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TAKE CARE WHOM
YOU TRUST.
BY COMPTON READE.
CHAPTER XI.
It was an agreeable surprise to Adine Sinclair
to discover that her foe completely changed his
tactics. Instead of persecuting her with intru
sive attentions, Horace Blackley devoted him
self ostentatiously to Louise Hart, ignoring the
presence of the two other ladies. In truth he
was thoroughly piqued. The transition from a
bad love to a bad hate is easier than analysts of
human emotions imagine. This man’s brain
was replete with notions of vengeance. An ac
tor, however, he determined to conceal his hand.
To display love or bate would have been equal
ly a false move. His game was entire indiffer
ence, and he played it to perfection.
0n arriving at the great hotel in Portland
Place, Mr. Blackley, who as a matter of course
had all arrangements entrusted to his worldly
wisdom, somewhat startled Adine by selecting
for her use precisely the same room which she
had previously oocupied. Girls have amazing-
ly retentive memories about trifles. She had
not forgotten the number of the room, nor its
furniture, nor indeed the face of the housemaid,
who came to attend upon her.
It was in the afternoon of the day following,
that coming in tired enough after a spell of
shopping, she went up in the lift to indulge in
the best of London luxuries, a thorough good
wash. This same femme de chambre brought her
hot water, but with a slightly impudent leer on
her plebeian features—an expression so mark
ed that it arrested the young lady's atten
tion.
“ Anything more, miss?”
“ No, thank you. ” And Adine prepared for
ablution.
“ Nothing more, miss ? ”
“No, no; nothing, thanks. Much oblig
ed. ”
But the girl did not seem disposed to leave
the room. Then Adine turner round from sheer
surprise. The face that met hers was a very
evil face. It had a history evidently. It rep
resented the annihilation of every better feel-
ing by some potent cause. It might be a wreck
ed love. It might be vioe. To judge from her
coarse physique, the latter supposition appeared
to be the more likely.
“Last time as you were ’ere you went away
without remembering oi me, ’’ she said.
Fairly taken aback by an accusation she well
recollected to be false, for she had “ tipped ”
this very girl, Adine began to fumble in her
purse for some silver.
“I thought I paid you,” she murmur
ed.
The girl laughed low. So the young lady ad
mitted she had been in'thnt room before. Good
indeed. What a joke is simplicity to wicked
ness. “Itwaswerry forgetful of you, ” contin
ued the housemaid; “ werry. Supposing as I
had been dishonourable, and told tales, what
then ? ”
“Whattales?” cried Adine, growing angry.
The girl laughed again- Such a false, hollow
laugh it was too. “You know” she replied.
“I know?”
“To be sure you do. What’s the use of the
Divorce Court, and sich like national institu
tions, if servants isn’t to ^profit by them ? We
keep our heyes open, Miss, let me tell you.”
Adine shivered at the ideas, suggested by
the low creature's words. They had their
meaning, but she refused to perceive it-
“I again demand, what is the reason you talk
to me in this extraordinary way 7' she said. “If
you want money, I will pay you whatever your
charge is.”
Adine knew that attendance was an item in
the bill, but she felt it wiser to affect ignorance.
She was weak enough to imagine, a small bribe
would eff t: illy settle this petty annoyance.
Bat the " - face soon undeceived her.
“You’v- got perhaps a fiver, or at most, a ten
ner in yo. - purse. What’s that, I should like
to know ? That wouldn’t pay off such a score.
However, as I said, I’m honorable. That’s
what I am.”
“I don’t understand you,” answered Adine
very coldly. Her face had changed to ashen.
Her little hand trembled.
“Nor I don’t understand this ’ere. Mr. and
Miss Smith comes to a ’otel, and engages adjoin
ing rooms, sister and brother like. Ha, ha!”
Her tone was very irritating. “What business
i6 that of yours ?” cried Adine, her pale features
suddenly flashing crimson. “How do you
know that the—the gentleman isn’t my broth
er?”
“For two reasons. First, that Miss Smith’s
linen is marked “Sinclair.” Secondly, Mr.
Smith's linen is marked “Blackley.” That’s
why. If you want another reason, you shall
have it, Miss.”
Adine was silent. Her heart, as the saying
is, was in her mouth.
Then the girl came closer, and whispered
mysterously, “You are not Miss Smith, and he
is not Mr. Smith, because—he told me so.”
At once Adine appreciated the situation.
This was the underhand work of Horace
Blackly. He had secured a confederate. What
for? To frighten her ? To injure her? She
could not guess. However, ner course was
plain. This girl must be dealt with, and that,
too, promptly. She at once took refuge behind
her own innocence.
“Oh! Mr. Blackley has been in communica
tion with you, has he? Very well then; I con
clude he explained how that, for reasons of our
own, we were traveling under an assumed
name. That will do. You may go.”
Plucky, Miss Adine, of you! Yet hardly con
ciliatory of a foe.
The girl retreated a step, observing in a tone
almost of banter, “Shall you require anything
more, miss?”
“No” replied Adine, firmly; “nothing. Stop
though,” she added, “what is your name ?”
“Ask Mr. Blackley,” responded the girl, slam
ming the door in her face.
Adine turned to the glass to behold her coun
tenance suffuse with blushes. Indeed, indig
nation was the uppermost feeling in her mind.
Solitude, however, is apt to calm much of such
effervescence, and the result of a few moment’s
reflection upon her position, was a flood of
tears—girlhood’s best safety-valve.
She was endeavoring to eradicate traces of
such emotion, by means of cold water and oth
er accessories of the toilette, when Louise Hart
announced, through the keyhole, that Mr. Lov
ett was waiting for her, in the drawing-room
below.
This good news was more effective than arti
ficials, simple or complex. Her pretty face was
wreathed in smiles as she ran down the inter
minable staircase to meet him.
Had these lovers belonged to a different rank
of life, they would have gone through the natu-
ralesque process of kissing. So overjoyed was
Adine at his arrival, that it is quite possible
she would have felt rather proud than angry,
had he saluted her before the company assem
bled in the great sitting-room of the Langham.
To speak the truth, however, Mr. Lovett, if
such an idea ever entered his head, was much
too shy to put it into execution. On the con
trary, he contented himself with looking fool
ishly overhappy, as he pressed her little white
hand in a manner quite as demonstrative as the
sonorous of kisses.
So engaged was she in imbibing the tender
passion, which beamed from his eyes, that she
quite failed to perceive the presence of little
Ralph, who was standing by his patron, with a
very pallid face and a coat buttoned to the chin,
although it was warm enough weather.
Nature, by a strange Nemesis, had satisfacto
rily cheated the Dean and the bntcher. The
boy had burst a bloodvessel, and Mr. Lovett
in consequence, under medical advice, deter
mined at once to remove him from the raw cli
mate of Blankton. Hence he had brought the
boy to London to place him with an old musi
cal friend, whose position in the profession,
was, in itself,a recommendation for his pupil.
Adine received the sick boy with warmth, and
the trio was soon seated at one of the cosy tables
of the great dining-room, discussing sweetbreads
a la jardiniere, and the Langham Liebefrautn-
tnilch,* drink much to be recommended, either
neat, or blended with real seltzer.
It was melancholy to observe the change in
young Ralph. Adine watched him with fur
tive interest, and her admiration for her future
husband multiplied not a little, as she realized
what a true friend ho had been to a helpless
child of art. It quite rejoiced her heart to
think that they were about to sacrifice a small
slice of their first year’s income, in aiding one
60 meritorious as this youth, with his earnest
artist face and strangely iustrious eye; one, too,
so obviously grateful; one who seemed to be
worthy of honest friendship.
“1 hope,” faltered the boy with emotion, “I
hepe that I shall live to repay your great kind
ness.” A sentiment born more of heartfelt
gratitude than of petty pride; one of nature’s
gentlemen, he knew how to accept the greatest
favour with the greatest grace.
They in return wished him not merely music
but life, and spoke all the kind words which
flow with such spontaneous beauty from bright
fresh souls—souls which have not as yet been
trampled under foot of man, or compelled to
bite the dust of debt and degradation.
After all, they are happiest, who never learn
the folly of giving.
XII.
CHAPTER
Theodore Lovett came to town no longer
Minor Canon, but Vicar, and he had already
discovered that honour is oostly. The Bishop’s
registrar—or rather deputy registrar, for the
actual holder ef that sinecure spent most of its
emoluments in a game popular in Germany, the
issues of which are determined by the spinning
of a ball—the Bishop’s deputy registrar then had
picked his pocket of almost every available
coin. Canon Grabbe had not vouchsafed to ex
tract dilapidation money, and arrears of minor
canonry were not yet available. In short he
began life hard up. He had to pay for young
Ralph. Some one must purchase Adine a
trousseau, and that some one was himself. Then
in prospectu loomed the wedding-tour, furniture
and fixtures, to say nothing of a substitute at
Mudflat during his absence. Verily the laity,
who talked balderdash about “ fat livings,” have
mighty little idea how miserably poor the aver
age incumbent is.
Now, had Theodore Lovett acted wisely, he
would have saved every expense, and strove
hard to crawl before attempting to walk. He
was, however, foolish and inexperienced. From
motives of false delicacy he not only concealed
pecuniary difficulty from Adine, but he in
dulged her every fancy in a way which to his
heart was luxury, to his conscience rather the
reverse.
For the first time in life the agony of money
raising assailed him. His prospective and
proximate liabilities might be reckoned at about
five hundred pounds, his resources dueatabout
one-fifih ol that sum. If he borrowed less man
he required—say three hundred pounds—even
in that case, he would start encumbered by a
mill stone. Since the day when he paid his few
University debts by sale of the one reversion
he had ever been entitled to, the world and
Theodore Lovett had kept on square terms. In
short he did not owe his neighbour one stiver.
The minor canonry had been poor pay, but its
holder had marched about manfully in old hats
and shabby coats. To him the flavour of vin
tage juice was forgotten. A few days in town
for the Academy, and the Monday Popular Con
certs, or for a Handel Festival or an amateur
performance made up the recreation of a whole
year. If he had been simply stopped from
saving money, he had avoided the danger of
bills. He could appreciate the luxury of wear
ing a coat and eating a dinner which he had
paid for—out of his own purse.
Mrs. Chowner, a w >rldly-wise woman, had
selected for their temporary abode an hotel
which of all others gives the public the most
ample accommodation and comfort at the most
moderate rate. Yet the reasonable charges of
that establishment rose so far above the country
clergyman’s idea of what his own personal ex
penditure ought to be as to make him wince.
He paid, but he failed to look pleasant. There
was indeed a hole in his purse. He had begun
to spend. There were so many nice things
purchaseable in the metropolis—this too was
such a good opportunity for selecting a variety
of necessaries and luxuries—above all, Adine
possessed such an inexhaustible fund of sug
gestiveness, and appeared so thoroughly over
joyed at each fresh act of expenditure, that he
could not economize.
No wonder, then, that after a comparatively
brief experience of Regent and Oxford Streets,
impecuniusity began to stare the poor man in
the face. He would have borrowed of his old
friend Chowner had that worthy limb of the
law been on the spot To ask his friend’s wife
for a loan was in bis mind not exactly honour
able, although he knew that Mrs. Chowner’s
pocket contained many notes, which she would
readily have advanced to him. He had no
bankers to draw upon, nor solicitor to advise.
There were one or two old University friends
about London, but then pride interfered. The
lapse of years had relaxed the ties of old social
intimacy. Muggins, who was wont in old days
to slap his back as he styled him “ dear old
boy ”—Muggins the prosperous man always met
him now clad with the steel armour of society.
Muggins had thousands a year, and obviously
despised the chum of his youth. He could not
ask a favour of such an iceberg.
Imagination, therefore, judgment, and his
other mental faculties kept terming themselves
into a committee of ways and means. It is not
pleasant in middle life to discover, that had you
spent your past in the retail of such articles as
gin, tape, or coals you would have had enough
and to spare, but that having devoted your en
ergies to less material arrangements you are
behind the world. There is in truth nothing
so utterly humiliating as the absence of money
from your command. A man with an empty
pocket feels a criminal—ay, and, in the eyes of
an enlightened civilization, is one.
At last to his tortured brain it occurred that he
might obtain at all events a temporary advance
by means of some of those amiable personages
who advertise everywhere that they will advance
any sum to anybody with or without security.
Thus he would be enabled to affoed Adine a
trousseau which should bear comparison with
the magnificent goods already purchased by
Miss Hart to cover her not very prepossessing
self. He might perchance have to pay heavy
interest; still the wedding was impending, and
necessity knows no law—certainly not that of
prudence. . . .. ,
At breakfast he announcod his intention of
leaving Adine to Miss Hart’s companionship
. -i . l i :i.u l!ilv nn im-
look was one of displeasure, for Miss Hart’s
meant Mr. Blackley’s society.
“Going into the city, are you?” enquired that
individual, who was endeavoring to make him
self excessively agreeable to Mrs. Chowner, a
lady capable of accepting toadyism with satisfac
tion. “Going into the city ? Yes. So am I.
We’ll go together.”
Adine’s frown relaxing at immunity from a
disagreeable presence, Mr. Lovett acquiesced in
this proposal, and within half an hour the two
clergymen were seated iu a Metropolitan first-
class carriage, inhaling the unpleasant gases of
subterranean London tete-a-tete.
Mr. Blackley enquired casually where Mr.
Lovett was going.
Mr. Lovett, of course, having a guilty con
science, looked exceedingly foolish, and replied
vaguely that he didn’t quite know.
Mr. Blackley responded that being the son of
a city magnate he was well acquainted with
every inch of that central region dedicated by
national piety to Flutus.
Mr. Lovett in turn endeavored to shield him
self behind an indefinite statement that he was
bound for the neighborhood of the bank.
Mr. Blackley—his curiosity aroused—enquired
“money?”
Mr. Lovett, not wishing to be confidential,
opined that his business was on a money matter.
Mr. Blackley at once affected an appearance
of friendliness. He said that iC he could ad
vise in any respect he should'inSvery happy; he
was conscious that they were ’both sailing in the
same boat for the port of matrimonial felicity;
hence that he felt for many reasons personally
interested in one whom he would call his old
college friend.
This bait took. Theodore Lovett, delighted
by the warmth of his quasi-friend’s sentiments,
reciprocated them with hand and voice. Then
he opened his heart at once, -evealing unreserv
edly the design of his journey cityward.
“Phew!” whistled Horace Blackley. “Why,
man, you must be insane !”
“Why?” gasped the innocent man.
“Because, my dear fellow, you would be in
fallibly swindled. It stands to reason. It
wouldn’t pay any human being to lend money
without security—that is, of course, with only
half a chance of repayment.”
There was no arguing against such sound
logic.
“How much do you want—a hundred or so?”
“I could manage perhaps Mvith about three
hundred pounds,” replied Mr. Lovett, not a lit
tle amazed at the turn the conversation was as
suming. L*
“Three hundred. Hum. >*ibu require three
hundred pounds —repayable when?”
“Oh, in a reasonable time. Say three years.”
“Exactly. Three hundred for three years.”
Mr. Blackley looked as if the mountain was in
labor.
“It is a large sum,” remarked the other.
“A large sum,” repeated Mr. Blackley. “A
large sum. Too heavy for a country parson to
repay without an effort. Well, I—I .”
But he paused for his words seemed to stick in
his throat.
At last the inward struggle was over. The
mountain brought forth something more impor
tant than a mouse. _ *•.
“I’ll lend you the coin you squire.”
“My dear fellow
“Stop. Nothing demonstrative, if you please,
Lovett. I abhor that sort of thing. It is un
comfortable for both parties.” And he positive
ly escaped from the eager grip of gratitude.
“But, Blackley, old boy, believe me ”
* Quite so. I believe in your freehold of Mud-
fiat. What interest do you propose?”
“I—I thought five per conijk stammered Mr.
--**
Mr. Blackley laughed—consifmedly.
“All right,” he said. “Evidently you must
have the money. I really could make you pay
through the nose, but I won’t. However, come
with me to the “Shylark” insurance company.
We will talk to the actuary and insure your life
as a necessary preliminary.”
At luncheon Theodore met Adine with a very
beaming smile. He informed her briefly that
she must lose no time in purchasing a suitable
trousseau.
“I thought,” she said, “that you were rather
cramped tor money, and in fact I have asked
Mrs. Chowner to advance me what I require.”
These two people were so isolated as to be
very much like a married couple before mar
riage. At all events they recognised a unity of
purse.
“I have ample funds,” he replied, perhaps
proudly.
(TO BE CONTINUED.)
“ Do I know you ! Oh,'yes ; I know you ; and
although I have not seen you for seven months, l
must have been blind, awhile ago, that I did not
recognize your charming face as soon as you en
tered the office. But I see that you do not remem
ber me. Have you forgotten the fete at Tivoli,
and the danger from which my friend was fortun
ate enough to rescue you ? ”
“ Was it you who accompanied Mr. Valreas?”
“ Yes, mademoiselle, and I had the good for
tune, too, to be of some service to a lady as beau
tiful as Juno herself. May I dare ask you what
has become of her ? ”
“ She is perfectly well, sir. But, prav, give me
the information I ask. Moments are precious—
somebody might come.”
“You are right, mademoiselle; I will show you
myself to the room of the terne see.” And the
lottery man—who was none other than the poetic
Tamerlan—locked the door of his office.
“ We cannot be too cautious,” said he ; “ since
our political troubles have forced us to so abject a
situation, we must endeavor to baffle our perse
cutors.”
He opened a closet, concealed in the wall, and
showed an opening through which a common-sized
person could pass.
“This is the way, mademoiselle; you will find
there a few steps which will lead you to the room
of the terne sec. You will rap four times, with a
short interval between the second and third. Our
friend will open the door, and when the divinity,
who deigns to visit him, shall wish to return to
CHAPTER XCV.
The poor girl had no idea that this consent was
only a generous subterfuge that might save Georges
Cadoudal, but not Charles Valreas.
“It is time for me to go,” said Gabrielle, “Day
after to-morrow I hope to bring you here the pass
port you need.”
“Not here,” said Saint Victor, “for who knows
if I can stay here for the next two hours, but at
this time day after to morrow I shall be in the
garden of tne Tuileries, under the large horse-
chestnut on the right of the grand avenue.”
“I will go there, and if l do not see you, then I
will come here. Show me how to go out of this
house.”
When the young girl was gone Saint Victor
came to Tamerlan’s office, and taking from under
the desk, an ample overcoat, an old hat, a cane
and some large blue spectacles, he went towards
the door.
“Are you going far?” asked Tamerlan.
“Yes, I am going to see Georges.”
“Take care. There is a long distance from here
to Quai Chaillot.”
“Don’t be uneasy. Keep your seat at your
desk, so lhat, if anyone come they find you seem
ingly busy with your books. Wiio was here just
now ?”
“Oh ! a poor knife-grinder, who was fool enough
to pay three francs for a terne, which he will
lose.”
Saint Victor had traversed Mauberet place when
he saw a knife grimier seated on a stone at the cor-
Olympus, he will tell her what she has to do to go ner of a house. “This is probably the fellow who
out of the house.”
He quitted Gabrielle, and she arrived at the
door, tapped four times, according to instructions
“ Come iu,” said a voice, whose tones made her
sigh.
She opened, and saw Valreas writing at a little
table. He recognized her instantly, stared at her
a moment, as if doubting his senses, and then ran
towards her with open arms:
“You here!” he exclaimed—“you, whom 1
almost despaired of ever seeing again ? ”
“ I, too,” said Gabrielle, “ have almost des
paired ; I believed you dead—for—since that ter
rible night, you—have forgotten me.”
“ Forgotten you! Ah, I would to-day be far
away from France had I forgotten you ! It is only
because I wanted to see you again that I persisted
in a struggle which is now almost useless.”
“ You say that you wanted to see me. Why,
you have not even let me know you are living ! ”
“ What could I do ? You live at the Tuileries—
a place that I mu3t shun—but perhaps you do not
know that all the police are after me.”
“ I know all. But could yoa not write? I
would have come as I do to day.”
The young ehouan took her by the hand and led
her to the unique arm-chair in the room. They
both remained silent for a moment; then Ga
brielle said:
“ Charles, you must lea e France.”
“ You know that it is now impossible,” said he,
softly.
“ You must.”
“ Leaving France, Gabrielle, is to lose you for
ever.”
“ Who knows that I—will not go to join you? ”
“ Y T ou would do that? You would renounce the
brilliant life in store for you at the court of the
future emperor ? You would leave your brother? ”
“ Listen to me, Charles—lisien to what you may
call my dreams—but they are dreams for the real
ization of which I would willingly die. Go to
London, and I swear that l will go to join you
there. When I am your wile, my brother will not
refuse to ask the pardon of my husband from his
general, then emperor. When the political trou-
Lies are over, vut will come back Iif Paris.'’
“Dreams, indeed, Gabrielle.' lam not one of
those whom Bonaparte will pardon.”
“ Why ? ” she asked.
“ Because 1 played too important a part iu the
conspiracy. When he shall be on the throne, he
will want to stay there, and to accomplish this, he
will crush under liis feet the last of his oppo
nents.”
“ You will not be his enemy any more: you
shall be a royalist, fathful to his principles, but a
stranger to conspiracy of any sort; and when 1
shall throw myself at the feet of Mine. Joseph
ine—always so kind to me—I am sure she will not
reject my prayer. Sue is a royalist, too. Was
she not Marquise de Beauharnais before being the
wife’ot Bonaparte ? ”
THE GHOST
whilst he made a pilgrimage to the City on im
portant business. Adine stared. Oa this point
she was not in liis confidence. Perhaps her
—or the—.
MALMAIS ON.
AN EPISODE OF FRENCH HISTORY
Translated from the French for the Sunnt South
BT CHARLES GAXLMABD.
[Most of the characters in this story are net fictitious,
bat real personages who took conspicnons parte In
some of the most important events which occurred daring
the rebellion of the West of France—called Chouannerie.]
Gabrielle kissed the hands of the woman who
had revived her hopes, and, in her hurry to leave,
she almost knocked down a man who was standing
near the door. That man was the knife-grinder
whom she had already met twice. She did not
pay any attention to that man, for she was now
all joy, since she was going to meet Saint-Victor.
Her heart throbbed wildly when she perceived
the old house that sheltered Valreas against the
vigilant eyes of the police.
The lottery-office, where the government used to
sell hopes that were seldom realised, was besieged
at a certain hour by a crowd of, poor devils com
ing there to exchange part of their daily bread
for a ticket. But at that time 'of the day, men
and women were at work, and the street was al
most deserted.
Seeing that the office-keeper was alone, Ga
brielle entered and closed the door behind her.
The man who kept the office had his head on his
book, seemingly asleep. As she entered, he looked
at her and inquired:
“ What can I do for you, charming lady ? Shall
I have the pleasure of putting your name in my
book for a number?” And as he did not receive
any answer, he continued: “Is it, then, several
numbers that you wish ? I have precisely three
of them here that haven't come out within the last
three years: 3, the Graces; 9, the Muses; and
19, the number of your summers.”
The young lady, astounded by this loquacity,
remained silent.
‘ Well,” continued the indefatigable talker, “ I
see that you want more of them yet; you are
right, madame—or mademoiselle—and if—”
• Sir,” interrupted Gabrielle, “ I wish to know
if I could take 93 and 94 ? ”
At that question, the man, who had, until then,
assumed a bent attitude, raised himself erect, and
Gabrielle, looking at his pale face,, thought she had
already seen him somewhere.
‘Then,” she said, “ehow me to the room of
the terne see.”
This time the man jumped to his feet, as if im
pelled by a spring, and exclaimed :
“ Is it you, indeed, mademoiselle?”
“ Do you know me, sir ? ”
CHAPTER XOIV.
Saint-Victor was listening with deep emotion
to Gabrielle’s words; and although he did not
believe in her illusions, still he was transported at
the idea of the blissful future she depicted.
“You speak of leaving France,” he said. “Don’t
you know that Paris is surrounded as a besieged
city ; tnat no one can pass the gate but with a
passport signed by the Grand Judge himself.”
“ I know it.”
“And still you hope? But this very house
where I found a shelter may be invaded at any
moment by the police. You succeeded in getting
the pass-word yourself; others may get it, too.”
“ I got it by calling on the only person who
could give it to me—the lady at whose house you
brought me after saving my life at Tivoli.”
“ Louise Maneheu 1 ’
“ I did not know either her name or residence ;
but hearing of the proscription law, I started
without any definite plan. God helped me, for I
met the woman I was seeking; she believed me
when I told her I loved you and wanted to save
you. Now let me tell you how I can save you.
The passport is indispensable; that passport I
shall bring to you.”
“ You, Gabrielle ?”
“ Yes; I shall have it to-morrow.”
“ How can you obtain it ?”
“ 1 will ask my brother. I will tell him it is
for you. You do not know my brother; he re
members that you have saved his life, and he
knows that I love you.”
“Does he approve that love? would he ever con
sent to our—”
“Our union—I cannot hope that—as long as
politic affairs will divide our unfortunate coun
try—but I am sure he will get me the passport.”
Gabrielle knew too well that to obtain that pass
port she should be obliged to consent to the mar
riage with I’erlier, but she was determined to sac
rifice even her love to save her lover.
‘Gabrielle, the signature of your brother cannot
open for me the gates of Paris, no matter how in
timate he may be with Bonaparte.”
“Is it indispensable to put your name on the
passport?”
“Otherwise it would be a blank pass, and those
must be now forbidden upon the severest pen
alty.”
I am certain that they give such passes.
Fouche's agents and the gemdarmes d elite circulate
freely in and out. They must have a certain pa
per, word or sign that I shall get. So you accept
and promise me to use the passport if I bring it
to you?”
Saint Victor became grave, and said slowly :
“ I cannot abandon my friends who for the last
six months have shared my dangers.”
Do you prefer to die with them rather than to
live for me?”
He Cid not answer. A thought had struok him.
If the passport had no name ou it, Cadoudal could
use it; aud if he could only save his General, at
the cost of his life, Saint Victor would be too
happy.
“I accept,’’ said he softly.
“/U»! uow I am sure you love me,” exclaimed
Gabrielle.
has been to the lottery office,” he thought; “but
what can he expect to do iu such a quarter of
Paris ?
A certain suspicion passed through his mind,
but the man did not seem to pay any attention to
him, so he went on his way, slowly as an old man
who could hardly walk. It took him a loag time
to pass through the different streets that led him
towards the river. As he turned on the quai he
perceived the knife-grinder at about fifty steps
behind him.
Oh ! oh !” thought Saint Victor, “ this is a man
I meet very often, and I will watch him. I’ll soon
find out if he is or is not a spy.”
At Saint Michal’s bridge, the knife grinder was
yet at the same distance behind him. Saint Vic
tor then walked under a porch for protection
against the rain. He soon saw that the other man
was seeking a shelter on the other side of the
street. The ehouan s suspicion was soon very
strong, but to be sure, he was not mistaken, he
concluded to wait for a moment, when the rain
should fall abundantly, and then leave his shelter.
“ If he follows me,” thought he, then he is cer
tainly after me.”
He did not wait long; a thick black cloud poured
a deluge of half-thawed snow, aud Saint Victor
took to the street and went towards the Seine.
I When he had walked about two hundred yards, he
looked behind him, just in time to see the knife-
grinder turning the corner of the street in the
same direction.
“Well!” muttered Saint Victor, between hi9
teeth, “ he is decidedly an agent of Fouche, and
it is a good thing i found him out.”
The young ehonan had a very lucid mind. Af
ter asking himself why this detective did not ar
rest him immediately, he made ihis reasoning to
himself.
“This man evidently knows me, and probably
knows where to find me; but he is thinking I am
going to a friend’s—perhaps to Cadoudal’s—and
he hopes to capture several of us. But how to
get rid of him ?
With a rapidity of conception acquired in a life
of civil war, he combined a plan that he put im
mediately into execution. Ou his left he had the
old convent of Theatins, not a door openfed on that
side; on his right was the river, considerably
swelled by the winter rains, aud offeriug a capital
chance to be drowned; before him, was the quai
d’Orsay, where, should he try to run, a dozen
policemen would have arrested him before he
could go twenty yards. Aud still he thought his
plan would prove successful.
At a small distance along the wharf was the
Vigter bath establishment. Saint-Victor turned
his head, and discovered the detective at a goodly
distance.
“ All right,” said he to himself; “I shall have
time-”
Theu cutting the street diagona’ly, he male
straight for the bath establishment.
Seeing this, the knife-grinder hastened his steps
to cut him off from the river.
“ Too late,” muttered Saint-Victor. “With his
grindstone on his back and all his accoutrements,
that man cannot enter the boat without losing time
in parleying, and then I am safe.”
Enteriug the boat, Saint-Victor threw five francs
on the office desk, telling the clerk:
“ If I want anything 1 will ring the bell.”
Then going into one of the sm til rooms he lock
ed the door inside.
He was hardly there before he heard loud talk
ing in the office.
“ I tell you, you shall not enter ; we have no
knife to grind here.”
“ I am not a knife-grinder; I am an agent of
Fouche, and I order you to open this room to me,”
pointing to the room where Saint-Victor had taken
refuge.
“ That room ? There is an old man in it, and I
shall prevent your disturbing him. We don’t need
any policemen here, nohow.”
“ But, stupid fellow, your old man is no less
than a ehouan, an accomplice of Cadoudal; and by
sheltering him you run the risk of five years in
the penitentiary. Didn’t you read the bills posted
all over Paris ?”
“ If I were sure of that,” murmured the clerk,
reflectively.
“ Open the door for me, and you shall be satis
fied of it, and receive one hundred francs besides.”
“This is tempting, but I have not the key, and
it is locked inside.”
“ Help me to break it open.”
(to bb continubd.)
God’s Sparrows.
A good woman, searching oat the children of
want one cold day last winter, tried to open a
door in the third story of a wretched house,
when Bhe heard a little voice say, “ Pall the
string np high; pull the string up high.” She
looked np and saw a string, which on being
palled lifted a latch, and she opened the door
upon two little half-naked children all alone.
Very cold and pitiful they looked.
“ Do yoa take care of yourselves, little ones ? ”
asked the good woman.
“God takes care of us,” said the oldest.
“And are'nt you very cold? no fire on a day
like this! ”
“ Oh, when we are very col& we creep under
the quilt, and I put my arm round Tommy,
and Tommy puts his arm round me, and we say,
* Now I lay me; then we get warm;" said the lit
tle girl.
“And what have yon to eat? ”
“When granny comes home she fetches ns
something. Granny says God has got enough.
Granny calls as God’s sparrows; and we say,
‘Our Father’and ‘daily bread’every day. God
is our Father.”
Tears came iuto the good woman’s eyes. She
had a mistrusting spirit herself; bnt those two
little “ sparrows,” perched in that cold npper
chamber, taught her a sweet lesson of faith and
trust she will never forget
And have you, children, who have almost
everything else, this sweet spirit of contentment?
Our heavenly Father says, “ Be content with
such things as ye have."