the sweet intelligence of the mouth) as if she
were listening eagerly to something to which
her answer was quite ready, and would come
out of those red, opening lips as soon as ever
you had done speaking, and you longed to
know what she would say.

"Well; this Virginie de Créquy was living
with Madame Babette in the concièrgerie of
an old French inn somewhere to the north of
Paris; so, far enough from Clément's refuge.
The inn had been frequented by farmers
from Brittany and such kind of people, in the
days when that sort of intercourse went on
between Paris and the provinces which had
nearly stopped now. Few Bretons came
near it now, and the inn had fallen into the
hands of Madame Babette's brother, as
payment for a bad wine debt of the last
proprietor. He put his sister and her child in to
keep it open as it were, and sent all the people
he could to occupy the half-furnished rooms
of the house. They paid Babette for their
night's lodging every morning as they went
out to breakfast, and returned or not as they
chose, at night. Every three days the wine-
merchant or his son came to Madame
Babette, and she accounted to them for the
money she had received. She and her child
occupied the porter's office (in which the lad
slept at nights) and a little, miserable
bedroom which opened out of it, and received all
the light and air that was admitted through
the door of communication, which was half
glass. Madame Babette must have had a
kind of attachment for the De Créquys—her
De Crequys, you understand: Virginie's
father, the Count—for, at some risk to
herself, she had warned both him and his
daughter of the danger impending over
them. But he, infatuated, would not believe
that his dear Human Race could ever do him
harm; and, as long as he did not fear,
Virginie was not afraid. It was by some ruse,
the nature of which I never heard, that
Madame Babette induced Virginie to come
to her abode in the very hour in which the
Count had been recognised in the streets,
and hurried off to the Lanterne. It was
after Babette had got her there, safe shut up
in the little back den, that she told her what
had befallen her father. From that day,
Virginie had never stirred out of the gates,
or crossed the threshold of the porter's lodge.
I do not say that Madame Babette was tired
of her continual presence, or regretted the
impulse which had made her rush to the
De Créquy's well-known house—after being
compelled to form one of the mad crowds that
saw the Count de Créquy seized and hung—and
hurry his daughter out, through alleys and
backways, until at length she had the
orphan safe in her own dark sleeping-room,
and could tell her tale of horror: but
Madame Babette was poorly paid for her
porter's work by her avaricious brother;
and it was hard enough to find food for
herself and her growing boy; and, though the
poor girl ate little enough, I dare say, yet
there seemed no end to the burthen that
Madame Babette had imposed upon herself:
the De Créquys were plundered, ruined,
had become an extinct race, all but a lonely,
friendless girl, in broken health and spirits;
and, though she lent no positive encouragement
to his suit, yet, at the time when
Clément reappeared in Paris, Madame
Babette was beginning to think that Virginie
might do worse than encourage the attentions
of Monsieur Morin fils. her nephew, and the
wine-merchant's son. Of course he and his
father had the entrée into the concièrgerie of
the hotel that belonged to them, in right of
being both proprietors and relations. The son,
Morin, had seen Virginie in this manner.
He was fully aware that she was far above
him in rank, and guessed from her whole
aspect that she had lost her natural protectors
by the terrible guillotine; but he did not
know her exact name or station, nor could
he persuade his aunt to tell him. However,
he fell head over ears in love with her,
whether she were princess or peasant; and,
though at first there was something about
her which made his passionate love conceal
itself with shy, awkward reserve; and then,
made it only appear in the guise of deep,
respectful devotion; yet, by and bye, I
suppose—by the same process of reasoning that
his aunt had gone through even before him—
Jean Morin began to let Hope oust Despair
from his heart. Sometimes he thought—
perhaps years hence—that solitary, friendless
lady, pent up in squalor, might turn to him
as a friend and comforter—and then—and
then——. Meanwhile Jean Morin was most
attentive to his aunt; whom he had rather
slighted before. He would linger over the
accounts; would bring her little presents;
and, above all, he made a pet and favourite
of Pierre, the little cousin who could tell him
about all the ways of going on of Mam'selle
Cannes, as Virginie was called. Pierre was
thoroughly aware of the drift and cause of
his cousin's inquiries; and was his ardent
partizan, as I have heard, even before Jean
Morin had exactly acknowledged his wishes
to himself.

"It must have required some patience and
much diplomacy before Clément de Créquy
found out the exact place where his cousin
was hidden. The old gardener took the
cause very much to heart; as, judging from
my recollections, I imagine he would have
forwarded any fancy, however wild, of
Monsieur Clément's. (I will tell you afterwards
how I came to know all these particulars so
well.)

"After Clément's return on two succeeding
days from his dangerous search, without
meeting with any good result, Jacques
entreated Monsieur de Créquy to let him take
it in hand. He represented that he, as
gardener for the space of twenty years and more
at the Hôtel de Créquy, had a right to be