s was
a curse; but I see now it is a blessing, since it has removed me from
the abominable life I was leading at the play-houses and in society.
This complaint, which tortures my limbs and is like to turn my brain, is
a signal token of God's goodness toward me. But, sir, will you not do
me the favour to accompany me as far as the Rue du Roule, whither I am
bound, to carry a New Year's gift to my niece Mademoiselle de Doucine?"

At the words M. Spon threw up his arms and gave a great cry of horror.

"What!" he exclaimed. "Can it be M. Chanterelle I hear say such
things,--and not some profligate libertine? Is it possible, sir, that
living as you do a religious and retired life, I see you all in a moment
plunge into the vices of the day?"

"Alack! I did not think I was plunging into vice," faltered M.
Chanterelle, trembling all over. "But I sorely lack a lamp of guidance.
Is it so great a sin then to offer a doll to Mademoiselle de Doucine?"

"Yes, a great and terrible sin," replied M. Spon. "And what you are
offering this innocent child to-day is meeter to be called an idol,
a devilish simulacrum, than a doll. Are you not aware, sir, that the
custom of New Year's gifts is a foul superstition and a hideous survival
of Paganism?"

"No, I did not know that," said M. Chanterelle.

"Let me tell you, then," resumed M. Spon, "that this custom descends
from the Romans, who seeing something divine in all beginnings, held
the beginning of the year holy also. Hence, to act as they did is to
do idolatry. You make New Year's offerings, sir, in imitation of the
worshippers of the God Janus. Be consistent, and like them consecrate to
Juno the first day of every month."

M. Chanterelle, hardly able to keep his feet, begged M. Spon to give him
his arm, and while they moved on, M. Spon proceeded in the same vein:

"Is it because the Astrologers have fixed on the first of January
for the beginning of the year that you deem yourself obliged to make
presents on that day? Pray, what call have you to revive at that precise
date the affection of your friends. Was their love dying then with
the dying year? And will it be so much worth the having when you have
reanimated it by dint of cajolements and baneful gifts?"

"Sir," returned the good M. Chanterelle, leaning on M. Spon's arm and
trying hard to make his tottering steps keep pace with his impetuous
companion's, "sir, before my sickness, I was only a miserable sinner,
taking no heed