THE NEST.

Two white beds stood near each other. Muslin curtains tied with blue ribbons covered the windows with billowy folds. Among the pillows of one of the beds lay a beautiful face, and a young girl at her side held her frail hands.

This chamber was that of Irene de Salves, and very unlike it was to the chamber of the spoiled child in the Chateau des Vosges. There she had created a mixture of all colors violent reds and yellows. Now everything was delicate and calm. The sweet face among the pillows was Francine’s. The two young girls were like sisters. Irene felt that to love, protect, and care for Francine, was to love Fanfar. The shock Francine had experienced was terrible; she hardly knew what had taken place whether she deliberately threw herself into the water, or whether faint and dizzy, she fell in; when Fanfar leaped to her rescue she clung to him convulsively. Then came the fever and delirium, and when she was at last conscious she beheld a sweet face bending over her, and Irene said, “Courage, sister, courage!”

Francine, surprised and touched, extended her thin hands, but suddenly imagining that she was again in the house where she had suffered so much, she shrieked “Let me die! Let me die!”

A relapse took place, and for several days her life hung on a thread. Irene was indefatigable in her care, and finally she began to recover very slowly.

She questioned Irene as soon as she was able. What had become of the poor woman, the care of whom she had assumed? Hardly had she escaped from the jaws of death, than she began to think of others. Irene could tell her little. Ever since the violent scene of the ball, Arthur de Montferrand, without confessing his real motives, for he loved Francine, had placed himself at the disposal of Irene. He had divined her secret, and prevented her from betraying it to the curious crowd.

Fanfar was in prison. His trial was soon coming on. It was believed that his condemnation was certain. The disturbance to the health of the king, consequent on the attempted assassination at the Tuileries, had, it was said, greatly embittered the monarchists. A report was in circulation that an infamous comedy had been enacted by this Fanfar and his sister in order to break off the marriage between Talizac and Mademoiselle de Salves, a money-making scheme, worthy of a street singer and a mountebank.

The sick woman had disappeared. This intelligence drove Francine to despair. Who was this Caillette, who had pretended to take her place, and then disappeared, leaving no trace behind her?

“But,” said Francine, “who was it who saved me?”

“Do you not know?” answered Irene, coloring deeply.

“No, I heard you mention a name that I do not know.”

“Yes, that of Monsieur Fanfar.”

“Who is he?”

Irene looked at her and wondered if in her fever the girl’s reason had deserted her.

“I do not understand. Do you not know your brother?”

“My brother!”

Irene passed her hand over her troubled brow.

“My brother. Ah! what is it you say? I never had but one brother, dear little Jacques, who was always so good and kind to me!”

“Jacques! but that is the name of Monsieur Fanfar!”

“I tell you,” answered Francine, “that I never met any one of that name. Stop a moment, I remember a company of mountebanks on the Square; they were under the management of a man called Iron Jaws, and with him was this Fanfar, if I don’t mistake.”

“Precisely, and this Fanfar is your brother, I heard him say so, himself, when I went to help you. He said to me, ‘she is my sister ’”

“Where is he? I must see him. He saved my life. Suppose that he is Jacques! But no, poor Jacques is dead!”

Irene could not help the poor girl; although she fully believed in the truth of what Fanfar had said, she could offer no proof.

Suddenly Francine exclaimed, “If he is my Jacques, he ought to be about twenty. He ought to be very handsome.”

Irene colored, as she said, “He is handsome!”

“With black eyes, and brown curling hair?”

Irene was unwilling to admit that she had studied Fanfar in all these details, but she stammered out, “Yes, that describes him.”

“For pity’s sake, tell me all you know!”

Irene asked herself why she should hesitate. After all there was nothing to be ashamed of in her sentiments towards Fanfar.

“I will tell you all,” she said, in a low voice.

“Why are you so disturbed?” asked Francine. “When you mention the name of this Fanfar, you have tears in your eyes.”

Irene buried her face on her friend’s shoulder: “I love him!” she whispered, “and I love you as if you were my sister!”

The two young girls embraced each other tenderly.

“But where is he?” said Francine, disengaging herself, “I wish to see him.”

Irene started. Alas! amid all these emotions she had forgotten the sad truth that the brother, whom Francine ardently desired to embrace, was in a narrow cell, crushed under the accusation of an attempt on the life of the king.

“Why do you not tell me where I can find him?” asked Francine, her eyes bright with fever.

At this moment the door opened, and a tall and stately individual, known as Madame Ursula, made a sign to Irene, who instantly obeyed the summons, glad to avoid the necessity of replying to Francine’s questions.

“What is it?” she said.

Madame Ursula was unchanged. She was still in a constant state of horror at Irene’s conduct and defiance of conventionalities.

“A very strange looking man wishes to speak to the young lady.”

“She can not receive him,” replied Irene, promptly.

“So I supposed, but I delivered the message because I thought she knew this person, and I myself have seen him before.” Madame Ursula looked down in some confusion. “He was pretending to be a frog, on a certain occasion ”

“I do not understand you.”

“He is one of those clowns who amused the peasants at Saint Ame.”

“His name! his name!” cried Irene, impatiently.

“I don’t know his name. He wore a gray hat ”

“Bobichel! It must be Bobichel!”

Irene had forgotten none of these names.

“Let him come in!” she cried. “Let him come in!”

In another moment Bobichel appeared. Was this the poor clown? No; there were no smiles on his lips, no quips and cranks on his tongue. His thinness had become emaciation.

Irene went forward.

“You come from him?” she said, hastily.

“From Fanfar? Oh! no not directly, at least. They won’t let me see him, you know.”

“Who sends you here, then?”

“Gudel Iron Jaws, you know.”

“Why did he not come himself?”

“Ah! that I can’t say. Gudel bade me give this note to you.”

Irene broke the seal. The envelope contained two letters. One was directed to “Miss Irainne,” the other to “Mademoiselle de Salves.” Why did she open the latter? Did she know from the defective orthography that the first could not come from Fanfar? The letter she opened was from Fanfar. This was it:

“You, who are so good and kind, be doubly so to the sister I found when too late. The hour draws near when the so-called justice of man will strike an innocent person. You do not doubt me, I know. I am not one who would dishonor a sacred cause. Say to my sister that little Jacques has endeavored to be worthy of his father Simon Fougere.

“I beg my adopted father, Gudel, to explain to you in detail the singular events of my life. I place entire confidence in you. I leave to your care poor Francoise and little Cinette. Love them, and they will return your affection. You have not forgotten the words addressed to you so long ago: ‘Make yourself beloved.’

“I do not know whether I should now bid you an eternal farewell. I recognize the fact that I am the object of venomous hatred to some one, but to whom? Let no one seek to solve this mystery. I forgive this enemy, whomsoever he may be.

“In a few days to-morrow, perhaps my fate will be decided. Do not
despair.”

Tears filled Irene’s eyes as she finished this letter.

Bobichel watched her all the time, restraining his sobs with difficulty.

“You love him!” he said softly, “and you are right, for he is the best man I ever knew!”

Irene extended her hand, and the clown knelt to kiss it.

“But we must save him!” cried Irene. “He shall not be condemned ”

“Condemned?” said a voice. “Of whom do you speak?”

Francine, obeying an impulse, had thrown on a peignoir of white cashmere, and appeared, white and trembling, at the door. Irene ran to her side.

“Courage! sister,” she cried, “courage!”

Then Irene herself gave way, and burst into passionate weeping. Francine took her brother’s letter and read it slowly, but when she came to the words “little Jacques” and “Cinette,” her eyes closed, and she would have fallen had not Bobichel caught her.

“You must not cry like that!” he said. “You must not weep. We will save Fanfar! Please, Mademoiselle Irene, read the letter Iron Jaws sends you. He has an idea, and he knows what he is about. He will save Fanfar!”

Bobichel’s confidence was so great, his honest affection was so apparent, that the two girls exchanged a hopeful glance.

“Read!” said Francine.

Iron Jaws’ letter was not faultless in respect to orthography. Its errors we will not repeat:

“Fanfar must be saved! I know your attachment for him. You have great
influence with people in power. Try to see him, and give him something
that Bobichel will hand you. I rely on your doing this.”

“What am I to say to Iron Jaws?” asked Bobichel.

“Tell him that I will do all he asks. But you have another note for me?”

“No, not a note.” And Bobichel, with infinite care, took from the flap of his coat a pin, an ordinary pin though of large size, not large enough, however, to excite the smallest suspicion.

“Do you see that?” cried the clown, with much of his former gayety. “Do you see that, ladies and gentlemen? This pin does not look like much, does it, now? But you can screw off the head, and then you will find a tiny note ”

“It is most ingenious,” said Irene, with a smile “and it shall be delivered as you desire.”

“Ah! you are a brave creature, and if some day you want some one to amuse your children that is, when you have any, you know send for me, and I will be frogs for them all day long!”

And with this somewhat startling promise, Bobichel departed.