velvet fringed with gold, rested his head on his hands, and fell into a revery, the subject of which was far from painful, judg

ing from the expression of his face.

But Josephine soon wearied of the silence which ensued. He had already once that day treated her rudely in the matter of the petition; and aware that she had been maladroit in too great precipitation, she resolved to choose the moment more wisely next time. She believed that now the right time had come: and seating herself on the other side of the table opposite her husband, she too leaned upon her elbows, and like him affected an air of abstraction; soon their eyes met with a smile.

"What are you thinking of?" said Josephine to him, with a caressing tone and look.

"I am thinking," said he, "that the diadem is very becoming to you, and that it would be a great pity if I had neglected to place one in your jewel casket."

The smile of Josephine gradually faded; while that of Napoleon became more decided, for he loved to combat the painful apprehensions which always took possession of her when she contemplated the height to which they had lately risen. Noble woman! it was not for herself that she trembled.

"Are you not better pleased to see me Emperor than General?" pursued he.

"Certainly as Emperor you have the right to grant mercy, and I have a favor to ask of you."

Now it was on the face of the husband that the smile faded, to brighten on the face of the wife. Knitting his brows, he prepared to be firm, fearing that the influence which Josephine exercised upon his heart might lead him into some foolish weakness.

"Again, Josephine! You have promised me not to attempt in this way again to interrupt the course of justice. Do you think that the right to exercise mercy is granted us only to satisfy the caprices of our hearts? No: we ought to use it only to soften the too rigorous punishment of the law, or to repair the errors of the tribunal. Always to extend the hand of forgiveness to one's enemies is only to augment their number and their insolence."

"Nevertheless, Sire," replied Josephine, with difficulty restraining a burst of laughter, "you will accord me the favor that I implore of your Majesty."

"I doubt it."

"And I do not doubt it. removal of two oppressors!

First and before all, I demand the Yes, Sire, let them be displaced; let

them be driven out, forced away, if necessary!"

And speaking thus, she covered her mouth with her handkerchief; for, seeing the astonished face of Napoleon, she could no longer restrain her mirth.

"How? you urge me to punish! you, Josephine! And who are the guilty ones? »

"Two paving-stones, Sire, which are in the way in a courtyard."

And the laughter so long restrained broke forth in a merry peal.

He rose quickly, and crossing his arms behind him, regarded her with an air of doubt and surprise.

"How? what do you mean? Two paving-stones! Are you jesting?"

"No," said she; and rising, she approached him, and with her graceful Creole nonchalance leaning her two clasped hands on his shoulder, said: "On these two stones depends a precious existence. Listen to me, Sire; I invoke all your good-will while

I speak."

She then recounted to him the whole story of the petition, and all that she had learned from the young girl concerning the prisoner (whose name however she did not mention), and of the devotion of the poor child; and in speaking of the prisoner, of his flower, and the love which he bore it, the words flowed from her lips gracious, tender, caressing, full of charm and of that eloquence in which her heart so naturally expressed itself.

In listening, the Emperor smiled; and the smile was born of admiration of his wife.

AT LAST Charney said adieu to the priest and the colonel. One day, when he least expected it, the prison doors opened for him.

On his return from Austerlitz, Napoleon, importuned by Josephine (who in her turn probably yielded to the importunities of another interceding for the prisoner of Fenestrella), caused an account to be rendered to him of the seizure made by the officers in their visit of search. They brought to the Emperor the cambric manuscripts, until then deposited in the archives of the Minister of Justice. He read them over carefully, and declared

loudly that the Count of Charney was a madman; but a harmless one.

He who can so abase his thoughts as to be absorbed in a weed,” said he, "may make an excellent botanist, but not a conspirator. I grant his pardon. Let his estates be restored to him; and let him cultivate them himself, if such is his good pleasure."

Charney, in his turn, left Fenestrella; but he did not go alone. Could he be separated from his first, his constant friend? After having her transplanted into a large case of good earth, he took Picciola in triumph with him; his Picciola,- Picciola to whom he owed reason; Picciola to whom he owed his life; Picciola from whose bosom he had drawn consoling faith; Picciola through whom he had learned friendship and love; Picciola, finally, through whom he was to be restored to liberty!

As he was about to cross the drawbridge, a large rough hand was extended towards him.

Signor Count," said Ludovic, trying to conceal his emotion, "give me your hand: now we can be friends, since you are going, since you leave us; since we shall see you no more thank God."

Charney interrupted him: "We shall see each other again, my dear Ludovic! Ludovic, my friend!"

And after having embraced him and pressed his hand again and again, he left the citadel.

He had crossed the esplanade, left behind him the hill on which the fortress is built, crossed the bridge over the Clusone, and turned into the road to Suza, when a voice from the ramparts reached him, crying "Adieu, Signor Count! adieu, Picciola!" Six months after, one sunny day in spring, a rich equipage drew up at the gates of the prison of Fenestrella. A traveler alighted and inquired for Ludovic Ritti.

It was his former captive who came to pay a visit to his friend the jailer. A young lady leaned lovingly on the arm of the traveler. That young lady was Thérèse Girhardi, Countess of Charney.

Together they visited the court, and the chamber where once abode ennui, skepticism, disillusion.

Of all the despairing sentences which had been inscribed upon the white walls, one alone remained:

"LEARNING, WIT, BEAUTY, YOUTH, FORTUNE-ALL ARE POWERLESS

TO GIVE HAPPINESS »

Thérèse added:

«-WITHOUT LOVE»

The kiss which Charney pressed upon her brow gave confirmation to the truth of what she had written.

Before leaving the count asked Ludovic to be godfather to his first child, as he had been to Picciola. Then saying farewell, the husband and wife returned to Turin, where Girhardi awaited them in his country-seat of La Colline.

There, near the house, in a rich parterre, brightened and warmed by the rays of the rising sun, Charney had ordered his plant to be placed,- alone, that no other might interfere with its development. By his order, no hand but his might touch it or care for it. He alone would watch over it: it was an employment, a duty, a debt imposed upon him by his gratitude.

How rapidly the days flowed by! Surrounded by extensive grounds, on the borders of a beautiful river, under a genial sky, Charney tasted the wine of this world's happiness. Time added a new charm, new strength, to all these ties; for habit, like the ivy of our walls, cements and consolidates that which it cannot destroy. The friendship of Girhardi, the love of Thérèse, the blessings of all who lived under his roof,—nothing was wanting to his happiness; and yet that happiness was to be made still greater. Charney became a father.

Oh, then his heart overflowed with felicity. His tenderness for his daughter seemed to redouble that which he felt for his wife. He was never weary of gazing upon and adoring them both. To be separated a moment from them was pain.

Ludovic arrived to fulfill his promise. He wished to visit his first godchild, that of the prison. But alas! in the midst of these transports of love, of the prosperity and happiness with which La Colline abounded, the source of all these joys, of all this happiness, La Povera Picciola, was dead,- dead for want of care!

BERNARDIN DE SAINT-PIERRE

(1737-1814)

NE of the most beautiful works in romantic literature is 'Paul and Virginia,' by Bernardin de Saint-Pierre. Upon this short tale rests his literary fame. In bulk, its few score pages are not one twentieth of his collected writings; yet while the others are almost forgotten, this has become a classic. Its success oddly illustrates the fallibility of educated opinion. When composed in 1784, the author read it before a brilliant assemblage at Madame Necker's. As he proceeded, they yawned; one by one they deserted the room; only some of the ladies present wept. This chilling reception caused him. to throw it aside, and very nearly to burn it. In 1788, when he was indúced to publish this apparent trifle, it quickly passed through more than three hundred editions, and was translated into every civilized language. Themes for dramas, romances, pictures, and statues were drawn from it; new-born children were named after its young lovers. Napoleon slept with a copy under his pillow during the Italian campaign, ་ as Homer under that of Alexander"; and Joseph Bonaparte settled a pension of six thousand francs on the author. Perhaps with Robinson Crusoe' and 'Uncle Tom's Cabin' it has been among the novels that have enjoyed the greatest immediate and lasting popularity. Strangely, too, 'Robinson Crusoe' had so profoundly influenced Saint-Pierre as a boy, that after several vain trips to find a desert isle, he made various attempts for the rest of his life to describe it; one of which resulted in this book.

SAINT-PIERRE

The precision with which it satisfied contemporary longings and tastes was the secret of its wide circulation. Externally it continued the tradition of Richardson, who had launched the novel of sentiment in 'Clarissa Harlowe,' and after whom the doctrine had been evolved that a love story should be of necessity pathetic and end unhappily; and it fell into line directly with the sense of the beauty of nature, and the desire for escape from social conventionalities, recently aroused by Rousseau. But fundamentally it was the work of