withered little man, who looked as 
 though he had formerly been mnch larger, but had since 
 shrunk through sonie unaccountable process. His character 
 was a strange compound of simplicity and punctilio. He had 
 a great opinion of his own sagacity and depth, was vain of his 
 little learning, and, by a whimsical contradiction, loved to 
 think himself haughty and implacable, whilst he was in reality 
 the most simple and easy of good-natured beings. During 
 the daytime, M. Gant was to be found in his wooden box, 
 waiting with exemplary patience for the arrival of customers, 
 who seldom made their appearance, and conning over La 
 Grammaire des Grammaires : for Monsieur Gant would have 
 gone into fits if, even in settling a cook's accounts, he had com- 
 mitted one of those grammatical errors which the subtleties 
 of the French language render it so difl5cult to avoid. It was 
 the boast of his harmless life that bis style was clear and his 
 French correct. 
 
 In the evenings, when bis box was locked up. Monsieur 
 Gant entered one of the ancient houses that surrounded the 
 court, climbed up five pair of stairs, opened the door of his 
 cold and gloomy garret, and eat his solitary and frugal dinner. 
 After this, Monsieur Gant emerged again, crossed the landing, 
 and knocked at the opposite door. A deep bass voice cried 
 out: "Qui vive?" 
 
 " Gant," was the heroic reply. Upon which the door would 
 open and reveal Sergeant Huron on the threshold. 
 
 Sergeant Huron belonged to a race which has all but 
 vanished from France. There may be old men who fought as 
 boys at Waterloo, but the old soldier of the Republic, who re- 
 membered its triumphs and its excesses, the old routier who 
 could reckon up his campaigns on his fingers, who crossed the 
 Alps and the Ehine, who saw the Pyramids with Napoleon, or 
 survived the snows of Russia, is gone, or all but gone, as we 
 write. 
 
 However, Sergeant Huron was not a solitary relic of the 
 old Napoleonist soldier, at the time when he opened his door 
 to Monsieur Gant, and welcomed him with a " How do you 
 do, old boy ? " uttered in stentorian tones, and a slap on the 
 back that made Monsieur Gant shake aeain. 
 
 Sergeant Huron was six foot six ; he had been a grena- 
 dier, and still wore a martial mustache, and a bonnet de police 
 set of one side, and which made the boldest boys of the court- 
 yard quake. It would have been difiicult to declare why he
 
 SEVEN TEAKS. 279 
 
 was pleased to receive Monsieur Gant's visits, and why he was 
 honoured with these visits by Monsieur Gant, but contrasts 
 which are said to be indispensable in love may be as requisite 
 in friendship. Certain it is, that though the scrivener was 
 slow and pedantic in his speech, not to speak of the formality 
 of his temper, that thouah Sergeant Huron's ideas and con- 
 versation never extended beyond Napoleon and his own ex- 
 ploits, and though his manners were neither polished nor refined, 
 yet they agreed wonderfully well, met with pleasure, and were 
 miserable when they spent one evening apart. 
 
 As usual, Monsieur Gant had taken his frugal meal, where, 
 against all culinary rules, there was more cheese than meat, 
 he had locked up his room, crossed his landing, knocked at the 
 opposite door, been hailed by the Qui vive ? and answered 
 " Gant ; " as usual, he had got the slap on the back, and, sit- 
 ting down by the open window, — it commanded a view of 
 leads, cats, and flower-pots, — he was recovering his breath, 
 when Sergeant Huron, drawing back two steps, exclaimed : 
 " Gant ! what has happened ? " 
 
 " Nothing, Captain, nothing," replied Monsieur Gant, with 
 a wave of the hand. 
 
 " I tell you something has happened." 
 " Oh ! nothing, — nothing. The old story : she has been 
 at her tricks again." 
 
 Sergeant Huron twirled his mustache and looked fierce. 
 " She is a lady, and therefore is safe," he said ominously. 
 " Her petticoat saves her. Otherwise — " 
 
 He broke ofi", leaving the rest to the imagination of Mou- 
 sieur Gant ; but curiosity, which is strong in man, proving 
 strong, he soon resumed : " Come, Gant, what has happened ? " 
 " This much," sententiously replied the scrivener, " she has 
 insulted me with the vicinity of a cobbler ; a vulgar cobbler, 
 for what is gp vulgar as the smell of leather ? It is her doing, 
 I know it ; but, as usual, I shall scorn to resent it." 
 
 " The cobbler does not wear a petticoat, at least," said Ser- 
 geant Huron, with a grim smile. " His apron need not pre- 
 vent me from remonstrating mildly with him, and advising him 
 still very mildly not to come to the court, or to remove from it 
 with due haste ! " 
 
 To this mild proposal Monsieur Gant, who knew of old 
 that his friend was for carrying matters with a hasty niilitary 
 fashion of his own, returned a prudent denial, couching the 
 motives of his refusal in a Latin quotation on the violence of
 
 280 SEVEN YEA-RS. 
 
 warlike Mars, which Sergeant Huron, without understanding 
 it, took as a personal compliment of the first water. 
 
 " Very svell," he magnanimously said, " let the cobbler 
 come ; but remeniber that, should his behaviour prove excep- 
 tionable — I am there." 
 
 " I shall crush them all with contempt," loftily said Mon- 
 sieur Gant. 
 
 From the preceding conversation we see that if the little 
 scrivener had a friend, he also had that bane of life, an enemy. 
 The individual which he and Sergeant Huron had referred to 
 by the pronoun '■ she " was no other than the applewoman, 
 whose stall stv^od in close proximity to his box, most imperti- 
 nently obstructing the passage to his door, and son^eiimes 
 actually shutting him in. The mistress of the stall was a 
 stout, fiery-faced little woman, with a thick, hoarse voice, 
 which became start! ingly shrill when she was at ail excited, 
 and bead-like eyes, beneath whose fixity of stare it was averred 
 that M. Gant himself had quailed; although the truth is, that, 
 being a dauntless little man, he cared not a pin for her. Why 
 they were foes it would be hard to tell ; yet they both felt that 
 they were so ; at least M. Gant, though incapable of the feel- 
 ing, thought he hated the applewoman, who most cordially 
 hated him. It would be tedious to relate by how many methods 
 she sought to annoy the scrivener. But all her attacks proved 
 unavailiiio- : he did not even condescend to answer her most 
 bitter tauuts : he literally crushed her with the weight of his 
 contempt. 
 
 The fact was, that, owing to a certain philosophy, either 
 constitutional or acquired, M. Gant could not be long teased 
 by anything, and somehow or other the appkwoman's most 
 artful contrivances to vex him generally added to his comfoit 
 or pleasure in the end. The persuading of a cobbler of her 
 acquaintance to come and fix his abode in the court, exactly 
 opposite the scrivener's box, was, however, the sorest blow she 
 had as yet had the power to inflict. M. Gant, though he ap- 
 parently remained indifferent to this attack, was in reality 
 more annoyed than, for fear of any violence, he chose to show 
 to his friend Sergeant Huron, and it was with a mixture of 
 irritation and wrath that he awaited the event. 
 
 The cobbler's shed— which, as M. Gant indignantly de- 
 clared, consisted of mud, wood, and plaster — was erected in 
 the space of a few days, and pronounced ready to receive 
 its new tenants, who accordingly hastened to remove to it. This 
 important event took place on a tine summer's morning, when
 
 SEVEN YEARS. 281 
 
 M. Gant, who had just seated himself before his desk, could 
 look on the whole proceedings. A small wheelbarrow or 
 hand-cart, dravvn by a man with a very black face, and fol- 
 lowed by a woman blacker still, tirst made its appearance. A 
 cradle, which was to be swung from the roof of the shed, a 
 dirty board, destined to act as a table, a couple of bottomless 
 chairs, a saucepan, and a washing-tub, were successively taken 
 out of the truck and placed in the shed ; the care of the 
 whole, besides that of the tiuck, at the bottom of which still 
 remained some crockery, being confided to the cobbler's eldest 
 son, a boy jf seven or ('iglit, whose parents, having more 
 things to bring to their new abode, now left alone, with strong 
 recommendations not to t(iUch a certain pot of dripping, which 
 it seems was also in the cart. It is well known what wonder- 
 ful uses the French of the poorer classes make of dripping : 
 in fact, they live upon it. TJiey take it in the morning, 
 diluted with warm water, under the name of soup ; spread 
 it, for lunch, on their bread instead of butter ; eat it again 
 as soup in the evening ; and apply it to various other pur- 
 poses with most praiseworthy ingenuity. 
 
 How it hai^pened we will not venture to say ; but when 
 the cobbler and his wife came back, they found their eldest 
 son in a singularly awkward position. The dripping-pot 
 was a very deep narrow one — an earthen marmiie, that did 
 not look much unlike a belmet. Whether this resemblance 
 struck the fancy of young Louis, or whether he was im- 
 pelled by a natural taste for dripping, would be dithciilt to 
 determine ; but certain it is that his parents found him 
 sitting in the truck, and, to their unutterable dismay, with 
 his head snugly ensconced in the dripping-pot. To see how 
 it had got in was easy enough ; but to say how it was 
 likely to get out again was a more difficult task. The cob- 
 bler flew into a terrible passion ; he bade Louis take his 
 head out that very instant, and prepare for a sound whip- 
 ping the next. The unfortunate Louis endeavoured to obey 
 the first part of this injunction. His mother pulled at the 
 pot, and he pulled, and all pulled ; but it was of no use — off 
 it would not come. Tlie cobbler had promised his son a 
 thrashing when the pot should be oft"; he now determined 
 to give it him first, and wrathfully advanced to seize upon 
 him ; but hoodwinked as he was, Louis guessed his intention. 
 He rapidly darted towards the top of the truck, which as 
 Buddeuly flew to the ground : Louis lost his balance, and in a
 
 282 SEVEN YEARS. 
 
 second down he rolled with the dx'ipping-pot, and over him 
 the truck with all its coutents. 
 
 The scene that ensued — for the cobbler's other two chil- 
 dren, who were now arrived, joined in the cry — no pen can 
 describe • suffice it to say, that there was not a saucepan but 
 was considerably damaged, nor a plate that was not broken. 
 When picked up by his alarmed mother, Louis was found 
 completely uushelled, very little injured, but somewhat 
 scratched, and bedaubed with dripping to an extraordinary 
 degree. 
 
 "I promised him a whipping, and a whipping he shall get," 
 said the cobbler, whose wrath had only undergone a tem- 
 porary lull. With his left hand he seized him, and raising 
 the right he prepared to give him a sound castigation, 
 when an authoritative voice called out "stop." He turned 
 round, and saw Monsieur Gant standing on the threshold 
 of his mansion, stern and majestic. 
 
 " Stop ! and why should I stop ? " asked the cobbler, with 
 surly republican independence. 
 
 " Because the boy has suifered enough for his low gorman- 
 dizing," said Monsieur Gant, with an increase of majesty. 
 
 " And I say, let every man whip his own child," said the 
 applewoman, who came tucking up her skirts, " and spare the 
 rod and spoil the child," she added, sitting down at her stall. 
 
 The cobbler hesitated : but a piteous whine from Louis 
 settled the matter. His paternal heart relented, and with a 
 scowl he bade the lad be off, on which Louis shot past them 
 all like an arrow, and Monsieur Gant, pleased with his vic- 
 tory, cast an eye of favo ir on the cobbler, and reentered his 
 mansion. He derived a triumph from the very vicinity 
 which his enemy had intended as an annoyance and an insult. 
 In time he actually came to like that vicinity. 
 
 The cobbler was a merry industrious man, who sang and 
 worked all the day long; whilst his wife, as industriously en- 
 gaged, sewed, washed, and cooked — all in the shed — and ac- 
 companied her husband's strains by scolding her three unruly 
 children. Still they were, upon the whole, a happy, good- 
 humoured, and simple femily, who won so much upon M. 
 Gant's affections by the unbounded deference they paid him, 
 that he began in time to like the cobbler's merry songs, the 
 noise and romping of his children, and even the scolding of 
 their mother. It was, besides, very pleasant for a philosopher 
 like him to watch daily the household concerns of the simple 
 people of the shed, who with the greatest candour and naivete
 
 SEVEN YEARS. 283 
 
 laid open to his view every incident of joy or woe in their 
 humble existence. He thus, uncunsciously to them, and with- 
 out ever having addressed them, became the partner of their 
 little trials, and the unknown sharer of their mirth. He 
 watched the children growing up, and the parents growing 
 gray. A certain screaming baby, called Marianne, who had 
 long annoyed him, became in time a pretty laughing child, and 
 then a blushiiio; maiden, on whom he loved to ffaze ; Louis of 
 the dripping-pot assumed quite a manly air, and, owing to his 
 cheerfulness and good-temper, was M. Gant's especial fa- 
 vourite ; and thus the most formidable attempt which the ap- 
 plewoman had yet made against the scrivener's peace of mind, 
 turned out like all the rest, and literally added to his pleasure 
 and happiness. Seeing that he was really invulnerable, his 
 enemy at last gave him a short respite, and, intrenched behind 
 her stall, silently brooded over her defeat. 
 
 When Louis, who was now a journeyman carpenter, was 
 somewhere in his twenty-second year, M. Gant began to ob- 
 serve what had been visible to all the inhabitants of the court 
 for several years ; namely, that the young man carried on a 
 kind of sentimental flirtation with the washerwoman's daugh- 
 ter, Angelique, a girl of eighteen, very pretty, and very ca- 
 pricious, but withal very charming. It was a great source of 
 pleasure to M. Gant to observe the progress of their simple 
 courtship. At first Louis, when coming home from his work 
 in the evening, would loiter at the fountain ; and whilst the 
 good housewives of the court, Angelique's mother among the 
 rest, were filling their buckets with water, and chatting to- 
 gether, he would address a few insignificant phrases to the 
 young girl, and retire quite satisfied with her coy and mono- 
 syllabic answers. Gradually, however, he grew more bold and 
 confident. Angelique had a pretty voice and a good ear, the 
 result of which was, that she sang all the day long, to the 
 scrivener's infinite gratification, and the applewoman's conse- 
 quent annoyance. With the view of indulging her taste, 
 Louis brought her home all the songs he could procure ; then 
 he taught her the tunes ; and at last he sang them with her in 
 the cool summer evenings, until the whole court gathered 
 around them ; for, to say the truth, Louis never saw Ange- 
 lique but on the threshold of her mother's door. Several 
 months had thus elapsed, when, as the conclusion uf the whole 
 affair was evidently drawing near, M. Gant uneasily noticed 
 certain symptoms of change in the demeanour of the lovers. 
 One evening, Louis, contrary to his usual custom, came not to
 
 284 SEVEN YIAES. 
 
 the meeting : the next day Angelique received him with such 
 evident coldness, that he retired eaidier than usual. On the 
 following evening Louis came home from his work somewhat 
 later, and, without going near Angel ique, paused for a few 
 minutes at the fountain ; and seeing him, she hastily entered 
 her mother's house, and closed the door. The next day the 
 youtjg carpenter did not even approach the washerwoman's 
 abode, though the scrivener caught a glimpse of him in the 
 court. Several days elapsed, and yet there was no change on 
 either side : the lovers only became cooler and cooler, until, 
 at the end of a week, they seemed totally estranged. 
 
 M. Gant saw this, and grew sad : he had been cheered a 
 while by the sight of their simple courtship ; he had loved to 
 watch its progress evening after evening, and be the unseen 
 witness of many little circumstances which had escaped the 
 vulgar gaze ; and now those in whom he had felt so deep an 
 interest grew, like the world, indifferent and cold, taking from 
 him one of his few pleasures. As usual, Monsieur Gant poured 
 this sorrow into Sergeant Huron's friendly bosom." 
 
 " It is too bad," he said, lamenting, " these two children 
 might be as happy as the day is long, and they will not — they 
 will not. The perversity of human nature." 
 
 Sergeant Huron's mustache had grown white, but he 
 twirled it as much as ever. 
 
 " Shall I interfere ? " he suggested, " make all right in a 
 few minutes, eh ! You know how I manage." 
 
 " Thank you, thank you," replied Monsieur Gant, sur- 
 prised at this considerate proposal ; " lovers' quarrels are best 
 left alone. Besides, I feel sure the ajiplewoman is at the bot- 
 tom of it all." 
 
 This only whetted Sergeant Huron's eagerness to make the 
 loves of Louis and Angelique all right, and all Monsieur Gant's 
 eagerness and diplomacy were required to allay the old sol- 
 dier's ardour, and make him relinquish this brilliant idea. 
 
 One evening, M^hen M. Gant, who had grown quite misan- 
 thropic, was bitterly ruminating in the solitude of his wooden 
 mansion, he was startled by a knock at his door. He opened, 
 and Louis entered. The scrivener eyed him with silent sur- 
 prise, whilst the young man, unconscious of the feeling he ex- 
 cited, laid on his desk a small slip of paper, briefly saying : 
 
 " Will you have the kindness to copy out and correct this, 
 sir ? " 
 
 Monsieur Gant stroked his chin, signed the young man tc 
 be seated, put on his spectacles, and read the paper attentive
 
 SEVEN YEARS. 285 
 
 \j. It was a rude scrawl, in which the young carpenter had 
 somewhat imperfectly attempted to express his feelings. Its 
 incohei'ence did not, however, much astonish Monsieur Gant ; 
 for he was accustomed to love-letters, — we need scarcely say 
 this was one, — but he paid more attention to its general pur- 
 port. Louis, carefully avoiding to mention the name of An- 
 gelique — an act of prudence which made the scrivener smile 
 inwardly — addressed her in the following style. Monsieur 
 Gant thinking it proper to read this epistle aloud, we shall 
 give it with his comments. 
 
 " ' mademoiselle ' — Humph ! capital M wanted here — ' you 
 treat me with cruel coldness. I had such a headache last 
 night I could scarcely sleep ! ' — what about it ? hum. ' I have 
 done nothing, nothina:, Mademoiselle. Marianne knows it.' — 
 Knows nothing ! I wonder how you make that out. "What 
 next ? Ah ! ' I see you wish me to forget yuu. I shall do 
 so ; yes, I declare I will. 
 
 ' Your lover till I die, 
 
 ' Louis.' 
 
 " You will forget her," said Monsieur Gant, with a super- 
 cilious look at the young man, who had heard him, red as fire, 
 and evidently on thorns, " and yet yon are her lover till you 
 die. I do not understand. Please to enlighten me." 
 
 " I beg, sir, that you will correct all mistakes," stammered 
 Louis; '' if I had known how to write a letter I would not 
 have come to you." 
 
 " There is more logic in that tlian in this epistle," kindly 
 said Monsieur Gant, and with a tlourish of his pen he set about 
 transcribing tlie love-letter. 
 
 Spite his criticisms, Monsieur Gant did not dream of alter- 
 ing it. He was a judge of the human heart, and he saw that 
 the letter, with all its incohrrence ami its absurdity, was better 
 than any he could write, for it was true. He therefore merely 
 corrected the spelling as he transcribed it : when it was fin- 
 ished, he tossed it to Louis with a scornful " There, sir." The 
 young man placed a franc on his desk, thanked him shortly, 
 aiid retired. 
 
 " Ungrateful boy," mvittered tlie scrivener, as the door 
 closed on the young man. He felt aggrieved that one of the 
 two beings whose fate had of late been his chief concern, should 
 look upon him as a stranger. That his own lofty haughtine&s 
 made it impossible for either of the lovers to divine his secret 
 sympathy, Monsieur Gant wduld never have acknowledged. 
 
 Still it is but fair to him to declare that this secret sym-
 
 286 SEVEN TEAKS. 
 
 pathy was in no wise diminished by the ingratitude of Ange- 
 lique and Louis, and it was with the utmost impatience that 
 he waited for the next evening, in order to see what effect the 
 letter had produced. 
 
 The lovers met, seemingly by chance, as usual, near the 
 stone fountain. Louis timidly approached the young girl, and 
 whispered something in her ear ; but she scornfully drew buck, 
 and, with a toss of her head, retired to her mother's shop. 
 Louis looked sadly after her, still standing rooted to the same 
 spot, until the stifled giggling of some mischievous girls near 
 the fountain aroused him from liis trance. Suddenly starting, 
 he cast an indignant glance around him, and hastened to de- 
 part, apparently much mortified by Angelique's contemptuous 
 treatment. 
 
 " What could all this mean ? " Such was the scrivener's 
 thought, when the unexpected entrance into his lodge of a 
 woman, wrapped up in a coarse dark shawl, awakened him 
 from his reverie. He turned with surprise towards the new- 
 comer ; but notwithstanding her disguise, a glance was enough 
 to let him know that Aiigelique stood before him. As soon 
 as the door was closed upon her she sat down, and without 
 attempting to conceal her person any longer^ she said in a lofty 
 tone, that did not exactly suit her pretty little face : 
 
 " Monsieur Gant, I am come to request a favour from you. 
 Yesterday I received this letter," and she laid Louis's epistle 
 on the table, " from a person I detest." 
 
 " Detest ! " echoed the scrivener. 
 
 " Yes, sir, detest," loftily added Angelique, " and with 
 whom I wish to hold no further correspondence. May I beg 
 of you tell him so in my name ? " 
 
 M. Gant took up his pen ; a sheet of letter-paper was be- 
 fore him ; he placed his hand upon it, as though to write ; but 
 laid it down again, and calmly said, " Why not tell him as 
 much yourself, Mademoiselle ? You see him every day." 
 
 " Because I do not wish to speak to him any more, sir," 
 she sliarply answered. 
 
 " Or perhaps you are unable to write yourself?" hinted 
 the scri\'ener. 
 
 Angelique frowned, and looked displeased. " I know how 
 to write sir," she stifly replied ; " but since he has chosen to 
 apply to you to write to me, I shall answer him in the sama 
 manner." 
 
 " And who told you that it was I who wrote this letter ? "
 
 SEVEN YEAKS. 287 
 
 asked M. Gant, turning inquiringly towards her ; " for if you 
 know that, / know that you were out yesterday." 
 
 Angelique coloured, but evasively answered, •' Monsieur 
 Gant, if you do not wish to write this letter, pray say so at 
 once." 
 
 " No, no," said the scrivener, as she rose to depart, " since 
 you are determined to be miserable, I shall no longer seek to 
 prevent you." 
 
 And so saying, he once more took hold of his pen, and iu 
 a few brief words, as severe as Angelique could wish them to 
 be, he intimated to poor Louis that the capricious beauty cared 
 for neither his repentance nor for his most passionate protesta- 
 tions. When he had finished his task, M. Gant handed the 
 letter to the yonng girl, watching her features in the hope of 
 seeing them betray some compunction for the severity of his 
 expressions. But far from it : she seemed highly delighted 
 with the epistle, thanked him very warmly, liberally remuner- 
 ated him for his trouble, and left him sadder than ever, and 
 in a bitter mood of invective against girls, their lovers, and 
 human nature in general. " For," he observed, when he was 
 left alone with his own thoughts, " it is easy to see how 
 thoroughly bad human nature is, since those young people, 
 who have known each other from childhood, who have been 
 lovers for years, now part for ever, not only without a pang, 
 but even with joy ; and, in all probability, owing to some mere 
 trifle that has come between them." 
 
 Now, although he could not possibly imagine what this 
 important trifle was, M. Gant had his own private suspicions 
 concerning his spiteful little neighbour the applewoman, to 
 whom he was indeed in the habit of referring every evil that 
 occurred. It was evident that some mischievous person had 
 informed Angelique of Louis's visit to him, a step not unlikely 
 to prejudice him in her eyes ; but then there existed no proof 
 that this fact had been rsjvealed to the young girl by the apple- 
 woman ; and though he narrowly scanned her features mere 
 than once, M. Gant could discover in them none of the ma- 
 licious triumph which generally betrayed her when she had 
 been engaged iu some work of mischief She was apparently 
 calm, and wholly unconscious of what was going on. 
 
 The next day passed, and nothing occurred, save that in 
 the evening Louis came home from his work seemingly much 
 disheartened, so that the scrivener, who was very fidgetty, and 
 constantly on the look-out, concluded that he had received 
 Augelique's letter. On the following morning, as he sat at an
 
 288 SEVEN YEAES. 
 
 early hour in his box, he noticed Louis in a remote corner of 
 the court engaged in a mysterious conference witli his pretty 
 sister Marianne. M. Gant easily guessed the subject of -their 
 conversation ; and as Marianne was not only cheerful and 
 good-tempered, but also possessed of much intuitive tact, and 
 stood, moreover, on friendly terms with Angelique, he augured 
 success from her interposition, and impatiently waited for its 
 result. But Marianne was a real diplomatist ; and instead of 
 injudiciously hurrying to perform her delicate errand, she 
 loitered about the court, now entering, now leaving her father's 
 shed with a most unconcerned air. It was not until the after- 
 noon was far advanced that the scrivener saw her at length 
 proceeding towards the washerwoman's shop. She could not 
 have chosen a more unlucky moment; for Angolique, who was 
 ironing in a little back parlour, was also there, entertaining a 
 sentimental young tailor, laughing and chatting with him very 
 merrily. Now this young man, who lived in the court, had 
 formerly paid no little attention to Marianne, who, when 
 teased on the subject, very seriously averred that " she did 
 not care for him ; indeed she did not ! " Nevertheless, when 
 she entered the parlour, and saw how thoroughly poor Louis 
 was slighted, and for whom all her sisterly feelings were 
 aroused, she felt so indignant at Augelique's coquetry, that she 
 could scarcely contain herself. In short, she threw out such 
 hints, that ere long the young tailor prudently departed ; 
 whilst Angelique, who was not very patient, retorted in so high 
 a strain, tliat Marianne fairly lost her temper, and flounced out 
 of the room in a state of great indignation. Though M. Gant 
 saw nothing of this, he conjectured, by the young tailor's 
 retreat, and Marianne's agitation, that the ambassadress had 
 failed, a surmise which was confirmed by Louis's behaviour on 
 the next morning ; for as he was entering his wooden box. the 
 young man followed him \n. 
 
 " Monsieur Gant," said he, throwing a piece of paper on 
 the table, " please to transcribe this." 
 
 ' This ' proved to be a very laconic epistle. ' Mademoi- 
 selle,' it said, ' you tell me to forget you. I will obey you as 
 soon as I can. Farewell. Louis.' 
 
 " Now I call this sensible," said Monsieur Gant, with such 
 deep and cutting irony, that Louis never perceived its point. 
 " As soon as you can ! How judicious. Here is your letter, 
 
 sir." 
 
 On the evening of the same day Angelique entered the
 
 SEVEN YEAES. 289 
 
 scrivener's box, to dictate the following answer : " The sooner 
 you forget me the better." 
 
 " Adiuirable ! " cried Monsieur Gant, " I really do ad- 
 mire your spirit, Mademoiselle ! " 
 
 Angelique gave him a quick, mistrustful look, but bowed 
 and withdreWc 
 
 " Ai\d now," pettishly observed M. Gant, when she nad re- 
 tired, " I suppose that most absurd correspondence of theirs, 
 by means of which they have contrived to keep me in hot 
 water for the last week, is over at length." 
 
 But the scrivener evidently did not understand such mat- 
 ters; for although there was a kind of two days' truce, during 
 which Louis went early to his work, and came home late, 
 never once approaching the old stone fountain — near which 
 Angelique openly flirted with the young tailor — it was evident, 
 by the attitude of both parties, that things could not last long 
 as they were. On the evening of the third day, Louis entered 
 M. Gant's box in a state of great ngitation. 
 
 " Monsieur Gant," he exclaimed, " this is more than 
 human flesh and blood can endure, and you must tell her so ! " 
 
 " Oh, you have not forgotten her yet ? " ironically observed 
 the scrivener. 
 
 But Louis cared not for irony : he was desperate ; he had 
 just caught a glimpse of Angelique seated in her mother's shop 
 with his rival, and his overcharged heart poured itself forth in 
 a torrent of eloquent reproaches, which he charged M. Gant to 
 commit to paper, never once reflecting that the scrivener could 
 not possibly recollect as much as the one-tenth of what he was 
 saying. M. Gant did not make the attempt ; he let the young 
 man speak away, conjecturing it would relieve him, and do him 
 good ; and in the mean while he cast a stern and angry glance 
 towards the spot where Angelique was sitting with the tailor. 
 To the scrivener's satisfaction, the young man rose to depart. 
 Angelique tried to detain him ; but he persisted in his resolu- 
 tion, and went away. Although she hummed a tune, and tried 
 to look indifierent, Angelique could not conceal her vexation ; 
 and on hearing some remark made by one of the washerwomen, 
 she left the shop in a pet, and walked out into the court. It 
 was at this moment that Louis, who had seen nothing of all 
 this by-play reached the most pathetic part of his imaginary 
 epistle, and eloquently reminded Angelique of their former 
 attachment, once more begging to know how he had erred. 
 
 " Stop ! here," cried Monsieur Gant, who had been 
 
 13
 
 290 SEVEN YEAKS. 
 
 anxiously watching his opportunity for the last two or three 
 seconds, " stop ! you can best tell her all this herself." 
 
 And before Louis could make any reply, he had partly 
 opened his door, and calling on Angelique, who was just then 
 passing before it, made her enter. It was not until she was in 
 and the door had been securely closed upon her by the consider- 
 ate M. Gaut, that the young girl became aware of Louis's 
 presence. On seeing her lover, she started back and grew 
 pale ; but soon rallying, and casting a wrathful glance on the 
 scrivener, she addressed Louis in an offended tone. 
 
 " Pray, sir, what is it so very particular you have to say to 
 me here ? " 
 
 " I assure you, Mademoiselle," stammered forth Louis, " I 
 only came for a letter which Monsieur Grant — " He looked for 
 the letter on the desk, but there was none. 
 
 " Yes," observed the scrivener in a tone of studied irony, 
 " I was waiting till you should have done. As Mademoiselle 
 is now here, you can tell her all you have to say. I have no 
 doubt," he superciliously added, " it will spare me the trouble 
 of writing down a good deal of nonsense ; " and with a look of 
 thorough contempt for all love-letters and love affairs, he took 
 down ]ja Gramniaire des Grammaires, and became, to all ap- 
 pearance, deeply absorbed by its contents. 
 
 There was a long and awkward silence : Louis at length 
 began speaking in an embarrassed tone ; his words were in- 
 coherent and low ; but warming with his subject, he gradually 
 grew so eloquent a,nd pathetic, that M. Gant thought it was not 
 in the heart of mortal maiden to resist him. Angelique, how- 
 ever, not onl_y appeared to heai' Louis without emotion, but when 
 he had concluded, inquired, with freezing politeness, what else 
 he had to say ? 
 
 " Nothing," faintly answered Louis. Angelique turned 
 towards the door : the scrivener saw it was time for him to in- 
 terfere. 
 
 " Children, children ! " he reproachfully exclaimed, " what 
 is all this about ? Who has come between your hearts and 
 the love of so many years? " Angelique hung down her head 
 but remained silent. 
 
 " Nay," observed Louis, now fairly exasperated, '* let her 
 alone, Monsieur Gant, since she will not be softened." 
 
 " And pray, sir," cried Angelique angrily, " vvho asks you 
 to think of me at all ? " Thus the scrivener's kind effort to 
 effect a reconciliation between the lovers was on the point of 
 embittering the quarrel; but by dint of coaxing, entreaties,
 
 SEVEN TEARS. 291 
 
 and soothing words, lie at last induced tbem to give liim a 
 patient hearing. This discourse, though somewhat long, was 
 not very varied : he only spoke of their childhood and youth 
 so happily spent in the court, of the pleasant evenings by the 
 fountain, when Angelique sang, and Louis listened ; yet he 
 touched so many tender chords, and managed the matter so 
 skilfully, that ere long Angelique drew forth a little white 
 pocket-handkerchief, which she applied to her eyes, whilst 
 Louis turned his head away, and pretended to look into the 
 court. M. Gant immediately followed up his advantage, and 
 in less than five minutes had eflected an entire reconciliation 
 between the two lovers, who, to say the truth, were not sorry 
 for it. 
 
 "And now," said he, " that it is all over, you must tell me 
 whatj'ou quarrelled about." This was, however, seemingly 
 no easy matter to determine. Louis looked at Angelique and 
 Angelique at Louis ; both were evidently in doubt on the sub- 
 ject. But M. Gant was a shrewd cross-questioner, and he soon 
 elicited from Louis tliat he had long been secretly jealous of 
 the young tailor, and that one evening, when Angelique had 
 provoked him by some unusual attention bestowed on his 
 rival, he had spitefully declared a new purchase of hers 
 odiously vulgar ; an expression which, being uttered in the 
 presence of several persons, the tailor included, had so mor- 
 tally offended Angelique, that she had instantly resolved to 
 discard him for ever. 
 
 "And this," observed M. Gant, in a tone of great con- 
 tempt, after hearing them out — " this was the cause of your 
 quarrel ? " Though somewhat abashed, they confessed it was. 
 But the scrivener was not satisfied ; he had his own ideas on 
 the subject ; and indeed it soon came out that the applewoman 
 was at the bottom of it all. ' With her usual malice she had 
 first diverted the young tailor's attention from Marianne to 
 Angelique ; then by dark hints excited poor Louis's jealousy ; 
 and at last persuaded Angelique that no woman of spirit ought 
 to forgive the afiVout she had endured. In short, she had, 
 like all mischievous persons, been so very industrious in her 
 evil task, that M. Gant no longer wondered at the trouble the 
 quarrel of the two lovers had given him. 
 
 After some further conversation, Loiiis and Angelique 
 rose to depart, not, however, without hearing M. Gant, who 
 addressed them in a little set speech, rather formal and pedan- 
 tic, but nevertheless kind and sensible, showing them that the 
 real cause of their quarrel had been the want of mutual trust
 
 292 SEVEN YEAUS. 
 
 and confidence. " And now, children," said he, as he con' 
 eluded, " take an old man's advice — quarrel no more, and be 
 ever more ready to believe good of one another than evil." 
 
 Promising to follovr this advice, and once more warmly 
 thanking him for his kindness, the lovers now left the scriven- 
 er to his own reflections. Scarcely were they gone, when M. 
 Gant, who felt in a very undignified hurry to impart the news 
 to Sergeant Huron, locked up his box before the usual time, 
 and hastened to the abode of his trusty friend, who, listening 
 to his prolix narrative with profound gravity, declared it was 
 an admirable bit of campaigning, and that the scrivener had 
 displayed the tactics of a general. 
 
 Although she was not at her stall when Louis and Ange- 
 lique had their interview in the scrivener's abode, the apple- 
 woman had somehow or other obtained a knowledge of the 
 fact. The next day she saw, as usual, M. Grant enter his box 
 in the morning, but with the addition of a large parcel, which 
 he carried under his arm ; and a strange rumbling noise, as 
 though M. Grant felt restless, and was walking to and fro in 
 his mansion, followed his entrance ; it, however, gradually 
 subsided ; and before long, he issued forth completely trans- 
 formed, clad in a suit of rusty black, with a new hat and a 
 white cravat. The applewoman's heart failed her : she had 
 forebodings of a defeat. After carefully locking his door, M. 
 Gant walked at a stately pace towards the washerwoman's 
 shop. Whether by chance, or because she was aware of his 
 visit, Angelique was out of the way. The scrivener gravely 
 asked for her mother, and found the good lady up to her eyes 
 in soap-water. She looked upon him with some surprise, 
 opened her eyes when he spoke of a private interview, in- 
 wardly wondered if he wanted to give her his custom, and 
 wiping her hands and arms in a very wet apron, led the way 
 into the small back parlour. Here M. Gant gravely expound- 
 ed to her the nature of his errand, relating all concerning the 
 attachment of Louis and Angelique, and, in the name of his 
 young friend, asking for her sanction to their attachment. 
 The washerwoman heard him, and was astonished. What 
 could make Angelique wish to marry ? She had always 
 thought that if a woman washed, and ironed, and worked 
 hard, she had little time to think of marriage : so she had 
 found since her husband's death. Nevertheless, she was not 
 uuroGsonable, and declared that as Louis was a very honest, 
 industrious young man, she should raise no objection to the 
 match, if her daughter was bent upon it.
 
 SEVEN YEAES. 293 
 
 On the same evening the -whole matter was settled. In 
 the pi^eseuce of her mother, of Louis's parents, whom the 
 young man had consulted long ago, and of M. Gant, Ange- 
 lique was accordce, or granted to Louis, who presented her 
 with a gold ring and a handsome pair of earrings. The mar- 
 riage was fixed to take place at the end of a month. The 
 young couple were to reside in the court ; and, to her mother's 
 satisfaction, it was agreed that Angelique should continue to 
 work with her. 
 
 The aj^plewonian was now fairly vanquished. Truth and 
 M. Gant had triumphed : Louis and Angelique were recon- 
 ciled : and even the young tailor proved penitent, and hum- 
 bled himself to Marianne, who graciously received him once 
 more into her favour. The scrivener's spiteful little enemy 
 could bear this no longer ; her heart was stung every day by 
 some fresh insult ; she declared that the court was in a league 
 against her ; and in order to be revenged on them all at once, 
 she went off one morning with her stall and her apples, and 
 doubtless settled iu some very remote corner, for she has never 
 since been heard of. Some old cronies o^ers, with whom she 
 constantly quarrelled while in the court, soon missed her very 
 much, for she was the great newsmonger of the place; and 
 they threw out dark hints against the scrivener, even averring 
 that he had caused her to be spirited away. 
 
 M. Gant, who knew nothing of these vague rumors, bore 
 bis triumph with great moderation. Indeed, with his usual 
 simplicity, he rather missed the applewoman, and certainly 
 thought more of the happiness enjoyed by Louis and Angelique 
 than of her defeat. When the wedding took place, he was the 
 spirit of the whole party : he acted as Louis's witness at the 
 civil contract, gave the bride away in the church, settled every 
 doubtful point of etiquette, and with Sergeant Hui'on, w^ho 
 had been invited out of compliment to him, sang such witty 
 songs after dinner, that everybody was charmed. The scrivener 
 himself was astonished, and somewhat ashamed ; he was even 
 heard by his old friend wondering what had induced a philos- 
 opher like him to meddle in a silly love affair ; but, to say 
 the truth, he was quite delighted. 
 
 The married life of Louis and Angelique proved more 
 happy than their courtship. They treasured up the words of 
 their old friend, and acted towards each other with confidence 
 and truth. M. Gant, whose infirmities increased with his age, 
 has been induced, not to abandon his box — nothing earthly 
 could make him do that — but to take his meals with them, in
 
 2 9 J: SEVEN TEAKS. 
 
 return for which he most zealously teaches their children how 
 to read and write, so that they will most probably be able in 
 time to indite their own love-letters. Sergeant Huron is still 
 alive, but, as the scrivener observes in a melancholy tone, 
 growing rather weak-minded — a remark which the worthy 
 sergeant sometimes applies in turn to his old friend. The 
 cobbler has retired from business ; the shed has been de- 
 molished, and a shop, occupied by Louis's brother, erected 
 where it once stood. Marianne is married to the young tailor. 
 The washerwoman is as industrious as ever. We forgot men- 
 tioning that, as an instance of the diminished faculties of his 
 friend, Sergeant Huron has informed Angelique that M. Gant 
 is convinced the applewoman will soon make her reappearance 
 in the court. This he believes on philosophical grounds, 
 averring that he has been too long happy and undisturbed. 
 Of course Sergeant Huron is above this learned nonsense; 
 but he has also informed Angelique, from whom he can con- 
 ceal nothing, that, after all, he should not wonder if it were to 
 turn out true ; for since his friend mentioned the subject, he 
 has three times beheld in a dream the applewoman seated at 
 her stall. But as six months have already passed away since 
 then, it is somewhat doubtful if she will ever make her ap- 
 pearance. 
 
 THE TROUBLES OF A QUIET MAN". 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 It is generally supposed that a quiet temper is conducive 
 of a quite life. But this is a great mistake, originating in that 
 love of common place which seems inherent to human nature. 
 No man could be quieter than Theophile Durand ; few men, 
 according to his o«ti account, and he was strictly veracious, 
 have passed through such tribulation as fell to his lot. 
 
 When they began no one knows. He has forgotten it him- 
 self, and when they will end it is impossible to divine. Out 
 of this remarkable series we will make a few extracts, show- 
 ing by what unmerited causes a quiet man became iavolved in 
 trouble. 
 
 Theophile Durand was an employe, and the employe, or 
 individual employed in any of the government offices, forms in
 
 SEVEN TEAES. 295 
 
 France, or ratlier in Paris, part of a class distinct in itself, and 
 different from anything of the same kind here. Every one in 
 Paris knows the employe, his feelings, habits, and external 
 signs. There is something stereotyped and utterly unmis- 
 takable about the man. Method in matters of feeling, and 
 sobriety of demeanour, are his two grand characteristics through- 
 out life. 
 
 To this peaceable and timid class belonged Theophile Du- 
 rand, the gentlest of gentle employes. Never did the in- 
 nocent passion of caligraphy burn with purer flame than in his 
 harmless bosom. To transcribe in fair and legible characters 
 whatever his chef set before him, was the glory and triumph of 
 Theophile. Twenty years of his life were devoted to this im- 
 portant occupation ; from nine in the morning until five in the 
 afternoon he assiduously bent over the official desk, and longed 
 for no wider horizon than that of the dull court-yard of the gov- 
 ernment office. He was not promoted in rank, nor did he 
 receive auyiiicrease of emolument, but he was not an ambitious 
 man ; his wants were few, and none ever heard him complain, 
 for in his ofiice as yet trouble had not overtaken him. 
 
 This happy existence was at length disturbed by the in- 
 troduction of a new desk and stool in the quiet bureau, where 
 for years no stranger had appeared. The owner of these por- 
 tentous signs added to Monsieur Theophile Durand's sense of 
 dismay by his unofficial appearance ; he was a very young man, 
 with something resembling a moustache struggling into exist- 
 ence above his upper lip. He had a thin, sallow, and melan- 
 choly, not to say morose-looking, face, and a slender drooping 
 figure. All that Monsieur Theophile could ascertain of him 
 was, that he rejoiced in the name of Auguste Tondu, and en- 
 tered the office as surnumeraire ; that is to say that he belonged 
 to the class of unpaid employes, condemned to Avait for their 
 salary until death or promotion shall make some place vacant 
 in the ranks of their companions. 
 
 The desk of the surnumeraire faced that of Theophile, to 
 stare at whom seemed from the very first day his chief task 
 and occupation. He did, indeed, occasionally vary it by suck- 
 ing and nibbling every pen that came in his way, or by mak- 
 ing little balls of the official paper, which he entertained him- 
 self by masticating, and to all appearances, by swallowing; 
 but beyond this he did nothing. 
 
 The presence of this idle and enigmatical individual, whom 
 he vainly endeavoured to draw into occasional discourse, awed 
 and annoyed Theophile Dmand. If he ever looked up from
 
 296 SEVEN YEARS. 
 
 his desk it was to see Anguste Tonclu sucking a pen and look- 
 ing at him intently. This happened so often, that at length 
 Theophile resolved to look up no more ; but this only rendered 
 matters worse, as he had a ceaseless .consciousness that the sur- 
 numeraire's eye never left him ; a fact of wliich he became 
 firmly convinced, when once raising his eyes by chance, he 
 met the same dull and apparently eternal glance fastened on 
 him still. From that moment Theophile resigned himself to 
 the decrees of fate. He felt a trouble at hand. 
 
 Six months had passed away. Time had tended to weaken 
 those first unpleasant impressions, and Theophile had grown 
 accustomed to the presence of Auguste Tondu. One afternoon, 
 as the clock struck five, he rose as usual from his stool, wiped 
 his pen, put away his papers, slowly pulled oft" the black glazed 
 calico sleeves destined to protect the cloth of his coat, and was 
 stretching out his hand toward his hat, when a sepulchral voice 
 said : 
 
 " Monsieur Durand, will you be good enough to tell me how 
 long this is to last?" 
 
 It was Auguste Tondu, the only employe besides Monsieur 
 Durand remaining in the ofiice, who had spoken. Theophile 
 remained mute. He was in too great a state of surprise at the 
 xmexpected query to think of answering it. 
 
 " Sir," disdainfully resumed the young man, " I perceive 
 you are dull of apprehension. My meaning is this. I have 
 been deluded into the acceptance of this place of surnumeraire 
 under the impression that you would speedily die or get pro- 
 Bioted ; but, sir, you are doing neither one thing nor the other. 
 I have Avaited six months ; my patience is exhausted, and I 
 want to know how long tliis is going to last ? " 
 
 " Sir," rather agitatedly replied Theophile, " you wish to 
 know more than I can tell. If my chef is willing to promote 
 me I am quite willing to be promoted, that is all I can say." 
 
 " And you know nothing about the other thing '? " 
 
 "No, sir, 1 do not." 
 
 " Upon your word, sir ! " continued Auguste, with a suspi- 
 cious look that implied he thought Monsieur Theophile better 
 informed on this subject than he chose to confess. 
 
 " Upon my word, sir, I know nothing about it ; and I may 
 add, sir, that I am not at all inquisitive ; I really have no wish 
 to know." 
 
 "Well, sir," resumed Auguste, with an oblique look, "you 
 are on your guard ; you know that you stand in my way — 
 enough."
 
 SEVEN YEARS. 297 
 
 Monsieur Theopliile uneasily inquired into tlie exact nature 
 of his meaning, but the only reply he received was tlie enig- 
 matic "enough," sententiously repeated. He was going to 
 retire in a most anxious foreboding state of mind, when Auo-uste 
 exclaimed, with something like pathos : 
 
 " Sir, listen to me, 1 beseech you. I mu4st unburthen my 
 mind to some one. I have conceived a particular affection for 
 you. Again I say, hear me ! " 
 
 Why did the tender-hearted Theophile listen to this insid- 
 ious prayer ? but there was the mischief : he must needs be 
 kind and obliointr. 
 
 o a 
 
 Auguste continued : 
 
 " You behold in me the victim of circumstances ; a wretched, 
 yes, sir, a thoroughly wretched man." 
 
 He did look very desperate as he pursued : " Life is dull, 
 sir, dreadfully dull. I want excitement, genuine excitement. 
 It is a want of my nature ; but I cannot get it, and no one will 
 help me to it. Will you 1 " 
 
 " Sir, be pleased to particularize," gravely replied Theo- 
 phile, " and I shall see what 1 can do." 
 
 '' Sir, you can do nothing ; I have been jjlaced here by a 
 perfidious uncle of mine, who declared you were going to die 
 or be promoted. Accordingly I find this place narrow. In- 
 deed, the whole world is narrov/. I have sought, I may say 
 that I have hunted, for the ideal and never found it. Life is 
 prose, sir, from the beginning to the end of the chapter." 
 
 Monsieur Theophile smiled : he began to understand his 
 companion. 
 
 " You want excitement," he said, still smiling; " get mar- 
 ried, my friend, get married." 
 
 Monsieur Tondu seemed to think the remedy a desperate 
 one indeed, for he growled something or other, and looked 
 suspicious. 
 
 " Why did you not marry ? " he asked. 
 
 " Because 1 do not like excitement," was the composed 
 reply. 
 
 " Are you sent by my uncle ? " asked Tondu, still sus- 
 picious. 
 
 Monsieur Durand replied that he had not the honour of 
 knowing Monsieur To'ndu's uncle. 
 
 " Well, 1 do not object to marriage by way of a change," 
 said Monsieur Tondu ; "" indeed 1 feel that to be loved by a 
 lovely woman would calm me down. I have a handsome for- 
 tune of my own, which my uncle cannot keep from me, and I 
 13*
 
 298 SEVEN TEAKS. 
 
 do not care about a dot. No, a beautiful, adoring creaturBj 
 young and accomplished, is all I want." 
 
 " How would you like her to be ? " asked Monsieur Durand, 
 " dark or fair ? " 
 
 " Fair, fair ! " exclaimed Monsieur Tondu, with a vivacity 
 that scouted the mere idea of raven locks. " Fair, but by no 
 means red ! " 
 
 " Blue eyes," suggested Theophile. 
 
 " Ah ! heavenly blue ! " ejaculated Auguste " celestial 
 colour ! " 
 
 " A fair complexion ? " 
 
 " Lilies and roses ! " 
 
 " A sweet temper ? " 
 
 " A sweet temper ! " repeated Auguste, " Monsieur Durand, 
 when shall I see her ? " 
 
 " Softly, softly," said Monsieur Durand, nodding, " I must 
 speak to her mother first, and to her." 
 
 " Tell her I adore her already," enthusiastically exclaimed 
 the young man ; " tell her — " 
 
 "Softly, softly, you are not of age. May I know if you 
 are free to marry as you choose"? " 
 
 " I have ten thousand francs a year, and I shall be twenty- 
 five next month," composedly replied Monsieur Tondu; "only 
 let me see this angel — what is her name ? " 
 
 " Virginie." 
 
 " Only let me see Virginie then, and everything is well." 
 
 " You cannot see Virginie before a week," replied Monsieur 
 Durand ; in the meanwhile I trust you will be silent." 
 
 " As the grave," was the solemn reply, and on that under- 
 standing they parted. 
 
 " He looks rather young for Virginie," thought Monsieur 
 Durand, as he walked home, " but ten thousand francs a year 
 will make him seem lovely. It is plain, too, that he will make 
 my cousin happy, but prudence, common prudence, requires 
 that I should make a few inquiries before we proceed in this 
 matter." 
 
 Monsieur Durand loved plain dealing in all things. Noth- 
 ing plainer and more straightforward now occurred to him 
 than to step round to M. Tondu, senior, and sound him con- 
 cerning the worldly prospects of his imaginative nephew. 
 
 Monsieur Tondu the elder was a very old gentleman, who 
 lived in an old house, and whom Monsieur Durand found 
 sneezing and coughing by the fire-side. He wore a green 
 shade to protect his eyes, and sat with his hands on his knees.
 
 SEVEN TEAKS. 299 
 
 From beneatli his shade he peered at Monsieur Durand, and 
 feebly inquired into his errand. 
 
 " I am come," began Monsieur Durand, with a mysterious 
 air. 
 
 " Sir," interrupted the old gentleman, with a cautious fore- 
 finger, "sir, take care. I can stand no emotion, no agitation." 
 
 " I trust neither to move nor to agitate you," replied Mon- 
 sieur Durand. " I am come — " 
 
 " Does it relate to money ?" interrupted the old gentleman ; 
 " I warn you that I neither give nor lend." 
 
 " I never ask or borrow," replied Theophile, with great 
 dignity ; " please to hear me." 
 
 This seemed no easy matter to obtain ; for first of all the 
 old gentleman felt sure that there was a draught, then 
 that the chimney smoked, and it was only when Theophile 
 was rising in despair, that the old gentleman said pettishly : 
 " Eeally, sir, this is very strange. I think you have been here 
 quite long enough to let me know your errand. 
 
 " Sir," began Theophile, sitting down, and peering myste- 
 riously into the old gentleman's face, " you have a nephew." 
 
 Here a very red-haired lady of some thirty odd years, 
 whom Monsieur Durand had not noticed before, looked from 
 the window where she sat working, and said in rather a mas- 
 culine voice : 
 
 " Well, sir, what if my father has a nephew 1 are you too 
 come to abuse the poor boy 1 " 
 
 " Oh, her ! not a very good character, I fear ! " thought 
 Monsieur Durand, " I did well to come," But, though he in- 
 wardly congratulated himself on his shrewdness, he declared 
 aloud that he came not to breed family strife, or report evil of 
 the youthful Tondu. 
 
 "I only came," he added blandly, "to inquire into a few 
 particulars, such as his age, and the precise epoch when he is 
 to begin and enjoy those ten thousand francs a year." 
 
 " Sir, you are very indiscreet," said the red-haired lady, 
 rising as if to leave the room ; " my cousin's age and income 
 are no business of yours." 
 
 " Sir," said the old gentleman, raising a shaking forefinger, 
 " if that boy has signed bills they are so much waste paper ; 
 his debts I will never pay, and he is only a child of nineteen 
 according to law." 
 
 " Nineteen ! " exclaimed Monsieur Durand, " he told me 
 he was twenty-five, and that he was coming in to ten thousand 
 francs a year next month."
 
 300 SEVEN" TEAE8. 
 
 " Outrageous, indelicate ! " exclaimed the red-haired lady^ 
 who darted angry looks at her father. " You ought not to ba 
 answered, sir." But not heeding her, the old gentleman pur- 
 sued : 
 
 " He is nineteen, sir ; a lazy, good-for-nothing hoy, whom 
 I keep out of charity, Avho has not a sou of his oAvn. If he 
 owes you money, sir, you may hid adieu to it ; you will never 
 get it." 
 
 " He owes me nothing," impatiently replied Monsieur Du- 
 rand ; " I only want to know when he comes in to those ten 
 thousand francs a year." 
 
 " And I insist on knowing your motive for making that 
 extraordinary inquiry," said the lady, with something like 
 majesty. 
 
 " Yes," said the old gentleman, " we want to know." 
 
 Looking as dignified as either of tliem, Thoopbile began : 
 
 " Monsieur Auguste Tondu, having expressed to me the 
 want of excitement under which he labours, I advised him to 
 marry." 
 
 " Very good advice," said the lady. 
 
 " He assured me he did not care for money : he only wanted 
 beauty and love." 
 
 The lady nodded. 
 
 " I accordingly proposed my cousin Virginie Martin." 
 
 " Gro on, sir," said the lady. 
 
 " A beautiful girl, with whom he fell in love on my de- 
 scription." 
 
 " Go on." 
 
 " For she is fair, not red, and very charming." 
 
 " Go on, sir." 
 
 " I am going on," said Theophile, a little impatient at this 
 needless spurring, " they are to meet in a week ; to meet will 
 be to love, but Virginie has no money, and I wish to know the 
 truth of Monsieur Tondu's assertion : is he to enter next month 
 on ten thousand francs a year ? " 
 
 " Go on," grimly said the lady. 
 
 " I will not," indignantly replied Theophile ; " I have said 
 all I had to say." 
 
 " Sir, I warned you not to agitate me," exclaimed the old 
 gentleman, and throwing himself back in his chair, he fell into 
 a fit. The lady screamed, and instead of rushing to her father 
 went into violent hysterics. 
 
 All presence of mind forsook Monsieur Durand. Instead 
 of assisting his victims, he flew to the door, flew down the stair-
 
 SEVEN TEAKS. 301 
 
 case, and flew along the street, to the confusion and amazement 
 of all quiet passengers. 
 
 We will not describe Monsieur Durand's state of mind. 
 He felt, he knew that he had committed some dreadful mistake, 
 he dreaded meeting the deceitful Tondu, who had led him into 
 all this trouble, and yet meet him he must. Carefully, when 
 that individual entered, did he glance up from his desk, anxious- 
 ly did he endeavour to read in his face the story of the preced- 
 ing day's adventure. 
 
 Auguste Tondu's face was black as night, but as he gave 
 him, Theophile, no particular share of attention, our friend 
 concluded that, so far as he was concerned, all was right. 
 
 He was congratulatiog himself on his escape, and prepar- 
 ing to depart as four struck, when, with upraised hand, Mon- 
 sieur Tondu said : " Stop ! " 
 
 " Stop ! " he repeated, " I have something to say to you." 
 
 " Tell it to me as we go along," suggested Monsieur Du- 
 rand, managing to reach the door. 
 
 " Right, I shall go home with you," replied Auguste Ton- 
 du, taking his arm. 
 
 There was no help for it, so Monsieur Durand submitted. 
 As they walked together, Monsieur Tondu said significantly : 
 
 " Have you ever had an enemy ? No. Well, I was scarcely 
 born when my enemy began. He is my own cousin, much 
 older than myself, and a monster. We had not heard of him 
 for a long time, but yesterday he appeared again — but first let 
 me explain a few matters. I have been reared by a benevolent 
 uncle, whom I revere, and I am to marry his daughter, a beau- 
 tiful young creature, whom I doat on, and who has tea thou- 
 sand francs a year of her own — you understand ? " 
 
 '' Quite," replied Theophile Durand, " your cousin is the 
 lady I saw yesterday, and who — " 
 
 " You never saw her," interrupted Monsieur Tondu, with 
 some sternness, " neither say nor think so. Do not speak : 
 let me go on. Well, sir, my cousin, after being a long time 
 invisible, appeared again yesterday. To my revered uncle he 
 painted me in the most odious colours : as a spendthrift, in 
 short, as a wretch : to my adored cousin, he spoke of me as a 
 faithless lover, specixlating on her fortune to marry another 
 woman. In short, sir, the monster did not leave the house 
 until my uncle was in a fit and my cousin in hysterics. On 
 returning home I found them in that pitiable condition. Well, 
 sir, what do you think of having an enemy ? " 
 
 Monsieur Durand was a quiet man. " Sir," he said du-
 
 302 SEVEN YEAE8. 
 
 biously, " how do you know it was your cousin worked all this 
 mischief? " 
 
 With the utmost composure Auguste Tondu replied : 
 
 '* He took an assumed name, something like 13ertrand le 
 Grand, but my cousin, who has wonderful perspicacity, recog- 
 nised him from the first. We have given a description of him 
 to the Commissaire de Police, and he informed us this morning 
 that he is on the track." 
 
 " Sir," said Monsieur Durand, with great dignity, " I scorn 
 the falsehood. I will not betray you, but I scorn the false- 
 hood." 
 
 A fierce and malignant look was Auguste Tondu's reply. 
 
 " You wish for war," he said ominously. " Well, then, war 
 you shall have." 
 
 Here Theophile's heart failed him. He remembered the 
 manifold opportunities his enemy would possess of annoying 
 him. He already felt pins in his stool, and saw blotches of 
 ink on his fair-written sheet. His proud spirit gave in. 
 
 " Well, sir," he said desperately, " I yield, yes, bir. Your 
 male cousin is a wretch, and your female cousin an angel." 
 
 "Whom you have never seen," suggested Auguste. 
 
 " J^ever," said Theophile, who soothed his conscience with 
 the gentle equivocation that the red-haired lady who said " go 
 on " was not at all like an angel. 
 
 Thus ended this trouble ! with peace, it is true, but with 
 peace bought on such ignominious terms, that they rankled in 
 Theophile's mind. He could not endure the sight of Auguste 
 Tondu ; he could not meet with patience that deceiver's im- 
 pudent look ; in short, he could have no peace of mind until, on 
 his own request, he was transferred to another room. Here he 
 breathed freely and felt happy, until he made some bitter dis- 
 coveries, not the least irritating of which was, that his new 
 stool was in a constant and refreshing draught. The other 
 annoyances he had to bear, such as the employes' conspiring 
 not to let him see the newspaper, or uniting in an amiable plot 
 to exclude from him the heat of the stove in winter, he thought 
 little of: they were the result of that trouble to which, from 
 the name of its originator, he gave the name of Tondu. " My 
 Tondu trouble " he called it in that private autography which, 
 like every human being, he daily wrote for his own perusal, on 
 the broad sheets of memory.
 
 SEVEN TEAKS. 303 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 The second trouble of the quiet man, second on Dur list 
 hundredth on his, was even more formidable than that which 
 we have related, and ought to be a warning to all quiet, pru- 
 dent persons. 
 
 Monsieur Durand had a cousin, a widowed lady, named Mme. 
 Martin, who had a daughter named Virginie, whom Monsieur 
 Durand was extremely anxious to see fairly married ; per- 
 haps because her mother dropped surh strange pertinacious 
 hints, that he could not possibly misunderstand their meaning: 
 she wanted him to marry Virginic. Now though Virgiuie 
 was amiable, good, and pretty, Monsieur Durand loved celibacy 
 too tenderly to think of relinquishing her company for that of 
 mortal woman, and he hunted out husbands with a praiseworthy 
 pertinacity, that endeared him to the mother, and made him 
 thoroughly odious to the daughter. 
 
 His cousin, Madame Martin, a thin and sharp little woman, 
 resided in one of the quiet Paris streets, one of those streets 
 where the houses have shady gardens, full of lilacs and labur- 
 nums ; streets daily becoming more scarce. Opposite her re- 
 sided, in one of those embowered houses, her friend Madame 
 Legrand, a comfortable woman in every sense of the word, who 
 now and then had a superfluous floor to let. 
 
 Neither in person nor in circumstances were the two friends 
 alike ; but they had one point of resemblance, they were both 
 " women of the world." At least they said so, to each other 
 especially. 
 
 If Madame Legrand gave a cosy little dinner to a quiet 
 little circle of friends, and if instead of asking Madame Mar- 
 tin and her pretty daughter Virgiuie, she asked the two cross, 
 but rich, old maids opposite, she was the first to tell her friend 
 of it, with the followina; enwas-infr frankness : 
 
 " You see, my dear Madame Martin, I would much sooner 
 have had you and that dear little Virginie, but what can one 
 do ? those two old creatures are always loading me with pre- 
 serves; it was only last week they sent me a bottle of noyau, 
 and another of ratafia; and then, my dear Madame Martin, 
 though I do not care one pin about them, yet I am an old 
 woman of the world — that's the truth of it." 
 
 Ear from being; or showing herself oS'ended, Madame Mar- 
 tin admired her friend, and approved her warmly, " Quite
 
 304- SEVEN TEAKS. 
 
 right," she replied with emphatic nod and tone, " quite right ; 
 that, and no other, was the way to get on through lite. 
 She was an old woman of the world herself, and would haA'e 
 done just the same. Invite her and Virginie ! why so ? What 
 was there to gain by them she should like to know ? No, 
 no, ask the donors of preserves, noyau, and ratafia by all 
 
 means." 
 
 Thanks to this philosojihic indulgence, the two ladies went 
 on wonderfully well. It is true that occasionally — not more 
 than five or six times a year — Madame Martin would lay va- 
 rious little plots and schemes, rather tending to injure the 
 •comforts or interests of Madame Legrand ; to deprive her of a 
 good dinner, or prevent her furnished apartment from being 
 let, but even when the said plots and schemes were brought 
 home to her in the most evident manner, she scorned to look 
 disconcerted. 
 
 " She was an old woman of the world," she said, triumph- 
 antly. This explained everything. 
 
 These two excellent friends had, however, set their heart 
 on a common object : the marriage of Virginie Martin with 
 some individual, no matter who, rich and high enough to be- 
 come the husband of a pretty and charming girl. That Mad- 
 ame Martin, who had only a very slender annuity, should wish 
 to get lier daughter advantageously married was natural 
 enough, but that an old experienced woman of the world, like 
 Madame Legrand, should trouble herself about the marriage 
 of any girl, however charming, might seem strange, but for 
 the following reasons. 
 
 Madame Legrand was something of an epicure, and she 
 liked a wedding dinner ; then she also liked a handsome 
 present, and every one knows, or ought to know, that the per- 
 sons who help to tie the knot of a French marriage invariably 
 receive a cadeau proportionate to the value of the bargain ; for 
 a bargain it is in every sense of the word. 
 
 But notwithstanding the zeal of the two ladies, Virginie 
 remained unmarried. In vain had the unhappy girl been 
 actually ofi'ered — for it was no less — to every marriageable 
 man in the vicinity, for the last three years ; she was still 
 Virginie Martin, and yet she was pretty, and, as we already 
 said, very charming. 
 
 Madame Martin was beginning to despair, and Madame 
 Legrand had prophetically exclainitd tbat she should never 
 partake of Virginie's wedding dinner, when the former lady
 
 SEVEN TEARS. 305 
 
 uiade an unexpected discovery, which resuscitated her dying 
 holies, and filled her maternal heart with joy. 
 
 " Madame Legrand," said she, entering her friend's little 
 parlour one afternoon, and addressing the other lady, who was 
 taking her after-dinner repose near the open window, " Mad- 
 ame Legrand, we have been acquainted these twenty years* 
 we are both old women of the world, and so what is the use of 
 finessing with one another ? I might saj'^ I called here to see 
 how you were after your bad cold, but I shall do no sucb 
 thing; no, my good Madame Legrand, I call to tell you I am 
 coming to dine to-morrow with you ; Virginie, of course, ac- 
 companies me. What do you think of that ? " She folded 
 her arms, and drew herself up with a triumphant air. Mad- 
 ame Legrand coughed a reserved alarmed cough, and held her- 
 self on the defensive. Her friend smiled and quietly con- 
 tinued : 
 
 " I have already ordered a leg of mutton, and seen about 
 the poultry and the dessert. But it shall be a very plain 
 meal — extremely so. One must not overdo the thing, Madame 
 Legrand." 
 
 Madame Legrand took an evasive half-dignified air. She 
 did not exactly understand her friend. She was very dull of 
 apprehension sometimes. Might she know exactly what 
 Madame Martin meant ? Madame Martin nodded ; confessed 
 the request was reasonable, drew her chair nearer to that of 
 her friend, took a confidential attitude, and whispered very 
 significantly : 
 
 " You see that gentleman walking in your little garden, do 
 you not? " 
 
 " Yes, I see Monsieur Edouard Lefevre, my lodger." 
 
 " Then you behold a most unhappy man. Look at him, is 
 there not grief, yes, deep grief, written on that face ? " 
 
 " Well, he does not look merry ; but what about it ? " 
 
 " Merry ! I should like to know how a man who has lost 
 two hundred thousand francs a year could look merry 1 " 
 
 Madame Legrand opened her eyes. Her friend smiled 
 with the consciousness of superior knowledge, and laconically 
 informed her that the simpl-e unassuming man, who had been 
 lodging with her for the last week, was no other than the rich 
 Edouard Lefevre from Lyons; that unhappy merchant who 
 had recently lost in railroads the heavy sum above mentioned. 
 
 " I had it all from my cousin, Theophile Durand," she 
 added, " who had it all from M. Lefevre's aunt, and who took
 
 306 SEVEN YEARS. 
 
 a fiacre to come and tell nie that the unhappy man was here in 
 your house endeavouring to calm his mind." 
 
 " But what has all this to do with to-morrow's dinner ? " 
 asked Madame Legrand, without losing sight of the original 
 question. 
 
 " My dear friend, that unhappy man needs society ; it will 
 cheer him." 
 
 Madame Legrand looked sceptical. " "Well, it really is no 
 use to feign with an old woman of the world like you,'' said 
 Madame Martin, with philosophic candour, " the fact is, I want 
 him to see Virginie." 
 
 " But if he is bankrupt ! A propos, I hope he will 
 pay me ! " 
 
 "Be quite easy," replied Madame Martin, with a sagacious 
 smile, " it is quite true he has lost two hundred thousand 
 francs income — but then he has thirty thousand francs a year 
 left. His aunt said so." 
 
 " I would not trust his aunt if I were you," said Madame 
 Legrand, looking uneasy; " indeed, now that I know this I 
 mean to ask him to pay in advance ; ay, and this evening too." 
 Madame Martin was greatly alarmed; it required all 
 her eloquence and tact to persuade her friend that Monsieur 
 Lefcvre had really a handsome fortune left, but she at length 
 succeeded ; and, a much easier task, she convinced her that it 
 was highly proper to give him a dinner at her, Madame Mar- 
 tin's, expense, in order to cheer him in his solitude. 
 
 "Virginie, do you mean to dress to-day?" drily said 
 Madame Martin to her daughter, on the afternoon of the fol- 
 lowing day. 
 
 The young girl did not answer. She sat near the table, 
 her blow rested on her folded hands ; her whole attitude sad, 
 listless, and drooping. 
 
 " Come, make haste " urged her mother, " look at your 
 dress ! how nice it is ! " 
 
 The young girl slowly raised her glance. She was a pretty, 
 elegant blonde, with soft blue eyes and delicate features ; but 
 her look was troubled, and her face was pale. She gave a dis- 
 tressed look at the clear white muslin robe her mother dis- 
 played with evident complacency, then resumed her old 
 attitude, and wept bitterly. The poor girl knew that dress 
 well, far too well. To her it was the symbol of degradation, 
 mortification, and shame. Whenever a new star dawned on 
 the matrimonial horizon, Virginie Martin had to put on the 
 clear white muslin — nothing became her so well — and display
 
 SEVEN YEABS. 307 
 
 to the best advantage whatever attractions nature had given 
 ter. Her -whole soul revolted against this, but her mother ^ 
 was inflexible, and poor Virginie was gentle and pretty — she 
 always yielded. On the present occasion she proved more 
 than usually rebellious. 
 
 " I cannot and I will not," she passionately cried, 
 " Heaven help me ! is thei-e nothing I can do ? let me be a 
 milliner, a dressmaker, anything you like, but let me earn my 
 bread, and not do such things." Broken sobs impeded her 
 utterance. 
 
 " A milliner, a dressmaker ! " exclaimed Madame Martin^ 
 with sorrowful indiguation, " and it is my daughter, Virginie 
 Martin, who has such ideas, svich sentiments ! For shame ! " 
 
 " I am not ashamed of them," replied the young girl, look- 
 ing up with flushed cheek and kindling glance, " but I am 
 ashamed whenever I put on that abominable di-ess." 
 
 " An exquisite white muslin, emblem of virgin innocence, 
 and youthful freshness, and transparency of feeling ; she calls 
 it abominable ! " 
 
 " Yes, abominable ! for whenever I have put it on it has 
 been to see myself ofi"ered to some man or other. Good heav- 
 ens ! the thought of it makes me feel hot ! AVhen will women 
 cease to be so cheap ? '' 
 
 " When they have money," philosophically replied the old 
 woman of the world ; " I am really ashamed of your ignorance, 
 Virginie: my daughter, not to know better ! As to your being 
 ' ofi'ered,' as you choose to call it, I do not see how it can be 
 helped, whilst men are what they are. Entre nous, my dear, 
 men are regular Turks, and every man thinks himself a Sultan 
 at the very least. They like to have women ofi'ered to them, 
 and to pick and choose. My dear, let them ; tve get the best 
 of it in the end, and, as the old proverb says : those who laugh 
 last laugh best. So put on your dress, and look as pretty as 
 you can." 
 
 A fresh burst of tears was the only reply this maternal ex- 
 hortation received. 
 
 " That is it ! " indignantly exclaimed Madame Martin, 
 " cry, ridden your eyes, make yourself look pale, ill, and sulky, 
 as you always do on those occasions ; no wonder the men will 
 not have so wan and lachryujose a creature ! Come, do you 
 mean to put on that dress ? " 
 
 Virginie shook her head. " She could not," she said, " she 
 felt she could not." Madame Martin was too old a woman of 
 the world not to know the value of a little pathos now and
 
 808 SEVEN YEARS. 
 
 then. She therefore burst into tears, and lamented her fate 
 .in pathetic accents. " She had a daughter, and had reared 
 her up for this ! She had done everything to get her married, 
 was it her fault if men were not willing ? Slie had carried 
 her maternal devotion to the point of laying out twenty francs 
 ■ — it would not come to less — for a dinner to be given by 
 Madame Legrand, in order that Virginie miglit meet Monsieur 
 Lefevre, and now Virginie would not go, and her money was 
 thrown away, and she was a most unhappy mother ! " 
 
 Virginie resisted a while longer, but at length this matter 
 ended, as usual, by her putting on the white muslin, and agree- 
 ing to accompany her mother. 
 
 On entering the little parlour of Madame Legrand, Madame 
 Martin was struck with dismay to perceive two ladies, one 
 young, and a very pretty brunette, already seated there. 
 Madame Legrand apologetically whispered that her sister-in- 
 law and niece having unexpectedly called upon her, she could 
 not, of course, do less than ask them to dinner, but then, of 
 course, she would divide the expenses with her friend. 
 
 Madame Martin was too old a woman of the world to be- 
 lieve a word of this. Tiie sister-in-law and niece resided ten 
 leagues away, they called twice a year on Madame Legrand ; 
 never more ; they had evidently been summoned post haste, 
 lest such a prize should go out of the family. It was as clear 
 as noonday. Even for an old woman of the world this was 
 rather hard to bear, and then, to make matters worse, this 
 perfidious Madame Legrand had made the young girls sit side 
 by side. How could the pale, inanimate Virginie stand a 
 comparison with the brilliant bloom and engaging vivacity of 
 her rival ? Madame Martin internally gave it up, and waited 
 with the resignation of despair for the entrance of Monsieur 
 Lefevre. But Monsieur Lefevre did not come. " A sudden 
 fit of indisposition deprived him of the j)leasure of dining with 
 the ladies." 
 
 Madame Legrand looked disconcerted ; her niece pouted; 
 Madame Martin triumphed, and Virginie looked enchanted 
 and charming. Relieved from the dreadful apprehension of 
 meeting the stranger, she became so gay and pretty, that 
 Madame Martin sighed to think how very provoking it was in 
 her never to look so at the proper times. She gave her a good 
 lecture on the subject in the garden, whither they all repaired 
 after dinner. Madame Legrand, her sister-in-law, and niece, 
 held a consultation apart, whilst Madame Martin and Virginia 
 were unceremoniously left to their own society.
 
 SEVEN TEAKS. 309 
 
 " Virginie," pathetically said the maman, " do you wish to 
 break my heart ? " 
 
 " Is it my fault, maman, if Monsieur Lefevre was ill ? " 
 
 " But if he had come, good gracious, if he had come ! 
 Why, when the door opened once, you sank back on your seat 
 white and trembling. For heaven's sake — I hope you feel 
 better, sir," she suddenly added, in a soft, insinuating voice. 
 
 Virginie looked up, and perceived a serious-looking man 
 of thirty or so standing near them. He paused on being thus 
 addressed, and though not without a keen look of surprise at 
 the elder lady, he politely thanked her, and said that he felt 
 much better indeed. He looked inclined to walk on, but 
 Madame Martin was not going to let him escape thus; she 
 gently compelled Virginie to resume the ])l;iee by her side 
 which the young girl had shrinkingly left. The path was nar- 
 row. Monsieur Lefevre could not attempt to move on without 
 evident rudeness ; he did not seek to do so, but whilst Madame 
 Martin assailed him with a torrent of fluent speech, he looked 
 at her daughter with much attention. Evening was closing in, 
 but they stood face to face within a few paces of each otiier : 
 be could see her well. Virginie was not pale now ; she was 
 crimson ; indeed her agitation was so evident, that it was that, 
 much more than her beauty, which attracted the gentleman's 
 attention. He asked himself with some wonder what there 
 was in his presence to produce such emotion, and if all Pari- 
 sian girls were so. He was not left long in doubt, for Mad- 
 ame Martin having imprudently raised her voi<;e, tlie sound 
 reached the ears of Madame Legrand, who rushed panting to 
 the rescue with her blooming, smiling niece. Monsieur Lefe- 
 vre looked annoyed, but he was now fairly surrounded ; there 
 was no help for it. He submitted with tolerable composure; 
 walked up and down the garden with the ladies, and probably 
 began to understand something of what was going on, for, as 
 he saw Madame Legrand bring forward her niece on every oc- 
 casion, and Madame Martin pertinaciously offer poor Virginie 
 to his notice, a scarcely perceptible, though sarcastic, smile 
 appeared once or twice on his pale firm lips. 
 
 " I think we had better go in," at length kindly said 
 Madame Legrand, who perceived with some alarm that her 
 guest looked ratber more at the pale Virginie than at her bril- 
 liant niece, " that dear Virginie is so delicate that the night 
 air might afiect her ; indeed she looks very pale as it is ! " 
 Madame Martin indignantly begged to inform her friend
 
 310 SEVEN YEARS. 
 
 ttafc the health of Vh-ginie was excellent. Virginie had never 
 been ill since she had the measles. 
 
 " Which must have been a good while ago," charitably said 
 M ad ame L egran d . 
 
 Madame Martin scorned to answer the calumny. It re- 
 futed itself or rather Virgiuie's youthful face refuted it 
 completely. 
 
 They went in ; Madame Legrand asked her niece to sing, 
 and Mademoiselle unhesitatingly attacked a magnificent solo, 
 in which she introduced a few superfluous ornaments, that did 
 very well indeed. 
 
 " I believe Mademoiselle Martin does not sing ? " kindly 
 said Madame Lesrand. 
 
 " Yes she does," shortly replied her indignant mother. 
 
 Virginie gave her a look of terror. She never had sung in 
 company in her life, and knew nothing of music. But her 
 mother was roused and pitiless. She led her to the piano, and 
 stood by her side to encourage her, and, if needs were, to en- 
 force obedience. Virginie made an attempt, but her voice 
 broke down almost immediately. '' There, you have finished 
 it now," savagely whispered her mother, hurrying her out of 
 *;he room amidst the ill-repressed titter of the Legrands. 
 
 It certainly did not appear that M. Theophile Durand had 
 any particular share in the disasters of this day, save as the 
 originator of the campaign which ended in such signal defeat. 
 But this proved enough, and more than enough, for mother 
 and daughter. Virginie scarcely reached home when she threw 
 herself into a chair, burst into tears, and esclaimed : " I de- 
 test Monsieur Durand " 
 
 " A mean, spiritless fellow to' allov/ his female relatives to 
 be insulted in that way ! " cried Madame Martin in an excit- 
 ed tone ; " but he shall see, he shall see ! " She resumed her 
 bonnet and shawl, which she had put away, and left the room 
 without any other word. 
 
 Monsieur Theophile Durand was in his first nap, when he 
 was roused by a violent ringing and knocking at his room door ; 
 for his apartmeiit consisted of one chamber and a closet. He 
 sat up in bed and listened, slily feigning deafness. The ring- 
 ing was violently repeated, and accompanied by something so 
 like the kick of a shoe, that Monsieur Durand wrathfully cried 
 out : 
 
 " Who is there ? " 
 
 " Open, sir ! " indignantly exclaimed the shrill voice of Ma- 
 dame Martin.
 
 SEVEN YEARS. oil 
 
 Monsieur Durand chuclcled with glee, to think that he had 
 so good an excuse not to admit his cousin. 
 
 " My dear relative," he sweetly replied, " I should be 
 charmed, delighted, to let you in, but my night-cap is on. I 
 need say no more to a lady of your quick and delicate percep- 
 tions. " 
 
 " Your night-cap, sir ! how dare you talk of your night-cap 
 to me ? What have I to do with it ? " 
 
 '' Nothing, thank heaven I " said Monsieur Durand in a low 
 tone. 
 
 " Well, sir," resumed Madame Martin's voice, " I shall go, 
 as you do not choose to let me in. Indeed I have only this 
 much to say. Having been so ill advised as to act on the in- 
 furmation you gave us, my daughter Virginie and I have been 
 drawn into expense, and have received iusults, from which 
 you, sir, will not have the spirit to avenge us. Good night, sir." 
 
 Her voice was heard no more, and Monsieur Durand fell 
 in a troubled sleep, from wliich he awoke three times in a cold 
 perspiration, having dreamed each time that Madame Martin, 
 after forcing her way into his apartment, insisted no longer on 
 his marrying Virginie, but on his marrying her^ as a slight 
 atonement for the many wrongs he had inflicted on her feelings 
 and her pocket. 
 
 Monsieur Theophile would have been calmer in his mind 
 if he had known the unexpected turn affairs had taken. 
 
 The feuds of Madame Legrand and Madame Martin never 
 lasted. War is unprofitable, and these two old women of the 
 world knew the value and the blessings of peace. 
 
 Madame Legrand quickly found out tliat her niece would 
 not do, and veered back to Virginie, as a matter of course. 
 Indeed, with such zeal did she enter into the plans she had 
 done her best to frustrate, that she asked Virginie to spend a 
 week with her. The young girl made some resistance, but it 
 was not quite so strong as might have been expected from her 
 previous reluctance to put on the white muslin. A word of 
 authority from Madame Martin reduced her to obedience. 
 
 For two days Madame Martin, who was supposed to be in 
 the country, kept herself locked up. Early on the morning of 
 the third day she slipped over to xMadame Legrand's, and was 
 admitted to a mysterious interview in that lady's bedroom. 
 
 " And how are matters going on ? " asked Madame Martin. 
 
 " Well, well," calmly replied Madame Legrand. " Mon- 
 sieur Lefevre is enamoured, I saw that from the first."
 
 SVji .^lEVEN TEARS. 
 
 " Ana how clOcS Yirginie beliave ? " asked Madame Mar- 
 tin : " like a fool ? ' 
 
 " Not exactly. Slie does not give Monsieur Lefevre many 
 opportunities of meeting her : but I rather fancy that her 
 timidity and bashfulness are advantageous. He already lends 
 her books." 
 
 " That's good," approvingly said Madame Martin. 
 
 " Excellent. And now, my dear friend, if it is to be a 
 match, I may as well tell you what I should like. I am 
 moderate by nature. A dozen of silver forks and spoons will 
 do." 
 
 " My dear Madame Lcgrand," replied Madame Martin, 
 with a placid nod, " nothing can repay a friendship like yours. 
 If Virginie becomes Madame Lefevre, she owes it to you." 
 
 " Perhaps your cousin might think," began Madame Le- 
 grand — 
 
 " He ! " interrupted Madame Martin, with great scorn, " 1 
 should like to see liim, expecting anything. The mean little 
 fellow ! " 
 
 With this eulogy Madame Martin went back to her apart- 
 ment, but lest her dear friend Madame Legrand should take 
 a real fancy to send back Virginie, she, Madame Martin, 
 thought it her wisest course to go oft to Neuilly on a visit to 
 an aged aunt, who was too far gone in age to protest against 
 the intrusion. What could she say, moreover, when her niece 
 entered the house with the avowed intention of making her 
 comfortable ? 
 
 " I do not see, aunt, why I should not stay with you, now 
 that Virginie is going to get married," she said graciously, 
 
 " Is she going to get married ? " asked the aunt, lifting up 
 a feeble head, " and with whom 'i " 
 
 " With Monsieur Lefevre of Lyons," replied Madame 
 Martin. 
 
 " Not the one who has two wives already," said her aunt, 
 musingly. 
 
 " Two wives ! " echoed Madame Martin, in a hollow 
 voice. 
 
 " Yes, he was married abroad, and he married another lady 
 in France, and there was a great law-suit about which was the 
 right wife." 
 
 " It cannot be that one," said Madame Martin ; " I will 
 never believe," she added, raising her voice, as if the culprit 
 were within hearing, " I will never believe that, bad as he is,
 
 SEVEN >:eaes. 313 
 
 my cousin Theopliile Duraiid could help to delude Virgiiiie 
 iuto such a marriage as that." 
 
 The aunt burst iuto a croaking laugh. 
 
 " Oh ! " she cried, lifting up her hands, " if le had any- 
 thing to do with it I consider it a .settled thing. Poor Vir- 
 ginie, poor girl." 
 
 It was night, but Madame Martin's resolve was taken in a 
 second. She sent for a cab, jumped iuto it, and drove to her 
 cousin's door, for wrath proved stronger, in this instance, than 
 maternal anxiety. 
 
 Unconscious of the brooding storm. Monsieur Theophile 
 Durand, who was an economical man, was cooking his dinner 
 on a stove in the closet, wiien a mild, deceitful ring at the 
 door induced him to open it. In bounced Madame Martin, 
 wrathful and smilina;. 
 
 " Good afternoon, sir," she said sweetly, "I hope you are 
 well, sir ? " 
 
 " Quite well," replied Monsieur Durand. " I*ray be 
 seated." 
 
 " Thank you, sir, a carriage is waiting for me at the door. 
 Perhaps you will kindly answer me this question, sir : How 
 many wives, to your knowledge, has Monsieur Lefevre got ? " 
 
 " Tw — 0," gasped Monsieur Durand, " but the second is 
 the right one. I learned it yesterday." 
 
 " Thank you, sir, I am very much obliged to you. I have 
 it from your own lips, on your confession that you advised 
 me to marry my daughter to a man that has two wives 
 living." 
 
 " My dear cousin, I thought him single." 
 
 " Did you inquire ? " was the stern rejoinder. 
 
 " No— 0." 
 
 " Then how dare you speak of Monsieur Lefevre to me, 
 sir?" 
 
 " But you know all about it ! " desperately exclaimed 
 Monsieur Durand. 
 
 " I sir, I ! Do you mean to add insult to injury ? " 
 
 " But when you came the other evening and rang, when I 
 had my night-cap on, you knew it surely ! " 
 
 Madame Martin loftily begged he would neither recall 
 that evening nor his conduct thereon, and again asked if he 
 meant to add insult to injury. 
 
 Monsieur Durand, who was losing his temper, testily replied 
 that he meant to eat his dinner, and unceremoniously returned 
 to the closet and to his cooking. 
 14
 
 314 SEVEN YEAE^. 
 
 " Very well, sir," resumed the voice of Madame Martin 
 from the outer room, " very well, sir, you v/ill remember this." 
 
 The slam of a door told Monsieur Durand that she was 
 gone. His first selfish, natural feeling was one of self-congrat- 
 ulation at escaping her tongue, and being allowed to eat his 
 hard-earned dinner in peace. Then came remorse and concern 
 at the error into which he had fallen, and an earnest desire to 
 mend matters, so far as they could still be mended. 
 
 Monsieur Tht-ophile Durand had a good deal of that nerv- 
 ous timidity which lies most in manner, and does not exclude 
 courage. His bravery, for lying dormant, was none the less 
 real ; he now got excited about the wrongs of Virginie, and 
 resolved to right them without loss of time. 
 
 " The cold-hearted villain ! " he exclaimed, seizing his hat 
 and cane, and hurrying out, " did he think that poor child had 
 no protector, no frieiid ? AVe shall see — we shall see." 
 
 Monsieur Durand lived at no great distance from Madame 
 Legrand's house. In a few minutes he had reached her door, 
 and was knocking violently. A frightened-looking servant 
 answered the calk 
 
 " Madame is out," she said. 
 
 " I want to see Monsieur Lefevre," sternly replied The- 
 ophile ; "lead me into his presence." 
 
 The servant afterwards declared he looked quite awful, 
 and that resistance was out of the question. Without even 
 asking his name, she opened a door and ushered him into 
 the room where Monsieur Lefevre was sitting with Virginie. 
 
 This requires explanation. Monsieur Lefevre, as Mad- 
 ame Legrand plainly saw, was very much smitten with her 
 yOung friend, and readily availed himself of every opportu- 
 nity of meeting her, which the elder lady afforded him. From 
 lending books, he soon came to giving Virginie music les- 
 sons; Madame Legrand was jDresent, of course, but the les 
 sons were long, and she sometimes left the room, to return 
 almost immediately, it is true. But this day Madame Le- 
 grand left and did not return ; she forgot Virginie, propriety, 
 and prudence. Her cook had allowed her apricot preserves 
 to burn ; an unmistakable odour reached her in the drawing- 
 room. She rose precipitately, rushed down stairs, and found 
 the jam on the fire and the kitchen deserted. The faithless 
 cook was flirting with the butcher's boy at the garden gate, 
 " and my apricots, my most valuable apricots," as Madame 
 Legrand afterwards said in relating this lamentable occurrence 
 to a friend, " were left to their fate."
 
 SEVEN YEARS. 315 
 
 Desperate emergencies inspire desperate resolves. Madame 
 Legrand took up the hissing jam, called the cook, gaA'e her 
 warning on the spot, then solemnly bade the housemaid deny 
 her to the whole world. 
 
 " Give me a white apron," she said, " and no matter who 
 comes, say I am not at home." 
 
 Thus Virgii:ie remained alone with Monsieur Lefevre. 
 Neither the teacher nor the pupil were at first conscious of 
 this important fact. Monsieur Lefevre, happening to turn 
 his head round, first perceived that Madame Legrand was 
 gone. Virginie next, appealing to that lady, became aware 
 of her absence, and of what was infinitely worse in decorous 
 France, that she, Virginie Martin, was alone with her music- 
 master. What should she do ? To leave precipitately might 
 look like an afiectation of 2-»rudery, to remain might make Mon- 
 sieur Lefevre hold her forward or imprudent. Still some-thing 
 must be done. She hesitated a while, then at length, and 
 with a painful blush that betrayed her embarrassment, she 
 rose, and closing the piano, said as calmly as she could. 
 
 " I have troubled you enough to day : Madame Legrand 
 may want me below, I shall go and see." 
 
 Monsieur Lefevre looked undecided ; but by the time 
 that Virginie had crossed the room and reached th<j door, his 
 mind was made up, and following her quickly, he arrested her 
 with the entreaty : 
 
 " May I request that you will hear me for a few moments ? " 
 Virginie remained with her hand on the lock, and by her si- 
 lence gave consent. 
 
 What passed, and what Monsieur Lefevre said, need not 
 be told. Of course it was a declaration of love and an oifer 
 of marriage. Virginie's reply we need not record, of course 
 it was modest assent. 
 
 Love is a beautiful thing ; but for a man to declare his 
 afi"ection to a woman is by no means so delightful a task as 
 might be imagined, and for a woman to hear the aforesaid dec- 
 laration, even when it comes from a preferred lover, is not al- 
 ways so pleasant as might seem. It is often quite a relief 
 when a third unconscious person steps in and breaks on tl e 
 awkward, howsoever rapturous, silence that must needs follow. 
 
 On the general principle, therefore, Theophile Durand 
 ought to have been welcome to both Virginie and her lover; 
 but strange to say, whether his interruption came a little too 
 soon, that is to say, before the rapture had subsided and the 
 awkwardness had come, or a little too late, that is, after the
 
 316 SEVEN TEAES. 
 
 said awkwardness was quite over and his presence no longei 
 needed, — somehow or other, in short, he came most unseason- 
 ably, startling by the abruptness of his entrance the fair Vir- 
 ginie, who was sitting on a sofa, and who, on seeing him, got 
 up with a little scream, and considerably annoying her com- 
 panion, who rose more slowly from the conch, and returned 
 with interest the scowl of Monsieur Theophile Durand. 
 
 " Sir," he sharply said, " who are you ? What do you 
 want ? " 
 
 " Virginie, take my arm and leave this house,"' was Mon- 
 sieur Durand's indignant reply. 
 
 On hearing an utter stranger call his mistress by her 
 Christian name. Monsieur Lefevre reddened and looked 
 angry. Whilst Virginie made a motion of disgust, and said 
 sharply : 
 
 " I beg, Monsieur Durand, that you will not meddle in my 
 
 concerns." 
 
 " Infatuated girl! " said Monsieur Durand, filled with pity 
 for her blindness, " do you know this man ? Child, he has two 
 wives living ! Two wives." 
 
 Monsieur Lefevre laughed scornfully. 
 
 " The accusation is too ridiculous for me to resent it," he 
 said, calmly, " and I am sure Mademoiselle 'Martin will not 
 credit it one moment." 
 
 " Not one," said Virginie, with great warmth, " not one." 
 
 " I repeat it, he has two wives," said Monsieur Durand, 
 warming with his subject, " a poor young Indian girl, whom 
 be married in the South Sea Isles, and a lady of Lyons — " 
 
 " Sir, I will hear no more on this absurd matter," inter- 
 rupted Monsieur Lefevre, waxing wroth. 
 
 " Virginie, take my arm and leave the house," said Mon- 
 sieur Durand ; " I tell you this man has two wives, that your 
 mother is distracted with grief on your account, and that she 
 insists on your leaving this wretched house." 
 
 Monsieur Lefevre looked stiflF and offended. 
 
 " If Madame Martin liaddone me the honour of requesting 
 a personal explanation," he said, "all this would have been 
 avoided. I know, of course, that she will regret her precipi- 
 tate conduct, but I do not know how far I can consent to 
 overlook such unmerited insults." 
 
 And without giving Virginie a look, Monsieur Lefevre left 
 the room. The young girl burst into tears; but Monsieur 
 Durand took her arm and led her away, asking indignantly if 
 she regretted not marrying a man who had two wives living.
 
 SEVEN YEARS. 317 
 
 It was lucky Madame Martin lived opposite ; Virginie 
 could scarcely cross the street, and Monsieur Duraud thought 
 she would surely faint on the staircase. He was the moi-e 
 frightened that Madame Martin was out. The portress had 
 given the key of their apartment to Virginie as they passed 
 her lodge ; for this strange mother, instead of snatching her 
 child from the fangs of the bigamist, had left word that she 
 ■^as gone back to Neuilly. 
 
 " There is something dreadful under all this," thought 
 Monsieur Durand, foreseeing a calamity ; " 1 must lock up 
 Virginie, take a cab and rush off to Neuilly, there I shall 
 warn Madame Martin that I have rid her of this determined 
 bigamist, then, ma foi, I shall wash my hands of the whole 
 affair." So said, so done. Virginie, though weak and faint, 
 declared she could remain alone, and Monsieur Duraud took 
 care to lock her up slyly, and walk off' with the key in his 
 pocket. A cab was soon found, and in less than an hour Mon- 
 sieur Durand entered the house of Madame Martin's aunt. 
 
 The two ladies were at dinner when he was announced. 
 
 " Monsieur Durand ! " said Madame Martii), laying down 
 her fork, " what has he been doing ? " 
 
 " Show him in — show him in," said the old aunt, with fee- 
 ble eagerness, " T know it will be something funny." 
 
 In walked Monsieur Durand, cool, dignified, and import- 
 ant. " Madame," said he to the aunt, " I must apologize " — 
 
 " Never mind, never mind," she interrupted, " what is it ? 
 — let us hear it." 
 
 " Cousin," said Theophile, addressing Madame Martin, 
 " Virginie is safe." 
 
 Virginie's mother heard him with singular calmness. 
 
 " What about it ? " she asked. 
 
 " I locked her up myself in your home," pursued Theo- 
 phile, " and here is the key of your apartment." 
 
 Madame Martin stared, but did not utter one word. 
 
 " I may say that I have saved her," pursued Monsieur 
 Durand. " I found her alone with that wretch, and from her 
 gently-confused look I have no doubt he had been making 
 love to her. But I exposed him to her, cousin ; exasperated 
 him so that he pretty clearly gave her up, and left the room 
 in a great pretence of anger* upon which I took her arm, 
 forcibly led her out, locked hev up, and came hei-e." 
 
 Monsieur Durand wiped his forehead, and smiled compla- 
 cently on his cousin. 
 
 " I knew it ! " cried Madame Martin, striking her plate
 
 318 SEVEN TEARS. 
 
 v?ith her knife, and ttius recklessly breaking it in the exaspera 
 tion of her anger ; " I knew it — he has ruined all — all ruined 
 — ruined." Monsieur Durand heard her amazed. 
 
 " Miserable man," she resumed, " what made you meddle ? 
 just tell me that ; could you not let a mother judge for her 
 child ? " 
 
 " A bigamist ! " began Monsieur Durand. 
 
 " A bigamist ! " screamed Madame Martin, " he a bigamist, 
 a distinguished Professor of Eloquence in the University of 
 Louvain, at a salary of six thousand francs a year, if not ten, 
 — he a bigamist? Say that you are a bigamist, sir ! " 
 
 "I?" 
 
 " Yes, sir, a bigamist, I maintain it." 
 
 Here a gurgling noise was heard, and it was discovered that 
 the old aunt was choking- in her arm-chair, the result of indis- 
 creet laughter. 
 
 " Wretch! " said Madame Martin, flying to her aid, "did 
 you come here to commit murder ? " 
 
 She slapped her aunt in the back, until the venerable lady 
 came round, and though still much exhausted, partly recovered 
 her breath. This satisfactory result being obtained, Madame 
 Martin declared that, thanks to her obliging cousin Monsieur 
 Durand, she must have another jaunt to Paris, and, without 
 finishing her dinner, she threw on, rather than she put, her 
 bonnet and shawl, and accompanied by the discomfited Du- 
 rand, she walked down to the cab, informing the cabman that 
 if he drove quick his fare would be doubled. 
 
 Madame Martin was too much exasperated to scold her un- 
 fortunate cousin. She merely asked, with keen and cutting 
 irony, how a man of his bright wit and experience could take 
 a refined professor of eloquence for a coarse merchant and a 
 bigamist, and how he dare take on himself to lock up Virginie ? 
 and as Monsieur Durand was too much cast down to reply, 
 she maintained a sulky silence until the cab stopped at her 
 door. She then alighted, and sternly said : 
 
 " Here we part, sir. Your conduct I will not qualify. 
 You have covered yourself and your family with disgrace, you 
 have done your best to prevent my daughter Virginie from 
 making a most excellent and desirable match. Your work is 
 consummated. Go ; I request that I may never see your face 
 again." 
 
 So saying, Madame Martin majestically entered the house, 
 slammed the door in her cousin's face, and left him the cab to 
 pay.
 
 SEVEN YEARS. 319 
 
 " Two francs for going, one franc for waiting, and four 
 francs for having driven fast back to Paris : seven francs, be- 
 sides what Monsieur chooses to give," added the cabman. 
 
 "Take it, take it all!" desperately cried Monsieur Du- 
 rand, throwing him the money and running away. 
 
 CHAPTER in. 
 
 That Virglnie was married, that the wedding dinner was 
 choice, that the bride looked lovely, and the bridegroom 
 thoroughly blessed, Theophile Dm-and learned through public 
 report. But he was not asked to the marriage ceremony, he 
 was not one of the dinner guests ; " and though without me 
 the two ungrateful creatures would never have been married," 
 said Monsieur Theophile Duraud, " I received my usual re- 
 ward : neglect.''' 
 
 Under this mortifying neglect Monsieur Durand was not 
 doomed to linger. His new cousin euded by laughing at the 
 bigamist story ; Virginie was too happy to feel any resent- 
 ment, and Madame Martin magnanimously declared that she 
 forgave her cousin : in short, the three united in extending 
 the hand of peace to the oiFender. Monsieur Theophile Du- 
 rand was formally asked to dinner: being a good-natured man 
 and having at heart a foolish liking for his kindred, he accept- 
 ed the invitation. The dinner was strictly a family dinner, 
 but in honour of the reconciliation, a little soiree followed it. 
 
 " And now," thought Theophile Durand, " my troubles in 
 this quarter are surely over. Virginie is married. I have 
 made ample apologies to her husband, who is a very agreeable 
 fellow when he is not excited, and Madame Martin does not 
 appear to entertain the least matrimonial design upon me. 
 Yes, I think I am really safe in that quarter." So thought 
 and soliloquized the deluded man, never suspecting the world 
 of trouble that awaited him. 
 
 We have seen that the reconciliation dinner to which 
 Th6ophile Durand had been asked was followed by an evening 
 reunion, quite select. Madame Martin whispered to her 
 cousin: "I could not ask Madame Le Grrand wov thai set. 
 No, my son-in-law's position would not allow it." 
 
 The reunion was more than select; it was decidedly thin, 
 and its successor — for Madame Martin insisted that Virginie 
 ehould receive every Thursday evening — was too select for 
 Monsieur Lefevre's taste. From nine o'clock Madame Martin
 
 320 SEVEN YEARS. 
 
 and her daughter sat in the gaily-lit drawing-room, vainly 
 waiting for visitors, who came not. At ten, indeed, Theophila 
 Durand made his appearance in correct evening costume, but 
 to the vexation of Virgiuie, and to her husband's evident an- 
 noyance, not a soul besides. 
 
 As eleven struck Monsieur Lefevre said to his wife : 
 
 " Another such evening, my dear, and we will give up 
 parties." 
 
 " It is very annoying," said Virginie, " I had provided re- 
 freshments and cakes, — and now they are wasted, as it were. 
 We do not want them." 
 
 " It is tiresome," said Madame Martin, " but we must try 
 again." 
 
 Monsieur Lefevre did not answer. It was plain that only 
 politeness prevented him from giving a flat denial, 
 
 Madame Martin was annoyed at the evening's failure, and 
 alarmed for the future. Her son-in-law was kind and cour- 
 teous, but he was not manageable. He had already shown a 
 strong inclination to authority, not despotism certainly, 
 but authority under any aspect was distasteful to Madame 
 Martin; it did not let her have her own way, which she was 
 T^aturiilly fond of. Like a prudent woman as she was, she 
 avoided struggles : Monsieur Lefevre would not be controlled 
 or managed, but he might be led gently. To lead him skil- 
 fully was therefore her object: but how was she to do so in 
 this present matter ? 
 
 '• What can I do if the people will not come ? " she said 
 confidentially to Theophile Durand, " we asked twenty, and 
 you see not one came." 
 
 " Ask forty," shrewdly said her cousin. 
 
 " Ask forty ! " exclaimed Madame Martin with a start, 
 " and where should we put them ? Our drawing-room is so 
 small." 
 
 " They will not come," replied Monsieur Durand. " The 
 twenty did not come ; the forty will no more come than the 
 twenty ; but forty people will have had the compliment paid 
 them of being asked, and you will not have had the trouble of 
 receiving them." 
 
 This was an idea : Madame Martin felt it was a valuable 
 one too ; but casting an alarmed look towards her son-in-law, 
 she whispered to Theophile Durand : " Speak low, I entreat 
 you. Edouard is so peculiar, so matter-of-fact, so literal, 
 that he would never ask more people than he wished to see \ 
 but I shall certainly follow the plan you suggest ; how to do
 
 SEVEN TEAKS. 321 
 
 SO I Jo not yet know ; but where there is a will there is a 
 way." 
 
 A way Madame Martin certainly found. She asked not 
 forty, but fifty people, and chose them so judiciously, that when 
 her son-in-law expressed his surprise at seeing persons drop in 
 whom he had not asked, and she carelessly replied : " I just 
 asked them to fill up in case the others should not come," he 
 expressed his satisfaction at her prudence. 
 
 From this it will be readily gathered that the third party 
 ■was more successful than the two first. Fortune favoured, in- 
 deed, Theophile Durand's suggestion : fifteen people mustered; 
 ten belonged to the original twenty, and five to the additional 
 number asked by Madame Martin. She expressed her satis- 
 faction to Theophile Durand, by asking him once for all. 
 
 " Yes, cousin," she said suavely, " you are always welcome. 
 Virginie and her husband have quite a regard for you, and I 
 trust you know and feel the esteem in which I hold you. Our 
 last evening flagged a little ; my floating debt, as I call my su- 
 perfluous invites, did not come in well We had a dearth of 
 black coats. Suppose you send us a sprinkling of your friends 
 the employes." 
 
 " With great pleasure," replied Theophile Durand, who 
 delighted to oblige, and in his generosity he forgot the sore- 
 ness'^he had felt on seeing Madame Martin plume herself on the 
 success she owed to his advice, but which she did not dream of 
 acknowledging to her son-in-law. 
 
 He set to work that same day ; he spoke to his chef, Mon- 
 sieur Kandon, a lofty man not easily propitiated, but with 
 ■whom he was a bit of a favourite. He had the good fortune 
 to find the potentate in an excellent temper. 
 
 " I see, I see," he said, " a young couple who require en- 
 couragement : well, Durand, I like to encourage such. I shall 
 go ; Madame Raudon shall go. What is there to be ? " 
 
 " Music, I believe, and a young poet is to repeat some 
 verses." 
 
 " I like poetry," said Monsieur Randon, " and a game of 
 cards." 
 
 " My cousin is a first-rate ecarte player," eagerly said 
 Theophile. 
 
 " I like cards and refreshments," continued Monsieur Pian- 
 don. 
 
 " Virginie is profuse with refreshments, platefuls of cakes, 
 icGs, &c." 
 
 " I shall go," paternally said Monsieur Randon, " I like to 
 14*
 
 322 SEVEN TEAKS. 
 
 encourage struggling merit. Tell your cousins, Durand, that 
 they may rely upon me and Madame Randon." 
 
 Theophile Durand delivered the message to Madame Mar- 
 tin, who, on hearing the tidings, threw her arms around his 
 neck, and called him an angel. 
 
 Everything promised well, yet one of those mysterious pre- 
 sentiments which, in our ignorance, we do not sufficiently re- 
 gard, warned Theophile Durand to stay at home, and go to bed 
 on that fatal Thursday. Kindness prompted him to do the 
 very reverse. " My poor cousin wants me," he thought, " her 
 floating debt, as she calls it, runs short. My presence is ne- 
 cessary. True, I should like home and quiet best ; but we 
 must not be selfish." Supported by these generous and phi- 
 lanthropic feelings. Monsieur Durand dressed himself, and 
 walked off to Monsieur Lefevre's house. 
 
 Carriages encumbered the door. 
 
 " Oh, ho ! " thought Monsieur Durand, " some one else has 
 a party in my cousin's house. Well, truly, why not ? " And 
 not altogether displeased to show a stylish group of ladies iu 
 ample muslin, and gentlemen in white cravats, who were com- 
 ing up the staircase behind him, that he too was going to a 
 party, Theophile Durand gave a sharp, jerking ring at his 
 cousin's door. But the ladies stopped behind him. Were 
 they, too, invited to Madame Lefevre's evening party ? They 
 were, there could be no doubt about it. 
 
 The door opened, and a fragrance of smoke issued forth. 
 
 " Is the place on fire ? " asked Monsieur Durand, stepping 
 back. 
 
 " No, sir," replied the servant, " but we have been obliged 
 to make fires in all the rooms, and some of the fires will not 
 burn." 
 
 " Dreadful," said one of the ladies, " I hate smoke." 
 
 The servant-girl looked at the speaker and her companions, 
 then asked in a peculiar tone : 
 
 " Are you ladies coming to us ? Perhaps it is up staira 
 you are going ? " 
 
 " Madame Lefevre," replied one of the gentlemen. 
 
 " Walk in," said the servant, " but you'll get no room, 
 that's all." 
 
 " No room ! " they all exclaimed in a breath. 
 
 " There has been no room since half-past nine," replied the 
 eervant ; " the drawing-room has been full since eight ; the 
 two bed-rooms are full ; the dining-room is full, and the ante- 
 room is crammed."
 
 SEVEN YEAKS. 323 
 
 Tliey stared incredulous and amazed, but they soon ao 
 quired melancholy confirmation that the servant had spoken 
 truly. As she closed the door upon them, they found them- 
 selves in a smoky ante-room, hemmed in on every side by peo- 
 ple all standing, and none of them in the best of tempers. 
 The new-comers were stared at in rather an ungracious fash- 
 ion, and a lady in blue, who had a sharp nose, said with great 
 asperity of tone and manner : 
 
 " There is decidedly an hour beyond which people ought 
 not to come to parties : it is ridiculous. May I ask what 
 you are treading on my dress for, sir ? " she added, looking 
 daggers at Thcophile Durand. 
 
 He apologised with the greatest humility, but excused him- 
 self on the plea of a desire to get into the drawing-room. The 
 lady with the sharp nose giggled hysterically. 
 
 " And do you suppose, sir," she asked, " that we, who 
 have been standing here this hour without being able to get 
 in, are going to let you in ? No, sir, you came last, and out 
 you shall stay." 
 
 The ladies in muslin, Avho had entered with Theophile 
 Durand, looked lofty and mildly disgusted. 
 
 " Oh ! people may look at me," said the lady with the 
 sharp nose. " I do not care ; but those who came last shall 
 not get in first. It is bad enough to stand two hours and not 
 to be offered a biscuit or a glass of water." 
 
 Here a stir took place in one of the inner rooms, and a 
 male voice was heard entreating : 
 
 " Pray let us out. Let me beg for a little room. We 
 only want to get out." 
 
 " It is very extraordinary," said the lady with the sharp 
 nose, " that after being in such a hurry to get in and prevent 
 other people from enjoying what there is to be enjoyed, some 
 people will insist on disturbing others and getting out again. 
 I think for my part they should be kept in." 
 
 But the rumour that a lady was fainting opened a passage 
 to a stout gentleman, who appeared half bearing, half drag- 
 ging, an equally stout lady. In vain the lady with the sharp 
 nose protested that this was but a mean and shallow artifice to 
 deprive last comers of their rightful places, and that it should 
 be resisted. The red face of the stout gentleman was bathed 
 in genuine perspiration, and there was no mistaking the zeal 
 with which he bore and dragged the stout lady after him. 
 
 " A chair, for Heaven's sake," he gasped, as he got out of
 
 32i SEVEN TEAKS. 
 
 the crowd ; " is there no one that will have the charity to get 
 me a chair ? " 
 
 " Chairs ! " giggled the lady in blue, " does Monsieur sup- 
 pose that if there were chairs ladies would remain standing 
 for two hours ? " 
 
 Monsieur was going to declare desperately that he sup- 
 posed nothing, when his eye caught that of Theophile Durand, 
 who was vainly hiding in the crowd, and who turned pale on 
 meeting it : the stout gentleman was his chef, his superior. 
 
 " Oh ! you are here," said Monsieur Eandon, with smooth 
 sarcasm, " may I request you to help me to support Madame 
 Randon ? " 
 
 Theophile obeyed, and assisted in propping Madame Ran- 
 don, who was slowly recovering, and whom her husband soon 
 entirely surrendered to his employe's care. Being thus re- 
 lieved from a considerable burden. Monsieur Eandon wiped 
 his damp forehead, and, regardless of place or time, thus ad- 
 dressed his subordinate : 
 
 " Well, sir, I congratulate you. So this is the little in- 
 tellectual soiree you asked me to patronise, and to which like 
 a deluded man I brought a dozen of friends and their innocent 
 families ! Sir, you are an impostor," added Monsieur Ean- 
 don in his Avrath. " Come, my love," he added, taking the 
 arm of his wife, who gave Tlieopbile a withering glance for 
 his pains, " let us leave this ill-fated house, where people are 
 smothered, smoked — and starved," added Monsieur Eandon, 
 with bitter emphasis. 
 
 They stalked out ; Theophile Durand remained stunned, 
 heedless of the sarcastic looks the lady in blue cast upon him. 
 Then, suddenly awakening to the fearful consequences this 
 untoward event might produce on his prospects, he rushed 
 down stairs, hoping to overtake Monsieur Eandon, to mollify 
 his wrath by humble apologies. But Monsieur and Madame 
 Eandon had entered their carriage, and were already rolling 
 away. 
 
 Theophile Durand was roused. Was this the reward he 
 got for endeavouring to serve his cousin ? Eandon, the great 
 Eandon, had been alienated for ever, and for what ? for want 
 of due politeness and attention, for want of an ice or a plate- 
 ful x)f cakes. 
 
 " She shall hear a piece of my mind ! " desperately ex- 
 claimed Monsieur Durand, and remembering that it was useless 
 to go up the front staircase, he went up the back or kitchen 
 staircase, undignified but sure. No sooner had he tapped at
 
 SEVEN YEAHS. 325 
 
 the kitchen door than it flew open. On the threshold within 
 appeared Madame Martin pale and breathless. 
 
 " Where are the ices ? " she exclaimed, " speak, sir, where 
 are they"? Have you brought the cakes at least 1 No ; then 
 pray, sir, what are you a limonadier for ? " 
 
 " I am not a limonadier," said Theophile, " I am your in- 
 jured cousin." 
 
 " My dear creature," cried Madame Martin, clasping both 
 his hands, "run for ices, run for cakes, run for anything. 
 Where the people are come from I do not know ; but they 
 keep pouring in. The place is full, three ladies have fainted 
 already. Go, now do, there is a good soul. There is a 
 pastry-cook round the corner, who sells odds and ends at two 
 francs a pound, and procures ices as cheap. Here is money, go, 
 pray go." 
 
 She shut the door in his face, and Monsieur Durand found 
 himself with silver in his hand on a black landing. 
 
 He was a good-natured man : he forgot his wrongs in his 
 cousin's calamities. He went for the ices ; he went for the 
 cakes. He went not once, but three times. By twelve his 
 labours were over, the people had discovered that there was 
 nothing more to be had by staying, and they departed slowly. 
 By this time, too, Monsieur Durand's wrath had cooled, and he 
 magnanimously resolved not to crush his cousin with the name 
 of Kandon. " The poor thing has had trouble enough," he 
 generously thought, " let her rest ; let her rest." 
 
 But generosity is a delusion ; with a sigh of relief Monsieur 
 Durand was preparing to depart, when Madame Martin solemnly 
 begged him to enter her son-in-law's study ; there Theophile 
 found his cousin black as night. 
 
 " Sir," he said, " I can scarcely credit, and I certainly can- 
 not qualify, the extraordinary statement I have just received 
 from Madame Martin, that for the painful and disgraceful 
 scenes which took place here this evening I am indebtetl to you ; 
 that you took the liberty of inviting to this house something- 
 like thirty or forty of your personal friends, making me and 
 my domestic arrangements a matter of ridicule and amusement 
 to them. 1 repeat, sir, comments are superfluous ; but I beg to 
 assure you, that this second breach will not be so easily re- 
 paired as the first." 
 
 Monsieur Lefevre rose, bowed stiffly, and left the room. 
 
 Theophile Durand remained dumb. He had incurred the 
 wrath of Monsieur Randon, he had been made an errant boy
 
 326 SEVEN TEARS. 
 
 of, and now he was snubbed. The cup was full. He went 
 home, tooK to his bed, and was ill a week. 
 
 This is the last trouble on record of a quiet man ; that it 
 will be the last no one who has perused the preceding pages 
 will readily believe. 
 
 YOUNG FRANCE. 
 
 Tancredi p. Mathieu was a member of the Young France 
 party, when there was a Young France, which is now some 
 years ago. He was the son of an honest and wealthy Parisian 
 grocer, who allowed him a handsome income and total liberty 
 of action. 
 
 Our hero's real name was Pierre Mathieu. Tancredi had 
 been assumed for poetical and euphonious reasons. His friends, 
 who knew his sensitiveness on that head, never gave him any 
 otber appellation. Like the whole Young France brother- 
 hood, Tancredi wore long curly hair, a narrow j^ointed hat, 
 Avhite kid gloves, and a shirt collar turned down with the 
 most Byronian despair. Any one who looked on that shirt 
 collar could have told that its owner was a melancholy man — 
 one " whose young aspirations had been nipped in the bud by 
 the chilliug breath of an unfeeling world." 
 
 Tancredi's existence had indeed been embittered by several 
 severe disappointments. In the first place, he was neither au 
 unknown foundling, nor an exile, nor a persecuted man : he 
 had enjoyed throughout life the most provoking and common- 
 place happiness. He did not possess the comfort of having a 
 tyrannical father. Monsieur Mathieu the elder was the soul of 
 good nature. Easy, placable, and fond of peace, he allowed 
 Tancredi to have his way. There is no denying he would 
 have liked to see his son at the head of a thriving business, 
 but since his vocation did not lie in that direction he raised no 
 opposition to his joining the Young France tribe, wearing long 
 hair and a pointed hat. Some persons kindly assured him 
 that Pierre — they scorned to call him Tancredi — was on the high 
 road to ruin. But Monsieur Mathieu composedly replied that 
 his son was only afflicted with a temporary mania, then very 
 prevalent amongst young Frenchmen, and that he did not 
 despair to see him one day radically cured. This conviction 
 did not prevent the grocer from reasoning with his son j he
 
 SEVEN TEARS. 327 
 
 even endeavoured to show him that he was acting very foolishly j 
 but as Tancredi immediately assumed the tone and attitude of 
 a martyr, and as his father — who, under the appearance of 
 great simplicity, was, nevertheless, possessed of much shrewd- 
 ness and good sense — perceived that he longed to be persecuted 
 for his opinions, he gradually dropped the subject, and left him 
 thoroughly free. 
 
 Tancredi keenly felt what he termed his father's injustice. 
 He was at war with society — so at least he said — and he had 
 a right to persecution. His friends all agreed with him that 
 it was a hard case, but advised him, however, to bear with it 
 patiently. His bosom friend, Charlemagne Chamjjion by name, 
 for imperious and chivalrous appellations were rife in their 
 circle, comforted him as best he miaht. 
 
 " My good fellow," he said, with an odd twinkle in his eye, 
 " fathers will be so — provoking — perverse — doing the very 
 things they should not ; but better times are coming." 
 
 And Charlemagne Champion, who, though Young France, 
 was suspected to have some of the Old France wag in him still, 
 squeezed his friend's hand with expressive warmth. 
 
 But Monsieur Mathieu's irritating passiveness was not 
 Tancredi's only cause of grief: another source of bitter regret 
 lay in his personal appearance. Somehow or other he had in- 
 herited from his father the grocer, a round, rosy, good-humoured 
 face, of which he could not possibly get rid. Notwithstanding 
 his constant eflPorts to infuse into it some slight portion of the 
 poetical melancholy which, to use his own words, " was devour- 
 ing his soul," it always looked pleased, happy, and contented. 
 To make matters worse, he was remarkably fair, and inclined 
 to corpulency. Gladly would Tancredi have sacrificed half 
 his worldly hopes to be thin and sallow. Accordingly, when 
 Charlemagne Champion spoke of better times, he sighed, 
 shook his head, and casting a despondent look at the glass, 
 he asked in a hollow voice, " Charlemagne, will that face ever 
 change ? " 
 
 " I hope not," composedly replied Charlemagne, " it is the 
 living likeness of the immortal Kobespierre." Tancredi gave 
 a start. 
 
 " Like him — I am like him ! " he exclaimed. 
 
 " Do you not see it'? " 
 
 " Why, yes," musingly replied Tancredi, " you are quite 
 right, I do see something in the contour. Robespierre was a 
 minister, but I am not sorry to be like him." 
 
 Thus comforted, Tancredi took heart. Besides, like all
 
 328 SEVEN YEAKS. 
 
 generous spirits, our hero often forgot his own unhappiness in 
 his misanthropic compassion for the ignorarce and blindness 
 of mankind at large ; he was convinced that the world was 
 not yet half civilized, and that the bourgeois of Paris, espe- 
 cially, were in a lamentable state of barbarism. As he was 
 himself a bourgeois by birth, he conceived that his "mission" 
 must plainly lie in civilizing his unhappy brethren, and as he 
 happened to entertain for them the most thorough and hearty 
 contempt, he was evidently peculiarly fitted for this delicate 
 task. 
 
 The bourgeois are the middle classes of France. They 
 chiefly consist of retired tradespeoj^le, small capitalists, and 
 employes, or clerks, in the offices of the government, from 
 whom they generally receive a moderate salary for their ser- 
 vices. They are a quiet and inoffensive race, but remarkably 
 timid and cautious, and tenacious of their habits and opinions 
 to an extraordinary degree. Seeing them so far behind their 
 age, Tancredi generously resolved to devote himself to their 
 improvement. Whether they were willing to be improved or 
 not was no consideration ; indeed Tancredi did not care a pin 
 on the subject. If he could not succeed in making the bour- 
 geois better, he had little doubt of getting persecuted by them ; 
 so that, which ever way the wind blew, he felt pretty sure of 
 reaping some benefit. These preliminaries being settled, he 
 resolved to begin his attack on a little colony of bourgeois 
 which had been settling for the last century in one of the most 
 quiet and retired streets of the Marais, not far from the spot 
 where stood his father's house. 
 
 This street, which shall be nameless, very much resembled 
 a country town. Though not possessing more than a dozen 
 houses on either side, it was divided into several sets, which 
 knew nothing whatever of one another. The most important 
 set, and that which immediately drew Tancredi's attention, 
 was Madame Jacquemin's, a lady who, with her husband, a 
 retired dyer, inhabited a coquettish little bouse, ornamented 
 with a grass plot in front, and a garden at the back, and 
 situated in the most conspicuous part of the street. But not- 
 withstanding these advantages, M. Jacquemin was an unhappy 
 man. He had toiled all his life in order to enjoy his old age 
 in peace; and instead of his fancied happiness, he now found 
 nothing in retirement save ennui and weariness of spirit. It 
 was in vain that he spent the day in walking up and down 
 his handsome house and about his pleasant garden ; they 
 could administer no pleasure to his mind. He would gladly
 
 SEVEN TE.litS. 32S 
 
 have given tliein both for tlie dark and dismal shop of the 
 Eue St. Denis, where he had spent thirty years of his life in 
 providing for his present discomfort. Madame Jacquemin, 
 who bore her misfortunes with a truly heroic spirit, en- 
 deavoured to arouse her husband from his unhappy state. 
 She took him to the play, but he invariably fell asleep before 
 the close of the first act ; she then wished to introduce him 
 into fashionable society — a plan which failed signally ; and 
 finally, as a last resource, made him take in all the daily 
 newspapers, and give parties twice a week. M, Jacquemin 
 never looked at one of his newspapers himself; but as he 
 nevertheless, and very judiciously, made it a rule that not one 
 of them should leave las house, and as he very liberally in- 
 vited his friends to "come and look at the papers," his 
 salon was every morning converted into a kind of reading- 
 room, over which he presided, and where, for two or three 
 hours at least, he could onc3 more fancy himself in his shop, 
 surrounded by his customers. 
 
 His evening parties were not quite so amusing ; because, 
 as Madame Jacquemin often observed, " they could not ask 
 everybody." Almost all their guests were inhabitants of the 
 street ; but there were of course vulgar insignificant houses, 
 whose lodgers could, under no pretence whatever, be received 
 or admitted by the dyer's wife. Good M. Jacquemin, who 
 in the fulness of his ennui, would gladly have opened his 
 house to the whole world, was much annoyed by his wife's 
 scruples, but nevertheless compelled to submit to them. 
 Amongst the favoured few were M. Bonnet and his wife, a 
 couple who resided on the first-fioor of number seven, and who, 
 as Madame Legrand, a waspish little widow, who lived above 
 them, spitefully averred, gave themselves airs in consequence. 
 But as there was a constant feud between her and Madame 
 Bonnet, too much faith should not be placed in the lady's 
 assertions. M. Bonnet was a melancholy-looking man, ex- 
 ceedingly nervous and timid, and employed at the war-oftice, 
 whence he often came home in the evening blank with dis- 
 may, hinting at horrible tidings from Abd-el-Kader, or in- 
 timating the likelihood of a war with " perfidious Albion." 
 Being considered a profound politician, and suspected ol 
 knowing much more of government aifairs tban he chose to 
 tell, he was much respected everywhere, save in his own 
 family, over which Madame Bonnet, who was a very high- 
 jspirited woman, boasted that she alone held dominion. Hei
 
 330 SEVEN" YEARS. 
 
 three daugliters were, like their mother, tall, bony, and high- 
 spirited girls. 
 
 Madame Legrand, the officer's widow who tennatcd the 
 second-floor of the same house, was likewise aihiiitted at the 
 Jacquemin parties. She was thin, withered, had no children, 
 and was immoderately fond of animals. Whole generations 
 of cats and dogs revelled in her salon and bedroom ; cages o^ 
 birds were hung up everywhere in her apartment ; and golden 
 fishes swam in vases full of water on every window-sill. 
 Monsieur Laurent, a stout old bachelor, not unlike a full- 
 blown rose, dwelt on the third-floor. He had a mortal hatred 
 against Legrand-and her menagerie, those of the canine race 
 in particular. Of this fact the dogs seemed to have an in- 
 stinctive knowledge, for whenever he came up or down-stairs, 
 they snarled and growled ; and if they chanced to be on the 
 landing, never missed the opportunity of flying at his heels. 
 Though Monsieur Laurent disliked animals, he had a passion 
 for flowers and gardening ; he had turned his rooms into a 
 perfect conservatory, and the greatest portion of his time was 
 spent in cultivating and watching over a certain patch ot 
 land, about as large as a dining-table, and termed his garden. 
 Monsieur Laurent was of course another of Monsieur Jac- 
 quemin's invites. 
 
 But, besides the iidiabitants of number seven, there were 
 various other individu ds admitted at the retired dyer's parties. 
 Amongst these were several old ladies, who did an immense 
 quantity of worsted wo; k ; and a mysterious family named the 
 l)o Lorrains, and thought to be of noble extraction, who in- 
 habited an old dreamy-looking hotel at the end of the street. 
 They were six in all, were very pale, tall, and thin ; they 
 dressed meanly, accepted every invitation, and gave none in 
 returti. Some charitable souls indeed noticed that they never 
 refused anything, not even the refreshments which were lib- 
 erally handed round at the dyer's parties ; and as to the cakes, 
 it was actually suspected that they were so vulgar and uugen- 
 teel as to have an appetite for them. It was also known — it 
 is wonderful how those things are known — that in the coldest 
 weather they had no fires. Sometimes, indeed, they indulged 
 themselves in a fagot, to which they set fire with great cere- 
 mony ; the younger De Lorrain being always on such an occa- 
 sion despatched in a great hurry to summon his father, in 
 order that he might partake of the genial heat ere it was quite 
 extinct. At first the De Lorrains were thought mean — then 
 they were accused of being poor ; but many defended them,
 
 SEVEN TEAES. 331 
 
 and asserted that tliey were only misers. It then began to be 
 reported that they were immensely rich, and their company 
 was for some time eagerly sought. It is true their fortune, if 
 they had one, was of no great use to anybody, not even to 
 themselves ; but who has not felt the sense of security, the 
 comfort, which lies in having a rich acquaintance ? As years, 
 however, passed away, and they lived quite as meanly, and 
 dressed as shabbily as ever, this impression wore off: they be- 
 gan to be looked upon as impostors, and there was some talk 
 of discarding them altogether. But Madame Jacquemin, who 
 was of a compassionate disposition, resolved to spare them, on 
 account of their poverty and their gentle blood ; they accord- 
 ingly continued to be admitted to the soirees, where they acted 
 a subordinate part, being patronised by every one. Such were 
 the individuals who met at M. Jacquemiu's parties ; if theii 
 company did not afford him much amusement, it was not their 
 fault. The retired dyer was very selfish : he plainly showed 
 his visitors that he cared for no one but himself; yet, strange- 
 ly enough, everybody sympathised with him, everybody seemed 
 ready to administer comfort and advice. 
 
 " If Monsieur Jacquemin would give dinners," suggested 
 the De Lorrains, " he would find it a very interesting occu- 
 pation." 
 
 " How so ? " suspiciously asked Madame Jacquemin. 
 
 " Human nature, character," replied the De Lorrains : " the 
 dinner table is the true place to see them in ; physiognomy, 
 too, and even phrenology, can be studied to advantage from 
 the dinner table, and with Monsieur Jacquemin's remarkable 
 power of observation — " 
 
 " Pooh, pooh ! no such a thing," interrupted Monsieur 
 Jacquemin, rather crossly, " besides, I hate to look at people 
 eating." 
 
 " It is animal," said Madame Legrand, who was present, 
 " and is only beautiful when performed by animals. It is ex- 
 quisite, it is delicious to see a bird feed." 
 
 " I rather like larks roasted," said Monsieur Jacquemin; 
 " they are nice, there is no doubt about it, but then it takes so 
 many to make a dish." 
 
 " My dear sir, you misunderstand me," said Madame Le- 
 grand, rather shocked at the suggestion : " eat larks ! sweet, 
 harmonious, musical creatures ! JN'o, no, I meant it was charm- 
 ing to sec birds peck their food. I have a canary which I 
 would lend — " 
 
 " Oh ! for Heaven's sake, do not mention it," interrupted
 
 332 SEVEN YEAKS. 
 
 Madame Be Lorrain, with an hysterical laugh, " the scream- 
 ing little thing would drive Monsieur Jacquemin's head 
 wild." 
 
 " Canaries do not scream," said Madame Legrand, " they 
 sing, but as this one does not sing and has never sung, it could 
 not make Monsieur Jacquemin's head ache." 
 
 But Monsieur Jacquemin liked birds in a pie, and pe- 
 remptoi'ily declined the canary. In this Monsieur Laurent 
 confirmed him. 
 
 " Animals, my dear sir," he said feelingly, " would sour your 
 temper, gardening is the thing. You have a garden, — sow, 
 reap, dig, and you will be a happy man. Let me send you 
 down some choice flowers." 
 
 " I do not like flowers," growled Monsieur Jacquemin. 
 
 Madame Bonnet, too, had her panacea. Why not adopt 
 some interesting and sweet-tempered child ; not an orphan — ■ 
 you never know what kind of parents an orphan had ; swind- 
 lers and thieves perhaps — but a child " whose parents, honest, 
 respectable people, were still alive — and which," she senti- 
 mentally added, " would prove the staif and comfort of his old 
 age." 
 
 This had nearly settled it. " Old age indeed ! did Madame 
 Bonnet think Monsieur Jacquemin was going to make his 
 will ? No, no, not just yet. Thank Heaven, he was hale and 
 hearty, and would bury them all." 
 
 In sliort, the plain truth of the matter was that Monsieur 
 Jacquemin liked private dinners best; that he disliked ani- 
 mals, did not care about flowers, and never having had any 
 children of his own, detested the children of other people : 
 Madame Bonnet's included. He felt, besides, all the rich 
 man's aversion to an heir; and constantly refused to see his 
 poor relations, lest they should think of his will. 
 
 These were the individuals whom Tancredi P. Mathieu 
 had resolved to civilize, and for that praiseworthy purpose he 
 got an introduction to one of Madame Jacquemin's soirees. 
 At once his eagle eye detected the awful amount of narrow- 
 minded dulness of that little circle. The old ladies were 
 busy at their worsted work ; Monsieur Laurent and Madame 
 Legrand were quarrelling over a game of piquet ; the melan- 
 choly De Lorraius were eu2ao;ed with dominoes ; Monsieur 
 Jacquemin way displaying his hospitality by compelling his 
 guests to swallo ff down immense quantities of cakes and lemon- 
 ade , and Monsieur Bonnet sat apart, wrapped in his own
 
 SEVEN YEAKS. 338 
 
 moody thoughts, which he occasionally condescended to im- 
 part to some eager listener. 
 
 " Only a few friends," said Madame Jacquemin, smiling 
 graciously on Tancredi, " a few homely friends who meet here 
 three times a week to chat, to talk, to play a few odd games." 
 
 " Squirrels! " seutentiously said Tancredi. 
 
 " Squirrels ! " echoed Madame Jacquemin, amazed. 
 
 " Squirrels in a cage," repeated Tancredi, " turning round 
 and round, doing the same things over and over again." 
 
 " Dear me, how very odd," said Madame Jacquemin, and 
 raising her voice, she added, " Monsieur Tancredi Mathieu 
 declares we are all squirrels." 
 
 Tliis strange speech completed the sensation which Tan- 
 credi's long hair, pointed hat, and white kid gloves had begun. 
 He saw his advantage, and casting a magnetic look — at least 
 he said so afterwards — over the whole assembly, he followed 
 up this first success with considerable effect. 
 
 He scarcely opened his lips, and was thought a prodigious 
 wit. He seemed to entertain the most thorough contenq^t for 
 the whole world, the individuals around him included ; and 
 they all agreed in audible whispers that he was a very superior 
 sort of person — quite a genius: great geniuses always despise 
 the world. Although both piquet and dominoes were neg- 
 lected, the evening passed away with amazing swiftness. 
 Every one had gathered around the stranger, who opened his 
 moath every ten minutes, and delivered some oracular sentence, 
 received by his hearers with the utmost gravity. 
 
 From that day Tancredi P. Matiiieu became the acknowl- 
 edged lion of the Jacquemin soirees, and of the Murais, wLiich 
 had never known a lion before. He was the object of every 
 one's admiration : the De Lorrains alone looked upon him with 
 a suspicious eye; they had an instinctive consciousness of a foe. 
 
 True, Tancredi did nut even bestow a thought upon them, 
 but, like many remarkable individuals, he showed an early in- 
 clination to tyranny, and betrayed certain destructive propen- 
 sities, whicli threatened to break upon the quiet monotony of 
 the bouro-eois circle, lieiuo-, as he expressed it himself, of a 
 spiritual nature, lie animadverted in strong terms aganist the 
 material custom of eating in the evening. 
 
 " Intellectual food is the tiling," he loftily said to Madame 
 Jacquemin. " Intellectual food and no other. That alone 
 purities and exalts." 
 
 Madame Jacquemin felt the cogency of this reasoning, and 
 as she considered Tancredi au oracle in matters of taste, she
 
 334 SEVEN YEAES. 
 
 hastened to suppress the refreshments and sweets she had hither- 
 to caused to be freely handed round to her guests. 
 
 Having thus victoriously asserted the triumph of mind over 
 matter, Tancredi next succeeded in banishing both piquet and 
 dominoes. 
 
 " In no intellectual assembly should such idle toys be ad- 
 mitted," he said to Madame Jacquemiu. And piquet and 
 dominoes vanished. 
 
 Madame Legrand and Monsieur Laurent, who had quarrel- 
 led over the former game for the last twenty years, both loudly 
 protested against this new arrangement, but as their quarrels 
 were only pleasant to themselves, every one agreed that piquet 
 deserved its fsite. 
 
 Having thus deprived his disciples of their old amuse- 
 ments, our hero felt it his duty to provide them with others in 
 their stead. A piano accordingly made its appearance in 
 Madame .Jacquemin's drawing-room. It is true nobody could 
 play upon it — not even Tancredi ; but that was evidently of 
 little consequence, for towards the close of a very dull even- 
 ing he rose, and after vainly beseeching one of the accomplish- 
 ed ladies present to accompany him, at last sung, unaccom- 
 panied, but still standing near the silent piano, a pathetic 
 Italian song, in which he bewailed his unhappy fate ; for, as 
 he afterwards condescendingly informed the company — who 
 had not understood a single word — he was a forsaken and de- 
 spairing lover. After thus initiating them to the charms of 
 melody, Tancredi resolved to let them into sublimer mysteries, 
 and accordingly fixed an evening, on which he proposed to 
 read to Madame Jacquemia's guests a series of sonnets, which 
 he had composed several years before, " On the Prospect ot 
 being Compelled by my Father to become a Grocer." This, it 
 must be confessed, was a little poetical fiction, in which T;in- 
 credi had considered himself at liberty to indulge. Nothini^ 
 was ever further from M. Mathieu's thoughts than to compel 
 his son, to anything he disliked, though he certainly had at- 
 tempted to achieve, by persuasion, the profanation above 
 alluded to. 
 
 The evening came, the company gathered around him, and 
 Tancredi began his reading : he persevered for upward of twc 
 hours, without manifesting the least symptom of fatigue. 
 When he had finished, he looked up, and found himself alone, 
 comparatively speaking. M. Jaequemin was fast asleep ; the 
 old ladies were nodding over their worsted work ; Madame 
 Jaequemin had early eflected her escape, with several female
 
 SEVEN YEAES. 335 
 
 friends ; M. Laurent and M. Bonnet shook their heads, and ex 
 changed ominous ghmces; the fix De Lorrains aloae were widfi 
 awake, looking ac our hero wlt'i their fixed stony eyes, whilst 
 their cadaverous and melancholy faces expressed the most 
 absolute determination to sit out both him and his poetry. 
 To increase the dismal appearance of the scene, the lire had 
 gone out, the caudles burned dimly, and wanted snuffing, whilst 
 the loud snoring which proceeded from the vast arm-chair in 
 which M. Jacquemin lay, rather marred the melody of the 
 poet's verses. " I see they are not in a sufficiently advanced 
 state of civilization to appreciate the beauties of poetry," 
 thought Tancredi, as he looked upon his audience : "I must 
 form their political principles." 
 
 Unfortunately for the execution of this project, it happened 
 that both M. Bonnet and M. Laurent had of late conceived 
 strange notions of Taucredi's political character. His foreign 
 name did not sound quite orthodox in their ear; then his 
 pointed hat, shirt collar, and flowing locks, struck them as be- 
 inff somethimi- portentous in their way. Philosophers well 
 know what great meanings sometimes lie hidden under trifles. 
 As to his poetical readings, they had a revolutionary air, in 
 direct opposition to the old school of poetry, and also, they 
 strongly suspected, to the established order of things. Who 
 could tell of whom Tancredi Mathieu might be the agent, or 
 what was going on in the bosom of the hitherto peaceful 
 Marais ? Nay, for all they knew, his pretended Italian love- 
 song might be some revolutionary Marseillais hyuin, or qaira, 
 speciously clothed under a foreign garb ! In short, the em- 
 ploye of the war-office and the horticultural amateur both 
 agreed it was high time to keep their eye upon Tancredi, whom 
 they began to consider as a dangerous political character. 
 
 Under these favourable circumstances our hero began his 
 political campaign. He had not yet exactly determined upon 
 the doctrines he meant to inculcate, but he concluded that he 
 would soon find this out ; and as he was not a little elated 
 with the success of his previous efforts, he began his attack in 
 the spirit of true knight erranty, dealing out his blows right 
 and left, without much minding where they fell. 
 
 " Sir," he said one evening to Monsieur Jacquemin, " this 
 state oi things cannot last. Society is wrong, radically 
 wrong. A day will come, sir, when the rich will have to sur- 
 render their ill-gotten gold to the poor : and then, beautiful 
 result ; their will be no poor and no rich." 
 
 " No poor and no rich ! " gasped Monsieur Jacquemin,
 
 336 SEVEN YEARS. 
 
 gi'owing purple, " and do you mean to say, sir, that thieves 
 will come and rob me, sir?" 
 
 " I make no particular applications of the system," placid- 
 ly replied Tancredi, " I merely state what will be." 
 
 " Well, sir, let them only attempt it," said Monsieur 
 Jacquemin, " let them only try it, ha ! ha ! — that is all I 
 say." 
 
 " Try it ! " said Monsieur Bonnet, " no, no, they have 
 other work in hand with Abd-el-Kader." 
 
 " I admire Abd-el-Kadcr," thoughtfully ejaculated Tan- 
 credi. '' He is a hero and a patriot. Besides, what is that 
 puny warfare in Algeria? We shall have a European war 
 before long." 
 
 " He admires Abd-el-Kadcr ! " gasped Monsieur Bonnet, 
 unable to say more. Horticulture Tancredi did not, however, 
 admire. He openly expressed his contempt for it to Mon- 
 sieur Laurent, and plainly said it would be done away with 
 under the new state of things. 
 
 " Oh ! ho ! " said Monsieur Laui'ent, with a sneer ; " and 
 how will the world get on without geraniums or roses? / 
 should like to know ihid ! " 
 
 " Sir," replied Taucredi, with an ominous look, " there are 
 spirits, blighted spirits, for which deadly nightshade, and hem- 
 lock itself, have more attractions tluin all the roses of Syria." 
 
 " What a villain ! " njuttered Monsieur Laurent. 
 
 To Madame Legrand Tancredi made no predictions; but 
 this lady he had long mortally offended beyond all hope of re- 
 conciliation, by expressing his ardent desire of seeing every 
 dog hung, and every canary bird shot through the heart; in 
 support of which philanthropic wish he had adduced so many 
 plausible arguments, that the good lady felt convinced that if 
 ever the Young France party prevailed, her menagerie was 
 doomed. 
 
 " I know it is Monsieur Laurent's doing," she said to one 
 of the De Lorrains, by whom she was sitting. " I know that 
 
 man — " 
 
 A fearful scream interrupted her. One of the old ladies 
 had gone into fits, and this was no sooner perceived by the 
 other old ladies, her friends, than, out of mere sympathy, they 
 followed her example. Awful was the confusion that fol- 
 lowed ; Madame Jacquemin was pretty well frightened out of 
 her wits ; Tancredi, who had caused all this hubbub, stood and 
 looked on, smiling and triumphant. 
 
 " Good Heavens ! what has happened ? " exclaimed Mad-
 
 SEVEN YEARS. 337 
 
 ame Legrand. One of the De Lorrains rose to learn, and 
 Boon came back with the tidings. 
 
 "Dreadful!" she said. "You know Mademoiselle du 
 Rocher's family were all guillotined in the terror ? " 
 
 " Well ! " eagerly exclaimed Madame Legrand. 
 
 " Well, this wretch goes up to her and says : ' Madame, do 
 you know that I am wonderfully like Robespierre ? ' Upon 
 which the poor thing looks at him, and perceiving the likeness, 
 screams and faints." 
 
 " Monster ! " said Madame Legrand. She spoke loud 
 enough for Taiicredi to hear. He acknowledged the epithet 
 with a gracious smile, and left the place at Madame Jacque- 
 niin's request. 
 
 " If she sees you," said that lady, " she will certainly re- 
 lapse. Pray go." 
 
 Tancredi felt delighted with tliis crowning exploit. With 
 this tact and discrimination did he endeavour to civilize the 
 biuirgeois of the Marais : the succession of petty storms and 
 alarms he raised must be left to the imagination of the reader. 
 It is true tliat, had the worthy citizens known anything about 
 either Tancredi P. Mathicu, or the Young France party, they 
 would have been conscious that the former was the most harm- 
 less of human beings, and from the latter there was little or 
 nothing to be apprehended. The Young France party, with 
 their kid gloves and hair carefully curled, were no doubt the 
 fit apostles of a revolution, but by such revolutions are not 
 generally made. But fear reasons not : Tancredi's words were 
 received as gospel truth, and pretty work they soon made in 
 the Marais. 
 
 The dragon's teeth were not sown in vain : quarrels sprung 
 on every side. Madame Bonnet took it into her head to 
 sympathise with Abd-el-Kader, who became the subject of daily 
 dissensions between her and her husband. A new and daily 
 feud sprang up between Monsieur Laurent and Madame Le- 
 grand, the foru)er of whom avowed that in consequence of 
 Tancredi's disastrous teaching, his finest flower-beds were 
 ruined by the widow's dogs. Rendered desperate by one of 
 those melancholy events, and recalling to mind Tancredi's 
 denunciations against pets of every description, Monsieur 
 Laurent having provided himself with tackle and a fishing- 
 rod, exercised his vengeance on one of Madame Legrand's 
 unoffending golden fishes, by actually fishing it up througli his 
 bed-room window. The unhappy lady, wlio, hearing a, sus 
 picious noise against the highest window panes, had rushed tc 
 15
 
 338 SEVEN YEARS. 
 
 tlie rescue, only arrived in time to see her finny favourite 
 whisked up in the air, and vanishing into the enemy's pre- 
 cincts. Her first act was to snatch in her remaining treasures, 
 -who, quite unconscious of their companion's fate, were still 
 gaily swimming along their narrow domain; the next was to 
 scream for help, and then faint away in good earnest. Wiien 
 she recovered, she found herself surrounded by condoling 
 friends ; but nothing could soothe her wounded spirit. She 
 declared that she never should forgive M. Laurent, against 
 whom she vowed eternal hatred and vengeance. 
 
 But even greater evils — all springing from the same source 
 — menaced the guests of M. Jacquemin. The worthy dyer, 
 on whom Tancredi's speeches had made a profound impres- 
 sion, began to entertain serious fears for his safety. Lest his 
 reputation of being a wealthy man should bring him into 
 trouble, he determined to reduce his expenditure ; and, as a 
 first step, talked of discontinuing to take in the daily papers, 
 and stopping the soirees altogether. This announcement 
 spread a panic throughout the whole street. M. Jacquemin's 
 house had become a place of public entertainment, which his 
 guests had no inclination to find closed upon them.^ In this 
 dilemma a general council was held; private dissensions were 
 for a while forgotten, and it was unanimously resolved to 
 strike at the root of the evil, and banish Tancredi P. Mathicu. 
 The gaunt Do Lorrains, who alone had from the beginning 
 perceived the impending danger, proposed to signalize him to 
 the mayor of the arroudissement as a dangerous individual ; 
 M. Bonnet offered to say a few words at the war-office ; M. 
 Laurent to give him a delicate hint in the language of liowers; 
 Madame Legrand proposed a night attack on his person ; and 
 the old ladies were for handling him over to the public execu- 
 tioner at once. But Madame Jacquemin rejected ail tliese 
 plans as too violent and inhospitable, and resolved to intimate 
 to him, as politely as possible, that if he chose to continue his 
 visits, it must no longer be on his own terms, but on hers. 
 Accordingly, when Tancredi came as usual to one of the even- 
 ing soirees, his head full of mighty plans of poetical, social, 
 and political reform, he could not, notwithstanding his ab- 
 straction, but notice that a great change had taken place. 
 The piano, which had only been hired for a month, had van- 
 ished; M. Laurent and Madame Legrand were quarrelling 
 over piquet to their heart's content; the Do Lorraius, who 
 were eating cakes and drinking lemonade, eyed him with de- 
 fiance ; dominoes were re-established in their supremacy ; and
 
 SEVEN YEARS. 339 
 
 the old ladies were as triumphantly engaged in worsted-work 
 as on the night of his first appearance amongst them. 
 
 One glance told Tancredi that the bourgeois of the Marais 
 haa rebelled : his authority was no longer acknowledged ; he 
 was virtually dethroned. Even the most energetic minds 
 must sometimes yield to the might of fate : thus it was with 
 our hero. Vanquished, but unsubdued in spirit, he never- 
 theless saw the uselessness of resistance. Casting a glance of 
 withering scorn on his late disciples, he spake not a word, but 
 turned upon his heel, and left the drawing-room of Madame 
 Jacquemin, inwardly passing the fatal fiat " for ever." With 
 signal ingratitude, every one uttered an exclamation of tri- 
 umph ou witnessing his exit. The remainder of the evening 
 was spent in perfect enjoyment — harmony seemed quite re- 
 stored ; and it is averred that, notwithstanding the late pain- 
 ful circumstances tliat had occurred, the quarrels of M. Lau- 
 rent and the fair widow were marked by unusual amenity. 
 
 Tlie day after his defeat, Tancredi wrote to Charlemagne 
 Champion a letter of seven pages, in which he related, with 
 great seeming bitterness of spirit, his vain attempt to civilize 
 a parcel of barbarians, and instil into their uncultivated minds 
 a love of the fine arts, and a sound political creed. He end- 
 ed by exclaiming against the cruelty of mankind, that would 
 not allow him one moment's repose ; and as he had little 
 doubt that the malice of his antagonists would drive them to 
 every extremity, spoke of exiling himself in some remote soli- 
 tude, where his wounded spirit might perhaps at iast find rest ! 
 
 By return of post he received the following answer : 
 
 " Dear Tanckedi, 
 
 " I am by no means astonished at youi- failure ; you have 
 met with a fate common to all great spirits ; you ought not, 
 therefore, to mourn, but to rejoice. Hud you, however, con- 
 sulted me on the subject, I could have foretold exactly what 
 has happened. Whatever you do, never again attempt to 
 civilize bourgeois. They are very worthy people in their way, 
 but singularly obstinate. They like to enjoy themselves ac- 
 cording to their own stupid old-fashioned manner. As they 
 are fast disappearing from the surface of the land, it is only 
 an act of mercy to allovr them to live unmolested. Hence- 
 forth heed them not, but turn all your efibrts and energies ou 
 the rising generation. Give up the thought of going into 
 exile ; talents like yours should not be wasted away in a 
 desert. Your devoted 
 
 " CUAKLEMAGNE ChAMPION."
 
 340 SEVEN YEARS. 
 
 But Tancredi was bent on being a persecuted man, and 
 once in his life, at least, an exile. Ho announced to his father 
 his intention of leaving the country for some time. Monsieur 
 Mathieu the elder heard him with much more composure than, 
 from the painful nature of the communication, might have 
 been expected; he even remarked that travelling wouW do 
 bis son good, and seemed to view the whole affair as one of 
 minor importance. It was in vain that Tancredi endeavoured 
 to impress upon his mind that he was going to leave his coun- 
 try perhaps for ever. Monsieur Mathieu persisted in assert- 
 ing that he was only going to travel, and very calmly bade 
 him farewell. 
 
 In a few days Tancredi left Paris for Geneva. We will 
 not dwell on the agonizing nature of his feelings when, having 
 passed the frontier, he beheld from the diligence window the 
 blue hills of his country — his native bills, as, forgetting his 
 Parisian birth, he called them — vanish from his view. For 
 three months he wandered on the shores of Lake Leuian, and 
 indulged in misantnropic reflections on the folly and ingrati- 
 tude of mankind. At the expiration of that term — during 
 which he had been, to say the truth, the prey to intolerable 
 ennui — he gladly hastened back to Paris, without, however, 
 informing his father of his intention. On a fine summer even- 
 ing he bent his steps towards his father's house in the Marais : 
 be still wore his pointed hat, and a travelling cloak enveloped 
 bis person ; a porter who followed him carried his luggage. 
 Without allowing himself to be announced, Tancredi, who 
 loved dramatic effect, rushed into the parlour, where his father 
 was seated reading the newspaper, and throwing back his 
 cloak, discovered himself to the ex-grocer's astonished sight. 
 Good Monsieur Mathieu laid down the naper instantly, and 
 uttered a very deep hem ; but as he was not what is called a 
 very nervous man, he did not seem otherwise afl'ected, but 
 kindly welcomed his son ; and seeing that he looked as -rosy 
 and happy as ever, immediately gave orders for a substantial 
 supper. Tancredi, who was rapturously gazing through the 
 window on the starlit sky of his native city, of course heard 
 or heeded nothing of those material coiicerns ; " his spirit 
 was far away." 
 
 *' Well, Pierre, how did you like Geneva ? " asked Mon- 
 sieur Mathieu, turning towards his son, whom he never called 
 Tancredi. 
 
 " All places are alike ; he is everywhere alone," moodily 
 answered his son in the words of Lamennais.
 
 SEVEN TEAKS. 34:1 
 
 M. Mathieu, wlio saw that Tancrcdi was still bent on 
 being wretched, remained silent, and took up his newpaper 
 once more. 
 
 " I suppose," resumed Tancredi after a brief pause, " the 
 malignancy of their hatred is unabated ? " 
 
 " Of whom are you speaking ? " inquired his father with 
 seeming surprise. 
 
 " Of M. Jaequemin, his wife, and all those whose ingrati- 
 tude made me fly my native land." 
 
 " Oh, they are very well, thank you ; they were all inquir- 
 ing after you only last week." 
 
 " I know they hate me ; yet I wish them no evil," replied 
 Tancredi, with the resignation of a martyr. " I earnestly 
 hope they are happy ? " 
 
 " They are indeed quite happy," answered his father. 
 
 Tancredi smiled incredulously. " How can they be happy," 
 he exclaimed, " when they are a prey to all the evil passions 
 that disturbed mankind ? I endeavoured to reclaim and civil- 
 ize them; I failed in the attempt, but I cannot think them 
 happy ! " . , 
 
 " Well," said his father, quietly, " since you went to Ge- 
 neva I have seen a good deal more of them : I at first found 
 them much irritated against you." 
 
 " Ha ! I knew it ! " triumphantly exclaimed Tancredi. 
 
 " But I soon succeeded in pacifying them," continued his 
 father, without heeding the interruption. Tancredi looked 
 as though he could have gladly dispensed with this instance of 
 paternal solicitude. 
 
 " I, moreover, tried to make them happy ; not perhaps ac- 
 cording to the best manner, but according to that best suited 
 to them." 
 
 Tancredi's features expressed unqualified surprise : he 
 seemed to wait for something else, but his father remaining 
 silent, he at last said : " Well, sir, I suppose, by making them 
 happy, you mean making them better ? " M. Mathieu nodded 
 affirmatively. " If so," continued his son, " pray how did you. 
 rid M. Jaequemin of his intolerable selfishness and sordid love 
 of wealth ? " 
 
 " M. Jaequemin," quietly answered the father, " is, as you 
 say, selfish, and fond of money ; but he is no miser : he has 
 no objection to spend large sums, provided it is to please him- 
 self. Had I advised him, as you did, to divide the wealth he 
 did not need amongst the poor, he would have looked upon me 
 as a madman. When he complained to me of his great ennui, I
 
 342 SEVEN TEAKS. 
 
 advised him to settle in business some of his poor nephews and 
 nieces, whom he had alwaj's refused to see, lest they should 
 expect anything from him. He at first seemed very much 
 opposed to this plan; but when I reminded him that after his 
 death his fortune must belong to his relations, who would per- 
 haps squander it away, and that it would be more pleasant for 
 him to dispose of it, according to his own fancy, during his 
 lifetime, he quite agreed with me, and immediately took steps 
 to place his eldest nephew in a dyer's business, which he takes 
 great delight in superintending. He has likewise provided for 
 his other relations, with whom he occasionally quarrels, but 
 towards whom he, nevertheless, behaves with much real kind- 
 ness. He still takes in the papers, and has not discontinued 
 the soirees; but as he now has little leisure, he is glad to lend 
 out the former to his friends, and enjoys the relaxation of the 
 latter much more than formerly ; he is, upon the whole, a 
 happier and a better man." 
 
 " Humph ! " almost contemptuously exclaimed Tancredi. 
 " I had embraced all humanity in my plan; yours, I perceive, 
 is confined to making a few persons happy." 
 
 " It is at least the more practicable of the two," replied 
 his fiither. 
 
 " And I suppose," continued Tancredi, " that you also suc- 
 ceeded in reconciling M. Laurent and Madame Legrand; 
 who, with their insuflerable love of flowers, and animals, and 
 mutual antipathy, were enough to destroy all harmony where- 
 ever they appeared ? " 
 
 " 1 did not endeavour to reconcile them," answered M. 
 Mathieu ; " but when M. Laurent informed me of all he had 
 to suficr from his neighbour, the widow, I advised him to 
 marry her, upon which he told me in confidence that he had 
 been thinking of it for the last ten years, and without waiting 
 for a reply, launched out into her praises. In short, it ended 
 by his requesting me to be the bearer of a letter to her, as he 
 averred that he could not summon up courage to address her 
 himself. I consented to undertake this task. On reading the 
 letter, which was a very long one, Madame Legrand became 
 greatly agitated, said something about a golden fish, but at 
 last declared that she forgave him everything." 
 
 " But they are not actually married ! " exclaimed Tan- 
 credi. 
 
 " They have been so for the last six weeks," replied M. 
 Mathieu.
 
 SEVEN YEARS. 343 
 
 " And do you mean to say," asked his son, " that they nc 
 longer quarrel ? " 
 
 " On the contrary, they quarrel every day ; but as it may 
 be safely asserted that it is more from the force of habit than 
 from any other motive, they can be said to agree very well 
 upon the whole. Very little is changed in their existence. 
 Tiiey live in the same house ; Madame Laurent still occupies 
 the second -floor with her animals, and M. Laurent the tliird 
 with his flowers : they enjoy their game of piquet, and its ac- 
 companying squabble, every evening; and it is my firm belief 
 that their greatest cause of complaint against you was the 
 attempt you made to deprive theui of that pleasure." 
 
 Taiicredi turned up his eyes to the ceiling, and* in a tone 
 full of indignation, began, " Who will attempt to fatliom the 
 duplicity of man ? Who will attempt to fathom the duplicity 
 of man ? Who — " Here he became suddenly silent, either 
 overwhelmed by the vastness of the subject of his question, 
 or induced to hold his peace by the aspect of the supper ou 
 the table. 
 
 Several days elapsed before Tancredi be induced to accom- 
 pany his father on a visit to M. Jacquemin. He at last ex- 
 pressed his consent, by declaring himself " ready to face his 
 enemies." His father, who had learned to understand his 
 enigmaticnl mode of speech, required no more. They accord- 
 ingly called on the retired dyer the same evening: the Bon- 
 nets, Laurents, and Do Lorrains, were all present ; they seemed 
 delighted to see our hero, and received hitn witli the greatest 
 cordiality. When his father commented on this circumstance, 
 Tancredi smiled bitterly, and muttered something about the 
 serpent being hidden by flowers. But the truth was, that 
 since M. Mathieu had given M. Jacquemin's guests to under- 
 stand that his son's mind had been somewhat distui-bed by 
 certain visions, prevalent amongst the youth of France, their 
 anger had been turned into pity, which they now openly ex- 
 pressed. But of this Tancredi saw, or would see nothing : 
 they had hated him three months back, they must hate him 
 still ; and with this soothing unction to his wounded pride, he 
 endeavom-ed to comfort himself 
 
 Several years have elapsed, and no important change has 
 occurred in the bosom of the little society we have attempted 
 to portray. M. Jacquemin has forgotten the name of ennui 
 since he followed his friend M. jNIathieu's advice ; his poor re- 
 lations are in a thriving condition, and seem to feel much 
 gratitude for his kindness. M. Bonnet still menaces hia
 
 344 
 
 SEVEN YEAKS. 
 
 friends with an inipeuding European war; but it has been 
 noticed that they have now become quite accustomed to the 
 prediction. Madame Bonnet, whoso thoughts are all bent on 
 matrimonial alliances for her daughters, has entirely forgotten 
 Abd-el-Kader. M. and Madame Laurent quarrel less every 
 day; it is strongly suspected by their friends that the time 
 will come at last when they will not quarrel at all ! The only 
 great event which has occurred concerns the De Lorrains; it 
 seems that, after all, they were immensely rich. A law-suit, 
 which lasted for several years, had prevented them from enter- 
 ing into the enjoyment of their fortune. The old hotel is 
 shut up : its inhabitants have removed to a fashionable neigh- 
 bourhood, where they live in style, and keep their carriage. 
 Circumstances have wonderfully altered their outward appear- 
 ance. They have all quite a bold and prosperous air. They 
 frequently invite their former patrons to their parties ; but 
 either the Jacquemin set are hurt at the long deception 'prac- 
 tised upon them, or they have not yet made up their minds to 
 forgive the De Lorrains their sudden and unexpected pros- 
 perity ; for, with the exception of the first invitation, which 
 they only accepted out of curiosity, they have declined all 
 other requests, taking in high dudgeon the splendour of the 
 entertainment offered to them. It is, nevertheless, suspected 
 that they will relent in time, if not for their own sakes, at 
 least for that of their children, to whom, as Madame Bonnet 
 observes, they will, of course, feel desirous of securing the 
 comfort of a rich acquaintance. But Madame Laurent, who 
 still entertains a grudge against her neighbour, declares that 
 she has other designs on the De Lorrains, and is determined 
 to keep her eye upon her. We must not forget to record that 
 several of the old ladies have been cut away by the remorse- 
 less hand of death. It is worthy of notice, that those who still 
 survive have never been able to forget Tancredi's unlucky like- 
 ness to Marat ; they evidently look upon this circumstance aa 
 very suspicious. 
 
 This brings us naturally to our hero. Of him we have 
 very little to say. He is, to all appearance, as rosy, and 
 happy-looking, and miserable in reality as ever. His father, 
 nevertheless, asserts that he has of late manifested symptoms 
 of change. His hat is not quite so pointed, his shirt collar is 
 no longer Byrouian, and his hair has actually been cropped 
 quite close by the neighbouring hairdresser, who declares that 
 he only followed his positive orders. But what looks more 
 ominous still is, that the name of Tancredi has vanished from
 
 SEVEN YEARS. 315 
 
 his cards, which now only bear plaiu P. Mathieu. Whatever 
 may be the causes of this change — and whether it is to be 
 attributed to his failure in not being able to become a perse- 
 cuted man, or whether there is some other motive for it — it 
 seems, nevertheless, very probable that a crisis in P. Mathieu's 
 character is at hand. Some persons have been found who be- 
 gin to think, like his father, that he may, after all, settle down 
 into a sober, sensible individual : a supposition the more 
 probable, that he actually has been heard to talk of marrying 
 and entering into business ; and that, after all, his youthful 
 follies were more fit subjects for good-humoured ridicule than 
 for real apprehension — a remark which many individuals have 
 actually applied to the Young France party itself. 
 
 ADEIEN". 
 
 In a gloomy and winding street of the cite there stands an 
 old crazy-looking house seven stories high, which appears to 
 have been most uncomfortably squeezed and narrowed up by 
 its more modern neighbours, and has upon the whole an in- 
 secure and tottering air. The gate of this house, as in all the 
 poorer dwellings, stands ever open for the convenience of the 
 numerous lodgers; beyond it extends a low cellar-like arch, 
 which terminates with a glimpse of an old pump in a damp, 
 grass-grown yard ; on the left of the arch exists a dark hole 
 — the lodge wherein dwells a cross old portress, who has, not 
 unnaturally, contracted a dark and misanthropical view of the 
 world. Night and day a lamp is always burning in that lodge, 
 whilst a dull, glimnering ray of light, descending from a high 
 and remote window, reveals the winding staircase which leads 
 to the various floors of the house. 
 
 It was in a garret, situated on the last of these seven 
 stories, that there lived, a few-years ago, an orphan lad named 
 Adrien, and his grandmother, au old weak-minded peasant 
 woman, who still appeared as great a stranger to Paris and 
 Parisian life as when she entered for the first time the capital 
 of France. To the humble abode of this obscure couple we 
 will now introduce the reader. The room was indeed a mere 
 garret, scarcely more than eight feet square, with low ceiling 
 and slanting walls ; but though narrow and bare, it was neat
 
 346 SEVEN YEARS. 
 
 and clean. The lit de sangle^ or framed canvass, so common 
 among.st those of the Parisian poor who cannot afford room 
 for a beadstead, was folded up with its thin mattress against 
 the wall ; the lame deal table had been most scrupulously 
 scrubbed ; no dust or stain appeared on the red-tiled flooring ; 
 a few battered kitchen utensils which hung on the walls 
 were placed with a sort of regard to symmetry; a piece of 
 broken looking-glass adorned the mantle-shelf; near it waa 
 suspeniled a five sous portrait of Napoleon, under which had 
 been placed, as if in homage, a blooming pot of the modesl 
 flower known amongst us as the mignonette, but which in 
 France is generally c-alled reseda. A golden sunbeam which 
 streamed in through the narrow and open window, and fell on 
 the little broken mirror, brightened the whole place with its 
 joyous and cheerful light. 
 
 Near that window now sat in a rickety arm-chair Adrien's 
 grandmother, attired in her peasant's dress of short and 
 striped woollen petticoat, blue jacket, and headgear consisting 
 of a printed calico handkerchief Without expressing either 
 ill health or physical intinnity, the old woman's sunburnt 
 features betrayed a mental helplessness, painful to behold as 
 she sat there with her hands folded on her knees, watching 
 listlessly ev^ery motion of her active grandson. With his 
 shrewd intelligent countenance, dark curly hair, and well knit, 
 though diminutive frame, he was only fifteen, Adrien offei'ed 
 a very favourable specimen of the Parisian gamin. The con- 
 fident bearing, decisive attitudes, and frank good-humoured 
 accent, revealed at once a true son of Paris. The lad was 
 now in a state of great bustle and preparation — lighting a 
 charcoal fire, heating a pan over it, melting dripping, peeling 
 onions, singing snatches of songs in spite of his smarting 
 eyes, throwmg the onions into the pan when the dripping had 
 reached frying heat, and, in short, preparing that favourite 
 French dish — onion soup, which ere long was smoking on the 
 table in an old earthenware tureen. 
 
 '' Come, grandmother," said Adrien, in a cheerful tone, 
 " breakfast is ready ; " and he closed his eyes and smacked 
 his lips as he inhaled the curling vapour which rose from his 
 plate. " How rich it looks," he added, admiringly. " Upon 
 my word of honour, I know nothing better for a working man 
 than a dish of onion soup." 
 
 The old woman, without seeming to share his enthusiasm, 
 cast a dreary look on the dark liquid, and partook of it very 
 alowly. Not even the manly, swaggering tone with which
 
 SEVEN TEAKS. 347 
 
 Adrien concluded his speech had power to rouse her. It 13 
 true she was accustomed to it. When they first began to live 
 together a few months before, she had indeed wondered with a 
 dreamy sort of perplexity on whose side the mistake lay, when 
 she thought Adrien a boy, and he evidently considered himself 
 a man ; but his cool, decisive manner had promptly laid the 
 matter at rest, and she would now as soon have dreamed of 
 doubting her own identity, as of questioning his authority and 
 experience. 
 
 " Well, what shall we have for dinner ? " said Adrien, who 
 had finished his soup, and balancing himself back on his chair 
 with his hands thrust into his pockets, was now watching the 
 old woman. 
 
 " Let us have a stew of mutton and haricots, Adrien," she 
 promptly replied. 
 
 " Grandmother," said he, impressively, " I only earn six 
 francs (five shillings) a week." 
 
 " Well then a cabbage soup, with a good piece of bacon in it." 
 
 " Bacon is horribly dear ; but if you like the cabbage with- 
 out it — " 
 
 " No I don't," was the snappish answer. 
 
 " 1 should propose sorrel soup," continued Adrien, " but it 
 is no good without eggs, which we cannot aiford ; or bean soup 
 if we had only got beans, which we have not. Do you know," 
 he confidentially added, " that we have some dripping," his 
 eyes fell on an earthen pot standing in the corner of the room, 
 *' and plenty of onions," he glanced at a bunch hanging from a 
 nail oil the wall; " do you know I think we could not do bet- 
 ter than to have a good, hot, smoking tureenful of onion soup." 
 
 *' Onion soup 1 " indignantly exclaimed the old woman ; 
 " why we have had onion soup all the week ; Adrien," she pa- 
 thetically added, " do you mean to say we must live on onion 
 soup ? " Adrien looked embarrassed, but he resolutely re- 
 plied : 
 
 " Yes, grandmother, we must — if we cannot help it." 
 
 " Onion soup made with dripping, too," she mournfully 
 added, rocking herself to and fro, " and never even a drop of 
 wine." 
 
 " Grandmother," observed her grandson, very gravely, and 
 pausing in his task of clearing away the breakfast things, " you 
 know Paris wine gives you the headache. You reaiember," he 
 added, in a lower tone, " how strangely yoii behaved when that 
 wicked Madame Mitron, next door, persuaded you to go with 
 her to the barrier. No, no, wine is not good for you. It ex-
 
 348 SEVEJsr teaes. 
 
 cites you," said he, after seeming at a loss for tlie proper 
 word, " it excites you." 
 
 " Aud to live in such a garret ! " she continued, without 
 heeding him. 
 
 " Garret ! " he echoed, glancing admiringly round him ; 
 " why, have you not a good warm bed ? " 
 
 " Yes, Adrieu, but you sleep on the floor." 
 
 " I prefer it," he hastily replied ; " it is more wholesome, 
 you see. " And then," he resumed, " have you not got a por- 
 trait of the Emperor, and a looking-glass, and a pot of reseda, 
 and the sun that comes in every morning ; and always plenty 
 of bread aud soup to eat ? " 
 
 " Onion soup, Adricn." 
 
 " Add to which advantage," said Adrien, summing up, 
 " that you have nothing to do but to walk about Paris all day 
 long, or, if you prefer staying at home, to look out of the win- 
 dow aud enjoy yourself" 
 
 " And look at the smoky chimney pots," replied the old 
 woman, despondingly. 
 
 " Grandmother, I wonder at you ! You know that you 
 have only to place the table near the window — mind the broken 
 foot though — and put a chair on the table, and get up on the 
 chair yourself, in order to have the finest view possible of the 
 towers of Notre Dame." 
 
 But a prospect of the Paris cathedral, though thus ob- 
 tained, did cot seem to comfort Adrien's old relative. She did 
 not like Notre Dame ; it was too large and gloomy ; she wanted 
 the little, white, sunny church of her own village ; she wanted 
 that village itself, with its comfortable dwellings and well-stored 
 larders, and abundance of all good things. Paris was a drear, 
 dismal place, and Paris she would leave. 
 
 " Impossible," interposed Adrien. " In the first place, you 
 know you have no one to go back to in your own village, as 
 you call it; but even if you had," he added, with an important 
 air, " I could not allow you to go." 
 
 The old woman looked up quite bewildered. " You do 
 not mean to say, Adrien, that you would keep me here against 
 my will '? " 
 
 " Yes, I do. Come," said he, sitting down by her, and 
 speaking with sudden gravity, " you know — for you were by — ■ 
 and it is not long ago, what my poor fiither said to me on hia 
 death-bed, ' Adrien, my boy,' said he, ' I am going away; God 
 bless you ; be an honest working man ; pay your way and take 
 sare of your poor old grandmother.' Now," observed Adrian,
 
 SEVEN TEAES. 849 
 
 after a little pause, " an honest ■working man I believe I am ; 
 my way I have paid till now ; we are not like old Madame 
 Mitron, who drinks all sbe has, never pays her rent, and looks 
 another way when she passes before the sour old portress's 
 lodge; we can look the landlord himself straight in tlie face, 
 grandmother; but that is not all, and I should not have done 
 my father's will if I did not take care of you ; so you see you 
 must remain with me. After all I do earn six francs a week." 
 
 " You are a good lad, Adrien," exclaimed his grandmother, 
 sobbing and throwing her arms around his neck in a sudden re- 
 vulsion of feelino;. 
 
 " Nay," said he, with gravity, " I only do my duty as an 
 honest man, you know." 
 
 By this time it was getting late ; and, as Adrien said, 
 quite time for him to be gone to his work. But whilst com- 
 pleting his preparations — for he was extremely neat and care- 
 ful of his person — he undertook to administer consolations to 
 his grandmother, whose tears were still flowing. 
 
 " Come, grandmother, don't cry, we all have our troubles. 
 If you knew what we carpenters have to endure ; and if one 
 happens to be short, what advantage is taken of it. Look at 
 that Grand Jean, who, because he is six foot high, cannot 
 meet one on the staircase without talking of tom-tits. Ah, 
 grandmother, if it were not for you — ," and a significant and 
 ominous frown gathe-red over the boy's smooth brow as he 
 spoke. 
 
 " Holy virgin ! " screamed the old woman, " you don't 
 think, Adrien, of attacking that big, tall man ? " 
 
 " No, indeed, I do not," gravely answered her grandson ; 
 I hope I know my duty to you better. Why, suppose Jean 
 aud I were to have an affair, and I to hit him, and hurt him, 
 I should certainly be sent to prison ; and then," he pathetically 
 added, " then what would become of you? " Adrien seemed 
 overwhelmed with emotion at the idea. But he was now quite 
 ready ; so slinging his basket of tools over his shoulder, he 
 embraced his grandmother, and hesitatingly observed, " if old 
 Madam-e Mitron should try and lure you to the barrier, grand- 
 mother, you will not go? " 
 
 " No," she slowly replied. 
 
 " You know," he said, colouring as he alluded to his old 
 relative's secret infirmity, " that wine excites you. I shall be 
 back at two," he continued, after a pause, "so pray try and 
 have the onion soup ready." 
 
 The name of this unlucky dish immediately brought a
 
 850 SEVEN TEAES. 
 
 cloud over the old woman's brow^ and as she closed the door, 
 Adrien heard her muttering " onion soup ! " indignantly. 
 
 Scarcely had Adrien issued on the landing, when a doot 
 opposite gently opened, and aSorded him a glimpse of a very 
 red and pimpled face. " So old Mitron wants to see me out 
 before she begins her tricks with poor grandmother," thought 
 Adrien. Madame Mitron, seeing herself discovered, no longer 
 aifected concealment, and nodding at Adrien, with what he 
 considered a most insolent familiarity, for he was apt to be 
 wonderfully ticklish on small points of dignity, cavalierly ad- 
 dressed him with a " Bonjour, Adrien." 
 
 " Bonjour, Madame," he loftily replied; "allow me to ob- 
 serve that you might say. Monsieur Adrien." 
 
 " Pray, how long have we called ourselves Monsieur 
 Adrien ? " she asked, with a sneer ; and Madame Mitron 
 burst into a fit of laughter which shook her dropsical frame. 
 " Very amusing," she observed, when her merriment was over ; 
 and she clapped the door in his face. Adrien disliked Mad- 
 ame Mitron, and not without a cause ; " she was always," he 
 said, " endeavouring to corrupt his innocent grandmother, lur- 
 ing her to the barrier, where she got excited with adulterated 
 wine." He was sure his grandmother was no drunkard; she 
 was only new to Paris, and to the necessity of living on six 
 francs a week. If she would only believe him when he as- 
 sured her they were very comfortable upon the whole. But 
 she would persist in preferring butter to dripping, meat to 
 onion soup, and wine to water ! Foolish grandmother ! But 
 he loved her for all that, and even with a sort of pride ; she 
 has been very handsome, he often thought, as he looked ad- 
 miringly at her sunburnt and wrinkled features, where to no 
 other eyes would a trace of beauty have been visible. Then 
 on a Sunday, when she donned her holiday gear, and they 
 went out together, how he admired her with her high white 
 cap, the gold cross suspended from her neck, and the short 
 and full petticoat of flaring pattern. They might have been 
 so happy, but for Madame Mitron; why did that weak grand- 
 mother yield to her wicked advice, and entrust her with a gold 
 cross and little articles of country finery, which, through her 
 agency, were speedily converted into barrier banquets ? And 
 to think that, after causing all this mischief, Madame Mitron 
 should presume to insult him ! 
 
 This was not destined to be Adrien's only tribulation on 
 this unlucky morning ; at a turn of the staircase he suddenly 
 found himself face to face with Grand Jean. Grand Jean
 
 SEVEN TEARS. 351 
 
 was a big, lieavy, good-tempered working man, a native of the 
 monutains of Auvergne, who resided in the same house with 
 Adrien ; the lad's pretensions to e(pality seemed to afford 
 him infinite amusement whenever they met, but when fiery 
 little Adrien attempted to annoy and provoke him in his turn, 
 the colossal Jean evidently considered the joke rich beyond 
 description. He now gave him a good-humoured nod and 
 smile, for he liked the lad in his heart, and greeted him with, 
 " and how are we getting on this fine morning, Adrien ? ' 
 
 " Very well," replied Adrien, in a sharp tone, and with a 
 peculiarly defiant jerk of his head ; " please to allow me to 
 pass," he imperatively added, for the burly form of Jean ob- 
 structed the narrow staircase. 
 
 '' Of course," said Jean ; and. without standing on one 
 side, he raised his arm horizontally, apparently intimating 
 that Adrien was welcome to pass underneath it. Truth com- 
 pels us to declare that he could have done so without the 
 greatest inconvenience. 
 
 " Sir ! " said Adrien, colouring to the very temples. 
 
 " So we are getting in a pet, as usual," benignantly re- 
 marked Grand Jean, making room for him, and geutly pattiug 
 him on the head as he spoke. 
 
 •' Sir ! " cried Adrien, in a shriller tone, and pulling his 
 cap over his eyebrows, for he was perfectly exasperated ; but 
 Jean, with provoking indifference and good humour, continued 
 to ascend the staircase, merely turning round to give Adrieu 
 a last friendly nod as he vanished from his sight. 
 
 " It is better to bear it quietly, for the sake of grand- 
 mother," heroically observed Adrien to himself; but he swal- 
 lowed the affront very unwillingly, and considered himself an 
 extremely ill used individual. And, indeed, was he quite 
 fairly treated ? Left on his own resources whilst still a boy, 
 he had to support himself and his old relative ; nay, even to 
 control her conduct, and assume all the duties and responsi- 
 bilities of a man ; but he was expected to do this without tak 
 ing any of the state and dignity of the character he had to 
 sustain. Fortunately for Adrien, he did not behold the mat- 
 ter in this light. His self-delusion with regard to his pwn 
 importance was without the alloy of a doubt, and he ascribed 
 to individual perverseness the occasional mortifications he 
 endured. But as these mortifications were highly unpleasant, 
 and as the best of us must occasionally indulge in some trifling 
 weakness, Adrien, in order to soothe his wounded pride, now 
 thought fit to pause before the misanthropical portress's lodge
 
 853 SEVEN TEAKS. 
 
 — that dark hole where the lamp, like the sacred fire on the 
 altar of Vesta, was kept ever burning; and, thrusting in his 
 head, to observe with a condescending nod and gracious smile . 
 " And how are we getting r n to-.day, Mere Moreau ? " 
 
 The old portress, who was skimming her soup near the fire, 
 looked up with mute surprise, and for one moment the ladle 
 paused in its office; but before she could recover from the 
 amazement into which this audacious intrusion had thrown her, 
 Adrien vanished. This little ebullition of vanity restored him 
 at once to his usual equanimity of temper. He left the dingy 
 old house, singing like a lark, and went down the winding 
 street in the best possible humour with himself and the whole 
 world. 
 
 At two exactly the gay little Adrien reappeared under the 
 cellar-like arch, and he was hastening up the gloomy staircase 
 with his light and buoyant step, when the cracked voice of 
 Madame Moreau called him back. He turned round and be- 
 held that lady's thin visage scowling at him from the entrance 
 of the dark hole where she spent her life. " Here is the key 
 of your room," she sharply said. 
 
 " Is grandmother out ? " he falteringly asked, as he took 
 the key. 
 
 " Yes, she is, and with Madame Mitron too ! " and giving 
 Adrien a look of resentful defiance, the portress vanished in 
 her den. Adrien slowly ascended the staircase. How changed 
 now looked the empty room. No neatly-laid table with the 
 hot smoking soup awaited him after his hard morning's work. 
 The poor lad looked around him, sat down, and bowing his 
 face between his hands, fairly wept. Of what use did it seem 
 for him to work so hard, to be frugal and thrifty beyond his 
 years, to save and stint in order to live on the six francs a 
 week, to come home with his light and cheerful bearing. His 
 grandmother was gone, disgracing herself — disgracing him. 
 When or how would she come back ? This last thought was 
 indeed a thought of terror ; the young are keenly alive to dis- 
 grace. Adrien believe that his grandmother's indiscretions had 
 until now escaped notice ; every one in the house knew of them, 
 but with the native delicacy of French politeness, all feigned 
 perfect unconsciousness ; even cross old Mere Moreau spared the 
 lad's sensitive pride. " How cleverly I must have managed to 
 smuggled her in," he often thought, with secret exultation ; 
 and when he gave a sigh to his old relative's errors, he reflect- 
 ed, like Francis I. after the battle of Pavia, that honour at 
 least was safe. But if an exposure should take place now
 
 SEVEN YEARS. 353 
 
 Oh ! then he must leave the house instaiitly — uay, the neigh- 
 bourhood itself, and dim visions of quitting Paris altogether 
 even floated across his brain. Adrien was too sad to prepare 
 onion soup, so he dined on bread and dripping. Madame Mo- 
 reau noticed his altered bearing and inflamed eyes, though he 
 turned his head away, as he handed her the key on going down ; 
 she took, or rather snatched it from him with her usual surliness, 
 but her heart was touched at the lad's evident sorrow. 
 
 Amongst the habirs of this lady (who had many) was that 
 of emerging from her lodge towards twilight, like a night bird, 
 in order to spend the fine summer evenings on the steps of the 
 street door. From this tribunal of her misanthropy she phil- 
 osophically surveyed the world, her arms defiantly fulded on 
 her breast, her head inclined towards her right slioulder, in 
 mournful contemplation of human follies, — her whole attitude 
 expressive of supreme disdain. A scornful sneer lit up her 
 solemn feature on these occasions, and bitterly sarcastic re- 
 marks fell from her lips. These remarks were not narrowly 
 confined to peculiar subjects, or directed to certain individuals. 
 Attacks on o-overnraeut, with Madame Moreau's own sug-o-es- 
 tions, sneers at rival portresses over the way, lamb-like com- 
 plaints of her own private wrongs, hints to ungrateful lodgers, 
 who might regret her when she was dead and gone, mingled 
 witli sudden and fierce apostrophes directed towards unconscious 
 and inoffensive passengers, formed the staple of discourses ad- 
 dressed to the world in general, but of which the lodgers, who 
 constantly came in and out at this hour, derived the full bene- 
 fit. And much did they dread these evening objurgations in 
 which, with her broken, half-abstracted manner, Madame 
 Moreau contrived to disclose to the public their most private 
 concerns. If Monsieur B. ill-used his wife, the portress railed 
 at the men straightway, and with singular generosity she only 
 became the more explicit in her narrative if there happened to 
 exist any little difference between herself and Madame B. 
 
 His knowledge of this touching peculiarity increased 
 Adrien's apprehensions as he came home in the evening. 
 What if the old woman had returned, and Madame Moreau, 
 mindful of the morning, should pity him aloud for having a 
 drunken grandmother ! Oh, that there were only a back 
 door ! But there was none : and standing in awful majesty 
 on the threshold of the arch, with a group of lodgers listening 
 to her, he beheld Madame Moreau. He took courage, how- 
 ever, and assuming a disengaged air, addressed the portress 
 with a remark concerning the fineness of the weather. She
 
 354 SEVEN YEARS. 
 
 gave him a sour look that implied, " Do not imasine you can 
 cheat or deceive me ; " but she merely said, " Sir, your key 
 is hanging on a nail in the lodge." 
 
 Adrien sighed to leani that his grandmother had not yet 
 returned ; but with all that, he felt grateful for the old por- 
 tress's forbearance. It was a sad evening for the lad, as he 
 sat in the dark, stepping out on the landing every five minutes, 
 peeping down the well-like staircase, listening anxiously when 
 a knock was heard below, and feeling his heart leap up to his 
 mouth every time the street door opened and closed again. 
 .Deceived by the step of other lodgers, he thought two or three 
 times the truant was returned ; a solemn moral reproof rose 
 to his lips; nay, he would feign sleep and perfect indiifei'-ence. 
 But none of the steps ascended the seventh story, and every 
 time his illusion vanished Adrien's sorrow came back. The 
 house had long been silent, when, towards eleven, be heard a 
 weak tottering footstep. " It is only the lodger below," 
 thouo;ht he, anxious not to deceive himself. But the staircase 
 creaked, the step continued to ascend, it stopped on the land- 
 ing, ani a light gleamed through tlie chink of his door. 
 Adrien opened it and saw Madame Mitron ; she was alone. 
 
 " Where is grandmother '? " he hastily exclaimed. 
 
 " Don't know," she thickly replied, endeavouring to open 
 her door. 
 
 " You shall not go in ; where is she ! " cried Adrien, placing 
 himself before her. 
 
 " I tell you I do not know," testily replied the old woman. 
 " We went to the barrier for a walk, had a salad, a glass of 
 wine, and were coming home, when a crowd divided us at the 
 end of the Pont-Neuf. A child had been run over ; people 
 said it was not hurt ; but I had got such a turn, that I was obliged 
 to take live or six glasses of brandy at a grocer's before I could 
 get over it." 
 
 "So," indignantly said Adrien, " you lurel away my weak, 
 innocent grandmother — the poor thing would never go to the 
 barrier — and then abandoned her, when she does not know 
 one street from another, and may get into any mischief. God 
 forgive you ! " lie mournfully added, as he turned away, with 
 heart too full for more bitter reproach. 
 
 " God forgive me ! you good-for-nothing little scamp," 
 screamed MJtlame Mitron with sudden rage, her eyes well 
 nigh starting out of her head, as she shook her candlestick at 
 Adrien. "God forgive me! How dare you hint at such a 
 thing, you mite, you — "
 
 SEVEN TEAES. 855 
 
 The rest was lost upon Adrien, wlio hastily descended the 
 staircase, heedless of her drunken railings. 
 
 "Monsieur Adrien, if you think 1 am going to sit up for 
 yoit" wrathiully observed the old portress, as he swiftly passed 
 by her lodge ; but the door being half open, he had reached 
 the street before the end of her sentence. He went straight to 
 the Pont-Neuf; the accident had occurred at noon; no one 
 had seen his grandmother ; a few shops were still open ; he 
 went in, made inquiries, and got laughed at for his pains. 
 After wandering up and down until one, he went home, con- 
 vinced that, in the agony of her remorse, his grandmother had 
 made away with herself. " She need not have been afraid, I 
 would have forgiven her," sadly thought Adrien. He had at 
 first doubted whether his knock at the door would procure him 
 admittance, but when, in reply to a shrill inquiry, he had given 
 his name, it quickly opened. On seeing that he was alone, 
 Madame Moreau gave a peculiar look and growled from be- 
 neath the shadow of her peaked night-cap, and handing him a 
 light, an act of singular courtesy, said, " take that," almost 
 gently. 
 
 Notwithstanding his sorrow, Adrien slept that night — 
 youth will sleep — but with a sad, troubled slumber. Though 
 the sun shone brightly in the little room when he woke up, he 
 felt miserable. The unswept floor, the fragment of his last 
 hurried meal on the table, the dusty mantel-shelf, the pot of 
 res6da drooping for want of water, everything, even an old 
 gown of his grandmother's thrown on a cbair, made him feel 
 dispirited and low. He rose and dressed hurriedly ; for 
 breakfast he cared not ; bread and dripping would do very 
 well. Scarcely was he attired when a knock was heard at the 
 door. " Tidings from her," thought Adrien, and he rushed 
 to open. Alas ! no ; it was only misanthropic Madame Moreau, 
 with an immense soup-plate full of good beef-tea in her hand. 
 
 " Come, take it," said she, abruptly ; " you want it, wan- 
 dering all night ; those who did the mischief were safe in bed ; 
 maybe they have good reasons to stay there," she added, talk- 
 ing and nodding with deep sarcasm at the door of Madame 
 Mitron. " But next Monday is rent day ; we shall see whether 
 those that drink and do not pay are to remain. Will you take 
 this hot plate out of my hand, or am I to stay here all day '? " 
 she sharply added, turning round on Adrien. He was profuse 
 in his acknowledgments, but without heeding them, she hob- 
 bled down-stairs, muttering her wonder that she had ever come 
 up, and looking very surly, as though to apologize to herself
 
 856 SEVEN YEAKS. 
 
 for having committed this little act of kindness. As he drank 
 his soup, Adrien thought how much his grandmother would 
 have relished it, and then he wondered where she was that 
 morning, and whether she had got any breakfast. This latter 
 thought made him feel that he must resume his search without 
 loss of an instant. In a few minutes he was ready, and pro- 
 ceeded hastily down-stairs. He had reached a third-floor 
 when a hand laid heavily on his shoulder, made him turn 
 rouffld ; he looked up and saw Grand Jean. 
 
 " Adrien," said the tall Auvergnat, in a bashful, hesitating 
 sort of manner, " I am not busy this morning ; I — I — can go 
 with you, and heljj to look." 
 
 "You are very kind," replied Adrien; and as he shook 
 Jean's hand, he turned his head away ; ■' very, especially after 
 the insulting manner in which I spoke to you yesterday." 
 
 " Nonsense," said Jean, squeezing the lad's hand so hard 
 that other tears besides those of emotion rushed to his eyes ; 
 "you never insulted me, child." 
 
 " Yes, indeed, I did," remorsefully answered Adrien. " It 
 was the tone, you know ! " 
 
 " Well, never mind ; I forgive you." 
 
 " Impossible ! " resumed Adrien, somewhat nettled ; " you 
 do not know the badness there was in my heart against you. If 
 it had not been for grandmother's sake, I would have knocked 
 you down." 
 
 " Would you, indeed," said Jean, with a grave, good- 
 humoured smile, and giving the lad a slap on the shoulder 
 that made him stagger. 
 
 " Yes, I would," stoutly said Adrien, as soon as he had 
 recovered his breath ; " so pray," he mournfully added, " do 
 not be kind ; I cannot bear it." 
 
 " I tell you I bear no malice ; and you are such an in- 
 significant-looking little fellow, that people will never mind 
 you if you go alone ; so let us be otf. " 
 
 Adrien bridled up, and wondered whether he could in 
 honour accept of assistance thus oifered. But Jean settled 
 the matter by taking it for gi'antod ; and the lad, moreover, 
 secretly felt the force of his reasoning; so without further re- 
 sistance on his part, they sallied out. It was a hot, sultry day, 
 and a long and weary walk they had. They visited barriers, 
 and innumerable corps de gardes, or station houses, but nc 
 grandmother could be found. " It is my fault," said Adrien, 
 desperately ; " I should have locked her up." Jean with dif- 
 ficulty persuaded him that he was not to blame. After a
 
 SEVEN TEARS. 357 
 
 Bearch of several hours, Jean began to lose all hope, but 
 Adrien seemed unwearied. They at length lit on a clue to 
 the object of their search in a remote corps de garde. An 
 old, half-witted peasant-woman, unable to give a proper ac- 
 count of herself, had been apprehended the preceding even- 
 ing. 
 
 " Where is she 1 " cried Adrien, eagerly looking round. 
 " Oh ! she was gone before the magistrate, and was probably 
 tried for vat!-abonda2,e 1)v this ! " 
 
 " Oh ! Jean ! " exclaimed Adrien, " let us go before they 
 send her to prison." 
 
 He started oft", and sped along the street at a rate with 
 which Jean could scarcely keep up, and which made sober 
 passengers stare. At length the police-court was reached ; it 
 was crowded ; Adrien pushed right and left desperately, but 
 in vain, till Grand Jean, with two or three vigorous elbowings, 
 had cleared the way lor his friend. Adrien paused not to 
 utter thanks ; he sprang forward to the front of the court ; 
 a rapid glance showed him that the bewildered old woman who 
 sat at the bar wringing her hands, and answering, with per- 
 plexed look, the questions of the magistrate, was indeed, his 
 grandmother. Forgetting everything in his joy, he hastily 
 exclaimed with his own cheerful confident voice, " Do not be 
 afraid, grandmother ; I am here ; they won't hurt you." 
 
 The old woman uttered a low exclamation, whilst every 
 look went round the court in search of her protector, and lit 
 at length on the diminutive form of Adrien with mingled 
 amazement and surprise. 
 
 " Who is that child ? What does he want ? " asked the 
 magistrate. 
 
 " I am not a child, sir," said Adrien, colouring, and rais- 
 ing himself on tiptoe, " I am a working man. I earn six 
 francs a week. I am come for my grandmother, whom Mad- 
 ame Mitron lured away." 
 
 " Is this old woman your grandmother 1 " said the magis- 
 trate, smiling. 
 
 " Yes, sir," answered Adrien, sighing. " If she only took 
 my advice, and not Madame Mitron's, she would not be here. 
 I am sure," he continued, somewhat huskily, "I do not ill-use 
 her ; I would scorn to ill-use a woman, much less my own 
 grandmother. But then she does not like dripping nor onion 
 Boup, and we cannot atlbrd butter or fricot (stew)." 
 
 '• Do not be hard upon me, Adrien," sobbed the old 
 woman.
 
 358 SEVEN YEAKS. 
 
 " No, grandmother, I will not, and I am sure Monsieur le 
 President looks too kind to be liard upon you either. Monsieur 
 will reflect that you are old, weak-minded, and that Madame 
 Mitron, who is very cunning, takes you out to drink at your 
 expense. You do not drink, grandmother," he added, anxious 
 to save her from the reproach of diankenness, that most un- 
 womanly vice, so rare in France. 
 
 "And Monsieur le President," here interposed Jean, laying 
 his heavy hand on Adrien's shoulder, " spare the old woman for 
 the sake of the lad, as honest a one as ever breathed. If," he 
 continued, heedless of Adrien'o mdignant looks, " if he does 
 talk too much like a man, for one with such a beardless chin, 
 why I say it is because he has the heart of a man." 
 
 The magistrate smiled. " You are discharged," said he to 
 the old woman. " Believe me, abide by your grandson's ad- 
 vice, and shun Madame Mitron." 
 
 He rose, for this was the last case, the assembly dispersed, 
 and in a few minutes the place was empty. 
 
 Adrien's grandmother looked very much humbled and cast 
 down as they went home. This distressed him infinitely ; he 
 did his best to cheer her, invented numberless excuses for her, 
 and threw all the blame on luckless Madame Mitron. 
 
 " But where is Jean ? " said he, suddenly breaking off, and 
 looking round as they turned the corner of their own street. 
 Jean had vanished, and though Adrien knew it not, it was 
 some time since they had parted company. Although evening 
 was drawing on, Madame Moreau did not occupy that post on 
 the door-step from which she surveyed and attacked the world. 
 Adrien peeped into the lodge as he took his key ; the lamp 
 was as usual dimly burning, but she who kept alive that sacred 
 flame was invisible. 
 
 " Grandmother," said Adrien, as they went up the stair- 
 case, " you are hungry of course ; but," added he, looking at 
 her wistfully, " I can only give you onion soup." 
 
 " Anything, Adrien," sobbed the old woman ; " dripping 
 itself is too good for me." 
 
 " No, that it is not," said he, resolutely ; and if," he add- 
 ed, raising his voice, "• if any one should look sideways at you 
 for what has passed, let that person expect to settle it with me. 
 And if," he continued, louder still, and looking defiantly at 
 Madame Mitron's door, for they had reached their own laud- 
 ing, " if certain nameless individuals, be they men or be they 
 women," he loved the plural number for its dignity, " should 
 attempt to mislead you again, let them understand that thej
 
 SEVEN TEAKS. 359 
 
 have been mentioned to the magistrate, and that there are such 
 things as commissaries of police." Here Adrien paused in 
 order to give Madame Mitron time to come forth and answer 
 his challenge, but she remained within, fairly owning herself 
 conquered. 
 
 When they entered their own little room, Adrien stopped 
 short, and uttered an exclamation of surprise : the floor was 
 swept, the place had been carefully dusted and set to rights, 
 the reseda was itself again, the table was laid out, and tlie 
 charcoal tire only needed the application of a lighted match. 
 
 " This is all Madame Moreau's doing," said Adrien, " and 
 I," he remorsefully added, " I, who said so often she was a sour 
 old thing ! Grandmother," he continued in his habitual and 
 cheerful tone, "just light the tire, if you please. I will peel 
 the onions." 
 
 In a few minutes the fire was kindled, the dripping was 
 hot in the pan, and the onions on being cast in filled the room 
 with their merry, hissing sound. 
 
 " Grandmother," exclaimed Adrien, with glee, " it will be, 
 though made with dripping, the best soup you ever had. Not, 
 mind you," he prudently added, " that butter may not be pre- 
 ferable for some tastes, but if one cannot afford it, what is the 
 use of not making the best of what one has '? " 
 
 A knock at the door interrupted Adrien's discourse. " Come 
 in," cried he, thinking it was Jean. It was not Jean ; it was 
 a waiter from a neighbouring cook-shop, who deposited a tray 
 of covered dishes on the table. 
 
 " Monsieur Adrien ; paid for," said he, sententiously, and 
 he left the room ; whilst Adrien and his grandmother looked 
 at one another in mute surprise. 
 
 " Ah ! " suddenly cried Adrien, " I see now why Jean left 
 us. Grandmother, look ! here is a splendid stew of mutton 
 and haricots ; you wished for one. And see this magnificent 
 piece of veal ! Why, there is enough for a week! Oh, where 
 is Jean 1 " 
 
 He flew down-stairs, and searched on every ona of the 
 seven floors, but neither Jean nor Madame Moreau were to be 
 found ; like the genii of an eastern tale, they vanished when 
 their favours were conferred. 
 
 " Grandmother," said Adrien, as returning from his fruit- 
 less search he sat down with his old relative to their luxurious 
 meal, " I hope you will never go out again with Madame Mi- 
 tron ; but if you had not gone, we should never have — "
 
 360 SEVEN TEARS. 
 
 " Had this good dinner," put in the old lady, whose gour- 
 mandise was not quite subdued. 
 
 " No, grandmother," said he, gravely, " we should never 
 have known how much kindness towards us there lay hidden 
 in the hearts of Madame Moreau and Grand Jean." 
 
 Three years have passed away; Adrien, cheerful, honest, 
 industrious as ever, inhabits the sunny old garret ; but he has 
 taken for his grandmother the room formerly occupied by 
 Madame Mitron, who was disgracefully expelled shortly after 
 the events we have narrated. Since this fortunate occurrence, 
 his old relative has given Adrien no further trouble ; and, as 
 his earnings have greatly increased, they live, as he says, " in 
 luxurious style " Grand Jean still dwells in the gloomy old 
 house. He and Adrien are great friends ; he occasionally 
 banters the youth, who has not grown much, on his diminutive 
 appearance ; but Adrien, mindful of former kindness, and 
 proud of his dawning moustache, takes it all very good-tem- 
 peredly. Madame Moreau is as n^isanthropic as ever; but, 
 as Adrien says, '' she is found out, and no one believes her 
 now." This, however, excites great wrath in the old portress, 
 who takes as much pride in her fancied scorn and hatred of 
 mankind, as others are apt to take in their imaginary philan- 
 thropy and benevolence. 
 
 THE MYSTERIOUS LODGER. 
 
 Who does not like mystery ? The heartless, the cold, the 
 unimaginative, assuredly. All poetical natures love it and 
 live in it. Without mystery they exist not. Life is dull, 
 commonplace, and cold, unless they have it. Give it to them, 
 therefore, by all means. Let the E-adcliffian cup of romance 
 — but we will not anticipate. 
 
 Monsieur Hyaciuthe was a widower, of middle age and 
 retired habits. He was pale, thin, and bald, but these unro- 
 mantic peculiarities in his personal appearance did not prevent 
 him from being a passionate lover of romance and mystery. 
 Indeed it is a vulgar and sad mistake to suppose that only 
 youth and beauty love romance and mystery. Youth and 
 beauty have a great many other matters and objects to engross 
 their attention. It often happens, too, that they are cool, 
 calculating, and sometimes actually inclined to worldliuess.
 
 SEVEN YEARS. 861 
 
 Monsieur Ilyacinthe was timid and somewhat cautious. 
 The world was so mysterious, the people in it were so full of 
 mysteries, that really one could not be too careful. Thus 
 Monsieur Ilyacinthe had got to be on his guard with every 
 Oiie, from his important and stately landlord, Monsieur 
 Moreau, down to his sharp-tempered portress, Madame La- 
 tour. 
 
 Owing to this peculiarity in his temper. Monsieur Hy- 
 aciutlie resided alone in a small apartment on the third-floor 
 of a quiet house in a lonely street. He kept no servant : the 
 danger of living alone was not equal to the peril of having a 
 perpetual spy and watch by his side, or, to use Monsieur Hy- 
 acintlie's own woi'ds, '' of cherishing a foe in his bosom.'' 
 But if Monsieur liyacintlie liad no servant he had a servant's 
 room, which he prudently under let furnished when he could 
 possibly secure a lodger, which was but seldom, owing, perhaps, 
 to the gins and traps, in the way of preliminary conditions, 
 with which he cautiously intrenched his premises' This room 
 was in its usual state of vacancy, and Monsieur Hyacinthe, 
 after perplexing his mind to discover for what peculiar mo- 
 tive his room did not let when other rooms let all around 
 him, had come to the conclusion that there was a fatality in it. 
 
 " There is a fatality in it," he muttered, drawing on his 
 night-cap ; and setting himself comfortably by the fireside, he 
 opened his newspaper in order to read the detailed account of 
 the last murder : like many timid individuals, Monsieur Hya- 
 cinthe delighted in the sad and the horrible. 
 
 Monsieur Hyacinthe had not read a line when he was dis- 
 turbed by a ring at the door. He laid down his paper, and 
 with the coolness which a constant habit of such thoughts ren- 
 dered natural, he said meditatively : 
 
 '' Thieves ! Of course I shall not open. H is too early 
 for burglars." 
 
 The ring was impatiently repeated. 
 
 "A visitor, perhaps!" pursued Mon.sieur Hyacinthe. 
 " Let him stay out — it is too late to receive visits." 
 
 A third time the ring was heard. 
 
 Monsieur Hyacinthe's heart turned cold. Such a ring at 
 nine at night must be thieves, visitors, or fire. No sooner did 
 the last fearful suggestion offer itself to his mind than, forget- 
 ful of his night-cap or every prudential consideration. Mon- 
 sieur Hyacinthe precipitately rushed to the door, which he 
 flung open. 
 
 A pale, slender, fair-haired young man about twenty, but 
 16
 
 362 SEVEN YEAES. 
 
 whose manners were remarkably cool and self-possessed, was 
 standing on tlie landing. He was showily attired, and smelt 
 very strongly of Eau de Cologne ; the thumb of his left hand 
 was placed in his corresponding waistcoat pocket ; in his 
 other hand he held a small and flexible badine. 
 
 " Well, sir," said he, frowning on Monsieur Hyacinthe, as 
 much as his very smooth forehead and eyebrows would allow 
 him to frown, " do you know that I have rung five times at 
 your door "? " 
 
 " I protest, sir," stammered forth Monsieur Hyacinthe, 
 " I only heard three rings." 
 
 " Then, sir," observed the stranger, sternly eyeing him 
 from head to loot, " then, sir, it was extremely, exceedingly 
 impertinent in you not to open sooner. You have a room to 
 let — show it to me." 
 
 But Monsieur Hyacinthe, who disliked this authoritative 
 tone, promptly replied that it was too late to see the room. 
 " It is not the legal hour, sir,"' he said, with some dignity ; 
 " the legal hour is from noon till sunset." 
 
 The stranger smoothed his chin, smiled, and replied 
 blandly : 
 
 •' And so, sir, you actually think that a gentleman m ill 
 grope up three pair of stairs, ring at doors, and walk down 
 again, balked of his will, because you please that it should be 
 so. Sir, why is there a bill up ? 1 insist on seeing t!ie room." 
 
 Monsieur Hyacinthe protested, but the stranger was per- 
 emptory ; and as it was one of his, Monsieur Hyacinthe's, 
 maxims, that a wise man ought to submit to anything in 
 order to avoid a present risk, he yielded at length, though not 
 without calling on evejy one to witness that he was no longer 
 a free agent. As the stranger was the only person who could 
 hear this protest, it was useless ; but Monsieur Hyacinthe's 
 conscience was satisfied — he had done everything wliich a 
 brave and peaceable man could do, and he proceeded to show 
 the furnished room to the stranger, now fully warned of his 
 illegal conduct. The young man cast a careless look around 
 him, observed that the room suited him, and throwing two 
 gold pieces on the table, bade Monsieur Hyacinthe pay him- 
 self for the first month's rent, and keep the change until 
 another month was up. 
 
 " Sir," said Monsieur Hyacinthe, "you have not heard my 
 conditions. I am a quiet man, sir ; this room is near my 
 rooms ; I like to be quiet. I allow no noise, sir, no loud 
 talking, never any music or singing on any account. And I
 
 SEVEN YEABS. 363 
 
 am particular, sir, very particular. I feel convinced this rooia 
 would never suit you." 
 
 '• 1 like it," said the stranger, " and I like you." 
 
 Monsieur Hyacinthe nevertheless was going to declare 
 that, though his visitor liked him, the room was not suited to 
 him, and would not do at all, when the young ' man, not giv- 
 ing him time to remonstrate, proceeded to inform him that he 
 could apply to Madame Sebillard, number three, the next 
 street, his present landlady and abode, for references ; but 
 that, as he hated hypocrisy, he would give him his character 
 himself; and in order to do this with due comfort, he com- 
 posedly sat down on the bed. 
 
 " My name," he began, " is Henri Eenaudin. Is it my 
 real name ? That is of no consequence. My father is rich : 
 I might live in his hotel if I liked ; but there is a step-mother 
 in the way, and I wish to be free. Still you will say — Why 
 come to a poor place like this ? I have private reasons for 
 doing so ; but to satisfy you, we will say a whim brought me 
 hither, or rather let it be the wish of studying human nature 
 in all its infinite variety ;" and as though pleased with this 
 euphonious sentence, M. Eenaudin repeated it several times in 
 a complacent tone. 
 
 M. Hyacinthe here wanted to slip in a remark ; but the 
 other was too quick for him. " I know what you are going 
 to say — Does my father allow me such ? No ; but I make 
 him pay the same tailor's bills two or three times over : I 
 never pay my tailor myself; it is really too shabby," added 
 M. Eenaudin, with profound contempt for the meanness of 
 such an act. " You need not speak," he continued, seeing that 
 M. Hyacinthe was opening his mouth ; " I know what you are 
 going to say — How do I get money 1 The easiest thing in 
 the world : I have already spent three fortunes, of wdiich I 
 never touched a sou. My mother's fortune was the first. 
 Oh, no ! now I think of it, it was my cousin's five hundred 
 thousand francs that went first. Ah ! they are all gone. 
 Then came my mother's property — gone too ; and my old 
 uncle's fortune is going now. He is still alive, but he has 
 made a will in my favour, so that I live on my future expec- 
 tations. You seem astonished ; it is very easy : I can put 
 you in the way : borrow money at the rate of two or three 
 hundred per cent., spend it, give parties, and so forth ; you 
 will find that a moderate fortune does not last much more 
 than a year. But you look economical : well, then, let us 
 say eighteen months, if you wish to see old Isaac."
 
 364 SEVEN YEARb. 
 
 "Thank you, sir," precipitately interrupted M. Hyacin the ; 
 " you were speaking about yuur character 'i " 
 
 " You are welcome to it. In the first place, I am a dread- 
 ful gambler and a fearful spendthrift. I delight in throwing 
 money out of the windows, and seeing the people rush and 
 fight foi- it. Does this window look out on the street 1 No : 
 ah, sorry for it. Never mind, we shall find an opportunity. 
 I see you are greatly shocked ; can't help it, my dear sir — 
 family failing — my mother was a charming woman, but very 
 extravagant, yet greatly admired by the other sex ; and, to 
 say the truth, I believe that I have also inherited this peculiari- 
 ty — that is to say, reversed ; but I hate vanity, so we will 
 ' drop the subject. Well, I think you have my character cor- 
 rectly now. Stop, I w^as forgetting one very remarkable pe- 
 culiarity : I am dreadfully violent, a famous duellist, and 
 when excited, would no more mind throwing you out of the 
 window than I would the smoking of a cigar ; " and as an apt 
 illustration of this happy comparison, M. lienaudin drew a 
 cigar from his cigar-case, and lighting it from the candle held 
 by M. Hyacinthe, began smoking it with great composure. 
 
 " Sir," ejaculated the alarmed M. Hyacinthe, endeavouring 
 to smile, " this is only some pleasant joke of yours. Remem- 
 ber the window is very high ; you would not have the heai't 
 to throw a poor man from a third floor 1 " 
 
 But M. Renaudin said he had the heart to do anything ; 
 should feel extremely sorry when it was all over, but could 
 not help it ; had therefore thought it best to mention this 
 weakness, as it would be more pleasant to both parties if noth- 
 ing of the kind occurred. " And now," he added, " that every- 
 thing is explained, 1 think that, as I feel rather sleepy, you 
 * may leave me." 
 
 " 1 cannot allow that," uneasily exclaimed Monsieur Hy- 
 aeinthe ; " I must give notice to the police." 
 
 " I scorn the police," answered Renaudin, with deep con- 
 tempt. 
 
 " Sir," indignantly exclaimed Monsieur Hyacinthe, who 
 was gradually edging towards the door, " you fail in the re- 
 spect due to the constituted authorities : your language is very 
 illegal." 
 
 " I delight in everything illegal," was Renaudin's profane 
 reply. 
 
 "Then, sir," resolutely observed Monsieur Hyacinthe, now 
 on the landing, " I shall alarm the house." 
 
 " Do," answered Monsieur Renaudin ; " thei-e will be noise.
 
 SEVEN TEAES. 365 
 
 fighting, smashing of window-panes, &c., — things in which 1 
 rejoice — another trait in my character. But if you liave a 
 bone or two broken in the afl'ray, do not say you received no 
 wai'ning." 
 
 This was uttered with such suavity of manner, and the 
 speaker had such a fair, meelc foce, of which the most promi- 
 nent features were large eyes of a pale blue, a flit nose, and a 
 retreating chin, that he did not seem the most likely indi- 
 vidual to carry his threat into execution ; but ]\Ionsieur Hy- 
 acinthe, who knew what horrible mysteries often lay hid under 
 the fairest aspect, and who never trusted to personal appear- 
 ances when his safety was at stake, submitted, though not 
 without a protest, and ended by putting the two Napoleons 
 in his pocket, and leaving Monsieur Renaudin master of the 
 field of battle. Fear was not his only reason f jr acting thus : 
 being a considerate man, he did not like to disturb a quiet 
 house. Besides, he was not sorry to let his room to an indi- 
 vidual who could afford to throw money out of the window ; 
 for though it is very well to discounti-nance extravagant peo- 
 ple, every one knows that it is profitable to deal with them in 
 the long run. There might be, too, a vague mysterious pleas- 
 ure for Monsieur Hyacintlie in having this mysterious indi- 
 vidual under the same roof with himself; a pleasure the more 
 exquisite, that his tenant's room adjoined that in which he 
 slept, and that when he. Monsieur Hyacinthe, had retired to 
 bed, he could distinctly hear Monsieur Kenaudin sneeze three 
 times. Strange thoughts came to Monsieur Hyacinthe, — was 
 this sneezing a signal, who knew, who could tell ? Dreams of 
 Renaudin breaking open his door, and approaching liis bed- 
 side with a scowl, soothed Monsieur Ilyacinthe's slumbers 
 that night. 
 
 Early the next morning the mysterious lodger went out. 
 As soon as he was down the staircase. Monsieur Hyacinthe, 
 who had a double key, entered his room, and with a sigh of 
 relief found that Monsieur Renaudin had carried away noth- 
 ing ; which was the less surprising that, save an old candle- 
 stick and a pair of snuffers, there was nothing portable in the 
 room. 
 
 This important flict being ascertained, INIonsieur Hyacinthe 
 hastened to call on Madame Sehillard. 
 
 He found a busy, talkative lady, whose thoughts did not 
 seem to go beyond the concerns of the furnished house of 
 which she called herself mistress. At first she completely 
 misunderstood his purpose, and insisted on letting him her
 
 366 SEVEN YEARS. 
 
 first-floor for the moderate sum of three hundred francs a 
 month. " A bargain, I assure you," she said, " a dead bar- 
 gain." 
 
 " Madame, you do not understand — " 
 
 " Oh, yes 1 do — you want that little back room with the 
 chintz sofii. Well, then, you shall have it. I had promised 
 it to the English lord ; but you shall have it." 
 
 " Madame, yon do not understand me," austerely resumed 
 Monsieur Hyacinthe ; " I came at this early hour to inquire 
 into the character of a mysterious individual, who left you 
 vnider strange and sudden circumstances yesterday evening. 
 He called himself to me Renaudin ; his real name you per- 
 haps know." 
 
 Madame Sebillard's busy face took a touch of melancholy. 
 
 " It was a great pity," she said, " but what could I do ? 
 I liked him very much, the dearest, gentlest, meekest lamb I 
 ever had, but what could I do 1 I put it to you sir ; if I did 
 not take Renaudin's room I could not let my second-floor. 
 He bore the dismissal with angelic sweetness, quite entered 
 into my feelings, and went to you, 1 suppose." 
 
 " Madame, there is something in all this," suspiciously 
 said Monsieur Hyacinthe. " You confess you dismissed this 
 singular being from your house. What had he done? who, 
 what is he 1 " 
 
 " The sweetest-tempered lodger I ever had, and the quiet- 
 est," replied Madame Sebillard ; " I should have been delight- 
 ed to keep him, if I could have let my second-floor without 
 his room, but I could not. It was sad, very. As to what he 
 does to earn a living, you had better ask him — I always took 
 him to be an employe, or something of the sort." 
 
 This shallow attempt to impose on his credulity, Monsieur 
 Hyacinthe was going to receive with an indignant remon- 
 strance, when the appearance of a yellow-haired English 
 family, in search of an apartment, made Madame Sebillard 
 deaf and blind, or rather took and transferred her senses from 
 him to her future lodgers. 
 
 Monsieur Hyacinthe withdrew, profoundly disgusted with 
 so much duplicity, and more than ever convinced of tne 
 universal tendency which every individual had to cheat and 
 deceive him. As he entered the house in which he resided, 
 meditating how all this would end, Madame Latour, the por- 
 tress, screamed shrilly from her lodge : 
 
 " Monsieur Hyacinthe, will you please to give me ten sous 
 for that letter 1 — give it to him, Minna, — and another time,
 
 SEVEN TEAKS. 367 
 
 Monsieur Hyacinthe, T shall be obliged to you if yon will 
 kindly tell me when you take in lodgers at nine at night." 
 
 Madame Latour's niece, Minna, a stout, red-haired girl, 
 handed the letter to Monsieur Hyacinthe, who hastily put it 
 back on perceiving that it was directed to Monsieur Renaudin. 
 
 " With anything belonging to that man," he said, solemn- 
 ly, " I will have nothing to do. There may be gunpowder in 
 that letter, for all I know." 
 
 " Gunpowder ! " said Madame Latour, coming forward, 
 " smell it, Minna." 
 
 Minna did as she was bid, and declared the letter was 
 scented. 
 
 " Do not trust it ! " ejaculated Monsieur Hyacinthe, " and 
 do not trust the man to whom it is directed." 
 
 " I have a great mind to put a match to it," said Madame 
 Latour, who had a Baconian turn for experiments. 
 
 " The risk be on your own head," solemnly said Monsieur 
 Hyacinthe, '' but mark my words, IMudame Latour, distrust 
 thai man — and mind your niece," he added, darting a look at 
 Miiiua, who heard him with open mouth and eyes. 
 
 " Mind my niece ! " echoed Madame Latour. 
 
 " Ay, Madame Latour, mind her ! " And Monsieur Hya- 
 cinehe went up-stairs, leaving Madame Latour much excited. 
 
 Minna was her niece, the daughter of her brother in the 
 couritry, confided to her especial care, and Madame Latour 
 was of opinion that Minna required strict watching and sound 
 exhortation Of the latter she now received a reasonable 
 dose, with the concluding and irresistible argument of a slap 
 on the face, which Madame Latour held essential to correct 
 female dir'^ir''.'ne, and which, as a dutiful and affectionate aunt, 
 she would not on any account have omitted. 
 
 Not satisfied with warning every one against his lodger, 
 Monsieur Hyacinthe kept strict watch on his motions, so as 
 to leave him the scantiest opportunities of effecting any mischief. 
 But though his vigilance was most persevering, he could dis- 
 cover nothing reprehensiljle in the conduct of Monsieur Re- 
 naudin, and for his opinion of that singular individual he was 
 obliged to rely a good deal on Monsieur Renaudin himself. 
 This strange beins; went out early in the morning and came 
 home late at night, just like the most commonplace biped. 
 Occasionally, indeed, he hinted in a dark and gloomy tone at 
 certain deeds in which he had been engaged during the day ; 
 but though Monsieur Hyacinthe's hair " stood on end to 
 hear him," as he elegantly expressed it, this was all he could
 
 368 sp:ven years. 
 
 learn, and every one agreed that the information was exceed 
 ingly vague. 
 
 There was, however, a kind of fearful charm in Eenaudin's 
 conversation for the jjeaceful Hyacinthe ; for though, of course, 
 it was very shocking to hear his guest speak with unparallel- 
 ed and revolting coldness of the innocent hearts he had broken 
 through mere wantonness, and of the foes wliom he had laid 
 in mortal combat at his feet — without speaking of all the 
 tailor's bills whicli he had never paid — every one knows that 
 those are subjects of the most thrilling interest, and which for 
 a long time formed the very staple of modern fiction. 
 
 No wonder, therefore, that Monsieur Hyacinthe, being fond 
 of the dark and the dismal, was fliscinated by the gloomy dis- 
 course of Renaudin. Nor was he the only person on whom 
 this mysterious individual exercised an influence. Every one 
 in the house, from Monsieur Moreau the landlord, who lived 
 on the first-floor, to Madame Latour in her lodge, and the 
 little tailor in his garret, declaimed there was something incom- 
 prehensible about that man. 
 
 Monsieur Moreau, who, having once been a deputy, and 
 voted against the freedom of the press, thought himself a 
 marked man, asserted that it would be prudent to turn him 
 out of the house at once, as he was probably the spy of a 
 gang of thieves or conspirators, both of which characters were 
 in his opinion identical ; Madame Latour called him a liber- 
 tine and mauvais sujet, and strictly forbade her niece to cast 
 even a look upon him ; the old tailor gave a very diffuse 
 opinion, in which there was something about the degeneracy 
 of human nature, and the cut of ]\Ionsieur Renaudin's coat, 
 which was not, it seems, at all orthodox. Monsieur Hya- 
 cinthe, who knew most on the su1)ject, said least ; " for," as 
 he sententiously observed, " walls had ears." Occasionally, 
 however, he ventured to observe, that there was something 
 fetal about his lodger's look — that he was, like Napoleon, a 
 child of destiny, &c. — with which observations every one 
 agreed, as being remarkably applicable to Monsieur Renaudin. 
 
 But such, however, was the exemplary conduct of this 
 strange individual, so regularly did he pay his rent, and so 
 nearly did he, upon the Avhole, behave like other people, that 
 every one began to think him a commonplace fellow, and 
 some persons went so far as to complain that they had been 
 taken in. But events showed that their murmurs had been 
 premature, and Renaudin soon let them see what he could do. 
 
 Madame Latour rose one morning, unwarned by pi'esenti
 
 SEVEN YEARS. 369 
 
 ments of evil against the approaching calamity. She called 
 Minna, who slept in the same room, and on not iicaring Minna 
 answer, she thought nothing, save that jNiinna was o\^crs!eep 
 ing herself. She took a jug of cold water, wliich she htld a 
 sovereign remedy against sleepiness, opened the curtains, and 
 prepared to let a few warning drops fall on Minna's fair fore- 
 head ; hut, amazement ! the bed was empty and cold, — Minna 
 was flown. 
 
 There could be no doubt about it. The young girl's 
 clothes and little valuables were gone, as well as her person. 
 Madame Latour's carefully-guarded and admonished niece had 
 run away. But with whom ? Who could have thus fasci- 
 nated her ? Some one in the house, for INIinna never went out. 
 Was it Monsieur Moreau 1 Monsieur Hyacinthe, or the old 
 tailor 1 Impossible ! A flash of light crossed Madame La- 
 tour's mind, — it was Renaudin ! 
 
 True, proof was wanting, but was tame, commonplace 
 proof ever so potent as suspicion ? Madame Latour's suspi- 
 cion proved to be a magnifying-glass of first-rate power, for 
 she alarmed the house, called landlord and lodgers together, 
 and vowed to be revenged on the artful Renaudin, should he 
 presume to show his face again in the house, which every one 
 agreed to be extremely unlikely. 
 
 But Renaudin showed them that he was capable of any- 
 thing, for he came home at his usual hour. Madame Latour 
 began the attack by asking him politely — and her politeness, 
 being very uncommon, always foreboded some deep insult — 
 what he had done with her niece, Minna ? 
 
 " Ay, sir," she continued, still sweet and smiling, " I should 
 like to know — just out of curiosity — what you have done with 
 her." 
 
 Monsieur Renaudin must have been a consummate actor, 
 for his face expressed surprise apparently so unfeigned, that 
 Monsieur Hyacinthe, who was listening and looking over the 
 banisters, was almost staggered in his belief of Renaudin's 
 guilt. 
 
 " What I have done with your niece," at length said the 
 yomig man, " why, truly, nothing, Madame." 
 
 " I suppose, sir," sharply said Madame Latour, " I sup- 
 pose, sir, YOU think I am blind, and that I did not notice the 
 looks, sir, — mind, the looks my niece cast upon you 1" 
 
 Monsieur Renaudin smiled and stroked his chin. 
 
 " I confess you have me there," he said, blandly ; " why yes, 
 she did look at me. She did, and I will not deny but she may 
 
 16*
 
 370 SEVEN TEAKS. 
 
 have felt much, but I gave her no encouragement. On my 
 honour, I did not." 
 
 " Sir, what do you mean 1 " fiercely asked Madame La- 
 tour. " Look at you ! my niece look at you, a girl reared by 
 me ! Say that yovi stared at her, sir, in a shameful, shameless 
 way, but do not. presume to assert that she cast a glance at 
 you.'; 
 
 This sudden and extraordinary contradiction struck Ee- 
 naudin dumb. He stared at Madame Latour as if he thought 
 that lady mad, and ^ntil she asked him what he meant by it, 
 without giving him time to reply, she overwhelmed him with 
 abuse. It was in vain that he opened his lips to answer her 
 invectives by a word of "self defence ; for when she at length 
 paused, out of breath, Monsieur Hyacinthe, bending over the 
 banisters, said meekly : 
 
 " Well, I do think, sir, that you ought to give up this 
 young girl. I do think you ought." 
 
 " I think so too," said Monsieur Moreau, appearing at the 
 head of the staircase, " I am the landlord of this house, and it 
 is my duty to insist on the deluded Minna being given up to 
 her afflicted aunt." 
 
 " And I say it is a shame Monsieur should talk as he has 
 talked of a poor girl, who has given up everything for his 
 sake," said the little tailor, who was sitting in the lodge. 
 
 " I protest against the disappearance of this little red- 
 haired girl being laid at my door," indignantly exclaimed Re- 
 naudin. " It is a slander on my good taste to hint at it. A 
 slander which I shall resent," he added, looking around him 
 with a fierceness which produced immediate, but brief, silence ; 
 for Madame Latour, being now exhausted, became hysterical, 
 and declared that her darling Minna being gone, she had noth- 
 ing to "live for ; she partly revived, however, when her friends 
 bade her rouse herself for the sake of her lodgers ; and she 
 even exerted herself so much as to promise Monsieur Renau- 
 din, who was now going up to his room, that she would soon 
 be revenged upon him, 
 
 " Go up, sir," she said, loftily, " go up. You shall suffer 
 for this yet." 
 
 And faithfully, indeed, did she keep her word. During a 
 whole week her foe could neither leave nor enter the house 
 without hearing himself reproached by Madame Latour with 
 the abduction of her niece. But hatred has quick instincts ; 
 and the portress soon perceived that the graceless Renaudin 
 was rather flattered at being thus reminded of the impression
 
 SEVEN YEARS. 371 
 
 he had produced on the too-susceptible heart of the fliir Min- 
 na : she accordingly sought for a surer method of inflicting a 
 wound, and soon found a very effectual one, Avhich she prac- 
 tised thrice with great success. Ihis was to sleep so soundly 
 at night, that she never heard her enemy's knock at the door, 
 and that, consequently, Monsieur Renaudin had to spend the 
 night in the open air, which, as the portrefs managed to be 
 particularly drowsy in rainy weather, was not always very 
 pleasant. Of course when he came in in the morning, Mon- 
 sieur Renaudin raved at Madame Latotir in an awful manner, 
 and uttered such fearful threats of vengeance, that the 
 alarmed Monsieur Ilyacinthe assured her the whole affair 
 would end in something dreadful. But the portress was a 
 dauntless woman ; she continued to brave the anger of her 
 foe in the most fearless manner, and seemingly without suffer- 
 ing in consequence. 
 
 Punishment, indeed, seemed in this case to fall on the head 
 of the guilty individual ; for such was the persecution Mon- 
 sieur Renaudin sustained on the subject of Minna, that the 
 unhappy gentleman declared, .in a tone of despair, he would 
 leave the house unless it ceased. From morninjj till night, 
 indeed, he heard of nothing but Minna. The female lodgers 
 looked upon him with evident horror ; the men remonstrated 
 with him ; and even the timid Monsieur Hyacinthe used the 
 most persuasive arguments in order to induce him to give up 
 Minna. 
 
 " Sir ! " exclaimed Monsieur Renaudin, rolling his blue 
 eyes in a portentous manner, " if I hear the name of Minna 
 again, I shall do something desperate ! " 
 
 As it did not escape Monsieur Hyacinthe that his lodger, 
 whilst speaking thus, grasped a small pocket-pistol which was 
 lying on the table, he hastened to retreat ; but when he had 
 left the room, he said in a loud tone, though perhaps not quite 
 loud enough to be heard, " hard-hearted wretch ! " 
 
 But the circumstance of -the pistol, which he had never 
 seen before, nevertheless dwelt in his mind. What did his 
 lodger want it for ? A duel or a suicide ? Monsieur Hya 
 einthe inclined rather towards the latter supposition. It 
 seemed exceedingly likel'y that something fatal had befallen 
 the unhappy Minna, and in such a case it was only natural 
 that the guilty Renaudin's mind should be burdened with re- 
 morse ; and every one knows tliat, in such dark and myste- 
 rious characters, rt^morsc leads to tlie most dreadful extremi- 
 ties. The more he thought on the subject, the more Monsieur
 
 372 SEVEN TEAES. 
 
 Hyacinthe became convinced that it was his lodger's intention 
 to commit some rash act ; and remembering, with the most 
 disinterested humanity, that he owed him nearly two months' 
 rent, he resolved to save him in spite of himself. He imine- 
 diately communicated his suspicions to the portress and Mon- 
 sieur Moreau, who both appeared much startled on hearing of 
 the pistol. The landlord especially seemed thrown into an 
 unusual state of agitation. He treated the idea of a suicide 
 with mysterious contempt, and darkly asked Monsieur Hya- 
 cinthe, if he had never heard of such things as political assas- 
 sination, and pistol shots being fired at marked men 1 After 
 which he made some unintelligible allusion to a warning let- 
 ter, but ended by declaring that the pistol should be secured 
 by all means ; and that, in order to prevent him from com- 
 mitting mischief, Renaudin should be locked up in his room. 
 But who was to beard the lion in his den ? The portress and 
 Monsieur Moreau agreed that Monsieur Hyacinthe was the 
 most fit person to be intrusted with such a task. This worthy 
 individual, however, who entertained a most considerate re- 
 gard for his personal safety, declared it would be as much as 
 his life was worth to undertake such an office, as he knew Re- 
 naudin would fight like a tiger ; but he hinted something 
 about Monsieur Moreau's great moral courage, and Madame 
 Latour being safe on account of her sex ; upon which the 
 landlord eyed Ijim askance, muttering something about hidden 
 accomplices, whilst the portress sharply asked " if Monsieur 
 Hyacinthe wanted to get rid of her that way 1 " It was at 
 length agreed that the deed should be effected by cunning. 
 At dead of night, therefore, when every one in the house was 
 safely in bed and fast asleep, Madame Latour raised up an 
 alarm of fire in most unearthly accents. The lodgers, being 
 all warned, took no notice of the fact, with the exception of 
 the luckless Renaudin, who flew out of his room, and rushed 
 down stairs as pale and breathless as though it would not have 
 been as sure a method of committing suicide to remain in bed 
 whilst the house was on fire as any other which he might 
 adopt. Monsieur Hyacinthe, who was lying in ambush on the 
 landing, immediately darted into the room, pounced upon the 
 pistol, which was still lying on the table, caught up a box of 
 razors, and hurried off with his spoil to his own apartment. 
 On discoverinnf that the alarm was a false one, IMonsieur Re- 
 uaudin, who only saw in this another method taken by his 
 enemy the portress to annoy him, gave her a ferocious look, 
 and walked up to his room. His ill-humour was too great to
 
 SEVEN YEAES. 873 
 
 enable him to perceive his loss, and it lucklessly made hire 
 neglect to lock his door. 
 
 But the next morning Monsieur Renaudin missed his 
 razors, then liis pistol, and ended by discovering that he was 
 locked up. His cries soon brought Monsieur ITyacinthe to 
 his door. The worthy gentleman then explained to his lodger 
 througli the key-hole that he was to remain a prisoner until 
 he could prove that he no longer entertained hostile designs 
 against his own person, and might be trusted with a debt. 
 He added, however, that if IMonsieur Renaudin would sol- 
 emnly promise not to throw himself into the Seine, nor to 
 leap down from the towers of Notre Dame, nor to destroy 
 himself in any manner whatsoever ; and if he would pay 
 down to him, Monsieur Hyacinthe, the two months' rent 
 which he owed him, and another month's rent to which he 
 was entitled, not having received warning, he would see what 
 he could do in order to free him from his bondase in two or 
 three ojiys' time. These conditions were, howerer, indignantly 
 rejected by Monsieur Renaudin, who vowed that he would 
 have justice if there was law in the land, and appealed to the 
 police for protection. But Monsieur Hyacinthe reminded 
 him that, as he delighted in everything illegal, and scorned the 
 police, he had no right to complain ; and thus ended the con- 
 ference. 
 
 After walking about his room for some time in a state of 
 great indignation. Monsieur Renaudin gradually cooled down, 
 and requested to speak to Monsieur Hyacinthe and Monsieur 
 Moreau. When they were both on the landing, he again de- 
 manded an explanation of their conduct. Monsieur Hyacinthe 
 replied by saying that a pistol had been found in his room, 
 and by hinting something about the unhappy Minna. 
 
 " Minna again ! " groaned the captive in a tone of despair ; 
 adding, with reckless calmness : " How long do you mean to 
 keep me a prisoner, and when will you give me anything to 
 eat ? " 
 
 Monsieur Hyacinthe pretended not to hear this last ques- 
 tion ; and after a good deal of hesitation, Monsieur Moreau 
 said somctliing about feeding one's enemies, and promised to 
 send up Monsieur Renaudin his breakfist. This meal, how- 
 ever, only consisted of a cup of cold coffee, with a very scanty 
 supply of bread ; but such as it was, Monsieur Mori'au took 
 the precaution of not delivering it to the captive without pre- 
 viously exacting from him a solemn promise of not attempt- 
 ing to escape for the whole of that day. Monsieur Renaudin,
 
 374 SEVEN TEARS. 
 
 who was hungry, would have promised anythhig, and 
 readily complied with this condition ; the more so, as Mon 
 sieur Moreau artfully gave him to understand that he was 
 going to get a dejeuner a la fourchette. When he saw the 
 deceit which had been practised upon him, he gave vent to his 
 irritated feelings in bitter and gloomy language " about 
 blighted hopes, and people being driven to desperate deeds." 
 Monsieur Hyacinthe, who was listening on the landing, shud- 
 dered as he remembered that the window was not fastened ; 
 but Renaudin was probably too much bent on vengeance to 
 think of self-destruction, for he quietly ate his bread, drank 
 his coffee, and when a few hours had passed away, asked if 
 dinner was ever going to come up, or if they meant to starve 
 him. In answer to this question, a dish of onion soup, with 
 cold mutton and bread, soon made their appearance ; but on 
 beholding this sorry fare. Monsieur Renaudin became so in- 
 dignant, that he threatened to break all the window panes in 
 his room. Monsieur Hyacinthe, alarmed by this menace, 
 pacified him by a dubious promise of mending his bill of fare 
 the next day. As he was meditating, however, on the best 
 means of eluding this engagement, an event occurred, which 
 relieved him from his embarrassment. 
 
 News were received of Minna, who had now been gone 
 more than a week. The father of the fugitive wrote to apol- 
 ogise for the conduct of his daughter, who, unable to bear a 
 longer absence from home, had returned to the bosom of her 
 family. Madame Latour was greatly incensed by this ex- 
 planation of the guilty Minna's conduct ; and though the in- 
 nocence of Renaudin was now clearly proved, she threw the 
 whole blame upon him. Every one, indeed, felt disappointed 
 at this commonplace conclusion, and, like the portress, found 
 fault with the luckless Renaudin. They had got into the habit 
 of associatins; his name with that of Minna — no longer the 
 unhappy ; they had looked upon him with suspicion and hor- 
 ror ; he had been for them that favourite theatrical character 
 — the traitor of the melo-drama ; and lo ! he now turned out 
 to be a false traitor ! In short. Monsieur Renaudin was now 
 despised for not having committed the act which had drawn, 
 down persecution upon him. Monsieur Hyacinthe himself, 
 who, when pleading the cause of Minna, had termed his lodger 
 " a hard-hearted wretch ! " no sooner found him to be inno- 
 cent, than he contemptuously called him " a mean and spirit- 
 less fellow ! " Monsieur Moreau was the only individual who 
 showed no disappointment or surprise. " He knew all along,"
 
 SEVEN YEARS. 375 
 
 he observed, " that Minna had nothing to do with Ttenau- 
 din's presence in the house." And he dropped such myste- 
 rious hints on the subject, that every one shrewdly concluded 
 there must be something in it. On being informed by Mon- 
 sieur Hyacinthe of the turn the affair had taken, Monsieur 
 Renaudin naturally enough expected to be released from his 
 captivity ; but tliough his landlord told him that he was free, 
 it struck Monsieur Renaudin that there was something very 
 peculiar in his manner as he did so. , Monsieur Hyacinthe's 
 first act, when this explanation was over, was to request his 
 lodger to pay him the two mo-ntlis' rent, which happened to 
 be due that very same day. Monsieur Renaudin threw him 
 the money with silent scorn ; but without heeding this, his 
 landlord examined each piece of silver with minute attention, 
 counted and recounted the sum, and at length, apparently sat- 
 isfied that it was right, put it into his pocket. When this 
 was over, he produced a small packet of papers, which he laid 
 on the table before his lodger. Monsieur Renaudin saw that 
 the papers were the bills of different tradesmen, concerning 
 heavy debts contracted towards them by a Monsieur de St. 
 Maur. After eyeing them one by one with a bewildered look, 
 he asked an explanation of Monsieur Hyacinthe ; but his land- 
 lord affected not to understand him. " Surely Monsieur 
 needed no explanation ; tradespeople had come to inquire 
 whether Monsieur de St. Maur lived in the house ; and 
 though Monsieur had changed his name, they gave such an 
 accurate description of his person, that Madame Latour knew 
 it must be he. He had nothing to do with the whole affair ; 
 and if the next time Monsieur went out he was apprehended 
 by the gardes du commerce, he could not prevent it." 
 
 " Sir," said Monsieur Renaudin, with a sort of desperate 
 calmness, " before we attempt to ehicidate this new and mys- 
 terious affair, let me know whether I am to hear anything 
 more about the unhappy Minna." 
 
 Monsieur Hyacinthe gravely replied that the Minna affair 
 was over ; on hearing which, his lodger thanked Heaven with 
 great fervour — for he had felt it impossible to divest himself 
 of secret misgivings on this point — and proceeded to inform 
 him that he laboured under a mistake in supposing him to be 
 Monsieur de St. Maur. But Monsieur Hyacinthe only smiled 
 hicredulously. " It was no business of his, but Monsieur 
 could not expect him to believe this." Such, however, seemed 
 to be Monsieur Renaudin's intention ; but his efforts proved 
 fruitless. Monsieur Hyacinthe remained convinc<?d that
 
 S76 SEVEN TEARS. 
 
 Monsieur's real name was not Renaudin, and must conse 
 quently be St. Maur. Mfmsieur had his private reasons for 
 lodging in such a poor place as this ; Monsieur thought it 
 shabby to pay his tailor ; evidently Monsieur was the indi- 
 vidual in question." 
 
 " Very well," returned the exasperated Renaudin, " I sup- 
 pose / am Monsieur de St. Maur. But granting this, what 
 business is it of yours ? " he fiercely added. 
 
 " Don't bully me, sir ! " loftily observed Monsieur Hya- 
 cinthe, making a dignified retreat towards the door. " I am 
 not one of your unfortunate tradesmen to bear with it. If 
 you wish to leave this house, you can do so at once." 
 
 " 1 protest against this," exclaimed a voice from the land- 
 ing ; " and I hi»pe that if Monsieur has anything like decent 
 feeling left, he will wait fn- the arrival of the two police offi- 
 cers for whom I am going to send, and who cannot be long 
 without making their appearance, and allow himself to be 
 quietly taken to prison." 
 
 " To prison ! — police officers ! Well, what have I done 
 now ? " asked Renaudin, with a gloomy smile. " Killed or 
 murdered 1 " 
 
 " Monsieur Hyacinthe," continued the voice on the landing, 
 " I call you to witness that he has confessed his horrible in- 
 tent in the plainest terms ! No, sir, you have not done the 
 deed, but your design against my life was not the less crim- 
 inal. I consider my escape a miraculous one ! " 
 
 At the conclusion of this speech. Monsieur Moreau, who 
 was the speaker, ventured so far as to look into the room, 
 though he prudently remained behind Monsieur Hyacinthe, 
 whose person acted as an effectual shield for his own. 
 
 " Now what does this mean ? " wildly exclaimed the un- 
 happy Monsieur Renaudin. 
 
 " This means," continued Monsieur Moreau, " that Mon- 
 sieur's real character and designs are now known ; that there 
 are such things as traitors among conspirators, and that peo- 
 ple may receive letters by which they learn that they are 
 going to be murdered ; and though the name of the mur- 
 dered may be concealed, Monsieur will easily understand that 
 there is no difficulty in guessing at it." 
 
 The unhappy Monsieur Renaudin heard this speech in the 
 silence of dismay ; but when it was over — " So," he ex- 
 claimed, sinking down on a seat in a kind of solemn fury, " so 
 it seems no silly girl can run off, no madman squander his 
 money, and no fool think himself a murdered man, but I
 
 SEVEN TEARS. 377 
 
 must be the seducer, the spendthrift, and the assassin ! 
 Keall}', gentlemen, I am greatly obliged to you." 
 
 " Sir," drily replied Monsieur Ilyacinthe, " I had your 
 character from your own lips ; and events have shown that 
 you were, as you boasted, renjarkably sincere." 
 
 Monsieur Renaudin thrust his left hand into tlie opening 
 of his waistcoat, and assumed the Napoleon attitude, in order 
 to bid defiance to his enemies with more effect ; but a bright 
 thought seemed to flash across his mind, and he suddenly 
 checked himself, 
 
 " Leave me," said he, in an authoritative tone ; " and let 
 me have pen, ink, and paper : there is that on my mind which 
 must be revealed. Yes," he solemnly added, " all shall be 
 confessed. But remember," he continued, in a menacing tone, 
 " to let no one even appi-oach the door of this room, or linger 
 on the staircase, until half an hour. at least has elapsed." 
 
 Fear and curiosity induced Monsieur Moreau and Mon- 
 sieur Ilyacinthe to comply with this re(]uest ; for the former 
 was fully convinced that the alarmed Renaudin was going to 
 sacrifice his friends to his safety, and reckoned on the names 
 of a dozen accomplices at the very least ; whilst Monsieur 
 Ilyacinthe gloomily congratulated himself on the tale of horror 
 which his lodger was going to unfold. A lingering feeling of 
 suspicion, however, induced them to remain on the first-floor 
 landing until the half hour was over, when they impatiently 
 hurried up-stairs. Renaudin's room door was partly open, 
 and Monsieur Ilyacinthe cautiously peeped in. A light was 
 burning on the table, and a letter was lying near it ; but 
 Renaudin had vanished. The truth flashed across his mind ; 
 he rushed in, tore the letter open, and read its contents aloud : 
 
 " The manifold persecutions which I have endured in this 
 house compel me to retire from the shelter of its inhospitable 
 roof, as I feel convinced that designs against either my life or 
 property are entertained by certain individuals who dwell be- 
 neath it. All I say to my persecutors is, that they may live 
 to repent of their conduct." 
 
 " Monsieur Hyacinthe," exclaimed Monsieur Moreau, in 
 a prophetic tone, " mark my words — I am a dead man ; " and 
 he retired to his apartment with the heroic air of a man re- 
 signed to the prospect of being shot at the first opportunity. 
 
 But Monsieur Hyacinthe's personal fears Avere out- 
 weighed on this occasion by his curiosity, which was greatly 
 excited by Renaudin's mysterious disappearance. Madame 
 Latour's assertion, that the fugitive had effected his escape by
 
 37S SEVEN YEAKS. 
 
 going down a back staircase, and opening the street door 
 whilst she was asleep in her lodge, he always treated with the 
 contempt which such a commonplace explanation deserved 
 Indeed Monsieur Hyacinthe would have been rather sorry to 
 find out the truth. As his late. lodger owed him nothing, and 
 had done him no real injury, he f(jund it pleasant, upon the 
 whole, to have been connected with such a fearful and desper- 
 ate character. There was, as he poetically expressed it, " a 
 horrid charm in it, and food for the imagination." Fate, ho\v - 
 ever, seemed perversely bent on dispelling the romance and 
 mystery with which he had invested Renaudin, and to show 
 this luckless individual in the mc^st commonplace aspect. In 
 the first place, it was ascertained shortly after his disappear- 
 ance, that he was not Monsieur de St. Maur ; then, as though 
 this was not bad enough, Monsieur Hyacinthe disfovered, 
 amongst the few articles which his lodger had left behind him, 
 a small book, from which he. learned that Monsieur Renaudin 
 had 1500 francs in the savings' bank — a mean and paltry 
 piece of economy which made Monsieur Hyacinthe justly in- 
 dignant, as affording another proof of the gross manner in 
 which he had been taken in. He was still smarting under the 
 mortification of this discovery, when a friend of his treacher- 
 ous lodger came to claim, in his name, the pistol — which also 
 turned out to be a mere counterfeit, as, whether loaded with 
 powder or lead, it wonld not go off — the razors, and the book. 
 Monsieur Hyacinthe delivered up the articles with a hope 
 that this was the last time he should hear of their owner. 
 Such, however, was not to be the case, for the very same day 
 ]Madame Latour triumjihantly asited him if he knew who 
 Renaudin was ? Monsieur Hyacinthe said " No," with the air 
 of a man resigned to anything he may hear. 
 
 " I got it all out of his friend ! " exclaimed the portress, 
 with evident exultation. " He is- — a iiairdresser ! " 
 
 Monsieur Hyacinthe was at first stunned by this new blow : 
 the splendid, the extravagant, the terrible Renaudin a hair- 
 dresser ! But no ! it could not be ! he would not believe it. 
 But, alas ! even his scepticism was obliged to yield to the 
 evidence of his senses ; for the hairdresser to whose establish- 
 ment the redoubtable Renaudin belonged, took a shop in a 
 neighbouring street, so that longer doubt was impossible. 
 There have been, however, such things as romantic hairdress- 
 ers ; but though Monsieur Hyacinthe fancied for a time that 
 Renaudin might belong to that class, this was a short-lived 
 illusion. The voung man, according to the universal testi
 
 BEVEN TEAES. 379 
 
 mony, lee! a, most exemplary life : instead of going to drink 
 or dance at the barrier, he spent his Sundays with his family, 
 occasionally indulging in the harmless amusement of taking 
 out his sisters for a walk. On learning these circumstances, 
 Monsieur Hyacinthe bitterly declared that " he gave him up." 
 His only comfort under this trying dispensation was, that 
 Renaudin afforded a living proof of the tendency which made 
 every individual seek to clieat and deceive him. 
 
 There is no knowinij how Monsieur Moreau micht have 
 acted under the influence of the dangerous neighbourhood in 
 which he was now placed, if he hod not discovered about this 
 time that the anonymous letter which had caused him so much 
 alarm was only a practical joke of one of his friends — a fact 
 which he took in high dudgeon. As for Monsieur Renaudin, 
 he seemed to bear very philosophically the degrading position 
 to which he was reduced in the eyes of his former acquaint- 
 ances. Perhaps he had learned, from personal experience, 
 that though it is very fine and agreeable to be thought a des- 
 perate sort of character, it occasionally happens to be incon- 
 venient, as there are simple people who will take you at 
 your word, whatever ill qualities you may bestow on your- 
 self. However that may be, it will perhaps be gratifying to 
 the reader to state, that Renaudin continues to be the same 
 exemplary character he always was ; he has forsworn all am- 
 bitious thoughts, and is satisfied with being considered one of 
 the most prudent, economical, and gentle professors of his 
 gentle craft. 
 
 AN EXCELLENT OPPOETUNITY. 
 
 The Rue St. Denis is a busy place in Paris ; for it is dirty, 
 thronged, and wealthy. We all know that those tall dingy 
 houses might be gilt if they chose, and that if they remain 
 gloomy and dull, it is because gloom and dulness of aspect are 
 business-like, and have been so from time immemorial. Thus 
 on looking at those houses there arise in the beholder's mind 
 vague visions of vast commerce; of bales of goods piled in 
 lofty rooms; of dusty ledgers and account books, a goodly 
 library, and, above all, of busy wrinkled men, who have grown 
 bent and grey in the noble art of making money. 
 
 The streets leading to the Rue St. Denis share in its priv- 
 ileges ; they are dirty, gloomy, and thoroughly business-like
 
 380 SEVEN YEAKS. 
 
 In one of those streets there stands a tall and ancient house, 
 not different in that respect from its neighbours, the lower 
 portion of which is a large mercer's shop. This establishment 
 is held to be one of the very best in the neighbourhood, and. 
 has for many years belonged to an individual on whom we will 
 bestow the name of Ramin. 
 
 About ten years ago, Monsieur Ramin M-as a jovial red- 
 faced man of forty, who joked his customers into purchasing 
 his goods, flattered the pretty grisettes outrageously, and now 
 and then gave them a Sunday treat at the barrier, as the 
 cheapest way of securing their custom. Some people thought 
 him a careless, good-natured fellow, and wondered how, with 
 his off-hand ways, he contrived to make money so fast, but 
 those who knew him well saw that he was one of those who 
 "never lost an opportunity." Others declared that Monsieur 
 Ramin's own definition of his character was, that he was a 
 " bon enfant," and that " it was all luck." He shruiro-ed his 
 shoulders and laughed when people hinted at his deep scheming 
 in making, and his skill in taking advantage of, excellent 
 opportunities. 
 
 He was sitting in his gloomy parlour one fine morning in 
 spring, breakfasting from a dark liquid honoured with the 
 name of onion soup, glancing at the newspaper, and keeping a 
 vigilant look on the shop through the open door, when his old 
 servant Catherine suddenly observed : 
 
 " T suppose you know Monsieur Bonelle has come to live 
 in the vacant apartment on the fourth floor ? " 
 
 " What ! " exclaimed Monsieur Ramin in a loud key. 
 
 Catherine repeated her statement, to which her master lis- 
 tened in total silence. 
 
 "Well!" he said at length, in his most careless tone, 
 ' what about the old fellow V " And he once more resumed 
 his triple occupation of reading, eating, and watching. 
 
 " Why," continued Catherine, " they say he is nearly 
 dying, and that his housekeepei'. Marguerite, vowed he could 
 never get up-stairs alive. It took two men to carry him up ; 
 and when he was at length quiet in bed. Marguerite went 
 down to the porter's lodge and sobbed there a whole hour, 
 saying, ' Her poor master had the gout, rheumatism, and a 
 oad asthma ; that though he had been got up-stairs, he would 
 never come down again alii'e; that if she could only get him 
 to confess his sins and make his will, she would not mind it so 
 much : but that when she spoke of the lawyer or the priest, hd
 
 SEVEN YEARS. 3S1 
 
 blas^pheroed at her like a heathen, and declared he -would live 
 to bury her and every body else." 
 
 Monsieur Raniin heard Catherine with great attention, 
 forgot to finish his soup, and remained for five niinutes in pro- 
 found rumination, without so much as perceiving two custom- 
 ers who had entered the shop, and were waiting to be served. 
 When aroused, he was heard to exclaim : 
 " What an excellent opportunity ! " 
 
 Monsieur Bonelle had been Ramin's predecessor. The 
 succession of the latter to the shop was a mystery. No one 
 ever knew how it was that this young and poor assistant 
 managed to replace his patron. Some said that he had 
 detected Monsieur Bonelle in frauds which he threatened to 
 expose, unless the business were given up to him as the price 
 of his silence; others averred that, having drawn a prize in 
 the lottery, he had resolved to set up a fierce opposition over 
 the way, and that Monsieur Bonelle, having obtained a hint of 
 his intentions, had thought it most prudent to accept the 
 trifling sum his clerk oft'ered, and avoid a ruinous competition. 
 Some charitable souls — moved no doubt by Monsieur Bonelle's 
 misfortune — endeavoured to console and pump him ; but all 
 they could get from him was the bitter exclamation, " To 
 think I, should have been duped by him/ " For E.amin had 
 the art, though then a mere youth, to pass himself off on his 
 master as an innocent provincial lad. Those who sought an 
 explanation from the new mercer were still more unsuccessful. 
 " ^^J gt)od old master," he said in his jovial way, " felt in need 
 of repose, and so I obligingly relieved him of all business and 
 botheration." 
 
 Years passed away ; Ramin prospered, and neither thought 
 nor heard of his " good old master." Tlie house, of which he 
 tenanted the lower portion, was offered for sale : he had long 
 coveted it, and had almost concluded an agreement with the 
 actual owner, when Monsieur Bonelle unexpectedly stepped 
 in at the eleventh hour, and by offering a tritle more secured 
 the bargain. The rao-e and mortification of Monsieur liamiu 
 were extreme. He could not understand how Bonelle, wlmm 
 be had thought ruined, had scraped up so large a suuj ; his 
 lease was out, and he now felt himself at the mercy of the man 
 he had so much injured. But either Monsieur Bonelle was 
 free from vindictive feelings, or those fejliags did not blind 
 him to the expediency of keeping a good tenant; for though 
 he raised the rent, until Monsieur llamin groaned inwardly,
 
 382 SEVEN YEARS. 
 
 he did not refuse to renew the lease. They had met at that 
 period; but never since. 
 
 " Well, Catherine," observed Monsieur Ramin to his old 
 servant, on the following morning, " how is that good Monsieur 
 lionelle getting on V " 
 
 " I dare say you feel very uneasy about him," she replied, 
 with a sneei". 
 
 Monsieur Ramin looked up and frowned. 
 
 " Catlierine," said he, dryly, " you will have the goodness, 
 in the first place, not to make impertinent remarks; in the 
 second place, you v.'ill oblige me by going up-stairs to in- 
 quire after the health of Monsieur Bonelle, and say that I sent 
 you." 
 
 Catherine grumbled, and obeyed. Her master was in the 
 shop, when she returned in a few minutes, and delivered with 
 evident satisfaction the followino- gracious message : 
 
 " Monsieur Bonelle desires his compliments to you, and 
 declines to state how he is ; he will also thank you to attend 
 to your own shop, and not to trouble yourself about his 
 health." 
 
 " How does he look ? " asked Monsieur Ramin, with per 
 feet composure. 
 
 " I caught a glimpse of him. and he appears to me to be 
 rapidly preparing for th'e good offices of the undertaker." 
 
 Monsieur Eainin smiled, rubbed his hands, and joked 
 merrily with a dark-eyed grisette, who was cheapening some 
 ribbon for her cap. That girl made an excellent bargain 
 that day. 
 
 Towards dusk the mercer left the shop to the care of his 
 attendant, and softly stole up to the fourth story. In answer 
 to his gentle ring, a little old woman opened the door, and, 
 giving him a rapid look, said briefly : 
 
 Monsieur is inexorable ; he won't see any doctor what- 
 
 u 
 
 She was going to shut the door in his face, when Ramin 
 quickly interposed, under his breath, with " / am not a 
 doctor." 
 
 She looked at him from head to foot. 
 
 " Are you a lawyer ? " 
 
 " Nothing of the sort, my good lady," 
 
 " Well, then, are you a priest ? " 
 
 " I may almost say, quite the reverse." 
 
 " Indeed you must go away, master sees no one."
 
 SEVEN YEAES. 383 
 
 Once more she would have shut the door ; but Ptamiu 
 prevented her. 
 
 " Mj good ladj," said he, in his most insinuating tones, 
 " it is true I am neither a lawyer, a doctor, nor a priest. I 
 am an old friend, a very old friend of your excellent master; 
 I have come to see good Monsieur Bonelle in Lis present afflic- 
 tion." 
 
 Marguerite did not answer, but allowed him to enter, and 
 closed the door behind him. He was going to pass from the 
 narrow and gloomy ante chamber into an inner room — whence 
 now proceeded a sound of loud coughing — when tlie old wo- 
 man laid her hand on his arm, and raising herself on tiptoe 
 to reach his ear, whispered : 
 
 " For Heaven's sake, sir, since you are his friend, do talk 
 to him; do tell him to make his will, and hint somctiiing 
 about a soul to be saved, and all that sort of thiuir : do. 
 sir!" 
 
 Monsieur Ramiu nodded and winked in a way that said 
 '' I will." He proved, however, his prudence by not speak- 
 ing aloud ; for a voice from within sharply exclaimed : 
 
 " Marguerite, you are talking to some one. Marguerite, I 
 will see neither doctor nor lawyer ; and if any meddling priest 
 dare — " 
 
 " It id only an old friend, sir," interrupted Marguerite, 
 opening the inner door. 
 
 Her master, on looking up, perceived the red face of Mon- 
 sieur Ramin peeping over the old woman's shoulder, and ire- 
 fuUy cried out : 
 
 " How dare you bring that fellow here ? And you, sir, 
 how dare you come ? " 
 
 " My good old friend, there are feelings," said Ramin, 
 laying his hand on his heart, — " there are feelings," he repeat- 
 ed, " that cannot be subdued. One such feeling brought me 
 here. The fact is, I am a good-natured, easy fellov/, and I 
 never bear malice. I never forget an old friend, but love to 
 forget old differences when I find one party in affliction." 
 
 He drew a chair forward as he spoke, and composedly 
 seated himself opposite to his late master. 
 
 Monsieur Bonelle was a thin old man, with a pale sharp 
 face and keen features. At first he eyed his visitor from the 
 depths of his vast arm-chair; but, as if not satisfied with this 
 distant view, he bent forward, and laying both hands on his 
 thin knees, he looked up into Kamin's face with a fixed and
 
 88-i SEVEN YEARS. 
 
 piercing gaze. He had not, however, the power of disconcert- 
 iug his guest. 
 
 " What did you come here for ? " he at length asked. 
 
 " Merely to have the extreme satisfaction of seeing how 
 you arc, my good old friend. Nothing more." 
 
 " Well, look at me — and then go." 
 
 Nothing: could be so discouraoiuo- ; but this was an ex- 
 cellent opportunity, and when Monsieur liauiin had an ex- 
 cellent opportunity in view, his pertinacity was invincible. 
 Being now resolved to stay, it was not in Monsieur Bonelle's 
 power to banish him. At the same time, he had tact enough 
 to render his presence agreeable. He knew that his coarse 
 and boisterous wit had often delighted Monsieur Bonelle of 
 old, and he now exerted himself so successfully as to betray 
 the old man two or three times into hearty laughter. 
 
 " Eamin," said he, at length, laying his thin hand on the 
 arm of his guest, and peering with his keen glance into the 
 mercer's purple face, " 3'ou are a funny fellow, but I know 
 you ; you cannot make me believe j-ou have called just to 
 see how I am, and to entertain me. Come, be candid for 
 once; what do you w:int?" 
 
 Kamin threw himself back in his chair, and laughed blandly, 
 as much as to say, " Ga7i you suspect me ? " 
 
 " I have no sliop now out of which you can wheedle me," 
 continued the old man ; " and surely you are not such a fool 
 as to come to me for money." 
 
 " Money V " repeated the draper, as if his host had men- 
 tioned something he never dreamt of. " Oh, no ! " 
 
 Bamin saw it would not do to broach the subject he had 
 really come about too abruptly, now that suspicion seemed 
 so wide awake — the opportunity had not arrived. 
 
 " There is something up, Ramin, I know ; I see it in the 
 twinkle of your eye; but you can't deceive me again." 
 
 " Deceive you ? " said the jolly schemer, shaking his head 
 reverentially. " Deceive a man of your penetration and 
 depth? Impossible! The bare supposition is flattery. My 
 dear friend," he continued, soothingly, " I did not dream of 
 such a thing. Tlie fact is, Bonelle, though they call me a 
 jovial, careless, rattling dog, I have a conscience ; and, some- 
 how, I have never felt quite easy about the way in which. I 
 became j'our successor downstairs. It was rather sharp 
 practice, I admit." 
 
 Bonelle seemed to relent. 
 
 " Now for it," said the opportunity hunter to himself. —
 
 SEVEN YEAES. 385 
 
 " By-the-bj " (speaking aloud), " tliis house must b« a great 
 trouble to you in your present weak state ? Two of your 
 lodgers have lately gone away without paying — a gieat nui- 
 sance, especially to an invalid." 
 
 " I tell you I'm as sound as a colt." 
 
 '' At all events, the whole concern must be a great bother 
 to you. If I were you I would sell the house." 
 
 " And if I were ?/ow,," returned the landlord dryly, " I 
 would buy it, — " 
 
 " Precisely," interrupted the tenant eagerly. 
 
 '' That is, if you could get it. Phoo ! I knew you were 
 after something. Will you give eighty thousand francs for 
 it ? " abruptly asked Monsieur Bonelle. 
 
 " Eighty thousand francs ! " echoed Ramin. Do you take 
 me for Louis Philippe or the Bank of France ? " 
 
 " Then we'll say no more about it — are you not afraid of 
 leaving your shop so long ? " 
 
 Ramin returned to the charge, heedless of the hint to de- 
 part. " The fact is, my good old friend, ready money is not 
 my strong point just now. But if you wish very much to be 
 relieved of the concern, what say you to a life annuity ? I 
 could manage that." 
 
 Monsieur Bonelle gave a short, dry, church-yard cough, 
 and looked as if his life were not worth an hour's purchase. 
 " You think yourself immensely clever, I dare say," he said. 
 '■ They have persuaded you that I am dying. Stuff ! I shall 
 bury you yet." 
 
 The mercer glanced at the thin, fragile frame, and ex- 
 claimed 10 himself, " Deluded old gentlema'n ! " " My dear 
 Bonelle," he continued, aloud, " I know Avell the strength of 
 your admirable constitution ; but allow me to observe that you 
 neglect yourself too much. Now, suppose a good sensible 
 doctor — " 
 
 " Will you pay him ? " interrogated Bonelle, sharply. 
 
 " Most willingly," replied Ramin, with an eagerness that 
 made the old man smile. " As to the annuity, since the sub- 
 ject annoys you, we will talk of it some other time." 
 
 " After you have heard the doctor's report," sneered 
 Bonelle. 
 
 The mercer gave him a stealthy glance, which the old man's 
 keen look immediately detected. Neither could repress a 
 smile : these good souls understood one another perfectly, and 
 Ramin saw that this was not the excellent opportunity he 
 desired, and departed. 
 17
 
 386 SEVEN YEARS. 
 
 The next day Ramin sent a neighbouring -medical man, 
 and beard it was bis opinion that if Bonelle held on for 
 three months longer, it would be a miracle. Delightful news I 
 
 Several days elapsed, and although very anxious, Ramin 
 assumed a careless air, and did not call upon bis landlord, or 
 take any notice of him. At the end of the week old Mar- 
 guerite entered the shop to make a trifling purchase. 
 
 '' And bow are we getting on up-stairs ? " negligently 
 asked Monsieur llamin. 
 
 " Worse and worse, my good sir," she sighed. " We have 
 rheumatic pains, which make us often use expressions the 
 reverse of Christian-like, and yet nothing can induce us to see 
 either the lawyer or the priest ; the gout is getting nearer to 
 our stomach every day, and still we go on talking about the 
 strength of our constitution. Oh, sir, if you have any in- 
 fluence with us, do, pray do, tell us how wicked it is to die 
 without making one's will or confessing one's sins." 
 
 "I shall go up this very evening," ambiguously replied 
 Monsieur Ramin. 
 
 He kept his promise, and found Monsieur Bonelle in bed, 
 groaning with pain, and in the worst of tempers. 
 
 " What poisoning doctor did you send ? " he asked, with an 
 ireful glance; " I want no doctor, I am not ill; I will not fol- 
 low his prescription , he forbade nie to eat ; I will eat." 
 
 " He is a very clever man," said the visitor. " He told 
 me that never in the whole course of his experience has be 
 met with what he called so much ' resisting power ' as exists 
 in your frame. He asked me if you were not of a long-lived 
 race." 
 
 " That is as people may judge," replied Monsieur Bonelle. 
 " All I can say is, that my grandfather died at ninety, and 
 my father at eighty-six." 
 
 " The doctor owned that you had a wonderfully strong 
 constitution." 
 
 " Who said I hadn't? " exclaimed the invalid, feebly. 
 
 " You may rely on it, you would preserve your health 
 better if you had not the trouble of these vexatious lodgers. 
 Have you thought about the life annuity ? " said Ramin, as 
 carelessly as he could, considering how near the matter was to 
 his hopes and wishes. 
 
 " Why, I have scruples," returned Bonelle, coughing. " I 
 do not wish to take you in. My longevity would be the ruin 
 of you."
 
 SEVEN TEAES. 387 
 
 " To meet that difficulty," quickly replied the mercer^ 
 " we can reduce the interest." 
 
 " But I must have high interest," placidly returned Mon- 
 sieur Bonelle 
 
 Raniln, on hearing this, burst into a loud fit of laughter, 
 called Monsieur Bonelle a sly old fox, gave him a poke in the 
 ribs, which made the old man cough for five minutes, and then 
 proposed that they should talk it over some other day. The 
 mercer left Monsieur Bonelle in the act of protesting that 
 he felt as strong as a man of forty. 
 
 Monsieur Eamin felt in no hurry to conclude the proposed 
 agreement. " The later one begins to pay, the better," he 
 said, as he descended the stairs. 
 
 Days passed on, and the negotiation made no way. It 
 struck the observant tradesman that all was not right. Old 
 Marguerite several times refused to admit him, declaring her 
 master was asleep : there was something mysterious and for- 
 bidding in her manner that seemed to Monsieur Kamin very 
 ominous. At length a sudden thought occurred to him : the 
 housekeeper — wishing to become her master's heir — had heard 
 his scheme and opposed it. On the very day that he arrived 
 at this conclusion, he met a lawyer, with whom he had 
 formerly had some transactions, coming down the stairo-tse. 
 The sight sent a chill through the mercer's commercial heart, 
 and a presentiment — one of those presentiments that seldom 
 deceive — told him it was too late. He had, however, the for- 
 titude to abstain from visiting Monsieur Bonelle until evening 
 came ; when he went up, resolved to see him in spite of all 
 Marguerite might urge. The door was half open, and the old 
 housekeeper stood talking on the landing to a middle-aged 
 man in a dark cassock. 
 
 " It is all over ! The old witch has got the priests at him," 
 thought Eamin, inwardly groaning at his own folly in allow- 
 ing himself to be forestalled. 
 
 " You cannot see Monsieur to-night," sharply said Mar- 
 guerite, as he attempted to pass her. 
 
 " Alas ! is my excellent friend so very ill ? " asked Ramin, 
 in a mournful tone. 
 
 " Sir," eagerly said the clergyman, catching him by the 
 button of his coat, " if you are indeed the friend of that un- 
 happy man, do seek to bring him into a more suitable frame 
 of mind. I have seen many dying men, but never so much ob- 
 stinacy, never such an infatuated belief in the duration of 
 life."
 
 388 SEVEN TEAES. 
 
 " Then you tbink he really is dying ? " asked Ramin ; and, 
 in spite of the melancholy accent he endeavoured to assume, 
 there was something so peculiar in his tone, that the priest 
 looked at him very fixedly as he slowly replied : 
 
 " Yes, sir, I think he is." 
 
 " Ah ! " was all Monsieur Ramin said ; and as the clergy- 
 man had now relaxed his hold of the button, Ramin passed in 
 spite of the remonstrances of Marguerite, who rushed after the 
 priest. He found Monsieur Bonelle still in bed, and in a 
 towering rage. 
 
 " Oh ! Ramin, my friend," he groaned, " never take a 
 housekeeper, and never let her know you have any property. 
 They are harpies, Ramin, — harpies ! such a day as I have had; 
 first, the lawyer, who comes to write down ' my last testa- 
 mentary dispositions,' as he calls them ; then the priest, who 
 gently hints that I am a dying man. Oh, what a day ! " 
 
 " And did you make your will, my excellent friend ? " soft- 
 ly asked Monsieur Ramin, with a keen look. 
 
 " Make my will ? " indignantly exclaimed the old man ; 
 " make my will ? what do you mean, sir ? do you mean to say 
 I am dying ? " 
 
 " Heaven forbid ! " piously ejaculated Ramin. 
 
 " Then why do you ask me if I have been making my 
 will ? " angrily resumed the old man. He then began to be 
 extremely abusive. 
 
 When money was in the way, Monsieur Ramin, though 
 otherwise of a violent temper, had the meekness of a lamb. 
 He bore the treatment of his host with the meekest patience, 
 and having first locked the door so as to make sure that Mar- 
 guerite would not interrupt them, he watched Monsieur Bo- 
 nelle attentively, and satisfied himself that the excellent oppor- 
 tunity he had been ardently longing for had arrived. " He is 
 going fast," he thought, " and unless I settle the agreement 
 to-night, and get it drawn up and signed to-morrow, it will be 
 too late." 
 
 " My dear friend," he at length said aloud, on perceiving 
 that the old gentleman had fairly exhausted himself, and waa 
 lying panting on his back, " you are indeed a lamentable in- 
 stance of the lengths to which the greedy lust of lucre will 
 carry our poor human nature. It is really distressing to see 
 Marguerite, a faithful, attached servant, suddenly converted 
 into a tormenting harpy by the prospect of a legacy ! Law- 
 yers and priests Hock around you like birds of prey, drawn 
 hither by the scent of gold ! Oh, the miseries of having deli-
 
 SEVEN TEAKS. 389 
 
 cate health combined with a sound constitution and large 
 property ! " 
 
 " Ramin," groaned the old man, looking inquiringly into 
 his visitor's face, " you are again going to talk to me about 
 that annuity — I know you are ! " 
 
 " My excellent friend, it is merely to deliver you from a 
 painful position." 
 
 " I am sure,-Ramin, you think in your soul I am dying," 
 whimpered Monsieur Bonelle. 
 
 " Absurd, my dear sir. Dying ? I will prove to you that 
 you have never been in better health. In the first place you 
 feel no pain." 
 
 " Excepting from rheumatism," groaned Monsieur Bonelle. 
 
 " Rheumatism ! whoever died of rheumatism ? and if that 
 be all—" 
 
 " No, it is not all," interrupted the old man with great 
 irritability ; " what would you say to the gout getting higher 
 and higher up every day ? " 
 
 *' The gout is rather disagreeable, but if there is nothing 
 else — " 
 
 " Yes, there is something else," sharply said Monsieur 
 Bonelle. " There is an asthma that will scarcely let me 
 breathe, and a racking pain in my head that does not allow me 
 a moment's ease. But if you think I am dying, Kamin, you 
 are quite mistaken." 
 
 " No doubt, my dear friend, no doubt ; but in the mean 
 while, suppose we talk of this annuity. Shall we say one 
 thousand francs a year ? '' 
 
 " What ? " asked Bonelle, looking at him very fixedly. 
 
 " My dear friend, I mistook : I meant two thousand francs 
 per annum," hurriedly rejoined Ramiu. 
 
 Monsieur Bonelle closed his eyes, and appeared to fall into 
 a gentle slumber. The mercer coughed ; the sick man never 
 moved. 
 
 " Monsieur Bonelle." 
 
 No reply. 
 
 " My excellent friend." 
 
 Utter silence. 
 
 " Are you asleep V " 
 
 A long pause. 
 
 " Well, then, what do you say to three thousand ? " 
 
 Monsieur Bonelle opened his eyes. 
 
 " Raniin," said he sententiously, " you are a fool; the house 
 brings me in four thousand as it is."
 
 390 SEVEN YEARS. 
 
 This was quite false, and the mercer knew it ; but he had 
 his own reasons for wishing to seem to believe it true. 
 
 " Grood Heavens ! " said he, with an air of great innocence, 
 " Who could have thought it, and the lodgers constantly run- 
 ning away. Four thousand ? Well, then, you shall have four 
 thousand." 
 
 Monsieur Bonelle shut his eyes once more, and murmured 
 " The mere rental — nonsense! " He then folded his hands on 
 his breast, and appeared to compose himself to sleep. 
 
 " Oh, what a sharp man of business he is ! " Ramin said, 
 admiringly : but for once omnipotent flattery failed in its 
 efi"ect : " So acute ! " continued he, with a stealthy glance at 
 the old man, who remained perfectly unmoved. " I see you 
 will insist upon making it the other five hundred francs." 
 
 Monsieur Ramin said this as if five thousand five hundred 
 francs had already been mentioned, and was the very summit 
 of Monsieur Bonelle"s ambition. But the ruse failed iu its 
 efi"ect; the sick man never so much as stirred. 
 
 " But, my dear friend," urged Monsieur Ramin, in a tone 
 of feeling remonstrance, " there is such a thing as being too 
 shai'p, too acute. How can you expect that I shall give you 
 more when your constitution is good, and you are to be such a 
 long liver ? " 
 
 " Yes, but I may be carried off" one of those days," quietly 
 observed the old man, evidently wishing to turn the chance of 
 his own death to account. 
 
 " Indeed, and I hope so," muttered the mercer, who was 
 getting very ill-tempered. 
 
 " You see," soothingly continued Bonelle, " you are so 
 good a man of business, Ramin, that you will double the 
 actual value of the house in no time. I am a quiet, easy per- 
 son, indifferent to money; otherwise this house would now 
 bring me in eight thousand at the very least." 
 
 " Eight thousand ! " indignantly exclaimed the mercer. 
 " Monsieur Bonelle, you have no conscience. Come now, my 
 dear friend, do be reasonable. Six thousand francs a year (I 
 don't mind saying six) is really a very handsome income for a 
 man of your quiet habits. Come, be reasonable." But Mon- 
 sieur Bonelle turned a deaf ear to reason, and closed his eyes 
 once more. What between opening and shutting them for 
 the next quarter of an hour, he at length induced Monsieur 
 Ramin to offer him seven thousand francs. 
 
 u Yerj well, Ramin, agreed," he quietly said ; " you have
 
 SEVEN TEAKS. 391 
 
 made an unconscionable bargain." To this succeeded a violent 
 fit of coughing. 
 
 As Ramiu unlocked the door to leave, he found old Mar- 
 guerite, who had been listening all the time, ready to assail 
 him with a torrent of whispered abuse for duping her " poor 
 dear innocent old master into such a bargain." The mercer 
 bore it all very patiently; he could make allowances for her 
 excited feelings, and only rubbed his hands and bade her a jovial 
 good evening. 
 
 The agreement was signed on the following day, to the in- 
 dignation (if old Marguerite, and the mutual satisfaction of the 
 parties concerned. 
 
 Every one admired the luck and shrewdness of Ramiu, for 
 the old man every day was reported worse ; and it was clear 
 to all that the first quarter of the annuity would never be paid. 
 Marguerite, in her wrath, told the story as a grievance to every 
 one : people listened, shook their heads, and pronounced Mon- 
 sieur ilamin to be a very clever fellow. 
 
 A month elapsed. As Ramin was coming down one morn- 
 ing from the attics, where he had been giving notice to a poor 
 widow who had failed in paying her rent, he heard a light step on 
 the stairs. Presently a sprightly gentleman, in buoyant health 
 and spirits, wearing the form of Monsieur Bonelle, appeared. 
 Ramin stood ayhast, 
 
 " Well, Ramiu," gaily said the old man, " how are you 
 getting on ? Have you been tormenting the poor widow up- 
 stairs ? Why, man, we must live and let live ! " 
 
 " Monsieur Bonelle," said the mercer, in a hollow tone, 
 " may I ask where is your rheumatism ? " 
 
 " Gone, my dear friend, — gone." 
 
 " And the gout that was creeping higher and higher every 
 day," exclaimed Monsieur Ramin, in a voice of anguish. 
 
 " It went lower and lower, till it disappeared altogether," 
 composedly replied Bonelle. 
 
 '' And your asthma — " 
 
 '* The asthma remains, but asthmatic people are proverbial- 
 ly long-lived. It is, I have been told, the only complaint that 
 Methusehih was troubled with." With this Bonelle opened 
 his door, shut it, and disappeared. 
 
 Ramin was transfixed on the stairs ; petrified with intense 
 disappointment, and a powerful sense of having been duped. 
 When he was discovered, he stared vacantly, and raved about 
 an excellent opportunity of taking his revenge. 
 
 The wonderful cure was the talk of the neighbourhood,
 
 892 SEVEN YEARS. 
 
 ■whenever Monsieur Bonelle appeared in the streets, jauntily 
 flourishing his cane. In the first frenzy of his despair, Ramin 
 refused to pay ; he accused every one of having been in a plot 
 to deceive him ; he turned oif Catherine and expelled his 
 porter ; he publicly accused the lawyer and priest of con- 
 spiracy ; brought an action against the doctor, and lost it. 
 He had another brought against him for violently assaulting 
 Marguerite, in which *he was cast in heavy damages. Mon- 
 sieur Bonelle did not trouble himself with useless remon- 
 strances, but, when his annuity was refused, employed such 
 good legal argumehts, as the exasperated mercer could not 
 possibly resist. 
 
 Ten years have elapsed, and MM. Ramin and Bonelle 
 still live on. For a house which would have been dear at 
 fifty thousand francs, the draper has already handed over 
 seventy thousand. 
 
 The once red-faced, jovial Ramin is now a pale, haggard 
 man, of sour temper anc^ aspect. To add to his anguish, he 
 sees the old. man thrive on that money which it breaks his 
 heart to give. Old Marguerite takes a malicious pleasure in 
 giving him an exact account of their good cheer, and in ask- 
 ino; him if he duos not think Monsieur looks better and better 
 every day. Of one part of this torment Ramin might get rid, 
 by giving 'his old master notice to quit, and no longer having 
 him in his house. But this he cannot do ; he has a sacred 
 fear that Bonelle would take some excellent opportunity of 
 dying without his knowledge, and giving some other person 
 an excellent opportunity of personating him, and receiving 
 the money in his stead. 
 
 The last accounts of the victim of excellent opportunities 
 represents him as being gradually -worn down with disappoint- 
 ment. There seems every probability of his being the lii'st 
 to leave the world ; for Bonelle is heartier than ever.
 
 SEVEN TEAKS. 393 
 
 THE EXPERIENCES OF SYLYIE DELMARE 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 It was the eve of New Year's day. I sat alone in the 
 dining-room, now cold and dark ; the drawing-room door was 
 slightly ajar ; I could see my step-mother sitting by the fire- 
 side ; she looked smiling and pleased ; her two daughters 
 stood talking and laughing together on the hearth-rug; the 
 lamp was still unlit, but the fire burned- with a bright, cheer- 
 ftil glow ; I turned away my gknce with a saddened heart. 
 
 This was the last day of the year, the day of Saint Syl- 
 vester, my patron saint, — yet who had offered me the bouquet 
 of choice flowers "? Avho had embraced me tenderly, and wished 
 that this my fete-day might be gay and happy ? — No one. 
 
 It had not always been so. I remembered the wonderful 
 nosegay my poor father never failed to provide on this day for 
 his little Sylvie ; the mystery with which he placed it in her 
 room, so that it might be the first object to greet her sight 
 when she woke ; his apparent surprise as to how it had come 
 there ; and then the sudden smile, the embrace and fond kiss, 
 all came back ; but this was over now ; he had been dead a 
 year and more. I was a portionless orphan of sixteen, and 
 the only legacy my father — a retired ofiicer whose pension 
 died with him — had been able to bequeath to a step-mother, 
 good indeed, but cold. 
 
 They had loved in youth, but been compelled to part. 
 She was united to a rich old man ; my father loved again and 
 married- my mother, who died young; I was their only child. 
 He had been a widower for several years, when he met once 
 more his early love ; she also was free, with two daughters 
 and a handsome fortune : they married. They were happy, 
 but the fervour of their youthful attachment was over ; my 
 step-mother could scarcely forgive her husband the love he 
 had felt for his first wife ; I saw that she was jealous of the 
 past, and that it pained her to look on me, because I was said 
 to be my mother's living image. Yet when my father was on 
 his death-bed she promised him, of her own accord, to bring 
 me up with her daughters, and treat me as her child. She 
 was an honourable woman, and rigidly fulfilled this engage- 
 17*
 
 394 SEVEN TEARS. 
 
 ment. I shared the studies of Josephine and Louise, I waa 
 dressed like them, I went out with them, and partook of all 
 their pleasures ; but my step-mother was a woman ; I was the 
 daughter of her rival, and she could not love me. 
 
 My feelings for her were contradictory. I sometimes 
 loved and sometimes disliked her. I resented her indifference 
 or blessed her goodness by turns. I would have given any- 
 thing to be loved by her ; I had even madea few timid at- 
 tempts ; but disheartened at their failure, I at length kept 
 aloof, and widened that line of separation which she had im- 
 perceptibly established betwixt us. Yet the knowledge of her 
 coldness always grieved me, and it was this that saddened me 
 as I sat iu the dining room, unmissed and undisturbed, on the 
 eve of New Year's Day. 
 
 Ere long I heard the great drawing-room door open ; then 
 a servant came in and laid down something on the floor. 
 Louise and Josephine uttered exclamations of delight. 
 
 " Beautiful ! lovely ! " they both cried. I heard the 
 rustling of silk. I knew the New Year's presents were come, 
 that mine was amongst the rest, but I would not look, nor 
 even confess to myself that I cared to look. 
 
 " I am glad you like them, my darlings," said the gentle 
 voice of my step-mother ; " where is Sylvie ? " 
 
 " Moping, of course," replied the charitable Louise. 
 
 " Of course ! " echoed her no less charitable sister. 
 
 I was called, and came forth resolved not to be pleased ; 
 but my heart relented at once when I saw the three dresses 
 of blue silk lying on the sofa. I took up mine, looked at it, 
 and turned towards my step-mother with flushed cheeks and 
 sparkling eyes. I felt glad and grateful ; I longed to go up 
 to her, to say something, to embrace her, but there was little 
 encouragenaent in her cold tone as she said, " Sylvie, here is 
 your New Year's Day present," none in her calm face ; be- 
 sides, she was absorbed in looking at her daughters, who were 
 already trying on their dresses. I sighed and followed their 
 example. When Louise and Josephine had been sufficiently 
 admired by their mother, and had placed themselves at every 
 possible distance for her to see how they looked, she turned 
 towards the corner where I stood apart and unheeded. She 
 looked at me, then at her daughters, then at me aojain, and a 
 change came over her placid countenance. I felt distressed, 
 for 1 knew what was passing in her mind. The daughters of 
 my step-mother were wholly unlike her; she was pretty still, 
 fair and delicate ; they were dark, coarse-skinned girls, with
 
 SEVEN TEARS. 395 
 
 hair as crisp as that of mulattoes. I certainly was not hand- 
 some, but nature had jrriven me a profusion of golden-coloured 
 hair, blue eyes, and tL*^ clear complexion of youth. I know 
 not under what maternal delusion my step-motlier laboured 
 when she chose a light blue as the colour for the three dresses ; 
 certain it is the eifect for her daughters was deplorable. 
 They, poor girls, saw nothing of this, but she did, and as the 
 colour happened to become me very well, she suffered doubly. 
 
 I felt truly grieved. I would have given up all* the 
 dresses in the world for one kind glance, for one word of af- 
 fection. I looked at my step-mother wistfully ; I wished her 
 to understand what I felt; but my appealing look met with no 
 reply ; her countenance was overcast, and her eye averted 
 from me. My pleasure vanished, the present gave me no joy ; 
 for though I had not worn it more than a few minutes, it had 
 already been the cause of pain to the giver. I left the apart- 
 ment in silence, and went up to my own room more sad than 
 ever. What a difference between this and my father's pres- 
 ents ! He had once given me a little printed muslin dress not 
 worth more than a few francs, but I remembered the delic-ht 
 with which I tried it on, and got up on a chair to see myself 
 in my very diminutive mirror, and thought how gracefully the 
 skirt fell in long and ample .folds, and how charming and be- 
 coming a dress it was altogether. But the costly silk yielded 
 me no such gratification ; I sat down, heedless of creasing it, 
 and without so much as giving one glance at the looking- 
 glass. My heart was very full ; I thought of old times ; of 
 my dead father ; of my step-mother, whom I could have loved 
 so dearly if she would only have allowed me ; of my loneliness 
 in this world, where no one cared for me. " Oh ! that some 
 one would only let me love a great deal, and love me a little 
 in return," I exclaimed inwardly. 
 
 My look here fell on an object which had escaped it until 
 then : it was only a nosegay of white flowers, standing in a vase 
 on my dressing-table, but it made my heart beat as I drew near 
 it, and when I bent to inhale the fragrance of the pale blos- 
 soms, the tears I had striven to repress till then, fell fast. I 
 knew it was the old servant Catherine who had placed those 
 flowers there. She, who had known me from a child, loved 
 me ; she had not forgotten that this was the fete-day of her 
 little Sylvie. I felt comforted, and almost cheerful. There 
 is something in true kindliness that opens the heart. What 
 could old Catherine do for me? Nothing; her good-will was 
 about as useful to me as the flowers she had placed in my
 
 396 SEVEN TEAKS. 
 
 room in my absence, yet both gladdened me, gave me new feel-- 
 ings and new hopes. I paced my room with a quick step, 
 forming schemes for the future, and building castles in the air. 
 " I will not stay here to have my heart daily wounded," I 
 thought with rising pride ; " I will not stay to be a burden to 
 those by whom I am not loved : I will write to my god- 
 mother." 
 
 I looked at my god-mother's portrait as it hung on the wall 
 before me, in order to confirm myself in this resolve. The 
 face was young, and, if not good-looking, at least good-na- 
 tured. But it had been drawn many years back, and I knew 
 that the respected original had now attained a good old age. 
 She lived in a quiet little town twenty leagues off; I had no 
 remembrance of her, and, to my knowledge, she had never 
 sought to see me, I dutifully wrote to her on the first day 
 of the year, and on the eve of her fete-day. She gave me a 
 short answer and her blessing : to this was our intercourse 
 limited. 
 
 But I was young and romantic, and I had always settled 
 it in my mind' that my god-mother, a rich old maid, with no 
 near relatives, was to be the good fairy of my destiny. Now 
 was the moment to test her. My New Year's Day letter was 
 not yet written; I framed it according to my present mood. 
 
 At the end of a week I received the desired reply. My 
 step-mother seemed a little surprised at my god-mother's invi- 
 tation for an indefinite period, but observing " that Mademoi- 
 selle Touruelle probably meant to adopt me," she quietlj' gave 
 her assent. When the day fixed for my departure arrived, I 
 perceived that I felt more sad than joyful at the success of my 
 scheme. It seemed unfriendly to leave the familiar place, the 
 step-mother, who, with all her coldness, had been so very good ; 
 the two girls, who, though often unkind, had called me sister. 
 My heart yearned towards them in spite of repelled affection 
 and wounded pride; but they had so such feelmgs. Louise 
 and Josephine saw me depart with evident pleasure ; their 
 mother gave me a cold embrace, that checked the thanks for 
 past kindness ready to i'A\ from my lips, and wbeu I entered 
 the little car that was to convey me to the diligence in the 
 neighbouring town, no one, save old Catherine, stood on the 
 doorway to see me depart, aud wish me a happy journey.
 
 SEVEN YEAJJS 397 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Long before I had reached my desfcinatiou, I had comfort- 
 ably settled it in my own mind that my god-mother was an 
 angelic old lady, who would soon doat upon me, for whom I 
 should entertain great affection and respect, and who would 
 find in me the staff and comfort of her old age. That she was 
 a most noble-hearted, amiable person I could not doubt, for 
 she had been betrothed in youth to a gentleman who died 
 young, and for whose sake she was still a spinster, at the age 
 of seventy. • 
 
 It was late when I arrived. The house of my god-mother 
 stood on the outskirts of the town ; it was a quiet-looking place, 
 with a narrow strip of garden. The diligence stopped ; I 
 alighted ; my trunk was lowered down on the pavement ; the 
 guard blew his horn; the postillion cracked his whip, and the 
 lumbering vehicle clattered down the narrow street. I gave 
 the bell a timid, hesitating jerk ; a heavy step was heard in 
 the passage, then the door opened, and an enormously stout old 
 servant, hulding a light in her hand, appeared on the threshold. 
 
 " Mademoiselle Tournelle," I said in a low tone. 
 
 The servant eyed me from head to foot, held up the light 
 to see my trunk, then slowly looked at me again. The night 
 was cold, the wind blew keenly, I became impatient. 
 
 " Mademoisolle Tournelle," I said ao-ain. 
 
 " Do you think I am deaf ? " was the gracious answer of 
 the fat servant. She condescended, however, to let me enter, 
 and even bent her majestic person for the purpose of lifting up 
 my trunk. After the most desperate efforts, she succeeded in 
 dragging it in, puifing very hard, and eyeing me askance all 
 the time. Out of breath with this painful exertion, she si- 
 lently pointed to a door on her right : I entered. The room 
 was low, small, and oppressively warm. A large wood lire 
 burned on the hearth ; I felt a thick carpet under my feet ; a 
 lamp suspended from the ceiling, gave a narrow circle of faint, 
 dim light, and left the rest of tlie room in comparative obscur- 
 ity. A wide couch, old high-backed chairs, a mahogany press 
 that reflected the fire-light in its broad polished panels, met my 
 rapid glance. , I looked for my god-mother, but all I could see 
 was a dark massive-looking arm-chair by the fireside, and an 
 old cat asleep on the hearth-rug. I was wondering whether 
 my god-mother would soon make her appearance, when I heard 
 a husky cough, which seemed to proceed from the depths of
 
 398 SEVEN YEAK8, 
 
 the arm-chair, and something strongly resembling — in the 
 dark — a large black bundle, began to agitate itself in the same 
 quarter. I came quickly forwjird. I felt I stood in the pres- 
 ence of my god-mother — I was a foolish little thing in t*iose 
 days ; I know not why a mist came over my eyes, and I know 
 not how, instead of merely taking my god-mother's extended 
 hand, I found myself on my knees before her, crying over the 
 hand I had seized- as if my heart would break, and sobbing 
 * Marraine, Marraine ! " 
 
 '^ Oh ! mon Dieu ! who is this ? Is she mad ? Help ! 
 Marianne ! " — a bell was rung violently — " the young lady is 
 ill ; pick her up, and " — wheeling back her chafr — " mind you 
 do not let her come near me." 
 
 There was no need to pick me up. I was on my feet in 
 an instant, crimson with surprise and shame. 
 
 " Is it a fever ? " continued my god-mother, still wheeling 
 back her chair, until it had reached the wall. " Is it con- 
 tagious ? " A scent-bottle was at her nose directly. 
 
 I stammered forth that I was quite well. 
 _ " Are you sure of it ? " .said she, eyeing me cautiously ; 
 quite sure that you do not feel feverish ? Are you subject to 
 tits, or was it only a fall ? Are you hurt ? Oh ! you need 
 not show me. Mariamie, see if the young lady is hurt." 
 
 I shortly answered that I was given to no fits^ and had 
 sustained no injury. 
 
 " Then bring us in the supper, Marianne, it will do us 
 good ; and you, my dear child, sit down opposite me on the 
 other side of the fire-place that I may see you." So speakincr 
 my god-mother wheeled slowly back to her former place, keep- 
 ing her eye on me all the time, and remaining at a prudent 
 distance. I took the seat she pointed out, and being still 
 astonished and confused, eyed her with a bewildered glance. 
 
 I had thought Marianne stout, but, compared to her mis- 
 tress, she was a light and agile maiden. Mademoiselle Tour- 
 nelle was the broadest lady I ever beheld ; the horizontal line 
 predominated throughout her whole person. I never saw any- 
 thing so compact as herself and the arm-chair together : she 
 fitted in the arm-chair, and the arm-chair fitted to her with 
 mathematical accuracy ; I thought of a plump oyster in its 
 shell, and wondered whether she ever got out of it. 
 
 After looking at me for some time, and becoming convinced 
 of my harmlessness, my god-mother h6ped in a husky voice 
 that my fall had not hurt me. I explained that it was not ex- 
 actly a fall had brought me at her feet.
 
 SEVEN YEARS. 399 
 
 " Oh ! " she slowly said, " I thought it was ^ you see at 
 my age people have done with kneeling, weeping, and senti- 
 ment : things which only tend to disturb the digestion." 
 I murmured an apology. 
 
 " Never mind. So you were not comfortable at home." 
 I wished to explain, she would not allow me — '' No details, my 
 dear child, they are useless and distressing things : I can im- 
 agine. Take off your cloak and bonnet ; here comes the 
 Bupper." 
 
 Marianne entered, bearing a covered dish, from which a 
 fricassee of hot rabbit sent forth a most savoury odour. My 
 god-mother's little black eyes sparkled, her lips moved and 
 moistened, she wheeled her chair to the table, smoothed down 
 the table-cloth, opened and spread out her own immaculate 
 napkin, and, with her eyes on the dish, she softly rubbed her 
 fat white hands. She did not seem in any hurry : no, she 
 waited for the happy moment in a sort of placid beatitude, that 
 bespoke the serenity of her mind. 
 
 "So this is my god-mother!" thought I, watching her 
 picking the choice bits out of the dish, with all the candour of 
 genuine selfishness and gourmandise. 
 
 " Do you like hot fricassee of rabbit, my dear ? You do. 
 I am so glad. There is nothing more uncomfortable than 
 want of sympathy. I was to have married a gentleman, a good 
 man certainly, but with whom I could never agree. He de- 
 tested my fricassee, and I detested his pate de foie : it eud(jd 
 by carrying him off, as I had always predicted." 
 
 After supper, which lasted for an hour, my god-mother, not 
 seeming to think that I might be fatigued and need rest, asked 
 me to read her to sleep with a newspaper : in two minutes she 
 was in a comfortable doze, which lasted half an hour. At the 
 end of that time she woke up quite refreshed, and rang the 
 bell. Marianne entered, carrying a tray covered with delica- 
 cies, which she placed on a convenient little table at my god- 
 mother's elbow ; she next brought forward a very comfortable 
 high-backed chair, then a soft cushion for the feet, and placing 
 both opposite the fire, composedly seated herself near her mis- 
 tress, with whom she began to discuss the menu of the next 
 day's dinner. 
 
 " Potage au riz, Marianne, it is long since we had any." 
 " I have no objection to the potage ; but you must have 
 cotelettes au basilic for the second course." 
 
 " With a poularde a la bourgeoise," placidly suggested »ij 
 god-mother.
 
 400 SEVEN" TEARS. 
 
 " No, indeed," snappishly said the cook, " you shall have 
 ducks en hochepot. and be glad to get them too." 
 
 My god-mother yielded the point with a sigh : she evi- 
 dently requested the poularde. The third course was extremely 
 stormy : the mistress insisted on partridges, the cook declared 
 she should be satisfied with a poulet a la reine. Overpowered 
 with fatigue, I fell asleep as they renewed the quarrel over the 
 dessert. 
 
 I remained with my god-mother a whole year, during 
 which I was oppressed with comfort, and loaded with good 
 things. There was not a genuine angle in the whole house. 
 Everything was softened down, cushioned, and rounded off, as 
 if for the use of the most fragile being. The beds of painful 
 softness were shrouded in by drowsy-looking curtains ; the 
 doors had thick coats of wadding on, and flew open before the 
 slightest touch ; there were thick blinds to keep out the light, 
 and high screens to keep off the wind ; the chairs were vast 
 and deep, the cushions soft and easy. But what was this to 
 our perpetual feeding ? Breakfast at eight, dejeuner a la 
 fourchette at eleven, gouter at two, dinner at six, and supper 
 at nine. At the end of a week I declared I could not possibly 
 partake of more than three meals a day, and sank for ever in 
 the esteem of my god-mother and her cook Marianne. 
 
 For all this she was one of the most good-natured of selfish 
 gourmands, quite ready to do a kindness, if she were only put 
 in the way. This indeed was an indispensable condition. I 
 do not think she doted on me, and my romantic fancies of 
 being the staff and comfort of her old age certainly vanished 
 on nearer view ; yet she liberally paid masters to attend me 
 when I expressed a desire to continue my studies, and author- 
 ised me to open a subscription with the circulating library, as 
 soon as I had hinted a wish for a higher sort of literature than 
 that which was to be found in her cookery books. She even 
 allowed me to read her to sleep of an evening with some ro- 
 mantic tale, provided it were not of a painful nature, and that 
 all ended comfortably, for, as she wisely observed, " life, 
 whether in fiction or reality, should always be like a good din- 
 ner, and close with the dessert." 
 
 We were enjoying ourselves after this fashion on a Quiet 
 winter's evening, and my god-mother had just dropped off into 
 her usual doze, when I heard a carriage stopping at the door. 
 The bell was rung violently ; Marianne opened, and in a ievi 
 Bcoonds entered the parlour.
 
 SEVEN YEAES. . 401 
 
 " Madame," said sbe, with a bewildered look, " a lady — 
 your sister, she says — wishes to see you." 
 
 I had never heard of mv ffod-mother having; more than one 
 
 I/O O 
 
 sister, who had died, or was said to have died, in America. I 
 conjectured this was she or her ghost, and the horror-struck 
 look of Mademoiselle Tournelle showed me she had come to 
 the same conclusion. Before she could recover or even answer, 
 the visitor entered. She was a tall, thin, pale-faced woman, 
 clad in black from head to foot, with feathers in her bonnet, 
 that waved like the plumes of a hearse, and along black velvet 
 cloak, not unlike a pall. Her slow, majestic pace completed 
 hei funereal appearance. She paused on the threshold, and 
 exclaiming with a broken sob, " Where is she ? where is my 
 own darlino- sister ? " 
 
 She opened her anus to receive my transported god-mother. 
 But, apart the effort it would have been to rise so soon after 
 dinner, Mademoiselle Tournelle was too much stupefied to 
 dream of doing aught save staring with a secret horror at her 
 sister, who accordingly fell upon her bosom, and vowed with 
 many a sob, " that since they had met again, death alone 
 should part them ; that she — my god-mother — need not fear, 
 for that her own Ro::^alie would never, never leave her." 
 
 I never saw so tearful and melancholy a being as this same 
 Rosalie. She embraced her sister and wept ; she drew 
 away to look at her and wept, and when I thought she had 
 fairly given it up, she hugged her again with another sob and 
 a fresh burst of tears. My god-mother endured all' with as 
 much mental as physical helplessness : to protest or resist was 
 as impracticable a feat as to leave her arm-chair and" fly. 
 
 The mournful Rosalie, though still weeping abundantly, had 
 enough self-possession left to go and dismiss the fiacre at the 
 door, and haggle about the fare with the driver. When this 
 important task — which ended in the utter discomfiture of the 
 cabman — was over, she ordered Marianne to take in her lug- 
 gage, and walked up-stairs hei'self, for the purpose of selecting 
 the best of her sister's spare bed-rooms. My poor god-mother 
 never moved once all the time. Alarmed at her mute despair, 
 I sought to comfort her, but all she could or would say was 
 that " since Rosalie, instead of being dead — as she ought to 
 have been — was alive and well, it must be she who was destined 
 to leave this world." Slie closed her eyes and feebly shook 
 her head when I endeavoured to remove this painful impres- 
 sion. I perceived at supper how deeply this idea had taken 
 hold of her mind. We had a hot fricassee of rabbit, buJ
 
 403 SEVEN YEARS. 
 
 scarcely had my god-mother tasted the first mouthful, when 
 she laid down hel- fork, and giving me a mournful look ex- 
 claimed : 
 
 " No mushroom ! " 
 
 In her agitation, Marianne had — for the first time — for- 
 gotten that important ingredient, and my god-mother took this 
 as a clear warning that she was soon to be called away from 
 the good things of this world. From that fatal day her appe- 
 tite declined visibly. The ghostlike Rosalie — the mystery of 
 whose reappearance was never cleared up — carried her off in 
 six weeks. I should have thought half th« time quite suificient, 
 but my god -mother had a strong constitution. For six weeks 
 her breakfast was disturbed by the lamentations of Rosalie, 
 who mourned to think that her darling sister's years would 
 not permit them to be long together; at dinner she heard her- 
 self besought in pathetic accents " to be frugal — to remember 
 that their dear father had died of apoplexy, and that their 
 dearest mother was so dropsical ! " When supper time came 
 round, Rosalie wept over her, and told her " she was fast breaking 
 up." At the end of the six weeks my poor god mother, fairly 
 conquered, took to her bed and died. 
 
 I had not loved her very much, yet I grieved for her death. 
 She had been kind in her way ; besides, it is one of my weak- 
 nesses to get easily attached to the human faces around me. I 
 moreover pitied my ]^oor god-mother, and lamented her un- 
 happy end. By her will. Mademoiselle Tournelle left her 
 property to Marianne, '' as a token of esteem for her high 
 talents, and gratitude f )r her faithful services." A codicil 
 gave me a dowry of ten thousand francs, of which the interest 
 alone was at my disposal until I became of age. A second 
 codicil bestowed " on the sister who had shortened her days — 
 her forgiveness." 
 
 Rosalie was loud in her lament : " she had sacrificed her- 
 self to an ingrate, incapable of appreciating her devotion." 
 Then suddenly her wrath vented itself upon me, whom she call- 
 ed " a little intrigante," and on Marianne, whom she accused 
 of having poisoned her poor dear sister with her abominable 
 cookery in general, and a perfidious dish of mushrooms in par- 
 ticular. How Marianne rose in her wrath, and turned Rosalie 
 out of doors, is a matter foreign to the history of my experi- 
 ences.
 
 SEVEN YEAKS. 403 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Behold me, kind reader, in a diligence once more, but this 
 timo on my road to Paris. I am nearly eighteen ; my dowry 
 yields me the magnificent sum of three hundred francs, but I 
 shrewdly conclude that this is not quite enough to live upon, 
 and therefore proceed to the capital, where a host of pupils 
 are, of course, ready to avail themselves of my talents, — I 
 have taken pains, and am really an accomplished young lady. 
 I go to Paris for three reasons: the first, that which I have 
 mentioned ; the second, that I am determined to see the 
 world; the third, that Paris is the present residence of my 
 step-mother, under whose guardianship I in some sort consider 
 myself, and with whom I have kept up a distant correspond- 
 ence. She coldly approves my resolve of remaining in some 
 respectable boarding-school until I can procure pupils, or a 
 situation as governess; and informs me that Josephine and 
 Louise have married advantageously in Normandy, our native 
 province ; but why she herself stays in Paris she does not 
 mention. She ofters me no home with her, nor, to say the 
 truth, do I desire one, for my heart is still sore with the mem- 
 ory of old times. 
 
 My journey was uninteresting. Paris confused more than 
 it dazzled me. The office of the diliijence was not far from 
 my step-mother's residence ; I hired a fiacre, and was at her 
 door within half an hour of my arrival. The house was mean, 
 though clean ; she lived on tiie fourth-floor in a small apart- 
 ment, scantily furnished. This was strange for one of her 
 elegant tastes and habits. She received me kindly, but coldly, 
 as usual. We spoke of my god-mother. 
 
 " I wonder she did not leave you more than ten thousand 
 francs," said Madame Delmare ; " I thought she would adopt 
 you." 
 
 " She was very kind," I replied ; " I had no claim upon 
 her; I have no claim on any one." My step-mother pressed 
 her hand to her forehead : I thought she looked troubled. I 
 hastened to speak of Josephine and Louise. 
 
 •' They ai-e so happy," said the fond mother, with a sudden 
 smile and a brightening look. 
 
 I understood all at once : she had given everything up to 
 marry her plain daughters, and this thought could make the 
 miserable little apartment a sunny and joyful place for her.
 
 404 SEVEN TEARS. 
 
 But why was she not with either of them ? why was she alone ? 
 I could Dot help putting the thought into words. She hastily 
 replied " that it was her own choice, quite her own choice ; she 
 had always liked Paris." And she gave me an anxious look, 
 as if she feared I might not believe her. 
 
 Why is it that, when I beheld her there alone and forsaken, 
 hiding her poverty in the bosom of a great and strange city, 
 the memory of every past kindness rose so strong within me, 
 that my whole heart yearned towards her ? and I could not 
 but speak : 
 
 " Mamaii," said I, for 1 had always named her thus, " it 
 so happens that we are both alone in this strange place. Is 
 there anything to prevent us from being together ? I will be 
 no burden to you. Indeed, I fancy we might be happier to- 
 gether." 
 
 At first she did not answer. 
 
 " My poor child,"' she said at length, " my health is not 
 very good : you would have but a dull life with me." 
 
 " 1 should like it, I should like it dearly," I eagerly ex- 
 claimed. " Pray let it be so. You will love me a little for 
 my father's sake, and I will love you a great deal, not for his 
 sake only, but for your own sake, and for all the good you did 
 to one who had none on earth save you.'' 
 
 I laid my hand upon her arm and looked up into her face, 
 for indeed my heart was in what I said, and I felt very much 
 moved. 
 
 " Sylvie," answered my step-mother, in a tremulous tone, 
 "you are a good child, with a kind heart. God will bless you 
 for all this." And drawing me towards her, she kissed me 
 and wept. 
 
 The joy her consent gave me showed me how much I loved 
 her in my heart. I never spent a happier day or more pleasant 
 evening. The reserve she had always inspired me with van- 
 ished at once. I talked incessantly; firstly, because joy has 
 the effect of making me voluble; and secondly, because it was 
 so pleasant to hear my own voice calling her " maman." 
 
 " Maman, I shall have so many pupils," said I, arranging 
 my books in the little drawing-room. " Maman, I shall earn 
 so nmch money," I observed at dinner — it was rather a fruoral 
 one. " I only fear, maman," said I in the evening, " that I 
 shall scarcely have any time to be at home with you." 
 
 Maman smiled. iShe was sitting by the fireside, with 
 something of mingled joy and sadness in her look as it rested 
 upon me. I sat on a low stool at her feet, building my
 
 SEV^EN YEAES. 405 
 
 glorious castles in the air, with the zeal and faith of an archi- 
 tect of eighteen. They stood so clearly before nie. That 
 very day, within two hours of my arrival, I had taken ray ad- 
 vertisement to be inserted in the Petites AfEches : " A young 
 lady — well educated — good musician — English and Italian — 
 terms moderate ! " What parent or guardian could resist 
 this appeal, and be so blind to the great rule of self-iuterest as 
 not to secure my services at once ? 
 
 " Maman," I continued, in my random talk, " you should 
 always wear black silk, nothing becomes you so well. Why 
 have you no flowers now ? I know you are fond of them. 
 Shall we not remove from here ? As I was coming home 
 from the newspaper office I saw a charming fourth-floor to 
 let, with a large balcony, quite the thing for your flowers, and 
 a handsome room that would do so well for me to have classes 
 at home ; for you see it would be a great deal more pleasant 
 for the pupils to come to me — than for me to be running after 
 them, in wind, rain, and every weather ; besides the expense 
 of takiuii' omnibuses in order to be in time " 
 
 " My dear child," said maman, a little gravely, " you have 
 not got the pupils yet." 
 
 " But they are coming," I confidently replied. 
 
 We took the apartment. I spent no little of my ready 
 money on furniture for the drawing-room, and especially on a 
 large mahogany table, covered with green baize, which I 
 destined for the " classes ; " it was somewhat dear, but one 
 pupil at ten francs a month would — as I proved to maman — 
 cover the expense in eight months and a half Upon the 
 whole, I thought it cheap, and rejoiced over my bargain. 
 
 There was only one circumstance which mortified me : 
 " the out-door pupils, whom it was so fatiguing to run after in 
 wind, rain, and every weather," delayed making their appear- 
 ance. I could not understand this. Had my advertisement 
 appeared ? It had. Were, then, the parents and guardians 
 of Paris struck with moral blindness, that they so recklessly 
 disregarded the advantages offered to them ? I recapitulated 
 inwardly. A young lady — well educated — good musician — 
 English and Italian — terms moderate : And yet a whole fort- 
 night had elapsed, and no answer had come. 
 
 " There is only one explanation possible," said I to 
 maman; "some unprincipled governess has, by means as yet 
 inexplicable to me — but I shall find it out — intercepted the 
 answers of my unknown coi respondents at the newspaper 
 office — I shall have them sent here another time — and carried
 
 406 SEVEN YEAES. 
 
 off my unhappy aud deluded pupils. Nice teaching they will 
 get from her ! This is very tiresome, for I shall have to in- 
 sert another advertisement. But after all," I consolingly 
 added, " it is only a fortnight lost, for it stands to reason that 
 I could not have accepted all the pupils." 
 
 Maman received this explanation with a doubtful look, but 
 she was unwilling to discourage me. 
 
 A second advertisement was, therefore, sent, with the wise 
 precautions I have mentioned. But when two days had 
 elapsed, and I received no reply, I could not help observing 
 with some anxiety : 
 
 " I fear, maman, she has carried them all off. Of course 
 they were all attracted by the first advertisement. Do you 
 think it will be very long before I can find another supply ? " 
 
 Maman's reply was more encouraging than definite ; but I 
 comforted myself with the " classes." I gloried, I may say T 
 revelled in the " classes." I beheld — in my mind's eye — the 
 long table covered with inkstands, books, and papers, and 
 surrounded by attentive pupils, who hung upon my words. 
 I — preserving that gravity which should never desert a 
 teacher — seriously expound thai which it is my object to 
 teach, patiently listen to timid objections, and gently explain 
 all difiiculties away. At the end of every month I receive the 
 moderate sum of ten francs from each pupil — it is fifteen if 
 they remain an hour extra, see last paragraph but one of the 
 prospectus. These ten francs all put together make a hand- 
 some pile of five-franc pieces, which 1 display to the astonished 
 gaze of maman, and out of which I secretly buy her a rich 
 black silk dress. Instead, however, of reproving me for my 
 extravagance, she merely says : 
 
 " Sylvie, my dear, your pupils are not coming." 
 
 The dream vanishes at once, and T waken with a perturbed 
 spirit, for if I get no pupils, what becomes of the " classes % " 
 h ate, who then entered the apartment under the shape of our 
 portress with a letter in her hand, spared me the trouble of a 
 reply. I broke the seal with trembling fingers. 
 
 " A pupil ! a dozen, for all I know," I joyously exclaimed ; 
 " Mademoiselle Benoit — an old aunt I will warrant, with a le- 
 gion of nieces — wants me ; she lives close by ; how delightful ! " 
 
 It was not in maman's power to moderate my transports, 
 and so with a smile and a sigh, and a recommendation to 
 secure advantageous terms, which I answered with a shrewd 
 look, she saw me depart on my blissful errand. 
 
 I was at the door of Mademoiselle Benoit in five minutes
 
 SEVEN YEARS. 407 
 
 but I walked upstairs with a cool business-like air, ksl tiie 
 portress should by any means know my errand, and suspect 
 this was my first pupil. Indeed, 1 was resolved to be greatly 
 on my guard, and I decided inwardly that Mademoiselle Be- 
 noit must be very deep to over-reach me. I found her in 
 furnished apartments on the second floor, in her boudoir ; her 
 favourite room, she said ; I cannot assert it was her only one, 
 but it was the first I entered, and the only door I saw looked 
 as if leading to a dark closet, by which I do not mean to imply 
 that a whole suit of apartments did not extend beyond. 
 
 IMadeiuoiselle Benoit was about forty, sallow and plain, 
 but so juvenile in her attire, that I looked quite matronly by 
 her side in my dress of sober brown. Half rising from the 
 sofa on which she was reclining, she languidly inquired my 
 errand. I explained. She looked incredulous. " Impossi- 
 ble ! " she exclaimed. I nervously produced the letter. She 
 eyed it like a person waking from a dream. 
 
 " Ah ! I remember now," she thoughtfully exclaimed ; 
 " I had forgotten all about it. You need not be astonished, it 
 is just like me." 
 
 1 supposed she had a bad memory ! but she shook her 
 head. " Memor_y — no, it was not that ; but we would not 
 speak on this subject. She had seen my advertisement, and 
 wished to know whether I would mind devoting a few hours 
 to her daily, as secretary, reader, and companion." This was 
 not what I had hoped for, but I was in no mood to refuse. 
 The next thing I supposed would be the discussion about 
 terms, and here I was ready for Mademoiselle Bcnolt ; but 
 without alluding to this subject she merely said : 
 
 " My nerves render this plan imperative. I must place 
 myself and my too ardent feelings under the control of a 
 calmer mind. Certain agitating books must be read slowly ; 
 certain deep emotions must be vented slowly. You under- 
 stand." 
 
 I tried to look as if I did, but I was thinking of the terms. 
 " Besides," she continued modestly, " unmarried — alone — 
 without a male protector in this great city, where I am de- 
 tained by a vexatious lawsuit — obliged to receive the visits 
 of men of business, I really cannot dispense with the pres- 
 ence of a person of my own sex, to whom I shall look for 
 advice and protection." I felt confounded at the idea of hav- 
 ing to advise and protect a lady who might, without any 
 stretch of fancy, have been my mamma. Heedless of this, 
 she proposed that I should begin my office by reading Victor
 
 408 SEVEN YEAES. 
 
 Hugo's last volume, and she had already assumed a listening 
 attitude, when I faltered out something about terms. She 
 looked infinitely shocked. 
 
 " Terms ! money, mon Dieu ! ho^v' could some people be 
 so very worldly ? She never thought of money." 
 
 I inwardly despised myself as a worshipper of mammon — 
 well I might in the presence of such high mindedness. She 
 pursued : " Since the odious subject has been mentioned, pray 
 what are your terms 'I But mind, 1 know as much of such 
 things as a baby." 
 
 Beautiful ignorance and charming confidence. With what 
 agonizing nicety did I calculate the exact sum I might consci- 
 entiously ask. At length it came out : for three hours a day, 
 fifty francs a month. " Fifty," she carelessly repeated, her 
 mind on other things, her eyes on the ceiling ; then suddenly 
 turning them upon me, she added : " Don't you think you 
 could come for forty 'i " 
 
 " I do not think I could," I i-eplied, with some emotion. 
 
 " But any one would, I assure you," was her significant 
 rejoinder. 
 
 This settled the matter. I perceived that in my ignorance 
 I had asked a salary so high as to startle even this ingenuous 
 lady. I was distressed, I apologized ; I would have come for 
 thirty francs if she had asked me. 
 
 " No apologies," she said, with a sigh ; " I admire, I 
 envy your worldly wisdom. Would I might acquire some 
 of it. Vain hope ! I, too heedless, too confiding, shall be 
 imposed upon to the end. You, so acute, so penetrating — ah ! 
 1 envy you. And now a few pages of Victor Hugo, if you 
 please." 
 
 She once more assumed the listening attitude. When we 
 had done wath Victor Hugo we took up Lamartine : in short, 
 we went the round of French poets in two hours. I occa- 
 sionally besought Mademoiselle Benoit to explain various 
 obscure and mysterious passages, with which she seemed par- 
 ticularly enraptured, but she only turned up her eyes, shook 
 her head, and sighed. " I was happy not to understand such 
 things ; I should never seek to understand them ; it was best 
 to remain as I was. And now," she added, " will you be so 
 good as to take a pen, a sheet of paper, and prepare to 
 write ? " 
 
 I complied, and listened with some curiosity, for I felt 
 confident she was a muse, at the very least ; but she only dic- 
 tated the following letter :
 
 SEVEN YEAKS. 409 
 
 " My dear Cicero, 
 
 " Be not surprised at the strange handwriting. 1 have 
 secured — a step you will approve — a companion, whose pru- 
 dence and worldly wisdom will greatly benefit your poor 
 heedless friend. 
 
 " I feel anxious about your health, not having seen you 
 these two days. I need scarcely say that for the paltry law- 
 suit I do not care. Yon know my foolish disinterestedness. 
 My opponent, poor man, has set his heart on gaining his 
 cause. Pray let him : 1 have a wealth in my thoughts, in my 
 feelings, in my heart, he cannot touch. I would say come and 
 dine with me to-morrow, did I not know your strict business 
 habits ; but you will perhaps call in the afternoon to let me 
 know how the case is going on. In the artistic point of view 
 I feel deeply interested in it." 
 
 Mademoiselle Benoit, having signed this letter, requested 
 me to fold it up, but suddenly recollecting herself, she begged 
 of me to open it again : " there was a little postscription to 
 add." 
 
 I complied, and added the following P.S. 
 
 " By the merest chance — a letter from the country — I 
 learned this morning that the grandfather of my opponent 
 was a notorious gambler ; that his eldest son, the father of my 
 opponent, foiled ; that his second son, the uncle of my oppo- 
 nent, was drowned in a very inexplicable sort of way ; and 
 that the first wife of my opponent died suddenly, she being 
 then alone in the house with her husband. 
 
 " P.P. S.S. I mention these circumstances, thinking they 
 may interest you." 
 
 The letter, now fairly finished, was directed to a Monsieur 
 Everard, whom I conjectured to be her lawyer, and Mademoi- 
 selle Benoit asked me to post it as I was going home. I found 
 maman uneasy at my long absence. Sitting down at her feet 
 by the fire-side, I gave her a minute account of all that had 
 passed. When I told her about the agreement she shook her 
 head. But when 1 concluded, and looked up into her face 
 somewhat anxiously, she only smiled kindly, and said, as she 
 smoothed my hair, " I was a good child, and with a little more 
 knowledge of the world I would do very well." 
 
 I felt relieved, for, to say the truth, reader, I had begun to 
 I'ear that Mademoiselle Benoit had over-reached me, and that 
 I had not been quite successful with my first pupil. 
 
 Nothing worth mentioning occurred for three weeks, dur- 
 ing which I found no other scholar. I comforted myself by 
 
 18
 
 410 SEVEN YEAKS. 
 
 thinking of the " classes." I had ceased to mention them, 
 having a vague notion that maman, though unwilling to dis- 
 courage me, was getting sceptical on this subject, and even 
 looked on the green table with an eye of disfavour. I wrote 
 — for Mademoiselle Benoit — almost daily epistles to Monsieur 
 Everard. whom I never saw, but to whom — and this was 
 really provoking — I had to describe myself as " the grave 
 adviser and prudent worldly friend " of my emplo;yer. She 
 informed me at the end of the three weeks that her lawsuit 
 was over ; a great point, and that she had won ; a secondary 
 point, of course. Monsieur Everard was to dine with her the 
 next day ; but "unless I consented to be present, she could not 
 think of dining alone even with a single man of his years and 
 gravity. I yielded, and accordingly dressed a little, a very 
 little, better than usual for the occasion. Monsieur Everard 
 was already there when I arrived. He was a tall, stiff man, 
 but he did not look more than thirty, though grave enough for 
 double that age. He wore a pair of green spectacles, which 
 gave him a sort of impenetrable look, and which I considered 
 symbolical of the mysteries of the law. I thought he eyed 
 me with some surprise ; he had probably expected to find his 
 client's " grave adviser " somewhat older. He soon resumed 
 his conversation with our hostess : they were talking about 
 the lawsuit. She had already — charming obliviousness — for- 
 gotten all about the damages. 
 
 " It was very foolish ; she knew it was ; but now, posi- 
 tively, how much was it ? " 
 
 " Fifteen thousand francs," shortly answered the lawyer. 
 
 " Oh ! of course : how could I ? And the costs you 
 say—" 
 
 " Fall t-n your antagonist, who being nearly ruined- -" 
 
 " Poor man," quickly interrupted Mademoiselle Benoit. 
 
 " Asks for time to settle his account." 
 
 " Impossible," she said, with a deep sigh ; " I have — you 
 know my weakness — given my brother my solemn word of 
 honour there shall be no delay ; but pray let him know I pity 
 him ; pray do." 
 
 " I believe he has not the money," continued Monsieur 
 Everard. 
 
 " How unprincipled ! " cried Mademoiselle Benoit, colour- 
 ing, " but I remember he has land." 
 
 " Do you wish for a saisie 1 " coolly asked the lawyer. 
 
 *' Oh ! you cruel man, to hint at such a thing ! " 
 
 " Then you object to a saisie ? "
 
 SEVEN YEAK8. 411 
 
 " Alas ! why is it inevitable 1 " 
 
 " Mademoiselle Benoit, I am a plain man : do you or dc 
 you not wish for a saisie ? " 
 
 She protested he was the most pitiless man in existence : 
 that he put things into her head of which it grieved her to 
 think ; that since no other means remained, she must of course 
 say " yes ; " but that she begged him not to harrow her fool- 
 ish feelings any longer with so distressing a subject. A pecu- 
 liar smile curled Monsieur Everard's nether lip, but he made 
 no reply, and bowed coldly. Our charming hostess, anxious 
 not to leave us under a painful impression, soon recovered her 
 flow of spirits. She gaily taxed the lawyer with his gravity, 
 and protested I was more sedate than ever. 
 
 " You have no idea," said she, addressing him, " what a 
 prudent, calculating head that is. How I am checked, sub- 
 dued, and brought down to a sober mood, by this grave 
 worldly little friend of mine. Oh ! you can have no idea." 
 
 " Indeed ! " said he, with the same smile. 
 
 I coloured, and felt heartily ashamed of my worldliness. 
 Dinner was not ready yet, and Mademoiselle Benoit proposed 
 a walk in the Tuileries ; we acceded. She retired to the room 
 that looked like a dark closet, and in a few minutes appeared 
 in an elaborate toilette, that threw me quite in the shade. 
 
 The day was fine, the garden was thronged, and our walk 
 seemed very pleasant. "VVe had not proceeded far along the 
 broad avenue of horse chestnuts, when we met two ladies and 
 a gentleman. They gave us a peculiar look, and the gentle- 
 man observed in a low tone : " What a charming blonde." 
 They passed on, and left me in a flutter. The green spectacles 
 of Monsieur Everard, whose arm I held, were on me in a sec- 
 ond, then as sharply turned towards Mademoiselle Benoit ; 
 her hair was dark. The compliment could not be for her, yet 
 I wondered, and felt incredulous. Two ladies walking together 
 had already passed us ; they looked at my companions first, 
 then at me, lingered behind, and one whispered to the other : 
 " The blonde is lovely." What woman can doubt her beauty 
 when it is praised by another woman 1 I confess I began to 
 feel imcomfbrtable on this subject. Had I been handsome 
 all along without knowing it 1 Novel heroines always were 
 unconscious. Perhaps I was a heroine ! I will not weary the 
 reader by repeating all the exclamations of admiration which 
 were bestowed on the lovely blonde during our hour's walk, 
 1 began to find that there was nothing so astonishing in all
 
 4:13 SEVEN TEARS. 
 
 this ; I had never been counted handsome in the province ; 
 but who did not know the discrimination of Parisian taste 1 
 
 1 was seated at dinner near Monsieur Everard, but neither 
 the lawyer nor his green spectacles occupied me much : I was 
 thinking of the discovery 1 had made. 
 
 " I congratulate you on your triumph, Mademoiselle," he 
 observed, after the soup. 
 
 I blushed, and thought he might have spared my modesty. 
 
 " What triumph ? " asked our hostess. 
 
 " I should have said the triumph of your taste. Did you 
 not hear every one admiring the blonde on your bonnet 1 " 
 
 " Oh ! it was the blonde then," I cried, quite bewildered. 
 The green spectacles were upon me directly. I became crim- 
 son. He said nothing, but smiled so significantly that I felt 
 I hated him. 
 
 " Yes," sighed Mademoiselle Benoit, " I have been very 
 extravagant ; my prudent friend there would never forgive 
 me if she knew how much that blonde cost." 
 
 Monsieur Everard gave me another look, but he had 
 miercy enough to remain silent. 
 
 I went home vexed with the keen-sighted lawyer, vexed 
 with myself and iny own foolish vanity. Had I not eyes to 
 see the blonde on Mademoiselle's Benoit's bonnet ? 
 
 I was so mortified that I did not notice maman's smiling 
 and amused face ; but she noticed my downcast look and ques- 
 tioned me. I told her what had happened ; she laughed, and 
 bade me not mind Monsieur Everard or Mademoiselle Benoit. 
 
 " You have found other friends," she said. " What do 
 you think of Mademoiselle finding you a husband?" 
 
 My breath seemed gone at this strange suggestion. 
 
 " Yes," pursued maman, " Mademoiselle declares that she 
 has found you a husband." 
 
 I have not yet mentioned Mademoiselle. Her name was 
 Leonie Moreau, I believe, but I am not sure. No one had 
 ever dreamed of calling her otherwise than Mademoiselle. 
 She was fifty, brown as a berry, stout, and brisk as a bee, and 
 she was Mademoiselle for every one in the house in w hieh 
 she had lived for the last thirty-three years. The door of our 
 apartment faced hers : we met her often on the -staircase, and 
 saw a great deal of her on her balcony, which was a continua- 
 tion of ours. Maman had a distant acquaintance with some 
 of Mademoiselle's relatives. Thus our knowledge of her 
 began, and as Mademoiselle had a warm heart and a lively 
 tongue, our frieaidship progressed rapidly ; to me she took an
 
 SEVEN YEAKS. 413 
 
 especial fancy. She fonnd me. strikingly like a young sister 
 of hers, who liad died some thirty years before, and she liked 
 me for the resemblance more, I believe, than for my own par- 
 ticular merits. She never saw me watering flowers on the 
 balcony without a tear in her eye, that did not check the 
 pleasant and habitual smile on her lips, or the cheerful " Good 
 morning " with which she always greeted me. In my 
 " classes " and attempts to procure pupils she entered warm- 
 ly, and did her best, I am sure, to second me, but uselessly ; 
 and it probably was her failure in that quarter that had sug- 
 gested to her the propriety of finding me a husband. How 
 she meant to set about this strange task, and what sort of hus- 
 band it was to be, maman could not or would not tGll me. 
 
 " Go on the balcony and water your flowers," she said, 
 " Mademoiselle will be there, and she will tell you all about 
 it." 
 
 At first I said I would not go ; then curiosity proved 
 stronger than pride : I filled my watering-pot and I stepped 
 out. A brown face inmiediately appeared between two tall 
 laurel trees standing in pots, and a beaming smile welcomed 
 me. 
 
 " What a lovely evening, Mademoiselle Sylvie," said the 
 gay voice of Mademoiselle. 
 
 A rosy flush spread above the opposite roof, and faded 
 away into the heavenly blue at the zenith. It was a fine eve- 
 ning, and I said so whilst I watered a rose tree. Mademoi- 
 selle's head stretched out as far as it could go, and she confi- 
 dentially whispered : 
 
 " I wish you would draw a little nearer, my dear." 
 
 I obeyed in some confusion, and she half said, half whis- 
 pered : 
 
 " I cannot speak loud on account of that odious little thing 
 down-stairs. I am confident she listens; else how could things 
 that I have not numtioned to more than half a dozen trust- 
 worthy people get wind ? It looks suspicious." 
 
 I confessed it did. 
 
 " Well, th;-n. my dear, let us speak low. I mentioned to 
 your maman this atteriK^on a little selieine of my own. 1 want 
 you to marry a yoimg cousin of mine. Of course you must 
 kuow more about it before you reply. Well, then, here is an 
 exact and most accurate desci-iption of my cousin, lie is 
 t\venty-L-ight, tall, t!ark-haii-ed, and l)lue-eye(i : so he will just 
 suit yon, who are rather sht)rt and fair. Pie has handsome 
 features, and a most pleasant countenan-^e. So much for his
 
 414 SEVEN YEAES. 
 
 person : his temper is angelic, sweet, and most amiable. His 
 means are not great as yet ; but he makes money enough, and 
 requires but a small dot. Your ten thousand francs will do. 
 He is to spend the evening with me after to-morrow, and you 
 will just drop in by chance. He will know you by your 
 dress, which I shall describe — not a word ! — he will not know 
 that you know anything about it : so please to look as cool 
 and as careless as possible. 1 mention the circumstance of 
 the dress because some other girl might call, and though he 
 knows almost all the young ladies with whom I am acquaint- 
 ed, yet there might be a stray one, and a mistake might oc- 
 cur. What will your wear ; white muslin or blue? you look 
 well in both." 
 
 I had a vision of a fastidious young Sultan, handsome and 
 scornful, sitting on Mademoiselle's drawing-room sofa, and 
 thence surveying, through his critical eye-glass, a series of fair 
 or dark girls passing before him with their most fascinating 
 looks, -and I firmly resolved that one of these I should not be. 
 But Mademoiselle was a wilful little woman. I therefore 
 merely said that I was very much obliged to her, and that I 
 should think over her kind proposal. She looked at me 
 doubtfully. 
 
 " You are not committed in the least," she said ; " I have 
 told him nothing, save that you are a good daughter, a charm- 
 ing girl, and that you have ten thousand francs. He does not 
 even know your name, nor where you live, nor the colour of 
 your hair. So you see, Mignonne, I could not do things more 
 delicately." 
 
 I repeated that I was very much obliged to her, and suc- 
 ceeded in changing the subject of discourse. When I went in, 
 I told maman all that had passed, and protested I would not 
 go and be looked at. 
 
 " You are wrong, my dear," said my stepmother, " Made- 
 moiselle's cousin is an employe ; I believe, in a worldly point 
 of view, it would be a good match. Besides, what do you 
 risk or lose by going ? Mademoiselle has managed everthing 
 so well that you are not in the least committed. You will be 
 looked at by a man who does not even know your name. 
 Where is the harm 1 Besides, is it not so that marriages are 
 managed ? You must not be romantic, my love." 
 
 In short, I was talked and reasoned into compliance. 
 
 But when the evening came my heart again failed me, and 
 1 begged of maman not to insist on my meeting that Monsieur 
 Renaud, such I understood to be his name, as I really did not
 
 SEVEN TEAKS. 415 
 
 feel equal to the effort. She shook her head, and said that 
 youth would be romantic, but she did not insist, and accord 
 ingly sent in a few words of apology to Mademoiselle. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 I FELT rather amused at the idea of Monsieur Renaud's 
 disappointment, and a little curious tc know how he had 
 spent his evening. Accordingly, I went out on the balcony 
 early the next morning, and had scarcely stepped out when 
 Mademoiselle's window flew open, and Mademoiselle herself, 
 heedless of curl papers and night-cap, appeared with as much 
 wrath on her brown face as could ever find room there. 
 
 " Oh ! you naughty thing," she said, " if you oidy knew 
 the mischief you have done ! But I must be fair ; you never 
 could imagine it ; no one could : it is that odious little thing 
 down-stairs! Monsieur Renaud came as agreed. I recapitulat- 
 ed all your good qualities. I luill say it to vex you. I told him 
 you were discreet, prudent, without a particle of vanity, and 
 that you were to wear a blue dress. Well, he sat waiting, 
 burning with impatience, for he is a very ardent young man, 
 when who should walk in but Eugenie and her mother, and 
 what should Eugenie wear but a blue dress ! I made sia;ns to 
 him that she was not the right one, and concluded all was 
 rignt ; but, my dear, I was so provoked. It must have been 
 the horrid little thing down-stairs that let that bold little flirt 
 and her designintj mother know there was a future husband 
 then with me ! How they behaved I will not tell you : it 
 was disgraceful ! Eugenie made love to my cousin before 
 my very eyes ! If you had only come in ; well — well — I 
 have not had many such evenings. At length they left, and 
 before I could open my lij^s, out flew my cousin: ' What a 
 charming, artless girl ! I declare I am quite smitten ! ' 'It 
 was not the right one ! ' I screamed. ' This is a bold, forward 
 little flirt. I tell you it was not the right one. She could 
 not, or rather would not, come.' ' Well, then, let her slay,' 
 he replies, ' I am quite satisfied with the one I have seen.' I 
 declare I cried with vexation ; but he only laughed, and if he 
 marries that little coquette, I shall lay it all to you." 
 
 I was half amused and half annoyed at this account. I did 
 not care about Monsieur Reuaud ; but I had wanted him to bo 
 disappointed, to be shown that girls were not at his bidding ; 
 not to be courted by a Mademoiselle Eugenie, and to fall in
 
 4:16 SEVEN YEARS. 
 
 love with her forthwith. However, what was done was done, 
 and I had no right to complain if another had prevailed where 
 I had not attempted to succeed. I was sorry to perceive, how- 
 ever, tliat maman was quite vexed. " You will never get on 
 in the world, my dear," she said, a little sharply, and then she 
 chid herself for this little burst of temj)er, and kissing me, 
 said I was a good child for all that. 
 
 My lesson that day proved particularly disagreeable. Made- 
 moiselle Benoit could not hold her peace on my worldly-mind- 
 edness and my prudence ; and Monsieur Everard, who was 
 present, could not help dropping hints that provoked me be- 
 yond all patience. It appeared from his speech that artless, 
 unassuming modesty was the charm of woman in his eyes. 
 With a sigh Mademoiselle Benoit asked what woman was 
 without that ? And so they went on echoing each other, un-til 
 1 had a great mind to get u]3 and walk out. I did not, for 
 several very excellent reasons ; but I came home in no very 
 pleasant mood. I went out on the balcony, certainly in no 
 hopes of meeting Mademoiselle, but there she was however, 
 bright and beaming as usual. 
 
 " My dear," she said, " I have such news for you. You 
 know what I told you about my cousin, and how smitten he 
 was with Mademoiselle Eugenie's artlessness — " 
 
 " hideed. Mademoiselle," I interrupted, feeling vexed at 
 hearing so much on that subject in one day, " indeed I do not 
 care about Monsieur Renaud or Mademoiselle. I am de- 
 lighted they are mutually pleased ; but I really wish to hear 
 no more about them." 
 
 Mademoiselle looked at me with some surprise. 
 
 " My dear," she said, " how warmly you speak. I meant 
 no harm, and, moreover, it is all right. My cousin called 
 this morning to beg to see the right one, and to assure me 
 that when he professed himself so pleased with Mademoiselle 
 Eugenie, he was only joking — he has a vast deal of humour. 
 In short, he is to come and dine with me this evening, and 
 you must come too." 
 
 Maman supported this suggestion so strongly, that I waa 
 obliged to yield. It was Ufarly dinner time, and I had barely 
 halt an hour for my toilette. I said anything would do, but 
 maman, who was unusually fastidious, seemed to think that 
 nothing could do. At length we were both ready, and with 
 some trepidation on my part, we crossed the landing, and 
 rang at Mademoiselle's door. Mademoiselle's blooming Nor- 
 man servant-girl opened to us with a smile, and ushered us
 
 SEVEN TEAKS. 417 
 
 in. Mademoiselle herself, in the splendour of a pink cap, and 
 a brown silk dress, rushed forward to meet us, and clasped 
 us both in her arms. She seemed very much excited, and 
 almost beside herself. 
 
 " My dears," she exclaimed, in an under tone, " I am so 
 glad. My cousin is burning ^Yith impatience. He is a very 
 ardent young man. I am sure he is quite in a fever of expec- 
 tation. I know I was. Pray walk into the drawing-room." 
 
 If I had not felt pretty certain that the fever was all of 
 Mademoiselle's feelings or imagination, this speech of hers 
 would have made me verj^ uncomfortable, but the ardour of a 
 man who searched for a wife in the methodical fashion adojited 
 by ]\Iademoiselle's cousin seemed to me very doubtful, so 
 doubtful indeed, that there was scarce a flush in my cheek 
 when I followed maman into the drawinjc-room. A ffentle- 
 man, who sat looking over a book of engravings, rose as we 
 entered. He looked at me, and I looked at him. I saw 
 Monsieur Everard. 
 
 " My cousin, Monsieur Everar,d Renaud," said Made- 
 moiselle ; " Madame Delmare, her daughter. Mademoiselle 
 Sylvie Delmare." 
 
 I certainly do not know what sort of a feeling sinking in 
 the ground produces in the person so sunk, but it seemed to 
 me then that to sink through the polished oak floor on which 
 I stood, and vanish no matter where, would have been pleas- 
 anter than to face Monsieur Everard. True, he behaved dec- 
 orously and well ; looked grave and unconscious, but could 
 I forget what we had met for, and could he 1 Impossible, we 
 both knew it : it was dreadful. But from the very misery 
 of the position came a sort of relief. I felt convinced that the 
 quiet, prudent Monsieur Everard, so strangely described as 
 an ardent and enthusiastic young man, would never bestow a 
 second thought on the girl of whose credulity and vanity he 
 had obtained such recent proofs. This quite set me at my 
 ease. Monsieur Everard was no one, and I spoke and acted 
 under this feeling. The dinner went oft' very well ; the even- 
 ing was pleasant. M. Everard made himself agreeable, Made- 
 moiselle was in ecstasies, and maman very well pleased. 
 
 " JNIy dear," said she, when we retired, " I like that ]\Ion- 
 sieur Renaud. He is sensible: ho is a man of the world, and 
 if you could marry him, or one like hiin, I should be well 
 pleased." 
 
 I laughed. '• Dear manuui," I saitl, " JNIonsicur Renaud 
 
 18*
 
 418 8EYEN TEAKS. 
 
 and Monsieur Everard are one. So just fancy what a chanoe 
 I have of either." 
 
 Mamaii was at first taken aback, then she said she did not 
 see that. I interrupted her to declare with some warmth, tliut 
 though I was sure Monsieur Everard would not have me, yet 
 even if he would, nothing should make me have so hard and 
 disagreeable a man. Maman sighed, and feared 1 was roman- 
 tic, but did not insist. 
 
 The next day I went to my lesson as usual ; Mademoiselle 
 Benoit was with her lawyer, and the said lawyer chose to 
 be very impertinent, as 1 thought. He said nothing that I 
 could quarrel with, but his looks and smiles, when Mademoi- 
 selle Benoit descanted, as usual, on my merits and the advan- 
 tage 1 was to her were more than I could endure. I felt 
 injured, and went home in such bad humour that it was some 
 time before I perceived maman's pale face, that still bore the 
 trace of i-ecent tears. At length I was struck with both, and 
 going up hastily to her, 1 asked what had happened. 
 
 " A great misfortune, my dear child," she replied, in a 
 tremulous tone. 
 
 " What is it, maman 1 " 
 
 " The agent de change, to whom I had confided my rentes 
 to dispose of, has absconded to Belgium." 
 
 This was indeed a woeful blow, but I comforted maman as 
 well as I could. I besought her not to leave me for either of 
 her daughters, who did not want her as I did ; then I said it 
 Avould only be removing to a cheaper apartment and living a 
 little more frugally ; that 1 would get scholars yet, and 
 " classes " too, and that all would be comfortable. She re- 
 fused for a long time, saying she had no claim upon me — 
 which I warmly denied — but she ended by yielding. Dear 
 maman ! her heart was sore indeed, but she did not wish me 
 to think her own children would be loath to receive her, and 
 I felt as anxious not to let her see I knew the bitter truth. 
 
 " And now, maman," said I, "just let me write down the 
 name of that agent de change. Who knows but Monsieur 
 Everard may give us some good advice ! " 
 
 She sighed and shook her head as she uttered the name : 
 " Monsieur Durand of Havre." 
 
 The pen dropped from my fingers. Oh ! it was too much, 
 too much indeed. I felt it, and fairly burst into tears. 
 
 " Sylvie ! my dear child ! what is the matter 1 " cried 
 maman.
 
 SEVEN TEAES. 419 
 
 " Alas ! " I exclaimed, weeping still, " it is that same Mon- 
 sieur Durand who has got my money." 
 
 We passed a weary evening, endeavouring to comfort each 
 other, but feeling sad indeed. Maman was more distressed 
 for me than for herself. Every time her eyes fell upon me 
 they filled with tears. I knew why. The home which would 
 receive her would be closed upon me. She felt it keenly. 
 
 " Oh ! " she exclaimed, in a tone of deep sorrow, " what 
 would your poor father say ? " 
 
 " That you acted for the best," I replied, kissing her. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 1 FEAR my eyes were still red when I called the following 
 day on Mademoiselle Benoit. She was engaged in the uncon- 
 genial task of receiving a large sum of money, which her law- 
 yer methodically counted over to her. He bowed and smiled 
 — much I cared about his smiling ! — but she never raised her 
 eyes from the table : it was full five minutes before they had 
 done, 
 
 " There, take it away," she then contemptuously exclaimed, 
 addressing some imaginary worshipper of mammon. But no 
 one appearing, she rose with a sigh and removed the treasure 
 to the neighbouring room, whence we heard various sounds 
 of unlocking and locking up again. I thought to take this 
 moment to address Monsieur Everard, whom, for many 
 reasons, I wished to acquaint with what had happened ; but 
 he seemed so entirely absorbed by his law papers, and as he 
 turned them over his countenance looked so severe, that my 
 heart failed me. 
 
 " Mademoiselle," he said, suddenly glancing up and catch- 
 ing my look before I had time to withdraw it, " do you feel 
 unwell?" 
 
 1 told him my little story in a low tone. He looked con- 
 cerned, and took both the name of the agent de change and 
 our address ; " it was very unfortunate indeed ; " and his 
 accent was more kind and comj^assionate than I could have 
 expected from him. Mademoiselle Benoit, who had done 
 locking up, had no such weakness. 
 
 " What!" she exclaimed, wilh a noble disdain of riches, 
 " the loss of the vile metal called gold can alTect you thus 1 
 Oh ! the worldliness of this world ! " 
 
 She continued to comfort me by dwelling so forcibly on
 
 420 SEVEN TEAES. 
 
 the charms of poverty and the miseries of the rich, that I 
 would have concluded the agent de change was a humane and 
 benevolent philanthropist, bent on relieving me and my fellow- 
 victims from the intolerable burden of money, if the worldli- 
 ness which was so strong within me had not absolutely revolted 
 against any such conclusion. 
 
 As I was leaving her, Mademoiselle Benoit handed me the 
 sum of forty francs. Our " lessons," as she was pleased to 
 tei-m them, were over with the law-suit, and she was return- 
 ing to her native province. She warmly thanked me for the 
 excellent advice I had given her, and the judicious control I had 
 exercised over her feelings. " But, my dear friend," said she, 
 as we parted, " pray do not be so worldly ; it dries up the 
 heart." 
 
 Thus ended my brief connection with my first pupil. I 
 advertised again, but, alas ! in vain. 
 
 Though I drew up a prospectus of my intended " classes," 
 I grieve to say that the public were so injudicious as not to be 
 captivated with my scheme. The classes, in short, proved a 
 failure, and the green table which filled all our drawing-room 
 being pronounced a perfect bore, was on the point of being 
 sold to a broker, when jNlonsieur Everard, learning our inten- 
 tion, purchased it. This leads me to observe that the lawyer 
 called upon us almost every day, to tell us that the runaway 
 agent de change had been heard of or would be heard of soon, 
 or had not been heard of at all. This did not mend the matter 
 much, but maman was greatly touched with his disinterested 
 zeal, and declared to me she had never met so kind and oblig- 
 ing a man. It vexed her to perceive that he did not stand 
 very high in my favour ; but, to be candid, the little he did 
 say to me was always of an annoying and provoking nature ; 
 for after appealing, on one jDoint or another, to my prudence 
 and worldly wisdom, with so much gravity that I could not 
 but think Kim in earnest, and candidly gave him my opinion, 
 he would suddenly turn round, and looking at me from under 
 his green spectacles, say with his own peculiar smile : 
 
 " And so. Mademoiselle .Sylvie, you thought you were the 
 blonde " — he did not add the epithet " lovely," but I knew he 
 thought it — " ah ! well, to see how the wisest of us can be 
 deceived ! " 
 
 The reader must not imagine that, because pupils did not 
 come and " classes " would not answer, I remained idle. No ; 
 we had been so fortunate as to procure sotne embroidery from 
 a large shop, and we worked from morning till night to eke
 
 SEVEN TEAKS. 421 
 
 out a scanty subsistence. I was grieved to see maman thus 
 reduced ; for my part, I was young, full of hope, and did not 
 mind it. INever, indeed, had I been so happy. What were 
 the comforts of my early home, when maman's heart was 
 estranged from me ? What was the good living of rny poor 
 god-mother's house compared to the pleasures of this humble 
 home, where I loved and was loved ? For maman loved m 
 now : I saw it every day in her kindly look, and heard it iti 
 her gentle voice. 
 
 I had come home one evening with some work, when I found 
 Monsieur Everard in earnest conversation with maman. 
 
 " Mademoiselle Sylvie," said he, " I have news for you." 
 
 "Indeed," I shortly replied, for he had teased me about 
 the blonde that same morning. 
 
 " Yes, the agent de change was arrested this morning, hav- 
 ing been fool enough to come back to Paris. I am happy to 
 say Madame Delmare's rentes were all found upon him." 
 
 I clapped my hands and kissed maman. "There," I cried 
 joyously, taking her work from her, " let me never see you at 
 this again." 
 
 " Be quiet," said she, smiling, " you have not heard all 
 Monsieur Everard has to say." 
 
 " Oh ! I know," I shrewdly observed, " my ten thousand 
 francs are found too." 
 
 " Wisely inferred," said he, with a smile, " but, alas, I 
 grieve to say your ten thousand francs are gone, quite gone ; " 
 and he spoke as if he felt glad of it. 
 
 I felt disappointed, but I soon rallied. "Well," said I, 
 resolutely, " I can work ; cannot I, maman ? " 
 
 "Yes, my dear, but you have not yet heard Monsieur 
 Everard." 
 
 I looked at him with some surprise. He did not speak, but 
 fidgetted on his chair, coughed, rose, took a turn across the 
 room, then came back, still silent, to his seat. I looked at 
 maman : she was endeavouring to repress a smile. 
 
 " Mademoiselle," said he, whilst a faint tinge of colour rose 
 to his cheek, " I was explaining to Madame Delmare, when you 
 entered, a wish I have for some time entertained, and wliich 
 has obtained her approbation. I am a man of few words ; for 
 give me if, without further preparation, I simply ask : " Will 
 you become my wife 1 " 
 
 He looked at me ; I remained mute. I felt astonished, 
 and not triumphant, reader, but very much touched. I was 
 neither rich nor handsome ; Monsieur Everard was no heedless
 
 422 SEVEN TEAKS. 
 
 romantic man : I felt it was not common affection and esteem 
 had urged him to this offer. 
 
 " Sylvie," anxiously said maman, " why do you not an- 
 swer ? " 
 
 Monsieur Everard said nothing, but looked at me with 
 evident uneasiness. I had remained silent, not because I 
 knew not what I felt, but because I knew not how to say it ; I 
 did not say it even then, but simply held out my hand to him. 
 lie took it, and with more gallantry than I could have ex- 
 pected from him, raised it to his lips. I turned my head 
 away that he might not see my eyes filling with tears ; Maman 
 was suddenl}' seized with a cold in her head ; even Monsieur 
 Everard did not quite succeed in preserving a business-like 
 composure ; but we all three felt happy, and soon recovered, 
 each keeping up the pretence of not feeling a bit concerned. 
 
 He remained to dinner. He looked a little awkward : I 
 believe that in his heart he feared I would retaliate for the 
 past ; but ray only attempt in this way was to ask for the 
 green spectacles to be removed. They vanished at my bid- 
 ding, and allowed me to perceive that the eyes they shaded had 
 nothing amiss ; but the whole countenance looked strange 
 without them ; I felt it thus, and before ten minutes had 
 elapsed I said : 
 
 " Pray put on your spectacles again." 
 
 He smiled and obeyed. Our courtship was brief; it was 
 his wish ; it was maman's wish : what could I do but yield up 
 the point quietly ? 
 
 I have now been married ten years. I will give the 
 reader no account of my marriage experiences, but simply 
 describe to him the picture I behold as I write. It is winter : 
 my husband is sitting by the fire-side, talking to Joseph, our 
 eldest child. In her easy chair, on the other side of the fire- 
 place, sits my dear maman ; ay, mine, though no drop of the 
 same blood flows in our veins. A child is on her knee, a lit- 
 tle brunette, whose dark hair she smooths from her forehead 
 with a gentle touch and a wistful glance ; but, reader, that 
 child is not mine ; it is all that remains of her poor daughter 
 Louise, who died a year ago the broken-hearted widow of a 
 ruined man. Josephine ofi"ered to bring up the orphan with 
 her own children, but maman jealously refused. She went for 
 her little Louise, brought her home, never allows a hand save 
 her own or mine to touch her, and is always tracing in her 
 features a likeness no one save herself can see ; for Louise 
 though dark, is truly pretty.
 
 SEVEN rEAKS. 423 
 
 My child is that little blonde who now endeavours to at- 
 tract her grandmamma's attention ; and see how maman has- 
 tens to make room for her by the side of Louise, and tries to 
 look as if one were not dearer than the other. But children 
 are restless : Joseph leaves his father, and Louise immediately 
 jumps down to join him in a game. Henriette, happy in the 
 exclusive possession of her grandmamma, remains nestling with 
 her. But though maman encircles her caressingly, her thought- 
 ful look still follows Louise. She smiles at her joyous spirits, 
 at the patronizing tone of Joseph, at the affection of the two 
 children, and she makes for the future, plans which I read with 
 a smile. She is already fidgetting herself to know whether 
 Louise will be rich enough for Joseph ; she is projecting impos- 
 sible savings out of her narrow ircome, in order to treasure her 
 up a dowry. Dear maman, were it not premature to speak of 
 such a thing, — Joseph is eight and Louise live, — I might tell 
 you that the point is already settled between myself and my 
 husband. Should they be willing, a little money shall neither 
 prevent the happiness of two loving hearts nor the fuliilment 
 of your cherished dream : that the child of your child may be- 
 come more closely linked to her on whom you have so long 
 bestowed the name, and who truly feels for you the love of a 
 daughter. 
 
 IKK END.
 
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