tion for her little Robert.

[Illustration: p205-216]

In truth, the real honeymoon was for the grandmother. D'Athis, after
this rash act, wished to be away from Paris for a time. He felt uneasy
there. And as the child, clinging to his mother's skirts ruled the
house, they all established themselves in Irma's native country, within
hail of old father Salle's chickens. It was indeed the most curious, the
most ill-assorted household that could be imagined. Grandmama d'Athis
and Grandpapa Salle met each night at the evening toilet of their
grandson. The old poacher, his short black pipe wedged into the corner
of his mouth; and the former reader at the Tuileries, with her silvery
hair, and her imposing manner, together watched the lovely child rolling
before them on the carpet, and admired him equally. The one brought
him from Paris the newest, most expensive, most showy toys; the other
manufactured for him the most splendid whistles from bits of elder; and,
by Jove! the Dauphin hesitated between them!

Upon the whole, among all these beings grouped as it were by force
around a cradle, the only really unhappy one was Charles d'Athis. His
elegant and patrician inspiration suffered from this life in the depths
of a forest, like a delicate Parisian woman for whom the country air is
too strong. He could no longer work, and far from that terrible Paris
who shuts her gates so quickly against the absent, he felt himself
already nearly forgotten. Fortunately the child was there, and when the
child smiled, the father thought no more of his successes as a poet, nor
of the past of Irma Salle.

And now, would you know the finale of this singular drama? Read the
brief note bordered with black, that I received only a few days ago, and
which is the last page of this truly Parisian adventure:

"_M. le Comte and Mme. la Comtesse d'Athis grieve to inform you of the
death of their son Robert!_"

Unhappy creatures! Imagine them all four gazing at each other before
that empty cradle!

[Illustration: p207-218]

[Illustration: p208-219]

[Illustration: p211-222]

THE CONFIDENCES OF AN ACADEMIC COAT.

That morning was the dawn of a glorious day for the sculptor Guillardin.

Elected on the previous day a member of the _Institut_, he was about
to inaugurate before the five Academies gathered together in solemn
concourse, his academic coat, a magnificent garment ornamented with
green palm-leaves, resplendent in its new cloth and