All French runaways (except from Government) go to Paris: therefore it was, that in a year's time, you might have seen the humble sign of the baker's son upon a modest shop of the Boulevard Beaumarchais. Beauty is always found out in Paris, and it is generally admired. Therefore it was, that the baker's son prospered, and the Café de Paris heard mention of the beautiful baker's wife of the Beaumarchais. But, with the sight of the Louvre, the Tuileries, and all the elegancies of metropolitan life, the old longings of the motherly nature came back to the humiliated Marie. She stole hours for reading and for music, and quieted her riotous ambition with the ambition of knowledge. Still, however, her admirers besieged her; but thanks to her birth, besieged in vain. From month to month she attended her shop; and from month to month beguiled her mission with reading of old stories, and with the music of her guitar. Now, it happened that in this time, a certain Jacques Arago (well known to fame) chanced upon a day to visit the baker's shop of the Boulevard Beaumarchais; and it further happened, that as the customer was a traveler and a savant, that he fell into talk with the beautiful Marie, who even then held in her fingers some work of the visitor himself. Talk ripened into conversation, and conversation into interest. The heart of Marie--always dutiful at home--now went wandering under the guide of her mind. She admired the distinguished traveler, and from admiring, she came presently--in virtue of his kind offices and of his instructions continued day after day--to love him. Therefore it was that Jacques Arago, when he came to depart upon new voyages (and here we follow his own story, rather than probability), did not whisper of his leave to the beautiful Marie, who still held her place in the baker's shop upon the Boulevard Beaumarchais. But she found her liking too strong to resist; and when she heard of his departure, she hurried away to Havre--only to see the sails of his out-bound ship glimmering on the horizon. She bore the matter stoutly as she could--cherishing his letters each one as so many parts of the mind that had enslaved her; and, finally, years after, met him calmly, on his return. "I have lived," she said, "to see you again." But in a little while, Arago, sitting one day in his bureau, receives a letter from Marie of Beaumarchais. "You deceived me when you went away over the sea; I forgive you for it! Will you forgive me now another deception? I was not well when you saw me last; I am now in the Hospital Beaujon; I shall die before tomorrow. But I die faithful to my religion--God--you! Adieu! MARIE."