we do get a little money sometimes in our
way of life, we don't earn it too easily. Aïe!
Aïe! Aïe! I should like a good sleep: I
should like to be as fat as my portrait
again!"

The same friendly relations—arising entirely,
let it always be remembered, out of my
illness and the portress's compassion for me—
which have let me into the secrets of the strong
coffee, the daguerreotype portrait, and the
sleepy constitution of Mon Mari, also enable
me to ascertain, by special invitation, how the
inhabitants of the lodge dispose of some of
the hardly-earned profits of their situation.
I find myself suffering rather painfully, one
morning, under some aggravated symptoms
of my illness, and my friend the portress
comes into the Pavilion to talk to me and
keep up my spirits. She has had an hour's
extra sleep, for a wonder, and is in a chirping
state of cheerfulness in consequence. She
shudders and makes faces at my physic-
bottles; entreats me to throw them away, to
let her put me to bed, and administer A Light
Tea to begin with, and A Broth to follow (un
Thé léger et un Bouillon). If I will only stick
to these remedies, she will have them ready, if
necessary, every hour in the day, and will
guarantee my immediate restoration to health
and strength. While we are arguing the
question of the uselessness of drugs and the
remedial excellence of tea and broth, Mon
Mari, with a look of mysterious triumph,
which immediately communicates itself to
the face of his wife, enters the room to tell
her that she is wanted below in the lodge.
She goes to his side and takes his arm, as if
he was a strange gentleman waiting to lead
her down to dinner, nods to him confidentially,
then glances at me. Mon Mari follows her
example, and the two stand quite unconfusedly,
arm-in-arm, smiling mysteriously
upon me and my physic-bottles, as if they
were a pair of lovers and I was the venerable
parent whose permission and blessing they
were waiting to receive.

"Have you been getting a new doctor for
me?" I ask, excessively puzzled by their
evident desire to connect me with some
secret in the lodge.

"No," says the portress, " I believe in no
doctors. I believe in nothing but a light tea
and a broth."

("And I also!" adds Mon Mari,
parenthetically.)

"But we have something to show you in
the lodge," continues the portress.

(Mon Mari arches his eyebrows, and says
"Aha!")

"And when you feel better," proceeds my
cheerful little friend, "only have the politeness
to come down to us, and you will see
a marvellous sight!"

Here Mon Mari warningly depresses his
eyebrows.

"Enough," says the portress, understanding
him;" let us retire."

And they leave the room immediately, still
arm-in-arm—the fondest and most mysterious
married couple that I have ever set eyes
on.

That day, I do not feel quite strong enough
to encounter great surprises; so my visit to
the lodge is deferred until the next morning.
Rather to my amazement, the portress does
not pay me her usual visit at my waking, on
the eventful day. I descend to the lodge,
wondering what this change means, and see three
or four strangers assembled in the room which
is bed-chamber, parlour, and porter's office,
all in one. The strangers, I find, are admiring
friends: they surround Mon Mari, and all
look one way with an expression of intense
pleasure and surprise. My eyes follow the
direction of theirs; and I see, above the
shabby little lodge table, a resplendent new
looking-glass in the brightest of frames. On
either side of it, rise two blush-coloured wax
tapers. Below it are three ornamental pots
with blooming rose-trees in them, backed by
a fanlike screen of fair white paper. This is
the surprise that was in store for me; and
this is also the security in which the inhabitants
of the lodge have invested their last
hard-earned savings. The whole thing has
the effect upon my mind of an amateur High
Altar; and I admire the new purchase
accordingly with such serious energy of
expression, that Mon Mari, in the first sweetness of
triumph, forgets the modesty proper to his
position as proprietor of the new treasure,
and apostrophises his own property as Magnifique,
with a power of voice and an energy of
gesticulation which I have never noticed in
him before. When his enthusiasm has a little
abated, and just as I am on the point of asking
where my friend the portress is, I hear a
faint little voice speaking behind the group of
admiring friends:

"Perhaps, Messieurs et Mesdames, you
think this an extravagance for people in our
situation," says the voice, in feebly polite tones
of apology; " but, alas! what would you
have? It is so beautiful—it brightens the
room so—it gives us such an air. And, then,
it is also a property—something to leave to
our children—in fine, a pardonable extravagance.
Aïe! I am shaking all over again;
I can say no more!"

While these words are in course of utterance,
the group of friends separate, and I see
sitting behind them, close to the big stove,
the little portress, looking sadly changed for
the worse. Her tiny face has become very
yellow; her bright brown eyes look
disproportionately large; she has an old shawl
twisted round her shoulders and shivers in it
perpetually. I ask what is the matter,
imagining that the poor little woman has got a
tit of the ague. The portress contrives to
smile as usual before she answers, though her
teeth are chattering audibly.

"You will not give me drugs, if I tell
you? " she says.