"Here, madame."

"Heavens! how frightfully yellow and faded it is!" cried the countess, shrinking back.

"The duke has just sent it," ventured the maid.

"I recognize his good taste," said the countess sarcastically, as she shrugged her pretty shoulders disdainfully. "I would wager the flowers were ordered yesterday morning by some lover who broke off with his mistress during the day, and consequently did not call for them in the evening. The Duke de Riancourt is the only man in the world capable of discovering such bargains!"

"Ah! madame, can you believe he would economize to that point?" protested the maid. "He is so rich!"

"That makes it only the more probable."

A rap on the door of the boudoir adjoining the dressing-room, interrupted the conversation, and the French maid vanished, returning almost immediately with the information that the duke had arrived and was at madame's orders.

"Let him wait," observed the countess carelessly. "Is the princess in the drawing-room?"

"Yes, madame."

"Very well—here Katinka, clasp this bracelet," resumed the countess, addressing the Russian maid in her own language once more, "and see what time it is."

Katinka turned to the clock and was opening her lips to reply, when her mistress forestalled her by saying, with a mocking smile:

"After all, why should I make such an inquiry. The duke has just arrived, half-past nine must—"

The half-hour stroke from the clock on the chimney interrupted her, and she broke into a merry, rippling laugh.

"What did I tell you, Katinka," she laughed, "the duke is a veritable clock in exactitude."

"It proves his love and devotion, madame," rejoined the maid.

"I would prefer a less well-regulated love, Katinka," retorted the countess. "These persons who worship at fixed hours seem to have a watch where the heart ought to be. There now, I am almost sorry to be so completely dressed and ready, and to have no excuse to make that poor duke wait longer to reward him for his pitiless exactitude."

"But, madame," remonstrated the maid, "if you dislike him so, why do you marry him?"

"Why?" echoed the countess, absent-mindedly, giving another glance at the mirror; "why do I marry M. de Riancourt? Really, Katinka, you are more inquisitive than I am; does one ever know why one marries?"

"Everybody seems to think there exist excellent reasons for this marriage, nevertheless," pursued Katinka. "Although M. de Riancourt has no gold mines in Crimea, silver mines in the Ural Mountains, diamond—"

"In mercy, Katinka, don't go over the list of my riches!" cried the countess, impatiently.

"Well, madame, although the duke has not your immense possessions, he is one of the wealthiest and greatest noblemen in France; he is young and handsome, has never led a dissipated life, and—"

"And he is worthy of wearing a wreath of orange blossoms on our wedding day—a right which I have not; but, in heaven's name, spare me his virtues. My aunt sounds his praises loud enough without assistance."

"Yes, the princess is very fond of monsieur le duc, and she is not the only one who—"

"Give me a cloak," interrupted her mistress, "the night is chilly."

"Has madame given her orders for the twentieth of the month?" went on the persistent maid.

"What orders?"

"Has madame forgotten that her marriage takes place a week from to-day?"

"What! a week from to-day?—so soon!"

"Madame fixed the date for May 20, and this is May 12—"

"If I said the twentieth, I suppose it must be on the twentieth—give me my fan."

The maid brought a collection of magnificent fans and placed them before her mistress to allow her to make a choice.

"How singular," murmured the countess, half to herself, as she picked out a veritable Watteau from the rich collection; "I am young and free, and abhor constraint, yet I have chosen a master."

"A master!" exclaimed Katinka. "Why, the duke is so good and kind, madame! You will make whatever you wish of him."

"I shall never make an agreeable man of him; and yet, I shall marry him. Ah! my good aunt, your advice may cause me to commit a great folly," she added, half laughing, half serious, as she gazed mechanically at the mischievous little god of love on her fan. "I made a blind choice among men equal in rank and riches, all so mediocre and uninteresting that it mattered not which I chose. This was the motive of my preference for M. de Riancourt, Katinka. Besides, although marriage has its inconveniences, widowhood has still greater ones. So, it is the better to marry, after all; it saves the trouble of wondering what we shall do."

Having thus summarily settled this question, Countess Zomaloff proceeded to the drawing-room, where she found her aunt and the duke awaiting her.

Princess Wileska was a tall, distingue woman, with powdered hair and imposing presence, who presented a striking contrast to the meagre personage engaged in conversation with her. The Duke de Riancourt was a small, nervous man of thirty years or thereabouts, with a sanctimonious, unctuous mien, shifting eyes and long, smooth hair, carefully parted near the middle of the forehead, and a rigidity of movement that showed great empire over himself.

As the countess entered, he advanced toward her slowly, bowed low and raised her pretty hand to his lips with respectful courtesy; then, straightening himself up, he gazed at her for a moment as if dazzled, and cried, admiringly: "Ah! countess, I have never seen these diamonds! I don't believe you could find their equal anywhere. Heavens! how beautiful, how magnificent they are!"

"Really, my dear duke," rejoined the countess, with well feigned embarrassment, "I am much confused—that is, for the jeweler who sold them to me—one could never be more gallant than you; and since these diamonds cause you so much tender emotion, inspire such gracious compliments, such ingenious flattery, I can do no less than confide to you the charming name of the bewitching lapidary—his name is Ezechiel Rabotautencraff, and he resides in Frankfort."

While the amazed duke was searching a reply to this sarcastic sally, the princess gave a reproachful glance to her niece; then, turning to the discomfited nobleman with a forced smile, said playfully:

"How much Foedora does like to tease you, my dear duke. This is her way of showing her affection to those she loves."

"I will humbly confess, my dear princess," said the duke, anxious to repair his awkward blunder, "that I was so dazzled by those magnificent stones that, for a moment, I forgot to render homage to the charms of the wearer. But—but—may not one be dazzled by the sun while gazing at a charming flower?"

"I find your comparison of the sunstroke and the flower so gallant and to the point," retorted the malicious young woman, "that I am tempted to believe it was this very same sunstroke that so outrageously withered these poor flowers," and a gay ripple of laughter broke from her lips, as she pointed to the faded blossoms sent by the duke that evening.

The unfortunate man flushed to the roots of his hair, while the princess frowned at her irrepressible niece.

"Pray offer your arm to my aunt, my dear duke," resumed the countess, totally indifferent to the divers emotions she had caused.

"I promised the embassadress de Sardaigne I would come early, as she is to present me to a relative, and, as you know, we must first visit that enchanted palace you spoke of, in all its details. This is an odd time for such a visit, it is true; but I admit I have a weakness or, rather, a passion, for anything odd. Originality is such a rare, charming thing!"

Preceding her aunt and the duke, the bewitching countess ran lightly down the wide stairs of the elegantly furnished house she had rented in the Rue de Rivoli, while in search of the mansion she wished to purchase in Paris.

On that evening the duke was to take his friends out in his own carriage; a very permissible liberty, since the bans of his marriage with the countess had already been published. After a few moments of waiting at the door of the mansion, the aunt and niece saw an enormous yellow landau advancing toward them, drawn by two emaciated horses mercilessly lashed by a coachman in red and blue livery.

"Why—this is not your carriage?" gasped the countess, gazing at the duke in amazement as the footman opened the portiere of the vehicle.

"Certainly, madame," he replied. "And what has become of that pretty blue victoria, with the dapple grays, you placed at our disposal yesterday morning?"

"Under the present condition of affairs, my dear countess, I may as well make a clean breast of it," rejoined the duke, with touching abandon. "That I may not fatigue my valuable horses—for they did cost me enormously—I hire a carriage for the evening. This is a great point of economy, for it is always a risk to take out a valuable turnout at night."

"You are perfectly right, my dear duke," the princess hastened to say, fearing a new sarcasm from her niece; and, without further ado, she entered the heavy, lumbering thing, leaning on the arm of her escort.

The duke then offered his hand to the countess to assist her in her turn; but she stopped with one dainty foot resting on the last step, and peered curiously within.

"My dear aunt," she said sweetly, "will you be kind enough to examine the carriage well?"

"Why, my dear," asked the princess naively.

"Because I am afraid some freckled, red-headed miss, or some fat city merchant may have been forgotten in some obscure corner of this thing. These worthy people usually drive out in family parties in just such equipages, and I have a horrible fear of finding some of them under the seats."

"Really, Foedora, I fail to understand you," returned the princess, angrily, while her niece sank in the seat beside her with a laugh. "You are absurdly severe toward M. de Riancourt—what can you be thinking of?"

"I want to cure him of his meanness and impudence," retorted the countess, coolly. "Could I better prove my interest in him?"

At that moment the duke entered the carriage and took his seat opposite the princess and her niece. Though he seemingly endured with the most Christianly patience all the railleries of the young woman who possessed all kinds of precious mines, the furtive glance he cast on her now and then, and the contraction of his thin lips, betrayed the rancour that filled his heart and foreboded no good for the future.

"To the Ramon mansion," he ordered the footman, who stood at the door.

"Beg pardon, monsieur, but I don't know where it is," replied the man, respectfully.

"At the end of the Cours-la-Reine, in the direction of the quartier Jean-Gonjan," explained the duke.

"Monsieur means that large mansion which has been in course of construction for so many years?"

"That very place," assented the duke.

The footman closed the carriage door, gave his instructions to the coachman, who lashed his jaded horses, and the lumbering landau started in the direction of Cours-la-Reine, where the marvelous Saint-Ramon mansion was situated.



CHAPTER XVII.

The heavy vehicle rolled on so slowly, that a pedestrian walking in the same direction, easily kept up with it through the whole length of the Cours-la-Reine, although he seemed anything but nimble footed.

He was poorly dressed and leaned painfully on his stick; his long beard was white, as well as his hair and bushy eyebrows, and the dark color of his wrinkled face gave him the appearance of a mulatto.

As the landau approached the Saint-Ramon mansion, however, the coachman was forced to take his place in the long procession of carriages going in the same direction, thus permitting the pedestrian to gain a certain distance ahead.

The old mulatto continued his way slowly to the entrance of abroad avenue, encumbered with a long line of carriages and almost dazzling with bright colored lights, and paused in amazement at the gate.

"Why are these grounds so brilliantly illuminated?" he asked a curious looker-on.

"In honor of the opening of the wonderful Saint-Ramon mansion," replied the man addressed.

"Saint Ramon!" repeated the old man, softly, as if speaking to himself. "How strange!"

He seemed buried in reflections for a few minutes, then turning once more to the man he had already addressed, he asked with evident curiosity:

"Can you tell me anything about this mansion, monsieur?"

"People say it is the eighth wonder of the world; and upon my word, it must be wonderful; the work has been going on for five years," responded the man.

"To whom does it belong?"

"To a young millionaire, who has spent his money lavishly and very foolishly, I believe."

"Do you know his name?"

"I believe the name is Saint Harem or Saint-Herem—"

"There is no more doubt," murmured the old man. "But why should he name it Saint-Ramon?"

Again he seemed buried in sad reflections, until aroused from his reverie by his companion's voice.

"How singular, after all," the man was saying. "A rich marquis should know only people with equipages; and yet, outside of two or three good carriages, the whole procession consists of fiacres and cabriolets."

"Singular, indeed," repeated the old man. "But can you tell me the time?"

"Half-past-ten," the man informed him.

"I am to be at Chaillot at midnight only," said the old man to himself. "It leaves me ample time to investigate this mystery. What a strange coincidence."

After some hesitation, the old man entered the gate, glided into the obscurity of a by-path shaded by secular elm-trees, and walked on toward the mansion. Notwithstanding his evident preoccupation, he could not help remarking the immense quantity of flowers that banked the main avenue, their thousand variegated colors illuminated by a profusion of many-hued lanterns and glittering glass candelabra of all shapes and shades.

This fairy-land avenue ended in a vast hemicycle as brightly illuminated, beyond which arose the Saint Ramon mansion, a veritable palace which, by the beauty and grandeur of its architecture, recalled the most brilliant days of the Renaissance.

Crossing the hemicycle, the old man reached an immense porch leading to the peristyle. Through the glass doors that enclosed this antechamber in all its length, he could see an army of powdered footmen in magnificent livery, while around him a continual stream of carriages unloaded a multitude of men, women and young girls, whose extreme simplicity of toilet seemed in little harmony with the splendors of this enchanted palace.

Urged on by an invincible curiosity, the old mulatto followed the ever increasing throng into the peristyle; then passing through a double row of footmen, in resplendent blue and silver liveries, and standing as impassible as soldiers, he finally reached the reception room, where another army of servants in blue coats, black silk breeches and white silk stockings, stood in array. Although the modest appearance of the guests seemed little befitting the princely luxury of the house in which they were received, the stranger noticed, with some surprise, that the most respectful deference was shown to all. He paused but a moment here, however, passing almost immediately into the music gallery, beyond which was an immense circular salon, surmounted by a dome and forming the center of three other galleries which served as ball room, banquet hall, and billiard room. These four galleries—including the music hall—were connected by wide passages paved in rich mosaics and adorned with a profusion of exotic plants, while they were covered with glass domes, giving the whole the appearance of a hot-house.

We shall not attempt to describe the splendor, elegance, noble grandeur and sumptuousness of the furnishings of these vast rooms, dazzling with gildings and paintings, sparkling with lights, crystals and flowers, reflected indefinitely by enormous mirrors, but will merely mention the rare magnificence that gave this palace its royal, monumental character. The salon and galleries were adorned with allegorical paintings and sculptures that would have made the renown of the most beautiful castle in existence. The most illustrious artists of the day had contributed to this superb work. Ingres, Delacroix, Scheffer, Paul Delaroche, and other future celebrities, such as Couture, Gerome, etc., had been employed by the opulent and intelligent creator of this palace. On the banquet table was displayed a marvel of silverware worthy of the epoch of Benvenuto; candelabra, ewers, ice basins, fruit bowls, flower vases, all would have done honor to a musee by the rich purity of form and the precious finish and delicacy that characterized each piece.

One odd peculiarity of the vast circular salon must not be omitted, however. Above a gigantic white marble chimney, a veritable monument to the bold genius of David—our Michael Angelo—were a number of allegorical figures in relief, representing arts and industries, and supporting a large oval frame incrusted in the entablature of the chimney. This frame enclosed a painting which might have been attributed to Velasquez. It was the portrait of a pale man, with a harsh, austere countenance, hollow cheeks, sunken eyes, and high, polished forehead; a brown gown, half in the style of a dressing gown and half way resembling the gown of a monk, gave the figure the imposing character of those saints and martyrs so numerous in the Spanish school of painting; an appearance emphasized, moreover, by a gold aureole which seemed to cast its dazzling reflections on the austere, pensive face. Below, traced in large, Gothic letters in a space formed by the foliage of the border, were these two words:

SAINT RAMON.

Still following the throng, the old mulatto finally found himself before this chimney. At sight of the portrait, he stood for a moment in amazement; then, overcome by emotion, tears filled his eyes and he murmured softly; "Poor friend! it is indeed he! But why the word saint prefixed to his name? Why that aureole around his brow? Why this mystic appearance? And besides, what a strange celebration! Though poorly dressed, and a stranger, I entered without meeting resistance, or even an inquiry."

At this moment a servant bearing fruits and ices approached and offered him refreshments, which he refused; he was striving, but in vain, to guess what might be the condition of the people around him. All the men were modestly attired; some in black frock-coats, others in new blouses, while a few wore the customary evening dress; all maintained a discreet reserve, though they expressed their delight to one another in low voices; and yet, strange to say, far from appearing amazed at the riches accumulated in this palace, they seemed perfectly at ease and not at all awed by the magnificence of their surroundings.

The women and young girls, however, seemed more embarrassed and intimidated; they naively admired the splendor of the place and exchanged comments and observations in whispers.

Anxious to penetrate this singular mystery, the old mulatto again approached the chimney and joined a group of guests who were contemplating the portrait of Saint-Ramon.

"Do you see that portrait, Juliette?" a tall, robust man, with a good natured countenance, was asking his wife. "That good man is well entitled to his name. There are many saints in Paradise who are mere idlers beside him, if we are to judge by the good he has done."

"How is that, Michel?" queried the wife, inquisitively.

"We owe these five years of well-paid work to this worthy man, my dear," explained the husband. "Thanks to this M. Saint-Ramon, I have earned sufficiently in the last few years to make us all happy and contented, and save a great deal besides."

"But, my dear Michel," remonstrated the wife, "this is not the man who ordered and paid for the work. M. Saint-Herem did all that, and it was he who welcomed us so kindly when we came this evening."

"That may be, Juliette. But whenever M. Saint Herem came into the place to watch us at work, he never failed to say: 'My children, were it not for the riches I have inherited, I could not give you this work and pay you as you deserve. You must therefore reserve all your gratitude for the memory of the man who left me so much money; it was he who accomplished the hardest task, hoarding his wealth cent by cent, depriving himself of every comfort, while I have nothing to do but spend this treasure liberally. To spend is my duty! Of what use are riches, if not to do good! Remember the good old miser then, and bless his avarice; it gives me the pleasure of giving you work in the building of a magnificent monument, and to you it gives ample salaries, honestly earned!"

"All the same, Michel, we must not forget M. Saint-Herem and give him a share of our gratitude."

"You are right, Juliette. He is a noble young man, and he and his uncle make a famous pair."

The old mulatto had listened to this conversation with as much interest as astonishment, and as he wandered from group to group, he heard nothing but a chorus of praises and blessings in favor of Saint-Ramon, the worthy miser, and of his nephew, whose nobility of heart and liberality none could laud too highly.

"Is it a dream?" mused the old man. "Who can believe that these praises are addressed to the memory of a miser—a memory usually cursed and execrated by the living! And can it be the heir of this miser, the dispenser of his wealth, who rehabilitates him thus? And why are these workmen invited to this inauguration? It must be a dream!"

But the old mulatto's amazement was still more augmented by another singular contrast at this moment. He had suddenly met a group of men in evening dress, with many decorations in their buttonholes, accompanied by women in elegant toilettes. A short distance further on was Florestan Saint-Herem, more brilliant and gay than ever in this atmosphere of luxury and splendor. He was standing at the extremity of the gallery adjoining the reception-room, welcoming his guests with the utmost grace and courtesy, greeting every one with a cordial smile and addressing a few words of gracious affability to each woman or young girl, charming and placing the most timid at their ease by his unaffected sincerity. It was while accomplishing the duties of this most admirable hospitality, that he caught his first glimpse of the beautiful Countess Zomaloff, as she entered the first saloon, accompanied by Princess Wileska and the Duke de Riancourt.



CHAPTER XVIII.

Although he had long known the Duke de Riancourt, Florestan had never met the princess and her niece: but seeing him enter with the two ladies, he hastened toward him with a welcoming smile.

"My dear Saint-Herem," said the duke, "allow me to present Princess Wileska and the Countess Zomaloff. These ladies hope you will think it no indiscretion on their part if they visit your mansion and its wonders with me, according to the invitation you extended yesterday."

"My dear duke, I am only too flattered by the honor of this visit," replied the young man, "and I shall be very happy to show you what you are pleased to call the wonders of this house."

"M. de Riancourt was right to speak of wonders," rejoined Madame Zomaloff, "for I admit that we are so dazzled by a first glance, that we can not conscientiously admire any one thing."

"My dear Saint-Herem," resumed the duke, "I may as well make a clean breast of it and admit that the countess' visit is not entirely disinterested. I have told her of your intentions concerning this place, and as I am to have the pleasure and honor of bestowing my name on the countess in a week, you understand that I cannot decide without her approval—since, after all, I stand somewhat in the light of—of a husband."

"Really, madame," observed Florestan gaily to the countess, "since the duke anticipates thus on his happiness, do you not think it only right that he should bear the whole consequences of his revelation? Therefore, as a husband never gives his arm to his wife, you may perhaps do me the pleasure of accepting mine!"

By this sally Saint-Herem spared himself the obligation of offering his arm to Princess Wileska, who, in his eyes, appeared a much less agreeable companion than her beautiful niece. He therefore led the way with the countess, while M. de Riancourt followed with the princess.

"I have traveled much," remarked the countess to her companion, "and I have never seen anything that could equal—not in magnificence, for any millionaire can purchase magnificence with his money—but the marvelous taste which has presided over the construction of this place. It is a veritable musee of splendors—allow me to pause and admire the superb paintings of this ceiling."

"After the admiration of the work comes the reward to the author; does it not, madame?" returned Florestan with a smile. "One word from your lips, countess, will make the artist, who painted this ceiling, the happiest and proudest man in the universe," he concluded, with a wave of the hand toward one of the most illustrious masters of the modern school.

"A thousand thanks for procuring me such good fortune," replied the countess, advancing toward the artist.

"My dear friend," said Florestan, "the Countess Zomaloff wishes to express to you all her admiration for your work."

"Not my admiration only, but my gratitude also," rejoined the young woman graciously. "The exquisite pleasure given by such a master-piece, is a debt contracted toward its creator."

"However precious and flattering such praises may be to me," returned the artist, with a modesty marked by good taste, "I can only accept a share of it. Pray allow me to place myself hors de cause, I can then express myself more freely. For instance, let us take the painting of the concert gallery, which you will admire by and by; they are due to our Raphael—M. Ingres. Well, this monumental work, which in the future will furnish art pilgrims as much cause of admiration as the most beautiful frescoes of Rome, Pisa, or Florence, would perhaps never have existed were it not for my excellent friend Saint-Herem. Was it not he who gave our French Raphael the subject of one of his immortal pages? Truly, madame, in these days of vulgar luxuries and brutal magnificences, is it not a phenomenon to meet a Medicis, as in the brightest epoch of Italian republics?"

"You are right," said the countess, enthusiastically, "and history is just in illustrating—"

"Forgive the interruption, countess," laughed Florestan, "but I am as modest as my illustrious friend; and for fear your admiration should be thrown away on an unworthy object, I shall point out the veritable Medici—This is he."

As he spoke, he designated the portrait above the chimney.

"What a pensive, austere face!" exclaimed the countess, gazing at the painting with a feeling of mingled surprise and curiosity. Then, as her eyes fell on the inscription below, she added with increased astonishment:

"Saint-Ramon?—Who is he?"

"A saint of my own, madame," laughed Florestan. "He was my uncle; and although I am not yet a pope, I have taken the liberty to canonize this admirable man in recognition of his long martyrdom during life and the miracles he accomplished after his death."

"His long martyrdom and his miracles!" echoed the countess. "You must be jesting, monsieur?"

"Not at all, madame. My uncle Ramon endured the most atrocious privations during his long life, for he was pitilessly and sublimely avaricious—this was his martyrdom. At his death, I inherited his enormous wealth and conceived this prodigious work of art—these are his miracles. I have sanctified his memory by gratitude—this is his canonization. As you see, it is a veritable legend taken from the Lives of the Saints."

Struck by the originality of the young man, Madame Zomaloff remained silent for a moment, absorbed in deep meditation; while the duke, who until then had loitered some distance behind, approached them.

"My dear Florestan," he said, "I have been very eager to address you a really odd question since my arrival. Who are all these people? I recognize a few eminent artists, here and there, and a renowned architect, but none of the rest. The princess and myself have vainly searched the key to the enigma. They are all quiet and reserved, and the young girls appear very modest, while a few are really pretty; but I am anxious to learn to what class of society they belong!"

"Since M. de Riancourt has the courage to ask you so indiscreet a question," broke in the countess, "I shall admit that I share his curiosity."

"You have no doubt remarked," said Florestan, with a smile, "that the persons assembled here this evening do not belong to what we call the aristocracy—"

"True, indeed."

"Yet, madame, a few moments ago you were happy to meet the great artist who designed the dome you so much admired, were you not?"

"Indeed, the meeting caused me great pleasure, I assure you."

"I believe you also approve me for inviting him, as well as many of his colleagues, to the inauguration of their united work?"

"The invitation certainly seemed almost a duty on your part, monsieur."

"Well, madame, this duty, inspired by gratitude, I have fulfilled toward all who have contributed to the construction of this house, from the greatest artist to the most humble workman. All are here with their families, to enjoy the splendors they have created. Is it not just that the skillful and obscure man who chiseled the golden cup should moisten his lips in it, once, at least, in his life?"

"What!" cried the duke in stupefaction, "these are carpenters, gilders, blacksmiths, paper-hangers, ebonists, masons!—even masons! Why, it is absurd, impossible, incredible!"

"My dear duke, do you know the habits of the bees?" queried Florestan.

"Very little," replied the duke stiffly.

"Their habits are most savage and impertinent, my dear duke. Those insolent creatures—under the fabulous pretext that they have constructed their hives—have the impudence to inhabit them. And, what is more shocking still, they claim their right to the sweet honey on which they have so steadily and intelligently labored through the season—"

"Well, and what do you conclude from that?"

"I conclude from it that, through gratitude at least, we should allow the poor, laboring human bees the innocent pleasure of inhabiting for a single day the gilded hive they have built for idle drones like us, who enjoy the honey gathered by others."

The countess, who had drawn a little apart, now again placed her hand on Florestan's arm and gently led him a little away from her aunt and M. de Riancourt.

"Monsieur de Saint-Herem," she said with emotion, as they walked slowly on, "your idea is not only charming, but of a touching delicacy. I am no longer astonished at the air of contentment which pervades around us, and which I have remarked on the features of your guests. The more I think of it, the more generous and just it seems to me. After all, as you say, this is the work of these laborers, and you have honored and dignified labor by this fete. From your point of view, this mansion must be far more than an object of art and luxury to you, for many precious souvenirs are attached to its creation."

"You are right, madame."

"Then—"

"Go on, madame,"

"I cannot understand why—"

"Why do you hesitate? Pray, explain your thought!"

There was a moment of silence, then she resumed, with some embarrassment:

"Two days ago, in speaking of the difficulty of purchasing a mansion as large and sumptuous as I desired, M. de Riancourt recalled the fact that you wished to sell this property."

"Yes; the duke wrote to me, requesting permission to visit the house. I begged him to wait till this evening, as he could then see the reception-rooms to more advantage—but I did not then anticipate the honor of receiving you."

"Monsieur de Saint-Herem," she said, still hesitatingly, "you have been very indulgent to me—will you allow me one more question?"

"Indulgence in this instance has been so sweet and agreeable to me, that I shall thank you for the opportunity of exercising it once more. What is it?"

"How can you have the courage, or, rather—I shall use a very harsh word, I fear—how can you have the ingratitude to leave this house, which you have created with so much love, and to which are attached so many kind, generous souvenirs?"

"Upon my word, madame!" he replied carelessly, as if he were saying the most natural thing in the world, "I must sell this mansion because I am ruined, completely ruined. This is my last day of good fortune and wealth, and you must admit, madame, that, thanks to your presence here, this day could not have a more brilliant or happier evening!"



CHAPTER XIX.

Florestan de Saint-Herem had uttered the words "I am ruined" with so much simplicity and carelessness that the countess gazed at him dumbfounded for a moment, unable to believe what she had heard.

"What!" she finally gasped, "you are—"

"Ruined! completely ruined!" he repeated. "My uncle left me five millions five years ago; I have spent it all, plus eighteen hundred thousand francs. The sale of this mansion, however, with its furniture, paintings, silver, etc., will pay my debts and leave me in possession of about a hundred thousand francs. With that I shall retire to some smiling country place and turn shepherd; a charming contrast, especially when I recall my past existence. What marvelous, impossible dreams—changed into realties for myself, my friends, my mistresses—my gilded whirlwind carried in my train! What renown is mine! how all that was beautiful, elegant, sumptuous, recherche, was swallowed up in my dazzling orbit! Would you believe, madame, that my reputation for liberality had spread over Europe? Nay, more; a Chandernagor lapidary sent me an Indian saber with its handle studded with gems, enclosing a pretty, laconic note in these words: 'This cimeter belonged to Tippo-Saeb; it should belong to M. Saint-Herem. The weapon is worth twenty-five thousand francs, payable at the Rothschild house, in Paris. Received twenty-five thousand francs.' Yes; the rarest and most precious objects of art were naively addressed to me from all parts of the world; the finest horses walked into my stables, the most exquisite wines filled my cellars; the most illustrious chefs fought for the privilege of serving me, and the celebrated Dr. Gasterini—do you know him, madame?"

"Who has not heard of the most famous gourmand the world has ever known?"

"Well, madame, that great man proclaimed that he had eaten as good a dinner in my house as in his own—a compliment he could not pay, even to the table of M. de Talleyrand. Ah! madame, what a grand, complete, beautiful life! And women! Ah! women!"

"Monsieur!—"

"Fear not, madame, I shall speak of women only as objects of art. And really, can there exist a more charming pretext for magnificence? Luxury is but the accessory; a woman is so pretty, adorned and surrounded by all the products of art. Believe me, madame, I have the certainty of having ruined myself generously, nobly and intelligently. I have neither a foolish expense nor a wicked action to reproach myself! It is with a mind full of delicious souvenirs, a heart full of serenity, that I see my fortune take wings!"

His tone was so sincere, the truth of his words and sentiments were so strongly expressed on his loyal, handsome face, that the countess could not but be convinced of the reality of all he said.

"I must admit, monsieur," she observed softly, "that such philosophy confounds me! Now that the hour of renouncing such a life is at hand, not a word of bitterness escapes your lips!"

"Words of bitterness! after so much joy and happiness? Ah, madame, that would be blasphemy!"

"You leave this enchanted palace without regret, without even a sigh, and at the very moment when you would have enjoyed it?"

"What will you, madame? I did not believe myself so near the end until a week ago, when my rascally steward showed me my accounts, and I resign myself to the inevitable with a good grace. Besides, in leaving this palace, created with so much love, I am like the poet who has written the last stanza to his poem, the artist who has given the last touch to his canvas; there still remains the imperishable glory of having achieved a masterpiece. This palace is a monument of art and magnificence; it shall always be the temple of luxury, fetes, pleasures. Ah! how ungrateful I should be to complain of my fate! It is you, madame, who shall be the divinity of this temple; for you shall purchase it, will you not? You would grace it so well! Do not lose the opportunity; for, as the duke has informed you, Lord Wilmot has made me very pressing offers. I should be sorry to sell it to him; he is so ugly, and so is his wife, and so are his five daughters! What divinities for this temple, which seems built expressly for you! I beg you, madame, take it for the love of that art you appreciate so well. Only, be merciful to my worthy uncle! It is a magnificent painting and, although the portrait and the name of Saint Ramon are often repeated in sculptured medallions on diverse parts of the facade, I would be happy to think that this brave uncle—from the height of his marble monument—would assist for centuries to the pleasures of which he deprived himself during life!"

"My dear Florestan," interrupted the duke, touching his elbow, "it is all very beautiful and wonderful. But eighteen hundred thousand francs—including furniture and silver, of course—is an exorbitant price."

"I am completely disinterested in the matter, my dear duke," replied the young man, with a smile, "those eighteen hundred thousand francs belong to my creditors, and I shall therefore be horribly tenacious on the conditions. Moreover, as I have already told you, Lord Wilmot offers me that sum and urges me to accept it."

"That may be, but I am sure you would grant me a favor you would refuse Lord Wilmot. Come, Saint-Herem, don't be inflexible—give me a discount, and—"

"Monsieur de Saint-Herem," broke in the countess, "I shall take the house on the conditions you proposed."

"Heaven be praised!" exclaimed Florestan, extending his hand toward her. "My good star never deserts me, madame; the affair is settled."

"But, madame—" interposed the duke, surprised and annoyed at the liberality of his future wife, and still hoping to obtain a reduction on the price, "this is a matter involving considerable money! And at the point we have reached, it is impossible that you should act without my authority. When we are married—"

"Monsieur de Saint-Herem, you have my word," interrupted the countess, with a scornful glance at the duke. "This purchase is a personal matter; my steward will negotiate with yours to-morrow, at any time you may wish."

"Agreed, madam," assented Florestan; then turning to M. de Riancourt, he added gaily, "I hope you will bear me no ill-will, my dear duke; you should show yourself to be a real grand seigneur, and not bargain like a banker."

The orchestra; which had been silent for a quarter of an hour, now struck up a new cotillion.

"Pardon me, countess," resumed the young man, "but I must leave you. I am to dance this cotillion with the charming daughter of one of the best workmen who assisted in the building of this mansion—or rather of your mansion, madame. And I cannot tell you how happy I am to carry away that thought in leaving you."

He bowed respectfully, and vanished in the throng.

"My dear Foedora," said the princess, who had remarked the long tete-a-tete of her niece and Saint-Herem with much impatient anxiety, "it is growing late, and we promised Madame de Sardaigne to come early."

"Allow me to observe, madame," put in the duke, addressing his fiancee in his turn, "that you were too hasty in this matter. Saint-Herem is forced to sell this house to pay his debts, and with a little perseverance we could have obtained a reduction of fifty thousand crowns at least, especially if you had requested it yourself—some things are very difficult to refuse a pretty woman!" he concluded with his most amiable smile.

"My dear Foedora, what are you thinking about?" resumed the princess to her niece, who was leaning on a gilded mantel covered with flowers, absorbed in deep reflection and deaf to all remonstrances. "Foedora," repeated her aunt, tugging gently at her sleeve, "what are you dreaming about?"

"I am thinking of M. de Saint-Herem," said the conntess, regretfully awakening from her reverie. "All this is so strangely odd—"

"I really believe that despair at his ruin must have impaired poor Florestan's mind," observed M. de Riancourt, sententiously. "One must be mad to inaugurate a mansion with such a ball; it savors of socialism!"

"The duke is right; the thing is absurd and ridiculous," chimed in the princess. "What an amusing story we shall have to relate at the embassy!—but, my dear Foedora, why don't you answer?—what ails you?"

"I don't know," replied the countess; "what I experience, is most singular."

"You want air, my dear countess," rejoined the duke, with solicitude. "This agglomeration of the masses is stifling; and though the apartments are spacious—"

"Foedora, are you ill?" broke in the princess.

"No, indeed," declared the countess, "the emotion I experience is, on the contrary, full of sweetness and charm. To tell you the truth, my dear duke, I scarcely know how to express—"

"In mercy, explain yourself countess," urged the duke, anxiously. "The strong perfume of these flowers probably affects you strangely."

"No, that is not it. I hesitate to speak, because you will both think me so strange, so eccentric—"

"Ah! countess, how could we think you otherwise than charming!" exclaimed the duke gallantly.

"Foedora, explain yourself," said her aunt impatiently.

"I am quite willing to do so, but I shall surprise you greatly I know," she said, with a confident air; then turning to the duke, she added archly: "It seems to me—"

"It seems to you," repeated he, encouragingly.

"That—"

"Go on."

"That I am dying to marry M. de Saint-Herem," she concluded, very low.

"Madame!" cried the amazed duke, turning crimson. "Madame!"

"What is it, my dear duke?" inquired the princess. "How flushed your face is!"

"My dear countess," rejoined the duke, with a forced smile, "the jest is rather—"

"Pray, give me your arm," interrupted Foedora carelessly, "we are already very late. But then, it is all your own fault; how is it that you, the personification of exactitude, did not proclaim the hour of eleven long ago?"

"Ah! madame, I assure you I am not in a laughing humor. Your cruel jest wounded me to the heart."

"I was not aware that you possessed such a vulnerable heart."

"Your suspicion is unjust; I would die for you!"

"Really?"

The duke raised his eyes to heaven and heaved a long sigh.

"If I were to ask anything of you," she retorted, "it would not be so heroic a sacrifice, I assure you."

The carriage was now announced, and the party left the mansion. Almost at the same instant the old mulatto was also turning away from the place, dazzled and amazed at what he had heard and seen, and still dreaming of the blessings showered on the name of Saint-Ramon by the guests of this peculiar fete.

"Half-past eleven," murmured the old man, as the hour struck from a distant steeple. "I shall be there at midnight—and what shall I learn? Ah! what anguish is mine!"

And with a deep sigh he slowly began the ascent of the declivity, stretching along the Seine, to the Rue Chaillot.



CHAPTER XX.

The old mulatto wended his way slowly toward the heights of Chaillot, until he reached the church of that poor, populous faubourg.

To his astonishment, he found the church in a blaze of lights. Through the wide open door could be seen the sanctuary and altar, brilliantly illuminated with tapers and decorated with flowers, as though in anticipation of some imposing ceremony, while grouped in the street and surrounding windows, a throng of curiosity seekers and belated wayfarers excitedly discussed the approaching event.

"They cannot delay much longer," observed one.

"No, for it is nearly midnight," rejoined another.

"Rather a strange hour for a marriage."

"Undoubtedly; but with such a dowry one can afford peculiar things."

"Who is to be married at this odd hour?" questioned the old man from the last speaker.

"You must be a stranger in this part of the city," replied the man addressed, "or you would know all about the six marriages, which for four years have taken place on the night of May 11 and 12."

"May 11 and 12," repeated the old man, with a start. "But why do you call it the six marriages?"

"Because each year six young girls, with a dowry of ten thousand francs each, are married here."

"A dowry of ten thousand francs! And from whom?"

"From a worthy man who died five years ago, whose name is as popular and as reverentially blessed in Chaillot as the Petit manteau bleu in Paris."

"And who is this worthy man, in whose name these young girls are so generously dowered?" pursued the old mulatto, with a slight tremor in his voice.

"He was called Pere Richard," returned the man in a deferential tone.

"And why does this Pere Richard do so much good after his death?" continued the old man, making an effort to conceal his emotion.

"Simply because this was his idea, and because his son religiously carries out his last wishes," explained the man. "And everybody can tell you what a noble man M. Louis Richard is. Himself, his wife and child live on three or four thousand francs a year, at the most, although he must have inherited a large fortune from his father to enable him to bestow annually a dowry of ten thousand francs each on six young girls, not counting the expenses of the 'school' and the 'House of Providence.'"

"Excuse the curiosity of a stranger; but you speak of a school and—"

"Yes; the school is directed by Madame Mariette, M. Louis Richard's wife. The school was founded for the benefit of twenty-five boys and as many girls, who remain there until they have attained the age of twelve, when they begin their apprenticeship. The children are fed, clothed and educated and receive ten sous a day. In this manner, parents are induced to send them to school instead of forcing them to work in shops."

"And the school is under the direction of M. Louis Richard's wife?'

"Yes; she claims to have suffered cruelly through her own want of education when she was only a poor shop girl, and she is particularly happy in the thought that she may save others the sufferings she endured."

"You also spoke of another institution?"

"That house was founded for the benefit of twelve poor, crippled women who cannot work. It is under the direction of Madame Lacombe."

"Who is Madame Lacombe?"

"Madame Richard's godmother, a good, worthy soul, who lost one hand years ago. She is the personification of gentleness and patience. She can truly sympathize with the crippled women under her charge, for she says that her goddaughter and herself often suffered the pangs of hunger before the former's marriage to M. Richard. But here is the wedding procession."

The old man turned to the street and saw a gay cortege approaching, led by Louis, with Madame Lacombe on his arm, closely followed by Mariette leading a pretty boy of four years by the hand.

Madame Lacombe was totally unrecognisable. Her face, formerly so haggard and worn, was the picture of health, while her countenance beamed with happiness and benevolence; her silver white hair was smoothly brushed back beneath a dainty lace cap, and her silk dress was half concealed by a beautiful cashmere shawl—a tasty toilet which gave her a most dignified and imposing appearance.

Louis Richard's features bore an expression of grave and reserved felicity, and he seemingly realized the full grandeur of the duties he had imposed upon himself; while Mariette, who had grown still prettier in this beneficial atmosphere, distinguished herself by that air of sweet gravity so becoming to young mothers. In her legitimate pride, she still retained the modest dress of her girlhood and wore the coquettish little cap of the shop-girl; and Providence, no doubt, rewarded her for her modesty, for she looked bewitchingly fresh and pretty beneath the lace head-gear, with its knots of pale blue ribbon, as she smiled sweetly on the blond rosy child at her side.

Next came six young girls, in white dresses and crowned with orange blossoms, accompanied by their fiances and relatives, all belonging to the laboring class; then came the twenty-four couples united in the four previous years, followed by the school children and the crippled old women who had found refuge in the charitable institutions founded with the miser's money.

The old mulatto gazed in silent reflection at the procession, while his neighbors commented freely on the memorable event.

"They owe all this happiness to old Richard," he heard some one say.

"And to his son," added another voice.

"Undoubtedly; but the son would have been powerless without the father's money."

"Do you know that more than a hundred and fifty persons assembled here owe everything to the good old man?"

"Yes; and in the last four years, six or seven hundred persons must have shared the benefits of the inheritance."

"And if M. Louis lives thirty years longer, the number will reach five or six thousands—thousands saved from misery and crime, perhaps."

"You forget the children of these happily married couples, who will have the advantages of education and good breeding procured by this generous dowry."

"You are right; the good accomplished by old Richard is beyond calculation. What a pity so few know how to spend their money!"

"Yes; but there are few such men as Richard and his son. But why are you weeping?" concluded the speaker, turning suddenly toward the old mulatto.

"The praises I hear on all sides of—of this Richard and his son, and the sight of so much happiness causes me a strange emotion," explained the old man.

"If you are interested in the ceremony, you may follow the cortege to the House of Providence, my good man," returned his first informant, as he moved toward the entrance of the church.

The old man stood motionless for a few moments, then slowly followed the throng into the sacred edifice. Throughout the whole solemn ceremony, he seemed plunged into a sort of ecstasy, as if a sudden revelation had opened an immense, dazzling horizon, hitherto veiled to his eyes. Burying his face in his hands, he sank into a deep meditation from which he was aroused by the grave sonorous voice of the officiating priest addressing the newly-married couples.

"And now that your union is consecrated by God," he was saying, "continue the honest, laborious life which has been repaid by the happiness you now enjoy; never forget that you owe this just remuneration of your courage in adversity to a man gifted with the most tender and generous affection for his brothers; for, faithful to his duties as a Christian, he does not look upon himself as the master, but as the dispenser of his riches. In giving M. Richard a son so worthy of him, the Lord has recompensed that great man, and his memory shall live amongst men. Your gratitude will create his immortality; his name shall be blessed by you, by your children and your children's children; the venerated name of M. Richard shall be engraved on your hearts as a souvenir of rare virtue!"

A murmur of approbation greeted these words, drowning the stifled sobs of the old mulatto whose face was still buried in his hands.

The ceremony was now over, and the noise and bustle of the dispersing throng recalled him to himself. Rising from his knees, he hurried to the door, where he stood, trembling in every limb, waiting for the passage of the leading group in the procession.

As Louis Richard crossed the threshold, the old man's hand came in contact with his own, causing him to turn in that direction. Seeing the bowed head and shabby clothes of the stranger, the young man slipped a gold coin between his fingers, saying kindly: "Take it, and pray for Pere Richard."

The old man eagerly grasped the coin, and raising it to his lips, burst into tears. Then leaning once more on his cane, he slowly followed the gay party.



CHAPTER XXI.

The House of Providence was built on the highest point of Chaillot, in a healthful, beautiful spot, and was surrounded by a large, shady garden which served as pleasure grounds to its inmates.

The night was calm and serene, and the atmosphere was impregnated with the sweet fragrance of a profusion of spring blossoms, while numerous gas-jets illuminated the wide avenue that led to the entrance of the principal building.

The stranger, who still followed the throng, soon found himself in the midst of a semi-circle silently grouped around a high porch, listening to the following words from a voice that thrilled him with strange emotion:

"My friends," Louis was saying, "five years ago to-night, I lost the best of fathers in the frightful accident of the Versailles road. Being possessed of considerable wealth, my father might have lived in comfort and idleness; but he deprived himself of all luxury, working for his daily bread, slowly accumulating riches by his parsimony and augmenting them year by year by his abnegation. Then came his premature death, and I mourned over the loss of the greatest friend of humanity; for, according to his last wishes, I have consecrated his wealth to the accomplishment of three great and noble duties:

"Toward children.

"Toward young girls.

"Toward women whom age and infirmities render incapable of work.

"To poor children, my father has provided elementary instructions; to young girls, so often exposed to the seductions of vice, he has assured the pure and sweet joys of family life, so often denied to children of poverty; to aged or infirm women, he has given rest and comfort for the remainder of their days.

"These last wishes I have faithfully carried out to the limits of the means he has left me. The good thus done may be small in comparison to the innumerable miseries of humanity; but the man who does what he can, shares his bread with his famished brother and does his duty. This is a duty imposed on all alike, and all should strive to reach that ideal. My father conceived that generous thought—I am but the agent, the echo. The accomplishment of this glorious duty would fill my life with boundless felicity, were it not that I must weep over the death of a beloved and deeply regretted father."

As the speaker uttered the last words, a wild commotion spread through the assemblage; overcome by his emotion, the old mulatto had fallen unconscious in the arms of his neighbors. On hearing the cause of the sudden agitation, Louis ordered that the stranger be carried to his own apartments on the ground floor of the building, where he could receive prompt and careful attention; insisting at the same time that the wedding festivities should go on uninterrupted, and that Mariette and Madame Lacombe should preside in his place at the supper table in the garden.

In the meantime, the old man had been transported into Louis' study, which was furnished with the few odd pieces of furniture carried away from the old home so long shared in common between the father and son. When the young man entered, the stranger was still unconscious, his white hair falling in disorder over his brow and his unkempt beard almost totally concealing his features.

Frightened at his immobility, Louis despatched the attendant for a bottle of spirits; then bending over him he caught the emaciated hand to feel the pulse. As he peered anxiously into the withered face, the stranger turned slightly and uttered a few unintelligible words.

The sound of the voice struck him strangely. Bending lower he tried to distinguish the features of the patient; but the semi-obscurity of the room and the disordered hair and beard rendered his examination fruitless.

Then the mulatto's eyes opened slowly; raising his head languidly, his gaze wandered over the room and rested on the familiar objects.

"Where am I?" he murmured. "Is it a dream? My God! my God!"

This time the voice was more distinct and Louis trembled visibly; then a bitter smile came to his lips and he shook his head sadly.

"Alas!" he said, in a low tone, "what illusions sorrow will cause." Then turning to the patient, he added kindly: "Do you feel stronger now?"

At these words, the stranger sat bolt upright, and catching Louis' hand kissed it rapturously.

"There, don't agitate yourself," resumed the young man. "I have done nothing to win your gratitude. Some day I may be able to do more. But tell me how you feel. Was it fatigue or weakness that caused your swoon?"

The old man still remained silent, his head bowed down and pressing Louis' hand convulsively to his breast.

A singular emotion filled the young man's heart, and the tears came into his eyes as he continued:

"Listen to me, father."

"Oh! again, again!" murmured the stranger, in a voice choked with emotion.

"Well, father—"

"Louis!" cried the old man, unable to control himself longer.

This single word, uttered with all the strength of his soul, was a revelation.

The young man started back as though a thunderbolt had fallen at his feet, and stood for a moment pale and trembling, his gaze fixed on the haggard features before him. The commotion was too violent, the moral shock too deep, to allow him to realize the astounding truth at once. It seemed like the sudden transition of deep night to the bright sunshine, which dazzles and renders us momentarily blind.

Then the reality suddenly burst on his dazed senses; throwing himself on his knees beside the couch, he brushed back the disheveled white hair from the stranger's face, and scanned the featured of his father, disguised under a fictitious color. There was no longer any doubt; he threw his arms about the old man's neck, murmuring in a sort of filial delirium: "You!—you, my father—Heaven be praised!"

* * * * * *

"We shall not attempt to describe this first explosion of joy and delirious happiness. Who can paint those affectionate embraces, those tender words that come from the heart and throw the soul into an ecstacy of bliss? When the first emotion had finally subsided, however, Louis eagerly questioned his father concerning those long years of separation.

"My dear child," began the father, "I slept for five years and awakened for the first time two days ago. I was in the wrecked car with Ramon and his daughter; but through some inexplicable chance my life was spared, though my leg was fractured and the fright drove me mad."

"You, my father?"

"Yes, I completely lost my reason."

"Heavens! how terrible!"

"A kind surgeon carried me to a place of safety and afterward conveyed me to the Versailles asylum. I was perfectly harmless and spoke only of my lost treasures. For four years I remained in the same condition; then I gradually regained my reason, and two days since was pronounced cured. I cannot express what I experienced as memory came back to me, after these five years of slumber; but I blush to admit that my first thought was that of the miser. What had become of my wealth? what use had it been put to? The moment the doors of my prison opened before me, I flew to my notary's office. You can imagine his stupefaction when he recognized me. He then informed me that your first thought had been to act as trustee only to my riches, and to use merely enough for your existence until you reached the age of thirty-five. Then came your severe illness six months later, and fearing you might die without accomplishing your sacred task, you conceived other projects. 'What were these projects?' I asked. 'Wait until midnight to-morrow,' the notary replied, and go to the church at Chaillot. There you will learn all, and thank heaven to have given you such a son.' I had the patience to wait, my dear son, hoping to approach you without being recognized. Oh! my noble, beloved son! if you knew what I have heard and seen! Thanks to your grandeur of soul and the pious ruse of your filial affection, I found my name blessed and venerated! If you knew what sudden revolution took place in me! While blessings were showered on my memory, it seemed to me that my soul had burst its terrestrial chains and was hovering above the world, just as the souls of good men must hover above us, while listening to the expressions of love and gratitude from those whom they have benefitted. But, alas! this illusion was of short duration—-I was not deserving of these praises."

"You are mistaken, father," protested Louis. "Without your persevering economy I could never have accomplished anything. You placed the lever in my hand. My only merit has been to make good use of the immense force you concentrated at the price of innumerable sacrifices and privations. The horrible misery and the ignorance through which my beloved wife had suffered, the dangers to which they had exposed her, the cruel infirmity of her guardian, all these bitter things were a lesson to me; Mariette, her godmother and myself have tried, as far as it lay in our power, to spare others what we had suffered,—"

At this moment the door was burst suddenly open and Florestan de Saint-Herem dashed, breathless into the room.

"Rejoice, oh! rejoice!" he cried, throwing himself into his friend's arms. "Saint-Ramon has performed the most wonderful of miracles!"

"What do you mean?" gasped the astonished Louis.

"Two hours ago I was completely ruined, and now I am richer than I ever was or ever will be. Only fancy, Louis, I am the possessor of gold mines, silver mines, diamonds of untold value, of fabulous riches—millions and millions, in fact! Oh! Saint-Ramon, how just I was to sanctify your name, to canonize you, for you are not ungrateful!"

"In mercy, explain yourself, Florestan!"

"One hour ago, as the ball was drawing to a close, a servant informed me that a lady had just arrived in a fiacre and requested to see me at once. Hastening to my apartments, I was amazed to find the Countess Zomaloff, a young and beautiful widow, quietly waiting for me. This charming woman was to have married the Duke de Riancourt within a week and had purchased my house during the evening. My surprise was so great that for a moment I was unable to utter a word.

"'Monsieur de Saint-Herem,' she said, without a tremor of agitation in her voice, 'you must forgive me for disturbing you, but I shall retain you a few moments only—I am a widow and twenty-eight years of age; I had promised to marry the duke, and would probably have been foolish enough to keep my word it I had not met you. You have a generous heart and a lofty soul; the fete you have given this evening proves it; I admire your intellect and character, and your person pleases me. As for me, the step I am taking now gives you the opportunity of judging my worth—You may think my actions strange, improper, or eccentric—you are at liberty to appreciate me as you wish. If your judgment is favorable, however, I shall be proud and happy to become Madame de Saint-Herem and inhabit the Saint-Ramon mansion with you. My wealth is fabulous, and you may dispose of it as you wish, for I confide my future blindly into your hands. I shall therefore await your decision anxiously. Good-night, Monsieur de Saint-Herem.'

"With these words the fairy vanished, my dear Louis, leaving me in such a state of dazzling happiness that I feared I would lose my reason."

"My dear Florestan," said his friend gravely, "the countess' frankness and blind confidence in you impose a great duty on you."

"I understand, my friend," rejoined Saint-Herem seriously. "I had a right to squander my own fortune; but to ruin a woman who trusts her whole future into my hands would be a piece of unparalleled infamy!"

* * * * * *

One month later, Louis Richard, with his father and Mariette, assisted at the nuptial benediction of Florestan de Saint-Herem and Madame Zomaloff.

Notwithstanding his father's resurrection, Louis still continues to dispense charity around him, greatly aided in the benevolent task by old Richard himself, who now exhibits as much zeal in relieving poverty and distress, as he formerly did in hoarding up his treasure and ministering to his one great passion or besetting sin—avarice.

May the twelfth is now doubly celebrated. A magnificent fete is given yearly by M. and Madame de Saint-Herem in honor of their first meeting, for the marriage of convenance has turned out to be one of love. But at midnight, they invariably leave the brilliantly illuminated Saint-Ramon mansion and accompany Louis and Mariette to their home, where they share the wedding supper of the six happy couples united on that day.

THE END