"No," I went on, continuing the thought of my prayer,'no, the spirit is not deceived in the disquiet which human joy imparts to it! It justly fears to grow fond of these intoxications, and to fall asleep in them. It aspires higher. It aspires higher. I dare not ask God for trials; nevertheless, his will be done. And if the sunbeam which now brightens my life must vanish, I consent."

"And I," she said in her turn, "thank God beforehand for the sorrows he will send me. As I receive the good things, so I protest I wish also to receive the evil things from him. I firmly believe that he will send them to me out of love. O Lord Jesus, who loved us unto death upon the cross, make us, through the blossoms and delights we now enjoy, to love the road to Calvary and the weight of the cross."

We pressed each other's hands and were silent. I see the spot, I recall the words and their accent. Of that incident alone, of all those of the journey, I have forgotten nothing. The sun has vanished, the perfumes have fled, all the joyous sounds have fallen into eternal silence, and even the bell which accompanied our prayer will ring no more.

If I were to return to Chamonix, I should recognize only the spot by the way, and the tuft of grass on which she knelt; and I should go back only to see and kiss the spot. my kind just master, I would not weep; or if I would not accuse thee! I have always known thy mercy, and in thy punishments have always felt thy love.

No, my God, did, my tears

All that thou gavest me for the time passed with the time. What matters it that the blossoms have perished, that the songs are stifled, that darkness has followed the sunshine? What thou gavest me for eternity I still possess, although I no longer see it. At thy bidding, death entered my home full of cradles. He took the young mother, he took my little children; and yet I denied death.

In the presence of death, thy Church, our immortal mother, lights torches symbolic of life, and with firm voice sings thy victory over death. Those who are no longer with me, O Lord, are with thee! I know that they live, I know that I shall live. They have gone from life, but not from my life. Can I think dead what is living in my heart?

But, O God! how can they support life,- all those one meets in the world who do not know thee, who run after joy and fear death? Some in mockery have asked me what is hell, and I have answered, "It is protracted life."

I

TIGRUCHE

From 'Les Odeurs de Paris

BLESS my lot: I have seen Tigruche!

There is a literary man in Paris who is the second correspondent of a foreign journal. Do not build an air-castle. This foreign journal is not English; it pays little, does little business. The first correspondent, charged with furnishing French news, which must eventually return to France, receives something from the State for divulging its secrets; he can, or at least he could, pay his rent. The second correspondent is only charged with overthrowing European kings and their ministers: that does not bring in much. Nevertheless he does not do it sparingly. But after all, his thunderbolts are not resounding, and the European kings and their ministers do not tremble at all. This second correspondent is named Péquet. It is Tigruche. Péquet is the scourge of kings, Tigruche is the friend of

artists.

Those who know Péquet do not know Tigruche; those who know Tigruche do not know Péquet. I have seen Péquet - as one may see him; I have seen Tigruche.

It was one night toward morning. My good fortune led me into a café on the boulevard where they were supping. I learned later that the artists of the neighboring theatres were accustomed to go there to regale upon a certain popular soup and certain ragoûts.

They entered in couples; and soon the café was full. Among this crowd some were noted, even famous. They talked noisily in a free language, coarse rather than original, startling rather than picturesque. Men and women were called "my old woman," "my little old woman," << my little olive-oil. » It is current, and has endured a long time. They thee-and-thou'd each other. I listened without finding the scene as interesting as I should have expected.

I saw the prima donna of a little theatre come in. She was accompanied by her master of earlier in the evening, and her slave of a quarter of an hour. The master was not yet tired, the slave not yet emancipated. She had also her companion, who was very plump. She was a person of important duties, however: she was intrusted with showing out the poets who brought her mistress the conceptions of their genius. Twenty of

them presented themselves every day. It was necessary to show them out politely, because some of them might slip into the little journals, and embarrass Madame. So she said; and her hat astonished me.

The star was immediately surrounded, and warmly felicitated upon her last creation, in which she sang "J'suis rincée," which will be the national song of the season. She received all this homage disdainfully, and said at last, "This bothers me. I wasn't made for stale jokes, and to amuse good-for-naughts. I have poetry in my heart."I recalled Molière, so ambitious of playing tragedy, and who felt so severely the blows which his writings drew upon him. But the shiny hat of the lady companion stifled the spark of compassion which these words had inspired. If poetry were in your heart, old lady, your lady companion would have another hat!

I might note that the great artist ordered the popular soup and three poached eggs; but these details are in contemporary chronicles.

My interest was languishing, and I was thinking of withdrawing from the company of these stars, when a hurly-burly of a hundred cries, making noise enough, rose from all the tables:— "Tigruche! uche! uche! Here, Tigruche! - Aren't you shabby, Gruguche! Aren't you ugly! You get crazier from hour to hour, my jewel! And your King of Prussia, won't he part with an overcoat, then? And your scum of Norway, isn't he coming?— You haven't thrashed your Bismarck enough, Tigruche: go at it again! uche! uche!"

Thus made his entry, Péquet, the Terror of Princes!

In truth, Péquet is not prepossessing in appearance. I have never seen a man who looks more like a wet dog. He went from table to table offering his hand and receiving fillips. Shall I tell it? I who read Péquet sometimes, and who am not his political friend, experienced something which might pass for pity. The poor fellow took everything so gently! He offered so affectionately his poor paws which no one touched cordially. I could not make out from his face whether he was humiliated or content with the terrible familiarity shown him. One person alone did not insult him,- the lady companion of the star. But the star in return, when he went to salute her, bowing almost to the ground, repulsed him in such a fashion that he asked mercy. "My little Nini," he said to her, "don't be as hard toward me

as I am devoted to you!" There were tears in the heart of Tigruche, but how could a tear issue from the eye of Péquet?

Nevertheless, such was his accent that Nini herself was touched. "Come," she said, "Tigruche, go and see if my eggs are ready." He precipitated himself toward the kitchen, and soon returned sparkling: "My little angel, they are going to serve you."

me.

This was growing sad; another accident appeared tragic to

A waiter planted himself before the lady companion, and asked in a half-bantering tone what he could serve her with. "Nothing," she said stoically: "I am not hungry." A fat man with a rather silly air was listening. "You are not hungry!" he said, "and in a minute you'll be picking in our plates." "If I don't pick in yours," answered the lady companion, "what does it matter to you?" "Now lose your temper!" went on the fat man. "Why don't you say that you haven't a cent? Every one has seen hard-up days." "And every one may see them again,” answered the companion more sharply. She added, "I don't ask for anything."

"No," said the other, "but you take without asking. Never mind, I'll pay! Order what you want. I like that better than to see you picking a little here and a little there, as you always do."

But the poor thing-oh, cruel honor!-dared not accept. "If I order, I'll pay. I have money." I think the woman has been

an actress.

The fat man lost patience. "You have money? You? Oh, come now! Ha ha! Let us see your money, then. Attention, ladies and gentlemen: Dolorès is going to show her money!"

There was silence of a sort. Dolorès glanced around with stormy eyes. Tigruche snatched the star's eggs from the waiter, and placed them before that lady, who attacked them at once. Everybody looked at the companion. A mocking voice arose: "Dolorès, my little one, show us your pretty money!"

Dolorès began to cry. "Stupid thing!" said the fat man. Dolores was left in peace. A few minutes later, her eyes dry again, she was picking right and left in her neighbors' plates,that of the fat man included.

Tigruche, friend of the star, was offered nothing and took nothing: he was as disinterested and as unfortunate as Péquet, the Terror of Princes.

AN

A BON-MOT

From Les Odeurs de Paris'

N ACTRESS had lost her mother, whom she adored. She received from the theatre an order to attend a rehearsal. She wrote a touching letter, requesting a few days to give to her grief. The director, furious, fined her.

"Doesn't she mean to play," he said, "while her mother is dead?"

This is what is called a bon-mot. The journal which cites one is called upon to invent it. There are people whose business it is to make bons-mots. They are paid as much as three or four sous a line, and they make some which are not bad. But this director's bon-mot was not invented, I think, but fell from the true lips of nature.

A

BÉTINET, AVENGER OF LETTERS

From Les Odeurs de Paris'

YOUNG man of letters undertakes to prove that bad literature has no effect upon morals; or rather that with reference to morals, there is neither good nor bad literature. He is not pleading his own cause: let us render him that justice! No one ever heard it said that his literature did the least harm; and although he has been writing for some time, he is as innocent as a new-born child. I have a sure presentiment that he will die in his innocence, enveloped in the pages in which he appeared. He is named Bétinet, and he has money.

I am sure of not vexing him by pointing out his attempt; but I desire too that my observations should not make him think too well of himself. In all sincerity the paradox is a little too much for him. It is evident that he cudgels his brains, and works, and does his best. He boldly attacks his adversaries,— those who might believe literature not without influence upon society. He compares them in the first place to dogs who make an "absurd" uproar; then he calls them "a troop of guardians of public morality"; then "the condottieri of the army of good”; then "bastards of Erostratus," etc. He puts half a dozen of these attacks in each of his paragraphs: and als! and hows! and eh, good Lords! everywhere he can; and even elsewhere. As for