was another knock at the door. It was again a page from the Empress. "We are coming," cried the Emperor, continuing his writing.

What time is that, Gaudin?" he inquired finally as the clock struck.

"Three o'clock, sire."

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Ah, mon Dieu! it is too late for us to go to the ball; what do you think about it?"

"That is quite my view, sire."

"Then let us each go to bed," said the Emperor. "Well," he added, as M. Gaudin took his hat to depart, many people think that we pass our lives in amusing ourselves, and, as the Orientals say, eating sweetmeats. Good night, Monsieur le Ministre."

CHAPTER IX

The Widow Pasquin

Smit with exceeding sorrow unto death.

—Tennyson, The Lover's Tale.

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'He was not a bad

It was the third of March, and Henri Jodelle stood in his room reading a letter. He read it carefully, and his face grew grave as he did so. "I am sorry for the young Pasquin," said Henri. fellow, and I rather liked the boy's pluck when he went off to the war. Now Deteau writes me that he has been killed at Saragossa. So tout est fini."

The garden Gaspard put his head in at the door. "Pere Henri," said he, "it is four o'clock. You wanted to go to the Trois Dauphins, didn't you?"

"Yes," answered Henri, taking up his cloak and hat. He went down into the cafe and out into the Place Grenette.

Ah, good day, Henri," said old Frederic Bonneville. "Have you any news from Spain?"

"Yes. Jean Deteau, the aide-de-camp to Marshal Lannes, you know, has written me a letter. Saragossa has surrendered, but a nasty fight those Spanish devils made of it. Sixty days they kept us at it. The Emperor should have been there. Things would have come to an end quickly then."

"Ajax is a good soldier," said old Bonneville.

"Of course he is," answered Henri, "but it takes

the Little Corporal to hurry matters. Look how quickly he brought Madrid to terms. Ah, if I had the two good legs I had once, I would go again and have a hand at it myself. Where are you going, Frederic?"

"To the Cafe Jodelle."

"Well, go, and wait for me there. Gaspard will give you a glass of wine. I am going to the Trois Dauphins, but I'll be back at five o'clock. Adieu, Frederic."

Henri went on his way and entered the Rue Montorge. "I'll say nothing about the young Pasquin to Marie to-day," he said to himself. "To-morrow will be time enough. Now there is Widow Pasquin's epicerie. I fancy she ought to know, so I will stop and tell her."

He crossed the street and entered the shop. There was no one in it, and Henri passed to the rear and knocked at the door of the room in which Jeanne Pasquin lived.

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Come in," said the Widow, and he entered.

The Widow Pasquin was sitting in her high-backed chair before the little fireplace. The firelight played over her white cap, heavy dark dress and curious wooden shoes, and brought out more clearly the wrinkles and lines of her sad face.

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"Bon jour, mere Pasquin," said Henri. "I found no one in your shop and so I knocked at your door." Come in, Henri Jodelle, and sit down by the fire," said the Widow. And when he had done so she asked, "What can I do for you?"

Henri seemed a little embarrassed. "Well, mere Pasquin," he said, "what news do you have from your son Pierre?"

There was something in his tone which made the Widow grow pale and she looked at him nervously. "I heard from him at Saragossa," she answered. "He had been wounded, but was getting well fast. Tell me, pere Henri, have you any news?"

Henri, with a soldier's bluntness, pulled Deteau's letter out of his pocket and handed it to her. She took it with trembling hands and read it hurriedly by the firelight. Then with a low cry, "Ah, mon Dieu!" she sank forward in her chair and buried her face in her hands.

The tears streamed from her eyes. "He is dead!" she cried. "My brave Pierre! my only boy! My God! My God! what will become of me!" And her wasted, trembling body shook with her sobs.

"This will never do," muttered Henri nervously, "I must cheer her up a bit." "Le diable! good mere Pasquin," he cried bluntly, "you son has had a gallant death. Why, if I had twenty sons I'd send them all to battle pour la patrie! Where can a brave man die better than on the field of honor under the banners of our glorious Emperor?"

"Stop, Henri Jodelle, stop!" cried the Widow, raising her feeble hand. "You little know, you hard, rough man, the grief that fills a mother's heart when she has lost her only boy! As for that man, that Napoleon whom you style 'glorious Emperor,' speak no more of him! Have I not given him my all; my Amand, my Robert, my Pierre! Go, Henri Jodelle, and torture me no more!"

Henri's face was a study as he walked along the Rue Montorge toward the Hotel des Trois Dauphins. "I didn't think she would take on like that," he said.

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When one's son goes to war one should be prepared to have him killed, and, after all, quelle difference if he but die gloriously on the field of honor."

In her little room the Widow Pasquin sat sobbing and moaning. The shades of evening came gradually on, and then darkness, and only the faint light of the fire illumined the sombre gloom of the room. The sobs became softer and finally ceased. It was night, and still the Widow Pasquin sat motionless in her high-backed chair. The light of the fire died away, and nothing remained but the dull gleam of the red embers; gradually that died too, and all was darkness. Then, on the lofty summits of the surrounding mountains, appeared the first rays of the morning, faintly at first, then brighter and brighter, and, at last, the sun rose, bringing light and life and joy; a new day had begun.

The bright rays shone into the little room, filling it with a blaze of light and glory, but the Widow Pasquin moved not; she still sat in her high-backed chair. The homme du peuple started to his daily toil, the portiere took her broom and swept the doorways, the wretched chiffonniers went with their baskets in search of garbage, the pale-faced soeur de charite, with her white cap and cross and beads, began her errands of mercy, the bouquetiere arranged her flowers on the sidewalk, the torn and tattered mendiants tramped about looking for a few sous, the marchand de coco, with his long can strapped on his back, his tin cups and curious round hat, began to vend his wares, the porteur d'eau carried his water-pails hung over his shoulder, the patissier arranged his cakes for the boys going to school, the facteur de la poste delivered his letters, the modiste