I replied that I did not willingly give way to grief, but that the
main-spring of my life was broken.

"Did you ever try," spoke up a buxom lady from a sofa--it was the
Frau Kranich, widow of the Frankfort banker, the same who used to give
balls while her husband was drugged to sleep with opium, and now for
a long time in Paris for some interminable settlement with Nathan
Rothschild--"Did you ever try the tonic of a good action? _I_ never
did, but they actually say it rejuvenates one considerably."

I avowed that I had more faith in the study of Geography.
Nevertheless, to oblige her, I would follow any suggestion.

[Illustration: HOW THE MODERN DOG TREATS LAZARUS.]

"Benefit the next person who applies to you."

"Madame, I will obey."

At this moment a wagon of singular appearance drew up before my
windows. I knew it well enough: it was the vehicle of a handy,
convenient man who came along every other morning to pick up odd jobs
from me and my neighbors. He could tinker, carpenter, mend harness:
his wife, seated in the wagon by his side, was good at a button, or
could descend and help Josephine with her ironing. A visit at this
hour, however, was unprecedented.

As Charles was beginning a conversation under the hood of the wagon, I
opened the window. "Come into the room," I said.