Trust one who, whatever hopes he might
once have had, is content now to serve you
as a faithful cousin,' and a place was named,
which I forget, but which Pierre did not, as
it was evidently the rendezvous. After the
lad had studied every word, till he could say
it off by heart, he placed the paper where he
had found it, enveloped it in moss, and tied
the whole up again carefully. Virginie's face
coloured scarlet as she received it. She kept
smelling at it, and trembling: but she did
not untie it, although Pierre suggested how
much fresher it would be if the stalks were
immediately put into water. But once, after
his back had been turned for a minute, he
saw it untied when he looked round again,
and Virginie was blushing, and hiding
something in her bosom.

"Pierre was now all impatience to set off to
find his cousin. But his mother seemed to
want him for small domestic purposes even
more than usual; and he had chafed over a
multitude of errands connected with the
Hôtel before he could set off to try and find
his cousin at his haunts. At last the two
met; and Pierre related all the events of the
morning to Morin. He said the note off
word by word. (That lad this morning had
something of the magpie look of Pierre—it
made me shudder to see him, and hear him
repeat the note by heart.) Then Morin
asked him to tell him all over again. Pierre
was struck by Morin's heavy sighs as he told
him the story. When he came the second
time to the note, Morin tried to write the
words down; but either he was not a good,
ready scholar, or his fingers trembled too
much. Pierre hardly remembered, but, at
any rate, the lad had to do it, with his wicked
reading and writing. When this was done,
Morin sate heavily silent. Pierre would
have preferred the expected outburst, for
this impenetrable gloom perplexed and baffled
him. He had even to speak to his cousin to
rouse him; and when he replied, what he
said had so little apparent connection with
the subject which Pierre had expected to
find uppermost in his mind, that he was half
afraid that his cousin had lost his wits.

"' My Aunt Babette is out of coffee.'

"' I am sure I do not know,' said Pierre.

"' Yes, she is. I heard her say so. Tell
her that a friend of mine has just opened a
shop in the Rue Saint Antoine, and that if
she will join me there in an hour, I will
supply her with a good stock of coffee, just
to give my friend encouragement. His name
is Antoine Meyer, Number One hundred and
Fifty, at the sign of the Cap of Liberty.'

"' I could go with you now. I can carry
a few pounds of coffee better than my mother,'
said Pierre, all in good faith. He told me
he should never forget the look on his cousin's
face, as he turned round, and bade him
begone, and give his mother the message
without another word. It had evidently
sent him home promptly to obey his cousin's
command. Morin's message perplexed
Madame Babette.

"' How could he know I was out of
coffee?' said she. ' I am; but I only used
the last up this morning. How could Victor
know about it? '

"' I am sure I can't tell,' said Pierre, who
by this time had recovered his usual
self-possession. ' All I know is, that Monsieur
is in a pretty temper, and that if you are not
sharp to your time at this Antoine Meyer's,
you are likely to come in for some of his
black looks.'

"' Well, it is very kind of him to offer to
give me some coffee, to be sure! But how
could he know I was out ? '

"Pierre hurried his mother off impatiently,
for he was certain that the offer of the coffee
was only a blind to some hidden purpose on
his cousin's part; and he made no doubt that
when his mother had been informed of what
his cousin's real intention was, he, Pierre, could
extract it from her by coaxing or bullying.
But he was mistaken. Madame Babette
returned home, grave, depressed, silent, and
loaded with the best coffee. Some time
afterwards he learnt why his cousin had sought
for this interview. It was to extract from
her, by promises and threats, the real name
of Mam'selle Cannes, which would give him
a clue to the true appellation of The Faithful
Cousin. He concealed this second purpose
from his aunt, who had been quite unaware
of his jealousy of the Norman farmer, or of
his identification of him with any relation
of Virginie's. But Madame Babette instinctively
shrank from giving him any information;
she must have felt that, in the lowering
mood in which she found him,—his desire
for greater knowledge of Virginie's antecedents
boded her no good. And yet he made
his aunt his confidante—told her what she
had only suspected before—that he was
deeply enamoured of Mam'selle Cannes, and
would gladly marry her. He spoke to
Madame Babette of his father's hoarded
riches; and of the share which he, as partner,
had in them at the present time; and of
the prospect of the succession to the whole,
which he had, as only child. He told
his aunt of the provision for her (Madame
Babette's) life, which he would make on the
day when he married Mam'selle Cannes.
And yet—and yet—Babette saw that in his
eye and look which made her more and more
reluctant to confide in him. By-and-by, he
tried threats. She should leave the conciergerie,
and find employment where she liked.
Still silence. Then he grew angry, and swore
that he would inform against her at the
bureau of the Directory, for harbouring an
aristocrat; an aristocrat he knew Mademoiselle
was, whatever her real name might be.
His aunt should have a domiciliary visit, and
see how she liked that. The officers of the
Government were the people for finding out
secrets. In vain she reminded him that by