ought to accept the same basis. The basis
of assurance is capital. Finally—as far as
the present journal is concerned—the
unpopularity of power is put an end to. Power
becomes popular, because it has become
tutelary. Every disastrous accident attaches
the people more firmly to it, just as every
fire which breaks out in a county increases
the number of insurances effected.

We have only to add that the above
doctrines are not put forth by their apostles
with the slightest consciousness or suspicion
that they are dreams, but that they are
serious plans that merit to be carried into
effect. If you doubt our assertion, read
L'Impôt, by Emile de Girardin, or look at
La Presse once or twice a-week.

SIR CARIBERT OF THE LEAF.

CHAPTER THE FIRST.

THE old Marquis de Mont-Chery sat in his
chair of state after a dinner in the great hall,
on the fourth of May, in the year of grace
one thousand five hundred and eighteen.
Two gentlemen of his suite stood behind him
motionless and silent. An aged lady, deep
buried in velvet, and bearing on her head a
pyramid of muslin, of which the apex nearly
reached the beams of the celebrated roof, sat
at his side. She might have passed for a
piece of excellent workmanship in wax, if the
artist had been able to give her a more
natural and human expression; but, as it was,
it was evident that she was only the
Marchioness of Mont-Chery, mumbling a number
of inarticulate prayers, and dropping the
beads of her rosary. Near the table stood
Father Aubert, bowed into the shape of a
half-moon, the illuminated portion being
represented by the bald head; and kneeling
in front—one knee on a small footstool, and
both his hands clasped in the old Marquis's
shaking palms—was a young man of two-
and-twenty years of age, handsome as a
dream,—dark hair, broad shoulders, elegant
limbs, and an eye—eyes, I should say, for he
had two of them—so deep, so beautiful, so
noble in their expression, that Phidias,
Praxiteles, Titian—in fact, he would have made
his fortune as a model for Adonis, or a young
Apollo, in boots and riding hose. For the
youth was evidently prepared for a journey.
His spurs were long, his sword was heavy,
the leathern bag he wore at his side bulged
out into a perfect ball and gave evidence
that he was well furnished with coin. In
short, he was an accomplished cavalier, ready
to fight his enemies or to pay his friends, and
was on the eve of leaving his paternal halls
to enter upon the World.

"Sir Caribert of the Leaf," said the old
man, "Have you made your peace with the
Church?"

"Forty masses for his repose, a thousand
Ave Marias, and five hundred paternosters;
a cottage to the widow, and place of under-
groom to the eldest son," replied the young man.
For a moment the Father raised his eyes and
smiled approval. "And six wax candles to
the shrine of Saint Boosè," he added, as if to
satisfy the marquis's mind that the fault,
whatever it was, was atoned for.

"But you shouldn't have killed the man,"
kindly replied the marquis. "Nay, I am not
angry," he added, when he saw Sir Caribert
about to speak; " if those people will come
between us and the chace, it is right they
should take the chance of what they merit.
You are strong of arm, Sir Caribert of the
Leaf, quick of eye, firm of heart. You are
going to the court of France. Love the king—"

"And nobody else," said the marchioness,
feebly. "There were bright eyes in the Palais
des Tournelles when I was there, and
winning smiles, and wicked laughs, and flowing
beards, and such beautiful moustachios, which
it was impossible to resist. I've missed a
bead! Father Aubert, must I begin again?"

"Sir Caribert will not have so much difficulty
as you experienced in resisting the
beards and moustachios, Madame la
Marquise," said the marquis, bitterly.

"There was the gay and clever Louise de
Perigord," continued the lady, "the fairest
maiden in the Marais, and her brother, the
Chevalier de Latton, the best tilter in France.
She sang the sweetest songs; and when he
danced—I never saw such dancing. There!
I've dropt again! Father Aubert, what's to
be done? I shall never get through them all."

" Your ladyship advises well," said the old
man, though a little confused in the objects
of her warning. " Win the king's favour."

"And nobody else's," again chimed in the
marchioness. "Oh! that Duc de Mont-Guyon!
I strove with all my might, Father Aubert;
but he would have won the heart of au icicle.
Such whispers! such looks! such sighs!
If people will be so irresistible, is it any fault
of mine? " Whereupon she passed three or
four beads at a time.

"Go, then, Sir Caribert, my son," said the
old marquis, with a look of pity towards his
wife. " You are but the youngest of my house.
I wish it had been otherwise, and that I had
waited ten years before I married your
mother. You would then have been my
eldest child, and have borne the honour of
my name; for the vicompte, as I remember,
is exactly ten years your senior, and we might
have calculated exactly. But, farewell! you
will make a higher name than your brother's,
and come back to us rich in fortune and
fame." The old man bent forward aud kissed
the youth's brow.

"Me, too," said the mother, " kiss me, my
Caribert. Beware of love, my son, marry
as I did, and it will trouble you no more.
Ha! you stand before me like the Chevalier
de Luson—no, like the Duc de Mont-Guyou.
—I don't know who you are like; but you
are very beautiful. Farewell!—and let us
hear how you prosper in the great city of
Paris. There, Father Caribert, I've dropt