bliged to get assistants. In that way I
shall pay off my debt to you. You must say whether this way of giving a
portion will suit you; whether you are equal to it."

"I am equal to making a fortune for my wife single-handed if all else
failed!" cried the artist-nobleman.

"That is what I admire!" cried the Baron. "High-minded youth that fears
nothing. Come," he added, clasping hands with the young sculptor to
conclude the bargain, "you have my consent. We will sign the contract
on Sunday next, and the wedding shall be on the following Saturday, my
wife's fete-day."

"It is all right," said the Baroness to her daughter, who stood glued to
the window. "Your suitor and your father are embracing each other."

On going home in the evening, Wenceslas found the solution of the
mystery of his release. The porter handed him a thick sealed packet,
containing the schedule of his debts, with a signed receipt affixed at
the bottom of the writ, and accompanied by this letter:--

"MY DEAR WENCESLAS,--I went to fetch you at ten o'clock this
morning to introduce you to a Royal Highness who wishes to see
you. There I learned that the duns had had you conveyed to a
certain little domain--chief town, _Clichy Castle_.

"So off I went to Leon de Lora, and told him, for a joke, that you
could not leave your country quarters for lack of four thousand
francs, and that you would spoil your future prospects if you did
not make your bow to your royal patron. Happily, Bridau was there
--a man of genius, who has known what it is to be poor, and has
heard your story. My boy, between them they have found the money,
and I went off to pay the Turk who committed treason against
genius by putting you in quod. As I had to be at the Tuileries at
noon, I could not wait to see you sniffing the outer air. I know
you to be a gentleman, and I answered for you to my two friends
--but look them up to-morrow.

"Leon and Bridau do not want your cash; they will ask you to do
them each a group--and they are right. At least, so thinks the man
who wishes he could sign himself your rival, but is only your
faithful ally,

"STIDMANN.

"P. S.--I told the Prince you were away, and would not return till
to-morrow, so he said, 'Very good--to-morrow.'"

Count Wenceslas went to bed in sheets of purple, without a rose-leaf to
wrinkle them, that Favor can make for us--Favor, the halting divinity
who moves more slowly for m