adful cry. Joseph and the Descoings ran to her,
saw the empty box, and her noble falsehood was of no avail. All three
were silent, and avoided looking at each other; but the next moment,
by an almost frantic gesture, Agathe laid her finger on her lips as if
to entreat a secrecy no one desired to break. They returned to the
salon, and sat beside the fire.

"Ah! my children," cried Madame Descoings, "I am stabbed to the heart:
my trey will turn up, I am certain of it. I am not thinking of myself,
but of you two. Philippe is a monster," she continued, addressing her
niece; "he does not love you after all that you have done for him. If
you do not protect yourself against him he will bring you to beggary.
Promise me to sell out your Funds and buy a life-annuity. Joseph has a
good profession and he can live. If you will do this, dear Agathe, you
will never be an expense to Joseph. Monsieur Desroches has just
started his son as a notary; he would take your twelve thousand francs
and pay you an annuity."

Joseph seized his mother's candlestick, rushed up to his studio, and
came down with three hundred francs.

"Here, Madame Descoings!" he cried, giving her his little store, "it
is no business of ours what you do with your money; we owe you what
you have lost, and here it is, almost in full."

"Take your poor little all?--the fruit of those privations that have
made me so unhappy! are you mad, Joseph?" cried the old woman, visibly
torn between her dogged faith in the coming trey, and the sacrilege of
accepting such a sacrifice.

"Oh! take it if you like," said Agathe, who was moved to tears by this
action of her true son.

Madame Descoings took Joseph by the head, and kissed him on the
forehead:--

"My child," she said, "don't tempt me. I might only lose it. The
lottery, you see, is all folly."

No more heroic words were ever uttered in the hidden dramas of
domestic life. It was, indeed, affection triumphant over inveterate
vice. At this instant, the clocks struck midnight.

"It is too late now," said Madame Descoings.

"Oh!" cried Joseph, "here are your cabalistic numbers."

The artist sprang at the paper, and rushed headlong down the staircase
to pay the stakes. When he was no longer present, Agathe and Madame
Descoings burst into tears.

"He has gone, the dear love," cried the old gambler; "but it shall all
be his; he pays his own money."

Unhappily, Joseph did not know the way to any of the lottery-offices,