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 of the imprisonment and execution of many a well-known citizen. In the darkest days of "terror," she one evening received the following letter:—

"Madam,—I am almost unknown to you. I have seen you but a few times, and have probably made but a slight impression on you; but I am in urgent distress, and I apply to you with confidence, certain of receiving the aid you can administer.

Madame, my name is on the proscribed list; I am surrounded by spies and enemies; every step leads me to the guillotine, and I can only hope for safety in a foreign land. But I am totally without money to release myself from these dangers; a way has now opened for me, but persons must be feed, and two thousand one hundred and fifty livres is the sum requisite. I supplicate you then, madam, to take pity on an unfortunate fellow-creature who wishes to preserve his life for the sake of a family depending on him. The person who delivers this will call for your answer, and may be entirely trusted.

Madame Cottin remembered the name of Fonbelle, and also remembered that he was highly esteemed in the house where she had met him; she was anxious to save him; but how or where to get the required sum? She thought—she considered; when at last the idea struck her. She had often been urged by her friends to publish the tales she had written for her amusement, but had always shrunk from coming before the world. In this extremity, however, she bethought her of a story of which she had read the first chapters in a little circle, where it had produced a favourable impression. She instantly sat down to her writing-desk, drew out her imperfect manuscript, and resolved to complete it. The night passed—she was still at her labours; two o'clock came—her room was the only one in the house that shewed a light; there was a knocking at the door—a noise in the entry! Who could it be at that hour? Her heart beat violently. It was a domiciliary visit I The letter of Fonbelle lay on the desk—it needed all her presence of mind—the gens-d'armes were already in the room. The expedient she adopted was singular, but successful; she told them she was an authoress, merely occupied in her vocation, and, that they might be convinced of it, offered to give them a sketch of her story. They ranged themselves on chairs round the room, and she proceeded to relate to them "Claire d'Albe." There was such a charm in her voice, and in her manner of arranging the incidents—so much dramatic interest in her conduct of the events—that these rude men became deeply affected. The same people who would have remorselessly dragged the fairest and tenderest to a merciless execution, absolutely sobbed over fictitious woes, pathetically related. When she had finished, they were so much gratified that they forbore touching her papers; and their search through the house was but nominal. They departed, after shaking hands with her, telling her when the book came out, they would immediately purchase a copy.

The book was soon finished; but that was not all—it must be sold. Madame Cottin went in the morning to at least twenty booksellers; none were willing to risk their money with an unknown author. Her active benevolence was net to be abated by repulse. At last, by the means of a friend, she was introduced to a kind-