ays and words. His good
taste saved me, however, and the modest one was sent home for the
morrow, when we were to meet Joseph and Napoleon and go to the concert
in the Tuileries garden.

Then we set off on our day of sight-seeing, and Laddie proved himself
an excellent guide. We had a charming trip about the enchanted city, a
gay lunch at a cafe, and a first brief glimpse of the Louvre. At
dinner-time I found a posy at my place; and afterward Laddie came and
spent the evening in my little salon, playing to me, and having what he
called 'babblings and pleasantries.' I found that he was translating
'Vanity Fair' into Polish, and intended to sell it at home. He convulsed
me with his struggles to put cockney English and slang into good Polish,
for he had saved up a list of words for me to explain to him. Hay-stack
and bean-pot were among them, I remember; and when he had mastered the
meanings he fell upon the sofa exhausted.

Other days like this followed, and we led a happy life together: for my
twelve years' seniority made our adventures quite proper, and I
fearlessly went anywhere on the arm of my big son. Not to theatres or
balls, however, for heated rooms were bad for Laddie, but pleasant trips
out of the city in the bright spring weather, quiet strolls in the
gardens, moonlight concerts in the Champs Elysees; or, best of all, long
talks with music in the little red salon, with the gas turned low, and
the ever-changing scenes of the Rue de Rivoli under the balcony.

Never were pleasures more cheaply purchased or more thoroughly enjoyed,
for our hearts were as light as our purses, and our 'little economies'
gave zest to our amusements.

Joseph and Napoleon sometimes joined us, and I felt in my element with
the three invalid soldier boys, for Napoleon still limped with a wound
received in the war, Joseph had never recovered from his two years'
imprisonment in an Austrian dungeon, and Laddie's loyalty might yet
cost him his life.

Thanks to them, I discovered a joke played upon me by my '_polisson_'.
He told me to call him 'ma drogha,' saying it meant 'my friend,' in
Polish. I innocently did so, and he seemed to find great pleasure in it,
for his eyes always laughed when I said it. Using it one day before the
other lads, I saw a queer twinkle in their eyes, and suspecting
mischief, demanded the real meaning of the words. Laddie tried to
silence them, but the joke was too good to keep, and I found to my
dismay that I