ry: "... My letters are so full of myself that
it bores me to have them read over. You have too much taste not to be
bored too. So I shall stop: even the child is laughing at me now." And
then in March: "... My son has left us--we are quite alone, the child
and I--reading, writing, and saying our prayers." A jolly little
picture of still and gentle life. No Greuze there.

The idyll ends in tears, but not just yet. Two days before she leaves
Brittany, having "neither rhyme nor reason in my hands," she makes use
of the _petite personne_ for the last time: "the most obliging child
in the world. I don't know what I should have done without her. She
reads me what I like--quite well; she writes as you see; she is fond
of me; she is willing; she can talk about Madame de Grignan. In fact,
you may love her on my assurance." And then the poor little dear puts
in her little word for herself to propitiate this formidable Countess
in Provence:

"That would make me very happy, Madame, and I am sure that you must
envy my joy to be with your mother. She has been pleased to make me
write all that praise of myself, though I was rather ashamed to do it.
But I am very unhappy that she is going away."

Madame resumes the pen: "... The child, desired to converse with you
..."--which one may or may not believe. If, as I feel sure, she was
bidden to the task, I don't see how she could possibly have brought it
off better than in those demure phrases. But is she not a dear little
creature?

Then came the dreadful day, the 24th of March, and Madame's coach and
six horses carry her to Laval on her way to Paris. She stays there
for the night and writes, of course, to her _chere bonne_: "... They
carried off the _petite personne_ early this morning to save me the
outcries of her grief. They were the sobs of a child, so natural that
they moved me. I dare say she is dancing about now, but for two days
she has been in floods, not having been able to learn restraint from
me!" Madame, as we know, had abundantly the gift of tears, and was
assuredly none the worse for it.

In Paris, Corbinelli was secretary for a time; but she regretted the
_petite personne_. "... I don't like a secretary who is cleverer than
I am.... The child suited me much better."

And there the happy little figurine, having danced her hour at Les
Rochers, leaves the stage. Other _petites personnes_ there are--one
the sister of _La Murinette Beaute_, who got on so well with M. d