At the beginning of the year 1859 I was at Guernsey, visiting Victor Hugo, who was then deeply engrossed in giving the finishing touches to his great novel, Les Misérables," the first two volumes of which were already in the printer's hands. During one of the daily walks we were in the habit of taking together, I noticed that he was worried about something, so much so, indeed, that I ventured to inquire the reason.

"You appear to me to be anxious, my dear brother-in-law," I said to him. "What is the matter?"

"Yes," he answered, "I am troubled. The fact is, I cannot get a document that I need; and even if I could get it, it must be exact and true in all its details. It should be prepared by one who has actually seen what he describes. In a word, I want a perfectly reliable account of the ceremony known in the Catholic Church as Perpetual Adoration. Of course, the best persons to apply to for this information would be the nuns themselves who perform this pious act. But, naturally, they are not free to speak. I wish very much to give my readers a carefully written description and history of this solemn rite. But I greatly fear I will have to abandon the idea and cast aside this chapter, which is partly written."

"But," I answered, "when the holy sacrament is exposed in the churches on. certain grand ceremonial occasions, you see kneeling before it devotees praying with great fervor and profound conviction. Certainly this must be much like the Perpetual Adoration. Will not the recollection of these scenes furnish the inspiration you need?"

"Nothing that one sees in the daytime in our most sumptuous cathedrals," he replied, "can give an adequate idea of what I want to say in this part of my book. Consequently, because I do not know and have not seen, I am about resolved, as I have just said, to omit all mention of this theme, to which, however, I cling very strongly. It must be exact or be suppressed."

"Is there no way by which we can prevent the sacrifice of this chapter?" I earnestly inquired, having a premonition that it meant the loss to literature of a notable page.

"I fear not," he answered rather sadly. "unless

"Unless what?" I hastily interrupted. "Can I help in any way in this matter? If so, you have only to command." Victor Hugo shook my hand warmly and continued:

There are two convents in Paris where is practised Perpetual Adoration according to the ceremonial and rigorous rites handed down by tradition. One is at the Picpus Convent, where is laid the scene of that portion of my story where I wish to introduce the material about which we are talking; the other is the convent in the Rue des Postes, where, I think, I have the means of, so to speak, forcing an entrance, if the proper tact and cleverness are shown. Here is how we can accomplish our object. But let me first say that what I am now going to confide to you is known to me alone outside of the narrow family circle personally concerned.

"I am in possession of a family secret to the effect that a nun who died in that convent some thirty years ago was buried,

without her relatives being informed of her death, in the convent chapel, in direct violation of the law. Her parents were incensed and, much to the concern of the order, threatened a lawsuit.

"Now, I know the name, age, etc., of the deceased, and, though the members of the family who are still living no longer care much about the matter, you will see that if an intelligent use is made of it, we may possibly accomplish our purpose, to witness at night the ceremony of Perpetual Adoration. The Lady Superior should be told what we want, and, if necessary, must be given an inkling of what we could do if our wish is not gratified."

I forthwith agreed to undertake the rather difficult and unquestionably very delicate mission. The same day I took the boat for Cherbourg, was at Paris the next morning, and presented myself a few hours. later at the door of the convent in the Rue des Postes. There I encountered the first obstacle, the female porter or confidential guardian of the threshold of the convent, who was not a little astonished at my bold request to be presented to the Lady Superior. But a box of delicious. candies, which I had provided for this very contingency, worked like a charm, and she soon brought me back the message that if I called the next day at a certain hour, I would be admitted to the august presence of the head of the nunnery.

It is unnecessary for me to say that I was very exact at the appointment, when I was duly ushered into the convent parlor. As soon as the door was shut behind me, a large curtain at the end of the room was drawn back, revealing a triple grating whose interstices were so fine that it was impossible to see through, though the voice of the Lady Superior, who was behind this shield, clearly traversed it and reached my ear distinctly.

In a grave but sweet-toned voice the Lady Superior asked the object of my visit. Thereupon I communicated Victor Hugo's desire, at the same time letting the good nun see, discreetly but plainly, that we were aware of the illegal act committed by her community, and ended by assuring her that my wish to witness the ceremony was not prompted by mere idle and vulgar curiosity.

The Lady Superior silently listened to my story, and when I had finished, quietly informed me that before giving me her answer she would have to consult the chapter, as the demand was not of an ordinary nature. So I was asked to return the next day. Thereupon the curtain was drawn in front of the gratings, the door of the parlor opened, and I found the porter there ready to escort me back to the street.

On the next morning I was delighted to be informed that my request had been granted, and that I could witness the ceremony during the night of Tuesday-Wednesday, which fortunately, happened to be Mardi-Gras, when the rites are naturally more elaborate than on ordinary occasions.

When I reached the hidden nook allotted to me in the gallery from which I was to follow the scene below, I immediately perceived two adorers kneeling before the blessed sacrament, which was surrounded by many lighted candles, while the rest of the chapel was plunged in complete darkness. These twin, silent figures, bowing motionless before the illuminated altar, which stood out from the surrounding gloom like a celestial beacon-light, produced a very awe-inspiring effect that moved my deepest soul.

At the end of two hours I distinguished, coming slowly out of the darkness at the back of the church, two processions of white, phantom-like objects, who advanced in separate columns on either side

of the altar, the leader of each column, whose full length could be discerned, alone appearing like an earthly being. The other figures, half hidden behind the first, looked more like ghosts than nuns. They had come to relieve their praying sisters and take their places.

Approaching the adorers, the first nun of each column gently lifted the upper part of the long shroud of the kneeling nun, who had been in this position for several hours, leaving the lower part undisturbed, when the nun hidden thereunder came out on one side, bowing low to the floor, while the nun who was to take her place glided under the shroud on the other side, and immediately assumed the customary kneeling posture. This change was accomplished simultaneously by the four nuns, and the move

ment was executed deliberately, silently, and with precision, without a fold of the shroud, under which it went on, being ruffled and without apparently disturbing the solemn meditations of the actors in this impressive scene. The rapidity with which it was executed was also notable, for it was accomplished in a shorter time. than it takes me to describe it.

I was, of course, profoundly impressed by all I had seen, and hastened back to Guernsey next day to make my report to Victor Hugo. It was with my notes on my impressions and feelings, supplemented by certain historic facts which I had gathered, that the art and genius of a great writer has constructed that Picpus episode which is not the least curious portion of that masterpiece of romance-writing, "Les Misérables."

-Lippincott's Magazine.

The author leaned back comfortably in his easy chair and looked at the young man. He was a young man himself, but a pre-eminently successful one-so recently sucessful, too, that the fine flavor of his own greatness was still deliciously fresh on his tongue. He would have been more than human had he remained wholly unspoiled by the popular clamor over his short stories and the remarkable sale of his first novel, now in its three-hundredth thousand. As it was, he was very human, hence slightly spoiled; but still youngso young that he had adopted a few mannerisms as fitting accompaniments of acknowledged genius. He narrowed his eyes now, for instance, which he would not have done last year, and looked at his caller through an effective fringe of brown. lashes.

"Yes," he said incisively, "I want a secretary, but I'm afraid I require a little more of one than usual. I need a man who can answer my letters, talk to my publishers, look after my manuscripts, take dictation, if I ever can learn to dictate"-this with modest insinuation of the irksomeness of such restraint-" look up all sorts of things for me, and-ermake himself generally useful. That, of course, I presume you are prepared to do?" he concluded interrogatively.

The applicant for this responsible post smiled slightly as he quietly replied: "Quite. I'll do my best, and, of course, if I don't suit you can pack me off." He hesitated a moment. "I admire your work tremendously," he added, " and shall be proud to have even a secretary's small part in it."

The author smiled back with apprecia

tion. The strong attraction he had felt in this quiet young man at the start was not weakened by his remark.

Then we'll call it a bargain," he said cordially. "You've encouraged me to tell you what I consider the most important of your duties. My secretary must listen. to my plots! I cannot write a line until I have the whole thing in my head, and I cannot get it properly shaped in my head until I've talked it over with some one I'm sure I'm not boring—or at least," he added quickly, "somebody whose attention I have a right to expect. As I talk my ideas shape themselves, my plot develops, my characters begin to get their cues-and voilà! the story is ready to write."

The eyes of the secretary took on a sudden gleam of interest. They were sombre eyes, and the expression of his striking. face was very serious. The brown hair over his temples, too, was powdered with white, and there were lines in his forehead which suggested strong chapters in his duodecimo volume of life.

"I think I can promise to be an attentive auditor," he remarked. "The terms I mentioned in my reply to your note are, I suppose, satisfactory?"

The author was regarding him in an absent-minded manner.

"Oh, yes, yes," he said hastily, "I am willing to give you what you want if you can do what I want. I wish," he continued slowly, "that you could begin right away. I've been wasting this morning trying to put a half-digested thing on paper, and if you could stay and let me tell you the facts_99

Mr. Mardenredd, who had risen with