[2] That same night, in the adjoining room of the hospital, died the son of Marmontel, from the effects of exposure and hunger. He had been traveling over North America, when from some cause his remittances from France were discontinued. He found himself at Albany utterly without resources. Leaving his trunk there, he walked to New York in hopes of finding the money, or of borrowing some from the French consul. His journey was a lone and toilsome one, and the exposure to the cold induced the return of a fever from which he had but lately recovered at the West. The French consul treated him harshly, disbelieved his story, and sent him to the hospital. The day after his death a large sum directed to him, was received through a packet-ship, which had been detained at sea by a succession of disasters, two months longer than her usual time. CHAPTER IV. Eleonore became at once, by the death of her mother, an inmate of the Carron family. Mr. Carron petted the child for a short time, and then she was given over to the servants, Madame Carron having something else to do, as she said, beside taking care of orphans. Eleonore vegetated—I cannot use any other word—in the servants’ rooms for six whole years. At the end of that time, fortunately for my heroine, Mr. Carron’s affairs obliged him to leave this country suddenly. It was rumored that he ran away from his creditors, but I know nothing of the matter. The consequence to Eleonore was, that she was left with Mr. Carron’s brother Jerome. This brother Jerome had a very sensible wife, who was quite shocked at finding that the poor orphan had not been instructed even in the common rudiments of knowledge. Her health was delicate, and as she could not undertake the charge of Eleonore’s education, she placed her forthwith at Mr. Delombre’s boarding-school, one of the best in the city of New York. I remember perfectly well the first time that I saw her. She was led by Madame Delombre into the school-room, and was there introduced to numbers of children of every size, from her own up to the grown woman. I, who write this memoir, was there among the rest. It was intermission, and we were all amusing ourselves in the way we liked best. A desk next to mine was empty, and Eleonore was placed there. She looked sad and frightened, and was withal so pretty, that I felt attracted to her. I essayed to make acquaintance by offering a part of my luncheon—she declined. I then continued, the ice being broken. “Do you like going to school?” “I do not know. I never went.” I suppose my eyes expressed astonishment, for she blushed. “I wonder if we shall be in the same class? How old are you?” “I am twelve years old,” answered Eleonore. “Oh dear! I am between ten and eleven years old. I am afraid they will put you in the class above me!” “What will be my studies?” said the young girl, timidly.