"'And it is bad!' I exclaimed.

"'It is bad.' For a moment I was angry
at the cold tone in which my words were
echoed; but directly afterwards I saw the
large, slow, heavy tears of old age falling
down the old man's cheeks, and on to the
sleeves of his poor, thread-bare coat.

"I asked him how he had heard it; it
seemed as though I could not all at once
bear to hear what it was. He told me that
the night before, in crossing Long Acre, he
had stumbled upon an old acquaintance of
his; one who, like himself, had been a dependant
upon the De Créquy family, but had
managed their Paris affairs, while Fléchier
had taken charge of their estates in the
country. Both were now emigrants, and
living on the proceeds of such small available
talents as they possessed. Fléchier, as I
knew, earned a very fair livelihood by going
about to dress salads for dinner parties. His
compatriot, Le Fèbvre, had begun to give a few
lessons as a dancing-master. One of them
took the other home to his lodgings; and
there, when their most immediate personal
adventures had been hastily talked over, came
the enquiry from Fléchier as to Monsieur de
Créquy.

"Clément was dead, guillotined. Virginie
was dead, guillotined.

"When Fléchier had told me thus much,
he could not speak for sobbing; and I, myself,
could hardly tell how to restrain my tears
sufficiently, until I could go to my own room and
be at liberty to give way. He asked my leave
to bring in his friend Le Fèbvre, who was walking
in the square, awaiting a possible summons
to tell his story. I heard afterwards a
good many details which filled up the
account, and made me feel—which brings me
back to the point I started from—how unfit
the lower orders are for being trusted
indiscriminately with the dangerous powers of
education. I have made a long preamble,
but now I am coming to the moral of my
story."

My lady was trying to shake off the
emotion which she evidently felt in recurring
to this sad history of Monsieur de Créquy's
death. She came behind me, and arranged
my pillows, and then, seeing I had been
crying—for indeed I was weak-spirited at
the time, and a little served to unloose my
tears—she stooped down, and kissed my
forehead, and said "Poor child!" almost as
if she thanked me for feeling that old grief
of hers.

"Being once in France, it was no difficult
thing for Clément to get into Paris. The
difficulty in those days was to leave, not to
enter Paris. He came in dressed as a
Norman peasant, in charge of a load of fruit
and vegetables, with which one of the Seine
barges was freighted. He worked hard with
his companions in landing and arranging
their produce on the quays; and then, when
they dispersed to get their breakfasts at some
of the estaminets near the old Marché aux
Fleurs, he sauntered up a street which
conducted him by many an odd turn through
the Quartier Latin to a horrid back alley
leading out of the Rue l'École de Médécine;
some atrocious place, as I have heard, not far
from the shadow of that terrible Abbaye,
where so many of the best blood of France
awaited their deaths. But here, some old
man lived on whose fidelity Clément thought
that he might rely. I am not sure if he had
not been gardener in those very gardens
behind the Hôtel Créquy where Clément and
Urian used to play together years before.
But, whatever the old man's dwelling might
be, Clément was only too glad to reach it,
you may be sure. He had been kept in
Normandy in all sorts of disguises for many days
after landing in Dieppe, by the difficulty of
entering Paris unsuspected by the many
ruffians who were always on the look-out for
aristocrats.

"The old gardener was, I believe, both
faithful and tried, and sheltered Clément in
his garret as well as might be. Before he
could stir out it was necessary to procure a
fresh disguise, and one more in character
with an inhabitant of Paris than that of a
Norman carter was procured; and, after
waiting in-doors for one or two days, to see if
any suspicion was excited, Clément set off to
discover Virginie.

"He found her at the old concièrge's
dwelling. Madame Babette was the name
of this woman, who must have been a
less faithful—or rather, perhaps, I should
say a more interested—friend to her guest
than the old gardener Jacques was to
Clément.

"I have seen a miniature of Virginie which
a French lady of quality happened to have
in her possession at the time of her flight
from Paris, and which she brought with her
to England unwittingly; for it belonged to
the Count de Créquy, with whom she was
slightly acquainted. I should fancy from it,
that Virginie was taller and of a more
powerful figure for a woman than her cousin
Clément was for a man. Her dark brown
hair was arranged in short curls—the way of
dressing the hair announced the politics of
the individual, in those days, just as patches
did in my grandmother's time; and
Virginie's hair was not to my taste, or according
to my principles; it was too classical. Her
large, black eyes looked out at you steadily.
One cannot judge of the shape of a nose from
a full-face miniature, but the nostrils were
clearly cut and largely opened. I do not
fancy her nose could have been pretty; but
her mouth had a character all its own, and
which would, I think, have redeemed a
plainer face. It was wide and deep set into
the cheeks at the corners; the upper lip was
very much arched, and hardly closed over
the teeth; so that the whole face looked
(from the serious, intent, look in the eyes, and