ssolute courtiers were lavish in their attentions to
the highly-endowed child. Established principles of virtue alone saved
her from ruin. Misfortune and sorrow had rendered her precocious
beyond her years. It was her only and her earnest desire to take the
veil, and join the sisters in the convent. But money was needed for
that purpose, and she had none.

There was residing very near Madame de Neuillant, a very remarkable
man, Paul Scarron. He was born of a good family, and had traveled
extensively. Having run through the disgraceful round of fashionable
dissipation, he had become crippled by the paralysis of his lower
limbs, and was living a literary life in the enjoyment of a
competence. He was still young. Imperturbable gayety, wonderful
conversational powers, and celebrity as a poet, caused his saloons to
be crowded with distinguished and admiring friends. Some one mentioned
to him the situation of Francoise d'Aubigne, and her desire to enter
the convent. His kindly heart was touched, and, heading a
subscription-list, he soon obtained sufficient funds from among his
friends to enable her to secure the retreat she desired.

Quite overjoyed, the maiden hastened to the apartments of the poet to
express her gratitude. Scarron was astonished when the apparition of a
beautiful girl of fifteen, full of life, and with a figure whose
symmetric grace the sculptor could with difficulty rival, appeared
before him. Her heart was glowing with gratitude which her lips could
hardly express, that he was furnishing her with means for a life-long
burial in the glooms of the cloister. The poet gazed upon her for a
moment quite bewildered, and then said, with one of those beaming
smiles which irradiated his pale, intellectual face with rare beauty,

"I must recall my promise; I can not procure you admission into a
religious community. You are not fitted for a nun. You can not
understand the nature of the sacrifice which you are so eager to make.
Will you become my wife? My servants anger and neglect me. I am unable
to enforce obedience. Were they under the control of a mistress, they
would do their duty. My friends neglect me; I can not pursue them to
reproach them for their abandonment. If they saw a pretty woman at the
head of my household, they would make my home cheerful. I give you a
week to decide."

Francoise returned to the convent bewildered, almost stunned. She was
alone in the world, living upon reluctant charity. There