metamorphosis had really taken place, and the dining-room, though not so rich, looked much better. Frank protested that his good taste alone had suggested the alteration, that a floor of crown-pieces and silver gilt monsters were too hideous to be retained; the creditors shammed belief, but the illusion had ceased; they no sooner left the inlaid saloon than they thought of procuring an execution on the whole property, movables and immovables of the young profligate. The whole, indeed, were confiscated and brought to the hammer, so that out of all his riches, he had nothing left now except some jewels that had belonged to his mother, and a good stock of philosophy, or rather of thoughtlessness, by dint of which he could bear his present situation with resignation, and even with a kind of gaiety: he thought within himself that since he had no money left, he would no longer be at a loss how to spend it. He made up his mind at once, retired to the extremity of the town, and in the narrowest street hired the smallest room, which the rays of the sun had never illumined, and modestly boarded with his landlady, a very poor and frugal woman.
Now what was Frank doing while all the day long within the walls of his very circumscribed lodgings? All that he had ever known was to spend his money, and now he had none. In truth, he had been taught to read; which in those days was reckoned a refined education; but he had no books, because at that time very few were published; theological discussions, or romances on chivalry were the only subjects which authors would write upon, and Frank was neither a divine nor a knight: his only occupation, therefore, consisted in the recollection of his former amusements, in thrumming a lute which he had saved from the wreck, and in making meteorological observations at his window, from which he could hardly see the sky: this employment, however, soon brought on another that engrossed his whole attention, and left no room for either sorrow or ennui.
In the same narrow street where Frank lived, and exactly opposite, lived also a poor old widow named Brigite, with her only daughter, called Meta, as beautiful as an angel, and equally innocent and pure. She had never left her mother for one single moment, and had scarce ever spoken to any one else. Both of them earned their living by spinning all the day long; their assiduity was so much the more praise-worthy, as dame Brigite, at least, had seen better days. Her husband, Meta’s father, had once been rich enough to purchase and fit out a ship, with which he carried on a considerable trade: however, his ruin was completed by that which ought to have procured him a competence; a violent storm arose one day, when the waves swallowed up the vessel, the cargo, and the owner. His wife was informed that she had lost her all, and she, most undoubtedly, would have died broken-hearted, had she not been a mother: Meta, still at her breast, claimed her assistance, and she determined to live for the sake of her child; yet too proud to accept of what compassion might have afforded her, she wished to provide for herself and child, without laying under an obligation to any one; she could spin, and to her wheel she heartily applied. She hired a small room in the aforesaid narrow street, and there she spun so much and so well, that by dint of assiduity and economy, she was enabled to provide for her little family. In those days the education of the most distinguished young ladies consisted in being taught the use of their needle, to sew, and to cook a few plain dishes. Dame Brigite had no elegant repasts to prepare, still less linen to sew; she, therefore, had leisure enough to attend to her spinning-wheel; she would begin at day-break, and only left off to enjoy some few hours sleep. As soon as little Meta could reach the spindle, her mother taught her how to use it, and their two wheels turned unceasingly by the side of each other: constant practice made them more perfect, so that dame Brigite, besides their work, was enabled to begin dealing in hemp.
This good woman entertained some hopes of not being reduced to spin all her life-time, but in her old age, to be restored to her past affluence; when her maternal glance fixed upon her Meta, blooming with youth and beauty, more luxuriant than the budding rose, she doubted not but the last season of her existence would be blessed with prosperity; she thought it was impossible that the graces and virtues of her
