and the chief
of the kitchen; but I do not know whether it was with pleasure or
mortification that Madame received the declarations of friendship which
the young Alcides proffered to her, for he persisted in calling her "La
respectable Fribsbi," "La vertueuse Fribsbi,"--and in stating that he
should consider her as his mother, while he hoped she would regard him
as her son. Ah! it was not very long ago, Fribsby thought, that words
had been addressed to her in that dear French language, indicating a
different sort of attachment. And she sighed as she looked up at the
picture of her Carabineer. For it is surprising how young some people's
hearts remain when their heads have need of a front or a little
hair-dye,--and, at this moment, Madame Fribsby, as she told young
Alcide, felt as romantic as a girl of eighteen.

When the conversation took this turn--and at their first intimacy
Madame Fribsby was rather inclined so to lead it--Alcide always politely
diverged to another subject: it was as his mother that he persisted
in considering the good milliner. He would recognise her in no other
capacity, and with that relationship the gentle lady was forced to
content herself, when she found how deeply the artist's heart was
engaged elsewhere.

He was not long before he described to her the subject and origin of his
passion.

"I declared myself to her," said Alcide, laying his hand on his
heart, "in a manner which was as novel as I am charmed to think it was
agreeable. Where cannot Love penetrate, respectable Madame Fribsbi?
Cupid is the father of invention!--I inquired of the domestics what were
the plats of which Mademoiselle partook with most pleasure; and built
up my little battery accordingly. On a day when her parents had gone to
dine in the world (and I am grieved to say that a grossier dinner at a
restaurateur, in the Boulevard, or in the Palais Royal seemed to form
the delights of these unrefined persons), the charming Miss entertained
some comrades of the pension; and I advised myself to send up a little
repast suitable to so delicate young palates. Her lovely name is
Blanche. The name of the maiden is white; the wreath of roses which she
wears is white. I determined that my dinner should be as spotless as
the snow. At her accustomed hour, and instead of the rude gigot a l'eau,
which was ordinarily served at her too simple table, I sent her up a
little potage a la Reine--a la Reine Blanche I called it,--as white as
h