CHAPTER V.

The Italian singing-master was a peculiar man, and well worthy of a few words in description. He was tall and thin, but well built; and his face had probably once been very handsome, in that Italian style, which, by the exaggeration of age, grows so soon into ugliness. The nose was now large and conspicuous, the eyes bright, black, and twinkling, the mouth good in shape, but with an animal expression about it, the ear very voluminous.

He was somewhat more than fifty years of age, and his hair was speckled with gray; but age was not apparent in wrinkles and furrows, and in gait he was firm and upright.

At first Sir Philip Hastings did not like him at all. He did not like to have him there. It was against the grain he admitted him into the house. He did it, partly because he thought it right to yield in some degree to the wishes of his wife; partly from a grudging deference to the customs of society.

But the Signor was a shrewd and world-taught man, accustomed to overcome prejudices, and to make his way against disadvantages; and he soon established himself well in the opinion of both father and mother. It was done by a peculiar process, which is well worth the consideration of all those who seek _les moyens de parvenir_.

In his general and ordinary intercourse with his fellow-men, he had a happy middle tone,--a grave, reticent manner, which never compromised him to anything. A shrewd smile, without an elucidatory remark, served to harmonize him with the gay and vivacious; a serious tranquillity, unaccompanied by any public professions, was enough to make the sober and the decent rank him amongst themselves. Perhaps that class of men--whether pure at heart or not--have always overestimated decency of exterior.

All this was in public however. In private, in a _tête-à-tête_, Signor Guardini was a very different man. Nay more, in each and every _tête-à-tête_ he was a different man from what he appeared in the other. Yet, with a marvelous art, he contrived to make both sides of his apparent character harmonize with his public and open appearance. Or rather perhaps I should say that his public demeanor was a middle tint which served to harmonize the opposite extremes of coloring displayed by his character. Nothing could exemplify this more strongly than the different impressions he produced on Sir Philip and Lady Hastings. The lady was soon won to his side. She was predisposed to favor him; and a few light gay sallies, a great deal of conventional talk about the fashionable life of London, and a cheerful bantering tone of persiflage, completely charmed her. Sir Philip was more difficult to win. Nevertheless, in a few short sentences, hardly longer than those which Sterne's mendicant whispered in the ear of the passengers, he succeeded in disarming many prejudices. With him, the Signor was a stoic; he had some tincture of letters, though a singer, and had read sufficient of the history of his own land, to have caught all the salient points of the glorious past.

Perhaps he might even feel a certain interest in the antecedents of his decrepit land--not to influence his conduct, or to plant ambitious or nourish pure and high hopes for its regeneration--but to waken a sort of touch-wood enthusiasm, which glowed brightly when fanned by the stronger powers of others. Yet before Sir Philip had had time to communicate to him one spark of his own ardor, he had as I have said made great progress in his esteem. In five minutes' conversation he had established for himself the character of one of a higher and nobler character whose lot had fallen in evil days.

"In other years," thought the English gentleman, "this might have been a great man--the defender unto death of his country's rights--the advocate of all that is ennobling, stern, and grand."

What was the secret of all this? Simply that he, a man almost without character, had keen and well-nigh intuitive perceptions of the characters of others; and that without difficulty his pliable nature and easy principles would accommodate themselves to all.

He made great progress then in the regard of Sir Philip, although their conversations seldom lasted above five minutes. He made greater progress still with the mother. But with the daughter he made none--worse than none.

What was the cause, it may be asked. What did he do or say--how did he demean himself so as to produce in her bosom a feeling of horror and disgust toward him that nothing could remove?

I cannot tell. He was a man of strong passions and no principles: that his after--perhaps his previous--life would evince. There is a touchstone for pure gold in the heart of an innocent and highminded woman that detects all baser metals: they are discovered in a moment: they cannot stand the test.

Now, whether his heart-cankering corruption, his want of faith, honesty, and truth, made themselves felt, and were pointed out by the index of that fine barometer, without any overt act at all--or whether he gave actual cause of offense, I do not know--none has ever known.

Suddenly, however, the gay, the apparently somewhat wayward girl, now between fifteen and sixteen, assumed a new character in her father's and mother's eyes. With a strange frank abruptness she told them she would take no more singing lessons of the Italian; but she added no explanation.

Lady Hastings was angry, and expostulated warmly; but the girl was firm and resolute. She heard her mother's argument, and answered in soft and humble tones that she would not,--could not learn to sing any longer--that she was very sorry to grieve or to offend her mother; but she had learned long enough, and would learn no more.

More angry than before, with the air of indignant pride in which weakness so often takes refuge, the mother quitted the room; and the father then, in a calmer spirit, inquired the cause of her resolution.

She blushed like the early morning sky; but there was a sort of bewildered look upon her face as she replied, "I know no cause--I can give no reason, my dear father; but the man is hateful to me. I will never see him again."

Her father sought for farther explanation, but he could obtain none. Guardini had not said anything nor done anything, she admitted, to give her offense; but yet she firmly refused to be his pupil any longer.

There are instincts in fine and delicate minds, which, by signs and indications intangible to coarser natures, discover in others thoughts and feelings, wishes and designs, discordant--repugnant to themselves. They are instincts, I say, not amenable to reason, escaping analysis, incapable of explanation--the warning voice of God in the heart, bidding them beware of evil.

Sir Philip Hastings was not a man to allow aught for such impulses--to conceive or understand them in the least. He had been accustomed to delude himself with reasons, some just, others very much the reverse, but he had never done a deed or entertained a thought for which he could not give some reason of convincing power to his own mind.

He did not understand his daughter's conduct at all; but he would not press her any farther. She was in some degree a mysterious being to him. Indeed, as I have before shown, she had always been a mystery; for he had no key to her character in his own. It was written in the unknown language.

Yet, did he love or cherish her the less? Oh no! Perhaps a deeper interest gathered round his heart for her, the chief object of his affections. More strongly than ever he determined to cultivate and form her mind on his own model, in consequence of what he called a strange caprice, although he could not but sometimes hope and fancy that her resolute rejection of any farther lessons from Signor Guardini arose from her distaste to what he himself considered one of the frivolous pursuits of fashion.

Yet she showed no distaste for singing; for somehow every day she would practice eagerly, till her sweet voice, under a delicate taste, acquired a flexibility and power which charmed and captivated her father, notwithstanding his would-be cynicism. He was naturally fond of music; his nature was a vehement one, though curbed by such strong restraints; and all vehement natures are much moved by music. He would sit calmly, with his eyes fixed upon a book, but listening all the time to that sweet voice, with feelings working in him--emotions, thrilling, deep, intense, which he would have felt ashamed to expose to any human eye.

All this however made her conduct toward Guardini the more mysterious; and her father often gazed upon her beautiful face with a look of doubting inquiry, as one may look on the surface of a bright lake, and ask, What is below?

That face was now indeed becoming very beautiful. Every feature had been refined and softened by time. There was soul in the eyes, and a gleam of heaven upon the smile, besides the mere beauties of line and coloring. The form too had nearly reached perfection. It was full of symmetry and grace, and budding charms; and while the mother marked all these attractions, and thought how powerful they would prove in the world, the father felt their influence in a different manner: with a sort of abstract admiration of her loveliness, which went no further than a proud acknowledgment to his own heart that she was beautiful indeed. To him her beauty was as a gem, a picture, a beautiful possession, which he had no thought of ever parting with--something on which his eyes would rest well pleased until they closed forever. How blessed he might have been in the possession of such a child could he have comprehended her--could he have divested his mind of the idea that there was something strange and inharmonious in her character! Could he have made his heart a woman's heart for but one hour, all mystery would have been dispelled; but it was impossible, and it remained.

No tangible effect did it produce at the time; but preconceptions of another's character are very dangerous things. Everything is seen through their medium, everything is colored and often distorted. That which produced no fruit at the time, had very important results at an after period.

But I must turn now to other scenes and more stirring events, having I trust made the reader well enough acquainted with father, mother, and daughter, at least sufficiently for all the purposes of this tale. It is upon the characters of two of them that all the interest if there be any depends. Let them be marked then and remembered, if the reader would derive pleasure from what follows.

TO BE CONTINUED.

[From "The Album." Manchester, November, 1850.]

THE POET'S LOT.

BY PHILIP JAMES BAILEY, AUTHOR OF "FESTUS," ETC.

Nature in the poet's heart is limned In little, as in landscape stones we see The swell of land, and groves, and running streams, Fresh from the wolds of Chaos; or perchance The imaged hint of antemundane life,-- A photograph of preexistent light,-- Or Paradisal sun. So, in his mind The broad conditions of the world are graven, Thoroughly and grandly; in accord wherewith His life is ruled to be, and eke to bear. Wisdom he wills not only for himself, But undergoes the sacred rites whereby The privilege he hath earned he may promulge, And all men make the partners of his light. Between the priestly and the laic powers The poet stands, a bright and living link; Now chanting odes divine and sacred spells-- Now with fine magic, holy and austere, Inviting angels or evoking fiends; And now, in festive guise arrayed, his brow With golden fillet bounden round--alone, Earnest to charm the throng that celebrates The games now--now the mysteries of life, With truths ornate and Pleasure's choicest plea. Thus he becomes the darling of mankind, Armed with the instinct both of rule and right, And the world's minion, privileged to speak When all beside, the medley mass, are mute: Distills his soul into a song--and dies.

THE COUNT MONTE-LEONE: OR, THE SPY IN SOCIETY.[6]

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

_Continued from Page 512._

[6: 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.]

BOOK SECOND.--THE VIPER'S NEST.

Rightly enough had the young girl been called "The White Rose of Sorrento." Monte-Leone had based on her his most ardent hopes and tenderest expectations. Nothing in fact could be more angelic than the expression of her face. She seemed the _virgo immaculata_ of Rubens, the _virgo_ of divine love. What would first attract attention at Aminta's appearance was a marble pallor, the paleness of that beautiful marble of Carara, in which when Canova had touched it the blood seemed to rush to the surface and circulate beneath the transparent flesh of the great master.

We must however say that beneath the long lids of the young Neapolitan, the observer would have discovered an expression of firmness and decision rarely found in so young a girl. Any one who examined her quickly saw that in her frail and delicate frame there was a soul full of energy and courage, and that if it should ever be aroused, what she wished must be, _God willing_. Nothing in nature is more persevering and irresistible than woman's will, especially if the woman be an Italian.

Antonia Rovero, the mother of Aminta and Taddeo, was the widow of a rich banker of Naples, devoted to the cause of Murat, and had been created by the late king one of his senators and then minister of finances. In this last office M. Rovero died, and his widow, after having received every kindness from Murat, retired to Sorrento. Taddeo then felt an interest in everything which had a tendency to overturn the government of Fernando IV. The restoration of the latter had crushed his ambition and broken his fortunes. On that account he had become one of the Pulcinelli whom we have described in the last book.

While this well-beloved son of an affectionate mother, this brother so idolized by an affectionate sister, languished perhaps like Monte-Leone, Madame Rovero and her daughter in their quiet retreat fancied that Taddeo was enjoying at Naples all the pleasures of the Carnival and abandoning himself to all the follies of that day of pleasure. Sometimes, however, as the sun set on the hills of Sorrento, Aminta said to her mother, "Taddeo forgets us. It is not pleasant to enjoy this beautiful day without him. Were we three together, how delicious it would be!" Then Aminta would take a volume of Alfieri, her favorite author, and wander alone amid the fields.

The day on which the scene we are about to describe happened was one of those burning ones, which make us even in winter fancy that an eternal spring exists in that heaven-protected land. We may add that the winter of 1816 was peculiar even in Italy, and that the sun was so warm and the heat so genial that nature under their influence put on the most luxuriant vegetation. The favorite haunt of Aminta was a green hill, behind which was a pretty and simple house, the cradle of one of the most wonderful geniuses of the world. This genius was Tasso. A bust of the poet in _terra cotta_ yet adorned the façade of the house, which though then in ruins has since been rebuilt. At that time the room of the divine yet unfortunate lover of Leonora did not exist--the sea had swept over it. Admirers of the poet yet however visited the remnants of his habitation. The tender heart of Aminta yet paid a pious worship to them, and "The White Rose of Sorrento" went toward "The House of Tasso." Aminta's mother was always offended when she indulged in such distant excursions.

She did not however go alone. A singular being accompanied her. This being was at once a man and a reptile. His features would have denoted the age of sixteen. They were the most frightful imaginable. A forehead over which spread a few reddish hairs; a mouth almost without teeth; small eyes, sad and green, which were however insupportably bright when they were lit up by anger; long and bony arms; legs horribly thin; a short and square bust,--all united to make a being so utterly ungraceful, so inhuman, that the children of the village had nicknamed him _Scorpione_--so like that reptile's was his air. The _morale_ of Scorpione was worthy of his _physique_. The true name of this child was Tonio. Being the son of Aminta's nurse, he had never in his life been separated from her, and seemed to grow daily more ugly as she became more beautiful. He became so devoted to Aminta that he never left her. This whimsical intimacy was not that of children, the attachment of brother and sister, but that of the intellectual and brute being, of the master and dog. He was the dog of Aminta. He accompanied and watched over her in all her long walks. Did a dangerous pass occur, he took her up and carried her across the pool or torrent, so that not a drop of water touched her. If any one chanced to meet her and sought to speak to her, he first growled, and then having looked at Aminta, made the bold man understand that like a mastiff he would protect her against all assailants.

During the winter evenings when Aminta read to her mother, Tonio lying at the fair reader's feet, warmed them in his bosom, where she suffered them to remain with as much carelessness as she would have let them rest on the back of a dog. She became so used to his horrid features, that she no longer thought them repulsive. No contrast was stronger than that these two presented. It was like the association of an angel and a devil.

The young girl had in vain attempted to impart some knowledge to Scorpione: his nature did not admit of it. Had he been able to comprehend anything, if the simple idea of right and wrong could have reached his heart, Aminta would have accomplished much. This Cretin,[7] however, knew but three things in the world, to love, to serve, and to defend Aminta. Nothing more.

[7: The Cretins are a miserable, feeble and almost idiotic race, found not infrequently in the south of France. They have sometimes been horribly persecuted.]

Accompanied by her faithful dog one day, the fair creature had walked to the house of Tasso. She had perhaps twenty times gone through those magnificent ruins, and read over again and again the inscription every tourist fancies himself obliged to engrave with his dagger's point on the tesselated walls of the poet's home. One which seemed new attracted her attention. Thus it read:

"One must have suffered as much as the lover of Leonora, to be unhappy in the paradise of Sorrento."

These three lines were signed by the Marquis de Maulear.

Aminta read the inscription two or three times, without fancying that it related to her. The simple style touched her heart, and with no slight emotion, she left the wall.

At that moment the sun was at the height of its power, and shed its burning rays over nature. Aminta's straw hat sheltered her from the torrents of lava which seemed to fall from heaven and a few drops of perspiration stood on her marble forehead. While she was seeking in the ruined house for some shadowed nook, Scorpione amused himself behind a wall in torturing a gray lizard he had found, and which had taken refuge in a hole, from which it could not get out. The cruel child made numerous blows at the timid animal whenever it attempted to escape. He was perfectly delighted when he had beaten out the eyes of the animal, and the poor creature, rushing out, surrendered himself. One thrust completed the work, and it died in convulsions. Aminta found Scorpione thus engaged.

"Fie, fie," said she, "you deserve to suffer as much pain as you have inflicted on this poor animal."

"I am no lizard, but a scorpion, as the children of Sorrento say. I have a sting always ready for those who seek to injure me." He showed his dagger.

Aminta left, and Tonio, glancing at his mistress like a dog which has been punished, placed his back against the wall and pretended to sleep. Before long he really did sleep.

Not far from Tasso's house there was a grotto, beneath which ran a little stream, overgrown with aquatic herbs, and which beyond doubt in other days fed the fish-ponds of the house. It however had insensibly dried up, and only a feeble thread could henceforth be traced. This was the grotto which gave Aminta the refuge she sought. A mossy bench was placed by the side of a stream. She sat on it, took her book, and recited aloud the harmonious verses of her favorite bard. She gradually felt the influence of the heat. For a while she contended against the approach of sleep, which, however, ere long surrounded her with its leaden wings. The sight of Aminta became clouded, and shadowy mists passed before her eyes. Her brow bowed down, her head fell upon the rustic pillow. She was in oblivion. It was noon. All at this hour in Italy, and especially in Naples, slumber, "except," says the proverb, certainly not complimentary to my countrymen, "_Frenchmen and dogs_." The fact is, that Frenchmen, when they travel, pay no attention to the customs of the country. A Frenchman who travels unfortunately insists that everything should be done _a la Française_, in countries and climates where such a life as ours is impossible.

A profound silence covered all nature. The indistinct humming of insects in the air for a while troubled him; then all was silent. The wind even was voiceless, and the wave which beat on the rock seemed to repress every sound to avoid interrupting the repose of earth and heaven.

All at once, distant steps were heard. At first they were light, then more positive and distinct as they resounded on the calcined rock which led to Tasso's house. A young man of twenty-five approached. He was almost overcome by the sultriness. A whip and spurs showed that he had just dismounted. He had left his horse in an orange grove. Overcome, he had sought a shelter, and remembering the ruins he had seen a few days before, hoped to find freshness and repose there. The poet's mansion, the roof of which had fallen in, did not answer his expectations. He hurried toward the very place where Aminta slept. His eyes, dazzled by the brilliant light, did not at first distinguish the young girl in the darkness of the grotto. After a few moments, however, his sight became stronger, and he was amazed at the white form which lay on the mossy seat. Gradually the form became more distinct, and finally the young stranger was able to distinguish a beautiful girl. Just then a brilliant sunlight passed over the top of the crumbling wall and fell on her, enwrapping her in golden light, and, as it were, framing her angelic head like a glory round one of Raphael's pictures.

Henri de Maulear, such was the young man's name, fancied that an angelic vision stood before him. Had the princess Leonora's ghost visited the scenes Tasso loved so well? Had a great sculptor, Canova, in one of his charming deliriums reproduced the features of Tasso's mistress and placed his work in the grotto where the great poet sighed? Marble alone could compete with Aminta's whiteness. Her round and waxen arms seemed to have been formed of the purest Carara marble.

Aminta uttered a sigh and dissipated the illusion of the stranger. It was not an admirable statue exhibited to him, but a work of nature. It was such a woman as a poetic and tender heart dreams of--a woman not to be loved, but adored. Love is earthly; adoration belongs to heaven.

Henri de Maulear, fascinated by increasing admiration, did not dare to advance. He held his breath and was afraid, so great was his excitement, that this wonderful beauty would faint away. Another sentiment, however, soon took possession of him. A mortal terror filled his soul--death and sleep were united. A fearful danger menaced the maiden, whence it seemed no human power could rescue her. In the folds of Aminta's dress, in her very bosom, Henri saw a strange object, whose whimsical colors contrasted strangely with the whiteness of her dress. It was one of those strange things known in Italy as _pointed-headed_ vipers. Their bite takes effect so rapidly, their poison becomes so soon infused in the blood, that victims die within a few minutes. Aminta had lain down near a nest of these dangerous reptiles. The warmth of her body had gradually attracted them to her, and while she slept they had nestled in her very bosom. She had been motionless. They had not as yet moved. Any change of posture however would bring on a terrible catastrophe, a compulsory witness of which Henri de Maulear would from necessity be. What assistance could he render her? How could he arouse her without awaking the reptiles also? With a pale face and icy sweat on his brow, he thought in vain to contrive a means to save her. What however was his terror as he saw her make a slight movement! She reached out one of her arms, held it in the air, and then let it fall on her breast which was covered with reptiles. Her motion aroused the vipers. For a moment they became agitated, then uncoiled themselves, and hid their heads in the folds of her dress. One of them again coiled himself up, passed his thin tongue through his lips like a _gourmand_ after a feast: the head was drawn back and the creature assumed the form of a spiral urn, exhibited all its rings of ruby and _malachete_, and then drawing back in a line full of grace, disappeared among its fellows, and sank to sleep as if it were exhausted with its own efforts.

During this terrible scene, Maulear could not breathe. The very pulsation of his heart was stopped, his soul having left his body to protect Aminta. For the nonce she was safe. But a terrible death yet hung over her. Maulear did not lose sight of her. Ere long he saw her bosom heave; he saw her gasp, and her face gradually become flushed. She was dreaming. Should she make any motion, she would disturb the vipers. This idea excited him so much that for a while he thought they were awakened. Their hisses sounded in his ears, and he eagerly looked aside to avoid the terrible spectacle. His glance however fell on an object which as yet he had not perceived. So great was his joy that he could with difficulty refrain from crying aloud. He saw an earthen vase full of milk, in a dark portion of the cave, left there by some shepherd anxious to preserve his evening meal from the heat of the summer sun. He remembered what naturalists say of the passion entertained by reptiles for milk. The well-known stories of cows, the dugs of whom had been sucked dry by snakes, were recalled to his mind. Rushing toward the vase, he seized it and bore it to the mossy rock. Just then Aminta awoke.

II.--SCORPIONE.

Having looked around her, Aminta saw Maulear, pale and with an excited face. He could not restrain his terror and surprise. By a motion more rapid than thought, he pointed out to her the terrible beings that nestled in her bosom, and said earnestly and eagerly: "Do not move or you will die!" He could make no choice as to the means of saving her. It became necessary for him to rescue her at once, to confront her with danger, and rely on her strength of mind to brave it, by remaining motionless. He thought possibly she might succumb beneath its aspect. This was the result. She looked toward the terrible reptiles Maulear pointed out to her. Horror took possession of her. Her heart ceased to beat, and her blood curdled. She fainted. Luckily, however, this happened without any motion, without even a nervous vibration sufficient to awake the serpents. Henri uttered a sigh of happiness and delight, for beyond doubt Heaven protected Aminta and himself. Approaching the vase of milk, he placed it near her. Dipping his fingers in it, he scattered a few drops over the reptiles.

They moved. The milk directly attracted their attention, and as soon as they had tasted it they became aware of its presence. Lifting up their pointed heads to receive what was offered them, they directed their eyes toward the vase. When they had once seen it, they began to untwine their coils and to crawl toward it, like young girls hurrying to the bath. The mossy bench was near the rock. To remove her from the grotto Henri had to displace the vase. He had courage enough to wait until the last viper had gone into it. Seizing it then, he placed it gently on the ground. Passing his arms under the inanimate body of the girl, he sought to carry her away. Just then she recovered from her fainting. Aware that she was in the arms of a strange man, she made a violent effort to get away, and cast herself from her bed on the ground to escape from this embrace. In her disorder and agitation, and contest with Maulear, who sought to restrain her, in the half obscurity of the grotto her foot touched the coil of vipers.

She fell shrieking on his bosom. He left the grotto with his precious burden. Her cry had revealed to him the new misfortune, to which at first he paid no attention, but which now terrified him. The cry awoke Scorpione. His ear being familiarized with all the tones of his mistress, he would have recognized this amid a thousand. Quicker than the thunderbolt he rushed from the house, and stood at the door just when Maulear seized her.

Scorpione fancied the stranger bore away his foster-sister, and rushed on him as furiously as he would have done on a midnight robber. He seized Maulear in the breast with his right hand, the nails of which were trenchant as a needle, while with the left he sought to thrust the dagger in his heart. Aminta herself was however a shield to his bosom, and he clasped her closely. In the appearance of the horrid monster, Maulear almost forgot the perilous situation from which he had just extricated himself. For a time he fancied he was under the spell of some terrible vision, being unable to believe one person could unite so many deformities. With terror then he saw Scorpione seize on him and seek to snatch the body of Aminta from him. A second cry of Aminta, less distinct however than the first, changed the scene and recalled two of the actors to their true interest.

"Wretch!" said Maulear to Tonio, "if you wish gold I will give it you. Wait however till I resuscitate this girl."

"Aminta needs the care of none, when I am by!" said Scorpione. "She is my mistress, my sister: I watch over her."

"At all events you watch over her very badly," said Henri, placing Aminta on a broken stone. "I found her asleep here, with the vipers nestling in her bosom."

A groan escaped from the throat of Scorpione as he heard these words. He fell at Aminta's feet, with such an expression of grief, such cruel despair, that Maulear despite of himself was moved. "Vipers! pointed-headed! Have they stung her? tell me," said Tonio to Maulear. "I will die if she does!"

He sunk on the ground, mad with rage and terror. The eyes of Maulear glittered with somber horror. A nervous terror seized him, and, paralyzed by fright, he pointed out to Tonio the white leg of Aminta, around which a viper had coiled itself. Scorpione sprang forward and tore the reptile away, throwing it far from him. This took place in less than a second. Maulear would have done precisely what Scorpione had done, but thought was not more rapid than the movement of Aminta's foster-brother. Above the buskin of the girl a spot of blood appeared on her silk stocking. This came from the bite of the serpent. It was death. Maulear, kneeling before Aminta, reached forth his hand to touch the wound. Tonio rudely pushed him aside. "No one," said he in a sharp harsh voice, mingled with which was an accent of indignation, "may touch Aminta!" Tonio alone has that right, and Madame Rovero would drive him away if he permitted it!"

"But she will die unless I aid her!"

"And how can you?" said Scorpione, looking impudently at him. "What do you know about pointed-heads? You do not even know the only remedy. But I do, and will cure her."

There was such conviction in the words, that Maulear almost began to entertain hope. What probability however was there that this kind of brute would find means energetic and sure enough to restore the warmth of life to one over whom the coldness of death had already begun to settle, to stop the flow of poison which already permeated her frame? Maulear doubted, trembled, and entertained again the most miserable ideas. "If you would save her," said he to Scorpione, "there is but one thing to do. Hurry to the nearest physician and bring him hither to cauterize the wound and burn out the poison."

"Physicians are fools!" said Scorpione. "When my mother was thirty years of age, beautiful and full of life, they let her die. Though she was only my mother, I would have strangled them. If they were not to save Aminta, however, I would kill them as I would dogs!" Nothing can give an idea of his expression as he pronounced the words, "_though she was only my mother_." It betokened atrocious coldness and indifference. The glance however he threw on the maiden at the very idea of her death was full of intense affection.

"Save her then!" said Maulear, seizing the idea that this half-savage creature was perhaps aware of some secret means furnished by nature to work a true miracle in favor of the victim. The features of Aminta began to be disturbed; a livid pallor took possession of her; light contractions agitated her features; her lids became convulsive, opening and shutting rapidly. Scorpione observed all these symptoms. "Well," said he, placing his hand on her heart, "it beats yet. The poison moves on: let us stop it."

Kneeling before her, he grasped the wounded limb, and took off the light silk stocking. Then taking his dagger from his bosom, he made a slight incision with the sharp point where the reptile had bitten her. She uttered a cry of pain. "What are you about?" said Maulear, offended.

"Do you not see," replied Scorpione, "that I am opening the door for the escape of the poison?"

Without speaking a word, he leaned over the wound, applied his lips, and sucked the blood which ran from it. Twice or thrice he spat out the blood and resumed the occupation of sublime courage. The ugliness of Scorpione entirely disappeared from Maulear's eyes, and the monster seemed to him a saving angel descended from heaven to rescue another angel from death. A few seconds passed by in terrible and solemn silence. Scorpione supported Aminta's head, and attempted to read in her face the effect of his heroism. Henri de Maulear also knelt, and glanced from heaven to the girl, invoking aid from one, and feeling profound anxiety for the other.

Aminta sighed, but not with pain. An internal relief was already experienced by her. Scorpione seized her hand in his, and feeling her pulse, laughed aloud. He said, "_The Scorpion has overcome the viper_: Aminta will live!"

"But you? you?" said Maulear, as he saw Scorpione's strength give way.

"Me? oh, I perhaps will die--that however is a different matter." Though he did not know it, Scorpione might have been right. Felix Fontana, the great Italian, one of the most distinguished physicians of the eighteenth century, in his celebrated _Riserche Chemiche Sopra il Veleno della Vipera_, affirms that to suck out the poison of the viper, even when it does not touch the vital organs, suffices to cause such an inflammation of the organs of the mouth that death always results from it.

Boundless admiration and profound pity appeared in the heart of Maulear when he heard the answer of Tonio. He even forgot Aminta, and hurried to her generous liberator. He took him in his arms, and sustained his head, which in nervous spasms he beat violently against the rock. This deformed creature became really a friend and brother to Maulear; he had saved one whom even Heaven abandoned. He had accomplished the most admirable sacrifice, that equal almost to Christ, who gave his life to ransom that of his fellows.

Just then steps were heard in the distance, and many persons approached the solitude where such terrible scenes were occurring. A woman of about fifty years of age, with dignified and beautiful features and distinguished tournure, advanced with an expression of intense terror. Looking all around, she seemed much terrified. She soon saw the three characters of our somber drama. Passing hurriedly and rapidly as if she had been a girl toward Aminta, who lay extended on the ground, she seized and convulsively clasped her to her heart, without however being able to utter a word. Her tearful eyes declared however that she was aware some great misfortune had befallen her child. This woman was Madame Rovero. Those who accompanied her were old servants of the family, and surrounded Aminta. They were ignorant as Madame Rovero was of the danger the young girl had undergone. Aminta however had begun to recover, and pointed to Tonio, who lay in convulsions in Maulear's arms. "What, monsieur, has happened?" said Madame de Rovero to Maulear. "Having become uneasy at my daughter's prolonged absence, I have come to her usual resort and find her dying and this lad writhing in your arms."

"Madame, excuse me," said Maulear, "if I do not now make explanation in relation to the cruel events which have taken place. Time at present is too precious. Your daughter I trust will live. But this poor fellow demands all our care. He has sacrificed himself to rescue your child, and to him you owe now all your happiness. Near this place I have two horses. Suffer me to place your daughter on one, and do you return with her to your house. I will on the other hurry with Tonio as fast as possible to Sorrento."

Henri took a silver whistle from his pocket and sounded it. A groom soon appeared with two horses. What he had proposed was soon executed, not however without difficulty, for Aminta was much enfeebled, and Scorpione contended violently with those who sought to place him in front of Maulear, who had already mounted. Madame Rovero went sadly toward Sorrento, bearing pale and bloody the young girl who had gone on that very morning from her mother's villa so joyous, happy, and beautiful. Maulear hurried to the house of the physician which had been pointed out to him. While they were bringing in Aminta's foster-brother, Henri told the doctor what had taken place. He examined the lad, and his brow became overcast. Scorpione was speechless, and but for the faint pulsations of his heart one might have thought him lifeless. No external symptom betrayed the effect of the poison except the head of the patient, which was terribly swollen. His mouth and especially the lower jaw appeared the seat of suffering, and with a sensation of horror Maulear saw between the violet lips of the patient a green and tense tongue, at the appearance of which the physician exhibited much emotion.

"What do you think of his condition?" said Maulear.

"The great Felix Fontana says, in such cases there is no safety. Lazarus Spallanzini, however, another savant of the eighteenth century, published at Venice, in 1767, in the Giornole D'Italia, an admirable dissertation on wounds caused by the bite of reptiles, especially on those of the vipers. Treating of suction and its consequences, he points out a means of cure for it. It is however so terrible and dangerous that I know not if I should use it."

"Use it, sir. There is," said Maulear, "only the alternative of it and death."

"The man will live, but in all probability will never speak again." He waited for Maulear's answer.

"May I consult the family?" said the young man. "I will have returned in an hour."

"In ten minutes," said the doctor, "he will be dead."

"Act quickly, then, monsieur: all his friends would act as I do."

The physician left: in a few minutes he returned with one of his assistants, bearing a red hot iron. Maulear shuddered. The physician placed the patient in a great arm-chair, to which he fastened him with strong straps of leather. Then, when he was satisfied that no spasm or motion of the unfortunate man would interrupt the operation, he placed a speculum in his mouth. The speculum in its expansion tore apart the jaws of Tonio, and kept them distended, so that the interior orifice of the throat could be seen. Seizing the hot iron, he plunged it into the throat of the unhappy man, turned back the palate from the tongue, and moved it several times about, while the agonizing guttural cries of the patient were mingled with the sharp hissing of the iron. Torrents of tears filled his eyes. At this terrible spectacle Maulear fainted.

III.--THE CONCERT.

Henri Marquis de Maulear was scarcely twenty-six, and was what all would have called a handsome man. A fine tall person, delicate features, and a profusion of rich blond hair, curling naturally, justified the appellation which the world, and especially the female portion of it, conferred on him. To these external advantages, was united a brilliant education, rather superficial than serious, and more graceful than solid. He had dipped without examination in everything. He, however, knew it to be essential to seem to understand all the subjects of French conversation, in the saloons of Paris: nothing more.

The Prince Maulear, the only son of whom Henri was, had accompanied the Bourbons in their exile, and been one of the faithful at Mettau and Hartwell. After having undergone banishment with the Princes, his illustrious friends, he returned to France with Louis XVIII. and shared with Messieurs de Blacas, Vitrolles, d'Escars and others, the favor and confidence of the king. A widower, and the recipient of a large fortune from the restoration of the unsold portion of his estates, cold and harsh in behavior, the Prince returned from exile in 1815, with the same ideas he had borne away in 1788. The Prince de Maulear was the true type of those unchangeable prejudices which can neither learn nor forget. He was educated in France by a sister of his mother, the Countess of Grandnesnil, an ancient canoness, a noble lady, who was a second mother to the young Marquis after death had borne away his own. The Countess had not emigrated like her brother-in-law. The care demanded by the delicate health of the heir of the family could not admit of the fatigue of endless travel, made necessary by emigration. Therefore, the heir of the Maulears remained under the charge of the Countess. When he grew up, beneath the ægis of the Countess, he completed his education, and at a later day entered society. She exercised over his mind and heart that influence which affection and the usage of familiar intercourse confer. Watching over him with maternal care, seeking to ascertain his wishes that she might be able to gratify them, making him happy in every way in her power, she was beloved by the Marquis with all his heart. He could not have loved a mother more.

The consequence of this education by a woman was that the moral had somewhat stifled the intellectual. Besides, this kind of fanaticism of the Countess for her nephew, her constant attention to gratify every caprice, her readiness to excuse his faults, even when she should have blamed them severely, made his education vicious as possible, and brought out two faults with peculiar prominence. His character was very weak; and he had great self-confidence. The Prince de Maulear found the son he had left a child in the cradle, a man of twenty-six, and was literally forced to make his acquaintance.

The noble bearing and distinguished manners of the young man pleased him especially. He was also graceful, gallant and brave, and the Prince saw himself restored to youth in the person of his son. He did not make himself uneasy about his sentiments, being satisfied that his son was learned in stable lore, a good rider, skillful in the use of weapons, heroic and enterprising. He rejoiced at his fortune, as it would make Henri happy, and anticipated a brilliant and fortunate career for his son. Henri had no profession, and the Prince procured for him the appointment of secretary of legation to Naples. He had held this post six months when he appears in our history.

Henri had never loved. Much ephemeral gallantry, and many easy conquests, which soon passed away, had occupied his time without touching his heart, and this was his situation when for the first time he saw the White Rose of Sorrento. As we have said, he became sick at the terrible surgical operation. He did not revive until all was over. The unfortunate Tonio had been placed in one of the rooms of the doctor's house, and the latter declared, that in consideration of the importance of the case, he would himself attend to the patient, and would not leave him until he should have been completely restored, unless, added he, death should remove the responsibility. The Marquis being satisfied that the savior of Aminta would not be neglected, hurried with the doctor to Madame Rovero's villa. Nothing could be more simple and charming, and nothing in Italy had struck him so forcibly. The very look of the house told how happy were its inhabitants. At the extremity of Sorrento, it was surrounded by large trees, and winter seemed never to inflict any severity upon it.

An old servant admitted the strangers. He recognized Maulear, for he had been with Madame when she recovered her daughter.

"Madame expects you, gentlemen," said he, when he saw the young Marquis and the Doctor. "I will accompany you to the room." He went before them to a pretty room on the ground floor, where he left them a short time.

Maulear carefully examined it. All betokened elegant tastes in its occupants. In the middle was an elegant grand piano of Vienna; on the desk the Don Giovanna of Mozart; and on a pedestal near the window an exquisite model of Tasso's house. A round table of Florentine workmanship, of immense value, stood near one side of the apartment. The valuable Mosaics were, however, hidden by a collection of albums, keepsakes, and engravings. There were also on it vases of alabaster, filled with perfumed flowers, and the whole room was lit up by the rays of the setting sun, the brilliancy of which were softened as they passed across the park. Madame Rovero entered with a servant. "Take the Doctor," said she, "to my daughter's room, whither I will come immediately. You, sir," said she, pointing Maulear to a chair, "will please to tell me for what I am your debtor. I am sure your claims are large." He gave Madame Rovero a detailed account of what had happened since he met Aminta in the grotto, until the cruel devotion of Tonio.

"Tonio has told you the truth, Monsieur," said Madame Rovero; "the terrible remedy he had the courage to employ is known in the country to be infallible, though, as yet, few examples of such heroism have occurred. The doctor alone can satisfy us of the safety of my daughter." Madame Rovero moved toward the door to satisfy herself in relation to this engrossing subject, when the doctor entered. She trembled before him like a criminal before a judge, when he seeks to divine the nature of a terrible sentence. "The young lady is in no danger. I have examined the wound carefully; no trace of poison remains. The poor lad has entirely exhausted it." The mother lifted her eyes to heaven in inexpressible gratitude.

"What hopes have you, doctor, of the poor lad?"

"He will live, but that is all science can do."

"Do not neglect one who has so absolute a right to my gratitude."

Turning then to Maulear, she said, "In a few days, Monsieur, my daughter and myself will expect you. She will soon be restored, and we will thank you for your services."

Maulear bade adieu to Mme. Rovero, not as a stranger or acquaintance of a few minutes, but as a friend who leaves a family with whom he is intimate. He left them with regret, as persons to whom he was devoted, and with whom he was willing to pass his life. Within a few hours, a strange change had been wrought in him. Struck with admiration at Aminta, the danger with which he found her surrounded, the successive agitations of the scene, the sweet influence exerted by her on his heart, the alternations of hope and fear, everything combined to disturb the placidity of his withered and somewhat _blazé_ soul which scarcely seemed plastic enough to receive a profound and tender expression. He then experienced for Aminta what he had not amid all that terrible.... The features of the young girl he had borne in his memory, contracted as they were by pain, did not seem to him less charming, and excited a warmer interest than ever. Never before had the most beautiful in all the eclât of dress and manners appeared so attractive as the pale Aminta in her mortal agony. To sum up all, he was in love, and in love for the first time.

Henri left Sorrento with a painful sensation, and returned to Naples, where pleasure and warm receptions awaited him, from the many beauties on whom he expended the "small change" of his heart. As he said himself, he never was ruined by sensitiveness, keeping all the wealth of his heart for a good opportunity. That opportunity was come. He returned to the palace of the embassy, far different in his condition from what he was when he left. With the most perfect _sang-froid_ therefore he read the following note which his valet had given him when he came in--

"The Duke de Palma, minister of police, requests the Marquis de Maulear to pass the evening with him."

Lower down in another hand was written--

_"Do not fail. La Felina will sing, and at two o'clock we will have a supper of our intimate friends. You know whether or not you are one of the number."_

The Duke of Palma, minister of police of the kingdom of Naples, was one of the friends of Fernando IV. He was not a great minister, but was young and intellectual. His principal merit was that he amused his master, by recounting secret intrigues, whimsical adventures, and delicate affairs, a knowledge of which he acquired by means of his position. Thus he found favor with Fernando, who was not served, but amused and satisfied. Sovereigns who are amused are indulgent. Maulear hesitated a long time before he accepted the invitation. His soul was occupied by new and delicious emotions. It seemed to him to be profanity to transport them to such a different and dissipated scene. He however shrunk from solitude, and the idea of living apart from Aminta for whole days, made him desire the amusement and excitement promised by the invitation. The entertainment was superb. All the noble, elegant and rich of Naples were bidden. The concert began. The first pieces were scarcely listened to, in consequence of the studiously late entries of many distinguished personages, and of many pretty women, who would not on any account enter _incognito_ either a drawing-room or a theater, and were careful never to come thither until the moment when their presence would attract attention or produce interruption. Silence however pervaded in a short time all the assemblage. The crowd which a moment before had been so agitated became at once calm and mute. A fairy spell seemed to have transfixed them. A fairy was really come--that of music.... The Queen of the theater of Italy, _La Bella Felina_--that strange sibyl of the ball at San Carlo. The excitement to hear her was great, and the prima donna had immense success. The young woman, by coming to his soirée, did the minister of police a great favor: The singer had during the whole year refused the most brilliant invitations and the largest sums to sing any where but at San Carlo. Thrice she had appeared on the concert gallery, and thrice descended amid immense applause.

Great is the triumph of song. Yet its success is fleeting and ephemeral, and may be annihilated by the merest accident. The glory is frail, the fortune uncertain, of all that emanates from the human throat.

The concert was over and all left. Henri and the intimate friends alone, of whom the Duke spoke, passed into an elegant and retired room into which the minister led La Felina. "Messieurs," said he, "the Signora honors me by partaking of our collation. Let us bow before the Queen of Song and thank her for the honor she confers on us." The cantatrice exhibited no embarrassment at being alone amid so many of another sex, so notorious for the volatility of their manners. Her habitual calm and dignity did not hide a kind of restraint from the observation of Maulear. She replied by a few graceful words to the gallantries of which she was the object. They then all sat down. Many witty remarks were made by the guests. Champagne increased Neapolitan volubility, and heads were beginning to grow light, when the minister seeing that La Felina was ill at ease at the conversation, said, "The supper, Signora, of a minister of police should be unique as that of a banker or senator. Where else would one learn of piquant adventures, scandal, hidden crimes, but at my house, for I am the keeper of all records and the compulsory confessor of all. I wish then to give you another fruit and to tell you of a strange adventure, the hero of which is a person all of you know. That man is Count Monte-Leone."

The name of Monte-Leone, so well known in Naples, created the greatest sensation. All were silent and listened to the Duke of Palma. La Felina became strangely pale.

IV.--THE DUKE OF PALMA.

"You know," said the Duke to his friends, "that the Count Monte-Leone has for a long time professed opinions entirely opposed to the government of our sovereign king Fernando. The heir of the political errors of his unfortunate father, he seems to travel fatally toward the same sad fate. The king long ago bade us close our eyes to the guilty conduct of the young Count. His Majesty was unwilling to continue on the son the rigors to which his father had been subjected. A revelation of great importance forced us to act, and we caused the offender to be arrested for an offence of which he must make a defence before the appointed tribunal. During many months the Count contrived to avoid all efforts made to arrest him. At last, however, in consequence of a youthful escapade in which he should by no means have indulged, his retreat was revealed to us. The house which concealed him and his accomplices was found out on the night of the last ball of San Carlo. The countersign of his associates had been revealed to us by a traitor, and our precautions were so skillfully taken, that the three friends of Monte-Leone were arrested one after the other, at the very door of his house, without in the least rendering the arrest of the Count doubtful. Two hours after, Monte-Leone, arrested by our agents, was borne to the _Castle del Uovo_, a safe and sure prison, whence as yet no prisoner ever escaped. The report of the chief of the expedition," continued the Duke, "states, that he saw a woman fainting on the floor. He adds, that he thought he had nothing to do with it, his orders relating entirely to the four of whom he obtained possession."

During this preamble La Felina more than once inhaled the perfume of her _bouquet_. When, however, she looked up, her face expressed no trouble or change.

"The three friends of Count Monte-Leone," said the Duke, "are a Frenchman, a German, and an Italian. The first is the Count of Harcourt, son of the Duke, one of the noblest and most powerful men of France. We cannot fancy how the heir of so noble a family has become involved in such a plot, where persons of his rank have all to lose and nothing to gain. He is a brilliant young madcap, amiable and adventurous, like almost all of his countrymen, and became a conspirator merely for recreation and to while away the time he cannot occupy with love and pleasure. The second is a graver character: the son of a Bohemian pastor, imbued with the philosophic and political opinions of his countrymen, Sand, Koerner, and the ideologists of his country, he dreams of leveling ideas which would set all Europe in a blaze. He has become a conspirator from conviction, is a madman full of genius, but one of those who must be shut up, before they become furious. The fanatical friendship of this young man to Monte-Leone involved him in the party of which he is the shadow and the reflection. He is a conspirator, _ex necessitate_, who will never act from his own motive, and who, consequently, is a subject of no apprehension to us, as long as he has no head, no chief to nerve his arm, and urge him onward. We have without any difficulty exonerated Italy from the reproach of containing these three men, without any scandal or violence.... The German on the very night of his arrest was sent to the city of Elbogen, his native city, with recommendations to the paternal care and surveillance of the friendly governments through which he was to pass. The Count of Harcourt has already seen the shores of France. When this brilliant gentleman placed his foot on the deck of the vessel, he was informed that henceforth he was forbidden ever to return to Naples, under penalty of perpetual imprisonment. Young Rovero was confined in this identical palace, until such time as the trial of Count Monte-Leone shall be terminated. I am informed that he does nothing but sigh after a mysterious beauty, the charms and voice of whom are incomparable."

La Felina again put her bouquet to her face.

"I am now come, Messieurs, to the true hero of this romance."

Just then he was interrupted by the sudden entrance of one of his secretaries, who whispered briefly to him, and placed before him a box mysteriously sealed, with this superscription--_"To His Excellency Monsignore the Duke of Palma, minister of police, and to him alone."_

The countenance of the minister expressed surprise, as his secretary said, "Read, Monsignore, and verify the contents of the box."

The Duke requested his guests' pardon, and unsealed the letter, which he rapidly read. He then opened the box, examined it with curiosity, and without taking out the objects it contained, said, "It is unheard of: it is almost miraculous."

The minister's exclamations put an end to all private conversations, and every eye was turned upon him, "Messieurs," said he with emotion, "I thought I was about to tell you a strange thing, but all that I know has become complicated by so strange an accident, that I am myself amazed--used as I am to mysterious and criminal events."

At a signal, the secretary left, and the Duke continued: "The trial of Count Monte-Leone was prepared. Vaguely accused of being the chief of the secret society, the object of which was the overturning of the monarchy, he might have been acquitted from want of proof of his participation in this dark and guilty work, when three witnesses came forward to charge him with having presided in their own sight over one of the assemblages which in secret discuss of the death of kings by the enemies of law and order.

"On this formal declaration made by three well-known inhabitants of the town of _Torre del Greco_, devoted to king Fernando, the Count was sought for by the police, arrested as I have told you, and imprisoned in the _Castle del Uovo_. Every means was taken to make sure of the person of the prisoner. The garrison of the castle was increased, lest there should be some daring _coup de main_ to deliver him. The charge of him was intrusted to the most stern and incorruptible of the jailers, who was however carefully watched by the agents of the government. This excess of precaution had nearly cost the life of the prisoner, from the fact that he was placed in a dungeon into which the sea broke. Judge of my surprise when yesterday, two of the accusers of the Count, the Salvatori, came to my hotel insisting that two days before, just as the population of _Torre del Greco_ was leaving church, their eldest brother Stenio Salvatori had been poignarded at his door by Count Monte-Leone.

"'This evidence,' continued they, 'will be confirmed by all the inhabitants of the town, in the presence of whom the affair happened.' I refused to believe anything so improbable. I told them the Count had been a prisoner several days, and assured them I would have been informed of his escape. Overcome by their persuasions, shaken in my conviction by their oaths, I determined to satisfy myself that the Count was at the prison, and went thither."

The Duke had not deceived the auditors by his promises, for the interest had rapidly increased, and every one listened to his words with intense curiosity. A single person only seemed listless and uninterested. This was La Felina, whose eye never lost sight of the box which the secretary had given the Duke, and which he had shut, so that no one knew the nature of the contents. The Duke resumed his story:

"The new governor of the Castle, whom I had appointed after the inundation, was not informed of my visit. No one expected me, yet all was calm and in good order.

"'Signore,' said I to the governor, 'I am informed that the prisoner I have confided to your charge, the Count Monte-Leone, has escaped from the fortress. If this be so, you know the severity of military law, and must expect its utmost rigor.' As he heard this menace, the governor grew pale. I fancied his change of color came because he was aware of some error, and I awaited his answer with anxiety. 'If the Count has escaped, Monsignore,' he replied, 'it must have been within an hour, for it is not more than twice that time since I saw him.'

"I was amazed. Unwilling as I was to be face to face with the Count, the violence and exasperation of whom I was aware of, I ordered myself to be led to his cell. The jailer threw back the door on its hinges, and far from finding the room unoccupied, I saw him stretched on a bed, and reading a book, which seemed very much to interest him. He appeared pale and thin. A year had passed since I had seen him, brilliantly and carefully dressed, giving tone to the saloons, the cynosure of which he was. Dignified and haughty, and always polite, even in the coarse dress he wore, the Count rose, recognized, and bowed to me. 'I did not,' said he, 'expect the honor of a visit from his excellency the minister of police, and would have wished to receive him in my palace. As the state of affairs is, however, he must be satisfied with the rude hospitality of the humble room I occupy.' He offered me his only stool. I said, 'Not I, Count, but yourself, have been the cause that you are thus situated. If you had chosen, you might have lived happy, free, and esteemed, as your rank and birth entitled you. Remember that all must be attributed to yourself, if you exchange all these advantages for the solitude of a prison and the dangers which your opinions have brought on you.' 'Shall I dare to ask, Monsignore, is the visit I receive an act of benevolence, or of official duty?' 'I am come hither, Count, from duty. The rumor of your escape is spread everywhere. A crime committed on the day before yesterday in the vicinity of Naples is attributed to you, and I am come to ascertain here if there be any foundation for the accusation.' The Count laughed. 'Monsignore,' said he, 'one never leaves this place except under the charge of keepers. As for the new crime of which I am accused, and of which I know nothing, I trust that the good sense of the judges will think me innocent as of the imaginary offenses which brought me hither.'

"The calmness and sang-froid of Monte-Leone, the improbability of the story told me, excited a trouble and confusion which did not escape the observation of the prisoner. 'Monsignore,' said he, 'we have met under happier circumstances. I expect and ask a favor from no one. I can however ask an indulgence from so old an acquaintance as yourself. Hurry on my trial! The preliminary captivity I undergo is one of the greatest outrages of the law. While a man is uncondemned he should not be punished. God does not send any one to hell untried and uncondemned. My life is sad here. This book, the only one allowed me,' said he, presenting me with it open at the page where he had been reading when I entered, 'this great book, _De Consolatione Philosophiæ_ of Anicius Severinus Boethius, does not console but afflicts me; for in spite of myself I remember that the author, imprisoned by a tyrant at Pavia, terminated in torture a life of glory. If such be my fate, signore,--if I am guilty, the punishment is great enough: if I am not guilty, it is too great.'

"I was touched by this logical reasoning. Far more influence however was exerted on me by his noble tranquillity and the natural dignity misfortune often kindles up in the noblest souls. 'Count,' said I, 'be assured that within a few days you will be placed on trial,' and I retired satisfied with the mistake or falsehood of Monte-Leone's accusers.

"I found the Salvatori at my palace. I told them that they played a terrible game. I said, 'If you had brought a false charge against a young man at liberty, and on the head of whom there lay no accusation, your crime would be capital, and you would be vulgar calumniators, such as are too often made infamous by our criminal records. This matter is however so complicated by revenge that it will excite general horror, and draw on you all the severity of the law. Count Monte-Leone, whom you accused of having poignarded your brother, is now in the _Castle del Uovo_, which I left a few minutes ago, and where I saw him.'

"Nothing can describe the singular expression of the faces of the two men as they listened. But they still persisted that they had spoken the truth, and were sternly dismissed by me, affirming that they would prove all they had said. They have kept their word, and here is the evidence," said the Duke, opening the box and exhibiting a glittering ring, on which was engraved the escutcheon of Monte-Leone.

"This ring," said he, "is acknowledged to be one of the _chef d'oeuvres_ of Benvenuto Cellini. It has an historical fame, and is considered one of the most admirable works of that great artist. Twenty times the government has sought to buy it, but the Monte-Leoni have uniformly refused to part with it. This letter accompanied the precious jewel:

"_Monsignore_: Heaven has come to our aid. Since our evidence, corroborated by that of all _Torre del Greco_, could not convince you of the truth of our accusation--since you refuse to believe that Count Monte-Leone, to avenge himself, wounded our brother, we send you this ring, engraved with his arms, which he lost in his contest with Stenio Salvatori, and which God has placed in our hands to confound and to punish him.

"Raphael and Paolo Salvatori."

"All is lost!" said La Felina.

"What now shall we believe?" said the Duke to his guests.

V.--THE VISIT.

The story of the Duke of Palma was concluded by the last question. All seemed wrapped in doubt in relation to this singular incident. The night was far advanced, and the company separated.

The Duke escorted La Felina to her carriage. Just however as the door was about to close on him, he said: "Would you not like, beautiful Felina, to know the name of the woman at Count Monte-Leone's on the night of the ball?"

"Why ask that question?" said she.

"Because," he said, "I know no one more beautiful or more attractive."

"Her name?" said the singer, with emotion.

"Is La Felina!" said the Duke. "What surprises you?" he added; "a minister of police, from his very office, knows everything." La Felina said to herself, "But he does not!"

The spirited horses bore the carriage rapidly away.

In the story of Monte-Leone the name of Taddeo Rovero had especially arrested the attention of Maulear. Was Taddeo a relation or connection of Aminta? During the few minutes he had passed at Sorrento he had learned nothing of the Roveri, and had asked no questions of Aminta. Allied however by the heart to this family already, he naturally enough took interest in the dangers its members incurred. He therefore determined to return at once and ascertain this fact from the minister, when a note handed to him drove the matter completely from his mind. Thus ran the note:

"_Monsieur_: My daughter now knows how much she is indebted to you, and the efforts you made to rescue her from the fearful danger which menaced her. The heroic remedy employed by Tonio has luckily succeeded. Aminta is entirely recovered and is unwilling to delay any longer the tribute of gratitude. Let me also, Monsieur, again offer you mine. If you will deign to receive them in our poor villa, we will be delighted to see you there to-day.

Your grateful,

Antonia Rovero."

The heart of Maulear quivered with joy at these words. He would in the course of a few hours see Aminta, the impression of whose beauty had so deeply impressed his heart, and from whom he had fancied he would yet be separated for days. He mounted his best horse and rapidly crossed the distance which separated him from Sorrento. Two hours after the receipt of the letter he knocked at the door of Signora Rovero. The old servant again admitted him.

"The Signorina is in no danger," said he to Maulear, as soon as he saw him. Nothing is more graceful than this familiarity of old servants, who as it were are become from devotion a portion of the family of their masters. "We know," added the good man taking and kissing Maulear's hand respectfully, "that we owe all to your Excellency, who drove away the vipers which otherwise had stung her on the heart, and allowed Tonio no time to rescue her."

There was such an expression of gratitude in the features of the old man, that Maulear was deeply moved.

"The Signora and the Signorina expect you, Count, to thank you." The old man let tears drop on the hand of the Marquis.

"What noble hearts must the mistresses of such servants have," thought Maulear as he stood in waiting.

Signora Rovero hurried to meet him, but not with a cold ceremony. The stranger who had contributed to the salvation of her daughter henceforth was a friend to her. "Come, come," said Signora Rovero, "she expects you."

The door was opened, and they were in the presence of Aminta. The White Rose of _Sorrento_ never vindicated more distinctly her right to the name.

Half reclining on a sofa of pearl velvet, Aminta was wrapped in a large dressing-gown, the vaporous folds of which hung around her. Her face, become yet more pale from suffering, was, as it were, enframed in light clouds of gauze. One might have fancied her a beautiful alabaster statue, but for the two beautiful bandeaus of black and lustrous hair which were drawn around her charming face.

"My child," said Signora Rovero, as she led Henri forward, "the Marquis of Maulear proves that he is not insensible of the value of our thanks, since he has come so promptly to receive them."

"Alas! Signora," said Henri to the mother of Aminta, "the true savior of your daughter is not myself, but the generous lad who risked his own life for hers. God, however, is my witness, that had I been aware I could have thus saved her, I would not have hesitated to employ the means."

The chivalric and impassioned tone with which these words were pronounced, made both mother and daughter look at Henri. The latter, however, immediately cast down her eyes, confused by the passionate expression of his.

"Monsieur," said Aminta, with emotion, "I might doubt such devotion from you, to a person who was a stranger, were I not aware of the nobility and generosity of the French character."

For the first time Maulear heard Aminta speak. She had one of those fresh and sweet voices, so full of melody and persuasion, that every word she spoke had the air of a caress--one of those delicious voices with which a few chosen natures alone are endowed, which are never heard without emotion, and are always remembered with pleasure. If the head and imagination of the Marquis were excited by her charms, his heart submitted to the influence of her angelic voice, for it emanated from her soul; and Maulear, as he heard her delicious notes, thought there was in this young girl something to love besides beauty.

The physician had ordered the patient to repose. He feared the wound made by Tonio's dagger would re-open if she walked. By the side of her sofa, therefore, the hours of Maulear rolled by like seconds.

The father, an educated and dignified man, had superintended, in person, the education of his two children. Wishing neither to separate nor to leave them, for he loved them both alike, his cares were equally divided between them, so that Aminta, profiting by the lessons given to her brother, shared in his masculine and profound education, and acquired information far surpassing that ordinarily received by her sex. The seeds of science had fallen on fertile ground. A studious mind had developed them in meditation and solitude, and this beautiful child concealed serious merit under a frail and delicate form. These treasures, vailed by modesty, revealed themselves by rare flashes, which soon disappeared, leaving those lucky enough to witness them, dazzled and amazed.

A few brilliant remarks escaped the young girl during Maulear's visit. He could not restrain the expression of his admiration, and Signora Rovero, when she saw her daughter confused, told Maulear, who had been her teacher. In spite of this attractive conversation, one thought was ever present to the mind of Maulear, who was the Taddeo Rovero of whom the minister had spoken? The tranquillity the ladies seemed to enjoy, might be little consonant with the situation of the accomplice of Monte-Leone. Perhaps they did not know his fate. He resolved to satisfy himself.

"Signora," said he to the mother, "there is in Naples a young man named Taddeo Rovero."

"My son--the brother of my daughter; one of the pleasantest men of Naples, whom I regret that I cannot introduce to you. Though he loves us tenderly, our seclusion has little to attract him. City festivities and pleasures often take him from us. Naples is now very brilliant."

The heart of Maulear beat when he heard the poor mother speak of her son's pleasures.

"My brother is the soul of honor and courage," said Aminta, "but his head is easily turned. I fear he is too much under the influence of his best friends."

"My daughter means his best friends," said Signora Rovero, gaily, "the brilliant Count Monte-Leone, one of the proudest nobles of Naples. Taddeo loves him as a brother. But my Aminta has no sympathy with him."

The Marquis was glad to hear Signora Rovero speak thus--and he admired the quick perception of the young girl, who thus, almost by intuition, foresaw the danger into which Monte-Leone had tempted Taddeo.

The dislike of Aminta to Monte-Leone, thus referred to by the Signora Rovero, brought the blood to her cheeks. She blushed to see one of her sentiments thus displayed before a stranger. In the impenetrable sanctuary of her soul, she wished to reserve for herself alone her impressions of pain and sorrow, her antipathies and affections. Besides, by means of one of those inspirations, the effect, but not the reason, of which is perceived by us, Aminta was aware that Maulear was the last man in the world before whom her internal thoughts should be referred to. Maulear comprehended the cause of her embarrassment. He again spoke of Taddeo. Once launched on this theme, Signora Rovero spoke of nothing else but her adored son, of his youth, prospects, and of the hopes she had formed of him. While she thus dreamed of glory and success for Taddeo, the latter was a captive in a secret prison.

"I am astonished," said the Signora, "that my son is so long absent without suffering his sister and myself to hear from him. For fifteen days we have not heard, and I beg you, Marquis, on your return to Naples, to see him, and inform him of the accident which has befallen Aminta. Tell him to come hither as soon as possible."

"I will see him, Signora, and if possible will return him to you."

As he made this reply, Henri promised to use every effort and all his credit to restore the son and brother of these ladies. Just then a sigh was heard in the saloon, and Maulear looked around, surprised, and almost terrified at the agony expressed. Aminta arose, hurried toward the portico, and lifting up the curtain in front of it, cried out, "It is he--it is he! Mother, he calls me! I must go!"

As soon, however, as her foot touched the floor, she uttered a cry of agony. "It is nothing," said she, immediately. "I thought myself strong enough, yet I suffer much; do not mind me, but attend to poor Tonio." Signora Rovero passed into the next room.

"It is he," said Aminta to Maulear, with the greatest emotion. "It is my savior, my foster-brother, whom we have sent for hither, contrary even to the advice of the Doctor. We were, however, unwilling to confide the duty of attending on him to any one. Besides, he would die of despair did he think we forgot him."

Signora Rovero returned. "The sufferings of the poor lad are terrible," said she; "his fever, however, is lessened, his delirium has passed away, and the physician assures me that he will live. Thanks for it are due to God, for if he died Aminta and I would die."

The day was advancing, and Maulear would not leave without seeing Tonio. His eyes were bloodshot, his lips livid and pendent, his cheeks swollen by the cauterization he had undergone. All horror at his appearance, however, disappeared when Maulear remembered what he had done. He looked at him as the early Christians did at martyrs. His eyes were yet humid when he returned to Aminta. The latter perceived his trouble, and gave him her pretty hand with an expression of deep gratitude.

"Thank you, Monsieur," said she, "for your compassion for Tonio. A heart like yours exhibits itself in tears, and I shall not forget those you have shed." These words, at once simple and affecting, touched the heart of Maulear. A great effort was necessary to keep him from falling at the feet of Aminta. Placing his lips respectfully on the hand offered to him, he bade adieu to Signora Rovero, and set out for Naples, bearing with him a precious treasury of memories, hope, anticipation, and wishes--of everything, in fine, which composes the first and most adorable pages of the history of our loves: the charming preface to the yet unread book.

On the next day Maulear visited the Duke of Palma. "Monsignore," said he to the minister, "I am about to ask you a favor to which I attach immense value. The pardon of young Rovero, who has been, your Excellency tells me, rather imprudent than guilty." The Duke laughed. "His liberty! On my word, Marquis, I would be much obliged if he would accept it."

"What does this mean, Monsignore?" said Maulear.

"That Rovero refuses liberty. The king, fancying that mildness would cure his folly, ordered me to dismiss the _novice_ to his family. I told Rovero. He replied, 'I refuse a pardon--I ask for justice: I am innocent or guilty; if guilty, I deserve punishment; if innocent, let them acquit me. I will not leave this prison except by force, as I entered it.' Thus I have a prisoner in spite of my wish to release him."

"I will see him," said the Marquis, "and will speak to him of his mother."

VI.--THE PRISONER.

The Hotel of the Minister of Police at Naples had been constructed on the site and on the foundation of the old palace of the Dukes of Palma, ancestors of the present Duke. Amid the vestiges of the old palace, which still existed, was an ancient chapel, connected with the new edifice. This chapel, abandoned long before, had been changed into a prison, for the reception of persons arrested secretly by the Minister of Police, into the offences of whom he wished to inquire personally, before he turned them over to justice. Of this kind was young Rovero. King Fernando wearied of foolish and ephemeral conspiracies which disturbed, without endangering his monarchy, combated with all his power the disposition of his ministers to be rigorous, and the Duke of Palma to please his master suppressed the various plots which arose everywhere. This indulgent and pacific system did not all comport with the revolutionary ideas of Count Monte-Leone, and the deposition of the brothers Salvatori, united to public rumor, made the arrest of the Count unavoidably necessary beyond all doubt, much to the annoyance of Fernando IV. and his minister. An example was needed. One criminal must be severely punished to terrify all the apostles of dark sedition. The more exalted the rank of the culprit, the greater the effect of the example would be. Young Rovero, by refusing his pardon, subjected the Duke of Palma to a new annoyance. His refusal made a trial necessary, or he would be forced to release him, contrary to his own protestations, and therefore subject the government to the odium of arbitrary injustice and a criminal attack on the liberties of the people. This would be a new theme of declamation for malcontents. The motives assigned by Taddeo for insisting on a trial were specious and dignified. We will however, soon see that they had no reality, and only masked the plans of the prisoner. A strange event had taken place in the old chapel we have mentioned, and in which Rovero was shut up.

Before we relate what follows, we must acquaint the reader with the secret sentiments of young Rovero. All had done justice to the seductive grace, which attracted so many adorers to the feet of the singer. Rovero, the youngest of the band of four, felt far more than admiration for the prima donna. His soul, hitherto untouched by passion, became aware of an emotion of which it had not been cognisant, at the sight of the great artist, the fire and energetic bursts of whom gave so powerful expression to her glances. Rovero had hitherto thought of women only under ordinary conditions, adorned with that timid modesty and grace which seem to call on the ruder sex for protection,--as charming creatures whom God has formed to command in obeying, to triumph by weakness. The young and chaste girl, the seraphic reverie of lovers of twenty, was effaced by the radiant beauty presented him by chance. The native nobility of Felina, her elegant habits, the ardent imagination which had expanded the love of her art, the very practice of her profession which ceaselessly familiarized her with the works of the great masters, with the royal sovereigns she represented, had enhanced her natural dignity, with an almost theatrical majesty, which so perfectly harmonized with her person, so entirely consorted with her habits, form and queenly bearing, that she might have been fancied a Juno or a Semiramis disguised as a noble Neapolitan lady, rather than the reverse, which really was the case. Glittering with these attractions to which Taddeo had hitherto been insensible, she appeared to him: like an enchantress and the modern Circe, dragging an enthusiastic people in her train, and ruling in the morning in her boudoir, which glittered with velvet and gold, and in the evening making three thousand people fanatical with her voice and magic talent, it was not unnatural that she subdued him. The impression produced on Taddeo by La Felina on the evening they were at the Etruscan house, was so keen, so new, so full of surprise and passion, that the young man left the room, less to ascertain what had become of the two friends who had preceded him, than to avoid the fascination exerted on him by the eyes of La Felina. He had not seen her since.

Like Von Apsberg and d'Harcourt, taken in the snare which had been set for him by the police of Naples, Taddeo was captured after a brief but violent contest. It seemed to him that his soul was torn from his body when he was separated from La Felina. He had however previously heard her at San Carlo. Though charmed by her talent and wonderful beauty, the illusion was so perfect that he fancied he saw the Juliet of Zingarelli or the Donna Anna of Mozart, but not a woman to be herself adored,--in one word, the magnificent Felina. The fancy of the Neapolitan was enkindled by the eyes of the Neapolitan. He did not love, but was consumed. In the cold and solitary cell he had occupied for some days, he forgot danger, his friends, and almost his mother and sister. Rovero thought only of his love. Concentrating all power in his devotion, he evoked La Felina, and in his mind contemplated her. Wild words wrested from him by delirium declared to the phantom all his hopes and fears. In his fancy he ran over all the perfections of this beautiful being. It seemed to him that his idol hovered around the prison, shedding its rays on him, and filling his heart and senses with an ardor the impotence of which he cursed. Religious exaltation, like the enthusiasm of love, assumes in solitude gigantic proportions unknown to the most pious man and most devoted lover living in the world. Long days and endless nights occupied with one idea, fixed and immutable, rising before us like the ghost of Banquo in our dreams, and when we wake, are a sufficient explanation of the martyrs of love, of the cloister, or of the Thebais.

Many days had passed since the Duke of Palma had imprisoned young Rovero. We have already spoken of the ideas which occupied his mind. Ever under the influence of one thought, the life of the young prisoner was but one dream of love, which so excited his imagination that he could scarcely distinguish fiction from reality, and after a troubled sleep he asked if he had addressed his burning declarations to the phantom of the singer or to La Felina herself.

Taddeo in his cell was not subjected to the malicious barbarities with which Monte-Leone had been annoyed. The Duke of Palma wished the inmates of his palace, though they might be prisoners, not to complain of their fare. Taddeo had a bed and not a pallet. He could read and write, it is true only by means of a doubtful light which reached him through the stained windows of the antique chapel. This light however was mottled by the blue cloak of St. Joseph and the purple robe of St. John. Sometimes it fell on the pavement in golden checkers, after having passed through the _glory_ of the Virgin. Still it was the light of day, which is half the sustenance of a prisoner.

On the fourth night after Rovero's arrest, he reposed rather than rested on the only chair in his cell, soothed by the wind which beat on the windows. The rays of the moon passed through the high windows of the old chapel, and the long tresses of moss which overhung them assumed fantastic forms as they swung to and fro at the caprice of the wind. A faint murmur was heard. A white shadow which seemed to rush from the wall passed over the marble pavement toward the prisoner, looked at him carefully, and said, with an accent of joy, "It is either he, or I am mistaken."

The shadow moved on.

After the lapse of a few seconds it was about to disappear, when it was seized by a nervous arm which restrained it. A cry was heard. Rovero, who had at first seen it but vaguely as it approached him, and who had convulsively grasped it, was now thoroughly awakened, and seeing the visitant about to disappear, seized it forcibly. A dense cloud just at that moment vailed the moon, and the cell became as dark as night.

"It is a woman!" said Taddeo, and his heart beat violently. A soft and delicate hand was placed on his lips.

"If you are heard, I am lost!" said his visitor, in a trembling voice.

"Who are you? and what do you want?" said Taddeo, suffering his voice to escape through the delicate fingers which sought to close his lips.

"I am looking for you: what I wish you will know in four days: who I am is a secret, and I rely on your honor not to seek to penetrate it." Then by a rapid movement, the visitor pulled the vail again over her face.

Just then the clouds passed away, and the moon shone brilliantly, lighting up the old chapel, and exhibiting to Taddeo the tall and lithe form of her who held him captive.

One need not like Taddeo have retained the minutest peculiarities of La Felina to render it possible to distinguish her lithe stature and magnificent contour. But his reason could not be convinced, and had not the singer's hand been pressed on his lips he would have fancied that a new dream had evoked the phantom of one of whom he had never ceased to think. "Lift up your vail, Felina," said he. But at the evidence of terror which she exhibited, he resumed. "Do not attempt to deceive me. In your presence my heart could not be mistaken, for it meditates by day and dreams by night of you alone. I know not what good angel has guided you hither, in pity of the torment I have endured since I left you. An hour, Felina, in your presence, has sufficed to enslave my soul forever. Through you have I learned that I have a soul, and by you has the void in my heart been completely filled."

"He loves me!" murmured Felina, with an accent of surprise and deep pity. This however was uttered in so low a tone that the prisoner did not hear her.

"Hear me," said Rovero. "You told us at Monte-Leone's that you loved one of the four."

"True," said the singer, in a feeble voice.

"You said that for him you would sacrifice your life."

"True."

"That like an invisible providence you would watch over his life and fate: that this would be the sacred object of your life."

"I also said," Felina answered, "that my love would ever be unknown, and that the secret would die with me."

"Well," said Rovero, "I know him. This man, the ardent passion of whom you divined, to whom you are come as a minister of hope, is before you, is at your feet."

"How know you that I would not have done as much for each of your friends?"

Taddeo felt a hot iron pass through his soul.

"Hear me," said she; "time is precious. Watched, and the object everywhere of espionage, from motives of which you must ever be ignorant I have penetrated hither, by means of a bold will and efforts which were seconded by chance. I wished to satisfy myself that you were really the person I sought for, and, hidden beneath this vail, and by a yet greater concealment, that of your honor, to remain unknown, and accomplish my purpose, with your cooperation, which otherwise must fail. I was ignorant then of what I know now. I knew not your sentiments, or I would have kept my secret."

"Why fear my love?" said Rovero; "think you I sell my devotion? A love which hesitates is not love. Mine will obey for the pleasure of obeying you. But let your requests be great and difficult to be fulfilled, that you may estimate me by my deeds."

"You have a noble heart, Rovero, and in it I have confidence. God grant your capacity fall not below your courage. In four days you will know what I expect from you."

"And will you," said he, in a voice stifled with emotion, "tell me which of the four you love?"

"You will then know. To you alone will I reveal the secret."

"How can I live until then!" said Rovero, with a sigh.

The sound of footsteps was heard. The sentinels were being relieved. It was growing late, and while Rovero, at a motion from La Felina, went to the door to listen to what was passing, she disappeared like a shadow behind a column. Rovero looked around, and was alone. He examined the walls, attempting to discover the secret issue. No fissure was visible, there was no sign of the smallest opening, and a dumb sound only replied to the blows of Rovero on the wall. He sunk on his chair, and covered his face with his hands, that his thoughts might be distracted by no external object. A few hours afterward the Duke of Palma caused him to be informed of his pardon.

The presence of La Felina had changed everything. The dark walls of the chapel appeared more splendid than those of the palaces of the Doria, Cavalcante, Carafa, or of the Pignatelli. He would not have exchanged the humid walls of his cell for the rich mosaics of the _Museo Borbonico_, the rival of that of the Vatican. The pavement had been pressed by the feet of La Felina, and Rovero yet fancied that he saw the prints of her footsteps.

Two days after the nocturnal scene we have described, a stranger appeared in the cell of the son of Signora Rovero. "Excuse me, sir," said he to the prisoner, "that I have thus intruded without an introduction. The motive, however, which conducts me hither will admit of no delay, and I am sure you will excuse me when you shall have learned it."

Rovero bowed coldly, fancying that he had to do with some new police agent.

"I am come to appeal to you in behalf of two ladies who worship you, and are inconsolable in your absence."

"Two ladies!" said Rovero, with surprise. Yet, under the empire of passion, he added--"Signor, I love but one." He paused and was much confused by the avowal he had made.

"At least," said the stranger, "you love three; for in a heart like yours family affections and a deeper passion exist together. The ladies of whom I speak, Signor, are your mother and sister."

The prisoner blushed. His adored mother, his beautiful sister, were exiled from his memory! In the presence of a stranger, too, this filial crime was revealed; a despotic passion had made him thus guilty. "Signor," said he, "you have thought correctly. Notwithstanding the forgetfulness of my mind, with which though I protest my heart has nothing to do, their names are dear to me, and I pray you tell me what they expect from me."

"They expect you to return," said the stranger. "A service I rendered them has made me almost a friend, and my interest in them has induced me to come without their consent to speak to you in their behalf."

"Signor," said Rovero, "tell me to whom I have the honor to speak; not that a knowledge of your name will enhance my gratitude, but that I may know to whom I must utter it."

"Signor, I am the Marquis de Maulear. Chance has revealed to me your strange rejection of the liberty which other prisoners would so eagerly grasp at. The minister has informed me of your motives, and, though honorable, permit me to suggest that you do not forget your duty. Did your mother know your condition, her life would be the sacrifice."

Taddeo forgot all when he heard these words, admitting neither of discussion nor of reply.

"Signor," continued Maulear, "what principle, what opinions can combat your desire to see your mother, and to rescue her from despair? Bid the logic of passion and political hatred be still, and hearken only to duty. Follow me, and by the side of your noble mother you will forget every scruple which now retains you."

Rovero for some moments was silent. He then fixed his large black eyes on those of Maulear, and seemed to seek to read his thoughts.

"Marquis," said he, "I scarcely know you, but there is such sincerity in your expression that I have confidence in you, and am about to prove it. Swear on your honor not to betray me, and I will tell you all."

"I swear."

"Well," said Taddeo, hurrying him as far as possible from the door that he might be sure he was not overheard; "I accept the liberty offered me; but for a reason which I can reveal to no one, I must remain a few days in this cell. Suffer the minister and all to think that I persist in this refusal. In two days I will have changed my plans, and before sunset on the third, _I will have returned with you to Sorrento_."

Henri, surprised, could not help looking at Rovero.

"Do not question me, Signor, for I cannot reply. I have told you all I can, and not one other word shall leave my mouth."

"I may then tell Signora Rovero, that you will return."

"Announce to her that in me you have found another friend, and that in three days, _you will place me in her arms_."

Taking Maulear's hand he clasped it firmly.

"Thanks, Signor," said Maulear, "I accept your friendship. With people like you, this fruit ripens quickly. Perhaps, however, you will discover that it has not on that account less flavor and value."

Maulear tapped thrice at the door of the cell; the turnkey appeared, and Henri left, as he went out casting one last look of affection on Taddeo.

Never did time appear so long to Aminta's brother as that which intervened between Maulear's departure and the night he was so anxious for. That night came at last. The keeper brought his evening meal. He did not wish to be asleep as he was on the first occasion, when La Felina visited him. He was unwilling to lose a single moment of her precious visit. Remembering that his preceding nights had been agitated and almost sleepless, apprehensive that he would be overcome by weariness, he resolved to stimulate himself. Like most of the Neapolitans, he was very temperate, and rarely drank wine; he preferred that icy water, flavored with the juice of the orange or lime, of which the people of that country are so fond. He now, however, needed something to keep him awake, and asked for wine.

He approached the table on which his evening meal was placed, he took a flask of Massa wine, one of the best of Naples; he poured out a goblet and drank it, and felt immediately new strength course through his veins.

He sat on his bed and listened anxiously for the slightest sound, to the low accents of the night, to those indescribable sounds which are drowned by the tumults of the day, and of whose existence, silence and night alone make us aware. The hours rolled on, and at every stroke of the clock his heart kept time with every blow of the iron hammer on the bell of bronze. At last the clock struck twelve. Midnight, the time for specters and crimes, was come. A few minutes before the clock sounded, he perceived that the sleep of which he had been so much afraid gradually made his eyelids grow heavy--and that though he sought to overcome the feeling, his drowsiness increased to such a degree that he was forced to sit down.

I spoke in one of my preceding chapters of the tyrannical power exercised by sleep over all organizations, and especially in those situations when man is least disposed to yield to it. Never had this absolute master exercised a more despotic power; this pitiless god seemed to place his iron thumb on the eyes of the prisoner, and to close them by force. A strange oppression of his limbs, an increasing disturbance of his memory and thought, a kind of invincible torpor, rapidly took possession of the young man. Then commenced a painful contest between mind and body,--the latter succumbed. He felt his body powerless, his reason grow dim, and his strength pass away. In vain he sought to see, to hear, to watch, to live, to contend with an enemy which sought to make him senseless, inert and powerless. His head fell upon his bosom and he sank to sleep.

Just then, he heard a light noise, the rustling of a silk dress, and a timid step. With a convulsive effort he opened his eyes, and saw La Felina within a few feet of his bed. Tears rolled down his cheeks, and fell upon the white hand of the singer. She touched Rovero's face to assure herself that he was in reality asleep.

END OF PART II.

[From the Gem.]

"THE TWICKENHAM GHOST."

Come to the casement to-night, And look out at the bright lady-moon; Come to the casement to-night, And I'll sing you your favorite tune! Where the stream glides beside the old tower, My boat shall be under the wall,-- Oh, dear one! be there in your bower, With Byron, a lamp, and your shawl.

Oh! come where no troublesome eye Can look on the vigil love keeps; When there is not a cloud in the sky, What maid, _but an old maiden_, sleeps? And you know not how sweet is the tone Of a song from a lip we have press'd, When it breathes it "by moonlight alone," To the ear of _the one_ it loves best.

Oh! daylight love's music but mars, (As it breaks up the dance of the elves!) The moon and the stream and the stars, Should hear it alone with ourselves: And who'd be content with "_I may_," If they only would think of "_I might_?" Or _who'd_ listen to music by day, That had listened to music by night?

The Opera's over by one, Lady Jersey's grows stupid at two; I'll dance just one waltz, and have done, Then be off, on the pony, for Kew! My boat holds a cloak--a guitar, And it waits by that dark bridge for me: And I'll row, by the light of one star, Love's own, to the old tower, by three!

I'll bring you that sweet canzonette, That we practiced together last year; And my own little miniature set Round with emeralds--tis _such_ a dear! You promised you'd love me as long As your heart felt me close to it, there; And, dear one! for that and the song, _Won't_ you give me the locket of hair?

Farewell, sweet! be not in a fright, Should your grandmamma bid you beware Of a youth, who was murdered one night, And whose ghost haunts the dark waters there: For _you_ know, ever since his decease, Of a harmless young ghost that's allow'd To go, by the River Police, Serenading about in his shroud!

[From the Dublin University Magazine.]

THE MYSTIC VIAL: OR, THE LAST DEMOISELLE DE CHARREBOURG.

I.--THE GAME OF BOWLS.

More than a century ago--we know not whether the revolution has left a vestige of it--there stood an old chateau, backed by an ancient and funereal forest, and approached through an interminable straight avenue of frowning timber, somewhere about fifteen leagues from Paris, and visible from the great high road to Rouen.

The appliances of comfort had once been collected around it upon a princely scale; extensive vineyards, a perfect wood of fruit-trees, fish-ponds, mills, still remained, and a vast park, abounding with cover for all manner of game, stretched away almost as far as the eye could reach.

But the whole of this palatial residence was now in a state of decay and melancholy neglect. A dilapidated and half-tenanted village, the feudal dependency of the seignorial domain, seemed to have sunk with the fortunes of its haughty protector. The steep roofs of the Chateau de Charrebourg and its flanking towers, with their tall conical caps, were mournfully visible in the sun among the rich foliage that filled the blue hazy distance, and seemed to overlook with a sullen melancholy the village of Charrebourg that was decaying beneath it.

The Visconte de Charrebourg, the last of a long line of ancient seigneurs, was still living, and though not under the ancestral roof of his chateau, within sight of its progressive ruin, and what was harder still to bear, of its profanation; for his creditors used it as a storehouse for the produce of the estate, which he thus saw collected and eventually carted away by strangers, without the power of so much as tasting a glass of its wine or arresting a single grain of its wheat himself. And to say the truth, he often wanted a pint of the one and a measure or two of the other badly enough.

Let us now see for ourselves something of his circumstances a little more exactly. The Visconte was now about seventy, in the enjoyment of tolerable health, and of a pension of nine hundred francs (£36) per annum, paid by the Crown. His creditors permitted him to occupy, besides, a queer little domicile, little better than a cottage, which stood just under a wooded hillock in the vast wild park. To this were attached two or three Lilliputian paddocks, scarcely exceeding an English acre altogether. Part of it, before the door, a scanty bit we allow, was laid a little parterre of flowers, and behind the dwelling was a small bowling-green surrounded by cherry-trees. The rest was cultivated chiefly for the necessities of the family. In addition to these concessions his creditors permitted him to shoot rabbits and catch perch for the use of his household, and that household consisted of three individuals--the Visconte himself, his daughter Lucille (scarcely seventeen years of age), and Dame Marguerite, in better times her nurse--now cook, housemaid, and all the rest.

Contrast with all this what he had once been, the wealthy Lord of Charrebourg, the husband of a rich and noble wife, one of the most splendid among the satellites of a splendid court. He had married rather late, and as his reverses had followed that event in point of time, it was his wont to attribute his misfortunes to the extravagance of his dear and sainted helpmate, "who never could resist play and jewelry." The worthy Visconte chose to forget how much of his fortune he had himself poured into the laps of mistresses, and squandered among the harpies of the gaming-table. The result however was indisputable, by whatever means it had been arrived at, the Visconte was absolutely beggared.

Neither had he been very fortunate in his family. Two sons, who, together with Lucille, had been the fruit of his marriage, had both fallen, one in a duel, the other in a madcap adventure in Naples.

And thus of course ended any hope of seeing his fortunes even moderately reconstructed.

We must come now to the lonely dwelling which serves all that is left of the family of Charrebourg for a palace. It is about the hour of five o'clock in the afternoon of a summer's day. Dame Marguerite has already her preparations for supper in the kitchen. The Visconte has gone to the warren to shoot rabbits for to-morrow's dinner. Two village lads, who take a pleasure in obliging poor old Marguerite--of course neither ever thinks of Lucille--have just arrived at the kitchen door. Gabriel has brought fresh spring water, which, from love of the old cook, he carries to the cottage regularly every morning and evening. Jacque has brought mulberries for "the family," from a like motive. The old woman has pronounced Jacque's mulberries admirable; and with a smile tapped Gabriel on the smooth brown cheek, and called him her pretty little water carrier. They loiter there as long as they can; neither much likes the other; each understands what his rival is about perfectly well; neither chooses to go while the other remains.

Jacque, sooth to say, is not very well favored, sallow, flat-faced, with lank black hair, small, black, cunning eyes, and a wide mouth; he has a broad square figure, and a saucy swagger. Gabriel is a slender lad, with brown curls about his shoulders, ruddy brown face, and altogether good-looking. These two rivals, you would say, were very unequally matched.

Poor Gabriel! he has made knots to his knees of salmon-color and blue, the hues of the Charrebourg livery. It is by the mute eloquence of such traits of devotion that his passion humbly pleads. He wishes to belong to her. When first he appears before her in these tell-tale ribbons, the guilty knees that wear them tremble beneath him. He thinks that now she must indeed understand him--that the murder will out at last. But, alas! she, and all the stupid world beside, see nothing in them but some draggled ribbons. He might as well have worn buckles--nay, _better_; for he suspects that cursed Jacque understands them. But in this, indeed, he wrongs him; the mystery of the ribbons is comprehended by himself alone.

He and Jacque passed round the corner of the quaint little cottage; they were crossing the bowling-green.

"And so," sighed poor Gabriel, "I shall not see her to-day."

"Hey! Gabriel! Jacque! has good Marguerite done with you?--then play a game of bowls together to amuse me."

The silvery voice that spoke these words came from the coral lips of Lucille. Through the open casement, clustered round with wreaths of vine in the transparent shade, she was looking out like a portrait of Flora in a bowering frame of foliage. Could anything be prettier?

Gabriel's heart beat so fast that he could hardly stammer forth a dutiful answer; he could scarcely see the bowls. The beautiful face among the vine-leaves seemed everywhere.

It would have been worth one's while to look at that game of bowls. There was something in the scene at once comical and melancholy. Jacque was cool, but very clumsy. Gabriel, a better player, but all bewildered, agitated, trembling. While the little daughter of nobility, in drugget petticoat, her arms resting on the window-sill, looked out upon the combatants with such an air of unaffected and immense superiority as the queen of beauty in the gallery of a tilting-yard might wear while she watched the feats of humble yeomen and villein archers. Sometimes leaning forward with a grave and haughty interest; sometimes again showing her teeth, like little coronels of pearl, in ringing laughter, in its very unrestrainedness as haughty as her gravity. The spirit of the noblesse, along with its blood, was undoubtedly under that slender drugget bodice. Small suspicion had that commanding little damsel that the bipeds who were amusing her with their blunders were playing for love of her. Audacity like that was not indeed to be contemplated.

"Well, Gabriel has won, and I am glad of it, for I think he is the better lad of the two," she said, with the prettiest dogmatism conceivable. "What shall we give you, Gabriel, now that you have won the game? let me see."

"Nothing, Mademoiselle--nothing, I entreat," faltered poor Gabriel, trembling in a delightful panic.

"Well, but you are hot and tired, and have won the game beside. Marguerite shall give you some pears and a piece of bread."

"I wish nothing, Mademoiselle," said poor Gabriel, with a melancholy gush of courage, "but to die in your service."

"Say you so?" she replied, with one of those provokingly unembarrassed smiles of good-nature which your true lovers find far more killing than the cruelest frown; "it is the speech of a good villager of Charrebourg. Well, then, you shall have them another time."

"But, as your excellence is so good as to observe, I have won the game," said Gabriel, reassured by the sound of his own voice, "and to say I should have something as--as a token of victory, I would ask, if Mademoiselle will permit, for my poor old aunt at home, who is so very fond of those flowers, just one of the white roses which Mademoiselle has in her hand; it will give her so much pleasure."

"The poor old woman! Surely you may pluck some fresh from the bush; but tell Marguerite, or she will be vexed."

"But, Mademoiselle, pardon me, I have not time: one is enough, and I think there are none so fine upon the tree as that; besides, I know she would like it better for having been in Mademoiselle's hand."

"Then let her have it by all means," said Lucille; and so saying, she placed the flower in Gabriel's trembling fingers. Had he yielded to his impulse, he would have received it kneeling. He was intoxicated with adoration and pride; he felt as if at that moment he was the sultan of the universe, but her slave.

The unconscious author of all this tumult meanwhile had left the window. The rivals were _tête-à-tête_ upon the stage of their recent contest. Jacque stood with his hand in his breast, eyeing Gabriel with a sullen sneer. _He_ held the precious rose in his hand, and still gazed at the vacant window.

"And so your aunt loves a white rose better than a slice of bread?" ejaculated Jacque. "Heaven! what a lie--ha, ha, ha!"

"Well, I won the game and I won the rose," said Gabriel, tranquilly. "I can't wonder you are a little vexed."

"Vexed?--bah! I thought she would have offered you a piece of money," retorted Jacque; "and if she _had_, I venture to say we should have heard very little about that nice old aunt with the _penchant_ for white roses."

"I'm not sordid, Jacque," retorted his rival; "and I did not want to put Mademoiselle to any trouble."

"How she laughed at you, Gabriel, your clumsiness and your ridiculous grimaces; but then you do make--ha, ha, ha!--such very comical faces while the bowls are rolling, I could not blame her."

"She laughed more at you than at me," retorted Gabriel, evidently nettled. "_You_ talk of clumsiness and grimaces--upon my faith, a pretty notion."

"Tut, man, you must have been deaf. You amused her so with your writhing, and ogling, and grinning, and sticking your tongue first in this cheek and then in that, according as the bowl rolled to one side or the other, that she laughed till the very tears came; and after all that, forsooth, she wanted to feed you like a pig on rotten pears; and then--ha, ha, ha!--the airs, the command, the magnificence. Ah, la! it was enough to make a cow laugh."

"You are spited and jealous; but don't dare to speak disrespectfully of Mademoiselle in my presence, sirrah," said Gabriel, fiercely.

"Sirrah me no sirrahs," cried Jacque giving way at last to an irrepressible explosion of rage and jealousy. "I'll say what I think, and call things by their names. You're an ass, I tell you--an ass; and as for her, she's a saucy, impertinent little minx, and you and she, and your precious white rose, may go in a bunch to the devil together."

And so saying, he dealt a blow with his hat at the precious relic. A quick movement of Gabriel's, however, arrested the unspeakable sacrilege. In an instant Jacque was half frightened at his own audacity; for he knew of old that in some matters Gabriel was not to be trifled with, and more than made up in spirit for his disparity in strength. Snatching up a piece of fire-wood in one hand, and with the other holding the sacred flower behind him, Gabriel rushed at the miscreant Jacque, who, making a hideous grimace and a gesture of ridicule, did not choose to await the assault, but jumped over the low fence, and ran like a Paynim coward before a crusader of old. The stick flew whizzing by his ear. Gabriel, it was plain, was in earnest; so down the woody slope toward the stream the chase swept headlong; Jacque exerting his utmost speed, and Gabriel hurling stones, clods, and curses after him. When, however, he had reached the brook, it was plain the fugitive had distanced him. Pursuing his retreat with shouts of defiance, he here halted, hot, dusty, and breathless, inflamed with holy rage and chivalric love, like a Paladin after a victory.

Jacque meanwhile pursued his retreat at a slackened pace, and now and then throwing a glance behind him.

"The fiend catch him!" he prayed. "I'll break his bird-traps and smash his nets, and I'll get my big cousin, the blacksmith, to drub him to a jelly."

But Gabriel was happy: he was sitting under a bush, lulled by the trickling of the stream, and alone with his visions and his rose.

The noble demoiselle in the mean time took her little basket, intending to go into the wood and gather some wild strawberries, which the old Visconte liked; and as she never took a walk without first saluting her dear old Marguerite--

"Adieu, ma bonne petite maman," she said, running up to that lean and mahogany-complexioned dame, and kissing her heartily on both cheeks; "I am going to pick strawberries."

"Ah, ma chere mignonne, I wish I could again see the time when the lackeys in the Charrebourg blue and salmon, and covered all over with silver lace, would have marched behind Mademoiselle whenever she walked into the park. Parbleu, that was magnificence!"

"Eh bien, nurse," said the little lady, decisively and gravely, "we shall have all that again."

"I hope so, my little pet--why not?" she replied, with a dreary shrug, as she prepared to skewer one of the eternal rabbits.

"Ay, why not?" repeated the demoiselle, serenely. "You tell me, nurse, that I am beautiful, and I think I am."

"Beautiful--indeed you are, my little princess," she replied, turning from the rabbit, and smiling upon the pretty questioner until her five thin fangs were all revealed. "They said your mother was the greatest beauty at court; but, _ma foi_! she was never like you."

"Well, then, if that be true, some great man will surely fall in love with me, you know, and I will marry none that is not richer than ever my father, the Visconte, was--rely upon that, good Marguerite."

"Well, my little pet, bear that in mind, and don't allow any one to steal your heart away, unless you know him to be worthy."

At these words Lucille blushed--and what a brilliant vermilion--averted her eyes for a moment, and then looked full in her old nurse's face.

"Why do you say that, Marguerite?"

"Because I feel it, my pretty little child," she replied.

"No, no, no, no," cried Lucille, still with a heightened color, and looking with her fine eyes full into the dim optics of the old woman; "you had some reason for saying that--you know you had!"

"By my word of honor, no," retorted the old woman, in her turn surprised--"no, my dear; but what is the matter--why do you blush so?"

"Well, I shall return in about an hour," said Lucille, abstractedly, and not heeding the question; and then with a gay air she tripped singing from the door, and so went gaily down the bosky slope to the edge of the wood.

II.--THE GENTLEMAN IN BLUE AND SILVER.

Lucille had no sooner got among the mossy roots of the trees, than her sylvan task commenced, and the fragrant crimson berries began to fill her basket. Her little head was very busy with all manner of marvelous projects; but this phantasmagoria was not gloomy; on the contrary, it was gorgeous and pleasant; for the transparent green shadow of the branches and the mellow singing of the birds toned her daydreams with their influence.

In the midst of those airy pageants she was interrupted by a substantial and by no means unprepossessing reality. A gentleman of graceful form and mien, dressed in a suit of sky-blue and silver, with a fowling-piece in his hand, and followed closely by a bare-legged rustic, carrying a rude staff and a well-stored game-bag, suddenly emerged from behind a mass of underwood close by. It was plain that he and Lucille were acquainted, for he instantly stopped, signing to his attendant to pursue his way, and raising his three-cornered hat, bowed as the last century only could bow, with an inclination that was at once the expression of chivalry and ease. His features were singularly handsome, but almost too delicate for his sex, pale, and with a certain dash of melancholy in their noble intelligence.

"You here, Monsieur Dubois!" exclaimed Lucille, in a tone that a little faltered, and with a blush that made her doubly beautiful. "What strange chance has conducted you to this spot?"

"My kind star--my genius--my good angel, who thus procures me the honor of beholding Mademoiselle de Charrebourg--an honor than which fortune has none dearer to me--no--none _half_ so prized."

"These are phrases, sir."

"Yes; phrases that expound my heart. I beseech you bring them to the test."

"Well, then," she said, gravely, "let us see. Kneel down and pick the strawberries that grow upon this bank; they are for the Visconte de Charrebourg."

"I am too grateful to be employed."

"You are much older, Monsieur, than I."

"No doubt."

"And have seen more of the world, too."

"True, Mademoiselle," and he could not forbear smiling.

"Well, then, you ought not to have tried to meet me in the park so often as you did--or indeed at all--you know very well you ought not."

"But, Mademoiselle, what harm can the most ill-natured of human critics discover----"

"Oh, but listen to me. I begin to fear I have been wrong in talking to you as I have done; and if so, you ought not to have presented yourself to me as you did. I have reflected on it since. In fact, I don't know who you are, Monsieur Dubois. The Charrebourgs do not use to make companions of everybody; and you may be a roturier, for anything I can tell."

Monsieur Dubois smiled again.

"I see you laugh because we are poor," she said, with a heightened color and a flashing glance.

"Mademoiselle misunderstands me. I am incapable of that. There is no point at which ridicule can approach the family of Charrebourg."

"That is true, sir," she said, haughtily; and she added, "and on that account I need not inquire wherefore people smile. But this seems plain to me--that I have done very wrong in conversing alone with a gentleman of whom I know nothing beyond his name. You must think so yourself, though you will not say it; and as you profess your willingness to oblige me, I have only to ask that all these foolish conversations may be quite forgotten between us. And now the _petit pannier_ is filled, and it is time that I should return. Good evening, Monsieur Dubois--farewell."

"This is scarcely a kind farewell, considering that we have been good friends, Mademoiselle de Charrebourg, for so long."

"Good friends--yes--for a long time; but you know," she continued, with a sad, wise shake of her pretty head, "I ought not to allow gentlemen whom I chance to meet here to be my friends--is it not so? This has only struck me recently, Monsieur Dubois; and I am sure you used to think me very strange. But I have no one to advise me; I have no mother--she is dead; and the Visconte seldom speaks to me; and so I fear I often do strange things without intending; and--and I have told you all this, because I should be sorry you thought ill of me, Monsieur Dubois."

She dropped her eyes for a moment to the ground, with an expression at once very serious and regretful.

"Then am I condemned to be henceforward a stranger to _dear_ Mademoiselle de Charrebourg?"

"I have told you all my thoughts, Monsieur Dubois," she answered, in a tone whose melancholy made it nearly as tender as his own. But, perhaps, some idea crossed her mind that piqued her pride; for suddenly recollecting herself, she added, in a tone it may be a little more abrupt and haughty than her usual manner--

"And so, Monsieur Dubois, once for all, good evening. You will need to make haste to overtake your peasant attendant; and as for me, I must run home now--adieu."

Dubois followed her hesitatingly a step or two, but stopped short. A slight flush of excitement--it might be of mortification--hovered on his usually pale cheek. It subsided, however, and a sudden and more tender character inspired his gaze, as he watched her receding figure, and followed its disappearance with a deep sigh.

But Monsieur Dubois had not done with surprises.

"Holloa! sir--a word with you," shouted an imperious voice, rendered more harsh by the peculiar huskiness of age.

Dubois turned, and beheld a figure, which penetrated him with no small astonishment, advancing toward him with furious strides. We shall endeavor to describe it.

It was that of a very tall, old man, lank and upright, with snow-white mustaches, beard, and eyebrows, all in a shaggy and neglected state. He wore an old coat of dark-gray serge, gathered at the waist by a belt of undressed leather, and a pair of gaiters, of the same material, reached fully to his knees. From his left hand dangled three rabbits, tied together by the feet, and in his right he grasped the butt of his antiquated fowling-piece, which rested upon his shoulder. This latter equipment, along with a tall cap of rabbit skins, which crowned his head, gave him a singular resemblance to the old prints of Robinson Crusoe; and as if the _tout ensemble_ was not grotesque enough without such an appendage, a singularly tall hound, apparently as old and feeble, as lank and as gray as his master, very much incommoded by the rapidity of his pace, hobbled behind him. A string scarce two yards long, knotted to his master's belt, was tied to the old collar, once plated with silver, that encircled his neck, and upon which a close scrutiny might have still deciphered the armorial bearings of the Charrebourgs.

There was a certain ludicrous sympathy between the superannuated hound and his master. While the old man confronted the stranger, erect as Don Quixote, and glaring upon him in silent fury, as though his eyeballs would leap from their sockets, the decrepit dog raised his bloodshot, cowering eyes upon the self-same object, and showing the stumps of his few remaining fangs, approached him with a long, low growl, like distant thunder. The man and his dog understood one another perfectly. Conscious, however, that there might possibly be some vein of ridicule in this manifest harmony of sentiment, he bestowed a curse and a kick upon the brute, which sent it screeching behind him.

"It seems, sir, that you have made the acquaintance of Mademoiselle de Charrebourg?" he demanded, in a tone scarcely less discordant than those of his canine attendant.

"Sir, I don't mean to consult you upon the subject."

Robinson Crusoe hitched his gun, as though he was about to "let fly" at the invader of his solitudes.

"I demand your name, sir."

"And _I_ don't mean to give it."

"But give it you shall, sir, by ----."

"It is plain you understand catching rabbits and dressing their skins better than conversing with gentlemen," said the stranger, as with a supercilious smile he turned away.

"Stay, sir," cried the old gentleman, peremptorily, "or I shall slip my dog upon you."

"If you do, I'll shoot him."

"You have insulted me, sir. You wear a _couteau de chasse_--so do I. Destiny condemns the Visconte de Charrebourg to calamity, but not to insult. Draw your sword."

"The Visconte de Charrebourg!" echoed Dubois, in amazement.

"Yes, sir--the Visconte de Charrebourg, who will not pocket an affront because he happens to have lost his revenues."

Who would have thought that any process could possibly have metamorphosed the gay and magnificent courtier, of whose splendid extravagance Dubois had heard so many traditions, into this grotesque old savage.

"There are some houses, and foremost among the number that of Charrebourg," said the young man, with marked deference, raising his hat, "which no loss of revenue can possibly degrade, and which, associated with the early glories of France, gain but a profounder title to our respect, when their annals and descent are consecrated by the nobility of suffering."

Nebuchadnezzar smiled.

"I entreat that Monsieur le Visconte will pardon what has passed under a total ignorance of his presence."

The Visconte bowed, and resumed, gravely but more placidly--

"I must then return to my question, and ask your name."

"I am called Dubois, sir."

"Dubois! hum! I don't recollect, Monsieur Dubois, that I ever had the honor of being acquainted with your family."

"Possibly not, sir."

"However, Monsieur Dubois, you appear to be a gentleman, and I ask you, as the father of the noble young lady who has just left you, whether you have established with her any understanding such as I ought not to approve--in short, any understanding whatsoever?"

"None whatever, on the honor of a gentleman. I introduced myself to Mademoiselle de Charrebourg, but she has desired that our acquaintance shall cease, and _her_ resolution upon the subject is, of course, decisive. On the faith of a gentleman, you have there the entire truth frankly stated."

"Well, Monsieur Dubois, I believe you," said the Visconte, after a steady gaze of a few seconds; "and I have to add a request, which is this--that, unless through me, the acquaintance may never be sought to be renewed. Farewell, sir. Come along, Jonquil!" he added, with an admonition of his foot, addressed to the ugly old brute who had laid himself down. And so, with a mutual obeisance, stiff and profound, Monsieur Dubois and the Visconte de Charrebourg departed upon their several ways.

When the old Visconte entered his castle, he threw the three rabbits on the table before Marguerite, hung his fusil uncleaned upon the wall, released his limping dog, and stalked past Lucille, who was in the passage, with a stony aspect, and in total silence. This, however, was his habit, and he pursued his awful way into his little room of state, where seated upon his high-backed, clumsy throne of deal, with his rabbit-skin tiara on his head, he espied a letter, with a huge seal, addressed to him, lying on his homely table.

"Ha! hum. From M. Le Prun. The ostentation of the Fermier-General! the vulgarity of the bourgeois, even in a letter!"

Alone as he was, the Visconte affected a sneer of tranquil superiority; but his hand trembled as he took the packet and broke the seal. Its contents were evidently satisfactory: the old man elevated his eyebrows as he read, sniffed twice or thrice, and then yielded to a smile of irrepressible self-complacency.

"So it will give him inexpressible pleasure, will it, to consult my wishes. Should he become the purchaser of the Charrebourg estate, he entreats--ay, that is the word--that I will not do him the injustice to suppose him capable of disturbing me in the possession of my present residence." The Visconte measured the distance between the tiled floor and the ceiling, with a bitter glance, and said, "So our bourgeois-gentilhomme will permit the Visconte de Charrebourg--ha, ha--to live in this stinking hovel for the few years that remain to him; but, _par bleu_, that is fortune's doing, not his. I ought not to blame this poor bourgeois--he is only doing what I asked him. He will also allow me whatever '_privileges_' I have hitherto enjoyed--that of killing roach in the old moat and rabbits in the warren; scarce worth the powder and shot I spend on them. _Eh, bien!_ after all what more have I asked for? He is also most desirous to mark, in every way in his power, the profound respect he entertains for the Visconte de Charrebourg. How these fellows grimace and caricature when they attempt to make a compliment! but he can't help that, and he is trying to be civil. And, see, here is a postscript I omitted to read."

He readjusted his spectacles. It was thus conceived:--

"P.S.--I trust the Visconte de Charrebourg will permit me the honor of waiting upon him, to express in person my esteem and respect; and that he will also allow me to present my little niece to Mademoiselle de Charrebourg, as they are pretty nearly of the same age, and likely, moreover, to become neighbors."

"Yes," he said, pursuing a train of self-gratulation, suggested by this postscript; "it was a _coup_ of diplomacy worthy of Richelieu himself, the sending Lucille in person with my letter. The girl has beauty; its magic has drawn all these flowers and figures from the pen of that dry old schemer. Ay, who knows, she may have fortune before her; were the king to see her----"

But here he paused, and, with a slight shake of the head, muttered, "Apage sathanas!"

III.--THE FERMIER-GENERAL.

The Visconte ate his supper in solemn silence, which Lucille dared not interrupt, so that the meal was far from cheerful. Shortly after its conclusion, however, the old man announced in a few brief sentences, as much of the letter he had just received as in any wise concerned her to know.

"See _you_ and Marguerite to the preparations; let everything, at least, be neat. He knows, as all the world does, that I am miserably poor; and we can't make this place look less beggarly than it is; but we must make the best of it. What can one do with a pension of eight hundred francs--bah!"

The latter part of this speech was muttered in bitter abstraction.

"The pension is too small, sir."

He looked at her with something like a sneer.

"It is too small, sir, and ought to be increased."

"Who says so?"

"Marguerite has often said so, sir, and I believe it. If you will petition the king, he will give you something worthy of your rank."

"You are a pair of wiseheads, truly. It cost the exertions of powerful friends, while I still had some, to get that pittance; were I to move in the matter now, it is more like to lead to its curtailment than extension."

"Yes, but the king admires beauty, and I am beautiful," she said, with a blush that was at once the prettiest, the boldest, and yet the purest thing imaginable; "and I will present your petition myself."

Her father looked at her for a moment with a gaze of inquiring wonder, which changed into a faint, abstracted smile; but he rose abruptly from his seat with a sort of shrug, as if it were chill, and, muttering his favorite exorcism, "Apage sathanas!" walked with a flurried step up and down the room. His face was flushed, and there was something in its expression which forbade her hazarding another word.

It was not until nearly half an hour had elapsed that the Visconte suddenly exclaimed, as if not a second had interposed--

"Well, Lucille, it is not _quite_ impossible; but you need not mention it to Marguerite."

He then signed to her to leave him, intending, according to his wont, to find occupation for his solitary hours in the resources of his library. This library was contained in an old chest; consisted of some score of shabby volumes of all sizes, and was, in truth, a queer mixture. It comprised, among other tomes, a Latin Bible and a missal, in intimate proximity with two or three other volumes of that gay kind which even the Visconte de Charrebourg would have blushed and trembled to have seen in the hands of his child. It resembled thus the heterogeneous furniture of his own mind, with an incongruous ingredient of superinduced religion; but, on the whole, unpresentable and unclean. He took up the well-thumbed Vulgate, in which, of late years, he had read a good deal, but somehow, it did not interest him at that moment. He threw it back again, and suffered his fancy to run riot among schemes more exciting and, alas! less guiltless. His daughter's words had touched an evil chord in his heart--she had unwittingly uncaged the devil that lurked within him; and this guardian angel from the pit was playing, in truth, very ugly pranks with his ambitious imagination.

Lucille called old Marguerite to her bedroom, and there made the astonishing disclosure of the promised visit; but the old woman, though herself very fussy in consequence, perceived no corresponding excitement in her young mistress; on the contrary, she was sad and abstracted.

"Do you remember," said Lucille, after a long pause, "the story of the fair demoiselle of Alsace you used to tell me long ago? How true her lover was, and how bravely he fought through all the dangers of witchcraft and war to find her out again and wed her, although he was a noble knight, and she, as he believed, but a peasant's daughter. Marguerite, it is a pretty story. I wonder if gentlemen are as true of heart now?"

"Ay, my dear, why not? love is love always; just the same as it was of old is it now, and will be while the world wags."

And with this comforting assurance their conference ended.

The very next day came the visit of Monsieur Le Prun and his niece. The Fermier-General was old and ugly, there is no denying it; he had a shrewd, penetrating eye, moreover, and in the lines of his mouth were certain unmistakable indications of habitual command. When his face was in repose, indeed, its character was on the whole forbidding. But in repose it seldom was, for he smiled and grimaced with an industry that was amazing.

His niece was a pretty little fair-haired girl of sixteen, with something sad and even _funeste_ in her countenance. The fragile timidity of the little blonde contrasted well with the fire and energy that animated the handsome features of her new acquaintance. Julie St. Pierre, for that was her name, seemed just as unconscious of Lucille's deficient toilet as she was herself, and the two girls became, in the space of an hour's ramble among the brakes and bushes of the park, as intimate as if they had spent all their days together. Monsieur Le Prun, meanwhile, conversed affably with the Visconte, whom he seemed to take a pleasure in treating with a deference which secretly flattered alike his pride and his vanity. He told him, moreover, that the contract for the purchase of the Charrebourg estate was already completed, and pleased himself with projecting certain alterations in the Visconte's humble residence, which would certainly have made it a far more imposing piece of architecture than it ever had been. All his plans, however, were accompanied with so many submissions to the Visconte's superior taste, and so many solicitations of "permission," and so many delicate admissions of an ownership, which both parties knew to be imaginary, that the visitor appeared in the attitude rather of one suing for than conferring a favor. Add to all this that the Fermier-General had the good taste to leave his equipage at the park gate, and trudged on foot beside his little niece, who, in rustic fashion, was mounted on a donkey, to make his visit. No wonder, then, that when the Croesus and his little niece took their departure, they left upon the mind of the old Visconte an impression which (although, for the sake of consistency, he was still obliged to affect his airs of hauteur) was in the highest degree favorable.

The acquaintance thus commenced was not suffered to languish. Scarce a day passed without either a visit or a _billet_, and thus some five or six weeks passed.

Lucille and her new companion became more and more intimate; but there was one secret recorded in the innermost tablet of her heart which she was too proud to disclose even to her gentle friend. For a day--days--a week--a fortnight after her interview with Dubois, she lived in hope that every hour might present his handsome form at the cottage door to declare himself, and, with the Visconte's sanction, press his suit. Every morning broke with hope, every night brought disappointment with its chill and darkness, till hope expired, and feelings of bitterness, wounded pride, and passionate resentment succeeded. What galled her proud heart most was the fear that she had betrayed her fondness to him. To be forsaken was hard enough to bear, but to the desolation of such a loss the sting of humiliation superadded was terrible.

One day the rumble of coach-wheels was heard upon the narrow, broken road which wound by the Visconte's cottage. A magnificent equipage, glittering with gold and gorgeous colors, drawn by four noble horses worthy of Cinderella's state-coach, came rolling and rocking along the track. The heart of Lucille beat fast under her little bodice as she beheld its approach. The powdered servants were of course to open the carriage-door, and Dubois himself, attired in the robes of a prince, was to spring from within and throw himself passionately at her feet. In short, she felt that the denouement of the fairy tale was at hand.

The coach stopped--the door opened, and Monsieur Le Prun descended, and handed his little niece to the ground; Lucille wished him and Dubois both in the galleys.

He was more richly dressed than usual, more ceremonious, and if possible more gracious. He saluted Lucille, and after a word or two of commonplace courtesy, joined the old Visconte, and they shortly entered the old gentleman's chamber of audience together, and there remained for more than an hour. At the end of that time they emerged together, both a little excited as it seemed. The Fermier-General was flushed like a scarlet withered apple, and his black eyes glowed and flashed with an unusual agitation. The Visconte too was also flushed, and he carried his head a little back, with an unwonted air of reserve and importance.

The adieux were made with some little flurry, and the equipage swept away, leaving the spot where its magnificence had just been displayed as bleak and blank as the space on which the pageant of a phantasmagoria has been for a moment reflected.

The old servant of all work was charmed with this souvenir of better days. Monsieur Le Prun had risen immensely in her regard in consequence of the display she had just gloated upon. In the estimation of the devoted Marguerite he was more than a Midas. His very eye seemed to gild everything it fell upon as naturally as the sun radiates his yellow splendor. The blue velvet liveries, the gold-studded harness, the embossed and emblazoned coach, the stately beasts with their tails tied up in great bows of broad blue ribbons, with silver fringe, like an Arcadian beauty's chevelure, the reverential solemnity of the gorgeous lacqueys, the _tout ensemble_ in short, was overpowering and delightful.

"Well, child," said the Visconte, after he and Lucille had stood for a while in silence watching the retiring equipage, taking her hand in his at the same time, and leading her with a stately gravity along the narrow walk which environed the cottage, "Monsieur Le Prun, it must be admitted, has excellent taste; _par bleu_, his team would do honor to the royal stables. What a superb equipage! Happy the woman whom fortune will elect to share the splendor of which all that we have just seen is but as a sparkle from the furnace--fortunate she whom Monsieur Le Prun will make his wife."

He spoke with so much emotion, directed a look of such triumphant significance upon his daughter, and pressed her hand so hard, that on a sudden a stupendous conviction, at once horrible and dazzling, burst upon her.

"Monsieur!--for the love of God do you mean--do you mean----?" she said, and broke off abruptly.

"Yes, my dear Lucille," he returned with elation, "I _do_ mean to tell you that you--_you_ are that fortunate person. It is true that you can bring him no wealth, but he already possesses more of that than he knows how to apply. You can, however, bring him what few other women possess, an ancient lineage, an exquisite beauty, and the simplicity of an education in which the seeds of finesse and dissipation have not been sown, in short, the very attributes and qualifications which he most esteems--which he has long sought, and which in conversation he has found irresistible in you. Monsieur Le Prun has entreated me to lay his proposals at your feet, and you of course convey through me the gratitude with which you accept them."

Lucille was silent and pale; within her a war and chaos of emotions were struggling, like the tumult of the ocean.

"I felicitate you, my child," said the Visconte, kissing her throbbing forehead; "in you the fortunes of your family will be restored--come with me."

She accompanied him into the cottage; she was walking, as it were, in a wonderful dream; but amidst the confusion of her senses, her perplexity and irresolution, there was a dull sense of pain at her heart, there was a shadowy figure constantly before her; its presence agitated and reproached her, but she had little leisure to listen to the pleadings of a returning tenderness, even had they been likely to prevail with her ambitious heart. Her father rapidly sketched such a letter of complimentary acceptance as he conceived suitable to the occasion and the parties.

"Read that," he said, placing it before Lucille. "Well, that I think will answer. What say you, child?"

"Yes, sir," she replied with an effort; "it is true; he does me indeed great honor; and--and I accept him; and now, sir, I would wish to go and be for a while alone."

"Do so," said her father, again kissing her, for he felt a sort of gratitude toward her as the prime cause of all those comforts and luxuries, whose long despaired-of return he now beheld in immediate and certain prospect. Not heeding this unwonted exuberance of tenderness, she hurried to her little bed-room, and sat down upon the side of her bed.

At first she wept passionately, but her girlish volatility soon dried these tears. The magnificent equipage of Monsieur Le Prun swept before her imagination. Her curious and dazzled fancy then took flight in speculations as to the details of all the, as yet, undescribed splendors in reserve. Then she thought of herself married, and mistress of all this great fortune, and her heart beat thick, and she laughed aloud, and clapped her hands in an ecstasy of almost childish exultation.

Next day she received a long visit from Monsieur Le Prun, as her accepted lover. Spite of all his splendor, he had never looked in her eyes half so old, and ugly and sinister, as now. The marriage, which was sometimes so delightfully full of promise to her vanity and ambition, in his presence most perversely lost all its enchantment, and terrified her, like some great but unascertained danger. It was however too late now to recede; and even were she free to do so, it is more than probable that she could not have endured the sacrifice involved in retracting her consent.

The Visconte's little household kept early hours. He himself went to bed almost with the sun; and on the night after this decisive visit--for such Monsieur Le Prun's first appearance and acceptation in the character of an affianced bridegroom undoubtedly was--Lucille was lying awake, the prey of a thousand agitating thoughts, when, on a sudden, rising on the still night air came a little melody--alas! too well known--a gay and tender song, chanted sweetly. Had the voice of Fate called her, she could not have started more suddenly upright in her bed, with eyes straining, and parted lips--one hand pushing back the rich clusters of hair, and collecting the sound at her ear, and the other extended toward the distant songster, and softly marking the time of the air. She listened till the song died away, and covering her face with her hands, she threw herself down upon the pillow, and sobbing desolately, murmured--"too late!--too late!"

IV.--THE STRANGE LADY IN WHITE.

The visits of the happy Fermier-General occurred, of course, daily, and increased in duration. Meanwhile preparations went forward. The Visconte, supplied from some mysterious source, appeared to have an untold amount of cash. He made repeated excursions to the capital, which for twenty years he had not so much as seen; and handsome dresses, ornaments, &c., for Lucille, were accompanied by no less important improvements upon his own wardrobe, as well as various accessions to the comforts of their little dwelling--so numerous, indeed, as speedily to effect an almost complete transformation in its character and pretensions.

Thus the time wore on, in a state of excitement, which, though checkered with many fears, was on the whole pleasurable.

About ten days had passed since the peculiar and delicate relation we have described was established between Lucille and Monsieur Le Prun. Urgent business had called him away to the city, and kept him closely confined there, so that, for the first time since his declaration, his daily visit was omitted upon this occasion. Had the good Fermier-General but known all, he need not have offered so many apologies, nor labored so hard to console his lady-love for his involuntary absence. The truth, then, is, as the reader no doubt suspects, Lucille was charmed at finding herself, even for a day, once more her own absolute mistress.

A gay party from Paris, with orders of admission from the creditors, that day visited the park. In a remote and bosky hollow they had seated themselves upon the turf, and, amid songs and laughter, were enjoying a cold repast. Far away these sounds of mirth were borne on the clear air to Lucille. Alas! when should she laugh as gaily as those ladies, who, with their young companions, were making merry?--when again should music speak as of old with her heart, and bear in its chords no tone of reproach and despair? This gay party broke up into groups, and began merrily to ramble toward the great gate, where, of course, their carriages were awaiting them.

Attracted mournfully by their mirth, Lucille rambled onward as they retreated. It was evening, and the sunbeams slanted pleasantly among the trees and bushes, throwing long, soft shadows over the sward, and converting into gold every little turf, and weed, and knob, that broke the irregular sweep of the ground.

She had reached a part of the park with which she was not so familiar. Here several gentle hollows were converging toward the stream, and trees and wild brushwood in fresh abundance clothed their sides, and spread upward along the plain in rich and shaggy exuberance.

From among them, with a stick in his hand, and running lightly in the direction of her father's cottage, Gabriel suddenly emerged.

On seeing her at the end of the irregular vista, which he had just entered, however, he slackened his pace, and doffing his hat he approached her.

"A message, Gabriel?" she inquired.

"Yes, if Mademoiselle pleases," said he, blushing all over, like the setting sun. "I was running to the Visconte's house to tell Mademoiselle."

"Well, Gabriel, and what is it?"

"Why, Mademoiselle, a strange lady in the glen desires me to tell Mademoiselle de Charrebourg that she wishes to see her."

"But did she say why she desired it, and what she wished to speak to me about?"

"No, Mademoiselle."

"Then tell her that Mademoiselle de Charrebourg, knowing neither her name nor her business, declines obeying her summons," said she, haughtily. Gabriel bowed low, and was about to retire on his errand, when she added--

"It was very dull of you, Gabriel, not to ask her what she wanted of me."

"Madame, without your permission, I dare not," he replied, with a deeper blush, and a tone at once so ardent and so humble, that Lucille could not forbear a smile of the prettiest good nature.

"In truth, Gabriel, you are a dutiful boy. But how did you happen to meet her?"

"I was returning, Mademoiselle, from the other side of the stream, and just when I got into the glen, on turning round the corner of the gray stone, I saw her standing close to me behind the bushes."

"And I suppose you were frightened?" she said, archly.

"No, Mademoiselle, indeed; though she was strangely dressed and very pale, but she spoke to me kindly. She asked me my name, and then she looked in my face very hard, as a fortune-teller does, and she told me many strange things, Mademoiselle, about myself; some of them I knew, and some of them I never heard before."

"I suppose she _is_ a fortune-teller; and how did she come to ask for me?"

"She inquired if the Visconte de Charrebourg still lived on the estate, and then she said, 'Has he not a beautiful daughter called Lucille?' and I, Mademoiselle, made bold to answer, 'O yes, madame, yes, in truth.'"

Poor Gabriel blushed and faltered more than ever at this passage.

"'Tell Mademoiselle,' she said, 'I have something that concerns her nearly to tell her. Let her know that I am waiting here; but I cannot stay long.' And so she beckoned me away impatiently, and I, expecting to find you near the house was running, when Mademoiselle saw me."

"It is very strange; stay, Gabriel, I _will_ go and speak to her, it is only a step."

The fact was that Lucille's curiosity (as might have been the case with a great many of her sex in a similar situation) was too strong for her, and her pride was forced to bend to its importunity.

"Go you before," she said to Gabriel, who long remembered that evening walk in attendance upon Lucille, as a scene so enchanting and delightful as to be rather a mythic episode than an incident in his life; "and Gabriel," she added, as they entered the cold shadow of the thick evergreens, and felt she knew not why, a superstitious dread creep over her, "do you wait within call, but so as not to overhear our conversation; you understand me."

They had now emerged from the dark cover into the glen, and looking downward toward the little stream, at a short distance from them, the figure of the mysterious lady was plainly discernible. She was sitting with her back toward them upon a fragment of rock, under the bough of an old gnarled oak. Her dress was a sort of loose white robe, it might be of flannel, such as invalids in hospitals wear, and a red cloak had slipped from her shoulders, and covered the ground at her feet. Thus, solitary and mysterious, she suggested the image of a priestess cowering over the blood of a victim in search of omens.

Lucille approached her with some trepidation, and to avoid coming upon her wholly by surprise she made a little detour, and thus had an opportunity of seeing the features of the stranger, as well as of permitting her to become aware of her approach.

Her appearance, upon a nearer approach, was not such as to reassure Lucille. She was tall, deadly pale, and marked with the smallpox. She had particularly black eyebrows, and awaited the young lady's approach with that ominous smile which ascends no higher than the lips, and leaves the eyes and forehead dark, threatening, and uncertain. Altogether, there was a character, it might be of insanity, it might be of guilt, in the face, which was formidable.

Lucille wished herself at home, but there was that in the blood of the Charrebourgs which never turned away from danger, real or imaginary, when once confronted.

"So you are Lucille de Charrebourg?" said the figure, looking at her with that expression of malice, which is all the more fearful that it appears causeless.

"Yea, Madame, that is my name; will you be so good as to tell me, beside, the name of the lady who has been kind enough to desire an interview with me?"

"For a name; my dear, suit yourself; call me Sycorax, Jezebel, or what you please, and I will answer to it."

"But what are you?"

"There again I give you a _carte blanche_; say I am a benevolent fairy; you don't seem to like that? or your guardian-angel? nor that neither! Well, a witch if you please, or a ghost, or a fortune-teller--ay, that will do, a fortune-teller--so that is settled."

"Well, Madame, if I may not know either your name or occupation, will you be good enough at least to let me hear your business."

"Surely, my charming demoiselle; you should have heard it immediately had you not pestered me with so many childish questions. Well, then, about this Monsieur Le Prun?"

"Well, Madame?" said Lucille, not a little surprised.

"Well, my dear, I'm not going to tell you whether this Monsieur Le Prun is an angel, for angels they say _have_ married women; or whether he is a Bluebeard--you have heard the story of Bluebeard, my little dear--but this I say, be he which he may, _you_ must not marry him."

"And pray, who constrains my will?" exclaimed the girl, scornfully, but at the same time inwardly frightened.

"_I_ do, my pretty pigeon; if you marry him, you do so forewarned, and if he don't punish you _I_ will."

"How dare you speak in that tone to me?" said Lucille, to whose cheek the insolent threat of the stranger called a momentary flush of red; "_you_ punish me, indeed, if _he_ does not! I'll not permit you to address me so; besides I have help close by, if I please to call for it."

All this time the woman was laughing inwardly, and fumbling under her white robe, as if in search of something.

"I say he may be an angel, or he may be a bluebeard, I don't pretend to say which," she continued, with a perfectly genuine contempt of Lucille's vaunting, "but I have here an amulet that never fails in cases like this; it will detect and expel the devil better than blessed water, _vera crux_, or body of our Lord, for these things have sometimes failed, but this can never. With the aid of this you cannot be deceived. If he be a good man its influence will be ineffectual against him; but if, on the other hand, he be possessed of evil spirits, then test him with it, and you will behold him for a moment as he is."

"Let me see it, then."

"Here it is."

She drew from under the white folds of her dress a small spiral bottle, enameled with some Chinese characters, and set in a base and capital of chased gold, with four little spiral pillars at the corners connecting the top and bottom, and leaving the porcelain visible between. It had, moreover, a stopper that closed with a spring, and altogether did not exceed two inches in length, and in thickness was about the size of a swan's quill. It looked like nothing earthly, but what she had described it. For a scent-bottle, indeed, it might possibly have been used; but there was something odd and knowing about this little curiosity, something mysterious, and which seemed as though it had a tale to tell. In short, Lucille looked on it with all the interest, and if the truth must be spoken, a good deal of the awe, which its pretensions demanded.

"And what am I to do with this little bauble?" she asked, after she had examined it for some moments curiously.

"When you want to make trial of its efficacy, take it forth, look steadily in his face, and say, 'I expect to receive the counterpart of this,' that is all. If he be a good man, as who can say, the talisman will leave him as it finds him. But if he be, as some men are, the slave of Satan, you will see, were it but for a second, the sufferings and passions of hell in his face. Fear not to make trial of it, for no harm can ensue; you will but know the character you have to deal with."

"But this is a valuable bauble, its price must be considerable, and I have no money."

"Well, suppose I make it a present to you."

"I should like to have it--but--but----."

"But I am too poor to part with it on such terms, and you too proud to take it--is that your meaning? Never mind, I can afford to give it, and, proud as you are, you can afford to take it. Hide it until the time to try him comes, and then speak as I told you."

"Well, I will accept it," said Lucille, coldly, but her voice trembled and her face was pale; "and this I know, if there be any virtue of any sort in the toy, it can only prove Monsieur Le Prun's goodness. Yes, he is a very kind man, and all the world, I am told, speaks of his excellence."

"Very probably," said the stranger, "but mark my words, don't marry him; if you do, you shall see me again."

"Halloa, devil! are you deaf?" thundered a sneering voice from a crag at the opposite side. "Come, come, it's time we were moving."

The summons came from a broad, short, swarthy fellow, with black mustaches and beard, arrayed in a suit of dusky red. He had one hand raised high above his head beckoning to her, and with the other he furiously shook the spreading branch of a tree beside him; the prominent whites of his eyes, and his grinning teeth, were, even at that distance, seen conspicuous; and so shaggy, furious, and unearthly did he seem, that he might well have represented some wild huntsman or demon of the wood. It seemed, indeed, as though a sort of witches' dance were to be held that night in the old park of Charrebourg, and that some of the preternatural company had reached the trysting-place before their time.

The ill-omened woman in white hastily gathered up her mantle, without any gesture or word of farewell. With hurried strides her tall figure glided off toward the apparition in red, and both speedily disappeared among the hazy cover at the other side.

The little hollow was now deserted, except for Lucille. It was not till they had quite vanished, and that she was left there alone, that she felt something akin to terror steal over her, and hurried from the scene of her strange interview as from a haunted spot. A little way up the rising bank Gabriel was awaiting her return, sorely disappointed that fortune had in no wise made her debtor to his valor.

Long before she reached home the sun had gone down, and the long dusky shadows had given place to the thin, cold haze of approaching night. Often as she glided onward among rocks and bushes she felt an instinctive impulse, something between terror and aversion, prompting her to hurl the little spiral vial far from her among the wild weeds and misty brakes, where, till doomsday, it might never be found again. But other feelings, stranger in their kind, determined her at least to defer the sacrifice, and so she reached her chamber with the mysterious gift fast in her tiny grasp.

Here she again examined it, more minutely than before; it contained neither fluid nor powder of any sort, and was free from any perfume or odor whatsoever; and excepting that the more closely she inspected it, the more she discovered in its workmanship to excite her admiration, her careful and curious investigation was without result. As she carefully folded up the curious souvenir, and secreted it in the safest corner of the safest drawer, she thought over the interview again and again, and always with the same result as respected the female who had bestowed it, namely, that if not actually a lady, she had at least the education and the manners of a person above the working classes.

That night Lucille was haunted with ugly dreams. Voices were speaking to her in threats and blasphemies from the little vial. The mysterious lady in white would sit huddled up at the foot of her bed, and the more she smiled the more terrible became her scowl, until at last her countenance began to dilate, and she slowly advanced her face closer and closer, until, just as her smiling lips reached Lucille, she uttered a yell, whether of imprecation or terror she could not hear, but which scared her from her sleep like a peal of thunder. Then a great coffin was standing against the wall with Monsieur Le Prun in it dead and shrouded, and a troop of choristers began singing a requiem, when on a sudden the furious voice she had heard that evening screamed aloud, "To what purpose all this hymning, seeing the corpse is possessed by evil spirits;" and then such looks of rage and hatred flitted over the livid face in the coffin, as nothing but hell could have inspired. Then again she would see Monsieur Le Prun struggling, his face all bloody and distorted, with the man in red and the strange lady of the talisman, who screamed, laughing with a detestable glee, "Come bride, come, the bridegroom waits." Such horrid dreams as these haunted her all night, so much so that one might almost have fancied that an evil influence had entered her chamber with the little vial. But the songs of gay birds pruning their wings, and the rustle of the green leaves glittering in the early sun round her window, quickly dispelled the horrors which had possessed her little room in the hours of silence and darkness. It was, notwithstanding, with a sense of fear and dislike that she opened the drawer where the little vial lay, and unrolling all the paper envelopes in which it was carefully folded, beheld it once more in the clear light of day.

"Nothing, nothing, but a grotesque little scent-bottle--why should I be afraid of it?--a poor little pretty toy."

So she said, as she folded it up again, and deposited it once more where it had lain all night. But for all that she felt a mysterious sense of relief when she ran lightly from her chamber into the open air, conscious that the harmless little toy was no longer present.

V.--THE CHATEAU DES ANGES.

The next day Monsieur Le Prun returned. His vanity ascribed the manifest agitation of Lucille's manner to feelings very unlike the distrust, alarm, and aversion which, since her last night's adventure, had filled her mind. He came, however, armed with votive evidences of his passion, alike more substantial and more welcome than the gallant speeches in which he dealt. He brought her, among other jewels, a suit of brilliants which must have cost alone some fifteen or twenty thousand francs. He seemed to take a delight in overpowering her with the costly exuberance of his presents. Was there in this a latent distrust of his own personal resources, and an anxiety to astound and enslave by means of his magnificence--to overwhelm his proud but dowerless bride with the almost fabulous profusion and splendor of his wealth? Perhaps there was, and the very magnificence which dazzled her was prompted more by meanness than generosity.

This time he came accompanied by a gentleman, the Sieur de Blassemare, who appeared pretty much what he actually was--a sort of general agent, adviser, companion, and hanger-on of the rich Fermier-General.

The Sieur de Blassemare had his _titres de noblesse_, and started in life with a fair fortune. This, however, he had seriously damaged by play, and was now obliged to have recourse to that species of dexterity, to support his luxuries, which, employed by others, had been the main agent in his own ruin. The millionaire and the parvenu found him invaluable. He was always gay, always in good humor; a man of birth and breeding, well accepted, in spite of his suspected rogueries, in the world of fashion--an adept in all its ways, as well as in the mysteries of human nature; active, inquisitive, profligate; the very man to pick up intelligence when it was needed--to execute a delicate commission, or to advise and assist in any project of taste. In addition to all these gifts and perfections, his fund of good spirits and scandalous anecdote was inexhaustible, and so Monsieur Le Prun conceived him very cheaply retained at the expense of allowing him to cheat him quietly of a few score of crowns at an occasional game of picquet.

This fashionable sharper and voluptuary was now somewhere about five-and-forty; but with the assistance of his dress, which was exquisite, and the mysteries of his toilet, which was artistic in a high degree, and above all, his gayety, which never failed him, he might easily have passed for at least six years younger.

It was the wish of the benevolent Monsieur Le Prun to set the Viscount quite straight in money matters; and as there still remained, like the electric residuum in a Leyden vial after the main shock has been discharged, some few little affairs not quite dissipated in the explosion of his fortunes, and which, before his reappearance even in the background of society, must be arranged, he employed his agile aid-de-camp, the Sieur de Blassemare, to fish out these claims and settle them.

It was not to be imagined that a young girl, perfectly conscious of her beauty, with a great deal of vanity and an immensity of ambition, could fail to be delighted at the magnificent presents with which her rich old lover had that day loaded her.

She spread them upon the counterpane of her bed, and when she was tired of admiring them, she covered herself with her treasures, hung the flashing necklace about her neck, and clasped her little wrists in the massive bracelets, stuck a pin here and a brooch there, and covered her fingers with sparkling jewels; and though she had no looking-glass larger than a playing-card in which to reflect her splendor, she yet could judge in her own mind very satisfactorily of the effect. Then, after she had floated about her room, and courtesied, and waved her hands to her heart's content, she again strewed the bed with these delightful, intoxicating jewels, which flashed actual fascination upon her gaze.

At that moment her gratitude effervesced, and she almost felt that, provided she were never to behold his face again, she could--_not love_, but _like_ Monsieur Le Prun very well; she half relented, she almost forgave him; she would have received with good-will, with thanks, and praises, anything and everything he pleased to give her, except his company.

Meanwhile the old Visconte, somewhat civilized and modernized by recent restorations, was walking slowly to and fro in the little bowling-green, side by side with Blassemare.

"Yes," he said, "with confidence I give my child into his hands. It is a great trust, Blassemare; but he is gifted with those qualities, which, more than wealth, conduce to married happiness. I confide in him a great trust, but I feel I risk no sacrifice."

A comic smile, which he could not suppress, illuminated the dark features of Blassemare, and he looked away as if studying the landscape until it subsided.

"He is the most disinterested and generous of men," resumed the old gentleman.

"_Ma foi_, so he is," rejoined his companion; "but Mademoiselle de Charrebourg happened to be precisely the person he needed; birth, beauty, simplicity--a rare alliance. You underrate the merits of Mademoiselle de Charrebourg. He makes no such presents to the Sisters of Charity."

"Pardon me, sir, I know her merits well; she is indeed a dutiful and dear child."

And the Visconte's eyes filled with moisture, for his heart was softened by her prosperity, involving, as it did, his own.

"And will make one of the handsomest as she will, no doubt, one of the most loving wives in France," said Blassemare, gravely.

"And he will make, or I am no prophet, an admirable husband," resumed the Visconte; "he has so much good feeling and so much----"

"So much money," suggested Blassemare, who was charmed at the Visconte's little hypocrisy; "ay, by my faith, that he has; and as to that little bit of scandal, those mysterious reports, you know," he added, with a malicious simplicity.

"Yes, I know," said the Visconte, shortly.

"All sheer fiction, my dear Visconte," continued Blassemare, with a shrug and a smile of disclaimer.

"Of course, of course," said the Visconte, peremptorily.

"It was talked about, you know," persisted his malicious companion, "about twenty years ago, but it is quite discredited now--scouted. You can't think how excellently our good friend the Fermier-General is established in society. But I need not tell you, for of course you satisfied yourself; the alliance on which I felicitate Le Prun proves it."

The Visconte made a sort of wincing smile and a bow. He saw that Blassemare was making a little scene out of his insincerities for his own private entertainment. But there is a sort of conventional hypocrisy which had become habitual to them both. It was like a pair of blacklegs cheating one another for practice with their eyes open. So Blassemare presented his snuff-box, and the Visconte, with equal _bonhomie_, took a pinch, and the game was kept up pleasantly between them.

Meanwhile Lucille, in her chamber, the window of which opened upon the bowling-green, caught a word or two of the conversation we have just sketched. What she heard was just sufficient to awaken the undefined but anxious train of ideas which had become connected with the image of Monsieur Le Prun. Something seemed all at once to sadden and quench the fire that blazed in her diamonds; they were disenchanted; her heart no longer danced in their light. With a heavy sigh she turned to the drawer where the charmed vial lay; she took it out; she weighed it in her hand.

"After all," she said, "it _is_ but a toy. Why should it trouble me? What harm _can_ be in it?"

She placed it among the golden store that lay spread upon her coverlet. But it would not assimilate with those ornaments; on the contrary, it looked only more quaint and queer, like a suspicious stranger among them. She hurriedly took it away, more dissatisfied, somehow, than ever. She inwardly felt that there was danger in it, but what could it be? what its purpose, significance, or power? Conjecture failed her. There it lay, harmless and pretty for the present, but pregnant with unknown mischief, like a painted egg, stolen from a serpent's nest, which time and temperature are sure to hatch at last.

The strangest circumstance about it was, that she could not make up her mind to part with or destroy it. It exercised over her the fascination of a guilty companionship. She hated but could not give it up. And yet, after all, what a trifle to fret the spirits even of a girl!

It is wonderful how rapidly impressions of pain or fear, if they be not renewed, lose their influence upon the conduct and even upon the spirits. The scene in the glen, the image of the unprepossessing and mysterious pythoness, and the substance and manner of the sinister warning she communicated, were indeed fixed in her memory ineffaceably. But every day that saw her marriage approach in security and peace, and her preparations proceed without molestation, served to dissipate her fears and to obliterate the force of that hated scene.

It was, therefore, only now and then that the odd and menacing occurrence recurred to her memory with a depressing and startling effect. At such moments, it might be of weakness, the boding words, "Don't marry him; if you do you shall see me again," smote upon her heart like the voice of a specter, and she felt that chill, succeeded by vague and gloomy anxiety, which superstition ascribes to the passing presence of a spirit from the grave.

"I don't think you are happy, dear Lucille, or may be you are offended with me," said Julie St. Pierre, turning her soft blue eyes full upon her handsome companion, and taking her hand timidly between her own.

They were sitting together on a wild bank, shaded by a screen of brushwood, in the park. Lucille had been silent, abstracted, and, as it seemed, almost sullen during their walk, and poor little timid Julie, who cherished for her girlish friend that sort of devotion with which gentler and perhaps better natures are so often inspired by firmer wills, and more fiery tempers, was grieved and perplexed.

"Tell me, Lucille, are you angry with me?"

"_I_ angry! no, indeed; and angry with you, my dear, _dear_ little friend! I could not be, dear Julie, even were I to try."

And so they kissed heartily again and again.

"Then," said Julie, sitting down by her, and taking her hand more firmly in hers, and looking with such a loving interest as nothing could resist in her face, "you are unhappy. Why don't you tell me what it is that grieves you? I dare say I could give you very wise counsel, and, at all events, console you. At the convent the pensioners used all to come to me when they were in trouble, and, I assure you, I always gave them good advice."

"But I am not unhappy."

"Really?"

"No, indeed."

"Well, shall I tell you? I thought you were unhappy because you are going to be married to my uncle."

"Folly, folly, my dear little prude. Your uncle is a very good man, and a very grand match. I ought to be delighted at a prospect so brilliant."

Even while Lucille spoke, she felt a powerful impulse to tell her little companion _all_--her fondness for Dubois, her aversion for Monsieur Le Prun, the scene with the strange woman, and her own forebodings; but such a confession would have been difficult to reconcile with her fixed resolution to let the affair take its course, and at all hazards marry the man whom, it was vain to disguise it from herself, she disliked, distrusted, and feared.

"I was going to give you comfort by my own story. I never told you before that _I_, too, am affianced."

"Affianced! and to whom?"

"To the Marquis de Secqville."

"Hey! Why that is the very gentleman of whom Monsieur de Blassemare told us such wicked stories the other day."

"Did he?" she said, with a sigh. "Well, I often feared he was a prodigal; but heaven, I trust, will reclaim him."

"But you do not love him?"

"No. I never saw him but once."

"And are you happy?"

"Yes, quite happy now; but, dear Lucille, I was very miserable once. You must know that shortly after we were betrothed, when I was placed in the convent at Rouen, there was a nice girl there, of whom I soon grew very fond. Her brother, Henri, used to come almost every day to see her. He was about three years older than I, and so brave and beautiful. I did not know that I loved him until his sister went away, and his visits, of course, ceased; and when I could not see him any more, I thought my heart would break."

"Poor little Julie!"

"I was afraid of being observed when I wept, but I used to cry to myself all night long, and wish to die, as my mother used to fear long ago I would do before I came to be as old as I am now; and I could not even hear of him, for my friend, his sister, had married, and was living near Caen, and so we were quite separated."

"You were, _indeed_, very miserable, my poor little friend."

"Yes; but at last, after a whole year, she was passing through Rouen, and so she came to the convent to see me. Oh, when I saw her my heart fluttered so that I thought I should have choked. I don't know why it was, but I was afraid to ask for him; but at last, finding she would not speak of him at all, which I thought was ill-natured, though indeed it was not, I _did_ succeed, and asked her how he was; then all at once she began to cry, for he was dead; and knowing _that_, I forgot everything--I lost sight of everything--they said I fainted. And when I awoke again there was a good many of the sisters and some of the pensioners round me, and my friend still weeping; and the superioress was there, too, but I did not heed them, but only said I would not believe he was dead. Then I was very ill for more than a month, and my uncle came to see me; but I don't think he knew what had made me so; and as soon as I grew better the superioress was very angry with me, and told me it was very wicked, which it may have been, but indeed I could not help it; and she gave me in charge to sister Eugenie to bring me to a sense of my sinfulness, seeing that I ought not to have loved any one but him to whom I was betrothed."

"Alas! poor Julie, I suppose she was a harsh preceptress also."

"No, indeed; on the contrary, she was very kind and gentle. She was so young--only twenty-three--dear sister Eugenie!--and so pretty, though she was very pale, and oh, so thin; and when we were both alone in her room she used to let me tell her all my story, and she used to draw her hand over her pretty face, and cry so bitterly in return, and kiss me, and shake me by the hands, that I often thought she must once have loved some one also herself, and was weeping because she could never see him again; so I grew to love her very much; but I did not know all that time that sister Eugenie was dying. The day I took leave of her she seemed as if she was going to tell me something about herself, and I think now if I had pressed her she would. I am very sorry I did not, for it would have been pleasant to me as long as I live to have given the dear sister any comfort, and shown how truly I loved her. But it was not so, and only four months after we parted she died; but I hope we may meet, where I am sure she is gone, in heaven, and then she will know how much I loved her, and how good, and gentle, and kind, I always thought her."

Poor little Julie shed tears at these words.

"Now I do not love the Marquis," she continued, "nor I am sure does he love me. It will be but a match of convenience. I suppose he will continue to follow his amusements and I will live quietly at home; so after all it will make but little change to me, and I will still be as I am now, the widow of poor Henri."

"You are so tranquil, dear Julie, because he is dead. Happy is it for you that he is in his grave. Come, let us return."

They began to walk toward the cottage.

"And how would you spend your days, Julie, had you the choice of your own way of life?"

"I would take the vail. I would like to be a nun, and to die early, like sister Eugenie."

Lucille looked at her with undisguised astonishment.

"Take the vail!" she exclaimed, "so young, so pretty. _Parbleu_, I would rather work in the fields or beg my bread on the high-roads. Take the vail--no, no, no. Marguerite told me I had a great-aunt who took the vail, and three years after died mad in a convent in Paris. Ah, it is a sad life, Julie, it is a sad life!"

It was the wish of the Fermier-General that his nuptials should be celebrated with as much privacy as possible. The reader, therefore, will lose nothing by our dismissing the ceremony as rapidly as may be. Let it suffice to say, that it _did_ take place, and to describe the arrangements with which it was immediately succeeded.

Though Monsieur Le Prun had become the purchaser of the Charrebourg estate, he did not choose to live upon it. About eight leagues from Paris he possessed a residence better suited to his tastes and plans. It was said to have once belonged to a scion of royalty, who had contrived it with a view to realizing upon earth a sort of Mahomedan paradise. Nothing indeed could have been better devised for luxury as well as seclusion. From some Romish legend attaching to its site, it had acquired the name of the Chateau des Anges, a title which unhappily did not harmonize with the traditions more directly connected with the building itself.

It was a very spacious structure, some of its apartments were even magnificent, and the entire fabric bore overpowering evidences, alike in its costly materials and finish, and in the details of its design, of the prodigal and voluptuous magnificence to which it owed its existence.

It was environed by lordly forests, circle within circle, which were pierced by long straight walks diverging from common centers, and almost losing themselves in the shadowy distance. Studded, too, with a series of interminable fishponds, encompassed by hedges of beech, yew, and evergreens of enormous height and impenetrable density, under whose emerald shadows water-fowl of all sorts, from the princely swan down to the humble water-hen, were sailing and gliding this way and that, like rival argosies upon the seas.

The view of the chateau itself, when at last, through those dense and extensive cinctures of sylvan scenery, you had penetrated to its site, was, from almost every point, picturesque and even beautiful.

Successive terraces of almost regal extent, from above whose marble balustrades and rows of urns the tufted green of rare and rich plants, in a long, gorgeous wreath of foliage, was peeping, ran, tier above tier, conducting the eye, among statues and graceful shrubs, to the gables and chimneys of the quaint but vast chateau itself. The forecourt upon which the great avenue debouched was large enough for the stately muster of a royal levee; and at intervals, upon the balustrade which surrounded it, were planted a long file of stone statues, each originally holding a lamp, which, however, the altered habits of the place had long since dismounted.

If the place had been specially contrived, as it was said to have been, for privacy, it could not have been better planned. It was literally buried in an umbrageous labyrinth of tufted forest. Even the great avenue commanded no view of the chateau, but abutted upon a fountain, backed by a towering screen of foliage, where the approach divided, and led by a double road to the court we have described. In fact, except from the domain itself, the very chimneys of the chateau were invisible for a circuit of miles around, the nearest point from which a glance of its roof could be caught being the heights situated a full league away.

If the truth must be told, then, Monsieur Le Prun was conscious of some disparity in point of years between himself and his beautiful wife; and although he affected the most joyous confidence upon the subject, he was nevertheless as ill at ease as most old fellows under similar circumstances. It soon became, therefore, perfectly plain, that the palace to which the wealthy bridegroom had transported his beautiful wife was, in truth, but one of those enchanted castles in which enamored genii in fairy legends are described as guarding their captive princesses--a gorgeous and luxurious prison, to which there was no access, from which no escape, and where amidst all the treasures and delights of a sensuous paradise, the captive beauty languished and saddened.

END OF PART I.

[From the Examiner.]

TO CHARLES DICKENS.

BY WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR.

Call we for harp or song? Accordant numbers, measured out, belong Alone, we hear, to bard. Let him this badge, for ages worn, discard; Richer and nobler now Than when the close-trimm'd laurel mark'd his brow, And from one fount his thirst Was slaked, and from none other proudly burst Neighing, the winged steed. Gloriously fresh were those young days indeed! Clear, if confined, the view: The feet of giants swept that early dew; More graceful came behind, And golden tresses waved upon the wind.

Pity and Love were seen In earnest converse on the humble green; Grief too was there, but Grief Sat down with them, nor struggled from relief. Strong Pity was, strong he, But little love was bravest of the three. At what the sad one said Often he smiled, though Pity shook her head. Descending from their clouds, The Muses mingled with admiring crowds: Each had her ear inclined, Each caught and spoke the language of mankind From choral thraldom free... Dickens! didst thou teach _them_, or they teach _thee_?

_September, 1850._

[From "Light and Darkness," by Catharine Crowe, Author of "The Night Side of Nature," &c. &c.]

THE TWO MISS SMITHS.

In a certain town in the West of England, which shall be nameless, there dwelt two maiden ladies of the name of Smith; each possessing a small independence, each residing, with a single maid-servant, in a small house, the drawing-room floor of which was let, whenever lodgers could be found; each hovering somewhere about the age of fifty, and each hating the other with a restless and implacable enmity. The origin of this aversion was the similarity of their names; each was Miss C. Smith, the one being called Cecilia, the other Charlotte--a circumstance which gave rise to such innumerable mistakes and misunderstandings, as were sufficient to maintain these ladies in a constant state of irritability and warfare. Letters, messages, invitations, parcels, bills, were daily missent, and opened by the wrong person; thus exposing the private affairs of one to the other; and as their aversion had long ago extinguished everything like delicacy on either side, any information so acquired was used without scruple to their mutual annoyance. Presents, too, of fruit, vegetables, or other delicacies from the neighboring gentry, not unfrequently found their way to the wrong house; and if unaccompanied by a letter, which took away all excuse for mistake, they were appropriated without remorse, even when the appropriating party felt confident in her heart that the article was not intended for her; and this not from greediness or rapacity, but from the absolute delight they took in vexing each other.

It must be admitted, also, that this well-known enmity was occasionally played upon by the frolic-loving part of the community, both high and low; so that over and above the genuine mistakes, which were of themselves quite enough to keep the poor ladies in hot water, every now and then some little hoax was got up and practiced upon them, such as fictitious love-letters, anonymous communications, and so forth. It might have been imagined, as they were not answerable for their names, and as they were mutual sufferers by the similarity--one having as much right to complain of this freak of fortune as the other, that they might have entered into a compact of forbearance, which would have been equally advantageous to either party; but their naturally acrimonious dispositions prevented this, and each continued as angry with the other as she could have been if she had a sole and indefeasible right to the appellation of _C. Smith_, and her rival had usurped it in a pure spirit of annoyance and opposition. To be quite just, however, we must observe that Miss Cecilia was much the worse of the two; by judicious management Miss Charlotte might have been tamed, but the malice of Miss Cecilia was altogether inexorable.

By the passing of the Reform Bill, the little town wherein dwelt these belligerent powers received a very considerable accession of importance; it was elevated into a borough, and had a whole live member to itself, which, with infinite pride and gratification, it sent to parliament, after having extracted from him all manner of pledges, and loaded him with all manner of instructions as to how he should conduct himself under every conceivable circumstance; not to mention a variety of bills for the improvement of the roads and markets, the erection of a town-hall, and the reform of the systems of watching, paving, lighting, &c., the important and consequential little town of B----.

A short time previous to the first election--an event which was anticipated by the inhabitants with the most vivid interest--one of the candidates, a country gentleman who resided some twenty miles off, took a lodging in the town, and came there with his wife and family, in order, by a little courtesy and a few entertainments, to win the hearts of the electors and their friends; and his first move was to send out invitations for a tea and card party, which, in due time, when the preparations were completed, was to be followed by a ball. There was but one milliner and dressmaker of any consideration in the town of B----, and it may be imagined that on so splendid an occasion her services were in great request--so much so, that in the matter of head-dresses, she not only found that it would be impossible, in so short a period, to fulfill the commands of her customers, but also that she had neither the material nor the skill to give them satisfaction. It was, therefore, settled that she should send off an order to a house in Exeter, which was the county town, for a cargo of caps, toquets, turbans, &c., fit for all ages and faces--"such as were not disposed of to be returned;" and the ladies consented to wait, with the best patience they could, for this interesting consignment, which was to arrive, without fail, on the Wednesday, Thursday being the day fixed for the party. But the last coach arrived on Wednesday night without the expected boxes; however, the coachman brought a message for Miss Gibbs, the milliner, assuring her that they would be there the next morning without fail.

Accordingly, when the first Exeter coach rattled through the little street of B----, which was about half-past eleven, every head that was interested in the freight was to be seen looking anxiously out for the deal boxes; and, sure enough, there they were--three of them--large enough to contain caps for the whole town. Then there was a rush up stairs for their bonnets and shawls; and in a few minutes troops of ladies, young and old, were seen hurrying toward the market-place, where dwelt Miss Gibbs--the young in pursuit of artificial flowers, gold bands, and such like adornments--the elderly in search of a more mature order of decoration.

Amongst the candidates for finery, nobody was more eager than the two Miss Smiths; and they had reason to be so, not only because they had neither of them anything at all fit to be worn at Mrs. Hanaway's party, which was in a style much above the entertainments they were usually invited to, but also because they both invariably wore turbans, and each was afraid that the other might carry off the identical turban that might be most desirable for herself. Urged by this feeling, so alert were they, that they were each standing at their several windows when the coach passed, with their bonnets and cloaks actually on--ready to start for the plate!--determined to reach Miss Gibbs's in time to witness the opening of the boxes. But "who shall control his fate?" Just as Miss Cecilia was stepping off her threshold, she was accosted by a very gentlemanly looking person, who, taking off his hat, with an air really irresistible, begged to know if he had "the honor of seeing Miss Smith"--a question which was of course answered in the affirmative.

"I was not quite sure," said he, "whether I was right, for I had forgotten the number; but I thought it was sixty," and he looked at the figures on the door.

"This _is_ sixty, sir," said Miss Cecilia; adding to herself, "I wonder if it was sixteen he was sent to?" for at number sixteen lived Miss Charlotte.

"I was informed, madam," pursued the gentleman, "that I could be accommodated with apartments here--that you had a first floor to let."

"That is quite true, sir," replied Miss Cecilia, delighted to let her rooms, which had been some time vacant, and doubly gratified when the stranger added, "I come from Bath, and was recommended by a friend of yours, indeed probably a relation, as she bears the same name--Miss Joanna Smith."

"I know Miss Joanna very well, sir," replied Miss Cecilia; "pray, walk up stairs, and I'll show you the apartments directly. (For," thought she, "I must not let him go out of the house till he has taken them, for fear he should find out his mistake.) Very nice rooms, sir, you see--everything clean and comfortable--a pretty view of the canal in front--just between the baker's and the shoemaker's; you'll get a peep, sir, if you step to this window. Then it's uncommonly lively; the Exeter and Plymouth coaches, up and down, rattling through all day long, and indeed all night too, for the matter of that. A beautiful little bedroom, back, too, sir--Yes, as you observe, it certainly does look over a brick-kiln; but there's no dust--not the least in the world--for I never allow the windows to be opened: altogether, there can't be a pleasanter situation than it is."

The stranger, it must be owned, seemed less sensible of all these advantages than he ought to have been; however he engaged the apartments: it was but for a short time, as he had come there about some business connected with the election; and as Miss Joanna had so particularly recommended him to the lodging, he did not like to disoblige her. So the bargain was struck: the maid received orders to provision the garrison with bread, butter, tea, sugar, &c., whilst the gentleman returned to the inn to dispatch Boots with his portmanteau and carpet-bag.

"You were only just in time, sir," observed Miss Cecilia, as they descended the stairs, "for I expected a gentleman to call at twelve o'clock to-day, who, I am sure, would have taken the lodgings."

"I should be sorry to stand in the way," responded the stranger, who would not have been at all sorry for an opportunity of backing out of the bargain. "Perhaps you had better let him have them--I can easily get accommodated elsewhere."

"Oh dear, no, sir; dear me! I wouldn't do such a thing for the world!" exclaimed Miss Cecilia, who had only thrown out this little inuendo by way of binding her lodger to his bargain, lest, on discovering his mistake, he should think himself at liberty to annul the agreement. For well she knew that it _was_ a mistake: Miss Joanna of Bath was Miss Charlotte's first cousin, and, hating Miss Cecilia, as she was in duty bound to do, would rather have sent her a dose of arsenic than a lodger, any day. She had used every precaution to avoid the accident that had happened, by writing on a card, "Miss Charlotte Smith, No. 16, High street, B----, _opposite the linendrapers shop_," but the thoughtless traveler, never dreaming of the danger in which he stood, lost the card, and, trusting to his memory, fell into the snare.

Miss Cecilia had been so engrossed by her anxiety to hook this fish before her rival could have a chance of throwing out a bait for him, that, for a time, she actually forgot Miss Gibbs and the turban; but now that point was gained, and she felt sure of her man, her former care revived with all its force, and she hurried along the street toward the market-place, in a fever of apprehension lest she should be too late. The matter certainly looked ill; for, as she arrived breathless at the door, she saw groups of self-satisfied faces issuing from it, and, amongst the rest, the obnoxious Miss Charlotte's physiognomy appeared, looking more pleased than anybody.

"Odious creature!" thought Miss Cecilia; "as if she supposed that any turban in the world could make her look tolerable!" But Miss Charlotte did suppose it; and moreover she had just secured the very identical turban that of all the turbans that ever were made was most likely to accomplish this desideratum--at least so she opined.

Poor Miss Cecilia! Up stairs she rushed, bouncing into Miss Gibbs's little room, now strewed with finery. "Well, Miss Gibbs, I hope you have something that will suit me?"

"Dear me, mem," responded Miss Gibbs, "what a pity you did not come a little sooner. The only two turbans we had are just gone--Mrs. Gosling took one, and Miss Charlotte Smith the other--two of the beautifulest--here they are, indeed--you shall see them;" and she opened the boxes in which they were deposited, and presented them to the grieved eye of Miss Cecilia.

She stood aghast! The turbans were very respectable turbans indeed; but to her disappointed and eager desires they appeared worthy of Mahomet the Prophet, or the grand Sultana, or any other body, mortal or immortal, that has ever been reputed to wear turbans. And this consummation of perfection she had lost! lost just by a neck! missed it by an accident, that, however gratifying she had thought it at the time, she now felt was but an inadequate compensation for her present disappointment. But there was no remedy. Miss Gibbs had nothing fit to make a turban of; besides, Miss Cecilia would have scorned to appear in any turban that Miss Gibbs could have compiled, when her rival was to be adorned with a construction of such superhuman excellence. No! the only consolation she had was to scold Miss Gibbs for not having kept the turbans till she had seen them, and for not having sent for a greater number of turbans. To which objurgations Miss Gibbs could only answer: "That she had been extremely sorry indeed, when she saw the ladies were bent upon having the turbans, as she had ordered two entirely with a view to Miss Cecilia's accommodation; and moreover that she was never more surprised in her life than when Mrs. Gosling desired one of them might be sent to her, because Mrs. Gosling never wore turbans; and if Miss Gibbs had only foreseen that she would have pounced upon it in that way, she, Miss Gibbs, would have taken care she should never have seen it at all," &c., &c., &c.,--all of which the reader may believe, if he or she choose.

As for Miss Cecilia, she was implacable, and she flounced out of the house, and through the streets, to her own door, in a temper of mind that rendered it fortunate, as far as the peace of the town of B---- was concerned, that no accident brought her in contact with Miss Charlotte on the way.

As soon as she got into her parlor she threw off her bonnet and shawl, and plunging into her arm-chair, she tried to compose her mind sufficiently to take a calm view of the dilemma, and determine on what line of conduct to pursue--whether to send an excuse to Mrs. Hanaway, or whether to go to the party in one of her old head-dresses. Either alternative was insupportable. To lose the party, the game at loo, the distinction of being seen in such good society--it was too provoking; besides, very likely people would suppose she had not been invited; Miss Charlotte, she had no doubt, would try to make them believe so. But then, on the other hand, to wear one of her old turbans was so mortifying--they were so very shabby, so unfashionable--on an occasion, too, when everybody would be so well-dressed! Oh, it was aggravating--vexatious in the extreme! She passed the day in reflection--chewing the cud of sweet and bitter fancies; recalling to herself how well she looked in the turban--for she had tried it on; figuring what would have been Miss Charlotte's mortification if she had been the disappointed person--how triumphantly she, Miss Cecilia, would have marched into the room with the turban on her head--how crestfallen the other would have looked; and then she varied her occupation by resuscitating all her old turbans, buried in antique band-boxes deep in dust, and trying whether it were possible, out of their united materials, to concoct one of the present fashionable shape and dimensions. But the thing was impracticable: the new turban was composed of crimson satin and gold lace, hers of pieces of muslin and gauze.

When the mind is very much engrossed, whether the subject of contemplation be pleasant or unpleasant, time flies with inconceivable rapidity; and Miss Cecilia was roused from her meditations by hearing the clock in the passage strike four, warning her that it was necessary to come to some decision, as the hour fixed for the party, according to the primitive customs of B----, was half-past seven, when the knell of the clock was followed by a single knock at the door, and the next moment her maid walked into the room with--what do you think?--the identical crimson and gold turban in her hand!

"What a beauty!" cried Susan, turning it round, that she might get a complete view of it in all its phases.

"Was there any message, Sue?" inquired Miss Cecilia, gasping with agitation, for her heart was in her throat.

"No, ma'am," replied Sue; "Miss Gibbs's girl just left it; she said it should have come earlier, but she had so many places to go to."

"And she's gone, is she, Susan?"

"Yes, ma'am, she went directly--she said she hadn't got half through yet."

"Very well, Susan, you may go; and remember, I'm not at home if anybody calls; and if any message comes here from Miss Gibbs, you'll say I'm gone out, and you don't expect me home till very late."

"Very well, ma'am."

"And I say, Susan, if they send here to make any inquiries about that turban, you'll say you know nothing about it, and send them away."

"Very well, ma'am," said Susan, and down she dived to the regions below.

Instead of four o'clock, how ardently did Miss Cecilia wish it was seven; for the danger of the next three hours was imminent. Well she understood how the turban had got there--it was a mistake of the girl--but the chance was great that, before seven o'clock arrived, Miss Charlotte would take fright at not receiving her head-dress, and would send to Miss Gibbs to demand it, when the whole thing would be found out. However no message came: at five o'clock, when the milk-boy rang, Miss Cecilia thought she should have fainted: but that was the only alarm. At six she began to dress, and at seven she stood before her glass in full array, with the turban on her head. She thought she had never looked so well; indeed, she was sure she had not. The magnitude of the thing gave her an air, and indeed a feeling of dignity and importance that she had never been sensible of before. The gold lace looked brilliant even by the light of her single tallow candle; what would it do in a well-illumined drawing-room! Then the color was strikingly becoming, and suited her hair exactly--Miss Cecilia, we must here observe, was quite gray; but she wore a frontlet of dark curls, and a little black silk skull-cap, fitted close to her head, which kept all neat and tight under the turban.

She had not far to go; nevertheless, she thought it would be as well to set off at once, for fear of accidents, even though she lingered on the way to fill up the time, for every moment the danger augmented; so she called to Susan to bring her cloak, and her calash, and her overalls, and being well packed up by the admiring Sue, who declared the turban was "without exception the beautifulest thing she ever saw," she started; determined, however, not to take the direct way, but to make a little circuit by a back street, lest, by ill luck, she should fall foul of the enemy.

"Susan," said she, pausing as she was stepping off the threshold, "if anybody calls you'll say I have been gone to Mrs. Hanaway's some time; and, Susan, just put a pin in this calash to keep it back, it falls over my eyes so that I can't see." And Susan pinned a fold in the calash, and away went the triumphant Miss Cecilia. She did not wish to be guilty of the vulgarity of arriving first at the party; so she lingered about till it wanted a quarter to eight, and then she knocked at Mrs. Hanaway's door, which a smart footman immediately opened, and, with the alertness for which many of his order are remarkable, proceeded to disengage the lady from her external coverings--the cloak, the overalls, the calash; and then, without giving her time to breathe, he rushed up the stairs, calling out "Miss Cecilia Smith;" whilst the butler, who stood at the drawing-room door, threw it open, reiterating, "Miss Cecilia Smith;" and in she went. But, O reader, little do you think, and little did she think, where the turban was that she imagined to be upon her head, and under the supposed shadow of which she walked into the room with so much dignity and complacence. It was below in the hall, lying on the floor, fast in the calash, to which Susan, ill-starred wench! had pinned it; and the footman, in his cruel haste, had dragged them both off together.

With only some under-trappings on her cranium, and altogether unconscious of her calamity, smiling and bowing, Miss Cecilia advanced toward her host and hostess, who received her in the most gracious manner, thinking, certainly, that her taste in a head-dress was peculiar, and that she was about the most extraordinary figure they had ever beheld, but supposing that such was the fashion she chose to adopt--the less astonished or inclined to suspect the truth, from having heard a good deal of the eccentricities of the two spinsters of B----. But to the rest of the company, the appearance she made was inexplicable; they had been accustomed to see her ill dressed, and oddly dressed, but such a flight as this they were not prepared for. Some whispered that she had gone mad; others suspected that it must be accident--that somehow or other she had forgotten to put on her head-dress; but even if it were so, the joke was an excellent one, and nobody cared enough for her to sacrifice their amusement by setting her right. So Miss Cecilia, blessed in her delusion, triumphant and happy, took her place at the whist table, anxiously selecting a position which gave her a full view of the door, in order that she might have the indescribable satisfaction of seeing the expression of Miss Charlotte's countenance when she entered the room--that is, if she came; the probability was, that mortification would keep her away.

But no such thing--Miss Charlotte had too much spirit to be beaten out of the field in that manner. She had waited with patience for her turban, because Miss Gibbs had told her, that, having many things to send out, it might be late before she got it; but when half-past six arrived, she became impatient, and dispatched her maid to fetch it. The maid returned, with "Miss Gibbs's respects, and the girl was still out with the things; she would be sure to call at Miss Charlotte's before she came back." At half-past seven there was another message, to say that the turban had not arrived; by this time the girl had done her errands, and Miss Gibbs, on questioning her, discovered the truth. But it was too late--the mischief was irreparable--Susan averring, with truth, that her mistress had gone to Mrs. Hanaway's party some time, with the turban on her head.

We will not attempt to paint Miss Charlotte's feelings--that would be a vain endeavor. Rage took possession of her soul; her attire was already complete, all but the head-dress, for which she was waiting. She selected the best turban she had, threw on her cloak and calash, and in a condition of mind bordering upon frenzy, she rushed forth, determined, be the consequences what they might, to claim her turban, and expose Miss Cecilia's dishonorable conduct before the whole company.

By the time she arrived at Mrs. Hanaway's door, owing to the delays that had intervened, it was nearly half-past eight; the company had all arrived; and whilst the butler and footmen were carrying up the refreshments, one of the female servants of the establishment had come into the hall, and was endeavoring to introduce some sort of order and classification amongst the mass of external coverings that had been hastily thrown off by the ladies; so, when Miss Charlotte knocked, she opened the door and let her in, and proceeded to relieve her of her wraps.

"I suppose I'm very late," said Miss Charlotte, dropping into a chair to seize a moment's rest, whilst the woman drew off her boots; for she was out of breath with haste, and heated with fury.

"I believe everybody's come, ma'am," said the woman.

"I should have been here some time since," proceeded Miss Charlotte, "but the most shameful trick has been played me about my--my--Why--I declare--I really believe--" and she bent forward and picked up the turban--the identical turban, which, disturbed by the maid-servant's maneuvers, was lying upon the floor, still attached to the calash by Sukey's unlucky pin.

Was there ever such a triumph? Quick as lightning, the old turban was off and the new one on, the maid with bursting sides assisting in the operation; and then, with a light step and a proud heart, up walked Miss Charlotte, and was ushered into the drawing-room.

As the door opened, the eyes of the rivals met. Miss Cecilia's feelings were those of disappointment and surprise. "Then she has got a turban too! How could she have got it?"--and she was vexed that her triumph was not so complete as she had expected. But Miss Charlotte was in ecstasies. It may be supposed she was not slow to tell the story; it soon flew round the room, and the whole party were thrown into convulsions of laughter. Miss Cecilia alone was not in the secret; and as she was successful at cards, and therefore in good humor, she added to their mirth, by saying that she was glad to see everybody so merry, and by assuring Mrs. Hanaway, when she took her leave, that she had spent a delightful evening, and that her party was the gayest she had ever seen in B----.

"I am really ashamed," said Mrs. Hanaway, "at allowing the poor woman to be the jest of my company; but I was afraid to tell her the cause of our laughter, from the apprehension of what might have followed her discovery of the truth."

"And it must be admitted," said her husband, "that she well deserves the mortification that awaits her when she discovers the truth."

Poor Miss Cecilia _did_ discover the truth, and never was herself again. She parted with her house, and went to live with a relation at Bristol; but her spirit was broken; and, after going through all the stages of a discontented old age, ill-temper, peevishness, and fatuity--she closed her existence, as usual with persons of her class, unloved and unlamented.

SIR NICHOLAS AT MARSTON MOOR.

BY THE AUTHOR OF LILLIAN.

I.

To horse, to horse, Sir Nicholas; the clarion's note is high; To horse, to horse, Sir Nicholas; the huge drum makes reply: Ere this hath Lucas marchéd with his gallant cavaliers, And the bray of Rupert's trumpets grows fainter on our ears; To horse, to horse, Sir Nicholas; white Guy is at the door; And the vulture whets his beak o'er the field of Marston Moor. Up rose the lady Alice from her brief and broken prayer; And she brought a silken standard down the narrow turret-stair: Oh, many were the tears those radiant eyes had shed, As she worked the bright word "Glory" in the gay and glancing thread; And mournful was the smile that o'er those beauteous features ran, As she said: "It is your lady's gift, unfurl it in the van." "It shall flutter, noble wench, where the best and boldest ride; Through the steel-clad files of Skippon, and the black dragoons of Pride; The recreant soul of Fairfax will feel a sicklier qualm, And the rebel lips of Oliver give out a louder psalm, When they see my lady's gew-gaw flaunt bravely on their wing, And hear her loyal soldier's shout, For God and for the king!"

II.

Tis noon; the ranks are broken along the royal line; They fly, the braggarts of the court, the bullies of the Rhine: Stout Langley's cheer is heard no more, and Astley's helm is down; And Rupert sheathes his rapier with a curse and with a frown: And cold Newcastle mutters, as he follows in the flight, "The German boar had better far have supped in York to-night." The knight is all alone, his steel cap cleft in twain, His good buff jerkin crimsoned o'er with many a gory stain; But still he waves the standard, and cries amid the rout, "For church and king, fair gentlemen, spur on, and fight it out!"-- And now he wards a roundhead's pike, and now he hums a stave, And here he quotes a stage-play, and there he fells a knave. Good speed to thee, Sir Nicholas! thou hast no thought of fear, Good speed to thee, Sir Nicholas! but fearful odds are here. The traitors ring thee round, and with every blow and thrust, "Down, down," they cry, "with Belial, down with him to the dust!" "I would," quoth grim old Oliver, "that Belial's trusty sword This day were doing battle for the saints and for the Lord!"

III.

The lady Alice sits with her maidens in her bower; The gray-haired warden watches on the castle's highest tower.-- "What news, what news, old Anthony?"--"The field is lost and won; The ranks of war are melting as the mists beneath the sun; And a wounded man speeds hither,--I am old and cannot see, Or sure I am that sturdy step my master's step should be." "I bring thee back the standard from as rude and red a fray As e'er was proof of soldier's thews, or theme for minstrel's lay: Bid Hubert fetch the silver bowl, and liquor quantum suff.; I'll make a shift to drain it, ere I part with boot and buff; Though Guy through many a gaping wound is breathing out his life, And I come to thee a landless man, my fond and faithful wife. Sweet, we will fill our money-bags, and freight a ship for France, And mourn in merry Paris for this poor realm's mischance: Or, if the worst betide me, why better ax or rope, Than life with Lenthal for a King, and Peters for a Pope! Alas, alas, my gallant Guy!--out on the crop-eared boor, That sent me with my standard on foot from Marston Moor."

[From Fraser's Magazine.]

LIFE AT A WATERING PLACE.

ACCIDENTS WILL HAPPEN.

"Hurrah, old fellow!" shouted Ashburner's host, on the seventh morning of his visit; "here's a letter from Carl. I have been expecting it, and he has been expecting us, some time. So prepare yourself to start to-morrow."

"He can't have been expecting _me_, you know," suggested the guest, who, though remarkably domesticated for so short a time, hardly felt himself yet entitled to be considered one of the family.

"Oh, _us_ means Clara, and myself, and baby, and any friends we choose to bring,--or, I should say, who will do us the honor to accompany us. We are hospitable people and the more the merrier. I know how much house-room Carl has; there is always a prophet's chamber, as the parsons call it, for such occasions. You _must_ come; there's no two ways about that. You will see two very fine women there,--_nice persons_, as you would say: my sisters-in-law, Miss Vanderlyn, and Mrs. Carl Benson."

"But at any rate, would it not be better to write first, and apprise him of the additional visitor?"

"We should be there a week before our letter. _Ecoutez!_ There is no post-office near us here, and my note would have to go to the city by a special messenger. Then the offices along the Hudson are perfectly antediluvian and barbarous, and mere mockery and delusion. Observe, I speak of the small local posts; on the main routes letters travel fast enough. You may send to Albany in nine hours; to Carl's place, which is about two-thirds of the distance to Albany, it would take more than half as many days,--if, indeed, it arrived at all. I remember once propounding this problem in the _Blunder and Bluster:--'If a letter sent from New York to Hastings, distance 22 miles, never gets there, how long will it take one to go from New York to Red Hook, distance 110 miles?'_ We are shockingly behind you in our postal arrangements; _there_ I give up the country. 'No, you musn't write, but come yourself,' as Penelope said to Ulysses."

Ashburner made no further opposition, and they were off the next morning accordingly. Before four a cart had started with the baggage, and directions to take up Ashburner's trunks and man-servant on the way. Soon after the coachman and groom departed with the saddle-horses, trotters, and wagon; for Benson, meditating some months' absence, took with him the whole of his stud, except the black colt, who was strongly principled against going on the water, and had nearly succeeded in breaking his master's neck on one occasion, when Harry insisted on his embarking. The long-tailed bays were left harnessed to the _Rockaway_,--a sort of light omnibus open at the sides, very like a _char-à-banc_, except that the seats run crosswise, and capable of accommodating from six to nine persons: that morning it held six, including the maid and nurse. Benson took the reins at a quarter-past five, and as the steamboat dock was situated at the very southern extremity of the city, and they had three miles of terrible pavement to traverse, besides nearly twelve of road, he arrived there just seven minutes before seven; at which hour, to the second, the good boat Swallow was to take wing. In a twinkling the horses were unharnessed and embarked; the carriage instantly followed them; and Harry, after assuring himself that all his property, animate and inanimate, was safely shipped, had still time to purchase, for his own and his friend's edification, the _Jacobin_, the _Blunder and Bluster_, the _Inexpressible_, and other popular papers, which an infinity of dirty boys were crying at the top of their not very harmonious voices.

"Our people do business pretty fast," said he, in a somewhat triumphant tone. "How this would astonish them on the Continent! See there!" as a family, still later than his own, arrived with a small mountain of trunks, all of which made their way on board as if they had wings. "When I traveled in Germany two years ago with Mrs. B. and her sister, we had eleven packages, and it used to take half-an-hour at every place to weigh and ticket them beforehand, not withstanding which one or two would get lost every now and then. In my own country I have traveled in all directions with large parties, never have been detained five minutes for baggage, and never lost anything except once--an umbrella. Now we are going."

The mate cried, "All ashore!" the newsboys and apple-venders disappeared; the planks were drawn in; the long, spidery walking-beam began to play; and the Swallow had started with her five hundred passengers.

"Let us stroll around the boat: I want to show you how we get up these things here."

The ladies' cabin on deck and the two general cabins below were magnificently furnished with the most expensive material, and in the last Parisian style, and this display and luxury were the more remarkable as the fare was but twelve shillings for a hundred and sixty miles. Ashburner admitted that the furniture was very elegant, but thought it out of place, and altogether too fine for the purpose.

"So you would say, probably, that the profuse and varied dinner we shall have is thrown away on the majority of the passengers, who bolt it in half-an-hour. But there are some who habitually appreciate the dinner and the furniture: it does them good, and it does the others no harm,--nay, it does _them_ good, too. The wild man from the West, who has but recently learned to walk on his hind legs, is dazzled with these sofas and mirrors, and respects them more than he would more ordinary furniture. At any rate, it's a fault on right side. The furniture of an English hotel is enough to give a traveler a fit of the blues, such an extreme state of fustiness it is sure to be in. Did it ever strike you, by the way, how behindhand your countrymen are in the matter of hotels? When a traveller passes from England into Belgium (putting France out of the question), it is like going from Purgatory into Paradise."

"I don't think I ever stayed at a London hotel."

"Of course not; when your governor was out of town, and you not with him, you had your club. This is exactly what all travelers in England complain of. Everything for the exclusive use of the natives is good--except the water, and of that you don't use much in the way of a beverage; everything particularly tending to the comfort of strangers and sojourners--as the hotels, for instance, is bad, dear, and uncomfortable. I don't think you like to have foreigners among you, for your arrangements are calculated to drive them out of the country as fast as possible!"

"Perhaps we don't, as a general principle," said Ashburner, smiling.

"Well, I won't say that it is not the wisest policy. We have suffered much by being too liberal to foreigners. But then you must not be surprised at what they say about you. However, it is not worth while to lose the view for our discussion. Come up-stairs and take a good look at the river of rivers."

Ashburner felt no disposition to deny the beauty and grandeur of the Hudson. At first, the shore was lined with beetling ramparts of trap-rock. After many miles of this, the clear water spread out into a great lake, with apparently no egress. But on turning a promontory, the river stretched away nearly as wide as before, under wooded cliffs not dissimilar to those of the Rhine. Then came the picturesque Catskill mountains; and near these Harry was to stop, but Ashburner did not stop with him. At West Point the boat had taken up, among other passengers, two young officers of his acquaintance, then quartered in Canada. They were going to take the tour of the lakes, including, of course, Niagara, and offered Ashburner, if he would accompany them on this excursion first, to show him the lions of Canada afterward. On consulting with Benson, he found that the trip would not occupy more than a month or five weeks, and that after that time the watering-place season would be at its height.

"And it will be an excuse for my staying with Carl till August," Harry continued. "The women are half crazy to be at Oldport already. I would rather stay at Ravenswood. We shall expect you there at the end of July. But," and here, for the first time since their acquaintance, Ashburner perceived a slight embarrassment in his manner, "don't bring your friends."

"Oh, dear, no!" said Ashburner, not comprehending what could have put such a thing into the other's head, or what was coming next.

"I don't mean to Ravenswood, but to Oldport; that is, if you can help their coming. To tell you the truth, your university men, and literary men generally, are popular enough here, but your army is in very bad odor. The young fellows who come down among us from Canada behave shockingly. They don't act like gentlemen or Christians."

Ashburner hastened to assure him that Captain Blank and Lieutenant Dash were both gentlemen and Christians, in the ordinary acceptation of the terms, and had never been known to misconduct themselves in any way.

"Doubtless, inasmuch as they are your friends, but the general principle remains the same. So many of your young officers have misconducted themselves that the _primâ facie_ evidence is always against one of them, and he stands a chance of being coolly treated."

Ashburner wanted to know what the young officers had done.

"Everything they could do to go counter to the habits and prejudices of the people among whom they were, and to show their contempt of American society; to act, in short, as if they were among uncivilized people. For instance, it is a custom at these watering-place hotels to dress for the _table-d'hôte_. Now, I do not think it altogether reasonable that a man should be expected to make his evening toilet by three in the afternoon, and, indeed, I do not strictly conform to the rule myself. But these men came in with flannel shirts and dirty shoes, and altogether in a state unfit for ladies' company. Perhaps, however, we were too fastidious in this. But what do you say to a youngster's seating himself upon a piano in the public parlor, while a lady is playing on it?"

Ashburner allowed that it was rather unceremonious.

"By various similar acts, trivial, perhaps, individually, but forming a very disagreeable aggregate, these young men made themselves so unpopular that one season the ladies, by common consent, refused to dance with any of them. But there is worse behind. These gentlemen, so stupid in a drawing-room, are sharp enough in borrowing money, and altogether oblivious of repaying it."

Ashburner remembered the affair of Ensign Lawless, and made up his mind to undergo another repetition of it.

"I don't speak of my individual case, the thing has happened fifty times. I could tell of a dozen friends who have been victimized in this way during the last three years. In fact, I believe that your _jeunes militaires_ have formed a league to avenge the Mississippi bondholders, and recover their lost money under the form of these nominal loans. You may think it poetic justice, but we New Yorkers have no fancy to pay the Mississippians' debts in this way."

It would be foreign to our present purpose to accompany Ashburner in his Northwestern and Canadian tour. Suffice it to say, that he returned by the first of August, very much pleased, having seen many things well worth seeing, and experienced no particular annoyance, except the one predicted by Benson, that he sometimes _had to take care of his servant_. Neither shall we say much of his visit to Ravenswood, where, indeed, he only spent a few hours, arriving there in the morning and leaving it in the afternoon of the same day, and had merely time to partake of a capital lunch, and to remark that his entertainer had a beautiful place and a handsome wife, and was something like his younger brother, but more resembling an Englishman than any American he had yet seen.

The party to Oldport was increased by the addition of Miss Vanderlyn, a tall, stylish girl, more striking than her sister, but less delicately beautiful. Though past twenty, she had been out only one season, having been kept back three years by various accidents. But though new to society, she had nothing of the book-muslin timidity about her; nor was she at all abashed by the presence of the titled foreigner. On the contrary, she addressed him with perfect ease of manner, in French, professing, as an apology for conversing in that language, a fear that he might not be able to understand her English,--_"Parceque chez vous, on dit que nous autres Americaines, ne parlons pas l'Anglais comme il faut."_

As we are not writing a handbook or geographical account of the Northern States, it will not be necessary to mention where the fashionable watering-place of Oldport Springs is situated--not even what State it is in--suffice it to say, that from Carl Benson's place thither was a day's journey, performed partly by steamboat, partly by rail, and the last forty miles by stage-coach, or, as the Americans say, "for shortness," by stage. The water portion of their journey was soon over, nor did Ashburner much regret it, for he had been over this part of the route before on his way to Canada, and the river is not remarkably beautiful above the Catskill range.

On taking the cars, Benson seized the opportunity to enlighten his friend with a quantity of railroad statistics and gossip, such as, that the American trains averaged eighteen miles an hour, including stoppages,--about two miles short of the steamboat average; that they cost about one-fifth of an English road, or a dollar for a pound, which accounted for their deficiency in some respects; that there were more than three thousand miles of rail in the country; that there was no division of first, second, and third class, but that some lines had ladies cars--that is to say, cars for the gentlemen with ladies and the ladies without gentlemen--and some had separate cars for the ladies and gentlemen of color; that there had been some attempts to get up smoking-cars after the German fashion, but the public mind was not yet fully prepared for it; that one of the southern lines had tried the experiment of introducing a _restaurant_ and other conveniences, with tolerable success; and other facts of more or less interest. Ashburner for his part, on examining his ticket, found upon the back of it a list of all the stations on the route, with their times and distances--a very convenient arrangement; and he was also much amused at the odd names of some of the stations--Nineveh, Pompey, Africa, Cologne, and others equally incongruous.

"Don't be afraid of laughing," said Benson, who guessed what he was smiling at. "Whenever I am detained at a country tavern, if there duly happens to be a good-sized map of the United States there, I have enough to amuse me in studying the different styles of names in the different sections of the Union--different in style, but alike in impropriety. In our State, as you know, the fashion is for classical and oriental names. In New England there is a goodly amount of old English appellations, but often sadly misapplied; for instance, an inland town will be called Falmouth, or Oldport, like the place we are going to. The aboriginal names, often very harmonious, had been generally displaced, except in Maine, where they are particularly long, and jaw-breaking, such as _Winnipiscoggir_ and _Chargogagog_. Still we have some very pretty Indian names left in New York; _Ontario_, for instance, and _Oneida_, and _Niagara_, which you who have been there know is

Pronounced Niágara, To rhyme with _staggerer_, And not Niagára, To rhyme with _starer_."

"What does _Niagara_ mean?"

"_Broken water_, I believe; but one gets so many different meanings for these names, from those who profess to know more or less about the native dialects, that you can never be certain. For instance, a great many will tell you, on Chateaubriand's authority, that _Mississippi_ means _Father of the waters_. Some years ago one of our Indian scholars stated that this was an error; that the literal meaning of Mississippi was _old-big-strong_--not quite so poetic an appellation. I asked Albert Gallatin about it at the time--he was considered our best man on such subjects--and he told me that the word, or words, for the name is made up of two, signified _the entire river_. This is a fair specimen of the answers you get. I never had the same explanation of an Indian name given me by two men who pretende