who descried them; but the three were lost sight of, and drifted the whole night up and down with the tide. In the morning the wind was fresh, and the piece of ice which bore them was being gradually broken by the agitation of the water. At length it severed into two parts, one of the parties being left alone upon the smaller fragment. The two who were together seized an opportunity which offered, and sprang upon a larger field, and were saved; but no such opportunity offered to the other, who was never afterwards heard of. It is proper, however, to remark, that, dangerous as this adventurous navigation may appear to be, it is seldom that any very serious accident occurs. The following incident may serve to convey some idea of the position of Quebec, and of the aspect which it presents to the view. The back of the old Government-House formed part of the ramparts of the upper town overlooking the St Lawrence. It was my lot to be making a winter passage of the river when the pile was on fire, as already alluded to. The sight was inconceivably grand. It was dusk, and the burning mass, situated at a height of about two hundred feet above the river, threw a lurid glare over ice and snow, rock, spire, and battlement. At length the roof gave way amid a pyramid of flame and sparks, which rose high into the air, whilst some of the blazing rafters, tumbling over the precipice, fell on the roofs of the lower town, built at the foot of the rock. Had this occurred in summer, the result might have been most disastrous; but the houses below were plentifully covered with snow, which soon extinguished the falling brands, and otherwise protected the roofs from very serious injury. In other places the rock is not quite so precipitous, but even there sufficiently so to keep the inhabitants of the lower town in constant apprehension of land-slips, one of which occasioned such calamitous consequences but a few years ago. For a considerable portion of each successive winter, the mode described is the only one by which Quebec can communicate with the extensive agricultural district on the southern side of the St Lawrence. It not unfrequently happens, however, that the frost constructs a temporary bridge,' as it is called, by fairly manacling the river in ice, when the isolated city is once more put in easy communication with the chief source of its supplies. When this occurs, it is generally attributable to the jamming up into one compact mass, extending the whole way across the river, of the immense fields of vagrant ice afloat upon the surface, in the attempt to force their way through the straitened channel opposite the city. Immediately above the city, the St Lawrence swells into the proportions of a miniature lake, in width about three miles. About nine miles up, its channel is again contracted, where little more than a mile of water separates Cape Rouge, or Carouge, as it is commonly designated, from the opposite side. Beyond this, again, its dimensions once more expand to a breadth of several miles. In this upper basin, the floating ice sometimes accumulates in such quantities, that, in attempting to force the narrow channel at Carouge, it chokes up the river, and gets arrested in its progress, when, by the strength of the current, it is piled up into one huge, compact, and immovable mass, its rugged surface presenting throughout an aspect of the most confused and fantastic character. Here and there the mighty tide seems to have forced masses together, until, by attrition, they have almost ground each other to fragments; whilst in other places it is piled, heap upon |heap, high into the air. But it frequently happens that the accumulation takes place in the basin immediately contiguous to the town, where the phenomenon resulting in the bridge occurs directly opposite. This is certainly preferable to having it nine miles up the river, and is a great event in the winter experiences of Quebec, not only as affording additional means of recreation and amusement, but as occasioning a decided fall in the price of all the necessary articles of domestic consumption. The bridge thus formed, however, is of little use to the beleaguered city, until a practicable road is laid out and constructed over its stormy and rugged surface. Some years ago, a bridge of this kind was formed, which continued for several months, and became notorious for its peripatetic propensities. Having taken but little hold of the ice, with which either shore was constantly incrusted, the consequence was, that with the flow of each successive tide, it moved slowly and majestically for many miles up the river, returning punctually with the ebb to its former place, where it remained until the succeeding tide again enticed it away. This was more singular than convenient, the citizens having the use of their bridge but for half the day; and, in addition to occasioning frequent delays, sometimes gave rise to the most awkward mischances. One of the most ludicrous of these occurred but a few years ago. A marriage party set out from Point Levy for Quebec. A gay procession of sleighs descended the beach, and the bells were ringing merrily in the city opposite, where the ceremony was to be performed. The bride, all blushes, was seated in the first sleigh, which was driven by a distant kinsman. They had scarcely passed the open rent which intervened between the bridge and the stationary ice, when the huge erratic mass suddenly started from its anchorage, and moved slowly up the stream. The astonished bridegroom, who was in the next vehicle, vainly endeavoured to urge his horse to spring upon the moving mass; the sagacious animal started back, snorting and affrighted. The bridegroom then sprang from the sleigh, and endeavoured to jump after the runaways; but he was too late, for more than six feet of deep, cold, leaden-looking water now intervened between him and his truant bride, and they stood gazing upon each other with looks of mingled astonishment and alarm. They had miscalculated their time; and the bridegroom realised that day, in his own experiences, the truth of the maxim, that time and tide wait for no man. When the power of utterance was restored to him, he informed his beloved that he would wait there for her until she returned, all hopes of having the ceremony performed that day being at an end. But his troubles were not yet over: his fair one was as fickle as the ice, and her heart soon became, to him, every bit as cold. In her romantic voyage she was alone with her kinsman, already alluded to; and being thus thrown so singularly together, she was soon persuaded that there was no reason why they should ever separate. They accordingly made their way across to the other side of the wandering iceberg, and about six hours afterwards, when it had returned to its moorings, stepped from it into the city, whence they immediately started for Montreal, where they were married. Since that hour, the forsaken bridegroom has never ventured upon the ice without being reminded of how many a slip there is between the cup and the lip. Great is the rejoicing in the city and in the country round when, instead of this rugged and chaotic bridge, the frost lays the current by the heels, and the river becomes fairly frozen across. To accomplish this, however, requires his mightiest efforts; and it is only, as already intimated, about once in five years that he is equal to the task. It was my good fortune to witness the magnificent result of a successful effort. To attain success, it is necessary to surprise the current in its weaker moments, about the turn of the tide, before the ebb commences, especially when it is high-water early in the morning, when the wind is lulled, and the cold is most intense. It requires as much adroitness thus to arrest the St Lawrence, as it does to catch the wild horse on the prairie. No sooner was it known, on the occasion referred to, that the river had 'taken,' than the population of Quebec poured down upon the wharfs to assure themselves of the fact. Much anxiety was expressed lest the new-formed ice should give way, ere it had attained sufficient firmness to resist the impetuosity of the current at its strongest point. The only class of the population to which its formation gave umbrage, was that which subsisted by ferrying passengers across in canoes, a business with which the bridge would necessarily interfere. The canoe men were therefore busy at an early hour crossing and recrossing, and forcing their canoes in zig-zag lines, from side to side, through the yet thin ice, in the hope of inducing it to move away. A proclamation issued from the executive government warning them to desist; but continuing their selfish work on the Point Levy side, it was only when a gun had thundered at them from the Citadel, that they left the frost to do its work. The ice had first formed about five in the morning, and by ten o'clock several sleighs had ventured across it. By mid-day, they were to be seen gliding over its glassy surface in all directions, and whilst it yet bent elastically under them, like an extended carpet waving to the wind. In the afternoon things wore a jubilee aspect on the surface of the captive river. The city seemed literally to have emptied itself upon the ice. Thousands of pedestrians promenaded, as they best could, over its slippery surface; whilst multitudes of skaters, of all ages, and of both sexes-and a graceful thing it is to see a lady skate well-flew about in all directions, as if, like Mercury, they had a pair of wings at their heels. Sleighs innumerable, from the ice-incrusted sledge of the waterman, to carrioles of the finest finish, and others of the most fantastic form, dashed about on all sides-the devices of the buffalo robes, the trappings of the horses, and the myriad little bells which dangled from the harness, and jingled merrily in the clear keen air, imparting additional vivacity and gaiety to the scene. But the feature in the picture most novel to the stranger was the ice-boat, which, with its overloaded cargo of jovial holiday-makers, flitted swiftly by with extended canvas, like a powerful bird upon the wing. In all parts of Canada, the iceboat is a favourite source of winter amusement. It is easily constructed, being mounted upon three skates, or small runners in the form of skates; two of which are in front and abreast, the third being behind, attached to the rudder, the purposes of which, indeed, it serves. A mast is then erected, together with such rigging as is necessary to support the sails; and thus equipped, they are capable, with a good wind, of performing long journeys in a very short space of time. They are frequently of the rudest form, at other times elegantly constructed; and sometimes consist of an actual boat, mounted upon a frame already fixed upon runners. The speed with which they fly before the wind is almost incredible, whilst it is dangerous, unless they are properly steered. Nor are they deficient in powers of tacking, for, when rightly managed, they beat well against the wind. To be aboard one of them affords the most exhilarating sport. I was engaged to dine one day with a gentleman at Etchaim, about nine miles up, on the opposite side of the river; I was conveyed thither in twenty minutes by an ice-boat, and returned in the moonlight upon skates. The ice affording excellent opportunity for artillery practice, the citizens are frequently, during the winter, treated to a spectacle of this nature. The track of the solid shot can then easily be traced by the eye; for, on every plunge which it makes on the now solid ice, it throws it up in a cloud of shivered fragments in the air. The Quebeckians are fond of winter excursions to the environs of their city, which they frequently make in large parties; sometimes as many as a couple of dozen of sleighs, on such occasions, trotting merrily off together, either for Lorette, where the remnant of the Huron tribe of Indians have been settled by the government; or to the Fall of Montmorency, about ten miles down the northern bank of the river. At the latter place, an enormous cone of ice is formed by the spray, which rises gradually as winter advances, until at length it almost hides the cataract from view. When a bridge is formed, the points to which these excursions are made are of course multiplied, whilst the gaiety of the town is increased by the appearance within the walls of country cousins' from the opposite side, to whom it was previously virtually forbidden. Indeed winter is the season for gaiety in this ancient capital of the province. In summer, people are too busy for amusement; in winter, they are all idle, and think of nothing else. In the afternoon of a winter day, St John Street, the chief promenade of the upper town, is crowded with vehicles and pedestrians, presenting a picture of the most gay and lively description. Pedestrianism, by the by, is not always an easy matter in Quebec; the difficulty of keeping one's legs when the snow is beaten hard, in streets which lie at an angle of forty-five degrees, being sometimes great. To insure safety, many attach small spikes to their boots, removable at pleasure, as women in England put on pattens when it rains, to lift them out of the mud. The snow which falls in Lower Canada attains each winter the average depth of five feet. But it is not allowed to accumulate in the streets of the city, each householder being obliged by law to prevent it from attaining, in front of his own premises, a greater depth than is necessary for sleighing purposes. What is left becomes beaten as hard as ice, resisting the action of the returning sun until the month of May, by the seventh day of which another municipal ordinance requires its removal. It has then to be literally hacked to pieces with axes, and carried away in sledges. Cold as a Quebec winter undoubtedly is, there is an exaggerated notion abroad in this country respecting it. It is true that meat freezes so hard, that it has to be sawn like bone-that milk is sold in solid masses by the pound-that the carcases of slaughtered sheep and hogs stand rigid and upright in the market placesthat men are sometimes bedizened with pendant icicles from hair and whiskers, looking like ladies in their curlpapers-and that noses sometimes become frozen so hard, that it would be dangerous to pull them lest they should break off-but after all, notwithstanding these admitted horrors, a Quebec winter is not so very intolerable a thing. True it is, that whilst riding, it is always necessary to be well clad in furs and skins; but it is only at long intervals that the cold becomes so intense as to render extraordinary precautions of this kind necessary in walking. An old-country man endures the first winter better than any subsequent one; a six months' subjection to stove heat, in close rooms, with double windows to keep out the frost, followed by the intense heats of summer, so modifies his constitution, that his sensitiveness to cold increases. worst feature of a Canadian winter is its protraction. Long before its close, the eye wearies for the sight of something green, which, when spring does come at last, clothes the landscape almost in a day. The citizens, too, are weary of their idleness; and it is with a delight which scarcely knows bounds, that, when the grass has once more taken possession of the fields, and the ice is fast forsaking the river, they rush down in crowds to the long-deserted wharfs, to hail with their shouts, and feast their eyes upon, the first ship from Europe.' The THE ONE-EYED WIDOW AND THE SCHOOLMASTER. 'He's an old savage that vile Monsieur Pascal Camus: he would do anything to destroy my peace.' 'She's an old one-eyed vixen that Madame Marengo: nothing makes her so happy as to find means of annoying me. I know she wishes to put me in my grave; but I scorn and pity her.' Such was the nature of the criminatives daily uttered by two parties in regard to each other-the one an aged schoolmaster, and the other the widow of a sergeant, both of whom lived in the same tenement in one of the back streets of Paris. Let us introduce them to the reader. Madame Marengo was a tall masculine sort of woman who had seen service. She had for years followed the Grand Army during Napoleon's wars, in which she had first lost an eye, and then lost her husband, a : gallant sergeant, who had assumed the name of Ma- worshipped or hated. All who paid them any sort of rengo, in honour of the battle in which he had been respect, were the most amiable people possible; all who promoted from the ranks. For her long and faithful gave them any real or imaginary cause of offence, were services in attending on the wounded at the different demons. Having settled down in this voluntarily. engagements, as well as for the deprivation of her hus- embraced enmity towards each other, their tongues, on band, Bonaparte had presented her with a cross of the all suitable occasions, told of sufferings. Madame Malegion of honour, which she greatly prized, and con- rengo averred that M. Camus, whom she called an old stantly wore suspended from her neck. Now somewhat savage,' an 'old Cossack,' and fifty other bad names, had broken down, but still animated with much of the old no other earthly purpose in living but that of tormentfire, she subsisted by carding and renovating wool mat- ing her. Some charitable persons wanted to persuade tresses-a great trade among the humbler classes in her that the good man might wish to live for his own Paris. She did not derive much from her occupation of sake, or perhaps for that of his little daughter Annette; cardeuse, as it is called; but this little, joined to the but Madame Marengo only smiled incredulously she trifling pension which accompanied her cross,' was knew better than that. It was a remarkable proof of enough for all her wants in her lofty and solitary attic. the sympathy which will sometimes exist even between M. Pascal Camus, who lived on the ground-floor, inveterate foes, that M. Camus was precisely of a where he conducted a small school, was equally a curio- similar opinion. He affected, however, to look upon sity in his way. While the cardeuse was tall and bony, Madame Marengo with calm contempt, and a certain and a little rough in manner, the schoolmaster was degree of the heroic resignation which is generally short, dumpy, and pompous; while she was all for the found to characterise lofty spirits. It was not the carEmpire, and considered Napoleon to have been the deuse, he declared, who acted, but a hidden and mystegreatest of earthly beings, he was fixed in his admira- rious power within her. He forgave her, for he knew tion of the Bourbons, detested Napoleon, and called him she was not a free agent, but merely the instrument of a usurper and a tyrant. There were here sufficient that fatality which delights in persecuting genius. When elements of discord; but more were not wanting. M. people advised him to leave the house, he seemed to Camus hated the cardeuse, because she wore a cross of compassionate their ignorance, and informed them that the legion of honour. The cardeuse hated M. Camus, | Madame Marengo would follow him wherever he went; because he persisted in wearing a queue and shoe-buckles that he did not, however, blame her for this: she could -undeniable tokens of regard for the old régime. Dif- not help herself. And he generally closed his remarks fering in sentiment on so many things, these two per- with a quotation from Corneille or Racine, in which the sonages had at least one point in common-they had cardeuse was successively compared to Athalia, Agriprespectively a very great notion of their own import- pina, and Berenice, to all which poetical characters the ance. Madame Marengo could never forget what she one-eyed widow evidently bore a striking resemblance. had seen and gone through. M. Pascal Camus secretly believed himself to be a genius. It is true that his genius had not been acknowledged by the world, but he rather liked that: great geniuses had all been unknown at some time or other; and even should his genius never be acknowledged during his lifetime, there was no small pleasure in reflecting how society would afterwards lament for not having encouraged and rewarded his merits. It was quite a feast to think how mankind would some day be sorry for having neglected him, and wish to do him honour when it was too late. Perhaps,' thought he-for the poor man was a widower- my little daughter Annette may one day come in for a share of what can no longer benefit me.' Thus it will be seen that the enmity of the cardeuse and the schoolmaster was rather a pleasant kind of affair after all. It was something to think of; and whenever they were afflicted with any little misfortune, they had the comfort of knowing that it must come from the enemy's quarter. Of course it never signified whether there was proof that such was the case or not; M. Camus and Madame Marengo left proofs to the vulgar. The parties were in the full enjoyment of their hatred, when a young working-man, named Paul Simoneau, about seventeen years of age, came to lodge in the house, and took one of the attics on the same landing with Madame Marengo. He was one of those joyous conEvery one who thought anything of the subject, ob- tented-looking beings whose constant good-humour served that no two persons could be more opposite in secures them universal good-will. The world, after all, their notions than the cardeuse and the schoolmaster; is generally disposed to be friendly with those who but nobody could understand why they should live on seem to be at peace with their own hearts. Though such terms of hostility. They did not necessarily re- Paul was without relations or near friends, and though quire to interfere with each other; though dwelling he earned but little in comparison with his wants, he under the same roof, six floors separated them, and was not merely resigned to his fate, like so many people, they did not even need to know each other. Why, but perfectly satisfied with it, which was perhaps better then, did they quarrel so frequently? Why utter such still, and certainly more pleasant to himself. He soon terrible things of each other to their neighbours? The became a great favourite with Madame Marengo. She truth is, the good people who lived in the vicinity of had resolved at first to be exceedingly reserved; not the belligerents did not exactly comprehend their cha-approving of intimacies between neighbours, as such racter. Both were, in reality, not ill-disposed; under an affairs-witness herself and M. Camus-never ended external eccentricity, each had a kindly heart. They, well. But this philosophy would not do when applied however, equally required a certain homage, which, if to Paul. In the first place, he had one of those clear granted, all well and good; but if denied, then there pleasant voices which are perfectly irresistible; so at was nothing but mischief. With two such persons a least thought the sergeant's widow, when she heard him collision was inevitable. It is impossible to say on what singing in the morning some popular strain of Béranger's, occasion a mutual huff was created: but a disagreement almost always referring to the Grande Armée, or to her once having taken place, the bristles of both were up; darling Emperor. Then, in spite of herself, her heart and soon was proclaimed an everlasting and mutual yearned towards him; for he reminded her of her youth, war. Henceforth they exchanged scowling glances and of a son about his own age, whom she had lost when they met on the staircase, and the mutual hatred many years ago, and who sang the very same songs. was intense. Listening to him thus morning after morning, the cardeuse could not help occasionally opening the door of her room, and thrusting out her head just to give him a good-humoured nod as he went out to his work. Paul answered by taking off his cloth cap, and politely inquiring after her health. With all her roughness, Madame Marengo was a rigid formalist. She would have felt highly indignant had a man, no matter of Did this blow-up render the two unhappy? No such thing. They were of course kept on the fret; but somehow this was what they liked. It was meat and drink to them to have somebody to be at war with-somebody who, they imagined, was constantly persecuting them. They, in fact, required to live in one of two conditions of feeling; that is, either to feel that they were | she felt an interest, for she would never admit that M. Camus might love Paul for his own sake: everything was done to vex and annoy her. M. Camus entertained a similar opinion: if Madame Marengo paid the young man any little attentions, it was because she knew that this was offensive to him.' But they both agreed that such conduct was too contemptible to be worthy of the least attention, and determined to disappoint the enemy by taking no notice of this treache rous attack. Thus the two antagonists exulted in their imaginary triumph over each other, admiring their own wisdom, and pitying the blindness of their foe. what degree, addressed her with his hat on; and she was the more exacting of such homage, that she knew it was no longer paid to her personal attractions, but to her sex and military service. When Paul, therefore, stood before her with his cap in his hand, the good dame, smiling on him with gratified pride, could not but inquire if there was anything she might do for him? Should she give a look to his room, or feed his bird whilst he was out, or do any little thing of the kind? Paul generally accepted of her kind services; for he saw that Madame Marengo was never happier than when she had made his little room quite neat, sewed a loose button on his coat, or rendered him any other This dream, so soothing to the pride of the two anta trifling service. In this manner, from mere acquaint-gonists, was unfortunately disturbed by Paul Simoneau : ances, they soon became friends. She loved the young he did not, or would not, understand that their enmity working-man for his never-failing good-humour, which was for them a very pleasant and comfortable feeling; seemed to her to gladden the whole of the gloomy house and he actually took great pains to destroy it. In the for the few hours he spent in it; and he liked the first place, he completely undeceived them as to the cardeuse for her quaint sayings, old stories of long-belief each had so long entertained-that the other was fought battles, and the genuine kindness which, not- always engaged in some dark plot against his or her withstanding her outward roughness, still lived at her welfare. He proved to M. Camus that Madame Marengo thought much more about her mattresses than about him; whilst he clearly showed her that she was of very secondary importance in the schoolmaster's opinion, by assuring her, when she wanted to know all the bitter things he had been saying of her, that M. Camus had not uttered her name to him for the last week. Of course madame could not believe this; it was said to spare her feelings: but Paul need not fear; she was accustomed to the old Cossack's' hatred, &c. When Paul, however, assured her this was actually the case, she felt exceedingly disappointed, and haughtily wondered whether M. Camus meant to insult her by such behaviour? M. Camus felt himself equally aggrieved on learning from the young man that he was not the first object of Madame Marengo's thoughts. The two enemies now began to discover that the charm of their hatred was rapidly vanishing away; and as this was evidently Paul's doing, they would have quarrelled with him had the thing been possible. But he looked so unconscious of harm, and seemed so pleased when he had been saying something likely to reconcile them! heart. It happened that M. Pascal Camus, who was, however, far more exclusive than even Madame Marengo, was, like her, unaccountably mollified by the cheerfulness and good-temper of Paul Simoneau. It was this worthy gentleman's habit, when his pupils had retired for the evening, to sit on a chair near the threshold of his school-room, and thence mark attentively who went up or came down the stairs. The portress, whose office he thus usurped, was highly indignant at his presumption, which she ascribed to overweening curiosity; but M. Pascal Camus, like all true philosophers, delighted to observe human nature, and he declared that he had learned more by sitting at his door, with his little Annette working by his side, than from the reading of heavy folios. It was thus he first saw Paul Simoneau coming home from his work in the evening, with his bag of tools thrown on his shoulder, and ascending the steep staircase that led to his attic, with a step so free and elastic, that M. Camus, who averred he knew a man's temper from his tread, instantly saw that Paul was perfectly Matters went on thus for some time, until gradually, happy. The young man did not fail, on his part, to and in spite of themselves, the feelings of the two antanotice the schoolmaster's quaint and stumpy figure; but gonists began to mollify. Paul had the art-if that could seeing him, evening after evening, in the same attitude be called art which was so natural to him-of setting -for either summer or winter, M. Camus was at his post things in their most pleasant and kindly aspect. There -he began to think that he could not pass by him with- was not a good trait in the character of Madame Maout some token of recognition. Not wishing, however, rengo which he did not repeat to M. Camus, and vice to make too free-there being nothing particularly in- | versa. This did not produce a very strong effect on the viting in M. Camus's solemn visage-he merely bowed schoolmaster, whose heart was somewhat tough; but as he passed the door of the school-room. Here was a Madame Marengo's was of softer texture. Being what proper concession. The schoolmaster acknowledged his is termed a woman of strong affections, she could not bow by a condescending nod; but though it would not remain in a state of indifference. Her hatred for the have looked dignified to be pleased, he was, to say the schoolmaster was fast melting away! evidently it would truth, exceedingly gratified. There must be something be replaced by a better feeling. All at once she began truly delightful in natural courtesy, for it seldom fails to discover that M. Camus was a remarkable man, and to conciliate: the most rugged and stern are softened profoundly learned; then his daughter Annette was by it, because they feel that it is not a mere empty such a nice, pretty girl! in short, there were so many form; they see that it comes from the heart. reasons for liking him upon the whole! One morning, when she was thus favourably disposed, the cardeuse chanced to perceive M. Pascal Camus standing at the door of his school-room : he looked so majestic, that her heart was touched; she could not resist the temptation of calling up an amiable smile on her weatherbeaten features, gently nodding to him as she passed by. At first M. Camus was so much astonished, that, as he afterwards observed, he remained rooted to the spot; but as he knew nothing of Madame Marengo's favourable feelings, and considered her courtesy an audacious insuit, he soon rallied, and eyeing the smiling cardeuse with a glance of unutterable scorn, he turned M. Pascal Camus, though a wise and learned man, was not above being pleased with the deference of those whom he considered his inferiors. Paul's bow showed | the secret but respectful admiration which he felt for his-M. Camus's-character; his not venturing on any undue familiarity, also spoke in his favour; in short, the schoolmaster was so well pleased with the young working-man, that his nod became more condescending every evening, until he at last, one day, actually asked him to walk in. This interview so heightened his good opinion of Paul, that he frequently renewed his invitation; and the young man, who found the schoolmaster's conversation improving, though somewhat pedan-his back upon her with haughty contempt. tic, neglected no opportunity of being in his company. It was not long before Madame Marengo discovered that Paul Simoneau was on friendly terms with her enemy; she was indignant at the schoolmaster's impertinence in presuming to entice away a person in whom Madame Marengo was highly indignant to find her advances repulsed; her hatred now returned tenfold; and as she was going to work the very same day for a dyer's wife who lived next door, she did not neglect this opportunity of venting her spleen on M. Camus, by giving him every fault which a human being could possibly possess. On the evening of the next day, when Paul began speaking to her of M. Camus, the cardeuse immediately declared she would hear nothing about him. thing. But M. Camus was not astonished; he had predicted that it would be so. When it was understood in the house that Madame Marengo and M. Pascal Camus were on good terms, the news was heard with that suspicious astonishment which might have 'Ah, madame,' deprecatingly observed Paul, he is been felt of yore if peace had been proclaimed between so unhappy just now. You know that he has not many Rome and Carthage. The portress declared, for her scholars. Well, the dyer's wife, who lives next door, part, that it was only a hollow truce, and most of the had promised to send her little nephew to his school; lodgers shared in this belief. Matters went on, however, he was to get fifteen francs a-month with him, and it much better than these charitable individuals had antiwould have just paid his next quarter's rent. If you cipated. M. Pascal Camus was all condescending kindwere to know how glad he and Annette were about it- ness, and Madame Marengo much more submissive for though she is only thirteen, he tells her everything. and respectful than could have been anticipated; but As they were telling me of it this evening, the dyer's the truth was, that her soul was burdened with remorse, wife came in, and taking Monsieur Camus into the other and she longed to repair the mischief she had occaroom, told him that she could not think of sending her sioned by rendering her former enemy some signal sernephew to his school, as he was known to be such a vice. M. Camus, however, would give her no opporshocking bad character; that she had good authority tunity of doing this; he was so exceedingly dignified, for what she said; but not liking to make mischief, so reserved, and placed so many impediments in her would not name the person from whom she had learned way, that Madame Marengo fretted and fumed in the this. She spoke so loud, that Annette and I could hear excess of her impatience. This only increased,' as the every word: poor Annette cried all the time. When the schoolmaster expressed it, the strong necessity which dyer's wife was gone-and she did not stay long-Mon-existed for him to keep Madame Marengo at a proper sieur Camus came out, looking so sad, that it made my distance. For you see, my dear sir,' he would observe heart ache. Poor man, he was thinking about his rent, to Paul-he was always wonderfully polite-'it would and wondering what he should do!' never do to allow such people to be familiar with me, merely because they happen to be a little good-natured, and all that. Madame Marengo has good points, I allow; but I must confess, that to me she always smells of the barracks.' Every word that Paul uttered smote Madame Marengo to the heart. Instantly she underwent a revolution of feeling. Her hatred turned to compassion. She was evidently the cause of all this mischief, and bitterly did she repent ever having uttered a word against the schoolmaster. Whilst Paul remained with her, Madame Marengo laid her feelings under some restraint, but as soon as she was alone, she began wondering how she could repair the injury she had inflicted on M. Camus. This seemed difficult enough; but though hopeless of success, she resolved to speak to the dyer's wife the next morning. As she had expected, she failed; the boy had already been sent to another school; the dyer's wife was, besides, one of those persons who make it a rule never to retract a resolution, howsoever absurd or erroneous it may be. Madame Marengo came home with a heavy heart. What was she to do? To throw herself on the tender mercies of M. Camus, and tell him all! But besides that, the cardeuse wanted sufficient magnanimity for this, she knew that it would not restore the lost scholar. After mature deliberation, she at length resolved to make another effort to get reconciled to the schoolmaster, hoping to be able to render him some service, which might compensate for the harm of which she was the cause. The very same day Paul was charged to bear proposals of peace to M. Pascal Camus from Madame Marengo. In his pre-zeal was so exemplary, that every one admired it, exsent humbled condition, M. Camus found this exceedingly gratifying. 'You see, Paul,' he observed with calm dignity, 'the moral power of genius. I have at length compelled Madame Marengo to acknowledge, as she was bound to do, my superiority. I cannot, however, grant her request without certain restrictions. She has braved me too long for this, and it would not do to let people think they have only to ask my forgiveness in order to obtain it." Matters had gone on thus for about a month, during which Madame Marengo had more than once been strongly tempted to quarrel with M. Camus for not allowing her to serve him in some way or other, when, luckily for her, but, as it proved, rather unfortunately for him, she found an opportunity of displaying her zeal. The schoolmaster fell dangerously ill; and as the doctor declared that he had a contagious fever, the school was deserted in no time. Annette attended on her father with the greatest devotedness, but in a few days she was laid up with the same disease. Now was the time for Madame Marengo to show her friendship. Paul was very willing to do everything in his power for the poor schoolmaster; but the cardeuse declared that he was only in the way, and so managed, that the whole burden of waiting on M. Camus and his daughter soon rested on herself. She did everything; cleaned the rooms, prepared the necessary tisanes, attended on the two patients with unwearied zeal, paid the rent and the doctor without saying anything about it; in short, she would even have given the lessons to the pupils, if they had not been all gone away. And her cepting the portress, who declared, with a wink, that she was as knowing as Madame Marengo, and could see through her arts; which meant that the cardeuse entertained matrimonial designs on M. Camus. If such was indeed the case, Madame Marengo's expectations did not seem likely to be realised, for though Annette was soon out of danger, her father grew worse every day. His mind, however, was perfectly sound; and it is only just to say, that if his heart had long been obdurate, it now seemed to be entirely softened in favour of his kind nurse. Though Madame Marengo had lived amongst soldiers, and in barracks, and though her manIners were not irreproachably genteel, she had a true and honest heart; and with all her outward roughness, none knew better than she did how to render a service in a delicate manner. The schoolmaster saw all this, and he now wondered why or how he had ever hated Madame Marengo. Accordingly, M. Camus clogged his consent by so many vexatious and haughty clauses, that Paul declared Madame Marengo would never submit to them. don't care, sir,' replied the inflexible schoolmaster: 'I did not make any friendly proposals to Madame Marengo; if she will not agree to the terms I offer, it is perfectly indifferent to me. But she will agree to them, depend upon it,' he added with a complacent smile; I saw it in her eye the last time she attempted to insult me: that woman's spirit is conquered, sir.' Though Paul somewhat doubted this assertion, he mentioned to Madame Marengo the conditions on which the schoolmaster had agreed to receive her into his favour. To his great surprise, she agreed to every One evening when the schoolmaster was revolving those thoughts in his mind, he suddenly turned towards the cardeuse, who was sitting at the head of his bed, and earnestly observed, Madame, if I die, I think Í can intrust Annette to your care. I know,' he added, with a patronising air, which even now he could not quite cast away, that I might confide her to a more |