elted snow. He had
refused to take his coach by way of mortifying the flesh, having grown
very solicitous since his illness about the salvation of his soul. He
lived in retirement, aloof from all society and company, and paid no
visits save to his niece, Mademoiselle de Doucine, a little girl of
seven.

Leaning on his walking-cane, he made his way painfully to the Rue
Saint-Honore and entered the shop of Madame Pinson at the sign of the
_Panier Fleuri_. Here was displayed an abundant stock of children's toys
to tempt customers seeking presents for this New Year's Day of 1696.
You could scarce move for the host of mechanical figures of dancers and
tipplers, birds in the bush that clapped their wings and sang, cabinets
full of wax puppets, soldiers in white and blue ranged in battle array,
and dolls dressed some as fine ladies, others as servant wenches, for
the inequality of stations, established by God himself among mankind,
appeared even in these innocent mannikins.

M. Chanterelle chose a doll. The one he selected was dressed like the
Princess of Savoy on her arrival in France, on November 4th. The head
was a mass of bows and ribbons; she wore a very stiff corsage, covered
with gold filigrees, and a brocade petticoat with an overskirt caught up
by pearl clasps.

M. Chanterelle smiled to think of the delight such a lovely doll would
give Mademoiselle de Doucine, and when Madame Pinson handed him
the Princess of Savoy wrapped up in silk paper, a gleam of sensuous
satisfaction flitted over his kind face, pinched as it was with illness,
pale with fasting and haggard with the fear of hell.

He thanked Madame Pinson courteously, clapped the Princess under his arm
and walked away, dragging his leg painfully, towards the house where he
knew Mademoiselle de Doucine was waiting for him to attend her morning
levee.

At the corner of the Rue de l' Arbre-Sec, he met M. Spon, whose great
nose dived almost into his lace cravat.

"Good morning, Monsieur Spon," he greeted him. "I wish you a happy New
Year, and I pray God everything may turn out according to your wishes."

"Oh! my good sir, don't say that," cried M. Spon. "'T is often for our
chastisement that God grants our wishes. _Et tribuit eis petittonem
eorum_."

"'Tis very true," returned M. Chanterelle, "we do not know our own best
interests. I am an example myself, as I stand before you. I thought at
first that the complaint I have suffered from for the last two year