without drinking, "I cannot there is a weight which chokes me."

"Don't call me demoiselle," interrupted the old woman, with a kind of rebuking smile, "say Veronique, as you would to a common person." "We are poor women who work for our living, and not ladies,” added the other. Every one should keep within their own sphere, remember

that."

"Yes, Suzanne," replied Gabrielle, gently.

"If you are an obedient and good girl," added Veronique, "you will not be uncomfortable with us-I may even say you will be happy. We did not go to see you at the convent, because we knew that you did not require us; but that did not prevent us from taking an interest in everything that regarded you. We knew you when quite a little child."

Gabrielle raised her head, and said, with much emotion:

"I know it. I still remember the day when you took me to the convent, which I have never left until this morning. It is twelve years ago. But previous to that, I recollect nothing; I neither remember my mother nor my kind father, whom I have just lost. But you knew them, did you not ?"

"Yes, my child,” replied Suzanne; "they were people much to be pitied."

"Indeed! Were they unfortunate ?"

66

They had the greatest of all misfortunes; they were as noble as a king, and as poor as Job."

"I thought that high birth was an advantage, and that one might be happy, although poor."

66

Yes, when one can work; but, unfortunately, your father was called the Vicomte de Lescale. What could he do? He was living pretty well on the revenue of a small estate, when a lawsuit completely ruined him. He then came to Marseilles, to try and do something; but a Lescale a merchant, a clerk, was that possible? He was promised an appointment, but did not obtain it; and as he did not make any figure in the world, all his noble relations received him with that sort of humiliating pity, more galling than anything else to a man of sensibility. Your mother, who was very proud, could not bear up under these misfortunes. She fell ill, and as we were living in the neighbourhood we used to go and take care of her. At last-poor lady-she died on Easter-day. Your father, who loved her passionately, was much grieved; he shut himself up for several days, vowing to mingle no more with the world, and the world left him, and forgot him in his sorrow. He said that he wished to die; but meanwhile he had to live, with nothing to live

on.

He then informed us that he would go and work for himself and you in a foreign country, among people who, being ignorant of his rank, could not reproach him for having degraded himself. It was a foolish step to take, especially as the worthy man knew little about mercantile affairs, and had not the means to undertake business on a large scale. We advised him rather to remain here, to trample all pride under foot, and take a shop. But he had not courage enough, and departed, leaving you with us. Some time after this we took you, by his desire, to the Convent of the Visitation, and for twelve years he sent us punctually the amount needed to pay your board. I thought that he was prospering,

Gabrielle.

and now he dies entirely ruined. One can count upon nothing in this world. God only sends afflictions. May His will be done!"

Gabrielle had listened to this sad account with deep attention. It was the first time she had heard of the misfortunes of her family. Until now she had believed herself the daughter of a flourishing merchant, whose modest and fortunate position could not be subjected to any reverse. She had never had any other grief than that of being separated from her father for so many years, and was expecting with impatient hope the time When she learnt that he when he should summon her to him for ever. was dead, far from her, after a life of difficulty and misery; when she other any support found herself thus alone in the world, and without these two women, who were kind to her, but whose age, physiognomy, and manner, produced in her a secret sentiment of repulsion and fear, she fell into a state of passive and silent grief, which appeared like resignation.

than

"There, come near me," said Suzanne to her, seeing her more calm; "we must arrange about making you a mourning dress, which will not be too expensive. My sister has already been looking among our best clothes; we do not wish you to want anything."

Veronique threw upon the table a bundle of clothes, nearly new, but of all sizes and fashions; they were the spoils of the dead, which, according to custom, were given to the two Ravens. Gabrielle looked with indifference at this confused mass of stuffs and laces, whilst Suzanne reviewed them one at a time, mumbling:

"That is fine! that is beautiful! Here is a satin petticoat, which could not have cost less than ten crowns; it is new, but silk is half mourning, that won't do. Here is a Lyons silk, brocaded black on black; that is too handsome. Let us look, sister, at that bombazine dress, which we got lately."

It was a dress of deep mourning, with a train, and large open sleeves, which looked like the wings of a bat.

"We will make this fit you," said Veronique. "There will not be much to alter in it; the poor Marquise de Hassans was very like you in figure."

"She had exactly your figure," repeated Suzanne, placing the dismal dress on the young girl's shoulders.

Gabrielle shuddered. It seemed as if they were covering her with her winding-sheet.

"Ah, Suzanne!" cried she, "perhaps this dress belonged to some dead person?"

"Certainly; but what does it signify to you? The marquise did not die of the plague," replied the Raven, coldly.

The young girl hastened to pick up the dress which she had thrown off, and Veronique, soothed by her gentleness, said kindly to her: "We will manage all this to-morrow.

I have made a little bed for

you at the foot of ours; say your prayers, and go to bed."

III.

GABRIELLE passed a week in the house of the two old women without suspecting the profession in which they were engaged. the large room, where during the rainy winter days it June-VOL. CXXXIV. NO. DXXXIV.

She did not leave was dark in the

middle of the day. The window of this prison looked upon a court-yard, surrounded by walls so high that it was necessary to raise one's head to catch a glimpse of the sky. The poor girl worked on in silence, seated before the opaque panes of glass, which just permitted a doubtful light to fall on her work. No doubt she regretted the convent, as an abode of joy and pleasure. The Ravens left her almost every night alone at home, without informing her of the cause of their absence. The following Sunday they took her to hear mass, and on their return home Veronique said to her, without explanation:

"Gabrielle, my child, this week

you shall go with us."

In the afternoon of the same day a knock was heard at the door of that dwelling, which was never entered by any being, and as usual Veronique went to the door. She soon returned, and said with some emotion:

"Holy Mary! do you know for whom they have sent for us, sister? For that excellent young man who took care of us one evening-for Gaspard de Gréoulx! He is dead! So young. Alas! alas!"

"The curse of Heaven is certainly on that family," murmured Suzanne. "Well, we will go and watch his poor body."

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"Ah, sister," cried Veronique, "I don't know if I shall be strong enough; we have watched so much this week. Alas! Gaspard de Gréoulx !"

"What does his name signify to us? What is there in common between us and that family ?" interrupted Suzanne, looking steadfastly at her sister. "We must go wherever we are called; that is our duty. Did you inquire where this young man died ?"

"He died like a man who had neither fireside nor home, at the Silver Cock Hotel, surrounded by strangers. He had no father, no mother, no one to take care of him."

"Come," interrupted Suzanne, with impatience.

"Listen," said Veronique, after reflecting a little. "I will go and help you, and when we have arranged everything, Gabrielle shall watch with us. Really I do not feel strong enough to remain there until tomorrow."

The young girl had listened to this colloquy in silent horror; on hearing the last words she exclaimed:

"My God! with whom are we going to pass the night? Who are we going to watch ?"

"You heard well enough," replied Suzanne, quietly. "We are going to watch a dead body."

The poor girl turned as white as the linen handkerchief which she wore round her neck, and tremblingly supported herself against the back of a chair.

"It is nothing," continued Suzanne, hideously winking her eyes; "it only wants a little good will. One becomes accustomed to everything, my child. Are you afraid ?"

"Ab, yes! I am afraid," she replied, faintly.

"That will go off the moment you have seen a corpse. Come, my girl, the living only are to be feared, dead people can do no harm to any They have never returned from the other world, and all one hears about that are only foolish tales. Take your cloak, your prayer-book, your chaplet, and let us go."

one.

Gabrielle.

Gabrielle obeyed. A deep sense of pride conquered her reluctance. She now owed all to these women, who were working for their living, and the only way of not being a burden to them was to help them in their work. She armed herself with courage, and followed the Ravens, praying to God the whole way.

The Silver Cock Hotel was a pretty good house, situated behind the port. Respectable strangers always put up there. One never saw many travellers there, for at that time people were more hospitable than they house. are now. People accommodated each other, and the slightest degree of any relationship was sufficient to command a hearty welcome in It appeared that Gaspard de Gréoulx had no connexions in Marseilles, from his having lodged at this inn, where he had just died.

The Ravens found the door wide open; a servant-maid who was coming down the stairs said to them, drawing back with fear:

"Go up there, to the first floor, to the second room. holy water, and flowers, will be brought to you."

Wax-candles,

She disappeared on finishing these words. A little higher up there was another servant, who crossed herself, and cried:

"Holy Mary! here they are. I never saw them before! They say there are only two, but here are three." She was running off also, but Suzanne stopped her.

66

My friend," said she, jeeringly, "don't run quite so fast, the staircase is dark; you might break your neck, and then it would be said that we had caused this misfortune."

eyes

And as the servant remained nailed to the spot before her, with her wide open with fear, the old woman added: "My friend, will you be kind enough to tell me how this died ?"

young

man

"Good gracious! how do I know," she replied, bluntly. "He took to his bed the day before yesterday; the doctors did not understand his illness; and this morning he died."

"We are always sent for too late," murmured the Raven; "his body must be quite cold."

She began to ascend the stairs, all the while searching in her wide pockets for her needle and large scissors. There was no one in the first room. The two old women shut the door, and, making a sign to Gabrielle to remain there, they went into the next chamber.

The young girl leaned with her elbows on the chimney-piece, and hid her face in her hands; she shuddered, influenced by an invincible terror. It was not that her childish fears overcame her; she was not afraid of Her seeing any supernatural apparition rise before her, but she felt that instinctive horror which all living beings do at the sight of death. good sense struggled in vain against her fear. She well knew that there was no danger to apprehend, yet, notwithstanding that, she endured more agony than if her life had been in danger. Tremblingly, she listened to the steps of the Ravens, and, as the day closed, she felt her fears increase. Twenty times she was on the point of opening the door to fly, to take refuge for the night at the Convent of la Visitation; but the recollection of what she owed to these two women, who had protected her, prevented her.

At the expiration of an hour, Veronique opened the door of the next room, and said to Gabrielle :

0 2

"All is done. We have laid him out satisfactorily. Open your prayer-book, my child, at the service for the burial of the dead, and come." She tried to look in her missal, but her dim sight could not distinguish the characters, and her trembling hands could not turn the pages.

"Come," continued Veronique, gently pushing her.

"I am going," replied Gabrielle; and, making a desperate effort, she hastened to enter the chamber. At first she saw nothing-a cloud was before her eyes, a painful noise rung in her ears; she felt herself nearly fainting.

"Really there is nothing to fear," said Suzanne, severely, while making her sit in an easy-chair near the door. Holy Virgin! it is not an ugly

corpse."

Gabrielle tried to conquer her fears; she raised her head, and glanced round the room. What she saw was a more sad than frightful spectacle. Four wax-candles were burning at the corners of the bed, the curtains of which were drawn ; at the side of it stood a jar of holy water, in which was dipped a branch of wood, which served as a brush with which to sprinkle the water. In the midst of these funeral arrangements reposed a figure, white and immovable as the beautiful marble statues placed on tombs. It was wrapped up to the shoulders in a shroud; its hands, resting on the chest, held a cross; a crown of immortelles and white pinks encircled its forehead.

By degrees, Gabrielle's fears gave place to a deep feeling of sadness. Instinct was conquered by reason, and the young girl knelt down to begin the service of the dead. Suzanne placed herself by her side, and said, with satisfaction:

"You are calm now; you see that there is nothing very frightful. Come, child, make haste and read the service; I will say the responses, and afterwards I will give you some coffee; that will keep you awake all night."

"Thank you, Suzanne," the young girl replied, in a low voice, "I would rather not take anything until to-morrow. Let us pray for this poor soul."

She began to read with fervour the De Profundis, and Suzanne repeated mechanically the verses, while passing her chaplet between her fingers. Gabrielle had never before prayed with a heart so sad and so separated from the world. A recollection of her own misfortunes returned on seeing this figure of nothingness; she thought of her dead father, who, like this young man, had breathed his last at a distance from his family, in a house where his last looks had only met those of strangers. She had never reflected upon this terrible mystery, which puts an end to human destiny; until now, she had never thought of it, because hitherto the present and the future of this life had only occupied her mind. But, in the presence of this sublime lesson, she bowed her head with deep awe, and repeated, in her heart: "My God! we are but dust and ashes. Thou alone art above death!"

Suzanne read the entire service to the last Requiem; then, satisfied at having accomplished this pious duty, she said, while throwing herself into a large arm-chair before the fire:

"One is not so uncomfortable here, with one's feet on the fender. Gabrielle, my child, place yourself there--you are cold! Holy Mother!