"Oh! if I did not hope that you might save your property, I would never have brought you and your mother into my prison." "But how can you survive it ?" cried Joseph naively, with the gayety which a French artist never loses.
"Ah, you may well ask!" she said.

"I pray." Joseph quivered as he heard the words, which raised the old woman so much in his estimation that he stepped back a little way to look into her face; it was radiant with so tender a serenity that he said to her,-- "Let me paint your portrait." "No, no," she answered, "I am too weary of life to wish to remain here on canvas." Gayly uttering the sad words, she opened a closet, and brought out a flask containing ratafia, a domestic manufacture of her own, the receipt for which she obtained from the far-famed nuns to whom is also due the celebrated cake of Issoudun,--one of the great creations of French confectionery; which no chef, cook, pastry-cook, or confectioner has ever been able to reproduce.

Monsieur de Riviere, ambassador at Constantinople, ordered enormous quantities every year for the Seraglio.
Adolphine held a lacquer tray on which were a number of little old glasses with engraved sides and gilt edges; and as her mother filled each of them, she carried it to the company.
"It seems as though my father's turn were coming round!" exclaimed Agathe, to whom this immutable provincial custom recalled the scenes of her youth.
"Hochon will go to his club presently to read the papers, and we shall have a little time to ourselves," said the old lady in a low voice.
In fact, ten minutes later, the three women and Joseph were alone in the salon, where the floor was never waxed, only swept, and the worsted-work designs in oaken frames with grooved mouldings, and all the other plain and rather dismal furniture seemed to Madame Bridau to be in exactly the same state as when she had left Issoudun.

Monarchy, Revolution, Empire, and Restoration, which respected little, had certainly respected this room where their glories and their disasters had left not the slightest trace.
"Ah! my godmother, in comparison with your life, mine has been cruelly tried," exclaimed Madame Bridau, surprised to find even a canary which she had known when alive, stuffed, and standing on the mantleshelf between the old clock, the old brass brackets, and the silver candlesticks.
"My child," said the old lady, "trials are in the heart.

The greater and more necessary the resignation, the harder the struggle with our own selves.