THE SISTER OF THE HOTEL DIEU.

BY DUDLEY COSTELLO.

V.

MARIE watched long that night for her husband's return-but she watched in vain! With an escaped convict the process, in France, is summary enough: the sellette, the sentence, and the chain succeed each other so rapidly, that before the capture has been made twelve hours, the prisoner is on his way to a fresh bagne, there to be doubly branded, doubly ironed, and taxed with double toil. In vain, therefore, might Marie watch not only for that, but for many successive nights. Vilette's promises of repentance had seemed to her so sincere, that her trusting nature would not suffer her to believe he had so quickly fallen into and reaped the reward of his evil courses. He had spoken of danger, and she feared that misfortune, not crime, now kept him from her. There was only one way of ascertaining what had become of him-by applying at the Préfecture de Police; but this step, for the reasons Vilette had given, she was afraid to take. She thus remained in complete ignorance of his fate.

Had Marie thoroughly comprehended her husband's character, his absence would have been the lightest of her sorrows; but she had material evils, as well as mental distresses, to contend with, which called upon her to exert all the energies she was mistress of.

These arose, as was most natural, from want of money. In furnishing her husband with the means which he told her were to be applied for their mutual benefit, she had left herself destitute of future resources, and such a man as Vilette was not likely to leave her anything on which he could lay his hands. Her ready money went first, her hoarded crowns followed, and then, as we have seen, the rente viagère was absorbed; so that when she came to confide her position, at the end of the long and anxious week which succeeded her husband's second disappearance, she found that all she had to depend upon consisted solely of what she might obtain by the sale of her furniture, and that her future existence, and that of her child, must be derived from the work of her own hands.

Marie was not altogether friendless, but Madame de Frémont, upon whom she might confidently have relied for assistance, was absent on a journey with her husband on the further shores of the Mediterranean, and before aid could be obtained from that quarter the worst might have happened. Besides, she was averse from writing what she might, under pressing necessity, have told; nor had she that unerring faith in letters which keeps up the hopes of those who, in a different rank, do battle with the world. She wrote, therefore, to none, nor did she complain to any, but with a resolute heart set about the task which necessity imposed upon her.

Marie's arrangements were soon, though sadly, made; for when the poor have occasion to dispossess themselves of the little they have called their own, there is no want of ready hands to take it at the easiest rate for the buyer, on the hardest terms for the seller. It cost her some pangs

to part with almost all she had, the poor, again, having a real attachment to their household gods: to them, indeed, they are much, for they are more closely associated with their daily wants and cannot be replaced. But it pained Marie even more to remove from the quiet of Passy, and the healthful air that invigorated her child, to the cheaper quartier whither she was now compelled to direct her steps. To many the change to Les Batignolles would have been a thing of little consequence; but little Philippe was so fond of gathering violets in the Bois de Boulogne; she loved so, herself, from the heights of Passy, to watch the silvery Seine wandering onward to the fair valleys of her own Normandy; and then though the Cimitière of Montmartre was filled with handsome monuments, it had no sacred charm for her like the quiet churchyard of Anteuil; for there stood the small black crosses, ever garlanded with the freshest flowers, on which were inscribed the names of her father and mother!

But to the Batignolles Marie was obliged to go, having found there a small apartment which was better adapted to her slender purse than any out of the multitude she had sought in other directions.

Amongst the things which Marie had been taught, the employments which became her station had not been neglected, and she was perfectly mistress of that useful accomplishment-the mystery of needlework-in which Frenchwomen so greatly excel all others. Her skill in this respect stood her now in good stead, enabling her, though by slow degrees, to earn a livelihood. At length she became known to employers for the ex- · cellence of her work, and as her business improved, her petites économies were again carefully laid by to make a fund for little Philippe's education. But before the day came which was to see them devoted to that purpose, a different dispensation was ordained: her child fell sick.

It was a wasting illness, for which art could do little, though it constantly whispered hope, and that in the kind accents of one of those benevolent men who-all honour to their profession are rare in no country, and, least of all, in France! M. Allaux, who was one of the physicians to the Hôtel Dieu, and lived near the Barrière de Clichy, close to the Batignolles, heard of the boy's sickness through his wife, for whom Marie had done some work. He went at once to offer services, unrewarded save by the consciousness of the act, and the gratitude of the poor mother, and made those services still more valuable by the manner in which he rendered them. But there were limits to his skill, and the malady of little Philippe was one which medicine alone is powerless to cure. As much fresh air and nourishing diet as Marie's condition would permit, were the final remedies he suggested; nor did he confine himself to suggestions, but insisted on supplying much which the child must otherwise have wanted. For the rest, Marie gave up her time, by day, to take him out of doors, and worked the harder for it late into the night.

For purity of air, as well as picturesqueness of site, there is no spot round Paris superior, if equal, to the Buttes de Montmartre, and there, whenever it was fine, Marie took her daily walk, with Philippe in her arms. On one of these occasions, as she was returning homewards, she was met in the street by a large coarse-looking woman, who, after staring hard at her as she went by, gave her a familiar nod, and passed on. Marie had a slight idea that she had seen the woman's face before, but where she

could not remember; the thought made her turn her head as she was entering her own door, and, to her surprise, she found the stranger had done the same, and was standing still to observe her. It then flashed on her memory, that this was the same person who, four or five years before, had, in her anger, revealed her husband's true condition; and, with a shudder at the recollection, she hastened in. The woman was a good deal altered, and for the worse; there was something in her features that might still have been handsome, but intemperance and dissipation had flushed her cheek, and hardened her glance, and nothing was left of her sex but its frailty. It was a relief, therefore, to Marie when she ceased to think of her, though the daring and vicious expression of that face haunted her at intervals throughout the evening. She was fated to see it again, and under circumstances of greater discomfort than ever.

It happened, about a month afterwards, when, as Marie was sitting with Philippe sleeping on her knee, one fine bright summer's morning, on a knoll which overlooked the Cemetery of Montmartre, the same woman approached her, evidently for the purpose of speaking. Marie's first impulse was to avoid her, and she rose to do so, but she felt the attempt was useless.

"Sit down again," said the stranger, "I have something to say to you."

Marie obeyed her mechanically, and her companion took her place on the turf beside her.

"You remember me?" she said, fixing her bold eyes on Marie's halfaverted face.

A faint affirmative was the reply.

"'Yes'-I was sure of that. Now, do you know my name?"

"No," returned Marie, answering against her will.

"Very well. I am called La Champenoise.' That's as good a name as any other. You are called Madame"-it was with a supreme sneer she dwelt on the word-" Madame Vilette."

"Vilette was my husband's name," replied Marie, with an effort. "True-your husband. Ah, husbands and lovers are not quite the And that sickly creature is his child, I suppose?"

same.

"Mon pauvre Philippe!" exclaimed Marie, bursting into tears, and bending over the boy, who still slept.

"Leave off crying," said the woman; "I have news of your husband."

"Oh, tell me," cried Marie, eagerly-" tell me, where is he?" The woman laughed.

"Pas si bête, ma chère. If I were to tell you that, even here where we sit, there are those near enough-les sacrés mouchards-to make me repent it."

"What is it you want, then? If you bring me tidings of my husband, you cannot think that I would betray your confidence.' "I am not sure of that," returned La Champenoise. want-or, rather, what he wants-you shall know directly." "Well?" said Marie, striving to be calm.

"But what I

"That last coup of his, when he left you and the maillot there," continued La Champenoise, pointing to Philippe, "one fine night, about a year ago—that last coup was a failure. Il perdit toute la camelotte

all he ventured he lost-and his liberty into the bargain. They took him -no matter where, but it was far enough off. Well, he doesn't want to stay where he is-c'est de nature-and has sent word—no matter how -that you must help him."

"What can I do? What ought I to do?" exclaimed Marie to herself, rather than to her companion.

"Can!-ought!" answered the other. "You're his wife. Send him all you've got.

"And my child," said Marie, "see how ill he is. What can I take from his necessity Oh, woman, if you have a woman's heart, think,

after what you have said, think of a mother's anguish."

"Bah!" returned La Champenoise. "Every mother says the same when she's in trouble. Mine did, I dare say, some time or other-more's the pity. You won't be a mother long, for that matter."

"Oh, mon Dieu, mon Dieu!" sobbed Marie; "ai-je mérité ce malheur?"

"Listen to me, I tell you," pursued the vindictive woman. "It's no pleasure to me to see you pleurnicher like the Fontaine du Diable, in the Rue de l'Echelle. You must have money, and, what's more, you must give what you have. You call yourself Madame Caron I find. Take care," she added, in a whisper-"take care you're not known in the quartier as the wife of the convict Vilette !"

These words made Marie tremble; and little Philippe, roused from his slumber by the woman's excited voice, opened his languid eyes, and, turning them towards her, gave a feeble scream.

"Go," said Marie, again rising hastily, terror and anger half choking her utterance-"go; you are a bad woman. But, no-you must be obeyed. Come this evening, when it is dark, to the Barrière de Clichy. I will be there, and

""

"Bring the money with you," interrupted La Champenoise.

"I will bring what I can," replied Marie.

"A la bonne heure," returned the woman, with cool effrontery. "Au revoir." And, with a scornful laugh, she turned away, and strode down the hill.

Marie kept her promise. She made but a small reserve, and once more consigned her hardly-earned savings to her worthless husband, of whose worthlessness she no longer had a doubt, but for whose miserable lot her heart still beat with pity. Was this a weakness or a virtue?

VI.

WHEN left, however, to reflect upon her position, Marie felt its insecurity. Her name and place of abode known to the woman who called herself "La Champenoise," and her fears having been already worked upon, to continue to reside at Les Batignolles was no longer safe. But where, and with a sick child, was she to remove to? It was a question of moment, for the means of living were imperilled by the step. alternative of remaining where she was, was almost as bad. Her husYet the band, whose return she now dreaded as much as she had formerly desired it, might re-appear and claim the right of disposing of her actions; the woman, too, who acted evidently under the influence of strong feelings of Jan.-VOL. CIII. NO. CCCCLX.

D

jealousy, might revenge herself by carrying out the threat, and involve them all in one common ruin. It was better, she thought, once more to change her name, and seek a home in a part of Paris less likely to be frequented by Vilette and his companions, should he endeavour to find her out again. But before she did so, she communicated her intention to M. Allaux, and told him the reasons which impelled her to the step she meditated. The kind physician acknowledged the force of her representations, and did not strive to alter her resolve, knowing only too well that the doom of her child was sealed, and could be little accelerated or retarded by change of place; he felt, moreover, that when her mind was free from apprehension of annoyance, she would be better enabled to devote herself to the care of little Philippe. But again his kindness was active, nor would he suffer her to fix on a new residence till he had personally ministered to her comforts.

For the third time, then, Marie went forth to create a new world for herself and child, and crossing over to the opposite side of Paris, found an apartment in a quatrième on the Boulevard Mont Parnasse, a short distance only from the cemetery that bears that name, as if fate had summoned her to that locality. We need not dwell on an event which every one but poor Marie foresaw: little Philippe lingered for a few months, and then, like a lamp long flickering, the light that gave him life went out. Deep was the desolate mother's grief when, at last, the blow fell; but though it absorbed every feeling, and quenched every hope, it did not kill; though the joy of her existence was gone, she yet had a motive for living

on.

A strange desire actuated her: to honour the remains of her boy, by erecting as costly a monument to his memory as the labour of her hands could procure. Marie calculated that a year of unremitting toil would suffice for this purpose, and when that was accomplished, the sooner it pleased Providence to permit her to lay her head beside her darling, the welcomer her last hour. Early and late, therefore, did she work with this object in view, denying herself all but the actual necessaries of life, and gradually accumulating the sum of which she stood in need. She might have exerted herself less to achieve her object, for since the death of little Philippe, Monsieur and Madame de Frémont had returned to Paris, and learnt the story of her woes. They offered her a home, but Marie was fixed on the one idea of performing her task unaided, and gratefully declined the assistance that was so readily proffered. In this manner the time rolled on,—the year's labour was nearly at an end, and but a few francs were wanting to complete the desired amount, when a fresh incident arose to chequer her sad career.

She was passing, one morning, by the porter's lodge of the house in which she lived, on her way to pay her daily visit visit to the cemetery, when the portress, who was engaged in discussion with the facteur of the quartier, called to her by her assumed name:

"Eh bien, Madame Louvel, voilà une lettre pour vous, qui a l'air de venir de bien loin, vu que la poste n'est pas payée et que ça coûte un peu !"

"A letter for me, and from a distance?" said Marie; "it must be a mistake. I have no friends out of Paris."

"It is for you, sure enough," replied the old woman; "see, the name and address are quite right. It bears the Havre post-mark."