"And the little English girl you have
succoured and cherished, how goes it with her?"

An evil look came over the countenance of the
schoolmistress. "How goes it? As with a viper.
Speak to me of the gratitude of those Islanders.
I calculate that I have lost by that little crocodile
at least five thousand francs, of which I shall
never see a red liard. And yet I have been a
second mother to her."

It was certainly something in poor Lily's
favour that she had been blessed with a second
mother, seeing what a remarkably unsatisfactory
investment the first one had proved to be. The
abbé, however, received Madame's statement with
a pinch of salt, as well as with one of snuff. He
knew the Marcassin of old, and was acquainted
with her aptitude for magnifying her own merits
and depreciating those of others: when she would
allow them, which was but seldom, to have any
merits at all.

"It is a pity," carelessly remarked the abbé,
putting the caster to his chin, as was his wont,
before he flung the dice, "that you should be
burdened with this little eat–all and do–
nothing."

"It is more than a pity, it is a shame, a
scandal, an enormity, an abomination," Madame
indignantly acquiesced. "Figure to yourself,
my dear abbé, that this most reprehensible young
person of fifteen years of age—well grown, too—
devours my substance. She devours the little
patrimony which I hope to be able to leave, some
day, to my kindred in Touraine. Such a great
girl is not to be kept on walnut–peelings."

"That is easy to see," the diplomatic abbé
agreed.

"They may keep her who will," the school–
mistress continued, with well–simulated
indifference. "I am sick of the charge, and should
be enchanted to be relieved from it."

"Would you, then, consent to her departure?"

"Who would pay me my memoirs, if you
please?" the Marcassin returned quickly.

"But if you have lost, as you say you have lost
by this time, all hopes of payment?"

"That is true," returned Madame, shrugging
her shoulders. "As well fish in the canal for
whales as expect that I shall ever re–enter into
my funds."

"And if you placed this embarrassing young
creature in some locality of which you were well
assured, and with persons at whose hands you
could at any time claim her?"

"That is true; but how to find such a locality
and such persons?"

"They must be numerous. Could you not
obtain a situation for her in a school, half as
pupil teacher, half as fille de peine?"

"She is that already, here; more of one than
the other." Mademoiselle did not specify which
was the "one" and which the "other."

"And the convent?"

"Impossible. She is a heretic. The government
is infidel and Voltairean. We should have
complications with the police."

"But you say that she has no papers, no
recognised identity."

"I tell you, abbé," exclaimed the Marcassin,
"that she has nothing, save the spirit of the Fiend
which animates her. She is as friendless as a
mountebank's tumbling child, bought for forty
sous at a fair, and passed on from one juggler to
another."

"Pauvre petite!" murmured the abbé again;
but his voice was pitched low.

"Besides," resumed the schoolmistress, "if
she went to another school, she might chatter—
and——"

She stopped, somewhat confused, and, the
game being over, hurriedly closed the
backgammon–board.

"I understand you," the abbé returned, with
a nod. "There is much rivalry in the
scholastic profession. One always tries to do one's
neighbour—when one's neighbour keeps a
school—as much harm as is possible. 'Tis
pity, for charity's sake, that it should be so.
But suppose, my dear and worthy lady, that I
was enabled to find, out of doors, an asylum for
this forlorn child—a safe asylum, a respectable
asylum, a discreet asylum—whence, from time
to time, I should be enabled to bring you news
of her, and whence, if the dishonest persons who
have defrauded you of your hard–earned money
were ever brought back to better sentiments,
and showed a wish to make restitution, you
could bring her back. Suppose some such
scheme to be within my power of putting quickly
into execution?"

"Then, my dear abbé, I should say at once,
Take her."

"Is that your determination?"

"You have my word for it."

"Then we will adopt measures in accordance.
I shall have the honour shortly of communicating
with you on the subject. Not another cup of
tea, I assure you. I have fears for my head.
Well, qualified with this excellent and sanative
rhum of the colonies. Have you tasted the
Chocolat de Santé, my dear lady? And the
Racahout des Arabes? No; you prefer the
Pâte Regnault. A thousand wishes for your
happiness! We will consider the affair of la
petite as arranged. Figure to yourself this
Monsieur Veron, who makes one fortune by
managing the Opera House—what a scandal—
and another by selling cough lozenges. And yet,
I am told, a most excellent person, and devoted
to the Church. Yes, I will certainly remember
to bring the six numbers of the Gazette de
France when next I have the honour. One
might get the little wardrobe of la petite
together. She has none, you say. Well, one must
be found for her. Charity is not dead, as you,
mademoiselle, have so triumphantly proved.
Once more, dear lady, good night!"

These remarks were not delivered without a
solution of continuity. The abbé's valedictory
observations were scattered about the room. He
had to swallow another cup of the curious fluid