Paul de Kock

Adeline was still as melancholy as ever, but she had ceased to weep, before her brother at all events, for she realized that it added to his sorrow and regret that, for her sake, he had been obliged to do something which filled his heart with remorse, even while he told himself that he could not have acted differently.

Sans-Cravate worked with the greatest zeal and courage; he was not the same man as before. Since his duel he had become as gentle as a child, and, far from seeking a quarrel with anyone, he was always the first to try to compose the disputes that arose in his presence. Instead of getting tipsy, as he used frequently to do, he avoided the temptation to drink, never entered a wine shop, and ate all his meals with his sister, to whom he carried faithfully each day all the money he had earned.

In accordance with her brother's advice, Adeline had written to her father, confessing her fault and telling him frankly the whole story of her conduct, as well as the events that had resulted from it. She had not long to wait for a reply; old PÈre Renaud wrote his daughter that he forgave her, and that his arms would always be open to her whenever she chose to come back to him.

"When your child is born," said Sans-Cravate, "and you are strong enough to stand the journey, we will go back to the province; I will settle down there, too; I won't leave you any more, for a strong man with plenty of courage can work anywhere, and I've had quite enough of Paris! When you no longer have a friend or a woman you care for in a place, you leave it without regret."

A few days after Albert's death, a messenger from Monsieur Vermoncey came to the humble apartment occupied by the brother and sister. He brought a letter addressed to Adeline, which contained these words:

"MADEMOISELLE:

"My unfortunate son did not forget you before he died; as he was going out to fight, he wrote a few lines leaving you the unexpended portion of the property he inherited from his mother, and recommending you to my generosity. It is my purpose to carry out my poor son's last wishes. He had less than twelve hundred francs a year remaining; but from this day I settle an income of six thousand francs upon you, as a charge upon my own estate; the first year's will be paid to you at any time.

"VERMONCEY."

After reading the letter, Adeline handed it to Sans-Cravate, who read it in his turn, then looked his sister in the eye. They understood each other without a word, and Adeline immediately wrote to Albert's father the following reply:

Adeline gave the letter to her brother to read.

"Well done!" he cried; "sacrebleu! I couldn't have done it better myself."

Monsieur Vermoncey's messenger went away with the letter, and since then they had heard nothing more from him.

Sans-Cravate did his utmost to cheer his sister, to bring an occasional smile to her lips; but his task was the more difficult because he himself was oppressed by a burden of grief which he could not succeed in dislodging.

At night, when he went home to Adeline, and sat down with her, intending to divert her by describing some incidents that he had witnessed during the day, his thoughts would go back to the past; after he had said a few words, he would fall into a profound reverie, and seem to forget that his sister was by his side.

One evening, when he had been for a long time lost in thought, Adeline went to him, laid her hand gently on his shoulder, and said:

"You too have troubles, my dear, besides those I have caused you. I remember what you said to me, coming from Lagny: 'I have troubles of my own, and I'll tell you about them some day.'—Has not that day come? I can't promise to comfort you, but I shall understand your suffering, and it is something to have a friend who understands what we feel."

Sans-Cravate gazed sadly at his sister, kissed her on the forehead, ran his hands through his hair, and said:

"SacrÉdiÉ! you are right. I will tell you the story. It's a very simple story, however, and won't take long.—I loved a woman, and my love was returned, at least I thought so. At all events, Bastringuette was mine, as you were Monsieur Albert's—except that I did not seduce her; because, you see, in Paris, a girl knows well enough what she's doing when she gives her heart away; you may please her, but you don't seduce her. Bastringuette was a good girl, a little free in her manners, and a little bold in her talk; but I loved her as she was, and she—she loved me as I was, and yet I must admit that I didn't live the kind of life then that I do now. I gambled and drank and got drunk, and fought for a word, for nothing at all; and I spent in one day all I'd earn in a week; but she forgave my foolishness, and she took care of my room, and my linen—and all without a trace of selfishness, for sometimes she had to give me money for my dinner, although she had none too much for herself; she was a marchande des quatre saisons, and didn't always earn in a week as much as I'd spend in one evening with Jean Ficelle and other tipplers."

"Poor girl!" said Adeline; "she loved you dearly!"

"You think so! and I thought so too. But you'll see in a minute that I was mistaken. I had a friend too, a comrade, younger than me; his name was Paul, he was a messenger, like me, and his stand was alongside of mine. This Paul had such a sweet, gentle way with him—and such manners—something that attracted you right away. And with it all, a hard worker—never loafed, never got drunk, and never gave me anything but good advice. So I looked on him as my brother; I'd have fought for him or jumped into the fire for him! Well, Bastringuette left me, to go with Paul; and he, swearing all the time that he never saw her, that he loved another woman, made assignations with Bastringuette—met her in a different quarter, where they didn't think they'd be seen."

"Are you quite sure of that, brother?"

"Ah! if anyone had told me, I wouldn't have believed it! but I saw 'em—saw 'em with my own eyes! and then I couldn't doubt it any longer. I intended at first to be content with despising 'em, but one day—I had been off with Jean Ficelle, and I was a little light-headed—I saw Paul on a street corner with my faithless wench. Gad! I couldn't hold myself back; I insisted on fighting; I jumped at him, and he didn't defend himself——"

"O mon Dieu! did you kill him?"

"No, no; he was only wounded, and that by a mere chance: he fell on a paving stone. But he's been well a long while. Luckily, I never see him now; he's taken another stand, near Rue Taitbout, I think."

"But if you should see him, my dear, you wouldn't fight with him again, I hope; once is quite enough—ah! sometimes it's too much."

Adeline put her handkerchief to her eyes, and Sans-Cravate replied:

"Oh, no, no! I'm done with him! I shall never speak to him again. But heaven has—oh! it's a very strange thing!"

"What is, my dear brother?"

"Just imagine that, by the merest chance, I discovered, not long ago, a secret which would give this Paul a name, a father, and a great fortune, if he knew it; for he's a foundling, who don't know anything about his family; and it's only me that knows it; I should only have to say a word to make him happy and rich and distinguished."

"Well, brother?"

"Well! I won't say it!"

"Ah! that is very wrong, my dear, to deprive anyone of his rightful fortune, and, what is much worse, of his father's caresses! Look you, brother; I am sure that in the bottom of your heart this troubles you, because you feel that you are doing wrong!"

"That may be; but that don't prevent me from keeping my secret. He'd give Bastringuette hats and shawls and jewelry; he'd take her about in a carriage, and they'd play the swell at restaurants, and she'd be all the more pleased that she threw me over for him. No, sacrebleu! no! I won't have that!"

"But, brother——"

"That's enough; don't say anything more about it, don't ever mention it again! you can't change my determination, and you would simply make me furious with myself and them and everybody else, that's all!"

More than three weeks had passed since this conversation, and had brought about no change in the condition of the brother and sister, when, on a fine winter's morning, Sans-Cravate—who was alone at his stand, Jean Ficelle having failed to appear there for more than a week—saw an elderly woman coming toward him, looking from side to side as if she were not perfectly sure where she wanted to go.

She was a small, thin, pale-faced woman, somewhat over sixty, evidently in feeble health. Her dress was very simple and modest, but of bourgeois cut; it did not denote poverty, but pointed to an economical habit not far removed therefrom. Despite that, she carried herself with distinction; and the amiability of her expression and manner imparted to her person that general aspect of gentility which is apparent beneath the humblest garments, and which the most fashionable and gorgeous costume cannot give to those who have not received it from nature or by education.

This lady, having at last decided to address Sans-Cravate, walked up to him and said:

"I wonder if you could tell me, monsieur? You see, I am not quite sure—I don't quite know how to explain it to you."

"Are you looking for somebody, or for some address in this quarter, madame? I have had my stand here for a long time, and I can probably tell you what you want to know."

"It isn't an address, but a certain person whom I would like to obtain some information about; in fact, to find out something that interests me very deeply. First of all, monsieur, tell me this: are you the only messenger on this street?"

"No, madame; there's Jean Ficelle—but he don't happen to be here now; in fact, he hasn't been to work for several days; I suppose he's tippling somewhere."

"What sort of looking man is this Jean Ficelle?"

"Oh! he ain't handsome—a little, short, thin man, near thirty years old."

"He's not the man I want. The one I am looking for is only twenty-three, and looks less than that; you would hardly think he was twenty; he has a graceful figure and a fine face, and his voice is as sweet as his eyes."

Sans-Cravate frowned slightly as he replied:

"Ah! you are talking about a man named Paul."

"Paul!" cried the old woman; "that's the name. Do you know him?"

"I should say so! as he used to stand here alongside of me. It ain't so very long since he went somewhere else to stand."

"He is a messenger! it is all true, then! poor boy! he did it for me, I am sure of it!"

Tears prevented the old lady from going on. Sans-Cravate was obliged to support her until her emotion had subsided. At last, having recovered herself to some extent, she grasped Sans-Cravate's hand and said:

"Thanks, monsieur, thanks. If you knew what a fine fellow you had for your comrade, if you knew what a noble heart he has, and of all he has done for me! But I must tell you, monsieur, for I want everybody to know it; such noble conduct deserves to be known, if for nothing else than to lead others to imitate it.—My name is Desroches; my husband was a tradesman, deservedly esteemed as well for his kindly nature as for his strict probity in business. One day—we were well off, then—my husband, happening to see the procession of the poor children who had been abandoned by their families, was deeply touched and interested by the face of one of them; it was young Paul, who was then ten years old at most. We had no children; our happiness was perfect but for that fact; my husband offered to take charge of that child, and his offer was readily accepted."

"I knew all this, madame," said Sans-Cravate; "Paul has told me how he was taken into Monsieur Desroches's family, and became his clerk; and then how your husband was crushed by misfortunes and bankruptcies, and died—of grief, perhaps, because he was obliged to break his engagements."

"Yes, monsieur; yes, that is all true, still it isn't all; but it's all you know, I am sure; for Paul would not have told you of his noble conduct."

"No; I have told you all I know."

"Well, monsieur, Paul, who was eighteen and a half when I lost my husband, said to me then: 'Don't be distressed, my dear mother; not only will I take care of you, but I propose that my benefactor's memory shall be respected; I propose to pay all that he owed, and by working hard I can do it.'—And, sure enough, the poor boy called my husband's creditors together, and promised to pay them if they would give him time. They were so moved by his self-sacrificing spirit, that they told him to arrange his own terms. The debts amounted to only eight thousand francs. Paul asked for five years in which to pay the whole; then he told me not to worry about myself, that he would provide for all my needs—and he left me, to seek employment. I didn't see him for several days; at last he came and told me that he was employed in a business house in Faubourg Saint-HonorÉ, and that he was obliged to live near by, but that he would come to see me at least twice a week, and would keep his agreement with my husband's creditors. And from that time on, monsieur, every three months he paid the amount he had promised, and brought me the receipts. 'Take these, my dear mother,' he would say; 'I am as happy as can be, because through me my benefactor's name is respected;'—and I, monsieur, never had a suspicion that the poor boy hadn't found any employment, but had become a messenger in order to fulfil his engagements; and that he worked without rest, and took no pleasure at all, so that he could put aside for me, for my husband's honor, all the money he earned!"

Again Madame Desroches could not hold back her tears; she drew her handkerchief, and paused a moment to wipe her eyes.

Sans-Cravate, for his part, tried in vain to avoid being moved; despite his grimaces, despite the churlish manner which he struggled to maintain, and although he twisted his mouth and bit his lips, two great tears escaped from his eyes, while he muttered between his teeth:

"By all that's good! It was well done of him, all the same! that's what I call honor! And to think that a man will get ugly and lose a friend, just for a wink of a woman's eye, for an infernal petticoat and what's underneath it! Bah! what a fool! Well, I can't stand it, I must let the cat out of the bag!—How did you find out that Paul was a messenger?" he asked aloud, after pretending to blow his nose in order to wipe his eyes unobserved.

"In this way, monsieur. Four or five months ago, I was sick, and Paul stayed with me and nursed me; he did not go to work at all. 'Don't you worry,' he'd say; 'there's another clerk, who has promised to take my place and do my work.'—I must tell you, monsieur, that I live on Vieille Rue du Temple, near Rue Barbette——"

"Near Rue Barbette!" cried Sans-Cravate; "a very high house, with a passageway, and a grocery on the street floor?"

"Yes, monsieur; that's the house."

"Go on, madame, go on."

"Well! one morning, when I had been getting better for some days, Paul, who had gone back to his office,—at least, so he told me,—came to make sure that I was still improving. He had been with me a little while, when a tall girl came in with some fruit I had ordered of my regular fruit dealer, on Rue Barbette.—But what's the matter, monsieur? you seem agitated."

"It's nothing, madame; I'll tell you in a minute. Go on, please, and finish your story."

"This tall girl gave a cry of surprise when she saw Paul; I saw that she knew him and that she was astonished to find him dressed so well. I noticed that Paul whispered a few words to her, but I found out nothing then. But when Bastringuette—that was the girl's name—came again to bring something from the fruit woman, who is her cousin, she cried out: 'Ah! madame, that's a mighty fine fellow, that Monsieur Paul!' And—but why are you weeping, monsieur?"

"Go on—pray go on, madame."

"Well, monsieur, some little time ago, Paul ceased to come as usual; I was anxious and worried, when Bastringuette appeared and brought me the money Paul was to pay that day to one of the creditors; she told me that he had been obliged to take a short journey, and would come to see me when he returned. To cut the story short, monsieur, time passed and Paul did not come, but Bastringuette continued to bring me money from him. I questioned her; she was embarrassed and confused in her answers, and I thought that I understood that Paul no longer owned his good clothes, and that he would not come to see me in his jacket for fear I should discover his occupation. I caught the word messenger, and several times she mentioned the name of this street——"

"Enough, enough, madame!—Ah! Paul! my poor Paul! So it is true, after all! You never deceived me; it wasn't to see Bastringuette that you went to that house!"

"What do you mean, monsieur?"

"What do I mean: that I am a beggarly brute—a cur! that I struck Paul and wounded him, because I thought he was living with my mistress, when he was thinking of nobody but you and of his benefactor's good name! Damnation! but I will make up for it all; I will make him as happy as he deserves to be."

"What do you mean, monsieur?"

"Oh! let us go and find him first; I long to embrace him—if only he'll forgive me. Come, my good woman, come along; if you can't run, I'll carry you; but let's make haste, for I can't hold in any longer!"

Sans-Cravate seized Madame Desroches's arm and dragged her away. To keep pace with the messenger, who said that it was in his power to make her adopted son happy, the old lady seemed to have recovered the strength and agility of youth.

They reached Paul's new stand, and found him seated on a stone bench, lost in thought. Sans-Cravate dropped Madame Desroches's arm, ran to Paul, threw his arms about him, and kissed him again and again, shedding tears, and saying in a broken voice:

"Do you forgive me—my poor Paul? I know all—I was in the wrong, and I struck you. If you don't forgive me, I'll jump into the water! Take care of my sister."

Paul was utterly at a loss to understand what had happened, until he saw Madame Desroches and divined that his conduct was known. The old lady likewise embraced the young man, weeping freely. Thereupon the passers-by and idlers began to gather about them, wondering what that young messenger had done to be embraced thus effusively; and Sans-Cravate took Madame Desroches's arm and Paul's, and led them away.

"Come away," he said; "I have something important to tell you; and all these people, who probably think that we're going to show them some tricks, are beginning to make me mad."

These three persons, who were so overjoyed to be together, soon reached Sans-Cravate's humble lodging, where poor Liline, taken by surprise by that visit, strove to do the honors of her bedroom as best she could. He presented Paul to her, saying:

"This is the man I was jealous of, sister; I have found out to-day that he never deceived me. So you can imagine how happy I shall be to put him in the way of recovering his father, his name, and his fortune!"

Paul stared at Sans-Cravate with an exclamation of surprise; he feared that he had not heard aright. Madame Desroches begged the messenger to explain himself. He asked nothing better, and, in order to make his story clearer, he began by telling of the relations of Albert with his sister, his visit to Monsieur Vermoncey, his duel with Adeline's seducer, and, lastly, what he had heard Madame Baldimer say to the elder Vermoncey—the names, the cross on the forearm, and all the corroborative circumstances.

"But my heart seems to have divined the truth," said Paul, joyfully; "and Monsieur Vermoncey himself—he showed so much friendship and interest."

"Does he know you?" asked Sans-Cravate.

Paul gave the particulars of his visit to Monsieur Vermoncey; whereupon Sans-Cravate clapped his hands, jumped up and down, swore, wept, and shouted:

"Let us go, my friends, let us go at once to Monsieur Vermoncey; he has suffered and groaned long enough; we must hurry up and give him a son to comfort him a little for the loss of his other children. Madame Desroches must come with us; it will be better for her to be there, to confirm what I say.—You stay here, sister, and wait for me. I shall soon be back, and with good news, I am sure."

Sans-Cravate whispered to his sister, who smiled and promised to obey; then he ran out to fetch a cab, into which he put Madame Desroches and Paul, got in after them, and ordered the driver to take them to Monsieur Vermoncey's house.

"You must let me speak first," he said to them on the way; "the sight of me will be painful to him at the outset, but afterward, I trust, he won't be sorry that he's seen me again."

When they reached the house, Sans-Cravate took the servant by storm, and compelled him to usher him into his master's study.

Monsieur Vermoncey started back in surprise; his eyes assumed an expression of hopeless melancholy when he saw Sans-Cravate, but he motioned to him to come forward.

"Your sister has reflected on my offer, no doubt," he said. "I am still prepared to abide by it, for I should be very glad to repair my son's wrong-doing."

"Let us say nothing about that, monsieur," replied Sans-Cravate; "if your son did wrong, heaven has attended to the expiation, and that—event made me as wretched as it did you. But I have come to-day to make you happy, and it is the least I can do after causing you so much sorrow."

Monsieur Vermoncey stared at the messenger in amazement, but Sans-Cravate went on:

"Monsieur, chance made me acquainted with the whole story of a misstep of your younger days, for which that Madame Baldimer was so bent on punishing you. Well! the child you had at that time by a poor girl named Marie Delbart, that—abandoned child I have found, and I have brought him back to you!"

"Is it possible?" faltered Monsieur Vermoncey, rising and going to Sans-Cravate's side. "Oh! monsieur, is this true? are you quite sure of what you say?"

"Sacrebleu! yes, I am sure of my facts, sure of what I say!"

"You are aware of his existence—where is he?"

"Oh! he ain't far away!"

And Sans-Cravate opened the door behind him, took Paul by the hand, and pushed him into his father's arms.

"I robbed you of one son," he said, "but I give you back another. That goes a little way toward reconciling me to myself."

Monsieur Vermoncey strained Paul to his heart, then gazed affectionately into his face, crying:

"I am not mistaken—it is the same young man who aroused such a deep interest in my heart. Yes, yes, he is my son, my heart divined it long ago; and the more I look at him, the more clearly I recognize the unhappy Marie's features in his."

"Yes, but we want you to be certain of the fact," said Sans-Cravate. "Here is Madame Desroches, the widow of the excellent man who took Paul away from—where he was; she will tell you what paper he had about him when they—and then you will see the cross on his left arm. You'll find that it's all just as that beautiful lady—who is so vindictive—told you the other day; and you'll find out, too, that you not only have recovered your son, but that he's the finest fellow on earth; and if they gave the cross to everyone that deserves it, it would have been shining on his breast long ago."

Monsieur Vermoncey needed no further proofs to convince him that Paul was his son; however, he listened with profound interest to good Madame Desroches, who did not fail to tell of the young messenger's noble conduct toward herself.

When the old lady had finished, Monsieur Vermoncey took his son's hand and gazed proudly at him. But in a moment he said, in a faltering tone:

"My dear son, you will not be so proud of your father as he is of you; you have every right to reproach him for his desertion of you. But I was very young, I was poor, I did not know what it is to be a father—and I have blamed myself so bitterly for that sin!"

Paul threw himself into his father's arms, begging him to say no more, and Sans-Cravate added:

"You must forget the past, and think of nothing but your present happiness."

"Yes," said Paul, pressing his former comrade's hand. "But since I am taking Albert's place here, your sister must accept now what he and my father have done for her.—Am I not carrying out your wishes in this, father?"

"Yes, my son," was the reply; "indeed, from this time forth I shall approve whatever you do."

"Shake!" said Sans-Cravate to Paul; "I will accept anything from you; if you should offer me a million, I'd take it—I must make up for my infernal stupidity with regard to you. But my sister's waiting for us—and—and——"

Sans-Cravate whispered the name of Elina. Paul instantly asked his father's permission to leave him a moment; and Monsieur Vermoncey gave it, on the condition that he would bring Adeline to him, whom he desired to embrace, and that Madame Desroches would remain and talk with him at greater length about his son. The old lady asked nothing better.

In a very few minutes, Sans-Cravate and Paul were with Adeline, who, in accordance with her brother's suggestion, had gone to see little Elina and had told her of the great change in Paul's position. When the two friends arrived, they found the little dressmaker weeping bitterly, because she was persuaded that her lover, now that he had become rich, would no longer think of marrying her.

Paul hastened to console Elina, and Sans-Cravate said:

"You must strike while the iron's hot, and present your sweetheart to your father right away; at this moment, he can't refuse you anything—later, nobody knows."

Paul approved this suggestion; but Elina was afraid to go to Monsieur Vermoncey's; she trembled at the thought, and refused; it required all her lover's eloquence, all the entreaties of Adeline and her brother, to induce her to accompany them. They succeeded at last in allaying her terror, and ere long the two girls stood before Monsieur Vermoncey.

Sans-Cravate presented his sister, whose sad, sweet face and lovely eyes brimming with tears aroused Monsieur Vermoncey's most affectionate interest; he embraced her and called her his daughter. Then he fixed his eyes on little Elina, who was trying to hide behind a curtain, and said, with a smile:

"But who is this other young lady?"

Paul stepped forward, blushing, and told his father of his love for Elina; he dwelt upon the delicacy of the girl, who loved him when he had nothing and offered to give him her little fortune; then he told of the care she had lavished on him during his illness.

Monsieur Vermoncey went behind the curtains and led her forth, as red as a cherry, into the middle of the room; he kissed her on the forehead, and said to her:

"You desired to make my son happy when he had nothing; now that he is rich, it is only fair that he should do as much for you."

"Ah! that is what I call talking!" cried Sans-Cravate. "Look you, monsieur, do you know what this comes to? why, that you've recovered all your children to-day!"

On returning home with his sister, Sans-Cravate was very gay and happy; but he glanced constantly from side to side, as if he hoped to meet someone. Adeline noticed it and smiled to herself, but said nothing. Early in the evening, someone knocked softly at the door of their room.

"Hark! who can have come to see us?" said Sans-Cravate, looking at his sister; "I don't know of any visitor we expect."

Adeline made no reply, but went to open the door, and Bastringuette stood before them.

Sans-Cravate was so agitated that he could not speak; his first impulse was to throw his arms about the tall girl's neck; but he checked himself, because he reflected that the fact that Paul was not her lover did not prove that she was not attached to somebody else.

Bastringuette remained standing in front of him; she glanced coyly at him, and finally, as if she divined his thoughts, she held out her hand, saying:

"I was a flirt—you were ugly—but I love you still, and after this you needn't be afraid, because, you see, a woman's like a saucepan: when it has once been on the fire, it's better than a new one."

Sans-Cravate threw his arms about her.

"To make sure you don't change again, I'll marry you!" he said.

"That ain't always the safest way," rejoined Bastringuette, with a smile; "but as I've been a little free before marriage, I promise you I won't be afterward."

"And I'll take you to Auvergne, to live with my father; how does that strike you?"

"To Auvergne—I should say so! I'm so fond of chestnuts."

A few weeks later, Paul led pretty Elina to the altar; she had ceased to be a dressmaker at the same time that her lover had ceased to be a messenger. And good Madame Desroches consented to live with the young couple, who treated her as their mother.

As for Madame Baldimer, she had left Paris for America immediately after Albert's death.

Albert's friends continue to stroll on the boulevards, cigar in mouth. Mouillot is still a high liver, Balivan as distraught as ever, and DupÉtrain still insists on putting people to sleep. Monsieur Varinet no longer lends five hundred francs on an olive, because he is afraid of having to keep it too long in his purse, and Monsieur CÉlestin de Valnoir, having obtained his release from Sainte-PÉlagie, bends his energies to piling up other debts.

Madame Plays continues to disregard her husband's rights; but she cannot endure the sight of Tobie; she holds him in horror, because she believes that he killed Albert. Young Pigeonnier consoles himself for the rigor of the superb Herminie with Aunt Abraham's fortune and his reputation for valor.

On the day before his departure for Auvergne with his sister and Bastringuette, Sans-Cravate saw two men in the street, handcuffed together, on their way to the PrÉfecture, escorted by gendarmes. He recognized Laboussole and Jean Ficelle. The latter seemed a little abashed to be seen with such an escort; but Monsieur Laboussole kept up a continual outcry of:

"It's a mistake of the gendarmes; they take us for somebody else! That trick's been played on me seven or eight times before!"

"That's how I should have ended, perhaps," thought Sans-Cravate, as he looked after them, "if I'd listened to that ne'er-do-well's advice! for there's no mistake about it, when a man keeps going on sprees, and never works, he seldom comes to a good end."

LITTLE STREAMS