full of life, and with a figure whose
symmetric grace the sculptor could with difficulty rival, appeared
before him. Her heart was glowing with gratitude which her lips could
hardly express, that he was furnishing her with means for a life-long
burial in the glooms of the cloister. The poet gazed upon her for a
moment quite bewildered, and then said, with one of those beaming
smiles which irradiated his pale, intellectual face with rare beauty,

"I must recall my promise; I can not procure you admission into a
religious community. You are not fitted for a nun. You can not
understand the nature of the sacrifice which you are so eager to make.
Will you become my wife? My servants anger and neglect me. I am unable
to enforce obedience. Were they under the control of a mistress, they
would do their duty. My friends neglect me; I can not pursue them to
reproach them for their abandonment. If they saw a pretty woman at the
head of my household, they would make my home cheerful. I give you a
week to decide."

Franзoise returned to the convent bewildered, almost stunned. She was
alone in the world, living upon reluctant charity. There was no one to
whom she could confidingly look for advice. The future was all dark
before her. Scarron, though crippled, was still young, witty, and
distinguished as one of the most popular poets of the day. His saloon
was the intellectual centre of the capital, where the most
distinguished men were wont to meet. At the close of the week
Franзoise returned an affirmative answer. They were soon married. She
found apparently a happy home with her crippled but amiable husband.
The brilliant circle in the midst of which she moved strengthened her
intellect, enlarged her intelligence, and added to that wonderful ease
and gracefulness of manner with which she was by nature endowed.

In the year 1660 Monsieur Scarron died. He had lived expensively, and,
as his income was derived from a life annuity which ceased at his
death,