to him as eagerly as he does to her—mamma
cannot tell who he is.'

"'Has my aunt seen him?'

"'No, not so much as a fly's wing of him.
I myself have only seen his back. It strikes
me like a familiar back, and yet I cannot
think who it is. But they separate with
sudden darts, like two birds who have been
together to feed their young ones. One
moment they are in close talk, their heads
together chuckotting, the next he has turned
up some bye street, and Mademoiselle Cannes
is close upon me—has almost caught me.'

"'But she did not see you?' inquired
Monsieur Morin, in so altered a voice that
Pierre gave him one of his quick penetrating
looks. He was struck by the way in which
his cousin's features—always coarse and
common-place—had become contracted and
pinched; struck, too, by the livid look on his
sallow complexion. But as if Morin was
conscious of the manner in which his face
belied his feelings, he made an effort, and
smiled, and patted Pierre's head, and thanked
him for his intelligence, and gave him a
five-franc piece, and bade him go on with his
observations of Mademoiselle Cannes'
movements, and report all to him.

"Pierre returned home with a light heart,
tossing up his five-franc piece as he ran.
Just as he was at the conciergerie door, a
great tall man bustled past him, and snatched
his money away from him, looking back with
a laugh, which added insult to injury. Pierre
had no redress; no one had witnessed the
impudent theft, and if they had, no one to be
seen in the street was strong enough to give
him redress. Besides Pierre had seen enough
of the state of the streets of Paris at that
time to know that friends, not enemies, were
required, and the man had a bad air about
him. But all these considerations did not
keep Pierre from bursting out into a fit of
crying when he was once more under his
mother's roof; and Virginie, who was alone
there (Madame Babette having gone out to
make her daily purchases), might have
imagined him pommeled to death by the
loudness of his sobs.

"'What is the matter?' asked she. 'Speak,
my child. What hast thou? '

"'He has robbed me! he has robbed me!'
was all Pierre could gulp out.

"'Robbed thee! and of what, my poor
boy?' said Virginie, stroking his hair gently.

"'Of my five-franc piece—of a five-franc
piece,' said Pierre, correcting himself, and
leaving out the word my, half fearful lest
Virginie should inquire how he became
possessed of such a sum, and for what services it
had been given him. But, of course, no such
idea came into her head, for it would have
been impertinent, and she was gentle-born.

"'Wait a moment, my poor lad,' and,
going to the one small drawer in the inner
apartment, which held all her few possessions,
she brought back a little ring—a ring just
with one ruby in it—which she had worn in
the days when she cared to wear jewels.
'Take this,' she said, 'and run with it to a
jeweller's. It is but a poor, valueless thing,
but it will bring you in your five francs at
any rate. Go! I desire you.'

"'But I cannot,' said the boy, hesitating;
some dim sense of honour flitting through his
misty morals.

"'Yes; you must!' she continued, urging
him with her hand to the door. 'Run! if it
brings in more than five francs, you shall
return the surplus to me.'

"Thus tempted by her urgency, and, I
suppose, reasoning with himself to the effect
that he might as well have the money, and
then see whether he thought it right to act
as a spy upon her or not—the one action did
not pledge him to the other, nor yet did she
make any conditions with her gift—Pierre
went off with her ring; and, after repaying
himself his five francs, he was enabled to
bring Virginie back two more, so well had he
managed his affairs. But, although the whole
transaction did not leave him bound, in any
way, to discover or forward Virginie's wishes,
it did leave him pledged, according to his code,
to act according to her advantage, and he
considered himself the judge of the best course to
be pursued to this end. And, moreover, this
little kindness, attached him to her personally.
He began to think how pleasant it would be
to have so kind and generous a person for a
relation; how easily his troubles might be
borne if he had always such a ready helper
at hand; how much he should like to make
her like him, and come to him for the
protection of his masculine power. First of all
his duties as her self-appointed squire came
the necessity of finding out who her strange
new acquaintance was. Thus, you see, he
arrived at the same end, via supposed duty,
that he was previously pledged to viâ
interest. I fancy a good number of us, when
any line of action will promote our own
interest, can make ourselves believe that
reasons exist which compel us to it as a duty,

"In the course of a very few days, Pierre
had so circumvented Virginie as to have
discovered that her new friend was no other
than the Norman farmer in a different dress.
This was a great piece of knowledge to
impart to Morin. But Pierre was not
prepared for the immediate physical effect it had
on his cousin. Morin sate suddenly down on
one of the seats in the Boulevards—it was
there Pierre had met with him accidentally—
when he heard who it was that Virginie met.
I do not suppose that the man had the
faintest idea of any relationship or even
previous acquaintanceship between Clément
and Virginie. If he thought of anything
beyond the mere fact presented to him that
his idol was in communication with another
younger, handsomer man than himself, it
must have been that the Norman farmer had
seen her at the conciergerie, and had been