he knew that they were for
old Simon, the Jew dandy, who was mad after an opera girl, and lived on
the floor beneath.

"Go, my boy," he said; "it is good: call in a couple of hours, and
remove the plates and glasses."

The little waiter trotted down stairs, and Simon sat greedily down to
discuss the capon and the white wine. He bolted the legs, he devoured
the wings, he cut every morsel of flesh from the breast;--seasoning
his repast with pleasant draughts of wine, and caring nothing for the
inevitable bill, which was to follow all.

"Ye gods!" said he, as he scraped away at the backbone, "what a dinner!
what wine!--and how gayly served up too!" There were silver forks and
spoons, and the remnants of the fowl were upon a silver dish. "Why, the
money for this dish and these spoons," cried Simon, "would keep me and
Mrs. G. for a month! I WISH"--and here Simon whistled, and turned round
to see that nobody was peeping--"I wish the plate were mine."

Oh, the horrid progress of the Devil! "Here they are," thought Simon
to himself; "why should not I TAKE THEM?" And take them he did.
"Detection," said he, "is not so bad as starvation; and I would as soon
live at the galleys as live with Madame Gambouge."

So Gambouge shovelled dish and spoons into the flap of his surtout, and
ran down stairs as if the Devil were behind him--as, indeed, he was.

He immediately made for the house of his old friend the pawnbroker--that
establishment which is called in France the Mont de Piete. "I am obliged
to come to you again, my old friend," said Simon, "with some family
plate, of which I beseech you to take care."

The pawnbroker smiled as he examined the goods. "I can give you nothing
upon them," said he.

"What!" cried Simon; "not even the worth of the silver?"

"No; I could buy them at that price at the 'Cafe Morisot,' Rue de la
Verrerie, where, I suppose, you got them a little cheaper." And, so
saying, he showed to the guilt-stricken Gambouge how the name of that
coffee-house was inscribed upon every one of the articles which he had
wished to pawn.

The effects of conscience are dreadful indeed. Oh! how fearful is
retribution, how deep is despair, how bitter is remorse for crime--WHEN
CRIME IS FOUND OUT!--otherwise, conscience takes matters much more
easily. Gambouge cursed his fate, and swore henceforth to be virtuous.

"But, hark ye, my friend," continued the honest broker, "there is no
reason why, because I cannot lend upo