looked at her the more she pleased him. He admired the abundance of her pale-yellow hair, the sweetness of her flute-like voice, the ease of her bearing, and the caressing vivacity of her manners-her eyes, of a faint, undecided hue; he admired especially the beauty of her smile. Having never been to Frankfort-on-the-Main, this smile was new to him: he was not aware that there it is often seen, and that it is the accompaniment of good Rhenish wines.

He was, however, decidedly chagrined by the respect which Madame Drommel evinced toward her husband-the attentions she lavished upon him, the submissive air with which she listened to him, and the eagerness with which she approved every syllable he uttered, hanging on his words as if he were a very oracle. He felt indignant that this booby had been able to gain the heart of so charming a creature. In de scending from the omnibus Monsieur Drommel got his legs entangled with his umbrella, tripped on the step, and almost fell full length on the sidewalk, which accident kindled in Monsieur Taconet's eyes and soul a ray of hope. But Madame Drommel was, as usual, close at hand smiling and attentive; she held her husband up by the elbow and he did not fall. Her watchful tenderness was easily alarmed. "You frightened me!" she said.

"It was nothing, my dear," he answered. "Monsieur Drommel never falls-!"

As he spoke he deposited in her arms the two huge traveling-bags, well packed and very heavy, while he carried only his small leather satchel, his umbrella, and his own precious self.

"To bear everything and to carry everything is the lot of this poor dear!" thought Monsieur Taconet.

IL

AFTER having ordered his breakfast, Monsieur Drommel wished to glance at the gallery of paintings, which are always on exhibition in the rez-de-chaussée of the hotel where he is staying. He had some taste for art, and considerable pretension to opinions on such subjects; he even drew himself, when he had time to throw away. Talents and mind combined produce miracles. Talent was lacking with Monsieur Drommel, but he had a vast deal of application. If you ever chance to be at Goerlitz, ask to see his pictures; he shows as much synthesis in these as in his marriage. He likes to gather together on the same canvas all known rocks, calc, granite, and all other varieties, to say nothing of at least ten kinds of trees. All these were rendered with the greatest fidelity and exactness. There was only one thing lacking, the indescribable something which is the essence of a picture; but this

did not matter to him, as he insisted that exactitude and fidelity are values far above all others. He found little to praise in these pictures at Barbison, and it must be admitted that on this especial day there was not on exhibition anything that could with justice be called a chef-d'œuvre. Alas! the Dioscuri of this famous town are dead; Rousseau and Millet will paint no more.

Monsieur Drommel found all detestable that he saw, and he turned toward the door, covering his eyes that he might not see shameful daubs, which offended the delicacy of his taste. As his hand was on the door his wife called him back; she had just discovered at the end of the room a very small canvas which she thought charming. This little picture represented a cavalcade in an oak-grove, and was a marvel of delicacy of finish, accuracy of drawing, and beauty of color. The artist's name, which is not unfamiliar to you, was Henri Lestoc. This handsome young fellow has a career before him if his early success does not ruin him. Will he be able to hold in check the prodigious skill of his hand and not sacrifice his art by sending forth the highly finished sketches which are the mania of the day? The paintings that are preferred in these times seem to be those which are so smooth that they look good enough to eat. One can only wish that they were made for this purpose.

Notwithstanding the fact that his opinions were formed, Monsieur Drommel was attracted by this picture. He examined it so closely that his nose touched the canvas, and he asked the price. His admiration redoubled when he was told that the painter wanted two thousand francs for this trifle, which was not much too large for the top of a tobacco-box. All philosophers have their weaknesses; his was to experience the liveliest admiration for things which are high-priced, and to feel the most ardent desire to possess them at a bargain. But, when he was assured that Monsieur Henri Lestoc had but one price and never made any abatement, he declared that Monsieur Henri Lestoc's pretensions were simply preposterous, and went off to his breakfast.

The table was laid in a porch that overlooked the garden. Monsieur Drommel ate with the best appetite in the world; devoured everything, and complained that there was not a thing fit to eat. He declared that the eggs were not fresh, and that the chicken was stringy. He pretended that his mutton-chop was hard and tough, and that the ham was nothing like those of Westphalia. When he drank his coffee he made the most hideous face; but the coffee was in reality most delicious. After having eaten and drunk of everything, he wished, before he took a room, to know what this breakfast had cost. He looked at the amount, and found fault; insisted that there was

himself so very disagreeable that the innkeeper got very angry; and such a thing was never known as Madame Picard's losing her temper, unless for a very good reason.

There are some travelers who like to travel cheaply, and who put up with everything. There are others, again, who are very exacting, and who are willing to pay for what they want. There are a third class who exact everything, and pay no more than they can avoid. This was the case with Monsieur Drommel. The ex-policeman had looked on at this little scene. He said in a low voice to the innkeeper:

"He will ask you to give him for his dinner to-night a roast angel, and he will expect to pay for it six sous, as for a lark."

A half hour later, Monsieur Drommel was crossing the Bas-Breau, threading his way with a deliberate step through the gorges and rocks of the Solle. Before starting off in this way he consulted no one; not he―he never consulted any one but himself. His intention was not to visit celebrated places; he attached little importance to places where everybody went; and in the same way despised the ordinary way of thinking on all political and historical matters. He disdained to buy at Paris the excellent "Guide . Joanne." He had read somewhere that the eight or ten ridges which ran through the Forest of Fontainebleau seemed to be the remains of a former stratum of gravel and sandstone disturbed by some convulsion of nature, and that the valleys which separated them were formed by the violence of submarine currents; that the enormous masses of sandstone, deprived of all support, crumbled to pieces, and their débris produced the wild and picturesque undulations which were of so peculiar a character. This explanation, unfortunately, did not agree with the theory formed by Monsieur Drommel. He had no liking for submarine currents nor undercurrents of any kind; he believed only in slow action, and he disapproved of all sudden convulsions. His nature being essentially methodical, he was firmly convinced that Nature, like himself, always pursued her way in the most methodical manner, and that she, like Monsieur Drommel, was the innovating genius, in whom there was, however, no taint of revolutionary passion, and that, if she had sat for three years in the Reichstag, she would not have fraternized with the Socialists any more than he himself had done. He flattered himself that he should return from his excursion with a new theory, and with a little speech already prepared against all received ideas. He determined to write an article which he would send off at once to his journal, and which he would well pepper with epigrams against the

to believe in convulsions of nature. He was in search of, at this especial time, not the Nid d'Amour, nor of the Gros Fouteau, nor of admirable bits of picturesque beauty, nor of lovely glades and fine openings-in short, he did not, to please his eyes, so much as to provide himself with irrefutable arguments and undeniable proofs, and as he walked he thought of the asinus, who at that moment, perhaps, was thinking of him. How touching is the sympathy existing between noble natures!

He would have died of mortification had he asked his way of anybody, and he did not condescend to pay the smallest attention to the red marks and the blue marks which some benevolent, thoughtful hand had placed on the trunks of the oaks or upon the bowlders, with the laudable intention of guiding the wandering pedestrian. He had taken with him his map and his compass, but consulted them at rare intervals; his idea was, in his opinion, the best compass he could possibly have. His large, heroic nose, with sensitive nostrils, led the way—a most infallible guide, exploring space and scenting the unknown. Madame Drommel followed. Although it was the 30th of September, it was very warm. The sky was cloudless, and the poor woman had no protection against the sun, which was intensely hot. Following her husband's orders, she had left at the hotel her parasol, covered with locust-colored silk. Besides, if she had had it, she could not have used it; her two arms were laden, one with a plaid shawl folded four times, which Monsieur Drommel wished to put under him when he should feel inclined to seat himself on the grass, or over his shoulders when the dews began to fall. From the other arm hung a basket of provisions, intended to assuage those violent pangs to which the stomachs of sociologists are often a prey.

The plaid was an incumbrance, the basket frightfully heavy, and the path, winding among scattered bowlders, was steep and rough. Madame Drommel smiled. My readers know that she found occasional difficulty in inducing her right leg to obey her wishes. It was sometimes stiff and sometimes weary. And she doubted if she were able to go as far as her husband wished; but she gathered together all her strength, summoned all her courage, and smiled. The sun was oppressive, and she thought of her parasol with a sigh. Her pretty little feet were buried first in the sand, or slipped on the perfidious and shining needles of the pines; and she said to herself that whomsoever invented carriages with their luxurious springs was a man of genius.

She had a deadly terror of snakes, and it seemed to her at each moment that she was

about to step on one which would rear its head with a hiss; but still she smiled. Occasionally, when she stopped to draw a long breath, she would look back down the path she had come, and fancied she saw amid the soft obscurity some vague vision of her past—a face, perhaps, which she had known and liked. Then, turning toward her husband once more, she saw only a short, stout man, whose enormous head and bull-like neck stood out against the blue sky. This stout, short man was her present and her future. He was very wise, possibly, and understood synthesis; but he never troubled himself to ask if his petite chatte, as he called her, was weary. She smiled just the same, however. She murmured under her breath, "Oh for some miracle!" But the miracle did not take place, and she smiled on.

This valiant little woman took everything pleasantly, and recognized only its agreeable side. She was brave and patient in all trials, and was a firm believer in luck. Her experience had convinced her thoroughly that there are in this world more thorns than roses; but she turned a pleasant face on the thorns, and plucked the roses without pricking her fingers. This charming smile, taught her in her childhood by an easy and yielding mother, rarely left her face. It had resisted all the trials of fate, it had accompanied her through a youth of privation, and was now with her in the dark forest-glades, as it had been through all the hardships of her past, when she had struggled for distinction, up to the moment when she was intoxicated by her first success, and had, as we say, never forsaken her in town or country, on the stage or in the foyer-not even when she fell through the trap-door where she broke her leg, nor, which is far more extraordinary, amid the doubtful joys of a synthetic marriage. This smile is, moreover, destined to outlive her; and, when the coffin-lid is closed upon her, this gentle smile will rest on her pale lips.

As he turned into the valley of the Solle, Monsieur Drommel quickened his pace, and his wife said, as she panted after him:

And, as he uttered these words, he hurried on. Nevertheless, after three hours of climbing and walking, they reached Mont Chauvet, where Monsieur Drommel halted. Not that he was tired -oh, no! but because his stomach began to rebel, to murmur, or, rather, to cry aloud.

He took pains not to go as far as the Fountain, because he had been advised to go there to lunch, as there was a fine view; and he did not choose to take any one's advice. He seated himself under a solitary beech on a flat stone, which made a most convenient seat. Leaving to his wife the care of providing herself with one, he relieved her of the plaid, which he carefully deposited on the stone, and then comfortably established himself, the beech serving as a back. Madame Drommel placed her basket on the ground, and took out a cold chicken, which this great man quickly dispatched. Then he swallowed three glasses of beer, all the time declaring that it was execrable. After that, he opened his note-book, and began to pencil some notes for the great article which was in his mind, and in which he intended to cut into mince-meat the asinus and the "Guide Joanne."

Madame Drommel was seated most uneasily on the trunk of a fallen tree. She had nothing to lean against. She was eating nuts, which she cracked between two stones, and she looked about and admired the landscape. Occasionally she stirred the withered turf with the point of her boot, and said, as she had done previously: "If only-yes-if only, as I stir this earth, it would come forth! If the miracle would come to pass now!"

What was the miracle for which she asked, and what was the "it"? She did not say; but her smile finished her phrase. Alas! In vain did the tiny foot softly stir the withered grass and the dry pine-needles. The earth was dumb to her desire, and nothing and no one appeared.

She went close to him, and wiped his broad and dripping forehead with her lace handkerchief, hoping vainly that he would say to her:

"Simpleton that I am, I am making you gallop! You are tired out; let us rest now."

He pointed to his stout ankles and elephantine feet, and said, "I am made of steel." He added, "Is it not a little odd that you have been married for two years to Monsieur Drommel, and that you have not yet discovered that Monsieur Drommel is never tired?"

ing it indefinitely. It was his way of gaining inspiration, Madame Drommel occasionally looked at this enormous ear, which was now of the most glorious scarlet, and vague visions of bats passed before her eyes. After that she examined the plaid and the basket she had brought, the weight of which she yet felt on her arm. Then she looked up into the blue sky, and wished that the soft white cloud she saw there were transformed into a beautiful calèche, in which some one was sitting who would summon her to join him; and her little foot began to turn over the earth with

On learning that there was not only a husband, but that he was near at hand, Henri Lestoc was greatly annoyed. He showed this annoyance and his surprise so frankly that Madame Drommel, who was very kind-hearted, and always felt much pity for the sorrows she caused, found his case quite interesting.

a lively imagination, he easily divined what it meant; and, although Madame Drommel expressed herself in the most discreet terms, he was able to draw a mental picture of the new creature, from his head to his heels, in his entirety. In short, at the end of a half hour he knew all, without her having told much; but they were both intelligent persons, and as dis

She answered by a little nod, which was intended to say: "He put me out of breath by making me walk at least four leagues, and never once took the trouble to ask if I was tired. He allowed me to carry the lunch-basket on my arm, which still shows the mark. Just now he was seated on that plaid, and for a whole century he scratched away without looking at me or finding one word to say to me. I had nothing in the world to do but to look at his left ear, which never before struck me as so large. In fact, it is enormous! May all his sins be forgiven! I bear no malice to any one. But you have come at a happy moment: try and make the most of it, before it takes unto itself wings and flies away!" Although little Lestoc did not comprehend the half of what Madame Drommel expressed by her little nod, he quickly seated himself at her side, and then on the turf at her feet. The conversation began very briskly. They made each other's acquaintance with a promptness which was the result of the unexpectedness of their meeting, and by the fatality of sympathy, by the coming darkness, and by the place where they sat. Things move rapidly at such times, and in the soft obscurity of forest-glades thought moves so fast that it is itself amazed. A forest is never an inconvenient witness, and sometimes it has the air of an accomplice.

After two minutes' conversation Madame Drommel discovered that her companion was the author of the little picture which she had so much admired, and she told him how high was the opinion she had formed of his talent. He, in his turn, addressed to her the compliment that he regarded as the highest he could pay: he told her that he had taken her for a Parisian-that he drew this inference from her air and manner as well as from her hat and pretty straw-colored robe, which had evidently come from the hands of one of the best makers. She informed him that her education had been most careful, that she had been taught in early childhood that a Berlin woman should be dressed at Frankfort, and a Frankfort woman in Paris. He soon learned that she had been a danseuse, and that by a most singular dispensation of Providence was now the wife of a sociologist. This species

Meanwhile, there was no sign of Monsieur Drommel, which ought to have occasioned his wife some uneasiness, but Madame Drommel was not disturbed: she had now something else to think of.

"Madame," said the young man, turning upon her eyes which were honest but audacious, 'last year I found in the forest a priceless jewel. I advertised it in the newspapers, but no one claimed the jewel, and I have it still. This time I have found a fair creature here. No one claims her, and I have a great desire to keep her!"

He lied he liked to take things, but he never cared to keep them!

"One mo

His boldness did not shock her. ment, sir," she answered, with a laugh; “you must begin by advertising me in the papers-in the column of precious articles lost and found! After that, we will see!"

At this moment a shrill voice from a distance called—“ Ada! Ada!"

"Here I am!" she answered as she rose. Little Lestoc rose also, and with a despairing gesture murmured :

"It is he! I know his voice! Heaven have mercy on me!-this is an end of my adventure." He bowed, and walked on a few steps, and, then turning quickly, the audacious youth said softly, Is he not a great bore?”

She laughed again, and answered, "You shall judge this evening." She added, in a tone of authority, which amounted almost to a command, "Try and please him."

He shall be pleased," he replied, and he disappeared down the path.

Ada presently rejoined her husband, who exclaimed roughly:

"What a simpleton you are! You are frightened to death; I can see it at once. What on earth could happen to you? Are you afraid of wolves?”

She might have answered that she had just met one, and had found him most agreeable, but she contented herself with arranging his necktie, which was untied. That being done, she said, "You are really superb!" and then extended her white hand for him to kiss. He acquitted