Avarice--Anger: Two of the Seven Cardinal Sins

And bowing respectfully to Madame Zomaloff, their host went in search of the charming young girl he had engaged as a partner, and the ball began.

"My dear Fedora," said the princess, who had watched her niece's long conversation with Saint-Herem with no little annoyance, "it is getting late, and we promised our friend that we would be at her house early."

"You must permit me to say that I think you have acted much too hastily in this matter," said the duke to his fiancée. "Saint-Herem has got to sell this house to pay his debts, and, with a little perseverance, we could have induced him to take at least fifty thousand francs less, particularly if you had insisted upon it. It is always so hard to refuse a pretty woman anything," added M. de Riancourt, with his most insinuating smile.

"What are you thinking of, my dear Fedora?" asked the princess, touching the young woman lightly on the arm, for her niece, who was standing with one elbow resting on a gilded console loaded with flowers, seemed to have relapsed into a profound reverie, and evidently had not heard a single word that her aunt and the duke had said to her. "Why don't you answer? What is the matter with you?"

"I hardly know. I feel very strangely," replied the countess, dreamily.

"You need air, probably, my dear countess," said M. de Riancourt. "I am not at all surprised. Though the apartments are very large, this plebeian crowd renders the atmosphere suffocating, and—"

"Are you ill, Fedora?" asked the princess, with increasing uneasiness.

"Possibly it is the powerful odour of these flowers that affects you so peculiarly," suggested M. de Riancourt.

"No, it is not that. I hesitate to tell you and my aunt; you will think it so strange and absurd."

"Explain, Fedora, I beg of you."

"I will, but you will be greatly surprised," responded the young widow with a half-confidential, half-coquettish air. Then, turning to M. de Riancourt, she said, in an undertone:

"It seems to me—"

"Well, my dear countess?"

"That—"

"Go on. I beg of you."

"That I am dying to marry M. de Saint-Herem."

"Madame!" exclaimed the astonished duke, turning crimson with anger. "Madame!"

"What is the matter, my dear duke?" asked the princess quickly.

"Madame la comtesse," said the duke, forcing a smile, "your jest is—is rather unseemly, to say the least, and—"

"Give me your arm, my dear duke," said Madame Zomaloff, with the most natural air imaginable, "for it is late. We ought to have been at the embassy some time ago. It is all your fault, too. How is it that you, who are punctuality personified, did not strike the hour of eleven long ago."

"Ah, madame, I am in no mood for laughing," exclaimed the duke, in his most sentimental tones. "How your cruel jest pained me just now! It almost broke my heart."

"I had no idea your heart was so vulnerable, my poor friend."

"Would you, really? Ah, well, I shall ask no such heroic sacrifice as that on your part, my dear duke."

A few minutes afterward, Madame Zomaloff, her aunt, and the duke left the Hôtel Saint-Ramon.

Almost at the same instant the stranger who looked so much like an aged mulatto left the palatial dwelling, bewildered by what he had just seen and heard. The clock in a neighbouring church was striking the hour as he descended the steps.

The old man climbed the hill leading to the Rue de Chaillot, and soon reached the church of that poor and densely populated faubourg.

Contrary to custom at that hour, the church was lighted. Through the open door the brilliantly illuminated nave and altar could be plainly seen. Though the edifice was still empty, some solemn ceremony was evidently about to take place, for though midnight was close at hand, there were lights in many of the neighbouring houses, and several groups had assembled on the pavement in front of the church. Approaching one of these groups, the old man listened attentively, and heard the following conversation:

"They will be here soon, now."

"Yes, for it is almost midnight."

"It is a strange hour to be married, isn't it?"

"Yes, but when one gets a dowry, one needn't be too particular about the hour."

"Who is to be married at this hour, gentlemen?" inquired the old man.

"It is very evident that you don't live in this neighbourhood, my friend."

"No. I am a stranger here."

"From whom?"

"From a worthy man who died five years ago. He left a handsome fund for this purpose, and his name is consequently wonderfully popular in Chaillot."

"And what is the name of the worthy man who dowered these young girls so generously?" inquired the stranger, with a slight tremor in his voice.

"They call him Father Richard, monsieur. He has a son, a very fine young man, who carries out his father's last wishes religiously. And a nobler man than M. Louis never lived. Everybody knows that he and his wife and child live on three or four thousand francs a year, and yet they must have inherited a big fortune from Father Richard, to be able to give six young girls a dowry of ten thousand francs apiece every year, to say nothing of the expenses of the school and of Father Richard's Home."

"Pardon a stranger's curiosity, monsieur, but you speak of a school."

"Yes, Father Richard's School. Madame Mariette has charge of it."

"Madame Mariette, who is she?"

"M. Louis Richard's wife. The school was founded for twenty-five little boys and as many little girls, who remain there until they are twelve years old, and are then apprenticed to carefully chosen persons. The children are well clothed and fed, and each child receives ten sous a day besides, to encourage them to save their money."

"And you say it is M. Louis Richard's wife who has charge of this school?"

"But the home—You also spoke of a home, I believe."

"That was founded for working women who are ill, or no longer able to work. Madame Lacombe has charge of that."

"And who is Madame Lacombe?"

"Madame Mariette's godmother, a good woman who has lost one arm. She is kindness and patience personified to the poor women under her charge, and it is not at all to be wondered at, for she too knows what it is to be poor and infirm; for, as she tells everybody, before her goddaughter married M. Louis they often went hungry for days at a time. But here comes the bridal party. Step in here beside me so you can see them better."

Louis Richard, with Madame Lacombe on his arm, walked at the head of the little procession; then came Mariette, holding a handsome little four-year-old boy by the hand.

No one would have recognised Madame Lacombe. Her once pallid and wrinkled face was plump and rosy, and characterised by an expression of perfect content. She wore a lace bonnet, and a handsome shawl partially concealed her silk gown.

Louis Richard's countenance wore a look of quiet happiness. It was evident that he realised the great responsibility that devolved upon him. Mariette, who was prettier than ever, had that air of gentle dignity that suits young mothers so well. In spite of her marriage, she still clung to the simple garb of her girlhood. Faithful to the coquettish little cap of the grisette, she had never worn a bonnet, and she was quite irresistible in her freshness, grace, and beauty, under her snowy cap with its bows of sky-blue ribbon.

It took nearly a quarter of an hour for the procession to pass into the church, and the aged stranger watched it sadly and thoughtfully while such comments as the following were exchanged around him:

"It is all due to Father Richard that these good, industrious girls can become happy wives."

"Yes, and how happy the married couples look!"

"And they owe it all to Father Richard, too."

"And to M. Louis, who carries out his father's wishes so faithfully."

"Yes; but if it were not for the large fortune Father Richard left him, M. Louis would not have been able to do any of these things."

"And the schoolchildren. Did you notice how plump and rosy and contented they looked,—the boys in their comfortable woollen jackets, and the girls in their warm merino dresses."

"Think of it, there were nearly one hundred and fifty persons in the procession, and every one of them has shared Father Richard's benefits!"

"That is true; and when one remembers that this work has been going on for four years, it makes between six and seven hundred people who have been taught or supported or married through Father Richard's bounty."

"Five or six thousand persons, you say; why, there will be many more than that."

"How do you make that out?"

"Why, there will be children in each of these households. These children will share the advantages that have been bestowed upon their parents. They will consequently be well brought up and receive a fair education. Later in life they will receive their share of the small fortune their thrifty and industrious parents are almost certain to accumulate, for it is an easy matter to save when one has something to start with."

"True; and calculating in this way, the number of persons benefited is increased at least three-fold; while if one thinks of the second and third generations, the good this worthy man has accomplished becomes incalculable."

"And yet it is so easy to do good, and there are so many persons who have more money than they know what to do with. But what is the matter with you, my friend?" exclaimed the speaker. "What the devil are you crying about?" he added, seeing that the stranger beside him was sobbing violently.

"What I have heard you say about Father Richard, and the sight of all these happy people, touches me so deeply—"

"Oh, if that is the cause of your tears, they do you honour, my friend. But as all this seems to interest you so much, let us go into the church and witness the ceremony. You can go to the home, too, afterward, if you choose; it is open to everybody to-night."

The ceremonies ended, a solemn silence pervaded the edifice, finally broken by the grave voice of the officiating priest, who addressed the newly wedded couples as follows:

"And now that your unions have been consecrated by God, my young friends, persevere in the honest, industrious, and God-fearing life that has secured you this good fortune, and never forget that you owe this just reward of courage in adversity and of dignity in poverty to a man imbued with the tenderest affection for his brother man; for, faithful to the spirit of a true Christian, he did not consider himself the master, but simply as the custodian and almoner of the wealth with which Heaven had blessed him. Does not Christ tell his followers to love one another, and bid those who are endowed with this world's goods to give to those who have none? The Saviour rewarded this good man by giving him a son worthy of him, and his obedience to the laws of Christian fraternity makes him deserve to have his name ever cherished and honoured among men. You, in your just gratitude for benefits conferred, owe him this remembrance, and Father Richard's name should be for ever blessed by you, your children, and your children's children."

An approving murmur from the crowd greeted these words, and drowned the sobs of the aged stranger, who had dropped upon his knees, apparently completely overcome with emotion.

The noise the newly married couples made in leaving the altar aroused the old man, who hastily rose just in time to see Louis Richard advancing toward him with Madame Lacombe on his arm. The old man trembled in every limb, but as Louis was about to pass he hastily caught up a dipper of holy water and offered it to Mariette's husband.

"Keep it and pray for Father Richard."

The old man seized the coin greedily, and, raising it to his lips, kissed it again and again, while the tears streamed down his wrinkled cheeks.

The home stood upon a high knoll in a location as pleasant as it was salubrious, and large shady grounds surrounded the spacious building.

The night was clear and still; spring perfumes filled the air, and when the old man reached the spot he found the people ranged in a half-circle around the steps of the building, no room inside being large enough to hold the crowd.

Soon Louis Richard, according to his custom each year, came out upon the perron, and said:

"My friends, five years ago to-night I lost the best and kindest of fathers. He died a frightful death in that terrible catastrophe on the Versailles railway. My father, being the possessor of a handsome fortune, might have lived in luxury and idleness. On the contrary, he preferred to lead a frugal and industrious life, so while he denied himself all comforts, and earned his bread by his daily toil, his wealth slowly but surely increased day by day; but when the day of his premature death came, I had to mourn one of the warmest friends of humanity, for nearly all his wealth was devoted to the accomplishment of three great and noble works: the amelioration of the condition,—

"First, Of poor children deprived of the advantages of an elementary education.

"And lastly, Of aged or infirm women who, after a long life of toil, are incapacitated for further labour.

"True, the result accomplished each year is painfully small when one thinks of the ills of humanity, but he who does all the good he can, even if he only shares his crust with his starving brother, does his duty as nobly as the person who gives millions.

"It is the duty of every right-minded man to make every possible effort to improve the condition of his fellow men; but in this work I am acting only as my father's agent, and the accomplishment of this glorious duty would fill my life with unbounded happiness if I were not obliged to mourn the loss of the most beloved of parents."

Louis Richard had scarcely uttered these last words when quite a commotion became apparent in the crowd, for the aged stranger's strength seemed suddenly to fail him, and he would have fallen to the ground had it not been for the friendly support of those near him.

On hearing the cause of the hubbub, Louis Richard hastened to the old man's aid, and had him taken into the home in order that he might receive immediate attention, after which he requested the bridal parties to adjourn to the immense tent, where supper was to be served, and where Madame Lacombe and Mariette would do the honours in his absence.

The old man had been carried in an unconscious condition to Louis's office, a room on the ground floor. His profound respect for his father's memory had prevented him from parting with the furniture of the room he and his father had shared so long. The writing-desk, the old bureau, the antique chest, as well as the cheap painted bedstead, all had been kept, and it was on this same bed the unconscious man was laid.

Louis took the old man's hand to feel his pulse, but as he did so the patient made a slight movement and uttered a few incoherent words.

The voice sounded strangely familiar to Louis, and he endeavoured to get a better look at the stranger's features, but the dim light that pervaded the room and the patient's long hair and beard rendered the attempt futile.

A moment more and Louis Richard's guest languidly raised his head and gazed around him. His eyes having fallen on the rather peculiarly shaped gray bedstead, he made a movement of surprise, but when he saw the old-fashioned chest, he exclaimed, excitedly:

"Where am I? My God, is this a dream?"

Again the voice struck Louis as being so familiar that he, too, gave a slight start, but almost immediately shaking his head and smiling bitterly, he muttered under his breath:

"Alas! regret often gives rise to strange illusions." Then addressing the old man in affectionate tones, he asked:

"How do you feel now, my good father?"

On hearing these words, the old man, seizing Louis's hand, covered it with tears and kisses before the latter could prevent it.

"Come, come, my good father," said Mariette's husband, surprised and touched, "I have done nothing to deserve such gratitude on your part. I may be more fortunate some day, however. But tell me how you feel now. Was it weakness or overfatigue that caused your fainting fit?"

"Listen to me, my good father," he began.

"Oh, say that once more—just once more," murmured the old man, hoarsely.

"Ah, well, my good father—"

But Louis did not finish the sentence, for his guest, unable to restrain himself any longer, raised himself up in bed, at the same time exclaiming, in a voice vibrating with tenderness:

"Louis!"

That name, uttered with all the passion of a despairing soul, was a revelation.

The younger man turned as pale as death, started back, and stood as if petrified, with fixed, staring eyes.

The shock was too great, and several seconds elapsed before the thought, "My father is not dead," could penetrate his brain.

Does not the sudden transition from intense darkness into bright sunlight blind us for a time?

But when the blissful truth dawned upon Louis's mind, he threw himself on his knees by the old man's bedside, and, putting back his long white locks with a feverish hand, studied his father's features with eager, radiant eyes, until, convinced beyond a doubt, he could only murmur in a sort of ecstasy: "My father, oh, God, my father!"

The scene that ensued between father and son beggars description; but when the first transports of happiness had given place to a momentary calm, Father Richard said to his son:

"I will tell you my story in a few words, my dear Louis. I have been asleep for five years, and woke only forty-eight hours ago."

"What do you mean?"

"You, father?"

"How can you say that, father? But for your self-denial and perseverance, how could I ever have done any good? Did you not leave me the means of accomplishing it, an all-powerful lever? My only merit consisted in having made a good use of the immense power bequeathed to me by you at the cost of so many privations on your part, and in realising the duties wealth imposed upon me. The terrible poverty and the lack of education from which my beloved wife had suffered so much, and the perils to which this poverty and lack of education had exposed her, her godmother's cruel suffering,—all had served to enlighten me as to the needs of the poor, and all three of us longed to do everything in our power to save others from the ills we had suffered. But after all, it is your work, not mine. I have reaped; it was you who sowed."

The door suddenly opened, and Florestan Saint-Herem rushed in, and threw himself into his friend's arms with so much impetuosity that he did not even see Father Richard.

"Embrace me, Louis, rejoice with me!" he exclaimed. "You are my best friend, and you shall be the first to hear the news. I knew I should find you here, so I did not lose a minute in coming to tell you that Saint-Ramon has proved a saint indeed, for he has just worked the most wonderful of miracles."

"What do you mean?"

"For pity's sake, explain, Florestan."

"An hour ago, just as the entertainment I was giving to those honest workmen was drawing to a close, one of my servants came to inform me that a lady wished to see me in private. Who should it be but the Countess Zomaloff, a young and charming widow, who was to have married the Duc de Riancourt a week from now. Earlier in the evening she had come to look at my house, with a view to purchasing it. She had purchased it, in fact. Astonished to see her again, I stood perfectly silent for a moment. And what do you suppose she said to me, in the most natural tone imaginable?

"'A thousand pardons for disturbing you, M. de Saint-Herem. I can say all I have to say in a couple of words. I am a widow. I am twenty-eight years old. I have no idea why I promised Riancourt that I would marry him, though very possibly I might have made this foolish marriage if I had not met you. You have a generous heart and a noble soul. The entertainment you gave this evening proves that. Your wit delights me, your character charms me, your goodness of heart touches me, and your personal appearance pleases me. So far as I, myself, am concerned, this step I am now taking should give you some idea of what kind of a person I am.

"Florestan," said Louis, with a grave but affectionate air, "the confidence this young woman has shown in coming to you so frankly and confidingly throws a weighty responsibility upon you."

"I understand that," responded Saint-Herem, with undoubted sincerity. "I may have squandered the fortune that belonged to me, and ruined myself, but to squander a fortune that does not belong to me, and ruin a woman who trusts her future so unreservedly to me, would be infamous."

Madame Zomaloff married Florestan de Saint-Herem about one month after these events. Louis Richard, his father, and Mariette attended the wedding.

Father Richard, in spite of his resurrection, made no attempt to change the disposition Louis had made of his property up to the present time. The old man merely asked to be made steward of the home, and in that capacity he rendered very valuable assistance.

Every year, the twelfth of May is doubly celebrated.

Louis, his father, and Mariette, who are on the most intimate terms with M. and Madame de Saint-Herem, always attend the magnificent entertainment which is given at the Hôtel Saint-Ramon on the anniversary of the owner's betrothal, but at midnight Florestan and his wife, who adore each other, for this marriage became a love match, pure and simple, come to partake of the bridal supper at Father Richard's Home.

THE END.

THE SEVEN CARDINAL SINS

About the middle of the carnival season of 1801, a season enlivened by the news of the treaty of peace signed at Lunéville, when Bonaparte was First Consul of the French republic, the following scene took place in a secluded spot overshadowed by the partially dismantled ramparts of the city of Orléans.

It was seven o'clock in the morning, day was just dawning, and the cold was intense, as a tall man, enveloped in a big overcoat of a dark colour, walked to and fro blowing his fingers and stamping his feet, watching intently all the while a narrow footpath that wound around the side of the bastion. In about ten minutes another man, wrapped in a cloak, and heretofore concealed from sight by the projecting wall of the bastion, appeared in the path and hastily advanced toward the man in the long coat.

"I feared I should be late," remarked the man in the cloak.

"We have a quarter of an hour yet," replied the other. "Have you got the swords?"

"No; he told me last night that I need not call for him. He feared that our going out together so early would excite his wife's suspicions."

"Well, while we are waiting for him, do enlighten me as to the cause of this quarrel. He was in too much of a hurry last night to tell me anything about the trouble."

"Well, this is about the long and short of it. At the last meeting of the court, a lawyer, named Laurent, made a rather transparent allusion to the pretended partiality of our friend, one of the judges before whom the case was tried."

"Such an insinuation was unworthy of the slightest notice. Yvon Cloarek's honesty is above suspicion."

"Of course; but you know our friend's extreme irascibility of temper, also, so, springing from his seat and interrupting the advocate in the middle of his discourse, he exclaimed: 'Monsieur Laurent, you are an infamous slanderer. I tell you this not as a magistrate, but as a man, and I will repeat the accusation after the session is over!' You can imagine the commotion this excited in the court-room. It was an odd thing for a magistrate to do, I must admit. Well, after the court adjourned, the other judges tried to appease Yvon, and so did the numerous members of the bar, but you know how pig-headed our friend is. Laurent, too, who is a stubborn sort of fellow, not only refused to apologise himself, but demanded that our friend should. I thought Yvon would choke with rage."

"It seems to me that our friend is right in resenting such an insinuation, but I fear that this duel will prove very detrimental to his career as a magistrate."

"I am afraid so, too, particularly as he has had several lively altercations with the presiding judge of the court, and his violent temper has already compelled him to change his place of residence twice."

"Yes, but his obstinacy and his hot temper make him very hard to get along with."

"With such a temperament, his choice of a career was very unfortunate, to say the least."

"Yes, but his father, who was a magistrate himself, was anxious his son should adopt the same profession. Yvon adored his father, so he consented. Afterward, when he lost his father, it was too late for our friend to change his profession, even if he had desired to do so; besides, he possesses no fortune, and he has a wife and child, so he has to make the best of the situation."

"That is true, but I pity him, nevertheless. But tell me, Yvon is a good swordsman, is he not?"

"Capital, for he was passionately fond of all such sports in his youth; but I am afraid his undoubted bravery and his hot temper will make him too rash."

"And his opponent?"

"Is considered quite skilful in the use of the weapon. I have a cab a little way off in case of an accident. Yvon lives almost on the edge of the town, fortunately."

"I can't bear to think of any such catastrophe. It would be the death of his wife. You have no idea how much she loves him. She is an angel of sweetness and goodness, and he, in turn, is perfectly devoted to her. They adore each other, and if—But there come the others. I am sorry Yvon did not get here before they did."

"Doubtless the precautions he was obliged to take on his wife's account detained him."

"Probably, but it is very annoying."

The three men who had just rounded the corner of the bastion proved to be Yvon's adversary and his two seconds. They all greeted the first comers with great courtesy, apologising for having kept them waiting, whereupon M. Cloarek's friends were obliged to reply that that gentleman had not yet arrived, but would doubtless be there in a minute or two.

"I had no end of trouble in getting off without exciting my wife's suspicions."

Then addressing his adversary in a tone he tried his best to make calm and composed, he added:

"I beg a thousand pardons, monsieur, for having kept you waiting. I assure you the delay was wholly unintentional on my part."

The advocate bowed and proceeded to remove his overcoat, and his example was promptly followed by Cloarek, while the seconds measured the swords. In fact, so great was Yvon's alacrity and ardour, that he was ready for the fray before his opponent, and would have hastily rushed upon him if his seconds had not seized him by the arm.

When the signal was at last given, Cloarek attacked his opponent with such impetuosity that, though the latter tried his best to parry his adversary's rapid thrusts, his guard was beaten down, and in less than two minutes he had received a wound in the forearm which compelled him to drop his weapon.

"Enough, gentlemen!" exclaimed the seconds, on seeing one of the combatants disabled.

"What were you thinking of, Yvon, to rush upon an unarmed enemy?" asked one of the irascible magistrate's friends, as they wended their way back to the city.

"I could not believe it was over so soon," replied Yvon, with a sigh of regret.

"The fight couldn't last long at the rate you were going on."

"If I could only have an hour's fighting, it seems to me I might be peaceable for a long time," replied Yvon, so naïvely that his friends could not help laughing.

"Well, what of it?" stormed the choleric Breton, with a wrathful glance at his companions.

Then, ashamed of this ebullition of temper, he hung his head as one of his seconds retorted, gaily:

"You needn't try to pick a quarrel with us, my dear fellow. It wouldn't be worth your while. We should only be able to furnish you with a couple of minutes' amusement."

"Yes, yes, be sensible, my dear fellow," good-naturedly remarked the other second. "You ought to consider yourself very fortunate that this affair ended as it did. You are not injured at all, and your adversary's wound is very slight,—a very fortunate ending, you must admit. How we should have felt if we had had to carry you home dead! Think of your wife and your little daughter."

"My wife and daughter!" exclaimed Cloarek, with a violent start. "Ah, yes, you are right."

And the tears rose to his eyes.

"Then you had better put your feet in mustard water and call in a doctor to bleed you, my friend, but don't take a sword for a lancet, and, above all, don't draw blood from others under the pretext that you have too much yourself."

"And above all, remember that you are a magistrate, a man of peace," added the other.

"That is all very fine," retorted Yvon, with a sigh, "but you don't know what it is to have a judge's robe on your back and too much blood in your veins."

After he had thanked his seconds heartily for their kind offices, Cloarek was about to separate from them when one of them remarked: "We shall see each other again at the masquerade ball this evening, of course. I understand that all you reverend judges are to allow yourselves considerable license this evening, and disport yourselves like ordinary mortals."

"I did not intend to go, as my wife is not as well as usual; but she insisted so much that I finally consented," replied Yvon.

As he reëntered his house, longing to embrace his wife and child even more tenderly than usual, he was accosted by a servant, who said:

"There is a man in your office who wants to see you. His business is urgent, he says."

"Very well. My wife did not ask for me after I went out, did she?"

"No, monsieur, she gave Dame Roberts orders that she was not to be disturbed until she rang, as she wanted to sleep a little later than usual this morning."

"Then take care that she is not disturbed on my account," said Cloarek, as he entered his office.

"Are you Judge Cloarek?"

"Yes, monsieur."

"I am a friend of Father Leblanc, at Gien. You remember him, don't you?"

"Yes, and a very worthy man he is. How is his health?"

"Very good, judge. It was he who said to me: 'If you're in trouble, go to Judge Cloarek, he is always kind to us poor folks.'"

"What can I do for you?"

"I am the father of a young man who is soon to be tried before your court."

"To what case do you allude, monsieur?"

"To the case of Joseph Rateau," said the big man, with a meaning wink, "charged with forgery—only forgery."

Cloarek, surprised and displeased at the careless manner in which the father spoke of the weighty accusation that was hanging over his son, answered, sternly:

"Yes, monsieur, a prisoner, Joseph Rateau, who is accused of the crime of forgery, is soon to be tried."

"Yes, judge, and as there's no use beating about the bush, I may as well say that my son did it, and then, like a fool, allowed himself to be caught."

"Take care what you say, monsieur. This is a very grave admission on your part."

"Oh, well, there is no use denying it, judge. It's as plain as the nose on your face; but for that, do you suppose I would have come here—"

"Not another word, monsieur; not another word!" exclaimed Yvon, crimsoning with indignation and anger.

"I quite agree with you, judge. What is the use of talking so much, anyway? Actions speak louder than words."

"There are fifty louis in here, and if you secure my son's acquittal, you shall have another fifty."

The austerity and incorruptibility of the early days of the republic had given place to a deplorable laxness of morals, so the petitioner, believing his case won, triumphantly deposited his roll of gold on a corner of a desk near the door. Cloarek, quite beside himself with rage now, was about to give vent to his wrath and indignation when, his eyes chancing to fall upon a portrait of his wife that was hanging on the wall opposite him, he remembered that she might be disturbed and frightened by the noise, as she occupied the room directly over his office, so, with an almost superhuman effort, he managed to control himself and, picking up his hat, said to the countryman:

"Take your money. We will talk this matter over outside."

"The countryman, fancying that the judge was influenced solely by prudential motives, put the money back in his pocket, and, taking his big stick unsuspectingly, followed Cloarek out of the house.

"Where are you going, judge?" he asked, as he lumbered along, finding it difficult to keep up with Cloarek, as the latter strode swiftly on.

"This way," replied Yvon, in a smothered voice, as he turned the corner of the next street.

This street led to the market-place, which was generally crowded with people at that hour of the day. When Cloarek reached this square, he suddenly turned upon the countryman, and, seizing him by the cravat, cried, in tones of thunder:

"Look, good people, at this scoundrel. Look at him well, and then witness his chastisement."

"I am judge of the court in this town, and this wretch has offered me gold to acquit a criminal. That is the indignity he has offered me, and this is going to be his punishment."

We will leave M. Cloarek to make his way to the court-house after exploits which would have done honour to one of the gladiators of old, and say a few words in regard to the masquerade ball, to which the impetuous magistrate's seconds had referred on their way back to town after the duel.

This ball, a bold innovation for a provincial town, was to take place that same evening at the house of M. Bonneval, a wealthy merchant, and the father-in-law of the presiding judge of the court to which Yvon Cloarek belonged, and all the members of the court having been invited to this entertainment, and some disguise being obligatory, it had been decided to wear either a black domino, or costumes of a sufficiently grave character not to compromise the dignity of the body.

"One scallop more, and this embroidered ribbon will be sewed on the hat," remarked one of the young sewing-women.

"I have finished hemming the sash," remarked the second girl.

"I have only two more silver buttons to sew on the waistcoat," added the third.

"That is well, girls," said Dame Roberts. "M. Cloarek's costume will be one of the most effective there, I am sure."

"It seems very odd to think of a judge in a masquerade costume, all the same."

"Nonsense! don't they disguise themselves every day when they put their robes on?"

"A judge's robe is not a disguise, but a badge of office, you ought to understand," said Dame Roberts, severely.

"Excuse me, Dame Roberts," replied the offender, blushing to the roots of her hair, "I meant no harm, I am sure."

"What a pity it is that Madame Cloarek is not going!" remarked one of the other girls, in the hope of giving a more agreeable turn to the conversation.

The newcomer was a tall, thin man about forty years of age, with an immensely long nose, slightly turned up at the end, which imparted a very peculiar expression to his face. His complexion was so white and his beardless face so impassible that he looked exactly like a clown, and the resemblance was heightened by a pair of piercing black eyes, which gave a mocking expression to his face, and by a small, round black wig. A long gray overcoat, brown knee-breeches, blue and white striped stockings, and low shoes with big silver buckles formed the every-day costume of M. Segoffin, who carried a red umbrella under his arm and an old cocked hat in his hand.

After having remained twenty years in the service of M. Cloarek's father, at that gentleman's death he transferred his allegiance to the son whom he had known as a child, and whom he served with unwearying devotion.

On his entrance, as we have just remarked, he was greeted with mocking laughs and exclamations of—

"Here comes M. Segoffin. Ah, good day, M. Segoffin!" But without losing his habitual sang-froid in the least, he laid his umbrella and hat down on a chair, and, seizing the prettiest of his tormentors in his long arms, kissed her loudly on both cheeks in spite of her shrieks and spirited resistance. Well satisfied with this beginning, he was preparing to repeat the offence when Madame Roberts, seizing him by one of his coat-tails, exclaimed, indignantly:

"Segoffin, Segoffin! such behaviour is outrageous!"

Left alone with the delinquent, Dame Roberts exclaimed:

"Would any one on earth but you coolly commit such enormities in the respectable household of a magistrate?"

"What on earth do you mean, I should like to know?"

"Why, hugging and kissing that girl right under my very nose when you are persecuting me with your declarations of love all the time."

"I do believe you're jealous!"

"Jealous! Get that idea out of your head as soon as possible. If I ever do marry again,—which God forbid!—it certainly will not be you I choose for a husband."

"Are you sure of that?"

"Perfectly sure."

"That which is to be, will be, my dear."

"But—"

"Nonsense!" exclaimed her phlegmatic companion, interrupting her with the most positive air imaginable. "You are dying to marry me, and you will marry me, so it is not worth while to say any more about it."

"You are right," exclaimed the woman, exasperated by her interlocutor's overweening conceit. "I think, with you, that we had better drop the subject. Monsieur's costume is finished. Take it up to his room, for he will return from court very soon, I am sure."

"From court," sighed Segoffin, shaking his head sadly.

A sigh was such a rare thing for this impassive individual to indulge in, that Dame Roberta's anxiety was aroused, and she asked, quickly:

"Why are you sighing like a furnace, you who display no emotion at all, ordinarily?"

"I expected it," remarked Segoffin, shaking his head dubiously.

"What has happened? Tell me at once, for Heaven's sake."

"Mon Dieu!"

"There is no undoing that which is done."

"But what you say is absurd."

"It was out of a window on the first floor, so he didn't have far to fall," said Segoffin, thoughtfully, "and the presiding judge is sure to have landed on his feet as usual. He's a sharp fellow."

"Look here, Segoffin, I don't believe a single word you're telling me. It is only one of those cock-and-bull stories you're so fond of inventing, and it is really a shame for you to make merry at monsieur's expense, when he has always been so kind to you."

"Very well, you may think I am joking, if you want to," replied Segoffin, coldly, "but you had better give me monsieur's costume. He told me to take it up to his room, and he will be here before very long now."

"It is really true that there has been a scene between monsieur and the chief judge, then?" exclaimed Suzanne.

"Of course, as monsieur threw him out of the window."

"Oh, mon Dieu! mon Dieu! Monsieur will lose his place this time, then."

"Why?"

"Why? Why, after such scandalous behaviour on the part of a magistrate he is sure to lose his office, I tell you, and poor madame! What a shock it will be to her in her condition. What a life she leads! obliged to be always on the watch, adoring her husband, but in mortal terror all the while as to what he may say or do. But tell me how you happened to hear of this calamity."

"His duel? What duel?"

"The duel he fought this morning," answered Segoffin, phlegmatically.

And taking advantage of his companion's speechless consternation, he continued:

"Others declared that the chief judge had sent for him to see about a fracas monsieur had had with a countryman whom he nearly killed."

"What countryman?" asked Suzanne, with increasing alarm.

"The last one," answered Segoffin, naïvely. "Well, it seems, or at least so they told me at the palace, that monsieur went into the presiding judge's private office; they got to quarrelling, and one man finally threw the other man out of the window, and I know monsieur so well," added Segoffin, with a satisfied smile, "that I said to myself, 'If any one was thrown out of the window it must have been the other man, not monsieur,' and I was right. There is no undoing that which has been done."

"There is no undoing that which has been done? That tiresome old saying is for ever in your mouth, it seems to me. Is it possible you cannot see the consequences of all this?"

"What is to be, will be."

"Fine consolation that, is it not? This is the third time monsieur has run a great risk of losing his place in consequence of giving way to his temper, and this time he will be put out, sure."

"Well, if he loses his place, he will lose it."

"Indeed! But he needs the office on account of his wife and little daughter, and as there will be still another mouth to feed before many months have passed, what is to become of him and his family if he loses his position?"

"Have you lost your senses completely? Monsieur isn't really thinking of going to this entertainment to-night, after what has occurred!"

"He isn't? That shows how much you know about it."

"But after what has occurred, he surely will not go to this ball, I say."

"You see if he doesn't."

"What, go to a ball given by the presiding judge's father-in-law?"

"He is all the more likely to on that very account."

"But it is impossible, I tell you. Monsieur would not dare after all the scandalous occurrences of this unfortunate day. The whole town will be up in arms if he does."

"He is ready for them."

"He is ready for them?"

"Most assuredly. He is not the man to draw back, no matter how many persons league themselves together against him," responded Segoffin, with a triumphant air. "I saw him after his row with the presiding judge, and I said to him, 'Aren't you afraid you will be arrested, M. Yvon?' 'No one has any business to meddle with what passed between me and the chief justice so long as he doesn't complain, and he is not likely to do that, for if the cause of our quarrel should be made public he would be hopelessly disgraced.' Those were monsieur's very words, Suzanne. 'Well, will you go to the ball just the same?' I asked. 'Certainly. I intend to be the first to go and the last to leave. Otherwise people might think I regretted what I had done, or that I was afraid. If my presence at this fête scandalises anybody, and they show it in any way, I shall know what to say and do, never fear; so go back home, and have my costume ready for me when I get there.'"

"I will take the costume up to monsieur's room and wait for him there, for I am as certain that he will go to this entertainment as I am that you will marry me some day, remember that."

At first Suzanne felt strongly inclined to inform Madame Cloarek of the momentous events which had occurred that day, but after reflecting on the effect this news might have upon the young wife, she abandoned that idea and resolved to confine herself to an effort to make her mistress devise some pretext for preventing M. Cloarek from attending the masquerade ball, realising that such an audacious act on his part might have the most disastrous consequences.

Suzanne's position was extremely trying, for it was necessary for her to conceal the events of the day from her mistress, on the one hand, and yet implore her to use her influence over her husband to prevent him from going to this entertainment, on the other.

She was consequently in a very perplexed frame of mind when she entered the apartment of her mistress, who, without being really beautiful in the general acceptation of the word, had a remarkably sweet and attractive face, though the extreme pallor of her complexion and her frail appearance generally indicated very delicate health.

When Suzanne entered the room, Madame Cloarek held up a finger warningly, and said to her, in a low tone:

"Don't make a noise, Suzanne. My little Sabine is just going to sleep."

And as the maid approached on tiptoe her mistress added: "Has my husband returned yet?"

"No, madame."

"His going out so early this morning upset me for all day, for I was asleep when he came back, and so long a time seldom elapses without my seeing him. By the way, is his costume finished, and is it a success? You know I promised my husband I would make no attempt to see it until I could see it on him."

"It is very handsome, madame."

"And you think it will prove becoming?"

"Extremely, madame."

"I am almost sorry now that I made up my mind not to go to this entertainment. I never attended a masquerade ball in my life, and I should have enjoyed it immensely; but I shall enjoy Yvon's account of it almost as much, provided he does not stay too late, for I feel rather more tired and weak than usual to-day, it seems to me."

"Madame does not feel as well as usual this evening?"

"No; still I do not complain, for it is one of those sufferings that promise me new joys," she added, with a smile of ineffable sweetness.

As she spoke the young mother leaned forward and cautiously parted the curtains of the crib, then after a moment of blissful contemplation she added, as she again settled herself in her armchair:

"Undoubtedly, madame," replied Suzanne, "monsieur's temper is much more even now."

"And when I think how kind and gentle he has always been to me," continued the young wife, tenderly, "and how I have never been the object or the cause of any of the terrible ebullitions of temper which I have witnessed with so much terror, and which have often proved so disastrous in their consequences to him, I realise how devotedly he must love me!"

"He would indeed be a madman to fly in a passion with one as kind and gentle as you, my poor dear lady."

"Hush, flatterer," replied Jenny, smiling. "It is not my amiability of disposition, but his love for me that prevents it, and though I am almost ashamed to confess it, I cannot help feeling proud sometimes when I think that I have never excited any feeling but the tenderest consideration in such an impassioned and indomitable nature."

"Monsieur is really one of the best-hearted men in the world, madame, and, as you say, it must be his temperament that carries him away in spite of himself, for unfortunately with characters like these the merest trifle may lead to a terrible explosion."

"I think, madame, with you, that for your own peace of mind, and monsieur's as well, it is advisable to avoid all places where there is any danger of one's anger being aroused, so, madame, if you will take my advice—"

"Well, Suzanne, why do you pause so suddenly? What is the matter?"

"I—I—"

"Go on, Suzanne."

"Don't you fear that the masquerade ball this evening—"

"Well?"

"Is a rather dangerous place for monsieur to go?"

"What an absurd idea!"

"There will be a great many people there."

"True; but they will be the best people in town, as the ball is given by the father-in-law of the presiding judge."

"Undoubtedly, madame, but I think I have heard that people chaff each other a good deal at these masquerade balls, and if monsieur, being quick-tempered, should take offence—"

"You are right, Suzanne. I had not thought of that."

"I don't like to worry you, madame, still—"

"My poor lady! if she but knew how her husband evinces his subordination to the presiding judge," thought Suzanne.

"No, you need have no fear, Suzanne," continued the young wife, "the presiding judge's very presence at this entertainment, the deference Yvon must feel for him, will necessitate the maintenance of the utmost decorum on his part; besides, my husband's absence would be sure to excite remark."

"Still, madame—"

"Oh, I shall urge Yvon to be very prudent," added Jenny, smiling, "but I see no reason why he should not avail himself of an opportunity for enjoyment that our retired life will make doubly pleasant to him."

So Suzanne, fearing the consequences of her mistress's blindness, said, resolutely:

"Madame, monsieur must not be allowed to attend this fête."

"I do not understand you, Suzanne."

"Heed what I say, madame, and for your own sake and the sake of your child prevent monsieur from attending this entertainment," exclaimed Suzanne, clasping her hands imploringly.

"What is the matter, Suzanne? You alarm me."

"You know how entirely I am devoted to you, madame?"

"Yes; but explain."

"You know perfectly well, too, that I would not run any risk of alarming you if it were not absolutely necessary. Believe me, some terrible misfortune is likely to happen if monsieur attends this fête."