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Tetuanui ended with a line of Brault's song about Pomaré: "Puisqu'il est mort ... N'en parlons plus!" Mataiea was the farthest point on Tahiti from Papeete I had reached, and wishing to see more of the island, I set out on foot with Tatini, my handmaid. We bade good-bye to Tetuanui and Haamoura and all the family after the dawn breakfast.

"Oui, madame," replied the third, fanning in the direction pointed out. "Louise," said Madame de Fontanges, languidly, after a short pause, "apportez-moi de l'eau sucrée." "Oui, madame," replied another, rising, in obedience to the order. "Non, non! Je n'en veux pas mais j'ai soif horrible. Manchette, va chercher de l'eau cerise." "Oui, madame," replied Manchette, rising from her seat.

The Comprachicos were poor. They might have said what the lean and ragged witch observed, when she saw them setting fire to the stake, "Le jeu n'en vaut pas la chandelle." After the lapse of two centuries, it would be difficult to throw any light on this point. It was, as we have said, a fellowship. It had its laws, its oaths, its formulæ it had almost its cabala.

I sometimes meet the friends of M. l'Abbé Dubois, who complain that they are forgotten. Assure him of my humble regards. His last letter ends with this peculiar Epicurean thought in poetry: Je vis éloigné de la France, Sans besoins et sans abondance, Content d'un vulgaire destin; J'aime la vertu sans rudesse, J'aime le plaisir sans mollesse, J'aime la vie, et n'en crains pas la fin.

"Le jeu n'en vaut pas la chandelle!" she exclaimed, with a quick nervous laugh that grated grievously upon his ear. "Madame, I implore you not to deny me the delight of an occasional interview." A sudden pallor crept across his eager face, and he attempted to touch the fair dimpled hand which, still grasping the locket, rested upon the table.

She should bid her stay at home and mind her baby." "By-the-bye, what truth is there in that story? The Naples affair, you know?" "N'en sais rien. But I hear odd things about her husband. Mr. Bickerdike knew him a few years ago. He ran through a fortune, and fell into most disreputable ways of life. Somebody was saying that he got his living as 'bus-conductor, or something of the kind."

"Frantz Frantz!" she said; and they remained there side by side, silent and burning with emotion, soothed by Madame Dobson's romance, which reached their ears by snatches through the shrubbery: "Ton amour, c'est ma folie. Helas! je n'en puis guei-i-i-r." Suddenly Risler's tall figure appeared in the doorway. "This way, Chebe, this way. They are in the summerhouse."

At Avignon we made inquiries right and left as to the best means of reaching the Causses. Nobody had so much as heard of the name. One individual thus interrogated repeated after me: 'L'Ecosse, l'Ecosse? Mon Dieu! je n'en sais absolument rien. He thought we were asking the directest road to Scotland a strangely random question for two Englishwomen to make, surely, in the South of France!

In fact we have dislikes founded, or rather unfounded, upon the basis of Bussy Rabutin's lines: "Je ne vous aime point, Hylas; Je n'en saurois dire la cause. Je sais seulement une chose. C'est que je ne vous aime pas." Next comes an even more intimate personal element the critic's condition. The day may have been vexing. The present indecent haste of the income-tax collector may have worried him.

He had seen gambling- tables during his three weeks' visit to Germany, and he felt sure that this child must have seen them too. "Eh! What an insupportable heat!" cried a harsh high-pitched voice behind him. "Monsieur Jules, I will repose myself for a few minutes, if you will have the goodness to fetch me a glass of eau sucrée. Je n'en peux plus!"