relief. It is while suffering thus, that he
receives a visit from a friend of his prosperous
days, and one to whom, by-the-by, he
had at that time lent money. The chill
indifference with which this last receives the
news of his friend's misfortunes is distressing
enough to witness; though it is but justice
to him to say, that their full extent, and the
actual present condition of want which the
unfortune Maxime is experiencing, is hidden
from him. At his departure he offers his
starving friend a cigar; and Maxime's bitter
smile as he accepts it, saying, as the door
closes, "It is something to have a cigar!" is
not lost upon the audience.

The corporal of Dragoons observes, at this
juncture, that he thinks this is "par trop fort,"
and that Maxime might very well, considering
his present position, have asked for a
return of the loan which he had granted in
his days of prosperity to the other. The
remarks of the gallant corporal reach me
indistinctly and in a muffled tone, owing to a
perfect grove of moustache through which
they have to penetrate. I wish, with all my
heart, that this garniture of his upper lip
were equally efficacious to mitigate the
flavour of the garlick with which this officer
has solaced himself at his evening meal. It
comes upon me with a blast like a simoom at
every communication.

The next visit that Maxime receives, is
from the old lawyer who is engaged in settling
the family affairs, and in paying off the
debts which Maxime's father has left—his
only legacy—to his son. The man of business
arrives, big with proposals which are to
make the fortune of our Jeune homme
pauvre. Let us hear them. The first is the
offer of a large sum for the use of his name
in the prospectus of a Company, whose
solvency is, from the nature of their scheme (into
which we need not enter) doubtful in the
last degree. It has been thought that the
name of La Marquis de Champcey appearing
among the members of such a Company will
materially serve its interests, and a large sum
is consequently offered to secure it. It is
offered in vain.

The next proposal is of a matrimonial
kind. The daughter of a rich tradesman,
the members of whose family, anxious to make
her into a marquise, are ready to accept Le
Marquis de Champcey as a suitor for her
hand—this young lady is to be had for the
asking. It is a match which would relieve
him altogether from his present difficulties.
Yet this proposition is no more successful
than the last; and the old lawyer is informed
by our Jeune homme pauvre that he himself
is not for sale—any more than his name.

The man of business takes his departure,
and Maxime is again left to himself, to his
reflections, to his hunger. The temptations
by which he has just been tried, would have
had little force had the question been one of
his own sufferings only. But it is not so.

Comfortable and happy in the convent where
she is being educated, the little sister of
Maxime is still unconscious of the disasters
which have fallen upon her; and it is the
thought that this child, whom Maxime
regards more with a father's love than a
brother's, must be removed from the protection
of her convent, and exposed to all the
miseries of poverty, unless the fortunes of
the house of De Champcey can in some
manner be retrieved: it is this thought which
gives to the temptations which have just
been described a power which otherwise they
would not have had. It is the wish to continue
the child's education, to keep her safe
and happy in her convent, to amass against
the time of her growing up a marriage
dowry for her, that makes the unfortunate
Maxime ready to undergo any humiliation,
to accept any occupation that may consist
with honour. It is the existence of his
little sister only that prevents Le Marquis de
Champcey from enlisting as a common
soldier.

The corporal of Dragoons whispers hoarsely
that the young man might do worse than
that. It is anything but a bad service just
now, he says; and I believe him.

After brooding over these things for some
time, our Jeune homme pauvre, dropping at
last from sheer exhaustion into an uneasy
doze, is unconscious that the door of his
apartment has been softly opened, and that
the wife of the porter of the house is in the
room, with a tray in her hands containing
all the materials for an excellent repast. She
has been an old servant of the family, and to
her horror has discovered, by an adroit system
of watching, that Maxime has been
without food for more than four-and-twenty
hours. On waking up from his restless nap,
Maxime discovers the portière arranging the
meal on a table by his side, and, recovering
in a moment from his first impulse, which is
to devour it, fiercely demands what she is
doing. The poor soul feigns astonishment at
his question, and in her turn asks if he had
not ordered the dinner to be sent—it had been
brought from the neighbouring restaurant—
was there some mistake? Yes—it is a mistake,
is the almost savage answer. But the
portière is not beaten yet—she hesitates.

"Possibly Monsieur has not yet dined—in
that case, would this meal be good enough
for him? It would be wasted if not eaten
by him—" The proud man turns upon her
and forces her to own her harmless ruse.
"It would give her more pleasure," she says
at last, "if he would eat her poor dinner than
if he gave her fifty Napoleons."

What pride could be a match for such
heavenly charity? Not that of Le Marquis
de Champcey.

"I cannot give you," he says, with a change
of tone full of inexpressible feeling, "I
cannot give you fifty Napoleons. But eat your
dinner, I can—and will—"