loat the journal like
a short roman from Madame de Grantmesnil. Knowing your intimacy with
that eminent artist, I venture to back Rameau's supplication that you
would exert your influence on his, behalf. As to the honoraires, she has
but to name them."

"Carte blanche," cried Rameau, eagerly.

"You know Eulalie too well, Monsieur Savarin," answered Isaura, with a
smile half reproachful, "to suppose that she is a mercenary in letters,
and sells her services to the best bidder."

"Bah, belle enfant!" said Savarin, with his gay light laugh. "Business
is business, and books as well as razors are made to sell. But, of
course, a proper prospectus of the journal must accompany your request
to write in it. Meanwhile Rameau will explain to you, as he has done
to me, that the journal in question is designed for circulation among
readers of haute classe it is to be pleasant and airy, full of bons mots
and anecdote; witty, but not ill-natured. Politics to be Liberal, of
course, but of elegant admixture,--champagne and seltzer-water. In
fact, however, I suspect that the politics will be a very inconsiderable
feature in this organ of fine arts and manners; some amateur scribbler
in the beau monde will supply them. For the rest, if my introductory
letters are successful, Madame de Grantmesnil will not be in bad
company."

"You will write to Madame de Grantmesnil?" asked Rameau, pleadingly.

"Certainly I will, as soon--"

"As soon as you have the prospectus, and the names of the
collaborateurs," interrupted Rameau. "I hope to send you these in a very
few days."

While Rameau was thus speaking, Savarin had seated himself by the table,
and his eye mechanically resting on the open manuscript lighted by
chance upon a sentence--an aphorism--embodying a very delicate sentiment
in very felicitous diction,--one of those choice condensations of
thought, suggesting so much more than is said, which are never found in
mediocre writers, and, rare even in the best, come upon us like truths
seized by surprise.

"Parbleu!" exclaimed Savarin, in the impulse of genuine admiration, "but
this is beautiful; what is more, it is original,"--and he read the words
aloud. Blushing with shame and resentment, Isaura turned and hastily
placed her hand on the manuscript.

"Pardon," said Savarin, humbly; "I confess my sin, but it was so
unpremeditated that it does not merit a severe penance. Do not look
at me so reproachfully. We all know that young ladi