you shall be the throne, and that large arm-chair at the end of the room shall represent the king."

Alphonse walked gravely to the large chair and seated himself in it with an air of command. "I prefer being the king," he said, "if you please, Madame la Princesse."

Every body laughed at this, but the preference was accorded, and the princess, accompanied by her visitors, went through the ceremony, and were graciously received by his little Majesty, who, though not actually bearing on his "baby brow the round and top of sovereignty," looked at least noble and beautiful enough to be the grandson of a king.

The presence of Constance was again claimed, and her promise granted for the miniature ball; and the visitors departed, and finished their morning at home, as the drive and walk au Bois de Boulogne, which had been their favorite resource for exercise and fresh air, were now interdicted by excessive and increasing cold.

CHAPTER X.

A NOBLE ARTIST.

THE winter which had now set in will long be remembered in Paris as a season of almost unprecedented rigor and gloom. In this usually mild and pleasant climate it was marvellous to the "fur-clad Russ" to find himself amid Siberian snows; to the inhabitants of warmer latitudes who had derived their ideas of the sunny land of France from the poetic fancies often so brightly conjured up to gild the stern realities of life as well as of climates, it seemed passing strange to see the Seine a sheet of "thick ribbed ice," and the gay Boulevards enclosed on either side by embankments of snow.

These embankments had arisen so suddenly and unexpectedly that it was found not only impossible to remove them, but the increasing severity of the season continued to add to them until the formidable barriers rose like fortifications, extending on either side of the wide street, and completely concealing the portion within the trees, dedicated to foot-passengers, from the more fortunate occupants of the central part. Here, notwithstanding these discouragements,

the elegant chariots of the votaries of fashion might be seen; for a winter passed out of Paris and in a château in the country was an impossible idea, and there was perhaps more reason than usual for seeking in a crowded city some oblivion of the saison morte, which is always a ready excuse for all who prefer a city life in winter.

Bright young faces sometimes sparkled through the frost work that speedily formed itself over the crystal transparency of the glasses around them, and were occasionally seen for a moment by the light of the lamps, that even during the day often shed their dim lustre amid the surrounding gloom. But more frequently might be observed among the slowly moving file features marked by lines of care and thought, to which a perpetual interruption in their onward progress gave no such pleasing or amiable expression. In the words of a princess of the reigning court, "such unprecedented efforts were made to please the people, that one was often kept waiting ten minutes in one's chariot to permit a huge omnibus to pass."

This outrage, so pathetically described by the Princesse de P- did not seem, however, to disturb the equanimity of the pretty little grisettes and soubrettes, who tripped merrily on and showed to the greatest advantage their neat costumes and dainty chaussure, which the condition of the streets gave an additional reason for displaying as much as possible. By these and other foot passengers the clumsy public vehicles were from time to time arrested, and accepting the assistance always gallantly tendered by the

conducteur, they sprang gayly in, and added yet another to the smiling row of faces, and dashing array of many colored shawls and bright ribbons with which the vehicles were already decorated.

On one of these misty and comfortless evenings, when the lights that began to twinkle in the surrounding gloom reminded the hurrying passengers of the populous rue Richelieu of the warm and well-lighted apartments to which many of them were hastening, the dense crowd found themselves arrested by one of these awkward machines, which received their united and hearty maledictions.

A chariot had drawn near the narrow side pavement, the hope of its solitary occupant being evidently to continue his rapid career, so unexpectedly checked, in spite of this obstacle. But the approach of vehicles on the other side, added to the increasing masses of foot-passengers, rendered it impossible to proceed, and the restive horses, irritated still more by the coachman's repeated warning of "gardez!" to the bustling throng, began to rear and plunge. Impatient of the delay, and apparently of the whole scene, their owner hastily checked the servants, and descending from his chariot, threw his furred cloak around him, and rapidly threaded the crowded and snow-encumbered streets.

He passed with equal rapidity through the Place du Carousel, and across the Pont Royal, and soon after found himself at the portal of his residence in the Faubourg St. Germain. The porter immediately responded to the authoritative sound of the bell, and its ponderous bronze door was respectfully thrown

open to welcome the chilled and impatient occupant of the hotel. He entered the court, and passing on one side, ascended a marble stairway and advanced through a number of large and elegantly furnished rooms to a smaller one at the extremity of the suite.

The door was closed, and it was with evident reluctance and hesitation that he laid his hand on it. Twice he made the effort, and as often, apparently forgetting his fatigue and impatience, he turned away and rapidly paced the apartments again.

But noiseless as were his footsteps on the carpeted floors, they were heard by a watchful ear within, and a pair of wondrously lustrous dark eyes looked forth from the door that had been so carefully closed, and eagerly followed his retreating figure. By degrees a fair hand appeared, then a fairy foot, and when he turned to retrace his hesitating steps toward the door, the vision of beauty stood revealed before him.

"Beatrice!" he exclaimed, startled from his reverie by the lovely apparition, though he was well aware that she was within when he entered.

“ "Yes, it is Beatrice, your own Beatrice, my father," she replied, advancing toward him, and taking his passive hand. "But why do you linger here? Our studio is far more warm and delightful than these larger apartments, chilled as they are by the intense cold of this strange clime."

The father's lofty form involuntarily bent to return the caress of his daughter, and he permitted himself to be led into the retreat which, under other circumstances, would have been the first sought on his return after an absence of many hours. But his brow was