e
enemy we shall destroy him."

"From whom is this letter?" asked Clemence.

"From Rigolette, Germain's wife."

"Rigolette?" cried Fleur-de-Marie. "Oh, I am so glad!"

"Do you not fear that this letter may serve to awaken fresh
recollections?" said Clemence, in a low tone to Rodolph.

"On the contrary, I wish to destroy these recollections, and I shall,
doubtless, find arms in this letter, for Rigolette is a worthy creature,
who appreciated and adored our child."

Rodolph then read the following letter aloud:

"BOUQUEVAL FARM, August 15, 1841.

"_Monseigneur_:--I take the liberty of writing to you to
communicate a great happiness which has occurred to us, and to
ask of you another favour,--of you, to whom we already owe so
much, or rather to whom we owe the real paradise in which we
live, myself, my dear Germain, and his good mother. It is this,
monseigneur: For the last ten days I have been crazy with joy,
for ten days ago I was confined with such a love of a little
girl, which I say is the image of Germain, he says it is exactly
like me, and our dear mother says it is like us both; the fact
is, it has beautiful blue eyes like Germain, and black curly
hair like mine."

"Good, worthy people, they deserve to be happy!" said Rodolph. "If ever
there was a couple well matched it is they."

"But really, monseigneur, I must ask your pardon for this
chatter. Your ears must often tingle, monseigneur, for the day
never passes that we do not talk of you, when we say to each
other how happy we are, how happy we were, for then your name
naturally occurs. Excuse this blot, monseigneur; but, without
thinking of it, I had written Monsieur Rodolph, as I used to say
formerly, and then I scratched it out. I hope you will find my
writing improved as well as my spelling, for Germain gives me
lessons, and I do not make those long ugly scrawls I used to do
when you mended my pens."

"I must confess," said Rodolph, with a smile, "that my little protegee
makes a mistake, and I am sure Germain is more frequently employed in
kissing the hand of his scholar than in directing it."

"My dear duke, you are unjust," said Clemence, looking at the letter;
"it is rather a very large hand, but very legible."

"Why, yes, she has really improved," observed Rodolph; "it would in
former days have taken eight pages to contain wha