with the deepest respect, always your
humble servant,

"JOSEPHA MIRAH."

The lawyer, Maitre Hulot d'Ervy, hearing no more of the dreadful Madame
Nourrisson, seeing his father-in-law married, having brought back his
brother-in-law to the family fold, suffering from no importunity on
the part of his new stepmother, and seeing his mother's health improve
daily, gave himself up to his political and judicial duties, swept along
by the tide of Paris life, in which the hours count for days.

One night, towards the end of the session, having occasion to write up
a report to the Chamber of Deputies, he was obliged to sit at work till
late at night. He had gone into his study at nine o'clock, and, while
waiting till the man-servant should bring in the candles with green
shades, his thoughts turned to his father. He was blaming himself for
leaving the inquiry so much to the singer, and had resolved to see
Monsieur Chapuzot himself on the morrow, when he saw in the twilight,
outside the window, a handsome old head, bald and yellow, with a fringe
of white hair.

"Would you please to give orders, sir, that a poor hermit is to be
admitted, just come from the Desert, and who is instructed to beg for
contributions towards rebuilding a holy house."

This apparition, which suddenly reminded the lawyer of a prophecy
uttered by the terrible Nourrisson, gave him a shock.

"Let in that old man," said he to the servant.

"He will poison the place, sir," replied the man. "He has on a brown
gown which he has never changed since he left Syria, and he has no
shirt--"

"Show him in," repeated the master.

The old man came in. Victorin's keen eye examined this so-called pilgrim
hermit, and he saw a fine specimen of the Neapolitan friars, whose
frocks are akin to the rags of the _lazzaroni_, whose sandals are
tatters of leather, as the friars are tatters of humanity. The get-up
was so perfect that the lawyer, though still on his guard, was vexed
with himself for having believed it to be one of Madame Nourrisson's
tricks.

"How much to you want of me?"

"Whatever you feel that you ought to give me."

Victorin took a five-franc piece from a little pile on his table, and
handed it to the stranger.

"That is not much on account of fifty thousand francs," said the pilgrim
of the desert.

This speech removed all Victorin's doubts.

"And has Heaven kept its word?" he said, with a frown.

"The question is an offence, my son," said