My mother gave a glance of half-angry astonishment, and resumed: “'A thousand pardons, ma chère et bonne; but, with my habitual carelessness, I have been looking at Iceland, and not Ireland, on the map. You will laugh, I'm certain; but confess how natural was the mistake, how similar the names, how like are they, perhaps, in other respects. At all events, I cannot alter what I have written; it shall go, if only to let you have one more laugh at that silly Emile, whose blunders have so often amused you. Pray do not tell your “dear husband” of my mistake, lest his offended nationality should take umbrage; and I am resolved--yes, Fifine, I am determined on his liking me.'” My father's face assumed an expression here that was far too much for MacNaghten's gravity; but my mother read on, unconcerned: “'And now I have but to say when I shall be with you. It may be about the 12th--not later than the 20th--of next month. I shall take no one but François with me; I shall not even bring the dogs, only Jocasse, my monkey,--for whom, by the way, I beg to bespeak a quiet room, with a south aspect. I hope the climate will not injure him; but Dr. Reynault has given me numerous directions about his clothing, and a receipt for a white wine posset that he assures me will be very bracing to his nervous system. You have no idea how susceptible he has grown latterly about noise and tumult. The canaille have taken to parade the streets, singing and shouting their odious songs, and Jocasse has suffered much from the disturbance. I mentioned the fact to M. Mirabeau, whom I met at your aunt's the other night, and he remarked gravely, “It's a bad time for monkeys just now,--'singerie' has had its day.” The expression struck me as a very hollow, if not a very heartless,' one; but I may say, en passant, that this same M. Mirabeau, whom it is the fashion to think clever and agreeable, is only abrupt and rude, with courage to say the coarse things that good-breeding retreats from! I am glad to find how thoroughly the Court dislikes him. They say that he has had the effrontery to tell the King the most disagreeable stories about popular discontent, distress, and so forth. I need scarcely say that he met the dignified rebuke such underbred observations merited. “'And now, Fifine, to say adieu until it be my happiness once again to embrace you and that dear Carew, who must have more good qualities than I have known centred in one individual, to deserve you. Think of me, dearest cousin, and do not forget Jocasse.'” “The association will aid you much,” said my father, dryly. “'Let him have a cheerful room, and put me anywhere, so that I have a place in your heart. Your dearly attached cousin, “'Emile de Gabriac.'” “Is that all?” asked my father, as she concluded. “A few words on the turn-down: 'Hortense has just sent me her picture. She is blond, but her eyes want color; the hair, too, is sandy, and not silky; the mouth--But why do I go on?--it is not Fifine's.'”