EULALIE LASALLE.
A STORY OF THE REIGN OF TERROR.
O, what was love made for if 'twas not for this,
The same amidst sorrow, and transport, and bliss?
Moore.
The fanaticism of the French revolutionists had reached its height; the excitable population, intoxicated with power, and maddened by the vague dread of the retribution of despair, goaded on by profligate, ferocious, or insane leaders, was plunging into the most revolting and sanguinary excesses. The son of St. Louis had ascended to heaven, the beautiful and unfortunate Marie Antoinette had laid her head upon the block, the baby heir of the throne of the Capets was languishing in the hands of his keepers, and the Girondists, the true friends of republican liberty, were silenced by exile or the scaffold. In short, the Reign of Terror, the memorable sway of Robespierre, hung like a funeral pall upon the land which was fast becoming a vast cemetery. The provincial towns, faithful echoes of the central capital, were repeating the theme of horror with a thousand variations. Each considerable city had its guillotine, and where that instrument of punishment was wanting, the fusillade or the mitraille supplied its place.
At this crisis, Eugene Beauvallon, a young merchant of Toulouse, presented himself one morning in the drawing room of Mademoiselle Eulalie Lasalle, an orphan girl of great beauty and accomplishment, to whom he had long been betrothed, and whom he would ere this have married but for the political troubles of the period. Eulalie was a graceful creature, slenderly and symmetrically formed, with soft blue eyes, and an exceedingly gentle expression, which was indicative of her character. She seemed too fair and fragile to buffet with the storms of life, and ill fitted to endure its troubles, created to be the idol of a drawing room, the fairy queen of a boudoir.
Eugene was a handsome, manly fellow, of great energy and character. The revolution surprised him in the act of making a fortune; the whirlwind had stripped him of most of his property, but had yet left him liberty and life. He had contrived to avoid rendering himself obnoxious to the sansculottes without securing their confidence. The tri-colored cockade which he wore in his hat shielded him from the fatal epithet of aristocrat—a certain passport to the guillotine.
Beauvallon then seated himself beside Eulalie, who was struck with the radiant expression of his countenance, and begged to know the reason of his joyous excitement.
"I have good news to tell you," he said, gayly; "but we are not alone," he added, stopping short, as his eyes rested on the sinister face of an old woman, humbly attired, who was busily engaged in knitting, not far from the lovers.