Ernestine was passing with her mother through the arcades of the Palais Royal, stopping at every shop, longing for all she saw, now and then sighing heavily, and at each moment making the happiness of life consist in the possession of some attractive object, the remembrance of which was effaced the moment after by some other, destined in like manner to be as speedily forgotten. She was, however, more especially interested by a toy-shop; not that Ernestine had any wish for dolls, little carts, or bureaus, in which she could not even have put her thimble, the drawers were so small: she was, indeed, too old for that, for she was already eleven; but the sight of a moving picture, in which were to be seen two men fighting, a dog turning a spit, a laundress, a paviour, and a stonecutter, inspired her with a fancy, which appeared to her much more reasonable. She stopped her mamma in order to examine it more leisurely, and her mother was kind enough to indulge her; but the picture was then motionless. Ernestine thought it would be delightful to see all those figures in action, especially the dog turning the spit, and asked if it would not be possible to beg of the shopkeeper to wind it up.

"Certainly not," replied Madame de Cideville, "he did not place it there for the amusement of the passers-by; he would think I wished to purchase it."

"It would surely be very dear?" said Ernestine.

"One louis," replied the shopkeeper, who had overheard her.

"Oh! mamma," whispered Ernestine, "how cheap!" for she had imagined that a thing so beautiful, and so ingenious, must have cost an enormous sum. "How delightful it would be," she continued, "to obtain that for one louis!"

"There are," said her mother, "many better ways of employing it;" and she passed on, to the great vexation of Ernestine, who wondered to herself how it could happen that her parents, who were so rich, did not think it proper to spend a louis on so charming a thing as a moving picture, in which a dog was to be seen turning a spit: for Ernestine, like all children, and upon this point she was more than usually inconsiderate even for her age, thought her parents much richer than they really were; besides, she was not aware that there is no fortune, however large, which justifies unnecessary expense. On reaching home, she spoke to her father about the picture.

"Only fancy, papa, it might have been had for one louis. Oh! how happy I should have been if I had had a louis of my own!"

"You would not surely have spent it upon that?" replied her father.

"Oh! papa, how could I have spent it on anything more delightful?"

"Doubtless," replied M. de Cideville, "it would have been quite impossible to have found anything more delightful; but you might have found something more useful."

"For a louis, papa! What is there so very useful that can be bought for one louis?"

As she said these words, Ernestine tossed in her hands her mamma's purse, which Madame de Cideville, on entering, had laid upon the table. A louis d'or fell out of it. "See," said Ernestine, as she picked it up, "to what very important use can this little yellow thing be put?"

"To what use?" replied her father; "if I were to tell you all the important uses to which it might be applied, all the trouble that is sometimes required to gain it, all the danger there is in spending it badly, all the good it may do to those who are in want of it, all the evil it may make them commit in order to obtain it, you would wonder how any one could be even tempted to throw it away upon useless objects. Shall I relate to you the history of that particular louis, all the adventures it has met with, and to how many uses it has been applied?"

"Oh! yes, papa; but how came you to know all this?"

"That I will tell you afterwards. At present I want you to look at it merely; it is not very ancient, it belongs to the coinage of 1787, so that it is scarcely five-and-twenty years old. Now, listen to all that has happened to it."

Ernestine drew a chair to her father's side, that she might listen more attentively, and M. de Cideville began thus:—

I will not tell you how much labour and time were required to extract from the earth the small quantity of gold of which this louis is composed, to separate it from the other substances which are generally found mixed with it, to melt it, to coin it, &c. It was in the year 1787, that it came for the first time into the Royal treasury, and that it was afterwards given out, in payment of a regiment, to which, I know not by what chance, several months' arrears were due. As the soldiers received five sous a day, this louis served to discharge what was owing for more than three months' pay to a poor fellow who, had there been war, might, during this time, have fought in a dozen battles, have been killed, or at least wounded, have died of hunger in a besieged city, perished at sea, or been eaten by savages, had he been sent to fight in America. But as it was a time of peace, he had only caught an inflammation on the chest, in consequence of having had to mount guard during one of the severest nights of winter, and afterwards a cutaneous disease, from having slept in the hospital in the same bed with a comrade who had it. At length he recovered, and as he was an industrious and well-conducted man, and had managed by his occupation of barber to the regiment, to make some little savings, he was able, notwithstanding what I have mentioned, to send this louis to his father, a poor peasant, at that very moment on the point of being imprisoned for a debt of one louis, which he could not pay. The creditor was on the spot, threatening him, and announcing his determination of sending for the sheriff's officer: the peasant's second son, the brother of the soldier, furious at seeing his father thus menaced, had taken up a hatchet with which he was going to kill the creditor, notwithstanding the interposition of his mother, who, uttering piercing cries, rushed forward to prevent him, and was thrown down by him, without his perceiving it, so violent was his passion. The person who had brought the louis from the soldier, arrived in the midst of this tumult. She had, at first, much difficulty in making herself heard; but when they did begin to understand what she was saying, peace was restored. The father paid his creditor, the son rejoiced that he had not killed him, and thus this louis d'or saved a man's life, probably the lives of two men; for the son would have been punished for his crime: perhaps, indeed, it saved a whole family, for the father and mother, who had only this son to assist them in their labours, would, in all probability, have died of misery and grief.

The creditor who had exacted this louis with so much severity, belonged to the same village, and was really in absolute want of the money, because, his harvest having failed, he had not the necessary provisions for his family during the winter. Had the soldier's louis not arrived, however, it would have been useless for him to have put the father in prison; he would have gained nothing, as the old man possessed nothing; but with this louis he bought twenty or five-and-twenty bushels of potatoes, which were then very cheap, and these served to support himself and his children.

The woman, however, from whom he had purchased the potatoes, and who belonged to another village, having the imprudence to cross in the dark a wood, through which the road to her house lay, three villains of the neighbourhood in which she had sold her potatoes, who had seen her receive the louis, agreed to wait for her in the wood, and rob her of it. When, therefore, she had penetrated into the thicket, they burst upon her, threw her from her horse, took the louis, and were about to tear off her clothes, and perhaps kill her, when, fancying they heard a noise, they ran off in different directions. He who held the louis, endeavoured to escape from his companions, that he might not share it with them; but they met him that same evening at a tavern where he was spending it in drink. They demanded their share, quarrelled, fought, and discovered all their secrets. They were arrested and sent to the galleys. The tavern-keeper interposed in the lawsuit; he wished to have the louis, as it had been spent at his house; the woman who sold the potatoes, and who had recovered and again mounted her horse, also claimed it, as it had been stolen from her. I know not whether they were indemnified, but the louis, after having served as a proof of the theft, because it was the only one in the country, none of this particular coinage having been before introduced there, passed into the hands of an old lawyer, who quarrelled with an elderly lady, after a friendship of thirty years, because she had won it of him at piquet, during the course of six months, and had told him, besides, that he did not know how to play. This old lady sent it as a new-year's gift to one of her little granddaughters in Paris, who was saved by it from a very considerable annoyance. Her brother, who, though treated with a good deal of severity, was, nevertheless, very disobedient and ill-behaved, had taken from her father's library, notwithstanding his having been forbidden to touch it, a book which contained prints; while reading it, he had let an inkstand fall upon it, and in order that he might not be suspected, had carried it into the anteroom. All this he communicated to his sister, as a great secret, making her solemnly promise to say nothing about it, so that the servant might be suspected. As her father was very particular about his books, the young girl knew that the servant would be dismissed; still she could not denounce her brother. The book had been put in the anteroom, during the evening, and she wept all night at the thought of what was to happen next day; for she was extremely kind and just. In the morning, on awaking, the first thing she beheld was the louis, which had been put upon her bed as a present from her grandmamma; her joy was extreme, and she immediately sent for a copy of the book, as her brother, who had also received a louis, finding himself screened, would not spend his in this manner. However, she consoled herself, by thinking of the terrible pain she would have experienced in seeing an innocent person punished, without daring to justify him. The book cost exactly one louis; this louis passed into the hands of a librarian, and had a great influence on the destiny of a little boy, whose history I am about to relate to you.

LITTLE PETER.

Little Peter, when ten years old, had entered the service of M. Dubourg, a worthy man, who passed his life in the study of Greek and Latin, and was so much taken up with what happened three thousand years ago, that he did not even think of troubling himself with what was actually passing around him; for he was consoled for every inconvenience, provided he could apply to it an example or a maxim drawn from antiquity. If he cut his finger, or hurt his foot, his first movement was an exclamation of impatience, but immediately afterwards he checked himself and grew calm, saying, "The philosopher Epictetus suffered his leg to be broken by his master, who was beating him, without making any complaint beyond these words: 'I told you you would break my leg.'" One day, while dining in town, he found himself in company with some very ill-bred military men, who could talk of nothing but the stories of their regiment, and the number of bottles of wine they had drunk at a mess dinner. The mistress of the house, in order to make him some kind of apology for a conversation which wearied him, said, laughing, "You must allow, M. Dubourg, that I have made you dine in very bad company."

"Madame," replied M. Dubourg, "Alcibiades knew how to accommodate himself to every grade of society, to every company, and even to the customs of every nation;" and in order to follow the example of Alcibiades, he commenced talking to them of the battle of Salamis, and the feasts of Bacchus. As to the rest, M. Dubourg only dined out six times a year; this was a rule which he had laid down for himself, however numerous might be the invitations which he received. The only irregularity he allowed himself was in the periods. Thus, for instance, he might one year dine out on the 6th of March, and the following year on the 7th or the 10th; it might even happen that he accepted two invitations in the same month, though as a general rule he placed them as nearly as possible at equal distances; but if by any extraordinary chance, the six dinners were expended by the month of July, no consideration would induce him to dine away from home during the rest of the year. His expenditure was regulated as strictly as his manner of life. With a very small income, M. Dubourg wished to live in such a manner as to be perfectly independent of every one, and especially so as never to be reduced to the necessity of borrowing, which he regarded as the greatest of all faults; "for," said he, "one can never be sufficiently sure of repaying." Thus, his dinners were furnished by a restaurateur, who, for the same sum, brought him every day the same thing. On one occasion the restaurateur wished to increase his charge. "It is all the same to me," said M. Dubourg, "I shall take less; Diogenes was able, by mere philosophy, to bring himself to drink out of his hand, although he had still a wooden cup of which he might have made use." It was probably less out of respect for philosophy, than from the fear of disobliging a customer, that the restaurateur, by the means of certain arrangements, agreed to furnish him, for the old price, a dinner of pretty nearly the same kind.

The other expenses of the day were calculated with the same precision, so that, without ever counting, M. Dubourg, had always a year's income in advance, and was consequently never inconvenienced by having to wait for his returns. He had, besides, a sum in reserve for extraordinary cases; such as an illness, an accident, or even a goblet broken, or a bottle of ink overturned, &c. It might also happen, on a rainy day, that he had to pay for crossing a stream upon a plank, or, in winter, to give a sous to the little sweeper who cleaned the crossing; all these expenses fell upon the extraordinary fund, for as to coaches, M. Dubourg had only hired two during the whole course of thirty years. One was to pay a visit to a rich man from whom he had accepted an invitation to dinner, and to whose house he was told he must not go splashed. This broke off their acquaintance, and he never would go again, however much he was pressed. The other he took when going to declare his sentiments to a young lady whom he had been persuaded to fancy himself desirous of marrying. He took it for fear that the wind should shake the powder out of his hair, and it gave him an opportunity of reflecting, as he proceeded, on the disorders into which the passions lead us. On arriving at the young lady's house, he paid the coachman, returned home on foot, and renounced for ever the idea of marrying. His reserved fund was always maintained in the same state, by means of a portion of his income regularly set apart for this purpose. When it did not happen to be all spent by the end of the year, M. Dubourg gave the remainder to the poor, otherwise, he neither gave nor lent; for he said that "it is not proper to give unless we are certain of not being obliged to ask, and that he who, in order to lend, exposes himself to the chance of being obliged to borrow, places his integrity at the mercy of a bad paymaster." It may be seen then, that with some follies, M. Dubourg was a man highly to be esteemed for his integrity.

Little Peter passed with him the happiest of lives. Provided he was careful not to arrange the books that were scattered or heaped together upon the desk or floor, which M. Dubourg called disarranging them; provided he took care to sweep the room only once a fortnight, when M. Dubourg had taken away certain fine editions, which he did not wish to have exposed to the dust; provided he was careful never to remove the cobwebs, that he might not run the risk of upsetting the busts of Homer, of Plato, of Aristotle, of Cicero, of Virgil, &c., which adorned the top of the library, little Peter might do pretty nearly what he pleased. If he happened to be out at the hour at which the restaurateur brought, every day, M. Dubourg's dinner, so that it had to be left at the door, M. Dubourg having forbidden the man ever to ring, for fear of interrupting his studies, and if M. Dubourg found his dinner quite cold, or partly eaten by the cat, Peter merely excused himself by saying, that he had been detained by some business. Then M. Dubourg would say to him: "It is quite natural, Peter, that you should occupy yourself principally with your own affairs; you are not my slave; I have not purchased you with my money: but were you my slave, the case would be very different." Then, whilst taking his dinner, he would explain to him the duties and condition of slaves; and how it was that their masters possessed over them the power of life and death, which was indeed but just, since they had purchased them; "But as for me, Peter," he would add, "I am not permitted to do you the least harm, for you are not my slave." And, in fact, he would not give him a caning, even when he learned his Latin grammar badly; this was, nevertheless, the greatest annoyance Peter could cause M. Dubourg; who, on this point, sometimes got into violent passions, quite at variance with his general character; for he could not understand how it was possible for any one to dislike so excellent a thing as the Latin grammar. This dislike, however, was very sincere on the part of little Peter, who had no fancy for study, and who, though he had learned to read and to write, had done so much against his will. When M. Dubourg, who did not wish any one to live with him without understanding Latin, first put an Accidence into his hand, his parents were delighted at the idea of his making, as they thought, little Peter a learned man like himself; but Peter had not the slightest wish to resemble M. Dubourg, who passed the whole day in poring over books; who often only half dined, for fear of allowing a Greek passage to escape him, the meaning of which he was beginning to seize; who took water, scarcely coloured, because wine disturbed the judgment, and had, he said, caused Alexander the Great to commit many crimes; and who, finally, as his only pleasure, walked for two hours every day in the gardens of the Tuileries, with three other learned men, who, on their part, met there for the purpose of conversing together, after the manner of the Peripaticians.

Little Peter, fancying that Latin led to nothing better than this, could not perceive in it anything very attractive, and only learned his Accidence, ill or well as the case might be, for the sake of pleasing M. Dubourg, who wept with joy when he had repeated his lesson well. He read, however, with tolerable pleasure, some books of history which M. Dubourg had lent him, and he passed the remainder of his time with his parents, to whom M. Dubourg had promised to send him for several hours each day, and to whom Peter, according to custom, remitted a very considerable portion of the hundred francs which he annually received as his wages; for they said that, having consented to place him with M. Dubourg at an age in which his labour might have been useful to them in their trade of braziers, they ought to be indemnified, in some other manner, for the expenses he had occasioned them in his childhood. Little Peter, better fed and better clothed than he could have been at home, ought to have considered himself very well off; but he was discontented, because he could not run about like other boys of his age, and because he had not the free disposal of his money; in fact he regretted all the follies which he could not commit, and then the Rudiments greatly disgusted him. Besides, little Peter affected to be ambitious; he must make his fortune, and that was an impossibility so long as he remained with M. Dubourg. He related his troubles to a little groom with whom he became acquainted, from having seen him at the door of a house, situated between the residence of M. Dubourg and his father's shop. One day this groom, whose name was John, told him that if he wished he would procure him a good situation, with a young gentleman, a friend of his master, who was in want of a groom. He would have to take his meals with the other servants of the family, as long as the young gentleman resided with his parents, and receive a hundred francs a year, as with M. Dubourg, besides a louis d'or for his new-year's gift, not to mention the perquisites, which, according to John's account, would amount to three times as much as his wages. Peter felt himself greatly tempted by the louis d'or, which he hoped to keep for himself, and by the livery, which he thought much finer than his grey jacket, forgetting, that from his grey jacket he might pass to a better dress without the change being remarked, whereas livery is a costume which once seen upon a person is never forgotten. John had taught him to groom a horse, and this pleased him much more than the Rudiments; he thought it would be very delightful to have to groom one every day, and, besides, it seemed to him that he should have his own way much more. However, he told John that the thing was impossible; that he could not leave M. Dubourg; but as he went along he could think of nothing else. His parents, seeing him thus preoccupied, said to him a dozen times, "Peter, are you ill?" He replied that he was not, and left them much earlier than usual, to go and find John; not that he knew what answer to give him, but simply that he might hear him talk of the situation, of the louis d'or, of the perquisites, and of the horse.

The desire he felt to obtain the situation increased at every moment. John told him that nothing was easier; that he had only to allow him to speak to M. and Madame JerÔme,—these were the parents of little Peter; and that he would make them listen to reason. Peter took him at his word, and told him to come with him. John went, and as he was a boy of great determination, he represented, in glowing colours, to M. and Madame JerÔme, all the advantages of the situation which he proposed, with the exception, however, of the louis d'or, to which Peter had begged him not to allude, as he wished to keep it for himself. "But see, Madame JerÔme," said John, "the master he will have, lays aside his clothes almost new, and I will wager that, every year, Peter will be able to bring a suit to M. JerÔme; but that is on condition that you let him have a little more of his wages."

"We shall see, we shall see," said Madame JerÔme, who was quite captivated with the idea of her husband's having a smart coat to walk out with her on a Sunday. M. JerÔme urged that Peter could not leave M. Dubourg, who bestowed so much pains on his education. "Excellent!" replied Madame JerÔme; "no doubt Peter will be very well off when he is as learned as M. Dubourg. They say in the neighbourhood, that that is not the way to get bread." And as Madame JerÔme always made her husband do just what she pleased, it was agreed that Peter should accept the situation. John went to his master to solicit it; the latter mentioned it to his friend, who sent for little Peter, and as he was without a servant, it was arranged, that if Peter brought him a good character from M. Dubourg, he should enter his service the following day.

Peter returned home to M. Dubourg, whose dinner had been waiting at the door a quarter of an hour. He was so bewildered, that in laying the cloth, he put the chair on the side of the window instead of on that of the door, a thing which had not been done for five-and-twenty years; and he forgot, when giving M. Dubourg something to drink, that it was an inviolable rule with him to put the wine into the glass before the water. His master looked at him with astonishment, saying, "Are you ill, Peter?" He again replied that he was not, and continued his duties; but he was completely embarrassed, and the more so as M. Dubourg spoke to him with even more than his usual kindness, calling him my child, his term of endearment for those whom he particularly liked. He said to him, "You will soon be thirteen years old; this is precisely the age at which the Romans took the PrÆtexta. I even think that I might find instances in which it was taken earlier, though, indeed, this may have been in corrupt times. But no matter: I think I can in conscience, allow you to leave off your grey jacket. Since you have been with me, I have made it a rule never to dust the covers of my books with my sleeve, as I was accustomed to do, and I have only failed once, and then through pure forgetfulness. Besides, although this coat has nearly served its time, for I buy one every three years, it is in a sufficiently good condition to be done up for you. And," added M. Dubourg, patting him on the head with an air of gaiety, "you will look like a little gentleman."

Little Peter felt extremely troubled; this kindness, and then this coat, which was to make him look like a gentleman, had completely upset all his ideas. He left the room as soon as he could, and did not enter it again that evening. The following morning, Madame JerÔme came to inform M. Dubourg that her son wished to leave him, and to ask him for a character. However great was his astonishment, he only uttered these words: "Little Peter is not my slave; I have no right to detain him against his will." He promised the character, and when Madame JerÔme was gone, he called Peter, who had not dared to show himself. "Peter," said he, "if you were my slave, you would deserve to be beaten with rods, or even worse, for wishing to leave your master; but you are not my slave, therefore you may go."

He said this in a tone of so much feeling, that little Peter, already much moved, began to cry. "Why do you wish to leave me, my child?" continued M. Dubourg; "you will forget all you know, with another master."

"Oh! Sir," said Peter, shaking his head, "it is not my lot to be a learned man."

"You are mistaken, Peter; you are mistaken, my child. If you could once get over the rule of que retranchÉ, you would get on very well." And thereupon he began to cite to him, with great earnestness, the examples of many celebrated men, who had at first displayed but little talent, but who afterwards astonished the world by the extent of their learning. "You have the opportunity of becoming what they were, Peter," exclaimed M. Dubourg, "and yet you renounce it." He was so sure of his case, and spoke with so much enthusiasm, that little Peter, quite carried away, felt himself on the point of losing his fortune.

"Oh! Sir," he exclaimed, "only consent to give me one louis more a year, and I will remain with you all my life."

At these words, the enthusiasm of M. Dubourg was changed into consternation. "If that is what is required," said he, "it is impossible. You know yourself, that it is impossible." Peter remained silent and confounded, for he knew that his master, before engaging him, had refused a boy who asked him five louis, because this would have occasioned an irregularity of twenty francs in the expenses of the year. He retired in confusion. M. Dubourg, without uttering another word, gave him a favourable character, to which, however, he considered himself obliged, as a matter of conscience, to add, that Peter had always shown but little inclination for the Latin grammar.

Little Peter soon got over his vexation; he thought himself so fine in his livery, especially when John had taught him some of his grand airs, that he was as proud of it as if there had really been some merit or honour in wearing it, and when, by chance, he had to drive his master's cabriolet through the streets, he would not have exchanged conditions with any of those triumphant heroes whose history M. Dubourg had made him read. One day when he was behind this cabriolet, he saw M. Dubourg in danger of being knocked down by the horse, and cried out, "Take care, take care!" in a louder, though less imperious tone than usual. M. Dubourg recognised the voice, and looked up. Peter did not very well know whether to be pleased or ashamed, that he should thus be seen by him in all his glory. M. Dubourg gave a heavy sigh: "Is it possible," he said, "that a person who was beginning to understand the Latin grammar could mount behind a cabriolet!" And he continued his way home, in a thoughtful mood.

As for Peter, he did not think of the circumstance very long, he only thought of amusing himself. John had taught him, according to his own account, the best means of doing so; that is, he took him to the public-house, and to places where cards and billiards were played. There he lost his money, and when his master paid him his first quarter's wages, he owed the whole of it. For three days, he did not dare to go near his parents; for he knew very well that they would require their share. At length, John advised him to say, that he was to be paid only every six months, assuring him that by that time he would regain all that he had lost. On the contrary, he lost more, and only got deeper in debt. At the end of the six months, he said that he had been mistaken, and that his master paid only once a year. His parents began to disbelieve him, and, besides, the coat that John had promised to M. JerÔme was not forthcoming. If Peter had received perquisites, he had sold them to obtain money. Still his debts increased daily; he dared not pass down the street in which a certain tavern-keeper lived, because he had had drink in his house, for which he had not paid; in the neighbouring street a petty dealer in hardware, from whom he had obtained, on credit, a chain of false gold, in order to appear to wear a watch, insulted him every time he saw him. At every moment, he met comrades to whom he was still indebted, for money which they had won from him, while his parents, on the other hand, were very much displeased with him, and threatened to go and ask his master whether he told them the truth. Little Peter knew not where to hide his head.

One morning his master's mother, who was almost as precise a person as M. Dubourg, gave him eighteen francs to carry to a shopkeeper, to whom she owed the balance of an account, for some things purchased of him the previous evening. Peter went out, proceeding with great precaution and looking on every side, as he was accustomed to do, since he had become constantly fearful of meeting persons to whom he owed money. He was absolutely obliged to pass through the street in which the hardware-dealer lived; he looked out from a distance, saw him engaged in conversation, and hoped to pass by unperceived. But as he approached, the person with whom he was talking turned round. It was the tavern-keeper, who called to him, and demanded his money, in no very polite terms. The hardware-man joined him, and they placed themselves in the middle of the street, so as to prevent him from passing, telling him that he must pay them. Peter glided between the wall and a carriage, which was standing there, and ran on with all his might; he heard them cry after him, that it was well to have good legs when one had not a good conscience, but that he might spare himself the trouble of running away, as they would catch him again. As he continued his flight, and was rapidly turning a corner, he ran against a man who was coming towards him. This man turned out to be a groom of his acquaintance, to whom he owed some money, won at cards. He was half-intoxicated, and seizing little Peter by the collar, and swearing at him, said that he must have his money, for the publican demanded it of him, and that he would drag Peter before him and beat him until he had paid it. Peter defended himself with all his strength. A crowd gathered round, and allowed them to continue. At length he heard some one cry out, "Villain, leave off beating that child!" He recognised the voice of M. Dubourg, and saw him, with uplifted cane, approaching to his assistance. The fear of being recognised, gave him even more strength than the fear of being beaten; he tore himself out of the hands of the groom, who had likewise turned round, on hearing himself thus spoken to, and whom M. Dubourg, with his cane still upraised, prevented from following Peter.

Peter, who now continued his flight with even greater rapidity than before, came at last to a street where he no longer saw any one likely to recognise him, and sat down trembling, upon a bench, not knowing what was to become of him. He had heard the groom also say that he would catch him, and he had no doubt that he was watching for his return. On raising his eyes, he perceived that he was before a tavern to which his comrades had taken him to play at cards, and where he had seen one of them win a hundred francs. His heart beat high at the idea of gaining as much, and a detestable thought took possession of his mind. Perhaps in hazarding thirty sous only of the eighteen francs with which he had been intrusted, he might regain all that he owed; but if he happened to lose! This reflection made him tremble. He went away; then returned, the temptation increasing every moment. At last, picking up a stone, he said to himself, "If in throwing this against the wall, I hit the mark that I see there, it will be a sign that I shall win!" He placed himself very near the wall, that he might not miss it, threw the stone, hit the spot, and went in. He was so excited, that he scarcely knew what he was about. Never before had he committed so bad an action, nor would he have committed it now, doubtless, had he been in his right mind. But it is one of the consequences of bad actions that they place us in circumstances which disturb the judgment, and deprive it of the strength necessary for directing our conduct. Had any one, at this moment, told Peter that he was committing the act of a thief, he would have trembled from head to foot; yet such was, nevertheless, the fact; but he did not think of it. At first he only hazarded thirty sous, and won: he won again, and fancied himself already rich. Had he stopped there, he would have had, if not sufficient to get out of difficulty, at least enough to satisfy, in some degree, one or two of his creditors; but by doing this, he would have been rewarded for his fault, and by a law of Providence, evil-doers never know how to stop at the point where their faults would be unattended with danger. He who, in doing wrong, relies upon his prudence to protect him from exposure, always finds himself deceived; the love of gain, or of pleasure, ends by dragging him on to the action which is to bring about his punishment. Peter was desirous of gaining more, and he lost not only what he had won, but his stake also. The hopes that he had at first formed, rendered him only the more ardent in the game, and, besides, how was he to replace the thirty sous? He hazarded thirty more, lost them, then more; at last the whole eighteen francs are gone. He left the house in despair, and wandered through the streets unconsciously, neither knowing where he was, nor what he was doing, still less what he intended to do. He heard it strike four o'clock, and remembered that at five he had to wait at table. He would be asked by his mistress's mother whether he had paid the eighteen francs, and though for some time past he had got into the habit of telling falsehoods, his conscience accused him so vehemently, that he felt he should not be able to reply. However, like a man who throws himself into a river without knowing whether he shall get out of it again, he took, mechanically, the way to the house; but as he approached it, he fancied he saw the shop girl belonging to the tradesman, to whom he had been ordered to carry the eighteen francs, coming out of it. He had no doubt that she had been to ask for the money, and feeling that it would be quite impossible for him to enter again his master's dwelling, he turned away, and recommenced running, without knowing whither he went. It was winter: night came on, and he at last stopped, and sat down upon a step, and felt that he was without a home. Nothing in the world would have induced him to return to his parents, and it would have been equally impossible for him to expose himself to the look of the honest M. Dubourg. The cold increased with the night, and it began to freeze rather severely. Peter had eaten nothing since the morning, and though his heart was oppressed, yet hunger began to make itself felt at last. All he could do, however, was to weep; for what resource was left to him in the world? At times this hunger, cold, suffering, and despair weighed so heavily upon him, that he would start up, and run away, whither he knew not, but determined to find some spot where he should suffer less. Then again, he would suddenly stop; for he felt that he had not the courage to show himself anywhere, or to endure the questions or the looks of any one; so he would slowly return, sit down again, and weep anew, while the cold wind, blowing upon his face, froze up the traces of his tears.

At last, overcome by fatigue and exhaustion, he fell asleep, or rather he became numbed; his state was a kind of half-sleep, which, although leaving him no distinct ideas, still left him the consciousness of the cold and hunger, and grief. In the middle of the night, he was awakened by some one who shook him violently. He opened his eyes, and saw around him several armed men. It was the watch, who finding a child asleep in the street, wanted to know why he was there, and to whom he belonged. Peter had at first some difficulty in collecting his ideas, and when he had succeeded in doing so, he only felt the more vividly the impossibility of replying. He dared not say to whom he belonged. He cried, and entreated them to leave him there, as he was doing no harm to any one. They would not listen to him, but told him that he must go to the guardhouse. One of them took him by the shoulders, and as he resisted, another gave him a blow across the legs to make him proceed. Peter walked on trembling. The snow began to fall so heavily, that they could scarcely see their way, and added to this, the wind was so strong, that it extinguished all the lamps, and drove the snow full into their faces. At length, the soldier who held little Peter had his cap blown off by a violent gust, and left him in order to run after it. The others, blinded by the snow, got dispersed; they sought each other; they called out. As to Peter, stupified by the wind, the snow, and all that had happened to him, he knew not where he was, what he was doing, or what he ought to do. Motionless on the spot where he had been left, he heard the soldiers inquiring for him, and asking whether he had not escaped. This brought him to himself, and finding one of them approaching, he drew back softly, in order to get as near as possible to the wall. As he retired farther and farther, he was still unable to feel the wall, and at last perceived that he had entered a bye-street, which the thickness of the snow had prevented him from seeing. He then walked faster, and soon ceasing to hear the soldiers, he regained a little courage, and after many windings, he at last stopped, and crouched down at the corner of an old building.

After remaining there some time, he again fell asleep, and when he awoke day was breaking. He tried to get up, but the cold and the uneasy posture in which he had remained, had so benumbed his limbs, that he could not move a step, nor even stretch his legs; while the violent effort which he made in order to move forward, threw him to the ground. In falling, his head struck the curbstone so violently that he become unconscious. He did not, however, altogether faint, and after a short time he had a confused perception of persons speaking and acting around him. It also seemed to him that he was taken up and carried away; but all was so indistinct that he had no proper consciousness of anything. He had neither any fear of what was going to happen to him, nor any wish to be better, nor any recollection of what he had done. He came to himself, however, by degrees, and his first sensation was a violent oppression of the heart. Poor little fellow! this is a feeling which he will henceforth always experience, as often as he calls to mind what he has done. At present he does not call this to mind, he simply feels that he has committed a terrible fault. He also feels that he is suffering in every part of his body, but, at the same time, he perceives that he is in a bed, and in a room; at length he regained complete consciousness and saw that he was at M. Dubourg's, and that M. Dubourg and his mother Madame JerÔme were by his side.

His first impulse on perceiving them was to hide his head in the bedclothes and weep. As soon as his mother saw that he was conscious, she asked him what had happened to him, and why he had fled from his master. She told him that, finding he did not return during the day, they had sent at night to inquire for him at her house; that this had made her very uneasy, and that she had gone to his master's early in the morning, and learning that he had not slept there, she had run in great terror to M. Dubourg, who told her that he had not seen him; and finally, that on leaving his house, she had found him at the corner of the street stretched upon the ground, totally insensible, and surrounded by several women of the neighbourhood, who were exclaiming, "Oh! it is little Peter! What can have happened to him! What will Mother JerÔme say! He must have been drinking, and got intoxicated, and the cold has seized him." At the same time, the woman who attended to M. Dubourg's house had gone to tell him the news, and he in great uneasiness came out in his dressing-gown and nightcap, a thing which had never happened to him before in the whole course of his life.

At the conclusion of this recital, intermingled with reproofs, Madame JerÔme renewed her questions; but little Peter wept without replying. The physician who had been sent for, now arrived, and told them that he must not be tormented, as a severe fever was coming on; and indeed a violent excitement soon succeeded to the weakness from which he had just recovered. His fault represented itself to him in the most frightful colours, and threw him into fits of despair, of which they were at a loss to conjecture the cause. At length, when Madame JerÔme had gone home to inform her husband of what had happened, and of the necessity there was of her remaining to nurse Peter, he raised himself in his bed, and throwing himself on his knees, with clasped hands called M. Dubourg, and said to him, "Oh! M. Dubourg, I have committed a great crime." M. Dubourg, thinking him delirious, told him to keep himself quiet, and lie down again. "No, M. Dubourg," he repeated, "I have committed a great crime." And then with the quickness and volubility which the fever gave him, he related all that had passed, but with so much minuteness of detail, that it was impossible to consider what he said as the effect of delirium. M. Dubourg made him he down again, and stood before him pale and shocked.

"Oh! Peter, Peter!" said he at last, with a deep sigh, "I had so earnestly hoped to have been able to keep you with me!"

Peter, without listening to him, uttered aloud all that the torments of his conscience dictated; he said that his master's mother would have him apprehended, and in moments when his reason wandered more than usual, he declared that the guard were in pursuit of him. M. Dubourg, after reflecting for some time, went to his secretary, counted his money, closed his desk again, and Madame JerÔme returning at the same moment, he related to her what he had just learned, adding, "Madame JerÔme, little Peter, according to his own account, has committed a great crime, which prevents my keeping him with me as I had hoped to do, for I had provided the necessary means. My mind has never been easy, from the day I saw him behind a cursed cabriolet. He had offered to remain with me for one louis more a year, and I thought of procuring it by my labour. You see, Madame JerÔme, how valuable and profitable a thing is learning. I had indeed made it a rule never to publish anything; but I considered that there were works which might be written, without compromising one's tranquillity. I have composed an almanac, in which I have recorded the feasts and epochs of the year among the ancients. It cannot but be very interesting to know, that on such a day began the Ides of March, or, as the case may be, the Feasts of Ceres. I demanded of the publisher one louis for it, that being all I stood in need of. He gave it immediately, and will give me the same every year, for a similar almanac." M. Dubourg was going on to explain to Madame JerÔme how he would manage to insure accuracy, notwithstanding the irregularity of the ancient calendar; "but," said he, "it is not necessary for you to know all this:" and then added, "I had intended this louis for little Peter. I can dispose of it in his favour, and the more easily as we are now at the end of the year, and I have in my reserved fund more than sufficient to defray the expenses of his illness. I was afraid at first that I should be encouraging vice; but I have since considered that the evil is now done, and that it is the innocent who has suffered from it. Take, then, this louis, Madame JerÔme, and carry the eighteen francs to the shopkeeper." This, said M. de Cideville, was the precise louis d'or whose history I am relating to you.

Madame JerÔme, he continued, had been waiting anxiously for the end of this discourse, which she did not very well understand, but which she had not ventured to interrupt. As she was a very honest woman, the conduct of her son had so overwhelmed her with grief and shame, that she almost threw herself at the feet of M. Dubourg, to thank him for affording her the means of repairing it without being obliged to pay a sum very considerable for a poor woman burdened with a family. She hastened out, though not without addressing some reproaches to her son, who scarcely understood them, and ran to pay the shopkeeper. As it happened, no inquiries had been made of him, nor had he, on his part, sent for the money. Peter, therefore, had been mistaken, and as yet nothing was known about the affair. His mother, on her return, found him better; the fever had begun to abate, and he was also comforted by the intelligence she brought. But if he had escaped exposure, he could not escape from the remorse of his own conscience, or from the reproaches of his mother, who was inconsolable. Her lamentations, however, distressed him less than the cold and serious manner of M. Dubourg, who no longer approached his bed, or spoke to him, but took care that he should want for nothing, without ever directly asking him what he wished to have. Little Peter had, more than once, shed bitter tears on this account, and to this grief was added, when he began to recover, the fear of returning to his father, who had come to see him during his illness, and who, being a man of great integrity, had severely reprimanded, and even threatened him.

Peter entreated his mother to ask M. Dubourg to keep him. M. Dubourg at first refused; but Madame JerÔme having promised him that Peter should not go out, and that he should study the whole of the day, he went to consult his Xenophon, and saw that Socrates in his youth had been addicted to every vice; there was reason therefore, for hoping that labour would reform little Peter, as it had reformed Socrates.

Peter was obliged to keep his word. His illness had left a debility which long continued, and he was further restrained from going out by the fear of meeting those to whom he owed money. Study being his only amusement, he ended by becoming fond of it: and as he possessed good abilities, his progress was such as to give his master much satisfaction. But the honest M. Dubourg was ill at ease with Peter, and no longer spoke to him with his accustomed familiarity. Peter felt this, and was unhappy: then he redoubled his efforts to improve. One day, having made a translation which gave M. Dubourg great satisfaction, the latter promised, that if he continued to improve, he would have the coat, which he still kept for him, arranged. Peter, after much hesitation, begged to be allowed to sell it instead, so that its price, together with the louis which he was to receive at the end of the year, might serve to pay a part, at least, of his debts. M. Dubourg consented, and was greatly pleased that this idea had occurred to him. While waiting, therefore, for two years, until the new coat had served its time, he continued to wear his old grey jacket, which he was obliged to mend almost every day, and the sleeves of which had become about four inches too short. But during this time he succeeded in completely gaining the friendship of M. Dubourg, who, having received a small legacy, employed it in increasing the salary of Peter, whom he elevated to the rank of his secretary. From this moment he treated him as a son; but Peter, who was now called M. JerÔme, could not perceive, without profound grief, that whenever any allusion was made in his presence to a defect of probity, M. Dubourg blushed, cast down his eyes, and did not dare to look at him. As for himself, whenever anything was mentioned that could have reference to his fault, he felt a severe pang shoot through his heart. When money was concerned, he was timid, always trembling, lest his honesty should be suspected. He did not dare, for several years, to propose to M. Dubourg that he should spare him the trouble of carrying the money to the restaurateur at the end of each month. The first time his master intrusted him with it, he was delighted, but still felt humiliated by the very pleasure he experienced. However, he became accustomed to it: a life of steady honesty has at last restored to him the confidence which every man of honour ought to possess; but he will not dare to relate this history to his children for their instruction, until he has become so old, and so respectable, that he is no longer the same person as little Peter, and he will always remember, that to M. Dubourg, and his louis d'or, he owes the preservation of his character.

CONTINUATION OF THE HISTORY OF A LOUIS D'OR.

One day after breakfast, M. de Cideville having a leisure hour, Ernestine begged him to continue the history of the louis d'or, and he began thus:—

The shopkeeper to whom Madame JerÔme had carried the louis, was just going out as she gave it to him. He took it, returned her in change a six-franc piece, which was lying on the counter, gave the louis to his wife to be locked up, and departed. As the woman was on the point of putting it by, she heard her little girl, a child of two years old, screaming so violently in the adjoining room, that she thought she must have fallen into the fire. She ran to her, and found that she had only caught her finger in a door. Having succeeded in pacifying her, she returned to lock up the louis, but it was not to be found. Her shopwoman, Louisa, searched for it also, with great uneasiness. No one had entered the shop; she had been alone, and she felt persuaded that her mistress, who did not much like her, and who often quarrelled with her without just cause, would accuse her of having taken it: nor was she mistaken. It was in vain that she asserted her innocence, that she emptied her pockets, and even undressed herself in the presence of her mistress, to prove to her that she had not concealed it. She was not to be convinced, and she was the more enraged from knowing that her husband would be angry with her for not having locked it up immediately. On his return, she related what had happened, and expressed her confidence that Louisa had taken the money. He was not so sure of that, however, for he knew her to be an honest girl; but he was out of temper, and Louisa suffered for it, and was dismissed.

She went away heart-broken, yet carrying with her, without being aware of it, the louis d'or in her shoe. At the moment that her mistress, hearing the cries of her little girl, ran to her aid, she laid the louis upon the counter, on which Louisa had mounted for the purpose of arranging a bandbox, placed very high. She wore thick shoes, to which, in order to render them still stronger, and better suited for keeping out the damp, she had had another sole put; but this sole, which was not very good, was worn out at the side, and Louisa, making a false step upon the counter with these heavy shoes, the louis was forced into the opening between the two soles. She felt, as she descended, something catch at her foot, but imagined it to be a nail coming out of her shoe, and as she was very active, and did not willingly interrupt anything upon which she was engaged, she merely struck her foot against the bottom of the counter, in order to drive in what inconvenienced her. This made the louis enter entirely into the opening, and as high heels were then worn, the action of the foot made it slip towards the toe, where it was no longer felt, and Louisa wandered through Paris in search of a new situation, carrying with her everywhere this louis which had driven her from her old one.

Not having a character from her master, she could not obtain an engagement. She was an orphan, and had no relations in Paris, so that to avoid perishing from want, she was obliged to station herself at the corner of a street, as a mender of old clothes. This occupation was a very painful one for Louisa, who had been well brought up, her parents having been respectable tradespeople, who had failed, and died in poverty. It had required all the gentleness of her disposition to enable her to live with the wife of the shopkeeper, by whom she was badly treated, but as she was a well-conducted girl, she endured everything in order to continue in a respectable situation. Now, she was compelled to hear the oaths of the street people, and the talk of drunkards, who often addressed her in a very disagreeable manner, to say nothing of the cold, the wind, and the rain, from which she suffered greatly; but as her occupation did not require much walking, she had not worn out her shoes, so that she always carried about with her the louis which had occasioned her so much harm.

One day, in spring, when the sun had been very warm, there came on suddenly a terrible storm, which, in a few minutes, swelled the kennels to such a degree, that in several places they touched the walls of the street. Louisa had left her station to take refuge under an opposite doorway, where she found herself by the side of a lady, dressed in a manner which indicated affluence. She was not young, appeared to be in bad health, and was much embarrassed about having to cross, in her thin shoes, the deep pools of water formed before her. She was not in the habit of going on foot; but this morning, the weather being very fine, and the church in which she usually heard mass, being near her residence, she had not ordered her carriage in going to it. Having found it, however, very full, she went to another at some distance, and while there, had sent her servant on an errand. She had returned alone, had been overtaken by the storm, and was much afraid that the damp would bring on a severe cold, from which she was but just recovered. "If I had only some other shoes!" she said. Louisa very timidly offered hers.

"But what will you do?" asked the lady.

"Oh, I can go barefoot," replied Louisa; "but you, madam, cannot possibly go in those shoes." And Louisa really believed what she said, for poor people, accustomed to see us surrounded with so many conveniences, which they manage to do without, sometimes imagine it would be impossible for us to support things which they endure as a matter of course. But although they entertain this opinion, we ought not to share it. We must not persuade ourselves that their skins are much less sensitive than our own, nor that they are constituted in a different manner to ourselves; but, accustomed to pain, they do not exaggerate it, and thus endure, without much suffering, things which we should think it impossible for us even to attempt, and which, nevertheless, would not do us more harm than they do them.

However, continued M. de Cideville, in the present case, it was not so. Louisa was young, and in good health, the lady aged, and an invalid. It was quite reasonable, therefore, that she should accept Louisa's offer, and she did so. Louisa making many apologies for not being able to present her shoes in better condition, accompanied her barefoot, and supported her, as she could not walk very well in such large and heavy shoes. When they reached the lady's residence, she made Louisa go in, in order to dry herself, and at the same time to reward her for the service she had rendered her. She also ordered her shoes to be dried before they were returned to her. They were placed near the kitchen fire; Louisa likewise seated herself there, and while talking with the servants, the kitchen-maid took one of the shoes in order to clean it, and accidentally raised up the outer sole which the water had almost entirely detached. The louis d'or fell out. For a moment Louisa was as much astonished as the rest, but she suddenly uttered a cry of joy, for she remembered that something had entered her shoe on the day she had been accused of taking the louis. She related her story, and the servants, greatly astonished, went and told it to their mistress. Louisa entreated the lady to give her a certificate of what had happened, that she might get a character from her master, and thus be able to obtain a situation. The lady caused inquiries to be made, not only at the shopkeeper's, where she learned that Louisa's account was entirely true, but also in the neighbourhood, where she had always been regarded as a very honest girl, and where no one believed that she had stolen the louis. The lady also perceived by her manners and conversation, that she was much superior to the station in which she had found her; she therefore took her into her service, in order to assist her lady's maid, who was old and infirm. She sent to the shopkeeper the amount of his louis in silver, and gave to Louisa the louis d'or, which had occasioned her so much injury, and so much good.

As often happens with uneducated persons, Louisa was superstitious. She imagined that her good fortune was attached to this louis d'or, which she had so long carried about her, without being aware of it. She therefore would not think of spending it, but still continued to carry it about her. It happened that her mistress while going to her country seat, which lay at some considerable distance from Paris, turned aside, for a few leagues, in order to spend a day with a friend, whose house was nearly on her route. She left Louisa at the post-house, with her luggage, where she was to take her up the following morning. As Louisa had nothing to do, she seated herself upon a bench before the door which faced the high road. Presently she beheld a young man riding up to the house, at full speed. He rode so rapidly that the postilion, by whom he was accompanied, could not keep pace with him, and was obliged to follow at some considerable distance behind. He was pale, apparently much fatigued, and also greatly agitated. He alighted from his horse, and ordered another to be saddled immediately; the ostlers could not make sufficient haste. As he was preparing to remount, he sought for money to defray his expenses, but he had not his purse. He searched all his pockets, and then perceived that at the last stage but one, where he had been obliged to change everything, in consequence of his horse having thrown him into a ditch full of water, he had forgotten his portmanteau, his purse, and his watch. He was greatly distressed and agitated. "What!" he exclaimed, "not a louis upon me! A louis would save my life." He inquired for the master of the inn, and was told that he was in the fields, and that there was no one in the house except his son, a lad of fifteen, and some postilions. "Can you not," he said, "find one louis to lend me? I will give you a cheque for ten." The men looked at each other without replying. He told them he was the Count de Marville, and that he was going two leagues further on. His wife was lying there ill, very ill, without a physician, and surrounded by persons who did not understand her constitution, and who were giving her remedies quite unsuitable to her state. The news had reached him at Paris: he had consulted his physician, and in order not to lose time, had taken post horses and travelled night and day. His servant, too weak to follow him, had been obliged to stop by the way, and as for himself, he had just travelled a double post, so that he was four leagues from the place where he had left his luggage, and had not a single louis to continue his journey, and save, perhaps, the life of his wife. But to all this, the men made no reply; they merely dispersed; the very agitation of the count destroyed their confidence in what he said. Besides, the postilion who had accompanied him, and to whom he had promised a liberal reward, in order to induce him to ride a double stage, was extremely dissatisfied, at not being even paid his hire, and complained, swore, and threatened to appeal to the mayor of the place. M. de Marville thought of nothing but the delay, and in his anxiety it seemed to him that the loss of a single hour might be fatal to his wife. Louisa heard all this; she knew the name of de Marville, having heard it mentioned by her mistress. She thought of her louis; it was the only money she had about her, for in travelling she placed the little she possessed in the care of her mistress, except the louis, which she could not part with. She thought it very hard to give it up: still it had drawn her from a state of so much misery, that she felt it would be a sin not to allow another to be benefited by it when it was in her power to do so. Taking it, therefore, out of the little pocket in which she always carried it, she offered it to M. de Marville, who, greatly delighted, asked her name, and promised that she should hear from him; then paying the postilion, and remounting his horse, he rode off; while Louisa, though she did not repent of what she had done, felt, nevertheless, a little uneasy, and the more so as the people of the inn assured her that she would never see her money again.

The following day, her mind was set at rest, by the return of her mistress, who was acquainted with M. de Marville, and had learned that his wife was in fact lying very ill, at the distance of two leagues from where they were. Louisa's sole anxiety now was to regain her louis, which was still at the post-house where M. de Marville had changed it, and it became henceforward more precious than ever in her estimation. M. de Marville did not forget what he owed her. He had found his wife extremely ill, and whether from the good effects of his treatment, or from some other cause, he had the delight of seeing her restored to health. He attributed her cure to Louisa, and as he was extremely attached to his wife, he considered himself under great obligations to one whom he regarded as her preserver. He went to see her at the seat of her mistress, repaid the louis, and also settled upon her a small annuity. On this occasion, his man-servant, who had some property, became acquainted with Louisa. He married her, and shortly after entered into the service of the same mistress. As he was a reasonable man, he wished her to spend the louis, for he knew that it was ridiculous to imagine that anything of this kind could bring good fortune; but Louisa would only consent to part with it, in payment of the first two months' nursing of her first child. The nurse of this child was a tenant of M. d'Auvray, the father of a little girl called AloÏse. To him she gave the louis, when paying the rent of her farm, and you shall presently see what use was made of it.

THE RENT.

AloÏse had for some time been very uneasy. Janette, the woman who used to bring her every other day a bunch of fresh chickweed for her bird, had not been near her for a whole week, and each time she thought of it, she said to her nurse, "I am sure my poor little Kiss will be ill, for want of some chickweed, for there is no shade in his cage when he is at the window, and the sun is shining over his head." And AloÏse actually feared that her bird would receive a coup de soleil. This fear, indeed, did not often occupy her thoughts, only whenever she went to talk to Kiss, she would say, "This naughty Janette, will she never come?"

Janette arrived at last, and AloÏse, when she saw her, gave her a good scolding, and hastily seizing a bunch of chickweed, and without giving herself the time to unfasten it, she tore a handful, and carried it to her bird, saying, "Poor Kiss! the sun is dreadfully hot!"

"Oh yes! Miss," said Janette, "it is indeed very hot, especially when one has just recovered from a fever."

"Have you had a fever?" asked AloÏse, whose whole attention was now turned to Janette, and whom, indeed, she perceived to be very much altered. Janette told her that her illness had been caused by grief, for her rent was due, and she was unable to pay it, and her landlord had threatened to turn her and her three children out of doors, and take away her bed, which was all she possessed in the world.

"What," said AloÏse, "have you no chairs?"

Janette replied that she had had two wooden stools and a table, but that during the winter before last, which was that of 1789, she had been forced to burn them, for the cold was so intense, that one morning she found one of her children almost dead. A short time previously, she had lost her husband, after a long illness, which had exhausted all their resources, so that this was the third quarter's rent which she had been unable to pay. Her landlord had given her some further indulgence, but now told her, that if she did not pay by the next quarter, both she and her children should be turned into the street. "And well will it be for us," continued Janette, "if we find there a little straw on which to lie down and die, for we are too miserable to be taken in by any one." Saying this, she began to cry, and AloÏse, who was extremely kind and compassionate, felt ready to cry also. She asked Janette if her rent was very high. It was six francs a quarter. Three quarters were due, a louis would, therefore, be owing in July; and this was a sum which she could not possibly hope to pay, for her only means of living was the sale of her chickweed, together with a few flowers in summer, and some baked apples in the winter, all which was scarcely sufficient to find food for her children. She added that during her illness, they must have died of hunger, had it not been for the charity of some neighbours, and that she was now hastening home in order to get them some bread, as they had eaten nothing all day. AloÏse took from her drawer forty sous, which was all that remained of her month's allowance, for as she was very careless, she was never rich. These she gave to Janette, and the nurse added twenty more, thus making in all half a crown. The nurse also gave her, for the children, some old shoes which AloÏse had cast aside, and poor Janette went away delighted, forgetting for the time her unhappy condition, for the poor sometimes endure such pressing hardships, that when they find themselves for a moment freed from them, the happiness which they experience prevents them from thinking of the misery which awaits them.

After Janette's departure, AloÏse and her nurse continued talking of her for a long time. AloÏse would gladly have saved from her allowance eight francs a month, in order to make up the louis required by Janette, but this was impossible; she had lost her new gloves, and was obliged to buy others; a new pair of prunella shoes was to be brought home to her on the first of the month, to replace those she had spoiled by imprudently walking in the mud; besides, her thimble, her needles, her scissors, her thread, all of which she was constantly losing through her want of order, formed a source of considerable expense. Although she was eleven years of age, nothing had been able to cure her of this want of order, a defect which resulted from great vivacity, and from the fact, that when once an idea had taken possession of her mind, it so completely engrossed it that, for the moment, it was impossible for her to think of anything else. At present, it was Janette who occupied her thoughts. She would have been delighted to have had a louis to give her by the time her rent became due, but she did not dare to ask her parents for it, for she saw that, without being in any way embarrassed, they nevertheless lived with a certain degree of economy; besides, she knew them to be so kind, that if they could do anything, they would do it without being asked. When she went down to her mother's room, she spoke of Janette, of her grief for her, and of her desire to assist her. Twenty times she went over her calculations aloud, in order to let it be understood that she could not do so out of her allowance. Twenty times she repeated, "This poor Janette says that she must die upon straw, if she cannot pay her rent." Her mother, Madame d'Auvray, was writing, and her father was occupied in looking over some prints; neither of them appeared to hear her. AloÏse was in despair, for when she once wished for anything, she had no rest until she had either obtained it, or forgotten it. She was told that her drawing-master was waiting for her. Quite taken up with Janette and her grief, she left, as was almost invariably the case with her, her work upon the chair, her pincushion under it, her thimble on the table, and her scissors on the ground. Her mother called her back.

"AloÏse," said she, "will you never put away your work of your own accord, and without my being obliged to remind you of it?" AloÏse replied mournfully that she was thinking of something else.

"Of Janette, was it not?" said her father. "Well, then, since you are so anxious to get her out of trouble, let us make a bargain. Whenever you put away your work without being reminded of it by your mother, I will give you ten sous; in forty-eight days, therefore, you will be able to gain the louis, which will not be required by Janette for three months."

Oh! how delighted was AloÏse. She threw herself into her father's arms; her heart was freed from a heavy load.

"But," said M. d'Auvray, "in order that the agreement may be equal, it is necessary that you should pay something whenever you fail. It would be just to demand from you ten sous, but," added he, smiling, "I do not wish to make too hard a bargain for poor Janette; I will, therefore, only require of you five sous; but mind, I shall show no mercy, and you must not expect a fraction of the louis, unless you gain the whole. Here it is," said he, as he took it out of his pocket and placed it in a drawer of Madame d'Auvray's secretary; "now try to gain it."

AloÏse promised that it should be hers; her parents seemed to doubt it. It was, however, agreed, that Madame d'Auvray and AloÏse should each keep an account, in order to secure accuracy. And AloÏse was so pleased, and so eager to communicate the arrangement to her nurse, that she ran out of the room without putting away her work. Fortunately, she remembered it at the door; she ran back again, seized upon it, and beheld her father laughing heartily. "At all events," she exclaimed, "mamma did not remind me of it," and for once the excuse was admitted.

For some time AloÏse was very exact, and the more so as she had related the affair to Janette, who without daring to remind her of it, now and then dropped a word concerning her landlord, who was a very severe man. During a whole month the work had only been forgotten six times; thus, in twenty-four days, AloÏse had gained her ten sous, but as there were six days of negligence, during each of which she had lost five sous, there remained six times five, or three times ten sous, to be deducted from what she had gained; she had, therefore, secured but twenty-one, out of the forty-eight days.

But AloÏse did not reckon in this manner. As her carelessness extended to everything, she sometimes forgot that on the six days on which she had not put away her work, she had not gained her ten sous; at other times she forgot that on these days she had lost five also, so that she never considered that she had lost more than five or ten sous, on those days on which her negligence had really made her lose fifteen. At the end of the month, her mother had the greatest difficulty in the world to make her understand this calculation, and when she did understand it, she forgot it again. She had begun to keep her account in writing, and then had neglected it; she begged her mother to let her examine hers; she did so, at the same time warning her that it was for the last time. AloÏse recommenced writing, but lost her paper; she then tried to reckon mentally, but got confused in her calculations. Unfortunately, also, the hour for her dancing lesson, which she took in her mother's apartment, was changed, and now fell at the time that Janette called; she therefore saw her less frequently, and began to forget her a little: nevertheless the orderly habits which she had begun to contract were tolerably well kept up. She often put her work away, but she also frequently neglected it: still it seemed to her that she had attended to it so many times, that she felt quite easy on the subject, and did not even think of examining the day of the month.

One morning she rose extremely happy; she was going to spend a day in the country. The party had been long arranged, and AloÏse had drawn a brilliant picture of the pleasure which she anticipated from it. The weather, too, was delightful. She had just finished dressing, when a man came to her room in the garb of a workman; he wore a leathern apron and a woollen cap, which he scarcely raised as he entered. He appeared very much out of humour, and said in a rough manner to the nurse, that he had come on account of the woman who had served her with chickweed for her birds; that he was her landlord; that she owed him four quarters' rent, which she was unable to pay, and had entreated him to go and see if any one there could assist her. "It is not my business," he added in a surly tone, "to go about begging for my rent. However, I was willing to see if anything was to be got. If not, let her be prepared; to-morrow, the eighth of July, she must quit. At all events, her moving will not be a very heavy one!"

AloÏse trembled in every limb, at finding herself in the same room with this terrible landlord, of whom she had so often heard Janette speak, and whose manner was not calculated to tranquillize her fears. Not daring to address him herself, she whispered to her nurse, that she would go and ask her mamma for the louis.

"But have you gained it?" said the nurse.

"Oh! certainly," said AloÏse, and yet she began to be very much afraid she had not. She drew herself in as much as possible, in order to pass between the door and the man who stood beside it, and who terrified her so much that she would not have dared to ask him to move. She ran quite flushed and breathless into her mother's room, and asked for the louis.

"But does it belong to you?" said her mother. "I do not think it does."

"Oh, mamma," replied AloÏse, turning pale, "I have put away my work more than forty-eight times."

"Yes, my child, but the days on which you have not put it away?"

"Mamma, I have put it away very often, I assure you."

"We shall see;" and Madame d'Auvray took the account from her secretary. "You have put it away sixty times," said she to her daughter.

"You see, mamma!" cried AloÏse, delighted.

"Yes, but you have neglected it thirty-one times, for the month of May has thirty-one days."

"Oh! mamma, that does not make...."

"My dear! thirty-one days, at five sous a day, make seven livres fifteen sous, which are to be deducted from the thirty francs that you have gained. Thus thirty-five sous are still wanting to complete the louis." AloÏse turned pale and clasped her hands.

"Is it possible," she said, "that for thirty-five sous...."

"My child," said her mother, "you remember your agreement with your father."

"Oh! mamma! for thirty-five sous! and this poor Janette!"

"You knew very well what would be the consequence," said her mother; "I can do nothing in the matter."

AloÏse wept bitterly. Her father coming in, asked the reason. Madame d'Auvray told him, and AloÏse raised her hands towards him with supplicating looks.

"My child," said M. d'Auvray, "when I make a bargain I keep to it, and I require that others should act in the same manner towards me. You have not chosen to fulfil the conditions of this agreement, therefore let us say no more about it."

When M. d'Auvray had once said a thing, it was settled. AloÏse did not dare to reply, but she remained weeping. "The horses are ready," said M. d'Auvray, "we must set off; come, go and fetch your bonnet."

AloÏse then knew that all hope was lost, and she could not restrain her sobs. "Go and get your bonnet," said her father in a firmer tone, and her mother led her gently to the door. She remained outside the room, leaning against the wall, unable to move a step, and crying most bitterly. Her nurse entered softly, and asked whether she had got the money, as the man was becoming impatient. Indeed AloÏse heard him in the hall speaking to the servant, in the same surly ill-tempered tone. He said he had not time to wait; that it was very disagreeable and inconvenient to be sent there for nothing; and that Janette might rest assured she would have to be off pretty quickly. The tears of AloÏse were redoubled; her nurse endeavoured to console her, and the old servant who was passing at the moment, not knowing the cause of her grief, told her that she was going to amuse herself in the country, and would soon forget her trouble.

"To amuse myself!" cried AloÏse, "to amuse myself!" And she remembered that during this time Janette would be in despair, and turned into the street with her three children.

"Oh! dear," she exclaimed, "could they not have punished me in some other manner?"

"Listen," said her nurse, "suppose you were to ask for some other punishment?"

AloÏse turned towards her a hesitating and frightened look. She saw very well that she was going to propose to her to give up her visit to the country; and although she promised herself very little pleasure from it, she had not the courage to renounce it. But the servant came to tell her that the man was tired of waiting, and was going away. And in fact she heard him open the door, saying in a loud voice, "She shall pay for having made me come here for nothing." AloÏse with clasped hands, entreated the servant to run after him and stop him for a moment, and told her nurse to go and beg of her parents to change her punishment, and instead of it to deprive her of the pleasure of going into the country. The nurse having done so, Madame d'Auvray came out immediately and said to her daughter,

"My child, our wish is not to punish you, but to fix in your mind something of consequence which we have not yet succeeded in impressing on it. Do you think the regret you will feel in not going into the country with us, will have sufficient effect upon you, to make you remember to be a little more orderly in what you do?"

"Oh! mamma," said AloÏse, "I do assure you that the grief I have had, and that which I shall still have," she added, redoubling her tears, "in not going into the country, will make me well remember it."

"Very well, then," said Madame d'Auvray, and she gave her the louis, which AloÏse charged her nurse to carry to the man. As for herself, she remained leaning against the door, through which her mother had returned into her room. Her nurse, having ordered the kitchen-maid to follow the man, and carry the louis to Janette, found her there still crying; and told her that as she had taken her course, she ought to show more courage, and dry up her tears, and go and bid farewell to her parents, who would otherwise think she was sulking, which would not be proper. AloÏse dried her eyes, and endeavouring to restrain herself, entered the room. As she approached her father, in order to kiss him, he took her on his knee, and said, "My dear AloÏse, is there no way of engraving still more deeply on your memory, that which you ought not to forget?" AloÏse looked at him. "Would it not be," he continued, "by taking you with us into the country, relying upon the promise which you will give us never again to forget to put your work away?"

"Never!" said AloÏse, with an agitated look; "but if I should forget it on some occasion?"

"I am sure that you will not do so," replied her mother; "your promise, the recollection of our indulgence, all this will force you to remember it."

"But, oh dear! oh dear! if after all I were to forget it!"

"Well," said her father, kissing her, "we wish to force you to remember it."

AloÏse was greatly affected by all this kindness; but she felt tormented by the fear of not keeping the promise on which her parents relied; and whilst her nurse, who had heard what was said, ran joyfully to fetch her bonnet, she remained pensive, leaning against the window. At length, turning eagerly to her mother, "Mamma," she said, "I will beg of God every day in my prayers to give me grace to keep my promise."

"That will be an excellent means," replied her mother, "make use of it at once;" and AloÏse raised her eyes to heaven and her heart to God, and felt encouraged. Nevertheless she preserved throughout the day, amidst the amusements of the country, something of the emotions which had agitated her in the morning. At night she did not forget to renew her prayer; the next morning she thought of it on waking, and in order not to forget it, she imposed upon herself the rule of attending to it before she did anything else. She succeeded, by this means, in impressing upon her mind the duty prescribed to her. Once only, did she seem on the point of going away without arranging her work.

"AloÏse," said her mother, "have you said your prayers this morning?"

This question reminded her both of her prayer, which, indeed, for some time past, she had said with less attention, as she now thought herself secure, and also of her promise, which she had run the risk of forgetting; and she was so much terrified that she never again fell into the same danger. One day when her mother was speaking to her about the manner in which she had corrected herself, she said timidly, "But, mamma, in order to correct me, you surely would not have had the heart to allow poor Janette to be turned out of doors?"

Her mother smiled and said, "You must at all events allow that you are at present very happy for having been afraid of this." AloÏse assented. The louis d'or had enabled her to acquire a good habit, from which she derived more advantages than she had at first expected; for the money which she saved, by not having constantly to replace things lost through carelessness, gave her the means of doing something additional for Janette, for whom also work was found, as well as various little commissions, so that she and her children were no longer in danger of dying of hunger, or of being turned out of their miserable garret.

Here M. de Cideville, being obliged to go out, interrupted his narrative, deferring its continuation to another day.

CONTINUATION OF THE HISTORY OF A LOUIS D'OR

M. de Cideville having one day, of his own accord, continued the history of the louis d'or, said to his daughter, You have already seen, by the several adventures which I have related, of what importance may be, under certain circumstances, a sum apparently so trifling as a louis d'or. You will soon see all the advantages which may be derived from it; but I must first tell you in what manner it passed out of the hands of the landlord, to whom Janette had given it in payment of her rent.

This landlord was a shoemaker; his house was very small, very disagreeable, and very dirty, as may be imagined by the sum paid by Janette for rent, and he was himself the porter. He was very avaricious, and would not go to the expense of keeping it in a moderately decent condition, or even of repairing it, so that it was occupied only by very poor people, or by those who had been guilty of bad actions, for, provided his tenants paid him, he did not trouble himself about their honesty. There was one among them, named Roch, whom he knew to be a rogue, and who had several times concealed stolen goods. The shoemaker shut his eyes to this, because on these occasions he almost always received some little present. One day, as the shoemaker was looking in the narrow court, which separated his house from that of his neighbour, for old pieces of linen sometimes thrown there, and of which, after having washed them, he made use as linings for his shoes, he stooped down to pick up one of them, when his pipe, which he had in his mouth, caught in something, and slipping from him, fell through a grating into his neighbour's cellar. He would have been glad to have gone and asked for it, but he did not dare to do so, for misers are always ashamed of those actions which their avarice leads them to commit. Whilst leaning over the grating, in the hope that it might have lodged on the slope of the wall within, and that he should be able to regain it, there suddenly burst from the opening such a volume of smoke, that he was nearly stifled. The pipe had fallen upon some straw, recently unpacked, and which, not having yet imbibed the damp of the cellar, caught fire almost immediately. The shoemaker knew very well what was likely to follow, and ran away, in order that he might not be suspected as the cause of the mischief; but trembling for his own house, to which the fire might extend, he gave an alarm, saying that he perceived a strong smell of smoke; and in order that assistance might be promptly rendered, he guided the people so well in the direction of the fire, that the truth was immediately suspected.

The flames quickly spread to a heap of faggots, thence to a quantity of goods which were near, and before there was time to suppress them, they had injured the building. The landlord entered a process against the shoemaker, in order to make him pay the damages, saying that it was he who had set the place on fire, which, indeed, there was every reason for suspecting. It was known that he was in the habit of searching in the court for rags, and suchlike things, that happened to be thrown from the windows. There had also been found in the ashes underneath the grating and on the spot occupied by the heap of straw, the remains of a pipe which had not been consumed. It was observed that when the shoemaker gave the information, he was without his pipe, a thing quite extraordinary for him. He was also known to have bought a new one on the same day, and every one was aware that he was not a man to buy a new pipe if he had an old one in his possession. It was then more than probable that it was his pipe which had fallen into the cellar, and set it on fire. Besides, two persons believed that they had seen him, from a distance, going out of the court.

The shoemaker had nothing to oppose to these charges, but the assertion that he was not on the spot when the place took fire; but in order to have this assertion received, he must find witnesses who would consent to give a false testimony. He thought Roch might do him this service, and he reminded him of all the indulgence which he had granted to him. Roch made no objections; he was so great a knave, that he seemed to take a pleasure in doing what was wrong. He simply demanded, as the reward of this service, that the shoemaker should introduce and recommend him, as a servant, to M. de la FÈre, a gentleman for whom the shoemaker worked, and who at that time was in want of a servant. Roch was very desirous of getting this place, but quite at a loss as to the means of doing so, as he could find no one willing to give him a character. The shoemaker consented; for we can never ask others to do what is wrong for us without being obliged to do at least as much for them in return. But two witnesses were requisite. Roch undertook to procure another, on condition that the shoemaker should give him a louis d'or.

The latter, at first, made many objections; for he valued his money more than his conscience, but there was no alternative in the case. He therefore gave him the very louis d'or that Janette had paid him, and Roch and his comrade both affirmed on oath, that the shoemaker was returning home in their company, at the time that he perceived from the street the smell of the smoke then issuing from the court. They also affirmed, that during their walk, a porter had knocked against him so roughly, that his pipe was thrown out of his mouth, and that in stepping forward to gain his balance, he had trodden upon it, and crushed it. To give their assertions a greater appearance of truth, they repeated the remarks which they pretended to have made upon the occasion. The shoemaker gained his cause. Roch kept the louis, giving only twelve francs to his comrade, and entered the service of M. de la FÈre, who was on the point of leaving France, where, like many others, he did not consider himself in safety; for it was the close of the year 1792. Neither his man-servant nor his wife's maid was willing to accompany them; so that being in a great hurry to leave, they were compelled to take Roch without inquiry, and upon the sole recommendation of the shoemaker, whom they believed to be an honest man. They were desirous of obtaining gold for their journey, as being more convenient than silver, and at that time the value of the louis d'or was high, for it was much in request, as many families were leaving France for the same cause as M. de la FÈre. Roch therefore sold to his master the louis which he had received from the shoemaker. It thus came into the possession of M. de la FÈre, and you shall see presently all that it produced. As for Roch, before his departure with M. de la FÈre, he defrauded the shoemaker out of the amount of a rather heavy bill which his master had ordered him to pay. He produced a false receipt, and kept the money. The shoemaker did not become aware of his departure till several days afterwards, and thus found himself punished for recommending a rogue. We must now see what the louis produced in the hands of its new possessor.

THE WEEK.

It was at the commencement of the year 1793, that M. de la FÈre, accompanied by his wife, his son Raymond, a lad of fifteen, and his daughter Juliette, who was thirteen, his servant Roch, and his wife's new maid, left France, to establish themselves in a small town in Germany. They had brought with them sufficient money to enable them, if necessary, to remain away for several years, and the more easily, as having chosen a town in which no French had as yet arrived, and where they were not acquainted with any Germans, they hoped to lead the kind of life which suited them, without being obliged to incur greater expenses than they wished. Thus they hoped, by means of a reasonable, but not inconvenient economy, to pass the period of trouble in comfort and tranquillity, attending to the education of their children, who, delighted with the change of scene, thought only of enjoying the various new objects which their journey presented to them.

Although much afflicted at leaving their country, and deeply grieved for the misfortunes which were daily occurring there, M. and Madame de la FÈre would not depress the spirits of their children, by recurring to events over which they had no control; but on the contrary, they procured for them such pleasures as were compatible with their situation. They had somewhat prolonged their journey, in order to show them various interesting objects situated at a short distance from their route, and had been settled in the town in which they intended to reside only a few days, when their host, M. Fiddler, spoke of a rather curious kind of fair which was then being held at some distance from that place. They hired one of the carriages of the country, and wishing to take advantage of the opportunity which the occasion afforded of enjoying the scenery of the neighbourhood, which was very beautiful, they set out early, carrying with them sufficient provisions to enable them to pass the whole day in the fields. It was in the month of June; they prolonged their walks so much, that it was ten o'clock in the evening when they reached town. They were surprised, on arriving, to find that the servant, whom they had left in the house, did not come to assist them. They supposed that he must have gone to the fair on his own account, together with the maid, whom they also called for in vain. They were at a loss to get in, as the door of the house was locked, M. Fiddler having also gone to the fair. At last, a little boy who had been left in charge of it, and who likewise had been amusing himself, came back, opened the door, and procured a light from a neighbour, who presented to M. de la FÈre a letter which had arrived during his absence. M. de la FÈre stopped to read it, and then entered the house, so completely absorbed, that he did not notice the exclamations of distress which were uttered by his wife and children. At last they ran to him, spoke to him, roused him from his abstraction, and showed him all their cupboards open and emptied, the secretary forced, and their money and jewels carried off: there was nothing left. Roch and the maid, who had also been taken without sufficient inquiry, and who was an equally ill-disposed person, had several times, during their journey, given them cause for distrusting them, and it was their intention to send them back to France. They had apparently suspected this intention, and profited by their absence to rob them. This they could very easily do, as the pavilion, which was the part of the residence occupied by M. and Madame de la FÈre, was separated from the rest of the house, and on one side opened upon the fields. On this side, the open doors and windows showed traces of their flight; but there was no possibility of following them at that hour, nor any hope of otherwise arresting them. The town was situated on the frontiers of two small German states, and there was no doubt that they had entered the neighbouring one, as, from several circumstances which were then recollected, it might be presumed that they had taken their precautions beforehand. However, M. de la FÈre went to the magistrate of the town to lodge his complaints, and to take the necessary proceedings.

When he returned, his family had not yet had time to recover from their consternation. Juliette was crying, and her mother, though herself overwhelmed with grief, was endeavouring to soothe her; Raymond, who understood German, was talking to M. Fiddler, who hearing of their misfortune on his return from the fair, had hastened with great kindness to offer them his assistance. All this Raymond communicated to his mother and sister. M. de la FÈre also thanked him in German, for M. Fiddler did not understand French, and told him that though they had indeed experienced a most serious misfortune, he hoped, nevertheless, that they would be able to extricate themselves from it; and M. Fiddler, who was very considerate, fearing to be importunate, immediately retired.

When they were alone, assembled round a candle which M. Fiddler had lent them, M. de la FÈre, after tenderly embracing his wife and children, made them sit down by him, and remained for some time silent, as if he knew not what to say to them.

At length Raymond, who had heard his father's reply to M. Fiddler, broke the silence.

"Papa," he said, "you told M. Fiddler that we should be able to extricate ourselves from our difficulties; does the letter, which you have just received, say that money will be sent to us from France?"

"On the contrary, my child."

"What! on the contrary?" exclaimed Madame de la FÈre, with a movement of alarm. Her husband pressed her hand, and she restrained herself. He had accustomed her to preserve her self-command in the presence of their children, in order not to give them exaggerated ideas of what might happen to them.

"My beloved friends," continued M. de la FÈre, taking his daughter on his knees, and retaining the hand of his wife within his own, "we must not rely, at least for a very long time to come, on any assistance from France; for all our property is seized, and God only knows when we shall regain possession of it."

Madame de la FÈre turned pale, but said nothing. Juliette wept and trembled, and Raymond, leaning on the back of a chair, listened attentively to his father, whose calm and firm manner completely reassured him. M. de la FÈre continued—

"Of all our effects there remains absolutely nothing, but what we have upon us, and a small trunk of linen, which I see in the corner there, and which they seem to have forgotten. Of all our money, there remains but this louis d'or," said he, holding it up, "which I had in my pocket."

"Good heavens," exclaimed Juliette, in a tone of despair, "what will become of us?"

Her father pressed her in his arms. "Have a little patience, sister," said Raymond, quickly. He saw that his father had something to propose, and whatever it might be, he was eager to execute it. M. de la FÈre continued—

"A louis, my dears, may still become a resource, provided one knows how to turn it to account. We cannot live without work: we must, therefore, find the means of working."

Madame de la FÈre replied, that she and her daughter could embroider, and that M. Fiddler would be able to recommend them in the town. "Yes," replied M. de la FÈre, "but that is not sufficient. Before these recommendations have produced their effect, before we receive work, and before that work is finished, our louis d'or may very easily be spent; and my watch, which is the only thing left us that we can sell, for they have taken Raymond's, will not afford us a very considerable resource: we must, therefore, devise some plan for not exhausting too rapidly our means of existence."

Juliette said that M. Fiddler, who had so kindly offered his aid, would be able to assist them until their work afforded them the means of living.

"We must only accept assistance from others," said M. de la FÈre, "when we can do absolutely nothing for ourselves. Do you feel the courage to impose upon yourselves, for one week only, the most severe privations?"

All answered "Yes!" "Even if it be to live on bread and water," said Raymond. M. de la FÈre pressed his son's hand with an air of satisfaction. But Juliette turned towards her father with a somewhat terrified expression, and Madame de la FÈre looked first upon her husband, and then upon her children, and could not restrain a few tears. M. de la FÈre, making a great effort to preserve his firmness, said to them:

"Listen, my dears, and I hope you will agree with me, that a week's courage is a very trifling matter, if it can insure our preservation. This is my calculation. Our rent is paid three months in advance. We have in the trunk as much linen as we shall want for three weeks, without requiring anything washed; as it is summer, we shall not need any fire; the days being long, if we get up and go to bed with the sun, there will be no necessity for candles; thus, without expending anything, we are secured on all these points, from all suffering, and indeed from every real inconvenience, for more than a week. We have only our food to pay for. In limiting ourselves for a week only to what is absolutely necessary,—to bread, my dear Juliette," said he, tenderly embracing his daughter, whom he still held upon his knee, "it will be possible for us to employ a part of this louis on the purchase of materials to enable you to embroider, and myself and Raymond to paint boxes and screens, and various other things which M. Fiddler doubtless will enable us to sell. In a week we shall probably have gained something by our labour. If we are compelled to wait longer, I have still my watch, and I will answer for it, that before its price is expended, we shall be free from anxiety."

Raymond, animated by the manner in which his father pronounced these words, embraced his mother, and then his sister, who was still weeping a little. "Consider, Juliette," he said, "a week is so soon over!"

Hitherto, indeed, Raymond had always been much more of an epicure than his sister, and much more eager in the pursuit of what pleased him; but at the same time, he had more determination, and was better able to make a sacrifice, where any great object was to be attained. Besides, the present moment had inspired him with what a great misfortune ought always to inspire a man—an increased amount of sense and courage; whilst Juliette, on the contrary, somewhat overcome by the fatigues of the day, had not been able to recover from the surprise and terror of the first moment. Their ill-lighted room gave her melancholy impressions, everything seemed dark around her, and she felt excessively unhappy, without being exactly able to tell why. The caresses of her parents calmed her a little; her mother made her go to bed, and she soon sunk into that sound sleep which grief usually produces at her age; and on awakening the following morning, she felt entirely reanimated. Her mother had already made the purchases necessary for commencing work. It had been the fashion in France, for some time before their departure, to wear lawn handkerchiefs, embroidered in coloured silks; and this custom, though now rather antiquated, had not yet reached the town in which they were residing, although its inhabitants affected to follow the French fashions. She bought sufficient lawn for a handkerchief, silks to embroider it, and some card-board and colours for her husband and son. These cost rather less than fourteen francs; the remaining ten were carefully reserved for the maintenance of the family. Madame de la FÈre felt her heart a little oppressed when she beheld this trifling sum, but the recollection of the watch gave her confidence that her children would not want for bread; and besides, accustomed to rely upon her husband, of whose courage and firmness she was well aware, so long as she saw him tranquil, she could not feel very uneasy. As M. de la FÈre was returning with the bread he had purchased for the family, he met M. Fiddler, who expressed his grief for the inconveniences which he suffered, and once more offered his services. M. de la FÈre again thanked him, promising that if he really stood in need of assistance, it would be to him that he would apply; and M. Fiddler, being a man of the greatest discretion, did not press the matter further.

When Juliette entered the room in which the family was assembled, she found her mother and Raymond already occupied in arranging an old embroidery-frame, which they had found in a corner of the apartment, while M. de la FÈre was drawing upon the piece of lawn, the wreath with which it was to be embroidered. The sun shone brilliantly into the apartment, which looked out upon a magnificent landscape, and Juliette, forgetting the troubles of the previous evening, set herself gaily to assist her mother and brother. The wreath was soon drawn, the frame soon mounted; the tasks were distributed, and each commenced his labour. During this time, M. de la FÈre began to design the ornaments for a work-box, whilst Raymond, who was tolerably adroit, cut and gummed the card-board, and even assisted his father in the less difficult ornaments. After working for some time, Juliette began to feel hungry. She was afraid to say anything as yet; Raymond, however, having asked his father if it was not time for breakfast, opened a cupboard in which the bread had been placed, and exclaimed, laughing, "Behold our week's provisions!" then he cut for his mother and sister some slices of bread, which he assured them had been selected with great care. As to himself, he separated his own into five or six pieces, calling one a cutlet, another a leg of mutton, and so on. This made them laugh, and thenceforth they constantly amused themselves, while eating their bread, with bestowing upon it the names of the most refined dishes.

Although Madame de la FÈre often made Juliette leave her work and walk with her brother in the road that passed beneath their windows, yet in three days the handkerchief was embroidered, and M. de la FÈre, on his part, had completed a box, the top of which, painted in bistre, represented one of the points of view to be seen from his window, while the sides were ornamented with arabesques, also in bistre. M. Fiddler, to whom M. and Madame de la FÈre had communicated their determination of living by their labour, recommended them to a lady in the town, the only one who understood French. Madame de la FÈre called upon her, accompanied by Juliette, who although somewhat ashamed at being presented under such circumstances, nevertheless felt a certain degree of pride, in thinking that her work should be of some consequence. The German lady, to whom M. Fiddler had related their misfortunes, received them with great kindness. She purchased the handkerchief, at the price of a louis, in the money of the country, and also the work-box for twelve francs, and told Madame de la FÈre that she would enable her to sell others. They returned delighted. "Mamma," said Juliette, on their way home, "since we have been so successful, I think for to-day at least, we might have something to eat with our bread."

Madame de la FÈre replied that that must depend upon her father; but when, after relating their success, Juliette renewed her proposition; "My dears," said M. de la FÈre, looking at his children, for Raymond had listened to his sister's proposition with great attention, "if we break our fast to-day, it will be more difficult to keep it to-morrow, and if we do not maintain it until the end of the week, the fruit of our courage will be lost, for we shall still be inconvenienced to purchase the materials necessary for continuing our labours; whereas our having a little in advance will make us quite comfortable."

"Come," said Raymond, running to the cupboard, and cutting a large slice of bread, "here is my sturgeon pasty for this day."

"My dear Juliette," said M. de la FÈre to his daughter, who seemed a little sad, "it is merely an advice which I have given you. The money which we possess is in part gained by your labour, and it would be unjust to prevent you from spending it according to your fancy; if you wish; we will give you your share, and you can do what you please with it." Juliette threw her arms round her father's neck, and told him that she always wished to do as he did, and whatever he pleased; and the money was immediately employed in purchasing new materials.

If Juliette had rather more difficulty, on this day, and the following ones, in eating her bread, to which her brother in vain gave the most tempting names, she consoled herself by calculating with her mother, the number of hours, of minutes even, which must intervene before the close of the last day; and then how many minutes were required to work a flower. This shortened the time; for when Juliette had not finished her task in the period which she had allotted to it, she found the time pass much too quickly. She was greatly delighted that the watch had not been sold, and felt a certain pride in thinking that they might be able to preserve it by their industry.

As constant work suggests methods of abridging labour, they this time finished, in five days, two handkerchiefs and three boxes, and to complete their happiness, on the evening of the eighth day, the German lady sent to inquire if any more were ready. She had given a party on the previous evening; her handkerchief had been admired; she had shown her box also, and several of her friends expressed a wish to purchase similar articles of both kinds. When Madame de la FÈre and her daughter called upon her the following morning, she not only took all that were finished, but gave orders for a fresh supply. Juliette could not contain her joy. She had eaten her dry bread very cheerfully before starting, thinking that, according to all appearances, they would have a better dinner; and now on their return, she assisted her mother in preparing it; she could never have believed it possible for her to have experienced so much pleasure as she now felt, in peeling onions, touching greasy spoons, or broiling herself in skimming saucepans, on a hot summer's day. Her mother wished that, for this day, she should entirely lay aside all other work. Raymond and she, therefore, passed the morning in laughing till tears came into their eyes, at the thousand absurdities which their joy prompted them to utter; and M. and Madame de la FÈre, delighted at seeing them so happy, forgot for a time that they had ever experienced sorrow.

With what delight Juliette helped her brother to set the table, to lay the cloth, to place the covers and plates lent them by M. Fiddler. Just at the moment that she was about to serve up the dinner, she heard exclamations of joy from Raymond, who came running to tell her that the Chevalier de Villon, an old friend of his father, whom they had not seen for several years, as he had left France a long time before them, had just arrived in the town, and was coming to dine with them. "How fortunate!" said Raymond, "that he did not come yesterday;" and he ran out to rejoin the chevalier.

"He comes to diminish our dinner," said Juliette, in a tone of ill temper, which she was not able to control; for it seemed to her that the least alteration must interfere with the happiness she anticipated.

"Juliette," said her mother, "if during the past week you had found a friend, who was willing to share his dinner with you, you would have been very glad, even though you thought that he would thereby deprive himself of something."

"It is because I think M. de Villon does not stand in need of it," said Juliette, completely ashamed of what she had said. At this moment the chevalier entered, his clothes in rags, and himself so pale and so thin, that Madame de la FÈre, on beholding him, could not suppress a cry of grief; as for him, with his Gascon vivacity, he ran to embrace her.

"You see," said he, "to what I am reduced. This is now the uniform of a French gentleman, my dear Madame. Why I am not sure that I have eaten anything these two days."

Madame de la FÈre turned to Juliette, who with a supplicating look seemed to entreat her to forget what she had said. The chevalier sat down, for he could scarcely stand; nevertheless his gaiety never forsook him, as long as his strength remained; but they felt that it was sinking with every sentence. Juliette laid a cover for him, and placed a chair at the table, for he was so much fatigued that he seemed scarcely able to move. When the soup was served, and the chevalier, with his accustomed politeness, wished to pass to her the first plate, she entreated him to keep it with so much earnestness, that he could not refuse. She then raised her eyes to her mother as if to ask forgiveness: Madame de la FÈre smiled, and joy returned to Juliette's heart. She was at length helped in her turn, and thought she had never enjoyed anything so much; while Raymond, who, until then, fancied he disliked carrots and turnips, did not leave a single bit of them upon his plate. A piece of beef, and a dish of vegetables, appeared to all this family a magnificent repast. How happy the poor chevalier felt, at finding himself once more seated, and at table, and in the midst of his friends! How he amused Raymond and Juliette, by relating his campaigns and adventures! M. Fiddler, knowing that M. de la FÈre had a friend to dinner, had requested permission to send in a couple of bottles of good wine, and M. de la FÈre, who was no longer afraid of being obliged to have recourse to compassion, considered that he ought not to refuse a friendly present. The wine completely restored to the chevalier his strength, his originality, and even his hopes. By the time the dinner was over, he had completely forgotten that he had not a sou, that he had not a shirt, that his shoes were without soles, and his coat almost without sleeves; his friends had equally forgotten it, for on this day no one thought of the future, and it passed away in the enjoyment of a degree of happiness of which those who have never suffered can form no conception. At night, M. Fiddler lent them a bed, and the chevalier slept in the room occupied by M. de la FÈre and Raymond, who could hardly sleep from the joy he felt at having a new companion.

The following morning, M. de la FÈre said to the chevalier: "Well! you remain with us; but every one in this house works,—what can you do?"

"Faith, not much," said the chevalier. "I can attend to the house, go of errands, and see to the cooking, when there is any," for they had related to him the history of the eight days' fast. "Oh, I forgot," he continued, "I have a marvellous talent for mending old clothes. Look!" and he showed them his coat, which was hanging in tatters at all points. Every one laughed; but on a closer examination, they found, that if indeed the chevalier's coat was thus torn, it had been previously well mended. "This," said he, "is the only talent I have as yet needed; set me to work, and perhaps some other will spring up." It was agreed that, for the present, he should confine himself to the exercise of his talents as a tailor, upon the remains of his coat, in order to make it look somewhat more respectable, while he was waiting for a better; and that he should undertake the rough work, while the family was occupied in executing the orders, which were now numerous and pressing. A few days after, M. Fiddler consented to let them have, instead of the pavilion which they occupied, and which was unsuited to their present circumstances, a much smaller dwelling, to which was attached a little garden; this the chevalier undertook to cultivate, and it supplied them with some fruit and vegetables. He also prepared the card-board for the boxes and screens, and even chimney ornaments, and pendule cases, which were made by M. de la FÈre and his son. These productions, as well as those of Madame de la FÈre, became quite the fashion in the country. The chevalier took them to the neighbouring fairs, where, at the same time, he found opportunities of making more advantageous purchases than in the town. M. de la FÈre gave him a per-centage on all he bought and sold for him, so that in a short time he was able to carry on a small trade on his own account, in which he displayed considerable ability. Raymond often accompanied him in these excursions, and thus began to acquire a knowledge of business. As for Madame de la FÈre, who added to her skill in embroidery, a talent for millinery, she had soon so much to do that she was obliged to take work-women, and she opened a shop, to which people came from all parts, to get the French fashions, of which the chevalier, by his activity, contrived to obtain for her the patterns. When their circumstances had so much improved, that there was no longer any danger of another fast, M. de la FÈre said to Raymond and Juliette, "My children, you have hitherto worked for the benefit of the community, it is but just that you should also work for yourselves; I give you each a louis d'or, you now know what it is capable of producing, turn it to profit on your own account."

They did turn it to so good a use, that it served for their maintenance during the remainder of the time they continued abroad. M. and Madame de la FÈre, when they returned to France, had acquired by their industry, a sufficient sum to repurchase a portion of their property which had been sold, and the Chevalier de Villon, who remained with them, was in a condition to pay them a small sum annually. As to Raymond, he had acquired habits of business and industry, and Juliette those of activity and economy. She had also learned never to close her heart to the miseries of others, as sometimes happens with those who are very much engrossed by their own trials; but it was in the midst of the anxieties of a most painful position, that Juliette had seen how little it sometimes costs to alleviate a great misfortune, and it was the louis d'or which had taught her all this.

CONTINUATION OF THE HISTORY OF A LOUIS D'OR.

The louis d'or paid by Madame de la FÈre to the merchant from whom she had bought the lawn for her first handkerchiefs, was passed by him to a fellow-tradesman, who was going to another town of Germany, where he was established as a dealer in lace. Among the workpeople who supplied him, was a young girl named Victorine, a refugee like M. and Madame de la FÈre. Victorine worked for the support of her godmother, Madame d'Alin, an elderly person who had formerly been well off; but the dread of the revolution had seized upon her to such a degree, that almost at the very outbreak she precipitately quitted France, without taking any precautions to preserve her property, and without any money but what she happened to have at the moment for her current expenses. Thinking only of flight, she took no one with her but her godchild Victorine, the daughter of one of her old servants, whom she had brought up. She had had her instructed in every kind of female employment; and when they fell into misfortune, Victorine, who, though scarcely seventeen years of age, possessed both sense and courage, set herself vigorously to work for her godmother, whom age, delicate health, and weakness of character, rendered incapable of overcoming the difficulties of such a situation.

The first thought of Victorine, when they found themselves without means, had been to sell a piece of lace, which she had just finished for herself. Having succeeded in disposing of it, she continued this kind of work. She could not devote to it as much time as she wished, having to attend to the domestic arrangements, and to wait upon Madame d'Alin, who was not accustomed to do anything for herself. Occasionally also she had to read aloud to Madame d'Alin, who was sometimes a little vexed that she could not do so more frequently. Victorine often felt annoyed at being disturbed from her work, but she did not display this feeling; for she knew that her godmother was so kind, that had she perceived it, she would have deprived herself of many pleasures and dispensed with many services, which habit had rendered necessary to her.

Notwithstanding these interruptions, Victorine's labour was sufficient to provide for their ordinary wants; but it was only just sufficient. The least additional expense would have deranged everything, and since they had been in Germany, their wardrobes had not been renewed. Madame d'Alin suffered no inconvenience on this account, because she went out so rarely that her dresses were but little used, so that the clothes she had brought with her were sufficient for a long time; but Victorine's stock, never very considerable, was soon exhausted, and the poor girl, notwithstanding her good sense, was not insensible to the annoyance of going out in a dress the different parts of which did not well match the pattern, and the sleeves of which only reached half way down her arm; for she had grown. Madame d'Alin, who was kindness itself, and who was extremely fond of Victorine, endeavoured to improve matters by giving her some of her own dresses; but the dresses of Madame d'Alin, who was small and thin, while Victorine was very tall and rather stout, suited her still worse than those which had, at least, been made for her; and although her godmother's bonnet and old mantle preserved her from the cold and rain, they gave her so strange an appearance, that she could not help being a little uncomfortable when she had to go into the streets thus muffled up, and especially when she entered the shop where she sold her lace. She longed for the time when she should be able to buy a dress and bonnet in the fashion of the country, and as everything was very cheap there, and Victorine had no desire to dress expensively, she hoped to be able to accomplish her wish for a sum of about a louis.

The possession of this louis, then, was the object of her ambition: she thought of it night and day, and pictured to herself the delight she should feel the first time she went out dressed like other people: but she must first be able to spare a louis, and to accomplish this was no easy matter; for Victorine, from the situation in which she was placed, and the whole responsibility of which devolved upon her, had acquired such habits of economy, that she would never have run the risk of spending so considerable a sum, without having in advance sufficient money and work for several months. She had then put a louis aside, but determined not to purchase her dress and bonnet until she had collected a certain sum. At first she was very far from the point, then some weeks of cheapness and the talent which she had acquired for economy enabled her to increase her store. Sometimes it augmented so rapidly that she hoped to see it soon complete; but all at once the price of vegetables was raised, or the bushel of charcoal had gone more quickly: then the treasure ceased to increase: Victorine no longer knew when it would be complete, and the slightest accident which happened to diminish it made her lose all hope. Then would she add another patch to her dress, which, in the anticipation of a new one, she had a little neglected, and for several days her heart would be sad, and she would feel some difficulty in working with her usual diligence and pleasure.

One day when she happened to be in a happier mood, she carried her work to the dealer, who, in paying her, said, "See! here is some of the money of your own country." And he showed her the louis. Victorine, on beholding it, was greatly moved; it was so long since she had seen a French coin. Oh! how she longed to possess it! But it was in vain that she calculated; the sum owing to her in the currency of the country did not amount to a louis. At last she begged the shopkeeper to save it for her, promising in a short time to bring sufficient work to make up the amount. In fact, the desire of possessing this louis redoubled her energies. Shortly afterwards she went to obtain it, brought it away with great delight, and as everything was referred to her favourite idea, she determined to purchase with it her dress and bonnet, as soon as she was able. This was the louis d'or which she had put by, and which she kept so carefully.

The increased quantity of work which she had for some time executed, in order to obtain it the sooner, together with a few weeks favourable to her economy, brought her near the accomplishment of her wishes. At length the day arrived when the work she was to take home would complete the necessary amount, provided the provisions she had to purchase did not exceed a certain price. The provisions happened to be cheap, and Victorine, overjoyed, stopped on her way back at the shop of a linendraper with whom she was acquainted, and selected a pattern, in order to increase the pleasure she would have in buying it; and perhaps, also, that she might the sooner have the gratification of telling some one that she was going to purchase a dress. She had not yet communicated her intention to Madame d'Alin, but she felt quite sure of her approbation. After having made her choice, she returned home, almost running, to leave her provisions, and to fetch her louis. On entering, she opened the door so hastily, that Madame d'Alin, who did not expect her, started, and her spectacles, which were lying on her knee, fell, and both the glasses were broken. "Good heavens!" exclaimed Madame d'Alin, partly from fright, and partly from the vexation she felt at having broken her glasses. As for Victorine, she remained motionless. The pleasure which she had promised herself was so great, that her vexation was proportionally extreme. At length, taking the spectacles from the hands of Madame d'Alin, with a movement of impatience, which she could not control, she said, "Now, then, there are some glasses to be bought!"

"No, my child," replied Madame d'Alin, mildly, "I will do without them." Victorine felt that she had done wrong; and telling her godmother, in a tone of greater gentleness, that she could not do without glasses, she went out to replace them. However, in calling on the linendraper to tell him that she should not buy the dress, she had to turn away her head, that he might not see the tears which started to her eyes.

She purchased the glasses, returned home, and was greatly astonished at finding with Madame d'Alin a man, whom she did not at first recognize, so little did she think it possible for him to be there. It was the steward of the little estate on which Madame d'Alin usually resided. He had come from France for the purpose of informing his mistress that there was no longer the slightest danger in returning; that she had not been put upon the list of emigrants; that her tenant, who was an honest man, had punctually paid his rent; and that he himself, having been unable to transmit to her the money, had allowed it to accumulate, and had now come to seek her, in order that she might return home. Madame d'Alin, while listening to him, was agitated between hope and fear; and as for Victorine, she was so troubled, that she knew not what she felt. Though she had longed to revisit France, yet this had appeared to her a thing so impossible, that she had never dwelt upon the idea; but from this moment it took such possession of her mind, that she could think of nothing else, and her entreaties and arguments, added to those of the steward, as well as the representations of several of the friends of Madame d'Alin, from whom he had brought letters, which her spectacles now enabled her to read, made her resolve on returning. The day was fixed for their departure; and Victorine, for whom her godmother immediately bought a dress and bonnet, having no need of her louis for this purpose, reserved it, in order to buy, when she got back to France, something which might afford her very great pleasure.

On her return, she was for a long time unable to decide on the manner in which she should employ it. Madame d'Alin, who regarded her as her own child, supplied her abundantly with everything she required, and as she was too much accustomed to economy to have any very strong fancies, she always kept it for some better opportunity than had as yet presented itself. Besides, when after some stay in Paris, they returned to the little estate of Madame d'Alin, Victorine was placed at the head of her household, and as she found many things which required to be put in order, she was too much occupied to think about spending her louis. At length, one of her relatives, a servant, in a town a few leagues distant, having occasion to visit her, spoke of the difficulty she felt in managing with her low wages, having her mother to support, whose strength no longer permitted her to do much. Victorine thought that the best use she could make of her louis, was to give it to her friend; the latter promised to send it as soon as possible to her mother, who was called Old Mathurine, and who resided two leagues distant from her. As to Victorine, she shortly after married the son of the honest steward, who had so well preserved the fortune of his mistress. While Madame d'Alin lived, they took care of her, as if they had been her own children, and at her death, she left them a considerable part of her property.

You see, continued M. de Cideville, how much time and trouble are sometimes required in order to obtain a louis d'or. The following story will show you how many vexations might sometimes be avoided by the possession of a sum much less considerable.

THE TEMPTATIONS.

Madame de Livonne, after having been in affluent circumstances, had fallen into a state of great poverty. Being left a widow, with her daughter Euphemia, who was about twelve years of age, and having only distant relations, who were far from wealthy, and to whom she did not wish to be a burden, she took the reasonable and courageous resolution of providing, by her own exertions, for herself and daughter. She therefore established herself in a small town where she was unknown, that she might be able to live as she pleased, without being obliged to go into company, or receive visits. She applied herself to plain work, with Euphemia, who was gentle and reasonable, and who loved her mother, whom she had seen very unhappy, so tenderly, that provided she saw her tranquil, nothing troubled her. It was not because Euphemia did not, at first, experience much difficulty in accustoming herself to certain privations which daily increased, or to duties somewhat repugnant to her feelings; but she found her mother so ready to neglect herself on her account, and so anxious to spare her as much as possible everything that was disagreeable, that she felt eager to anticipate her, and made a pleasure of what would otherwise have been a pain. Thus, for instance, she had no fancy for counting the linen, or washing the dishes, but if she could manage to be the first to see the laundress, she hastened to give her the clothes, delighted with the thought that her mother would not have to do it; and after dinner she generally contrived to surprise her, by washing and arranging the things before Madame de Livonne rose from table, who, upon seeing what was done, would embrace her child with the greatest tenderness.

With the happiness which these attentions caused, would sometimes mingle a feeling of melancholy and uneasiness, relative to the future prospects of Euphemia; but Madame de Livonne possessed so much fortitude, that she was enabled to overcome her fears, and to place her trust in Providence. Besides, there could not well be any sadness where Euphemia was, for she laughed and sung over all she did, and her mother, who was still young, and had a pleasing voice, often joined in her songs. In the evening, when the weather was fine, they walked into the country, and Euphemia, after having been shut up all day, enjoyed with transport the beauty of the weather and the freshness of the air; and, satisfied with having worked with diligence, she thought with pleasure of the duties of the succeeding day. To see and hear her, one would have imagined that she was the happiest creature in the world; and in truth she was happy, for she did nothing wrong, she had no fancies that tormented her, she was never wearied, and always spent her time in useful occupations.

Madame de Livonne was so economical, and proportioned so well her expenses to her means, that since they had been compelled to work for their living, they had never been embarrassed. But she was taken ill, even dangerously so. However, Euphemia's joy, when she beheld her convalescent, was so great, that she could scarcely think of the situation in which they were soon to be placed. Almost all their money had been spent during the time that Madame de Livonne had been unable to work, and when Euphemia, occupied in nursing her, her heart always heavy, and her eyes full of tears, was scarcely able to work either. It was not what the poor child had eaten during this time that cost much, but medicines and nourishing food had been required for her mother. Several persons of the town who esteemed Madame de Livonne, on account of her fortitude and her virtues, had, indeed, sent her various things, of which she stood in need, but this assistance ceased as soon as she was better, and she herself even, in order not to encroach upon their kindness, had assured them that such things were no longer necessary for her. They therefore found themselves in such a state of destitution, that as soon as Madame de Livonne had, in some degree, regained her strength, she determined to go to a town, about two leagues distant from where they lived, in order to collect some money for work sent home before her illness.

They set out very early one morning, and when just on the point of starting, the daughter of Mathurine called upon them. It was in this town that she was in service, and her mother lived in the one to which they were going. She was acquainted with them, as they worked for her mistress, and being aware of their intended journey, she begged them to carry to her mother the louis d'or that Victorine had given her. They willingly took charge of it, and set off full of spirits. Euphemia was so delighted to breathe the morning air, that, although repeatedly reminded by her mother that they had four leagues to walk during the day, she could not refrain from jumping about, and running on before, and into the fields, on each side of the road; so that when the heat increased, she became very thirsty, and the more so as she had eaten, while skipping about, a large piece of bread. Her mother exhorted her to bear the inconvenience with patience, as there was no means of procuring anything to drink. Euphemia said no more about it, as she did not wish to grieve her mother needlessly; but presently she uttered a cry of joy.

"Oh, mamma, there is a man selling gooseberries; we can buy a pound to refresh ourselves."

"My poor child," said her mother, "you know we have no money."

"I thought," replied Euphemia, timidly, "that they would not be very dear."

"But I have no money at all, my dear Euphemia; none whatever."

"I thought, mamma, that this man might change for us old Mathurine's louis d'or, and when we arrived, we could give her her money, together with what we had borrowed from it."

"But we have neither the permission of Mathurine, nor of her daughter, to borrow from this money; it was not given us for that purpose."

"Oh! I am quite sure," continued Euphemia, in a sorrowful tone, "that if they knew how thirsty I am, they would gladly lend us sufficient to buy a pound of gooseberries."

"My poor child," replied her mother, still more sorrowfully, "we can be sure only of our own will, and dispose only of that which belongs to us. As this money does not belong to us, is it not the same as if we had not got it at all?"

As she spoke, she put her arms round her daughter's neck, and embraced her tenderly, regarding her with a look of distress, as if to entreat her not to persist in a request which she could not grant. Euphemia kissed her mother's hand, and turned away her head, that she might not see the basket of gooseberries which was passing by them at the moment; and hearing her mother sigh heavily, she determined not to give her any more uneasiness.

"Are you still very thirsty?" said Madame de Livonne to her, some time afterwards.

"Yes, mamma;" and she added, "this is like the child of Hagar in the desert." But seeing that her comparison brought tears to her mother's eyes, she continued gaily, "But I shall not die of it," and she began to skip about, in order to show that she was not overcome by the heat and thirst. Nevertheless, she was very much flushed, and her mother, looking at her with great anxiety, saw that she was really suffering. She stopped, and looked around her. "Listen, Euphemia," said she to her daughter; "it is possible that behind this rising ground, which overhangs the road, we may find a hollow, and perhaps some water. Get up and see."

Euphemia ascended, and at first saw nothing but a vast plain covered with corn, without a tree, without the least verdure indicative of water. For the moment, she felt ready to cry; she stood on tiptoe, and notwithstanding the heat of the sun, which was shining full upon her head, she could not make up her mind to come down and resign the hope of quenching her thirst. At length she heard a dog bark not far from the spot where she stood. After hearing it several times, she remarked that the sound always proceeded from the same place, and that it was, moreover, the voice of a large dog, and not that of a shepherd's dog. She judged that the animal must be at the door of some dwelling, and running in the direction of the sound, she discovered, to her extreme joy, a house which had been hidden by the elevation on which she stood. She announced the news to her mother, who telling her to go on, followed after her. Before Madame de Livonne arrived, Euphemia had drunk off a large glass of water, with a little wine in it, which a good-natured woman had given her, although Euphemia at first refused the wine, as she had no money to pay for it. She also asked for a glass for her mother, and ran to meet her; and Madame de Livonne, delighted at seeing the poor child refreshed and comforted, forgot half her own fatigues.

Having fully rested and refreshed themselves, and warmly thanked their kind entertainer, they again set out on their journey, by a path which she had pointed out to them, as shorter and pleasanter than the high road. Euphemia, quite reanimated, could not refrain from congratulating herself on her good fortune, and a little also on her cleverness, in having inferred that there was a house there.

"You must allow," said her mother, "that you would not have shown so much discrimination, had you not been so thirsty. Necessity is the parent of invention."

"Oh, most certainly," replied Euphemia, "if I had eaten the gooseberries, we should not have sought for something to drink, and I should not have had that good glass of wine and water, which has done me so much more good."

Whilst thus conversing, a poor woman approached them, carrying an infant, which was very pale, and so weak, that it could not hold up its head; she herself was frightfully emaciated, and her eyes were red and hollow from weeping; she asked them for alms.

"Good Heavens! we have nothing," said Euphemia, in a most sorrowful tone.

"Only enough to buy something for my poor child, who has had no milk for two days! only enough to save it from dying!"

"I have nothing in the world," said Madame de Livonne, with inexpressible anguish. The poor woman sat down on the ground and burst into tears. Euphemia, her heart torn with grief, clasped her hands and exclaimed, "Mamma, mamma, shall we leave this poor child and its mother to die of hunger? Would not that be worse than borrowing from Mathurine's money? We are still near the house; let me go and change the louis." Madame de Livonne cast down her eyes, and for a moment appeared to reflect.

"Euphemia," said she, "have you forgotten that as this money does not belong to us, it is the same as if it were not in our possession?"

Euphemia began to cry bitterly, hiding her face in her hands. The poor woman, seeing them stop, got up and again approached Madame de Livonne.

"For the love of God," she exclaimed, "and that he may preserve your young lady, take pity on my poor child!"

"Tell me," said Madame de Livonne, "have you sufficient strength to reach the town?" The poor woman replied that she had, and Madame de Livonne, drawing from her pocket the cover of a letter, on the back of which she wrote a few lines in pencil, told her to take it to the CurÉ of the town in which she resided, promising her that he would give her assistance. Euphemia, hearing the poor woman thank her mother, felt courage at last to turn to her her tearful face. The expression of her pity seemed to shed a gleam of comfort over the heart of this unhappy creature. She looked alternately at Euphemia and at her child, as if to tell him also to thank her. Euphemia just then remembering that she had in her bag a piece of bread, left from her breakfast, gave it to the poor woman, who went away loading them with blessings, for she plainly saw that they had done for her all that was in their power. They continued their journey: their minds were relieved, but they were serious. Euphemia could talk of nothing but the poor woman. "You see, my child," said her mother, "that there are sometimes terrible temptations in life."

"Oh, mamma! so terrible that I do not know how it is possible to resist them."

"By fully persuading ourselves that there is nothing truly impossible but a breach of duty."

"But, mamma, if you had not been able to write to the CurÉ, could you have made up your mind to allow this poor woman to die, rather than change Mathurine's louis?"

"I would rather have begged for her."

This reply, in proving to Euphemia that resources are never wanting to him who has the courage to employ all those which are allowable, calmed a little the alarm inspired by the severity of certain duties.

At length they reached the town. One of the two persons with whom Madame de Livonne had business, lived at its entrance, and she felt a little uneasy at seeing the shutters of the house closed. Nevertheless she made inquiries. A servant, the only one remaining in the house, informed her that her mistress was gone to see her sister, who was ill, and living at a distance of thirty leagues. Euphemia looked at her mother with dismay; however, she thought it very fortunate that they had not touched Mathurine's louis. They then went to the other customer; but she no longer resided in the town. A neighbour told them that she had only stayed there a short time, and that no one knew where she was gone to. On receiving this reply, Madame de Livonne sat down on a step. Her daughter saw her turn pale, and lean for support, as if she was going to faint; and indeed it was only her courage which had until then supported her against the debility left by her malady, the fatigues of the journey, and the vexation occasioned by her first disappointment. Now her strength entirely gave way, and she fainted outright. Euphemia, trembling, and in despair, embraced her as long as she was able, and called her, and shook her, in order to make her revive. She was afraid to leave her for the purpose of seeking assistance; brought up in habits of self-restraint, she dared not cry out, and no one happened to be passing by; every one was in the fields. At length, the neighbour who had spoken to them again coming out, Euphemia called her, and pointed to her mother. Two other old women also come up and gave their aid in restoring her to consciousness. Madame de Livonne opened her eyes, and turned them upon her daughter, who kneeling by her side, kissed her hands, and exclaimed in a transport of joy, "Mamma, here I am;" for at this moment she thought of nothing but the happiness of being once more restored to each other.

However, she soon become very anxious about their return home; but her mother told her not to torment herself, as she would soon recover her strength; and yet at every moment she seemed on the point of fainting again. Every time she closed her eyes, Euphemia turned pale and was ready to burst into tears, but restrained herself, in order not to grieve her mother, and clasping her hands, she murmured in a suppressed voice, "My God! what shall we do? how are we to get home?" One of the women told her that a coach would be passing in two hours which would take them back, but Euphemia knew very well that they had no money to pay for their places, and besides she thought that it would be impossible for her mother, weak as she was, to continue her journey without taking some refreshment. However, she had not once thought of making use of Mathurine's money; but at last it occurred to her that if she were to carry it to her, she might perhaps lend them a part of it. Delighted with this idea, she forgot her timidity, and hastily searching for the louis in her mother's pocket, and begging one of the women to accompany her to Mathurine's house, she looked at her mother for permission. Madame de Livonne by a sign gave her consent, and Euphemia set off, walking so quickly that the woman who accompanied her had some difficulty in following her. Her heart beat violently as she reached the house; the door was locked; Mathurine had gone four leagues off to assist in the harvest, and was not to return until the following day. Euphemia looked at the person who gave her this information without uttering a word. She was unable to speak, for her heart was bursting, and her ideas were confused to such a degree, on receiving an intelligence which destroyed her last hope, that, happily for her, she no longer felt all the misery of her situation. She returned slowly, looking mechanically around her, as if seeking some one who might give her aid; but all she saw seemed poorer than herself, though she felt that at that moment there were none of them so wretched. Presently the air resounded with the cracking of postilions' whips; a travelling carriage drove up, and stopped at the inn: it occupied the whole of the narrow street, and obliged Euphemia and her companion to stop. A lady, her husband and daughter, and a lady's-maid, descended from it, and were quickly surrounded by poor asking for alms. This sight made Euphemia weep, without very well knowing why. She watched them, and listened to the lady's soft voice; she looked at her husband, whose countenance was good and amiable, and at the young girl, who was nearly of her own age; she could not make up her mind to pass on. At last she heard the husband, in a tone of kindness, say to the poor who were begging, "My children, I can give you nothing here; but come to BÉville, ask for the chÂteau, and you shall have work."

A thought suddenly struck Euphemia: they might perchance give her work too. She rushed into the yard, regardless of the horses that were crossing it, and stood before the lady, who was just entering the house; but once in her presence, she stopped, cast down her eyes, and was afraid to speak. Madame de BÉville, such was the lady's name, seeing before her a young girl neatly dressed and in tears, asked her kindly what she wanted. Euphemia hesitated, stammered, but at length the thought that her mother was waiting for her, and perhaps uneasy, forced her to make an effort, and with clasped hands, and downcast eyes, for she dared not look at Madame de BÉville, she said in a low voice, "Let me have some work too."

"Some work, my child? certainly I will, but how—what sort of work?"

Euphemia could not reply; the little girl then approached her, and said in the most encouraging tone, "Come, speak to mamma."

Euphemia took courage, and addressing Madame de BÉville in her former manner, said, "But I want to be paid in advance, immediately; and then," she added, raising her head, and in a tone of great earnestness, "then, I will work for you as long and as much as you please."

She stopped, trembling. Madame de BÉville questioned her with great kindness, and Euphemia related her troubles; but while speaking, the louis d'or, which she held in her hand, fell to the ground. The little girl picked it up, and returned it to her, blushing, grieved at the thought that Euphemia had been trying to deceive them.

"My child," said Madame de BÉville, in a reproachful tone, "why did you tell me that you had no money?"

"It is not ours," replied Euphemia with simplicity, "it has been intrusted to us for another, and therefore we cannot touch it."

The young girl, much moved, looked at Madame de BÉville, who kissed Euphemia, and asked to be conducted to the place where she had left her mother. At this moment, Madame de Livonne entered the yard, supported by M. de BÉville, who had recognised her from having often seen her in Paris, and who begged his wife to join him in persuading her to pass a few days with them, in order to regain her strength. Madame de BÉville, deeply affected by Euphemia's narrative, pressed the hand of Madame de Livonne, entreating her, in the kindest manner, to accompany them. Madame de Livonne turned to Euphemia, who smiled at her with a look of entreaty; the little girl had already taken her by the arm to lead her away. Madame de Livonne could no longer hesitate, and they entered the carriage of Madame de BÉville, whose horses had arrived to conduct them to the chÂteau, which was only a few leagues distant. Euphemia could not contain her joy when she saw her mother seated in that comfortable carriage, and surrounded by persons who took care of her; and her pleasure was enhanced by the thought of the delightful time they should pass at BÉville. The following day the louis was sent to Mathurine by a confidential person.

Madame de Livonne only required rest, and was soon perfectly restored. M. and Madame de BÉville, greatly pleased with the principles she had impressed upon the mind of her daughter, and knowing besides that she was well educated, and very talented, told her that, as they could not obtain in the country, where they lived the greater part of the year, such masters as they wished for their daughter, they would be delighted if she would remain with them, and assist them in her education. Madame de Livonne, although for herself she would have preferred her independence, nevertheless accepted a proposition, which insured to Euphemia a happier existence, and probably, also, a valuable protection.

As to Euphemia, she was delighted beyond measure at the thought of having to live with Mademoiselle de BÉville, with whom she had already formed a most intimate friendship; and while rejoicing with her mother at this good fortune, she remarked that it would not have happened to them, if they had been so weak as to change Mathurine's louis d'or.

"We have done our duty," she added, "and God has rewarded us."

"My child," said her mother, "our present situation is a blessing bestowed on us by God, but not a reward."

"And why so, mamma?"

"Because this is not the kind of recompense he assigns to the fulfilment of duty. Do you remember the lines I made you read to me the other day from an English book?—

"It is not by giving to the virtuous the means of living, that God rewards them, but by giving them the satisfaction of having done their duty, and obeyed his will. This, sometimes, is their only reward in the present world; sometimes, even, they are unhappy during the whole of their lives: do you suppose from this that God is unjust to them?"

"No, mamma."

"And do you not think that among these virtuous yet afflicted people, there must have been many who have had much more difficult duties to fulfil than ours, and who have fulfilled them without obtaining those things which you look upon as a reward?"

"Oh, certainly, mamma."

"It is not, then, probable, that God has wished to reward us, in preference to others, who have better merited a recompense."

"But, mamma, nevertheless, it is because we have done our duty, that we are now so happy."

"Yes, my child; and things like this should often happen, for a very simple reason. God, who has willed that the accomplishment of our duties should be rewarded by peace of mind, has also permitted that happiness should usually be the portion of those who take the most pains to attain it. Now, it is certain, that he who feels no hesitation in neglecting his duty, will not, in a case of emergency, trouble himself with the search of any more difficult resource than this."

"That is quite clear."

"Whereas, he who is anxious not to fail in his duty, will exert all the energies of his mind, in order to discover some other means of success; and as the Gospel says, 'Seek, and ye shall find.' Thus it may often happen, that the efforts we make to avoid a breach of duty, enable us to discover many important resources, which would not otherwise have occurred to us."

"Yes, mamma, just as with the pound of gooseberries. And if, also, when I saw you so ill, I had considered myself justified in making use of Mathurine's louis, I should not have thought of addressing myself to Madame de BÉville, which has been so much more advantageous to us."

At this moment, the poor woman whom they had met upon the road presented herself. Her child was quite restored, and she herself, though still very thin, appeared happy. The CurÉ had at first relieved her, and afterwards sent her to a manufactory, where she obtained employment. Assured of a subsistence, she had come to announce her happiness to those who had been the means of procuring it, and to bring her child for Mademoiselle Euphemia to kiss, now that he had become handsome again.

"Mamma! mamma," said Euphemia, overwhelming it with caresses, "it is still because you would not change Mathurine's louis, that you sent them to the CurÉ. Oh! how much good this louis has done us!"

Here M. de Cideville paused.

"Is that all?" asked Ernestine.

"Yes," replied her father, "I think that is the whole history of the louis d'or; and that from old Mathurine it has come to me, without any adventures."

"And now, papa," said Ernestine, "you forbade me to question you until the end of the story; but is it not true, that you do not know whether all the adventures you have related, have really happened to the louis d'or you showed me?"

M. de Cideville smiled, and said, "It is true that I do not exactly know whether these adventures have really happened; but you must allow that they are possible." Ernestine assented.

"You must also allow, that if some of them are rather romantic, some at least are probable, and may have occurred without any very extraordinary combination of accidents." She again assented.

"Well, then, my child," replied M. de Cideville, "it is partly for want of knowing the truth, and partly for want of sufficient imagination to supply its place, that I have not related many other histories, all more simple and more interesting than my own, in which you might have seen a louis d'or, or even a much smaller sum, prevent the greatest misfortunes. Picture to yourself a family which had eaten nothing for three days: can you imagine the delight with which they would receive a louis d'or, which would afford them time to await, without dying, such other assistance as might save them entirely? And again, the unhappy wretch whose reason has been so far disturbed by excess of misery, that he is led to attempt his own life, can you doubt that a louis d'or, by delaying the moment, would often give him time to return to calmer feelings, and seek some better resource than an act of crime? I give you only two examples, but I repeat, that there are thousands remaining, of which it would be impossible to think, without losing every wish to spend such a sum in a frivolous manner."

"But, papa," said Ernestine, "is it then never allowable to spend a louis on pleasure?"

"My child," said M. de Cideville, "if we impose upon ourselves restrictions too severe, on one point, we run the risk of failing in others. There are duties proportioned to every situation in life. It is proper that those who enjoy a certain degree of affluence, should occupy in the world a position suitable to their means, and also that they should mix in society, which they cannot do without some expense; for it is highly important that society should be kept up, since it binds men together, and gives them opportunities of mutually instructing each other. It is also good for the poor, because the expenses of the rich give them the means of exerting their industry, and maintaining their families. It is necessary, too, that those employed in important labours, as I am every morning in my study, should be able sometimes to repose the mind by occupations of a less serious nature, as otherwise they would end by losing the means of fulfilling the duties of their station. It is for reasons of this kind that many expenses which do not appear directly useful, are nevertheless proper and necessary. But a mind accustomed to judge of the real value of things, will easily draw a distinction between money spent in this manner, and that which is thrown into the sea, as the saying is; and while such a person will never feel tempted to indulge in expenses of the latter kind, he will permit himself to enjoy the others without remorse. I know very well, my dear Ernestine, that you may easily deceive yourself in regard to your pleasures: at your age, every pleasure appears of great importance; but I am anxious that you should at least understand the value of what you bestow upon it; therefore, I promise to give you this louis as soon as you have found a really useful means of employing it."

Ernestine, quite enchanted, promised to seek one; we shall see whether she succeeded in her search.

CONCLUSION OF THE HISTORY OF A LOUIS D'OR.

For a whole week, Ernestine could think of nothing but her louis, and the use she was to make of it, but she found none that suited her. The stories which her father had related, made her reflect on what might really be useful, and as her parents supplied her abundantly with everything necessary, and even interested themselves in her pleasures, whenever they were reasonable, she saw nothing that could justify her in spending it on herself; besides, she had determined to apply it to some benevolent purpose. But, at her age, she was ignorant of the best means of doing good. She often met poor people, and delighted in relieving them; but as her little monthly allowance was almost sufficient for these acts of charity, she would have been very sorry to have expended her louis upon them. Besides, she did not know whether one of these poor people was in greater need than another, nor could she tell how to ascertain this; she therefore experienced great anxiety on this head; but the arrival of the season of gaiety dissipated her cares. She went to five or six balls; she had never danced so much in her life, and her head was so completely turned with joy, that she forgot her louis; for, of course, she would never have thought of spending it upon her toilette. At length the time arrived for their departure into the country; and seeing her father paying some money at the inn, she recollected her louis d'or, and mentioned it to him. M. de Cideville told her that it was in the country she would find the best means of employing it to advantage, as it was there that the greatest amount of good might be done, with the smallest amount of money.

They had only been a few days at Saulaye, the estate of M. de Cideville, when Ernestine came running to her father, quite out of breath, to tell him that she required her louis, for that one of the villagers, named Marianne, whom he knew very well, as she had assisted at his haymaking the previous year, had just had her leg broken in the fields, by a kick from a horse. The surgeon of the neighbouring town, who was also the medical attendant at the chÂteau, happened fortunately to pass by while she lay upon the ground, screaming dreadfully. He set the leg immediately, and had her taken home. But this was not all; Marianne would require remedies, and she was very poor; her husband was in the army, and she had only a very small garden and her labour to depend upon, for the maintenance of herself and a little girl, eight years of age. It was, therefore, absolutely necessary to assist her.

M. de Cideville agreed to this. "But," said he to his daughter, "have you well considered the manner of employing your louis, so as to render it as beneficial to her as possible?"

"If I give it to her, papa, she will be able to buy what is necessary with it."

"Do you think she will be able to buy much?"

"Oh! dear, no; but that is always the way."

"But if you could so employ it as to make it yield a considerable profit to her? Do you remember the advantages which the family of M. de la FÈre derived from a louis d'or?"

"Yes, papa, but their history is not true," said Ernestine, quickly.

"It is quite sufficient that it is possible."

"Yes; but if it be necessary," said Ernestine, with a sorrowful and embarrassed look, "to bring oneself, as they did, to bread and water...."

"You are not reduced to this extremity: this is one of those resolutions which we ought to have the courage to take, when necessity demands them, but which would be ridiculous when unnecessary?"

These words restored Ernestine's cheerfulness. "Whilst we are talking," said she to her father, caressing him, "poor Marianne does not know that we are coming to her aid."

Her father reassured her. M. de Cideville had been informed of the accident before Ernestine came to tell him, and had given orders to the housekeeper, who was a confidential person, to attend for the moment Marianne's wants. "But henceforward," said M. de Cideville, "it is to you we look for her being taken care of, and for seeing that she wants for nothing: do you think your louis will be sufficient for this?"

"Good gracious, no! What is to be done?"

"What do you think she will stand in need of?"

"Why, first of all, she must be nursed, for she can do nothing for herself, and Suzette, her daughter, is too young to attend upon her."

"She has many neighbours about her, and I am sure they will relieve each other in nursing, and taking care of her, as long as it is necessary. You already see how much these poor women can do without the aid of money."

"Yes, but I cannot do what they do."

"Therefore you ought to do something else. Will she not require medicines?"

"We must buy some for her."

"The greater part of the herbs, of which her draughts and poultices will probably be composed, grow wild in the fields: we know them, and will teach you to distinguish them also. If you like to employ your walks in seeking for them, you may, I think, easily gather a good provision of such of them as are most required, and we will show them to the surgeon, in order to be quite sure that we are not mistaken."

"There, again, is the surgeon! I never thought of him; he, too, must be paid."

"He attends the chÂteau, and receives a certain sum annually; we treat him well, and he is satisfied with us; besides, he is a very worthy man, and attends gratuitously to the poor of the village, as much from humanity as from the wish to oblige us; while some presents from our produce, as a cask of our wine, for instance, enable us, from time to time, to testify our gratitude to him."

"But, papa, it is you and other people who do all this; it is not I."

"You can do but little of yourself, my child, since you have neither strength, nor wealth; but it is precisely because you are dependent on us for all your wants, that you ought to count among your resources the pleasure we feel in obliging you, in everything that is reasonable, and the predisposition which people feel to comply with your requests, when you ask for what is proper."

"Oh papa, to ask! but that is so difficult. I should never have the courage to do that."

"It is in this, my child, that the greatest merit of charity often consists. I could relate to you many admirable stories on this subject. In order to do good, we must often be able to conquer our pride, which makes us dislike to have recourse to others; our idleness, which makes us dislike exertion; our indolence or thoughtlessness, which makes us lose a thousand things which would be useful. We must learn to do much, with little means; otherwise, we shall never manage to accomplish anything of importance. Those who only give money soon exhaust all they have to give, whereas the contrivances of charity, in aid of the unfortunate, are inexhaustible."

"Dear papa, I shall beg you to teach me to find the herbs; but I assure you I am very much afraid I shall not be able to discover anything else."

"You will see: meanwhile, here is your louis; if you take my advice, you will not spend it, except in the purchase of such things as you cannot otherwise obtain. As for the others, seek the means of procuring them. In a house of any consideration there are always many things which may be given away without any positive expense, as they would be otherwise lost, or nearly so. You can ask us for these, and in this way, we will aid you, with the greatest pleasure, in succouring poor Marianne, whom from this moment I place under your care."

Ernestine, though a little frightened at a duty, which she was afraid of not fulfilling in a proper manner, still felt proud and happy in having some one under her protection. Madame de Cideville entering at this moment, her husband informed her of the important charge he had committed to her daughter; and as a servant came to say that Marguerite, one of the women who took care of Marianne, wanted some old linen for her, Madame de Cideville said, "It is to Ernestine you must apply."

Ernestine looked at her mother, with an air of utter astonishment. "But, mamma," she said, "I have no old linen."

"And you cannot think of any means of procuring some?"

"Madame Bastien" (this was the housekeeper's name) "has plenty; the old sheets and napkins belonging to the house serve her for making bandages; but she is always angry when any one applies for them. Last year, when my nurse hurt her foot, she hardly even dared to ask her for any."

"Nevertheless, you must endeavour to obtain some between this and to-morrow, for to-morrow they will be needed for Marianne."

"Mamma, if you were to tell Madame Bastien to give me some?"

"She would give them to you, most assuredly; but do you think she would do so with less ill-humour? She is well aware that I wish her to give to all who require it, but as she has sometimes to supply a great many persons, she is afraid that each will take too much; perhaps too she likes to show her authority a little; therefore, you may be quite sure that whatever she does, she will do it with a much better grace for the sake of obliging you, than she would if I were to order it."

As Ernestine was going out, she met Marguerite, and told her that she would endeavour to have some linen to send her, for the following day. Marguerite replied that it was absolutely necessary, for without it she could not change Marianne's poultices. Ernestine was very much embarrassed; she was afraid of Madame Bastien, who had been in the family thirty years, and possessed great authority. The servants feared her, because she was exact and economical, and Ernestine, without knowing why, did the same. At that moment, she would have been very glad if her papa and mamma had themselves undertaken to provide for Marianne's wants. She saw in this charge a host of embarrassments, from which she knew not how to extricate herself, but she did not dare to say so. While standing, thoughtfully, on the spot where Marguerite had left her, she saw Madame Bastien approaching. She blushed, for she thought of what she had to ask her, and stooped down as if to look at her Hortensia, which was placed upon the step, at the side of the yard. Madame Bastien stopped to look at it, and remarked that it was very beautiful. Ernestine, who was anxious to prolong the conversation, showed her two slips from it which she had planted the preceding year; they each bore two buds which were beginning to swell. Madame Bastien admired these also.

"Will you accept of them?" asked Ernestine, with eagerness. Madame Bastien refused, saying she did not like to deprive her of them.

"Oh yes! yes!" said Ernestine, and taking the two pots under her arm she lightly descended the steps and ran to place them on the window of the lower room, where Madame Bastien usually worked. Madame Bastien followed her, thanking her very much for this present, with which she seemed to be greatly pleased, and at the same time admiring the hortensias. Ernestine went and got some water for them, wiped the leaves, and changed the sticks intended for their support, but which were beginning to be too short for them. Madame Bastien hardly knew how to thank her sufficiently for so much attention.

"Madame Bastien," said Ernestine, as she tied the last prop, "could you not give me some old linen for poor Marianne? Mamma has given me permission to ask you for some."

"Very willingly," said Madame Bastien, in the best-humoured manner in the world; "the poor woman shall have as much as she requires; she is laid up for a long time;" and she took Ernestine to the linen closet, where she made up a large parcel, which Ernestine, her heart bounding with joy, carried off, and hastened to show it triumphantly to her mother, who allowed her to take it herself to Marianne. Whilst waiting on the step for her nurse, she saw Suzette, Marianne's little girl, enter the yard, walking slowly by the side of the wall, looking first on one side, and then on the other, as if fearful, yet anxious to be seen. Ernestine descended a few steps and called to her.

"How is your mother?" she asked. "Pretty well," replied Suzette, with a heavy sigh.

"What are you looking for?"

"Nothing;" and this nothing was followed by a sigh still heavier than the former. She began to look at Ernestine's flowers, and said, "What beautiful flowers!" then, as if continuing the conversation, she added:

"I have had no dinner to-day."

"You have had no dinner?"

"No, and I don't think I shall get any."

"Why not?"

"Because mother cannot give me any."

"Stay, then," said Ernestine, and running to her mother, she exclaimed, "Mamma, here is Suzette, and she has had no dinner."

"Very well, my child, something must be done for her."

"Yes, mamma; do you think," and she hesitated—"do you think it would be a positive expense if Suzette were to be fed here? It seems to me that there is sufficient in the pantry...."

"I think, my dear, there is; there would only be the bread...."

"Oh, yes; but, mamma, they bake at home for the servants; would it be necessary to bake more on account of Suzette?"

"I think not, provided at least that you will not waste it as you are in the habit of doing, by cutting large slices to give to Turc, who ought to have only the fragments."

Ernestine promised, and Madame de Cideville consented to Suzette's being fed at the chÂteau, during her mother's illness. While now waiting for her dinner, Ernestine got her a piece of bread, to which she added, as it was the first time, a little gingerbread cake which she brought from her own room, as it belonged to her. In passing by Turc, who as soon as he saw her, came out of his kennel, and got as near to her as the length of his chain would permit, all the time wagging his tail and lowering his ears: "My poor Turc," said she, "you will have nothing now but the pieces." Nevertheless she begged Suzette to give him a bit of her bread, as a mark of friendship, and promised herself to go and look for some in the piece-basket, in order not to forfeit Turc's good graces.

She would carry the bundle of linen herself, although it was rather heavy. Fortunately, Marianne lived quite close to the chÂteau. On reaching her house, all flushed with pleasure as well as embarrassment, she said, "Here, Marianne, here is some old linen I have got for you."

"I assure you," said the nurse, "she was very anxious to bring it to you."

"It is very kind, Mademoiselle Ernestine," said one of the women who was there, "to come and comfort poor people."

This speech gratified Ernestine, but embarrassed her still more. Children, and especially girls, are timid with the poor, because they have seen little of them, are unaccustomed to their manners and language, and do not know how to talk to them. This timidity, which they do not sufficiently endeavour to overcome, often causes them to be accused of haughtiness. Fortunately for Ernestine, Suzette, who had followed her, came forward eating, with good appetite, a piece of bread. She was asked where she got it, and replied that Mademoiselle Ernestine had given it to her.

"I have asked mamma," said Ernestine, addressing Marianne, "to let her be fed at the chÂteau, all the time you are ill."

"This is just what was wanted to cure her," said the woman who had before spoken, "for she has done nothing for a long time but cry, and say, 'Who will take care of my poor child?' I told her that if she tormented herself in that manner her blood would be curdled."

"Suzette shall want for nothing, my poor Marianne," said Ernestine, with great earnestness, "nor you either, I hope."

Joy and gratitude were painted on the suffering countenance of Marianne; she clasped her hands under the bedclothes, for she had been forbidden to move. An old woman who was seated near her bed, let fall her crutch, and taking the hand of Ernestine within her own, said to her, "You are a good young lady, and God will bless you." Ernestine was so moved, that tears almost came to her eyes. She now felt more at her ease and her nurse having questioned the women who were there as to what had been done, and what ordered by the surgeon, she joined in the conversation, and in a short time her embarrassment quite vanished. When she left, Marianne raised her feeble voice to bless her; and the old woman again said, "You are a good young lady." The other woman followed her to the door and looked after her. She felt that they would talk about her in that poor cottage, and say that she was good, and this thought made her experience a pleasure which had hitherto been unknown to her. Suzette, who followed her like her shadow, she considered as under her especial protection, and she seemed to herself to be older and more reasonable, now that she was able to protect some one. At this moment, she would not have exchanged the pleasure of having Marianne under her charge for all the enjoyments in the world. She hastened to communicate to her parents all the joy she experienced, and they shared it with her. She told her mother that there was still one thing which she had to beg of her, but she hoped that it would be the last. It was some broth for Marianne; "I could easily," she said, "boil her some meat, but then I should require wood, and besides meat would not be good for her. If the broth were made for two days, it would turn at the first storm; and, besides, it would give more trouble to her neighbours. Perhaps some could be sent to her from here without increasing the expense."

"I see," said her mother, smiling, "that you begin to understand what you are about." This was the result of her conversation with the women who took care of Marianne. Madame de Cideville permitted her to ask M. FranÇois the cook for some broth, and M. FranÇois promised to give her some with great pleasure, provided Mademoiselle Ernestine did not incessantly say to him, "M. FranÇois, do not so often give us melted butter with asparagus in it;" "M. FranÇois, the spinach had no taste to-day;" or else, "I do not like pease soup!"

Ernestine promised to be satisfied with everything, and she was, at all events, perfectly satisfied with her day's work.

In the afternoon, she gathered in the fields several of the herbs which she had been told might be required for Marianne. She also learned to distinguish a few which grew in the uncultivated parts of the park, and even in the crevices of the walls. They were shown to the surgeon, who thought many of them very good; some others were necessary, and these he promised to supply himself; Ernestine asked him the price. "Nothing to you, my dear young lady," he replied, "I do not wish to ruin so pretty a sister of charity." Ernestine blushed and thanked him, and from that moment treated him with a degree of respect and politeness, which charmed the good doctor so much, that he redoubled his attentions to Marianne. He gave Ernestine an account of her condition, and told her what was necessary to be done, and Ernestine thanked him in a manner which completely won his heart. He joked with her, she laughed with him; they became the best friends imaginable. One day a rather expensive drug was wanted: Ernestine insisted on paying for it; he would not allow it; "I am also an apothecary," he said; "I prepare that myself."

"Yes, but you would sell it."

"That is not certain. There are drugs which must be prepared in advance, in order that they may always be ready in case of need, and which, nevertheless, if kept too long, run the risk of being spoiled. This risk we are obliged to charge against those who have money, by making them pay a higher price, which is but just; but it is also just that the poor should profit by it in receiving for nothing what might otherwise be spoiled."

Ernestine was satisfied with the surgeon's arguments, but she told her mother that as she wished to make him a present which would not be very expensive to her, she had determined to embroider a waistcoat for him, which would suit his portly person wonderfully well. Her mother approved of her idea, and even assisted her, and when the waistcoat was completed, the surgeon was invited to dinner. Ernestine placed it under his napkin, and it gave him so much pleasure, that there was certainly nothing in the world which he would not have done to oblige his little sister of charity, as he always called her.

From the moment that Marianne began to improve, she had required soup, and the surgeon wished it to be made of lighter bread than that which was baked for the servants, that it might not injure a stomach weakened as much by want as by illness. Ernestine, at first, bought some, but she afterwards remarked that large pieces were frequently left from that served at their own table, which no one made use of, and which were only thrown into the refuse-basket. She had, at first, some scruples as to the propriety of making use of these.

"Mamma," said she to Madame de Cideville, "is it not wrong to collect pieces for Marianne as we do for Turc?"

"It is not at all the same thing, my child; for they ought only to be given to Turc, on the supposition that they cannot be put to any other use. If you gave them to Marianne only because they were refused by every one else, that would undoubtedly be wrong, for you know that God punished the wicked rich man, because he did nothing for Lazarus, except permitting him to eat the crumbs that fell from his table. Instead of performing an act of charity, you would show a cruel and odious contempt of the poor; but so far from its being a contempt of Marianne, that you collect this bread, you do it, on the contrary, for the sake of having additional means of benefiting her."

Ernestine, though thus encouraged by her mother, nevertheless felt rather embarrassed when she carried these pieces to Marianne, after having cut them as neatly as possible. She wished to take them herself, although Suzette was her usual messenger in these cases, and she blushed, as she showed them to the neighbour who was to prepare the soup. The latter showed them to Marianne, who seemed much pleased at the prospect of having such pieces every day, and Ernestine saw plainly that where there is real kindness, there is never any danger of hurting the feelings of those whom we oblige; it is only intentional slight, or inattention, which can really wound. From this time Ernestine carefully made the round of the table each day, after breakfast, and after dinner, and sometimes, in order that she might carry to Marianne a little loaf quite whole, she said at breakfast that she preferred the household bread with her milk and butter.

Under all this care, the health of Marianne improved daily, but Ernestine looked with anxiety to the moment when her patient would again have to provide for herself and daughter, more especially as during her illness she had been obliged to neglect her little garden, which supplied her with vegetables. One day Ernestine saw GeneviÈve, the daughter of Jacques, the gardener, returning from catechism, crying. She was to make her first communion this year, and went to catechism to be instructed; but as she had no mother, and as her father had not time to hear her repeat her lesson, GeneviÈve, who was naturally indolent, always learned it badly, and was reprimanded. Ernestine, who was much more advanced, although younger than GeneviÈve, offered to go over her lessons with her, and by dint of pains at last succeeded in fixing them in her mind. Her only object, at first, had been to be useful to GeneviÈve, but the same day, the gardener having asked her how Marianne was getting on, she replied, "Pretty well, but I am afraid her garden is doing very badly, for no one takes care of it."

"We must see to that," said Jacques, and Ernestine smiled graciously as he went away. The next day, while in the garden hearing GeneviÈve her lesson, she saw Jacques returning from Marianne's, in whose garden he had been planting a few cabbages. He ordered GeneviÈve to go in the afternoon, and pull up the weeds, and promised Ernestine, who thanked him warmly, to take care of it as long as it might be necessary. She put GeneviÈve in a condition to receive her first communion, and when on leaving the church, GeneviÈve came to thank her, Ernestine experienced great delight, and a very pardonable pride, in seeing herself already useful to several people.

She was rewarded for her benevolence to Marianne in more ways than one; for as she had often favours to ask for, she became obliging to every one, and displayed a degree of attention and kindness which she had never previously manifested, so that every one became eager to gratify her. Her nurse, especially, had never before been so pleased with her, and hardly knew how to express her satisfaction. She took her to Marianne as often as she wished, and offered to teach Suzette to work; they also taught her to take care of her mother, as soon as she became convalescent, in order that her neighbours might return to their own affairs. They showed her, besides, how to weed and water the garden. Ernestine made her do this under her own superintendence, while one of the servants of the chÂteau, whom she politely begged to assist them, drew the buckets of water from the well. Ernestine often watered it herself; it was her chief recreation, for she no longer took pleasure in childish sports.

The serious and useful occupations in which she was engaged, inspired her with rational tastes, and she could no longer amuse herself with childish frivolities. At the same time, she had never felt so happy or less disposed to ennui; for when she had nothing else to do, she would take her knitting, and make a petticoat for Marianne, or she would arrange an old dress for Suzette, or work for herself; for her mother had promised her that the money she saved by making her own dresses, should be spent in wine for Marianne.

At length the time arrived when Marianne was allowed to get up. "I cannot yet walk," said she to Ernestine, "but I am able to work. If I had some hemp, I could spin." Ernestine bought her some, and Marianne, who was very industrious, and terribly wearied from having so long remained idle, spun from morning till night. She sent the thread to a weaver, who, in exchange, gave her a certain quantity of coarse linen cloth, which Madame de Cideville purchased of her for the use of the kitchen. She procured some fresh hemp, and began to spin again. A short time after Marianne's accident, Ernestine had bought for her a little pig, which she had obtained very cheap. A sty had been made for it in the yard of the chÂteau, out of some old planks, and it was fed from the refuse of the kitchen. Ernestine had taught Suzette to collect for it everything that could serve as food, and as it was now grown large, she gave it to Marianne. The garden had afforded a good crop of potatoes, and Ernestine was able to return to Paris, at the beginning of the winter, without any anxiety about the subsistence of her protegÉe, whose health was now quite re-established.

"Well, are you satisfied with the use you have made of your louis?" said M. de Cideville, when they were in the carriage. Ernestine threw her arms round her father's neck. This louis had made her so happy! It is true she had spent something additional, and had besides been well assisted.

"You have laid us under contribution for Marianne," said M. de Cideville, smiling. "When you are older, you will know that we ought not to concentrate the whole of our benevolence on a single object, but endeavour to make all the unfortunate who are within our reach, partakers of our bounty."

"But, papa, I was only able to take care of Marianne."

"Undoubtedly, and I am not blaming you; but as you will hereafter have greater means, you will, I hope, know how to combine your resources in such a manner that many may be benefited by them. Meanwhile, you have made so good a use of your louis, that I promise to give you one every three months, to be disposed of in a similar manner."

Ernestine clapped her hands with an exclamation of surprise and joy, and again threw herself into her father's arms.

"But remember," he said, "that this sum ought to form the smallest portion of the means you employ in doing good, and that you ought only to have recourse to it when you cannot manage otherwise."

Ernestine assured him that this was her intention, and that she would be very careful to spare her money.

"We ought to spare expense," replied her father, "whenever we can supply its place by care, industry, and order. The true use of money is to give us those things which we could not otherwise obtain; for instance, we cannot make our own shoes or clothes; therefore, we pay for having them made; and according to the usages of society, we cannot enjoy a certain position, and still wait upon ourselves; we therefore pay, in order to have servants. But a lady who, instead of taking care of her own household, and superintending her servants, pays another to do it in her place, makes but a bad use of her money; for it is absurd to employ it in purchasing from others what we can do ourselves. The same may be said of those who, instead of employing their activity and care in doing good, only make use of their money. They spend a great deal, and accomplish very little; for he who does everything with money, has never sufficient."

"It seems to me," said Ernestine, "that we also lose the pleasure of doing good; for if I had had ten louis to give to Marianne, they would not have afforded me so much happiness as the care which you have allowed me to take of her all the summer."

M. de Cideville informed his daughter, that there were many persons who believed they could render themselves happy by getting rid of everything which occasioned them the slightest trouble, but who, on the contrary, gave themselves up to the most frightful ennui. He told her that this happened to all those who shrank from struggling with the first difficulties and annoyances of a project: and, in fact, Ernestine remembered that, at the first moment, she would gladly have transferred to her parents, had she dared to do so, the care of providing for Marianne's wants, and thus have lost all the happiness she had since enjoyed.

Ernestine has grown up. It is usually on her father's estate that she employs, every year, the four louis, and especially the astonishing talent she has acquired of doing a great deal of good with very little money. She is adored by every one in the village, and as she has rendered services to many among them, she readily obtains from them assistance for those who stand in need of it. Thus her resources multiply. She has sown, in a corner of her father's park, those medicinal plants which are most generally required, and has also learned to dry them. She hopes that Suzette, who is becoming a pretty good workwoman, will soon, under her direction, be able to instruct the other girls of the village. She and her nurse have also taught her to read. As for herself, she endeavours to learn everything which can aid her in doing good, without spending too much money, and she laughs very heartily when she calls to mind the regret she once felt at not being able to spend a louis on a moving picture.