considering the uncertain nature of human
hopes; but the fact is, there is no occasion to
say anything of the kind. My Aunt, though
she has a very large capital at her command,
is certainly not generous. She was never
known to leave anybody anything in her will,
nor to ask them down into the country on a
visit, nor out to dinner on a Sunday, nor to
behave handsomely at Christmas-time—like
the amiable aunts of most persons. All she
will do for her relatives is, to lend them
money; and then she takes very good care to
be the gainer by the transaction, for she lends
only on the very best security—the deposit
of some article, of four times the value of the
sum advanced. In a word, My Aunt in
Paris is the very faithful and appropriate
spouse of My Uncle in London, with whose
characteristics our readers have been already
made familiar. Like My Uncle, she is
visited by her relatives only when they want
money; and, like My Uncle, she contrives
to make a very good living by lending it to
them. There is this difference, however, in
what we may call the " constitution " of this
worthy couple. My Uncle, in England,
speculates on his own account, and flourishes
or fails, as the case may be, without
responsibility to anybody but himself. My Aunt,
in France, on the other hand, is set up by the
Government, who takes upon itself the risk
of the speculation.

While noting the fact of My Uncle holding
an analogous position to the lady in
question, it is as well to state that My Aunt
is no fanciful designation, induced by that
circumstance. It is not a mere piece of
pleasantry on the part of Delphine alone. Ask
the student of the Quartier Latin—who has
just accomplished the popular feat of spending
his month's allowance in ten days—as he
marches gaily along towards the Mont de
Piété; his watch ticking its adieux in his
waistcoat pocket—" Where are you going ?"
'' To My Aunt's! " will be the inevitable
reply, delivered instinctively, and without any
determined intention to be humorous. Cross
the path of the grisette—who stitches ten
hours a-day for a franc, and who every now
and then finds herself, like her betters, living
beyond her means—as she trips composedly
(for no Frenchwoman, under any
circumstances, was ever known to be embarrassed),
and address her with a similar question:
"Chez Ma Tante! " she will answer, with
a slight shrug of the shoulder, and twinkle
of the eye—in recognition of the playful
nature of the designation, but with no idea
of being understood literally.

Ma Tante, in fact, is the great popular
impersonation of this most popular institution.
Her origin, as an impersonation, is equally
uncertain with that of My Uncle. It is not
improbable, to be sure, that the two illustrious
personages were the creation of some " mad
wag " of the Medici family—some needy cadet
whose relations kindly lent him money at fifty
per cent. The designations, considered as
facetiæ, have decidedly a mediæval look;
and, as a joke, My Uncle, at any rate, is most
certainly middle-aged.

I had engaged to procure the bracelet for
Delphine; and half-an-hour after our conversation
found me on my way to our mutual relative.
I had been duly supplied with the necessary
authorisation—a large official form, printed
upon yellow paper—not unlike a passport, but
rather more important in appearance, and
guaranteed authentic by one of those imposing
signatures which none but Frenchmen can
execute, and not all, even of Frenchmen, can
read. The address indicated upon this
portentous document was that of a branch office,
where I speedily presented myself. It was
not a shop, but strictly an office, having very
much the appearance of a bank—that is to
say, of a French bank. Behind a screen of
wire-work, which separated the public from
the private portion of the room, were seated
the officials, grave, dignified, military-looking
men, writing at their desks, and apparently
in no hurry to attend to the wants of several
persons who were patiently waiting to transact
business with them. These last were
principally women, old and young; some
with mysterious bundles and anxious looks;
others of a better (or perhaps worse) class,
selecting rings from their jewelled fingers,
carelessly humming snatches from vaudevilles,
and quite at their ease.

After taking a brief survey of the group, I,
by good chance, caught the eye of one of the
clerks, or field-marshals, or whatever they
may happen to be, who advanced with a
military step across the room. Six words on
either side settled the business. Monsieur
could have the article he desired on the
morrow, by application at the office. The
morrow! if Delphine was already desolée, the
morrow would find her désesperée! But why
could not the bracelet be reclaimed on the
spot ? Because every article deposited was
sent to the central office, and could not be
reclaimed without certain formalities; but if
Monsieur liked to go to the central office
himself, the business could be arranged in a few
hours. In that case, Monsieur would
certainly go.

The most important formality required,
was the payment of the sum of money originally
advanced, in return for which, and my
original yellow document, I received another
official form, even more imposing and portentous
than the last—combining the solemnity
of a will with the importance of a passport.
This was signed, countersigned, and pushed
towards me through the little gate in the
wire-work, with an air which impressed me
with a terrible sense of responsibility. I had
not, indeed, quite recovered my self-possession,
when I turned suddenly round, to find a
musket, with fixed bayonet, presented at me.
I started back. Had I done something
wrong? Oh no! The assailant, innocent of