MLLE. BARBE.

Te Aroha News, Volume II, Issue 95, 28 March 1885, Page 5

MLLE. BARBE.

I. A carriage and pair, with servants in green liveries, the whole concern somewhat frayed and worn in its magnificence, drove in one summer afternoon to the old town of i Saint-Jean-sur-Loir. The dark narrow streets were full of life ; the Place before the Cathedral was crowded with stalls, carts, umbrellas, and people. On the Cathedral steps two stout citizens in white waistcoats were standing, each of them umbrella in hand, talking over with some excitement the latest news from Paris — the possibility of war ; for this was market-day in the first week of July, 1870. There were four people in the carriage ; a pale little lady in black, with an elderly Abb 6 beside her, who talked to her unceasingly, and two young men smartly dressed, as if for a visit of ceremony. One of these seem plunged in gloom. Though handsome, he was not nearly such a pleasant object as his brother, who smiled a great deal, and sometimes made a joke in a low voice. Perhaps his jokes had malice in them, which naturally made them unpalatable to the gloomy one. For instance, as they drove through the market place, the lively brother drew attention to those two worthies on the Cathedral steps. "Look, Charles, quick — there is your father-in-law !" M. Charles frowned severely. " Hush, I believe it is !" he said, in a tone of horror. 11 There he is. He sees us ;he is coming," the Abbe" was saying at the same moment to the lady beside him, "Come, come, Charles, M. Duval is an excellent man." The Abbe* showed a little irritation. Madame de Mesnil threw a glance at her son, in which anger and amusement and pity were oddly mixed together. "Do you see, Charles?" she said, " There is M. Duval." " I see M. Duval, mother," replied the melancholy Charles. The carriage stopped, and M. Duval came up to it, his red face beaming, his shiny hat flourished away from his shiny bald head. There was great bowing and introducing and complimenting. It was the Abbe"'s business to fuse these discordant elements, these families of noble and bourgeois, which were about to ally themselves for mutual benefit. The Abbe 1 , from his position, understood both sides, loved both, was angry with both. He in the depths of his heart was ready to punch M. Duval for his vulgar, boastful satisfaction, as well as Charles for his glum and haughty indifference. After some talk, in the eyes of all the admiring market, the two young men got out of the carriage, and M. Duval was obliged to obey Madame de Mesnil by getting in. The Abbe" gave him his place, It was a fine event for the fat little citizen to dash through his native streets by the side of a Countess. This was the reward of a good Catholic, a Legitimist, so long solitary among all the Republican and Imperialist townsfolk. They would not give him any public office at Saint- Jean -sur-Loir. What did that matter, when the oldest family in the province stretched out a hand to him, and chose his only daughter, the heiress of his hardearned millions, to be the wife of its head ? This was the doing of that good Abbe* who had been confidentially employed by Madame de Mesnil to find a wife for her son. M. Duval was so much excited that he did not even know which of the two young men was his future son-in-law. Charles, who was Comte de Mesnil to the ends of his hair, and Louis, quite contented with his younger position, would have been equally surprised at this confusion in the brain of M. Duval. The young men meekly followed their mother's carriage through the streets, and out into the suburb of St. Martin, where all the rich and fashionable people lived. Charles made no attempt to escape from his fate, though he had several chances of doing so. For they crossed the river, they passed the railway station where were cabs in abundance, a train for Paris was just starting. The young count, however, seemed to feel nothing but a stern resignation. He had even arranged his future life according to necessity. "This poor demoiselle will find Mesnil a desperately dull place, after all the distractions of her town," remarked Louis, as they passed some public gardens where a band was playing opera music. "There will be money," said Charles, grimly. " She can live where she pleases," and I too— l shall live where I please." "She may prefer Mesnil after all." " I hope not. I hope she will prefer Trouville or Biarritz, with Paris in the intervals. The gayer she is the better I shall be pleased. The less I see of her the happier I shall be. A person who wishes to live with us at the chateau — a person brought up by M. Duval, do you see ? — would be past endurance." "M. Duval is a good Catholic, a steady old fellow. I fear she may be respectable," said Louis. "No.no. In that case I shall refuse to marry her," said the Comte de Mesnil. Louis only smiled, for he was jised to his brother. He was sorry for him too, though he laughed at his oddities. This poor Charles was one of the quietest and most studious young men in France. When not buried among his books, he was to be found straying alone among the shady alleys of the Park, or in the woods that clothed the hills about the chateau. He generally carried a gun, but never shot anything. In the evening he would brighten up, and entertain his mother with all sorts of odd fancies. He was perfectly happy, and wanted no change. But this sort of life could not go on for ever. The family was very poor ; the chateau was falling to ruin. Charles must marry, and he must marry an heiress to retrieve their fallen fortunes. He was obedient, but miserable, and his dream now was that marriage should make no alteration in his habits ; that his wife and he should be quite independent of each other, amusing themselves in their own way, and only meeting now and then. Thus a quiet, domestic woman, who would not care to live away from the Chateau de Mesnil, was a possibility dreaded by Charles. A young bourgeoise, to be entertained and considered, with the right to follow him even into his library ! How was such a horror to be borne ? They soon came to M. Duval's house, standing back from the road in a smart English garden, with rows of geraniums and groups of tails elegant shrubs. In the drawing-room they found everybody assembled, sitting in a circle of armchairs with foot-stools beforo them, and here and there a plant with great red leaves reflected in the shining floor. The two younp nien took their places in the back-ground behind their mother's chair. She. the Abbe*, and M. and Madame Duval were quite equal to keeping up the talk, which flowed in a sparkling stream. Charles and Louis had nothing to do but to use their eyes, which they did without scruple, not a grimace of poor Madame Duval's escaping them. She was a dark, thin woman, with a long nose and eager eyes, Most likely in ordinary life,

Bhe was a sensible woman ; in fact, people said that M. Duval's success was greatly owing to her prudent management. But just now her head was a little turned, like her husband's. She was full of airs and compliments, and made odd jumps and bounces now and then, as if she would have darted aoross to kiss Madame de Mcsnil's hand ; but that little lady's cool, businesslike manner seemed to discourage any suoh outburst. Behind her parents, a curious contrast, sat Mademoiselle Barbe Duval, a tall, round, soft-looking girl, with pale complexion and large brown eyes, and a quantity of fair hair frizzed over cushions. Apparently she thought the occasion serious. She sat motionless, very grave, without a gleam of life or fun anywhere about her. Once she lifted her eyes and stole a look at Charles across the circle. Unfortunately, Bhe met his eyes quite full, fixed intently upon her, on which she dropped hers, and gazed at the back of her mother's chair. This visit had been arranged on purpose that the young people might meet and make acquaintance with each other, all the opening negotiations having been carried on between their parents with the help of the AbbiS. The consent of the two most interested was now the only thing wanting, and that was a matter of form. M. de Mesnil could not well draw back now that he had allowed himself to be offered, and the only j feeling possible to Mademoiselle Duval was thankfulness for her good fortune. Her parents might just as well have married her to some worthy man in their own class, who would certainly have provided himself with a much longer purse than Monsieur de Mesnil's before he presumed to ask for M. Duval'B daughter. It was charmingly romantic of the Duvals to scorn such low alliances, and to choose such a son-in-law as Charles — noble, handsome, melancholy, poor. A perfect hero, thought Barbe in her enthusiasm. Charles's sulky look only made her say to herself : "He is sad. Ah, what a joy to make him happy !" For Barbe, like a sensible, honest girl, set a very fair value on herself ; and in her comfortable home, with all its luxuries, conscious too of satisfaction from its many looking-glasses, did not at all feel as if she was being lifted from the dust to a throne. Of course, the future coronet, the Chateau de Mesnil in the distance, added glory and solemnity to these arrangements ; but Barbe was not so much impressed by these things as her father and mother, whose amiable antics were a slight trouble to her at this moment. She loved them truly, but she wished they were a little more dignified. However, Madame de Mesnil sat there smiling agreeably ; the Abbe*, that satirical person, looked placid and satisfied. All seemed to be going well, only Barbe wished that this hour of trial was over. By-and-by, she hardly knew how, she found herself with Charles in the garden. They were walking slowly along an alley of lime trees, commanded by one of the draw-ing-room windows. Charles carried his hat in his hand, Barbe was also bareheaded. For some momenta they had nothing to say to each other. Charles, knowing wnat was before him, had prepared speeches for several varieties of little bourgeoise, but none of them would suit Mademoiselle Duval ; she was too serene, too natural, too grave. Charles was not sure that she was not too handsome and too charming. These doubts were no comfort to him, however ; they upset all his arrangements. A woman like this would interfere with him terribly. She would never be packed off to amuse herself at a watering-place, or bundled into some corner at home. What was to be done with her ? Charles felt savage, and bit the top of his cane. 11 What do you think about the war, monsieur?" said Barbe, in a calm, sweet voice. "Do you wish for it ?" " Yes, mademoiselle, with all my heart. We are sure to beat the Prussians ; besides, one can volunteer, and have the chance of dying in a satisfactory way." Charles spoke with a sort of desperate grimness. It did not appear to strike Barbe that he ought, under present circum stances, to have wished for life, not death. " Ah, yes," she said. "Of course war must be terrible, but it is grand too ; and the music gives one such a glorious feeling. I have often wished to be a soldier. However, there is one thing a poor girl can do for our heroes." " No doubt you pray for them, mademoiselle," said Charlea, rather more politely. " It this war comes, and I volunteer — " "Praying is no doubt a beautiful thing," said Barbe; "but as long as one is in the world, one must work too ; for instance, there are the hospitals. I love beyond everything else to nurse the sick. I have learnt in our hospital here at Saint Jean. The dear Sisters have taughb me everything they know, and we are hoping that if the war comes some wounded men will be sent here. When we are nursing them we shall feel as if we are fighting for France." "You, mademoiselle, with those hands !" repeated Charles, who could hardly believe his ears. " These hands ?" repeated Barbe, holding them up. "Why not? They are strong, and I have been taught to use them." "Indeed, mademoiselle! Then you prefer the corporal works of mercy. " "I am not worthy of the spiritual," said Barbe gravely. "I do not see how one could live without doing good to somebody. Is it not our duty, monsieur, to love everybody?" " So they say, mademoiselle." " And how can we poor women show our love except by working with our hands ?" Charles smiled a little. It was becoming absurd to hear this rich young girl talk as if she was a poor seamstress. He perceived that she was an enthusiastic, tdte-exaltree person, with vague ideas of general fraternity, and doing good to all mankind. He was interested in spite of himself, never having heard a girl talk in this strain before, and, after a moment's thought he went on drawing her out with a condescension that surprised himself. It was not difficult to draw her out. All her own people knew that she was silent and talkative by fits. Now, after the long silence in the saloon, she chattered with a will, and with a somewhat provincial interest in her own concerns, told Charles all about her daily life, her occupations, her opinions, No embarrassment clouded her sweet face and open manner. She seemed to have forgotten the position, the object and meaning of this interview. Charles, with a certain gentle chivalry, took care not to remind her of it ; yet one cannot say that he enjoyed all he heard. MademoiI selle Duval seemed to him to be possessed with a very madness of charity. Her sentiments were so primitively Christian as to be almost commu nistic. She was ready, indeed , to confess, when Charles hinted the question, that she thought a republic the juetest and most beautiful form of government. Charles received this horrible confession very quietly. Afterward Barbe repented of her candor with tears, but at the time she had no idea of giving offence. She thought, in fact, that this grave young man sympathised with her, and presently asked him innocently whether he often visited the peasants. " Who? I ? Never !" said Charles shivering. ••Do not you like them ?" " I detest them." "Ah ! Then what do you do all day ?" " I re*d."

" From morning till night?" " Yes. I read." "Is it possible ? But what good does that do V said this strange young person. ' 11 Good ! I don't know. Yes, it does a great deal of good to myself. A man's first duty is to himself." "Isit ? Ah, you do not really mean that," said Barbe, with a Bmile and a sigh. " Excuse me, mademoiselle ; 1 mean it most entirely. It was not by my own ohoioe that I came into this world full of miseries, and I quite decline to occupy myself with them. Our views on this subjeot are opposite." "If you mean what you say " "I am speaking as truly as you spoke just now." Barbe was going to plunge into a further argument, when something suddenly reminded her that she and Charles were supposed to be making up their minds to marry eaoh other. This reminder was the appearance, at the other end of the alley, of Madame de Mesnil, the Abbe", Louis and her father and mother. She caught herself up, hesitated, blushed scarlet, and walked in silence beside her companion to meet all tb ese people. She did not look particularly happy, and as for Charles, his gravity was unchanged. Madame de Mesnu looked at them rather anxiously, but only said, with her sweetest smile, that she feared it was time to go ; there was a long drive between I them. As soon as the formal farewells wete over and the party had driven away, M. and Madame Duval both pounced upon their daughter. " Hey, little one, how do you like him ? can he smile, or is he too much afraid of wrinkling that handsome face of his?" " Ah, you may joke, papa, " says Madame Duval, "but he is a most majestic young man. After all there is nothing like birth. And madame, his mother, is charming. Never mind your old father, my little chicken. Do you like him — tell me ?" *' He smiled once, " said Bavbe, smiling herself thoughtfully. She looked at her father and mother with eyes that answered their question quite sufficiently. Then she* trolled out again alone nto the alley of limes That night, her mot ng into her rooms as usual, £ ound the child crying, not passionately, but softly and sfowly. When Madame Duval insisted tenderly on knowing the cause of these tears, Barbe whispered into her ear a confidence : " Mamma, I like him ; but I don't know that he likes me. " " Ha, ha, ha ! " Madame Duval's peals of laughter made the room ring. " Put such fancies away, and go to sleep, my little one. M. de Mesnil is a young man of very good sense —the thing is all arranged. No doubt of his admiring my beautiful child. I only think she is too good for him. " Under this consolation, Barbe presently fell asleep, withtears^on her face.

11. Poor Mademoiselle Barbe ! She had after all, as the old nurses say, something to cry for. At Mesnil, late that evening, the Comtesse was sitting at her tapestry-work, entertaining the Abb<s, who was staying in the house, when Charles and his brother came in from the smoking-rooin. Charles looked eager and excited, Louis very grave, but with an air of something between alarm and amusement. His brother had been talking to him for the last hour, and now began, with more ceremony and milder language, to talk in the same strain to the elders. "lam sorry to vex you," he said to his t mother ; u but is there no way of escaping from this marriage ?" I "My dear son ! Impossible !" cried Madame de Mesnil, while the Abb£ made [an angry exclamation, " What can you mean? Were you disappointed in Mademoiselle Duval? Now, I was agreeably surprised. I assure you, she will look well I when she is properly dressed." "I have no fault to find with her looks ; she is handsome," said Charles. " But I cannot marry her. I know — I feel it. My mother, you have not talked to her as I have. Her ideas are monstrous. She loves | nothing so much as dressing wounds. I i tremble when I think of her." | "She is a very good, charitable young i girl," said the Abb 6. " Very well, monsieur, I believe you. .1 did not say she was wicked. But her opinions [are those of the Jaco fins. She prefers a republic. She talks of hospitals and sick-beds, and all the horrors in the world. She thinks such subjects agreeable. What is to be done with a person so terribly brought up?" " Did she talk like that to you, my poor child? Not very clever, certainly," said Madame de Mesnil. " At the same time Charles is bound in honour," said the Abb£. "He must not be fanciful. She will make him a very good wife. Her love of the poor and the sick is a fault on the right side. She is enthusiastic, to be sure." "My mother," Baid Charles, "she diBgusts me." " But what is to be done ?" said Madame de Mesnil in consternation. "We cannot draw back now." " Listen to me a moment," said Charles. " Here is Louis ; he and I have an idea. Put him in my place. Let him marry Mademoiselle Duval. He admires her face, and is more philosophic than I am. He says her talk will make no difference to him. Do you see? I will gladly promise never to marry. I never should have thought of it, except to please my relations. I will continue to live here, and may find this lady quite charming as my sister. She certainly has an attraction of her own. But I could not marry her." " What do you say, Louis ?" said Madame de Mesnil. "lam ready to oblige my brother." The discussion went on till midnight, for the Abb<§ highly disapproved of this change of plan. Not that it was supposed likely to make any difference to the Duvals — for them one De Mesnil must be as good as another ; but it seemed to reflect badly on his credit as a match-maker. He was very angry with Charles, whose good sense and dutifulnoss he had trusted too far. But Madame de Mesnil, who always had the character of spoiling her sons, was not much inclined to take part against them. In her own mind she had thought Louis, with his open cheerfulness, more fitted for family life than the misanthropic Charles ; and now that Charles really wished to efface himself for his brother, she could not make any very strong objection. Early the next morning she composed with great care a letter to M. Duval, in which she felt obliged to praise Louis far beyond his brother, and to point out that the present offer meant a life of perfect happiness for the charming Mademoiselle Barbe. She also announced that her son Louis would be aotual head of the family, as Charles had decided to give up the idea of marriage altogether. In excuse of his his conduct, she could only say that he had been peculiar and changeable from his birth. The letter went, and for two days the chateau was in suspense. Then came M. Duval's answer. In the most flourishing language he assured Madame de Mesnil that he felt Honoured and delighted at the idea of

giving his daughter to any member of her family ; that her praises of M. Louis were not needed, for his appearance was enough ; and so forth. For himself he saw not the slightest difficulty in the suggested change, but he was grieved beyond measure to say that his daughter opposed herself. She too, like M. le Gomte, seemed to have suddenly set her faoeagainsb marriage, and was deaf to all the arguments of himself and her mother. Madame de Mesnil would understand that in such a peculiar case they did not feel justified in commanding obedience. . Thus, with real grief, the good oitizen was obliged to see hia lofty vision fade. There was to be no alliance between the houses of De Mesnil and Duval. "Well, dear monsieur," said the Comtesse to the Abbe*, " this attempt has failed, you see. We must try again. It would be best, you know, if we could find a girl who would please Charles." [ "1 haye no patience with Charles ;he has lost his senses," said the Abbd. " Beauty, riches, intelligence, goodness, he has thrown away all these with Barbe Duval. He is a madman. We shall never find such a osmbination again." "Perhaps we could do without the two last— without the third, I mean," said Madame de Mesnil, hastily correcting herself. But while they talked and plotted, everything was being settled for them by greater powers. War was declared, and in a few weeks more Charles, and- Louis were off to the front to fight; for France as volunteers.

111.. In six months what terrible changes Play turred to earnest, joy driven away by sorrow ; would joy ever take its old place again? Hardly, one would think, in the Chateau de Mesnil, where those two lads had spent their happy boyhood. By this time it had been twice or three times occupied by the Germans, who had cut down the trees, hacked the rooms to pieces, and sent the furniture away in waggon-loads to Germany. No one was there. After her sons joined the army, Madame de Mesnil had gone to Paris to her mother, the old Marquise de Belfort, and there they were now, shut up in the besieged city, suffering all its privations with the cheerful courage of Frenchwomen. They could laugh still, though France was conquered, and Louis was a prisoner in Germany, and newß from Charles hardly ever reached them. They shivered and starved, and comforted each other and their friend 3 by making fun of their besiegers, though with plenty of grief and revenge in their hearts. In the last days of December, the Germans were within a few miles of Saint-Jean«sur Loir, but had not yet occupied the town, which was surrounded by a strong cordon of General Chanzy's troops. There was a continual skirmishing going on, and after each encounter waggons of wounded men would rumble over the frozen roads into the town, through the gazing streets, slowly up the hill to the great hospital, where their sad freight wa3 delivered into the hands of the Dames Augustines. Their old convent was now the Hotel Dieu, and their lives were devoted to nursing the sick. Dressed in white flannel, with black veils, they glided up and down the great chill corridors. j Always, however crowded the yards might ! be, two of them kept up continual prayer in the church close by. The Hotel Dieu was an immense building with many staircases and galleries, with windows down each side, all entirely paved with white stone. Facing each other through these galleries were the rows of little iron bedsteads with white pillows and red coverings, . now all occupied " by the wounded, in summer sick people were happy enough in these great airy places, with glimpses of blue sky and green waving trees through the many windows ; but now, when the windows were coated with ice, and the trees were grey and leafless, and no number of burning logs would warm the chill air, their teeth would almost chatter as they Uy in bed. There seemed to be no warmth, not even under the piles of ruga and blankets sent by all the kind women of Saint-Jean. Yet the Hotel Dieu was a real Heaven to poor wounded soldiers, who had been lying out for hours, stiff and sore, on the hard ground, under the iron freezing sky, There they gradually woke from a stupor of misery to find themselves tended by soft, gentle hands, and watched over by kind faces. The roughest of them became tame and manageable under the roof of these good women. And because in these days there were not enough of the nursing Sisters to do everything, other women were there, in white caps and aprons, who had left their own houses in the town to do this work of mercy. One afternoon Sister Madeleine, the head of the ward, was going her rounds, followed by a young girl from the town, who was a special friend of hers. A number of wounded men had been brought in that morning; it was a heavy day for the Sisters ; but now the confusion was over, and, except for the groans of some poor sufferer, all was quiet in the hospital. The sun was just setting, and filling theplace with a faint crimson light, the first sign of his presence that he had given that day. " And this one who is unconscious—he is an officer," murmured Sister Madeleine to her companion. The doctor knows his name, but I forget it ; yet I think he came from this country. I must ask again, and let his family know, for he will die." " From this country !" said the girl making a Btep forward. The tired lace that lay thrown back on the pillow was so worn and changed that his mother would hardly have known it. "Ah, ma smur, why will he die?" exclaimed the girl, catching her breath and looking wildly around. "My child, do you know him ?" t " Yes, indeed ! It is M. de Mesnil. His mother is in Paris ; he cannot go home. i Shall he not be carried to our house?" Sister Madeleine was one of Barbe Duval's few dear friends, and knew the whole story. She had a very warm heart, full of sympathy with all girls' trouble's, and with Barbe's in particular. " No, my child. His only chance is to be quite undisturbed. Come, little one," said tne good Sister, with a twinkle of fun, 11 here will be a triumph of nursing if you can bring him through. There, I make him over to you. You are responsible." Barbe saw no joke, if there was any. She took a chair and sat down at the foot of the bed. " Shall I watch, ma smur; to see when he moves?" "Certainly. The very thing," said smiling Sister Madeleine as she moved away. This was all very fine, but M. and Madame Duval, benevolent as they were, did not quite enter into Sister Madeleine's ramantic arrangement. Tho liext day Barbe did not appear at the hospital. She stayed at home, and was scolded for her want of self-respect, In two or three days, however, she appeared again. Her father and mother, having nearly broken their hearts by their severity, gave in humbly, and let her do as she pleased. After all, the young man was hardly sensible, and it was New Year'sl)ay,on whioh, from her infancy, Barbe had always had whatever she chose to ask for. j Charles de Mesnil was not dead. On the contrary, he was slowly struggling back to

life, through the dark ways of pain and weakness It was no good or comfort to him to be able to think again, to realise where he was, and remember the hopeless fighting, the mismanaged armies, the sad campaign in the snow. For many hours he did not oare to rouse himself to think. When his wounds were dressed, he kept his eyes obstinately shut, pretending not to see or feel anything. When Sister Madeleine spoke to him, he only answered by » halfangry groan. She went away j but he was conscious that somebody was sitting beside him, and by«and-by he muttered in a hoarse whisper : "Is Paris taken?" "No, monsieur, not yet," answered a soft clear voice. Charles did not look up to see who was near him j but the voice seemed to bring back something long ago— something that had happened in a former life, before the long fighting beg^an. There were other questions tormenting him, but he forgot them in puzzling and wondering about that voice. From weakness, or pride, or shame, or fear, or some stronger reason, he would not look up or speak again. But the next time his nurse came to disturb him he forgot all about these things, and opened his eyes to look round, No one was there, ex cept the good women with their white flannel sleeves. Charles thought he had been dreaming, and felt a cold chill of disappointment } yet he hardly knew whom he had expected to see. Early in the morning, waking from a restless sleep, tired of his dreams and of his pain, and impatient of his helplessness, he yet knew that his brain was stronger and clearer, and felt quite sure that he would not die. What was there to live for? Charles indulged himself in a long melanoholy sigh. At the same moment Barbe Duval came up and stood beside him, looking down with eyes full of generous pity. Her hands were loosely folded in front of her, and there was a faint colour in her face, which was very grave and dignified. The colour deepened as Charles stared with his hollow dark eyes. Then he said something which she had to bend to hear, and which brought quite a crimson blush. " Take off your cap, if you please !" How could one refuse a poor wounded soldier ! Barbe slowly lifted her strong, shapely hands to her capstrings, untied them, and uncovered her smooth fair hair, no longer frizzed or padded. " Your hair is not the same," said Charles. She stood bareheaded, and smiling sweetly. " I have altered it for my cap," she said. Charles said no more, but lay gazing at her. Just as this silent interview was becoming awkward, at least for Mademoiselle Duval, the surgeon came up with one of the | Sisters. Barbe hastily flung on her cap, ' and darted away down the corridor. Charles did not see her again for some hours, and during that time he thought about her a great deal. At last, in the evening, he was aware that she was near him, but not alone ; Sister Madeleine was with her. He quietly submitted to have his pillows shaken, and then, looking up into the sister's kind face, he said : "Have I offended Mademoiselle Duval again ? Will she not speak to me ?" ' " You know best, sir," said Sister Madej leine, " whether you deserve any civility from Mademoiselle Duval." " 1 do not," said Charles, meekly. " But she is a good Christian, and will forgive me." The eister smiled and went away. Barbe Duval came and sat down beside him, It was a little like their first interview in the garden, for neither of them knew what to say. Charlie was too ill to talk much, but this time he was the more composed of the two. He was too weak, in fact, to show or feel much excitement. 14 You are happy now, mademoiselle," he i said. "You have your wish ; the wounded men are come. lam a much nicer object, lying here, than walking about with whole limbs. Do you not think so ? You like objects of charity." "You are much grander, that is true," said Barbe, looking away that he might not see the tears caused by his bitter little speech. " It is a beautiful state of things, truly," Charles went on. "Everything in ruins. Have you heard that my poor old home is dismantled, and all the furniture gone to Germany ? My brother is a prisoner, and so is my mother, shut up in Paris. Do you pity us all ?" "No," said Barbe ; "it is all given to France, and she repays you in glory." " Glory ! When it is all nothing but defeat ; disgrace—" " No, never disgrace." " Well, mademoiselle, will you do me a favour ? W ill you write to my mother, and tell her how lam done for ? Then let the General have it, and he will send it the next opportunity." "Certainly," said Barbe. She went away for a minute, and came back with some paper and ink. On the way Sister Madeleine stopped her, and looked into her face ; its usual calmness was a little ruffled. "I am trusting thee, my child," said Sister Madeleine. "I know," said Barbe, smiling faintly. " I am going to write to his mother." She came back to her place, and was tried by several minutes of silence. Charles was composing his letter, but he was doing it with his eyes fixed upon her so intently, with such a strange expression in their hollow depths, that she felt herself turn red and white as she sat looking at the blank page before her. At last he suddenly began to dictate, and she to write, while her firm fingers trembled for once in a most troublesome way. "My very dear Mother : lam wounded, and in the Hotel Dieu at Saint-Jean. At first I thought I was dying, but my life has been saved by the presence of Mademoiselle Duval." "Monsieur, I cannot write this," said Barbe, with a quick reproachful glance. " You are disobliging, mademoiselle. Pray go ©n. Excuse me that I cannot speak faster : •My mother, there is nothing like a hopeless and miserable campaign to show a man his faults and to bring him to his senses. lam not too proud now to confess the baseness of my behaviour in the affairs you know of. I dare not hope that MademoiselleDu vals excellent parents will forgive my sins ; but the first thing I shall do, when I am able to walk again, will be to throw myself at that angel's feet, and ask her pardon. I think she is noble enough to give it ; and then perhaps— you understand —if she is not my wife, I do not care to live. 1 " Of course, none of this was written down for the benefit of Madame de Mesnil. Charles's amanuensis was shading her face with her hand, and had let her pen fall on the floor. His bed, fortunately, stood by itself in a corner, so that the words reached no ears but hers, and the last sentences were spoken so low that even she could hardly hear them. "Mademoiselle, my letter," said Charley, almost peevishly, after what seemed a long silence. Barbe started and picked up her pen. "I must begin again— -I have blotted this," she said j and then, with a sweet gravityi she turned to him, "Please say something I can write— not all that,"

11 1 have nothing else to say, and my mother could not have better news, Charles answered. " But if you will not make her happy— what am I to think ?" " Do not be excited," said Barbe, a little frightened by his manner. . "I think you have been saying what you cannot mean— you won't mean it when you are well. I have not changed. You did not like me in the summer — X knew it." " I was a fool. I did not know my own mind. I have been bitterly sorry since, I can assure you. Yes, of course, I am excited. I shall have a fever directly if you keep, me in this horrible suspense." He had raised hia voice, and Sister Madeleine, patching the last words, came quickly up to interfere. "Barbe, what is this? what are you doing ?" " Listen, listen, madame ; you are a witness," said Charles, thrusting out a long, thin hand. " Give me your hand, angel — put it in mine." " Quelle betise ! I cannot allow this sort of thing, monsieur," said Sister Madeleine, trying hard not to smile. " It is all right madame," said Charles, with polite impatience. " 9 ur parents arranged it in the summer ; this is only a little confirmation. Thank you, mademoiselle," as Barbe quietly laid her hand in his. , " Now I swear, by all thehonour that is left in me, to marry no one but you, And you — you can forgive, and say the same ?" Sister Madeleine turned away. m She was too much moved, as well as too discreet, to stand looking on while these two gave each other their promise. And as to Charles's fever, she had an idea that real, right happiness never killed anyone yet. So Barbe was left to double Charles' remorse by the confession that she had loved him all along. A strange admission for a French girl, but fine souls like Barbe are of no special country. There were still her father and mother to be pacified. That evening, after saying good-night, she stood between them, holding a hand of each, and looking from one smiling face to the other. "Papa, mamma," she said, "I have had no New Tear's gift for myself. Yes, I know we gave the money to the hospital, but I want something for myself, after all." " And my child shall have it, if it breaks the bank," said M. Duval. The mother looked up anxiously. Perhaps she had some idea of what was coming. "I want your forgiveness and your love for Charles de Mesnil." "My poor child ! The family is completely ruined," sighed M. Duval, after a moment's silence, during which the mother drew her child's face down and kissed her tenderly." • * What is that tome?" said Barbe. "It is a good deal to me, little one, in times like these." "ihere, papa, do nob be disagreable," said Madame Duval. " This may be the best New Year's gift that Barbe has ever had. May it be so ! We must pray." ' ( Bien ! It is certainly the dearest, " said M. Duval, with resignation. That happy marriage took place long ago, but a certain grey old Abbe, justly proud of his genius as a match- maker, is never tired of telling the story of it. — ' 'London Society. "