the porter and desire him to carry it at once to
this address and wait for an answer."

The Baron, who was reading the news, held out a Republican paper to
his wife, pointing to an article, and saying:

"Is there time?"

This was the paragraph, one of the terrible "notes" with which the
papers spice their political bread and butter:--

"A correspondent in Algiers writes that such abuses have been
discovered in the commissariate transactions of the province of
Oran, that the Law is making inquiries. The peculation is
self-evident, and the guilty persons are known. If severe measures
are not taken, we shall continue to lose more men through the
extortion that limits their rations than by Arab steel or the
fierce heat of the climate. We await further information before
enlarging on this deplorable business. We need no longer wonder at
the terror caused by the establishment of the Press in Africa, as
was contemplated by the Charter of 1830."

"I will dress and go to the Minister," said the Baron, as they rose
from table. "Time is precious; a man's life hangs on every minute."

"Oh, mamma, there is no hope for me!" cried Hortense. And unable to
check her tears, she handed to her mother a number of the _Revue des
Beaux Arts_.

Madame Hulot's eye fell on a print of the group of "Delilah" by Count
Steinbock, under which were the words, "The property of Madame
Marneffe."

The very first lines of the article, signed V., showed the talent and
friendliness of Claude Vignon.

"Poor child!" said the Baroness.

Alarmed by her mother's tone of indifference, Hortense looked up, saw
the expression of a sorrow before which her own paled, and rose to
kiss her mother, saying:

"What is the matter, mamma? What is happening? Can we be more wretched
than we are already?"

"My child, it seems to me that in what I am going through to-day my
past dreadful sorrows are as nothing. When shall I have ceased to
suffer?"

"In heaven, mother," said Hortense solemnly.

"Come, my angel, help me to dress.--No, no; I will not have you help
me in this! Send me Louise."

Adeline, in her room, went to study herself in the glass. She looked
at herself closely and sadly, wondering to herself:

"Am I still handsome? Can I still be desirable? Am I not wrinkled?"

She lifted up her fine golden hair, uncovering her temples; they were
as fresh as a girl's. She went further; she uncovered her shoulders,
and was satisfied; na