Monsieur le Marquis' acquaintance, when they
had occasion to see their friends, were glad
to have Madame Piquette in a cheap way;
who, by this time, had trained herself to a
whole repertory of fitting songs, rendered
with prodigious dramatic effect. Characteristic,
indeed, was that song of the Muleteer's
Wife; when, at the burden, Madame put
back her head, beat her foot on the ground,
and made as though she were cracking a whip.
Not less attractive, too, was the Vivandière,
with its burden also marked pantomimically,
Madame giving an excellent delineation of
the peculiar bearing of those ladies, setting
her arms akimbo, and conveying happily the
notion that she was filling something from a
little cask under her right arm.

Curious to say, these semi-dramatic readings
were not received with so much favour as
might be expected. Perhaps Madame's great
and crowning strength lay in pieces of another
order. Perhaps in those little melting histories—
at which old men cry, and in which
the events of a life are concentrated within
the compass of three short stanzas—which
narrate how the youth of prepossessing
manners, to which unluckily his worldly
endowments do not correspond, has gained the
affections of a young person under age, and
without the sanction of her lawful guardian:

"But," says Madame Piquette, dropping
her arms pensively, and entering on the
burden,  "'tis the old story!  L'amour sans
bien n'est rien, n'est rien! sans bien, sans
bien— n'est  r-r rien— n'est  R-r-ri—-en!!!"
which, ending the first verse happily enough,
melts into reflective symphony, touched
delicately by husband at the piano. Still suffering
from that impecuniosity, as Doctor Samuel
Johnson has it, which is the sharpest stone
on his lover's walk, the youth finds himself
necessitated to go abroad and fight his
country's battles. . Vows are interchanged at
parting. The music slackens.  "I go,"  says
the youth,  "forget me not."  "But,"  says
Madame, in mournful and desponding accents,
"love, without wealth, is nought, is nought!"
Then comes halting, dirge-like symphonies
from the husband, in favour of the pie-crust
quality of lovers' promises, and hinting at the
extreme likelihood of such foolish talk being
forgotten with the lapse of time.

"But years go by," Madame continues,
taking up the measure in a vigorous and even
noisy manner.  "There is gaiety abroad, and
the marriage-bells are sounding (happy imitation
of bells on the top notes of the piano).
But for whom?  She will wed a proud and
wealthy milord. But there is the clatter of
a steed upon the hills (galloping rumble
among bass notes). He comes! He comes!:
(startling chord.)  Mon Dieu! too late! too
late!" (stacatto chord.) Then recurs,
heart-rendingly and mournfully, the burden: this
time conveying a world of reproach, sorrow,
and despairing adhesion to the eternal truth,
"Car l'amour sans bien— sans bi-en. N'est
rien. N'est Ri—i—i —-iiii——EN!!!"   Dead
March in Saul Symphony from husband,
who seems utterly overcome. The old men
present weep hysterically.

Naturally this was Madame's war-charger,
or cheval de bataille: but unhappily, a fickle
public soon tired.of Madame and her delineations.
The pantomimic Muleteer's Wife was
found to pall: the Vivandière was thought to
be a little broad: and even the old men came
at last to listen to the War-Charger with
provoking dryness. It was said, unreasonably
enough, that, taken as recitations, they were
admirable; but a song would have been
preferred.  Even that artifice of poor Piquette,
stolen from the claque—the  "cover"  that is—
soon became transparent as glass. That crash
and noise of his piano, drowning the ticklish
high notes, was, so to speak, smoked. It would
not do. The demand fell off; slowly, but
surely.  O, is there not that bootless nutrifying
of swine with pearls, written over and
over again in the world's warning book?

Piquette and wife sat together gloomily
in their rooms. "It was all over," said
the ex-courier, biting his nails. Nothing
left but the pan of charcoal and asphyxia.
All that night he tossed wearily, thinking
of some plan; and, in the morning, said he
had found it. Thermopylæ had come for
them, he said, with a hollow laugh: but it
should be tried. It might succeed: and if
not, why there was the charcoal and the
asphyxia as before. He went forth early to
the house of the diplomatic Marquis, to
importune him. He obtained audience.
The diplomatic Marquis was sick of the pair,
and was glad to be rid of the patronage;
therefore he leant a willing ear to the project
—nay, would give a little money.  Piquette
returned joyful —rayonnant, as his countrymen
say, "We are to go," he said, rubbing
his hands.

"Whither?" Madame asked, a little
astonished.

"To Turkey!"  said Piquette.

"To Turkey?"  she said, with flashing
eyes.

"Don't be alarmed. You shall sing before
the Commander of the Faithful!"

"How!" said Madame, wofully.

"Yes," answered Piquette, "and the
Marquis shall give us a letter to the
representative of France. He will try and secure
us a passage in one of the Government ships.
Courage, my friend, all goes well!"

Why should they not go to Turkey? Solfa
and his wife had been over last year to
Saint Petersburg, and had brought home
roubles and decorations. Utinalt, the famous
tenor, had been to the Brazils and been
presented by imperial hands with a share in a
silver mine. His valet wore his orders for
him, they were such an embarrassment.
Then why not Turkey?

The letter was written, and the Government
passage secured. Piquette and wife set forth,