The International Monthly, Volume 4, No. 2, September, 1851

by Various

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

XX.—THE GOOD AND THE BAD ANGEL.

The Count of Monte-Leone was cast down on receiving from the minister an order to leave France. So many interests bound him to his country; not that he cherished still the hope of being loved by Aminta, and of one day giving her his name. His ruin had dissipated all his bright dreams of future happiness. But he resided in the same place as the marquise; he breathed the same air that she breathed. To live near her thus, without seeing her, without telling her of that love which consumed his soul, was indeed cruel—it was a bitter sorrow to him every hour and every moment. But to remove himself from her and France was to die. And then, his political work—that work, his life and glory—that work which he loved because it avenged him of kings in avenging his father, the victim of a king—in which he believed he saw the regeneration of the world—that great work, in fine, of which the confidence of almost all the Ventes of Europe rendered him in some way the master and arbiter—it was necessary to renounce at the very moment of accomplishment. He must abandon his associates, his brothers, who relied in the hour of danger on his devotion and energy, and on the firm and bold will with which he had often controlled chance, and by which he had produced safety from apparent shipwreck. Had the Count been denounced? was the plan for the completion of which he and his friends toiled known? He told Taddeo, Von Apsbery, and d'Harcourt, of the order he had received, and they had consulted about it. Their plans, as it will be seen, though difficult, were susceptible of penetration. The house of the false Matheus as yet appeared unsuspected, and that was a great point. It was the holy ark in which were deposited the archives of the association, and the names of the agents, and if it were violated, all was lost. The expulsion from France of the Count might be the signal of the persecutions about to be begun against Carbonarism. At once, by means of a spontaneity which was one of the characteristics of the association, all the Vente of Paris were informed of the measures adopted against Count Monte-Leone. The mighty serpent then coiled up its innumerable rings and then its federal union apparently ceased in the whole capital. The orders were transmitted, received, and executed the very night after the decree of the minister had been signified to Monte-Leone. The friends during the night could not fancy why the order had been given. Monte-Leone seemed, as it were, struck by a new idea and said: "Perhaps it has no political motive, but has been dictated by private vengeance." He then paused, for he saw Taddeo's eyes fixed on him. He continued—"I have a few hours left to ascertain it, and will do so, not for my own sake, for whatever motive it may have, it will not trouble me less, but for your sake, my friends, who will remain here to defend the breach and to receive the enemy's attack."

It was then resolved that up to the time of Monte-Leone's departure, he should not again visit Matheus's house, nor receive the adieus of his friends even at his hotel. All this took place on the night after the interview of the stranger and M. H——, and on the day Louis XVIII. received the visit of the Prince de Maulear. In relation to private revenge the Count could think of no one except the beautiful and passionate Duchess of Palma, who had loved him so devotedly that she wished even to die for him. This passionate woman he had driven to despair. For some time, though, calmness and resignation seemed to occupy her once desolate heart. The Count rarely visited her, but occasionally went to her hotel. Every time he did so, he found her more reasonable and calm. The Duchess evidently avoided all allusion to their old relations. She inquired calmly after his affairs, his pleasures, and his friends. When her mind recurred to the past, as a skiff drifts towards the river it has left, an effort of will was required again to push it into the wide stream of worldliness and indifference. The Count, however, was a delicate and acute observer, and sounded the abyss of her mind through the flowers which grew across its brink. The Count then went to his hotel at the Champs Elysées, to clear up his suspicions, and to ascertain if his expulsion had not been caused by the Duchess of Palma. Monte-Leone was ushered in and found her with a few visitors. The features of the Duchess evidently became flushed at the sound of Monte-Leone's name. This, however, was but a flash of light in the dark, and the pale and beautiful face of La Felina soon became cold and passionless. "I expected you, Signor," said she, "when I learned from the Duke the unpleasant event which has occurred. I did not think you would leave the city without seeing me."

"Signora," said the Count, "you were right. But you are mistaken in calling the terrible blow, the almost humiliating attack to which I have been subjected, a disagreeable event."

"Certainly," said La Felina, "it is a catastrophe, and I can understand how severe it must be. We will talk of it by and by, however, when we are alone."

The last words of the Duchess were a dismissal to those in the room, and a few moments after they left. When the ambassadress had seen the last visitor leave, she rang the bell by her side. A footman came, to whom she said, "Remember I am at home to no one, not even to the Duke, if he take it into his head to ask for me. Now," said she to the Count, who was surprised at the precautions she had taken, "we are now alone, and can talk together safely. You tell me you are ordered to leave France?"

"At once, without the assignment of any reason."

"Have you not seen the Minister and asked an explanation?"

"I did not think it dignified to do so. Besides, my legal protector in France, the Duke of Palma, the Neapolitan ambassador, alone can defend me. I am, too, unwilling to ask justice, even, far less a favor, from his excellency."

"You are right," said the Duchess. "You would not have been successful, for at the instance of the Duke himself have you been ordered away."

The reply of the Duchess was clear and precise. The Count had every reason to suspect she had participated in the affair, but wished to be sure of it.

"And has not the Duchess discovered why the Duke has done so?"

"Certainly," said La Felina. "The Duke has little confidence in me, not deigning to initiate me in the mysteries of diplomacy. This is not the case, though, with the secretaries. Now," said she kindly, "you must know that nothing which relates to you is uninteresting and I therefore sought to discover why such a stern course had been adopted."

"Indeed."

"Your Neapolitan enemies, or perhaps your friends, have caused this. The court of Naples had, by means of the Duke of Palma, pointed you out to that of France as maintaining communications with Italy, which endangered the peace of the country. You are accused of being engaged in a plot to control from Paris the insurrectionary movements of the two Sicilies. You may," said she, "be innocent of those crimes, but you have left terrible recollections behind you in Naples, and your name will long continue a standard of revolt and sedition."

"The court of Naples," said the Count, "does me honor by believing me thus powerful and formidable. I do not see, however, the use of bringing so dangerous a person to Italy."

The Duchess said, "At home, it will be able to watch you more closely than at a distance. I trust, however, we will be able to defeat their plans and keep you here."

"What say you?" said the Count.

"I say that I am willing to abandon many schemes, but will not be diverted from being useful to you—from defending you against your enemies—nor cease to be what I once was, a secret providence, an Ægis against danger. You know I learned this long ago, and am happy to be again able to assume the part."

The Count did not know what to think, and his face expressed doubt and incredulity.

"Well, well," said she bitterly, "you suspect, you doubt me, and do not think me generous enough to return good for evil. So be it; judge me by my actions rather than my words. The former will soon convince you of my devotion."

"What devotion, Signora, do you speak of?" said the Count with curiosity.

"Plainly speaking, of the most sublime of all devotion—of making you happy at the expense of myself. I wish to retain you here in France, where the happiness of which I speak exists, to keep you by her who loves you and by whom you are loved."

"What say you?" said the Count, "would you do so?"

"I will try," said Felina. "I have been forced to adopt strange and extreme means," added she, with a smile. "You know serious cases require violent remedies, and I had no choice."

"Felina," said the Count, with emotion, "I have just committed an offence against you, for which I blush, and which my frankness alone can excuse. When you were busy in my behalf I fancied you the cause of my troubles."

"That is very natural, and I am not at all surprised," said the Duchess. "People in this world are not apt to repay evil with good. I, however, do not wish to appear to you to be better than I am. Perhaps I am less deserving than you think. Time, it is said, cures the greatest mortifications, and dissipates the deepest passions. Three months ago I did not think it possible that I could have acted thus on your behalf. Then I was but a poor despised woman, passionate and deserted. Now I am your friend, sincere and devoted."

"You are an angel," said the Count, with a deep transport of gratitude.

"An angel," said the Duchess. "Then there are only good angels. But," continued she, as if she were unwilling to suffer the Count to think on what she had said, "let us descend from heaven, where you give me so excellent a resting place, to earth. Speak to me of your plans and of her you love."

"Of her I love!" said the Count, with hesitation.

"Certainly; have not all your old hopes returned? Has not the death of the Marquis revived your old passion?"

"Felina," said the Count, "should I talk to you of such matters?"

"Why not? am I not the first to mention them? You must, from my sang-froid, see that I can now listen to your confessions and hear all your tender sentiments. The French proverb says: 'Il n'y a que le premier pas qui coute;'[8] I have already taken that. Treat me as a sister, but as a sister you love, and let me at least have the satisfaction of knowing that my self-denial has made you happy."

"Happy!" said the Count, relapsing into sad thoughts, "may I always be happy, as you seem to wish me! I do not know that I may not hope some day for her to share my fate. She once refused my hand. I do not know but that her heart at last listens to mine; but that which Count Monte-Leone, amid all his luxury, once could offer, the poor and exiled Italian does not now propose."

"Really," said Felina, "I am predestined to make you happy. By a single word I am about to dissipate the clouds around you, and light up your brow and heart with joy."

"That is impossible," said the Count. "I henceforth have nothing, and have lost even hope."

"The present," said the Duchess, "is less sombre than you think it. You are yet rich, almost as you ever were."

The features of the Count expressed the greatest astonishment.

"Listen to me," said the Duchess. "Yesterday one of my Neapolitan friends came to see me. He spoke of you, and I did not conceal the interest with which you had inspired me. He told me he had a confidential letter for Count Monte-Leone from his banker, Antonio Lamberti. The man is not so bad as he is thought to be; for, forced to give way before the burden of his obligations, he only pretended to fail. United by friendship, and especially by political opinions, with you, he has saved your fortune, and will send you the income until he can arrange his affairs and send you the capital."

"Can this be true?" said the Count, beside himself.

"All this can be effected only on certain conditions, that you will answer the letter of Lamberti, which now should be at your hotel."

Monte-Leone could not repress his joy. "Rich," said he; "yet rich! Fortune has now its value for her sake."

Scarcely had he uttered the last word when the face of the Duchess changed its expression. Her eyes glared with madness, and a mortal pallor covered her face.

"Excuse me," said the Count, as he saw this change. This was however but a flash, and by her powerful self-control Mme. de Palma became calm and smiling. She said "convalescents sometimes have relapses. Time is indispensable for a radical cure. The storm has passed, and the old nature reappears but for a moment, and gives place to the new but true friend, who rejoices with you at your unanticipated good fortune. It will secure your happiness."

"My friend," added she, reaching out her hand to Monte-Leone, "you must be impatient to ascertain if what I have said is true. Go home, and you will find my prediction correct."

"Felina," said the Count, "if your hopes are not realized, if you be not again my good star, I shall not be less grateful to you."

"Gratitude is cold, indeed," said Felina. "I ask your friendship."

"It is all yours," said the Count.

"Well, go now," said the Duchess, with a smile.

She was right, for when he reached his hotel, his old and faithful Giacomo, who, since his master's misfortune, had discharged his servants, and now performed all his functions, with the addition of those of valet, factotum, and cook, was busy with preparations for the departure of Monte-Leone. The old man gave him a letter, saying that it had been brought during his absence. The Count opened it, and read as follows:

"Count Monte-Leone: You will lose nothing by Antonio Lamberti. He is not a person to destroy one of our great association. You will find within a check for fifty thousand livres, drawn in your favor by one of the first houses in Naples, on the house of Casimer Périer of Paris. This is the interest at five per cent. on the million deposited by you with Antonio Lamberti. Every year the same sum will be paid down, and before six months you will receive security for your principal. One condition only is interposed on the return of your fortune. This is indispensable—that you maintain the most profound secrecy in relation to your new resources, and attribute them to any other than the real cause. The least indiscretion on your part will awake attention in relation to means employed to save from the wreck of Antonio Lamberti your own fortune."

This letter was signed, A Brother of the Venta of Castel-à-Mare.

Count Monte-Leone, though master of himself in adversity, could not repress his joy as he read this saving letter. As he had said at the house of La Felina, it was not for himself but for another that he rejoiced at this return of prosperity.

"A fine time, indeed, to be laughing," said Giacomo, ill-tempered as possible, "when we are being driven from the country as if we were spotted with plague. Only think, a Monte-Leone expelled, when his ancestor, Andrea Monte-Leone, Viceroy of Sicily, received royal honors in every town he passed through. You, however, have no shame. No, Signor," added he, as he saw Monte-Leone smiling. "Had I been in your place, I would have picked a quarrel and killed the damned minister who has forced us to resume our wandering gipsy life. Besides we are ruined gipsies. At my age to begin my wanderings, to be badly lodged, badly fed, like the servant of a pedler. If I were only twenty I would undertake a game of dagger-play with my minister."

"That is very fine, Giacomo," said Monte-Leone, "but the dagger is not the fashion in France. As for your apprehensions of the future, you may get rid of them by leaving me."

The wrath of the old man disappeared at these words of his master, and great tears streamed down his furrowed cheeks.

"Leave you! I leave you, when you are lost and ruined, Count?" said the good man. "Your father would not have spoken thus to me."

"Come, come, old boy, you know well enough I cannot get on without you. If you did not scold me every day, if you did not bark everlastingly at me, like those old servants to whom age gives impunity—if I did not hear every morning and night your magisterial reprimands, I would have fancied I missed some luxury. Be easy, however, Giacomo. You saw me happy just now because my sky began to grow bright, because our fortune is about to change, because we are nearer good fortune than you thought."

Full of these happy ideas, and anxious to take advantage of the few hours yet under his control, in case his departure should be enforced, the Count went to the hotel of the Prince. His heart beat violently when he was shown into the saloon of the Marquise, and he was glad that her not being in the room enabled him to repress his agitation. Aminta came in soon after. When Monte-Leone was announced, she felt almost as he had done.

She spoke first, but with a voice full of agitation. "We had almost despaired of seeing you, Count, for the Prince told me you were about to go. You have however neglected us for so long a time that we knew not whether we might expect you to bid us adieu."

The fact was, that since the news of his ruin the Count had not called to see Aminta. He felt that every interview made his departure more painful and the wreck of his hopes more terrible.

"Madame," said he, without replying immediately to her kind reproach, "you are not mistaken, for an exile comes to bid you farewell. That exile, however, will bear away a perpetual memory of your kindness."

"You will see our country," said the Marquise, with an effort.

"I shall see my country, but not that which made it dear to me."

"You will find many friends there," said the Marquise, becoming more and more troubled.

"Friends are like swallows, Signora, they love the summer, but leave when winter comes."

"You must have thought the Prince and myself were like them," said Aminta, "and that winter was come. You have not been for a long time to see us."

"Ah, Signora, had I known—had I guessed—such a sympathy would have made me wish for misfortune."

"No, Count, not so. It should, however, aid you to bear it."

"There are misfortunes," said the Count, "which often disturb the strongest mind and destroy the greatest courage."

"Ah, Signor, should the loss of a fortune cause such regret?"

"But what if the loss of fortune," continued the Count, "involved that of the only blessing dreamed of—if this loss deprived you even of the right to be happy—then, Signora, do you understand, what would be the effect of such a loss?"

The future fate of the Count was thus exhibited to Aminta. She saw at once that this noble and energetic man, born to command, must be proscribed, wandering, and wretched. The idea was too much for her heart, already crushed by the idea of a separation which became every moment more painful to her, and she therefore formed in her mind a generous resolution.

"Signor," said she, "there are hearts which are attracted rather than alienated by misfortune, and sentiments which they would conceal from the happy, they confess to those who suffer."

Monte-Leone, perfectly overcome, fell at the Marquise's feet. He was about to confess the unexpected good fortune which had befallen him. He, however, forgot all, and covered the hand which the Marquise abandoned to him with kisses. The Prince de Maulear entered, and appeared surprised but not offended by what he saw. "Do not disturb yourself, dear Count,—I know the meaning of all that, and expected it. But if, however, you are making an exhibition of your despair and misery, you have lost your time; for you will not go. The King places a high estimate on you, and will not forget you. He told me so."

XXI.—THE SECRET PANEL.

Three hours after the revelation made to M. H—— by his mysterious visitor in the cabinet of the chief of the political police, a man about fifty years of age rang at the door of a room on the second story of a furnished house in Jacob-street. He looked like a substantial citizen with a property of fifty thousand francs—or an income of 2,500 francs at five per cent. The mulberry frock of this man, over a vest of yellow silk, spotted with snuff, and a cravat of white mousseline, with gloves of sea-green, and pantaloons of brown cloth twisted like a cork-screw around his legs, an ivory-headed cane, and all the et cetera, might appropriately belong to a shopkeeper, retired from business, living in some thebaide of the streets d'Enfer or Vaugirard, and sustaining their intellects by the leaders of "The White Flag" of Martainville, and by witnessing once a year some chef-d'œuvre of Picard at the Odeon.

We will make no conjectures about the social position of this gentleman,—he will hereafter explain himself. Almost before the bell he rang had ceased to sound, the door was opened by another person. The latter was tall, dark and athletic, so that we would really have taken him for the lover of Mlle. Celestine Crepineau, had he worn the magnificent moustache and voluminous whiskers of the bear-hunter, which the lady admired so much. His costume, too, was different from that of the Spaniard. He wore a blue frock over his chest, at the bottom hole of which was a bit of red ribbon, not a little discolored.

"Ah! M. Morisseau," said the inmate of the room, "you are welcome, but late. The dinner is cold. And," added he in a low tone, "the dinner of a brigand of the Loire, as they call such fragments of the imperial guard as myself, must be hot, it being too small to eat in any other way."

"I think it always excellent, Monsieur Rhinoceros," said Morisseau.

"Permit me," said the brigand of the Loire,—for so the man called himself—"My name is not Rhinoceros. A certain African animal has that beautiful name, as I have often told you during the many games of dominoes we have played together at the Café Lemblin, whither you are attracted by my company. My name is Rinoccio—Paolo Rinoccio, born in Corsica, as my foreign accent tells you. I am the countryman of him." He made a military salute. "I served ten years beneath the Eagles. You, too, adore our Emperor. Each Buonapartist has a hand for his brother," continued he, shaking that of Morisseau. "Already thinking alike, eight days ago, over M. Lemblin's cognac, we swore eternal friendship. You, therefore, deigned to visit the warrior in his tent, in Jacob-street, to share the bread and soup of the soldier, and drink to the return of him of Austerlitz."

"M. Rhinoceros,—no, no, Rhino,—damn the name," said the Corsican's guest, "it is indeed an honor for me to sit at the table of so brave a man—for that reason, I accepted your invitation."

"Sit down, then, and let us drink to the health of the little corporal."

As he spoke he filled two glasses and emptied his own. M. Morisseau simply moistened his lips. "The Emperor," he said, on receiving his part of the soup, "the Emperor, M. Rhino, was my god."

"And that of France," said the Corsican.

"He was my god and my best customer; I had the honor to be his furrier."

"His what?"

"His furrier. I furnished his majesty's robes—not only his own, but those of all the kings he made. You know the Emperor used to make a king a year, and he used to insist that all his brothers and friends should reign only in my robes. I had the honor, therefore, of wrapping up the august forms of Kings Louis, Joseph, Jerome, Bernadotte and Murat, without particularizing the sovereign princes, grand dukes, and grand judges, who to please him dealt with me."

"To his health," said the Corsican, and he emptied the second glass. "You never served, Monsieur Morisseau?"

"Yes," said the furrier, "I marched beneath the imperial eagles. I belonged to the glorious army of the Sambre and Meuse. I even now suffer in my femur."

"From a ball?"

"No, from the rheumatism, contracted during a forced march during the winter of '93. Having been surprised during the night by the enemy, I had not time to dress myself comfortably, and was compelled to march fifteen leagues barefooted, and in my drawers. That, by the bye, was the usual uniform of our army. Those who were best dressed only wore shoes and pantaloons. To dress thus, though, something more than our pay was necessary, which we never got."

"You were then discharged?"

"Yes, for my rheumatism became very severe. But for it I might now be a general. I asked a pension as having been wounded in service. It was, however, refused me—a great injustice."

"The soup is gone. It is a very indigestible food, and we must therefore attack the enemy in his strong-holds. Two glasses of vin de Beaume will settle him."

"But," said Morisseau, as he saw his host filling up his glass, "my head is very weak, and I have not gotten drunk since I left the service."

"So be it, dear Morisseau. I will go for the second service, which the restorateur leaves in the kitchen. Excuse my having no servant, but two old soldiers like us can do without attendants."

Rinoccio went into the next room. When Morisseau was alone he took a little vial from his pocket, opened it, and poured a few drops into the Corsican's glass, the third portion of the contents of which he had swallowed. Scarcely had he replaced the vial when the Corsican entered, having a plate on which were two large pork chops, with a gravy of cornichons. "The second entry will make a man drink like a fish," said the Corsican.

"Let us drink, then," said Morisseau, knocking his glass against his host's.

"Let us drink," said the latter; and Morisseau's eyes glared as he saw him bear the glass to his lips. His joy, however, was short. "Let us drink something better than this," said the Corsican, who, as he spoke, threw away the contents of his glass. "I have some champagne given me by my General, one of the old guard, and I shall never find a more suitable occasion to uncork it." He took from a shelf near the table a long wire-fastened bottle, covered with a venerable dust.

Morisseau was not yet in despair, for he relied for an opportunity to use his vial on the third service. Paolo dexterously uncorked the bottle, and poured out a glass of perfumed wine to the imperial furrier, who, when he had knocked his glass against the Corsican's, drank it down, while the latter, just when he got it to his mouth, saw a fragment of cork on its brim. He took it out with his knife, lifted up the glass, and said: "To the Emperor. May he whom the enemies call the Corsican Ogre, soon eat up the Prussians, Austrians, and beggarly Cossacks. May he cut them into cat's-meat. May he cut off the ailles de Pigeon of all the Voltigeurs de Louis XVI. restored by the Bourbons. May he—"

Rinoccio paused in his speech, for his guest looked pale and disturbed, and seemed about to go to sleep.

"Per Bacco!" said M. Morisseau, at once speaking the purest Italian, "what did that devil give me to drink?"

"Probably," said the Corsican, in the same tongue, "what you would have given me, had I not taken care to empty in the fireplace the glass into which you had poured some narcotic or other."

"Christ!" said the furrier, "the beggar saw me!"

"Perfectly, Signor Pignana."

"He knows me," said the false furrier, attempting to rise.

The Corsican, however, pushed him back, and Pignana sank stupidly on his seat.

"Curse you, Stenio, you shall pay for this!..."

"Ah, ah," said the Corsican, "so two played at the same game. Funny! and we were both good actors. I do not ask you," continued he, ironically, "why you came hither, and why you consented to share my frugal meal, for I know already, and will tell you. You met me in Paris, my presence annoyed you and your friends, and I know why. You watched and pursued me to find where I lived, and you succeeded. You joined me at the Café Lemblin, and we neither seemed to recognize each other. I asked you to dine, and you accepted my invitation, for with the drug you have you intended to put me to sleep, and expected then to be able to examine all my plans. You would have failed, Signor Pignana, for I do not live in this house. I took this room only for your especial benefit, and intend to give it up to-morrow. Do not, therefore, be disturbed, my good fellow; but go to sleep, and digest your dinner."

"But I will not go to sleep," said Signor Pignana, attempting again to rise, "I will not go to sleep here, in the house of a man I think capable of any thing."

"Not exactly that," said the Corsican, "but I am capable of much."

"What do you wish to do with me?" said Pignana, articulating with great pain, for his tongue began to grow heavy and his ideas confused.

"That you must not know; but do not be afraid, your life and health being dear to me. I would not deprive the Carbonari of so skilful an agent, who is so daring and prudent as you are. Lest, however, you should be uneasy and your sleep be troubled, I will tell you what I mean, and you will yourself admire my plan."

Half stupid with sleep and terror, Pignana glared at Stenio Salvatori.

"Here," said he, lifting up Pignana from the floor and placing him on a kind of sofa, "lie there, and then you can both sleep better and hear me more at your ease. You will for twelve hours have the most pleasant dreams imaginable. A glass will make you sleep twelve hours—a bottle for eternity." Pignana made a gesture expressive of the greatest terror. "Do not be so uneasy," said Stenio, "and remember you have had only a glass. To-morrow, at six o'clock, you will wake up, with a slight headache, but in other respects perfectly well. Then the master of the house will come to ask after you. If you are generous, you will give him something to drink your health. Otherwise you will thank him and go, for all has been paid for. You see I do things genteelly, and know how to receive my friends. You will then leave this house, and go about your usual business, and will never mention this matter."

"Eh? who will prevent me?" muttered Pignana.

"Oh, you will take care not to do so. For if you own that you have been duped, your confederates will think you a fool, and dismiss you without wages. Now this would be bad—just on the eve of their success. If you tell them how long you have slept, they will think you an idiot, for I never saw any one take to champagne so kindly as you did just now, my dear Pignana. Now, adieu, for I must go. Be still," said he, pushing Pignana down with all his strength. "No, no, do not take the trouble to go with me—you are too kind. Go to sleep, go to sleep, go to sleep, my dear fellow." He left the room, and sleep took possession of its prey. Pignana felt his ideas grow gradually more confused, and his real life pass away. A few minutes after Stenio's departure, M. Pignana was sound asleep. Stenio then slowly opened the door of the room, and glided like a shadow over the floor to the sleeper, into whose pockets he placed his hand. "Nothing here—not here. The devil, can it be that it is not about him!" A smile of triumph, however, soon appeared on his lips, for he had found what he wanted. He discovered a kind of pocket in the waistcoat of the false tradesman, and felt in it. "Here it is!" said he. Pignana moved. Stenio paused, and then took from the sleeper's pocket a door-key. He then left, and did not return....

While the events recorded above were transpiring, about eight o'clock on the evening, in Jacob-street, Mlle. Celestine Crepineau waited as Desdemona might have done for Othello, singing the melancholy romance of "The Willow." This was to console her for the prolonged absence of the bear-hunter, who had not been during the whole day in her lodge. The finger of Celestine furtively wiped away the tears which dripped down her long aquiline nose. Hope now and then arose in her heart, but that hope was betrayed. A man with a stern voice asked for Dr. Matheus, and went to his room. Seven times hope was enkindled in her heart only to be disappointed. She became angry, and as she could not confess to that passion in relation to the bear-hunter, and must have some pretext, she vented her temper on the Doctor's visitors. "How soon will this be over?" said she. "All Paris has come this evening to see my handsome lodger. What brings all these savans hither? They will keep me awake until late hours, and then Mr. Nuñez will say maliciously in the morning, 'Your eyes, Mlle. Celestine, are very heavy this morning. What have you been dreaming?' Then he will take liberties altogether inconvenient to a person of my sex."

The seven blows on the knocker had announced the union of eight persons, including Von Apsberg, in the ground-floor parlor, the apartment through which the unfortunate Pignana used to go and come. Two of the Doctor's friends were d'Harcourt and Taddeo Rovero. The others we will tell by and by.

"Gentlemen," said Von Apsberg, when they were in council, "our meeting should, as usual, be presided over by Count Monte-Leone. Since, however, the order of expulsion, of which he was notified and which almost immediately was revoked, for some unknown reason, it seemed best that he should not be present. Monte-Leone is the head of the great brotherhood of Carbonarism. We therefore propose to render a succinct account of its situation in Europe, and particularly in France. Its position is peculiar, and we cannot deny that its existence is threatened on all sides. Secret and shrewd spies have penetrated in Germany the secret labors of our three societies, The Tugenbund at Berlin, The Burschenschaft and The Teutonia at Vienna and Leipsic. Their chiefs, Johan and Plischer, have been arrested."

"Death to spies!" said Matheus's seven hearers.

"This is not all," continued Matheus. "The plans of Count Labisbel have failed in Spain, and the Italian vente have been discovered by a shrewd police. The prisons of Naples, Venice, and Milan are already filled with our brethren."

There was consternation on every face.

"We are assured," said Matheus, "that the informations on which these arrests have been made have come from Paris. Now, this information could only have been obtained from our secret papers, as we alone in France correspond with the supreme venta of Europe. To these papers none have access but four brothers, Monte-Leone, Rovero, d'Harcourt, and myself. We inform you of these facts in obedience to our articles of association, that you may place us four on trial."

These words were uttered with deep excitement. The three persons present of the four mentioned by Von Apsberg sat still, and the others rose.

"On my honor and conscience," said General A——, "I declare that such an idea is unworthy of you and us." The banker F——, Count de Ch——, a Peer of France, Ober the merchant, the lawyer B——, and professor C——, said the same. They then gave their hands affectionately to the three friends, who acknowledged their salute.

"Let the denunciation come whence it may, our brothers yet are victims of it. They suffer for us," said Taddeo, "and we will act for them."

"Yes," said Von Apsberg, "we will act, and decidedly, for time presses us, and we must anticipate our enemies unless we would be anticipated. Let all opinions centre, then, without hesitation, on the one principle which is the basis and keystone of Carbonarism, viz., 'That might is not right—that the kings of Europe reign either by virtue of a convention or by virtue of arms. The Bourbons in France reign by virtue of the allied sovereigns. We therefore declare that the Carbonari have associated to restore to all the nations of the continent, and to France especially, the free exercise of the right to choose the government which suits them best. We all swear to maintain this principle!"

"We swear," said the Carbonari.

"Gentlemen," said Von Apsberg, "the time of action will be fixed by Count Monte-Leone at a meeting to take place January 25th, 1820, in the masonic lodge of The Friends of Truth. Until then let each one individually contribute to do all he can towards the reconstruction of our new edifice from the ruins of the old."

"I take charge of the army," said General A——, "the regiments in garrison at Befort are ours, and the others will follow their example."

"I take charge of the colleges," said professor C——.

The lawyer B—— said, "We have many friends in the bar."

Count Ch—— said, "And in the chamber of peers."

The banker F—— added, "There will be no scarcity of money."

The last who spoke was the merchant Ober, who said, "The influence of trade is on our side."

Von Apsberg said, "We will not meet again till the twenty-fifth of January, 1820. The supreme vente, composed of the Count, Rovero, the Viscount, and myself, will communicate only with the five central ventas of Paris, the representative of which you are. Be active, then, in the ventas which depend on you, members of which are ignorant of your identity. Make yourself known to but one member of each venta, and communicate with Count Monte-Leone only in that brilliant society to which the high position of him and of yourselves gives access, and where the government will least suspect the existence of treason. Confide the rolls of our ventas, and of our new associates to him alone, for it is his duty to deposit them among our archives. Now, brethren of right and duty, confide alone in Monte-Leone, the soul of honor and of prudence. To all others, silence or death."

"Silence or death," repeated his seven associates, and their voices sounded like the chorus of a solemn hymn....

A few minutes after the room was deserted. The Carbonari had gone, and Matheus returned to his laboratory. The door of the library was then opened gently, and two men were seen concealed behind the secret panel. They were H——, the chief of the political police, and the bear-hunter, the brigand of the Loire, or Stenio Salvatori.

"I have them," said M. H——.

"Not yet," said Stenio, "but thanks to our associate, Count Monte-Leone, by whose aid I have brought you hither...."

The door was shut without noise....

The next day, when he awoke, Pignana found the key of the room in his pocket.