_Toinon._ [_Throwing her arms round his neck._] O my dear father! how good! how kind of you! I dared not speak openly to you for fear of giving you pain; yet without Paul I should have died. _Babolin._ Confound it! No. You must not dream of dying. Come to the notary. SCENE VI. STITCH-GNAWER AND LITTLE TROTTER. _Gnawer._ Well, what do you say to all this, my little pupil? _Trotter._ I say you are a sorcerer. As to the will of the late Mr. Michonnet, what has become of it? have you hidden it? _Gnawer._ I inherit my father’s love of books and curious documents. He was a learned rat, having devoured some of the oldest and dryest works in his master’s library. It will not surprise you, therefore, to learn that this morning I gratified my natural taste, and at the same time served my young friends, by breakfasting off the will of the deceased Michonnet. Thus, thanks to my timely aid, a lawsuit—one of the greatest evils of this lying age—has been nipped in the bud, and a wedding concluded. You see, my dear pupil, that notwithstanding our miserable condition, we, if we do not neglect our opportunity, can render the greatest service to humanity. But what ails you that you caress your tail so pensively? _Trotter._ Oh, I was only thinking that we would neglect our opportunities were we not present after the wedding breakfast. There will be no end of good things going. _Gnawer._ Very good. You have wisely abandoned the idea of suicide? _Trotter._ I should rather think I have. The world has many traps; but it has also its tit bits of old cheese, for which sudden death would spoil one’s appetite. _Gnawer._ These are sage reflections, but pray bear in mind the lesson of the lost will. The destruction of this instrument, so small in itself, happily turned the tide of events for generations to come. The wise householder sets his foot on the spark that would have {107} consumed his whole substance. The loving heart crushes the first cruel word that would wreck his happiness. The mariner marks the little cloud on the horizon, furls his sails, and his trusty bark rides out the tempest. Your humble servant has gnawed through the lines by which an unworthy father left an inheritance of misery to his children. [Illustration] {108} THE SUFFERINGS OF A BEETLE. [Illustration] Violet, who is the most amiable and sensible dove in the world, wore, the other day, a very pretty pin in her collar. A lettered antiquarian owl told her it was perfectly charming. “Indeed,” said Violet, “it is a present from my godmother, and represents an insect on a peony leaf. By means of this talisman common sense is secured, enabling one to see all things in their true light, not through the illusive medium of passion.” The owl approached to examine the jewel, but the dove, perceiving that her white neck against which it rested interfered with his minute inspection, took it off and gave it to him.