Part 11

“No!” answered Madam Cottin, who, as soon as she found herself alone, resumed her labor; but, whether it was the solitude and silence of the place, or because Marianne had really frightened her, she paused from her writing every few moments to look around her. By chance her eyes rested on the window-curtain, which, by the position of the lights, was thrown into the shade, and the words of Marianne recurred to her mind, “that, if she had left the window open on going out to walk, who could have shut it?” She thought, all at once, that she saw the cloth falling in numberless folds upon the floor, and moving in a most mysterious way. Fear bound her to the spot where she was standing, and for some moments she was unable to move; but at length, with a desperate effort, she advanced toward the curtain, and raised it up with a stifled cry. _A man was standing behind_ with his back placed against the window-panes.

“Do not cry out, madam,” he said, “or I am a dead man.”

“What would you have me do?” said Madam Cottin, pale, but determined. “I am poor, and have nothing to tempt the cupidity of any one, nevertheless, if you are in want, here is a little money. But depart instantly, without approaching me; in Heaven’s name, go—go instantly!”

To the great astonishment of Madam Cottin, in place of taking the silver which she had offered him, the man threw back his cloak, and in a trembling, broken voice, said to her,

“Pardon me, madam, for having frightened you; can it be that you have forgotten me?”

“I do not know you,” replied Madam Cottin, scrutinizing the intruder, an old man, and whose disordered clothes, long, ragged beard, disheveled, gray hair, and the livid palor which overspread his features, prevented her from recognizing him.

“I am Monsieur de Fombelle,” said he, “proscribed and pursued—”

“Ah, good heaven!” interrupted Madam Cottin, running to bolt the door, “ah, sir, what can I do to assist you?”

“Alas! nothing, madam,” replied Monsieur de Fombelle, “for I have heard your conversation with your nurse, and can ask nothing of you.”

“If it is money you want, alas! I have none, sir! but approach the fire, and pardon me for not having recognized you sooner.”

Her visiter mechanically complied, while he abruptly addressed her.—

“Denounced by the law—pursued, tracked as a wild beast—finding no where an asylum, not even daring to seek one amongst my best friends, I wander in the streets of Paris—and—and—since yesterday I have not tasted food,” speaking with the air of a man with whom hunger stifled the shame of avowing it.

Madam Cottin immediately brought from a cupboard some bread, a pot of preserves, and a bottle of wine, saying as she did so,

“Believe me, this is the best I have.”

And she looked, with tears in her eyes, and a sad heart, upon that old man, whom she had known in better times, so polished, so dignified, so amiable, and so well beloved. He spoke not a word while eating, and when he looked up, at the end of his meal, he saw that she wept.

“Is it for me, or for yourself that you weep?” said he.

“For both of us,” replied Madam Cottin; “for you, that you suffer so much in your old age, and for me, that I am unable to assist a sincere friend of my husband.”

“Do you know no one?” he demanded.

“No one, sir; since my widowhood, I have seen no one.”

“Alas!” said Monsieur de Fombelle, lifting his eyes despondingly toward the ceiling, “and when I saw into what company I was cast, I believed I had found some assistance.”

“Was it not of your own accord that you came to me?”

“No, madam. A friend, who is actively endeavoring to assist me, but who scarcely has the means, for, like me, he is without money, appointed a place of rendezvous, after night-fall, in the open fields behind _la rue Ceruti_. I was returning from this rendezvous, when suddenly I found myself confronted face to face with my most mortal enemy—the same who had denounced me, and caused the decree against me. I endeavored to elude him, and had been running until almost exhausted, when a window, low and opened, attracted my attention. I obeyed my first impulse, made a spring, and found myself here. There was no one in the room, and, to guard against discovery, I closed the casement and the outer shutters; I lowered the curtains and concealed myself behind them. Scarcely had I done this, when you entered. As soon as you spoke, I recognized you, the wife of my best friend; I should certainly not have hesitated to have presented myself before you, but your good nurse was with you, and I believed it prudent to await her departure. In overhearing your conversation, I learned how your condition, once so happy, had changed since the sad events which have desolated our dear country, and I resolved to escape, if possible, without causing you fear or danger. Hence my immovability while you lifted the curtain; for I supposed that in the obscurity of the place you would not perceive me. But I ought not, madam, longer to interrupt your repose.”

“No, do not go,” replied Madam Cottin, “until you tell me if I can in any way assist you.”

“In three days I am to quit France; all is arranged, and my flight is certain, if I can accomplish what seems to be an impossibility—I must raise twelve hundred francs.”

“Twelve hundred francs,” said Madam Cottin, thoughtfully.

“Otherwise, since I cannot hope always to elude my enemies, I shall be lost.”

“Monsieur de Fombelle,” said Madam Cottin, after a moment of silence, “I have but few means, yet I have such a desire to assist you, that perhaps God will aid me. Day after to-morrow, at this same hour, you will find my window open; enter, and perhaps I will then have some good news for you. And now, adieu, sir! be of good cheer;—stop, take under your cloak this bread, and this bottle of wine. Leave me to close the window—the street is deserted, and not a soul is passing. Remember, on the night of day after to-morrow, at eight o’clock, be under my window; strike three times on the glass. If I have succeeded, I will reply to you; if not, I will not have the courage to answer. Go, now, and be assured that I will do all in my power to assist you.”

Too much moved to venture a single word in reply, M. de Fombelle pressed her hand, leaped out of the window, and disappeared at the corner of a street yet inhabited by the _Chaussée d’Antin_.

The next morning had scarcely dawned, when Madam Cottin importuned her nurse to get breakfast; as soon as it was over, she gave her no time to arrange the furniture of the room.

“Come with me,” she said; “come with me, it is absolutely necessary that I sell _Claire d’Albe_ this morning.”

“Ah, these young women!” exclaimed the nurse, as she complied; “these young women! when they once take a fancy, they have neither quiet nor reason. If the bookseller is as impatient to buy, as you are to sell, we shall soon have a piano, I see.”

From _la rue Chanteriene_ to the quay, where, from time immemorial, the booksellers have had their shops, the walk was long, and Marianne harped upon the one idea of getting a piano, until they arrived at the place of their destination. After scrutinizing the long row of shops for a few moments, Madam Cottin selected one which had the most promising exterior.

“I can but fail,” said she, as she crossed the threshold. But as soon as she entered, she stopped, and remained, blushing, and with downcast eyes, before the bookseller, who advanced toward her, asking her what work she wished to purchase.

“It is not to purchase, but to sell, sir,” said Marianne, replying for her mistress, who could not overcome her embarrassment. “We have written a romance, and we have come to see if you wish to buy it. It is superb! I assure you, you have nothing in your shop which can compare with it.”

“Tut, tut, Marianne!” interrupted Madam Cottin, now sufficiently reassured to continue the negotiation. “Do you never buy manuscripts, sir?”

“Yes—no—that is—what is the name of the author?”

“The name of the book, sir, you mean to say?” timidly observed the young woman.

“No, of the author, not having time to read our books ourselves, you understand, it is almost always the name of the author that we buy.”

“But, sir, the work is written by me, and my name is not known,” said Madam Cottin, almost discouraged; “if you would take the trouble to read it,” and she presented, hesitatingly, a little roll of papers.

“I have no doubt,” replied the bookseller, blandly, “it is a master-piece; it would be useless for me to read it—I would find it perfect. But business is not profitable just at this time. Some other time, when you shall have become known—”

“If all booksellers were like you, we would never be known,” impatiently interrupted Marianne. “Let us go, we have not got the piano yet.”

“No,” replied Madam Cottin, “but God always places good and bad fortune side by side; we will go in here,” and she boldly crossed the threshold of a second shop.

The appearance of this bookseller was more engaging than that of his neighbor. On seeing a lady enter, he advanced courteously toward her.

“What can I do to serve you?” he asked; then offering a seat to Marianne, and one to Sophie, he remained standing before the latter, who said to him,

“I am afraid of a disappointment, sir, after one failure to-day. I have written a little story—”

“Which you wish to have printed?” asked the bookseller.

“If you think it worthy of it, sir.”

“It will be necessary to see it, madam—have you the manuscript?”

Sophie’s hand trembled as she presented it to him.

“It is very small,” said the bookseller, glancing at it; “it will make a very small volume. It is a romance, in letters. Will you allow me to look at it?”

“Certainly. I am ignorant of the value of the work; having written it within the last five days, I have not bestowed upon it either the time or labor of retouching it; but I am in need of twelve hundred francs. I need it by to-morrow evening; see, sir, if you can give them to me.”

“Since you request so early a decision, I will ask only time to read three letters—one at the commencement, one in the middle, and one at the end of the book; and I will then be able to give you my opinion of the rest.”

With these words the bookseller retired behind a railing, hung with green curtains, and applied himself to reading the manuscript. Meanwhile Madam Cottin remained seated with her old nurse, unable to conceal the anxiety which devoured her.

“You are afraid that you will not get your piano, are you not, madam?”

“Yes, yes,” she replied, without knowing what she was saying.

“But why is it necessary for you to have the money to-morrow evening? Is it because the poor countess, who offers to sell you one, demands it immediately? Jean Paul, her porter, told me that she would give long time. You have spoken of it, then, to the countess?”

“Yes, yes, he seems satisfied!” exclaimed Sophie, anxiously scrutinizing the countenance of the bookseller.

At this moment the bookseller rose from his seat. Sophie’s heart beat as he approached.

“It is good, madam, very good! the conception is perfect; only one can see that you are not in the habit of writing, and it seems to me impossible to print it without corrections. As to the price, it is rather dear; but as you are in need of money, I will not deny it you. You will repay the difference in some other book which you will write for me, will you not?”

“Oh, yes, sir, yes!” eagerly replied Madam Cottin. “Give me the manuscript, sir; to-morrow, at six o’clock, you shall have it corrected.”

“And to-morrow, at six o’clock, your money shall be ready. Shall I bring it to you, that you may avoid going out at that hour? Do you wish this little sum in paper, in gold, or in silver?”

“In gold, sir. Oh! you have saved more than my life!” said Madam Cottin, departing.

“At last we shall have the piano!” said Marianne, running by the side of her mistress, scarcely able to keep even with her rapid pace.

“Jean Paul,” said she, when they had arrived opposite to the countess’s residence, stopping a moment behind her mistress, “Jean Paul, you may tell the countess we will purchase the piano, and that we will pay her to-morrow evening—do you hear, Jean Paul?”

“What have you been doing this morning, that you have found so much money to-day?” replied the porter, with a sneer; “has your mistress found a treasure?”

“No, sir,” replied Marianne, angrily, “it is in her mind that she has a treasure—it is in her head.”

“A trifle, citizen Marianne—a trifle! You told me she wrote, did you not? Now look you, I’ll put both of my hands into the fire, if your mistress is not a conspirator!”

“What!—a conspirator! Do you know what you are saying, Mr. Jean Paul?”

“Perfectly, citizen Marianne; and since your mistress loves ink, they are going to give her and her nurse some. Listen; I do not meddle—I say nothing, but I see all. This morning I had a little talk with the officer who lives near, and he is of my opinion concerning your mistress. She holds correspondence with the enemy—the English! Otherwise, why should she be writing all day? It is not natural for a woman to write so much. My wife never writes; it is true, she does not know how to write—but that makes no difference. Now I have an idea—I may have an idea, may I not?—well, I have an idea that she wishes to sell France; who knows but that she has already sold it, and that it is with some of the money she is going to buy the piano! O, my country—my poor country! into what hands have you fallen!”

“You are either a fool, or you don’t love music, which is the same thing; for if I understand a word you say, I hope my head may be cut off!” With this retort, Marianne turned toward Madam Cottin’s apartments.

Madam Cottin did not go to bed that night, but labored without relaxation to have her book ready by the appointed hour, and to receive the twelve hundred francs, by which she was to aid the escape of her husband’s friend. Morning and noon passed, the sun began to decline, and as the clock sounded five, she finished the last letter. The same moment the door of her chamber was opened with violence, and Marianne, weeping, rushed in, followed by a motley crowd of soldiers and “citizens,” the porter at their head.

“In the name of the law, search every where,” said a municipal officer; and in an instant they were ransacking every corner of the apartment. As soon as Madam Cottin could recover her self-possession, which had deserted her at first sight of these intruders, she demanded,

“What do you here—and what do you wish of me, sirs?”

Carrying his hand to his cap with a military air, the officer replied,

“Citizen, you are accused of holding correspondence with the enemies of France, and we are ordered to seize your papers.”

“Me, sir, holding correspondence with the enemy!” cried Madam Cottin, in a tone of surprise; “me, a poor widow, without friends and without experience! Who has been so base as to invent this falsehood?”

“If you are innocent, you have nothing to fear,” replied the officer, “and the examination of your papers will clear you without doubt.”

“Take them, then,” said Madam Cottin, assisting them in the search. The officer examined packages of letters from her husband, her mother, her schoolmates, some large writing books in which were registered the fruits of her studies, and some loose papers in her port-folio, without finding any thing which could excite suspicion.

At length the manuscript of _Claire d’Albe_, lying on the table, attracted his eye, and approaching it, he laid his hand upon it. Madam Cottin could not refrain from a cry of affright.

“Oh, for pity! pity! do not touch that!”

“Ah! we have reached the hiding-place at last!” said the officer, beginning to collect the scattered leaves.

“Sir,” said the lady, anxiously, “those papers do not endanger in any way the security of the state, I assure you; nay, I will most solemnly swear it!”

“Why then this fear?” said the officer, still gathering up the leaves.

“Because—because—they are invaluable to me, though they can be of little use to you. Oh! I am telling you the truth! Give them back, I beseech you!”

“Oh, yes, Mr. Officer!” interposed Marianne, “that is nothing but a romance, which my mistress sold yesterday for twelve hundred francs, to buy a piano. This is all the mystery, and if I were to die to-day, I have told you the exact truth. But if you do not believe what I have said, here comes the bookseller, and you can ask him yourselves.”

As she spoke, this personage entered the apartment.

“Speak, sir,” cried Marianne, rushing toward the bookseller, “make clear the innocence of my mistress. Say to these gentlemen what these papers are.”

The bookseller looking at the packet which the officer held in his hand, replied, “That is a romance which I bought yesterday of madam.”

Madam Cottin, seemingly insensible to what was passing around her, followed with her eyes the minute-hand of the clock, which was approaching nearer and nearer to the eighth hour. There was a short interval of silence, when the officer replied,

“I am inclined to believe, sir, that this is, as you say, a romance; but what difference can it make to you or madam, if I carry it to the _Section_? I will return it in the morning.”

Madam Cottin grew desperate. The hands on the dial-plate marked seven o’clock and five minutes.

“Let me read you one of the letters, sirs, and if you find in it a line to suspect, I will give the book into your hands.”

“I see no objection,” replied the officer, and accordingly, Madam Cottin, taking up the first letter, commenced reading. As she proceeded, the attention of her audience became more and more profound; their countenances betrayed emotion; soon tears started from their eyes, and at length one of the auditors, interrupting the fair reader, threw himself upon his knees before her.

“I am a miserable wretch, madam, do what you please with me! It was I who denounced you—I who first suspected your daily habit of writing; no, there is no torture that I do not deserve! Oh! what you have written is beautiful! it is beautiful! I will buy the book when it is printed; I will learn to read—I, and my wife, and my children. Sir,” he added, turning toward the bookseller, “I wish the first copy you send out of your shop, and I will pay you any price you ask. I am Jean Paul, porter of house number forty-six, in _la rue Chanteriene_. And now, madam, pardon me—will you say that you pardon me?”

Madam Cottin cast a look at the dial—_it wanted but five minutes of eight!_ She rose hastily.

“Yes, yes, I pardon you. Sir Officer, you leave me my manuscript, do you not?” added she, turning to the officer, who wiped his eyes, while the porter remained sobbing in his place.

“Certainly, madam,” replied he; “I leave you all your papers. I see that the republic of France has nothing to fear from you; and in taking my leave; I beg you to excuse our seeming rudeness.”

At this moment three blows were struck upon the window. Madam Cottin turned pale as death—

“Not yet—not yet!” said she, recovering herself instantly, and intending the words to have a meaning which should apply to the person without, as well as to those within. As she turned toward her secretary, the bookseller, unobserved by the rest, slipped a small roleau of gold into her hand—the price of the romance.

“We fear we are abusing your politeness,” said the officer, rising to leave. A second blow, stronger than the first, rattled upon the glass. Sophie turned paler than before.

“I pray you remain,” she replied, in a loud voice, adding, in a lower tone, “and you also, Jean Paul. Marianne, bring some of the wine of our country—Bordeaux. Gentlemen, you can not refuse to drink the prosperity of France? And now,” added she, “the excitement I have undergone—this fire, which is so warm—you will excuse me, if I step to the window a moment for fresh air.”

So saying, she went to the window, and opened the shutters, letting the curtains fall before her.

“Stop!” she said to M. de Fombelle, restraining him from entering the chamber, which he attempted, and handing him the rouleau of _louis-d’ors_—the price of her first book—“take this, and begone quickly; you are in danger if you remain. Adieu!”

Closing the shutters and the sash, she again appeared, smiling in the midst of the soldiers. Marianne returned the same moment with a salver covered with glasses, and bottles of wine.

“At last we shall have a piano, Sophie,” said she, turning toward her mistress to drink.

“Not yet, my good Marianne,” replied Sophie, with a joyful tone, which contradicted her reply.

Such was the _début_ of the gifted woman who has written so many charming romances. Late in life she commenced a work on Education; but a cruel malady surprised her in the midst of her labor, and after three months of suffering, which were, however, alleviated by the tenderness of friends, and the consolations of religion, she died on the 25th of August, 1807, aged thirty-four years.

* * * * *

THE GENTLE STEP.

BY HARRIET J. MEEK.

Hearts somewhere beat, from which it cannot pass; Earth has no sunshine left, nor time nor place, But a new scene slides o’er the magic glass, And _we_ forget the space.

Light, and still lighter seemed that step to fall; I scarce could tell you when it ceased, or how; A breathing spirit walked the earth—’tis all— That does not walk it now.

I think sometimes upon the sunny floor I see the shadow of her golden hair; And turn half-dreaming to the open door, To look if she is there.

And then I mind. Life’s rough and thorny round Would long ere this have torn the folded wing Whose downy waving glided over sound, And left it slumbering.

Death came, when flowers were passing from the earth; We thought to hear the clanking of his chain, But the light step one evening left the hearth, And came not back again.

* * * * *

BARBARA UTTMAN’S DREAM.

BY MRS. EMMA C. EMBURY.

In the little hamlet of Anneberg, far up among the Erzberges or Copper Mountains of Saxony, there dwelt, once upon a time, a gentle child named Barbara. She was so fair, with such soft blue eyes, such long golden curls, and withal wearing a look of such exceeding sweetness, that the people of the hamlet, who were all miners, or workers in metal, called her by a name that signified the “Lily of the Mines.” Barbara was an orphan, a little lone creature, whom no one claimed, but whom every body loved. Her father had been a delver into the depths of the earth, and when she was only a tiny little baby, he had kissed her round cheek, and gone to his daily labor at early dawn; but ere the shadows of the dark trees fell toward the eastern slope of the hills, he was brought home mangled and lifeless. The “fire-damp” had seized him and his companions; or, as the simple peasants believed, the demon of the mine had arisen in his might, and torn to pieces the daring spoilers of his treasure-house. Barbara’s mother did not long outlive the dreadful sight. She pined away, with a dull aching at her heart, and one morning a kind neighbor found the child sleeping calmly on the cold bosom of her dead mother.