Chapter VI: Conclusion: Of the History of a Louis D'or

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"It is quite sufficient that it is possible."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"We must buy some for her."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What are you looking for?"

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

"I have had no dinner to-day."

"You have had no dinner?"

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

"Why not?"

"Because mother cannot give me any."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, but you would sell it."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

FRANÇOU.

As Madame d'Inville was one day walking along the Boulevard, accompanied by her grandson Eugène, and her granddaughter Mélanie, they saw a concourse of people collected, in the form of a circle, around one of those men who perform difficult and perilous feats. He had with him a little girl, dressed partly as a boy and partly as a girl. Her hair was arranged in female fashion, as was the upper part of her dress, but the lower part terminated in trousers. This little girl was walking upon her hands, with her head downwards, and her feet in the air, and performing a variety of tricks, which amused the children very much, so that Madame d'Inville was kind enough to stop and look at them for some time. At length, after giving them some money, she went away. It was not that Madame d'Inville felt much pleasure in giving to persons who follow useless occupations; but as her grandchildren had been much amused, she thought it but right to pay for the pleasure they had received.

As they were walking along, Mélanie expressed her admiration of the dress of the little girl, all covered with spangles and chains of different colours. Eugène remarked that it was all dirty and torn, and that most of the things she saw glittering were nothing more than strips of gilt paper. Nevertheless, Mélanie appeared to be so dazzled with this costume, that her grandmamma jestingly proposed that she should go and take the little girl's place. Mélanie exclaimed against this, and Eugène said, "Probably Mélanie would not mind being beaten, as perhaps that poor little thing is every morning, before putting on her beautiful dress."

"And why beaten?" asked Mélanie.

"To make her work. You saw the other day that man who was making the dogs dance, and you remember how sorry you were when he beat one of them, because he would not make a bow in the minuet. Well, it must be pretty nearly the same thing in the present case."

"It is quite bad enough to beat a dog," said Mélanie. "I hope people don't beat their children in the same way."

"Perhaps the little girl," continued Madame d'Inville, "does not belong to this mountebank. Sometimes poor people, not being able to maintain their children, confide them to the first person who will take charge of them, and who hopes to gain something by making them work. These poor children, removed from their parents, learn nothing good, and are often unhappy. I knew one...."

"You knew one, dear grandmamma!" cried both the children at once.

"It was a little girl," said Madame d'Inville, "who was taken away from her native province by a fortune-teller; she was in danger of perishing of hunger, and of being crippled, and what is much worse, she ran the risk of becoming a thief."

"Oh! dear! how much I should like to know her history!" said Mélanie. As they had reached the Champs-Elysées, Madame d'Inville sat down, the two children seated themselves on the stool which she put under her feet, and, holding each other round the neck, to avoid falling, they listened to the history of Françou.

Françou, whose real name was Françoise, had lost her parents before she was five years old. They were so poor, that they had left nothing whatever for the maintenance of their child, and Françoise was placed with her uncle, her father's brother, who being himself very poor and having lost his wife, found it quite difficult enough to provide for the two little boys which she had left him, without the additional charge of a little girl. While he was grieving over this matter, there came into the village in which he lived a man named Jacques, whom he knew from having worked with him at the harvest, during the previous year.

Jacques was a native of _Auvergne_, and a long way from his own province, for what was formerly called Auvergne, is, as you remember, Eugène, that part of the country where the departments of the Puy-de-Dôme, du Cantal, &c., are now situated, and he was then in Maine, which is at present the department of the Sarthe. The natives of Auvergne are much in the habit of travelling beyond the limits of their own province. They leave it, while very young, to make what they call their _Tour of France_. As long as they are little, they sweep chimneys, like the Savoyards, and more than half of those children we meet with in the streets and call Savoyards, are really natives of Auvergne: they also go of errands in the town, and work in the country when they can get any to do. Many are travelling blacksmiths, and you may often meet them, carrying on their shoulders old shovels, old tongs, or old pots, which they buy, mend, and sell again. When they have gained a little money, they return to their own country, and marry. They are generally very honest and industrious people, but Jacques did not resemble them.

He thought himself possessed of more wit than others, because, instead of working, he invented a thousand deceptions to get a living. Sometimes he told fortunes, that is to say, he foretold what would happen to people, on the next day, or the following days, as if he really knew, and he found many foolish enough to believe him and to pay for his predictions. At other times, he would make up little bundles of herbs, which he gathered in the fields, and sell them to the country people, as certain remedies for the tooth-ache, or the bite of a mad dog. He would then go and spend in drink, the money obtained by this knavery. At other times, he would beg; but he never worked, while it was possible for him to do anything else.

The uncle of Françoise told him of his embarrassments. Françoise was very pretty, and very quick and intelligent for her age. "Give her to me," said Jacques, "I will teach her to tell fortunes." The truth was, that at that time Jacques was forced to beg, as he had squandered all his money, and he thought also that it would be much more interesting to have with him a little girl whom he could pass off as his daughter, and to whom more would be given than to him. It was not, in truth, very convenient for a man without money, and who was constantly wandering from place to place, to burden himself with a little girl only five years old; but persons like Jacques never think of the future; and besides, if ever she happened to stand in the way of his interests, he was not one who would feel much scruple in leaving her on the first road he came to, whenever it happened to suit his convenience.

Her uncle made no inquiries about all this; he was so rejoiced to get rid of Françoise that he did not even trouble himself to consider that fortune-telling is a very disreputable trade, since it is a system of deceptions. However, as he was rather ashamed of thus abandoning his brother's child, he told in the village that Jacques was going to take her to her mother's native place, which was a long way off, and leave her with a relation who would take care of her; so that no one thought any more of Françoise, and she remained entirely in the power of Jacques, who could do what he pleased with her.

The first few days, she found it pleasant enough to run about the country. Jacques did not travel very rapidly, for as soon as he obtained any money, on account of the pretty face of Françoise, he stopped at a public-house, in order to spend it in drink. Françoise liked this well enough, for on these occasions she always got something to eat; nevertheless, if Jacques remained too long, she become weary, cried, and ended by falling asleep.

At last the fatigue of this sort of life made her ill. Then Jacques taught her to remain on his back with her arms round his neck, and seated in a kind of sack, the strings of which he held in front of him. Thus equipped, he begged for his sick child, and by this means obtained much more than before.

One evening when he was intoxicated, he lost his hold of the sack, and poor Françoise fell down, hurt her head very much, and almost dislocated her arm. As she screamed a good deal, Jacques was annoyed, and threatened to throw her into a ditch. She was dreadfully afraid of him, for he had already beaten her several times, especially when he was intoxicated; she therefore ceased, and after having wept in silence for a long time, she fell asleep by his side in a ditch where he passed the night.

The following day she was in a violent state of fever. It is difficult to say what Jacques would have done with her, had not a carrier, who fortunately happened to be passing by, given him for charity, a place in his cart, for himself and his _sick child_, and in this manner they arrived at Cavignat, which was Jacques's native village. Poor little Françoise was almost dying. She was stretched on the straw of the cart, her head leaning down, and her little face, all pale, and bruised from the fall, was covered with tears, which flowed abundantly from her closed eyes.

The vehicle was quickly surrounded by the women of the village, who questioned one another as to who this child could be, for they had always understood that Jacques was unmarried, and they were therefore greatly astonished at seeing a little girl with him.

Whilst he was fabricating a story on this subject, Madame Pallois, the Curé's sister, happened to pass. She was a very virtuous and benevolent woman, and although not affluent, did a great deal of good in the village, where she visited and took care of the poor, worked for them, and frequently even served them for a doctor. She saw immediately that Françoise especially required food and rest. She had her carried at once into Jacques's house, as she believed her to be his daughter. She herself brought her some soup and a little wine, as well as some sheets to sleep in: she examined and dressed her arm, which was very much swollen, and desired that great care should be taken of her; and as Madame Pallois was highly respected in the village, her orders were always obeyed.

Jacques's house was inhabited by his mother. This house, which was nothing more than a poor hut, half-destroyed, was her only property, for her son had compelled her to sell some small patches of land which she possessed, in order to give him the price of them. He now came back to see whether there was anything else he could take from her; but she could not give him anything more, unless she consented to sell her house and sleep in the street, and this she refused to do. Then this detestable son became angry, he abused her, and even appeared on the point of beating her, so much so that the inhabitants of the village, filled with indignation at his conduct, forced him to leave it, threatening if he again entered it during his mother's lifetime, to denounce him to the authorities of the place. Françoise was not sufficiently restored to be able to accompany him, but this did not disturb him, as his head was now filled with other projects. He therefore left her, and she, on her part, was perfectly satisfied never to see him again.

She remained with his mother, who was called in the village old _Catichou_, which in the _patois_ of Limousin, and of a part of Auvergne, is equivalent to _Catherine_, just as _Françoise_ was called _Françou_. She soon recovered, and old Catichou, who believed her to be her grandchild, was very fond of her. Catichou was, on the whole, a tolerably good sort of woman, though she had so worthless a son, whom she had brought up very badly, not having very correct principles herself. Madame Pallois also was kind to Françou, and always gave her something when she went to see her, such as fruit, nuts, a little bacon, butter, or cheese. Françou, who was generous always gave at least half of everything to Catichou, to whom she was much attached, especially when she compared her with Jacques. Catichou was fond of good living, and at the same time very poor; on these occasions, therefore, she received Françou with such kindness, that the child was so delighted at being able to carry her something, that she went every day to seek for food in the village, where she was considered very pretty, and much liked. If nothing was given to her, she asked for anything that took her fancy; and it sometimes happened that when not observed, she took without asking whatever came within her reach, scarcely knowing that she did wrong; and when she brought home a few carrots or eggs that she had found the means of secreting, or some hemp or beans which she had taken from the fields, or from the places where they had been laid to dry, old Catichou troubled herself but little how they were obtained, quite satisfied with profiting by them. Madame Pallois, indeed, endeavoured to instil correct principles into the mind of Françou, and often exhorted her to conduct herself properly; but as she was not aware of her propensity to theft, she had not thought of alluding to that subject.

Old Catichou died, and Jacques returned to the village, to the great annoyance of every one, for he was a worthless fellow. Madame Pallois especially was grieved to think that he would set a bad example to Françou, and teach her many evil habits; but there was no means of preventing him from coming to his own house, or from having with him one who was believed to be his daughter, for he had forbidden her to say he was not her father, as he did not wish it to be known that he had been into Maine, where he had been guilty of many fraudulent practices, which he feared might be discovered. Françou said nothing about the matter at first, or if she did, what she said had not been understood, as she could not speak the _patois_ of the country, and after a time she ceased to think of it. She cried very much when Catichou died; but she was indifferent about seeing Jacques again, for she no longer felt afraid of him. Three years had passed since his departure, and she had forgotten his ill treatment. She was now eight years of age, clever, active, and determined: she was, besides, kind-hearted in the highest degree, always ready to oblige, going of errands for one, and assisting another in driving his donkey, or weeding his garden. In fine, every one loved her, and, indeed she would have well merited this love, had it not been for that one bad propensity, of which all were as yet ignorant.

Perhaps she might have overcome this fault, for loving Jacques much less than Catichou, she had no wish to carry anything to him, and she never thought of stealing for herself. Besides, she saw little of him, for he had connected himself with a band of smugglers--people who fraudulently import merchandise without paying the duty. He frequently passed whole days and nights away from home; and had it not been for the inhabitants of the village, Françou would often have run the risk of perishing of hunger.

One day when she complained of his not giving her anything to eat, he told her, in a brutal tone, that he had nothing to give her, and that she must go and earn her living by asking for alms on the high road, where just then many persons were expected to pass on their way to a neighbouring fair. Françou at first refused; Jacques told her that he would beat her, and not allow her to enter the house, if she did not bring something back with her in the evening. She went, therefore.

The first person who passed by, refused to give her anything; the second called her a lazy thing, and a little boy made game of her. Françou had often heard it said that she was pretty, and such compliments had rendered her proud, neither was she accustomed to insults; she therefore returned home, her heart burning with shame, and her eyes filled with tears, and declared that she would never beg again. Jacques beat her, and the following day led her by force upon the high road; but the moment he was out of sight she went away. In the evening, he asked her how much she had received.

"Nothing," she replied, "I did not remain upon the road." He beat her again: she began to scream, and in the midst of her tears protested a thousand times, that no one should force her to be called a little lazy thing. Jacques turned her out of the house, and she passed the whole night out of doors. In the morning he found her half-dead with cold: "Do you mean to go upon the road to-day?" he asked.

"Yes," she replied, "but it will be to go away altogether."

In a transport of fury Jacques raised his hand.

"I am going," she said, running away.

"I will lock you up," exclaimed Jacques.

"So much the better; then I shall not have to go upon the road."

Jacques saw plainly that he should gain nothing by these proceedings; besides, he had business to attend to; his comrades were waiting for him at the public-house.

Françou, seeing him take his bag, as he was accustomed to do when he went on long excursions, concluded that he would not return that evening, and felt somewhat more tranquil. That day, and the following one, she lived on the food given her by the good people of the village, who heaped maledictions upon Jacques for having thus left her to die of hunger: but, on the evening of the second day, she saw him returning in the distance, and was greatly frightened, for she remembered the terrible beating she had received on the night before the last.

It was then too late for her to go away, and besides she had not the courage to do so; neither could she apply to Madame Pallois, as that lady had accompanied her brother to a neighbouring village. At length she thought of the plan which had so often procured her a good reception from Catichou. She entered the kitchen of Madame Pallois, saw there a fowl which had just been killed for the next day's dinner, and took it away unperceived. The servant, who returned a short time after, thought that the cat must have stolen it. Françou made her escape trembling; besides she felt grieved to take anything from Madame Pallois, who was so good to her, and whom she had always heard called throughout the whole of the village the mother of the poor. But children always imagine that those who are a little better off than themselves, cannot want for anything, and she did not think she was doing her much harm; besides, she was so terribly afraid of being beaten. As it happened, she was not beaten on this occasion; on the contrary, Jacques received her tolerably well, and Françou perceiving that this was the means of securing her peace, became confirmed in this shocking habit. But as it was not so easy to satisfy Jacques as Catichou, she began to take things of more importance.

At length suspicions were excited in the village, although Françou was not exactly accused as yet; but she would soon have been discovered, expelled with Jacques, and thus ruined for life, had it not been for an occurrence which took place at this time.

Madame Pallois, wishing to keep her as much as possible out of Jacques's company, made her come to her to learn to read; and Françou, delighted at the prospect of knowing something of which others were ignorant, felt very grateful: therefore it rarely happened that she took anything from Madame Pallois. Besides, she was very fond of Babet, the servant, who told her that she had been scolded for having let the cat eat the fowl; so that she would have been sorry to have got her again into disgrace.

One day, when she was nine years old, she entered the house without being observed. It was not her intention to steal in, but still she had not been seen. In this manner she went as far as Madame Pallois's room. No one was there. She saw half a crown lying on the mantelpiece; she looked at it: Jacques on the previous evening had brought home a shilling, which had dropped from the pocket of a person who was walking before him, and he had greatly exulted in his good fortune. The present coin was much larger than the one Jacques had picked up. How pleased he would be to have it! As he no longer beat her, she began to like him rather more than formerly.

She no longer thought either of Babet or of Madame Pallois, but solely of the pleasure which Jacques would feel. She turned the piece over and over: she blushed: she had never as yet taken money, and she thought that it was much worse to take it than anything else. Besides, the evening before, she had seen a woman led to prison for having committed a theft, and her dreadfully dejected appearance had very much excited her compassion. She thought of the circumstance at this moment, and was on the point of replacing the money; but while still holding it, she fancied she heard a noise, and grasping it tightly in her hand, she ran out. No sooner was she outside, than, regretting more than ever what she had done, she was on the point of returning to try to replace the money on the mantelpiece without being seen; but at this moment she beheld Madame Pallois enter the house, and she hid herself, in great trepidation. There was no longer any chance of replacing it.

When Madame Pallois had disappeared, Françou came out of her hiding-place, and walked slowly away. She no longer thought of giving the money to Jacques, her only concern was to find the means of returning to the house when Madame Pallois was out, and replacing the money unperceived. While still retaining it tightly in her hand, she met Jacques, who gave her a faggot to carry home. In taking hold of it she dropped the money; Jacques picked it up. "Ah! ah!" said he, "where did you get this?" and without waiting for a reply he carried it off. Françou did not dare to run after him, she did not dare to cry out, for she would be asked how the money came into her possession. She only sat down on her faggot and wept bitterly. At that moment she would have given the world not to have committed so disgraceful an action. Just then the Curé passed by; she quickly wiped away her tears, and without perceiving that she had been crying he told her to go and fetch his cane, which he had left at home.

The idea of seeing Madame Pallois, whom she knew to be at the time in the house, made her tremble from head to foot. Nevertheless, she must obey, for the Curé was waiting. At first she walked very slowly; he called to her to make more haste: she took her resolution and rushed into the house. There she found Madame Pallois greatly excited, and the servant in tears. "You may say what you please, Babet," said Madame Pallois, in a tone of severity, "you are the only person who can have entered this room during my absence, and I am quite certain that this half-crown was on the mantelpiece when I went out."

The servant again protested her innocence. "Be silent," continued Madame Pallois; "for some time past I have perceived several things missing; I give you till to-morrow to leave the house; but until then I shall so carefully watch your proceedings, that you need not hope to profit by the time you still remain."

The unfortunate girl sobbed violently; and struck her head with both her hands. Françou wept also, but she had not the courage to declare what she had done. At length she threw herself on her knees, and entreated pardon for Babet. Madame Pallois herself, softened by the despair of the poor girl, turned towards her.

"Babet," she said, in an agitated voice, "perhaps want has led you to commit this crime; if so, I will forgive you, provided you confess all."

Babet again loudly protested her innocence.

"Leave the house," said her mistress angrily. Babet fell on her knees in the middle of the room. "See, Françou," continued Madame Pallois, "to what a condition crime reduces us." Françou hid her face in her apron; she was on the point of avowing her fault; but she looked at Madame Pallois, and her tongue seemed frozen in her mouth.

"See what mischief you have done," continued Madame Pallois, addressing Babet with an air of deep concern, while her eyes filled with tears. "This was the last half-crown which I had at my disposal at the present moment, and I had promised it to poor Bernard, in order that he might call a doctor to his dying wife."

"It is not I," cried Babet once more; but Madame Pallois would not listen to her. Babet wrung her hands, and Françou rushed out of the house in search of Jacques. He was not at home; she ran to the tavern, and reached it half-suffocated with grief and the rapidity of her course.

"Oh," cried she, clasping her hands, "give me back the half-crown that you took away from me!" Jacques, already intoxicated, got up in a fury, and gave her a kick that threw her on the ground.

"Give it me back! give it me back!" she exclaimed, with outstretched arms, and without rising from the ground.

Jacques was again on the point of striking her, but she was taken away from him, put out of the house, and the door closed against her. She threw herself on her knees before the door, and entreated them to open it: but no one attended to her. At last, she sat down on a bench to wait until Jacques came out; but her eyes were heavy with weeping, and she fell asleep. Hearing no one in the tavern, she returned home. Jacques had come back, but he was plunged into the heavy sleep of intoxication, and it was impossible to rouse him. Françou then went to the Curé's house; everything was quiet there. "Oh," she said, "perhaps they have pardoned Babet." She returned, lay down on her bed, and passed the night in alternate hopes and fears. The day dawned, and Jacques awoke. Françou again asked for the money, sometimes angrily, sometimes in tones of supplication.

"The money!" said Jacques, with a stupified look, for he was not yet sober; "Ah!" he continued with an oath, "it is all gone: not a sous left!"

Françou arose; she had formed a project during the night. She gathered together the few rags which still remained to her from what old Catichou had left, made a bundle of them, and taking also a little silver cross given to her by Madame Pallois, she bent her steps towards the Curé's house. Babet was in the yard leaning against the wall; she approached her. "Babet," said she, "has Madame Pallois forgiven you?"

"No," replied Babet gloomily.

"Well," continued Françou timidly, at the same time offering her bundle, and taking from her neck the little silver cross; "give her these, perhaps they will be worth as much."

"Oh! they are not worth half as much," said Babet sighing; "and besides, what good would it do me? My character is lost, and Bernard will think that I have caused the death of his wife."

Françou sat down in dismay.

"Go and see Madame Pallois," said Babet: "go," she continued impatiently, as if eager to get rid of her, and as the child arose to depart she added with much emotion--

"Good bye, Françou, will you kiss me?"

Françou seemed afraid to approach.

"Oh!" said Babet sorrowfully, "I see that you too will not kiss me." She turned her head and wept, for she believed that Françou also took her for a thief, and did not wish to kiss her.

"Oh! yes, yes," said Françou, as she threw herself into Babet's arms, who embraced her tenderly, and then said in a stifled voice:

"Go, Françou, go to Madame Pallois, she is waiting for you."

Françou walked slowly away, uncertain what to do. On reaching the door of Madame Pallois's room, her courage failed her, and instead of entering she ran out towards the yard. There she beheld Babet standing on the brink of the well, looking down as if intending to throw herself into it. She rushed forward, uttering a piercing shriek; Babet turned her head, and Françou had just time to seize hold of her.

"Oh! it is I!" she cried, falling on her knees and holding Babet by the skirts with all her strength. While Babet tried to disengage herself, Madame Pallois came up.

"Oh!" exclaimed Françou, sinking on the ground, "don't let her throw herself into the well! It was I took the money."

Babet and Madame Pallois stood motionless with astonishment. Françou still continued prostrate on the ground, sobbing violently. Babet raised her up, though she herself could scarcely stand.

Madame Pallois made her sit down; then, turning to Françou, "Are you quite sure that what you say is true, Françou?" she asked, somewhat sternly.

"Ask my father," said Françou, hiding her face against the wall.

"And what have you done with it?"

"My father took it from me," she replied, sobbing. "I begged him to give it back to me, but he has spent it. I brought all this to give you instead, but Babet says it is worth nothing." At these words her sobs were redoubled.

"Babet," continued Madame Pallois, turning towards the poor girl, who, unable to support her joy, was leaning against the wall, breathing with difficulty: "can you forgive me, for accusing you of so disgraceful an act? Will you permit me to kiss you?"

Babet seized the hand of her mistress, then ran to Françou, who had again fallen on the ground, and presented her to Madame Pallois, begging her to forgive her.

"No! no!" exclaimed Françoise; "poor Bernard!"

"Françou," said Madame Pallois, "I am going to Bernard's cottage. You must come with me."

"Oh! no, no," cried Françou, "I would rather die first."

"I insist upon it, Françou; come, dry your eyes, and follow me."

Françou dared not resist. Madame Pallois took her by the hand, and was compelled to support her at every instant. At last they arrived. Bernard came to the door.

"Madame," said he in a tone of the deepest affliction, "you must permit me to fetch the doctor in the course of the morning; my wife is in despair, and thinks that he alone can save her."

"Let us go in," said Madame Pallois. At this moment she dropped the hand of Françou, who immediately made her escape, and ran off with all her might. By the time she reached the gate of the village, her mind was made up. The physician's house was situated only a short distance from Cavignat. Françou knew it; she ran there as fast as her strength would permit, and soon reached it.

"Oh," she cried to the physician, sobbing, "come and relieve poor Bernard's wife; Madame Pallois had only one half-crown to pay for your visit, and I took it. If you do not come, she will die. Do, pray, come;" she continued, clasping her hands, and dragging him by his dressing-gown. Greatly astonished, and affected by the condition in which he saw her, the physician interrogated her, and she related what had occurred, with every sign of the deepest despair. He consoled her, and promised to go and see the wife of poor Bernard without making any charge for his visit. Transported with joy, Françou wanted him to set off in his dressing-gown and nightcap, but he represented to her that he should be able to go much quicker in his gig, and that he could dress himself while the horse was harnessed. He had great difficulty in making her listen to reason, but at last the horse was put to, and the gig drove off.

They arrived, and entered the house. Françou kept behind the physician, not daring to come forward, and as the attention of every one was fixed on the patient, who was in a state of great suffering, Françou remained for a time unnoticed. When the invalid was a little more tranquil, and the physician had given his advice, Madame Pallois asked him how it happened that he had arrived so quickly, and why Bernard had not returned with him.

"I have not seen Bernard," said the doctor. "I was called by this little angel," he added, turning to Françou, on whom Madame Pallois had just cast a stern look. He then related what had taken place. Madame Pallois reflected for a moment; then, calling Françou, "Promise me," she said, "that this shall be the last time, and I will forgive you." Françou promised, and she kept her word. Besides, she was no longer subjected to the same temptations. The knaveries of Jacques were discovered, and he was obliged to fly from the village for fear of being arrested as a smuggler. It was also ascertained that Françou was not his daughter; he had said so while intoxicated, and Françou, on being questioned, confirmed the statement.

The physician asked to take her into his service, to milk the cow and attend to the fowls. As he was a very excellent and strictly honest man, and treated her well, she had nothing but good examples before her. His wife instructed her in her religious duties, and she regularly attended the catechism of M. le Curé, at Cavignat, and when she had reflected more on what she had done, she could not look Babet in the face without blushing; especially as Babet had told her that she had bitterly repented of her wish to throw herself into the well, which was a thing so strictly forbidden, and for which M. le Curé had great difficulty in giving her absolution.

"Poor Babet!" said Mélanie, with a heavy sigh, for she had scarcely breathed during the termination of the story.

"Poor Françou!" said Eugène, "she would certainly have died of grief if Babet had thrown herself into the well."

"My children," said Madame d'Inville, "thank God for having given you good parents, and remember, Mélanie, when they take so much pains to give you good habits, how unreasonable it is not to pay attention to them, or to say when you are told to do anything, '_I don't want to do this_,' or '_I won't do that_.'"

At this moment, Mélanie saw a poor man passing with a little girl. "Oh! dear grandmamma," said she, "that is just like the story of Jacques. I am sure that little girl is not his daughter."

"And why not, my child?"

"Oh! see, he has such a bad look."

"Because you fancy so, because he is in rags, and appears to be ill. Look at me, Mélanie; just imagine, if I were covered with rags, and had been laid up with fever for a week, do you think I should look very well?"

"Oh! dear grandmamma!"

"He is old; I too am old; and whereas I take my granddaughter out to walk for her pleasure, he, on the contrary, takes his out to beg for her bread."

"Do you think so, grandmamma?"

"It is at least possible, my dear; and as we know nothing to the contrary, we have no right to regard as dishonest a man who may be quite the reverse, and who has so much need of our good opinion."

Mélanie carried to the poor man a sou which Madame d'Inville had given her, and, touched by her grandmamma's words, she added another from her own store.