the Police having good-naturedly let her off several times, were at last obliged to take her in charge, and bring her into the court. Several magistrates were sitting. The following dialogue took place between the President and the old woman.
President.– Now, my good woman, what have you to say for yourself? You have been frequently warned by the Police, but you have persisted in troubling people with begging.
Old Woman (in a humble, quavering tone). – Ah, Monsieur le President, it is not so much trouble to other people as it is to me. I am a very old woman.
Pres.– Come, come, you must leave off begging, or I shall be obliged to punish you.
Old W.– But, Monsieur le President, I can not live without – I must beg – pardon me, Monsieur – I am obliged to beg.
Pres.– But I say you must not. Can you do no work?
Old W.– Ah, no, Monsieur; I am too old.
Pres.– Can't you sell something – little cakes – bonbons?
Old W.– No, Monsieur, I can't get any little stock to begin with; and, if I could, I should be robbed by the gamins, or the little girls, for I'm not very quick, and can't see well.
Pres.– Your relations must support you, then. You can not be allowed to beg. Have you no son – no daughter – no grandchildren?
Old W.– No, Monsieur; none – none – all my relations are dead.
Pres.– Well then, your friends must give you assistance.
Old W.– Ah, Monsieur, I have no friends; and, indeed, I never had but one, in my life; but he too is gone.
Pres.– And who was he?
Old W.– Monsieur de Robespierre —le pauvre, cher homme! (The poor, dear man!)
Pres.– Robespierre! – why what did you know of him?
Old W.– Oh, Monsieur, my mother was one of the tricoteurs (knitting-women) who used to sit round the foot of the guillotine, and I always stood beside her. When Monsieur de Robespierre was passing by, in attending his duties, he used to touch my cheek, and call me (here the old woman shed tears) la belle Marguerite: le pauvre, cher homme!
We must here pause to remind the reader that these women, the tricoteurs, who used to sit round the foot of the guillotine on the mornings when it was at its hideous work, were sometimes called the "Furies;" but only as a grim jest. It is well known, that, although there were occasionally some sanguinary hags among them, yet, for the most part, they were merely idle, gossiping women, who came there dressed in neat white caps, and with their knitting materials, out of sheer love of excitement, and to enjoy the spectacle.
Pres.– Well, Goody; finish your history.
Old W.– I was married soon after this, and then I used to take my seat as a tricoteur among the others; and on the days when Monsieur de Robespierre passed, he used always to notice me —le pauvre, cher homme. I used then to be called la belle tricoteuse, but now – now, I am called la vielle radoteuse (the old dotardess). Ah, Monsieur le President, it is what we must all come to!
The old woman accompanied this reflection with an inimitable look at the President, which completely involved him in the we, thus presenting him with the prospect of becoming an old dotardess; not in the least meant offensively, but said in the innocence of her aged heart.
Pres.– Ahem! – silence! You seem to have a very tender recollection of Monsieur Robespierre. I suppose you had reason to be grateful to him?
Old W.– No, Monsieur, no reason in particular; for he guillotined my husband.
Pres.– Certainly this ought to be no reason for loving his memory.
Old W.– Ah, Monsieur, but it happened quite by accident. Monsieur de Robespierre did not intend to guillotine my husband – he had him executed by mistake for somebody else —le pauvre, cher homme!
Thus leaving it an exquisite matter of doubt, as to whether the "poor dear man" referred to her husband, or to Monsieur de Robespierre; or whether the tender epithet was equally divided between them.
STORY OF A KITE
The setting sun beamed in golden light over the country; long shadows lay on the cool grass; the birds, which had been silent through the sultry heat of the day, sang their joyous evening hymn: the merry voices of the village children sounded through the clear air, while their fathers loitered about enjoying the luxury of rest after labor. A sun-burned traveler, with dusty shoes, walked sturdily along the high road: he was young and strong, and his ruddy cheeks glowed in the warm light: he carried his baggage on a stick over his shoulder, and looked straight on toward the cottages of the village; and you might see, by the expression of his face, that his eye was earnestly watching for the first glimpse of the home that lay among them, to which he was returning.
The same setting sun threw his golden beams over the great metropolis: they lighted up streets, and squares, and parks, whence crowds were retiring from business or pleasure to their various places of abode or gay parties: they pierced even through the smoke of the city, and gilded its great central dome; but when they reached the labyrinth of lanes and courts which it incloses, their radiance was gone, for noxious vapors rose there after the heat of the day, and quenched them. The summer sun is dreaded in those places.
The dusky light found its way with difficulty through a small and dim window into an upper room of a house in one of these lanes, and any one entering it would at first have thought it was void of any living inhabitant, had not the restless tossing and oppressed breathing that proceeded from a bed in one corner borne witness to the contrary. A weak sickly boy lay there, his eye fixed on the door. It opened, and he started up in bed; but at the sight of another boy, a few years older than himself, who came in alone, he sunk back again, crying in a plaintive voice, "Don't you see her coming yet?"
"No, she is not in sight: I ran to the corner of the lane, and could see nothing of her," replied the elder boy, who, as he spoke, knelt down before the grate, and began to arrange some sticks in it.
Every thing in the room bespoke poverty; yet there was an appearance of order, and as much cleanliness as can be attained in such an abode. Among the scanty articles of furniture there was one object that was remarkable as being singularly out of place, and apparently very useless there: it was a large paper kite, that hung from a nail on the wall, and nearly reached from the low ceiling to the floor.
"There's eight o'clock just struck, John," said the little boy in bed. "Go and look once more if mother's not coming yet."
"It's no use looking, Jem. It won't make her come any faster; but I'll go to please you."
"I hear some one on the stairs."
"It's only Mrs. Willis going into the back-room."
"Oh dear, dear, what shall I do?"
"Don't cry, Jem. Look, now I've put the wood all ready to boil the kettle the minute mother comes, and she'll bring you some tea: she said she would. Now I'm going to sweep up the dust, and make it all tidy."
Jem was quieted
