“My dear Cesar, I know my carelessness was most culpable, but it cannot be so bad as John fears.  Oh, if anything should happen now, by my fault, when we are so prosperous and happy, I could never forgive myself!  Do write to me as soon as possible, and relieve the anxiety of

“Affectionately yours, CORNELIA.”

The little Frenchman looked at me with a glance half sad, half comical, as I returned the letter to him.

“Eh, bien, Monsieur!” said he, shrugging his shoulders,—­“you’ve heard my story.  ’Twas fate,—­what could one do?”

“But that is not all,—­John Meavy,”—­said I.

The little Frenchman looked very grave and sad.

“Monsieur, my brave camarade, John Meavy, had been brought up in a stern school.  His ideas of credit and of mercantile honor were pitched very high indeed.  He imagined himself disgraced forever, and—­he did not survive it.”

“You do not mean”——­

“I mean, Monsieur, that I lost the bravest and truest and most generous friend that ever man had, when John Meavy died.  And that dose of Prussic Acid should properly have gone to me, whose fault it all was, instead of to him, so innocent. Eh, bien, Monsieur! his lot was the happiest, after all.”

“But Cornelia?” said I, after a pause.

The little Frenchman rose, with a quiet and graceful air, full of sadness, yet of courtesy; and I knew then that he was no longer my guest and entertainer, but once more the chapman with his wares.

“Monsieur, Cornelia is under my protection.  You will comprehend that—­after that—­she has not escaped with impunity.  Some little strings snapped in the harp.  She is touchee, here,” said he, resting one finger lightly upon his forehead,—­“but ’tis all for the best, sans doute. She is quiet, peaceable,—­and she does not remember.  She sits in my house, working, and the bird sings to her ever.  ’Tis a gallant bird, Monsieur.  And though I am poor, I can yet make some provision for her comfort.  She has good taste, and is very industrious.  These baskets are all of her make; when I have no other employ, I sell them about, and use the money for her. Eh, bien! ’tis a small price,—­fifty cents; if Monsieur will purchase one, he will possess a basket really handsome, and will have contributed something to the comfort of one of the Good God’s protegees.  Mille remerciements, Monsieur,—­for this purchase,—­for your entertainment,—­for your courtesy!

“Bon jour, Monsieur!”

* * * * *

About half an hour after this, I had occasion to traverse one of the corridors of Barnan’s Hotel, when I saw a group of gentlemen, most of whom sported “Atlantic Cable Charms” on their watchchains, gathered about a person who had secured their rapt attention to some story he was narrating.

“Eh, bien, Messieurs!” I heard him say, in a peculiar naive broken English, “it would be yet seven days before I could get ze news,—­and—­I wait.  Oui! calm_lie_, composed_lie_, with insouciance beyond guess, I wait”—­