He ceased, and every voice was raised in applause.

“Hail, Prince of Cornaro!” was the general exclamation.

“Prince,” cried Jean Maret, “I give you thanks for the thousand crowns.  The odd five hundred I will give towards Rosa’s dowry.”

“Nay,” rejoined the prince; “the half thou mayst; it is all that thou canst be permitted, for I desire to find some room to add to Rosa’s store.”

“Ha!” said old Gaspar, with a laugh.  “Although not rich, her suitor is yet certain he brings her riches.”

“Good sir,” replied Gulielmo, “I can show you but little coin, it is true; yet you may perceive some gain will be mine if you but choose to read this obligation.”

Thereupon he delivered a slip of parchment into the hand of the host, who turning it once or twice round in the vain attempt to decipher its intention, passed it to the prince, saying: 

“I pray your excellency to read it.  My eyes are somewhat weak, and indeed my scholarship is not so good as it once was.”

“Know all (read the prince, after naming the date), that I will pay to order of Gulielmo Massani, or his lawful heirs, four thousand crowns, with interest, as soon hereafter as demand may be made.  Benvoglio.”

“The Cardinal Benvoglio,” said the prince.  “Indeed, the lad hath prospered well.  But come, the wedding lags.  First, let us tie this youthful pair, and after that we’ll join the revel on the green, where Jean and I will teach you all how to dance ‘la tarantula.’”

THE GOLDSMITH OF PARIS.

By H. W. Loring.

In the good old days of France the fair, when no one dared question the divine right of the sovereign, or the purity of the church,—­when the rights of the feudal seigneurs were unchallenged, and they could head or hang, mutilate or quarter their vassals at their pleasure,—­when freedom was a word as unmeaning as it is now tinder his sacred majesty, Napoleon the Third, there came to the capital, from Touraine, an artizan, named Anseau, who was as cunning in his trade of goldsmith as Benvenuto Cellini, the half-mad artificer of Florence.  He became a burgess of Paris, and a subject of the king, whose high protection he purchased by many presents, both of works of art and good red gold.  He inhabited a house built by himself, near the church of St. Leu, in the Rue St. Denys, where his forge was well known to half the amateurs of fine jewelry.  He was a man of pure morals and persevering industry; always laboring, always improving, constantly learning new secrets and new receipts, and seeking everywhere for new fashions and devices to attract and gratify his customers.  When the night was far advanced, the soldiers of the guard and the revellers returning from their carousals, always saw a lighted lamp at the casement of the goldsmith’s workshop, where he was hammering, carving, chiseling and filing,—­in a word, laboring at those marvels of ingenuity and toil which made the delight of the ladies and the minions of the court.  He was a man who lived in the fear of God, and in a wholesome dread of robbers, nobles, and noise.  He was gentle and moderate of speech, courteous to noble, monk and burgess, so that he might be said to have no enemy.