One of the author's longer books, _Andre le Savoyard_, is a curious blend of the _berquinade_ with what some English critics have been kind enough to call the "candour" of the more usual French novel. The candour, however, is in very small proportion to the berquinity. This, I suppose, helped it to pass the English censorship of the mid-nineteenth century; for I remember a translation (it was the first book of the author's I ever read) far away in the 'fifties, among a collection of books where nothing flagrantly scabrous would have been admitted. It begins, and for the most part continues, in an almost completely Marmontelish or Edgeworthian fashion. A selfish glutton and _petit-maitre_ of a French count, M. de Francornard, loses his way (with a postilion, a valet, and his little daughter, whom he has carried off from her mother) in the hills of Savoy, and is rescued and guested by a good peasant, whom he rewards with a _petit ecu_ (three _livres_, not five or six). The peasant dies, and his two eldest boys set out for Paris as chimney-sweeps. The elder (eleven-year-old) Andre himself is befriended by a good Auvergnat water-carrier and his little daughter Manette; after which he falls in with the Francornards--now, after a fashion, a united family. He is taken into their household and made a sort of protege by the countess, the child Adolphine being also very fond of him; while, though in another way, their _soubrette_ Lucile, a pretty damsel of eighteen, is fonder still. Years pass, and the fortunate Andre distributes his affections between the three girls. Manette, though she ends as his wife, is more of a sister at first; Adolphine is an adored and unhoped-for idol; while Lucile (it is hardly necessary to say that it is in the scenes with her that "candour" comes in) is at first a protectress, then a schoolmistress of the school of Cupid, in process of time a mistress in the other sense, and always a very good-natured and unselfish helper. In fact, Manette is so preternaturally good (she can't even be jealous in a sufficiently human way), Adolphine so prettily and at last tragically null, that one really feels inclined to observe to Andre, if he were worth it, the recondite quotation Ne sit ancillae tibi amor pudori, though perhaps seven years _is_ a long interval in the first third of life. [Sidenote: _Jean._]