with the profits. The author, thirsting for
the public, consented. Then the publisher wrote again to say that the
immortal treatise must be spiced; a little politics flung in: "Nothing
goes down, else." The author answered in some heat that he would not
dilute things everlasting with the fleeting topics of the day, nor
defile science with politics. On this his Mentor smoothed him down,
despising him secretly for not seeing that a book is a matter of trade
and nothing else. It ended in Aubertin going to Paris to hatch his
Phoenix. He had not been there a week, when a small deputation called on
him, and informed him he had been elected honorary member of a certain
scientific society. The compliment was followed by others, till at last
certain ladies, with the pliancy of their sex, find out they had always
secretly cared for butterflies. Then the naturalist smelt a rat, or, in
other words, began to scent that entomology, a form of idiocy in a poor
man, is a graceful decoration of the intellect in a rich one.

Philosopher without bile, he saw through this, and let it amuse, not
shock him. His own species, a singularly interesting one in my opinion,
had another trait in reserve for him.

He took a world of trouble to find out the circumstances of his nephew's
nephews and nieces: then he made arrangements for distributing a large
part of his legacy among them. His intentions and the proportions of his
generosity transpired.

Hitherto they had been silent, but now they all fell-to and abused him:
each looking only to the amount of his individual share, not at the sum
total the doctor was giving way to an ungrateful lot.

The donor was greatly amused, and noted down the incident and some
of the remarks in his commonplace book, under the general head of
"Bestiarium;" and the particular head of "Homo."

Paris with its seductions netted the good doctor, and held him two or
three months; would have detained him longer, but for alarming accounts
the baroness sent of Josephine's health. These determined him to return
to Beaurepaire; and, must I own it, the announcement was no longer
hailed at Beaurepaire with universal joy as heretofore.

Josephine Raynal, late Dujardin, is by this time no stranger to my
intelligent reader. I wish him to bring his knowledge of her character
and her sensibility to my aid. Imagine, as the weary hours and days and
weeks roll over her head, what this loving woman feels for her lover
whom she has