I do not say that Madame Babette was tired of her continual presence, or regretted the impulse which made her rush to the De Crequy's well-known house--after being compelled to form one of the mad crowds that saw the Count de Crequy seized and hung--and hurry his daughter out, through alleys and backways, until at length she had the orphan safe in her own dark sleeping-room, and could tell her tale of horror: but Madame Babette was poorly paid for her porter's work by her avaricious brother; and it was hard enough to find food for herself and her growing boy; and, though the poor girl ate little enough, I dare say, yet there seemed no end to the burthen that Madame Babette had imposed upon herself: the De Crequys were plundered, ruined, had become an extinct race, all but a lonely friendless girl, in broken health and spirits; and, though she lent no positive encouragement to his suit, yet, at the time, when Clement reappeared in Paris, Madame Babette was beginning to think that Virginie might do worse than encourage the attentions of Monsieur Morin Fils, her nephew, and the wine merchant's son.

Of course, he and his father had the entree into the conciergerie of the hotel that belonged to them, in right of being both proprietors and relations.

The son, Morin, had seen Virginie in this manner.

He was fully aware that she was far above him in rank, and guessed from her whole aspect that she had lost her natural protectors by the terrible guillotine; but he did not know her exact name or station, nor could he persuade his aunt to tell him.

However, he fell head over ears in love with her, whether she were princess or peasant; and though at first there was something about her which made his passionate love conceal itself with shy, awkward reserve, and then made it only appear in the guise of deep, respectful devotion; yet, by-and-by,--by the same process of reasoning, I suppose, that his aunt had gone through even before him--Jean Morin began to let Hope oust Despair from his heart.