carried their things on my cart. It was the best day's work I ever did."

"And where did you take them to ?"

"To Monsieur Bonenfant's, the baker in the Rue de Provence." "And you left them there?"

"No; they left me."

In a muddled sort of way the Auvergnat then explained what had happened until he joined the citadine, appealing to the cut over his eye, and to the money Bianca had given him, in evidence of the truth of his story. A little more questioning brought out all that Baptiste wanted to know, except the number of the house in which Mademoiselle de Gournay and her bonne were now lodged. The lure of a "commission," however, led the Auvergnat to agree to show the place, and after a final glass of absinthe, paid for with the rest, Baptiste and the water-carrier left the "Réveil-matin" together.

"Est-il rusé, l'vieux !" said the bourgeois.

"Est-il bête, c't Auvergnat!" responded the bourgeoise. "Fauché dans l'pont, comm' j'n'sais quoi."

And with this comment on the water-carrier's intellectual faculties, the host and hostess of the "Réveil-matin" resumed their several occupations.

Meantime Baptiste, guided by the Auvergnat, reconnoitred the house in which Mademoiselle de Gournay and Justine had taken refuge, and well satisfied with the way in which he had accomplished his mission, returned to the Rue d'Anjou. Within a few paces of home a young man, well dressed but with no particular freshness about his toilette, and somewhat haggard in his looks, came up and accosted him, asking, with much earnestness of manner, which was the hotel of the Marquis de Saverne ?

Baptiste pointed to the door, and observed that he was himself a member of the establishment: did Monsieur desire to wait on his master?

The stranger hesitated for an instant before he answered, and then abruptly said:

"Tell me is he married?"

A smile crept over the features of the maître d'hôtel.

"Ma foi !" he replied, "that is an odd question. Why do you ask, Monsieur ?"

"Because," returned the young man, "it is very important for me that I should know."

"But," said Baptiste, with a cunning air, "of what importance is it to me that I should tell you ?"

"Of so much as this, now"-and with these words he slipped a Napoleon into the maître d'hôtel's hand-" and of more, perhaps, hereafter."

"The Marquis," said Baptiste, pocketing the money, "is a widower." "And-and-the young lady who was with him at the Opera last night? Is she his daughter ?"

It was Baptiste's turn to consider before he replied. Another Napoleon turned the scale.

"No, Monsieur, she is simply a relation.”

"What is her name?"

"Mademoiselle de Gournay, the daughter of the Baron de Gournay." "Is her father rich ?"

Baptiste shrugged his shoulders.

"Listen, my good fellow," said the young man. "I have a good fortune-in perspective-when an enormously wealthy uncle dies; he is already past sixty, and cannot live much longer. It will be worth your while to become my friend. I adore Mademoiselle de Gournay-I am dying to present myself to her. Will you deliver a letter for me ?" "You ask a great deal, Monsieur," said Baptiste, with well-feigned reluctance.

"I beseech you!" implored the young man.

"The most I could promise," said Baptiste, after consulting his conscience, or his memory, "is this: the letter shall be placed, in her absence, on her dressing-table."

"That is sufficient!" exclaimed the young man. "You are an admirable person. But you will also bring me the answer? Then I will double your reward."

"How can I promise that, Monsieur, before I know that Mademoiselle will reply? Besides, it is not to me that she would speak."

"In that respect you are right. No! It is not you whom she would employ. Her delicacy is, of course, too great. But these are things which I understand. You address yourself to Mademoiselle de Gournay's femme de chambre: it is she who becomes the intermediate in this affair ; by her assistance I obtain my answer."

"And is Monsieur's own letter ready ?"

"No! I have not yet prepared it. But that is only the affair of a moment. There is a bureau d'écrivain in the Place de la Madeleine-I observed it just now-where I can get all I want for the purpose. Say, when can I see you again?"

"Whenever Monsieur pleases."

"In half an hour then, or less. I am all impatience to write."

"Let it be half an hour, Monsieur; and as this street is rather public, Monsieur will not, perhaps, object to come to the Rue d'Astorg? There is a private entrance to the hotel on that side."

"Ah! I am enchanted to hear you say so. A private entrance! That may be of vast utility to my projects. Yes, I will be there with my letter."

The two then separated. Baptiste entered the Hôtel de Saverne, and the other speaker, who, it is needless to say, was the self-relying Anatole Duval, made for the Place de la Madeleine.

"At length I succeed!" he said, as he hurried along. "A few hours more and we become everything to each other! It was the most fortunate thing I met with this man! I must give him more money. How much have I got? Only two Napoleons-which are promised to him already and a few francs beside. N'importe. What signifies that! To-morrow I again storm my uncle. When he finds that I am to be married to the daughter of the Baron de Gournay, he will refuse me nothing! Ah! there is my bureau!"

The hand that has swept from the streets of Paris so much that was

original may have suppressed the calling of the écrivain public since last we traversed the Place de la Madeleine, but at the period to which this story refers one of this fraternity pursued his occupation in a baraque that stood in the corner near the Rue Royale. He was a short, humpbacked fellow, but this accident had probably determined his vocation, for it is observable that those who are shapen thus have always the highest opinion of their own genius: the more incapable they seem of helping themselves, the readier they are to undertake the affairs of others. Anatole only required the assistance of pen, ink, and paper, but it was with extreme difficulty he could induce the amanuensis to believe that it was in his power to accomplish his own purpose.

"I see what you want," said the little man. "A letter to a lady, of course. Is she young, or of riper age? Of high or low condition ? Only name what you require, and before the words are out of your mouth the thing is done."

"I do not doubt your capacity the least in the world," said Anatole, "but in the present instance I cannot profit by it. All I want is to change places with you till I have written a letter. I pay you all the same."

"Be it so, then.

"Oh, that's it!" said the bossu, with a mortified air. But take my word for it you will one day regret that you did not employ my pen. Think of it, Monsieur, consider my experience in these matters!"

But Anatole was already writing at a furious rate, and as he wrote, the dispossessed écrivain eyed him with an expression in which pity and contempt were blended.

"What is our profession worth," he grumbled, "if persons, in broad daylight, come and usurp our functions! Do they think that we are without amour-propre? I will pay you all the same.' Yes, but your money cannot heal the wound you inflict on my feelings. I despise your money-I toss it to the winds-I cast it into the Seine; that is to say, I would do so if I were not in want of my breakfast. As it is, I must accept it. I should like to compare his style with mine! But what do I say? His style! It is impossible he should have one. Dieu merci, that can only be acquired by constant practice. So-his griffonnage has come to an end."

Here were two personifications of vanity, but that of the little humpback was the most allowable. On his part, Anatole seemed quite satisfied that in writing to Mademoiselle de Gournay he had done all that was necessary. It was an eloquent production, and could it but have reached the person for whom it was intended, there is no saying what might have been the result. In sealing his letter Anatole was obliged to lie at the mercy of the écrivain, but the latter did not too greatly abuse his opportunity, merely impressing the wax with the simple yet forcible, if not novel, device of a heart transfixed by a dart, and the touching motto "Je saigne." To conclude this episode. When it is said that the écrivain received a piece of forty sous for the accommodation afforded the market price being, at the outside, only ten-everybody will admit that meanness was not amongst the vices of Monsieur Anatole Duval. Indeed, the young man's generosity quite reconciled the proprietor of the baraque to the neglect of his pen, and if nature had per

mitted, he would have made a bow in returning thanks. As it was, he expressed the hope that he should have the honour of seeing Monsieur on a future occasion.

To fly with his letter to the Rue d'Astorg was Anatole's next proceeding. Baptiste had not yet appeared when he got there, and the quarter of an hour which he was compelled to wait seemed interminable. At last the garden door opened, and the maître d'hôtel presented himself. Delightedly Anatole placed the missive in his hand-with another fee to secure its safe delivery-and an appointment was made for the next day at the same time and place. What each thought of the transaction may be inferred from the words which fell from them when alone.

"I shall pass the day," said Anatole, "with Camille and Beaupréthey will burst with spite when I tell them of my success!"

"This letter," said Baptiste, "will amuse me when I have leisure to read it."

A WALK OVER MONT CENIS.

WITH A GLIMPSE OF THE FRENCH IN APRIL-MAY, 1859.

BY A TOURIST.

"LET us take our telescopes and be off to Mont Cenis," said I to my brother, the evening of the first day the troops of Louis Napoleon entered Savoy from France. And we start, accordingly, for Chambery the following morning.

Every one who has travelled the modern route from Geneva to Lyons, or Paris, must remember how the railroad, after running a dozen or more miles along the plain, enters a deep gorge-a gap in the mighty wall of mountains which encloses the valley of the Leman-where the Vuache and lofty Jura confront one another, hemming in the Rhône between their bases, till the noble stream temporarily disappears from the light of day, at a spot well known to the Genevese as La Perte du Rhône. Few will have passed, unobserved, one of the longest and darkest tunnels in this part of the world, and few only have been ignorant of the remarkable fortress which holds the pass. I allude to Fort l'Ecluse, with its terrible batteries hewn in the solid rock, its barrack rooms and staircases diving into the very bowels of the mountain, and its garrison of French soldiers. A few miles beyond this gorge and its fortress is the junction of the Victor Emmanuel line, at Calos, a small station, but now the scene of great interest and excitement. Here we descend, fumbling nervously with our passports-for one never knows when or where the imagination of a gendarme may find cause of suspicion.

With a detention, here, of two hours in prospect, we stroll to the village, which swarms with "culottes rouges; the little French lines

man, brisk as "the blithe summer bee," is fraternising with every one, and alive to everything, except to any gloomy anticipation of the bloody era before him. A bugle sounds! A company of soldiers fall in without arms; some of the men are unbuttoned and without their stocks, some are even smoking, but all standing very much at ease; while their captain, a smart officer, repeats a caution to the different sections to hold themselves in readiness to reassemble at a certain hour in heavy marching order. A similar scene is being enacted at different parts of the village.

Upon returning to the station, we find waggons for military transport have been rapidly multiplying, and a fresh batch of troops arrived from Paris. The train in which we are to start presents a most formidable appearance: a long array of brass field-pieces, with tumbrils and ammunition, are mounted upon trucks in front of the carriages, stores of provisions and forage behind; the vis iuertia of this ponderous mass is overcome by means of two panting engines, and we are moving on our way southward, though not with the velocity of an English express. The boundary line between France and Savoy is passed, upon crossing a fine bridge over the Rhône. The rich alluvial soil of this part of the valley produces corn-fields, intersected at regular intervals by strips or low avenues of vines-a curious mode of culture, which I have not as yet met with in any part of Switzerland. Then comes the Lake Bourget, gently rippling at the foot of mountains of pleasing, though not of sublime, altitude; and tunnels, with Gothic entrances, built as if to divert the senses of the traveller from the horrors of his subterraneous flight. "That is our Westminster Abbey," says a good-natured fellow passenger, pointing to a conspicuous but dignified old monastery reposing under the mountain on the other side of the water. "Hautecombe," the last resting-place of the ancient Dukes of Savoy-for it was to that he alluded is beautifully situated, breathing an air of peace and quiet; near it is an intermitting fountain, which plays and ceases alternately-a phenomenon perhaps to be accounted for in the flux and reflux of the waters of the lake. Aix-les-Bains is not yet in her glory: her season only commences a month later, when Parisians, Lyonnais, and Marseillais flock with their families into the valley to drink the waters, and while away a month or six weeks of country existence. The mountains around Chambery begin to assume a bold and somewhat aspiring aspect, for we are now penetrating into the Alps west of the great chain. At the station a considerable crowd is assembled to welcome the troupes Françaises ; the sun shines warm and bright; the girls have donned their Sunday caps; quaint-looking old gentlemen, each carrying a little packet of cigarsfor what purpose I cannot divine, if it be not for the pleasure of exchanging a "friendly weed" with every acquaintance-are eagerly chatting politics, and speculating, with less than Swiss reserve, on the immediate upshot of events. There are also gentlemanly-looking_gendarmes. The Sardinian soldier, somehow or other, is generally well got up. I have noticed the fact in the Crimea. His neat uniform never appears to have had "the shine taken out of it," nor his face to have been shaved with cold water.

The railway terminates at St. Jean de Maurienne. Here we leave