been. Still much was not required for a morning's toilette in the country; and for a ball-dress she had one of black tulle, which, with some alteration, might do. I volunteered my aid, and on the last evening we were sewing away diligently in Melanie's little room, in spite of the cold and our numbed fingers, when a step was heard at the door, and Zelie appeared, looking vexed, and saying that Madame had sent her to bid Melanie come down directly to the schoolroom, to superintend some lesson or other. "I offered to take your place, Mademoiselle; but Madame would not allow me; perhaps, however, you will be kind enough to let me go on with your work here. I see what has to be done, and have been used to the sort of thing, you know." "You are very good," said poor Melainie, touched with the other's delicate kindness; "I must go I suppose, but I do not like keeping you here in the cold; and poor Bessie, too "Oh, never mind that. We shall keep ourselves warm with work, and Madame is impatient. You had better go at once." We completed our task in about an hour, all but the flowers which were to ornament the skirt and relieve the sombre appearance of the dress. "What is Melanie going to have?" asked Zelie. "She has only these," I answered, taking up some crushed and tumbled affairs from the bed. "I have bought her a wreath for her hair; but I had not money enough for any for the dress; and you know she cannot afford to buy new flowers herself, poor girl!" "But she must have some," said Zelie; "the dress looks so heavy without. What is the wreath made of?" "Lilies." "I have some lilies," she replied, after a little hesitation. "They are worn very much in Paris this winter, and Victor sent me some. I do not think these will ever do." And she arranged them, and pressed out the limp leaves; but they looked very deplorable still. "I would give her mine directly, if they had not been Victor's gift; but it seems so unkind to give away his present. Does it not, Bessie?" I proposed she should lend them. "She is much too proud to take them so, and I should not like to offer it. No, they must be given altogether, or not at all. Victor is so kind to every one himself, I am sure he would not be angry at my doing this little service for poor Melanie!" And she ran away, and returned with the beautiful fresh-looking flowers in her hand: Certainly they made the dress look quite another thing, and we were just sewing on the last securely enough not to be lost in a waltz or gallopade (the polka was then unknown), when Melanie returned, looking pale and wearied; but her face brightened on seeing the dress which Zelie had spread out on the bed over the other flowers, intending to remove them unseen. "Oh how beautiful-how lovely!" she cried. "How well you have done it! And the flowers look like new. But they are new," she added, after a moment's pause; "these are not my old roses. Who can have given me these? Bessie, you kind dear child, it was you!" "It was not I!" and I pointed to Zelie, who with the most unconscious air in the world was arranging the trimming of a sleeve. "Mademoiselle St. Aubyn," said Melanie, with a little change in her tone. Then instantly yielding to the better impulse of her really generous heart, she threw her arms round her, and thanked her a thousand times, entreated her pardon for the slights and hauteur she had shown her. "I felt long ago, Zelie," she said, "how superior you were to us all-how good and sensible; and I was as envious of you as possible. How badly I have repaid all your kindness since I have been unhappy! But I will tell you all, and then you may despise me if you please. It was all through me you did not gain the first prize. I said one day to that mischievous, spiteful Sempronie, how much I wished to have it; but that I had no chance against you. She laughed, and said she would sell it me for an embroidered scarf I had lately bought, and which she very much wished to possess. Oh, I said, I would give my scarf willingly to gain the prize. 'Will you promise me, then,' she said, 'that if Zelie St. Aubyn does not gain the prize, you will give it me?' I laughed, and said Oh yes; for I took it as a jest, and never thought anything more about it till the day before the examination, when she came to me and said she wanted the scarf, to pack up with her things. She had earned it as I should see; Zelie would not gain the prize. I had always intended it for her, and told her so as I gave it her, and that I did not of course mean any of the nonsense we had talked about the prizes; I would not give a pin for one I had not won fairly. Never fear,' she said, your scrupulous conscience shall not be wounded.' And she kept her word; for she had contrived with the music-master that her piece should be more difficult and showy than mine, though she cannot play a quarter as well; and she tried to embarrass you, and throw you out by taking away the middle leaves of your music, and putting in its place that paper: only you got off better than she expected, thanks to Bessie. She wrote, too, as I have since found out, to her aunt, and told her all manner of falsehoods, and got her to write to Madame and complain that sufficient attention was not shown to her niece, as she did not make the progress to be expected from her talents, and never gained any prizes. Madame was so terrified at the idea of losing her aristocratic pupil, that she was only too thankful to seize any pretext for giving her the first prize, and so she contrived to outwit me completely; but I deserved it. Will you forgive me, Zelie?" added the proud Melanie, quite humbly. Zelie assured her of her complete forgiveness, and said she had always been quite convinced that Melainie's conduct towards her arose from thoughtlessness, rather than any real unkind ness. "I will try and make amends when I come back," said Melanie, completely subdued, "and grow more like you; and we will be good friends, will we not?" But Melanie never came back. After the week she was to have been absent had extended itself into a fortnight, she wrote to Madame, giving up the situation she had held in the school. Enclosed was a letter for me, whom she chose to consider as her confidante, telling me she had done with school-rooms and similar ennuis henceforth and for ever; that her mother's friend had made up for her a match with a relation of her own, who, if he was neither very young nor handsome, and only assez amiable, was immensely rich; "and I shall have the box at the opera, and house in Paris, and the cachemires and laces and jewels, after all, we so often talked of, Bessie. That is rather better, is it not, than being the wife of a poor capitaine de chasseurs? "I am sorry for Antoine, too," she added, "for he really did like me-mais il se consolera." I was not quite so certain on this head myself, for what she had told me of her cousin seemed to show a depth of feeling that would not allow him to shake off his attachment so easily; but I could not help it: one might as well have argued with the winds as with Melanie; besides, the preparations for the marriage were being hurried on very rapidly. The bridegroom did not seem inclined to lose much time in love-making; settlements were drawn, the trousseau was ready, and at last I, as one of the bridesmaids, was invited to Madame Senis's château two days before the wedding. "I dare not," she said; you do not know what he is when roused; he will be quieter if you are there-come quick, before they miss us." And, taking my hand, she drew me with her down the stairs, and to the door of the roomthere she paused. "He will be terrible," she said; "he must despise me so; he was so faithful to me in my adversity, and how have I repaid him? he must scorn me; but it is no use thinking of all this." And with an effort she opened the door. He was standing in the middle of the room, with his arms crossed, and his hat pulled down over his brows; he raised it as we entered, and showed a face of that noble and melancholy cast that we see among some of the old heroes of France in the galleries of the Louvre and Versailles. I was so busy contrasting the high and thoughtful forehead, penetrating eye, and clear oval-shaped face and manly figure, with the plebeian air and unintellectual, sensual expression of his rival, that I lost the first words of their conversation. When my attention returned, Antoine was saying, "I did not come here, Melanie, to reproach you." "You are not angry with me?" she said with some, surprise-"I thought you would hate me." "One does not easily hate those one has loved as I have loved you," he said. "I cannot esteem, as I did before, the girl who has broken her plighted word for the sake of riches; I cannot think of her with the same pride and admiration. But oh, Melanie! I cannot bid my heart be indifferent to you, even now. As I look on the face I have loved so long, whose memory has been a spell to cheer me through every I found Melanie very flushed, very excited, fatigue and danger; though I despise myself looking handsome and well; but her manner for the weakness, I love you still, warmly, was restless and uncertain. She occupied her- fondly, as ever. Why did you give me up? self, however, with all the preparations, talked You loved me; I know you did; you cannot and laughed, but avoided as much as possible deny it. Yet you break my heart, and will make being alone with her fiancé, even for an instant; yourself miserable-for what? for a more fashionand I frequently observed that internal trem-able dress and a larger house, and a few more bling which is so sure a sign of an agitated balls and fêtes. Melanie, they are not worth heart. The evening before her marriage she my true, deep love." was standing at one of the windows in the twilight with me; the others were grouped round a table at the other end of the apartment, where some of her bridal presents were displayed. She was more at ease than I had seen her for some time, and spoke to me quietly and kindly. A servant came into the room, and said a gentleman, who would not give his name, wished to speak with her for one instant; he was in the little salle leading out of the ves tibule. "It is Antoine," whispered Melanie, turning very pale," I felt sure he would come; I heard four days ago that he had returned home on leave of absence, but I hoped I should have escaped seeing him. I dare not go alone: you must come with me, Bessie." "But he will not like that," I answered; "it will be much kinder to go alone do, Melanie." "It is of no use speaking of all this," said Melanie, trembling so much she could hardly stand; into our engagement: it was mere childish folly we were very foolish to have entered -I did not think you would take it so seriously." 66 "No," said Antoine, mournfully; "it was life to me. Listen, Melanie; I did not mean to more than that-it was the essence and glory of have told you this, thinking it might seem unwhich, God knows, is far enough from my generous, and as though I wished to taunt you, thoughts. You might have kept your faith to me, and yet had the luxuries you prize so highly. The post after the one that brought me the news of your intended marriage, brought me intelligence of my sudden accession to a large fortune through the death of a distant relation. I am richer now than the man you are about to marry; and yet," he went on with a burst of uncontrollable feeling, "I would | walnut-tree; and the recollection of her silvergladly, thankfully, surrender it every sou, to toned, merry laugh, comes over me like a strain know that you had kept your love and un-of sorrowful music. Poor Melanie! we little blemished faith to me." When the door had closed heavily upon him, I turned round to Melanie. She had sunk back on the sofa, quite pale and motionless-I thought she had fainted. But it was only a passing stupor, caused by the shock of Antoine's words and presence. After a time she got up, and went to her own room, refusing to see any one, under pretext of a violent migraine. The next morning, when she came down in her bridal attire, all outward traces of the preceding evening's struggle and agitation had passed away; but I knew they were rankling in her heart; and her deadly paleness and painful shuddering when the ring was placed on her finger, told me that Antoine was avenged. Ah! pride and vanity, and love of the world! you must be strong indeed if you can conquer Love; but woe to the heart in which you gain such dominion, for you cannot give one jot or tittle of the happiness you promised; you can only ceaselessly fret and weary the heart that owns your sway. Poor Melanie found it so; she had never known what Antoine was to her anticipated her fate; but the seeds that bore such bitter fruit were growing up then. It is pleasanter to turn to the simple-hearted Zelie. Victor's talents and application adofficial situation he obtained through the vanced him rapidly in his profession; and an influence I believe of Melanie's husband, joined to his own practice, afforded a sufficient income to enable them to live in comfort, if not in opulence. They were very happy in each other, very contented with their lot; and there could hardly be a stronger proof of the little importance of wealth to real happiness, than the contrast between the fate of my school-friends in France, of the little sous-maîtresse, and the beautiful, admired, prosperous Melanie. I never knew what became of Sempronie finally; the last time I heard of her, she was unmarried, her spiteful sarcastic character having frightened away those who had ever had thoughts of becoming candidates for her hand. Perhaps experience and stricter self-examination made her wiser and gentler. We will not judge her too harshly; for I am afraid, dear reader, what I am going to say of her might be said of most of us-of myself I am sure, "aboon the lave"there was great room for improvement. RUTH'S REPARTÉE. (Jeu d'esprit.) "I love you, Ruth. You surely have been able to return it!" Return it, Paul? No, no, not I. I've striven hard to gain it— And now I've got it, by your leave, I'd rather, far, retain it!" E. C. W. till she lost him-lost him too when she might have kept her faith to him, and had more of riches and luxury than she then enjoyed, or rather possessed; for they afforded her no real" pleasure. She had not one particle of affection for her husband, and she never thought of the duties she had bound herself to fulfil towards him, no matter whether affection made them pleasures, or the absence of it made them harder to perform. She was, as may have been gathered from the course of this slight narrative, one of WHAT IS HAPPINESS?-I ask again, what is those characters who, with some natural good happiness? It aint bein' idle, that's a fact: no impulses and feelings, suffer their conduct to idle man or woman ever was happy since the world be determined by circumstances, instead of re-began. Eve was idle, and that's the way she got solutely taking up one fixed steady line of right doing, and of persevering in it, regardless whether the course of events made it pleasant or painful to pursue. Melanie had no such principle; she was unhappy, and would fain have been otherwise; but she chose the path of wrong to gain her goal, and, as might have been expected, was utterly and miserably deceived. I will not pursue further the history of my gay, light-hearted schoolfellow. I have often thought with deep sadness of the time when, as joyous, innocent girls, we spent the summer afternoons together under the shade of the great tempted, poor crittur! Employment gives both appetite and digestion. Duty makes pleasure doubly sweet by contrast. When the harness is off, if the work ain't too hard, a critter likes to kick up his heels. When pleasure is the business of life, it ceases to be pleasure: and when it's all labour and no play, work, like an outstuffed saddle, cuts into the very bone. Neither labour nor idleness has a road that leads to happiness: one has no work is the best of the two; for that has, at all room for the heart, and the other corrupts it. Hard events, sound sleep: the other has restless pillows and unrefreshing sleep. One is a misfortune, the other is a curse. And money aint happiness, that's as clear as mud.-Sam Slick's Wise Saws. PARIS, March 24, 1855. The Carême, my dear C., is not a good season for news, and I have very little to tell you just now. The subjects of interest are the siege of Sebastopol, and whether the Emperor will or will not go to the Crimea. No one wishes him to go, but he desires it himself; and so does the Empress. I gave you, in my letter of last month, some account of poor Gerard de Nerval. His friends are collecting his unpublished works: one of them, a comedy, entitled "Tartufe chez Molière," has been as yet sought for in vain, and fears are entertained that it has been lost. It seems that it was very good. It had been completed in 1840, and read in the salon of Madame Emile de Girardin, but had never been offered to any theatre. Monsieur de Lamartine is engaged on the "Histoire de l'Empire," which will make twelve or fifteen volumes. Madame Georges Sand, in concert with Monsieur Paulin Limayzac, is composing a still more voluminous work, which will form thirty volumes, called "Les Amours illustres." It is to be the recital of all the tender historical episodes which the world has produced since Paris and Hélène. Poor Eugène Sue's eyesight is in danger. I say nothing to you of Monsieur Emile de Girardine's brochure, entitled "La Paix;" as it has appeared in England. Monsieur Berryer, whose reception as a member of the Academie Française is supposed to have been delayed two or three years after his election, owing to the obligation which exists on the part of the candidate to be presented by the director of the Academie to the Chef de l'Etat, has written to Monsieur Mocquart, chef du Cabinet Imperial, to know if it would not be possible, in his case, to obtain an exception from this rule. Monsieur Berryer, as of course you know, is the staunchest of the supporters of the branche aînée. To his great surprise, he received immediately a letter, exceedingly clever, and slightly ironical, granting his request, and treating the presentation, which had delayed the great orator's reception for three years, and caused him infinite embarrassment, as a matter of no sort of importance. The Chef de l'Etat yielded the point at the first hint, as though it were too trivial to make a question. The mi-Carême is an occasion for numerous bals-costumes, both public and private. Some of them are very brilliant. Whoever has seen the preparation for these balls, and can say that men have less vanity than women, must be utterly devoid of truth and frankness. Their anxiety that their costumes should be complete and becoming, the importance they attach to all the details-and then, when the moment to shew themselves arrives, their evident, though more or less open, satisfaction with themselves, are very amusing to witness; but certainly we poor women have not a tenth part of the vanity of the lords of the crea tion. The death of the Emperor of Russia at this moment has given rise to endless conjectures on the subject of a court mourning. The melancholy event itself was a subject of general relief and satisfaction; but the laws of etiquette must be observed, and if etiquette requires the display of grief (as far as sable garments are concerned), we must clothe ourselves in sable garments. After all, there are many mournings, not much less sincere than would be that for the late Emperor. However, the rule in these court mournings, I hear, is, that until the sad event has been officially announced, no notice is taken of it. This is the rule in diplomacy. Whether the Emperor, who has generally a good deal of tact, will adhere to this etiquette, or whether he will order mourning for his enemy's death, I cannot pretend to affirm; it is, however, certain, that a concert at the Tuileries has been put off in consequence. Would it be magnanimity or hypocrisy to wear mourning? Opinions differ. The departure of the Emperor for the Crimea is still talked of; some positively affirming it as certain, others as positively declaring that the project is abandoned. What conclusion we are to arrive at from these contradictory rumours I cannot pretend to decide. Preparations are being made for the expedition, and M. Galy, who is the intendant specially attached to the Empress's service at the Tuileries, has left for Constantinople, to prepare for her reception in one of the residences of the Sultan on the Bosphorus. It is said, also, that the ladies of the court have been advised to take ball-dresses with them. There are numerous reports of conspiracies discovered and of conspirators arrested in Paris, particularly amongst the legiti mists, which are quite unfounded. There have been neither conspiracies nor arrests. I suppose you have heard of the famous pamphlet on the war in the Crimea, which, suppressed here, has been published in London and Brussels? It was first (heaven only knows why) attributed to M. Emile de Girardin, who published in his newspaper (La Presse) a contradiction of the report: since then the Prince Napoleon has been with equal injustice accused of being the author. The Prince, and all who know him, indignantly repel a charge which is equally improbable and insulting. Prir ce Napolon takes a very lively interest in the Palais de l'Exposition. Since the 16th instant visitors have not been admitted. The workmen are actively engaged, but some doubts are entertained as to whether it will be ready at the time appointed. The stained glass is really very beautiful. There are two groups forming pendans. On that destined for the east of the building the groups are separated by France on a throne, at the foot of which are History and Astronomy: that on the right represents America, Asia, China, and Africa, bringing their exotic productions. On the left the different nations of Europe, with their industrial produce. At the extreme right a young shepherd is shearing his Thibet goats; and at the left a hardy blacksmith is taking from the fire an immense mass of iron. But this is a very imperfect description of one of the pieces. By-and-bye I shall give you a better one, I hope. As I know you like something besides mere gossip, I give you a letter of some historical interest, written to Louis Im de Bourbon, Prince de Condé, while he was in prison. His enemies were Catherine de Medicis and the Guises; and this letter was written to him by Madame St. André, who took a deep interest in him; but as her correspondence was watched, she had to adopt a ruse to prevent its compromising her, should it fall into the wrong hands. To understand it, read every other line: Croyez moi, Prince, preparez-vous à car c'est ainsi que vous nommez ceux la conjuration d'Amboise. Il n'est pas Now to return to subjects of a later date: the fifth and sixth volumes of the "Memoires of a Bourgeois de Paris" have appeared; and, from extracts I have seen, they must be excessively interesting, amusing, and full of historical information. There are details showing an intimate knowledge of political matters, and acquaintance with eminent persons, which render these "Memoires" valuable as a history of our times. There is a great deal about the revolution of 1848, during which the papers of the Orleans family fell into the hands of the public. Amongst the papers of the Duc de Nemours, were a great many letters from his brother,the Duc d'Orleans. There is one giving the former advice on his marriage-a beautiful letter, in which the writer says: "Aie les yeux fixés fermement sur l'avenir, que le passé soit mort pour toi. Si de tristes pensées te viennent, au lieu de les cacher à ta femme va droit les lui dire. Son affection, ses soins détendront la corde qui te fait souffrir. Elle s'attachera à toi par les soins qu'elle te donnera, autant que par l'affection que tu lui montreras. Un dernier mot et j'aurais fini mon sermon. Le mariage est tout ou rien. n'y a pas de partage possible d'affection et des rapports intimes. Quand une brèche y est faite, si petite qu'elle soit, c'est comme le coussin-à-air percé par une épingle, tout fuit par ce pointe invisible; le fardeau seul reste, et l'on a tiré à jamais ce qui le rend léger et doux." There are also letters of the Duchesse d'Orleans, which do her the greatest honour. Here is a letter from a member of the diplomatic corps to the Prince Frédéric de Schwarzenberg, at Vienna: "Ma femme a été avant-hier aux Tuileries (October, 1831). C'était aussi peuplé que possible, un tas de boutiquiers, les Crocheteurs de la Chambre en habit noir, pantalon et bottes. On était dans la simplicité domestique, on pouvait y faire ses affaires soi-même avec son procureur, son épicier, et son marchand de bois; délicieuse intimité." This last passage of the letter reminds me of an anecdote which, though somewhat old, you may not have heard, or, having heard, you may have forgotten. A lady dancing at one of Louis Philippe's balls exhibited signs of intense pain. Her partner, in great alarm, inquired the cause of her sufferings. "Ah! Monsieur," answered the lady, leaning on his arm, and continuing to ce sont vos souliers que manifest great pain, me font mal." Her partner was also her shoemaker! and when she said "vos souliers," she did not mean that her cavalier had been so clumsy as to tread on her feet, but that the shoes he had made her hurt her. The Grand Opera has revived "La Juive" lately, in which Mademoiselle Cruvelli appears, and has drawn upon herself the censures of all the best critics, both as a singer and an actress. They find her pantomime frequently ridiculously exaggerated; that though her voice is undoubtedly very fine, that her low notes are not at all what they ought to be, and that she forces her voice dreadfully. Gueymard, in the part of Eleazer," was very good; and Depassie in that of "The Cardinal," showed great talent: in fact, the honours of the representation were not for Mademoiselle Cruvelli. The Théâtre Lyrique has produced a little ,"which opera-comique, entitled "Des Charmeurs," has been very successful-a simple little thing, but very pretty. The hero and heroine, Julie, and Georgette, love each other (of course); but in their youth and innocence they are ignorant |