er, "I have taken
lodgers these thirty years, and a good many have passed through my
hands, as the saying is, but I have never seen a nicer nor a more
aristocratic looking young man than M. Eugene. How handsome he looks
sleeping! Just let his head rest on your shoulder, Mme. Couture. Pshaw!
he falls over towards Mlle. Victorine. There's a special providence for
young things. A little more, and he would have broken his head against
the knob of the chair. They'd make a pretty pair those two would!"

"Hush, my good neighbor," cried Mme. Couture, "you are saying such
things----"

"Pooh!" put in Mme. Vauquer, "he does not hear.--Here, Sylvie! come and
help me to dress. I shall put on my best stays."

"What! your best stays just after dinner, madame?" said Sylvie. "No, you
can get some one else to lace you. I am not going to be your murderer.
It's a rash thing to do, and might cost you your life."

"I don't care, I must do honor to M. Vautrin."

"Are you so fond of your heirs as all that?"

"Come, Sylvie, don't argue," said the widow, as she left the room.

"At her age, too!" said the cook to Victorine, pointing to her mistress
as she spoke.

Mme. Couture and her ward were left in the dining-room, and Eugene
slept on Victorine's shoulder. The sound of Christophe's snoring echoed
through the silent house; Eugene's quiet breathing seemed all the
quieter by force of contrast, he was sleeping as peacefully as a child.
Victorine was very happy; she was free to perform one of those acts of
charity which form an innocent outlet for all the overflowing sentiments
of a woman's nature; he was so close to her that she could feel the
throbbing of his heart; there was a look of almost maternal protection
and conscious pride in Victorine's face. Among the countless thoughts
that crowded up in her young innocent heart, there was a wild flutter of
joy at this close contact.

"Poor, dear child!" said Mme. Couture, squeezing her hand.

The old lady looked at the girl. Victorine's innocent, pathetic face,
so radiant with the new happiness that had befallen her, called to
mind some naive work of mediaeval art, when the painter neglected the
accessories, reserving all the magic of his brush for the quiet,
austere outlines and ivory tints of the face, which seems to have caught
something of the golden glory of heaven.

"After all, he only took two glasses, mamma," said Victorine, passing
her fingers through Eugene's hair.

"Indeed,