his meeting with Louise, now Madame
Panpan. It was the simplest matter in the
world; Panpan, to whom life was nothing
without the Sunday quadrille at the
barrière, having resolved to figure on the
next occasion in a pair of bottes vernis,
waited uoon his bootmaker—every Parisian
has his bootmaker—to issue his mandates
concerning their length, shape, and
general construction. He entered the
boutique of Mons. Cuire, when, lo! he beheld in
the little back parlour, the most delicate
little foot that ever graced a shoe, or tripped
to measure on the grass. He would say
nothing of the owner of this miracle; of her
face—which was full of intelligence; of her
figure—which was gentille toute à faite—but
for that dear, chaste, ravishing model of a
foot! so modestly pose upon the cushion.
Heaven!—and Panpan unconsciously heaved
a long sigh, and brought with it from the very
bottom of his heart a vow to become its
possessor. There was no necessity for anything
very rash or very desperate in the case as
it happened, for the evident admiration of
Panpan had inspired Louise with an
impromptu interest in his favour, and he being
besides gentil garçon, their chance rencontre
was but the commencement of a friendship
which ripened into love,—and so the old
story over again, with marriage at the end
of it.

Well! said M. Panpan, time rolled on,
and little Louis was born. This might
have been a blessing, but while family
cares and expenses were growing upon
them, Panpan's strength and energies were
withering away. He suffered little pain,
but what there was seemed to spring
from the old wound; and there were whole
days when he lay a mere wreck, without the
power or will to move; and when his feeble
breath seemed passing away for ever.
Happily, these relapses occurred only at intervals,
but by slow degrees they became more
frequent, and more overwhelming. Madame
Panpan's skill and untiring perseverance
grew to be, as other resources failed, the
main, and for many, many months, the whole
support of the family. Then came a time
when the winter had passed away, and the
spring was already in its full, and still Panpan
lay helpless in bed with shrunken limbs
and hollow, pallid cheeks,—and then little
Henri was born.

Père Panpan having arrived at this crisis
in his history, drew a long breath, and
stretched himself back in his bed. I knew
the rest. It was soon after the event last-named
that I made his acquaintance, and the
remainder of his simple story, therefore,
devolves upon me.

The debility of the once dashing soldier
increased daily, and as it could be traced to
no definite cause, he gradually became a
physiological enigma; and thence naturally a pet
of the medical profession. Not that he was a
profitable patient, for the necessities of the
family were too great to allow of so expensive
a luxury as a doctor's bill; but urged, partly
by commiseration, and partly by professional
curiosity, both ardent students and methodical
practitioners would crowd round his simple
bed, probing him with instruments, poking
him with their fingers, and punching him
with their fists; each with a new theory to
propound and establish; and the more they
were baffled and contradicted in their
preconceived notions, the more obstinate they
became in their enforcement. Panpan's own
thoughts upon the subject always reverted to
the brass button, although he found few to
listen to, or encourage him in his idea. His
medical patrons were a constant source of
suffering to him, but he bore with them
patiently; sometimes reviving from his
prostration as if inspired, then lapsing as suddenly
into his old state of semi-pain and total
feebleness. As a last hope, he was removed
from his fourth floor in the Place Valois, to
become an inmate of the Bicêtre, and a
domiciled subject of contention and experiment to
its medical staff.

The Bicêtre is a large, melancholy-looking
building, half hospital half madhouse,
situated a few leagues from Paris. I took a
distaste to it on my very first visit. It
always struck me as a sort of menagerie, I
suppose from the circumstance of there having
been pointed out to me, immediately on my
entrance, a railed and fenced portion of the
building, where the fiercer sort of inhabitants
were imprisoned. Moreover, I met with such
strange looks and grimaces; such bewildering
side-glances or moping stares, as I traversed
the open court-yards, with their open
corridors, or the long arched passages of the
interior, that the whole of the inmates came
before me as creatures, in human shape
indeed, but as possessed by the cunning or
the ferocity of the mere animal. Yet it was
a public hospital, and in the performance of its
duties there was an infinite deal of kindly
attention, consummate skill, and unwearying
labour. Its associations were certainly
unhappy, and had, I am sure, a depressing effect
upon at least the physically disordered
patients. It may be that as the Bicêtre is a
sort of forlorn hope of hospitals, where the
more desperate or inexplicable cases only are
admitted, it naturally acquires a sombre
and ominous character; but in no establishment
of a similar kind (and I have seen
many) did I meet with such depressing
influences.

Panpan was at first in high spirits at the
change. He was to be restored to health in a
brief period, and he really did in the first few
weeks make rapid progress towards convalescence.
Already a sort of gymnasium had been
arranged over his bed, so that he might, by
simple muscular exercises, regain his lost
strength; and more than once I have guided
his tottering steps along the arched corridors,