Chapter 4

Did you ever examine an ant-hill, dear reader? What a wonderful little cosmos it is--what an epitome of a great city--of the human race! See how the little fellows run bustling along upon their several businesses--see how some get out of each other's way, how others jostle, and others walk over their fellows' heads! But especially mark that black gentleman, pulling hard to drag along a fat beetle's leg and thigh, three times as large as his own body. He cannot get it on, do what he will; and yet he tugs away, thinking it a very fine haunch indeed. He does not perceive, what is nevertheless the fact, that there are two others of his own race pulling at the other end, and thus frustrating all his efforts.

And thus it is with you, and me, and every one in the wide world. We work blindly, unknowing the favoring or counteracting causes that are constantly going on around us, to facilitate or impede our endeavors. The wish to look into futurity is vain, irrational, almost impious; but what a service would it be to any man if he could but get a sight into Fate's great workshop, and see only that part in which the events are on the anvil that affect our own proceedings. Still, even if we did, we might not understand the machinery after all, and only burn or pinch our fingers in trying to put pieces together which fate did not intend to fit.

In the mean time--that is to say while the attorney and his companion were talking together at the alehouse--Sir Philip Hastings rode quietly up the hill to the cottage I have before described, and therefore shall not describe again, merely noticing that it now presented an appearance of neatness and repair which it had not before possessed. He tied his horse to the palings, walked slowly up the little path, gazing right and left at the cabbages and carrots on either side, and then without ceremony went in.

The cottage had two tenants at this time, the invalid old woman, and another, well-nigh as old but less decrepit, who had been engaged to attend upon her in her sickness. How she got the money to pay her no one knew, for her middle life and the first stage of old age had been marked by poverty and distress; but somehow money seems to have a natural affinity for old age. It grows upon old people, I think, like corns; and certainly she never wanted money now.

There she was, lying in her bed, a miserable object indeed to see. She was like a woman made of fungus--not of that smooth, putty-like, fleshy fungus which grows in dank places, but of the rough, rugged, brown, carunculated sort which rises upon old stumps of trees and dry-rot gate-posts. Teeth had departed nearly a quarter of a century before, and the aquiline features had become more hooked and beaky for their loss; but the eyes had now lost their keen fire, and were dull and filmy.

The attorney was quite right. Hate was the last thing to go out in the ashes where the spark of life itself lingered but faintly. At first she could not see who it was entered the cottage; for the sight now reached but a short distance from her own face. But the sound of his voice, as he inquired of the other old woman how she was going on, at once showed her who it was, and hate at least roused "the dull cold ear of death."

For a moment or two she lay muttering sounds which seemed to have no meaning; but at length she said, distinctly enough, "Is that Philip Hastings?"

"Yes, my poor woman," said the baronet; "is there any thing I can do for you?"

"Come nearer, come nearer," she replied, "I cannot see you plainly."

"I am close to you, nevertheless," he answered. "I am touching the bed on which you lie."

"Let me feel you," continued she--"give me your hand."

He did as she asked him; and holding by his hand, she made a great struggle to raise herself in bed; but she could not, and lay exhausted for a minute before she spoke again.

At length, however, she raised her voice louder and shriller than before--"May a curse rest upon this hand and upon that head!" she exclaimed; "may the hand work its own evil, and the head its own destruction! May the child of your love poison your peace, and make you a scoff, and a by-word, and a shame! May the wife of your bosom perish by----"

But Sir Philip Hastings withdrew his hand suddenly, and an unwonted flush came upon his cheek.

"For shame!" he said, in a low stern tone, "for shame!"

The next moment, however, he recovered himself perfectly; and turning to the nurse he added, "Poor wretch! my presence only seems to excite evil feelings which should long have passed away, and are not fit counsellors for the hour of death. If there be any thing which can tend to her bodily comfort that the hall can supply, send up for it. The servants have orders. Would that any thing could be done for her spiritual comfort; for this state is terrible to witness."

"She often asks for a priest, your worship," said the nurse. "Perhaps if she could see one she might think better before she died."

"Alas, I doubt it," replied the visitor; "but at all events we cannot afford her that relief. No such person can be found here."

"I don't know, Sir Philip," said the old woman, with a good deal of hesitation; "they do say that at Carrington, there is--there is what they call a seminary."

"You do not mean a papist college!" exclaimed the baronet, with unfeigned surprise and consternation.

"Oh, dear, no sir," replied the nurse, "only a gentleman--a seminary--a seminary priest, I think they call it; a papist certainly; but they say he is a very good gentleman, all but that."

Sir Philip mused for a minute or two, and then turned to the door, saying, "Methinks it is hard that a dying woman cannot have the consolations of the rites of her own faith--mummery though they be. As a magistrate, my good woman, I can give no authority in this business. You must do as you think fit. I myself know of no priest in this neighborhood, or I should be bound to cause his apprehension. I shall take no notice of your word, however, and as to the rest, you must, as I have said, act as you think fit. I did not make the laws, and I may think them cruel. Did I make them, I would not attempt to shackle the conscience of any one. Farewell," and passing through the door, he remounted his horse and rode away.

It was in the early autumn time of the year, and the scene was peculiarly lovely. I have given a slight description of it before, but I must pause and dwell upon it once more, even as Sir Philip Hastings paused and dwelt upon its loveliness at that moment, although he had seen and watched it a thousand times before. He was not very impressible by fine scenery. Like the sages of Laputa, his eyes were more frequently turned inwards than outwards; but there was something in that landscape which struck a chord in his heart, that is sure to vibrate easily in the heart of every one of his countrymen.

It was peculiarly English--I might say singularly English; for I have never seen any thing of exactly the same character anywhere else but in Old England--except indeed in New England, where I know not whether it be from the country having assimilated itself to the people, or from the people having chosen the country from the resemblance to their own paternal dwelling place, many a scene strikes the eye which brings back to the wandering Englishman all the old, dear feelings of his native land, and for a moment he may well forget that the broad Atlantic rolls between him and the home of his youth.

But let me return to my picture. Sir Philip Hastings sat upon his horse's back, very nearly at the summit of the long range of hills which bisected the county in which he dwelt. I have described, in mentioning his park, the sandy character of the soil on the opposite slope of the rise; but here higher up, and little trodden by pulverizing feet, the sandstone rock itself occasionally broke out in rugged maps, diversifying the softer characteristics of the scene. Wide, and far away, on either hand, the eye could wander along the range, catching first upon some bold mass of hill, or craggy piece of ground, assuming almost the character of a cliff, seen in hard and sharp distinctness, with its plume of trees and coronet of yellow gorse, and then, proceeding onward to wave after wave, the sight rested upon the various projecting points, each softer and softer as they receded, like the memories of early days, till the last lines of the wide sweep left the mind doubtful whether they were forms of earth or clouds, or merely fancy.

Such was the scene on either hand, but straightforward it was very different, but still quite English. Were you ever, reader, borne to the top of a very high wave in a small boat, and did you ever, looking down the watery mountain, mark how the steep descent, into the depth below, was checkered by smaller waves, and these waves again by ripples? Such was the character of the view beneath the feet of the spectator. There was a gradual, easy descent from the highest point of the whole county down to a river-nurtured valley, not unbroken, but with lesser and lesser waves of earth, varying the aspect of the scene. These waves again were marked out, first by scattered and somewhat stunted trees, then by large oaks and chestnuts, not undiversified by the white and gleaming bark of the graceful birch. A massive group of birches here and there was seen; a scattered cottage, too, with its pale bluish wreath of smoke curling up over the tree-tops. Then, on the lower slope of all, came hedgerows of elms, with bright, green rolls of verdant turf between; the spires of churches; the roofs and white walls of many sorts of man's dwelling-places, and gleams of a bright river, with two or three arches of a bridge. Beyond that again appeared a rich wide valley--I might almost have called it a plain, all in gay confusion, with fields, and houses, and villages, and trees, and streams, and towns, mixed altogether in exquisite disorder, and tinted with all the variety of colors and shades that belong to autumn and to sunset.

Down the descent, the eye of Sir Philip Hastings could trace several roads and paths, every step of which he knew, like daily habits. There was one, a bridle-way from a town about sixteen miles distant, which, climbing the hills almost at its outset, swept along the whole range, about midway between the summit and the valley. Another, by which he had come, and along which he intended to proceed, traversed the crest of the hills ere it reached the cottage, and then descended with a wavy line into the valley, crossing the bridle-path I have mentioned. A wider path--indeed it might be called a road, though it was not a turnpike--came over the hills from the left, and with all those easy graceful turns which Englishmen so much love in their highways, and Frenchmen so greatly abhor, descended likewise into the valley, to the small market-town, glimpses of which might be caught over the tops of the trees. As the baronet sat there on horseback, and looked around, more than one living object met his eye. To say nothing of some sheep wandering along the uninclosed part of the hill, now stopping to nibble the short grass, now trotting forward for a sweeter bite,--not to notice the oxen in the pastures below, there was a large cart slowly winding its way along an open part of the road, about half a mile distant, and upon the bridle-path which I have mentioned, the figure of a single horseman was seen, riding quietly and easily along, with a sauntering sort of air, which gave the beholder at once the notion that he was what Sterne would have called a "picturesque traveller," and was enjoying the prospect as he went.

On the road that came over the hill from the left, was another rider of very different demeanor, going along at a rattling pace, and apparently somewhat careless of his horse's knees.

The glance which Sir Philip Hastings gave to either of them was but slight and hasty. His eyes were fixed upon the scene before him, feeling, rather than understanding, its beauties, while he commented in his mind, after his own peculiar fashion. I need not trace the procession of thought through his brain. It ended, however, with the half uttered words,

"Strange, that such a land should have produced so many scoundrels, tyrants, and knaves!"

He then slowly urged his horse forward, down the side of the hill, soon reached some tall trees, where the inclosures and hedgerows commenced, and was approaching the point at which the road he was travelling, crossed the bridle-path, when he heard some loud, and as it seemed to him, angry words, between two persons he could not see.

"I will soon teach you that;" cried a loud, coarse tongue, adding an exceedingly blasphemous oath, which I will spare the reader.

"My good friend," replied another milder voice, "I neither desire to be taught any thing, just now, nor would you be the teacher I should chose, if I did, though perchance, in case of need, I might give you a lesson, which would be of some service to you."

Sir Philip rode on, and the next words he heard were spoken by the first voice, to the following effect; "Curse me, if I would not try that, only my man might get off in the mean time; and I have other business in hand than yours. Otherwise I would give you such a licking in two minutes, you would be puzzled to find a white spot on your skin for the next month."

"Two minutes would not detain you long," replied the calmer voice, "and, as I have never had such a beating, I should like to see, first, whether you could give it, and secondly, what it would be like."

"Upon my soul, you are cool!" exclaimed the first speaker with another oath.

"Perfectly," replied the second; and, at the same moment, Sir Philip Hastings emerged from among the trees, at the point where the two roads crossed, and where the two speakers were face to face before his eyes.

The one, who was in truth the sauntering traveller whom he has seen wending along the bridle-path, was a tall, good-looking young man, of three or four and twenty years of age. In the other, the Baronet had no difficulty in recognizing at once, Tom Cutter, the notorious poacher and bruiser, whom he had more than once had the satisfaction of committing to jail. To see him mounted on a very fine powerful horse, was a matter of no slight surprise to Sir Philip; but, naturally concluding that he had stolen it, and was making off with his prize for sale to the neighboring town, he rode forward and put himself right in the way, determined to stop him.

"Ay, ay! Here is my man!" cried Tom Cutter, as soon as he saw him. "I will settle with him first, and then for you, my friend."

"No, no, to an old proverb, first come must be first served," replied the traveller, pushing his horse forward a few steps.

"Keep the peace, in the King's name!" exclaimed Sir Philip Hastings. "I, as a magistrate, charge you, sir, to assist me in apprehending this man!--Thomas Cutter, get off that horse!"

The only reply was a coarse and violent expletive, and a blow with a thick heavy stick, aimed right at Sir Philip's head. The magistrate put up his arm, which received the blow, and was nearly fractured by it; but at the same moment, the younger traveller spurred forward his horse upon the ruffian, and with one sweep of his arm struck him to the ground.

Tom Cutter was upon his feet again in a moment. He was accustomed to hard blows, and like the immortal hero of Butler, could almost tell the quality of the stick he was beat withal. He was not long in discovering, therefore, that the fist which struck him was of no ordinary weight, and was directed with skill as well as with vigor; but he was accustomed to make it his boast, that he had never taken a licking "from any man," which vanity caused him at once to risk such another blow, in the hope of having his revenge.

Rushing upon the young stranger then, stick in hand, he prepared to knock him from his horse; for the other appeared to have no defensive arms, but a slight hazel twig, pulled from a hedge.

"He will jump off the other side of his horse," thought Tom Cutter; "and then, if he do, I'll contrive to knock the nag over upon him. I know that trick, well enough."

But the stranger disappointed him. Instead of opposing the horse between him and his assailant, he sprung with one bound out of the saddle, on the side next to the ruffian himself, caught the uplifted stick with one hand, and seized the collar of the bruiser's coat with the other.

Tom Cutter began to suspect he had made a mistake; but, knowing that at such close quarters the stick would avail him little, and that strength of thews and sinews would avail him much, he dropped the cudgel, and grappled with the stranger in return.

It was all the work of a moment. Sir Philip Hastings had no time to interfere. There was a momentary struggle, developing the fine proportions and great strength and skill of the wrestlers; and then, Tom Cutter lay on his back upon the ground. The next instant, the victor put his foot upon his chest, and kept the ruffian forcibly down, notwithstanding all is exclamations of "Curse me, that isn't fair! When you give a man a fall, let him get up again!"

"If he is a fair fighter, I do," replied the other; "but when he plays pirate, I don't--" Then turning to Sir Philip Hastings, who had by this time dismounted, he said, "What is to be done with this fellow, sir? It seems he came here for the express purpose of assaulting you, for he began his impertinence, with asking if you had passed, giving a very accurate description of your person, and swearing you should find every dog would have his day."

"His offence towards myself," replied the Baronet, "I will pass over, for it seems to me, he has been punished enough in his own way; but I suspect he has stolen this horse. He is a man of notoriously bad character, who can never have obtained such an animal by honest means."

"No, I didn't steal him, I vow and swear," cried the ruffian, in a piteous tone; for bullies are almost always cravens; "he was lent to me by Johny Groves--some call him another name; but that don't signify.--He lent him to me, to come up here, to stop your gab with the old woman, Mother Danty; and mayhap to give you a good basting into the bargain. But I didn't steal the horse no how; and there he is, running away over the hill-side, and I shall never catch him; for this cursed fellow has well nigh broken my back."

"Served you quite right, my friend," replied the stranger, still keeping him tightly down with his foot. "How came you to use a cudgel to a man who had none? Take my advice, another time, and know your man before you meddle with him."

In the mean time Sir Philip Hastings had fallen into a profound reverie, only repeating to himself the words "John Groves." Now the train of thought which was awakened in his mind, though not quite new, was unpleasant to him; for the time when he first became familiar with that name was immediately subsequent to the opening of his father's will, in which had been found a clause ordering the payment of a considerable sum of money to some very respectable trustees, for the purpose of purchasing an annuity in favor of one John Groves, then a minor.

There had been something about the clause altogether which the son and heir of Sir John Hastings could not understand, and did not like. However, the will enjoined him generally to make no inquiry whatsoever into the motives of any of the bequests, and with his usual stern rigidity in what he conceived right, he had not only asked no questions, but had stopped bluntly one of the trustees, who was about to enter into some explanations. The money was paid according to directions received, and he had never heard the name of John Groves from that moment till it issued from the lips of the ruffian upon the present occasion.

"What the man says may be true," said Sir Philip Hastings, at length; "there is a person of the name he mentions. I know not how I can have offended him. It may be as well to let him rise and catch his horse if he can; but remember, Master Cutter, my eye is upon you; two competent witnesses have seen you in possession of that horse, and if you attempt to sell him, you will hang for it."

"I know better than to do that," said the bruiser, rising stiffly from the ground as the stranger withdrew his foot; "but I can tell you, Sir Philip, others have their eyes upon you, so you had better look to yourself. You hold your head mightily top high, just now: but it may chance to come down."

Sir Philip Hastings did not condescend to reply, even by a look; but turning to the stranger, as if the man's words had never reached his ear, he said, "I think we had better ride on, sir. You seem to be going my way. Night is falling fast, and in this part of the country two is sometimes a safer number to travel with than one."

The other bowed his head gravely, and remounting their horses they proceeded on the way before them, while Tom Cutter, after giving up some five minutes to the condemnation of the eyes, limbs, blood, and soul of himself and several other persons, proceeded to catch the horse which he had been riding as fast as he could. But the task proved a difficult one.

TO BE CONTINUED.

FOOTNOTES:

[24] Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1850, by G. P. R. James, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern District of New York.

CYPRUS AND THE LIFE LED THERE.

"Eidolon, or the Trial of a Soul, and other Poems," is the title of a new volume of verses from the press of Pickering, written by WALTER R. CASSELS, a student of the school of Shelley, and Keats, and Tennyson, and Browning. A favorable specimen of his abilities is offered in the following description of Cyprus:

Amid it riseth Olympus, Stately and grand as the throne of the gods, And the island sleeps 'neath its shadow Like a fair babe 'neath the care of its father. Streams clear as the diamond Evermore wander around it, Like the vein'd tide through our members, Quick with the blessings of beauty, And health and verdurous pleasure, Filling with yellow sheaves And plenty the bosom of Ceres; Calling forth flowers from the slumbering earth, Like thoughts from the dream of a poet, Till the island throughout is a garden, The child and the plaything of summer.

"In luscious clusters the fruit hangs In the sunshine, melting away From swetness to sweetness; The grapes clustering 'mid leaves, That give their bright hue to the eye Like the setting of rubies; The nectarines and pomegranates Glowing with crimson ripeness, And the orange trees with their blossoms Yielding sweet odor to every breeze, As the incense flows from the censer.

"The air is languid with pleasure and love, Lulling the senses to dreams Elysian, Making life seem a glorious trance, Full of bright visions of heaven, Safe from the touch of reality, Toil none--woe none--pain, Wild and illusive as sleep-revelations. Time to be poured like wine from a chalice Sparking and joyous for aye, Drain'd amid mirth and music, The brows circled with ivy, And the goblets at last like a gift Thrust in the bossom of slumber.

"Thus are the people of Cyprus; Young men and old making holiday, Decking them daintily forth In robes of Sidonian purple; The maidens all beauteous, but wanton, Foolishly flinging youth's gifts, Its jewels--its richest adornment, Like dross on the altar of pleasure; Letting the worm of mortality Eat out their hearts till they bear Only the semblance of angels."

THE COUNT MONTE-LEONE,

OR, THE SPY IN SOCIETY.[25]

TRANSLATED FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MONTHLY MAGAZINE FROM THE FRENCH OF H. DE ST. GEORGES.

_Continued from page 60._

BOOK THIRD.

We left young Rovero in despair, yielding to the stupefaction which overpowered him, just as the singer leaned over his bed to be assured that he was asleep. La Felina looked at him for some time in silence, with pity in her eyes. "Why does he love me?" said she; "what have I done? why should this poor lad love one who scarcely knew him?"

Rovero moved. "Heavens! is the effect of the narcotic over? Will he awaken?"

"Felina!" murmured Taddeo.

"My name ever on his lips and in his heart. Yes! I was right in avoiding another interview: this letter tells all." She took a paper from her bosom. "But if he resist my prayer, if he shrink from the duty imposed on him by honor and humanity! He alone can accomplish it--all my hope is in him!"

She approached the table, and by the pale moonlight looked at the flask of Massa wine. A single glass had been taken from it. "_One glass!_" said she, "_only one glass?_ His sleep cannot be long. This torpor will terminate before any one enters his cell. But Lippiani the turnkey is devoted to me, and will see nothing."

Drawing near the bed she took out of her fine hair a long gold pin, with which to fasten the letter on his pillow, so that his eyes would rest on it when he awoke. While Felina's face was near Rovero's as she put the letter beneath his head, her warm breath hung on his lips; they pressed hers, and, terrified, she sprang from his side.

The prisoner dreamed of happiness, and doubted not that his fancy was realized. Whether this kiss had overcome his torpor, or whether, as La Felina thought, the narcotic had been taken in such small quantity that it had produced but a slight effect, Taddeo tossed on his bed. The singer, terrified at these signs, which were the precursors of his awakening, disappeared by the secret passages through which she had entered. An hour rolled by before Taddeo could triumph over his sleep. His heavy eyes shut together in spite of himself, and his eyelashes rested on each other. All sensation was lost in general lassitude. In the first disorder of his mind, he asked himself if he had not again dreamed of the appearance of La Felina. Had he not seen her approaching his bed just as he sunk to sleep, he would have been sure of it. He shuddered at the thought that he had lost the opportunity so anxiously expected. At last he recovered his strength, and attempted to rise. As he did so, his hand touched La Felina's letter on the pillow. When he drew out the diamond-headed pin which fastened it, he no longer doubted that he had actually seen her. Having been unable to rouse him, she had written to him. He felt angry with himself. He would have given ten years of his life to regain that one lost hour. He went to the tall window of the chapel to invoke a single ray of the moon to enable him to read the lines which had been traced by the hand of the woman he worshipped. This consolation was denied him. The moon was hidden by clouds, and the completest obscurity pervaded the prison. What Taddeo suffered during the time till day, which it seemed to him would never dawn, may be fancied, but not described. His fate was in his own hands, yet it was unknown. Ardently clasping to his heart and to his lips the perfumed paper on which Felina had written, his heart became intoxicated. He passionately kissed the sheet on which the singer had left her words, and a sad presentiment of misfortune took possession of him. He almost feared the coming of day, the light of which would reveal to him his fate.

Day dawned, at first feeble, then brighter, and still brighter, and finally brilliant and clear. He opened the letter, and his eyes glanced over it with tender earnestness. A livid pallor overcast his features, a nervous tremor shook him. The lines traced by La Felina he could not read; and overcome by despair, he sank to his seat. The keeper entered. "Signor," said he to Taddeo, "the person who visited you three days ago asks permission to see you again."

"Who is he?" said Taddeo--his voice choked with grief.

"The Marquis de Maulear."

The name recalled to the prisoner his mother and Aminta. This memory soothed his wounded heart. "My mother, my sister," thought he; "but for their tenderness what now would be my life! Show the Marquis in."

While the keeper was absent, he hurried to the bed, examined it anxiously as if in search for something which had escaped his observation. Seizing the letter, he read anxiously the last lines, approached the bed, and discovered the mysterious deposit La Felina had placed under the pillow. He took it and concealed it carefully in his clothing; and with an accent which betrayed the contest in his crushed heart, he said aloud, as if he wished some one to hear him, "You judged me correctly, Felina; misfortune will not make me unjust; I will do what you ask!"

A cry of joy echoed beneath the vault of the old chapel. Taddeo turned. The cry had penetrated his heart. But he was alone. Just then Henri de Maulear entered.

"Yesterday evening, Signor Rovero, confiding your promise, I informed the minister that, consulting with prudent reflections, you would accept the pardon offered by the King. You are free, and can now accompany me."

"Let us hurry to my mother, Monsieur," said Taddeo, casting one last look on the chapel walls, which had shut up so much sorrow, happiness and torment. He followed the Marquis. An hour afterwards two gentlemen on noble English steeds--the best the stables of the Marquis afforded--rode toward Sorrento. One of these riders, Rovero, was melancholy, so that even the French amiability of the Marquis could not divert him from gloomy meditations. Ever and anon a smile hung on his lips, till chased away by some painful memory. The Marquis de Maulear, satisfied that Taddeo concealed a secret from him, avoided any allusion to it, with the delicacy and good taste which above all things fears indiscretion. He feigned to attribute to the reserve of a new acquaintance his companion's coldness and absence of mind. For his own part, delighted at being able to restore this prodigal son to the parental roof, anxious to see her whom he loved (to whom, relying on Taddeo's promise, he had gone the evening before to announce her brother's return), he could scarcely repress his delight.

"Signor," said he to Taddeo, at a moment when the state of the road forced them to slacken their pace, "we have arranged all: we have left the festivities and pleasures of Naples, and have nothing to say of your suffering and captivity."

"Not one word, Monsieur, if you please, either of what I have passed through, or of the sufferings of my friends."

"I think your mother and sister know nothing of what you have undergone. Had they, their suffering and alarm would have been great. But do not flatter yourself that the arrest of Count Monte-Leone is unknown to them. One of the Neapolitan papers informed them yesterday of that fact; and I do not hide from you, that in my presence, your mother deplored your unfortunate intimacy with one so adventurous and rash."

"And what said Aminta?" asked Rovero anxiously, as if struck by a thought, which hitherto had escaped him.

"Signorina said nothing," observed Maulear, with an air of surprise; "and he heard the news with the most perfect indifference."

"To him she is unchanged," murmured Rovero.

Low as was the tone in which this was uttered, Maulear heard it, and could not repress the question, which he put with great anxiety, "To whom is the Signorina always the same?"

"To him--to the Count," said Taddeo. "I confide to you almost a family secret. Count Monte-Leone deeply loves my sister. He never told me so, but it is the case. If he be restored to liberty, as his friends hope, it will be a good match for Aminta."

Every word of Rovero fell like a drop of boiling oil on the heart of Maulear.

"My father," said Taddeo, "left us but a moderate fortune. Perhaps some day we may be rich--richer than the Monte-Leone--for we are the only heirs of the Roman Cardinal Justiniani, my mother's brother, who, as eldest son, inherited all the property of my maternal grandfather. As yet, however, our fortune in small, though sufficient for my tastes and ideas. But my mother and sister have other notions; and the marriage of Aminta and Count Monte-Leone would assure her a magnificent and brilliant portion."

"But if your sister does not love Count Monte-Leone?"

"Her refusal would make two persons unhappy; first the Count of Monte-Leone, and in the second place----"

"And in the second place?" said Maulear.

"Myself."

"Yourself!" said Maulear, with surprise; "Are you intent on their marriage?"

"Yes," replied Taddeo, with emotion; "now, all my happiness depends on it."

Maulear was amazed at these singular words. Scarcely had they been uttered, when Taddeo spurred his horse sharply, and rode toward the house of his mother, which he saw a few hundred yards distant. Henri followed him, troubled, and for the first time, with a care-marked brow, paused at Aminta's door. A fond mother clasped her son to her bosom, with that pleasure which a mother only knows. Aminta, entirely recovered from her accident, kissed her brother affectionately.

"My son," said Madame Rovero to Taddeo, as she clasped the hand of Maulear, "beyond all doubt the Marquis has told you what we owe him."

"The Marquis has only told me how devoted he was to you."

"Well," said Aminta, "I will be less discreet." With exquisite grace she told Taddeo all that had passed.

"Ah, Monsieur," said he, opening his arms to the Marquis, "I would I could find some dearer name than friend to give you."

Aminta blushed, and looked down. Maulear saw the motion, and a gentle hope stole over him. The name which Taddeo could not think of, perhaps, suggested itself to Aminta. It was the name Maulear was so anxious to give Rovero.

Aminta's brother wished to see the courageous child who had so heroically sacrificed himself for her. All followed Signora Rovero to the room of the invalid. He was better. The great inflammation of his face had disappeared, and his eyes had returned to their orbits. Apparently he was rapidly recovering; but the cruel prediction of the physician seemed about to be verified: _He will live, but will never speak again_. Only harsh and broken sounds escaped the invalid's lips.

Aminta, who had become Scorpione's nurse as soon as she was able to leave her room, had already learned to discriminate between the modulations of his voice. A kind of mute groan called her to him; a hiss expressed pain or impatience; but when his violent and almost savage nature was excited, a terrible bellowing was heard, and the bravest heart might quail at the inhuman sound. Tonio was asleep when the visitors entered his room, but he awoke, and without seeming surprised at the curious faces that surrounded his bed, looked at them earnestly.

He first recognized Taddeo, and a contraction of his lips, which, bent from their deformity, might have been called a smile, testified his pleasure at the visit. Aminta's presence always produced a strange effect on Scorpione, which his inability to speak enhanced. His eyes, of pale green, became suddenly lighted up with a peculiar and gentle languor, which was so tender that they seemed almost attractive. This singular magnetism had a novel effect on the invalid. But his brow soon became contracted; a violent storm seemed to agitate his heart; and the hissing was heard.

"What is the matter?" asked Taddeo. Aminta said she did not know. He had perhaps some new suffering, or something put him out of humor. Following the direction of Tonio's eyes, she saw they rested sparkling and bright on those of Maulear. Aminta quailed, and Henri, who saw her tremble, hurried to sustain her. He thought the strength of the young convalescent needed this aid. But at the moment when the girl accepted the arm of Maulear, Scorpione rose and uttered the horrible cry by which he expressed his impotent fury. All shuddered as they heard him. Aminta let go Maulear's arm, and quickly sought, by gesture and words, to soothe the Cretin, as she would appease an angry child. He became soothed at once, and Signora Rovero left him, followed by Taddeo, Maulear, and Aminta; but Aminta did not take Maulear's arm.

II. A NIGHT AT SORRENTO.

A feeling of uneasiness had suddenly taken possession of Maulear while in the presence of Aminta and Tonio. But he had not remarked the smile of happiness which played on the features of the invalid when Aminta, with the most natural air in the world, took the arm of her mother instead of his own.

"Signor," said Aminta's mother to the Marquis, as they went into the hall, "do not suffer this festival in honor of the return of my son to be celebrated without your presence. Share our family meal, and be satisfied that in doing so you will gratify us all."

The offer delighted Maulear, and time flew by with the rapidity love only confers on it when passed in the presence of loved ones.

About dinner time two strangers came to the villa, the Count Brignoli and his son. The Count was an old minister of war of Murat, and had been a colleague of Taddeo's father. He was one of the best friends of Rovero's widow and daughter. A country neighbor, he often visited them. His son Gaetano had been educated and brought up with Aminta, and a close friendship had been the consequence. Gaetano was twenty years of age, and his features bore the imprint of masculine and impressive Neapolitan beauty, deficient neither in the dark locks nor black though somewhat glassy eye, which is as it were the ordinary seal of the countenances of the men of the south.

The arrival of these visitors displeased Maulear. The beauty of Gaetano struck him unpleasantly. The intimacy between Aminta and the young man, though thus explained, wounded him. During the whole day he fancied that he discovered a thousand of those little trifles which a lover treasures up so carefully, and also that Aminta seemed happy in his presence. His anxiety had begun to pass away, when a new circumstance revived it. Aminta, who was a perfect musician, went to the piano, and sang some of those charming canzonets which are so sweet and touching, like the flowers of this country of melody. The voice of Aminta found an echo in the heart of Maulear, and his ecstasy was at its height, when Gaetano joined her and sang the charming duo from Romeo é Julietta, the _chef-d'oeuvre_ of Zingarelli. The jealous Maulear, as he heard this passionate music, could not believe that art alone inspired the singer. He trembled when he thought, that as Julietta loved Romeo, Aminta might adore Gaetano.

Unable to repress the agitation which took possession of him, Maulear left the saloon at the end of the duo, to superintend the preparations for his departure. The night was dark, and pale lightning shot through the sky, foreboding a storm. The Marquis could not repress his mortification. The voices of Aminta and the young Italian, blended together, followed him wherever he went "People," thought he, "only sing thus when they are linked together by love. Art alone cannot give so passionate an expression to their tones. Indeed, what sentiment can be more natural? Educated together, always near each other, their affection cannot but have grown up with them, so that now they perceive the effect without being aware of the cause. They love each other because they were born to do so, as birds mate in the spring because it is the season of love. The spring of Gaetano and Aminta is come. How can I, a stranger to this young girl, hope to please her? Her real preserver was not I, but the unfortunate Tonio. Her gratitude to me then must be very feeble. Besides, does gratitude lead to love?"

As he indulged in these painful reflections, his eyes became fixed on the skies, already damascened with black clouds. He strode rapidly across the court of the villa until he saw in front of him Gaetano Brignoli. Maulear could not repress a sentiment of anger at seeing him, and one of those emotions inconsiderately indulged in, and which reflection often punishes, though too late, took possession of him.

"Signor," said he to the young man, "you love the Signorina Aminta Rovero." Gaetano, surprised at the sudden rencontre in the dark, and yet more amazed at the excited tone of the Marquis, looked at him, and in his dark black eyes shone neither anger nor indignation, but only astonishment at the question.

"I have the honor to ask you," said Maulear, now become more calm, having more command of himself, and blushing at his first uncivil question, "if you do not (and it is very natural) feel a deep and tender affection for your childhood's friend, the Signorina Aminta Rovero?"

"If I love Aminta?" replied Gaetano. "Ah! Monsieur, who would not love her! Do you know a more beautiful girl in Naples? Do you know any one more cultivated and refined than she?"

"Certainly not," said the Marquis, with a voice of half-stifled emotion.

"She is my childhood's friend, the companion of my sports. With her I received my first lessons in music. The divine art I adore. You all know we accord, exactly. I often sing false, my teacher tells me, but she never does."

To hear one the heart loves and adores, spoken of with qualification and familiarity by a stranger, is often an acute pain to a lover, so acute, that even the familiarity of a brother with a sister often causes distress to certain minds. Some jealous souls think this a robbery of friendship, and a profanation of their idol.

Maulear, wounded that the cherished name of Aminta should be so cavalierly treated by Gaetano, replied with ill-disguised temper,

"I understand, Signor, that there is nothing false, even musically speaking, in the sentiments expressed by you to Signora Rovero. Perhaps this is an exception to your usual habits, as your professor says. But were he to find fault with the correctness of your tones, he could not censure the sincerity of the passion breathed through them."

"Is not that true?" said Gaetano, really flattered at Maulear's compliment. "It is exalted, distinct, and intense. It is of a good school, and of the lofty style of Tacchinardi."

"Ah! Signor," replied Maulear impatiently, "you know as well as I do, that no artist, however skilful and great, can express love as lovers do."

"The fact is," continued Gaetano, "that Zingarelli must have loved some Julietta, when he wrote his Romeo."

"And you," answered Maulear, "must adore Signorina Aminta, to play so well the part of Romeo!"

"Certainly," said Gaetano, smiling; "and I know very few tenors in San Carlo who sing that _duo_ as I do. All must confess that there is no Julietta like her."

Maulear was amazed, and could make no reply. The young man either was sincere, and had not understood him, or he had affected not to do so, assuming the remarks of his companion to refer to the singer, and not to the lover. He positively refused to become Maulear's confidant, and by his adroitness and tact made himself understood. The result of all this was, that Maulear remained in a cruel state of doubt in relation to the sentiments Gaetano entertained for Aminta, and, what was yet more painful, in relation to those of Aminta for Gaetano.

"Excuse me, Marquis," said the young man to Maulear, "our conversation is so unexpected, that I, in my surprise, forgot a commission with which I was charged by Signora Rovero. I sought you to inform you of it, when our conversation was diverted to something else. Signora Rovero, fancying that you were superintending the preparations for your departure, wishes you to postpone them until to-morrow, as the night is dark and the road difficult and dangerous. Look," said he, "at these large drops of rain, which are the avant-couriers of a violent storm."

"Indeed," said Maulear, "I will then accompany you to the ladies."

When they returned to the room, they found Signora Rovero talking with the Count Brignoli, and Taddeo, with his head on his hand, lost in sad meditation. Leaning on the back of his chair, was the poetic figure of Aminta. Her long black curls fell over her brother's brow, and when he looked up to see what it was that hung over him, she leaned her face towards his until their lips met.

"Brother," said she, "I closed your eyes on purpose that I might hide what I see in them."

"What do you see there, my dear sister?"

"I see," said she, "by their sadness and languor, that my brother has three pieces of a heart. Two he keeps for my mother and myself, but the third--"

"Is for none," said Taddeo, rising.

"Very well, very well, Monsieur," said Aminta, piqued. "No one asks you for your secret. We take an interest only in those we love--and I love you no more."

"My good sister," said Taddeo, clasping her hands with emotion, "love me, love me better than ever, for I have more need of your affection." Aminta threw herself in his arms.

"What is all that?" said their mother, looking around.

"A family drama," said Gaetano, who had just come in with Maulear.

"Yes, Gaetano," said Signora Rovero, "and a happy scene of that drama; for I know of no family more fortunate than mine."

Aminta drew near to Maulear, and her manner was so kind, and she paid such attention to her guest, that Maulear felt his uneasiness pass away and his confidence return. Just then the storm burst in all its fury. The wind whistled violently among the tall trees of the park. Signora Rovero kept her three guests. A night passed beneath the same roof with Aminta, gratified every wish of the Marquis, and promised him an opportunity on the next day to declare himself to the Rose of Sorrento, and confirm or dissipate his jealous doubts.

Signora Rovero wished to discharge every duty of hospitality to her guest, and escorted him herself to the room he was to occupy. "This room," said she to Maulear, "was long occupied by my dear daughter; but after the death of her father we altered our arrangements, and Aminta is now in my own room. Since that time it has been occupied by our young friend Gaetano Brignoli. I have to-night placed him elsewhere, to be able to give you the best room."

Maulear quivered with joy at the idea of occupying the room in which she he adored had slept, and it was with a kind of veneration that he took possession of it. The room was on the first story, in the right wing of the villa, and looked on a terrace covered with flowers, and communicating with all the rooms of the first floor. It was possible to reach, in two ways, the rooms of the first story--from the interior of the building, and from the exterior by this elegant terrace. But Maulear did not observe that night the situation of his room.

The early days of March having been colder than those of February, after a strange season, which well-nigh had deposed winter from its throne, and the injury Aminta had received not having permitted her to leave her room, during his previous visits the Marquis had not examined the residence of Signora Rovero. The terrace on which his window opened was therefore completely unknown to him.

For about two hours after Maulear had been conducted to the old room of Aminta by Signora Rovero, he was so agitated by the events of the evening that he could not consent to seek repose. Love, hope, and jealousy, disputed for the possession of his heart. Seated in a vast arm-chair, near the hearth, the fire on which flickered faintly, the eyes of Maulear were mechanically directed to one of the windows of his room, by the beating of the rain against it. All at once he saw, or thought he saw, a white figure on the other side of the window pause for a few instants, as if it sought to enter his room. Maulear fancied himself under the influence of a dream. He rubbed his eyes, to be sure that he was awake, and that his sight did not deceive him. He hurried towards the window and opened it hastily. But as he moved, and his steps were heard, the nocturnal visitor disappeared, and Maulear lost sight of it amid the shadows of night. For a moment he thought it some aerial being, flitting through space, and coming, like the _djinns_ of the East, to watch by night over the faithful believer. But his poetry gave way to material evidence, and the sight of the terrace, of whose existence he had had no suspicion, proved that the _djinn_ was really a human being, who for some unknown motive had wandered across it, and was by no means so unreal as he had supposed. The idea of crime and theft occurred to him. He was about to follow the person who fled, when he saw on the terrace, before his window, an object which he immediately picked up, and examined by the light of his lamp. It was a veil of white lace, at that time the ordinary dress of Neapolitan women, a vaporous cloud in which they framed their features, the relic of a fashion imported from France, and made illustrious by the pencil of our Irabey, the great portrayer of the grace and beauty of the empire.

"It is beyond doubt some love-scrape," thought Maulear, "interrupted by my occupying this bedroom; and the heroine of the adventure, having come to the window to ascertain whether or not I slept, has fled, losing a portion of her drapery, like a frightened sheep running through thorns." When, however, he had examined the veil more closely, Maulear observed its elegance and richness, and began to think which of the inmates of the villa was likely to wear such a one. Was this the headdress of a chambermaid? If not, who else but Aminta could wear it, unless indeed her mother did? Lost in conjectures, the Marquis was roused by hearing a door in the same corridor on which his room was, open. He listened. Two persons spoke in a low tone; and walking with such precaution that it was evident they had no disposition to be overheard. Such an occurrence, in a house usually so silent and calm, excited Maulear's curiosity so much, that he resolved to know who the mysterious personages were.

Silently leaving his room, he went down the long corridor through which those he wished to follow had preceded him. A faint light from a dark lantern, borne by one of the strangers, fell on the path in front of them, and was a guide to Maulear. Thus they descended the principal staircase of the villa, crossed the ground floor, and entered the front court. A puff of wind just then put out the lantern, as the person who bore it was attempting to brighten its flame.

"Fool!" said one of the two men to his companion. "How can I saddle my horse now?"

"It is already saddled," said the other.

"Then I have nothing to do but mount!"

"And you will not have occasion to use the spur," said the man with the lantern, "for he is wild, from having been three weeks in his stable." As the two speakers thus communed, they entered the second courtyard of the villa. Maulear had followed them thither, hidden in the deep shadow. A horse, ready saddled, was waiting there. One of the two men sprang lightly into the saddle, and the other, as he opened a gate into the fields, through which the horseman rode, said, in a voice full of fear, "May God protect you in this terrible midnight storm, Signor Taddeo. Beware of the road down the ravine, and be careful whom you meet."

III.--THE AVOWAL.

Maulear, uneasy and disturbed by what he had seen, returned to his room. What could induce Taddeo thus to leave his mother's house, alone, at midnight, and in a storm? Could it be that, so recently liberated, he was about to begin again that life of plot and sedition which already had cost him his liberty? A deep interest united Maulear to Taddeo. The love he felt toward the sister, made him devoted to the brother, and the new dangers which might befall the young man seriously affected Maulear. The night passed away without his being able to sleep. In addition to fear on account of Taddeo, his heart was yet agitated by the emotions of the previous day; but above all, he thought of the woman who had stood at his window, and whose appearance he could not forget. A terrible idea then occurred to him. The room he occupied had been that of Gaetano Brignoli. Had this young girl, apparently so pure and modest, had the White Rose of Sorrento, any secret amour or intrigue? The young man who had seen the companion of her infancy might know of it. Could this charming flower be already scorched by the hot breath of passion? Maulear reproached himself as with a crime, for the mental profanation of his divinity.

The morning meal assembled together all the family and guests. Taddeo participated in it as naturally as if he had passed the whole night in the villa, and not a word was said of his nocturnal expedition. He was not so melancholy and moody as he had been on the previous night, and a careful observer might have marked on his features the satisfaction following the performance of a painful duty. The Brignoli bade adieu to Signora Rovero immediately after breakfast, and returned to their villa. Maulear was delighted at their departure.

"Marquis," said Taddeo, "permit me to treat you as a friend, and ask a favor of you--a favor that will require you to renounce the brilliant saloons of Naples, whose chief ornaments are the _attachés_ of the French embassy, to lead for a time a retired country-life with my mother and sister?"

"If that be the favor you ask of me," said Maulear with joy, "you confer one on me. I accept your proposition with gratitude."

"What are you thinking of, brother? How can you propose such an exile to the Marquis? Our life in the country is so sad and melancholy; what can we offer him as a compensation for the amusements he would sacrifice?"

"Where would be the merit of the service, unless its performance cost some sacrifice?" said Taddeo. "In one word, this is the state of affairs. An obligation, my honor imposes on me, requires me for at least a week to be absent from Sorrento. The trial of Count Monte-Leone will begin in a few days, and I must be present at it. It is said," added he, with hesitation and a significant glance at the Marquis, "that the Count's partisans will on that occasion be active. His enemies too are numerous, and as he is known to have come to this house, I cannot feel satisfied unless some courageous and energetic man replaces me, and deigns to watch over the two dear beings I am forced to leave. This, Marquis, is what I expect from you."

"My heart, my arm, my life, are all at the ladies' disposal. You may rely on me."

Aminta looked down, for the first consecration made by Maulear was evidently intended for her. Taddeo did not remark it, and clasped with gratitude the hand of his new friend. Signora Rovero, terrified at the idea of losing her son again, looked sadly at him.

"I do not know what is going on," said she with emotion, and with that instinct which reveals to a mother the danger of a beloved son. "I shudder, however, Taddeo, when I see you surrounded by danger. You do not like the government, I know, for by the fall of Murat a brilliant career was closed before you, for your father was one of his greatest favorites. But in your father's name I, your mother, his widow, whose hope and support you are, beseech you not to expose the life which does not belong to you alone. Remember, my child, your sister and myself have no other support in life than yourself, and that my weak and failing existence could not withstand your loss."

Taddeo grew pale, for the association with which he was affiliated might expose him to all the dangers of which his mother was apprehensive. He concealed his agitation by caresses and iterations of love, mentally resolving to turn aside in time from his sad career, as if those who involve themselves in perdition can pause in the rapid descent down the declivity to sorrow and death, whither the sturdiest champions are hurried to be entombed in the grave they have dug for themselves.

"You will go then to Naples?" said Signora Rovero to her son. "God grant that Monte-Leone recover his liberty, since he is your friend! But, Taddeo, do not trust to his adventurous mind; he is a hurricane, enveloping all in his path. Heaven grant he may not bear you away with him."

This conversation on this subject, so painful to the mother and annoying to the son, ended here.

"Will you deign, Signorina," said the Marquis to Aminta, "to accept me as a guest for a few days?"

"Certainly, if you are not afraid of our retreat. Besides," added she, with a smile, "_one must have suffered as much as Leonora's lover, not to be happy in the paradise of Sorrento_."

Maulear remembered the words he had written on the wall of Tasso's house. But before he could express his astonishment and joy, Aminta was gone. Just then it was announced to Maulear, that his horse waited him at the gate of the park.

"We will accompany you thither (my sister and I)," said Taddeo.

Signora Rovero called Aminta to her, and added: "The air is keen, my child: cover your head with your lace veil. It becomes you."

Maulear turned quickly toward Aminta with his mind full of fear and surprise--

"I am afraid I have lost my veil. I looked for it this morning, but could not find it." Aminta seemed annoyed. Her emotion was perceived at once by Maulear, who said to himself: "What mystery is this? why conceal it from me?" The coincidence of a veil being found by him, and of Aminta having lost one, made him keenly anxious: he was terrified, confounded, and so excited, that he could scarcely speak to Taddeo and Aminta as he crossed the park with them.

"Remember," said Rovero to him, "that my mother and sister will expect you here in a few days."

"In a few days," said Aminta, giving the Marquis her sweetest smile.

"In a few days," replied Maulear, as he mounted his horse, and cast on the young girl a look of doubting love. He then galloped off, and soon disappeared in the long road to Sorrento.

When he returned to Naples, the whole city was busy with the approaching trial of Monte-Leone, who was so beloved by one portion of the community and so unpopular with the other. The nobility of the two Sicilies deplored the errors of the Count, and regretted that one of the most illustrious of the great names of Naples should embrace and defend so plebeian a cause; one in their eyes so utterly without interest as that of popular rights. But it was wounded at the idea that a peer should die by the hand of the executioner. The old leaven of independence, innate in all the aristocracies of Europe; the feudal aspirations which Louis XI. and Richelieu had so completely annihilated and subdued in France, yet germinated in the minds of the nobles of Naples. They loved the king because he maintained their privileges, and had re-established the rights of their birth. They would have revolted had he touched them. From pride of birth they would have applauded the execution of a plebeian conspirator, but were prepared to cry out _en masse_ against that of Monte-Leone, because he was one of themselves.

The people looked on the illustrious prisoner as a defender of their rights, and sympathized with him. To sharpen this sympathy, the adepts of the Italian _vente_ everywhere represented their chief as a martyr to his love of the people, and a victim of monarchy. Most injurious charges were everywhere circulated against Fernando IV. It was said that he had inherited the hatred of Carlos III. to the Monte-Leoni, and sought to follow out on the son the vengeance to which the father had fallen a victim. Nothing was omitted that could stimulate the favor of the superstitious and impressionable people of Naples. The same executioner, block and axe, which had been used at the father's death, by a strange fatality, would come in play again at the murder of the son. The imprisonment of the son at the Castle _Del Uovo_, where the father had died, gave something of plausibility to this story. But what most excited public curiosity was the strange incident which had taken place at _Torre-del-Greco_. All were impatient for its explanation. The double and impossible presence of the Count at the house of Stenio Salvatori, and within the fifty locks of the Castle _Del Uovo_, his contest with his enemy, the wound he was accused of having given him, his ubiquity at the same hour in different places, produced a thousand incredible versions, a thousand bets on this wonderful fact, unrivalled in the judicial annals of Naples.

The name of Monte-Leone was so closely and intimately linked with the destiny of the Marquis de Maulear, with his friendship to Taddeo, and his love of Aminta, that he partook of the general interest inspired by the Count, and as a man of honor hoped for acquittal, notwithstanding the influence it might exert on his happiness.

To lose confidence in one we love, is the greatest agony possible. The four days, therefore, which separated him from Aminta, were four centuries to Maulear. Like the majority of rich young men of our times, yielding at an early age to _liaisons_, he had formed an erroneous and unjust opinion of women in general. The withered myrtles he had often gathered, the passing amours in which almost all the men of his rank, fortune and appearance indulge, had distorted his mind in relation to a sex, the least respectable portion of which alone he was acquainted with. But the young Marquis had exalted sentiments, and his high spirit turned aside from vulgar, common pleasures. His first loves, or not to profane that word, his first indulgences, had for their object those women who lead astray an ardent mind or passionate natures; those women who, betrayed into marriage, seek elsewhere a recompense for their misfortunes or the deceptions practised upon them, and fancy they can find it in the inexperience and youth of young men, whom chance throws in their way. The latter proudly, and at first eagerly, accepting their conquests, soon discover, that often they are not heroes. They become themselves the accomplices of the criminal devices, the studied falsehoods, employed by married women to abuse those on whom they depend. In either case they see each other insensibly change, and in spite of themselves conceive an aversion to those pleasures, even in sharing which they blush. The idol becomes a mere woman, and the hero of these adventures fancies himself right in estimating all women by a few exceptions, and becomes an atheist in love because he has sacrificed to false gods.

This deplorable theory had taken possession of Maulear. His naturally pure sentiments, the poetry of his heart, had been dissipated in ephemeral indulgences. The Countess of Grandmesnil, the guardian of the young man, fearing lest a serious passion should contravene his father's views,--encouraged him in his _liaisons_, or at least she did nothing to induce him to abandon them. Under this sad opinion, which is unfortunately too common in our days, that female virtue is but a name, and that the most prudent only need opportunity to go astray, Maulear came to Naples, where we must say much success in gallantry fortified his faith in these detestable principles.

His meeting with one so pure as Aminta had wrought a complete change in his ideas. He saw woman under a new aspect, as we dream of her at twenty, when the young soul first awakes. He suffered intensely when suspicion gnawed at his heart. "What," said he, yet under the influence of the pernicious theories of his youth, "not one woman worthy of respect! Even this young girl, apparently so modest and pure, unworthy the confidence I reposed in her." The recollection of the chaste and maidenly appearance of Aminta soon put such ideas to flight, and Maulear thenceforth had but one idea, but one desire. He sought to clear up the strange mystery of his nocturnal vision, and extricate himself from his cruel perplexity.

On the day appointed for his return to Sorrento, as the clock struck ten, he stopped his horse at the garden gate where four days before he had left Aminta. The gate was open. He entered the orange grove which lay between it and the house. A secret hope told him he would find Aminta there. He was not mistaken. She sat beneath a rustic porch, which served as a portal to the prettiest cottage imaginable. This building, constructed of the slightest material, had windows closed with gayly-covered verandahs, and served to shelter walkers from the heat of the summer's sun. It was Aminta's favorite retreat, and thither she came in the morning to paint her sisters, the white Bengal roses, the red cactus and the graceful clematides, which surrounded her charming retreat. There in the evening, pensive and reflective, the young girl suffered her glance to stray over the vast horizon of the sea gilded by the sun's expiring rays. On the day we speak of, Maulear found her reading, or rather seeming to read, for her book rested on her knee, her ivory brow supported by her hand. Her eyes, lifted up to heaven, seemed to ask the realization of some gentle dream inspired doubtless by the author. Perhaps the nature of the dream might have been devised by the book--Tasso's Divine Poem! Maulear glided rather than walked to her, so fearful was he of destroying the beautiful tableau presented to him by chance. Then he paused some moments behind a screen of leaves, and looked at the beautiful dreamer, in mute but passionate adoration. As he scanned her girlish form, becoming intoxicated with her modest charms, Maulear blushed at his suspicions, and resolved to abandon them. God did not make such angels for men to distrust, and Aminta, beautiful as the heavenly beings, must be pure and spiritual as they.

He left his concealment, and approached Aminta. She moved when she saw him, for he had surprised her in a dream. The dreams of young girls are treasures to be concealed from the profane in the most profound sanctuary of the heart. Aminta advanced a step or two towards Maulear, thus testifying her wish to return to the villa. But the Marquis, afraid of losing this favorable opportunity to see her for a short time alone, begged her to be seated, and took his place beside her, making, as an excuse, an allusion to the fatigue of riding rapidly from Naples to Sorrento.

Aminta sat down, but with an embarrassment which Maulear could not but see. "You have kept your promise, Signor," said she, seeking to disguise her trouble by speaking first.

"How could I not keep my promise?" said Maulear. "It was to see you again."

"We know what such devotion must cost you," Aminta replied, speaking aloud, as if her words were not intended only for Maulear. "Both my mother and myself are very grateful to you."

"Signorina," said Maulear, with an effort, for he was afraid of wasting in commonplaces moments in which every word he uttered had a priceless value, "I did not think, as I wrote on the wall of Tasso's house the simple lines you deigned to read and remember, that I thus wrote out my horoscope, and divined the happiness fate marked out for me at Sorrento."

"Happiness?" said Aminta, and she trembled as she spoke. "You must refer to the service you have rendered me."

"I speak," said Maulear, unable to restrain himself, "of a new and strange feeling to me, full of pleasure and pain, of hope and fear. I speak of a love, which will be the pride and joy of my existence, if it be shared; which will bring despair and torment, if she who inspires it rejects it."

"Pray be silent," said Aminta, rising and looking with fear around her.

"Ah, you have understood me," said Maulear, attributing to his confession Aminta'a emotion.

The young girl was silent. Her eyes turned towards the door of the hut, as if she feared some one would open it.

"What I say here, Signorina, with nought near me but the passing cloud and flying bird, I wish to repeat to those who love you--before your mother and brother, whom I would look on as my own. It is for you to tell me whether I shall speak to them or be silent."

Just then a faint noise was heard in the summer-house.

Maulear did not perceive it, for Aminta, more and more disturbed by the mysterious noise, had suffered the Marquis to take her hand, and the latter, interpreting this favor as his heart wished, fell on his knees before the young girl, who, overcome with emotion, sat down.

"Aminta," said he, passionately, "since the first day I saw you, my soul, my life, have been your own. If you but will it, your life shall be my own--my own, to make every hour of your life one of joy and pleasure--mine, in adoring you as we do the saints in heaven."

Maulear, with his eyes fixed on Aminta's, sought an echo to the outpourings of his soul. His lips were on Aminta's hand, when, between the young girl and himself, he saw a hideous head, made yet more horrid by the agony it expressed. Aminta suddenly withdrew, and Maulear experienced that terror of which the bravest are sensible when they tread on a reptile.

"Scorpione!" said the Marquis.

This name, on the lips of the Marquis at such a time, made such an impression, that a stream of blood, mingled with white froth, burst from his lips, and fell at Aminta's feet.

"Help, Signor!" said she to Maulear, "help, I pray you, for this unfortunate man! This is the first time he has gone out since that cruel day. See, he dies!"

"What is the meaning of all this?" said Maulear to himself, as he hurried towards the villa. "Twice my being with Aminta has exercised the same effect on this unfortunate being. Can she love him? Can he be jealous?"

IV. THE GRAND JUDGE.

The trial of Count Monte-Leone, which had been so anxiously looked for, and had given rise to so many disputes about the curious story which occupied both the high and low of Naples, was about to begin.

The Duke of Palma had not been able to make good his promise to the prisoner, and bring him promptly before his judges. The incident at _Torre-del-Greco_ made a new inquiry necessary, and the examinations, researches, and inquiries of every kind it led to daily, retarded the trial, much to the regret of the king and his minister of police, who were aware of the extent to which the public imagination was excited, and feared its consequences. Monte-Leone began to feel grave apprehensions in relation to the dangerous game he had played. On the evening of his excursion, faithful to his word, the Count had presented himself again to the keeper of the Castle del Uovo in the costume in which he had left it, and the pious wicket-keeper, when he saw the false assistant jailer, who had gone out on the previous evening, return with a trembling and uncertain step, read a long lecture on intemperance and the results of drunkenness, deplorable faults, especially to be regretted in one of his profession, where, added the turnkey proudly, one needs morality, reason, and vigilance especially, to unravel the plots of the prisoners confided to him, and to triumph over their detestable _mania for liberty_.

When Pietro on that evening, palpitating as he was with fear, saw Monte-Leone, whom he waited for at the postern of the castle, return, his joy was so great that he was ready to clasp the Count's neck. The latter was not much flattered by his transports.

"Well," said the head-jailer, "you are a noble and true gentleman. A scoundrel in your place would have escaped, and put his keeper in trouble. You are of a good race, of a noble and generous blood, you have paid me well, and have been unwilling to hang the father of a family. Now," added he, "do not let us talk together, or even look at each other. Our looks may be watched and interpreted."

From that time Pietro became more brutal, more savage and stern than ever. The visit of the minister of police justly enough increased the terror of the jailer. He had from public rumor heard of the terrible episode at _Torre-del-Greco_, though he did not precisely understand the motives of the prisoner. He was aware that he had become an accomplice of his crime, and shuddered more and more at its probable results. Whenever, therefore, the Count sought to ask him any question, Pietro exhibited such terror, and his countenance was so complete a picture of fright, that Monte-Leone at last ceased to speak to him. No news from without, nothing enlightened the Count in relation to the consequences of his daring conduct, and for the first time he despaired of the result. One morning his door opened as usual at meal time; but instead of withdrawing, the keeper approached Monte-Leone kindly, his ugly face, on account of the complaisance which lit it up, seeming yet more horrid. He said:

"Excellence, the great day approaches, and we must arrange some little details about which the High Court will no doubt be ill-mannerly enough to question us!"

"You can speak then," replied Monte-Leone, with surprise.

"To-day is not yesterday. Then and ever since your escape, my gossip, the Headsman, who lives up there as you know, distrusts me. I learn from his assistant, who is a friend of mine, that the story of the cell undermined by the sea has made him fancy I wish to deprive him of his perquisites. I know that while he waters his flowers on the platform he keeps an eye and ear open for all that passes here. Besides, he would not be at all sorry to obtain my place for his first assistant--a promising lad who becomes his son-in-law to-day."

"Ah!" said Monte-Leone, "the executioner's daughter is to be married."

"A love match. He wished to postpone the wedding until after _your affaire_, as he calls it, for on such cases he always has large perquisites, and would be able largely to increase the bride's portion. The young girl, however, was in love, and was unwilling to wait for you. The worthy father then determined to make her happy, and I have just seen all the party set out for the church of Santa-Lucia. The executioner, his wife, the bride, and the little executioners, all in their best garb. The procession was so imposing, they might have been taken for a family of turnkeys. Lest, however, the people should disturb the ceremony by a volley of stones, they set out early, at five o'clock. As, therefore, we have no inquisitive neighbors, I am come to have an understanding with your excellency, in order that I may not be compromised in the trial."

"So be it!" said the Count, "let us have an understanding. In the first place, have they any suspicions?"

"Of whom?"

"Of you to be sure, for unless I have wings and flew out of the window to _Torre-del-Greco_, no one but you can have opened the prison gate to me."

"That is true, then," said Pietro, "you went to _Torre-del-Greco_ to stab Stenio Salvatori. I really would not have believed it, for it seems that twenty thousand piasters is too large a sum for the pleasure of a poniard thrust--in the arm too! After all, though, we Neapolitans regard nothing valuable compared with revenge!"

"It matters little to you whether it was for revenge or another purpose. All I wish is, for you alone to know that I was away for twelve hours. As neither you or I will mention it, I am at ease."

"You are right in the main, your Excellency. But we have placed our heads in the balance, and I am determined yours shall not outweigh mine. The hand of justice weighs heavily, especially on the poor. It would be very bad if now, when I am prepared to live happily and pleasantly on the proceeds of our little operation, I were called on to dangle at the end of a rope, to the great delight of the dealers in ice-water and macaroni, whom the people of Naples on that day would enrich. Few would miss the entertainment which would be given at my expense."

"What makes you fear this?" asked the Count.

"One idea. They might take it into their heads to examine separately all the inhabitants of the castle. First your Excellency, as its principal guest, then your humble servant, the gate-keeper, and even my assistant Crespo. If all did not tell the same story the Grand Judge would see some trick."

"You think so?" said the Count, moodily.

"I know so," said Pietro. "The Grand Judge, as the child's story-book says of ogres, loves fresh meat, and would see a spot on the brow of an angel. Now, I am not exactly an angel--and if he saw a spot, your excellency's head might be safe, but for want of a chicken he might twist my neck. The jailer would be the victim, and my friend the executioner would have to do with me. I know him. He would be enthusiastic in the operation, to make a vacancy in my place. He is bound up in his family."

For an instant the Count had not heard the jailer. One single name inspired him with the greatest terror, for it recalled one of the participators in his escape. This man held in his own hands his own and his accomplice's escape. Pietro had not foreseen all. This assistant, the character and dress of whom he had assumed, this Crespo, this mole, would be summoned before the magistrate. The keeper had seen and spoken to him, had opened the gate of the castle to suffer him to pass out, or at least fancied he had. What then would the man say? With great emotion, then, Monte-Leone said,

"The danger does not come from the place you apprehend. One witness, however, may ruin all."

"Of whom do you speak?" said Pietro, trembling.

"Of Crespo," said the Count.

"Ah--what have you to fear of Crespo?"

"Have you gained him over?"

"No. I was spared the trouble. At this moment the poor fellow is probably in the other world."

"Have you killed him?" said the Count, with terror.

"For what does your excellency take me? One may yield to the prayers of a prisoner, and secure a fortune by permitting him a few hours' exercise, yet be no murderer. If Crespo dies, it is in consequence of his unfortunate passion."

"Was he in love?"

"No. He was fond of water-rats."

"Horrible appetite."

"Not at all," said the jailer. "Crespo says the animal is very savory, especially when fat as those in the ditches of the castle are. The waters bear hither all the offal of Naples, and the rats live like canons."

"And Crespo eats them?"

"He has a passion for game of that kind, and does nothing but hunt them. He makes some very ingenious traps to catch them with. I do not molest him, because the taste is so innocent, and besides, saves me the expense of several cats."

"But how came that passion to endanger Crespo's life?"

"Ah--one is not always lucky. Perhaps the last rats Crespo ate, had feasted on arsenic--rats are so whimsical. The poor devil, perhaps, was poisoned in that manner. Rather an expensive taste. Unfortunately, the lesson will do him no good."

After this touching funeral oration, the jailer took out a blue and torn handkerchief, and dried his eyes. The Count shuddered at this story. He understood the atrocious plan adopted by Pietro to get rid of a dangerous witness, and forgetful of his own safety, said,

"Perhaps, if you hurry for a physician, the poor man may yet be saved."

"Bah! do you think the Governor would let one of his officers die without assistance? The doctor, however, was too late; and when I came hither, Crespo was dying."

Notwithstanding his firmness, the horror of Monte-Leone at the wretch was so great that he hastened to terminate the conversation. The quasi complicity in a crime committed in cold blood, and with premeditation; was odious to him.

"Do not fear lest my examination should compromise you. I will be prudent. Now, one word more, or if you please to consider it so, one favor more--when will I be tried?"

"In two days. To-night they will come to take you to _Castello Capuano_, where the supreme court will meet."

Pietro left, and Monte-Leone relapsed into a profound reverie. The drama was about to begin. What the Count hitherto had done, was as it were but a prelude, an exposition, or rather a skilful introduction. On the eve of the event he did not quail, but like a sagacious tactician asked himself if he had been guilty of no neglect, if he had taken advantage of all the circumstances. One thing alone made him uneasy. When he returned to the Etruscan villa, to assume the clothes of the assistant-jailer, he saw with terror that he had lost the great emerald, the _chef-d'oeuvre_ of Benvenuto, the family ring, so long celebrated and so well known. He readily enough fancied that it had been lost during his rapid flight, and did not suspect that it had fallen into the hands of his enemies. Reassured on this point, he waited patiently for the hour when, as the jailer said, they would come to take him to _Castello Capuano_. It came at last, and Monte-Leone was glad of it, for it seemed to bring him nearer to liberty. It was about midnight when the Governor came to the Count's cell, accompanied by the worthy jailer and several officers.

"Excellency," said he to Monte-Leone, "I have an order from the Duke of Palma, minister of police, to take you to _Castello Capuano_, to be tried."

"I am ready to obey the orders of the Duke," said Monte-Leone, "late as the hour and bad as the weather are. But, Signor, the Duke treats me like those curious monsters, who travel by night to avoid the anxious eyes of the public, and to enhance the profits received from their exhibition."

"Signor, the Duke of Palma," said the Governor, piqued by this irony in relation to his patron, "has a more exalted object than exciting or allaying the curiosity of the people of Naples. He wishes to prevent any demonstration of your numerous partisans in your favor. Such conduct would certainly injure your cause."

The sarcasm of the Count had made the Governor say too much. He had revealed to Monte-Leone the interest he had excited, and the efforts which might be made to save him. To a man like Monte-Leone nothing was lost, and like a skilful geometer, he knew how to take advantage of the errors of his adversary.

"Let us go, Signor," said Monte-Leone to the Governor. "I am impatient to make an acquaintance with the new castle which the king honors me with. Let me change once or twice again, and I will be able to publish a statistical account of all the dungeons in the kingdom, for the information of his majesty's beloved subjects."

An hour after this scene the Count was in a room of _Castello Capuano_, appropriated to the reception of great and distinguished criminals to be tried by the high court.

On the next day, a man of cold and ascetic air waited on Monte-Leone. This person was Felippo San Angelo, the ogre of whom Pietro had spoken, the terror of all criminals, the Grand Judge of Naples. If the _morale_ of the Judge had been calumniated by Pietro, his physique bore a strong analogy to that of certain beasts of prey to which carnivorous appetite is attributed. His nose was hooked like an eagle's, his brow was prominent, oblong and bald, his lips were thin and fixed as if he had never smiled, his body was long and attenuated, and he never met the glance of those with whom he spoke.

"Signor," said the Grand Judge, "I am come to announce to you, as the law requires, that you will appear before the court on the day after to-morrow. You will be allowed to choose an advocate, and, as Grand Judge of the Kingdom, I come to invite you to do so."

"I am deeply sensible of your Excellency's consideration," said Monte-Leone, "but I must say, the first act of your _justice_ is _unjust_. If my enemies have had two months to prepare their accusation, it is cruel to allow me but two days to prepare my defence."

"This is the provision of the laws which regulate at Naples the special courts, like the one which is to try you, Signor Comte. I do not make the law, but only administer it."

"But, Excellency, a man of your character should not administer an unjust law; nothing should compel him to do so."

"Signor," said the Grand Judge, much annoyed at finding himself unexpectedly drawn into such a discussion, "the legislator gives us the text of law, we find the interpretation. Your judges, the chief of whom I am, have carefully studied them, and if we have assumed on our honor and conscience their application, it is because we think them just. We do not permit the accused to contest their forms. When a man is unfortunately brought before a court, he must submit."

"I do, Excellency," said Monte-Leone, "I will even court their severity, and will not take advantage of the very short time allowed me to choose a defender. For humanity's sake alone I address you as I do. It seems to me, however, that it is necessary that I should know, in the first place, of what I am accused; and I wait until it please your Excellency to tell me."

"You are charged, Signor, with two capital crimes. First, of having, on the night of the 20th December, 1815, conspired against the security of the state, near the ruins of Pompeii, where you presided over a secret society, the object of which is the overthrow of royalty. You are, in the second place, accused of having attempted to assassinate Stenio Salvatori, of _Torre-del-Greco_, to avenge yourself on account of his testimony."

"Is this all?" asked Monte-Leone.

"It is, Signor," said the Grand Judge; "I think such charges are important enough to induce you to remember that you must now choose your counsel."

"You are right, Signor," said Monte-Leone. "For such a cause a skilful advocate is required, one who shall be able to impress your heart with the conviction of my innocence, for on his word depends my life or death."

"Find such a one, then, Signor," said the Grand Judge. "Believe me, however, the most eloquent advocate has less influence over a conscientious judge than the facts of the case, the light which illumines them, and which it is their duty to make brilliant in our eyes, rather than seek an opportunity to display their fluency and their political opinions, or, worse yet, to produce public or private scandal--"

"You are right, Signor, but the person who will speak in my behalf is neither eloquent nor skilful, yet the most famous pleas, the most powerful defences of Naples, will not produce so much effect as the words of that man."

"You, Signor, alone," said the Grand Judge, "can choose your defender. But let me know his name--"

"That can only be revealed at the trial."

"But you do not know, Signor, you thus deprive yourself of a precious right to all who are accused, secured them by law, the right of communicating with their defenders."

"That right I waive. The man who will defend me will know his grave mission only when called on in the face of the supreme tribunal to fulfil it."

The Grand Judge looked with amazement at Monte-Leone. "Why, Signor, cannot he be informed of his grave duty?"

"God forbid he should!"

"Why?"

"Because in that case I would lose my cause." The Count laughed.

"Act then, Signor, as you please. Strange and whimsical as your conduct is, I have no authority to speak of its advantages and disadvantages."

He bowed to Monte-Leone and withdrew.

"He is mad," said he, as he was leaving _Castello Capuano_.

"He is a fool," said Monte-Leone, as the Grand Judge left. "He did not understand that one defends himself from the effects of a crime committed, but not when no crime has been committed."

V.--THE TRIAL.

The appointed day came at last, and all Naples assumed a strange and unusual air. One subject of interest took possession of all the city, one idea occupied it, and from the Senator to the Lazzarone all had one name on their lips. Monte-Leone, Count Monte-Leone.

"Monte-Leone, the people's friend," said some.

"Monte-Leone, the conspirator," said others.

"Monte-Leone, the assassin of Stenio Salvatori," said the enemies of the Count.

"Monte-Leone, the victim of Fernando," said the enemies of the King.

As all this was going on around the prison, calm and thoughtful Monte-Leone waited for the hour of trial.

_Castello Capuano_, usually called la Vicaria, had been for several centuries the palace of the Kings and Viceroys, until Pedro de Toledo abandoned for a more splendid palace, that of the existing Kings, and devoted la Vicaria or _Castello Capuano_ to the civil and criminal courts of the realm. Nothing can be more sad and melancholy than the portion of the palace in which the prisons are. As if to enhance this appearance, the outside of the prison was hung with iron cages, in which were the heads and hands of persons who had been executed. These relics of humanity, long before dried up, and the skeletons of which alone remained, rattled in the night wind horribly, and filled with superstitious terror the minds of belated travellers returning through the _Porta Capuano_, from which the Castle took its name, to Naples.

La Vicaria was then from an early hour in the morning besieged by a numerous crowd, awaiting the opening of its gates to rush into the hall of audience. The doors were opened. The hall was instantly occupied by a crowd of curious persons, who everywhere in Europe are attracted by criminal trials. It is a matter of surprise that in France women, and especially those of rank, are attracted in numbers sufficient sometimes to form a majority of the audience. But the reason is, that women are nervous and impressionable, and that they constantly require excitement. They are not often careful in the selection of these emotions, provided there are violent shocks, revulsions of feeling, terror, hope, surprise. Such are the fruits of criminal trials. The head of the prisoner becomes a shuttlecock between the advocate and magistrate. The varied chances of such a scene offer great and real interest, effacing all the fictions of tragedy. There, far more than on the stage, women take delight in the dark dramas, and are the first to resent the terrible effect of the denouements.

The beautiful women of Naples did not fail to add to the interest of the representation of this drama, the hero of which possessed the admiration of all and the good graces of many. Some of the upper seats were occupied by women of high rank, who did not dare to show themselves publicly at this strange spectacle, and came, like beggars, to enjoy a scene which they would be ashamed to have acknowledged. Places, too, had been reserved for the patrician women, near the bench of the judges and advocates. These cold, careless creatures, attracted by mere curiosity, were not the most numerous of the agitated crowd. The private friends of the Count, his partisans, the members of the society of which he was the chief, formed an imposing mass agitated by the most tumultuous sentiments. Two hearts beat violently, and, though in different places, a skilful clock-maker would have declared that one was not faster than the other by a single second. These two hearts were full of the same object, desired the same thing, pursued the same end. One sentiment united both, and they were equally tortured by hope and fear.

One of these was a woman dressed in black, and having a half disclosed, fresh and beautiful face. A fine and delicately gloved hand was placed upon her heart as if to restrain its pulsations. Her other hand, from time to time, was passed beneath her veil, to bear to her lips an exquisitely embroidered and perfumed handkerchief. She sat alone on one of the remote benches. For a long time she remained motionless, but suddenly seeming anxious to avoid observation, she approached, as nearly as possible, the front of the recess in which the bench on which she had been sitting was placed. She then cast a quick, anxious glance on the crowd which filled every portion of the court-room, returned, and became again motionless, and apparently calm as she had been before.

The other actor in this silent scene, was a young man with a pale and agitated countenance, which betrayed the anxiety of his mind, and the deep interest he took in the events of the day. Yet not to the place reserved for the judges, nor the doors through which the prisoner would be led, did he look. Suspiciously examining every bench in the hall, perceiving (so to speak) the mass of spectators, the long lines of which rose one above another, he examined the most remote, even, without perceiving what he was evidently so anxious to find. At last, by a sudden start, he attracted the attention of those near him,--a half-stifled cry burst from his lips; he had perceived the lonely woman on the remote bench.

"Do you know that lady?" said a young man who sat upon the advocates' bench.

"I know her?" said he, "not at all."

"Excuse me, you seemed surprised when you saw her."

"The fact was, I had not remarked those seats; they are real opera boxes."

"Look again, Signor, the lady amuses herself strangely."

"I see nothing, sir," said the pale young man, who still kept his eyes fixed upon the lady.

"Three times," said the first speaker, "she has placed her hand upon her hair, as if she would point out to somebody a diamond pin which shines amid her jetty locks like a star in a stormy sky."

"You think so?"

"I am sure of it, it is a signal--and see, she has taken her pin from her hair, and is imploring. Ah! sir, what a pretty Venus hand. One kiss on her hand, and I would die content!"

"To be sure," said the other mechanically, and without knowing what he said.

"It is some intrigue," said the gossiper, "the women of our country go everywhere, to the church, to the court, and to the theatre. It would be odd if it were the judge's wife. They who always condemn others, sometimes must atone for it."

"Speak lower, Signor, speak lower; you may compromise her."

"True, true, but by St. Januarius, see what she is about now;" he spoke lower.

"What!" said the young man.

"She has placed her finger upon her pin, and looks this way, as if she was interrogating you."

"You are mistaken; besides, how can you see under a veil which way she looks?"

"There is no doubt about it, it is intended for us, and she wishes to speak either to you or to me."

Looking towards the person of whom they spoke, for the purpose of giving more force to his asseveration, he was amazed to see her white hand holding the diamond pin to her lips. The scene we have been so long describing had taken place in a few seconds. Prompt as was the reply of the young man to the interrogatory of the woman, his companion had perceived it. The latter being a man of good taste, and perfectly expert in the telegraphs of love, was persuaded that he had interfered in some love affair, and hastened to say to the hero of the adventure,

"Do not be afraid, sir, I have seen nothing. Well-bred people, such as you and I are, never speak of secrets we thus become acquainted with--and I am ready to maintain with my lip and with my sword, that you have not the slightest acquaintance with the lady there."

"Thank you, sir," said the young man; "your conduct proves you to be a gentleman."

Just then all the assemblage became full of eager expectation at the entrance of the High Court, preceded by the President.

"The court is opened--produce the prisoner," said the Grand Judge.

The agitation became stronger. Women stood up in their chairs, men climbed up on the banisters, and others, vexed at not being able to see, protested against the appropriation of seats by the legs and boots of those in front of them. The disorder was quickly put an end to by the imperious voice of the Grand Judge, who threatened to have the hall cleared if order were not at once restored, and the respect due to the court maintained. All became immediately quiet; the audience sat down, those in the rear ceased to complain, and many an eye was fixed on Count Monte-Leone.

The Count sat in the lofty seat reserved for him, an arm-chair replaced the stool used by vulgar criminals. The respect due to rank and birth was religiously observed in this aristocratic tribunal. The noble, if found guilty, was certainly sentenced to death, as the merest commoner--the form of trial, though, always exhibited respect for illustrious names, which was most gratifying to the people. The fact was, at that time people believed in social superiority, had faith in their God, king and nobles, and though they demanded that their nobles should be punished, did not expect them to die like common people; the difference was the difference between the rope and the sabre. That very difference, however, between the two deaths--the terrible theatrical effect of the latter, made a great impression on the masses.

The public accuser arose, and pronounced an eloquent harangue against Monte-Leone, as guilty of two crimes, the nature of which the Grand Judge had already described to him in prison.

First crime: Conspiracy against the State, in having presided at the secret _venta_ of Pompeia, as chief of a society, having for its object the overturning of the monarchy.

TO BE CONTINUED.

FOOTNOTES:

[25] Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1860, by Stringer & Townsend, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern District of New-York.

From Graham's Magazine.

BALLAD OF JESSIE CAROL.

BY ALICE CAREY.

I.

At her window, Jessie Carol, As the twilight dew distils, Pushes back her heavy tresses, Listening toward the northern hills. "I am happy, very happy, None so much as I am blest; None of all the many maidens In the Valley of the West," Softly to herself she whispered; Paused she then again to hear If the step of Allen Archer, That she waited for, were near. "Ah, he knows I love him fondly!-- I have never told him so!-- Heart of mine be not so heavy, He will come to-night, I know."

Brightly is the full moon filling All the withered woods with light, "He has not forgotten surely-- It was later yesternight!" Shadows interlock with shadows-- Says the maiden, "Woe is me!" In the blue the eve-star trembles Like a lily in the sea. Yet a good hour later sounded,-- But the northern woodlands sway!-- Quick a white hand from her casement Thrust the heavy vines away. Like the wings of restless swallows That a moment brush the dew, And again are up and upward, Till we lose them in the blue, Were the thoughts of Jessie Carol,-- For a moment dim with pain, Then with pleasant waves of sunshine, On the hills of hope again. "Selfish am I, weak and selfish," Said she, "thus to sit and sigh; Other friends and other pleasures Claim his leisure well as I. Haply, care or bitter sorrow 'Tis that keeps him from my side, Else he surely would have hasted Hither at the twilight tide. Yet, sometimes I can but marvel That his lips have never said, When we talked about the future, Then, or then, we shall be wed! Much I fear me that my nature Cannot measure half his pride, And perchance he would not wed me Though I pined of love and died. To the aims of his ambition I would bring nor wealth nor fame. Well, there is a quiet valley Where we both shall sleep the same!" So, more eves than I can number, Now despairing, and now blest, Watched the gentle Jessie Carol From the Valley of the West.

II.

Down along the dismal woodland Blew October's yellow leaves, And the day had waned and faded, To the saddest of all eves. Poison rods of scarlet berries Still were standing here and there, But the clover blooms were faded, And the orchard boughs were bare. From the stubble fields the cattle Winding homeward, playful, slow, With their slender horns of silver Pushed each other to and fro. Suddenly the hound upspringing From his sheltering kennel, whined, As the voice of Jessie Carol Backward drifted on the wind, Backward drifted from a pathway Sloping down the upland wild, Where she walked with Allan Archer, Light of spirit as a child! All her young heart wild with rapture And the bliss that made it beat-- Not the golden wells of Hybla Held a treasure half so sweet! But as oft the shifting rose-cloud, In the sunset light that lies, Mournful makes us, feeling only How much farther are the skies,-- So the mantling of her blushes, And the trembling of her heart, 'Neath his steadfast eyes but made her Feel how far they were apart.

"Allan," said she, "I will tell you Of a vision that I had-- All the livelong night I dreamed it, And it made me very sad. We were walking slowly, seaward, In the twilight--you and I-- Through a break of clearest azure Shone the moon--as now--on high; Though I nothing said to vex you, O'er your forehead came a frown, And I strove, but could not soothe you-- Something kept my full heart down; When, before us, stood a lady In the moonlight's pearly beam, Very tall and proud and stately-- (Allan, this was in my dream!--) Looking down, I thought, upon me, Half in pity, half in scorn, Till my soul grew sick with wishing That I never had been born. 'Cover me from woe and madness!' Cried I to the ocean flood, As she locked her milk-white fingers In between us where we stood,-- All her flood of midnight tresses Softly gathered from their flow, By her crown of bridal beauty, Paler than the winter snow. Striking then my hands together, O'er the tumult of my breast,-- All the beauty waned and faded From the Valley of the West!"

In the beard of Allan Archer Twisted then his fingers white, As he said, "My gentle Jessie, You must not be sad to-night; You must not be sad, my Jessie-- You are over kind and good, And I fain would make you happy, Very happy--if I could!" Oft he kissed her cheek and forehead, Called her darling oft, but said, Never, that he loved her fondly, Or that ever they should wed; But that he was grieved that shadows Should have chilled so dear a heart; That the time foretold so often Then was come--and they must part! Shook her bosom then with passion, Hot her forehead burned with pain, But her lips said only, "Allan, Will you ever come again?" And he answered, lightly dallying With her tresses all the while, Life had not a star to guide him Like the beauty of her smile; And that when the corn was ripened And the vintage harvest prest, She would see him home returning To the Valley of the West.

When the moon had veiled her splendor, And went lessening down the blue, And along the eastern hill-tops Burned the morning in the dew, They had parted--each one feeling That their lives had separate ends; They had parted--neither happy-- Less than lovers--more than friends. For as Jessie mused in silence, She remembered that he said, Never, that he loved her fondly, Or that ever they should wed.

'Twas full many a nameless meaning My poor words can never say, Felt without the need of utterance, That had won her heart away.

O the days were weary! weary! And the eves were dull and long, With the cricket's chirp of sorrow, And the owlet's mournful song. But in slumber oft she started In the still and lonesome nights, Hearing but the traveller's footstep Hurrying toward the village lights.

So, moaned by the dreary winter-- All her household tasks fulfilled-- Till beneath the last year's rafters Came the swallows back to build. Meadow-pinks, like flakes of crimson, Over all the valleys lay, And again were oxen ploughing Up and down the hills all day. Thus the dim days dawned and faded To the maid, forsaken, lorn, Till the freshening breeze of summer Shook the tassels of the corn. Ever now within her chamber All night long the lamp-light shines, But no white hand from her casement Pushes back the heavy vines. On her cheek a fire was feeding, And her hand transparent grew-- Ah, the faithless Allan Archer! More than she had dreamed was true.

No complaint was ever uttered, Only to herself she sighed,-- As she read of wretched poets Who had pined of love and died. Once she crushed the sudden crying From her trembling lips away, When they said the vintage harvest Had been gathered in that day Often, when they kissed her, smiled she, Saying that it soothed her pain, And that they must not be saddened-- She would soon be well again! Thus nor hoping nor yet fearing, Meekly bore she all her pain. Till the red leaves of the autumn Withered from the woods again; Till the bird had hushed its singing In the silvery sycamore, And the nest was left unsheltered In the lilac by the door; Saying, still, that she was happy-- None so much as she was blest-- None, of all the many maidens In the Valley of the West.

III.

Down the heath and o'er the moorland Blows the wild gust high and higher, Suddenly the maiden pauses Spinning at the cabin fire, And quick from her taper fingers Falls away the flaxen thread, As some neighbor entering, whispers, "Jessie Carol lieth dead." Then, as pressing close her forehead To the window-pane, she sees Two stout men together digging Underneath the church-yard trees. And she asks in kindest accents, "Was she happy when she died?"-- Sobbing all the while to see them Void the heavy earth aside; Or, upon their mattocks leaning, Through their fingers numb to blow, For the wintry air is chilly, And the grave-mounds white with snow; And the neighbor answers softly, "Do not, dear one, do not cry: At the break of day she asked us If we thought that she must die; And when I had told her, sadly, That I feared it would be so, Smiled she, saying, ''Twill be weary Digging in the churchyard snow!' 'Earth,' I said, 'was very dreary-- That its paths at best were rough; And she whispered, she was ready, That her life was long enough. So she lay serene and silent, Till the wind, that wildly drove, Soothed her from her mortal sorrow, Like the lullaby of love." Thus they talked, while one that loved her Smoothed her tresses dark and long, Wrapped her white shroud down, and simply Wove her sorrow to this song:

IV.

Sweetly sleeps she: pain and passion Burn no longer on her brow-- Weary watchers, ye may leave her-- She will never need you now! While the wild spring bloomed and faded, Till the autumn came and passed, Calmly, patiently, she waited-- Rest has come to her at last! Never have the blessed angels, As they walked with her apart, Kept pale Sorrow's battling armies Half so softly from her heart Therefore, think not, ye that loved her, Of the pallor hushed and dread, Where the winds, like heavy mourners, Cry about her lonesome bed, But of white hands softly reaching As the shadow o'er her fell, Downward from the golden bastion Of the eternal citadel.

[From "The Memorial," just published by Putnam.]

A STORY OF CALAIS.

BY THE AUTHOR OF "ST. LEGER."

Some years ago, I was detained unexpectedly in Calais for an entire week. It was with difficulty I could occupy the time. For a while my chief resource was to inspect the different faces which daily presented themselves at the Hotel de Meurice, where one could see every variety of features belonging to every country, age, sex, and condition. I grew tired of this presently, for I had been on the continent a considerable period, and had seen the human species under as many different phases as could well be imagined. Therefore, when the third day brought with it one of those disagreeable storms peculiar to the coast--half drizzle, half sleet and rain--it found me weary of the amusement of attending on new arrivals and departures, and of the nameless petty doings by which time, in a bustling hotel, is attempted to be frittered away. A misty, dreary, damp, offensive day! An out-and-out tempest, a thorough right-down drenching rain, would have been in agreeable contrast with the previous hot, dusty, sunny weather; but this--it seemed absolutely intolerable! I was, besides, in no particular condition to be pleased. I was neither setting out upon a tour, nor returning from one, but had been interrupted in my progress and forced to stand still at this most uninteresting spot. I came down, and with a bad grace, to order breakfast.

"Garçon, Café--oeufs a la coque--biftek--rotie--vite!"

I was about repeating this in a louder tone, for the waiter seemed engrossed with something more important than attending to my wants, when I heard a quiet voice behind me--

"Garçon, Café--oeufs a la coque--biftek--rotie--vite!"

I turned angrily upon the speaker, doubtful of the design of this repetition of my order.

The reader will perceive that my breakfast was a substantial one; indeed, such a breakfast as an American, who had not so far lost himself in "European society" as to forget his appetite, would be very likely to call for. The idea that I was watched, doubtless made me a little suspicious, or sensitive, or irritable; at any rate, I turned, as I have said, angrily upon the speaker. He was a slightly made, elderly man, at least fifty, with pleasant features, a calm appearance, and quiet manners--a person evidently at home with the world. I recollected at the same moment, that the stranger had been at the hotel ever since my arrival there, although I had not, from his unobtrusive habit, given him more than a passing notice. His appearance at once dispelled the frown which I had brought to bear upon him; but when he answered my stare with a respectful yet half familiar bow, I could have sworn that it came from an old acquaintance. I need not say that I returned the salutation cordially. At the same time my new friend rose, came towards me, and held out his hand.

"I am quite sure," he said, "that you are an American--perhaps a New Englander; _I_ am both; why, then, should not countrymen beguile an unpleasant day in company? Excuse me--I did hear your order just now, and as it suited my own taste, I proposed to myself that we should breakfast together;--we may trust to François; he has been here, to my knowledge, more than twenty years, and pleases every body."

I pressed the hand of my new acquaintance--acknowledged myself to be from New Hampshire--gave my name, and received in return--"Philip Belcher."

We sat down to the same table, and very soon François appeared with a well-served breakfast.

"Pray," said I, "what _can_ one do to relieve the monotony of this intolerable place? If the country about were agreeable--nay, if it were bearable! but as it is, I repeat, what is to be done?"

"Done!" said Mr. Belcher, rather sharply, "a hundred things! Put on your Mackintosh and overshoes; come with me to the Courtgain, and see the fishermen putting to sea, their boats towed out by their wives and daughters; a sight, I will be bound, you have not beheld, although you may have coursed Europe over, and been at Calais half a dozen times."

Mr. Belcher proceeded in this vein, detailing many things that could be seen to advantage even in Calais; but as he suggested nothing which interested me so much as he himself did, I had the boldness to tell him so, and that my curiosity was excited to know more of him.

"There is nothing in my history that can amuse a stranger; indeed, it is without incident or marvel. To be sure, I am alone in the world, but I have never been afflicted, or suffered misfortune, within my recollection. My parents died when I was very young; my father and mother were both only children; a small property which the former left was carefully invested, and faithfully nursed during my minority, by a scrupulous and honest lawyer, in no way connected with us, but whom my father named as executor in his will, and my guardian. Ill health prevented my getting on at school. I can't say that I was an invalid, but my constitution was delicate and my temperament nervous. I tried to make some progress in the study of a profession, under my excellent guardian, but was forced to give it up as too trying to my nerves. The excitement of a court-room I could not endure for a day, much less for a lifetime. Before I was twenty-five, my income had so much increased that I could afford to travel. I have gained in this way my health, which, however, would become impaired should I return to a sedentary life; so, as a matter of necessity, I have wandered about the world. You see my story is soon told."

I found Mr. Belcher was not in the habit of talking about himself, and I liked him the better for it. Without pressing for a more particular account, I led the conversation to treat of the different countries he had visited, referring, by the way, to some principal objects of attraction. Here I touched an idiosyncrasy of my new friend.

"I never formed," he said, "any distinct 'plan' of travel. I never 'did' Paris in eight days, nor the gallery of the Louvre in half an hour, as they have been done by an acquaintance. I never opened a guide-book in my life; I never employed a _commissionere_, a _valet_, a _courier_, a _cicerone_, or a _dragoman_. My pleasure has been to let the remarkable--the beautiful--the interesting--burst upon me without introduction, and I have found my account in it. I have quitted the Val d'Arno, turned off from the Lake of Como, passed to the wrong side of Lake Leman and its romantic castles, pursuing my way, regardless of these well-worn attractions, while I beheld rarer--at least familiar scenes--and enjoyed with zest what was fresh and unhackneyed. No everlasting 'route'--no mercenary and dishonest landlords--no troops of travellers, travelling that they may become 'travelled'--but in place of all this, I saw every thing naturally--the country in its simplicity--the inhabitants in their simplicity--while, I trust, I have preserved my own simplicity. Indeed, I rather prefer what your tourist calls an 'uninteresting region.'"

"For that reason," I remarked, pleasantly, "you have come here to Calais to spend a few weeks; you must enjoy the barren sand-plain which extends all the way from this to St. Omer. How picturesque are those pollards scattered along the road, with here and there a superannuated windmill, looking like an ogre with three arms and no legs: then, to relieve the dreariness of the place, you have multitudes of miserable cabins, grouped into more miserable villages, to say nothing of the chateaux of dingy red, in which painters of the brick-dust school so much delight. Really, Mr. Belcher, you will have a capital field here!"

My new acquaintance shook his head a little seriously, as if deprecating further pleasantry.

"You are like the rest of them, I fear," he remarked, "a surface traveller; at least you will force me to believe so if you go on in this way. But come," he continued, "the storm threatens to last the morning; if you wish, I will help to make away with part of it, by recounting a little adventure which happened to me hard by those very pollards, which you are pleased to abuse so freely."

It is needless to add that I joyfully assented to the proposal, and was soon seated in Mr. Belcher's room before a cheerful fire--for he had managed even in Calais to procure one--when he commenced as follows:

"I think it was during the first season I was on the continent, that I visited St. Omer. After spending a day or two in that place, I concluded to walk to Calais, and set out one morning accordingly.

"The weather was fine; but after I had been a few hours on the road, the wind began to blow directly in my face, and soon enveloped me in a cloud of sand from which there seemed no escape, and which threatened actually to suffocate me. To avoid this I left the highway, but keeping what I supposed to be in the general direction of the road, I struck out into the adjacent fields. There was nothing for a considerable distance to repay me for this _detour_, except that I thus was rid of the sand. The country was barren and uninteresting, the cottages little better than hovels, and the whole scene uninviting. But I pushed on, not a whit discouraged; indeed my spirits rose as the prospect darkened, and like a valiant general invading a country for the purpose of conquering a peace, I resolved in some way to force an adventure before I reached Calais. I trudged along for hours, stopping occasionally for a draught of sour wine and a bit of bread. I made no inquiry about the main road, for I preferred to know nothing of it. In this way I proceeded, until it was almost night, when I spied, some half a mile distant, a cluster of trees surrounding a small tenement. I turned at once toward the spot, and coming up to it, found a cottage not differing in size or structure from those I had seen on the way, except that it appeared even more antiquated. It was, however, in perfect repair, and finely shaded by a variety of handsome trees, and flanked on one side by a neat garden. The door stood open and I entered. There was no one in the room. I called, but received no answer. I strayed out into the garden and walked through it. At the lower end was a small inclosure covered over at the top as if to protect it from the weather, and fenced on each side with open wire-work, looking through which, I beheld a small grave, overspread with mosses, and strewed with fresh-gathered white flowers. It bore no name or inscription, except the following simple but pathetic line;

"Enfant cherie, avec toi mes beaux jours sont passes.--1794."

Surprised by the appearance of fresh flowers upon a tomb which had been so long closed over its occupant, I turned, hoping to find some explanation of the mystery, in what I might see elsewhere, But there was nothing near to attract one's attention, nor was any person within sight.

"After taking a glance around, I returned to the cottage, and walking in, sat down to wait the arrival of the occupants. In a few minutes, I heard voices from the side of the house opposite the garden, and soon two persons, of the peasant class, evidently husband and wife, came in. The man was strong and robust, with the erect form and martial appearance acquired only by military service, and which the weight of nearly sixty years had not seemed to impair. His countenance was frank and manly, and his step firm. The woman appeared a few years younger, while the air of happy contentment which beamed in her face, put the ordinary encroachments of time at defiance. Altogether, I had never seen a couple so fitted to challenge observation and interest. They both stopped short on seeing me.

"I hastened to explain my situation, as that of a belated traveller, attracted by the sight of the cottage; and told them I was both hungry and tired, and desirous of the hospitality of their roof. I was made welcome at once.

"Louis Herbois, for that was his name, gave me a bluff, soldierly greeting, while Agathe, his wife, smiled her acquiescence. Supper was soon laid; I ate with a sharpened appetite, which evidently charmed my host, who encouraged me at intervals, as I began to flag.

"Supper concluded, I was glad to accept the offer of a bed--for I was exhausted with fatigue.

"I had been so engrossed with the repast, that curiosity was for the time suspended, and it was not again in action until I had said good-night to my entertainers, and found myself in the room where I was to sleep. This was an apartment of moderate size; the furniture was old and common, but neither dilapidated nor out of order; the bed was neatly covered; around the room were scattered several books of interest, and in one corner was a neat writing-desk, of antiquated appearance, with silver mounting, and handsomely inlaid; while some small articles of considerable value placed on a table in another corner, indicated at least occasional denizens very different from the peasant and his wife. Yet this could not be a rural resort for any family belonging to the town. There were but two other apartments in the house, and these were occupied. Nevertheless, I reasoned, these things can never have been brought here by the worthy people I have seen; and then--the little grave in the garden? who has watched the tomb for so many years, preserving the moss so green and the flowers so fresh--cherishing an affection which has triumphed over time? How intense, how sacred, how strange must be such devotion! I decided that some persons besides my host were concerned, in some way, in the history of the little dwelling, and with this conclusion I retired; and so, being fatigued by my day's travel, I soon fell asleep.

"I awoke about sunrise. Going to the window, I put aside the curtain, and looked out into the garden. Louis Herbois and his wife were there, renewing the garlands with fresh flowers, and watering the moss which was spread over the grave. It must be their own child, thought I, and yet--no--I will step out and ask them, and put an end to the mystery. I met the good people coming in: they inquired if I had rested well, and said that breakfast would soon be ready. 'You do not forget your little one,' I said to the old fellow, at the same time pointing towards the inclosure. 'Monsieur mistakes,' replied he, crossing himself devoutly. 'Some dear friend, I suppose?' He looked at me earnestly: '_On voit bien, Monsieur, que vous etes un homme comme il faut._ After you have breakfasted, you shall hear the story. 'Ah, there is then a story,' said I to myself, as I followed Louis Herbois into the cottage, where Agathe had preceded us, and sat down to an excellent breakfast. When it was concluded I asked for the promised narration. 'Let me see,' said Louis, 'Agathe, how long have we been married?' Agathe, matron as she was, actually blushed at the question, yet answered readily, without stopping to compute the time. 'Yes; true; very well;' resumed Louis. 'You must know, Monsieur, that my father was a soldier, and enrolled me, at an early age, in the same company with himself. Having been detailed, soon after, on service to one of the provinces, I was so severely wounded that I was thought to be permanently unfitted for duty, and was honorably dismissed with a life pension. Owing to the care and skill of a famous surgeon who attended me, and whom I was fortunate enough to interest, I was at last cured of my wounds, and very soon after I wandered away here, for no better reason, I believe, than that Agathe was in the neighborhood; for we had known each other from the time we were children. Very soon she and I were married, and we took this little place, and were as blessed as possible.

"'In the mean time, great changes were going on at Paris. The revolution had begun, and soon swept every thing before it. But it did not matter with us. We rose with the birds, and went to rest with the sun, and no two could have been happier: am I not right, Agathe?' The old lady put her hand affectionately upon the shoulder of her husband, but said nothing. 'And we have never ceased being happy: we are always happy, are we not Agathe?' The tears stood in Agathe's eyes, and Louis Herbois went on. 'Well, the revolution was nothing to me, they were mad with it, and killed the king, and slew each other, until our dear Paris became a bedlam--still, as I said, it was nothing to me. To be sure, I went occasionally to Calais, where I heard a new language in every body's mouth, and much talk of _Les hommes suspects, Mandats d'arrets_, with shouts of _Abas les aristocrates_, and _Vive la Republique_--but I did not trouble myself about any of it; Agathe and I worked together in the field, and in the garden, and in the house--always together--always happy. One morning we went out to prune our vines, the door of the house was open, just as you found it yesterday; why should we ever shut the door? we were honest, and feared nobody; we stood--Agathe here on this side holding the vine; I, with my knife, on the other side, bending over to lop a sprout from it; when down came two young people--lad and lass--upon us, as fast as they could run; out of breath--agitated--and as frightened as two wood-pigeons. The young man flew to me, and catching hold of my arm begged me, _pour l'amour de Dieu_, to secrete his wife somewhere--anywhere--out of the reach of the _gens-d'armes_, who were pursuing them. I felt in ill-humor, for I had cut my finger just then; besides, I did not relish the mention of the _gens-d'armes_, so I replied plainly, that I would have nothing to do with persons who were _suspects_. Why should I thrust my own neck into the trap? they had better go about their business, and not trouble poor people. Bah! such a speech was not like Louis Herbois! but out it came, Heaven knows how, and no sooner had I finished than up runs the young creature, and seizing my moustache she cries, "My brave fellow, hie away, and crop off all this; none but _men_ have a right to it; God grant you were not born in France; no Frenchman could give such an answer to a man imploring protection for his wife. Look at my husband--did he ask aid for himself? Do you think he would turn you off in this way, had you sought his assistance to save _her_?" pointing to Agathe, who stood trembling all the while like an aspen. "Ah! you have made a mistake, I see you repent, be quick; what will you do with us?" And she held me tight by the moustache until I should answer, while the husband stared upon me in a sort of breathless agony. I took another look at the little creature, while she kept fast hold of me, and saw that she was----_eh bien_! I see you understand me,' said Louis, interrupting himself, as he glanced towards his wife. 'My heart knocked loud enough, believe me, and there the dear little thing stood, her hand, as I was telling you, clenched fast in my moustache--ha! ha! ha!--and looking so full into my eyes, with her own clear bright blue gazers. "_Mon Dieu--mon Dieu!_ Agathe we must help these _pauvres enfans_." "You _are_ a Frenchman--I thought so," cried the little one, letting go my moustache and clapping her hands. "Oh! hasten, hasten, or we are lost!" "All in good time," said I, "for--" "No no," interrupted she, "they are almost upon us: in a moment we may be captured, and then Albert, oh, Albert, what will become of you?" So saying, she threw her arms about her husband, and clung to him as if nothing should part them. "_Voilà bien les femmes_; to the devil with my caution; come with me, and I will put you in a place where the whole Directory shall not find you, unless they pull my cottage down stone by stone." I hurried them to the house, and hid them in a private closet which, following out my soldier-like propensities, I had constructed in one end of the room, in a marvellously curious way. Not a soul but Agathe knew of it, and I disliked to give up the secret, but I hurried the young people in, and arranged the place, and went back to the vines and cut away harder than ever. In two minutes, up rode three dragoons with drawn swords, as fine looking troopers as one would ask for. I saw them reconnoitre the cottage, then spying me, they came towards us at a gallop. "What have you done with the Comte and Comtesse de Choissy?" said the leading horseman. "You had better hold your tongue," I retorted, "than be clattering away at random. What the devil do I know of the Comte and Comtesse de Choissy, as you call them?" "Look, you," said the dragoon, laying his hand on my shoulder; "the persons for whom I seek, are escaped prisoners; they were seen to come in the direction of this cottage; our captain watched them with his glass, and he swears they are here." "And look you, Monsieur Cavalier, I am an old soldier, as you see, if scars and hard service can prove one, and it seems to me you should take an old soldier's word. I have said all I have to say; there is my house, the doors are open--look for yourself: come Agathe, we must finish our morning's work." So saying, I set at the vines harder than ever. I looked neither one way nor the other, but kept clipping, clipping, thus standing between the dragoons and poor Agathe, who was frightened terribly, although she tried to seem as busy as I. The rider who was spokesman, stared for a minute without saying a word, and then broke out into a loud laugh. "An old soldier indeed!--a regular piece of steel! one has but to point a flint at you, and the sparks fly." He turned to his men: "Our captain was mistaken, evidently; this is a _bon camarade_; we may trust to him. We will take a turn through the cottage and push forward." With that he bid me good morning, and after looking around the house the party made off.

"'"Well, Agathe, what's to be done now?" said I, when the dragoons were fairly out of sight. "We have made a fine business of it." "Ah, Louis," said she, "let us not think of the danger; we have saved two innocent lives, for innocent I know they are: what if we _have_ perilled our own? Heaven will reward us." Nothing more was said, though we both thought a great deal, but we kept at our work as if nothing had happened. It was a long time before I dared let the fugitives come from their hiding-place; for I was afraid of that cursed glass of _Monsieur le Capitaine_. When I did open it I found my prisoners nearly dead with suspense. We held a council as to the best means for their concealment--for who would have had the heart to turn the young people adrift?--and it was finally settled that the comte and his wife should dress as peasants, and take what other means were necessary to alter their appearance, that they might pass as such without suspicion. This was no sooner resolved than carried out. Agathe was as busy as a bee, and in a few minutes had a dress ready for Victorine--we were to call her by her first name--who was now as lively as a creature could be, running about the room, looking into the glass, and making fun of her husband, who had in the mean time pulled on some of my clothes. After this, the young comte explained to me that his father had died a short time before, leaving him his title and immense estates, which, however, should he die childless, would pass to an uncle, a man unscrupulous and of bad reputation. This uncle was among the most conspicuous of the revolutionists. Through his agency the Comte de Choissy and his young wife, with whom he had been but a twelvemonth united, were arrested, and shortly after sentenced to death. They escaped from prison and the guillotine by the aid of a faithful domestic, and were almost at Calais when they discovered that they were pursued. By leaving the road and sending the carriage forward, they managed to gain the few moments which saved them. Their principal fear now was from the wicked designs of the uncle, for the Directory had too much on their hands to hunt out escaped prisoners who were not specially obnoxious. For some days the young people did not stir from the house, but were ever ready to resort to their hiding-place on the first alarm. There were, however, no signs of the _gens-d'armes_ in the neighborhood. I went to Calais in a little while, and found, after much trouble, the old servant who was in the carriage when the comte and his wife deserted it. He had been permitted to pass on without being molested, so alert were the soldiers in pursuit of the fugitives; and he had brought the few effects which he could get together for his master on leaving Paris to a safe place; and to prevent suspicion, he himself had taken service with a respectable _traiteur_. By degrees, I managed to bring off every thing belonging to my guests, and we fitted up the little room in which you passed the night, as comfortably as possible, without having it excite remark from any one casually entering it. "Albert" was industrious, aiding me at my work, no matter what I was doing, and "Victorine," too, insisted upon helping my wife in whatever she did, here, there, and everywhere, the liveliest, the merriest, the most innocent creature I ever set eyes upon. But for all that, one could see that time hung heavy on the comte. He became thoughtful and _triste_, and like every man out of his proper place, he was restless and uneasy. Not so the dear wife: she declared she had never been so happy, that she had her Albert all to herself: wanted nothing more: if she but knew how to requite _us_, she would not wish the estates back again--she would live where she was, forever. Then her husband would throw his arms around her, and call her by endearing names, which would make the little thing look so serious, but at the same time so calm and satisfied and angel-like, that it seemed as if the divine soul of the Holy Virgin had taken possession of her, as she turned her eyes up to her husband and met his, looking lovingly down....'

"Here Louis Herbois stopped, and felt for his handkerchief, and blew his nose until the walls resounded, and wiped his eyes as if trying to remove something that was in them, and proceeded--

"'Any one to have seen her at different times would have sworn I had two little women for guests instead of one: so full of fun and mischief and all sorts of pranks; so lively, running hither and yon, teasing me, amusing Agathe, rallying her husband; but on the occasions I mention, so subdued, so thoughtful so--different from her other self: _Ciel!_ she had all our hearts.

"'Several months passed, much in the same manner. The comte by degrees gained courage, and often ventured away from the house. Twice he had been to the town, but his wife was in such terror during his absence, that he promised her he would not venture again. He continued meanwhile moody and ill at ease; it would be madness to leave his place of concealment; this he knew well enough; still he could not bring himself to be patient. Do not think, Monsieur, that the Comte de Choissy failed to love his wife just as ever: that was not it at all. A man is a man the world about; the comte felt as any body would feel who finds himself rusting away like an old musket, which has been tossed aside into some miserable cock-loft. I had seen the world and knew how it was with him. But what could be done? In Paris things were getting worse and worse. At first we had _le Côté Gauche; les Montagnards; les Jacobines_: then came _les Patriotes de '93_; and after that, _les Patriotes par excellence_, who were succeeded by _les Patriotes plus patriotes que les patriotes_: and then the devil was let loose in mad earnest; for what with _les Bonnets-Rouges, les Enragés, les Terroristes, les Beveurs de Sang_, and _les Chevaliers du Poignard_, Paris was converted into a more fitting abode for Satan than his old-fashioned country residence down below. _Pardon Monsieur!_ I am getting warm; but it always stirs my blood when I recall those days. I see, too, I am getting from my story. Well: I tried to comfort the comte with such scraps of philosophy as I had picked up in my campaigns--for in the army, you must know, one learns many a good maxim--but I did little by that. The sweet young comtesse was the only one who could make him cheerful, and smile, and laugh, and seem happy in a natural way, for he loved her as tenderly as a man ever loved; besides, the comtesse had now a stronger claim than ever upon her husband. I fancy I can see her sitting _there_, her face bent over, employing her needle upon certain diminutive articles, whose use it is very easy to understand. Do you know, when she was at work on _these_, that she was serious--never playful--_always_ serious; wearing the same expression as when she received from her husband a tender word? No: nothing could make her merry then. I used to sit and wonder how the self-same person could become so changed all in one minute. How the comte loved to look at her! his eyes were upon her wherever she was; not a word she spoke, not a step she took, not a motion of hers escaped him. Well, the time came at last, and by the blessing of God and the Holy Virgin, as beautiful a child as the world ever welcomed, was placed by my Agathe in the arms of the comtesse. Perhaps,' added Louis Herbois, in a lower voice, while speech seemed for the instant difficult, 'perhaps I have remembered this the better, because God willed it that we ourselves should be childless. When Agathe took the infant and laid it in the mother's bosom, the latter regarded it for a moment with an expression of intense fondness; then, raising her eyes to her husband, who stood over her, she laughed for joy.

"'Mother and daughter prospered apace. The little girl became the pet of the house; we all quarelled for her; but each had to submit in turn. How intelligent! what speaking eyes! what knowing looks! what innocently mischievous ways! mother and child! I wish you could have seen them. I soon marked a striking change: the young comtesse was now never herself a child. A gentle dignity distinguished her--new-born, it would seem--but natural. I am making my story a long one, but I could talk to you the whole day in this way. So, the months passed on--and the revolution did not abate; and the comte was sick at heart, and the comtesse was, as ever, cheerful, content, happy, and the little one could stand alone by a chair and call out to us all, wherever we were. The comte, notwithstanding his promise, could not resist his desire to learn more of what was going on than I could inform him of. I seldom went away, for when hawks are abroad, it is well to look after the brood: and as I had nothing to gain, and every thing to lose, by venturing out, I thought it best to stay at home. The comte, on the contrary, was anxious to know every thing. He had made several visits to Calais, first obtaining his wife's consent, although the agony she suffered seemed to fill his heart with remorse; this, however, was soon smothered by his renewed and unconquerable restlessness. One morning he was pleading with her for leave to go again, answering her expressions of fear with the fact that he had been often already without danger. "There is always a first time," said my Agathe, who was in the room. "And there is always a last time, too," said I, happening to enter at that moment. I did not know what they were talking about, and the words came out quite at random. The comtesse turned pale. "Albert," she said, "content yourself with your Victorine and our babe: go not away from us." The infant was standing by its mother's knee, and without understanding what was said, she repeated, "Papa--not go. The comte hesitated: "What a foreboding company--croakers every one of you--away with such presentiments of evil. Go I will, to show you how foolish you have all been;" and with that he snatched a kiss from his wife and the little one, and started off. The former called to him twice, "Albert, Albert!" and the baby in imitation, with its little voice said, "Papa, papa!" but the comte did not hear those precious tones of wife or child, and in a few minutes he was out of sight. I cannot say what was the matter with me; my spirit was troubled; the comtesse looked so desponding, and Agathe so _triste_, that I knew not what to do with myself. I did nothing for an hour, then I spoke to Agathe: "Wife, I am going across to the town." She said, "Ah, Louis, I almost wish you would go. See how the comtesse suffers. I am sure I shall feel easier myself." Then I told her to say nothing of where I had gone, and away I went. It did not take me long, for it seemed as if I ought to hasten. I got into the town, and having walked along till I came to the Rue de Paris, I was about turning down it when I saw a small concourse of people on the opposite corner; I crossed over and beheld the Comte de Choissy in the custody of four _gens-d'armes_, and surrounded by a number of "citizens." My first impulse was to rush to his assistance, but I reflected in time, and contented myself with joining the crowd. One of the soldiers had gone for a carriage, and the remainder were questioning him; the comte, however, would make no reply, except, "You have me prisoner, I have nothing to say, do what you will." I waited quietly for an opportunity of showing myself to him, but he did not look toward me. Presently I said to the man next me, "Neighbor, you crowd something too hard for good fellowship." The comte started a very little at the sound of my voice, but he did not immediately look up. Shortly he raised his head and fixed his eyes on me for an instant only, and then turned them upon others of the company with a look as indifferent as if he were a mere spectator. What a courageous dog! by Heaven, he never changed an iota, nor showed the slightest possible mark of recognition; still, I knew well enough he did recognize me, but I got no sign of it, neither did he look towards me again. Soon the carriage came up and he was hurried in by the _gens-d'armes_, and off they drove! I made some inquiries, and found that the comte was known, and that they were taking him to Paris.

"'It seems that he had been observed by a spy of the uncle during one of his visits to the town, and although he was not tracked to his home--for he was always very cautious in his movements--yet a strict watch was kept for his next appearance. I went to see the old domestic, but he knew not so much as I. My steps were next turned homeward. What a walk that was for me? How could I enter my house the bearer of such tidings! "_Bon Dieu! ah, bon Dieu_," I exclaimed, "_ayez pitie!_" and I stopped under a hedge and got down on my knees and said a prayer, and then I began crying like a child. I said my prayer again, and walked slowly on; then I saw the house, and Agathe in the garden, and the comtesse with the little one standing in the door--looking--looking. I came up--"Albert--where is Albert? where is my husband?" I made no answer. "Tell me," she said, almost fiercely, taking hold of my arm. I opened my mouth and essayed to speak, but although my lips moved I did not get out a syllable. I thought I might whisper it, so I tried to do so, but I could not whisper! The comtesse shrieked, the child began to cry, and Agathe came running in. "Come with me," said I to my wife, and I went into our chamber and told her the whole, and bid her go to the comtesse and tell the truth, for I could not. My dear Agathe went out half dead. I sat still in my chamber; presently the door opened, and the comtesse stood on the threshold. Her eyes were lighted up with fire, her countenance was terribly agitated, her whole frame trembled: "And you are the wretch base enough to let him be carried off to be butchered before your eyes without lifting voice or hand against it, without interposing one word--one look, one thought! Cowardly recreant!" she screamed, and fell back in the arms of my wife in violent convulsions; the infant looked on with wondering eyes and followed us as we laid the comtesse on the bed, and then put her little hand on her mother's cheek, and said softly, "Mamma." In a few minutes the comtesse began to recover. She opened her eyes with an expression of intense pain, gave a glance at Agathe and me, and then observing her child, she took it, and pressed it to her breast and sobbed. Shortly she spoke to me, and oh, with what a mournful voice and look: "Louis, forgive me; I said I knew not what; I was beside myself. You have never merited aught from me but gratitude; will you forgive me?" I cried as if I were a baby. Agathe too went on so that I feared she could never be reconciled to the dreadful calamity--for myself, I was well nigh mad. I could but commend the comtesse to the Great God and hasten out of her sight. Five wretched and wearisome days were spent. The character of the comtesse meantime displayed itself. Instead of sinking under the weight of this sorrowful event, she summoned resolution to endure it. She was devoted to her child; she assumed a cheerful air when caressing it; she even tried to busy herself in her ordinary occupations; but I could not be deceived, I knew the iron had entered her soul. All these heroic signs were only evidences of what she really suffered. Did I not watch her closely? and when the comtesse, folding her infant to her breast, raised her eyes to heaven as if in gratitude that it was left to her, I fancied there was an expression which seemed to say, "Why were not _all_ taken?" The little one, unconscious of its loss, would talk in intervals about "papa;" and when the mother, pained by the innocent prattle, grew sad of countenance, the child would creep into her lap, and putting its slender fingers upon her eyes, her lips, and over her face, would say, "Am I not good, mamma? I am not naughty; I am good, mamma."

"'Five days were passed in this way; on the morning of the sixth, we were startled by the comtesse, who, in manifest terror came to us holding her child, which was screaming as if suffering acute pain: its eyes were bloodshot and gleamed with an unnatural brilliancy, its pulse rapid, and head so hot that it almost burned me to feel of it. Presently it became quiet for a few minutes, but soon the screams were renewed. Alas! what could we do? Agathe and I tried every thing that occurred to us, but to no purpose: the pains in the head became so intense that the poor thing would shriek as if some one was piercing her with a knife, then she would lay in a lethargy, and again start and scream until exhausted. Not for a moment did the comtesse allow her darling to be out of her arms. For two days and two nights she neither took rest nor food; absorbed wholly in her child's sufferings, she would not for a moment be diverted from them. Agathe too watched night and day. On the third night the child appeared much easier, and the comtesse bade Agathe go and get some rest. She came and laid down for a little time and at last fell asleep; when she awoke it was daylight; she knocked at the door of the comtesse--all was still;--she opened it and went in. The comtesse, exhausted by long watching, had fallen asleep in her chair, with her little girl in her arms. The child had sunk into a dull lethargic state never to be broken. Alas! Monsieur--alas! the little one was dead! Agathe ran and called me. I came in. What a spectacle!... Which of us should arouse the unhappy comtesse? or should we disturb her? Were it not better gently to withdraw the dead child and leave the mother to her _repose_? We thought so. I stepped forward, but courage failed me. I did not dare furtively to abstract the precious burden from the jealous arms which even in slumber were clasped tightly around it. Oh! my God!... While we were standing the comtesse opened her eyes: her first motion was to draw the child closer to her heart--then to look at us--then at the little one. She saw the whole. She had endured so much that this last stroke scarcely added to her wretchedness. She allowed me to take the child, and Agathe to conduct her to the couch and assist her upon it. She had held out to the point of absolute exhaustion, and when once she had yielded she was unable to recall her strength. She remained in her bed quite passive, while Agathe nursed her without intermission. I dug a little grave in the garden yonder, and Agathe and I laid the child in it. The mother shed no tears; when from her bed she saw us carry it away she looked mournfully on, and as we went out she whispered, "_Mes beaux jours sont passés_." Soon the grave was filled up and flowers scattered over it, and we came back to the cottage. As I drew near her room I beheld the comtesse at the window, supporting herself by a chair, regarding the grave with an earnest longing gaze which I cannot bear to recall. As I passed, her eye met mine,--such a look of quiet enduring anguish, which combined in one expression a world of untold agonies! Oh! I never could endure a second look like that. I rushed into the house: Agathe was already in. I called to her to come to me, for I could not enter _that_ room again. "Wife," I said, "I am going to Paris. Do not say one word. God will protect us. Comfort the comtesse. Agathe, if I _never_ return, remember--it is on a holy errand--adieu." I was off before Agathe could reply. I ran till I came to the main road, there I was forced to sit down and rest. At last I saw a wagoner going forward; part of the way I rode with him, and a part I found a faster conveyance. At night I walked by myself.

"'I had a cousin in Paris, Maurice Herbois, with whom in old times I had been on companionable terms. He was a smith, and had done well at the trade until the revolution broke out, since then I had heard nothing from him. He was a shrewd fellow, and I thought he would be likely to keep near the top of the wheel. But I had a perilous time after getting into Paris before I could find him. I learned as many of the _canaille_ watchwords by heart as I could. I thought they would serve me if I was questioned; but my dangers thickened, until I was at last laid hold of, for not giving satisfactory answers, as _un homme sans aveu_, and was on the point of being conveyed to a _maison d'arret_, when I mentioned the name of Maurice Herbois as a person who could speak in my favor. "What," said one, "_le Citoyen Herbois_?" "The very same," said I, "and little thanks will you get from him for slandering his cousin with a charge of _incivisme_." There was a general shout at this, and off we hurried to find Maurice. I had answered nothing of whence I came or where I was going, which was the reason I had at length got into trouble. I knew Maurice to be a true fellow, revolution or no revolution, and so determined to hold my peace till I should meet him. I found that he had been rapidly advanced by the tide of affairs, which had set him forward whether he would or no. Indeed Maurice was no insignificant fellow at any rate. The noise of the men who carried me along, soon brought him out. I spoke first: "Maurice, my dear cousin, I am glad to find you; but before we can shake hands, you must first certify my--loyalty," I was about to say, but bit my tongue, and got out "_civisme_." "My friends," said Maurice, "this is my cousin Louis Herbois, once a valiant soldier, now a brave and incorruptible _citoyen_. He is trustworthy; he comes to visit me; I vouch for him." This was so satisfactory, that we were greeted with huzzas, and then I went in with Maurice. I need not tell you how much passed between us. In short, we talked till our tongues were tired. I found my cousin as I expected, true as a piece of his own steel. He had been carried along, in spite of himself, in the course of revolution, and had become a great man as the best chance of saving his head. I told him my whole story, and the object of my visit. "A fruitless errand, Louis," said he; "I know the case; and where personal malice is added to the ordinary motive for prosecution, there is no escape. Poor fellow, I wish I could help him; but the uncle, he is in power: ah! there is no help for it." Suddenly a new thought struck him. "Louis, did you come by the Hotel de Ville?" "Yes." "What was going on?" "I looked neither right nor left; I don't know." "Well, what did you hear?" "I heard a cry of _Vive Tallien!_ with strange noises, and shouts, and yells; and somebody said that the National Guards were disbanding, and had forsaken Robespierre; and the people were surrounding the Hotel de Ville." "Then, _Dieu merci_, there is hope. You are in the nick of time; let us out. If Robespierre falls, you may rescue the comte. He is in the Rue St. Martin; in the same prison is Madame de Fontenay, the _friend_ of Tallien, whom Robespierre has incarcerated. The former will proceed thither as soon as Robespierre is disposed of, to free _Madame_; there will be confusion and much tumult. I know the keeper: I must be cautious; but I will discover where the comte and the lady are secured. Then I will leave you with the jailer; the crisis cannot be delayed another day. Wait till you hear them coming, then shout _Vive Tallien!_ run about, dance around like a crazy man--hasten the jailer to release _Madame_, and do _you_ manage to rescue the comte--then be off instantly; don't come here again; strike into the country while the confusion prevails. Come; let us go this minute." And I did go. I found Maurice's introduction potent with the keeper, and what was better, I found the keeper to be an old companion in arms, who had belonged to the same company with me. We embraced; we were like two brothers; nothing could have happened better. I learned from him all I cared to know. I staid hour after hour; just as I was in despair at the delay, I heard the expected advance. I found my fellow-soldier understood what it meant. I began to shout _Vive Tallien!_ as loud as I could cry. In a fit of enthusiasm I snatched the keys from the hands of the keeper, as if to liberate the lady, while my comrade opened the doors to the company. I hied first to the comte's room. In one instant the door was unlocked. "Quick!" I whispered; "follow me--do as I do. Shout, huzza; jump this way and that--but stick close to me." In another minute I had unbolted the door of Madame de Fontenay, making as much noise as I could get from my lungs--the comte keeping very good time to my music. So, while we were shouting _Vive Tallien!_ at the top of our voices, Tallien himself rushed in with a large party. I took the opportunity to gain the street, and without so much as thanking my comrade for his attentions, I glided into an unfrequented lane, the comte at my heels; and I did not stop, nor look around, nor speak, till I found myself under cover of an old windmill near St. Denis, where I used to play when I was a boy. There I came to a halt, and seizing the comte in my arms, I embraced him a thousand times. I look some provisions from my pouch, which my cousin had provided, and bade him eat, for we should stand in need of food. We then proceeded, avoiding the main road, and getting a ride whenever we could, but never wasting a moment--not a moment. I told the comte what had happened, and that he must hasten if he would see his wife alive. At last we came near our house. The comte could scarcely contain himself; he ran before me: I could not keep up with him. How my heart was filled with foreboding!--how I dreaded to come nearer!--but apprehension was soon at an end. There was my little cottage, and in the doorway, leaning for support against the side, stood the comtesse, gazing on vacancy--the picture of despair and desolation. At the sight of her husband, she threw out her hands and tried to advance: she was too feeble, and would have fallen had he not the same moment folded her in his arms.

"'_Bien Monsieur!_' continued Louis Herbois, after clearing his voice, 'the worst of the story is told. The comtesse was gradually restored to health, and the comte was content to remain quietly with us till the storm swept past; but the lady never recovered the bright spirits which she before displayed, and the comte himself could never speak of the little one whom he kissed for the last time on that fatal morning, without the deepest emotion. It seems to have been destined that this should be their only affliction. The uncle was beheaded in one of the sudden changes of parties the succeeding year, and in due time the comte regained his estates. Sons and daughters were born to them, and their family have grown up in unbroken numbers. The comte and comtesse can scarcely yet be called old, their health and vigor remain, and they enjoy still those blessings which a kind Providence is pleased to bestow on the most favored. But the Comtesse de Choissy will never forget the child which lies _there_. Twice a year, accompanied by the comte, she visits the cottage. She lays with her own hands fresh flowers over the little grave, and waters the moss which overspreads it; and the tears stand in her eyes when she looks upon the spot where we buried her _first-born_. We have engaged that every morning we will renew the flowers, and preserve the mosses always green. It is a holy office, consecrated by holy feelings. Ah! life is a strange business: we may not be always serious, we cannot be always gay. God grant, Monsieur, that in heaven we may all be happy!'

"I have given you the whole story," said Mr. Belcher, after a short pause; "but look, the sun is out; let us go to the Courtgain."

[From Fraser's Magazine.]

LIFE AT A WATERING-PLACE.

OLDPORT SPRINGS.

BY CHARLES ASTOR BRISTED.

"Hold on a minute," said Harry, as they were about to take the stage, after a very fair three-o'clock dinner at Constantinople (the Occidental, not the Oriental city of that name); "there goes an acquaintance of ours whom you must know. He has arrived by the Westfield train, doubtless."

Away sped Benson after the acquaintance, arm-in-arm with whom he shortly returned, and, with all the exultation of an American who has brought two lions into the same cage, introduced M. le Vicomte Vincent Le Roi to the honorable Edward Ashburner.

Ashburner was rather puzzled at Le Roi, whose personal appearance did not in any way answer, either to his originally conceived idea of a Frenchman, or to the live specimens he had thus far met with. The Vicomte looked more like an Englishman, or perhaps like the very best kind of Irishman. He was a middle-sized man, of thirty or thereabout, with brown hair and a florid complexion; and very quietly dressed, his clothes being neither obtrusively new nor cut with any ultra-artistic pretension. Except his wearing a moustache and (of course) not speaking English, there was nothing continental about his outward man, or the first impression he gave of himself. Fortunately, he was also bound for the Springs, so that Ashburner would have abundant opportunity to study his character, if so disposed.

The stage in which our tourists were to embark was not unlike a French diligence, except that it had but one compartment instead of three; in which compartment there were three seats, and on each seat more or less room for three persons, and two more could sit with the driver. All the baggage was carried on the top. The springs were made like coach-springs, or C-springs, as they are always called in America (just as in England a pilot-coat is called a P-jacket), only they were upright and perpendicular to the axletree instead of curving; and the leathern belts connected with them, on which the carriage swung, were of the thickest and toughest description. As the party, with the addition of Le Roi, amounted to eight, Benson managed, by a little extra expenditure of tin and trouble, to secure the whole of one vehicle, and for the still greater accommodation of the ladies and child, the gentlemen were to sit on the box two at a time by turns. Benson's first object was to get hold of the reins, for which end he began immediately to talk around the driver about things in general. From the price of horses they diverged to the prospects of various kinds of business, and thence slap into the politics of the country. The driver was a stubborn Locofoco, and Benson did not disdain to enter into an elaborate argument with him. Ashburner, who then occupied the other box-seat, was astonished at the man's statistical knowledge, the variety of information he possessed upon local topics, and his accurate acquaintance with the government and institutions of his country. It occurred to him to prompt Benson, through the convenient medium of French, to sound him about England and European politics. This Harry did, not immediately, lest he might suspect the purport of their conversational interlude, but by a dexterous approach to the point after sufficient preliminary; and it then appeared that he had lumped "the despotic powers of the old world" in a heap together, and supposed the Queen of England to be on a par with the Czar of Russia as regarded her personal authority and privileges. However, when Benson set him right as to the difference between a limited and an absolute monarchy, he took the information in very good part, listened to it attentively, and evidently made a mental note of it for future reference.

The four-horse team was a good strong one, but the stage with its load heavy enough, and the roads, after the recent storm, still heavier, besides being a succession of hills. The best they could do was to make six miles an hour, and they would not have made three but for a method of travelling down-hill, entirely foreign to European ideas on the subject. When they arrived at the summit there was no talk of putting on the drag, nor any drag to put on, but away the horses went, first at a rapid trot, and soon at full gallop; by which means the equipage acquired sufficient momentum to carry it part of the way up the next hill before the animals relapsed into the slow walk which the steepness of the ascent imposed upon them. Indeed this part of the route would have been a very tedious one (for the country about was almost entirely devoid of interest), had it not been for Le Roi, who came out in great force. He laughed at every thing and with every body; told stories, and good ones, continuously, and only ceased telling stories to break forth into song. In fine, he amused the ladies so much, that when he took his turn on the box they missed him immediately, and sent Benson outside again on the first opportunity; whereat the Vicomte, being very much flattered, waxed livelier and merrier than ever, and kept up a constant fire of jest and ditty. As to Ashburner, who had a great liking for fresh air, and an equal horror of a small child in a stage-coach, he remained outside the whole time; for which the fair passengers set him down as an insensible youth, who did not know how to appreciate good company; until the evening becoming somewhat chilly by comparison with the very hot day they had undergone, both he and Harry took refuge in the interior, and a very jolly party they all made.

While they were outside together, Benson had been giving Ashburner some details about Le Roi--in fact, a succinct biography of him; for be it noted, that every New-Yorker is able to produce off-hand a minute history of every person, native or foreign, at all known in society: for which ability he is indebted partly to the inquisitive habits of the people, partly to their communicative disposition, partly to their remarkable memory of small particulars, and partly to a fine imagination and power of invention, which must be experienced to be fully appreciated. Benson, we say, had been, telling his friend the story of his other friend or acquaintance; how he was of good family and no fortune; how he had written three novels and three thousand or more _feuilletons_; how he had travelled into some out-of-the-way part of Poland, where no one had ever been before or since, and about which he was, therefore, at liberty to say what he pleased; how, besides his literary capabilities, such as they were, he played, and sang, and danced, and sketched--all very well for an amateur; how he was altogether a very agreeable and entertaining man, and, as such, was supposed to have been sent out by a sort of mutual-benefit subscription-club, which existed at Paris for the purpose of marrying its members to heiresses in different countries. Ashburner had once heard rumors of such a club in Germany, but was never able to obtain any authentic details concerning it, or to determine whether it was any thing more than a traveller's traditionary legend. Even Benson was at fault here, and, indeed, he seemed rather to tell the club part of the story as a good joke, than to believe it seriously himself.

As they approached the termination of their journey, their talk naturally turned more and more on the Springs. The Vicomte was in possession of the latest advices thence; the arrivals and expected arrivals, and the price-current of stock: that is, of marriageable young gentlemen, and all other matters of gossip; how the whole family of the Robinsons was there in full force, with an unlimited amount of Parisian millinery; how Gerard Ludlow was driving four-in-hand, and Lowenberg had given his wife no end of jewelry; how Mrs. Harrison, who ought not to have been (not being of our set), nevertheless _was_ the great lioness of the season; how Miss Thompson, the belle expectant, had renounced the Springs altogether, and shut herself up at home somewhere among the mountains--all for unrequited love of Hamilton White, as was charitably reported; last, but not least, how Tom Edwards had invented six new figures for the German cotillon. Ashburner did not at first altogether understand the introduction of this personage into such good company, supposing from his familiar abbreviation and Terpsichorean attributes that he must be the fashionable dancing-master of Oldport, or perhaps of New-York; but he was speedily given to understand that, on the contrary, Mr. Edwards was a gay bachelor of good family and large fortune, who, in addition to gambling, intriguing, and other pleasant little propensities, had an insatiable passion for the dance, and was accustomed to rotate morning, noon, and night, whenever he was not gambling, &c. as aforesaid. "And," continued Benson, "I'll lay you any bet you please, that the first thing we see on arriving at our hotel, will be Tom Edwards dancing the polka; unless, indeed, he happen to be dancing the Redowa."

"Very likely," said Mrs. Benson, "seeing we shall arrive there at ten o'clock, and this is a ball-night."

Both Harry and his wife were right; they arrived at half-past ten, just as the ball was getting into full swing. On the large portico in front of the large hotel opened a large room, with large windows down to the floor,--the dining-room of the establishment, now cleared for dancing purposes. All the idlers of Oldport, male and female, black and white, congregated at these windows and thronged the portico; and almost into the very midst of this crowd our party was shot, baggage and all. While Ashburner was looking out of a confused heap of people and luggage, he heard one of the assistant loafers say to another, "Look at Mr. Edwards!" Profiting by the information not originally intended for him, he followed the direction of the speaker's nose, and beheld a little showily-dressed man flying down the room with a large showily-dressed woman, going the _poursuite_ of the Redowa at a terrific rate. So that, literally, the first thing he saw in Oldport was Tom Edwards dancing. But there was no opportunity to make a further study of this, "one of the most remarkable men among us," for the party had to look up their night quarters. Benson had dispatched in advance to Mr. Grabster, proprietor of the Bath Hotel at Oldport Springs, a very particular letter, stating the number of his party, the time he meant to be there, and the number of rooms he wanted, and had also sent his horses on ahead; but though the animals had arrived safe and found stable-room, there was no preparation for their master. Ashburner, at the request of the ladies, followed Benson into the office (for the Bath Hotel being, nominally at least, the first house in the place, had its bar-room and office separate), and found Harry in earnest expostulation with a magnificently-dressed individual, whom he took for Mr. Grabster himself, but who turned out to be only that high and mighty gentleman's head book-keeper. The letter had been dispatched so long beforehand that, even at the rate of American country posts, it ought to have arrived, but no one knew any thing about it. Both the young men suspected--uncharitably, perhaps, but not altogether unnaturally--that Mr. Grabster and his aids, finding a prospect of a full season, had not thought it worth their while to trouble themselves about the application, or to keep any rooms. Ashburner suggested trying another hotel, but the roads were muddy, and vehicles scarce at that time of night, so that altogether there seemed a strong probability of their being compelled to "camp out" on the portico. But it was not in Benson "to give it up so." He possessed, as we have already hinted, that faculty so alarmingly common in his country, which polite people call oratory, and vulgar ones the "gift of the gab;" and he was not the man to throw away the opportunity of turning any of his gifts to account. Warming with his subject, he poured out upon the gorgeously-attired Mr. Black such a flood of conciliatory and expostulatory eloquence, that that gentleman absolutely contrived to find some accommodation for them. The ladies, child, and servants were huddled together into one tolerably large room, in the third story. Benson had a sort of corner-cupboard in the fourth, that might, perhaps, have accommodated a mouse with a small family; and to Ashburner and Le Roi were assigned two small chambers in the fifth. As to the baggage, that was all piled up in the office, with the exception of a few indispensable articles. Supper was out of the question, there being no room to eat it in because of the dancers. The ladies did not want supper; they only regretted not being able to unpack their trunks, and dress for the ball then and there going on; their eyes lighted up at the sound of the music, and their little feet began to beat the floor incontinently. The gentlemen took a drink all round by way of substitute for something more solid. Ashburner had mounted to his dormitory--no small journey--and was sitting on his bed, wishing he had some contrivance for pulling off all his clothes at once without the trouble of removing them piece by piece, when he heard in the passage the voice of Le Roi, _quantum mutatus ab illo_! The Vicomte had sworn up all his own language, and was displaying a knowledge of English expletives that quite surprised his fellow-traveller. On investigation, the cause of his wrath proved to be this: a semi-civilized Irish waiter had shown him to No. 296, in accordance with Mr. Black's directions. But Mr. Black, in the multiplicity of his affairs, had forgotten that No. 296 was already tenanted, to wit, by a Western traveller, who did, indeed, intend to quit it by an early stage next morning, but had not the least idea of giving up his quarters before that time; and accordingly, as if from a presentiment that some attempt would be made to dislodge him, had, in addition to the ordinary not very strong fastenings of the door, so barricaded it with trunks and furniture, that it could have stood a considerable amount of siege. The waiter had gone off, leaving Le Roi to shift for himself. Bells were scarce in the upper stories of the Bath Hotel, nor was there any light throughout the long corridor, except the one tallow candle which his useless guide had deposited on the floor. Utterly upset at the idea of having to tramp down four pair of stairs and back again in search of accommodation, the unlucky Gaul was seeking a momentary relief in the manner above stated, when Ashburner came to the rescue. His bed happened to be rather a large one--so large, comparatively, that it was a mystery how it had ever found its way into the little room, the four walls of which seemed to have grown or been built up around it; and this bed he instantly proposed to share with Le Roi for the night. The Frenchman _mercied_, and couldn't think of such a thing for five minutes, edging into the room and pulling off his coat and boots all the time; then he gave a glorious exemplification of _cessanta causa_, for all his rage vanished in a moment, and he was the same exuberantly good-natured and profusely loquacious man that he had been all day. On he streamed in a perpetual flow of talk long after both were in bed, until Ashburner began to feel as a man might to whom some fairy had given a magical instrument, which discoursed sweet music at first, but could never be made to stop playing. And when at length the Vicomte, having lighted on the subject of women, poured out an infinity of adventures with ladies of all countries, of all which stories Vincent Le Roi was, of course, the hero, his fellow-traveller, unable to help being disgusted at his vanity and levity, turned round to the wall, and without considering whether he was acting in accordance with _bienseance_, fell fast asleep in the midst of one of the most thrilling narratives.

When Ashburner awoke next morning, the first thing he was conscious of was Le Roi talking. It required very little exercise of the imagination to suppose that he had been going on uninterruptedly all night. Afterwards he became aware of a considerable disturbance, evidently originating in the lower story of the house, but sufficiently audible all over it, which he put down to the account of numerous new arrivals. By the time they had completed their toilettes (which did not take very long, for the room being just under the roof, was of a heat that made it desirable for them to evacuate it as soon as possible), Benson made his appearance. He had obtained possession of his baggage, and arrayed himself in the extreme of summer costume:--a white grass-cloth coat, about the consistency of blotting-paper, so transparent that the lilac pattern of his check shirt was distinctly visible through the arms of it; white duck vest, white drilled trousers, long-napped white hat, a speckled cravat to match his shirt, and highly varnished shoes, with red and white striped silk stockings,--altogether very fresh and innocent-looking. He came to show them the principal spring, which was not far from the hotel--just a pleasant walk before breakfast, though it was not likely they would meet many people so early, on account of last night's ball.

"I am afraid your quarters were not very comfortable," said Harry, as the three strolled arm-in-arm down a sufficiently sandy road; "but we shall have better rooms before dinner to-day."

"The house must be very full," Ashburner remarked; "and were there not a great many arrivals this morning? From the noise I heard, I thought at least fifty people had come."

"No; I glanced at the book, and there were not a dozen names on it. Hallo!" and Benson swore roundly in Spanish, apparently forgetting that his friend understood that language.

Ashburner looked up, and saw meeting them a large Frenchman and a small Irish boy. The Frenchman had an immense quantity of hair of all sorts on his face, nearly hiding his features, which, as what was visible of them had a particularly villainous air, was about the best thing he could have done to them; and on his head he carried a something of felt, which indisputably proved the proposition that matter may exist without form. The Irish youth sported a well-meant, but not very successful attempt at a moustache, and a black cloth cap pitched on one side of his head. In other respects, they were attired in the usual costume of an American snob; that is to say, a dress-coat and full suit of black at seven in the morning. Ashburner noticed that Benson spit ostentatiously while passing them; and after passing he swore again, this time in downright English.

Le Roi had seen in his acquaintance with European watering-places, a goodly amount of scamps and blacklegs, and Ashburner was not without some experience of the sort, so that they were not disposed to be curious about one blackguard more or less in a place of the kind; but these two fellows had such a look of unmitigated rascality, that both the foreigners glanced inquiringly at their friend, and were both on the point of asking him some questions, when he anticipated their desire.

"God forgive me for swearing, but it is too provoking to meet these loafers in respectable quarters. The ancients used to think their journey spoiled if they met an unclean animal on starting, and I feel as if my whole stay here would go wrong after meeting these animals the first thing in the first morning."

"_Mais qu'est ce qu'ils sont donc, ces vaut-riens?_" asked Le Roi.

"The Frenchman is a deported convict, who is doing us the honor to serve out his time here; the Irishman is a refugee, I believe. They have come here to report for _The Sewer_."

They cooled their virtuous indignation in the spring, and were returning.

"Hallo, Benson! Hallo! I thought that was you!" shouted somebody, a quarter of a mile off, from the hotel steps.

"Ah," said Harry, "I understand now why you heard so much noise this morning. Bird Simpson has arrived."

Mr. Simpson, popularly known as "the bird" (_why_ no one could tell exactly, but people often get such names attached to them for some inexplicable reason), came on a half-run to meet them. He was a tall, showy, and rather handsome, though not particularly graceful man; very flashily got up in a blue cutaway with gilt buttons, wide blue stripes down the sides of his white trousers, a check shirt of enormous crimson pattern, and a red and white cravat; no waistcoat, and wide embroidered braces, the work of some lady friend. He seemed to have dressed himself on the principle of the tricolor, and to have carried it out in his face--his cheeks being very red, his eyes very blue, and his hair very white. After having pump-handled Benson's arm for some time, he made an attack on Le Roi, whom he just knew by name, and inquired if he had just come _de l'autre côte_, meaning the other side of the Atlantic, according to a common New-York idiom; but the Vicomte not unnaturally took it to mean from the other side of the road, and gave a corresponding answer in English as felicitous as Mr. Simpson's French. Then he digressed upon Ashburner, whom he saw to be an Englishman, in so pointed a manner, that Benson was obliged to introduce them; and the introduction was followed by an invitation on Simpson's part to the company to take a drink, which they did, somewhat to the consternation of the Frenchman, who knew not what to make of iced brandy and mint before breakfast. Then Simpson, having primed himself for the morning meal, set about procuring it, and his departure visibly relieved Benson, who was clearly not proud of his acquaintance. Le Roi also went after his breakfast, taking care to get as far as possible from the corner of the room where Simpson was.

"There," said Benson, "is a very fair specimen of 'second set.' He is B, No. 1, rather a great man in his own circle, and imports French goods. To hear him talk about French actresses and eating-houses, you would think him a ten-years' resident of that city, instead of having been there perhaps four times in his life, a week each time. But you know we Americans have a wonderful faculty of seeing a great deal in a little time. Just so with Italy; he was there two months, and professes to know all about the country and the people. But he doesn't know the set abroad or at home. Sometimes you meet him at a ball, where he does his duty about supper time; but you will never see him dancing with, or talking to, the ladies who are 'of us.' Nevertheless, they will avail themselves of his services sometimes, when they want to buy silks at wholesale prices, or to have something smuggled for them; for he is the best-natured man in the world. And, after all, he is not more given to scandal than the exquisites, and is a great deal honester and truer. Once I caught a fever out on the north-eastern boundary, and had not a friend with me, or any means of getting help. This man nursed me like a brother, and put himself to no end of trouble for me until we could fetch Carl on. I would certainly rather have been under such an obligation to some other men I know than to Simpson; but having incurred it, I do not think it can be justly paid off with a 'glad-to-know-you-when-I'm-at-Bath-again' acquaintance; and I feel bound to be civil to him, though he does bother me immensely at times with his free-and-easy habits,--walking into my parlor with his hat on and cigar in his mouth; chaffing me or my wife in language about as elegant as an omnibus driver's; or pawing ladies about in a way that he takes for gallantry. Talking of ladies, I wish mine would show themselves for breakfast. Ah, here are two men you must know; they are good types of two classes of our beaux--the considerably French and the slightly English--the former class the more numerous, you are probably aware. Mr. White, Mr. Ashburner--Mr. Ashburner, Mr. Sumner."

Hamilton White was a tall, handsome man, some few years on the wrong side of thirty, broader-shouldered and deeper-chested than the ordinary American model, elaborately but very quietly dressed, without any jewelry or showy patterns. There was something very Parisian in his get-up and manner, yet you would never take him for a Frenchman, still less for a Frenchified-Englishman. But he had the look of a man who had lived in a gay capital, and quite fast enough for his years: his fine hair was beginning to go on the top of his head, and his face wanted freshness and color. His manner, slightly reserved at first, rapidly warmed into animation, and his large dark eyes gave double expression to whatever he said. His very smallest talk was immensely impressive. He would tell a stranger that he was happy to make his acquaintance with an air that implied all the Spaniard's _mi casa a la disposicion de usted_, and meant about as much; and when you saw him from the _parquet_ of the Opera talking to some young lady in the boxes, you would have imagined that he was making a dead set at her, when in fact he was only uttering some ordinary meteorological observation. Apart from his knack of looking and talking sentiment, he had no strongly-marked taste or hobby: danced respectably, but not often; knew enough about horses to pick out a good one when he wanted a mount for a riding-party; drank good wine habitually, without being pedantic about the different brands of it; and read enough of the current literature of the day to be able to keep up a conversation if he fell among a literary circle. He was not a marrying man, partly because his income, sufficient to provide him with all bachelor luxuries, was not large enough to support a wife handsomely; partly because that a man should tie himself to one woman for life was a thing he could not conceive, much less practice: but he very much affected the society of the softer sex, and was continually amusing himself with some young girl or young wife. He rather preferred the latter--it was less compromising; still he had no objection to victimize an innocent _débutante_, and leave her more or less broken-hearted. (It must be observed, however, for the credit of American young ladies, that they are not addicted to dying of this complaint, so often fatal in novels; many of Hamilton's victims had recovered and grown absolutely fat upon it, and married very successfully.) Wherever there was a _fiancée_, or a probable _fiancée_, or a married belle with an uxorious husband,--in short, wherever he could make himself look dangerous and another man jealous or foolish, he came out particularly strong; at the same time, being adroit and not over belligerent, he always contrived to stop or get out of the way in time if the other party showed open signs of displeasure.

Frank Sumner was rather shorter than White, rather younger, and rather more dressed. He had the same broad shoulders, which in America, where most of the beaux are either tall and thin or short and thin, find favor with the ladies; just as blondes create a sensation in southern countries, because they are so seldom seen. In almost all other particulars, the two men were totally unlike, and Sumner might have passed for an English gentleman put into French clothes. He was reserved in his conversation, and marked in the expression of his likes and dislikes. With no more intention of marrying than White, he took care never to make love to any woman, and if any woman made love to him, he gave her no encouragement. He was not richer than White, not so good-looking, and certainly not so clever, but more respected and more influential; for the solid and trustworthy parts of his character, backed by a bull-dog courage and an utter imperturbability, got the better in the long run of the other's more brilliant qualities.

Some of these things Ashburner observed for himself, some of them Benson told him after White and Sumner, who did _not_ ask the stranger to take a drink, had passed on. He had noticed that the latter's manner, though perfectly civil, was very cold compared with the _empressement_ which the former had exhibited.

"He doesn't like your countrymen," said Harry, "and nothing can vex him more than to be told, what is literally the truth, that he resembles an Englishman in many respects. I believe it is about the only thing that _can_ vex him. What an immovable man it is! I have seen a woman throw a lighted cigar into his face, and another cut off one end of his moustache (that was when we were both younger, and used to see some queer scenes abroad), and a servant drop half a tureen of soup over him, and none of these things stirred him. Once at Naples, I recollect, he set our chimney on fire. Such a time we had of it; every one in the house tumbling into our room, from the _piccolo_, with no coat and half a pair of pants, to the proprietor in his dressing-gown and spectacles--women calling on the Virgin, men running after water--and there sat Frank, absolutely radiating off so much coolness, that he imparted a portion of it to me, and we sat through the scene as quietly as if they had only been laying the cloth for dinner. A rum pair they must have thought us! The day before we had astonished the waiter by lighting brandy over a pudding. I suppose we left them under the impression that the Anglo-Saxons had a propensity to set fire to every thing they came in contact with."

"It is very odd that so many of your people should be afraid of resembling us, and take the French type for imitation in preference to the English. The original feeling of gratitude to France for having assisted you in the war of independence, does not seem sufficient to account for it."

"Certainly not; for that feeling would naturally diminish in succeeding generations, whereas the Gallicism of our people is on the increase,--in fact its origin is of comparatively recent date. But we really _are_ more like the French in some senses. Politically the American is very Anglo-Saxon. So he is morally; but socially, so far as you can separate society from morals, he is very French. The Englishman's first idea of his duty in society is non-interference; the Frenchman's and American's, amusement. An Englishman does not think it his business to endeavor to amuse the company in which he happens to be; an Englishwoman does not think it her duty to make any attempt to entertain a man who is introduced to her. A Frenchman will rather talk trash, _knowing that he is talking trash_, than remain silent and let others remain silent. So will an American. But an Englishman, unless he is sure of saying something to the point, will hold his tongue. The imperturbable self-possession of the English gentleman is generally understood by us, any more than it is by the French. His minding his own business is attributed to selfish indifference. The picture that half our people form of an Englishman is, a heavy, awkward man, very badly dressed, courageous, and full of learning; but devoid of all the arts and graces of life, and caring for nobody but himself. It is a great pity that there is not a better understanding; but, unfortunately, the best Englishmen who come here seldom stay long enough to be appreciated, and the best Americans who go to England seldom stay there long enough to appreciate the country. Whenever an American chances to stay some years among you, he ends by liking England very much; but it is very seldom that he has any provocation, unless compelled by business, to stay some years, for acquaintances are harder to make in London than in any other city, while it has less resources for a man without acquaintances than any other city--besides being so dear. But here come the ladies at last; now for breakfast."

Breakfast was the best managed meal at the Bath Hotel. The _table d'hôte_ began at half past seven, but fresh relays of rolls and eggs, ham, chops, and steaks, were always to be obtained until half-past ten or eleven by those who had interest with the waiters. After breakfast the company went to work promenading. There was a very wide hall running through the hotel, and up and down this, and up and down the two broadest sides of the portico, all the world walked--"our set" being conspicuous from the elegance of their morning costume. One side of the portico was devoted to the gentlemen and their cigars, and there Ashburner and Benson took a turn, leaving with the ladies Le Roi and a small beau or two who had joined them. Suddenly Benson pressed his friend's arm.

"Here comes _really_ 'one of the most remarkable men'--the very god of the dance; behold Tom Edwards!"

Ashburner beheld a little man, about five feet and a half high. If he could have stood on his bushy black beard it would have lifted him full three inches higher. Besides this beard he cherished a small moustache, very elaborately curling-tongsed at the ends into the shape of half a lyre. Otherwise he had not much hair on his head, but what he had was very carefully brushed. His features were delicate, and not without intelligence, but terribly worn by dissipation. To look at his figure, you would take him for a boy of nineteen; to look at his face, for a man of thirty: he was, probably, about half way between the two ages. Every thing about him was wonderfully neat: a white coat and hat like Benson's; cream-colored waistcoat and pearl-colored trousers; miraculously small feet in resplendent boots, looking more like a doll's extremities than a man's; a fresh kid glove on one of his little hands, and on the other a sapphire ring, so large that Ashburner wondered how the little man could carry it, and thought that he should, like Juvenal's dandies, have kept a lighter article for summer wear. Then he had a watch-chain of great balls of blue enamel, with about two pounds of chatelaine charms dependent therefrom; and delicate little enamelled studs, with sleeve-buttons to match. Altogether he was a wonderful lion, considering his size. Even Benson had not the courage to stop and introduce his friend until he passed the great dancer more than once, in silent admiration, and with a respectful bow.

And as they passed he detailed to Ashburner, with his usual biographical accuracy, the history of Tom Edwards, which he had begun in the stage-coach. Tom had been left in his infancy with a fortune and without a father, to be brought up by relatives who had an unlucky preference of Parisian to American life. Under their auspices and those of other Mentors, whom he found in that gay capital, his progress was so rapid, that at a very early age he was known as the banker of two or three distinguished _lorettes_, and the pet pupil of the renowned Cellarius. Indeed, he had lived so much in the society of that gentleman and his dancing girls, that he took the latter for his standard of female society, and had a tendency to behave to all womankind as he behaved to them. To married ladies he talked slightly refined _double-entendre_: to young ladies he found it safest to say very little, his business and pleasure being to dance with them; if they did not dance, he gave them up for uncivilized beings, and troubled himself no further about them. Of old people of either sex he took no further notice than to order them out of the way when they impeded the polkers, or dance bodily over them when they disobeyed. Still it must be said, in justice to him, that dancing was not his sole and all-absorbing pursuit. Having an active turn of mind and body, he found leisure for many other profitable amusements. He was fond of that noble animal, the horse, gambled habitually, ate and drank luxuriously,--in short, burned his candle at a good many ends: but the dance was, though not his sole, certainly his favorite passion; and he was never supremely happy but when he had all the chairs in the house arranged in a circle, and all the boys and women of "our set" going around them in the German cotillon, from noon to midnight at a (so-called) _matinée_, or from midnight to daybreak at a ball.

"And now," said Benson, "I think my cousin Gerard must be up by this time; he and Edwards are generally the last to come down to breakfast. Perhaps we shall find him at the ten-pin alley; I see the ladies are moving that way."

To the ten-pin alley they went. Down stairs, men were playing, coat off and cigar in mouth; while others waited their turn, with feet distributed in various directions. Above, all was decorum; the second story being appropriated to the ladies and their cavaliers. And very fond of the game the ladies were, for it afforded them an opportunity of showing off a handsome arm, and sometimes a neat ankle. Gerard was not there; they had to wait some time for alleys: altogether Benson was a little bored, and whispered to his friend that he meant to console himself by making a little sensation.

"By your play?" asked Ashburner.

"No, but by taking off my coat."

"Why, really, considering the material of your coat, I think it might as well be on as off. Surely you can't find it an impediment?"

"No, but I mean to take it off for fun,--just to give the people here something to talk about; they talk so much about so little. They will be saying all over by to-morrow that Mr. Benson was in the ladies' room half undressed."

After an hour's rolling they turned hotelwards again, and as they did so a very spicy phaeton, with gray wheelers and black leaders, drove up to the door. A tall, handsome man, handed out a rather pretty and very showily-dressed little woman; and Ashburner recognized Gerard Ludlow.

It was not the first time he had seen Gerard. They had travelled half over Greece together, having accidentally fallen upon the same route. As the Honorable Edward had all the national fear of compromising himself, and Gerard was as proud and reserved as any Englishman, they went on together for days without speaking, although the only Anglo-Saxons of the party. At last, Ludlow having capsized, horse and all, on a particularly bad road, Ashburner took the liberty of helping to pick him up, and then they became very good friends. Gerard was at that time in the full flush of youth and beauty, and the lion of the Italian capital which he had made his headquarters, where it was currently reported that a certain very desirable countess had made desperate love to him, and that a rich nobleman (for there are _some_ rich noblemen still left on the continent) had tried very hard to get the handsome foreigner for a son-in-law. Knowing this and some other similar stories about him, Ashburner was a little curious to see Mrs. Ludlow, and confessed himself somewhat disappointed in her; he found her rather pretty, and certainly not stupid; lively and agreeable in her manners, like most of her countrywomen; but by no means remarkably distinguished either for beauty or wit. Benson explained to him that his cousin "had married for tin."

"But Ludlow always talked of his father as a rich man, and his family as a small one. I should have supposed money about the last thing he would have married for."

"Yes, he had prospects of the best; but he wanted ready money and a settled income. He was on a small allowance; he knew the only way to get a handsome one was to marry, and that the more money his wife brought, the more his father would come down with. So as Miss Hammersley had eight thousand a year, old Ludlow trebled it; and Gerard may build as many phaetons as he likes. I don't mean to say that the match is an uncongenial one--they have many tastes alike; but I do mean to say that love had nothing to do with it."

"Well, I used to think that in your unsophisticated Republican country, people married out of pure love; but now it looks as if the fashionables, at least, marry for money about as often as we do."

"They don't marry for any thing else," replied Benson, using one of the slang phrases of the day.[26]

While the two friends were gossiping, Sumner and Le Roi had carried off the ladies; and an assemblage of juvenile beaux and young girls, and some few of the younger married women, had extemporized a dance in the largest of the public parlors, which they kept up till two o'clock, and then vanished--to dress, as it appeared, for the three o'clock dinner. Benson's party had obtained their apartments at last,--a parlor and two bedrooms for the ladies on the first floor, and chambers for the three men in the second story, of a recently built wing, popularly known as "the Colony," where most of the gay bachelors, and not a few of the young married men, slept. At dinner the ladies presented themselves as much dressed as they could be without being _décolletées_; and the men had doffed their grass-cloth or linen garments, and put on dress-coats, or, at least, black coats. Ashburner was a good-looking young man enough, and had sufficient vanity to take notice, in the course of the morning, that he was an object of attention; at dinner many looks were directed towards him, but with an expression of disappointment which he did not exactly understand at the time, but afterwards learned the reason of from his friend. Though making no pretensions to the title of exquisite, he happened to have a very neat shooting-jacket, unexceptionable in material and fit; and "our set," having approved of this, were curious to see what sort of costume he would display at dinner. When, therefore, he came to table,

Avec les mêmes bas et la même cravate,

and the shooting-jacket unchanged, they were visibly disappointed. Benson, to keep him in countenance, had retained his white coat, on the plea of its being most wanted then, as they were in the hottest part of the day, which excuse did not enable him to escape some hints from his sister-in-law, and a direct scolding from his wife.

Our Englishman thought the dinner hardly worth so much dressing for. The dishes, so far as he had an opportunity of judging, were tolerably cooked; but their number was not at all proportionate to that of the guests; in short, it was a decided case of short commons, and the waiters were scarce to match. There were but two parties well attended to. One was the family of an old gentleman from the South, who was part owner of the building, and who, besides this advantage, enjoyed the privilege of letting his daughter monopolize the piano of the public parlor half the day, to sing Italian _arias_ shockingly out of tune, much to the disgust of the boarders generally, and especially of the dancing set, who were continually wanting the instrument themselves for polking purposes. The other was----the reporters of _The Sewer_; who had a choice collection of dishes and waiters always at their command. To be sure they had their end of the table to themselves, too, for not a person sat within three chairs of them on either side; but this they, no doubt, accepted as a complimentary acknowledgment of their formidable reputation. Every one else was famished. The married women grumbled, and scolded their husbands--those convenient scapegoats of all responsibility; the young ladies tried to look very sentimental, and above all such vulgar anxiety as that of meat and drink, but only succeeded in looking very cross; the men swore in various dialects at the waiters whenever they could catch them flying, and the waiters being used to it didn't mind it; and Ashburner, as a recollection of a former conversation flitted across his mind, could not help letting off a _tu quoque_ at his friend.

"I say, Benson," quoth he, "is this one of the hotels that are so much better than ours, and that our people ought to take a lesson from?"

Harry looked half-a-dozen bowie-knives at him. Besides the natural irritation produced by hunger, his wife and sister-in-law had been whipping him over each other's shoulders for the last half-hour, and now this last remark made him ready to boil over. For a few seconds his face wore an expression positively dangerous, but in another moment the ridiculous side of the case struck him. With a good-humored laugh he called for some wine--the only thing one was sure to get, as it was an extra, and a pretty expensive one, too, on the hills--and they drowned their hunger in a bumper of tolerable champagne.

The fact was, that the Bath Hotel had been a most excellent house three or four summers previous, and the "enterprising and gentlemanly" landlord (to borrow an American penny-a-liner's phrase) having made a fortune, as he deserved, had sold out his lease, with the good-will and fixtures of the establishment, to Mr. Grabster. The latter gentleman was originally a respectable farmer and market-gardener in the vicinity of Oldport; and having acquired by his business a fair sum of money, was looking about for some speculation in which to invest it. He commenced his new profession with tolerably good intentions, but having as much idea of keeping a hotel as he had of steering a frigate, and finding a balance against him at the end of the first season from sheer mismanagement, he had been endeavoring ever since to make up for it by screwing his guests in every way. People naturally began to complain. Two courses were open to him--to improve his living, or to tip an editor to puff him. He deemed the latter course the cheaper, and bought _The Sewer_, which, while uttering the most fulsome adulation of every thing connected with the Bath Hotel, frightened the discontented into silence through dread of its abuse. Ludlow, and some of the other exclusives, had, in the beginning of the present season, contrived a remedy, which, for the time, was perfectly successful. They held a private interview with the cook, and made up a weekly contribution for him, on condition of their having the best of every thing, and enough of it, for dinner; and the waiters were similarly retained. For a time this worked to a marvel, and the subscribers were as well fed as they could desire. But the other guests began to make an outcry against the aristocracy and exclusiveness of private dishes on a public table, and the servants soon hit upon a compromise of their own, which was to take the money without rendering the _quid pro quo_. This, of course, soon put an end to the payments, and things were on the old starvation footing again.

After dinner, every body who had horses rode or drove. The roads about Oldport were heavy and sandy, and terrible work the dust made with the ladies' fine dresses and the gentlemen's fine coats.

"Rather different from the drives about Baden-Baden," said Benson.

"Yes; but I suppose we must console ourselves on moral grounds, and remember, that there we owe the beautiful promenades to the gambling-table, while here we are without the roads, and also without the play."

"Ah, but isn't there play here! only all _sub rosâ_. Wait a while, and you'll find out."

And Ashburner did find out before many nights, when the footsteps and oaths of the young gamblers returning at four in the morning to their rooms in the "Colony," woke him out of his first sleep. After the drive, tea--still at the _table-d'hôte_--and after tea, dressing for the ball, which this night was at the Bellevue House, appropriately so called from commanding a fine view of nothing. As the Bellevue was not a fashionable hotel (although the guests were sufficiently fed there), some of the exclusive ladies had hesitated about "assisting" on the occasion; but the temptation of a dance was too strong to be resisted, and they all ultimately went. Le Roi accompanied the Bensons in the all-accommodating Rockaway. The Bellevue had a "colony," too, in the second story of which was the ballroom. As they ascended the stairs, the lively notes of _La Polka Sempiternelle, composée par Josef Bungel, et dédiée à M. T. Edwards_, reached their ears; and hardly were they over the threshold when Edwards himself hopped up before them, and without other preface or salutation than a familiar nod, threw his arm round Mrs. Benson's waist, and swung her off in the dance; while Sumner, who had simultaneously presented himself to Miss Vanderlyn, took similar possession of her.

"Do you dance?"

"No, I thank you."

While Benson asked the question, Le Roi dived at a girl and whirled her away: almost before Ashburner had answered it, his friend shot away from him, making point at a young married lady in the distance; and his bow of recognition ended in the back-step of the polka, as the two went off together at a killing pace. In five seconds from the time of entrance, Ashburner was left standing alone at one end of the room, and his companions were twirling at the other. For so habituated were the dancers to their fascinating exercise, that they were always ready to go at the word, like trained horses. And certainly the dancing was beautiful. He had never seen gentlemen move so gracefully and dexterously in a crowded room as these young Americans did. Le Roi and Röwenberg, who, by virtue of their respective nationalities, were bound to be good dancers, looked positively awkward alongside of the natives. As to the ladies, they glided, and swam, and realized all the so-often-talked-of-and-seldom-seen "poetry of motion." Indeed Ashburner thought they did it too well. He thought of Catiline's friend, commemorated by Sallust, who "danced better than became a modest woman." He thought some of their displays were a little operatic, and that he had seen something like them at certain balls in Paris--_not_ the balls of the Faubourg St. Germain. He thought that the historian's aphorism might be extended to the male part of the company,--and that they danced better than became intelligent men. He thought--but as he prudently kept thoughts to himself, and as some of his foreign prejudice may have been at the bottom of them, we will not stop to record them all. By and by there was a quadrille for the benefit of the million, during which the exclusives rested, and Ashburner had full opportunity of observing them. The first thing that struck him was the extreme youth of the whole set, and more especially of the masculine portion of it. Old men there were none. The old women, that is to say, the mammas and aunts, were stuck into corners out of the way, and no one took any notice of them. Hamilton White was quite an old beau by comparison--almost superannuated. Sumner would have been nearly off the books but for his very superior dancing. Even Benson seemed a middle-aged man compared with the majority of "our set," who averaged between boys of seventeen and young men of twenty-four. And the more juvenile the youth, the larger and stiffer was his white tie. Some of these neck-fastenings were terrific to behold, standing out a foot on each side of the wearer. All the Joinvilles that Ashburner had ever seen, on all the gents in London or elsewhere, faded into insignificance before these portentous cravats. He could not help making some observations on this fashion to Benson, as he encountered him promenading with a fair _polkiste_.

"Did you ever notice the whiffletrees of my team-trotting wagon, how they extend on each side beyond the hubs of the wheels? They serve for feelers in a tight place: wherever you clear your whiffletrees, you can clear your wheels; and these cravats are built on the same principle--wherever you clear your tie, you can clear your partner."

By one in the morning the democracy of the ballroom had had enough of four hours' dancing and looking on. "Our set" was left in full possession of the floor. Forthwith they seized upon all the chairs, and the interminable German cotillon commenced. It lasted two hours--and how much longer Ashburner could not tell. When he went away at three, the dancers looked very deliquescent, but gave no symptoms of flagging. And so ended his first day's experience of an American watering-place.

FOOTNOTES:

[26] This is the strongest American (slang) way of putting an affirmation; and, probably, the strongest instance of it on record is that of a Bowery boy, who, when asked by a clergyman, "Wilt thou have this woman?" replied, "I won't have any one else."

[From the Dublin University Magazine.]

THE MYSTIC VIAL:

OR,

THE LAST DEMOISELLE DE CHARREBOURG.

_Continued from page 75._