The Master-Christian. Marie Corelli

are millions and millions of planets turning round and round, larger than our world,—ever so much larger,—and nobody knows which is the largest of them all!"

      "It is as thou sayest, my son," said Patoux confidently—"Nobody knows which is the largest of them all, but whichever it may be, that largest of them all belongs to Our Lady and the angels."

      Henri looked at Babette, but Babette was munching watercress busily, and did not return his enquiring glances. Papa Patoux, quite satisfied with his own reasoning, continued his supper in an amiable state of mind.

      "What didst thou serve to Monseigneur, my little one?" he asked his wife with a coaxing and caressing air, as though she were some delicate and dainty sylph of the woodlands, instead of being the lady of massive proportions which she undoubtedly was,—"Something of delicacy and fine flavour, doubtless?"

      Madame Patoux shook her head despondingly.

      "He would have nothing of that kind," she replied—"Soup maigre, and afterwards nothing but bread, dried figs, and apples to finish. Ah, Heaven! What a supper for a Cardinal-Archbishop! It is enough to make one weep!"

      Patoux considered the matter solemnly.

      "He is perhaps very poor?" he half queried.

      "Poor, he may be," responded Madame,—"But if he is, it is surely his own fault,—whoever heard of a poor Cardinal-Archbishop! Such men can all be rich if they choose."

      "Can they?" asked Henri with sudden vivacious eagerness. "How?"

      But his question was not answered, for just at that moment a loud knock came at the door of the inn, and a tall broadly built personage in close canonical attire appeared in the narrow little passage of entry, attended by another smaller and very much more insignificant-looking individual.

      Patoux hastily scrambled out of his chair.

      "The Archbishop!" he whispered to his wife—"He himself! Our own

       Archbishop!"

      Madame Patoux jumped up, and seizing her children, held one in each hand as she curtsied up and down.

      "Benedicite!" said the new-comer, lightly signing the cross in air with a sociable smile—"Do not disturb yourselves, my children! You have with you in this house the eminent Cardinal Bonpre?"

      "Ah, yes, Monseigneur!" replied Madame Patoux—"Only just now he has finished his little supper. Shall I show Monseigneur to his room?"

      "If you please," returned the Archbishop, still smiling benevolently—"And permit my secretary to wait with you here till I return."

      With this, and an introductory wave of his hand in the direction of the attenuated and sallow-faced personage who had accompanied him, he graciously permitted Madame Patoux to humbly precede him by a few steps, and then followed her with a soft, even tread, and a sound as of rustling silk in his garments, from which a faint odour of some delicate perfume seemed wafted as he moved.

      Left to entertain the Archbishop's secretary, Jean Patoux was for a minute or two somewhat embarrassed. Henri and Babette stared at the stranger with undisguised curiosity, and were apparently not favourably impressed by his appearance.

      "He has white eyelashes!" whispered Henri.

      "And yellow teeth," responded Babette.

      Meanwhile Patoux, having scratched his bullet-head sufficiently over the matter, offered his visitor a chair.

      "Sit down, sir," he said curtly.

      The secretary smiled pallidly and took the proffered accommodation. Patoux again meditated. He was not skilled in the art of polite conversation, and he found himself singularly at a loss.

      "It would be an objection no doubt, and an irreverance perhaps to smoke a pipe before you, Monsieur—Monsieur—"

      "Cazeau," finished the secretary with another pallid smile—"Claude

       Cazeau, a poor scribe,—at your service! And I beg of you, Monsieur

       Jean Patoux, to smoke at your distinguished convenience!"

      There was a faint tone of satire in his voice which struck Papa Patoux as exceedingly disagreeable, though he could not quite imagine why he found it so. He slowly reached for his pipe from the projecting shelf above the chimney, and as slowly proceeded to fill it with tobacco from a tin cannister close by.

      "I do not think I have ever seen you in the town, Monsieur Cazeau," he said—"Nor at Mass in the Cathedral either?"

      "No?" responded Cazeau easily, in a half-querying tone—"I do not much frequent the streets; and I only attend the first early mass on Sundays. My work for Monseigneur occupies my whole time."

      "Ah!" and Patoux, having stuffed his pipe sufficiently, lit it, and proceeded to smoke peaceably—"There must be much to do. Many poor and sick who need money, and clothes, and help in every way,—and to try and do good, and give comfort to all the unhappy souls in Rouen is a hard task, even for an Archbishop."

      Cazeau linked his thin hands together with an action of pious fervour and assented.

      "There is a broken-hearted creature near us," pursued Patoux leisurely—"We call her Marguerite La Folle;—I have often thought I would ask Pere Laurent to speak to Monseigneur for her, that she might be released from the devils that are tearing her. She was a good girl till a year or two ago,—then some villain got the ruin of her, and she lost her wits over it. Ah,'tis a sad sight to see her now—poor Marguerite Valmond!"

      "Ha!" cried Henri suddenly, pointing a grimy finger at Cazeau—"Why did you jump? Did something hurt you?"

      Cazeau had indeed "jumped," as Henri put it,—that is, he had sprung up from his chair suddenly and as suddenly sat down again with an air of impatience and discomfort. He rapidly overcame whatever emotion moved him, however, and stretched his thin mouth in a would-be amiable grin at the observant Henri.

      "You are a sharp boy!" he observed condescendingly—"and tall for your age, no doubt. How old are you?"

      "Eleven," replied Henri—"But that has nothing to do with your jumping."

      "True," and the secretary wriggled in his chair, pretending to be much amused—"But my jumping had nothing to do with you either, my small friend! I had a thought,—a sudden thought,—of a duty forgotten."

      "Oh, it was a thought, was it?" and Henri looked incredulous. "Do thoughts always make you jump?"

      "Tais-toi! Tais-toi!" murmured Patoux gently, between two whiffs of his pipe—"Excuse him, Monsieur Cazeau,—he is but a child."

      Cazeau writhed amicably.

      "A delightful child," he murmured—"And the little girl—his sister—is also charming—Ah, what fine dark eyes!—what hair! Will she not come and speak to me?"

      He held out a hand invitingly towards Babette, but she merely made a grimace at him and retired backwards. Patoux smiled benevolently.

      "She does not like strangers," he explained.

      "Good—very good! That is right! Little girls should always run away from strangers, especially strangers of my sex," observed Cazeau with a sniggering laugh—"And do these dear children go to school?"

      Patoux took his pipe out of his mouth altogether, and stared solemnly at the ceiling.

      "Without doubt!—they are compelled to go to school," he answered slowly; "but if I could have had my way, they should never have gone. They learn mischief there in plenty, but no good that I can see. They know much about geography, and the stars, and anatomy, and what they call physical sciences;—but whether they have got it into their heads that the good God wants them to live straight, clean, honest, wholesome lives, is more than I am certain of. However, I trust Pere Laurent will do what he can."

      "Pere Laurent?" echoed Cazeau, with a wide smile—"You have a high opinion of Pere Laurent? Ah,