CHAPTER XXIX.

Philip Hastings had calculated much upon his Roman firmness; and he could have borne death, or any great and sudden calamity, with fortitude; but small evils often affect us more than great ones. He knew not what it is to suffer long imprisonment, to undergo the wearing, grinding process of life within a prison's walls. He knew not the effect of long suspense either, of the fretful impatience for some turn in our fate, of the dull monotony of long continued expectation and protracted disappointment, of the creeping on of leaden despair, which craves nothing in the end but some change, be it for better or for worse.

They took him to Newgate--the prison of common felons, and there, in a small room, strictly guarded, he remained for more than two months. At first he would send for no lawyer, for he fancied that there must either be some error on the part of the government, or that the suspicion against him must be so slight as to be easily removable. But day went by on day, and hour followed hour, without any appearance of a change in his fate. There came a great alteration, however, in his character. He became morose, gloomy, irritable. Every dark point in his own fate and history--every painful event which had occurred for many years--every doubt or suspicion which had spread gloom and anxiety through his mind, was now magnified a thousand-fold by long, brooding, solitary meditation. He pondered such things daily, hourly, in the broad day, in the dead, still night, when want of exercise deprived him of sleep, till his brain seemed to turn, and his whole heart was filled with stern bitterness.

Marlow, who visited him every day by permission of the Secretary of State, found him each day much changed, both in appearance and manner; and even his conversation gave but small relief. He heard with small emotion the news of the day, or of his own family. He read the letters of his wife and daughter coldly. He heard even the intelligence that Sir John Fenwick was condemned for high treason, and to die on a scaffold, without any appearance of interest. He remained self-involved and thoughtful.

At length, after a long interval--for the government was undecided how to proceed in his and several other cases connected with that famous conspiracy--a day was appointed for his first examination by the Secretary of State; for matters were then conducted in a very different manner from that in which they are treated at present; and he was carried under guard to Whitehall.

Vernon was a calm and not unamiable man; and treating the prisoner with unaffected gentleness, he told him that the government was very anxious to avoid the effusion of any more blood, and expressed a hope that Mr. Hastings would afford such explanations of his conduct as would save the pain of proceeding against him. He did not wish by any means, he said, to induce him to criminate himself; but merely to give such explanations as he might think fit.

Philip Hastings replied, with stern bitterness, that before he could give any explanations, he must learn what there was in his conduct to explain. "It has ever been open, plain, and straightforward," he said. "I have taken no part in conspiracies, very little part in politics. I have nothing to fear from any thing I myself can utter; for I have nothing to conceal. Tell me what is the charge against me, and I will answer it boldly. Ask what questions you please; and I will reply at once to those to which I can find a reply in my own knowledge."

"I thought the nature of the charge had been made fully known to you," replied Vernon. "However, it is soon stated. You are charged, Mr. Hastings, with having taken a most decided part in the criminal designs, if not in the criminal acts, of that unfortunate man Sir John Fenwick. Nay, of having first suggested to him the darkest of all his designs, namely, the assassination of his Majesty."

"I suggest the assassination of the King!" exclaimed Mr. Hastings. "I propose such an act! Sir, the charge is ridiculous. Has not the only share I ever took in politics been to aid in placing King William upon the throne, and consistently to support his government since? What the ministers of the crown can seek by bringing such a charge against me, I know not; but it is evidently fictitious, and of course has an object."

Vernon's cheek grew somewhat red, and he replied warmly, "That is an over-bold assertion, sir. But I will soon satisfy you that it is unjust, and that the crown has not acted without cause. Allow me, then, to tell you, that no sooner had the conspiracy of Sir John Fenwick been detected, and his apprehension been made known, than information was privately given--from your own part of the country--to the following effect;" and he proceeded to read from a paper, which had evidently been folded in the form of a letter, the ensuing words: "That on the ---- day of May last, when walking in the gardens of his own house, called 'The Court,' he--that is yourself, sir--used the following language to Sir John Fenwick: 'When no other means can be found of obtaining justice, freedom, and security, I see no reason why a king should not be put to death as well as any other man. He who does the deed merits a monument rather than a gibbet.' Such was the information, sir, on which government first acted in causing your apprehension."

The Secretary paused, and for a few moments Mr. Hastings remained gazing down in silence, like a man utterly confounded. Vernon thought he had touched him home; but the emotions in the prisoner's bosom, though very violent, were very different from those which the Secretary attributed to him. He remembered the conversation well, but he remembered also that the only one who, besides Sir John Fenwick, was with him at the moment, was his own child. I will not dwell upon his feelings, but they absorbed him entirely, till the Secretary went on, saying--"Not satisfied with such slender information, Mr. Hastings, the government caused that unhappy criminal, Sir John Fenwick, to be asked, after his fate was fixed, if he recollected your having used those words to him, and he replied, 'something very like them.'"

"And I reply the same," exclaimed Philip Hastings, sternly. "I did use those words, or words very like them. But, sir, they were in connection with others, which, had they been repeated likewise, would have taken all criminal application from them. May I be permitted to look at that letter in your hand, to see how much was really told, how much suppressed?"

"I have read it all to you," said Mr. Vernon, "but you may look at it if you please," and he handed it to him across the table. Philip Hastings spread it out before him, trembling violently, and then drew another letter from his pocket, and laid them side by side. He ran his eye from one to the other for a moment or two, and then sunk slowly down, fainting upon the floor.

While a turnkey and one of the messengers raised him, and some efforts were made to bring him back to consciousness, Mr. Vernon walked round the table and looked at the two letters which were still lying on it. He compared them eagerly, anxiously. The handwriting of the one was very similar to that of the other, and in the beginning of that which Mr. Hastings had taken from his pocket, the Secretary found the words, "My dear father." It was signed, "Emily Hastings;" and Vernon instantly comprehended the nature of the terrible emotion he had witnessed.

He was really, as I have said, a kind and humane man, and he felt very much for the prisoner, who was speedily brought to himself again, and seated in a chair before the table.

"Perhaps, Mr. Hastings," said Vernon, "we had better not protract this conversation to-day. I will see you again to-morrow, at this hour, if you would prefer that arrangement."

"Not at all, sir," answered the prisoner, "I will answer now, for though the body be weak, the spirit is strong. Remember, however, that I am not pleading for life. Life is valueless to me. The block and axe would be a relief. I am only pleading to prevent my own character from being stained, and to frustrate this horrible design. I used the words imputed to me; but if I recollect right, with several qualifications, even in the sentence which has been extracted. But before that, many other words had passed which entirely altered the whole bearing of the question. The conversation began about the regicides of the great rebellion, and although my father was of the party in arms against the King, I expressed my unqualified disapprobation of their conduct in putting their sovereign to death. I then approached as a mere matter of abstract reasoning, in which, perhaps, I am too apt to indulge, the subject of man's right to resist by any means an unendurable tyranny, and I quoted the example of Brutus and William Tell; and it was in the course of these abstract remarks, that I used the words which have been cited. I give you my word, however, and pledge my honor, that I entertained no thought, and had no cause whatever to believe that Sir John Fenwick who was dining with me as an old acquaintance, entertained hostile designs against the government of his native land."

"Your admitted opinions, Mr. Hastings," said Vernon, "seem to me to be very dangerous ones."

"That may be," replied the prisoner, "but in this country at least, sir, you cannot kill a man for opinions."

"No; but those opinions, expressed in conversation with others who proceed to acts," replied Vernon, "place a man in a very dangerous position, Mr. Hastings. I will not conceal from you that you are in some peril; but at the same time I am inclined to think that the evidence, without your admissions this day, might prove insufficient, and it is not my intention to take advantage of any thing you have said. I shall report to his Majesty accordingly; but the proceedings of the government will be guided by the opinion of the law officers of the crown, and not by mine. I therefore can assure you of nothing except my sincere grief at the situation in which you are placed."

"I little heed the result of your report, sir," replied Mr. Hastings; "life, I say, is valueless to me, and if I am brought to trial for words very innocently spoken, I shall only make the same defence I have done this day, and I shall call no witness; the only witness of the whole," he added with stern, concentrated bitterness, "is probably on the side of the crown."

Mr. Hastings was then removed to Newgate, leaving the two letters on the table behind him, and as soon as he was gone, Mr. Vernon sent a messenger to an inn near Charing Cross, to say he should be glad to speak for a few moments with Mr. Marlow. In about half an hour Marlow was there, and was received by Vernon as an old acquaintance. The door was immediately closed, and Marlow seated himself near the table, turning his eyes away, however, as an honorable man from the papers which lay on it.

"I have had an interview with your friend, Mr. Marlow," said the Secretary, "and the scene has been a very painful one. Mr. Hastings has been more affected than I expected, and actually fainted."

Marlow's face expressed unutterable astonishment, for the idea of Philip Hastings fainting under any apprehension whatever, could never enter into the mind of any one who knew him.

"Good God!" he exclaimed, "what could be the cause of that? Not fear, I am sure."

"Something more painful than even fear, I believe," replied Mr. Vernon; "Mr. Hastings has a daughter, I believe?"

"Yes, sir, he has," replied Marlow, somewhat stiffly.

"Do you know her handwriting?" asked the Secretary.

"Yes, perfectly well," answered Marlow.

"Then be so good as to take up that letter next you," said Vernon, "and tell me if it is in her hand."

Marlow took up the paper, glanced at it, and at once said, "Yes;" but the next instant he corrected himself, saying, "No, no--it is very like Emily's hand--very, very like; but more constrained."

"May not that proceed from an attempt to disguise her hand?" asked Vernon.

"Or from an attempt on the part of some other to imitate it," rejoined Marlow; "but this is very strange, Mr. Vernon; may I read this through?"

"Certainly," replied the Secretary, and Marlow read every word three or four times over with eager attention. They seemed to affect him very much, for notwithstanding the Secretary's presence, he started up and paced the room for a minute or two in thought.

"I must unravel this dark mystery," he said at length. "Mr. Vernon, there have been strange things taking place lately in the family of Mr. Hastings. Things which have created in my mind a suspicion that some secret and external agency is at work to destroy his peace as well as to ruin his happiness, and still more, I fear, to ruin the happiness of his daughter. This letter is but one link in a long chain of suspicious facts, and I am resolved to sift the whole matter to the bottom. The time allowed me to do so, must depend upon the course you determine to pursue towards Mr. Hastings. If you resolve to proceed against him I must lose no time--although I think I need hardly say, there is small chance of your success upon such evidence as this;" and he struck the letter with his fingers.

"We have more evidence, such as it is," replied Vernon, "and he himself admits having used those words."

Marlow paused thoughtfully, and then replied, "He may have used them--he is very likely to have used them; but it must have been quite abstractedly, and with no reference to any existing circumstance. I remember the occasion on which Sir John Fenwick dined with him, perfectly. I was there myself. Now let me see if I can recall all the facts. Yes, I can, distinctly. During the whole of dinner--during the short time we sat after dinner, those words were never used; nor were conspiracies and treason ever thought of. I remember, too, from a particular circumstance, that when we went out into the gardens Mr. Hastings took his daughter's arm, and walked up and down the terrace with Sir John Fenwick at his side. That must have been the moment. But I need hardly point out to you, Mr. Vernon, that such was not a time when any man in his senses, and especially a shrewd, cunning, timid man, like Sir John Fenwick, would have chosen for the development of treasonable designs."

"Were any other persons near?" asked Vernon; "the young lady might have been in the conspiracy as well as her father."

Marlow laughed. "There were a dozen near," he answered; "they were subject to interruption at any moment--nay, they could not have gone on for three minutes; for that pace of time did not elapse after the gentlemen entered the garden where the ladies were, before I was at Emily's side, and not one word of this kind was spoken afterwards."

"Then what could have induced her to report those words to the government?" asked Mr. Vernon.

"She never did so," replied Marlow, earnestly; "this is not her handwriting, though the imitation is very good--and now, sir," he continued, "if it be proper, will you explain to me what course you intend to pursue, that I may act accordingly? For as I before said, I am resolved to search this mystery out into its darkest recesses. It has gone on too long already."

Vernon smiled. "You are asking a good deal," he said, "but yet my views are so strong upon the subject, that I think I may venture to state them, even if the case against Mr. Hastings should be carried a step or two farther--which might be better, in order to insure his not being troubled on an after occasion. I shall strongly advise that a _nolle prosequi_ be entered, and I think I may add that my advice will be taken."

"You think I have asked much already, Mr. Vernon," said Marlow, "but I am now going to ask more. Will you allow me to have this letter? I give you my word of honor that it shall only be used for the purposes of justice. You have known me from my boyhood, my dear sir; you can trust me."

"Perfectly, my young friend," replied Vernon, "but you must not take the letter to-day. In two days the action of the government will be determined, and if it be such as I anticipate you shall have the paper, and I trust it will lead to some discovery of the motives and circumstances of this strange transaction. Most mysterious it certainly is; for one can hardly suppose any one but a fiend thus seeking to bring a father's life into peril."

"A fiend!" exclaimed Marlow, with a scoff, "much more like an angel, my dear sir."

"You seem to think so," said Vernon, smiling, "and I trust, though love is blind, he may have left you clear-sighted in this instance."

"I think he has," answered Marlow, "and as this young lady's fate is soon to be united to mine, it is very necessary I should see clearly. I entertain no doubt, indeed, and I say boldly, that Emily never wrote this letter. It will give me, however, a clue which perhaps may lead me to the end of the labyrinth, though as yet I hardly see my way. But a strong resolution often does much."

"Might it not be better for you," asked Vernon, "to express your doubts in regard to this letter to Mr. Hastings himself? He was terribly affected, as well he might be, when he saw this document, and believed it to be his own child's writing."

Marlow mused for some time ere he replied. "I think not," he answered at length; "he is a man of peculiar disposition; stern, somewhat gloomy, but honorable, upright, and candid. Now what I am going to say may make me appear as stern as himself, but if he is suffering from doubts of that dear girl, knowing her as well as he does, he is suffering from his own fault, and deserves it. However, my object is not to punish him, but thoroughly, completely, and for ever to open his eyes, and to show him so strongly that he has done his child injustice, as to prevent his ever doing the like again. This can only be done by bringing all the proofs upon him at once, and my task is now to gather them together. To my mere opinion regarding the handwriting, he would not give the slightest heed, but he will not shut his eyes to proofs. May I calculate upon having the letter in two days?"

"I think you may," replied Vernon.

"Then when will Mr. Hastings be set free?" asked Marlow; "I should wish to have some start of him into the country."

"That will depend upon various circumstances," replied the Secretary; "I think we shall take some steps towards the trial before we enter the _nolle prosequi_. It is necessary to check in some way the expression of such very dangerous opinions as he entertains."

Marlow made no reply but by a smile, and they soon after parted.

* * * * *

One of the writers upon German politics reproduces the story of the Englishman, Frenchman, and German, who were required by some unknown power to draw a sketch of a camel. The Frenchman hied him to the Jardin des Plantes, and came back with his sketch in no time. The more conscientious Briton at once took ship for the East, and returned with his drawing from the life of nature. But the German went to the library of the prince of his country to ascertain what a camel was. He lived to a great age, with the reputation of being very learned, and a little crazed with the depth of his researches, and on his death-bed told his physician in confidence that he did not believe there was such an animal at all!

FOOTNOTES:

[3] 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.

THE COUNT MONTE-LEONE: OR, THE SPY IN SOCIETY.[4]

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

_Continued from page 211_

VIII.--THE FOUR PULCINELLI.

Doctor Matheus, as the reader must have guessed from the previous chapter, was Freiderick von Apsberg, one of the four Pulcinelli of the ball of San Carlo, the young German who was the son of the venerable pastor of the city of Ellogen, in Bohemia.

Freiderick von Apsberg had been educated in one of the most celebrated universities of Germany, that of Leipsic,--where he had imbibed that very social contagion, a passion for detestable demagogic fancies, with which all those scientific _lazaretti_ of Germany were filled. The dreamy and often poetic forms in which those ideas were enunciated, easily touched the heart of that long peaceable nation, and opened to it a field of mad and resistless hopes which could not but plunge it into that abyss of disorder, trouble, and crime, in which it has been recently seen sweltering.

Freiderick, not thinking his country yet prepared for the propagation of his principles, sought for an echo among other European nations. The rising _Carbonarism_ of Italy opened its arms to him, and received him as one of its future supporters. There he had become acquainted with Monte-Leone, and participated in the religion of which he was the high priest. On his return to Germany, after his expulsion from Italy, he had discovered that the work had advanced during his absence, that the myth had been personified, and that the seed had germinated. Germany, especially the _poor_ of Germany, began to be deeply agitated; the _Carbonaro_ made many proselytes, and won many new members to the association. The death of his father having endowed him with some fortune, he completed his studies, and became one of the most fervent apostles of that mysterious science of which he spoke to the Duke d'Harcourt; but, being made uncomfortable by the German police, he left his country, after having established a connection with the _Vente_ which had been formed there. He then came to France, where we find him under the name of Doctor Matheus, and living in the awful No. 13 of Babylonne street;--his house was the rendezvous of the principal members of the _Vente_ of Paris, where his profession amply accounted for the many visitors he received. His three friends, however, fearing that their frequent visits would be remarked, often had recourse to disguises. Thus it is that we saw the Englishman, the Auvergnot, and the peasant, so cavalierly treated by Mlle Crepineau.

"This is the hour of consultation, my dear Doctor," said the Viscount to Von Apsberg; "where are the patients?" In a serious tone the latter replied, "In France, Italy, Germany, and all the continent.--Their disease is a painful oppression, an extreme lassitude in every member of the social body, a slow fever, and general feeling of indisposition."

"What physician will cure so many diseases?" asked the Viscount.

"_Carbonarism!_"

"Are you sure of this?" asked d'Harcourt, who, probably for the first time in his life, said any thing reasonable. This was a doubt, almost a defection to that cause into which his generous and enthusiastic nature had cast him. Rene d'Harcourt had originally formed but a passing intimacy with Monte-Leone, the object of which was pleasure alone. The latter, however, soon discovered his friend's courage and truth, and ultimately initiated him in all his political mysteries and dreams. D'Harcourt, attracted by the occult power exerted by the Count over his associates, and led astray to a degree by his specious theories in relation to national happiness, which Monte-Leone knew how to dress so well in the most energetic language, was carried away by the temptation of becoming a political personage; perhaps, also, as la Felina said at the Etruscan villa, not a little under the influence of idleness, and the wish to be able to tell wonders of himself, joined in all these plots. He had become affiliated to the society of which Monte-Leone was the chief, and when he was expelled from Italy, represented himself to his particular friends as a martyr of political faith: he had, by the by, a very faint confidence in it, and cared very little about it; and this, even, was insensibly lessened when, on his return to France and his family, he saw the high distinction which his father enjoyed, and was aware that by rank and birth he would one day be called on to play a conspicuous part in the history of his country. He could not understand, therefore, how this country could demand a general convulsion to obtain a hypothetical better, in place of a positive good.

This, as we have said, was the state of his mind, when Monte-Leone, Taddeo, and Frederick returned to Paris. They talked to him of his oaths, of the pledge they had taken, of his position as a _Carbonaro_,--to which he would make no reply. The Viscount a second time falling under the influence of Monte-Leone, captivated again by the charms of friendship, and the glory of being the regenerator of his country, fancied himself also bound by his honor to pursue the path on which he had entered. He therefore resumed his old chains, and became the SEIDE of a cause to which he was attracted neither by sympathy nor by reason.

The phrase which had escaped from the lips, or rather the good sense of the young man, sounded to Monte-Leone like a false note in a chorus. He said, "Rene, God forbid that we should seek to link you to our fate if you do not believe in our cause. Remain inactive in the strife about to ensue; your honor will be a sufficient pledge for your silence in relation to our secrets. Henceforth be a brother to us only in love. Von Apsberg, the grand archivest of the association, will efface your name from our list; and whatever misfortune befall us, I shall at least have the satisfaction of knowing that you were not involved in our ruin."

This offer, instead of being received by Rene d'Harcourt, increased his zeal, which otherwise would have died away.

"Leave you?" said he,--"abandon you, when the hour of danger has come?--desert the field of battle when the combat is about to begin? My friendship, my courage, and my honor, all forbid me to do so."

The four friends clasped their hands, and Monte-Leone said,--"Now listen to me, for time is precious. The _Vente_ of the kingdom of Naples, and those of all Italy, of which I refuse to be any longer the chief, do not on that account distrust me, but have just given me a striking proof of their confidence. It is so great that I hesitate even to accept it."

"Speak," said all the friends at once.

"I have received this letter," said Monte-Leone.

"The delegates of all the Italian _Vente_, relying on the prudence, valor, and judgment of Count Monte-Leone, refer to him the decision of the time when, and the manner in which, it is proper for them to manifest their principles. Count Monte-Leone is requested to open a communication with the Vente of France, that there may be a simultaneous movement with those of Italy."

"Thus," said the Count, "in accepting this mission, I become the god, the sovereign arbiter of this immense work, and have its fate in my hands."

Von Apsberg said, "you have that of Italy and Germany--for the _Vente_ of my country will act when I speak, or rather when you do."

An expression of pride flashed across Monte-Leone's face. He had evidently been mortified at not becoming supreme director, yet the staff of command was again placed in his grasp. It was not now, though, to confer the command of a single country, but, to use his own words, he became the all-powerful controller of Europe, and, in his opinion, the hope of the universe. This strange man, made up of greatness and littleness, like all the political idealists who erect altars to the creatures of their dreams, and ignorantly make a sacrifice of logic, good sense and reason--this man who sighed for universal liberty, was delighted at the prospect of great, despotic, and aristocratic power, to be exerted by his will alone in three great countries. The Count then yielded willingly to the persuasions of his friends, and promised to fulfil the wishes of the Italian _Vente_. He said, "The time for action is not come. The French police, in fact, is busy only with the known enemies of the Government, with persons who are compromised in these petty plots originated by self-love--regret for the past, and ambition. Our object is greater; for we do not serve a man, but an idea, or rather the assemblage of ideas, to be expanded everywhere at once, and to replace the darkness of old civilization by torrents of far more dazzling light. The dawn of that light though has not yet come."

"Yet," said Von Apsberg, "the notes I receive announce the formation of new _Vente_ on all sides of us."

"Paris is filled with Carbonari," added d'Harcourt. "Our secret and masonic sign reveals the existence of brothers everywhere to me. I see them in the public places, on the benches of the lawyers, and among the very judges."

"True," said Von Apsberg, "and as an evidence of what d'Harcourt says, look at these voluminous names." The friends examined them carefully.

"It matters not," said Monte-Leone, "too much precipitation would ruin all. Remember our device, _an auger piercing the globe_."

During all this conversation, Taddeo had remained silent and thoughtful, and the Count at last observed it.

"My friend," said he, "why are you so sad? Can it be, like d'Harcourt just now, that you have any doubt or scruple about our cause? Do you hesitate at the dangers?"

Taddeo, as if he were aroused from a dream, said: "The dangers I anxiously invite, as likely to free me from a life which is become a burden."

Monte-Leone grew pale at these words, for he knew the reason of his deep despair; and the iron of remorse pierced his heart. Before, however, Taddeo's friends could question him, a strange accident attracted the attention of the actors of this scene.

A noise, at first faint and then louder, which resembled that of the spider in its web, suddenly interrupted the conversation. It seemed to come from the interior of one of the panels.

"Here it is," said Monte-Leone, pointing at one of the book-cases.

"Yes," said Von Apsberg, with a sign of admiration.

"Can we have been overheard?" said d'Harcourt.

"I think so," said the false Matheus.

The Visconte and Taddeo at once took pistols from their pockets and cocked them.

"It is of no use," said the physician, pointing to the arms of his friends. "Put on your disguises, for it is unnecessary even that the brothers should know you. Kant has said, _When there is a secret to be kept it is desirable that all who are intrusted with it should be deaf, blind, and dumb_. Let us then tempt no one, and remember there is no one here but a doctor and two patients."

"But the Count," said d'Harcourt, "is he forgotten?"

"Ah," said the doctor, "he must be seen."

The noise increased, and something of impatience was remarkable in the little taps on the wood-work.

"It is he, is it not?" said Monte-Leone.

"Yes," said Frederick, "for no one else uses that entrance."

Von Apsberg then approached the library and touched a spring which threw open a panel on which the books were arranged. With a key the doctor then opened another door, through which a man entered. The day was advanced, and the shades of night enwrapped almost all the room. The scene we describe took place in the most remote and consequently in the darkest portion of the vast studio. The appearance of the man assumed a terrible and fantastic air.

"Ah! what is there so urgent that you trouble thus, my dear Pignana?" said the Count to the new comer.

Signor Pignana, our old Neapolitan acquaintance, the pretended tailor and owner of the Etruscan House, the mysterious guide of the Count among the ruins of San Paolo, bowed to the earth as he always did before the Count, and was evidently about to speak, when he stopped short and pointed to the peasant and my lord, the profiles of whom he could see distinctly in a moonbeam which came through one of the windows.

"They are brethren," said Matheus, "you may speak."

"Well then," said Pignana, piqued by the brusque manner of the Count, "I thought the case _urgent_, (he accented the last word,) and therefore came to warn your excellency of danger."

"What danger?" asked the Count, with his usual _sang-froid_.

"And since his excellency," said Pignana, "forbade me to come to his house, I was obliged to come here, though I believe my appearance is respectable enough to pass scrutiny anywhere."

"Signor Pignana, I must now, once for all, tell you the motives of my conduct. I would not do so in any case were I not satisfied how devoted you are to me."

Pignana bowed again.

"Your appearance," said the Count, "is certainly very honest and respectable. The _fund_ of honesty is, however, perhaps not so good; for as a smuggler, a skimmer of the seas----, but I stop here, lest I should displease you, for you may, after all, have something on your conscience. There is, you know, a certain Neapolitan Ambassador at Paris who was once a minister of police in our beautiful country. Now, Signor Pignana, people never have to do with the police without some very unpleasant consequences. I have an idea also that the Duke of Palma, at whose house I was a fortnight ago, did not fail to inform the Prefect of the Police of the city, of my being in Paris. This is a delicate attention from one police to another. The Duke, also, probably pointed out many of my old acquaintances, among whom you have the honor to be; you will understand, by aid of your knowledge of _doubtful affairs_, that if it be known that I receive you here, people will not think you come to teach me to play _the mandoline_, on which instrument you are, I learn, a great performer. Consequently, and not to rob myself of your invaluable services, and the care over my household which you exercise, we have made a means of entrance for you here, and through him you can communicate with me--how Signor Pignana, an intelligent man like you, should understand this, without its being necessary for me to give all these details."

"I am delighted to be assured," said Signor Pignana, proudly, "that without these grave reasons the Count would not be unwilling to see me."

"But," said Taddeo, "what is the danger of which you spoke just now?"

"Ah! Signor Taddeo Rovero!" said the shrewd Pignana, who had recognized the voice of the young man.

"This is bad!" murmured Frederick.

"I am delighted to meet Signor Taddeo Rovero," said Pignana, "especially as what I have to say relates also to him."

"To me?" said Taddeo.

"Come to the point, then," said the Count.

"Thus it is, Monsignore," said Pignana: "I was, in obedience to orders, hanging about your excellency's house, and until to-day never saw any thing suspicious. This evening I saw two dark figures planted opposite to your hotel, at the corner of Verneuil-street. The motionless position of these men seemed strange, and the manner that they examined others who came in and out of the hotel was more so, until at last I became satisfied that they watched you. I was confirmed in this when approaching them in the dark I heard one of the men say to his companion: '_He has gone out on foot, his carriage has not left!_'"

"Go on," said the Count, "this becomes interesting."

"This is not all," said Pignana; "the same man said in a brusque tone to his companion: '_Go to Saint Dominique-street, the other lives there!_'"

"That is myself," said Taddeo, "and the Marquis, my sister, and I do live in that street, in the Hotel of the Prince de Maulear."

"So I thought," said Pignana, bowing to Taddeo, "and I hurried hither where I knew Count Monte-Leone was to be found. Your excellency will now see that it was a matter of importance."

"Do not go home to-night!" said d'Harcourt.

"Remain here!" said von Apsberg.

"Leave Paris!" said Pignana.

"Why should I not go home? Because it pleases some robber to wait near my hotel, to rob me? or because some bravo wishes, _a la Venitienne_, to make a dagger-sheath of my heart? The man must act, too, _on his own account_, for I know of no enemies in this city. Every where I am sought for and _feted_, and our secret associates, with whom the world is full, and who know my old adventures, secure every day a triumphal reception for me in the saloons of Paris. But if the mysterious watchers of whom Signor Pignana speaks, be by chance of the birds of night--owls who have escaped from the police, I make myself more liable to suspicion by staying away, than by returning to my hotel. Then, by ----, as my old friend Pietro used to say--I did not furnish a house to sleep out of it. To remain here as Von Apsberg suggests, would be a greater mistake yet; for in this house are all our documents and the lists of our associates. This is the treasury, the holy ark of the society, and here, under the name of Matheus, is the very soul. Let us then beware how we give the huntsman any clue to this precious deposit, or all will be lost. Pignana proposes that I should leave Paris, but I will not do so. Here are all our hopes of probable success. The light which will illumine Paris, must radiate hence. Besides, gentlemen," continued Monte-Leone, "I find that you all become easily excited at a very natural thing. In case even of a judicial investigation, you forget--_The brethren know each other, but can furnish no evidence of the participation of each other in any enterprise_. Our records or our deeds alone can betray us; our papers are here beneath three locks, and our actions are yet to be. Do not, therefore, be uneasy about my fate, and let Taddeo and myself discover the explanation of this riddle."

"Do not be imprudent," said Von Apsberg to Monte-Leone, as he saw him hurriedly dress himself in the costume of an Auvergnat; "remember that we are in Paris, where the streets are crowded, and not in Naples--that a dagger-thrust is a great event here."

"Do not be uneasy," said the Count, "for I always conform to the usages and customs of the country in which I am. In Italy I use the dagger, and in France the stick."

Taking hold of the baton which Taddeo bore, more completely to assume the roll of the villager, he brandished and twisted it in his fingers, well enough to have made Fan-Fan, the king of the stick-players of the day, envious.

"Shall I follow your _eccelenza_?" asked Signor Pignana.

"Certainly," said he, "but as a rear-guard, twenty paces behind me, in order that you may give evidence, as a mere passer by, that the man I shall beat to death wished to beat me. This will make me more interesting in the eyes of the people this difficulty will attract."

When he saw Signor Pignana about to leave the room with him, he said, "No! Mademoiselle Crepineau, the Argus of this house, saw only three men come in; what will she think when she sees four leaving? Go out then by the secret door, Pignana, and join us at the corner of the _rue_ Belle-Chasse."

The door of the library was closed on Signor Pignana.

"Do you not wish me to go with you?" asked the Vicomte of Monte-Leone.

"For shame!" said Monte-Leone, "four to one--we would look like the allied army marching against Monaco. Remain then a few minutes with the doctor. The consultation of the Milord naturally enough may be long."

The Auvergnat and the peasant of the boulirue passed before the chair of Mademoiselle Crepineau, one with his handkerchief over his cheek, and the other with a bandage over his eye. Recollecting that they had been since eight o'clock with the doctor, she could not refrain from saying, "The doctor is a very skilful man, but he is slow. After all," added she, "he may have taken a multitude of things from them, though no one heard them cry out. People of their rank do not mind pain."

As they approached Verneuil-street, the Count proceeded a few steps in advance of Taddeo. "Wait for me here," said he, pointing out a house which stood yet farther back than the others, on the alignment of the street, "and come to me if I call out." He then left the young man, assumed a vulgar air, and straggled towards his hotel. Soon he saw in an angle of the wall opposite to his house a motionless shadow, which was certainly that of the man Pignana had pointed out to him. The Count had a quick and keen eye, which recognized objects even in the dark. He saw the two eyes which watched him, and which were fixed on his hotel. They were moved from time to time, but only that on turning again they might more easily recognize every passer. Monte-Leone, with the presence of mind which never left him, and which characterized all the decisive actions of his life, no sooner conceived his plan than he put it into execution. He was anxious to know with what enemies he had to deal, and could conceive of no better way than to question the man himself. The question he put, it is true, was rather _brusque_, as will be seen. When a few paces behind the man, who had not the least suspicion, and had suffered him to come close to him, the Count faced about and rushed on the stranger. He clasped his throat with one hand, and with the other seized the stranger's weapons, which he naturally enough concluded he wore. The latter uttered a cry, and an only cry, which, by the by, was terrible. He was then silent. A stranger passing by might have fancied those men were speaking confidentially together, but never that one was strangling the other.

"One word," said Monte-Leone. "Tell me why you are here."

"On my own business," said the man.

"That is not true," said the Count. "You are not a robber--you have been here for two hours. Many persons well dressed have down this street, yet you did not attack them." The living vice which bound his throat was again compressed. The man made a sign that he wished to speak. The Count relaxed his hold.

"Whom do you watch?"

"Yourself."

"You know me, then?"

"Yes."

"Who bade you watch me?"

The stranger was silent. Feeling the iron hand again clasp him, he muttered, "A great lady sent me."

"Her name?" said the Count, who began to guess, but who wished to be sure.

"The Neapolitan ambassadress."

"And why does your companion stand in the Rue Saint-Dominique?"

"Then you know all?" said the wretch.

"All that I wish to," said the Count. "Speak out," said he, again clasping his fingers tightly as if they had been a torture-collar. "Speak now, or you will never do so again."

"Well," said the man, "my companion is ordered to ascertain if you were not at the hotel of the Prince de Maulear. Why should I know any thing about it?"

"Ah! this is unworthy," said the Count. "When her passions are concerned nothing restrains this woman."

A painful sigh was the only reply to this exclamation. The Count looked around, and saw Taddeo standing by him, pale and trembling.

IX.--A LETTER.

Leaning over the white shoulders of the charming Marquise de Maulear, we are about to tempt our readers to the commission of a great indiscretion. We will force them to listen to a letter which that lady was writing to her mother the Signora Rovero, to inform the latter of all her secret thoughts, and of what during the last two years had taken place in her household. She sat, one morning, about nine o'clock, in a beautiful boudoir, hung with rose-colored silk, over which were falls of India muslin. This room was on the second floor of the house, and there, with her head on her hand, Aminta wrote, on a small table incrusted with Sevres porcelain, the following letter, exhibiting the most intimate thoughts of her soul:

"MY KIND MOTHER: Twenty months ago I left Italy and yourself, to accompany the Marquis de Maulear and his excellent father to Paris. Since then my letters have not suffered you to want details of things about which you are so curious, which occurred in the course of my trip from Naples hither, and of my reception by my husband's family. The family of the Marquis, as you already know, is one of the most important of Paris, both from rank, fortune, and nobility, and did not therefore dare to receive with coldness a stranger who came thus to take a place in its bosom. The tender protection of my father-in-law made it a duty to them to seem to me what they really were to him, benevolent, kind, and affectionate. Long ago, I saw that the sentiments they exhibited were not sincere; and I guessed that beneath the affectionate manners of my new family, there was hidden an icy vanity, and want of sympathy with the young woman who had no ancestors, no birth, and almost no fortune, who had thus, as it were, come among them to usurp name, position, and influence, to which no one should pretend who had not a lineage at least as princely as theirs. I soon learned how little faith I should have in their politeness, and the anxiety in my behalf which were exacted by the _exigences_ of society, and above all by the paternal protection of the Prince de Maulear. I was eager to find in the friendship of those with whom I was cast something of that kind reciprocity of sentiments which I was anxious to exhibit to them. The first person to whom I appealed replied to me by cold glances. On this person, dear mother, I relied, not as a substitute for yourself, but as one to advise me in the new life I was about to lead amid a society the customs and language of which I was almost ignorant of. This person was the Countess of Grandmesnil, sister of the Prince, and aunt of my husband. The Countess was passionately fond of my husband, whom she educated, and perhaps was wounded at the idea of his having married without consulting her. This union also put an end to hopes which had long before been formed in relation to a similar connection with that of the Duke d'Harcourt's, one of the first families in France. Mademoiselle de Grandmesnil, therefore, received me with cautious urbanity, repelled my confidence, and made me look on her whom I had considered an affectionate protectress as an enemy. The Marquis was not aware of the Countess's sentiments to me, for when they saw how fond he was, they redoubled their apparent care and attention. I did not, though, remain ignorant of the thorn hidden in the rose. This strange kind of intuition, dear mother, which you have often remarked in me, was made apparent by the most unimportant acts of the Countess, in which she evidently exhibited an expression of her indifference to me, and dissatisfaction at my marriage; I armed myself with courage, and promised to contend with the enemy provided for me by my evil fate. I resolved not to suffer my husband to know any thing of my troubles, nor to suffer the Countess's treatment to diminish my husband's attachment towards the person who had provided for his youth. To recompense me, however, for this want of affection, I had two substitutes--the perpetually increasing love of the Marquis, his tender submission to my smallest wish, and the attachment of the Prince--an enigma he has always refused to explain. Beyond all doubt this reason is powerful and irresistible, for the mention of my father's name made him open his arms, which, as I told you, he at first was determined to close hermetically. Strange must have been those talismanic sounds, changing the deeply-rooted sentiments of an old man's heart, and making him abandon the invariable principles of his mind, so as to induce him to present me, the daughter of a noble of yesterday, as one descended from a person whose virtues had won for him an immortal blessing. I must also tell you that I have seen more than one of the old friends of the Prince stand, as if they were petrified, at hearing him speak thus. I have recounted all those happy scenes, dear mother, merely to compare the past with the present, which presents, alas, a far different aspect. My brilliant sky is obscured--I see in the horizon nothing but clouds. Perhaps I am mistaken, and my too brilliant imagination, against which you have often warned me, fills my mind with too melancholy ideas. Were you but with me, could I but cast myself in your arms, press you to my heart, and imbibe confidence from you! Listen, then, to words I shall confide to this cold paper, read it with the eyes of your soul, and tell me if I am mistaken or menaced with misfortune.

"During the early portion of my residence in Paris, I lived amid a whirlwind of pleasures, balls, and entertainments, which soon resulted in satiety and lassitude. The attention I attracted, the homage paid to me, flattered my vanity, and pleased me; for they seemed to increase the Marquis's love, and to make me more precious to him. After the winter came a calmer season, and I welcomed it gladly, thinking the Marquis and myself, to a degree, would live for each other, and that this feverish, agitated and turbulent life, would be followed by a period of more happiness. Three months passed away in that kind of retirement in which those inhabitants of Paris, who do not leave the city, indulge. The Prince left us to visit his estates in another part of France, and the Marquis and myself were alone. The Countess, it is true, was with us; but her society, instead of adding to our pleasures, was as annoying as possible. Accustomed during my whole life to out-door existence, to long excursions in the picturesque vicinity of our villa, I was sometimes anxious to take morning strolls in the beautiful gardens of Paris. The Countess said to my husband, one day, that a woman of my age should not go out without him. As the Marquis often rode, an exercise with which I am not familiar, and as he had friends to see, and political business to attend to, I was unable to go out but rarely. Then I will say he offered me his arm anxiously, but this exercise neither satisfied my taste, nor the demands of health. There was also a perpetual objection to dramatic performances, of which I was very fond; Henri did not like them. The Countess, also, from religious scruples, was opposed to them, and by various little and ingeniously contrived excuses, I was utterly deprived of this innocent amusement. My toilette was also a subject of perpetual comment. The Countess said that I exaggerated the fashions, that I looked foreign, and that the court was opposed to innovations in the toilette, or again that the court preferred the severe forms of dress. A young and brilliant princess, though, gives tone to her court, and by her elegance, luxury and taste, procures a support for crowds of the Parisian work-people. Henri, over whom his aunt has never ceased to exercise the same influence she did in childhood, while he wished to support my ideas, really supported hers. I saw with regret that the chief defect of the Marquis was weakness of character, and perpetual controversies about little matters produced a state of feeling between us, which subsequently required a kind of effort for us to overcome. This, however, dear mother, is nothing; for I have not come to the really painful point of my confessions. The gay season has returned, and the principal people of Paris have returned to their hotels. I liked to see Henri jealous, because this passion was, in my opinion, an assurance of his love. Henri, who during the early period of our marriage, would not have left me alone for the world, now confides me exclusively to the care of his father. The first time this took place, his absence was a plausible excuse. He does not now even seek a pretext; a whim, an appointment, are sufficient motives for him to leave me. Whither does he go? How does he occupy himself? This is the subject of my uneasiness and torment--yet he loves me, he says, but a heart like mine, dear mother, is not easily deceived. He does not love me as he used to. A magnificent ball was given during the last month, by the Neapolitan Ambassador, the Duke of Palma, who married the famous Felina. Henri left the Prince and myself, as soon as we came to the rooms; the whole night nearly passed away without our seeing him. At last, however, he returned, pale and exhausted. The Prince, who was unacquainted with what had transpired at Sorrento, between his son and Monte-Leone, introduced me to him, and asked me to receive him at our hotel. I hesitated whether I should consent or not; when the Marquis, with an air which lacerated my very heart, asked the Count to visit me, assuring him that he would always be welcome.

"_Welcome to him!_ dear mother. You understand that this man had been his rival, and loved me. I will confess to you, dear mother, as I do to God. He loves me yet, I am sure, though he never told me so; for his looks are what they were, and when he spoke, his emotion told me that he was unaltered. Since that ball, Monte-Leone, thus authorized by the Marquis, has visited me. My husband is not at all displeased at it; tell me, do you think he loves me still? Yesterday, dear mother, I went into my husband's room, to look for a bottle of salts I had forgotten. The Marquis was absent, and his secretary was open, a strange disorder pervaded the room; a few papers were lying about, and among others, I saw a column of figures; I was about to look at them, and had already extended my hand towards it, when I heard a cry, and on turning around saw my husband, pale and alarmed. He advanced towards me, and seizing my arm convulsively, said, Signora, who gave you a right to examine my papers? It is an abuse of confidence which I never can forgive. I grew pale with surprise and grief. 'Sir, said I, such a reproach is unmerited, if there be any thing improper, it is your tone and air.' I left the room, for I was overpowered, and did not wish to weep before him. One hour afterwards, on his knees, he besought me to pardon him for an excitement which he would never be able to pardon himself. He was once more, dear mother, kind as he had ever been; he repeated his vows of eternal love, and exhibited all his former tenderness. His looks hung on me as they used to, and I began to hope he would continue to love me. A cruel idea, however, pursued me, what was the secret shut up in the paper he would not suffer me to read? Why did he, usually so calm and cold, become so much enraged?"

Just then the letter of the Marquise de Maulear was interrupted by the bell which announced the coming of visitors. Aminta remembered that it was reception day, and persons came to say that several visitors awaited her. She went down stairs. On the evening of the same day she resumed her letter.

"I resume my pen to tell you of a strange circumstance which occurred to-day. When I broke off so suddenly, I found some visitors awaiting me. Visiting in Paris is insignificant and meaningless, performed on certain fixed days. Conversation on these occasions is commonplace. People only talk of the pleasure of meeting, and slander is so much the vogue that it is not prudent to leave certain rooms until every one else has gone, lest you should be hacked to pieces by those left behind. My father-in-law came into the room and gave some life to the conversation. The Prince was not alone, for Count Monte-Leone came with him. Why, dear mother, should I conceal from you, that the presence of the Count causes always an invincible distress? This man is so decided and resolute that he never seemed to me like other people. He seems half god and half demon. His keen and often expressive glance, his firm voice made mild by emotion, the _tout ensemble_ of his character, seems to call him to great crimes or sublime actions.

"The Prince said, 'Do you know, Aminta, that the Count is the only person in Paris whom I have to beg to come to see you? I have absolutely to use violence. I had just now almost to use violence to bring him hither.'

"'The Prince, Madame,' said the Count, respectfully, 'looks on respect as reserve. The pleasure of seeing you is too great for me to run the risk of losing it by abusing the privilege.'

"'Bah! bah!' said the Prince, 'mere gallantry, nothing more. We _emigres_, from associating with the English, have lost some of our peculiarities; and I, at least, have contracted one excellent custom. When an Englishman says to a man, "my house is yours," he absolutely means what he says, and the privilege should be used. Your host looks on you as a part of his family, and people of the neighborhood esteem you as much a part of the household as the old grandfather's chair is. You go, come, sit at the table, eat and drink, as if you were at home. This generous hospitality pleases me, because it recalls that of our own ancestors.'

"'Brother,' said the Countess, 'this hospitality can never be acclimated in France, especially in households where there are as pretty women as in ours.'

"'Sister, such privileges are accorded only to people of the honor of whom we are well-assured, like the Count. Besides, travellers like ourselves are hard to please in beauty. Not that the Marquise is not beautiful; but if you had been as we were at Ceprano, if you had only read the interesting