to predict the dissolution of their friendship. There is nothing of the kind. The fact is, that the pair have the most absolute confidence in each other. The honest Badiche speaks as much for Alice as for Cintrat: he believes his friend is not a marrying man, and he knows too that he would be loath to make any woman miserable. The comradeship between them has been so thoroughly proved, that Cintrat is grateful instead of angry; and indeed, although he is flattered by Mademoiselle Roberjot's evident admiration, we suspect that she has left his heart untouched. But even the unsusceptible Badiche is obliged to admit that Cintrat can hardly leave Pornic without bidding farewell to the young lady; and in that final interview he rushes upon his doom. Thoroughly good-natured as he is, he cannot bear to make the girl unhappy; he knows nothing of the wiles of which an apparently candid little bourgeoise may be capable; and indeed it would have taken a shrewder spirit than his to penetrate the resources of the astute enchantress. So he marries and enters on his ménage with a worthless and heartless woman who has speculated on his softness and inexperience. In that second stage of his existence nothing surprises him so much as his own complete reformation. Madame Cintrat flatters him; rubs him down like a cat; and lays herself out to exploiter his talents remorselessly to her own advantage. She sends him to his easel, and keeps him there, in season and out of season; it is she who makes all the bargains for his pictures, as Badiche used to do before. The ambitious daughter of the Pornic druggist shows considerable knowledge of life, and raises money freely on her husband's prospects. She advertises him by painting the fantastic façade of their new house, so as to attract the curiosity of the Parisian public; and it is a touch almost worthy of Balzac when M. Malot makes her select the situation immediately opposite to the gates of the cemetery of Montmartre. She knows that the trains of mourners who are following the biers will be specially interested by any distraction in the circumstances. And Madame Cintrat comes to have her salon, where she actually receives. Her half-broken husband is a little restive at first, but she finds that she can lead him where she likes, so long as he fancies that she loves him. Even his Bohemian recklessness had been startled at the idea of running deeply in debt; for having hitherto had no credit, he had never been tempted to abuse any. But there is no answering his wife's practical arguments, based on her flattering convictions of his brilliant future. As he had always set comfort before show, he objects strenuously to having all the house sacrificed to the show-rooms; but he is easily soothed into consenting to occupy a bedroom no bigger than one of the Pornic bathing-machines. And though he has lost none of his affection and regard for Badiche, he even consents to see his friend more seldom or by stealth, since Badiche and Madame unfortunately do not "hit it off." In fact, Badiche, whose intelligence has been sharpened by dislike and jealousy, has long perceived with anxiety and pain that his friend's domestic happiness is hollow. It is everything to Madame to have a liberal paymaster in her husband, so it is as much as ever her interest to cajole him. Besides, she has a real pride in his talent, as it reflects lustre on herself. As the wife of the painter Cintrat, she has something of a personality. But as she struggles upwards in society, and has become a habitual drunkshe is more and more ashamed ard; for his wife when she took of him socially. Yet the poor Bo- to flight had dealt him a second hemian has had hard times of it: and more deadly blow, in carrying he has tried in vain to conform away his child and concealing it. himself to his wife's ideas of suitable But the faithful Badiche still clings dress; but in a couple of days the to him, directing the affairs of the most fashionably cut clothes look miserable household as in the old as if they had been picked up days, and doing his best to make in the second-hand stalls of the the two ends meet. Badiche, alTemple. As it strikes him that his though no austere moralist, deplores wife cares less for him, -as he real- the fall he understands and excuses. ises that though lavish on herself The light he had so fervently adshe is parsimonious for him and mired, and from whose lustre he for their child,-consequently the had expected so much, is going out submissive slave becomes recalci- in dimness and evil odour, like an trant. He protests that he will unsnuffed tallow candle. It is all not paint by contract, against time, over, and there can be nothing for and at so much the yard, that he it, sooner or later, but to sing the may pay the milliner's bills she requiem of a self- ruined genius. runs up indefatigably. He will He little suspects the revolution not prostitute his art and compro- that Fortune is preparing for them. mise his fame by laying himself One evening the pair receive an out for flattering portraits of vul- angelic visitor, in the person of gar men and women. Naturally, Cintrat's daughter, the long-lost when Cintrat ceases to be pliable, Paulette. The young girl, after his wife begins to feel an active being abandoned by her unnatural dislike for him, which she takes mother, and having had more than little pains to conceal. Irritation her share of trouble and hardships, and her stupid vanity make her has walked all the way from Italy indiscreet: there is a scandal and to Paris with a trifling sum of a separation. In an exceedingly money she had saved or borrowed. cleverly managed scene, the worthy At the moment of her arrival, Badiche labours unsuccessfully, for the only member of the joint esthe sake of his friend, to save tablishment that is at home to reMadame Cintrat from shame and ceive her is the dog Barbouillon, exposure. He knows too well a very remarkable character, and what will be the consequences to even more of a vagrant than his that affectionate and impression- masters. Badiche dwells proudly able nature of having its idol shat- on the dog's eccentric idiosyncrasy, tered and their home made desolate. when Paulette subsequently demands Indeed there is so much that is dramatic in the novel, that we believe it might be successfully adapted to the stage. A dozen of years or so are supposed to have elapsed, and in scene the third and last we find the once famous painter has fallen far below the stand-point he had occupied at Pornic; though even then he had indulged much too freely in idleness and dissipation. Cintrat is prematurely aged, "He is your pupil, then?? "He's nobody's pupil, Barbouillon; he does exactly what he likes himself. Born of unknown parents, nobody knows where, he has adopted us because he has found with us the liberty that is indispensable to him before all things. Paris belongs to him and he belongs to nobody. One day you meet him in the Champs Elysées, and the day after at Charenton. There are certain restaurants that have his confidence, and which he is always ready to patronise with any one he takes a fancy to; and there are others where he would never risk himself on any consideration."" In consequence of the intimate friendship that springs up between him and Paulette, Barbouillon renounces his vagrant habits and becomes a thoroughly domesticated character. But the influence of the girl on her father is even more remarkable. She comes to him like a breath of the good old times, when his nature had expanded for a season in the happiness of a home. His child is absolutely dependent on him, and he has once more a motive for exertion. The very morning after her arrival, if he does not formally take the pledge, he announces to Badiche that he has done with strong drink. Nor is it the least touching proof of the old Bohemian's devotion, that Badiche, who loves to drink in moderation, becomes an abstainer that he may not tempt his friend. Who could have imagined, only a few weeks before, that the day would come when Cintrat would have alcohol surreptitiously administered in sauces to recruit the strength that has been shattered by excessive self-denial. But this is only the first miracle that Paulette has wrought. Scarcely less heroic are the efforts by which, in spite of discouragement and repeated failures, the painter slowly recovers his assurance of touch. And then he becomes even a greater celebrity than before, since the earnestness of his later style re flects his sad experiences. As for Paulette, she has her father's warm heart, while her unprotected walk to Paris showed that she had much of her mother's resolution. But although she is undoubtedly a pleasing and determined little person, she is rather commonplace; and, as we remarked already, the interest throughout is made to centre in Cintrat. Nor are his trials altogether at an end with the return of prosperity. We say nothing of the unwelcome reappearance of his wife, with claims upon his income which he is compelled to compromise. Cintrat is freehanded enough, and careless in pecuniary questions. But it is another affair when he finds that the daughter who has become all in all to him, has gone and given the innermost place in her heart to another. For once, excess of love renders him selfish, and selfishness finds sophistical arguments to make him reject eligible proposals in what he persuades himself to be his daughter's interest. Of course, on reconsideration he gives reluctant consent; but all the same, his pangs continue to be acute, now that he knows that another is dearer to his daughter than himself. From first to last there is much that is pathetic in the novel; but the chief charm, after all, is in the beauty of the friendship that so closely unites Cintrat and Badiche. With taste and talents, though they may be theoretical rather than practical, Badiche devotes himself to the man to whom he has consecrated his life, with a love that surpasses the love of women: while Cintrat, with all his foibles, is by no means unworthy of that sublime attachment; and in the flush of prosperity, as in the extremes of ill-fortune, never does he either neglect his follower or misunderstand him. By way of postscript to our article, we make very brief allusion to a collection of exceedingly short stories by M. François Coppée. Stories indeed they can hardly be called they are rather the slightest possible sketches of incidents so entirely in outline, that it is for the imagination of the reader to fill in most of the details. Some of them are humorous, most are more or less pathetic, but the greater part are exceedingly clever; and we admire the self-restraint of the author, who seems to have wasted much good material by compressing what might have been almost indefinitely expanded. As is often the case with similar collections, the first of these sketches is perhaps the best, though there is another-"La Fenêtre Eclairée " -very noteworthy. "Le Morceau de Pain" is a melancholy souvenir of the Franco-German war. The Duc de Hardimont, a petit crevé of the Empire, hears with horror, while in villegiatura at Aix-lesBains, of the terrible disaster of Reichshoffen. The dissipated descendant of the crusaders has hitherto lived altogether for pleasure; at that particular moment he is caught in the toils of a venal siren of the "Nudités-Parisiennes." The news appeals to his patriotism and his pride of race: in an hour or two his portmanteaus are packed, and he is hurrying by first-class express to Paris. He enlists as a private in a regiment of the line, and we find him participating in the defence of the capital. Nibbling daintily at his rough rations behind a battery under the guns of Bicêtre, he dreams fondly of the good old times and the cuisine of the Café Anglais, and throws away his crust of the pain de munition in disgust. A comrade is ready enough to pick it up out of the mud, and the gentlemanly spirit of the Duke induces him to apologise for his wastefulness. The two fall into conversation, and De Hardimont learns from the revelations of the other that there are men to whom starvation is familiar, and to whom military rations may be a luxury. Touched to the heart, humiliated and self-condemned, he presses the hand of Jean-Victor as comrade to comrade, and promises that the other shall hear of him when the war comes to an end. For one of the two, it is sooner over than they had supposed. At midnight there is a summons for the relief for the advanced posts. The Duke should be on duty, but he is sound asleep. The grateful Jean-Victor, who has a rude appetite, has been awakened by hunger, and he eagerly volunteers to take the place of his new acquaintance. In a Prussian onslaught on the outlying pickets the half-famished peasant is put out of all his miseries; and the Duke learns, on awakening, that his life has probably been saved by this unexpected substitution. None of these tales carry any very impressive moral lessons, and the teaching of adversity seems to have had slight effect on De Hardimont. When peace has been made, and when the Germans have been bought off, we find he has once more gone in search of the pleasures of Paris; and he is strolling homewards from the club with a companion, after an evening of heavy play. But he had a good heart, as M. Coppée has pointed out before; and a trivial occurrence awakens a melancholy recollection. The aristocratic Comte de Saulnes sees, to his stupefaction, the Duc de Hardimont pick up muddy crust, which he had kicked aside by accident, wipe it carefully with the handkerchief emblazoned with the ducal arms, and lay it on a bench of the Boulevards in the full blaze of a gas-lamp. a "What in the world are you about?' said the Count, bursting out laughing. Have you gone mad?' "It is in memory of a poor man who died for me,' replied the Duke, in a voice that was slightly tremulous. 'Do not laugh, my dear fellow; you would disoblige me.'" REMINISCENCES OF A ROSS-SHIRE FOREST. SOME eight or ten years ago I was asked to go up to Ross-shire to stalk deer, and I refused, to my everlasting shame be it spoken. I preferred shooting grouse, partridges, and other vermin, in a southern county. I had arrived at the conclusion, knowing nothing whatever of the subject, that deer-stalking was a delusion and a snare—a very much overrated sport. I had heard of men wading up burns for a few miles, crawling on their stomachs for a few more, lying behind a rock for an hour or two in a cold October day, and then nearly getting a shot at a stag; and I had made up my mind such sport wouldn't suit me. Next season, however, I got another chance, and thinking there might be something in it after all, I resolved to go. "And then you got to like it?" Well, no, not exactly -the first season didn't quite convert me: I was too ignorant to enjoy myself. Half the pleasure nay, more than half-consists in finding your deer with the aid of the glass; and to use a glass quickly and effectively is not to be learned in a fortnight's practice. That first season it was always the same. Before I had got myself into a comfortable position for "spying" the hill, before I had got my glass adjusted to a proper focus, a low whispering in Gaelic would divert my attention, and glancing over my shoulder, there I would see Donald and Duncan with their glasses pointed perfectly steady on the hill-side in front of us. Before I could ask what they saw, I would most probably get the caution, "Don't move, sir, if you please we're in sight of some hinds;" or, "There is a stag in the corrie, sir, away up near the top." Thus, accepting the inferior position, I would eagerly ask, "Where is he, Donald? what's he like? is he a good one?" Even when told where the stag is, a young hand will sometimes have great difficulty in finding him. He may be a mile away, with nothing but his head and neck visible; or a mist may be on the hill, and the light so bad, that even if you have the glass on him, you may not be able to distinguish him from his surroundings. Several times, after a long try, I have fairly given in; then Donald would come to the rescue. sir, "D'ye see yon big white scaur, running straight up the hill face follow that to the top, then aboot thirty yairds to the left you'll see three or four big rocks, and below them a patch o' heather: the stag is lying in the middle o' the heather, sir; you can see his head quite plain." Determined now to find him, you take a long look. "By jingo, Donald, I've got him; he's a grand one I can see nine points at least." "To which Donald, closing his glass and beginning to fill his pipe with great deliberation, will possibly reply very slowly, they speak slowly, and never use superlatives, "Well, sir, he's a very fair beast, and he's not in a very bad place whatever." Yes, to use the glass effectively requires great patience and constant practice. Then, again, at first I didn't believe in the gillies, or "stalkers," as the Southron is pleased now to term them. I thought the precautions they took were ridiculous, and that I was |