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iiiiininiMriiWiilBHiiiiliiiiiiiiinwiii iTi"'

iiiniiiWiini,).

Cr6'U.C'

CROWN FROM THE SPEIE.

BY THE AUTHOR OP

"WOVEN OF MANY THREADS."

(^hP^'^

^^^^'vo^-'fyu

.... dabit Deas hi* qnoqno (tnem.

Virgil.

Thew vexing His the hand of God will end.

BOSTON:
JAMES R. OSGOOD AND COMPANY,

LatB TicKMOR & FlBU>8, AMD FlKbDS, OsOVOD, & CO.

1872.

Untered according to Act of Congroo, In the ycnr 1S72,

BV JAMKS n. OSOOOI) 1- CO.,

In the OlBco of tlio Libniriun of Cougreia, at Washlaptfon.

Univursity Press : Wbixh, Bicklow, & Co.,
Cambridge.

mmm

/ will not ivrile thy name upon this page

For the wide eye of all the world to see,
Nor will I blazon forth thy noble deeds ;

Enough that they are known to God and me.
Straight to the garner of thy heart I send

This sheaf that I have gleaned, 'mid hopes and fears.
From fields where I would fain have reaped with Joy

Fair fruit from seeds not wet, as these, with tears.

Sure of thy truthful praise, if praise I earn.

Sure of thy gentle blame, if blame thou must.
To thee I give this harvest of my thoughts

With timid hand, but strong, unshaken trust.
Accept my waiting gift, and know thou well

That I have wrought my work to gain from thee
The voice of Just approval; for I 7vould

That thine should be the world's great voice to me.

February, 1872.

iHH

f ■

CONTENTS.

BOOK I.
NOTRE DAME DE ROUEN.

Pam

Proeuiai. 1

I. Fabien the Canon 2

II. An AaTLUK 8

III. Amtr. 6

IV. A88I8TINO TO CAPTURE ONE'S SeLT 7

V. A Stbanoe Leoacy 9

VI. How A Philosopher mat die 11

VII. The Youno Count , .... 18

BOOK II.
CHATEAU DE CLERMONT.

II.

III.

IV.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

IX.

XI.

XII.

XIII.

Fabien the Archdeacon . . . ,

A Count, a Lily, and a Rose .

A Face at a Window ....

I CAN MAKE HIM USEFUL ....

A Vagrant changed to a Priest .

You must decide for yourself .

There is but one May in a Year

The Heart of a Priest is the Hfjirt of a

The Alley of Sighs ....

This is all we have found

The Plot matures

Justice makes a Demand .

Crushing a Lily

Man

15
17
19
21
22
24
27
•i9
32
36
40
45
49

ir.

IIL

IV.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

IX.

BOOK III.
SARZEAU.

" The Setting of a great Hope " . . 53

Ch&teau of Sarzkau 69

La Croix Verte 64

Almost a Defeat 71

Cruel as Death 76

The Gratitude of a Poet 81

You MUST not see him aoain 88

The Secret of the old Cabinet 03

ChAteauroux 98

miS ' {:x: : i>!Ssm&msm

maftmmmmgmiffmmimmtfK

▼I

CONTKNTH.

BOOK IV
HOTEL DH VKNTADOUU.
1. " La Bemk Damp, hanh Mk.iici " |||^

II. A FUIDAY KVKMNO AT Till'. lloTEL VENTADOrK J»^

III. A DiNNKii IN THE Hue Castioi-ione J**

IV. This and That

V. In which Sill Edwaud'h Motive ih Oiiviovh J*"

VI. One of the Foiitimtouh Eventh that we tali, Fate .... IJ'

VII. "Stebnituu infelix alieno vulneue"

VIII. Something moiie of GeneviIive Oautieu J^^

IX. Too LATE to have HIMSELF "'

X. La Roquette ^jj^j

XI. A Day of Wrath

XII. Cbowmed at last

107
114
120
125
131
i;w
111

151
157

lua

170

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

BOOK FIRST.
NOTKE DAME DE ROUEN.

PROEMIAL.

BETWEEN iravre and Pftris, on the
banks of the Seine, stands the
ancient and picturesque city of Rouen.
Its majestic and sombre aspect, its his-
toric associations, its marvels of ecclesi-
astical architecture, its medifoval monu-
ments, its labyrinths of winding streets,
its quaint houses dim and dingy with
the stains of time, the narrow windows
looking like half-shut eyes from their
queer gable faces, impress one with its
antiquity as well as with its historical
importance.

In the centre of the town the ven-
erable Cathedral of Notre Dame towers
above the Place de la Pucelle, where the
hapless Maid of Orleans was burned in
1451. How often the stranger pauses to
look with wonder and admiration at that
immense pile ! Impressed with a feeling
of almost awe, the eye wanders over the
vast proportions of the Gothic facade,
following from point to point the exqui-
site tracery and elaborate carving of the
profuse ornamentation, until, nearly be-
wildered by the complication of design,
it seeks relief above, even to the summit
of the lofty towers that stand like sen-
tinels with their feet upon the earth and
their heads wrapped in clouds. One
enters reverently its deeply recessed
and grandly sculptured portals, and
gazes with serious delight down the
mysterious and shadowy length of the
nave, crossed with trembling rays of
crimson and gold that fall from the
great rose-window of delicate and ex-
quisite design, flaming with the most
brilliant colors blended with remarkable
skill and beauty.

In the choir these many-colored rays
illuminate a tablet, lot into the marble
of the pavement, that marks the s]K>t
where the heart of Richard Cauir do
Lion was interred ; his body rests at
Fontevrault, but his lion heart ho gave
to Rouen because of his great love for
Normandy.

Behind the high altar is the interest-
ing and elaborate monument of Cardinal
d'Amboise, Archbishop of Rouen and
Minister of Louis XII. The stranger
who pauses to look at this may notice
under his very feet a small black mar-
ble cross on which is a half-effaced Latin
inscription : —

In/elieistitna,

If he observes it, he may possibly kneel
to trace out the nearly obliterated let-
ters, and in so doing he will discover
another inscription crossing the original
epitaph in minute characters : —

Cor Mtum Tecum SepuUum Est.

A fearful tempest was abroad on the
wings of the night, the thimder raved
and roared around the solemn edifice ;
the blue lightning flashed through the
windows and down the deserted nave,
illuminating carved capital and column,
piercing even into the secret recesses of
the groined roof, wrapping the marble
images in a spectral light until they
seemed to melt like phantoms into shad-
ow. The great bell in the tower of St.
Remain clanged and clashed the hour
of midnight, when the eastern portal
opened and a man entered, carrying a
lantern, the feeble light of which made
but a faint ring under the flame of the
tempest. He was followed by a silent

5 ? y T i. ' -j- ' A '" ' ■^' ■^Tia: ' ; -gv n

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

I 1 I

Rnil Htntcly cotnpnnion, nlio plidi'rl in \\'\n
Mhiulow, like ii niotiriit'iil N|iirit, tliroiiKli
tliu iiiive iukI luTiiNH tliu triitmont t<> tliu
lii;;li iiltiir, uliPrc Htmid n ciiturul>|iio HUp-
|x)rtiiij; II cotHii I'ovcriMl with a velvet

I Mill. Ki^'lit tiiil cHiKJIeN threw a n\My
i;:ht over the kneeliiiK ti^^iire of n priest,
who eroHHcd hiiiiHelf t'roin time to time,
miitteriii;^ Ont jiro intliln in it Hepiilehrui
voice. 'I'ho tnuii who entered tirHt Hut
down hiH lantern and drew buck tlio vel-
vet pall, revealing a uilver plate on which
was enjrraved a heart pierced with a
Hpcar, and hclow it the word Aimie,
Tiiu air Bccnied to tremble with a si^h
ftH the tall tiKuro drew near and looked
upon the placid face of the sleejHir ; then
he fell on his knecH, and, leaning Iuh
head agaiiiHt the cotiin, sharp, nhort Hobs
burst from his li|)8, — the convulsive
moans of those who caimot weep. Be-
neath his black mantle were visible the
crimson-corded robe, the violet sash and
heavy chain of a dif^mitary of theChurch.
It was Monseigneur the Archbishop of
Koiien who wept with his head against
the coffin that contained the body of
a young and lovely woman, — young,
although the eyes were sunken and the
niasB of hair that fell back from her
forehead was as white as snow.

T^vcry day when the great rose-window
burns like a fiery eye under the level
rays of the setting sun, the Archbishop
of Rouen enters the eastern portal with
a stately step, and crosses the navo to
the high altar ; there, dismissing his
servant who follows him, he falls on his
knees upon the cross, clasps his hands
over his heart, utters a dreary sigh,
bows his head, and remains long in
silent prayer.

When he leaves the spot, there are
tears on the epitaph.

PART FIRST.

FABIEH THE CANON.

" A FINE morning," said Fabien, the
canon and secretary to his lordship
the Archbishop of Rouen, as he re-
turned the profound reverence of the
wizened old woman -who raised the

leather curtain that hung over the oast*
ern portal of the Cathu«lral.

" Ves, tiionHcigneur, a fine clear morn*
ing to see Koiien from the Tour do
Ibirre. I wish <S(n1 would give mc n
little more strength, that I might creep
up to the platform again and see the
blessed city below me. Ah!" with a
dolorous shake of the head, " the desire
alwavs remains, monbeigneiir, the heart
is always young, even after old age
takes away the strength."

" Is it possildel Is the heart always
young ( " murmured Fabien in a dreamy
voice, as the leather curtain fell behind
him with a flap that started out a cloud
of dust and drowned the old woman's
(piavering voice. " Is the heart always
young 1 " he repeated slowly as he
crossed the transept and nave to the
little door opening on the staircase that
leads to the Tour de Burre. *' Her
philosophy, simple, ignorant old soul, is
the philosophy of an age long past ;
yes, to such as she the heart may bo
always young, for, after all, it is not
time that wears a thing ont, it is use.
Rationalists tell us that the heart, the
soul, the mind, are one. If so, then
such clods may well have young hearts,
for they use them but little. I am
twenty-five to-day, and I am older than
that old crone. I have lived centuries,
because I have gained the knowledge of
centuries, because to-day I understand
all that has exhausted time since the
creation to develop. All that the re-
search of ages and the experiments of
science, all that theology and mcta))hys-
ics have revealed, I am master of. What
does it matter if we have lived a few years
more or loss, if we have the experience
of agesi ' Knowledge is power, knowl-
edge is pov^er,' " he repeated again and
again as he hurried up the winding
steps ; " knowledge alone is power, but
knowledge combined with wealth is
double power. I have toiled all the
years of my life for the first ; now,"
clasping his hands with a sharp and
energetic stroke, " now for the other. I
am sure of myself, the power is within
mc. I tvill conquer every obstacle and
attain my end. What emoluments, what
honors, the Church offers to her zealous
disciples ! literature, science, art, are all
very well to serve as means, but these

pecti

grudj

out

But

who

less,

stran

birt

at t

I hav

I am

I fee

great

The

tain,

not

— y^nfij-wj?!.

CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

\(( over tho cttit*

I ml.

film cloar morn-

II tlie TiHir do
oul«l ^ivu inc n
lit I niinlil crcrp
iiiii niul Hvo tliu
. Ah ! " with a
end, " tlio dt'Niro
^nenr, tlic heart
[i after old ago
th."

tlic lioart alwajB
ihion in a dreamy
irtuin fell hehind
artcd out a cloud
tho old woiiian'il
tho heart uIwbv§
1 slowly as he
and navo to the
tho Btaircaso that
3 Burre. "Her
loraut old soul, is

ago long past ;
ho heart may ho
tor all, it is not
ing oiit, it is U80.
tat tho heart, the
one. If BO, then
lave young hearts,
nit little. I am
i I am older than
!e lived centuries,

the knowledge of
day I understand
ed time since the

All that the ro-
ho experiments of
ngy and mctai)hys-
u master of. What
vo lived a few years
ivo the experience

is power, knowl-
epcated again and

1 up the winding
lone is power, but
1 with wealth is
ivo toiled all the

the first ; now,"
with a sharp and
)W for the other. I
ho power is within
every obstacle and
t emoluments, what
jffers to her realous
science, art, are all
IB means, but these

pncrillticR belong to fceblo souIh ; he
who would climb nuiMt unu religioti an a
ladik-r, and tho ('hurch im his tojistone
of power."

lie wont on rapidly, flight after flight,
never piiUHing (o rest for a moment, IiIn
body as erect, liiN Htep as firm, uh though
ho were walking on level (^roiiiul. When
he reiiclied tho summit of tho Tour de
Murro and stepped out on tho platform,
he seemed nut at all exhausted from IiIh
great exertion. There was something
in tho cloar eyes, tho tightly closed
lips, tho firm and defiant ste)), that
showed tho strength of the man's will.
For a moment ho leaned over tho para-
pet and looked into the scpiaro below.
Thcro seemed to be sotno unusual com-
motion ; a number of people were gath-
ered before tho western portal of the
Cathedral, and several mounted gen-
darmes were galloping across tho place.
So absorbed was he in his ambitious
scheming, that ho scarce noticed this
unwonted stir ; and if ho had, he would
not havo been curious to know the
cause. His gaze wandered away from
tho scene below him to tho banks of
the Seine, until it rested upon the white
turrets of the Ch&toau de Clermont
rising distinct above tho thick forest
tliat surrounded them. A sort of vin-
dictive joy sparkled in his eyes, and,
clasping his hands fiercely, he paced tho
platform with long, rapid strides. ** Ah !
there is tho source from whence must
flow my golden river ; step by step I urn
approaching it. It has been a toilsome
journey, first to gain knowledge, then to
gain the esteem and confidence of sus-
pecting humanity, who give to one
grudgingly, mite by mite, doling them
out as a miser docs his cherished hoard.
But what right have I to complain 1 I
who was an outcast, nameless, friend-
less, a dependant on tho bounty of
strangers, wronged, cheated out of my
birthright and inheritance, commencing
at the l)ase, oven in the dirt and mire !
I have toiled so far up this steep ascent.
I am now above the level of the herd.
I feel the breath of the mountains upon
my brow. But beyond mo are still
greater heights which I must reach.
The path is dangerously steep, uncer-
tain, almost impracticable ; but I am
not dismayed ; I will persevere and

Htnnil on tho topmost summit. An
heroic soul, nn unflinching will, is im-
pelled onward by ditlieulties ; tho
gieater they are, tho more desire is
there to cou(|uer them. How I liiivo
delved, how 1 havo dug into the miiies
of knowledge, that ( might hud tho
rare gems below tho ken of HuperHciul
seekers ! 1 have explored the mysteiiiH
of tho Cabala ; that won«l(!rful siienco
has been my study day and night ; thu
Zohar is my code ; tho languages of tho

fMist, most hidden among the thingH
liddcn, are as familiar to mo iis house-
hold words. Alchemy has revealed to
mo its secrets and its marvellous laws.
Metaphysics havo become to me i)ut a
repetition of commonplace dogmas. I
havo analyzed all, and each particle in
before mo separated from all foreign
matter. I can weigh them in the mi-
nutest scale, and my nice balance is
my judgment. Tho ignorant look upon
mo as a sorcerer. I am a sorcerer, for
knowledge is sorcery. Fabion tho can-
on, at twenty-five, has more within tho
circle of his brain than the oldest doc-
tor of the schools. Laua Deo for such
power. My poors look upon mo with
amazement. Honors are being heaped
\\\mn mo. Tho Archbishop has made
mo a canon and his private Hocrctary ;
through this channel I will discover all
tho secrets of tho (church and State.
Tho old Count de Clermont is dying,
and ho has chosen mo to bo tutr)r and
guardian of his only son ; there is tho
source from which I must draw my
wealth. I will avongo my mother and
reap a rich harvest from the fields out
of which she was driven. It is but a
pace from a canon to a deacon, and
then a natural gradation to an arch-
deacon, a step upward to a bishop, and
the hat of a cardinal docs not proas
heavily after the mitre of an arch-
bishop."

PART SECOND.

AN ASYLUM.

The platform of the Tour de Burre
was a favorite ])romenade of Fabion the
canon. First, because before reaching
it there was a difficulty to overcome.

. : .?aflyattfatoa^i^a>fefli»^!ita^>v: ' i%!^^

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

In mounting the hundreds of steps, ho
tested his indomitable will and his phj-s-
ical strength. Secondly, it presented the
greater att..*action of being above the
world, and consequently isolated and
free from intrusion. There his unfet-
tered fancy soared highest, shook off,
for the time, the shackles with which
the lower world and his necessary in-
tercourse with men heavily trammelled
him. There he could scheme and plan
more clearl}*, because the fresh breeze
at that height seemed to blow away
the cobwebs from his brain, seemed to
quicken nnd strengthen his intellect,
that sometimes became a little dull and
weak from pouring over musty old
parchments and time-stained manu-
scripts. There, when he worked him-
self up to a frenzy of self-laudation and
anticipated gloiy, at which times ho de-
sired to hear his success sounded in his
own cars, he could shout them aloud,
and there was no living thing to listen,
only the thousands of swallows that
built in every niche, and they woiud
not reveal his secrets. There he could
madden himself by repeating over and
over the wrongs of his life, by doing
which he fanned a fire of hate and re-
venge that he never allowed to become
extinguished ; and when that fire some-
times burned too fiercely, threatening
to break into open conflagration, when
the strong will was necessary to subdue
and deaden it, he found a powerful aid
in the physical exertion required to
reach the spot, where alone and unmo-
lested ho could bare his head and breast
to the breeze, shout, curse, wring his
hands, and tear back and forth like an
infuriated tiger.

There were tempests in this man that
must break forth at times and rage
with fearful strength, but no living be-
ing had ever witnessed them. Only the
wandering wind and the moaning sea
had heard his frenzied cries, and they
kept their secret.

This morning he had hurried there
to congratulate himself on an event
which he considered the most important
of his life, and for which he had striven
with unwearied diligence. He had at
last succeeded, after many rebuffs and
discouragements, in gaining the confi-
dence and friendship of the Count de

Clermont, who was dying, and who, on
that very morning, had sent for him,
and after acknowledging, in words that
were honey to the listener, his admim-
tion of his superior talents and his
esteem for his character, had besought
him, in feeble but earnest tones, to be-
come the guardian and tutor of his only
son, who would soon be an orphan, nnd
the sole survivor of the family of Cler-
mont. That he, Fabicn, tiie poor young
scholar, should be chosen from among
all whom the Count had honored with
his friendship, was indeed a proof of
confidence rarely bestowed. A few more
days and he would receive into his
charge this child, the only heir to the
rich estate of Clermont, all of whose
treasures would be given into his keep-
ing ; and he had resolved that he would
guard them well, for when that which
ho had so long coveted was once within
his grasp it should remain there.

"It is sooner than I expected, but
not too soon," he said, as he gazed at
the turrets of the chateau, with greedy
speculation in his eyes and inexpressi-
ble satisfaction in his voice.

So absorbed was Fabien with his
own ambitious plans, that he did not
observe he was no longer alone, for
suddenly another person appeared on
the platform, who, seeing it was already
occupied, turned to flee ; but he was too
late, for at that moment Fabien turned
also, and their eyes met. The priest
uttered an exclamation, half of sur-
prise, half of terror, for ho had never
before seen such an object; even he,
stoic though he was, could scarce believe
it to be human. He had a ghastly face,
covered with a short, bristling beard,
cropped white hair standing up on
his head as if in mortal fear; wild,
bloodshot eyes, and drawn lips, parched
and blackened with fever and thirst, re-
vealing a row of long yellow teeth that
snapped together like a hungry wolf's.
A few tattered rags that had once been
a convict's dress partially clothed a
gaunt, meagre form that was bowed as
though a hundred years pressed upon
it, and his bare, emaciated feet and
bony hands were covered with dirt and
bruises.

"Mon Dieu! who are you? and, in
the name of Heaven, where did you

Tyiy^ mmVf^: .

•■tmif - Kt'i.'Hi'HWi:

g, and who, on
[ sent for hUn,
;, in words that
ler, his admim-
alenta and his
r, had besought
8t tones, to bc-
;utor of his only
an orphan, nnd
family of Olcr-
the ])oor young
icn from among
d honored with
leed a proof of
■ed. A few more
receive into his
)nly heir to the
it, all of whose
in into his keep-
ed that he would
fhen that which
was once within
main there.
I expected, but
1, as he gazed at
teau, with greedy
s and inexpressi-
voice.

Fabien with his
that he did not
onger alone, for
•son appeared on
ing it was already
} ; but he was too
snt Fabien turned
met. The priest
ion, half of sur-
for he had never
object; even he,
3uld scarce believe
lad a ghastly face,
, bristling beard,
standing up on
lortal fear; wild,
rawn lips, parched
jver and thirst, re-
yellow teeth that
a a hungry wolf's,
hat had once been
artially clothed a
hat was bowed as
ears pressed upon
naciated feet and
sred with dirt and

are youl and, in
m, where did you

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

come from?" gasped Fabien, after a
moment's survey.

The poor wretch replied not a word,
but dropped upon his knees as though
his lower limbs were palsied, and, clasp-
ing his hands, raised his haggard face
with eyes so full of anguish and en-
treaty that they smote the heart of Fa-
bien with sudden pain. He did not
like to be so easily softened and touched
to pity, so it was with no very gentle
gr.isp that lie took the intruder by the
shoulder, and, shaking him, said again
stcnilj', " Who are you t "

The man's head and hands foil
despondently, and tears gathered in his
eyes as ho replied with a heavy, long-
drawn sigh, and with hopelessness in his
voice, " I am an escaped convict. I
have sought an asylum here, here in
the house of God. You are his priest,
and you will not betray me? I am
starving," he cried, starting from his
attitude of despair, while his teeth
gleamed between his parched lips, —
" I am starving ! and how am I to get
food 1 Here there is nothing but bare
stones ! " And he glanced around with
famished scrutiny.

"Starving," repeated Fabien in a
softened voice ; " poor wretch ! what
crime has brought you to this?"

The creature tottered upright, and,
leaning heavily against the stone balus-
trade for support, laid his emaciated
hand on the arm of the priest, and
said in a husky whisper, " Listen, and
I will tell you what I have never yet
confessed to any one. I have com-
mitted no crime ; another sinned, and
I, to keep an oath made to one I
loved, suffer the penalty. For four
years, for four dead years, I have been
chained and driven like a beast ; I have
suffered hunger, cold, and heat ; I have
been bound to a creature I loathed ; I
have cursed the night, and longed for
day, and when the day came I cursed
it and longed for the night. All the
slow moments of four years have dragged
along in agony. I have become old
before my time, bowed and cnished,
scorned and smitten even of God. And
yet I have endured all this to keep an
oath I made to one dying, to serve one
I loved more than life or liberty. It
wanted four days to complete four years,

when I escaped from what was to havo
been half a life of cruel servitude. I
went back to my home. It was desolate
and deserted. My wife was dead, and
my child was in the house of a stranger.
I stole my child. She did not know
me, for she was but a babe when I was
taken to prison j and she feared nio,
and struggled to free herself from my
arms, and wept and implored to be taken
back to those who had robbed mo of her
love. I have walked day and night,
carrying her in my arms. Avoiding the
highways, I have toiled over rough fields,
through forests, across mountains and
hills, under the burning sun and tlio
chilling dews ; sometimes, believing I
was pursued, I have hidden in hedges,
in ditches, and in caves. My feet havo
been wounded by the broken stones and
rough ways. My hands have been torn by
the thorns and brambles through which
I have forced a passage. I have begged
morsels of black bread from the shep-
herds and peasants, I have gathered
fruit and berries, but I have eaten none
myself, so that she should not suffer
hunger. I have given her the water I
drained from the scanty rivulets, while
I famished with the thiiot of fever.
And yet my child fears me and looks
upon me with horror. To-day I could
go no farther. My strength failed, and
God's temple, that is closed to none,
offered me an asylum. I thought among
some of the dark passages, the cells, the
towers, or even the vaults, I might find
a hiding-place from the searching eye
of justice. But I must have food for
my child and myself, for I am fainting
with hunger, and these bare stones
offer nothing."

He had spoken with a desperate eager-
ness. His features were convulsed, and
his voice was broken with sobs that
ended in a prayer as he clasped his hands
and fell again on his knees, crying,
" Bread ! monseigneur, bread for my
starving child ! "

PART THIRD.

AIHEB.

"Where is she?" inquired Fabien,
ia a suffocated voice, for he felt like one

''sms^^ ^-m i mmAttkimmmm»'iMm^imsi^mM^m0'' '^

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

in ft nightmftro, who arouses himself
only by a strong exertion of liis will.
In all the suftering he had witnessed, he
had never seen a human being so ut-
terly crushed and wretched, and he had
never before listened to a tale of woo
recited witli such pathos and despair.
" Where is she 1 " he repeated ; for the
man's head had fallen on his breast, and
he seemed in a sort of stupor. At the
priest's qiiestion he looked up, and
pointed dilently down the stairs to the
bell tower.

Concealed in an angle of the tower by
a great coil of rope, and almost covered
by a huge projecting gargoyle, carved in
the form of a monster, crouched a child
of about five years. She was amusing
hereclf by thrusting a stone into the
open jaws of the monster, which rolled
out directly, while with a dreary signifi-
cance she persisted in returning what
could not be eaten to the mouth that
could not eat, repeating over and over
in a pitiful, whining voice, "Give me
something to oat ! Give me something
to eat!"

The moment her eyes fell upon Fa-
bien she dropped the stone, and, spring-
ing toward him, seized his hand and
cried imploringly, " Give me something
to cat ! "

The touch of her hand, or the wist-
ful expression of the eyes raised to his,
visibly affected the priest ; for he said in
the gentlest and kindest voice, " Pauvre
petite! Have patience for a few mo-
ments and yo\i shall be fed ; remain here
with yotir father, and I will fetch you
some food at once."

" My father ! Ho is not my father."
And she drew up her little mouth with
scorn, as her eye followed the glance
Fabien directed toward the miserable
creature at his side. " He is not my
father. He is a thief who stole me from
my home, where I had a bed to sleep
in and plenty to eat I hate him ! I
hate him ! " she added vehemently,
while she still clung to the priest's hand.

The convict said not a word, but the
large tears rolled slowly over his hag-
gard face, and dropped one by one on
the pitiful hands he clasped in silent
entreaty.

Fabien glanced fr'om one to the other,
his heart filled with commiseration for

both, while ho gently tried to disengage
his hand from the clinging clasp of the
little child.

At that moment the sound of voices
and the tramping of feet mounting the
stairs, with now and then the clanking
of a spur and the clashing of a sabre,
told that the new-comers were armed.

Tho face of the poor convict gi'cw
more ghastly if possible, and a groan
burst from his full heart as ho said,
" It is the gendarmes. They are after
mo. Where shall I conceal myself?
0, save me, save me ! "

Fabien glanced around. There was
no place safe from the intrusion of the
law. His first impulse was to hide the
poor wretch, but where 1 Below there
were numbers of dark cells and vaults
where he would be as secure as though
he were hidden in his grave ; but here
all was open and exposed to the light of
day. They could not go down, because
of the officers who were ascending, and
above them was nothing but the plat-
form, parapet, and blue heavens.

A few feet below the platform of tho
bell-tower projected a ledge of stono
some fifteen inches wide, that formed
the top of a carved cornice. Looking
eagerly from one of the open arches,
the hunted creature caught sight of
this. If he could drop down to it and
lie close against the face of the tower,
he might escape detection. To think,
in his case, was to act. He clasped the
reluctant child in a frenzied embrace,
kissed the hand of the priest, and then
disappeared through tho open arch.

Fabien watched with a shudder the
thin, brown fingers clutch convulsively
the projecting or5)ament8, as he slid
down to his terrible hiding-place. His
feet touched the ledge, and he writhed,
serpent-like, to a prostrate position. As
his eye fell on the dizzy depths below
him, the priest saw a shiver pass through
his battered frame.

Before Fabien had fairly turned from
the open arch, the helmeted heads of
tho gendarmes appeared above tho
stairs. The leader started back in
astonishment when he found his way
barred by the tall black-robed form of
the young priest. However, he touched
his helmet respectfully, and said, while
he directed his searching glance into

,'«■.--. i.^j,^ ' .tj'.u.M-ia.im ' Si" '

led to disengage
ug clusp of tlio

sound of voices
3t mounting tho
icn the clanking
bing of a sabre,
B were armed.
)r convict gi'cw
c, and a groan
art as ho said,
Tlicy are after
jonccal mj'sclf?

id. There was
intrusion of the
was to hide the
t Below there
cells and vaults
cure as though
^ave ; but here
1 to the light of

down, because
) ascending, and
g but tho plat-
heavens,
platform of the
ledge of stone
le, that formed
rnice. Looking
he open arches,
ftught sight of

down to it and
le of the tower,
ion. To think.

He clasped the
enzied embrace,
priest, and then
10 open arch.

1 a shudder the
;ch convulsively
nts, as he slid
ding-place. His
and he writhed,
ite position. As
y depths below
ver pass through

irly turned from
meted heads of
red above tho
tarted back in
found his way
k-robed form of
ever, he touched
, and said, while
ing glance into

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

every comer of the bell-towor, " We are
in pursuit of an escaped convict, who,
we are assured, took refuge here a short
time ago. Have you seen him ?"

Fabien did not answer at once ; and
■while he hesitated, one of tho men
nudged another, saying, in a low voice,
with a significant wink, " We have him
now, tho priest won't dare to lie."

Fabien did not fear a lie, but he did
fear being detected in one, and there-
fore he did not reply to tho direct ques-
tion of the officer, who fixed upon him
his inquisitorial eye. There was no
evading ; so he said, in a firm and de-
fiant voice, " Yes, I have seen him." "

"Where is he 1"

"I am not obliged to answer that
question."

" What ! " said the officer, taking a
high tone, " ia it possible you wish to
defraud justice by assisting a condemned
convict to escape ] "

" I have offered him no assistance,"
Replied Fabien, stolidly.

Again the officer resorted to the
majesty of the law. "Justice demands
that you should reveal his hiding-place.
Did he descend ] "

" He descended," replied the priest,
curtly.

" How long since 1 "

" A few moments ago."

" That is not true," said the officer,
Bententiously, — " that is not true. My
men have been stationed below, and
every avenue of escape has been guard-
ed since he entered the door leading to
this tower."

By this time four or five more armed
men had mounted to the platform, each
equally eager to be the first to discover
the hiding-place of the poor trembling
wretch.

" Here is the child," cried one, as his
eye fell upon the little girl, almost
hidden by the mantle of the priest.

" Yes, he carried a child in his arms,"
said another; "here is the child, but
where is the man 1 "

A feeling of terror began to take
possession of the ignorant gendarmes;
they thought some singular transfor-
mation had taken place, and that the
priest and the convict were one and
the same.

The officer, seeing the confusion of his

men, determined to make another effort
to solve the enigma. Taking hold of
the impish-looking little child, who still
clung to Fabien's mantle, he placed her
before him, and raising his finger threat-
eningly, said, in a voice of awful majesty,
"Remember. Nothing but the truth.
Where is your father 1 " ,

" In Chateauroux," replied the child,
gravely.

Whereupon, in spite of tho majesty of
the law, all laughed, except the priest and
the questioner. The child's countenance
never changed as she turned her great
eyes seriously from one to the other.
The officer looked sternly at his men,
and said, " No trifling ! " then to the
child in the same tone of command,
" Listen again. What is your name?"

"Aimie."

" Who brought you here 1"

" A wicked man."

"Where is he?"

"There," said she, pointing to the
arch through which the convict had
disappeared.

PART FOURTH.

ASSISTINO TO CAPTURE ONE's SELF.

Fabien sprang at the child, dashing
down the little hand that pointed to
the arch ; but he was too late, all saw
the action, and all rushed simultane-
ously to the opening.

"Yes, here he is,. sure enough," came
from the one who was so fortunate as
to thrust his head out first and there-
by to make the important discovery.
" Here he is, but morhleu ! how are we
to get at him 1 "

" PreciaemerU, how are we to get at
him 1 " said another, peeping out. " No
one will risk his life by going down
there for him."

And now each one was as anxious to
shirk the glory of the capture as he
had been before to desire it.

" Is there really much danger 1" said
the officer, venturing forward and look-
ing down, while he debated in his mind
whether he had not gained enough
honor during the expedition by the
clever way in which he had led the
miserable little child to point out the

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

hiding-place of her father. "I will
give some one else a chance to distin-
guish himself," ho thought, as ho drew
back.

By tho time the poor convict knew
ho was discovered, the strongest desire
in his heart was to bo rescued from his
perilous situation, for ho could not sup-
port his cramiHid and painful position,
and he felt that to move was to plunge
liimsclf into the abyss below. The de-
sire for liberty is tlie strongest feeling
of our nature, next to the desire for
life, and that is paramount to all else.
Feeling that death was inevitable if he
remained there, the poor wretch was now
as anxious to bo captured as he was before
to evade it; but how to effect it, was
tho question that floated through his
confused brain. If he writhed to an
upright position and stretched his arms
to their extreme length, he could not
reach tho projecting ledge from which
he had dropped, and tho face of the
smooth stone presented nothing to cling
to. Despair took possession of his soul.
Would they abandon him to his fate,
starving, famishing, suspended above a
frightful obyasl The galleys, the chains,
the toil under the scorching sun, the
privation, the misery, anything was
better than tho horrible death he con-
templated from his dizzy height.

When tho officer drew back with his
generous resolve, Fabien drew near and
looked down again on the suffering
man ; while the child, always at his side,
peeped timidly over, and then with a
sigh of relief said, in a voice loud
enough to fall distinctly upon the ear
of her father, " I am so glad he is
♦here, and that no one will help to get
him up."

Again Fabien saw a shiver convulse
the poor creature. " 3Ialheureuse / " he
cried, pushing the child away ; " are
you an imp of Satan 1 " Then turning
to the men, " Some of you throw a rope
to this unhappy wretch, or in a moment
his brains will be dashed out on the
pavement below."

" yes, a rope," they all cried.
"Why did we not think of that at
first 1"

In a moment the active executors of
justice appropriated a part of the coil
attached to the bell, and lowered it to

the wretched convict, who clutched it
convulsively, thereby eagerly assisting
to capture himself. As soon as ho was
drawn to tho platform of the tower, tho
heroic officer stepped forward and, lay-
ing his hand upon tho exhausted
man, pronounced him his prisoner.
Weak from fasting, fear, and the r.ior-
tion to save himself, ho made no re-
sistance ; but there was sumething
more touching than resistance in tho
look of pitiful reproach ho tunied upon
Fabien, as ho said, " You betrayed me 1 "

The priest did not reply ; he preferred
that tho convict should believe it to
have been he, rather than the child,
who made known his hiding-place.

" No, it was not. monseigueur," re-
plied the officer in a voice of severe
reproof. " Much to my surprise, ho
tried to defend justice by refusing to
tell us where you were. If it had not
been for the child, you would have es-
caped, and we should have had our
labor for nothing, and tho majesty of
the law would have been dishonored,
and justice defrauded, and — and — "
Here tho indignant speaker's eloquence
failed him, and he took refuge in a fit of
coughing.

" Was it my child who betrayed
me 1 " said the convict in broken tones.

"She says she is not your child,"
continued tho officer, who had recovered
his voice. " If she is not your child,
what right have you with her 1 "

" mon capitaine ! she is my child,"
he cried, wringing his hands with an-
guish. " But she does not know it. She
was a babe when I went to prison, and
it is four years ; she does not know mo ;
beside, look at me ! " , And he glanced at
his tatters with deplorable self-abasemeftit.
" I am a horror to myself, it is no won-
der tho child fears me." Then, covering
his face with his hands, he burst into
sobs that shook him as though he were
a reed swayed by tho wind.

"Come, that is enough," said tho
officer, turning his back to his men;
"you must go with us, the law must
bo enforced."

"Yes, the law must be enforced,"
echoed the others.

" Come here, my child, come to your
father," said the prisoner, trying to
smile encouragingly as he held out his

ho clutched it
gcrly assisting
soon as ho was
the tower, tho
ward and, lay-
ho exhausted
his prisoner,
and the r-ior-
I made no ro-
as something
istance in tho
10 turned upon
betrayed me 1 "
f ; he preferred
. believe it to
han the child,
iding-place.
nseigneur," re-
roicc of severe

Y surprise,

by refusing to
If it had not
would have es-
have had our
the majesty of
len dishonored,
and — and — "
ker's eloquence
efuge in a fit of

who betrayed
1 broken tones.
it your child,"
had recovered
not your child,'
hherV
e is my child,"
[lands with an-
(t know it. She

to prison, and
3 not know mo ;
id he glanced at
) self-abasement.
;lf, it is no won-

Then, covering

he burst into

though he were

nd.

ugh," said the

t to his men;
the law must

; be enforced,"

1, come to your
)ner, trying to
he held out his

A CROWN FROM THE SPE.UI.

arms. Tho smile wos a ghastly effort,
moi-u pitiful than his sobs.

Fabion pushed tho reluctant little
creature toward him ; ho clutched her,
and drew her to his embrace, almost
stifling her with tears and kisses.

"Poor little child," ho said with
intense love in his voice ; " my precious
AinicSc, my little darling, you have for-
gotten your poor father. Once you loved
mc so you would cry when I left you,
and hold out your little dimpled hands
and scream with joy when I returned ;
and when I took you in my arms you
would rub your soft cheek against my
hair and beard. my God ! I have
folt your loving caresses, your soft arms
around my neck, for all these years.
Tliat memory has kept me alivo. It
has been ligiit and air, bread and water,
hope and faith, all, all ; for that I did
not sink into a besotted brute. I
strovo to keep alive all that was good
in my nature ; morning and night I
prayed to God that ho would not
obliterate that memory from my heart.
Sometimes, when the weight of my
chains pressed too heavily, and I feared
my reason would leave me forever, and
I should be in utter darkness, the
thought of thy bright little face would
lighten all around mo. It was for thee
I tried to escape, that I might hold thee
once again to my heart, that I might
feel thy little face pressed against mine,
that I might hear thee say, Father. But
thou hast forgotten me, and thou hast
only fear and horror of me. I must go
back again to my chains, to suffering,
despair, and death, with the knowledge
that my child fears me and hates me.
Does not your little he.irt tell you I am
your father] Is there no memory of
your sweet infancy to plead for me % "
he implored. " My heart is breaking !
My child, tell me but once you love
mc, call me father but once, and I will
go back to my imprisonment happy."

" No, no, you are not my father, and
I do not love you," she cried, passion-
ately struggling to free herself from his
embrace. " I love my good papa in
Chateauroux, and I want to go back to
him. I am afraid of you and I hate
you."

The countenance of the convict fell
into settled hopelessness; he put the

child away from him suddenly, and
turning toward Fabien, who stood witli
bent head and folded arms, so absorbed
in thought as to seem uumiudful of what
was passing, ho said in a voice of intense
entreaty : " Monseigneur, have pity on
mo ; you see how my heart is torn, you
have witnessed my agony ; for the love
of God, take care of my child. Do not
let her come to want and sin ; teach her
to be virtuous ; never speak to her of her
father, it is better she should not know
what he has been. I leave her to you.
If I survive the term of my imprison-
ment, I will demand her from you. If
death frees me from my sufferings, here-
after, in the presence of God, you must
account to me for my child."

Without looking at Aim^e, who had
drawn near the officer and was playing
with the tassel of his sash, he tottered
to the head of the staircase and began
to descend.

The men gathered near the arch were
looking persistently toward the Seine,
while the officer seemed to be clearing
his vision from some obstruction. When
they saw the convict turn to go down,
they touched the fronts of their helmeta
to the priest, and followed their prisoner.

PART FIFTH.

A STKANOE LEGACY.

Fabien stood for a moment looking
with feelings of mingled distrust, pity,
and dislike at the child thus suddenly
thrust upon him.

"What am 1 to do with herl" he
thought. " Such an unfeeling little
wretch, and such a strange-looking ob-
ject. She is so ugly one can never love
her, and she is so wicked one can scarcely
pity her. What am I to do with her t
She is certainly a most troublesome
legacy to bo left to a priest."

When he thought she was a strange
looking object, he thought correctly ; for
a more impish, weird-looking littlo crea-
ture, with folded hands and ridiculously
grave face, never disturbed the peace of
a celibate.

Her head was too large and too well
developed for her body ; her great eyes

■ ^ ' ';»J<VfeWWi.*iJ^.^JM^i4:W l ); fr ,5y^\^\ i t, < r,:;,j

-<^

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

had tho thoughtful, anxious expression
of one well acquainted with life and its
cares ; her lips, serious and firmly closed,
had no line or curve of dimpled child-
hood ; her forehead was low and full, and
seemed already to bear traces of deep
thought ; yet there was something in
her face that attracted the interest of
tho priest. He saw plainly stamped
there embryo passions of startling in-
tensity. On the little face were written
a strong will, powerful cunning, and
a deep intelligence, such as are rarely
seen in a child. There was something
exceedingly graceful in her move-
ments, in spite of her disproportionate
head, — a clinging, serpent-like charm
that seemed to coil around the priest
against his inclination. There was a
treacherous softness and sweetness in
her voice, an inscrutable puzzling ex-
pression in her eyes, that always evaded
his glance, a something in her tout en-
semble that disturbed and fascinated
him.

While Fabien looked at her, making
his mental estimate of her character,
Bhe was also gravely surveying him
from head to foot. Her eyes wandered
slowly over his handsome face, down his
black-robed, elegant figure, to the small
feet that stood so firmly, and turned
outward at just the right angle. In
appearance he was a most prepossessing
canon, and the child felt it, for she
drew near him and slipped her little
hand into his, saying, "You are so
handsome I like you, and I will go
with you." Then she added in a more
childish tone, as nature asserted itself,
" I am so hungry. Will you give me
something to eat 1 "

" Yes, come with me, and you shall
eat your fill, although you deserve to
starve and die, you wicked little crea-
ture," he said, impatiently, as he drew
her after him down the stairs. •' Why
did you tell the soldiers where your
father was 1"

" Because I wanted them to take him
away," she replied, firmly. " I am glad
he is gone. You will give me some-
thing to eat, and a bed to sleep in,
won't youl and let me stay with you
always. I like you even better than
my papa in Chateauroux. He is old and
poor, but he was good to mo, and gave

me a goat, and plenty to cat ; but that
wicked old man took me away to starve
me, and made me sleep on tho ground
with nothing but his ragged, dirty jacket
to cover me ; and all day I cried for
my papa and my little goat, and ho
would not take me back, but walked
always so fast, telling me we should soon
come to the sea, where we shoidd find a
great ship, and afterward plenty to eat
in another country across the water.
Now I am glad the soldiers did not let
him go any farther, because I have found
you, and I like you ; you are not a bit
like Monsieur le Cur6 in Chutcauroux ;
he is fat and ugly, but you are so hand-
some." And she raised her eyes to the
face of the priest with such a look of
earnest admiration that he almost
blushed. Flattery even from a child,
was pleasant to him ; ho had known so
little of the sweet amenities of life, that
its newness charmed him, and softened
his heart to the little serpent who was
creeping into it even without his knowl-
edge and against his will.

When Fabien crossed the nave to the
eastern portal it seemed as though he
had been a long time away, and that
something had changed in his life. A
feeling like a nightmare himg around
him, and he would almost have believed
the whole scene to have been a dream,
or the working of a diseased imagina-
tion, if it had not been for the little
creature who trotted at his side. The
old woman at the door uttered an ex-
clamation of surprise, and crossed her-
self, when he raised the curtain and
pushed the child out before him. She
did not know what had transpired at
the western portal, by which the gen-
darmes had entered, so she knew noth-
ing of the capture of the convict, and
consequently could not understand
where the canon had found the child.

" You did not get her from Heaven,"
she exclaimed, while she regarded the
sudden apparition with fear and curi-
osity; "no, you did not get her from
Heaven, for she looks as though she
came from below. I am afraid she is a
changeling ! " And she crossed herself
again.

Fabien smiled as he said, " I found
her in the bell-tower, feeding a water-
spout with stone. She may have como

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

it ; but thnt
ray to starve

tl»c ground

, dirty jacket

I cried for

oat, and ho

l)\it wuliicd
I tthould BOjn
ihould find a
)lenty to eat
the water,

did not let
[ have found
re not a bit
hutcauroux ;
are so hand-
• eyes to the
h a look of

he almost
rom 0, child,
id known so

of life, that
nd softened
jnt who was
;t his knowl-

nave to the
3 though ho
y, and that
his life. A
ling around
live believed
n a dream,
cd imagina-
)r the little
side. The
ered an cx-
rossed her-
urtain and
him. She
inspired at
1 the gen-
knew uoth-
onvict, and
mderstand
le child,
n Heaven,"
garded the
and curi-
her from
though she
aid she is a
ssed herself

"I found
ig a water-
have Gomo

from below, I cannot say, but in any
case she won't harm you, my good wo-
man. You must not bo afraid of her,
you must take her home to your daugh-
ter directly. Poor little thing I she is
hungry and dirty ; give her plenty of
food, wash her, and dross her in clean
clothes." And putting some silver into
the old woman's hand, ho added, im-
pressively, " Ucmeml)er to make her
comfortable, ami to-morrow I will give
you as much more."

The ol<l crouo hesitated. " Go at
once and do as I tell you ; to-morrow I
will find somo other place for her, but
to-day you must take her to your
daughter," he said, sternly.

There was no refusing the canon
when he spoke in that tone, and espe-
cially when he was so generous with his
silver. So tho old woman hobbled up,
took her box for alms, her dirty knit-
ting, and her three-leggod stool under
one arm, while she reached out hor
other hand reluctantly to the child,
who still clung to the priest's gown.

" Go," he said, gently disengaging
himself, — "go and got somo food, and
to-morrow I will find you a bettor
home."

She was very hungry, and so she was
docile, and willing to bo taken any-
where if she might find something to
eat ; but before she wont she clasped the
hand of the priest passionately, kissed
it, and left a tear upon it.

The toar of tho child acted like a
charm on the heart of Fabien, for ho
said to himself, as ho walked slowly
toward the bishop's palace, " I believe
I shall learu to love the wretched lit-
tle thing."

PART SIXTH.

HOW A PHILOSOPHER HAT DIB.

The Count do Clermont was dying.
For many days the servants had passed
in and out, up and down the stairs, and
through the long corridors of the cha-
teau, with soft footsteps, grave faces,
and compressed lips. All the outward
semblances of sorrow were observed,
whether tho heart suffered or not. Those
who serve for gain seldom love, and the

dozens of obsequious lackeys who bowed
before the Count do Clermont wore no
exceptions to the great mass of hire-
lings.

The only real mourner, the only one
among all that surrounded him who felt
any sincere love for the profligate old
Count, was his only child, a boy of
twelve years, who sat day after day
within Boimd of his father's voice,
watching with intense anxiety the face
of the physician, who passed in and out,
absorbed in his effort to prolong for a
little time a life that had been of no
benefit to mankind ; for the highest
aim of tho dying man had been pleas-
ure, and tho only generous deeds he had
done had boon tho heaping of thousands
of favors upon himself. Ho suffered no
pangs of remorae, no twinges of con-
science for tho post, no fears nor doubts
for the future. His philosophy was
simple, and easily defined. Life was
given to mau that he might enjoy it.
Ho had fulfilled his duty, and therefore
ho hod nothing with which to reproach
himself.

While speaking to his physician, who,
because he expected a legacy, showed
tho tonderest sympathy, ho said, " I am
dying, it is true, but I have lived as
long as one ought ; when the power of
oi\joymont dies, the body should die
also. What use is there of spreading a
feast before a man who has no appetite
for it 1 When the ear is dull, the taste
blunted, the eye dim, draw a curtain
between the banquet and tho automaton
who is no longer a weloomo guest. Life
is day, and death is night. In tho day
we feast, we sing, we dance, and at night
wo sleep. In my youth I studied Vol-
taire, and the light of his intelloot illu-
mined all the chambers of my mind. I
laid out my future according to his
teaching, and I have carefully followed
my plan. ' I have let no opportunity for
enjoyment pass unimproved. I have
pressed all tho sweetness fiom life. It
has nothing more to give me ; therefore
I am contented that it is finished."

Tho boy with the spiritual fiice,
dreamy eyos, and thoughtful smilo,
sometimes heard fragments of those
conversations, and wondered if it wero
true that life is day, and death is night,
and eternity an unbroken sleep. Strange

!<^^^H^W,^y ■ ■■ ' ,4. ' ^v. ! B.J,,■<>4^BVa i ^;tfl^^^^u

A CROWN I'ROM THE SPEAR.

and vftgiio drenms floated through his
mind, wliich the reniurks of his futlier
to the piiysiciiin stuWy disturbed.

The day had worn away in pain and
distress to the dying Count, yet he
alTectcd not to feel that ho was siiffer-
i.ig. A smile always hovered around
his pallid lips, his hands were folded
over the silken cover of his bod. There
was no moaning, no restlessness, no
coiuplaining ; ho was determined his
death sho\ild bo an example of fortitude
and resignation. During his life he
had never had cause to murmur at the
sharp strokes of ungrateful fortune ; a
favorable breeze had carried him pros-
perously across the broad ocean ; and he
was now entering the last port with
what ho believed to be flying colors.

" I will show you how a philosopher
should die," ho said more than once to
his physician, as he raised his heavy
eyes to a portrait of Voltaire that h\mg
before his bed. He had yet to learn
that the death of a philosopher and the
death of a sinner may teach one and
the same lesson.

Darkness gathered in the great cham-
bers and deserted corridors, and in the
silent anteroom where the boy dreamer
slept from weariness and watchings, with
the open book that ho no longer cared
to read clasped in his hands. All was
silent throughout the ch&teau, although
a mighty conqueror, with a shadowy
retinue, was even then approaching.

The door of the anteroom softly
opened, so softly that it did not disturb
the young sleeper, and Fabien entered
the sick-room of the Count. The phy-
sician, in spite of his anticipated legacy,
overcome by weariness, nodded at his
post, and did not awake until the priest
touched his ai-m and said softly, " I will
watch while you take your dinner. Do
not hurry, for I have some private busi-
ness with M. le Comte."

The heavy eyes of the sick man
lighted up a little, and the painful
smile broadened and deepened, as the
canon took his cold hand in what seemed
a friendly clasp, but which in reality
was as treacherous as tho kiss of
Judas.

Perhaps the intellect, illuminated by
the near approach of death, understood
more clearly than ever before ; for some-

thing of the real character of tho man
who bent over him evidently impressed
itself on the mind of the dying Count.
He tried to flx his dim, wandering eyes
on the face of Fabien. There was
something of anxious scrutiny in their
regard, and an inflectiuu of doubt and
uneasiness in his voice, when he said,
" Is all arranged with the bishop, and
are you ready to cuter upon your new
diitiesl"

"Yes," replied the canon, "all is
arranged, and I am quite prepared to
show you how deeply I appreciate the
friendship and confidence of which you
have given me so great a proof."

Again the Count's eyes wandered to
the face of the priest, and he said
drowsily and at intervals, " I cannot be
mistaken, — I am never mistaken ; I
can read the human heart — as one
reads an open book. I have studied
you carefully and closely, — when you
were unconscious of it, — and I have
found nothing to condemn. You are a
scholar, — you are a philosopher, — you A i

know how to live, — and knowing how
to live teaches one how to die. My
son will be instructed by a great mind,
— one who understands the true phi-
losophy of life. I am sure I have
chosen well, — you have a strong will
and a decided character, — you will cor-
rect the feebleness and vacillation of
his. I have confidence in you, — and I
know you will never abuse it. You
will be true to the trust 1 repose on
you." With the last words his voice
gathered strength, and his eyes were
filled with entreaty as he fixed them
on the inscrutable face of his com-
panion.

Fabien clasped closer the hand that
lay in his, and replied earnestly : " I
will be true to the trust ; your wishes
shall be obeyed to the letter, your con-
fidence in me will make my duty the
most sacred of ray life. I will instruct
him faithfully. I will strive to make
him profound in knowledge, pure in
heart, and strong in will and self-gov-
ernment. I will hold up to him the
lives of the great philosophers as a
standard to which ho must toil to at-
tain. I will teach him to live worthily, .
both by example and precept. I speak '
with a single heart, au earnest inteu-

pf tho man
imprcHsod

f'mn Count.

doring eyes
ITliero was
|iy in their
1 doubt and
pn lio said,
bishop, and
your new

|n, "all is
irc])arcd to
[rociato tho
which you

lOt."

audorcd to
id ho said

cannot bo
istakcn ; I

— as one
vc studied
- when you
md I have
You are a
•her, — you
lowing how
die. My
^cat mind,

true phi-
iro I have
strong will
ou will cor-
sillation of
u, — and I

1 it. You
repose on
his voice

eyes were
fixed them

his corn-
hand that
lestly: "I
our wishes
your con-
duty the
ill instruct
> to make
, pure in
1 self-gov-
) him the
lers as a
ioil to at-
worthily,

I speak
est inteu-

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

tion. Host in poacol your son and
hoir shall bo a most sacrod trust."

Although the voice of tho priest was
gently modidatcd to that consoling
ovonncss, that improssivo calm, which in-
dicates a serene and truthful nature,
and although tho clear eyes looked
straight and steadily into tho failing
sight of tho dying man, there was noth-
ing in their gaze that reassured him.
On the contrary, their expression seemed
to torment him, for tho thin hands
moved restlessly, clutching at what
they could not hold in their relaxing
grasp, and his head turned imeasily on
the pillow, while his oyes sought every
part of the room with intense anxiety.
Ho seemed like one who, believing
himself on solid ground, finds it sud-
denly giving away beneath his feet, and
strives to clutch at impossibilities to
save himself. His reason was sinking
below his grasp, receding beyond his
roach, and ho was vainly trying to cling
to it a little longer. And just at that
moment, when ho needed something
substantial and sure to lean upon, one
after another the foundations beneath
him were falling away, and his struc-
ture built on sand was floating a wreck
toward the unexplored ocean of eternity.
And with all this came an uncertainty,
a bewilderment ; he had lost his way in
the twilight, profound darkness was fast
surrounding him, and he had neither
compass or guiding star. He groped
helplessly in his obscurity, but it was
too late ; he could not find his path, his
philosophy had blinded him. In his
anguish he forgot to be a hero, he for-
got to be composed and dignified, and,
like any other suffering, dying mortal,
ho threw his arms wildly about, strug-
gled to a sitting position, and cried out
for the doctor.

Fabien quietly laid him back on his
pillow, took the restless hands firmly in
his strong grasp, fixed his metallic eyes
on the drawn and pallid face, and said
in a hard and distinct tone, " It is true
you are dying, you have but a few mo-
ments to live, and there is something
pressing upon your conscience like a
heavy w^eight. It will relieve you to
confess it ; I am ready to hear you,
speak while you have the time."

The hand, half palsied by death,

groped blindly fbr tho littlo silver l»cll
tliat lay on tho silken cover of tho bed,
while ho gasped in a weak voice, " Voti
have deceived mo — it is her fiico that
bends over mo — my child — Claiido —
call tho doctor. It is not too lato — I
will change my will — I will not loavo
him to you — I will not die with this
doubt pressing on mo. Will no one
come — Claude — Claude I "

Whenever tho hand approached tho
hell, Fabien gently drew it back, while
ho tried to fix tliu wandering mind with
his firm, steady gaze. Ho wished to bo
alone with tho dying Count, for he Iw-
lieved that in the last agony, in the su-
preme moment, when the soul was
wrenc'iing itself free from its prison of
clay, ho might wring a secret from tho
sufferer, — a secret ho had striven to
possess, and around which centred all his
plans of ambition and future aggrandize-
ment. Sooner than he expected tho grim
tyrant had seized his victim, and tho
priest know tho stniggle woidd be brief.
"Is there nothing you wish to con-
fess 1 " ho urged ivgain. But ho was too
late. A mortal spasm convulsed tho
face of tho dying. He sprang from his
pillow, threw tip his arms, and almost
shrieking tho name " Genevieve," fell
back in the arms of Fabien, motion-
loss.

The philosopher, tho scholar, tho
courted leader of fashion, the gay, prof-
ligate Count do Clermont, had finished
a career that had afforded him much
worldly pleasure and satisfaction, and
left him no pangs of remorse or regret,
for so he had boastingly said a few days
before his death. He was dead ; tho
secret of his wrongs to others, his fol-
lies, his passions, were locked forever
within his frozen heart, only to be re-
vealed before that Judge who is most
just as well as merciful.

PART SEVENTH.

THE YOUNG COUNT,

Fabien laid the Count do Clermont
back on his pillow, and stood looking
at him with a strange expression on his
face, a blending of triumph, defeat, and

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

pity, if one can undorBtaiid thoBO di-
vurao paHflions being nppiircnt at tlio
Biuno moment. Fur a lon^f timo lie
remained Hilcnt ; then ho Hai<l, in a
mournful voiee, " (Jenoviovc, unhappy
noul, thy inline v/nn tho laut upon hiu
lipH. (), why did not death Hparu him
a Uttlo loufrer ! A few momentH more
of mortal anguish would have wrung
tho Becret from him ; but now it iu too
late, it is too lato, I have failed in this.
I cniinted upon it too Hurcly ; death haB
defeated mo ; now the Htudy of my life
will bo to diacover it by some other
nieaiiB."

Then ho stooped lower and looked
long and earnestly on tho pallid face
death was fast changing into Bottled
calm. It must have been a wonderfully
beautiful face in youth, for the features
were perfect, and there was a certain
nobility stamped upon the broad brow
on which time had ploughed but light
furrows. It seemed as though tho
priest's gazo was riveted by a spell, bo
long did ho remain motionless as a
statue.

All was silent ; profound darkness
filled tho great chamber, only broken
by the feeble flame of the night-lamp,
that fell over tho silken curtains, the
face of tho dead, and tho black robe of
the priest. The wind came down the
chimney with a piercing wail ; a gust
rattled the casement, and startled Fa-
bien from his absorlied contemplation ;
but he only changed his position to fold
bis arms, and still gaze on the form
before him, while ho said in a low voice
that was tremulous with some hidden
emotion, " Poor gontlo soul, how she
loved and suffered ! she was pierced with
woes, but from the spear she gained
the crown. AVill alio l)e glad, in Para-
dise, to know her name was the last on
his lipsl I could almost forgive him
if I could believe he had over felt one
pang of regret while living, ever dropped
a tear at her unhappy fate, over allowed
a thought of her misery to disturb
bis riots and debauches. No, no, he
crushed her mercilessly and left her
to die without care, without pity. I
would have gloated over his death-
agony if it had been prolonged as long
as her pain ; but no, it was brief. It
was over too soon, the dawning of

remorse was put out before ho oxpcri-
encod its full i>owor. Ho diod aH ho
lived, insensible. If there is a hell,
it is for such as ho. Thanks Ito to
(>o<l, ho cannot disturb her in Para-
dise."

With thoBO words, and without an-
other look, ho turned and went into
the antoroom where tho young Count
still slimibored. Laying his hand ou
the Iwy's head ho 8ai(l very gently,
"Claudfo."

Tho sleeper started up and rubbed
his eyes confusedly as he turned toward
tho room of his father ; his first thought
was for him.

Fabien put his arm around him and
drew him away from tho door.

"Is papa sleeping 1" ho inqirirod as
ho dropped into his chair again, for ho
was overcome with weariness.

" Yes," replied tho canon, " ho sleeps,
and ho will never awaken. My boy, ho
is dead, and you must bear your loss
with courage."

Claude was no hero, ho was only a
child, and ho hoard nothing but the
words "he is dead." They awakened
him thoroughly and sharply enough.
Springing from his chair, ho fell on his
knees, and, burying his face in tho
priest's mantle, burst into loud weep-
ing.

Fabien made no effort to cousolo him.
" He must weep," ho thought ; " tears
and sorrow are the inheritance his father
has left him. ' The sins of his father
shall be visited upon him.' The spear
he sharpened for another must pierce
tho soul of the innocent. Poor child !
one would scarce envy you your patri-
mony."

After a few moments of passionate
weeping, Claude looked with something
like grieved surprise into the stony face
that bent over him ; but seeing neither
pity nor tenderness there, he turned, be-
wildered and affrighted, toward tho room
where his father lay.

The canon took him by the arm and
said coldly, "You have no one there.
Leave the dead and turn to the living.
Life is before you, and you have noth-
ing to do with death."

" my father ! " sobbed the boy as
the priest led him from the room, now
fast filling with the excited servants.

> •■

ho oxpcri-
liod aH ]io
iH n hull,

ikH 1)0 to

in Para-

Ithout an-
wont into
mg Count
hand ou
■y goutljr,

id nibbed
c(I toward
t tlioiight

1 him and

iqirirod as
tin, for ho

ho sleeps,
y boy, ho
your loss

as only a
but the
nwakened
■ enough,
ell on his

in tho
)iid woop-

iisolo him.
t ; " tears

1 his father
his father
rhe spear
ist pierce
)or child !
our patri-

lassionnte
lomething
itony face
g neither
imed, be-
tho room

arm and
ne there.
16 living,
ive noth-

ic boy as
om, now
rants.

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAH

BOOK SECOND.
CHATEAU DE CLKKMONT.

PART FIRST.

VADIRN, TIIK AKCIinKACON.

^ Ofa'tle reader, — for all readers nro

gentle, except critics, and it is fuir to
prcHiiiuo they would be, if their profcs-
siunal reputation did not recpiiro thcni
to be just, — is it allowed to us devour-
ers of time and paper to swallow ten
long years at one draught 1 — ten long
yean during wliich kingdums are lost
and won ; nations Iwaten down in the
dust ; republics created, tried, and
disproved ; govonimonts overthrown .:
principalities crushed ; new doctrines
promulgated and explored ; millions
born, millions wedded, and millions
buried ; tragedies without number ;
woes repeated in every form ; joys
newly tasted and become distasteful ;
the birth, tho growth, tho death of
love ; friendship betrayed, trust de-
ceived, and hope disappointed. But as
these events during this time have no im-
mediate connection with our story, hero
they can have no interest for the reader ;
therefore we will lot them slipquietly into
tho river of time, and leave them to float
away with other lost years.

Methinks you, sweet maiden, with
soft eyes and smiling lips, who read a
novel as you smell a rose, crushing it
in your slender fingers and throwing it
away after you have extracted all tho
sweetness, will bless the author who
leaves out of his books all the dry-as-
dust years. And you, weary matron
and cankered man of care, who take up
a romance as a respite from daily duty
and profound thought, would find little
pleasure in the uninteresting details of
a boy's growing and a priest's schem-
ing. Therefore we will say to the dead
years, rest in peace ! and pray to be
allowed to present our dramatis personce
under the most favorable auspices.

The private study in the Ch&teau de
Clermont, whore Fabien, now the Arch-

deacon, spent the greater part of his
tiniu, wim a Htudy noiiiinally and actu-
ally, fur a niiiru bizarre combination was
never grouped together within four
wuHh. IluHHot FlandorH leather hung
from tho ceiling to tho floor, covered
with wickedly ({uaint desigiiH enibosHed
in gold ; procosHums of dancing satyrs ;
leering faiiiis, and voluptuous n^iiiphs ;
grinning fiends torturing weeping crea-
tures ; demons twisting serpent-like tails
around monsters half Inimuii and half
beast ; withered hags with diabolical
faces, pointing lean fingers at struggling
souls being drawn into dark chasms by
long-nailed imps. All the horrors of
Orgagna's Last Judgment, mingled with
the dissolute grace of tho I'ompeian
frescos, were portrayed on these lofty
walls. In one corner stood a gigantio
figure clad in armor which may havo
been worn by that Robert Conito do
Clermont who received a blow in his
brains, as the French historian graphi-
cally has it, at a tournament given by
his brother, Philip III. ; and as the same
historian adds that the Conite Robert
was altogether handsome and of au as-
tonishing height, the remarkable size of
the armor goes to prove tho tradition.
However, no joyous young face now
smiled from its iron casement ; only u
grinning skull represented the head that
once had supported the plumed helmet.
Between pedestals upholding, one tho
figure of the Madonna, and the other
a crowned Bacchus, stood a curious old
cabinet, covered with hieroglyphics, and
filled with stuffed serpents, dried bats,
and crumbling bones which must have
belonged to an order of creation long
since extinct. Over the nmntcl-piece
hung a Titian ; doubtless the great mas-
ter had designed it for a Venus, but, to
please some virtuous ecclesiastic, had
changed it to a Magdalen. There was
neither penitence nor sorrow in the
sensual face that smiled from the glow-
ing canvas ; neither did the scanty and

aBjjiMjjjj i . ' ma«HMBaj ' Ma» a asi^-KrtM^ww!J».' i'-i» Jujf,

ill

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

tniiiHpurciit (lrniM>ry coiicchI duo lino of
tliu V(ilii|)tii()iiM loriii. If it wuM li Mii^
diiluii, it wim tliu Niiiner, luit tliu i>uiii
tout. AImivu tliu iViiino wuru croMttod
Hdvcral ri)riiii(lulili)-lii<ikiii^ wihreH nnil
cliiir^crH, wliicli Horvi'd for u luick^ruiiiitl
to n (K'licRtc Tulcdu Nuurd with an ox-
quiMitt'ly fiipiivi'd liilt. A jmir of iiii-
tii|iio liron/u iirim (inininoiiti'd ciu'li ond
of tlio mniiti'l picci', uiid in flio contro ii
LoiiiH Xl\'. clock initrkcd tliu lioiir. On
a lu'iivy olidiiy tiiMo, wifli eliilxinitt'ly
carvod feet, Htood a liniHH tii|«)(l, with a
hrdii/o cut |i«'rcht'd gravely on itrt odno.
A Hinall cnicililu contiiinin^ a ^TccniHli
liipiid Hat on tlio cxtiuguiHlicd onilicrH.
A );l<>ho, hoiir-j^laHR, Btiuaro, and coni-
jiaHHOH, with nmny ffconiotrical inNtni
niuntH, lay cardoHHly around, intonnixcd
with half-open rolls of yellow pnrcli-
inont coverofl with cabalistic characterH,
nncicnt inittHalH, and old buokH with
worm-oaton covers. Ueforc a Venetian
inirri>r, on an altar of vcnlr niiti<ine mar-
ble, was a terra-cotta statue of our Sa-
vioiir, by Lucca dclla Kobbia. The
dying Christ was fearfully distorted,
and the disciples who surrounded hitii
looked like brigands. An ancient fire-
place, setting forth in bas-relief the tri-
umphs of Jupiter, begiiniing with the
uot very chaste story of Danac, con-
tained some smouldering logs, upheld
by irons in the form of centaurs clasj)-
ing their hands above their shagg}'
heads. Before this firo, and near the
table, in a high-backed carved chnir
which a king of Franco might have
liked, sat Fabien, handsome, elegant,
composed, and scrupulously neat in his
dress. His srnnll polished shoes with
silver buckles rested on a rich Persian
rug, over which fell his crimson corded
robe. The narrow linen band that en-
circled his throat, and the cuffs that
fell over his hands, were of immaculate
purity. The rings of his glossy hair
curled over the edge of Ids small purple
cap and around his white forehead ; and
his cleanly shaven face, clear ejes, and
firm mouth seemed in perfect harmony
with every detail of his dress. Looking
at him as ho sat there, some would have
said, " He is a sticcessful man " ; more,
" He is a good man " ; and others, " He
is a great man." The air of refinement
about him denoted worldly prosperity,

and thcrn was nothing in the placid
brow, tinu mouth, and earncHt eyes that
iH'tokunutI a weird nature, an uiidiiu
ambition, a faithleHiineHH und liypoeriNy
of tho deepest dyo. So far l.iM ajipear-
auco duceivetl onu ; but there was noth-
ing HpuriouH in the stamp tluit profoiiiid
thought, constunt stmly, and earet'iil
eulturu had inijireHsed upon his lace,
ilu miJi a proH|>erous man. lie had sue-
ee<'ded beyond even his niuMt iirdent
ox]iectati(nis. Hu waa no longer the
jMior scholar of the college of St. Vin-
cent, tho young and<lreaniy philosopher
who went hungry that ho might have
books, and slept cold that ho might not
sleep much ; who know cvoything that
scionco could teach, and yet was very
ignorant of tho refinements of life.
Now hu was par fxni/<iice above most
of those who had despiBcd him in his
humble days. At thirty-fivu he was a
high dignitary of tho Chiireh, with souls
in his care, austere, grave, Hcrioim, and
imposing. Tho children of tho choir,
the acolytes, tho clerks, tho sacristans,
tho poor worshippers, all reverenced
him when ho passed slowly across tho
choir of Notre Dame, miycstic, jjonsivo,
and absorbed, his eyes cost down, his
arms folded, and his face composed to a
becoming stolidity. Yet ho had not ar-
rived at the supremo end, the great
goal to which ho aspired. Slowly one ol)-
staclo after another had been removed.
As he approached, tho mountains had
levelled before him, dark and uncertain
paths became clear and straight. C!ir-
ciunstances seemed to combine to make
him great. Responsible offices were
thrust upon him. Important trusts
wore confided to his care. The Church
looked upon him as her most zealous
disciplo and brightest light. Philoso-
phers and scholars did not disdain to
defer their opinion to his. All classes
came to him for advico and counsel. Ho
was gentle, he was patient and gener-
ous, giving freely of what was not his
own, thereby teaching his young pupil
practically tho beauty of charity. What
more could this man desire than tho
honor, tho esteem, the conlidenco of his
fellow-men 1 Much more; for with all
these ho was favored, yet he was un-
satisfied. A dark passion filled his soul,
which he concealed beneath a mantle

A riUiWN' FIIOM TlIK HVV.Ml

tlio placid

t OJl'H (llllt

itii iiiidtio
liv|i(i('riHy
i« n|npi!ur-
was iiotli-
l lirofiiiiiiil
1(1 curcl'iil
liin i'nvv,
«.' Imd Kiic-
>it iinli'iit
Diip'r tlio
f St. Vin-
iiliiH(i|i)icr
li^l't Imvo
iiiiKlit not
tiling timt
WHM very
i of life,
lovu most
liin in Ids
lie wfts n
witli NouU
rioim, luid
till) clioir,
siicrintans,
evcrcnccd
itTOHH the
^ pcnsivo,
down, his
)<)t<cd tu a
ad not ftr-
tlio great
]y one ol>-
rcinoved.
tninu iind
nncertaia
,'ht. c;ir-
3 to ninko
iocs wcro
nt tniHts
e Church
t zealous
PhiloBO-
isdain to
11 classes
inscl. He
tid genor-
) not his
ng pupil
y. What
than the
ce of his
with all
was un-
his soul,
I mantle

nf hypoeriKV ; but day and ni^liti u!i>ne
i)r with tilt) WDrld, KiliMifiy hi' iinxidi'd,
pliiniu'd, and HLhciu'd lor ttiu uccuai
|iiiHlinient of ono iil>ject.

PAIIT AF/'OSt).

A COIINT, A 1,1 1, V, ANf 4 nOSB.

ri..\iM»K UK Ci.iuMdNT WHS n *trnn<»u
youth, (luict, gentle, thiMiglitful. In
liiie luimt rich yiiiiiig nolilen nt' IiIh age,
he Kivi-d to lie almie witii his IxKiks and
nutiire. A drtaniv HadncHs sorimcd IiIh
dark eyes, and Htaniped his I'lu'e \\ith an
indeHcrilialili- elianii. When Jio spoke,
his Vdieo wiiH Hoft and low ; when lie
Niiiiled, IiIh ) mile was like a ehild'H ; and
Ills nianiierH were rc^fined and caressing,
yet a little shy and renerved. lie Kel-
dnni openetl hi« heart to Fahien, Keeni-
ing to live a life apart from his tutor,
who, it is true, had never encouraged
any eonlidences. Ho was a hard student,
anil spent the greater part of his time
witli his hooks, they were his favorite
eompanions. Ho found in them society
that never disappointed him ; they did
not flatter him to IiIh face and censure
liim when ho liad turned away, they
jHiured out their rich treasures freely, and
iio might gather uj) all ho wished with-
out heing avaricious, or he might scatter
them without being spendthrift; they
were friends that were plastic in his
hands to do with us he wished ; he
loved them, and ho rarely over neglected
them.

Fabien, true to his promise to tlic dy-
ing Count, had made a scholar of the boy.
He had given him the example of an
upright, lionorablc life. He had taught
him the sublime doctrines of the ancient
philosophers ; ho had not interfered
with his religious impressions ; he had
left him free to choose for his master
Christ or Voltidro, whichever ho pre-
ferred, without advice or counsel ; he
had not endeavored to bias his mind
toward any one doctrine or profession.
He had obeyed the old Count's com-
mands literally ; he had taught the boy
science and philosophy, but he had
taken no pains to fashion his soul to
noble and holy desires. There was fer-

tile noil ready to rcroivo Iho so d, but
h( had sown nothing. The lM)y'H vague
laiicies and cniifusetl thouglitH had
fairly Ntriiggled to reline theniselveit
into Kiiniething like pure gulil, but
there was too much i>f Inreign matter
picked up friiin dcsidtnry reading that
Wdtdd nut unile with a iiatuiallv good
and iiolile nature. Sometimes he longed
Ul ^o to his tutor, open his heart to
him, mil] fell him all his doubts and
desires, lint tliiO' was sometliing forbid
ding in the nianiier < I' the priest that
kiifit the lM)y at a distaiice. So ho
studied, \vm\, and dreamed away his
days in the pleasant Kecliision <if (^ler-
niont, wondering what the world was
like ; longing for, and yet shrinking
from, the time when ho might Im ol-
lowed to enter the held and engage in
the conflict for himself.

Two young girls with arms intwinod
and heads jpressed together in eontiden-
tial discoin-Ho walked slowly <lown n
garden path, followeil by an elderly
woman, who was knitting and humming,
as she went, an old tune of Provence.
The Lily and the Hose, as they were
name<l by the peojtle for miles around,
did not feel the sharp-eyed old woman
to be any restraint, for they repeated
their most important secrets, imd
laughed over their girlish pranks, as
though there was nothing but the birds
and flowers to listen to them.

The Lily was Celeste Monthelon, a
tall, graceful, white lily, with soft, gen-
tle ways, downcast eyes, and a sweet
face, on which wcro stamped peace and
purity.

The II0.SO was Aimeo, the convict's
child. She was not a white rose, nor a
red rose of I'rovins, but a rose de the,
velvety, creamy, with passionate color
at the heart, wild fragrance, and fatal
grace. At six, she was an ugly, weird
little creature ; at sixteen, she was a
rose. The body had grown up to the
disproportioned head, which would now
seem small, only for its crown of blue-
black hair, breaking into a thousand
ripples of light. There was something
startling in the expression of her eyes
when they looked at one, which was
seldom, for they were like nothing but
the eyes of a tiger ; in color reddish-

■■■: '^

- I ' v./jiiai'.iMtu.ai

Jfc

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

«i

brown, with Ifirgc pupils tliat one would
have Bwoni were a little oMong, j'ot,
veiled as tliey were by the thickest aiul
daikest ol' lashes, tliey appeared soft
and jicnsive ; only when tliey flashed a
glance straight at one, then their fire
and ])assion made (lie heart shiver.
Her eyebrows turned down a little at
the ni'sc, an 1 up a little at tlie temples,
which gave to the face a maliciously
mischievous expression, that the round-
ness and beauty of the cheek, perfect
nose, mouth, and chin fully redeemed.
Her nat)ire was a combination of good
and evil ; generoua, passionate, loving
to desperation those she loved, and
hating bitterly, vindictively, revenge-
fully those she hated. And she was
ambitious ; she wished to be a lady, a
great lady ; she wished to see unnum-
bered adorers at licr feet. She declared
many times, in confidence to Celeste,
that her beauty should win her a title.
She hated the quiet and retirement of
Clermont, and desired to see the great
world of Paris. She would prefer a
life of excitement and adventure, in
which she nuist play the first ])art. At
other times, she hated everything, and
declared she would enter a convent,
become a hermit, a pilgrim, or a sister
ofcb'rity. Then she wished to bo a
man, that she might lead the life of a
soldier, and fight and die for her coun-
try. She talked well and eloquently,
for a girl, of heroism and self-immola-
tion ; yet declared in the same breath
that she was capable of neither. She
was torn to pieces by contending emo-
tions ; subject to fits of melancholy
depression, sudden abandonment to
tears, fiu-ious and ?hnost insane bursts
of p:u5sion, reckless and noisj' mirth,
thoughtfulncss and reserve, followed by
an expansiveness, winning and gra-
cious. She was moody, imcertain as
the 'vind, unstable as water; yet she
exercised a wonderful fascination, an
irresistible influence, over those around
her. Fabien was her slave. In no
other hands but hers was ho plastic ;
and she moulded him to her will with
a despotism as remarkable as it was
powerful.

After the death of the Count de Cler-
mont, in accordance with his wishes the
canoji ijxed his residence permanently

at the chateau, bringing Aim^o with
him ; he placed her muler the charge of
the housekeej)er, representing her to I e
the orphan of a dear friend to whom ho
was deej)ly indebted for many favors in
former «lays. This explanation all:iy('<l
whatever suspicion the gossips ef the
iiousehold riiny have liiid, and cstal -
lished the little girl on a Kort of Icel
with the yo\ing (!ount. She had grown
up with him as a sister, they iird stud-
ied and played together, and she liud
been more than once a mediator be-
tween the boy and his stern tutor.
The tear she left on the hand of Fabien
the day he led her out from the shadow
of Notre Dame had indeed worked its
charm, for sho was the only thing in
the wide world he loved, and he wor-
shipped this little waif thrown upon his
mercy with all the strength and inten-
sity of his strange nature.

The Lily, CeJleste Monthelon, was also
Fabien's ward. Her father was a rich
button-manufacturer, who, during the
life of the former Count de Clermont, had
purchased the adjoining estate. But the
old aristocrat had never condescended
to notice his plebeian neighbor, whoso
beautifid grounds were only separated
from his by a row of poplars and a low
rustic fence. However, the old Count
did not live long after ; and when Fabien
became master of Clermont, wiiich he
w.as virtually, he made the kindest and
most winning advances to the honest
man, who gladly met him half-way. In
this manner an intimate friendshij) was
soon established between the two fami-
lies. Madame Monthelon was an inva-
lid, suffering from an incurable disease,
when Fabien first made his flattering
and disinterested overtures to the good
manufacturer, and during all the years
that followed she never left her room,
or was seen in the society of her hus-
band and little girl, who with the ser-
vants comprised the whole family of M.
Monthelon. When Celeste was a little
more than twelve years of age, her fa-
ther too became a confirmed invalid.
From one of the windows of the Cha-
teau de Clermont Fabien could over-
look the grounds of Monthelon ; there
hf often watched the feeble man tot-
tering about, loaning on the shoulder of
hit little daughter, who was his insepar-

Thc

; Aim6o with
the chiii'gc of
ting lier to 1 o
d to whom ho
luny i'iivors in
nation iilhiycd
;ossi|iH (;f the
1, and cstal -
Eort of lc"t'l
ihc had gi'owii
iuy hiul stiid-
and she hud
mediator he-
stern tutor.
Lind of Fixhien
m the sliadow
d woi'iicd its
n\y thing in
and he wor-
own upon his
:h and intcu-

Blon, was also
;r was a rich
, during tho
[Clermont, had
ate. But the
condescended
[.dibor, whoso
ily separated
irs and a low
old Count
wlicn Fabien
nt, which he
i kindest and
) the lionest
lalf-way. In
•iendship was
he two fami-
was an itiva-
rable disease,
lis flattering
to the good
all the years
ft her room,
' of her hus-
tvith the ser-
family of M.
! was a little
f age, her fa-
med invalid,
of the Cha-
could over-
helon ; there
ble man tot-
e shoulder of
8 his insepar-

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

able companion, and speculated on the
chances of being her guardian when her
niiturul protector shoidd be removed by
death. With this intention ho was not
long in winning the entire confidence of
tho invalid, who was deceived into be-
lieving all tho priest's attention and
kindness to V)C but disinterested friend-
ship.

Sliortly before his death, during a
eonver-iation with his daughter respect-
ing her future, M. Monthelon said,
" Tho canon is a good man, and I have
a sincere aflection for him. I know of
no one to whom I can intrust thee and
thy fortune with ecpial satisfaction and
confidence." And Celeste, who always
complied with her father's wishes, found
nothing to object to in such an arrange-
ment ; for she too liked and trusted the
grave and handsome priest, who always
spoke to her as one would to a child,
with gentle and caressing speech.

After her father's death Celeste spent
much of her time at the Chiiteau de
Clermont with Aim^e and tho young
Count. The girls read, walked, and gos-
siped together, followed and watched
by tho sharp-eyed Fanchettc, who was
foster-mother, goveriiess, and humble
companion to Celeste. This kind-hearted
woman of Provence had taken her a
baby from her feeble mother's arms,
and bestowed upon her all the affection
and care of the fondest heart. It was
the only maternal love she had ever
known, for poor Madame Monthelon,
feeble in mind as well as in body,
scarcely ever saw her child. Fanchette
loved the girl most tenderly; she hu-
mored her, petted her, and sang to her
the sweet airs of Provence, while she
guarded her carefully. Yet sharp-eyed
and quick-witted as she was, she could
not discover under the robe of the
priest the wolf who was to devour her
lamb, for she believed in Fabien as one
believes in the Cod he worships.

The Lily and the Rose, as they were
called by all the servants and all the
people, grew and leaned toward each
other lovingly for a time, imtil the hot
breath of the sun wooed from the Rose
the pure embraces of the Lily, then
Aim6o hated C(51esto with all the
strength of her nature. This passion
was born suddenly. It started into life

one day when the young Count, meeting
them in their walk, lingered by the side
of ('eleste and looked into her soft eyes
with unmistakable love.

PART THIRD.

A TACK AT A WINDOW.

There were merriment and revelry in
the great salon at the (Jhateau do Cler-
mont. Sounds of fresh, girlish voices,
laughing with unattected enjoyment,
mingled with the soft tones of a piano,
upon which some one was playing a
dreamy waltz. Tiie wax candles were
lit in tho brackets on tho wall and
in tho Venetian glass chandeliers sus-
pended from the ceiling. Flowers were
everywhere twisted in garlands around
the pictures, and twined about tho neck
and dainty limbs of tho Venus that
gleamed from a background of crimson '
tapestry. Every urn and every niche
was filled with the fragrant beauties, un-
til the room seemed a bower of roses.

It was Claude's birthday, and the
girls were celebrating it in a merry, in-
nocent fashion. They had decorated
the salon secretly, and had surprised
Claude by covering his eyes and lead-
ing him within the door. When the
brilliantly lighted, flower-bedecked room
fell upon his sight, he expressed his as-
tonishment and pleasure with more
than usiial demonstrativeness, by seiz-
ing the hand of Celeste and kissing it
heartily, at which the girl blushed, Fan-
chette frowned, and Aim^e burst into a
ringing laugh.

"Now," said Aim^e with vivacity,
after they had sufficiently admired the
decorations and each other's dresses, —
"now we will have a ball. Claude
shall play a bewitching waltz while we
dance. Not you, Madame Fanchette,"
pushing the woman brusquely into a
chair. " Sit there, with your everlast-
ing knitting and watch our graceful evo-
lutions. Come, my Lily, to your Rose,
but beware of her thorns. They are
long and sharp, and they may pierco
your tender w-hiteness."

Throwing her arm around the slender
waist of Celeste with a savage clasp, as

■ v « i » i MaK! i» eMM W iW ' j»MWMiw»^^

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

tlimif^h she would devour her, she
drew her into the centre of the room,
and began wliirlins,' around witli tlio
most graceful abandon, t'elcste, inider-
standing the moods of her friend, re-
signed hei-self to her rougl» embrace,
and entered' into the spirit of the dance
with the utmost enjoyment. Claude
played as though lie were inspired
with the soul of mirth, and Fanchcttc
dropped her knitting, her grave features
relaxing into something like a smile, as
she watched the charming girls, their
lovely faces wreathed with smiles, their
hair floating in careless confusion, their
gauzy white dresses enveloping them in
a cloud, until one could scarcely tell
which was the lily and which was the
rose.

At last Celeste, completely overcome
by her rapid whirl, broke away from her
companion and sank into a chair. Aim6e
seemed possessed with tlio spirit of
Terpsichore. Her little feet scarcely
touched the Persian carpet as she
turned and floated lightl}-, making the
largest circuit of the room. Her beau-
tiful arms clasped over her head, her
graceful figure displaying every lino of
beauty, her eyes aflame, and her lips
parted in a dazzling smile, she seemed
a suponiatural being, an angel, a faiiy,
a nymph, a Bacchante, anything but a
human being. Suddenly stopping in
her mad evolutions and uttering a little
scream, she sprang away from a large
window at the lower end of the salo7i,
that opened on a terrace, nnd, seizing
Claude by the arm, she cried, " Look,
do you see that face at the window,
that horrid, ghastly face ? "

Claiide started up. Fanchette dropped
her knitting, and Celeste retreated into
a farther corner.

" I see nothing," said Claude, direct-
ing his glance toward the window, — "I
see nothing. Your dance has turned
your brain. It was an optical illusion."
" You see nothing. Stupid ! How
should you see anything when there is
nothing to see now 1 It was a face, I
tell you, and the face of a thief. Do
you suppose he will stand there and lot
us all look at him '^ "

" Perhaps it was Father Fabien," sug-
gested Celeste, timidly.

" Father Fabien,— nonsense ! I tell

! you it was a horrid face, a ghastly face,
with great hungry ej'es that seemed de-
j vouring me," she said vehemently.
I Claude only laughed, and it seemed
to irritate her beyond description.

"You coward!" she cried, "you
don't believe it because you are fright-
ened. I tell you it was a thief I am
not afraid. I will sec." And straigll-
ening herself like a J'oung grenadier,
while she shook her small fist signifi-
cantly, she marched direct to the win-
dow. Fanchette followed her, and
Claude improved the opportunity to kiss
again the hand of Celeste.

AimCc flung open the window bravely,
and stopped out on the terrace. It
was dark, and Fanchette drew back
afraid.

" Here he is," she said, savagely press-
ing her undcrlip with her white teeth,
as she went toward a miseral)le-looking
creature huddled agamst the wall with
his face buried in his hands. " Mal-
henreux ! What are you doing here?
Why have you frightened us, and inter-
rupted our pleasure 1 "

The voice that addressed the poor
creature was so stem and harsh, so un-
like the voice of a girl, that he started,
but did not raise his head, nor reply ;
only, bending lower, he clasped timidly
the hem of her white dress, and pressed
it to his lips.

She drow her dress away from hi?
grasp with a sharp stroke of her hand,
saying, "Are you a thief, or are you
mad ■? " Then turning toward the win-
dow, she cried in a loud, clear voice,
'• Claude, Claude ! "

When Claude reached her side the
man was gone ; and if it had not been
for the glimpse lie had of a dark figure
disappearing in the shrubbery below, he
would have declared again that the
dance had turned her brain, and she
was laboring under a delusion. As it
was, he looked a little grave when he en-
tered the room.

C^ileste was trembling with fear be-
hind Fanchette, and to her eager, " Who
was it 1 " he replied ; " I don't know, but
I think it was most likely one of the
peasants who, in crossing the park, was
attracted by the light and music, and
was curious to know what was going on
within."

a ghastly face,
liat seemed de-
lemcntly.
Mid it seemed
uscription.

cried, "you
on are fright-
i tliief. I am
And straijrlt-
nig grenadier,
dl fist signifi-
;t to the win-
ed her, and
rtimity to kiss

ndow bravely,
! terrace. Jt
drew back

lavagcly prcss-
• white teeth,
erable-looking
the wall witii
(inds. " Mal-
doing here ]
us, and inter-

sed the poor
harsh, so xin-
at he started,
d, nor reply ;
asped timidly
3, and pressed

vay from hi?
of her hand,
', or arc you
R-ard the win-
, clear voice,

her side the
lad not been
a dark figure
lery below, he
lin that the
•ain, and she
usion. As it
3 when he en-

tvith fear be-
eager, "Who
n't know, but
y one of the
;he park, was
i music, and
was going on

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

Aimec entered with Claude, but she
said not a word. Dropping into a chair,
she remained with her arms folded and
her eyes fixed on a certain pattern in
the carpet, lost in profound thought.
][cr face was stern and pale ; all tlie
light and laughter iiad passed away
from it, and now siio looked more like a
young Nemesis than a fairy or a nymph.

PART FOURTH.

I CAN MAKE HIM USEFUL.

When Aim6c had cried "Claude,
Claude," the vagrant had started to his
feet and dashed down the terrace, never
pausing to look behind him until he
reached the thickest shrubbery in a
part of the park remote from the cha-
teau. There he threw himself prostrate
on the ground, and, extending his arms,
clutched with convulsive grasp the
dried leaves and moss, digging his long
fingers deep into the earth, and moan-
ing and writhing with suppressed agony.
Then ho suddenly started to his feet,
and, clinching his hand, shook it
defiantly at the star-lit heavens, crying
in sharp tones of gi-icf and incredulity,
" Thou art Crod, and thou sittest in the
heavens and motest out justice to the
children of men] With what irony
thou callest thyself just ! Is it just to
implant within our hearts natural affec-
tion, to bo returned with scorn and hate 1
Is it just to make us worms, and then
crush us in the dust % In thy supreme
power, hast thou no pity for the weak-
ness of the creature thou hast created
and called good 1 Where is thy mercy
when thou turnest a deaf ear to those
who cry unto thee 1 Thou art unjust !
and the strongest passion thou hast
implanted in the heart of humanity is
injustice. I prayed to thee, I trusted
thee ; and I believed if I could but see
her face again, thou wouldst reveal to
her the infinite love of my heart. I
have scon her. Again she has treated
me with scorn, and driven me from her.
There is no truth in the instincts of
nature. Blood is not thicker than wa-
ter. I have nothing more to live for,
to hope for, to struggle for. Outcast,

branded, a fugitive, hunted like a wild
beast, every man's hand is against me.
Until now I have wronged none, neither
iiavo I desired to ; but from this nio-
niont the world is my adversary. I
will regard all humanity as one regards
a personal enemy. Indiscriminately I
will avenge on all my own sufferings.
Henceforth there shall be neither jiity,
truth, nor love in my heart. I hato
mankind, and I will prove it."

" My friend, my brother," interrupted
a stern, sad voice, " these are bitter
words to Ml from the lips of a feeble
mortal ; these are fearful words of
defiance. What great wrong hath so
embittered thee against thy fellow-
creatures ? "

The unfortunate turned, and saw be-
fore him, in the dim light, the tall,
black-robod form of a priest. It was
Fabien, who was taking one of his noc-
turnal rambles. Something had oc-
curred to disturb him during the day,
and rapid walking in this lonely spot
was the escape-valve that freed his pent-
up passions. He had been attracted a
little fi'om his path by the tragic and
somewhat startling tones of the wretch
who defied God. From his youth ho
had been accustomed to mysterioiis and
solemn scenes, and besides the indomita-
ble courage in his character was stim-
ulated and excited by the contact of
what might be danger; so ho tin-ncd
aside toward t!.o spot from whence
came the voice that uttered undistin-
guishable words, thinking, " It is prob-
ably some fanatic who beats the air
and defies the immovable heavens, or
a lunatic poet addressing a sonnet to
the moon. At all events, I will know
who it is."

When he came face to face with the
man, and had clearly traced the outline
of form and features, so indistinct in
the feeble light, he seemed more startled
than a bravo man shoidd have been,
and the calm words he began to ad-
dress to the stranger ended in an excla-
mation of surprise.

For more than an hour the Arch-
deacon and the unfortunate remained
in an earnest conversation, during which
the poor vagrant wept, implored, and
promised, while Fabien calmed, urged,
and assured ; then he left him, and

■^t

:- iii i iMiiMiMUWiw a M i s swiwaa

<nii i iit iiW Mi. l i

i mmmmmmm nt m \ ■

A CnOWN FROM THE SPEAR.

walked slowly hack to tho chateau,
savin;,' now ami tlii-n to hiiusolf, " It is
most fortiuiuto for mo. I can make
him iisui'iil, and no one will ever dis-
cover him in that dis;,'uiBe."

Tho li;:hts wore cxtinj^nished in the
salon, (.'eluste had {^ono homo, acuom-
paniud hy Fanchotte and Claude, who
both declared it was not sale for two
women to walk alone across tho park
at that hour, and after such an adven-
ture.

Fabien hud scarcely entered his study
when some one tapped at the door, and,
without waiting for a reply, throw it
open impatiently, and entered brusque-
ly. It was Aimee. Her face was very
pale, her teeth firmly set together, and
iior eyes on (ire. These were portentous
signs, and Fabien understood them.

" Wliat is it, macherie?" ho inquired,
sootiuugly, as he drew her to his
side.

She did not notice his kind speech
nor his gentle caress, but, disengaging
herself from his encircling arm, with a
gesture of impatience she commenced
walking tho floor rapidly.

Tho ])rie8t said nothing, took up a
book, and, apparently began to read ;
but all the while his gaze was fixed on
the restless movements of tho young
girl. Suddenly she stopped before him,
and levelling her eyes steadily to his
sphinx-like face, said, " Have you been
in tho park to-night 1 "
" Yes."

" Did you see any one, that is, any
stranger 1 "
" Xo."

"Did you come up tho linden ave-
nue to tho chateau ? " ,
" Yes."

" And you saw no one 1 "
" I saw no one ; but why do you
ask these questions 1 whom do you
think I have seenr'

" The same person I have seen," she
replied, with a shiver. " Wo were dan-
cing in the salon, when suddenly I saw
a face, a horrid white face, pressed
against the glass of the north window,
I screamed, and ho disappeared."

" My child," said Fabien, firmly, " it
was nothing but your imagination."

" My imagination ! " she cried, draw-
ing up her mouth with scorn. " Does

imagination suj)ply people to talk wilh
you, and to clasp and kiss your clothes I
I toll you I saw and spoke to tiiis man.
And I have soon his lace before, where
and when 1 cannot tell ; but 1 have
seen it, and it brougiit back some
memory like a horrid nightmare."

" it was probably some half-insouo
creature," said the priest, gently. " It
is late ; go to bed, my child, and think
no moro of it."

" I cannot help thinking ; tho face
and tho voice haunt mo, and fill mo
with fear."

.She glanced around the room, and for
tho first time tho weird oiijocts seemed
to troiddo her, for she said, " How tan
you live in this gloomy place t I should
go mad to look always at that grinning
skull."

"My child," said Fabien, solemnly,
" wo are all grinning skulls ; and later
wo too shall become olyects of horror
and disgust to our survivors. It is
well to think of that, and then wo
shall have no such childish aversion
to things the most harmless and sim-
ple."

" That is very well for a sermon," she
returned, with a mocking luugh ; " but
now confess, would you not lather look
at the lovely Magdalen clothed with
flesh, than these dry bones ] "

"J/ecfiante/" he replied, flushinj»
slightly. "I would rather look at
you." ^

Aimeo darted a withering glance to-
ward him, and, without replying, hastily
left tho room.

PART FIFTH.

A VAGRANT CIIANOGD TO A PRIEST.

The dressing-room and bedroom of
Fabien opened out of his study, and
there ho retired after Aimeo left him.
These chambers were moro luxurious
than austere men of tho Church usually
indulge in. Before a bright wood-Sro
stood a large crimson arm-chair, and
near it a table, on which were arranged
several decanters of choice wines, a
Turkish pipe, and a tray of cigars,
the odor of which would have rejoiced
the olfactories of the most fastidious

lo to talk with
i your clotliL'ti I
10 to tliia mail.
I before, wlicio
; but 1 have
it buck Bouic
iyhtimue."
no hulf-insnuu
, jroutly. "It
lild, and think

inp ; tlio face
S and iill nte

) room, and for
•lijects seemed
id, " How can
icol I should
timt grinning

ion, solemnly',
Us ; and hitor
sets of horror
I'ivors. It is
and then wo
dish aversion
less and sini-

i sermon," she
liiugh ; " but

ot rather look
clothed with

ied, flushinj»

;her look at

ng glance to-
)lyiny, hastily

A PRIEST.

bodroom of
s study, and
Qco left him.
3rc luxurious
uirch usually
sjht wood-Sro
•m-chair, and
rero arranged
ice wines, a
y of cigars,
have rejoiced
st fastidious

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

smoker. Fabicn doffed his priest's
dress, and donned a purpli) robe dc
chambre ; then pouring out a glass of
sparkling Laclnyma VhrUti. and light-
ing a cigar ho throw himself back in his
comfortable ca-sy-chair liko one prepared
for a fircsido ruvery.

AVhat iiis thoughts were we certainly
cannot tell, but wo can judge they were
rather troublesome by the furious cloud.s
of smoke he puffed out, and the restless
way in which ho moved his feet, threat-
ening to dislocate the slender logs of
the ottoman on which they rested. Ho
glanced at his watch ; it was midnight,
and he grew silent and attentive to the
slightest sound. An owl from a neigii-
boring tree told that night was the
time for dark deeds ; and a watch-dog
chained at the entrance of tiie chateau
barked and whined as tliough he desired
to break his fastenings and rush upon
some nocturnal prowler.

Presently there was a light tap at
the window, so light that it seemed but
the rustle of a dry leaf whirled by the
wind. Fabicn started up briskly, and,
raising the curtain, peered out j then he
softly undid the fastenings of the case-
ment, and a man stepped from the
darkness of the terrace into the room.
He glanced around eagerly. The warmth
and light seemed to overcome him, for
he pressed his hands over his eyes and
sank into a chair with a moan.

The Archdeacon looked at him with
pity ; then pouring out a glass of wine
he gave it to him, saying, " Drink this
and you will be better."

" It is not thirst, monseigneur, it is
hunger," he said as he took the glass
with a trembling hand.

Fabien opened a closet, and took
from it a loaf of bread and some fro-
vuige de Brie, which he placed before the
unfortunate, who devoured them raven-
ously, gathering up with his thin fingers
every crumb. When he had finished
he looked up like a hungry dog who
has only half appeased his appetite.

The priest understood the expression,
and smiled compassionately as he said,
" That will do for to-night, I have noth-
ing more, but to-morrow you shall eat
your fill."

" Thank you," replied the man with n
look of gratitude and relief. " It has

been so long since I had enough to
eat."

"Poor soul!" said Fabicn, "you
shall not go hungry again while I live.
Now for the transformation. L'omo with
me." And ho opened softly tiio door of
his dressing-room.

Taking from a wardrobe a suit of
plain clothes that he had worn in his
humbler days, he gave them to the man,
and, laying before him all the articles
necessary for a toilet, said, " Make
yourself decent as quickly as possible.
Shave your board, and cut your hair,
and you will not recognize yourself.
These rags must bo concealed for the
present, and afterwards destroyed,"
pointing to the tattered garments that
the man was rapidly divesting himself
(if.

Half an hour later Fabien looked up
and the unfortunate stood before him
transformed into a priest. A perfect
specimen of the stern ascetic type, — an
emaciated face, great hollow eyes, and
a narrow fringe of clip])ed gray hair,

" That is well," said the Archdeacon
with satisfaction ; " the disguise is com-
plete ; your mother, if she could see
you, would not recognize you. You may
sleep here for the remainder of the
night," indicating a sofa in his dressing-
room, "but with the early dawn you
must slip away as you entered, and re-
member to present yourself to-morrow
at ten o'clock and ask for me, giving
your name as Pdre Benoit of the college
of St. Vincent.

The new-made priest stood before his
benefactor in a humble attitude, his
head bent and his hands clasped tightly.
Ho had said nothing, for various and
powerful emotions were struggling into
expression, and his heart was too full to
find utterance suddenly. At length,
when the Archdeacon was turning to
leave him, he seized his hand, and, cov-
ering it with tears and kisses, cried,
" You have saved me ; henceforth my
life is yours to tise as you wish. I urn
your slave, do with mo as you will."

Fabien drew away his hand as if the
tears burned him, and said kindly but
curtly, " Words are useless, your deeds
will best show your gratitude ; j'ou can
serve me, and you are willing, that is
all I desire."

- iM wii iwi iii tiwii i j i i iil w i i^MttMWJii i M^

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

PART SIXTfl.

YOU MUHT UIX'IUK VOli YOUaSELF.

WiiKN ('liiiulo Htiirtod to walk ncrosH
tlic park with Ct'lcsto iind Funchettc,
he hml decided to j)iit, liis f'lito to t!ie
test by tiHkiiiij; tlio l^ily to beeoiiio his
wife, lie loved lier, lie hud loved her
for two yeiirs, iind he intended to ninke
her Countess of ('Icrniont. It had been
hia deeision from the first, but for some
reason, although they saw caeh other
often, the opportunity to declare his
love had never oceurred ; he was sure
(.'elesto returned his ntt'eetion, and in
the security of this eonvietiou ho had
remained silent. Now he felt the time
to speak had arrived, and ho was deter-
mined to delay no lonj;er.

It was a moonless night, but the
air was keen and clear, and the Milky
Way made a luminous jiath across the
wilderness of the heavens. The au-
tumn leaves and the cones of the pines
crackled under their feet, the wind
moaned ainon^ the dried branches like
a lost spirit doomed to wail forever
over barren ])l:iins and leafless trees,
and the darkness seemed filled with
the mnrumring of invisible sorrows.
Yet they did not feel the depressing
influence, for they were in the youth of
life and the now moon of love, and to
them thefo was no dreary night, no
dead leaves, no weird branches, no
moaning wind. They walked within
the walls of paradise, and light, music,
and flowers sprang into life as they
passed.

Fanchette was diplomatic, and, desir-
ing to see her young mistress a count-
ess, she lingered behind, so she did not
hear the conversation ; neither did wc,
and for that reason wo cannot give it
literally. However, when they parted
at the door of the Chateau Monthelon,
while Fanchette was looking at the
constellations of the heavens, Claude
imprinted the first kiss of love on the
trembling lips of Celeste in return for
a sweet little "yes "she had whispered
after some maidenly hesitation.

" To-moiTow I will speak to Father
Fabien," he said. Then ho pressed the
hand that lay in his, nodded signifi-
cantly to Fanchette, and went away
exulting like a king, a hero, a great

general who had won an important bat-
tle with all the chanccH against him.
lie congratulated himself that he had
gained a victory, when in fact tho
enemy had surrendered, the citadel had
fallen at tho first shot, nlinost before
the siege commenced. Nevertheless
he believed himself to be a hero ; i:i
that he was deluded, but his joy was
real. His heart was as light i,i air,
and his feet seemed to partake of tho
same lightness, for ho bounded over tho
low fence that separated the two parks
with tho agility of a deer, and almost
ran into the arms of two men who were
earnestly talking together in the shadow
of a great trunk.

(.'laudc was a little startled at first,
but recognizing Fabien in tho taller
figure, and being too happy for suspi-
cion, he merely glanced at them and
hastened toward tho chateau.

Celeste, jianting under the burden of
her first secret, her heart beating tu-
multuously in her rosy ears, her cliceks
aglow, and her lips warm with l;er lov-
er's first kiss, flew to her room that she
might be alone to think over that brief
moment of joy.

Tho ne.\t morning Aimeo tapped at
tho door of the Archdeacon's study,
and while she paused a moment for
an answer it was thrown open and
a strange priest came out. \Vlicn his
eyes fell upon her, he started as though
he had been shot, and turned, if possi-
ble, to a more deathly pallor.

Tho girl flashed a glance straight
through all disguises, and rccogni/ed in
the priest the unfortunate who, tho
night before, had clasped and kissed the
hem of her dress. Passing him like au
arrow from a bow, she darted into the
presence of Fabien, and almost startled
him out of his composure by exclaiming,
in a clear and confident voice, " That
is the old man who disturbed us lu?<t
night ; who is he 1 "

" You must be mistaken, my child,"
replied tho priest very firmly and calm-
ly. " He is P6re Benoit, a friend of
mine, and a teacher in the college of
St. Vincent."

" NHwpm\c .' she replied with an
indisputable i;ir of conviction. " Ho
may be St. Vincent himself for aught T
know, but be is uouc the less the nuui

inportaut l)af,-
iif^'ftinst him.
tllllt 111! liiul

in i'lict tho
10 citadel had
idiiioMt before

NcvertlielesH
! a lioro ; i:i

his joy was

li;;l>t i.i air,
irtakc of tlio
ided over tho
:lio two parks
•, nnd idniost
\vn who wore
in tlic shadow

tied at first,
n tho tailor
py for suspi-
it them aud
an.

he burden of
t bcfttinj^ tu-
•8, her cheeks
with l;er lov-
oom that she
er that brief

^0 tapped at
[icon's study,
moment for
n open and
. When his
ed as though
ned, if possi-
or.

inco straight
rccogni/od in
to who, tho
lid kissed the
; him like an
•ted into the
most startled
y exclaiming,
I'oico, "That
rbed us lu-it

n, my child,"

ily and calm-

a friend of

le college of

ied with an
3tion. " He
' for aught T
less the man

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

v,'ho knelt on tlio terrace and kissed tho
hcni of my dross."

Fabien looked at her and smiled in-
dulgently, as ono would at a wilful
child whoso opinion is not worth dis-
puting.

Her faco turned crimson, and her
eyes flashod preparatory to an outburst,
which was i)iovented by a tap at tho
door, and Claude entering.

" I am more than fortunate this
morning in tho number of my visitors,"
said tho Archdeacon with stately but
satirical courtosy, as ho pusliod a chair
toward tho new-comer.

" I shoidd like a littlo private con-
versation with you, if it will not in-
convenience you," returned Claude,
glancing at Aimdo, who was making
disdainful grimaces behind Fabien's
back as she pointed to tho heteroge-
neous collection on the table. Noticing
Claude's glance, and angry that ho
sliould liave any secret from her, she
throw an old parchment she held in
her hand with such force against the
tripod that it made the bronze cat clat-
ter, and elicited a gentle remonstrance
from the Archdeacon.

"There seem to bo a great many
mysterious things hero," she said, glan-
cing reproachfully at Claude and scorn-
fully at Fabien as she left tho room,
closing tho door with a sharp bang.

Tho Archdeacon and Claude main-
tained a silence of some moments after
Aimuc wc!it out, each waiting for tho
other to make the first remark.

It is, no doubt, a trying piece of
business for a shy aud modest youth to
confess his love to the object of his
devotion, even when he may know that
ho will not be repulsed, and that all tho
fair recipient's interest is enlisted in his
favor. But how much more difficult to
sit calmly down, free from the sweet
excitement of the angel's presence, and
tell to a cold and disinterested listener
the story of his first love ; its birth,
its growth, its maturity ; and then de-
mand formally, practically, and with
conscious irony, permission to marry
this chosen being, whom ho knows he
shall marry whether permission be
given or not.

Claude Wiis young, and Claude was
shy ; and, besides, there was no sympa-

thy between him and his guardian.
For sonio time it had boon dawning
upon him that, though nominally the
master, he was actually the subject ;
that tlie strong will and jjcrsevering
energy of his tutor had fettered him
with chains ho could not tlm^w ofl'.
.\t first ho had not tried, and later,
when ho wished to, liis gentle utsoiiciaiite
nature preferred peace rather than a
severe struggle ; so ho lot matters take
their course, and submitted to being
littlo more than an automaton in tho
ilirection of his own atlairs. Ihit love
had emboldened him, and now ho was
determined to marry Celeste iMouthelon
with or without her guardian's consent.
So it w.as with more manly courage
than Fabien would have aircrodited to
him that ho said, " Tho subject 1 wish
to speak of is this : 1 lyxvc asked
.Mademoiselle Monthelon to bo my
wife, she has consented, and wo await
your sanction. Can wo depend upon
itl"

A hectic flush dyed for a moment tho
check of the Archdeacon, aud his eyes
grew restless while his fingers moved
with a scarcely perceptible writhing
motion, peculiar to him when laboring
under a suppressed excitement. Yet
ho said with his usual calm, though
perhaps an inflection more of force in
his voice than Claude liked to hoar,
" Would your father, if he were living,
approve of this marriage? Would he
sanction an alliance with tho child of a
manufacturer whom ho despised and
considered an inferior'? Should a son
of one of the oldest and noblest families
of France mairy with a daughter of
tho people? I repeat again, if your
father were living would he consent to
this marriage ? "

Claude worshipped the memory of
his father, and no stronger argimient
than his disapproval could have been
used against his cause. For a moment
it startled and confused him ; then his
love gained the ascendency, and he
raised his head, and said, firmly,
" IC my father had lived to know
Mademoiselle Monthelon, I believe ho
would have loved her, and forgotten his
prejudices against her position. And I
have such confidence in his love for me,
that I am sure he would havo made

ii»g

aiMu tl mM i iuiD^mmm it mi

IWIW I K I I .

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

nny Hacrifieo for my Imppinesa. Ct'-lestc
is jouiij;, lovfly, iiikI riili. Wo liivvc
known each otlior Croni cliiltlliood. Our
eatiitcH join °, united, wliut a nol)lo prop-
erty it would lioconie. IJnt nioro than
all woildly ftdviintsit^es," hcio liis voice
took u doL-per tone of i)rido and re-
Holvo. " slio loves nic, and 1 adoro lier.
Tiien wliat can ho a more suituhlc alli-
ance ] "

Claude paused, and looked nt the
Archdeacon an thou^^h ho believed his
words had carried conviction with them,
and had shattered at one blow the frail
barrier he woidd oppose.

" You must decide for yourself," said
Fabion, deliberately', after a few mo-
ments of deep thoujiht, — " you must
decide for yourself, but / shall reserve
the right to decide for my ward, Mad-
emoiselle Monthelon."

" And you will decide against me,"
replied Claude, bitterly. " I am con-
vinced that you will strive to make me
miserable, but j-ou will not succeed,
for I am determined she shall be my
wife ; I love her, and nothing sliall part
us." And as he spoke, he rose ex-
citedh', and turned to leave the room.

This was the first time the docile
pupil had rebelled, and the Archdeacon,
believing ho had sounded the depths of
the yoimg count's nature, was surprised
at this new development. Here was
determination and courage lie had not
prepared himself to struggle with ; yet
he was equal to the emergency. Lay-
ing his hand heavily on the shoulder
of Claude, and fixing him with his
clear, intense gaze, he said, between his
clenched teeth, " Now it is your turn to
listen to me. I have an account to
Bettle with you. What can you say
in regard to j'our intentions toward
Aimee, my other ward] You have
won the love of this poor child with
false professions, and now you intend to
desert her for another."

Claude stood aghast. "I do not
quite understand you," he faltered ;
"Aim6e! I have thought of her only
OS a sister. We have been like brother
and sister from childhood, she loves me
as a brother. "

" She loves you deeply, passionately,
with all the strength of her strong na-
ture, and you will desert her and marry

another. It will kill her ! " cried the
priest with frenzy in his voice.

Something had escaped from his heart
in this moment uf excitement that he
did not intend to reveal ; so instantly
crushing his emotion, anu changing his
voice, he continued calndy, " 1 have
done wrong to betray the jxjor child'.!
secret. It is only lately tliat 1 have
known it, otherwise I would not have
exposed her to your dangerous compan-
ionship. You have trifleil with Ainiee,
whether intentionally or thoughtlessly
I cannot tell ; then how can 1 be assured
of the sincerity of your aH'ection for
.Mademoiselle Monthelon ] "

" It is not necessary i/ou should bo
assured. If Celeste is convinced of my
love, that is sufficient," returned Cla\ide
haughtily and ajigrily. *' 1 only pray
that 3'ou will save yourself the trouble
of putting obstacles in my path, for,
whatever they may bo, I have the
strength and the will to overcome
them." And with this ho went out
and left the Archdeacon alone to think
of what he had said.

When Claude rushed out into the
open air, the hot blood was seething
through his veins, anger, disappoint-
ment, contempt, and astonishment were
all struggling together in his vexed
soul. Hitherto ho had experienced no
stronger emotion than love, his heart
had been a stranger to resentment and
suspicion. Now he seemed to bo in
the midst of a whirlwind of conflicting
passions, the strongest of which was
indignation at the unjust accusation of
the Archdeacon that he had trifled with
the girl whom he had loved and cher-
ished as a sister. Then a new thought
dawned upon his mind. The priest was
ambitious for this . girl, who must be
connected with him by some tie stronger
than friendship ; he was ambitious, and
wished to see her Countess of Clermont.
Now that ho imagined he had discov-
ered a motive for his guardian's strange
conduct, he was a little appeased and
walked more calmly toward Monthelon,
for he wished to see Celeste, to prepare
her for possible obstacles, and to con-
jure her to be firm and faithful under
every trial.

For some moments the Archdeacon
stood whore Claude had left him, his

A CROWN FROM TIIK SPEAR.

•!" crioil tho

I'ii-'o.

rroiii liJH licnrt

inoiit that lio

; HO iiiHtiuitly

chiuijriii;,' his
ily, " I Imvo
! Jioor cliild'd
timt 1 hiivo
ill! not have
rolls coinjmn-

witli Aiinue,
thoii^'litlessly
I J ho UMHurt'il
aH'oction for

m should ho
inced of my
limed Claudo
I only priiy
' tho trouble
ly ])iith, for,
I hiivo tho
.0 overcome

went out
ono to think

ut into the

vaa seething

disappoint-

shment were

1 his vexed
pcrieneed no
e, his heart
ntnicnt and
;d to bo in
f conflicting

which was
cciisation of

trifled with
d and cher-
lew thought
le priest was
lo must be

tie stronger
bitious, and
)f Clermont,
had discoT-
an's strange
tpcased and
Monthclon,
, to prepare
md to con-
thful under

Archdeacon
)flt him, his

liands clenched and his eyes fixed on
tho flour. Tlien ho said with a pro-
found si;.;h, sliiikiug his hoad mourn-
fully, "llo docs not lovo her, ho does
not lovo hor. Poor child ! I foresee
tears and sorrow for her. Sho loves
liim and sho will sufl'cr for him. That
is another incentive to rovengo. lla.sh,
detiant fool I does ho think to sweep
mo away with a blow of his hand, a^i
one does a gnat that stings 1 Before
this new moan of lovo grows old, I will
touch him the strength of my opposition.
I have other designs for my ward, the
fair Lily must be transplanted to anoth-
er garden." And with these oracular
words he turned to his crucible, shook
togotlier vehcmontly somo dilTercnt col-
ored liquids, kindled a firo in tiio tripod,
turned his hour-glass, and sot himself
down to a chemical experiment as ener-
getically and resolutely as though he
expected thereby to discover a remedy
for tho difficulties that had arisen dur-
ing the iutorview with his defiant pupil.

PART SEVENTH.

THERE IS BUT ONE MAY IN A TEAR.

It was ono of those brilliant and ex-
hilarating mornings in May that so often
follow a succession of dreary days ;
when the sun shines like a child who
laughs with all its heart, after having
wept much ; when the earth seems to
throb with the new life that runs
through its veins ; when the buds burst
into blossom almost while we gaze upon
them ; when the harebells and half-
fledged ferns murmur and whisper to-
gether like young lovers with heads
touching ; when the sluggish blood of
ago and the warm blood of youth quick-
en into a more fervent flow ; when the
heart dances in the Iwsom of the happy,
and even the lips of the sorrowful trem-
ble with a smile.

" Nature is in fete this morning," said
the Archdeacon, as ho stepped from his
room on to the terrace. Throwing back
bis shoulders, ho inhaled with intense
satisfaction a long breath of pure air,
while his eyes wandered down the shady
walks, bordered with acacia, toward the

iilwfjiii^yi

Seine, whoso serpentine track fipnrklud
hero and there through tho shrubbery.
After he had gazed for a i'i^w nidiiu'nls
on the ex()uisito scene, he walked slowly
across tho terrace, stooping often over a
blussomiiig border to examine with tiie
closest scrutiny some flower that at-
tracted his attention. Plucking a bunch
of scarlet geranium thiit flaunted in
tho sun, ho looked at it curiously, in-
(luiringly, touching almost toiule;ly its
velvet jietals. " What wonderful de-
sign is displayed here," ho said; "how
simple, and yet how jwriect ; how ono
part is adapted to tho other with a sub-
tle mechanism that defies imitation I
Who jdunned this delicate yet marvel-
lous thing 1 Who touched it with flame,
and wove it into a tissue of matchless
beauty 1 Those who would bo wiser
than their Creator, say it is luit chunco.
How tho simple things of creation con-
found tho falso reasoning of tho scholar !
It is well that those desiring to be infi-
dels are dull and stupid to sucli wonder-
ful revelations. I have studied and in-
vestigated, believing that science would
confound religion, but it is in vain ; the
most inferior creation of God puts it to
shame." The face that had beamed for
a moment under tho glorious light of
nature suddenly clouded over, and a
profound sadness filled his voico as ho
continued : " I nm a contradiction to
myself. I would bo a stoic, and I can-
not. I doubt, and I believe even while
I doubt. I am utterly reckless and un-
scrupulous in many things, and yet I
trust and hope like a child. Why does
God send such days 1 They but soften
the heart and draw it away from its
purpose. It is better to bo deaf and
blind than to be constantly invaded by
these influences of nature." Ho fol-
lowed his winding walk along tho edge
of the river, now and then pausing to
examine a curiously striped l)utterfly
fluttering from flower to flower, ur a liz-
ard stretching its graceful lon-fth in tiio
warmth of the sun, or the incessant
struggling of life represented by un ant-
hill ; these seemed to absnb him, in
fact the most iusigniflcunt things inter-
ested him, and one seeing hiin would
have declared him to be a naturalist
searching for new specimens of insect
creation.

.8jiajak#!iii*jwBi!riija>ii.:jj

£-LiaiiM]j&jaaMflijiijiii.iji.:8.,' s' '

A CROWN FROM THE Sl'KAIl.

And HO pmintorinR iil'ni;:, <lio Archdoii-
Con turned ii MTpriitiiic piitli itnd citinu
Hiiddcnl}' iipuii twu pcrsoiiM sitting nn ii
Ntoiic Ih'iicIi, nciir nii ancient fountitin,
oviTKlmdnwcd liy rows and Iiinicl. One
was a vi>nii;4 man with a liook in iiis
liiind, and liis liiad hcnt ovov the Iniuk.
Till' othi'i" a girl, lier olbow resting on
lier knee, her open j)ahn supporting her
cheek, and her eyes devouring the faeo
of her tiiuipanion. The young man
was <'laude. Tlie girl was Aimeo.

'i'lie eheek of Kabion l)huiched, and
ho turned li istily away without being
seen. "lie does not love her," he
thouglit, " ho does not lovo her ; if he
loved iier he would look at her inntcad
of his luiok. And she — she loves him,
and will never lovo another. I know
Iier nat ure, h\\o will be coiiHtiuit to tiiis
fatal uil'ection. Poor ehild ! why did I
^ not foresee this danger for her? Ah!
what a temj)cst there will be when she
knows ho loves Celeste." With these
unhajjpy thonghts tilling his heart, he
turned into a walk that led to the chu-
toan, and, raising his eyes, a vision of
placid beauty suddenly appeared before
him.

Mademoiselle Afonthelon was coming
slowly down the avenue, between the
rows of shining laurel. The sunlight
flickered over her white dress and yel-
low hair, and in her white hands w^as a
tangled mass of violets and daisies. She
did not see the priest, but came softly
toward him, her eyes fixed on her
flowers, a smile dimpling her mouth and
trembling under her downcast lids.
«What a sweet, frail thing she was, so
delicate, so gentle and innocent ! and
yet the Archdeacon, as ho looked at her,
liated her bitterly, for she had come be-
tween him and his fondly cherished
jdans, and he was determined she should
bo swept aside as one would sweep away
the fallen leaf of a rose. Fair and gen-
tle, a very lilj' of purity, she nuist be
crushed and blighted for his ambitioi^.

" A title for my Aim^e, a convent for
Celeste ; Monthelon for the Church, and
— and a dead heart for me," he mut-
tered, turning toward the girl and ad-
dressing her with a more gentle voice
and a more gracious manner than usual.

"You see I am alone," sho said, in
reply to his salutation. " Fanchette

stepped aside to gather some briorroRcs
lor my bouijuet, while 1 walked on in

you tell mo

Can

search of Aim(''C.
where sho is I"

" Yes," replied Fabien, fixing his
piercing eyes steailily on the face of
the girl ; "sho is with i/oiir li>i<et\"

Celeste flushecl rosy red at the terra
so startling and yet so delightfid, and
said, with a little touch of jeahaisy in
her voice, " 1 thought he woidd have
come to walk with mo this lovtly morn-
iug." ^

" They are evidently very hajipy in
each other's society," returned the
priest, insinuatingly.

C(!'lesto fingered her violets nervously,
with a troubled e.\j)ression on her face,
while the Archdeacon went on to sow
tho first seeds of suspicion in her gentle
heart.

" Trust to notliirg ; there is nothing
true but religion,' ho said ; " it is tho
( nly thing that nil not deceive you;
it is a sure and saf.; anchor for tho soul.
The heart of ma:i is foclile and uncer-
tain, and love is like tho wind that
changes each day Jly child, school
your heart to bent disajjpointnient and
sorrow. Itemember tho sun does not
always shine, and there is but one May
in a year."

" Tiuit is true," she replied, while a
bn^iit smile chased away tho cloud
from her face ; *' but there are other
months ns fair as May, and love mokes
simlight always,"

" Perhaps ; but there is so little love,
and so few arc constant. And then, a
youth does not understand his own
heart ; the first emotion he experiences
ho imagines to be love."

" moH ji^re I " she cried, with
mingled trust and doubt in her voice,
" you cannot moan that Claude has
deceived me, that he does not love me,
that — that he is mistaken iu thinking
he loves mo ] "

" My ehild," said Fabien, looking
into her face with gentle inten^st, " it
is most painful to me to tell you this,
but I fear he has deceived you. I
believe ho loves another."

"Who?" sho gasped, letting the
violets fall from her hands, as though
they wero smitten with palsy.

" You shall BOO for yourselt'." And

CROWN FROM TIIK SV

^ liriorroHCH
liked on in
>u toll mo

fixing' liJH
till! face of
foirr."
t tlio term
[.'litful, imd
jt'ulouMy in
vould liuvo
)VLly niorn-

y Impi.y in
uniL'd tlic

nervouHly,

II llLT fiitc,

(HI to sow

her gentlo

in nothing
" it is the
eeive ynti ;
jr (ho Houl.
uud unccr-
wiiid that
ild, school
tniont and
1 does not
it ouo May

k1, while a
tlio cloud
are other

ove makes

little love,
ud then, a
I his own
jxperionces

ricd, with
her voice,
laudo has
t love me,
1 thinking

a, looking

tcrest, " it

you this,

1 you. I

itting the
as though

Y-

elf." Aud

lie turned toward the laiirel-Hhadcd
fountiiin.

('huidu Htill read, and Aimeo Htill
gazed into his (uco. The youth's eyes
were bent upon liis l)ook, hut his iiand
lay with a euressin;^ touch on the head
of his com|)nnion.

(Vilesto took in the living jiieturo at
n glance, and long after it haunted her
with its grace and beauty. She said
not a word, l)iit clasping her haud
tiglitly over her heart, turned away,
followed by her guardian.

Neither spoke until they reached the
end of the laurel walk, and went out of
the flickering sunlight into the sluidowy
avenue of elms ; tlien Celeste raised a
sorrow-sti ickcn face, and said, in a voice
burdened with tears, " It is true, there
is but one May in a year."

PART EIGHTH.

THE HEART OP A PHIEST 18 THE HEART
OF A MAN.

Pere Bexoit of the collego of St.
ViTicent and the Archdeacon were often
chisetcd together for long honi-s, and in
the mysterious study there was much
investigation that was not of a strictly
scientiiic cliaractor. The inlaid cabinet
that had been stuffed from time imme-
morial with musty, dusty, yellow papers,
the chronicles of all the Clennonts, was
emptied of its contents, examined in
every part, tapped upon, and thumped
upon, after the manner of a physician
who would like to discover a disease in
a perfectly sound chest ; but all in vain,
for the old cabinet was as intact as the
most exasperatingly healthy person who
ever defrauded a doctor of a patient.
There were no holes but tiny worm-
holes, that were too small to conceal
anything larger than the worms that
bored them ; there were no secret
drawers, no double panek ; it was a
very simple piece of furniture as far as
mechanism was displayed, but it seemed
to have a strange interest for the
men who examined it. The Archdeacon
wiped away the perspiration from his
forehead as he assisted P6re Benoit to
return it to its place against the Flan-

ders leather \m\ 'ins, '<"' >t ••■ vcrr
heavy, and such i rtion wiim nusiiHt
'I'hen they replaced liie dniwi r». uimI
rearranged the dried bats and hi tpcrU*
on tlieir dusty shelves, closed tlic^ glu)l^
doors, and set to work to exuniino eare
fully the pile of papers that lay on the
floor. Kabion's brow wrinkled nioro
than once with dissatisfaction as hu
throw one after another aside, until ho
had gonu over all and found nothing
he desired to find.

Afterwards they heM a long and con-
fidential discourse, in which they ex-
pressed their surprise, regiit, and
mutual disappointini'ut at the failure
of their search, and their firm deter-
mination to continue an investigation
which was not to bo baflled by tho tirst
ill success.

No one seemed to like this haggard-
faced, hollow-eyed PtSro Benoit. As did
tho man without a shadow, ho carried
fear and distrust wherever ho went.
Tho servants at Clermont eyed him
askance, although ho was very gentlo
and courteous to all, crcei)ing in aid
out with a sort of deprecating humility.
Claudo rarely noticed him, believing him
to be a sort of dependant on tho bounty
of Fabien. But yet ho felt an aversion
toward him that ho considered as fool-
ish as it was unjust. Aimeo avoided
him as she would a pest ; if ho en-
tered the study of Fabien when sho
was there, sho would glanco at him
with visible dislike and fear, and rush
out OS though sho wcro pursued hy a
dragon.

For several days after the Archdeacon
had planted his first crop of tares in
tho heart of Celeste, sho remained shut
up in her own chateau, refusing to see
or write to cither Claude or Aimcjo.
The young Count was desperate; he
despatched note after note, but received
no reply ; he assailed Fanchetto with
entreaties and threats, but sho was
invulnerable, and the only inform.ation
he received from her was that her mis-
tress was suffering from a nervous at-
tack and did not wish to be disturbed.
Claude was miserable ; he half suspected
that some influence of the Archdeacon
was at work against him, yet he could
discover nothing. In the first flush of
his joy he had often repeated tohimself,

■miteAr'nffWriiiii

j iaMMw i i'iiKii.

'rfhtifinj^ i iCt l ii i Jtfj i ili i ftmi i Mo a ri

.10

A cuowN rnoM Till-; spkaii.

" How liiipiiy one in when oiio lovoH ! "
Niiw ill till- ^\rni imitiictit of hoitow iuhI
(liHii|)|M)intiii)<iit In- WMM ciiiiNhiiiiuMl tn
Hiiy, " ll'iw iiiiMfriilili) one Ih wIh-ii one
lovi'M ! '

Aiim''o Hocn'Hy rojoicpd tlmt rt'IcHti-
l;('[it out <>r liiT wiiy, liUtcly hIk- liml
HiiNpt'ctfd tliiit Clanilit wim (lr('|ily in
lovo with licr frii'iid, and tlmt Hninc
iiiiHiindi'i'stiindinu Imd occurred lictwccn
tlictii M'liicli hIic liclii'vcd Mdiild Olid in
II filial rii|itiiio if hIk' could n';raiii licr
foriiKT inllucni'u over liini, Slio was
xcllisli, if not unHcrnpiiloiiH, and hIiu did
not care who Hiitrcrcd, if nhc! was happy.

One inorning while CeieHte remained
II volnntiiry prinoiier in her ehuteau
anion;; the elms, Aiineu eainu u]> the
broad Hteps and tlll•oll)^dl the cool breezy
corridors of Clerniont, siiiKin^ in ft dear
voieo the koii^ of the //innnfi/ff ; the
Archdeacon met her, and telling her he
had something to Bay to her, took her
hand and led hor to liia study. When
there ho eloHcd the door, and piiHlied a
chair toward her. She did not wit down,
hut leaned on it with folded iirnm, while
sho regarded with contenijit the Vcnim
changed to ft .Magdalen ; it alwiivK
Kcemed to irritate her, with itn Hinile of
Hill niid Beniblance of piety, (iirl though
she WftH, «ho underHtood the nature of
tho deception nnd Hcorned it.

" l.iook at me, Ainu'e, and not at the
Magdalen," Haid Fabien severely, after
a nioinent'H panse.

" Why should I not look at the pic-
ture and linten to you at the same
timcl" she replied, inij)ertinently. "In
that way I can take a double lesson,
ono in (iecoptioii, tho other in religion,
becftuso it is to lecture nio that you
have brought me here, to scold mc for
not having been to communion this
morning. Is it not I"

" It is," answered tho Archdeacon.
" You have been very remiss lately in
your religious duties."

" I fear I have, moii phe," she said,
sinking on her knees, and bending her
head over her clasped hands with mock-
ing gravity; "but I will confess all
now, and you shall give me absolution."

Fabien did not speak, but regarded
earnestly the lovely kneeling figure be-
fore him, and while ho looked at her Iiis
face seemed a mirror in which was

reflected many emotions. Admiration,
love, pity, piiHMion, tciiderneKf, und
dcKpiiir, all swept over him, until hii
could scarce rcMist tlu< desire to cliiHp
her to his heart and |Hiur out hih soul
ill fren/ied prott'Mtatioim. " .My (io<l,"
ho thought, " I ought to drive her from
my presence and never look iijion her
again ; she crushes my will as thougli it
were a bubble, sho drives reason iiiid
ambition from my brain. No matter
how I struggle against her power, sho
teaches me that the h< ;(rt of a priest
is the heart of a nmii, a:id its cries will
not always be stifled,"

Only an instant thes'' thoughts filled
his mind ; then ho swejit them away
with a supreme effort, and said calmly,
" I await your confession, my child."

Aim6e remained silent.

" Mast thou broken any of the Com-
mandments since thy last confession f "

" Yes," she replied, not without emo-
tion.

" Which ? "

" The first ; I h.ivo loved another bet-
tor than <!od."

" Oh ! " sighed tho Archdeacon, like
ono racked with ])ain ; " that is indeed
a sin, but who is tho object of thv idol-
atry 1 "

Her face and neck flushed crimson,
but sho raised l.er eyes and replied firm-
ly, " Claude."

" Poor child, I pity thcc ! but thou
art young, aiul it is not difficult at thy
ago to kill tins affection, which — "

"To kill," sho interrupted. "Why
should it bo killed 1 It is not a sin to
love, if wc <lo not forget Cod,"

"It is a sin to love, if thy love is un-
lawful."

" I never heard that lovo was unlaw-
ful between those who are free to love."

" Claude is not free, ho is the promised
husband of Madcmoisello Monthelon."

Aimec forgot her confession, forgot
sho was on her knees before an arch-
deacon, forgot that she was outraging
tho privileges of the Church, and spring-
ing up, with clenched hands, dilated
pupils, and anger stamped on every
line of her face, she cried, " That is a
falsehood ; how dare you tell me a thing
so false 1 (^'laude never kept any secret
from me. If he was promised to Celeste,
he would have told me."

Tmsm^sm^smm!^

" "1

A CUOWN I'UoM TIIK SPKAFJ.

" 1

liiiiratidti,

WfHf, Utill

until ill)

' to I'lllMp
t hih Hdlll

My (!<.(J,"

lur fniin

iifi'iii her

thoii^'h it

I'lkHOII Mild

No iimtfcr
Mtrtcr, mIio
II |)ricNt
H criuM will

\nhtH filled
ii'iii ftwiiy

ii<l calmly,
cliild."

r the Com-
ifi'SHJon 1 "
thout cino-

iiotherbct-

cacon, liko
it iH iiulcfd
)f thy idol-

(1 crimson,
L'plicd firm-

! but thou
cult at thy
L'h— "
d. " Why
lot a sin tu

love is un-

was unhiw-
;o to love."
e proiriiscd
iithelon."
ion, forgot
nn arch-
outraging
md spring-
is, dilated
on every
That is II
nic a thing
any secret
to Celeste,

"Cfiliii yoiMKclf, tii'i rhi'rir," f\\u\ I'li-
liien L'ctitly, iilinoHt iilVuid of the tciii|it">f
hi' liiid riUHrMl, -- •• niliii yiiiiincif aii'l
liitliM iVo MIC. I will cxplaiii all uiiil
coiiviMCM* you tliat what I Hiiy i^ true."

S!,, ! Hiked at him a iixiini'iit, her
lii'i'w ciiiitrui'ti'd, lii-r even tliiHl.iii'.,', and
hiT tcitli piVHScd Surd iiifn her iiihIit-
lift, 'riu'ii a Hmil«- of Hcorii and <loul)t
flidu 1 over her faro, and nIio said
\\\\U giiH|i, " 1 d'lii't know that I
can luiicvo you, for you uro not Hincciv.
All thcHo things" with a HWtcp of lur
hand toward the Magdalen, the Flan-
dors leather, and the triumphs of Jupi-
ter, " conviuco mo that you are not
good anil true ; these are not the sacred
B»ili)eits that shonld Hurroimd a priest.
A slii'|ilieril of souls shixild look at n(jnu
of tlu'se things."

Kaliien winced, hut lie smiled indul-
gently, treating her like iv child, as he
always did. " Vour simjilicity excuses
your rudeness, my daught(;r. Hut if

{•oil doulit mo, " ho added a little stcrn-
y, "le:ive my room and conic to mo no
more. It is for your own good that 1
desire to open your eyes, and let you
see things as they are ; hut if you prefer
not to see, why then remain hiind."

" I wish to see. I will see. I will
know all," she returned liorccly. " F will
lic:ir your explanation, hut I will not
helieve Claude intends to marry (V--
le.sto until I hear it from his own lips."

She folded her arms, straightened
herself to a grim rigidity, fi.xed her
eyes on the armor with the ugly skull,
and listened while the Archdeacon told
her of his interview with Claude some
time before.

When ho had finished, the girl's face
was very pale and resolute, the marked
eyebrow.s had a decidedly w icked ciu've,
and the eyes a subtle intensity, liko a
young tiger ready to spring upon its
prey.

" He loves her then, if I am to be-
lieve this ; but he will never marry her,
I will kill them Iwth first," she cried,
with insane rage.

" For God's sake hush, my child,"
implored the Archdeaxion, " There are
other means less tragic by which this
marriage may be prevented. Listen to
me, ami I will show you how easily it
may bo managed. Celeste even now, at

the birth of her love, is NUKpieioim ami
jeiijniis of yon. It is lieeatise hlie limilits
her lover that she hIiiUs herself n|i at
Moiitheloii, under the preleiiee of ill-
iiesM." Aimee's eycH Hpaikled with viii-
iliclive joy. " .\nd it is not altiit;etli(ir a
|iretenee. She is ill, but it is the heart,
tiio mind, and no phyHieian i an euro
that malady, liiit the Hlightest look,
tone, hint, will augment it, She is
physieally weak, she has not a strong
( haraeter, there is no lieroiNin in her
nature, she will'sink under the slight-
est attack without eomliating it, shu is
too credulous and yielding to resist or
dispute, and so can easily bo disposed
of. A convent is tho placu for such
a feeble spirit, as hers. .My iiifluenco
is great, she is pious and devout. I
will show her how fair and peaceful ii
refuge she will find in the Church, and
her liruised heart will aid ine in an
oliject that is, after all, right. Wo
should hem tit tho Church at any cost,
at any suritieo. And the end always
justities the nu'ans."

" Disinterested reasoning," cried tho
girl scornfully, "but of wliiit iidvantago
will your success be to me 1 You will
separate them, and ho will love her tho
more. It is not alone his wealth and
title I want, it is his love."

" Vour eharniH will win that in time,"
said the Archdeacon with conviction.

" Never ; if with truth and innocence
I have failed, 1 cannot succeed when
my heart is tarnished with falsehood
and deceit, lie has a tnoro noble soul
than yours, anil ho would detect tho
imposition. No, no, I will not bo your
accomplice, for it would be useless. If
I was sure a crime woidd win his love,
I would ccanmit it, but my heart tells
mo it would bo in vain. It would
separate me from him forever. Do
what you will, but I cannot aid you.
I will hear tho truth from his lips, and
— and my resolve is talten. I will not
come between him and his desires. I
love him enough to suffer for him, to
die for him, and too much to see his
happiness with hor I hate. Yes, I hate
her, with her deceitful white face and
innocent ways. She knew 1 loved him,
that I had always loved him, and she
has come between us and separated us.
I bate hor ! " she hissed veuomously, —

• JUJ I j-j H I- 'l ' ' l l tJW I !

•.«MMGf«lMi*«HMMaM*Mi

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

"I hato her. Make her suffer if you
cau, but spare him. liomcniber what 1
say. If you injure a hair of his licad,
my vcuj^cancc will bo terrible."

Since the day the child betrayed her
father in tiio tower of Notre Dame,
Fabien had known that there was some-
thing fierce, implacable, stubborn, and
defiant in lu;r nature, but he had never
understood the full strength of it until
now. He felt a shiver pass over him
as she looked at him ^with eyes that
seemed to omit sparks of baleful light ;
and wlicu she turned to leave the room
he had no power to detain her, although
there were a thousand things he wished
to say. She had reached the door, when
suddenly the thought of what he had
done for her since the hour when she
was cast a waif on his mercy, his indul-
gence, his love, his patience, his care,
all overpowered her and filled her heart
with remorse. She glanced at him. His
head was bowed ; seemingly he was
crushed beneath her scorn, her re-
proaches, her threats. In a moment she
was on her knees before him, covering
his hands with tears and kisses, implor-
ing him to have pity on her, to foi-give
her, and to love her always.

The Archdeacon folded her to his
heart. In that supreme moment ho for-
got he was a priest, and therefore not a
feeble man. All the love and passion
of his soul overflowed and drowned his
reason. He was only conscious of one
thing, — this girl whom he adored with
all the intensity of his nature, and who
until then had treated him with cold-
ness and indifference, had thrown her-
self voluntarily at his feet and covered
his hands with her tears and kisses.
And while he held her to his heart, this
stern cold priest, this immaculate shep-
herd of souls, this man whom the world
believed dead to the passions of life,
experienced for a moment

" That part of Paradise which man
Without the portal knows,
Wliich hath been since the world began,
And shall be to its close."

An instant only, and then Aimee tore
herself from his embrace, and without
a glance or word fled from the room;
and as she went she dashed from her
face tears that had fi\llen from eyes
which had seldom wept before.

TART NINTH.

THE ALLEY OP SIOIIS.

On the left of tho grand avenue that
crossed the park of Clermont was a
winding walk, shaded by pines and wil-
lows, that terminated, more than a mile
from tho chateau, in an abnipt and dan-
gerous precipice which rose above the
Seine to the height of more than two
hundred feet, forming a part of tlio
base of Mont St. Catherine. At a lit-
tle distance from the extreme edge of
this precipice the trees were cut away,
leaving an open space from which '.nio
could see the city of Houen and the
serpentine winding of the river far be-
low him. Tho shaded Avalk leading to
this cliff had always been known as the
Allee des Soupirs. Perhaps its umbra-
geous gloom and the moaning of the
wind, that seemed to sigh mysteriously
among the mournful pines when it was
heard nowhere else, suggested the name.
It was not a retreat a happy person
would have chosen. Only one steeped
in melancholy would have sought it as
a congenial spot to nurse his morbid
fancies. Nevertheless it was a favorite
resort of the Archdeacon when he wished
to be quite alone to brood over his cher-
ished schemes, and the stone seat facing
the Seine scarcely ever had any o.ther
occupant.

But on this day, when Fabien, in the
privacy of his study, plotted with Aimee,
Claude sat there with a book in his
hand, out of which he read from time
to time passages that seemed to interest
him. He had wandered down the Alley
of Sighs miserably dejected, his heart
filled with doubt, sorrow, and disap-
pointment at the unaccoimtable check
to his ardent love. He had written
note after note filled with the most ten-
der expressions of affection. The notes
had been retained, but only a cold, ver-
bal message had come that Mademoiselle
Monthelon was too ill to reply to Mon-
sieur le Comte. Not knowing what
course to take, he was in tortures of un-
certainty. Sometimes indignant, and
suspecting some plot of the Archdeacon
and Fanchette, he determined to storm
the citadel and force a passage into tho
presence of his beloved Then ho
thought how uawise and ridiculous such

mmmr

IS.

avenue that
loiit was a
icH and wil-
than u niilo
ipt and diin-
! above the
e than two
)art of tlio
At a lit-
ne edge of
5 cut away,

wliich «ne
en and the
iver far be-

Icading to
lown as the
i its umbra-
ling of the
ijsteriously
ivhen it was
d the name,
[ipy person
ane steeped
ought it as
his morbid
IS a favorite
n lie wished
icr liis cher-
; seat facing
[ any other

bien, in the
with Aimec,
jook in his
I from time
\ to interest
ru the Alley
I, his heart
and disap-
tablc check
lad written
le most ten-

The notes
a cold, ver-
ademoiselle
ply to Mon-
3 wing what
tures of un-
gnant, and
Archdeacon
ed to storm
ige into the

Then he
iculous such

CROWN PROM THE SPEAR.

a step would be, if she were really ill,
too ill to see him. Tormented with
these conflicting emotions, he found
very little distraction in the scene be-
fore him, and less consolation in the
pages of the book which he turned list-
lessly over. It was the Pensees de
Blaise Pascal, and this passage on the
possibilities of a future life attracted
his attention : " Vous me direz ici que
je confonds mal h, propos le bonheur
actuel dont je jouis avec le parfait
bonheur ; qu'il y a cependant grande
difference de I'un il I'autre." He pon-
dered over the words, " Permanent
duration is the marked characteristic
of true happiness ; present happiness
is not only short-lived, but it often pro-
duces a succession of sorrows the most
redoubtable." Again he read : " Les
stoiques disent : Rentrez au-dedans de
vous-mfimes. C'est li o4 vous trouve-
rez votre repos ; et cela n'est pas vrai.
Les autres disent : Sortez dehors, et
cherchez le bonheur en vous divertis-
sant ; et cela n'est pas vrai. Les mala-
dies viennent ; le bonheur n'est ni dans
nous, ni hors de nous, il est en Dieu et en
nous." These sentiments impressed him
with their truth, because he had already
found how uncertain is earthly happi-
ness, and how useless it is to strive to
find it within ourselves or without, in
the midst of the diversions of life. It
must be the gift of God, or otherwise it
is but a momentary satisfaction.

Claude had studied and thought
much, but in a desultory way, — the re-
sult of leisure and general reading;
therefore ho had not reached the great
fundamental princip^as of life, which
perhaps, after all, we oftener learn from
sorrow and the experience that we gain
from contact with the great heart of
humanity, that heart which must throb
and burn with ours before we can enter
into rapport with it. He had passed
his life, so far, in dreamy inaction, doing
nothing, because there was no necessity
to impel him. Yet there were times
when he questioned himself sharply, as
to what right he had, simply because
God had given him wealth, to be an
idler. While others of his fellow-men
endured the heat of the day, toiling
like patient beasts of burden for the
bare necessities of life, he folded his
3

hands in luxurious ease, aoing nothing
for himself or humanity. His soul was
full of generous impulses. He had
given freely of his wealth to the poor,
to the Church, to charitable institutions,
through the medium of the Archdeacon,
and had never refused the heavy de-
mands he constantly made upon his
charity. One knowing how freely ho
dispensed his bounties woiild have said
that he believed, to the full extent, in
the Scriptural adage, that it is more
blessed to give than to receive. There
was something of prodigality in the
freedom with which he showered bone-
fits on all, still there was very little
satisfaction in it. He did not delude
himself with sophistry ; he knew he
made no sacrifice of self, therefore there
could be no merit in it. At times, be-
fore he was conscious of his great love
for Celeste, ambitious desires had stirred
the placid stream of his life, but only
at short intervals ; the natural indolence
of his nature usually asserted itself,
and he would decide that, after all, a life
of political or literary activity was but
a conflict in which one was almost al-
ways ingloriously defeated. When he
loved Celeste and knew that love re-
turned, he desired nothing more. A
calm, domestic life with her seemed to
him the supreme good, the ultimate
blessing, that could be added to his
already favored existence. That cer-
tainty had been short-lived. The Arch-
deacon had presented obstacles that
annoyed him at first, and that now
threatened him with the annihilation of
all his hopes. Searching his brain for
some assistance in his trouble, he sud-
denly thought of Aim6e, and decided he
would make her his mediator, as she
had often been between him and the
Archdeacon, and his intercessor with
Celeste. This thought encouraged and
comforted him, and he arose with a
lighter heart to return to the chateau.
Then, for the first time, he was aware
how long he had sat there musing over
his book and his sorrows. The after-
noon was gone, and night was rapidly
obliterating the golden footsteps of the
sun. He lingered to look down on
Rouen. The sombre city was growing
solemn in the twilight. The majestic
towers of Notre Damo and St. Ouen

mitiiiiirif'itit^mmiiilA r^ifi

irifl^ JN j i w iw rr i r iii l i ]fflii i >>i i *w

H imi HMtf

CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

made a silhouette against the gray sky.
A light mist rose up ghost-like from the
river, the wind swept in little gusty
moans down the Alley of Sighs. His
afternoon revery and the sadness of the
scene filled his heart with a gentle mel-
ancholy that perhaps was augmented
by the coming events that threw their
shadows before. With a heavy sigh he
turned to leave the spot, and came face
to face with Aira^e. A spectre could
not have startled him more, she was so
pale, and her eyes met his with such a
strange expression that he shivered.
Then her dress of black, which was un-
usual, relieved only by a scarlet scarf
woimd around her throat, made a most
disagreeable impression. She seemed
to be transformed into something differ-
ent from the Aixaie he had parted with
a few hours before; the white-robed,
laughing girl of the morning appeared
iu^the twilight like a ghost clothed in
diabolical colors.

" How did you know I was here 1 "
was Claude's first exclamation, when
he had recovered a little from his sur-
prise.

" I searched everywhere for you, until
one of the gardeners told me he saw you
enter the Alley of Sighs, and as I wished
to'talk with you free from interruption
I followed you here."

She spoke calmly, but Claude discov-
<ered an increasing agitation, that was
apparent in the hectic color of her
cheek and her restless eyes.

"You are the one of all others I
most wished to see at this moment,
Aim^e. I, too, have something to say
to you ; you can do me a gi'eat service,
if you will," he said, earnestly, laying
both hands on her shoulders, and look-
ing into her half-averted face.

" Indeed ! and what is the service 1"
she inquired, coldly.

Claude told her briefly of his love for
Celeste, and his suffering at being sep-
arated from her, and was going on to
implore her intercession, when the girl
interrupted him with a cry of anguish
that startled him. " Then you indeed
love her so much 1 "

"Better than my life," he replied,
firmly.

Her hands fell, and she stood motion-
less, her eyes fixed on vacancy, while

from time to time she sobbed, " Mon
Dieu / Mon Dieu ! "

Claude looked at her stupidly, not
understanding; then suddenly the
thought flashed upon him that perhaps
her emotion was caused by some mis-
fortune that had befallen Celeste, and
he cried in a voice of entreaty, "Tell
me, Aimde, is C<ileste seriously ill 1 has
anything happened to her 1 Tell me, for
I am dying of anxiety."

These passionate words startled her
from her rigidity, and fixing her eyes
fiercely on him she replied, " Do not
speak to me of Celeste. I hate her so
that I would gladly see her dead before
me. She is well ; she is happy. It is
I who am suffering, who am dying.
She triumphs over me, and you have
no pity for me. Claude, how I have
loved you ! I have prayed for you as we
only pray for those who are a part of
ourselves. I have thought of you as
no other ever will. You have been my
idol, my god, my religion, ever since
the day I first saw you. I would have
suffered the pain and sorrow that is
coming upon you gladly, and counted
myself more than blessed to share any
fate with you. I would have lived for
you, I would have died for you, if you
had but loved me instead of that white-
faced, passionless creature, that hypo-
critical — "

" Hush ! " cried Claude, sternly ; " not
a word against Celeste, she is an angel."

No woman can endure to hear her
rival praised, and to such a nature as
Aim^e's it was fuel to fire ; it was the
spark that exploded the pent-up pas-
sions of her heart ; and she broke out
into such frenzied invectives that
Claude was dumb with amazement.
She went on insanely, heaping injustice
upon injixstice, insult upon insult.

" I hate her ; I despise her ; she is a
cowardly, deceitful intruder, who has
come between us, and changed your
heart by her wiles. You loved me
once, you thought me an angel; you
praised my beauty; you sought my
society and my sympathy ; you made
me love you by a thousand tendernesses
and professions; and now you havo
grown weary of me, and you fling mo
aside and seek a new love."

Claude regarded her with deep com-

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

)bed, " Mon

tupidly, not
Idenly tho
hat perhaps
f somo inis-
[!^leste, and
•eaty, "Tell
isly ill 1 has
Tell me, for

startled her
ng her eyes
I, "Do not
hate her so

dead before
appy. It is

am dying,
d you have

how I have
or you as we
e a part of
b of you as
ive been my
, ever since

would have
row that is
ind counted
share any
vo lived for

you, if you
F that white-

that hypo-

temly ; " not
is an angel."
to hear her
a nature as
; it was the
pent-up pas-
le broke out
ictivea that
amazement,
ting injustice
insult.

ler ; she is a
er, who has
langed your
L loved me
angel ; you
sought my
; you made
tendernesses
w you havo
^ou fling me

h deep com-

miseration ; so young, so lovely, yet so
entirely controlled by these passionate
emotions. His eyes filled with tears as
he looked at her, and he said, in a
voice of extreme pity and gentleness,
"Aim6e, how you will suffer for hav-
ing been so unjust toward Celeste, to-
ward me, who have both loved you as a
sister. Havo I ever professed any other
love for you than the simple and sincere
love of a brother] If you have mis-
taken my kindnesss, my forbearance,
my indulgence, for other than a frater-
nal love, am I to blame 1 Think of it
calmly, without passion, and you will
see that I have always treated you as a
beloved sister."

His gentle words pierced her heart
with a spasm of pain. She indeed re-
membered his love, his kindness, his
generosity toward her who had no claims
upon him. This thought calmed the
tempest of anger as nothing else could,
and her voice was filled with contrition,
as she said, " It is true, you have done
nothing that I should reproach you for.
You are not to blame that you do not
love me j it is my own miserable heart
that has deceived me, for I once was
sure of your affection ; now I know
you have never loved me, and all this
maddens me, and robs me of hope.
You were my life, without you I will
not live, I cannot live. All is lost ; I
am resolved, I will not live to know you
hate me."

Her voice was br'-'ien, and her eyes
were filled with tears that did not fall,
as she raised her despairing young face
to Claude. He took her hands in his,
and pressing them fondly to his lips he
said in tones of touching tenderness,
for his heart was moved with pity,
" Aim^e, my little sister, my playmate
from childhood, my dearest thing on
earth beside Celeste, you know I love
you with all a brother's heart. Let us
forget these bitter words. Your passion
has blinded you ; you cannot see clearly
into your own heart ; you have mis-
taken the natuA of your love for me,
it is but the deep affection of a sister ;
so be to me indeed a sister; help me
in my trouble with Celeste, and I will
love and bless you always."

She looked into his face with a long,
devouring gaze, as though she would

imprint every feature upon her heart
forever, and said in a slow, solemn tone,
" It is impossible, Claude ; I cannot help
to make you happy with another, but I
can retire from your life. I can leave
you to accomplish your desires alone.
If I should remain with you, I should be
but a discordant element. My place is
no longer here. Adieu ! Claude, adieu ! "
she cried, with passionate sobs breaking
into the fixed calmness of her words.
" Adieu forever. Let no thought of me
intrude upon your hours of content.
Death is a thousand times prefer-
able to the sight of your happiness
with another. You will see mo no
more ; my resolve is taken, I will tear
myself from a life that imposes a burden
heavier than I can bear. A silence shall
come between us, an eternal silence,
and you will forget I have ever lived."
Her lips were white and tremulous,
and her voice clear and piercing with
the suffering that only an excitable and
highly wrought temperament experien-
ces in moments of extreme mental dis-
tress.

Claude was alarmed ; for although ho
had often witnessed her tempests, and
listened to her exaggerated threats, dur-
ing her frequent passionate outbursts, he
had never seen such traces of anguish
upon her face as now. He attempted
again to take her hands, to draw her near
him, to soothe her with gentle words,
but with one look of reproach and
sorrow that he never forgot she sprang
from him and darted through the laurels
into the thicket of trees that grew close
to the precipitous bank of the river.

For a moment Claude was stupefied,
then with an effort he recovered himself
and sprang after her. A crash, a cry,
a long piteous wail. Was it the shriek
of a soul in pain, or the wind wandering
down the Alley of Sighs 1 He knew not,
but a sudden chill passed over him. All
was silent now ; he parted the branches
and looked down, down into the shadowy
depths of the Seine, growing dark and
mysterious iu the fast-gathering twilight.
A deadly pallor passed over his face, and
great drops of sweat fell from his brow
while he gazed, for he fancied the water
eddied and rippled as though lately dis-
turbed by a.fsSling body, and he could
have sworn that he saw a gleam of

i ni l )fc7ri ii t'.W i* k i Ba a i l M i tfiTr i Tlu > [ i i >i Wi^Wnr>ii i rt'l il r i i>

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

scarlet, a white face, and the tinge of a
liltick drcHB under the yellow surface of
the river. For years after to see that
comlnnation of colors made him turn
sicl{, so vividly did they impress them-
selves upon his brain iu that moment.
" My God ! " he cried, pressing his hand
to his beating heai't, " is it possible she
iiioiuit what she said 1 Has she thrown
herself into the river 1 And have I been
tlio cause 1 Can it be that my words
(li'ove the poor girl to sudden and dread-
ful death ] Heaven ! what can I do 1
No help can reach her from this height,
and before I can descend it will be too
late." Again he looked eagerly down,
crj-ing, " Aim6e ! Aim6e ! " but the placid
water returned no answer. All was
silent above and beneath him. A bird
hopped across the branches, a bat
whirled around his head ; nature made
no reply to his despairing voice. It
was dumb, because it was unconscious
of the tragedy that filled his soul with
horror. Bewildered, hopeless, almost
maddened by the succession of thoughts
that rushed through his burning brain,
ho turned to seek help, although he felt
it useless, and saw before him the gaunt
figure, the haggard face, of Pire Benoit.

Before Claude was well aware of the
priest's presence, he felt his claw-like
hand clutching his throat, and his voice
like the hiss of a serpent, as he said,
close to his ear, " I know all. You are
a murderer ! You have driven the poor
girl to death to hide your crime from
the world. You plunged her down the
precipice into the river. I heard her
call for help."

" My God ! " cried Claude, wrenching
himself from the priest's grasp. " Are
you mad, that you utter such a lie 1 I
have not harmed the poor girl. I loved
her as a sister, how then could I injure
one hair of her head 1 If she has come
to harm, it was her own uncontrolled
passion that led to such a fearful result.
I am innocent. God above knows I am
innocent. Do not stand here accusing
me. Let us try to reach the river ; if
she has fallen down the precipice, we
at least may find her body."

The priest turned mechanically and
followed Claude, who with livid face
and bloodshot eyes rushed down the
naiTOW winding path.

" She may have descended this way,"
he cried, after a few moments, turning
suddenly upon the priest, who was fol-
lowing him desperately, his black robe
torn by the thorns and jagged rocks. His •
hands were clenched and his lips com-
pressed, while his eyes were fixed mena-
cingly on the sorrow-stricken young man
before him.

When Claude turned his anxious face
upon him, the priest's eyi m fell, and he
crossed himself, saying only, " Alon
Dieu ! Mom Dieu ! "

" Do you not think, that, after all, she
may have rushed down this path, and
gone on by the beach-road to St. Oucn 1
See, here are certainly marks of a wo-
man's shoe in the sand."

" A woman's shoe," repeated the
priest bitterly and laconically, " I see
only the track of a goat's hoof."

Claude said no more, but sighed heav-
ily as he glanced down on the river a
few paces ^om him. In a moment they
stood on the shore side by side, Claude
trembling visibly, for he expected to sco
a white, reproachful face looking at him
from the depths of the shadowy river
into which he gazed long and intently ;
but he saw nothing save the shadow of
the overhanging cliff, and one trembling
star reflected fV-om the azure heavens.
Then he raised his eyes to the face of
the precipice with its weird, waving
branches, and cried out with sharp an-
guish, as we sometimes cry to the dead,
even when we know they cannot hear
us, " Aim4e, Aim^e."

There was no reply, only the long-
continued melancholy echo, "Aim6e,
Aim^e 1 "

PART TENTH.

THIS IS ALIi WE HAVE FOUND.

Both men stood looking silently each
into the face of the other, and the silence
was not broken until Claude gasped,
hopelessly, " Then we can do nothing t "

" Yes ; we can try to find the body,"
said the priest, in a voice of suppressed
emotion ; " let us return to the ch&teau
and send some one for boatmen to drag
the river before the tide takes it beyond
their reach."

Elt£.

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

ed this way,"
unts, turning
who wns fol-
a black robe
id rocks. His-
bis lips coni-
3 fixed mcna-
Q young man

anxious face
; fell, and ho
only, " Mon

after all, she
is path, and
to St. Oucn ]
rks of a wo-

epeated the
ially, " I see
loof."

sighed heav-
1 the river a
moment they
side, Claude
pectcd to see
oking at him
indowy river
nd intently ;
le shadow of
me trembling
ure heavens.
> the face of
eird, waving
ith sharp an-
te the dead,
cannot bear

ily the long-
10, " Aim^,

FOUND.

silently each
id the silence
lude gasped,
lo nothing 1 "
d the body,"
if suppressed
\ the ch&teau
bmen to drag
kes it beyond

Claude shuddered at the word " it,"
and covering his face wHh his hands he
sobbed aloud. Was it possible, then,
that Aimie, the perfection of health
und beauty, the gaycat, brightest crea-
ture that ever made sunlight in the old
chateau, she who had occupied so im-
portant a place in the hearts and
thoughts of those around her, — had
she so soon become only it ?

The priest's face softened as he looked
at the young man ; and whatever his
suspicions had been before, his expres-
sion now betrayed that he no longer
doubted the innocence he had so lately
accused. But he had a purpose to
serve, when he said sternly, with a
sudden revulsion of feeling, " You are a
good actor. Monsieur le Corate ; you are
a good actor, but you cannot deceive
me."

" Heaven ! is it possible that
you can believe me guilty of such a
crime," cried Claude, as he turned from
the priest, and sprang up the steep
path impetuously.- "Come with me
into the presence of the Archdeacon,
and there accuse me if you dare. I tell
you I loved her. I have loved her
always as a sister ; dear little Aim^e,
she made my life happy. You must be
mad even to think that I could injure
her."

They had now reached the top of the
path by which they had descended, and
the spot where Aimie had so suddenly
disappeared.

" Look," cried Claude, as he strained
his eyes in the distance, — " look yonder
on the shore path to St. Ouen; near
that rock is there not a moving form
which has just emerged from its shadow,
and is it not the figure of a woman ? "

" I see nothing," said the priest, fol-
lowuig his gaze, " but a fisher-lad
creeping away toward the town."

"What is more likely," continued
Claude, earnestly, "than that she in
her passion dashed down the path, and
rushed away to St. Ouen 1 She will
return when she becomes calmer. Yes,
I feel she is safe ; I am sure we shall
see her before the evening is over."

This sudden beam of hope was ex-
tinguished by the priest, who replied,
firmly and solemnly, " Young man, do
not waste your words in the eflbrt to

deceive me. You know the poor girl
will never return. Even now hor unre-
sisting body is floating toward the sea
with the ebbing tide."

Claude made no reply, but turned,
his soul filled with indipiation and
grief, and hurried through the Allde des
Soupirs toward the chateau, followed
by P6re Benoit.

The Archdeacon, with bent head and
folded arms, was calmly pacing tho
pavement of the portico, when Claude,
pale and excited, rushed into his pres-
ence, a few steps in advance of the
equally excited and pallid priest.

Fabien paused in his walk, and raised
his head haughtily to receive the per-
turbed intruders. But his expression
of reserve changed instantly to tho
deepest astonishment and horror when
Claude cried out, " mon pere ! I fear
Aim6e has fallen over the cliff, into the
river, and is drowned."

" Ciel t " exclaimed the Archdeacon,
forgetting his dignity. " What do you
say ? Aim^ fallen into the river !
Mother of God ! Where were you, tliat
you did not save her ] "

" Monseigneur, permit me to speak,"
interrupted P^re Benoit, stepping hum-
bly forward. " This unhappy yoimg
man tells a sad truth. Mademoiselle
Aim^e has suddenly disappeared over
the cliff into the river. I heard her
reproaches and sobs; I heard her cry
for help ; and I heard him accuse him-
self of having caused her death. Mon-
seigneur, I must speak the trutli to you.
I believe M. le Comte has murdered the
defenceless girl."

" Liar ! " shouted Claude, springing
at the throat of the priest ; hut before
he reached his victim the strong arm
of the Archdeacon was interposed, and
his clear, metallic voice smote tho ears
of PSre Benoit like the clash of a sabre.
" Are you mad, that yon waste time in
accusing Claude de Clermont of so foul
a crime 1" Claude, for the first time
in his life, felt like blessing his guar-
dian. " Imbecile / do you not know
that your idle words may bring terrible
suffering upon this young man, and
a fearful punishment upon yourselfl
Leave your insane suspicions nnex-
pressed, and act, instead of talking ab-
surdities. Send a man to St. Onen;

A CROWN PROM THE SPEAR.

fSlftI

Another down the rivor, to Grand
Couronno. The tide is ebbing," he said,
with sad sign! ficnnco ; "let some boat-
incu lenvo Bouillo as quickly as possible,
dragging fruni there to this point ; and
send messengers on the swiftest horses,
up and down on both sides of the
river."

" I will ride to Bonille, myself," cried
Claude, "fur I must do something; in-
action would drive me mad ; and I will
not return until I have found some
traces of her."

In a few moments every servant
about the chateau knew that Mademoi-
selle Aim^e had disappeared in a sud-
den and dreadful manner ; and every
one was ready to volunteer his services
in search of her, for, in spite of her
wayward and passionate nature, she
had endeared herself to all ; and all, in
tliinking of her, remembered some little
act of generous kindness and unselfish-
ness toward them.

The setvants shook their heads om-
inously, while they hurried from room
to room, summoned momently by the
imperative bell of the Archdeacon. Va-
rious conjectures and rumors passed
from one to the other, and dark hints
against the young Count were already
whispered in retired comers, for the
Archdeacon's valet had overheard the
accusation of Pere Benoit.

Among all the domestics at Cler-
mont there was only one who had en-
tire confidence in the innocence of his
master; for the feeble superstitious
minds of hirelings and ignorants are so
formed and held in subjection by the
superior strength of a powerful intellect,
that in almost every case, by a sort of
magnetic influence, they become thor-
oughly subordinate to its opinion. Al-
though the Archdeacon had stoutly de-
fended Claude from the accusation of
P6re Benoit, yet from sundry expres-
sions he had let fall the servants were
convinced that it was only an act of
generosity on the part of Monseigneur,
and a desire to shield his ward from a
suspicion so horrible. Therefore, as we
have said, there was only one who, in
spite of Fabien's influence, had entire
belief in Claude's innocence ; and that
was his valet, Tristan, who concealed
beneath a deformed and sickly body a

mind of rare discrimination and intelli-
gence. This poor young man was some
years older than Claude, and his father
had been valet until his death to the
former Count de Clermont. Since Fa-
bien's reign commenced at the ch&teau,
gradually and with evidently good rea-
sons most of the old retainers had boon
dismissed, and new ones had been
selected by him to fill their places.
This poor sickly boy would have doubt-
less shared the fate of the others, if the
Archdeacon, judging from his vague and
inane expression, had not believed him
to be half idiotic and half stupid, and
therefore harmless. Owing to this con-
viction and the earnest entreaties of
Claude, who had a deep afi'ection for
him, he was allowed to remain. He
was a most singular-looking creature,
having a great head covered with coarse
shaggy hair, a pale, hollow face, great
eyes much too far apart, with some-
thing of the pitiful, imploring expression
of a dumb animal. Beside ho was hunch-
backed, and all of one side was shorter
than the other ; from that cause his gait
was a grotesque limp, and every move-
ment a sort of double intention. To
strangers he was simply repulsive.
Celeste, as gentle as she was, had often
felt like running away from him, even
when he brought her mcssngcs from
Claude, and the servants at the cli&teau
made him a butt for all their pranks
and wickednesses. Poor soul ! he never
complained to his master, but bore their
buflets with a patience and gentleness
that was truly touching. His love for
Aimee was only second to his love for
Claude ; for the brave, high-spirited girl
had been his champion in more than
one encounter with the Archdeacon, in
which the latter had always come off
worsted ; and it was woe unutterable to
an unlucky trickster if she detected him
at his cruel pastime, for her indignation
and scorn came upon him like a whirl-
wind. The only instance in which
Claude had ever been known to assert
his authority was to protect his unfortu-
nate favorite from the aggressive treat-
ment of Fabienand his minions. He
had seen those patient eyes watching
him from childhood with a fidelity as
beautiful as it is rare, and he had be-
come so accustomed to his uncouth

}n and intelli-
man was booio
nud hiH father
death to the
it. Siuco Fa-
,t the ch&tcau,
ntly good rea-
nera had bcou
es had bcea
their plnces.
;d have doubt-
others, if the
his vague and
believed him
If stupid, aud
ig to this con-
entreaties of
affection for
remain. He
:ing creature,
3d with coarse
)w face, great
, with some-
ing expression
ho was hunch-
le was shorter
cause his gait
1 every move-
itention. To
[y repulsive.
!as, had often
)m him, even
essnges from
t the chateau
their pranks
)ul ! he never
jut bore their
id gentleness
His love for
> his love for
b-spirited girl
a more than
'chdeocon, in
ays come off
nutterable to
detected him
r indignation
like a whirl-
:e in which
}wn to assert
I; his unfortu-
ressive treat-
linions. He
'es watching
a fidelity as
I be had be-
his viucouth

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR,

form, his halting gait, and his haggard
face, that if any one had said so him,
" Tristan is hideous," he would have re-
plied truthfully, " To me ho is not even

ugly."

On this night, while the servants were
discussing their young master,, the
hunchback stood silent and apart, his
short and his long arm folded, his head,
as usual, lopped on the lower shoulder,
and his great eyes fixed with a melan-
choly surprise on the knot of gossips.
No one seemed to notice him, until a
maid with a kinder heart than the oth-
ers exclaimed, as she glanced toward him,
" Look, the hunchback is weeping." It
was true, the great tears were slowly
rolling down the thin cheeks, and yet he
seemed unconscious that he wept until
a shout of derision made him suddenly
aware of it. Then he quickly wiped away
the tears with the back of his loiig lean
hand, and turning silently he ho.)bled
away with one reproachful look at his
tormentors.

Before a half-hour had passed tho last
messenger had ridden off on Ins gloomy
errand, the sounds of hurry mg feet and
excited voices ceased, and silence reigned
over the house.

In the study sat the Archdeacon and
Pfere Benoit; neither had spoken for
some time. Fabien's face was buried in
his hands ; outwardly he seemed calm,
hut the convulsive pressure of his
strong fingers into his forehead, and the
shiver that now and then shook him,
betrayed a terrible emotion that he
with difficulty suppressed. The priest's
face was haggard and stony, his sunken
eyes were fixed on the face of the clock
as it told the slow hours, his chest rose
and fell with his labored breathing, and
the great drops of sweat gathered and
rolled down his hollow cheeks, while
from time to time he wrung his
hands in anguish and moaned, " Oh !
oh ! oh ! "

When the bell in the turret of the
chapel sounded the hour of midnight,
it seemed to arouse the Archdeacon
from his stupor, for he raised his head
and fixed his red swollen eyes on the
face of Pire Benoit, saying iff a low
voice, " Midnight, and no tidings yet.
Mon Dieu / how slowly time drags when
one waits in agony. God grant that I

may know the worst soon ; this suspense
is insupportable."

" You will never know more than you
know now," said P6re Benoit ; " long
before they commenced their search, her
body had floated with the ebbing tide
far below Bouille."

" Stop your ominous croaking," cried
Fabien, angrily; "how can you know
whether she will be found or not 1 She
may even now be living. You do not
know the girl as well as I do. In a
sudden access of passion, she is capable
of doing anything to alarm those who
love her J perhaps to-morrow she will
repent and return."

" She will never return," replied the
priest, solemnly.

The Archdeacon's heart sank, for he
remembered the last interview in the
library, and the strange manner of
Aim^e, which showed she was laboring
under no ordinary excitement.

" Tell me all you know of this, and
what reasons you have for your suspi-
cions," he said at length.

Then the priest recounted minutely
the scene between Claude and Aim6e
as far as ho had heard ; for although ■
he was hidden in a hedge near them,
every word had not reached his ear,
and, owing to the intervening trees, he
had seen nothing. When he repeated
the passionate words the girl had ad-
dressed to her companion, Fabien trem-
bled visibly, but he did not interrupt
the narrator until he said, " How can
you doubt that M. le Comte caused
her death 1"

Fabien folded his arms on the table,
and leaning forward he looked with a
strange expression into the face of the
priest and said, " Indirectly, perhaps."

" Indirectly," repeated P6re Benoit
sharply. " Is it then any less a mur-
der r*

" There is no doubt," continued the
Archdeacon, without noticing the ques-
tion, — " there is no doubt in my mind
as to his having trifled with the poor
child, and then -driven her to desper-
ation by his professed love for Madem-
oiselle Monthclon. But the accusation
you make is a grave one, and unless it
can be proved had better never be ad-
vanced. Hints do no harm, but an
open avowal of your opinion may lead

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

M'^

\mi

to soriouB results. I for many rcasoiiH
must defend tho Count of Clermont
from this charge; he is my ward, my
pupil, and tho world would not think
well of me if I should abandon him in
tho hour of trouble. No, whatever
comes of this, I must defend him. It
is true I have sworn to bo instrumental
in visiting the sins of tho father upon
the child. I have sworn to be revenged
for a greater wrong than any you have
suffered, and yet oj)enly I must do noth-
ing ; but you need have no scruples,
only be judicious."

"Je comprends," replied the priest,
while something like exultation spar-
kled in his heavy eyes ; " now is our
time to crush tho viper."

" The Devil sometimes gives oppor-
tunities to saints. This dreadful event
may be the means of our doing some-
thing for the Church," said the Arch-
deacon with bitter irony, for he did not
think it necessary to wear his mask
closely in the presence of one who knew
too well what it concealed.

" I care not for tho Church, if I can
but accomplish my revenge at last,"
said P6ro Benoit fiercely. " If I could
but see a Count of Clermont condemned
as a criminal, whether guilty or inno-
cent, only condemned and punished,
my aim would be completed, and I
should feel that I had not plotted and
suffered in vaifl,"

" You may noi live to see him con-
demned by the laws of his country ;
there is no proof, and there never will
be, I fear, but even less is enough for
our purpose," replied Fabien calmly ;
"his disgrace and ruin can bt accom-
plished easily, by taking advantage of
this sad event to further our plans."

The hours wore on, the clock tolled
one, two, three ; still these two men,
under the shadow of night, and under
the shadow of an awful calamity, plotted
the ruin of the unhappy young man
who, with weary body, aching heart, and
burning brain, hastened back to Cler-
mont to relieve their prolonged vigil.

The dawn trembling to daylight
forced itself into the study, putting to
shame the sickly flame cf the lamp,
that only half illuminated the weird
surroundings and the sinister faces of
the two priests, when Claude, followed

by a troop of pale, anxious servants,
entered the room.

Both men sprang simultaneously to
their feet, their questions in their eyes,
for their blunchod lips refused to utter
a word.

" This is all we have fotmd," gasped
Claude, as he came forward and laid
upon the table the scarlet scarf, now
drenched and soiled, that Aim^n had
worn around her neck. " This is all.
We found it two miles below, attached
to a piece of drift-wood in the middle
of the river." Then his strength and
calmness giving way, he sank into a
chair and burst into sobs.

PART ELEVENTH.

THB PLOT MATURES.

From the moment on that terrible
night when Claude returned with the
scarlet scarf that Aim6e had worn the
last time she was seen, suspicion became
confirmation in the minds of all. None
now doubted that she had thrown her-
self, or had fallen accidentally,, or had
been pushed from the precipice into tho
Seine. Some were of one opinion, some
of another, but the greater part, no
slower than the rest of humanity to be-
lieve the worst of their fellow-creatures,
entertained the latter. So it is not
difficult to conceive that, as Claude was
last seen in her company, he was the
one accused by others, as well as by Pdre
Benoit. For many days after she dis-
appeared the servants of Clermont and
the boatmen on the river continued
their search for the body of the un-
fortunate girl. But whether it had
drifted down with the ebbing tide, and
so was lost in the depths of the unex-
plored sea, or whether it had lodged
among th? iibris in the bottom of the
river, none could tell, and none could
ever know until God in his justice
revealed it.

During the time the search was con-
tinued, the Archdeacon seemed pos-
sessed with a spirit of restlessness. Day
and night he wandered about, up and
down the river, over the park, and
through the AIUq des Soupirs, to the

" JS^ vS^V- ^w-itf ii^ * i^

.|-...-Ti.^,»'Tl.iriHBi!f»'M* ■■ -

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

«t

>UB serrants,

tancouBly to
1 their eyes,
iBed to utter

md," gasped

rd and laid

t scarf, now

Aim^n had

This is all.

9W, attached

the middle

trcngth and

iank into a

IS8.

that terrible
cd with the
ad worn the
icion became
f all. None
thrown her-
:ally,. or had
pice into the
pinion, some
;er part, no
lanity to be-
)w-creature8,

it is not

1 Claude was
he was the

ill as by Pdre
Fter she dis-
lermont and
r continued

of the un-
ther it had
ng tide, and
)f the unex-

had lodged
)ttom of the

none could

his justice

rch was con-
seemed pos-
ssuess. Day
out, up and
I park, and
ipirs, to the

cliflf where she was last seen ; there he
would stand for hours leaning over the
precipice, gazing down into tiio dcptlm
of tlio river, as though ho could boo fur
below t)ie tiuigled rubbish and slimy
stones that lined its bed. When night
obscured all objects save the light from
the lanterns of the boatmen, gleaming
here and there mysteriouoly on the riv-
er's dark surface, an they continued their
melancholy task, ho would return hag-
gard and silent to the ch&teau and en-
tor his study alone. Sometimes Claude,
wishing for a word of comfort, would
seek him there late in the night ; but
the suppressed sound of sobs and moans
would arrest him on the threshold, and
send him back shivering to his room.

P6re Benoit seemed to have deserted
them, for, the morning after the first
night of the search, ho had left the
ch&teau, and hod not since reappeared,
although Tristan told his young master
that ho had seen the priest in the town,
surrounded by a crowd of common peo-
ple to whom he was recounting the
mysterious disappearance of Aim<ie, with
many dark threats against Claude, who,
he hinted, was her seducer and murderer.

" 0, he is mad ! " cried Claude with
the deepest indignation, when Tristan
had concluded his story.

"Yes, that may be. Monsieur le
Comte," replied the hunchback, with
anxiety in his voice ; " I always thought
there was something strange in the
manner of P^re Benoit ; in fact, none of
us think him anything but an impostor
who has deceived the kind heart of
Monseigneur the Archdeacon. But im-
postor or mad, whichever he may be, he
should not be allowed to spread such a
shameful story through the town."

" What difference 1 " said Claude, care-
lessly, although ho looked distressed.
" No one will believe the words of a
lunatic. The people must know me
incapable of such a crime."

The faithful servant hesitated a little,
seeing his young master's troubled face,
on which there was such a shadow of
sorrow that it pained him to tell him
all he had heard.

"Go on," said Claude, noticing his
reluctance. " Did they appear to be-
lieve him 1 "

" Yes, monsieur, the canaille always

l>eliove the worst. Shouts and cries of
indignation aroso from tlie wliole crowd,
and tlioy declared that, although you
wore a count, you should bo punished
in the same way as wiw Pierre (ilarnot,
who last year killed his mistrcsH in a fit
of jealousy. Do you remember tJie ter-
rii)le manner in which they put him to
death 1 "

Claude turned pale ; yes, ho remem-
bered too well how they dragged the
poor wretch from his hiding-place and,
after inflicting every possible torture
upon him, hung him to a branch of a
tree, from which they did not allow the
body to bo taken until it was a sight
too loathsome to behold.

" my God ! you do not tell mo they
spoke of such a deed," cried the unhappy
young man. " Am I not then wretched
enough, that this horror must be added
to my other suflcring 1 "

" I tried to speak to the crowd, mon-
sieur ; I tried to tell them that you were
innocent, and that the priest was mad ;
but they would not listen to mo, they
called me a hunchbacked knave, said I
was in league with you, and began to
pelt me with stones, sticks, and garbage
of all sorts, until I was obliged to take
refuge in the shop of Mathicu tho tailor."

" Kind soul ! " said Claude, looking at
Tristan with pitying affection. "You
must not endanger yourself again to
defend mo. Have you told the Arch-
deacon of this ^ "

" No, monsieur, I have not told him,
but I think he knows of it from his valet,
who was with me at the time, and he
said that I was a booby to interfere
with the mob, as they nearly always
had the right on their side. mon-
sieur, the valet Andr* is a traitor to you,
and false to Monseigneur the Archdea-
con! for I am sure he and the priest
joined with the mob to cry you down."

" It is worse than I thought," sighed
the poor young man, "when even the
servants of my own household turn
against me. I will go to Father Fabien
directly, and ask him if some measures
cannot be taken to silence this mad-
man."

Claude had felt his heart drawn
toward the Archdeacon ever since tho
night he had defended him so warmly
from the accusation of P^re Benoit, and

A CUOWN FROM THE SPEAR.

80 ho now Bought his proHence with tho
conviction that ho wan truly \m fVicnd,
nud would still continue to protoct him
from tho ])orHocution of his ononiics.
Fnbion listoncd to him, but scorned to
think tho matter demanded very little
attention. " It is servants' gossip," he
said, " and the best way to silence it is
to take no notice of it." Still his man-
ner did not reassure ('laude. There was
something of suspicion and doubt in
the Archdeacon's regard that chilled
him and made him tremble more than
Tristan's story had done.

"0 Heaven!" ho thought, "if ho
too should believe mo guilty and aban-
don mo, the fate of poor Pierre (iamet
may indeed bo mine." Determined to
know the worst at once, ho summoned
all his resolution and courage to his aid,
and raising his head proudly, while the
light of truth and innocence beamed
from his clear eyes, he said in a firm
but very gentle voice, " Father Fabion,
have you entire confidence in me, and
do you believe me incapable of the
crime they accuse me of 1 "

Tho Archdeacon returned Claude's
steady gaze with one of well-simulated
sorrow, and replied sadly, " My poor
boy, I pity you 1 God knows I pity you !
and I will never desert you. Your
father, on his death-bed, left you to me
as a most solemn trust, and I will be
faithful to that trust. Whatever I may
believe respecting this dreadful calamity
will remain close locked in my own
heart, and none shall over know it. Be-
fore tho world I shall defend you, and
strive to prove your innocence, although
I fear you are guilty. But as I have
pledged myself, I will never desert you."

Claude clasped his hands to his head
and uttered a sharp cry : " This is
terrible ! And Celeste, does she also
believe mo guilty t "

" She does, and her heart is vellnigh
broken."

" I will see her, if it costs me my life,
and declare my innocence to her ; and
then, if she believes me guilty, I shall
doubt the justice of God."

" Rash young man ! " said Fabion
coldly, " she will not see you, and you
cannot force yourself into her pres-
ence."

" I will see her, and nothing shall pre-

vent mo," cried Claude, as he rushed,
half fVenzicd, from tho room.

When he reached tho door of tho
Ch&toau Montholon, ho was met by the
portier, who looked at him with stupid
astonishment, retreating as Claude ad-
vanced, like one who feared to bo in-
fected by a plague. "Give this to your
mistress directly," he said, holding out
a card on whicli ho had written a few
words, imploring Cdleste to grant him
an interview, that ho might convince
her of his innocence. The man did not
offer to take it, but folded his anna
and shook his head, saying imperti-
nently, — he who had been all obsequi-
ousness before, — "1 was ordered not to
admit Monsieur, neither to take any
messages from him to Mademoiselle."

"Did your mistress give you those
orders herself 1" asked Claude, with a
sinking heart.

" No, monsieur. Monseigneur the
Archdeacon gives me my orders on all
important matters ; beside, Mademoiselle
is too ill to see any one."

" 111 I " he repeated after tho servant,
— " ill, too ill to leave her room 1 "

"No, monsieur. Mademoiselle walks
about the corridors a half-hour each
day, and when the weather is fine she
takes a short turn with Fanchette in
tho summer garden; but sho is very
weak and low, poor young lady ! "

Claudo sighed heavily as ho lingered,
wishing to ask many questions about
Celeste, and what hour she was in the
habit of taking her daily exercise ; but
he did not mean tho servant should
know he had noticed his remark alraut
the "turn in the summer garden," so
he only said, "I am sorry, Jacques,
your mistress is so poorly. You need
not say to her that I have been here.
I will wait until she is bettor."

Jacques lot him out a little more re-
spectfully than he had let him in ; for
the calm and unconscious bearing of
the young man somewhat disarmed the
suspicion of the servant, who could not
believe that a count who had committed
a crime that places one on a level with
the lowest could still appear with the
superior demeanor of a noble and a
gentleman.

"It is very strange," said the old
man to the other servants, after he had

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

ho rushed,
m.

loor of the
met by the
with stupid

Chui<lu mi-
ll to ho in-
this to your
holding out
ritton 'i few

grant him

it convince

man did not

1 his arms

ing imperti-

all ohHoqui-
dercd not to
to take any
imoiHelle."
you those
Aude, with a

seigneur the
trders on all
Mademoiselle

the servant,
room 1 "
oisello walks
ilf-hour each
ir is fine she
Fanchette in
; she is very
lady ! "
I he lingered,
mtions about
a was in the
exercise ; but
rvant should
cmark alraut
r garden," so
rry, Jacques,
^ You need
ve been here,
ter."
ttlo more re-

him in; for
s bearing of
disarmed the
rho could not
id committed
1 a level with
lear with the
noble and a

said the old
after he had

related to them his interview with the
suspected, — "it u very strange that
such a good and kind-looking young
man as Aionsieur lo Comto should kill u
girl hu always seemed so fond of as he
did of Mademoiselle Aim(io. If he in
guilty, why don't ho take himself off
while he has time I It leemt like in-
nocence, staying here and braving jus-
tice. Still there it a mystery, and I am
certain that Monseigneur suspects him,
although ho says nothing."

'TjVmx $ot ! How do you know Mon-
seigneur suspects him, if ho says noth-
ing 1" inquired a port chambermaid,
who was inclined to take the part of
the handsome young Count. " I know
what I would do if I was Mademoiselle
C61este and M. lo Comte was my lovor.
I would 800 him " — this with a strong
emphasis on the " would," a sharp little
nod, and a significant snap of her fingers
in the direction of Clermont — " in spite
of Monseigneur's commands and the old
priest's lies ; they are hypocrites, both of
them, and not half so good as the young
man they slander, and you are no better,
et voili tout ! "

This energetio tirade finished, Nanon
tossed her pretty head defiantly, dove
her hands into the little pockets of her
tiny apron, and turning her back on old
Jacques, who entertained the warmest
admiration for her, left the room amid
a buzz of astonishment.

" I believe he m innocent," said
Jacques, with conviction, as he pursed
up his mouth and shrugged his shoulders,
making a significant grimace in the
direction of Nanon. " I think she
it right ; and I will go and tell her
so, for I don't like the little witch to be
angry with me." So, crossing his arms
under the tails of his green coat, he
walked off after the indignant maid.

Claude loitered down the avenue that
led to the summer garden where Mad-
emoiselle Monthelon was in the habit of
walking with Fanchette. He knew it
was a favorite spot, and, if she left the
ch&teau, she would certainly come there
to enjoy the beauty and fragrance of
the flowers, now in their most luxuriant
bloom. There was a little arbor cov-
ered with clematis and Fontenay roses,
where they hod often hidden during
their childish gomes, and where, not

many days before, ho had whispered to
('t'loHto the story that is always new,
and that never bocomos tame from
repetition. How many times Aimee's
clear laugh had discuvorod hor to him,
after he had searched throughout the
grounds in vain, and hor white haiuls
and sparkling oyes had flashed through
tho curtain of leaves an eager welcome.
Now the place was silent and deserted ;
a solitary bird twittered, he thought,
mournfully ; and the withered rose-
leaves wore scattered everywhere. In
that moment he thought moro of the
departed Aim^o than of tho living
Celeste ; and sinking into a seat, ho
said, between his sobs, " ma bien
chirie ! You will come here no more.
I shall never again look upon your dear
face. You are gone fVom my life forever.
Alas I I feel the truth in all its bitter-
ness. 1 would give half of my future to
see you sitting hero aa I have seen you
so many times ; but no desire nor sacri-
fice can bring you back to me, you are
gone as suddenly as a rainlww fades
from tho heavens, or the sunlight from
tho waves of tho sea. Thore is no trace
of you here. I cannot see your faco in
tho heart of the rose, nor hoar your
voice in the murmuring of its leaves.
The sunlight mocks me, for it will not
drive away the shadow that rests upon
me. Neither will it reveal the mystery
of your death. Light and darkness are
alike, for all is changed suddenly, —
so suddenly that I am blinded and stu-
pefied by the shook. Aim^e dead, and
Celeste worse than dead, if she believes
me guilty of the crimo imputed to mo.
What greater misfortunes can come upon
mel"

He arose, and paced back and forth
for some time, trying to compose and
arrange his thoughts ; but ho could
understand nothing clearly, only that
his need to see Celeste was imperative.
" I feel I must see her or die," he oaid
to himself. "I must speak with her,
and Ood grant that she may listen to
me and believe me I I shall remain
here until she comes ; it does not matter
how long, but here I remain until I
have spoken with her." He threw him-
self again upon the rustic seat. Weak-
ened by his emotions and anxiety, his
head fell upon his breast, and he sank

:■ I
H)|1

ill

A CnOWN FROM THE SPEAR

into a Rort of Htiipor, in which \m life
hcciikmI to piiNH hofori" liim : fintt a [mn-
oriuim of pliicid ttcenra, with hhio Hkies,
IHiHtiiriil vuIl(>yH, anil Hiinny h1<iih>n ;
then 111! chnnKt'd, niid to thcHo gentle
|iictiircH Hiiccoi-dcd hirid and wind-
t<)HM«'d cloiidw, Hwollcn Hlrt'atnB, and vol-
cimic hciglitH. Aini(^u Mcvniod to piiHn
hcforo him with piiHHion and angniHh
imprintfd on every feature ; and then
apiiii, ha^'f^ani, and drcnclied with tlie
Hcii, a wave ca«t her at hiH feet. ( '6-
loHte, palUd and worn with sorrow, np-
pcarcd to wring her handH an<l implore
him to leave lier ; while Fahien and
Pere ]teniiit thundered in his earn,
" These are your victiniB." His soul
wan in a tumult of agony, and his sick
fancy distorted and exaggerated his
misfortune until it seemed as though
madness or death must soon end it.

Nothing wounds us like injustice
from those wo love. Wo feel that thoy
should believe us incapable of wrong,
even if the darkest suspicion rests upon
us. Wo arc slow to allow that they
have shared our lives and thoughts, our
closest companionship, in vain ; that we
hav(> opened out to them the tablets of
our heart, which has been but a blank
if they have not understood tho char-
acters thereon better than those to
whom wo have closed them.

To Claudo it was tho most insup-
portable grief of all, that Cdleste should
believe him guilty. He thought of the
words of the priest as the words of a
madman, of tho Archdeacon's suspicion
only as tho injustice of dislike and
enmity ; but Celeste, she who had given
him her love, and promised to share his
life, how could she condemn him un-
heard? The more he pondered over
these terrible complications, the more
certain he felt that there was some plot
in progress to separate them, and that
his guardian and P^ro Bonoit were at
the bottom of it. " If I could but cir-
cumvent them," he thought, " if I were
but of age and free from the hateful
control of the Archdeacon, I might find
justice ; but as it is I am entangled in
a net from which I cannot free myself.
0, why did my father leave mo in the
power of such a dangerous man ! "

So absorbed was Claude in his painful
thoughts, that he had forgotten where

ho was and tho object for which ho was
there, until a rustling of tlit! hmvos and
a sweet plaintive voice arouHod him.

" Kanchotte, aro nut tho roses falling
early this year 1"

Many of us can foci the simple
pathos of the (luestinn, for there aro
years in most lives when tho roses seem
to fall early. Hut tlipy smote tho
heart of Claude with a sudden puin, and
the hot tears started to his eyes as ho
parted the vines and looked out on the
path down whic^h they camo.

(Jdlesto in pun nt white, and her love-
ly face and ha'. In as white as her dress,
loaned upon Uie strong arm of Fan-
chette, while htr Koft eyes rested 8a<lly
um tho fallen rose-leaves that strewed
tho path.

" 1 thought his love would have out-
lasted the roses," she said as she gath-
ered with her transparent hand a fair
bud and looked at it sorrowfully ; " but
it died first, Fanchcttc, it died first."

" O my sweet Lily ! caimot you feol
that my love is not doad 1 " sighed
('laude, wiping away tho tears that
rolled over his face, and striving to
calm his emotion before ho addressed
her.

" Let us rest in the arbor for a few
moments; I am so tired, dear Fan-
chetto," said the plaintive voice again.

Claude's heart bciit almost audibly
as their Bhado\^8, lengthened by the
setting sun, entered before them. His
eyes foil on that of C61esto and fol-
lowed it along the floor to the hem of
her white robe, and up the graceful
figure until they rested, full of love, on
her sweet face.

When she saw him she stopped on
tho threshold as suddenly as one ar-
rested by some vision of horror, her
eyes dilated with fear, and her hands
extended as though to ward off his ap-
proach.

"Celeste, dearest Celeste," he cried,
springing toward her, "for the love of
God, listen to me."

For only one instant he saw her white,
terrified face, her outstretched hands ;
then she uttered a piercing cry of
fear and anguish, and, turning, fled from
him as though she wore pursued by
a fiend.

He did not attempt to follow her.

Ir which ho wna
]th(! limvoH and
•MiHfid him.
|io roHCM falling

1 tho Hinipio

for fhoro aro

tho roH«;H Hocm

■u'^ sniotu tho

i(J<l(.'n puin, and

luH cy<!H UH ho

Lcd out on tho

inio.

;, und her lovo-
Ito UH Imr dri'SH,
orm of Fan-
es roBtcd HiuUy
that Btrcwod

ould have out-
I as Bho gath-
iit hand a fuir
fully ; " but
t died first."
;annot you fcol
Kml?" sighed
ho tears that
nd striving to
c ho addressed

arbor for a few
red, dear Fon-
'0 voice again,
almost audibly
thcned by the
ore them. His
61esto and fol-
to tho hem of
ip the graceful
full of love, on

iho stopped on
nly as one ar-
of horror, her
and her hands
?ard off his ap-

?8to," he cried,
for the love of

I saw her white,
'etched hands ;
jrcing cry of
ming, fled from
'6 pursued by

to follow her.

A CROWN FROM THK HPEAU.

Falling back into a scat like ono Nniittcn
with |MkUv, hu gunpud, " My (jod, my
(]()<t I It ii4 true, hIio too believes mo
guilty. Have pity ou mo, and suvu niu
from myself ! "

PART TWELFTH.

JCHTICR MAKKH A UKMAND.

It was night before ('laudo aroused
himself from tho heavy despair that fell
upon him when ho know C^leato no
longer loved him. Tho time that had
intervened was a dull blank ; his head
ached, his heart throbbed to sufiocution,
and his oycs were weighted with unshed
tears. Every place was alike to him
now, still ho felt bo must make an
effort to return to tho ch&toau, at least
ho wished for tho privacy of his own
room, whero ho could shut out all but
hia sorrow. Ho arose trembling like
an old man, and tottered down tho
avonuo in tlio direction of tho gate
that opened into tho park of Clonnont.
Tho clock in the choftol tower struck
tho hour of nine. Was it possible so
long a time had passed in a stupor that
after all was scarcely suffering but rather
unconsciousness from tho wound he had
received t He felt a dull conviction that
when he returned to his normal condi-
tion the hours would leave more pain-
ful traces, and tho moments would be
marked with still deeper regrets. He
turned his gaze upward ; the serene face
of the full moon seemed to look unpity-
iugly upon him, her white light revealing
to the thousand eyes of night his haggard
countenance and unsteady gait. Nature
reposed in peace, unmindful of the tem-
pest that shook his soul ; there was no
sympathy for him either on earth or in
the heavens. For the first time the
short distance from the summer garden
at Monthclon to his own park seemed
long ; he was surprised that it had not
seemed so before, when he had crossed
it with the eager heart and impatient
desire of happy love. Then his feet
were winged with hope;" now he stag-
gered under the burden of a great grief,
a burden that presses as heavily in
youth as in age, because we have not
learned to enduro, and our hearts have

■^SB^SssSr^ss^Sss^s^ssjaas*!-

not betrimo callous by tho hard rubs of
tune. Tho pitiloHS Htrokruof niiMl'ortune
hnd fullun with terrible force upon him,
but hn did not feel the HlmrpncNs of tho
lash bocauHo of tho niniibnt'HH iinnluced
by tho liIoWH. Mercifully <J<mI Iiuh made
this proviNiou ; to save us from Niiddea
nuidnuHH he bluntH our Hetmibilitien and
leaves uh time to recover our strength
before we feel tho keenest edge of tho
M{)ear. Even in the moments of his
halfHtupor thi-i truth dawned upon tho
mind of Cluiide, and he repeated to
himself, " 1 shall sufl'er more tomorrow
than to-day, and all my future will
bo utterly desolate. What shull I
do in the long years to come] Can
life bo endured without hopel Can one
livo when ho has lost all 1 or are we like
saplings that can bo torn up, planted
anew, and still flourish?" His undis-
ciplined, immature nature did not look
beyond at tho noble possibilities tho fu-
ture still had for him. He was no phi-
losopher, no stoic, only a warm-hearted
boy, who )>ad boon until now as wax in
the hands of a cunning moulder. But
tho rocks must bo smitten before tho
watoi-s can flow, tho earth rent asimdor
before her treasures are found, tho
worthless tree bent, pruned, and grafted
before it can bear good fruit. And,
after all, tho tost of a kingly nature is
its capability of wearing a crown of sor-
row for its own perfecting.

There was an element in the charao-
ter of Claude that none had discovered,
because tho circinnstanccs to develop it
had never occurred. But now the mo-
ment had come when the indolent,
gentle sotd must sink under its accumu-
lated misfortune, or call in'o being tho
latent power within itself. Great needs
sometimes produce almost superhuman
strength, and in his case this was emi-
nently true.

There was a narrow shaded avenue
that led from the gate across tho park
and garden to the chateau. Tho Arch-
deacon always preferred this walk when
he made his visits to Monthclon, be-
cause it was shorter, more retired, and
more free from observation than any
other. Sometimes he walked there for
hours alone, and it was there he
frequently met P6re Benoit for private
consultations, especially when they did

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

not wish to be seen in each other's com-
pany. For very obvious reasons the
priest could not continue his visits to
the chateau, after his apparent dis-
agreement with the Archdeacon in re-
gard to Claude ; so when they had any-
thing important to communicate to each
other, they met by appointment in this
walk.

When Claude wearily opened the gate
and his indifferent eyes scanned the
avenue, its length of shade broken by
flickering moonbeams that fell through
the tangled branches, how great was his
surprise to see, a few feet in advance of
him, two persons in earnest but sub-
dued conversation. As he approached
nearer he recognized in one the Arch-
deacon, and at the same moment his
low but firm voice fell distinctly on his
ear : " Do not carry your revenge too
far, he will demand justice; nothing
can be proved, he will be acquitted,
and your labor will be lost."

The reply of the other Claude did not
hear distinctly, yet he was assured that
the voice was that of P6re Benoii, al-
though he wore the slouched hat and
coarse blouse of a peasant. Fabien,
as if startled by Claude's footsteps,
glanced around, and, seeing they were
observed, said a few hasty words to his
companion ; then they separated and
glided like dark shadows into opposite
paths.

"I have discovered them plotting,"
thought Claude, almost indifferently.
" And the priest disguised ; what can it
mean t But it does not matter ; let them
do their worst, everything is ahke to
me now."

He reached, without any further ad-
venture, the silence of his room, and
throwing himself on a sofa relapsed
again into sad thought. A hurried tap
ou the door aroused him, and he said
almost savagely, " Who comes here to
disturb tnel" Then he added in a more
gentle tone, as the door opened, " 0, it
is you, Tristan ; come in."

The hunchback stumbled across the
floor, and, falling on his knees, took
his master's hand and pressed it to his
heart, to show him how heavily it
throbbed, while he said in eager, excited
tones, " I have run all the way from the
town. Feel how mv heart beats, and it

is for you, only for you, it throbs. It
never stirred for another. It was d«ad
and silent until you spoke to it. It
loves you and it will save you. They
all believe you guilty, all, even the
Archdeacon. The people in the town,
set on by P6re Benoit, are thirsting for
vengeance. They will come here to-
night and tear you from your bed and
murder you before my eyes. I have
been in the town, I have appeared to
join with them, and I have learned their
plans. They have been to the Maire
and demanded your arrest, and ho has
refused them, because, he says, there is
no evidence that a murder has been com-
mitted, or even that the girl is dead. But
that did not calm them. They believe
she is drowned, and that you threw her
over the precipice to be rid of her, that
you might marry Mademoiselle Monthe-
lon. And they are determined to have
your life. They will be here to-night.
They may come any moment, and then
it will be impossible to save you. Fly
now, while there is time, and take me with
you, monsieur. You will need me, you
cannot do without me." This he added
with the simplicity of a child who be-
lieves itself necessary to those who love
it, while he raised his eyes in earnest
entreaty to his master's face.

Claude had started from his recum-
bent position when Tristan began to
speak, but he showed neither anxiety
nor fear as he laid his hand on the
hunchback's head, and said calmly,
"My poor boy, you alarm yourself
needlessly. The people will not come
here ; they are excited and threaten
what they will not dare to do ; and even
if they should I am prepared for them.
Neither the fear of death nor the sting
of injustice has power to make me for-
get for a moment a calamity that has
fallen upon me heavier and more terri-
ble than either. Indifference robs the
most painful death of terror ; and when
we desire it we care not how it comes,
so that it comes and conducts us to
peace. My poor friend, do not weep,"
added Claude, after a moment's silence,
broken only by the, sobs of Tristan.
" Your affection soothes a little my ach-
ing heart. I am thankful that one has
remained faithful to me. I shall not
fly like a coward. If torture and death

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

, it throbs. It
■. It was d«ad
oke to it. It
ive you. They
all, even the

10 in the town,
re thirsting for

come here to-
a your bed and

eyes. I have
ve appeared to
,ve learned their
n to the Maire
st, and ho has
le says, there is
ir has been com-
jirl is dead. But
They believe
t you threw her
rid of her, that
loiselle Monthe-
rmined to have
i here to-night,
ment, and then

save you. Fly
nd take me with

11 need me, you
This he added

1 child who be-
> those who love
eyes in earnest
B face.

rom his recum-
ristan began to
neither anxiety
8 hand on the
d said calmly,
alarm yourself
5 will not come
d and threaten
to do ; and even
tpareu for them.
;h nor the sting
make me for-
lamity that has
and more terri-
erence robs the
irror ; and when
; how it comes,
conducts us to
, do not weep,"
oment's silence,
aba of Tristan,
a little my ach-
fiil that one has
e. I shall not
>rture and death

come, I am innocent, and I shall meet
it with a serene heart. Stay by me, my
boy, until tlic last, and I will show you
that a Count of Clermont is not afraid
to die."

Tristan clasped his master's hand,
and laid his tear-wet face against it, and
Claude bent his head until his cheek
rested on tlie shoulder of his faithful
servant. For a few moments they re-
mained silent, then tho hunchback
started up, and a sudden terror came
into his eyes as he cried, " They are
coming. I hear them. I hear their
shouts and cries. They are even now
M'ithin tho park. my master, fly, for the
love of God ! fly, while there is time ! "

" No," replied Claude firmly, but with
blanched face, " I am innocent, and I
shall remain hero."

His room was in the right wing of the
ch&teau, and as he spoke he threw open
the door and hurried down a corridor
that led to a gallery overlooking the
main entrance.

It was true they had come, as Tristan
had predicted. The broad avenue be-
fore the entrance of the court was filled
with a turbulent, drunken mob of men,
women, and children, shouting and
screaming every opprobrious term of
their vulgar vocabulary. " Where is
the young ruffian, the coward, the se-
ducer, the assassin? Where is hot
Bring him out, or we will drag him out,
the miserable poltroon ! "

" Down with the nobility ! " cried the
shrill voice of an old wonan. " Because
he is a noble, he thinks to make a for-
tress of his chateau, and drive us off
with his dogs of lackeys."

" He is no better than Pierre Gar-
net," shouted a hoarse voice. " We
strung him up to a tree, and we will
serve Monsieur le Comte the same.
What could be better than one of his
own trees for a gallows, and his own
park for his place of execution ? "

"Hang him over the precipice, head
downward, on the spot where he pushed
the poor girl off'," piped out a wizened
old wretch.

" Yes, yes, the cliff, the cliff, that is
the place for him! "

" Bring him out, bring him out ! "
yelled n, chorus of voices in every tone
of the gamut.

At the approach of the mob every
door and window had been closed and
barred, and every light had suddenly
disappeared. Along the whole length
the fa^de of the chateau now presented
the dark and forbidding front of a prison.
When they saw this, and that there were
no other means of effecting an entrance
than by force, they rushed furiously for-
ward, shouting, " Down with the doors !
Down with the barricades ! "

" We will tear the young whelp from
his den. We will show the nobles that
the people can take justice into their
own hands."

" Out with him ! Down with the
doors ! He is there, he entered not an
hour ago."

" Ruffian ! Assassin ! Coward I He
will not show his face. We must break
down the doors and drag him out," cried
the leader, suddenly turning round on
the advancing mob, and showing a pair
of haggard, bloodshot eyes under a
slouched hat.

"Allans^ mes mfanta. Down with
the doors."

" Nom de Dieu I where is your cour-
age I Down with the doors, I tell you,"
shouted the leader again.

"Yes, down with ^he doors ! "echoed
the chorus of dem<<n8, as they rushed
upon the massive poHe with stones and
clubs.

At that moment a young voice above
them, clear and thrilling as a trumpet,
shouted : " Here I am, my friends,
spare the door. I will come down to
you, and give myself into your hands.
I am innocent, and I am not afraid."

The voice acted like magic. Every
eye looked upward, and every hand with
its weapon fell as though it were power-
less. There was an appeal in the slight,
youthful figure, the pale, beautiful face
and heroic attitude, that might have
touched the better nature of some
among the furious mob, if their reason
had not been entirely under the influ-
ence of strong drink, and that most un-
reasonable of all passions, revenge. As
it was, only for a moment they looked
upward, silent from surprise. Then
their leader cried out, with a voice that
aroused the worst desires iu their hearts,
" Cowards ! You are afraid of a boy 1
Stand back, all of you, and I will entpx

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

alone. I will avenge the poor girl he
has BO foully murdered. He is a noble,
and you fear to touch him. Cowards !
Slaves ! Stand back, and may the
daughters of every father among you
meet with the same fate as the unfor*
tunatc he ruined."

When the speaker's white lips closed
on the last word, there arose a } ell from
the crowd, and simultaneously a shower
of stones, sticks, and dirt hid the white
face on the balcony from the assailants.

Before the cloud of projectiles had
fallen, a strong hand grasped Claude
almost savagely, and threw him within
the corridor, closing the door and keep-
ing it closed with one firm hand, while
ho held the other extended as if in ben-
ediction over the crowd below. It was
the Archdeacon ; his face was calm, but
his eyes gleamed like fire, and drops of
sweat stood on his forehead. " My
children ! my children ! " he cried in a
voice of strong entreaty, *' listen to me.
Calm yourselves, and listen to me. Do
not commit a crime that will stain your
souls forever. What right have you to
take vengeance into your own hands ?
The unhappy young man has never
wrong e a you nor injured you individu-
ally, and that he has committed the
crime you accuse him of is in no man-
ner proven. If he is guilty, leave him
to the laws of your country and the
mercy of God. Go to your homes like
peaceable citizens, and learn there that
it is more noble to forgive than to
avenge."

What good efiect the words of Fabien
might have had on the mob we cannot
determine, for at . the moment when all
were debating interiorly whether this
was an access of Christian generosity and
tenderness on the part of the good Arch-
deacon, or a desire to shield his ward,
whose innocence he did not assert, there
was a great noise at the door against
which they were pressing, a drawing of
bolts, a falling of bars, and the ponderous
parte was dashed back on its hinges by
an impatient hand. There, on his own
threshold, face to face with the haggard
leader and his bloodthirsty followers,
stood Claude de Clermont, calm and
fearless, armed only with courage and
innocence. It was an act that has
found no record in the history of heroic

deeds, and yet the white-faced moon
that hung over Clermont has seldom
witnessed a more resolute and daunt-
less courage than his as he stood in the
presence of a terrible death. Before
him gleaming eyes, cruel faces, and
eager hands, behind him the silent
deserted court, above him the priest
imploring them to pity and mercy. He
raised his eyes to God in fervent suppli-
cation for himself, for Celeste. In that
supreme moment his thoughts turned
to her, and he wondered how she would
listen to the story of his terrible fate.

When Claude thus suddenly and un-
expectedly appeared before the turbu-
lent mob, they stood silent and made
no effort to reach him, now he \.as with-
in their very reach. They had clamored
for him, they had demanded him, and
now he had given himself into their
hands, yet they did not seize him.
There was something in his face that re-
pelled their brutality, and no one dared
to be the first to touch him. The
leader now seemed more backward than
the others, for he withdrew some paces,
and fixed his eyes on the face of Claude,
while the crowd awaited the result of
his inspection.

Suddenly a fiendish glare came into
his eyes, and as a tiger springs upon
his prey the man sprang at the throat
of his victim.

In the brief moment of consciousness
that followed, Claude recognized under
the slouched hat the haggard face of
Thre Benoit. Then his sight grew dim,
his breath came in gasps, and he fell
heavily on the stone pavement of the
court, with the priest's hands still clutch-
ing his throat, and his wild eyes glaring
hate into his.

When the leader of the mob sprang
at Claude, the Archdeacon saw that
something of greater importance had
occurred below than the speech he was
delivering above, and divining that the
rash young man had placed himself
again in jeopardy, he rushed down the
stairs toward the entrance of the court,
followed by the terrified servants.

The bloodthirsty ruflfians, eager to
be in at the death, pressed forward into
the small quadrangle, where the priest
was struggling with his victim, uncon-
scious of the sound of horse's feet clnt-

'^SSi^aSiStm

'idm^tmmi^

maii&

i£&.

bite-faced moon
ont has seldom
lute and duunt-
i ho stood in the

death. Before
ruel faces, and
him the silent

him tlie priest
and mercy. He
n fervent suppli-
;;^le8te. In that
thoughts turned
d how she would
s terrible fate,
suddenly and un-
efore the turbu-
silent and made
now he w&a with-
hey had clamored
laanded him, and
mself into their

not seize him.
1 his face that re-
and no one dared
3uch him. The
re backward than
idrew some paces,
he face of Claude,
ted the result of

glare came into
ger springs upon
mg at the throat

t of consciousness
recognized under

haggard face of
is sight grew dim,
;asp8, and he fell

pavement of the
hands still clutch-
i wild eyes glaring

f the mob sprang
ideacon saw that
• importance had
the speech he was

divining that the
,d placed himself
i rushed down the
ranee of the court,
led servants,
ruffians, eager to
ressed forward into
I, where the priest

his victim, uncon-
jf horse's feet clat-

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

tering \\p the avenue, caused by the
opportune arrival of fifty mounted gen-
darmes, followed by the breathless Tris-
tan, who had run, tumbled, and rolled
all the way to the Caserne and back,
arriving at the same time with the
officers.

Never wore famished and entrapped
wolves captured more easily tlian the
surprised mob, who were surrounded
without a chance of escape or defence.
In the consternation they forgot their
victim, all excepting the murderer, who
was hitcut on his work of vengeance,
which lie would have accomplished in a
moment more, had not a well-directed
blow, from one of the ruffian's clubs, in
the hands of Tristan, felled him to the
ground.

Then followed a strange scene. While
the poor hunchback, almost exhausted
from his etforts, raised and carried away
the unconscious form of his master, the
Archdeacon glided from behind a pillar,
and, taking up the lifeless body of P6re
Benoit as though it had l)een a child, he
carried it through a small side door into
the chapel.

When the officers reached the prison
with their prisoners, they found the
leader was not among them, and every
effijrt to discover him was useless.

An hour before the dawn of the next
day a carriage rolled out of the north
gate of Clermont and turned toward the
sea. In it reclined the half-unconscious
Claude, his head resting on the shoulder
of Tristan, and his cold hands clasped
to the faithful heart that would live
henceforth only for the beloved life he
had saved.

When the servant had wished to
carry his master to his room, Fabien
had objected, saying that Claude's fu-
ture safety depended on his immediate
flight. So, weak, powerless, and resist-
less, he was hurried away from his own
inheritance, leaving a usurper in his
place.

Long after, when the Archdeacon sat
alone in his study at Clermont, its som-
bre gloom unlightened, its dreary silence
unbroken, he thought of the fresh
young voices that were gone forever,
and drank with tears the bitter draught
that so often follows the intoxicating
cup of gratified desire and ambition.
4

PART THIRTEENTH.

CRUSHING A LILV.

" How is my daughter this morn-
ing 1 " The voice of the Archdeacon
was modulated to the most exact tone
of tender interest, as he took the slen-
der feverish hand of his ward in his,
and pressed a paternal kiss upon her
white forehead. It was the morning after
her mother's burial, and some months
after Claude's sudden departure from
Clermont. C61esto was dressed in deep
mourning, and looked paler and more
lily-like than ever. When Fabien en-
tered she was lying on a sofa, a pillow
under her head, and a tiger-skin over
her feet, while Fanchette sat by her
side knitting as usual, only stopping
occasionally to wet her mistress's hand-
kerchief with eau-de-cologne, or to give
her a grape from a delicious bunch
of Muscatels that lay on a silver dish
near her. She made an effort to rise,
but the Archdeacon waved her gently
back to her recumbent position, while
he took Fanchette's vacant seat.

"Did you rest better last night 1"
he continued in the same bland voice,
" or were you troubled again with un-
pleasant dreams ] "

" I tell Mademoiselle her bad dreams
are caused by the fever that comes on
every night," interrupted Fanchette, as
she left the room.

♦' Without doubt," replied the Arch-
deacon, laying his finger on the poor
girl's wrist. " There is but little fever
now, your pulse is almost regular."

" It passed away with my wretched
dreams, and w^hen morning comes I
am so weak and cold." While she
spoke she raised her eyes, unnaturally
large, with a wistfid look into the in-
scrutable face of Fabien. " Have you
heard anything from him yetl" she
said tremblingly, after a little silence,
while she picked with nervous fingers
the crape of her black gown.

"Nothing, my daughter, since some
time ago, when his effi^cts were sent
after him to Rennes."

" Oh ! " she sighed disappointedly, " I
hoped you would bring ma some news
this morning."

" Is it not another • proof of his un-
worthinesa that he h«us ncv«r. written

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

to yo»i sinco liis flight, to ciidcavor to
clear himself from the crime imputed
to liim 1 My cliild, you thiuk too often
of Olio who has wronged you deeply,
and allow your aft'uctious to dwell on a
simier, iustiud of fixing them on Christ,
who B\itfered that you might have
peace."

" my father ! " moaned the poor
girl, " I am so bewildered, so torn to
pieces witli conflicting thoughts. Some-
times I love him as I did at first, and
believe him innocent. Again, I fnai'
him and feel C3nfident that ho is guilty.
His face haunts me persistently. In
my sleep I sec him as 1 saw him that
day in the simniier garden, palo and
Buifering, or again he is struggling with
the mob, wounded, bleeding, dying. If
I could but know ho was alive and safe.
I fear ho is dead, or suffering alone, and
my heart is breaking because I ctill
love him." Here she burst into sobs
and wept convulsively for some time,
repeating over and over, " 0, if I could
but forgot his imploring face ! "

" My daughter, this grief is unworthy
of you. Have you no pride, no energy,
to shake oft" these morbid fancies, which
are but an attack of nervousness brought
on by too close attention to your dear
mother] Think more of her and less
of this unfortunate young man, who has
plunged us all into sorrow."

" I cannot mourn for my mother,"
replied the girl, the tears drying on her
feverish cheek. "She has suffered so
much and so long that death must have
been most welcome to her. No, I can-
not weep for her ; she is happy with
Ood ; would that I were with her ! I
am 80 tired of life. mon ph-e ! I am
so tired." And she looked appealingly
at the Archdeacon, as though she
thoughv he might direct her into some
easier and more pleasant path than the
one she had struggled through during
the last few months of son-ow.

Poor Celeste ! there was nothing fi-om
which she could gather one ray of hope
or consolation. Since the day when she
had seen Claude and Aim^e with hands
clasped bending over the same book
life had changed to her, all had become
distorted and unnatund ; one scene of
deception and sorrow had followed
another, , until she scarcely knew what

to believe or what to doubt. For in her
trouble what was more reasonable than
that she should listen to and confide
in her guardian, her confessor, tlio holy
man she had reverenced and wor-
shipped as only a little less than a
saint, who always met her with such
gentle sympathy and cncouingei ;ent \
In the beginning he had insinuated his
falsehoods with such subtle craftiness
that he had blinded and bewildered the
poor child until she was incapable of
judging for herself, even if all had been
truthfully represented by another.

In recounting to her the last scene,
when Claude was attacked by the mob,
the Archdeacon had carefully omitted
telling her of her lover's heroic conduct.
It would have been a consolation for
her to have known that he met his
assailants bravely, and it would have
shaken her not very firm belief in his
guilt. But Fabien had represented him
as a cowardly criminal, seeking safety
in flight, and even his unfortunate si-
lence was construed by the plotter into
another proof of his culpability.

When Celeste so jjathetically ex-
pressed her weariness of hfe, the only
emotion it awoke in the mind of the
Archdeacon was one of satisfaction.
She had now reached the point in her
life's jouniey to which he had directed
her with the deepest interest and the
most unceasing care. The Church
opened her sheltering arms to receive
the weary child who physically and
morally was ready to fall into them.
It was not the fair feeble girl it coveted,
but her wealth, that with her frail life
was sure to flow into its golden river.

The appealing look Celeste directed
to her spiritual father furnished a ques-
tion which he was most anxious to
answer. It was as though she had
asked, " Where shall I flee to find
peace % " And gently bending over her
he fi-ijed his magnetic eyes upon her,
and said, softly, "The Church, my
daughter, the holy Church offers you
a refuge from the sorrows of life. Turn
to her ; seek repose within her walls.
Her doors are open to receive you ; and
believe me, my child, the only true
peace is found with those who entei
and shut out tho world forever."

"Is it true, mon ph-e, that I should

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

bl)t. For in her

roasonuble than

to ftud confide

ifessor, tlie holy

Inced luid wor-

tle lesa than a

her with such

eneotirngci ;cnt i

Id inHinuutod his

iibtlc criU'tincss

d bewildered the

Has incn])al)Ic of

if all had been

by anotiier.

r the last scene,

Iked by tlic mob,

larefiiUy omitted

8 heroic conduct.

consolation for

iiat ho met his

it would have

lirm belief in his

represented him

1, seeking safety

unfortunate si-

thc plotter into

Ipability.

pathetically ex-

of hfe, the only

the mind of the

of satisfaction.

the point in her

> he had directed
interest and the

. The Church
; arms to receive

> pliysically and
3 fall into them.
3le girl it coveted,
with her frail life
ts golden river.

Celeste directed
furnished a ques-
most anxious to
though she had

I flee to find
bending over her
1 eyes upon her,
ho Church, my
hurch oifers you
ws of life. Turn
vithin her walls,
receive you ; and
, the only true
those who entei
Id forever."
re, that I should

find calm nnd forgetfulness in a con
vcnti" inquired Celeste, with apathy.'
" If I tlumght so, although I havo
iiovor fjlt stich an existence to bo my
vocation, yet, so weary am 1 of tUv
world, that I should like to try to find
peace tlierc."

" (/an y(<u doubt the futility of oartli-
ly happiness] You havo had all,
wealth, youth, and love, and they have
only brought you sorrow."

" It is true," she said, musingly, —
" it is true ; my youth and wealth
cctild not keep his love, and there is
nothing else in life I value. Why
should I not hide my ruined, crushed
heart from the world forever 1" A
slight shiver passed over her as she said
"forever." "And then," she added,
with childlike simplicity, " I always
thought a convent such a cold, hungry
place. But may I havo Fanchette with
mo, and a fire in winter ? And I should
not like to be obliged to do many
penances."

The Archdeacon assured her that
every request should be granted that
did not interfere with the rules of the
order ; while ho, with gentle sophistry,
led her to fix her wavering heart on the
Convent of Notre Dame as a place of
refuge for her weary body and mind
only a little less desirable than piradise.
And before he left her he clearly ex-
torted a promise from her, that, as soon
OS her health was sufHuiently established
to enable her to make the change, she
would commence her novitiate.

When Fanchette entered, after the
Archdeacon left. Celeste threw herself
on the faithful bosom of her only friend,
saying between her convulsive sobs,
" Fanchette, I have promised, I have
promised, but already I am sorry. I
know my heart will break sooner here,
where I can weep unrestrained ; there
it will bo a long, slow life, that will
feed on suppresstsd emotioa and stifled
passion."

" What have you promised 1 Where
are you going, cherie f " cried Fanchette,
looking at her with amazement.

" To the Convent of Notre Dame. I
have promised P6re Fabien to commence
my novitiate as soon as I am a little
better."

" To a convent ! " gasped Fanchette.

' " 0, my poor, deluded child, you will
regret it until y(»ur death"

" Yes, Fanchette, I think I shall ;
but one regret more or less docs not
mattisr now. Perhafs our IJIossod
•Mother will havo pity on mn, and grunt
mo peace."

" I'oor Lily, poor crushed Lily I "
sobbed Fiiuclictto, stroking the soft
hair with one han<l, while she wiped
away the tears with the other.

In the audience-room, at the ('onvcnt
of Notre Dame de Uoucn, ant Fabien,
conversing earnestly with the lady su-
perior, a cunning, sharp-eyed French-
woman of more than sixty. There was
u sleek atfability in her manner, an
amiable hypocrisy, if one may use the
term, a sort of wheedling grace and
suavity, that would have mode her a
finisiied co:]uetto if she had not been an
abbess. At her advanced age slie still
retained enough of power to make her
a match for Fabien, if ono could judge
from his expression ; for it plainly de-
noted that, having argued some point
long and well, he hod not gained much
vantage-ground, although the lady ab-
be ' appeared to agree with every opin-
ioii le advanced.

" She has been nccustomsd to almost
entire freedom of action from childhood ;
she is delicate and sensitive, and re-
(juires the most tender care. I feel the
necessity of urging this mattor. She
has never been separated from Fan-
chette since her birth, and I fear she
will not submit to it without rebelling."
The Archdeacon said this with an em-
phasis that was not to be misunder-
stood.

" I regret," said the abbess, with a
most persuasive smile and an upward
inclination of her eyes, — "I regret to
refuse Monsoigneur any request, but the
rules of our order will not permit the
woman to enter on any other conditions
than that of a novice."

" I fear, then, that this will dis-
arrange all our plans. When you havo
studied her as I have, you will under-
stand that only the most judicious trent-
mcnt will bring about "le result we
wish for at the end of her rovitiato.
Take care that by severity you do not
disgust her with a life she enters upon
reluctantly."

5f}

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

'* I iintlorstiiiul perfectly, moiiKci^iv
cur," said the nlilwKH, bldiidfy, — "I
xiiidcrHtntid itcrfoctly. Madi'inoiscllo
Montlu'Ion must ho hiimGred ; indulged
with httle tithits ; favorod with an
occasional relaxation in our discipline.
Leave it to nie ; I Iiave hiul great ex-
perience in Bucli matters."

The Archdeacon howed deferentially
as he said, " I defer, then, to your snpe
rior wisdom."

*' But about the settlement, the gift
as you please to call it. Is she pre-
pared to sign tlie papers to-day, mon-
seigncur 1 "

*' Quite ])rcpared," replied the Arch-
deacon briskly ; " she is indifl'eront about
all worldly interests, and she leaves it
entirely to mo to name the sum."

" Be generous, then, monscigneur, —
bo generous, then," said the abbess with
a seductive smile. " Our holy Chtireh
needs much for the good work."

The Archdeacon arose, and unfolding
some papers that lay on a table near
he looked them over a few moments si-
lently. Then he touched a small silver
bell and summoned a nun from an ad-
joining room.

" Conduct Mademoiselle Monthelon
into our presence," said the abbess
briefly.

A moment after, the door opened and
Celeste entered between two ntms, who
walked with eyes cast down, and their
clasped hands concealed within the folds
of their great sleeves.

Set off by these grim, gaunt figures
the graceful girl looked still a lily, but
a lily drenched with tears and crushed
by pitiless hands. Her eyes were red
with weeping, her long fair hair disor-
dered, and her childish mouth quiver-
ing with suppressed sobs. She had
wept herself into apathetic despair, af-
ter her forced separation from Fan-
chette, who, she learned at the very last
moment, could not remain with her.

When she entered the presence of
Fabien, she felt like reproaching him
with his broken faith ; but he came for-
ward to meet her with so much kind-
ness and such gentle interest that she
forgave him and felt reassured.

" My daughter, are you ready to
sign the deed of your gift to our holy
Church 1" , .

I "Yes, my father," she replied in a
i low voice, without raising Ikt eyes to
the face of the abbess, whom she already
instinctively disliked.

" Our Holy Mother will bless you, my
child, for returning to her ('hurch tho
treasures she has lent you. (Jive your
heart to her as freely as you give of
your wealth, and you will tind cKcccd-
ing peace on earth, and a ';rown of
joy in heaven. "Youtli, beauty, and
wealth are a sacrifice truly acceptable
to our holy Church, but of how much
more value is the weary bleeding
heart you lay at the feet of otir com-
passionate Mother. My child, your
early renunciation of the follies of the
world show that you have been chosen
by our Lord as his bride. What inex-
pressible lionor and happiness to be thus
distinguished by his Divine favor."

Celeste stood during the short ad-
dress of the abbess, with bent head
and folded hands. Whether she heard
and understood it was impossible to de-
cide, for her face gave no sign of emo-
tion even when the speaker clasped her
clawlikc hands in ecstasy, and turned
up her eyes until only the whites were
visible.

Fabien tapped the table with his pen,
and seemed impatient to have the sig-
nature of (Celeste lather than the re-
marks of the abbess.

" Do you wish to read the deed of
gift, my daughter]" he inquired after
the abbess and the two nims had re-
peated a J)co f/ratias, and crossed them-
selves devoutly.

" No, my father, I have no wish to
read it. The contents of the paper
have no interest for me." She took the
pen from the fingers of the Archdeacon,
and with one sweep of her thin white
hand signed away to the Convent of
Notre Dame de Rouen a large portion
of the wealth her fathe' had toiled for
years to accnmulate. Then she turned
silently, and making r reverence to the
abbess and to the Archdeacon she left
the room as she had entered, walking
between the two nuns. At the door
they were met by a tall, noble-looking
girl, with blue eyes, brown hair, and the
fresh complexion that denotes English
blood, who laid her strong white hand on
the shoulder of Celeste, and said in a

•Miimmitm

mumiti-itt

ilio rcpliotl in a
iiiij» lu;r eyes to
hom alio already

ill bless you, my
her ('hurch tho
oil. <ilivo your
RH you givo of
will find cxcocd-
nd a '.'rown of
til, beauty, and
truly acceptable
lit of how much
weary bleeding
feet of our com-
My child, your
the follies of the
have been chosen
ide. What incx-
ppincHs to lie thus
ivine fuvor."
g the short ad-
with bent head
hether she heard
imposHJblo to de-
no sign of emo-
eakcr clasped her
itasy, and turned
the whites were

able with his pen,
to have the sig-
ther than the re-
read the deed of
he inquired after
wo nuns had re-
lod crossed them-

havo no wish to
its of the paper
e." She took the
f the Archdeacon,
)f her thin white

the Convent of
n a large portion
ic" had toiled for

Then she turned
, reverence to the
chdeacon she left

entered, walking
8. At the door
sail, noble-looking
Dwn hair, and the

denotes English
>ng white hand ou
te, and said in a

, ',^

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

clear, frank voice, "I am Elizabeth Court-
nay, and 1 iiiu to occupy the same dormi-
tory witli you. The abbess wishes us
to be friends. Shall it bu so 1 "

The sorrow-stricken girl raised her
sad eyes to the face that beamed with
goodiicbs, and reading there truth uud

sympathy she silently put her hand in
Elizabeth's extended palm, and the two
went away into the shadow of the dimly
lighted corridor together.

Thus quietly and sadly the two wore
united, to work out with each other tho
complex problem of lifo.

BOOK THIED.

SARZEAU.

PART FIRST.

"the setting of a great hope."

" The scttiii;; uf a great lio|ie is like the set-
ting; of the sun.

I DO not know whether Claude do
Clermont had ever read these beautiful
words of our great poet in tho intro-
ductory chapter of Hyperion, but cer-
tainly it was the same thought that
filled his heart as he watched tho sun
drop into the sea. He was leaning
upon a broken rock on the rugged shore
of Morbihan, his feet braced against
a pile of driftwood, and his hands hidden
in the deep pockets of his rough coat.
On tlie beach by his side lay his hat,
with a gun and game-basket, guarded
by a great shaggy dog, of a breed pecu-
liar to Brittany. There was something
in the scene and in the appearance of
Claude that suggested loneliness and
isolation. His neglected-looking hair
was longer and less curling than that
of the boy who brushed his glossy locks
to ploaijo the Lily of Mouthelou. A lux-
uriant dark beard covered the lower
part of his face, and a heavy mustache
with a melancholy droop shaded his
mouth. His forehead was almost aa
white as when Aimee had compared it
to a rose-leaf; but a few faint lines
between the brows made it less smooth.
His eyes were sunken, and seemed
darker from tho heavy shadows beneath
them ; and bis straight nose hod a little
of tho pinched look that all noses have
-.vhose owners have suffered, while the
lines from the nostrils to the mouth

were a little deeper than they should
have been in one so young. Outwardly,
these were all the changes that five
years had wrought in Claude de Cler-
mont. Yet ten or even twenty years
have passed over some and left fewer
traces. There was strength and deter-
mination in his attitude, and calm res-
ignation in his face. Even though his
hopes had set as suddenly as the golden
god had sunk into tho sea, extinguish-
ing light and joy in the glowing morning
of life, yet his darkness was not despair,
for out of it had dimly gleamed many
stars of consolation. Is it not true that
sometimes, alone and silent in the twi-
light that succeeds the setting of our
sun, angels steal from the shadows and
minister to us until, in the light of
heaven, we forget the earth is dark ?

The rugged, solitary shore, the rising
wind, the darkening sea, reflecting the
sod violet tints of the clouds that were
gliding into distance like the funeral
train of a buried king, and the mourn-
ful rhythm of the waves as they broke
in ceaseless succession over the drift-
wood and tangled sea-weed that strewed
the beach, were all in harmony w ith the
spirit of Claude, who long ago had
parted company with the joyous, irre-
sponsible, almost effeminate nature
that had seemed the inheritance of the
boy at Clermont. Dishonored, and de-
serted by all save Tristan, his proud,
sensitive heart sought no companionship
with his equals in rank. Living a stem,
solitary life, apart from the refinements
and luxuries of the fashionable world,

;■
1

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

he found in the cvtT-vnrjing moods of
nuturo a subject tluit never wenricd or
grew distusteful to liini- Alono witli
(!nd luiil liis own soul, ho studied the
gi-eat teiiuher and consoler, and felt liow
insij,'nitieaiit and unstaMo arc the joys
of life, compared with the pleasure
derived from conteniidiiting the immov-
able hills, the fn-m mountains, the im-
mensity of the overhanging heavens,
the regular sueeession of the sun, moon,
and stars, the infinity of space, and the
profoun<l depths of the ocean, with its
fretting, heaving surface always subdued
and restrained by the unchangeable
laws of the great Conti-oUer. And
these all taught him that the Divine
Architect who perfected this grand and
noble plan did not intend that man,
his m(>8t excellent creation, should
fritter away life in frivolity and vanity ;
that the sublimity of nature was not
spread before him simply to gratify
a taste, or minister to a passion, but to
lead his soul onward and upward to the
infinite and eternal perfection of the
hereafter. He had learned early that
happiness is not to Ihj found in the
outward surromidinga nor in the petty
pleasures of life, but within ourselves,
developed and strengthened by a love
of God and his glorious works.

There are some natures that strive
to lull the pain of disappointment and
regret with an opiate distilled from the
dregs of sensual pleasure; to stifle its
complainings with the clashing and
jangling strife of their fellow-sufTerers,
madder and more restless than them-
selves. Alas for these poor sonls !
their stupor ends in a terrible niglit-
inare, from which they awaken smitten
and blasted. There are others who,
because of some noble germ of strength
and faith within themselves, rise supe-
rior to the strokes of misfortune. Look-
ing Fate unflinchingly in the face, and
meeting sorrow with heroic resignation,
they lay hold of the firm rock, lifting
their eyes npward to the summit where-
on stands the Smiter. The foundation
may shake imder them, they may be-
come weary of clinging, the sands may
slip from beneath their feet, but still
they hold fast to God.

If one had asked Claude to define
his faith, to explain whence came the

calm and strength with which ho met
his miblbrtunos, pcrhajjs he would not
have said that ihuy came from the
Fatlicr of all good ; for the young man,
although cdiuated by a guardian of
souls, had received but very little relig-
ious instruction, and that hail not been
of a kind to awaken feelings of nmiple
faith and trust in God. Thcr-fore it is
likely he would have replied, " I derive
my peace and consolation from nature."
Still, like many of us, unconsciously he
worshipped God through his blessed
creation. His thoughts, as he watched
the light fade from the west beyond
the h)ncly shore of Morbihan, cxi)rcK8cd
in words, were these : " The Sun dies in
the sea, and Night drops her pall over
his grave ; the dews fall like tears ; the
wind sighs and moans ; the Ocean heaves
and frets, her bosom convulsed with
sobs ; the sea-birds wail out their grief,
then fold their wings and droop into
silence. All nature sorrows, but it is a
calm, subdued sorrow j there is no rebel-
lion, no opposing, no complaining. It
is God's decree that his sun should set
each day, and therefore all creation
submits to be hidden in darkness. It
is also God's decree that our suns should
set, yet wo are not patient ; we mur-
mur and moan, and weep hot, angry
tears; we strike in impotent wrath
against a wall of adamant, and cry out
in our anguish that the darkness of our
prison is too intense ; we are maddened,
crushed, wounded, and almost dead from
our useless resistance ; and yet we will
not accept the lesson of submission
taught us by nature. The brutes are
wiser than wo ; they lie down and rest
quietly until the night is passed ; they
know the day will dawn again, and do
not we also] and yet we will not w.iit.
It is five years, five long yeans, -i oe my
sun set, and still there is no i^romiso of
dawn." He raised his eyes upward to
the arch of God over which were sown
the diamonds of the night, and a gentle
smile softened a little the stern sadness
of his face as he said, "Why, already
there are stars ; even while wo wait for
morning, light beams upon us from
heaven." Then, stooping, he took his hat
from under the dog's paw, saying, "Come
Ixus, poor Tristan will be tired of wait-
ing for us."

j.i JwM

MaiiiiriiMiiBHirMiiiiiiaM

t'l'

which ho met

he would nut

iiiiio IVdin tlio

the young man,

a giiardiun of

very little lelig-

it hail not liodi

uliii^s of Hiinpio

TliLi'jlorc it \»

)lit(l, " 1 tlerivo

II from nature."

ncoiiHuionHly lie

1 hia bltsHcd

aH ho watclicd

west beyond

)ihnn, exj)icK8cd

The Sun dies in

ps her jnill over

like teara ; tho

he Ocean Iicavcs

convulsed with

I out their grief,

and droop into

rows, but it is n

;here is no rcbcl-

joniplaining. It

3 sun should set

ure all creation

in darkness. It

: our suns should

itient ; wo niur-

veep hot, angry

impotent wrath

ant, and cry out

I darkness of our

arc maddened,
Almost (lead from

and yet wo will

1 of submission
The brutes arc

down and rest

is passed ; they
n again, and do
to will not wait.
y years, 'i. corny
is no ^^romiso of

eyes upward to
vhich were sown
!;ht, and a gentle
;ho stern sadness

" Why, already
■hilo wo wait for

upon us from
;, he took his hat
V, saying, "Como
be tired of wait-

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

The dog started »ip as though rc-
lievrd from duty, and looking wistfully
in his master's faco ho said, as plain-
ly as a dug could say, " I am ready to

go."

" Poor fellow," said Claudo, patting
him atlectiouately, " you arc tired and
luuigry, wo havo been away since early
morning."

Ixus wagged his tail approvingly, and
taking tho almost empty game-basket
in his mouth, ho started oft' at a brisk
trot, h)oking back now and then encour-
agingly at iiis master, who did not seem
to sharo his impatience.

While Claudo walks thoughtfully over
the dreary road that leads from Morbi-
han to Sarzeati, wo will give a brief
sketch of the five youra that have passed
since tho dreadful night when ho left
Clermont with only the poor hunchback
for his companion. For several weeks
after, ho had lain ill, almost unto death,
in a little uncomfortable inn at Ilenncs,
where ho had been cared for, day and
night, by tho faithful Tristan, who
watched over him with tho unwearying
devotion of a mother. Ho had moaned
and tossed with fever, and raved and
struggled with delirium ; acting over
and over tho dreadful scene with tho
mob ; pleading with Celeste ; deploring
the imhappy fate of Aim6o ; expostidat-
ing with the Archdeacon, urging in tho
most earnest manner his innocence,
while he heaped bitter words of indig-
nation and contempt on his enemy, P6re
Benoit. The tender heart of tho poor
hunchback felt all his master's pain and
distress ; with the gentleness of r wo-
man he pillowed Claude's head upon his
breast, soothing him into calm, or held
him with superhuman strength, when,
raving with delirium, he would havo
injured himself in his imaginary con-
flicts with P6re (k-aoit, receiving with-
out complaint the blows dealt by tho
unconscious young man with a force
that only insanity gives.

When the sufferer's strength was ex-
hausted, and ho was worn out by his
violent emotions, Tristan would lull him
into calm as a mother does a child, say-
ing pityingly, while his tears fell on the
wan face, " Poor child, poor child, why
cannot thy miserable servant sjiffer in-
stead of thee 1 Thy poor Tristan would

willingly give his worthless life to save
thco tVom pain."

At length tho feverish tide ebbed and
flowed more slowly, and tho t-xhaiistod
spirit ceased to wrestle with its imagi-
nary foes. Tiien followed Imig, weary
days of convalescence, when Claude lay
like an infant, too weak to be conscious
of what had preceded the lunguor ami
inditferenco he now felt. Ik-yond his
window he saw distant hills and a
thread of tho blue Vihiiiio winding
among peaceful meadows, white floating
clouds, and birds circling on idle wings,
on which ho gazed dreamily for hours.
.Sometimes ho s|x>ko to Tristan, calling
him Cdleste, or Aimee, believing himself
to be at Clermont, lying under the pines,
listening with drowsy ear to their mys-
terious murmura, or gathering rose-
buds for the girls in the summer garden
at Monthelon. One moniiug he knew
that health and strength were returning,
because a clear recollection of his trou-
ble cume upon him, and his heart was
full of the old pain.

" Bring rao some paper and a pen,
Tristan," ho cried ; " I must write to tho
Archdeacon."

The hunchback supported him while
ho laboriously wrote a few lines, which
would havo touched a heart alive to any
feeling of pity, so mournftdly appealing
were they, so eloquent with physical
weakness and mental suffering. Ho
implored Fabien with earnest entreaty
to send him some news of Celeste ; to
make some efforts to establish tho inno-
cence which ho trusted his father's
friend, his own patient teacher, his con-
fessor and guardian from childhood,
was now convinced of. Ho told him
briefly of his illness, and his near
approach to death, and how, for the
sake of his honor and his lovo for
Celeste, he would struggle back to
life, and ended by entreating his as-
sistance and blessing. After weeks of
impatient waiting and restless expecta-
tion, an answer reached him, written in
the coldest, tersest language. The
Archdeacon passed over in silence his
earnest inquiries in regard to Celeste's
welfare, and ignored all claims upon his
confidence and affection, but advised
him not to return to Clermont, as the
belief in his guilt was as strong as ever,

T"-

0«

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

nnd that ho vtan Rtill in daiiKcr of p<>r-
Hoiinl vioK'iicu ; tliiit until tho body o(
Aini<>o wan discovered thero wua no
proof of Iter deiitli on whicli to found ti
judiciid exiiniiniition, and thiit ho must
uouHider till relation with MiidunioiHullo
Montheloii pennaiiently ended. It wuh
her untdtenililo decision na well as her
wish timt M. lu C'onito do Clermont
shouM not disturb her pence of mind
by writiu;; to her, us she was fully con-
vincetl of his K"ilt, nn<l therefore looked
niMtn him with horror. Tears of an-
fXuish dimmed tho eyes of C'luudo, ho
that hv could scarcely read tho formal
unnouncoment at tho end, that his per-
sonal eHects would follow the letter,
ami that all orders would bo received,
nnd all remittances sent, through his
banker, M. Lefond, No. 3 Uuo des Bons
Enfants, Itouen.

" And so," he said bitterly as ho fold-
ed tho letter, — " nnd so Monscignour
cuts mo off coldly and decisively from
uny further communication with him.
This is tho man to whom my dying fa-
ther left mo as a sacred trust ; this
plotting hyjKicrito, this double-faced
usurper of tho rights of guardianship,
not only of tho bodies but of tho souls
of men. Ho and I'cro Benoit have in-
trigued agixinst me, for what end only
(»od knows ; they aro both my enemies,
and aro longucd together to ruin me.
And tho melancholy fate of poor Aim(!o
has put a chance into their hands to use
against mo. What does it all moan 1
I have never injured them, and yet
they display a hate that seems like re-
venge for some terrible wrong. They
have succeeded in blighting my life ;
they have separnted me from Celeste ;
they have stained mo with an odi-
ous crimo ; they have instigwted a
vilo mob to drive mo from my inheri-
tance ; and all is now left to the entire
control of this man, who is my legal
guardian. For two years more I must
endure it, tor two years more he will
hold my rights, my fate, my property,
nil in his dishonest hands ; and I have
no redress, for it was my father who
fettered mo with such heavy chains.
Ah, why had he not discernment
enough to understand the character of
the man to whom he intrusted the wel-
fare of his child ! " ., . , . -nitf^

Long nnd sadly Claudo thought of
the drcadfid complications that sur-
rounded him, and out of which he saw
no issue. Thero was no one to whom he
coidd ap))ly for nid. The legal u<lviser
and tho old and tried friend of his father
hntl died a few years before ; ami ho
well knew that there was not one ad-
ministrator of justice in all Itouen who
did not believe in the Archd'mcon, so
entirely had he won tho contidonco and
osteeuk of the community.

" And BO, Tristan," ho said at last,
" wc are not to return to Clermont.
Monseigneur has given mc permission
to remain away as long as I please. But
you, Tristan, my dear boy, ytju must go
to Monthclon for mo ; for until I am
stronger I can do nothing, and I must
get a letter to Mademoiselle Celeste,
and there is no one else I can trust to
carry it but you, and you must promise
me to give it into her own hands. Do not
try to get admitted into tho ch&teau,
but watch for her in tho grounds, and if
you seo her for a moment alone give it
to her, unobserved, if possible. Can I
trust you, Tristan 1 "

" Yes, monsieur, you can trust me.
If it is possible for mc to see Mademoi-
selle Mouthelon she will got tho letter.
But if I cannot see her 1 "

" Bring it back to me. It is no use
to give it to any other person, for in
that ca.so I am convinced that she will
never sec it."

We are soiry to say that Tristan
failed in his mission. After hanging
about Monthelon for more than a week,
he learned that Madeinoisello never left
the house ; her mother's increasing ill-
ness and her own feeble health kept hor a
prisoner. Still Tristan lingered, hoping
he might be favored in some unexpected
way, and unwilling to return to his
master unsuccessful. One day when ho
sat under the south wall in the simimer
garden sunning himself, nnd indulging
in the pleasant belief that tho bright
warm day would tempt the invalid
out, Jacques suddenly appeared, leading
tho great watch-dog that was usually
chained at the lodge. Touching his
hat to Tristan with ironical politeness,
and pointing to his dumb companion, ho
said impressively, " Afoji ami, you have
no wish to make the acquaintanco of

11 «

MaMnanS^ii-

rlo thought of
oiiH tlint Hur-

whicli he hhw
iiu to whom hu

1ci;itl u<lviHcr
il of Ilia father
ot'oru ; iintl lio
not uno u(l-
II Uoucn who
\rcli(l'.;iicon, so
cuntiduiico unci

Raid at Inst,

to Clermont.

me penniHHioi)

I pleaHc. But

y, yow must go

or until I am

ng, and I must

Disello Celeste,

I can trust to

I must promise

hands. Do not

o the ehfitcau,

grounds, and if

it alone give it

)ssiblc. Can I

can trust me.

see Mademoi-
get the letter.

i. It is no uso
• person, for in
d that she will

Y that Tristan
After hanging
re than a week,
lisello never left
8 increasing ill-
ealth kept her a
ingercd, hoping
omo unexpected
return to his
ne day when he
. in the summer
, and indulging
that the bright
pt the invalid
ppeared, leading
lat was usually
Touching his
uical politeness,
b companion, ho

1 ami, you have
icquaintanco of

A CROWN FROM THE SPKAR.

Oronot's tenth, have youl They arc
strong and Hharp, and they gnaw horri-
bly. Com/trrnf: ? "

Poor 'I'riHtan did not undei'stand at
first, but iu a moment tlic truth flushed
ii|K>n liiiu ; as ho hud no desire to be
liorribly giiuwcd, ho cost a pitifully re-
proaeiii'ul look at J:ic(iuoh and hobbled
nway towiinl the gate as (juiekly as pos-
sible. Tlu; huuchbaek was no Don
Quixote, and so lie did not court advou-
turo. He liiul a deformed, feeble body,
but a large, tender, faithful heart, that
would have served his master oven to
dentil, if his death could have made
him ha])i)y, and withal some sound
sense and caution that told him in
such an encounter ho would bo worsted,
and to no gowl ; so he considered a hasty
retreat the better part of valor.

On his way back to llenncs he trem-
bled and wept like a child. Ho trembled
to think of Grenct's sharp teeth and
ferocious looks, for ho was so sensitive
that ho fancied ho felt his flesh quiver
in the jawa of tho horrid brute. And
he wept to think of his dear master's
disappointment, and his own failure in
his first commission of importance.
Then ho thought of the cruelly of
Jacques, and wondered why God gave
such wicked men power, and such sav-
ago brutes sharp teeth to gnaw the
innocent.

Claude was terribly disappointed and
indignant at Tristan's unkind reception,
but still not quite disheartened. After
a little time, he wrote to Fanchctte,
and enclosed a letter for Celeste, ini-
I)loring the woman to deliver it to her
mistress. Not long after, it was re-
turned, with a few lines from Fanchetto,
saying she dared not comply with his
re(iues( , as slio had received ordciu from
the Archdeacon not to deliver any letters
until ho had seen them. 1'ho short
note was concluded in such terms as to
leave a little hope that the woman
would not be invulnerable to a bribe.
So ho wrote again, promising her a
large sum of money if she would deliver
the letter. But this tempting offer
came too late, for it came the day after
Celeste had entered the Convent of
Notre Dame. Fanchette, her heart
torn by tho cruel parting from her be-
loved miutress, wrote a long epistle in

j reply ; pouring out tho vials of h*>r
wnitli u|M>u the siheming hosids of tho
.Vrchlcacon mil I'ero Hcnoit, whom sho
styled nivt'uoiis wolves in slieeji's chith-
ing. M last her eyes were opon, but
it was too late to save her beloved lady
from her living death.

This was a tcrriltio blow to Claude,
entire ruin to his ho|H's ; from that
moment he felt that be had no aim in
life, no desire to ac(|uit himself beforo
tho world. Celeste was iu reality tho
world ho desired to convincu ; she was
lost to him, and with her all humanity.
Itesiguation and calm di*l not come to
him at once. There were times when
his strength failed him, and he wept,
and moaned, and refused food, and
fretted through the long nights, until
Tristan thought he would die. Then
there were pitiful heart-breaking scenes
between tho two, when tho servant im-
plored tho master to live for him, and
tried in his simple, innocent way to
show him that life still had duties, if
not joys. Cl.'Uido would weep on his
neck, and promise him to stand ui)right
under tho burden when he had gained
ft littlo strength with tinio. " Now,"
ho would say, " I am weak, and it
crushes mo down ; by and by, Tristan,
1 shall be a littlo strongei, and then I
will show }ou that I can bear my mis-
fortunes like a man." Gradually time
blunted tho keen odgo of tho spear that
pierced his heart ; then his wounds
ceased to bleed, and tho tears ho shod
cooled the fever of hia brain. Ho grow
calm and silent ; and with this calm
came an indifference, a lack of interest,
a lassitude of tho soul, which it was more
difficult to shake off than it had been
to subdue his complaining sorrow. He
wandered alwut, careless and aimless ;
living in tiio most simple fashion, with
no other companion than Tristan.

Nature effects her mental cures much
in tho same way as sho docs her jihys-
ical ; passing through the various gra-
dations, from the crisis to full li*'ulth.
The mind has its period of con -altK-
cence the same as does tlio Iwdy ; it
may bo longer and more t"dions, but it
ends in perfect restoration, after much
patient endurance. It was a slow
process with Claude ; for after tlio apa-
thetic calm came tho restless desire

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

1
:

to nc('oi)i|iliHh iiliUDNt irnfH)HMil>ilitioH.
Kur iiiiiic tliiiii two vt'iird Im' livcil in

till) lll.ilotn of tlu' hll('|ill('l(|H UIIIOII^ tlic

I'yri'iii'CM ; t'xiildiiii;^ tlio dfiiurtiiu'iitN
of tliu liiiiiti- (iuruiiiio, Arie^i', iiiid
Aiiilc. lit* ni'iiIimI till' (liiii({('roUH lioi^'iitH
of Muiit iV'i'ilii, uihI the lioiiry Maju-
«letlu. He vvaiiili'icil unions liio piat-
licnlrt oil tlic (Iri'iicy MttcpN of Lum
Nei'iiulas. Ho lonked from Riilaiid's
Hivatli at tliii touiiM of Marliori' ; and
listened to tliu I'liar of tliu waterfullH,
nnd the craHh of the avaianclieH aninn^r
the peukH of tho Vi^jnemule. lie felt a
■av ,0 Hort of enjoynu'iit in Htandin^'
fur nl)ovo the world, - hunuinity at liiH
feot, the creiitiiies who had ho wronj^ed
him far beneath him, und (iod'H heaven
nlunu above him. There, HnHpended, im
it were, Iwtwoen earth und nky, ho held
tho cloHeHt conmniniun with hiH own
Moul ; the ilee|)eNt, holiest feelinjrs of his
iiatnre expanded like leavcu bathed with
tho dewH of heaven. Tho tangled
throiidH of life Meemod to imrnvel, and
clear thenmelveH from all confusion.
And for tho first time hu understood
tho lofty intent iouH of hiii (Jroutor.
" i.ifc wiw not given us only for self-
grutiliciition," ho would say; "each om
should try to aid thoso who need aid,
and raise up those who have fallen.
AVhat a nol)Io ambition to strivo to
clovato hinnanity to sublimer heights,
to loftier moral summits. Ilo who
lives entirely for himself, lives in vain."
Then ho was conscious that the first
step up tho weary nioiuitain of abnega-
tion must bo over tho gravo of buried
hate, revenge, passion, nnd rcgrot. " I
must conquer myself; I must feel only
pity and tenderness for everything that
breathes. I must give up tho dainty
refinements and delicacies of an epicu-
rean life. I must not reposo on tho lap
of luxury, while those I would help lie
on bare stones. I must descend to
them, or I cannot lift thorn up." Ho
felt no compassion for those who sat in
high places, and Hourishod in tho sun
of prosperity. His heart yearned only
toward the hmiible creatures who wring
out a scanty subsistence from labor and
pain ; tliose whom wrong and oppres-
sion lead in chains through tho narrow
brutalizing j)aths of vice ; those whom
DO onu otl'urs to conduct iu a broader,

higher way up to tho light that dispcla
tho shadiiWH from the darkened noiiI. lie
knew that the greater part of hm conn
try, oppressed with the double despot-
ism of Church and State, groaned luider
a bondage to which it submitted bo-
cause it was |H)Werless tliron;;h igno-
rance and Huperstitinn. "Why may I
not bo the torch to illiuninate their
path, and lead them to knowledge and
freedom I" was a (|uesliiin he nften put
to his own houl And the ever-ready
iinswerwas, " I'Wget thyself. Kenu-m-
lier only that thou art but an atom in
(iod's creation, to bo mingled with tho
great whole for its strength and j)er-
fection."

After these serious communings w ith
himself on tho mountain-top, Claude
would descend to Tristan in tho valley,
his face so serene and beautiful that tho
hunchback often thought his master,
having been so near to Heaven, had con-
versed with (lod.

During the five years of wandering
amid tho most rugged and sondiro
haunts of nature, Claude had accom-
plished little save self-conquest. Ho
had subdued his restless, passionate
heart, he had strengthened his weak,
ease-loving character, and ho had dis-
covered now resources within himself,
and now, like a good general, who knows
he has some reserves, ho was jireparod
to begin the battle. For a few months
ho had been living iu Sarzeau, a misera-
ble little town on tho peninsula of
Uhuys, where he owned a barren estate
with an old, dilapidated chateau that
had long been considcre 1 uninhabitable.
He had fixed his residence there because
the wild and rugged scenery of Mor-
bihan and the peninsulas of Quiberon
and lihuys was congenial to him. He
liked tho strength of tho grim rocks,
and tho freedom of tho wide sea. There
was nothing in this stern, ascetic life to
nurse self-indulgenco nnd idleness ; on
the contrary, there was much to encour-
age constant occupation and profound
study. The marvellous monuments of
a race long since departed, tho stones
of Caniac and of tho islands of the
Morbihan, furnished hira with a never-
failing source of interest. Ho tried to
discover, by close and careful investiga-
tion, whether they were memorials of

. ' . > Hu u< iB Mi.n i n l HJ|^. ^ ^ iW«WltWW>rt«<Xlr*'*W^ t i uWhai ■

A CROWN PROM THE SPKAR.

^lit tliut (liHpeU
k('iii'<l Miiiil. llo
Mirt of liiH conn

(Idlllllu (ll'!*|)ot-

', jirimmd iiiidtr
Hiil>iiiiit(.'(l 1)0-
tlii'<>i|o|| igiio-
" Wliy may I

illuiiiiiiiitu tlit'ir

) klU)Nvll'(I;,'U mill

ion liu ot'tcn put
tlio L'Vir-iciKly
VHflf. lU'nu'in-
i>nt iin atom in
lin^li'il with tlio
cngth and iicr-

ininiiinin(:;H with
tiiin-to|t, t'luudc
an in thu vaUoy,
ic'iintifnl that tlio
;;ht \m ntaHter,
Heave II, liudcon-

rs of wandering
<d and Humbro
indo had acconi-
if-conniicHt. Mo
tli'HS, jiassionato
iicnud his weak,
and iio had dis-
i within himself,
nend, who knows
ho was prepared
'or a few months
Mir/x'un, a miscra-
lio peninsnla of
d a barren estate
:cd chateau that
L>1 uninhabitable,
neo tliero because
scenery of Mor-
ulas of Quiberon
iiial to him. He
the grim rocks,
3 wide sea. Tlicre
Tu, ascetic life to
md idleness ; on
i much to cncour-
on and profound
IS monuments of
artcd, the stones
islands of the
in with a nevcr-
cst. Ho tried to
careful invcstiga-
ro memorials of

military pow(>r or of religious riton. To
him I ho determination was in a meaNuio
Hignificaut of the strengtli of hiseountr}'.
Then the iniiabilants of tiieso rnile
islaniii and sterile Hhores, although mi.s
erably pom- ami utterly ignorant, were ho
honest, kind lu'arted, and intelligent,
that Iio lilt it to bo the very plaie in
whii'li to commeneu his experimental
trial of doing something for others.
"Those simple, hardy souls," ho rea-
soned, "are the men who, educated and
elevated, will niiiko the future strengtli
of til ' eountry. The pleasure loving, ef-
feminate Parisian is like tho froth that
rises to the surface of a full glass ; and
thi'Ne strong drudges aro the stamina
that MUpjioit it."

There was scarce a rude peasant or a
sun lirowned tislierman in all tho de-
])artment of Morbihan who did not
bless tho Virgin every day for sending
them tho kind-hearted young t'oimt
and Ills gentlo servant. Claude, desir-
ing t make Tristan happy, allowed him
to tlispenso tho alms he so freely pro-
vided, and the poor people looked upon
him, in spite of his unprepossessing
person, as an angel of charity.

Claude's majority had come and
passed without any commimication from
the Archdeacon, unless a long letter
from his man of atfairs could bo con-
sidered such. This letter announced
in the stitfest and most formal terms
that M. lo Com to do Clermont having
reached his majority, the guardianship
of the Archdeacon terminated according
to the will of his father, the late Count
of Clermont. That his lordship had
delivered into his hands all the books,
deeds, and documents relating to tho
estate of Clermont. That his lordship
had withdrawn his residence from Cler-
mont and left tho chateau in the charge
of a reliable steward. That on account
of tho failure of sundry investments,
that at tho time when they were made
were deemed judicious by the Archdea-
con, the revenues of tho estate were
consiilerably diminished ; and that his
lordship had thought it advisable to dis-
pose of some outlying lauds in order to
cancel mortgages on tho whole; that
the chutouu and the estate around it
wore intact, and that all the aftaira had
been arranged iu the most odvautagooua

manner ; but if M. lo Comte wiNlied for
a more drtailed Htati-mnit of invest-
ment.i and Hcenrities, he woiilil be hap-
py to be honored with his counnands,
etc., etc.

In spite of the general character of
this letliT, Claude understood that by
some pnii CSS bis inheritance had (greatly
diminislu'd, insteail of increasing, nniler
tho control of the Archdeacon, and that
ho was not nearly as rich as he had
sujipoHcd. What had become of tho
large estate Imn lather hud left him i
However, at that time he was so eii-
urossed in matters of moral im|ioitanco
that he eare<l very little aliout entering
into details of a linaneial character ; anil
as his income was amply sntlicient for
his simple wants and charitable expen-
ilitures, he deferred an investigation
that might have revealed some trans-
actions not strictly honest un the part
of his guardian.

Ho had heard nothing from Ci'Iesto
since the li'tter of Kanchetto, that in-
formed him of her sacrifice. Ho had
come to think of her as wo think of ono
long dead, and to mourn for her as we
mourn for those whom wo believ(> to bo
saints in Heaven ; neither had ho con-
tiiuied his corrospondenco with Fan-
chetto, for his letter in reply to her
passionate outburst agtiinst tho Arch-
deacon and his acoomplice, I'ero lieuoit,
was never answered ; and so all inter-
course had ceased between him and
those who had filled such an important
place in his life at Clermont. Sarzeau
and his stern, cold existence seemed a
boundary lino between the poetry and
romance of his past and the austere
reality of his future.

PART SECOND.

ciiAteau of sarzkau.

When Claude reached tho dilapidated
gate of the ruinous pile that tho simjilo
peasantry dignified with tho name of
ch&tcau, it had long bocn dark, and
Ixus showed such unmistakable signs
of weariness, that his master, who re-
lieved him of tho weight of tho game-
bosket, really pitied him. A souiuwh-.it

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

imperative pull at the iron chain
brought a wizened old man with a lit-
tle brass lamp in his hand, which shed
a feeble light over his white beard, red
cap, and blue shirt. As he opened the
gate, after fumbling a long time over
the useless lock, Ixus rushed in between
his bent and trembling legs, almost
upsetting him by his impetuosity, and
quite internipting the unintelligible
string of questions he was addressing
to Claude in a feeble, querulous
voice.

" Never mind, my good Janot, Ixus
is a rude brute to enter so unceremoni-
ously," replied Claude, kindly interrupt-
ing the old man, who always grumbled
when he was disturbed to open the
gate. " I know I am late, very late,
but I won't complain if the potage is
ruined. Give me the lamp and I will
lead the way."

" But Nanette," ho muttered as he
hobbled after his master, "poor Nanette ;
she never sleeps well if her potage is
ruined."

They crossed the court ; in the centre
of the broken pavement was a mutilated
fountain. The chubby Cupids, from
whose united lips the pure water had
once issued, had long before lost their
legs and arms, and now the thin stream
that trickled down their battered checks
seemed like tears they were shedding
over their unhappy fate. On the tail
of the dolphin that supported the
maimed loves hung a great copper
kettle which caught the scanty shower
until it filled and ran over in a gentle
spray upon the heads of celery and
lettuce that floated in the moss-covered
basin. The corners of the quadrangle
were filled with all sorts of rubbish, —
broken gardening implements, old barrels
and baskets, piles of brush-wood, furze,
and dried sea-weed, — among which, on
sunny days, a stately cock with a brood
of submissive hens deigned to scratch,
much to the disgust of a fat black pig
who usually took his siesta there.
Along one side of the court was an
open corridor that led into a large
deserted room that had once been the
reception-hall of some of the nobles of
Sarzeau. There were the broken and
much-abused remains of several fine
pieces of statuary ; some old armor was

fastened on the walls, and a piece of
faded tapestry hung in rags between
the stone muUioned windows. A great
feeding-trough, filled with grain, lay
before the antique fireplace, which was
stuffed with every kind of trash, and
several heavy oak benches, with elab-
orately carved backs, were loaded with
bags of hemp, sacks of vegetal)los, and
old clothes, piled indiscriminately to-
gether. From the far end, through a
door, gleamed a ray of light, and the
savory smell of potage greeted them as
they crossed the dreary hall.

" Poor Nanette ! " muttered the old
man again, as they entered what had
once been the library, but was now the
kitchen. A brisk-looking little woman,
who did not seem nearly as old as her
husband, stood before a clean jjine table
making a salad. She was dressed in
the blue skirt, laced bodice, higli cap,
and wooden shoes of the peasants of
Brittany.

♦' Well, my dear monsieur, I am glad
you are come," she said with a cheery
bright smile that lightened up tlie din-
gy room more than the feeble flame of
her lamp; " I am afraid my cliicken is
dried to a crust, and my oseille boiled to
gruel ; and if you are as hungry as Ixus,
I have not enough decently cooked for
you to eat." The poor brute stood
with his wet mouth on the edge of the
table, looking into Nanette's face wist-
fully, whil'i he wagged his tail in a way
that expressed the keenest ap[)ctite.

Claude patted the dog on the head,
and said, good-humoredly, " Poor Ixus
has not enough deception to disguise
what he feels, and 1 have, Nanette, —
that is all the difference. Serve up
your dinner as 3oon as you please, and
we shall eat it whether it is good or
bad, for with walking and with fasting
we imve had a hard day."

" And yet your game-basket is nearly
empty, monsieur," said old Janot, con-
temptuousl}', as ho threw a few small
birds on the table. " Monsieur Ic Comte,
your father did not come back from
hunting without game. He was the
best shot I ever saw, though ho was
not much of a walker."

" I am a great dreamer, Janot, which
is the reason I don't kill more birds,"
replied Claude, apologetically. " I somc-

JUX-Mt-JW i UMJ!

.# ai i i i . i !i i h-a ji i eiiit»-W ! ..iw

, and a piece of
n niys between
idowu. A great
with grain, lay
place, which was
id of trash, and
iches, with elab-
rere loaded with
' vegetables, and
iscriminately to-

end, through a
f liglit, and the
greeted them as
J hall.

nattered the old
itered what had
but was now the
mg little woman,
rly as old as her
I clean pine table

was dressed in
jodice, higli cap,
the peasants of

nsicur, I am glad
id with a cheery
;ened up the diu-
e feeble flame of
id my chicken is
ly oseille boiled to
s hungry as Ixus,
cently cooked for
•oor brute stood
n the edge of the
inette's face wist-

his tail in a way
!nest appetite,
iog on the head,
edly, " Poor Ixus
ption to disguise
have, Nanette, —
•ence. Serve up
8 you please, and
her it is good or

and with fasting

.y."

»e-basket is nearly
id old Janot, con-
hrew a few small
^lonsieur le Comte,
come back from
)e. He was the
r, though he was

mer, Janot, which

kill more birds,"

etically. " I somo-

l lMBlUJ-fl-IJlfcillia' —

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

times forget to

firo even when

game
comes m my way."

" No, no, monseitir, it is not because
you are a dreamer, it is because you get
too much interested in the rocks about
here," returned the old man, grimly.

Claude did not reply, but smiled
indulgently, as he laid his gun on some
hooks in the wall, and turned to enter
an inner room. In the middle of the
floor, on a bit of rug, sat Tristan, a small
lamp beside him, an open book on his
lap, and his head bent forward on his
breast, fast asleep. Claude looked at
him for a few moments, his face full of
loving compassion. His poor bowed
head with its shock of neglected hair,
his deformed shoulders, and long, thin
hands folded over the book, filled the
young man's heart with pity. " Patient,
suffering creature," he thought, "shut
out forever from the love and admira-
tion of humanity, he forgets his misfor-
tunes in peaceful sleep, the blessed opiate
that God gives us to soothe our pain."
Then he laid his hand on the hunch-
back's head and said gently, " Tristan,
Tristan, couldst thou not keep awake
until I came ] "

Tristan started up bewildered, but
seeing his master's kind face bending
over him, his look of confusion changed
to shame and penitence, and he hung
his head while he muttered his excuses.
" monsieur ! I went into the court so
many times, and once I walked a long
way on the road to Morbihan, but I did
not meet you, and I was tired and lone-
some, so I sat down to study my lesson.
I did intend to hear the bell, and to let
you in ; but it was so still here without
you and Ixus, that, before I knew it, I
lost myself."

" Never mind, my boy," said Claude,
kindly, " I am glad you slept ; I like
you to rest when you are tired. I
will not stay away so late again, for
Janot has scolded me, and Nanette says
the dinner is spoiled; now make me
comfortable for the evening."

Tristan, fully awake, and more active
than usual because he felt that he had
been a little neglectful, drew off his
master's coat and boots, and replaced
them with a dressing-gown and slippers,
and then assisted Nanette to serve, the
dinner.

After the simple meal was finished,
Claude lit a cigar, and went out on a
balcony overlooking the garden, to med-
itate and smoke ; while 5fanctte cleared
the table, and Tristan lit the candles,
piled fresh wood on the fire, and
made the oidy habitable room in the
old ch&teau as cheerful as possible.

In his middle age, and after city
pleasures had become somewhat tamo,
the deceased Count of Clermont had
conceived the idea that this almost
worthless and neglected property
might yield him some nnnisement, if
not profit. So, for a few weeks in each
year, ho came down from Piiris with a
nimiber of friends, cooks, and grooms, to
shoot and fish among the >'ands and
inlets of the Morbihan. . Several rooms
had been redeemed from dust and de-
cay, and made comfortable with the
cast-off furniture of Chateau Clermont,
which at that time had been renovated
for the reception of Claude's mother,
then a bride. The room that the young
Count now occupied liad been fitted up
with more pretension than the others,
as a salte d manner ; and because of the
hangings, pictures, and rare cabinet of
tarsia work, had been preserved w*ith
care by old Janot and his wife, who had
been servants to the late Count, as a
sort of show-room, for the simple peas-
ants and curious strangers who visited
Sarzeau. During all the years that had
intervened between the Count's death
and his son's majority, no one had dis-
turbed the possession of the old couple,
who lived as they best could off of the
scanty produce of the little garden, the
almost barren rocks, and the small coin
they now and then received from the
inquisitive who came to look at the
chateau ; which, after all, was but little
more than a tumble-down country-
house, with no historical association to
give it interest. Gradually all the
rooms had been dismantled, and shut
up to dust and silence, save the two
the old servants occiipied. When Claude
arrived, he had been obliged to purchase
simple furniture enough to arrange two
sleeping-rooms, one for himself, and
one for Tristan ; these, with his mile
d, manger, constituted his apartment.
The dining-room was large and lofty,
with a fine frescoed ceiling and heavy

^i^nmssme^mmstssmt^^mm&'mmsmimse^sSrHmmsmap!:

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

carved cornice. Worn and faded Ool)-
cliii ta[)e8try decorated tho walls ; a
large mirror in a Renaissance frame
covered the space between the high,
narrow windows, tho upper part of
which was composed of curious stained
glass, in small diamond panes, while the
lower part was evidently of a more re-
cent date. Several large and one or
two rather good pictures of the old
French school hung over the doors and
windows, without any regard to light
or arrangement. But the most curious
and interesting objects in the room
were a Louis XIV. fireplace and an
exquisitely inlaid cabinet. This costly
piece of furniture had attracted Claude's

attention ; and he had asked Nanette
tho history of it. All she could tell
him about it was that it had been
brought with the other things from the
Chateau de Clermont. The chairs had
once been richly gilded, but time had
tarnished their glitter and faded the
delicate tints of the tapestry that cov-
ered them. Two uninviting sofas stood,
one on each side of the chimney, their
hard arms offering no temptation to the
weary. Tristan had tried to make tho
room a little more cheerful by various
devices. He had spread his master's
tiger-skin wrap before the hearth ; with
a bright Scotch plaid he had trans-
formed some pillows into cushions for
the sofa, decorated the mantle with
ferns and shells, and filled one of Na-
nette's blue jugs with flowers for the
centre. A bright wood-fire burned in
the chimney, and Ixus lay stretched
at full length before it. Two common
candles, in Nanette's bmss candlesticks,
flared and spiittered en a small table,
drawn up by the sofa, on which were
Claude's writing-desk and favorite books.
When Tristan had airanged every-
thing for the evening, agreeable to his
own taste, he stepped out on the bal-
cony where Claude was smoking and
musing, his eyes fixed on tho starlit
heavens, and his thoughts following his
gaze into that infinite space where the
Creator has strewn his most beautiful
gems to soften tlie shadow that broods
over the brow of night.

As the servant approached he heard
his master B»iy, as if ho were addressing
the nebulous clouds that floated above

him, " 0, if you could but tell mo she
was there in peace forever, saved from
sonow and regret ! " Tristan felt it his
imperative duty to inteiTupt such sen-
timental reflections, so ho laid his hand
on tho arm of tho dreamer and said,
" Monsieur Claude, the candles are lit
and the fire is burning nicely. Will
you not come in 1 I am afraid you will
take cold, it is so chilly hero."

Claude withdrew his gaze reluctantly
from tho stars, and fixed it on Tristan,
saying, without the slightest impatience,
" I understand your anxiety, you drdle ;
you mean to say that you are eager to
hear the last chapter of Nathan le Sage.
Ah, Tristan ! you veil your modest de-
sires with such a delicate tissue of aft'ec-
tion that one can perceive them under
their transparent covering. And you are
an awful tyrant, in spite of your gentle
ways, for you always wheedle me into
doing just as you wish. Don't look so
distressed, mon ami, I am only teasing.
You are quite right to interrupt my
regretful meditations. We will go in
and finish the book before your bright
fire." And laying his arm tenderly
around the deformed shoulder of his
companion, the two entered tho room
together.

Claude threw himself on tho sofa
piled with pillows, and the hunchback
dropped upon the tiger-skin at his feet.
" Why don't you sit on a chair, Tris-
tan "i " said Claude, looking at him, cu-
riously.

" Because a chair hurts my back, and
then my proper place is at your feet."

" Cher sot ! why, you are fit to sit in
the presence of a king ! "

" No, monsieur, no, I am only a poor
unfortunate whom your kindness has
saved."

"You have not read to me to-day,
Tristan. Where is your book 1 "

"Hero it is, monsieur," drawing it from
under the pillow of the sofa, and care-
fully opening it at the mark, — " hero
it is, but would you not rather read
Nathan ? I can wait until to-morrow,
although" — with a little desire in his
voice — "I should so like you to hear
this before I forget it. I have studied
It so much to-day that I think I can
read it quite well."

" Begin, Je suis tout & tot, mon am.'

i.M.B«tJ«M »ii »lwMttMi)iMMii» i iW I * ti 1 Wi »

lit tell mc sho
k'cr, saved from
ristan felt it hia
Tupt such scn-
ic laid his hand
imcr and ssid,

candles nrc lit
', nicely. Will

afraid you will
here."

!;aze reluctantly
d it on Tristan,
test impatience,
iety, you dr6le ;
ou are eager to
Nathan le Sage.
our modest de-
e tissue of afl'ec-
ive them under
ig. And you are

of your gentle
'hccdle me into
Don't look so
m only teasing.

interrupt my
We will go in

ore your bright
arm tenderly
shoulder of his
itered the room

;lf on the sofa
the hunchback
-skin at his feet,
on a chair, Tris-
{ing at him, cu-

rts my back, and

1 at your feet."

1 are fit to sit in

[ am only a poor

ir kindness has

d to me to-day,
irbookl"
" drawing it from
le sofa, and care-
I mark, — " hero
aot rather read
until to-morrow,
tie desire in his
like you to hear
I have studied
t I think I can

d, tot, man am."

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

-
I

The book was a work of Heji;esippo
MorciUi, and Tristan's favorite chiiptur
was Le Chant (FIxm. Because he liked
it lie had s^'iven lIio not very felicitous
name to tiio great dog of Brittany. He
had studied tiiis song for months, nearly
ever since Claude had conceived tlie
idea of teiichiag him to read, and now
he was certain he could go tlirou'^h it
without mistakes. Laying the onen
book on his knees, and bending over it
until his nose almost touched the j.uge,
ho began slowly and hesitatingly, his
joy and eagerness aluiost sufi'ocating
him. "Ouvrez, — Jo suis — Ixus, le
pauvro — gui de cheno — qu'un coup —
do vent ferait mourir." Gaining confi-
dence as ho went on, he read with great
correctness the exquisite little fantasy
to the end. Wlien ho had finished it
he clas])ed his hands in ecstasy, and
raising his eyes brimming with tears to
Claude's kind face, he said : " Grand
Dieu ! Is it not beautiful to know
how to read? monsieur, you have
opened paradise to me ! Now I under-
stand everything ; and one never forgets,
does he ] " This he said with such a sud-
den change from exultation to the most
pitiful .ijxiety, that Claude could not
refrain from laughing as ho replied,
" No, my dear boy, one never forgets
what he has once learned thoroughly.
There are many things it is well to re-
member, but there are others it is better
to forget."

" I know that, monsieur."

" How should you 1 There is noth-
ing in your life you would wish to for-
get, — is there, Tristan 1 "

"0 yes, monsieur, there are many
things," replied the hunchback, bend-
ing his head over the book, while the
tears pattered zii the page. " I wish I
could forget all the ridicule, insults, and
blows I iiavc received. I wish I could
forget that I am not like othera ; that I
am more hideous than a beast ; that
all but the few who know me look at
mo with loathing; that the world has
neither lovo nor pity for such unfor-
tunates as I ; and I wish the past was
not always before me. Tlie dreadful
scene of the last night at Clermont
haunts me sleeping '..id waking. I suf-
fer to remember the wrong and cruelty
you have endured innocently ; and more

than all, I wish I could forgot the sweet
voice of Mademoiselle Aiin^c. I lioar
it always in the wind and in the sea.
When a bird flies above me with a clear
song, I start and treiul>le, for 1 nniein-
ber lier laugh, and it seems to eciio in
my ears O monsieur ! she was an an-
gel to me, and I loved lier. I loved her
so that when she was lost sometiiing
seemed to die within me that will never
live again. She is dead, and yet I see her
always. Her eyes, her white teetii, her
bright smile, all, all are painted on my
heart, and the picture will never fade."

" Ah, Tristan ! she haunts me also.
For five years sho has seemed to sur-
round me with an invisible presence, to
keep alive the anguish of regret and re-
morse. I loved her as a sister, and
yet unwillingly and ignorantly I drove
her to despair. I mourn for her. I de-
plore her fate always. When she died,
joy died with her. They are both dead,
those two dear faces are lost forever to
my sight ; one is hidden in the depths
of the sea, and the other in a living
grave. Alas that I have survived to
say it!"

Tristan pressed his master's hand
with silent sympathy.

For a few moments there was no
sound in the room save the heavy
l)reathing of Ixus and the sputtering of
the flames in the cliiiuney. Then Claude
laid his hand on the l)owed head of the
hunchback, and said firmly but gently,
" My boy, we must talk of this no more.
It unnerves us and makes us weak to
no purpose. It is God who has dono
all, and what he does is well done,
tlierefore we have nothing to say against
it. Let us both strive to forget the
past and live for the future. We need
not bo idle, Tristan, we have much to
do."

" Yes, monsieur, there is much to do.
Even in this little town there are many
poor and suffering creatures. I heard
something to-day that tore my heart.
A wretched woman, nearly ninety, told
me she had never in all h, life had
once enough to e.at. mon Dieu !
only think of being always hungry for
ninety years." And Tristan wrung his
hands, and rocked himself back and
forth in real distress at the tliought of
such protracted starvation.

(

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

" Is it posBible ! " cried Claude with
interest, — " is it possible that any one
can live ninety years in such misery 1
Find her to-morrow, Tristan, and give
her enoujjh to eat for once."

" I had given away all I had before I
saw her, but I brought her home to
Nanette, and she fed her with what she
liad to spare ; and when she had eaten
all, her eyes still looked as eager as a
hungry dog's."

" Poor soul ! she had starved so long,"
said Claude, compassionately.

" Monsieur, I want to ask a favor of
you ; may I ] "

•' Certainly, what is iti Do you wish
to establish a soup-house, or a hospital,
or what 1 come, tell me," laughed Claude,
amused at the poor fellow's blended
expression of eagerness and timidity.

" monsieur, don't mock me ! " im-
plored Tristan, as he folded his long
arms around his knees and drew him-
Bolf up into a bunch, changing his posi-
tion to one more comfortable before he
began his important reqiiest. " It is
this : Now that I have learned to read,
and know what a blessing it is, I want
to teach some of these poor children
who lie about in the sun all day with
the pigs ; there are more than twenty of
them. May I bring them here into the
great hall, and teach them for a few
hours each day 1 "

" That you may, my good soul," re-
plied Claude, heartily, " and I will help
you. To-morrow, if we can find a car-
penter, we will have the benches mend-
ed, and a blackboard made, so that you
can teach them in the most comfortable
way."

" 0, how good you are ! " cried Tristan,
kissing his master's hand with lively
gratitude ; " now I will go to bed and
dream of it, and to-morrow I shall
awake happy."

After Tristan retired, taking Ixus,
who always slept by his bed, Claude
arose and walked briskly up and down
the room several times, that he might
shake off the drowsiness which his wea-
riness made difficult to resist. Then he
opened the window and stood for a few
moments on the balcony. Now he did
not raise his eyes to the stars, but rather
let them fall on the silent town beneath
him. Most of the poor toilers were at

rest. Hero and there a dim light shone
for a moment, and then went o\it, and
darkness dropped the last fold of her
heavy veil over tlie deserted streets.

The sinful, the ignorant, the Innigry,
all share alike the common blessing of
sleep, he thought as ho turned to his
lighted room. Now he seemed fresh
and energetic, for he arranged hirf desk,
and taking a number of heavy volumes
from the shelves of the old cabinet, he
laid them on the table for reference.
They were mostly the works of Monta-
lombert. Do Tocquevillo, Thiers, and 11(5-
musat, on religion, politics, and litera-
ture. Then he drew up one of the stiff
chairs to the table, and, seating himself,
began to write rapidly, now and then
pausing to refer to his books. His cheeks
were flushed, and his eyes were clear
and intelligent; theie were no signs of
languor and weariness in his face now.
When at length the candles flared out
in their sockets and the feeble light of
the lamp waned, he laid down his pen
and looked at his watch. It was long
past midnight, and he had written an
eloquent chapter on modern reform.

At that time a number of cor.,fibu-
tions to the Hevue des Deux Mondes
attracted universal attention by their
strength, truth, and conciseness, as well
as the profound thought, delicate humor,
and tender pathos that distinguished
them.

The world did not know that they
were brought into being in a solitary
ruin on the rugged shore of Morbihan,
strengthened by the free wind and wide
sea, ennobled by self-denial and sacrifice,
sweetened by a tender memory, and
saddened by a life-long regret.

PART THIRD.

LA CROIX VERTB.

" I TELL you, M. Jacquelon, he is a
heretic in disguise, and the hunchback
is a sly knave who will try to moke con-
verts of yotir children."

" Pardon, M. le Cur^, the. hunchback
never speaks to the little ones of any
religion only that of our Blessed Lady."

" How can you tell 1 you are not

t i tti i aaM i i ii

irtte ii " « ) * i i «iti'i « ' ' « 'l'' '« " * '* ' * "'*

i M>iiii«Miia i 8to«*if*jM

dim light shone

I went out, niul

Iu8t fold of her

rtcd streets.

int, the hungry,

uon blessing of

turned to his

10 seemed fresh

ranged his desk,

heavy volumes

old eubinet, ho

for reference.

works of Monta-

Thiers, nnd li<5-

itics, and litera-

) one of the stiff

seating himself,

, now and then

)okB. His cheeks

eyes were clear

vere no signs of

in his face now.

mdles flared out

feeble light of

id down his pen

!h. It was long

had written an

tdern reform.

iber of coivribn-

'» Deux Monde$

tention by their

iciseness, as well

fc, delicate humor,

lat distinguished

know that they
ng in a solitary
jre of Morbiban,
je wind and wide
nial and sacrifice,

3r memory,

and

regret.

IRD.

XRTE.

icq\ielon, he is a
1 the hunchback
try to make con-

i, thO' hunchback
ttle ones of any
ir Blessed Lady."
,11 yon are not

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

thero to hoar him, and thn little inno-
cents can't see the Devil when he is
covered with the fleece of a sheep. I
tell you, M. Jooquelon, no good can come
from such an innovation. What more
do the children of the parish need than
their Catechism on Sunday, and their
week-day lessons from Mfero Roche 1 "

" Ah, M. le Cure, that is all very
well for those who get Catechism on
Sunday, and Mere Roche through the
week ; but it is not every father in Sar-
zeau who has five francs to pay each
month to M6ro Roche, and it is not
every child that has a decent frock to
wear to Catechism on Sunday. It is
only tho dirty little wretches that are
starved that the pigs may thrive, and
who never touch water unless they fall
into it accidentally, and who never saw
a comb in their lives, and never slept on
anything better than straw, — it is ohly
such as these that the poor hunchback
Tristan gathers up like a drove of stray
pigs, and leads off to the great hall,
where he feeds them first, and then
teaches them to read afterwards. And
they say that M. lo Comte assists him."

"Mon Dieti I M.leComte assists himl"

*' Yes, M. le Cure, old Janot told it
to my Pierre, so you see it is not so
bad, after all. Of course, they are
neither my children, nor your — Par-
don, M. le Cur6, nor the children of
M. Cabot, nor the children of M. le
Propri^taire de la Croix Verte."

"What is that you are saying, M.
Jacquelon ? " And the Propri^taire de
la Croix Verte, wiping his hands vigor-
ously on a very dirty towel, advanced
toward the two who were conducting
the above spirited conversation, seated
at a small pine table in the dining-
room, bar-room, kitchen, reception-room,
all in one, of La Croix Verte.

The place as well as the occupants
was a study for an artist. A long
low room, with smoke-browned rafters,
abundantly festooned with cobwebs, and
decorated with strings of onions, dried
herbs, sausages, and long-necked squash.
Four small windows, the broken panes
patched with paper and cloth, and the
whole nearly opaque with dirt and flies,
partially admitted the golden rays of a
June sunset. At the far end was a
chtminie de cuisine, its square holes filled
6

with brightly burning charcoal, and sur-
rounded with copper pots and pans.
Before it stood a fat, florid woman, with
her blue frock pinned up over her jupon,
so OS to display a pair of stout ankles
arrayed in red stockings and wooden
shoes. She was frying liver, varying
the occupation by now and then tap-
ping with her greasy knife tho tow-
head of a dirty urchin. This was
Madame la Propri^taire de In Croix
Verf,e. Along each side of tho walls
that made the length of tho room were
two rows of pine tables, stained and
greasy. When a guest of any impor-
tance wished to dine, a coarse cloth was
put into requisition, but ordinarily they
were used bare, unless tho litter of beer-
mugs, cheese-rinds, and sausngc-skins,
mixed with greasy, torn cards and much-
abused dominos, could be said to cover
them. Across the comer, near th«
cheminie de cuisine, was placed a long
table which served for a coimter. It
was surmounted with a red desk, on
wliich lay a torn and dirty account-
book, a well-thumbed almanac, a dusty
inkstand, and some very bad pens. The
seat of honor behind the desk, a three-
legged stool, was usually occupied by
M. le Proprid'tuire, when he was not
engaged in dispensing beer from a cask
in the corner, or absintho from some very
suspicious-looking bottles on a shelf fas-
tened to the wall. A dozen or more fat
pigeons that had been hatched in the
charcoal bin under the chemin'ee de cui-
sine waddled about upon the dirty tiles
and disputed for the crumbs with several
children, cats, and dogs.

On the afternoon of which we write
there was an unusual number of guests
at La Croix Verte. Nearly every table
was filled with a rough but good-na-
tured quartette of peasants and fisher-
men, for it was the fete of St. Peter
and St. Paul, and most of them were
breaking their fast the first time for
the day. Some were partaking of the
savory fHed liver which the smiling
landlady dispensed, hot and tender, sea-
soning it with a few complimentary
words to each ; while others, who were
not able to afford the luxury of liver,
adapted themselves to their limited
circumstances, and laughed and joked
over their brown loaf, sausage, and beer,

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

vithout envy or hatred townrd those
who fared better. A few, whose empty
pockets did not allow their owners to
regale themselves cVen on the choice
beer and sausage of La Croix Verte,
turned their bucks resolutely on the
foasters and fixed their attention on a
noisy group of ecarte players, who now
and then moistened their hoarse throats
with sips of absinthe or aifi noir. At
a table near the door sat M. lo Cur6
and M. Jacqiiolon, the doctor, engaged
in the animated conversation related
above.

M. le Curd of Sarzeau was one of
those peculiarly beastly looking men
whom it seems as if the Creator had in
irony endowed with speech. His face
was in shape like a pear, the smaller
point representing the forehead ; little
cunning gray eyes protruded, lobster-
like, from under a flat, low brow ; while
a pug nose and large mouth with hang-
ing underlip, revealing two rows of
irregular decayed teeth, made the physi-
ognomy of M. le Curd anything but
prepossessing. This singular face sur-
mounted a figtire about as symmetrical
as a toad's, clothed in a rusty cassock,
the front and sleeves well polished with
an accumulation of dirt, snuff, and
grease ; being rather short and well
fringed, it revealed a pair of immense
feet covered with coarse shoes, which
slipped up and down when he walked,
exposing large holes in both heels of
his coarse black stockings. It was dif-
ficult to tell whether he wore the iisual
linen band around his throat, as his
banging checks concealed the place
where it should have been seen, making
him look as though his head was set
on his shoulders without a neck. From
this not exaggerated description of the
personal appearance of M. le Cure, one
must not suppose that he looked pov-
erty stricken. On the contrary, every
wrinkle of his face and every fold of
his greasy robe over his aldermanic
proportions gave evidence of good cheer,
meat in plenty, with a not too rigorous
attention to fasts, and good wine when
he found it necessary to obey the ad-
vice of St. Paul, which was very often.
There were a few among the miserable
inhabitants of Sarzeau who were not
so steeped in poverty aa to be afraid

to express their opinion, and they,
among other things, durod to hint that
the life of M. le Cure was not one of
stern self-sacrifice, that a love of good
living, and even a little moat on fasts,
were not the only venial sins he had
to lay before the Great Absolver. How-
ever, we will not repeat the goB.s!p of
Sarzeau. It is enough for our purpose
to say, that M. lo Cure was just the
man to oppose any innovation or effort
to enlighten the poor flock that he led
in the paths of ignorance and want.
That very afternoon he had walked
over to the Convent of St. Gildas de
Rhuys, and there, after taking a glass
of wine with the lady superior, he had
laid his grievances before her. Of course
she sympathized with him, and agreed
with him that M. le Comte de (Clermont
and his hunchbacked servant could
only be emissaries of Satan, sent to
lead astray the feeble flock of M. lo
Cur^.

The priest was a dependant on the
old Convent of St. Gildas, and so he
never dared to censure the ladies in
charge ; but now, feeling that ho had
serious cause for complaint, after several
hems and hahs, he hesitatingly ob-
served "that these innovations were
the result of their opening the time-
honored Convent of St. Gildas for
boarders during the bathing-season ;
thereby introducing strangers into the
until then quiet and retired town of
Sarzeau."

The lady superior did not at all like
this reflection on her management,
which she considered extremely clever
and judicious. As the impoverished
treasury of St. Gildas was much in
need of replenishing, she had thought
of nothing more legitimate than that of
offering a few ladies, during the bathing-
season, a convenient home, which the
dirty town of Sarzeau ould not afford
them, for which she received an ample
compensation, that rendered her poor
nuns more comfortable during the long,
rigorous months of the winter that
sweeps so fiercely over the dreary pe-
ninsula of Rhuys. In consideration of
the necessity, and her wisdom in util-
izing the empty rooms of tho old con-
vent, she believed she merited tho
greatest praise of M. lo Cur6, in-

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

on, and they,
'cd to hint that
wuH not one of
a lovo of good
I meat on fasts,
ial sins he had
Ahsolvcr. How-
t the gossip of
for our purpose
•6 was just the
ovation or effort
ock that he Jed
nnce and want,
ho had walked
f St. Gildas do

taking a glass
superior, ho had
B her. Of course
him, and agreed
mte de Clermont

servant could
Satan, sent to
flock of M. lo

pendant on the
Idas, and so he

e the ladies in
ing that ho had
lint, after several
hesitatingly ob-
innovations were
)ening the time-

St. Gildas for

batliing-season ;
Tangers into the

retired town of

id not at all like
er management,
extremely clever
he impoverished
IS was much in
she had thought
mte than that of
iring the bathing-
home, which the

•Duld not afford
eceived an ample
ndered her poor

during the long,
the winter that
r the drearj' pe-

consideration of

wisdom in ntil-
) of the old eon-
he merited the
il. lo Cur6, in-

Btcad of his imjust censure. Therefore
It was with no very gentle voice that
she replied, " Pardon, M. le Cur*, but
we arc nil apt to beli ■ others to
be the cause of our troubius instead of
ourselves. Now, it seems to me, that
if you had kept a closer watch over
your flock, it would not have strayed
away, and fallen into the jaws of the
wolves. (luide and protect those who
are given into your charge as well as I
d(j those who are given to me, and you
will find that they will not bo led away
by strangers to strange doctrines."

After this wholesome advice, the su-
perior dismissed M. le Cur«S very coldly,
and he walked back to Sarzeau in a
towering passion. Entering La Croix
Verto for his evening dish of gossip,
washed down with absinthe, he en-
cotmtcred his natural adversary, M.
Jacquelon ; and then ens'ied the con-
versation which was interrupted by M.
le Propri^taire, who demanded of M.
Jacquelon what he was saying.

" We were speaking of the school
that M. le Comte has established in the
great hall of the chateau," replied M.
Jacquelon, with much deference ; for
all the town, including M. le (Jur^, M.
le Docteur, and M. lo Avocat, were
deferential to M. le Propri6taire de la
Croix Verte, who held a despotic sway
over his greasy kingdom. No one could
afford to quarrel with him, and thereby
lose the only amusement the dreary
little town offered, — that of sipping
absinthe and coffee, and gossiping over
cards and dominos in the bar-room of
La Croix Verte.

M. Jacquelon and M. le Propri^taire
were the best of friends, thereby illus-
trating the adage that "contrasts are
pleasing," for no two human beings
were ever created more dissimilar. M.
le Propri^taire was tall and stout, with
a neck like an ox, a broad, good-natured
face, all pink save a little tuft of very
black hair on his chin ; wide-open black
eyes, and strong, white teeth. He usu-
ally wore a pair of greasy trousers, that
once had been white, a blue shirt, with
the sleeves rolled up to the shoulders,
displaying a pair of brawny arms, dark
with Esau's covering; and around his
throat he displayed a scarlet kerchief,
tied in a loose knot. In recalling my

impression of M. le Docteur of Sarzeau,
as he once appeared before me, I can
think of nothing he «o much resembled
a« an unfledged gosling. His great
bald head, with a little fringe of yellow
hair, low forehead, beak-like nose, and
retreating chin, were connected to his
body by the smallest, longest neck ever
seen ; which seemed to be stifl'ened, to
support his head, by white folds of
starched cloth bound tightly arotmd in
a way that suggested strangulation.
His shoulders were naiTow and sloping,
his arms and legs short, and his very
long body was rotund at the base. A
yellow-green coat, buttotied close, cov-
ered his upper proportions, and reddish-
yellow breeches completed his resem-
blance to the above-named fowl.

The greatest pleasure that cheered
the laborious life of M. le Propri^taire
was to listen to a verbal combat be-
tween M. le Cur* and M. Jacquelon.
So on this evening, as the conversa-
tion warmed, he approached, not so
much to put the question he had asked,
as to overhear the discussion. When
M. Jacquelon informed him of its sub-
ject, he merely nodded his head, dis-
playing all his white teeth in a good-
natured smile, as he said, " Go on, go
on, my friends, and I will listen." So
he planted himself before them, his feet
wide apart, and his folded arms cov-
ered with a dirty napkin, spread out as
if to dry ; while he bent his head for-
ward, and fixed his eyes on the two
with the satisfied expression of one who
expects a rich treat.

For a long time the war of words
raged between M. Jacquelon and M. le
Cr.r6, uninterrupted by M. le Proprid-
taire, until he, seeing that the priest was
overwhelming the liberal opinions of
the little doctor with an immense volley
of rather contradictory theological argu-
ments, he stepped in to the rescue of
his friend, and declared boldly that he
approved of the step M. le Comte had
taken toward the civilization of the
little savages of Sarzeau.

"Farbleu!" he cried, bringing the
great fist down on the table with a
force that made the Cur6 and the doctor
jump nearly from their seats, " I wish
M. le Comte would ask for my children,
he should have them."

A CROWN FROM THE 8PEAB.

M. le Cur^ wiped his damp forehead
with his soiled blue handkerchief, took
slowly a pinch of snulf, passing the box
to M. le I'roprietaire to show him that
h(! entertained no hard feelings on ac-
count of a dift'erence of opinion, and
then said with a little deprecating tre-
mor in his voice, "You forget, mon-
siunr, — you forget that your first duty
to your children is to have them well
instructed in the religion of Mother
Church, and you forget that your words
uro a reflection on me. Have I then so
neglected my sacred office as Cur6 of
Sarzeau, that you find it necessary to
give the lambs of my flock to a strange
shepherd 1 I have no doubt that M. le
Comte do Clermont is a Christian gen-
tleman, but I believe the hunchback is
a knave, deformed in punishment for
some crime, and therefore dangerous to
the spiritual welfare of my people."

What reply M. le Propri6taire would
have made to this I cannot say, for at
that moment a general movement de-
noted that some one of distinction was
entering.

" M. lo Comte do Clermont, M. le
Comtc," passed from mouth to mouth
in a suppressed whisper, as Claude, fol-
lowed by Tristan, darkened the low
door.

It was the first time Claude had ever
appeared in the bar-room of La Croix
Yerte, and therefore the visit of so dis-
tinguished a guest caused no little com-
motion. The landlady unpinned her
frock and whipped on a clean apron.
The landlord rolled down his sleeves,
tightened the knot of his red kerchief,
gave a little upward twitch to his trou-
bcrs, and throwing a clean napkin over
his arm, appeared all smiles and compla-
cency before his new guests ; while M.
le Cur^ was seen to stoop as much as
his corpulency would allow him, to tuck
his worn stockings into the heels of his
shoes, after which delicate deception he
stood up, and holding his dusty hat over
the dirtiest spot on the front of his cas-
sock, he made' a succession of little
reverences, half bows and half courte-
sies ; and M. Jacquelon, craning up his
long neck, and bending his ungainly lit-
tle body almost to a right angle, walked
forward with stiffened legs, after the
fashion of West End grooms (it had been

hinted that M. le Docteur had been for-
merly a groom to a Paris physician, and
in that way had gained his medical
knowledge), his short arms extended
with the palms up, as though he had
something rare to display to M. le
Comte.

Claude advanced into the room with
a grave but kind smile, bowed to M. lo
Propri^tairo and his wife, and then
walked straight up to M. lo Curd and
offered him his hand.

The priest looked astonished, then
gratified, at such a mark of respect, and
giving his chubby hand a little dab on
the skirt of his robe, to wipe off the
snuff, he eagerly relinquished it to the
friendly grasp of Claude.

" Will M. le Comte please, to be seat-
ed 1" said the landlord, whisking the
dust off a chair with his napkin, and
placing it at the table between the Curd
and the doctor.

Claude bowed his thanks, took the
seat, and drew up another beside him
for Tristan, at which they all looked
surprised, and some whispered, " M. le
Comte is an original, he allows his ser-
vant to sit in his presence."

" Will M. le Comte be served with
anything our poor house affords 1 " said
M. le Propridtaire obsequiously, laying
a well-thumbed wine-card on the table.

Claude ordered a bottle of Ch&teau
Margeaux, to which he helped the priest
and the doctor plentifully, although he
scarcely drank himself.

When the good wine had raised the
spirits of the somewhat abashed Curd,
and had loosened the tongue of M. Jac-
quelon, Claude cleverly and with the
most conciliatory language introduced
the subject that had been under discus-
sion when he entered. He hod learned
through Tristan of the priest's opposi-
tion, and as he did not wish to cause
dissension in the peaceful town of Sar-
zeau, he saw at once that his best
chance of success lay in securing the
approval and co-operation of M. le Curd.
So it was for this object that he visited
La Croix Verte, and, finding the recep-
tion more friendly than he had antici-
pated, he felt encouraged to proceed
with his negotiation.

" I hope I have not infringed on any
of your privileges, M. le Curd," he said

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

mr had been for-
is phyaiciuu, and
led his medical
arms extended
though he had
splay to M. le

the room with

bowed to M. lo

wife, and then

M. le Cur^ and

astonished, then
■k of respect, and
i a little dab on
to wipe off the
uished it to the
le.

please, to be seat-
rd, whisking the
his napkin, and
letween the Cur6

thanks, took the
>ther beside him

they all looked
hi8])ored, " M. le
le allows his ser-
nce."

be served with
se affords 1" said
jequiously, laying
lard on the table,
ottle of Ch&teau
) helped the priest
ully, although he

e had raised the
at abashed Cur6,
:ongue of M. Jac-
ly and with the
guage introduced
een under discus-
He had learned
e priest's opposi-
ot wish to cause
sful town of Sar-
;e that his best
in securing the
ion of M. le Cur&
ct that he visited
inding the recep-
in he had antici-
raged to proceed

infringed on any
le Cur^," he said

gontly, " in my effort to better a little
the position of the poor and ignorant
about Sarzoau. Although I have not
until now had the pleasure of your ac-
quaintance, I felt sure that one who
had tlio welfare of all humanity at
heart would sanction whatever I might
do in the right direction, and your kind
reception now shows me that I have not
been misthkcn."

M. le Proini^tairo, who stood behind
Claude's chair, winked at M. Jacquclon,
and laid his right forefinger over his
left, to indicate that Claude had got
the best of M. le Cur6, who, after hav-
ing taken several pinches of snuff to
fortify himself for a reply, was vigor-
ously rubbing his nose and polishing it
off with his soiled handkerchief rolled
into a hard ball. While he was think-
ing of what he should say that would
not disagree with his former remarks
and compromise his dignity, M. Jacque-
lon, drawing his stiff cravat a little
higher, leaned forward and said dis-
tinctly, " Pardon, M. le Comte, but I
was just telling M. le Cur6 that he was
altogether wrong to condemn your mo-
tives before he understood them. And
in regard to your religion, I took the
liberty of assuring him that you were a
good Catholic, as was also monsieur,"
with a little nod at Tristan, whom he
was at a loss whether to address as a
superior, inferior, or equal.

The priest looked disconcerted at the
inopportune veracity of the doctor's
speech, and his heavy face flushed as he
stammered out, " M. le Comte, one
hears the truth so perverted ! I — I
assure you I suppose, — I mean, I was
led to think that you, monsieur, and
your young man, were interfering with
the religious teaching of my children,
in fact that you were trying to sow the
seeds of strange doctrines in their tender
hearta"

" 0, I understand perfectly ! " said
Claude, calmly. " If you had known
that I desired only the welfare of the
people, your int«rest would have been
with me, would it not 1 "

The Cur6 confusedly fingered his
glass and replied, "Certainly, certainly."

" I try to be a good Catholic," con-
tinued Claude, "and I do not believe
our holy religion need hinder or prohibit

the inculcation of noble and liberal
opinions ; but I do not wish to interfere
in any way with doctrines. I leave
them to those better taught in theology.
You must know, mon pirr, that our
country has need of strong, self-reliant
men, those whose judgment is based
upon their own knowledge, a knowledge
they must be able to gather for them-
selves from the history df the past and
the events of the present. The first
step toward that end is to teach them
to read and tiien to furnish them with
books and jo'irnals, i\\\'. their minds
may be opened to ideas of emancipation,
that they may understand true freedom
to be the freedom of one's self and
one's opinions."

By this time a number of the card-
players had left their tables, and gath-
ered around the debaters, and when
Claude finished his short but earnest
speech they all applauded it heartily.

M. le Cur^ looked discomfited, while
M. Jacquelon's broad mouth was gen-
erously stretched in a grin of satisfac-
tion.

Claude raised his eyes to the coarso
but honest faces of the men gathered
around him, and seeing in the expression
of many the pathetic history of a life's
disappointment and failure, his heart
went out to them in silent sympathy
and pity, mingled with an earnest desire
to lift the veil of ignorance and super-
stition that enshrouded them. " my
God I " he thought, " why can they not
have a chance to become something
more than beasts 1 " Then he glanced
at the heavy, besotted face of the priest,
and felt most forcibly the bitter contra-
diction, the wrong and deception, there
was somewhere in the politicid and
religious economy of the nation.

" Go on, M. le Comte, go on," cried
the Propri^taire, throwing his arms out
behind him to clear a little more space
around the table, — " go on, we all like
to hear the truth."

" You mean," cried the Curi, forget-
ting himself in his anxiety to keep the
moral bandage over the eyes of his peo-
ple, — " you mean that you all like some
new excitement, anything that gives
you a reason for breaking the laws of
God. Schisms, dissensions, rebellions,
are all against his divine teaching, and

A CROWN FROM THE SI'EAR.

tho liberty, that with tho inaiw moons
liconso, cun lead to nu good."

" Ptirdoii, nwn pirt, you mistake mo,"
Buid Claude, I do not advo(!Hto tho lib-
erty that mcuuH liceiiHe. 1 udvooato a
lil)crty that leads to Holf-Kuvernmont,
founded on u knowledgo uf one's self
and of tho higher needs uf humanity,
and that lilwrty and that self-govern-
ment can only be brought almut by
educating both the head and tho hoart.
First wo must understand ourselves,
then wo must strive to understand
othora. While studying tho inexhausti-
ble page of the human heart, we dis-
cover its needs and are led to minister
to thom. Society based upon a mutual
desiro to teach and to be taught would
soon become less arrogant, less egotisti-
cal, and less despotic. Therefore 1 say,
teuch every man, woman, and child to
read, and give tiiem lK)oks freely. Tho
natural good will assert itself, grow and
develop into strong, noble characters,
separating itself from tho weak and
ignoble, and with time and patience
tho reform will adjust itself to tho now
rif/ivie. This can only l)o done by
enlightening humanity, and giving it
knowledge with its daily bread ; for why
should the body be surfeited whilo the
soul starves ] "

" You are right, you are right. God
blcBB you, M. le Comte," exclaimed sev-
eral, pressing forward eagerly. " We
are ignonmt, it is true, but it ia not
from choice. We wish to learn to read,
but we have neither time nor money."

" My friends," cried Claudo, standing
up and facing the crowd who were press-
ing around him, — " my friends, what
I can do for you I will do gladly and
cheerfully. You labor through the day,
but your evenings are free, are they
notr'

" Yes, yes, yes," in eager, excited tones.

" Then come to the hall of the cha-
teau, eveiy night if you like, and I will
teach you how to read, and supply you
with books when you have learned.
You will be better for it, all of you.
You will make l^etter men, better hus-
bands, better fathers. Will you come 1 "

" We will, we will," they all shouted.

The Cur4 looked uneasy, but seeing
Claude had all tho strength on his side
be was obliged to appear to concede;

MO muttering " Tfmpori parendiim " to
himself, ho said aloud with us good
grace us posMible, " My children, tluH is
very noble and generous of M. le < 'omte.
1 hope you will improve to the iitniost
such an excellent opportunity ; and let
mo entreat you to think also of your
spiritual interests, and not tu neglect
my teaching."

There was not one among tho honest
men who replied to the Curb's hypo-
critical advice, but received it silently,
with winks, nods, and grimaces of con-
tempt behind his back.

" Sapriiti I " muttered a great, rod-
nosed Hsherman, " there is more good
stuff in tho little finger of M. lo Comto
than in all tho fat paunch of M. lo Cur^,
who thinks more of his greasy potage,
absinthe, and ecarti, than he does of all
our souls put together."

" Ah, my Gratien, if you could but
grow up to be a noble man like M. le
Comto ! " said the landlady to her eldest
hope, as she fished a bit of liver out of
the fat she had let burn whilo listening
to Claude's earnest words. " You shall
go to tho chateau and learn everything,
and then perhaps one day you will
become as great a scholar as M. le
Docteur. Hh, mon enfant f " And she
tapped the wide-eyed boy lovingly with
her dripping fork, as she turned to take
up another piece of the meat that lay
on a table near.

At first the good-natured face of M.
le Propridtaire clouded as ho thought of
the custom he might lose from Claude's
proposal ; but soon a philanthropic
desire for the good of his townsmen
overcame every selfish thought, and he
joined as heartily as the others in
applauding the noble offer of M. le
Comte.

Of course, M. Jacqnelon, being a
professional man, prided himself on &
liberal education, and therefore was not
slow in sustaining the opinions he had
advanced before Claude entered.

In this amicable way matters adjusted
themselves, much to the gratification of
the young regenerator, who had not
dared to hope for so easy a conquest.

It was a happy moment for Tristan.
He was delighted to see such a demon-
stration of approval from the people
who a few days before had looked upon

A CROWN FROM THE Sl'EAIl.

i partndnm " to

d with UH K*>ud

cliildroii, tliJH JH

1 t)l'M. lo <'()into.

to tiio iitniuHt

>i-tuuity ; ami lut

Ilk uIhu uf your

uut to uoglout

iiioiig tho lionoHt
10 L'urt'a liypo-
uivod it silently,
griuiacos of cuu-
I.

ed a great, rod-
iru iH uioro goud
of M. lo Comte
ich of M. lo Cur4,
is greasy potagt,
nil lie dooH of all

if you could but
e man liko M. le
lady to her eldest
it of liver out of
rn while listening
rds. " You shall
learn everything,
10 day you will
icholar oh M. le
fant t " And she
boy lovingly with
he turned to take
le meat that lay

itured face of M.

as ho thought of

ose from Claude's

a philanthropic

}f his townsmen

I thought, and he

the others iu

offer of M. le

iqiielon, being a
led himself on &
therefore was not
opinions he had
Je entered,
matters adjusted
le gratification of
r, who had not
^sy a conquest,
nent for Tristan.
« such a demon-
from the people
had looked upou

thorn with (lintnist ami nuspicion. Si
lotitly ho tiirnud his grout uycs, tilled
with tears of joy, to tho face of his
miistcr, who sriiiiud and nodded intelii
gently, for thoy understood each other
without words.

" Now, my good friends," baid Claude,
" lot us all sup to<{uthor as a pledge of
good feeliii;^ and LOiiimon interest. — M.
le I'roprietiiiro, place tho best you huvo
upon the table, tho best meats, and tho
bust wine, and you and your good wifu
sit with us."

For uii hour after there was such a
clattering of glasses, knives, and plates,
such bursts of good-natured laughter,
such luiatTucted mirth, as was seldom
heard at La Croix Verte.

Tho sujiper was nearly over, and
Claude, with Tristan, had risen to re-
tire, when a dusty travelling-carriage,
with tired horses and sunburnt driver,
drew up before tho door, aud two men
alighted. At the first glance it was
easy to perceive that they wore persons
of no common pretensions. The eldest,
who was fifty-five or sixty, had a tall,
soldierly figure, a handsome, oxpressivo
foco, thick, curling gray hair, and pier-
cing black 'yes. Tho other, who was
less than thirty, was slight and fair,
with meli\ncholy blue eyes, a girlish
month, shaded by a thin, flaxen mus-
tache, and extremely small feet and
hands. Their nationality was very soon
determined ; for both simultaneously
exclaimed in English, " Good heavens !
what a place ! Where are we to sleep
to-night 1" Then turning to tho Pro-
pri^taire, the eldest said in perfect
Parisian French, " My good man, have
you a comfortable apartment for us 1 "

" Certainly, certainly ; will monsieur
please to follow me. I have an elegant
suite above, which is entirely at the
disposal of monsieur, if he will kindly
do me the favor to accept it," said M.
le Propri^taire, with professional insin-
cerity ; leading the way, as he spoke, to
a dirty flight of stairs at the far end of
the room.

As they passed, without glancing in
his direction, Claude heard the younger
man say, " I wish those stupid old nuns
at St. Gildas were a little less monastic.
One would think they believed all men
Don Juan's disciples, by the way they

hurried us ulf after they socurcd tho
Ltilies. It would have Ixsen jolly to
have tiiken up our uIhmIo in the old
iilibey."

The remainder of tho remark ('IuikIo
did not hear ; for us they iiiouiited tho
stairciisu after tho landlord ho .iliook
hands with the doctor and thu Ciir6,
inviting thum to dine with him tho
next day, and bowing kindly to hia
now friends, he went out into tho soft
.Juno night, with an unaccountable feel-
ing of sorrow and dissatistuction in hia
heart ; even though ho had ucliieved
a conquest over the Curi, and had
gained tho esteem and good-will of tho
people of tho town, he felt dlHiouraged
and oppressed, for something iu tho
voices or faces of tho strangers had
awakened emotions he could not banish.

PART FOUIITH.

ALMOST A UEFEAT.

The next morning after tho supper
at La Croix Verte Claude arose with a
dull headache, and with tho dissatisfied
feeling of the night before. Tristan
looked anxiously at his palo face and
heavy eyes, when he brought him his
cofl'ee, and suggested u smart walk in
tho clear morning air.

"You aro right, mon ami, it is just
what I need, and it will ptit me in
better condition at onco. A flutter of
Mother Nature's pure breath over a
feverish forehead cools it quicker than
a compress of Farina's best eau-de-
cologne. I will start at once and be
back to breakfast with a splendid appe-
tite. And while I am off to the shore,
you must go into town and find Jerome
tho carpenter. There must bo some
more benches put up and some rough
tables provided for my poor students to
sit at. Tristan, my good soul ! can
you tell me what has become of ray
last night's enthusiasm ] I regret al-
ready my philanthropic undertaking.
My heart is heavy, my head dull, and
I am a coward, for I shrink fi-om a duty
that I boasted to myself I uod strength
enough to perform. Pray for mo, my
boy, that I may not fall just when I

A CnOWN FROM THE SI'KAIl.

lifiTO tnoat need to stand. Adieu until
breiikfiiHt."

When Cltuido left iUe j^ato of tho
•hiitcaii, ho tiinu'd IiIm face toward St.
(JildiiN, and waliiin^ tlirou^li tiiu Huhiirlm
of tho town cariio out on to tho liurrcn
and rocky utiiori', from whoHO hi^hcHt
Hutnmit rJHo thu toworH that surround
tho old aliltoy iiuniortulizi'd uh tho rctroat
of AlH'>li\rd. It luid always posscsHcd a
doop interest for him, hocauso it had
l)oun tliu gravo of a k*'''''^'^ diHap|K)int-
mcnt and a cruel sorrow. But tliis
inornin<; as ho looked at tho turrets
outlined againHt tho clear sky, and
gilded with Juno sunlight, a strango
fooling drew his heart with his eyes
to ono of tho narrow upper windows,
from which leaned a fresh pure face.
It was a face ho had never seen before,
a very lovely face, yet it did not attract
him as did a whito hand that lay ca-
ressingly on tho brown braids encircling
tho head like a coronet. Tho hand
belonged to some ono within the room,
whoso faco and llguro ho did not see ;
still ho felt OH though tho slender fin-
gers hud pressed upon his heart and
stilled its beating.

Tho eyes of tho girl were fixed oar-
oostly on tho shore below the convent,
and Claude, following tho direction of
hor gftzo, saw there, leisurely walking
along tho beach, the two strangers who
the night before had arrived at La
Croix Verte. Ho caught a glimpse of
tho white hand waving a welcome,
which was returned by the gentlemen.
And ho saw the lovely face tunied
upward to the owner of the fair hand,
with an eager entreaty that seemed to
say, " They are coming, let us go to
meet them."

Claude turned away toward Sarzeau
with a feeling of loneliness and isola-
tion which he thought would nievcr
again revive within his heart. The
fresh breeze, the clear sunlight, the
sportive waves that rippled upon the
sand and then retreated with bewitch-
ing grace, the gentle twitter of the
birds that built their nests in the grim
rock J, the many familiar voices of na-
ture, awoke no responsive thrill within
his sad soul, neither had they power
to soothe his feverish restlessness. To
avoid the strangers who were advancing

toward hitn ho climbed up tho rookj
steep to tho (^iHtio of Sucinio, and
stood there a long time conteniplating
the great round towen*, built in fciulal
times by tho Rod Duke of Brittany,
while ho thought mournfully of tho
inipotonce of man, tho insigniticanco of
his hopes, fears, and disappointments.
" They pass away," ho said sadly, —
" they pass away, and tho s[)ot that gave
i)irth to one generation stands to wit-
ness the dissolution and decay of many
Huccessive ones. How small a handful
of dust must now remain of tho haughty
Red Duke I And the bones of tho bravo
(.'onstablo do Uichemont, who first saw
tho light here, fill but a littlu space in
his proud tomb. And yet these walls
stand, and time as it passes leaves but
few traces upon thcin. The strunger
goes by and looks up at tho ivy on the
battlements, waving a welcome to him
in tho place of the fair hands that
greeted the returning warrior moro
than six hundred yeara ago."

Was lifo moro tragic once than it is
now 1 Did tho heroic souls who strug-
gled over tho sands of Quiboron only
to bo driven back into tho sea by tho
indomitable Hoche sufTer any keener
I)ain at their failure than did Claude
on this morning when ho looked again
on the disappointment of his life 1 Did
tho brave Sombreuil, who with desper-
ate courage drew up his little band fur
the last conflict, make any firmer re-
solves, any stronger determination to
conquer his enemy, than did Claude
to overcome and subdue his regrets and
desires 1 I think not. And yet tho
world calls them heroes, and weeps over
their sad fato, but it has no tears, no
pity, for one who is vanquished in a
combat with the passions.

When Claude, returning, reached the
gate of the chateau, he felt moro de-
pressed and disheartened than he did
on setting out. Even the intention of
doing something for the improvement
and happiness of others brought him no
comfort, for he now thought of the labor
of the coming evening as of a task fool-
ishly imposed upon himself in a,monient
of excitement, through a sudden access
of generosity. Entering the court ho
saw old Jauot sitting on a stone by the
fountain, picking over oseille for tho

.1^ .^.

A CROWN FROM THE HPMAR.

rd II |) tlio rocky
of Siirinio, (uid
i(< ('<)nti'tn|ilutiiiK
-M, built in t'ciuliil
iiUo of Hrittui)}-,
oiirnfiilly of tlio
iiiHii(iiitluancu uf
ili!4U|)|)()intincntH.
10 Hiiid Hiully, —
ho R[)ut that gave
xi BtniuU to wit-
id dcciiy of many
Hniall u handful
ill of tho hau);hty
UL's of tlio hravo
)nt, wlio first saw
b a littlo npaco in
d yet tlieso Wiilis
passes leaves but
II. Tho Rtruiij,'cT
at tho ivy on the
wcleonio to hi in
fair hands that
g warrior nioro
LiTi ago."

ic once than it is
3 souls who sti-ug-
of Quibcron only
:o tho sea by tho
uffer nny keonor
than did Claude
1 ho looked ogain
t of his life 1 Did
who with dcsper-
lis little band for
CO nny firmer re-
determination to
than did Claude
uo his regrets and
it. And yet tho
es, and weeps over
has no tears, no
vanquished in a
lions.

•ning, reached the
he felt more do-
med than he did
1 the intention of
the improvement
*8 brought him no
Dught of the labor
; as of a task fool-
nself in a,mon)ent
\i a sudden access
ing the court ho
3n a stone by the
ir oseiUe for tho

dinner ho had stupidly invited tho
Cur<i and M. Jacqiioloii to partaku of.

When (ho old man saw his muster,
he lookud ii|) and said in his thin, uoiii-
pliitiiiig voice, " Too many cliaiinos,
too iimuy changes, M. lo Coiute. Wo
are too olil, my Nanette oiul mo, to
attend to all theso things. If M. le
Cur6 of Suizouu and M. lo Doctcur
must be invited to dinner, nionsiour
must find another cook, my Nanette is
too old. This is a fine change to turn
tho prreiit hail into a school for tho
cauaille. Who is to open tho gate to lot
them in and out 1 I am too old and
too lame to do it, M. le Comte."

" Don't fret, my good man, don't fret,
you need not do it ; Tristan will find
another man," replied (.'laudo sharply,
for tho old servant's complaints annoyed
him like the repeated prick of a pin in
tender flesh ; yet it was so littlo to lose
his temper for that ho felt angry at
himself, and thought, " Bah ! what a
beast I am to speak harshly to that
poor old wretch, who has long ago for-
gotten what ho know before I was born,
and who has lived hero so many years in
undisturbed possession that ho believes
himself tho owner. I should despise
myself for being disturbed by tho fan-
cies of a child, and ho is a child with a
burden of more than eighty years press-
ing upon him." With this severe self-
reproach, he tried to sp^^ak more pleas-
antly to Nanette, who mot him at the
door, telling him breakfast was waiting
him. A French breakfast is at midday.

" Ah, monsieur, you are always gay ! "
oho said, as ho entered. " Well, at your
age one can bo gay and happy both, but
when one is old he can be happy, but
never gay. Poor old man," glancing
fondly at Janot, " poor old dear, he is so
cross this morning because I told him
ho could not see the decayed leaves in
the oieille. He thinks ho is young,
monsieur. You know it is hard to
remember that one's life is all behind
one ; so I humor his fiincies, I let him
go over it, monsieur, I let him go over
it to please him, but I do it all after
him. Tho fowls are all dressed, — fine
fat ones too. Tristan wont to market
this morning and picked out the best,
but he paid a half-sou too much the
pound, and without breaking the legs to

SCO if they wore tcndi'r. Only think,
monsi('iir,ofi>iu* buying chickens without
lireiiking tlio legs. The pmir hiiiicliback
has a very kind heart, nioiisicMir, a very
kind heart, but he is an stupid as »
turtle. You know, monsieur, M. le
Cur6 likes a good dinner, and ho shall
have Olio, for Niiiietto knows how to
cook to-day as well us she did when M.
lo ('oiiite voire pert came down from
Paris, with his friends, to shoot moiw
birds. That was a long while ago, and
Paris is a long way oil ; but still there
is M. lo Comte como to cheer up the
old cltAtoau with his pleasant face. Ah,
monsieur I in youth wo are always gay,
but perhaps wo are happy only in old
ago." And so she chattered on very
disconnectedly, but with somo nice
touches of truth, as she followed Claude
to tho liroakfast-tablo.

A few moments after tho breakfast
had commoncod, Tristan entered hurried-
ly, eager with important communicv
tions. Ho hud found the carpenter, who
would como at once to make the benches
and arrange the tables, so that all should
bo ready for tho evening. Then he had
mot a littlo boy with a basket of fine,
fresh strawberries, and ho had bought
thorn for dessert ; and ho had found a
number of lamps in tho town that would
do nicely to light up tho hall ; and ho
had heard that the strangers at La Croix
Verto wore two English lords, whose
ladies were at St. Gildos for bathing,
while they wore to remain at tho inn
because the nuns would not receive
them into tho convant, although they
had offered more gold than had been
seen in the old abbey for years.

All this Claude listened to patiently ;
and he even t cd to interest himself in
tho potty details of tho dinner and tho
arrangements of the table, which Na-
nette declared would look bourgeoise
with common delf and no silver. " Such
a thing," she said, "would never have
been thought of, monsieur, in the time
of M. lo Comte voire pire, for a noble to
invito people to dine with him at his
chitettu with ao proper minage for
serving them." For some reason, the
incongruities of his life seemed more
apparent on this day than ever before.
He regretted that ho had gone to La
Croix Verte tho previous evening, for

•' njwuLVim i ]tf ' M 'i« '-j * jui*;. ' ^ ''' nH"* ! « ^ i^^

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

he did not feci equal to the task ho had
taken upon him. What had become of
all his earnest resolutions, his enthusi-
astic professions of interest 1 He had
felt an imjjulse to a generous act,
and before ho had fairly begun the
work he was already weary of it.
Starting up from the sofa on which he
had thrown himself dejectedly, ho said,
in a stern, loud voice, " I am an un-
grateful beast; a feeble, puling, miser-
able wretch ; a dolt, a coward. I have
neither strength nor courage. Good
God ! I did not believe that a glimpse
of a white hand, the sight of refined
faces, and the sound of a cultivated
voice, could make such havoc with my
resolutions. I have lived so long witli
vulgar but honest souls that I thought
such puerilities had no power to touch
mo. I thought I had stilled the cries
of my heart for another and more
gentle life. I thought Nature and her
untaught children could make me forget
the station I was bom to, the home
from which I was thrust by deception
and injustice ; but it has all returned
to me with double power. I am con-
sumed with the old longii<g to sit once
^snore in my elegant rooms, to look
Again upon pictures and statues, to
sleep under silken curtains, to step
upon tapestry, to be clothed in purple
and fine linen, to look over acres of
cultivated and decorated grounds, to
wander among exotics that woo false
breezes and raise their lips for the
caresses of a strange sun, to fare
sumptuously every day at a table load-
ed with delicacies and glowing with
color and light, to listen to music from
stringed instruments, swept by white
bands ; in short, — in short to taste of
enervating luxury and gilded idleness.
And these desires are the result of five
years of privation and sacrifice, five
years of hardening and chilling 1 Alas !
then I have suffered for nothing, if I
am to be heated and melted by the first
breath of elegance wafted hither by
these effeminate pleasure-seekers.
my barren and rugged shores ! Na-
ture, my stem, but tmthful monitor,
do not desert and deceive me ; give me
back the calm and strength I have
drawn from thee ! " He heard the gen-
tle, pleasant voice of Tristan below,

talking with the carpenter, who had
come. " They, simple souls, are inter-
ested and happy in their humble occu-
pation. I will not remain here lashing
myself with idle reproaches, while 1
have the power to act. I too will work,
and kill with labor these delicate re-
pinings." So he went down, ancl Jerome
looked on with astonishment while M.
le Comte lifted, sawed, and planed, as
though he had been born a mechanic,
with the necessity of earning his daily
bread.

All the afternoon Claude worked with
a will ; and when it was time to receive
his guests, everything was completed in
the great hall, and the lamps placed
ready to light.

The dinner passed off" admirably.
The Cur^ ate and drank himself into a
stupidity greater, if possible, than his
normal condition ; while t!\e good wine
served to loosen the doctor'n tongue, so
that he became ridiculously loquacious,
rattling on in a way that amused, if it
did not instruct.

Before the June sun was fairly set,
and while Claude and his guests still
lingered over the wine, Tristan entered
to say that more than twenty men were
come, who were waiting in the hall.

When M. le Comte entered, followed
by the Cur6 and the doctor, all arose,
and, bowing respectfully, took off" their
hats, which they did not replace, — a
mark of reverence rare among these
men, who seldom uncovered save in the
house of God. They were clean, though
rough, uncombed, and unshaven ; still
they looked intelligent, and determined
to accomplish what they had under-
taken.

Among the number were a few who
understood the most simple rudiments ;
these Claude took under his more es-
pecial instruction, leaving the others to
Tristan, who gathered them around the
blackboard, on which Claude had written
the alphabet in large characters.

There was something in the scene
that suggested with power the contra-
diction founded in life. A visible blend-
ing of the shadowy past with the com-
mon and practical present. Aged and
decaying grandeur stooping to touch
the strong hand of young poverty.
Genius and profound knowledge side

.mih%u»fA>rm^ sr

ponter, who had
Bonis, arc Inter-
eir humble occu-
tnaiu here lashing
)roiiclics, while 1
1 too will work,
hese delicate re-
down, nn(l Jerome
shment while M.
d, and planed, as
born a muchanic,
earning liis daily

aude worked with

as time to receive

was completed in

the lamps placed

i off admirably,
nk himself into a
possible, than his
lile the good wine
ioctor'ti tongue, so
ilously loquacious,
that amused, if it

un was faiily set,
d his guests still
Tristan entered
I twenty men were
ng in the hall.
I entered, followed
! doctor, all arose,
illy, took off their
I not replace, — a
rare among these
jovered save in the
were clean, though
id unshaven ; still
it, and determined
they had under-

sr were a few who
simple rudiments ;
nder his more es-
ving the others to
1 them around the
Claude had written
characters,
ling in the scene
power the contra-
3. A visible blend-
tast with the com-
resent. Aged and
itooping to touch
r young poverty,
d knowledge side

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

by side, with the ignorance and sim-
plicity of childhood.

The great arched hall, with its faded
tapestry, and richly carved cornice, and
the narrow deep mullioned windows,
showing strips of blue-black sky studded
with stars, made a rino backgi'ound
for the figures gathered around the
wide-mouthed fireplace, filled with a
smouldering pile of driftwood and dried
furze ; for oven in summer the evenings
arc exceedingly chilly on the peninsula
of Jlhuys. The rude tables and benches
were drawn around the chimney, on one
side of which sat Claude, surrounded by
a group of interested listeners, to whom
he was relating some events in the past
history of his coimtry. There was not
one among them who had not heard of
the heroic struggles of La Vendee, and
the defeat of the brave General Som-
breuil on the sands of Quiberon. They
also knew that the department of Mor-
bihan had produced heroes, for the name
of Cadoudal, the leader of the Chouans,
had been familiar to them from their
cradles. And they had imbibed with
their milk the hate of their ancestors
for the Republican generals, Hoche and
Humbert, having al' it sometime made
a pilgrimage to the Champ des Martyrs,
on the banks of the Auray, where were
shot the unfortunate Emigres and Roy-
alists who composed the ill-fated expe-
dition of Quiberon. Still they had
received all these stories of the strug-
gles of the past as the ignorant receive
tradition, without inquiring into the
succession of events that led to such
tragic results. Now they listened open-
mouthed and absorbed to Claude's brief
but lucid history of the condition of
t^ country at that time, of the terrible
conflict between the people and the
court, of the degeneration, luxury, and
vice of the monarchy, of the stern, 'elf-
denying, and heroic, but cruel and se-
vere rule of the Republic, from each of
which he gathered some simple but forci-
ble moral to apply to the present.

Tristan, with his deformed body raised
to its utmost height, his h«ad erect, and
his haggard face spiritualized and al-
most beautified by his earnest desire to
make his anxious pupils understand the
difference between c and ff, wielded his
pointer with the grace f a fashionable

director, while he called out each letter
in a voice that would have done credit
to an orator. The men were all eager,
interested, and good-natured. When
one made a mistake, another with a
bettor memory, delighted with his new
acquirement, prompted him readily,
while the clever individual who re-
peated the whole alphabet correctly
was applauded with the utmost warmth,
at which noise, the Cure, who slum-
bered peacefully in the corner, awoke
with a sudden snort, and looked around
wildly, as he muttered, " Veiiitc, exul-
tcmus Domino," for ho thought ho had
fallen asleep, as it was his habit to do
during the performance of mass.

M. le Docteur, in the best possible
humor, sat on the right hand of Claude,
who frequently referred to him for a
corroboration of certain historical state-
ments, which tickled his vanity, ami
caused him to pour out his knowledge
so freely, that the simple people, not
understanding its spurious quality,
looked upon him as an oracle of wis-
dom.

Old Janot and Nanette had come in
with Claude's permission, and sat hand
in hand near the door, the old man
grumbling now and then in a scarce
audible voice, while the woman's sharp
eyes followed every movement and word
with the utmost interest.

When the lessons were finished, much
to the satisfaction of all, Tristan pro-
duced from a large basket, bread, cheese,
and wine, which, with the assistance
of Nanette, ho placed upon the tables.
The men seemed even more grateful for
the simple supper than they had been
for their intellectual feast, and all did
ampK justice to it, laughing like good-
natured children at a not very brilliant
hon-mot of the doctor, made at the ex-
pense of the Cui*^, who was now wide
awake.

" My good Tristan," said Claude in
a low tone, while he clasped the hunch-
back's hand in his, " you think of every-
thing to make others happy. This
morning I came very near throwing up
the whole matter. In fact, I was on
the brink of a disgraceful defeat, the
result of my own weakness and selfish-
ness, but strength mercifully came at
the right moment, and you, with year

<i an w> n iW ttB«m i

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

gentle care and kindness, have changed
my discomfiture to a beautiful triumph,
for I have seldom felt stronger and
happier than at this moment. It is a
reward for many trials to see these
simple souls so contented with their
new inidcrtaking. We must provide
this little Slipper for them every night.
Some of them have a long walk, and
they must not go to their beds hun-
gry-"

Tristan smiled his approval, and went

on dispensing his loaves, a worthy dis-
ciple of his blessed Master.

When the last man had been lighted
out, and the Curd and the doctor had
been dismissed in the most friendly
manner, the gate closed and barred, and
Tristan sent to bed with many affec-
tionate good-nights, Claude lighted a
cigar, and went out on to the balcony in
the most exultant state of mind. The
weak desires of the morning were gone,
and his soul was full of noble and gen-
erous intentions. The rugged shore,
the furze-clad rocks, and the poverty-
stricken town, with its few ignorant,
degraded inhabitants, seemed to him
a kingdom; and his ruined desolate
chateau seemed a royal palace, filled
with the pride of wealth and glory.
" Here are strong, good hearts, with
great possibilities ; they are worth thou-
sands of fawning courtiers. I have won
them, they are mine, and I will live
for them, and raise them to a higher
level. This old place shall be rebuilt
and refurnished, and here I will found
a school and a library, a free fountain
where all may come to drink knowledge.
Poor Sarzeau ! you shall not hlways be
despised ; the birthplace of Lesage shall
not sink into insignificance." Then his
thoughts recurred to the struggle of
the morning, and he said, with a feel-
ing of satisfaction that it was over,
"Almost a defeat, almost a defeat",

PART FIFTH.

CRUEL AS DEATH.

Fob some days Claude had been in-
tending to make an excursion to Lock-
mariaker and Gavr Innes, in order to

take some sketches and notes of these
wonderful tumuli, Mand Lud and Man6
Ar Groach. On the morning after his
first effort of regeneration he arose with
a clear head and buoyant heart, took a
hearty breakfast and his sketch-book,
and started on his excursion. When
he passed out through the great hall he
found Tristan already engaged with his
ragged herd, who surroiinded him with
the most affectionate familiarity, while
he explained to them the puzzling com-
bination of letters to form words that
expressed the most common things. As
Claude came down the steps, singing
Aprea la hataille, with a light voice and
smiling face, Tristan left his seat, say-
ing, " Ah, monsieur, you are happy
this morning, your face is full of sun-
shine. I will pray that it may last for-
ever."

"And I, too, will pray, Tristan.
Adieu until night," he replied, as he
threw a handful of small coin among
the children, laughing, as he went out,
to see them scramble for it.

" What new trouble is coming 1 " said
Tristan, looking after him as he crossed
the court. " I would rather not see him
too happy, he is always sorrowful after-
ward. I hope he will return as gay as
he goes out." The poor fellow's wish
was in vain, for his master did not re-
turn as gay as he went out.

When Claude reached the gate, Janot
opened it slowly, saying, "Ah, M. le
Comte, you are as bright as a young gal-
lant this morning, but remember, mon-
sieur, that a clear sunrise often makes
a cloudy evening."

" I know it, you old raven, without
being reminded of it," returned Claude,
good-naturedly. " You act upon •y
spirits like fog from the Bay of Biscay.
When the sun shines, don't cloud it with
your gloomy prophecies. Wait until
night comes." And with these sugges-
tive words he closed the gate and walked
away with a light step. Four miles of
rough road bro\ight him to the Butte de
Tumiac, where he entered the small
chamber and examined with curiosity
the strange Celtic monuments. It was
a dim, weird place, and brought to his
mind the many supernatural tales of
his childhood, told by his nurse, who
was a native of Auray. Somewhat

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR,

ind notes of these
&ai Lud and Mun^
morning after his
ation he arose with
yant heart, took a
his sketch-book,
excursion. When
h the great hall he
5^ engaged with his
rrounded him with
familiarity, while
the puzzling corn-
form words that
immon things. As
the steps, singing
h a light voice and
left his seat, say-
you are happy
face is full of sun-
lat it may last for-

11 pray, Tristan.

he replied, as ho

small coin among
g, as he went out,

for it.
e is coming 1 " said

him as he crossed
rather not see him
ys sorrowful after-
1 return as gay as
poor fellow's wish
master did not re-
nt out.

led the gate, Janot
ying, "Ah, M. le
ght as a young gal-
it remember, mon-
nrise often makes

lid raven, without
'' returned Claude,
ou act upon tly
he Bay of Biscay,
don't cloud it with
cies. Wait until
with these sugges-
le gate and walked
3. Four miles of
m to the Butte de
ntered the small
ed with curiosity
numents. It was
id brought to his
matural tales of
•y his nurse, who
iray. Somewhat

chilled and depressed he passed out
through the narrow, dark passage into
the sunlight, and found old Joseph, the
boatman, waiting to row him over to
Lockmariaker. It was a glorious morn-
ing, and us the boat cut the shining wa-
ter, throwing from her bow little clouds
of foam that broke into a dozen tiny
rainbows ere they fell, Claude's spirit
shook oif the dreary influence of the
gloomy chamber haunted with the shad-
ows of vanished barbarians, and ho en-
joyed thoroughly the beauty of the
scene. He had always looked upon
tlie broken shore as dreary and gray,
but now it seemed softened by the sun-
light and the translucent air into a
thousand tender tints. The rough,
hcatli-topped cliffs gleamed like ame-
thyst framed in agato of every hue.
The sands of the shore ran golden to
the blue of the sea ; the jutting rocks
threw soft shadows over the tiny islands
that lay like scattered jewels at the feet
of a king ; the sea-birds, startled from
their nests in the rocks, wheeled and
floated, dipping the tips of their white
wings in the foam dashed from the
oars of the rower, while they replied to
their mates in clear, shrill tones that
did homage to the beauty of nature
as eloquently as does the VDice of
man.

"I rowed a party over yesterday,"
said Joseph, when he had made about
half the distance between the Butte de
Tumiac and Lockmariaker, " and here
I was obliged to rest on my oars for the
view, which they all pronoimced best
from this point, and I believe it is so ;
for before us is the Morbihan, Gavr
Innes, the estuary of the Auray, and
Locknif riaker. Look behind, if you
please, nonsieur, and you can see the
bay a.id peninsulas of Quiberon and
Rhuys, with the old al)bey of St. Gildas
at the summit of the cliff. I think this
is the only spot where all these points
can be seen at once."

" It is fine," said Claude, standing up
and looking off in the direction of St.
Gildas. "As many times as I have
crossed, I never before noticed the per-
fection of this view."

" One of the ladies spoke of i£ first.
There are two, and both are young and
pretty. They are at the abbey, and the

gentlemen are in the town at La Croix
Verte. Have you seen them, M, le
Comtel"

" Yes," replied Claude, " I saw them
the night they arrived. One is old and
the other i& young; are they father
and son 1 "

"I don't know, monsieur," returned
the old boatman, with a puzzled expres-
sion, " I could not make out the rela-
tionship ; although I am sure one of the
ladies is the wife of one of the gentle-
men, yet I could not tell which she be-
longed to. monsieur ! she is beauti-
ful, with such hair and eyes, and a face
like an angel. This boat never carried
anything so precious before."

Claude laughed at the old man's en-
thusiastic admiration of the fair stranger,
and said, " Such a lovely passenger may
bring you good fortune, Joseph, at least
I hope it may."

" And I hope so too, monsieur, but
it is the good fortune to row her across
again that ia the most I ask for." And
with this pleasant wish Joseph bent to
his oars and shot ahead rapidly, soon
runing his little bark up to the rough
pier south of Lockmariaker.

Walking over the smooth beach, still
moist where the tide had left it bare,
Claude found himself looking at the
many tracks on the sand, and wondering
whose feet had made them, and where
were then the beings who had left their
footsteps behind them, only to be effaced
by the returning tide. And then his
thoughts reverted to the stranger with
lovely hair and a face that old Joseph
likened to an angel's. " She passed
over this same spot yesterday," he said,
" but here is no impress of a Paris boot ;
how absurd ! how should there be, when
the tide has ebbed and flowed twice
since then 1 Of course if she is young
and lovely she is fashionable and frivo-
lous. It must have been her hand which
I saw at the window of St. Gildas. I
wish I could have seen her face ; ah well,
it might have been less fair than her
hand." Then like the sudden change
of a kaleidoscope there came before his
mental vision a slight, girlish figure in
a nun's gown and serge veil, her yellow
hair hidden under folds of white linen,
her slim hands crossed over a crucifix.
The contrast between tha,t sad, (j[uiet

- 'l ajoa atwtiMMi i ii m ii vn ii M

»W W J I CUIfeaL i ^ . .. ';.

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

form and tho active, joyous girl who
the day before had walked over the
shining beach with the fresh wind blow-
ing her dress and hair, made his heart
acho, until it seemed again as though
cruel fingers had pressed upon it. "
Cd'leste ! Celeste ! " he thought, " if we
two were but sitting on this breezy
shore watching together the tide flow
out, leaving the shining sands at our
feet, or if we two were but sleeping
together in the quiet breast of yonder
sunlit isle, our bodies forever at rest,
and our souls in peace with God ! But
thou art woree than dead to me, thou
art entombed forever from my sight,
and I am hero alone to regret thee."
Dashing away the tears that trembled
on his lashes, he turned from the shore
and took the direction toward tho Mon-
tague de la F^e. After exploring the
stone chambers, and copying some of
the hieroglyphics, which no one has
ever yet deciphered, he examined with
the minutest care the mysterious mon-
uments, which have so puzzled the
learned in trying to determine whether
they were erected by Roman or Celt,
or whether they were memorials of re-
ligious rites or military power. When
he had wearied himself to no purpose
over these inexplicable traces of a van-
ished race and a lost language, he entered
the Man6 Lud, whose stone chamber is
covered with characters still more per-
plexing than any other. There he sat
down on a flat stone and mentally re-
viewed all he had read and heard on the
subject, striving to glean some hint
from tiie history and traditions of the
past, to find in the curious inscriptions
some resemblance to Cufic or Egyptian
hieroglyphics; but it was in vain, he
could not trace the slightest analogy
cither in form or arrangement. Weary,
confused, and discouraged, he walked
back to the shore, and was rowed over
to GS,vr Innes. It was now long after
midday, and the heavens had clouded
over while he had been dreaming away
the sunshine in the gloomy chamber of
Man^ Lud.

When the boat grated on the beach
of Gavr Innes, Joseph sjiid, "You will
please not be long at the tumulus,
monsieur, for the wind is rising and
setting out from the shore, and if it

should continue to increase I shall have
a hard fight to reach La Butte."

Claude did not intend to remain long
when he entered the stone gallery, but
the time passed more rapidly than ho
thought, in tho new interest he found
here, so totally different from that of
Man6 Lud. The twenty-seven pillars,
covered with singular sculptured devices
of serpents and battle-axe-i, represented
the warlike weapons or religious emblems
of a more savage race than cither early
Roman or Celt. When he left the spot,
which he did reluctantly, tho wind had
increased to almost a gale, tho sun was
hidden by a veil of dense clouds, and
the waves drove furiously against the
shore.

Joseph groaned more than once over
his one oar, for Claude had taken the
other to assist in the hard fight to
reach La Butte, and their united
strength was fairly exhausted when
they glided safely into tho little ha-
ven among the rocks.

Instead of taking the direct road to
Sarzeau, Claude determined to walk
along the beach to a boat-house behind
a high promontory that offered a shel-
ter where he could sit and watch the
great waves dash upon the rough shore.
He liked the sea best when it was
lashed into fury by the angry wind.
He felt a weird sort of pleasure in the
shriek of the tempest, in the roar of
the tliunder, and the vivid flash of the
lightning as it cut the heavens into
yawning chasms and made flaming
tracks upon the crested waves. Tho
spasms of nature found a responsive
throe within his own soul, which had
writhed and struggled as fiercely as did
the waves of the sea to overleap their
bounds. But the same Voice that
hushes nature into calm had also
stilled his rebellious heart and taught
it submission.

The storm was increasing, the wind
came in short, f\ngry gusts, dying away
into momentary calm, and then with
renewed strength driving over the lead-
en sen, and dashing the foam-dressed
waves high upon the in v uJnerable rocks.
It was terril)le rounding the promontory,
and more than once Claude was obliged
to turn his back to tho sea, for tlie
spray blinded him and the roar of tho

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

icreaso I shall have

La Butto."
icnd to remain long
stone gallery, but
re rapidly than ho

interest he found
jrent from that of
venty-sevon pillars,

sculptured devices
le-axc'i, represented
ir religious emblems
!0 than cither early
on he left the spot,
ntly, the wind had

gale, the sun was

dense clouds, and

•iously against the

ore than once over
iide had taken the
the hard figlit to
md their united
■ exhausted when
nto the little ba-
the direct road to
termiued to walk
boat-house behind
lat offered a shel-
sit and watch the
an the rough shore,
best when it was
' the angry wind,
of pleasure in the
!8t, in the roar of
3 vivid flash of the
the heavens into
nd made flaming
istcd waves. The
ound a responsive
n soul, which had
d as fiercely as did
I to overleap their
same Voice that
calm had also
heart and taught

creasing, the wind
gusts, dying away
fi, and then with
ang over the Icad-

the foam-dressed
nvuJnerable rocks,
ig the promontory,
Claude was obliged

the sea, for the
d the roar of tho

tempest deafened him. But the resist-
ance t;f v.nul and wave could not turn
liim from iii.s purpose, for fate held him
by the liand and led him resolutely
toward his destiny. So he toiled on
until the point was turned and ho camo
into a little haven of calm.

It was a long strotcli of beach, where
were usually two or three boats drawn
up beyond the lino of the tide, but
now there was not one, and a rude
boat-house sheltered under a great cliflT,
with high walls of rock on each side.

Claude's first feeling was one of re-
lief, his second one of surprise, for at
the fartlier side of the inlet, near the
sea, stood two women. Their faces
were turned from him. One was tall
and strong, wrapped in a dark mantle,
with a veil of brown serge blowing back
from her hat. The other was slighter,
and her dress was of pale blue, over
which was gathered a shawl of scarlet
and white. The only veil she wore was
her yellow hair, that streamed far be-
hind her, torn from its fastenings by
the wind. Her head was bowed in her
hands, and she seemed to be weeping
bitterly ; while her companion, with her
arm around her, was looking stead-
fastly out on the sea. Claude followed
her gaze, and there, struggling with the
terrible waves, some distance from the
shore, he saw a tiny Iwat in which were
two men, who were either exhausted or
unacquainted with their oars ; for the
little thing danced and whirled like a
cork, sometimes lost to sight, and then
reappearing on the top of a crested
wave, only to vanish the next moment
into a terrible chasm that threatened
to ingulf it.

Claude saw it but for an instant, but
in that instant he knew that unless aid
reached them they must perish ; and
he also understood the danger > in at-
tempting to save them. Nevertheless
ho said firmly, "I will try, and God
will help me." Then ho turned toward
the women, who had not seen him, for
the first impulse of his tender heart
was to comfort and reassure them be-
fore ho started on his perilous under-
taking. They heard his footsteps, and
both turned toward him, startled and
surprised. He saw but one ; for in that
moment all else of heaven and earth

was blotted out, and she seemed to
stand alone, enveloped in dull, gray
clouds. " Celeste, C61cste ! " ho cried,
in a voice that seemed to ring out like
a bell above the roaring of the sea, as
he sprang toward her with outstretched
arms. Then the cloud seemed to en-
close her like a wall, as she drew back
from him with something of the expres-
sion of fear and anguish that had
stamped her face that day, five years
before, when they parted in the rose-
garden at Monthelon.

There are moments that leave their
impress upon our whole lives, — mo-
ments that seem to wrench reason from
us at one gi'asp; that stifle, bewilder,
and blind us. We call the sensation
faintness, but it is a taste of deatli, a
drop of poison that works in our veins
long after, and finally chills the crimson
flood. We know by the coldness, pal-
lor, and stony expression of many
around us, that they have been touched
with death, although they may not die
until long after.

Claude dashed his hand over his face,
and murmured, " My (Jod ! Am I dy-
ing? I cannot see." Then with a
superhuman strength he struggled back
to himself, and said with painful calm-
ness, " Celeste, listen to mo for one
moment, and do not look at mc with
fear ; indeed, you have no cause to fear
me."

" Claude ! I do not fear you," she
cried, — "I do not fear you. I have
wronged you deeply. Can you forgive
me for my cruelty and injustice 1 Can
you forgive me, and save him ? " point-
ing to the boat. " My husband is
there struggling with death. Can you
save him 1 " •

" Your husband, your husband," he
repeated slowly, but with a voice of
rising wrath as he drew back from her,
still keeping his eyes, filled with pas-
sion, fixed upon her pallid face. " No !
no ! " burst from his white lips at last,
with a force that made them tremble, —
" no, no, I will not save him. Leave me
before I curse you ; false and faithless
thing, you have ruined my life, and
now you implore me to save your hus-
band. No, no ; he might die a thou-
sand deaths and I would not stretcli
out my hand to save him from one."

I i w lii (WV ii i<i<ri » -i« | i lli (i'4n~i i n ili rH iii [rn 'i i Tivrrn

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

" Claude, Clnude, pity mo 1 " she
entreated. " Elizabeth 1 " she cried,
turning to the girl, who still watched
the boat 'vith an intense gaze, " it is
Claude, Claude do Clermont, who so
cruelly reproaches me. We were children
together ; wo loved each other ; but
you know all ; I told you all long ago.
Once I would not have prayed in vain
for his aid, but now he has no pity for
me. Elizabeth, speak to him. I de-
serve his anger, but you have never
doubted aud despised him, and turned
from him when he was suifering, as I
once did. Elizabeth, speak to him, ho
will listen to you."

The girl turned toward Claude, who
stood with his eyes fixed on the sands at
his feet, like one stupefied by a sudden
blow. Something in the tones of pitiful
entreaty touched him, for he looked up
as she said, " monsieur, my father is
in the boat, he is all I have on earth.
Will you try to save him 1 "

" Your father and her husband. If
I save one, I must save both."

" Yes," she repeated, " if you save
one, you must save both."

" It is as cruel as death," ho cried,
wringing his hands, and raising his
eyes to the angry heavens, — " it is as
cruel as death; but what matters for
one pang more 1 my God, I look to
thee ; do not abandon me in this mo-
ment of agony. Give me strength to
save her husband or to die with him ;
for if I survive him, the memory of his
death will rest forever upon my soul."
A vivid flash of lightning illuminated
his pallid face, and wrapped him for an
instant in flame. It seemed as though
God had touched him, so suddenly did
the passion die out of his heart, leav-
ing a profound calm that was almost
joy. In that supreme moment he did
not hear the roar of the thunder, the
shriek of the wind, nor the dash of
the waves, for an unbroken silence
seemed to infold him like a white cloud,
and his heart was melted into infinite
pity. He looked at Celeste as she
stood before him, drenched with the
spray, her face white with anguish,
her eyes swollen with weeping, and her
long, fair hair blown pitilessly by the
wind, and a new conviction filled his
soul with remorse, for ho felt how she

too must have suffered, — suffered
through him and for him ; and ho had
cruelly reproached her, and caused her
still more pain. Five years before, she
had fled from him in terror, deaf to
the entreaties of his heart, she had fled
from him to bury herself, as ho believed,
forever, in a living tomb; and he had
since then looked upon her as dead to
him and the world. Now she stood
before him on this lonely shore of Qui-
beron, entreating him to save her
husband. And he, through divine
strength could say from the very depths
of his being, " My life is his and yours,
use it as you will."

With sublime self-renunciation and
deep compassion filling his hcaii:, ho
turned toward Celeste, and holding
out his hand he said gently, " Celeste,
forgive me for my cruel words ; I was
mad with passion or I could not have
reproached you. I love you at this mo-
ment better than I have ever loved you
before. Remember, I say better; for
now I love you with no thought of self.
I will save your husband, or I will die
with him."

She seized his hand and covered it
with tears and kisses, sobbing, " O
Claude, Claude, forgive me ! "

" One only thing, Celeste, before I
go to what may be death. Do you be-
lieve me innocent of the crime you once
thought I had committed 1 "

" I have long believed you innocent.
Forgive me, I loved you then, I love
you always ; but I was deceived by an-
other, and blinded by my childish grief.
I entreat your forgiveness." And, over-
come by her emotion, she buried her
face in her hands, and burst into sobs.

" It is enough," ho said with a smile
that was almost happy. *' Now I can
face danger with a strong heart."

Elizabeth stood v/ith her arms around
her weeping companion, but her eyes
were fixed o^l the boat with an expres-
sion of toiiiblc anguish. " It will be
impossible to reach them in this dread-
ful sea. You will lose your life, and you
will not save theirs. God help us !
what shall we do ? " she cried, wringing
her hands and weeping with Celeste.

" I will make the attempt. Pray for
me that I may not fail," said Claude,
throwing aside his coat and hat. " If I

• ^ ' t-iUfMiS'

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

Tered, — Biiffered
liim ; and ho had
', and caused her
years before, she
1 terror, deaf to
leart, nho had fled
jlf, as ho believed,
)mb; and ho had
on her as dead to
Now she stood
lely shore of Qui-
im to save her
through divine
m tho very depths
8 is his and yours,

-renunciation and
ing his heart, he
ste, and holding
gently, "Celeste,
ucl words; I was
I could not have
(ve you at this mo-
vve ever loved you
I say better; for
10 thought of self,
aand, or I will die

id and covered it
ises, sobbing, "O
ive me ! "

Celeste, before I
;ath. Do you be-
the crime you once
;ttedr'

ived you innocent.
; you then, I love
as deceived by an-
1 my childish grief,
encss." And, over-
)n, she buried her
d burst into sobs.
I said with a smile
ipy. " Now I can
strong heart."
th her arms around
lion, but her eyes
at with an expres-
lish. " It will be
hem in this dread-
ae your life, and you
8. God help us!
she cried, wringing
ng with Celeste,
attempt. Pray for

fail," said Claude,
oat and bat. " If I

can roach the boat, I can save them,"
Ho took tho hand of Cd'loHte, and pressed
it reverently to his lips, raised his eyes
to heaven and made the sign of the
cross, «iiy ing, " Pray for mo. Celeste, pray
for mo." Then rushing down tho beach
he plunged into tho midst of a retreat-
ing wave, and was carried at one dash
far out toward the boat, lie saw with
tho clearness that is sometimes given us
in times of cxtreiuo need, timt his only
chanco of reaching tho boat depended
upon taliing advantiigo of such a mo-
ment, when tho turbulent waves could
aid him more than his own strcngtii
and experience. If he could but gain
tho boat, and get tho oars into his own
hands, he might save them by his skill
in rowing, which was more necessary in
such a sea than even courage and en-
durance.

Tho two unhappy women watched
the wave carry him far out and toss him
upon its summit as though he were but
a feather ; then tliey saw him struggling
against the incoming billows that hid
him entirely from their sight. They
strained their eyes into tho fast-gather-
ing twilight, their anxiety divided be-
tween the solitary swimmer and the ex-
hausted men in the unmanageable boat.
Now again they saw Claude, borne
upon the summit of the next receding
wave, striking out boldly and fearlessly,
while right before him rose up a solid
wall of water that curled forward with
a hissing roar, dashing over both boat
and swimmer, and hiding them entirely
from the sight of the terrified watchers.

"My God!" cried Elizabeth, with
blanched cheeks, " I fear they are all
lost."

" Oh, oh ! " moaned CcSlestc, covering
her face from the anger of the sea. " I
have sent him to death."

" Mother of God I have mercy upon
them ! " implored botii, as wave after
•wave broke at their feet.

For a few moments they strained
their eyes in vain ; then Elizabeth cried
joyfully, "I see the boat, and it is
nearer."

" And beyond, is not that Claude 1 "
said Celeste. " Look, I pray, has he not
passed the boat 1 Is not that his head
beyond the foam of yonder largo wave 1 '

Alas ! it was true. An advancing

billow had brought tho boat noaror tho
shore, but returning it took the swim-
mer with it, and tho next doshod tho
little bark again far beyond Claude.
Hafiled, tossed, hurled hero aiul there,
it seemed as though both must perish.

Another moment of terrible susiMsnse,
another moment of despair, while thoy
again lost sight of both, and then a re-
treating wave showed them the boat
still farther away, but Claude was with-
in a few yards of it swinuning vigor-
ously. A cry of joy from Klizalioth, a
sob of thanksgiving from Celeste, told
that lio had reached tho little bark,
and was being assisted into it by tho
eager hands of the almost ho])eleBs men.
Again it was lost to sight, to appear n
moment after on the swell of a billow.
Claude had the oara and was swaying
buck and forth with the long, dexterous
strokes that brought it bounding abuvo
tho waves straight and sure toward
tho shore. A moment after, with a roar
aud dash of the surf, the boat wtis
thrown far upon the beach, and Claude,
throwing down his oars, sprang, followed
by tho two strangers of La Croix Verto,
almost into the arms of Elizabeth and
Celeste.

The two women with a cry of joy
threw themselves upon tho breast of
tho eldest man, aud sobbed, hiding their
faces with their hands, while ho clasped
and caressed them both.

" His wife and his daughter," thought
Claude, stooping to pick up his coat and
hat. "In their joy they have no
thoughts of me. It is well. Thank
God, I have saved him and made her
happy ! " Then vithout another glance
at the excited group he hurried around
tho promontory, and climbing up tho
rocks, dripping with water, exhausted
with his straggle, and overpowered with
conflicting emotions, he threw himself
upon a furze-covered bank, and burying
his face in his hands wept with the
abandon and passion of a woman.

: L PART SIXTH.

THE aUATITlTDE OF A POET.

When Claud© reached the gate of the
chateiui it was already dark, and the

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

!- 1*

men were aascmliled in the hull nnxiotis-
ly uwaitiii^ liiH nrriviil. After linHtily
chuiiging liiH wft ^'iirmt'iits for Bonio dry
oncH, ho entered with his UHiml quiet
manner imd pave Hniile. Hnt Tristiin,
who luid lodlied deeper tlmn the others
into liis miiHtcr'H heart, saw that he hud
nut returned as ho went out, and he
also sunuised that ho had sung Apren la
hatitilU' too soon, for there were evident
traees of another and a more serious
engagement thun that of the preceding
day. Still he was very calm and pa-
tient, declining firmly hut gently Na-
nette's pressing invitation to partake of
the supper which was waiting, and dis-
regarding Tristan's anxious suggestions
that 1)0 had hotter nut remain in the
Imll, heing too tired to talk with the
men that night, He wont through his
voluntary duties with apparently the
same interest as that of the night be-
fore, and there even seemed a deeper
earnestness in his advice, an undertone
of tenderness and sympathy in his en-
couragement, that touched the heart of
every man among them with a rever-
ence as deep as their affection was sin-
cere. From the spear of anguish lie
had won the crown of their love ; a
einiplo crown, it is true, looking at it
with earthly eyes ; but who can tell what
bright gems may appear when it is
brought into the effulgent light of
eternity 1

When Tristan spread the simple re-
past, Claude excused himself and retired,
with their hearty good-nights and
kind wishes sounding gratefully in his
ears. In his room Nanette had placed
his supper, which ho partook of spar-
ingly ; then ho closed his door, extin-
guished his light, and, throwing himself
upon his bed, communed with his
own soul and was still.

The next morning when Claude arose
thoro remained no trace of the tempest
of the previous day ; the air was clear,
and crisp, the sky without a cloud, and
the Boa as blue and placid as thougVi
the rough breath of the wind had never
swept it to rugged wrath, as though it
had never betrayed its trust, never en-
gulfed an unwilling victim, never in-
folded within its beguiling bosom, a
thousand hopes and joys. " Ah, Nature !
thou hast thy moods of passion and an-

guish, ns well as humanity," ho exclaimed ;
for ho renu?mbered how ho had gone
fortli in tho monnng with smiles and
simsiuno, and how he had returned at
night with tears and clouds. "Can it
be tho same sea into which I plunged
to con(pier it or perish. It was a cruel
struggle, but, thanks be to (• )d, with
tho waves of death around me I was
happier than ever before. Ct'Iesto,
my darling ! in eternity thou wilt know
how I have trampled upon my heart."
He felt a stronj' desire to see again tho
scene of his suffering and liis triumj)h,
tho spot whore she had stood weeping
and trembling before him, where she
had said, " I lovo yon always," and
where he in return had laid the greatest
treasure a man has to give, his life, at
her feet. When he reochcd tho little
inlet, there was no trace of tho tragic
scene of the previous night, save the
broken boat dashed high upon the shore,
and near it a band of blue ribbon with
a few yellow hairs fastened into the
knot. " The wind tore it from her pre-
cious head to give to mo," he cried,
pressing it with strong passion to his
lips. There was a subtle odor of violets
about it ; he remembered that it liad
always been her favorite perfume ; and
while ho looked at it a thousand tender
memories filled his heart, a thousand
sweet longings stirred the very depths
of his soul. His thoughts leaped tho
chasm of time and distance, and ho be-
lieved himself to be again at Clermont,
wandering through the laurel-shaded
walks with the hand of Celeste clasped
in his. He lived over again the brief
days of their love, ho felt the timid
pressure of the first kiss, the soft eyes
seemed to look into his with shy delight,
tho waves of her hair to blow across his
cheek. Then a new emotion sprung to
life within him ; patenial yearnings
strong and sweet, filled his soul ; little
children's hands seemed to tug at his
heart-strings, and baby faces seemed to
fill the air around him. C61este married
and perhaps a mother, — what an angel
of maternity ! For a moment he forgot
that another, and not he, was her hus-
band ; and so lost was he in the tender
revoiy that ho did not hear approaching
footsteps until some one spoke his name ;
then, like a detected culprit, ho hastily

ity," ho exclaimed;

how he hitd gone

|g with BiiiilcH nnd

|e hnd retiiriiod at

cIoikIh. " Can it

wliich I phinged

h. It was a cruel

JH be to IJ )d, with

around mo I was

cforc. Celeste,

ity thou wilt know

Id upon my heart."

re to see again the

j; and Iuh triumph,

had stood weeping

e him, where slio

yon always," and

ad laid the greatest

to give, his life, at

: reached the little

trace of the tragic

)us night, save the

ligh upon the shore,

of l)lue ribbon with

I fastened into the

tore it from her prc-

to me," he cried,

rong passion to his

subtle odor of violets

Tfibercd that it had

•orite perfume ; and

it a thousand tender

s heart., a thousand

red the very depths

thoughts leaped the

distance, and ho bc-

j again at Clermont,

I tho laurel-shaded

id of Celeste clasped

over again the brief

, ho felt the timid

rt kiss, the soft eyes

his with shy delight,

lir to blow across his

w emotion sprung to

paternal yearnings

filled his soul ; little

jemed to tug at his

mby faces seemed to

im. C61este married

ler, — what an angel

p a moment he forgot

lot he, was her hus-

vaa he in the tender

lot hear approaching

; one spoke his name ;

d culprit, ho hastily

A CROWN FROM TIIK SPEAR.

concc;ilud tho rilibon, as he turned a
glowing face upon the new-comer. It
was the younger man of tho two whom
ho had rowed to tho shore the previous
day, who, holding out his hand to Claude,
said with a franit, ])leaMant hniile, " Al-
low me, M. lo Conjte, to express this
morning the gratitiule that we should
have given free utterance to last night
if you hud not deprive<l us of the pleas-
ure by disappearing so mysteriously."

ClaiKlo took the proffered hand cor-
dially ; but said, gravely, " Do not waste
gratitude on mo ; give it to a mightier
than I, without whoso aid I too shoidd
have perished. " Then seeing his com-
panion looked rather disconcerted at the
Horioiisnoss of his reply, he added in a
lighter touo, " You have, monsieur, a
docidod advantage over me, as I have
not tho honor of knowing your title."

" My name is simply Philip Raymond,
and a must ridiculous misnomer it is, as
I am neither fond of horses nor a [)ow-
crful protector, still I am vaiu enough
to think it is not quite unknown to you."

Claude, with no little confusion, po-
litely assured him that ho had the
pleasure of hearing it then for the first
time.

"Ah," he laughed, "another death-
blow to my egotism. Then you have
never read 'Sabrina' or 'Thamyris,' both
of which have been translated into your
language 1 "

Claude regretted to say that ho never
had.

" From that I presume, M. lo Comte,
that you are not acquainted with the
recent literature of England, nor with
the literary circles of Paris."

Claude assured him that ho knew
nothing of the modem literature of
England, and that he had not been in
Paris for some years. In fact, ho was
not familiar with the fashionable world,
having lived for tho last five years en-
tirely among the mountains and on
the sea-coasts with shepherds, peasants,
and fishermen.

" Vrainient ! " exclaimed Raymond, in
very West End French, looking at Claude
with wide-open eyes ; " well, you are
certainly an original. Let us sit here,"
pointing to a flat stone that offered a
comfortable seat, "for I have a great
deal to say, and I never can talk well

standing. I frankly avow that it is
rather mortifying to my self-eHtoem to
find that you don't know as much of
me as I do of you. Hut how can I bo
so absurd as to expect a Frenchman,
perched in an old chateau on the penin-
sula of Rhuys, to know al)out every
Engli^sh fellow who scriiibles, and whose
uiiuieisfashionable in thesaloonsof ParisI
Now wo have learned from Lo Proprie-
taire do la Croix Verte, after describing
tho heroic stranger who swam off so
boldly to save us from total destruction,
that it cotdd be no other than M. lo
Comto do Clermont, owner of the tum-
bledown chateau on the hill, who loaves
a fine estate in Normandy to rove around
Brittany, feeding and educating dirty
children, tishorinen, peasants, and in
short all tho canaille who cross his
path."

Claude laughed heartily, relieved to
know that neither of the ladies had
spoken of the scene that passed before
ho swam off to tho rescue, and that at
least Raymond had never hoard of his
previous engagement to Celeste, nor of
the tragedy of Chateau do Clermont, and
said, laying his hand on tho shoulder of
Ills companion as a token of good-will,
" Well, mon ami, is what you have
heard of my eccentricities any reason
for discontinuing an acquaintance begun
under such heart-stirring circumstan-
ces T'

" Ah, no indeed, my brave fellow !
you are a jewel that I have found hero
on the sands of this dreary shore, which
r shall wear upon my heart forever.
Or, in plain langtiage, my gratitude and
my admiration of your courage make
me desire your friendship as tho greatest
of treasures."

Claude did not reply at once ; ho felt
unaccountably drawn to this young man,
who, ho thought, must be in some way
related to the husband of Celeste ;
through him he could learn much that
he wished to know, and, beside, his
frank and vivacious manner pleased
him ; yet he did not wish to encourage
a friendship mider false pretences, for
ho could not accept the confidence of
any man without giving his own in
return. Seeing his companion waited
for some acquiescence on his part, he
said, " Monsieur Raymond, I do not

■ I ri fcii n '.i^ iii n hii jj i

muM^ii" >>ii t'llii

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

!;,ii

mlmit *lmt, I liiive nny clairiiH upon
voiir i^^iiititiiilu or adiiiirutioii, nnd |iur-
JiiipH you inivy ovi'u tliiiik nio unwrtliv
}'(>ur t'Hteoin wluMi you know ttDiiiotliin^
of my history. [ luii exiled froui my
OHtiito l>y tlio MUHpicioii of ii horrible
eriiiio, of whicli I uin iuiioci'ut, but I
liavu no mtnniH of proviti^ it. I enn
make no further oxplaimtiou. Do you
Mtil! wish for my frieudHhij)? "

" f »h»," replied Iho other, warmly,
"without explanation or extenuation.
1 like you, iiuil thut in enou^fh."

" Will you tell me," Buid L'luude, a
little nervouMly, " wlio your companion
of yesterday \^, and what rcltttionship
yo>i hear to iiim]"

" None whatever but the relation
of a family friendwhip. Sir Edward
Courtnay wns a fellow-student with my
father. He introduced me into I'ariHiun
Hociety, and to hiu daughter Elizabetii,
and I am in love with b<>th, and both
arc ungrateful for not returning my
nfl'ection. Society flatters mo and
abuses mo at the same time. It calls
me a boor, and yet it courts mo. The
grand ladies of the Faubourg St. (Jer-
main ask mo to scribblo verses in their
albums, and make grimaces behind my
back whilo I am doing it ; and the
leaders of the dfmi monJe invite me
to their little suppers, simply because
I amuse them ; for they know I have
no nv icy to squander on opera-boxes
and bouquets. monsieur ! tho world
of Paris is a queer world, but it is
Elizabeth, it is Elizabeth, that tries me
beyond endurance. She heats mo to a
flame witli her beauty and goodness,
and then she chills mo with her cold,
calm, conventual ways. I knew her
when I was a child, and I used to steal
my grandmother's choicest roses to give
her ; she was a littlo tyrant then, and
made me cry often with her caprices.
Her mother died, and then her father,
who has lieen all his life a lounger
about Paris, and who has squandered
two or three fortunes, first his own,
then his wife's, and lastly any one's else
that he could lay his spendthrift hands
upon, came and took her away to a
French school. There she formed a
strong attachment for the present Lady
Courtnay, who had been inveigled into
the same convent with her — Notre Dame

I do Houon, I think it was — aKaiimt her
riwn inelination, through the wiK-h of
her guardian, who is a bishop, or sonio-
thing of the sort, and who doubtless
wiNliod to get her fortune for the ( hiui h.
The p<Nir girl made a conlldaiite <>f
Klizal)! th, who took her under her
strong f>rotocti«>n, and wrote miuI> piti-
ful litfefH to her pupa about hn nuich-
abiised and lovely prutl'ijve , that Sir
Edward was iutereMte<l, and made a
visit to his daughter for the tirst time,
when ho succeeded in getting a jiliuqiso
of tho fair I'^leste. Her beauty charmed
him, and tho renuiiuder of her fortune,
that hud escaped the cluteiics of tho
Church, won him. When Elizabeth had
finished her etlucation, Madcnu)isel!o
Mouthelon's two novitiate years were
just ended ; an<l refusing to take tho
veil she was allowed to depart, after
making a handsome donati(ju to the
order. Her guardian, linrling she was
stubborn and would not be a mm,
laised no objection to her marriago
with Sir Edward Courtnay, which took
place two years ago."

" Poor girl," sighed Claude, — " poor
girl."

" Yes, yoti may well say that, for
cntre noit» lie is a great rascal, and I
hate him ti Votitrance ; but he was my
father's friend, and I love Elizabeth,
and so I let him live. Ho has spent
every pound of his daughter's fortune,
and now ho is making ducks and drakes
of tho remainder of his wife's ; and very
soon both poor things will bo left with
nothing. I am a miserably careless
fellow myself, with very littlo good in
me, but there is still enough left to
make mo despise a man who robs a
woman."

" Can nothing be done," inquired
Claude, sadly, " to secure to lier what
remains 1 "

" Nothing ; her father left all to her
unconditionally, and she gives it to him.
She is a child with no strength nor
decision of character ; and my glorious
Elizabeth watches over her as though
she were her daughter, instead of being
her step-mother. There is something
touching in their friendship for each
other."

" She mtist l)e a noble character and
a very angel of goodness," exclaimed

8 — iiRiiin«t licr
fh the wili'H uf
littliup, or Honiu-

Whl) dolll'tlcHH

I) for tlio < 'limch.
coiif'i(lanto of

licr iiii(lor licr

wrote HiK'l> piti-

liliollt lllT Diiich-
itiyir, tliat Sir
nnd iiiiulu n
tlio firHt time,

ettiiig a ^;liiii|jso

l)(.'uiit y clmniiLil
r of her fortune,

clutclicB of tlio
on Klizahetli hud
ri, Mtidenioisellu

into years wcro
ling to take tlio

to dt part, after
lonation to tlio
tiiuling she wau

not 1)0 a nun,
o lier niarriago
;nny, which took

A chown from the spear.

Maiido,

poor

11 say that, for

lat ru»cal, and I

hut he was my

lovo Klizahetli,

. Ho has spout

ughtcr's fortune,

iucks and drakes

wife's ; and very

will ho left with

isomhly careless

ry little good in

I enough left to

aau who robs a

done," inquired
:ure to her what

er loft all to hor
e gives it to him.
no strength nor
and my glorious
r her as though
instead of being
TO is something
mdship for each

)le character and
uess," exclaimed

Clunde with so much warmth that Kay
r.ioiiil looked at him jealonHly, and tlien
continued with somu blttcnieM in hiu
tone, —

" yes, she is all goodueHs to every
one hut mu ; she \h a kIuvu to licr
ftitlicr'H tyranny ami I-ady Ccleste'H
whims, lint to mo hIi^ is an icicle, and
yot 1 love her hotter than life."

" rerliups, with all her inditforence,
she loves you," snggeistod Claudo ; "hut
your eiiroloss principlo.i may shock her,
or hor motives of prudctico may prevent
her ridiii exproHHing what hIio feels."

•' It m:iy 1)0, for it is true that I am
a good fi r iiothiiijr, and there is little
in mo for a noble worn, ii to love
JSonuitimos I think circumstances have
made me what I am," he wont on, re-
flectively gathering together a moinn'
of sca-wcetl and shells with thi; point
of his Ntick. "You must know that we
are all tho slaves of circumstances.
Prosperity is a beguiling, aii.i Kortuno
a fickle jado. I am a living [imof of
their inconstancy,
life mv heart was

was just, I was a
iideueo and truth,
mother, God bless

When 1 began
pure and my way
very child m con-
My dear old grand-
hor soul, brought

mo uj) a thorough mutf my mother
died at my birth ; and my father, who
was an only child, was soon after killed
in an engagement in India, where he
was at tliat time stationed ; and I was
sent home, a little bundle of linen and
tears, > tho dear old lady, who took me
to her heart as though I had been an
angel, and educated mo as though I
had been a girl. She and tho rector,
between them, taught mo crochet,
music, and drawing, with a little smat-
tering of Greek and Latin. Tho rector
was a sentimental spoon, and encour-
aged my dreamy proclivities. My
grandmother feared the cold and the
heat for mo. I never mounted a horse,
bocauBO I might be thrown, I never
skated, because the ice might break
under mo. I never rowed, because I
might 1)0 overturned and drowned ;
and yesterday's exploit shows how near
such a prediction came to being true. I
never fenced or boxed, because I might
twist my arms out of their sockets. 1
never ran or jumped, because my ankles
were weak. I never played at ball or

cricket, beoauso my bmgs were <leiicatH.
And I never touihed a ~^\\\\, JMcauso my
fatlii'r hud been shot by one. In short,
I did notlniig but sit at my d ir old
lady's feet and weep with her oyer tho
doKj)air of Werther and the sorrows
>>f Alon/.o and MeliMsn. At sixtoou, I
waM a thorou^'hly gipod child, what tho
Spanisli call a Marcia Kcrnande/, a girl-
hoy. Klizahetli was nty only littlu
playmate, and at eighteen I was des-
perately in h)ve with hor ; then sho was
taken away to France, and for a timo
I was diisconsolate, hut soon after a
sweet young creature cainr to stay at
tho rectory, — she was an angel ready-
made for heaven, an<i only lent to
earth to show us what coniiianionsliip
we shall have hereafter I loved her
with tho reverence we feel for some-
thing lioly. It was the romance of my
life, and it opened the fountain of song
within my heart. I wrote sweet, sen-
tinicntal things, which my grund-
m'tiur and tho rector thought <|uito
equal to anything Byron wrote in his
youth, and which tho London maga-
zines thought worth — nothing. 1 can-
not describe to you tho joy, the rapture
of tho moment when I showed my,
first printed poem to my adored Grace.
It was a sonnet to herself, in praise
of her blue eyes and flaxen hair. It
was weak, but it was sweet, and pleased
my darling. O my God ! that wo
should live to smile in contempt at tho
fiist pure stream of fancy, that wo
should live to prefer tho red wine of
later years, heated and unholy with
passion and vice ; but so it is, I some-
times laugh and weep at the same timo
over my early effusions. For another
year I continued to send my delicate
rose-leaves floating down tho literary
tide, to he gathered up by broad-and-
buttor misses and amorous theological
students. Then the lilies of my fancy
became tinged with purple. My heart
was pierced, and the blood flowed forth,
touching with a deeper hue tho pale
flowers of my life. One morning, it
was the last day of the year, and the
earth was folded in a shroud of snow,
I went to tho rectory and looked for
the last time upon my Grace beforj
the heavens shut her from my sight.
She lay in her saintly robes, for I

A CROWN FIIOII i.lK HVV.Ml

Mwcar thoHo hIio wpurH i.i lioiivoiv nro
DO piiriT, witli '>rtly cloHod vyi>, uiiil
IiuiiiIh tiK'ckly cliirtpeil ovur u liiiiicli of
iiliLH iipoii lior hrt'iiHt." Ilcru IiIh voicu
wiiH lirokcn with cinotioii, und Ivun
iliiimiid liin cjch. " TIio iiiuiiiory of
lliiit itii^cl ineltN niu to wuupiii^ even
now," lio Hitiil, uftiir a fuw iiionu .Ih
isiU'iRv. ' 'I'liua thu foiuituiim of i^ny
liciirt wrro hrokun up, und I »uh
dt^lii^jfd with my own pii«Hioniito i n.-
Tliu Htioiaim of fancy ^ntihcd forth wih
doiililo force und HWuelnoHH ; uliuil now
they ure tmhid und tt> led. I'ndcr
'he influence of my tiroi emotion, I
wrote my tirst novel, It was u siniple
}iuHt()rul Htory, hut it \^'M written witli
tiie teiirH of my lienrt. I nroso from
my lied nt ni;;lit witli throbhiu)^' pulHCH
and feverish hrain. My houI filled with
the sorrow of my hero, I pu' ' my
lonely chnmher und wept over tl.' voes
I jMirtruyed. 1 wrote it wiih a <..r;glo
heart, a jjuro desire, a fervent lovo. It
.UH the true ' filing 1 ever did, and yet
the world wn^ iilind to its truth. I
fo\ind a puhlibiier, rxnd sent it forth
with the prayers und hope? that a
mother senda after her tinst-horn. It
attracted little attention, the critics
hnndled it grudgingly, neither condemn-
ing nur approving, and its few readers
were clergymen's daughters, gover-
nesses, and boarding-8ch(K)l misses. I
do not iinow whether the publishers
sold enough to compensnto themselves,
I only know that I received nothing.
Yet 1 was not discoiiraged. I kept on
with my fugitive verses, infusing into
them a little more strength and color,
until now and then came a faint hrcnth
of approval from the autocrats of the
press. Then my dear old grandmother
died, and left mo her slender income.
I sold the cottage where I had dreamed
away my rose-leaf existence, and, fol-
lowed by the blessings of the good
spoon who had turned nn out a weak-
ling, I set my face toward London.
There a new world opened before me.
I plunged into a fountain of life that
invigorated me. My soul was filled
■with ardor. I burned to see, to know,
to experience all. I desired to taste
of every emotion. I poured out the
red wine of my life freely like water,
and the parched sands drank it greedily.

I wrote pasMionatel}-, but with enough
of truth to keep mu t'luui pi't.iiiarity
and wealth. Kor a year I whirled in
the bewildering vortex of fabhinn luul
<li(tMipution, and in that year I hpeut tiii ;
I was buukru|it in ull imt truth. )
swore I woidd not prostitute my tulent
for filthy lucre ; I scorned tlii) t( iu|itiiig
otl'ers (if Hensutionul Journalists and uii-
serupulouH pulilisliers ; but ut lust, iit
last, there remained but this," — muking
a .iipher in the sund, -- "and 1 was too
proud to beg, und loved lil'e too wdi to
starve, so I was obliged to delile uiul
sell what (>od had given to me. ^ly
cheeks burning with shame, I strmig
together my first collection of false
gems ; I will admit that there werr «
few true ones among them, b:it tuly
enough to make the paste more gliw'n;^.
The world received them and went
frantic over them. One nuirning, like
Ilyron, 1 nwokc and found myself
famous. Honors flowed in ti])on me,
I was the fluttered pet of the /'((. i viuiu'v.
Titled ladies bowed to me, and showed
their false teeth in duzzling KU.iieu, and
swore to the sweetest lies, (kcluring
that my iioenis were divine, and avowed
that if they were immoral the im-
moralities were so nicely veiled that
they could not discover them. The
itfmi monde lauded mc, and a])p1audcd
the courage with which I paraded my
wanton fancies, protested thnt my ideas
were deliciously fresh and origiiiul, und
ussured me of their warmest sii])port.
The critics pounced upon me like vul-
tures upon their prey ; there was some-
thing pungent, flagrant, und nuiterial
for them to tear in pieces, for the
delectation of their minions ; they fought
vigorously over the unworthy carcass,
some denouncing, some defending, and
all devouring eagerly the choicest nn>r-
sels. The pulpit opened its batteries
upon mo, the high-toned and dainty,
firing small and well-selected sliot,
while the coarser and more truthful
thundered out volley after volley of
indiscriminate projectiles ; and indig-
nant matrons styled my songs the
bowlings of a loosened demon that
walked the pure earth to blight it.
But all their fierce censure did not
crush me. On the contrary, I bccamo
more popular. Straight upon this ex-

)(it. witli I'liniifjh
Iruiii |M'|>uliirity
iiir I wliirlod in

of fusliiiiii lllltl

ycur I hpiMit iili ;
I liiit tnitli. i
itilutu riiy ttilcnt
lud till! t('in|itiii;,'
iriitiliHtM iiiid uii-
liiit nt luKt, lit
L tliis," — iiiukiii);

- "UIhI 1 WIIH toil

■d life too Will to
ed to dulilu iit.d
ven to inc. My
kIiuiuc, I btriiii);
llcctiou or fulso
mt tliero weir a

tlu'in, l):it uiily
[Hto more uliu inj^
tliciii aiid went
no rnorniufr, liko
1 found ni)Bt'lf
cd in iipon nio,
)f thc^fc 1 vion(<'.
D inc, und ulio^^ed
izling Ku.ilcR, and
it lies, (kcliiring
ivino, und avowed
uiuioral tho iu-
icely veiled that
iver them. Tlie
0, and nijjjlnudcd
uh I paraded my
ted that my ideas
und original, and
warmest Kiijiport.
ipon mo liiie vul-
; there was some-
mt, and material
n pieces, for tho
iiions ; tliey fought
unworthy carcass,
lie defending, and
the choicest mor-
med its hatteries
:oncd and dainty,
rcll-selected shot,
[\d more truthful
Y after volley of
tiles ; und indig-
d my songs tho
ned demon that
,rth to blight it.

censure did not
lontrary, I becamo
ght upon this cx-

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HiotDgraphic

Sciences
Corporation

•y

23 WZST MAIN STREET

WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580

(716)872-4503

CIHM/ICMH

Microfiche

Series.

CIHIVI/ICIVIH
Collection de
microfiches.

Canadian Institute for Historical Microreproductions / Institut Canadian de microraproductions historiquas

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

■

cited sen of public opinion I launched
another novel, entitled 'Dragon's Teeth.'
The publishers quarrelled over it, one
outbidding the other like sporting-men
at the sale of a fancy horse. The higlicst
bidder become its godfather, and it
was ushered into the literary world
with pecans and shouts and flourish
of trumpets, and received with all the
demonstrations that should have hon-
ored the advent of a work of great
genius, and yet I do not exaggerate
when I say it was trash. It was worse,
it was claptrap. It was manufactured
sentiment. It cost neither thought nor
emotion. I wrote it with dull head and
\msteady hand, after a night of de-
bauchery. It was composed of the
vilest material, the most improbable
scenes, decorated with the most glaring
tinsel, and befouled with the falsest
sophistry. Even the title had not the
remotest connection with the tale. It
was all sensational, all false ; and yet, as
I told you, it was received with eager-
ness, and sold with astonishing rapidity,
establishing my reputation as an author
of undoubted genius ; and yet there
were hours when I wept with shame
over my debased talents, despising my-
self when I compared my gaudily decked
deception with my first pure creation
that the world had allowed to fall
unacknowledged into a premature grave.
Pardon me, perhaps I weary you with
my long story 1 "

" Not at all," replied Claude. " Pray,
go on ; I am interested to know why
you left such brilliant success in Lon-
don, to live in Paris."

"Yes, certainly, that is the dinoue-
ment without which the miserable his-
tory is incomplete. I spent money
faster than I earned it. You know the
result, /aeiYw descensus Avemi" he con-
tinued, looking contemplatively at the
SEtnd, whereon he was drawing, with
the pomt of his stick, a tolerably good
caricature of himself flying from a long-
legged dun with a bundle of bills under
his arm. " Now this explains it," he
said, finishing it off with a flourishing
scroll proceeding from his own mouth,
on which he wrote in large letters, ah
inconvenietUi. " Do you understand ?
It is not convenient to be locked up,
when one depends on bis circulation for

his life, so I thought the Continent the
best place for me. Here I live a sort
of Bohemian existence ; sometimes lux-
uriously, sometimes very simply ; but
always within the income I receive
from my publishers. One thing I have
sworn, and to that I intend to keep.
It is to avoid debt as one would a pes-
tilence. It has ruined mc, and blighted
me worse than the leprosy ; for it has
not only driven mo from my people,
but it has driven me from my country.
If it were not for debt, I might return
to England and settle down into a
decent member of society ; then per-
haps Elizabeth would listen to mo."

" I think," said Claude, earnestly,
"you might settle down respectably
even in France. Remain here awhile
with me, and draw strength from these
rugged shores and stern rocks. Hero
are subjects for romance of the most
stirring kind. Chivalry and heroism
have bloomed and flourished beautifully
here. Take for a subject the early
struggles of La Vend«$e, or the tragedy
of Quiberon ; from either you can gath-
er material of the most noble character,
examples of the most lofty courago and
tender sacrifice. Remain here, and I
will show you that there is a deeper
peace and happiness to be found in
such a life than one can experience in
the gay and illusive world."

"You are kind," replied Raymond,
gratefully, "but I have not a strong
soul like you, nor a nature superior to
the privations that such a life would
entail ; my early education has un-
fitted me for it."

" But it is not too late to counteract
the enervating effects of your post life,"
returned Claude. "I was once a lux-
urious idler; for more than twenty
years I lived a life of ease and refine-
nient, and it has taken me a long time
to kill the yearning for it again. For
five years I have been trying to harden
and strengthen my character by contact
with the rudest creations of God. I
have abjured the refinements of life
until I am fitted to enjoy them without
abusing them. By and by I may go
back to them, but it will be with a
different estimate of humanity and a
deeper knowledge of myself."
Raymond arose, and looking at his

' 1 11

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

watch, wild, "It is high noon. I did
not think we had been here so long.
I have opened my heart to you as a
Bchool-boy does to his mother. You
have won my confidence by some power
known only to yourself, and taken
possession of my affections by storm.
I must know more of you ; you are an
interesting study which I must pursue
more extensively ; therefore I shall re-
main here for a while. Perhaps 1 may
be able to dig an epic out of the stones
of Camac and the Morbihan, or, better
still, a romance from the Venus of
Quinipily."

"I am delighted," replied Claude,
with a warm smile, "that you have
decided so quickly, and so agreeably to
myself. Now allow me to offer you
the poor hospitality of my old chateau,
which perhaps is not worse than La
Croix Verte."

" Thanks," returned Raymond, hold-
ing out his hand, "wo will speak of
that when Sir Edward leaves, which he
assured me this morning would be verj'
Boon. Now I must return to him, for
he proposed a visit of thanks to you,
after I had come hero to pay the boat-
man the value of his ruined craft, and
he will fume like a boiling kettle if 1
keep him waiting. Shall we find you
at the ch&teau a little later 1 "

Claude assured him that he should
be there, and should be honored and
happy to receive them. Then with a
warm aw revoir they parted.

PART SEVENTH.

J YOU MUST NOT SEE HIM AGAIN.

When Celeste and Elizabeth reached
their room in the convent of St. Gildas,
after the terrible scene on the beach,
both were exhausted from the excite-
ment, and both were disinclined to talk
because of the various emotions that
filled each heart.

Celeste had thrown herself on the
bed, its canopy of heavy curtains mak-
ing a deep shadow, into which she crept
that her companion might not see she
was weeping silently with her hands
pressed over her face.

Elizabeth had pulled one of the stiff,
unconifortal)le chairs up to the fireplace,
where smouldered a few bits of wood,
and sat with her feet on the fender, look-
ing steadily into the dull ashes and
smoke. It was anything but a cheerful
place. The wind wailed down the chun-
ncy, like the cries of restless, siiflcring
spirits. Perhaps the uncomfortable souls
of the sinful old monks who tried to
poison the unhappy Al61ard were
abroad that night on the wings of the
wind and the darkness. The rickety
doors rattled dismally, and the loose
windows clattered as though gaunt
hands of invisible forms were striving
in vain to undo the heavy fastenings.
Celeste sighed from time to time, and
looked wistfully toward Elizabeth. Tho
noble English face was grave, resolute,
and full of care, as it turned furtively,
at intervals, toward the canopied bed,
from whence proceeded the sighs that
were almost sobs. At length she leaned
forward and, taking up the bellows,
gave two or three strong, decisive pufl's
which sent up a cloud of smoke and
then a bright flame, while she watched
it steadily, still holding the bellows in
her hand. She was evidently battling
with some conviction ; tenderness, pity,
determination, and sorrow all passed
over her face in quick succession. She
laid the bellows down suddcnl)', partly
arose, and then sank into her chair again,
glancing toward the bed. A moment
after a quick, sharp sob told her that
Celeste needed her. Springing to the
side of the weeper, she clasped her in
her arms, and drew the fair head to her
bosom with the almost savage clasp of
a mother who sees danger approaching
a beloved child, and would ward it off.

" Don't weep, darling, don't, I pray ;
you are so tired and nervous already
that any more excitement will make
you jwsitively ill. I know all about it,
I have suffered it all with you."

"0 Elizabeth! must I tell Sir Ed-
ward 1 " sobbed Celeste, clinging to her
companion. " I never thought to see
him again, much less to make such a
confession ; the fear and anguish of tho
moment wrung it from me. The sight
of his suffering face brought back all
my old love. Elizabeth ! what shall

I do 1 shall I tell Sir Edward and beg

nf .iii i[ i>i l -'■^^wr"TT"^^^'''' i "•■'-'■'-r-'*"-"---'"'"-''^— •^"'^^^'*-'''-'*^^^

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

1 one of tho stiff,
ip to the iireplocc,
cw bits of wood,
n the fonder, look-
dull ashes and
ing but a cheerful
ed down the chnu-
restless, siiflering
ncomfortable souls
iks who tried to
Ali<ilard wcro
the wings of the
CSS. The rickety
and the loose
though gaunt
rnis were striving
heavy fastenings,
time to time, and
rd Elizabeth. Tho
IS grave, resolute,
; turned furtively,
the canopied bed,
ed the sighs that
t length she leaned
up the bellows,
ong, decisive puff's
ud of smoke and
tv'hile she watched
ng the bellows in
evidently battling
; tendcniess, pity,
sorrow all passed
k succession. She
n suddenly, partly
nto her chair again,
bed. A moment
sob told her that
Springing to the
ihe clasped her in
he fair head to her
ost savage clasp of
anger approaching
Noxxld ward it off.
ing, don't, I pray ;
d nervoiis already
tement will make
know all about it,
with you."
i8t I tell Sir Ed-
;e, clinging to her
er thought to see
B to make such a
ind anguish of tho
n me. The sight
brought back all
ftbcth ! what shall
' Edward and beg

him to send me away from him for-
ever 1 "

" I have thought it all over, darling,"
said Elizabeth, with tho gravity of a
judge deciding a case of the greatest
moment, — "I have tliought it all over,
and I have decided that you need not
toll papa. It can do no good now, but
you must promise mo one thing. Ce-
leste, — will youl"

" Yes, yes, ihme, anj'thing you wish."

" Well, you must promise, for papa's
sake, tiitit you will not see M. le Comtu
do Clermont again. You could not
avoid this meeting, for you did not fore-
see it ; but you must not meet him
again."

" You are right, Elizabeth, I know I
must not, although I would give much
to explain all to him. May I write to
him but once, dear, only once? Tell
me that I may, and I shall bo happier."

Elizabeth thought a loHg time with
knitted brows and compressed lips,
while Celeste still clung to her caress-
ingly. At length she said, "Yes, I
think you may write to him once; he has
great claims upon our gratitude. It is
true that you have wronged him deeply,
for he has a noble soul, and you should
assure him of your regret ; in short, as
you sa}', you should explain all to him.
It may make him happier and more con-
tented to give you up forever."

Celeste sobbed anew, hiding her face
on Elizabeth's shoulder, while she
murmured between her sobs, " Poor
Claude ! poor, unhappy Claude ! "

" You must not think too much of
him, and too little of your husband,"
said Elizabeth, with some severity in
her voice. " Remember you are papa's
wife now, and you must not indulge in
sentimental weeping for another."

"0 Elizabeth !" cried Cdeste, looking
up reproachfully, " do you think I for-
get my good husband in my pity for
Claude 1 Am I wrong to pity him 1
Has he not suffered much through me t"

" I don't mean to be severe, darling,"
replied Elizabeth in a softened tone,
" but I wish to do right. It is a hard
thing for me to decide for you in such a
matter as this, I have had so little ex-
perience of life ; but still my heart
speaks for you. I think I am not wrong
in saying you may write to M. le Comte

once, just once ; but T am sure I am right
in saying you must not see him again.
To-morrow morning I shall ask papa to
take us away directly from this place.
We have several reasons for wishing to
leave. Sea-bathing does not suit you,
and it is very dreary beside, and not
any too comfortable in this old convent ;
and I am sure papa will like to go, ho
is so disgusted with the miserable inn
and the dirty town. Shall I ask him
to go after to-morrow 1 "

" If you wish," replied Celeste, still
weeping bitterly.

Elizabeth looked at her with profound
pity. She could read her friend's heart.
She knew her conscience said go, but
that her inclination cried stay. So the
noble girl determined to save her the
struggle and to decide for her. " Now,
darling," she said, laying her back on
the pillow and kissing her tenderly,
" try to be calm. Pray to (Jod, and he
will give you peace and rest."

Cileste closed her eyes, folded her
hands over her throbbing heart, and
tried earnestly to fix her thoughts on
the infinite love of Christ and the ten-
der pity of his mother; but late into
the night, under the moaning of the
wind and the sighing of the sea, Eliza-
beth heard suppressed sobs that wrung
her heart and filled her soul with sor-
row. The next morning she walked
into Sarzeau to speak to her father,
while Celeste wrote to Claude.

When Philip Raymond reached La
Croix Verte, after his long conversation
with Claude, Sir Edward informed him
of Elizabeth's visit, and of her request
to leave St. Gildas the next day. "I
am glad Lady Courtnay is tired of the
place," said the gray-haired sybarite,
"for I am heartily sick of this dirty
hole, and the greasy food has so de-
ranged my stomach that I shall never
recover from its effects."

Philip thought of Elizabeth, and hes-
itated before announcing to Sir Edward
his intention of remaining ; after de
bating it interiorly for a moment, he
concluded that for the present his case
was hopeless, and there was nothing to
be gained from her society but the
pleasure of it, which was as well a
danger of too serious a nature to be
indulged in without paying a penalty

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

afterward. So ho said, "I rcp^et to
lose your chamiing society, Sir Kdwnrd,
but I have decided to reiuuin here for a
while in order to study geology, ns I
intend to write a poem on the " Stones
of Camac."

" A sublime subject," replied Sir Ed-
ward, bantcringly, "and one truly
worthy your inventive brain. I h()j)e
your digestive organs are stronger than
mine, or PegasuH, weighed down with
heavy bread and greasy soup, may
refuse to soar."

" I do not intend remaining to be
poisoned by the cuisine of La Croix
Verte. I have accepted an invitation
from M. le Comte de Clermont to stay
with him at his chateau."

"0-h!" said Sir Edward, slowly,
" I understand, you have been alone to
pour out your gratitude. Well, you
are trulj' [wlite. I believe I proposed
to accompany you when you made that
visit, as I have quite as much reason
to Ih5 grateful to him as you have."

" I beg your pardon. I have not
been to the chateau. I walked down
to the shore, at your request, to find
the fisherman whose boat we appropri-
ated for our pleasant experiment yes-
terday, and there I found M. le Comte,
absorbed in contemplating — what do
you think 1"

" The ruined boat, I suppose."

" No ; simply a band of blue ribbon,
which he concealed as quickly and con-
fusedly as though he bad been caught
committing a theft."

" A band of blue ribbon ! " and Sir
Edward shrugged his shoulders. " Ah,
that explains his eccentricities. No
doubt the falseness of some fair one and
the chagrin of disappointed love have
turned him mad."

" I am convinced that he has a
strange history hidden under his calm
and imp«netrablo face ; some tragedy,
some mystery, that I am determined to
fathom.

" Very well, you may at your leisure,
after I am gone ; but for the present
occupy yourself with thoughts of grat-
itude, and come with me to his tumble-
down ch&tean to assist while I make
my acknowledgments."

When they entered the great hall of
the chateau, Sir Edward looked at Ray-

mond and made a grimace of surprise,
as his eye fell on TrisUin, surrounded
with his beggarly little flock, and said,
in English, following Nanette up the
dingy stairs, " This is truly an interest-
ing place, a sort of enchanted castle, with
yonder old mummy for a gate-keeper,
and this gnome with his horrid little
imps for retainers. I am Iruly puz-
zled with all this, and thoroughly an-
noyed at being so deeply indebted to a
person so surrounded with mystery,
lie must bo mad, and I have a partic-
ular horror of mad people."

When they entered the presence of
Claude, he came forward to meet them
with such unaffected pleasure and ele-
gant ease that whatever disagreeable
impression Sir Edward had received at
his entrance disappeared at once, and
he felt nothing less than respect for the
grave, courteous manner, the unmis-
takable nobility of the young man, who
put aside with such gentle firmness
the profuse thanks and acknowledg-
ments of his visitors.

" I think," he said, " you overrate my
effort. I did but a very simple duty,
and only what either of you would have
done under tho some circumstances,
and, beside, you might have reached
the shore without my aid ; therefore you
are not certain that you owe mo any-
thing."

" We owe you our lives," said both,
warmly. "W^e were exhausted, and
unable to manage the boat."

"I am but an indifferent rower on
smooth water," observed Sir Edward,
" as I have practised but little since my
Cambridge days, which you must per-
ceive were a long while ago; and taj
friend Mr. Raymond is but a novice at
the oars. The sea was as smooth as
glass when its deceitful face tempted
us to try our skill, and, leaving the
ladies on the beach to await our return,
we took possession of a boat which was
fastened to a rock, and started out with
the greatest confidence. But one can
never tell how soon a tempest may
overtake him."

" Nature has her moods as well as
we," said Raymond. "We proved it
yesterday, and I would not have be-
lieved so light a boat could have lived
so long in such a sea."

naco of surpriHO,
stun, Burruuudcd
e flock, and said,
Nnnetto np tho
truly an intcrcBt-
antcd castlu, with
w a gate-kccpcr,
his horrid httle
am Iruly puz-
thoronghly an-
ply indebted to a
with mystery,
have a partic-
oplo."

tho presence of
rd to meet them
pleasure and ele-
ever disagreeable
had received at
red at once, and
an respect fur the
mer, the unmis-
! young man, who
gentle firmness
and ackuowledg-

" you overrate my
irory simple duty,
)f you would have
le circumstances,
ght have reached
lid ; therefore you
you owe mo any-

lives," said both,
I exhausted, and
e boat."

liflerent rower on
ved Sir Edward,
but little since my
jh you must per-
lile ago; and taj
8 but a novice at
ras as smooth as
;ful face tempted
and, leaving the
await our return,
a boat which was
I started out with
:e. But one can
a tempest may

moods as well as

"We proved it

jld not have be-

could have lived

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

" Its lightness was its salvation," re-
turned C'lnudo. " If it had been heavier
it would have foundered." And then
ho adroitly changed the conversation
to tho subject of the monuments he
had visited the day before.

After an hour's interesting discussion,
they arose to ttike leave, and then Sir
Edward announced his intention of de-
parting tho next day.

Claude turned visibly paler, and for
a moment could scarcely reply to the
udiuuii of his guests. But, making an
effort to control his emotion, he re-
pcatcil his invitation to Raymond, and
wishing Sir Edward bon voyage, they
parted with the most friendly feelings.

The baronet and Philip had left the
chateau some distance behind them be-
fore either hazarded a remark, and then
both exclaimed at the same moment,
" Ho is a mystery."

For a long time after his visitors left
him, Claude sat in deep thought, his
hands clasped over tho blue ribbon that
lay upon his heart. He had conversed
calmly, and with apparent friendship,
for more than an hour, with the hus-
band of Celeste, whom he had doubtless
saved from death, and whose professions
of gratitude had pierced his soul. This
old profligate, old enough to be her fa-
ther, had won her unfairly, had taken
advantage of her helpless, sorrowful
position to bind her to him, not for her
love, but for the paltry remnant of hor
wealth. She had been a poor, weak
child, left to the power of a designing
and unscrupulous guardian, who had
used her to accomplish his purpose of
self-aggrandizement, and then hod given
her up to this unprincipled man, who
vras wasting what little tho rapacious
greed of the Church hod spared her.
Was she not still bound to him by
overy holy right 1 Did the deception
and falsehood that gave her to another
free her from him 1 She loved him still,
he knew it, and he thanked God for it.
Then did she not, in spite of the laws of
man, belong to him 1 Terrible and sin-
ful thoughts, unworthy of him and his
destination, tortured him. He was not
infallible, he was not beyond human
weakness, and his soul was like a battle-
field whereon contend two armies of
equal power; he struggled against his

ignoble feelings, but he could not over-
come them. For a little while ho basely
regretted that he had performed u noble
act. He tried to reason in this wuy,
but it was false and dangerous reason-
ing. " Perhaps," he said, " 1 have inter-
fered with Providence. Perhaps I have
stopped in at tho moment when her fet-
ters were al)out to fall, and riveted
them anew. Poor, poor child, I have
saved his worthless life to work out
misery for her." He arose and pacod
the floor hurriedly. Great drops of
sweat stood on his forehead, from which
protruded the knotted veins, his lips
worked convulsively, he was iu an agony
of distress. He was a murderer iu his
heart. He thought of this man dead.
Celeste free, Celeste his. He worked
himself up to a frenzy of romorso and
desire. Poor soul ! Where was tho Di-
vine strength that the day before had
supported him, when he stood on tho
stormy shore and looked unflinchingly
in the face of death 1 It was gone, over-
whelmed, swept away by these billows
of passion. I cannot despise him,
neither can I condemn him, for ho
would have been a god if he had never
felt tho weakness of humanity ; and I
claim no such exemption for him, nor
for any being who lives and breathes.
There is much dross mixed with the
purest ore, and the process of separation
is neither brief nor gentle. We may
fume and boil and fret against the
white flame that surrounds us, but it
burns on all the same and accomplishes
our puriflcation.

In the midst of this tumult of passion,
Tristan entered softly, and laid a little
white violet-scented note in his hand.
The servant's gentle eyes spoke mutely
his pity and sympathy as he glided
away quietly, leaving Claude looking
with dim eyes at this white messenger
of peace. He knew it was Celeste's
writing, and he felt as suddenly calmed
as though an angel from God had spoken
to him. Perhaps there did, through
these pitiful words poured out from a
suflering heart.

"Dear Claude, [she said,] Elizabeth
has told mo that I might write to you
once, because she did not think it best
that I should see you to tell you how

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

IpTitefiil I fim to yon for saving my good
huHbiiiurH life, and how I regret tho
wicked confessiuii I made to you yester-
day in my fear and surprise. I hope
you have forgotten it, for it will bo n
greater hIu for you to rememl)er it, than
it was for me to make it when 1 wus
half insane from excitement and anxiety.

" Thcro are many things I must ex-
plain to you, then I am sure you will
forgive me and pity me, and even think
kindly of mo as you once did in those
days when wo were children at Clor
mont.

"Since the day Father Fabion
showed you to me, when you were sit-
ting under the laurels, one day, with
poor Aint^e, my life has never been
tho same. 1 believed that you had
deceived me, and that you loved her,
but wished to marry with me solely
for my wealth, or so I was influenced to
think by the representations of my guar-
dian. Then followed the dreadful ca-
lamity of Aim6e'8 disappearance, and tho
suspicion of your guilt. It terrified me
and maddened me, and for a time I felt
that you were indeed culpable. Tho
day I last saw you in the rose-garden at
Monthelon you inspired me with horror.
Pardon me, dear Claude, for so painful a
confession, but it is best to show you
how my heart was poisoned against you.
I was ill, feeble, and almost insane from
grief and disappointment, for I loved
you so — then, I mean, before all this
happened. But when I became calmer
and stronger, your face haimted me
with its suffering, and I regretted that
I had left you without a word. O Claude,
if I could but have seen you then, all
might have been explained, and these
many days of sorrow spared us ! Then,
just at tho time when the conviction of
your innocence began to dawn upon my
mind, you fled from Clermont without a
word of farewell. For many weeks I
hoped, and waited in vain, for some tid-
ings of you, but none came. When my
poor mother died, I was indifferent to
life, and looked upon a convent as a
peaceful retreat where I might hide my
sorrow from the world. My guardian
urged me to such a step, and I complied.
I had no power to resist his strong
will, nor any friend to encourage me,
until I knew Elizabeth. It was she who

supported mo in my opposition when
they were determined that I should
tuke vows ; but for her I should have
yielded. When she loft the convent I
left with her, and became the wife of Sir
Edward. I was so alone in the world,
and so feared the influence of the Arch-
deacon when I should be separated fVom
Elizabeth, and so dreaded a conventual
life, that I accepted any protection which
would insure me against such a possi-
bility.

" Afler I had left the convent I found
ray dear old Fanchetto ill, and sufl'ering
from poverty. She died in my arms.
I heard from her the story of yonV
noble conduct on the night when tho
mob attacked Clermont, and also of tho
letters you had written after you left.
Claude, my beloved friend ! if I had
received those letters, all might have
been so different, and to-day 1 should not
be alone writing these sad words with
a breaking heart. They never reached
me, the Archdeacon prevented it. It
is to him and my own weak, credulous
heart that I owe all my sorrow.

" Long before I had learned all from
Fanchetto, I felt that I had been de-
ceived, and that you were innocent,
and. her eclaircissemenis confirmed the
belief. But it was too late then. I
was already tho wife of another, and
we were separated forever. I havo
tried to look upon it as the will of God,
and to accept my fate with patience
and calmness. I am grateful to my
husband. He is good to me, and he
saved mo from a life I detested. I
adore Elizabeth ; she is an angel of
strength and consolation. Do not look
upon me as altogether miserttble. I
am, perhaps, happier than you think,
and yoii know life at the best is not
altogether satisfactory. My greatest
sorrow, my most bitter sorrow, is the
memory of my injustice to you. Dear
Claude, you have a noble heart, you
will understand and forgive mc. I de-
sired to see you that I might again'
implore you to forgive me with my
own lips, and take my last fai-ewell of
you, but Elizabeth convinced me that
it was better not to do so ; for her sake,
and with the approval of my own con-
science, I write you this instead of
speaking it. I could not leave you

li-Tiiii^il nnillfltK

y opposition when
led that I sliould
hor I should huvo
loft the convent I
3amo the wifo of Sir
alone in tlio world,
flucnco of tlj.0 Arch-
d bo scpnriitcd from
'cadcd u convcntnal
ny protection which
tainst such a possi-

the convent I found
tte ill, and Buffering

died in my arms.

the story of yoiiV
he night when the
lont, and also of the
tten nftcr you left,
cd friend ! if I had
3rs, all might have
1 to-dny 1 should not
cso sad words with
They never reached
n prevented it. It
iwn weak, credulous
ill my sorrow,
had learned all from
hat I had been de-
you were innocent,
nents confirmed the
a too late then. I
ife of another, and
i forever. I have
t as the will of God,
fate with patience
am grateful to my
x>od to me, and be
life I detested. I
she is an angel of
lation. Do not look
ether miserttble. I
er than you think,
! at the best is not
tory. My greatest
ittor sorrow, is the
Btice to you. Dear
a noble heart, you
i forgive me. I de-
that I might again'
rgive me with my
my last farewell of
convinced me that
do BO ; for her sake,
ml of my own con-
)u this instead of
iild not leave you

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

forever without assuring you of my
deep gratitude and esteem. Need I
Bay more to cxplahi all the emotions
that till my heart 1 I hear from all
of your uiilile life, your efforts for the
gooil of others, your devotion and self-
sacrifiue ; and 1 am thankful that I can
think of you again as I thought of you
in those first days of confidence and
hope. Do not mourn, dear heart, be-
cause wu are parted on earth ; look
forwanl with mo to another life, where
severed atVoctidna will be reunited, and
where we shall sjicak a new language
of love and gratitude. We must not
weep too much for happiness we hove
missed on earth, for wo shall find it all
reserved for us hereafter. Your poor
Celeste, will) has wandered from you for
a while, shall return to you again, and
place her shadowy hand in yours for
eternity.' Here, I shall pray for you,
and hope for the time when I shall
meet you again, beyond the tears and
vain desires of life. Your name shall
be the last tipon my lips, as I shall be
the first to welcome you to everlasting
rest. [Here the letter was soiled with
tears, and several worda were carefully
erased ; and then it ended with] Adieu,
adieu, I shall never forget to thank God
that I have seen you again, and have
been allowed to write you this. Adieu,
dear Claude, again adieu.

"Ever your « Celeste."

When Claude had read and reread
the letter, his face drenched with
tears, he pressed it over and over to
his lips on the spot v.here she had left
the traces of hei <^'^'.otion, and said
with a broken vo;cf( " Poor darling,
sweet. Buffering angel, God knows how
freely I forgive thee, how tenderly I
love thee, and how faithfully I shall
cherish thy memory until that day
when thou sbalt lay thy white hand in
mine forever I " Then he folded it and
laid it with the blue ribbon over his
heart, that now beat tranquilly and
gratefully, soothed by her gentle words
which had come to him, a message of
hope and peace.

The next day Sir Edward Courtnay,
with his wife and daughter, left Sar-
zeau, and Philip Raymond came to stay
with Claude at the ch&teau.

PART EIGHTH.

THE SECRET OK THE OliD CABINET.

The summer passed tranquilly to
Claude and Philip Raymond. The
warmest friendship and the moHt per-
fect sympathy existed between tlium,
in spite of their dissimilar characters,
and they never wearied of each other's
society, but spent most of their days
together, examining and studying the
stones of Morbihan and Caniac, hunt-
ing, rowing, fishing, and exploring every
inlet and creek along the coast for
miles. Raymond enjoyed the hardy,
out-door exercise with the keen zoMt,
the eagerness and light-hoartediiess, of
a boy, declaring often to Claude that
ho had made a new man of him, and
that in his society he had forgotten the
charms of Parisian life and its enervat-
ing follies. It was as Claude had pre-
dicted. The strong, ruggetl scenes, the
simplicity, tnith, and freshness of his
daily occupation, so free from the tram*
mels and conventionalities of fashionable
society, renewed within him something
of the purity, enthusiasm, and confi-
dence of his early youth. Ho wrote
some hours each day, and he said
he wrote vigorously and with feeling.
From the white-haired . peasants and
fishermen ho gathered much material
for future work, — many romantic tales
of La Vendee, as stirring as they were
original ; stories of heroism and self-
immolation, almost godlike, during the
horrors of the persecution, when the
valleys were strewn with the dead, and
the Loire ran red to the sea.

One evening while they sat together
talking over the events of the day,
Raymond said to Claude, " This after-
noon, while I was at Auray, I met the
oldest man in the Department of Mor-
bihan ; and he was like a book of ancient
legends, which when one has commenced
he is loath to leave until he has. finished
it. In his youth he was a witness of
the terible scenes that took place during
the reign of terror in La Vendue, — the
horrors of the Noyades, and the Repub-
lican Marriages. He told me a story so
touching that he wept while telling it,
and I could scarce refrain from weeping
with him. It was this, as nearly as I
can remember. In an old chateau on

■p I.- I wmm

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

tlio hnnks of the Loire there lived a fair
young ('(iiiiituHH with lier |iruu(l and
Bturn tiithcr, who kept her in a sort
of ca])tivity, guarded by aii ancient
woman whime only sou wua page to tlie
Count. ThiH yonth waH lowly horn, hut
as lieautifid an any hero of romance, and
he loved the noble lady ; and hIic, foi'get-
ting her station, stooped to listen with
rapture to his ardent vows. The fair
and golden morning of their love was
early overshadowed hy the relentless
father, who, on discovering their amour,
banished the lover from his castle, ancl
married the maid to an old marquis.
The youth, disgusted with the cruel
despotism of the nobility, against whom
ho swore eternal vengeance, went to
Paris and threw himself into the vortex
of the first Revolution, then at its birth,
and 8(X)n l)ecamo an officer under Carrier,
one of the most atrocious monsters of
the time, the inventor of the Mariar/es
lifpublicain*, as this outroge of every
human feeling was styled. During the
wholesale massacre at Nantes, one morn-
ing when the doors of the Saiorgea were
thrown open to deliver up their victims
to their executioners, there was led forth
a noble lady, who walked like a pale
angel between the demons who guarded
her. When the eyes of the captain who
commanded the bloody band called the
Cmnpagnie de Marat fell upon the beau-
tiful, calm face, he turned deadly pale
and shuddered, covering his eyes with
his hands. It was the Vend^an count-
ess who stood face to face with the
lover who had sworn eternal constancy
to her in the old chfiteau on the sunny
banks of the Loire. 'I do not fear
death,' she said with a placid smile,
' I only ask to die with my father ;
bind me to him, and let our bodies float
together out to the sea.'

" ' No, no, the noble with the peasant,'
shouted the ruffians, tearing her from
the trembling embrace of her father,
and dragging her toward a beastly,
disensed creature whoso loathsome form
filled her with horror. 'Strip off the
silken cover from the lily of Fnmce,
and bind her to the foul weed, and fling
both into the river to poison the fishes,'
cried a monster, seizing the mantle she
gathered over her fair bosom, while she
looked around iipon the crowd of faces

to BOO if there wore pity or relenting in
any. Suddenly her eyes lighted up,
and a smile like a sunbeam flashed over
her face, for she had mot the same
glance that had once bent over her in
passionate love, — a glance that still
had |K)wor to fill her soul with bliss.

" Itefore the brutal hands had lorn the
covering from her white shoulders, the
blow of a sabre laid the wictch dead at
her feet, and the captain of the Com-
pagnie de Marat clasped her in his arms,
and, rushing between the soldiers that
lined the river's bank, plunged into ' Ln
liaignoire Nationale,' and floated down
the red tide heart to heart with the
one ho had loved so long and so
hopelessly. Is not that a subject for a
romance 1 Truly one might envy such
a blissful death. After the bitter dis-
appointment, the passionate desire, the
weary waiting of such a life, the horror
and anguish of such a moment, to be
united, and united forever! To float
away to eternity hand in hand, soul to
soul 1 Do you think they feared death,
or suffered in dying]"

"No," replied Claude, his eyes dim and
sad with tears, — " no, they welcomed
it gladly, as the open portal to a long
peace, an everlasting union. He saved
her from outrage and degradation, and
ho crowned his love with his own
sacrifice. Perhaps that act atoned for
much, and it may be that in the brief
moment they tasted more of happiness
than we ever drain from the slow drops
that fill the diluted cup of earthly joy."

" On that subject I shall write a story
which will touch the heart and make
it weep," said Philip, rising; "now,
while I feel the necessary furor poeticus,
I will go to my room and pour it all
out in words that bum. Adieu until
to-morrow morning."

Some who read this may never have
seen Philip Raymond's poem ; but I
have, for not many years ago, on a
languid summer afternoon, I sat alone
in the ch&teau of Sarzeau and read it
with tears, in the very chamber where it
was written.

When the winter winds began to
rattle the casements, and blow cold
and piercing over the barren peninsula
of Rhuys, Raymond became uneasy and
spoke of returning to Paris. Ho bad

^r T — * ' w * v -

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

pity or rolenting in
eyoH lighted up,

iiibciim fluHliud over
|md mot tho siuiio

10 bout over licr in
ginnco that Btill

Hoiil with l)Iis8.
.1 haiidH hnd lorn tho

liito HhoiildcrH, tho

the wicteh dead at
laptain of tho Com-
ipcd her in his nrniH,
in tho Buldiors that
|k, phnigod into ' La
and floated down

to heart with tho
Bo long and so
that a subject for a
ne might envy such
^fter tho bitter dis-
assionato desire, tho
ich a life, tho horror
h a moment, to bo

forever! To float

nd in hand, soul to

ik they feared death,
.«»

udc, his eyes dim and
' no, they welcomed
pen portal to a long
ig union. He saved
nd degradation, and
lovo with his own
that act atoned for
be that in the brief
d more of happiness
from the slow drops
1 cup of earthly joy."
; I shall writo a story
the heart and make
hilip, rising; "now,
essary furor poeticus,
}om and pour it all
bum. Adieu until

this may never have
ind's poem ; but I
ly years ago, on a
lenioon, I sat alone
Sarzeau and read it
ery chamber where it

er winds began to
its, and blow cold
;he barren peninsula
i became uneasy and
to Paris. Ho had

rocoivod a letter ttom Sir Kdwunl
('oiirtnay, who had returned there with
hiH wile and daugtiter, and Philip'N
heart still inclinccl toward Klizabcth,
Chuido (lid not op|K)Ho him, fur ho knew
tliiit Nature announces her own curcH
aa well aH her needs, and that a lunger
stay in the sulitudo of Surzoau might
result in disgutit and mnui, and mo
spoil all tlio good that had been done.
For hituHuir ho had much to do for the
winter; ho had already begun the re-

ftairs on the ch&teau, and had sent a
iMt to Paris for his books, and his
school had so extended itself that he
needed more assistance than Tristan
could give him. In tho town of Auray
he had found a young priest of no com-
mon attainments and of a pure unself-
ish life, who scarcely Buhsistod on a
poverty-stricken curacy. Claude's of-
fer to him of tho charge of his library
and school, with a very fair compensa-
tion, was eagerly accepted, and ho be-
came a most earnest worker in estab-
lishing an institution that was to be a
lasting benefit to tho humble town of
Sarzeau.

Claude had discovered that a mutual
good had arisen from tho companion-
ship of Raymond, who, fresh from the
active world, had enlightened and en-
larged his ideas, which had become
rather clouded and limited during his
seclusion from society. He was a re-
generator at heart, and therefore could
not long be contented with a narrow
sphere of action. The needs of human-
ity, both moral and physical, which
exist in a great metropolis, had strong-
ly presented their claims to his atten-
tion, and awakened in his heart a desire
to extend his labor and influence beyond
the narrow limits of the little provin-
cial town. Sometimes he said to Philip,
*' Moil ami, when I have completed my
repairs, established ray library and
school, and find all in perfect working
order, perhaps I may try if I am strong
enough to bear the temptations and
luxuries of Paris." So they parted with
the pleasant hope of an early reunion, —
Philip to return stronger and better to
the fashion and folly he had left for a
time, and Claude to continue calmly
and patiently the good work he had
begun. ,

Toward spring tho repairs wore com-
pleted, the books had arrived from
I'aris, the old hall was changed into
a simple but substantial library, all
the rooms wore thoroughly renovated
and furiiixhed in a suital)le nuiimer,
au<l a largo apartment on the other
side of the court had lieen fltto<l up lui
a school for children, while the suhulars
of a more advanced age met in tho
library.

Tristan's satisfaction know no bounds,
for he looked upon tlicrto great iuiprove-
nients as the result of his little ex-
periment in education, and \\\nm his
miister's generosity as something suli-
lime. " God will reward him by mak-
ing him honored and happy before his
death," he would often say in confidence
to tho j'oung priest, who also admired
and reverejiced M. le Comto.

Claude had gained a crown of lovo
and esteem from the honest hearts of
his poor 8ubje;^l;s, which he valued
moro than the jewelled diadem of a
monarch. It was a reward of such
priceless worth that he sometimes for-
got tho spear from which ho had won
it, and rejoiced over the scars of the
woimds that he had received during his
combats. His victory over every heart
had been complete. Even the Cur6,
since ho had become a frequent guest
at the chateau, had tried to appear in
a dress more befitting the dignity of
his oiiicc, had eaten and drunk less glut-
tonously in public, and had given closer
attention to his sacred duties ; while
at La Croix Vcrte, M. lo Comto was
welcomed with the deference and re-
spect that a king would havo received
had he deigned to step over tho thresh-
old, which was now certainly cleaner
than it was the first time wo crossed
it, and the guests assembled there were
less rude and boisterous. Instead of
cards and dominos with their coffee,
one might see all the popular journals,
and hear much earnest, intelligent con-
versation, over which M. Jacquelon usu-
ally presided with dignity, still main-
taining his position as a great scholar.

During the time of tho rehabilitation
of the chateau, there occurred an event
which colored all Claude's after years, —
another link in that mysterious chain
of oircumstances which we blindly call

iW?W;*i'';E;5

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

fiito, nnotlior of thono iiimplcBt of inonna
which iVoviduiico HoniotiiiieMvtiipluyH to
work out ((MMit (IvHiKiiii or to rvvoiil
profound HvorutH. SVhilo ronovatiii);
Honiu of the tiinc-ii\jurud funiitiiro, thv
thoiit(ht ocfiirri'd to him tiiut Honio rc-
piiirH wcro neccNmiry on the ohl cuhinct
wiiich wu huvo l)i<U)ru rufurred to. Ilu
Inid cniployt'd n provinciiil urtittt, whoHV
itkiU liu riitiicr doiihtod, luid onu Any,
whilo wutching hiH hiinKlinK nttcmptH
to rupliico Huuto of tlio tiny pioceH of
tho turHJii on u punul, it sutidunly flnw
ojMin luul rovoalud a small iiportiiro
which contained a packu({0 of yellow,
duHly piipors. C.'luiido took thom fVoni
thoir colli culcd nicho with a Htrango
focling of iiwo and huHitancy. Hu was
sure thoy contained somo Hccrot that it
was better for him to loam alone, ho
ho waited until tho man had finished
hia work and departed ; then ho sat
down in the gathering twilight, and, op-
pressed with a nameless fear, untied tho
faded ribbon that confined the pack-
age. Tho two most important papers
were folded together and surrounded
with a Killed bund, which he broke with
trembling fingers, for it seemed like
touching tho decayed bones of his an-
cestors. The first he opened and read.
It was a ccrtificato of tho civil marriage
between M. Claude Louis Linn^s Vivien
Valentin Conito do Clermont and Geue-
vidve Marie Gautier, in the presence of
the officier de retat civil of the town of
Ch&teauroux, capital of the D^partc-
mcntde I'lndro. It was dated May 14,
18 — , and witnessed by Pierre Creton
and Andr^ R^uaud, and bore the seal
of the state. The second was a certifi-
cate of tho religious marriage, performed
in tho church of St. Etieuno of Bourg
Dieu, by the Cure, Joseph Clisson. This
bore tho same date and the names of
the same witnesses. He read them both
over twice before he could fully under-
stand them, and then he saw that they
were the indisputable proofs of the mar-
riage of his father with some other
woman than his mother, for she was
Countess Catherine de Clameran, solo
survivor of an old impoverished family
of Orleans, and this name was Gene-
vieve Marie Gautier, who must have
been a hourgeoise, and the date was six-
teen years before bis birth, and four-

teen years lieforo tho marriage (if his
mother. Then hia father, in his early
yearn, had married privately Home ob-
scure girl whom ho had never acknowl-
edged aa his wife, and who had proluibly
died without isHUO. Ho breathed moro
freely as ho laid down the certificates
and t(M)k up tho |)ackngfl of letters.
Thoy were in IiIh father's writing, which
was very jKJCiiliar, and ni>t easy to bo
mistaken for another's, and dated from
Paria, Baden, Vichy, Kms, and other
fauhionablo aummer resorts of Frniice,
and addressed, aomo to ChAteau Cler-
n)ont, others to Paris, and two or
threo to ('h&teauroux. Claudo read
them breathlesslv, and learned from
their contents that Genevieve Mario
Gautier was a beautiful singer then la
mode in tho fashionable society of Paris.
She must have been as lovely as an an-
gel, and aa virtuous as sho was lovely,
if ono could judge from tho impusHionod
words inscribed upon these time-stained
letters. Ah ! if when we pen our glow-
ing effusions we could tell to what end
they were destined, what strange oycs
would see them in all their meaningless
mockery, long after we are dust, and
long after circumstances have proved
their insincerity, mothinks wo should
contract our expansiveness, cool our ar-
dor, and confine our redundancy to the
simple, emphatic truth. When M. lo
Comte de Clermont, in the heyday of
youth and passion, wrote those ardent
professions of adoration, he did not in-
tend them to be read by his son nearly
fifty years afterwaiti. No, thoy wore
only penned for "the most beautiful
eyes " of sweet Oeneviive Gautier, whoso
wonderful voice, bewitching grace, and
purity of heart, made her the theme of
every tongue Those that bore the earli-
est date were tender, fervent, and puro,
the outburst of a truthful heart, a deep
devotion, and tbey must have been writ-
ten before M. le Comte became a phi-
losopher and a profligate. It was curious
to note the change, following them fnHn
date to date : the first enthusiastio
avowal of admiration, the first timid
expressions of devotion, followed by the
first earnest and apparently truthful
professions of love, to which succeeded
the passionate protestations of an ad-
oration strengthened by her virtuous

mnrrin(^ of Inn
thcr, in IiIh curly
rivuti'ly wtnio oh-
ul iii'ver ncknowl-
wlio liitd proluilily
^o hreiithol more
till) ccrtiHoiites

,ckllK« of It'tttTH.

t'h writinj^, which
J n«>t cany to lio
and (Intud from
KiiiN, and other
•cHortH of Krniicc,
ti) C'hAtenu (,1or-
ris, mid two or
Claiido read
iid learned from
Oeneviisvo Mario
id singer then la

society of Paris,
is lovely HH an an-
18 sho was lovely,
[II the impitsHionod
these time-stained

1 we pen our glow-
I tell to what end
vhut strange eyes

their meaningless
we are dust, and
noes have proved
)thinkH wo should
;renes8, cool our ar-
redundancy to the
ith. When M. lo
in the heyday of
rroto those ardent
on, he did not in-

by his son nearly
. No, they wore
he most beautiful
i6ve Gautier, whose
itching grace, and
} her the theme of
that bore the earli-
ferveiit, and pure,
thful heart, a deep
list have been writ-
nte became a phi-
ite. It was curious
>Ilowingthcm from

first enthusiastic
[1, the first timid
)n, followed by the
)parently truthful
) which succeeded
stations of an ad-

by her virtuous

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

refusal to reciprocate nny but a pure
nflTvution ; then the proposal of a niur-
riago that should, fur various reasons,
be kept private for a time, the raptur-
ous outburst of thanks iu reply to the
letter of compliance, and, after un inter-
val of more than a year iu the dates,
another dated Paris, addressed to her
at Clurmuut, where they had evidently
been living always together during that
time, for in this letter he calls her his
wife, and declares ho cannot supixirt
the separation from her, even for a week ;
then anotlier, nearly a your later, ex-
presses his joy at the birth of a son,
and his intention of hnsteniii;^ to her
from Baden, where he has boon passing
some months ; then another interval,
followed by cold, formal letters, in which
allusion is made to reproaches that an-
noy, and chains that press heavily ; a
little later ho advises her to return to
Ch&teauroux, and afterward adds to this
a more cruel and determined order to
leave Clermont at once, refers to the
burning of the oiRco of registors at
Ch&teauroux, which he says " destroys
the only existing proofs of my rash and
ill-timed marriage," and speaks of pla-
cing the boy in some institution, and of
allowing her a sufficient income to live
wherever she prefers, comfortably ; then
another, and the last of the numlier,
evidently in reply to a strong appeal
from her, cold and unscrupulously wick-
ed, utterly refusing to acknowledge her
or her chlkl, and commanding lier, in
the most unmistakable terms, to leave
Clermont without delay.

Claude had not read these letters in
the order in which we have given a
brief outline of their contents. He had
gone over them rapidly with burning
cheeks and throbbing temples, without
noticing their succession ; but when he
bad finished them he understood all
that was necessary to reveal to him his
father's true character, and he suffered
as he never had before, for his faith in
his idolized father — his dead father
whose memory he had reverenced as
something sacred — was utterly de-
stroyed, and his hitherto honored
name was denuded of all save the
knowledge of the b}ack. crime that
seemed written in indelible oharactors
upon these time-stained pages by his
7

own hand, which had l)oen so long
(|uiot in the unbroken rest of the grr vo.
He thought of the sorrowing, Mutlurinif
woman driven out with her innocent
child. The ruin of her life seemed to
weigh upon him and crush him a«
though he hod been a participator in
the crime ; and with it all cumo tho
terrible question, " What am I, if tliia
unhappy woman still lives? and what
proof have I that site does not Y and
where is the sou that was Imm of
this union 1 Are both motlier and child
dead ? O my father, my father ! what
an inheritance of sin and niisory you
iiavo left to mo I " He examined again
and again the papers, and the more he
did so the clearer the whole history
presented itself to his stricken heart.
The lovely, virtuous singer, tho ardent
lover mad with his passion, and deter-
mined to possess her at any cost, tho
privato marriage in tho obscure town
far from Paris, the satiety, weariness,
and indifference, tho neglected wifo
shut up in tho chateau of Clermont,
tho birth of a son that renewed for &
little time his affection for the mother ;
then tho relaping into the former neg-
lect and coldness, the evident chafing
and fretting under the fetters of a mia-
alliance, and the desire of freedom even
at the price of truth and honor; tho
opportune destruction of what ho be-
lieves to be all tho proofs of his hasty
marriage, and finally, the most dreadful
of all, the denial of his wife and child.
But how came these papers, such damn-
ing proofs of his crime, concealed in
this old cabinet in the chateau of Sar-
zeau, so far from the scene of action 1
A light dawned upon his mind when he
rememl)ercd Nanette had told him that
this piece of furniture had been brought
from Clermont. Then, in all probabil-
ity, the pallid hands of poor Genevi^vo
had placed them there for safety.
Again, if sho had possessed these sure
proofs, why had she not used them to
reinstate herself and child ) There was
some mystery, and the more he thought
of it the more complicated it became ;
yet ho pondered on it, determined to
solve it if possible. " If this son still
lives," he said over and over to himself,
" he is Count of Clermont. And if the
heart of the unfortunate Genevieve did

—---,:. -:r -r-rrM^j-^inivx&^sesm ikae g i^mm^mmmm

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

not break long ago under the pressure
of lier woes, she is Countess of Cler-
mont. I will go to Cliateauroux. I
will go at once, and learn all I possibly
can. Thero I may be able to solve tlie
secret of these letters." Another sol-
emn duty, another necessity for a great
sacrifice, had suddenly thrust itself upon
him. Ho understood all it involved,
yet he was none the less decided to
fulfil it. It might strip him of all;
it might brand him with shame ; and it
would certainly place the name of his
father in obloquy before the world.
Nevertheless, it was his duty to expose
Buch a crime; to give back to the
wronged what they had been robbed of,
and he was resolved not to flinch be-
fore it.

When Tristan entered to announce
dinner, he found his master sitting with
pale, sorrowful face over this package
of letters. He looked up, and, smihng
dimlv, held out one hand to the hunch-
back" while he laid the other on the
papers, saj-ing, " My dear boy, I have
found something hero that may strip
me of everything, everything, even my
name ; do you underatand how terrible
such a discovery is 1 " „ „ . ,

"Oh! oh! oh!" was all Tristan
said, but his face expressed the most
startled surprise and poignant grief.

" To-morrow I must go to Chateau-
roux, and you will remain here until I
return. You will always be true to
me, Tristan? no matter what comes,
you will be faithful r'

"0 monsieur! you know I will.
My heart is yours forever; it beats
always for you, and it bleeds because it
cannot bear a part of your sorrows "

(

child was not in the least abated. It
was a dark, rainy night in March, and ,
the wind sighed around the house with
sad complainings, that awoke strange
fancies in his overburdened heart. Per-
haps in that very room his father had
sat on such a night with the f^v.i' Gene-
vieve, or perhaps alone, thinking of her,
and wishing away the hours that lagged
between him and his desires. From
the shadows of the great canopied bed,
the grim wardrobe, the deeply recessed
windows, he almost expected to see a
graceful form steal forth and stand be-
fore him, with slender clasped hands,
and eyes full of earnest entreaty. The
name of Genevieve was stamped upon
his brain with Chateauroux, and every
spot seemed filled with her invisible
presence ; he felt as though no other
character had any important place ni
the history of the town. He forgot
that others whose names were known
to the world had figured there, that it
was the birthplace of the good General
Bertrand, and that the old castle on the
hill above the Indro was the lifelong
prison of the unfortunate Princesse de
Conde, niece of Richelieu. He did not
consider that the modest name of Gene-
vieve Gautier might never have been
heard of beyond the circle of her humble
family. And if it had been then, more
than forty years ago, now it might have
been long forgotten and blotted out by
death and the grave. Poor Genevifeve !
what a pitiful reward for her talents and
virtue, what a sad compensation for her
youth, beauty, and honor ! He despised
the memory of bis father, he felt a
loathing of the life that ran in his veins,
a life derived from one so unworthy.

""Sod'^^lLCuVeZpa oX '''n..u^.GoA that the

tears. " With your love to console me,
I may yet give my misfortuues a noble
ending."

^ ,c PART NINTH.

chIteadboux.

When Claude arrived at La Poste,
the principal inn of Chkeauroux, his
earnest intention to discover something
of the fateof Geuevifeve Gautier and her

and contempt. He was my father, now
he is but a handful of dust, too miser-
able a thing against which to cherish a
feeling of revenge." Then he remem-
bered the son of Genevieve ; if he was
living he was the Count of Clermont,
the rightful inheritor of the chateau.
What was he like, this unknown brother,
who had so suddenly brought to life a
feeling of fraternity within his heart 1
Was he a coarse boor brought up among
peasants and ignorants, a low-bred clod
who would step into his place and thrust

(

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

east abated. It
t in March, and
d the house with
t awoke strange
ened heart. Pcr-
m his father had
ith the fiv.i- Gene-
|e, thinking of her,
hours that lagged
8 desires. From
eat canopied' bed,
deeply recessed
xpected to see a
Irth and stand be-
er clasped hands,
3St entreaty. The
ras stamped upon
iauroux, and every
hith her invisible
though no other
nportant place in
town. He forgot
names were known
urcd there, that it
f the good General
ne old castle on the
p was the lifelong
punate Princesse de
^elieu. He did not
idest name of Gcne-
b never have been
circle of her humble
ad been then, more
, now it might have
and blotted out by
I. Poor Genevieve !
1 for her talents and
ompensation for her
lOnor ! He despised
i father, he felt a
hat ran in his veins,
one SO unworthy,
'hank God that the
liim from my scorn
was my father, now
of dust, too miser-
which to cherish a
Then he remem-
jneviive ; if he was
!3ount of Clermont,
;or of the chateau,
is unknown brother,
ly brought to life n
' within his heart?
r brought up among
nts, a low-bred clod
his place aud thrust

him from wealth to poverty 1 In any
case ho was his brother, the same blood
flowed in their veins, and ho hoped to
be equal to his duty in affection as well
as in right. " If I can but find him
possessing a good simple heart, uncor-
rupted by the vices and vulgarities of
his associates, I will take him by the
hand, educate him, and make him wor-
thy of the position he will fill." These
M'cro the noble and tmselfish intentions
that filled his generous soul, and he re*
pcated softly to himself, as he looked
into the glowing coals whose warmth
seemed to invade his heart : " My
brother, my brother. Ah, it will give
me another interest in life ! If he has
but inherited the virtue and beauty of
his unhappy mother, he will indeed be
worthy of my love. I will meet him
with an ardent desire to win his afibc-
tion, an honest determination to do him
good, and I believe I shall not fail." So
building up this fair structure of imagi-
nary happiness, with pleasant and gentle
intentions, he brooded over his fire un-
til the servant announced his dinner,
which was served in an adjoining room.

Claude was anxious to begin his in-
quiries that night ; so after the dinner
was over he summoned the landlord to
his room, expecting him to bo the tradi-
tional old man stuffed with the history
of every family in the department ; but
instead there entered with a flourish a
round-faced, smooth-cheeked individual
of about twenty-four years of age, who
asked, with a .very modern affectation
of voice and manner, how he might be
useful to M. le Comte.

Claude looked a little disappointed at
the youthful appearance of his visitor,
and said, as he motioned him to a chair,
"My friend, I am afraid you cannot
give me the information I wish. I had
expected to see an older person in the
proprietor of La Posto, one who could
remember back some forty years."

" I am sorry, monsieur, that I am not
older, to be of some service to you. My
father was very old, and could have told
you all about the town and its inhab-
itants, and every event that occurred
from his childhood, — for he had a re-
markable memory, my poor father ; but
unfortunately for you, monsieur, he died
four years ago, and I am sure there ia

not another person in the 'Department
who knows so much of the history of
Uh&teauroux as he did."

" It is not of the history of the town
that I wish information, it is of a very
humble person of the name of Gene-
vieve Gauticr, who, if she still livew,
must be more than sixty years of age.
Have you ever heard the name 1 "

" Gautier, Gautier, yes, monsieur, it
is a very common name in the Depart-
ment de rindre, and there are sevcnd
families in the town, but of Genevieve
Gautier I have never heard."

" Ah ! " replied Claude, with a sigh of
disappointment mingled with relief. "I
am foolish to suppose that you could
know anything of her, for it is more
than probable that she died long before
you were bom."

" It is likely, monsieur, for Chateau-
roux is not so large that if any one was
living hero by the name of Genevifeve,
which is very uncommon in this part of
the country, I should not have heard it
some time, and remembered it. But,
monsieur, to-morrow morning, if you
wish, I will accompany you to an old
woman by the name of Gautier, who
lives in the Rue St. Etiennc ; she is very
old, and she may be able to tell you all
you wish to know."

Claude thanked the landlord and dis-
missed him ; then he sat before his fire
and thought restlessly of all the possi-
bilities and probabilities of his success
or defeat in his undertaking, and wished
anxiously that it was already morning.
At last he threw himself on his bed,
and lay awake a long time, still thinking
of Genevieve Gautier. And when ho
slept, overcome by weariness, he dreamed
of Genevieve Gautier, — dreamed that he
had found her, but she was still and
pale in her coffin, with face and hands
of matchless beauty ; that a priest
kneeled by her head, and soblicd, and
murmured between his sobs, " Ora pro
nobis, ora jyi-o nobis." And while ho
looked at both, the dead Genevieve and
the kneeling priest, the dead smiled, a
wan, sweet smile, like moonlight flicker-
ing over a marble face ; and the cowl
falling away from the one who prayed
revealed the haggard face of P6re Benoit,
stamped with the fiendish hate that had
disfigured it on that night at Clermont,

.»S i < mm n* K^ '

tmn . II i - ii ii i i j ■ I ' i'iii j i j f iy B "

100

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

when unconsciousness had obliterated it
from his sight.

It was broad day when Claude awoke
from the nightmare-like dream, that
still troubled him with its strange influ-
ence; ho did not like that the inscrutable
P6re Benoit should be connected even in
a dream with the gentle Genevifeve
Gautier. It only served to make the
mystery darker and deeper.

As soon as he had finished his break-
fast he found the landlord ready to
accompany him to the Rue St. Etienne.
Together they threaded the narrow,
dirty streets, until they came to one still
narrower and dirtier than the others,
lined on each side with hucksters' stalls,
shops of tailors, shoemakers, and chair-
makers, who each pursued his peaceful
avocation on the side of the street be-
fore his door, unmolested by the passers
by. Before one of the stalls, in the warm
sun, sat a wizened old woman, her dirty
knitting in her lap, her bony hands
clutching a stick ornamented with tufts
of bright-colored yams, which she occa-
sionally flourished over her stand to
drive away the few flies that dared to
alight upon her shrivelled fruits and
vegetables.

" This is M6re Gautier," said the land-
lord, as ho touched his hat and left
Claude to a private conversation with
the old crone, whose bleared eyes lighted
up and whose shrunken lips trembled
in a dim smile of welcome to what she
supposed to be a customer.

" I do not wish to buy anything, my
good woman," said Claude kindly, as she
began to point out her choicest articles,
— " I do not wish to buy, I only wish to
ask you a few questions."

The old woman sunk back in her
seat disappointedly, and resumed her
attack on the foraging flies more vigor-
ously than before, while her face seemed
to say plainly, " Questions never bring
me any money, and I have something
else to do beside wasting my time in
answering them."

The would-be interlocutor under-
stood this, and, wishing to be successfiil
in his investigation, he opened his
pocket-book and laid a ten-franc piece
on the old creature's lap. It acted like
a charm, her eyes brightened, her
mouth relaxed, and, forgetting her con-

stant torments, she dropped the wisp,
and wiped off", with her dirty apron, a
three-legged stool, which she begged
monsieur to take, while she assured
him, with the utmost deference, that
she was entirely at his service.

Claude took the proflered seat and
drew it confidentially near th-.. old
woman, in defiance of the battery of
eyes levelled upon him fiom every
window and door in the street, while
he said in a persuasive voice, " I wish
to learn something of one of your
family, Gencvitive Gautier. You must
remember her, for she was living about
thirty-five years ago, and she may still
be alive, for aught I know to the con-
trary."

" Geneviive Gautier, Genevi — fevo
Gau — tier," said the old woman slow-
ly, striving to fish up the owner of
the name from the profound depths
of her memory. "Yes, monsieur, I do
remember her, but that unfortunate
girl did not belong to our family ;
she was in no way connected with our
respectable family, monsieur." At this
information Claude felt relieved, and
politely regretted his error. " She was
the orphan of a fabricant at Bourg
Dieu, who had lofty ideas, and gave
her music and dancing-masters, and
educated her beyond her condition,
which was her ruin, monsieur ; and, be-
side, she was so unfortunate as to have
a pretty face and a fine voice. Well,
she went to Paris, — you know Paris is a
long way off", and a very wicked town ;
there she became a singer in a theatre,
or some other trap of Satan, and that
was the end of her." And M6re Gautier
closed her lips and folded her hands
as if she wished to dismiss the subject.

" And is that all you know of her 1 "
inquired Claude, sharply; for he was
disappointed at the old woman's terse-
ness, and not any too well pleased at
her evident conteff^., of the person
under discussion.

" I have told you all a decent woman
should tell," — Claude did not know that
a spasm of virtue was the reason for
her reticence, — " but as you seem to
have some motive other than curiosity,
monsieur, I may as well add what you
ought to know would be the result of
such folly. In a few years the girl

Topped the wisp,
r dirty apron, a
lich she begged
lilo she assured
deference, that
I service,
offered seat and
near th-.. old
the batteiy of
lim from every
the street, while
^e voice, " I wish
of one of your
itier. You must
was living about
ind she may still
know to the con-

er, Genevi — 6ve

aid woman slow-

ip the owner of

profound depths

!s, monsieur, I do

that unfortunate

to our family ;

tnnected with our

msieur." At this

elt relieved, and

error. " She was

hricant at Bourg

' ideas, and gave

cing-masters, and

d her condition,

lonsieur ; and, bc-

rtunate as to have

fine voice. Well,

ou know Paris is a

ery wicked town ;

inger in a theatre,

' Satan, and that

^nd Mire Gautier

folded her hands

miss the subject.

lU know of her 1 "

•ply ; for he was

Id woman's terse-

} well pleased at

!, of the person

1 a decent woman
did not know that
LS the reason for
as you seem to
sr than curiositv,
ell add what you
be the result of
r years the girl

llm T'"!

ii4ji .ji_n i..i i4ii I

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

101

came back sick and poor, with a child
which she said was the son of a count
to whom she had been privately mar-
ried, both before the offider civil of
Ch&teauroux and in the church of St.
Etienne, Bourg Dieu ; but no one could
over find any record of such a marriage,
or any priest who performed it, so no
one believed her. Although it is true
that the bureau de Vofficier civil was
burned to the ground with all the
records. I remember it well, for the of-
ficier was a good customer, and ho lost
his life trying to save his books. No
one believed her, monsieur, because she
should have had the copies of the
records of her marriage, but they could
not be found ; so she lived here awhile
half crazed and stupid, and then she
disappeared and never came back again.
Afterwards I remember hearing that
she had died somewhere in Normandy,
but I cannot remember how long after."

" And her son 1 " said Claude, with a
trembling heart.

"0 monsieur, I can't tell anything
about the boy, whether he lived or
died. In fact, it has been so many
years since I heard her name, that I
had almost forgotten that such a person
ever lived."

" You do not remember the name
of the town where she died ] "

" I never knew, monsieur."

" Do you know of any one else in the
town who could give me any further
information 1 "

" No, monsieur, I believe there is no
one in the whole Department who
knows anything more. My husband
came from Bourg Dieu, that fs how I
heard of Genevifive Gautier; and he,
God rest his soul, has been dead twenty-
five years."

"Then you can tell me nothing
more ] "

" Nothing more, monsieur," she re-
plied, with a decision that seemed to
say, I have given you full ten francs'
worth of information, and I have no
more time to waste.

At this moment a dirty, bare-armed
woman came up, evidently to haggle
for a bunch of wilted celery, but in
reality to see if she could discover what
was the business of the handsome yoimg
stranger with M6re Gautier. So as

Claude had nothing more to learn, he
touched his hat and walked away.

" A very elegant customer," said the
new-comer, looking curiously after the
young man. " Did he buy much 1 "

"The value of this," chuckled the
old crone, thrusting the ten-franc piece
under the nose of her customer.

" Eh bien 1 if you have done so well
this morning, you can afford me this
bunch of celery for a half-sou less,"
returned the woman, as she walked off
with the vegetable in question, after
having thrown two sous and a half into
Mire Gautier's tin cash-box.

Claude walked toward the church of
St. Etienne, Bourg Dieu, disappointed
and somewhat disheartened, for he hod
hoped for more precise information from
Mire Gautier than he had received.
First, he wished for some proof that
the poor Genevidve had died before his
mother's marriage ; and secondly, wheth-
er the son were living or dead ; and he
had obtained neither. Still he did not
despair, for he hoped to discover some-
thing from the church records that
would throw a little more light on the
clouded fate of the unfortunate Gene-
viive and her child. It was some time
before he could learn where the Cur^
lived, and then it was some time before
ho could get his company to the church,
for he was at his noonday meal, and
was loath to be disturbed. However,
when at last he appeared, Claude found
him to be a gentlemanly person, with
an intelligent face and kind manner,
so he was not disposed to regret having
waited patiently.

" I hope monsieur will be able to
find the information he desires," he said,
as he unlocked the door of the sacristy,
whet'e the books were kept.

" I hope the same," replied Claude,
calmly, although his heart was ill at
ease. "To begin, can you tell me
whether a former Cur£, one Pire Joseph
Clisson, is still living 1 He was Cur4 of
St.,Etienne in the year 18 — ."

"Joseph Clisson," repeated the priest,
taking some heavy books from a closet
as he spoke. " I will tell you directly,
monsieur, whether he was removed or
whether he died. In 18 — , you sayl
Here is the letter C ; Clisson ; Clisson,
Jean ; Clisson, Pierre ; Clisson, Joseph.

\
I

ii iai, ' ■ ! M.iiij I ' l l"

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

Ah, poor man ! why did I not remember
at once when you spoke of himl
Although it was so very long ago, one
ought never to forget his melancholy
frtte. In 18—, one year after your
date, monsieur, he went to the Sandwich
Islands as a missionary ; and there ho
was killed by the natives, and eaten.
Dreadful as it is to repeat, we have
every reason to believe he was eaten,
monsieur."

Claude sighed ; not so much at the
tragic and permanent disposal of P6re
Clisson, as at the constant baffling of
his own hopes, and said, " How terrible !
But do you not know of any one who
was connected with him at that time,
and who would be acquainted with
contemporary events 1"

" no, monsieur, it was so long ago
that I know no one of his age who is
now living." , , x lu

" Will you allow me to look at the
record of marriages for 18 — 1 " ^

"Certainly, certainly, monsieur, re-
plied the priest, pleasantly, as he threw
open the door of another closet, filled
with old books, having large numbers
on their dilapidated backs. Taking a
step-ladder he mounted to the top ; and
running his finger along the different
volumes, he said, " That would be be-
tween 18— and 18— ; ten years each,
you see, monsieur ; ah, hero it is. And
he drew one of the shattered, torn books
from the place where it had stood for
years undisturbed, and reached it to
Claude, while he descended the steps.

" It is in a bad state, monsieur, you
see the rats have been at it," said the
Curd, throwing it down on a desk. A
cloud of dust started from it, mixed
with a stifling odor of decayed parch-
ment as he opened the leaves, some of
which were nearly eaten up. " Whose
marriage record do you wish to find,
monsieur]"

"That of one Genevieve Gautier,

May U, 18—."

"May 14, 18—. Yes, yes, we will
find it. I presume you are a lawyer,

monsieur]" ,. , «, j

"No, I am not," replied Claude,

smiling.

" Some property in question, 1 sup-
pose ; am I not right ] " i

"Yes, monsieur," replied Claude, sol

laconically that it checked the very
natural curiosity of the priest, who
turned quickly the musty, torn pages.

"Here it is, 18—, May Ist, May 2d,
May 3d, and so on until May 13th
finished the page; and as the priest
turned it, Claude saw that the next
loaf had been torn off, or gnawed off at

the top. ^ , . .

" Rats, rats," exclaimed thoCuri with
an expression of disgust ; " they devour
everything."

"Yes," said Claude, looking disap-
pointedly at the mutilated page ; " they
have eaten the certificate I wished to
see ; here is nothing left but the names
of the witnesses."

"How remarkable!" and the priest
put on his glasses and examined care-
fully the fragment that bore the badly
written signatures of Pierre Crcton
and Andr6 Rdnaud, — " how remarkable
that the names of the witnesses should
remain, while what they witnessed to
has entirely disappeared."

" I suppose it is useless to ask you if
you know of any persons bearing these

names]" .

"I am sorry to say, monsieur, that
I never heard of them before," replied
the Cur6, shutting the register and
returning it to its place. " I have only
been patteur of St. Etienne for a few
yeai-s, and I came here from another
part of the country."

Claude saw that there was nothing
further to l)e learned; that neither the
name of his father nor the name of Gen-
evieve Gautier was to be found upon
the records of St. fitienne, Bourg Dieu.
Whetheu the certificate of their union
had been eaten, as well as the unfortu-
nate priest who united them, he could
not say ; he only knew that the greater
part of the page was gone, and that
part had been the original register of
which he had the copy. So, reluctantly
and with a heavy heart, he thanked the
Cur* for his courtesy, and bidding him
and the church of St. Etienne adieu,
returned to La Poste but very little
wiser than when he left it.

The next morning he left Chateauroux
disappointed, but still determined to
continue his investigation ; for he could
not enjoy his inheritance in peace, whUe
he thought there was a possibility that

' ,

'mf*r^i¥it'lttmiilifii4miiA0^im,^*ti^^

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

103

peeked the very
the priest, who
laty, torn pages.
May Ist, Slay 2d,
until May 13th
{ind as the priest
v that the next
or gnawed off at

limed thoCur^ with
list ; " they devour

[de, looking disap-

■lated page ; " they

ificate I wished to

left but the names

! " and the priest
md examined care-
hat bore the badly

of Pierre Crcton
— " how remarkable
he witnesses slioiild

they witnessed to
ired."

iselcss to ask you if
rsons bearing these

say, monsieur, that
leni before," replied
[ the register and
ilace. " I have only
^tienne for a few
here from another

there was nothing
id ; that neither the
or the name of Gen-
I to be found upon
Itienne, Bourg Dieu.
icate of tlieir union'
well as the iinfortu-
ited them, he could
lew that the greater
vas gone, and that
original register of
py. So, reluctantly
iart, he thanked the
y, and bidding him

St. £ttenno adieu,
sto but very little
left it.

he left Chateauroux
itill dcteriniued to
ration ; for he could
ance in peace, while
ta a possibility that

the rightful heir still lived. The name
and fate of Genevieve Gautier was so
impressed upon liis mind, that nothing
could cHiice it. She seemed to possess
him with an invisible presence ; to urge
him constantly to the fulfilment of this
new duty, which ho understood fully to
bo the most sacred, the most imperative,
of his life. His heart was so noble, so
unselfish, that he did not suffer at the
thought of losing wealth and title ; he
rather desired to find a more worthy

inheritor for the estate of Clermont,
which had long been, virtually, without
an owner, for he had from the first mo-
ment of his departure solemnly sworn to
himself that he would never return to
the people who had placed him under the
obloquy of such a terrible crime until
his innocence was acknowledged. And
he had also decided never to marry ;
therefore he felt it to bo a double duty
to resign Clermont, if the other heir
were still living.

BOOK FOUETH.

HOTEL DE VENTADOUR.

PART FIRST.
"la belle dame sans hercl"

Those who are seeking for the resi-
dences of the old French aristocracy
will find the Hotel de Ventadour, in the
Rue St. Dominique, Faubourg St. Ger-
main, Paris. It is a massive structure,
built of large blocks of smoothly cut
stone ; the fa9ade ornamented with
fluted columns, and elaborately carved
cornice and architrave. The windows
of the rezde-chaussee are heavily grated,
and the ponderous oak doors are beauti-
fully carved, and ornamented with bronze
handles, bearing the devices and arms
of the family, which boasts of being one
of the oldest and most patrician in the
Empire. This imposing door opens into
a smoothly paved court with a fountain
in the centre. Four statues represent-
ing the seasons fill the four comers of
the quadrangle, and four antique urns
stand between them, crowned with
flowering shrubs. A broad flight of
marble stairs with deep niches, each
containing fine statuary, conducts to
the premier etage ; there a servant in
a blue livery faced with white admits
one into a large, square antechamber,
with a floor of different colored marbles,
and a lofhy frescoed ceiling. The walls
are covered with historical pictures,
each representing some battle in which

a Marquis de Ventadour lost his life for
his country ; and if it be in winter, a
bright fire bums in a huge chimney of
Flanders tile, while a number of ser-
vants lounge on the carved chairs ttiat
are ranged around the walls. This
room opens into another still longer,
the floor of light-colored, highly polished
wood, over the centre of which is laid a
strip of Persian carpet. The frescoed
ceiling is of a more delicate color and
design than the first, and the walls
are covered with mirrors and pictures.
Great Sevres vases stand on ebony
brackets; and antique marble consoles
support, one the bust of Marie An-
toinette, the other that of Louis XVI.
The furniture of carved ebony is cov-
ered with crimson embossed velvet,
and curtains of the same rich material
hang over the windows and doors.
Within is another room equal in size
and furnishing, only that the color of
the tapestry is blue, and the floor is
covered with a Gobelins carpet. Be-
yond, again, is another magnificent and
brilliant apartment, resplendent with
scarlet and gold ; the walls and ceiling
are scarlet, picked out with gold. The
furniture is scarlet, with heavily gilded
frames ; the doors and windows are
hung with scarlet, lined with gold. The
oniamenta, tables, and chandeliers are
of the French Renaissance, gold, and

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

glitter with an effect of color truly
dazzling, a richness almost barbaric.
Hero is a closed door. We have passed
through the entire reception suite, and
have now reached the private apartments
of Madame la Marquise de Ventadour.
It is true, the door is closed against in-
trusion, but we have a carte d'admUsion,
and may be allowed to enter. This is the
boudoir of Madame la Marquise, and it is
a gem of perfection. Entering from the
splendor of the scarlet room, it strikes
one with its pure, cool color. The walls
are padded with white silk knotted with
pale green floss ; the ceiling is painted
to represent a mass of delicate clouds
studded with silver stars ; while at the
four comers four cherubs hold up gar-
lands of pale roses and lilies. The
furniture is white, enamelled, touched
with dull gold, and tapestried with
pale rose-tinted silk, while clouds of
lace, over the same delicate color, cover
the windows and doors; ond the car-
pet is of white velvet, overlaid with
wreaths of lilies and roses. There are
no mirrors, no pictures, no dainty or-
naments. A Venetian glass chandelier
depends from the ceiling, and a carved
alabaster table beneath it supports a
frosted silver urn filled with roses and
lilies. In a deep, arched niche, lined
with rose-colored silk, stands an exquis-
ite group of Niobe, queen of Thebes,
clasping her only surviving child in her
arms, her woful face turned upward,
and the tears frozen on her stony
cheeks. The room is perfect in detail
and tone ; delicate, pure, calm ; a fit
temple for the goddess who reigns
here supreme, the fascinating, dazzling.
Gabrielle Marquise de Ventadour. Now
that we have poorly described the
frame, let us try to do more justice to
the tableau vivant it surrounds.

It is long after midday, but to Ma-
dame Itt Marquise it is morning, and she
receives in her boudoir, wrapped in a
rose-colored velvet peignoir lined with
white satin and trimmed with swan's-
down ; it is open low at the neck, dis-
playing a chemisette of the most deli-
cate lace, which only half conceals the
round throat, that rivals in whiteness
the large pearls which surround it
Her perfect arms and small hands
covered with gems are partially veiled

with the same flimsy web, which falls
below her robe of velvet, almost cover-
ing the satin-shod feet that rest upon a
rose-colored cushion. Her face is of
remarkable beauty, but more remark-
able still is the abundant and glossy
hair, which, carelessly knotted and
pinned back with a heavy gold nrrow,
falls below her waist in waves of silvery
whiteness. It is not the whiteness of
age, for Madame la Marquise is very
young. Certainly not more than twen-
ty-six years have passed over her lovely
brow, which is as smooth and fair as an
infant's. The romantic say it turned
suddenly white during some terrible
tragedy. The practical say it was
bleached by Monsieur Antin, Rue de
Richelieu ; but as I never repeat gossip,
I decline to say anything about it. I
only know that on the first occasion
when I was introduced into the pres-
ence of Madame la Marquise, her hair
was as white as it is now. This morn-
ing she looks a little languid and pen-
sive as she half reclines on her luxurious
sofa, one white arm resting on a rose-
colored cushion, the other buried in the
folds of her robe. The fair hand, alone
visible, holds negligently a small book
of prayers, bound in white vellum and
gold. The world says that Madame la
Marquise is a most bewitching hypocrite,
that she plays the farce of piety to
perfection ; dances and flirts ad libitum,
and fasts and prays at discretion, re-
ceives the most notorious roues of
Paris, frequents the most brilliant and
Bohemian resorts, intrigues and gam-
bles all night, and goes at dawa to
mass. Sometimes she flashes like a
meteor on the horizon of society, fas-
cinating, dazzling, enchanting all with
her radiant charms ; at others, retiring,
grave, simple, and serious as a devotee,
she absents herself from the scenes that
court her, and weeps and prays alone
in her little oratory. How much of

this is true I cannot say; but one
thing I do know. Let the world watch,
surmise, and pronounce what it may, it
cannot lay its cruel finger upon one
black spot in the character of Gabrielle
Marquise de Ventadour. She may be
reckless, inconsistent, and eccentric;
she may be vain, passionate, and cruel ;
but there is one gem, the gem of her

t .

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

105

web, which falls
'et, almost cover-
that rest upon a
Her face is of
lut more remark-
idaut and glossy
ily knotted and
leavy gold irrow,
In waves of silvery
the whiteness of
Marquise is very
more than twen-
over her lovely
oth and fair as an
Itic say it turned
iig some terrible
ical say it was
ir Antin, Rue do
ever repeat gossip,
hiug about it. I
the first occasion
;ed into the pres-
^larquisc, her hair
now. This mom-
languid and pen-
is on her luxurious
resting on a rose-
ther buried in the
le fair hand, alone
ntly a small book
white vellum and
8 that Madame la
vitching hypocrite,
farce of piety to
id flirts ad libitum,
at discretion, re-
toriona roues of
most brilliant and
trigues and gam-
goes at dawn to
le flashes like a
)n of society, fas-
chanting all with
Eit others, retiring,
ious as a devotee,
>m the scenes that
1 and prays alone
How much of
ot say; but one
t the world watch,
ce what it may, it
finger upon one
acter of Uabrielle
lur. She may be
, and eccentric ;
ionate, and cruel ;
1, the gem of her

soul, which she keeps pure from flaw
and stain. The beau monde of Paris
call her " La Belle Dame sans Merci,"
for she plays with hearts as a child
plays with toys: they are thrown at
her feet, and the most of them arc
worthless, so she tosses them about like
bubbles while they amuse her, and
tramples upon them when she is weary
of them.

This morning, as I have said, she re-
clines upon her sofa, and holds a book
of prayers in her hand, but she is not
studying it, because she is listening to a
young man who sits beside her on a low
tabouret, reading aloud a manuscript
poem. Ho is Philip Raymond, and
several years have passed since ho first
parted with Claude de Clermont at Sar-
zeau. In appearance he has changed
much, he has grown stronger and hand-
somer. A Raphaelesquo face, with pen-
sive bkiu eyes and blond hair, must
always bo interesting, even if it be not
the highest type of manly beauty j there-
fore we have no fault to find with the
outward and visible form, but much
with the inward and spiritual, for ho
has not made the advances toward a
better and nobler life that we hoped he
would after Claude's pure and lofty ex-
ample and sincere counsel. His genius
has not diminished or weakened, but it
has rather increased and strengthened.
He pours forth his songs in tones that
touch all hearts, from the humblest to
the highest; his name is a hoqsehold
word throughout England; and while
many condemn, all acknowledge that he
is touched with the divine fire. In
Paris he is considered the literary prod-
igy of the time ; every circle opens its
arms to receive him, and he enters all
with the graceful charm that wins its
way straight to the heart of both sexes ;
women adore him, and men almost wor-
ship him ; he is amiable, gentle, and gen-
erous, but he is weak and loves pleasure
and flattery, barely escaping a life of en-
tire debauchery. Perhaps the only thing
that has saved him from the depths is
the eflbct of his frequent visits to Sar-
zeau, and 'the example of the noble, self-
sacrificing life of Claude, whom he loves
and reverences with no common devo-
tion, and the strong beautiful nature of
Elizabeth, who still influences in a

measure his character, although they
are only friends; for she has declared
any other afi'cction impossible, and
Philip no longer urges his suit, because
he is hopelessly, helplessly, entangled in
the chains of La Belle Dame sans Merci,
and she deludes him, and torments him
in the same way she does her other vic-
tims. The poem he is reading to her
is of course addressed to her fatal beau-
ty, and it seems to weary her, for when
he finishes she says without the least
apparent interest, "It is very pretty,
but so tame, and I am surfeited with
flattery. Why did you not choose somo
other theme 1 "

" How can I, when every thought is
filled with you 1 "

" Bah ! that is hackneyed."

" You are my inspiration ; without
thinking of you, I can do nothing."

" Feeble sentimentalities; think some-
times of God and nature."

" You are the god I worship, the na-
ture I adore."

"Impious, I scorn such worship, I
would rather have the simple love of a
child."

" Gabrielle ! is my passion, my
adoration, my life, my soul, nothing to
youl"

" Nothing. I do not love you, I have
told you so once, and repeated it so
often that it has become like the lesson
we learn from a hornbook at our moth-
er's knee. Have you no new confidence,
no new hope to impart 1 nothing origi-
nal to tell f Do tell me something origi-
nal, I am djing for some new thoughts,
for some new emotions."

" I can only tell you the same tale,
Gabrielle, and I shall repeat it forever,
and with my last breath."

" 0, how you weary me ! If you are
not more amusing, I shall refuse to ad-
mit you to a tite-d-tite."

" Moh Dieu! Gabrielle, do not pun-
ish me so severely. I will do anything
you wish. Shall I improvise a song on
your guitar Y Shall I declaim an epio
poem 1 Shall I recite some of the trage-
dies of the first Revolution 1 Shall I
give you some gossip from Galignani,
Punch, or Bell's Life? Shall I dance
the tarantella, salterello, or cachuchat
Shall I perform some tricks of legerde-
main, or contort my graceful body into

'H ' tmw.n.mu.-

lOG

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

a writhing g^'mnastl Tell mo, prny tell
luo, wlmt I blmll do to nmiiHO yoii.

" Quel enfant I you know I hate ab-
BUi'ditica. Toll me Bomcthiiig sorious
and calm, somothiiig of yuiir life at Sur-
Konu, and of your ccceutriu fricud, M. Ic
Comto do Clermont."

" Ah, I am jealouH ! But he is in Paris.
Shall I bring him, that you may judge of
him for yourself 1 Heavens! are you
ill, UabricUo 1 You are whiter than
death!"

" 111 1 no, you stupid. I om only
weary enough to die with your twad-
dle. In Paris 1 What has induced him
to leave his hermitage and charity-
Bchoul, his barren rocks and dinner of
herbs, fur the follies and temptations of
this modern Gomorrah 1 "

" He has done enough good there, by
completely renovating and purifying
the filthiest little town in Franco, and
educating the most ignorant set of peo-
ple in all the coiuitry ; now he wishes
for a more extended field of labor, so he
has come here to ennoble us all by his
beautiful example of perfectly disinter-
ested charity. Ah, ho has a great un-
selfish soul ! why are there not more like
himl"

" Yes, why not 1 yours, for example,
needs enlarging and elevating."

" Gahriellc ! you are severe. It is
not my fault if I have not a superior
nature such as he has. Would you love
mo, if I tried to be more like himT'

" No, not in the least."

" Ah, what a cruel angel you are !
you torture me, and drive me almost to
despair. I would attempt even impos-
sibilities, if I thought I could win your
love."

" Do not, do not, I pray, for if you
accomplished them it would not be
your reward."

" What the world says of you is true.
You have no heart."

" I have no heart for the world, and
I am right. What use would the world
make of my heart, if I gave it into its
cruel keeping t It would break it. Ah !
I know its value, and I protect it from
invasion. I have sworn it to one, it is
sacred to him, none other shall ever
possess it."

"To onel to whom? to the memory
of your dead husband 1 Did you love

your husband, Gabriellol Tell mo, did
you love him 1 and have you buried your
heart with him in his tonibl"

" Love him I pas si bete ! why he was
but a shadow when I married him, — a
shadow trembling under the weight of
eighty-four years. mon ami, is it
necessary to toll you why I married
himl The world surmises, but it does
not know, and I shall not enlighten it ;
but between you and me there is a sort
of friendship, — I do not call it affec-
tion ; I have no affection for you, only a
higher liking which makes me truthful
with you. Philip, I never lie to you ;
you are more to my life than any other
of the men who surround me, and
therefore I will tell you the truth. At
twenty, I married the Marquis do Ycn-
tadour solely for his title and wealth.
He was in his dotage, and childless ; so
he was entirely in my power, and I took
advantage of his imbecility, and made
him confer his name upon me, however
not before his wife died, — O no, she
had been dead nearly two months when
I became Marquise do Ventadour. She
was as old and feeble as he, and had a
passion for rich laces. I was a lace-ma-
ker. I came here to repair her laces.
I won her confidenco. She saw I was
clever, and that I understood my busi-
ness ; so she retained me in her service,
which was not long, for she died soon
after, and I married her husband. And
now I wear her old lace, the richest lace
in Paris. I think the most of it be-
longed to Marie Antoinette; for the
mother of La Marquiso was maid of
honor to the unfortunate queen, and one
of the first who basely fled with fortune
when it turned its back upon the fair
Antrichienne. Ah! .you are surprised
and shocked at the revelation. Mon
ami, you are not superior to the rest of
humanity, for you do not like the truth.
The world cries out for truth, and when
we give it unadulterated, it looks coldly
over its shoulder, and says we are mad.
You thought I was a lily from the old
stock, sans tache, an offspring of the
purest pedigree of St. Germain, and
you are disappointed that it is not
so."

" No, I swear yon are a diamond, no
matter from what mine you were taken,
and the old lace of Marie Antoinette is

^ ^.

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

107

|no1 Ttll mo, did
'0 you buried your
tomb]"

bete / why lio was
married him, — a
ler the weight of
nion atiii, is it
i» why I married
nuses, hut it docs
not eidightcn it ;
no tiicro ia a sort
not call it nflbc-
iou for you, only a
lakes mo truthful
never lie to you ;
ifo than any other
urround mo, and
ou the truth. At
e Marquis do Ven-
title and wealth,
and childless ; so
r power, and I took
>ecility, and made
upon mo, Iiowever
died, — no, she
two months when
B Ventadour. She
as ho, and had a
I was a lace-ma-
9 repair hor laces.
)• Sho saw I was
iiderstood my busi-
I me in her service,
for she died soon
ier husband. And
tee, the richest lace
he most of it bo-
toinette; for the
uiso was maid of
late queen, and ono
y fled with fortune
Eick upon the fair
you are surprised
revelation. Mon
trior to the rest of
not like the truth.
)r truth, and when
ted, it looks coldly
says we are mad.
lily from the old
offspring of the
>t. Germain, and
1 that it is not

we a diamond, no
e you were talcen,
u-ie Antoinette is

of double value bocauao your lovely
hands have repaired it."

" Thiinks, thanks, very prettily said.
I understand, my friend, tliat to you
I am diamond, but to tito remainder of
the world I am paste; that is, if the
world liad discernment enough to dis-
cover tiio diiforenco between the false
and tlio true. But it has not, and I
shall not enlighten it. I puzzle it, 1
bewilder it. It suspects everything
and knows nothing, and yet accepts me
as its queen. Do I not even rival the
matchless empress 1 Did she not frown
on me last night at the Tuilorios be-
cause the Emperor picked up my fan
which I dropped before her on purpose
that sho might see his devotion 1 And
have 1 not all of the ten ministers and
the hundred and fifty senators at my
beck and call, who havo sworn that there
is no favor I could ask for in vain 1 And
yet — and yet, Philip, all this power,
the power of beauty and wealth, I would
gladly lay at the foot of ono whoso love
can never bo mine."

" Uabrielle ! you grieve me, you
hurt me with such a confession. Is it
true then that you hod a heart, a warm,
passionate heart, and that you havo
given it to another 1"

" Yes, my dear Philip, it is true that
once I had a heart, but I have given it
to another forever."

" 0, you are cruel ! you cannot mean
it. It cannot be forever."

" Yes, mon ami, forever I I have said
it, and it is enough; no more ques-
tions, no more answers, on that subject.
You have interested me, or I have in-
terested myself. Now tell me of the
Comte de Clermont. Is he hand-
some t"

" Yes, very. Ho is of the noble, se-
rious type ; a grave tnan and yet gentle,
with a smile like a child's, and eyes that
seem to look through you and beyond
you."

" Bring him to me. I wish to know
him, although I presume he is a boor
and unacquainted with the refinements
of life, yet he will be new and refresh-
ing. Will you bring him 1 "

" Yes, on one condition."

" Name your condition."

" That you do not trifle with him and
make him suffer. Ho is not a boor, he

is a gentleman of the most refmed niim-
Iters, and ho has a heart too vuUiublo
for you to breok."

" I trifle with him, and make him
suffer ! O no, Philip, I shall iiave no
power over such a noble soul ! It is
only the foolish and feeble who are
sultject to my caprices. I pledge you
my word I will not make him siitt'er.
Now adieu. Nnnon is waiting to dress
me for my drive in tho Bois. Adieu."
And raising tho tiilken curtain that
hangs over tho door, Madame la Mar-
quise disappears, leaving Philip Kaymond
l>ewildered, astonished, and disappointed,
but more madly iu love than ever.

PART SECOND.

A FRIDAY EVENING AT THR u6tEL VEN-
TADOUR.

It was as Philip Raymond had said,
Claude de Clermont was in Paris, where
he expected to have been long before,
but many things connected with his lifo
and employments at Sarzeuu hud ])ro-
vented it. After his unbucccssful visit
to Ch&toauroux he had by no means dis-
continued his investigation concerning
tho fate of Genevieve Gautier and her
child, but he had spent muoh time in
searching throughout tho different towns
of Normandy for more reliable informa-
tion. At last, after much useless in-
quiry and many failures, he had learned
that a person l)earing that name had
lived, nearly thirty-five years before, in
a small town not far from Itouen, and
an old woman who renioukbcred her
spoke of her as a poor, half-crazed crea-
ture with a little boy. After a long
search the record of the death of Geno-
vidve Marie Gautier was found, the age
corresponding to that of tho unfortu-
nate victim of his father's cruelty. No
doubt now remained to Claude of her
having died several years before his
mother's marriage. On examining tho
record further, he also found inscribed
tho name of one liouis Gautior, the date
a little more than a year after that of
the unhappy Genevieve, and tho age as
near as possible coinciding with that of
her son. When Claude had discovered

ii r y :■ "

108

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

these facts ho felt relieved of a burden
that had weighed heavily upon him ; for
ho woB now convinced that Uenovidvo
Gautler and her child had both been
resting for years, in peace, in the little
cemetery of Mulaunay.

It was less than a week after his ar-
rival in Paris, when one evening, as ho
' sat writing in his simple but comfortable
room in the Rue St. Roch, Philip Ray-
mond entered abruptly. He was in the
most brilliant spirits, and wore the most
elegant evening dress. " Ah, my friend,"
he cried, eagerly clasping Claude's prof-
fered hand, " I have an invitation for
you from Madame la Marquise de Ven-
tadour, and I am come to take yoti.
Her Friday toiries are the most brilliant
in Paris. There you will meet oil the
beaux e»prit», politicians, ministers, sena-
tors, writers, artists, and beauties most
sought after by the beau monde, beside
making the acquaintance of the Mar-
quise, who is the most lovely woman in
the country."

"Thanks for the invitation of Ma-
dame la Marquise, as well as for your
kindness, my dear Philip, but I must
beg to be excused from fashionable so-
ciety, I have neither the time nor the
inclination for it."

" Yoti are most provoking," said Ray-
mond, pettishly. "What! do you think
to live the life of a hermit here 1 I
pray you to give up such ascetic habits,
and become a little more like a sensible
being. Paris is not the place to bury
one's self; at least make an exception
for once, and come with me this even-
ing. You will not regret it, for Madame
la Marquise will interest and fascinate
you, as she doe all the world."

" Bah ! not in the least. I have no
intention of adding another name to her
long list of victims. The Circe has be-
witched you, as she has every one else,
until you forget the more serious duties
of your life to dance attendance upon
her with the jeuneste dorie, the dandies
and beaux who surround her. My dear
Philip, you have become her slave, and
your chains have degraded you to the
same level with the others. Where are
your noble intentions, your strong re-
solves of the pasti And your love for
the noble Elizabeth, even that is blotted
out by this unworthy passion, and you

forgot her in the prosonoe of that dan-
gerous coquette."

" Claude I have a little more charity
than the pitiless world. You do not
know the woman vou are condemning,"
replied Philip, with a crimson flush.

" No, I do not, it is true, neither do I
wish to ; beside, at heart I am a repub-
lican, and I have no desire to give my
hand to the clasp of aristocrats, rouii,
and enriched knaves."

" Ah ! you are too severe. You speak
aa if one should have no pleasure in
life."

" No, yon do not understand me. I
do not condemn pure pleasure. 1 con-
demn dainty luxury and gilded vice. If
I engage in such diversions, what will
Wome of my serious work 1 What
strength and virtue can I draw from
such impure fountains 1"

" You talk as though it wcro a fright-
ful crime to spend an evening in the so-
ciety of an attractive woman, and as
though, because she has the gracious
gift to charm, she should bo avoided
like a pestilence. In the salons of Ma-
dame la Marquise all meet together on a
delightful equality ; each one, retaining
his own opinions, listens to those of
others, and thereby loses his egotism
and despotism, and becomes more lib-
eral, less aggressive, arid less arrogant.
Is it not true that ardent, talented
men of the same noble intentions, some-
times without ever having known, hate
each other, who, after they have been
thrown together under the refining and
conciliating influence of good society,
come to esteem and like each other]
Madame la Marquise has tlie gracious
faculty of making the most opposite
parties perfectly at ease together, and
the happy eff'ect of her evenings is often
to extinguish political suspicions and
enmities. She is most liberal in her
views of life, and charitable in her
judgments, and I venture to assert that,
in any good work you may choose to
undertake, you will find in her a power-
ful coadjutor, for she is as noble and
generous as she is lovely and fasci-
nating."

" O my dear boy ! you are bewitched
by the siren ; as far as I can learn she
is a most heartless coquette, and I am
sure her vanity would not be at all suited

i ._ .p <_an,«gii. i! i?. ^ ' l ! ^^ '! ^ g u ll

lonoe of that dan-

littlo moro charity
trld. Yoti do not

aro condomiiing,"

orimHon fliiuh.
8 true, ncit)'or do I
cart I am a rcpub-
desire to give my

oriatovrnta, roult,

levcro. You apeak
vo no pleasure in

understand mo. I

pleaauro. 1 con-
and gilded vice. If
voraions, what will
oua worki What

can i draw from
inal"
igh it were a fright-

1 evening in the so-
vo woman, and as

has the gracious
should bo avoided
a the taloiit of Ma-
meet together on a
each one, retaining
iatens to those of
' loses his egotism

becomes more lib-
, arid less arrogant,
it ardent, talented
)le intentions, some-
having known, hate
tor they have been
ler the refining and
10 of good society,
d like euch other]
e has tlio gracious
the most opposite
ease together, and
er evenings is often
leal suspicions and
lost liberal in her

charitable in her
iture to assert that,
'ou may choose to
lind in her a powcr-
>e is as noble and

lovely and fasoi-

you are bewitched
' as I can learn she
ioquettc, and I am
I not bo at all suited

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

100

with my austerity. I fancy rich droisoa,
lacos and jewels, flattery and luiiiry,
aro tho subjects slio oonsidor* moat
worthy hur thoughts. Noble liberty
and manly equality have a voice too
coarse and a hand too rough to pleaau
her dainty tuatos ; therefore, dear Ray-
mond, say no more. I do not wiah to
know this womait. I do not wish my
serious life disturlMjd by hur follies."

" From your gentle remarks one
would think you hated women, and had
some grave wrongs to avenge on all tho
sex. It is absurd for you to l)e angry
with them simply because they liko luce
and jewels and aro beautiful. My opin-
ion is that it is only cowurdioo that
makes you refuse. You aro afraid to
meet the fire of La Marquiso'a splendid
eyes."

" Not at all ; splendid eyes never dis-
turb mo."

" Nonsense I you are too young to
preach. You don't mean to tell me
that a lovely woman has no power to
make your heart throb foster 1 "

" The most lovely creature living has
no power to quicken tho pulsation of
that organ," returned Claude, laughing
at Raymond's expression of incredulity.
Then he added, more seriously, "No,
my friend, I am sincere, the solemn
duties of life, the needs and sorrows
of humanity, fill my existence, and I
have no time to waste in amorous sigh-
ing, I leave that to gay gallants like
you; the only passion that fills my
heart is love for my country."

" Bravo I how patriotic 1 I swear your
noble sentiments will find an echo in
tho fair bosom of La Belle Marquise, for
I have heard her utter the same words
a thousand times. Come, my dear
Claude, come with me but this once,
and I will promise you solemnly that,
after you have spent one evening in the
society of Qabrielle de Ventadour, and
are not charmed with her, I will
irever again disturb your peace with my
selfish desires. I have talked of you so
much to her, that she is already inter-
ested in you, and prepared to like you
immensely. I am dying of jealousy, yet
still I insist upon your going, because
I have pledged my word to bring
you."

"I am sorry, Philip," said Claude,

with some impatience, — "I am aorry you
should have dune so without consulting
me first ; you know I have the atrongcat
aveniion to fashionable society. How-
ever, that you may not bruak your
promise to tho fair tyrant, I will go
with you once, but only for an hour,
for I have much to do.

" Bravo 1 " cried Raymond, clasping
his hauda with childiah doli^'lit. " Now
my victory ia aure. Make huato with
your toilet. Shall I call Tristan to
aaaiat 1 The poor aoul waa alecping on
u Bofa in the anteroom when I entered.
Claude, have you noticed how ho has
changed lately 1 The boy is dying ! he
is so thin he la ghastly, and tliut cough
is tearing him to ahreds."

" Yes, I know it too well," replied
Claude, sadly, as ho laid away his
papers and closed his dusk. " My
strongest reason for coming to Paris
was that he might have the benefit
of milder air and a better physician
than Sarzcau affords. No, I will not
disturb him, I will dress alone. Poor
boy, it wrings my heart to think that I
may loao him."

Before Claude had completed h'\%
toilet, Triatan entered, and his master's
eyes searched his thin face more anx-
iously than ever. It was true ho had
changed ft-ightfuUy. Since Philip had
lost seen him at Sarzeau, disease had
made rapid inroads upon his always
feeble constitution ; now, as he stood
languidly before Claude, his long, piti-
ful-looking hands folded, and his head
wearily dropped on his shoulder, while
his eyes, unnaturally large and bright,
beamed with gentle pride and satisfac-
tion, his master's heart ached at the
feebleness of his appearance, and he
said, with a voice as tender as a moth-
er's, " Do you feel a littlo better this
evening, Tristan t "

" yes, monsieur, much better." It
was always the same answer, for be
never complained.

" Don't sit up for me, Tristan, go to
bed as soon as you like after I am
gone," returned Claude, kindly, as he
tied the last knot of his white cravat.
" Now do I look sufficiently well dressed
for fashionable society 1 "

" monsieur, you are perfect ! " re-
plied Tristan, with undisguised admira-

110

A CnOWJf FROM THE SPEAR.

you

■o

elegant

tloii. " I never law
bclnrc."

" I winh it wore for a Wftor cnww,
my Ixiy," Hiiid (IIuikIo, (Imwiii); on liU
kIovi'h uh Iiu Ic'tl the rouni to join Uiiy-
niond.

" Now vou pIcANo ino, nnd do credit
to yourrtelf; you are ulc^uit, entirely
cli<(,'ant," cried Philip, lut lie wiilked
aroinid IiIh friend, and cxatnined hitt
drcHH with the utfeuted airs of a fiiitliion-
altlu tailor itnttin^ the iiiHt totichoR to
the fittin)j( of a now unit. " I lun mire
the heart of Miidamo la ManpiiHo will
Hurrendur at the firat glance. Now,
moH ami, you innst pnnniHO mo not to
try to win her from mo, neither to
make her Huffer by yotir severity. If
you Hco Hho iu really intoroHted in yon,
retire (Vom tho Held, and leave nio a
fair elianco. Will you prumiNO mo
thati"

" Yes, with all trnth, yo<i need have
no fears, yon will not find a rival in
mo. 8ho may havo all tho charms, all
tho graces, and nil the virtues, yet she
can havo no power to touch my heart ; I
am protected by an invuluorablo ar-
mor."

Philip laughed derisively aa he gave
tho conchman the order to drive to the
H6to1 Ventadour, Hue St. Dominique.

It was rather late when they arrived,
and tho lalona of Madame la Marquise
were crowded with a brilliant throng.
She stood in tho scarlet room, nnder
tho light of the great golden chandelier,
clothed in dazzling white, and blazing
with jewels, receiving with tho grace
and dignity of a queen tho distin-
guished guests who disputed for her
smilos.

In spito of tho calmness and stoicism
of his character, in spite of tho chilling
and hardening effect of hia years of
seclusion, in spito of tho armor which
ho boasted of wearing, Claude's heart
bounded and throbbed as it never had
before, when his eyes fell upon the
remarkable beauty of this woman ; his
head whirled, and his breath seemed to
come in short gasps, thousands of lights
danced before him, and thousands of
voices deafened him, as ho clasped Ray-
mond's arm tightly while ho led him
forward to present him.

Madame la Marquise do Ventadour

received her guest with tho most chiirm-
ing grace and tweetneHN, the long liiMhes
swept tho fair cheeks, and the li|)a
trembling in a halfsmilo uttered what
wuN unintelligible, yet there was no
visible agitation save the rapid riso
and fall of the clouds of lace nver her
boNoni, and the sudden pallor thut was
swiftly succeeded by a delicatu flush.
Then she raised her splendid eyes and
looked Claude steadily in the face,
while she addressed him in calm, clear
tones, which he did not seem to hear,
for ho made no reply, only bowing low
he drew back and allowed some new-
comers to take his place.

" For (tod's sake ! " he said, in a low
voice, clasping Philip's arm more tight-
ly, " draw back a little behind this
crowd until I get breath. I am stifling.
I told you I was not fit for such a scene.
The very air poisons mo ! "

" Nonsense 1 " returned Raymond,
looking at him with surprise ; " it is tho
sudden glare of light, and tho confusion
of voices. Why, you are like an actor
touched with stage fright ; or perhaps
* La Ik'Uo Damo sans Merci ' has sent
an arrow straight to your heart."

" For Heaven's sake, Philip, don't
jest. I tell you 1 have had a shock,
a terrible shock. I am thoroughly be-
wildered, leave me alone while I recover
mysolf." And sinking on to a sofa in the
alcove of a window, ho buried hia face
in his hands and shut out tho glare of
light and the dazzling form of Gabriello
do Ventadour. A thousand emotions
and memories swept over his soul. It
seemed as though the events of his
whole life were concentrated into that
moment, yet he was not conscious of
any one scene being clearer than an-
other. All was chaos, bewildored con-
fusion, a murmur of indistinguibhablo
sounds. A blaze of every color min-
gled in the wildest disorder.

He was aroused at last by Raymon(L
who said severely, while he laid his hana
on his shoulder, " Come I this will never
do. Don't make yourself ridiculous.
You are attracting the attention of tho
whole company. Shake off your night-
mare, and go and speak to the Mar-
quise, or leave the room."

Claude started up with a pallid face,
passing hia hand over bis eyes aa if to

|i the moBt rliiirm-
iH, tlio luii^ IuhIicn
H, anil tliu lipa
nilo titturod wlint
ct tlioro wntt no
|o tho riipiil ritti.
(if laio (ivor her
n pallor ilmt vm
a (lolicatu (IiihIi.
pientliil even aiul
ily in tlio fiico,
liirn in calm, clear
tot Mocrn to honr,
[v, only liowiiiff low
Unwed Bonio now-
ilaco.

iio Bnid, in a low
)'H arm more ti(;ht-
llttlo behind thin
ath. I amHtifling.
fit for such a Hcono.
mo ! "

turned Raymond,
Hur))riHO ; " it itt tho
t, and tho confuHion
)u are like un actor
fright ; or perhaps
UH Merci ' has sent
;o your heart."
sake, Philip, don't
have had a shock,
I am thoroughly bo-
nlono while 1 recover
ng on to a sofa in tho
, he buried his face
lut out tho glare of
ing form of Gabriello
thousand rmotions
it over his soul. It
\ tho events of his
ncentrated into that
as not conscious of
ng clearer than an-
laos, bewildered con-
of indistinguiuhable
of every color min-
it disorder,
at last by Raymoud|
nrhile he laid his hanii
Jome I this will never
yourself ridiculous,
the attention of tho
Shake off your night-
[ speak to tho Mor-
9 room."

ip with a pallid face,
)ver his eyes as if to

A CROWN FIIOM THE 81'EAR.

Ill

clear his flight. "Tt is true, I am a
fool, a Mtupid dolt, to Ix) uvurcoinu in
thin way. liut have patience with mo,
I'lii' |>, for a moment, I have received
nwcU It shock. Oive me your arm, and
wo wtll (.'iko a turn through the rooms,
<rhilo I cdinpimo myself sufflciuutly to
speak f ' yonder duzstling creature, then
anerwai-ifd I will slip <iuifltly away. 1
cannot remain Uet\\ it is no pluco for
me."

"('(tme with mo to tho lilirnry, it is
cooler and qifieter there," said Ray
mond. As they left tho alcove to-
gether, ('liiude glanced at La Marquise.
She Htood in the same place, surrounded
by tho same thmng of admirers, but
hor oyi'H wore following him. On tho
thrcitholil of tho library another sur-

Iiriso awaited him. A tall, elegant-
miking man in purple robes turned, as
tho two entered, fVom a group of eccle-
siastics who surrounded him, and Claude
saw before him Monseignour tho Binhop
of Rouen. It acted like an electric
shock ; all tho confusion and feebleness
of his mind passed away like a flash
bofnre tho unflinching gaze of tho man
who had so wronged him. In that
inomont each face expressed more than
words can describe, while without tho
least apparent recognition on cither
side they met, and passed so near that
tho purple robes of tho Bishop brushed
against Claude.

When Raymond, with his companion,
returned to tho scarlet room, the num-
ber of worshippers that surrounded La
Marquise had not in the least dimin-
ished, yet tho moment her eyes foil
upon them sho gracefully motioned
both to her side, while she said to
Philip, " I am more than grateful to
you, M. Raymond, for your prompt
compliance with my wishes." Then
sho turned to Claude with a smilo, half
grave, half happy, " I have heard so
much good of you from your friend, that
I have long wished to know you, M. le
Comte."

" You honor mo, madam," replied
Claude, with a low bow, " but I fear
you have overestimated my humble
eiForts, if tho kind heart of my friend
exaggerates what littlo I have done to
something worthy your notice."

" M. Raymond, will you go and talk

with Madame T 1 fiho is dying

for some of yourchanninguotiiplimi'titM.'*
Philip looked reproachfully at I<a Mar-
quiNo us hu walked otf to do Iut bid-
ding. " Now, M. le Comte," she said,
turning to Claude with a bright smile,
" I belicvo yoti are unac(|uaiuted with
Parisian society, iierhaps you will allow
me to point out some of its celebrities 1 "

" You aro too kind," with another
in'ave bow, while his eyes seemed riv-
eted upon her face.

•' Do you m'o those two men talking
with tho lady in lil'Je < The blond is
M, le Ministro du la (iiw-rre., tho brun
is M. lo Miuistre des Kinaiice^^, mid tho
lady is tho celebrated Cuuutc!)S do

\l ; l>oth aro in love with her, and

sho is in love with neither. Yet each
is ready to swear that sho adores tho
other ; while hor husband, who is ouo
of tho sonators, would like to shoot all
throe."

Claudo did not reply ; ho seemed to
lie studying tJM) countenance of Iji
Marquiso curiously. Again she flashed
another glance at him ; both turned
visibly paler ; then tho long liu<ih<'S
swopt hor cheeks, and with u sligitlly
tremulous voice she wont on with her
remarks. " Youdor small, dark man

is M. R , one of tho loadors of tho

Republican |)arty ; ho is a strong spirit,
an agitator, an extremist, but ho is
wonderfully clever."

" I am well acquainted with him
through his works ; he writes thoso
spirited and truthful letters in the — "

" Yes, M. lo Comto, ho is very ad-
venturous ; throe times he has been
imprisoned because of his attacks on
tho Imperial party, but as often as ho
has been liberated ho has advanced his
opinions with tho same intrepidity and
defiance. I like him ; ho is one of my
heroes. I worship a strong, fearless
soul."

" A noble woman always admires
courage, no matter in what cause." said
Claude at random, scarce knowing
what he said, so confused were his
thoughts in tho presence of this remark-
able woman.

" Notice that man who is passing ;
the short, thick man, with flat nose,
and block, close-curling hair ; that is

.•

M. D-

and the tall, thin man with

fl2^

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR

him is M. M , his shadow he is called ;

he always goes with M. D to assist

in gathering material for his novels.

It is well known that poor M. M

does all the work, and that M. D

reaps the benefit, that is, the fame ,.nd
the money."

" How unjust," said Claude, bitterly,
"to take so contemptible an advantage
of the power given to one by success ! "

" It is true ; but there is so little
justice in society ! O M. le Comte,
here in my own rooms, as well as in
other brilliant circles, I see things that
make me blush at the deceptions wc
are capable of. In my salons are repre-
sentatives of all parties ; of the state,
the Church, and the liberal professions.
I encourage equality," — with a little,
mocking laugh and another quick glance
at Claude. " I am as thoroughly diplo-
matic as a statesman. I have one room
for the sheep, another for the goats, and
a third for the wolves; yet they all
mix together ; they affect to hate each
other, yet they mix without much snarl-
ing. And I like a sprinkling of scarlet
and purple, it gives dignity to a recep-
tion. Yonder, talking with the Arch
bishop of Paris, is the Bishop of Rouen
He is an ambitious man, and hopes to
be a cardinal. Has he not an imposing
figure and a face of remarkable intelli-
gence 1 "

Claude raised his eyes and saw those
of La Marquise fixed upon him with
what he thought to be a strange expres-
sion. A slight shiver passed over him,
but he said, calmly, " Yes, madam, his
exterior is faultless, let us hope his
character is equally so."

"He is a successful man. Society
does him homage, the Church looks
upon him as one of her most earnest
and devoted teachers, his influence with
the government is almost boxindless,
and his opposition against republicanism
is a power in itself. I suppose the proof
of one's superiority is his success, is it
not so?"

"With the world, yes, often; but
before a higher tribunal one may be
judged differently."

"You take a very serious view of
life, M. le Comte. It has one mean-
ing for you and another for us who
are only pleasure-seekers. We are

ambitious of the most contemptible
things ; you, of the most noble. Here
is one of our stars, our brightest stars,"
as a young man with pale, earnest face,
and eyes full of fire, bowed low before

her and passed ; "he is M. L. N ,

our glorious young orator. A.h, mon
Dieu f how he touches all hearts ! Ho
does not fear to speak the truth, no
more than does that intrepid contributor
to the Sevue des Deux Mondes. Did you
read his last article on Equity 1 "
Claude bowed in reply.
" I admire the nobility and truth of
his sentiments, as well as the courage
with which he defends them. It is to
be regretted that the nation must be
deprived of such a teacher. I am told
that already the secret police are using
every means to discover who he is ; and
that the Jieme is threatened with sup-
pression if it publishes any more of his
articles. I hope the unfortunate man
will be warned in time to save himself
from imprisonment."

The sweet, clear voice of La Marquise
was full of anxiety, and her eyes were
fixed earnestly on the face of Claude as
he replied, ♦• If he is an apostle of the
truth, he must not be silent from the
fear of evil consequences. — W^ho is that
fair, florid young man talking with such
animation to the group of ladies sur-
rounding him 1 "

" 0, that is M. D , the popular

artist ; he is an immense favorite, and
most amusing. To look at his inex-
pressive face one would not believe he
could so well represent the horroi-s of
the infernal regions. — 0, Sir Edward,
and Lady Courtnay, and Mademoiselle
Elizabeth ! I am more than happy to see
you all." And La Marquise held out
both hands in eager welcome to the new
arrivals.

Scarce had Sir Edward and the ladies
replied to her kind reception when they
all recognized Claude, — Sir Edward with
evident pleasure, (!61e8te with trembling
indecision, and Elizabeth with unmis-
takable gravity and coldness. During
this first moment of excited surprise La
Marquise studied the group with the
keenest attention.

Sir Edward's first act was to present
Claude to his wife and daughter.
I " M. le Comte de Clermont, my dears,

' Biiju^afc.ixiitet ' ? '

nost contemptible
most noble. Here
ur brigbtcst stars,"
pale, earnest face,
bowed low before

is M. L. N ,

orator. A.h, mon
es all hearts ! lie
Bak the truth, no
ntrepid contributor
Mondet. Did you
n Equity?" , . ,

ply-

)ility and truth of
'ell as the courage
ds them. It is to
le nation must be
«acher. I am told
•et police are using
>ver who he is ; and
reatened with sup-
kes any more of his
e unfortunate man
me to save himself

oice of La Marquise
and her eyes were
le face of Claude as
is an apostlu of the
be silent from the
aces. — Who is that
n talking with such
roup of ladies sur-

3 , the popular

mense favorite, and
I look at his inex-
uld not believe ho
jent the horroi-s of
.— 0, Sir Edward,
and Mademoiselle
e than happy to see
Marquise held out
welcome to the new

ward and the ladies
eoeption when they
, — Sir Edward with
este with trembling
ftbeth with unmis-
coldness. During
excited surprise La
he group with the

act was to present
id daughter.
:]!lermont, my dears,

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

113

who 80 modestly evaded your gratitude
on that dreadful night when ho risked
his life to save ours."

With feelings of extreme culpability
both Celeste and Elizabeth acknowl-
edged their indebtedness, and added
the conveutional professions of pleasure
at meeting again under such agreeable
circumstances, with a calmness that
surprised Claude as well as themselves.

Happily for all, at that moment Ray-
mond appeared upon the scene, and the
conversation became general. La Mar-
quise was brilliant, with smiles that
dazzled, and flashes of wit that startled ;
Sir Edward was overflowing with good-
humor and compliments; he was one of
the oldest satellites that revolved around
La Marquise, and was therefore allowed
more privileges than the younger aspi-
rants for favor. Philip was jealous of
Claude's long tSte-&-tSte, and uneasy in
the presence of Elizabeth ; so he was
moody and satirical by turns. Claude
was calm and almost solemn, as he was
in every great crisis ; to him this was
*a moment pf no common importance.
Ho pitied Celeste's pallor, and her un-
successful eflbrt to hide her agitation,
that she might join in the conversation
with composure ; while he respected
Elizabeth's anxiety to conceal her own
troubled reflections, and at the same
time to divert attention fi-om her friend.
" I will withdraw quietly," he thought,
" and relieve these unhappy women of
my presence." So, unnoticed by the
others, he took leave of La Marquise
and left the group at the same moment
as Monseigneur the Bishop of Rouen
joined it.

When Claude reached the retirement
of his own room, his thoughts were still
in a terrible confusion over which he
had no power. The successive events
of the evening, so unexpected, and of a
nature so trying, had thoroughly demol-
ished his boasted structure of atoiciam,
and the meeting with Fabien had
aroused feelings which he had hoped
could never again And a place in his
heart. After sitting a long time ab-
sorbed in profound thought over his
complication of difilculties, ho arose, and
pacing the floor with rapid strides
said, in a voice full of disappointment
and Borrow : " There is a fatality in

this, — there is a fatality. God knows
how I have tried to avoid these shoals
on which I am shipwrecked. I did not
willingly rush into this danger. I
struggled against it, I tried to shun it

Philip, my friend, in your kindness
you have been most cruel ! That mys-
terious woman has thrown a spell over
me that I cannot cast off. How inscruta-
ble is the chain of circumstance that
unites the severed ties of life ! Again
all is undone, my peace of mind is dis-
turbed, my old love revived, my old de-
sires renewed. In one hour 1 have for-
gotten all my years of sacrifice and sor-
row ; the high M'all that I have striven
to build with care between nic and the
angel I still adore is swept away by
these floods of passion. Celeste, my
pale darling, I hoped we should meet
no more until we met in eternity ! but I
will strive to be strong for thee, thou
shalt never have cause to reproach
me."

"Celeste," said Elizabeth that same
night, as she stooped over her to kiss
her before retiring, — " Celeste, darling,
there seems to be a fatality in our meet-
ing M. le Comte de Clermont again ; now
that it has occurred, I regret our having
kept anything from papa. I felt terribly
guilty when he presented him to us as
though ho had been a stranger."

" We will think of him then only as
having seen him for the first time to-
night. We will forget all the past, that
will be best," returned Celeste, with a
trembling sigh of regret, that plainly
contradicted her assertion.

Madame la Marquise de Ventadour
retired to her luxurious chamber after
her last guest had departed, and locking
the door against her maid, she almost
tore the jewels from her arms and neck,
the band that confined her hair, and
the girdle encircling her waist. " They
press too heavily," she said between her
white teeth, as she threw them negli-
gently on her dressing-table. " My God,
how they tortured me while his truthful
eyes were looking into my face! Ah,
for what a price I sold myself! If tears
of blood could wash away the sin, the
fever, and anguish of my soul, then I
should be pure and sufler no more, for

1 have wept them, I have wept them
until my heart is drained white."

turn

114

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

PART THIRD.

A DINNER IN THB RUB CASTIOLIONB.

Tub next morning after the toirie at
the Hutol Vontudour, Claude sat at his
desk vainly trying to concentrate his
thoughts upon the work before him, an
article which ho had been preparing with
great care for one of the hberal journals,
which was at that time a mouthpiece
of the reform party. Whatever ho did
toward emancipating and enlightening
humanity was done after deep delibera-
tion and mature thought, for he wished
to be both generous and just ; but this
moruiug he felt incapable of calm, clear
reasoning, he could neither separate nor
arrange the chaos of ideas that filled
his mind. He thought of Gabrielle do
Ventadour, and of Celeste, and then of
Fabien in his bishop's dress, honored
and prosperous ; of the wrong Fabien
had done him, of the still greater wrong
to that pale sad woman, who seemed a
living but silent reproach to his cruelty ;
and then again the lovely face with its
crown of silver-white hair, the strange
expressions of the eyes, the mouth with
passion and sorrow stamped under its
smile, came between him and his paper,
and he laid his pen down in despair and
resigned himself entirely to his revery.
Ho thought of all who had taken part
in the scene of the previous evening as
we think of those who are closely con-
nected with our interior life, invisible
cords united and drew him persistently
toward those whom the day before ho
had believed to be separated from him
forever. He felt a strong desire, so
strong that he could scarce conquer it,
to see again that remarkable woman
who had left such a strange impression
upon his memory. She had attracted
him, fascinated him, if you will, but it
■was not a physical fascination. There
was no material element in the power-
ful spoil that inthralled him ; he did not
■counect it with her beauty, her wit, her
gracious and winning manner. It was a
weird, supernatural charm that invested
her. He thought of her as one might
think of a vision that had appeared in a
dream, or of one of those startling fan-
tasies of a diseased brain, when one who
lias "boon long forgotten in the dust and
darkness of the grave, and the form of

whose face is even obliterated from mem>
ory by the cifacing finger of Time, sud-
denly stands before us in the silence and
solemnity of the night, wearing the same
smile that once made our life glad. She
was a resurrection of something that hud
died long before from his existence, and
with it an old affection, an old interest
was renewed to the exclusion of later
influences. Then Celeste haunted him,
contending with the other for the first
place in his thoughts ; she had changed,
sadly changed, during the years that had
passed since he saw her on the shore of
Quiberon ; she was slighter, paler, lan-
guid, and sorrowful ; he saw it all at a
glance, and understood that her life was
one continuous martyrdom, that care
and anxiety were pressing like a heavy
burden upon her ; and, more, he was tor-
tured with the belief that her health
was seriously undermined, and that un-
less something was done to save her she
would sink into a premature grave. "0
merciful Heavens ! " ho thought, " why
cannot I take her away from the misery
that is killing her, to the shelter of my
love 1 I might save her, and prolong the
life that is so much dearer than my own.
I might make her happy, and thereby
atone for the suffering I have unwillingly
caused her ; but it cannot bo, it cannot
be, I can only watch over her from afar
and pray for her. My lamb, my poor
gentlo lamb, thy meek eyes haunt me
with a mute appeal for help, and I can
do nothing for thee." Mingled with his
pity, his sorrow, his tender desires, was
a drop of gall that imbittered his whole
soul; it was his indignation, his contempt,
his righteous anger, against the man
who had defrauded both of happiness,
" What right had he to take from us
what no human power can compensate us
fort He has ruined two lives; he should
be punished, he should bear the mark of
Cain upon him, he should be branded by
the hand of God ; and yet he prospers,
and the world honors him. O justice t
justice ! thou art indeed a mockery."

In the midst of these uncomfortable
reflections, a visitor was announced.
It was Sir Edward Courtnay. When
Claude rose to receive him, he came
forward with outstretched hands, de-
claring with the utmost empressement
that be could not allow a day to paea

Iterated from mem-
pger of Time, sud-
in the Bilonco and
, wearing the same
our life glnd. She
omething that Iiud
his existence, and
|ion, nn old interest
exclusion of later
lesto haunted him,
other for the first
; she had changed,
the years that had
er on the shore of
lighter, paler, Ian-
he saw it all at a
od that her life was
rtyrdom, that care
essing like a heavy
id, more, he was tor-
ef that her health
nined, and that un-
lone to save her she
emature grave. "0
' ho thought, " why
ivay from the misery
to the shelter of my
her, and prolong the
dearer than my own.
happy, and thereby
ng I have unwillingly
cannot be, it cannot
h over her from afar
My lamb, my poor
aeek eyes haunt rne
for help, and I can
." Mingled with his
3 tender desires, was
imbittered his whole
lunation, his contempt,
ir, against the man
i both of happiness,
he to take from us
irer can compensate us
[two lives; ho should
luld bear the mark of
should be branded by
and yet he prospers,
ors him. justice !
ndeed a mockery."
these uncomfortable
:or was announced,
d Courtnay. When
iceivo him, he came
stretched hands, de-
utmost empreiaemeni
allow a day to paea

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

115

without ofTcring htm some little hospi-
tality. " And my wife and daughter
join with me in the same feeling," he
said ; " therefore I am come to pray
that you will dine with us this evening,
quite informally, no one but yourself
and Kayniond."

Claude hesitated ; shotild he accept,
or should he refuse 1 His honorable
character would not allow him to suc-
cumb to the temptation without com-
bating it. In the first place, he did not
feel at ease in regard to the deception
they all three, CiSleste, Elizabeth, and
himself, had tacitly imposed upon Sir
Edward. If he could have said, " I was
once the lover of your wife, and I adore
her still. I deceived you at Sarzeau
by allowing you to believe that she was
a stranger to me. Now, if you wish to
open yotir doors to me, I am ready to
enter." In such a case he would have
felt that he was acting an honorable
part. But still to continue the decep-
tion, and accept an hospitable offer
made in good faith, was most revolting
to him. If he alone had been involved,
he would not for- one moment have
hesitated to declare the truth. Now
it was necessary, either to accept
the baronet's friendship, or to give a
reason for refusing it ; but if ho ac-
knowledged his own fault, ho would by
BO doing betray the two women, who
for some cause, perhaps most important
to themselves, had concealed the fact
of their previous meeting and of the
scene that had then occurred. He did
not know what had prompted them to
such a course, nor what the result
might be to them if ho revealed all.
Then again, Sir Edward had said that
his wife and daughter had wished that
he might be invited. They then de-
sired to place him on a friendly footing,
perhaps to let bygones be bygones. In
any case it seemed a sort of treaty of
peace, an offer of an amicable alliance,
which he could not disregard. Of one
thing he was certain, and that was that
the unhappy woman needed a friend,
some one who had no selfish interest in
his devotion to her, and he believed
himself at that moment capable of any
sacrifice, any immolation, that might
make him more worthy of her confi-
dence. Therefore, after this interior

debate, which was shorter than the
time taken to descril)o it, he accepted
the invitation to dinner ; and Sir Ed-
ward went away well satisfied, con-
gratulating himself that the noble,
unsuspecting nature of Claude did not
detect any selfish motive under his
importunate attention.

Secretly C^Sleste wished to see
Claude again. She hoped to see him,
she longed to see him. She admitted
that desire to herself, and denied it the
next moment with tears and blushes.
" I must not see him, Elizabeth says I
must not ; and yet why cannot we be
friends?" she repeated over and over
to herself. " We nr-ight both forget the
past, and be friends. Life would be
worth supporting if I could but have
his counsel, his aid. Poor Elizabeth is
but little better able to bear my bur-
dens than I am myself ; and yet I am
obliged to lay them upon her, because
I cannot stand up imder them. 0, if
we both might go to Claude, and tell
him of our troubles, and ask him to
show us some way out of them ! I am
sure if Elizabeth could look at it in
that way, she might think it better to
allow him to he our friend."

When, the next morning, over the
breakfast-table, Sir Edward spoke of
Claude, and suggested that he should
1x3 invited to dine with them that
evening, both ladies unexpectedly ob-
jected ; and then seeing that their
objection, without apparent reason,
caused some surprise, they confusedly
and hesitatingly complied, and even
expressed the hope that he might come.

"There is no reason in the world
why he should not, my dears," said the
baronet, rubbing his hands together
good-naturedly. "He is a superior
young man, so distinguished looking,
and he belongs to one of the oldest and
best families of France ; besides, I am
told that he is rich, very rich. Ho
is an excellent parti for you, Elizabeth,
an unexceptionable parti; encourage
him, my daughter, encourage him."

" papa ! how can yon talk so 1 "
said Elizabeth, with a little auger and
contempt in her voice, while Celeste
turned paler, and atirred her coffee
nervously.

After Sir Edward left the room, Lady

aU i iii ' jmww.^ ^ -. ^-.

116

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

Courtnay looked up, and seeing Eliza-
both'B eyes fixed upon hur inquiringly,
she flushed and paled, tried to speak,
and then burst into tears.

" It is no use to weep," said Eliz-
abeth, a littlo severely. "We have
both deceived poor papa, and we must
bear the consequences calmly, or else
I must tell him all, and leave him to
punish us as he thinks best."

" Elizabeth ! I implore you not to
tell him," cried Celeste, wringing her
hands. " It can do no good now. I
will try to forget the past, and look upon
Claude only as an ordinary acquaint-
ance. I promise you, Elizabeth, that I
will never refer in any way to the past
when I am with him. In everything
else I will do as you think best, but in
this hear to mo. I have no strength,
no courage to bear Sir Edward's anger."

" Listen to me, Celeste," said Eliz-
abeth, very sternly, yet her eyes were
dim with tears. " We have both de-
ceived papa, I as much as you ; and
perhaps my deception is even more
wicked, because I am his daughter, and
he should be first to me in everything.
And I believe a person who has done
wrong and has not the courage to con-
fess it the worst of cowards. Now I
am not a coward where I alone am
concerned, but I am a coward when I
am obliged to make you suffer, and I
cannot find the force to do it. There-
fore I shall listen to you and shall not
confess this wrong to papa, but only on
one condition, and that is that you
will never allow M. le Comte de Cler-
mont to refer in any way to the past.
Your only safety is in that."

" I never will, Elizabeth," replied
Celeste, solemnly, — "I never will ; the
past is as dead to me as the future is
hopeless." Then she threw herself on
her friend's neck and they wept silently
together.

When Claude arrived at the Rue
Castiglione, he found Lady Courtnay
and Elizabeth alone in the salon ; they
met him calmly and kindly, without the
least demonstration of anxiety, or any
reference to another acquaintance than
the slight one of the previous evening.
From their manner he understood the
r6lt he was expected to play, and he
tacitly agreed to it, though not without

some qualms of conscience. It would
be difficult to describe the feelings of
the three poor souls who were strug-
gling to keep in the straight path, after
the sacrifice of their own integrity, as
they stood together over the bright
wood-fire, awaiting the presence of the
man they had deceived, each ot.e talk-
ing, but scarcely knowing what the
other said, and neither of the three
daring to fall into silence, fearful lest
he or she should betray a mental in-
quietude to the other.

The room was filled with the calm
that twilight brings; it had the sim-
ple homelike look, more English than
French, for Elizabeth had left the traces
of her nationality everywhere. There
wore warm carpets on the floors, pictures
on the walls, flowers growing in jardi-
niires at the windows, comfortable
chairs and sofas, footstools and tlte-d-
titet, an open piano covered with music,
tables filled with books and journals, and
on one side of the fire a dainty work-
stand and a low sowing-chair ; and then
the ladies in their simple dinner-dresses
seemed so much more lovely than in
the lace and jewels of an evening toilet.
Celeste's pale blue silk dress and pearl
ornaments set off her fair face and
blond hair, while Elizabeth looked
sweet and noble in simple white, with-
out jewels or ribbons. There was a
sincerity and naturalness about all, an
air of elegance and comfort, without
fashion and luxury.

As Claude observed the details of the
surroundings, the signs of quiet domes-
tic life, his heart was touched to tender-
ness and filled with the old longing for
such an existence. His retiring, gentle
nature was created for pure family ties
and loving companionship ; it had been
his dream long ago at Clermont, but
the intervention of another and the
will of God had prevented its fulfilment.
And he knew that now such a desire
could never be realized, the chance was
over for him ; another filled his place
in the life of Celeste. She made a home
for one who had no moral right to her,
one who had obtained her unfairly, one
who was utterly unworthy of the treas-
ure he possessed, and that was perhaps
the most bitter thought of all ; her
husband waa a selfish profligate, an

M ' J>^i ' ;^ ^

3ience. It would

the feelings of

who were strug-

traight path, after

own integrity, as

over the bright

lu presence of the

|ed, each o:.e talk-

lowing what the

kher of the throe

jlcnce, fearful lest

[tray a mental in-

ed with the calm
, it had the sim-
nore English than
had left the traces
irerywhere. There
1 the floors, pictures
growing in jardi-
:ows, comfortable
otstools and tite-d-
»vered with music,
is and journals, and
fire a dainty work-
ing-chair ; and then
mple dinner-dresses
ore lovely than in
>f an evening toilet,
lilk dress and pearl
her fair face and
Elisabeth looked
simple white, with-
ons. There was a
ilness about all, an
d comfort, without

sd the details of the
igns of quiet domes-
s touched to tendor-

the old longing for

His retiring, gentle
for pure family ties
>nship ; it had been
) at Clermont, but
r another and the
'ented its fulfilment.

now such a desire
zed, the chance was
her filled his place
e. She made a home

moral right to her,
ed her unfairly, one
iirorthy of the treas-
nd that was perhaps
lought of all ; her
Ifish profligate, an

A CmOWN PROM THE SPEAR.

iir

unprincipled spendthrift. " If he were
but a good noble man, I could endure
it," ho thought, "because I should
know she was happy ; but as it is, sho
is miserable, sho and Elizabeth are both
enduring protracted martyrdom, and
God only knows when it will end." He
tried to banish such unpleasant reflec-
tions. " I will at least bo happy one
evening in the presence of this adorable
woman; she shall not know I suspect
her secret, dear angel ! I will make her
happy by seeming happy myself, and
I will watch over both until the time
comes when they need a Ariend, a
brother; then I will be ready to aid
them." So he solaced himself with
these few drops of consolation wrung
from his pain.

When Sir Edward entered with Ray-
mond, they found all three engaged in
a cheerful conversation. Elizabeth's
usual gravity and reticence seemed to
have disappeared, and Celeste's gentle
face was beaming with smiles.

Philip was in better humor than on
the preceding evening; he had just
left la belle dame, who hod favored
him with a long tHe-h-tite, and after-
wards had invited him to drive with
her in the Bois, where he had been
envied by all her admirers, which flat-
tered his vanity and encouraged his
hopes. To Elizabeth he was most
amiable, treating her with a sort of
caressing deference, such as a boy might
display toward a cherished elder sister,
while she in turn smiled gravely at his
nonsense, and rebuked his faults gently,
but seriously.

Claude took Celeste in to dinner, and
sat at her side in a sort of happy dream.
Dish after dish came and was sent
away without his knowing of what it
was composed ; he ate and drank me-
chanically, too happy to discriminate,
and joined in the general conversation
with remarks that appeared apropos, but
were in foct uttered without thought.

After the ladies had withdrawn, and
while the gentlemen lingered over their
wine, the conversation turned upon the
reception of the previous evening at the
Hdtel Ventadour ; and Sir Edward in-
quired of Claude if he, like every one
else, had been fascinated by La Mar-
quise.

" No," replied Claude, " I think not,
not, at least, in the way you mean ; still
she made a most powerful impression
upon me. I imagine it is her remarkable
style of beauty that charms, it strikes
one ut the first glance as something
supernatural ; her fresh, youthful face,
surrounded by that dazzling white hair,
has a most bizarre effect ; what could
have so blanched it at her agol"

Sir Edward shrugged his shoulders
and laughed. "That is a mystery, as
well as herself. About five years ago,
la belle dame suddenly flashed upon
society as La Marquise do Ventadour.
Where the lucky octogenarian found her
none can tell. Society went into agonies
over the enigma, but the old Marquis
did not live long enough to explain it,
and the fair Gabrielle is too discreet
and clever to reveal a secret that con-
stitutes her greatest power; for she
well knows that if you set the world to
wondering it will soon worship, and it
does not matter who she wa», she is the
most brilliant, the most lovely, the most
witty, and the most courted woman in
Paris, and I might add, the most heart-
less, for she has no more feeling than a
mummy."

" You are mistaken," said Raymond,
with a sudden flush, " she is not insen-
sible. Because she is cold to the world,
it does not follow that she is cold to
every one. I am sure you do her
great injustice ; she has a noble, gener-
ous heart."

" Indeed ! " returned Sir Edward,
"then you have been more successful
than her other admirers if you have
discovered that organ."

" I did not say she had a heart for
me. Man Dieu ! I wish she had ; she
is in love with some one, and I can't
discover who it is, unless it is M. le
Comte, for she maddens me with her
constant praises of him."

" You exaggerate fearfully, Philip," said
Claude, impatiently ; " Madame la Mar-
quise wastes neither thought nor speech
on such an ungracious churl as I am."

"We shall see, wait and we shall
see," returned Philip, oracularly, as they
left the table to join the ladies at tea in
the talon.

The evening seemed to fly swiftly on
light wings, and Claude's spirit rose and

ii j i»li ' llr ' -

118

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

flouted away from the aad reality of his
life on ]>inions of imaginary bliss ; ho
was intoxicated with his happiness ; the
presence of Celeste acted like a charm.
He liHtoned to her while she sang, and
her sweetly 8ym])athctic voice softened
him to tears ; and when she selected a
simple little cluinton that they had often
sung together at Clermont, be could
scarcely contain his emotion ; yet be
was not sorrowful, his heart was full of
a delicious joy, and he almndoned him-
self to the delight of the moment ; ho
was only conscious that he was with
Celeste, that the sweetness of the old
days lingered around them, that heart
spoke to heart in a mute but powerful
language ; often her eyes met his with
a timid glance of joy, while smiles that
were infantine in their freshness and
unaffected happiness chased away the
pensive shade from her expressive face.
It was an hour that both remembered
long after with mingled joy and regret,
for it was the first unconscious step
down that dangerous declivity from
which it is iuipossiblo to return as
intact as one has descended.

Philip was as full of absurdities as a
child ; be sang the most ridiculous
songs, recounted the most laughable
adventures, and recited the most amus-
ing selections from the literature of
different countries.

" Do you remember an old song I
was never weary of hearing when we
were children, Philip 1 " said Elizabeth,
with softened voice and dreamy eyes.

" Indeed I do, every word of it ; and
I also remember how heart-broken you
were if I left out one verso that you
particularly liked, and that I particu-
larly disliked. Will you hear it now 1
I can repeat it with all the fervor of
other days." And Raymond, standing
up, threw back his shoulders, extended
hands, and, assuming a tragic tone, he
recited the whole of that quaint old
English ballad in which the sufferings
of Young Beichan and Susie Pye are so
patheticiUly narrated. When he had
finished he turned Ut i^'izabeth, and,
looking her earnestly ia the face, said,
" We were one then, we grew together
in thought and feeling."

" But we have grown far apart since
those days, Philip," she replied sadly.

" Do you also remember theso lines
of the unfortunate Marquia of Mon-
trose 1 —

' But if thou wilt ))c constant then,
And faithful of thy woi-d,
I 'U maku thi'p glorioiiB by my pen,
And famous by my sword.
I '11 scrvu thee in such noble w«}s
Was never heard before ;
I '11 crown and deck theo aU with bays,
And love thee evermore.'

O Elizabeth, I swear I meant it all
then ! Whoso fault is it that you are
not wearing my bays 1 "

" Hush, Philip, for pity's sake don't
jest at our disappointment," said the
poor girl, bending her head over the
piece of embroidery in her fingers, to
hide the hot flush that crimsoned her
face.

" Have you seen these exquisite
drawings in Mademoiselle's album'?'''
And Claude, as he spoke, gave the book
through which he had been looking
with Celeste to Raymond. " You will
find some charming little things well
worth examining."

" Here is a beautiful impromptu

sketch by M. D ," said Elizabeth,

who had recovered from her confusion,
and now leaned over Philip as calmly
as though no thoughtless words of his
had ever ruffled the fountain of her
heart. " Is it not expressive 1 It illus-
trates a verse of Lamartine's poem, Le

Lac. And hero is another by M.C ,

suggested by Dcschamp'a Petite Violettt.
They are all done a prima, as artists
say. Add one to them, Philip, with a
line from one of your poems."

Raymond took the album, and after
working a few moments industriously
he returned it to Elizabeth with a
solemn countenance. He had carefully
drawn a skull and cross-bones, under
which he had written, Aviee la Jin.

" Philip, how could j i >u ruin my
book with such a horror!" she said,
looking at him reproachfully; "see,
papa, what a gloomy thing he has made."

" An eccentricity of genius," observed
Sir Edward, returning the album to his
daughter. Elizabeth took it and laid
it away with a clouded face. It was
only a foolish jest of Philip's, but it
left a disagreeable impression upon her
mind.

. nmmaiamM i i.

aember these lines
I Marquis of Mon-

EonBtant then,

Iwoi-d,

|ou8 by my pen,

■sword.

Iich noble wajs

pforo J
tlico aU with bays,

liiorv.'

!ar I meant it all
is it that you nre
1"

ir pity's sake don't
intment," said the
her hood over the
r in her fingers, to
that crimsoned her

m these exquisite
moisello's album 1'''
poke, gave the book
hod been looking
moud. "You will
g little things well

iautiful impromptu
— ," said Elizabeth,
from her confusion,
Philip as calmly

?htle88 words of his
he fountain of her
expressive 1 It illus-
amartine's poem, Ze

nother by M.C ,

am])'a Petite Violette.
a prima, as artists
them, Philip, with a
ir poems."

be album, and after
ments industriously

Elizabeth with a
I. He had carefully

cross-bones, under
in, A vise la Jin.
could 1 . 'U ruin my

horror!" she said,
proachfully ; " see,
thing he has made."
of genius," observed
ig the album to his
ii took it and laid
Lided face. It was
of Philip's, but it
mpression upon her

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

Rnymond walked home with Claude.
It v/uH ii cloudless moonlit night ; and
as tbcy Biiuntercd slowly down the Rue
dc Ilivoli tuwuid tho Rue St. Roch, Philip
said to his companion, " By Jovo I I be-
lieve Elizabeth loves me, after all. Did
you notice her agitation when I re-
minded her of our yotmg days 1 "

"Yes, I did," replied Claude, "and I

Eitied her ; you were cruel to play upon
er feeling in that way ; she is a noble,
beautiful girl."

" She has made mo suffer enough,"
continued Raymond, reflectively. " It is
just my luck, now, when I don't care for
her love, she is quite ready to give it to
,me. I am always working at cross-pur-
poses in aflnirs of the heart. Heaven
only knows how it will end with La
Marquise. I adore her, and she plays
with me as a cat does with a mouse."

" Leave your folly with La Marquise,"
said Claude, gravely, " and devote your-
self to tho woman you really love, and
who really loves you."

" If I could believe it, if I was only
sure," returned Philip, doubtfully. " I
am never so happy anywhere nor with
any person as I am with Elizabeth, I
mean so sincerely happy, and yet I am
not sure now whether I love her or not.
How charming Lady Courtnay was this
evening ! I never saw her so beautiful
before, i/bn ami, you work a spell
wherever you go. Hush ! look yonder
in the shadow of the buildings on the
other side," said Raymond, suddenly
lowering his voice, " those two men are
following ua"

" Following us," repeated Claude as
they turned into the Rue St. Roch, " for
what reason 1 "

"Remember what I told you the
other day ; they are spies of the secret
police, who are tracking you ; your free-
dom of expression has become obnoxious
to the government ; your articles in the
Jievue have attracted too much atten-
tion in the wrong quarter. Take care,
or you will find that personal liberty is
not respected under this regime any
more than is liberty of opinion."

" In spite of all I shall be true to my
principles ; I cannot be a slave to the
fear of evil consequences," returned
Claude, as he shook hands with his
friend at his door.

Long after he entered his room he
had not thought of retiring, he was too
happy to sleep. The influence of C6-
leuto's presence still filled his heart. Ho
sat by his window and looked out into
the silent street, where the white moon-
light lay unbroken on the deserted
pavement that a few hours boforo
had resounded with hurrying footsteps.
" Tho day has been without clouds,"
he thought, " and the night is so-
reno ; ray soul is filled with one object
that love invests with every imagiuublo
charm. To love and to be loved is
surely the greatest bliss one can experi-
ence amid tho sorrows and disappoint-
ments of life ; it is tho only joy loft to
us of the paradise that was designed for
our inheritance. To-night I am happy,
I might say too happy. Is it not natu-
ral that I should be filled with rapture,
after such a blessed hour 1 My whole
being is full of gratitude to God. I ask
for nothing more than tho sight of her
face, the sound of her voice, the muto
and unconscious confession of her meek
eyes. She loves me, I have no longer any
doubt that adorable woman loves me
now as she loved me in those sweet
days of tender hope, — ay, and even bet-
ter, for suffering has softened and puri-
fied her passion from all earthly desires ;
she loves me with an affection angelio
and holy, and she understands that my
pity, tenderness, and devotion are as
pure as her love ; our souls are united ;
our thoughts, our aspirations, our inten-
tions, are blended into one sweet senti-
ment ; at last we have reached that state
where we can look at the past without
regret, the present without desire, and
the future without fear. my angel,
I will never cause thee a sorrow ! I
will strive to lighten thy burden. I
will live but to make thee happy. I will
banish every thought of self from my
heart. I will crucify my nature, I will
purify my soul, that I may be \^orthr
thy saintly love." Such were the feel-
ings and intentions that formed the
greater part of his revery ; his mind was
aflame with pure and earnest desire for
the welfare of his beloved, there was
only the single purpose before him of
making tho woman he worshipped hap-
pier by some sacrifice, some self-denial,
when suddenly these questions seemed

120

A CROWN FROM TBE SPEAR.

to be engraved upon his conscience by a
divine finger : Has man the right to
seek temptation in order to prove his
moral strengtli 1 If he Tails into sin, who
will pardon him 1 By doing so, is ho
not guilty of wrong toward the one ho
loves 1 " O my just and pitiful God ! "
he cried, clasping his hands and raising
his eyes to heaven, " do not press this
drop of sweetness from my life ; permit
me to live for her, to soften a little the
path too rugged for her tender feet."

PART FOURTH.

THIS AND THAT.

When Madame la Marquise entered
her room, after her drive with Philip in
the Bois, she threw herself into a chair
wearily and dejectedly. An hour be-
fore she had been looking from her luxu-
rious carriage on the gayest scene im-
aginable, her face beaming with smiles
as she met the adoring glances of her
numerous admirers, who followed and
envied her as the most successful wo-
man, in every respect, among the beau
taonde of Paris. Now she sat alone in
the silence of her room, her jewelled
hands clasped over the rich velvet and
lace that rose and fell heavily above her
throbbing heart, her eyes downcast and
suffused with tears, the lines of her
lovely mouth fixed in melancholy curves,
and a shadow of regret and dissatisfac-
tion resting upon her fair face. An
hour before she was a creature to be en-
vied ; now she was to be pitied, for her
air of depression, and her sad eyes that
seemed to be searching vacancy for some
impossibility, revealed a mental inquie-
tude and a profound discouragement.
There was still an hour to hang heavily
before it would be time to dress for din-
ner, — an hour that offered her no
amusement, no excitement. She might
have looked over her jewels, her dresses,
her lac«s, with her maid ; she might have
sat before her mirror in her dressing-
room, admiring her marvellous beauty,
while she adorned herself in some new
finery ; but she was not a woman to find
diversion in such fi-ivolities, there must
be something of life, of human passion,

of Joy and sorrow, emotion, strife, desire,
and design, to draw away her thoughts
from their interior abstraction. There-
fore, instead of retiring to her dress-
ing-room, she seated herself at the win-
dow, and looked out into the life of the
Rue St. Dominique. There were lag-
ging, weary, aimless passers, who came
from nowhere, and went to no particular
destination ; there were rapid, feverish,
hurried souls impelled on by hope or
desire; there were indolent, languid
bounties, who rolled dreamily along in
their dainty equipages, scarce raising
their white lids from their carmine-
tinted cheeks; there were boisterous,
careless, dissipated students from the
Sorbonne, who walked with a rollicking'
air arm in arm with their favorite ffri-
lettet, whose painted faces and uncovered
heads were raised with a boldness that
was not innocence; there were nurses
with round, healthy cheeks, who carried
pale children in their arms, frail flowers
that pined and faded in that unhealthy
quarter ; there were little boys and girls
who walked together from school, hand
in hand, tlieir faces almost touching in
the irrepressible eagerness of their inno-
cent discourse, — little happy creatures,
whose white, tender feet had never been
wounded by the thorns of life ; behind
them came a dark, stout laundress car-
i^ing aloft her pole, hung with stiffly
starched dresses that looked like head-
less human beings dangling by the neck,
while she sang in a resonant voice a song
of Brittany, articulating the monoto-
nous rhythm with the clap, clap of her
wooden shoes. On the opposite trottoir
some boys were haggling for chestnuts
with an old blind woman, one little ras-
cal attracting her attention, while the
other fished a handful from her scantily
filled troy. The eyes of La Marquise
flashed at the audacious dishonesty of
the youthful brigand, a hot flush passed
over her face, and she partially - arose,
then sank back in her seat with a weary
sigh. A dirty moid of all work, with
bare red arms, dragged a reluctant, ciy-
ing child along by the collar, now and
then administering a smart blow to
quicken its lagging steps. " Mon Dteu ! "
she said fiercely, " how cruel is the hu-
man heart That beastly woman secma
to rejoice in her power over the fccblo

Iiotion, strife, desire,
I away her thoughts
Ibstraction. Thoro-
|iring to hor drcss-
hcrsclf nt the win-
into the life of the
There were lag-
passers, who camo
[rent to no particular
^rere lapld, feverish,
pled on by hope or
indolent, languid
dreamily along in
■ages, scarce raising
Trom their camiine-
re were boisterous,
students from tho
ed with a rollicking
1 their favorite gri-
faccs and uncovered
with a boldness that
; there were nurses
r cheeks, who carried
)ir arms, frail flowers
3d in that unhealthy
e little boys and girls
sr from school, hand
i almost touching in
gcmess of their iuno-
ittle happy creatures,
r feet hod never been
loms of life ; behind
stout laundress car-
ile, hung with stiffly
at looked like head-
langling by tho neck,
resonant voice a song
ulating the monoto-
the clap, clap of her
the opposite trottoir
aggling for chestnuts
roman, one little ras-
attention, while the
Iful from her scantily
syes of La Marquise
«iou8 dishonesty of
id, a hot flush passed
she partially ' arose,
ler seat with a weary
id of all work, with
ged a reluctant, cry-
the collar, now and
: a smart blow to
iteps. "MonDtettl"
low cruel is tho hu-
)ea8tly woman secmn
wer over tho focblo

A GROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

121

little thing. / should like to deal stroke
for stroke upon her broad shouldent."
Presently thu mournful creaking of an
organ, accompanied with a shrill, plain-
tive huiiiiin voice, fell on her ear. She
loaned Ibrwurd and looked out. An old
man came slowly down the street, grind-
ing and singing, while a little shaggy
black goat trotted by his side. Just
then a hearso rattled along with its
sombre plumes dancing, and its long
fringes waving in a fantastic manner,
while tho driver leaned over to nod and
smile at a young maid who loimgod
at a porte-cochh-e ; tho horses trotted
lightly, and the wheels clattered care-
lessly, as though they wore conscious
that they had safely deposited a sod and
useless burden in Pdro la Chaise. It
passed out of sight as a haggard, wild-
eyed boy flew around a comer with his
hands full of turnips, closely pursued by
a gendarme. " Poor, famished wretch ! "
said La Marquise, watching the fugitive
with eager attention. " He has stolen
them to eat, and that fat, well-fed brute
will take them from him, and send him
to the Madclonnettes for six months.
0, 1 hoped he would escape ! " she sighed,
as the officer clutched the boy by the
shoulder and brought him up suddenly,
trembling with fear and exhaustion.
"Ah, he deserves to be struck with
palsy where ho stands, the unfeeling
monster, he deserves it ! — Justin, Jus-
tin," she called to a servant who stood
near the door, watching her furtively,
" go into the street and give to the offi-
cer who is dragging that starving boy
to prison fifty francs to release htm."
And she threw her purse to the man as
she spoke. " Do you understand 1 Give
the officer fifty, and after he has gone,
give the boy ten to buy him some food."
Justin took the purse, merely saying
with a low bow, "I understand, ma-
dame, I understand." He was too well
accustomed to his mistress's eccentrici-
ties to even look surprised. Again she
heard the grating of the organ, and
looking down into the street she saw
that the old man with his goat had
stopped under her window ; a number
of children and maids had gathered
around him, charmed with the cunning
tricks of the little animal. It walked
ou its hind legs, and bowed and courte-

siod and danced, whirling around swiftly
with its furcfeot over its nose. La
Marquise leaned forward on tho window-
sill, and watched with parted lips nnd
wide-open eyes every movement. They
seemed to awukcn sonie memory, per-
haps of innocent happy childhood, for
tears trembled on her lashes, and she
sighed heavily more than once. When
the goat had finished his little reper-
toire of accomplishments, the old man
began to sing, in a broken, mournful
voice, Le Rucher de St. Malo ; und
Madame la Marquise, seeming to forget
that she was a lady of the Faubourg
St. Germain, repeated with a drouniy
voice tho words that the old man sang,
while she beat an accompaniment on
the sill with her white fingers : —

" M. Ducquais, me dit Pierre,
Veut-tu venir avec moi ? •

Tu sens homme do guerre j

Monteras la flotte du roi,

St tu verras lea climata
la t£te des soldata. '

Non, non, je preAre,
Le toit de ma mh-e ^

Le rocher de St. Malo,
Qiie Ton volt de loin sur I'ean."

When the last strain died away, she
covered her face with her hands and
sobbed passionately for a moment ; then
with a sudden impatient movement she
brushed away the tears, and, folding her
arms proudly, leaned back in her chair,
while she seemed to be debating some
question with herself. Her indecision
lasted for an instant only, for she called
again in a <;lear, haughty voice, " Justin,
Justin."

Again the servant appeared ; he had
l)een watching her through the folds of
the curtain, and his thin, grave face
was troubled. " I wish to speak to
that man who is singing below ; go and
bring him up."

" What, madame ! that dirty beg-
gar 1"

"Yes, that dirty beggar," with an
imperative wave of her hand toward
the door as Justin hesitated ; " go
quickly."

A moment after the old man stood
timidly on the threshold with the goat
clasped in his arms, looking with amaze-
ment at the splendor of the room.

"Come in, come in, my good man,
don't be afraid," said La Marquise, ad-

122

A CROWN FROM THE SPKAR.

vancing townrd hor astoniHlicd giiost.
" I Hhould liko to aue tlio gout. It u
very intvlligont and pretty. You rnny
go, JuHtiii," turning 8t>vcri-ly to thu 8ur-
vnnt, who lingered neur licr, rogurding
thu Htninger witlicuriuHJty and diHiike, —
'* you Diuy go, and cloiiu tho door after
you."

Tho old nmu looked first at tho rich
carpet, and then at hiii coante, dirty
HhocH, and stood trembling und confused
before her.

" Wlmt do you call your goat ? " she
inquired gently, wishing to put the
frightened creature at his ease, while
she laid her hand on the shaggy head
of the little animal.

"Aim^o," replied tho man without
raising his eyes.

" Aini«;e," she repeated with a gnsp,
" that is a singulai n>i\uo for a gout ;
why did you give it thnr. name 1 "

" I named it for a litllo girl wo lost ;
alio played with it when it was a kid,
and when wo had tho child no longer
wc called the goat by her nomo."

" How did you lose tho child 1 "

" She was stolen, wo never knew by
whom ; my wife left her in the house
nlonc, and when she returned tho little
girl wr.i gone."

" Wt H iho your child I "

" No, madame, she was an orphan ;
her father was a convict ; we took her
when she was a baby, and loved her
like our own ; we lost all wc had, ma-
dame, and she filled a littlo their place.
She was pretty and so clever, O, she was
too clever for -her age, and we grew so
fond of her; then she was stolen, and
wo never saw her again." The old
man's voice was broken, and the tears
trickled down his furrowed face and
dropped one by ouo on the head of the
goat that had fallen asleep in his
arms.

"What brought you to such pover-
ty 1 " inquired La Marquise in a choked
voice, while she clasped her hands
tightly over her heart.

" After we lost tho child everything
vent badly ; the animals died, and my
poor wife took the fever, and I was left
alone ; then I broke my arm, and I could
not till the little piece of land, and so it
woB taken away and I hod nothing to
live for ; the old place was ruined for me,

and I -wandered almut fVom one town to
another, until at lust I canio hero. For
more than twenty years, maduinu, my
only companion and fViend has been my
goat that tho child Aimcu played with ;
she is very intelligent, almost like a hu-
nuin Ijoing," he said, looking n* the littlo
animal fondly ; " but 1 cun't keep her
nuich longer, she is old, very old now,
und quite weak, and would liko to sleep
tho most of tho time, so 1 fear 1 : liidl
soon lose her. I don't know how 1 kIiiiII
live without her, for no one would listen
to my songs if Aim^c's tricks <lid not
attract them first. With her I niimngo
(o pick up sous enough to kccj) us from
starving."

" Have no fears, my good roan, you
shall not want for bread if you do lose
tho poor goat," said La Marquise, in a
quick, sharp voice, that hud more dis-
tress in it than even tho old nuui's
trembling tones, us she turned toward
an escritoire and took from it a roll of
notes. " Here is enough money to jjay
your way back to your old home, nnd
keep you there in comfort for a long
time. Take it, take it, and don't look
at it now," she cried, prcsamg it impet-
uously into his hand, while he drew
back in astonishment that was almost
fear. " It is a great deal more than
you have ever had before ; it will keep
you fVom want. Don't thank mo. I
will not havo your thanks. Put the
money in a safe place whero no one wdl
steal it, and go, go quickly. It is a
pleasure for me to give it to you ; it is
a kindness for you to take it. Do not
thank mo, go, go" And she hurried
the bewildered old man toward the
door with such haste that ho could not
collect his senses so as to be able to
utter a word. When he had gone, and
she found herself alone, she threw her
head bock and clasped her hands over
her face like one in great distress ; and
there was something tragic in her at-
titude and voice r.s she cried, " Mon
Dieu! there are some bom to blight
and crush those who havo heaped ben-
efits upon them." Then she paced the
floor rapidly, her face paling and flush-
ing, while the dilated nostrils, trembling
lips, and restless eyes showed that she
was laboring under some powerful emo-
tion. A littlo rustling sound at tho

imfi^im^mm-

)ut from one town to
it I cunio hero. For
yoan, inuduinc, my
' friond Iiuh Iiucii my
Aim^c played with ;
fjiit, nImoHt like ii liu-
I, lookiii)(n» the littlo
|)Ut I cun't koop hur
Is old, vciy (lid now,
Id would like to hlt'cp
10, BO I fonr I . Iii>||
Jm't know how 1 kIimM
Jtrno one would listen
(im^c's trickH did not
With hor I nmnngo
>ugh to keep U8 from

I, my pood man, you
brcnd if you do lose
id La MnrquiHO, in a
thnt hud moro dis-
oven tho old num's
8 shu turned toward
ook from it a roll of
enough money to jiny
your old homo, nnd
1 comfort for a long
ko it, and don't look
cd, prcHsmg it impet-
mnd, while he drew
lent that was almost
reut deal more than
d before ; it will keep
Don't thank mo. I
ur thanks. Put the
ace where no one will
go quickly. It is a
I give it to you ; it is
I to take it. Do not
" And she hurried
Id man toward the
ste that ho could not
so as to ho able to
hen he had gone, and
alone, she threw her
isped her hands over
n great distress ; and
ing tragic in her at-
P.8 she cried, " Afon
some bom to blight
ho have heaped hen-
Then she paced the
Pace paling and flush-
ed nostrils, trembling
lyes showed that she
• some powerful crao-
iStling sound at tho

A r lOWN PRO THE 8PBAR.

closed door attmotod hor attention
Shu paused Iraforu it, and Hhook her
head significantly, wliilu hor white
tooth sniippcd Hhiirply together, and
hor hands sinoto each other with a
cruel ferocity. " Ho is there again lis-
tcniiig." And she fixed hor gleaming
eyes on tho door liko an enraged tiger
about to spring. " Ungrateful, miser-
able spy, ho watches me as if ho wero
]>aid lor it. Ala foil one would think
ito had taken a contract to listen.
Shall I open tho door and strike iiis
head oft' at a blow 1 Coward, l)east, to
daro to do such a thing. I will tuni
hiin from mv house, he shall not tor-
ture me with his presence." Then a
sickly smile stole over her face, and
her hands foil heavily. " No, no," sho
added, iu slow, discouraged tones, " it
is no use, ho is my skeleton, my bite
tioir ; ho would torment mo the same
wherever he was. I may as well sup-
port him here." And with an irresolute
and weary air she turned toward hor
dressing-room.

An hour after La Marquise stood iu
the library before the glowing tire, her
elbow resting on the velvet cover of
the mantle, hor forehead pressed into
her open palm, and her eyes fixed on
the restless flames, that danced and
fliokorod, throwing fantastic lights and
shades upon her face and dress. It
was the same hour, in fact the sarao
moment, when Claude stood with Ce-
leste and Elizabeth in tho salon in the
Uuu Castigliono, trying to subdue the
imperious demands of his heart ; and
La Marquiso, alone in the twilight, was
thinking of him, wondering where he
was, in whose society, and what was
the subject of his thoughts at that mo-
ment. Had hia memory turned to her
since he parted from her so abruptly
the previous evening 1 Had ho desired
to see her again 1 Should she see him
soon, and when and where 1 Philip
had told her that his friend never went
to the opera, never went into society,
never rode in the Bois during tho fash-
ionable promenade ; how, then, could
she see him 1 Her need to speak with
him again was imperative. Many
things that she had intended to say
to him in the exoitement of that short
interview had passed from her mind,

, '<! hIk 'l4>d that iIm \

liiilf iiu|>i tlu) til S^ic , d

hIic IdhI < luA t||p ,y«WBHii>n u^t/n
his liuii liittt tihi md ho|>ud to
leave. ^"^ Cult llfai iie hud startled
itiid bowP K Ti (I liini, <-<i<iiu than sho hud
attracted uiid churiiKHi liiiii. The vast-
ness in the dissimilarity of their nio*
tivos, aims, and desires appalled her.
S!io know that he stood fur uIhivo her
in tho nobility and integrity of his
nature ; that ho could not stoop to her,
and alas I it was too late to grow up to
him ; there was a line of duniiu'cution
between them, over which she could
not pass, and sho understood well that
all her personal advantugus wero en-
tirely worthless to such a soul us his.
" If I could but do some good deed,
something to win his approbation, then
I might hope for his IViondship, if
nothing more," sho thought, wliilu she
vexed her heart and brain to discover
some meaua of immolation, some chanco
to distinguish lierself in a manner
worthy of his approval. While sho
was absorbed with this new idea, and
intent on contemplating tho imaginary
results, the door oponod, and Monseign-
our the Bishop of Itoueu was an-
nounced.

La Marqui.ie did not change her
position. Holding out her disengaged
hand, she said indifferently, and with a
little impatience, " I thought you had
ruturncd to Rouen, monscigneur."

" No, although I intended it, I found
I oould not leave before the council
adjourned," replied the Bishop, seating
himself with the air of one quito at
home.

" And the Archbishop, is ho recover-
ing from his indisposition 1 "

" Ho is worse. I have been sum-
moned to his bedside."

"You will go 1"

" Certainly, by the first train."

" If he dies, you will bo promoted to
his Bocred office 1 "

" It is what I have worked for. I
think I have earned it."

" Will your ambition be gratified
theni"

" No, I must go a step higher."

"And theni"

" I shall be content."

"Without remorse, without regret 1"

124

A GROWN VKOM TnR RPKAH.

" PortiRpa not without irnrot ; there
is tilwayi rvgrut taitiglod with our hap-
piuvtM, thu rc'grot thiit wo did not rouuh
It iHHinor ; hut ronmrHO is punishrnuiit
for ^ruiit hIii, havo I doiio aught to
merit iti"

" I think you havo, monaoignour."

" Ah I vou aro nlwaya aovrrc ; bo my
accuaor tlion ; what havo I dono that
ia ao hi'inoua in your oatimation 1 "

" You havo trampled upon the righta
of othora ; you havo not cared whom you
cruahod, ao you conquered."

"Uravii churgcH, said tlio Diahop,
while a hot flush crimaoncd hia face ;
"are you auro you aiicak adviaodly,
madunio 1 "

" I am Huro I apeak the truth. Look
back and aeo if there arc not thinga in
your past that will not bear the cloaeat
Bcrutiny," replied La Marquiao, fear-
leaaly and sternly. " O monsoigneur, if
you are about to fill a still more im-
portant office in the holy Church, ex-
amine your heart and see if there are in
it justice, truth, and charity."

" You are a severe monitor, madamo,
but I will remember }'our advice, and
strive to profit by it ; now allow me to
give you a little counsel, which you may
find useful in the future. Be oareftd
how you receive M. le Comto do Cler-
mont ; ho ia suspected ; he is a Republi-
can and a traitor, and ho is under the
turveillance of the government. Do you
understand what that implies 1 "

" Yes," replied La Marquise, turning
pale and starting from her indolent
position, — " yes, I underatond that it
implies punishment for daring to speak
the truth ; the truth is patii, and lies
take the precedence ; therefore a man
must be silent, or lie to pamper the
iniquity, injustice, and deception of this
despotic reign."

" Hush, hush, yon talk at random.
Agitators and would-be regenerators,
free-thinkers, and communists are trai-
tors to the government, and should be
treated aa auch."

"What proof is there that M. le
Comte do Clermont ia connected with
either of the parties you name f "

" He is the author of the article on
Equity, that has caused such indigna-
tion from all who are lovers of order
and restraint.''

" It is false, he is n^f tbo author of
that article," said Lu MmniuiMo, fixing
her oycH tipou the fwc M' the HlHliop
with a steady gnzo timt dul not flinch,
" neither is ho a crtntributor to the
Revue. The Nooret poling oro at faiilt,
they aro on the wronK t-iil ; cannot you
convince them that it i$i it "

" No, for I am not ( jiu vincod myself,
and you wore just advocating truth,
truth uiulcr all clroumstanoen."

La Marcpiise frowned and bit hor
lips, and tho Dishop looked at her com-
placently, feeling that he had cnmercd
her ; and perhaps she felt so toe, for she
smiled half scomfUlly, half p«ttishlv,
and said, " monaoignour, al\er all,
it is a garment that one at retches
to fit his needs ; cannot you accom-
modate it to this necessity 1"

" No, for it is not my necessity, and
I am not generous toward other peo-
ple's."

"There, your true character nhinea
out most bcautifiiUy, other people's ne-
cessities do not trouble you. I wonder,"
looking at him sadly and reflectively,
— "I wonder when tho time cornea
that you shall need an advocate, a me-
diator, who will present himself on your
behalf 1 Perhaps this unhappy young
man whom you are dotermineil to
crush ; he has tho noble soul that for-
gets injuries."

" You speak as though you believed
I had some personal animosity against
M. lo Comte do Clermont."

" He has never wronged you, and yet
you hate him, and you will strive to
ruin him utterly, I am convinced of
it," said La Marquise, with stem de-
liberation ; then her voice softened to a
sob, and she added, " monscigneur, if
you have no pity for him, have some
for those who suffer with him ! "

At this appeal, tho Bishop rose and
paced the floor in agitation ; his face was
pale, and his eyes were full of a lurid
light, while his fingers twisted convul-
sively the heavy ehain attached to his
cross. When he turned his back, and
walked hurriedly down the room, La
Marquise clasped her hands, and raised
her eyes, saying with a gasp, " God,
soften his heart I " Then she turned and
followed him, gliding with a serpent-
I like grace over the rich carpet, the soft

A GROWN FUUM TU£ BPliIAR.

l« nof tho author of

10 fiMO .M' tho niNliop
lo th*t Uul not fliiuh,
In contributor to tho
^ct polino oro at fmiJt,
ron« \-y\\\ cannot you
|at it iss 1 1 "
not cjiuvincod myaolf,
|uit advocating troth,
limiimitanceH."
Ifrowncd and bit hor
lop looked at her com-
that ho hod cornered
nhc felt 10 toe, for hIio
uftilly, half pottibhlv,
nonsoignour, alitor all,
t that one ■trotchcit
cannot you accom-
a necessity 1"
not my necessity, and
ous toward other peo-

truc character ishinos
illy, other people's no-
rouble you. I wonder,"
Bftdly and reflectively,
vhon tho timo comes
leed on advocate, u mo-
prcscnt himHolf on your
« this unhappy young
u are detennine<l to
tie noble soul that for-
ts though you believed
ional animosity against
]!lennont."

r wronged you, and yet
and you will strive to
y, I am convinced of
rquise, with stem de-
hor voice softened to a
ed, " monseigneur, if
y for him, have some
ffer with him ! "
I, the Bishop rose and
agitation \ his face was
es were full of a lurid
Bngers twisted convul-
cbain attached to his
turned his back, and
' down the room. La
her hands, and raised
with a gasp, " God,
' Then she turned and
iding with a serpent-
le rich carpet, the soft .

trailing shoen of hor droM making a
shimmer uf light utlur liur. Whun she
roiicliod liim hIio liiid hur hand on his
shouldur ; tho touch won light, but it
m:ido hiiu shiver, and bonding forward
sho looked into iiin eyes with the most
porKUftsivo uniili), suying, " J/o« pirt,
you iiuvu novor yet rufiiwd to niuko mo
happy. Vuu know whut i wish ; prom-
iao mo tliiit you will nut denounce him
to tho govommunt ; promise mo but
that, uiid you will huvo my otomal
grntitudo."

The Hishop did not reply. La Mar-
quiHO still continued to guze into his
fuoo, hor very soul in her eyes. For
more than a minute they stood thus,
oacli trying to punotrato into thn hid-
den thoughts of tho other. Then sho
snid, "You will not promise mot"

" I cannot."

" You cannot 1 " Quicker than light-
ning tho hand fell from his shoulder,
and starting away from him sho stood
with folded arms looking at him steadi-
ly, contempt and hato plainly written on
her face ; thou raising her right hand
sho pointed to tho door, saying in slow,
deep tones, " Oo, Judas, go ! I have soon
you for the last time. Henceforth there
is a gulf between us that nothing can
bridge over. I have reached the crisis
of my suffering; there will be a day
when yours will also arrive. Then may
you experience my pain a thousand
times intensified. Go, not a word, go ! "

The Bishop slowly retreated toward
the door, bowing as he went like one
leaving the presence of royalty. His
face was ghastly, drops of sweat stood
on his forehead, and his eyes seemed
flames of fire devouring the face of Lti
Marquise, as she stood, the impersona-
tion of scorn and hate. When the heavy
curtain fell over the door and hid him
from her sight, her arms dropped help-
lessly, and she sank with a heart-break-
ing sigh into the nearest chair. " It is
done, it is done. I would have saved
him, but I could not. Judas ! Judas I
thou wilt suffer a terrible agony of
remorse when thou hast completed
thy cruel betrayal. Thou wilt live to
look upon my dead face, and know that
thy ambition, thy revenge, thy mer-
ciless hate, extinguished its light for-
ever."

PART FIFTH.

IN WHICH BIH MDWARD'S MOTIVB U
OBVIOUS.

"Good morning, my dear follow,
good inonjing," exclaimed Hir Edward,
with mure thnu usual animation, iih he
entered Clnude'H room ii4)mo two months
after ho had dined in tho Ituot'aHtiglionoi
" I am delighted to find you disenguged,
tiH I have called on tiie moroHt trifle of
buHineHH, tlio moii'tt triflu ; lot mo luisuro
you that I won't detain you five min-
utes."

Claude gave a chair to his visitor,
while ho said cordially that ho was
<luito at his service for as long a time
as he pleased to remain.

"ThunkH, thankti, my dear follow;
you are always n true Frenchman, you
always understand how to place people
quite at their ease ; but it 's only a
matter of a moment, the merest trifle ;
do mo the favor, my good fellow, to
lend mo throe thousand francs fur a few
days."

"Certainly, with tho greatest pleas-
ure," replied Claudo, heartily. " I am
most happy to bo able to servo you in
any way." These were not merely the
usual complimontaiT words employed
between gentlemen during the like doli-
cate transactions. When he said, " I am
happy to servo you," he meant it, for
he well knew in that way he was
serving Celeste, though indirectly.

So without the slightest hesitation
he wrote a check for the amount, for
which Sir Edward with the most busi-
nesslike importance returned his note,
that Claude knew to be as worthless as
the paper on which it was written,
saying in a tone of assumed indiflerenco,
" Thanks, my dear fellow ; not at all
necessary between gentlemen, but still
more business-like, moro in order, in
case of accident, you understand."

Claude assured him that he under-
stood, and quietly laid the uoto on the
check, which Sir Edward, without ap-
poioring to notice, folded together and
slipped into his pocket. " Now another
little matter," he continued, briskly.
" Monthelon is in the market, to be
sold next week ; a perfectly useless lot
of property to me, monsieur; it has
actually eaten itself up, and so I have

ifr

126

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR

■tfewirXMvWnPi^

determined to be rid of it ; not the least
use in the world of keeping an estate like
that when one don't live on it ; I believe
it joins your estate of Clermont 1"
Claudo winced ; how had he learned
that. If he knew that, did he not also
know more 1 " And I thought you might
like to become its purchaser. To unite it
to yours would increase the value of
both. Think of it, monsieur, think of
it ; it would make a fine property."

" It would indeed," said Claude. " I
shall consider the matter, and decide
without doubt to become its owner."

Sir Edward saw that M. lo Comte,
for some reason, was not inclined to be
expansive on the subject ; so he took his
hat, shook hands cordially, and went
away humming an air from the last
opera with the utmost nonchalance,
while he thought, " Another little
annoyance over; after all, it is not so
disagreeable to have affairs with gentle-
men. How cleverly he returned mo my
note ! I wonder if he suspected it was
worthless. Ha, ha ! he is either very
generous or very stupid, or perhaps it is
an advance ; he intends to ask for Eliza-
beth, there 's no doubt but what he is
fond of the girl ; and if he wants her he
shall have her. In that way Monthelon
can be kept in the family. A devilish
clever idea of mine to suggest its pur-
chase before he proposed for her ; more
dignified in every way, and in the end
amounts to the same. One may as well
preserve his self-respect when he loses
nothing bj' it. Three thousand fn\ncs,
a nice little sum to pay my tailor and
hostler ; a man can't get clothes and
horses without money, especially after
his credit is gone, and there is no use
in living in Paris if one can't dress well,
go to the opera, and ride in the Bois.
It is a mystery to me how those two
women manage the house and dress so
M'ell without money. I suspect Lady
Courtnay has sold her jevels, and it is
just as well if she has, for she never
wore them, her beauty is not of the
style to need them. So, so, ma belle,
you thought to make me jealous when
you told me of the youthful amour
between M. le Comte and my wife.
Bah ! what do I care how many she
loved before she loved 'no 1 No, no, I am
not such a fool as to break off this very

usefiil fViendship, and the prospect of
an excellent alliance for Elizabeth, be-
cause of sentimental scruples. Ah, ma
belle Marquise, you are very clever, but
you can't deceive me. You are in love
with M. le Comte yourself, and you
fear he still has some penchant for Lady
Courtnay. I am not in tlie least dis-
tressed by your revelations, but I am
surprised that my wife has enough
finesse to keep her former connection a
secret. How in ihe name of heaven
has La Marquise leai-ncd it all ? She
seems to know more about M. le Comte
than any one else, and yet she has seen
him less, for Baymond says he avoids
her. When I spoke of Monthelon being
near Clermont, it is true ho changed the
subject as though it did not please him.
However, I sha' n't quarrel with him, ho
is too useful." With this generous con-
clusion. Sir Edward turned into the Bue
de Bivoli, and Siiuntered along, smiling
and bowing to his fair friends with a
grace and suavity that younger beaux
admired and imitated.

After his visitor had gone, Claudo sat
for a long time in deep thought. Mon-
thelon was to be sold, and he then and
there decided to become its purchaser.
He knew that it had long before been
mortgaged to its full value, but he had
hoped Sir Edward would devise some
means to retain it in his possession for
the sake of his wife. That it was really
in the market showed how entire was
the ruin of her fortune, and how utterly
she was without provision for the fu-
ture. The property that the poor old
manufacturer had toiled so hard to
accumulate for his child had Iwcn dimin-
ished by her guardian, and the remain-
der squandered by her profligate hus-
band, ond now nothing remained for her
and the equally unfortinmto Elizabeth
but poverty. Claude had foreseen that
this day must come, some two months
before, when he had made the unselfish
resolve to bo only her friend, and he
had then decided what course he should
pursue. "Now," ho said to himself,
" the time hafl arrived when I can se-
cure to her the home of her childhood,
and place her l^yond want. It will cost
me a great sacrifice, not less than the
half of my fortune, but it shall le
done. She shall have Monthelon so-

and the prospect of
ce for Elizabeth, he-
al scruples. Ah, ma
are very clever, but
e. You are in love
e yourself, and you
ime penchant for Lady
not in tlie least dis-
'evelatious, but I am
ly v,ifo has enough
Ir former connection a
khe namo of heaven
learned it all? She
•re about M. le Comte
and yet she has seen
mond says he avoids
ic of Monthelon being
is true ho changed tho
it did not please him.
t quarrel with him, ho
'^itli this generous con-
d turned into the Rue
untered along, smiling
lis fair friends with a
Y that younger beaux
ited.

r had gone, Claude sat
deep thought. Mon-
3old, and he then and
become its purchaser,
had long before been
Pull value, but he had
'd would devise some
t in his possession for
fe. That it was leally
owed how entire was
rtune, and how utterly
provision for the fu-
rty that the poor old
i toiled so hard to
I child had Iwen dirnin-
lian, and tho reniain-
)y her profligate bus-
thing remained for her
infortunato Elizabeth
ude had foreseen that
no, some two months
xd made the unselfish
y her friend, and he
what course he should
he said to himself,
■ived when I can se-
me of her childhood,
>nd want. It will cost
:e, not less than the
ne, but it shall l.o
have Monthelon S3-

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

127

cured to her if I have the means to do
it." Tiiat very day Claiido took the
preliminary steps toward the accom-
plishment of his plans, but fate frus-
trated tliom in a way ho little expected.
During tho two months since his first
visit to the Rue C'aatiglione, scarcely a
day had passed that ho had not seen
Celeste ; indeed, tho importunate ad-
vances of Sir Edward rendered formality
almost impossible, even if his own in-
clination had opposed a close acquaint-
ance, and how much more easy it was
to drift toward sucli an intimacy when
every feeling was in its favor. They
had been days of abnost unalloyed hap-
piness to both him and Celeste ; neither
dared to confess it, and yet they both
knew it well, and they also knew that
if circumstances should put an end to
their blissful intercourse they should
regret it forever. Elizabeth seemed to
have resigned herself to let matters
take their course; her confidence in
Claude and her warm friendship for him
pleaded powerfully in his favor. Sir
Edward had known nothing until the
day before his demand upon M. le
Comte's generosity ; then La Marquise
had enlightened him, to tho end that he
might disturb the influence that she
had discovered Lady Courtnay still ex-
ercised over her former lover, but she
had not found the aid she expected from
a jealous husband. Ho had received
her information with the utmost sancf
/raid, for reasons which tho first part
of this chapter render obvious, so noth-
ing had occurred to derange their se-
rene relaJons.

Ija Marquise had not made tho pro-
gress in her friendship with Claude
which she had hoped to do, although
she had written to him, after her stormy
interview with the Bishop, and request-
ed him in the most earnest manner to
avoid expressing his liberal opinions too
ofienly if he valued his personal safety
and freedom ; yet she could not per-
ceive that it had advanced her cause in
the least. It is true he had called to
thank her for her interest, and had con-
versed with her for some time in the
most winning and gracious manner, but
he had persistently disregarded all her
delicate overtures of a more intimate
relation. Ho had never again appeared

at her Friday soirees, never came to her
box at tho opera, never rode by lior sido
in the Bois; in short, never paid her
any of those little attentions which her
heart desired, and his very indifference
fed her passion and fanned it to a flame.
She was more eccentric, more uncertain,
more cruel, more passionate than ever.
There were whole weeks when she ab-
sented herself from the world and closed
her doors to all, whole days and nights
when she wept and prayed in her little
oratory alone, refusing food until she
was exhausted with fasting, shutting
out tho light of tho sun and tho sound
of human voices, until her own thoughts
and her restless, feverish soul drove her
back again to tho world. At that time
tho enemiiis of La Marquise said she
was thinner, that her form was losing
its roundness, her lines their undulating
grace, her movements their serpent-like
flexibility ; that her face was too pale,
her eyes too intense in their expression,
the violet shadows around them too
deep, and her mouth too depressed at
the comers ; that she seemed absorbed,
dreamy, restless, expansive, reticent,
and reckless, by turns ; in fact, that sho
seemed like a person consumed by an
inward fire which she kept alive by her
own inconsistencies.

Philip was in despair at her capricious
conduct ; ono day she would receive him
with a kindness that was almost tender,
ancther day with stern, cold indiffer-
ence, and again with evident dislike.
There were terribly tempestuous scenes
between them. Philip would accuse,
reproach, and implore. La Marquiso
would relent, soften to penitence, en-
treat his forgiveness for her cruelty, and
be all gentleness, all sensibility, until
some expression of love and confidence
from him would stai"tlo her from hor
tranquillity into an insane passion ; then
she would heap all sorts of invectives
upon him, upbraiding, taimting, and in-
sulting, in such a manner that he would
fly from her presence almost terrified.
If he liked emotion he had enough of
it, ay, and too much, for his life was a
torture, a constant tumult of hope, dis-
appointment, and desire. He did noth-
ing; every occupation, every improve-
ment, every diversion, was neglected that
he might indulge this unreasonable aud

130

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

must accept the offer of the first one
who will take you without,"

" papa, I implore you not to speak
of such a thing," cried Elizabeth, with
real distress. "M. le Comte de Cler-
mont does not care for me in the least,
he has not the least intention of asking
me to lie his wife."

" Indeed ! " said Sir Edward in tones
of cruel deliberation, "then why does
he come here so often t Why is he a con-
stant visitor, if it is not for the pleasure
of my daughter's society 1 "

Elizabeth turned crimson, and Celeste
looked like one ready to faint, but
neither replied.

" O, I understand ! Then it must be
that he is still in love with my wife,
who, I have been told by strangers, was
once affianced to him."

Celeste sprang from her chair, looked
at her husband for a moment with wild
eyes, clasped her hands to her head,
and fell back in the arms of Elizabeth,
fainting.

Sir Edward was terrified at the scene
ho had caused by his ill-advised re-
marks ; and while Elizabeth hung over
his wife, trying to restore her to con-
sciousness, he walked tho floor wringing
his hands and reproaching himself for
having been such a stupid fool. When
at last Celeste struggled to a sitting po-
sition, and, pushing Elizabeth away,
held out her hand to her husband, he
came forward thoroughly willing to meet
her advances, saying, " For God's sake
don't make a fuss. I was only jesting.
I don't care in the least that you kept
it from me."

"I kept it from you," said Celeste,
with a burst of tears, "because both
Elizabeth and myself thought it best at
first, and then after we had deceived
you we were afraid to acknowledge it."

" I did it for the best, papa," said
Elizabeth, coming forward boldly to
the support of her friend. " It was my
fault that Lady Courtnay did not tell
you at once, but I thought we should
never meet M. le Comte again."

" And so you were leagued together
against me t " And Sir Edward laughed
heartily, as though he rather enjoyed
the idea.

" Now, papa, that yon know it," con-
tinued Elizabeth, gravely, for she was

shocked and somewhat disgusted at
her father's hilarity, " I hope you will
give M. le Comte de Clermont to un-
derstand that he must not come here
again."

" Nonsense 1 what do you moan, you
foolish girl 1 " inquired the Baro.iet, with
real surprise, for he did not in the
least understand his daughter's high-
minded view of the subject. "Tell
him not to come here, offend M. le
Comte, such a useful friend ! why, you
must be insane ! "

" papa, can't you understand that
it — that under the circumstances it is
not quite right ; that now you know it,
that — papa, you ought to know
what I mean without my being obliged
to explain," cried Elizabeth, in despera-
tion at the insensibility of her father.

" Explain, explain, there is nothing
to explain. M. le Comte was once en-
gaged to Lady Courtnay. Is that a
reason that I should shut my door in
his face 1 He is a gentleman, and very
useful ; an excellent friend. By Jove !
I could n't offend him, if I had cause for
it, under the circumstances." And Sir
Edward thought of the three thousand
francs that he had borrowed a few days
before, and of the indefinite amounts ho
intended to borrow in the futiire.

Poor Elizabeth made no further effort
to maintain her righteous opinion.
She saw that her father was determine''
to disregard eveiy hint and ignore
every reason for closing his door
against M. le Comte de Clermont, and
she was too weary to combat it any
longer, so she only said, laying her
hand tenderly on Celeste's head, " Well,
papa, you know all now, and' you must
never blame us, whatever may happen
in the future. Only if you have any
intention of trying to arrange a mar-
riage between M. lo Comte and myself,
I may as well tell you now that it is
labor lost, and that I shall do all in my
power to discourage it."

" You and Lady Courtnay will both
continue to treat M. le Comte in tho
same friendly manner that you have
done," said Sir Edward, impressively.
" Remember it is my wish ; do that, and
matters will arrange themselves satis-
factorily to all." With these words ho
left the room, feeling that ho had be-

That disgusted at
" I hope you will
le Clermont to un-
|u8t not come here

do you moan, you
ed the Baroiet, with
\ie did not in the
lis daughter's high-
Ihe subject. "Tell
[here, offend M. le
i\ friend ! why, you

ou understand that

circumstances it is

lat now you know it,

you ought to know

ut my being obliged

)lizabeth, in despera-

)ility of her father.

lin, there is nothing

Comte was once cn-

!ourtnay. Is that a

»uld shut my door in

I gentleman, and very

jnt friend. By Jovo !

him, if I had cause for

lumstances." And Sir

of the three thousand

id borrowed a few days

) indefinite amounts ho

>w in the future.

made no further effort

jr righteous opinion.

father was determinp''

'eiy hint and ignore

or closing his door

nte de Clermont, and

ary to combat it any

only said, laying her

. Celeste's head, " Well,

all now, and" you must

whatever may happen

Only if you have any

ing to arrange a mar-

[. To Comte and myself,

ell you now that it is

[lat I shall do all in my

age it."

idy Courtnay will both
it M. le Comte in the
manner that you have
Edward, impressively.
1 my wish ; do that, and
■ange themselves satic-
With these words ho
eeling that ho had bc-

yifi'JTn

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

haved generously and judiciously, and
had discharged his duty toward his
wife and daughter iit the most ad-
mirable manner.

Celeste had feared a time of exposure
might come, and she had imagined if it
ever did that it would crush her ut-
terly. She had said to herself over and
over that she never could survive it,
that it would kill her at once. It had
been the sword hanging over her head
by a single hair, the skeleton at her
feast, the imperative voice that had
disturbed the tranquillity of her con-
science ever since the night when she
had been presented to Cla^^de at the
Hotel Ventadour by her unsuspecting
husband. Now the storm had come
and passed, and she was relieved, and
thankful that it had done so little
damage. She had expected her hus-
band, at the discovery of such a gross
deception, would crush and kill her
with his indignation ; but, instead, he
had not even seemed angry. She felt
almost like worshipping him for such
unparalleled kindness. So she said to
Elizabeth, with a sigh of relief, " I am
80 glad it is over. chirie, how good
Sir Edward is to us ! We ought to love
hira very much for his indulgence and
gentleness ; wo deserved to be pun-
ished, and ho did not even blame us."

" llemembcr it always, darling ; a
time may come when you will need the
memory of all his kindness to support
you under trials that may be difficult
to endure," replied Elizabeth, sadly.
Then she kissed Celeste, and went away
to her room to brood over her own
Borrows alone.

PART SIXTH.

ONE OF THE FORTUITODS EVENTS THAT
• WB CALL FATE.

One fine morning in April, and a few
days after the events recorded in the
last chapter, Claude walked down the
Rue Castiglione. A carriage stood at Sir
Edward's door, and as he mounted the
stairs he met the Baronet and Lady
Courtnay descending.

" A few moments later and you would

have missed us altogether," said Sir
Edward, sliaking hands cordially. " We
are just starting fur Poissy, to pass the
day with some friends who have a villa
there."

" Elizabeth has been there for three
days, and I cannot endure her absence
any longer," said Celeste, "so we are
going to fetch her."

" I hate the prospect of a whole day
in the country, I declare I do," observed
Sir Edward, glancing ruefully at his
wife. " It 'a a regular persecution, but
Lady Courtnay will not go alone, and
so I must consent to l>e victimized, and
dragged away from Paris this charming
day, when all the world will be in the
Bois. I declare, my dear fellow," he
exclaimed eagerly, as though the idea at
that moment was most fortunate, — "I
declare, I wish you would take my place,
and accompany Lady Courtnay."

"0 Sir Edward!" cried Celeste,
turning crimson with delight at tho
prospect of a day in the country v/ith
Claude, " perhaps M. le Comte has some
other engagement, and will not find it
convenient to go."

"There is nothing to prevent my
going, if it will be agreeable to your
ladyship," said Claude, happy and yet
hesitating. He knew not why, but
some interior voice seemed to thunder
in his ears, " Has man a right to seek
temptation, in order to prove his moral
strength •? "

" Come, come," said Sir Edward,
looking at his watch, " the train leaves
in twenty minutes, you have barely
time to reach the station." And with-
out any further remarks he hurried his
wife into the carriage, saying, "Bring
Elizabeth back with you. Remember
the evening train leaves Poissy at eight.
Take good care of my wife, monsieur ;
bon voyage." And he clapped the door to
briskly after Claude, and turned away,
touching his hat and smiling his adieus.
"I swear, there are few husbands as
generous and unsuspecting as I am," he
said to himself as he sauntered toward
the Palais Royal, twisting his heavy
gray mustache with the tips of his
delicate lavender gloves. " Lady Court-
nay's whim to go to Poissy to-day was
most inopportune, as I had promised to
ride with ma belle Julie this afternoon,

mmmssms:

132

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR

niul the pretty witch would have cried
iter eyes out if I had failed to keep my
iippointrnent. Ah, M. le Comte I your
appouraiice at that moment saved me
iVoin a terrible dilemma, and assisted
mo to kill two birds with one stone, and
1 oven might say three : for by inviting
him to go in my place, I first show my
friendship for him, and my trust lu his
honor ; secondly, my entire confidence in
my wife ; and thirdly, my devotion to ma
Itelle Julie. How very apropos his visit
wiis ! I 've no doubt that he 's in love
with my wife, it 's a thing that we hus-
bands have to submit to, and so it had
better be some one who is useful in
return, than a fellow who has n't a thou-
sand francs at his command when one
wants a little favor. Be as happy as you
can yourself, and give others the same
chance, is my motto, and an excellent
one it is. Beside, it is n't my business
to look after other people's morals. We
nre responsible beings and must answer
nil nice little questions for ourselves ;
nnd then it 's absurd to preach what we
don't practise, tliere 's no dignity in it.
I don't take the trouble to avoid my
own temptations, then why should I
make myself responsible for others 1"
Just as he had finished this philo-
sophical soliloquy he found himself at
Vefour's ; and entering, he ordered some
ortolan fricasse, and a demi-bouteille of
ehdteau Lafilfe, off which he lunched
with the best possible appetite.

When Claude and Cdeste found
themselves shut into the carriage alone,
and on their way to the train for Poissy,
their first feeling was one of confusion,
from which their speedy arrival at the
station happily relieved them. There
they found the compartment, into which
they hurried, already occupied by a
chatty old gentleman, who, much to
their annoyance, insisted upon address-
ing them OS husband and wife.

Poor Celeste was ready to cry with
vexation, while at the same time she
felt very happy, but a little guilty for
daring to indulge in such unlawfbl
delight, and a little afraid that Eliza-
beth would blame her, not understand-
ing the misadventure that had forced
this welcome and yet unwelcome escort
upon her. " It ia not my fault," she
thought ; " Sir Edward would have him

accompany me. How good and generous
he is ! I am so thankful that ho is not
cross and jealous, like some husbands. It
is very pleasant to take this little excur-
sion with Claude, still it is rather awk-
ward. However, I did nothing to bring
it about ; therefore my conscience does
not trouble me, and I may as well have
one happy day to remember when I am
old." WiJ^h this comfortable conclusion
she resigned herself, not unwillinglj', to
the circumstance that this fortuitous
event had thrust upon her.

As to Claude he was not at all easy.
We will not say he was unhappy, on the
contrary, he was at the very threshold
of the seventh heaven, if such a com-
parison is not irreverent ; yet he was not
free from certain little interior pricks,
that kept him from perfect bliss, and
detained him at the very entrance of
the paradise opened before him. He
had tried to reassure himself with the
same questionable logic that Celeste
had used ; but being the stronger and
more intelligent of the two, it did not
satisfy him so easily. He had been suf-
fering a great deal for several days ; in-
numerable anxieties harassed his wak-
ing hours, and rendered his dreams
anything but peaceful. Already be was
beginning tj pay the first instalment of
the debt he owed to his experience, a
debt of ingratitude for what it had
taught him, and a still greater debt of
self-indulgence. His love for Celeste
had shorn him of his strength. He
ought never to have looked upon her
face again, after the night he accident-
ally met her at the Hotel de Ventadour ;
but blinding himself with an intention
of friendship and assistance, he had now
reached the very brink of the precipice
he Had intended to avoid. He now
loved her, although he did not dare to
acknowledge it even to himself, as madly
and passionately as he had on that
day when they had parted in the rose-
garden at Monthelon ; he could rib longer
delude himself with sophistry, he loved
her, and he had not strength to give her
up. Reason thundered in his ears terri-
ble warnings ; there were ominous signs
in the political horizon. La Marquise had
told him that his liberty and even his
life were menaced, that his only safety
lay in his immediate departure from

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

good and generous
ikful that ho is not
e Bome husbands. It
ake this little excur-
ill it is rather awk-
id nothing to bring
my conscience does
I may as well have
tmemlMr when I am
ifortable conclusion
not unwillingly, to
that this fortuitous
ipon her.

was not at all easy,
was unhappy, on the
: the very threshold
ven, if such a corn-
rent ; yet he was not
ittle interior pricks,
m perfect bliss, and
le very entrance of
ed before him. He
ire himself with the
logic that Celeste
ng the stronger and
r the two, it did not
y. Ho had been suf-
for several days ; in-
;s harassed his wak-
^endered his dreams
iful. Already he was
he first instalment of
to his experience, a
le for what it had
still greater debt of
flis love for Celeste
f his strength. He
ive looked upon her
\ie night he accident-
Hotel de Ventadour ;
If with an intention
isistance, he had now
rink of the precipice
to avoid. He now
1 he did not dare to
1 to himself, as madly
EU9 he had on that
1 parted in the rose-
n; he could riMonger
1 sophistry, he loved
b strength to give her
iered in his ears terri-
9 were ominous signs
:on. La Marquise had
liberty and even his
that his only safety
iatc departure from

Paris, and ho was confident of it him-
Btlf J he had received moro than one
powerful admonition to that eflfect, and
yet ho hesitated. He had said to La
Marquiso that it was only bis duty that
inclined him to remain and face the
consequences, whatever they might be.
He had tried to say the same to his own
soul, but there ho stood abashed under
his falsehood, and was forced to confess
that it was Celeste, his love for her, his
desire for her presence, that made him
deaf to the voice of warning. In his
good work there had been no double
motive ; he had striven with a single
heart, to do something to better a little
the condition of his country. His love
had not narrowed his soul, it had deep-
ened, and enlarged it, and opened his
really noble and tender heart to the
dolorous moaning of those in bondage.
But now the time had come when to
continue in that direction was to lose
the chance of future usefulness, and
that he had no right to do. Reckless
courage is as much a sin as is cowardice.
If he had not been blinded by his pas-
sion for Celeste, he would have seen
more clearly into his own situation, and
withdrawn from danger while there was
opportunity.

I do not wish to blame Claude too
severely, he is my hero and I esteem
him highly ; neither do I wish to gain
for him the admiration of my readers
by false pretences and foolish excuses.
Therefore I state the case exactly as it
was, not hesitating to say that ho was
wrong, decidedly wrong, to accompany
Lady Courtnay, even at her husband's
solicitation, and thereby expose himself
to a temptation that he should have
avoided, and still more in fault to
linger in Paris, when he should liavc
been anywhere else at that critical
time.

When they reached the station at
Poissy, and escaped from the presence
of the garrulous old man who had made
their cheeks burn more than once by
his suggestive remarks, they felt a little
more at their ease.

" Let us walk to the villa," said
Celeste, as she took Claude's arm on
the platform. " It is only a short dis-
tance and through a most delightful
road,"

" If you prefer it, certainly." And then
they sauntered almost silently through
a narrow country lane, tender with tho
tints of spring ; tho soft April air blew
over their faces, sunlight and shadow
flickered over their path, the green
trailing branches bent down to kiss
their heads, and the daisy-studded
grass caressed their feet that pressed it
lightly.

Sometimes Celeste raised her eyes to
the face of her companion, and sudden-
ly dropped them, trembling to find that
his were fixed upon her with unmistak-
able adoration. Once, almost forgetting
where she was, she spoke to him and
called him Claude ; he smiled in return,
and pressed the little hand that lay on
his arm. She was vexed at herself for
having done so, for now she never ad-
dressed him in any other way than by
his title, and she feared ho might con-
sider it an advance toward a greater
familiarity; so she turned away her
head and looked resolutely toward tho
forest of St. Germain, and the distant
silvery thread of the Seine.

" This reminds me of the April days
at Clermont," said Claude.

" Hush," cried Celeste, *' I am never
to speak of them. I promised Elizabeth
never to speak of the past."

" Then we will speak of the delight-
ful present. Are you happy this morn-
ing, Celeste t "

His voice lingered softly on her name.
She did not reprove him, but turned
away her face without replying. Then
Claude sighed and said, " I wish such a
day as this could have no to-morrow.
If it could but last forever, or end to
both of us at once."

" The world is very beautiful, Claude,
and life, in spite of sorrow, has so much
sweetness in it, I think we should not
desire to shorten it even one hour."

"Do you always think so, dear Ce-
leste 1"

" Not always, 0, not always ! " she re-
plied with a sigh that revealed an abyss
of sadness that he had not fathomed.
" Sometimes I am very weary, and wish
it would all end. I don't think I have
the strong nature to endure, although I
strive very hard to be patient and hap-

py."

" Poor child," said Claude with ten-

wijmj^m s s^agp s mtfffwmms^ i ^i i ismm^^^ ^''

134

A GROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

dor pity, " God knows how I wish that
I might boar your burdens."

" My burdens 1 Claude, I have no
burdens," she returned with an eager-
ness of denial that did not deceive him.
" I am sure evory one is so good to me.
Think of Sir Edward, how kind he is ;
and dear Elizabeth does so much to
make mo happy. If I nm not contented
with my lot, it is my own fault, my own
wicked heart is alouo to blame." Then
she paused and colored, dropping her
eyes with shame, as though she had re-
vealed too much. Cliiude made no re-
ply, and both fell into a silence which
thoy scarce dared to break, fearing lest
they should encroach upon some inter-
dicted subject. Their hearts naturally
turned to the old days, and they longed
to speak of them, but Celeste remem-
bered her promise, and Claude respected
it ; so they said but little more until
they reached the gate of the villa, where
Celeste was glad to be, feeling that the
presence of Elizabeth would relieve her
from all embarrassment.

The porter who opened the gate
looked a little surprised as he recog-
nized Lady Courtnay. "The family
have all gone to Paris, madame," he
said.

•' Gone to Paris I " repeated Cilesto,
confounded.

"Yes, madame, they went in the
ten-o'clock train to accompany Madem-
oiselle Elizabeth, who wished to re-
turn home."

" And I have come to fetch her," said
Celeste. " It is an annoying contretemps ;
wo have passed her on the road; and
now all that remains for us to do is to
turn and follow her."

" When does the next train leave 1 "
inquired Claude of the porter.

"0 monsieur, there is not another
train until eight o'clock this evening."

*' Eight o'clock I " exclaimed C61este.

"Eight o'clock," repeated Claude,
looking at his watch, "and it is now
only one ! "

" Seven hours," said Celeste ; " what
shall we dol"

" 0, there is a great deal to see in
Poissy, madame, while dinner is being
prepared for you. What hour would
you like to dinel"

Celeste looked at Claude, and then

said to the man, " Will the family dine
at home r*

" No, madame, they will leave Paris
about the time the eight-o'clock train
arrives there."

" Well," said Claude, pleasantly, " we
must make the host of the misadven-
ture. If you are not too tired," turn-
ing upon Celeste a very happy face,
"we will walk through the town and
see the church where St. Louis was bap-
tized, and the other places of interest,
and return to dinner at whatever hour
you like."

" I think it had bettor be early," re-
plied Celeste, with rather a troubled
face; "say four o'clock."

" Very well," said the porter, touch-
ing his hat as they left him, " I will
give the order to the cook, and when
madame returns she will find every-
thing in readiness."

It is needless to say that the time
flew swiftly, and before they were aware
of it the hour to dino had already ar-
rived. When Celeste seated herself at
the table opposite Claude, and their
eyes met, both were visibly agitated,
their position toward each other was so
trying, and their hearts were so filled
with old memories and hopes, that this
simple meal, partaken without the pres-
ence of a third party, suggested more
than either could bear quite calmly.
Dish after dish went away . scarce
tasted. They were both too troubled
to eat, and the dinner was a mere form
that they wore thankful to have finished.

" How calm and quiet it is here ! "
said Cdeste, as they stood side by side
at a bow-window that opened on the
lawn. " I think I was not created for
a city life ; I pine for the country al-
ways."

"A life of seclusion and retirement
brings us into more intimate acquaint-
ance with oiu* own. hearts; we study our-
selves more and others less. Therefore
the objection might arise that such a
continued intercourse with self would
tend to make one narrow-minded, ego-
tistical, and intolerant," replied Claude,
looking at her earnestly, yet with an
absorbed and troubled air

"There are, no doubt, many detri-
meutal influences in a life of entire so-
clusion, but there are some uaturoa con-

nil the family dine

ey will leave Paris
eight-o'clock train

fde, pleasantly, " we
It of the misadvcn-
pt too tired," turn-
very happy face,
bugh tiie town and
ru St. Louis was bap-
plttcea of interest,
br at whatever hour

bettor be early," re-
rnthcr a troubled

Block."
the porter, touch-
left him, " I will

the cook, and when

he will find every-

say that the time

fore they were aware

dine had already ar-

3te seated herself at

I Claude, and their

ere visibly agitated,

rd each other was so

icarts were so filled

and hopes, that this

^en without the prcs-

irty, suggested more

1 bear quite calmly.

went away . scarce

e both too troubled

ner was a mere form

ikful to have finished.

1 quiet it is here ! "

}y stood side by side

that opened on the

was not created for

I for the country al-

ision and retirement
9 intimate acquaint-
leails; we study our-
lers less. Therefore
>t arise that such a
rse with self would

narrow-minded, ego-
ant," replied Claude,
•nestly, yet with an
bled air

doubt, many detri-
in a life of cutiro so-
jre some natures con-

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

130

stitutod for it and to whom it has a
peculiar charm. Still I do not advo-
cate an existence entirely separated from
the world. I was thinking of the sweet
family life apart from the consuming
cares of a great city." Again she
paused in confusion; unwittingly she
had expressed her companion's thoughts,
and ai)proached that dangerous ground
on which it would be madness to tread.

"Celeste, may I ask you one ques-
tion 1" cried Claude, suddenly taking
her hand. "Are you satisfied with
your lifer*

" Claudo ! how can you ask it 1 "
and her eyes filled with tears.

It was an avowal of all her sorrow,
all her disappointment, all her hidden
care and misery, all the anxiety that
was consuming her. It broke down the
barriers between them. It opened the
floodgates of their hearts, and both
wept passionately together.

"Tell me all," oriei Claude, "for it
is only by knowing yriur true situation
that I can be of psy assistance. to you."

" It may bo vTong to tell you," she
sobbed, " it m?y seem like complaining
of my good husband, who is not to
blame. He has been very unsuucessful,
and has lost all my fortune ; but I do
not blame him in the least, I only suf-
fer because we are so helpless, Eliza-
beth and myself, and the future looks
so terrible to us. Claude, we so need
some one to advise us, and we cannot
bear to trouble poor Sir Edward, he is
so kind, so good to us both I "

Claude did not dispute her belief in
the goodness of her husband ; he did
not accuse him ; he did not enlighten
her ; he only tried to comfort her, and
to win her entire confidence. Gradu-
ally he drew from her the whole story
of their complete ruin, their struggle
to keep up an appearance of prosperity,
their annoyances and distresses from the
importunities of creditors, their sacri-
fices, and their efforts to hide the worst
from the unprincipled man who had
robbed them.

During this pitiful recital, Claude's
cheeks burned, and his heart beat al-
most to suffocation. He looked at the
frail, lovely woman before him, young
still, and so unsuspecting, so innocent
and gentle. *' My God ! " he thought,

" how terrible will be her fate, bound
to tliat miserable man, who will drag
her down with him, either to entire nun
or a promuturo grave 1 And she belongs
to me ; by every holy riglit she is mine.
I will save her if she will bo saved. It
is my duty to save her. It is my sacred
duty to rescue her from a worse fate."
His passion and pity overwhelmed liim,
blinded and bewildered him ; he felt for
the time as though this adored woman,
this idolized being, hung suspended
over the very flames of perdition, and
that it was his privilege, his duty to
save her. He forgot all else beside, and
clasping her hands in his, he implored
her with the most passionate tones, the
most forcible language, to abandon this
man who had ruined her, who was
unworthy of her love, who had no
moral right to her, to fly with him to
some secluded place, where alone and
happy with each other they might re-
trieve the past by a blissful future. He
went on with an eager impetuosity,
impelled by his love, his despair, his
fear, like one who stakes all on a last
throw, who, if he loses, loses all ; he
felt it, he understood it, and yet he
dared to take, in this presumptuous
manner, his fate into his own hands.

At first Celeste did not understand
his full meaning ; but when she did
she sprang away from the clasp of his
hands, and stood looking at him in wild-
eyed terror. At length she found voice
and cried out in tones of such anguish
that he never forgot them, " Claude,
Claude ! are you mad that you speak
so to me who have almost worshipped
you 1 " There was a depth of reproach
in this that wrung his heart; he re-
membered how he had once said, " She
shall never have cause to reproach
me." " Me who have so reverenced you
and trusted you. It is not your own
noble nature that speaks ; you are in-
sane, you know not what you say, there-
fore I forgive you, as I hope God will."
And with a look of deep compassion
and sorrow, she turned to leave him.

" Listen, for the love of Heaven, listen
to me for but a moment ! " ho cried,
springing befora her, and clasping his
hands in frenzied supplication. "0
Celeste, have pity on me, I am mad,
I am indeed mad; I love you, I adore

136

A CROWN FROM TUB SPEAR.

you, and I cannot, bo separated from you
again ; I will strive to be calm, see, I
am already calmer. O Celeste, my an-
gel, do not leavo me I" And, ovorcomo by
hia emotion, ho covered his face with
hia handa and burst into tears.

She drew near him, almost terrified
by hia violent weeping, yet her face
was calm and solemn, and her voice
was full of tenderness as she said,
" Dear Claude, control yourself for my
sake, think how you alarm me ; I
suffor, I suffer deeply for you, and I
suffer for myself, as I shall do in all
the future. I shall never again bo at
peace. I have heard words fVom you
that will haunt me always. my
darling Elizabeth ! my dear good hus-
band ! I can never look into your kind
faces again without dreadful shame and
remorse."

" Forgive me, Celeste, forgive me,"
ho cried in broken tones, while he
struggled to regain his composure. " I
am more than guilty, and I deserve to
1)0 crushed by your indignation and
contempt. I deserve neither pity nor
mercy from you, and yet I implore
both. Como near me, do not stand
trembling as though you feared mc.
God knows I would not harm one haii-
of your precious head. Come near me."
And, taking her hand, he drew her to
the embrasure of the window.

The sun was gliding down to the
west, throwing long shadows of the
poplars across the lawn. The silence
around them was only broken by the
gentle twitter of the birds building
their nests among the branches of an
elm, and the soft soughing of the wind
that blew over their feverish faces, and
rustled tho curtains that floated in and
out like white wings of peace.

They looked for a few moments in
silence upon the placid scene, and then
Claude, drawing away from his com-
panion, bent his head upon his hand,
striving to calm the tempest that raged
within ; while C61eBte prayed silently
that God would give them both strength
to conquer their suffering hearts. Thus
they stood, these two poor souls, ar-
rested on the very threshold of happi-
ness by a solemn interior voice that
neither dared to disobey. Loving each
other to adoration, longing to unite

their lives, their destinies, their sor-
rows and joys, and yet not daring to
cross that line of demarcation that God
had placed between them.

At length Celeste reached out her
hand across the open window, and laid
it gentlv on the bowed head of Claude.
Ho looked up, his face wan ghastlv
white, and his lips were trembling with
ill-suppressed emotion. " Go," she said,
— " go, dear Claude, and leave me alone
to think. Something tolls me that after
this I should never return to Sir Edward
again. I must go and hide myself
somewhere. I cannot deceive Elizabeth,
neither can I deceive him ; for now I
know I do not love him, that I never
loved him, that it is you, and only

you,
him

I love, and therefore I cannot see
again."

" my blesred angel ! " cried Claude,
beside himself at the words, which ho
had only half understood, " mny Gud
forget mo if I ever cause you a sor-
row ! "

" Leave me," she said gently, — "leavo
me for one hour to decide on my future
course ; then come to me, and I will
tell you my determination."

Claude pressed her hands to his lips.
The white curtains waved over them
like the wings of peace ; a slanting
sunbeam touched their clasped hands
and bowed heads with a loving bene-
diction. Then Claude went out through
the open window, into the shadow of
the poplars alone, and Celeste stood
gazing after him, until a winding path
hid him from her sight.

Alas for them, through what shadow
shall they pass before the sunlight shall
touch them again !

For an hour Claude paced rapidly
the long avenues of the park in a terri-
ble state of agitation. In vain he tried
to control himself by calling to his
assistance some of the powerful argu-
ments that had saved him liefore.
But ho could not reason ; he could not
lift his heart in calm, immovable trust
to Him who hears us when we cry. He
desired to be saved from this fearful
conflict ; ho desired to do right ; and
yet, withal, he said, " I will not give
her up, I will not give her up." There-
fore Christ turned away his face, and
left him aloue in his struggle.

tatinics, their sor-
yet not daring to
nurcation that God
lem.

reached out her

window, and laid

sd head of Claude.

face wan ghastly

rero trembling with

n. " Go," she said,

and leave mo alone

g tolls me that after

9tum to Sir Edward

and hide myself

>t deceive Elizabeth,

ve him ; for now I

him, that I never

is you, and only

reforo I cannot see

gel ! " cried Claude,
le words, which ho
irstood, " may God
cause you a sor-

aid gently, — "leave
jecide on my future

to me, and I will
lination."

er hands to his lips.
s waved over them

peace ; a slanting
their clasped hands
with a loving bene-
ide went out through
into the shadow of

and Celeste stood
ntil a winding path
sight.

irough what shadow
re the sunlight shall

uide paced rapidly
the park in a terri-
D. In vain he tried
by calling to his
the powerful argu-
saved him before,
ason ; he could not
m, immovable tnist
B when we cry. He
d from this fearful
1 to do right; and
I, "I will not give
ve her up." There-
away his face, and
lis struggle.

iisii.

e±^i

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

137

It is not difficult to imagine that
such a soul must suffer intense torture
before it can succumb to an ignoble
deed, und that afterward the remorse
must be a devouring agony. Claude
had endured much ; he had l)oen
through fearful mental conflicts; but
such a one as this hod never torn and
racked all his being with a thousand
keen puinu ; he had never before been
BO utterly overpowered, so completely
defeated. The soft wings of night
fanned his forehead, the dew fell Uke a
balm upon the thirsty, fainting flowers,
the twitter of the birds died away into
the murmuring of their leufy nests, and
a profound silence reigned around him.
He throw himself prostrate on the
ground, and burying his face in the
cool, damp moss, tried to think, to
reason, to arrange his plans ; but
there was no order, no rational inten-
tions, no fixed purpose save one ; and
that was to separate Celeste from her
prcsotit misery, and to bind her to him-
self forever. A still, deep voice seemed
to say, " Renounce her, give her up
forever. Go to her in noble penitence,
and tell her that your path is made
clear, aud that it does not lie with hers.
Leave her, and go back to your duties,
your old, culm life, and forget, in pa-
tient labor, your unworthy passion."

" No, no," he cried, springing to his
feet and turning toward the house, —
" no, I will not give her up, though
the heavens should crush me." The
hour had passed ; he reached the win-
dow where he had parted from Clleste ;
the room was empty, she was gone.
He looked around bewildered. The
wind still waved the white curtains in
and out. A faint light from a crystal
glolie illuminated a table, on which
lay some writing-materials, and among
them he saw a note addressed to him-
self He tore it open. It was stained
and blotted with tears.

" I fly from you, Claude, because I fear
you, and I fear myself still more. I go
to my kind husband, my noble Elizabeth,
to confess all. And then — and then —
I shall leave the future to the mercy of
God. In this moment the purest, the
sweetest, the most tender feelings are
I)laced in strong contrast to the unwor-

mmm

thy, the unholy, the ignoble. And I ask
myself what is true and what is false ;
and straightway a divine finger writes
before me in letters of fire, ' Thy duty at
any cost. Lot not the heart's wild pas-
sion, the unrestrained love, darken the
clear, pure light of reason. Let not tho
nature desiring to grow up to the radiant
sun of holiness turn downward to the
day of which it is fashioned, forget-
ting its origin in its base grovelling.
Great and noble souls sacrifice passion
and desire to virtue and purity ; and he
who conquoreth himself is worthy of a
martyr's crown. The joys of tho heart
are sweet, and love turneth nil tilings
to pleasure ; but remorse and regi'ot fol-
low fast upon gratification. Passion
is destitute of tenderness. Love be-
getteth passion ; but alas I passion de-
stroyeth love.' I cannot disregard the
solemn monition of this holy teacher.
My groat love for you sinks into insig-
nificance beside the importance of my
duty. Therefore I fly from you forever.
I do not reproach you ; I do not blame
you. I thank God that ho has given
me strength to save us both from sin.
When you become calmer, when reason,
when truth asserts itself, you will see
with me, that though our hearts bleed
to death, this parting is necessary,
absolutely necessary. I would have
adored you as a friend, a brother ; but
that cannot be. We have loved once,
we shall love always, and we cannot be
friends ; therefore we must be strangers.
I know you will respect my decision,
and will never strive to change it.
Farewell. God bless you, and help you
to forget how we have suffered.

"CfeLESTB."

When Claude had read these lines he
stood for a few moments like one stupe-
fied by a sudden blow. Then ho pressed
his hand to his head, sighed heavily and
sank almost unconscious into the chair
where Celeste had sat to write these
truthful but crushing words. His fever-
ish passion was calmed and cooled sud-
denly and completely ; he felt as though
she were lying dead before him, stricken
lifeless by his hand. The profound
silence tortured him; the regular waving
of the white curtains in the wind seemed
like spectral forms j the incessant com-

'I' ,." ! )"

138

A CROWN FROM TUB SPEAR.

plaints of his ounsoionco aflrightod him ;
inuctioi) and ropoHO wero unoudurable,
nnd ho aroao and plunged again into tho
daritness. A half-huur after ho ap-
peared at tho lodge, and muttering Bonio
Hcarcoly intclligihlo exeuHO for being bo
late, he naked if Ludy C'ourtnuy had
gone.

" Yea, monsieur, aho left more than
an hour ago ; one of the aervonta walked
with her to the atation."

Claudo looked at hia watch, it was
nearly nine o'clock ; Celcato was already
far on her way to Paria. *' When will
the next train leave 1 "

" At cloven o'clock, monaieur."

Claude thanked tho servant and
turned away mochauicuUy, scarce know-
ing, scarce caring, where ho went.

" Another contretempn," thought tho
porter as he closed tho gate after him.

PART SEVENTH.

"STGRNITUR INFELIX ALIENO TnLKERB."

When Claude reached Paris, some-
where about midnight, he was really ill
from fatigue and agitation. He had
been through a kind of special suffering
that left nothing for consolation. He
had been, as it were, intoxicated by his
emotions, and had acted in tho most
insane manner, destroying and annul-
ling all the laws of reason, which he
had constructed for his own security
out of his past experience. By his
importunate desire to rescue Celeste
from what he thought to be misery,
but what was in reality duty, he had
in one rash moment overthrown the
wall which he had erected for her
safety, and thereby left her defenceless.
Now he knew that they were indeed
parted forever, and that ho had de-
stroyed his only chance of aiding her ;
there was no longer any intention of
friendship to fall back upon. He had
tried that specious project, and had
proved it to be a failure. He had in-
tended to do so much for her, but his
own folly had prevented him from
doing anything. These were the
thoughts that made his remorse un-
endurable, and added to his sorrow for

her loss a thousand poignant regrets
fur his own weaknoas and indiacrution.

When Claudo entered hia room in
tho Rue St. lloch, ho found Triatuii
waiting for him, pale and wcury with
watcliing und anxiuty ; for his abtjunce
during tho whulo day, without any ex-
planation, hud alarmed hint terribly.
When tho faithful servant raised his
eyes, und looked upon tho troubled face
of his master, he knew aoniethin^ un-
nsuttl hud occurred. And wlicn Claude
threw himself, overcome by hia feoliiiga,
upon the faithful heart that never
failed him, Triatan understood that he
hud received another hcatv blow, and
he tried to comfort him in tho boat way
he could. Then there followed two or
three days of illness ; of fever, riolirium,
moaning, and tossing, when some of the
old scenes after his flight from Cler-
mont were reacted, and Tristan's fuiMng
strength was tested to the uttermobt.
However, the frenzy soon exhausted
itself ; it was not long or serious. On
the fourth day after that sunbright
morning when he and Celeste walked
through tho flowers and light into
shadow, he arose, pale and weak, but
calm ; and, dressing himself, ho sent
Triatan for a carriage, and drove to the
Rue Coatiglione, for be had determined
to see Celeste again, but once again.
He felt that he could not endure life
without hearing from her lips that
she forgave him, and that she was well
and free from any new unxiety. Then
ho intended to leave Paris, and, return-
ing to Sarzeau, endeavor there to reunite
again the broken threads of his life ;
to take up the burden anew, and go on
patiently with his humble duties. For
the lost two months he had been happy,
— too happy, as he had learned from
this last experience. He had been
dwelling in paradise ; and now he was
driven out, and the gates were closed
upon him forever. It was not so much
the pain of his banishment as it was
the thought that he had brought it
upon himself.

I remember once standing on the
roof of the Cathedral of Milan, just as
the sun sank below the Alps, throw-
ing a last beam of light over the
brow of that wonderful statue by Mi-
chael Aogelo of Adam after hia cxpul-

id poignant rogreU
188 and iiidiacrution.
interod Iuh room in
ti, ho found TrlHtttu
lolo and weary with
oty ; for hia nbKonco
lay, without ony ox-
irtned hin» toiribly.
!l servant raised hin
|l)on the troubled fnco
know BoniethinK un-
. And when Claude
|rcomo by his feelingH,
il heart that never
understood that ho
her heavy blow, and
t hiu) in the best way
;hcre followed two or
S8 ; of fever, fiolirium,
ing, when some of the
his flight from Cler-
, and Tristan's failing
od to the uttermobt.
!nzy soon exhausted
long or serious. On
ofter that siinbright
} and Celeste walked
wers and light into
, pale and weak, but
ling himself, he sent
iage, and drove to the
'or he had determined
gain, but once again,
could not endure life
from her lips that
and that she was well
j^ new unxiety. Then
ave Paris, and, retum-
deavor there to reunite
> threads of his life ;
rden anew, and go on
} humble duties. For
hs he had been happy,
he had learned from
2nce. He had been
lise ; and now he was
bhe gates were closed
It was not so much
}anishment as it was
t he had brought it

ace standing on the
dral of Milan, just as
low the Alps, throw-
1 of light over the
iderful statue by Mi-
idam after his oxpul-

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

139

•ion fh>m Eden. Looking at this statue,
I was confused by the contradictory
expression of the face. It is true there
was nuiuh of regret in it ; a sad, calm
longing for his Eden ; a desire for some-
thing he had left behind ; but withal, a
pliicid satisfiiction, a resignation, a con-
tuntmoat, most ronmrkiiblo in one who
had lost so much. I, who then stood, with
blooding heart and rebellious soul, on
the outer threshold of my Eden, could
not understand this patient acqui-
osuenco ; and feeling that the groat
master was at fault in his conception,
I said, " It cannot be after his expul-
sion, for his face is not even sorrow-
ful."

" You forget," replied my companion,
" that he was not driven out alone."

Poor Claude hod not even Adam's
consolation to apply to his regreti\il
soul, for he had not only brought his ex-
pulsion upon himself, but ho had been
ex polled ulono ; and that perhaps was
the bitterest thought of all, that hence-
forth he must l)e entirely separated
from his idoL When he reached the
Rue Costiglione, the first thing that
attracted his notice was a card attached
to the porte cochire of Sir Edward's
house, bearing the suggestive words,
A louer, le premier itage.

" The family have gone, monsieur,"
said the old woman who sat knitting in
the door.

"Gone! where 1"

" Heaven only knows. They went
away yesterday, bag and baggage, and
the apartment is to let."

" Did they leave no address 1 "

" No, monsieur, not with me. I asked
Mademoiselle where they were going,
and she said she did not know. Poor
thing, she is an angel, and Madame too,
for that matter. monsieur, there are
many strange things in this world. It
's not me nor you that they did not
wish to know where they were going,
but the duns, the creditors of milord,
who made their lives wretched I Poor
young things ! Heaven bless them
wherever they arel"
« Claude made no reply, but his heart
echoed the old woman's wish, as he
turned away sick with disappointment..

When he reached his room again he
throw himself into a chair like one who

has no further ^im in life, saying in a
weary, dujected voice, " They have gone,
Tristan, and Uod only knows to whut
fute." In the evening the thought
occurred to him that La Marquise, iio-
ing intinmte with Kir Edward, might
know something of their whereabouts.
" I will go directly, Tristan. Help nie
to dress. I will not bo late, that I may
see her alone." While dressing ho
thought of the night when Philip had
come to him full of life and happiness,
to take him for the first time to La Mar-
quise. Toward what sod results he had
conducted him. Poor Philip, now far
from him, was tasting of the bitter cup
that he had long ago drunk to the
dregs, and which he must drink again,
replenished in a measure by his own
hand.

When Claude entered the anteoham-
bor at the Hdtel Ventadour it was quite
oarly, and there were no signs of other
visitors.

"Does Madame receive this even-
ing 1" said a footman to another ser-
vant, as Claude gave him his card.

"No," replied the man, turning his
back and wiUking to the farther side of
the room.

"Quel impertinent t" muttered the
footman, looking afler him curiously.
And then turning to Claude, he said,
politely, " Madame does not receive this
evening, M. le Comte."

" Take my card to her at once," sajd
Claude in a tone that admitted of no
dispute, " and say to her that she will
do me a great favor if she will receive
me.

In a moment the footman returned,
and, throwing open the door of the
scarlet room, conducted Claude into the
presence of his mistress, saying with an
imposing air, "M. le Comte de Cler-
mont, madame."

La Marquise stood in the centre of
the room, under the great golden chan-
delier, dressed in a sort of demi-toilet
of white cashmere heavily embroidered
with black. There was something fu-
nereal and solemn in her appearance
that chilled Claude as his eyes fell upon
her ; but when she came forward with a
warm smile trembling on her lip and a
sudden flush of pink upon her delicate
cheek, she seemed ti'ansformed into

140

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

■omothing aitigiilarly beautiful ami gri»-
oiouH.

"To wlmt accidont do I owo IIiIh

rtlouHiiro]" rIio Huid, holding out her
iikiid ill eimer welcome. " O M. lo
C.'oiiitu, 1 nni HO gliul to nee you itafo aiid
well. I fcnred ho uuuiy tcrrlMe thingn
for j'ou. You oro welcome, moat wol-
como."

" And you nro kind, most kind," re-
plied Claudu with Bomo wiiriuth, for her
cumuHt, idrnoHt tender grooting touched
hiH Huft'cring heart like a balm.

" Will you conio into my Imiidoir f It
in more cosey for a titrh-tke, and Iwsidc
I am Huch tua invalid that I rarely leave
it now." And she rniacd the curtain as
she spoke, and entered the fair, calm
retreat, that revealed nothing of the
terrible tempoiita it had bo often wit-
neased.

Claude followed her, and aa ahe acatcd
heraelf on the sofa, he noticed her air of
languor and wcakncsa, how thin she
had become aince the last time ho had
seen her, and how transparently white
was her cheek; there was aorocthing
ethereal in the pure lines of her face,
the hollow intense eyes, and the mossea
of ailvery hair.

" You are indeed ill," ho aaid gently.
" What are you aufTering from 1 "

" The physicians do not know. I am
dying of a disease that baffles their skill
of detection," ahe replied, with a dim
amilo and a strange quivering of the lips.

" madame, you grieve mo. So
youn<;, so l)cautiful, and so happy, is it
possii)le that nothing can be done to
aave youl"

"Nothing," she replied calmly; "I
know my fate and I am contented.
monsieur, there are aotno who exhaust
life early, they live witli such intensity
that they consume themselves ! Unfor-
tunately I was born with such a nature.
I was touched with a fever that has
urged roe on to the most enervating
extremes, and now at the time when
1 should be happy and hopeful, with a
long life l)efore me, I am looking im-
patiently for the end."

"Patron mo," aaid Claude, gently;
"is there not still some remedy 1 Is
it right to allow the life that God has
given to slip quietly away fVom us,
without making any effort to retain it 1

And are wo not guilty if wo accuao
luiturc, when in reality it ia our own
■elf-indulgonco that has mined umI"

" If there ia any aim in living, if we
can bcneKt or render happy thoHo around
UH, if by penance and team wo can atone
for ain, and make tho soul more pure
and worthy of ita eternal inheritance,
then, pcrhapH, wo should seek to extend
to the utmost limits the frail thread of
existence ; but if, on tho contrary, life
haa nothing /nore to give ua, if wo know
that we havo abnohitcly loat every
chance of making ouraelvea happy or
othora Iwttcr, and if wo have exhausted
our tears and penanoea, ahould wo atill
dcuiro to livol

" We should ; there is no extremity
so groat that wo ahould turn ttom it
to death for a refuge," replied Claude,
Bolemnly.

" I do not complain. I do not desire
to hasten the end, but when it arrives
it will be welcome. Neither do I
reproach Qod that ho has not given me
happiness. I was not created to possess
it. I should havo abused it, and becomo
more selfish, intolerant, and arrogant.
If one should live to say, ' I havo arrived
at tho plenitude of bliss. I have tasted
the inetiable, tho divine. I have consum-
mated tho extreme of hope, aspiration,
and desire, and there is no more of joy
to experience,' would it not be only at
tho sitcrifice of hia life 1 for auch a day
could have no end. It muat bo the
union of mortality and immortality, tho
iirat delicious draught from tho fount
of eternal beatification. Therefore I do
not wiah to be old. I desire to live
with all tho intensity and emotion pos-
sible ; and when all is finished, I would
feel vividly the transport and raviah-
ment, the ecstasy of immortal happi-
ness."

Claude looked at her with surprise
and pity. So young and so beautiful,
to speak thus of a life too early exhaust-
ed. What had been the sorrow and
disappointment that had blighted her
existence 1 What poisonous yrorm had
crept into the heart of this fair flower,
withering it and killing it so early 1«
His heart, tender from the smart of his
own sorrow, was full of commiseration
for her ; he longed to comfort her, and
yet he knew not what to say. When

\gw\ty if wo accnao
[lality it in our uwn
ImH niincil unI"
nitu in liviii(,', if wo
pr hnppy thono unmiid
fid tenrH wo ciui ntono
tlio Huiil nioro |)uro
eternal inheritance,
Should Mcck to extend
tta the frail thread of
on the contrary, lifo
ko give lis, if wo know
hnolutely lost every
oursolveH happy or
J if wo have oxhauRtcd
anccB, should wo still

hero is no extremity

should turn fVom it

ugo," replied Claudo,

Iain. J do not desire
but when it arrives
Imc. Neither do I
he has not given me
not created to possess
abused it, and become
Icrant, and arrogant,
to say, ' I have arrived
f bliss. I have tasted
ivino. I have consum-
le of hope, aspiration,
hero is no more of joy
)u]d it not be only at
i life 1 for such a day
id. It must bo the
' and immortality, the
lught from tho fount
ition. Therefore I do
>ld. I desire to live
sity and emotion pos-
11 is finished, I would
ransport and ravish-
' of immortal happi-

at her with surprise
ing and so beautiful,
lifo too early cxhaust-
)een the sorrow and
lat had blighted her

poisonous \yorm had
■rt of this fair flower,

killing it so early 1%
from the smart of his
ull of commiseration

to comfort her, and
what to say. When

A CROWN PROM TIIK SPEAR.

141

■ho had finished siioakin^ her face hnd
fiillcn into her hands, unci now ho huw a
tear trickle slowly tVom betwuou bur
fingers and fall into her Inp. Slio wuh
weeping silent iy. Tho si^lit wuh more
than hu could cnduro ; hu arose and
paced tho floor rapidly, Mcarco knowing
whuthur to ruHli from hor proscnpo, ur
whether to throw himsulf on his knees
before her and strive to conii'oit her
with gentle words and tender caresses.

When Claudo left his seat by hor
side, tho hands of La Marquiso fc-11
heavily ; with an impatient gosturo hIio
dashed away tho tears that trutnlilod on
hor lushes. " Mon Dieu I " she thought,
" whore is my prido, to woep in tho

fircHcnco of this cold, stem man, who
lus neitlier pity nor love for niel 0,
how ho will despise mo for my weak-
UL'HH ! " Tlien with an effort she said
calmly, " Pardon rao, M. le Comte, I
am very nervous and foolish this even-
ing. It is only when I cannot control
my emotion that I feel how my illness
has gained upon mo."

In a moment Claude was at hor side,
and had her thin, white hands in his.
" mudamo," ho said, looking at hor
with the tenderest pity, " if you could
but BOO into my heart, you would know
how deep, how sincere is my interest
for you. Can I help youl can I do
aught to render you happier 1 Command
me as you would a brother."

La Marquise drew away her hands
from his grasp, and leaning back on hor
sofa she looked into his earnest, noble
face with an expression so intense, so
inquiring, so full of devotion, that it
was like a revelation to Claude. The hot
blood rushed to his head, a shadow
seemed to gather before his eyes, and
fVom that shadow looked the white,
passionate face of Aim6e, as he had last
seen* her before she disappeared forever.
And when La Marquise spoke, her voiee
sounded to him like a sad song of child-
hood brought suddenly back to memory
after a long lapse of years.

" M. le Comte," she said, in an even,
oalm voice, tender with a monotone of
sorrow and regret, "your kind profes-
sions of interest come too late, nothing
can alleviate my suffering; but if
anything earthly could cure me, your
friendship and brotherly affection would.

I have reverenced your charactpr, I
havu adniiroil your noble sontinienta,
your pure life of snorifiue, and your
cffortH fur tho good of others, and I
have long deitired to win your ostcem.
Once it might have saved mo, but now
it is too late. There are woiindx that
fricndHhip cannot heal, still it may
jnotho tlioni. Let mo do something
for you ; in that way you may grant me
a reprieve, you may give nio roHpito
from an anxiety that is devouring mo.
Permit mo to use what power I possess
with the members of the government
in your behalf. You have so far disre-
garded my wumingH, perhaps y u have
not thought yourself in sutticicnt danger
to warrant them. But I have not exag-
gerated ; your case is most critical. I
implore you to give mo some guaranty
that you will leave Paris, and retire
from all your political associates ; and
that you will neither use your pen nor
your influence against tho present ad-
ministration. In that caso it may not
bo too lato to save you."

" I have already decided to leave
Paris," replied Claudo, touched to tho
heart by her earnest pleading, " but I
cannot promise all you ask. I suffer to
refuse you, still I must be true to my
principles at any cost. I must support
my opinions, oven at the sacrifice of my
life, if it should be necessary. As long
as I am tortured by the wrongs and
woes of humanity, I must do something
in their behalf. I cannot bo intimidated
by the despotism of a government that
would crush the truth."

" Then I can do nothing 1 " said La
Marquise, in a despairing voice.

"Yes, madame, you can do much;
you can lend your support to our cause ;
you can encourage us to continue strong
and faithftil, during the struggle that
all lovers of liberty must soon engage
in. Our nation sleeps in security over
a volcanic fire that will soon burst forth
with terrible fury and devastation ; then
we shall need true hearts and coura-
geous souls to resist tho devouring
flood."

"Ah that I might do something,"
cried La Marquise, while a sudden flash
of enthusiasm illuminated her face with
a wonderful beauty ; then it faded away,
and a look of profound dejection suc-

'«siS^^^A4ferfij5ife?AaSuyfeiSi^

1413

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

ceeded it. " No, no, it is too late now.
Once my soul was full of ardor, once I
lunged to be a heroine, but it was some
time ago, before this feebleness came
upon me. Still I have strength to do
something for you, but you will not
permit me. 0, why will you deny me
the pleasure, the consolation, of trying
to serve you 1 "

"You can indeed serve me if you
desire to, but in another way, by assist-
ing another for me," cried Claude
eagerly, aa he thought of Celeste and
her need of a friend.

" Tell me how, and I pledge you my
word to devote myself to your wish-
es."

Then Claude opened his heart to her,
and told her of his former love for
Celeste, of his present interest in her
unhappy fate, and of his anxiety to
discover her retreat, that he might be
able to lighten the burdeu of her life.
The propriety of employing a third
person had never before occurred to
him ; now, in thinking of it, it seemed
feasible and natural that a woman in
the position of La Marquise, with
wealth and leisure at her command,
could do so much to assist these two
poor women, without their suspecting
the real benefactor, that he at once
told her of his plan to pmchase Mon-
thelon, and settle it upon Celeste, there-
by placing her and Elizabeth beyond the
chance of necessity. She listened to
him attentively, though with increased
pallor and sudden spasms of pain, that
turned her quivering lips white ; and
when he had told her all, she said,
" You can depend upon me. I will do
all I possibly can for Lady Courtnay.
I shall learn where they are from Sir
Edward, who, I am confident, will not
remain away long. Rest in peace ; while
I live she shall not need a friend."

Claude poured out a torrent of thanks
from the overflowing gratitude of his
heart, which did not seem to render
La Marquise any happier. On the con-
trary, her face expressed the most poig-
nant suffering, as she listened to him,
and her voice had a ring of deep an-
guish, as she cried out, " Pray, pray, do
not thank me."

When, after some further conversa-
tion, Claude arose to leave. La Mar-

quise said, looking at him anxiously
" Do you carry arms, M. le Comte 1 "

" No, I do not," replied Claude, with
a smile at the strange question. " I
have never thought it necessary for a
gentleman to go armed like a highway
robber."

" How will you defend yourself if
you are attacked by ruffians 1"

"With my good right hand, and if
that fails me I shall trust in Provi-
dence. In any case, I will not take
life."

"May God protect you then," she
said solemnly ; " and if harm comes to
you, remember that I tried to save
you."

Claude pressed her hand fervently
to his lips, and thanking her again he
left her with a lighter heart than when
he had entered her presence. As he
turned from the Rue St. Dominique, the
bell of St. Sulpice was striking mid-
night. He had been more than three
hours with La Marquise, and yet the
time had seemed very short. He could
not find 9, fiacre, so he walked down the
Rue Dauphine toward the Pont Neiif,
thinking of his conversation with the
strangely interesting woman who seemed
to feel such an anxiety concerning him.
He was not vain, and he loved Celeste
too well to cherish any warmer senti-
ment for another than that of friend-
ship ; yet he knew La Marquise enter-
tained an affection for him as extraordi-
nary as it was disinterested, and he
also knew that nothing could make him
waver in his fidelity to that adored
being who filled all his thoughts. Still
he was obliged to confess that this
wonderful woman fascinated him in a
remarkable manner. " She is a mys-
tery," he thought ; " what a generous
nature, what a noble character, though
warped and disfigured by pride* and
vanity ; what exaltation of spirit min-
gled with morbid fancies and unhealthy
conceptions ; a sad but beautiful wreck
of what should have been a perfect
woman. While I looked at her and
talked with her I was constantly pos-
sessed with the thought of one the ex-
pression of whose face is becoming oblit-
erated from my memory by time or some
confusion of resemblance ; for when I
think uf Aim^e, La Marquise comes

tig at him anxionslj '
has, M. le Comte 1 "
r replied Claude, with
strange question. " i
?ht it necessary for a
Tarmed like a highway

|u defend yourself if

by ruffians 1"
right hand, and if

shall trust in Provi-
[case, I will not take

lect you then," she
and if harm comes to
that I tried to save

1 her hand fervently
hanking her again he
ghter heart than when
her presence. As he
lue St. Dominique, the
)ice was striking mid-
been more than three
larquise, and yet the
very short. He could
so he walked down the
oward the Pont Neuf,
conversation with the
,ing woman who seemed
nxiety concerning him.
, and he loved Celeste
ish any warmer senti-
r than that of friend-
Bw La Marquise enter-
n for him as extraordi-
disinterested, and he
)thing could make him
lelity to that adored
ill his thoughts. Still
to confess that this
I fascinated him iu a
ler. " She is a mys-
it ; " what a generous
)ble character, though
gured by pride* and
iltation of spirit min-
faucies and unhealthy
d but beautiful wreck
have been a perfect
[ looked at hor and
[ was constantly pos-
lought of one the ex-
face is becoming oblit-
jmory by time or some
nblance ; for when I
La Maixjuise comes

mumlm

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

143

before mo ; and when I think of La
Marquiao, the figure of Aim^e starts up,
sad, passionate, and reproachful, as she
stood in tho shadow-liaunted twilight,
so long ago." So musing, he crossed
tho Pout Neuf to tho statue of Henry
IV. There he paused for a few moments
to look over the parapet into tho Seine,
with its ceaseless, solemn flow, its in-
sensible, uupitying progress toward tho
sea, over the tears, the moans of despair,
tho cries of anguish, that are hidden
and silouced within its relentless bosom.
Far below, like a procession of gi^ints,
glided tho shadows of the numerous
piers, sombre and mournful, into
distance ; while the stars of heaven
blended mysteriously with the far-off
lights that marked tho winding of the
river. The damp air blew over his face
with a sudden chill, a sickening memory
made the blood curdle in his veins.
Tho yellow water, flowing on in the
flickering glare of the gaslight, whirled
and eddied over some crimson body
beneath it. A white face with black
tangled hair gleamed for a moment out
of the darkness, and then disappeared.
It was the body of a poor suicide,
wrapped in a crimson shawl, floating
down among the shadows of tho piers ;
but it seemed to Claude as though the
ghastly face of Aimee had looked at
him reproachfully, from under the
shadow of the cliff at Clermont. Some-
thing startled him, and turning his
head from his absorbed contemplation
of the river, ho saw by his side, almost
looking over his shoulder, the wild eyes,
tho haggard, never-to-be-forgotten fea-
tures of P^re Benoit, while at the same
moment two men, wrapped iu dark
mantles, sprang upon him from behind
the statue of Henry IV. For an instant
he was so surprised as to be powerless,
then he saw that if he hesitated for a
moment he was lost. So he turned,
square upon his assailants, and bracing
himself against tho parapet of the
bridge he dealt an effectual blow
straight between the eyes of tho ruf-
fian who was endeavoring to pinion his
arms. He staggered for a moment, then
fell heavily, and lay as though uncon-
scious ; while P^re Benoit and the
other sprang upon their victim, one
trying to cover his mouth, the other to

fasten his hands. The struggle was
short but terrible ; and it might have
ended fatally for Claude, if the sharp
report of a pistol and the heavy fall of
Pere Benoit had not alarmed the other
ruffian, who turned and fled. Then he
saw that the first, whom he had sup-
posed unconscious, had risen to his feet
and was also flying with the other. It
was he then who had fired the shot,
designing it for Claude, but instead it
had struck his accomplice, and laid him
helpless at the feet of his intended
victim.

Tho whole scene had been so sudden,
so short, and so confounding in the result,
that Claude stood looking at the pros-
trate man like one bewildered, until the
hurrying feet of approaching gendarmes,
whom the report of a pistol had attract-
ed to tho spot, aroused him, and he
bent over the suffering man and raised
his head. The full light of the lamp
fell upon his ghastly face and upon a
red stream trickling over his hands
that were clasped on his chest. He
was conscious, and his wide-open eyes
were full of anxious intelligence as he
fixed them upon the face of Claude, say-
ing in a clear, strong voice, " Take me
home, take me at onoe. I have much
to say to Madame la Marquise."

"Madame la Marquise de Ventadourl"
inquired Claude, as he beckoned to a
gendarme hurrying toward him.

" Yes, I am her servant, Justin, and
I must see her before I die. It will not
be directly, but it will be soon." And he
struggled to his feet and looked wildly
around him.

At that moment two gendarmes had
arrived upon the scene, and after a hur-
ried explanation from Claude, one ran
for a litter to the nearest caserne, while
the others tried to stop the crimson
tide that was rapidly exhausting the
strength of the miserable man.

As quickly as possible they arrived
with the litter, and placing their bur-
den upon it, the bearers turned toward
the Rue St. Dominique ; while Claude,
silent and apprehensive, walked by their
side, thinking of the reality of his dan-
ger, the clairvoyant warning of La
Marquise, the relentless bate of this
mysterious Pire Benoit, who declared
himself to be a servant of the woman

Br-

144

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

who hod tried to save him. What could
it all mean, and what motive had this
man for his persecution and enmitj ?

PART EIGHTH.

801IETHIN0 MORE OF OENEVI^VB OAUTIER.

When they reached the chamber of
the wounded man in the Hdtel Yenta-
dour, the servants gathered around
him with surprised and curious looks.
Yes, it was Justin, the taciturn, morose
disagreeable Justin, who, though appar-
ently the confidential, servant of La
Marquise, was in reality disliked by her
as much as he was by all the domestics.
There was no doubt as to his identity,
but there was some as to his honesty
when they saw that he was disguised,
or perhaps I should say that he was out
of his disguise, at least to Claude ; for
his handsome livery and white curling
wig made him less himself than the
dress he now wore, the threadbare, dirty,
blood-stained dress of a priest. But the
servants of La Marquise had never
known him as P^re Bcuoit, so one can
understand their astonishment when
they looked upon him in this new char-
acter.

" Ge garpn est «» eoquin/" said
the footman to whom he had been im-
pertinent that same evening, and who
disliked him even more than did the
others. "A fine thing, a servant dis-
guised as a priest, or a priest disguised
as a servant, I don't know which, but
either is bad enough. I always sus-
pected him for a knave, and uo doubt
that at last he has got his just deserts ;
but I will bring a doctor nevertheless."
So he went out and left the other ser-
vants to strip off the disguise of the
wounded man and place him comforta-
bly in his bed.

When Claude entered, he learned
that La Marquise had not yet retired,
and that she would see him again in her
bovdoir. He found her very much ex-
cited, and her excit«ment seemed to
increase when he recounted to her his
strange adventure, and entreated her, if
possible, to throw some light upon a
jnystcry that perplexed him beyond

expression. La Marquise listened to
him with the most marked agitation,
while he also told her briefly of his for-
mer knowledge of this man as a priest,
under the patronage of the then Arch-
deacon, and of his unaccountable enmi-
ty toward him, without any apparent
reason ; of his effort to take his life at
Clermont, and of his attack on the Pont
Neuf, and then begged her to explain
to him why it was that he found this
dangerous man domesticated in her
household.

"What you tell me more than sur-
prises me," she cried as she paced the
floor excitedly, her cheeks crimson and
her eyes flaming. Every sign of languor
and weakness had disappeared, and she
seemed to be struggling to control a
rising wrath. " I cannot conceive what
reason this man can have to dislike you
to such an extent as to seek your life.
It is indeed a mystery to me. When I
married M. le Marquis, I found him
among my husband's servants and fa-
vored with his confidence. For certain
reasons which 7 canrot explain I re-
tained him ii< A >v >;ervice after the
death of Le M-^ -i^ Until now I
have always i u'; >i.m devoted and
faithful, though eccentric to such a de-
gree that I have sometimes thought
him insane. I can only account for
this strange occurrence in one way ; he
is a spy of the government, and a tool
of the secret police. It was their inten-
tion to abduct you and imprison you,
without accusation or trial. Ah, I know
how tae demons carry on their work 1
You would not have been the first who
has mysteriously disappeared from the
world, to drag out years in a prison
cell. It was because of such a fear that
I warned you. This pure administra-
tion prefers to dispose of its enemies in
a cowardly, treacherous manner. But
if it fails with such means, then it re-
sorts to others. It arrests noble, truth-
ful men in brond daylight, denounces
them as traitors, drags them off to a
mock trial, condemns them, and plunges
them into La Boquette for an indefinite
period. You have escaped this once,
M. le Comte, but the next time you will
be less fortunate. Even the death of
this miserable man, who is evidently
employed Against you, will not siivo

[arquise listened to

)8t marked agitation,

her briefly of his for-

tbis man as a priest,

^ge of the then Arch-

uuaccountublo cnmi-

Ivitbout any apparent

[brt to take his life at

lis attick on the Pont

legged her to explain

las that he found this

I domesticated in her

111 me more than sur-

'ied as she paced the

■ cheeks crimson and
Every sign of languor
disappeared, and she

niggling to control a
cannot conceive what

iaii have to dislike you
as to seek your life.

stery to me. When I
Marquis, I found him
Eind's servants and fa-
mfldence. For certain

canrot explain I re-

>v service after the

•j; Until now I

lv, >i.m devoted and
eccentric to such a de-
re sometimes thought

can only account for
rrence in one way ; he
^vemment, and a tool
ce. It was their iuten-
^ou and imprison you,
tn or trial. Ah, I know

carry on their work !
Ave been the first who

disappeared from the
out years in a prison
luse of such a fear that
This pure administra-
spose of its enemies in
:hcrous manner. But
iich means, then it re-
It arrests noble, trutb-
d daylight, denounces

drags them off to a
nns them, and plunges
luette for nn indefinite
ve escaped this once,
the next time you will
Even the death of
lan, who is evidently
t you, will not siivo

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

145

yon. Therefore I entreat you to fly,
to fly nt once. To think that one of
my servants should betray you to
these ruflians maddens mo. Ungrate-
ful wretch ! dastardly villain ! If he
escapes death, he will not escape my
punishment."

Claude looked at her, almost alarmed
at her fury. Her eyes seemed to emit
sparks of electric light, her teeth were
pressed into her undorlip, and the veins
stood out like knotted cords on hor
white forehead, while her hands were
rigidly clenched with a vice-like force.
" Calm yourself, I implore you," he said
soothingly. ' ' Do not waste your strength
and indignation on the miserable man
who is expiating his sin with suffering
and death."

"Ah, death is too good for such a
traitor! I should like to torture him
with the pains of a thousand deaths ! "
she cried with a frenzy of anger, pacing
the floor, and grinding her teeth as she
repeated it over and over.

" This excitement will kill you," said
Claude imploringly, for he was now
thoroughly distressed and alarmed at
the tempest the news of the attack bad
raised, and he feared the most injurious
consequences to one in her delicate
health. "He should not have been
brought here to disturb you. I regret
it deeply, but he implored so to see you,
saying he had something important to
communicate, and it seemed the nearest
shelter for him."

"Something to communicate 1 Ah,
perhaps he will reveal the whole plot.
The Archbishop of Rouen is at the bot-
tom of this, I suspect, and I would give
much to be sure. He did well when he
wished to be brought here. I will go
to him directly." And she turned ex-
citedly toward the door, where she was
met by her maid.

"The doctor wishes to speak with
you, madame. He has dressed the
wound of Justin, and he says he cannot
last until morning. They have sent for
a notary to take down a deposition he
wishes to make. Will you see the doc-
tor, madame t"

"Yes, send him here."

A toll, thin man entered, and bowing
low to La Marquise, he said, " My pa-
tient is as comfortable as possible, but

sinking fast. I cannot find the ball,
although I have probed the wound,
which is near the carotid artery ; an
eighth of an inch farther, and in»tant
death would have been the result, ma-
dame ; a terrible wound, a mortal
wound,"

" I am glad of it," said La Marquise,
in a hard, sharp voice ; " such a wretch
deserves to die."

•' But, madame, his case is — "

" Never mind his case. I assure you
I don't care in the least how much he
suffers ; I tell you ho deserves it. What
have you to say to mo beside giving mo
a synopsis of his easel I tell you I
don't want to hear anything about it,
only that he suffers, that is all."

The surgeon looked at her and then
at Claude, as though he would like to
ask if Madame la Marquise was insane,
but dared not ; then ho stammered out,
" My message, madame, from the dying
man, is that he wishes to see you and
M. le Comte de Clermont — I presume
this is M. le Comte," bowing to Claude,

— " in the presence of a notary, with-
out other witnesses."

" Very well. You may go."

And the doctor bowed himself out,
thinking as he went, "A rapid devel-
opment of insanity, brought on by over-
excitement, with a febrile tendency to
the brain."

Then La Marquise turned to Claude,
and holding out her hand she said
more calmly, " Come with me ; I shall
need you to support me, for I have a
foreboding of something that will wring
my soul."

When they entered the room where
lay the wounded man, and the gaze of
La Marquise fell upon his ghastly face,
his wild eyes, and his clipped gray hair,

— for all disguises were now thrown
aside, and he presented almost the same
appearance as ho did on that morning
when, as an escaped convict, he first
appeared before Fabien on the tour de
burre of Notre Dame, — she uttered a
sharp cry, and falling heavily into a
chair at the foot of his bed, she covered
her face with her hands, as though she
could not endure the sight.

A notary sat at a table, with a paper
spread before him, and a pen in his
fingers, ready to begin his worL Claude

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

stood near La Marquise, with folded
amis. The faint flamo of the shaded
lamp threw a circle of light over the
paper and hands of the notary, and all
else was in half-shade. A profound
silence, broken only by the labored
breathing of the dying, filled the room,
and rendered the scene solemnly im-
pressive.

" I am ready for your deposition,"
said the notary.

" I am also ready." And the hollow
eyes turned with an intense gaze upon
the two figures at the foot of the bed,
while he said in a clear, calm voice,
unlike a dying man, " My name is
Justin Gautier. I was bom in Bourg
Dieu, D^partement de I'lndre, in the
year 1 7 — . My only surviving parent
died and left me an orphan at twelve
years of age ; and I was then adopted
into the family of my uncle, Louis
Gautier, of Bourg Dieu. He had but
one child, a daughter, named Ge-
nevidve Marie." Claude started, and
leaned forward with an expression of
the deepest interest. "She was two
years older than myself, and most
beautiful I loved her, and she was
my affianced wife. Her father died
suddenly from grief at the failure of a
speculation that ruined him, leaving
us both without a sou. I left Bourg
Dieu to seek my fortune, and Genevieve
went to Paris, where her wonderful
voice, remarkable grace, and beauty pro-
cured for her a situation as second
soprano in the Italian opera. There
she was persecuted by the attentions
of the former Comte de Clermont ; but
being virtuous as well as beautiful, she
resisted all his advances, until, over-
come by his passion, he offered her
marriage. She loved ^im; he was a
noble, rich and handsome, and I was
but a poor, mean clod, unfit to mate
with such perfection. Although she
deserted me for him, God is my witness
that I never reproached her. I loved
her too well to stand between her and
fortune. But flrom the moment T knew
she had given her heart to the Comte
de Clermont, I hated him with an in-
tense :hatred. ,They were married pri-
vately in St. Etienne, Bourg Dieu, and
I saw her leave the church as Comtesse
(de Oletmont. The sight changed my

very nature. I had been a simple,
gentle creature until then. Afterward
I became reckless, and indifferent to
everything. I fled from Franco to
America, not caring where I went or
how I passed my days. Ten years after
the marriage of Geneviive Gautier, and
while I was still in the wildb of Amer-
ica, I was told that a Frenchman was
dying in our camp, and as I was a
fellow-countryman he wished to see me.
I went to him, and found that he was
very near eternity, and sufi'oring from
terrible remorse of conscience, from
which he could find no relief, as there
was not a priest within hundreds of
miles to listen to his confession. After
talking with him for some time, I drew
from him the story of his crime. He was
Andre R^naud, and hod been valet and
confidential servant to M. le Comte de
Clermont, and was one of the witnesses
of his marriage with Genevieve Gautier.
Controlling myself as well as I possibly
could, I listened to the story of her
desertion, the unfortunate burning of
the records at Chfiteauroux, the death
of the Curi who performed the marriage
service, the destruction of the church
record, the death of the other witness,
and lastly of the bribe offered by the
Count to this dying man to leave the
country forever after he bad destroyed,
as he thought, the copies of the certifi-
cates. I cannot describe my exultation
when I learned, before he finished his
confession, that the copies of the cer-
tificates had not been destroyed as btip-
poscd ; that this vile accomplice had
hidden them with a number of letters
in a secret panel that he had discov-
ered in an old cabinet at Clermont, for
the purpose of extorting more money
from his mast«r at some future time.
Therefore the records were still in ex-
istence, and he had determined to
return to France to make use of them,
when death overtook him and frus-
trated his plans. Without leading the
dying man to suspect that I had any
special interest in his narrative, I drew
from him all the particulars. And be-
fore his body was cold, I was on my
way to the coast, where I intended to
embarit at once for France. When I
reached Ch&teauroux, I found the man's
story of the desertion substantially true.

lad been a simple,
11 then. Afterward
and indifferent to
from Franco to
ig where I went or
ys. Ton years after
neviive Gantier, and
the wilds of Amer-
it a Frenchman was
p, and as I was a
ho wished to see me.
found that he was
, and sufi'oring from
of conscience, from
d no relief, as there
within hundreds of
lis confession. After
or some time, I drew
of his crime. He was
d had been valet and
it to M. le Comto de
one of the witnesses
th Genevieve Gautier.
as well as I possibly
to the story of her
fortunate burning of
ifiteauroux, the death
erformed the marriage
uction of the church
of the other witness,
bribe offered by the
ing man to leave the
^r he bad destroyed,
5 copies of the certifi-
lescribe my exultation
lefore he finished his
he copies of the cer-
leen destroyed as bnp-
vile accomplice had
. a ntmiber of letters
that he had discov-
}inet at Clermont, for
storting more money
at some future time,
ords were still in ex-
had determined to
to make use of them,
■took him and frus-
Without leading the
speot that I had any
his narrative, I drew
particulars. And be-
s cold, I was on my
where I intended to
for France. When I
lux, I found the man's
ion substantially truo.

■IHniiiiHi

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

14f

Poor Oeneviive, but a wreck of her
former self, was living in poverty, cared
for by a faithful maid, who hod never
deserted her. And her son, the lawful
Comte de Clermont, was a charity-
scholar in the College of St. Vincent.
As I said, she was but a wreck. Her
mind was weakened and her health
shattered to a fearful degree. Still,
she recognized lae, and with her poor,
weak arms around my neck, she im-
plored me to do something for her
child. When I looked upon the ruin
of my idol, my beautiful, adored Gene-
vieve, I took a solemn oath that J
would be revenged upon the man who
had wrought this evil. I was detei'-
mined by some means to gain possession
of these papers, and thereby to expose
the crime of M. le Comte, and reinstall
his wife and child. My first plan, that
I might not be separated from Gene-
vieve, was to marry the good girl who
had devoted herself to her mistress so
unselfishly. Then I removed to Ma-
launay, which was near enough to
Clermont for my purpose, and too far
away to cr to suspicion. It is need-
less to say liuw often I tried to gain
admittance to the ch&teau of Clermont,
that I might search the cabinet for the
papers, nor how often I was unsuccessful,
for the greatest care was necessary that
I should not excite suspicion. In the
midst of my efforts, poor Genevieve died
vithout the pain of knowing how unfor-
tunate I was, for the last few months of
her life were passed in a gentle insanity,
in which she believed herself to be liv-
ing over her days of happiness with the
false man she still adored. Less than
two years after her death, M. le Comte
de Clermont married again, and brought
a bride to the oh&teau. I waited un-
til a son was bom of that union, then I
thought my time was come to have my
revenge. I made another daring effort
to gain access to the old cabinet, but
fiuled again, just missing detection,
which would have ruined all. After
this ill success I was somewhat discour-
aged, and thought it better to leav ,hat
part of the country for a while ; so I re-
turned to Ch&teauroux and settled down
to a peaceable life with my good wife,
whom I esteemed and loved for her de-
votion to Geuevidve. We were poor, for

I had earned but little during the time
I had lived near Clermont, and when I
became the father of a sweet little girl
I felt that I must devote myself to suiue
serious occupation to provide for lier ;
but dearly ns I loved her, I was still
haunted by the desire to fulfil my oath
to Geuevidve, and to lie revenged on the
Count of Clermont. At last I could eu-
dure inaction no longer. I started again
for Rouen, leaving my wife and child
at Ch&teauroux. One night, determined
to accomplish my design then or never,
like a thief I broke into the ch&teau of
Clermont, and gained access to the room
where the cabinet stood, and even had
broken a lock to one of the doors, when
I was surprised by the servants. I re-
sisted, but was overpowered, imprisoned,
tried, and sentenced to the galleys for
fifteen years. Without a farewell to
my wife and child, I began my living
death. For four years I endured it, ex-
isting on the hope of seeing my chi'd
again ; it was that hope that kept mj
alive. At the end of that time an oppor-
tunity offered and I escaped. I went
back to Ch&teauroux. My wife had been
dead for more than a year, my poor
child was living with people I despised.
I stole her and fled with her like a
criminal, determined to go again to
Rouen and find the son of Geuevidve,
who was then a priest in the college of
St Vincent, and, after telling him all I
knew, to leave him to work out his own
revenge, while I fled to another country
with my child. I reached Rouen half
dead from hunger and weariness, only
to discover that I was pursued. The
cathedral was the only place that offered
a refuge. I entered it, and hoping to
conceal myself I mounted to the bell
tower ; but there I was followed by the
officers, who arrested me and dragged
me away to another imprisonment more
dreadful than the first. I left my child
in the care of a priest whom I found on
the platform of the tower. His heart was
filled with pity for me, and he promised
to protect tho unfortunate little crear
ture who betrayed her father by point-
ing out to the officers his hiding-place.
The agony of being captured and taken
back to my dreadful prison was nothing
in comparison with the thought that
my own child did not love me, nay, that

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

8lic feared mo, Imtcd me, nnd betrayed
inc." Hero the voice of tho Buftcring
mnn took sucli a tone of sharp anguisli,
that La Maniuiso trembled and cowered
liko one smitten with sudden fear, and
Claude groaned heavily, wlulo the notarj'
laid down his pen and wiped his eyes as
if his sight was dim. " I went back to
prison hopeless. I no longer resisted
my fate. I endured tho remainder of
my term in sullen silence. But when I
found myself free again, hope revived
within me, and I tunied my weary feet
again toward tho spot where I had loft
my child. I arrived one night in Rouen,
hungry, snflTering, and ill, but I did not
know how or where to find her, for I
did not even know tho name of the
man with whom I had left her. I felt
the old desire to see Clermont again. A
servant in the town told me that tho
Count had been dead for years, and that
his son lived at Clermont, — his son who
had usurped tho place of tho lawful
heir, tho child of Genevieve Gautier.
Full of the old determination once more,
I entered the grounds of Clermont. A
lighted window and tho sound of music
attracted me. I looked in and there I
saw my child, grown to a lovely maiden,
dancing like a fairy with bright eyes
and smiling mouth. My love did not de-
ceive me, I knew it was my child, my
Aim6e. my God, how my heart ex-
ulted to BOO her bo beautifltl ! "

" Have pity on me, have pity on me !"
cried La Marquise, suddenly falling on
her knees before the bed, while she ex-
tended her hands toward the dying man.
" 0, I remember it all ! I remember
how I treated you with scorn and con-
tempt."

"Aim^e, is it Aimiel" exclaimed
Claude, looking at her with horror and
surprise, like one who, if he should see a
corpse suddenly arise and stand before
him, would forget all else in the terror
ocoasionei. by the shock.

" Yes, it is Aiiaie," she said, raising
her face to his ; " look at me closely and
yon will perhaps see in my changed
features some traces of Aim^e. Yes La
Marquise do Ventadour is Aim^e, the
child that Fabien saved from want and
suffering. And the convict Vhre Be-
noit and Justin the servant are one and
the same, and her father, — her father

whom she betrayed, and whom siio
scorned and insulted when ho returneil
from his long imprisonment, and knelt
at her feet imploring her pity."

" My child, my child, do not reproach
yourself, you did not know I was your
father." And tho dying mnn ntretched
out one thin hand toward her. Ho could
not reach her head, and his extended
hand fell helpless. La Marquise seized
it and pressed it to her heart and then
to her lips, covering it with tears and
kisses.

" No, no, I did not understand it, my
heart was false to me, I was born to
curse those who love mo. my father,
but just now I rejoiced in your suffer-
ing, I wished a thousand tortures to
come upon you ; forgive me, and bless
me. Do not remember my wrongs
against you."

"This atones for all. I have not
deserved this. Is it true, or is it ti
dream, that my child calls mo father 1 "
"I implore you not to excite mon-
sieur," said the notary with a troubled
face, " he has not finished his deposition,
and his strength is failing fast."

"It is true, go on; I will try to
gather my feeble senses. Aim6e, hold
my hand. This is what I would say.
I gainad access to Clermont, I searched
tho cabinet, but I found nothing. The
man had deceived me, or tho papers had
been discovered by another and removed
from their hiding-place. Come nearer,
M. le Comte do Clermont, and listen to
my last words; the words of a dying
man cannot bo false. I have hated
you, I have plotted against you with
the son of Genevieve Gautier. We have
tried to ruin you, because you were tho
son of the man who crushed the sweet-
est flower that ever bloomed; her son
and her lover have tried to avenge her
wrongs. We have made you suffer,
we have dishonored you, we have driven
you from your inheritance, but we have
failed to remove the stain from tho
name of (Jenoviive Grautier and her son,
who is the lawful heir of the title and
estate of Clermont." Hero his voice
sank to a whisper, and for a moment
fell into silence ; then he started up to
a sitting position, and stretching out
his hand toward tho notary ho said in a

loud,

voice, "In the preseaco

hd, jind whom slio
Id when ho ntunio(I
Jiaonmcnt, and knelt
1^ her i)ity,"
liild, do not repronch
ot know I wfts your
^ying man ntrctched
bward her. Ho could
}, and his extended
La Marqniso seized
her heart and then
|g it with tears and

t understand it, my
me, I was Iwrn to
e me. O my father,
)iced in your stiffer-
lousand tortures to
)rgive me, and bless
tember my wrongs

>r all. I have not
I it true, or is it a
ild calls mo father?"
not to excite nion-
tary with a troubled
nished his deposition,
failing fast."
• on; I will try to
senses. Aim6e, hold
8 what I would say.
Clermont, I searched
found nothing. The
me, or the papers had
another and removed
)lace. Come nearer,
srmont, and listen to
e words of a dying
[Use. I have hated
d against you with
e Gautier. We have
>ecauso you were the
> crushed the sweet-
T bloomed; her son
tried to avenge her
5 made you suffer,
you, we have driven
ritance, but we have
the stain from tbo
Gfautier and her son,
leir of the title and
■•" Here his voice
and for a moment
m he started up to
and stretching out
notary ho said in a
"In the presenco

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

149

of Oo<l, and with the fear of death bo-
furo me, I, Justin Gautier, do declare Fa-
bien, Archbishop of llouon, to bo the son
of the former Comte do Clermout, and
of Genevieve Marie Gautier, his wife."
For a moment there was silonco in
the room, only broken by a heavy groan
fi-om Claude. Then the dying man
sank back on his pillow with a gurgling
gasp. "Aim4e, your hand. Uememlwr
your father hated Claude de Clermont
and tried to take his life ; let that mem-
ory make a great gulf between you.
Think of the causo his father gave me
to htitc his son, and forgive me for that
hate. Love Fabien, his brother; bo
grateful to him, because he saved me
from despair. Have I not served you
well and faithfully all these years 1
Have I not watohed over you with tho
utmost carol It was I, your poor de-
spised father, who made you Marquise
de Ventadour. I discovered you hidden
in Paris, after your flight from Clermont,
caniing a scanty subsistence as a lace-
niaker. I became a servant to tho
Marquis de Ventadour, that I might
serve you through Madame la Mar-
quise. I was sent to find a lace-maker.
\ brought you. I had great influ-
ence over the feeble old man, and in-
terested him in you, so that after his
wife died he offered you marriage. O
my child, how many times I longed
to discover myself to you, and yet I
feared to, I feared your scorn and con-
tempt ! "

"Ah, if I had but known you were
my father ! " sobbed La Marquise. " I
recognized you at once as Pire Benoit,
but 1 1)elieved you had not discovered
mo to be Aimfie, and therefore I con-
tinued to treat you as a stranger, al-
though I felt that you had some pecu-
liar interest in me. I thought of many
things, but I knew nothing, so I remained
silent 0, how cruel I have been to yoii,
when I might havo made your life
peajef\il and happy I " Then she thought
cf the wrong and injustice he had done
Claude, who was innocent of his father's
crimes, and a sudden revulsion of feol-
mg caused her to draw away her hands
and cry out, " Why, why have you made
it so hard for me to forgive youl
Entreat pardon from him you have so
wronged before you can hope for mine.

You are near eternity : pray to God for
forgiveness and mercy/'

But the ear of her father was already
deaf to her cty ; for before tho wurda
died on her lips, he stretched out his
liands toward her, and cried in a voice
piercing with the agony of death,
" Aim^e, Aim^e ! " Then tho hands fell,
a film gathered over the wild oyes, and
the head rolled helplessly on the pillow.
A moment after tlio notary folded his
paper, saying, "His deposition is fin-
ished, he is dead."

Claude stooped over La Marqvuso to
lift her up. She had thrown hersolf
upon her father's Iwdy with extended
arms, her white hair covering him like
a shroud, while tho crimson tide from
his wound welled forth and stained the
cold hands that were clenched over his
heart.

" Take Madame away from this dread-
ful scene," said tho doctor, who had
been summoned when his skill was no
longer needed ; " take her to her room
where she will be quiet, for her nerves
are terribly shaken, and sleep is abso-
lutely necessary."

Claude assisted her maid to carry her
to her room ; there they laid her half
unconscious upon a sofa, and tried every
means to soothe her agitation. "Do
not leave me," she said more than once
to Claude, — " do not leave mo until I
have explained all to you, for I cannot
rest until I have done so." More than
an hour after, when she was a littlo
composed and her passionate weeping
had died into long, heavy sobs, she held
out her hands to him, and said, "0
Claude, how I must suffer for all my
future life, what teiriblo remorse I
must feel when I remember my cruelty
to my unhappy &ther! My heart is
torn with different emotions. I love him
and pity him when I think of his sor-
row, and his undying affection for me,
nnd I hate and despise him when I
remember how he has wronged you.
0, what a burden of pain and regret I
must endure while life lasts ! And you,
do you not despise me for all my decep-
tion and folly t When I left Clermont
I was insane with passion, and I wished
to make you suffer. I rushed madly
down the path on the edge of the preci-
pice and hid among the rocks until

150

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

it nag qtiito dnrk ; ilicn I hurried nwny
to St. Oucn like a culprit, whoro I took
tho night tmin for Paris. I threw my
Bcnrf into tho river, thinking if it was
found you would behove nio drowned
and 80 accuse yourself always of having
caiiHcd my death. For more than a
year I remained in Paris undiscovered,
during which time I heard nothing
from Clermont. I supposed you had
married Celeste, and was living happily
on your estate."

Claude sighed, and said, " If you had
listened to mo that day when I en-
treated you to holp me, all would have
been different."

" Do not reproach me. I know how
I have ruined your life. I am bitterly
conscious of my ingratitude to one who
heaped favors upon me. I have stung
the hand that caressed me. I once
thought I loved you too well to cause
you suffering. I know now that I loved
myself too well to make you happy.
But, Claude, I am enduring a terrible
expiation for my follies. If we sow
tares we shall reap the same ; and my
liarvest is abundant. It is only lately
that I learned of your being accused of
causing my death, and of tho dreadful
scene at Clermont ; or, believe me when
I say it, I should have made any
sacrifice to have proved you innocent.
Until now the Aim£e of Clermont has
been dead to the world ; but she would
have arisen to life to vindicate you, if
she had not indulged in another hope
as weak as it was delusive. When I
learned from the Archbishop^ who dis-
covered me through my unhappy father,
that C61este was married and you were
fitill free, I believed if you could see
me at the zenith of my triumph, hon-
ored and courted by all, you might come
to return my fatal affection, which has
never changed nor diminished with time
and absence."

" Aim4e, how we have tormented
each other! Our very love seems to
have turned to evil for us," said Claude,
sadly.

" You cannot underst&nd all the dis-
tress and weariness of a life of continual
deception, — the excitement and devour-
ing anxiety, the fear and expectation of
discovery. I adopted every possible
means to change my appearance. I

sacrificed my hair. Do yon not remem-
ber my beautiful hair, Claude 1 I wept
bitterly when I found it bleached white ;
but it transformed mo. I scarce recog-
nized myself. The first time I saw you
was a moment of intense agony ; for I
feared you would discover in La Alar-
quise the lost Aim^e. You were visibly
agitated, almost overcome by the stmngo
imprcsBion I made upon you, but yuu
were not convinced."

" It seemed as though tho spirit of
Aimde had risen before me ; for you
startled me by your striking resem-
blance to her, which I then believed
to bo only accidental," said Claude in
explanation of tho violent emotion ho
had betrayed on that memorable night,
when he had allowed himself to be
conducted reluctantly toward his des-
tiny.

" I soon discovered that your love for
Celeste had not changed, that you still
adored her. And then I knew my case
was hopeless ; but I tried to save you.
I was smcero in my intention for vour
good ; without selfish interest, or iiopo
of reward from you, I used all my
influence with those in power on your
behalf. It is to that you owe your
liberty until to-night ; but I can do no
more. Dear Claude, if you wish to
spare me still more bitter anguish, leave
Paris at once."

" I will," he said, rising ; " before tho
day is over I shall be on my way to
Sarzeau. But my dear Aim^, my dear
sister, my heart aches to leave you
alone in your sorrow. I suffer to thiuk
I can do nothing for you."

"To know you safe will render me
happier. You forgive me, j ou do not
despise me, henceforth theri> can be
nothing but kindness betveen us;
therefore I have nothing to complain of
After this tempest is over we shall meet
in a more placid haven. Until then
adieu, dear Claude. May God protect
you and make you to prosper in every
undertaking."

" When shall we meet again, Aim^e,
and how 1 " said Claude, looking at her
with tearful eyes.

"The day is breaking," and she
pointed to the window through which
struggled the pale dawn ; " let it bo an
omen of hope and peace. Adieu."

Do yon not rcnicm-
Kir, Cluudo 1 I wupt
[id it bleached white ;
mo. I Bcarco rccog-
J first time I saw yon
Jntenso agony ; for I
[discover in La Mar-
io, Yoti were visibly
(rcome by tho stniiigo
upon you, but you

:hough tho spirit of
before me; for you
'our striking reMeni-
tiich I then believed
ital," said Clande in
violent emotion ho
lat memorable night,
)wed himself to be
itly toward his dcs-

•od that your love for

angod, that you still

then I knew my case

I tried to save you.

ly intention for vour

fish interest, or hope

Fou, I used all my

we in power on yoiur

I that you owe your

^ht ; but I can do no

ude, if you wish to

) bitter anguish, leave

prising; "before the
Jl be on my way to
dear Aim^, my dear
aches to leave yon
'w. I suffer to thitok
)r you."

safe will render me
jive me, j ou do not
iforth theio can be
Iness betvcen us ;
thing to complnin of
is over we shall meet
haven. Until then
. May God protect

to prosper in every

meet again, Aimde,
»ude, looking at her

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

151

and she
dow through which
lawn ; " let it bo an
eace. Adieu."

PART NINTH."

TOO LATR TO SAVB niHSKLr.

" What ! what I daylight 1 Daylight
«oming into the room, and Monsieur
Claude not yet rotumoa 1 Mon Dieu !
where can he be 1 " And Tristan stum-
bled up from tho sofa in his master's
dressing-room, whero ho hod fallen asleep
at midnight. " How chilly it is when
one wakes suddenly in the morning and
finds himself out of bed ! " And he shiv-
ered as he peeped through the blinds into
the gray, deserted streets. " It 's always
dreary before the sun rises. Tho sun
makes all the difference between day and
night ; still it is calm, very calm and
silent ; the great city sleeps more heavily
just before it awakes. It's melancholy to
think of thousands of people lying like
dead bodies, entirely unconscious. How
strange if they never should awake ! if
the sun should never rise I if it should
never grow any nearer day, and I should
be the only one awake in this great
world, doomed to remain awake always,
and to look from this high window out
on to the gray, chilly city, with every
sound hushed, and ererybody sleeping
forever ! Ah, what a fancy I I have
strange fancies always now. Certainly
it 's because I 'm ill and can't live long.
I 'm always thinking of dead men and
graves, and those dreadful catacombs
where my bones may be thrown some
day, if I die in Paris. I wish Monsieur
Claude would hurry back to Sarzeau.
He always says he's going, and yet he
does not go. It 's Madame Celeste that 's
keeping him here. What 's the use of
searching for a thing when you don't
know where to search 1 She may be in
Paris, she may be in England, or eyen
farther, for all he knows ; and yet he re-
mains here and runs the risk of being
imprisoned, and perhaps guillotined, for
the sake of finding another man's wife.
I should say it was n't right, if it was
any one else but Monsieur Claude. I
know he must have some good reason
for what he does, so I sha'n't blame him ;
but I do wish I could go back to Sar-
zeau. I should like to feel the breeze
from the sea, and hear the birds in the
morning, and sit in the sun under Ja-
net's vines on the south wall. It 's so
much better there than in Paris. It

may bo very well to live hero for thoso
who like noise and crowds and danger,
but to die here, oh ! " And the poor
soul shivered all over, as his thoughts
returned to the dolorous subject that
distressed him always. " Monsiour
Claude says it 's foolish and wicked
too to care whero our Iwdy is buried,
when our soul is in glory ; but for sumo
reason I don't like to think of this p<H)r
deformed skeleton being tossed about in
the catacombs for people to look at and
say, ' Poor unfortunate, ho was a hunch-
back I ' It 's drea<lful to think that one's
remains will show for years after how
one was afflicted in lifo. Tho world looks
at it as a sort of reproach, and blames
tho ill-fated creature for God's doings.
It 's all deplorable enough, and my life
might have been worse than a galley-
slave's, if Monsieur Claude had n't saved
me from misery. How beautifully my
days have passed with him I It 's every-
thing to bo always near one you lovo.
I could n't live away from him. 0,
whero can he bel Morning, broad day-
light, and his bed empty ! He may bo
in prison oven now, and if ho is I shall
never see him again. Hark! somo
one is at the parte cochire. I wish I
could see the court from hero. Ah,
there he comes ! I hear his step on tho
stairs." And Tristan sprang to tho
door and opened it with a radiant face.

Claude entered slowly and heavily.
He was very pale. His hair was dis-
hevelled, and his eyes were red from his
vigil ; still there was a deep meaning in
his face, a stem, cold resolve, and his
voice was harsh for the first time to
Tristan, as he said, " What I have you
been sitting up all night 1 Have you
no more sense than to ruin yourself in
this wayl Don't you know that tho
cold ana &tigue will kill you 1 I have
told you repeatedly not to wait for mo
when I was out"

"0 monsieur, I did not intend to;
I went to sleep on the sofa, and when
I woke it was daylight," replied the
hunchback, deprecatingly, while he
busied himself with kindling a fire, for
tho tnoming was damp and chilly.

Claude threw himself into a chair,
and sat with his eyes fixed on va-
cancy, mentally contemplating the scene
through which he had passed since he

••^b

1S3

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

left hlH room not many hours liufurc.
Ho Hciirco tlioii^ht of tho nttnuk uiM>n
lim ]ierBon, ulthuugh ho witH Dure and
nchiii)^ from bin Htnigglo for his Ufe.
Ho (lid not foul any HcuBihility, any
gratitude to (jod for saving liini fVom
the tcrrihlu danger ho had encountorud ;
iieithcr did ho tiiink of the sudden and
dreadful donth of his enemy, tho swift
i>"'l sure retribution that bad fidlowod
h sin ; for his soul was full of the
revelations that had been made by the
(lying man. Many things that had
^ioemed mysterious had lH>on explained ;
he had discovored Aini^e in 1a ><<irquisc,
and that discovery would romovo tho
Ktigina that had rested upon his name
for nearly ton years. Surely this was a
cause for thankfulness and satisfaction,
yet it did not arouso ony emotion of
that nature ; ho was aching and smart-
ing under a pain that he was not pre-
pared to endure. In fact, ho was ex-
periencing a trial almost bc}-ond the
strength of humanity to Ihjot.

Wo can make groat sacrifices, wo can
support great torments with becoming
heroism, we can even find strength to
endure tho pains of death, for one we
love. Being human, I say, we can do
these for one we love; but as mortals
can wo do these things for one wo have
hated, for one who has wronged us
bitterly, for one who has branded us
with sufToriug 1 Can we forget our an-
guish and our tears, and with placid,
Biniling lips bless the one who has
cursed us) Ah ! this is the crucible in
which to test us, to discover if there is
any divinity moulded into our clay.

Wo know how Claude some time be-
fore had tried, his heart filled with good
intentions, to find this brother that the
sin of his father had defrauded of his
inheritance, and how be had never hesi-
tated whon he saw his duty clearly be-
fore him, but had hastened with almost
eagerness to fulfil it ; and now he did
not suffer to know that his brother lived,
and that he must resign his birthright,
his title, his worldly goods, to him.
There was no avarice in his feelings.
He did not fear poverty, he did not
unduly esteem pedigree, and to take
the position of a second son was
no annoyance to him. His suffering
was not because be had found this

brother, but l)Oca<iso ho was a man ho
duspisud, his bitterest enemy, his most
moruileHM puisucutor, the one who had
parted him from Ctileste, who had ruined
his life, who hud sacrificed his honor and
his ImppinuHs, who had l)ccu false to his
trust, who hud betrayed, deceived, de-
nounced and almndoncd him iii his hour
of need, and knowing, with all that, that
the same blood run in thuir veins, that
thoy wore brothers. Was ho not un
unnatural monster, a cruel miscreant,
who could so disregard the ties of re-
lati(inBhi|), and immolate his father's son
for his ambition, pride, and revenge 1
What should he dol How could he,
when there was no compulsion, heap
benefits upon tho one who had so
wronged him 1 How could he, by sacri-
ficing himself, put the top stone to tho
lofty structure of this man's honors 1
Hod he not already enough t Ho had
robbed him while he held his inheri-
tance in tnist ; must he then impoverish
himself to givo this faithless guardian
the remainder 1 And with all these tor-
turing thoughts, a, to him, still more
powerirul reason tlian thcso why he
should not resign all obtruded itself,
for by doing so he must lose the chance
of assisting Celeste in her poverty.
What would become of her, if left to tho
cold charity of tho world 1 How could
she live, when nothing more remained 1
Had he not tho right to take justice
into his own hands, and return to this
defrauded woman the wealth her guar-
dian had stolen from her 1 Was he not
responsible for her welfare ; and if he
had been the cause of her misfoiiunes,
should he not make some reparation!
Then was it not absolutely his duty, un*
der the circumstances, to keep the secret
of these papers locked within his own
heart t Or was it not better to destroy
them altogether, and so end tho trial,
and secure his future welfare, not for
himself entirely, but for those dependent
on him 1 No living soul but himself
knew of their existence ; they were in
his hands. A moment and the bright
flame Tristan had kindled would destroy
every trace of them forever, and leave
him free to carry out his plans for tho
g(M)d of Cd'leste. The revelation that
Justin Gautier had made on his death-
bed, though true beyond a doiiLt, v.as

A CROWN FROM TUE SPEAR.

tst

10 lio wfts A man ho
mt enotuy, Lih djobi
r, tho Olio who hnd
|e8to, wlio had niinod
rificod hitt honor and
liftd Ihjcu falHo to hia
|riiyod, doceivt'd, do-
iicd liim iii his hour
ig, with all that, that
in thuir veins, that
Was ho not an
a criiol nii«crcant,
gard tho tios of ro-
olato hlH fiithor'H son
Ipride, and rovcngol
'o? How could ho,
compulsion, heap
ouo who Imd so
could ho, hy sacri-
tho top stone to the
this man's honors 1
Y enough? Ho had
he held his inhcri-
it ho then impoverish
is faithless guardian
id with all these tor-
, to him, still more
han these why he
all obtruded itself,
must lose the chance
ite in her poverty,
e of her, if left to tho
world 1 How could
ling more remained 1
'iglit to take justice
1, and return to this
the wealth her guar-
n her 1 Was ho not
welfare ; and if he
of her misfortunes,
ce some reparation?
olutely his duty, un-
88, to keep the secret
ked within his own
lot better to destroy
id 80 end tho trial,
ire welfare, not for
for those dependent
g 80ul but himself
ence; they were in
ent and the bright
ndlcd would destroy
I forever, and leave
t his plans for tho
rhe revelation that
made on his death-
youd a doiiLt, v.aa

of no use in oatablishlng Fabien's olaimi,
witltout tho pupom ho po8ii<>Haed. If ho
destroyed them, notliingcouhl livchangod
in his situation, he would still enjoy all.
And now ho knew Vim^e lived, and his
iunoconce of tho crime that had driven
him from Clormont could be established,
and nothing ooiild prevent him iVom
returning there to triumph over his
euomy. And then when Mouthelon
was in his possoBsion, and ho intended
it should bo an soon as tho arrange-
monts wore concluded, and La Marquise
had discovered Celeste, she should l)o-
conie its owner again, and reside there
as in tho old days. Such a possi-
bility fillod his Boul with joy, and he,
not knowing through what seas of fire
he must pass before such a consummation
could arrive, exulted to himself, and
prematurely congratulated himsolf that
he had not, from a far-fetched sense of
duty, decided to resign those papers,
and thereby lose the chance of such a
blissful future.

Methinks I hear my readers Bay, with
somo disappointment, "Alas, how has
this fine gold become dim I" Have pa-
tience a little longer, kind hearts. Uo-
membcr he was but human, and the
temptation was terrible. And remem-
ber also how this man had wronged
him, and how diifioulc it is for mortals
to be godlike.

Tristan sat near the fire he had kin-
dled, watching his inaster'a face closely.
He knew there was some powerful com-
bat raging within ; and when Claude
sprang up suddenly, and, going to his
desk, opened it with an eager hand, the
servant thought, " Now he has con-
quered," when in fact he was on the
verge of a lamentable defeat. It is
well for us that God does not judge us
by the outward appearance, else we
should come to confusion when we
looked within. He turned over the
papers with an impetuous hand, and
drew from the bottom of the desk a yel-
low package tied with a ribbon. He re-
garded it for a moment, while a dread-
ful pallor settled over his features ;
then, with a groan of anguish, he
flung it on the table, and falling into
a chair he covered his face with his
hands. For more than a half-hour he
sat there without a sound; then he

looked up and said In an unsteady voice,
" Tristan."

" Monsieur 1"

" Tristan, I am In torment."

" In torment, monsieur 1"

" Yes, I am sutferiug almost the pains
of hell."

" U, how dreadful ! Dut have you
done anything wrong 1 "

" r have, Tristan. It is liocauso I
have, and because I still wish to, that I
suffer."

" Have you found Madamo Celeste,
monsieur 1 For in Tristan's estimation,
Claude's interest in another man's wife
was the only fault he had over commit-
ted ; and he could think of nothing
else but the remorse for that, which
could entail such a fearful punishment.

" No, no, I have not found her. It
is something now, something moro try-
ing than any trouble I have over known.
I have a great many strange things to
toll you, Tristan. Mademoiselle Aim^o
is still living, and I have seen her."

"Soon herl 0, thank Ood ! And you
are not gladl" cried Tristan in one
breath, for Claude's rather ambiguous
words confused him.

"Certainly I am thankful to know
she lives. Who has suffered from her
disappearance more than I have, and
who has greater cause for joy at her dis-
covery 1 "

" monsieur, tell me, please, where
she is, and when I may see her I It
will be like heaven to see her again."
And tears of delight . rolled over the
hunchback's wan face.

Then Claude told him briefly of tho
scene through which he had passed;
of the attack by P^re Benoit and his
accomplices ; of the dying man's deposi-
■tion as Justin Gautier, the discovery
that the Archbishop was his brother,
and that La Marquise was Aim6e ; and
of the existence of the necessary proofs
which would take away his title and es-
tate, to confer them upon his enemy : all
of which Tristan listened to with tears
dnenciiing his face, while he wrung his
hands moaning; " Oh ! oh ! oh ! " with
every variation of sorrow.

" Now, mon ami" said Claude, looking
st«adily at his servant, " what would you
think of the man who possessed those
proofs, if he should throw them into the

154

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

flamos and watoh thorn until thoy woru
oonHiimed 1 "

"() mondiour, I can't toll youl" re-
plied TriHtan, heiitating.

" Tell niu the truth ; what would yott
think uf him r*

" I Hhould think ho waa atlll mora
wicked than Monseigneur tho Arch-
biHliup," Huid the hunchback, with a huI-
onin omphnaiH on each word.

Claude winced as he turned toward
the tHblo and took up tho package of

fapors, Haying, " I am that man, TriHtan.
have tho proofs, and no ono else. Thev
are the papers I found in the old cabi-
net at Sarzoau, and I have decided to
.destroy thorn."

" O monsieur I " And tho servant drew
away iVom his master with a look of
horror.

" Yos, it is my duty. Think of it, if I
give thcyu to that man it will ruin mo.
I can do nothing for myself, nothing for
those I love. I shall be poor, very poor ;
fur my father made no provision for a
younger son, and I will not accept tho
charity of tho man I hate," cried Claude,
lashing himself into a fury to find an
excuse for the deed bo intended to com-
mit.

" But, monsieur, it is nothing to be
poor, if one has done no wrong. Give
Monseigneur the papers, and leave God
to punish him, and we will work to-
gether with a clear conscience and a
light heart, because wo sliidl have no
great weight of sin to press us down
and make us weary. I can work for

Jrou while I live, which may perhaps be
ongor than it would bo if I knew you
had committed such a sin."

" Tristan, it is not for myself alono
that I suffer," cried Claude, leaning his
head upon the chimney-piece, with the
papers still in his hand. The flames
curled up crisply with a significant hiss,
the coals gleamed like the hungry mouth
of a wild beast How soon, how very
soon, all would disappear, if he should
open his fingers and let the little bundle
of papers drop into tho devouring fire,
and a breath would disperse tho white
ashes, all that would remain of the proof
of his father's sin and his enemy's good
fortune. The great drops of sweat
started out on his forehead, strong fin-
gers seemed to be clutching bis throat,

an iron bond pressed upon his brain,
and a leaden weight stopped the puUtt-
tion uf his heart. It was a muuient to
trv both soul and body, a moment un
which depended all his future. It was
tho crisis, the turning-point, ni his moral
as well as his physical oxiHtunce. Tris-
tan stood before liim with his great eyes
fixed upon his face in mute entreaty.

" Think, monsieur, tliink tliut God
sees you," he gasped ; " think of your
conf\ision and fear when you meet poor
Genevieve Gautier in eternity. Forget
the Archdeacon's wrongs, and rememltor
how she suflered. Do not deHtroy the
papers, send them away at once, and
you will thank God afterward."

" I cannot, Tristan, I cannot. 0, I
l)elioved I had drunk all the bitterness
of life before, but this is the drop that
kills me I I have been burnt in tho fire,
I have boon trodden in tho wine-press,
but this is the crowning trial, the
wrenching pain that wrings my soid be-
yond endurance. Tristan, Tristan, I
cannot, I will not ruin myself, and every
chance of my future happiness, for this
man who has so wronged me ! "

"Christ died for those who pierced
him. His crown was given to him upon
the point of a spear."

" But I am not Christ-like, I am hu-
man, pitifully human ; for what good-
ness and strength I have gained fVom
my discipline are all swept away. I am
weak and powerless in the hands of
Satan, who will conquer me. 0, I am
mod, I am suffering beyond description !
If I give these up, my life is ruined ; if I
keep them, like Judas, I shall dash my-
self to pieces upon a stone. Take them,
Tristan, for God's sake take them ; take
them out of my sight, whero they will
tempt me no more." And throwing tho
package to his servant, Claude fell on
his knees and burst into tears. For a
few moments he prayed silently, weep-
ing while he prayed, and then he arose
saying, " It is over, Tristan, it is over,
have no more fears. It is my lost con-
flict ; there can be nothing worse in store
for me than what I have suffered this
night. My dear old friend, I have had
many terrible combats, and God has
never deserted me, neither havo you.
In eternity, when my scars are counted,
those that you have healed will plead

▲ CROWN FROM THE 8PEAB.

*nuod upon his Itrain,
light •U>|>p«h1 tho imUtt-
' It Wiw a iiioinciit to
bwly, u iHoiutnt oii
ftll hJH future. It wan
ImiriK-poiiit, m his inoml
nvmoal oxintcnco. 'Iris-
Jiim with hiH j^rcRt t^os
ice in iHuto cnticiitv.
'•>«ur, ti.ink thut (Jod
wpcd ; " think of jour
|ar when you nict-t poor
er in eternity. Forjret
^ wrongB, nnd rtinomlwr
Do not (IcHtroy tho
cm away at oucc, and
jJod afterward."
'ristan, I eannot. 0, I
Jrunk all tho bittcnioM
t this ia tho drop that
e been burnt in tho fire,
dden in tho wine-prose,

crowning trial, the
that wrings mv soul bo-
. Tristan, Tristan, I
t ruin myself, and every
ture happiness, for this
wronged mo ! "

for those who pierced
1 was given to him upon
)ear."

ot Christ-like, I am hu-
mman ; for what good-
th I have gained from
9 all swept away. I am
rless in the hands of
conquer me. 0, I am
iug beyond description !
p, my life is ruined ; if I
ludas, I shall dash my-
n a stone. Take them,
I sake take them j take
sight, where they will
»." And throwing tho
arvant, Claude fell on
rst into tears. For a
prayed silently, weep-
ed, and then he arose
w, Tristan, it is over,
rs. It is my last con-
uothing worse in store

1 have suifered this
Id friend, I have had
Dobats, and God has
e, neither have you.
nay scars are counted,
ive healed will plead

for you. Do not look at me with pitv
in yuiir tondor eyes ; look at nio with
joy, door Tristan, for I am newly
cruwniMl ; tho thorns are removed, and u
oruwu of fresh cool bay unuirolos mv un-
worthy brow. You cannot sue it, but I
can feul it. 0, how great is tho reward
of a ri(<htoouB determination I I cannot
uuduntttind why I hesitated ; now my
duty Mcointi oosy, my socritico no sacrifice
at all, but rather a blessing. When God
removes oiiu liopu ho gives us another ;
alrundy my future brightens before mo."

" TliiinkH 1)0 to him," ho thought,
" whin I Hco hor, whether hero or in eter-
nity, I can luok into hor face without
•huniu."

Then ho took tho package of papers
from tlio table whcro Tristan had laid
them, und folding them carefully in a
heavy cnvel(>|)o, ho wrote with a steady
hand the adilross of the Archbishop of
IlouoM, after wliich ho looked at it for
some time. His eyes red and heavy
with weeping, his pale fifte stained with
tears, bore traces of tho tempest through
which he hnd passed ; now its force was
spent, and there was a settled calm, a
peaceful, earnest intention in its expres-
sion, that showed how important a vic-
tory ho had won. " Tristan," he said,
as he put a number of stamps upon tho
envelope, " givo this to the porter, and
tell him to tako it to the post at once.
I do not wibh to keep Monseigneur out
of his inheritance one hour."

" But, monsieur, do you not intend to
write some explanation, at least to let
htm know that i/ou have sent him tho

Eapors ] " inquired the hunchback, who
ad felt some satisfaction in imagining
the Archbishop's discomfiture when ho
knew that Claude had so nobly resigned
all to him.

" No, tnon ami, I do not. I might go
to him myself and, with a groat show
of renunciation, place these proofs in
his hands. It would make a very af-
fecting scene, and would heap coals of
fire upon his head; but I have not
merited such a gratification. If God
had not given me strength, I should
have been no better than he is ; there-
fore I have no right to exult over my
victory, I should be only quietly thank-
ful that I obtained it through tho aid of
another."

Tristan t(H)k tho package without any
fiirtlier runiurk, and loft tho room.

An hour aftor, thuso long-missing
proofs, that Fubion had seurchuil fwr,
that Justin Guutier had planned and

t)lotteil to ){ct |M)Mses«ion of, and which
lud caused so niuuh sutl'eritig to so
many, were travelling jicaceably toward
their destination. Monseigneur tho
Arehliishop, at thut moment reverently
porfonning high m.iss in Nutru Dame,
littlo thouglit how near he was to
the consumniatiun of his long-cherished
ho{K}s. And Aimee, as she wept ia ro-
morsefid sorrow over tho silent body
of hor father, bad no impression of tho
struggle, the sulferin^, tho pain, hia^
rovelution hud caused to him she lovou
better than life. While in another part
of tho city A littlo sceuo was lioiug
ennjted, thut bore some moral rosom-
bianco to tho tragedy of eighteen hun-
dred years ago, when the Jews camo
out with swords and staves to take one
who had tried to save them.

Tristan, after ho hod doliverod tho
pockago to tho porter, retumod to servo
his master's breakfast with a feeling of
relief that tho troublesome thing was
fairly off, and thut there was now no
chance to yield to temptation, even if
one was tempted.

While Claude drank his ooffeo and
ate his rolls with a better appotito
than he would have hnd nn hour or
two before, he said to Tristuu, " I
have business to arrange which will
detain me for some time. Wliilu I mn
away everything must bo packed and
prepared, for wo must leave Paris for
Sarzoau in the three-o'clock train. I
shall go there and await some communi-
cation from Monseigneur. I hope he
will not try to deprive me of that littlo
retreat. It is very dear to me, and if I
may keep it I shall bo oontoiit. Wo
can be happy there, Tristan, can wo
notl" Then he sighed and thought
of Celeste ; his only hope for her now
was in La Marquiso.

" Happy 1 yes, monsieur ! ono is
rich cnouf^h at Sarzoau with very little.
I will help Janot, and we will raiso
enough off the grounds to live on,"
replied Tristan, eagerly, forgetting in
tho desire to do something for his be-
loved master how very near he waa

166

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. '

to laying down his own burden for-
ever.

" In any case we will stand by each
other, my dear boy ; while I live you
shall never suffer want," said Claude,
kindly, as he took his hat and gloves to
go out.

There was a tap at the door, and a
servant entered with rather an alarmed
mannei', saying, " Two men are in the
antecliamber who wish to see M. le
Conite directly."

Claude walked peaceably toward them,
drawing on his gloves as he went, never
dreaming to what fate he was going.
But when he saw the men, a sudden
^impression made him change color and
falter. They stood near the door with
folded arms and portentously grave
faces. One was tall and thin, with a
solemn aspect ; the other was short
and stout, with a twinkle in his small
gray eyes which told plainly that his
gravity was assumed for the occasion :
and both wore a sort of military un-
dress.

The taller of the two advanced to-
ward Claude as he entered, and touch-
ing his cap with an air half respectful,
half supercilious, he said, " M. le Comte
do Clermont 1 "

" I am he," replied Claude, calmly.

The tall man turned to the short
man, who took a paper out of the crown
of his greasy cap, saying in an under-
tone, as he gave it to his companion,
" No trouble here ; a peaceable party ;
gendarmes not needed."

" Monsieur," said the officer, in a
deliberate voice, slowly unfolding the
paper, which bore the enormous seal of
the state, — " monsieur, I have here a
warrant from the government for your
arrest."

** Indeed ! " said Claude, still with
remarkable calmness. "On what ac-
cusation 1 "

The tall man passed the warrant to
the short man, who, holding a single
eye-glass very near his nose, glanced
over it, saying, " Political offences of
a grave nature. Conspiracy against
the administration. Incendiary articles
written with revolutionary intentions,
etc., etc. I hope monsieur will go with
us peaceably."

"Certainly. Allow me a few mo-

ments to give some orders to my seiv
vant."

"In our presence only, monsieur,"
said the tall man, stiffly.

At that moment Tristan rushed into
the room with a face of ghastly pallor,
and, throwing his arms around Claude,
cried, " Take me with you, monsieur."

The sudden appearance of the poor
hunchback startled the men, and they
drew back in evident dislike and annoy-
ance at such a singular interruption.

"You cannot go with me, my poor
boy," said Claude, gently caressing his
hair ; " the time has come when we
must part, and God only knows for bow
long it may be."

"It wiU be forever, monsieur, it
will be forever. When you leave me I
shall die, as people die from hunger
and thirst."

" Hush, mon ami, you wring my
heart. Have patience, it may not be
for long. I shall be tried, and, I hope,
liberated. I %m not guilty of any
crime, then why should I be impris-
oned 1 Go back to Sarzeau, and wait
for me ; do not fret, for that will ruin
your health. Try and live for me,
Tristan."

But the poor creative only clung to
him, sobbing in the wildest grief, "It
will bo forever, it will be forever."

"Will monsieur do us the favor to
accompany us as soon as possible t " said
the tall man, in a voice of cold author-
ity, while the short man added, looking
encouragingly at Tristan, " The sooner
monsieur goes, the sooner he '11 get back.
Don't be down-hearted, my man ; you
can't tell anything about these arrests.
People are suspected one day, and tried
and liberated the next. If you don't
fret, I dare say you '11 see your master
back to-morrow," he said, winking with
one eye to the tall man, who responded
by drawing his mouth a little on one
side.

Neither poor Tristan nor Claude
noticed this by-play, nor the man's in-
sincere attempt to console them, for
both were so wrapped up in their own
misery as to be insensible to outward
influences. Again the tall man spoke,
and this time more imperiously. And
Claude knew the moment had come
when he must tear himself from the

bme ordera to my set-

lence odIj, monsieur,"
n, stiffly.

It Tristan rushed into
I face of ghastly pallor,
B arms around Claude,
I with you, monsieur."
ppoarance of the poor
fed the men, and they
^ent dislike and annoy-
igular interruption.
Igo with me, my poor
|e, gently caressing his
p has come when we
Jod only knows for how

forever, monsieur, it
When you leave me I
)ple die from hunger

ami, you wring my
;ience, it may not be

be tried, and, I hope,
not guilty of any

should I be impris-

to Sarzeau, and wait
fret, for that will ruin
'ry and live for me,

creature only clung to
the wildest grief, "It
t will be forever."
lU" do us the favor to
3oon as possible ? " said
I voice of cold author-
rt man added, looking
Tristan, " The sooner
3 sooner he '11 get back.
Barted, my man; you
? about these arrests,
ted one day, and tried
' next. If you don't
)u '11 see your master
he said, winking with
I man, who responded
louth a little on one

Tristan nor Claude
»y, nor the man's in-
o console them, for
ped up in their own
isensible to outward

the tall man spoke,
•e imperiously. And

moment had come
ir himself from the

~i^r«» **«

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

157

clinging, arms of his faithful friend and
servant. Raising tho wan, tear-wot
face to his, he said, " My dear boy, it
may not be for long ; but if it should
be forever on earth, there is a sweet
rest for us in eternity, which we shall
have won with much tribulation. Think
of it, and desire it as I shall, and when
it comes it will be most welcome.
Rest assured we shall meet again, dear
soul, without the fear of parting. Go
to La Marquise and tell her all ; she
will provide for you, for my sake.
Farewell. Trust in God, and pray for
me." And bending over him ho im-
printed a long kiss on the pale fore-
head, and then with a supreme effort
tore himself away, and followed the
men.

Tristan stood looking after him until
the door closed, then, with a heavy
groan, fell senseless upon th^ floor, and
lay like one dead.

jri ! PART TENTH.

*■ ■ ' LA ROQUETTE.

" The birds float by on free wings ;
the drifts of white clouds sweep over the
immense space of heaven; the wind
drives them here and there, coming
and going, to and fh), frY>m the four
comers of the earth. God has made
everything fr«e, and yet man dares to
fetter his fellow-man." And Claude de
Clermont pressed his face against the
iron bars of his cell in the prison of La
Roquette, and looked with intense long-
ing out into the blue sky and misty
olouda that floated away serenely be-
yond his line of vision.

Mora than seven months had passed
since that morning when he had said to
Tristan, after his mental conflict was
ended, "There can be nothing worse
in store for me than what I have suf
fered this night." A.nd yet, since then,
he had thought of those past sorrows
as trifles light as air compared to the
anguish that seemed to consume him
in the unbroken silence of his cell.

He had gone through a trial after his
arrest, which was a farce, a mere mock-
ery of justice ; and ho had been con-

demned to five years' imprisonment,
with but little hope of intervention or
mediation from tho outside world.
When ho had said, strong in tho con-
sciousness of right, that he was prepared
to bear the consequences of his own
acts, he had not imagined that they
could bo so terrible, or so impossible to
endure. Ho had tried by every means
left to him to communicate with La
Marquise, that ho might hear some
news of Celeste, and whether poor
Tristan had survived the shock of sep-
o^'ation. But neither letter nor message
had been delivered ; and he had re-
mained during these seven long months
in a state of the most harrowing anxiety.
Ir flrst he had been calm and patient,
praying to God for deliverance, and
hoping against hope that something
might occur to shorten the term of his
sentence. He had great faith in La
Marquise ; and knowing her influence
with those in power, he believed she
might efiect his release, or at least dis-
cover some means to correspond with
him. But as weeks and months passed
by, and no tidings from the outside world
came to him, he began to think that he
was abandoned to his fate ; and then a
sort of frenzy tooK possession of him. He
paced like a caged lion the narrow limits
of his cell ; he wining his hands ; ho
implored God wildly, impatiently, im-
portunately, to deliver him from a living
death. He raged like a tempest until
his strength was exhausted, and then
he would throw himself moaning upon
his bed. All the hours of tho solemn
night had heard his heai-t-breaking sobs,
his piteous prayers ; and the gray dawn
had stolen into his grated window and
fouud him still sleepless. His prison-fare
was like dry dust in his parched mouth ;
he loathed it, he could not force himself
to eit, and the scanty supply of water did
not allay the fever that was consuming
him. His turnkey often looked at him
with a dreary shake of the head, but he
could do nothing to relieve him; he
was not a brutal man, he was only
faithful to his trust. Claude had
searched his face with its mingled
expression of sarcasm and sadness to
see if he could discover any hope of
assistance ; but it was discouraging. It
revealed pity, it is true, but an inflexi-

168

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

ill!

bio determination to perform his duty,
even at the sacrifice of compassion and
mercy. Then there came a time when
his paroxysms of rebellion and despera-
tion exhausted his strength, and he was
as feeble and fretful as a child ; weeping
and complaining to the dcnf, insensible
walls of his cell as though they wore
the merciless human beings who had
caused his woe. fiut that phase of
suffering did not last long, and to it
succeeded a quiet hopelessness, a resig-
nation that was almost despair. At
times he read and studied the few
books that were allowed him. Again
he resorted to the most trivial things to
divert his mind from its anguish; for
he sat for hours with folded arms look-
ing at the stones of his floor, counting
them over and over, mentally arranging
them into different patterns, tracing in
their fractures, blemishes, and stains
resemblances to faces and forms he had
seen during the other life he had lived.
Sometimes nearly whole days would
pass in which he would be absorbed
by memory, living over the scenes at
Clermont, the free, wild life at Sarzeau,
his wanderings among the mountains,
his calm existence in the valleys, his
dreamy idling on the golden sands of
Quiberon, his restless tossing on the
foam-dressed waves, the rapid, eager
motion of the long walks over the bar-
ren coast. All would pass before him
in regular succession, like the panorama
of a dream ; and then he would return
to himself with a start to find his
glowing visions, his broad distances, his
freedom of motion, bounded by four
narrow stone walls, that seemed to
enclose him until they pressed upon his
brain to suffocation. At first his win-
dow had been covered with a shutter
that only admitted a feeble light through
a small aperture ; within a few days,
through the intercession of his turnkey,
that had been removed, and a new
world opened before him. From his
casement he could see the backs of the
buildings on the Rue de la Muette, and
their living, moving inhabitants passing
and repassing before the open windows.
Sometimes an honest, fre^ face would
lean forth and look up to the sky, and
then turn with a motion of pity toward
the prison., It was the face of an

elderly woman, and she seemed to be
a seamstress; for she often sat for
h9urB with her bead bent over her
work, and when she arose it was with
the air of relief apparent in one who
has finished a task. During nearly all
the long days Claude would stand with
his face pressed against his iron grating,
watching every movement and sign of
life in these habitations of the poor —
for it was not a quarter of the city where
the rich resided — with an interest felt
only by one who is separated entirely
from the world and its concerns. He
had come to feel a sort of friendship for
this honest face, that so often regarded
him with compassion ; and the little
window by which she sat seemed a
haven where his vexed thoughts could
find repose. One morning he noticed
some imusual signs; the small panes
were being carefully washed, and fresh
curtains were being arranged by dex-
terous hands ; then some pots of choice
flowers were placed upon the sill, and the
blossoms were tied up and watered with
the closest attention, and a small,
gilded cage with a pretty, spritrhtly
canary was hung above ; while the back
of a soft-cushioned crimson chair gleamed
with a charming effect of color between
the snowy lace of the curtains. " It is
being prepared for an invalid," thought
Claude, " but what a dreary view they
have selected, — the uninviting walls of
this prison, with rows of grated windows
against which are pressed pale, despair-
ing faces. However, I suppose it cannot
matter much to one who is near eternal
freedom." While he was thinking of
this, with his eyes still fixed intent upon
the window, he saw two men place the
feeble form of a sick man in the chair,
and then draw back, while a woman
drew near with a small glass in one
white hand, and a fan aud smelling-
bottle in the other; she placed the
glass to the invalid's lips and fanned
him gently, for he seemed to have
fainted from exhaustion. The man was
emaciated to a frightful degree, the
body bowed and deformed ; while the
facn of the woman who bent over him
was like an angel's, with a silver crown
about the head. " My Qod I " cried
Claude, in a voice that made the stone
walls reverberate, " it is Tristan and La

-J

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

169

and ahe seemed to be
for she often Bat for

head bent over her
she arose it was with

apparent in one who
ik. During nearly all
lude would stand with
igainst his iron grating,
novement and sign of

itatious of the poor

uarter of the city where
— with an interest felt

is separated entirely

1 and its concerns. He
a sort of friendship for
that so often regarded
wsion; and the little
ch she sat seemed a

vexed thoughts could
le morning he noticed
gns; the small panes
ully washed, and fresh
Bing arranged by dex-
len some pots of choice
sd upon the sill, and the
>d up and watered with
ention, and a small,
h a pretty, sprirrhtly
above ; while the back
i crimson chair gleamed
effect of color between
r the curtains. " It is
)r an invalid," thought
lat a dreary view they
the uninviting walls of
HOWS of grated windows
I pressed pale, despair-
fer, I suppose it cannot
ne who is near eternal
> he was thinking of
still. fixed intent upon
w two men place the
lick man in the chair,
»ck, while a woman
ft small glass in one
a fan and smclling-
ber; she placed the
lid's lips and fanned
he seemed to have
istion. The man was
K^tfhl degree, the
leformed; while the
■who bent over him
If with a silver crown
"My God I" cried
that made tho stone
' it is Tristan and La

Mhrquise ; dear, suffering Tristan ! " And
for a moment it seemed as though he
must wrencb away the bars and fly
to him ; but no, he could not, so he
only pressed his face against them and
bathed thorn with his tears. When
Tristun was sufficiently reoovere(^ to
move, ill.: first act was to lean from the
window ind fix his hollow eyes, with a
searohi u^ scrutiny, on the walls of La
Roquctte, while Aim^e supported his
head and looked with him. Claude
could SCO their gaze follow the line of
windows until it rested upon his. Al-
most frantic, he pressed his face against
the bars with a force that wounded him,
and waved his hand and kissed it,
going through a pantomime of the most
extravagant joy. in a moment the
signs wore returned ; they had recog-
nized him, even through his bars. And
Tristan, folding his arms over his heart,
and raising his eyes to heaven, fell back
in his chair with a smile of ecstasy
irradiating his wan face. La Marquise
waved ' her white hand, and kissed it
over and over, her eyes beaming with
joy; then she drew back, and leaning
over Tristan she ministered to him with
the tenderness and gentleness of a
mother, to show Claude that his poor
Buffering servant was cared for by her ;
that she had not neglected him, neither
had she forgotten her promise to assist
her he loved. A burden seemed to fall
from him, and, overcome with gratitude
and joy, he sank upon his knees and
poured out his soul in thanksgiving to
God.

Every day this affecting pantomime
was repeated ; every morning with the
earliest dawn Claude was at his case-
ment, his face pressed against the bars,
his eyes devouring the opposite window,
until Tristan was placed in his chair,
and Aim6e was at his side, bending her
lovely face over him, arranging his hair
with her soft hands, feeding him with
the most tempting dainties, or support-
ing his fainting head upon her bosom.
Sometimes the dying hunchback would
rally enough to lean from the window
and make some aign of love to his idol-
ized master. He would kias his hand,
press it to his heart, jraint with expres-
sive gestures of adoration to Aiin^e,
take her white fingers in hia, and raise

them to heaven, making the form of a
circle in tho air to denote eternity ; and
then, folding his arms, he would open
them suddenly, waving them upward
like wings, to show that he should soon
fly toward endless happiness. Although
the bars of a prison separated them,
yet their souls conversed together, and
held the sweetest intercourse. The days
flew to Claude, and when darkness
dropped a curtain between them and
shut out their beloved faces, he felt as
though he could not endure the hours
until he could look upon them again.
Every morning he said to himself, know-
ing how frail was the poor life on which
he fixed his hopes, " This day may be
the last, or this morning he may be
already in paradise."

About ten days of this affecting in-
tercourse had passed, when Claude
knew that the last one had arrived. He
was at his casement as usual with the
first beam of the sun, watching the win-
dow with earnest, anxious eyes. The
curtains wore drawn, and there was no
sign of life until nearly midday ; then
Alms's white hand opened the blinds
and waved a sad good-morning to him,
pointing within to show that the invalid
was unable to leave his bed, after which
she closed the window and returned to
her attendance at his side. All through
the day Claude remained at his post in
a state of anxiety difficult to describe.
From time to time Aim£e would appear,
make a sad signal, and then withdraw.
When the afternoon was declining, and
the shadow of the prison fell long and
gaunt across the court-yard, and the
swallows inhabiting the niches in the
massive wall began to make active prep-
arations for their evening meal, Claude
saw the window opened and the curtain
drawn aside ; then two men appeared,
laying the motionless form of Tristan
in his chair, while Aimte supported his
head. At first he thought the spirit
had already taken flight, and that it was
' le poor clay they had placed there for
him to look upon, so still, so white, and
lifeless did he seem. No, he was still
living; for Aim4e's gentle hand was
placing a cordial to his lips, and his
feeble fingers were moving upon his
breast with a faint fluttering motion
like tho wing of- a dying bird. Aft«r a

MWi|»V<i

160

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

few moments he opened his eyes and
raised bis head to take a farewell of his
beloved master. He tried to clasp his
bonds to show bis happiness, but they
fell powerless. He turned his face up-
ward with a smile of ineffable peace,
raised one thin, trembling finger toward
heaven, and then eaak back into Aimeo's
arms. The last beams of the sun
touched with a benediction the silvery
halo of her hair, and rested upon the
white forehead, the hollow check, and
closed lids of Tristan, as La Marquise
watched the breath flutter from between
his parted lips that mummrcd her name
with his master's until thoy were silent
forever; then Claude saw her lay the
poor, lifeless head back upon the pillow,
press a long kiss on the placid brow,
and make the sign of the cross over his
still heart, and so he knew that the
aching, deformed body was free from
pain forever, and the freed, happy soul
was at rest with God. Aim^e wiped
away her tears and raised her eyes up-
ward, seeming to say to him, "A little
longer and we shall weep no more."
Then the shadow of night fell between
them, and Claude, crushed, overwhelmed,
dissolved in tears, sank upon his misera-
ble bed, and wept and prayed away the
dreary hours.

Three months more had dragged away
their weary length since the night of
Tristan's departure for his new home,
and Claude had watched in vain for an-
other glimpse of Aim6e's face. She
had never come again. A few days
after the flowers had disappeared, the
singing bird had been removed, and the
invalid's chair had been replaced by the
ordinary seat of the poor woman, who
again bent over her work, raising her
head now and then to glance compas-
sionately at the barred windows of La
Roquette, and Claude's life had returned
to its old monotony, its old, hopeless res-
ignation ; but he was less miserable
than before, tor now he was relieved of
the anxiety that had preyed upon him.
He was confident La Marquise had kept
her promise regarding Celeste, and he
knew poor Tristan was safely disposed
of for eternity ; so there was nothing
but his own miserable failure to brood
over, which was not so desperate and
comfortless, since he had had this brief

reunion with his old ties. He fouud
himself oftcner looking toward the heav-
ens than the earth. There seemed to
bo no possibilities of a future for him.
His country that he had so loved, that
he still loved with the deepest compas-
sion, was cruel, imgrateful, ur,oonscinus.
Those he had tried to save had turned
upon him and wounded bim. His heart
had been full of noble intentions, un-
selfish desires, and warm interest for
humanity, and humanity had crushed
him, wrung his soul, and abandoned
him to despair. Therefore he felt that
earth had no place for him, that he was
one of the pariahs to whom God some-
times opens his doors when the world
drives them out. He prayed often —
not hoping for mercy from man — that
a Divine power would interpose and
shorten the term of his punishment;
that his prison doors might be opened,
not to a feeble, exhausted body, but to
a triumphant, exulting soul that had
left behind its garment of tears and
scars.

Op . afternoon he sat on the edge of
his narrow bed, his hands clasped list-
lessly, his sad eyes searching the intense
blue of a June heaven, striving if per-
chance he might discover some angel
face smiling upon him from the trans-
parent ether, when a noise at his door
startled him. It was not the hour for
the turnkey's visit, and this unusual
interruption filled him with surprise.
He started to his feet with an eagerness
that showed how hope always lives
within us, and looked with parted lips
breathlessly, as the' heavy door rolled '
back on its hinges, and admitted a
woman, wrapped in a dark mantle, with
a heavy veil covering her face.

" Remember, madam, an hour is not
long," said the turnkey, as he closed
the door.

" Aim6e ! " cried Claude, as she threw
aside her veil.

"Claude, dear Claude!" and she
threw herself weeping into his arms.

For a moment they sobbed passion-
ately together; then she drew away
from his embrace, saying, " We have no
time to waste in weeping, for I have
much to say, and an hour is nothing."

" You have been ill," said Claude,
looking at her changed face soiTowfullj.

v'lrT

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR

IGl

old ties. He found
:ing toward the heav-
Thore seemed to
a future for him.
le had so loved, that
" e deepest compas-
tteful, Hr.eonBcious.
to save had turned
ided b.m. His heiui;
loblo intentions, un-
I warm interest for
imanity had crushed
"^ul, and abandoned
lerefore ho felt that
for him, that he was
to whom God some-
>or8 when the world
He prayed often —
■cy from man — that
vculd interpose and
of his punishment;
)r8 might bo opened,
haueted body, but to
ilting soul that had
innent of tears and

le sat on the edge of
is hands clasped list-
searching the intense
iayen, striving if per-
discover some angel
him from the trans-
i a noise at his door
ivas not the hour for
it, and this unusual

him with surprise,
eet with an eagerness

hope always lives
ked with parted lips
e- heavy door rolled '
Bs, and admitted a
I a dark mantle, with
ng her face,
dam, an hour is not
mkey, as he closed

Claude, as she threw

Claude!" and she
ing into his arms,
hey sobbed passion-
BU she drew away
lying, « We have no
veeping, for I have
I hour is nothing."
1 ill," said Claude,
jed face BoiTowfiilljr.

Her complexion was pale, — the sickly,
opaque pallor of parchment ; her cheeks
had lost their roundness, her temples
were sunken, showing the blue veins
through which ebbed and flowed the
sluggish tide of life, while her great
eyes seemed to float in purple shadowe,
and her white, transparent hands had
the vngue, languid motion and the
cold damp of those who are already
touched with the last chill.

" Yes, I have been ill, very ill, ever
since poor Tristan died, or I should not
have loft you alone so long. I should
have visited you at the window every
day."

" How did you learn where my cell
was situated 1 "

"Through bribing an officer.
Claude, I have almost moved heaven
and earth in my effort to release you.
I have been myself on my knees to the
Emperor."

" For me 1 Aim6e, I have not
deserved this!"

" Yes, for you ; but he would not
listen to me. Ho who once courted my
smiles refused me the only favor I ever
asked of him. May God punish him as
ho deserves ! Do you know why he
refused me 1 " she cried, with a flash
of her old fire. " It was because I had
lost my beauty, my charm. My power
went with it. I did not flash upon
him in my former splendor, as La Mar-
quise, the most lovely lady in Paris,
but I tottered before him, pale and
weak, an unhappy suppliant ; and he
had no ear for my prayer, no smiles,
no false flattery. He refused me, and
dismissed me coldly. Then I implored
the influence of those beneath him
in power, but I failed. All I could
gain was permission to see you .for one
hour. my God, how I hate the
world, the cringing, false, cruel, unjust
world ! I have tested it, and hate it,
and thank God with every breath that
I am nearly done with it. What is a
woman's power 1 Her beauty, her mir.
erable, perishable beauty ; and when
sickness and suffering take that away,
she is helpless. I once boasted that I
could command and I should be obeyed.
Now I entreat, and no one listens.
Claude, I would willingly have given
my life to have saved you from this,
11

but it is not of enough value to shorten
your imprisonment by one day."

" I implore you, Aimie, not to add
to my suffering the memory of such
bitter words. To me you have been
an angel of mercy. Your goodness to
poor Tristan removed a heavy burden
from my weary life. And Celeste 1 "

" She is provided for, Claude ; she is
free. You can now love her without
sin. A few weeks ago Sir Edward was
found dead in his bed. Celeste is a
widow."

Claude seemed so paralyzed by this
news that he made no reply.

" I bought Monthelon. I searched
everj'where for her. One day I was pass-
ing the Mont de Pi^t^, and slic and Eliz-
abeth came out ; they were dressed so
poorly that I scarce recognized them.
They had been to pawn their last article
of value. Now they are living at Mon-
thelon, comfortable, and God knows I
hope they are happy."

"You are an angel," cried Claude,
clasping her thin hands in his. "O
that I may live to show my gratitude ! "

"Tristan died happy, after ho saw
you. His sorrow was heart-breaking
when you were taken away. I think
he never ceased to weep until death
dried his eyes. However, when I knew
that La Roquette could bo seen from
the window of a seamstress who woriied
for me, I did not allow myself to rest
until I discovered, by bribes and en-
treaties, that your cell was on the side
visible. Then poor Tristan, altlioogh
the doctor said he was dying, implored
so pitifully to be brought here, that !
complied ; and the sight ol" your face,
even between bars, rendered his lose
hours blissful. And he went to heaven
strong in the faith that I was all-power^
ful, and would in the end secure your
freedom. I have tried, Claude, but I
have failed, and the faiL\^e is killing
me ; every day that you remain here
takes one week from my life."

" Aim€e, do not suffer so for me, I
am not worthy of it."

" I brought all your sorrow upon yon
by my folly and passion, and my re-
morse is consuming me."

"Do not accuse yourself, it is God's
doings, and he cannot be unjust. Let
us bow to his will together. Our sor-

IG2

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

■ <

row8 will end when eternity opens its
portals to us; lot us wait patiently,
dear Aioi^e, until that moment arrives."

" Ah, my God ! it is true, there is
nothing enduring here but sorrow and
tears ; when they end we are at rest for-
ever. I have prayed for you, I have
wept for you, more than for myself.
Your name is branded upon my heart.
I tell you it now, because by that you
will know with what suffering I have
made my expiation. My pride is dead,
slain by my own hand ; my vanity is
clothed in ashes ; my ambition is but for
a grave where you may sometimes drop
a tour. There is only one who can pro-
cure your release, — the one who de-
nounced you, who betrayed you, the
Judas who later will be consumed with
remorse as I now am. I shall go to
him and on my knees implore him to
undo the work he has done. I shall
bow before the man I hate, because he
has wronged you, even though he has
heaped favors upon me. I shall tell
him of your noble renunciation, which
I learned from Tristan, — how you cour-
ageously gave him the proofs that con-
ferred his title, his honorable birth,
upon him ; and if that godlike act does
not touch his nature, then he is alto-
gether inhuman, a monster fit only for
the fires of hell."

"^l entreat of you not to humble
yourself to the Comte de Clermont."
Claude winced when he applied his for-
mer title to his enemy, but he did it
knowing it was his by every right. " It
will be useless, he is invulnerable ; nei-
ther prayers nor tears can avail for me."
■ " I shall go, nevertheless. It is nearly
a year since he saw me ; perhaps when
he looks upon my changed face his
heart will soften. I will leave nothing
undone to make you happy at last.
You will be free, you will marry Celeste.
And if you but bless my memory, my
Boul in paradise will know it and rejoice,
and my poor heart will throb in the
silence and darkness of my grave."

"Aimie, my beloved sister!" cried
Claude, entirely overcome with emotion,
"my good angel, I adore you with an
adoration holier than any earthly affec-
tion ; my love for you is something sub-
lime and reverent, worthy to be eter-
nal. 0, why have I known you so late !

or was I blind, that I did not discover
the beauty and nobility of your nature
long before 1 But now that wo have
come to understand each other, why
speak as though this parting was for-
ever 1 We may both be happy for many
years, my beloved ; but if we miss the
fruition of our hopes on earth, we shall
find them hereafter. Let us forget the
pains and passions of life, its disappoint-
ments and regrets, and look calmly for-
ward to that complete existence which
we are being schooled for by the faith-
ful hand of God."

They sat side by side on the hard
couch, where Claude had so often wept
away the long hours of the night, with
clasped hands and tear-drenched face.
An arrow of stmlight struck across the
stone wall, and fell lower and lower
until it reached the silvery waves of
Aim^e's hair ; there it rested a moment,
and then passed away in scattered ra-
diance, like the beams of glory sur-
rounding the head of a saint. The hour
had gone, but a moment remained, and
still they sat looking into each other's
faces, silent and solemn, for both felt
that it was for the last time, that now
the supreme pain of the moment of
parting forever on earth had arrived,
and neither had power to utter the fare-
well. At length the steps of the turn-
key outside aroused them, and Aim^e
said in a faint, broken voice, " Courage,
dear heart," while she clasped the hand
of Claude as though they stood in the
face of some terrible danger. " Courage,
this is our last parting ; when we meet
again my happy face will wear the
smiles of youth, and thou shalt look at
me with eyes free from tears."

" The hour is up," cried the turnkey,
throwing open the door.

" Thou shalt be free, Claude ; courage
and hope, thoi shalt be free. My love
has ruined thee, but it shall end in sal-
vation. One lost embrace. Thou wilt
smile on me in eternity."

Claude clasped her in his arms, cover-
ing her foce with tears and kisses, while
he sobbed, " God bless thee, my darling,
God bless thee ! "

" Farewell. Thou knowest how I love
thee, therefore I have not suffered in
vain. It will not be long until we meet
again. Courage, patience, dear Clai'.dc."

im-.Wik.i.

npwH

that I did not discoTcr
nobility of your nature
iBut now that wo have
itand each other, why
:h this parting was for-
both be happy for many
ed ; but if we miss the
[hopes on earth, wo shall
"^er. Let us forget the
•ns of life, its disappoint-
ets, and look calmly for-
^omplete existence which
chooled for by the faith-
4."

lo by side on the hard
laude had so often wept
hours of the night, with
and tear-drenched face,
inlight struck across the
i fell lower and lower
>d the silvery waves of
here it rested a moment,
jd away in scattered ra-
le beams of glory sur-
ead of a saint. The hour
1 moment remained, and
ooking into each other's
id solemn, for both felt
the last time, that now
)ain of the moment of
p on earth had arrived,
d power to utter the fare-
th the steps of the turn-
roused them, and Aim^e
broken voice, " Courage,
lile she clasped the hand
lough they stood in the
Tible danger. " Courage,
parting; when we meet
)py face will wear the
, and thou shalt look at
'ee from tears."
8 up," cried the turnkey,
the door.

be free, Claude ; courage
shalt be free. My love
>, but it shall end in sal-
ast embrace. Thou wilt
eternity."

*d her in his arms, cover-
;h tears and kisses, while
id bless thee, my darling,

rhoii knowest how I love
I have not suffered in
)t be long imtil we meet
, patience, dear Clai-.de."

A CROWN FROM TEE SPEAR.

163

And then she pressed his hand again in
} 'in, and smiled with an expression of
ir.gelic sweetness; and looking back
from the door smiled again, raising her
sad eyes upward. And so she passed
from bis sight forever.

PART ELEVENTH.

A DAi OF WRATH.

There was no light in the study at
Clermont but the faint light from the
dying embers in the chimney. Day
had gone, and the soft shadows of even-
ing had crept in unnoticed by the
Archbishop, who sat in bis carved chair
by the table, on which lay the neglected
instruments of his occult studies, his
head bowed in his hands, absorbed in
thought. It was just one year since
the night be had refused La Marquise
the favor she had implored, and he hod
not seen her since, nor had she shown
any signs of relenting, after the stem
and haughty manner in which she had
dismissed him from her presence. If
he had foreseen what suffering his ban-
ishment would bring upon him, he
might have hesitated before he pro-
nounced the fatal word that doomed
him to such a punishment. But he was
not clairvoyant enough to understand
how much greater was her love than
her gratitude ; and he was wounded to
the quick, that she, forgetting all his
kindness and favors, should espouse the
cause of another, and treat him with
insult and scorn because he had refused
to do the same. He had said over and
over to himself, " If she should come to
me and implore my forgiveness on her
knees, I would not pardon her. Her
ingratitude, her cruelty, have imbittered
my heart against her. My Aimde, the
little girl I saved from want and suffer-
ing, and educated and cared for as
though she bad been my own, died
indeed that day when she disappeared
from Clermont. I never again found
her in the haughty, imperious Marquise
de Ventadour; still I supposed I had
some claims upon her affection and
consideration, but she has disappointed
me, she has proved herself as thankless

as the perfidious ingrates who turn
upon you and sting you after you have
warmed them to life. I will dismisii her
from my heart ; she is dead to me, I
will think of her no more." Although
he hod determined to banish her abso-
lutely from his thoughts, ho had failed
to do it, for she haunted him pursis-
tently, and his life was but ono long
desire to see her again and to effect a
reconciliation. Still he had defeated
his own wishes ; for bitterly and re-
vengefully he had at once denounced
Claude to the government, and pro-
cured his arrest, after the failure of
their efforts to remove him privately.
At last his vengeance was complete, for
with the news of Claude's arrest camo
the long-missing proofs that disinher-
ited the unfortunate young man, and
installed him in his place. Where these
papers came from was a profound mys-
tery to the Archbishop. He sometimes
thought that Justin Qautier hod played
him false, that he had gained possession
of the proofs, and retained them for
some roason of his own, until when
dying he hod repented and caused them
to be sent to him in this singular man-
ner. Then again everything seemed to
contradict that supposition, and he was
more puzzled and uncertain than be-
fore ; for he wished mjst earnestly to
know who had resigned these important
papers, after keeping them back for
more than forty years. However, this
very natural curiosity did not prevent
him from enjoying to the full his new
honors. Since the day he had hoard
from his dying mother that ho was the
rightful heir of Clermont, he had never
for one hour forgotten his intention,
his determination, to, reinstate himself,
and prove his mother's innocence, no
matter at what cost. It had been in
reality the aim of his life. Ho had
kept his own counsel, his name, his
purpose, a secret from all but Justin
Gautier, whom he had discovered in
the released convict who defied God in
the sombre gloom of the park of Cler-
mont. From that moment the two had
worked together, professedly for the
same purpose ; but while the wretched
man had but the One object, which was
to crush and ruin the son of the man
he hated, Fabien had the double desire

iw'i"niiiiiiniiim

104

A CROWN FROM THE SPPLVR.

of revongo and sclf-aggrandizomont to
urgo him on to the couaummation of his
plana. Now, after yoara of anxioua
■earch, uaolesa labor, and diaappoint-
mont, auddcnly, when ho had almoat
coasod to hope that hia greatest ambi-
tion woa to be realized, these proofs
had been placed mysterioualy in hia
handa, nnd without the alighteat oppo-
sition he had taken poaaoHsion of hia
long-covctod inheritance and title. Now
indeed ho had arrived at the aunimtt
of earthly proapority, he was Count of
Clermont and Archbishop of Rouen ;
an important peraonage in both Church
and State. But for aome reason, when
bo rode in grand equipage from the
Bishop's palace, which he often did, to
paas several daya in each week at his
oh&tenu of Clermont, it aeemed as
though he were going to hia own burial,
and that the beautiful pile he had ao
deaired to poaseas was a magnificent
tomb prepared for his reception. The
▼ast, lofty rooms seemed to chill him,
and the silence appalled him ; the
Btudy, that once had been his favorite
resort, now made him shudder when he
entered it, for his morbid imagination
filled it with impalpable forms, and
every shadow was haunted by pallid,
reproachful faces. Sometimes the skull
that looked from its iron casement
would assume the face of the former
Comte de Clermont, and, from the hol-
low orbits, eyes filled with lurid light
ecemod to gaze intently upon him, and,
whichever way he turned, those same
eyes followed him, piercing, inquiring,
steadfast, until, almost terrified, he
would rush from the room to find
relief in pacing hurriedly the long ave-
nues of the park. Again Aimiie seemed
to fill the place with her presence,
mocking, laughing, singing, coaxing, the
wayward sprite that hod transformed
the stern silence of the ch&teau into
merry music ; or, haughty, scornful, bit-
tor, she seemed to stand before him,
pointing imperiously to the door while
she said in tones that made him shiver,
" Go, Judas, go ; I have looked upon
thee for the last time." Then the scene
would change, and she would approach
him pale, wan, solemn, and taking him
by the hand would lead him forth
through long stone galleries, damp and

odious with prison smells, and heavy
with fbul vapors, until they reached u
barred door which she wotdd throw
open to reveal a dark, narrow cell whero
sat a young man, on the edge of a
miserable pallet, listless, hopeless, with
swollen eyes aitd haggard, despairing
face. Then, pointing to the forlorn pic-
ture, she would fix her deep eyes upon
him and say, " There ia thy work ac-
complished.' In no matter what place
he was, the same scenes passed before
him. During the solemn ceremonies
in Notre Dame, when he bowed his
mitred head before the altar, a voico
seemed to whisper to him, " Prepare
for a day of wrath ; prepare for a day
of wrath " ; and a phantom-like proces-
sion seemed to mingle with the smoke
of the incense rising and floating away
into the ahadowa of the vaulted roof,
while they looked back upon him re-
proachfully, ominously, threateningly.
He had swallowed eagerly the long-
desired draught of gratified revenge
and ambition that he had distilled from
the tears of his victims, and it had
turned to liquid fire within him. It
was consuming him, torturing him,
rendering his days miserable and his
bights a burden. Yet still he endured,
for his hateful pride would not allow
him an antidote. He had planted
thorns in his pillow, and he did not
intend to complain because they pierced
him. Now, as ho sat alone in the
gathering gloom, he was absoflied in a
sort of retrospective view of his life,
following ntep by step his own ascent
up the ladder of prosperity, until he
had reached all but the topmost round,
on which rested the coveted hat of a
cardinal. As in imagination he leaned
forward to grasp it, the structure gave
way beneath him and precipitated him
suddenly from his ambitious height
down to the ghostly silence of his
gloomy study. Springing up he pulled
the bell violently, for he could not
endure darkness; and as the servant
appeared hurriedly at his imperative
summons, he said in a stem, harsh
voice, " Why do you leave me here
without either light or firel"

"Monneigneur did not ring," returned
the man in a timid, deprecating voice,
OS ho set the candles upon the table,

A CROWN FROM THE SrKAR

1C&

}n smells, and heavy

until they reached u
ch she would throw
lark, narrow coll whore
^n, on the edge of a
listless, hopeless, with
i haggard, despairing
iting to the forlorn pic-
ix her deep eyes upon
Phore is thy work ac-

no matter what place
; scones passed before
le solemn ceremonies

when he bowed his
)re the altar, a voice
ler to him, " Prepare
th ; prepare for a day
a phantom-like proccs-
ningle with the smoke
sing and floating away
s of the vaulted roof,
3d back upon him rc-
nously, threateningly,
'od eagerly the long-

of gratified revenge
,t he had distilled from
I victims, and it had
[ fire within him. It

him, torturing him,
iys miserable and his

Yet still he endured,
pride would not allow
B. He had planted
lillow, and ho did not
in because they pierced

ho sat alone in the
, he was absoflicd in a
Btive view of his life,
y step his own ascent
•f prosperity, until he
)ut the topmost round,

the coveted hat of a

imagination he leaned
) it, the structure gave
1 and precipitated him

his ambitious height
;bostly silence of his
Springing up he pulled
ly, for he could not
i; and as the servant
dly at his imperative
lid in a stem, harsh
[) you leave me here
ight or fire t "
• did not ring," returned
mid, deprecating voice,
uidles upon the table,

1 t« stir up the fire to ft
and prepared to stir mi

blaze. , , . . ^^ .„-v the bellows

J^l^^^^^o, .t flro tai-

more at vr°«°"^/, 'S which scemcl

to indicate that no w roir.im.

the room, and equalljr atrai l

..No, yonmoyso- ^ ^^^ak-i

Now. in the ff ^aze o^t ^^^

and the light of the f ow g ^^^^ ^^
changes durmg a year m t^

the Archbishop wore St WPF^^ ^^^
Tho hair that ff J^ °^^^^^^ ^^^s marred
was of an i^^^tS stamped by passion
with lines '"f '^^/'S'Vois^ wore
and w'«o'^«f' ."f Jhilo his deep-
fiercely °«»S fo^vi frim their shad-
sot eyes ^"o^^*^ „^'; Evasive expression
ows with the "°?f y;,t*Xre to seek for
of one who knows not wno ^^^^^^^

, peace, and his moutl^ ^^at^^" eased
' gentle firmness, .-^^J^^^^^ resolve.

^ith cruel «even*y^^°^ ^^^ j^.

When he arose ^^P^lo restlessness,

polled by. J- "5^Kis once upright and
it was evident that b« ^^^^^ ^^^^ ^^

vigorous form «*» /" , ^ a time.
Bhould have b^^ '7^gT^e said, look-
..How the hours drag, « . ^ fee-
ing at WB/atch with th i^^^^^^^

quency of o««jX -"how the hours
to pass more BWimy, ^^ j^

^'^' "X blo<^ fl-s'low^^^^^^^
gone and the blooa ^^^^ ^^

*t^^C mv eSnest ocoVlo^^. °»?
short for my e*^ . » intentions. 1
ardent desires, my W i° ^ ^^^gn

elimbed y^tilTSpt^^n ^-««i«^ -'
he declined 1 sUU kep ^ ^

"jy ^l"';;he duU routine of my duUes
through the 'Wii ^^ ^M zenith I
and hefore day has reaene ^^^ ^^

am fatigiied ^^^^ ?Tf TJ „itSre of youth,

for the I'^^Ij^^^noSow like a light
that wears Its little Boi^o ^^ ^.^^^

^rt SterMaHve? honored
while in later J""* , ^hat corrode
prosperity become h«t^«^ «"\ ^^er an

LdWr^^f:^r aWhoodI All
infancy 1 Hadlever^»^^^^ tears,

..dcold. Ah,thoya.n;^Jtji^*^jJ
shine out warm »»d »"»' 5 onoe 1
,ackground f^^^^^tU in hav-
thought true fe'Uiy J- .gnty

,,g enough toe.it, o^firo mwin^^ .J^ ^

of covering for my - ^^^ j

books I needed f»\'"y,'^'" ^^1 yet I
have all these m "J^X V^e^s Vu
am farther "'"^y.^'^^f'Jhe necessities of
when 1 only '^^^'^^^fj^^' with their
life. Our wants .ncroa^o^^^i,„ „,d
gratification, and to alway ^^

S^verposse^«';^X2imes defraud

the threads of ^^ « *°;"7f «e are just
in hopeless con «•«« U ^^,^
and wait patiently, will n j

tions mature for ^ profit ^ ^^
not been ^"^^'^ «"f jeath his own hap-
^«^"nhl\^wh^p2 away his life ^
pinoss than he w^" J^,. j ^ight say

With my P'^^^'^^^^^Sen a failure, for
that my existence had been a^ ^^^^

I have missed ^h"" ""JJ,„_ j cannot
to possess, human ajccUon^ .^

think of one hemg who lov^^^^^^^^ ^^,
the fate «? nie«tal supeuor J ^^^^

'^^"'^^ w'^^^we'who have so much, de-

are aspirations l*"<*'^^^„,*Jy i^ grati-
And there is l^ ^^I^Za1T£ to
tude; it i8 a ^^r^J^i^Xn defrauded
earn, and even thenjieis often ^^^

of his wages. l;Ove,gra „^

alike dainty l«^""«V"y[Je outlived the
'n^- ^^oJtSil^ntimlntal longings!
weakness of sucti senu ^^^^

In other times, ^J;"*^^^ ^^^ i

thing ^^''SXSVe, St strange,
did desire love, her 10 ^ .^^^

bewitchmg eJ^'^t'^iTpent-like charm,
my heart with her serpe ^^^

her insinuating g^^^.'^ J^e is dead
her, 1 adored her but n^J « ^^ ^hy
to me. my Aimee, my ^

didyoudefmud^e^f fle^neat
toiled 80 hard to ^™; ^^„, ^^d
t^U Z:n ion. as you

106

A CROWN PROM THE SPEAR.

plonac, you will n(<t gat in. I have
utiicr giiL'Mts now tliiit fill all my heart."
Atul hi) closed liiH lipu with Btoni rc-
Milvo, while ho wiilkod nwiiy from the
d(j()r without replying to the soft tup,
tup. " 1 have told that stupid Jeun
never to disturb ino, never to approiuih
my door until I summon him. And
yut ho dares to disobey mo. Come
in," ho crit'd, in n harsh voice, as the
knock wns repeated a little more im-
patiently. And believing it to bo his
servant, ho turned in the middle of the
floor with his most cruel expression, his
most forbidding aspect.

The door softly oi)uned, and in the
shadow stood a woman, draped from
head to foot in mournful purple, while
her snowy hair, pale face, and hollow
eyes mode her look more like a spectre
than a human being. " Mon pire," she
said softly and sweetly as she ap-
proached him, " I have come to implore
your forgiveness. Your Aimeo has re-
turned to you, penitent. See, I am no
longer thj imperious woman who drove
you from her presence a year ago. I
am your Aim^e, your humble, suifering
Aim6e. What, you will not speak to
me, you will not forgive me ! O mon
pire, remember how you loved me
once ; forget all my ingratitude, all my
cruelty, and take mo back again into
your heart." And she laid her thin
hand gently on the folded arms of the
Archbishop, and looked into his face
pitcously. It might have been a mar-
ble face, with eyes of metallic glitter,
for all the life there appeared to bo in
it. He did not seem to see her, he did
not seem to hear her, but stood with
terrible inflexibility in every line of his
upright figure.

Look at me, mon pire, cannot you
see that I am dying 1 I have risen
from my sick-bed to come to you.
My physician told me it was madness,
it was death, to do so ; but still I dared
it, because I could not die without
your forgiveness, because I could not
die away from. Clermont. I have come
back to my dear old homo, my child-
hood's home, to die in my room where
I dreamed away my blessed girlhood.
You will not turn mo away. You are
master here. You are Comte de Cler-
mont, but you will not turn your poor

Aim6o away from your heart and houao.
Open your anus, and let mo die there.
I have come to thoni for shelter. O
mon jiirf, take mo into your heart
again." And falling on iior knees, she
pressed her lips to his hands, and wet
them with her tears.

The ArchbiHhop drow away, and
looked at her as she knelt before him,
her head bowed, her pride at his feet.
And as he looked, an arrow seemed to
pierce his soul. With a groan of agony
ho opened his arms and cried, " Come
to my heart, come forever."

Nearly a month passed, after Aim^e's
return to Clermont, in tho most peace-
able relation with tho Archljishop. Ho
was gentle, affbctionatc, tender toward
her, striving by every means to make
her forgot that ho had over for a mo-
ment treated her with coldness or cru-
elty. And she was tho old Aim6e in
hor sweetest moods, but never again
the Aim(ie that once changed the stem
silence of tho chUtcau into merry music.
Her voice was never heard but in
feeble, languid tones, whoso failing
Hweetncss seemed to have a touch of
heaven's melody in them. She glided
through tho corridors or sunny garden
walks, leaning on tho arm of tho Arch-
bishop, with a languor and helplessness
which was touching. She was thin and
weak to a pitiful degree, but she suf-

fered

pam,

no distress.

When the Archbishop, with sinking
heart, asked her phyuician t!\e naturo
of her disease, he shook his bead sadly,
and replied, " I cannot say, monscign-
cur. It is one of those cases that
baflle medical skill. She seems to be
consuming — melting away, one might
call it — under the heat of an inward
fever. The mind, acting upon the body,
has wasted it until there is no more
substance to feed upon than there is in
the sheP of a crystal vase. It is true,
the life still flickers there, shining faintly
through ; but a breath will put it out,
monseigneur."

During all this time La Marquise
had tried to win the love, the confi-
dence, the tender sympathy of the
Archbishop by every gentle art. She
had established the best possible terms
between him and Celeste, while Eliza-
beth was her devoted and unwearied

your Iicart and homo
"I'd let ,no dio thcro!
Itiioiii for Hhcltcr.
'»o into your l.eart
;''fc'««i Jwr kneoH. Hlio
■" Ills hiuidB, uud wet
iiin.

'/' d"-"* away, and
'"« knelt lieforo him
''"r pride ut his f„ot!
im arrow aoemod to
ithagroan ofuKony
18 and cried, " Come
• forever."

pnsHcd, after Aim(So's

It, m the most poace-

tho Archbishop. Ho

lonato, tender toward

kvcry means to make

had ever for n tno-

1 'th coldness or cru-
ras the old Aimde in
as, but never nuuin
cc changed the stern
«m into merry music.
I»evcr heard but in
^•ones whoso faili,,,,

, to have a touch of
P them. She glided
aors or sunny garden
tho arm of tho Arch-
guor and helplessness
«■ She was thin and
dogreo. but sho suf-
distross.

bishop, with sinking
Vuician tlxo nature
nook his head sadly,
nnot say, monseign-
thoso coses that
oho seems to be
S away, one might
neat of an inward
ting upon the body,
there is no more
on than there is in
1 vttso. It is true,
lerc, shining faintly
tn will put it out,

imo La Marquise
° love, the confi-
ijnipathy of the
gentle art. She
?st possible terms
Bste, while Eliza-
1 and unwearied

A CnOWN FROM THE SPEAIL

107

nurHO. It wuM nflboting to hoo these
thrc'u wdinou together, each trying to
outdo tho other in detnonstratiouH of
love. (.'<ilcHte, in her deep mourning,
sad and sufl'ering, but patient ; talking,
thinking, and dreaming of ixx^r ('luiide
in hJH prison-ceil. While Aim<Su, with
hor fuublu flume of life just ready to be
extinguished, comforted, assured, and
promised liur that all would Im) well.
" The Arcliljishop will not refuse me
when he knows it is my last request,"
she said. " I have not spoken of it
yet, because I wislied to soften his heart
with my love, so it would be ready to
listen and melt at tho story of poor
Claude's suffering. And he does not
know yet that it was ho who sent the

E roofs of his inother's marriage. When
knows all, rest assured that he will
use every effort to release him ; and ho
will not strive in vain, for with his
jrawerful iniluenco he can accomplish
nil ho wishes."

One evening, after a day of excessive
weakness, Aim^o expressed a wish to be
dressed and assisted to the Archbishop's
study. She had not lefl hor room, and
so she hod not seen him for the day.
Now she sent her maid to say that she
would spend tho evening with him.
" I am very weak, dear Nanon," she
said, while sho leaned her head against
the shoulder of hor maid, who was
brushing out tho silver waves of her
hair. " After I am dead, cut ofi' a
long, thick tress, and give it, with your
own hands, to M. Claude, when ho
returns to Clermont. It will be all
that will remain of La Marquise. Alas,
there is nothing loft of Aim6e but the
poor heart that will soon be dust I "

" madam, you will recover, you
will live to see him again ! " cried Nanon,
bursting into tears.

" Yes, ma chire, I shall Bee him again,
but not here, not here."

When she entered the study, the
candles were lit, and a bright fire was
burning on the hearth, before which sat
the Archbishop, benevolent, bland, and
peaceful ; for he did not know how near
his day of wrath had approached.
When he saw her, he arose with a
warm smile, and led her to. a large
easy-chair, that had been placed there
for her comfort, saying, "You are better

this evening, ma ehhit ; your cheek
has some of its old color. Witliout
seeing you, tho day bus been entlless.
Why did you not come down for u littiu
air ] (Mormont is curing you ; alniudy
you are more your old self. Why havo
you remained all day in your room 1 "

" I was saving my strungtii for this
evening. I havo so much to say to
you, man pdre. No, I will not have tho
chair ; I wish to sit, for this onco, in my
old place at your feet." And nestling
close to hin side, she loaned her head
uix)n his arm, and raised hor eyes to
his with trust and love.

Thero was a silence for a few moments,
while the Archbishop looked intent on
tho face upturned tu his, and perhaps
for the first time tho terrible change in
it smoto his heart with a sharp piun.
It was indeed like a crystal vase through
which the soul shone softly.

" Alon pire," she said, pressing her
head a little closer against his arm,
while sho smiled with something of hor
old playfulness, " when Nature planned
me, she nuido a mistake for some reason,
for I am a sort of a paradox, in a degree
unnatural ; I might say when I am
most contented, then I am most dis-
contented ; when I am the happiest, then
I am the most miserable ; and when I
am near arriving at the consummation
of my ardent desires, then I wish it de-
ferred. I havp been very waywanl and
sinful, I havo caused you much suffer-
ing ; yet I sometimes rejoice in it, for I
know you will all remember me becaus';
of tho scars I have left. I have prayrd
and longed with inexpressible longijg
for death. I have wished to discover
tho mysteries of eternity, and now '..hey
are near being revealed in all their sub-
lime beauty. I gather this veil of jarth
around me, and do not care for the
crowning of my desires. Is it because
your tenderness, your love, hvts mado
earth so sweet to me at last 1 " She felt
a tear drop upon her forehead, and she
went on with the most wintiiug gentle-
ness. "You have completed your good
work toward tho poor ch'dd you saved
from misery, by making her last days
so peaceful ; and you still havo the
power to render them oven blissful. I
know now you will not refuse my last
request, the only thing your poor Aimdo

1G8

A CUOVVN FROM THE SI'KAR.

\«ill ever ask." She folt him Hhivor, and
thu hiuid sho clnnpud grew iiKidenly
cold Hiid rigid. " O mon pire, do not
rofimo mo now ; crown your lovo with
a boiiutirul diiidem of morcy. Forgot
your aniuxwity toward poor Clnudo, and
roHcuo hiia from hit terrible impriiion-
niunt."

Tho Arctihiihop, still paler than the
pulu pleader who out at bis feet, drew
awny eoldly from her feverish, clinging
'iiuuIh, and Haid, in a voice that bore
little rcHoinhlanco to his former tones
of loving interest, " Aim^o, you ask too
nuich ; you presume upon my pity and
love for you to implore aHsistunue for
Olio wliom I have no power to assist.
M, du Clermont is alone to blame for
IiIm punishment, and he must boar it as
others have before him, with patience
and fortitude."

Tho poor face clouded, and heavy
tears fell over her cheeks. " Think a
moment, vwn pire, before you refuse
mo. He has committed no crimo, ho
has suffered much, and he is wasting
his life in a dreary coll. You, with
your poworAil influence, can procure
his roloase ; and beside," she continued
more warmlj', more impressively, "you
owe him something; he performed
toward you an act tndy noble and
heroic."

" I do not understand you."

" It was ho who sent you the proofs
of your mother's marriage."

" Is it possible 1 " And his face ex-
pressed the deepest surprise, but no
re^onting. " How came he possessed
of them ? "

"He discovered them hidden in an
old cabinet at Sarzeau, which had been
removed there from Clermont."

" And he retained them for I cannot
say how long a time; that was truly
honorable I "

"He did not know you were his
brother until he learned it from my
unfortunate father on his dying-bed ;
M. de Clermont alone knew of the
existence of these papers. A less hon-
orable man might still have retained
proofs that disinherited him. Can you
not see how noble an act it was 1 "

" No, I see only a simple right. If
he had not done as he did, he would
have been a contemptible villain ! "

criod the Arciibishop, with an explosion
of wrath that mudo Aim^e tremble and
draw away fVom his side.

"Then," slio said, hopolossly, "you
will do nothing fur him 1

" I cannot ; I have no power to
change tho decree of the state."

" mon ph-e," she cried at last, with
a supreme effort, " I implore you not
to refuse me ; I entreat you to promiNo
mo that you will do what you can.
Think of poor C<^leste; she has loved
him so long, her suffering will kill her,
as mine has killed me. Look at mo ; I
am dying, and every hour that Claude
remains in prison takes months iVom
my life. If you have no pity for him,
for Celeste, have pity for me. I have
suffered so, I have so little time to live,
promise me, promise me, that you will
try to save him, and I will bless you
with ray last breath, and I will moot
you so joyfUlly in heaven. mon ph-f,
do not refuse your Aim^e the last
request she will over mako of you."
And falling on her knees before him, she
clasped his hands and drenched them
with her tears.

The Archbishop was in terrible agony,
the dawn of his day of wrath had come.
He stood up and trembled like an aspen
in the wind ; a white foam gathered on
his lips, and his eyes wore distended
as with fear, while he cried, " My God I
my God I ask me anything but that, and
I will do it ; but that I cannot do."

Aimto staggered to her feet, and, lean-
ing against the chimney for support,
'ihe clasped her hands and raised them
to heaven like one asking succor from
God, while she cried in tones that
echoed in his ears until they were dull
in death, " My Claude, thou wilt know
in eternity how I gave my life for thee. \
Father in heaven, deal not with this ^
merciless man as he has dealt with the
dofenoeless. Do not let remorse con-
sume him, as anguish has consumed
me. Forgive me, God, for all the
sins of my life, and let me sit at thy
feet in eternity." Then her hands fell,
her head drooped forward, and she
would have sunk unoonsoious to the
floor, had not the Archbishop clasped
her in his arms.

How that night passed to the misera-
ble man he never knew. It was a tom-

mei

■■Mftii

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

1«9

rp. with anoxploHion
lo Aiin^o tremblo urid
J|i iiitle.

IhiulT'"""'^' "^°"

havo no power to
of the Btato."

||o cried at loHt, with
1 Jinploro you not
roat you to proml«o
"o what yon can.
usto; gho has loved
'fforing will kill her,
"JO. Look at mo ; I
Tnour that Claudo
takes months from
ivo no pity for him,
•ty for me. I have
10 little time to live,
'se me, that you will*
'id I will bless you
'i, and I will meet
eavon. mm ph-e,
ir Aim^e the last
vor make of you."
nees before him, she
«id drenched them

as in terrible agony
of wrath had come.'
mblod like an aspen
B foam gathered on
res were distended
e cried, " My God I
thing but that, and
t I cannot do."
'her feet, and, lean-
nney for support,
8 and raised them
siting succor from
a in tones that
tU they were dull
Pi thou wilt know
' my life for thee, \
>al not with this ' '
w dealt with the
let remorse con-
» has consumed
Sod, for all the
>t me sit at thy
n her hands fell,
rward, and she
ansoious to the
hbishop clasped

d to the misera-
it was a tem-

pest of anpiiiish through which ho was
whirled pitilcMly, for roniorHo had nl-
romiy lK.'gun to torture his /oul with
a pain im|)ONHiblu tu aootlte. Wlien ho
saw Aini6u Hiiik lifeless lH.'foro him, he
beliuvud she was already dead, and a
frenzy took possession of him. Ho hung
over her, ho implored her to listen to
him, ho accused himself of killing her
by his refuMul to grant her request ; but
wIkmi ho discovered that she had only
fainted from excitement, a reaction took
jiiacc, and he was ready to congratulate
iiiniHulf that ho had promised her noth-
ing'. All through the night ho. paced
the floor of his room, torn to pieces with
c inflicting emotions. Anxiety for Aimee,
which the frequent messages from her
room that she was slowly recovering
did not relieve, mingled with the regret
that ho had added another pain to her
suflfcring heart, and that ho had allowed
to pass an opportunity to win her devo-
tion, and bind her more closely to him.
When the dawn came, pale and haggard
he still struggled. It was the Dien tree of
his soul. Solemnly, mournfully, pealed
the strains of vongoanco through and
through the silent chambers, where ho
buttled with the demons who were loath
to deliver him up to tho angels of
mercy, who, calm and white, hovered
above, waiting to bear his first tear of
penitence to God. All through the day
tho conflict raged ; ho saw no one, not
even his servant ; he locked the door of
his oratory, and throwing himself prone
before the cruciiix, he extended his
hands, crying, "Miserere mei, Deus, mise-
rere ! " All the sins of his lifo seemed to
press upon him, a burden that only
God's mercy could ren )ve. Ho was
suspended over a gulf ot raging fire, he
was scorched and shrivelled with the
heat of Divine indignation. Voices that
seemed to resound with tho reverbera-
tion of ages rolled into his presence,
question upon question. "Unfaithful
steward, where are the treasures com-
mitted to thy keeping] Shepherd of
souls, where are thy sheep 1 " And from
such demands as these there could be
no evasion. An eye searched him now
that saw through his garment of hyp»c-
aud dragged his most hidden sin
to light; so he conld only extend his
hands and clasp the feet of the dying

Christ, crying with broken tones of pen-
itence, " Miserere, miserere."

Tho swift wrath of (iod had poured
U|)on him a tcrrilile retrilintii)ii ; it
crushed, overwheluiud, ni\d conquered
him. When tho day wiui nearly dono
the burden rolled oft' h-om hJH thankful
soul, and ho nrtmn to his feet a n<<w ronn.
The white-winged angels who hovered
above baniHlied the i|(^fe«ted deiaouH,
and gathering up '••o firat to«rR of (leni-
tonce that the Areh'>i«hop had over
shed, they soared ^vtiky towanl tiie bat-
tlements of Ik\ivc!i, l)earing with th«cm a
freed soul that had won its ruuinoni with
tears.

Afler this day of wrath tk« Arch-
bishop presented a forliiim upficairanco.
He needed to wash awwy the iticairs, the
traces of his confttct, to cnnpueo his
disordered dress, and to brcuik tiis fast
for the fiiTst tin;o in twcnty-fviur hours.
Then wit!i a pla'id mien and a thankful
heart ho presented himself nt Aim^e's
door to impart to her the result of his
day's seclusion. " How happy she will
be ! She will live to bless me, dear sweet
sufferer I She has conquered mo with
God's help. Henceforth I will live for
others ; for her first, and then for all
humanity. benignant Saviour, thou
shalt find in me from this day a faithful
servant I "

Nanon was peacefully sewing in tho
casement of her mistress's antcv'hamber.
The slanting rays of the declining sun
fell over her white cap, and rested, a bar
of light, from the window to tho closed
door. The Archbishop's gentle tap
startled her, and she looked up with
surprise at his calm and gracious face.

" How is your mistress 1" he said as
he glanced at the work in her hand ;
" she must be better if she does not
need your care."

" She wished to bo alone, monseign-
eur," replied Nanon, rising and placing
her embroidery in her basket as she
spoke. " This morning she seemed bet-
ter than I expected, after her attack of
last night, and she wished to get up
and be dressed as usual. After she had
written a short letter, she took some
wine-whey, and then she said with such
a smile, dear angel ! — monseigneur,
she is an angel ! " — and Nanon wiped
away the tears, that perhaps wore teai-s

170

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

of gratitude because her beloved mis-
tress hud already reached such a state
of perfection, — "she said, tivi^^g niy
hand a little clasp and pissing it, ' Dear
good Nanon, you have been very kind and
faithful to rae, think of me when I am
gone ! ' mouseigneur, as though /could
ever forget the angel ! ' Yesterday I
hoped I might live longer, but to-day I
know I have lived long enough. Now
leave me alone, I wish to pray undis-
turbed. I wish to prepare for my last
communion ; leave me until the sun sets,
and then come to me.' So I closed the
door and left the sweet saint to pray. I
suppose her prayers are for others, for
she cannot need them for herself. Now,
monseigneur, the sun is just setting, and
I will go to her."

" Let me go to her first, Nanon," said
the Archbishop, wiping away his tears
" Let me go and pray a moment with
her." So crossing the antechamber
softly, he pushed open the door, and,
entering, closed it after him.

Aim^e was kneeling at a Prie-Dieu,
her hands clasped on the crimson cush-
ion, her forehead bowed on her clasped
hands. The soft light that streamed in
through the azure curtains of the win-
dow fell over her silvery hair and
white dress, bathing her whole figure
in a sort of ethereal radiance ; the
room was filled with n. lioleiau silence
that was only broken by the clear strain
of a bird that floated by the open case-
ment away into the distaiat heavens
like a freed, happy soul.

" She is absorbed in prayer" ; and the
Archbishop crossed the floor softly, and
laid his hand upon her bowed head, say-
ing, " Accept my benediction, my child."

She did net move, she did not reply.
God had touched her with his benedic-
tion an hour before.

Nanon heard a dreadful cry, a heavy
fall, and, rushing into the room, she saw
the Archbishop lying prostrate before
the kneeling figure of her mistress.

PART TWELFTH.

CROWNED AT LAST.

Perhaps there is no deeper feeling
of discouragement, dissatisfaction, and

regret than that with which an author
lays down his pen at the conclusion of a
long task, that ho knows he has only
half completed, in spite of the good
intentions and ardent hopes with which
ho commenced it. And mingled with
this disappointment is a fpoling of sor-
row at parting with the companions
who have borne him silent company
during a journey marked by so many
disheartening failures. Thev have ull
become very dear to him , he has
smiled with them and wept wi'h them,
been exalted by their triumphs and
humbled by their defeats. Therefore
he sufiers to think that the world may
not understand them as he has, may
not feel tlio same charity, patience, and
afl'ection for them that he has conceived
during the silent hours of the night
and the renewed intimacy of the day,
when they have been his absorbing
though sometimes wearying associates.
Now as I am about to say adieu to
this cherished, though unsatisfactory
endeavor, I experience all that others
have proved before me; and as I
glance at the title I have selected for
my last chapter, I am conscious of the
cruel irony of the words if applied to
my labor. But as it is only my small
procession of conquerors who have
merited to be crowned at last, I bow
my diminished head patiently under
my garland of rue, not entirely dis-
couraged if I may be allowed to hope
humbly that some time in the future it
may be changed to a modest wreath
of bays.

" A year, a year to-da} , for a whole
year, that seems even ages, I have en-
duied this bondage. If one year can
be so long and so difficult to support,
what will four more years bring me
to 1 " And Claude de Clermont looked
hopelessly from his casement into the
distance, that he had haunted with hi:
gaze until every line and tone were as
familiar to him as the four walls of his
prison. "I hoped Aim6e would have
accomplished something toward my de-
liverance, but it seems that she has
failed to gain the assistance of the
Archbishop. I was almost certain her
efibrt would be in vain ; his heart is
destitute of pity. I am abandoned to

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

ith vhich an author
it the coDchisiou of a
knows he hai) only
spite of the good
int hopes with which
And mingled with
it is a fejling of sor-
fith the companions
him silent company
marked by so many
ires. They have uU
Ir to him , he has
and wept wi>'h them,
their triumphs and
Ir defeats. Therefore
k that the world may
;hem as he has, may
charity, patience, and
that he has conceived
hours of the night
intimacy of the day,
been his absorbing
!s wearying associates,
ibout to say adieu to
though unsatisfactory
(rience all that others
jfore mo; and as I
tie I have selected for
1 1 am conscious of the
he words if applied to
as it is only my small
conquerors who have
rowned at last, I bow
head patiently under
rue, not entirely dis-
ay be allowed to hope
ae time in the future it
1 to a modest wreath

lar to-day , for a whole
even ages, I have en-
age. If one year can
JO difficult to support,
more years bring me
de de Clermont looked
his casement into the
had haunted with hi:
line and tone were as
,8 the four walls of his
id Aim^e would have
lething toward my de-
seems that she has
he assistance of the
ras almost certain her
in vain ; his heart is
I am abandoned to

my fate. C61este, my darling, one
barrier Iwtwecn us has been levelled by
the hand of God, but the injustice of
man has raised another that I can only
pass over to my g»'ave. My health, my
reason, my hope, are fast sinking under
this weight that presses me down. A
little longer and my earthly deliverance,
if it comes at all, will come too late.
Poor Aim6e must be ill, for if she were
able she would have been at yonder
window to give m».somo sign of love
and hope. She is the only one who can
do auglit for me ; if she has failed, there
remains no other prospect of liberation."
And overcome, as ho had been so many
times, by the anguish of hope deferred,
he buried his face in his pillow and
wept freely, feeling that the tears would
perhaps cool the fever of his brain. It
was the hour for his noonday meal, so
he did not raise his head when the door
of his cell was opened, believing it to be
the turnkey who entered with his food,
until a voice, once familiar, but now
changed and broken with emotion, said,
" Look up, my brother. I am come to
release you."

Claude started as though an angel
had spoken to him, and raising his tear-
wet face he saw the Archbishop stand-
ing before him with outstretched arms.
In an instant he had flown to their
shelter, and, pressed against the heart
of his brother, was weeping and thank-
ing God, forgetful of injuries, wrongs,
and suffering.

At length the Archbishop, who had
sobbed like a child while he caressed
and kissed the head of Claude, raised
his happy face, and looking at him with
love and sorrow said, " Poor boy, how
you have changed ! Can you ever for-
give me for the misery I have caused
youl"

"The happiness of this moment
atones for all," cried Claude, rapturously
kissing the hands that still caressed him.
" The past is dead ; my cell shall be its
tomb ; here we will bury it and leave it
to decay. my brother, my brother ! "
And he could say no more, for his joy
choked his utterance.

" Here," said the Archbishop, showing
him a document bearing the enormous
seal of the state, which at this time had
no ominous meaning, — " here is your

pardon. I have neither slept nor slum-
bered since I promised to procure
it."

" And Aim^e 1 I thought she would
have brought it to me."

" My boy, she is an angel in heaven.
It was only when I saw her dead before
me that I promised what she implored
almost with her last breath. I would
give all the years of sorrow that are
in store for me, all my honors, all my
wealth, if I could but see the smile of
joyful gratitude that death has defrauded
me of. But she already is happy in
paradise ; she knows I have fulfilled
her wish, and she will bless me here-
after."

" She will live forever in our hearts ;
we will remember her as we remember
the saint who watches ovei our lives,'
said Claude, reverently.

"Let us leave this place; while I
remain here I suffer remorse the most
poignant. Come, Celeste waits for you.
She shall be your wife, all shall be as
you once wished it ; nothing shall be
changed. You shall still be Count de
Clermont ; for my title, my inheritance,
are henceforth in heaven, and I desire
nothing earthly."

Before Claude loft his cell, he looked
once more with tear-dimmed eyes on
the window that had enclosed a sad,
touching picture, which never could be
effaced from his memory, and, stooping,
he pressed his face for the last time
upon his pillow, so lately wet with
hopeless tears, and murmured a prayer
of thanksgiving to God, who had deliv-
ered him from his sorrows. Then, tak-
ing the arm of the Archbishop, he left
the place that was the grave of de-
spair, hate, revenge, and regret, as well
as the gate to future joy, love, and
hope.

The soft shades of evening were
gathering among the branches that
hung over the winching avenues of
Clermont ; the air was balmy with the
breath of May, and melodious with the
sweet good-night strains of the little
songsters who fluttered above their new-
made nests. Nature was In one of her
most gracious moods. Tender, gentle,
fragrant, tuneful, she had scattered beau-
ty and blessing over the day, and now
she was, obliterating the golden tracks

"'•

J59»

172

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

'c.

of the sun with the sweet, purple violets
of the night.

The pines that grew in sombre com-
panionship above the shaded turf of the
A116e des Soupirs murmured together
sadly, but not ominously, for there were
no spirits but the spirits of love and
peace abroad this evening, and they
touched caressingly the bowed heads of
Claude and C61cste as they walked with
clasped hands, talking softly of the mor-
row, that was to crown their happiness
with a holy benediction.

" We will never talk of the sorrows
of the past but as of blessings in dis-
guise," said Celeste, raising her soft
eyes, filled with adoration, to the face
of her companion.

" We will never talk of them at all,
my Cdcste ; we will remember only the
good, the noble, the sweet deeds that
have won for us such a crown of happi-
ness. Let as sit here and watch the
last tints of sunlight paint the winding
river with the sapphire hue of hope.
With this day ends our old life, and to-
morrow begins our new. May we keep
in constant remembrance the mercy and
goodness of God, who has brought us
together at last ! "

"Elizabeth had a letter from Philip
to-day. He will be home in a month.
She has seemed happier since she re-
ceived it. I think she will not say No
to him when he returns. I hope not,
at least. Claude, I am very happy,

and I wish every one else to be the
same 1 "

" There is no reason why they should
not marry now, for dear Aim^e has left
Elizabeth a handsome legacy, and they
can live nt Monthclon, since the Arch-
bishop insists upon my retaining Cler-
mont. Is he not kind to us, darling]
He seems to desire nothing besides our
happiness. To-day he said with such
sadness and gentleness, ' I shall often
visit you at ClcrmftUt ; it is holy to me
as the place where my Aim^e laid aside
her garments of earth. But I shall
never leave the palace ; it is under the
shadow of Notre Dame, and near her
grave. It will be my home until I am
laid by her side.' "

" How he loved her ! " said Celeste,
tearfully. And then they fell into si-
lence, while they watched the twilight
gather over the river, the distant town,
and the slender spires of St. Ouen.

Suddenly on the still air tolled
slowl}', solemnly, majesticall}', the ves-
per bells of Notre Dame, calling alike
the happy, the sorrowing, and the
sinful to their evening orisons.

It is the hour when the Archbishop
goes to pray and weep by the tomb
of Aimee.

Toll softly, ye vesper bells, above the
silent sleeper and the sorrow-stricken
mourner, for when your matins ring
out, they will sound like marriage-
chimes, musical with gladness and hope.

THE END.

Cambridge : Electrotyped and Panted by Welch, Bigelow, & Cc.

f one else to bo the

^ason why they should
•r dear Aim^o has left
some legacy, and they
hclon, since the Arch-
on my retaining Cler-
b kind to us, darling]
re nothing besides our
\y he said with such
tleness, ' I shall often
ntmt ; it is holy to me
e my Aim^e laid aside
' earth. But I shall
alacc ; it is under the
Dame, and near her

! my home until I am
> II

d her ! " said Celeste,
then they fell into si-

watchcd the twilight
iver, the distant town,
pires of St. Ouen.

the still air tolled

majesticall}', the ves-
re Dame, calling alike

sorrowing, and the
vening orisons.

when the Archbishop
id weep by the tomb

vesper bells, above the
id the sorrow-stricken
en your matins ring
sound like marriage-
rith gladness and hope.

w, &Cc.

ggmiUIHJiifift^^^S&iidfsM-.