rment of Monsieur Jean-Frederic Taillefer, of
the house of Taillefer and Company, formerly Purveyor of
Commissary-meats, in his lifetime chevalier of the Legion of
honor, and of the Golden Spur, captain of the first company of the
Grenadiers of the National Guard of Paris, deceased, May 1st, at
his residence, rue Joubert; which will take place at, etc., etc.

"On the part of, etc."

"Now, what am I do to?" I continued; "I will put the question before
you in a broad way. There is undoubtedly a sea of blood in Mademoiselle
Taillefer's estates; her inheritance from her father is a vast Aceldama.
I know that. _But_ Prosper Magnan left no heirs; _but_, again, I have
been unable to discover the family of the merchant who was murdered at
Andernach. To whom therefore can I restore that fortune? And ought it
to be wholly restored? Have I the right to betray a secret surprised by
me,--to add a murdered head to the dowry of an innocent girl, to give
her for the rest of her life bad dreams, to deprive her of all her
illusions, and say, 'Your gold is stained with blood'? I have borrowed
the 'Dictionary of Cases of Conscience' from an old ecclesiastic, but
I can find nothing there to solve my doubts. Shall I found pious masses
for the repose of the souls of Prosper Magnan, Wahlenfer, and Taillefer?
Here we are in the middle of the nineteenth century! Shall I build a
hospital, or institute a prize for virtue? A prize for virtue would
be given to scoundrels; and as for hospitals, they seem to me to have
become in these days the protectors of vice. Besides, such charitable
actions, more or less profitable to vanity, do they constitute
reparation?--and to whom do I owe reparation? But I love; I love
passionately. My love is my life. If I, without apparent motive, suggest
to a young girl accustomed to luxury, to elegance, to a life fruitful
of all enjoyments of art, a young girl who loves to idly listen at the
opera to Rossini's music,--if to her I should propose that she deprive
herself of fifteen hundred thousand francs in favor of broken-down old
men, or scrofulous paupers, she would turn her back on me and laugh, or
her confidential friend would tell her that I'm a crazy jester. If in an
ecstasy of love, I should paint to her the charms of a modest life,
and a little home on the banks of the Loire; if I were to ask her to
sacrifice her Parisian life on the altar of our love, it would be, in
the first place, a virtuous lie