CHAPTER XLIX.

I must now follow the groom on his road, first to the cottage of good Jenny Best, where he learned that Mr. Atkinson had gone away some five minutes before, and then to the house of the neighboring farm, where he found the person he sought still seated on his horse, but talking to the tenant at the door.

"Here, Mr. Atkinson," cried the groom as he came up; "here's a note for you from Mr. Short the surgeon--a sort of warrant, I believe; for he's a justice of the peace, you know, as well as a surgeon. Read it quick, Mr. Atkinson, read it quick; for it won't keep hot long; and if that woman isn't caught I think I'll hang myself."

"Bring us a light, farmer," said Mr. Atkinson, "quickly. What is all this about, John?"

"Why, Madam Hazleton has poisoned my lady, and she's as dead as a door nail," said the groom, "that's all; and bad enough too. Zounds, I thought she'd do some mischief; she was always so hard upon her horses."

"Good heaven!" exclaimed Mr. Atkinson, "you do not mean to say that she has certainly poisoned Lady Hastings?"

"Why, Mr. Short believes it, and every one believes it," answered the groom.

Mr. Atkinson might have endeavored to reduce the number comprised in the term "every body" to its just proportions; but before he could do so, the farmer returned with a light shaded from the wind by his hat; and the good high constable of Hartwell, bending over his saddle, read hurriedly Mr. Short's brief note.

"What's the matter? what's the matter?" cried the farmer; and great was his surprise and consternation to hear that Lady Hastings was dead, and that strong suspicion existed of her having been poisoned by Mrs. Hazleton. There is a stern, dogged love of justice, however, in the English peasant, which rises into energy and excitement; and the farmer was instantly heard calling for his horse.

"Zounds, I'll ride with you, Atkinson," he said. "This great dame has got so many servants, she may think fit to set the law at defiance; but she must be taught that high people cannot poison other people any more than low ones. But you go on; you go on. I'll catch you up, perhaps. If not, I'll come in time, don't you be afraid."

"I'm going along too," said the groom, "and two others are coming; so if her tall men show fight, I think we'll leather their jackets."

Away they went as fast as they could go, and to say truth, Mr. Atkinson was not at all sorry to have some assistance; for without ever committing any one act which could be characterized as criminal, unjust, or wrong, within the knowledge of her neighbors, Mrs. Hazleton had somehow impressed the minds of all who surrounded her with the conviction, that hers was a most daring and remorseless nature. The general world received their impression of her character--and often a false one, be it good or evil--by her greater and more important actions: the little circle that surrounds us forms a slower but more certain judgment from minute but often repeated traits.

On rode Mr. Atkinson and the groom, as fast as their horses could carry them. Wherever there was turf by the roadside they galloped; and at the rate of progression made by carriages in that day, they made sure they must be gaining very rapidly upon the object of their pursuit. When first they set out it was very dark; but at the end of twenty minutes, in which period they had ridden somewhat more than four miles, the edge of the moon began to appear above the horizon, and her light showed them well nigh another mile on the road before them. Still no carriage was in sight, and the groom exclaimed, "Dang it, Mr. Atkinson, we must spur on, or she will get home before we catch her."

It is impossible to run after any thing without feeling some of the eagerness of the fox-hound, and it is not to be denied that Mr. Atkinson shared in some degree in the impetuous spirit of the chase with the groom. He said nothing about it, indeed; but he made his spurs mark his horse's sides, and on they went up the opposite slope at a quicker pace than ever. From the top was a very considerable descent into the bottom of the valley, in which Hartwell is situated; but the moon had not yet risen high enough to illuminate more than half the scene, and darkness, doubly dark, seemed to have gathered over the low grounds beneath the eyes of the two horsemen.

Mr. Atkinson thought he perceived some large object below, moving on towards Hartwell; but he could not be sure of it till he had descended some way down the hill, when the carriage of Mrs. Hazleton, mounting a little rise into the moonlight, became plainly visible to the eye. The groom took off his cap and waved it, saying, "Tally ho!" but neither he nor his companion paused in their rapid course, but went thundering down at the risk of their necks, and of their horses' knees. The carriage moved slowly; the pursuers went very fast: and at the end of about four minutes they had reached and passed the two mounted men-servants, who, as customary in those days, rode behind the vehicle. Robberies on the highway were by no means uncommon; so that it was the custom for the attendants upon a carriage to travel armed, and Mrs. Hazleton's two men instantly laid their hands upon the holsters of their pistols, when those too rapid riders passed them at such a furious pace. Mr. Atkinson, however, was not a man to be easily frightened from anything he undertook, and wheeling his horse sharply when in a little advance of the coachman, he exclaimed, "In the King's name I command you to stop. I am James Atkinson, high constable of Hartwell. You know me, sir; and I command you in the King's name to stop!"

"Why, Master Atkinson, what is all this about?" cried the coachman. "There is nobody but Mrs. Hazleton here. Don't you know the carriage?"

"Quite well," replied Mr. Atkinson; "but you hear what I say, and will disobey at your peril. John, ride round to the other side, while I speak to the lady here."

Now Mrs. Hazleton had heard the whole of this conversation, and had there been sufficient light, Mr. Atkinson, whose eye was turned towards where she sat, would have seen her turn deadly pale. It might naturally be supposed that in any ordinary circumstances she would have directed her first attention to the side from which the sounds proceeded; but so far from that being the case, she instantly put her hand in her pocket, and was almost in the act of throwing something into the road, when John the groom presented himself at the window, and she stopped suddenly.

"What is it, Mr. Atkinson?" she exclaimed, turning to the other window, and speaking in a tone of high indignation. "Why do you presume to stop my carriage on the King's highway?"

"Because I am ordered, Madam, by lawful authority, so to do," replied Mr. Atkinson. "I am sorry, Madam, to tell you that you must consider yourself as a prisoner."

Mrs. Hazleton would fain have asked upon what charge; but she did not dare, and for a moment strength and courage failed her. It was but for a moment, however, and in the next she exclaimed in a loud and more imperious tone than ever, "This is a pretence for robbery or insult. Drive on, coachman. Mathew--Rogerson--clear the way!"

She reckoned wrongly, however, if she counted upon any great zeal in her servants. The two men hesitated; for the King's name was a tower of strength which they did not at all like to assail. Their mistress repeated her order in an angry tone, and one of them, with habitual deference to her commands, went so far as to cock the pistol which he now held in his hand; but at that moment the adverse party received an accession of strength which rendered all assistance hopeless. The other two servants of Sir Philip Hastings came down the hill at full speed, and a gentleman, followed by a servant, rode up from the side of Hartwell, and addressed Mr. Atkinson by his name.

"Ah, Mr. Marlow!" said Mr. Atkinson. "You come at a very melancholy moment, sir, and to witness a very unpleasant scene; but, nevertheless, I must require your assistance, sir, as this lady seems inclined to resist the law."

"What is the matter?" asked Marlow. "I hope there is no mistake here. If I see rightly this is Mrs. Hazleton's carriage. What is she charged with?"

"Murder, sir," replied Mr. Atkinson, who had been a little irritated by the lady's resistance, and spoke more plainly than he might otherwise have done. "The murder of Lady Hastings by poison."

It was spoken. She heard the words clearly and distinctly. She had been detected. Some small oversight--some accidental circumstance--some precaution forgotten--some accidental word, or gesture, had betrayed the dark secret, revealed the terrible crime. It was all known to men, as well as to God, and Mrs. Hazleton sunk back in the carriage overpowered by the agony of detection.

"Oh, ho; here come the other men," said Mr. Atkinson, as the two servants of Sir Philip Hastings rode up. "Now, coachman, drive on till I tell you to stop. You, John, keep close to the other window, and watch it well. I will take care of this one. The others come behind. Mr. Marlow, you had perhaps better ride with us for half a mile or so; for I must stop at the house of Widow Warmington, as I have orders to make a strict search."

"Oh, take me to my own house--take me to my own house," said Mrs. Hazleton, in a faint tone.

"I dare not venture to do that, Madam," said Mr. Atkinson; "for we are nearly three miles distant, and accidents might happen by the way which would defeat the ends of justice. I must have a full search made at the very first place where I can procure lights. That will be at Mrs. Warmington's; but she is a friend of your own, Madam, and you will be received there with all kindness."

Mrs. Hazleton did not reply; and the carriage drove on, Mr. Atkinson keeping a keen watch upon one window, and the groom riding close to the other.

A few minutes brought them to the house of the shrewd widow, and the bell was rung sharply by one of the servants. A woman servant appeared in answer to the summons, and without asking whether her mistress was at home, or not, Atkinson took the candle from her hand, saying, "Lend me the light for a moment. I wish to light Mrs. Hazleton into the house. Now, Madam, will you please to descend.--John, dismount, and come round here; assist Mrs. Hazleton to alight, and come with us on her other side."

Mrs. Hazleton saw that she could not double or turn there. She withdrew her hand from her pocket where she had hitherto held it, resumed her forgotten air of dignity, and though, to say the truth, she would rather have met her "dearest foe in heaven," than have entered that house so escorted, she walked with a firm step and dauntless eye, with the high constable on one side, and the groom on the other.

"They shall not see me quail," she said to herself. "They shall not see me quail. I know the worst, and I can meet it--I have had my revenge."

In the mean time, the maid had run in haste to tell her mistress the marvels of the scene she had just witnessed, and Mrs. Warmington had gathered enough, without divining the whole, to rejoice her with anticipated triumph. The arrest of Shanks the attorney on a charge of conspiracy and forgery, had set going the hundred tongues of Rumor, few of which had spared the name of Mrs. Hazleton; and Mrs. Warmington, at the worst, suspected that her dear friend was implicated in the guilt of the attorney. That, however, was sufficient to give the widow considerable satisfaction, for she had not forgotten either some coldness and neglect with which Mrs. Hazleton had treated her for some time, or her impatient and insolent conduct that morning; and though upon the strength of her plumpness, and easy manners, people looked upon Mrs. Warmington as a very good natured person, yet fat people can be very vindictive sometimes.

"Good gracious me, my dear, what is the matter?" exclaimed Mrs. Warmington, as the prisoner was brought in, while Mr. Atkinson, speaking to those behind, exclaimed, "Let no one touch or approach the carriage till I return."

Mrs. Hazleton made no answer to her dear friend's questions, and the high constable, taking a little step forward, said, "I beg pardon, Mrs. Warmington, for intruding into your house; but I have been ordered to apprehend this lady, and to have her person and her carriage strictly searched, without giving the opportunity for the concealment or destruction of any thing. It seems to me that Mrs. Hazleton has something bulky in that left hand pocket. As I do not like to put my hand rudely upon a lady, may I ask you, Madam, to let me see what that pocket contains?"

Without the slightest hesitation, but with a good deal of curiosity, Mrs. Warmington advanced at once and took hold of the rich silk brocade of the prisoner's gown.

"Out, woman!" cried Mrs. Hazleton, with the fire flashing from her eyes; and she struck her.

But Mrs. Warmington did not quit her hold or her purpose. "Good gracious, what a termagant!" she exclaimed, and at once thrust her right hand into the pocket, and drew forth the vial which had been sent by the surgeon to Lady Hastings.

"Dear me!" exclaimed Mrs. Warmington. "Why, this is the very bottle I saw you mixing stuff in this morning, when you seemed so angry and vexed at my coming into the still-room.--No, it isn't the same either; but it was one very like this, only darker in the color."

"Ha!" said Mr. Atkinson. "Madam, will you have the goodness to put a mark upon that bottle by which you can know it again?--Scratch it with a diamond or something."

"Oh, poor I have no diamonds," said Mrs. Warmington. "My dear, will you lend me that ring?"

Mrs. Hazleton gave her a withering glance, but made no reply; and Marlow pointed to two peculiar spots in the glass of the bottle, saying, "By those marks it will be known, so that it cannot be mistaken." His words were addressed to Mr. Atkinson; for he felt disgusted and sickened by the heartless and insulting tone of Mrs. Warmington towards her former friend.

At the sound of his voice--for she had not yet looked at him--Mrs. Hazleton started and looked round. It is not possible to tell the feelings which affected her heart at that moment, or to picture with the pen the varied expressions, all terrible, which swept over her beautiful countenance like a storm. She remembered how she had loved him. Perhaps at that moment she knew for the first time how much she had loved him. She felt too, how strongly love and hate had been mingled together by the fiery alchemy of disappointment, as veins of incongruous metals have been mixed by the great convulsions of the early earth. She felt too, at that moment, that it was this love and this hate which had been the cause of her deepest crimes, and all their consequences--the awful situation in which she there stood, the lingering tortures of imprisonment, the agonies of trial, and the bitter consummation of the scaffold.

"Oh, Marlow, Marlow," she cried--in a tone for the first time sorrowful--"to see you mingling in these acts!"

"I have nothing to do with the present business, Mrs. Hazleton," replied Marlow, "but I am bound to say that in consequence of information I have procured, it would have been my duty to have caused your apprehension upon other charges, had not this, of which I know nothing, been preferred against you. All is discovered, madam; all is known. With a slight clue, at first, I have pursued the intricate labyrinth of your conduct for the last two years to its conclusion, and every thing has been made plain as day."

"You, Marlow, you?" cried Mrs. Hazleton, fixing her eyes steadfastly upon him, and then adding, as he bowed his head in token of assent, "but all is not known, even to you. You shall know all, however, before I die; and perhaps to know all may wring your heart, hard though it be. But what am I talking of?" she continued, her face becoming suddenly suffused with crimson, and her fine features convulsed with rage. "All is discovered, is it? And you have done it? What matters it to me, then, whose heart is wrung--or what becomes of you, or me, or any one? A drop more or less is nothing in the overflowing well. Why should I struggle longer? Why should I hide any thing? Why should I fly from this charge to meet another? I did it--I poisoned her--I put the drug by her bedside. It is all true--I did it all--I have had my revenge as far as it could be obtained, and now do with me what you like. But remember, Marlow, remember, if Emily Hastings marries you, she does it with a mother's curse upon her head--a curse that will fall upon her heart like a milldew, and wither it for ever--a curse that will dry up the source of all fond affections, blacken the brightest hours, and embitter the purest joys--a dying mother's curse! She knows it--she has heard it--it can never be recalled. I have put that beyond fate. Ha ha! It is upon you both; and if you venture to unite your unhappy destinies, may that curse cling to you and blast you for ever."

She spoke with all the vehemence of intense passion, breaking, for the first time in life, through strong habitual self-control; and when she had done, she cast herself into a chair, and covered her eyes with her hands.

She wept not; but her whole frame heaved and shivered, with the terrible emotion that tore her heart.

In the mean time, Marlow and Mrs. Warmington and the high constable spoke upon it, consulting what was to be done with her. The prison system of England was at that time as bad as it could be, and those who condemned and abhorred her the most, were anxious to spare her as long as possible the horrors of the jail. At length, after many difficulties, and a good deal of hesitation, Mr. Atkinson agreed, at the suggestion of Mrs. Warmington, to leave her in the house where she then was, under the charge of a constable to be sent for from Hartwell. There was a high upper room from which there was no possibility of escape, with an antechamber in which the constable could watch, and there he was determined to confine her till she could be brought before the magistrate on the following day.

"I must have her thoroughly searched in the first place," said Mr. Atkinson; "for she may have some more of the poison about her, and in her present state, after all she has confessed, she is just as likely to swallow it as not. However, Mr. Marlow, you had better, I think, ride on as fast as possible to see Sir Philip Hastings, and tell him what has occurred here. If I judge rightly, your presence will be very needful there."

"It will indeed," said Marlow, a sudden vague apprehension of he knew not what, seizing upon him; "God grant I have not tarried too long already;" and quitting the room, he sprang upon his horse's back again.

FOOTNOTES:

[2] Continued from page 327.

TWO SONNETS.

WRITTEN FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MONTHLY MAGAZINE.

TRUTH.

For constant truth my aching spirit yearns, And finds no comfort in a glorious cheat; On the firm rock I wish to set my feet, And look upon the star that changeless burns; Yon gorgeous clouds that in the sunset glow, With fire-wrought domes for angel-palace meet, Beneath my gaze their surface beauties fleet; With parting light how dull their splendors grow. I cannot worship vapors, and the hue That on the dove's neck flickers, as it veers, Bewilders, but not charms me; whilst the blue Of the clear sky gives comfort 'mid all fears, And but to think on that unshadowed white, The angels walk in, makes my dark path bright.

THE FUTURE.

Eternal sunshine withers; constant light Would make the beauty of the world look wan; The storm that sleeps with dark'ning terror on, Leaves verdant freshness where it seemed to blight; Most dreary is the land where comes no night, For there the sun is chill, and slowly drawn Round the horizon, spreads a sickly dawn, No promise of a day more warm and bright. Bless then the clouds and darkness, for we can Discern with awe through them what angel faces Watch and direct, and from their holy places Smile with sublime benignity on man; And dearly cherish sickness, pain, and sorrow, As gloomy heralds of a bright to-morrow.

V.

THE COUNT MONTE-LEONE: OR, THE SPY IN SOCIETY.[3]

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

VIII.--THE GARRET.

Half demented, Monte-Leone left the Duke's Hotel. His existence had become a terrible dream, a hideous nightmare, every hour producing a new terror and surprise. D'Harcourt was gone. He went to find Von Apsberg. "He at least will speak. He will say something about this atrocious accusation. He will explain the meaning of the perfidious reply of the chief of police. If he repeated this atrocious calumny, if he persisted in thinking him guilty, his heart would be open to Monte-Leone's blows. He would at least crush and bury one of his enemies."

A new misfortune awaited him. The doctor was not to be found. The police had occupied the house at the time that the Vicomte was being arrested. The doctor had beyond a doubt been previously informed of their coming and escaped, but his papers were seized. All the archives and documents of Carbonarism fell into the hands of M. H----. One might have said some evil genius guided the police and led them in their various examinations into the invisible mines of their prey. Furniture, drawers, and all were examined. Count Monte-Leone, when he heard of the disappearance of the Doctor and of the seizure of his papers, felt an increase of rage. The discovery of the archives ruined for a long time, if not for ever, the prospects of the work to which Monte-Leone had consecrated his life. The flight of Matheus also deprived him of any means of extricating himself from the cloud of mystery which surrounded him, and made futile any hope of vengeance. Taddeo alone remained, and he was protected by the oath he had taken to the Marquise. One other deception yet awaited him. A devoted member of the Carbonari, on the next day, came to Monte-Leone's house and informed the Count that on the day after the Vicomte's arrest and the escape of Matheus, a similar course had been adopted against Rovero, who was indebted for his liberty only to information from Signor Pignana on the night before the coming of the police. A note from Aminta told Monte-Leone of the disappearance of Rovero. The Count was then completely at sea, and he was abandoned by all to a horrible imputation which he could neither avenge nor dispute. He could, therefore, only suffer and bide his time. Resignation, doubt, and delay, were terrible punishments to his energetic and imperative character. One hope remained, which, if realized, would enable him to contradict all the imputations on his honor. This was, that he would be able to share the fate of his comrades, not of Von Apsberg and Taddeo, who had escaped, but of those who languished in the cells of _la Force_ and the _Conciergerie_. The Count knew that the police, from the perusal of the archives, must be aware of his position, and awaited hourly and daily his arrest. This did not take place, though he perpetually received anonymous letters of the most perplexing and embarrassing character, charging him, in the grossest terms of the language, with being a spy and a traitor to the association to which he had pledged his life and his honor. He resolved at last to play a desperate game--to exhibit an unheard of energy and power. He repudiated the disdainful impunity which apparently was inflicted on him intentionally. He surrendered himself to the police....

While Count Monte-Leone acted thus courageously, the following scene took place in a hotel whither our readers have been previously taken.

A man apparently about thirty years old sat pale and downcast at a table, writing with extreme rapidity. Occasionally he rested his weary head on his hand, and his eyes wandered across the sky which he saw through a trap-window, so usual in that room of houses known as the garret.[4] He then glanced on the paper, and wrote down the inspirations he seemed to have evoked from the abode of angels. He was the occupant of a garret, which, though small, seemed so disguised by taste and luxury that the narrow abode appeared even luxurious. The table at which the writer sat was of Buhl, and was ornamented by vases of Sevres ware. The wooden bedstead was hidden by a silken coverlet, and a large arm-chair occupied a great portion of the room. On the small chimney-piece of varnished stone was a china vase filled with magnificent flowers from hot-houses, above which arose a superb camelia. A curtain of blue shut out the glare of the sun. It was easy to see that female taste had presided over the arrangements of this room. A beautiful woman really had done so. The inmate of the room was Doctor von Apsberg. The girl of whom we have spoken was Marie d'Harcourt.

On the day of René's arrest, a fortnight before the one we write of, the Doctor was alone when the secret panel was opened. Pignana suddenly appeared before the Doctor and told him that his house as well as the Doctor's was surrounded by suspicious looking people. Pignana therefore advised him to go at once. Von Apsberg was about to go to his bureau and take possession of his papers. The police did not allow him time to do so; they knocked at that very moment at the door and entered the house before Von Apsberg had time to leave. It will be remembered that the studio of the Doctor in which the archives were kept, was in the third story of the house. Matheus was, therefore, forced to fly through the opening, into Pignana's house, and with his ear to the wall listened to the noise made by the police, with thankfulness for the secret passage. He heard a deep voice say, "If your Jacobin Doctor has escaped, you shall answer for it." This was said to Mlle. Crepineau. The good maiden swore the Doctor was absent, as she thought, or feigned to think. Another voice, with a deep southern accent, said the following words, which the young Doctor heard with surprise and fear:

"The one you seek is gone. If, though, you would find him, press that copper nail which you see on the third row of books. You will find the means of his escape into the next house."

A cry was heard from the interior of the room. A female voice thus spoke to the man who had just spoken: "Señor Muñez, it is abominable for you thus to betray the poor fellows. You are a bad and heartless man."

When the Doctor heard thus revealed the secret of his retreat, he had pushed through the inner door, and it was well he did, for it gave him time to leave the room. The door of the library offered but a feeble resistance, which was soon overcome, and Pignana's house was carefully entered and searched.

He at once conceived an idea of a plan of escape. He said to Pignana, "Not a word; but follow me." Von Apsberg, accompanied by Pignana, left the place where they were concealed, went into the yard, and proceeded to a shed which was separated from his house by a few badly joined planks. One of these he removed, passed through the opening, and stood in an outhouse where he remembered he had once made some anatomical inquiries.

"But you are going back," said Pignana, "you will again fall in the hands of the enemy."

"You would be a bad general, Pignana," said Von Apsberg; "this is a common _ruse de guerre_, and is known as a counter-march. These places have been explored by the enemy, and consequently they will return no more. While the agents are looking where we are not, we will return where they have been."

When night came, and at this time of the year it was at four o'clock, Pignana told his companion of his plan. He purposed to scale the wall of the yard by means of the trellices of the vines. When once on the other side they would be in the garden of the Duke d'Harcourt, from which the young physician expected to go to the hotel to obtain protection from the Vicomte. The execution of this plan was easy for one as thin as d'Harcourt, but was impracticable to a person with an abdomen like Pignana. As soon as night had come, the latter said to Von Apsberg, "Go through the air, Doctor, if you can. I intend to adopt a more earthly route--through the door of the house, even if, much to Mlle. Crepineau's terror, I have the audacity to assume the guise of the suicide, and terrify her into opening the door for me. Besides, I am but slightly compromised, and will extricate myself. Adieu, then, Doctor," said he, "and good luck to you amid the clouds!" Von Apsberg clasped his hand, hurried from his retreat, ascended the wall, passed it, and a few minutes after was in the Duke's garden. Taking advantage of the darkness he went to the hotel, every window of which, to his surprise, he found closed. He went without being seen to the door of the reception rooms on the ground floor. The window had not been shut since the arrest of the Vicomte. The Doctor entered it. At the back of this room was a boudoir à la Louis XIV., of rare elegance, and appropriated to Marie d'Harcourt. Amid the darkness he heard a strange sound of sighs and sobs. The Doctor drew near, expecting that there was some pain for him to soothe. "Who is there?" said the Duke d'Harcourt.

"It is I, my lord, Doctor Matheus."

"You here, sir!" said the Duke; "they told me that, like my unfortunate son, you were arrested; and for the same offence."

"What say you, sir?" said Von Apsberg, with deep distress; "René, dear René, arrested?"

"Yes, sir," said the old Duke; "arrested and torn from his father's arms. Yet the blow did not overwhelm me. This, though, will take place ere long, and the executioner's axe will strike father and son at once."

A footman appeared with lights, and the Doctor saw the whole family weeping. His head rested on Marie's shoulder, and the long white hair of the old man was mingled with the young girl's dark locks, and seemed like the silvery light of the moon resting on her brown hair. The Duke saw at a glance how the Doctor participated in all his sorrows, and how the fate of his son lacerated the heart of his visitor. He gave his hand to the Doctor.

"I forgive you," said he, "the part you have had in my son's error, when I remember how you love him, and the care you have taken of Marie."

"Alas! Monsieur," said Von Apsberg; "that duty I can discharge no longer. The fate of René must be mine, to-morrow, to-day, in a few moments--for I came to seek for concealment. If, though, he has lost his liberty; if all his plans are destroyed, why should I any longer contend against misfortune? Adieu, Duke! I will rejoin René, share his misfortune, and defend his life; if not against men, at least against the cruel disease which menaces his career."

As she heard these words, the cheeks of Marie d'Harcourt became pale as marble, and she said, in tones of deep distress, "Father, will you suffer him to go thus?"

Von Apsberg looked at her with trouble and surprise.

"No, my child," said the Duke, "the Doctor will not leave us; and we will protect him." Von Apsberg then told the bold means by which he had entered the house.

"No one saw," said the Duke, "_how_ you came hither?"

"No one."

"There is no suspicion?"

"None."

Assisted by Marie, the Duke contrived a plan for an impenetrable asylum for the Doctor. In the right wing of the hotel were many rooms intended for servants, and uninhabited; for, since the death of his other sons, the Duke had greatly reduced his household. In one of these rooms, carefully decked and furnished, by Marie's care, Doctor Matheus was fixed. The old secretary of the Duke d'Harcourt alone was in the secret, and this worthy man took charge of the food of the Doctor, who saw no one except Marie and her father. The young girl gradually became bolder, and touched with pity at the loneliness of the prisoner, obeyed the dictates of her own heart and went frequently to the young Doctor's room to be sure that he was in want of nothing. Like a consoling angel, she came with her celestial presence to adorn the captive's retreat, and restore something of happiness to his heart. Von Apsberg, who had been for some days left alone, had reflected deeply on his political opinions and on their consequences. The immense difference between all old principles and the innovating ideas of Carbonarism caused him to doubt the triumph of the latter; the great discouragement which Monte-Leone's _apparent treason_ had produced, and the fate of his associates, produced a deep impression on him. Amid all these gloomy thoughts, one fresh and prominent idea reinvigorated his mind, and gave him ineffable joy.

Without wishing to analyze his feelings towards Marie, the Doctor was under their influence. He did not dream of ever possessing that aristocratic heart from which he was separated by rank, birth, and fortune. The heart of man, nevertheless, is so constituted, that the most honest and loyal man is never exempt from a shadow of egotism. Perhaps, therefore, in the Doctor's mind there was a feeble hope of approaching that class whose position he so envied. Let this be as it may, abandoning himself to the luxury of seeing always by his side this beautiful creature, whose health his care had already revived, the Doctor blessed his captivity, and lived in anxious expectation of the hours when Marie used to visit him. Von Apsberg possessed that Platonic heart which enabled him to look on Marie as a creature of pure poetry. He entertained so respectful a tenderness for the young girl, that he distrusted her no more than she did him.

On the day we found the Doctor writing in his retreat with such ardor, he was writing out a _regime_ for his patient. He told her what to do, and, as if gifted with prescience, provided for her future life.

"If," said he, "I be discovered--if the future have in reserve for the heiress d'Harcourt"--and his heart felt as if a sharp iron had transfixed it--"if a noble marriage separate me from her; at least in this painful study of her health she will be able to contend against her family disease, and perhaps will be indebted to me for life, happy and unsuffering." The idea seemed too much for the strength of the young physician as he saw thus fade before him all hope of a union with Marie. Steps just then were heard outside his room just as he was concluding the sad _memoire_ we have spoken of.

The Doctor, in obedience to the request of his host, answered no knock, and gave no evidence of life, except at a concerted signal known only to three persons--the Duke, his daughter, and D'Arbel. Therefore he listened. The person who advanced paused for a time before his door, and then left rapidly as it had come. Von Apsberg, however, by means of that lover's intuition, guessed who it was. The eyes of his heart pierced the opacity of the door, to enable him to admire the charming angel who had alighted at his door and flown away. Before this angel had disappeared from the long corridor which led to the Doctor's room, the door was opened, and he paused to glance at the young girl who was ready to escape. Marie returned to the Doctor, and advanced slowly towards him.

"Ah! Monsieur," said she to Matheus, "it is wrong in you not to keep your promise better. You promised my father never to open the door without a signal--"

"Why then, Mademoiselle, did you not give the signal?"

"I did not come to see you," said Marie; "but I brought you books and flowers. I am so afraid you will grow weary in this little room, where you are always alone and sad."

As she spoke, the angel girl went to the Doctor's room, as she would have done to her brother's, without any hesitation or trouble. She was robed in innocence; and if her heart beat a little louder than usual then, the child attributed it entirely to the rapidity with which she had ascended the stairs. The Doctor took the books and flowers which she had placed at his door, and put them in the vase on the mantle. He was glad to be able to look away from Marie's face, for he felt that his countenance told all he thought.

"I took the most amusing books from my little library," said she. "One learned as you are, always immersed in study, may not approve of my choice. Perhaps though, Monsieur, as you read them you will think of your patient--"

"Ah! I do so always," said Von Apsberg. "I was thinking of you when you came."

"You were writing," said Marie, as she looked at the sheet Von Apsberg pointed out to her.

"Ah! Mademoiselle, I wrote for you. You must follow one rule of conduct in relation to your health, when you are separated from your father--when you are married."

"Married!" said Mlle. d'Harcourt, and she grew pale. "I never thought of being married."

"But marry you must. You will marry rich; and, Mlle., a husband worthy of you. Ere long you will have many suitors."

"Monsieur," said the girl, "our house now is hung with mourning. The life of my brother is in danger, and my health, as you said, is frail and feeble. All this you know is altogether contradictory to what you say. As for myself," said she, with an emotion she experienced for the first time, "I am happy as I now am, and desire no other position, I must leave you, though," added she: "for now my father must have come from the prison where he obtained leave to visit my brother. I am anxious to hear from him. The Duke and myself will soon tell you about him."

Light as a vapor, rapid as a cloud, the young girl left the Doctor's room, to his eyes radiant with the lustre she left behind her.

IX.--THE CONCIERGERIE.

Eight days after the conversation between Von Apsberg and Marie, the Doctor heard a knock at his door. The latter was reading over for the twentieth time one of the books which had been brought him. This book was Telemachus, the poetical romance one might have fancied Homer himself had dreamed of, and which Virgil and Ovid had written--the book in which morals are enwrapped in so dense a covering of flowers, that a reader often refuses to glance at the serious part of the work, and pays attention only to the graceful superficies. Von Apsberg, however, read the book, not for its own sake, but for the sake of her who had given it to him. Marie had read every page, and her hands had turned over every leaf. This fact gave the history of the son of Ulysses an immense value in the eyes of the young Doctor, and made Telemachus, not Fenelon's, but Marie d'Harcourt's book. The knock at the Doctor's door was followed by the concerted signal. He opened it, and saw the Duke's old secretary. "Monsieur," said he, "as the Duke is absent, I am come to say that Mlle. Marie is ill. I know your care will be useful. She does not, though, send for you, being too feeble to come up stairs, and afraid to ask you to come down."

"Monsieur d'Arbel, let no one into the hotel; and tell Mlle. I will visit her.

"She will see you, Monsieur, in the window next to the drawing-room. I will send the servants out of the way, so that you can see Mlle. Marie without fear of discovery."

All the Secretary's arrangements were carried out, and a few minutes after Matheus waited on his fair patient. She was ill. Since her conversation with the Doctor, her health had really changed. Something mental seemed to influence it. Her complexion, sullied by the tears she had shed since her brother's arrest, was faded, and a flush was visible on her cheeks alone. These symptoms made the Doctor unhappy. He, therefore, approached Marie with great uneasiness.

She said: "How kind you are, Doctor, to risk your liberty: I could not otherwise have seen you. I have not strength enough."

"I will try soon to confer it on you, if God grants me power to attend to you."

"I shall die," said she with an anxious voice, which penetrated the Doctor's very heart, "if you cannot."

"For your sake," said Matheus, "I will defend my liberty by every means in my power, for I wish to restore your health, and preserve an existence indispensable to your father's happiness."

"How I suffer," said Marie, placing her hand on her snowy brow. "I have an intense pain, which passes from temple to temple, and gives me much suffering."

"Do you sleep well?" asked Matheus.

"No, no, for many days I have not slept, or if I have, phantoms have flitted across my slumbers." She blushed as she spoke. This the Doctor did not see, for he was searching out a remedy.

"Well," said he, "I think we must use a remedy which has hitherto succeeded. Magnetism will enable you to sleep, and perhaps will soothe your sufferings." Rising, then, he placed his hand on the patient's brow, as he had done a few months before when the Marquise had experienced such good effects from it. He placed his hands on the young girl's temples, and then made passes across her face, the result of which was that she sank softly to sleep. The state of somnambulism ensued, and Marie unfolded the condition of her heart to the young physician. While he was thus engaged the Duke entered.

"You here, Doctor?" said he; "how imprudent!"

"_She_ was suffering," said the physician; "now she sleeps." The Duke thanked Von Apsberg for his care, but seemed to centre all his hope in the young Doctor, as the sailor devotes himself to the lord of storms and waves. Now, though, every word the Duke said seemed a reproach. He shuddered as he thought of the confessions of Mlle. d'Harcourt, and asked himself if he participated in her sentiments or had suffered her to divine his. All his delicacy and loyalty revolted from the idea that this confession would cost the unfortunate father the life of his daughter.[5] Von Apsberg saw that henceforth it would be impossible for him to remain longer at the Duke's hotel, and that it would be criminal to remain with one the secret thoughts of whom he knew. He, therefore, made up his mind to speak to the Duke. Just then Marie, who had been for some time free from any magnetic influence, awoke calm and smiling. "How deliciously I have slept," said she; "how well I am!"

The Duke kissed her affectionately. He said, "All this you owe to the Doctor; and I thank heaven amid our misfortunes that he has been preserved to us. I am glad I have been able to rescue him from his persecutors, and preserve my daughter's health by means of his own watchful care."

Marie gave the Doctor her hand. The young girl did not remember what she had said while she slept. This slumber of the heart, however, could not last, and the young Doctor knew it. He resolved on the painful sacrifice which, but for the waking of his patient, he would at once have communicated to the Prince.

The reflections of the night confirmed the Doctor in the course he had resolved to adopt. On the next day he put on a long cloak, which disguised his stature, and went to the room of the Duke, after having also put on a wig which René often wore when he visited Matheus, and which the Duke had sent for to enable him in case of a surprise to leave unrecognized.

The distress of the Duke at the Vicomte's imprisonment increased every day. He had only once been able to reach his son, and had contrived to inspire the captive with hopes of liberty he was far from entertaining himself. The Vicomte was actively watched, and his most trifling actions were observed. Ever alone in the sad cell in which he had been confined, ennui and despair took possession of him, and his brilliant mind, to which mirth and activity had been indispensable, became downcast and miserable. Since the visit of his father, also, his delicate chest had begun to suffer. What the Doctor especially apprehended for his friend was the possibility of cold and dampness producing a dangerous irritation of the respiratory organs. This took place; for nothing could be more humid and icy than the cell of René. He had a dry and incessant cough. The keepers paid no attention to it, and the keeper of the Conciergerie treated it as a simple cold of no importance. The Vicomte was unwilling to inform his father of it lest he should be uneasy, and the mere indisposition rapidly became a serious and terrible disease. This was the state of things when Von Apsberg presented himself before the Duke. "What is the matter?" said the old man. "Are you discovered and forced to leave us?"

"Duke," said the Doctor, "let me first express my deepest thanks for your generous hospitality. Let me tell you how much your kindness has soothed the cruel suffering to which I have been subjected day and night for three weeks. I would, had it not been for your kindness, have weeks ago shared the captivity of René; and the hope I entertained of being of use to your daughter, alone prevented me from surrendering myself to despair at the prospect of a crushed and prospectless life, when I saw my brethren arrested in consequence of one whom I had always looked on as a devoted friend."

"Do not speak to me of that man," said the Duke in a terrible tone, "for my son, in my presence, charged him with having betrayed him."

"I have spoken to you of my gratitude," said the Doctor, "that you might not doubt it now at our separation."

"What danger now menaces you?" said the Duke, "why do you leave us?"

"To avoid being ungrateful," said Von Apsberg. "That you may never accuse your guest of selfishness, and that he may always deserve the esteem with which you honor him."

"What is the meaning of this mysterious language?"

"Grant me," said the young physician, with a trembling voice, "the boon of being permitted to keep the cause of my departure a secret. You would be as sorry to hear as I would be to tell you."

"No," said the old man, "I will not consent to this. You shall not quit the house which shelters you from your enemies: no, you shall not. Ah! sir," continued the Duke, "if you will not remain for your own sake do so for mine, for you alone have preserved the life of my daughter thus far." The Doctor said, as he gave a paper to the Duke: "Here is the result of my study, in which I have traced out all the means known to science calculated to strengthen the health of your daughter, and to parry the dangers which menace her."

"Doctor," said the Duke, "do not distress me by leaving the hotel. Do not make me perpetually miserable, Doctor, I am already unfortunate enough."

"Well," said the young man, unable to resist his prayers any longer, "you shall know what forces me to go, and shall yourself judge of my duty." He fell at the Duke's feet, and told him all he had learned during Marie's slumber, his combats with himself, and his resolution.

"You are an honest man," said the Duke, with an expression of poignant grief, and lifting him up: "but I am a most unfortunate father."

D'Asbel just then came in with a letter.

"From my son," said the Duke, and he opened it. The features of the old man assumed, as he read, such an expression of terror, that Von Apsberg and the Secretary advanced towards him and sustained him, for he seemed ready to faint. "Read," said he, with a voice half indistinct, and he gave the Doctor the letter. It was as follows:

"MY DEAR FATHER:--I can conceal no longer that I am dying. One man alone, who has often soothed me by his care and advice, can now save me. This is Von Apsberg. I cannot, though, ask him to accompany you, for he would endanger his own liberty. Come, then, dear father, to see me for the last time."

"Let us go, sir," said the Doctor. "Let us not delay a minute, for in an hour--it may be too late."

"But you expose your life, Doctor, by going among your enemies," said the Duke.

"But I will save his," said Von Apsberg. The Duke rushed into his arms.

Half an hour afterwards two men entered the Conciergerie. They were the Vicomte's father and an English doctor whom the Duke brought to see his son. The Director of the prison did not dare to refuse a father and physician permission to see a sick son and patient. With the turnkeys they passed an iron grate, beyond which was seen a vaulted passage, which, in the darkness, seemed interminable. On the inner side of the grate sat a morose looking man, whom nature seemed to have created exclusively to live in one of these earthly hells. His only duty was to open and shut the grate, to which he seemed as firmly attached as one of its own bars. His duty was not without danger, for in case of a mutiny, the Cerberus had orders to throw on the outside the heavy key he was intrusted with, and thus expose himself, without means of escape, to the rage of the criminals. They showed this man their pass. The key turned in the lock, and the grate permitted them to enter. It then swung to, filling the vaulted passage with its clash. Near this was a dark room, in which were several dark-browed jailers and gend'armes.

The Duke and the Doctor were minutely examined. One of them, whose features hidden by a dirty cap might recall one of the persons of this history, left the group, opened the grate, and disappeared rapidly, just as a new jailer guided the visitors to a long corridor in one of the cells, on opening which was the Vicomte D'Harcourt. On a miserable pallet, in a kind of dark cellar, into which the day seemed to penetrate reluctantly, through a grated window, was René D'Harcourt, the last hope of an illustrious house, without air or any of the attentions his situation demanded. The Duke wept to see him. René, with hollow cheeks, and eyes sparkling with a burning fever, arose with pain and extended his arms to his father, who embraced him tenderly.

Fifteen days had expanded his disease, the germs of which had long slept in his system. The bad air and icy dew, amid which he lived, the absence of constant and vigilant care, in such cases so indispensable, had, as it were, conspired against him. A violent and dry cough every moment burst from his chest, and at every access his strength seemed more and more feeble. Had he sooner informed his father of his condition, beyond doubt, some active remedy would have been used, not for pity's sake, for at that time little was shown to conspirators, but from fear of the liberal press, whose censure the administration dreaded. René, however, was too disdainful of the persons he called his executioners to ask any favors. The physician of the prison, as we have said, was satisfied with ordering a few trifling palliatives. The Vicomte was dying without his even being aware of it. When the turnkey had introduced the Duke and the Englishman he left, telling them that in a few minutes he would return. Then the Vicomte saw that a stranger was with his father. The latter approached, and taking the young man's hand pressed it to his heart with an affection which told the prisoner who visited him.

"Von Apsberg! Ah! father, I knew he would come."

"Be silent, dear René; be silent," said the Doctor, "for your sake and mine. Forget that I am your friend, and remember me only as a doctor. Tell me how you suffer. Speak quick, for time is precious. Tell me nothing--and do not exhaust yourself in describing--what is plain enough, I am sorry to say. I see, I read in your eyes, what is your condition."

To hide his tears Von Apsberg looked away. A father's heart though could not be deceived, and the Duke had seen the Doctor's tears. The old man said, "Save, Doctor, save my son."

Von Apsberg made an effort to surmount the grief which overcame him.

"We will save him," said he, calmly; "there is a remedy for such cases, which in a few hours will terminate the progress of the malady, and enable us to adopt other means. He took a card from his pocket and wrote a prescription, which he ordered to be sent immediately to the nearest apothecary. He yet had the card in his hand when the door of the cell was violently thrown open, and several men accompanied by gend'armes rushed in and seized the Doctor.

"Arrest him," said an officer. "It is he, the German physician whom we have so long sought for. He has been recognized." Nothing could equal the effect of this scene. The Vicomte made useless attempts to leave his bed and assist his friend. The Duke was pale and agitated; and Von Apsberg, calm and resigned, gave himself up to the men who surrounded him. In anxiety for René he had forgotten himself.

"Gentlemen," said he, "you may do as you please with me, but, for heaven's sake, let me remain a few moments with this young man, and one of you hurry for this prescription I have written."

"A paper," said the principal agent with joy, when he saw what Von Apsberg had in his hand. "It is, perhaps, a plan of escape. This must be taken to the Director for the _Procureur du Roi_. Another scheme, perhaps, of the Jacobin has come to light----" He put the paper in his huge pocket.

"Take this man away, said he to the gens d'armes, and do not let him speak a word to the prisoner." Rushing on Von Apsberg like famished wolves, they bore him away, and left the Duke alone with his son. The shock had done the prisoner much injury. He sunk back on his bed with a violent cough, and felt a mortal coldness glide over his frame and chill his blood.

"A doctor, a doctor," said the Duke, rushing towards the door. "A physician, for heaven's sake. My son is dying." The door did not close. The poor father leaning over his child pressed his lips to his burning brow, and then supported his head, from time to time attempting to warm his icy hands with his breath. He continued to call in heaven's name for a physician.

Half an hour after Von Apsberg's arrest, and while the Duke yet pressed his son's inanimate body, three men appeared in the room. They were the Director, Doctor, and Jailer of the prison.

"Monsieur," said the Duke to the Director, rising to his full stature, and with a tone of painful solemnity, "you are an accomplice in a great crime, and before the country and king, I, Duke d'Harcourt, peer of France, and grand cordon of the Saint Esprit, will accuse you."

"What mean you, sir?" said the Director, with a terror he could not conceal. "Of what do you complain?"

"That you have placed in a cell, without air and light, as if he were sentenced to death, a man against whom there is now a mere suspicion; for he has not been tried. I complain that you have wrested from me a physician I have brought hither to attend to my son--and that with horrible brutality you have taken possession of a prescription for a remedy which might have preserved him, and have by this means deprived him of life."

The Duke spoke but too truly, for a kind of suffocation took possession of the young man. His breast seemed oppressed, and every sign of death was visible.

The Director muttered some apology in defence of himself, but the Duke said, "Not another word here, sir; accomplish your task in peace; or at least, give me back the paper. It is the life of my son----"

As the Director was about to go in person for it, the Doctor called him back and pointed to the patient over whose countenance death began to steal. He said, "It is too late!"

The Vicomte arose with difficulty and said, "Father, forgive me the wrong I have done. Forgive me, as I forgive others. No, no, not so; for there is one person I cannot forgive!" He looked around with an expression of intense hatred and contempt. "He has ruined and destroyed me, and all of us; he has delivered us to our enemies,--_that_ man, hear all of you, is Count Monte-Leone!" His head sank on his breast, and his last breath mingled with the kisses of his father.

"I have no son!" said the old man in despair; and he sank by the side of the child God had taken away from him.

X.--THE CONFESSION.

As we have seen in a previous chapter, Count Monte-Leone went to the Prefect of Police to surrender himself to his enemies. The Count did not hesitate, for he preferred a sudden and cruel death to the intolerable life he now led. The Prefect was as civil as possible, and altogether different from what he would have been three days before to a person pointed out as one of the agents. The reason was, that after the energetic protestation of the Count in the presence of M. H---- at the Duke d'Harcourt's, grave doubts had arisen in the mind of the chief of the political police in relation to the services said to have been rendered by the Neapolitan. Making use then of the police itself, and causing the man who said he was an agent of the Count's to be watched, his conviction of the non-participation of Monte-Leone in the treachery became almost certain, and he began to tremble at the idea that he had been made a dupe in this affair, and at the probable consequences. The first of these was the fear of ridicule, that powerful instrument against a police; next, the just recrimination to which the Count might subject them as having slandered him; and the capital error of having left at liberty the most powerful of the Carbonari in Europe, under the belief that he was an ally of the Government--to which he was a mortal foe. All this crowd of faults H---- had committed in his blind confidence, and had led astray the police and all the agents. Thus uneasy, the Chief of Police saw that but one course of safety was left him. This was both bold and adroit, for it foresaw danger and prepared a conductor to turn its thunders aside. H---- went to the Prefect and owned all. The first anger of the latter having passed away, the two chiefs saw with terror that they were equally compromised--the one for acting, and the other for suffering his subordinate to act. They, therefore, adopted the only course left them, Machiavelian it is true, but which extricated them from a great difficulty. This course was, to deny all participation in the malicious reports circulated in relation to the Count, but to suffer the public to imagine what it pleased, and attribute their inaction to carelessness for the result, or to the mystery necessary to be observed in police matters. Count Monte-Leone, too, since the arrest of his accomplices, and the discovery of his friends, was not greatly to be feared, especially as he was now repelled by society as a double traitor.

Two things alone disturbed H----. The first was the course of the strange man who had used the Count's name to unveil so completely the plans of the conspiracy. He, however, was soon restored to confidence by remembering that he was now strictly carrying out this man's plans. Besides, in case of need, there were a thousand methods of securing this man's eternal silence. As for the pass in Monte-Leone's name, which might be a terrible arm in the possession of the Count in case he attacked the Government, H----learned much to his satisfaction, from Salvatori himself, that it had been destroyed. The Prefect, therefore, did not hesitate to receive the Count. "Sir," said the latter, "a horrible slander is circulated against me. In disregard of my character and name I have been charged with being one of your agents, and beg you to contradict this."

"The Prefect says your honor is above any such suspicion, and I should fear I injured you even by referring to so idle a tale."

"But one of your principal officers has given credit to this rumor by the perfidious reply he made a few days since, when the Vicomte d'Harcourt was arrested."

The Prefect rang his bell and sent for M. H----. When the latter arrived, he asked him, sternly, if he had seemed to believe that Count Monte-Leone had any participation in the acts of the Police.

H---- said, "The Count is in error, if he understood me thus. I did not believe that his self-accusation was true, for I could not realize that one so exalted in rank as the Count, could be guilty of conspiracy. I had no idea of insulting him, as he thinks. Were it not likely to give the affair too much gravity, I would every where repel it."

This amazed the Count. His mind, which seemed to give way beneath so many blows, had looked on this man's reply as an answer. The object of this perfidy yet escaped him; and reason and good sense could form no idea of the motive.

"You see, Count," said the Prefect, "all think you so far above the calumny of which you complain, that we would not dare even to defend you; the character of the department makes it impossible for us to mix in discussions about reputations."

"I have already asked this gentleman," and the Count pointed to M. H----, "to furnish a striking proof that I am not the creature they say I am. I now ask you the same favor." The two officials were annoyed. "I am as guilty as those you have arrested," continued he, "and demand a fate like that of my associates."

The Prefect said, "I never act except from the orders of a higher authority, and have none in relation to you. I prefer to think that your devotion to those you call your associates has caused you to exaggerate your complicity, and when that is proven you will find us just and stern to yourself, as we have been to them." The Prefect bowed and returned to his private office, and the Count left in indescribable agitation. He was deprived of his last justification, of one he wished to buy at the price of his life. His rage and despair had no limits. He was to experience a new shock in the death of Vicomte d'Harcourt, which was circulated through all Paris. He also heard that the Duke charged him with being the cause of his death, and with having denounced him.

We will now leave our hero for a few moments, to refer to a terrible event which at this crisis overwhelmed the Royal family and France with grief. This circumstance, yet enwrapped in mystery, was the death of the Duke de Berry. This Prince, the hope of France, expiring in the spring time of life beneath the dagger of a vulgar assassin; the obscurity which covered the details of the murder distressed all Europe. There was a general outcry against secret societies. The one, the chief members of which were now in prison, was especially thought guilty of having instigated the murder. The chiefs of the Carbonari _ventas_ saw their chains grow heavier and their prisons become dungeons. Ober, the banker F----, General A----, and Von Apsberg, were not spared: their papers were examined, their past life scrutinized in search of some connection with this odious murder. The trial of the ruffian was anxiously waited for, in the hope that something would connect him with Carbonarism. Nothing, however, was found in the whole of the long and minute examination; and it soon became evident that the crime had been committed by a fanatic who was isolated, without adherents, instigators, or accomplices. Thus at least France thought of the result of the trial. This was the impression produced by the execution of Louvel.

The liberals, who had been for a time terrified by the reports circulated in relation to their partisans, began to regain their courage, and, fortified by their acquittal, complained of the calumnies circulated in relation to them. The first reproach cast on Government, and especially on the ministry of Decazes, was great injustice towards the Carbonari. The ministry was accused of having invented a conspiracy and conspirators--questions of political humanity were mooted--and true or imaginary tortures, to which the prisoners had been subject, were recounted. French generosity and pity became interested for the sake of victims who languished in chains. One voice, though, was heard above all others, and spoke so distinctly, that it touched every heart and mind. It reached the very throne, and aroused one of those powerful influences which truth alone can. This voice was that of the Duke d'Harcourt--a king in virtue and feeling. His word was a law people of every shade of opinion listened to, in consequence of the admiration caused by his life and conduct. The Duke, who was entitled to sympathy from the successive death of his sons, accused those who had taken the last from him of barbarity. He told of the death of the Vicomte while suspected of a crime which perhaps was imaginary; and in the sublime tones of his despair uttered loud charges against the fallen administration. The new one trembled before a unanimous sentiment, and sought to win popularity from clemency. This sentiment, which in Louis XVIII. was innate, his ministers echoed. One by one the prisons were opened and their sad inmates restored to life and light. The chief Carbonari were less fortunate than their followers. Their trial progressed, and though many abortive schemes were discovered, no act was found. There were ideas, utopias, and social paradoxes, but nothing positive. F----, B----, Ober and their associates, whose friends acted busily, were subjected to some months' imprisonment, which, added to their previous incarceration, seemed to their judges a sufficient punishment for their hopes, which, though criminal, had never been realized. General A---- was exiled, and Von Apsberg was detained for a long time in the conciergerie. He was ultimately released. As for Taddeo, all the inquiries of Aminta and of the Prince de Maulear, who loved him as a son, were vain. Every day increased their uneasiness on this account, bringing to light the disappointment of some hope. Thus a year passed....

Early in April, 1821, a man of about forty sat on a bench in a little garden attached to a modest country abode near Neuilly. The garden was on the Seine, which was the limit of a kind of town. The man of whom we speak was almost bent beneath the double weight of grief and suffering. His features were sharp and thin, his eyes sunken, and his hair, almost white, gave him the appearance of one far more advanced in age. In this person prematurely old and wretched, none would have recognized the brilliant and elegant Count Monte-Leone, who once had been so deservedly admired. A deep sorrow had crushed his strong constitution--months to him had become years--and he had suffered all that a mind, richly endowed as his was, could. Pursued by the atrocious slanders we refer to, he had given way beneath the blow. In vain had he striven for some time after his useless visit to the Prefect against them. The hideous monster which pursued him redoubled its attacks, and cries of reprobation burst from every lip. The relations and friends of the prisoners reproached him, and adversity seemed to have seized him with its iron claw. In vain did he protest and call for proof. All appealed to the circumstances. His many duels made people say in his favor only this, "_Brave as he is, he is a spy!_" Despair, then, took possession of him, and he fled from the world which cursed him, and hid himself. One reason alone restrained him from suicide. This was, that he knew another life depended on his, and clung to it as the ivy does to the oak. The Count lived that another might not die. This person was an angel rather than a woman. It was Aminta. Watching the unfortunate man as a mother watches a child, braving the public opinion which dishonored him she adored, Aminta rarely left the Count, whose tears fell on her heart like burning lava.

The Marquise had purchased an establishment near the house of Monte-Leone, with whom she passed all her time; for her visits made his desolate heart more serene. On the day we speak of, the Count sat in the garden, and old Giacomo advanced towards him, taking care to announce himself with a slight cough. "Monseigneur," said he, "it is I, your intendant. I am come to speak to you."

"I have no intendant," said the Count, "a miserable outlaw like myself can indulge in no such luxury. Do not call me Monseigneur; the title now is become an ironical insult."

"It, however, is your excellency's name, and _that_ the slanderous villains cannot deprive you of."

"They have done more than that," said the Count, with a bitter smile; "they have destroyed my honor. You shall not call me thus any longer."

"Very well," said the good man, whom the Marquise had told not to thwart his master; "I will call Monseigneur, Count only. You are Monseigneur, for all that."

"Enough," said the Count, "go away, you fatigue me, you injure me."

"I injure you," said Giacomo, "when you know I would die for you?"

The Count looked around on the companion of all his life; he saw the tears the old man shed, and threw himself into his arms. "Ah! you love me in spite of all--"

"And so does _she_," said Giacomo, whose features became kindled with pleasure at this sudden exhibition of his master's love; "yes, that noble, true woman loves you dearly."

"Aminta!" said the Count, "ah! but for her you would have no master."

"Monseigneur,--no--Count!" said the old valet; "Madame la Marquise has come hither."

"Let her come--let her come--when she is with me, I pass my only happy hours."

"True," said Giacomo, "but she is not alone--"

"Who accompanies her? Who has come to see the informer? Who dares to brave the leprosy?"

The old man said, "The Prince de Maulear."

"The Prince! The Prince in my house! No, no! Tell him to go, that I see no one! I will see no one--"

"You will see me, Monsieur?" said the old nobleman, advancing with Aminta on his arm.

"What do you wish, sir?" said Monte-Leone; "if you insult me again, you are indeed cruel."

"Monte-Leone," said Aminta, "the Prince is your friend. His words will be of service; I brought him hither."

The Count sank on his seat and was silent.

"Count," said the Prince, "had I not been confined at one of my estates for eight months by an obstinate _gout_, you would have seen me long since."

"Ah!" said the Count, with surprise.

"You would have seen me brought to you by repentance for the injury I did you. I gave way, Monte-Leone, to an indignant feeling I shall regret all my life. Reflection has enlightened me. The account I have heard from my daughter-in-law, the resources which you concealed, and especially your despair, the wasted condition of your health, the ravages of your misery, her love, her respect, have long told me how unjust I was to you."

The Count looked at the Prince with mingled astonishment and doubt. The Prince said, "As men of our rank are glad to confess their faults, and ask pardon for them, I beg you, sir, to forgive me." The Prince bowed to Monte-Leone, who seemed overcome by emotion.

Taking the Prince's hand he placed it on his heart and said, "Now, sir, feel this palpitation, and tell me whether the heart of a bad or guilty man ever beat thus with joy, at justice being done him."

From this day Monte-Leone enjoyed two of the greatest pleasures of life--a tender love, and a noble friendship....

A month after the first visit of the Prince de Maulear to the house at Neuilly, the following scene took place in a sad room of the _rue Casette_ in the Faubourg St. Germain.

A sick woman lay on a bed, and a stern dark man sat beside her. "I tell you," said she, "I want a priest, and it is cruel for you to refuse me one."

"Bah! Signora, you are not sick enough for that. Why have a confidant in our affairs? Confession is of no use except to the dying!"

"I am very sick," said she, "and my strength every day decreases!"

"Well, let us come to terms, then, Duchess. You shall have a priest--but you do not intend to make your confession only to him, I know."

"Your old ideas again, Stenio!" said La Felina.

"They are not my ideas. Did you not say once when you were very sick, '_No, I will not die until I am completely avenged. I wish to know whence came the shaft which crushed him. I wish him to curse me as I have cursed him!_'"

"True!" said the Duchess, who, as she listened to the Italian, seemed lost in thought. "It is true, I said all that."

"Well, the time is come. You fear you are dying, and would not leave your work incomplete!"

"But if I tell all," said La Felina, "do you fear nothing for yourself?"

"That man is now but a shadow," said Salvatori, "and now in my strong hand I can grasp him, as he once grasped me, with his iron nerves, when he stabbed me. Besides, no one would believe him. _Is he not a spy?_"

The first words of the Italian, "_That man is but a shadow_," had arrested La Felina's attention. She said, "Is he much changed? is he very sick?" She could not restrain her accent.

"He? yes, indeed; he is dying. Public contempt has completely crushed the proud giant. We have effected that. Besides," continued he, "in order to make a suitable return for the touching interest you inspired me with just now, I must tell you I am going. You have made me rich, and if I were so unfortunate as to lose you--Ah, words never kill," added he, as he saw how terrified La Felina was--"I would not remain an hour in this accursed country."

"Very well," said she; "give me writing materials." She wrote a few lines with a trembling hand.

"To the Count," said she, giving them to Salvatori; "I expect him to-morrow."

"Very well," said the Italian, sternly. "This will kill him."

Scarcely had he left the room when La Felina rang her bell, and the servant who had always accompanied her entered. The Duchess drew her towards her, and placing her lips close to the ear of the woman, as if she was afraid some one would hear her, whispered a few words and sank back completely exhausted.

Such was the Duchess of Palma, the famous singer of San Carlo, whom we find dying in this unknown and obscure retreat. The hand of God, who does not always punish the soul of the criminal alone, but who sometimes strikes the living body, weighed heavily on her. The Duke, weary of the ties imposed by marriage on him, and becoming more and more infatuated with his thin _danseuse_, sought for an opportunity to throw off his chains. He soon found one. Feigning to be jealous, the Duke, in consequence of some vague rumors, obtained the key of the bureau in which the Duchess kept the "confessions of the heart," as she called the detail of her brief amour with Monte-Leone. Having gotten possession of this paper, the Duke made a great noise, threatened her with a suit, and easily obtained the separation he desired so much. There was a general burst of indignation. The nobles who had been furious at the _mesalliance_ of the Duke, were more so at the ingratitude of the guilty wife and low-born woman, who had usurped a rank and title of which she showed herself so unworthy. The Duchess disappeared suddenly from the world, which gladly rejected one it had so unwillingly received. La Felina took refuge in a small house in the retired quarter we have mentioned. For, like _Venus attached to her prey_, she would not leave Paris, in which she could not divest herself of the idea that Monte-Leone, completely reinstated, would some day become Aminta's husband. Sickness had gradually enfeebled her, and Salvatori, who was master of her secrets, had established himself in her house. Taking advantage of her complicity, he had, by means of cunning and terror, became in a manner the master and tyrant, now that her health was gone, of one to whom he had been an abject slave. For this reason he had, as we have seen, treated her with such cruel disdain.

On the very day this scene took place, Monte-Leone received the following note: "A woman, whose handwriting you will recognize, has but a few hours to live. Come to see her for the sake of that pity she deserves. Do not resist the prayers of one who is on her death-bed." Below was the address of the Duchess.

The Count had long lost sight of La Felina; he knew she was separated from her husband, but was so indifferent that he had not even asked why. Always kind and generous, he thought duty required him to go, and on the next day at noon, rang at La Felina's door. Stenio had preceded him a few moments, and in the next room prepared to enjoy the scene. No sooner had the Count entered the bedroom than Salvatori thought he heard steps in a boudoir connected with it, and which opened on a back stairway. Uneasy at this noise, for which he could not account, he was yet unable to satisfy himself; for to do so, he would have been again obliged to cross the Duchess's room, and the Count was already with her.

When the Count and La Felina met, a cry of astonishment burst from the lips of each. They seemed to each other two spectres.

"Count," said the Duchess, in faint and broken voice, "the time is come when the truth must be told, ere the tongue on which it depends be cold in the grave. You are, therefore, about to hear the truth as the dying tell it who have lost all dread of men and their wrath."

"Speak out, Signora; my life has been so strange that nothing now can surprise me," said the Count.

"You will be astonished; for I am about to read the riddle, the mystery, which you have so long attempted to penetrate." The Count was attentive. "You have," said La Felina, "sought to know who was the secret enemy who deprived you of name and fame. I am about to tell you." The Count seemed surprised. "Do not interrupt me," said she. "This enemy has followed your steps and poisoned your life. Thus has it been effected: You were ruined, really ruined, but twice have fifty thousand francs been sent to you, and you have been made to believe that this was but a restoration of your fortune."

"Did it not come from Lamberti?" said the Count.

"No; bankrupts never pay. A forged letter from this banker insisted on silence in relation to this restoration, and thus the mysterious resources were created which awakened the suspicions of the world, and caused the report that you were an agent of the police to be believed."

The Count grew pale with horror.

"Wait," said La Felina. "A man, a devil, purchased by your enemy, in obedience to orders, went to the house of Matheus, your associate in Carbonarism. This devil opened the drawer in which the archives of the association were kept, and taking possession of the lists, substituted copies for the originals."

"Infamous," said Monte-Leone.

"This devil did more. He dared to procure you a pass as a 'Spy in Society.' This pass your friend Taddeo Rovero saw."

"My God, my God, can I hear aright?"

"This man did not think you were as yet sufficiently degraded in the eyes of the world and your brethren. Taking advantage of a visit you paid me, he went into your carriage with a cloak like yours over his shoulders, and was driven to the Prefecture of Police."

"This is hell itself," said the Count.

"Did I not say this man was a demon?" said La Felina, coldly. "All this evidence was accumulated against you. The French Government was deceived, and did not exert severity towards the powerful chief of the Carbonari, now become, as it believed, its agent. The world and public opinion did their work."

"Why was all this? what was the motive?"

"You had destroyed the happiness of your enemy, and in return the sacrifice of your honor was exacted; you had deserted one who adored you, and sought to marry another; to prevent this she disgraced you. Now, Count Monte-Leone," said La Felina, rising up, "is it necessary for me to name that woman? Do you know me?"

"Wretch!" said the Count, "are you not afraid that I will kill you?"

"Why?" said she, "am I not dying?"

"Well," said he, "you shall carry to the tomb one crime in addition to the offences you have revealed to me. With honor you destroyed my life." Taking a pistol from his bosom he placed it to his brow, and was about to fire--

At the last words of the Count a door was thrown open, and an arm seized Monte-Leone's hand. He looked around and saw the Duke D'Harcourt.

"Count," said he, "one person alone can restore you the honor of which you have been so rudely deprived. That person is the Duke D'Harcourt."

"The voice of the man, of the father," said he, and his eyes became suffused with tears, "who charged you publicly with having denounced his son, and surrendered him to the executioners, with having killed him.

"Ah! God himself sends you hither," said the Count, with an indescribable accent of hope. "Yes, yes; you have heard all, and will be believed. Monsieur," said he, with great animation, "have you not heard all? You know how I have been treated by those monsters. You will say so. Tell me that you will. I cast myself at your feet to implore you."

"Count," said the Duke, lifting up Monte-Leone and embracing him, "I am the guilty man, for louder than any one I have uttered an anathema on the innocent. I have appealed to man and God for vengeance."

"Yes," said the Count, "and touched by the immensity of my sufferings God has led you hither."

"Yes, God," said the Duke, "and _she_;" pointing to La Felina, whose eyes brightened up with animation, strangely contrasted with the morbid palor of her face.

"_She?_" said the Count.

"Yes," said the Duke. "Stricken down by repentance, she besought me yesterday to come hither to hear her confession."

Scarcely had the Duke pronounced these words, than a cry of hatred, savage as that of the jackal, was heard in the next room.

"Save me, save me," said the Duchess, calling Monte-Leone to her, and sheltering herself behind his body, "_He_ will murder me."

"_He?_" said the Duke and Count together.

"Whom do you refer to?" said Monte-Leone.

"To Stenio Salvatori, the accomplice in this tissue of crime."

The two noblemen rushed towards the room where the cry had been heard. A door leading to the stairway was open, and there was no one visible. When they returned, the invalid giving way to so severe a shock and exertion was dying. She had only strength to repeat the request she had urged on Stenio the day before. "A priest, for heaven's sake, a priest, that I may repeat to God what I have said to man."

The door opened and an ecclesiastic appeared.

"Quick, father, quick," said the Duchess. "Tell me that God, like man, will forgive me."

The priest stood for a few minutes in the middle of the room, apparently overpowered by emotion. He said, "One person must forgive you, Madame, and that person is the individual whose life you have made miserable, whom you have made use of to strike this innocent man;" and he pointed to the Count. "I, as well as the Duke, was in the adjoining room, and have heard all. That pardon I give you."

The Duchess said, "Then Rovero, too, forgives me;" before she had finished his name, Monte-Leone clasped Taddeo in his arms.

Two days after, a funeral portage proceeded to a place of eternal rest. Three men followed a body to the grave. They were Monte-Leone, the Duke d'Harcourt, and the Abbé Rovero. Love and friendship having been both betrayed, as he thought, Taddeo sought for consolation in religion. The Divinity, he knew, did not betray those who love him. A fugitive and an outlaw, he had sought refuge in a seminary, and subsequently had become a priest. Chance had assigned him to a church near La Felina's house, and he had been pointed out by the Duchess's confidential servant, as a priest worthy her mistress's confidence. Heaven had accomplished the rest.

All Paris, at that time, was filled with a strange report, and with amazement learned the truth in relation to Monte-Leone. A letter from the Duke d'Harcourt appeared in the journals of the day and unfolded this terrible drama. The Duke told Paris and all Europe, what he had overheard in the Duchess's boudoir.

It said, if any voice should do justice to this injured man, it is that of a father who wrongfully accused him of being the death of a son. The moral reaction in favor of the Count was as sudden as the censure the world had heaped on him had been. The person who, next to Monte-Leone, enjoyed this complete reparation, was the adorable woman who had never doubted the honor of the man she loved.

The King sent for the Duke d'Harcourt; he understood and participated in the grief of an unfortunate father, for he, also, had lost the heir of his throne. When the old noble left the King he bore with him the pardon of René's young friend, the generous Von Apsberg. The Duke went to the conciergerie, and on the Doctor, in his gratitude, asking after Marie, the former said, "She is a patient who will give you a great deal of trouble, both her health and her heart being seriously affected. You will have two grave diseases to attend to, and the husband must assist the physician."

EPILOGUE.

A month after these events--on the first of May, that festival of sunlight, flowers, and universal rejoicings--two couples, followed by many friends and brilliant attendants, went from the small house on the banks of the Seine, to the village church of Neuilly. The Prince de Maulear, made young by happiness, had Marie d'Harcourt on his arm. The Duke escorted the Marquise, and the Count and Von Apsberg followed them. The priest stood at the foot of the altar. This priest, who made four persons happy, but who looked to heaven alone for his own happiness, was Taddeo Rovero.

The three fiery Carbonari gradually felt their revolutionary ardor grow dull. The reason is, these three men were now attached to the society they had sought to destroy, by strong ties. Two were bound to it by family bonds, and the other by religion.

_Carbonarism_ was not crushed in Europe, by the disasters of the French association. It slumbered for ten years, but awoke in 1830. The tree has grown, and the world now gathers its bitter fruits.

Stenio Salvatori received in Italy the punishment due his great crimes in France. His vile heart became the sheath of the stiletto of one of the brethren of the _Venta_ of CASTEL LA MARC.

Our old acquaintance, Mlle. Celestine Crepinean, touched by divine grace, repented of having made so bad a disposition of her pure and virgin love. Like Magdalen, she threw herself at the feet of her Savior, and lived to an advanced age, greatly to the edification of the faithful as dispenser of holy water at the church of Saint THOMAS AQUINAS.

END OF THE SPY IN SOCIETY.

FOOTNOTES:

[3] Concluded from page 327.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1850, by Stringer & Townsend, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern District of New-York.

[4] _Mansarde_ Gallice, from the inventor Mansard, uncle of another architect of the same name of the time of Louis XIV.

[5] It is one of the maxims of _magnetism_, that when once an entire sympathy between two minds is established equality ensues, and consequently neither can exert influence over the other.

A GHOST STORY OF NORMANDY.

BY THE AUTHOR OF "HAMON AND CATAR; OR, THE TWO RACKS."

From Bentley's Miscellany.

I.

On a fine summer evening, in 1846, I left my house, which was in the neighborhood of Honfleur, Normandy, to take a stroll. It was July. All the morning and all the afternoon the sun had been busily pouring down streams of radiance like streams of boiling water, and I had kept the house, and kept it closely shut up too, till the orb of day had gone some way down towards the sea, as if, like a fire-eater, or like a locomotive, to get a _drink_ after its work.

My wife being asleep, I borrowed her parasol, for English life in France is very free and easy, and I was rather careful of my complexion. I lit a cigar, and starting, soon left the church of St. Catharine behind. My business in the town was to post a letter, which I got safely done, and then passing down the fish-market, I found myself, ere long, at the foot of the Côte de Grace--a steep hill which rises abruptly from the town, and is scaleable at one part by a sandy zigzag.

My cigar was a bad one altogether--a bad one to look at and a bad one to blow. Of government manufacture, it cost five sous, and was not worth one. Its skin was as thick as an ass's hide, and no persuasion would make _it_ draw. Like a false friend, it became quite hollow when I put the fire of trial to it; and only waxed hot and oily as it burnt on. It was a French regalia, and had nothing of French royalty about it but bad _smoke_. The tobacco had, I think, lost savor, as salt used to do, in passing through the monopolizing hands of the _Citoyen Roi_. In a word, my gorge rose at it.

I stood awhile at the foot of the zigzag, endeavoring to coax it into usefulness, for I was a family man, and had given many hostages to fortune, and dared not to be extravagant. I tried to doctor it by incisions, and by giving it draughts; but all was in vain. At last it began to unwind, and some loose ashes found their way to my eyes. I was about to throw it away in disgust, when a young Frenchman, who had passed me a moment before with a party (I knew him slightly and we had bowed), returned, and observing that my cigar seemed troublesome, asked me to try one of his.

His name was Le Brun. We had met occasionally on the pier, where in the quiet evenings I used to take refuge from the uproar of my sanctuary at home, and for awhile almost believed myself a lay bachelor lounging through France without a charming wife and eight children. He and I had succeeded well in chit-chat. The Browns, he was fond of saying, were a numerous race in England, but if he ever settled there he would be distinguished from them as THE Brown. He was vain of this play on his name, and I always laughed when he produced it. I had no hesitation, therefore, when he offered me a cigar: besides, I knew that he always smoked smuggled Cubas.

We gossiped for a few moments. At length I saw him glance at my wife's parasol, which was shielding me from the sun. He _said_ nothing, but I felt my cheek burn with a sudden sort of shame, and immediately shut it up.

"Madame will return," he said, "and Monsieur attends her."

This was not the fact. Monsieur had to return, and Madame attended him. But the observation was put in the narrative form, and if my friend gave me information which I knew to be false, I was not bound to say so. I only bowed, therefore; and he added that he was forced to join his party, and bowed too; and so we separated.

He had scarcely left me, when I thought that if I had avowed my solitary state he might have asked me to join his party, which was evidently a merry one; and I internally execrated the parasol, which had been the means of preventing this. If by any accident I should meet him again, I resolved that he should not see me with _it_, and without the lady; so I deposited it at a little lace-maker's, and soon after began to ascend the Côte de Grace, not without hopes of meeting the party as they returned, perhaps from Val-à-Reine.

Between each wind of the zigzag path was a flight of wooden steps, by which the adventurous might ascend directly from the bottom of the hill. At the head of some of these flights of steps were rustic seats; they were generally on the outer edge of the path, but a few were placed far back, so that the hill immediately below was unseen.

I always climbed the Côte by the steps, as I used ever and anon to lie down on the green carpet which nature has spread over each of the short ascents. On the present occasion I had not mounted far before a pleasant piece of this turf-flooring near the top of one of the little hills seduced me from my toils. I sat down, took Shelley's "Revolt of Islam" from my pocket, finished my cigar, and in consequence of reading half a dozen stanzas from the poem--fell asleep.

I woke suddenly, and as soon as I had my faculties about me, noticed that people were speaking, and in loud tones, close above me. Otherwise, all was still around. There was no wind among the little trees; a bee buzzed past me now and then, and insects hummed, but further off down the hill, and these voices sounded harsh and dissonant in the quiet air. I listened, at first mechanically. The conversation was carried on in French.

"It is time to end this," said a stern, disagreeable voice; "and I will not wait any longer, M. Raymond."

"But M. Gray," answered another and more pleasant voice, "you will think of my situation--my family. I have done all I could."

"I have thought too much of your family," replied Gray; "but I must also think of myself. Esther--your daughter--she does not speak with me, for example, as you said she should."

"Monsieur!" exclaimed the other.

"This Le Brun--she is all ears and eyes for him. She----"

"M. Gray!" said Raymond. His voice had been deprecating before--it was firm now. "You are so harsh to me; how can you expect kindness from her?"

"Why, sir, you promised to use your influence with her----"

"Promised, M. Gray!" Raymond burst in. "You did not think I should sell my daughter for a debt of the table? I do not think, monsieur, you expected me to _sell_ my Esther, for example." And there was an emphasis on these last words which only a Frenchman could give.

"I did not say you promised that," replied the other; "but I am seeking for the money you owe me. I love your daughter; you know it; she does not smile, and I must wait. But my creditors will not wait. I owe money, and come to you for what you owe me."

The voice that said this was cold and stern. Suddenly, as I listened to it, it seemed familiar to me; but where I had heard it I could not remember. Raymond replied:

"And suppose I had not played with you and lost? What would you have done?"

"But my friends in England are so dilatory," was the evasive answer. "Still--if Mademoiselle Esther----"

"Sacré!" cried Raymond, starting to his feet, and stamping on the path. Gray seemed to rise too. "You press me too far. What do I know of you, monsieur? You live here some few months--you play high--you--you----"

"Ah, well, monsieur," said Gray, icily, as he paused.

"My daughter, too," cried Raymond; "you use my debt to you as a means----." He stopped again in his sudden passion.

"Pardon me, monsieur," said Gray, sternly, "this is only a debt of honor;" and he laid a stress on the word which drove it home. "In England we cannot enforce a debt of honor."

"What do you do there when it is not paid?"

"First post the guilty man, and then shoot him," was the answer.

I felt inclined to start from my concealment and say that this was false. I recollected, however, just in time, that it was true.

"But this is folly," pursued Gray, "and we should not quarrel. I am not going to shoot Esther's father, for example."

The effect of this cordial and peaceful declaration was instantaneous. Glad apparently to drop his creditor in his friend at any price, Raymond answered kindly, and even proposed to give Gray a small sum on account of his debt, which he accepted. They then began to ascend the zigzag, and ere long their voices died away in the distance.

I had remained lying-to where I was all this while, and felt glad when they left the neighborhood. I never overheard a conversation with pleasure since I read how the Rev. Dr. Follett declared that his bamboo, and not his cloth, should protect him from Mr. Eavesdrop. Once, indeed, I had thought of retiring, but put it off so long that I thought I might just as well stay out the interview.

I knew Mr. Raymond by name. He was a banker, and reputed rich. He was also thought religious--for a Frenchman, even pious. He crossed himself at all the twopenny representations of the Divine agony. He never galloped past a crucifix, or calvaire, or burial-place. And yet he now showed himself a gambler, and apparently on the way to sell his daughter's hand to a man he did not know, for a gambling debt. The discovery made me feel sick. And yet I thought how many of my own parisioners, who wave their heads at the sacred name in the creed, and appear to men to worship, are as false as this man; packing away their religion like their best hat till next Sunday, when it seems as good to the next pew as ever.

But I felt more than an abstract discomfort at my discoveries. Le Brun's name had been mixed up with Esther Raymond's by this Gray. Now his Cuba cigar had bound me indissolubly to The Brown, and as long as he asked nothing but what cost nothing, I was his faithful well-wisher and friend. This was the time to show my friendship; and accordingly I sprang from my couch, put Shelley into my pocket, and resumed my ascent of the Côte.

I had gained the top, and, after looking across the water to Harfleur, which showed well in the soft light of the westering sun, was about to walk on, when I saw a party on the rude bench which is set on the seaward side of the top of the Côte--Le Brun with them. I looked back across the Seine, and watched the lights and shades shift on the hills of the opposite shore, collecting my thoughts the while. Ere they were collected, however, he joined me.

"Ah! but madame is no longer with monsieur?" he said.

"No; she's at home now," I answered, thinking how I should best break ground, and almost inclined to leave him to his own courses now that it was time to act. Why should I meddle in these foreigners' affairs? What were they to me? I felt thus for a moment; Le Brun produced his cigar-case, and I did not feel so for another.

"I hope you liked my cigar; it is not French," he said. "Will you try another?"

"If you will try one of mine," I answered, ashamed to take without giving, and forgetting that my property consisted of none but the despised French article. The young gentleman took one of the great clown-like regalias with a slight shudder, and I saw him wince as he inhaled a mouthful of its rank produce, and, ere long, quietly drop the thing when he thought I was not looking, and substitute one of his own.

The flavor of his Cuba opened my heart to him, and ere long I broached the subject with which I had no earthly business.

"You know a certain M. Gray?" I asked. He started.

"Yes," he said; "that is him talking to mademoiselle. Shall I introduce you?"

"Not at present--no, I thank you," I answered. He looked up at me.

"Do you know him?" he asked. My eye had been bent on him for the last few seconds.

"I think I do," I said; "I am not sure."

"He came here with the Dowlasses; he is the son of an English milord, who allows him a thousand pounds a year."

"Why did he leave England, then?" I inquired.

"He was too gay, I believe."

"And left his debts unpaid, I suppose." He looked up at me again.

"If you do know him, or anything about him," he exclaimed, "pray tell me; I am particularly anxious about him."

"I know you must be, and so ought mademoiselle to be," I said. He blushed like a girl and was going to speak, but I continued: "If he is the man I think, never play at cards with him, M. le Brun; and, between us, separate his hat from those pink ribbons further than they are now."

His curiosity, his anxiety, was thoroughly aroused; but, as he began to speak, a lady's voice called him. It was Esther's.

"Will you join us?" he said. In another moment I was being introduced to the party.

I was at first surprised to find Gray and his dupe smoking and chatting as gayly as any of the party. I am a good wonderer, but always reason my surprises away. I soon did so now, reflecting that all men use their faces as masks, by which they lie without speaking falsehood. And, though I detest hypocrisy myself, I remembered that I often smiled when I could grind my teeth with rage--that is, if they were not false ones.

Le Brun had been summoned to rejoin the circle because a curious topic had been started. M. Raymond was proprietor of an estate near St. Sauveur, the house of which was reported to be haunted, and Esther had dared Gray to spend a night there.

"But I don't believe in ghosts," he recommenced, after the introduction. "It would only be to waste a night."

"Oh, there _is_ a goblin though," replied the beautiful girl--"a male Amina; always walking into an occupied chamber, so that you're sure to see him. He does not, however, stop to be caught napping in the morning, like La Sonnambula."

"I'll tell you what I'll do," answered Gray. "You've called M. le Brun"--and he looked somewhat fiercely at my friend--"if he'll spend a night there, I will. I'm engaged to-night, and to-morrow night, so that he can go first. But I can't believe in your ghost, mademoiselle."

"Not if I acknowledge to have seen him myself?" she asked. There was a general movement among the listeners. "Well, I will accept for M. le Brun; he shall go to-night or to-morrow, and you the night after--eh, M. Frederic?"

Le Brun murmured something about obedience to her wishes; what, I did not hear. He evidently, however, did not like the scheme, and Gray saw it; but, in the general interest for Esther's tale, no one else did.

I do not give it here, for divers reasons. When she had done, it was found to be time to return. I would have left the party, but Raymond having seperated Le Brun from Esther, he joined himself to me, and I was unable to do so.

"What will Grace say?" thought I. "I hope she won't wait tea for me." I should have been somewhat crusty if, on an ordinary occasion, I had returned from a stroll and found that she and the rest had _not_ waited. Le Brun asked me--as M. Raymond had already done--to stay all the evening with the party. That, however, I felt to be impossible, and said so.

"Well, for the present, then," he said. "What can you tell me of M. Gray?" he added.

"I expect my brother here to-morrow," I said, "when I will compare notes with him. Till then I should be cautious, as I may injure an innocent man. But do you be cautious too. How about this challenge? Shall you sleep in the haunted house? It is romantic nonsense--this of a spirit, you know. Mademoiselle has seen a clothes-horse, or a--a part of her dress in moonlight. I don't believe in ghosts myself at all."

"Don't you?" said he, somewhat sadly. "I--the truth is, mon cher, I am afraid I do."

"You must go on now, though," I said, maliciously.

"Oh, yes--of course--go on," he answered; "but, monsieur----" he hesitated.

"What is it, my dear friend?" I said.

"I thought to ask a favor of you," he replied. "Will you accompany me to this house, monsieur? I feel I ask much--but will you?"

"Much, my very dear sir!" I exclaimed, in the fullness of my heart--"not at all too much. I shall be happy to be of any use to you, and will sit and smoke those cigars of yours, and let the ghosts go to old ----." I stopped suddenly.

"And what," thought I, "will Grace say to _that_?" A sort of dampness rushed out upon my skin; I had forgotten her. My sentence remained unfinished, and I looked eagerly about me, as if to question the adjoining shrubs as to what on earth I was to do. My dear Grace was the light of my eyes, and the joy of my heart, I'm sure; the best wife, the most amiable of the sex, but yet she had a kind of will of her own, which was apt to get grafted, as it were, upon mine. She never opposed me positively in any thing, but somehow, if she did not like it, it was rarely done. I had just promised what I might not be able to perform; and yet I did not like to confess to this foreigner that my wife led me. "A plague upon his Cubas and him too," I thought. Still, what was to be done?

"If you cannot sleep there to-night," he said, noticing my uneasiness, "I will claim the night's grace----"

"Grace!" I exclaimed; my wife before me in the word.

"Yes, she said to-night or to-morrow."

"Oh, to-night?--impossible!" I cried. "I have a very--an engagement to-night. I can not possibly make it to-night. Besides," I exclaimed, grasping at an idea like a drowner at a rope, or any thing saving, "mademoiselle may not give leave to share your danger with any one."

"I asked her," he said--I had noticed them exchange whispers--"and she will----"

"Bother!" I muttered; but instantly continued, with a smile, "if it is to be so I will be at your service to-morrow. Meanwhile, let me slip away now--that engagement, you know."

We were at the foot of the Côte de Grace by this time. He brought the party to a stand-still, and, after some difficulty, I was allowed to desert, Le Brun asking me to join him next day to dinner, to which I agreed. After I left the joyous set I walked away fiercely, like a man with a purpose, till they were out of sight; but, as I neared that sanctuary of the heart where the tea would be waiting for me, the fierceness of my pace abated, and, with hands in pockets and head depressed, I slackened my speed more and more, till at last, when I reached my garden-gate, I came to a stand-still.

Unhappily I am tall, and my children are all wonderfully quick. I had not stood at the gate three seconds before I was surrounded by my urchins, whooping, and getting among my legs, and hanging to my tails, and playing the wildest pranks off on me.

But suddenly I saw my wife leave the house and come down the garden without her bonnet to welcome me. Oh, how I wished that, just for once, she had been a shrew; I could have brazened out the matter then. But she smiled so sweetly at me!

"Well," she exclaimed, heartily, putting her hands in mine, "you have had a splendid afternoon for your walk! Have you enjoyed it?"

"Oh, yes," I said, "except for one thing."

"What's that?" she asked; "no accident I hope. You've never, surely, been among the orchards again; I'm sure the grass swarms with adders and snakes." And she looked so anxiously and tenderly up into my face that I was forced to stoop and----. But this is weakness. "What was it? I saw you took out that divine Shelley."

"Yes," I answered, jumping at any subject foreign to the one at my heart, "he _is_ divine. I'll never deny it again; the very god of sleep."

"For shame!" she cried; "and I saw you took something else, too. But where is it?--the parasol, I mean?" I had forgotten it! I think I must have started and changed color, for she immediately proceeded: "Never mind, it's too late to go into the fields for it now. It will be quite destroyed, though, by the dew to-night--there's always so much in this weather. But, never mind--and yet how could you forget it?"

"Oh, it's all right," I replied, somewhat pettishly; "we'll get it in the morning. I left it in a shop at the foot of the Côte de Grace."

"Well, then, what was the drawback to your walk?"

"Oh! never mind it just now," I exclaimed. "Dear Grace, do let me have some tea; I'll tell you by-and-by." And I bustled among the children towards the house, she following in some surprise.

As soon as tea was over I dispatched the children into the garden and solemnly commenced my tale. Commenced? I plunged into it heels over head, as a timid bather plunges into the pool when he is the cynosure of the eyes of all swimmers in it, and by appearing on the brink in Nature's undress _uniform_, feels himself pledged to enter the liquid. Like him, too, when once in, I did not find the water so cold as I feared, after all. I had made my promise so strong by constantly referring to it, that Grace never even proposed my giving it up. My brother would arrive by to-morrow's boat, and so that the house would have a guardian she would not object--for once. I inwardly vowed not to put it in her power to refuse or grant such a favor again.

II.

So on the morrow, at the appointed time, I was comfortably seated at M. le Brun's mahogany; and while, "for this occasion only," I played my old _rôle_ of bachelor, I loosed the hymeneal reins, and actually told some ancient Cider-cellar stories--in French, too,--which produced explosion after explosion of laughter, though whether this was caused by the tales or the telling I cannot of course guess.

By-and-by evening came, and it was time to start. Le Brun and I hastened, therefore, to finish the bottles then in circulation; and, as soon as that was done, rose to walk to the haunted property. And now the skeptical blockheads who doubt every thing would say that what follows was the consequence of our libations. Let them say what they like, I only put it to _you_, if it is likely that a thorough-going Church and State rector would be influenced by a few bottles of _vin ordinaire_ and a mere _thought_ of cognac after all.

It was about nine o'clock when we arrived within sight of St. Sauveur. It was a lovely night. Beyond the little village in the distance loomed the hills, rising from the Eure, over which the moon was shining brilliantly. Presently my companion turned sharply off from the main road, and we began to ascend a narrow stony lane, so thickly fringed with bushes that the light was excluded; but ere long we came upon a cross-path nearly as narrow, but lighted by the rays of the bright moon; this we followed, till, in a few minutes, we arrived before a gate, which we pushed open, and advanced into a field.

Le Brun paused to light a fresh cigar from the smoking ruins of the last, and, as I walked on, I suddenly became reflective. "Your life, my dear and reverend sir," I ejaculated, "has just been like this evening's walk. Your school and college life were all bright and silvery as the highway flooded by the glorious beams, and so forth. Then came the stony lane of curateship, and then you gained a cross-lane, stony still, but lighted by the smiles of Grace, and the prospect of a reversion, which your father got you cheap, because the occupant was young. And then this youthful rector joined the Church of Rome, leaving the gate open for you; and so you stepped into your twelve hundred a year, of which you only need to sacrifice seventy for a hack to do the work. So that after a somewhat pleasant life you can enjoy yourself in foreign parts, and----"

"Halloa!" cried a voice behind.

I started. In a moment I remembered that I was upon haunted ground, and motioned to fly. I am no coward, but I hate a surprise, and thought that perhaps the hero of this enchanted ground was close beside me. Le Brun's voice, however, dissipated those fears. I had strolled from the right path in my dream, and he wished me to re-rejoin him. I did so, and we pursued our walk.

We soon arrived before the house. It was approachable at the rear by a road which led to St. Sauveur, after winding about the country some two or three miles more than necessary, as French roads are apt to do: but the main entrance was from the fields, as we had come. It was a shabby place, and looked in the staring moonlight as seedy as a bookseller's hack would look in the glare of an Almack's ball. The windows were mostly broken, and the portico, like its Greek model, was in ruins. Rude evergreens grew downward from the rails which had fixed them, when young, in the way they were to go, and were sprawling about the nominal garden, which was likewise overrun by weeds and plots of grass, and fallen shrubs and flowers. The moon never looked on a poorer spot, and yet there was an air about the tattered old house which seemed to indicate that it had been good-looking once; as we may see, despite the plaster-work among the wrinkles of some of our dowagers, that they were not altogether hideous, as they now are, in the days of the "Greatest Gentleman" in Europe.

We entered. It was too late and too dark in-doors to survey the mansion; so, as Le Brun had been directed to the habitable room, we struck a light, and ascended directly to it. It was handsomely furnished, and a basket containing that refreshment which we had looked forward to stood on the table. The windows were whole; still I thought it well to close the shutters, as I hate Midsummer nights' draughts as much as I love the "Midsummer Night's Dream." This done, I sank on a sofa; Le Brun drew some wine; we fell to at an early supper, and fared well.

When we had finished we lighted cigars, and our conversation grew frivolous. Le Brun was in the midst of a description of Esther, when I heard a groan, and said so. He pooh-poohed me, and, half annoyed at the interruption, proceeded. He had not got on very far before the groan was repeated. I started up.

"Pooh!--wind!" said my companion, retaining his seat and emitting his smoke.

"If so, it must be wind on the stomach, or wind in the lungs," I said. "Hark!"

I heard a faint noise. We both listened intently for some minutes, I standing. It was not repeated, however; so, growing tired, I said that I must have been mistaken, and sat down. Le Brun agreed with me, and resumed his description. I followed with a tale; he was reminded by it of another; and so we continued, till our repeated potations, much speaking, and the late hour, made both of us prosy, and then we fell, as with one accord, asleep.

I must have slept for a considerable time, as, when I woke, I found that the lamp had burned very low, and looked the worse for having been kept up so late. I woke with a start, caused, as I imagined, by hearing the room-door suddenly opened. That was a sound which, as a father of a large family, I had got to know very well, especially about the smaller hours. I looked towards the door, but my eyes were dim with sleep, and it was not till Le Brun's boot was projected against my shin that I became sufficiently awake to see if my idea was correct or no. It was.

Not only was the door open but a person was evidently standing on the threshold. In the sickly light his face was not visible; nothing, in fact, but an outline of him. I rose, and with as much steadiness of voice as I could command, requested the visitor to come in. He made a deep bow, set his hat modestly upon the floor, came across the room, and stood as if awaiting further orders.

I had, however, none to give him. I had not sufficient impudence to bid him sit down and help himself to wine, or what he liked; but I kicked Le Brun, in payment for his attack on me, and motioned to him to do the honors. He met the advance of my foot, however, in an unexpected way.

"Diable!" he cried, "Est-ce que----"

He stopped as if a gag had been thrust between his jaws; for our visitor, doubtless applying the epithet to himself, suddenly turned his back on us, walked to the door, picked up his hat, and, though I cried after him, as the Master of Ravenswood cried after his dead Lucia's ghost, to stop, paid no more heed than that virgin does to Mario, but retired quickly, his boots screaming as he trod upon them like veritable souls in pain. We made no motion to follow, but remained as if glued to our places, looking on each other from our semi-sleepy eyes in a somewhat foolish manner.

"He'll come back," said Le Brun. "Hush!"

The boots had stopped at the bottom of the stairs; we heard no sound.

"If he does, don't name Sathanas, for Heaven's sake," I said. "He doesn't like it. It may recall unpleasant things--seem personal, in fact----"

"Hush!" he exclaimed.

We listened. The screaming boots were remounting the stairs. The visitor had got over the personality, and was coming back. "What should be done? I am no coward; I've said so before; but I seriously thought of running to, shutting, fastening, and setting chairs against the door. But I did not move. The footsteps approached, and then began to recede again. This suspense of the interest--or, rather, dragging out of it--was most tormenting. What if he should go on walking all night? But the steps were ere long heard once more coming near the room, and once more the visitor stood at the door. But he did not enter now. He looked steadfastly towards us; beckoned slowly; then, turning, began to leave us again. I drew a long, well-satisfied breath as he disappeared and leaned back on the sofa.

"I trust he's gone for good now," I said.

"He beckoned. We must follow," said Le Brun.

"Follow! Pooh, pooh!" I exclaimed. "Let us sit still and be glad."

"Not I," was his brave response. "Be he man, or be he----"

"Hush!" I cried. "He may hear. He doesn't like the word----"

"I do not understand the impulse," said Le Brun; "but we must follow."

"I do not _feel_ the impulse," I rejoined. "Still, if you do, and obey it, I will not desert you."

"Come," he answered. And with quick steps we chased the vocal boots down the corridor, and ere long saw the wearer of them, having descended the stairs, cross the hall, and wait at the door of the house.

The moon was still shining brightly, and its rays came through the broken windows on the ground-floor, and fell on the figure of the mysterious one. He was of middle height, and of broad and muscular build. He seemed more like an English farmer than a French ghost. His garments were seedy, and his hat was old; but his boots were like the boots of Thaddeus of Warsaw, the son of Miss Porter, who was so mortally offended when asked the name of the maker of his Bluchers, and they gleamed like boots of polished steel. All, however, did not seem right about the stranger. His head appeared awry, and his arms out of their places. But perhaps these blemishes were attributable to the moonlight, and not to the man; for he showed that he could turn his head and look at us, and use his arms to open the door. We followed him out into the air.

He led us through the field we had already traversed, but in a rather different direction. The night was chilly, and the long grass damp, and I began to grow weary of the adventure. Suddenly, however, our conductor stopped before what appeared to be a ruined cow-shed. He looked at it earnestly for a few moments, then at us, who kept a respectful distance; then, making an abrupt motion of his arm towards it, too rapid for us to understand, he seemed to me to spring into the air. Whether he did so or not, I cannot declare; but I know that when I rubbed my eyes, and looked round about for him, he was nowhere to be seen. We examined the spot, but he had left no traces. Boots, and hat, and all his trappery had gone with him. He had come like a dream, and vanished like a morning dream.

We stood for a few moments uncertain what to do, and then it occurred to me that the room we had left was warm and comfortable, and this field cold and dreary; so I proposed to return, especially as, the stranger having vanished, there did not appear to be any business in hand. Le Brun agreed, and we did so, and, after talking awhile over our adventure, went to sleep over our talk; and I did not wake again till morning was staring into the chamber, as Le Brun threw open the shutters.

The conversation that took place is as well to be imagined as transcribed. Enough to say that I determined to have no share in Le Brun's narrative, but left him to heighten it for himself. I parted with him at my house, where I found Grace looking out for me; and he promised to return in the course of the morning to pay his respects to her.

To my surprise, however, when he came, he asked me for five minutes' conversation, and we went together into the field belonging to my house, which sloped down to the Seine. His countenance was _both_ joyous and anxious, and I saw that he had something heavier on his mind than last night's frolic.

"I have spoken to you of M. Gray," he said, "and of Mademoiselle Raymond. I have learnt this morning that M. Gray has her father in his power."

"You learnt that from her?" I asked.

He blushed and did not answer.

I went on. I had compared notes with my brother about this Gray, and found my suspicions correct. I therefore told Le Brun what I had overheard on the zigzag, and he in reply told me that Raymond had accepted a bill for the amount of the debt to Gray.

"That's serious," I said. "But before we say more, monsieur, are you engaged to Mademoiselle Esther?"

He replied in the affirmative.

"Can you live--excuse the question--with her without dowry?"

He replied in the affirmative again.

"Then," I said, "though it may sound oddly from one of my cloth, you must either elope with her----"

"But then M. Raymond?--But his family?"

"He must suffer for his folly; not you. And you are only going to marry one daughter, not all of them. The other alternative is--you must pay Raymond's acceptance, as he cannot."

"It would be ruin. I cannot, either," he replied.

"Then you must lose Esther."

"I will not. No. And yet if I was to shoot Gray----"

"Shoot?" I interrupted, with the virtuous horror of a man who has never been tempted to fight a duel--"and would you then outrage the laws of divine and human?"

"No; it wouldn't do to shoot him," he pursued. "But oh, monsieur, can you not suggest something to help me--to help us?"

A thought suddenly came into my head. "Gray is pledged to spend to-night in the haunted house, is he not?" I asked.

He answered that it was so.

"I believe the man to be an arrant coward," I went on. "To be sure, he shot a dear friend of mine in a duel, and behaved, as the world says, like a brave man before his witnesses. But he's a coward for all that, and we'll test it. I don't believe in our friend the Goblin Farmer; I don't believe we saw any body, or any spirit last night at all. Well, never mind beliefs; don't interrupt me. I think our eyes were made the fools of other senses, and that there's no such thing. Gray has to spend the night there--we'll go again to-night, that is, if my wife will let me, and perhaps get my brother to help us--eh? Suppose we give him a lesson." And I laughed.

He laughed too; and after a few more observations, he accompanied me into my drawing-room. Grace and James, with his wife Emma, were sitting talking there.

I have said that I am a lazy rector. During my curatehood, however, I had learned to preach sufficiently well for the parish where I worked. To be sure my congregation was neither large or wakeful, except in winter, when the church was like a Wenham ice depôt, and people could not sleep. But I was brief, and no faults were ever found in my time with brevity. My experience in exposition and appeal now stood me in good stead.

I introduced Le Brun, and then plunged into matters. I gave a brief account of Esther and her father. I eulogized Le Brun. After that I spoke of Gray, and reminded James of the life and times--the death, too, of John Finnis, whom he saved from being plucked alive in St. James's, only that he might be shot in Hampstead. These dispatched, I opened my plans, which were listened to with great interest; the only alteration proposed was that James should go to find the authorities (if there were any, which he doubted), and give notice of Gray's character to them; after which he was to return to my house, and stay there till Le Brun and I came back from our nocturnal expedition, as Grace and Emma feared to be left alone. Poor Emma, indeed, declared that this was the most romantic thing she had ever heard of, except one which happened in the village where she was born; but as neither James or I liked to hear her speak of her origin, we cut her narrative short.

The cresset moon was up in heaven--at least, Emma said it was--when we started. It seemed to me nearly full; but she was poetical. I told her that if it was a cresset, it was tilting up, and ought, therefore, to be pouring out oil, and not light, on the earth. We started, I repeat, and a short time after, in the language of a favorite novelist, two travellers might have been seen slowly wending on their way, bundle in hand, towards the haunted house.

In another hour or so, when the wind had sunk into repose, and the birds had ceased their songs, and all things save the ever-watching stars were sleeping (as that favorite historian might go on, if he were telling this tale and not I), a tall and ecclesiastical form crept slowly from a place of concealment near the house, approached it, and gently knocked at the door. It was opened, and he entered cautiously. A few whispered sentences passed with some friend within, which being over, he proceeded, though with some hesitation, to mount the stairs and pace along the corridor.

My boots (for I was the ecclesiastic) creaked and crackled like mad boots. Onward I went, like the Ghost in Hamlet, only with very vocal buskins. I reached Gray's room and opened the door. A strange sight met my eyes through the green glass goggles which I wore over them.

Gray was pacing up and down, in evident fear. A quantity of half-burnt cigars, some bottles of wine, glasses, the lamp, and, above all, two pistols were on the table. As I opened the door, and the light fell on me, I feared that I should be discovered. But the gambler was afraid--and fear has no eyes. I advanced into the room, and solemnly waved to him to follow. He must have caught up a pistol ere he did so. I led the way.

It was my determination to lead him a long chase, and leave him in a ditch if possible, Le Brun being near at hand to cudgel him. He had readily understood my pantomime (I studied under Jones the player when in training for orders), for I found he followed me, though at a distance.

But all my plans were disconcerted. As I reached the stair-head I heard a noise, and stopped; so did Gray. It was as of some one forcing the house door. Directly afterwards I heard the loud cries of the real goblin's boots, and the sound of Le Brun in swift pursuit.

"Take care, monsieur," he cried up the stairs to me.

"By heaven they are robbers--murderers! Help! help!" roared Gray from behind; and as the real apparition came gliding up, he fired his pistol at it. The unexpected sound of the weapon, so close to my ear, too, stunned me for a moment; but I recovered myself directly, and flung myself on him, in fear lest he had his second pistol, too, and might fire at _me_. The real goblin continued to advance, and I felt Gray tremble with terror in my arms as _it_ survived the shot.

An unwonted boldness came over me. I felt myself committed to be brave.

"Villain!" I muttered in his ear, "you would swindle my descendant out of all he has?"

"No--forgive me. I will not take a sou."

"His acceptance--where is it? Give it me." He shuddered.

"I will give it to you," he said.

I released him, and followed to the lamp-lighted chamber. The other apparition creaked after him, too, and at the door I gave it the precedence. It was well I did so. The sudden light seemed to make Gray bold, for snatching up the other pistol he levelled it at the Simon Pure, and before I could utter a word, fired. The shot must have passed clean through the breast of the Mysterious Stranger--he only bowed.

Gray was now in mortal fear.

"Give up that bill," I said in solemn, pedal tones. He drew it frantically from his pocket, and, leaping up, gave it to the mysterious one.

"Go to th----" he began, with a sort of ferocious recklessness. The next moment he was sprawling on the floor. The Goblin reached out his hand, and struck Gray, as it seemed, lightly with it. I would have raised him. I motioned to do so; but my original touched me on the shoulder, handed me the bill, and motioned to me to follow. I did not like his notes of hand--his signature by mark on Gray's face--I therefore at once obeyed. Le Brun had vanished.

The stranger led me by the old route till we were again close to the tottering cow-house. Here he paused, as on the last occasion, and was, perhaps, preparing to disappear again.

"One moment, sir," I said. "Be good enough to explain yourself more plainly than you did last night. However much I may admire your acting, and it has _beaucoup de l'Esprit_ about it, family arrangements will prevent me from again assisting----"

He nodded as though he quite understood me, advanced to the side of the shed, stopped under a sort of window, and then, deliberately sitting down on the grass, began to pull off his boots. I gazed at him in amazement, and was about to address him again, when a little cloud sailed across the moon, and for a moment shaded all the place. As it passed away, and I looked to our mysterious visitant and my mysterious Original, no remains of him were to be seen--except the boots.

At this moment Le Brun joined me. I was the first (as before and as ever) to throw aside my natural fears, and I advanced to the spot. There were two highly polished Bluchers, side by side, as if they waited till the occupant of the cow-house was out of bed and shaved. I took one of them up. Something inside chinked. I reversed it, and three Napoleons fell upon the turf.

I was wondering why a French farmer-ghost should choose a Blucher to deliver Napoleons into an Englishman's hands, when Le Brun, finding nothing in the other boot, suggested that it would be well to get Gray out of the neighborhood, and perhaps the three Napoleons might be useful to him. To this I agreed at once, though I was somewhat dissatisfied with the little fellow for the small share he had taken in the risks of the evening.

I went to the room where the gambler was; he was evidently in mortal fear. I put down the Napoleons on the table, and then in those deep, pedal, and ecclesiastical notes, which have so often hymned my congregation to repose, informed him that friends of John Finnis were in the town, that he was proclaimed to the authorities, and that he had better leave the neighborhood for ever. With this I left him, joined Le Brun, and was soon on my way back to Honfleur.

"It was well I drew the shot from his pistols," said Le Brun, as we were parting. I did not then see any latent meaning in his words, nor would he ever afterwards answer any questions on the subject. I had forgotten to remove my ghostly dresses and decorations, and Grace and Emma both uttered gentle screams as I stalked into their presence. My tale was soon told, and we retired to rest.

Here the whole tale ends. As the events I recorded recede into the past, I begin almost to doubt the truth of them. But I have one living evidence--now I am glad to say not single--and Le Brun may fairly lay it to me that he has at this moment the most agreeable little lady in all Normandy for his wedded wife. I am not aware if Boots still visits the glimpses of the moon at St. Sauveur, for soon after these events I was obliged to return to my parish to put down the Popish fooleries which I found my hack had begun to introduce. If, however, he does, I only hope his reappearance will be as useful as in the above little narrative, but the Brown, the Gray--and the narrator have now done with him for ever.

CREBILLON, THE FRENCH ÆSCHYLUS.

From Fraser's Magazine.

About the year 1670, there lived at Dijon a certain notary, an original in his way, named Melchior Jolyot. His father was an innkeeper; but of a more ambitious nature than his sire, the son, so soon as he had succeeded in collecting a little money, purchased for himself the office of head clerk in the Chambres des Comptes of Dijon, with the title of Greffier of the same. During the following year, having long been desirous of a title of nobility, he acquired, at a very low price, a little abandoned and almost unknown fief, that of Crebillon, situated about a league and a half from the city.

His son, Prosper Jolyot, the future poet, was at that time a young man of about two-and-twenty years of age, a student at law, and then on the eve of being admitted as advocate at the French bar. From the first years of his sojourn in Paris, we find that he called himself Prosper Jolyot _de Crebillon_. About sixty years later, a worthy philosopher of Dijon, a certain Monsieur J. B. Michault, writes as follows to the President de Ruffey:--"Last Saturday (June 19th, 1762), our celebrated Crebillon was interred at St. Gervais. In his _billets de mort_ they gave him the title of _ecuyer_; but what appears to me more surprising, is the circumstance of his son adopting that of _messire_."

Crebillon had then ended by cradling himself in a sort of imaginary nobility. In 1761, we find him writing to the President de Brosse: "I have ever taken so little thought respecting my own origin, that I have neglected certain very flattering elucidations on this point. M. de Ricard, máitre des comptes at Dijon, gave my father one day two titles he had found. Of these two titles, written in very indifferent Latin, the first concerned one Jolyot, chamberlain of Raoul, Duke of Burgundy; the second, a certain Jolyot, chamberlain of Philippe le Bon. Both of these titles are lost. I can also remember having heard it said in my youth by some old inhabitants of Nuits, my father's native place, that there formerly existed in those cantons a certain very powerful and noble family, named Jolyot."

O vanity of vanities! would it be believed that, under the democratic reign of the Encyclopoedia, a man like Crebillon, ennobled by his own talents and genius, could have thus hugged himself in the possession of a vain and deceitful chimera! For truth compels us to own that, from the fifteenth to the end of the seventeenth century, the Jolyots were never any thing more or less than honest innkeepers, who sold their wine unadulterated, as it was procured from the black or golden grapes of the Burgundy hills.

Meanwhile Crebillon, finding that his titles of nobility were uncontested, pushed his aristocratic weakness so far as to affirm one day that his family bore on its shield an eagle, or, on a field, azure, holding in its beak a lily, proper, leaved and sustained, argent. All went, however, according to his wishes; his son allied himself by an unexpected marriage to one of the first families of England. The old tragic poet could then pass into the other world with the consoling reflection that he left behind him here below a name not only honored in the world of letters, but inscribed also in the golden muster-roll of the French nobility. But unfortunately for poor Crebillon's family tree, about a century after the creation of this mushroom nobility--which, like the majority of the nobilities of the eighteenth century, had its foundation in the sand--a certain officious antiquary, who happened at the time to have nothing better to do, bethought himself one day of inquiring into the validity of his claim. He devoted to this strange occupation several years of precious time. By dint of shaking the dust from off the archives of Dijon and Nuits, and of rummaging the minutes of the notaries of the department, he succeeded at length in ferreting out the genealogical tree of the Jolyot family. Some, the most glorious of its members, had been notaries, others had been innkeepers. Shade of Crebillon, pardon this impious archæologist, who thus, with ruthless hands, destroyed "at one fell swoop" the brilliant scaffolding of your vanity!

Prosper Jolyot de Crebillon was born at Dijon, on the 13th of February, 1674; like Corneille, Bossuet, and Voltaire, he studied at the Jesuits' college of his native town. It is well known that in all their seminaries, the Jesuits kept secret registers, wherein they inscribed, under the name of each pupil, certain notes in Latin upon his intellect and character. It was the Abbé d'Olivet who, it is said, inscribed the note referring to Crebillon:--"_Puer ingeniosus sed insignis nebulo._" But it must be said that the collegiate establishments of the holy brotherhood housed certain pedagogues, who abused their right of pronouncing judgment on the scholars. Crebillon, after all, was but a lively, frolicksome child, free and unreserved to excess in manners and speech.

His father, notary and later _greffier en chef_ of the "Chambre des Comptes" at Dijon, being above all things desirous that his family should become distinguished in the magistracy, destined his son to the law, saying that the best heritage he could leave him was his own example. Crebillon resigned himself to his father's wishes with a very good grace, and repaired to Paris, there to keep his terms. In the capital, he divided his time between study and the pleasures and amusements natural to his age. As soon as he was admitted as advocate, he entered the chambers of a procureur named Prieur, son of the Prieur celebrated by Scarron, an intimate friend of his father, who greeted him fraternally. One would have supposed that our future poet, who bore audacity on his countenance, and genius on his brow, would, like Achilles, have recognized his sex when they showed him arms; but far from this being the case, not only was it necessary to warn him that he _was_ a poet, but even to impel him bodily, as it were, and despite himself, into the arena.

The writers and poets of France have ever railed in good set terms against procureurs, advocates, and all such common-place, every-day personages; and in general, we are bound to confess they have had right on their side. We must, however, render justice to one of them, the only one, perhaps, who ever showed a taste for poetry. The worthy man to whom, fortunately for himself, Crebillon had been confided, remarked at an early stage of their acquaintanceship, the romantic disposition of his pupil. Of the same country as Piron and Rameau, Crebillon possessed, like them, the same frank gayety and good-tempered heedlessness of character, which betrayed his Burgundian origin. Having at an early age inhaled the intoxicating perfumes of the Burgundian wines, his first essays in poetry were, as might be expected, certain _chansons à boire_, none of which, however, have descended to posterity. The worthy procureur, amazed at the degree of power shown even in these slight drinking-songs, earnestly advised him to become a poet by profession.

Crebillon was then twenty-seven years of age; he resisted, alleging that he did not believe he possessed the true creative genius; that every poet is in some sort a species of deity, holding chaos in one hand, and light and life in the other; and that, for his part, he possessed but a bad pen, destined to defend bad causes in worse style. But the procureur was not to be convinced; he had discovered that a spark of the creative fire already shone in the breast of Crebillon. "Do not deny yourself becoming a poet," he would frequently say to him; "it is written upon your brow; your looks have told me so a thousand times. There is but one man in all France capable of taking up the mantle of Racine, and that man is yourself."

Crebillon exclaimed against this opinion; but having been left alone for a few hours to transcribe a parliamentary petition, he recalled to mind the magic of the stage--the scenery, the speeches, the applause; a moment of inspiration seized him. When the procureur returned, his pupil extended his hand to him, exclaiming, enthusiastically, "You have pointed out the way for me, and I shall depart." "Do not be in a hurry," replied the procureur; "a _chef d'oeuvre_ is not made in a week. Remain quietly where you are, as if you were still a procureur's clerk; eat my bread and drink my wine; when you have completed your work, you may then take your flight."

Crebillon accordingly remained in the procureur's office, and at the very desk on which he transcribed petitions, he composed the five long acts of a barbarous tragedy, entitled, "The Death of Brutus." The work finished, our good-natured procureur brought all his interest into play, in order to obtain a reading of the piece at the Comedie Française. After many applications, Crebillon was permitted to read his play: it was unanimously rejected. The poet was furious; he returned home to the procureur's, and casting down his manuscript at the good man's feet, exclaimed, in a voice of despair, "You have dishonored me!"

D'Alembert says, "Crebillon's fury burst upon the procureur's head; he regarded him almost in the light of an enemy who had advised him only for his own dishonor, swore to listen to him no more, and never to write another line of verse so long as he lived."

Crebillon, however, in his rage maligned the worthy procureur; he would not have found elsewhere so hospitable a roof or as true a friend. He returned to the study of the law, but the decisive step had been taken; beneath the advocate's gown the poet had already peeped forth. And then, the procureur was never tired of predicting future triumphs. Crebillon ventured upon another tragedy, and chose for his subject the story of the Cretan king, Idomeneus. This time the comedians accepted his piece, and shortly afterwards played it. Its success was doubtful, but the author fancied he had received sufficient encouragement to continue his new career.

In his next piece, "Atrée," Crebillon, who had commenced as a school-boy, now raised himself, as it were, to the dignity of a master. The comedians learned their parts with enthusiasm. On the morning of the first representation, the procureur summoned the young poet to his bedside, for he was then stricken with a mortal disease: "My friend," said he, "I have a presentiment that this very evening you will be greeted by the critics of the nation as a son of the great Corneille. There are but a few days of life remaining for me; I have no longer strength to walk, but be assured that I shall be at my post this evening, in the pit of the Théâtre Française." True to his word, the good old man had himself carried to the theatre. The intelligent judges applauded certain passages of the tragedy, in which wonderful power, as well as many startling beauties, were perceptible; but at the catastrophe, when Atreus compels Thyestes to drink the blood of his son, there was a general exclamation of horror--(Gabrielle de Vergy, be it remarked, had not then eaten on the stage the heart of her lover). "The procureur," says D'Alembert, "would have left the theatre in sorrow, if he had awaited the judgment of the audience in order to fix his own. The pit appeared more terrified than interested; it beheld the curtain fall without uttering a sound either of approval or condemnation, and dispersed in that solemn and ominous silence which bodes no good for the future welfare of the piece. But the procureur judged better than the public, or rather, he anticipated its future judgment. The play over, he proceeded to the green-room to seek his pupil, who, still in a state of the greatest uncertainty as to his fate, was already almost resigned to a failure; he embraced Crebillon in a transport of admiration: 'I die content,' said he. 'I have made you a poet; and I leave a man to the nation!'"

And, in fact, at each representation of the piece, the public discovered fresh beauties, and abandoned itself with real pleasure to the terror which the poet inspired. A few days afterwards, the name of Crebillon became celebrated throughout Paris and the provinces, and all imagined that the spirit of the great Corneille had indeed revisited earth to animate the muse of the young Burgundian.

Crebillon's father was greatly irritated on finding that his son had, as they said then, abandoned Themis for Melpomene. In vain did the procureur plead his pupil's cause--in vain did Crebillon address to this true father a supplication in verse, to obtain pardon for him from his sire; the _greffier en chef_ of Dijon was inexorable; to his son's entreaties he replied that he cursed him, and that he was about to make a new will. To complete, as it were, his downfall in the good opinion of this individual, who possessed such a blind infatuation for the law, Crebillon wrote him a letter, in which the following passage occurs: "I am about to get married, if you have no objection, to the most beautiful girl in Paris; you may believe me, sir, upon this point, for her beauty is all that she possesses."

To this his father replied: "Sir, your tragedies are not to my taste, your children will not be mine; commit as many follies as you please, I shall console myself with the reflection that I refused my consent to your marriage; and I would strongly advise you, sir, to depend more than ever on your pieces for support, for you are no longer a member of my family."

Crebillon, for all that, married, as he said, the most beautiful girl in Paris--the gentle and charming Charlotte Peaget, of whom Dufresny has spoken. She was the daughter of an apothecary, and it was while frequenting her father's shop that Crebillon became acquainted with her. There was nothing very romantic, it is true, in the match; but love spreads a charm over all that it comes in contact with. Thus, a short time before his marriage, Crebillon perceived his intended giving out some marshmallow and violets to a sick customer: "My dear Charlotte," said he, "we will go together, some of these days, among our Dijonnaise mountains, to collect violets and marshmallows for your father."

It was shortly after his marriage and removal to the Place Maubert, that he first evinced his strange mania for cats and dogs, and, above all, his singular passion for tobacco. He was, beyond contradiction, the greatest smoker of his day. It has been stated by some of the writers of the time, that he could not turn a single rhyme of a tragedy, save in an obscure and smoky chamber, surrounded by a noisy pack of dogs and cats; according to the same authorities, he would very frequently, also, in the middle of the day, close the shutters, and light candles. A thousand other extravagances have been attributed to Crebillon; but we ought to accept with caution the recitals of these anecdote-mongers, who were far too apt to imagine they were portraying a man, when in reality they were but drawing a ridiculous caricature.

When M. Melchior Jolyot learned that his son had, in defiance of his paternal prohibition, actually wedded the apothecary's daughter, his grief and rage knew no bounds. The worthy man believed in his recent nobility as firmly as he did in his religion, and his son's _mesalliance_ nearly drove him to despair: this time he actually carried his threat into execution, and made a formal will, by virtue of which he completely disinherited the poet.--Fortunately for Crebillon, his father, before bidding adieu to the world and his nobility, undertook a journey to Paris, curious, even in the midst of his rage, to judge for himself the merits and demerits of the theatrical tomfooleries, as he called them, of his silly boy, who had married the apothecary's daughter, and who, in place of gaining nobility and station in a procureur's office, had written a parcel of trash for actors to spout. We must say, however, that Crebillon could not have retained a better counsel to urge his claims before the paternal tribunal than his wife, the much maligned apothecary's daughter, one of the loveliest and most amiable women in Paris; and we may add, that this nobility of which his father thought so much--the nobility of the robe--which had not been acquired in a Dijonnaise family until after the lapse of three generations, was scarcely equal to the nobility of the pen, which Crebillon had acquired by the exercise of his own talents.

The old greffier, then, came to Paris for the purpose of witnessing one of the sad tomfooleries of that unhappy profligate, who in better times had been his son. Fate so willed it that on that night "Atrée" should be performed. The old man was seized with mingled emotions of terror, grief, and admiration. That very evening, being resolved not to rest until he had seen his son, he called a coach on leaving the theatre, and drove straight to the Faubourg Saint Marceau, to the house which had been pointed out to him as the dwelling of Crebillon. No sooner had the doors opened than out rushed seven or eight dogs, who cast themselves upon the old greffier, uttering in every species of canine _patois_ the loudest possible demonstrations of welcome. One word from Madame Crebillon, however, was sufficient to recall this unruly pack to order; yet the dogs, having no doubt instinctively discovered a family likeness, continued to gambol round the limbs of M. Melchior Jolyot, to the latter's no small confusion and alarm. Charlotte, who was alone, waiting supper for her husband, was much surprised at this unexpected visit. At first she imagined that it was some great personage who had come to offer the poet his patronage and protection; but after looking at her visitor two or three times, she suddenly exclaimed: "You are my husband's father, or at least you are one of the Jolyot family." The old greffier, though intending to have maintained his incognito until his son's return, could no longer resist the desire of abandoning himself to the delights of a reconciliation; he embraced his daughter-in-law tenderly, shedding tears of joy, and accusing himself all the while for his previous unnatural harshness: "Yes, yes," cried he, "yes, you are still my children--all that I have is yours!" then, after a moment's silence, he continued, in a tone of sadness: "But how does it happen that, with his great success, my son has condemned his wife to such a home and such a supper?"

"Condemned, did you say?" murmured Charlotte; "do not deceive yourself, we are quite happy here;" so saying she took her father-in-law by the hand, and led him into the adjoining room, to a cradle covered with white curtains. "Look!" said she, turning back the curtains with maternal solicitude.

The old man's heart melted outright at the sight of his grandchild.

"Are we not happy?" continued the mother. "What more do we require? We live on a little, and when we have no money, my father assists us."

They returned to the sitting-room.

"What wine is this?" said the old Burgundian, uncorking the bottle intended to form part of their frugal repast. "What!" he exclaimed, "my son fallen so low as this! The Crebillons have always drunk good wine."

At this instant, the dogs set up a tremendous barking: Crebillon was ascending the stairs. A few moments afterwards he entered the room escorted by a couple of dogs, which had followed him from the theatre.

"What! two more!" exclaimed the father; "this is really too much. Son," he continued, "I am come to entreat your pardon; in my anxiety to show myself your father, I had forgotten that my first duty was to love you."

Crebillon cast himself into his father's arms.

"But _parbleu_, Monsieur," continued the old notary, "I cannot forgive you for having so many dogs."

"You are right, father; but what would become of these poor animals were I not to take compassion upon them? It is not good for man to be alone, says the Scripture. No longer able to live with my fellow-creatures, I have surrounded myself with dogs. The dog is the solace and friend of the solitary man."

"But I should imagine you were not alone here," said the father, with a glance towards Charlotte, and the infant's cradle.

"Who knows?" said the young wife, with an expression of touching melancholy in her voice. "It is perhaps through a presentiment that he speaks thus. I much fear that I shall not live long. He has but one friend upon the earth, and that friend is myself. Now, when I shall be no more----"

"But you shall not die," interrupted Crebillon, taking her in his arms. "Could I exist without you?"

Madame Crebillon was not deceived in her presentiments: the poet, who, we know, lived to a patriarchal age, lived on in widowed solitude for upwards of fifty years.

Crebillon and his wife accompanied the old greffier back from Paris to Dijon, where, to the great surprise of the inhabitants, the father presented his son as "M. Jolyot de Crebillon, who has succeeded Messieurs Corneille and Racine in the honors of the French stage." Crebillon had the greatest possible difficulty in restraining the enthusiasm of his sire. He succeeded, however, at length, not through remonstrance, but by the insatiable ardor he displayed in diving into the paternal money-bags. After a sojourn of three months at Dijon, Crebillon returned to Paris; and well for him it was that he did so; a month longer, and the father would indubitably have quarrelled with him again, and would have remade his will, disinheriting this time, not the rebellious child, but the prodigal son. Crebillon, in fact, never possessed the art of keeping his money; and in this respect he but followed the example of all those who, in imagination, remove mountains of gold.

Scarcely had he arrived in Paris when he was obliged to return to Dijon. The old greffier had died suddenly. The inheritance was a most difficult one to unravel. "I have come here," writes Crebillon to the elder of the brothers Pâris, "only to inherit law-suits." And, true enough, he allowed himself to be drawn blindly into the various suits which arose in consequence of certain informalities in the old man's will, and which eventually caused almost the entire property to drop, bit by bit, into the pockets of the lawyers.

"I was a great blockhead," wrote Crebillon later; "I went about reciting passages from my tragedies to these lawyers, who feigned to pale with admiration; and this manoeuvre of theirs blinded me; I perceived not that all the while these cunning foxes were devouring my substance; but it is the fate of poets to be ever like La Fontaine's crow."

Out of this property he succeeded only in preserving the little fief of Crebillon, the income derived from which he gave up to his sisters. On his return to Paris, however, he changed altogether his style of living; he removed his penates to the neighborhood of the Luxembourg, and placed his establishment on quite a seignorial footing, as if he had become heir to a considerable property. This act of folly can scarcely be explained. The report, of course, was spread, that he had inherited property to a large amount. Most probably he wished, by acting thus, to save the family honor, or, to speak more correctly, the family vanity, by seeking to deceive the world as to the precise amount of the Jolyot estate.

True wisdom inhabits not the world in which we dwell. Crebillon sought all the superfluities of luxury. In vain did his wife endeavor to restrain him in his extravagances; in vain did she recal to his mind their frugal but happy meals, and the homely furniture of their little dwelling in the Place Maubert; "_so gay for all that on sunny days_."

"Well," he would reply, "if we must return there, I shall not complain. What matters if the wine be not so good, so that it is always your hand which pours it out."

Fortunately, that year was one of successive triumphs for Crebillon. The "Electre" carried off all suffrages, and astonished even criticism itself. In this piece the poet had softened down the harshness of his tints, and while still maintaining his "majestic" character, had kept closer to nature and humanity.

"Electre" was followed by "Rhadamiste," which was at the time extolled as a perfect _chef-d'oeuvre_ of style and vigor. There is in this play, if we may be allowed the term, a certain rude nobility of expression, which is the true characteristic of Crebillon's genius. It was this tragedy which inspired Voltaire with the idea, that on the stage it is better to strike hard than true. The enthusiastic auditory admitted, that if Racine could paint love, Crebillon could depict hatred. Boileau, who was then dying, and who, could he have had his wish, would have desired that French literature might stop at his name, exclaimed, that this success was scandalous. "I have lived too long!" cried the old poet, in a violent rage. "To what a pack of Visigoths have I left the French stage a prey! The Pradons, whom we so often ridiculed, were eagles compared to these fellows." Boileau resembled in some respect old "Nestor" of the _Iliad_, when he said to the Greek kings--"I would advise you to listen to me, for I have formerly mixed with men who were your betters." The public, however, amply avenged Crebillon for the bitter judgment of Boileau; in eight days two editions of the "Rhadamiste" were exhausted. And this was not all: the piece having been played by command of the Regent before the court at Versailles, was applauded to the echo.

Despite these successes, Crebillon was not long in getting to the bottom of his purse. In the hope of deferring as long as he possibly could the evil hour when he should be obliged to return to his former humble style of living, he used every possible means to replenish his almost exhausted exchequer. He borrowed three thousand crowns from Baron Hoguer, who was the resource of literary men in the days of the Regency; and sold to a Jew usurer his author's rights upon a tragedy which was yet to be written. He had counted upon the success of "Xerxes;" but this tragedy proved an utter failure. Crebillon, however, was a man of strong mind. He returned home that evening with a calm, and even smiling countenance: "Well," eagerly exclaimed Madame Crebillon, who had been awaiting in anxiety the return of her husband. "Well," replied he, "they have damned my play; to-morrow we will return to our old habits again."

And, true to his word, on the following morning Crebillon returned to the Place Maubert, where he hired a little apartment near his father-in-law, who could still offer our poet and his wife, when hard pressed, a glass of his _vin ordinaire_ and a share of his dinner. Out of all his rich furniture Crebillon selected but a dozen cats and dogs, whom he chose as the companions of his exile. To quote d'Alembert's words--"Like Alcibiades, in former days, he passed from Persian luxury to Spartan austerity, and, what in all probability Alcibiades was not, he was happier in the second state than he had been in the first."

His wife was in retirement what she had been in the world. She never complained. Perhaps even she showed herself in a more charming light, as the kind and devoted companion of the hissed and penniless poet, than as the admired wife of the popular dramatist. Poor Madame Crebillon hid their poverty from her husband with touching delicacy; he almost fancied himself rich, such a magic charm did she contrive to cast over their humble dwelling. Like Midas, she appeared to possess the gift of changing whatever she touched into gold, that is to say, of giving life and light by her winning grace to every thing with which she came in contact. Blessed, thrice blessed is that man, be he poet or philosopher, who, like Crebillon, has felt and understood that amiability and a contented mind are in a wife treasures inexhaustible, compared to which mere mundane wealth fades into utter insignificance. No word of complaint or peevish expression ever passed Madame Crebillon's lips; she was proud of her poet's glory, and endeavored always to sustain him in his independent ideas; she would listen resignedly to all his dreams of future triumphs, and knew how to cast herself into his arms when he would declare that he desired nothing more from mankind. One day, however, when there was no money in the house, on seeing him return with a dog under each arm, she ventured on a quiet remonstrance. "Take care, Monsieur de Crebillon," she said, with a smile, "we have already eight dogs and fifteen cats."

"Well, I know that," replied Crebillon; "but see how piteously these poor dogs look at us; could I leave them to die of hunger in the street?"

"But did it not strike you that they might possibly die of hunger here? I can fully understand and enter into your feelings of love and pity for these poor animals, but we must not convert the house into a hospital for foundling dogs."

"Why despair?" said Crebillon. "Providence never abandons genius and virtue. The report goes that I am to be of the Academy."

"I do not believe it," said Madame Crebillon. "Fontenelle and La Motte, who are but _beaux esprits_, will never permit a man like you to seat himself beside them, for if you were of the Academy, would you not be the king of it?"

Crebillon, however, began his canvass, but as his wife had foreseen, Fontenelle and La Motte succeeded in having him black-balled.

All these little literary thorns, however, only imparted greater charms to the calm felicity of Crebillon's domestic hearth; but we must now open the saddest page of our poet's hitherto peaceful and happy existence.

One evening, on his return from the Café Procope, the resort of all the wits and _litterateurs_ of the eighteenth century, Crebillon found his wife in a state of great agitation, half-undressed, and pressing their sleeping infant to her bosom.

"Why, Charlotte, what is the matter?" he exclaimed.

"I am afraid," replied she, trembling, and looking towards the bed.

"What folly! you are like the children, you are frightened at shadows."

"Yes, I am frightened at shadows; just now, as I was undressing, I saw a spectre glide along at the foot of the bed. I was ready to sink to the earth with terror, and it was with the greatest difficulty that I could muster strength enough to reach the child's cradle."

"Child yourself," said Crebillon, playfully; "you merely saw the shadow of the bed-curtains."

"No, no," cried the young wife, seizing the poet's hand--"it was Death! I recognized him; for it is not the first time that he has shown himself to me. Ah! _mon ami_, with what grief and terror shall I prepare to lie down in the cold earth! If you love me as I love you, do not leave me for an instant; help me to die, for if you are by my side at that hour, I shall fancy I am but dropping asleep."

Greatly shocked at what he heard, Crebillon took his child in his arms, and carried it back to its cradle. He returned to his wife, pressed her to his bosom, and sought vainly for words to relieve her apprehensions, and to lead back her thoughts into less sombre channels. He at length succeeded, but not without great difficulty, in persuading her to retire to rest; she scarcely closed an eye. Poor Crebillon sat in silence by the bedside of his wife praying fervently in his heart; for perhaps he believed in omens and presentiments even to a greater degree than did Charlotte. Finding, at length, that she had dropped asleep, he got into bed himself. When he awoke in the morning, he beheld Charlotte bending over him in a half-raised posture, as though she had been attentively regarding him as he slept. Terrified at the deadly paleness of her cheeks, and the unnatural brilliancy of her eyes, and sensitive and tender-hearted as a child, he was unable to restrain his tears. She cast herself passionately into his arms, and covered his cheeks with tears and kisses.

"'Tis all over now," she whispered, in a broken voice; "my heart beats too strongly to beat much longer, but I die contented and happy, for I see by your tears that you will not forget me."

Crebillon rose hastily and ran to his father-in-law. "Alas!" said the poor apothecary, "her mother, who was as beautiful and as good as she, died young of a disease of the heart, and her child will go the same way."

All the most celebrated physicians of the day were called in, but before they could determine upon a method of treatment, the spirit of poor Charlotte had taken flight from its earthly tabernacle.

Crebillon, inconsolable at his loss, feared not the ridicule (for in the eighteenth century all such exhibitions of feeling were considered highly ridiculous) of lamenting his wife; he wept her loss during half a century--in other words, to his last hour.

During the space of two years he scarcely appeared once at the Théâtre Française. He had the air of a man of another age, so completely a stranger did he seem to all that was going on around him. One might say that he still lived with his divine Charlotte; he would speak to her unceasingly, as if her gentle presence was still making the wilderness of his solitary dwelling blossom like the rose. After fifteen years of mourning, some friends one day surprised him in his solitude, speaking aloud to his dear Charlotte, relating to her his projects for the future, and recalling their past days of happiness: "Ah, Charlotte," he exclaimed, "they all tell me of my glory, yet I think but of thee!"

The friends of Crebillon, uneasy respecting his future destiny, had advised him during the preceding year to present himself at court, where he was received and recognized as a man of genius. In the early days of his widowhood, he quitted Paris suddenly and took up his residence at Versailles. But at Versailles he lived as he had done in Paris, immured in his chamber, and entirely engrossed with his own sombre and lugubrious thoughts and visions; in consequence of this, he was scarcely noticed; the king seeing before him a species of Danubian peasant, proud of his genius and his poverty, treated him with an almost disdainful coldness of manner. Crebillon did not at first comprehend his position at Versailles. He was a simple-minded philosopher, who had studied heroes and not men. At length, convinced that a poet at court is like a fish out of water, he returned to Paris to live more nobly with his heroes and his poverty. He retired to the Marais, to the Rue des Deux-Portes, taking with him only a bed, a table, two chairs, and an arm-chair, "in case," to use his own words, "an honest man should come to visit him."

Irritated at the rebuff he had met with at Versailles, ashamed of having solicited in vain the justice of the king, he believed henceforth only in liberty. "Liberty," said he, "is the most vivid sentiment engraven on my heart." Unintentionally, perhaps, he avenged himself in the first work he undertook after this event: the tragedy of "Cromwell,"--"an altar," as he said, "which I erect to liberty." According to D'Alembert, he read to his friends some scenes of this play, in which our British aversion for absolutism was painted with wild and startling energy; in consequence thereof, he received an order forbidding him to continue his piece. His Cromwell was a villain certainly, but a villain which would have told well upon the stage, from the degree of grandeur and heroic dignity with which the author had invested the character. From that day he had enemies; but indeed it might be said that he had had enemies from the evening of the first representation of his "Electre." Success here below has no other retinue.

Crebillon was now almost penniless. By degrees, without having foreseen such an occurrence, he began to hear his numerous creditors buzzing around him like a swarm of hornets. Not having any thing else to seize, they seized at the theatre his author's rights. The affair was brought before the courts, and led to a decree of parliament which ordained that the works of the intellect were not seizable, consequently Crebillon retained the income arising from the performance of his tragedies.

Some years now passed away without bringing any fresh successes. Compelled by the court party to discontinue "Cromwell," he gave "Semiramis," which, like "Xerxes," some time previously, was a failure. Under the impression that the public could not bring itself to relish "sombre horrors of human tempests," he sought to arm himself as it were against his own nature, to subdue and soften it. The tragedy of "Pyrrhus," which recalled the tender colors of Racine, cost him five years' labor. At that time, so strong in France was the empire of habit, that this tragedy, though utterly valueless as a work of art, and wanting both in style, relief, and expression, was received with enthusiasm. But Crebillon possessed too much good sense to be blinded by this spurious triumph. "It is," said he, when speaking of his work, "but the shadow of a tragedy."

"Pyrrhus" obtained, after all, but a transitory success. After a brief period, the public began to discover that it was a foreign plant, which under a new sky gave out but a factitious brilliancy. In despair at having wasted so much precious time in fruitless labor, and disgusted besides at the conduct of some shameless intriguers who frequented the literary cafés of the capital, singing his defeat in trashy verse, Crebillon now retired almost wholly from the world. He would visit the theatre, however, occasionally to chat with a few friends over the literary topics of the day; but at length even this recreation was abandoned, and he was seen in the world no more.

He lived now without any other friends than his heroes and his cats and dogs, devouring the novels of La Calprenède, and relating long-winded romances to himself. His son affirms having seen fifteen dogs and as many cats barking and mewing at one time round his father, who would speak to them much more tenderly than he would to himself. According to Freron's account, Crebillon would pick up and carry home under his cloak all the wandering dogs he met with in the street, and give them shelter and hospitality. But in return for this, he would require from them an aptitude for certain exercises; when, at the termination of the prescribed period, the pupil was convicted of not having profited by the education he had received, the poet would take him under his cloak again, put him down at the corner of a street and fly from the spot with tears in his eyes.

On the death of La Motte, Crebillon was at length admitted into the Academy. As he was always an eccentric man, he wrote his "Discourse" of reception in verse, a thing which had never been done before. On pronouncing this line, which has not yet been forgotten--

Aucun fiel n'a jamais empoisonné ma plume--

he was enthusiastically applauded. From that day, but from that day only, Crebillon was recognized by his countrymen as a man of honor and virtue, as well as genius. It was rather late in the day, however; he had lost his wife, his son was mixing in the fashionable world, he was completely alone, and almost forgotten, expecting nothing more from the fickle public. More idle than a lazzarone, he passed years without writing a single line, though his ever-active imagination would still produce, mentally, tragedy after tragedy. As he possessed a wonderful memory, he would compose and rhyme off-hand the entire five acts of a piece without having occasion to put pen to paper. One evening, under the impression that he had produced a masterpiece, he invited certain of his brother Academicians to his house to hear his new play. When the party had assembled, he commenced, and declaimed the entire tragedy from beginning to end without stopping. Judging by the ominous silence with which the conclusion was received, that his audience was not over delighted with his play, he exclaimed, in a pet--

"You see, my friends, I was right in not putting my tragedy on paper."

"Why so?" asked Godoyn.

"Because, I should have had the trouble of throwing it into the fire. Now, I shall merely have to forget it, which is easier done."

When Crebillon seemed no longer formidable in the literary world, and all were agreed he was in the decline of his genius, the very men who had previously denied his power, now thought fit to combat Voltaire by exalting Crebillon, in the same way as they afterwards exalted Voltaire so soon as another star appeared on the literary horizon.

"With the intention of humbling the pride of Voltaire, they proceeded," says a writer of the time, "to seek out in his lonely retreat the now aged and forsaken Crebillon, who, mute and solitary for the last thirty years, was no longer a formidable enemy for them, but whom they flattered themselves they could oppose as a species of phantom to the illustrious writer by whom they were eclipsed; just as, in former days, the Leaguers drew an old cardinal from out the obscurity in which he lived, to give him the empty title of king, only that they themselves might reign under his name."

The literary world was then divided into two adverse parties--the Crebillonists, and the Voltairians. The first, being masters of all the avenues, succeeded for a length of time in blinding the public. Voltaire passed for a mere wit; Crebillon, for the sole heir of the sceptre of Corneille and Racine. It was this clique which invented the formula ever afterwards employed in the designation of these three poets--Corneille the great, Racine the tender, and Crebillon the tragic. One great advantage Crebillon possessed over Voltaire: he had written nothing for the last thirty years. His friends, or rather Voltaire's enemies, now began to give out that the author of "Rhadamiste" was engaged in putting the finishing hand to a tragedy, a veritable dramatic wonder, by name "Catilina." Madame de Pompadour herself, tired of Voltaire's importunate ambition, now went over with her forces to the camp of the Crebillonists. She received Crebillon at court, and recommended him to the particular care of Louis XV., who conferred a pension on him, and also appointed him to the office of censor royal.

"Catilina" was at length produced with great _éclat_. The court party, which was present in force at the first performance, doubtless contributed in a great measure to the success of the piece. The old poet, thus encouraged, set to work on a new play, the "Triumvirat," with fresh ardor; but as was Voltaire's lot in after years, it was soon perceptible that the poet was but the shadow of what he had been. Out of respect, however, for Crebillon's eighty-eight years, the tragedy was applauded, but in a few days the "Triumvirat" was played to empty benches. Crebillon had now but one thing left to do: to die, which, in fact, he did in the year 1762.

It cannot be denied that Crebillon was one of the remarkable men of his century. That untutored genius, so striking in the boldness and brilliancy of its creations, but which more frequently repels through its own native barbarity, was eminently the genius of Crebillon. But what, above all, characterizes the genius of the French nation--wit, grace, and polish--Crebillon never possessed; consequently, with all his vigor and all his force, he never succeeded in creating a living work. He has depicted human perversity with a proud and daring hand--he has shown the fratricide, the infanticide, the parricide, but he never succeeded in attaining the sublimity of the Greek drama. And yet J. J. Rousseau affirmed that of all the French tragic poets, Crebillon alone had recalled to him the grandeur of the Greeks. If so, it was only through the nudity of terror, for the "French Æschylus" was utterly wanting in what may be termed human and philosophical sentiment.

There is a very beautiful portrait of Crebillon extant, by Latour. It would doubtless be supposed that the man, so terrible in his dramatic furies, was of a dark and sombre appearance. Far from it; Crebillon was of a fair complexion, and had an artless expression of countenance, and a pair of beautiful blue eyes. It must, however, be confessed, that by his method of borrowing the gestures of his heroes, coupled, moreover, with the habit he had acquired of contracting his eyebrows in the fervor of composition, Crebillon in the end became a little more the man of his works. He was, moreover, impatient and irritable, even with his favorite dogs and cats, and occasionally with his sweet-tempered and angelic wife, the ever cheerful partner alike of his joys and sorrows, who had so nobly resigned herself to the chances and changes of his good and ill-fortune; that loving companion of his hours of profusion and gaiety, when he aped the _grand seigneur_, as well as the devoted sharer of those days of poverty and neglect, when he retired from the world in disgust, to the old dwelling-house of the Place Maubert.

HABITS OF FREDERICK THE GREAT.

The principal part of the life of this great monarch was spent in camp, and in a constant struggle with a host of enemies. Yet even then, when the busy day scarcely afforded a vacant moment, that moment, if it came, was sure to be given to study. Let the young shopocracy of Glasgow never forget that Frederic had _very early_ formed an attachment to reading, which neither the opposition of his father--who thought that the scholar would spoil the soldier--nor the schemes of ambition and conquest, which occupied him so much in after life, were able to destroy or weaken. When at last, therefore, he felt himself at liberty to sheathe the sword, he gave himself up to the cultivation and patronage of literature and the arts of peace, as eagerly as he had ever done to the pursuit of military renown. Even before his accession to the throne, and while yet but a young man, he had established in his residence at Rheimsberg nearly the same system of studious application and economy in the management of his time to which he ever afterwards continued to adhere. His relaxations even then were almost entirely of an intellectual character; and he had collected around him a circle of literary associates, with whom it was his highest enjoyment to spend his hours in philosophic conversation, or in amusements not unfitted to adorn a life of philosophy. In a letter written to one of his friends, he says--"I become every day more covetous of my time; I render an account of it to myself, and lose none of it but with great regret. My mind is entirely turned toward philosophy; it has rendered me admirable services, and I am greatly indebted to it. I find myself happy, abundantly more tranquil than formerly; my soul is less subject to violent agitations; and I do nothing till I have considered what course of action I ought to adopt." Let young men contrast such conduct with the frivolities of other noble and royal persons, and be faithful to her whose ways are pleasantness, and whose paths are peace. I shall conclude this paper with a sketch of his doings for the ordinary four-and-twenty hours. Dr. Towers, who has written a history of his reign, informs us that it was his general custom to rise at five o'clock in the morning, and sometimes earlier. He commonly dressed his hair himself, and seldom employed more than two minutes for that purpose. His boots were put at the bedside, for he scarcely ever wore shoes. After he was dressed, the adjutant of the first battalion of his guards brought him a list of all the persons that had arrived at Potsdam, or departed from thence. When he had delivered his orders to this officer he retired into an inner cabinet, where he employed himself in private till seven o'clock. He then went into another apartment, where he drank coffee or chocolate, and here he found all the letters addressed to him from Potsdam and Berlin. Foreign letters were placed upon a separate table. After reading all these letters, he wrote hints or notes on the margin of those which his secretaries were to answer, and then returning into the inner cabinet carried with him such as he meant to write or dictate an answer to himself. Here he employed himself until nine o'clock. At ten the generals who were about his person attended. At eleven he mounted his horse and rode to the parade, when he reviewed and exercised his guards; and at the same hour, says Voltaire, all the colonels did the same throughout the provinces. He afterwards walked for some time in the garden with his generals. At one o'clock he sat down to dinner. He had no carver, but did the honors of the table like a private gentleman. His dinner-time did not much exceed an hour. He then retired into his private apartment, making low bows to his company. He remained in private till five o'clock, when his reader waited on him. His reading lasted about two hours, and this was succeeded by a concert upon the flute which lasted till nine. He supped at half-past nine with his favorite _literati_, and at twelve the king went to bed.--_Communication from David Vedder, in the Glasgow Citizen._

THE OLD MAN'S DEATH.

A CHILD'S FIRST SIGHT OF SORROW.

From "Recollections of our Neighborhood in the West."[6]

BY ALICE CAREY.

Change is the order of nature; the old makes way for the new; over the perished growth of last year brighten the blossoms of this. What changes are to be counted, even in a little noiseless life like mine! How many graves have grown green; how many locks have grown gray; how many, lately young, and strong in hope and courage, are faltering and fainting; how many hands that reached eagerly for the roses are drawn back bleeding and full of thorns; and, saddest of all, how many hearts are broken! I remember when I had no sad memory, when I first made room in my bosom for the consciousness of death.

We have gained the world's cold wisdom now, We have learned to pause and fear; But where are the living founts whose flow Was a joy of heart to hear!

I remember the twilight, as though it were yesterday--grey, and dim, and cold, for it was late in October, when the shadow first came over my heart, that no subsequent sunshine has ever swept entirely away. From the window of our cottage home, streamed a column of light, in which I sat stringing the red berries of the brier rose.

I had heard of death, but regarded it only with that vague apprehension which I felt for the demons and witches that gather poison herbs under the new moon, in fairy forests, or strangle harmless travelers with wands of the willow, or with vines of the wild grape or ivy. I did not much like to think about them, and yet I felt safe from their influence.

There might be people, somewhere, that would die some time; I did'nt know, but it would not be myself, or any one I knew. They were so well and so strong, so full of joyous hopes, how could their feet falter, and their smiles grow dim, and their fainting hands lay away their work, and fold themselves together! No, no--it was not a thing to be believed.

Drifts of sunshine from that season of blissful ignorance often come back, as lightly

As the winds of the May-time flow, And lift up the shadows brightly As the daffodil lifts the snow--

the shadows that have gathered with the years! It is pleasant to have them thus swept off--to find myself a child again--the crown of pale pain and sorrow that presses heavily now, unfelt, and the graves that lie lonesomely along my way, covered up with flowers--to feel my mother's dark locks fall upon my cheek, as she teaches me the lesson or the prayer--to see my father, now a sorrowful old man whose hair has thinned and whitened almost to the limit of three score years and ten, fresh and vigorous, strong for the race--and to see myself a little child, happy with a new hat and a pink ribbon, or even with the string of briar buds that I called coral. Now I tie it about my neck, and now around my forehead, and now twist it among my hair, as I have somewhere read great ladies do their pearls. The winds are blowing the last yellow leaves from the cherry tree--I know not why, but it makes me sad. I draw closer to the light of the window, and slyly peep within--all is quiet and cheerful; the logs on the hearth are ablaze; my father is mending a bridle-rein, which "Traveller," the favorite riding horse, snapt in two yesterday, when frightened at the elephant that (covered with a great white cloth), went by to be exhibited at the coming show,--my mother is hemming a ruffle, perhaps for me to wear to school next quarter--my brother is reading in a newspaper, I know not what, but I see, on one side, the picture of a bear: Let me listen--and flattening my cheek against the pane, I catch his words distinctly, for he reads loud and very clearly--it is an improbable story of a wild man who has recently been discovered in the woods of some far-away island--he seems to have been there a long time, for his nails are grown like claws, and his hair, in rough and matted strings, hangs to his knees; he makes a noise like something between the howl of a beast and a human cry, and, when pursued, runs with a nimbleness and swiftness that baffle the pursuers, though mounted on the fleetest of steeds, urged through brake and bush to their utmost speed. When first seen, he was sitting on the ground and cracking nuts with his teeth; his arms are corded with sinews that make it probable his strength is sufficient to strangle a dozen men; and yet on seeing human beings, he runs into the thick woods, lifting such a hideous scream, the while, as make his discoverers clasp their hands to their ears. It is suggested that this is not a solitary individual, become wild by isolation, but that a race exists, many of which are perhaps larger and of more terrible aspects; but whether they have any intelligible language, and whether they live in caverns of rocks or in trunks of hollow trees, remains for discovery by some future and more daring explorers.

My brother puts down the paper and looks at the picture of the bear. "I would not read such foolish stories," says my father, as he holds the bridle up to the light, to see that it is nearly mended; my mother breaks the thread which gathers the ruffle; she is gentle and loving, and does not like to hear even implied reproof, but she says nothing; little Harry, who is playing on the floor, upsets his block-house, and my father, clapping his hands together, exclaims, "This is the house that Jack built!" and adds, patting Harry on the head, "Where is my little boy? this is not he, this is a little carpenter; you must make your houses stronger, little carpenter!" But Harry insists that he is the veritable little Harry, and no carpenter, and hides his tearful eyes in the lap of my mother, who assures him that he is her own little boy, and soothes his childish grief by buttoning on his neck the ruffle she has just completed; and off he scampers again, building a new house, the roof of which he makes very steep, and calls it grandfather's house, at which all laugh heartily.

While listening to the story of the wild man I am half afraid, but now, as the joyous laughter rings out, I am ashamed of my fears, and skipping forth, I sit down on a green ridge which cuts the door-yard diagonally, and where, I am told, there was once a fence. Did the rose-bushes and lilacs and flags that are in the garden, ever grow here? I think--no, it must have been a long while ago, if indeed the fence were ever here, for I can't conceive the possibility of such change, and then I fall to arranging my string of brier-buds into letters that will spell some name, now my own, and now that of some one I love. A dull strip of cloud, from which the hues of pink and red and gold have but lately faded out, hangs low in the west; below is a long reach of withering woods--the gray sprays of the beech clinging thickly still, and the gorgeous maples shooting up here and there like sparks of fire among the darkly magnificent oaks and silvery columned sycamores--the gray and murmurous twilight gives way to darker shadows and a deeper hush.

I hear, far away, the beating of quick hoof-strokes on the pavement; the horseman, I think to myself, is just coming down the hill through the thick woods beyond the bridge. I listen close, and presently a hollow rumbling sound indicates that I was right; and now I hear the strokes more faintly--he is climbing the hill that slopes directly away from me; but now again I hear distinctly--he has almost reached the hollow below me--the hollow that in summer is starry with dandelions and now is full of brown nettles and withered weeds--he will presently have passed--where can he be going, and what is his errand? I will rise up and watch. The cloud passes from the face of the moon, and the light streams full and broad on the horseman--he tightens his rein, and looks eagerly toward the house--surely I know him, the long red curls, streaming down his neck, and the straw hat, are not to be mistaken--it is Oliver Hillhouse, the miller, whom my grandfather, who lives in the steep-roofed house, has employed three years--longer than I can remember! He calls to me, and I laughingly bound forward, with an exclamation of delight, and put my arms about the slender neck of his horse, that is champing the bit and pawing the pavement, and I say, "Why do you not come in?"

He smiles, but there is something ominous in his smile, as he hands me a folded paper, saying, "Give this to your mother;" and, gathering up his reins, he rides hurriedly forward. In a moment I am in the house, for my errand, "Here mother is a paper which Oliver Hillhouse gave me for you." Her hand trembles as she receives it, and waiting timidly near, I watch her as she reads; the tears come, and without speaking a word she hands it to my father.

That night there came upon my soul the shadow of an awful fear; sorrowful moans and plaints disturbed my dreams that have never since been wholly forgot. How cold and spectral-like the moonlight streamed across my pillow; how dismal the chirping of the cricket in the hearth; and how more than dismal the winds among the naked boughs that creaked against my window. For the first time in my life I could not sleep, and I longed for the light of the morning. At last it came, whitening up the East, and the stars faded away, and there came a flush of crimson and purple fire, which was presently pushed aside by the golden disk of the sun. Daylight without, but within there was thick darkness still.

I kept close about my mother, for in her presence I felt a shelter and protection that I found no where else.

"Be a good girl till I come back," she said, stooping and kissing my forehead; "mother is going away to-day, your poor grandfather is very sick."

"Let me go too," I said, clinging close to her hand. We were soon ready; little Harry pouted his lips and reached out his hands, and my father gave him his pocket-knife to play with; and the wind blowing the yellow curls over his eyes and forehead, he stood on the porch looking eagerly while my mother turned to see him again and again. We had before us a walk of perhaps two miles--northwardly along the turnpike nearly a mile, next, striking into a grass-grown road that crossed it, in an easternly direction nearly another mile, and then turning northwardly again, a narrow lane, bordered on each side by old and decaying cherry-trees, led us to the house, ancient fashioned, with high steep gables, narrow windows, and low, heavy chimneys of stone. In the rear was an old mill, with a plank sloping from the door-sill to the ground, by way of step, and a square open window in the gable, through which, with ropes and pulleys, the grain was drawn up.

This mill was an especial object of terror to me, and it was only when my aunt Carry led me by the hand, and the cheerful smile of Oliver Hillhouse lighted up the dusky interior, that I could be persuaded to enter it. In truth it was a lonesome sort of place, with dark lofts and curious binns, and ladders leading from place to place; and there were cats creeping stealthily along the beams in wait for mice or swallows, if, as sometimes happened, the clay nest should be loosened from the rafter, and the whole tumble ruinously down. I used to wonder that aunt Carry was not afraid in the old place, with its eternal rumble, and its great dusty wheel moving slowly round and round, beneath the steady tread of the two sober horses that never gained a hair's breadth for their pains; but on the contrary, she seemed to like the mill, and never failed to show me through all its intricacies, on my visits. I have unraveled the mystery now, or rather, from the recollections I still retain, have apprehended what must have been clear to older eyes at the time.

A forest of oak and walnut stretched along this extremity of the farm, and on either side of the improvements (as the house and barn and mill were called) shot out two dark forks, completely cutting off the view, save toward the unfrequented road to the south, which was traversed mostly by persons coming to the mill, for my grandfather made the flour for all the neighbourhood round about, besides making corn-meal for Johny-cakes, and "chops" for the cows.

He was an old man now, with a tall, athletic frame, slightly bent, thin locks white as the snow, and deep blue eyes full of fire and intelligence, and after long years of uninterrupted health and useful labor, he was suddenly stricken down, with no prospect of recovery.

"I hope he is better," said my mother, hearing the rumbling of the mill-wheel. She might have known my grandfather would permit no interruption of the usual business on account of his illness--the neighbors, he said, could not do without bread because he was sick, nor need they all be idle, waiting for him to die. When the time drew near, he would call them to take his farewell and his blessing, but till then let them sew and spin, and prepare dinner just as usual, so they would please him best. He was a stern man--even his kindness was uncompromising and unbending, and I remember of his making toward me no manifestation of fondness, such as grandchildren usually receive, save once, when he gave me a bright red apple, without speaking a word till my timid thanks brought out his "Save your thanks for something better." The apple gave me no pleasure, and I even slipt into the mill to escape from his cold, forbidding presence.

Nevertheless, he was a good man, strictly honest, and upright in all his dealings, and respected, almost reverenced, by everybody. I remember once, when young Winters, the tenant of Deacon Granger's farm, who paid a great deal too much for his ground, as I have heard my father say, came to mill with some withered wheat, my grandfather filled up the sacks out of his own flour, while Tommy was in the house at dinner. That was a good deed, but Tommy Winters never suspected how his wheat happened to turn out so well.

As we drew near the house, it seemed to me more lonesome and desolate than it ever looked before. I wished I had staid at home with little Harry. So eagerly I noted every thing, that I remember to this day, that near a trough of water, in the lane, stood a little surly looking cow, of a red color, and with a white line running along her back. I had gone with aunt Carry often when she went to milk her, but, to-day she seemed not to have been milked. Near her was a black and white heifer, with sharp short horns, and a square board tied over her eyes; two horses, one of them gray, and the other sorrel, with a short tail, were reaching their long necks into the garden, and browsing from the currant bushes. As we approached they trotted forward a little, and one of them, half playfully, half angrily, bit the other on the shoulder, after which they returned quietly to their cropping of the bushes, heedless of the voice that from across the field was calling to them.

A flock of turkeys were sunning themselves about the door, for no one came to scare them away; some were black, and some speckled, some with heads erect and tails spread, and some nibbling the grass; and with a gabbling noise, and a staid and dignified march, they made way for us. The smoke arose from the chimney in blue, graceful curls, and drifted away to the woods; the dead morning-glory vines had partly fallen from the windows, but the hands that tended them were grown careless, and they were suffered to remain blackened and void of beauty, as they were. Under these, the white curtain was partly put aside, and my grandmother, with the speckled handkerchief pinned across her bosom, and her pale face, a shade paler than usual, was looking out, and seeing us she came forth, and in answer to my mother's look of inquiry, shook her head, and silently led the way in. The room we entered had some home-made carpet, about the size of a large table-cloth, spread in the middle of the floor, the remainder of which was scoured very white; the ceiling was of walnut wood, and the side walls were white-washed--a table, an old-fashioned desk, and some wooden chairs, comprised the furniture. On one of the chairs was a leather cushion; this was set to one side, my grandmother neither offering it to my mother, nor sitting in it herself, while, by way of composing herself, I suppose, she took off the black ribbon with which her cap was trimmed. This was a more simple process than the reader may fancy, the trimming, consisting merely of a ribbon, always black, which she tied around her head after the cap was on, forming a bow and two ends just above the forehead. Aunt Carry, who was of what is termed an even disposition, received us with her usual cheerful demeanor, and then, re-seating herself comfortably near the fire, resumed her work, the netting of some white fringe.

I liked aunt Carry, for that she always took especial pains to entertain me, showing me her patchwork, taking me with her to the cowyard and dairy, as also to the mill, though in this last I fear she was a little selfish; however, that made no difference to me at the time, and I have always been sincerely grateful to her: children know more, and want more, and feel more, than people are apt to imagine.

On this occasion she called me to her, and tried to teach me the mysteries of her netting, telling me I must get my father to buy me a little bureau, and then I could net fringe and make a nice cover for it. For a little time I thought I could, and arranged in my mind where it should be placed, and what should be put into it, and even went so far as to inquire how much fringe she thought would be necessary. I never attained to much proficiency in the netting of fringe, nor did I ever get the little bureau, and now it is quite reasonable to suppose I never shall.

Presently my father and mother were shown into an adjoining room, the interior of which I felt an irrepressible desire to see, and by stealth I obtained a glimpse of it before the door closed behind them. There was a dull brown and yellow carpet on the floor, and near the bed, on which was a blue and white coverlid, stood a high backed wooden chair, over which hung a towel, and on the bottom of which stood a pitcher, of an unique pattern. I know not how I saw this, but I did, and perfectly remember it, notwithstanding my attention was in a moment completely absorbed by the sick man's face, which was turned towards the opening door, pale, livid, and ghastly. I trembled, and was transfixed; the rings beneath the eyes, which had always been deeply marked, were now almost black, and the blue eyes within looked glassy and cold, and terrible. The expression of agony on the lips (for his disease was one of a most painful nature) gave place to a sort of smile, and the hand, twisted among the gray locks, was withdrawn and extended to welcome my parents, as the door closed. That was a fearful moment; I was near the dark steep edges of the grave; I felt, for the first time, that I was mortal too, and I was afraid.

Aunt Carry put away her work, and taking from a nail in the window-frame a brown muslin sun bonnet, which seemed to me of half a yard in depth, she tied it on my head, and then clapt her hands as she looked into my face, saying, "bopeep!" at which I half laughed and half cried, and making provision for herself in grandmother's bonnet, which hung on the opposite side of the window, and was similar to mine, except that it was perhaps a little larger, she took my hand and we proceeded to the mill. Oliver, who was very busy on our entrance, came forward, as aunt Carry said, by way of introduction, "A little visitor I've brought you," and arranged a seat on a bag of meal for us, and taking off his straw hat pushed the red curls from his low white forehead, and looked bewildered and anxious.

"It's quite warm for the season," said aunt Carry, by way of breaking silence, I suppose. The young man said "yes," abstractedly, and then asked if the rumble of the mill were not a disturbance to the sick room, to which aunt Carry answered, "No, my father says it is his music."

"A good old man," said Oliver, "he will not hear it much longer," and then, even more sadly, "every thing will be changed." Aunt Carry was silent, and he added, "I have been here a long time, and it will make me very sorry to go away, especially when such trouble is about you all."

"Oh, Oliver," said aunt Carra, "you don't mean to go away?" "I see no alternative," he replied; "I shall have nothing to do; if I had gone a year ago it would have been better." "Why?" asked aunt Carry; but I think she understood why, and Oliver did not answer directly, but said, "Almost the last thing your father said to me was, that you should never marry any who had not a house and twenty acres of land; if he has not, he will exact that promise of you, and I cannot ask you not to make it, nor would you refuse him if I did; I might have owned that long ago, but for my sister (she had lost her reason) and my lame brother, whom I must educate to be a school-master, because he never can work, and my blind mother; but God forgive me! I must not and do not complain; you will forget me, before long, Carry, and some body who is richer and better, will be to you all I once hoped to be, and perhaps more."

I did not understand the meaning of the conversation at the time, but I felt out of place some way, and so, going to another part of the mill, I watched the sifting of the flour through the snowy bolter, listening to the rumbling of the wheel. When I looked around I perceived that Oliver had taken my place on the meal bag, and that he had put his arm around the waist of aunt Carry in a way I did not much like.

Great sorrow, like a storm, sweeps us aside from ordinary feelings, and we give our hearts into kindly hands--so cold and hollow and meaningless seem the formulæ of the world. They had probably never spoken of love before, and now talked of it as calmly as they would have talked of any thing else; but they felt that hope was hopeless; at best, any union was deferred, perhaps, for long years; the future was full of uncertainties. At last their tones became very low, so low I could not hear what they said; but I saw that they looked very sorrowful, and that aunt Carry's hand lay in that of Oliver as though he were her brother.

"Why don't the flour come through?" I said, for the sifting had become thinner and lighter, and at length quite ceased. Oliver smiled, faintly, as he arose, and saying, "This will never buy the child a frock," poured a sack of wheat into the hopper, so that it nearly run over. Seeing no child but myself, I supposed he meant to buy me a new frock, and at once resolved to put it in my little bureau, if he did.

"We have bothered Mr. Hillhouse long enough," said aunt Carry, taking my hand, "and will go to the house, shall we not?"

I wondered why she said "Mr. Hillhouse," for I had never heard her say so before; and Oliver seemed to wonder, too, for he said reproachfully, laying particular stress on his own name, "You don't bother Mr. Hillhouse, I am sure, but I must not insist on your remaining if you wish to go."

"I don't want to insist on my staying," said aunt Carry, "if you don't want to, and I see you don't," and lifting me out to the sloping plank, that bent beneath us, we descended.

"Carry," called a voice behind us; but she neither answered nor looked back, but seeming to feel a sudden and expressive fondness for me, took me up in her arms, though I was almost too heavy for her to lift, and kissing me over and over, said I was light as a feather, at which she laughed as though neither sorrowful nor lacking for employment.

This little passage I could never precisely explain, aside from the ground that "the course of true love never did run smooth." Half an hour after we returned to the house, Oliver presented himself at the door, saying, "Miss Caroline, shall I trouble you for a cup, to get a drink of water?" Carry accompanied him to the well, where they lingered some time, and when she returned her face was sunshiny and cheerful as usual.

The day went slowly by, dinner was prepared, and removed, scarcely tasted; aunt Carry wrought at her fringe, and grandmother moved softly about, preparing teas and cordials.

Towards sunset the sick man became easy, and expressed a wish that the door of his chamber might be opened, that he might watch our occupations and hear our talk. It was done accordingly, and he was left alone. My mother smiled, saying she hoped he might yet get well, but my father shook his head mournfully, and answered, "He wishes to go without our knowledge." He made amplest provision for his family always, and I believe had a kind nature, but he manifested no little fondnesses, nor did he wish caresses for himself. Contrary to the general tenor of his character, was a love of quiet jests, that remained to the last. Once, as Carry gave him some drink, he said, "You know my wishes about your future, I expect you to be mindful."

I stole to the door of his room in the hope that he would say something to me, but he did not, and I went nearer, close to the bed, and timidly took his hand in mine; how damp and cold it felt! yet he spoke not, and climbing upon the chair, I put back his thin locks, and kissed his forehead. "Child, you trouble me," he said, and these were the last words he ever spoke to me.

The sun sunk lower and lower, throwing a beam of light through the little window, quite across the carpet, and now it reached the sick man's room, climbed over the bed and up the wall; he turned his face away, and seemed to watch its glimmer upon the ceiling The atmosphere grew dense and dusky, but without clouds, and the orange light changed to a dull lurid red, and the dying and dead leaves dropt silently to the ground, for there was no wind, and the fowls flew into the trees, and the grey moths came from beneath the bushes and fluttered in the waning light. From the hollow tree by the mill came the bat, wheeling and flitting blindly about, and once or twice its wings struck the window of the sick man's chamber. The last sunlight faded off at length, and the rumbling of the mill-wheel was still: he has fallen asleep in listening to its music.

The next day came the funeral. What a desolate time it was! All down the lane were wagons and carriages and horses, for every body that knew my grandfather had come to pay him the last honors. "We can do him no further good," they said, "but it seemed right that we should come." Close by the gate waited the little brown wagon to bear the coffin to the grave, the wagon in which he was used to ride while living. The heads of the horses were drooping, and I thought they looked consciously sad.

The day was mild and the doors and windows of the old house stood all open, so that the people without could hear the words of the preacher. I remember nothing he said; I remember of hearing my mother sob, and of seeing my grandmother with her face buried in her hands, and of seeing aunt Carra sitting erect, her face pale but tearless, and Oliver near her, with his hands folded across his breast save once or twice, when he lifted them to brush away tears.

I did not cry, save from a frightened and strange feeling, but kept wishing that we were not so near the dead, and that it were another day. I tried to push the reality away with thoughts of pleasant things--in vain. I remember the hymn, and the very air in which it was sung.

"Ye fearful souls fresh courage take, The clouds ye so much dread, Are big with mercy, and shall break In blessings on your head. Blind unbelief is sure to err, And scan his works in vain; God is his own interpreter, And he will make it plain."

Near the door blue flagstones were laid, bordered with a row of shrubberies and trees, with lilacs, and roses, and pears, and peach-trees, which my grandfather had planted long ago, and here, in the open air, the coffin was placed, and the white cloth removed, and folded over the lid. I remember how it shook and trembled as the gust came moaning from the woods, and died off over the next hill, and that two or three withered leaves fell on the face of the dead, which Oliver gently removed and brushed aside a yellow winged butterfly that hovered near.

The friends hung over the unsmiling corpse till they were led weeping and one by one away; the hand of some one rested for a moment on the forehead, and then the white cloth was replaced, and the lid screwed down. The coffin was placed in the brown wagon, with a sheet folded about it, and the long train moved slowly to the burial-ground woods, where the words "dust to dust" were followed by the rattling of the earth, and the sunset light fell there a moment, and the dead leaves blew across the smoothly shapen mound.

When the will was read, Oliver found himself heir to a fortune--the mill and the homestead and half the farm--provided he married Carry, which I suppose he did, for though I do not remember the wedding, I have had an aunt Caroline Hillhouse almost as long as I can remember. The lunatic sister was sent to an asylum, where she sung songs about a faithless lover till death took her up and opened her eyes in heaven. The mother was brought home, and she and my grandmother lived at their ease, and sat in the corner, and told stories of ghosts, and witches, and marriages, and deaths, for long years. Peace to their memories! for they have both gone home; and the lame brother is teaching school, in his leisure playing the flute, and reading Shakspeare--all the book he reads.

Years have come and swept me away from my childhood, from its innocence and blessed unconsciousness of the dark, but often comes back the memory of its first sorrow!

Death is less terrible to me now.

FOOTNOTES:

[6] In press and soon to be published by J. S. Redfield.

MY NOVEL:

OR, VARIETIES IN ENGLISH LIFE.[7]

BY PISISTRATUS CAXTON.