with her son-in-law in some nice house in the Bayswater or Paddington district. How this proposal was received, we leave it to the reader to imagine.

CHAPTER XVII.

"L'homme n'est qu'un roseau le plus faible de l'univers; mais c'est un roseau pensant. Il ne faut pas que l'univers entier s'arme pour l'écraser. Une vapeur, une goutte d'eau suffit pour le tuer. Mais quand l'univers l'écraserait, l'homme serait encore plus noble que ce qui le tue, parce qu'il sait qu'il meurt; et l'avantage que l'univers a sur lui l'univers n'en sait rien. Ainsi toute notre dignité consiste dans la pensée."-Pensées de Pascal.

MONSIEUR AND MADAME DE PRÉDÉLIAC,-for such was the nom de guerre adopted by Saltasche and Mrs. Poignarde-did not remain long in Baja. Almost directly after his arrival from London they took passages in a fishing-boat, and crossed to Algiers. Here a fortnight was sufficient to weary Mrs. Poignarde; and impelled by some sudden whim, they passed over to Marseilles. Everywhere the same lassitude and devouring ennui possessed her. She seemed as if consumed by some inward fire, urging her onwards eternally. Scarce a city the south of Europe but saw them alight,

and after a few days' feverish sojourn take wing again. North, south, east, or west, she cared not, so that they were in motion. Wearying of the noise and bustle of Marseilles, they went on to Nice, and hired rooms at the chief hotel.

The morning after his arrival, Monsieur de Prédéliac sauntered into the smoking-room to have a look at the papers. Several gentlemen were lounging there; one pushed a pile of papers towards the new-comer. He, seeing them to be English, politely declined; and taking up a Moniteur, said in French,I take the Moniteur." "Did you see here," said one of the loungers, "there's a paragraph in the Swiss Times, saying the detectives are on the trail of that fellow Salt- something or other, who bolted with a pot of money last November?"

"Thank you;

The Moniteur drooped ever so little, and Monsieur de Prédéliac's face wore an expression of interest too intense to be warranted by the accounts of the debates in the French Assembly, which were spread before him.

"Where's the Swiss Times? Oh! "Traced to Naples. It is supposed sailed to Algiers or

Ajaccio. Five hundred pounds reward!' They're very apt to catch him, don't you think, Ross?”

"Yes; especially as he is English. The accent is sure to betray him. So few can ever attain the pure tone."

"Very few. Ross, you are peculiarly blessed in that particular."

"Hee-ee! I've lived such years abroad, you know."

Presently Monsieur de Prédéliac laid down his Moniteur. The last speaker, impelled either by a desire to display his powers, or the almost equally irresistible temptation to practise his French, turned to him, and with an air of conscious power said,

"Monsieur, veuillez byong m' prêter voter journal?"

"With pleasure," returned Monsieur de Prédéliac. "There is nothing in it. The debate is so poor: I blush for my countrymen. Ah! monsieur, we are fallen upon bad times. La France is truly in a pitiable state. Ah! Heaven!-pitiable ! "

All this was uttered in the quickest, most idiomatic French, and accompanied by shrugs, grimaces, and gestures sufficient of them

selves to bewilder anybody. The Englishman, who little expected such a volley in return for his adventurous random pebble, could only ejaculate,

"Er-vraiment." His two friends pricked up their ears.

"Ah!" continued the mischievous Parisian. "In Paris, monsieur-in Paris the demoralisation is frightful to contemplate: no order, no security; business is at a standstill. With a Republic which to-morrow may be a Revolution, and the day after a Commune, what security for anything? Monsieur, there is not that!"

Here Monsieur de Prédéliac, forgetting that the gesture was slightly incongruous with his aristocratic name, turned the palm of his hand outwards, and with the nail of his index finger slightly scraped the inside of one of his front incisors.

"Paz-za de zecurité, monsieur?" he repeated.

"Er-vraiment," from the Englishman again; who, feeling his friends' eyes upon him, felt bound to do something. A phrase occurred to him.