This energetic interference of the baron and his two aid-de-camps, biped and quadruped, and the fall of the tree of liberty, which the rioters, superstitious in spite of their republicanism, look upon as a bad omen, put an end to the disturbance. The disaffected disperse, and M. de Vaudrey enters his nephew's house, where an amusing scene occurs between him and Madame de Bonvalot. Then come a robbery and a fire, and abundance of incidents--some tolerably new in conception, all very pleasant in narration. The good sense, perspicacity and straightforward dealing of the baron, subjugate every one. He unmasks the fictitious viscount, cures his nephew of his electioneering ambition, and the painted dowager of her longing for an invite to the Tuileries; and adopts Froidevaux--whose father had saved his life at Leipsic, and who has himself picked the baron out of a burning house--as his son and heir, thus rendering him a suitable husband for the pretty Victorine. The story ends, as all proper-behaved novels should end, with the discomfiture of the wicked, and a prospect of many years of happiness for the virtuous. In this agreeable perspective, Madame de Bonvalot is a sharer. Having, by the adoption of Froidevaux, alienated the greater part of his fortune from his nephew's children, the baron is resolved to secure them the reversion of their grandmother's ample jointure. But Madame de Bonvalot, whose wrinkles are hidden by her rouge, forgets the half century that has passed over her head, and hankers after matrimony. To preserve her from it, M. de Vaudrey commences a course of delicate attentions, sufficiently marked to prevent her favouring other admirers, but duly regulated by thermometer, and warranted never to rise to marrying point. And the fall of the curtain leaves the humorous old soldier of fifty-five and the vain coquette of fifty, fairly embarked upon the tepid and rose-coloured stream of flirtation; he quizzing her, she admiring him--she thinking of her wedding, he only of her will. A new and ingenious idea, worthy of a French novelist, and which, we apprehend, could by no possibility have occurred to any other.
We shall close this paper with a tale, appended, as make-weight, to the final volume of the "Gentilhomme Campagnard", and whose brevity recommends it for extraction. It is too short and slight to be a fair specimen of M. de Bernard's powers, but, as far as it goes, it is as witty and amusing as any thing he has written. It is entitled--
