of the death of the lady, and of the relationship existing between them, which was so different from what I had always imagined.  Madame de B——­ was the widow of a French officer of high rank, during whose life she had been in affluent circumstances; but through various causes, she had lost most of the property left her at his death, and retained at last only enough to keep them in the humble style I have described.  The manner of her death was very singular.  In her better days, she had lived with her husband in a handsome house near the Champs Elysees.  On the day of her death, she was walking with a gentleman from Boston, a friend of the two pupils I have mentioned, and was speaking to him of her more affluent days, when, as they were near the house where she had once lived, she proposed to walk on a little further, that she might point it out.  He consented, and as they drew near to it, she exclaimed, ‘Ah! nous l’apercevons,’ and, without another word, fell suddenly in a sort of apoplectic fit, not living more than half an hour longer.  The circumstance of this lady dying suddenly so near the place where she had once lived, and which she so seldom visited, was certainly very singular.  To my surprise, I learned that the younger lady was the daughter of old Marie, having been adopted and educated by the person she had always supposed to be her aunt; she having no children of her own.  What made it more singular was, that the younger lady had herself been in possession of this family secret only a few years.  It reminded me somewhat of Tennyson’s Lady Clare, though in this case no one had been kept out of an estate by the fiction.  It was merely to give the young lady the advantage of the supposed relationship.  This, then, accounted for the strong affection existing between them, and lest any reader might think this conduct strange, I must again bear witness to the kindness and true affection always displayed toward the real mother.  I would not narrate this true story, did I not feel how little chance there is of my humble pen writing any thing that would reach the ears of this family, living so obscurely in the great world of Paris.

Just opposite us, in the court, lived another lady, who has played many fictitious parts, as well as a somewhat prominent one, on the stage of real life.  This was Madame George, the once celebrated actress; in her younger days, a famous beauty, and at one time mistress of the great Napoleon.  Though long retired from regular connection with the stage, she still makes an occasional appearance upon it, almost always drawing a full audience, collected principally from curiosity to see so noted a personage, or to remark what portion of her once great dramatic power time has still left her.  One of these appearances was made at the Odeon, while we were in Paris.  Marie informed us of the coming event before it was announced on the bills, and seemed to take as much interest in it as if it had been the debut of a near relative.