It was a village fair, and Punch with his usual retinue—Judy, the Beadle, and the Constable—had established himself on one side of the green; while on the other were to be seen, Martin, the learned ass, and Peerless Jacquot, the wonderful parrot. Matthieu la Bouteille (such was the nickname bestowed upon the owner of the ass, a name justified by the redness of his nose) held Martin by the bridle, while Peerless Jacquot rested on his shoulder, attached by a chain to his belt. His wife, surnamed La Mauricaude, had undertaken to assemble the company, and to display Martin's talents. Thomas, the son of La Mauricaude, a child of eleven years of age, covered with a few rags, which had once been a pair of trowsers and a shirt, collected, in the remnant of a hat, the voluntary contributions of the spectators; while in the background, sad and silent, stood Gervais, a lad of between fourteen and fifteen years of age, Matthew's son by a former marriage.

"Come, ladies and gentlemen," exclaimed La Mauricaude, in her hoarse voice, "come and see Martin; he will tell you, ladies and gentlemen, what you know and what you don't know. Come, ladies and gentlemen, and hear Peerless Jacquot; he will reply to what you say to him, and to what you do not say to him." And this joke, constantly repeated by La Mauricaude in precisely the same tone, always attracted an audience of pretty nearly the same character.

"Now then, Martin," continued La Mauricaude, as soon as the circle was formed, "tell this honourable company what o'clock it is." Martin, whether he did not understand, or did not choose to reply, still remained motionless. La Mauricaude renewed the question: Martin shook his ears. "Do you say, Martin, that you cannot see the clock at this distance?" continued La Mauricaude. "Has any one a watch?" Immediately an enormous watch was produced from the pocket of a farmer, and placed under the eyes of Martin, who appeared to consider it attentively. The whole assembly, like Martin himself, stretched forward with increased attention. It was just noon by the watch; after a few moments' reflection, Martin raised his head and uttered three vigorous hihons, to which the crowd responded by a burst of laughter, which did not in the least appear to disturb Martin. "Oh, oh! Martin," cried La Mauricaude, "I see you are thinking of three o'clock, the time for having your oats; but you must wait, so what say you to a game of cards, in order to pass the time?" And a pack of cards, almost effaced by dirt, was immediately extracted from a linen bag which hung at La Mauricaude's right side, and spread out in the midst of the circle, which drew in closer, in order to enjoy a nearer view of the spectacle about to be afforded by the talents of Martin. "Now then, Martin; now then, my boy," continued his instructress, "draw: draw first of all the knave of hearts, and present it to this honourable company as a sign of your attachment and respect;" and already the two or three wits of the crowd had nodded their heads with an air of approbation at this ingenious compliment, when Martin, after repeated orders, put forth his right foot, and placed it upon the seven of spades.

At this moment the voice of a parrot was heard in the midst of the crowd, distinctly pronouncing the words, "That won't do, my good fellow." It was Peerless Jacquot, who, wearied at not having been called upon to join in the conversation, repeated one of his favourite phrases. The appropriateness of his speech restored the good humour of the company, who were beginning to be disgusted with Martin's stupidity; and their attention would probably have been bestowed upon Jacquot, had not Punch's trumpet been at that moment heard, announcing that the actors were ready and the performances about to commence. At this signal Martin's audience began to disperse; the ranks thinned, and the remnant of the hat, which was seen advancing in the hands of Thomas, effectually drove away those who still lingered from curiosity or indifference. All took the same direction; and Matthew, Thomas, La Mauricaude, Martin, and Jacquot followed, with more or less of ill-humour, the crowd which had deserted them. Gervais alone, separating from them, went into a neighbouring street to offer his services, during the fair time, to a farrier engaged in shoeing the horses of the visitors.

A far different spectacle from any with which Martin could amuse them, awaited the curious on the other side of the green. An enormous mastiff had just been unharnessed from a little cart, upon which he had brought the theatre and company of the Marionettes; and now, lying down in front of the tent and at the feet of his master, he seemed to take under his protection those things which had thus far travelled under his conveyance. Medor's appearance was that of a useful and well-treated servant; his looks towards his master those of a confiding friend. Va-bon-train (this was the name of the owner of the Marionettes) might easily be recognized for an old soldier. The regularity of his movements added greatly to the effect of their vivacity; everything happened in its proper turn, and at its proper time. His utterance was precise without being abrupt, and the tone of military firmness which he associated with the tricks of his trade, gave to them a certain degree of dignity. Words taken from the languages of the different countries through which he had travelled were mingled, with wonderful gravity and readiness, in the dialogue of the personages whom he put in action; and scenes in which he had been personally concerned, either as actor or witness, fired his imagination, and furnished incidents which enabled him to vary his representations to an unlimited extent. He was assisted by his son Michael, a fine lad about the age of Gervais, whom he very much resembled, although the countenance of the one was as serious as that of the other was cheerful and animated.

There was nothing strange in this resemblance, for Matthew and Va-bon-train were brothers, and Michael and Gervais therefore first cousins. Va-bon-train, whose baptismal name was Vincent, owed his nickname less to the regularity of his movements than to the vivacity of his disposition and the promptitude of his determinations. Having at the age of twenty-five lost his wife, to whom he was much attached, and who had died in giving birth to Michael, he could not endure even a temporary grief, and therefore determined, in order to divert his mind, to enter the army, which he did in the quality of substitute, leaving the price of his engagement for the support of his son, whom he confided to the care of Matthew's wife, who had just given birth to Gervais. She nursed both the children, and brought them up with an equal tenderness and in good habits, for she was a worthy woman. They went to the same school, where they learned to read and write, and were instructed in their religion; they began working together in Matthew's shop, at his trade of a blacksmith; and, in fine, they were united by a friendship which was no less ardent on the part of the lively Michael than on that of the graver Gervais. At the age of thirteen, Gervais had the misfortune of losing his mother, and almost at the same time the additional one of being separated from Michael. Vincent Va-bon-train, who had obtained his discharge, had come for his son, whose assistance he required in carrying out his enterprise of the Marionettes, in which he had just engaged. Soon afterwards Matthew's affairs began to fall into confusion. While his wife lived she had kept a check on his love of drink, but no sooner was she dead than he gave himself up to it without restraint. At the tavern he became acquainted with La Mauricaude, a low, bad-principled woman, who had followed all sorts of trades. He was foolish enough to marry her, and they soon squandered the little that remained to him, already much diminished by his disorderly conduct. Then she persuaded him to give up the shop, and travel through the country with his ass and his parrot, assuring him that he would thereby gain a great deal of money. This wandering kind of life accorded better than regular labour with Matthew's newly-acquired habits; and he was the more ready to trust the assurances of his wife, as Va-bon-train had just reappeared in the country in a prosperous condition, the result of the success of his Marionettes. Matthew then formed the idea of entering into partnership with his brother; but the latter was not at all anxious for the connexion, as Matthew's conduct was not calculated to inspire him with any confidence. His second marriage had displeased him, and he disliked La Mauricaude, though he had seen her but casually; but a soldier is not apt to be deterred by trifles, nor to allow his antipathies to interfere with his actions; and besides, Matthew had rendered him a service in bringing up his son Michael. For this he was grateful, and glad, therefore, to have an opportunity of manifesting his gratitude. The caravan consequently set out, Michael delighted at being once more with his beloved Gervais, and Gervais sad at leaving the respectable and regular course of life which suited him, viz. his trade of blacksmith, in which, notwithstanding his father's negligence in instructing him, he had already attained some proficiency. He was in some degree consoled, however, by the prospect of travelling, and travelling with Michael; and he was glad to leave a place where the misconduct of his father had ended in destroying the good reputation which until then his family had always enjoyed.

Unfortunately, the faults which had destroyed Matthew's reputation followed him wherever he went. Before the end of the first week, the two parties had disagreed. The baseness of La Mauricaude, and the wicked propensities of her son Thomas, who was always better pleased with stealing a thing than with receiving it as a gift, were soon discovered to Va-bon-train, in a manner which led him to determine to break his agreement with them as readily as he had made it; and when he said to his brother, "We must separate," just as when he said, "We will go together," the matter was settled, and all opposition was out of the question. Michael no more thought of opposing his father's resolution than any one else, he only threw himself weeping into the arms of Gervais, who pressed his hand sadly, but with resignation, having at least the comfort of thinking that his uncle would no longer be a witness of the disgraceful conduct of his family. La Mauricaude was furious, and declared that she was not to be shaken off in that easy style; and she determined to follow her brother-in-law, in spite of himself, in order to profit by the crowd he always attracted, and to endeavour at the same time to injure him, either by speaking ill of him in every way she could, or by trying to interrupt his performances, by the shrieks of the parrot, which she had taught to repeat insulting phrases, and to imitate the voice of the Marionettes. For two months she persisted in her resolution, notwithstanding the remonstrances of Matthew, whose remonstrances, indeed, were usually of very little avail. At first, Va-bon-train was annoyed with these things; but he soon reconciled himself to them with his usual promptitude. One day, however, he said to his brother, "Listen, Matthew: the roads are free; but let me not hear that you have allowed any one to think that that toad yonder has the insolence to call herself my sister." So saying, he showed La Mauricaude the whip with which he was accustomed to give Medor a slight touch now and then, in order to keep him attentive, and the handle of which had more than once warned Michael of some failure in discipline. From that time, Gervais no longer saluted his uncle, for fear of offending him; and La Mauricaude, notwithstanding her impudence, did not dare to run the risk of braving him openly. Besides, she would have found it no easy task to entice away his audience. Who could enter into competition with "the great, the wonderful, il vero Scaramuccia, Gentlemen, just come direct from Naples,[1] to present to you, lustrissimi, the homage of his colleagues, the Lazzaroni? Baccia vu, your hand, Monsu de Scaramouche." And Scaramouche bowed his head, and raised his hand to his mouth, with a series of movements capable of making you forget the threads by which they were directed. "Look, gentlemen, look at Scaramouche, look at him full in the face; it is indeed Scaramouche; he has not a sou, not a pezzetta, Gentlemen, but how happy he is! See him with his mouth extended from ear to ear; his foot raised, ready to run or jump: but one turn of the hand, one single turn of the wheel of fortune, and behold the metamorphosis! How anxious and grieved he looks! He is now the Signor Scaramuccia, he has become rich, he is counting his money in his hand; he counts, and now he counts more still, and ever with increased vexation. Oh! what has happened to him now? His countenance is changed. Oh! what a piteous face! He weeps; he tears his cap. Povero Scaramuccia! What! presso 'l denaro! Your money has been stolen! Come, come, Scaramouche, fa cuore, take courage. No!... Ammazarti? You want to kill yourself! Very well then, but first of all a little Macaroni. Yes, poor fellow, he will enjoy his Macaroni. See, gentlemen, how piteously he stretches out his hand, how he eats with tears in his eyes; but, pian piano, Scaramuccia, gently, vuoi mangiare tutto? Would you eat the whole? Alas! yes; tutto mangiare, all, per morire! in order that he may die! What, die of indigestion! You are joking, Scaramouche; Macaroni never killed a Lazzarone. Stop, see, he revives again; how he draws up his leg as a mark of pleasure! How he turns his eyes every time he opens his mouth to receive una copiosa pinch di Macaroni! O che gusto! che boccone! How delightful! what a mouthful! Make your minds easy, gentlemen, Scaramouche is alive again." A variety of scenes succeeded, displaying Scaramouche under numerous aspects, each more admirable than the former. The last was that in which the German on duty stopped Scaramouche, with the exclamation Wer da! Scaramouche replied in Italian, vainly endeavouring to make himself understood, and avoiding, by dint of suppleness, the terrible bayonet of the German. Then Punch came up, arguing to as little purpose in French. At length, the Devil carried away the German, and Punch and Scaramouche went to enjoy a bottle together. The beauty of the invention drew forth enthusiastic and universal applause; the politicians of the place exchanged mysterious glances; and when Scaramouche presented to the assembled crowd the little saucer which had been placed in his hands, there was no one who did not hasten to offer his sou, his liard, or his centime, for the pleasure of receiving a bow or a nod from Scaramouche.

The crowd slowly dispersed, conversing on the pleasure they had enjoyed. "His Scaramouche breaks my back," said La Mauricaude, in a tone of ill-temper.

"I have often told you, wife," replied her husband, "that by persisting in following them"....

"I have often told you, husband, that you are a fool," was the reply of La Mauricaude. To Matthew it appeared unanswerable; and Thomas, at a look from his mother, went off to visit Medor, who received him politely, and with an air of old acquaintanceship. Va-bon-train perceived him, cracked his great whip, and Thomas immediately ran away as fast as he could.

Gervais was passing along the green, leading back to its owner a horse, which he had helped to shoe. He did not approach, but Medor perceived him at a distance, got up, wagged his tail, and gave a slight whine, partly from the delight of seeing him, and partly from annoyance at not being able to go with him. Gervais gave him a friendly nod. Michael fondly kissed the great head of Medor, and a smile seemed to brighten the countenance of Gervais, at this expression of Michael's affection. It was only in such ways as this that any interchange of thought was permitted to them.

Though possessed of many good qualities, Va-bon-train had one defect,—that of forming precipitate judgments, and of being unwilling to correct them when formed. He came to a decision at once, in order that a matter might the sooner be settled; and when he had decided, he did not wish to be disturbed in his opinion, as it took up too much time to change his mind. The violence done to his feelings in enduring La Mauricaude for a whole week had so much increased his prejudice, that it had extended to the whole family. La Mauricaude was a demon, Matthew a fool, Thomas a rascal, and Gervais a simpleton. These four judgments once pronounced, were not to be over-ruled. Va-bon-train was very fond of his son, whose disposition quite accorded with his own; but he kept him, in military style, under a strict and prompt obedience, aware that the kind of life he made him follow, might, without the greatest care, lead a young man into habits of irregularity and idleness. Fortunately Michael was possessed of good dispositions, had been well brought up, and preferred to all other company the society of his father, who amused him with his numerous anecdotes. Besides, he made it a matter of pride to assist his father as much as possible, and was never so delighted as when his exertions had contributed to the success of the day. Va-bon-train's industry was not confined to his Marionettes; he took advantage of his constant journeys to carry on a small traffic, purchasing in one canton such goods as happened to be cheap there, and selling them in some other, where they were of greater value. He taught Michael how to buy and sell, and make advantageous speculations; and Michael would have been perfectly happy in following this kind of busy, useful life, had it not been for the grief he felt in being unable to share his pleasures with Gervais. But when, after having slept at the best inn which the town or village in which they happened to be, afforded, he saw Gervais in the morning, pale, from having passed a cold or rainy night with no other shelter than an old barn, his heart was pierced; and, notwithstanding his father's commands, he found means to get away, and, with a flask in his hand, hastened to offer a glass of wine to his friend, who refused it with a shake of the head, but with a friendly look. Michael sighed; yet this refusal only served to increase his affection for Gervais; for he well knew that his offer was refused from honourable feelings, not from pride or rancour. Nor was his mind relieved, except when Gervais succeeded in finding work; for then he knew that he would have a good day. When at work, the habitually sad expression of Gervais' countenance, gave place to an air of animation quite pleasant to behold; and even Va-bon-train himself had been unable to resist the temptation of stopping to look at him; and, observing the dexterity and courage with which he managed the horses, he remarked, "By my faith, that fellow works well." Then Michael hastened to reply, "Oh! Gervais is a capital workman;" and he was beginning to add, "and such a good boy too," when Va-bon-train passed on and spoke of other things. Michael then contented himself with remaining a little behind, watching Gervais at work; and when they had exchanged looks, they separated satisfied.

Up to that time Gervais had been unsuccessful in his efforts to find a master who would take him into regular employment. There was no one to be answerable for him; and those with whom he travelled were not of a character to give him a recommendation. However, he made the best he could of his wandering life, by endeavouring to perfect himself in his trade, losing no opportunity of gaining information, and examining with care the treatment employed in the various maladies of animals, and all the other operations of the veterinary art. He also managed to live on his daily earnings, which he economized with the greatest care, and thereby escaped the necessity of partaking of the ill-gotten repasts of La Mauricaude and her son. Sometimes even he shared his own food with his father, whose wretched life was spent in a state of alternate intoxication and want, giving himself up to drink the moment he had money, and the next day going without bread. As it suited La Mauricaude to have some one who could take care of the ass and the parrot, while she and her son attended to their own affairs, they were induced to treat Matthew with some degree of consideration, at least so far as to allow him a share in their profits, of which, however, they were careful to conceal from him the source, for Matthew, even in his degraded condition, preserved an instinct of honesty, which sometimes caused him to say with a significant air, but only when he was intoxicated, "As for me, I am an honest man;" for when sober, he had not so much wit. La Mauricaude had several times endeavoured to get from Gervais the money he earned, but her demands were always firmly resisted, and Gervais afterwards took especial care not to leave his money within reach of her or her son. She had likewise tried to breed dissensions between him and his father; but Matthew respected his son, and La Mauricaude found that it was not to her interest to excite too much the attention of Gervais, for his surveillance would have been very inconvenient to her. She therefore ended by leaving him in tolerable peace, one reason of which may have been that she saw little of him, as he usually left the party as soon as it was day, and did not return until bed-time, when he rarely slept under a roof, unless it was that of some deserted shed.

The performances of the morning were over, and Va-bon-train stood chatting at the door of the inn where he had dined with an old friend, a blacksmith from Lyons. They were then about twenty-five leagues distant from that town, on the road to Tournon, whither the blacksmith was going on some private business. Blanchet, such was this person's name, was clever at his trade, and well to do in the world. The blacksmith of the village in which they were then staying was a former apprentice and workman of his, and he had stopped to visit him as he passed through, and was now on the point of resuming his journey. The forge was at a short distance from the inn; and Gervais, who had just left it, as it was getting dark, came up to the spot where Va-bon-train and Blanchet were conversing. The street was narrow, and, moreover, partially blocked up by a horse that was tied in front of the inn. Va-bon-train chancing to turn his head in the direction by which Gervais was approaching, perceived him coming, and drew back to allow him to pass. Gervais blushed and hesitated; he had not been so close to his uncle for two months. At length he passed on, and, without raising his eyes, bowed to him as he would have done to a stranger, but with an expression of the most profound respect. Michael's eyes were suffused with tears, and for a moment those of Va-bon-train followed his nephew, who, turning round and encountering his uncle's looks, hastily withdrew his own and continued his way.

"Do you know that lad?" demanded Blanchet.

—"Why?"

"Because yonder at the forge, a short time since, they were talking about you."

—"And what did he say?" continued Va-bon-train, with an expression of rising displeasure.

—"He? Nothing:—but one of the men was relating something, I don't know what, about a woman with whom he had been drinking yesterday, some two leagues hence, and who told him that you had abandoned your brother in misfortune. This lad immediately tapped him on the shoulder, saying, 'Comrade, that is no business of yours. It is always best not to interfere in family quarrels.' The man was silenced; and I, learning from what passed, that you were here, for I had not then been out upon the green, I wished to add my word, so I said, that if you did leave your brother in misfortune, it must be because he deserved it, for I well knew the kindness of your heart; whereupon, the young fellow gave me also my answer, though politely enough however, for he said, 'Notwithstanding all that, Master Blanchet, it is much better not to interfere in family affairs;' and the lad was right as to that; but from all this I thought he must know you, more especially when, a short time since, while passing the inn-yard, I saw him enter it, and draw some water for your dog to drink."

Va-bon-train was visibly moved. Michael, whose heart beat violently, looked at his father.

"He was at work, then, at the blacksmith's?" demanded the latter with some degree of emotion.

"Yes; and hard at it too, I can tell you. It is vexatious that you do not know him. He was anxious to be taken as a regular hand there; but when asked who would be answerable for him, he replied, 'No one.' Had it not been for this, I would have engaged him myself, for I am sure he will turn out a capital workman."

"You think so?"

"Oh! you should see how he sets to work; he would learn more about his business with me in six months, than with any one else in three years. But one cannot take him without a recommendation. I heard him say to one of his companions, that this was the third situation he had lost in this manner, nor will he ever get one."

"Oh dear!" exclaimed Michael, who could no longer restrain his feelings.

"Well!" said Va-bon-train. "My friend Blanchet will take him on my recommendation. Take him, friend; I know him, and will be answerable for him."

"Nonsense! what are you talking about?"

"Nothing; only that I shall see you at Lyons, whither you are returning:—but when?"

"I shall be there on Monday week."

"And so shall I; and I will come and dine with you: we will arrange this matter over our glasses. But, at all events, you will take the lad if I am answerable for him; do not make me break my word."

"No, no; the thing is settled; good bye till Monday week;" and they parted.

"But Gervais must be told," said Michael, trembling with joy.

"Go, then, and make haste back; tell him to be at Lyons by Monday week, if possible; but, above all, he must take care that the old toad knows nothing about it." This was his usual epithet for La Mauricaude. Michael departed, and Va-bon-train went to a neighbouring tavern, into which he had seen Matthew and his company enter. The price of a pair of stockings worth fifty sous, which had been stolen from a shop at the fair, and sold a quarter-of-an-hour afterwards for twenty, served to defray the expenses of the party; and Matthew, owing to the cheapness of the wine that season, was just on the verge of intoxication, when Va-bon-train, coming up, said to him, "Matthew, there is but one word between you and me: when I go one way, you must take care and go the other; if you don't, your old toad and her young one will every morning get for their breakfast a sound dressing from this whip."

"As for me, Vincent, I am an honest man," stammered Matthew. La Mauricaude was about to vociferate; and the host took part with his customer.

"Friend," said Va-bon-train, "when you settle your account with that hussey, I will not interfere; but look well to the money she gives you:" and he walked out. As soon as he was gone, La Mauricaude poured forth a torrent of abuse. Those of her neighbours whose hearts began to be warmed and their wits clouded by the wine they had taken, agreed unanimously, that to come and insult in that manner respectable people, who were quietly taking their glass, without interfering with any one, was a thing not to be borne: and Matthew again repeated, "As for me, I am an honest man." The rest, as they looked at La Mauricaude and her son, made some reflections on Va-bon-train's speech, and the host thought it high time to demand payment. This completed the ill-humour of La Mauricaude.

As for Michael, he had hastened to Gervais, and delivered his message. A sudden flush of surprise and joy suffused the countenance of the latter, on learning that his uncle would be answerable for him; and when the voice of Va-bon-train was heard calling his son, the two friends pressed each other's hands, and parted, each cherishing the thought of the happiness which was about to dawn for both of them.

All was quiet at the inn where Va-bon-train had taken up his abode for the night, when, awaking from his first sleep, he thought he heard Medor in the yard, groaning, and very uneasy. He went down stairs, and was surprised to find him tied by a cord to a tree that was near the cart, and so short that he could scarcely move. As he was accustomed to allow Medor his liberty at night, feeling quite sure that he would make use of it only to defend more effectually his master's property, he concluded that some one had thought to render him a service, by tying up the dog for fear of his escaping; for in the darkness he had not perceived that the other end of the cord which attached Medor to the tree, had been passed round his nose, so as to form a kind of muzzle. Eager to liberate the poor animal, he cut the cord, which was fastened round his neck by a slip knot, and which, but for the intervention of his collar, must have strangled him. The cord once cut, the knot gave way, and, by the aid of his fore paws, Medor was soon freed from his ignoble fetters. No sooner had he regained his liberty, than he began to scent with avidity all round the yard, moaning the whole time; then he dashed against the stable door as if he would break it in. His master, astonished, opened it for him, supposing, from what he knew of his instinct, that some suspicious person might be concealed there; but Medor was contented with running across the stable, still scenting, to the opposite door, which led into the street, and which, by the means of this stable, formed one of the entrances to the inn. His master called him, he came back with reluctance, and, still moaning, laid down at his feet, as if to solicit a favour; then he ran to the vehicle, again returned, and rushed with greater violence against the first door, which his master had in the mean time closed. Astonished at these manoeuvres, Va-bon-train went to his cart; but everything was in order, the trunk locked, and nothing apparently to justify the dog's agitation. Then, presuming that Medor, notwithstanding his good sense, was, like all dogs and all children, impatient to set out on his journey, and had been seized with this fancy rather earlier than usual, he gave him a cut with his whip, sent him back to the cart, and returned to bed.

The next morning, when he went down, he called Medor, but no Medor answered. He sought for him everywhere, but without success; he then recollected what had taken place during the night, and feared that some one had stolen him.

"Was he there," demanded one of the travellers, "when you went down in the night to take something from your cart?" Va-bon-train declared that he had taken nothing from his cart.

"The heat was insufferable," continued the man, "and we had the window open. One of the workmen from the forge, who slept in my room, said: 'See, there is some one meddling with the box belonging to the exhibitor of the Marionettes.' 'His dog does not growl,' said I, 'so it must be the man himself. Never mind, friend; let us sleep.'"

Va-bon-train hastened to his box, which was still locked; he opened it, and found everything in disorder: Scaramouche had disappeared, as well as a dozen of Madras handkerchiefs, the remains of a lot purchased at the fair of Beaucaire, and the greater part of which had been sold on his journey. Who could have done this? Va-bon-train remembered having found a key upon the road, a few days after he had associated himself with Matthew, and which fitted his trunk. He lost it again the next day, but had not troubled himself about it. Now he guessed into whose hands it had fallen, and felt assured that Medor would not have allowed himself to be approached and led away by any one but an acquaintance.

"That boy who was at work close by, at the blacksmith's," said the landlord of the inn, "did he not come in here, and give the dog some drink?"

"He who came with the woman and the ass?" said the hostess. "He seemed to be a respectable lad."

"You may think so," replied a neighbour; "but when I saw him enter the stable yonder, after dark, I said to Cateau, What is that little vagabond going to do there?"

"Gervais!" exclaimed Michael.

"Yes," said the landlord, "he was called Gervais at the blacksmith's." The flush of anger mounted to the face of Va-bon-train. The idea of having been duped was added to the annoyance of his loss, and he swore that he would never again be caught overcoming a prejudice. A less hasty disposition would have examined whether the innkeeper and the neighbour were not speaking of different persons, and whether suspicion ought not more naturally to fall upon Thomas and La Mauricaude. But the woman whose explanations would have thrown light upon the subject had gone home, and among those who remained there was no one who had seen them, or, at all events, who would acknowledge to have done so; for where there is not some falsehood to complicate matters, it is rare that truth does not break out, so great is its tendency to manifest itself.

La Mauricaude, who was never so persuasive as when she had been drinking, had formed acquaintance with one of the ostlers of the inn, who, on his side, was easily led by persuasion, when in the same condition. She had obtained from him a gratuitous place in the stable for Martin, and, though against his master's express orders, a corner also for Thomas. Hence, furnished with some of the remains of the travellers' supper, which he had obtained from his protector, it was an easy matter for Thomas to enter the yard, and entrap the too confiding Medor, who had no suspicion of treachery from the hand of an acquaintance. At the moment when Medor, without abandoning his post, raised his head to smell what was presented to him, Thomas passed the muzzle on his nose, and the slip knot round his neck, and the poor animal found himself tied up to a tree, without having been able to make the least resistance; for, could he have made any, he would easily have triumphed over his adversary. Thus master of the field, Thomas had no difficulty in prosecuting his designs, by means of the key which, at all risks, he had possessed himself of at the first opportunity that offered. Martin, taken from the stable before daybreak, carried off the stolen goods, and scarcely had the morning begun to dawn, when Matthew, roused from the heavy sleep of intoxication, and, almost unconscious of what he was doing, left the arch of the bridge, beneath which he had slept, in the bed of a dried-up stream.

Gervais had obtained, from the blacksmith by whom he had been employed, the permission to pass the night in his woodhouse, upon a heap of vine twigs. Awakening from a sleep which, for the first time for two months, had revived hope in his bosom, he arose with a light heart, full of eagerness to commence his journey towards his new destination. The evening before, he had told his father that he was going to leave him, for the purpose of seeking employment; and Matthew, whose paternal affections were greatly strengthened after the second bottle, gave him his benediction, with tears in his eyes, saying, "Go, my son, and gain an honest living; and wherever you go, you may declare that I am an honest man." As for La Mauricaude, she troubled herself very little about him, neither did he wish her to do so. His serious and reserved disposition had prevented anything like friendly feeling between them.

He walked with a light heart towards Lyons, calculating that in order to get there, he would require on his journey some little work and a great deal of frugality; for even by sleeping in sheds, beneath bridges, or under trees, it was impossible that his twenty-one sous, the proceeds of his work the day before, and of his previous economy, should be sufficient for the maintenance of a lad of fifteen, during the ten days that must yet elapse, before the arrival of that happy Monday, which was to bring him the protection of his uncle and of Master Blanchet. But how should he be uneasy about the means of reaching his destination? He was already there in imagination. He was about to live with those who, every day and every hour, would recognize his probity. He was going to have an opportunity of proving his right to be esteemed, a necessity keenly felt by those who, like him, have known humiliation without deserving it, and without allowing themselves to be depressed by its influence. And then, how many delights were in store for him! That pair of shoes which he carried so carefully fastened to the end of his stick, whenever he had far to walk, he might soon be able to wear continually, for he foresaw the time when he should be in a condition to buy others. Nevertheless, he must endeavour to make them last until he had purchased a second shirt, so as to avoid the necessity of going without one occasionally, as was the case, when of an evening, taking advantage of some secluded nook, he took off the only one he had, washed it in the stream and dried it on the grass of the bank. The idea of possessing a pair of stockings to dance in on holidays presented itself to his imagination in the distant future, around which crowded in perspective the inexhaustible joys of life. Then came the thoughts of a more solid happiness, and all the ambitions of an honourable man. He was able to set up for himself; to work on his own account; to withdraw his father from the wretched life his wicked companion forced him to lead, and secure to him a tranquil old age, due to his son who loved him notwithstanding his irregularities. Then, his thoughts rushing over intervening years, Gervais would quicken his steps as if to reach the future, and his imagination warmed, as the sun rose, and shed its brilliant beams over the horizon.

Whilst abandoning himself to these reveries, he felt something cool and moist pressing against his hand. It was the nose of Medor; who, after licking his hand, looked at him and wagged his tail, but with an expression which seemed to ask a question; and having smelt him from head to foot, he went on, his nose in the air, and smelling constantly with the same anxiety. Gervais called him back; Medor stopped, looked at him with an uneasy expression, and continued his journey in the same manner. It was quite evident that he was in search of something; but being ignorant of what had taken place during the night, Gervais was at a loss to conjecture what it could be. It struck him, that, separated perhaps by some accident, Medor and his master might now be in search of each other, and with this idea, he could not suppose that Va-bon-train was still at the inn, whither Medor would undoubtedly have returned; it seemed to him, therefore, the best plan, to allow the animal to obey his instinct, contenting himself with following him so as to prevent his going astray, and preserve him from the danger of being taken or killed as a dog without an owner. He rejoiced in the opportunity thus afforded him of rendering his uncle a service; and, imagining that Medor had had nothing to eat, he gave him a part of the bread he had bought for his day's provision, and which the poor thing devoured with as much appetite as his agitation would permit. They then continued their journey together, Medor being always in advance, except when, from time to time, some new fancy seemed to seize him. Then he would turn as if to retrace his steps, again stop and moan: alternately swayed by the instinct and affection which drew him towards his master, and that which hurried him on to the recovery of what had been confided to his care. Gervais would then call him, and, decided by the voice of his friend, Medor would return and continue his pursuit.

They journeyed thus for about two hours, when all at once, at a part where the road, somewhat hollow, wound in such a manner as to prevent a distant view, Medor, rushing forward, dashed round the corner with such rapidity that Gervais could not doubt that he had found his master. Then redoubling his speed, he also advanced trembling between hope and fear, and was most disagreeably surprised, when, at the turn of the road, he perceived his father, La Mauricaude, the ass, and Thomas, in the greatest embarrassment, contending with Medor, who, without any provocation, and with all the consideration due to old acquaintanceship, had seized upon Thomas in such a manner, that the boy found it impossible to disengage himself from the animal's enormous claws, which, fixed upon the lad's shoulders, served as a support to Medor, who, by smelling about in all directions, at last discovered an old cloth bag lined with leather, which was placed upon the back of the ass, and the cords of which, unhappily for Thomas, had been wound round his arm. Medor's teeth laboured both at the cords and at the bag, which he endeavoured to open, almost upsetting Thomas at every effort; the latter, in despair, and screaming with terror, clung with all his strength to Martin's pack-saddle. "What is the matter with the dog?" quietly asked Matthew, who had been a calm spectator of a scene, which to him had the advantage of rousing him from his apathy. But La Mauricaude, at once furious and frightened, gave the animal some violent blows with a stick. Medor, however, did not seem conscious of them. At length, seizing a large stone, she threw it at him; it struck him on the hind leg, and he fell howling, dragging down Thomas in his fall; the ass also was shaken, and even Matthew was astonished. Gervais only arrived in time to address a word of reproach to La Mauricaude, who was busied in raising her son: he then ran after Medor, who had fled, howling, and limping on three legs. He succeeded in catching him, and found that one of his hind legs was broken. Submissive like a suffering animal to the friend who seeks to relieve him, Medor lay down close to him, and allowed him to examine his leg. Fortunately, Gervais was able to repair the mischief. Naturally kind hearted, it was to that branch of his business which treats of the cure of animals, that he had directed his attention with the greatest interest, and he had already been successful in a case somewhat similar. Matthew, who, when left to his own free will, was always inclined to sympathise with his son, and who, moreover, was delighted at having an opportunity of returning for a moment to his former occupations, willingly assisted his pupil, now become more skilful than himself. The instruments of his art, treasures which Gervais carefully preserved, together with some medicines which he had renewed, or added to, as opportunity permitted, were found sufficient for the emergency. By the united efforts of the two operators, whom La Mauricaude also consented to aid, for reasons which may perhaps be guessed, the leg was well set; and a piece of the last handkerchief that Gervais possessed, and the enormous rents of which he had often contemplated with a sigh, served as a bandage to confine the dressing; and Medor, led by Gervais, was enabled to continue his journey without much pain.

Somewhat cast down by his accident, however, poor Medor was no longer able to pursue his search with the same vigour; and besides, during the operation, Thomas, instructed by his mother, had transferred Scaramouche, together with the Madras handkerchiefs, into one of Martin's panniers, where, covered over with straw, they were less exposed to the keen scent of the animal. Nevertheless, some secret charm always attracted him to the side on which they were, and Gervais was astonished at the difficulty which he found in restraining him. Wishing to divert him from this fancy, and determined to go direct to Lyons, as the surest place of meeting with his uncle, Gervais seized the first opportunity offered by their stopping at a tavern, to separate himself from the troop, with which he had so unluckily come up. But he was not a little annoyed at perceiving, after a few moments, that he was followed in the distance by Thomas, who seemed commissioned to act as a spy upon his movements, while the rest of the caravan appeared soon afterwards. The fertile genius of La Mauricaude had immediately suggested to her the advantage to be derived from the possession of Medor, a magnificent dog in excellent condition, who might be sold at a very high price. The difficulty was to divert the vigilance of Gervais, whom at the same time it was necessary to keep in view, until she had accomplished her design. The following days, therefore, were passed in a perpetual struggle, Gervais endeavouring to recover his liberty, and La Mauricaude seeking to prevent his escape from their odious company. She was singularly seconded by Medor, whose instinct she aroused by taking advantage of every opportunity that offered to approach him unobserved, and permit him to get a distant scent of Scaramouche, the companion of all his travels, the one of all his master's mimic company with whom he had lived on the most familiar terms, when Va-bon-train and his son, in their leisure moments, had endeavoured to invent for him new attitudes, and to rehearse new performances. Then all Medor's affection would revive, he would rush with a plaintive cry upon the cords which restrained him; but before this movement could warn Gervais of what was passing, La Mauricaude had said to Thomas, "Hide Scaramouche," and Thomas, obedient to his instructions, had concealed the precious talisman. Matthew, who was sometimes a witness of these proceedings, demanded the meaning of them; but they deceived him with a feigned tale, told him to be silent, and he was so. But in his evening enjoyments at the tavern, purchased during these days, by the successive sale of the Madras handkerchiefs, he nightly repeated, with a degree of feeling amounting even to tears, "As for me, I have nothing to do with all this; for, at all events, it is certain that I am an honest man."

To the many annoyances which, at this time, fell to the lot of poor Gervais, was added the far greater one of being unsuccessful in his attempts to obtain work. In vain had he gone to the right and to the left, wherever he had been led to hope that it might be procured. Everywhere his hopes were frustrated, and, at the same time, the expense of keeping Medor had rapidly accelerated the consumption of his little store, although the condition of the poor dog sufficiently attested the frugality of his repasts. It grieved Gervais to the heart to see his downcast look, and a certain expression of sadness, which seemed to ask for what it was out of the power of his protector to bestow; for he had given him all he could give, scarcely reserving anything for his own support.

In consequence of his many deviations from the high road in these fruitless endeavours to obtain work, and to escape the inevitable Mauricaude; they at last reached Saturday, the 21st of August, and were still eleven leagues from Lyons. It was six o'clock in the evening, and neither Gervais nor Medor had eaten anything since the previous night. Exhausted by this fast, as well as by the low diet of the few preceding days, they walked with difficulty: and yet they had still a league to go before they could arrive at the village of Auberive, where Gervais had determined to stop, and where, as a last resource, he intended to sell his shoes, in order to have the means of reaching Lyons on the following Monday, the term alike of his hopes and resources. For some moments he had watched Medor with great anxiety, for he saw that he was panting more than usual. The day had been excessively oppressive; and the idea that the want of food, added to the heat and fatigue, exposed the dog to the danger of madness, presented itself to his imagination, and filled him with terror. While seated for a moment's rest, a peasant boy, of about his own age, happened to pass by, eating, with a good appetite, a piece of bread. This sight roused the desires of the half-famished Gervais, and Medor raised his now animated eye, and wanted to run to the boy, to ask him for a portion of his meal. Unable to resist the temptation he felt, and, above all, the appeal of the companion of his journey, Gervais asked the lad if he would buy his shoes, promising that he would sell them cheap.

"How much?" demanded the boy.

"If you have some bread, I will take that, and ten sous besides."

"I have only six sous," replied the rustic, roughly; "and, besides, I don't want your shoes."

"If you have any bread, comrade," continued Gervais, who could not resist the hope with which he had just flattered himself, "give it to me with the six sous, and the shoes shall be yours."

"As for the bread, there is no difficulty about that," replied the boy; and he took from his bag a piece, weighing about a pound, too eager to conclude so good a bargain to perceive that he might have made it still better. Three two-sous pieces terminated the affair, and two-thirds of the pound of bread were at once set apart as the portion of Medor, whom Gervais saw, with a melancholy pleasure, devour in a moment, a piece to which he had nothing to add. Medor's repast, in fact, was ended, before Gervais had got half through his; and, with a longing eye, the poor dog watched the piece which the latter held in his hand, gently whined, and scratched his knee with his great paw, in order to obtain the little that remained. "You are very hungry, then, my poor Medor," said Gervais: "well then, this also shall be yours." He gave him the whole; and the sacrifice was sufficiently great, at that moment, to make him think he had acquired a right to the affection of his uncle. He then rose to continue his journey, hoping to be able to reach Auberive; but, whether from want of food, or because the heat of the day had exhausted him, after proceeding a few steps, he was obliged to lean for support against a tree, and, at last, sank to the ground, almost senseless. Induced either by curiosity or remorse, the young peasant who had bought the shoes occasionally looked back towards him. He saw him fall, and returned, but could give no assistance. He spoke to him, but Gervais was scarcely able to answer. Medor watched his friend with an uneasy look; and the peasant, who perhaps might have been little sensible to other evils, was moved by the sight of a misery which he could understand, and felt some comfort at the thought that, at all events, Gervais had not been rendered worse by having sold his shoes for a quarter of their value.

Providence at that moment directed to the spot another traveller, who came on at a vigorous pace, his coat neatly folded in a handkerchief, and suspended from a stick which he carried on his shoulder. It was Master Blanchet. He approached Gervais, but did not at first recognise him. "Has that boy fainted from hunger?" said he to the young peasant. "I think he has," replied the lad, "for he had but one bit of bread, and he gave almost all of it to his dog." Meanwhile, Master Blanchet drew from his bundle a small flask of brandy, with which he always took care to be provided when on a journey, and made Gervais swallow a few drops of it, while the addition of a piece of bread and a slice of sausage completed his recovery. "A little patience," said Gervais to Medor, who wanted to share this repast also. "Poor Medor," he continued, caressing him, "all our troubles are over now," for he had recognised Master Blanchet, but did not as yet dare to express his joy except in this indirect manner. Struck by the name of Medor, and by the voice of Gervais, which was beginning to assume its natural tone, Blanchet recognized him, was greatly astonished, and put to him many questions; while the peasant lad, who thought he saw Gervais glance towards the shoes, which perhaps at that moment he regretted having parted with so easily, blushed, and walked away, persuaded that his further stay was no longer necessary to any one, and might be disadvantageous to himself.

Gervais' tale was simple enough; he had nothing but the truth to tell; the only difficulty was to explain the nature of his connexion with Va-bon-train. Seeing that the latter had not acknowledged him as his nephew, he felt that in their respective positions it was not for him to be the first to break the silence. Thus, when Blanchet asked him how he had become known to his friend, Gervais replied, "He will tell you that himself; it is not my business to speak of his affairs." Blanchet questioned him on all sides, but without being able to elicit any further information; nevertheless, his replies displayed so much integrity, together with so much good sense and caution, that he began to feel a great respect for him; a feeling which was much increased after he had examined Medor's paw, which was then in progress of cure, and which he found perfectly well set. He could not doubt, therefore, of the talents of Gervais in the different branches of his art. He took him with him to Auberive, where he intended to pass the night, so as to reach Lyons without fatigue on the next day but one. Plenty of onion soup, and a good omelette, procured for Gervais the best meal which had touched his lips for many a day. Medor was also able to make up for his previous fast; and, to complete the happiness of Gervais, he found, at the inn where they stopped, the lad to whom he had sold his shoes. Master Blanchet commented so loudly on the disgrace of such a bargain in such circumstances, and his remarks were so fully approved of by all who heard them, that, whether from fear, or shame, or conscience, the lad consented to return the shoes at the price which he had given for them, and even made it a point of honour to refuse the value of the pound of bread, a sacrifice which procured for him from Blanchet a good draught of wine and a slice of sausage. Thus everything fell into order, and Gervais a second time thought himself at the summit of his hopes; but another day, and another trial, were still to be encountered.

The little room in which Master Blanchet and Gervais slept could not, manage as they would, accommodate a third guest, of the size of Medor. He was, therefore, lodged in the stable; and Gervais, confiding in his new-born happiness, the first earnest of which he had just received, resigned himself to sleep without any anxiety for the safety of his protegÉ; the more so as, since the morning, he had seen nothing of the odious Mauricaude, and therefore believed himself freed from her at last. Nevertheless, on the following morning Medor had again disappeared; whether in consequence of some new stratagem on the part of La Mauricaude, or from the instinct which urged him to the pursuit of Scaramouche, or the desire to return to his master, could never be ascertained. But certain it is, however, that by this new imprudence he fell into the snare which had long been laid for him; and the first information which the inquiries of Gervais elicited made it certain, that it was only by following the traces of La Mauricaude that he could hope to recover those of Medor. A double affection made success a necessity for him. He therefore requested the permission of Master Blanchet, under whose authority he already considered himself, to go in search of the fugitive; and Blanchet appointed, as their place of meeting in the evening, the village of Saint Syphorien, or, as it is sometimes called, Symphorien, situated about four leagues from Lyons, where he intended to pass the night.

Gervais spent a part of the day in a fruitless search in the neighbourhood. At length some indications led him to the town of Vienne; there he lost them; but, on describing the retinue of La Mauricaude, he was informed, that in all probability she was gone to Saint Syphorien, as it happened to be its fÊte day. He made all possible haste to reach the place, and arrived there about seven o'clock in the evening. The first object which struck him as he entered the village was La Mauricaude, in conversation with a man to whom she seemed on the point of delivering over Medor, who, sorrowfully resigned to his new condition, appeared cast down by the vicissitudes of his fate. At the sight of Gervais, however, his animation returned, and he started as if to rush towards him.

"That is my dog," exclaimed Gervais, who at the moment thought only of his claims to Medor; and the dog, by the expression of his joy, seemed anxious to confirm his words.

"'Tis false, you thief," replied La Mauricaude, with her customary amenity. "Medor!" she added; and, thus addressed, the dog turned his head, as if to prove that he recognized his name, as well as the voice by which it was pronounced. "You see very well that he knows me," she continued, with a volley of abuse and oaths, which we need not repeat.

"Nevertheless, the dog does not belong to you," said Gervais.

"Nor to you either, liar," &c. &c.

The dispute had been carried on in so vehement a tone, that it was impossible for Gervais to expose the truth of the matter. A third interest, that of the purchaser of the dog, already compromised by a considerable sum paid in advance, was here introduced, as a further complication of the affair, when an exclamation from a terrible voice announced the approach of Va-bon-train, who, having reached Saint Syphorien, and learning the cause of the quarrel, came forward to cut short all disputes. He made his way through the crowd, and had already his left hand on Medor, while his whip, raised in the other, menaced Gervais, who, drawing back with indignation, though still with respect, endeavoured to avoid the necessity of defending himself otherwise than by words. Nevertheless, had it not been for Medor's transports of joy, which somewhat embarrassed his master's movements, Va-bon-train would have been already upon him, and Gervais must have submitted to the cruel alternative of either failing in respect to his uncle, or of enduring an ignominious treatment, the bare idea of which was insupportable to him.

"He is a thief," exclaimed the perfidious Mauricaude, taking advantage of this opportunity to turn upon another the accusation which she herself merited. "He said the dog was his!" and several voices simultaneously repeated, "Yes, he did say so."

"You have been seen all along the road," continued Va-bon-train, "dragging him after you in spite of his resistance;" and a voice repeated, "I saw him." It was in vain that Gervais endeavoured to make himself heard,—the public opinion was against him. Assailed by a crowd of painful emotions, and distressed above all by the treatment he received from him whose gratitude he so much merited, he felt his courage forsake him, and could no longer restrain his tears, tears which only seemed to be an additional evidence against him. Several persons interposed between him and his uncle, but he himself no longer thought of safety; and whilst the efforts of Va-bon-train were redoubled, in order to get near him, notwithstanding the endeavours of the crowd to prevent it, Gervais was exhausting his, in demanding as a suppliant the justice due to his innocence. Michael, whom his father had pushed away from him, not knowing what to think of his friend, but deeply distressed at the sight of the misfortunes which overwhelmed him, and the danger which still threatened him, seemed to appeal to all around to intercede for a reconciliation which every moment appeared to render impossible. However, Heaven again came to the assistance of Gervais, by directing Master Blanchet to the spot. Attracted by the noise, he came out from the house of a friend with whom he had supped; and Michael, perceiving him, ran to meet him. The name of Medor, mingled in the almost unintelligible explanations given by the agitated Michael, led Blanchet to suppose that his young friend Gervais might have something to do in the matter; he therefore hastened his steps, and arrived at the very moment when, by an increased exertion of strength and anger, Va-bon-train, forcing his way through the crowd, was about to rush upon Gervais. Blanchet seized him by the shoulders, and pushed him backwards, saying, "Stop! stop! there's time enough for anger, but not always for explanation."

Less disposed than ever to profit by this good advice, Va-bon-train was, in all probability, upon the point of turning his rage against him who offered it, when a new incident arose to change once more the face of the affair. Matthew approached the scene of action, and Martin and Jacquot, under his guidance, were added to the spectators. Jacquot had not been deaf to certain words, which for several days past had struck his attentive ears. Encouraged probably by the noise, he began to repeat, though in a timid and uncertain tone, and as if he were saying a lesson, which he was not quite sure of knowing,—"Thomas, hide Scaramouche!"

—"Scaramouche!" repeated Michael, who had heard him; and now Jacquot, more sure of what he was about, went on, and constantly raising his voice in proportion as the noise around him increased, and excited him, his words at length reached the ears of Va-bon-train, who turned round; while Medor, taking advantage of his first moment of liberty, rushed upon Martin, and this time rummaging, without obstacle, in the bottom of the pannier, dragged out the unfortunate Scaramouche, who, all crippled and disordered as he was, still retained sufficient life to express by his attitudes the distress of his condition. Medor advanced and placed him triumphantly in the hands of his master; who, in his surprise and joy, knew not to which of his two friends to offer his first caresses. But Medor had not finished his task; and returning to the pannier, notwithstanding the efforts of La Mauricaude, who hastened to the defence of her booty, he drew from it the last of the Madras handkerchiefs, which she had preserved for her own use.

"Infamous old toad!" exclaimed Va-bon-train, "'tis you, then, who have robbed me." And immediately turning towards Gervais, whom the presence of Blanchet had encouraged to approach, "Why were you with her?" he demanded, in a tone which already indicated his desire of finding him less in fault.

—"I was not with her," said Gervais. "They were not together," repeated several of the voices which had at first borne testimony against him.

"And why did you take away my dog?" again demanded Va-bon-train.

—"In order to bring him back to you, and to prevent him from following her." Then the accusations began to turn upon La Mauricaude. One recognized her as having given him on the previous evening a bad ten-sous piece; another had seen Thomas skulking about his house, and an hour after, found that a fowl had been stolen. La Mauricaude began to vociferate, and then to cry as she saw the storm increase, and direct itself against her; meanwhile Gervais drew near his father, who, already more than half intoxicated, and hardly able to understand what he heard, contented himself, without taking any part in the matter, by affirming, that, "as for him, he was an honest man."

"Get out of my way, you fool!" said his brother, pushing him behind him; then advancing towards La Mauricaude, who, still vociferating and crying, was endeavouring to make her escape, amid the hootings which pursued her, he contented himself with cracking his whip in her ears to hasten her steps. The crowd by which she was accompanied, diminished as she retreated, and by degrees the clamours of the little boys, who alone persisted in following her, died away. These assailants she dispersed by throwing stones at them, and they afterwards reported that they had seen both her and her son Thomas join a band of gipsies, who were on the point of departure. From that time she has never been heard of.

Quiet was once more restored at Saint Syphorien, and Va-bon-train received from Blanchet the explanations necessary to establish the good conduct of his nephew. "But where, in the name of Fortune, did you meet with him?" continued Blanchet. "He would never tell me."

"What, Gervais!" said Va-bon-train, "will you not acknowledge me for your uncle?" Michael, transported with joy, once more threw his arms round the neck of his friend, and Va-bon-train afterwards received the acknowledgments of his nephew's grateful affection. "Now then, what is to be done with Matthew," said Va-bon-train—"now that he has got rid of his old toad?" "He cannot live alone," said Gervais, casting down his eyes.

"Well, then, let him come with me," continued Va-bon-train; "Martin will, at all events, be learned enough to carry a part of my baggage, which is becoming too heavy for Medor. I will teach Jacquot many capital things, and we shall get on very well together."

These words rendered Gervais completely happy, and the gratitude inspired by his uncle's kindness towards himself, was far exceeded by what he now experienced, on account of his father. They went for Matthew to the tavern, where they found him still drinking, the longer to defer the moment of payment. This difficulty was removed by his brother, who thenceforth considered himself as charged with his care. The arrangement was proposed to him, and he accepted it, just as he would have done, had he been sober, only that he repeated a little oftener, and with rather more emotion than usual, "You, Vincent, know very well, that I at least am an honest man."

They had a joyful supper that night, Medor remaining at the side of the table, with his head upon his master's knee, which he left only to give a slight caress to Michael, or a look and a wag of his tail to Gervais. The following day, before their departure for Lyons, Gervais received from the generosity of his uncle, the pair of stockings, the shirt, and the two handkerchiefs, necessary to complete his outfit, and had the satisfaction of arriving with him at the workshop of Master Blanchet, not as a poor boy, received almost as an act of charity, but as a good workman, countenanced and recommended by respectable relatives.

He has justified their hopes and his own, having become Master Blanchet's head workman; he is about to marry his only daughter, and his father-in-law, rich enough to retire, has given up to him a business, which Gervais will not allow to decline under his care. Matthew, who only needs guidance, contents himself with being a little merry after his first meal, and a little sleepy after the last. He hopes to spend a peaceful old age with his son, while Va-bon-train, who, without being old, is also anxious for repose, has purchased a small property, married again, and given up his marionettes and the faithful Medor to his son Michael. Matthew has generously added the ass, and Jacquot, and has announced for Gervais' wedding-day, "a performance for the benefit of friendship, in which is to be seen the wonderful dispute between peerless Jacquot and the incomparable Scaramouche."