seek solitude, the one in consequence of the past, and
the other from the crimes of his family.

He was not mistaken. Martial and La Louve accepted joyfully; and then,
talking the matter over with the Chourineur, they all three rejoiced in
the prospects held out to them in Algeria. A sincere good feeling soon
united the future colonists. Persons of their class judge quickly of
each other, and like one another as speedily.

The Chourineur accompanied his new friend Martial to the Bicetre and
awaited him in the hackney-coach, which conducted them back to Paris
after Martial, horror-struck, had left the dungeon of his mother and
sister.

The countenance of the Chourineur had completely changed; the bold
expression and jovial humour which usually characterised his harsh
features had given way to extreme dejection; his voice had lost
something of its coarseness; a grief of heart, until then unknown to
him, had broken down his energetic temperament. He looked kindly at
Martial, and said:

"Courage! You have done all that good intentions could do; it is ended.
Think now of your wife, and the children whom you have prevented from
becoming criminals like their father and mother. To-night we leave Paris
never to return to it, and you will never again hear of what so much
distresses you now."

"True--true! But, after all, they are my sister and mother!"

"Yes; but when things must be, we must submit!" said the Chourineur,
checking a deep sigh.

After a moment's silence, Martial said, kindly, "And I ought, in my
turn, to try and console you who are so sad. My wife and I hope that
when we have left Paris this will cease."

"Yes," said the Chourineur, with a shudder, "if I leave Paris!"

"Why, we go this evening!"

"Yes,--you do; you go this evening!"

"And have you changed your intention, then?"

"No! Yet, Martial, you'll laugh at me; but yet I will tell you all. If
anything happens to me it will prove that I am not deceived. When M.
Rodolph asked if we would go to Algeria together, I told you my mind at
once, and also what I had been."

"Yes, you did; let us mention it no more. You underwent your punishment,
and are now as good as any one. But, like myself, I can imagine you
would like to go and live a long way off, instead of living here, where,
however honest we may be, they might at times fling in your teeth a
misdeed you have atoned for and repented, and, in mine, my parents'
crimes, for which I am by no means