young man who had brought him to that
place, and who now conducted him to a little
room furnished with only one chair and a
table covered with books. Other books, and
a variety of papers, were scattered about the
floor.

"A student, I see;" Doctor Dubois smiled.
He wished to intimate that he attributed the
disorder and nudity he could not but perceive,
to eccentricity rather than to poverty.

"We must do what we can," eagerly replied
the youth, as if delighted at the opportunity
of a sudden confession. "We are too poor to
be otherwise than you see."

Doctor Dubois tried to look pompous and
conceited. "Madame de—de—"

"Jarante."

"Madame de Jarante," he continued, "has
been undermined by a slow fever, the result
of—what shall I say?—an insufficient supply
of those necessaries of life which humble people
call luxuries. You need not hang your head,
my young friend. These things happen every
day, and the proudest of us have passed
through the same ordeal. How long has this
state of things lasted?"

"Two years."

"A long time. It seems to me that your
mother has been kept in a state of delusion
as to her position. She believes herself
to be still wealthy, still to form part of the
world of fashion, in spite of the accident
which removed her from it."

"You know our history, then?"

"One incident I know, in common with all
Paris. Every one read in the papers the
report of the trial by which your family lost
its immense fortune. I thought you had
quitted Paris; and never dreamed that after
that disaster—"

"You mean disgrace," put in the youth,
bitterly.

"That after that disaster you continued
to inhabit your old hotel in the Faubourg
St. Germain. Whenever I pass I see the
shutters closed. I see no one come in or go
out. I am not inquisitive. Indeed I have
noticed these symptoms without even reflecting
upon them. I had forgotten your name.
I now understand that you have remained
here ever since; living on the ruins of your
fortune, and keeping your poor mother in
the illusion that nothing has been changed—
that she is still rich, honoured, and happy."

"All this is true," exclaimed the youth,
seizing the hand of the doctor: "but you do
not know all."

"I know enough," was the reply, "to make
me honour and respect you."

The story which the young man in the
fulness of his heart now told was curious and
painful. M. de Chesnel, his grandfather, the
old man whom Doctor Dubois had seen in
the other room, was one of the nobles who had
emigrated during the first French revolution.
He had gone to America, where he married
the daughter of a Virginian planter, and
settled down quite hopeless of ever returning
to his native country. After a time his wife
died, and left him with an only daughter.
He came to Paris; where, although his
fortune was small, he was able to give his
child a complete education. After eighteen
hundred and thirty news came to him from
America that his father-in-law had died,
leaving all his property to him. He again
crossed the Atlantic with his daughter, then
nineteen years of age. On the voyage out
he made the acquaintance of M. de Jarante,
a young French nobleman of great wealth,
who was going to the west in order to
expend his superabundant activity in travel.
An affection sprang up between this young
man and M. de Chesnel's daughter. The
consequence was that, some time after their
arrival in America, they were married. But
M. de Jarante had not entirely lost his
wandering propensities. Whilst M. de Chesnel
was engaged in an unexpected lawsuit with
the relations of his father-in-law—which
ended in the will being utterly set aside—the
young couple travelled together in various
directions. This lasted some years. Victor,
the youth who related the story to the Doctor,
and Valerie were born, and the mother found
it necessary to remain more stationary than
before, to look after her children. Then
M. de Jarante undertook to explore the
cordilleras of the Andes alone, and sent his wife
and family back to France.

Victor evidently slurred over certain
domestic quarrels here; but it came out that
M. de Chesnel had reproached his son-in-
law with neglecting his daughter, and seemed
to think that it was partly because the
fortune which she had expected had been
taken from her. M. Jarante afterwards
returned in safety, and led a very quiet life in
Paris. His wife thought that his restlessness
was now quite worn out; but at length he again
started for South America, wrote home—
frequently sending valuable collections which
he made by the way—and was last heard of
when about to undertake a voyage across the
Pacific. This happened six years before the
period at which Doctor Dubois became
acquainted with the story. For some time
Madame de Jarante suffered no misfortune
but separation from her husband; but at
length his relations had reason to consider
him to be dead. They asked his wife
to give an account of his immense
fortune. She refused, saying, that it devolved
upon her children. Then, to her surprise,
they asked for proofs of her marriage. She
had none to give. A trial took place; and,
although some corroborative testimony was
brought forward, it did not satisfy the law,
and Madame de Jarante was not only deprived
of her husband's fortune, but was called upon
to give an account of many large sums she had
spent. M. de Chesnel sacrificed all that
remained to him to protect her. The hotel in
which they lived had luckily been taken in