The International Monthly, Volume 3, No. 4, July, 1851

by Various

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

Continued from page 357.

XI.—ON PAROLE.

Three days after the night upon which the father and son had knocked at the door of No. 7 Rue de Menors, another scene occurred. It was ten o'clock. The Prince had not appeared at dinner. Confined by a slight indisposition to his room, he sent an excuse to his daughter-in-law. The Prince was respectful as far as possible to Aminta, looking on her as head of the family and mistress of the household. The Countess of Grandmesnil had embroidered away a portion of the day, contradicted her niece, admired her nephew, commented on the last sermon of the Abbé de Rozan on worldly pleasures, contriving therein to insert various bitter-sweet allusions to Aminta. Finally the Countess left the room.

The Marquis and Marquise were then alone together. After her discovery of the nocturnal absence of Henri, and especially after the reading of the fatal note in which an appointment was made with the Marquis, Aminta felt a sadness which she could not overcome. Too proud to reproach him, or suffer him to discover her sorrow, divided between unextinguished love and deep mortification, Aminta lived in perpetual constraint, biding her grief and humiliation under a false tranquillity, the recompense for which she found in solitary tears. The Marquis seemed ill at ease. He had for some days been as moody as possible. His absence became every day more frequent, and the sudden departure of the Countess made his situation very annoying to both of them. Not a word was said for some moments. Henri sat with his eyes fixed on a paper, though he did not read, and Aminta convulsively twisted between her fingers a kind of work which just then was fashionable. Her eyes however occasionally strayed to her husband's face, on which they rested with anxiety. As she thus examined him, the features of Henri finally assumed such an expression of despair that Aminta could not repress her sorrow, and said, "What is the matter? are you in pain?"

"I? not at all! I am well—very well," said the Marquis. "I have something of importance to attend to," and he added, as he looked at the clock, "I am already rather late."

Aminta, in a supplicating tone, said, "Henri, once the most important business of your life was to be with me."

"The business which calls me out is by no means as pleasant as that would be."

"I wish I thought so," said Aminta—"for the needle of jealousy had entered her heart.

"Aminta," said Maulear, looking at her, "what is the matter? what do you mean?"

"That I am afraid I have lost the greatest blessing of life in a marriage like ours, and that, when my confidence in you is lost, happiness is gone for ever."

"And why have you lost it?" said Maulear.

"You have yourself destroyed it. You, whom I thought so frank—you, in the oaths of whom I had confidence—for whom I abandoned my mother and my country," said she, with tears. "You, against whose love I contended, for I was afraid I would not be happy, or rather that you would not be. Alas! I am now sure of this. Your coldness, your indifference, your abandonment, tell me so more distinctly than your tongue could. Yet I had rather you should say so, for there would at least be boldness in the confession, while meanness is the element of dissimulation."

The head of the poor young woman fell on her shoulder, and she shed bitter tears.

"Aminta," said Henri, as he drew near and sought to take her hand, "I swear that I have not deceived you."

Aminta looked towards him with a countenance lighted up with joy, but a frightful thought, the recollection of the letter, pierced her heart like an arrow.

"He deceives me," said she, and she felt herself blush for the man who did not blush himself, though he was committing perjury. The door of the room was then opened, and the Prince de Maulear entered. He was pale and agitated, though he had a smile on his lips. The smile, however, was cold and evidently studied. "You are about to go out, Marquis," said he, pointing to the hat which the latter had in his hand, without appearing to remark either the trouble of Henri or the tears of Aminta.

"Excuse me, Monsieur, but I have an important appointment."

"I am sorry for your appointment," said the Prince, "but you must break it."

"I cannot," muttered Henri.

"I hope you will," said the Prince, but his manner implied, "you must."

"Very well, sir," said the Marquis, putting down his hat and gloves, with marked ill humor, "I obey you."

The Prince paid no further attention to him, but placed a chair near Aminta, sat beside her, and pointing out a chair to the Marquis, bade him do so also.

"We thought you unwell," said the Marquise to her father-in-law, making an effort to restrain herself. "We are glad to see it is not the case."

"For three days," said the Prince, "I have not felt well. Too long a walk for a person of my age, and some important affairs have fatigued both my body and mind. I therefore determined to pass this evening calmly and quietly with you—with my family. I do not," said he, speaking to Henri, "expect it will be gay, but we cannot make a holiday all the time. We must sometimes be calm, and reflect. You, my daughter," said he to Aminta, "may be sure I will do all I can to aid you. I know you like to hear my old stories, but if you did not, and it were unpleasant to you, you would bear with me. I am about to tell you a long one." The Marquis and the Marquise listened to the Prince with surprise. The tone of this preamble seemed to them so foreign to the ordinary language and habits of the Prince, that they began to see something stranger even than the piquant anecdotes and traditions he delighted in narrating. "This story is a revelation of a story I long doubted whether or not I should confide to you. Its avowal cannot but be painful to me, and a man does not like to blush before his children."

"Why do so, then, my father?" said Henri.

"Because I wish to, monsieur," said the Prince sternly. "Because in the course of his life man must suffer, when its suffering is good in its effects, because thereby he may punish evil, and do his duty." The young couple looked at the Prince with terror, for his brow was moody, and on his lips—across which irony, gayety, and sarcasm so often played—there were now the marks of anger, menace, and indignation.

The old man spoke thus: "After leaving Mettan, whither I had followed the Princess, I went to Naples in 1792. Like almost all the émigrés of that day, I had no money. One of the first Frenchmen I met with in that city was Count Max de Nangis, with whom I had previously become acquainted in the strangest manner. We had been educated by the Benedictines, but our scholastic success was most unequal; for the Count saw me regularly surpass him, and carry away every college prize. He naturally disliked me. When we had entered society, our whimsical hate continued,—so that I seemed born to be the evil genius of the Count. If our horses were entered for the same stake, mine won the purse; sometimes by a length or a head only—but they won. If the Count fell in love, he did so with a woman that loved me, and the Count was soon sent adrift. My marriage soon capped the climax. Count Max had a charming cousin, Mlle. de Devonne, whom he loved passionately. Their marriage had been quietly agreed on between the families, and was to be solemnized on the majority of M. de Nangis. I was introduced to the Duke de Devonne, and saw his daughter, the most beautiful woman of the Court. After a short time I became passionately in love with her. I soon saw that my love was returned, and as the marriage to which I have referred had only been a matter of family-talk, known to a few friends, but not to the public, my father induced the Dauphin to ask the Duke de Nangis for his daughter's hand for me. Unwilling to offend the Prince, led astray by the manifest interest of his daughter, and anxious to gratify her, the Duke consented. The Count de Nangis was enraged, and challenged me;—I wounded him in the arm. We fought again;—I wounded him in the thigh. He challenged me again; and I run him through the body; he was forced to be satisfied. All these duels took place in the county of Saluces, in Savoy,—then belonging to my family, and whither I had gone to attend to business-matters. I married Mlle. de Devonne, who was your noble and excellent mother,"—this was said to Henri, "I have told you this to explain the hatred which had existed so long a time in the heart of M. de Nangis, when we met at Naples, in 1792. The first months of my sojourn were sad and solitary. Too proud to inform any one of the nature of my sufferings, I lived retired; and, except a few countrymen as poor as I was, saw no one. This was easy enough; for I had brought no letter of recommendation to the eminent people of that capital, in which I made such a bad figure, and amid which I was isolated. This life made one of my habits and tastes suffer cruelly. A painful circumstance, however, mortified my self-love, and increased my humiliation,—the Count de Nangis then was 'the observed of all observers,' in Naples. More prudent or more fortunate than I, he saved large sums of money from the tempest which overwhelmed all the large fortunes of France. He had a number of servants, and in luxury and magnificence equalled the wealthiest persons of the city. Notwithstanding my anxiety to avoid him, I met him frequently, and I saw in his expression a kind of disdain and contempt which wounded me to the soul. One day, when I was more desperate than ever, I received a letter from France, and in it a check for fifty thousand livres, which the Countess of Grandmesnil had sent me. Intoxicated with joy, I hastened to get possession of this money, and careless of the future, forgot this would be the only sum I should receive for a long time, or perhaps would ever receive. I indulged in mad extravagance, took a carriage, and three days afterwards presented myself at various noble houses, where my rank and title procured me a ready reception. I saw M. de Nangis; we met in the same rooms, amid people of high rank, and there was no trace of our old differences. I fancied, though, that the Count exhibited a secret spite at my recovery of fortune, which he thought more stable than it really was. At this time people in Naples played high. The palace of Prince Leta was every night filled with rich strangers, and with the principal nobles of Naples. Over his tables, loaded with gold, they played all night long. I was taken to Prince Leta's, where a strange idea took possession of me. I fancied that I might, without danger or risk, increase my revenue, and probably triple the poor sum I had been fortunate to receive. I played, and my good fortune did not desert me; at first I won with the strangest good fortune. My daring increased, and I made some bold bets, which were successful; so that in the course of a few evenings I won three hundred thousand francs."

The eyes of the Marquis glittered with strange light, as he heard his father speak thus. The Prince did not seem to observe it, and continued—

"Chance led me into a room where the Count de Nangis also was—he too played. Remembering how my fortune had always seemed to surpass his, and all the victories I had won at his expense, I could not refrain from secretly pitying him for the fate which had again brought him into contact with me, and which led him again to contend with one who had uniformly triumphed over and beaten him in fortune, love, and war. We began to play—the Count betting high, and I following his example. The game was something between faro and lansquenet, now completely forgotten, having been replaced by écarté." The Prince saw his son tremble at the mention of the last game; for a few moments he paused, and then continued—

"The first games were unfortunate for me; I lost—I doubled the stakes, and lost again. At the conclusion of the evening my hundred thousand crowns were reduced to a hundred thousand francs. I returned home completely overpowered, but less stupefied at my own losses than at the success of my rival, who heretofore had been so unfortunate. On the next day I sent to M. de Nangis, before noon, the fifty thousand francs I owed him—on the previous evening I had on my person only fifty thousand francs with me. That night we met again at Prince Leta's. The game began—there were many spectators. I won ten thousand francs, and smiled confidently at the change of fortune. It soon, however, changed once more.—When the clock struck twelve I was ruined! 'On my honor!' said the Count, 'I have sought for ten years to contend with you, Prince. If gold could indemnify me for all the losses you have caused me, confess that, to-day, we are even.' My heart was ready to burst with rage, and I was ready to insult him. 'We will not stop here, I hope,' said M. de Nangis; 'and I wish to have more of your money; provided I have fifty thousand francs of yours, I ask nothing more of the god Plutus.'

"A terrible contest then took place in my mind. To confess that I had no more money—that I was ruined, seemed impossible; a miserable false pride prevented me. Should I, however, go on, and contract a debt which I could not discharge? 'Prince,' said the Count, pushing ten notes of a thousand francs towards me, 'ten thousand francs more I wish to lose, and something tells me that luck is about to turn.' The devil spoke to me through the mouth of man. 'On parole,' said I, 'for I have no money with me.' 'Pardieu, said the Count, 'people like ourselves never have more than fifty thousand francs in our pocket-books. Parole is our cash, and none but citizens and bankers, who are loaded with gold like mules in Guatemala, have any thing else. Your word is good for five hundred thousand francs, and I will take it for cash.' I felt an icy coldness run through my veins and stop at my very heart. I played again, and again I lost and won again. An hour afterwards I owed sixty thousand francs to the Count de Nangis. 'What is the matter?' said he ironically, 'are you ill.' 'The heat,' said I, rising, 'is excessive; and if you please we will stop here.' 'As you please,' said the Count; 'and to-morrow you shall have your revenge.' 'To-morrow, then, be it,' said I. My head was hot, yet a cold perspiration stood on my brow; my sight became troubled, my legs quailed, and I saw before me the terrible spectacle of dishonor. He at last had his enemy in his power, and was about to doom him to infamy. Two words seemed written before my eyes, and by their aspect terrified me. Those two words contained all I had to fear and apprehend—they were worse to me than death. These words were a contract of honor, a sacred article in even the gambler's code. These words had been pronounced by the Count as he pushed his money towards me: they were 'on parole.' I went to my hotel—for I had not yet left the modest room I had inhabited while a more comfortable suite was being prepared—and gave way to despair. 'My name disgraced!' cried I, 'the name of the Prince de Maulear, which has been pure and honored for so many centuries, made vile and disgraced by a miserable debt of sixty thousand francs, a sum once scarcely to be considered as a fraction of the revenues of my family!' There was no one by to aid me—no one to whom I could own my fault, my remorse, and my despair. Day came, and the horror of my situation increased as the fatal hour drew near. Unable to resist this frightful torment I said, 'No! I will not live dishonored; I will not bear a disgraced, shameful, and dishonored life.' I went to the table and wrote: 'I owe to the Count de Nangis the sum of 60,000 francs, for which I bequeath him all the profits ever likely to accrue to me from my property in France. Here, when I am about to die, I enjoin my son to discharge this debt of honor by every means in his power.' I then took my pistols, loaded and cocked them—now be bold for one moment, and spare yourself years of shame and disgrace!—I placed one of the pistols with the muzzle at my heart, and the other in my mouth. I was about to pull the trigger when I heard a noise. The partition which divided me from the next room was shattered, and through the opening thus made, I saw a man, pale and agitated. This person advanced towards we with a pocket-book in his hands. 'Stop,' said he, 'here is what you owe—this pocket-book contains sixty thousand livres.'"

XII.—THE GAMBLER.

The Prince de Maulear continued his story. Aminta timidly looked at her father-in-law with painful emotion, for she knew how he must suffer in making such a confession. The Marquis seemed to suffer under increasing discomfort and terror.

"At the sudden and almost supernatural apparition of this stranger, who thus rose before me, the weapons fell from my hands, and as I was unable to speak, I made use of my eyes to question him.

"'I was there,' said the man, pointing to the chamber whence he had burst so suddenly; 'I have not lost one of the words you have uttered since your return—I have watched every moment, the long and cruel agony of your soul. You have revealed yourself to me, your name, your family, your isolated hopes, and your isolation in this city. I have seen your despair hourly increase, until, but for me, you would have reached the climax. Monsieur,' continued he, with a tone full of religion and sensibility, 'make this day the happiest of my life by enabling me to save one of my fellows.'

"'One of your fellows, Monsieur? alas I am not such, for if I estimate you according to your actions, you are a man of honor and heart, while I....'

"'You,' said he, interrupting me, 'you are like what you think me, a man of honor and heart. The proof that such is the case is, that, unable to bear the consequences of a moment of weakness, you were about to die to avoid the consequences of that error. Monsieur de Maulear,' continued the stranger, and he took my hand with touching kindness, 'permit me to restore you to life and happiness, for you have a family perhaps, and children, and cannot abandon all thus. Listen to me,' said he, as he saw me refuse the pocket-book he offered me; 'I had a father who was one of the noblest and best of men. He died many months ago, and my tears tell you how I regret him. I know that he is in heaven and blesses me for what I do now, for thus he would have done. The money I offer you is a part of his fortune, and I am sure I appropriate it as he would wish me. To refuse this, Monsieur, would be to exhibit ingratitude to Providence, which has evidently watched over you, in permitting me to hear and induce you to pause.'

"'But,' said I, with deep emotion, 'you do not know me, and such a service....'

"'Have I not told you,' said he, 'that in your sorrow you told me all. Do not, however, think I wish to be useful without a condition. I exact one, and you will excuse me for making it the consideration of what I propose to do.'

"'What is it?' said I. 'You can exact any thing from man as the price of his honor.'

"'Well, swear to me that you will never play again.'

"'I do, I do!' said I. 'I pledge my faith not to.'

"'Take this pocket-book then,' said the stranger. It is now ten o'clock, and debts of honor should always be paid before noon.'

"'But your name, at least, I should know, Monsieur, before I take your gold.'

"'An insignificant one, which derives its only merit from the virtues of him who transmitted it to me. My name is Luigi Rovero.'"

"My father," said the Marquise, "my father, was it he who...."

She paused from a sentiment of respect and delicacy to the Prince.

"This, however, is not the only benefit he conferred on me. From the effects of the emotion I had undergone, a horrible illness seized me, and during this malady of long days and endless nights of suffering, my new friend never left me. A crisis ensued; for three days my life was in danger, and depended on the precision with which a certain remedy was administered to me. For three days and nights he watched me without one minute of repose, and he not only restored my honor but preserved my life. Rovero was a very brother to me, and I passed a whole year at Naples, living with him and never leaving him. A few months after I was able to discharge my pecuniary obligation to him—my debt of honor was beyond my capacity. Here is the portrait of the person who was so dear to me," said the Prince, and he took from his pocket a magnificent gold box on which was a miniature set with diamonds. "Look at it, my daughter," said he, "and observe the noble face yours so often recalls to me."

Aminta kissed the portrait, and Henri, then remembering the picture which Signora Rovero had shown him on his second visit to Sorrento, explained his surprise when he saw it, for he had often seen the box and the magnificent portrait.

"Plans, prejudices, pride, and family pride," said the Prince, "my child, disappeared, as you know, when I heard the words 'The daughter of Rovero.' Rovero was my savior and brother. From that moment I understood that in the far-away skies, he besought me to discharge my debt towards him, and to prove the extent of my gratitude. I understood that he would have bequeathed his daughter to me, to become my own; therefore, when I opened my arms you became my child, and since then my love for you has continually increased. When I took charge of your life, my daughter, I took charge of your happiness, which I thought secured for ever. For some time, though, you have shed tears in secret—do not tell me no," said the Prince, as he saw Aminta make a motion of negation. "I have studied you closely, and one cannot deceive a father's heart—I am your father. Monsieur," said the Prince, turning towards his son, "now you know why I love your wife. You see that her sorrows are mine, and that her tears melt my heart. For two months you have distressed and made her weep over your neglect and indifference, the fatal secret of which I know and intend to tell her."

Henri quivered with fear.

"Father, for pity's sake, do not...."

"Monsieur," said the Prince, "had you blushed earlier you would not do so now."

"My daughter," said he, pointing to the Marquise who bent before him; "your husband is not false to you, but he is a gamester."

"Then he has not deceived me," said the young woman. With an emotion she could not restrain, she rushed into the arms of the Marquis. For some moments the Prince looked at her with deep emotion, for Aminta forgave and pardoned all in one who had not betrayed her. Then the Prince continued sadly—

"Do not rejoice so soon, my child; gaming is the instigator of all vices, and has led him so far as to risk his honor without the means of redeeming his parole."

"Monsieur," said the Prince to his son, "I have told you a terrible story, to prove to what abasement the passion for gaming can reduce a man. That abasement you are in danger of."

"Father, if you knew the temptation."

"I do—for three days ago your mysterious life was revealed to me. In the circle to which you belong, in one of those societies formed to divide and interfere with domestic life—where persons go in search of a liberty and after a license they do not find at home—in that place, led astray by morbid self-esteem, you played for the first time. What, in a man of your rank, should have been a mere amusement, a fugitive pleasure, became a serious business. You played to win, or rather to repair your losses. In the saloons of Paris you were constantly at the écarté tables, that cursed game, the chances of which have ruined so many persons. Thanks to it, you won immense sums from young Lord Elmore, at the last ball of M. L——, which you lost again in the more doubtful house of Mme. Fanny de Bruneval, where you had an appointment."

"Ah, father! then he went to that woman's house to play?" said Aminta, almost involuntarily.

"What else should he go for to the house of a dowager of fifty, who receives all sorts of people, and where every thing is suspicious, from her guests to the very cards they use? This very night, in consequence of information received from me, that elegant abode will be examined by the police most scrupulously. That," said the Prince, "is one of the reasons why I have prevented my son from going thither. Now, Monsieur," said the Prince, "make an explanation of the state of your funds. You had six hundred thousand francs from your mother, you have expended two hundred thousand in furniture, horses, carriages, articles of luxury, and presents to your wife. With the expenditure of this money I have no fault to find, for you cannot estimate too highly the angel Heaven has sent you. Then you had four hundred thousand francs. You have realized this money, and during the last two months have lost the sum of three hundred and ninety thousand francs. This evening, Monsieur, you were about to tempt fortune with the ten thousand francs now in your possession. Is not this the exact state of your affairs?"

"Ah, Monsieur, it is cruel to say all this before the Marquise."

"It is a hundred times less cruel than the suspicion to which you abandon her. Did you not see just now that instead of reproaching the gamester who had ruined her, she experienced only a tender emotion for the husband she loved? Henri," continued the Prince, taking his son's hand in his own, "when I told you how once in my life I had erred, when I confessed to you a fault which yet makes my cheek blush, I sought to make you pause on the abyss into which you were near plunging. In telling you this secret I deprived myself of the right of severity to you. When, in a letter I wrote to you at Naples, I spoke lightly of a loss at cards I had undergone, I did not doubt that some day I would be obliged to tell you all that had taken place. I was wrong, however, in forbidding you to beware of what I had spoken of; for I should have known that there are passions, like other diseases, which a father transmits to his children. The body, like the soul, inherits them. I however pardon and forget all I have mentioned."

Henri clasped the old man's hand, and Aminta kissed the Prince.

"I will," said the latter, "only pardon you on the terms imposed on me by my generous friend Rovero. You will swear to me, on your honor, that you will never play again, and I will confide in you as he did in me."

"I do swear," said the Marquis, "and will die if I ever break my oath."

"Now listen to me, my children," said the Prince, kindly; "I have a hundred thousand francs a year—I will allow you fifty. A similar sum satisfies me. To protect you, however, from all temptations to extravagance, I give you the income and not the capital, and as a reward of my indulgence, as a recompense of my courage in making the confession of a great error of my life, make your wife happy, reward her by tenderness for the care you have subjected her to, for the uneasiness she has known, and my heart will be gratified for the bliss she will owe you, as something to discharge my debt to her father."

The Prince clasped his children to his heart and left. While this was occurring at the Hotel de Maulear, a storm overhung the hospitable roof of Mme. Fanny de Bruneval. This house had been correctly estimated by the Prince de Maulear, angry as he naturally was at the sums lost by his son in those saloons. Madame de Bruneval assumed the military title of widow of an ex-colonel of the Imperial Guard. There had really been such a colonel on the rôles of the grande armée. Such a soldier had not only had flesh and blood, but crosses and decorations. He had beaten, and well beaten, the Austrians, but had lost his horse at Leipsic, and been cut down by one of the black hussars of Brunswick. All this was real, positive, and printed in black and white. There was no doubt about it. It was doubtful, though, if the Colonel ever had a wife. The Moniteur mentioned the battles and the death—it said nothing of Madame. Colonel de Bruneval, once, during a time of peace—such times were rare with the Emperor—came to Paris with a lady about forty, blonde like a German, rosy and fresh as a German, and speaking French with a German accent. The Colonel introduced the lady to his brethren in arms as Madame la Colonelle, and no one asked any other questions. No one was ever bold enough to ask if the contract was perfectly regular; for the Colonel was six feet high, tall as a drum-major, and was not only a giant, but susceptible as possible, having a habit of translating logic and syllogisms into sword-cuts and sabre slashes. The widow of the Colonel, naturally enough, opened her house to her husband's brothers-in-arms after the fatal blow of the black Brunswicker. The house of Mme. Bruneval, in 1818, had become a Bonapartist club, at which the police squinted with unusual forbearance for a long time. We must, however, say, that the widow soon saw that the illustrious soldiers who frequented her house did not indemnify her by their conversation for her expenses. She therefore sought to make the presence of these heroes available, and mingled with them a few honest people who were fond of play, from whom the lights, like the altars of the god Plutus, received the tithe of the stakes. At the widow's the play was high, and all kinds of games were recognized. All, however, was fair and above board, and this kind of reputation attracted thither many persons who would not have met on a field of battle less orthodox. People in good society were met with there. People who, like the Marquis de Maulear, were unwilling to play in public, looked for excitement without regard to chance and society. There the famous match between the Marquis and Lord Elmore took place. Count Monte-Leone also went occasionally to Mme. Bruneval's, since he used to meet there many Carbonari and Bonapartists; for, as we have said, people of the most diverse opinions all united for one purpose, to destroy what was, and make their ideas triumph from the wreck of the general chaos.

On the evening of the lesson given by the Prince to the Marquis de Maulear, the Count presented Taddeo to Mme. de Bruneval, and while the play seemed animated in various parts of the room, the Carbonari talked in a neighboring room of a plan conceived by several wealthy Americans who were affiliated with the society, of a plan to bear off the Emperor Napoleon from his prison at St. Helena, and carry him to France. Important, however, as the subject was, the Count paid but little attention to it. He was then at one of the most painful crises of his life. In about an hour he would need all his courage and persuasion to combat and conquer one of the greatest obstacles man can meet with in his career—the will of an energetic and passionate woman. Not long before, Monte-Leone had received the following note:

"For fifteen days I have not seen you. I do not know why you avoid me. I had rather die than continue to live thus. I wish to hear my fate from your own lips. For eight days he will be away. Come—if you refuse me—if you are not with me when midnight comes, it will be the proof of an eternal adieu, and I will cease to live."

The Count waited with impatience for the period of this terrible interview. He knew the feeling which had inspired this note, how full of irrepressible indignation her mind was, and that it would shrink from no danger and no excess. He sought in vain to shake off Taddeo, but since the scene in Verneuil street, when the wretch set to watch Monte-Leone had been overheard by Rovero, the young man had been almost heart-broken. On this evening, though, he did not lose sight of Taddeo for an instant. The Count saw with terror that the time was drawing near, yet he could not leave the room. Taking advantage of a moment when Taddeo was not by, the Count was about to leave, when a noise was heard in the anteroom. The door was thrown open, and a man with a white scarf advanced amid the company. There was no possibility of mistake, for justice, herself, as the Prince de Maulear had told his son, had come into the gaming-house, disguised as a Commissary of Police. All who were present felt the greatest uneasiness—they were about to be arrested on the double charge of Carbonarism and forbidden play. Was it to the gamesters or to the Carbonari that the Commissary paid his visit? All were excited, though from different motives.

"Madame," said the Commissary, exhibiting his warrant to Madame Bruneval, who, like the commander of a besieged place, sought to parley with the enemy; "you are the widow of Colonel de Bruneval."

"I am, sir," said the German lady, whose color became greater than ever, "and cannot conceive why I should be thus insulted. I am not, I suppose, under the surveillance of the police."

"Excuse me, madame," said the Commissary, "your house has long been pointed out to us, as the rendezvous of many Buonapartists"—the Buonapartists became alarmed—"and," continued the Commissary, "as a place where forbidden games are played. For these reasons, we are about to make an examination in the premises and in relation to the persons here—until that is completed, none can leave this room."

The clock struck twelve. The sound made the Count grow pale, for it was the hour of the rendezvous. His situation was annoying, and a moment's delay might bring about a catastrophe. The note had said: "If you are not at my house by midnight, I shall be dead before one." The Count made up his mind, and with his habitual decision in all critical, embarrassing, or dangerous conjunctures, said that he must at all risks get out of the house and go whither he was expected, to save life—which every moment endangered. In such a state of affairs, ruse was the best course he could adopt—especially as that promised his immediate extrication. He was about to adopt a difficult course; he purposed to put out the lights, rush on the magistrate and his attendants, and then break through the doors. Before adopting this extreme course, the Count wished to know if he had many Carbonari around him. Glancing around the guests of Madame Bruneval, he placed his hand on his brow and made slowly the secret sign by means of which the Carbonari recognized each other. The Commissary had not removed his eyes from the Count, who he was well aware, though he did not know his name, was one of the principal persons of the assemblage. No sooner had Monte-Leone made the sign than, much to his surprise, he saw the Commissary acknowledge it. The Count then discovered that the magistrate was a Carbonari, and that there was one more brother than could have been expected in the room. This strange circumstance had its explanation in the statement of D'Harcourt at Doctor Matheus's: "We meet our brethren every where; in the city, in the courts, among the lawyers, and among the judges." The inquiry was brief and a mere matter of form. The Commissary did nothing. Monte-Leone was one of the first who received permission to leave. Followed by Taddeo, he rushed out. Rovero called on him to stop, but the Count paid no attention to his cries. The clock was about to strike one, and hurrying across the streets and squares of Louis XV., with the rapidity of an arrow, he did not pause until he had reached the Champs Elysées, where a little green door veiled by a hedge was opened to admit him.

XIII.—DESPAIR.

When the door opened, a woman appeared and said, "Follow me, Count, Madame is waiting for your excellency."

"What o'clock is it?" asked he, with great anxiety.

She answered, "A quarter after one."

"When did you leave your mistress?"

"At twelve. Madame bade me wait here for you."

"Lost!—dead! perhaps dead!" exclaimed the Count. He hurried down the alley directly to the hotel.

"Signore! Signore!" said the woman; "all the servants have not perhaps gone to bed, and if you be seen now in the garden of the Embassy, what will people say and think of Madame?"

"Take me directly to her," said the Count, "for her life is in danger."

"Her life!" said the woman, with terror. Then, as if struck with an idea, she added, "Wait, though, Madame bade me not come into her room until to-morrow, unless I brought your excellency with me."

"Come, come," said the Count, dragging the woman after him. Thus they went to the right wing of the building. A small door opened on a private stairway communicating with the rooms of the Duchess of Palma. The servant pointed out the door to the Count, and then preceded him. The stairway ended at a little hall on the first floor. There the Count stopped and the woman put a key in another door in the wall, through which the Count entered a waiting-room and passed into a boudoir, where the femme de chambre asked him to sit for a few moments while she informed the Duchess of his arrival. The Count was for some minutes alone in the boudoir, and at last heard a half stifled cry behind him. He looked around and saw the servant motionless and with terror impressed on every feature. She pointed to the Duchess's room with one hand, and lifted up the curtain of the door with the other. The Count entered the room where a terrible spectacle awaited him. The Duchess, pale as death, was extended on a sofa; by her side was a lamp almost burnt out, and the flickering light cast from time to time a pale lustre over this scene of sadness and death. The pulse and heart of La Felina were motionless. By her side was a flaçon of red liquor, which was spilled on the rosewood stand. The Count held the flaçon to his nose and lip, and recognized its contents to be laudanum, that bringer of calm or ruin, of sleep or death.

A feeling of deep sorrow took possession of him. The love and devotion of that woman appeared to him in their proper light—limitless and vast. Remorse lacerated his heart; for he charged himself with being the cause of the terrible crime she had committed. Again the Count approached the Duchess, and somewhat calmer than he had first been, perceived a faint palpitation. He placed a mirror near Felina's lips, and a thin mist overcast it. "She lives!" said Monte-Leone; "a lethargic sleep has plunged her in this apparent death. Thank heaven, from having taken too small a dose, the opium has acted as a narcotic—not as a poison. She must be roused from this dangerous state. Listen," said he to the servant, "I have a friend who will save your mistress without noise or scandal. He is a physician, as skilful as he is prudent. Send him this, at once," said he, writing hastily a few lines on a fragment of paper he took from the Duchess's desk. "Order the carriage at once, say that your mistress is ill and a physician indispensable. Suffer no one to enter this room but the person for whom I have written, and I will answer for the consequences. Here, this note is for Doctor Matheus, No. 7 rue de Babylonne—hurry."

When Monte-Leone was alone with the Duchess, he sought to arouse her from the sleep which oppressed her, by making her inhale the perfumes of several flaçons which he found near. This was, however, in vain, and he soon abandoned it. "Poor woman," said he, sitting by and looking at her with compassion; "this is then the end of her life and love: to what misery has she been led by passion, while mine was not more lasting than the perfume of a rose." As he abandoned himself to these cruel thoughts, the eyes of the Count fell on a letter, which she had with her expiring strength attempted to throw into the fire. It had, however, fallen on the hearth and was but partially burned. The Count took hold of it with the intention of destroying it, lest it might contain some secret compromising the Duchess. Just, however, as he was about to destroy it, he fancied that he saw his own name, and unable to resist his curiosity, he glanced rapidly over it. The following detached phrases had been spared by the fire:

"You gave me bread when I was famishing,
and apparel when I had none....

"The consequence of....

"body and soul....

"But I feel your....

"is mine....

"belongs to you....

"This Monte-Leone deserves to be....

"offends you....

"live for you....

"or if I....

"It will be for me...."

"What is the meaning of this, said the Count, and what does she meditate? Has the Duchess a confidant? Can this man be my enemy? How have I injured him?"

The servant entered, and the Count placed the letter in his bosom. A half hour passed in anxious expectation of Matheus. The wheels of a carriage were heard in the courtyard and aroused the Count from his thoughts. The servant went to meet the Doctor and soon after introduced Frederick von Apsberg into the room.

"Look there," said the Count, pointing to La Felina.

The doctor drew near and examined her.

"Suicide and laudanum," said he. He felt the pulse. "Just in time—luckily you told me what was the matter, and I have brought some active and powerful antidotes. In a quarter of an hour cerebral congestion would have ensued, and death." He poured out a few drops of a liquid he had brought in a glass spoon, and forced it between the convulsive teeth of the Duchess. Three minutes afterwards she heaved a deep sigh. "Now I will answer for her recovery," said Von Apsberg. The Duchess opened her eyes soon after and glanced around her. She was, though, unable to distinguish any thing, so haggard and fixed had they become. The Count stood aside. For a few moments through the vast room nothing was heard but the feeble panting and anxious breathing of the invalid, which, however, gradually grew more regular and natural.

"Madame," said the doctor, giving the Duchess a glass of water, into which he had poured a few drops of the liquid he had brought with him, "do you wish to live?"

"No," said the Duchess.

"Then do not take this antidote, for the poison is yet in your system and this alone can neutralize it."

Just then Monte-Leone advanced towards La Felina.

"He here!" murmured she.

"Live," said the Count, "live, I beg you."

Without replying, the Duchess looked towards the doctor as if she were about to ask him for the elixir. She drained the glass.

"Now," said Von Apsberg, "madame must be calm and silent; least of all must she indulge in any emotion," added he, looking at Monte-Leone, "or the medicine will be powerless."

"Who are you?" said the Duchess.

"A friend, a brother of mine, to whose heart I confide all the secrets of my life."

La Felina glanced a few moments at the doctor, and said, "I remember."

"Certainly, the Duchess has not forgot the Pulcinella at the Eutruscan house. She has not forgotten the dreamy German lad whom she once lectured so sternly, but who never was offended with her. The lecture did him a great service, for the joyous Pulcinella, changing his humor and dress, has now become a grave doctor who never jests, and insists that his prescriptions be literally followed. To add example to precept, I will remain in this room and watch over the prophetess of San Carlo, and if I do not leave her cured and reasonable," said he, whispering in the Duchess's ear, "for I am a physician of the mind as well as body, I will at least do her some good. All my brothers of the medical profession cannot say as much."

He then handed the Count his hat and pointed to the door.

"To-morrow evening, at nine," said the Count, "I will call on you." An expression of joy hung on La Felina's lips, and she nodded in acknowledgment.

Monte-Leone placed his lips on the yet icy hand of the ambassadress, and then approached Von Apsberg, to whom he said in a low tone, "You swear that you will save her."

"I do," said Matheus.

The Count went to the door, not the one the doctor had pointed out, but to the secret one through which he had come, and a few minutes after was alone in the Champs Elysées, doubtful whether all that had passed was not a dream. The letter which he had found, and which rattled in his bosom, with its mysterious broken phrases, its shreds of threats and vengeance, sufficed to recall to his mind the reality of the scene which he had been both an actor and participator in. According to his promise, on the day after this series of alarms and torments, Monte-Leone went to the hotel of the Neapolitan minister just as the bell of Saint Philippe de Roule rang for nine. The Count on this occasion came us an ordinary visitor to the principal door.

"The Duchess," said the usher, "made an exception of Count Monte-Leone alone, in orders she gave that no one should be admitted. Madame had last night a nervous attack from which she yet suffers. She, however, expects your excellency."

The Count went into the reception room, and soon after was introduced into the Duchess's boudoir. He found Madame de Palma lying on a divan, and her countenance yet showed traces of her sufferings. Monte-Leone was touched.

The Duchess gave him her hand and bade him be seated. She said, "You see almost a spectre or ghost escaped from the grave. Do not, however, be afraid, the ghost will not rise before you animated by wrath and anger. Did it wish to do so, it is now too feeble." The Duchess used her salts, as if she would regain that strength which seemed rapidly leaving her.

"Felina," said the Count, gently and sadly, "did you wish to die?"

"What now is life to me?" said she, "I meet with only contempt and desertion from him for whom I forgot my gratitude and duty. Be frank with me, do not fear my despair; but this doubt is too cruel. Tell me that you do not love me, let me learn it from your mouth, not from your indifference."

The Count wished to speak.

"Ah! you do not know," continued she, and with her hand she bade him listen, "what those long hours of expectation are, when every noise seems to announce the coming of the person you love—when the hope having been twenty times deceived, the ear rather than the heart listens with the anxiety of death to the sound of every carriage which passes by, but does not stop at your door—to the bell which announces another visitor than the one who is expected. You do not know the torment of those wretched evenings when alone, with no companion but sorrow—you see ever before you your devotion to the one man all the time staring you in the face, him attracted elsewhere by other charms. The soul that suffers thus, by some instinctive powers, sees him approach every rival, become intoxicated by her glance, listen to her voice, take her hand stealthily, live in her life, while she dies a thousand times an hour—a thousand deaths as often as despair passes a picture before her. Do you see, Count, how horrible all this is? This is murderous, though time must elapse before the deadly poison takes effect on the heart. In such cases one who does not die rapidly is mad. Yesterday I had in my power the means of avoiding such tortures."

Completely exhausted, the Duchess fell back on the cushion. The eyes of the Count glistened with tears, and he knelt before the poor woman who had suffered so much for him.

"Felina," said he, "until to-day I thought courage consisted in braving danger, and even death: I now know that I have only to unveil my heart to you to prove that my daring did not need that I should contend with the ocean, be immured in a dungeon, and bare my neck to the axe. I will have that courage, for to me it is a duty, and I will not shrink from it. When I met you on the Lago di Como—when sad at the fact that I had been deserted by men who did not know me, by the woman I adored, I saw your immense tenderness unfolded to me, when you uttered those passionate words which my heart had no power then of understanding, I fancied that I had forgotten the past in the charms of a present full of love and intoxicating passion. I told you all I felt, and was sincere and happy. I remembered what you had done for me, and I fancied I had found the angel of my existence in you. Alas! a few months after, the bandage was torn from my brow, and, excuse me, but all I thought dead in my soul became more animated than ever. I saw my tenderness was the offspring of friendship, that my love changed into deep affection, which, however, was not of the kind you expected from me. With terror and despair I discovered that I was ungrateful to you. Twenty times I was on the point of making this painful confession, yet as many times I felt my strength fail. Now, though, when you have wished to die for the unworthy man for whom you would have made such a sacrifice, when you have appealed to my honor, I must speak to you, and avow to you my true sentiments, which it would be improper for me any longer to conceal from you."

While the Count was speaking, the Duchess lay half asleep on the divan, with her eyes closed, and her hand on her heart, the pulsations of which she tried to restrain. One might have thought she slept, but for her short respiration, and the heaving of her breast, which indicated great feverish agitation. She remained in this motionless state a few seconds after Monte-Leone had ceased. She then slowly opened her eyelids, and resting her head on her hand, as if her marble shoulders would not suffice to sustain it, looked at the Count with those eyes whence emanated the burning glance of delirium. A single look—a single glance was cast on the Count; this glance, however, was instinct with a terrible thought, and she became at once chill and cold.

"I thank you for your frankness," said she to the Count, giving him her hand. "Perhaps I would have thanked you had you suffered me to die without telling me what you have heard. You, however, wished me to live, and I can understand why, for my death would have poisoned all your existence. I will live, then, but for you alone." The same glance she had thrown on the Count appeared again, but immediately died away. "Yet," continued she, "listen to me. I cannot consent to lose you—I can consent to be your friend, but will not think you another's."

"Felina," said the Count, "I understand you. On my life and soul, I swear I will never speak of love to her of whom you think. Her ties and virtues I will respect, her honor will relieve your apprehensions, and I know what this honor imposes on me."

"I have faith in you," said Felina; "understand me, though, and do not require what I cannot give. Do not add to my grief, the vengeance and excess of which you cannot calculate."

"Threats!" said the Count, bitterly. He was about to speak to the Duchess of the fragments of the letter, but was prevented by a secret presentiment.

"No," said Felina, "not threats. Such are not intended for friends, and to me you are a friend."

The Count took her hand. It was cold as death.

"Come to see me often," said she; "invalids need a physician; and skilful as the one you brought last night may be, your visits will exert a better effect—you will enable me to contend with myself. Then, too," said she, growing pale, "I will see you.... Now leave me, for I am feeble. Since you wish me to live, I must not exhaust the rest of my life ... I will try to sleep; but I will not sleep as long as I expected to last night." Then, as if she was completely exhausted by such a variety of shocks, she bade the Count adieu.

Monte-Leone left her. Just as he was about to cross the peristyle, he saw the shadow of a man gliding into the hotel through the half open door. The face of this man was suddenly lighted up by one of the reflectors of the palace, and Monte-Leone remembered features yet present to his memory. They were the features of Stenio Salvatori of Torre del Greco.

XIV.—THE MAGNETIZER.

The lecture the Prince had given to his son seemed to have done him good. For two months the family of the Prince de Maulear had been calm and happy. Aminta, in the care, attention, and watchfulness of her husband, enjoyed again all the emotions of her early marriage days. Her letters to her mother were filled with hope far different than that expressed in the one we have read. Henri constantly avoided every thing which could possibly awaken the sad passion which chance, temptation, and the weakness of his character had led him into. He never approached the card-table, and paid no attention to the challenges of his old adversaries. He began to learn whist and other games of combination, calculation, and science, which leave the head cold and the reason sound, and at which no one ever pretended to bet a thousand francs a trick, as was subsequently done in 1846, at the house of Count A. —— and that of M. de R——, Minister of D. People then played whist for whist's sake, not to become rich or bankrupt.

An unexpected event disturbed the quiet life of the inmates of the Hotel-Maulear. Aminta received a letter from her mother, in which Signora Rovero announced to her daughter a piece of intelligence, which for her children's sake delighted, while for her own sake it distressed her. The Roman Cardinal, Filippo Justiniani, her brother, of whom we spoke in one of the first chapters of this book, had died, leaving his fortune to his nephew and niece. This fortune was more than a million. Signora Rovero, therefore, wished her son-in-law, the Marquis de Maulear, and Taddeo, to come at once to Rome, to receive this inheritance; the one in the name of his wife, and the other for himself.

This letter produced very different effects in the family of the Prince de Maulear. Instead of rejoicing at a fortune which was to be purchased by the absence of her husband, the young marquise was rather grieved than pleased at it. The revenue the Prince had appropriated to his children was sufficient to make their career quite brilliant. This increase of fortune, therefore, had little value in Aminta's eyes; but a separation, though but temporary, from Henri might endanger, in one so volatile as the Marquis was, the influence she had acquired over him. She apprehended this, and fear, in a heart impassionable as his was, could not but be the source of uneasiness and torment. The idea of accompanying the Marquis often suggested itself to her, but it was then the depth of winter, and her health, naturally delicate, had been so recently shaken by the troubles she had experienced, that she could not, at such a time, venture on such an excursion. The Prince de Maulear did not see his son leave him without dissatisfaction. He did not think him completely cured of the moral malady he had undertaken to cure, but watched over him paternally and kindly. The Marquis, though he sincerely regretted that he must be separated from his charming wife, whom he now loved better than ever, did not conceal the pleasure which such a trip caused him. He did not deny that the kind of atony to which his monotonous life subjected him, made it necessary that he should be somewhat galvanised by the excitement of travel.

Taddeo, too, had been more kindly received by the Duchess since the scene which had taken place between Monte-Leone and her. He was distressed at the absence which removed him from that woman whose influence over his heart nothing could overcome.

All these feelings, however, resulted in the same circumstance—the prompt departure of the two heirs from the eternal city. When they left, Aminta felt a deep distress, and the Prince de Maulear a sombre presentiment.

Fifteen days afterwards, a letter, dated at Rome, informed the young Marquise of the arrival of her husband and brother at the capital of the Christian world. This letter informed them also that there were difficulties in the way of obtaining possession of the estate of Cardinal Justiniani, from the fact that his eminence had made various bequests to convents, churches, and religious foundations, in relation to which it was necessary for the Holy Father himself to make a decision, which would much retard the final arrangement of their business.

Aminta felt that her sadness was doubled at this news, and the feeling grew more poignant from the fact that her husband's letters became every day more rare and more cold. Aware of the devotion of the Prince de Maulear to her, and knowing how uneasy the old man was about his son, the young woman did all she could to conceal her anxiety from her father-in-law, and by means of a thousand pretexts kept from his sight the often icy letters written by her husband. When the Prince questioned her about what he wrote from Rome, he received an evasive reply. "Well, well," he would say, "one should not inquire into them. Fathers have nothing to say about them; and provided, my child, that you are happy, I will ask nothing more." Thus two months rolled by. The young Marquise waited anxiously every day for the coming of the post, and the hours rolled by only to deceive her. Deep mortification soon replaced regret. Surrounded by the homage of a society which adored her, Aminta saw herself deserted by the man to whom she was bound for life, and the humiliation of this indifference almost overpowered the agony she felt. The fact was, that having already been sacrificed to the miserable passion for play, she now fancied she was postponed to the pleasure of travel, and her firm character, softened by the happiness in which the early days of her marriage had been passed, began now to assume the firmness of womanhood, with all the characteristics of the Italian nature. Such was the condition of Aminta's mind when she received the visit of the Count Monte-Leone. When he came she was alone. They were both annoyed by this novel position, and for a time their conversation was commonplace. But soon the memory of the past began to assert its influence over them. The Count spoke of Naples as Neapolitans only can. He infused into his conversation the passionate energy which ever exists in their souls in relation to that climate, so highly favored by heaven. Aminta, to whom the cold climate of France had not been that of her love, surrendered her whole soul to the happiness awakened by those smiling ideas. The Count recalled to her Sorrento and its perfumed hills, its azure sea and brilliant sky. He then recalled to her the villa where he had been so nobly welcomed, where days flitted by like hours, where the silence of a calm and beautiful nature were only interrupted by the breeze and the waves, which died away among myrtle and orange-groves, or by the songs of birds in the luxuriant thickets. Aminta listened to him with increasing trouble, for his voice had never seemed so penetrating and mild. Astonishment took possession of her when she thought that the mind of this man, so sensible to the charms of nature, so aware of the simple beauties of Italian scenery, was the energetic and powerful soul which braved death without weakness, and defied the executioner without fear. The Count thus led, contrary to his own wishes, into the dangerous retrospect of the past, felt his reason give way, as he found himself in the presence of one whose very appearance agitated his reason, because she recalled that country where the gayest and happiest hours of his life had passed.

Aminta, anxious to triumph over the involuntary emotion which took possession of her, diverted the Count from all the seductions of his memory and love by asking if Taddeo was a better friend than brother, and if letters were as great rarities to him as to herself. The Count replied that Taddeo wrote often. He then, with an effort, shook off his delicious dream, and sadly returned to real life. "The Marquis and he," said Monte-Leone, "are yet at Rome, as M. de Maulear must have told you. Rome has never been gayer than it now is. Festivals and entertainments are numerous, and the richest strangers of Europe are now there; while balls and cards are all the rage."

At the last phrase Aminta grew pale. The Count observed this, and attributing its cause to some illness, rose to go away. The Marquise, though, said with a vivacity which surprised him, "And does the Holy father authorize play in his states?"

"He does not authorize but tolerates it. This is sufficient for a bank kept by a rich society of capitalists, to realize millions by this passion, and to produce many disasters and calamities."

The Marquise felt her heart grow chill, and as she began to grow sick she dismissed the Count.

"Will the Marquise permit me to call on her again?"

"Yes, Count; and if you receive any news from Rome—from the Marquis and my brother, tell me of it, I beg you." The Count left, more in love than ever; and Aminta remained alone, unhappy, agitated, and a prey to instinctive and wretched thoughts.

It now becomes our duty to conduct the reader to a magnificent hotel in the Faubourg St. Germain, and make him a spectator of a scene which occurred a few days after the conversation we have spoken of. We wish to introduce him to the beautiful girl of whom Dr. Matheus caught a glimpse from the windows of the laboratory. This girl was no longer the most brilliant rose of the parterre. Seated in a large arm-chair, near a window of the saloon, which looked out upon the garden, her pale complexion, and the hectic flush of her cheek, her red lips, and the dark ring about the eyes, indicated general indisposition. An old man sat near her, with one of her hands in his; while, with his eyes fixed on her, he seemed with despair to read the expression of intense suffering. The old man was the Duke d'Harcourt, and the invalid, his daughter Marie.

"Ah, papa! this is nothing but a horrid migraine to which I have long been subject. The pain in the chest which accompanies it, you know, never lasts long, and is almost always cured by the very presence of the kind doctor, whom we might almost fancy to be a sorcerer."

"The means he employs, my child, and which he has communicated to me, is not sorcery, but a science, scarcely known as yet, and the source of much dispute. I confess I had no great faith in it until experience had revealed to me its power and reality."

"And have you faith, papa, in the power of the doctor?" asked the young girl, with a singular accent.

"I believe, my child, in what I see. He benefits you, and therefore dissipates all my hesitation. Magnetism is not new; Mesmer, the able Foria, and afterwards many serious and learned men have inquired into it, and discovered undeniable virtues. Unfortunately, imposture and charlatanism soon took possession of it, and, therefore, it has been overburdened with ridicule and contempt. If it be a truth, as all I have seen induces me to think; if in the employment of this fluid there be means to assist nature, a studious man, who has any charity towards his fellows, should study before he decides on it, and reject nothing novel, as it may be, until he has proven it to be false or impotent."

"Here is the doctor!" said the Vicomte d'Harcourt, quickly opening the door, and introducing Von Apsberg.—"I have taken him from a grave consultation to see my sister." Hurrying to his sister, the Vicomte kissed her. Marie blushed; was not this blush caused, perhaps, by the coming of the doctor?—Was it caused by René's kiss? The heart alone can tell; and young women's hearts do not answer such questions very readily.

"Marie yet suffers," said the Duke to the false Matheus. "With you though, doctor, hope and health always return. For that reason we are unwilling you should ever leave us." It was now the doctor's turn to blush.

"You certainly," said he, "estimate my influence over the disease to be in proportion to my wish to soothe it. If such were really the case, you might be of good cheer, for my wishes are limitless."

"There is a doctor for you, modest, talented, and one who uses no drugs and none of the remedies of the old medicine," said the Vicomte; "pantomime with him is every thing, as with the ballet-doctors of the opera. A few signs and gestures and away goes the disease, like the devil when holy water is brought him."

Von Apsberg said with a smile, "such an eulogium as the Vicomte's would, a few centuries ago, have sent me to the stake. Fortunately there is now no danger of that, for there is no longer any faith in magicians. Rightly enough, too, for if not so, there would be no glory and advantage in wisdom. Savans are fond of their privileges. For my own part, though no philosopher, I do not deal in magic, though from study I have learned that there are secret agents in nature too much neglected even now, though much good has resulted and the most marvellous effects have been produced from them. Of these agents, the magnetic fluid is the surest, the most active and powerful. Like all other imponderable fluids, it is invisible, passing through space perhaps with the rapidity of light, though unlike the latter, its passage is not interrupted by the opposition of opaque bodies, which it penetrates as caloric does.[F] I do not pretend, Duke," continued Von Apsberg, "to teach you the theory of magnetism, but at all risks to justify your confidence in me, which now induces you to confide so precious a trust to me. As an honest man I think I am not deceived in the hope I expressed at my first visit, that your daughter, from my system of action, will acquire that vital force which will enable her to overcome her natural weakness, and thus reach the period of life when, age coming to aid nature, she will acquire a degree of health which will bid defiance to all the accidents of youth and assure her a healthy life in future. I call God to witness that I act with a heartfelt conviction and religious sincerity. I will, though, swear, that if in a short time I see no evidence of the efficacy of my remedy, I will inform you of the fact without delay."

"I am sure, sir, you will. I confide in your honor as I do in your skill."

"Father," said the Vicomte, "you are right to do so. The doctor is a brother to me, and looks on Marie almost as a sister."

Both the doctor and Marie now blushed. No one though remarked it, for just then the Prince and Marquise de Maulear were announced. The Duke said:

"They are friends and need not disturb you."

Aminta loved Marie d'Harcourt. These two beautiful women had conceived a deep affection for each other. Aminta, though, who was a few years older than Marie, and had a right to more gravity, as a married woman, matronized the young girl, and it was rather an amusing picture to see a mother twenty years old, chaperoning a daughter of seventeen and explaining the peculiarities of a life they were equally ignorant of.

"Prince," said the Duke, "Doctor Matheus is a famous magnetist, who has been serviceable to Marie already, and when you came in was about to subject her again to the influence of the fluid."

"Parbleu!" said the Prince, "I would be glad to witness the experiment. I am myself something of an adept, having known the Abbé Foria in my youth. People used to laugh at him, but the court and the people were present at his curious exhibitions. I, too, was magnetized, drank magnetic water, and passed whole hours on the magnetic chair surrounded by iron rings; all this was to cure me of a sciatica, which, nevertheless, he did not do at all. He asserted that I had no faith, and that I arrayed myself against the power of the fluid. I, however, only ask to believe, and if the doctor can convert me, I am willing."

Without answering the Prince, Von Apsberg approached Marie d'Harcourt. Aminta sat by the patient. The doctor looked at the young girl. Seated a few feet from her, he placed his hands in front of Marie's brow, and then lowering them slowly, made some magnetic passes, seeming to direct his action to the gastric regions where she suffered most. Marie did not seem at all affected by the operation.

While Matheus was doing thus the Marquise, who sat in front of the doctor, felt her brow grow heavy, her eyes close, and a deep stupefaction take possession of her. She soon felt that sleep was overpowering her, and after a few attempts to resist it, her head sunk on her bosom, and leaning back in her chair, she was completely overpowered.

"My daughter is sick," said the Prince, hurrying to Aminta.

"No, sir," said the physician coldly, "she only sleeps."

"She sleeps," said all who witnessed the scene, and who were evidently surprised.

THE SOMNAMBULIST.

"She sleeps!" said Matheus, pointing to Aminta, "and to fall so suddenly into that state when I did not intend it, shows her to be very impressionable and nervous."

"The Prince," said the Marquis, "has often told me she is a somnambulist."

"I am no longer amazed," said Von Apsberg, "at the spontaneity of her sleep."

"Is it true," said the Prince, "that somnambulists have the power of being able to see what is taking place in remote spots—that they can transport themselves to remote places and accompany the persons who are pointed out to them?"

"All these phenomena are real," replied the doctor, "but they demand the most perfect lucidity in the person magnetized."

"And can," asked the Duke, "such experiments be made without inconvenience or danger to the subjects?"

"Certainly."

"Pardieu," said the Prince, "I would like the doctor to question my daughter."

"About what?" said Matheus.

"Something interesting to us all. For a month we have had no news from my son, and are becoming uneasy about him."

"And do you wish," said the doctor, "to know what the Marquis de Maulear is engaged in now?"

"Exactly," said the Prince.

"Stop," said René, "I object. There is no reason why a wife should know what her husband is about when he is three hundred leagues away. The devil! That is dangerous, and the Marquise might some day regret it."

"Now you see," said Marie, with her soft voice, "it would be dangerous for her—she would not like it."

"I do not fear that," said the Vicomte, "but I vow there would be no marriages possible, if women had the faculty of knowing at any hour, and in any place, what their husbands are about."

"Ah!" said the Prince, "I have a better opinion of my son than the Vicomte has of his friend, and I hope the doctor will send my daughter-in-law on a visit to Rome."

During the whole of this time Aminta continued asleep, but so soundly, that her bosom scarcely heaved, and her breath escaped almost insensibly from her lips.

"But," said the doctor, "it is, in the first place, necessary that I should establish a communication between the Marquise and myself. I must be able to place in her hands, to enable her to touch, something which belonged to the Marquis de Maulear. The best thing is a lock of the Marquis's hair."

"Nothing in the world is easier; my daughter-in-law always wears a bracelet of the Marquis's hair."

"On which arm?" asked the doctor.

"On the left," said M. de Maulear. "If Mademoiselle Marie be pleased to take it off we will place it as the doctor wishes in the hands of the somnambulist."

"But are you sure," said Marie to Von Apsberg, "are you sure she will not suffer?"

"I am, Mademoiselle, I would not have her suffer either for your sake or for her own."

Marie arose from her chair and walked painfully towards the Marquise, who, having bared Aminta's arm a little above the wrist, found there a bracelet of the Marquis's hair. When she was about to touch it she said to the doctor, "I shall awake her."

"Do not be afraid of that, you will not."

Slight, however, as the motion was, to which the sleeper's arm had been subjected, the Marquise half arose from her chair and made an effort to open her eyes. Von Apsberg extended his arm towards the Marquise's brow, and she again sank into as deep a sleep as before. The bracelet was given by Marie to the doctor, who placed it in Aminta's hand.

"Now," said he, "we will begin." Silence was at once established, and all was solemn and almost terrible; for it seemed that something was in preparation of the most terrible character, and that the room was becoming filled with all those invisible phantoms we know as terror, fate, and misfortune, and which on their leaden wings seem to soar above mortality. The strongest and best organized minds of our kind have, in the silent places of their hearts, something of superstition, which develop themselves in certain conditions of the corporeal and mental organization. Without pretending to considerations of a very serious kind, the guests of the Duke d'Harcourt experienced a kind of mute terror, which in this world always precedes misfortune.

The strange power which the doctor used was also well calculated to impress those who contemplated this scene. The doctor took Aminta's hand in his and said most respectfully:[G]

"Does the Marquise understand me?"

"Yes!" said she.

"Will you answer my questions?"

"Yes!"

"Do you read in my heart any malevolence or hostility to you?"

"No!"

"You then have confidence in me?"

"Yes!"

"Are you sure that in questioning you, as I am about to, I have no other object but to relieve you of uneasiness in relation to the Marquis?"

"I am sure that is the case."

"Well," said the Doctor, placing his thumbs on Aminta's forehead, "I wish you to go at once to Rome, to Italy."

"It is far away," said the Marquise, feebly.

"I wish you to," said Matheus, imperiously.

"Well, well," said the sleeper, with a smile, "there is no reason why you should be angry."

She was silent. All the spectators, with their eyes fixed and their necks extended, seemed to watch with anxiety every scene of this whimsical drama. Their souls seemed hung on their lips.

"Ah! my God!" said the Marquise, with agitation, "what a journey—how cold it is amid these mountains."

"She crosses the Alps," said the doctor.

The Marquise coughed.

"You see," said Marie, "she will take cold." The young girl wrapped the shawl around her friend.

"This cold will not be dangerous," said the Vicomte, gayly.

"Silence!" said Matheus.

"Ah!" said the somnambulist, "what a magnificent country! What a sun! This then is Rome," said she, with enthusiasm, "the city of the Cæsars—the eternal city—the city of God!"

She bowed herself respectfully.

"True," said Matheus, "and now you must find him you love; you must look for your husband amid this vast city."

"No, no!" said the Marquise.

"Why not?"

"I shall lose myself amid these long streets; besides I am afraid of these men in masks."

"Do not fear. I wish you to see the Marquis at once."

The Marquise clasped the bracelet of her husband's hair convulsively, and then uttering a cry of joy, said:

"It is he—Henri, Henri, I see him."

She extended her arms as if to embrace him. The flush which had covered her face was soon succeeded by a mortal pallor.

"What is the matter?" asked the doctor.

"Oh God!" said she, "he does not see me. He passes by without looking at me. Whither does he go? Why is he so sad? Why is his hair so disordered? Why? why?"

The tone in which these words were uttered were so deeply sorrowful, that the doctor reached forward his hand and said to the Prince: "Must I awaken the Marquise?" Before the Prince could reply, Aminta stood erect and said, "No! I will go with him. Henri, Henri! for pity's sake do not. I never will forgive you! Henri, you would not commit perjury? My God!" said she, clasping her hands, "he will go thither! Fatal, terrible passion!"

She then shed tears, and fell back into the arms of Marie, who sustained her.

"Enough, doctor, enough!" said Marie, "I beseech you. She suffers, you see. She shall not do so. I will not consent to."

The doctor took the young woman's hand, and prepared to arouse her from this condition and to restore her to real life. Just then the Prince de Maulear, with intense agony on his face, rushed towards his daughter-in-law, repelling Matheus.

"Will the health and happiness of the Marquise be endangered," said he, "if she continue longer in this condition?"

"Her heart alone will suffer, Monsieur," said the doctor, "neither her health nor her life is in danger."

"Go on, then, Monsieur," said the Prince, coldly, "for we speak of my son. On what the Marquise has said depends the repose of my life, her happiness, and the honor of my family."

"But," said Matheus, "my honor forbids me to follow up the excitement any longer. Know that the true apostles of the science I now practise before you, make it a rigid law never to make use of such phenomena as you have seen, to penetrate hidden secrets, or to read by force the consciences of those whom they submit to the exercise of their will."

"Monsieur," said the Prince, "we have around us here only honest hearts, which are also friendly. I, therefore, do not at all fear to initiate them into my family secrets. Besides this, vain curiosity exerts no influence over me, but a nobler thought, the possibility, perhaps, of preventing cruel misfortunes which I now apprehend, and which I would anticipate."

"See!" said the doctor to the Marquise. "I wish you to——"

"No, no!" said the somnambulist. "I have seen enough. Do not force me to follow out his wanderings—he has forgotten me—his father—his honor—his oath—himself!"

"See!" said the doctor, replacing his hand over the Marquise's eyes, "I wish it."

"Henri! Henri!" exclaimed she, "will nothing then restrain you?"

"What is he about, then?" said the doctor.

"See, see! he sits in front of a table covered with money. The wheel turns. The people who look after it do so with haggard eyes. How pale and withered they are! See how he throws the money on the table. Poor Henri—how he suffers! His brow is frozen. How horribly pale he is! He beats his breast. See that pale and pitiless man sweeping away all the money! Ah!" said she, "he quivers—he seems about to faint—no, he takes out his pocket-book, and throws other notes on the table. The wheel turns again. My God, have pity on him! Lost, lost again! He endures torments worse than death. Henri! for mercy's sake, stop—remember your wife—your Aminta—"

Her sobs increased, and inarticulate sounds burst from her chest. The Prince listened with increasing agitation to the heart-rending words of Aminta. His eyes wandered, troubled and uncertain, between the Marquise and the doctor. His eyes became cold, his cheeks livid, and from time to time the noble and venerable old man seemed to bend beneath another half century. All the others, sad and terrified, seemed fascinated by this terrible drama.

"He has in his hand his last notes," said Aminta—"he places them before him. Silence! hark, there is a confused noise. The wheel again makes its odious circle. It stops—Henri advances to take them. No, no, they are not his. The man seizes them, and takes possession of this. What does he say?" continued she, with attention—"ruined! ruined! he says. Well, what matter? it is only gold—only gold that he has lost. Dear Henri," said she, in a beseeching air, as if she knelt before him—"husband, what is the value of your money, if you love me? Listen to me. Do not weep, for your tears will kill me. Come to me—I forgive you. I will not reproach you, and you will not leave me again—never, never, never. He repels and avoids me. Whither does he go? What a desert! what an isolated street! How dark it is!—let us follow him, and not desert him. What do I see at the end of this street?" She looked through her hands, as if to enable her to see further. "What long black cloth is that? What pall is that? Henri does not walk—but I cannot follow him," said she, in a heart-rending voice. "Listen to me, Henri, I am suffering—I have walked so far and am so overcome. I do not see him—he is gone! he draws near the pall. My God! is there not a mourning-cloth painted on the horizon? It is water—a river—he rushes toward it—let us reach him—I cannot! Ah! here he is. I am with him now. What does he want. He calls me—he pronounces my name. Here I am—close—next to you. Your father also calls you. Come, come, let us turn to him. He does not hear me—he lifts his eye to heaven—he prays. Henri, Henri, why do you approach this dark water? Take care of the water—death is before you—under your very feet."...

Just then the Marquise uttered a terrible cry, and was seized with a violent nervous attack.

"You would insist, Monsieur," said the doctor to the Prince, in a reproachful tone. Then, taking the young woman's hands, he clasped them in his own, and made a few rapid passes over her face and eyes. He then made her smell a flaçon of salts, and opened a window of the room, close to which he placed the Marquise's chair. This occupied a few minutes, all who were present standing around Mme. de Maulear, and paying attention only to her. The first excitement having passed away, they discovered that the Prince de Maulear had fainted. The doctor drew near the old man, and soon restored him to consciousness. When he had recovered his senses, the Prince called the doctor to him, and whispered, "Do you believe all this?"

The doctor clasped the hand of the Prince, and went away.

The Marquise de Maulear, smiling and calm, said, "Have I not been asleep?"

Her memory, however, recalled nothing of the scenes which had passed before her in her somnambulism. She forgot, as people frequently do, both pleasant and mournful dreams....

Fifteen days after this scene Mme. de Maulear saw her mother stop at the hotel of the Prince. Behind Signora Rovero, humble and trembling, was the deformed and courageous boy, whom the children of Sorrento had called Scorpione. The Marquise, both happy and surprised, rushed into her mother's arms. With great anxiety, she suddenly cried, "Henri—the Marquis—where is he?"

In reply, the Signora Rovero clasped her daughter to her breast, and wept.