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 iiiiininiMriiWiilBHiiiiliiiiiiiiinwiii iTi"' 
 
 iiiniiiWiini,). 
 

 Cr6'U.C' 
 
 A 
 
 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. 
 
 
 
pM 
 
 1^ 
 
 I 
 
 , 
 
 
 C/ 
 
 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 
 
Qy 
 
 / 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. 
 
n 
 
 iHH 
 
 y 
 
 L 
 
 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. 
 
 I. 
 
 II. 
 
 III. 
 
 IV. 
 
 V. 
 
 VI. 
 
 VII. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 IX. 
 
 X. 
 
 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 
 
 I. 
 
 ir. 
 
 IIL 
 
 IV. 
 
 V. 
 
 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 
 
f 
 
 ▼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 
 
1 
 
 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. 
 
 1 
 
 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 
 
 .J 
 
9 
 
 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 
 
 my 
 
 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. 
 
 i 
 
 I 
 
 . : .?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'' '^ 
 
e 
 
 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 
 
 
8 
 
 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, 
 
 ho 
 
 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 
 
 1 
 
 ii 
 
fl 
 
 I 
 
 -<^ 
 
 10 
 
 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 
 
 1 
 
A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 
 
 11 
 
 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 
 
 I 
 
 !<^^^H^W,^y ■ ■■ ' ,4. ' ^v. ! B.J,,■<>4^BVa i ^;tfl^^^^u 
 
S3 
 
 A CROWN I'ROM THE SPEAR. 
 
 Mi 
 
 m 
 
 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. 
 
 13 
 
 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 
 
14 
 
 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. 
 
 , 
 
 > •■ 
 
li 
 
 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. 
 
 15 
 
 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 
 
18 
 
 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 
 
 IT 
 
 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 
 
18 
 
 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. 
 
 19 
 
 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»^^ 
 
20 
 
 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. 
 
 91 
 
 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 
 
 : 
 
 I 
 
 ■^t 
 
 :- iii i iMiiMiMUWiw a M i s swiwaa 
 
 <nii i iit iiW Mi. l i 
 
 i mmmmmmm nt m \ ■ 
 
22 
 
 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 
 
 iV 
 
 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. 
 
 23 
 
 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^ 
 
24 
 
 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. 
 
 25 
 
 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 . 
 
2G 
 
 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. 
 
 ST 
 
 •!" 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' ' 
 
28 
 
 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 
 
 S^ 
 
.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 
 
32 
 
 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. 
 
 8d 
 
 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 
 
34 
 
 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. 
 
 35 
 
 )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> 
 
3G 
 
 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. 
 
 87 
 
 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; 
 
88 
 
 A CROWN PROM THE SPEAR. 
 
 P 
 
 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, 
 
 89 
 
 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 
 
 ^ 
 
40 
 
 A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 
 
 m. 
 
 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 
 
 m. 
 
 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 
 
42 
 
 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. 
 
 43 
 
 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 
 
 :■ I 
 H)|1 
 
 N 
 
 ill 
 
44 
 
 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. 
 
 41 
 
 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 
 
 i 
 
 I 
 
 :i 
 
48 
 
 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. 
 
 47 
 
 , 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 
 
48 
 
 A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 
 
 i 
 
 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. 
 
 49 
 
 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 
 
BO 
 
 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. 
 
 51 
 
 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 
 
 1. 
 
 •Miimmitm 
 
 mumiti-itt 
 
a: 
 
 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 
 
 , ',^ 
 
 i 
 
 A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 
 
 53 
 
 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 
 
^4 
 
 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' 
 
 IC 
 
 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. 
 
 B5 
 
 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, 
 
 i. 
 
 i 
 
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. 
 
 87 
 
 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 
 
 
 It 
 
bA 
 
 A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 
 
 T 
 
 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. 
 
 60 
 
 ^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 
 
 It 
 
 3 
 
r 
 
 60 
 
 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. 
 
 61 
 
 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 
 
 w 
 
 H 
 
 ^i^nmssme^mmstssmt^^mm&'mmsmimse^sSrHmmsmap!: 
 
62 
 
 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. 
 
 63 
 
 - 
 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. 
 
 ( 
 
 
64 
 
 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. 
 
 66 
 
 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, 
 
66 
 
 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- 
 
T 
 
 A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 
 
 6t 
 
 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." 
 
 
G8 
 
 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. 
 
 69 
 
 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 
 
70 
 
 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. 
 
 fl 
 
 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 
 
 

 72 
 
 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. 
 
 7S 
 
 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^^ 
 
 
74 
 
 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. 
 
 76 
 
 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 
 
 
76 
 
 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, 
 
 77 
 
 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 ^ . .. ';. 
 
re 
 
 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. 
 
 79 
 
 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 
 
to 
 
 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. 
 
 81 
 
 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 
 
82 
 
 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. 
 
 83 
 
 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 
 
81 
 
 A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 
 
 !;,ii 
 
 I 
 
 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. 
 
 85 
 
 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 
 
8G 
 
 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- 
 
 _- ,M^i^ - ^ ' i i &XTSA:i^-''-^ii-^: 
 
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 HiotDgraphic 
 
 Sciences 
 Corporation 
 
 •y 
 
 23 WZST MAIN STREET 
 
 WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580 
 
 (716)872-4503 
 
 
 m 
 
k 
 
 CIHM/ICMH 
 
 Microfiche 
 
 Series. 
 
 CIHIVI/ICIVIH 
 Collection de 
 microfiches. 
 
 : 
 
 Canadian Institute for Historical Microreproductions / Institut Canadian de microraproductions historiquas 
 
A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 
 
 n 
 
 ■ 
 
 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 
 
 ii 
 
89 
 
 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. 
 
 89 
 
 18 
 
 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 
 
w 
 
 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. 
 
 n 
 
 " 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 
 
 ! 
 
 
92 
 
 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. 
 
 08 
 
 II 
 
 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 
 
 04 
 
 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 - 
 
 T 
 
 T 
 
 A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 
 
 90 
 
 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 
 
06 
 
 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. 
 
 07 
 
 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 
 
 J 
 
A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 
 
 i 
 
 98 
 
 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. 
 
 99 
 
 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 
 
 I 
 
ii iai, ' ■ ! M.iiij I ' l l" 
 
 w 
 
 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 
 
1p 
 
 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- 
 
r" 
 
 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 
 
 7 
 
|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 ' ? ' 
 
le 
 
 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 
 
 er 
 
 ?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. 
 
 tu 
 
 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. 
 
 il 
 
 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 
 
r 
 
 A GROWN FUUM TU£ BPliIAR. 
 
 t 
 
 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 
 
 'V 
 
 A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR 
 
 ■tfewirXMvWnPi^ 
 
 h 
 
 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. 
 
 m 
 
 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: 
 
^p 
 
 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 
 
^f 
 
 A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 
 
 ns 
 
 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- 
 
 L 
 
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 
 
 m 
 
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 
 
 m 
 
 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- 
 
f 
 
 '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- 
 
1 
 
 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 
 
 10 
 
 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 
 
 Jd 
 
U6 
 
 A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 
 
 t 
 
 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 
 
 '1 
 
us 
 
 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 
 
 I 
 
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 
 
 J 
 
••^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 
 
 1 
 
154 
 
 A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 
 
 II 
 
 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. 
 
 m 
 
 *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 
 
 ll 
 
 r 
 
 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 
 
 M 
 
 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 
 
 o 
 
 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. 
 
 1" 
 
 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 
 
 no 
 
 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. 
 
 m 
 
 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. 
 
 I 
 
 THE END. 
 
 4 
 
 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. 
 
 I 
 
 w, &Cc. 
 
ggmiUIHJiifift^^^S&iidfsM-.