1872.]

-

II.

"Sophie ! Madame Robin had gone back to her garden-chair, and called out to the old woman, who has taken Louise to her bedroom-"I forgot. We must have an omelet and a cake for supper. Monsieur Vermont is coming."

--

The little black eyes looked fierce and glittering. "Monsieur Vermont coming and to supper! Ma foi, there has been already trouble enough in getting ready for Louise; and when I asked that Emile might come and see me, thou hast said it was not possible, thou must have Louise all to thyself. Hein!" Madame Migneaud came close up to her employer, and looked compellingly down in the unmeaning broad face.

Madame Robin felt a little frightened, but she had wits enough to know that Sophie's wrath could be turned aside by flattery.

"Ah ça! she laughed. "A staid old bachelor like Monsieur Vermont will not come between me and my child; he will not so much as look at Louise; but with a fine tall youth like Emile it might be different."

And then she once more struggled out of her chair and rolled into the house.

"Monsieur has certainly a gray beard, and he must be forty at the least," said Sophie, thoughtfully. "Well, if Louise were to marry him, she would not want her grandmother's money it would be for me and my Emile. But then Emile has set his heart on Louise, and what the boy wants he shall have."

Louise was not in a mood to sit quietly beside her grandmother. She was so very full of happiness that the blood moved like quicksilver in her veins. She ran all over the house, praising every thing; and then she explored every nook of the garden, counted the peaches and gourds and nectarines, and vowed they had never looked so promising; finally she darted like a sunbeam into the little dark kitchen, and startled Madame Migneaud among her stewpans. "Chut! Thou must be more peaceful, child. might as well have a gale of wind in the house.”

We

At which Louise smiled, nodded, and then, snatching at both of the brown arms, she made the old woman's elbows meet behind her back, and ran away to the parlor, screaming with laughter.

She threw her arms round her grandmother, kissed her on both checks over and over again, and at last sat down on a stool at her feet.

"Bonne maman," - she looked up in the old woman's face, "why dost thou have that grave, solemn old landlord to supper the first day I come home? He is duller than our professor, more severe, though not quite so ugly. least he was in the winter."

at

"Ugly! ma foi! Monsieur Vermont is a fine, goodlooking man. He wrote to ask if he could speak to me on business to-night; but he is nothing to thee, my child." Louise pouted a little.

"Thou

Sophie wanted me to ask Emile, but I would not." Louise jumped up and hugged her grandmother. art an angel, bonne maman! I care not for Monsieur Vermont, but I detest Emile; he is so fat and stupid, and he has such round blue eyes and such shining red cheeks! and I long to box his great ears when he looks at me." "Chut! young girls must not talk in such a way when they have left school. Thou must like every one a little, my child."

Only a little?" The girl's eyes sparkled with mischief." Shall I love thee only a little then, bonne maman? And when I marry, shall I love my husband a little too?

"A little love that lasts is better in marriage than much which changes!" the old woman sighed. "But, my child, what dost thou know of love? No voung girl should even think of love till she marries, and then her husband is her teacher."

Monsieur Vermont came punctually at eight o'clock. Madame Migneaud declared herself tired to death; so Louise waited on the supper-table.

Monsieur Vermont looked at her and thanked her, but he talked entirely to Madame Robin.

When Louise went up stairs to her little bedroom, she was no longer joyful, or even happy.

It was a bare little room, the walls whitewashed; there was not a bit of carpet on the deal floor; a bedstead, an armoire which served as table, a wash-stand, and a chair, made all the furniture; the only ornament was a black crucifix beside the bed. Outside the window, on the ledge, Madame Robin had placed two pots of scarlet geranium"to keep the child bright," she said.

The girl looked round her. She sighed.

"I wonder if it is because the sunshine has gone,” — she sighed again, -"but it seems as if it would be more dull here than at the convent. As to Monsieur Vermont, he is a stone. He could not have taken less notice of me if I really had been the servant of grandmamma. If he comes here often, I shall be rude to him. I said saucy things on He makes me feel purpose, but he never even smiled. wicked. I am silly to think of him at all."

She began to brush her hair impatiently, but she could not shut Monsieur Vermont from her thoughts. He looked so clever, and yet he was so silent; he was so courteous, and yet so horribly, impassibly grave; and though he had not spoken, she fancied he had listened to all her nonsense. "He is a provoking puzzle," she said. Her face brightened. "Well, there will be some amusement in trying to make him out."

III.

The room was full of light next morning when Louise opened her eyes. She had no time to indulge the lazy, pleasant, vague sensation of wondering where she was, for

in an instant she was conscious that she had not awakened naturally; some one was knocking at the door-steady, dull blows, repeated at regular intervals.

Louise was going to say " Come in," and then she remembered that neither Sophie nor her grandmamma would have used this ceremony. She got up, wrapped a shawl round her, and said, "Who is it?"

"It is me, Emile Bibot, and I have the honor to tell Ma'm'selle Louise that her grandmamma is ill- but very ill indeed. My aunt cannot leave Madame Robin, and my aunt has told me to say that she requires the assistance of ma'm'selle. Will Ma'm'selle Louise allow me to express my sympathy in her sorrow, and my devoted wish to do for her all that lies in my power?"

Even through the door the sentence sounded absurd; it was said so like a lesson.

that is all you can do "Thank you; please go awayjust now." "Oh, how detestable he is!" thought Louise. "Even without seeing him I feel inclined to laugh at him."

She dressed quickly, and she went to her grandmother's room. She had no experience of illness, and she went in as usual; but she stopped, frightened. Madame Robin lay very still and white; her eyes were closed.

Madame Migneaud stepped forward before the girl could speak, and led her outside the door.

"I do not want thee here," she said, "but down stairs. I have sent for the girl Constance, and she will do as she is she jerked bid; but I must stay here. It is possible she " her head towards the door "she will not recover; it is paralysis."

Pale and scared, Louise went down into the parlor. There she found tall, blushing, awkward Emile.

"Ma'm'selle, I assure you of my sympathy, of my devotion. Will not ma'm'selle tell me what I can do to prove

it ?' He spoke as if his mouth was filled with gooseberries; he had already upset two chairs in bowing to Louise.

"Please go away, then; I want to be by myself," she said.

Emile got redder still, but he did not move.

"On the contrary, my duty is to stay with Ma'm'selle Louise."

She turned away to the window: she was too sorrowful to argue. It seemed to her that she had never known till now how much she loved her grandmother. may die without ever speaking to me again!

"And she

Along the window-ledge was a fringe of fuchsias and nasturtiums; these last sent trailing yellow wreaths, backed by the exquisite gray-green of their leaves, on the wall below. But Louise did not see them. She leaned her elbows on the fringed white cushion, and hid her face in her hands.

Her parents had died when she was twelve years old, and she had been placed with the sisters of the Convent du Bon Sauveur, in St. Roque. She had been well and kindly treated, but she had always been longing for the special love she had lost in her parents. She was frank and loving, but she did not love easily.

She stood crying quietly, resting both arms on the cushioned window-seat. But she was not lamenting her own fate as a desolate orphan; she was thinking, with bitter heartache, how cold a return she had made for her grandmother's lavish affection.

Madame Migneaud had told her nephew to make good use of his time with Louise, but Emile's love made him timid, and when he saw Louise crying his hair rose on his forehead with fright.

"Mon Dieu! She may faint!"- he grew pale, and rubbed his clammy hands together" or she may have an attack of the nerves. What do I know, and how could I tell what to do with her?- and if I did not do just the right thing she would think me an idiot. Ciel! It is insupportable.'

He grew faint as Louise's sobs grew deeper; at last he could bear no more. He stooped cautiously, drew off his boots, and slipped out of the room. At the cottage-door, to his discomfiture, he met Monsieur Vermont.

"I hear the doctor has been sent for. Who is ill in the house?" His quiet voice brought back Emile's calmness, for it was very new to the self-complacent youth to be disturbed, as he had now been, by the idea of having to assist at a fainting-fit.

"Bon jour, monsieur," he said. "It is Madame Robin; but my aunt is with her: you need not fear."

Monsieur

Monsieur said, "Thank you," and then stood aside to let Emile pass out; but the youth blocked up the doorway. "I wish to speak to Mademoiselle Louise." Vermont spoke as quietly as ever, but he moved forward. "Oh, certainly!' Emile's round colorless eyes twinkled till they looked like his aunt's-"certainly; I shall have the pleasure of taking monsieur to see Mademoiselle Louise." He turned and led the way.

Monsieur Vermont was not so tall as Emile Bibot, but he was better built. He put his hand on the youth's shoulder and pushed him aside.

"I need not trouble you," he said; "I want to see this young lady alone."

So many words came spluttering out of Emile's open mouth that the sound was like the gobble of a turkey-cock ; but Monsieur Vermont went straight to the parlor, opened the door, and closed it after him.

"I'll go and tell Aunt Sophie, I will!" spluttered Emile. "How dare he shut himself up alone with my future wife? Allons! I will make the aunt send him away."

Louise turned round from the window. She looked surprised when she saw her visitor.

"Mademoiselle," he spoke in such a kind, soothing voice that the girl's tears began again, "I am much grieved at this sad news." He waited, but she did not speak.

"Can I be of use to you? I think your grandmother

would wish you to consider me a friend, and to ask me for all you want. I am the oldest acquaintance she has in Cabrin."

"You are very kind," Louise began, in a formal way, and then stopped. "Oh, monsieur! what I want is, to know if my grandmother will get well, and to be with her." She was clasping her hands now, and looking in his face with eyes full of entreaty.

"Have you ever nursed a sick person?" he said. "No-oh, no! I could not be of use, but I could see her, and she could see me."

Monsieur Vermont looked grave. It seemed to Louise that he spoke more quietly than ever.

"I will speak to Madame Migneaud." He went up stairs, but when he came again he looked sad as well as grave. "Well?" she said impetuously.

'I am afraid you must be patient, and you must not go into your grandmother's room. I trust she is better. She is rousing now, and any sudden excitement would be dangerous. I think she has a skilful nurse, and you may certainly trust our good doctor."

"But will she recover, monsieur?"

She bent her eyes so searchingly on his that he grew troubled. "I hope so. She has had very good health till now, and that is in her favor." He gave the girl as much comfort as he could, and then he went away.

IV.

A week passed. Emile Bibot was always at his post, making himself more and more necessary to Louise; this was the light in which he viewed his own attentions. He was persuaded that her ungraciousness was the result of extreme modesty. His old aunt confirmed him in this idea when she sometimes left the sick-room.

"Bah! bah!" she said; "thou oughtest to know by this time that when a woman says no she means yes."

At this Emile went back to his wooing, but he began to be puzzled. He tried to believe his aunt, but it seemed to him that every time he approached Louise her face showed stronger dislike. The days went by, dull and leaden. Louise thought that the flowers had lost their scent, the fruit its downy glow and color; perhaps her eyes had grown dim with constant tears. These days would have been too wretched to live through without the visits of Monsieur Vermont.

He seemed to know by instinct when she was alone. He did not talk much; he only staid a little time; but she grew to long for his visits with a feverish expectation. "There is such comfort in his smile!" she said. She was still forbidden to see her grandmother; but on the morning of the seventh day she at last met the doctor as he came down stairs.

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Ah, mademoiselle, I have good news." He spoke in answer to Louise's eyes, for the girl kept silence. "I shall not come again unless I am sent for, mademoiselle; my patient is better."

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But may I go to her?"

Dr. Bernard hesitated. He was skilful, but he was very prejudiced against interference.

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Well, she is but weak. If you had been there from the first it would have been different. I think you may be guided by Madame Migneaud."

Monsieur Vermont came that evening. He was rejoiced to hear the doctor's opinion.

"I am the more glad," he said, "because I am come to say good-by. I have business which calls me to Paris, and I should have been uneasy to leave my old friend so ill."

"You are going?" said Louise. Her voice was hard and choked. She was keeping a sob out of it. "Yes; I go to-morrow. Will you come to the gate

me?"

with

And be

He walked on slowly without speaking. It seemed to Louise as if her heart grew fuller every minute. speaks so coldly! He cares no more for me than he did that first evening. But he has been so good!"

She turned to go back into the cottage. Madame Migneaud stood at the parlor-window. There was a grin on the sly old face; she looked more monkey-like than ever.

"So monsieur is off to his fair widow, is he? I wonder if he brings her back this time with him?”

Louise felt giddy, as if a prop on which she was leaning had suddenly snapped.

"What do you mean, Sophie?"

"What I say. The business Monsieur Vermont has in Paris is to see a lady Madame D'Albi - who is going to be his wife; that is all I mean. Now, if you will sit quite still, you may go to your grandmother."

Louise slunk away. She was cowed, full of shame and dismay; she felt like a thief. What had she been doing? Counting on Monsieur Vermont's sympathy and friendship, when he could have no feeling for her but pity. Of course every thing else belonged to Madame D'Albi. "And I held his hand in both mine!" said the girl, with a hot rush of shame to her forehead. "Oh! what can he think of me?" She opened the door of her grandmother's bedroom and went in.

The pale, still face lying there with closed eyelids calmed her.

V.

Monsieur Vermont had been gone five days.

Sophie Migneaud affirmed that he would not return for a month, and Louise listened with a kind of sullen despair. She saw her grandmother every day now, but she was never left alone with her unless Madame Robin was sleeping. More than once Louise tried for mastery over Madame Migneaud, but she was too helpless to gain her point. She knew she could not manage the patient by herself, and so long as Sophie came into the room she would be mistress there.

On the night of this fifth day Louise had gone to bed more cheerfully. Emile had been absent all day. It was a relief to be freed from his silly talk and foolish, staring eyes. During the last few days he had grown more constant and familiar in his attentions, and Louise had tried in vain to offend him.

"I believe if I even struck him he would persist in persecuting me with his odious compliments. Oh, how I do hate him!"

She sat at her window looking out over the garden. It lay flooded in moonlight, which shone like hoar-frost on the little grass-plot. Two dark lines fell across this brightness

the shadows of the poplars in the road beyond. It seemed to Louise as if her life had grown into a hard, dark line; her grandmother an insensible invalid, and her only companion a man whom she disliked and despised.

She started and turned suddenly round; the room looked inky black after the light on which she had been gazing, but she was sensible of a soft creeping tread getting nearer and nearer.

"What is it?" she shrieked, in her terror; and then she saw Sophie's grinning, ugly face close to her own.

"Chut! for shame! How canst thou be such a child? I have come to fetch thee, Louise; thy grandmother is dying, and she has asked for thee."

The ague-like terror which had seized the girl returned; she caught at Sophie's arm as she followed her. Madame Migneaud went on silently to the sick-room.

Louise was startled to find this full of light. Madame Robin sat up in her bed, propped by pillows; her eyes were

open, and there was a flush on her face. The girl Constance stood at the end of the room, her round eyes full of wonder, and near Madame Robin was Emile Bibot. His back was towards the door, but Madame Migneaud led Louise up beside him.

The girl went on till she was close to her grandmother. She thought death would be different from this. She had never seen it, but she had pictured it as something terrible and awful. She bent down and kissed the old woman's flushed cheek.

"Who is it?" Madame Robin's voice sounded hoarse, and her words came indistinctly.

"It is Louise. Thou hast something to say to her, old friend."

Madame Migneaud pushed Louise aside, and bent closely over the sick woman. She said something else, which Louise could not hear; but she heard her grandmother's answer, "Yes, yes - it shall be so;" and she saw the dull eyes fixed intently on her.

Hitherto all had seemed to the girl like a strange dream, in which she was taking a part against her will; but what came now was stranger still.

"Give her your hand," whispered the old Migneaud. And as Louise obeyed she felt the sick woman's clammy fingers closing round hers, and then both hands were in the clasp of Emile Bibot. It seemed as if he extricated her hand from her grandmother's, and kept it fast in his. But those dull eyes never left hers; they seemed to fascinate and hold her powerless. Again Madame Migneaud's head bent closely over the sick woman.

"Promise," said the broken voice of the dying woman; and the eyes seemed to enforce the word.

"I promise." And then Emile's fingers pressed hers yet more tightly; and with a sharp, sudden cry, Louise broke the spell that held her.

"No! no!" she called out loudly, in her terror. “I did not mean it! I promise nothing!"

"You can

"You are too late." Emile pointed to Madame Robin. Her eyes were closed, and her face looked set. not break a promise made to a dying woman." "She is not dying! She will live!" Louise flung herself forward; but Emile dragged her from the bed. "Silence!". - Madame Migneaud's voice was solemn now "she is dead!"

VI.

When Louise awoke, she found herself lying, dressed, outside her own bed. A coverlet and some shawls had been thrown over her. She could not remember how she came there. And as she lay, trying to recall the strange, unreal scene she had acted in, it seemed to her that after Madame Migneaud's last words, she must have lost her senses; she could not remember any thing.

She was tired and unrefreshed. She bathed her aching eyes, and then she listened. “ Surely it must be very early.' The morning was dim and cloudy; she could not hear a sound in the house; and the girl Constance always came at six o'clock, and stumped about in her sabots over the tiled kitchen-floor.

The silence seemed strangely awful. There was not even a bird twittering under the eaves-only in the far-off distance, the low booming of the waves on the seashore.

With a deadly sickness at her heart, it came to Louise that she was, indeed, alone forevermore alone, too, in the power of Sophie Migneaud and of Emile; and with this came a distinct remembrance of her promise. A wild terror seized her.

"Oh! who can save me?" Her only friend was far away. She stood thinking, or trying to think- for terror was growing too strong for thought to be connected. She must run away at once out of that dreadful house, before she was a prisoner in it. It seemed to her, just then, that Madame Migneaud had power to make her do any thing. How else had she spoken those words last night? She caught up shawl; she was looking for her hat, when a slight sound roused her.

her

In fresh terror she drew the shawl over her head, and

crept softly out of her room. There was, indeed, the silence of death in the house. A shuddering sob burst from Louise. Spite of her fear, it was very hard to forsake her grandmother. But she hurried on down the stairs, out of the door which was always left unbarred, that Constance might get in easily at last through the gate. Which way now? The one road led into Cabrin, the other to St. Roque. "The good sisters will shelter me," she said; and she ran off towards the city, as if Emile were pursuing her.

She was out of breath, at last, and she paused to rest. She had left the cottage and all trace of Cabrin far behind. Before her stretched the road, like a shining yellow ribbon, with dusty banks on either side. Some way ahead, on the right, the bank rose in height till it looked down on the road below- a steep knoll, from which rose a towering crucifix.

"I shall feel safer beside that," she said.

By the time Louise reached the Calvary she was quite exhausted. She knelt reverently towards the Calvary, and then a new thought came.

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Why do I go on to St. Roque?" she said. "The good sisters think much of a pilgrimage to St. Sebastian. The dear suffering Jesus will be more pitiful than even the good sisters!"

She clambered up the steep bank to the paved ledge atop, and then mounted the flight of stone steps to the Calvary. The steps were worn and uneven with the tread of heavy-hearted souls, who brought their griefs to the Calvary of St. Sebastian.

VII.

While she knelt, Louise's heart grew hushed, as if a cool hand were laid on the burning, throbbing pain there. Her wild terror calmed. Why had she so despaired? Sophie and Emile could not make her marry against her will. She need only be firm and patient, and all would be well. She rose from her knees as she heard footsteps passing along the paved ledge. She looked quickly over her shoulder. Her shawl fell back. It was Monsieur Vermont, and he saw her.

Monsieur Vermont was beside her, holding her hand in his, his face full of eager question, and yet Louise was stricken with a sudden dumbness.

It seemed to the girl that Madame D'Albi stood between her and her friend. What interest could he feel in her now? Ah! what interest had he ever felt in her? But Monsieur Vermont's direct question roused her:

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Why are you here, and at this early hour, my child? He held her hand fast, though she tried to draw it away. The wild look in her eyes startled him.

"I-I came away - I am so unhappy!" She hesitated. "Grandmamma died last night, and I must go back to the convent."

"I cannot " She stopped, and blushed painfully. "Tell me why not; or is it because of your engagement to Monsieur Bibot? "I am not engaged." Louise drew her hand away in proud anger. "Listen, monsieur, and tell me if this is a promise. I detest Emile, and he has always known that I detest him; but last night Sophie came and fetched me to my grandmother, who was dying. Oh, monsieur, I did not think it was so near. Somehow my hand was put in Emile's hand, and I said, 'I promise; but next moment I denied it, and then she died, and I don't remember any thing more."

Monsieur Vermont's face had grown sterner yet, and Louise stood trembling before him.

At last she could not bear the suspense. "Do not tell me it is a promise, and that it is a sin to break it,” she said, wildly. "I must be sinful, then, for I will never marry Emile."

She looked up full of fear, but the sternness had left Monsieur Vermont's face. A bright smile shone over it.

"I believe this has been a trick," he said, "a wicked trick; and I think Madame Robin may be living still. Calm yourself, my Louise; you are not bound by such a promise as this. And Emile cannot have you, for I want you myself."

"You-but you are promised;" and then she hid her face in her hands.

"I suppose Madame Migneaud told you so? But you have more trust in me than in Sophie Migneaud, my child?"

He drew her hands gently away from her face, and kissed her blushing forehead.

It was as Monsieur Vermont had suspected. When the doctor saw Madame Robin, he declared that she had been thrown into a deep sleep by an overdose of the opiates which Madame Migneaud had been intrusted with for exceptional use, and thus the little scene which had so terrified Louise had been contrived to work upon her feelings. Madame Migneaud and her nephew had to leave Cabrin in hot haste; for it began to be hinted that but for Monsieur Vermont's timely return Madame Robin might not, after all, have recovered.

She is alive and well now, but she has forsaken the little whitewashed cottage, and lives with her grandchild in s large and pleasant château farther inland. She still sits out in the sunshine. She is very happy here, and takes the salad under her special care; and she spoils Monsieur Vermont's and Louise's children to her heart's content.

A PAGE OF FUTURE HISTORY.

and

IN one of the murkiest streets of Paris there lives a soothsayer who is descended from the great Nostradamos who predicted such strange things to Catherine of Medici; . nay, if one were to believe his neighbors, he is perhaps that famous wizard in person. For a fee which is not excessive this mysterious man will kindly allow one a glimpse of things that will be written when we shall all of us be underground. We have laid a stress on the word written, for M. Nostradamus's power does not extend to things to be said or dore, it is simply the gift of being able to read in the books and newspapers of the future. Thus, when he desires to know what will have become of England in a hundred years hence, he evokes the Pall Mall Gazette of the 20th or 25th of February, 1972; when he feels curious as to the fate of France. he calls for the Journal des Débats of the same dates. A few nights ago three eminent Frenchmen, feeling concerned about the unsettled condition of their country's affairs, and having heard of M. Nostradamus's seercraft, resolved to pay him a visit, and as ten o'clock struck at the church adjoining M. Nostradamus's residence, the three gentlemen knocked at his door. They were a very famous states man, a general no less famous, especially with his pen; a veteran journalist, who has publicly prided himself upon having an idea a day, though he has omitted to say whether these ideas are always good ones. The soothsayer, not expecting visitors at that late hour, opened to the party himself; but being a man of courtly ways, notwithstanding his wisdom, he no sooner heard the errand on which the callers were bent than he bowed gravely and requested them to walk in. They followed him, and were introduced into a chamber plainly furnished, and with nothing remarkable about it save a glass cage on the table, containing s toad. This toad was very remarkable, being five times the size of ordinary members of his race. The proceedings having commenced with the payment of fees, "I must premise," said M. Nostradamus," that the power I wield is not mine but that toad's. He is a toad who sojourned during two thousand three hundred years, at the smallest computation, in a stone of the lesser Pyramid. Such as you see him, he was extricated from his confinement by a soldier of Bonaparte's army in 1799, and sold for a large sum of money to Mlle. Lenormand, prophetess to the Empress Jose phine, from whom I had him after he had predicted, with striking accuracy, the defeat of Waterloo, which he had read in M. Victor Hugo's "Misérables" fifty years before

publication. "And can he read every thing?" asked the eminent journalist, much interested. Every thing," answered the soothsayer; and saying this, he opened the eage's door, upon which the toad hopped out and stationed 2:himself on a clean ream of foolscap close to a miniature inkstand and a small bundle of crowquills. "The toad's way," proceeded the soothsayer, "is to read in the books of the future which are invisible to us, and to make copies of the extracts required of him with one of those crow-quills. He writes an excellent hand." And as he spoke the toad drew one of the quills from the bundle, and tried the nib of it on the table-cloth; then he displayed himself sprawlingwise on the foolscap in a convenient attitude for writing, and croaked to intimate that he was ready. "Excuse meone moment," interposed the journalist, at this juncture; "do you know who we are?" "I have that honor," answered the soothsayer, bowing. "Well, then," replied the journalist, I hope you that is, Monsieur the Toad will see the necessity of reading in none but very trustworthy histories. We wish to hear the relation of this year's events treated by the best historian of fifty years hence; but, mind, he must be the very best." Certainly,"

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rejoined the soothsayer, "but I may say in a general man.ner that the historians of the future will be more accurate than those of our day. The bitter experience we have gained by following the counsels of writers who have studied only to flatter our national vanity at the expense of truth"

But here he stopped, for the eminent statesman, growing very red, was making a violent use of his pocket-handkerchief; seeing which, the soothsayer colored at his own Lapsus lingua, and called hastily upon the toad to do his duty. For the next half-hour nothing was heard but the rhythmical crackle of the crow-quill on the foolscap, with occasional interruptions when the toad dipped his pen in the inkstand or paused to make a comma or a full stop; for he was very particular in his punctuation. When he had reached the end of the page he laid down his pen and hopped back into his cage. The soothsayer took up the paper, and one might have heard a gnat fly as he cleared his throat and began:

"At that time France, feeling tired of being kicked about like a football between contending factions, and having had enough of the rule of superannuated statesmen, the squabbles of incompetent generals, and the inflated paradoxes of ignorant journalists, took a great resolution. It is not quite clear whence this resolution sprang, but soon the conviction flew from town to village and from village to city that the moment had come for putting an end once and for all to discussions concerning who should rule, and how he should rule." "That's what I have said long ago," interrupted the statesman. I declared in the tribune only yesterday that if they would leave it all to me 66 Hush!" chorused the general and the journalist; and the soothsayer continued: "Instantly, and as though by magic, committees were formed in every commune to elect delegates to the towns, who in their turn nominated deputies to the cities, who in their turn appointed a National Committee of Twelve, who were empowered to award the Government of France on the sealed tender system to the pretender who should make the most satisfactory bid, and bind himself to accept all the reciprocal conditions which the National Committee should lay down. Proclamations to this effect were posted on all the dead walls of the country, heralds were despatched into the highways to convoke all pretenders to appear in person at the Palais d'Industrie, Paris, with their sealed tenders, on a certain day; and, pending the final result, the Government was vested in the Committee itself, which was instructed to rule on liberal principles, but instantly to lock up any journalist who made objections." "I protest against that arrangement," exclaimed the eminent journalist hotly; "when the time comes I shall certainly make objections." "Pardon me," observed the soothsayer, "here follows the list of the Committee, and you are on it." "Ah, that is another matter," replied the journalist, smiling, "pray go on." And M. Nostradamus proceeded: "After a time it was found that the pretenders promised to be inconveniently numerous a very host, in fact; so the Committee

decided that those only should be eligible who were members of a royal or imperial family, who had held the office of Cabinet Minister, or who had figured on the roll of a Provisional Government.

"On the morning of the competition all Paris was astir at an early hour to see the procession pass, for the Committee had not forbidden that the pretenders should parade with a certain pomp, and each naturally appeared with the surroundings he thought best calculated to charm the public eye. The Emperor Napoleon III. was the first to appear, and was preceded by three henchmen, the one carrying his uncle's gray topcoat, the second one his uncle's hat, and the middle one a tame eagle. Behind came semi-official journalists with proof-slips of their own articles artistically sewn to their garments, and, closing the procession, Marshal LeBoeuf with a plan of the campaign of Sedan, proving indisputably that the French ought to have won, and would have done so but for the Republicans. Not less bravely accoutred was the Count of Chambord, who rode in mediaval armor with the oriflamme of Joan of Arc to his right, the banner of Fontenoy to his left, and M. de Villemessant, editor of the Figaro, stalking on ahead and crying, 'Place à mon Roi-mon Roi à moi!' The Count of Paris was less splendid, but his personal adjustments had not been devised without a view to effect; for, going on foot, he carried a gingham umbrella, and cheer upon cheer rang out from the commercial element among the spectators at sight of this familiar symbol. M. Thiers appeared on the tallest horse in all Paris, and was preceded by ten grocers' apprentices, who carried each a volume of his History of the Revolution,' and followed by five soldiers with wooden legs, each armed with a volume of the History of the Consulate and the Empire,' and notices on their breasts stating that it was owing to these valuable volumes they had enlisted, and had lost their legs as above said. The procession was closed by MM. Blanqui and Félix Pyat walking fraternally side by side with projects for the general decapi tation and reconstruction of society under their arms. It was exactly noon as the last candidate stepped over the threshold of the Palais d' Industrie, and upon the exhibition of his credentials obtained admittance. Then the twelve members of the Committee being all in their places and the representatives of the native and foreign press in theirs, and all other spectators having been rigorously excluded, with the exception of a lady who, having somehow got in, declined to go out, on the ground that she held for women's rights-i.e., the right of women to do what they pleased the proceedings were formally inaugurated. The President of the Committee begged leave to say a few words. They were all met there,' he said, 'to award the government of France to the best bid, but it was an understood thing that the candidate whose offer was accepted would be tied down to the strict fulfilment of his contract by certain conditions which he would now specify. The conditions were simply these: As it was essential that the selected candidate should be guaranteed against all molestation or attempts at sedition on the part of his rivals, each of the unsuccessful candidates would, on leaving that room, be instantly transported to some place of abode which he himself should designate, and there be detained at the public expense and with good food for the remainder of his natural life. Further, as the nation had been so repeatedly hoaxed by pretenders, who ascended the throne with charters in their hands, which they threw to the winds as soon as they were fairly installed, the new ruler, whoever he was, should be under the occult supervision of three cooks, who should judge his acts impartially in their kitchen, and on the day when any act of his should not tally with the promises made in the sealed tender, they would, acting at their discretion, avenge the country without fuss or trouble by seasoning his soup with prussic acid. Of course, it would be arranged that the cooks should all be men with five and twenty years' good character, and in order that no unworthy influences might be brought to bear upon them, they should be kept confined in their kitchen on handsome wages; but, on the other hand, the ruler would be strictly forbidden to eat of any thing not prepared in that kitchen.