desire of abandoning himself to the delights of a reconciliation; he embraced his daughter-in-law tenderly, shedding tears of joy, and accusing himself all the while for his previous unnatural harshness: "Yes, yes," cried he, "yes, you are still my children--all that I have is yours!" then, after a moment's silence, he continued, in a tone of sadness: "But how does it happen that, with his great success, my son has condemned his wife to such a home and such a supper?" "Condemned, did you say?" murmured Charlotte; "do not deceive yourself, we are quite happy here;" so saying she took her father-in-law by the hand, and led him into the adjoining room, to a cradle covered with white curtains. "Look!" said she, turning back the curtains with maternal solicitude. The old man's heart melted outright at the sight of his grandchild. "Are we not happy?" continued the mother. "What more do we require? We live on a little, and when we have no money, my father assists us." They returned to the sitting-room. "What wine is this?" said the old Burgundian, uncorking the bottle intended to form part of their frugal repast. "What!" he exclaimed, "my son fallen so low as this! The Crebillons have always drunk good wine." At this instant, the dogs set up a tremendous barking: Crebillon was ascending the stairs. A few moments afterwards he entered the room escorted by a couple of dogs, which had followed him from the theatre. "What! two more!" exclaimed the father; "this is really too much. Son," he continued, "I am come to entreat your pardon; in my anxiety to show myself your father, I had forgotten that my first duty was to love you." Crebillon cast himself into his father's arms. "But _parbleu_, Monsieur," continued the old notary, "I cannot forgive you for having so many dogs." "You are right, father; but what would become of these poor animals were I not to take compassion upon them? It is not good for man to be alone, says the Scripture. No longer able to live with my fellow-creatures, I have surrounded myself with dogs. The dog is the solace and friend of the solitary man." "But I should imagine you were not alone here," said the father, with a glance towards Charlotte, and the infant's cradle. "Who knows?" said the young wife, with an expression of touching melancholy in her voice. "It is perhaps through a presentiment that he speaks thus. I much fear that I shall not live long. He has but one friend upon the earth, and that friend is myself. Now, when I shall be no more----" "But you shall not die," interrupted Crebillon, taking her in his arms. "Could I exist without you?" Madame Crebillon was not deceived in her presentiments: the poet, who, we know, lived to a patriarchal age, lived on in widowed solitude for upwards of fifty years.