home. This was good news for Madame Laforce. Her wounded son was carried on a litter by five men through the streets, Josephine and his mother walking by his side. How glad he was to see his old home once more, how thankful that he had been spared to do so! But the danger was by no means over; absolute rest was indispensable for the invalid, and what was far more difficult to obtain, nourishing food. Long since had all the stores gathered before the siege in the house of the Rue du Dragon been exhausted; and now, with her sick son on her hands, poor Madame Laforce was well-nigh in despair. Every day she had to go and form one in the long train of those who were waiting for rations at the butchers' and bakers' shops. For hours had she to stand in the cold and snow, and then return shivering to her chilly room, where rarely now had she any fuel to light a fire in the grate, so that the only means of getting warm was to wrap herself up in all the thick clothing she could collect. Louis, in his warm bed, covered with blankets, did not suffer so much from the severity of the weather, as the other members of his family. The week between Christmas and New Year's Day was a comparatively peaceful one. The garrison was too exhausted and disheartened to undertake any more sorties. The Prussians also seemed to be taking some rest; they were in fact, keeping their Christmas, and preparing more horrors for the devoted city, in the long-expected bombardment. But the weather was unrelenting, the cold continuing as bitter as ever, while the mortality rose to the fearful height of nearly 4000 deaths a week in private houses alone, not reckoning the hundreds who died in the hospitals. Of these 4000, over 400 fell victims to the small pox. Thus gloomily did this sad year of woe and suffering draw to an end. It was to be followed by one still sadder, still more fatal to the cause of France, to true progress, and real liberty. L CHAPTER XIX. THE NEW YEAR. "Be wise to-day, 'tis madness to defer, E. YOUNG. IN Germany, the great festival of the year, to which all hearts, young and old, look forward with delight, is Christmas. In France, on the contrary, it is New Year's Day. Then all families meet. Everybody exchanges gifts with friends and acquaintances, a rule to which there seems no exception. Some offering is made, however small, and the purchasing of these articles on the last evening of the old year, or on the first morning of the new, renders the streets of Paris to be well-nigh impassable. The shops are frequently kept open all night, and the booths and stalls along the boulevards have the appearance of an immense fair. It is the custom, too, for friends and relations annually to call on each other, to offer these presents, accompanied by good wishes and congratulations. Balls, dinners, state assemblies, are held in numbers. All dress in their best, the military appear in their gayest uniforms. Merry children, sometimes almost bent down beneath the weight of their presents, throng the streets. Joy and cordiality reign supreme. But on New Year's Day, 1871, how everything was changed! It was the 106th day of the siege, and though each succeeding day had seemed sadder than the previous one, this was the saddest of all, because every one was thinking how bright and happy it always used to be. The sun indeed welcomed it, for he shone forth as he had not done for a long time. But there were no crowds in the streets, no happy meetings, no merry children, no brilliantly-lighted shops, no gay stalls along the deserted boulevards. Most people shut themselves up in their desolate houses, where the sounds of children's voices had long since ceased, and consoled themselves by gazing on the objects which reminded them of their absent ones, on their empty beds, their books or pictures; they wandered through the deserted rooms, thinking of the many dear ones dispersed here and there, and of whom they knew as little as if they had already passed into another world. One father of a family went into the rooms of his absent wife and daughters, placing a present in each, suitable to their various tastes. "When they return," he said, "if they don't find me any longer here, they will see that I thought of them to-day!" A lady who lived alone, and in indigence, could not allow the day to pass without making a present to somebody, so she purchased four logs of wood, which she carried herself in a napkin a very long distance, through Paris, to a friend who was poorer than herself. An old lady who, before the siege, had lived in ease and comfort, found herself ruined, when the Prussians invested Paris; she sent away her servant, did all the household work herself, and went every day to the baker and butcher, waiting in the cold with the crowd to be served, Hitherto she had always lived with her son, who, at the commencement of the war, was drawn for the army. His absence was a great grief to her. She lived as if she still had him close to her. When dinner was ready, she always laid two covers on the table, that of her absent son and her own; she divided her meagre pittance into two portions, and when she had finished her own, she took that of her son upstairs to an old infirm neighbour. She did this every day during the siege-a delicate and touching instance of true charity. On New Year's Day there was a reunion of the family in the Rue du Dragon. Josephine was able to leave the hospital, as but few new cases had come in during the week; Cécile came with her, and Meunier, not being on duty that day, also joined the party. Clotilde, worn to a shadow by starvation and grief, with her two sickly-looking children, was present too. Louis lay in the adjoining apartment, with the door open; he was, as yet, too weak to be moved from his bed. His mother anxiously remarked that he was not regaining strength as she had hoped; he had a dry, hollow cough, which much alarmed her; he was depressed in spirits, too, and not sanguine as to his own recovery. It was a sad family gathering on that New Year's Day; but their repast off a morsel of smoking hot horseflesh they considered quite a sumptuous one,-especially poor Clotilde, who had not seen meat of any kind, for weeks. "Who would have thought last New Year's Day, when we all sat so merrily round our bright fire after supper, that it was to be the beginning of such a year of calamities as this?" sighed Madame Laforce. 66 Yes, and Pierre was with us then," said Josephine. "Poor Pierre, how I wish I could hear some tidings of him! 66 Do you remember how pleased Louis was at his prospects of promotion in M. Gérome's establishment ?" said Clotilde. "Yes, indeed I do," replied Madame Laforce. Cécile had gone into the other room, and was sitting by Louis' bedside; he held her hand in his; they could hear all the conversation in the next room. "Ah! Cécile," he said, "the year has indeed been a sad one, but there have been some good things in it too, it has not been without its blessings to me, for in it I have learned to know and love you." "And I, Louis, though we have indeed lost everything, am very thankful for that, and for much more beside," replied Cécile affectionately; "for Louis, do I not owe my life to you? How brave you were to come out to St. Cloud to rescue me, and bring me back to my dear father!—and you saved his life, too, when he fell into the hands of those brigands at Belleville. I can never repay you for all that; but I am glad to be able to nurse and comfort you as well as I can; Oh! how I wish I could see you look better, and more cheerful.” "I think very often, Cécile, that I shall never be any better," sighed Louis; "I was weak and exhausted from exposure and want of food, when I received this wound, then all the suffering which followed the extraction of the ball seems to have taken away the little strength I had. Well, if it be God's will that I should follow the poor young Prussian, who died by my side in the church the other day, I will try to submit to it with resignation, but it is hard, Cécile,-very hard." "Oh, Louis! don't talk so!" she said, sobbing; "this siege must soon be over now, and then you will have better food, for that's all you want to make you get well, I'm sure." "No, Cécile, the siege won't be over so soon as you think; ask your father, he will tell you quite the contrary; there are worse days still in store for us, the long-talked-of and dreaded bombardment will come at last, and then may God have mercy on us all, for who can tell what will be the consequences ? " "Ah! that bombardment!" cried Cécile, "it has been so long talked of, that I don't think it will ever come now.” "Don't deceive yourself, Cécile, this quiet week we have had is but the calm before the storm; but to return to what we were speaking about: supposing I don't get well, Cécile, you'll think of me sometimes, won't you? and put some flowers on my grave at Père la Chaise on All Souls' Day; and be kind to Josephine, and my mother? Ah! poor Josephine! who can tell what has happened to the good Pierre ?" "Louis! Louis! you will break my heart if you talk so," said Cécile. "And your kind, honest father, Cécile,—he will, I hope, be spared to you, and when the war is over, perhaps you will go back to St. Cloud again, and when your cottage and |