child came into more complete possession of her wits,
she began to trouble about sundry practical difficulties she had not
thought of till then.

"What will my aunt say? And whatever can I tell her?" she asked
distractedly.

The aunt lived just opposite Saint-Eustache, less than a hundred yards
from Mathurine's archway. Thither we escorted her niece; and M.
l'Abbe Coignard, who had quite a venerable look, though one shoe _was_
unbuckled, accompanied the fair Sophie to the door of her aunt's lodging
and pitched that lady a fine tale:

"I had the happy fortune," he informed her, "to encounter your good
niece at the very moment when she was assailed by four footpads armed
with pistols, and I shouted for the watch so lustily that the thieves
took to their heels in a panic. But they were not quick enough to
escape the sergeants who, by the rarest chance, ran up in answer to my
outcries. They arrested the villains after a desperate tussle. I took my
share of the rough and tumble, and I thought at first I had lost my hat
in the fray. When all was over, we were all taken, your niece, the four
footpads and myself, before his Honour the Lieutenant-Criminel, who
treated us with much consideration and detained us till daylight in his
cabinet, taking down our evidence." The aunt answered drily:

"I thank you, sir, for having saved my niece from a peril which, to say
the truth, is not the risk a girl of her age need fear the most, when
she is out alone at night in the streets of Paris."

My good master made no answer to this; but Mademoiselle Sophie spoke up
and said in a voice of deep feeling:

"I do assure you, Aunt, Monsieur l'Abbe saved my life."

*****

Some years after this singular adventure, my master made the fatal
journey to Lyons from which he never returned. He was foully murdered,
and I had the ineffable grief of seeing him expire in my arms. The
incidents of his death have no connexion with the matter I speak of
here. I have taken pains to record them elsewhere; they are indeed
memorable, and will never, I think, be forgotten. I may add that this
journey was in all ways unfortunate, for after losing the best of
masters on the road, I was likewise forsaken by a mistress who loved me,
but did not love me alone, and whose loss nearly broke my heart, coming
after that of my good master. It is a mistake to suppose that a man
who has received one cruel blow grows callous to succeeding strokes
of calamity. Far other