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Monsieur Panpan, with his strange lustrous eyes, if not enchanted, rubbed his thin bony hands together as he sat up in the bed, and chuckled in an unearthly way at the good news.

Ah, Madame! if you had seen, as I did, that when we reached home the first thing poor Madame Panpan came to do, was to fall upon her husband’s neck, and in a voice broken with sobs, and as though her heart would break, to thank that merciful God who had spared her in her trouble, that she might still work for him and his children! you would not be so ready with your blame.

Well! said M. Panpan, time rolled on, and little Louis was born. This might have been a blessing, but while family cares and expenses were growing upon them, Panpan’s strength and energies were withering away.

His malady was obstinate and impertinent; it could neither be explained nor driven away; and as all the deep theories propounded respecting it, or carried into practical operation for its removal, proved to be mere elaborate fancies, or useless experiments, the medical professionhappily for Panpanretired from the field in disgust.

Alas, yes! all this is true, and the cause still more true and more sad; for it was under the terrible impression that Madame Panpan and her two childrenfor they were both with us, you will remember, even little Henrihad not eaten of one tolerable meal throughout a whole week, that these unpardonable acts were committed on the Sunday.

“I do believe it was the button!” exclaimed Panpan, one Sunday afternoon, with a strange light gleaming in his eyes. Madame replied only with a sob. “You have seen many of them?” he abruptly demanded of me. “Of what?” “Buttons.” “There are a great many of them made in England,” I replied. Where were we wandering?

Monsieur Panpan lives in the Place Valois,” said my friend, newly arrived from London on a visit to Paris, “and as I am under a promise to his brother Victor to deliver a message on his behalf, I must keep my word even if I go alone, and execute my mission in pantomime. Will you be my interpreter?”

It naturally happened, that on the pleasant Sunday afternoons, when we had disposed of our small, but often sumptuous dinner; perhaps a gigot de mouton with a clove of garlic in the knuckle; a fricassée de lapins with onions, or a fricandeau, Panpan himself would tell me part of his history; and in the course of our salad; of our little dessert of fresh fruit, or currant jelly; or perhaps, stimulated by the tiniest glass of brandy, would grow warm in the recital of his early experiences, and the unhappy chance which had brought him into his present condition.

I cannot trace the course of our acquaintance, or tell how, from an occasional call, my visits became those of a bosom friend; but certain it is, that soon each returning Sunday saw me a guest at the table of Monsieur Panpan, where my couvert and serviette became sacred to my use; and, after the meal, were carefully cleaned and laid apart for the next occasion.

We made him cheering Sunday visits, Madame Panpan, Louis, the little Henri, and I, and infringed many a rule of the hospital in regard to his regimen. There was a charcutier living close to the outer walks, and when nothing else could be had, we purchased some of his curiously prepared delicacies, and smuggled them in under various guises.