the mysteries of paris, volume 6 of 6 - eugene sue

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olume 6 of 6, by Eugène Sue

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itle: The Mysteries of Paris, Volume 6 of 6

uthor: Eugène Sue

llustrators: G. Merciericknell

éon Poiteau

drian Marcel

elease Date: September 22, 2010 [EBook #33805]

anguage: English

** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE

YSTERIES OF PARIS, V.6 ***



roduced by David Edwards, Christine Aldridge

nd the

nline Distributed Proofreading Team at

ttp://www.pgdp.net

Stanford University, SUL Books in the Public

omain)

"Kneeling Down, Placed It on the Ground"Original Etching by Mercier "Kneeling Down,

Placed It on the Ground "Original Etching by Mercier

The Mysteries of

Paris.



ILLUSTRATED WITH ETCHINGSBY MERCIER,

BICKNELL, POITEAU, AND ADRIAN MARCEL.

By EUGENE SUE

IN SIX VOLUMES

VOLUME VI.

PRINTED FOR

FRANCIS A. NICCOLLS & CO.

BOSTON



Edition De Luxe.

This edition is limited to one thousand copies, o

which this is

No.______



CONTENTS.

CHAPTER PAGE

I. Punishment 11

II. Rodolph and Sarah 44

III. Love's Frenzy 68

IV. The Hospital 80

V. Hope 108

VI. The Father and Daughter 122

VII. The Marriage 141

VIII. Bicêtre 152

IX. The Toilet 183

X. Martial and the Chourineur 195

XI. The Finger of Providence 201

EPILOGUE.

I. Gerolstein 215

II. The Princess Amelie 236

III. The Vows 262



IV. The Thirteenth of January 267



LIST OF

ILLUSTRATIONS.PAG

Kneeling down placed it on theground" Frontispiec

Was looking at herself in a mirror" 44

They took her to their guilty haunts" 6

The Schoolmaster was sitting on abench" 172

In the church in prayer" 264



THE MYSTERIES OF

PARIS.

CHAPTER I.

PUNISHMENT.

We will again conduct the reader into the study oacques Ferrand. Availing ourselves of th

oquacity of the clerks, we shall endeavouhrough their instrumentality, to narrate the eventhat had occurred since the disappearance o

Cecily.

A hundred sous to ten, if his present statcontinues, that in less than a month our governowill go off with a pop."

The fact is, since Cecily left, he is only skin an



bones."

And now he takes to the priests again more thaever."

The curé of the parish is a most respectablman, and I overheard him say yesterday, tanother priest who accompanied him, 'It admirable! M. Jacques Ferrand is thpersonification of charity.'"

Well, then, when the curé declares a thing onmust credit it; and yet to believe that the governos charitable is almost beyond my belief."

Remember the forty sous for our breakfast."

Yes, but then the head clerk says that three dayago the governor realised a large sum in thunds, and that he is about to sell his business."

Well, no doubt he has the means to retire."

He has speculated on the Bourse, and gaineots of money."

What astonishes me is this friend who follow



him like his shadow."

Yes, he does not leave M. Ferrand for a momenhey eat together, and seem as if they wernseparable."

It seems to me as if I had seen this intrudeomewhere!"

Have you not remarked that every two hour

here comes a man with large light moustacheswith a military air, who inquires for the intruder ohe porter? This friend then goes down-stairsdiscourses for a moment with the hero witmoustaches, after which the military gent turns ohis heel, goes away, and returns two hourafterwards."

Yes, I have remarked it. It appears to me that, ago and come, I see in the street men wh

appear to be watching the house."

Perhaps the head clerk knows more of this thawe do. By the way, where is he?"

At the house of the Countess Macgregor, wh



has been assassinated, and is now despaired oThey sent for the governor to-day, but the heaclerk was despatched in his stead."

He has plenty in his hands, then, for I suppose hwill fill Germain's place as cashier."

Talking of Germain, an odd thing has occurredThe governor, in order to free him from prisonhas declared that he made a mistake in haccounts, and that he has found the money haccused Germain of taking."

I do not see anything odd in that,—it is buustice. I was sure that Germain was incapable oheft."

Ah, here's a coach, gents!" said Chalameooking out of the window; "it is not a spicy turnout like that of the famous vicomte, the gay SainRemy, but a hack concern."

Who is coming out of it?"

Only the curé,—a very worthy man he is, too."

Silence! Some one comes in! To your work, m



boys!"

And all the clerks, leaning over their desks, begao scrawl away with much apparent industry, anas if their attention had not been taken off thebusiness for a single instant.

The pale features of the priest expressed at onca gentle melancholy combined with an air ontelligence and venerable serenity. A small blaccap covered the crown of his head, while his longray locks hung down over the collar of hgreatcoat. Let us merely add to this hasty sketchhat owing to the worthy priest's implic

confidence in the words and actions of others, hwas, and ever had been, completely blinded bhe deep and well-practised hypocrisy of JacqueFerrand.

Is your worthy employer in his room, mchildren?" inquired the curé.

Yes, M. l'Abbé, he is," answered Chalamel, assing respectfully, he opened the door of a

adjoining study, and waited for the priest to enter



Hearing loud voices in the apartment, anunwilling to overhear words not intended for hears, the abbé walked rapidly forwards, anapped briskly at the door.

Come in," said a voice with a strong Italiaaccent; and, entering, the priest found himself he presence of Polidori and Jacques Ferrand.

The clerks did not appear to have erred calculating upon the approaching end of theemployer. He was, indeed, scarcely to becognised. Spite of the almost spectral thinnes

and pallor of his sharpened features, a deep re

ever-spot burned and scorched upon hprojecting cheek-bones; a sort of incessanremor, amounting occasionally to convulsivpasms and starts, shook his attenuated frame

His coarse but wasted hands seemed parche

with feverish heat, while his bloodshot eyes werhrouded from view by the large green glasses h

wore. Altogether his face was a fearful index ohe internal ravages of a fast consuming disease

The physiognomy of Polidori offered a stron



contrast to that of the notary. Nothing coulexpress a more bitter irony, a more bitincontempt, than the features of this hardenevillain, surrounded as they were by a mass of re

hair, slightly mingled with gray, hanging in wildisorder over his pale, wrinkled brow, anpartially hiding his sharp, penetrating eyes, whichgreen and transparent as the stone known as th

aqua marine, were placed very close to h

hooked nose, and imparted a still more sinistecharacter to the look of sarcastic malevolenchat dwelt on his thin, compressed lips. Such waPolidori, as, attired in a suit of entire black, he sa

beside the desk of Jacques Ferrand. At the sighof the priest both rose.

And how do you find yourself, my good MFerrand?" inquired the abbé, in a tone of dee

olicitude; "let me hope you are better."Much the same as you last saw me, M. l'Abbéeplied the notary. "No sleep, no rest, an

constantly devoured by fever; but God's will b

done!"



Alas, M. l'Abbé!" interposed Polidori, "my pooriend is no better; but what a blessed spirit he n! What resignation! Finding no other relief fromhis suffering than in doing good!"

Have the goodness to cease these praiseswhich I am far from meriting," said the notary, in hort, dry tone, as though struggling hard testrain his feelings of rage and resentment; "t

he Lord alone belongs the right of judging what good and what evil,—I am but a miserablinner!"

We are all sinners," replied the abbé, mildly; "bu

all have not the extreme charity by which you ardistinguished, my worthy friend. Few, indeed, likyou, are capable of weaning their affections fromheir earthly goods, that they may be employeonly as a means of leading a more Christianlik

fe. Are you still determined upon retiring fromyour profession, the better to devote yourself teligious duties?"

I disposed of my practice a day or two ago, for

arge and handsome sum. This money, unite



with other property, will enable me to found thnstitution I was speaking to you of, and of whichhave entirely sketched out the plan. I am about tay it before you, and to ask your assistance

mproving it where necessary."

My noble-minded friend," exclaimed the abbéwith the deepest and holiest admiration, "honaturally and unostentatiously you do these things

Ah, well might I say there were but few whesembled you; and upon the heads of such to

many blessings can scarcely be prayed for anwished."

Few persons, like my friend Jacques here," saiPolidori, with an ironical smile, which wholescaped the abbé, "are fortunate enough tpossess both piety and riches, charity andiscrimination as to the right channel into which t

pour their wealth, in order that it may work well fohe good of their soul."

At this repetition of sarcastic eulogium, thnotary's hand became clenched with intern

emotion, while, through his spectacles, he darte



a look of deadly hatred on Polidori.

Do you perceive, M. l'Abbé," said the dear frienof Jacques Ferrand, hastily, "he has thesconvulsive twitchings of the limbs continually?—and yet he will not have any advice. He realmakes me quite wretched to see him, as it werekilling himself! Nay, my excellent friend, spite ohose displeased looks, I will persist in declaring

n the presence of M. l'Abbé, that you ardestroying yourself by refusing all succour as yodo."

As Polidori uttered these words, a convulsiv

hudder shook the notary's whole frame; but another instant he had regained the mastery ovehimself, and was calm as before. A less simpleminded man than the abbé might have perceivedboth during this conversation and in that whic

ollowed, a something unnatural in the languagand forced actions of Jacques Ferrand, for it carcely necessary to state that his presen

proceedings were dictated to him by a will an

authority he was powerless to resist, and that was by the command of Rodolph the wretche



man was compelled to adopt words and conducdiametrically the reverse of his own sentiments onclinations. And so it was that, when sorpressed, the notary seemed half inclined to resis

he arbitrary and invisible power he found himseobliged to obey. But a glance at Polidori soon puan end to his indecision, and, restraining all hage and impotent fury, Jacques Ferrand forbor

any further manifestation of futile rage, and ben

beneath the yoke he could neither shake off nobreak.

Alas, M. l'Abbé!" resumed Polidori, as thougaking an infernal pleasure in thus torturing th

miserable notary, "my poor friend wholly neglecthis health. Let me entreat of you to join youequest to mine, that he will be more careful of h

precious self, if not for himself or his friends, a

east for the sake of the poor and needy, whoshope and support he is."

Enough! Enough!" murmured the notary, in deep, guttural voice.

No," said the priest, much moved, "'tis no



enough! You can never be reminded torequently that you belong not to yourself, and thayou are to blame for neglecting your healthDuring the ten years I have known you I canno

ecollect your ever being ill before the presenme, but really the last month has so changed yohat you are scarcely like the same person. Andam the more struck with the alteration in youappearance, since for some little time I have no

een you. You may recollect that when you senor me the other day, I could not conceal murprise on finding you so changed; during thhort space of time that has elapsed since tha

visit, I find you even more rapidly altered for thworse. You are visibly wasting away, anoccasion us all very serious uneasiness. herefore most earnestly entreat of you tconsider and attend to your health."

Believe me, M. l'Abbé, I feel most grateful for thkind interest you express, but that I cannot brinmyself to believe my situation as dangerous ayou do."

Nay," said Polidori, "since you are thu



obstinate, M. l'Abbé shall know all. He greatoves, esteems, and honours you; but how whose feelings be increased when he learns theal cause of your languishing condition, with th

resh claims your additional merits give you to hegard and veneration!"

M. l'Abbé," said the notary, impatiently, "I sent tbeg your company that I might confer with you o

a matter of importance, and not to take up youme in listening to the absurd and exaggerate

eulogiums of my friend!"

You know, Jacques," said Polidori, fixing

piercing glance of fearful meaning on the notarythat it is useless attempting to escape from me

and that you must hear all I have got to say."

The person so addressed cast down his eyes

and durst not reply. Polidori continued:

You may probably have remarked, M. l'Abbéhat the first symptoms of our friend's illnesmanifested themselves in a sort of nervou

attack, which followed the abominable scandaised by the affair of Louise Morel, while in h



ervice."

A sort of aguish shivering ran over the notary.

Is it possible that you, sir, are acquainted wit

hat unfortunate girl's story?" inquired the priesgreatly astonished. "I imagined you had only been Paris a few days."

And you were correctly informed; but my goo

riend Jacques told me all about it, as a mawould relate such a circumstance to his friend anphysician, since he attributed the nervous shocunder which he is now labouring to the excessivndignation awakened in his mind by thdiscovery of his servant's crime. But that is not aMy poor friend's sympathies have been still morpainfully awakened by a fresh blow, which, as yoperceive, has had a very serious effect on h

health. An old and faithful servant, attached to himby many years of well-requited service—"

You allude to the untimely end of MadamSéraphin, I presume," said the curé, interruptin

Polidori. "I heard of the melancholy affair; she wadrowned, I believe, from some carelessness o



mprudence manifested by her while making onn a party of pleasure. I can quite understand thdistress such a circumstance must havoccasioned M. Ferrand, whose kind heart woul

be unable to forget that she who was thunatched from life had, for ten long years, bee

his faithful, zealous domestic; far from blaminuch regrets, I think them but natural, aneflecting as much honour on the survivor as th

deceased."

M. l'Abbé," said the notary, "let me beseech oyou to cease commending my virtues; yoconfuse—you make me really uncomfortable."

And who, then, shall speak of them as thedeserve?" asked Polidori, with feigned affectionWill you? Oh, no! But, M. l'Abbé, you shall have resh opportunity of praising him as he deserves

Listen! You are, perhaps, ignorant that Jacqueook a third servant, to replace Louise Morel anMadame Séraphin? If you are not aware of thaact, you have still to learn all his goodnes

owards poor Cecily; for that was the name of thnew domestic, M. l'Abbé."



nvoluntarily the notary sprung from his seat, anwith eyes glaring with rage and madness, even pite of the glasses he wore, he cried, while

deep, fiery glow overspread his before livicountenance:

Silence! I command! I insist! I forbid anotheword on this subject!"

Come, come!" said the abbé, soothinglycompose yourself. It seems there is still som

generous action I have not yet been told of. I realmust plead guilty to admiring the candour of youriend, however his love of truth may offend youmodesty. I was not acquainted with the servanyou alluded to, as, unfortunately, just about thme she entered the service of our worthy M

Ferrand, he became so overwhelmed with care

and business as to be obliged temporarily tnterrupt our frequent friendly meetings."

That was merely a pretext to conceal the fresact of goodness he meditated, M. l'Abbé, and, a

he risk of paining his modesty, I am determineyou shall know all about it," said Polidori, with



malignant smile, while Jacques Ferrand, in mutage, leaned his elbows on his desk, while h

concealed his face with his hands. "Imagine, thenM. l'Abbé," resumed Polidori, feigning to addres

himself to the curé, but at each phrase contrivino direct an ironical glance towards JacqueFerrand, "imagine that my kind-hearted frienhere found his new domestic possessed of thpurest and rarest qualifications, the most perfec

modesty, with the gentleness and piety of aangel; nor was this all. The quick penetration omy friend Jacques soon discovered that themale in question (who, by the way, was bot

young and beautiful) had never been accustomeo a servant's life, and that, to the most austervirtue, she added great and varied informationwith first-rate talents, which had received thhighest cultivation."

Indeed!" exclaimed the abbé, much interested he recital. "I was not aware of this. But what aiyou, my good M. Ferrand? You seem ill andisturbed!"

A slight headache," answered the notary, wipin



he cold, clammy drops from his brow, for thestraint he imposed upon himself was mosevere,—"nothing more! It will soon pass off."

Polidori shrugged up his shoulders, smilemaliciously, and said:

Observe, M. l'Abbé, that Jacques is alwayeized with the same symptoms directly any of h

good actions are brought forward. But nevemind,—I am determined that his light shall nonger be hid under a bushel, and it is my firmntention to reveal all his hidden charities. But firset me go on with the history of his generou

exertions in favour of Cecily, who, on her sidehad quickly discovered the excellency oacques's heart, and, when questioned by himouching the past, she candidly confessed thaeft a stranger and wholly destitute in a foreig

and, by the imprudence of her husband, shconsidered herself particularly fortunate in beinable to obtain a shelter under so sanctified a rooas M. Ferrand's as a most singular interpositio

of Providence. The sight of so much misfortuneunited to so much heavenly resignation, banishe



all hesitation from the mind of Jacques, and hwrote to the birthplace of the unfortunate girl fourther information respecting her. The reply to hinquiries was most satisfactory, as well a

confirmatory of all the young person hapreviously stated. Then, assured of rightdispensing his benevolence, Jacques bestowehe most paternal kindness on Cecily, whom hent back to her own country, with a sum o

money to support her till better days should dawnor she be enabled to obtain some suitablemployment. Now I will not utter one word acques's praise for doing all this,—let the fact

peak for themselves."Excellent! Most excellent!" exclaimed the deep

affected curé.

M. l'Abbé," said Jacques Ferrand, in a hoars

and abrupt tone, "I do not desire to take up youvaluable time in discoursing of myself, but of thproject respecting which I requested youpresence, and for the furtherance of which

wished to obtain your valuable concurrence."



I can well understand that the praises so justbestowed on you by your friend are painful to onof your extreme modesty; let us, then, merepeak of your good works as though you were no

he author of them. But, first of all, let me give aaccount of my own proceedings in the matteryou confided to me. According to your desire,have deposited the sum of one hundred thousancrowns in the Bank of France, in my own name

with the intention of employing that amount in thact of restitution of which you are the mediumand which I am to effect. You preferred the monebeing lodged in the bank, although, in my opinion

t would have been in equal safety with you."And in so doing, M. l'Abbé, I only acted

concurrence with the wishes of the person makinhis restitution for the sake of his conscience. H

equest to me was to place the sum mentioned byou in your hands, and to entreat of you to forwarto the widow lady, Madame Fermont, whos

maiden name was Renneville (the notary's voicrembled as he pronounced these two names

whenever that person should present herself tou. I full substantiate her claims."



Be assured," replied the priest, "I will witpleasure discharge the trust committed to me."

But that is not the only matter in which you

assistance is solicited."

So much the better, if the others resemble thisor, without seeking the motives which dictate it, voluntary restitution is always calculated to excit

a deep interest; these rigid decrees of aawakened conscience are always the harbingerof a deep and sincere repentance, and such aexpiation cannot fail to bring forth good fruits."

True, M. l'Abbé, the soul must indeed be in perilous state when such a sum as one hundrehousand crowns is voluntarily refunded. For mpart, I confess to having felt more inquisitive o

he subject than yourself; but what chance had mcuriosity against the firm and unshaken discretioof my friend Jacques? I am, therefore, still gnorance of the name of the individual who thuestores such immense wealth for the

conscience' sake."



But," continued Polidori, eyeing JacqueFerrand with a keen, significant glance, "you whear to what an extent are carried the generoucruples of the author of this restitution; and, to te

he truth, I strongly suspect that our right-minderiend here was the first to awaken the slumberineelings of the guilty person, as well as to poinout the surest and fittest way of tranquillisinhem."

How so?" inquired the priest.

What do you mean?" asked the notary.

Why, remember the Morels, those honesdeserving people."

True, true!" interposed Jacques Ferrand, in hasty tone, "I had forgotten them."

Imagine, M. l'Abbé, that the author of thestitution, doubtless influenced by Jacques, no

contented with the restitution of this large sumwishes also—But my worthy friend shall speak fohimself—I will not deprive him of the pleasure oelating so fine an action."



Pray let me hear all about it, my dear MFerrand," said the priest.

You are aware," replied Jacques Ferrand, wit

affected sympathy, strangely mingled with thdeep repugnance he entertained at beincompelled to play a part so opposite to hnclinations, and which betrayed itself in thalteration his voice and manner exhibited, even

pite of all his attempts to be on his guard,—"yoare aware, I say, M. l'Abbé, that the misconduct ohat unhappy girl, Louise Morel, took so deep aeffect on her father as to deprive him of henses, and to reduce his numerous family to th

very verge of destitution, thus bereft of their solupport and prop. Happily Providence interpose

n their behalf, and the person whose voluntaestitution you have so kindly undertaken t

arrange, not satisfied with this step, believed habuse of confidence required still furtheexpiation, and, therefore, inquired of me if I kneany genuine case of real and unmerited distressmmediately thought of the Morel family, an

ecommended them so warmly that the unknow



personage begged me to hand over to you (ashall do) the necessary funds for purchasing a

annuity of eighty pounds a year for the joint liveof Morel, his wife, and children."

Truly," said the abbé, "such conduct is beyonmy poor praise. Most gladly will I add thcommission to the former; still permit me texpress my surprise that you were not yourse

elected to arrange an affair of this nature, thproceedings of which must be so much moramiliar to you than to me."

The reason for your being preferred, M. l'Abbé

was because the individual in question believehat his expiatory acts would go forth even greater sanctity if they passed through hands apure and pious as your own."

Then be it so! And I will at once proceed tarrange for an annuity to Morel, the worthy buunfortunate parent of Louise. Still I am inclined think, with your friend, that you are not altogether tranger to the motives which dictated th

additional expiation."



Nay, M. l'Abbé, let me beg of you to believe thaall I did was to recommend the Morel family as deserving case upon which to exercise charitablympathy; I had no further share in the goo

work," said Jacques Ferrand.

Now, then," said Polidori, "you are next to bgratified, M. l'Abbé, with seeing to what an extenmy worthy friend there has carried h

philanthropic views, as manifested in thoundation of such an establishment as that whave already discussed. He will read to you thplan definitely decided on. The necessary moneor its endowment is ready, and all is prepared fo

mmediate action; but since yesterday a doubhas crossed his mind, and if he does not like ttate it himself I will do so for him."

There is no occasion for your taking that trouble

aid Jacques, who seemed to find a relief alking himself rather than be compelled to sit ilence and listen to the ironical praises of h

accomplice. "The fact is this, M. l'Abbé, I hav

eflected upon our purposed undertaking, and occurs to me that it would be more in accordanc



with a right spirit of humility and Christiameekness if the projected establishment wernstituted in your name, and not in mine."

Nay, nay!" exclaimed the abbé, "such humility exaggerated beyond all reasonable scruples. Yomay fairly pride yourself upon having originateo noble a charity, and it becomes your just righ

as well as your duty, to give it your own name."

Pardon me for insisting in this instance on havinmy own way. I have thought the matter well oveand am resolved upon preserving a stri

ncognito as to being the founder of th

undertaking. I therefore venture to hope you wdo me the favour to act for me, and carry thcheme into execution, selecting the variouunctionaries requisite for its severadepartments. I merely desire to have th

nomination of the chief clerk and one of thdoorkeepers. To this kindness you must add thmost inviolable secrecy as regards myself."

Independently of the pleasure it would afford m

o coöperate in such a work as yours, my duty t



my fellow creatures would not permit me to dotherwise than accede to your wishes; you maherefore reckon upon me in every way yodesire."

Then, with your permission, M. l'Abbé, my frienwill read you the plan he has decided oadopting."

Perhaps," said Jacques Ferrand, bitterly, "yowill spare me the fatigue of reading it, by takinhat office on yourself? You will oblige me by sdoing, will you not?"

By no means!" answered Polidori. "The purphilanthropy which dictated the scheme will sounar better from your lips than mine."

Enough!" interrupted the notary; "I will read myself."

Polidori, so long the accomplice of JacqueFerrand, and consequently well acquainted withe black catalogue of his crimes, could noestrain a fiendish smile as he saw the notar

compelled in his own despite to read aloud an



adopt as his own the words and sentiments sarbitrarily dictated by Rodolph.

"ESTABLISHMENT OF THE BANK FORWORKMEN OUT OF EMPLOY.

"We are instructed to 'Love one anotheThese divine words contain the germ of acharities. They have inspired the humblfounder of this institution. Limited as to thmeans of action, the founder has desired aleast to enable as many as possible tparticipate in what he offers. In the first placehe addresses himself to the honest, hard

working workmen, burdened with familieswhom the want of employment frequentreduces to the most cruel extremities. It is not degrading alms which he offers to his brethrenbut a gratuitous loan he begs them to accep

And he hopes that this loan may frequentprevent them from involving their future bdistressing loans, which they are forced tmake in order to await a return of work, the

only resource for a family of whom they are thsole support. As a guarantee of this loan h



only requires from his brethren an undertakinon honour, and a keeping of the word pledgedHe invests a sum producing an annual incomof twelve thousand francs, and to this amoun

loans of twenty to forty francs, without intereswill be advanced to married men out of worThese loans will only be made to workmen oworkwomen with certificates of good conducgiven by the last employer, who will mention th

cause and date of the suspension from labouThese loans to be repaid monthly by one-sixthor one-tenths', at the option of the borrowebeginning from the day when he aga

procures employment. He must sign a simplengagement, on his honour, to return the loaat the periods fixed. This engagement must balso signed by two fellow workmen aguarantees, in order to develop and extend b

their conjunction the sacredness of the promissworn to. The workman and his two suretiewho do not return the sum borrowed must neveagain have another loan, having forfeited hsacred engagement, and, especially, havin

deprived so many of his brethren of th



advantage he has enjoyed, as the sum he hanot repaid is for ever lost to the Bank for thPoor. The sums lent being, on the contraryscrupulously repaid, the loans will augmen

from year to year. Not to degrade man by loan, not to encourage idleness by aunprofitable gift, to increase the sentiments ohonour and probity natural to the labourinclasses, to come paternally to the aid of th

workman, who, already living with difficulty fromday to day, owing to the insufficiency of wagescannot, when work stops, suspend the wants ohimself and family because his labour

suspended,—these are the thoughts whichave presided over this institution. May HHoly Name who has said 'Love one anotherbe alone glorified!"

Ah, sir," exclaimed the abbé, "what a charitabldea! Now I understand your emotion on readinhese lines of such touching simplicity."

n truth, as he concluded the reading, the voice o

acques Ferrand had faltered, his patience ancourage were at an end; but, watched by Polidor



he dared not infringe Rodolph's slightest order.

M. l'Abbé, is not Jacques's idea excellent?asked Polidori.

Ah, sir, I, who know all the wretchedness of thcity, can more easily comprehend of whamportance may be for poor workmen out oemploy a loan which may seem so trifling to thhappy in this world! Ah, what good may be done persons but knew that with thirty or forty francswhich would be scrupulously repaid, if withounterest, they might often save the future, anometimes the honour of a family, whom the wan

of work places in the grasp of misery and want!"

Jacques values your praises, Monsieur l'Abbéeplied Polidori. "And you will have still more tay to him when you hear of his institution of

gratuitous Mont-de-Piété (pawnbrokinestablishment), for Jacques has not forgotten thisbut made it an adjunct to his Bank for the Poor."

Can it be true?" exclaimed the priest, claspin

his hands in admiration.



The notary contrived to read with a rapid voice thother details, which referred to loans to workmewhose labour was suspended by fatigue olness, and his intention to establish a Bank fo

he Poor producing twenty-five thousand francs year for advances on pledges, which were neveo go beyond ten francs for each pledge, withouany charges for interest. The management anoffice of the loans in the Bank for the Poor was t

be in the Rue du Temple, Number 17, in a housbought for the purpose. An income of tehousand francs a year was to be devoted to thcosts and management of the Bank for the Poo

whose manager was to be—Polidori here interrupted the notary, and said the priest:

You will see, sir, by the choice of the manage

hat Jacques knows how to repair an involuntaerror. You know that by a mistake, which hdeeply deplores, he had falsely accused hcashier of embezzling a sum which he afterward

ound. Well, it is this honest fellow, FrançoGermain by name, that Jacques has named a



manager of the institution, with four thousanrancs a year salary. Is it not admirable, MonsieuAbbé?"

Nothing now can astonish me, or rather nothinever astonished me so much before," the prieseplied; "the fervent piety, the virtues of our worthriend, could only have such a result sooner oater. To devote his whole fortune to so admirable

an institution is most excellent!"

More than a million of francs (40,000l.), MAbbé," said Polidori; "more than a million

amassed by order, economy, and probity! And

here were so many wretches who accuseacques of avarice! By what they said, h

business brings him in fifty or sixty thousanrancs a year, and yet he leads a life oprivations!"

To that I would reply," said the abbé, witenthusiasm, "that during fifteen years he lived lika beggar, in order one day to console those idistress most gloriously."

But be at least roud and o ful at the ood o



do," cried Polidori, addressing Jacques Ferrandwho, gloomy, beaten, and with his eye fixedeemed absorbed in painful meditation.

Alas!" said the abbé, in a tone of sorrow, "it inot in this world that one receives thecompense of so many virtues! There is a highe

ambition."

Jacques," said Polidori, lightly touching thnotary's shoulder, "finish reading youprospectus."

The notary started, passed his hand across h

orehead, and addressing himself to the priesYour pardon, M. l'Abbé," said he, "but I was losn thought; I felt myself involuntarily carried awaby the idea of how immensely the funds of thBank for the Poor' might be augmented if th

ums lent out were, when repaid, allowed taccumulate only for a year. At the end of fouyears, the institution would be in a condition tafford loans, either wholly gratuitously, or upoecurity, to the amount of fifty thousand crowns

Enormous! And I am deli hted to find it so



continued he, as he reflected, with concealeage, on the value of the sacrifice he wa

compelled to make. He then added, "A revenuof ten thousand francs will be secured for th

expenses and management of the 'Bank founemployed Workmen,' whose perpetual directohall be François Germain; and the housekeepehe present porter in the place, an individuanamed Pipelet. M. l'Abbé Dumont, in whos

hands the necessary funds for carrying out thundertaking will be placed, will establish a boarof superintendence, composed of the magistratof the district and other legal functionaries,

addition to all such influential personages whospatronage and support may be likely to advanche interests of the 'Poor Man's Bank;' for thounder would esteem himself more than paid fohe little he has done, should his example induc

other charitable persons to come forward in aid ohis work."

The opening of 'the bank' will be duly announceby every channel calculated to give publicity."

In conclusion, the founder has only to disclaim



any desire to attract notoriety or draw dowapplause, his sole motive being an earnest wiso reëcho the divine precept of 'Love ye onanother!'"

The notary had now concluded; and withoumaking any reply to the congratulations of thabbé, he proceeded to furnish him with the casand notes requisite for the very considerabl

outlay required in carrying out the institution jusdescribed, and purchasing the annuity for Moreafter which he said, "Let me hope, M. l'Abbé, thayou will not refuse the fresh mission confided tyour charity. There is, indeed, a stranger, one S

Walter Murphy, who has given me the benefit ohis advice in drawing up the plan I have lateead to you, who will in some degree relieve yo

of the entire burden of this affair; and this very da

he purposes conversing with you on the besmeans of bringing our schemes to bear, as weas to place himself at your disposal whenever hcan render you the slightest service. To him yomay speak freely and without any reserve, but t

all others I pray of you to preserve the stricteecrec as re ards m self."



You may rely on me. But you are surely ill! Teme, my excellent friend, is it bodily or mental pahat thus blanches your cheek? Are you ill?"

Somewhat indisposed, M. l'Abbé; the fatigue oeading that long paper, added to the emotion

called up by your gratifying praises, havcombined to overcome me; and, indeed, I hav

been a great sufferer during the last few daysPray excuse me," said Jacques Ferrand, as hhrew himself back languidly in his chair; "I do noapprehend any serious consequences from mpresent weakness, but must own I do feel quit

exhausted."

Perhaps," said the priest, kindly, "your best plawould be to retire to bed, and allow your physiciao see you."

I am a physician, M. l'Abbé," said Polidori; "thcondition of my friend Jacques requires thgreatest care, and I shall immediately do my beso relieve his present symptoms."

The notary shuddered.



Well, well," said the curé, "let us hope that a littest is all you require to set you to rights! I will noake my leave; but first let me give you aacknowledgment for the money I have received."

While the priest was writing the receipt, a loowholly impossible to describe passed betweeacques Ferrand and Polidori.

Come, come," said the priest, as he handed thpaper he had written to Jacques Ferrand, "be ogood cheer! Depend upon it, it will be long ere saithful and devout a servant is suffered to quit fe so usefully and religiously employed. I w

come again to-morrow, and inquire how you areAdieu, monsieur! Farewell, my good, my holy, anexcellent friend!"

And with these words the priest quitted th

apartment, leaving Jacques Ferrand and Polidoalone there. No sooner was the door closed thaa fearful imprecation burst from the lips oacques Ferrand, whose rage and despair, s

ong and forcibly repressed, now broke forth witedoubled fury. Breathless and excited, h



continued, with wild and haggard looks, to paco and fro like a furious tiger going the length ohis chain, and then again retracing his infuriatemarch; while Polidori, preserving the mos

mperturbable look and manner, gazed on himwith insulting calmness.

Damnation!" exclaimed Jacques Ferrand, aast, in a voice of concentrated wrath an

violence; "the idea of my fortune being thuwallowed up in founding these humbuggin

philanthropic institutions, and to be obliged tgive away my riches in such absurdities abuilding banks for other people! Your master mus

be the fiend himself to torture a man as he doing me!"

I have no master," replied Polidori, coldly; "onlyke yourself, I have a judge whose decrees ther

s no escaping!"

But thus blindly and idiotically to follow the mosrifling order of this man!" continued JacqueFerrand, with redoubled rage. "To compel me

constrain me, to the very actions most galling an



hateful to me!"

Nay, you have your chance between obediencand the scaffold!"

And to think that there should be no way tescape this accursed domination! To be obligeo part with such a sum as that I lately handeover to that old proser,—a million sterling! Thvery extent of all my earthly possessions are nohis house and about one hundred thousanrancs. What more can he want with me?"

Oh, but you have not done yet! The prince haearned, through Badinot, that your man of strawPetit Jean,' was only your own assumed titleunder which you made so many usurious loans the Count de Remy, whom you so roughly took task for his forgeries. The sums repaid by Sain

Remy were supplied him by a lady of high ranand you may, very probably, be called upon tmake a second restitution in that case, as well ahe former; however, you may escape that iconsequence of the fear entertained of woundin

he delicacy of the noble lender, were the fact



brought before the public."

And fixed, chained here!"

As firmly as though bound by an iron cable!"

With such a wretch as you for my gaoler!"

Why, it is the prince's system to punish crime bcrime,—the guilty by the hand of his accomplice

So how can you object to me?"

Oh, rage!"

But, unhappily, powerless rage; for until he sendme his orders to permit you to leave this house,hall follow you like your shadow! I, like yourse

have placed my head in danger of falling on thcaffold; and should I fail to perform m

prescribed task of gaoler, there it would quick

all. So that, you perceive, my integrity as youkeeper is necessarily incorruptible. And as for ouboth attempting to free ourselves by flight, that wholly impossible. Not a step could we takwithout immediately falling into the hands of thos

who, day and night, keep vigilant watch aroun



and at each door of this house."

Death and fury! I know it."

Then resign yourself to what is inevitable; for

even flight were practicable, what would it do foour ultimate safety? We should be hunted dowby the officers of justice, and speedily overtakenwith certain death before us; while, on thcontrary, by your submitting and muperintending your obedience, we are quite suro keep our heads on our shoulders."

Do not exasperate me by this cool irony, or—"

Well, go on—or what? Oh, bless you, I am noafraid of you or your anger; but I know you too wenot to adopt every precaution. I am well armed,can tell you; and though you may have possesseyourself of the celebrated poisoned stilettcarried by Cecily, it would not be worth your whilo try its power on me. You are aware that I amobliged, every two hours, to send to him who haa right to demand it a bulletin of your preciou

health! Should I not present myself with thequired document, murder would be suspected



and you be taken into custody. But I wrong you upposing you capable of such a crime. Is it likehat, after sacrificing more than a million of moneo save your life, you would place it in danger fo

he poor satisfaction of avenging yourself on mby taking my life? No, no! You are not quite such ool as that, at any rate!"

Oh, misery, misery! Endless and inextricable

Whichever way I turn, I see nothing but death odisgrace! My curse be on you—on all mankind!"

Your misanthropy, then, exceeds youphilanthropy; for while the former embraces th

whole world, the latter merely relates to a smapart of Paris."

Go on, go on, monster! Mock as you will!"

Would you rather I should overwhelm you witeproaches? Whose fault is it but yours that w

are placed in our present position? Why woulyou persist in hanging to that letter of minelative to the murder I assisted you in, whic

gained you one hundred thousand crownsalthou h ou contrived to make it a ear the ma



had fallen by his own hand? Why, I say, did yokeep that letter of mine suspended around youneck, as though it had been a holy relic, instead ohe confession of a crime?"

Why, you contemptible being! Why, becaushaving handed over to you fifty thousand francs foyour share and assistance in the deed, I exacterom you that letter containing an admission o

your participation in the affair, in order that I mighhave that security for your playing me fair; for withat document in existence, to betray me wouhave been to denounce yourself. That letter wahe security, both for my life and fortune. Now ar

you answered as to my reasons for keeping it scarefully about me?"

I see! It was skilfully devised on your part, for bbetraying you I gained nothing but the certainty o

perishing with you on the same scaffold; and yeyour cleverness has ruined us, while mine haassured our safety, up to the present moment."

Great safety, certainly, if our present situation i

aken into consideration!"



Who could foresee the turn things have takenBut according to the ordinary course of eventsour crime would have remained for ever under thame veil of concealment my management ha

hrown over it."

Your management?"

Even so! Why, do you not recollect that, after w

had killed the man, you were for merecounterfeiting his writing, in order to despatch etter as if from himself to his sister, stating hintention of committing suicide in consequence ohaving utterly ruined himself by losses at play

You believed it a great stroke of policy not tmake any mention, in this letter, of the moneentrusted to your charge. This was absurbecause the sister, being aware of the deposeft in your hands, would be sure to claim it; it wawiser to take the contrary path, and makmention, as we did, of the money deposited wityou; so that, should any suspicions arise as to thmanner in which the murdered man met his death

you would be the very last on whom suspiciocould fall; for how could it be supposed for a



nstant that you would first kill a man to obtapossession of the treasure placed under youcare, and then write to inform the sister of the facof the money having been lodged with you? An

what was the consequence of this skilfuggestion on my part? Every one believed th

dead man had destroyed himself. Your higeputation for probity enabled you successfully t

deny the circumstance of any such sum of mone

as that claimed ever having been placed in youhands; and the general impression was, that thunprincipled brother had first dissipated hister's fortune, and then committed suicide."

But what does all this matter now, since thcrime is discovered?"

And who is to be thanked for its discovery? Is my fault if my letter has become a sort of two

edged sword? Why were you so weak, so silly, ao surrender so formidable a weapon to—thanfernal Cecily?"

Silence!" exclaimed Jacques Ferrand, with

earful expression of countenance; "name he



not!"

With all my heart! I don't want to bring on aattack of epilepsy. You see plainly enough that, aegards the common course of ordinary justice

our mutual precautions were quite sufficient tensure our safety; but he who now holds us in hormidable power goes to work differently; hbelieves that cutting off the heads of criminals

not a sufficient reparation for the wrongs thehave done. With the proofs he has against us, hmight give you and myself up to the laws of oucountry; but what would be got by that? Merely couple of dead bodies, to help to enrich th

churchyard."

True, true! This prince, devil, or demon—whichever he is—requires tears, groanswringings of the heart, ere he is satisfied. And ye

is strange he should work so much woe for mewho know him not, neither have ever done him theast harm. Why, then, is he so bitter againsme?"

In the first place, because he professes t



ympathise with the sufferings of other menwhom he calls, simply enough, his brethren; andecondly, because he knows those you havnjured, and he punishes you according to h

deas."

But what right has he to exercise any such poweover me?"

Why, look you, Jacques! Between ourselves it inot worth while to question the right of a man whmight legally consign us to a scaffold. But whawould be the result? Your two only relations arboth dead; consequently government would pro

by your wealth, to the injury of those you havwronged. On the other hand, by making youortune the price of your life, Morel (the father ohe unhappy girl you dishonoured), with hnumerous family, may be placed beyond th

each of want; Madame de Fermont, the sister ohe pretended self-murderer, Renneville, will geback her one hundred thousand crowns; Germainalsely accused by you of robbery, will b

einstated in life, and placed at the head of thBank for distressed Workmen,' which you ar



compelled to found and endow as an expiation foyour many offences against society. And, candidooking at the thing in the same point of view ahe who now holds us in his clutches, it must b

owned that, though mankind would have gainenothing by your death, they will be considerabadvantaged by your life."

And this it is excites my rage, that forms m

greatest torture!"

The prince knows that as well as you do. Anwhat is he going to do with us, after all? I knonot. He promised us our lives, if we would blind

comply with all his orders; but if he should noconsider our past offences sufficiently expiatedhe will find means to make death itself preferabla thousand times to the existence he grants usYou don't know him. When he believes himse

called upon to be stern, no executioner can bmore inexorable and unpitying to the criminal hhand must deprive of life. He must have haome fiend at his elbow, to discover what I wen

nto Normandy for. However, he has more thaone demon at his command; for that Cecily



whom may the descending lightning strike to thearth—"

Again I say, silence! Name her not! Utter not thword Cecily!"

I tell you I wish that every curse may light upoher! And have I not good reason for hating onwho has placed us in our present situation? Buor her, our heads would be safe on ouhoulders, and likely to remain so. To what ha

your besotted passion for that creature broughus!"

nstead of breaking out into a fresh rage, JacqueFerrand replied, with the most extreme dejectionDo you know the person you are speaking of

Tell me, have you ever seen her?"

Never; but I am aware she is reported to be verbeautiful."

Beautiful!" exclaimed the notary, emphaticallyhen, with an expression of bitter despair, hadded, "Cease to speak of that you know noWhat I did you would have done if similar



empted."

What, endanger my life for the love of a woman?

For such a one as Cecily; and I tell you candidly

would do the same thing again, for the samhopes as then led me on."

By all the devils in hell," cried Polidori, in utteamazement, "he is bewitched!"

Hearken to me," resumed the notary, in a lowcalm tone, occasionally rendered more energetby the bursts of uncontrollable despair whicpossessed his mind. "Listen! You know how

much I love gold, as well as all I have ventured tacquire it. To count over in my thoughts the sumspossessed, to see them doubled by my avariceo know myself master of immense wealth, was aonce my joy, my happiness; to possess, not fohe sake of expending or enjoying, but to hoard, tgloat over, was my life, my delight. A month agohad I been told to choose between my fortune anmy head, I should certainly have sacrificed th

atter to save the former."



But what would be the use of possessing all thwealth, if you must die?"

The ecstasy of dying in the consciousness of itpossession; to enjoy till the last moment the deadelightful feeling of being the owner of thosches for which you have braved everything

privations, disgrace, infamy, the scaffold itself, tbe able to say, even as you lay your head on th

atal block,'Those vast treasures are mine!' Ohdeath is far sweeter than to endure the livinagonies I suffer at seeing the riches accumulatewith so much pain, difficulties, and dangers torrom me! Dreadful, dreadful! 'Tis not dying daily

but each minute in the day; and this dreadful statof misery may be protracted for years! Oh, hogreatly should I prefer being struck down by thaudden and rapid death that carries you off er

one fragment of your beloved riches is taken fromyou! For still, with your dying breath, you mighigh forth, 'Those treasures are mine,—all, a

mine! None but me can or dare approach them!'"

Polidori gazed on his accomplice with profounastonishment. "I do not understand you," said he



at last; "if such be the case, why have you obeyehe commands of him whose denunciation of yowould bring you to a scaffold? Why, if life be shorrible to you, have you chosen to accept it at h

hands, and pay the heavy price you are doing fot?"

Because," answered the notary, in a voice thaunk so low as to be scarcely audible, "becaus

death brings forgetfulness—annihilation—anhen, too, Cecily—"

What!" said Polidori, "do you still hope?"

No," said the notary, "I possess—"

What?"

The fond impassioned remembrance of her."

But what folly is this when you are sure never tee her more, and when she has brought you to caffold!"

That matters not; I love her even more ardently

more frantically than ever!" exclaimed JacqueFerrand, amid a torrent of sighs and sobs tha



contrasted strongly with the previous gloomdejection of his last remark. "Yes," continued hewith fearful wildness, "I love her too well to bwilling to die, while I can feast my senses upo

he recollection only of that night—that memorabnight in which I saw her so lovely, so loving, sascinating! Never is her image, as I then behelher, absent from my brain; waking or sleepinghe is ever before me, decked in all th

ntoxicating beauty that was displayed to mmpassioned gaze! Still do her large, lustroueyes seem to dart forth their fiery glances, andalmost fancy I can feel her warm breath on m

cheek, while her clear, melodious voice seemnging its full sounds into my ear with promises obliss, alas, never to be mine! Yet, though to livhus is torturing—horrible—yet would I prefer it the apathy, the still nothingness of the grave. No

no, no; let me live, poor, wretched, despised,—branded galley-slave, if you will,—but give me yehe means of doting in secret on the recollectioof this wonderful being; whether she be fiend oangel, yet does she engross my every thought!"

Jac ues " said Polidori in a voice and manne



contrasting strongly with his habitual tone of cooprovoking sarcasm, "I have witnessed almosevery description of bodily and mental sufferingbut certainly nothing that equalled what yo

endure. He who holds us in his power could nohave devised more cruel torture than that you arcompelled to endure. You are condemned to liveo await death through a vista of long, wastinorments, for your description of your feelings fulexplains to me the many alarming symptomshave observed in you from day to day, and owhich I have hitherto vainly sought to find thcause."

But the symptoms you speak of as alarming arnothing but exhaustion, a sort of reaction of thbodily and mental powers; do you not think soTell me! I am not surely in any danger of dying?"

There is no immediate danger, but your situatios precarious; and there are some thoughts yomust cease to dwell on—nay, banish from youmemory—or your danger is imminent."

I will do whatever you bid me, so that my life b



preserved,—for I will not die. Oh, let priests talk ohe sufferings of the damned, but what are theortures compared to mine? Tormented alike bpassion and avarice, I have two open wound

ankling in my heart, each occasioning mortagony. The loss of my fortune is dreadful, but thear of death is even still more so. I have desireo live; and though my existence may probably bbut one protracted scene of endles

wretchedness, it is preferable to death anannihilation; for it would be the termination of matal happiness,—the power of recalling eacword and look of Cecily!"

You have at least one vast consolation," saiPolidori, resuming his accustomed sang-froid , "he recollection of the good actions by which yohave sought to expiate your crimes!"

Rail on! Mock my misery! Turn me on the hocoals on which my ill fortune has placed me! Buyou well know, mean and contemptible being thayou are, how I hate, how I loathe all mankind, an

hat these forced expiations to which I amcondemned only serve to increase my detestatio



of those who compel me to make them, and thoswho profit by them. By all that is sacred, it passehuman malice to condemn me to live in endlesmisery, such as would dismay the stoutest nature

while my fellow creatures, as they are called, havall their griefs assuaged at the cost of my dearprized treasures! Oh, that priest who but nowquitted us, loading me with blessings while mheart seemed like one vast ocean of fiery gall an

bitterness against himself and all mankind—ohhow I longed to plunge a dagger in his breast! 'Too much—too much for endurance!" cried hepressing his clenched hands to his forehead; "m

brain burns, my ideas become confused, I shanot be able much longer to resist these violenattacks of impotent, futile rage,—these unendinortures; and all through you, Cecily,—fataadored Cecily! Will you ever know all the agonie

have borne on your account, and will you sthaunt me with that mocking smile? Cecily, CecilyBack to the fiends from whom you sprung, andrive me not to destruction!"

All at once a hasty knock was heard at the door ohe a artment. Polidori immediatel o ened



and perceived the principal clerk in the notaryoffice, who, pale and much agitated, exclaimed, must speak with M. Ferrand directly!"

Hush!" answered Polidori, in a low tone, as hcame forth from the room and shut the door aftehim; "he is very ill just now, and cannot bdisturbed on any account."

Then do you, sir, who are M. Ferrand's best anmost intimate friend, step forward to help anassist him; but come quickly, for there is not anstant to be lost!"

What has happened?"By M. Ferrand's orders, I went to-day to th

house of the Countess Macgregor, to say that hwas unable to wait on her to-day, according to he

equest. This lady, who seems quite out of dangeat present, sent for me to her chamber; whenwent in, she exclaimed, in an angry, threateninmanner,'Go back to M. Ferrand, and say to himhat if he is not here in half an hour, or at leas

before the close of the day, he shall be arreste



or felony. The child he passed off as dead is stving; I know into whose hands he gave her up

and I also know where she is at this presenminute.'"

This lady must be out of her senses," criePolidori, shrugging up his shoulders. "Poor thing

I should have thought so myself, but for thconfident manner in which the countess spoke."

I have no doubt but that her illness has affecteher head; and persons labouring under andelusion are always impressed with the mosperfect conviction of the truth of their fancies."

I ought also to state that, just as I was leaving thoom, one of the countess's female attendant

entered all in a hurry, and said, 'His highness wbe here in an hour's time!'"

You are sure you heard those words?" askePolidori.

Quite, quite sure, sir! And I remember it th

more, because I immediately began wondering



my own mind what highness she could mean."

It is quite clear," said Polidori, mentally, "shexpects the prince; but how comes that aboutWhat strange course of events can have inducehim to visit one he ought never again to meet?know not why, but I greatly mistrust this renewal ontimacy. Our position, bad as it is, may even bendered still worse by it." Then, addressin

himself to the clerk, he added, "Depend upon here is nothing of any consequence in thmessage you have brought; 'tis merely the effectof a wandering imagination on the part of thcountess; but, to prevent your feeling an

uneasiness, I promise to acquaint M. Ferrand witdirectly he is well enough to converse upon an

matter of business."

We shall now conduct the reader to the house o

he Countess Sarah Macgregor.



CHAPTER II.

RODOLPH AND SARAH.

A salutary crisis had occurred, which relieved th

Countess Macgregor from the delirium an

uffering under which, for several days, her lif

had been despaired of.

The day had begun to break when Sarah, seate

n a large easy chair, and supported by he

brother, Thomas Seyton, was looking at herself i

a mirror which one of her woman on her kneeheld up before her. This was in the apartmen

where La Chouette had made the attempt t

murder.

The countess was as pale as marble, and hepallor made her dark eyes, hair, and eyebrow

even more striking; and she was attired in

dressing-gown of white muslin. "Give me m

bandeau of coral," she said to one of her women

n a voice which, although weak, was imperiou



and abrupt.

Betty will fasten it on for you," said Seyton; "yo

will exhaust yourself; you are already ve

mprudent."

The bandeau,—the bandeau!" repeated Sarah

mpatiently, who took this jewel and arranged it o

her brow. "Now fasten it, and leave me!" she sai

o the women.

The instant they were retiring, she said, "Let M

Ferrand be shown into the little blue salon." The

he added, with ill-dissembled pride, "As soon a

his royal highness the Grand Duke of Gerolste

comes, let him be introduced instantly to th

apartment."

"Was Looking at Herself in a Mirror" Original

Etching by Adrian Marcel "Was Looking at

Herself in a Mirror "Original Etching by Adrian Marcel

At length," said Sarah, as soon as she wa

alone with her brother, "at length I trust this crow

—the dream of my life: the prediction is on th



eve of fulfilment!"

Sarah, calm your excitement!" said her brother t

her; "yesterday your life was despaired of, and t

be again disappointed would deal you a mort

blow!"

You are right, Thomas; the fall would be fearfu

or my hopes were never nearer realisation! O

his I feel assured, for it was my constant though

of profiting by the overwhelming revelation whic

his woman made me at the moment of he

assassination that prevented me from sinkin

under my sufferings."

Again, Sarah, let me counsel you to beware o

uch insensate dreams,—the awaking would b

errible!"

Insensate dreams! What, when Rodolph learn

hat this young girl, who is now locked up in S

Lazare, and formerly confided to the notary, wh

has passed her off for dead, is our child! Do yo

uppose that—"

Seyton interrupted his sister. "I believe," he said



bitterly, "that princes place reasons of state

political conveniences, before natural duties."

Do you then rely so little on my address?"

The prince is no longer the ingenuous anmpassioned youth whom you attracted an

wayed in other days; that time is long ago, bot

or him and for you, sister."

Sarah shrugged her shoulders, and said, "Do yoknow why I was desirous of placing this bandea

of coral in my hair,—why I put on this white dress

t is because the first time Rodolph saw me at th

court of Gerolstein I was dressed in white, an

wore this very bandeau of coral in my hair."

What!" said Seyton, "you would awake thos

emembrances? Do you not rather fear the

nfluence?"

I know Rodolph better than you do. No doubt m

eatures, changed by time and sufferings, are n

onger those of the young girl of sixteen, whom h

o madly loved,—only loved, for I was his firs

ove; and that love, unique in the life of man



always leaves ineffaceable traces in the hear

Thus, then, brother, trust me that the sight of th

ornament will awaken in Rodolph not only th

ecollection of his love, but those of his youth also

and for men these souvenirs are always sweeand precious."

But these sweet and precious souvenirs will b

united with others so terrible: the siniste

dénouement of your love, the detestablbehaviour of the prince's father to you, you

obstinate silence to Rodolph. After your marriag

with the Count Macgregor, he demanded h

daughter, then an infant,—your child,—of whos

death, ten years since, you informed him so coldn your letter. Do you forget that from that perio

he prince has felt nothing but contempt an

hatred for you?"

Pity has replaced his hatred. Since he haearned that I am dying, he has sent the Baron d

Graün every day to inquire after me; and just now

he has promised to come here; and that is a

mmense concession, brother."



He believes you dying,—that you desire a las

adieu,—and so he comes. You were wrong not t

write to him of the discovery you are about t

disclose to him."

I know why I do so. This discovery will fill him wit

urprise, joy, and I shall be present to profit by hi

rst burst of softened feeling. To-day or never h

will say to me, 'A marriage must legitimise th

birth of our child!' If he says so, his word acred, and then will the hope of my life b

ealised!"

Yes, if he makes you the promise."

And that he may do so, nothing must b

neglected under these decisive circumstances.

know Rodolph; and once having found h

daughter, he will overcome his aversion for me

and will not retreat from any sacrifice to assurher the most enviable lot, to make her as entire

happy as she has been until now wretched."

However brilliant the destiny he may assure t

your daughter, there is, between the reparation ther and the resolution to marry you in order t



egitimise the birth of this child, a very wid

abyss."

Her father will pass over this abyss."

But this unfortunate child has, perhaps, been svitiated by the misery in which she has lived tha

he prince, instead of feeling attracted toward

her—"

What are you saying?" cried Sarah, interruptinher brother. "Is she not as handsome, as a youn

girl, as she was a lovely infant? Rodolph, withou

knowing her, was so deeply interested in her a

o take charge of her future destiny, and sent he

o his farm at Bouqueval, whence we carried he

off."

Yes, thanks to your obstinacy in desiring to brea

all the ties of the prince's affection, in the foolis

hope of one day leading him back to yourself!"

And yet, but for this foolish hope, I should no

have discovered, at the price of my life, the secre

of my daughter's existence. Is it not through th

woman, who had carried her off from the farm



hat I have learned the infamous deceit of th

notary, Ferrand?"

It would have been better to have awaited th

young creature's coming out of prison, before yo

ent to request the Grand Duke to come here."

Awaited! And do I know that the salutary crisis i

which I now am will last until to-morrow? Perhaps

am but momentarily sustained by my ambitio

only."

What proofs have you for the prince, and will h

believe you?"

He will believe me when he reads thcommencement of, the disclosure which I wrot

rom the dictation of that woman who stabbed me

—a disclosure of which I have, fortunately

orgotten no circumstance. He will believe m

when he reads your correspondence wit

Madame Séraphin and Jacques Ferrand, as t

he supposed death of the child; he will believ

me when he hears the confession of the notary

who, alarmed at my threats, will come hermmediately; he will believe me when he sees th



portrait of my daughter at six years of age,

portrait which the woman told me was still

triking resemblance. So many proofs will suffic

o convince the prince that I speak the truth, and t

decide him as to his first impulse, which will makme almost a queen. Oh, if it were but for a day,

could die content!"

At this moment a carriage was heard to enter th

courtyard.

It is he! It is Rodolph!" exclaimed Sarah.

Thomas Seyton drew a curtain hastily aside, an

eplied, "Yes, it is the prince; he is just alightin

rom the carriage."

Leave me! This is the decisive moment!" sai

Sarah, with unshaken coolness; for a monstrou

ambition, a pitiless selfishness, had always bee

and still was the only moving spring of th

woman. Even in the almost miraculou

eappearance of her daughter, she only saw

means of at last arriving at the one end and aim

of her whole existence.



Seyton said to her, "I will tell the prince how you

daughter, believed dead, was saved. Thi

conversation would be too dangerous for you,—

oo violent emotion would kill you; and after s

ong a separation, the sight of the prince, thecollection of bygone times—"

Your hand, brother!" replied Sarah. Then, placin

on her impassive heart Tom Seyton's hand, sh

added, with an icy smile, "Am I excited?"

No, no; not even a hurried pulsation," sai

Seyton, amazed. "I know not what control yo

have over yourself; but at such a moment, when

s for a crown or a coffin you play, your calmnesamazes me!"

And wherefore, brother? Till now, you know

nothing has made my heart beat hastily; and it w

only throb when I feel the sovereign crown upomy brow. I hear Rodolph—leave me!"

When Rodolph entered the apartment, his loo

expressed pity; but, seeing Sarah seated in he

armchair, and, as it were, full dressed, he recoilen surprise, and his features became gloomy an



mistrustful. The countess, guessing his thoughts

aid to him, in a low and faint voice, "You though

o find me dying! You came to receive my las

adieu!"

I have always considered the last wishes of th

dead as sacred, but it appears now as if ther

were some sacrilegious deceit—"

Be assured," said Sarah, interrupting Rodolph

be assured that I have not deceived you!

believe that I have but very few hours to live

Pardon me a last display of coquetry! I wished t

pare you the gloomy symptoms that usual

attend the dying hour, and to die attired as I wahe first time I saw you. Alas, after ten years o

eparation, I see you once again! Thanks, oh

hanks! But in your turn give thanks to God fo

having inspired you with the thought of hearing m

ast prayer! If you had refused me, I should havcarried my secret with me to the grave, which w

now cause the joy, the happiness of your life,—

oy, mingled with some sadness, happiness

mingled with some tears, like all human felicitybut this felicity you would yet purchase at the pric



of half the remainder of your existence!"

What do you mean?" asked the prince, wit

great amazement.

Yes, Rodolph, if you had not come, this secrewould have followed me to the tomb! That woul

have been my sole vengeance. And yet, no, no!

hall not have the courage. Although you hav

made me suffer deeply, I yet must have share

with you that supreme happiness which you, mor

blessed than myself, will, I hope, long enjoy!"

Madame, what does this mean?"

When you know, you will be able to comprehenmy slowness in informing you, for you will view

as a miracle from heaven; but, strange to say,

who with a word can cause you pleasure greate

han you have ever experienced, I experience

although the minutes of my life are counted,

experience an indefinable satisfaction a

prolonging your expectation. And then, I know

your heart; and in spite of the fierceness of you

character, I fear, without preparation, to reveal tyou so incredible a discovery. The emotions o



overwhelming joy have also their dangers."

Your paleness increases, you can scarce

epress your violent agitation," said Rodolph; "a

his indicates something grave and solemn."Grave and solemn!" replied Sarah, in a

agitated voice; for, in spite of her habitua

mpassiveness, when she reflected on th

mmense effect of the disclosure she was abou

o make to Rodolph, she was more troubled tha

he believed possible; and, unable any longer t

estrain herself, she exclaimed, "Rodolph, ou

daughter lives!"

Our daughter!"

Lives, I say!"

These words, the accents of truth in which the

were pronounced, shook the prince to his veheart. "Our child!" he repeated, going hurriedly t

he chair in which Sarah was, "our child—m

daughter!"

Is not dead, I have irresistible proof; I know



where she is; to-morrow you shall see her."

My daughter! My daughter!" repeated Rodolph

with amazement. "Can it be that she lives?" Then

uddenly reflecting on the improbability of such a

event, and fearing to be the dupe of some fres

reachery on Sarah's part, he cried, "No, no, it is

dream! Impossible! I know your ambition—o

what you are capable—and I see through the dr

of this proposed treachery!"

Yes, you say truly; I am capable of all—

everything! Yes, I desired to abuse you; som

days before the mortal blow was struck, I sough

o find out some young girl that I might present tyou as our daughter. After this confession, you w

perhaps believe me, or, rather, you will b

compelled to credit irresistible evidence. Yes

Rodolph, I repeat I desired to substitute a youn

and obscure girl for her whom we both deplorebut God willed that at the moment when I wa

arranging this sacrilegious bargain, I should b

almost fatally stabbed!"

You—at this moment!"



God so willed it that they should propose to m

o play the part of falsehood—imagine whom

Our daughter!"

Are you delirious, in heaven's name?"Oh, no, I am not delirious! In this caske

containing some papers and a portrait, which w

prove to you the truth of what I say, you will find

paper stained with my blood!"

Your blood!"

The woman who told me that our daughter wa

till living declared to me this disclosure when sh

tabbed me with her dagger."

And who was she? How did she know?"

It was she to whom the child was confided whe

very young, after she had been declared dead."

But this woman? Can she be believed? How di

you know her?"

I tell you, Rodolph, that this is all fated—

providential! Some months a o you snatched



young girl from misery, to send her to the country

ealousy and hatred possessed me. I had he

carried off by the woman of whom I have bee

peaking."

And they took the poor girl to St. Lazare?"

Where she is still."

She is there no longer. Ah, you do not know

madame, the fearful evil you have occasioned mby snatching the unfortunate girl away from th

etreat in which I had placed her; but—"

The young girl is no longer at St. Lazare!" crie

Sarah, with dismay; "ah, what fearful news his!"

A monster of avarice had an interest in he

destruction. They have drowned her, madame

But answer! You say that—"

My daughter!" exclaimed Sarah, interruptin

Rodolph, and standing erect, as straight an

motionless as a statue of marble.

What does she say? Good heaven!" crie



Rodolph.

My daughter!" repeated Sarah, whose feature

became livid and frightful in their despair. "The

have murdered my daughter!"

The Goualeuse your daughter!" uttered Rodolph

etreating with horror.

The Goualeuse! Yes, that was the name whic

he woman they call the Chouette used. Dead—dead!" repeated Sarah, still motionless, with he

eyes fixed. "They have killed her!"

Sarah!" said Rodolph, as pale and as fearful t

ook upon as the countess; "be calm,—recoveyourself,—answer me! The Goualeuse,—th

young girl whom you had carried off by th

Chouette from Bouqueval,—was she ou

daughter?"

Yes. And they have killed her!"

Oh, no, no; you are mad! It cannot be! You do no

know! No, no; you cannot tell how fearful th

would be! Sarah, be firm,—speak to me calmly,—



it down,—compose yourself! There are ofte

esemblances, appearances which deceive if w

are inclined to believe what we desire. I do no

eproach you; but explain yourself to me, tell m

all the reasons which induced you to think this; fot cannot be,—no, no, it cannot be,—it is not so!"

After a moment's pause, the countess collecte

her thoughts, and said to Rodolph, in a falterin

voice, "Learning your marriage, and thinking omarrying myself, I could not keep our child wit

me; she was then four years of age."

But at that time I begged her of you with prayers

entreaties," cried Rodolph, in a heartrending toneand my letters were unanswered; the only on

you wrote to me announced her death!"

I was desirous of avenging myself of you

contempt by refusing your child. It was shamefubut hear me! I feel my life ebbs from me; this las

blow has overcome me!"

No, no, I do not believe you; I will not believe you

The Goualeuse my daughter! Oh, mon Dieu ! Yowould not have this so!"



Listen to me! When she was four years old, m

brother charged Madame Séraphin, the widow o

an old servant, to bring the child up until she wa

old enough to go to school. The sum destined tupport our child was deposited by my brothe

with a notary, celebrated for his honesty. Th

etters of this man and Madame Séraphin

addressed at the time to me and my brother, ar

here, in the casket. At the end of a year thewrote me word that my daughter's health wa

ailing,—eight months afterwards that she wa

dead, and they sent the register of her decease

At this time Madame Séraphin had entered th

ervice of Jacques Ferrand, after having giveour daughter over to the Chouette, through th

medium of a wretch who is now at the galleys a

Rochefort. I was writing down all this when th

Chouette stabbed me. This paper is there alsowith a portrait of our daughter when four years o

age. Examine all,—letters, declaration, portrait,—

and you who have seen her, the unhappy child

will judge—"

These words exhausted Sarah, and she fe



ainting into her armchair.

Rodolph was thunderstruck at this disclosure

There are misfortunes so unforeseen, so horrible

hat we try not to believe them until th

overwhelming evidence compels us. Rodolph

persuaded of the death of Fleur-de-Marie, ha

but one hope,—that of convincing himself that sh

was not his daughter. With a frightful calmnes

hat alarmed Sarah, he approached the tableopened the casket, and began to read the letters

examining with scrupulous attention the paper

which accompanied them.

These letters, bearing the postmark, and datedwritten to Sarah and her brother by the notary an

Madame Séraphin, related to the infancy of Fleu

de-Marie, and the investment of the mone

destined for her. Rodolph could not doubt th

authenticity of this correspondence.

The Chouette's declaration was confirmed by th

particulars collected at Rodolph's desire, in whic

a felon named Pierre Tournemine, then a

Rochefort, was described as the individual wh



had received Fleur-de-Marie from the hands o

Madame Séraphin, for the purpose of giving he

up to the Chouette,—the relentless tormentor o

her early years,—and whom she afterwards s

unexpectedly recognised when in company witRodolph at the tapis-franc of the ogress.

The attestation of the child's death was du

drawn up and attested, but Ferrand himself ha

confessed to Cecily that it had merely beeemployed to obtain possession of a considerabl

um of money due to the unfortunate infant, whos

decease it so falsely recorded, and who ha

ubsequently been drowned by his order whil

crossing to the Isle du Ravageur.

t was, therefore, with appalling convictio

Rodolph learnt at once the double facts of th

Goualeuse being his long-lost daughter, and o

her having perished by a violent deathUnfortunately, everything seemed to give greate

certitude to his belief, and to render further doub

mpossible. Ere the prince could bring himself t

place implicit credence in the self-condemnatioof Jacques Ferrand, as conveyed in the note



urnished by him to Cecily, he had made th

closest inquiries at Asnières, and ha

ascertained that two females, one old, the othe

young, dressed in the garb of countrywomen, ha

been drowned while crossing the river to the Isldu Ravageur, and that Martial was open

accused of having committed this fresh crime.

Let us add, in conclusion, that, despite the utmos

care and attention on the part of Doctor GriffonCount de Saint-Remy, and La Louve, Fleur-de

Marie was long ere she could be pronounced ou

of danger, and then so extreme was he

exhaustion, both of body and mind, that she ha

been unfit for the least conversation, and wholunequal to making any effort to apprise Madam

Georges of her situation.

This coincidence of circumstances left the princ

without the smallest shadow of hope; but hauch even remained, it was doomed to disappea

before a last and fatal proof of the reality of h

misfortune. He, for the first time, ventured to ca

his eyes towards the miniature he had received

The blow fell with stunning conviction on his hear



or in the exquisitely beautiful features it revealed

ch in all the infantine loveliness ascribed t

cherubic innocence, he recognised the strikin

portrait of Fleur-de-Marie,—her finely chiselle

nose, the lofty forehead, with the small, delicateormed mouth, even then wearing an expressio

of sorrowing tenderness. Alas! Had not Madam

Séraphin well accounted for this somewha

uncommon peculiarity in an infant's face b

aying, in a letter written by her to Sarah, whicRodolph had just perused, "The child

continually inquiring for its mother, and seems t

grieve very much at not seeing her." There wer

also those large, soft, blue eyes, "the colour of blue-bell," as the Chouette observed to Sarah

upon recognising in this miniature the features o

he unfortunate creature she had so ruthless

ormented as Pegriotte, and as a young girl unde

he appellation of La Goualeuse. At the sight ohis picture the violent and tumultuous emotions o

he prince were lost amid a flood of mingled tear

and sighs.

While Rodolph thus indulged his bitter grief, thcountenance of Sarah become owerful



agitated; she saw the last hope which had hithert

ustained her of realising the ambitious dream

of her life fade away at the very moment when sh

had expected their full accomplishment.

All at once Rodolph raised his head, dashe

away his tears, and, rising from his chai

advanced towards Sarah with folded arms an

dignified, determined air. After silently gazing o

her for some moments, he said:

'Tis fair and right it should be so! I raised m

word against my father's life, and I am stricke

hrough my own child! The parricide is worthi

punished for his sin! Then, listen to me, madameTis fit you should learn in this agonising momen

all the evils which have been brought about b

your insatiate ambition, your unprinciple

elfishness! Listen, then, heartless and unfeelin

wife, base and unnatural mother!"

Mercy, mercy! Rodolph, pity me, and spare me!

There is no pity, there can be no pardon for suc

as you, who coldly trafficked in a love pure an



incere as was mine, with the assumed pretext o

haring a passion generous and devoted as wa

my own for you. There can be no pity for her wh

excites the son against the father, no pardon fo

he unnatural parent who, instead of carefulwatching over the infancy of her child, abandons

o the care of vile mercenaries, in order to satisf

her grasping avarice by a rich marriage, as yo

ormerly gratified your inordinate ambition b

espousing me. No! There is no mercy, pity, opardon for one who, like yourself, first refuses m

child to all my prayers and entreaties, an

afterwards, by a series of profane and vil

machinations, causes her death! May Heavencurse light on you, as mine does, thou evil geniu

of myself and all belonging to me!"

He has no relenting pity in his heart! He is dea

o all my appeals! Wretched woman that I am! Oheave me—leave me—I beseech!"

Nay, you shall hear me out! Do you remembe

our last meeting, now seventeen years ago? Yo

were unable longer to conceal the consequence

of our secret marriage, which, like you, I believe



ndissoluble. I well knew the inflexible character o

my father, as well as the political marriage h

wished me to form; but braving alike h

displeasure and its results, I boldly declared t

him that you were my wife before God and manand that ere long you would bring into the world

proof of our love. My father's rage was terrible; h

efused to believe in our union. Such startlin

opposition to his will appeared to him impossible

and he threatened me with his heaviesdispleasure if I presumed again to insult his ea

by the mention of such folly. I then loved you with

passion bordering on madness. Led away b

your wiles and artifices, I believed your cold, stonheart felt a reciprocity of tenderness for me, and

herefore unhesitatingly replied that I never woul

call any woman wife but yourself. At these word

his fury knew no bounds. He heaped on you th

most insulting epithets, exclaiming that thmarriage I talked of was null and void, and that t

punish you for your presumption in daring even t

hink of such a thing, he would have you public

exposed in the pillory of the city. Yielding alike t

he violence of my mad passion, and th



mpetuosity of my disposition, I presumed t

orbid him, who was at once my parent and m

overeign, speaking thus disrespectfully of one

oved far beyond my own life, and I even went s

ar as to threaten him if he persisted in so doingExasperated at my conduct, my father struck me

Blinded by rage, I drew my sword, and thre

myself on him with deadly fury. Happily th

ntervention of Murphy turned away the blow, an

aved me from being as much a parricide deed as I was in intention. Do you hear me

madame? A parricide! And in your defence!"

Alas! I knew not this misfortune."

In vain have I sought to expiate my crime. Th

blow to-day is sent by Heaven's avenging hand t

epay my heavy crime."

But have I not sufficiently suffered from thnveterate enmity of your father, who dissolved ou

marriage? Wherefore add to my misery by doubt

of the sincerity of my affection for you?"

Wherefore?" exclaimed Rodolph, darting on heooks of the most withering contempt. "Learn no



my reasons, and cease to wonder at the loathin

horror with which you inspire me. After the fata

cene in which I had threatened the life of m

ather, I surrendered my sword, and was kept i

he closest confinement. Polidori, through whosnstrumentality our union had been effected, wa

arrested; and he distinctly proved that ou

marriage had never been legally contracted, th

minister, as well as the other persons concerne

n its solemnisation, being merely creatureutored and bribed by him; so that both you, you

brother, and myself, were equally deceived. Th

more effectually to turn away my father's wrat

rom himself, Polidori did still more; he gave uone of your letters to your brother, which he ha

managed to intercept during a journey taken b

Seyton."

Heavens! Can it be possible?"Can you now account for my contempt an

aversion towards you?"

Too, too well!"

In this letter ou develo ed our ambitiou



projects with unblushing effrontery. Me you spok

of with the utmost indifference, treating me but a

he blind instrument by which you should arrive a

he princely station predicted for you. Yo

expressed your opinion that my father had alreadved long enough,—perhaps too long; and hinte

at probabilities and possibilities too horrible t

epeat!"

Alas! All is now but too apparent. I am lost foever!"

And yet to protect you, I had even menaced m

ather's existence!"

When he next visited me, and, without utterin

one word of reproach, put into my hands you

etter, every line of which more clearly reveale

he black enormity of your nature, I could but kne

before him and entreat his pardon. But from thahour I have been a prey to the deepest, the mos

acute remorse. I immediately quitted Germany fo

he purpose of travelling, with the intent,

possible, of expiating my guilt; and this sel

mposed task I shall continue while I live. T



eward the good, to punish the evil-doer, reliev

hose who suffer, penetrate into every hideou

corner where vice holds her court, for the purpos

of rescuing some unfortunate creatures from th

destruction into which they have fallen,—such he employment I have marked out for myself."

It is a noble and holy task,—one worthy of bein

performed by you."

If I speak of this sacred vow," said Rodolph

disdainfully, "it is not to draw down you

approbation or praise. But hearken to wha

emains to be told; I have lately arrived in France

and I wished not to let my great purpose ocontinual expiatory acts stand still during m

ojourn in this country. While I sought then t

uccour those of good reputation, who were

unmerited distress, I was also desirous o

knowing that class of miserable beings who arbeaten down, trampled under feet, and brutalise

by want and wretchedness, well knowing tha

mely help, a few kind and encouraging words

may frequently have power to save a lost creatur

rom the abyss into which he is falling. In order t



be an eye-witness of the circumstances unde

which my work of expiation would be useful,

assumed the dress and appearance of those

wished to mix with. It was during one of thes

exploring adventures that I first encountered—Then, as though shuddering at the idea of s

errible a disclosure, Rodolph, after a momenta

hesitation, added, "No, no; I have not courage t

nish the dreadful story!"

For the love of heaven, tell me what horror hav

you now to unfold?"

You will hear it but too soon! But," added he, wit

arcastic bitterness, "you seem to take so livean interest in past events that I cannot refrain from

elating to you a few events which preceded m

eturn to France. After passing some time in m

ravels, I returned to Germany, filled with a spirit o

obedience to my father, by whose desire espoused a princess of Prussia. During m

absence you had been banished from the Gran

Duchy. Subsequently, learning your marriage wit

Count Macgregor, I again entreated you to allow

me to have my child. To this earnest request n



answer was returned; nor could my strictes

nquiries ever discover whither you had sent th

unfortunate infant, for whom my father had made

handsome provision. About ten years ago

eceived a letter from you, stating that our chilwas dead. Would to God your information ha

been correct, and that she had indeed rendere

up her innocent life at that tender age! I shoul

hen have been spared the deep, incurabl

anguish which must for ever embitter my life!"

I cease now to wonder," said Sarah, in a feebl

voice, "at the disgust and aversion with which

eem to have inspired you; and I feel, too surely

hat I shall not survive this last blow. You are righpride and ambition have been my ruin. Ignorant o

he just causes you had to hate and despise me

my former hopes returned with greater force tha

ever. Our mutual widowhood inspired me with till stronger belief in the prediction whic

promised me a crown; and when, by singula

chance, I again found my daughter, it appeared t

me as though the hand of Providence ha

bestowed this unhoped-for good fortune on me turther m so lon cherished lans. Yes I w



confess that I went so far as to persuade myse

hat, spite of the aversion you entertained for me

you would bestow on me your name, and that, ou

of regard for your child, you would accept me a

your wife, if but to elevate her to the rank to whiche is entitled."

Then let your execrable ambition be satisfied

and punished as it deserves; for, spite of th

abhorrence I now hold you in, I would, out of lovor my child, or, rather, from a deep pity for it

early sorrows,—I would, although firm

determined always to live apart from you, by

marriage which should have legitimised m

daughter, have rendered her future lot as brillian

and exalted as her past life has been wretched."

I had not, then, deceived myself? Oh, misery! T

hink it is now too late!"

Oh, I am well aware it is not your child you regre

but the loss of that rank you have so eagerly an

obstinately striven to obtain. May your unfeelin

and disgraceful regrets pursue you to your grave



Then they will not long torment me; for I feel I sha

not long survive this final ending of all m

ambitious schemes."

But ere your existence closes, it is but fair an

ust you should be made aware what sort of lif

your poor deserted child's has been. Do yo

ecollect the night on which you and your brothe

ollowed me into a den in the Cité?"

Perfectly! But why this question? It freezes m

with horror; your looks fill me with dread!"

As you approached this low haunt of vice, yo

aw—did you not?—standing at the corners o

he low streets with which that neighbourhoo

abounds, groups of poor, unfortunate, guilt

creatures, who—who—But I cannot finish th

dreadful tale!" cried Rodolph, concealing his fac

with his hands. "I dare not proceed; my owwords affright me!"

As they do me! What more have I to learn?"

You saw them, I ask,—did you not?" resume

Rodolph, making a powerful struggle to overcom



his emotion. "You observed these base an

degraded creatures, the shame and disgrace o

heir own sex? But did you remark among them

young girl of about sixteen years of age, lovely a

an angel,—a poor child, who, amid the infamy which she had lived during the last few weeks, st

etained a look so pure, so innocent, and goo

hat even the ruffians by whom she wa

urrounded called her Fleur-de-Marie? Did yo

observe this,—this fair, this interesting beingAnswer,—answer,—tender, exemplary mother!"

No!" answered Sarah, almost mechanically;

did not observe the young person you speak of

But the teeth rattled in Sarah's head as shpoke, and her whole frame seemed oppresse

with a vague though fearful dread of coming evil.

Indeed!" cried Rodolph, with a sardonic smile

Indeed! I am surprised at that! Well, I did remarand upon the following occasion. Listen attentive

o what I am about to relate! During one of th

exploring excursions I before spoke of, I foun

myself in the Cité, not far from the den to whic

you followed me. A man was just going to bea



one of the unfortunate creatures who her

ogether there; I interposed, and saved her from

his brutal rage. Now then, careful, kind, an

anxious mother, tell me, if you can, whom it was

aved! Can you not guess? Speak! Say youheart whispers to you who was the miserabl

being I found in this sink of wickedness an

pollution! You know, do you not, without m

assistance?"

No, no,—I cannot say! I beseech you to go—an

eave me to my thoughts!"

Then I will tell you who the wretched, tremblin

creature I thus saved from brutal violence wasHer name was Fleur-de-Marie!"

Merciful powers!"

And is it possible that you, most irreproachabl

of mothers, that you cannot divine who Fleur-de

Marie was?"

Be merciful, and kill me; but torture me not thus!

She was your daughter—known as th



Goualeuse!" cried Rodolph, with almost frant

violence. "Yes, the helpless girl I rescued from th

hands of a felon was my own, my lost child!—th

offspring of Rodolph of Gerolstein! Oh, there wa

n this meeting with a daughter I unconsciousaved a visible interposition of the hand o

Providence! It brought a blessing to the man wh

had striven so earnestly to succour his fellow me

and it conveyed a well-merited chastisement fo

he impious wretch who had dared to aim at hather's life!"

Alas!" murmured Sarah, falling back in he

armchair, and concealing her face with her hands

my destiny is accomplished! I die, carrying witme out of the world the curse both of God an

man!"

And when," continued Rodolph, with muc

difficulty restraining his resentment, and vaintriving to repress the sobs which from time t

me interrupted his voice, "when I had release

her from the ill-usage with which she wa

menaced, struck with the indescribabl

weetness of her voice and manner, as well as b



he angelic expression of her lovely countenance

found it impossible to abandon the interest sh

excited in me. I led her on to tell me the history o

her life, made up of neglect, grief, and misery

With what simple eloquence did she express thyearnings of a heart that had never expanded int

virtue beneath a mother's fostering care after

fe of innocence, and how touchingly did sh

dwell on the the destitution which had led he

where she was! Ah, madame, to have broughdown your pride and haughtiness, you shoul

have listened as I did while your daughte

described her early years as passed in shiverin

beggary, soliciting charity in the streets all dayand at night, when the cold winter's wind pierce

hrough the few rags she wore, creeping to he

bed of straw strewn in the corner of a wretche

garret; and when the horrible old hag who torture

her had exhausted every other means of inflictinpain on her, what do you think she did, madame

Why, wrenched out her teeth! And all this starvin

and desolation was experienced by your ow

child, while you were revelling in every sort o

uxury, and indulging in ambitious dreams o



haring a crown!"

Oh, that I could die, and so escape the diref

agony I suffer!"

Nay you have more to hear! Escaping from thhands of the Chouette, wandering abou

penniless and starving, at the tender age of on

en years she was taken up as a vagabond, an

as such thrown into prison. And yet, madame, tha

period was the happiest your poor deserted chil

had ever known. And each night, thoug

urrounded by her prison walls, she grateful

hanked God that she no longer suffered from

hunger, thirst, or blows. It was in a prison shpassed those years so precious to the well-bein

of a young female, those years over which a goo

and affectionate mother so carefully and anxious

watches. As her sixteenth year commenced, you

daughter, instead of being surrounded by thender solicitude of loving relatives, and enriche

with all the gifts of education, had seen an

known nothing more edifying or elevated than th

brutal indifference of her gaolers. Yet this natural

pure-minded, beautiful, and ingenuous creatur



was at that dangerous moment sent forth from he

afe asylum—a gaol—and left to wander unaide

and unprotected in a world of which she knew s

ttle! Unfortunate, deserted, friendless child

continued Rodolph, giving free vent to the swellinobs which had continually impeded his voice

yours was, indeed, a bitter lot, thrown thus youn

and helpless amid the mire and pollution of

great city!

"They Took Her to Their Guilty Haunts" Original

Etching by Mercier "They Took Her to Their

Guilty Haunts"Original Etching by Mercier

Ah, madame!" cried he, addressing Sarah

however cold, hard, and selfish your heart ma

be, you could not have refrained from weeping a

he recital of your poor, neglected child's miser

and privations! Poor, hapless girl! Sullied, but nocorrupted; chaste in heart even amid th

degradation into which she had fallen; for eac

word she uttered breathed the most unfeigne

horror and disgust at the mode of life to which sh

was so fatally condemned. Oh, could you but hav



known what delicate thoughts, what noble, high

minded inspirations were betrayed in her ever

word and action! How good, how feeling, ho

nnately charitable was her nature! For it was t

elieve a degree of misery even greater than heown that she exhausted the small sum of mone

he had received on quitting her prison, an

which, while it lasted, formed her only defenc

rom the abyss of infamy into which she wa

afterwards plunged; for there came a time,—hideous time, when, without employment, food, o

helter, some horrible women found her almos

perishing from weakness and want of suppor

Under pretence of aiding her, they took her their guilty haunts, administered intoxicatin

drugs, and—and—"

Rodolph could proceed no further. He uttered

distracting cry, and exclaimed, "And this was mchild!"

May Heaven's punishment be on me for what

have done!" said Sarah, hiding her face a

hough she feared to meet the light of day.



Ay!" exclaimed Rodolph. "And it will assured

cling to you all your life, and haunt even your dyin

pillow; for it is your neglect and abandonment o

all a mother's most sacred duties which have le

o all these horrors. Accursed may you ever be foyour double wickedness towards your unoffendin

child! For even after I had succeeded in removin

her from the guilt and pollution by which she wa

urrounded, and had placed her in a safe an

peaceful asylum, you set your vile accomplices oo tear her thence! My curse be for ever on you

For it was owing to your causing her to be forcib

carried off which threw her back into the power o

acques Ferrand."As Rodolph pronounced this name he sudden

topped and shuddered. The features of th

prince assumed an expression of concentrate

age and hatred impossible to describe; mutand motionless he stood, as though crushed t

he earth by the reflection that the murderer of h

child was still in existence.

Spite of the increasing weakness of Sarah an

he agitation caused by this interview wit



Exhausted and alarmed, Sarah uttered a scream

as though she really beheld the phantom of he

child, exclaiming, "Forgive me! I am dying!"

Die then, accursed woman!" shouted Rodolph

wild with fury. "Now I must have the life of you

accomplice, for it was you who delivered you

child to this monster!"

And hastening from the apartment, Rodolp

ordered himself to be rapidly driven to th

esidence of Jacques Ferrand.

CHAPTER III.

LOVE'S FRENZY.

t was nightfall when Rodolph went to the notary's

The pavilion occupied by Jacques Ferrand wa

plunged in the deepest obscurity; the wind roare

and the rain fell as it did on the terrible night wheCecily, before she quitted the notary's abode fo



ever, had excited the passions of that man t

renzy. Extended on his bed, feebly lighted up b

a lamp, Jacques Ferrand was dressed in a blac

coat and waistcoat. One of the sleeves of his shi

was tucked up and spotted with blood; a ligaturof red cloth, which was to be seen on his nervou

arm, announced that he had been bled b

Polidori, who, standing near his bed, leaned on

hand on the couch, and seemed to watch h

accomplice's features with uneasiness. Nothincould be more frightfully hideous than wa

acques Ferrand, whilst plunged in tha

omnolent torpor which usually succeeds violen

crises. Of an ashy paleness, his face wabedewed with a cold sweat, and his close

eyelids were so swollen, so injected with blood

hat they appeared like two red balls in the centr

of his cadaverous countenance.

Another such an attack and he is a dead man

exclaimed Polidori, in a low voice. "All the writer

on this subject have agreed that all who ar

attacked by this strange and frightful malad

usually sink under it on the seventh day, and it inow six da s since that infernal creole kindled th



The storm still howled without, and Polidor

hrowing himself into an armchair, exclaimed

What a night! What a night! Nothing could b

worse for Jacques's present state. Yes," h

continued, "the prince is pitiless, and it woul

have been a thousand times better for Ferrand t

have allowed his head to fall upon a scaffold

better fire, the wheel, molten lead, which burn

and eats into the flesh, than the miserablpunishment he endures! As I see him suffer

begin to feel affright for my own fate! What w

become of me? What is in reserve for me as th

accomplice of Jacques? To be his gaoler will no

uffice for the prince's vengeance. Perhaps perpetual imprisonment in the prisons o

Germany awaits me! But that is better than death

Yet I know that the prince's word is sacred! But

who have so often violated all laws, human an

divine, dare I invoke a sworn promise? Inasmuc

as it was to my interest that Jacques should no

escape, so will it be equally my interest to prolon

his days. But his symptoms grow worse an

worse; nothing but a miracle can save him. Whas to be done? What is to be done?"



At this moment, a crash without, occasioned b

he fall of a stack of chimneys, roused Jacque

Ferrand, and he turned on his bed.

Polidori became more and more under thnfluence of the vague terror which had seized o

him. "It is folly to believe in presentments," h

aid, in a troubled voice; "but the night seems t

me very appalling!"A heavy groan from the notary attracted Polidori'

attention. "He is awaking from his torpor," h

aid, approaching his bed very quietly; "perhap

another crisis may ensue!"Polidori!" muttered Jacques Ferrand, st

extended on the bed, and with his eyes closed

Polidori, what noise was that?"

A chimney that fell," replied Polidori, in a lowvoice, fearing to strike too loudly on the hearing o

his accomplice. "A fearful tempest shakes th

house to its foundation; it is a horrible night!"

The notary did not hear, and replied, turning awa



his head, "Polidori, you are not there, then?"

Yes, yes, I am here," said Polidori, in a loude

voice; "but I answered gently for fear of giving yo

pain."

No; I hear you now without any pain such as I ha

ust now, for then it seemed as if the least nois

burst like thunder on my brain. And yet in th

midst of it all,—of these horrible sufferings,—

distinguish the thrilling voice of Cecily, who wa

calling to me—"

Still that infernal woman! But drive away thes

houghts,—they will kill you."

These thoughts are life to me, and, like my life

hey resist all tortures."

Madman that you are, it is these thoughts tha

cause your tortures! Your illness is your sensuarenzy, which has attained its utmost height. Onc

again, drive from your brain these thoughts or yo

will die."

Drive away these thoughts!" cried Ferrand. "Oh



never, never! When my pains give me on

moment's repose, Cecily, the demon whom

cherish and curse, rises before my eyes!"

What incredible fury! It frightens me!"

There,—now!" said the notary, with a hars

voice, and his eyes fixed on a dark corner of th

oom. "I see now the outline of an obscure an

white form; there—there!" and he extended h

hairy and bony finger in the direction of his sigh

There,—there she is!"

Jacques, this is death to you!"

Yes, I see her!" continued Ferrand, with his teetclenched, and not replying to Polidori. "There sh

s! And how beautiful! How her black hair float

gracefully down her shoulders, and her sma

white teeth, shining between her half opened lip

—her lips so red and humid! What pearls! An

how her black eyes sparkle and die! Cecily," h

added, with inexpressible excitement, "I ador

you!"

Jacques, do not excite yourself with suc



visions!"

It is not a vision."

Mind, mind! Just now, you know, you imagine

you heard this woman's love-songs, and youhearing was suddenly smitten with horrible agony

Mind, I say!"

Leave me,—leave me! What is the use o

hearing but to hear, of seeing but to see?"

But the tortures which follow, miserable wretch!"

I will brave them all for a deceit, as I have brave

death for a reality; and to me this burning imags reality. Ah, Cecily, you are beautiful! Yet wh

orture me thus? Would you kill me? Ah

execrable fury, cease,—cease, or I will strangl

hee!" cried the notary, in delirium.

You kill yourself, unhappy man!" exclaime

Polidori, shaking the notary violently, in order t

ouse him from his excitement. In vain; Jacque

continued:

Oh, beloved queen, demon of delight, never did



ee—" The notary could not finish; he uttered

udden cry of pain and threw himself back.

What is it?" inquired Polidori, with astonishment

Put out that candle—it shines too brightly. cannot endure it—it blinds me!"

What!" said Polidori, more and more surprised

There is but one lamp covered with its shade

and that shines very feebly."

I tell you, the light increases here. Now, again—

again! Oh, it is too much; it is intolerable!" adde

acques Ferrand, closing his eyes with a

expression of increasing suffering.

You are mad—the room is scarcely lighted. I te

you, open your eyes and you will see."

Open my eyes! Why, I shall be blinded borrents of burning light, with which this room

lled. Here! There! On all sides, there are rays o

re—millions of dazzling scintillations!" cried th

notary, sitting up. And then again shrieking, h

fted both his hands to his eyes: "But I am blind



uddenly extinguished the lamp, and they wer

both in perfect darkness. At this moment th

noise of a carriage was heard at the door in th

treet. When the chamber had been rendere

entirely dark in which Polidori and Ferrand werehe latter was somewhat relieved from h

extreme pains.

Where are you going?" said Polidori, suddenly

when he heard Jacques Ferrand rise, for thdeepest obscurity reigned in the apartment.

I am going to find Cecily!"

You shall not go; the sight of that room would k

you!"

Cecily awaits me up there!"

You shall not go—I will prevent you!" sai

Polidori, seizing the notary by the arm.

acques Ferrand having reached the extremity o

exhaustion, was unable to contend with Polidor

who grasped him with a powerful clutch. "Wha

would you prevent me from seeking Cecily?"



grope his way in darkness to the door.

Oh," murmured Polidori, "my arm become

benumbed—a deathlike coldness seizes on m

—my knees tremble under me—my blood freeze

n my veins—my head whirls around. Help, help

die!" And he fainted.

The crash of glass doors, opened with so muc

violence that several panes of glass were broke

o atoms, the resounding voice of Rodolph, an

he noise of hastily approaching steps, seemed t

eply to Polidori's cry of anguish.

acques Ferrand having at length discovered th

ock of the door, opened it suddenly, with hi

dangerous stiletto in his hand. At the sam

nstant, as menacing and formidable as th

genius of vengeance, the prince entered th

apartment from the other side.

Monster!" he exclaimed, advancing toward

acques Ferrand, "it was my daughter whom yo

have killed! You are going—" The prince coul

not conclude, but recoiled in amazement.



t would seem as if his words had been

hunderbolt to Ferrand, for, casting away h

dagger, and raising both his hands to his eyes

he unhappy wretch fell with his face to the ground

uttering a cry that was scarcely human.

To complete the phenomenon which we hav

attempted to describe, and the action whic

profound obscurity had suspended, whe

acques Ferrand entered the apartment sbrilliantly lighted up, he was struck with a

overwhelming vertigo, just as though he had bee

uddenly cast into the midst of a torrent of light a

blazing as the disk of the sun. It was a fearf

pectacle to see the agony of this man, who wawisting in convulsions, tearing the floor with h

nails, as if he would have dug himself a hole t

escape from the atrocious tortures occasioned b

his powerful light. Rodolph, one of his servantsand the porter of the house, who had bee

compelled to guide the prince hither, were struc

with horror.

n spite of his just hatred, Rodolph felt a pity fo

he unheard-of sufferings of Jacques Ferrand



and desired that he should be laid on the sofa

This was not effected without difficulty, for, from

ear of being subjected to the direst influence o

he lamp, the notary struggled violently; and whe

his face was covered with the full glare of the lighhe uttered another shriek,—a shriek which chille

Rodolph with terror. After fresh and long torture

he phenomenon ceased by its very violence

Having reached the last bounds of sufferin

without death following, the visual tormenceased; but, according to the regular course o

he malady, a delirious excitement followed th

crisis. Jacques Ferrand became suddenly a

tiffened in frame as an epileptic; his eyelids, unhen obstinately closed, suddenly opened, and

nstead of avoiding the light, his eyes fixe

hemselves on it immovably, the pupils, in a stat

of extraordinary dilation and fixedness, seemin

phosphorescent and internally lighted up. Happeared plunged in a kind of ecstat

contemplation; his body and limbs remained a

rst in a state of complete immobility, his feature

being agitated by nervous twitches and spasms

His hideous countenance, thus contracted an



wisted, had no longer any human appearance

and it appeared as if the appetites of the anima

by stifling the intelligence of the man, impresse

on the features of this wretch a characte

absolutely bestial. Having attained the mortpoint of his madness, he remembered in h

delirium the words of Cecily, who had called him

her tiger; gradually his reason forsook him, an

he imagined he was a tiger. His half uttered

breathless words displayed the disorder of hbrain, and the singular aberration that had seize

on him. Gradually his limbs, until then stiff an

motionless, extended; he fell from the sofa, an

ried to rise and walk, but his strength failed himand he was compelled now to crawl like a reptile

and now to drag himself along on his hands an

knees,—going, coming, this way and that way, a

his visions impelled or obtained possession o

him. Crouched in one of the corners of the roomke a tiger in his den, his hoarse and furiou

cries, his grinding of teeth, the convulsiv

wistings of the muscles of his face and brows

and his ardent gaze, gave him a wild and frightf

esemblance to this ferocious brute.



paused, and listened attentively. "Where is she?

approach—she goes away. Cecily, here is you

old tiger!" he cried, as, with a last effort, he aros

and balanced himself on his knees. Sudden

alling back with affright, his body bending on hheels, his hair on end, his look haggard, h

mouth twisted with terror, his two hands extended

he seemed to struggle with desperation wit

ome invisible object, uttering incoherent words

and exclaiming, in broken tones, "What a biteHelp! My hands are powerless; I cannot driv

away these sharp teeth! No, no! Oh! Not suc

eyes! Help! A serpent—a black snake—with it

at head and fiery eyes. How it looks at me! It he fiend! Ah, he knows me—Jacques Ferrand—

at church—the pious man—always at church! Go

go—cross yourself!" And the notary, raisin

himself a little, and leaning with one hand on th

oor, endeavoured to cross himself with the otheHis livid brow was bathed in cold sweat, his eye

began to lose their transparency and becom

dim, all the symptoms of approaching deat

manifested themselves.

Rodol h and the other witnesses of the scen



emained as motionless and mute as if they ha

been under the effect of a frightful dream.

Oh!" continued Jacques Ferrand, still ha

tretched on the floor, and supporting himself bone hand, "the demon vanishes. I am going t

church—I am a holy man—I pray! What, no on

will know it? Do you think so? No, no, tempter—

be quite sure! Well, let them come—these wome

—all! Yes, all—if no one finds it out! But thecret!" he continued, in a tone of exhaustion

the secret! Ah, here they are! Three! What say

his one?—I am Louise Morel! Oh, yes—Louis

Morel; I know it! I am only one of the people! Yo

hink me handsome? Here—take her! What doe

he bring me?—her head cut off by th

executioner! It looks at me, that head of death!

peaks! The livid lips move and say, 'Come—

come—come!' I will not—I will not! Demon, leavme! Go—go—go! And this other woman?—ah

beautiful, beautiful!—Jacques, I am the Duchess

de Lucenay. See my angelic figure,—my smile,—

my bold glance! Come, come! Yes, I come. Bu

wait! And who is this one who turns away he



ace? Oh, Cecily—Cecily! Yes, Jacques, 'ti

Cecily! You see the three Graces,—Louise, th

duchess, and myself. Choose! Beauty of th

people, patrician beauty, the savage beauty of th

ropics,—and hell with us! Come—come! Hewith you? Yes!" shrieked Jacques Ferrand, agai

sing on his knees, and extending his arms t

eize these phantoms.

This last effort was followed by a mortal throe, anhe fell back again stiff and lifeless; his eye

tarting from their orbits, whilst fierce convulsion

were visible on his features, unnaturally distorted

a bloody foam on his lips; his voice hoarse an

trangling, like that of a person in hydrophobiaor, in its last paroxysm, this fearful malady show

he same symptoms as madness. The breath o

his monster was extinguished in the midst of

nal and horrible vision, for he stammered forthese words, "Black night!—black spectres!—

keletons of brass, red-hot with fire! Unfold me

Their burning fingers make my flesh smoke; m

marrow is scorched! Fleshless, horrid spectre

No—no! Cecily—fire—flame—agony—Cecily!"



These were Jacques Ferrand's last words, an

Rodolph left the place overcome with horror.

CHAPTER IV.

THE HOSPITAL.

t will be remembered that Fleur-de-Marie, save

by La Louve, had been conveyed not far from th

sle du Ravageur to the country-house of Docto

Griffon, one of the surgeons of the hospital, twhom we shall now introduce the reader. Thi

earned doctor, who had obtained from hig

nfluence his position in the hospital, considere

he wards as a kind of school of experiments

where he tried on the poor the remedies anapplications which he afterwards used with h

ch clients.

These terrible experiments were, indeed,

human sacrifice made on the altar of science; bu



Doctor Griffon did not think of that. In the eyes o

his prince of science, as they say in our days, th

hospital patients were only a matter of study an

experiment; and as, after all, there resulted from

his essays occasionally a useful fact or discovery acquired by science, the docto

howed himself as ingenuously satisfied an

riumphant as a general after a victory which ha

been costly in soldiers.

Nothing could be more melancholy than th

ombre appearance of the vast ward of th

hospital, into which we now introduce the reade

The length of its high, dark walls, pierced her

and there with grated windows like those of prison, was filled with two rows of beds paralle

and faintly lighted by the sepulchral glare of

amp hanging from the ceiling. The atmosphere

o nauseous, so heavy, that the fresh patientrequently did not become accustomed to

without danger, and this increase of suffering is

ort of tax which every newcomer invariably pay

or his miserable sojourn in the hospital. In one o

he beds was the corpse of a patient who had jusdied.



Amongst the females who did not sleep, and wh

had been present whilst the priest performed th

ast rites with the dying woman, were thre

persons whose names have been alreadmentioned in this history,—Mlle. de Fermont, th

daughter of the unfortunate widow ruined by th

cupidity of Jacques Ferrand; La Lorraine, th

poor laundress, to whom Fleur-de-Marie ha

ormerly given the small sum of money she haeft; and Jeanne Duport, the sister of Pique

Vinaigre.

La Lorraine was a woman about twenty, with mil

and regular features, but extremely pale and thinhe was consumptive to the last degree, an

here was no hope of saving her. She was awar

of her condition, and was slowly dying.

There is another gone!" said La Lorraine, in aint voice, and speaking to herself. "She w

uffer no more; she is very happy!"

She is very happy if she has no children!" adde

eanne.



Aren't you asleep, neighbour?" asked L

Lorraine. "How are you after your first night here

Last night, when you came in, they made you g

o bed directly, and I dared not speak to you

because I heard you sob so."

Yes, I cried a good deal; but I went to sleep a

ast, and only awoke when the noise of the door

oused me; and when the priest and the sister

came in and knelt down; I saw it was somwoman who was dying, and I said a Pater an

Ave for her."

And so did I; and, as I am ill with the sam

complaint as she had, I could not help crying ouThere is one who suffers no more; she is ver

happy!'"

Yes, as I said, if she has no children."

Then you have children?"

Three!" said Pique-Vinaigre's sister with a sigh

And you?"

I had a little girl, but I did not keep her long. Th



poor babe was injured before she was born,—

and I was so wretched during my pregnancy! I am

a washerwoman in the boats, and worked as lon

as I could. But everything has an end, and whe

my strength failed me, bread failed me also. Theurned me out of my lodging; and I do not kno

what would have become of me if a poor woma

had not taken me into a cellar, where she wa

hiding from her husband, who had sworn he wou

kill her. There I was brought to bed on the strawbut, thanks to goodness, the good woman knew

young girl as good and charitable as an ang

rom heaven. This young girl had a little money

and took me from the cellar, and put me in urnished room, where she paid a month

advance, and gave me, besides, a wicker cradl

or my baby, and forty francs, with a little line

besides. Thanks to her, I was enabled to resum

my work."

Kind girl! Well, and I, also, met by chance wit

uch another, a young, hard-working sempstress

was going to see my poor brother, who is

prisoner," said Jeanne, after a momenthesitation "and met this work- irl in the riso



and when she heard me tell my brother that I wa

not happy, she came to me and offered me all i

her power, poor girl! I accepted her offer, and sh

gave me her address; and two days afterward

dear little Mlle. Rigolette—she is called Rigolett—sent me an order."

Rigolette!" exclaimed Lorraine; "how strange

The young girl who was so generous to me ofte

mentioned the name of Mlle. Rigolette in mhearing; they were great friends."



Well, then," said Jeanne, smiling sadly, "sincwe are neighbours in bed, we should be friendke our two benefactresses."

With all my heart! My name is Annette Gerbiecalled La Lorraine, a washerwoman."

And I am Jeanne Duport, a fringe-maker. Oh, it o fortunate to find in this melancholy place som

one not quite a stranger to you, especially wheyou come for the first time, and are very full orouble. But don't let us talk of that! Tell meLorraine, what was the name of the young girl whwas so kind to you?"

She was called Goualeuse, and was exceedinghandsome, with light brown hair and blue eyes, soft—oh, so soft! Unfortunately, in spite of he

assistance, my poor babe died at two months oldt was so puny, it could hardly breathe!" and LLorraine wiped a tear from her eye.

And your husband?"

I am not married. I washed by the day at a ric



radesman's in my country, and had always beeprudent; but the master's son whispered his talen my ear, and then—When I found in what a statwas, I dared not remain any longer in the country

and M. Jules gave me fifty francs to take me tParis, assuring me that he would send me twentrancs every month for my lying-in; but since I lefthave not had one sou, not even a message.wrote to him once, but he sent me no answer; an

was afraid to write again, as I saw he did nowish to hear any more of me."

At least he ought not to have forgotten you, if was only for the sake of the child!"

That was the reason; he was angry with me fobeing in the family way, because it embarrassehim. I regret my child for myself, but not on its owaccount, poor little darling! It must have bee

miserable, and have been an orphan very earlyor I have not long to live."

Oh, you ought not to have such ideas at youage. Have you been long ill?"

Nearly three months. Why, when I had to work fo



myself and my child, I began too soon. The wintewas very cold; I was attacked with a cold on mchest. I lost my child at this time, too; and nursinher, I neglected myself, and then my sorrow; s

hat I fell into a consumption—decided—like thactress who has just died."

There's always hope at your age!"

The actress was only two years older than I am."

What, was she an actress who is just dead?"

Yes. And see what fate is! She had been abeautiful as daylight, and had money, carriages

diamonds; but, unfortunately, the smallpodisfigured her, and then came want and miseryand, at last, death in a hospital. No one evecame to see her; and yet, four or five days agohe told me, she had written to a gentlema

whom she had formerly known in her gay daysand who had been much in love with her. Shwrote to him to beg him to claim her dead bodybecause she was wretched at the idea of thinkin

he would be dissected—cut in pieces."



And did the gentleman come?"

No. Every moment she was asking for him anperpetually saying, 'Oh, he'll come! Oh, he'll bure to come!' And yet she died without any on

coming, and what she so much dreaded will befaher poor frame. After having been rich and happyo die so is very terrible! We, at least, only changour miseries!"

I wish," said Lorraine, after a momenthesitation, "I wish you would render me ervice!"

What is it?"

If I die, as is probable, before you go from herewill you claim my body? I have the same dread ahe actress, and have laid aside the small sum omoney necessary to bury me."

Oh, do not have such ideas!"

Still promise me, all the same!"

But let us hope the case will not happen!"



Yes; but if it does happen—thanks to you, I shanot have the same misery as the actress."

Poor woman! After having been rich to come tuch an end!"

The actress is not the only one in this room whhas been rich."

Who else?"

A young girl of about fifteen or so, brought heryesterday evening. She was so weak that thewere obliged to support her. The sister said thahe young lady and her mother were ve

eputable persons, who had been ruined."

And is her mother here, too?"

No, the mother was too ill to be moved. The poo

girl would not leave, so they took advantage of heainting to convey her. The proprietor of wretched lodging-house, for fear they should din his rooms, made the report at the polictation. She is there—in the bed opposite you."

And she is fifteen? The age of my eldest girl



And Jeanne Duport wept bitterly.

Pardon me," said La Lorraine, "if I have giveyou pain unconsciously in speaking of youchildren! Are they, too, ill?"

Alas! I do not know. What will become of them ifemain here for a week?"

And your husband?"

As we are friends together, Lorraine, I will tell yomy troubles, as you have told me yours, and thawill comfort me. My husband was an excellenworkman, but became dissipated, and forsoo

me and my children, after having sold everythinwe possessed. I went to work; some good souaided me, and I began to get easy again, anwas bringing up my little family as well as I couldwhen my husband returned with a vile creaturehis mistress, and again stripped me of everythingand so I had to begin all over again."

Poor Jeanne! You could not help it."

I ought to have separated myself from him in law



—but, as my brother says, the law is too dear!went to see my brother one day, and he gave mhree francs, which he had collected amongst thprisoners on telling his tales. So I took courage

believing my husband would not return for a verong time, as he had taken all he could from usBut I was mistaken," added the poor creaturewith a shudder; "there was my poor Catherine sto take!"

Your daughter?"

You will hear—you will hear! Three days ago, aswas at work with my children around me, m

husband came in. I saw by his look that he habeen drinking. 'I have come for Catherine,' sayhe. I took my daughter's arm, and I said to DuporWhere do you want to take her to?' 'What's that tyou? She's my daughter. Let her make up he

bundle and come along with me.' At these wordmy blood ran cold in my veins; for you must knowLorraine, that that bad woman is still with mhusband, and it makes me shudder all over to sa

. But so it was; she had long been urging him tearn something by our daughter, who is youn



and pretty. 'Take away Catherine?' said I toDuport; 'Never! I know what that wicked womawould do with her.' 'I say,' said my husbandwhose lips were white with rage, 'do not oppos

me or I'll kill you!' and then he seized my daughteby the arm, saying, 'Come along, Catherine!' Thpoor child threw her arms around my neck, anburst into tears, exclaiming, 'I will stay witmother!' When he saw this, Duport becam

urious, tore my daughter from me, and hit me blow in my stomach, which knocked me downand when I was on the ground—he was vedrunk, you may be sure—he trampled on me an

hurt me dreadfully. My poor children begged fomercy on their knees,—Catherine, too; and thehe said to her, swearing like a lunatic, 'If you wnot come with me I'll do for your mother!' I wapitting blood; I felt half dead, and could not mov

an inch. But I cried to Catherine, 'Let him kill mrst!' 'What, you won't be quiet?' said Dupor

giving me another kick, which deprived me of aconsciousness; and when I returned to myself,ound my two little boys crying bitterly."

And our dau hter?"



Gone!" exclaimed the unhappy mother, witconvulsive sobs. "Yes; gone. My other childreold me that their father had beaten them an

hreatened to finish me. Then the poor girl waquite distracted and embraced me and hebrothers, weeping dreadfully; and then mhusband dragged her away. Ah, that bad womawas waiting for him on the stairs, I know!"

And didn't you complain to the police?"

At first I felt only grief at Catherine's departurebut I felt soon great pain in all my limbs,—I coul

not walk. Alas, what I had so long dreaded hahappened! Yes, I told my brother that one day mhusband would beat me so that I should bobliged to go to the hospital,—and then whawould become of my children? And now here I am

n the hospital, and what, indeed, will become omy children? The neighbours went for thcommissary, who came. I didn't like to denouncDuport, but I was obliged, in consequence of mdaughter; only I said that in our quarrel about ou

daughter he had pushed me, that it was nothing



but I wanted my daughter Catherine because eared the bad woman with whom my husbanved would be the ruin of her."

Well, and what did the commissary say?"

Why, that my husband had a right to take awahis daughter, as we were not separated; that would be a misfortune if my daughter turned oubadly from evil counsels, but that they were onuppositions, after all, and that was not sufficienor a complaint against my husband. 'You havbut one way—plead in the courts, demand eparation—and then the beatings your husban

has given you, his behaviour with a vile womanwill be in your favour, and they will force him testore your daughter to you; but, otherwise, h

has a right to keep her with him.' 'But how canplead when I have my children to feed?' 'What ca

be done?' said the clerk; 'that's the only way!and poor Jeanne sobbed bitterly, adding, "And hs right—that is the only way! And so, in thremonths, my daughter may be walking the streets

whilst if I could plead and be separated it woulnot happen. Alas, poor Catherine, so gentle an



o affectionate!"

Oh, you have, indeed, a bitter sorrow; and yetwas complaining!" said La Lorraine, drying heeyes. "And your other children?"

Why, on their account, I did all I could to bear thpains I was suffering, and not go to the hospitabut I could not go on. I vomited blood three or foumes a day, and a fever took away the use of m

arms and legs, and I was at last unable to work. Ifam quickly cured I may return to my children, hey are not first dead from hunger or locked uas beggars. Who will maintain them whilst I am

here?"

Oh, it is very terrible! Have you no kinneighbours?"

They are as poor as myself, and have fivchildren already. It is very hard, but they promiseo do a little something for them for a week; that all they could do. And so, cured or not cured,must go out in a week."

But your friend, Mademoiselle Rigolette?"



was imprinted with the deepest sorrow. Hineffective attempts to find any traces of Madamde Fermont, and the ignominious baseness of thvicomte, who had preferred a life of infamy t

death, overwhelmed him with grief.

Well," said Doctor Griffon to him, with an air oriumph, "what do you think of my hospital?"

Really," replied M. de Saint-Remy, "I do not knowhy I yielded to your desire; nothing is morharrowing than the sight of rooms filled with sicpersons. Since I entered, my feelings have beeeverely distressed."

Bah, bah! In a quarter of an hour you will think nmore of it. You, who are a philosopher, will finhere ample matter for observation; and besides

would have been a shame for you, one of m

oldest friends, not to have known the theatre of mglory, my labours, and seen me at work. I takpride in my profession—is that wrong?"

No, certainly; and after your excellent care o

Fleur-de-Marie, whom you have saved, I couefuse ou nothin ."



Well, have you ascertained anything as to thate of Madame de Fermont and her daughter?"

Nothing!" replied M. de Saint-Remy, with a sigh

And my last hope is in Madame d'Harville, whakes such deep interest in these twunfortunates; she may find some traces of themMadame d'Harville, I hear, is expected daily at he

house; and I have written to her on the subjecbegging her to reply as soon as possible."

During the conversation between M. de SainRemy and Doctor Griffon, several groups wer

ormed gradually around a large table in thmiddle of the apartment, on which was a registen which the pupils of the hospital (who were to becognised by their long white aprons) came heir turns to sign the attendance-sheet.

You see, my dear Saint-Remy, that my staff ipretty considerable."

It is indeed! But all these beds are occupied b

women, and the presence of so many men musnspire them with painful confusion!"



All these fine feelings must be left at the door, mdear Alcestis. Here we begin on the living thosexperiments and studies which we complete ohe dead body in the amphitheatre."

Doctor, you are one of the best and worthiest omen, and I owe you my life, and I recognise ayour excellent qualities; but the practice and lovof your art makes you take views of certa

questions which are most revolting to me. I leavyou. These are things which disgust and pain meand I foresee that it would be a real punishment tme to be present at your visit. I will wait for yo

here at the table."What a strange person you are with thescruples! But I will not let you have quite your ow

way. So remain here till I come for you."

Now, then, gentlemen," said Doctor Griffon; anhe began his round, followed by his numerouauditory.

On reaching the first bed on the right hand, th

curtains of which were closed, the sister said t



he doctor:

Sir, No. 1 died at half past four o'clock thimorning."

So late? It astonishes me. Yesterday morningwould not have given her the day through. Has hebody been claimed?"

No, sir."

So much the better. It is a very fine one; we wnot dissect it, but I will make a man happy." Theurning to one of the pupils, "My dear Dunoyeyou have long desired a subject; your name

down for the first, and it is yours."

Oh, sir, you are too good."

I am only desirous of rewarding your zeal, m

dear fellow; but mark the subject—takpossession; there are so many who covet it."

As the doctor passed onwards, the pupil, with hcalpel, incised very delicately an F. and D. (hi

nitials) on the arm of the defunct actress, in ordeto take possession," as the doctor termed it. An



he round continued.

Lorraine," said Jeanne Duport, in a low voice, ther neighbour, "who is all this crowd of peoplwith the surgeon?"

It is pupils and students."

Oh, will all these young men look on whilst thdoctor asks me questions and examines me?"

Alas, yes!"

But it is in my chest that I am ill; will they examinme before all these men?"

Yes—yes—it must be so. I cried bitterly the firsme, and thought I should have died of shame.esisted, and they threatened to send me away

and that made me so ill. Only imagine, almo

naked before everybody! It is very painful."

Before the doctor alone I can easily comprehenis necessary, and even that is a great deal t

ubmit to; but why before all these young men?"

They learn and practise on us; that is why we ar



here,—why they admit us into the hospital."

Ah, I understand," said Jeanne Duport, witbitterness; "they give us nothing for nothing. Yetill there are times when even that could not be

Suppose my poor girl Catherine, who is onfteen, were to come to the hospital, would the

dare with her, before so many young men, to—Oh, no! I would rather see her die at home!"

Oh, if she came here she must make up hemind to do as the others do,—as you and I. Buhold your tongue; if the poor young lady in fronhears you—they say she was rich, and, perhaps

has never left her mother before,—and yet heurn comes now. Only think how confused andistressed she will be."

I shudder when I think of her! Poor child!"

Hush, Jeanne! Here is the doctor!" saiLorraine.

After having quickly visited several patients whpresented nothing remarkable in their cases, thdoctor at last came to Jeanne. At the sight of th



crowd coming around her bed, anxious to seand learn, the poor creature, overcome with feaand shame, pulled the bed-clothes tightly arounher. The severe and meditative countenance o

he doctor, his penetrating glance, his eyebrowsalways drawn down by his reflective habit, habrupt mode of speech, impatient and quicncreased the alarm of poor Jeanne.

A new subject!" said the doctor, as he read thplacard in which was inscribed the nature of thpatient's malady, and throwing on Jeanne engthened look of scrutiny. There was a profounilence amongst the assistants, who, in imitatio

of the prince of science, fixed a scrutinisinglance on the patient. After an examination oeveral minutes, the doctor, remarking somethin

wrong in the yellow tint of the patient's eyeba

approached her more closely, and, raising the liwith his finger, examined it silently. Then severaof the students, responding to the kind of mutnvitation of their professor, drew near, and gazeat Jeanne's eye with attention. The doctor the

began:



Your name?"

Jeanne Duport," she murmured, more and moralarmed.

Are you married?"

Alas, yes, sir!" with a profound sigh.

Have you any children?"

Here, instead of replying, the poor mother gavway to a flood of tears.

It is no use crying,—answer! Have you anchildren?"

Yes, sir,—two little boys, and a girl of sixteen."

Then followed a string of questions impossible tepeat, but to which Jeanne could only reply

tammering, and after many severe rebukes fromhe doctor. The poor woman was overwhelmewith shame, compelled as she was to reply alouo such questions before such a numerouauditory.



The doctor, completely absorbed by scientifieelings, did not give the smallest heed teanne's distress, and continued:

How long have you been ill?"

Four days, sir," replied Jeanne, drying her tears

Tell us how your illness first disclosed itself."

Sir,—why,—there are so many persons herehat I dare not."

Pooh! Where do you come from, my deawoman?" inquired the doctor, impatiently; "woul

you like to have a confessional brought? Comecome, make haste!"

Sir, these are family matters."

Oh, be easy, we are all family men here; a largamily, too, as you see," added the prince ocience, who was in very high spirits that dayCome, come, let us have an end of this."

More and more alarmed, Jeanne, stammerin

and hesitating at each moment, said:



I had—a quarrel with my husband—about thchildren; I mean my eldest daughter, that hwanted to take away; and I wouldn't agreebecause of a wicked woman he lived with, an

who might give bad advice to my daughter. Shen, my husband, who was tipsy,—yes, sir,—fof not, he'd never have done it,—my husband gavme a very hard push, and I fell; and then, sooafter, I began to vomit blood."

Pooh, pooh, pooh! Your husband pushed youand you fell; you describe it very nicely! Why, hdid more than push you; he must have struck yon the stomach; perhaps trampled on you, okicked you? Come, answer,—let's have the truth

Oh, sir, I assure you that he was tipsy; but for thahe would never have been so wicked."

Good or wicked, drunk or sober, it is not to thpurpose, my good woman. I am not a publofficer, and only want a fact accurately describedNow, were you not knocked down, and trampleunder foot?"



Yes!" said Jeanne, weeping; "and yet I nevegave him any cause of complaint. I worked aong as I could, and—"

The epigastrium must be very painful. Don't yoeel great heat around that region?—uneasinesassitude, nausea?"

Yes, sir. I was quite worn out when I gave up, not, I should never have left my children; and thenmy Catherine! Oh, if you—"

Put out your tongue," said the doctor, againterrupting the patient.

This appeared so strange to Jeanne, who thougho excite the doctor's pity, that she did not repmmediately, but looked at him with alarm.

Show me your tongue, which you know so we

how to use," said the doctor, with a smile; and hpushed down Jeanne's lower jaw with the end ohis finger. After having had his pupiluccessively, and for some time, feel an

examine the subject's tongue, in order tascertain its colour and dryness, Jeanne



overcoming her fear for a moment, said, in remulous voice:

Sir, I was going to say to you, my neighbourswho are as poor as myself, have been so kind ao take care of my children for a week only, whics a great deal; so at the end of that time I must bback home again. So I beg of you, in Godname, to cure me as quickly as you can, or near

o, that I may return to work; and I have but week before me,—for—"

Discoloured face,—complete state oprostration,—yet the pulse strong, quick, an

egular," said the doctor, imperturbably, andpointing to Jeanne. "Remark her well, gentlemenoppression, heat in the epigastric regions. Ahese symptoms certainly betoken hæmatemesisprobably complicated by hepatitis, caused b

domestic troubles, as is indicated by the yellodiscoloration of the eyeball. The subject has haviolent blows in the regions of the epigastriumand abdomen; the vomiting blood is th

necessary consequence of some organic injury the viscera. On this point let me call your attentio



o a very curious, remarkably curious, feature. Thpost-mortem appearances of those who die ohe injuries under which the subject is sufferinrequently present remarkable appearances

requently the malady, very severe and verdangerous, carries off the patient in a few daysand then no trace of it is found."

Doctor Griffon then, throwing off the bed-clothes

nearly denuded poor Jeanne. It would bepugnant to describe the struggle of th

unfortunate creature, who, in her shame, implorehe doctor and his auditory. But at the threat, "Yowill be turned out of the hospital, if you do no

ubmit to the established usages,"—a threat serrible for those to whom the hospital is the soland last refuge,—Jeanne submitted to a publcrutiny, which lasted a long time, very long, fo

Doctor Griffon analysed and explained eveymptom; and then the most studious of the pupideclared their wish to unite practice with theoryand also examine the patient. The end of thcene was that poor Jeanne felt such extrem

emotion that she fell into a nervous crisis, fowhich Doctor Griffon ave an extra rescri tion.



The round continued, and the doctor sooeached the bed of Mlle. Claire de Fermont,

victim, like her mother, to the cupidity of Jacque

Ferrand.Mlle, de Fermont, dressed in a cap of thhospital, was leaning her head languidly on thbolster of the bed. In spite of the ravages of he

malady, there might be detected on her open anweet countenance the traces of a beauty full odistinction. After a night of keen anguish, the poogirl had fallen into a kind of feverish stupor, anwhen the doctor and his scientific train entere

he ward she was not aroused by the noise.

Another first subject, gentlemen," said the princof science. "Disease, a slow nervous fever; if theceiving surgeon is not mistaken in th

ymptoms, this is a real godsend. For a long timhave desired a slow nervous fever, for that is no

an ordinary complaint amongst the poor. Thesaffections are usually produced after severrouble in the social position of the subject, and

need hardly add that the higher the position of th



patient, the more deep is the disease. It ismoreover, a complaint the more remarkable fromts peculiar characteristics. It is traced to the veremotest antiquity, and the writings o

Hippocrates have no doubt reference to it. Thever, I repeat, has almost always been producerom the most violent grief, and grief is as old ahe world. Yet, strange to say, before theighteenth century, this disease was neve

accurately described by any author; it waHuxham, whom the science of medicine of thage so highly honours,—Huxham, I say, who firsdefined accurately nervous fever; and yet it is

malady of the olden time," added the doctoocosely. "Eh, eh, eh! It belongs to the grea

antique, and illustrious family of febris, whosorigin is lost in the darkness of ages. But we mabe rejoicing too soon; let us see if really we hav

he good fortune to possess here a sample of thcurious affection; it would be doubly desirablenasmuch as, for a very long time, I have beeanxious to try the effect of the internal use ophosphorus. Yes, gentlemen," continued th

doctor, hearing amongst his auditory a kind o



By an almost providential chance, at the momenwhen the cries of Mlle. de Fermont made the olCount de Saint-Remy spring from his chair, for hecognised the voice, the door of the apartmen

opened, and a young lady, dressed in mourningentered very hastily, accompanied by thgovernor of the hospital; this lady was thMarquise d'Harville.

I beg of you, sir," she said to him, "to lead me tMlle. de Fermont."

Be so kind as to follow me," he repliedespectfully; "the young lady is in No. 17."

Unhappy girl! Here—here!" said Madamd'Harville, drying her tears. "Ah, this is realrightful!"

The marquise, preceded by the governor, rapidapproached the group assembled beside the beof Mlle. de Fermont, when they heard these worduttered with indignation:

I tell you it is infamous murder; you will kill he



ir!"

But, my dear Saint-Remy, do pray hear me!"

I repeat, sir, that your conduct is atrocious!

consider Mlle. de Fermont as my daughter, andorbid you going near her; I will have hemmediately removed hence."

But, my dear friend, it is a case of slow nervou

ever, very rare; I am desirous of tryinphosphorus. It is a unique occasion. Promise meat least, that I shall have the care of her, and takher where you like, since you are determined tdeprive us of so valuable a clinical subject."

If you were not a madman, you would be monster!" replied the count.

Clémence listened to these words with increasin

anguish, but the crowd was so dense around thbed that the governor was obliged to say, in oud voice:

Make way, if you please, for the Marquis

d'Harville, who has come to see No. 17."



At these words, the pupils made way with equahaste and respectful admiration when they saClémence's lovely face, which was radiant with smuch emotion.

Madame d'Harville!" exclaimed the Count dSaint-Remy, pushing the doctor rudely aside, angoing hastily towards Clémence. "Ah, it is Gowho sends one of his angels here! Madame,

knew you took an interest in these two unfortunatbeings, and, more happy than me, you have founhem, whilst it was chance only that led me hitheo be present at a scene of unparalleled barbarityUnhappy child! See, madame; and you

gentlemen, in the name of your sisters andaughters, have pity, I entreat, on a girl of sixteenand leave her alone with madame and thesgood sisters; when she recovers her senses, I w

have her conveyed hence."Very well, let it be so; I will sign her discharge

exclaimed the doctor; "but I will not lose sight oher; she is a subject of mine, and I will attend he

do what you will. I'll not risk the phosphorus, promise that; but I will pass my nights, if need



be, as I passed them with you, ungrateful SainRemy, for this fever is as curious as yours washey are two sisters, who have an equal right tmy interest."

Confound the man! Why has he so muccience?" said the count, knowing that he coul

not confide the young girl to more able hands.

Eh! It is simple enough," said the doctor, in whisper. "I have a great deal of science becausetudy, because I experimentalise, because I ris

and practise a great deal on my subjects; and soold fellow, I shall still have my slow nervous feve

—eh?"

Yes; but is it safe to move this young girl?"

Certainly."

Then, for the love of heaven, disappear with yourain!"

Come, gentlemen," said the prince of sciencewe shall be deprived of a precious study; but

will make my reports on it to you." And Docto



Griffon, with his suite, continued his round, leavinM. de Saint-Remy and Madame d'Harville witMlle. de Fermont.

During this scene, Mlle. de Fermont, still in woon, had been attended to by Clémence anhe two nuns. Saint-Remy said in a low tone tClémence:

And the mother of this unhappy girl, madame?"

The marchioness replied, in a voice deepaffected:

She has no longer a mother, sir. I learn

yesterday only, on my return, the address oMadame de Fermont, and her dying condition; aone o'clock in the morning I went to her with medical man. Ah, sir, what a fiction! It was misern all its horror! And no hope of saving the poomother, whose last words were, 'My daughter!'"

What a death! Good heaven! And she so tendeo devoted a mother,—it is frightful!"

I will watch her until she can be moved," sai



Clémence, "and, when she can be removed, I wake her with me."

Ah, madame, bless you for what you say ando!" said M. de Saint-Remy. "But excuse me fonot having before mentioned my name to you,am the Comte de Saint-Remy; Madame dFermont's husband was my most intimate friendve at Angers, and left that city from uneasines

at not receiving any news of these two noble anexcellent women; they had until then lived in thacity, and were said to be completely ruined, whicwas the more terrible as until then they had liven ease and plenty."

Ah, sir! you do not know all; Madame dFermont was shamefully robbed."

By her notary, perhaps? I had my suspicions."

That man was a monster, sir! Alas! that was nohe only crime he committed; but fortunately," saiClémence, with excitement, as she thought oRodolph, "a providential genius had compelle

him to do justice, and I was enabled to closMadame de Fermont's eyes, assuring her as t



he future provision for her daughter; thus hedeath was rendered less cruel."

I understand; knowing her daughter to have you

upport henceforth, my poor friend died morranquil."

Not only is my interest excited for ever towardMlle. de Fermont, but her fortune will be restoreo her."

Her fortune! The notary—"

Has been compelled to refund the money. Thman had caused the assassination of Madam

de Fermont's brother, in order to make it appeahat the unhappy man had committed suicideafter having dissipated his sister's fortune; but hhas now placed the sum in the hands of thworthy curé of Bonne-Nouvelle, and it will be giveo Mlle. de Fermont. The infamous wretch hacommitted another murder equally infamous!"

What mean you, madame?"

But a few days since he got rid of an unfortunat



young girl, whom he had an interest in drowningassured that her death would be attributed taccident."

M. de Saint-Remy started, looked at Madamd'Harville with surprise, as he recollected Fleude-Marie, and exclaimed:

Ah, madame, what a singular coincidence! Thyoung girl they sought to drown—"

In the Seine, near Asnières, as I am told."

'Tis she! 'Tis she!" cried Saint-Remy.

Of whom do you speak, sir?"

Of the young girl whom this monster sought tdrown. Do you know her, madame?"

Poor dear! I love her tenderly. Ah, if you knewir, how lovely, how prepossessing she was! Buell me what you mean."

Doctor Griffon and I gave her the firsassistance."



First assistance to her! And in what way?"

At the Isle du Ravageur, where she was saved."

Saved! Fleur-de-Marie saved?"

By a worthy creature, who, at the risk of her lifeaved her from the Seine. But what ails you

madame?"

Ah, sir, I fear to believe in such good fortune; bupray of you, tell me what is the appearance o

his young girl?"

Singularly beautiful!"

Large, blue eyes,—light brown hair?"

Yes, madame."

And when she was drowned, there was a

elderly woman with her?"

It was only yesterday she was well enough tpeak, and she is still very weak; she said a

elderly woman accompanied her."

Praised be Heaven!" said Clémence, claspin



her hands with fervour; "I can now tell him that hprotégée still lives! What joy for him who, in hast letter, spoke to me of this poor child with sucbitter regrets! Excuse me, sir, but you know no

how happy your intelligence renders me, and wmake a person who, more than myself, has loveand protected Fleur-de-Marie. But, for mercyake, tell me, where is she at this moment?"

Near Asnières, in the house of one of thurgeons of this hospital, Doctor Griffon; she waaken there, and has had every attention."

And is she out of danger?"

Yes, madame, but only during the last two ohree days, and to-day she will be permitted twrite to her protector."

Oh, I will undertake to do that, sir; or, rather, hall have the pleasure of taking her to those who

believing her dead, regret her so bitterly!"

I can understand those regrets, madame, for it mpossible to see Fleur-de-Marie without beincharmed with her grace and sweetness. Th



woman who saved her, and has since watcheher night and day as she would an infant, is courageous and devoted person, but of disposition so excitable that she has been calle

La Louve."

I know La Louve," said the marquise, smiling ahe thought of the pleasure she had in store fohe prince. What would have been her ecstasy

had she known she was the daughter he believedead that she was about to restore to RodolphThen, addressing the nun who had given sompoonfuls of a draught to Mlle. de Fermont, shaid, "Well, sister, is she recovering?"

Not yet, madame, she is so weak. Poor, younhing! One can scarcely feel her pulse beat."

I will wait, then, until she is sufficiently restored t

be put into my carriage; but tell me, sisteamongst these unfortunate patients, do you knoany who particularly deserve interest and pity, ano whom I could be useful before I leave thhospital?"

Ah, madame, Heaven has sent you here!" sai



he sister. "There," and she pointed to the bed oPique-Vinaigre's sister, "is a poor woman muco be pitied, and very bad; she only came in whequite exhausted, and is past all comfort, becaus

he has been obliged to abandon her two smachildren, who have no other support in the worldShe said just now to the doctor that she must gout, cured or not, in a week, because heneighbours had promised to take care of he

children for that time only and no longer."

Take me to her bed, I beg of you, sister," saidMadame d'Harville, rising and following the nun.

eanne Duport, who had scarcely recovered fromhe violent shock which the investigations oDoctor Griffon had caused her, had not remarkehe entrance of Madame d'Harville; what, thenwas her astonishment, when the marquise, liftin

up the curtains of her bed, and looking at her witgreat pity and kindness, said:

My good woman, do not be uneasy about youchildren, I will take care of them; so only think o

getting well, that you may go to them."



Poor Jeanne thought she was in a dream, shcould only clasp her hands in speechlesgratitude, and gaze on her unknown benefactres

Once again assure yourself, my worthy womanand have no uneasiness," said the marquisepressing in her small and delicate white hands thburning hand of Jeanne Duport; "and, if you prefe, you shall leave the hospital this very day and b

nursed at home; everything shall be done for youo that you need not leave your children; and,

your lodging is unhealthy or too small, you shahave one found that is more convenient anuitable, so that you may be in one room and you

children in another; you shall have a good nursewho will watch them whilst she attends to you, anwhen you entirely recover, if you are out of work,will take care that you are provided for until wor

comes, and I will also take care of your childreor the future."

Ah, what do I hear?" said Jeanne Duport, arembling and hardly daring to look he

benefactress in the face. "Why are so mankindnesses showered on me? It is not possible



eave the hospital, where I have wept and suffereo much, and not leave my children again! Have

nurse! Why, it is a miracle!"

It is no miracle, my good woman," saiClémence, much affected. "What I do for youhe added, blushing slightly at the remembranc

of Rodolph, "is inspired by a generous spirit, whhas taught me to sympathise with misfortune, an

is he whom you should thank."

Ah, madame, I shall ever bless you!" saieanne, weeping.

Well, then, you see, Jeanne," said Lorrainemuch affected, "there are also amongst the ricRigolettes and Goualeuses with good hearts."

Madame d'Harville turned with much surprisowards Lorraine when she heard her mention thwo names.

Do you know La Goualeuse and a younworkwoman called Rigolette?" she inquired oLorraine.



Yes, madame; La Goualeuse—good little ange—did for me last year, according to her smameans, what you are going to do for Jeanne. Yesmadame, and it does me good to say and repea

to everybody, La Goualeuse took me from cellar in which I had been brought to bed on thtraw, and—dear, good girl!—placed me and m

child in a room where there was a good bed ana cradle; La Goualeuse spent the money from

pure charity, for she scarcely knew me, and wapoor herself. But how good it was! Was it nomadame?" said Lorraine.

Yes, yes; charity from the poor to the poor i

great and holy!" said Clémence, with her eyemoistened by soft tears.

It was the same with Mademoiselle Rigolettewho, according to her little means as

empstress," said Lorraine, "some days agoffered her kind services to Jeanne."

How singular!" said Clémence to herself, morand more affected, for each of these two names

Goualeuse and Rigolette, reminded her of



noble action of Rodolph. "And you, my child, whacan I do for you?" she said to Lorraine; "I coulwish that the names you pronounce with so mucgratitude should also bring you good fortune."

Thank you, madame," said Lorraine, with a smiof bitter resignation. "I had a child, it is dead; I amn a decline and past all hope."

What a gloomy idea! At your age there is alwayhope."

Oh, no, madame, I saw a consumptive patiendie last night. Yet as you are so good, a greaady like you must be able to do anything."

Tell me, what do you wish?"

Since I have seen the actress who is dead sdistressed at the idea of being cut in pieces afte

her death, I have the same fear. Jeanne hapromised to claim my body, and have me buried

Ah, this is horrible!" said Clémence, shudderingBe tranquil, although I hope the time is fa

distant, yet, when it comes, be assured that you



body shall rest in holy ground."

Oh, thank you—thank you, madame!" exclaimeLorraine. "Might I beg to kiss your hand?"

Clémence presented her hand to the parched lipof Lorraine.

Half an hour afterwards, Madame d'Harville, whhad been painfully affected by Lorraine

condition, accompanied by M. de Saint-Remyook with her the young orphan, from whom shconcealed her mother's death.

The same day, Madame d'Harville's man o

business, after having obtained favourablparticulars respecting Jeanne Duport's charactehired for her some large and airy rooms, and thame evening she was conveyed to her neesidence, where she found her children and

nurse. The same individual was instructed tclaim and inter the body of Lorraine when shdied. After having conveyed Mlle. de Fermont ther own house, Madame d'Harville started fo

Asnières with M. de Saint-Remy, in order to go tFleur-de-Marie, and take her to Rodolph.



CHAPTER V.

HOPE.

Spring was approaching, and already the su

darted a more genial warmth, the sky was bluand clear, while the balmy air seemed to bring lifand breath upon its invigorating wings. Amonhe many sick and suffering who rejoiced in it

cheering presence was Fleur-de-Marie, whoeaning on the arm of La Louve, ventured to takgentle exercise in the little garden belonging tDoctor Griffon's house; the vivifying rays of thun, added to the exertion of walking, tinged th

pale, wasted countenance of La Goualeuse with aint glow that spoke of returning convalescenceThe dress she had worn when rescued from watery grave had been destroyed in the hastwith which the requisite attempts had been mador her resuscitation, and she now appeared in



oose wrapping dress of dark blue merinoastened around her slender waist by worstecord of the same colour as the robe.

How cheering the sun shines!" said she to LLouve, as she stopped beneath a thick row orees, planted beside a high gravelled walk facinhe south, and on which was a stone bench. "Shawe sit down and rest ourselves here a fe

minutes?"

Why do you ask me?" replied La Louve, almosangrily; then taking off her nice warm shawl, sholded it in four, and, kneeling down, placed it o

he ground, which was somewhat moist from thextreme shelter afforded by the overhanginrees, saying, as she did so, "Here, put your feeon this."

Oh, but La Louve!" said Fleur-de-Marieperceiving too late the kind intention of hecompanion, "I cannot suffer you to spoil youbeautiful shawl in that way."

Don't make a fuss about nothing; I tell you thground is cold and moist. There, that will do



And, taking the tiny feet of Fleur-de-Marie, shorcibly placed them on her shawl.

You spoil me terribly, La Louve."

It is not for your good behaviour, if I do; alwayrying to oppose me in everything I try to do foyour good. Are you not very much tired? We havbeen walking more than half an hour; I hearwelve o'clock just strike from Asnières."

I do feel rather weary, but still the walk has donme good."

There now—you were tired, and yet could not te

me so!"

Pray don't scold me; I assure you I was noconscious of my weariness until I spoke. It is sdelightful to be able to walk out in the air, afte

being confined by sickness to your bed, to sehe trees, the green fields, and the beautifcountry again, when you had given up all hope oever enjoying that happiness, or of feeling thwarm beams of the sun fill you with strength anhope!"



Certainly, you were desperately ill, and for twdays we despaired of your life. I don't mind tellinyou, now the danger is over."

Only imagine, La Louve, that, when I found mysen the water, I could not help thinking of a verbad, wicked woman, who used to torment mwhen I was young, and frighten me by threatenino throw me to the fishes that they might eat me

and, even after I had grown up, she wanted tdrown me; and I kept thinking that it was mdestiny to be devoured by fishes, and that it wano use to try and escape from it."

Was that really your last idea when you believeyourself perishing?"

Oh, no!" replied Fleur-de-Marie, witenthusiasm; "when I believed I was dying, my las

hought was for him whom I so reverence, and twhom I owe so much, and, when I came to myseafter you had saved me, my first thought was ohim likewise."

It is a pleasure to render you any service, yo



hink so much of it."

No, La Louve; the pleasure consists in fallinasleep with our grateful recollection of kind actsand remembering them upon waking!"

Ah, you would induce people to go through firand water to serve you! I'm sure I would, for one."

I can assure you that one of the causes whic

made me thankful for life was the hope of beinable to advance your happiness. Do you recolleche castles in the air we used to build at SLazare?"

Oh, as for that, there is time enough to thinabout that."

How delighted I should be, if the doctor woulonly allow me to write a few lines to Madam

Georges, I am sure she must be so very uneasyand so must M. Rodolph, too," added Fleur-deMarie, pensively sighing. "Perhaps they think mdead."

As those wretches do who were set on to murde



you!"

Then you still believe my falling into the watewas not an accident?"

Accident! Yes, one of the Martial family'accidents;—mind, when I say that, you must bean mind that my Martial is not at all like the rest ohis relations, any more than François anAmandine."

But what interest could they have had in mdeath?"

I don't care for that; the Martials are such a vil

et that they would murder any one, provided thewere well paid for it. A few words the mother ledrop when my man went to see her in prisoprove that."

Has he really been to see that dreadful woman?

Yes; and he tells me there is no hope of pardoor herself, Calabash, or Nicholas. A great manhings have been discovered against them; an

all the judges and those kind of people say the



want to make a public example of them, trighten others from doing such things."

How very shocking for nearly a whole family tperish in this way."

And they certainly will, unless, indeed, Nicholamanages to make his escape; he is in the samprison with a monstrous ruffian whom they call thSkeleton, and this man is getting up a plot tescape with several of his companions. Nicholaent to tell Martial of this, by a prisoner who wa

discharged from prison the other day, for I musell you, my man had been weak enough to g

and see his brother in La Force; so, encourageby this visit, that hateful wretch Nicholas sent tell my man that he might effect his escape at anminute, and that his brother was to send moneand clothes to disguise himself in, ready for him

o Father Micou's."

Ah, your Martial is so kind-hearted, I'm sure hwill do it!"

A fig for such kind-heartedness! I call it downrigoolery to help the very man who tried to take h



fe. No, no, Martial shall do no such thing; quitenough if he does not tell of the scheme fobreaking out of prison, without furnishing clotheand money, indeed. Besides, now you are out o

danger, myself, Martial, and the two children arabout to start on our rambles over France earch of work, and, depend upon it, we neve

mean to set our feet in Paris again. Martial founquite galling enough to be called the son of

man who was guillotined; how, then, could hendure being taunted with the disgraceful ends oall his family?"

Well, but, at least, you will defer your departure t

have been enabled to see and speak with MRodolph; you have returned to virtue, and promised you a reward if you would but forsakevil ways, and I wish to keep my word. You save

me from death, and, not satisfied with that, havnursed me with the tenderest care during mevere illness."

Suppose I did; well, it would seem as though

had done the little good in my power for the sakof gain, were I to allow you to ask your friends fo



anything for me! No, no; I say again, I am morhan repaid in seeing you safe and likely to dwell."

My kind Louve, make yourself perfectly easy; hall not be said that you were influenced bnterested motives, but that I was desirous oproving my gratitude to you."

Hark!" said La Louve, hastily rising, "I fancyhear the sound of a carriage coming this way; ye—yes, there it is! Did you observe the lady whwas in it?"

Dear me!" exclaimed Fleur-de-Marie, "I fancyecognised a young and beautiful lady I saw at S

Lazare."

Then she knows you are here, does she?"

I cannot tell you whether she does or no, but onhing is very certain, that she is acquainted withe person I have so often mentioned to you, whof he pleases, and I hope that he will please, caealise all those schemes of happiness we useo build when in prison."



What about getting a gamekeeper's place for mman?" asked La Louve, with a sigh; "and cottage in the middle of the woods for us all to livn? Oh, no! That is too much like what we read o

n fairy tales, and quite impossible ever to happeo a poor creature like myself."

Quick steps were heard advancing rapidly frombehind the trees, and in a minute François an

Amandine (who, thanks to the kind consideratioof the Count de Saint-Remy, had been permitteo remain with La Louve, during her attendancon La Goualeuse) presented themselves, quitout of breath, exclaiming:

La Louve, here is a beautiful lady come alonwith M. de Saint-Remy to see Fleur-de-Marieand they want to see her directly!"

At the same moment, Madame d'Harvilleaccompanied by M. de Saint-Remy, appearerom the side of the walk, the impatience of thormer not allowing her to wait the arrival of Fleude-Marie. Directly the marquise saw her, she raand embraced her, exclaiming:



My poor dear child! What happiness does it noafford me to find you thus in life and safety, whenbelieved you dead!"

Be assured, madame," answered Fleur-deMarie, as she gracefully and modestly returnehe affectionate pressure of Madame d'Harvillethat I have equal pleasure in seeing again on

whose former kindness has made so deep a

mpression on my heart!"

Ah, you little imagine the joy and rapture witwhich the intelligence of your existence will bwelcomed by those who have so bitterly bewaile

your supposed loss!"

Fleur-de-Marie, taking La Louve, who hawithdrawn to a distance from the affecting sceneby the hand, and presenting her to Madam

d'Harville, said:

Since, madame, my benefactors are gooenough to take so lively an interest in my welfarand preservation, permit me to solicit the

kindness and favour for my companion, wh



aved my life at the expense of her own."

Make yourself perfectly easy on that score, mchild; your friends will amply testify to the worthLa Louve how fully they appreciate the servichey well know she has rendered you, and that 'to her they owe the delight of seeing you again."

Confused and blushing, La Louve ventureneither to reply nor raise her eyes towardMadame d'Harville, so completely did thpresence of that dignified person abash anoverpower her. Yet, at hearing her very nampronounced, La Louve could not restrain a

exclamation of astonishment.

But we have not a minute to lose," resumed thmarquise. "I am dying with impatience to carry oFleur-de-Marie, and I have a cloak and warm

hawl for her in the carriage. So come, my childcome!" Then, addressing the count, she saidMay I beg of you to give my address to this brav

woman, that she may be enabled to come tomorrow to say good-bye to Fleur-de-Marie? Tha

will oblige you to pay us a visit," continue



Madame d'Harville, speaking to La Louve.

Depend upon my coming, madame," replied thperson addressed. "Since it is to bid adieu to LGoualeuse, I should be grieved, indeed, if I wero miss that last pleasure."

A few minutes after this conversation, Madamd'Harville and La Goualeuse were on the road tParis.

After witnessing the frightful death by whicacques Ferrand atoned for the heinous offence

of his past life, Rodolph had returned homdeeply agitated and affected. After passing ong and sleepless night, he sent to summon S

Walter Murphy, in order to relieve his overchargeheart by confiding to this tried and trusty friend thoverwhelmingly painful discovery of the precedinevening relative to Fleur-de-Marie. The honesquire was speechless with astonishment; h

could well understand the death-blow this must b



o the prince's best affections, and as hcontemplated the pale, careworn countenance ohis unhappy friend, whose red, swollen eyes anconvulsed features amply bespoke the agony o

his mind, he ransacked his brain for some gleamof comfort, and his invention for words of hopand comfort.

Take courage, my lord," said he at last, dryin

his eyes, which, spite of all his accustomecoolness, he had not been able to prevent fromoverflowing, "take courage; yours is indeed anfliction, one that mocks at all vain attempts aconsolation; it is deep, lasting, and incurable!"

You are right; what I felt yesterday seems anothing to my sense of misery to-day."

Yesterday, my lord, you were stunned by the blo

hat fell on you, but as your mind dwells morcalmly on it, so does the future seem more darand dispiriting. I can but say, rouse yourself, mord, to bear it with courage, for it is beyond aattempts at consolation."

Yesterday the contempt and horror I felt for tha



woman,—whom may the Great Being pardonbefore whose tribunal she now stands,—minglewith surprise, disgust, and terror, occasioned bher hideous conduct, repressed those bursts o

despairing tenderness I can no longer restrain your sympathising presence, my faithful friend.ear not to indulge the natural emotions of mheart, and my hitherto pent-up tears may noreely vent themselves. Forgive my weakness

and excuse my thus cowardly shrinking from thrial I am called upon to endure, but it seems thave riven my very heart-strings, and to have leme feeble as an infant! Oh, my child! My loved

my lost child! Long must these scalding tears floere I can forget you!"

Ah, my lord, weep on, for your loss is indeerreparable!"

What joy to have atoned to her for all thwretchedness with which her young days havbeen clouded! What bliss to have unfolded to hehe happy destiny that was to recompense her fo

all her past sorrows! And, then, I should havused so much care and precaution in opening he



eyes to the brilliant lot that was to succeed hemiserable youth, for the tale, if told too abruptlymight have been too much for her delicate nerveo sustain; but, no, I would by degrees hav

evealed to her the history of her birth, anprepared her to receive me as her father!"

Then, again bursting into an agony of despaiRodolph continued: "But what avails all that

would have done, when I am tortured by the crueflection that, when I had my child all to myse

during the ill-fated day I conducted her to the farmwhen she so innocently displayed the ricreasures of her pure and heavenly nature, n

ecret voice whispered to me that in her I behelmy cherished and lamented daughter? I mighhave prevented this dreadful calamity by keepinher with me instead of sending her to Madam

Georges. Oh, if I had, I should have been sparemy present sufferings, and needed only to havopened my arms and folded her to my heart amy newly found treasure,—more really great annoble by the beauty of her heart and mind, an

perhaps more worthy to fill the station to whichhould raise her than if she had alwa s bee



eared in opulence and with a knowledge of heank! I alone am to blame for her death; but mins an accursed existence. I seem fated to tramplon every duty,—a bad son and a bad father!"

Murphy felt that grief such as Rodolph's admitteof no ordinary consolation. He did not thereforattempt to interrupt its violence by any hackneyephrases or promises of comfort he well kne

could never be realised.

After a long silence, Rodolph resumed, in aagitated voice:

I cannot stay here after what has happenedParis is hateful to me; I will quit it to-morrow."

You are quite right in so doing, my lord."

We will go by a circuitous route, and I will stop a

Bouqueval as I pass, that I may spend some fehours alone with my sad thoughts, in the chambewhere my poor child enjoyed the only peacefdays she was ever permitted to taste. All that wa

hers shall be carefully collected together,—thbooks from which she studied, her writings



clothes, even the very articles of furniture anhangings of the chamber; I will make a carefketch of the whole, and when I return t

Gerolstein I will construct a small buildin

containing the fac-simile of my poor childapartment, with all that it contained, to be erecten the private ground in which stands thmonument built by me in memory of my outrageparent; there I will go and bewail my daughte

These two funeral mementos will for ever reminme of my crime towards my father, and thpunishment inflicted on me through my own child

After a fresh silence, Rodolph said, "Let all be go

eady for my departure to-morrow."

Anxious, if possible, to create if but a momentachange of ideas in the prince's mind, Murphaid, "All shall be prepared, my lord, according t

your desire; only you appear to have forgotten thao-morrow is fixed for the celebration of thmarriage of Rigolette with the son of MadamGeorges, and that the ceremony was to tak

place at Bouqueval. Not contented with providinor Germain as long as he lives, and liberal



endowing his bride, you also promised to bpresent to bestow the hand of your younprotégée on her lover."

True, true,—I did engage to do so; but I confesshave not sufficient courage to venture in a scenof gaiety. I cannot, therefore, visit the farm tomorrow, for to join in the wedding festivities impossible."

Perhaps the scene might serve to calm youwounded feelings, with the thought that, miserable yourself, you have made others happy

No, my friend, no! Grief is ever selfish, and loveo indulge itself in solitude. You shall supply mplace to-morrow; and beg of Madame Georges tcollect together all my poor child's possessionshen when the room is fitly arranged, you will hav

an exact copy taken of it, and cause it to be seno me in Germany."

And will you not even see Madame d'Harville, mord, ere you set out on your journey?"

At the recollection of Clémence, Rodolph started



his affection for her burned as steadfastly anincerely as ever, but, for the moment, it seeme

buried beneath the overwhelming grief whicoppressed him. The tender sympathy of Madam

d'Harville appeared to him the only source oconsolation; but, the next instant, he rejected thdea of seeking consolation in the love of anotheas unworthy his paternal sorrow.

No, my kind friend, I shall not see Madamd'Harville previously to quitting Paris. I wrote ther a few days since, telling her of the death oFleur-de-Marie, and the pain it had caused meWhen she learns that the ill-fated girl was my long

ost daughter, she will readily understand thahere are some griefs, or rather fatal punishmentst is requisite to endure alone."

A gentle knock was heard at the door at thi

minute. Rodolph, with displeasure at thnterruption, signed for Murphy to ascertain who was. The faithful squire immediately rose, andpartly opening the door, perceived one of th

prince's aides-de-camp, who said a few words a low tone, to which Murphy replied by a motion o



he head, and, returning to Rodolph, said, "Havhe goodness, my lord, to excuse me for anstant! A person wishes to see me directly obusiness that concerns your royal highness."

Go!" replied the prince.

Scarcely had the door closed on Murphy, thaRodolph, covering his face with his hands, utterea heavy groan.

What horrible feelings possess me!" cried heMy mind seems one vast ocean of gall an

bitterness; the presence of my best and mosaithful friend is painful to me; and the recollectioof a love pure and elevated as mine distresseand embarrasses me. Last night, too, I wacowardly enough to learn the death of Sarah witavage joy. I felicitated myself on being free from

an unnatural being like her, who had caused thdestruction of my child; I promised myself thhorrible satisfaction of witnessing the mortagonies of the wretch who deprived my child ofe. But I was baffled of my dear revenge. Anothe

cruel punishment!" exclaimed he, starting wit



age from his chair. "Yet although I knewyesterday as well as to-day that my child wadead, I did not experience such a whirlwind odespairing, self-accusing agony as now rends m

oul; because I did not then recall to mind the onorturing fact that will for ever step in between mand consolation. I did not then recall thcircumstance of my having seen and known mbeloved child, and, moreover, discovered in he

untold treasures of goodness and nobleness ocharacter. Yet how little did I profit by her being ahe farm! Merely saw her three times—yes, thremes—no more! when I might have beheld he

each day—nay, have kept her ever beside meOh, that will be my unceasing punishment, mnever-ending reproach and torture,—to think I hamy daughter near me, and actually sent her fromme! Nor, though I felt how deserving she was o

every fond care, did I even admit her into mpresence but three poor distant times."

While the unhappy prince thus continued torment himself with these and similar reflection

he door of the apartment suddenly opened anMur h entered lookin so ale and a itated tha



even Rodolph could not help remarking it; ansing hastily, he exclaimed:

For heaven's sake, Murphy, what has happene

o you?"Nothing, my lord."

Yet you are pale!"

'Tis with astonishment."

Astonishment at what?"

Madame d'Harville."

Madame d'Harville! Gracious heaven! Somresh misfortune?"

No, no, my lord—indeed, nothing unfortunate haoccurred. Pray compose yourself! She is—in th

drawing-room—"

Here—in my house? Madame d'Harville herempossible!"

My lord, I told you the surprise had quitoverpowered me!"



Tell me what has induced her to take such tep! Speak, I conjure you! In heaven's name

explain the reason for her acting so contrary ther usually rigid notions!"

Indeed, my lord, I know nothing. But I cannot eveaccount to myself for the strange feelings thacome over me."

You are concealing something from me!"

No, indeed, my lord; on the honour of a man,know only what the marquise said to me."

And what did she say?"

'Sir Walter,' said she, with an unsteady voicehough her countenance shone with joy, 'no doubyou are surprised at my presence here; but ther

are some circumstances so imperative as teave no time to consider the strict rules oetiquette. Beg of his royal highness to grant man immediate interview of a few minutes only your presence, for I know well that the prince ha

not a better friend than yourself. I might certain



have requested him to call on me, but that woulhave caused at least an hour's delay; and whehe prince has learned the occasion of mcoming, I am sure he will feel grateful to me for no

delaying the interview I seek for a single instanAnd as she uttered these words, her countenancwore an expression that made me tremble aover."

But," returned Rodolph, in an agitated tone, andpite of all his attempts at retaining h

composure, being even paler than Murphhimself, "I cannot guess what caused youemotion; there must be something beyond thos

words of Madame d'Harville's to occasion it."

I pledge you my honour if there be I am wholgnorant of it; but I confess those few words fromMadame la Marquise seemed quite to bewilde

me. But even you, my lord, are paler than yowere."

Am I?" said Rodolph, supporting himself on thback of his chair, for he felt his knees trembl

under him.



Nay, but, my lord, you are quite as muc

overcome as I was. What ails you?"

Though I die in making the effort," exclaimed th

prince, "it shall be done. Beg of Madamd'Harville to do me the honour to walk in."

By a singular and sympathetic feeling th

extraordinary and wholly unexpected visit o

Madame d'Harville had awakened in the breastof Murphy and Rodolph the same vague an

groundless hope, but so senseless did it seem

hat neither was willing to confess it to the other.

Madame d'Harville, conducted by Murphy

entered the apartment in which was the prince.

CHAPTER VI.



THE FATHER AND DAUGHTER.

gnorant of Fleur-de-Marie's being the prince

daughter, Madame d'Harville, in the fullness of he

delight at restoring to him his protégée, had noeckoned upon its being necessary to observ

any particular precaution in presenting her youn

companion, whom she merely left in the carriag

until she had ascertained whether Rodolph chos

o make known his real name and rank to thobject of his bounty, and to receive her at his ow

house; but perceiving the deep alteration in h

eatures, and struck with the visible gloom whic

overspread them, as well as the marks of recenears so evident in his sunken eye, Clémenc

became alarmed with the idea that some fres

misfortune, greater than the loss of La Goualeus

would be considered, had suddenly occurred

Wholly losing sight, therefore, of the originacause of her visit, she anxiously exclaimed:

For heaven's sake, my lord, what ha

happened?"

Do you not know, madame? Then all hope is a



an end! Alas! your earnest manner, the interview

o unexpectedly sought by you, all made m

believe—"

Let me entreat of you not to think for a moment o

he cause of my visit; but, in the name of tha

parent whose life you have preserved, I adjure yo

o explain to me the cause of the deep affliction

which I find you plunged. Your paleness, you

dejection, terrify me. Oh, be generous, my lordand relieve the cruel anxiety I suffer."

Wherefore should I burden your kind heart wit

he relation of woes that admit of no relief?"

Your words, your hesitation, but increase m

apprehensions. Oh, my lord, I beseech you tell m

all! Sir Walter, will you not take pity on my fears

For the love of heaven explain the meaning of a

his! What has befallen the prince?"

Nay," interrupted Rodolph, in a voice that vain

truggled for firmness, "since you desire

madame, learn that since I acquainted you wit

he death of Fleur-de-Marie I have learned shwas my own daughter."



Your daughter!" exclaimed Clémence, in a ton

mpossible to describe. "Fleur-de-Marie you

daughter!"

And when just now you desired to see me, tcommunicate tidings that would fill me with joy,—

pardon and pity the weakness of a parent ha

distracted at the loss of his newly-found treasure

—I ventured to hope—But no,—no,—I see to

plainly I was mistaken! Forgive me, my bra

eems wandering, and I scarce know what I sa

or do."

And then sinking under the failure of this last fon

magination of his heart, and unable longer t

truggle with his black despair, Rodolph threw

himself back in his chair and covered his fac

with his hands, while Madame d'Harville

astonished at what she had just heard, remainemotionless and silent, scarcely able to breath

amid the conflicting emotions which too

possession of her mind; at one instant glowin

with delight at the thoughts of the joy she had it

her power to impart, then trembling for th



consequences her explanation might produce o

he overexcited mind of the prince.

Both these reflections were, however, swallowe

up in the enthusiastic gratitude which she felt

he consideration that to her had been depute

he happiness not only of announcing to the grie

tricken father that his child still lived, but that th

unspeakable rapture of placing that daughter

her parent's arms was likewise vouchsafed to he

Carried away by a burst of pious thankfulness

and wholly forgetting the presence of Rodolp

and Murphy, Madame d'Harville threw herself o

her knees, and, clasping her hands, exclaimed, a tone of fervent piety and ineffable gratitude:

Thanks, thanks, my God, for this exceedin

goodness! Ever blessed be thy gracious nam

or having permitted me to be the happy bearer ouch joyful tidings,—to wipe away a father's tear

by telling him his child lives to reward h

enderness!"

Although these words, pronounced with thincerest fervour and holy ecstasy, were uttere



almost in a whisper, yet they reached the listenin

ears of Rodolph and his faithful squire; and a

Clémence rose from her knees, the prince gaze

on her lovely countenance, irradiated as it wa

with celestial happiness and beaming with morhan earthly beauty, with an expression almos

amounting to adoration.

Supporting herself with one hand, while with th

other she sought to still the rapid beating of heheart, Madame d'Harville replied by a swee

mile and an affirmative inclination of the head t

he eager, soul-searching look of Rodolph, a loo

wholly beyond our poor powers to describe.

And where is she?" exclaimed the prince

rembling like a leaf.

In my carriage."

But for the intervention of Murphy, who threw

himself before Rodolph with the quickness o

ghtning, the latter would have rushed to th

vehicle.

Would you kill her, my lord?" exclaimed th



quire, forcibly retaining the prince.

She was merely pronounced convalescen

yesterday," added Clémence; "therefore, as yo

value her safety, do not venture to try the poo

girl's strength too far."

You are right," said Rodolph, scarcely able t

estrain himself sufficiently to follow this pruden

advice, "you are quite right. Yes, I will be calm,—

will not see her at present; I will wait until her firs

emotions have subsided. Oh, 'tis too much t

endure in so short a space of time!" The

addressing Madame d'Harville, he said, in a

agitated tone, while he extended to her his handI feel that I am pardoned, and that you are th

angel of forgiveness who brings me the gla

dings of my remission."

Nay, my lord, we do but mutually requite oueveral obligations. You preserved to me m

ather, and Heaven permits me to restore you

daughter at a time you bewailed her as lost. But

oo, must beg to be excused for the weaknes

which resists all my endeavours to control it; th



udden and unexpected news you hav

communicated to me has quite overcome me

and I confess I should not have sufficien

command over myself to go in quest of Fleur-de

Marie,—my emotion would terrify her."

And by what means was she preserved?

exclaimed Rodolph; "and whose hand snatche

her from death? I am most ungrateful not to hav

put these questions to you earlier."

She was rescued from drowning by

courageous female, who snatched her from

watery grave just as she was sinking."

Do you know who this female was?"

I do; and to-morrow she will be at my house."

The debt is immense!" rejoined the prince; "but

will endeavour to repay it."

Heaven must have inspired me with the idea o

eaving Fleur-de-Marie in the carriage," said th

marquise. "Had I brought her in with me the shoc

must have killed her."



Now, then," said the prince, who had been fo

ome minutes occupied in endeavouring t

ubdue his extreme agitation, "I can promise you

my kind friends, that I have my feelings sufficient

under control to venture to meet my—my—daughter. Go, Murphy, and fetch her to my longin

arms."

Rodolph pronounced the word daughter with

enderness of voice and manner impossible tdescribe.

Are you quite sure you are equal to the tryin

cene, my lord?" inquired Clémence; "for w

must run no risks with one in Fleur-de-Mariedelicate state."

Oh, yes,—yes! Be under no alarm! I am too we

aware of the dangerous consequences any undu

emotion would occasion my child; be assuredwill not expose her to anything of the sort. But g

—go—my good Murphy; I beseech you hasten t

bring her hither."

Don't be alarmed, madame," said the squirewho had attentively scrutinised the countenanc



of the prince; "she may come now without dange

am quite sure that his royal highness w

ufficiently command himself."

Then go—go—my faithful friend; you are keepinme in torments."

Just give me one minute, my lord," said th

excellent creature, drying the moisture from h

eyes; "I must not let the poor thing see I hav

been crying. There, there—that will do! I shoul

not like to cross the antechamber looking like

weeping Magdalen." So saying, the squir

proceeded towards the door, but suddenly turnin

back, he said, "But, my lord, what am I to say ther?"

Yes, what had he better say?" inquired the princ

of Clémence.

That M. Rodolph wishes to see her,—nothin

more."

Oh, to be sure! How stupid of me not to think o

hat! M. Rodolph wishes to see her,—capita

excellent!" repeated the squire, who evident



partook of Madame d'Harville's nervousness, an

ought to defer the moment of his embassy b

one little pretext and the other. "That will not giv

her the least suspicion, not the shadow of a notio

what she is wanted for. Nothing better could havbeen suggested."

But still Murphy stirred not.

Sir Walter," said Clémence, smiling, "you ar

afraid!"

Well, I won't deny it!" said the squire. "And, spit

of my standing six feet high, I feel and know I am

rembling like a child."

Then take care, my good fellow!" said Rodolph

You had better wait a little longer if you do no

eel quite sure of yourself."

No, no, my lord; I have got the upper hand of mears this time!" replied Murphy, pressing his tw

herculean fists to his eyes. "I know very well that a

my time of life it is ridiculous for me to show suc

weakness! I'm going, my lord, don't you b

uneasy!" So saying, Murphy left the room with



rm step and composed countenance.

A momentary silence followed his departure, an

hen, for the first time, Clémence remembere

he was alone with the prince, and under his roo

Rodolph drew near to her, and said, with a

almost timid voice and manner:

If I select this day—this hour—to divulge to yo

he dearest secret of my heart, it is that th

olemnity of the present moment may giv

greater weight to that I would impart, an

persuade you to believe me sincere, when

assure you I have loved you almost from the hour

rst beheld you. While obstacles stood in the waof my love I studiously concealed it; but you ar

now free to hear me declare my affection, and t

ask you to become a mother to the daughter yo

estore to me."

My lord," cried Madame d'Harville, "what word

are these?"

Oh, refuse me not," said Rodolph, tenderly; "le

his day decide the happiness of my future life."



Clémence had also nourished a deep an

incere passion for the prince; and his open

manly avowal of a similar feeling towards herse

made under such peculiar circumstances

ransported her with joy, and she could but falteout in a hesitating voice:

My lord, 'tis for me to remind you of th

difference of our stations, and the interests of you

overeignty."

Permit me first to consider the interest of my ow

heart, and that of my beloved child. Oh, make u

both happy by consenting to be mine! So that

who, but a short time since, owned no blessed tiemay now proudly indulge in the idea of havin

both a wife and daughter; and give to th

orrowing child who is just restored to my arm

he delight of saying, 'My father—my mother—m

ister!'—for your sweet girl would become minalso."

Ah, my lord," exclaimed Clémence, "my gratef

ears alone can speak my sense of such nobl

conduct!" Then suddenly checking herself, sh



added, "I hear persons approaching, my lord

your daughter comes."

Refuse me not, I conjure you!" responde

Rodolph, in an agitated and suppliant tone. "B

he love I bear you, I beseech you to make m

happy by saying, 'Our daughter comes!'"

Then be it our daughter, if such is your sincer

wish," murmured Clémence, as Murphy, throwin

open the door, introduced Fleur-de-Marie into th

alon.

The astonished girl had, upon entering th

mmense hôtel from the spacious portico unde

which she alighted from the marquise's carriage

rst crossed an anteroom filled with servant

dressed in rich liveries; then a waiting-room,

which were other domestics belonging to th

establishment, also wearing the magnificent liverof the house of Gerolstein; and lastly, th

apartment in which the chamberlain and aides

de-camp of the prince attended his orders.

The surprise and wonder of the poor Goualeusewhose ideas of s lendour were based on th



ecollection of the farm at Bouqueval, as sh

raversed those princely chambers glittering wit

gold, silver, paintings, and mirrors, may easily b

magined.

Directly she appeared, Madame d'Harville ra

owards her, kindly took her hand, and throwin

her arm around her waist, as though to suppo

her, led her towards Rodolph, who remaine

upporting himself by leaning one arm on thchimneypiece, wholly incapable of advancing

ingle step.

Having consigned Fleur-de-Marie to the care o

Madame d'Harville, Murphy hastily retreatebehind one of the large window curtains, no

eeling too sure of his own self-command.

At the sight of him who was, in the eyes of Fleu

de-Marie, not only her benefactor but thworshipped idol of her heart, the poor girl, whos

delicate frame had been so severely tried b

lness, became seized with a universal trembling

Compose yourself, my child!" said Madamd'Harville. "See there is our kind M. Rodol



who has been extremely uneasy on your accoun

and is most anxious to see you."

Oh, yes—uneasy, indeed!" stammered fort

Rodolph, whose breast was wrung with anguish ahe sight of his child's pale, suffering looks, and

pite of his previous resolution, the prince foun

himself compelled to turn away his head t

conceal his deep emotion.

My poor child!" said Madame d'Harville, strivin

o divert the attention of Fleur-de-Marie, "you ar

till very weak!" and, leading her to a large gilde

armchair, she made her sit down, while th

astonished Goualeuse seemed almost to shrinrom touching the elegant cushions with which

was lined. But she did not recover herself; on th

contrary, she seemed oppressed. She strove t

peak, but her voice failed her, and her hea

eproached her with not having said one word t

her venerated benefactor of the deep gratitud

which filled her whole soul.

At length, at a sign from Madame d'Harville, who

eaning over Fleur-de-Marie, held one of the poo



girl's thin, wasted hands in hers, the prince gent

approached the side of the chair, and now, mor

collected, he said to Fleur-de-Marie, as sh

urned her sweet face to welcome him:

At last, my child, your friends have recovere

you, and be sure it is not their intention ever t

part with you again. One thing you mus

endeavour to do, and that is to banish for eve

rom your mind all your past sufferings."

Yes, my dear girl," said Clémence, "you can i

no way so effectually prove your affection for you

riends as by forgetting the past."

Ah, M. Rodolph, and you, too, madame, pra

believe that if, spite of myself, my thoughts d

evert to the past, it will be but to remind me tha

but for you that wretched past would still be m

ot."

But we shall take pains to prevent such mournf

eminiscences ever crossing your mind. Ou

enderness will not allow you time to look bac

my dear Marie," said Rodolph; "you know I gavyou that name at the farm."



Oh, yes, M. Rodolph, I well remember you did

And Madame Georges, who was so good a

even to permit me to call her mother, is she quit

well?"Perfectly so, my child; but I have some mos

mportant news for you. Since I last saw you som

great discoveries have been made respectin

your birth. We have found out who were you

parents, and your father is known to us."

The voice of Rodolph trembled so much whil

pronouncing these words that Fleur-de-Marie

herself deeply affected, turned quickly toward

him, but, fortunately, he managed to conceal h

countenance from her.

A somewhat ridiculous occurrence also served a

his instant to call off the attention of th

Goualeuse from too closely observing the prince

emotion,—the worthy squire, who still remaine

behind the curtain, feigning to be very busi

occupied in gazing upon the garden belonging t

he hôtel, suddenly blew his nose with a twanginound that reëchoed throu h the salon; for, i



ruth, the worthy man was crying like a child.

Yes, my dear Marie," said Clémence, hastily

your father is known to us—he is still living."

My father!" cried La Goualeuse, in a tone oender delight, that subjected the firmness o

Rodolph to another difficult test.

And some day," continued Clémence

—"perhaps very shortly, you will see him. But whawill, no doubt, greatly astonish you, is that he is o

high rank and noble birth."

And my mother, shall I not see her, too

madame?"

That is a question your father will answer, m

dear child. But tell me, shall you not be delighte

o see him?"

Oh, yes, madame," answered Fleur-de-Marie

casting down her eyes.

How much you will love him when you know him

aid Clémence.



A new existence will commence for you from tha

very day, will it not, Marie?" asked the prince.

Oh, no, M. Rodolph," replied Fleur-de-Marie

artlessly; "my new existence began when you too

pity on me, and sent me to the farm."

But your father loves you fondly—dearly!" sai

he prince.

I know nothing of my father, M. Rodolph; but tyou I owe everything in this world and the next."

Then you love me better, perhaps, than yo

would your father?"

Oh, M. Rodolph, I revere and bless you with a

my heart! For you have been a saviour an

preserver to me both of body and soul," replie

La Goualeuse, with a degree of fervour an

enthusiasm that overcame her natural diffidence.

When this kind lady was so good as to visit m

n prison, I said to her, as I did to every one else

Oh, if you have any trouble, only let M. Rodolp

know it, and he will be sure to relieve you.' An



when I saw any person hesitating between goo

and evil, I used to advise them to try and b

virtuous, telling them M. Rodolph always found

way to punish the wicked. And to such as were fa

gone in sin, I said, 'Take care, M. Rodolph wecompense you as you deserve.' And even whe

thought myself dying, I felt comfort in persuadin

myself that God would pity and pardon me, sinc

M. Rodolph had deigned to do so."

Carried away by her intense feelings of gratitud

and reverence for her benefactor, Fleur-de-Mari

broke through her habitual timidity; while thu

expressing herself a bright flush coloured her pa

cheeks, while her soft blue eyes, raised towardheaven as though in earnest prayer, shone wit

unusual brilliancy.

A silence of some seconds succeeded to thi

burst of enthusiasm, while the spectators of thcene were too deeply affected to attempt

eply.

It seems, then, my dear child," said Rodolph, a

ength, "that I have almost usurped your parent



place in your affections?"

Indeed, M. Rodolph, I cannot help it! Perhaps it

very wrong in me to prefer you as I do, but I kno

you, and my father is a stranger to me." The

etting her head fall on her bosom, she added,

a low, confused manner, "And besides, M

Rodolph, though you are acquainted with the pas

you have loaded me with kindness; while m

ather is ignorant of—of—my shame,—and mayprobably, regret, when he does know, havin

ound an unfortunate creature like myself. An

hen, too," continued the poor girl, with a shudde

madame tells me he is of high birth; how, then

can he look upon me without shame anaversion?"

Shame!" exclaimed Rodolph, drawing himself u

with proud dignity; "no, no, my poor child, you

grateful, happy father will raise you to a positioo great, so brilliant, that the richest and highes

n the land shall behold you with respect. Despis

and blush for you!—never! You shall take you

place among the first princesses of Europe, an

prove yourself worthy of the blood of queen



which flows in your veins."

My lord! My lord!" cried Clémence and Murphy a

he same time, equally alarmed at the excite

manner of Rodolph, and the increasing palenes

of Fleur-de-Marie, who gazed on her father

ilent amazement.

Ashamed of you!" continued he. "Oh, if ever

ejoiced in my princely rank it is now that it afford

me the means of raising you from the depths t

which the wickedness of others consigned you

Yes, my child! My long-lost, idolised child! In m

behold your father!" And utterly unable longer t

epress his feelings, the prince threw himself ahe feet of Fleur-de-Marie, and covered her han

with tears and caresses.

Thanks, my God," exclaimed Fleur-de-Marie

passionately clasping her hands, "for permittinme to indulge that love for my benefactor wit

which my heart was filled. My father! Oh, blesse

tle, that enables me to love him even as I—" An

unable to bear up against the suddenness of th

disclosure, Fleur-de-Marie fell fainting in th



prince's arms.

Murphy rushed to the waiting-room, and shoute

vehemently:

Send for Doctor David directly! Directly, do yohear? For his royal highness,—no—no, for som

one who is suddenly taken ill here."

Wretch that I am!" exclaimed Rodolph, sobbin

almost hysterically at his daughter's feet, "I havkilled her! Marie, my child, look up! It is your fathe

calls you! Forgive—oh, forgive my precipitancy—

my want of caution in disclosing to you this happ

news! She is dead! God of heaven! Have I the

but found her to see her torn from me for ever?"

Calm yourself, my lord," said Clémence, "there

no danger, depend upon it. The colour returns t

her cheeks; the surprise overcame her."

But so recently risen from a bed of sickness tha

urprise may kill her! Unhappy man that I am

doomed for ever to misery and suffering!"

At this moment the negro doctor, David, entere



he room in great haste, holding in one hand

mall case filled with phials, and in the other

paper he handed to Murphy.

David!" exclaimed Rodolph, "my child is dying

once saved your life, repay me now by saving tha

of my daughter."

Although amazed at hearing the prince spea

hus, David hurried to Fleur-de-Marie, whom

Madame d'Harville was supporting in her arms

examined her pulse and the veins of her temples

hen turning towards Rodolph, who in speechles

agony was awaiting his decree, he said:

Your royal highness has no cause for alarm

here is no danger."

Can it be true? Are you quite sure she w

ecover?"

Perfectly so, my lord; a few drops of ethe

administered in a glass of water is all that

equisite to restore consciousness."

Thanks, thanks, my good, my excellent David



cried the prince, in an ecstasy of joy. The

addressing Clémence, Rodolph added, "Ou

daughter will be spared to us."

Murphy had just glanced over the paper given him

by David; suddenly he started, and gazed wit

ooks of terror at the prince.

Yes, my old and faithful friend," cried Rodolph

misinterpreting the expression of Murphy

eatures, "ere long my daughter will enjoy th

happiness of calling the Marquise d'Harvill

mother."

Yesterday's news," said Murphy, tremblin

violently, "was false."

What say you?"

The report of the death of the Countes

Macgregor, my lord, is unfounded; her ladyshihad undergone a severe crisis of her illness, an

had fallen into a state of insensibility, which wa

mistaken by those around her for death itself, an

rom hence originated the account of her havin

expired; but to-day hopes are entertained of he



ultimate recovery."

Merciful heavens! Can this be possible?

exclaimed the prince, filled with sudden alarm

while Clémence, who understood nothing of a

his, looked on with undisguised astonishment.

My lord," said David, still occupied with Fleur-de

Marie, "there is no need of the slightes

apprehension respecting this young lady, but it i

absolutely necessary she should be in the ope

air; this chair might be easily rolled out on th

errace, by opening the door leading to th

garden; she would then immediately recove

consciousness."

Murphy instantly ran to open the glass door, whic

ed to a broad terrace, then, aided by David, h

gently rolled the armchair on to it.

Alas!" cried Rodolph, as soon as Murphy an

David were at a distance, "you have yet to lear

hat the Countess Sarah is the mother of Fleu

de-Marie; and I believed her dead."

A few moments of profound silence followed



Madame d'Harville became deadly pale, while a

cy coldness seemed to chill her heart.

Let me briefly explain," continued Rodolph,

extreme agitation, mingled with bitter sarcasm

that this ambitious and selfish woman, caring fo

nothing but my rank and title, contrived, during m

extreme youth, to draw me into a secret marriage

which was afterwards annulled. Being desirous o

contracting a second marriage, the countesoccasioned all the misfortunes of her unhapp

child, by abandoning her to the care of mercenar

and unprincipled people."

Now I can account for the repugnance yomanifested towards her."

And you may likewise understand why she s

bitterly pursued you, and had twice so near

effected your destruction by her infamoulanders. Still a prey to her insatiate ambition, sh

hoped, by separating me from any othe

attachment, to draw me a second time within he

nares. And this heartless woman still exists."

Nay, nay, my lord, that tone of bitter regret is no



worthy of you, any more than the feeling whic

dictated it."

You do not know the wretchedness she ha

already caused me; and even now that I hadared to dream of happiness, and looked forwar

o obtaining in you the comfort and solace of m

fe, as well as a mother for my newly recovere

child, this woman again crosses my path, and

ke the spirit of evil, dashes the cup from my lipere it is tasted."

Come, come, my lord," said poor Clémence

triving to look cheerful, though her tears flowe

ast, spite of all her efforts to restrain them, "takcourage, you have a great and holy duty t

perform. But just now, when impelled by a natura

burst of paternal affection, you said that the futur

destiny of your daughter should be happy an

prosperous as her past life had been the reversehat you would elevate her in the eyes of the worl

even more than she had been sunken an

depressed. To do this you must legitimise he

birth, and the only means by which that can bachieved is by espousing the Countes



Macgregor."

Never, never! That would be to reward th

perjury, selfishness, and unbridled ambition of th

unnatural mother of my poor child. But Marie sha

not suffer by my resolution. I will public

acknowledge her, you will kindly take her unde

your protection, and, I venture to hope, afford he

a truly maternal shelter."

No, my lord, you will not act thus! You will no

permit the cloud of doubt or mystery to hang ove

he birth of your daughter. The Countess Sarah

descended from an ancient and noble family

uch an alliance is, certainly, disproportionate foyou, but still is an honourable one; it will effectual

egitimise your daughter, and whatever may b

her future destiny, she will have cause to boast o

her father, and openly declare who was he

mother."

But think not I can or will resign you! It wer

easier to lay down my life than surrender th

blessed hope of dividing my time and affectio

between two beings I so dearly love as yourse



and my daughter."

Your child will still remain to you, my lord

Providence has miraculously restored her to you

would be sore ingratitude on your part to deem

your happiness incomplete."

You could not argue thus if you loved as I love."

I will not undeceive you, great as is your error; o

he contrary, I would have you persist in that beliewill make the task I recommend less painful t

you."

But if you really loved me,—if you suffered a

bitterly and severely as I do at the thoughts of mmarrying another, you would be wretched as I am

What will console you for our separation?"

My lord, I shall try to find solace in the discharg

of my charitable duties,—duties I first learned tove and practise from your counsels an

uggestions, and which have already afforded m

o much consolation and sweet occupation."

Hear me, I beseech you,—since you tell me it



ght, I will marry this woman; but the sacrific

once accomplished, think not I will remain a sing

hour with her, or suffer her to behold my child; thu

Fleur-de-Marie will lose in you the best an

enderest of mothers."

But she will still retain the best and tenderest o

athers. By your marriage with the Countes

Sarah she will be the legitimate daughter of on

of Europe's sovereign princes, and, as you buust now observed, my lord, her position will be a

great and splendid as it has been miserable an

obscure."

You are then pitilessly determined to shut out ahope from me? Unhappy being that I am!"

Dare you style yourself unhappy,—you so good

o just, so elevated in rank, as well as in mind an

eeling? Who so well and nobly understand thduty of self-denial and self-sacrifice? When but

hort time since you bewailed your child's deat

with such heartfelt agony, had any one said t

you, 'Utter the dearest wish of your soul and

hall be accomplished,' you would have cried, 'M



child—my daughter! Restore her to me in life an

health!' This unexpected blessing is granted you

your daughter is given to your longing arms, an

yet you style yourself miserable! Ah, my lord, le

not Fleur-de-Marie hear you, I beseech you!"

You are right," said Rodolph, after a long silence

such happiness as I aspired to would have bee

oo much for this world, and far beyond my righ

even to dream of. Be satisfied your words havprevailed,—I will act according to my duty to m

daughter, and forget the bleeding wound it inflict

on my own heart. But I am not sorry I hesitated

my resolution, since I owe to it a fresh proof of th

perfection of your character."

And is it not to you I owe the power of strugglin

with personal feelings and devoting myself to th

good of others? Was it not you who raised an

comforted my poor depressed mind, anencouraged me to look for comfort where only

could be found? To you, then, be all the merit o

he little virtue I may now be practising, as well a

all the good I may hereafter achieve. But tak

courage, my lord, bear up, as becomes one o



your firm, right-minded nature. Directly Fleur-de

Marie is equal to the journey, remove her t

Germany; once there, she will benefit so great

by the grave tranquillity of the country that he

mind and feelings will be soothed and calmedown to a placidity and gentle enjoyment of th

present, while the past will seem but as a trouble

dream."

But you—you?"

Ah, I may now confess with joy and pride that m

ove for you will be, as it were, a shield of defenc

rom all snares and temptations,—a guardia

angel that will preserve me from all that coulassail me in body or mind. Then I shall write t

you daily. Pardon me this weakness, 'tis the on

one I shall allow myself; you, my lord, will als

write to me occasionally, if but to give m

ntelligence of her whom once, at least, I called mdaughter," said Clémence, melting into tears a

he thoughts of all she was giving up, "and wh

will ever be fondly cherished in my heart as such

and when advancing years shall permit m

earlessly and openly to avow the regard whic



binds us to each other, then, my lord, I vow by you

daughter that, if you desire it, I will establis

myself in Germany, in the same city you yourse

nhabit, never again to quit you, but so to end

fe which might have been passed moragreeably, as far as our earthly feelings wer

concerned, but which shall, at least, have bee

pent in the practice of every noble and virtuou

eeling."

My lord," exclaimed Murphy, entering wit

eagerness, "she whom Heaven has restored t

you has regained her senses. Her first word upo

ecovering consciousness was to call for you. 'M

ather!—my beloved father!' she cried, 'oh, do noake me from him!' Come to her, my lord, she i

all impatience again to behold you!"

A few minutes after this Madame d'Harvill

quitted the prince's hôtel, while the latter repaire

n all haste to the house of the Countes

Macgregor, accompanied by Murphy, Baron d



Graün, and an aide-de-camp.

CHAPTER VII.

THE MARRIAGE.

From the moment in which she had learnt fromRodolph the violent death of Fleur-de-Marie

Sarah had felt crushed and borne down by

disclosure so fatal to all her ambitious hopes

Tortured equally by a too late repentance, shhad fallen into a fearful nervous attack, attende

even by delirium; her partially healed woun

opened afresh, and a long continuation of faintin

ts gave rise to the supposition of her death. Ye

till the natural strength of her constitutioustained her even amid this severe shock, an

fe seemed to struggle vigorously against death.

Seated in an easy chair, the better to reliev

herself from the sense of suffocation whic



oppressed her, Sarah had remained for som

me plunged in bitter reflections, almos

amounting to regrets, that she had bee

permitted to escape from almost certain death.

Suddenly the door of the invalid's chambe

opened, and Thomas Seyton entered, evident

truggling to restrain some powerful emotion

Hastily waving his hand for the countess

attendants to retire, he approached his sistewho seemed scarcely to perceive her brother

presence.

How are you now?" inquired he.

Much the same; I feel very weak, and have a

mes a most painful sensation of bein

uffocated. Why was I not permitted to quit th

world during my late attack?"

Sarah," replied Thomas Seyton, after

momentary silence, "you are hovering betwee

fe and death,—any violent emotion might destro

you or recall your feeble powers and restore yo

o health."



There can be no further trial for me, brother!"

You know not that—"

I could now even hear that Rodolph were dea

without a shock. The pale spectre of my murderechild—murdered through my instrumentality,

ever before me. It creates not mere emotion, bu

a bitter and ceaseless remorse. Oh, brother,

have known the feelings of a mother only since

have become childless."

I own I liked better to find in you that cold

calculating ambition, that made you regard you

daughter but as a means of realising the dream o

your whole existence."

That ambition fell to the ground, crushed for eve

beneath the overwhelming force of the prince

eproaches. And the picture drawn by him of th

horrors to which my child had been expose

awakened in my breast all a mother

enderness."

And how," said Seyton, hesitatingly and layin

deep emphasis on each word he uttered, "if by



miracle, a chance, an almost impossibility, you

daughter were still living, tell me how you woul

upport such a discovery."

I should expire of shame and despair!"

No such thing! You would be but too delighted a

he triumph such a circumstance would afford t

your ambition; for had your daughter survived, th

prince would, beyond a doubt, have married you.

And admitting the miracle you speak of coul

happen, I should have no right to live; but so soo

as the prince had bestowed on me the title of h

consort, my duty would have been to deliver him

rom an unworthy spouse, and my daughter from

an unnatural mother."

The perplexity of Thomas Seyton momentari

ncreased. Commissioned by Rodolph, who wa

waiting in an adjoining room, to acquaint Sara

hat Fleur-de-Marie still lived, he knew not how t

proceed. So feeble was the state of th

countess's health, that an instant might extinguis

he faint spark that still animated her frame; anhe saw that any delay in performing the nuptial rit



between herself and the prince might be fatal t

every hope. Determined to legitimise the birth o

Fleur-de-Marie by giving every necessa

ormality to the ceremony, the prince had brough

with him a clergyman to perform the sacreervice, and two witnesses in the persons o

Murphy and Baron de Graün. The Duc d

Lucenay and Lord Douglas, hastily summoned b

Seyton, had arrived to act as attesting witnesse

on the part of the countess.

Each moment became important, but the remors

of Sarah, mingled as it was with a matern

enderness that had entirely replaced the fie

ambition that once held sway in her breasendered the task of Seyton still more difficult. H

could but hope that his sister deceived eithe

herself or him, and that her pride and vanity woul

ekindle in all their former brightness at thprospect of the crown so long and ardent

coveted.

Sister," resumed Seyton, in a grave and solem

voice, "I am placed in a situation of crueperplexity. I could utter one word of such dee



mportance that it might save your life or stretc

you a corpse at my feet."

I have already told you nothing in this world ca

move me more."

Yes, one—one event, my sister."

And what is that?"

Your daughter's welfare."

I have no longer a child,—she is dead!"

But if she were not?"

Cease, brother, such useless suppositions,—wexhausted that subject some minutes since

Leave me to unavailing regrets!"

Nay, but I cannot so easily persuade myself tha

f, by some almost incredible chance, somunhoped-for aid, your daughter had bee

natched from death, and still lived—"

I beseech you talk not thus to me,—you know no

what I suffer."



Then listen to me, sister, while I declare that, a

he Almighty shall judge you and pardon me, you

daughter lives!"

Lives! said you? My child lives?"

I did, and truly so; the prince, with a clergyma

and the necessary witnesses, awaits in th

adjoining chamber; I have summoned two of ou

riends to act as our witnesses. The desire of you

fe is at length accomplished, the predictio

ulfilled, and you are wedded to royalty!"

As Thomas Seyton slowly uttered the concludin

part of his speech, he observed, wit

ndescribable uneasiness, the want of a

expression in his sister's countenance, the marb

eatures remained calm and imperturbable, an

her only sign of attending to her brother's word

was a sudden pressure of both hands to heheart, as if to still its throbbing, or as though unde

he influence of some acute pain, while a stifle

cry escaped her trembling lips as she fell back

her chair. But the feeling, whatever it was, soo

passed away, and Sarah became fixed, rigid



and tranquil, as before.

Sister!" cried Seyton, "what ails you? Shall I ca

or assistance?"

'Tis nothing! Merely the result of surprise and joat the unhoped-for tidings you hav

communicated to me. At last, then, the deares

wish of my heart is accomplished!"

I was not mistaken," thought Seyton, "ambitiotill reigns paramount in her heart, and will car

her in safety through this trial. Well, sister," sai

he, aloud, "what did I tell you?"

You were right," replied she, with a bitter smileas she penetrated the workings of her brother

houghts, "ambition has again stifled the voice o

maternal tenderness within me!"

You will live long and happily to cherish andelight in your daughter."

Doubtless I shall, brother. See how calm I am!"

Ah, but is your tranquillity real or assumed?"



Feeble and exhausted, can you imagine

possible for me to feign?"

You can now understand the difficulty I felt

breaking this news to you?"

Nay, I marvel at it, knowing as you did the exten

of my ambition. Where is the prince?"

He is here."

I would fain see and speak with him before th

ceremony." Then, with affected indifference, sh

added, "And my daughter is also here, as

matter of course?"

She is not here at present; you will see her b

and by."

True, there is no hurry; but send for the prince,

entreat of you."

Sister, I know not why, but your manner alarm

me, and there is a strangeness in your very look

as well as words!"

And Seyton spoke truly. The very absence of a



emotion in Sarah inspired him with a vague an

ndefinable uneasiness; he even fancied he sa

her eyes filled with tears she hastily repressed

But unable to account for his own suspicions, h

at once quitted the chamber.

Now, then," said Sarah, "if I may but see an

embrace my daughter, I shall be satisfied. I fea

here will be considerable difficulty in obtainin

hat happiness; Rodolph will refuse me, as punishment for the past. But I must and w

accomplish my longing desire! Oh, yes! I canno

—will not be denied! But the prince comes!"

Rodolph entered, and carefully closed the dooafter him. Addressing Sarah in a cold

constrained manner, he said:

I presume your brother has told you all?"

He has!"

And your ambition is satisfied."

Quite—quite satisfied?"

Every needful preparation for our marriage ha



been made; the minister and attesting witnesse

are in the next room."

I know it."

They may enter, may they not, madame?"

One word, my lord. I wish to see my daughter."

That is impossible!"

I repeat, my lord, that I earnestly desire to see m

child."

She is but just recovering from a severe illness

and she has undergone one violent shock to-day

he interview you ask might be fatal to her."

Nay, my lord, she may be permitted to embrac

her mother without danger to herself."

Why should she run the risk? You are now overeign princess!"

Not yet, my lord; nor do I intend to be until I hav

embraced my daughter!"

Rodolph gazed on the countess with unfeigne



astonishment.

Is it possible," cried he, "that you can brin

yourself to defer the gratification of your pride an

ambition?"

Till I have indulged the greater gratification of

mother's feelings. Does that surprise you, m

ord?"

It does indeed!"

And shall I see my daughter?"

I repeat—"

Have a care, my lord,—the moments ar

precious,—mine are possibly numbered! As m

brother said, the present trial may kill or cure me

am now struggling, with all my power, with all th

energy I possess, against the exhaustiooccasioned by the discovery just made to me.

demand to see my daughter, or otherwise I refus

he hand you offer me, and, if I die before th

performance of the marriage ceremony, her birt

can never be legitimised!"



But Fleur-de-Marie is not here; I must send fo

her."

Then do so instantly, and I consent to everythin

you may propose; and as, I repeat, my minute

are probably numbered, the marriage can tak

place while they are conducting my child hither."

Although 'tis a matter of surprise to hear suc

entiments from you, yet they are to

praiseworthy to be treated with indifference. Yo

hall see Fleur-de-Marie; I will write to her t

come directly."

Write there—on that desk—where I received m

death-blow!"

While Rodolph hastily penned a few lines, th

countess wiped from her brows the cold damp

hat had gathered there, while her hitherto calm

and unmovable features were contracted by

udden spasmodic agony, which had increase

n violence from having been so long concealed

The letter finished, Rodolph arose and said to th

countess:



I will despatch this letter by one of my aides-de

camp; she will be here in half an hour from th

me my messenger departs. Shall I, upon m

eturn to you, bring the clergyman and person

chosen to witness our marriage, that we may aonce proceed?"

You may,—but no, let me beg of you to ring th

bell; do not leave me by myself; let Sir Walte

despatch the letter, and then return with thclergyman."

Rodolph rang; one of Sarah's attendant

answered the summons.

Request my brother to send Sir Walter Murph

here," said the countess, in a faint voice. Th

woman went to perform her mistress's bidding

This marriage is a melancholy affair, Rodolph

aid the countess, bitterly, "I mean as far as I amconcerned; to you it will be productive o

happiness." The prince started at the idea. "Nay

be not astonished at my prophesying happines

o you from such a union; but I shall not live to ma

your joys."



At this moment Murphy entered.

My good friend," said the prince, "send this lette

off to my daughter. Colonel —— will be the beare

of it, and he can bring her back in my carriagehen desire the minister and all concerned

witnessing the marriage ceremony to assemble

he adjoining room."

God of mercy!" cried Sarah, fervently claspin

her hands as the squire disappeared, "grant m

trength to fold my child to my heart! Let me no

die ere she arrives!"

Alas! why were you not always the tender mothe

you now are?"

Thanks to you, at least, for awakening in me

incere repentance for the past, and a heart

desire to devote myself to the good of thos

whose happiness I have so fearfully disturbed

Yes, when my brother told me, a short time since

of our child's preservation,—let me say our child

will not be for long I shall require you

ndulgence,—I felt all the agony of knowing myserrecoverabl ill, et over o ed to think that th



birth of our child would be legitimised; that done

hall die happy!"

Do not talk thus."

You will see I shall not deceive you again; mdeath is certain."

And you will die without one particle of tha

nsatiate ambition which has been your return! B

what fatality has your repentance been delayed tnow?"

Though tardy, it is sincere; and I call Heaven t

witness that, at this awful moment, I bless God fo

emoving me from this world, and that I ampared the additional misery of living, as I am

aware I should have been a weight and burden t

you, as well as a bar to your happines

elsewhere. But can you pardon me? For mercyake, say you do! Do not delay to spea

orgiveness and peace to my troubled spirit un

he arrival of my child, for in her presence yo

would not choose to pronounce the pardon of he

guilty mother. It would be to tell her a tale I woulain she never knew. You will not refuse me th



hope that, when I am gone, my memory may b

dear to her?"

Tranquillise yourself, she shall know nothing o

he past."Rodolph, do you too say I am forgiven! Oh

orgive me—forgive me! Can you not pity

creature brought low as I am? Alas, my suffering

might well move your heart to pity and to pardon!I do forgive you from my innermost soul!" sai

he prince, deeply affected.

The scene was most heartrending. Rodolp

opened the folding-doors, and beckoned in thclergyman with the company assembled there

hat is to say, Murphy and Baron de Graün a

witnesses on the part of Rodolph, and the Duc d

Lucenay and Lord Douglas on the part of thcountess; Thomas Seyton followed close behind

All were impressed with the awful solemnity of th

melancholy transaction, and even M. de Lucena

eemed to have lost his usual petulance and folly

The contract of marriage between the most hig



and powerful Prince Gustave Rodolph, fift

eigning Duke of Gerolstein, and Sarah Seyton o

Halsburg, Countess Macgregor, whic

egitimised the birth of Fleur-de-Marie, had bee

previously drawn up by Baron de Graün, andbeing read by him, was signed by the partie

mentioned therein, as well as duly attested by th

ignature of their witnesses.

Spite of the countess's repentance, when thclergyman, in a deep solemn voice, inquired o

Rodolph whether his royal highness was willing t

ake Sarah Seyton of Halsburg, Countes

Macgregor, for his wife, and the prince ha

eplied in a firm, distinct voice, "I will," the dyineyes of Sarah shone with unearthly brilliancy, a

expression of haughty triumph passed over he

vid features,—the last flash of expiring ambition

Not a word was spoken by any of the spectatorof this mournful ceremony, at the conclusion o

which the four witnesses, bowing with deep bu

ilent respect to the prince, quitted the room.

Brother," said Sarah, in a low voice, "request th



clergyman to accompany you to the adjoinin

oom, and to have the goodness to wait there

moment."

How are you now, my dear sister?" aske

Seyton. "You look very pale."

Nay," replied she, with a haggard smile, "fear no

or me; am I not Grand Duchess of Gerolstein?

Left alone with Rodolph, Sarah murmured in

eeble and expiring voice, while her feature

underwent a frightful change, "I am dying; m

powers are exhausted! I shall not live to kiss an

bless my child!"

Yes, yes, you will. Calm yourself; she will soon b

here."

It will not be! In vain I struggle against th

approach of Death. I feel too surely his icy han

upon me; my sight grows dim; I can scarce

discern even you."

Sarah!" cried the prince, chafing her damp, col

hands with his. "Take courage, she will soon b

here; she cannot delay much longer!"



The Almighty has not deemed me worthy of s

great a consolation as the presence of my child!"

Hark, Sarah! Methinks I hear the sound o

wheels. Yes, 'tis she,—your daughter comes!"

Promise me, Rodolph, she shall never know th

unnatural conduct of her wretched but repentan

mother," murmured the countess, in almos

narticulate accents.

The sound of a carriage rolling over the pave

court was distinctly heard, but the countess ha

already ceased to recognise what was passin

around her, her words became more indistincand incoherent. Rodolph bent over her wit

anxious looks; he saw the rising films of death ve

hose beautiful eyes, and the exquisite feature

grow sharp and rigid beneath the touch of th

king of terrors.

Forgive me,—my child! Let me—see—my—

child! Pardon—at least! And—after—death—th

honours—due—to my—rank—" she faintly said

and these were the last articulate words sh



uttered,—the one, fixed, dominant passion of he

fe mingled, even in her last moments, with th

incere repentance she expressed and

doubtless, felt. Just at that awful moment Murph

entered.

My lord," cried he, "the Princess Marie

arrived!"

Let her not enter this sad apartment. Desir

Seyton to bring the clergyman hither." The

pointing to Sarah, who was slowly sinking into he

ast moments, Rodolph added, "Heaven ha

efused her the gratification of seeing her child!"

Shortly after that the Countess Sarah Macgrego

breathed her last.

CHAPTER VIII.

BICÊTRE.



A fortnight had elapsed since Sarah's death, an

was mid-Lent Sunday. This date established

we will conduct the reader to Bicêtre, an immens

building, which, though originally designed for th

eception of insane persons, is equally adapteas an asylum for seven or eight hundred poor o

men, who are admitted into this species of civ

nvalid hospital when they have reached the ag

of seventy years, or are afflicted with sever

nfirmities.

The entrance to Bicêtre is by a large cour

planted with high trees, and covered in the centr

by a mossy turf, intersected with flower beds du

cultivated. Nothing can be imagined morhealthful, calm, or cheerful than the promenad

hus devoted to the indigent old beings we hav

before alluded to. Around this square are th

pacious and airy dormitories, containing cleancomfortable beds; these chambers form the firs

oor of the building, and immediately beneat

hem are the neatly kept and admirably arrange

efectories, where the assembled community o

Bicêtre partake of their common meal, excellenand abundant in its kind and served with a car



and attention that reflects the highest praise o

he directors of this fine institution.

n conclusion of this short notice of Bicêtre, we w

ust add that at the period at which we write thbuilding also served as the abode of condemne

criminals, who there awaited the period of the

execution.

t was in one of the cells belonging to the prisohat the Widow Martial and Calabash were left t

count the hours till the following day, on which the

were to suffer the extreme penalty of the law.

Nicholas, the Skeleton, and several of the samdescription of ruffians had contrived to escap

rom La Force the very night previous to the da

on which they were to have been transferred t

Bicêtre.

Eleven o'clock had just struck as two fiacres dre

up before the outer gate; from the first of whic

descended Madame Georges, Germain, an

Rigolette, and from the second Louise Morel an

her mother. Germain and Ri olette had now bee



married for some fifteen days.

We must leave the reader to imagine the glow o

happiness that irradiated the fair face of th

grisette, whose rosy lips parted but to smile, or t

avish fond words upon Madame Georges, whom

he took every occasion of calling "her dea

mother." The countenance of Germain expresse

a more calm and settled delight. With his sincer

affection for the merry-hearted being to whom hwas united was mingled a deep and gratef

ense of the kind and disinterested conduct o

Rigolette towards him when in prison, althoug

he charming girl herself seemed to hav

completely forgotten all about it, and even wheGermain spoke of those days she would entrea

him to change the subject, upon the plea o

nding all such recollections so very dull an

dispiriting. Neither would the pretty grisettubstitute a bonnet for the smart little cap wor

before her marriage, and certainly never wa

humility and avoidance of pretension bette

ewarded; for nothing could have been invente

more becoming to the piquant style of Rigolette



beauty than the simple cap à la paysannerimmed with a large orange-coloured rosette a

each side, contrasting so tastefully with the lon

resses of her rich dark hair, now worn in lon

hanging curls; for, as she said, "she could noallow herself to take a little pains with he

appearance."

The fair bride wore a handsome worked musl

collar, while a scarf, of similar colour to thrimmings of her cap, half concealed her gracefu

pliant figure, which, notwithstanding her havin

eisure to adorn herself, was still unfettered by th

artificial restraints of stays; although the tight gra

ilk dress she wore fitted without a fold or crease over her lightly rounded bosom

esembling the beautiful statue of Galatea

marble. Madame Georges beheld the happines

of the newly married pair with a delight almosequal to their own.

As for Louise Morel, she had been set at liber

after undergoing a most searching investigation

and when a post-mortem examination of henfant had proved that it had come to its death b



natural means; but the countenance of the poo

victim of another's villainy had lost all th

reshness of youth, and bore the impress of dee

orrow, now softened and subdued by gentlenes

and resignation. Thanks to Rodolph, and thexcellent care that had been taken of her throug

his means, the mother of Louise, wh

accompanied her, had entirely recovered he

health.

Madame Georges having informed the porter a

he lodge that she had called by the desire of on

of the medical officers of the establishment, wh

had appointed to meet herself and the friends b

whom she was accompanied at half past eleveo'clock, she was requested to choose whethe

he would await the doctor within doors or in th

arge square before the building; determining t

do the latter, and supporting herself on the arm oher son, while the wife of Morel walked besid

her, she sauntered along the shady alleys tha

bordered this delightful spot, Louise and Rigolett

ollowing them.

How very glad I am to see you again, dea



Louise," said the bride. "When we came to fetc

you on our arrival from Bouqueval, I wanted to ru

up-stairs to you, but my husband would not let me

he said I should tire myself, so I stayed in th

coach, and that is the reason why we meet nowor the first time since—"

You so kindly came to console me in prison

Mlle. Rigolette," cried Louise, deeply affected

You are so feeling for all in trouble, whether obody or mind!"

In the first place, my dear Louise," replied th

grisette, hastily interrupting praises that were t

her oppressive, "I am not Mlle. Rigolette anonger, but Madame Germain. I do not know

whether you heard—"

That you were married? Oh, yes, I did. But pra

et me thank you as you deserve."

Ah, but Louise," persisted Madame Germain,

am quite sure you have not learnt all th

particulars; how my marriage is all owing to th

generosity of him who was at once the protectoand benefactor of yourself and family, Germain



his mother, and my own self."

Ah, yes, M. Rodolph,—we bless his nam

morning and evening. When I came out of priso

he lawyer who had been to see me from time tme, by M. Rodolph's order, told me that, thank

o the same kind friend who had alread

nterested himself so much for us, M. Ferran

and here at the very mention of the name a

nvoluntary shudder passed over the poor girlrame) had settled an annuity on my poor fathe

and myself,—some little reparation for the wrong

he had done us. You are aware that my poor dea

ather is still confined here, though still improvin

n health."

And I also know that the kind doctor who ha

appointed our being here to-day even hopes you

dear parent may be enabled to return with you t

Paris; he thinks that it will be better to take somdecided steps to throw off this malady, and tha

he unexpected presence of persons your fathe

was in the daily habit of seeing may produce th

most favourable effects,—perhaps cure him; anhat is what I think will be the case."



Ah, mademoiselle, I dare not hope for so muc

happiness."

Madame Germain, my dear Louise, if it is all th

ame to you; but to go on with what I was tellinyou, you have no idea, I am sure, who M. Rodolp

eally is?"

Yes, I have,—the friend and protector of all wh

are unhappy."

True, but that is not all. Well, as I see you real

are ignorant of many things concerning ou

benefactor, I will tell you all about it."

Then addressing her husband, who was walkin

before her with Madame Georges, she said

Don't walk so very fast, Germain, you will tire ou

mother!" And, with a look of proud satisfaction

he said, turning to Louise, "Does not he deservo have a good wife? See how attentive he is t

his mother! He certainly is very handsome, too,—

a thousand times more so than Cabrion, or M

Girandeau, the travelling clerk! You remembe

him, don't you, Louise?



Talking of Cabrion puts me in mind to ask yo

whether M. Pipelet and his wife have arrived yet

The doctor wished them to come here to-day wit

us, because your father has talked much abou

hem during his wanderings."

No, they are not here at present, but they will no

be long. When we called for them they ha

already set out."

And then as for being punctual in keeping a

appointment, M. Pipelet is as exact as a clock t

he hour and minute! But let me tell you a littl

more about my marriage and M. Rodolph. On

hink, Louise, it was he who sent me with thorder for Germain's liberation! You can imagin

our delight at quitting that horrid prison. Well, w

went home to my room, and there Germain and

ogether prepared a nice little bit of dinner; bu

bless you! we might just as well have spare

ourselves the trouble, for, after it was ready

neither of us could eat a bit for joy. When evenin

came Germain left me, promising to return th

next day.



Well, at five o'clock next morning, I got up and sa

down to my work, for I was terribly behindhan

with it. As eight o'clock struck some one knocke

at the door; who should it be but M. Rodolph

Directly I saw him, I began to thank him from thbottom of my heart for all he had done fo

Germain and myself. He would not allow me t

proceed. 'My kind neighbour,' said he, 'I wish yo

o give this letter to Germain, who will soon b

here. Then you will take a fiacre, and proceewithout delay to a small village, near Ecouen

called Bouqueval. Once there, inquire fo

Madame Georges; and I wish you all imaginabl

pleasure from your trip.' 'M. Rodolph,' I said, 'praexcuse me, but that will make me lose anothe

day's work and I have already got two to make u

or.' 'Make yourself perfectly easy, my prett

neighbour,' said he, you will find plenty of work a

Madame Georges's, I promise you; she will provan excellent customer, I have no doubt, and I hav

particularly recommended you to her.' 'Oh, tha

alters the case, M. Rodolph, then I'm sure I sha

be but too glad to go.' 'Adieu, neighbour,' said M

Rodolph. 'Good-bye,' cried I, 'and many thanks fo



o kindly recommending me.'

When Germain came, I told him all about it; so a

we were quite sure M. Rodolph would not send u

upon any foolish errand, we set off as blithe a

birds. Only imagine, Louise, what a surpris

awaited us on our arrival! I declare I can scarce

hink of it without tears of happiness coming int

my eyes. We went to the very Madame George

you see walking before us, and who should shurn out to be but the mother of Germain!"

His mother?"

Yes, his own very mother, from whom he ha

been taken when quite a baby! You must try t

ancy their mutual joy! Well, when Madam

Georges had wept over her son, and embrace

and gazed at him a hundred times, my turn cam

o be noticed.

No doubt M. Rodolph had written something ver

avourable about me, for, clasping me in he

arms, she said, 'She was acquainted with m

conduct towards her son.' 'Then, mothernterposed Germain, 'it only rests with you to as



her, and Rigolette will be your child as well as

And I do ask her to be my daughter with all m

heart,' replied his mother, 'for you will never find

better or a prettier creature to love as your wife.'

So there I was quite at home, in such a swee

arm, along with Germain, his mother, and m

birds; for I had taken the poor, little, dear thing

with me, just to hear how delightedly they woul

ing when they found themselves in the countryThe days passed like a dream. I did only just wha

liked,—helped Madame Georges, walked abou

with Germain, and danced and sung like a wil

hing.

Well, our marriage was fixed to take place o

yesterday fortnight; the evening before, wh

hould arrive but a tall, elderly, bald-heade

gentleman, who looked so kind; and he brough

me a corbeille de mariage from M. Rodolph. Onhink, Louise, what a beauty it must have been,—

made like a large rosewood box, with thes

words written in letters of gold, on medallion o

blue china, 'Industry and Prudence—Love anHappiness.' And what do you suppose th



charming box contained? Why, a number of lac

caps similar to the one I have now on, pieces fo

gowns, gloves, ornaments, a beautiful shawl, an

his pretty scarf. Oh, I thought I should lose m

enses with delight! But that is not all. At thbottom of the box I found a handsom

pocketbook, with these words written on a bit o

paper affixed to it, 'From a friend to a friend

nside were two folded papers, one addressed t

Germain, and the other to me. In that addresseo Germain was an order for his appointment a

director of a bank for the poor with a salary of fou

housand francs a year; while he found under th

envelope, directed to me, a money order for forhousand francs on the treasury,—yes, that's th

word; it was called my marriage portion.

I did not like to take so large a sum, but Madam

Georges said to me, 'My dear child, you both caand must accept it, as a recompense for you

prudence, industry, and devotion to those wh

were in misfortune; for did you not run the risk o

njuring your health, and probably deprive yourse

of your only means of support, by sitting up ani ht at work in order to make u for the time o



pent in attending to others?'"

Oh, that is quite true," exclaimed Louise, wit

ervour. "I do not think there is any one upon eart

who would have done all that you have doneMademoi—Madame Germain!"

There's a good girl, she has learned her lesso

at last! Well, I said to the elderly gentleman that

did not merit such a reward, that what little I hadone was purely because it afforded m

pleasure. To which he answered, 'That makes n

difference; M. Rodolph is immensely rich, and h

ends you this dowry as a mark of his friendshi

and esteem, and your refusal of it would pain himvery much indeed. He will himself be present a

your marriage, and then he will compel you t

ake it.'"

What a blessing that so charitable a person aM. Rodolph should be possessed of such riches

Of course it is! But I haven't told you all yet. Oh

Louise, you never can guess who and what M

Rodolph turns out to be; and to think of my makin



him carry large parcels for me! But have a littl

patience, you will hear about it directly.

The night before the marriage the elder

gentleman came again very late, and in grea

haste,—it was to tell us that M. Rodolph was i

and could not attend the wedding, but that h

riend, the bald-headed gentleman, would take h

place. And then only, my dear Louise, did w

earn that our benefactor was—guess what—prince! A prince, do I say? Bless you, ever s

much higher than that! A royal highness!—

eigning duke!—a sort of a second-rate king

Germain explained all about his rank to me!"



M. Rodolph a prince!—a duke!—almost a king!

Just think of that, Louise! And imagine my havinasked him to help me to clean my room! A prett

tate of confusion it threw me into when ecollected all that, and how free I had spoken t

him! So of course you know when I found that hwas as good as a king, I did not dare refuse hgracious wedding present.

Well, my dear, when we had been married aboua week, M. Rodolph sent us word that he shoulbe glad if Germain, his mother, and myself woulpay him a wedding visit; so we did. I can tell yomy heart beat as though it would come througmy side! Well, we stopped at a fine palace in thRue Plumet, and were ushered into a number oplendid apartments, filled with servants

veries, all covered with gold lace, gentlemen black, with silver chains around their necks anwords by their sides, officers in rich uniforms

and all sorts of gay looking people. The rooms wpassed through were all gilt, and filled with suc

beautiful things they quite dazzled my eyesigh



only to look at them.

At last we got to the apartment where the baldheaded old gentleman was sitting, with a quantiof grand folks, all covered with gold lace anembroidery. Well, when our elderly friend saw ushe rose and conducted us to an adjoining roomwhere we found M. Rodolph—I mean the prince—dressed so simply, and looking so good and kin

—just like the M. Rodolph we first knew—that I dnot feel at all frightened at the recollection of howhad set him to pin my shawl for me, mend mpens, and walked with him arm in arm in thtreet, just like two equals, as, certainly, then

hought we were."

Oh, I should have trembled like a leaf if I habeen you!"

Well, I did not mind it at all, he smiled sencouragingly; and, after kindly welcominMadame Georges, he held out his hand tGermain, and then said, smilingly, to me, 'Weneighbour, and how are "Papa Crétu" an

Ramonette?"' (Those were the names I called m



birds by. Was it not kind of him to recollect them?

'I feel quite sure,' added he, 'that yourself anGermain can sing as merry songs as your birdsYes, indeed, my lord,' replied I (MadamGeorges had taught me as we came along howwas to address the prince), 'we are as happy as s possible to be, and our happiness is thgreater because we owe it to you.'

Nay, nay, my good child,' said he, 'you mahank your own excellent qualities and that oGermain for the felicity you enjoy,' etc. I need nogo on with that part of the story, Louise, becaus

would oblige me to repeat all the charminpraises I received; and, certainly, I cannoecollect ever doing more than my strict dutyhough the prince was pleased to think differently

Well, we all came away more sorrowful than wwent, for we found it was to be our farewell visit tour benefactor, he being about to return tGermany. Whether or not he has gone I cannot teyou, but, absent or present, our most gratef

emembrance and respectful esteem will eve



attend him.

I forgot to tell you that a dear, good girl I knewwhen we were both in prison together had beeving at the farm with Madame Georges; it seem

my young friend had, fortunately, found a friend iM. Rodolph, who had placed her there. BuMadame Georges particularly cautioned me noo say a word on the subject to the prince, wh

had some reason for desiring it should not balked about,—no doubt because he could nobear his benevolent deeds should be knownHowever, I learnt one thing that gave me extrempleasure, that my sweet Goualeuse had found he

parents, and that they had taken her a great, greaway from Paris; I could not help feeling grievedoo, that I had not been able to wish her good-bybefore she went.

But forgive me, dear Louise, for being so selfisas to keep talking to you of every one's happineswhen you have so much reason to be sorrowfyourself."

Had my child but been spared to me," said poo



Louise, sadly, "it would have been somconsolation to me; for how can I ever hope to finany honest man who would make me his wifealthough I have got money enough to tempt an

one."

For my part, Louise, I feel quite sure that one ohese days I shall see you happily married to good and worthy partner, who will pity you for you

past troubles, and love and esteem you for thpatience with which you endured them."

Ah, Madame Germain, you only say so to try ancomfort me; but whether you really believe wha

you say or no, I gratefully feel and thank you foyour kindness. But who are these? I declare, Mand Madame Pipelet! How very gay he looks; sdifferent from the sad, dejected appearance halways wore, while M. Cabrion was tormentin

him as he did!"

Louise was right. Pipelet advanced in high spiritsand as though treading on air; on his head hwore the well-known bell-crowned hat, a super

grass-green coat adorned his person, while



white cravat, with embroidered ends, was foldearound his throat, in such a manner as to permhe display of an enormous collar, reaching nearup to his eyes, and quite concealing his cheeks

A large, loose waistcoat, of bright buff, with broamaroon-coloured stripes, black trousersomewhat short for the wearer, snowy whittockings, and highly polished shoes complete

his equipment.

Anastasie displayed a robe of violet-colouremerino, tastefully contrasted with a dark bluhawl. She proudly exhibited her freshly curle

Brutus wig to the gaze of all she met, while he

cap was slung on her arm by its bright greetrings, after the manner of a reticule.

The physiognomy of Alfred—ordinarily so gravehoughtful, and dejected—was now mirthfu

ocund, and hilarious. The moment he caught glimpse of Rigolette and Louise, he ran towardhem, exclaiming in his deep, sonorous voiceDelivered! Gone!"

How unusually joyful you seem, M. Pipelet," sai



Rigolette. "Do pray tell us what has occasioneuch a change in your appearance!"

Gone! I tell you, mademoiselle,—or, rathemadame, as I may, do, and ought to say, nowhat, like my Anastasie, you are tied up for life."

You are very polite, M. Pipelet; but please to teme who has gone?"

Cabrion!" responded M. Pipelet, inspiring anespiring the air with a look of indescribabl

delight, as though relieved of an enormouweight; "he has quitted France for ever—for perpetuity! At length he has departed, and I ammyself again."

Are you quite sure he has gone?"

I saw him with my eyes ascend the diligence, e

oute for Strasburg with all his luggage anbaggage; that is to say, a hat-case, a maul-stickand a box of colours."

What is my old dear chattering about?" crie

Anastasie, as she came puffing and panting t



he spot where the little group were assembledI'll be bound he was giving you the history o

Cabrion's going off—I'm sure he has talked onothing else all the way we came."

Because I'm half wild with delight; I seem to havgot into another world,—such a lightness hacome over me. A little while ago my hat used teem as though loaded with lead, and as if

pressed forwards in spite of me; now I seem ahough borne on the breeze towards thrmament, to think that he is gone—actually se

out—and never to return!"

Yes, the blackguard is off at last!" chimed Madame Pipelet.

Anastasie," cried her husband, "spare thabsent! Happiness calls for mercy an

orbearance on our parts. I will obey its dictatesand merely allow myself to remark that Cabriowas a—a—worthless scoundrel!"

But how do you know that he has gone t

Germany?" inquired Rigolette.



By a friend of our 'king of lodgers.' Talking of thadear man, you haven't heard that, owing to thhandsome manner in which he recommended uAlfred has been appointed house-porter to a so

of charitable bank, established in our house by worthy Christian, who wishes, like M. Rodolph, tdo all the good he can?"

Ah!" replied Rigolette. "And, perhaps, you don

know, either, that my dear Germain is appointemanager of this same bank? All owing to the kinntervention of M. Rodolph."

Well, I never!" exclaimed Madame Pipelet, "a

our good luck comes together; and I'm sure I'mheartily glad we shall keep old friends anacquaintances around us. I hate fresh faces, fomy part. I'm certain I would not change my olduck of a husband even for your young handsom

one, Madame Germain.

But to go back to Cabrion. Only imagine a baldheaded, stout, elderly gentleman, coming to tell uof Alfred's new situation, and at the same tim

nquiring if a talented artist of the name o



Cabrion did not once lodge in the house with usOh, my poor darling! Directly Cabrion's name wamentioned down went the boot he was mendingand if I had not caught him he would hav

wooned away. But, fortunately, the balgentleman added, 'This young painter has beeengaged by a very wealthy person to do somwork, which will occupy him for years, and hmay, very probably, establish himself in anothe

country.' In confirmation of which the olgentleman gave my Alfred the date of Cabriondeparture, with the address of the office fromwhich he started."

And I had the unhoped-for satisfaction of readinon the ticket, 'M. Cabrion, artist in paintingdeparts for Strasburg, and further, by thcompany's diligence.' The hour named was fo

his morning. I need not say I was in the inn yarwith my wife."

And there we saw the rascal take his seat on thbox beside the driver."

Just as the vehicle was set in motion Cabrio



perceived me, turned around, and cried,'Yours foever! I go to return no more.' Thank heaven! Thoud blast of the guard's horn nearly drownehese familiar and insulting words, as well as an

others he might have intended to utter. But I pitand forgive the wretched man,—I can afford to bgenerous, for I am delivered from the bane anmisery of my life."

Depend upon it, M. Pipelet," said Rigoletteendeavouring to restrain a loud fit of laughte—"depend upon it, you will see him no more. Busten to me, and I will tell you something I am sur

you are ignorant of and which it will be almo

difficult for you to credit. What do you think of ouM. Rodolph not being what we took him for, but prince in disguise,—a royal highness!"

Go along with you!" said Anastasie. "That is

oke!"

Oh, but really," cried Rigolette, "I am not joking; s as true as—as—that I am married to my deaGermain."

Goodness gracious me!" exclaimed Anastasie



My king of lodgers a royal highness! Oh, deahere's a pretty go! And I asked him to mind thodge for me. Oh, pardon! Pardon! Pardon!" Anhen, carried away by the excess of her reverenc

and regret for having so undervalued a princehough a disguised one, Madame Pipelet placeher cap on her head, as though she imagineherself in the presence of royalty.

Alfred, on the contrary, manifested his respect fooyalty in a manner diametrically the reverse ohe form adopted by his wife. Snatching off hhat, that hat which had never before been seen tquit his head, he commenced bowing to emp

pace, as though standing in the presence of thaugust personage he apostrophised, while hexclaimed, "Have I, then, been honoured by a visrom royalty? Has my poor lodge been so fa

avoured? And to think of his illustrious eyehaving seen me in my bed, when driven thither bhe vile conduct of Cabrion!"

At this moment Madame Georges, turnin

around, cried out:



My children, the doctor comes."

Doctor Herbin, the individual alluded to, was man of about the middle age, with a countenancexpressive of great kindness and benevolenceunited to extreme skill and penetration discovering the extent of malady with which hunfortunate patients were affected. His voicenaturally harmonious, assumed a tone of gentl

uavity when he spoke to the poor lunatics; whohowever bereft of reason, seemed always tsten with peculiar delight to his soft, soothin

words, which frequently had the effect of subduinhe invariable irritability attendant on this fearf

complaint. M. Herbin had been among the first tubstitute, in his treatment of madness, sympath

and commiseration for the frightful remedieordinarily employed. He abandoned the coerciv

ystem, so repugnant to every principle ohumanity, for kind words, conciliating looks, and eady attention to every request that couleasonably be granted. He banished chains

whips, drenching with cold water, and eve

olitary confinement, except in cases of urgennecessit .



Monsieur," said Madame Georges, addressinhe doctor, "I have ventured hither with my son andaughter, although personally unknown to M

Morel; but my interest in his unfortunate statmade me desirous of witnessing the experimenyou are about to make to restore his reason. Yohave every hope of succeeding, have you not?"

I certainly reckon much, madame, on the gooeffects likely to be produced by the sight of hdaughter and the persons he has been in thconstant habit of seeing."

When my husband was arrested," said Morelwife, pointing to Rigolette, "our kind young frienhere was nursing me and my children."

And my father knew M. Germain quite well," sa

Louise; then directing the attention of M. Herbin tAlfred and Anastasie, she added, "Monsieur anmadame here were porters at the house, anassisted our family to the utmost of their ability."

I am greatly obliged to you, my worthy friendaid the doctor, addressing Alfred, "for quittin



your occupation to come hither; but I see by youamiable countenance that you have cheerfulacrificed your time to visit your poor lodge

here."

Sir-r!" replied Pipelet, gravely bowing. "Mehould help each other in this sublunary world

and remember that all are brothers; added twhich your unfortunate patient was the very cream

and essence of an honest man, and therefore doespect him."

If you are not afraid, madame," said DoctoHerbin to Madame Georges, "of the sight of th

poor creatures here, we will cross some of thyards leading to that part of the building wherehave deemed it advisable to remove Morenstead of allowing him to accompany the othero the farm as usual."

The farm!" exclaimed Madame Georges. "Havyou a farm here?"

Your surprise is perfectly natural, madame. Yes

we have a farm, the produce of which is moserviceable to the establishment, although entire



worked by the patients."

Is it possible? Can you make these lunaticwork, and allow them to be at liberty while they d

o?"Certainly; exercise, the calm tranquillity of thelds, with the aspect of nature, are among ou

most certain means of cure. Only one keepegoes with them, and we have rarely had anstance of any patient endeavouring to get awayhey are delighted to be employed, and the triflineward they gain serves still to improve the

condition, by enabling them to purchase differen

ttle indulgences. But we have reached the gatconducting to one of these courts." Theperceiving a slight appearance of alarm on thcountenance of Madame Georges, the doctoadded, "Lay aside all apprehension, madame;

a very few minutes you will feel as tranquil as I dmyself."

I follow you, sir. Come, my children."

Anastasie," whispered Pipelet, "when I think thahad the ersecutions of that odious Cabrio



continued, your poor dear Alfred might havbecome mad, like the unhappy wretches we arabout to behold, clad in the most wild and singulatate, chained up by the middle, or confined

dens like the wild beasts in the 'Jardin dePlantes—'"

Oh, bless your dear old heart, don't talk of such hing! La! I've heard say that them as has gon

mad for love are for all the world like born devidirectly they see a woman; dashing against thbars of their dens, and making all sorts of horrinoises, till the keepers are forced to flog them they drop, or else turn great taps of water on the

heads before they can quiet them."

Anastasie," rejoined Pipelet, gravely, "I desiryou will not go too close to these dreadfcreatures, an accident so soon happens."

Besides," answered Anastasie, with a tone oentimental melancholy, "poor things, I have n

business to show myself just for the sake oantalising them. 'Tis woman's beauty an

ascination reduces them to this horrid state.



declare I feel a cold shudder creep over me aseflect that, perhaps, if I had refused to make yo

a happy man, Alfred, you might at this very minutbe raving mad for love, and shut up in one o

hese dens, roaring out the moment you caughight of a woman; while as it is, my poor old duc

s glad to get out of the way of the naughemales that will be trying to make him notichem."

'Tis true, my modesty is easily alarmed. BuAnastasie, the door opens, I tremble with dread owhat we are about to witness; no doubt the moshideous looking people, and all sorts of dreadf

noises, rattling of chains, and grinding of teeth."

The door being opened admitted them into a loncourtyard, planted with rows of trees, under whicbenches were placed. On each side was a we

constructed and spacious portico, or coveretone terrace, with which a range of large, air

cells communicated. A number of men, all alikclad in a gray dress, were walking, talking, o

conversing in this pleasant retreat, while otherwere seated on the benches, enjoying th



efreshing shade and fresh open air.

At the sight of Doctor Herbin a number of thunfortunate lunatics pressed around him, witevery manifestation of joy and delight, extendino him their hands with an expression of gratefconfidence, to which he cordially responded, baying:

Good day—good day, my worthy fellows! I amglad to see you all so well and happy."

Some of the poor lunatics, too far from the doctoo be able to seize his hand, ventured, with a soof timid hesitation, to offer theirs to the personwho were with him.

Good morning, friends," said Germain, shakinhands in a manner so cordial as to fill thunfortunate beings with happiness.

Are these the mad patients?" inquired MadamGeorges.

Nearly the worst belonging to the establishment

answered the doctor, smiling; "they are permitte



o be together during the day, but at night they arocked up in the cells you see there."

Can it be possible that these men are realmad! But when are they violent?"

Generally at the first outbreak of their maladywhen they are brought here. After a short time thoothing treatment they experience, with thociety of their companions, calms and amusehem, so that their paroxysms become milder aness frequent, until at length, by the blessing oGod, they recover their senses."

What are those individuals talking so earnestabout?" inquired Madame Georges. "One ohem seems referring to a blind man, who, addition to the loss of sight, seems likewisdeprived of speech and reason. Have you such

one among your patients, or is the existence ohis person but a mere coinage of the brain?"

Unhappily, madame, it is a fact but too true, anhe history connected with it is a most singula

one. The blind man concerning whom you inquirwas found in a low haunt in the Champs Elysées



n which a gang of robbers and murderers of thworst description were apprehended; thwretched object was discovered, chained in thmidst of an underground cave, and beside him la

tretched the dead body of a woman, so horribmutilated that it was wholly impossible to attempo identify it. The man himself was hideously uglyhis features being quite destroyed by thapplication of vitriol. He has never uttered a singl

word since he came hither; whether hdumbness be real or affected I know not, fotrange to say, his paroxysms always occu

during the night, and when I am absent, so as t

baffle all conjecture as to his real situation; but hmadness seems occasioned by violent rage, thcause of which we cannot find out, for, as I beforobserved, he never speaks or utters an articulatound. But here he is."

The whole of the party accompanying the doctotarted with horror at the sight of th

Schoolmaster, for he it was, who merely feignebeing dumb and mad to procure his own safety

The dead body found beside him was that of th



Chouette, whom he had murdered, not during paroxysm of madness, but while under thnfluence of such a burning fever of the brain ahad produced the fearful dream he had dreame

he night he passed at the farm of Bouqueval.

After his apprehension in the vaults of the tavern the Champs Elysées, the Schoolmaster haawakened from his delirium to find himself

prisoner in one of the cells of the Conciergeriewhere mad persons are temporarily placed undeestraint. Hearing all about him speak of him as aving and dangerous lunatic, he resolved t

continue to enact the part, and even feigne

absolute dumbness for the purpose of avoidinhe chance of any questions being attempted tbe put to him.

His scheme succeeded. When removed t

Bicêtre he affected occasional fits of furioumadness, taking care always to select the nighor these outrageous bursts, the better to escaphe vigilant eye of the head surgeon; the hous

doctor, hastily summoned, never arriving in timo witness either the beginning or ending of thes



attacks.

The few of his accomplices who knew either hname, or the fact of his having escaped from thgalleys at Rochefort, were ignorant of what habecome of him; and even if they did, what interescould they have in denouncing him? Neither wout have been possible to establish his identity—burnt and mutilated as he was—with the darin

elon of Rochefort. He hoped, therefore, bcontinuing to act the part of a madman, to bpermitted to abide permanently at Bicêtre; sucwas now the only desire of the wretch, unablonger to indulge his appetite for sinful and violen

deeds.

During the solitude in which he lived in BraRouge's cellar, remorse gradually insinuated itsento his strong heart; and, cut off from a

communication with the outer world, his thoughted inwards, and presented him with ghastmages of those he had destroyed, till his braburned with its own excited torture.

And thus this miserable creature, still in the fu



vigour and strength of manhood, before whomwere, doubtless, long years of life, and enjoyinhe undisturbed possession of his reason, wacondemned to linger out the remainder of h

days as a self-imposed mute, and in the companof fools and madmen; or if his imposition wadiscovered, his murderous deeds would conduhim to a scaffold, or condemn him to perpetubanishment among a set of villains, for whom h

newly awakened penitence made him feel thutmost horror.

The Schoolmaster was sitting on a bench; a masof grizzled, tangled locks hung around his hug

and hideous head; leaning his elbow on his kneehe supported his cheek in his hand. Spite of hightless eyes and mutilated features, thevolting countenance still expressed the mos

bitter and overwhelming despair.Dear mother," observed Germain, "what

wretched looking object is this unfortunate blinman!"

"The Schoolmaster Was Sitting on a Bench"



Original Etching by Porteau "The Schoolmaste

Was Sitting on a Bench"Original Etching by Porteau

Oh, yes, my son!" answered Madame Georgesit makes one's heart ache to behold a fello

creature so heavily afflicted. I know not wheanything has so completely shocked me as thight of this deplorable being."

Scarcely had Madame Georges given utteranco these words than the Schoolmaster startedand his countenance, even despite its cicatriseand disfigured state, became of an ash

paleness. He rose and turned his head in thdirection of Madame Georges so suddenly thahe could not refrain from faintly screaminghough wholly unsuspicious of who the frightfcreature really was; but the Schoolmaster's ea

had readily detected the voice of his wife, and hewords told him she was addressing her son.

Mother!" inquired Germain, "what ails you? Aryou ill?"

Nothing, my son; but the sudden movemen



made by that man terrified me. Indeed, sircontinued she, addressing the doctor, "I begin teel sorry I allowed my curiosity to bring mhither."

Nay, dear mother, just for once to see such place cannot hurt you!"

I tell you what, Germain," interposed Rigolette, don't feel very comfortable myself; and I promisyou neither your mother nor I will desire to comhere again—it is too affecting!"

Nonsense! You are a little coward! Is she not, Me Docteur?"

Why, really," answered M. Herbin, "I musconfess that the sight of this blind lunatic affecteven me, who am accustomed to such things."

What a scarecrow, old ducky! Isn't he?whispered Anastasie; "but, la! to my eyes everman looks as hideous as this dreadful blincreature in comparison with you, and that is whno one can ever boast of my having granted himhe least liberty,—don't you see, Alfred?"



I tell you what, Anastasie," replied Pipelet, "I shadream of this frightful figure. I know he will give man attack of nightmare. I won't eat tripe for suppell I have quite forgot him."

And how do you find yourself now, friend?asked the doctor of the Schoolmaster; but hasked in vain, no attempt was made to replyCome, come!" continued the doctor, tapping him

ghtly on the shoulder, "I am sure you hear whatay; try to make me a sign at least, or speak,—omething tells me you can if you will!"

But the only answer made to this address was b

he Schoolmaster suddenly drooping his headwhile from the sightless eyes rolled a tear.

He weeps!" exclaimed the doctor.

Poor creature!" murmured Germain, in compassionate tone.

The Schoolmaster shuddered; again he heard thvoice of his son, breathing forth commiseratio

or his wretched, though unknown parent.



What is the matter?" inquired the doctor; "what t grieves you?"

But, without taking any notice of him, thSchoolmaster hid his face with his hands.

We shall make nothing of him," said the doctoThen, perceiving how painfully this scenappeared to affect Madame Georges, he addedNow, then, madame, we will go to Morel, and,

my expectations are fulfilled, you will be ampewarded for the pain you have felt hitherto,

witnessing the joy of so good a husband anather in being restored to his family."

With these words the doctor, followed by the parthat had accompanied him, proceeded on hway, leaving the Schoolmaster a prey to his owdistracting thoughts, the most bitter of which wa

he certainty of having heard his son's voice, anhat of his wife, for the last time. Aware of the jushorror with which he inspired them, the miseryhame, and affright with which they would hav

heard the disclosure of his name made him prefe

a thousand deaths to such a revelation. One only



but great, consolation remained in the certainty ohaving awakened the pity of his son; and, with thhought to comfort him, the miserable beindetermined to endure his sufferings wit

epentance and submission.

We are now about to pass by the yarappropriated to the use of the idiot patients," saihe doctor, stopping before a large grated doo

hrough which the poor idiotic beings might been huddled together, with every appearance ohe most distressing imbecility.

Spite of Madame Georges's recent agitation, sh

could not refrain from casting a glance through thailing.

Poor creatures!" said she, in a gentle, pityinvoice; "how dreadful to think their sufferings ar

hopeless! for I presume there is no remedy fouch an affliction as theirs?"

Alas, none, madame!" replied the doctor. "Butmust not allow you to dwell too long on th

mournful picture of human misery. We have nowarrived at the place where I expect to find More



whom I desired should be left entirely alone, order to produce a more startling effect in the littproject on which I build my hopes for hestoration to reason."

What idea principally occupies his mind?" askeMadame Georges.

He believes that if he cannot earn thirteehundred francs by his day's work, in order to paoff a debt contracted with one Ferrand, a notaryhis daughter will perish on a scaffold."

That man Ferrand was, indeed, a monsterexclaimed Madame Georges; "poor Louise Morand her father were not the only victims to hvillainy, he has persecuted my son with thbitterest animosity."

I have heard the whole story from Louiseeplied the doctor. "Happily the wretch can n

more wring your hearts with agony. But be sgood as to await me here while I go to ascertahe state of Morel." Then, addressing Louise, h

added, "You must carefully watch for my callinout 'Come!' A ear instantl ; but let it be alone



When I call out 'Come!' for the second time, thest of the party may make their appearance."

Alas, sir, my heart begins to fail me!" replie

Louise, endeavouring to suppress her tears. "Mpoor father! What if the present trial fail!"

Nay, nay, keep up your courage! I am mosanguine of success in the scheme I have lon

meditated for the restoration of your fathereason. Now, then, all you have to do for thpresent is carefully to attend to my directions." Saying, the doctor, quitting his party, entered mall chamber, whose grated window looked int

he garden.

Thanks to rest, care, sufficiency of nourishing dieMorel was no longer the pale, careworn, haggarcreature that had entered those walls; the tinge o

health began to colour his before jaundicecheek, but a melancholy smile, a fixedmotionless gaze, as though on some object foever present to his mental view, proved too plainhat Reason had not entirely resumed her empir

over him.



When the doctor entered, Morel was sitting at able, imitating the movements of a lapidary at hwheel.

I must work," murmured he, "and hard, tooThirteen hundred francs! Ay, thirteen hundred ihe sum required, or poor Louise will be draggeo a scaffold! That must not be! No, no, her fathewill work—work—work! Thirteen hundred francs

Right!"

Morel, my good fellow," said the doctor, gentladvancing towards him, "don't work so very hardhere is no occasion now, you know that you hav

earned the thirteen hundred francs you required tree Louise. See, here they are!" and with theswords the doctor laid a handful of gold on thable.

Saved! Louise saved!" exclaimed the lapidarycatching up the money, and hurrying towards thdoor; "then I will carry it at once to the notary."

Come!" called out the doctor, in considerabl

repidation, for well he knew the success of h



experiment depended on the manner in which thmind of the lapidary received its first shock.

Scarcely had the doctor pronounced the signahan Louise sprang forwards, and presenteherself at the door just as her father reached Bewildered and amazed, Morel let fall the gold hclutched in his hands, and retreated in visiblurprise. For some minutes he continued gazin

on his daughter with a stupefied and vacant starebut by degrees his memory seemed to awakenand, cautiously approaching her, he examined heeatures with a timid and restless curiosity.

Poor Louise, trembling with emotion, coulcarcely restrain her tears; but a sign from th

doctor made her exert herself to repress anmanifestation of feeling calculated to disturb thprogress of her parent's thoughts.

Meanwhile Morel, bending over his daughter, anpeering, with uneasy scrutiny, into hecountenance, became very pale, pressed hhands to his brows, and then wiped away th

arge damp drops that had gathered there



Drawing closer and closer to the agitated girl, htrove to speak to her, but the words expired o

his lips. His paleness increased, and he gazearound him with the bewildered air of a perso

awakening from a troubled dream.

Good, good!" whispered the doctor to Louisenow, when I say 'Come,' throw yourself into hi

arms and call him 'father!'"

The lapidary, pressing his two hands on hibreast, again commenced examining thndividual before him from head to foot, as determined to satisfy his mind as to her identity

His features expressed a painful uncertainty, andnstead of continuing to watch the features of hdaughter, he seemed as if trying to hide himserom her sight, saying, in a low, murmuringbroken tone:

No, no! It is a dream! Where am I? It mpossible! I dream,—it cannot be she!" Thenobserving the gold strewed on the floor, he criedAnd this gold! I do not remember,—am I the

awake? Oh, my head is dizzy! I dare not look,—



am ashamed! She is not my Louise!"

Come!" cried the doctor, in a loud voice.

Father! Dearest father!" exclaimed Louise. "D

you not know your child,—your poor Louise?" Anas she said these words she threw herself on thapidary's neck, while the doctor motioned for thest of the group to advance.

Gracious heavens!" exclaimed Morel, whilLouise loaded him with caresses. "Where am IWhat has happened to me? Who are all thespersons? Oh, I cannot—dare not believe theality of what I see!"

Then, after a short silence, he abruptly took thhead of Louise between his two hands, gazeearnestly and searchingly at her for sommoments, then cried, in a voice tremulous witemotion, "Louise?"

He is saved!" said the doctor.

My dear Morel,—my dear husband!" exclaime

he lapidary's wife, mingling her caresses wit



hose of her daughter.

My wife! My child and wife both here!" crieMorel.

Pray don't overlook the rest of your friends, MMorel," said Rigolette, advancing; "see, we havall come to visit you at once!"

I for one am delighted to renew my acquaintanc

with the worthy M. Morel," said Germain, cominorward and extending his hand.

And your old acquaintances at the lodge beg thahey may not be overlooked," chimed

Anastasie, leading Alfred up to the astonisheand delighted lapidary. "You know us, don't youM. Morel,—the Pipelets—the hearty old Pipeletsand your everlasting friends? Come, pluck ucourage, and look about you, M. Morel! Hang all, Daddy Morel, here's a happy meeting! Ma

we see many such! Ail-l-l-l-ez donc! "

M. Pipelet and his wife! Everybody here! eems to me so long since—but—but no matte

—'tis you, Louise, my child—'tis you, is it not?



exclaimed he, joyfully pressing his daughter in harms.

Oh, yes, my dearest father, 'tis your own pooLouise! And there is my mother; here are all oukind friends. You will never quit us more, neveknow sorrow or care again, and henceforward whall all be happy and prosperous!"

Happy? Let me try and recollect a little of pashings. I seem to have a faint recollection of youbeing taken to prison—and—and then, Louise, aeems a blank and confusion here," continue

Morel, pressing his hand to his temples.

Never mind all that, dearest father! I am here annnocent,—let that comfort and console you."

Stay, stay! That note of hand I gave! Ah, now emember it all!" cried the lapidary, withuddering horror. Then, in a voice of assume

calmness, he said, "And what has become of thnotary?"

He is dead, dearest father," murmured Louise.



Dead? He dead? Then indeed I may hope fohappiness! But where am I? How came I hereHow long have I left my home, and wherefore wa

brought hither? I have no recollection of any o

hese things!"

You were extremely ill," said the doctor, "and yowere brought here for air and good nursing. Yohave had a severe fever, and been at times a littl

ghtheaded."

Yes, yes, I recollect now; and when I was taken remember I was talking with my daughter, anome other person,—who could it be? Ah, now

know!—a kind, good man, named M. Rodolphwho saved me from being arrested. Afterwardstrange to say, I cannot recall a singl

circumstance."

Your illness was attended with an entire absencof memory," said the doctor.

And in whose house am I now?"

In that of your friend, M. Rodolph," interposeGermain, hastily; "it was thought that country a



would be serviceable to you, and promote youecovery."

Excellent!" said the doctor, in a low tone; thepeaking to a keeper who stood near him, haid, "Send the coach around to the garden-gato prevent the necessity of taking our recoverepatient through the different courts, filled withose less fortunate than himself."

As frequently occurs in cases of madness, Morehad not the least idea or recollection of thaberration of intellect under which he hauffered.

Shortly afterwards, Morel, with his wife an

daughter, ascended the fiacre, attended also by urgeon of the establishment, who, fo

precaution's sake, was charged to see him

comfortably settled in his abode ere he left himand in this order, and followed by a seconcarriage, conveying their friends, the lapidaquitted Bicêtre without entertaining the mosemote suspicion of ever having entered it.

And do ou consider this oor man effectual



cured?" asked Madame Georges of the doctoas he led her to the coach.

I hope so, at least; and I wished to leave him

wholly to the beneficial effects of rejoining hamily, from whom it would now be almosdangerous to attempt to separate him; added twhich, one of my pupils will remain with him angive the necessary directions for his regimen an

reatment. I shall visit him myself daily, until hcure is confirmed, for not only do I feel mucnterested in him, but he was most particularecommended to me when he first came here b

h e chargé d'affaires of the Grand Duke oGerolstein."

A look of intelligence was exchanged betweeGermain and his mother.

Much affected with all they had seen and heardhe party now took leave of the doctor, reiteratinheir gratification at having been present durino gratifying a scene, and their gratef

acknowledgments for the politeness he ha

hown them in conducting them over th



establishment.

As the doctor was reëntering the house, he wamet by one of the superior officers of the placewho said to him,—

Ah, my dear M. Herbin, you cannot imagine thcene I have just witnessed; it would hav

afforded an inexhaustible fund of reflection for skilful an observer as yourself."

To what do you allude?"

You are aware that we have here two females, mother and a daughter, who are condemned t

death, and that their execution is fixed for tomorrow. Well, in my life, I never witnessed such cool indifference as that displayed by the mothehe must be a female fiend!"

You allude to the Widow Martial, I presume; wharesh act of daring has she committed?"

You shall hear. She had requested permission thare her daughter's cell until the final momen

arrived; her wish was complied with. He



daughter, far less hardened than her parenappeared to feel contrition as the hour oexecution approached, while the diabolicassurance of the old woman seemed, if possible

o augment. Just now the venerable chaplain ohe prison entered their dungeon to offer to themhe consolations of religion. The daughter waabout to accept them, when the mother, withouor one instant losing her coolness or frigid sel

possession, began to assail the chaplain wituch insulting and derisive language that th

venerable priest was compelled to quit the ceafter trying in vain to induce the violent an

unmanageable woman to listen to one word haid.

It is a fearful fact connected with this family that ort of depravity seems to pervade it. The fathe

was executed, a son is now in the galleys, econd has only escaped a public andisgraceful end by flight; while the eldest son anwo young children have alone been able to resishis atmosphere of moral contagion.

What a singular circumstance connected wit



his double execution it is that the day of mid-Lenhould have been selected. At seven o'clock to

morrow, the hour fixed, the streets will be fillewith groups of masqueraders, who, havin

passed the night at the different balls and placeof entertainment beyond the barriers, will be juseturning home; added to which, at the place o

execution, the Barrière St. Jacques, the noise ohe revels still being kept up in honour of th

carnival can be distinctly heard."

The following morning's sun rose bright ancloudless. At four o'clock in the morning variouroops of soldiers surrounded the approaches tBicêtre.

We shall now return to Calabash and her mothen their dungeon.



CHAPTER IX.

THE TOILET.

The condemned cell of Bicêtre was situated ahe end of a gloomy passage, into which a triflinportion of light and air was admitted by means omall gratings let into the lower part of the wa

The cell itself would have been wholly dark but foa kind of wicket, let into the upper part of the doowhich opened into the corridor before mentioned

n this wretched dungeon, whose crumblin

ceiling, damp, mouldy walls, and stone-paveoor struck a death-chill like that of the gravewere confined the Widow Martial, and hedaughter Calabash.

The harsh, angular features of the widow stooout amidst the imperfect light of the place, coldpale, and immovable as those of a marble statueDeprived of the use of her hands, which werastened beneath her black dress by the strai

waistcoat of the prison, formed of coarse gra



cloth and tightly secured behind her, shequested her cap might be taken of

complaining of an oppression and burninensation in her head; this done, a mass of long

grizzled hair fell over her shoulders.

Seated at the side of her bed, she gazeearnestly and fixedly at her daughter, who waeparated from her by the width of the dungeon

and, wearing like her mother the customary straiwaistcoat, was partly reclining and partupporting herself against the wall, her head benorward on her breast, her eye dull anmotionless, and her breathing quick and irregula

From time to time a convulsive tremor rattled heower jaw, while her features, spite of their livihue, remained comparatively calm and tranquil.

Within the cell, and immediately beneath th

wicket of the entrance door, was seated an oldgray-headed soldier, whose rough, sunburneatures betokened his having felt the scorch omany climes, and borne his part in numerou

campaigns. His duty was to keep constant watcover the condemned prisoners.



How piercing cold it is here!" exclaimeCalabash; "yet my eyes burn in my head, andhave a burning, quenchless thirst!" Theaddressing the bald-headed veteran, she said

Water! Pray give me a drink of water!"

The old soldier filled a cup of water from a pitcheplaced near him, and held it to her lips. Eagerwallowing the draught, she bowed her head

oken of thankfulness, and the soldier proceedeo offer the same beverage to the mother.

Would you not like to moisten your lips?" askehe, kindly.

With a rough, repulsive gesture, she intimated hedisinclination, and the old man sat down again.

What's o'clock?" inquired Calabash.

Nearly half past four," replied the soldier.

Only three hours!" replied Calabash, with inister and gloomy smile. "Three hours more

And then—" She could proceed no further.



The widow shrugged up her shoulders. Hedaughter divined her meaning, and said, "Ahmother, you have so much more courage thanhave,—you never give way, you don't."

Never!"

I see it, and I know you too well to expect it. Yoook at this moment as calm and collected as we were sitting sewing by our own fireside. Ahhose happy days are gone,—gone forever!"

Folly! Why prate thus?"

Nay, mother, I cannot bear to rest shut up with m

own wretched thoughts! It relieves my heart to taof bygone times, when I little expected to come this."

Mean, cowardly creature!"

I know I am a coward, mother. I am afraid to dieEvery one cannot boast of your resolution. I do nopossess it. I have tried as much as I could tmitate you. I refused to listen to the pries

because you did not like it. Still I may have bee



wrong in sending the holy man away; for," addehe wretched creature, with a shudder, "who caell what is after death? Mother, do you hear meAfter, I say! And it only wants—"

Exactly three hours, and you will know all about!"

How can you speak so indifferently on such dreadful subject? Yet true enough; in three shohours, we who now sit talking to each other, whof at liberty, should ail nothing, but be ready tenjoy life, must die. Oh, mother, can you not saone word to comfort me?"

Be bold, girl, and die as you have lived, a truMartial!"

You should not talk thus to your daughternterposed the old soldier, with a serious air; "yowould have acted more like a parent had yoallowed her to listen to the priest when he came."

Again the widow contemptuously shrugged hehoulders, and, without deigning to notice tholdier further than by bestowing on him a look o



withering contempt, she repeated to Calabash:

Pluck up your courage, my girl, and let the worlee that women have more courage than men

with their priests and cowardly nonsense!"

General Leblond was one of the bravest officerof the regiment he belonged to. Well, thdauntless man fell at the siege of Saragossacovered with wounds, and his last expiring acwas to sign himself with the cross," said thveteran. "I served under him. I only tell you this tprove that to die with a prayer on our lips is nign of cowardice!"

Calabash eyed the bronzed features of thpeaker with deep attention. The scarred an

weather-beaten countenance of the old man toof a life passed in scenes of danger and of death

encountered with calm bravery. To hear thosewrinkled lips urging the necessity of prayer, anassociating religion with the memory of the gooand valiant, made the miserable, vacillating culprhink that, after all, there could be no cowardice

ecommending one's soul to the God who gave



and breathing a repentant supplication for thpast.

Alas, alas!" cried she. "Why did I not attend twhat the priest had to say to me? It could not havdone me any harm, and it might have given mcourage to face that dreadful afterwards, thamakes death so terrible."

What! Again?" exclaimed the widow, with bittecontempt. "'Tis a pity time does not permit of youbecoming a nun! The arrival of your brotheMartial will complete your conversion; but thahonest man and excellent son will think it sinful t

come and receive the last wishes of his dyinmother!"

As the widow uttered these last words, the hugock of the prison was heard to turn with a lou

ound, and then the door to open.

So soon!" shrieked Calabash, with a convulsivbound. "Surely the time here is wrong,—it cannobe the hour we were told! Oh, mother! Mothe

Must we die at least two hours before wexpected?"



So much the better if the executioner's watcdeceives me! It will put an end to your whininolly, which disgraces the name you bear!"

Madame," said an officer of the prison, gentopening the door, "your son is here,—will you sehim?"

Yes," replied the widow, without turning her head

Martial entered the cell, the door of which was leopen that those without in the corridor might bwithin hearing, if summoned by the old soldiewho still remained with the prisoners.

Through the gloom of the corridor, lighted only bhe faint beams of the early morning, and thdubious twinkling of a single lamp, severaoldiers and gaolers might be seen, the forme

tanding in due military order, the later sitting obenches.

Martial looked as pale and ghastly as his mothewhile his features betrayed the mental agony h

uffered at witnessing so afflicting a sight. Sti



pite of all it cost him, as well as the recollectioof his mother's crimes and openly expresseaversion for himself, he had felt it imperatively hduty to come and receive her last commands. N

ooner was he in the dungeon than the widowxing on him a sharp, penetrating look, said, in one of concentrated wrath and bitterness, with view to rouse all the evil passions of her sonmind:

Well, you see what the good people are going tdo with your mother and sister!"

Ah, mother, how dreadful! Alas, alas! Have I no

warned you that such would be the end—"

nterrupting him, while her lips became blanchewith rage, the widow exclaimed:

Enough! 'Tis sufficient that your mother anister are about to be murdered, as your fathe

was!"

Merciful God!" cried Martial. "And to think thathave no power to prevent it! 'Tis past all humanterference. What would you have me do? Alas



Had you or my sister attended to what I said, yowould not now have been here."

Oh, no doubt!" returned the widow, with her usuaone of savage irony. "To you the spectacle omine and your sister's sufferings is a matter odelight to your proud heart; you can now tell thworld without a lie that your mother is dead,—yowill have to blush for her no more!"

Had I been wanting in my duty as a sonanswered Martial, indignant at the unjuarcasms of his mother, "I should not now b

here."

You came but from curiosity! Own the truth if yodare!"

No, mother! You desired to see me, and obeyed your wish."

Ah, Martial," cried Calabash, unable longer ttruggle against the agonising terror she enduredhad I but listened to your advice, instead of beined by my mother, I should not be here!" Theosing all further control of herself, she exclaimed



Tis all your fault, accursed mother! Your baexample and evil counsel have brought me twhat I am!"

Do you hear her?" said the widow, bursting inta fiendish laugh. "Come, this will repay you for throuble of paying us a last visit! Your excellenister has turned pious, repents of her own sins

and curses her mother!"

Without making any reply to this unnatural speecMartial approached Calabash, whose dyinagonies seemed to have commenced, andegarding her with deep compassion, said:

My poor sister! Alas, it is now too late to recahe past!"

It is never too late to turn coward, it seemscried the widow, with savage excitement. "Ohwhat a race you are! Happily Nicholas haescaped; François and Amandine will slihrough your fingers; they have already imbibevice enough, and want and misery will finis

hem!"



Oh, Martial," groaned forth Calabash, "for thove of God, take care of those two poor childrenest they come to such an end as mother's anmine!"

He may watch over them as much as he likescried the widow, with settled hatred in her looksvice and destitution will have greater effect tha

his words, and some of these days they w

avenge their father, mother, and sister!"

Your horrible expectations, mother, will never bulfilled," replied the indignant Martial; "neither myoung brother, sister, nor self have anything t

ear from want. La Louve saved the life of thyoung girl Nicholas tried to drown, and thelations of the young person offered us either arge sum of money or a smaller sum and somand at Algiers; we preferred the latter, and to

morrow we quit Europe, with the children, foever."

Is that absolutely true?" asked the widow oMartial, in a tone of angry surprise.

Mother, when did I ever tell you a falsehood?"



You are doing so now to try and put me into passion!"

What, displeased to learn that your children ar

provided for?"

Yes, to find that my young wolves are to burned into lambs, and to hear that the blood oather, mother, and sister have no prospect o

being avenged!"

Do not talk so—at a moment like this!"

I have murdered, and am murdered in my turn,—

he account is even, at any rate."

Mother, mother, let me beseech you to repenere you die!"

Again a peal of fiendish laughter burst from thpallid lips of the condemned woman.

For thirty years," cried she, "have I lived in crimewould you have me believe that thirty years' gus to be repented of in three days, with the mindisturbed and distracted by the near approach o



death? No, no, three days cannot effect sucwonders; and I tell you, when my head falls its lasexpression will be rage and hatred!"

Brother, brother," ejaculated Calabash, whosbrain began to wander, "help, help! Take me fromhence," moaned she in an expiring voice; "theare coming to fetch me—to kill me! Oh, hide medear brother, hide me, and I will love you eve

more!"

Will you hold your tongue?" cried the widowexasperated at the weakness betrayed by hedaughter. "Will you be silent? Oh, you base, yo

disgraceful creature! And to think that I should bobliged to call myself your parent!"

Mother," exclaimed Martial, nearly distracted bhis horrid scene, "will you tell me why you sent fo

me?"

Because I thought to give you heart and hatredbut he who has not the one cannot entertain thother. Go, coward, go!"

At this moment a loud sound of many footstep



was heard in the corridor; the old soldier lookeat his watch.

A rich ray of the golden brightness, which markehe rising of that day's sun, found its way throughe loopholes in the walls, and shed a flood oght into the very midst of the wretched ceendered now completely illumined by means ohe opening of the door at the opposite end of th

passage to that in which the condemned cell waituated. In the midst of this blaze of da

appeared two gaolers, each bearing a chair; aofficer also made his appearance, saying to thwidow in a voice of sympathy:

Madame, the hour has arrived."

The mother arose on the instant, erect anmmovable, while Calabash uttered the mo

piercing cries. Then four more persons enterehe cell; four of the number, who were verhabbily dressed, bore in their hands packets one but very strong cord. The taller man of th

party was dressed in black, with a large cravat; h

handed a paper to the officer. This individual wa



he executioner, and the paper a receipignifying his having received two females for th

purpose of guillotining them. The man then tooole charge of these unhappy creatures, and

rom that moment, was responsible for them.

To the wild terror and despair which had firseized Calabash, now succeeded a kind otupefaction; and so nearly insensible was sh

hat the assistant executioners were compelled teat her on her bed, and to support her whehere; her firmly closed jaws scarcely enabled heo utter a sound, but her hollow eyes rollevacantly in their sockets, her chin fell listlessly o

her breast, and, but for the support of the twmen, she would have fallen forwards a lifelesenseless mass.

After having bestowed a last embrace on h

wretched sister, Martial stood petrified with terrounable to speak or move, and as though perfectpellbound by the horrible scene before him.

The cool audacity of the widow did not for a

nstant forsake her; with head erect, and firm



collected manner, she assisted in taking off thtrait-waistcoat she had worn, and which ha

hitherto fettered her movements; this removedhe appeared in an old black stuff dress.

Where shall I place myself?" asked she, in clear, steady voice.

Be good enough to sit down upon one of thoschairs," said the executioner, pointing to the seatarranged at the entrance of the dungeon.

With unfaltering step, the widow prepared tollow the directions given her, but as she passeher daughter she said, in a voice that betokeneome little emotion:

Kiss me, my child!"

But as the sound of her mother's voice reache

her ear, Calabash seemed suddenly to wake urom her lethargy, she raised her head, and, wita wild and almost frenzied cry, exclaimed:

Away! Leave me! And if there be a hell, may

eceive you!"



My child," repeated the widow, "let us embracor the last time!"

Do not approach me!" cried the distracted girviolently repulsing her mother; "you have been muin in this world and the next!"

Then forgive me, ere I die!"

Never, never!" exclaimed Calabash; and then

otally exhausted by the effort she had made, shank back in the arms of the assistants.

A cloud passed over the hitherto stern features ohe widow, and a moisture was momentari

visible on her glowing eyeballs. At this instant shencountered the pitying looks of her son. After rifling hesitation, during which she seemed to bundergoing some powerful internal conflict, shaid:

And you?"

Sobbing violently, Martial threw himself into himother's arms.

Enough!" said the widow, conquering he



emotion, and withdrawing herself from the closembrace of her son; "I am keeping this gentlemawaiting," pointing to the executioner; thenhurrying towards a chair, she resolutely seate

herself, and the gleam of maternal sensibility shhad exhibited was for ever extinguished.

Do not stay here," said the old soldieapproaching Martial with an air of kindness

Come this way," continued he, leading him, whilMartial, stupefied by horror, followed himmechanically.

The almost expiring Calabash having bee

upported to a chair by the two assistants, onustained her all but inanimate form, while th

other tied her hands behind with fine buexcessively strong whipcord, knotted into thmost inextricable meshes, while with a cord of th

ame description he secured her feet, allowinher just so much liberty as would enable her tproceed slowly to her last destination. The widohaving borne a similar pinioning with the mos

mperturbable composure, the executionedrawing from his pocket a pair of huge scissors



aid to her with considerable civility:

Be good enough to stoop your head, madame."

Yielding immediate obedience to the request, th

widow said:

We have been good customers to you; you havhad my husband in your hands, and now you havhis wife and daughter!"

Without making any reply, the executioner begao cut the long gray hairs of the prisoner verclose, especially at the nape of the neck.

This makes the third time in my life," continuehe widow, with a dismal smile, "that I have hamy head dressed by a professor: when I took mrst communion the white veil was arranged; the

on my marriage, when the orange-flowers wer

placed there; and upon the present occasionupon my word, I hardly know which became mmost. You cannot guess what I am thinking of?esumed the widow, addressing the executione

after having again contemplated her daughter.



But the man made her no sort of answer, and nound was heard but that of the scissors, and thort of convulsive and hysterical sob tha

occasionally escaped from Calabash.

At this moment a venerable priest approachehe governor, and addressed him in a lowearnest voice, the import of which was to expreshis desire to make another effort to rescue th

ouls of the condemned.

I was thinking that at five years old my daughtewhose head you are going to cut off, was thprettiest child I ever saw, with her fair hair and re

cheeks. Who that saw her then would have saihat—" She was silent for a moment, and theaid, with a burst of indescribable laughter, "Wha

a farce is destiny!"

At this moment the last of her hair was cut off.

I have done, madame," said the executionepolitely.

Many thanks; and I recommend my son Nicholao you," said the widow; "you will cut off his ha



ome day." A turnkey came in and said a fewwords to her in a low tone. "No,—I have alreadaid no!" she answered, angrily.

The priest hearing these words, and seeing anurther interference useless, immediatewithdrew.

Madame, we are all ready to go. Will you takanything?" inquired the executioner, civilly.

No, I thank you; this evening I shall take mouthful of earth." And after this remark thwidow rose firmly. Her hands were tied behinher back, and a rope was also attached to eacankle, allowing her sufficient liberty to walAlthough her step was firm and resolute, thexecutioner and his assistant offered to suppoher; but she turned to them disdainfully, and said

Do not touch me, I have a steady eye and a firmoot, and they will hear on the scaffold whether onot I have a good voice." Calabash was carrieaway in a dying state.

After having traversed the long corridor, thunereal cortège ascended a stone staircase



which led to an exterior court, where was

picquet of gens-d'armes, a hackney-coach, and ong, narrow carriage with a yellow body, drawby three post-horses, who were neighing loudly.

We shall not be full inside," said the widow, ahe took her seat.

The two vehicles, preceded and followed by th

picquet of gens-d'armes, then quitted the outegate of Bicêtre, and went quickly towards thBoulevard St. Jacques.

CHAPTER X.

MARTIAL AND THE CHOURINEUR.

Before we proceed we have a few words to saas to the acquaintance recently establishebetween the Chourineur and Martial.

When Germain had left the prison, the Chourineu



proved very easily that he had robbed himseand making a statement of his motive for thingular mystification to the magistrate, he waet at liberty, after having been severe

admonished.

Desirous of recompensing the Chourineur for thresh act of devotion, Rodolph, in order to realishe wishes of his rough protégé, had lodged him

n the hôtel of the Rue Plumet, promising that hhould accompany him on his return to Germany

The Chourineur's blind attachment to Rodolpwas like that of a dog for his master. When

however, the prince had found his daughter, awas changed, and, in spite of his warm gratitudor the man who had saved his life, he could nomake up his mind to take with him to Germany thwitness of Fleur-de-Marie's fallen state; ye

determined to carry out the Chourineur's wisheshe sent for him, and told him that he had stanother service to ask of him. At this thChourineur's countenance brightened up; but h

was greatly distressed when he learned that hmust quit the hôtel that very day, and would no



accompany the prince to Germany.

t is useless to mention the munificencompensations which Rodolph offered to thChourineur,—the money he intended for him, tharm in Algeria, anything he could desire. ThChourineur was wounded to the heart, refusedand (perhaps for the first time in his life) wepRodolph was compelled to force his presents o

him.

Next day the prince sent for La Louve and Martiaand inquired what he could do for themRemembering what Fleur-de-Marie had told him

of the wild taste of La Louve and her husband, hproposed to the hardy couple either considerable sum of money, or half the sum anand in full cultivation adjoining the farm he habought for the Chourineur, believing that b

bringing them together they would sympathiserom their desire to seek solitude, the one consequence of the past, and the other from thcrimes of his family.

He was not mistaken. Martial and La Louv



accepted joyfully; and then, talking the matter ovewith the Chourineur, they all three rejoiced in thprospects held out to them in Algeria. A sinceregood feeling soon united the future colonists

Persons of their class judge quickly of each otheand like one another as speedily.

The Chourineur accompanied his new frienMartial to the Bicêtre and awaited him in th

hackney-coach, which conducted them back tParis after Martial, horror-struck, had left thdungeon of his mother and sister.

The countenance of the Chourineur ha

completely changed; the bold expression anovial humour which usually characterised hharsh features had given way to extremdejection; his voice had lost something of itcoarseness; a grief of heart, until then unknown t

him, had broken down his energetemperament. He looked kindly at Martial, anaid:

Courage! You have done all that good intention

could do; it is ended. Think now of your wife, an



he children whom you have prevented frombecoming criminals like their father and motheTo-night we leave Paris never to return to it, anyou will never again hear of what so muc

distresses you now."

True—true! But, after all, they are my sister anmother!"

Yes; but when things must be, we must submitaid the Chourineur, checking a deep sigh.

After a moment's silence, Martial said, kindlAnd I ought, in my turn, to try and console yo

who are so sad. My wife and I hope that when whave left Paris this will cease."

Yes," said the Chourineur, with a shudder, "if eave Paris!"

Why, we go this evening!"

Yes,—you do; you go this evening!"

And have you changed your intention, then?"

No! Yet, Martial, you'll laugh at me; but yet I w



ell you all. If anything happens to me it will provhat I am not deceived. When M. Rodolph asked we would go to Algeria together, I told you mmind at once, and also what I had been."

Yes, you did; let us mention it no more. Younderwent your punishment, and are now as gooas any one. But, like myself, I can imagine yowould like to go and live a long way off, instead o

ving here, where, however honest we may behey might at times fling in your teeth a misdeeyou have atoned for and repented, and, in minemy parents' crimes, for which I am by no meanesponsible. The past is the past between us, an

we shall never reproach each other."

With you and me, Martial, the past is the pasbut, you see, Martial, there is something above,—have killed a man!"



A great misfortune, assuredly; but, at th

moment, you were out of your senses,—mad. An

besides, you have since saved the lives of othe

persons, and that will count in your favour."I'll tell you why I refer to my misdeed. I used t

have a dream, in which I saw the sergeant I killed

have not had it for a long time until last night, an

hat foretells some misfortune for to-day. I have

oreboding that I shall not quit Paris."

Oh, you regret at leaving our benefactor! Th

hought of coming with me to the Bicêtre agitate

you; and so your dream recurred to you."

The Chourineur shook his head sorrowfully an

aid, "It has come to me just as M. Rodolph

going to start,—for he goes to-day. Yesterday

ent a messenger to his hôtel, not daring to g

myself. They sent me word that he went th

morning at eleven o'clock by the barrier o

Charenton, and I mean to go and station myse

here to try and see him once more,—for the las

me!"



He seems so good that I easily understand you

ove for him."

Love for him!" said the Chourineur, with dee

and concentrated emotion. "Yes, yes, Martial,—t

e on the earth, eat black bread, be his dog, to b

where he was, I asked no more. But that was to

much,—he would not consent."

He has been very generous towards you!"

Yet it is not for that I love him, but because h

old me I had heart and honour. Yes, and that at

me when I was as fierce as a brute beast. An

he made me understand what was good in me

and that I had repented, and, after suffering grea

misery, had worked hard for an honest livelihood

although all the world considered me as

horough ruffian,—and so, when M. Rodolph sai

hese words to me, my heart beat high anproudly, and from this time I would go through fir

and water to serve him."

Why, it is because you are better than you wer

hat you ought not to have any of thosorebodings. Your dream is nothing."



We shall see. I shall not try and get into an

mischief, for I cannot have any worse misfortun

han not to see again M. Rodolph, whom I hope

never again to leave. I should have been in mway, you see, always with him, body and soul,—

always ready. Never mind, perhaps he wa

wrong,—I am only a worm at his feet; bu

ometimes, Martial, the smallest may be useful t

he greatest."

One day, perhaps, you may see him."

Oh, no; he said to me, 'My good fellow, you mus

promise never to seek nor see me,—that will b

doing me a service.' So, of course, Martial,

promised; and I'll keep my word, though it is ve

hard."

Once at Algeria, you will forget all you

vexations."

Yes, yes; I'm an old trooper, Martial, and will fac

he Bedouins."

Come, come, you'll soon recover your spirits



We'll farm and hunt together, and live together, o

eparate, just as you like. We'll bring up th

children like honest people, and you shall be the

uncle,—for we are brothers, and my wife is goo

at heart; and so we'll be happy, eh?" And Martiaextended his hand to the Chourineur.

So we will, Martial," was the reply; "and m

orrow will kill me, or I shall kill my sorrow."

It will not kill you. We shall pass our day

ogether; and every evening we will say, 'brothe

hanks to M. Rodolph,'—that shall be our praye

o, him."

Martial, you comfort me."

Well, then, that is all right; and as to that stupid

dream, you will think no more of it, I hope?"

I'll try."

Well, then, you'll come to us at four o'clock; th

diligence goes at five."

Agreed. But I will get out here and walk to thbarrier at Charenton, where I will await M



Rodolph, that I may see him pass."

The coach stopped, and the Chourineur alighted

CHAPTER XI.

THE FINGER OF PROVIDENCE.

The Chourineur had forgotten that it was the da

after mid-Lent, and was consequently great

urprised at the sight, at once hideous an

ingular, which presented itself to his view whehe arrived at the exterior boulevard, which he wa

raversing to reach the barrier of Charenton.

He found himself suddenly in the thickest of

dense throng of people, who were coming out ohe cabarets of the Faubourg de la Glacière,

order to reach the Boulevard St. Jacques, wher

he execution was to take place.

Although it was broad daylight, there was st



heard the noisy music of the public-house

whence issued particularly the loud echoes of th

cornets-à-piston. The pencil of Callot, o

Rembrandt, or of Goya is requisite to limn th

trange, hideous, and fantastical appearance ohis multitude.

Almost all of them, men, women, and childre

were attired in old masquerade costumes. Thos

who could not afford this expense had on theclothes rags of bright colours. Some young me

were dressed in women's clothes, half torn an

oiled with mud. All their countenances, haggar

rom debauchery and vice, and furrowed b

ntoxication, sparkled with savage delight at thdea that, after a night of filthy orgies, they shoul

ee two women executed on the scaffol

prepared for them.

The foul and fetid scum of the population of Paris—this vast mob—was formed of thieves an

abandoned women, who every day tax crime fo

heir daily bread, and every evening return to the

airs with their vicious spoils.[1]



[1] It is calculated that there are in Paris30,000 persons who have no other means of existence but theft.

The crowd entirely choked up the means o

circulation, and, in spite of his gigantic strengthhe Chourineur was compelled to remain almos

motionless in the midst of this compact throng. H

was, however, willing to remain so, as the princ

would not pass the barrier of Charenton un

eleven o'clock, and it was not yet seven; and h

had a singular spectacle before him.

n a large, low apartment, occupied at one end b

musicians, surrounded by benches and table

aden with the fragments of a repast, broke

plates, empty bottles, etc., a dozen men an

women, in various disguises and half drunk, wer

dancing with the utmost excitement that frant

and obscene dance called La Chahut .

Amongst the dissipated revellers who figured

his saturnalia, the Chourineur remarked tw

couples who obtained the most overwhelmin

applause, from the revolting grossness of theattitudes, their gesticulations, and their language



The first couple consisted of a man disguised a

a bear, and nearly covered with a waistcoat an

rousers of black sheepskin. The head of th

animal, being too troublesome to carry, had bee

eplaced by a kind of hood with long hair, whicentirely covered his features; two holes for h

eyes, and a long one for his mouth, allowed him t

ee, speak, and breathe.

This man—one of the prisoners escaped from LForce (amongst whom were Barbillon and the tw

murderers arrested at the ogress's at the tapis

ranc , at the beginning of this recital)—this ma

o masked was Nicholas Martial, the son an

brother of the two women for whom the scaffol

was prepared but a few paces distant.

nduced into this act of atrocious insensibility an

nfamous audacity by one of his associates, th

wretch had dared with this disguise to join in th

ast revels of the carnival. The woman wh

danced with him, dressed as a vivandière, wor

a round leather cap with ragged ribands, a kind o

bodice of threadbare red cloth, ornamented withree rows of brass buttons, a green skirt, an



rousers of white calico. Her black hair fell

disorder all about her head, and her haggard an

wollen features evinced the utmost effrontery an

mmodesty. The vis-à-vis of these dancers wer

no less disgusting.

The man, who was very tall, and disguised a

Robert Macaire, had so begrimed his feature

with soot that it was impossible to recognise him

and, besides, a large bandage covered his leeye; the white of the right eye being thus the mor

heightened, rendered him still more hideous. Th

ower part of the Skeleton's countenance (for

was he) disappeared in a high neckcloth made o

an old red shawl.

Wearing an old, white, napless hat with a crushe

ide, dirty, and without a crown, a green coat i

ags, and tight mulberry-coloured pantaloon

patched in every direction, and tied around thnstep with pieces of packthread, this assass

outraged the most outré and revolting attitudes o

he Chahut , darting from right to left, before an

behind, his lanky limbs as hard as steel, anwisting and twining, and springing and boundin



with such vigour and elasticity, that he seeme

et in motion by steel springs.

A worthy coryphée of this filthy saturnalia, his lad

partner, a tall and active creature with impuden

and flushed features, attired en débardeur , wor

a flat cap on one side of a powdered wig with

hick pigtail, a waistcoat and trousers of wor

green velvet, adjusted to her shape by an orang

carf, with long ends flowing down her back.

A fat, vulgar, coarse woman, the brutal ogress o

h e tapis-franc , was seated on one of th

benches, holding on her knees the plaid cloaks o

his creature and the vivandière, whilst they wervalling the bounds, and jumps, and gros

postures of the Skeleton and Nicholas Martial.

Amongst the other dancers there was a lame bo

dressed like a devil, by means of a black net vesmuch too large for him, red drawers, and a gree

mask hideous and grotesque. In spite of h

nfirmity, this little monster was wonderfully agile

and his precocious depravity equalled, if it coul

not exceed, that of his detestable companions



and he gambolled as impudently as any of them

before a fat woman, dressed as a shepherdess

who excited her partner the more by her shouts o

aughter.

No charge having been raised against Tortillar

our readers have recognised him), and Bra

Rouge having been for the while left in prison, th

boy, at his father's request, was reclaimed b

Micou, the receiver of the passage of thBrasserie, who had not been denounced by h

accomplices.

As secondary figures in this picture, le

magination conceive all there is of the lowesmost shameful, and most monstrous, in this idle

wanton, insolent, rapacious, atheistica

anguinary assemblage of infamy, which is mos

hostile to social order, and to which we would ca

he attention of all thinking persons as our recitadraws to a close.

Excited by the shouts of laughter and the cheer

of the mob assembled around the windows, th

actors in the infamous dance cried to th



orchestra for a finale galop. The musicians

delighted to reach the end of their labours

complied with the general wish, and played

galoppade with the utmost energy and rapidity. A

his the excitement redoubled; the coupleencircled each other and dashed away, followin

he Skeleton and his partner, who led off the

nfernal round amidst the wildest cries an

acclamations.

The crowd was so thick, so dense, and th

evolutions so multiplied and rapid, that thes

creatures, inflamed with wine, exercise, an

noise, their intoxication became delirious frenzy

and they soon ceased to have space for themovements. The Skeleton then cried, in

breathless voice, "Look out at the door! We w

go out on to the boulevard."

Yes, yes!" cried the mob at the windows; "galop as far as the Barrière St. Jacques!"

The two 'mots' will soon be here."

The headsman cuts double! How funny!"



Yes, with a cornet-à-piston accompaniment."

I'll ask the widow to be my partner."

And I the daughter."

Death to the informers!"

Long live the prigs and lads of steel!" cried th

Skeleton in a voice of thunder, as he and th

dancers, forcing their way in the midst of thmass, set the whole body in motion; and the

were heard cries, and imprecations, and shout

of laughter, which had nothing human in the

ound.

Suddenly this uproar reached its height by tw

resh incidents. The vehicle which contained th

criminals, accompanied by its escort of cavalry

appeared at the angle of the boulevard, and the

all the mob rushed in that direction, shouting anoaring with ferocious delight.

At this moment, also, the crowd was met by

courier coming from the Boulevard des Invalides

and galloping towards the Barrière de Charenton



He was dressed in a light blue jacket with yellow

collar, with a double row of silver lace down th

eams, but, as a mark of deep mourning, he wor

black breeches and high boots; his cap also, wit

a broad band of silver, was encircled with crapeand on the winkers of his horse were the arms o

Gerolstein.

He walked his horse, his advance becomin

every moment more difficult, and he was almosobliged to stop when he found himself in the mids

of the sea of people we have described. Althoug

he called to them, and moved his horse with th

greatest caution, cries, abuse, and threats wer

oon directed against him.

Does he want to ride us down, that vagabond?"

He's got lots o' silver on his precious body

cried Tortillard.

If he comes against us we'll make him alight an

trip the 'tin' off his jacket to go to the melter's

aid Nicholas.

And we'll take the seams out of your carcase



you are not careful, you cursed jockey!" added th

Skeleton, addressing the courier and seizing th

bridle of his horse,—for the crowd was so dens

hat the ruffian had given up his idea of dancing t

he barrier.

The courier, who was a powerful and resolut

ellow, said to the Skeleton, lifting the handle o

his whip, "If you do not let go my bridle I'll lay m

whip over you. Let me pass; my lord's carriage coming close behind. Let me go forward, I say."

Your lord!" said the Skeleton; "what is your lor

o me? I'll slit his weasand if I like! I never did for

ord; I should like to try my hand."

There are no more lords now. Vive la Chartehouted Tortillard; and as he said so he whistle

a verse of the "Parisienne," and clinging to one o

he courier's legs nearly drew him out of haddle. A blow with the handle of his whip o

Tortillard's head punished his insolence; but th

populace instantly attacked the courier, who i

vain spurred his horse,—he could not advance

tep.



Dismounted, amidst the shouts of the mob, h

would have been murdered but for the arrival o

Rodolph's carriage, which took off the attention o

hese wretches.

The prince's travelling carriage, drawn by fou

horses, had for some time past advanced at on

a foot pace, and one of the two footmen had go

down from the rumble and was walking by th

ide of the door, which was very low; thpostilions kept crying out to the people, and wen

orward very cautiously.

Rodolph was dressed in deep mourning, as wa

also his daughter, one of whose hands he held ihis own, looking at her with affection. The gent

and lovely face of Fleur-de-Marie was enclosed

a small capot of black crape, which heightene

he dazzling brilliancy of her skin and the beautif

hue of her lovely brown hair; and the azure of thbright day was reflected in her large eyes, whic

had never been of more transparent and softene

blue. Although her features wore a gentle smile

and expressed calmness and happiness whehe looked at her father, yet a tinge o



melancholy, and sometimes of undefinabl

adness, threw its shadow over her countenanc

when her eyes were not fixed on her father.

At this moment the carriage came amongst th

crowd and began to slacken its pace. Rodolp

owered the window, and said in German to th

ackey who was walking by the window, "We

Frantz, what is the meaning of this?"

Monseigneur, there is such a crowd that th

horses cannot move."

What has this assemblage collected for?"

Monseigneur, there is an execution going on."

Ah, frightful!" said Rodolph, throwing himse

back in his carriage.

What is it, my dear father?" asked Fleur-deMarie with uneasiness.

Nothing—nothing, dearest."

Only listen,—these threatening cries approac

us! What can it be?"



Desire them to reach Charenton by anothe

oad," said Rodolph.

Monseigneur, it is too late, the crowd ha

topped the horses."

The footman could say no more. The mob

excited by the savage encouragement of th

Skeleton and Nicholas, suddenly surrounded th

carriage, and, in spite of the threats of thpostilions, stopped the horses, and Rodolph sa

on all sides threatening, furious countenances

and above them all the Skeleton, who came to th

door of the carriage.

Take care, my dear father!" exclaimed Fleur-de

Marie, throwing her arms around Rodolph's neck

Oh, you are the 'my lord,' are you?" said th

Skeleton, thrusting his hideous head into thcarriage.

Had it not been for his daughter's presence

Rodolph would have given way to the natur

mpetuosity of his character at this insolence; buhe controlled himself, and coolly replied:



What do you want, and why do you stop m

carriage?"

Because we choose," said the Skeleton. "Eac

n his turn. Yesterday you trampled on the moband to-day the mob will crush you if you stir."

Father, we are lost!" murmured Fleur-de-Marie.

Take courage, love! I understand," replied thprince; "it is the last day of the carnival,—thes

ellows are tipsy; I will get rid of them."

I say, my 'covey,' come, get out, and your 'mo

with you!" cried Nicholas; "why should you trampupon a parcel of poor people!"

You seem to have drunk a good deal, and t

desire to drink more," said Rodolph; "here, tak

his, and do not delay my carriage any longerand he threw out his purse, which Tortillar

caught.

Oh, what, you are going to travel, eh? Well, then

you've got your pockets well lined, no doubCome, shell out, my blade, or I'll have your life



And he opened the door suddenly.

Rodolph's patience was exhausted. Alarmed fo

Fleur-de-Marie, whose alarm increased eve

moment, and believing that a display of vigou

would daunt the wretch, whom he believed to b

only drunk, he sprung from the carriage, intendin

o seize the Skeleton by the throat. The latte

uddenly receded, and then, drawing a long knife

dirk from his pocket, rushed at Rodolph. Fleur-deMarie, seeing the dirk raised to stab her fathe

gave a shriek, sprung from the carriage, an

hrew her arms around him.

Her father's life must have been sacrificed but fohe Chourineur, who at the commencement of th

umult, having recognised the livery of the prince

had contrived, by superhuman efforts, to reach th

Skeleton; and at the moment when that ruffia

menaced the prince with his knife the Chourineueized on his arm with one hand, and, with th

other grasping his collar, threw him backwards.

Although surprised, and from behind too, th

Skeleton turned around, and, recognising th



Chourineur, cried, "What! the man in the gra

blouse from La Force? This time, then, I'll do fo

you!" and rushing furiously at the Chourineur, h

plunged his knife in his breast. The Chourineu

taggered, but did not fall. The crowd kept him ohis legs.

The guard! Here come the guard!" exclaime

everal voices in alarm.

At these words, and at the sight of the murder o

he Chourineur, all this dense crowd, fearing to b

compromised in the assassination, dispersed a

f by magic, and fled in every direction; th

Skeleton, Nicholas, Martial, and Tortillaramongst the earliest.

When the guard came up, guided by the courie

who had escaped when the crowd had let him g

o surround the prince's carriage), there onemained in this sad scene, Rodolph, h

daughter, and the Chourineur, bathed in hi

blood. The two servants of the prince had seate

him on the ground, with his back to a tree.

All this passed more quickly than it can b



described, and at a few paces from th

guinguette from which the Skeleton and his ban

had issued.

The prince, pale and agitated, held in his armFleur-de-Marie, half fainting, whilst the postilion

were repairing the harness broken in the scuffle.

Quick!" said the prince to his servants engage

n aiding the Chourineur, "convey this poor fellowo the cabaret; and you," he added, turning to th

courier, "get on the box, and gallop back fo

Doctor David at the hôtel; you will find him there

as he does not leave until eleven o'clock."

The carriage went away at a great speed, and th

wo servants conveyed the Chourineur to the lo

apartment in which the orgies had taken place

everal of the women were still there.

My poor, dear child!" said Rodolph, to hi

daughter, "let me take you to some room in thi

place where you can await me, for I canno

abandon this brave fellow, who has again save

my life."



Oh, my dearest father, I entreat you do not leav

me!" exclaimed Fleur-de-Marie, with alarm, an

eizing Rodolph's arm. "Do not leave me alone

hould die with fright! Where you go I will go!"

But this frightful spectacle?"

Yes, thanks to this worthy man, you still live fo

me, my father, and therefore allow me to join yo

n thanking and consoling him."

The prince's perplexity was very great. H

daughter evinced so much just fear of remainin

alone in a room in this low haunt that he made u

his mind to allow her to enter with him into th

apartment, where they found the Chourineur.

The mistress of the tavern and many of th

women who had remained (and amongst whom

was the ogress of the tapis-franc ) had hastily la

he wounded man on a mattress, and the

tanched and bound his wound with napkins. Th

Chourineur opened his eyes as Rodolph entered

At the sight of the prince his features, pale wit

approaching death, became animated. He smileainfull , and said in a low voice:



Ah, M. Rodolph, it was very fortunate I wa

here!"

Brave and devoted as ever!" said the prince,

an accent of despair. "Again you have saved mfe!"

I was going to the barrier of—Charenton—to t

and see you go by—see you for the last time

Fortunately—I was unable to get in for the crow—besides—it was—to happen—I told Martial s

—I had a presentiment."

A presentiment?"

Yes, M. Rodolph—the dream—of the sergeant—

ast night."

Oh, try and forget such ideas! Let us hope th

wound is not mortal."

Oh, yes, the Skeleton struck home! Never min

—I told Martial that a worm of the earth like me—

might sometimes be useful—to a great lord—lik

you."



But my life—I owe my life again to you!"

We are quits, M. Rodolph. You told me—that

had—heart and honour. That word, you see—oh

am choking! Sir, without—my asking—do me th

honour—to give me your hand—I feel I am

inking."

No, no! Impossible!" exclaimed the prince

bending towards the Chourineur, and clasping i

his hands the icy hand of the dying man, "no—yo

will live—you will live!"

M. Rodolph, there is something, you see, abov

—I killed—with a blow of a knife—I die from th

blow of a knife!" said the Chourineur, who wa

inking fast.

At this moment his eyes turned towards Fleur-de

Marie, whom he had not before perceived

Amazement was depicted on his dying feature

he made a movement, and said:

Ah!—the Goualeuse!"

Yes, my daughter, who blesses you for havin



preserved her father!"

She—your daughter—here? That reminds me o

how our acquaintance began—M. Rodolph—an

he blows—with the fist; but this blow with a knif

will be the last—last blow. I slashed—and in m

urn am slashed—stabbed. It is just." He heaved

deep sigh—his head fell back—he was dead.

The sound of horses without was heard

Rodolph's carriage had met that of Murphy an

David, who, in their desire to rejoin the prince

had anticipated the hour fixed for their departure

David," said Rodolph, wiping his eyes, an

pointing to the Chourineur, "is there no hope?"

None, monseigneur," replied the doctor, after

moment's examination.

During this moment there passed a mute anerrible scene between Fleur-de-Marie and th

ogress, whom Rodolph had not observed. Whe

he Chourineur had uttered the name of L

Goualeuse, the ogress had raised her head an

ooked at Fleur-de-Marie. The horrid hag ha



already recognised Rodolph; he was calle

monseigneur—he called La Goualeuse h

daughter. Such a metamorphosis astounded th

ogress, who obstinately fixed her stupid

wondering eyes on her former victim.

Fleur-de-Marie, pale and overcome, seeme

ascinated by her gaze. The death of th

Chourineur, the unexpected appearance of th

ogress, which came to awaken more painfulhan ever the remembrance of her forme

degradation, appeared to her a sinister presage

From this moment, Fleur-de-Marie was struc

with one of those presentiments which,

dispositions like hers, have most frequently arresistible influence.

A few days after these events and Rodolph an

his daughter quitted Paris for ever.



EPILOGUE.

CHAPTER I.

GEROLSTEIN.

Prince Henry of Herkaüsen-Oldenzaal to the

Count Maximilian Kaminetz.

Oldenzaal, 25th August, 1840.

I am just arrived from Gerolstein, where I hav

passed three months with the grand duke an

his family. I expected to find a letter announcin

your arrival at Oldenzaal, my dear Maximilian

Judge of my surprise—of my regret, on hearin

that you will be detained in Hungary for sever

weeks.

For more than four months I have been unab



to write to you, not knowing where to direct m

letters, thanks to your original and adventurou

manner of travelling. You had, however, formal

promised me at Vienna that you would be a

Oldenzaal the first of August; I must then givup the pleasure of seeing you, and yet I hav

never had greater need of pouring forth m

sorrows to you, Maximilian, my oldest friend, fo

although we are both of us still very young, ou

friendship is of long standing, as it dates fromour childhood.

What shall I say to you? During the last thre

months a complete revolution has taken plac

in me. I am at one of those moments thadecide the existence of a man. Judge, then

how necessary your presence and your advic

are to me. But you will not long be wanting

whatever motives you have for remaining Hungary. Come! Come! I entreat of you

Maximilian, for I stand in need of you to conso

me, and I cannot go to seek you. My fathe

whose health is daily declining, has summone

me from Gerolstein. Each day makes so greaan alteration in him that it is im ossible for m



to leave him.

I have so much to say that I shall becom

tedious, but I must relate to you the mo

important—the most romantic incident of mlife. Why were you not there, my friend? Wh

were you not there? For three months my hea

has been a prey to emotions equally sweet an

sorrowful, and I was alone—I was alone

Sympathise with me, you who know thsensibility of my heart, you who have seen m

eyes filled with tears at the simple recital of

noble or generous action, at the simple sight o

a splendid sunset—of the sky studded wit

bright stars.

Do you recollect last year, on our excursion t

the ruins of Oppenfeld, on the shore of the vas

lake, our reveries during that evening, so full o

calm, of poesy, and of peace? Strang

contrast! It was three days before that blood

duel, in which I would not accept you for m

second, for I should have suffered too much fo

you had I been wounded before your eyes,—the duel in which, for a dispute at play, m



second unhappily killed the young Frenchman

the Comte de Saint-Remy.

Apropos, do you know what has become of th

dangerous siren whom M. de Saint-Rem

brought with him to Oppenfeld, and whos

name was, I think, Cecily David?

You will doubtless, my friend, smile with pity a

seeing me thus losing myself amongst idl

recollections of the past, instead of coming a

once to the grave disclosures that I hav

announced my intention of making; but, in spit

of myself, I delay the time from moment t

moment. I know how severe you are, and I amfearful of being blamed. Yes, blamed; because

instead of acting with reflection and prudenc

(prudence of one and twenty, alas!), I hav

acted foolishly, or, rather, I have not acted at a

as—I have suffered myself to be carried awaby the stream that urged me on, and it is on

since my return from Gerolstein that I hav

been awakened from the enchanting vision tha

has lulled me to sleep for the last three months

and this awaking has been a sorrowful one.



Now, my friend, my dear Maximilian, I tak

courage. Hear me indulgently; I begin with fea

and trembling—I dare not look at you, for whe

you read these lines, how grave and stern w

your face become, stoic that you are!

After having obtained leave of absence for s

months, I left Vienna, and remained some tim

with my father. His health was then good, an

he advised me to visit my aunt, the PrincesJuliana, superior of the abbey of Gerolstein.

think I have already told you that my grandfathe

was cousin-german to the present duke

grandfather, and the Duke Gustavus Rodolphthanks to this relationship, had always treate

my father and myself as his cousins.

You also know, I think, that during a long sta

the prince made recently in France my fathewas left at the head of the affairs of the duchy.

is not any feeling of ostentatious pride, as yo

well know, Maximilian, that makes m

recapitulate all these circumstances, but t

explain to you the causes of the extrem



intimacy that existed between the grand duk

and myself during my stay at Gerolstein.

Do you recollect that last year, after our voyag

on the banks of the Rhine, we heard that th

prince had found and married, in extremis, th

Countess Macgregor, in order to legitimise th

daughter he had had by her by a previous an

secret marriage, afterwards annulled, becaus

it had been contracted against the consent othe late grand duke?

This young girl, thus formally recognised, th

charming Princess Amelie, of whom Lor

Dudley, who had seen her at Gerolstein aboua year ago, spoke to us with an enthusiasm

that we suspected of exaggeration, strang

chance! who would have said then—

But although you have doubtless penetrated msecret, let me pursue the progress of events.

The convent of Ste. Hermangeld, of which m

aunt is abbess, is scarcely a quarter of

league from Gerolstein, for the gardens of thabbe touch the outskirts of the town. A



charming house, perfectly isolated from th

cloisters, had been placed at my disposal b

my aunt, who has, as you know, the affection o

a mother for me. The day of my arrival sh

informed me a grand drawing-room would bheld the next day, as the grand duke was goin

formally to announce his intended marriag

with La Marquise d'Harville, who had jus

arrived at Gerolstein with her father, the Comt

d'Orbigny.

The duke was blamed by some for not havin

sought an alliance with some royal house, bu

others, and amongst them my aun

congratulated him on having chosen, instead oa marriage of ambition, a young and love

woman to whom he was deeply attached, an

who belonged to one of the first families

France. You know, too, that my aunt has alwayhad the greatest regard for the grand duke, an

has always appreciated his fine qualities.

"My dear child," said she to me, speaking o

the drawing-room, to which I was going the neday,—"my dear child, the most astonishin



sight you will see to-morrow will be the pearl o

Gerolstein."

"Of whom are you talking, my dear aunt?"

"Of the Princess Amelie."

"The grand duke's daughter? Lord Dudle

spoke of her at Vienna with warmth w

suspected of exaggeration."

"At my age and in my position," replied m

aunt, "people do not exaggerate, so you ca

trust to my judgment, and I assure you I neve

knew any one more enchanting than th

Princess Amelie. I would speak of her beautwere it not for an indefinable charm sh

possesses, superior even to her beauty. From

the first day that the grand duke presented m

to her, I felt myself irresistibly drawn toward

her; and I am not the only person. Th

Archduchess Sophia is at Gerolstein, and

the most proud and haughty princess I know."

"Very true, aunt; her irony is terrible, very few

persons escape from her sarcasms; at Vienn



every one dreaded her. Can the Princes

Amelie have found favour in her eyes?"

"The other day she came here after visiting th

asylum placed under the princess's direction

'Do you know,' said this redoubtabl

archduchess to me, 'that if I resided long wit

the grand duke's daughter I should becom

quite harmless, so contagious is he

goodness!'"

"Why, my cousin must be an enchantress

said I, laughing, to my aunt.

"Her most powerful charm, at least in my eyes

replied my aunt, "is the mixture of sweetness

modesty, and dignity that I have told you of, an

which gives a most touching expression to he

face."

"Indeed, aunt, modesty is a rare quality in

princess so young, so beautiful, and so happy

"Reflect that the princess is still more deservin

of praise for her modesty, as her elevation i

so very recent."



"In her interview with you, aunt, did the princes

make any reference to her early life?"

"No; but when, notwithstanding my advance

age, I addressed her with the respect due ther rank, since her royal highness is the gran

duke's daughter, her ingenuous confusion

mingled with gratitude and veneration for me

quite overpowered me; for her reserve, full o

dignity and affability, proved to me that hepresent elevation did not make her forget he

past life, and that she accorded to my age wha

I accorded to her rank."

"It must require," said I, "the most perfect tact tobserve those nice differences."

"My dear boy, the more I see of the princess

the more I congratulate myself on my firs

impression. Since she has been here thnumber of charitable acts she has done

incredible, and that with a reflection and

judgment that in a person of her age quit

surprises me. Judge yourself. At her reques

the rand duke has founded at Gerolstein a



establishment for orphans of five or six years

and for young girls (who are either orphans o

abandoned by their parents) of the age o

sixteen, that age so fatal to those who are no

protected against the temptations of vice or thpressure of want.

"The good sisters of my convent teach an

direct the children of this asylum. During m

visits there I have had ample opportunities o judging of the adoration that these poo

unfortunate creatures have for the princes

Every day she spends several hours at th

place, which is placed under her protection

and I repeat that it is not merely gratitude anrespect that the children and nuns feel toward

the princess, it almost amounts to fanaticism."

"The princess must be an angel," said I to m

aunt.

"An angel, indeed!" replied she, "for you canno

conceive with what touching kindness sh

treats her young protégées. I have never see

the susceptibility of misfortune meet with mor



delicate sympathy. You would think som

irresistible attraction drew the princess toward

this class of unfortunates. Will you believe it

she, the daughter of a sovereign, on

addresses these poor children as 'my sisters!

At these last words of my aunt I confess I felt m

eyes fill with tears. Do you not also admire th

admirable and pious conduct of this youn

princess?

"Since the princess," said I, "is so marvellous

gifted, I shall be greatly embarrassed when

am presented to her to-morrow. You know how

timid I am; you know, also, that elevation ocharacter imposes upon me more than hig

birth, so that I am certain to appear both stupi

and embarrassed to-morrow; so I make up m

mind to that beforehand."

"Come, come!" said my aunt, smiling, "she w

take pity upon you, the more readily as you ar

not quite a stranger to her."

"I am not a stranger to her, aunt?"



"Certainly not."

"How so?"

"You recollect that when at the age of sixtee

you left Oldenzaal, to travel with your fathethrough Russia and England, I had your portra

painted in the costume you wore at the first ba

costumé the late duchess gave?"

"Yes, aunt, the costume of a German page othe sixteenth century."

"Our famous painter, Fritz Mocker, whilst h

painted a faithful likeness of you, not on

produced a page of that century, but even thstyle of the pictures of that time.

"Some days after her arrival at Gerolstein, th

Princess Amelie, who had come with her fathe

to visit me, remarked your portrait, and askewhat was that charming picture of olden times

Her father smiled, and said, 'This is the portra

of a cousin of ours, who would be, were he no

alive (as you see by his dress), some thre

hundred years old, but who, although ve



young, made himself remarkable for h

courage and goodness of heart; has he no

bravery in his eyes and goodness in h

smile?'"

Do not, I entreat you, Maximilian, shrug you

shoulders with disdain at seeing me writ

these puerile details of myself, which are, alas

necessary to my story.

"The Princess Amelie," continued my aun

"deceived by this innocent pleasantry, after

long examination of your portrait, joined wit

her father in praising the amiable an

determined expression of your face. Somtime after, when I went to Gerolstein, sh

questioned me playfully about 'her cousin of th

olden time.'

"I then explained the trick to her, and told hethat the handsome page of the sixteent

century was really the Prince Hen

d'Herkaüsen-Oldenzaal, a young man of on

and twenty, captain in the guards of his majest

the Emperor of Austria, and in every othe



respect than the costume very like his picture

At these words the princess," continued m

aunt, "blushed and became serious, and ha

never since spoken of the picture. Howeve

you see that you are not quite a stranger to youcousin; so take courage, and maintain th

reputation of your portrait."

This conversation took place, as I have alread

told you, the evening previous to the day owhich I was to be presented to the princess m

cousin. I left my aunt, and returned to my ow

apartments.

You have often told me, my dear Maximilianthat I was totally free from vanity; I mus

therefore trust to that to prevent my appearin

vain during this recital.

As soon as I was alone I reflected with a secresatisfaction that the Princess Amelie, afte

seeing my portrait, painted five or six year

ago, had inquired after "her cousin of the olde

time."

Nothing could be more absurd than to build th



slightest hope on so trivial a circumstance,

acknowledge; but I always treat you with th

most perfect confidence, and I acknowledg

that this trifling circumstance delighted me.

No doubt the praise I had just heard bestowe

on the princess by so grave and austere

person as my aunt, by raising her in m

estimation, rendered this circumstance mor

agreeable.

Why should I tell you? The hopes I conceive

from this trifling event were so mad that, now

that I look back more calmly on the past, I as

myself how I could have indulged in ideas thamust have ended in my destruction.

Although related to the grand duke, and alway

treated by him with the greatest kindness, yet

was impossible to entertain the slightest hopof a marriage with the princess; even had sh

returned my affection it would still have bee

impossible. Our family holds an honourabl

position, but it is poor when compared with th

grand duke, the richest prince of the Germa



confederation; and besides, I was only one an

twenty, a simple captain in the guards, withou

any reputation or any position. Never could th

grand duke think of me as a suitor for h

daughter.

All these reflections ought to have saved m

from a passion I did not as yet feel, but of whic

I had a strange presentiment.

Alas! I rather gave way to fresh puerilities;

wore on my finger a ring that Thecla (th

countess of whom I have so often spoken) ha

given me, although this souvenir of a boyis

love could not have much embarrassed me.sacrificed it to my new flame, and, opening th

window, I cast the ring into the waves of th

river that flowed beneath.

I have no need to tell you what a night I passedyou can imagine; I knew the princess was ver

beautiful; I sought to picture to myself he

features, her air, her manner, her figure, th

sound of her voice; and thinking of my portra

which she had noticed I recollected that th



artist had flattered me excessively, and

contrasted the picturesque dress of a page o

the sixteenth century with the simple uniform o

a captain of the Austrian guards.

But amidst all these absurd ideas som

generous thoughts crossed my mind, and I wa

overcome,—yes, overcome by the recollectio

of the tenderness of the princess for those poo

girls whom she always terms "my sisters."

The next day the hour for the reception came

tried on several uniforms one after anothe

found them all to fit me very ill, and departe

very dissatisfied with myself.

Although Gerolstein is only a quarter of

league from Ste. Hermangeld, during the sho

journey all the childish ideas that had s

occupied me during the night had given placto one sad and grave thought.

An invincible presentiment told me I wa

approaching one of the crises of my life. A

magical inspiration revealed to me that I waabout to love, to love as a man loves but onc



in his life; and, as if to complete m

misfortunes, this love, as loftily as deserved

bestowed, was doomed to be unhappy.

You do not know the grand ducal palace oGerolstein. In the opinion of every one who ha

visited the capitals of Europe, there is, with th

exception of Versailles, no royal residence tha

has a more regal and imposing appearance.

If at this time I speak of this, it is because

thinking over them, I wonder how they did no

recall me to myself; for the Princess Ameli

was the daughter of the sovereign of th

palace, these guards, and of these riches.

You arrived at the palace by the marble cour

so called, because, with the exception of

drive for the carriages, it is paved wit

variegated marble, forming the mosmagnificent mosaics, in the centre of which is

basin of breccia antique, into which a stream o

water flows from a porphyry vase.

This court of honour is surrounded by a row obeautiful marble statues, holdin candelabra



of gilt bronze, from which sprung brilliant jets o

gas. Alternately with these statues are th

Medicean vases, raised on richly sculpture

pedestals, and filled with rose laurels, whos

leaves shine in the lights with a metallic lustre.

The carriages stopped at the foot of the doubl

staircase leading to the peristyle of the palace

At the foot of this staircase were stationed o

guard, mounted on their black horses, twsoldiers of the regiment of the guards of th

grand duke. You would have been struck wit

the stern and warlike appearance of these tw

giants, whose cuirasses and helmets, mad

like those of the ancients, without crest oplume, sparkled in the sun.

These soldiers wore blue coats with yello

collars, buckskin breeches, and jack-boots. T

please you who are so fond of military detailsadd, that at the top landing of the staircas

were stationed, as sentinels, two grenadiers o

the foot-guards of the duke. Their uniform, wit

the exception of the colour of the coat anfacings, resembles, I am told, that o



Napoleon's grenadiers.

After traversing the vestibule, where the porter

of the duke were stationed, halberd in hand,

ascended a splendid staircase of whit

marble, which opened upon a portico

ornamented with jasper columns, an

surmounted by a painted and gilt cupola. Ther

were two long files of domestics.

I then entered the guard-room, at the door o

which I found a chamberlain and an aide-de

camp, whose duty it was to present to his roy

highness those persons who were entitled t

this honour. My relationship, though distanprocured me a special presentation. An aide

de-camp preceded me into a long gallery, fille

with gentlemen in full court dress or uniform

and splendidly attired ladies.

Whilst I passed through this brilliant assembly

heard here and there remarks that augmente

my embarrassment. Every one admired th

angelic beauty of the Princess Amelie, th

charming appearance of the Marquis



d'Harville, and the imperial air of th

Archduchess Sophia, who, recently arrive

from Munich with the Archduke Stanislaus, wa

about to depart for Warsaw; but whils

rendering their just tribute of admiration to thlofty bearing of the duchess and to the charm

of the Marquise d'Harville, every one agree

that nothing could exceed the loveliness of th

Princess Amelie.

As I approached the spot where the gran

duke and the princess were I felt my heart bea

more and more violently. At the moment that

entered the salon (I forgot to tell you there wa

a concert and ball at court) the famous Liszt sadown to the piano, and instantly the mo

profound silence succeeded to th

conversation that was going on. I waited in th

embrasure of a door until Liszt had finished thpiece he was playing with his accustome

taste.

It was then that I saw the Princess Amelie fo

the first time.



I must tell you all that passed, for I feel a

indescribable pleasure in writing it.

Picture to yourself a large salon furnished wit

regal splendour, brilliantly lighted up, and hun

with crimson silk, embroidered with wreaths o

flowers in gold. In the first row, on large g

chairs, sat the Archduchess Sophia wit

Madame d'Harville on her left, and the Princes

Amelie on her right. Behind them stood thduke in the uniform of colonel of the guards. H

seemed scarcely thirty, and the military uniform

set off his fine figure and noble features

Beside him was the Archduke Stanislaus in th

uniform of a field-marshal; then came thprincess's maids of honour, the ladies of th

grand dignitaries of the court, and then th

dignitaries themselves.

I need scarcely tell you that the Princes Amelie was less conspicuous by her rank tha

by her extraordinary beauty. Do not condem

me without reading this description of he

Although it falls far short of the reality, you w

understand my adoration. You will understan



that as soon as I saw her I loved her; and tha

the suddenness of my passion can only b

equalled by its violence and its eternity.

The Princess Amelie was dressed in a plai

white watered silk dress, and wore, like th

archduchess, the riband of the imperial order o

St. Nepomucenus recently sent to her by th

empress. A diadem of pearls surrounded he

head, and harmonised admirably with twsplendid braids of fair hair that shaded he

delicate cheeks. Her arms, whiter than the lac

that ornamented them, were half hidden in lon

gloves, reaching nearly to her elbow.

Nothing could be more perfect than her figure

nothing more charming than her foot in its sat

slipper. At the moment when I saw her he

beaming blue eyes wore a pensive expressio

I do not know whether some serious thoughcame over her, or whether she was impresse

with the grave melody of the piece Liszt wa

playing; but the expression of her countenanc

seemed to me full of sweetness an

melancholy.



Never can I express my feelings at tha

moment. All that my aunt had related of he

goodness crossed my mind.

Smile if you will, but my eyes became full otears when I saw this young girl, so beautif

and so idolised by such a father, seem s

melancholy and pensive.

You know how scrupulously etiquette and thprivileges of rank are observed by us. Thank

to my title and my relationship to the gran

duke, the crowd in the midst of which I stoo

gradually fell back, and I found myself le

almost alone in the embrasure of the door. was, no doubt, owing to this circumstance tha

the princess, awaking from her reverie

perceived, and no doubt recognised me, fo

she started and blushed.She had seen my portrait at my aunt's, an

recognised me; nothing could be more simple

The princess's eyes did not rest upon me a

instant, but that look threw me into the mosviolent confusion. I felt my cheeks glow, I cas



down my eyes, and did not venture to rais

them for some time. When I dared at last t

steal a glance at the princess she wa

speaking in a low tone to the archduchess, wh

seemed to listen to her with the mosaffectionate interest.

Liszt having paused for a few moment

between the pieces he was playing, the gran

duke took the opportunity of expressing hadmiration. On returning to his place h

perceived me, nodded kindly to me, and sai

something to the archduchess, fixing his eye

on me at the same time. The duchess, afte

looking at me a moment, turned to the dukewho smiled and said something to his daughte

that seemed to embarrass her, for she blushe

again. I was on thorns; but, unfortunately

etiquette forbade my leaving my place until thconcert was over.

As soon as the concert was finished I followe

the aide-de-camp; he conducted me to th

grand duke, who deigned to advance a fe

steps towards me, took me by the arm, an



said to the Archduchess Sophia:

"Permit me to present to your royal highnes

my cousin, Prince Henry of Herkaüsen

Oldenzaal."

"I have seen the prince at Vienna, and mee

him here with pleasure," replied the duchess

before whom I inclined myself respectfully.

"My dear Amelie," continued the princeaddressing his daughter, "this is Prince Henry

your cousin, the son of one of my most value

friends, Prince Paul, whom I greatly lament no

seeing here to-day."

"Pray, monseigneur, inform the prince that

equally regret his absence, for I am alway

delighted to know any of my father's friends."

I had not until then heard the princess's voiceand I was struck with its intense sweetness.

"I hope, my dear Henry, you will stay some tim

with your aunt," said the grand duke. "Com

and see us often about three o'clock e



famille; and if we ride out you must accompan

us. You know how great an affection I hav

always felt for you, for your noble qualities."

"I cannot express my gratitude for your royhighness's kindness."

"Well, to prove it," said the grand duke, smiling

"engage your cousin for the second quadrille

the first belongs to the archduke."

"Will your royal highness do me the honour?

said I to my cousin.

"Oh, call each other cousin, as in the good ol

times," replied the duke, laughing. "Thershould be no ceremony between relations."

"Will you dance with me, cousin?"

"Yes, cousin," replied the princess.

I cannot tell how much I felt the touchin

kindness of the grand duke, and how bitterly

reproached myself for yielding to an affectio

the prince would never authorise.



I vowed inwardly that nothing should induce m

to acquaint my cousin with my affection, but

feared my emotion would betray me.

I had leisure for these reflections whilst m

cousin danced the first quadrille with th

Archduke Stanislaus. Nothing was more suite

to display the graces of the princess's perso

than the slow movements of the dance.

anxiously awaited my turn; and I succeeded concealing my emotion when I led her to th

quadrille.

"Does your royal highness sanction my callin

you cousin?" said I.

"Oh, yes, cousin, I am always delighted to obe

my father."

"I rejoice in this familiarity, since I have learn

from my aunt to know you."

"My father has often spoken of you, cousin; an

what may, perhaps, astonish you," added she

timidly, "I also knew you by sight; for one da

the Abbess of Ste. Hermangeld, your aunt, fo



whom I have the greatest respect, showed m

your picture."

"As a page of the sixteenth century?"

"Yes, cousin; and my father was maliciouenough to tell me that it was an ancestor o

ours, and spoke so highly of his courage an

his other qualities that our family ought to b

proud of their descent from him."

"Alas, cousin, I fear my resemblance to m

portrait is not great!"

"You are mistaken, cousin," said the princess

"For at the end of the concert I recognised yoimmediately, in spite of the difference o

costume." Then, wishing to change th

conversation, she added, "How charmingly M

Liszt plays!—does he not?"

"Yes. How attentively you listened to him!"

"Because there is to me a double charm

music without words. Not only you hear th

execution, but you can adapt your thoughts t



the melody. Do you understand me?"

"Perfectly; your own thoughts become words t

the air."

"Yes, you quite comprehend me," said shewith a gesture of satisfaction. "I feared I coul

not express what I felt just now."

"I thank God, cousin," said I, smiling, "you ca

have no words to set to so sad an air."

I know not whether my question was indiscree

or whether she had not heard me, but sudden

she exclaimed, pointing out to me the gran

duke, who crossed the room with tharchduchess on his arm, "Cousin, look at m

father, how handsome he is! how noble! ho

good! Every one looks at him as if they love

him more than they feared him."

"Ah," cried I, "it is not only here he is beloved.

the blessing of his people be transmitted t

their posterity, the name of Rodolph o

Gerolstein will be immortal."



"To speak thus is to be, indeed, worthy of hi

attachment."

"I do but give utterance to the feelings of a

present; see how they all hasten to pay the

respects to Madame d'Harville!"

"No one in the world is more worthy of m

father's affections than Madame d'Harville."

"You are more capable than any one oappreciating her, as you have been in France.

Scarcely had I pronounced these words tha

the princess cast down her eyes, and he

features assumed an air of melancholy; anwhen I led her back to her seat the expressio

of them was still the same. I suppose that m

allusion to her stay in France recalled the deat

of her mother.

In the course of the evening a circumstanc

occurred which you may think too trivial t

mention, perhaps, but which evinces th

extraordinary influence this young g

universally inspires. Her bandeau of pear



having become disarranged, the Archduches

Sophia, who was leaning on her arm, kind

readjusted the ornament upon her brow

Knowing, as we do, the hauteur of th

archduchess, such condescension is almosinconceivable.

The next morning I was invited, together with

few other persons, to be present at th

marriage of the grand duke with Madame lMarquise d'Harville. I had never seen th

princess so radiant and happy.

Some days after the duke's marriage I had

long interview with him. He questioned mabout my past life, my future career. He gav

me the most admirable advice, the kindes

encouragement. So much so that the ide

crossed my mind that he had perceived m

love and wished to bring me to confess it.

But this idea was soon dispelled. The princ

concluded by telling me that the great war

were over, that I ought to avail myself of m

name, my connections, the education I ha



received, and my father's friendship with th

Prince de M——, prime minister of th

emperor, in order to follow a diplomatic instea

of a military career. In a word, he offered m

his sovereign protection to facilitate my entry the career he proposed to me.

I thanked him for his offers with gratitude, an

added that I felt the weight of his advice an

would follow it.

I at first visited the palace very seldom; bu

thanks to the duke's reiterated invitations, I wa

soon there almost every day. We lived in th

peaceful retirement resembling that of somEnglish mansions. When the weather permitte

we rode out with the duke, the duchess, and th

grand personages of the court.

When we were forced to remain at home wsang, and I accompanied the grand duches

and my cousin, who had the sweetest and mo

expressive voice I ever heard. At other time

we inspected the magnificent picture gallerie

and museums, and the library of the prince



who is one of the most accomplished men

Europe. I often dined at the palace, and on th

opera nights I accompanied the duke's fami

to the theatre.

Could this intimacy have lasted for ever I shou

have been happy, perhaps, but I reflected that

should be summoned to Vienna by my duties

reflected, also, that the duke would soon thin

of finding a suitable alliance for his daughter.

My cousin remarked this change in me. Th

evening before I quitted Gerolstein she told m

she had for several days remarked m

abstracted manner. I endeavoured to evadthis question, saying that my approachin

departure was the cause.

"I can scarcely believe it," replied she. "M

father treats you like a son; every one loveyou. It would be ingratitude if you wer

unhappy."

"Alas!" said I, unable to restrain my emotion, "

is grief I am a prey to!"



"Why, what has happened?"

"Just now, cousin, you have told me your fathe

treated me like a son, and that every one love

me; and yet, ere long, I must quit Gerolstein.

is this that grieves me."

"And are the recollections of those you have le

as nothing?"

"Doubtless; but time brings so many changes.

"There are affections, at least, that ar

unchangeable; such as that of my father for you

such as that I feel for you. When you are onc

brother and sister you never forget each otheradded she, looking up, her large blue eyes fu

of tears.

I was on the point of betraying myself; howeve

I controlled my feelings in time.

"Do you think then, cousin," said I, "that when

return in a few years this affection w

continue?"

"Why should it not?"



"Because you will be probably married; you w

have other duties to perform, and you will forge

your poor brother."

This was all that passed; I know not if she waoffended at these words, or whether she wa

like myself grieved at the changes the futur

must bring; but, instead of answering me, sh

was silent for a moment, then, rising hasti

from her seat, her face pale and altered, sh

left the room, after having looked for a fe

seconds at the embroidery of the youn

Countess d'Oppenheim, one of her maids o

honour.

The same evening I received a second lette

from my father, urging me to return. The nex

morning I took leave of the grand duke. He to

me my cousin was unwell, but that he woumake my adieux; he then embraced m

tenderly, renewed his promises of assistance

and added that, whenever I had leave o

absence, nothing would give him greate

pleasure than to see me at Gerolstein.



Happily, on my arrival, I found my father bette

still confined to his bed, and very weak, it

true, but out of danger. Now that you know a

Maximilian, tell me, what can I do?

Just as I finished this letter, my door opened

and, to my great surprise, my father, whom

believed to be in bed, entered; he saw th

letter on the table.

"To whom are you writing so long a letter?

said he, smiling.

"To Maximilian, father."

"Oh," said he, with an expression oaffectionate reproach, "he has all you

confidence! He is very happy!"

He pronounced these last words in so sorrowf

a tone that I held out the letter to him, almoswithout reflection, saying:

"Read it, father."

My friend, he has read all! After havinremained musing some time he said to me:



"Henry, I shall write and inform the grand duk

of all that passed during your stay a

Gerolstein."

"Father, I entreat you not!"

"Is what you have written to Maximilia

scrupulously true?"

"Yes.""Do you love your cousin?"

"I adore her; but—"

My father interrupted me.

"Then, in that case, I shall write to the gran

duke and demand her hand for you."

"But, father, such a demand will be madneson my part!"

"It is true; but still, in making this demand, I sha

acquaint the prince with my reasons for makin

it. He has received you with the greates

kindness, and it would be unworthy of me t



deceive him. He will be touched at th

frankness of my demand, and, though he refus

it, as he certainly will, he will yet know tha

should you ever again visit Gerolstein, yo

cannot be on the same familiar terms with thprincess."

You know that, although so tenderly attached t

me, my father is inflexible in whatever concern

his duty; judge, then, of my fears, of my anxiety

I hastily terminate this long letter, but I will soo

write again. Sympathise with me, for I fear

shall go mad if the fever that preys on me doe

not soon abate. Adieu, adieu! Ever yours,

Henry d'H.-O.

We will now conduct the reader to the palace o

Gerolstein, inhabited by Fleur-de-Marie since he

eturn from France.

CHAPTER II.



THE PRINCESS AMELIE.

The apartment of Fleur-de-Marie (we only call he

he Princess Amelie officially) had been bRodolph's orders splendidly furnished. From th

balcony of the oratory the two towers of th

Convent of Ste. Hermangeld were visible, which

embosomed in the woods, were in their tur

overtopped by a high hill, at the foot of which thabbey was built.

One fine summer's morning Fleur-de-Mari

gazed listlessly at this splendid landscape; he

hair was plainly braided, and she wore a highwhite dress with blue stripes; a large muslin colla

was fastened around her throat by a small blu

ilk handkerchief, of the same hue as her sash.

Seated in a large armchair of carved ebony, sheant her head on her small and delicately whit

hand. Fleur-de-Marie's attitude and th

expression of her face showed that she was

prey to the deepest melancholy.



At this instant a female of a grave an

distinguished appearance entered the room, an

coughed gently to attract Fleur-de-Marie

attention. She started from her reverie, and

gracefully acknowledging the salutation of thnewcomer, said:

What is it, my dear countess?"

I come to inform your royal highness that th

grand duke will be here in a few minutes, and

also, to ask a favour of you."

Ask it, you know how happy I am to oblige you."

It concerns an unhappy creature who haunfortunately quitted Gerolstein before your roy

highness had founded the asylum for orphans an

children abandoned by their parents."

What do you wish I should do for her?"

The father went to seek his fortune in America

eaving his wife and daughter to gain a precariou

ubsistence. The mother died, and this poor gir

hen only sixteen, was seduced and abandoned



She fell lower and lower, until at length sh

became, like so many others, the opprobrium o

her sex."

Fleur-de-Marie turned red and shuddered. Th

countess, fearing she had wounded the delicac

of the princess by the mention of this girl

condition, replied:

I pray your royal highness to pardon me; I have

doubtless, shocked you by speaking of th

wretched creature, but her repentance seeme

o sincere that I ventured to plead for her."

You were quite right. Pray continue," said Fleu

de-Marie, subduing her emotion. "Every fault

worthy of pity when followed by repentance."

After two years passed in this wretched mode o

existence she repented sincerely, and came bac

o Gerolstein. She chanced to lodge in the hous

of a good and pious widow; encouraged by he

kindness, the poor creature told her all her sa

tory, adding that she bitterly regretted the fault

of her early life, and that all she desired was tenter some religious house, where by prayer an



penitence she might atone for her sins. She

only eighteen, very beautiful, and possesses

considerable sum of money, which she wishes t

bestow on the convent she enters."

I undertake to provide for her," said Fleur-de

Marie; "since she repents, she is worthy o

compassion; her remorse must be more bitter

proportion as it is sincere."

I hear the grand duke," said the lady in waiting

without remarking Fleur-de-Marie's agitation; and

as she spoke, Rodolph entered, holding a larg

bouquet of roses in his hand.

At the sight of the prince the countess retired, an

carcely had she left the apartment than Fleur-de

Marie threw herself into her father's arms, an

eant her head on his shoulder.

Good morning, love," said Rodolph, pressing he

o his heart. "See what beautiful roses; I neve

aw finer ones." And the prince made a sligh

motion as if to disengage himself from her an

ook at her, when, seeing her weeping, he threwdown the bou uet, and, takin her hands, cried:



You are weeping! What is the matter?"

Nothing, dear father," said Fleur-de-Marie

triving to smile.

My child," replied Rodolph, "you are concealin

omething from me; tell me, I entreat you, wha

hus distresses you. Never mind the bouquet."

Oh, you know how fond I am of roses; I alwaywas! Do you recollect," added she, "my poor littl

ose-tree? I have preserved the pieces of it s

carefully!"

At this terrible allusion, Rodolph cried:

Unhappy child! Is it possible that, in the midst o

all the splendour that surrounds you, you think o

he past? Alas! I hoped my tenderness had mad

you forget it."

Forgive me, dear father; I did not mean what

aid. I grieve you."

I grieve, my child, because I know how painful

s for you thus to ponder over the past."



Dear father, it is the first time since I have bee

here."

The first time you have mentioned it, but not th

rst time you have thought of it; I have for a lonme noticed your sadness, and was unable t

account for it. My position was so delicate, thoug

never told you anything, I thought of yo

constantly. When I contracted my marriage,

hought it would increase your happiness. I did noventure to hope you would quite forget the pas

but I hoped that, cherished and supported by th

amiable woman whom I had chosen for my wife

you would look upon the past as amply atoned fo

by your sufferings. No matter what faults you ha

committed, they have been a thousand time

expiated by the good you have done since yo

have been here."

Father!"

Oh, let me tell you all, since a providential chanc

has brought about this conversation I at onc

desired and dreaded! I would, to secure you

happiness, have sacrificed my affection fo



Madame d'Harville and my friendship for Murphy

had I thought they recalled the past to you."

Oh, their presence, when they know what I wa

and yet love me so tenderly, seems a proof o

pardon and oblivion to me! I should have bee

miserable if for my sake you had renounce

Madame d'Harville's hand."

Oh, you know not what sacrifice Clémenc

herself would have made, for she was aware o

he full extent of my duties to you!"

Duties to me! What have I done to deserve s

much goodness?"

Until the moment that Heaven restored you t

me, your life had been one of sorrow and misery

and I reproach myself with your sufferings as if

had caused them, and when I see you happy,

eems to me I am forgiven. My only wish, my sol

aim, is to render you as happy as you wer

before unhappy, to exalt you as you have bee

abased, for the last trace of your humiliation mus

disappear when you see the noblest in the lanvie with each other who shall show you mo



espect."

Respect to me! Oh, no! It is to my rank and not t

myself they show respect."

It is to you, dear child,—it is to you!"

You love me so much, dear father, that every on

hinks to please you by showing me respect."

Oh, naughty child!" cried Rodolph, tenderkissing his daughter; "she will not cede anythin

o my paternal pride."

Is not your pride satisfied at my attributing th

kindness I receive to you only?"

No, that is not the same thing; I cannot be prou

of myself, but of you. You are ignorant of your ow

merits; in fifteen months your education has bee

o perfected that the most enthusiastic mothewould be proud of you."

At this moment the door of the salon opened, an

Clémence, grand duchess of Gerolstein, entered

holding a letter in her hand.



Here, love, is a letter from France," said she t

Rodolph; "I brought it myself, because I wished t

bid good-morrow to my dear child, whom I hav

not yet seen to-day."

This letter arrives most opportunely," sai

Rodolph. "We were speaking of the Past; tha

monster we must destroy, since he threatens th

epose of our child."

Is it possible that these fits of melancholy w

have so often remarked—"

Were occasioned by unhappy recollections; bu

now that we know the enemy we shall destro

him."

From whom is this letter?" asked Clémence.

From Rigolette, Germain's wife."

Rigolette?" cried Fleur-de-Marie. "Oh, I am s

glad!"

Do you not fear that this letter may serve t

awaken fresh recollections?" said Clémence, in ow tone to Rodolph.



On the contrary, I wish to destroy thes

ecollections, and I shall, doubtless, find arms

his letter, for Rigolette is a worthy creature, wh

appreciated and adored our child."

Rodolph then read the following letter aloud:



"Bouqueval Farm, August 15, 1841.

"Monseigneur :—I take the liberty of writing t

you to communicate a great happiness whic

has occurred to us, and to ask of you anothefavour,—of you, to whom we already owe s

much, or rather to whom we owe the rea

paradise in which we live, myself, my dea

Germain, and his good mother. It is this

monseigneur: For the last ten days I have beecrazy with joy, for ten days ago I was confine

with such a love of a little girl, which I say is th

image of Germain, he says it is exactly like me

and our dear mother says it is like us both; th

fact is, it has beautiful blue eyes like Germainand black curly hair like mine."

Good, worthy people, they deserve to be happy

aid Rodolph. "If ever there was a couple we

matched it is they."

"But really, monseigneur, I must ask you

pardon for this chatter. Your ears must ofte

tingle, monseigneur, for the day never passe

that we do not talk of you, when we say to eac



other how happy we are, how happy we were

for then your name naturally occurs. Excuse th

blot, monseigneur; but, without thinking of it,

had written Monsieur Rodolph, as I used to sa

formerly, and then I scratched it out. I hope yowill find my writing improved as well as m

spelling, for Germain gives me lessons, and

do not make those long ugly scrawls I used t

do when you mended my pens."

I must confess," said Rodolph, with a smile, "tha

my little protégée makes a mistake, and I am sur

Germain is more frequently employed in kissin

he hand of his scholar than in directing it."

My dear duke, you are unjust," said Clémence

ooking at the letter; "it is rather a very large hand

but very legible."

Why, yes, she has really improved," observeRodolph; "it would in former days have take

eight pages to contain what she now writes

wo." And he continued:

"It is quite true, you know, monseigneur, thayou used to mend my pens, and when we thin



of it, we two Germains, we feel quite ashame

when we recollect how free from pride yo

were. Ah, I am again chattering instead o

saying what we wish to ask of you

monseigneur; for my husband unites with meand it is very important, for we attach a grea

deal to it, as you will see. We entreat of you

monseigneur, to have the goodness to choos

for us and give us a name for our dear littl

daughter; this has been the wish of thgodfather and godmother,—and who do yo

think they are, monseigneur? Two person

whom you and the Marquise d'Harville hav

taken from misery and made very happy, ahappy as we are. They are Morel, the lapidary

and Jeanne Duport, a worthy creature whom

met in prison when I went there to visit my dea

Germain, and whom the marquise afterward

took out of the hospital.

"And now, monseigneur, you must know wh

we have chosen M. Morel for godfather, an

Jeanne Duport for godmother. We said it wou

be one way of again thanking M. Rodolph for a



his kindness, to have, as godfather an

godmother for our little one, worthy person

who owe everything to him and th

marchioness; whilst, at the same time, More

and Jeanne Duport are the worthiest peoplbreathing, they are of our own class in life, an

besides, as we say with Germain, they are ou

kinsfolk in happiness, for, like us, they are o

the family of your protégés."

Really, my dear father, this idea is most delightfu

and excellent!" said Fleur-de-Marie; "to take fo

godfather and godmother persons who ow

everything to you and my dear second mother!"

Yes, indeed, dearest," said Clémence; "and I am

deeply touched at their remembrance."

And I am very happy to find that my favours hav

been so well bestowed," said Rodolph, continuinhis letter.

"With the money you gave him, Morel has no

become a jewel broker, and earns enough t

bring up his family very respectably. PooLouise, who is a very good girl, is going,



believe, to be married to a very worthy youn

man, who loves and respects her as he ough

to do, for she has been unfortunate, but no

guilty, and Louise's husband that is to be i

perfectly sensible of this."

Rodolph laid great stress on these last words

ooked at his daughter for a moment, and the

continued:

"I must add, monseigneur, that Jeanne Dupor

through the generosity of the marquise, ha

been separated from her husband, that ba

man who beat her and took everything from

her; she has now her eldest daughter with hethey keep a small trimming shop, and ar

doing very well. Germain writes to you regularl

monseigneur, every month, on the subject o

the Bank for Mechanics out of Work an

Gratuitous Loans; there are scarcely any sumin arrear, and we find already the good effect

of it in this quarter. Nine, at least, poor familie

can support themselves in the dead season o

work without sending their clothes and beddinto the pawnbroker's. And when work comes in



it does one's heart good to see the haste wit

which they return the money lent, and they bles

you for the loans so serviceably advanced.

"Yes, monseigneur, they bless you; fo

although you say you did nothing in this bu

appoint Germain, and that an unknown did th

great benefit, we must always, suppose it wa

you who founded it, as it appears to us th

most natural idea. There is, besides, a mosfamous trumpet to repeat that it is you who ar

the real benefactor. This trumpet is Madam

Pipelet, who repeats to every one that it coul

be no one but her king of lodgers (excuse he

M. Rodolph, but she always calls you so) whestablished such a charitable institution, an

her old darling Alfred is of the same opinion; h

is so proud and contented with his post a

porter to the bank that he says all the tricks oM. Cabrion would not have the slightest effec

on him now.

"Germain has read in the newspapers tha

Martial, a colonist of Algeria, has bee

mentioned with great praise for the courage h



had shown in repulsing, at the head of th

settlers, an attack of plundering Arabs, and tha

his wife, as intrepid as himself, had bee

slightly wounded by his side, where sh

handled her musket like a real grenadier; sincthis time, says the newspaper, she has bee

called Madame Carabine.

"Excuse this long letter, monseigneur, but

think you will not be displeased to hear from unews of all those whose benefactor you hav

been. I write to you from the farm at Bouqueva

where we have been since the spring with ou

good mother. Germain leaves us in th

morning for his business, and returns in thevening. In the autumn we shall return to Paris.

"It is so strange, M. Rodolph, that I, who coul

never endure the country, am now so fond of it

suppose it is because Germain likes it so vemuch.

"As to the farm, M. Rodolph, you who know, n

doubt, where the good little Goualeuse is, w

perhaps tell her that we very often think of he



as one of the dearest and gentlest creatures

the world; and that, for myself, I never think o

my own happy condition without saying t

myself, since M. Rodolph was also the M

Rodolph of dear Fleur-de-Marie, that, no doubshe is by his kindness as happy as we are, an

that makes one feel still more happy. Ah, how

chatter! What will you say to all this? But yo

are so good, and then, you know, it is your fau

if I go on as long and as merrily as Papa Crétand Ramonette, who no longer have a chanc

with me in singing. You will not refuse ou

request, will you, monseigneur? If you will giv

a name to our dear little child, it will seem to uthat it will bring her good fortune, like a luck

star.

"If I conclude by saying to you, M. Rodolph, tha

we try to give every assistance in our power tthe poor, it is not to boast, but that you ma

know that we do not keep to ourselves all th

happiness you have given to us; besides, w

always say to those we succour: 'It is not u

whom you should thank and bless; it is MRodol h the best most enerous erson in th



world.'

"Adieu, monseigneur! And pray believe tha

when our dear little child begins to lisp, the firs

word she shall utter will be your name, MRodolph, and the next those you wrote on th

basket which contained your generou

wedding presents to me, 'Labour an

discretion, honour and happiness.' Thanks t

these four words, our love and our care, whope, monseigneur, that our child will b

always worthy to pronounce the name of him

who has been our benefactor, and that of all th

unfortunates he ever knew—Forgive me

monseigneur, but I cannot finish without the bi

tears in my eyes, but they are tears o

happiness. Excuse all errors, if you please; it

not my fault, but I cannot see very clearly, and

scribble.

"I have the honour to be, monseigneur, you

respectful and most grateful servant,

"Rigolette Germain.



"P.S. Ah, monseigneur, in reading my lette

over again, I see I have often written M

Rodolph, but you will excuse me, for you know

monseigneur, that under any and every nam

we respect and bless you alike."

Dear little Rigolette!" said Clémence, affected b

he letter; "how full of good and right feeling is he

etter!"

It is, indeed!" replied Rodolph. "She has a

admirable disposition, her heart is all that

good; and our dear daughter appreciates her a

we do," he added, addressing Fleur-de-Marie

when, struck by her pale countenance, hexclaimed, "But what ails you, dearest?"

Alas! what a painful contrast between m

position and that of Rigolette. 'Labour an

discretion, honour and happiness,' these fouwords declare all that my life has been, all that

ought to have been,—a young, industrious, an

discreet girl, a beloved wife, a happy mother, a

honoured woman, such is her destiny; whilst I—"

What do you say?"



Forgive me, my dear father; do not accuse me o

ngratitude. But in spite of your unspeakabl

enderness and that of my second mother, in spit

of the splendour with which I am surrounded, pite of your sovereign power, my shame i

ncurable. Nothing can destroy the past. Forgiv

me, dear father. Until now I have concealed thi

rom you; but the recollection of my origin

degradation drives me to despair—kills me—"

Clémence, do you hear?" cried Rodolph,

extreme distress. "Oh, fatality—fatality! Now

curse my fears, my silence. This sad idea, so lon

and deeply rooted in her mind, has, unknown tus, made fearful ravages; and it is too late t

contend against this sad error. Oh, I am indee

wretched!"

Courage, my dearest!" said Clémence tRodolph. "You said but now that it is best to know

he enemy that threatens us. We know now th

cause of our child's sorrow, and will triumph ove

, because we shall have with us reason, justice

and our excessive love for her."



And then she will see, too, that her affliction, if

be, indeed, incurable, will render ours incurable

aid Rodolph.

After a protracted silence, during which Fleur-deMarie appeared to recover herself, she too

Rodolph's and Clémence's hands in her own, an

aid in a voice deeply affected, "Hear me

beloved father, and you my best of mothers. Go

has willed it, and I thank him for it, that I should nonger conceal from you all that I feel. I must hav

done so shortly, and told you what I will now avow

or I could not longer have kept it concealed."

Ah, now I comprehend!" ejaculated Rodolphand there is no longer any hope for her."

I hope in the future, my dear father, and this hop

gives me strength to speak thus to you."

And what can you hope for the future, poor child

ince your present fate only causes you grief an

orment?"

I will tell you; but before I do so let me recall t

you the past, and confess before God, who hear



me, what I have felt to this time."

Speak—speak—we listen!" was Rodolph

eply.

As long as I was in Paris with you, my dearesather, I was so happy that such days of blis

cannot be paid for too dearly by years o

uffering. You see I have at least know

happiness."

For some days, perhaps."

Yes, but what pure and unmingled happiness

The future dazzled me,—a father to adore,

econd mother to cherish doubly, for sheplaced mine, whom I never knew. Then—for

will confess all—my pride was roused in spite o

myself. So greatly did I rejoice in belonging t

you. If then I sometimes thought vaguely of th

past, it was to say to myself, 'I, formerly s

debased, am the beloved daughter of

overeign prince, whom everybody blesses an

everes; I, formerly so wretched, now enjoy all th

plendours of luxury, and an existence almosoyal.' Alas! my father, my good fortune was s



unlooked for, your power surrounded me with s

much brilliancy, that I was, perhaps, excusable i

allowing myself to be thus blinded."

Excusable! Nothing could be more natural, mangelic girl. What was there wrong in being prou

of a rank which was your own, in enjoying th

advantages of a position to which I had restore

you? I remember at this time you were s

delightfully gay, and said to me in accents I nevecan again hope to hear, 'Dearest father, this i

oo, too much happiness!' Unfortunately it wa

hese recollections that begat in me this deceitf

ecurity."

Do you remember, my father," said Fleur-de

Marie, unable to overcome a shudder of horro

do you remember the terrible scene tha

preceded our departure from Paris when you

carriage was stopped?"

Yes," answered Rodolph; in a tone o

melancholy. "Brave Chourineur! after having onc

more saved my life—he died—there, before ou

eyes."



Well, my father, at the moment when tha

unhappy man expired, do you know whom I sa

ooking steadfastly at me? Ah, that look—tha

ook! it has haunted me ever since!" added Fleu

de-Marie, with a shudder.

What look? Of whom do you speak?" crie

Rodolph.

Of the ogress of the tapis-franc !" answereFleur-de-Marie.

That monster! You saw her!—and where?"

Did you not see her in the tavern where th

Chourineur died? She was amongst the womewho surrounded us."

Ah, now," said Rodolph, in a tone of despair,

understand. Struck with horror as you were at th

murder of the Chourineur, you must havmagined that you saw something prophetic in th

inister rencontre!"

Yes, indeed, father, it was so. At the sight of the

ogress I felt a death-like shiver, and it seeme



hat under her scowl my heart, which, until then

had been light, joyous, bounding, was instant

chilled to ice. Yes, to meet that woman at the ver

nstant when the Chourineur died, saying, 'Heave

s just!' it seemed to me as a rebuke fromProvidence for my proud forgetfulness of the pas

which I was hereafter to expiate by humility an

epentance."

But the past was forced on you, and you are noesponsible for that in the sight of God!"

You were driven to it—overcome—my poo

child!"

Once precipitated into the abyss in spite o

yourself, and unable to quit it in spite of you

emorse and despair, through the atrociou

ecklessness of the society of which you were

victim, you saw yourself for ever chained to thden, and it required that chance should throw yo

n my way to rescue you from such thraldom."

Then, too, my child, your father says you were th

victim and not the accomplice of this infamy," saiClémence.



But yet, my mother, I have known this infamy

eplied Fleur-de-Marie, in a tone of deepest grie

Nothing can destroy these fearful recollections,—

hey pursue me incessantly, not as formerly, in thmidst of the peaceful inhabitants of the farm, o

he fallen women who were my companions in S

Lazare, but they pursue me even in this palace

lled with the élite of Germany; they pursue m

even to my father's arms, even to the steps of hhrone!" And Fleur-de-Marie burst into an agon

of tears.

Rodolph and Clémence remained silent

presence of this fearful expression ounextinguishable remorse; they wept, too, for the

perceived that their consolations were vain.

Since then," continued Fleur-de-Marie, dryin

her tears, "I say to myself every moment in thday, with bitter shame, 'I am honoured, revered

and the most eminent and venerated person

urround me with respect and attention. In th

eyes of a whole court the sister of an emperor ha

deigned to fasten my bandeau on my forehead



and I have lived in the mire of the Cité, familia

with thieves and murderers.' Forgive me, deares

ather, but the more elevated my position, th

more deeply sensitive have I been to the dee

degradation into which I had fallen; and at evehomage paid me I feel myself guilty o

profanation, and think it sacrilege to receive suc

attentions, knowing what I have been; and then

ay to myself, 'If God should please that the pas

were all known, with what deserved scorn woulhe be treated whom now they elevate so high

What a just and fearful punishment!'"

But, poor girl, my wife and I know the past; w

are worthy of our rank, and yet we cherish you."

Because you feel for me the tenderness of

ather and mother."

But remember all the good you have done sincyour residence here, and the excellent and ho

nstitution you have founded for orphans and poo

orsaken girls! Then, too, the affection which th

worthy abbess of Ste. Hermangeld evince

owards you, ought not that to be attributed to you



unfeigned piety?"

Whilst the praises of the abbess of Ste

Hermangeld refer only to my present conduct,

accept it without scruple; but when she cites m

example to the noble young ladies who hav

aken vows in the abbey, I feel as if I were th

accomplice of an infamous falsehood."

After a long silence Rodolph resumed, with dee

melancholy:

I see it is unavailing to persuade you! Reasonin

s impotent against a conviction the mor

teadfast as it is derived from a noble an

generous feeling. The contrast of your past an

present position must be a perpetual punishmen

orgive me for saying so, my beloved one!"

Forgive you! And for what, my dear father?"

For not having foreseen your excessiv

usceptibility, which, from the delicacy of you

heart, I should have anticipated. And yet wha

could I have done? It was my duty solemnly t

ecognise you as my daughter; yet I was wrong—



wrong to be too proud of you! I should hav

concealed my treasure, and lived in retiremen

with Clémence and you, instead of raising yo

high, so high that the past would disappear as

hoped from your eyes."

Several knocks were heard at this moment, whic

nterrupted the conversation. Rodolph opened th

door, and saw Murphy, who said:

I beg your your royal highness's pardon for thu

disturbing you, but a courier from the Prince o

Herkaüsen-Oldenzaal has just arrived with th

etter, which he says is very important, and mus

be delivered immediately to your royal highness.

Thanks, good Murphy. Do not go away," sai

Rodolph, with a sigh, "I shall want you presently

And the prince, closing the door, remained

moment in the ante-room to read the letter whicMurphy had brought him, and which was a

ollows:

"My Lord :—Trusting that the bonds o

relationship existing between us, as well as thfriendshi with which ou have ever honoure



me, will excuse the boldness of the step I am

about to take, I will at once enter upon th

purport of my letter, dictated as it is by

conscientious desire to act as becomes th

man your highness deigns to style his friend.

"Fifteen months have now elapsed since yo

returned from France, bringing with you you

long-lost daughter, whom you so happi

discovered living with that mother from whomshe had never been parted, and whom yo

espoused when in extremis, in order t

legitimise the Princess Amelie.

"Thus ennobled, of matchless beauty, and, aslearn from my sister, the abbess of Ste

Hermangeld, endowed with a character pur

and elevated as the princely race from whic

she springs, who would not envy you

happiness in possessing such a treasure?

"I will now candidly state the purport of m

letter, although I should certainly have been th

bearer of the request it contains, were it no

that a severe indisposition detains me a



Oldenzaal.

"During the time my son passed at Gerolste

he had frequent opportunities of seeing th

Princess Amelie, whom he loves with

passionate but carefully concealed affection

This fact I have considered it right to acquain

you with, the more especially as, after havin

received and entertained my son a

affectionately as though he had been your ownyou added to your kindness by inviting him t

return, as quickly as his duties would allow, t

enjoy that sweet companionship so precious t

his heart; and it is probable that my apprisin

you of this circumstance may induce you twithdraw your intended hospitality to one wh

has presumed to aspire to the affections o

your peerless child.

"I am perfectly well aware that the daughter owhom you are so justly proud might aspire t

the first alliance in Europe, but I also know tha

so tender and devoted a parent as yourse

would not hesitate to bestow the hand of th

Princess Amelie on my son, if you believed b



so doing her happiness would be secured.

"It is not for me to dwell upon Henry's merits,—

you have been graciously pleased to besto

your approval on his conduct thus far, and

venture to hope he will never give you cause t

change the favourable opinion you hav

deigned to express concerning him.

"Of this be assured, that whatever may be you

determination, we shall bow in respectful an

implicit submission to it, and that I shall neve

be otherwise than your royal highness's mos

humble and obedient servant,

"Gustave Paul,

"Prince of Herkaüsen-Oldenzaal ."

After the perusal of this letter Rodolph remaine

or some time sad and pensive; then a gleam o

hope darting across his mind, he returned to h

daughter, whom Clémence was most tender

consoling.

My dear child," said he, as he entered, "yo

yourself observed that this day seemed destine



o be one of important discoveries and solem

explanations, but I did not then think your word

would be so strikingly verified as they seem like

o be."

Dear father, what has happened?"

Fresh sources of uneasiness have arisen."

On whose account?"

On yours, my child. I fear you have only reveale

o us a portion of your griefs."

Be kind enough to explain yourself," said Fleu

de-Marie, blushing.

Then hearken to me, my beloved child. You have

perhaps, good cause to fancy yourself unhappy

When, at the commencement of our conversation

you spoke of the hopes you still entertained, understood your meaning, and my heart seeme

broken by the blow with which I was menaced, fo

read but too clearly that you desired to quit m

or ever, and to bury yourself in the eterna

eclusion of a cloister. My child, say, have I no



divined your intentions?"

If you would consent," murmured forth Fleur-de

Marie, in a faint, gasping voice.

Would you, then, quit us?" exclaimed Clémence

The abbey of Ste. Hermangeld is in th

mmediate neighbourhood of Gerolstein, and

hould frequently see yourself and my father."

Remember, my child, that vows such as yo

would take are not to be recalled. You ar

carcely eighteen years of age, and one day yo

may—possibly—"

Oh, think not I should ever regret my choice

There is no rest or peace for me save in th

olitude of a cloister. There I may be happy, if yo

and my second mother will but continue to m

your affection."

The duties and consolations of a religious life

aid Rodolph, "might, certainly, if not cure, at leas

alleviate the anguish of your lacerated an

desponding mind, and although your resolutio



will cost me dear, I cannot but approve of it."

Rodolph!" cried the astonished Clémence, "do

hear aright? Is it possible you—"

Allow me more fully to explain myself," replieRodolph. Then addressing his daughter, he said

But before an irrevocable decision

pronounced, it would be well to ascertain

nothing more suitable, both to your inclination

and our own, could be found for you than the life o

a nun."

Fleur-de-Marie and Clémence started a

Rodolph's words and manner, while, fixing a

earnest gaze on his daughter, the prince said

abruptly:

What think you, my child, of your cousin, Princ

Henry?"

The brightest blush spread over the fair face o

Fleur-de-Marie, who, after a momenta

hesitation, threw herself weeping in her father

arms.



Then you love him, do you not, my darling child?

cried Rodolph, tenderly pressing her hands. "Fea

not to confide the truth to your best friends."

Alas!" replied Fleur-de-Marie, "you know no

what it has cost me to conceal from you the stat

of my heart! Had you questioned me on th

ubject, I would gladly have told you all, but sham

closed my lips, and would still have done so, bu

or your inquiry into the nature of my feelings."

And have you any suspicion that Henry is awar

of your love?"

Gracious heavens, dearest father!" exclaime

Fleur-de-Marie, shrinking back in terror, "I trus

not!"

Do you believe he returns your affection?"

Oh, no, no! I trust he does not! He would suffeoo deeply."

And what gave rise to the love you entertaine

or your cousin?"

Alas, I know not! It grew upon me almo



unconsciously. Do you remember a portrait of

youth dressed as a page, in the apartments of th

Abbess de Ste. Hermangeld?"

I know; it was the portrait of Henry."

Believing the picture to be of distant date, I on

day in your presence remarked upon the extrem

beauty of the countenance, when you jesting

eplied that it was the likeness of an ancesto

who, in his youth, had displayed an extraordina

hare of sense, courage, and every estimabl

quality; this strengthened my first impression, an

requently after that day I used to delight

ecalling to my mind the fine countenance annoble features of one I believed to have been lon

numbered with the dead. By degrees thes

everies began to form one of my greates

pleasures, and many an hour have I passe

gazing, amid smiles and tears, on one I fondhoped I might be permitted to know and to love

another world. For in this," continued poor Fleu

de-Marie, with a most touching expression, "I we

know I am unworthy to aspire to the love of an

one but you, my kind, indulgent parents."



I can now understand the nature of the reproo

you once gave me for having misled you on th

ubject of the portrait."

Conceive, dearest father, what was my confusiowhen I learnt from the superior that the portra

was a living subject,—that of her nephew! M

rouble was extreme, and earnestly did

endeavour to erase from my heart all the fon

associations connected with that picture. In vainhe pertinacity with which I strove to forget bu

veted the impression I had received; and

unfortunately, dear father, you rendered the tas

of forgetting more difficult, by continualeulogising the heart, disposition, and principles o

Prince Henry."

You loved him, then, my child, from mere

eeing his likeness and hearing his praises?"Without positively loving him, I felt myse

attracted towards him by an irresistible impulse

or which I bitterly reproached myself; my on

consolation was the thought that no person knemy fatal secret. For how could I presume to love



How excuse my ingratitude in not contentin

myself with the tenderness bestowed on me b

you, my father, and you, also, dearest mother? I

he midst of all these conflicting feelings I met m

cousin, for the first time, at a ball given by you the Archduchess Sophia; his resemblance to th

portrait too well assured me it was he; and you

ntroducing Prince Henry to me as a near relativ

afforded me ample opportunities of discoverin

hat his manners were as captivating as his minwas cultivated."

It is easy to conceive, then, that a mutual passio

prung up between you! Indeed, he won upon m

egard ere I was aware of the ground he hagained; he spoke of you so admiringly, yet s

espectfully."

You had yourself praised him so highly."

Not more than he deserved. It is impossible t

possess a more noble nature, or a mor

generous and elevated character."

I beseech you, dearest father, to spare me thresh trial of hearing him thus praised by you



Alas! I am already wretched enough."

Go on, my child. I have a reason in thus extollin

your cousin—I will explain hereafter. Proceed."

Though aware of the danger of thus daiassociating with my cousin, I felt unable t

withdraw myself from the pleasure his socie

afforded me; nor, spite of my implicit reliance o

your indulgence, dear father, durst I disclose m

ears to you. I could then only redouble my effort

o conceal my unfortunate attachment, and—sha

confess?—there were moments when, forgettin

he past, I gave myself up to all the dear delight

of a friendship hitherto unknown to me. But thdeparture of Prince Henry from your court tore th

veil from my eyes, and showed me how truly an

ardently I loved him, though not with a sister

ove, as I had made myself believe. I had resolve

o open my heart entirely to you on this subjectcontinued Fleur-de-Marie, whose strengt

eemed utterly exhausted by her long confession

and then to ask you what remained for one s

every way unfortunate but to seek the repose of cloister."



Then, dearest daughter, let me answer th

question ere you have put it, by saying there is

prospect as bright and smiling awaits you

acceptance, as that you propose is cheerless an

gloomy."

What mean you?"

Now, then, listen to me. It was impossible for a

affection as great as mine to be blinded to thmutual affection subsisting between yourself an

your cousin; my penetration also quick

discovered that his passion for you amounted t

dolatry; that he had but one hope, one desire o

earth,—that of being loved by you. At the timeplayed off that little joke respecting the portrait,

had not the least expectation of Henry's visitin

Gerolstein. When, however, he did come, I saw

no reason for changing the manner in which I haalways treated him, and I therefore invited him t

visit us on the same terms of friendly relationsh

he had hitherto done. A very little time ha

elapsed ere Clémence and myself saw plain

enou h the cause of his frequent visits, or th



mutual delight you felt in each other's society

Then mine became a difficult task.

On the one hand, I rejoiced as a father that on

o every way worthy of you should have won you

affection; then on the other hand, my poor dea

child, your past misfortunes forbade me t

encourage the idea of uniting you to your cousin

o whom I several times spoke in a manner ve

different to the tone I should have adopted, hadcontemplated bestowing on him your hand.

Thus placed in a position so delicate,

endeavoured to preserve a strict neutrality

discouraging Prince Henry's attentions by evemeans in my power, and yet manifesting toward

himself the same paternal kindness with which

had always treated him; and besides, my poo

girl, after a life of so much unhappiness as yours

could not bring myself suddenly to tear away thnnocent pleasure you appeared to feel in th

company of your cousin. It was something to se

you even temporarily happy and cheerful, an

even now your acquaintance with Prince Hen

may be the means of securing your futur



ranquillity."

Dear father, I understand you not."

Prince Paul, Henry's father, has just sent me th

etter. While considering such an alliance as ahonour too great to aspire to, he solicits you

hand for his son, who, he states, is inspired with

passion for you."

Dearest father!" cried Fleur-de-Marieconcealing her face with her hands, "do yo

orget?"

I forget nothing,—not even that to-morrow yo

enter a convent, where, besides, being for eveost to me, you will pass the remainder of you

days in tears and austerity. If I must part with you

et it be to give you to a husband who will love yo

almost as tenderly as your father."

Married!—and to him, father! You cannot mea

t!"

Indeed I do; but on one condition: that direct

after your marriage has been celebrated here



without pomp or parade, you shall depart wit

your husband for some tranquil retreat in Italy o

Switzerland, where you may live unknown, an

merely pass for opulent persons of middle ran

And my reason for attaching this proviso to mconsent is because I feel assured that, in th

bosom of simple and unostentatious happiness

you would by degrees forget the hateful pas

which is now only more painfully contrasted wit

he pomp and ceremony by which you arurrounded."

Rodolph is right," said Clémence. "With Henr

or your companion, and happy in each other

affection, past sorrows will soon be forgotten."

And as I could not wholly part with you, Clémenc

and I would pay you a visit each year. Then whe

me shall have healed your wounded spirit, m

poor child, and present felicity shall have effaceall recollections of the past, you will return to dwe

among us, never more to part."

Forget the past in present happiness

murmured Fleur-de-Marie.



Even so, my child," replied Rodolph, scarce

able to restrain his emotion at seeing h

daughter's scruples thus shaken.

Can it be possible," cried Fleur-de-Marie, "thauch unspeakable felicity is reserved for me? Th

wife of Henry. And one day to pass my lif

between him—yourself—and my second mother

continued she, more subdued by the ineffabl

delight such a picture created in her mind.

All—all that happiness shall be yours, m

precious child!" exclaimed Rodolph, fond

embracing Fleur-de-Marie. "I will reply at once t

Henry's father that I consent to the marriageComfort yourself with the certainty that ou

eparation will be but short; the fresh duties yo

will take upon yourself in a wedded life will serv

o drive away all past retrospections and painf

eminiscences; and should you yourself be mother, you will know and feel how readily

parent sacrifices her own regrets and griefs t

promote the happiness of her child."

A mother! I a mother!" exclaimed Fleur-de



Marie, with bitter despair, awakening at that wor

rom the sweet illusion in which her memo

eemed temporarily lulled. "Oh, no! I am unworth

o bear that sacred name! I should expire o

hame in the presence of my own child, if indeedcould survive the horrible disclosures I mus

necessarily make to its father of my past life! Oh

never—never!"

My child, for pity's sake, listen to me!"

Pale and beautiful amidst her deep distress

Fleur-de-Marie arose with all the majesty o

ncurable sorrow, and, looking earnestly a

Rodolph, she said, "We forget that, ere PrincHenry made me his wife, he should b

acquainted with the past!"

No, no, my daughter," replied Rodolph, "I had b

no means forgotten what he both ought to knowand shall learn of the melancholy tale."

Think you not that I should die, were I thu

degraded in his eyes?"

And he will also admit and feel," adde



Clémence, "that if I style you my daughter, h

may, without fear or shame, safely call you hi

wife."

Nay, dearest mother, I love Prince Henry too trul

o bestow on him a hand that has been pollute

by the touch of the ruffians of the Cité."

A short time after this painful scene, the followin

announcement appeared in the Official Gazette o

Gerolstein:

The taking of the veil by the most high and migh

Princess Amelie of Gerolstein took plac

yesterday in the Abbey of Ste. Hermangeld, in th

presence of the reigning grand duke and all h

court. The vows of the novice were received bhe right reverend and illustrious Lord Charle

Maximus, Archbishop of Oppenheim

Monseigneur Annibal André, one of the princes o

Delphes and Bishop of Ceuta, in partibu

nfidelium, and apostolic nuncio, bestowed th



alutation and papal benediction. The sermo

was preached by the most reverend Seigneu

Pierre d'Asfeld, canon of the Chapter of Cologne

and count of the Holy Roman Empire. Ven

Creator Optime! "

CHAPTER III.

THE VOWS.

Rodolph to Clémence.Gerolstein, 12th January, 1842.

Your assurance that your father is bette

induces me to hope you will be enabled t

return here with him shortly. I dreaded that a

Rosenfeld, situated in the midst of the woods

he would be exposed to the piercing cold of ou

rigorous winters, but, unfortunately, h

fondness for hunting rendered all our advicuseless.



I entreat you, Clémence, as soon as your fathe

can bear the motion of the carriage, quit tha

country and this habitation, only fit for thos

Germans of an iron frame whose race has now

disappeared.

The ceremony of our poor child's taking th

vows is fixed for to-morrow, the thirteenth o

January, the fatal day on which I drew my swor

on my father! Alas! I thought too soon I wa

forgiven! The hope of passing my life with yo

and my child made me forget that it was sh

who had been punished up to the present time

and that my punishment was to come. And it icome, when, six months ago, she disclosed th

double torture she suffered,—her incurabl

shame for the past, and her hopeless passio

for Henry.

These two sentiments became, by a fatal logic

the cause of her fixed resolve to take the ve

You know that we could not conceal from he

that, had we been in her place, we should hav

pursued the same noble and courageou



course she has adopted. How could we answe

those humble words, "I love Prince Henry to

much to give him a hand that has been touche

by the bandits of the Cité!"

I have seen her this morning, and though sh

seemed less pale than usual, though she sai

she did not suffer, yet her health gives me th

most mortal alarm.

Alas! This morning, when I saw beneath the ve

those noble features, I could not refrain from

thinking how beautiful she looked the day of ou

marriage; it seemed that our happiness wa

reflected on her face.

As I told you, I saw her this morning. She doe

not know that to-morrow the Princess Julian

resigns her abbatical dignity, and that she ha

been unanimously chosen to succeed her.

Since the beginning of her novitiate there ha

been but one opinion of her piety, her charity

and the exactitude with which she fulfils all th

rules of the order; she even exaggerates theausterity. She exercises in the convent tha



authority she exercised everywhere, but o

which she herself is ignorant. She confessed t

me this morning that she is not so absorbed b

her religious duties as to forget the past.

"I accuse myself, dear father," said she

"because I cannot help reflecting that, ha

Heaven pleased to spare me the degradatio

that has stained my life, I might have live

happily with you and my husband. Spite omyself, I reflect on this, and on what passed

the Cité. In vain I beseech Heaven to delive

me from these temptations,—to fill my hea

with himself; but he does not hear my prayers

doubtless because my life has rendered munworthy of communion with him."

"But," cried I, clinging to this faint glimmer o

hope, "it is not yet too late; your novitiate is on

over to-day; you are yet free. Renounce thaustere life, dwell again with us, and ou

tenderness shall soften your grief."

Shaking her head sorrowfully, she replied:

"The cloister is, indeed, solitar for me



accustomed as I have been to your tende

care; doubtless cruel recollections come ove

me, but I am consoled by the knowledge that

am performing my duty. I know that everywher

else I should be liable to be placed in thaposition in which I have already suffered s

much. Your daughter shall do what she ought t

do, suffer what she ought to suffer."

Without founding any great hopes on thinterview, I yet said to myself, "She ca

renounce the cloister. But as she i

determined, I can but repeat her words, 'Go

alone can offer me a refuge worthy of himself.

Adieu, dear Clémence! It consoles me to seyou grieve with me, for I can say 'our' chil

without egotism in my sufferings. Often th

thought lightens my sorrow, for you are left t

me, and what is left to Fleur-de-Marie? Adieagain; return soon.

R.



Abbey of Ste. Hermangeld.

Four o'clock in the morning.

Reassure yourself, Clémence! Thank God, th

danger is over, but the crisis was terrible!

Last evening, agitated by my thoughts,

recollected the paleness and languor of m

poor child, and that she was obliged to pas

almost all the night in the church in prayer.

I sent Murphy and David to demand th

Princess Juliana's permission to remain un

the morrow in the mansion that Henry occupie

usually; thus my child would have prompassistance, and I prompt intelligence, in cas

that her strength failed under this rigorous, I w

not say cruel, obligation to pass the whole of

cold winter's night in the church.

"In the Church in Prayer" Original Etching by

Mercier "In the Church in Prayer "Original Etching by Mercier

I wrote to Fleur-de-Marie that, whilst I respecteher religious exercises, I besought her to watc



in her cell and not in the church. This was he

reply:

"My dear Father :—I thank you for this fres

proof of your tenderness, but be not alarmedI am sufficiently strong to perform my duty

Your daughter must be guilty of n

weakness. The rule orders it, I must subm

Should it cause me some physic

sufferings, how joyfully shall I offer them tGod! Adieu, dear father! I cannot say I pra

for you, because whenever I pray to Heaven

cannot help remembering you in my prayers

You have been to me on earth what God w

be, if I merit it, in heaven. Bless your childwho will be to-morrow the spouse of Heaven

"Sister Amelie."

This letter, in some measure, reassured mehowever I had, also, a vigil to keep. At nightfal

went to a pavilion I had built, near my father

monument, in expiation of this fatal night.

About one o'clock I heard Murphy's voice. Hcame from the convent in order to inform m



that, as I had feared, my unhappy child, spite o

her resolution, had not had sufficient strength t

accomplish this barbarous custom.

At eight o'clock in the evening Fleur-de-Mariknelt and prayed until midnight, bu

overpowered by her emotion and the intens

cold, she fainted; two nuns instantly raised he

and bore her to her cell. David was instant

summoned, and Murphy came to me. hastened to the convent, where the abbes

assured me that my daughter's swoon, from

which she had recovered, had been cause

only by her weakness, but that David feare

that my presence might seriously affect her.feared they were preparing me for somethin

more dreadful, but the superior said:

"I assure you, monseigneur, the princess is

no danger; the restorative the doctor has giveher has greatly recruited her strength."

David soon returned. She was better, but ha

insisted upon continuing her vigil, consentin

only to kneel upon a cushion.



"She is in the church, then?" cried I.

"Yes, monseigneur, but she will quit it in

quarter of an hour."

I entered the church, and, by the faint light of lamp, I saw her kneeling and praying fervently

Three o'clock struck; two sisters, seated in th

stalls, advanced and spoke to her; she crosse

herself, rose, and traversed the choir with a firmstep, and yet as she passed the lamp sh

seemed to me deathly pale. I remain at th

abbey until the ceremony be over. I think now

is useless to send this letter incomplete. I w

forward it to-morrow, with all the details of thisad day. Adieu, dearest!—I am heart-broken—

pity!

R.

THE LAST CHAPTER.



THE THIRTEENTH OF JANUARY.

Rodolph to Clémence.



The thirteenth of January! Now a doubly siniste

anniversary! Dearest, we have lost her for eve

All is over,—ended all. It is true, then, that ther

is a horrid pleasure in relating a terrible grief.Yesterday I was complaining of the necessit

that kept you from me; to-day, Clémence,

congratulate myself that you are not here,—yo

would have suffered too much. This morning

was in a light slumber, and was awakened b

the sound of bells. I started in affright;

seemed to me a funereal sound,—a knell!

fact, our daughter is dead,—dead to us! An

from to-day, Clémence, you must begin to weaher mourning in your heart, a heart always s

maternally disposed towards her. Whether ou

child be buried beneath the marble of the tom

or the vault of the cloister, what is the differenc

to us? Hardly eighteen years of age, yet deato the world!

At noon the profession took place, with solem

pomp, and I was present, concealed behind th

curtains of our pew. I felt, but even with greate



intensity, all the poignant emotion w

underwent at her novitiate. How strange! She

adored! And they believe, universally, that sh

was attracted to a religious life by a

irresistible vocation; and yet whilst thebelieved it was a happy event for her, a

overwhelming sadness weighed down th

spectators. There appeared in the very air, as

were, a doleful foreboding, and it was founded

if only half realised.

The profession terminated, they led our chi

into the chapter-room, where the nomination o

the new abbess was to take place, and, thank

to my sovereign privilege, I went into this roomto await Fleur-de-Marie's return to the choi

She soon entered; her emotion and weaknes

were so excessive that two of the sister

supported her. I was alarmed, less at hepaleness and the great change in her features

than at the peculiar expression of her smile

which seemed to me imprinted with a kind o

secret satisfaction.

Clémence, I say to you, perhaps we may ver



soon require all our courage,—I feel with

myself that our child is mortally smitten. Ma

Heaven grant that I am deceived, and may m

presentiments arise only from the despairin

sadness which this melancholy spectacle hainspired!

Fleur-de-Marie entered the chapter-room, a

the stalls were filled by the nuns. She wen

modestly to place herself last on the left-hanside, still leaning on the arm of one of th

sisters, for she yet appeared very weak.

The Princess Juliana was seated at the end o

the apartment, with the grand prioress on onside and another dignitary on the other, holdin

in her hand the golden crozier, the symbol o

abbatial authority. There was profound silence

and then the lady abbess rose, took the crozie

in her hand, and said, in a voice of greaemotion:

"My dear daughters, my great age compels m

to confide to younger hands this emblem of m

spiritual power," and she pointed to the crozie



"I am authorised by a bull of our holy father;

will, therefore, present to the benediction o

monseigneur the Archbishop of Oppenheim

and to the approbation of his royal highness th

grand duke our sovereign, whosoever of mdear daughters shall be pointed out by you t

succeed me. Our grand prioress will inform yo

of the result of the election, and she who ha

been chosen will receive my crozier and ring."

I did not take my eyes off my daughte

Standing up in her stall, her two hands folde

over her bosom, her eyes cast down, and ha

covered by her white veil and the long folds o

her black gown, she was pensive anmotionless, not supposing for a moment tha

she would herself be elected, as this fact ha

been communicated by the abbess to no on

but myself.The grand prioress took a book and read:

"Each of our dear sisters having been

according to the rule, requested a week sinc

to place her vote in the hands of our ho



mother, and keep her choice secret until thi

moment, in the name of our holy mother

declare to you, my dear, dear sisters, that on

of you has, by her exemplary piety, merited th

unanimous suffrages of the community, anthat she is our sister Amelie, the most nobl

and puissant Princess of Gerolstein."

At these words a murmur of pleased surpris

and satisfaction went around the apartment; theyes of all the nuns were fixed on my daughte

with an expression of tender sympathy, and,

spite of my painful forebodings, I was myse

deeply touched at this nomination, which, don

isolatedly and secretly, had yet presented sucan affecting unanimity.

The abbess continued, in a serious and lou

voice:

"My dear daughters, if it be, indeed, Siste

Amelie whom you think the most worthy an

most deserving of you all,—if it be she whom

you recognise as your spiritual superior, le

each of you reply to me in turn, my dea



daughters."

And each nun replied in a clear voice:

"Freely and voluntarily I have chosen, and I d

choose, Sister Amelie for my holy mother ansuperior."

Overcome by inexpressible emotion, my poo

child fell on her knees, clasped her hands, an

remained so until each vote was declaredThen the abbess, placing the crozier and th

ring in the hands of the grand prioress

advanced towards my daughter to take he

hand and conduct her to the abbatial seat.

"Rise, my dear daughter," said the abbess

"come and assume the place that belongs t

you. Your virtues, and not your rank, hav

obtained for you the position you have gained.

Fleur-de-Marie, trembling, advanced a fe

steps, and said:

"Pardon me, holy mother, but I would speak t

my sisters."



"Then first place yourself, my dear child, in you

abbatial seat," said the princess; "it is from

thence your voice shall be heard."

"That place, holy mother, never can be mine

replied Fleur-de-Marie, in a low and tremulou

voice.

"What mean you, my dear daughter?"

"So high a dignity was not made for me, homother."

"But the wishes of all your sisters call you to it."

"Permit me, holy mother, to make here, on mknees, a solemn confession; and my sisters w

see, and you, also, holy mother, that th

humblest condition is not humble enough fo

me."

"This arises from your modesty, my dear child

said the superior, with kindness, believing tha

the unhappy girl was giving way to a feeling o

overdelicacy.

But I divined the confession Fleur-de-Mari



was about to make, and, greatly alarmed,

exclaimed, in a voice of entreaty:

"My child, I conjure thee—"

It is impossible, my dearest Clémence, tdescribe the look which Fleur-de-Marie gav

me. In an instant she understood all, and sa

how deeply I should share in the shame of th

horrible revelation. She comprehended tha

after such a confession they might accuse m

of falsehood, for I had always made it out tha

Fleur-de-Marie had never left her mother. A

this reflection the poor dear child thought sh

would be guilty of the blackest ingratitudtowards me; she had not power to continue, bu

bowed down her head, overcome—

overwhelmed.

"Again I assure you, my dear child," said thabbess, "your modesty deceives you. Th

unanimity of the choice of your sisters prove

how worthy you are to replace me. It is not th

princess—it is Sister Amelie who is elected

For us your life began on the day when you firs



put foot in this house of the Lord, and it is th

exemplary and holy life that we recompense.

will say more, my dear daughter; if before yo

entered this retreat your life had been as wron

as it has been, on the contrary, pure anpraiseworthy, the heavenly virtues of which yo

have given me an example since your abod

here would expiate and ransom, in the eyes o

the Lord, any past life, however culpable. An

now, my dear daughter, judge if your modestought not to be reassured."

These words of the abbess were, as you ma

think, my Clémence, the more precious fo

Fleur-de-Marie, as she believed the pasineffaceable. Unfortunately, this scene ha

deeply moved her, and, although she affecte

calmness and serenity, I saw that her feature

altered in a most distressing manner."I believe I have convinced you, my dea

daughter," said the Princess Juliana; "and yo

will not cause so great a grief to your sisters a

to refuse this mark of their confidence an

affection?"



"No, holy mother," she said, with an expressio

which struck me, and in a voice more and mor

feeble, "I think now I may accept; but as I fee

myself fatigued and in pain, if you will permit

holy mother, the ceremony of the consecratioshall not take place for a few days."

"As you wish, my dear daughter; but in th

meanwhile, until your dignity is blessed an

consecrated, take this ring, come to your placeand our dear sisters will do you homag

according to our rules."

And the superior, putting the pastoral ring o

Fleur-de-Marie's finger, led her to the abbatiaseat. It was a simple and touching sigh

Supported on one side by the grand prioress

bearing the golden crozier, and on the other b

the Princess Juliana, each of the sisters, ashe passed by, made obeisance to our child

and respectfully kissed her hand. But judge o

my affright when she swooned before th

procession of the sisters was terminated

David had not quitted the convent, and h



hastened to the abbess's apartment, whithe

we had conveyed her, and then attended to he

The superior having returned to close the sittin

of the chapter, I remained alone with m

daughter. After looking at me for some time

she said:

"My dear father, can you forget my ingratitude

Can you forget that at the moment when I wa

about to make my painful confession—whe

you implored me—"

"Silence! I beseech you!"

"And I did not reflect," she continued, witbitterness, "that, in telling in the face of all th

world from what an abyss of depravity you ha

rescued me, I revealed a secret which you ha

preserved out of tenderness to me! It woul

have been to accuse you publicly—you, m

father—of a dissimulation, which you on

resigned yourself to to assure me a brilliant an

honoured existence! Can you ever forgiv

me?"



Instead of replying, I pressed my lips on he

forehead; she felt my tears flow. Having kisse

my hands many times, she said:

"Now I feel better, and, as now I am dead to th

world, I should like to make a few bequests

favour of several persons; but as all I hav

comes from you, do you authorise me, deares

father?"

"Say, dearest, and I will do all you desire."

"I should wish my beloved mother to kee

always in the little boudoir in which she usual

sits my embroidery-frame, with the work

began."

"It shall be so, love; your apartment is as whe

you left it. Clémence will be deeply touched b

your thought of her."

"As for you, dear father, take, I pray, my larg

ebony armchair, in which I have thought of—

reflected upon so much."

"I will put it beside my own, in my own privat



closet, and will imagine I see you in it ever

day, where you have so often sat," I said

unable to repress my tears.

"And now I would leave some souvenirs t

those who took so much interest in me when

was unhappy. To Madame Georges I would

give the writing-desk I have lately used; sh

taught me to write originally, so the gift will b

very appropriate," she said, with her sweesmile. "As to the venerable curé of Bouqueva

who instructed me in religion, I intend for him

the beautiful crucifix in my oratory."

"Very well, my dearest child."

"I should like to send my bandeau of pearls t

my good little Rigolette; it is a simple ornamen

which she may wear in her beautiful black hai

And as you know where Martial and La Louvare in Algeria, I should like to send to the brav

woman who saved my life my gold enamelle

cross. These different keepsakes, deares

father, I would have sent to them 'from Fleur-de

Marie.'"



"I will do all you wish,—I will not forget one."

"I am sure you will not, dearest father."

"Is there no other person present to you

memory?"

The dear child understood me, and pressed m

hand, whilst a slight blush tinged her pal

cheeks as I said, "He is better—out of danger

"And his father?"

"Better as his son is better. And what will yo

give to Henry? A souvenir from you will be

consolation so dear and precious!"

"My father, offer him my prie-Dieu . Alas! I hav

often watered it with my tears when beggin

from Heaven for strength to forget Henry, as

was unworthy of his love."

"How happy it will make him to see that yo

have had one thought of him!"

"As to the asylum for the orphans and youn

girls abandoned by their parents, I should wish



my dear father, that—"

Here Rodolph's letter was broken off by thes

words, almost illegible:

"Clémence, Murphy will conclude this letter!am lost,—bereft of sense! Ah, the thirteenth o

January!"

At the end of this letter Murphy had written a

ollows:

Madame:—By the order of his royal highness

complete this sorrowful recital. The two letter

of monseigneur will have prepared your roy

highness for the overwhelming news I have tcommunicate. Three hours since, whils

monseigneur was writing to your roy

highness, I was waiting in the antechamber fo

a letter to be despatched by a courier, whe

suddenly I saw the Princess Juliana enter in th

greatest consternation.

"Where is his royal highness?" she said to me

in an agitated voice.



"Writing to the grand duchess," I replied.

"Sir Walter," she said, "you must inform

monseigneur of a terrible event. You are hi

friend,—you should tell him; from you the blo

may be less terrible!"

I understood all, and thought it most prudent t

charge myself with the distressing intelligence

The superior having added that the Princes

Amelie was sinking gradually, and tha

monseigneur must hasten to receive h

daughter's last sigh, I went into the duke

room, who saw how pale I was.

"You have some bad news for me?"

"Terrible, monseigneur! But courage

Courage!"

"Ah, my forebodings!" he exclaimed; andwithout adding a word, he ran to the cloisters

followed him.

From the apartment of the superior, th

Princess Amelie had been conveyed to he



cell, after her last interview with monseigneu

One of the sisters watched over her, and at th

end of an hour she perceived that the Princes

Amelie's voice, who spoke to her at intervals

was weaker, and more and more oppressedThe sister hastened to inform the superior, wh

sent for Doctor David, who administered

cordial; but it was useless, the pulse wa

scarcely perceptible. He saw with despair tha

the reiterated emotions having probabexhausted the little strength of the Princes

Amelie, there was not a hope of saving her lef

Monseigneur arrived at this moment. Th

Princess Amelie had just received the lassacrament; a slight degree of consciousnes

remained. In one hand, crossed over her ches

she held the remains of her little rose-tree.

Monseigneur fell on his knees at the foot of thbed, and sobbed, "My child! My beloved child

in a voice of piercing agony. The Princes

Amelie heard him, turned her head a litt

towards him, opened her eyes, tried to smile

and said, in a faint voice, "My dearest fatheardon!—Henr too!—and m belove



mother!—pardon!"

These were her last words. After a sligh

struggle of one hour, she rendered her soul t

God.When his daughter had breathed her last sigh

monseigneur did not say a word; his calmnes

and silence were frightful. He closed th

eyelids of the princess, kissed her foreheaseveral times, took piously from her hands th

relics of the little rose-tree, and left the cell.

followed him, and he returned to the hous

outside the cloister, when, showing me th

letter he had commenced writing to your royhighness, and to which he in vain endeavoure

to add a few words, for his hand trembled to

convulsively, he said to me, "I cannot write! I am

crushed! My senses are gone! Write to th

grand duchess that I have no longer

daughter!"

I have executed the orders of monseigneu

May I be allowed, as his old servant, to entrea

your royal highness to hasten your return a



soon as the health of M. d'Orbigny will permit

Nothing but the presence of your royal highnes

can calm monseigneur's despair. He will watc

his daughter's remains every night until the da

when she is to be buried in the grand-ducachapel.

I have accomplished my sad task, madame

Deign, to excuse the incoherence of this lette

and to receive the expression of respectfdevotion with which I have the honour to be

Your royal highness's most obedient

servant,

Walter Murphy.

On the evening before the funeral of the Princes

Amelie, Clémence arrived at Gerolstein with he

ather. Rodolph was not alone on the day of Fleu

de-Marie's interment.

THE END.



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