ls who do
things to say they have done them, ever do read sonnets; but she glanced
her eye down the rhymes, and saw her own name in harmonious connexion with
some very sweet epithets. Therefore she asked what she could do for the
poet--what it was he wanted? Alas! every thing! was the prompt and candid
reply,--some little post, some modest appointment.

Now it happened that Fouche at that time was doing his best to conciliate
the fair Pauline, who with or without reason, had shown a little humour
against the minister of police. He had frequently entreated her to make
use of his power in favour of any of her friends. "Well," said the
good-natured Pauline, "this Fouche is always plaguing me to ask for
something; give me a desk."

A lady's pen upon the smooth vellum--you know how fleetly it runs, and
what pretty exaggeration of phrase must necessarily flow from it. The
style, the very elegance of the note, demands it. Dubois was in an
instant, and most charmingly converted into a man of neglected genius and
unmerited distress. What was the happy turn of expression is lost to us
for ever: but as Fouche read the note, he understood that there was a man
of talent to be assisted, and, what was still more to the purpose, an
opportunity of showing his gallantry to Pauline.

The next day the minister rode forth in state accompanied by four mounted
_gens-d'armes_. Following the address which had been given him, he found
himself in one of the least inviting parts of Paris, far better known to
his own myrmidons of police than to himself. But, arrived before the
enormous pile of building, which was said to enclose our poet amidst its
swarm of tenants, he made vain inquiries for Monsieur Dubois. At last an
old crone came to his assistance: she remembered him; she had washed for
him, and had never been paid. If you do not wish to be forgotten by all
the world, take care there is some one living to whom you are in debt.

Meanwhile Dubois, from his aerial habitation, had heard his own name
pronounced, and looking out at window caught sight of the _gens-d'armes_.
For which of his satires or libels he was to undergo the honour of
prosecution, he could not divine; but that his poetical effusions were at
last to bring him into hapless notoriety, was the only conclusion he could
arrive at. That he was still perfectly safe, inasmuch as write what he
would nobody read, was the last idea likely to suggest itself to the poet.
He would have rus