“Jack! Jack! here comes your mother,” some one would cry as the door opened, and Ida would sail in beautifully dressed, with packages of cakes and bonbons in her hands and her muff. It was a festival for every one; they all shared the delicacies, and Madame de Barancy ungloved her hand, the one on which were the most rings, and condescended to take a portion. The poor creature was so generous, and money slipped so easily through her fingers, that she generally brought with her cakes all sorts of presents, playthings, &c., which she distributed as the fancy struck her. It is easy to imagine the enthusiastic praises lavished upon this inconsiderate, reckless generosity. Moronval alone had a smile of pity and of envy at seeing money so wasted, which should have gone to the assistance of some brave, generous soul like himself, for example. This was his fixed idea. And as he sat looking at Ida and gnawing his finger-nails, he had an absent, anxious air like that of a man who comes to ask a loan, and has his petition on the end of his lips. Moronval’s dream for some time had been to establish a Review consecrated to colonial interests, in this way hoping to satisfy his political aspirations by recalling himself regularly to his compatriots; and, finally, who knows he might be elected deputy. But, as a commencement, the journal seemed indispensable, and he had a vague notion that the mother of his new pupil might be induced to defray the expenses of this Review, but he did not wish to move too rapidly lest he should frighten the lady away; he intended to prepare the way gently. Unfortunately, Madame de Barancy, on account of her very fickleness of nature, was difficult to reach. She would continually change the conversation just at the important point, because she found it very uninteresting. “If she could be inspired with an idea of writing!” said Moronval to himself, and immediately insinuated to her that between Madame de Sévigné and George Sand there was a vacant niche to fill; but he might as well have attempted to carry on a conversation with a bird that was fluttering about his head. “I am not strong-minded nor literary,” said Ida, with a half yawn, one day when he had been speaking with feverish impatience for a long time. Moronval finally concluded that a creature so inconsequent must be dazzled, not led. One day, when Ida was holding audience in the parlor, telling wonderful tales of her various acquaintances to whose often plebeian names she added the _de_ as she pleased, Madame Moronval said, timidly,— “M. Moronval would like to ask you something, but he dares not.” “O, tell me, tell me!” said the silly little woman, with a sincere wish to oblige.