Arrived at the gate which he had already scrutinised, Mr. Wormwood tried to open it.

:

"Just what I thought," he said. "Shuts on a spring, no doubt. Outside bells are scarce here, seemingly; but there's spikes and tenterhooks in plenty look at 'em, Mounseer, how they runs along the tops of the palings, like sharks' teeth, only crookeder. Nothing rips up the inexpressibles or makes such nasty jags as them tenter-hooks. I've the marks of two or three about me to this hour! We'll let the front of Rose Cottage alone, there's too many thorns!"

An adjoining field afforded an exit from the road, and availing himself of it, Mr. Wormwood approached the house by the side, followed closely by Monsieur Perrotin. As the Detective had originally supposed, it was fenced in all round. One point, however, at the back seemed of easier access than any other part, and here Mr. Wormwood took counsel with his companion.

"It's a shivery kind of a preposition as I'm about to make," said the Detective," but if you didn't mind passing an hour or two along of me in this here plantation, I fancy something might turn up, as the newspapers say, ' to our adwantage.' As there's lots of leaves on the everlastings, we don't run much risk of being seen, particlarly at this time of the year, when it gets dark so soon. Shall I give a leg, Mounseer, or take one ?"

This last inquiry referred to precedence in crossing the fence, and as Monsieur Perrotin was less skilled in scaling barriers than Mr. Wormwood, he accepted that gentleman's assistance, and, by dint of some manoeuvring, managed to get over the palings without damage either to his integuments or his person. The Detective was equally successful, and at last they both stood safe and sound within the precincts of the domain.

"We shall do pretty well now, Mounseer," said the officer, "perwided there's no dawgs. If, by misfortune," he continued, pointing to the buttend of a pistol which peeped from a side-pocket, "one should set upon us, he must be silenced with this here, though I'd rather keep my barker quiet for the present."

With great precaution the two then stole into the plantation, till, through the openings of the branches, they got a tolerably good view of the house. It was a very plain, square building, suggesting very little of the "Cottage" and nothing of the "Rose :" only one window, on the ground-floor, allowed daylight to enter, the rest were all closed by French shutters, painted so dark a green as to look quite black. Monsieur Perrotin gazed wistfully at the jalousies and heaved a deep sigh.

There

"Well, Mounseer," said the Detective, in a low voice, "it's natteral that you should feel for her sittuation, poor thing, but you must keep up. We'll have her out of that, please God, before we're very much older! Why, what's this? Not a dawg, exactly, but a kennel, and a pretty big 'un! He must have been a goodish-sized annimle as lived in it. ain't no recent marks, so I conjecters the owner's dead, which is all the better for us. What do you say, Mounseer, to setting down inside this here concern while I takes a peep at the house? You'll be warmer there, and more out of sight!"

Waiving what was derogatory in the proposal, and feeling that dignity must occasionally be sacrificed to convenience, Monsieur Perrotin crept into the kennel, and found no difficulty in assuming a tolerably comfort

able sitting posture. I wish to say nothing disrespectful of the excellent Teacher of Languages, but truth obliges me to admit that, from the grimness of his aspect, as he sat there thinking of the villany of Matthew Yates, the mistake might have been pardoned of supposing that the kennel's late tenant was still watching at his post.

Meantime Mr. Wormwood, keeping on the blind side of the house, crept close to it, and began a very minute inspection. He was absent

about half an hour, and then returned as carefully as he went.

"It may be a female woice as I have just heard," he said, "but if so, the lady is troubled with gruffness, and, drawing of it mild, I should say she was a bit of a wirago. But you needn't to fear, Mounseer, it was only woice; no wiolence other than bad langwidge. Stooping down in the porch, with my ear to the keyhole, I could make out that she was coming down stairs grumbling considerable, and every now and then turning round with a threat at somebody as wouldn't answer her: a lady of course can't swear, it's not becoming, but what this here one let out sounded wery like oaths. She expected her husband home soon, she said, and then she promised to give it her'-you understand what that means but we must perwent her. As there seems to be nobody else in the house but Madam and this man's wife, I fancy it won't be a difficult matter: only we must keep a sharp look-out."

6

The Detective now squatted down at the edge of the kennel, and continued to talk in a low key to Monsieur Perrotin, explaining what was to be done when the time for action arrived. Another half-hour went by and it became perfectly dark, the outer gloom corresponding well with the desolation of the place where Rachel was confined. Suddenly Mr. Wormwood ceased speaking, and pressed his companion's arm. A quickstepping horse and a pair of light wheels were coming along the road, and the pace slackened as it drew near Rose Cottage, a token that Matthew Yates was returning.

"Come along, Mounseer," whispered the Detective; "place yourself where I told you, on the right hand of the porch, I shall be on the left; as soon as the door is opened, rush in and seize the female while I tackle the gent her husband-the boy we needn't to mind. Hark! he's at the gate. He's telling the boy to take the gig on somewheres-where he puts it up, no doubt. Well, it's one less, and them imps of boys is sometimes troublesome."

The ambush was laid as directed: presently the wicket closed, and Yates was descried approaching on foot. He came straight up to the porch, on either side of which, concealed behind two wide-spreading boxtrees, the Detective and Monsieur Perrotin were waiting, and tapping twice at the door gave a shrill whistle: there was a movement inside, a heavy bar was taken down, then a chain-bolt withdrawn, and the door stood open. At that instant, just as Yates's foot was on the threshold, the strong hand of Mr. Wormwood seized his collar from behind, with a sudden swing he was thrown backwards on the ground, and before he could recover himself the Detective's knee was on his breast and a pistol at his head. Simultaneously with this attack Monsieur Perrotin darted through the open doorway, and confronted Mrs. Yates, who stood in the passage with a light.

"Wretched woman!" he cried, "where is my wife? I make you pri

sonare !"

The exclamation was unlucky, for it told the story of the scuffle beyond the porch with the utmost presence of mind Mrs. Yates fell back a step, and lifting the heavy candlestick struck the Frenchman so violent a blow on the forehead that he staggered and nearly fell. At the exclamation he made and the extinction of the light, the Detective turned his head and slightly relaxed his hold of Matthew Yates, who, quickly perceiving what had happened, exerted all his strength, dislodged the officer, recovered his feet, and before the other could seize him again, disappeared in the darkness. To secure the only advantage they had gained, Mr. Wormwood forced back the door which Mrs. Yates was trying to close; he raised his pistol to the ceiling, fired one barrel, and by the light of the explosion caught a glimpse of Monsieur Perrotin's antagonist as she fled along the passage; he then heard a distant door bang, and all was quiet.

Not long, however, for the Teacher of Languages, raising his voice to its highest pitch, began loudly to clamour for his wife, and "Rachel! Rachel!" resounded through the house. A faint cry responded from above, and again Monsieur Perrotin called for her.

"Just half a minnit," said Mr. Wormwood, "and we'll find her: there's nobody here but ourselves. I never travels without my tools."

A blazing lucifer-match supplied the key to his meaning, the fallen candle was relighted, and together they rushed up-stairs. Directed by the cry they had already heard, the Detective desired whoever was within to stand away from the door, and dashing his whole weight against it, the lock gave way, the thin pale face of Rachel was seen, and in the next moment she was locked in her husband's arms.

THE WITS OF PARIS.*

PARIS is the city amongst all others where there is most pretension to wit, whilst in reality stupidity is held highest in esteem. Each having the same pretensions, none can excuse its monopoly by others; and hence it is that Paris is the last place in the world for any one to live by his wits. As in many other countries, the stupid get on the most readily, for the best of all reasons, because no one likes to employ another who is cleverer than himself. Hence it is, also, that only persons of the most modest abilities ride in their carriages. When Privat laid his complaint before the police magistrates of an attempt at robbery, every one sympathised with him. But when the same celebrity asserted that he had been robbed of 7 fr. 50 cent., doubts arose on all sides. No one believed that Privat could have had 7 fr. 50 cent. in his possession. There are literary Privats in other capitals besides Paris.

Men of wit, however, have their revenge for these their social disadvantages. The weaknesses, the absurdities, the pitiful incapacities of the foolish rich are legitimate game to them, and luckily the season is always

* La Vie à Paris-Chroniques du Figaro-précédées d'une Etude sur l'Esprit en France à notre Epoque. Par P. J. Stahl. Auguste Villemot.

open.

Nay, they actually traffic upon these surface elements of Parisian and most other society. "I might," said M. Roqueplan to an interpolator, "have engaged Cruvelli for 50,000 fr., but that would not have answered. I gave her 100,000 fr., and then all Europe was obliged to come and hear her!" When the Variétés was on the verge of bankruptcy, Bouffé was engaged for 100,000 fr. The foolish rich only esteem a thing by what it is supposed to cost. In other matters, as their wine, their esteem is in proportion to what they have to pay. Winemerchants, who sometimes bottle a little wit in their cellars, profit by this weakness.

It is now well known that the wondrous Rachel had, under the pretext of tragedy, a mission to Russia, the object of which was to rid the enemy during the late war of all the loose coin that was in circulation. Hermione acquitted herself conscientiously of this task; she took away with her 700,000 fr., not to mention that when the circulating medium became almost extinct, she also took away all that could be easily converted into money, in the shape of pins, rings, bracelets, and other jewellery. Even young Raphael, her brother, succeeded in carrying off 400,000 fr. Rare example of patriotism at so tender an age!

Why are people so partial to balloon ascents? The secret is, that they always tacitly hope to see an accident. When Von Amburg said to Harel, of the Porte Saint-Martin, that he managed his beasts so as to give a perfect sense of safety to the spectators, "That won't do," said Harel," you must leave a probability of being eaten up one day, or nobody will come to see you." The story of the man who followed Van Amburg all over the world not to miss that critical day, must have been got up by some home or continental Barnum. Thus it is that the majority are, to use a French term, being continually "exploités" for the benefit of a few.

The wit who preys upon the public is the first to perceive the weak points, not the public-it is too much interested in deceiving itself to think of deceiving others. One night at the Porte Saint-Martin, the play being the "Life of a Comedian," M. Barrière made a tremendous onslaught on "Les Filles de Marbre." The house was electrified, all the Arthurs present applauded vehemently, while the servile public hissed the upper boxes, where were a few of those who would not have been there had not their ungrateful accomplices also been there to denounce them. Even a "fille de marbre" cannot sin without being helped a little.

What would men of wit, from the feuilletonist to the Barnum, do but for the foolish rich? They would be reduced to the dilemma of the editor who proposed to rise from a Bacchic entertainment to proceed to his offices:

"Why are you in such a hurry?" interposed Anténor Joly.

“Because, if I don't go," replied the editor, "the journal won't appear."

'Stupid!" said Anténor. "How can it be a journal and not appear?" There is no difficulty out of which talent will not find the means of extricating itself. It is questionable, however, how far it would have paid to have supplanted a journal by a mot.

Yet what does not a mot often lead to in Paris?

66

"You are getting a belly ?" said an intimate friend one day to Arnal. Well, what of that? so long as it's not yours," replied Arnal, “it does not concern you."

But still Arnal's rotundity went on increasing till a piece was penned especially for the circumstance, entitled, "Le Mari qui Prend du Ventre, and in which the fun consisted thus:

Arnal is supposed to be a happy married man, when one of the everdreaded confraternity of wits reveals to him the unpleasant fact that past 90 kilogrammes un mari est toisé. From that moment Arnal passes the day in getting himself weighed wherever he goes. There is not much in such a plot, yet did Arnal make it go down with clamorous applause.

There is at the same time a great deal of chance success in Paris. The public will not have the same thing over again. Some time back a workman was buried under a slip of earth. For eight days nothing was talked about but Dufavel. Was he alive? had he been heard? does he get his "bouillon" through the leathern tube? when will he be extricated? When at length he was rescued, people embraced one another in the streets and opened their purses. "Dufavel" was introduced to the public at the Ambigu-Comique-most ambiguous comedy it was: he was the giraffe, the hippopotamus of his day. But some time afterwards five workmen were placed in the same predicament as Dufavel had been, only they could not get any bouillon down to them. Their names were never mentioned; the public had had enough of being buried alive, and took no interest whatsoever in their fate. To have proposed a play on the subject would have brought down the broom-handle of the establishment on the head of the witless miscalculator of his time. The public were at that moment occupied, besides, with a blind man's dog, whose master being dead, the animal used to go, bowl in mouth, by himself to the old place. The public took so to the dog that it died of a surfeit, and twelve thousand francs in gold were found in its mattress!— at least, so the inheritor said.

The wits of Paris are not necessarily belligerent. When the war broke out in the East crowds of clever men congregated in Constantinople. They were, however, more wanted on the Danube, and were applied to accordingly:

"But," they said, with a unanimous voice, "has not the Times its correspondent on the Danube, and does not that suffice for us all ?"

"It had; but, alas, he had been taken by the Russians and shot!" was the ready reply.

"Indeed! The prospect for a man of letters is not then a very agreeable one?"

"But he shall be revenged?"

"No doubt, and we will remain here to do justice to the details."

The sympathy that binds the wits of Paris together is of various origin. In the instance of volunteers for the Danube there was great unanimity; so also in the instance of a journey to New Orleans. A clever projector had undertaken to convey an opera troop to the marshes of the Mississippi. One day, during a brief respite from sea-sickness, the party met on deck. One began to hum:

"O Mathilde, idole de mon âme !"