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}lure.

VOL. I. PRICE 76 CENTS

yj^ ^^^i^S^~'<xv:;«5i^*i

I-. 3E=>BR.AJR1DI, Iss/jC. ID-
physician AND SURGEON.

Bpeoiallta per le malattle di dunne.
Office and Besidence, Office Hours

1308 ITOOKTON STREET, 8 to 9 ». m. and 2 to 4 p. ci

Bet BroadwftT ud Vallajo.

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huerali oUneii.
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SIGNOR A/A. NOBILE.

NOVELS
^ TRANSLATIONS
LECTURES

SEP '^ •; 1 ^9 ! '

^<y

OfWk'"

/ffi'^^

SAN FRANCISCO :

R. R. Pattkbson, 429 MoHxaoMBRY St.

1894.

Entered according to Act of Congresa in the year 18!»1, l»y

A. AxEKANDEB NoBiLE, in the office of the Librarian

of Congresa, at Waahington

1 .

A. A. NOBIIiE.

18ill, l»y
rarian

Acliilles Alexander Nobile. the author, and publisher of th^i book
was born in Naples on the 13th day of July 1838. Ilia father was
named Alexander Nobile, and the maiden name of his niotiier wau
Fortuniita NansA. His father dying of Cholera in the epidemic of the
jear 1834, his mother intermarried with Frederic Sorvillo.

He received his primary education in the Institute Moccellini at
Naples. In 1843 he entered the college of St. Frediano in Lucca, and
remained in that institution for eighteen months. He then entered the
college of St. Catherine in Pisa. At the conclusion of his course, in
this college the University of Pisa conferred on him the degree of
Bachelor of Philosophy. This was in 1840. After this he studied law
in the said University of Piaa.

At 19 yearg of age, being spurred on by the ambition common to
spirited young men he closed hia books, bade good bye to his mother,
and started on his travels to see the world.

He traveled around to different parts until the breaking out of the
Crimean war. He made a campaign in that under the British flag,
along with the Swiss Legion. On the close of that war, he went to
South America, and served under the order of Mayor Von Eherenkeutz
as Under Lieutenant of Artillery, in the service of the Argentine Rep-
nblic. Upon the breaking of the war of the Italian Independance io
1869, he returned to Italy, and volunteered as a private in the serrico
of his country. He passed the grades, and was nominated Staff Under-
Lieutenant, September 20, 1860. When the Franco- Prussian war broke
out, he volunteered again, and served through that war under General
FrapoUi.

When not soldiering, he was in turn teacher, reader and lecturer.

He arrived in San Francisco in 1889, where he has pince remained,
captivated by the charms of the city. Here he has learned the printer's
art, and established a Weekly Italian newspaper, entitled the "Vespa."

Signor Nobile is also the type setter of this book. Besides this volume
now in press, he is engaged on and will publish a memoir of his life and
trayals which must be very entertaining.

•*^-

i^-J

in. Anonymous Letter.

THE PUBLIC WRITER.

Fifteen or sixteen years acso.tho courtyard of the Holy
Chapel presented quite a ditlereut aspect from that wl.ich
it now presents. It is not because many changes have heen
made, or because the streets loading to it have been
improved or widened. No. Everything has remained
in nearly its primitive state. The wooden wall which
once enclosed the staircase by which the people ascended
to the corridor communicutiu;; whith the public Hall of
the/rtj/^r«r«^, though a little elevated, till encircles the
old moimment; but with the increasing activity which
took place in the locality, many of the characteristic
marks of old Paris have gradual' y disappeared. Before
the opening of this new thoroughfare the court of the
Holy Chapel was almost a suburb of the city where every
trace of Parisian society was lost, one after another. This
courtyard formed a little world by itself, which had its
own invariable customs; now noisy, now silent and always
frequented by the same people; early in the morning by
the ushers ol the Supreme Court who ramained till the
Lour at which the referendaires were used to arrive, by

the clerks of a lawyer's office situated upon the treshold
of the den of sophistry, and by the housekeepers of the
neig'hborhood, who mingled with the water carriers at
the°corner of the little street of St. Ann. At twelve o'clock,
when all was quiet, the honorable members of public saf-
ety, whose barracks were not far off, and who, without
any effort of imagination, could have been compared to
the paltoniers of old times, were used to come to warm
themselves in the sunshine. Every day at about the same
time the courtyard resounded with the noise of heavy
vans vrhose stables were at the northern corner of the
Corte (I A Conti. At tliis place, in a recess behind tho
staircase and precisely under the hall of the first chamber
of the Supremo Court had lived for fifteen or twenty
years a man called Duverrier, a contractor of the pris-
oners' conveyance, an industry advantageous enough to
allow him the gratification of the luxury of rare flowers^
which was his strongest passion. The entrance to the
dark cavern which he inhabited, greatly resembled a
florist's stall, and the grass which was growing through
the pavement prolonged the verdure a few feet further
the narrow space which he used as a garden. At twilight,
when the monotonous silence was only broken by the
steps of the sentinel beneath the gas burning before tho
palace, this dimly lighted and almost deserted place was.
the rendezvous of the lovers from the sorrounding streets.
Each morning resembled the preceding, always the same
events, and, we may say, almost the sume conversations
exchanged by the same people.

On account of the increasing activity many offices of
public writers had been opened around the walls of the
Holy Chapel, but at the time when our narrative begins
only one of these offices had remained, and it was situat-
ed at the right hand of the covered passage leading to

tie treshold
spers of the

carriers at
3lve o'clock,
f public saf-
10, without
ompared to
le to warm
)ut the same
se of heavy
rner of the

behind the
:st chamber
L or twenty
of the pris-
LS enough to
are flowers^
fance to the
•esembled a
ing through
feet further

At twilight,
)keu by the
r before the
d place was
iding streets,
xys the same
ouversations

ny offices of
walls of the
itive begins
t was situat-
3 leading to

the Rue de la Barilerie. Every morning thei tenant of
this hole as big as a sentinel's box used to. bang in the
most conspicous place a frame containing many specimens
of different kinds of writing, which, profusely decorated
with flourishes, were hardly intelligible. It was almost
impossible for the owner to look at those testimonials ol'
his calligraphic ability without raising his eyes to Heaven.
and without heaving a deep sigh, as if they awakened in
him the memories of better times, and sorrows at the
unjust contempt into which he had fallen.

On the four opaques and dirty panes of glass, through
which light penetrated into this box was written in yellow
letters: Editorials, Memorials, Petitions, Letters of
Compliments for Christmas and New Years," and on
the other side: " A. C. Ternisien, Ex^Professor ok
Penmanship in the University." Notwithstanding the
above high qualification and the complete absence of
competition, one would infer by the dress of the poor
writer that the sign produced very little efiMct. In winter
as in summer his suit was always the same. A black silk
sculUcap on which rested continually a bat, made water-
proof by a thick coat of grease, while as his auly suit he
always carried a thin alpaca coat, the original color of
which, together with its lining, had ceased :ta be discern-
ible and whose torn and opened pockets, always empty,
yawned at pleasure, a waistcoat with metal buttons, a
worn-out pair of black trousers, shrunken and scarcely
reaching to his ankles, a very coarse pair of felt stockings
and wooden shoes filled with straw, complete the dress;
and yet, with all these rags, Ternisien appeared in no
way disgusting or repulsive, because in his countenancie
beamed an honesty . -id kindness which were not feigned.
In bim every one could recognize a gentleman fallen
from a better condition neither brutalized' by misery uur

8
degraded by druukness, tho vice belonging to those who
suffer hunger. , « ' ,. ,

His face and hands were always cleaner than his dress;
his voice was very melodious; his features expressed
resignation, even when, as he daily did, he was compla-
inincr to his neigbor Duverrier: and often his complaint
would have lasted all day but for the arrival of some
customers, who would happen to come and interrupt

them. 1 ij +

In spite of his excessive economy, his work would not
have been sufficient for his daily wants, if he had not
been the possessor of a little capital acquired with great
pain in better times, which was destined to buy for him
abed in some hospital, when old age, which was approa-
ching with hurried steps, should deprive him of his
sight. For this reason, these savings were sacred to him.
He considered them as a deposit which the old professor
of penmanship had entrusted to the hands of the public
writer. It was very painful to him not to be able to add
the interest to the capital. Even if his office had been
richly furnished, or in a better location, it is most prob-
able that tlie upright Ternisien would not have realized
profits in proportion to his labors.

The poor man possessed one fault, the drawbacks of
which were increased by an exagerated honesty. He suf.
feied from absent-mindedness, and whether he wrote
from dictation or he copied, the orthographical mistakes,
the repealed words which needed to be erased, multiplied
themselves under his pen. Always mistrusting himself
and his want of attention, he used to read over accurately
what he wrote, making the necessary corrections, and
when these were too numerous, he agam began his work,
without adding a cent to the stipulated price, not wishing
to deceive about the quality of his work, nor that customers
should pay for his absent-mindedness.

1086 who

his dress;
expressed
I compla-
3omplaint
of some
interrupt

vould not
} had not
rilh great
f for him
as approa-
im of his
ed to him.

professor
the public
i,ble to add

had been
iiost prob-
•e realized

awbacks of
'. He suf-
he wrote
1 mistakes,
multiplied

ng himself
accurately
jtions, and
a his work,
lot wishing
t customers

Scruples of this kind in commercial transactions, which
ranged from five to twelve cents, made him a real loser
each time, as unfortunately for him, his distraction had
spoiled a few sheets of ministerial paper.

" Well, sir, what news ? " was the question Ternisien
used to 'address his neighbor Duverrier every time he
passed his office, while Duverrier never failed to answer :

"May I ask the same of you ? "

In this way the conversation, begun with almost always
the same preamble, lasted some time. Of course, as every
one could easily underritaud, the first topic was the politi-
cal situation, which proceeded to the satisfaction of neither.
These considerations of high importance being ended,
they passed to personal facts. Duverrier, whose business
was a prosperous one, avowed himself an optimist, while
on the other hand, Ternisien looked at the dark side of

everything.

" I am going to give"you a piece of good and re-assur-

ing news."

"What is it?"

" Nothing of importance. While I was watering the
flowers, Mr. B., the referendaire who is in the good graces
uf the president, approached me with these words : " Mr.
Duverrier, you have very beautiful camelias." For your
sake 1 seized the occasion, and I took the liberty of pre-
sonting him with a few Tiinoleon's bulbs for a garden
which he rented at Passy."

" If you have done this in my interest," answered Ter-
nisieu, "I tliauk you very much, although, my good
friend, I shall bog of you to explain to me what I have to
do and in what way I am connected with this business."

" You must have heard of a scheme to beautify our
courtvard of the Holy Chapel. Now guess, if you can,
what were the intentions of these gentlemen ? Now, since

I found you a protector, I may tell you without fear.
Well then, they intend to dest^-oy your office and send you
elsewhere to carry on your husinoss."

" Indeed ? " exclaimed Ternisien with the expression of
a person about to lose what he wrongly called his sup-
porting business.

" Yes," added the other ; " but be at ease. As I have
told you already, I took advantage to speak of it to Mr. B.
He has a certain esteem for me, and you will not remove."

Those last words ought to have brought back to the
lips of Ternisien the usual smile, but his thoughts had
fled to his situation, and instead of smiling he heaved a

deep sigh.

" Are you sorry ?" asked Duverrier.

"No, no, on the contrary ; again accept my heartfelt
thanks. At least hope will be left to me, and hope ia
something, although alone it cannot enrich us. Listen,,
my friend, now my profession ia not worth a cent. In-
novation has killed us. In France nothing is permanent.
Every day brings new changes, and old habits are as
well loved as cast-off clothing. Arts, which were once
praised, are now despised. What good can you expect
from such a state of things?"

"Upon my word," answered Duverrier, "I can't und-
erstand what you are complaining of. For my part I
believe innovations are very excellent indeed. Mankind
tend«^ always to perfection, this being one of the laws of
society. For exampla, my father used to convey the
prisoners in cars, which brought so many shocks that, at
the moment of leaving, the poor men were obuged to
review their teeth in order to see whether they had lost
any. I, on the contrary , carry my prisoners in carriages,
so soft, that they are as comfortable as if they were on
the best coach. Do you see anything bad in this im-
provement? I do not.

3ut fear,
send you

ression of
his sup-

.3 I have
to Mr. B.
remove."
ck to the
ishts had
heaved a

heartfelt
i hope i»
. Listen,
sent. In-
snnanent
its are as
vere once
ou expect

an't und-
ny part I
Mankind
le laws of
onvey the

iks that, at
obliged to
y had lost
L carriages,
y were on
11 this im-

"Possibly," said Ternisien, " the same does not happen
to me. When first I established myself in this abode I
had some little profit. From time to time I chanced to
have a good job, which gave me time to wait patiently
and which made up for the days I was without work.
Near by, at the lawyer's office, I had splendid customers.
When they had plenty of work and wish' 1 to enjoy them-
selves, they furtively brought to mo copy i ng to do. They
paid without bargaining and without a murmur, and
the work was easy because they recommended me to do
it in the most unintelligible manner."

"And why, please, do they not call any more on your

talent^"

" Because they don't need it. Have not lithography
and type-writing been invented? The work is done quickly
and at less cost. It is thus that artists become ruined.
I shudder to think of it; it is the last blow given to pen-
manship. I, who now am speaking to you, once used to
give lessons at sixty cents each; I have taught the pos-
ition of the body and how to manage the pen to lads of
the first families, to misses who had hands whiter and
softer than the paper on which they used to write. I
taught in a college of the capital, and, to become perfect,
two years of application were necessary. We taught by
principles, and slowly, while now some charlatans, who
have turned everything topsy-turvy, pretend to teach
penmanship in six weeks. All that made me shudder.
Truly, I am no longer a young man, but my eye is good
and my hand does not tremble yet, and if the old methods
were esteemed as they deserve, I should not be a public

writer.

Ternisien had never before delivered so long a speech.
He felt the need of resting himself, wiped his nose and
offered Duverrier his snuff-box.

The latter took advantage of this pause to say:
"Why do not employ the new methods if the old ones
are no longer useful?"

"I!" replied the old professor with a look of contempt;
<'II Should I then have wasted twenty years of my life
in studying the art of writing well? Should I have over-
come all the difficulties and learned all the forms of pen-
manship — round hand, Gothic, Italian, etc.— only in order
to approve now with my example a bad innovation?
Never! And by the way, do you know this renowned
and extolled invention, about which Carstairs and his
pupils made so much noise? It is simply the inclined
calligraphy which they impudently have disfigured and
by a mechanical process, apart from intellect, have made
uniform for everybody. And here is where the evil lies!
A cook may write as well as his own teacher, and their
own handwriting will be similar that no difference can
be distinguished, and then of what use will be that other
useful and precious art of guessing the moral character
of an individual by his handwriting, I should ask you.
No, no, Chrisostomus Ternisien will never countenance
the propagation of such impious inventions. I am ready
to change my profession, and by compelling me to leave
the place they will perhaps confer a favor on me."

His interlocutor was already preparing himself to ask
of him the explanation of these last wonls, but was pre-
vented from doing so by the arrival of a lad between
tv/elve or thirteen years old, resolute in his bearing, bold
and quick like a true gamin of Paris, who, turning his
eyes from one to another, ended by asking :
"Are you the writer?
Duverrier went away, leaving Ternisien alone with his

customer.

"What do you want, young man?

"I wish you to copy this," answered the youth, showing
him a piece of paper which he folded in his fingers.

Ternisien glanced at it without reading it, and only
assured himself of the quantity of the work. After this
first inspection, going out of the shop and bringing his
customer before the frame, he asked him:

"What sort of writing do you wish?" and with his
fingers pointed out the different specimens.

The lad looked at him, and finally told him to choose

the cheapest.

Ternisien went to his seat, prepared a beautiful sheet
of paper, cut a new pen and began the reading of the
manuscript. After a few lines he stopped, raised his
eyes to the little urtMn, who was standing with his
shoulders against the posters of the door, and, who with
crossed arms and legs, was whistling an air with variations
of his own. Any one, who might have observed the looks
of Ternisien, could have easily perceived an expression
of doubt and astonishment, when ho turned his face to

the boy.

In a vnoment he opened his mouth as if to call him,
but seeing him so careless and so little concerned regard-
ing what passed on behind his shoulders, he pursued his
reading. Ashe progressed, his eyes became animated;
curiosity and interest appeared in his face, it seemed that
he was trying to solve a p: -blcm which required all the
force of his imagination.

The boy continued to whistle as a lark, and Ternisien
did not mind it.

Having taken the pen, he examined it, putting it
between him and the light, and already dipping in the
ink and flourishing it, was ready to trace the first letter,
when suddenly he entered into a new and different order
of ideas. Hesitation succeeded the interest with which

he had read those linea. Evidently he struggled between
the mechanical wqrk of his profession and the apprecia-
tion of the writing he had under his eyes. Ternisien'a
intelligence was not bright; constantly closed in the
narrow circle of a specialty, which did not require any
effort of imagination, he confined himself to the form of
the thoughts without trying to penetrate them. He was
like those materialistic philosophers to whom the creature
hides the creator, and inasmuch as misfortune has
always the sure effect of reviving convinction in men who
are suffering, the more his name was spurned, the more
he exaggerated his own importance. Of all his sufferings
he had formed a sort of religion of which he was the
martyr. But if in his poor brain reason had darkened
itself to such an extent, his soul had kept its candor and
all its primitive uprightness. Straightforward with his
customers, he was also straightforward with himself. His
pride as professor was mortified at descending to the
position of an employee, and he only yielded to necessity
every time that for a moderate price he wrote insignificant
lines; but he often shuddered when he thought that he
might lend the aid of his pen to sinful words, and feared
that he who was incapable of telling a lie even for his
own advantage, sometimes might be an instrument of
calumny and falsehood. This has been precisely the
secret feeling he intended to express when he had said
compelling me to leave this place they will perhaps confer
a favor on me. Hia impossibility to exercise any other
profession obliged him to remain in this. The writing
to be copied was of such a nature as to inspire him with
reflections very embarassing to his conscience.

In spite of his cleverness in interpreting the handwrit-
ing of these lines, he remained uncertain, and convicted
of impotence in the same way as an academician Btands

between
pprecia-
rnisien's

in the
uire any
form of
He was
creature
une has
nen who
he more
afferings
was the
larkened
idor and
with his
self. His
5 to the
necessity
gnificant

that he
id feared
I for his
ament of
isely the
had said
ps confer
,ny other
J writing
lim with

iiandwrit-
convicted
m Btands

in the presence of a hieroglyphical inscription. Ilia
position was graver and more serious. Of what int-
erest in history indeed is a false statement or mistake?
What is falsehood or truth to those who are dead, and
even to those who are alive? In his case instead, although
he did not know by whom the letter had been written,
nor to whom it was addressed, nor what sincere or per-
fidious interest had dictated it, he was afraid when he
thought of the consequences that letter may bring. The
wretched man, lost in this labyrint, had vainly asked
advice of his usual counsellor. He rolled between the
thumb and forefinger of the left hand a pinch of snuff
which ho took from time to time; he applied to the gift
of writing the same apologue Esopus had applied to the
speech, and allowing himself to be carried away by the
strenght of his learned digressions and by his classical
remembrances, in a solemn voice he cried:

"If like Achilles' spear which cured the wound raftde

by itselfl"

"What is the matter?" asked the boy, turning, arqunl,
"have you.finished perchance?"

"I have not yet began."

■ OhI perhaps you do not know how to write, or ar<? you
waiting for some one to help you. Give me back m-j paper
or hasten, I am in a hurry. Somebody is waiting for me.''

" Perhaps the same p^son who gave you this ktt'er? "
asked Ternisien. '

" No, but some of my friends with whom I was playing
marbles. I left my turn to another boy who does ,not
play so well as I, and having ten cents in the game I
would be glad to know how business is standing., Quickly,
move around, double quick, as I have yet another errand
to do; are you perhaps frightened about the .payment?
Here it is, I pay you sixteen cents, ijx advance. lido not

"'gfejJFy^i?!^'

wruugle, but I uiu in a hurry and you must, bo quick. "

Without being moved, without shuring in this impa-
tience, the ohl writer said to the boy:

"Who send you on this errand'" ,

The boy looking at him, answered:
" Somebody, " and then turned up his nose and stuck
out his tongue and his lower lip. Any other man would
have punished this very disrespectful act, but the kind
old man renewed the question.

" If formerly I answered you somebody, " said the boy,
" it is quite clear that you ought to know no more than
that. What else? They gav« me the letter with the
instructions to have it copied ])y a public writer; they
gave me the money and I went away to execute their
orders. I pray you, why then do y ni not do your duty?
That's all. Would you like me to whistle you anothe air?
Perhaps it will please you, " and he began to whistle a

ballad which was then very popular

•' When love was constant, etc. "
Ternisien again put before him on the table, which
was his desk, the letter and the paper, and again took up
the pen. It was not the desire of earning the sixteen
cents, magnificent recompense far a few minutes' work,
that had decided him to do it. He had made two very
easy reflections which overcame all his scruples: firstly
that what he was going to write might as well be true as
false; secondly, that if he should refuse,a less scrupulous
colleague would do it. It must be said that he was much
moved by curiosity, and he was waiting for the time
when, according to the instruction given (without doubt)
to the boy, he would write tha name and address of the
person to whom the letter was addressed. Nevertheless,
before beginning to write, he ask*d:
" Have you read this letter? "

p^frii^' -S. .-Jtifc^'rff^ J-'K

quick. "
,hi9 impa-

and stuck

nun would

the kind

,id the boy,
more than
r with the
liter; they
3cute thejr
your duty?
nnothe air?
) whistle G,

able, which
!iin took up
the sixteen
lutes' work,
e two very
pies: firstly
I be true as
i scrupulous
le was much
or the time
hout doubt)
irees of the
Nevertheless,

** I? I can't road. 1 do not know the name of the letters
and I would be sorry to bo a learned man asyuu are."
"Why 80?"

" A nice question! Because you would not have had
the pleasure of my ac(iuaintanco, and I that of tellini;
you th it you would do better to move your pen than your
tongue. The person gave me this papor asked me, beforo
all, if I was able to read, and I answered no. Then I
received my instructions wilh tliree francs, of which I
shall give you sixteen cents, if you make haste, and you
instead are going slow us a snail. " i

Ternisien, seeing that he wouM not obtain any further
information, began his work. lie had so attentively read
and weighed every word of the paper that ho had almost
J.earned it by heart. Every word expressed such serious
facts, such important revelations, that they had engraved
themselves in his memory so as to prevent any possible
distraction. Contrary to his habit, he copied the paper
without a single mistake. As soo-.i he had done he folded
the sheet, and turning to the boy he said;

" Did they give you the nunie and address to which it
is going? "

"Yes" answered he, extending his hand to the table
with celerity and without being noticed, " yes it is written
with pencil on a piece of paper which is in the left pocket
of my waistcoat, but you must not know it. "

At the same time, he took the letter and jumping back-
ward moved to leave the shop.

" Some other one is going to scribble this address, " he
added; "I have my orders. "

"Give me back that letter, " asked Ternisien; so many
precautions do not mean anything good."

" No," answered the boy, I will not give it back, and
even you will return to me the copy I have brought you.

mil

'^»<i4«W>BaMlfn«*iirti)ft<**hi««i^^

"lASi-- ■

or you will tear it In my own presence. This order has

l)jou strictly given to mo. " , . . i

" Even thati " exclaimed the writer, clasping his hands.
" Ahl from this time I swear never more to copy anony-
n.ous letters. They surely intend to destroy the traces
of this one, and I ought have refused it."

" What a stupid old man," said the hoy; "ho looks as
if he were saying his prayers. Well, then, good man, you
must come to a decision. Tear up the pai-er or you will
not got your money. " And the sixteen cents from the
table had returned to his hands. Searching on the table
for the paper, which in tlie first movement ho hud pushed
iiway and mixed with others, Tornisien tore it in a thou-
sand pieces and threw them in the face of the boy, saying

to him:

"Away with you! young rnscal. "

" A rascal? Yes, but not a thief, " replied the boy;
" here is your cash. " And taking his aim, he threw the
eight two cent piece into the big pocket which yawned at
the side of the writer's coat, and in which they fell as in a
ravine. He then retired, walking backward and laughing
at the ex-professor, and bold and impudent, went away
like a sparrow who laughs at those who try to catch him.

Ternisien for a while remained in deep meditation.
At last he got up, put his papers in order, took with him
a sheet of paper, shut his office, and crossing the courtyard,
went to speak with his neighbor who was watering his

cameliaa. .

The boy, faithfully following the orders he had received,
brought the letter to another public writer and then
posted it. It was addressed :

Julius Valabert, Esq. ,

Auditor of the State Council,
' Rue de Lille, ZA.

I order has

gr Ilia hands,
opy anouy'
<f the traces

ho looks as
od man, you
or you will
is from the
on the table
I hud pushed
it in a thou-
3 boy, saying

ed the boy;
lie threw the
;h yawned at
ey fell aa in a
lud laughing
, went away
tu catch him.
> meditation.
3ok with him
he courtyard,
watering his

had received,
ter and then

unci],
Lille, BA.

II.

TIIK LOVERS.

"Whnl wo huvo narrated is in a certain way, tho prolo-
guo of our talo. Wo must go back a littlo to present to
<iur readers the principal persons wlio will fiijuro in this
story. And to begin, wo will introduce tlieiii to a house
in Fursteniberg street, in tho moat distant part of fcit.
Oeriiiain's thoroughfare. ^

Tho apartuiout in tho second story is neither rich nor
luxurious; thcro one docs not see ox[)ensive furniture, nor
rich curtain", nor costly bric-a- brae, — in the parlor only
a looking-glass, in the windows phtin cotton curtains,
some easy chairs but not a sofa, a bare ceiling and a
simple carpet, green like the wall paper of the room. The
only object which seemed of any value was a piano of the
newest fashion, out near which were piled many books of
songs and complete operas. In spite of the modest value
of the objects which furnished this principal room, the
good taste which had presided over the harmony cf the
whole gave to it an aspect of elegance, and it could easily
be surmised that this so clean and so well-kept apartment
belonged to a lady.

In fact, near the window, before a tapestry frame, a
beautiful person was seated, hastily finishing a very
pretty piece of work. She was dressed in white, and the
simplicity of her toilet harmonized thoroughly with that
of the place in which she lived. Her long dark eyebrows,
lowered upon her work, rose only at intervals, and then
her beautiful dark eyes turned to the clock, the hands of
which seemed to move too quickly for her. Her hands,
of a wonderful whiteness, could have served as a model
to a portrait painter if the extremity of the fingers had

it»itf^im!LWf>iai^i>f-^ei^:'i^'fSf'i^''^ir'i^'^

been thinner. Her neck, finely shaped, was of perfect
form and beauty, and imparted grace and flexibility to
everv movement of the hekd. Finally the moment ar-
rived when the young girl consulted the clock with pleas-
ure and cut the last thread of the tapestry.

Getting up from the chair and giving a last glance at

the whole of lier work, she rang. An old servant appeared.

"Marion," she said to her with a joy which sparkled

in her eyes and was evident in her voice, •' at last this

work is finished. What do you think of it?"

Marion approved with majestic air, and struck with
the brightness of the colors and exquisite taste with
which they were arranged, exclaimed: " It is a master-
piece! if you would let me act according to my own fancy,
you would receive a better price. "

"You know that every work is already sold at the
same store and for the same price."
"Jewsl" murmured the old woman.
" It isn't right, Marion, to treat in such a way kind
people who have procured for me a steady and sure
resource, which supports me."

"Oh! upon my word, if you would, you need not work. "
A severe look stopped the words of Marion, who turn-
ing her eyes in another direction, replied with great
embarrassment:

"I meant to speak of your talent in music; there are
few teachers of your ability, and when you used to give

lessons at two dollars each "

" That displeased Julius. "

" It is true, " answered the old woman, " since then you
play music only for him. To tell the truth, I prefer this
life to the old way of living, always in town and alone,
whatever might be the season, while at present you do
not go out any more, except when Julius gives you his
arm, which happens very seldom, indeed. "

■'",;f>i.^-fi^*^*:=

of perfect
xibility to
jment ar-
vith pleas-
glance at
appeared.
1 spurkletl
t last this

ruck with
taste with
a master-
own fancy,

sold at the

way kind
and sure

not work. "
who turn-
with great

r, there are
sed to give

ice then you
[ prefer this
and alone,
lent you do
ves you his

A second look from the mistress ended Marion's hahhle.

While she spoke, the young lady had taken the tapestry
from the frame and foldsd it with great care.

"Be quick; take it away hefore Julius arrives," said
the young woman, " and hide the frame so that he cannot
see it. This is his hour. "

" Be careful; Master Julius does not like mistery. "

" Alas! God only knows how much it costs me to have
a secret from him.

She made a sign and Marion went out, leaving her
mistress in deep thought, this hrief conversation having
been sulHcient to recall to her mind her present situation.

Fanny was three years old when she lost her mother.
Her father, a teacher in a provincial town, spared neither
pains nor trouble to educate her. His dear and only
daughter was always the first and best among his pupils.
♦Showing a decided inclination for music, a competent
teacher was given her. In everything she progressed
rapidly, and in a short time her father was able to see
her as perfect as he wished t(» be. She was scarcely
sixteen years old, when Mr. Dusmenil, satisfied of having
warned her in general terms against the dangers which
threaten a maiden, gave her a freedom which, for a heart
naturally tender and open to impressions would be dan-
gerous. Among other liberties, he permitted her to remain
long days togheter with a neighbor's son named Ernest,
a young man rather good-looking, who lucked not clev-
erness. It is true that Mr. Dusmenil saw in Ernest,
educated with his daughter and until that time an in-
nocent companion in her studies and plays, the future
husband whom he secretly destined for Fanny, and, there-
fore, did not discourage an intimacy which would afford
them the opportunity of mutually knowing each other.
This time tlxat which had been anticipated did not happen.

,r4;if*S>Sff?/i^^^'.f^

Fanny, ia the presence of her childhood's friend, ex-
perienced no emotion, either because her hour had not
yet arrived or else because it is almost impossible that
true friendship should change in love.

The time was passing pleasantly and her future seemed
smiling and flattering, when she was overtaken by a
dreadful misfortune. Her father died almost suddenly,
leaving no fortune. Ernest was then absent, and his
family, on account of Fanny's poverty, did not show
further desire to carry cut the proposed marriage.

Fanny resolved not to wait for Ernest's return and left,
retiring to an old relative's whose only assistance cons-
isted in advising her to employ the little money she yet
possessed in developing her talents and in taking a few
lessons before begin to teach. She soon succeeded in
securing a few pupils, by which means, little by little, she
derived a certain amount of comfort.

One day she was called at a house in the Ghaussee
<f-(4«//«, to teach music to a young lady about ten years
old, named Eliza Saint-Gilles.

The family into which she was introduced consisted of
influential people, proud of their riches. Being request-
ed to play, she performed a selection which enraptured
all these present. Among others, a young man made
himself conspicuous for his lively admiration, although
Fanny, on her part, paid no attention to his compliments.
The following daj, at the time of the lesson, the young
gentleman happened to be in the room and continued to
come every day, sometimes at the beginning and t;t other
times at the end of it. His eyes constantly fixed on the
teacher, forced her to blush and in spite of herseh
troubled her. Chance, one day, left him alone with
Fanny at the moment in which her lesson liad ended
and while her pupil was going out for a walk. Persuad-

«.«,,..

*^*i««awT':RiI*»PSs?^;w^3«^.stM»»MS»te'!«»*«»nv:S****ae3i«^sa^^

'23

ed that ho wouM find little severity in a young girl who
was living alone and who, on account of her profession,
was dependent upon the public, he spoke to her of love
with an air of assurance and self-conceit, and tried to
approach her.

A gesture full of dignity forced him to stop.

*' I am an orphan," she said to him; " 1 have no rela-
tive, no defender; my only support is this," pointing to
the piano, " and you are trying to deprive me of it, be-
caiise it is certain that I should no longer dare to come
to this house."

After saying these words, Fanny went out, but on
reaching home, still affected and her eyes filled with tears ,
she received a letter in which Mr. Julius Valabert, ac-
knowledging what kind of woman he had offended, pres-
ented his most respectful apologies and entreated her not
to add to the faults with which he already reproached
himself that of having caused her departure from the
house of Saint-Gilles, and promised her never more to go
there. If Fanny had a mother, her conduct would have
been different.

The culprit's repentance found favor with Fanny. The
fear of an unpleasant scandal if the reason of her not
going any mora to the lesson should have been suspected
and the security inspired by this letter, caused her to
return to Mrs. Saint-Gilles' house. The young man appear-
ed no more. The human heart is always full of strange
contradictions, and even the sincerest is ihe most ingen-
ious in deceiving itself. Fanny on returning on that
house, had really thought she would not again meet Mr.
Valabert; and yet, without knowing it, she was dominat-
ed by a vague hope that Julius would come in person to
present his apologies. Vainly she prolonged her lessons
beyond the time she ought to have given them; the inter-

\ji^i^^$t&m

!!..

est which she used to take in the progress of her pupil
was uo longer the saino, ami her zeal in teaching was
infinitely diminished.

Was she comprehending lior real feelings? No; without
douht she did not understand herself until the day when,
arriving earlier than usual, she noticed the presence
of Julius. * ' '

By the blushes which she folt suffuse her face, by the
Budden palpitation of her lieart, she understood what she
had tried to hide from herself, that she loved Julius.

When he timidly asked of her, as a great favor, per-
mission to be present at the lesson, she had no strength
to refuse him, so great was tlie inward joy. That day she
accompanied badly and sung out of tune, but on the fol-
loving day, already prepared for the presence of Julius,
who did not move from the parlor, she sung with such
expression and threw so much soul into the notes that
the enamored and ecstasied youth could only thank her
with his eyes for the pleasure he had felt in listening to
her. The girl's joy was intense and noticeable. A few
day afterwards they ventured to sing together, a danger-
ous experiment which was repeated many times, and the
harmonious, fascinating music achieved the seduction.

This would have been the right time for her to fly, but
she had not the courage to do so. No one was there to
teach her that sentiment of reason which sh? lacked, and
.not knowing how to close hor ears against the language
of a young and sincere lover, she had the weakness to
betray lierself.

On his part, he passionately begged of her to grant him
the happiness of seeing her alone and of being received
at her home; bis grief was so violent, his tears so sincere,
his passion so prevailing, that one day he knelt at the
feet of Fanny, in her little apartment in Furstemburg

her pupil
ihiug was

fo; without
day when,
B presence

?e, by the
d what she
fulius.
favor, per-
o strength
iiat day she
>n the fol-
of Julius,
with such
notes that
thank her
istening to
le. A few
, a danger-
es, and the
sduction.
■: to fly, but
IS tliere to
lacked, and
e languai^e
Tukness to

) grant him
ig received
s so sincere,
iielt at the
iirsteniburg

street. Alas! Poor Fanny had no mother to watch on her.
Six months after, when we meet Fanny, in spite of the
great love of Julius, which seemed to increase daily in
intensity, she felt a deep and strong sorrow which poison-
ed her happiness. At the side of Julius she endeavored
to overcome it, asking from love the oblivion of her re-
morse. But in the hours of solitude and reflection, a
lively grief mastered her heart, tears flowed abundantly
us soon as her thoughts departed from the present,
marching toward the future. Her only hope reposed on
the uncertain duration of the love of Julius. For al-
though he was most tender and affectionate, yet he had
some faults which rightly grieved her. The principal
ones were mistrust and jealousy. Alreadyto please him, she
had decided to discontinue her lessons, as Julius thought
her profession a little precarious, because he, witli his
experience, had learned to what dangers a young teacher
is exposed; and although renouncing in this way the exer-
cise of her talents she had lost much, yet she would
accept nothing from her lover. Fanny succeeded in
persuading Julius that she had still a small income aris-
ing from the united legacies of her father and an old aunt
which, together with savings, (now almost exhausted,)
was enough for her needs. We have already seen how
the poor girl added to her scanty income by the sale of
her tapestry-work, in which, as in many other things, she
WLS indeed very skillful.

Very few minutes had passed since Marion had gone,
when Fanny was disturbed in her meditations by a sharp
pull of the bell, which restored her gayety.

"At last! " she thought, and run to open the door.
Juhus entered. He was a young man about thirty
years old, with dark hair and rather pallid complexion.
The habit of serious study had imparted to his counte-

» J^. «l«iC^^!^l^^«^S^Sl*^^0-'>'^-"^""'^^*—

'0.

nance a premature gravity, aud although naturally kind
and inclined to indulgence, one might have noticed in
his looks that distrust common to all those who on account
of their studies, keep aloof from the world, and who are
not accustomed to judge of men and things at a single
glance. At the moment Julius appeared, he had the
thoughtful mien of a man who has taken an important
resolution and had prepared himself to disclose it. After
having glanced around him, he asked where Marion was.

" I sent her on an errand," answered Fanny, without
any further explanation.

Julius entered 'he parlor, took Fanny's beautiful hands
in his own, kissed them, and mentioning her a seat, seat-
ed himself near her.

" Fanny, " he began with the sweetest voice, " Fanny,
are you happy?"

" Certainly, " she answered, " how could it be other-
wise? Is not your love always the same? Every time
you wish to know if I am happy, ask yourself if you
love me. "

"Yet, nevertheless, " replied Julius, " you are suffer-
ing without confiding it to me, as if your heart were
hiding something from me. More than once 1 have
discovered traces of tears in your face; niore than once I
thought I had guessed the agitaMons of your soul. From
whence that grief which your feigned gayety cannot hide
from me? Speak, Fanny, have confidence on me; what
do you wish? What do you require of me? "

" Nothing! Have I not told often you that your love
is enough for me? "

" Do you not possess it entirely? I know well you do
not ask for splendor, or luxury, or the pleasure of vanity.
You refused my gifts, and I was obliged to yield to a
pride I so much appreciated. Fanny, th:;o which you

lS.r*«S!i*eiaail't=»-==-<«W.tj«»"tt

•ally kind
oticed in
m account
I who are
t a single
) had the
important
i it. After
arion was.
', without

iful hands
seat, seat-

" Fanny,

be other-
very time
3lf if you

ire suffer-
leart were
ce 1 have
lan once I
>ul. From
annot hide
me; what

your love

ell you do
3 (if vanity,
yield to a
vhich you

wish for, the desire which troubles your joy and quie*
and perhaps injures your health also, is then greater
than my riches, greater than my love? "

" Can you think so?

He smiled sweetly, adding in a most encouraging tone;
" Speak, tell me it, open your heart to mo."

Fanny answered: " Friend, I do not complain of my
own lot, I made it what it is. I love you, and so long as
you will love me I shall have no other grief. Forgive
me if some remembrance of the past conies to my mind,
and tries to disturb the happiness I feel with you. Alas!
despite of myself, against my wishes, sometimes, I often
fancy to see my father, my poor father who loved me so
much, appear before me with angry face, asking a strict
account of the principles in which he had educated me,
I have no reason to reproach you. I asked only for your
love, and until now you have given it. You had only
promised me faithfulness, and you have kept your prom-
ise. What reason have I, then, to complain? What
are the causes of my grief? I am happy, you know it
very well. "

While saying these words, she wiped a falling tear.

Julius pressing her head to his breast, answered:

"Yes, dear Fanny, without doubt I promised you my
love, but th's love is capable of anything; it will not stop
short of sacrifices which will cease to be called such the
moment when through them you recover your peace
and happiness.

" What do you mean? '' she asked, raising her beauti-
ful eyes, full of wonder.

" Yesterday you confided mo something."

She blushed and bent her head.

" To day I answer with another confidence. My family
wish me to marry. "

"What then? "

"^^t^^^^'i^-

-,i^,*ai&*ife:^awg(f«$k«^'iS ..&^igil^ski^%!V^^-^*)*f^' ■^-*% 1 -" "'

" Well I have resolved to choose a comianion, but I
will not go to find her among the women belonging to
the clu"3 of those apparently wealthy but poor in true
merit, iu whom vanity corrupts the best sentiments —
among those ladies wlio think that a great name or a
great fortune can dispense with virtue or talent. No; she
whom I choose will be a timid and modest woman, whose
heart I have already learned to know, sufficiently in love
to have yielded to me, sufficiently virtuous to feel repent-
ant — a woman, in short, who is worthy to bear the name
of an honest man. You, Fanny, are that woman; that
name is mine. I offer it to you; do you accept it?

The poor girl listened as if she could not understand
his words. When Julius had finished, she remained a
little while with her hands clasped and as though she
were yet listening to him.

Julius took her hand and gazed at her lovingly.
" Is it true?" she said at last; " is it not a dream?"
" No, no; it would be too cruel were it not in earnest. "
" Oh! dear! " and while so saying she let herself fall
into his arms, but soon freeing herself from him, she
fell upon her knees, exclaiming:
"Oh! my father!"

A thought crossed her mind, and raising, she approach,
ed Julius, and regarding him fixedly all the time she
was speaking, said:

" Thanks, dear, for your generosity. If you could read
my heart, what gratitude and new love would you dis-
cover in it. I have yet a question to ask you. Listen:
these words are serious, and I pray you seriously to
answer them. If what you told me is only dictated by
conscience, if you off^i-r me your hand, this precious
present by me so long wished for, only as a performance
of a sacred duty, if some day, in the future, your heart

nion, but I
jelonging to
)oor ill true
eutimcnts —
name or a
mt. No; she
aman, whose
iutly in love
» feel repent-
ear the name
tvoman; that
ptit?

; understand
remained a
though she

iiigly.
Iream?"
in earnest. "
t liorself fall
»m him, she

iho approach,
he time slie

on could read
uid you dis-
^rou. Listen:

seriously to
' dictated by
ihis precious

performance
), your heart

should murmur against the sagrifice you arc making for
my sake, then how great will b? my grief; and although I
have no right to think of myself alone, yet I shouM prefer
to hide my loneliness and shame in some unknown
place ratlior than to live with you, spurned and despised
by a husband who would soon repent of the cojicessions
given in a moment when passion overi»owored him. "

"Fanny, " replied the youth, " I swear to you that my
heart onlv has urged me to take such a stei). "

Again she fell at his feet. He raised her, and in a few
minutes Julius was kneeling before lier, saying:

"Now, Fanny, will you refuse me what 1 am going to

ask of you."

" What jcan I refuse? What do you wish of me?

" A proof of love. As you well know, T always feared
that your heart, before being acquainted with me, had
loved another. You have always assured me of the con-
trary, nevertheless this fear often returns to my thoughts.
To day I doubt no more. I can assure you of it. You
have told me a thousand times that you have kept
nothing of the past but remembrances of your childhood
and of your family. You have jealously keptas a treasure
a ring, in which your mother had put a lock of your hair
when you were so young you could only answer her by
caresses. 1 wish to have this ring; give it to me— to me
your lawful husband, now that in me is concentrated
your whole family that you have lost. Give me what
remains to you that belonged, to your mother.

She was about to rise, but pausing, "Later, " she said.

"Why not now? -^ *

" Dear, 1 always believed in the sincerity of your love.

I inferred it from your jealous fears, and my only sorrow

was in not being able to quiet your suspicions. All you

have now told me certainly fills me with joy, but does net

1 •■■;^0^-j;,;w.'';f.*i'",'^Uj_ „.t 4xTT^^'fi-n>:^ -

at all surprise me, I was waiting that word which should
t»ke away all guilty from us; 1 was waiting because I
knew you loved me, also because you are good and gen-
erous. Listen, then: On the day of our marriage I Mill
give you that ring, which I cannot part from except for
the sake of him whom I lovo. This has r.lways been my
thought. On the happy dny of our union I cannot put
on my head the orange crown every bride is accustomed
to wear in going to the altar. That ring is the only thing
I have not given you. It will be my nuptial gift."

Julius would, perhaps, have insisted. Sat just at that
moment Marion entered. She seemed diddppointed. By
means of signs, she made her mistress understand that
she had not found the usual buyer and that consequently
she had brought the tapestry back.

"What is' the matter?" asked Julius, who had already
noticed some of these signs.

"Nothing," answered FHnuy, smiling.

** Always some mysteries '

"No" and she embraced him.

In order to change the course of Julius' thoughts,
she added:

"Plave you pondered over all the obstacles to this our
happy union?

Before he had time to answer, a loud noise was heard
in the street, usually so quiet. Julius ran to the window,
and a fc w steps from the house he saw a fainting woman
sorrounded by a crowd. IJe immediately descended into
the street in order to bring help, and a few minutes
afterward lie returned.

" Strange," he said, " the horse of my cousin, Mrs. De
Launay, who had gone to her business man to take an
important document, has fallen, and although not wound-
ed, the fright has experienced has caused her to swoon.

' ■ t t sa a cipaiffMi K' s g gg!Bgs ?K^'^ ;?^ i i s g g ? J E» a at'igg V ' . ^i i >gsg'^^'^

t^hich should

g because I

>d aud gen-

riage I M'ill

. except for

lys been my

cuiinot put

accustomed

only thing

gift."

just at that
lointed. By
(rstund thf.t
onsequently

had already

3' thoughts,

3 to this our

was heard
the window,
ting woman
cended into
BW minutes

in, Mrs. De
to take an
not wound-
to swoon.

I shall go and see her home. (Jood-byo, darling, till

to-morrow "

Embracing Fanny, ho quickly departed. Funny went
to the window to see biiu go. Julius (hire not to look
at her.

'^^^S^'S^^

in.

.. THE FRIEND.

On the following day, wliilo Julius wa8 at Fuunya'
house, a scene \va8 enucted in the street of Lille, the
consequenceti of which might luive destroyed ull the
projects of the two lovers. Mrs. V'aluhert hud received a
visit fronx the Countess of Septeuil, a lady of ancient
nohility, immensely wealthy and in friendly intercourse
with many jjersons having influence at court.

The conversation hetween these two had heen quite
long. A3 this visit was a very important and not an
ordinary one, the conversation, at the beginning cold and
reserved, hud gradually become lively and confidential,
till both ladies, af'ter a long diplomatical discourse, had
thought it convenient to explain the cause which had
brought them together.

The interview hud ended, and Mrs. Valabert was al-
ready accompanying the Countess to the door of the hall,
and the two ladies had reciprocally exchanged parting
salutations, friendly, although full of dignity, when the
arrival of two other persons delayed their separation a
few minutes.

One of the two comers was a gentleman of about forty
or forty-five years of age, with an open face which ind-
icated most splendid h3alth and complete absence of all
sorrow. His manners were those of a man who, although
accustomed to mingle in high society, lacks grace and
elegance of carriage. His prominent gray eyes express-
ed a constant satisfaction and happiness. He ^held his
head aloft like those who, proud of themselves, believe
that they produce in others the same favorable impress-

■ ■^!iP'^f5S^*^^^Krs^3H^:?^-'

\t Fuunya*
r Lille, tho
ed all tho
[ roceived a
of ancient
intercourse

beon quite
md not an
ug cold and
ontidentiul,
jourse, had
which had

ert was al-
of tlieliall,
;(fd parting
, when the
;paration a

about forty
which ind-
ence of all
10, although
grace and
^es express-
le ^held his
ves, believe
)le impress-

ion they f«el whenerer ihey place thcmielTCS before u
in rror. Mr. Sttiiit-GHletr hnd' left the army at the tim«
of th« 8«c(md resttiuration and thrown hiinveU into spe^:-
ulatiotHi, and) like many othen*, had streceeded without
knowing what he was doing. Chance bad made hirn a
wealthy man and riches made hrm fai. Yh« person who
aceonipanied him was a young lady who may have beeii
about twenty-six years of age, and who appeared neither
more nor less. Her features had kept the freshness and
delicacy of youth, her smile was enchantiug and all h«'r
raovemeuts were calm, pleasant and symmetrical. Her
beauty was not that which strikes one at the Hrst glance,
but rather that which iusiimates itself little by little and
engraves itself on the heart, and which, though scarcely
exciting desire, is yet the most certeiiiio retain the love
it hai produced. Her dark complexion was in strong
contrast with her blue eyes and fair hair, bat these almost
sure signs of a passionate organization, in which are
mixed two different and opposite natures, voluptuous
kkuguor and ardent vivacity, were beKetl by her quiet
behavior and an expression of kindness. When she used
to raise her eyes toward any person, one would say thnt
she was k)oking for some grief to eonm^le, and wottld
su[ipo8e that only the troubles of ^ther people could ruffle
the quietness of her soul.

lu spite of all these qualities, Adele De Launay h$tA
never been h«ppy. Attwenty-on« she had married a man
twice her age* Not haring known love's infktnation, eh&
bad not-eveik had the opportunity vf experiencing that
qaiet hdtppiness which surely possesses a^ greater value
and lasts longer. Her ho8\band wa!s one ef those men
wiMiout virtues or vices, whose lrv«9 run from one
project to another, planning sehemee 'whieli are aom\
given up fot ttew anes; one €>£ those incomplete natures

^■.ii:. l*i4i(itiK-*;ii» iof-tti?*^*' '"-t--^

without will or natieuce, that vegetate everywhere with-
out bearing fruit. She had followed him to various
cities where ho had gone for foolish expei iments or for
industrial speculations, and the clearest and most evident
result of all these journayings had always been the same,
a loss of time and capital. Finally, after many years of
this roving existence, Mr. De Launay, almost ruined but
not reformed, had been enticed in a new scheme which
had allured him on account of his remoteness and the
probability of its success. With the remains of his
fortune, he had laden a ship with goods whic)i he intend-
f d to sell in South America atfifly pci cent, profit, and this
time he had put himself at the head of the expedition,
having agreed with his wife that she should remain in
Paris wliile waiting for ihe ga/eons.

Of her own dowry Mrs. De Launay had saved one.
hundred thousand francs, which her husband could not
touch. Mrs. Valabert, her distant cousin, who had many,
times good occasion to appreciate her, had requested her
to come and reside with her. Adele had accepted this,
pfier, which, at the same time leaving her free and
mistress of her movements, afforded her protection and
^ iiome befitting her age and position, and she had now
being residing in that house for six months.

Saint-Gilles, on' perceiving the Countess of Septeuil,
assumed a more contented air, and his eyes were enabled
to express somethjng a little resembling thought. With
an awkward and very evident intention of Jpkii^g, he
addressed a few complimentt to the noble lady, and con-
gratulations upon uieeting her at Mrs. Valabert'sj. On
her part, Adele De Launay had contented herself with
boving to Mrs. Septeuil, As soon as the Countess had
left, Saint-Gilles and the two ladies went into, the parlor

There Mrs Valabert addressed Adele thus: .

liere wilh-
to various
iits or for
ost evident
1 the same,
y years of
:uiued but
Miie which
is and the
ins of his

he intend-
[it, and this
expedition,

remain in

saved one.

could not
) had many,
guested her
cepted this,
r free and
ection and
3 had nov

)f Septeuil,
ere enabled
ght. With
Joking, he
f, and con-
bert,'?|. On
lerself with
luntess had
the parlor

" Cousin, you well know our agreement, absolute and
lull freedom as well for you as for me. This morning
you wished Saint-Gilles to accompany you while shopping
at several places. Be pleased now to give him back to
me as we have need to converse together. "

" Since you wish to be aloue, I will retire. "

" Before you go, " replied Mrs. Viilabert, " allow nie to
repair an involuntary negligence. Yesterday I was
somewhat ill, this morning you went out early without
lay having the pleasure of seeing you. I hope that you
have not received bad news?"

"None, my dear cousin," answered Adele, " and I
thank you for the interest you take in all that concerns
luy welfare."

After these remarks, she retired to her own apartments.

Saint Gilles gazed after her, saying:

" That crazy fellow, De Launay, is happier than he
deserves to be. Here is a woman who loves him in spite
of all his extravagancies. If he would write her to join
him, I would not be surprised if she should at once obey.
While he could have quietly enjoyed such a treasure at
home, he become a merchant of Cologne water and
English soap in the other hemisphere. There are some
persons, who although their heads were full of eyes, would
not be able to see clearly. "

** Yes, " answered Mrs. Valabert, sadly, " there are
passions impossible to be explained; some spurn virtue,
some do not know vice. "

"Oh!" said Saint-Gilles, who had already without
ceremony seated himself in an easy-chair, his legs crossed
and his body reclining, " what has happened? Did the
Countess departed disappointed? "

" Yes; friend. "
•* Why so. "

w^*^

" Beoausd thero exists an obstacle which you. do not
know, and wliii?}^ we cai^iot say that Ave wiU'- be ablfe to
ovesDome."

"Whatisitf"

" It is just to speak to you of it, and to usk your advice
that I have wished to be alone with you,"

Mrs. Valabert brought another easy-chair near Mr.
Saint-Gilles, and sat down beside him.

Before we let them begin their confiddnces, it is ne-
cessary to explain briefly the friendship which existed
between these two persons.

Saint- Gillea was a bachelor. Mrs. Valabert was a
widow, but (w^hich is rarely the case) their relations were
truly based upon pure and holy fi^ieiidship. JUliua' mo-
ther was virtuous not only on account of her trainingbut
by nature. Cold and calin in her youth, she had never
adu;>itted the possibility of a fault, and the love which
enrfiptured the senses, love without marriage, was cons-
idered by her a chimera or a vice without excuse, like
hypocrisy, falsehood or theft.

Saint-Gilles had received many favors from Mrs. Vala-
bert, fbr which he had shown himself very grateful. He
continued to visit the widow, and little by little made
hi,mself indispensable to her. He had no equal in
bestowing trifling attentions and in busying himself
with other people's affairs. Always at the disposal of
whoever needed him, he collected rents, canvassed for
mortgages to place money, arranged preliminaries of
marriages and took upon himself all sorts of troubles and
every kind of work. Ih short, he was a most clever and
indefatigable *' factotum. "

"Friend," began Mrs. Valabert, "to, you, I am indebt-
ed for the acquaintance of the Countess of Bepteuil. You
were the first who thought of this marriage, so advantagr

ou. do not
t>e ablj^ to

mr advice

uear Mr. i

, it is ne- i
cU existed

ert wag a
tions were

mo-

Uliua'
:aining.but
had never
ove which
was cons-
xcuse, like

Mrs. Valifc-
iteful. He
little made
> equal in
ig himself
lisposal of
vassed for
inaries of
oubles and
clever and

;m indebt-

»uil. You

advantage

:Z7

eous for my «on. The Countess gave her consent to this
union, and has given me the assurance that her daughter
made no opposition to it whatever. With sorrow I have
discovered a secret which fur along time I had suspected*
namely, that Julius had a guilty connection with a person
whom he is passionately in love with. "

" Oh! " replied Saint-Gilles in a very easy way, " at his
age that is a very common occurrence."

" Yes, but ho will not part with this woman. "

'* Poll! Julius is a young man of spirit, who will not
sacrifice his future to a caprice. Be iit ease. Besides he
knows of the negotiations begun with the Countess and
he has already seen her daughter. It is true that he has
not consented openly, but neither has he refused. If he
had not had good intentions, he would not have allowed
us to take these steps, since at the point we have now
-arrived, it would be almost impossible to break them off
without a strong and reasonable motive. "

" We have not positively consulted him, and have on^y
taken his silence for consent. Perhaps Julius does not
even know that the Countess came this morning to visit
me. Do not, be mistaken about the character of my son.
I can and do know it better than you. He is a man who
waits for the last moment, not only to make a definite
decision, but also to communicate to. you his resolve. To
display courage, he needs to feel danger. He loves me,
it is true, but although his love is sincere and deep, he
will not. yield to me. "

" And who is the object of his passion?" asked Saint-
Gilles, " perhaps some common woman? perhaps an
actress?, perhaps a dancer? "

" Whoever she may be, she must be a woman of loose
habits, " replied Mrs. Valabert, " as I have been told she
is young and beautiful; she belongs to an honest family,

;»:-'-«si>*a^-«*--»5»^'-'

and unhappily it seems that she has received a splendid
educatibh. She is a piano teacher, by name, Fanny "

" Fanny Dusmenil?"

"Exactly that. Do you know her? "

"Certainly. For some time she gave lessons to my
little niece. Beautiful creature! a beautiful morsfl, I
swear to you. WhateyesI What beautiful hands! and to
all that she adds talent, great talent indeed! Julius saw
her at my sister's house. One day she sent a message
notifying us that she could not come any more. No one
could guess the reason of such a resolve, but now it is all
explained. Upon my word, nobody would have surmised
it. With her modest demeanor, she must be an old fox.
She must not be allowed to go umpunished. Where does
she reside? "

" Near here, in Furstemberg street, I believe. "

" I will run there at once, " said Saint-Gilles raising. "

" Dear friend, I never doubt your interest in me and
in all that concerns me. Before taking any steps, I must
ask another favor. Instead of going to see this young
girl, who would surely complain of it to Julius, exagg-
erating your words, would not it be better to address your
remarks to my son? I hesitate to speak to him. He is
no more a boy; I cannot scold him, and in spite of my
love, I could with great difficulty decide to be a witness
to his blindness and to hear him praise the woman who
deceives him, for how we can believe in the virtue of a
woman who even for once has forgotten her duty? "

"It was my intention," answered Saint-Gilles," to
employ the quickest means to cut the evil at its root; but,
as you wish it, I will speak to Julius. It is impossible
that he will not recollect himself. Did they tell you that
he intended to marry her? "

" No, but if perchance he were about to do so?"

<w>w« ii> Mi*'^^wwwaww,i. i ijfc!WM.a^^a'i>J^t-,'iJ-^^.Mua J i^.iW!j^

a splendid
iiiiy "

ious to my
I morspl, I
nds! and to
Julius saw
a message
•e. No one
low it is all
ve surmised
an old fox.
Where does

}8 raising,
in me and
iteps, I must
this young
lius, exagg-
iddress your
lini. He is
ipite of my
e a witness
ivoman who
virtue of u
luty? "
•Gilles, " to
its root; but,
impossible
tell you that

so?"

"OKI before all," rsplied Saint-GilW: !' We must not
trust this princess. I pretend to be a godd physiognomist,
and yet I would have given her the communion without
confession. We have no time to lose; all theise creatures
have a fondness for marriage. I hope Julius will open
his eyes. He is in love. Wery well; he will fall in love
with his bride, who is also a beautiful woman, and after
eight days he will think of the other no more. After all,
we have a last resource to dry the tears of his Ariadne.
What does she wish for? A position? money? we will
give her half of what she asks, showing ourselves good
and setting the matter conveniently. With twenty to
twenty.five bills of a thousand each, all will be made
right. With this sum we shall send this young lady to
her penates and her music with variations, and after a
time she will many some young artist, whom she will
make happy. I will take it into my hands and then
who shall know? Though I am not severe like you, I
think it really very probable and possible that she may
deceive Julius. lean easily believe that a woman, if
mistress of herself can very well avoid lovers, but as soori
I know she has a lover, I am justified in Supposing her
with two lovers. We shall see; and while we are await-
ing the result, try to cheer yourself. "

The conversation M-as pursued a little further, and
Saint-Gilles persuaded Mrs. Valabert'not to alarm herself
for the time being, and to continue the negotiations with
the Countess. His arguments with Julius did not secure
the result desired. The reader will excuse us for not
repeating here the very excellent reasons he presented
and urged in speaking to Julius; it will be enough for him
to know that none of them were received with favor,.
Saint-Gilles belonged to that class of persons who believe
in being useful to others by giving them advice for which
they have not asked.

Tli« h8p{>y traniinillity oi that {aniily watt coini4et<ely
cli*ia;g«d. Julius^ fearing hi8Mioih«r*s toaits uaA. prayers,
«voif)6(l her prMenoe as much as posadUle, and, wlien
^ith her, kept « cold sitfeace. Vainly Adele De Launay
endeavored i* >«nliven the conversation. She showed
liersolf more Hian usually good, thoughtful and uraiuble,
but no explanation had ever taken place in her presence;
iioilher had she been admitted into confiilence, so that,
granted that she did not know the cause of this coldness,
she was in no way authorized to provoke a decisive
explanation. Juiius, on the other hand, had completely
concealed from J^'auny the opposition he experienced
from his mother, whose mouth-piece was SaintGilles.
lie strengthened himself in the resistance, always fearing
the moment when in a irrevocable manner he would be
obliged to siginify his firm resolve. He hoped that Saint-
Gilles, acknowledging the inutility of his attempt and
tired of the struggle, would cease his t.nnoyance.

In this false situation many days passed, but the
catastrophe was des ined to come. One naommg Mrs.
Valttbf rt's house took on the appearance of festivity; the
servants were going and coming with a buay air. Julius,
on returning houM at noon, noticed all this stir, and
was at a loss to know how ioftccount for it. Just as he
was going to «m^ the reason of it, the door of the parlor
i« which he was, opened. Mrs. Valabert waa coming
from her &partraents, dressed and in the act of going out.

Stopping l»efore her son, she said to him:

" 1 am very glad to meet you. I hope that you will
have no engageofteut for this afternoon, and if you had
intended to go out, I beg you to sacrifice this evening to
me, as I am expecting a numerous company."

"Whom?"

*• Many friends innong whom will be the Countess of

n5T-5aJB^»i«agsr«;- .

fd prayers,
,nd, wlien
e Launav
le showed

uraiuble,
presence;
I, so tlmt,
i coldness,
I decisive
lompletely
:perienced
lintGlUes.
lys fearing
would be
hat Saint-
empt and
e.

, but the
amg Mrs.
bivitv; the
ir. Julius,

stir, and
ust fts he
llie parlor
IS coming
goitxg out.

YOU will
' you had
veiiiTig to

luntfcss of

Septeuiland her daughter. "—"Madam!" interrupt-

ed Julius.

But his mother, who had spoken these words almost
hurriedly, as ctne who would see no reason for objection,
had already crossed tbe parlor. A servant came to tell
her that the carriage was ready.

In his first emotion of surprise, Julius had let her go.
Immediately he understood that, by disposing of him in
such a way, his affectionate mother had made the last
effort. Thus he would have been under the necessity of
letting others believe in his silent approval, or by refusing
to be present to break all the negotiations, which could
be considered bad manners, and would have comproniis-
ed even his mother. And yet this was the only course
left to him. •

This elaborate snare, so easily to be avoided, in which
they were trying to entrap him, was more unbearable
than serious and strong obstacles. He had seated himself,
pjmdering how to act. Julius thought himself alone, and
was amazed to feel u hand laid on the back of his easy
chair, while a sweet voice thus spoke:

•' You are sad, cousin; is it not true? "

Julius turned and saw Mrs. De Launay gazing at him

with interest.

" How long have you been there? " he asked. " I do
not remerabei: have seew you come in. "

" I was in your moiher's room. I arrived just when
she left the drawing-room, but lovers have neithev ears
nor eyes, and 1 am not offendedatyottsabsentmindedness.
All your attention must be given to^ilER. "

" Then you know alit " ,

« Yes; this evening party had already been arranged
four days ago. It is a litt\e plot prepared by Mr. baint-
Gilles, to which my cousin has given her consent. Neither
the former nor the latter will believe that your love is
deeo and sincere. "

i. j)it--:rtftiii , i v.:^-'> aWlA r Ji Mi-*ia.^-^»^v:4-:^'^>^^>'^-.?">^-''*^^^ '• ttj-

.^ii'iir j-ij«fc»^ y-'^4 ^^?;.,X^^^ytiS,^v,-r;.

" And you believe it to be 80? " -w %

" I? I ought to huve been a diviner, as neither you
nor your mother ever spoke to me of it. All that I do
know I have learned from your sadness and from some
few words heard by chance or willingly listen to. "

" If they had consulted you, what would have been
your answer? "

"I should have refused to enter this plot. "

"Why?"

"Because one cannot betray one's allies."

" Then you pity me' "

" If I had not, would you see me here? "

" Kind Adele, I am suffering; yes, I am unhappy. "

" And, nevertheless, you love and are loved? "

" Without a shadow of doubt."

•' What else do you want? A happiness which only
depends upon yourself! Listen to me: I always thought
that women, better than men, know how to love, because
when they feel a strong passion, they do not look at the
difficulties and ure ready to defy death, while you men do
not know how to bear a moment of embarrassment or of
shame."

"You are right; I am feeble, and I fear to bring afflic-
tion on n)y mother. "

" Or, perhaps, to repent yourself some day? "

" Oh I never, never! if you know her! "

" Speak to me, then, with open heart. I fear that all
that I am now to do or to say may be wrong. I ought to
remain neutral. But a friend will be allowed to ask for
your confidence, when another has taken upon himself
the right of torturing you without consulting you. Answer
me, then. Is she beautiful? "

" Without her I cannot live."

" She is beautiful, yes, without doubt, but I meant to

i,'Ai' l fftf |i 7'i ' >.WB'UWffl- ' .j.,B^!i, » jt^ag,?»^!a^ l lVl»'- ' »M»W!W i8 ^^

. i^'BaSKiT

either you
that I do
from some
to."
have been

appy.

rhich only
ys thought
ve, because
look at the
'ou men do
smentor of

(ring afflic-

»ar that all

I ought to

to ask for

ou himself

>u. Answer

meant to

say remarkably bepntiful -."

" More flo tha. . j ourself , my cousin ; " but he soon added,
•' at least I believe so "

" Are you sure of it? and do you not deceive me? Has
she spirit?" . .■

" Very much indeed and, joined with simplicity, thnt
spirit which comes from the heart, like yours, cousin. "

" Pray do not use me as a comparison, " answered
Adele smiling, " and I am not questioning you to hear
her praises. After all, you love her, and this is the main
point. Are you sure that she also loves you, and that she
never loved another? Is she virtuous? "

" He who would try to say the contrary must prove his
word or I should have his life. "

" Oh friendl if your heart would be completely free and
you would be the absolute master in choosing a wife
could you dare to hope to have in her united, talents
spirit, virtue? and because you have been so fortunate as
to find such a woman and to possess such a treasure, you
spurn it! And what for? Julius search your heart. Have
you never reproached her with the love you have inspir-

ed in her? "

"Can you judge me so unjust? No; Fanny, in my eyes,
is the most virtuous woman in all the world. "

" Marry her, then, and do not ask me for advice. "

" I shall take advice only by myself, my good cousin.
My present embarassment lies in finding a way to break
this projected marriage. "

" It ia your own fault. Why have you not spoken u
month ago?

" I am well decided not to appear this evening, but how
shall I avoid a scandal? "

" I do not see any way. The rupture ought to come
from the Countess, not from you. Were I you, I would

:^jmcy.

ir^,-ir,.-.*t^ .^-.:.^-f.^^Ai^ --,-;

.■-,=^i5.,?i.i'S»i= i!

not worry mytiell' until to-night. Yes, on my Monl. Who
k now3 but some );ooi] angel will wrttdh over you? Often,
jiiat when we feel very unhappy, we find oUr8G!lve8 near
to happiness. Hope! these moments of tranquillity will
be BO many stolen from future grief, and perhaps even
these last will not come. "

Before Julius, who shared not this confidence, could
ask her what cause inspired her with it, the drawing-
room door opened and Mrs. Valabert came in. She had
a serious and preoccupied mien, and was crumpling in
lior hand a letter which had arrived in her absence qnd
which had been given her by the porter on h'-r return.

" My son, " she said, in a voice which hardly concealed
her emotion, " you are free and niaster of your evening,
hady Septeuil writes me that she U not able to accept
my invitation. Send a servant to Mr. Saint-Gilles, and,
if he is at home, tell him to call as soon as possible, "
and she departed, murmuring a few words that her son
was not able to understand.

This becoud apparition, so different fr'^tn the first,
amazed Julius. Glancing at his cousin, he b.'iid:

" Adele, what were you saying a little whi' • ago; that
the rupture ought to come from Mrs. de Septeuil? But
this seems a true rupture; you, perhaps, were cognizant
of it?"

•' Iliad hoped for It. "

" The angel who was wettching over me was then you? "

•• Hush! " said she, " be silent! "

He replied in a low voice: '• But how it happened all
this? Please explain yoursef, that I may be aWe to
tliHiik you. "

*• What I have done is of little importance. I will tell
you about it later, if you will be so good as not to reproach
me with having guessed whfit you had not told me. Now

•'»i)ij| ii ^'i-.jjnL . w » j i; ; p .» ai M;».. ' J, ! , , ^; ^■^ .^^' .;, ' ^"^W"y ; 5-- ' -"■^.■-^- ' iw■J: ,;.J:v4.tg ! . i""^-:Egigsr.''

.-ortl. Who
u? Often,
Bilvea near
lillity will
hnps even

uce, could
drawing-
She had
mpling in
sence qnd
p return,
concealed
r evening,
to accept
[lies, and,
possible,"
t her 80U

the first,
3:

ago; that
mil? But
cognizant

aen you? "

ipened all
B a'ble to

I will tell
) reproach
me. Now

4j5

let us part — not a word, more, not a, sign nor a look of
intelligence. I saw you so unhappy, here is the excuse
and explanation of my condUot; to morrow, or in a few
dfeys, you will entreat your mother, and she, perhaps, will
be moved by your prayer. Do not vaste your time with
me, go to Heh; go, friend, and love her always because
she is worthy of you. Good bye. "

Mrs. Valubert's pride had been offended by the action
of the Countess; and the latter was too proud to retract.
All the diplomacy of Mr. Saint-Gilles failed to bring
about a renewal of the negotiations. Mrs. De Launay
fearing sooner or later she might be involved in these
family discussions, went into the country for a f«w days,
to the residence of a friend of Julius' mother.

Julius was not able immediately to obtain the consent
he asked for. Every time Mrs. Valabort was moved by
her son's prayers, Saint-Gilles, who had considered as his
own business the rupture of this marriage, reproached
her with her feebleness. Saint-Gilles had not been able to
put in execution his first scheme of addressing himself
to Fanny, because Julius was continually with her. Fi-
nally frightened at the anxiety and agitation of her son,
Mrs. Valabert yielded on condition that she should not
see her daughter-in-law. Juiius at about twenty leagues
from Paris, owned a villa which was comprised in his
father's esta.e. The interesting condition of Fanny not
permitting him to present her in society, he had resolved
to take her to this little country residence. In order to
announce her the day fixed for the marriage and make
known to her his last arrangements, he went, as usual, to
the house in Furstemberg street.

Occupied with his thoughts, he was walking rapidly
Just as he wa$ nearing the door of Fanny's house, he
encountered upon a younj man issuing from it. "While

:-'i«*:"*-vS»eV''-»,:*'i' ■■*-'-■•

ringing the bell, hU heart was trobbing. Ho rcproactied
biinaelf for the injurious suspicions continually torturing
hini in spite of his love. On entering, it seemed to him
that Marion was confused and that Fanny blushed when
he narrated his encounter, but he ended l>y being osham-
ed of his jealous suspicions, and soon restored by Funny's
tender and arftct:o»mto looks, ho forgot all to think only
of the near future whicli i)ronused to be so calm and
happy. The villa to which he intended to take his wife
had not been inhabited for three years. It was necessary
to put it in order. It was ajjreod that Julius pVmni.l jro
alone and remain absent from Pnris for eight days, the
time to complete the pre])ttrations.

From the moment when they had begun to love each
other, this was their flrst separation, and although it
would last no long, the parting was us painful as if they
were never to meet again.

On his reUirn to Paris, Julius Valubert received the
anonymous letter copied by Ternisien, the address of
which, as stated in the first chapter, had beeti written by
a different person. ^ ,,

r--. . '.

. ■ '* ''\*

, t. 'I i

?proaclied
torturing
id to him
lied when
ig osham-
y Funny's
link only
culm and
his wife
lu'ceasary

days, the

lovo each
though it
IS if they

eived the
iddrcss of
k'ritten by

.•. i\.

IV.

THKTltlAri

Seated in the samf rooiu whoi'e wo siiw Ikt before,
Fanny kt her eyes dadly wander from the window to the
door, listening tj every noise and showing in her features
fear rather tliun hope. Do you renienibei- with what joy
she had heon animated when Julius brought her the
announCcMuent of his resolve? Why, instead, we do find
her so sad to-day? Because the nearer Ihe time appoint-
ed for her nuptials approached, the more she felt her
lieart oppressed by a fatal presentiment. Eight days had
already passed since Julius' departure, and this absence,
the first she experienced, had left her alone with the fears
of her heart without defense, and at the same time expos-
ed her to some intrigues which had poisoned her solitude.
The day foUowing the departure of Julius, a gentleman
whom she remembered to have eeen previously at the
house of her young pupil, Miss Saint-Gilles, had called on
her and without preamble or formality had spoken to her
of the Bchenies of Julius* family, of the brilliant hopes
destroyed by his love for her, of the grief that every one
hudfelt and the pain with which they had consented to
this union, and finally lie mentioned a last hope founded
on Far.ny's generosity, that she might persuade Julius
himself to consent to what was wished from him. Saint-
Gilles did not forget to adorn his speech with flattering
words and praises: Fanny would be esteemed by every-
body; no one would be surprised to hear that she herself
learning of the existing difhculties, had sacrificed her own
love to the future happiness of Julius; that all knew her

4f.

to bo so unselfish as not to hesitate before such a sacrifice.
They knew also that she was so sincere in her love that
she would prefer the interests of Julius to her own. All
these things had been spoken cautiously but with a tune
in which one could easily perceive the skepticim of a
wordly man, ready to deny every kind of true and sublime
affection. There still remained the last alternative, that
of pecuniary comf-ensatiou in exchange for so many
destroyed hopes. Although Saint-Gilles bad relied very
much upon the slrenght of this argument, he dare not
speak of it. Fanny's demeanor had made such an im-
pression on him as to prevent him from uttering, the
words, ^^ pecuniary compensation. " Saint-Gilles took his
leave without receiving a positive answer, but obtained
from her a promise to let him know her decision.

The following day, after anight of wakefulness anrl
fever, she sent him a note containing these simple words:
" Address yourself to Julius. " Thus the negotiations were
sent again to the same field on which he had always been
beaten. These attempts, this appeal to her generosity
«^nd this exaggerated picture of M^s. Valabert's grief
destroyed Fanny's confidence by showing the present
full of struggles and dangers, the future dark and un*
certain For the first tim3 she paused to ponder on the
intrigues and plots of every kind which a powerful and
also ambitious family might organize against her. She
had been unable to give a very clear answer to Mr. Saint-
Gilles, because she dare not to reveal to this railer the
sacred motive which made it a duty for her to resist his
insinuations. ,

"If instead of this man, "she said to herself, "Julius'
mother, with eyes full of tears, had come in person to me,
I would have thrown myself to her feet and spoken thus:
' Pity, and do not despise me. If it were only a question

1 a sacrifice,
r love that
r own. All
with a tune
)ticim of a
\nd sublime
lative, that
ir so manv
relied very
16 dare not
icli an im-
ittering. the
es took his
at obtained
lion.

fulness aorl
mple words:
iations were
always been
' generosity
ibert's grief
the present
jk and un^
ider on the
•werful and
st her. She
,o Mr. Saint-
s railer the
o resist bis

eif, "Julius'
erson to me»
spoken thus:
Y a question

of my happines, I would sacrifice it without iiesitatlfl|li^,
if I liad only to renounce Julius, although I love him
with all the strenght of my soul, I would depart, T would
hide myself, and neither you, nor he, nor any livihjj
person would hear of me again. Perhaps finally' he wouM
be able to forget me and might some day be happy, and
you enjoying his happiness, would think of me absent,,
and in your heart thank me, and this thought will brin<^
consolation. But, alas! if I should act in such a manner;
another voice would rise to accuse me, a being dear t«
me whom I must love as you, inadam, love your son^,
would ask of me an account of a sacrifice which would
deprive him of a name, of a family, of a future, and yqu^
yourself, who are so good, would you advise me to become,
ft bad mother?'"

Carried away by hor grief for an instant, she thought
of going to Mrs. Valabert, to declare all to her and place
herself under her protection, but was prevented by shame. ,
If she had been acquainted with Mrs. De Lannay,j that
friend so sincere and indulgent, whose generous act Julius
had narrated to her, she would have confided in her and
thought herself safe. Timidity detained her.

Thus for eight mortal days, alone, a prey to her fears,-
she saw no other help than Julius, who was absent, aind
whose weakness of character she dreaded. How many; .
varied tortures aftlicted her mind, always disposed i^
exaggerate evil! The humiliation she expected and the -
repentance that Julius would perhaps experience wh©U
his passion had abated, would leave him under the.
ascendancy of his mother. Perhaps, also, that jealousy,
which he was unable to control, would, some day, bring;
him to suspect hor who had not known how to resist hjs
seductions because, strange as it is, ladies are alway-s
punished for their sins by the same persons for whose

,t^.>t..j;l-JC.i.r'l.<-^S:JtVSJntJII'*-

■ \

suko they sin, and who gather in the fruit of their criiru'^
' I'll thig'iuanner, after the infatuation of her passion,
Panuy was experiencing the first trial of life, and, instead
of peace and happiness in her soul, she met douhts and
friars at every step.

As a last refuge, there remained to her the remem-
lirance and thought of Julius. She plunged so deep into
it as to forget everything else. Had she been possessed
of cooler blood, or, better, had she a more complete
khowledge of evil and of the advantage that slander takes
of every circumstances even the moat trivial, slie would
lirtve anticipated by her explanation the unhappy cir-
cumstances which might cloud her reputation. She
v.'ould have felt the necessity of giving an account and
explaining another mysterious visit ^':e had received
after that of Saint-Gilles. Her love made her forget all
this, her only thoughts being of her Julius.

At last, as we have said, the eight days of Julius' ab-
sence were past. She w^as waiting for him, when she
was aroused by a sharp pull at the door-bell.
■ *' Here he comes! " she cried and ran to the door.

Julius entered.

Fanny's joy was of short duration; Julius seemed not
the same man. His face was fearful pale, his eyes glaring,
his lips trembling. She tried to speak, but courage failed,
and in silence she stood gazing at him. Without utter-
ing a single word, he shut the door and hurriedly crossed
the room. Fanny followed him.

Julius cast at her a dreadful glance, which seemed to
penetrate her heart. One of his hands, placed under
his coat, was agitated by a convulsive movement. With
the other he seized Fanny by the arm, forcing her to
itfimain at his side.

" What ails you? Julius you frighten me. '

^>Ji^'^-^^.^^~:»^-^'^l«^'^^l;)^s^S^ssiy^f^i^du^^^t^ai^

passion,
I, iustoad
iihts and

rc'inem-
dec'p into
possessed
complete
der takes
le would
ippy cir-
n. She
)unt and
received
orget all

dius' ab-
vhen she

)or.

)iaed not
3 glaring,
ige failed,
ut utter-
ly crossed

eemed to
3d under
it. With
ig her to

51-

"Sitdowu" he answered with a i;;looniy and tliiimlen--
ing -voice.

She sat down mechanically, subdued liy tliat command
and the gesture by which it was accompanied. ' ' •/

Julius had made an unspeakable effort to overcome the
emotion which oppressed him. Ho was no longer able
to restrain himself. For a few moments he was silent,
as if collecting himself to enjoy at his leisure the con-
tinually increasing agitation of the unfortunate Fanny.
Then, without even ceasing to stare at her, as if he wished
to test her, he coldly and briefly said : ^

" So then you have deceived me? " ■ ■" ' > ""'

The poor girl, dumb with amazement, threw herself
back. In her turn she felt the words dying on her iips»
and her voice strangled in her throat. 1

Julius, who yet held her by the hand, and who saw her ■
cast down by such unexpected accusation, shook her
fiercely, and with a tune full of rage, continued : " Answer,
answer me! " ,

Vainly he endeavored to awaken her out of that dread-"'
ful dream. She answered no more, inasmuch cs the
thought of being adjudged guilty had never occurred to
her mind. All her preceding fears were justified; the
intrigues, the plots she dreaded came to attack her. Fear-
ful suspicion! Julius, perhaps loved her no mor6; Julius,
conquered by the prayers of his family and in compact
with them was now searching for a pretest for a rupture.
A fearful abyss had opened at her feet, and she had fallen
into it. Julius afraid of such an easy triumph, repressing
himself, thus continued:

"I shall try to be calm. Listen to me. This inter- ;
view, perhaps, will be the last one between us; if you
cannot justify yourself, it will be an everlasting rupture, ,
hut I shall not judge without having first heard you. If

-i,;^..,<i^i-- ■•-&■.

^P.

you have tleceiv)e(l'm«, you were very guilty, T)ecause T
Imd perfect confidence in you; I would have been asliam-
ed of watching your conduct. I loved you and to you I
would have sacrificed all, — friends, fortune, mother — "

Fanny made a movement. Finally she understood that
she was accused of infamy and baseness. Blushes suffused
her face and her cheeks, and when Julius asked her for
an answer, she, this time pui pose^y remained silent because
she felt wounded in her virtue.

Another pause followed, and Julius began:

"Speak to me frankly, Fanny. Am T the only person

who has put the feet in this apartment? Think well.

Have you received any other?

" Ah! if that is the question," she replied, "yes; an-
other person has been here whom you know, one of your
friends, Mr. Saint-Gilles. "

** Saint-Gilles! " said Julius, completely astonished.

" By his remarks he prepared me for this altercation. "

" He? He must explain to me his way of acting. It i*
not of him that I am speaking; you do not speak to me
of another man whose mysterious call has been revealed
to me. "

" Ah! " answered Fanny, " what has been reported
to you? "

•'This is what I have heard, " cried Julius, rumpling a
paper which he took from his breast: It has been nar-
rute4 to me that during my absence, the day before
yesterday,, in the evening, a young man wrapped in a
cloak had entered your hoiise, secretly introduced by
Marion; that he had left two hours after; that this young
gentleman had called often, though you had never spoken
to nie of it; lastly that he had known you before me, that
he loved you, and that you were to marry him. Is all
this true? It is necessary that I should tell you hi&name ?"

""^ ^FyPi*"*'" ' ' < ff!^^-^-^*^' -^ '■^^ - "^^' W . ■. ». ' - '»' V^^T:" "'i'K.n

tecause T
D aHliam-
to you I
her—"
stood that
i suffused
I her for
it because

y person
liink well.

'yes; an-
e of your

ished.
rcation. "
ng. It i&
ak to me
revealed

reported

impling a
been nar-

ay before
>ped iu a
duced by
his young
er spoken
9 me, that
D. Is all
a name ?"

'■ It is needless, " replied Fanny witli digiiity: " a'1u»
gave you these particulars? " .

" This letter, " said Julius, " can you contradi(;t it,? "

"Who signed it?"

" Signed it is not, but what cure 1 if it tells the truth? "

" An anonymous letter! " said she with contempt; and
you triist it? A vily denunciation has in your heart a
stronger influence than the thousand proofs of love which
I gave you? You have for me so nmch esteem that the
first c(Mner can slander and calumniate me without being
forced to answer for his saying? Ah! sir, what future are
you preparing for both of us? "

" Instead of accusing, defend yourself If the author
of this letter has stated a falsehood, I will discover him,
and I swear by heaven T will punish him. But if, instead
he has opened my eyes in regard to you and to a perfidy
of which I would have been the victim, then he is a friend
and it is my duty to thank him. Hear what he writes,
and afterward tell me which name he deserves. "

Opening the paper, with a chocking voice he read:

"Sir: — A person who takes an interest in you, but who
" wishes not to expose himself to the hatred of any one,
" thinks it his duty to take the veil of the anonymous to
"enligtheu you about a woman who is on the [»oint of
** receiving your name. I do not know whether you
" were the first iu her affection, Vmt I do know that you are
" not the first that ought to have led her to the altar. A
young man of her own place, united to her by a fi iendship
of long standing, was deeply in love wiih her and he
" ought to marry her. This union cannot be compared
''with theoi'eyou offer her. .She had to renounce him, but
"in doing so she has not ceasfd to see him. At the
'' beginning of your acquaintance, he presented himself
" at her house. Afterward he caileu again; once you met

r>4

" jli,ini before the door, and now that he is obliged to
" depart, she has received his farewell. Your absence
" from Paris favored this last meeting. Yesterday evening,
"Mr. Ernest Gairal, with many precautions, entered her
" house, and after two hours he left. "

" Forever," exclaimed Fanny, rising, " forever!"

" You then confess that he has come? "
. , " Yes, please now listen to me. "
, " No, nothing! nothing!" replied Julius, raging.

" Listen. One condemns a person, then, without
allowing her to answer? I am innocent. I was wrong iu
keeping it a secret because of your jealousy, which I
feared. This young man had been choosen for my
husband by my father. For him I did not experience
either hatred or love. 1 left my birthplace without even
telling him. He came here once to remind me of the
intentions of our respective families, and I did not give
him any hope, although I did not then know you. He
loved me, it is true; tliat he returned to visit me is also
true; and the day before yesterday he again returned. I
did not conceal from him my love for you, or your gen-
erous conduct, nor the destiny which awaits me. He left
me resiigned, and, as T told j'ou, forever. For me, dear,
this visit had no importance; it came unexpectedly, and
if I have not spoken to you before, it is only because it
passed away from my mind. "

This defence, so simple, had destroyed, little by little,
almost all the suspicions of Julius. In proportion as she
spoke, the confusion and agitation of his heart faded
away to give place to the shame of having shown himself
so cruel. Moved by the sincere tone of these explanations,
he was already prepared to fall at the feet of that woman
who had once more become his idol, when his eyes rested
on the end of the letter, which he had not yet read. He
wished for a final trial. .

•T^--r,'J!f i?4 9i:Mi<! '^ 'v4^ i '\ .J>!i - mit4.»^^

obliged to
ir absence
ly evening,
utered her

er! "

mg.

I, without
,s wrong ill
', which I
n for my
experieuco
hout even
nie of the
I not give

you. lie
nie is also-
turned. I
your gen-
e. He Isft

me, dear,
tedly, and
because it

I by little,
tion as she

eart faded
wu himself
planations,
lat woman
eyes rested
read. He

" Forgive nie, Fanny. I ask you a thousand pardoi*»-
if I have wronged you or suspected you unjustly. My
excessive love made me unjust. Be not provoked at iny
anger. The secrets hidden by you may serve as an excuse
for this moment of rage. Do you forgive me?"

She placed one of her hands on her heart, and offering
the oi^^er ch he covered with kisses, said:

" ' Jui what pain you ht «> <, .eu me! I should
never have thought I could suffer so much withovkt dying.''
"Now, "he added; "as a guarantee of this reconciliation,
give me the token which till now you have refused — the
ring, the only souvenir of your mother. The more dear
it is to your heart the more acceptable to me will the
sacrifice be. "

Fanny answered, smiling: "Have you forgotten what
I have already told you? Why this so earnest desire?'
And what high value could it have to you? "

" Does it not contain the hair of my Fanny — hair taken
from her head when a child? Do not refuse it to me, I
entreat you. 1 know where you keep it. It is iii a little
casket at the bottom of the first drawer of this secretaire.
Please give me the key. "

His looks were always sweet and aflFectionate, but his
voice trembled and had a strange tone of rage. Fanny
perceived it.

" Oh! " she said, " you are asking for your pardon. "
She hid the key in her bosom and withdrew a few stejjs.
"I do wish it, " cried Julius, giving free course to the
anger he had restrained with so much difliculty. "I do
wish this key, I need it, even if I must wring it from you. "
" Always suspicions. "
" Always some mystery! "

" Well, then, I shall disclose you everything. If tiU
now I have refused to you to open my secretaire, i'l wja

._■ S^,lf)^ <yr.«ttii .'■'^i-Ai"'^''^-'-

5r»

. t»nly becauao in it you would find some aecoutiU, somp
doctrments which wouM have revealed to youthut inateu(i
of living upon »u income bequeiited fo me, as I always
told you, I lived by my labor. T did not confess the truth
lb you, 'because I was too proud to accept your gifts. Have
I committed u crime? and those who liave written to you
' will they yet maiutaia that I uni a woman moved by
interest?"

"Then you could deceive me for ho long a time, and
you could repeat to me this falsehood so many times
without my dectecting it, so great was the sincerity which
shone in your face, so innocent was your mouth, as it is
at this very moment, in which you are again deceiving
me. " So saying, he wrong tiie key from her hands.

Amazed by such violence, Fanny fell senseless into the
arm-chair. Julius opened the secretaire^ then the drawer
and the casket — but the ring was not there.

" Ah! " he exclaimed, " I was quite sure of it. "

At these words, Fanny recovered her consciousness,
fan to the secretaire and also began to searcli.

" My ring! my ring! "

" Disappeared!"

"Stolen!"

" yes, stolen, " repeated Julius, and violently seizing
tlio girl by the arm, he thrust the letter before her eyes
aud finished reading it aloud:

" 'J,'he proof, sir, that all the relations between that
*•*• woman and her first love are not ended, the proof that
"tliey loved each other and that Gaital's departure had
••for its purpose only to facilitate an advantageous marr-
'*iage, is in the fact that before they parted, she wished
»«-him to accept a family ring which had belonged to her
**_ mother, which she jealously kept, and in which was
'** enclosed l>er hair. "

»' ' ' »4«tjy ' !y ' a ; 3i l Jg^H. ' ;jii;ft,. -'! g.,g-?^^ ^ ^ ^

Hits, somft
mt instead
1 I alvvayH
I the truth
ifts. Have
ten to you
iiDved by

ime, and
iny times
•ity whicJi
th, as it is
deceiving
hands.
IS into the
he drawer

ciousness,

" Well purauod rulius, " Will you deny it nJW? Tliis
rinjryou hud refused me; the key, too, yon were r.-fusinj;
not long ago. Knavery on knavery! Falsehood on falst-
hood! Treachery on treachery!

" Marion, " cried Funny.
" Ah, you well know lliat she i.i not at home. I al<.n«
will un.swer you. I curse you and hate the day in which
I was acquainted with you. Farewell! farewell! Say to
your lover that he can return. "

In departing, he ca.^t a last look at Fanny. She was
Iving on the floor iuiujovahle, pale in a state near to death
He made a few steps to help lier, huthis feelin«'s of anger
and contempt returning, ho cidled an old woman, her
neighbor, and after pointing out to her th(f fainted Fanny:

"Take care of that woman!" he said, and, throwing
her a purse filled with gohl, disnppeared.

*'^-^.' ^t — ■

^!k'.^^)^^

ly seizing
her eyes

ween that
[>roof that
xture had
sous marr-
tie wished
;ed to her
rhich was

,^«««iM..»L'v^v"4(*S-iiA^V*fw ■" ■ -'■"■'^-:'-« * -■- ■-■•—--

.:E

I r

•%

,.-■■■ f ^l-'S

I • t. .»

THE AlTTOdllAPH. '

r - , . ■ I ;

At the Jtiomont iii which Romeo receives from the
servant, Balthazar, the news of Juliet's death, he pronoun-
ces these simple words: " Indeed! Now, enemies stuf'!, 1
challenge you!" and afterwards buys the poison. This
deep grief, so parcimonious of complaint, impresses more
than any exciting paraphrase. In fact, our nature usually
takes interest iu the doingri of our follows, wlxatevor they
aim nt, and sometimes even when their sentiments and
feelings are not in harmony with ours. This interest lasts
while hope supports it and uncertainty delays the result,
but from the moment in which his destiny is accomplish-
ed, it is necessary that he in whom we were interested
spare us his joy or grief. A settled matter excites our
attention no longer. We, too, will spare our readers the
description of Julius Valabert's mental sufferings.

After the dreadful scene we have narrated, we will pass
over an interval of eighteen months, and we shall find him
one year married, and at the moment in which the wife
opening the door of his office, with a sweet and timid
voice says to him:

" Excuse me if T am intruding, but the person you send
for he^^ arrived. Do you wish to receive him now, or do
you p' tfer he should wait. "

Julius had married his kind cousin Adelc De Launay
Very few words are necessary to explain the change which
had ♦aken place ia the respective position of these two
person 3.

As A result of the rupture with Fanny, a violent fever

^fT!

^^S^^^^s^n^^iJ^fj^SS^/S^^r^^sl^^^^^'t^-i^rii^'ii^Sii- \ ■

f.-^

a from tlie
lie pronouti-
luies stur'<, (
•isoii. This
)rea3e8 more
tare usually
lutevor Ihey
imeuts and
nterest lasts
i the result,
accomplish-
9 iutereste;!
excites our
readers the
ngg.

we will pass

all iiud him

sh the wife

and timid

on you send
now, or do

De Launay
mnge which
af these two

riolent fever

had endangered the life of .Julius, IIo would certainly
have died without the constant cure of his mother and
Adele. Friendship and love hiid restored him to life.
A deep sadness and protracted hinguur followed his de-
lirium; without opposition he allowed himself to he car-
ried to the country, where, uccording to the doctor's opi-
nion, the pure, fresh air would restore his energy, and
where the sight of new ol)jects would cancel, little by little
the remembrance of the and event. In company with his
mother and cousin, he went to the neighborhood of Lyons.
There was a moment when they thouglit to have the
company of Saint-Oilles, but the presence of this gentle-
man was obnoxious to Julius, who did not doubt that the
anonymous letter wus his work, although inwardly he
sincerely thanked him for having enlightened him. All
that reminded him of the infomriis treachery, caused
painful and grievous emotion. Perhaps in his heart, he
had flattered himself with the expectation of receiving?
a letter from Fanny, in which she should try to justify
herself. However, he hud not heard from her; all those
who approached him kept silent, and Julius, blushing
and ashamed of his weakness, dare not to confide in any
one of his friends. <•

Thus he left r»ris hiding in himself the dumb grief
which gnawed within, too offended to think of a recon-
ciliation and to deeply in love to unbosom his gr'ef to
others.

But every hour which passes pours a drop of balm into
the most painful wound, and every day which dies takes
away one of the thorns which make the heart bleed.
During the first few months passed in the country, Julius
felt no sensible improvement. The days were excessively
hot and the sultry nights were too oppressive for his
feeble constitution. The flowers, which were in all their

bfiviity. thoir perfunios, tlic golden truilrf of llu> <'iirth, tlur
liliiiii.s covered with vcrilure, (lio thick foliugc ui the
woods, thiit i»oworful jjcnii of life wiiich aliunduiitly
circulated in nuturu, all these heatiticrt of the akv and tlie
earth, oppressed him as a stitij^iiij; irony, as a complete
<ontrast with the desolation uiil the diyncis of his soul,
in which nothing j^rew except a hitter aj^ony which he
persisted in keepiiig hid(hMi. However, little hy little,
flowers withered, uutuuin appeared with its train of
shallows and air filled with dew, with its pale sun shin-
ini; through fogs as a smile through tears .Julius felt his
intense grief partially dispelled. TIk! sadness and mourn-
ing of the objects which sctrrouufJod him harmonixed
with his own sadness and invited him to confidences.

His solitary walks were replaced by others with his
mother and Adele De Launay, and between the latter and
himself a greater intimacy began. The woman who had
once foreseen his desires, who had Hhared bin hopes, ought
she not naturally to be the first to console him? Only
with her he dared to speak of Fanny. In these li)ng
private conversations, which became of daily occurrence,
in those prolonged communings by the fire in the even-
ings, she narrated l)y wliat means she had caused the
rapture of his marriage with Miss de Septeuil; how
witlioiit any one knowing it, an act justified by her int-
ention, she had in her hand the thread of that intrigue;
bow l)y means of suspicions dexterously insinuated she
had {>repared the Counless for the first refusal; how, at
the same time, having learned that Miss Septeuil, with
no love for Julius, only obeyed her mother, taking ad-
vantage of that first moment of spite, she had advised &
prior suitor to renew his courtship. From confidence to
confidence she ended by revealing to him a secret that
^fie had concealed from all in order not to add her own

■'i»i n »i. i. . < i^ > i

^^"^^^^^^^a^^S^W^hj^' -

\\v <>iirth, tlur
liiigt* of tlic
I aliuiniuntly

sky iiiid tlic
s u oomplctf

of his woul,
y w'liifli li(f
Llo by little,
its truiii of
c> suti Hhin-
ulius felt hi-
I uiid niourn-

hannoui%('(i
fideiices.
rs with hJH
hehiltur and
um who Imd
hojifrt, ought

him? Only
1 these h>ng

occurrence,
in the even-

f;aused the
?pteuil; how

by her int-
uit intrigue;
linuated she
sal; how, at
jpteuil, with
, taking ad-
lad advised &
30ufidence to
I secret that
,dd her own

griefs Ic those whiidi JuliuH nlreudy suffered. She Imd
not winhed to lake lor herself any of the couHolatiousdue
to him. Mr. Do Launay had died, and that sad intelli-
gence had been received by Adele a little before the tium
when JuliuH had thought he was Itetrayed in his love.
Julius was never tired of admiring such inexhauslible
kindness, always ready to sacrifice for others. This
treasure at this moment belonged to no one. Tlieir in-
terviews becoming longer and more frequent, and without
having lost any of tlieir intimney ..id pleasure, wire
sometimes timid and embarassing, both for him and for
her. Fanny's name was uo longer .so frequently ipoken,
iind, one evening Julius holding his coijsin's 1 iids au''
fixing on her glances which troubled her, asked her ''
she would finish the work begun, and reconcile him t a •
pletely tolife, granting tlie happiness he had nr "r known.
" We have both suffered, " said he. " Marri^id I > a man
who was not able to appreciate you, you had patience and
resignation: I, on the contrary, experienced violent and
strong passions. To day, both free, — you from an im-
posed chain, I from my error. — we feel the need of a quiet
and sincere affection. Be mine, if not from ' ove at least
from pity, and I will be grateful to you for it. "

Without answer uu her part two months later Adele
had married her cousin.

Theyear following their marriage was spent in the
country. Mrs. Valabert's death strengthened these ties.
At the beginning of the winte- ;.*■ jy returned to Paris.
Julius resumed his occupation, for a long time int3rrupt-
ed, and searched for relief from those sorrows of which
the stings had not yet disap]>i!ared, in work rather than
in the pleasures of luxury and of the world. SaiutGilles,
during this long absence of Julius, had resumed his old
habits. He rarely called on him, and obedient to Allele's

■=,^..iiv..-'--*^--sr^

')' . ■ •

prayers, had" always avoideil spoalcihg of. tlie doleful past.

1 To the work which had usually kept Valahert busy, had
been added others, viz: the putting iu order of family
papers, the examination of the titles of succession, the
copying of letters and other papers. He had, therefore,
given orders to search for an honest and reliable mau to
whom could be entrusted a little work, and as we have
said at the beginning of this chapter, his wife had an-
nounced to him the arrival of that man. , - •
: To the question, " Do you wish to receive him? " Va-
lahert had answered with an affirmative nod.

" Dear, " added his wife, " would you permit me to
remain present? "

" Without doubt; but what inspire you with this desire?
It. is only a question of figures and documents, and in
nil probability the conversation will be very wearisome. "

" I spoke for a moment to the person introduced to you,
and, if I do not mistake, he is an original lull of many
pleasant fancies. " . , , , > '

" Wery well; judge him for yourself. Let him come in. "

An old man presented himself, and his entrance
justified the words of Mrs. Valahert. Arrived on the
threshold of the room, he saluted them in an awkward
way and with an exaggerated politeness. With both hands
he removed an old hat, the edges of which were broken,
and by a hasty movement of his head in bending it to the
knees, he had caused to descend over his forehead the
torn edge of a diriy silken skull-cap. As if this ridi-
culeous salutation v ore net enough, he repeated it three
times at intervals, each time advancing two steps, without
perceiving that Mrs. Valabert and her husband were mak-
ing useless efforts to restrain their laughter. As soon as
the poor man had ended his genuflexions, he raised him-
self up, casting around timid and humble glances.

oleful past!
:t busy, had
• of family
lession, the
, therefore,
ble mail to
,s we havo
fe had aii-

? " Vu-

11 m

•mit nie to

this desire?
its, and ill
earisome. "
iced to you,
11 of many

X come in. "
i entrance
,'ed on the
II awkward
both hands
re broken,
iig it to the
rehead the
f this ridi-
ted it three
ps, without
were mak-
A.S soon as
'aised him-
ie glances.

Suddenly lii.s face assumed an e.-^pn^ssiou of astonishment,
and he stpod before Valabert witl.i open mouth and dis-
tended eyes. Adele watched this inexplicable pmitcmime,
wlhni her husband, his thoughts returning to by-gone
tin.ies, exclaimed:
' "Ternisien!"

" Mr. Valabert! " answered the ex- professor. "How!
you have had the kindness to remember my face? Have
yet not entirely forgotten him who taught you the prin-
c'iples of an art which is now spurned, and of which
perhaps 1 am the last representative? The times were
very different when I used to come to give you lessons in
St. Honore street, where your father lived. It is now
eighteen years since I saw you last, and I remember you
always because you were kind a)id affectionate to your
professor. I beg pardon, madam, for thus speaking in
your presence, instead of w^aiting the permission of your
husband, but thinking of that time, I seem to become
younger. Look here, madam, you must not pay attention
to my dress. This morning, in order to come to you, I
have b^rushed and darned these rags as best as I could,
but they, I know very well, are old and in bad shape. On
entering I felt ashamed, and if you had not been present,
I am almost sure your servants woijld have thrown me out
like a beggar. Then I become confused and made very
humble salutations that I might be forgiven my presence
and intrusion into these rich, splendid apartments. Once
I, too, knew how to present myself properly, madam, and
I have punished many young ladies, rich and bsautiful
like yourself. "

Adele smiled kindly, which finally put Ternisien at

his easy.

" Truly," replied Julius, " I am happy and glad to meet

you again. •• -•? . '■ \ • •-. '••

_*>''-«MVa^^ ■^?**>*"--^- t-i.-

'• And T, too," ansvyrered Ternisien. " Well I can ma
you are not changed; always good and without pride. As
you take away all my embarrassment, I shall ask per-
mission to sit near the lire while you explain how I may
serve you. It is long since I have seen a fire in iny room
excepting the blaze of the candle, and that only when, on
account of economy, I do not go to bed at twilight. "

So saying Ternisien took a chair and seating himselt'
without ceremony, totally forgetful of manners, extended
his feet on the fender, while, with his two elbowa resting
on his knees, he stretched out his meagre aud wrinkled
hands toward the fire.

Julius Valabert, who found his professor as he had left
him, simple and full of kindness, was gazing at him with
true pleasure.

"Poor Ternisien!" he said to him. "I see that you
have not been happy, but as you remember me, why have
you not called on me? In every case, you would have
beeu kindly received. "

" Yes, perhaps I was wrong; but you, used to riches,
know one side of almsgiving. To give when one wishes
it and can afford it, is very easy, but to ask is mor<'
difficult. "

" After all, I thank chance that has at last united us
again. Here is some work for a few weeks, and I hope
you will not refuse that I shall fix the price myself. "

" We will fix it together. The little talent which I have
is completely at your disposal. "

" You, perhaps, live near here, as I had ordered that
before looking elsewhere they should search in our ward. "

" Yes, Hive inalittlerooin atNo. 4Furstembergstreet."

Ternisien did not perceive the profound impression
his answer produced on Julius and his wife. A pause of
a few minutes followed, taking advantage of which Vala-

"•!¥*?W*!^**W'W*'

. »-'-rf»^*r^tis*i*i&Jv-'*ii!;*4&ii

■ ^ttsi'tfe.^iA-^^.^^fSif^,

11 I can me
t pride. As
ill ask per-
how I may
n jny room
ly when, on
ght. "

ing himseit'
PS, extended
owa resting
jd wrinkled

he had left
at him with

!e that yo»i
e, why have
ivould have

1 to riches,
one wishes
sk is more

united us
Eind I hope
lyself. "
'hich I have

rdered that
our ward."

berg street."
impression

A pause of

yhich Vula-

6;-)

"bert and Adele, in whoui these words liad awakened
the same remembrances, exchange between themselves
furtive glances.

" Let us see, Mr. Julius, liow I can serve you. "
Valabert placed before the eyes of Ternisien a file of
papers which were to be copied. Having agreed upon
the price, Ternisien was ready to depart, but Julius de-
tained him. He feared to question him, and at the same
time he wished that he would speak. These two words
" Furstemberg street, " resounded in his ears. If his wife
had been absent, he would have directly questioned bis
old professor, who lodging in" the same house where he
had ceased to go, wovild perhaps been able to explain what
to him bad remained a mystery. The presence of Adele,
who se'^med very little disposed to leave, obliged him to
take a round-a])out turn of words.

** What have you followed during the last few years?"
" A trade which did not suit me, " answered Ternisien.
" I had lost my professorship at the University, my pupils
had left me, although I was still capable of teaching.
Certainly my hand was heavier, but the principles, you
know well, were good, and experience supplies the lack
of the happy liveliness of youth. However, all this was
of no use; I was obliged to resign and become a public
writer. For some years I worked dissatisfiedly with my
vocation. Often I had the intention of giving it up. A
circumstance which, in spite of myself, poisoned my
conscience: a letter that I had the weekness to copy for a
miserable recompense, decided me. "

" A letter? " asked Julius with indifference.

" Yes, an anonymous letter which contained very heavy

accusations. First of all, you must know that I always

nnnrisbod a profound contempt for all denunciatio.'s oi

that kind which one has not the courage to sign, and it

seemed to me that trutli ought not to have any fear of
expressing itself openly. Is not this your opinion also,
Mr. Julius? "

" Yes, " answeredlie, who, entirely absorhed in Teru-
isien's narration, no longer observed his wife, and
continued:

" How could that letter have made such an impression
on your mind as to put in execution such a resolve?,'

" Because that letter might compromise very much
and perhaps even kill an innocent person as well, as it
denounced a great perfidy."

" Why, then, " interrupted Mrs. Valabert, who from the
face of her husband had guessed what kind of feeling*
he was endeavoring to conceal, "why did you not accept
the second supposition, which was as probable as the
first one?"

Ternisien raised his eyes to the sky and heaved a deep
sigh

" You are right, madam, then I could, but to day "

" To-day?" repeated Julius.

" I cannot any more. My fear was a presentiment.
Alas! it was soon realized in the most painful and cruel
manner."

" Of whom did that letter speak? "

" Of a young lady. "

" And to whom it was addressed?" •

" I was never able to learn. The boy who brouglit the
letter to be copied had orders to have the address written
by another hand, nnd was unwilling to tell me whether
he liad received the^e orders from a gentleman or a lady.
Such a great mystery troubled me. This was not the first
time that I had felt soruples about letters of that sort, but
they had never made such an impression upon me, and I
reproached myself continually with an action so simple

. 1 1 I J I M'» ;» I njj^nij.ii j ^ y

feur of
on also,

11 Tern-
fe, and

pression
ve?/
y niucli

11, as it

rom the

feelirg-i

t accept

us the

I a deep

itiment.
d cruel

ight the
written
ivhether
' a lady,
the first
iurt, but
e, and I
simple

(J7

and natural belonging to my vocation, as if I had com-
mitted ii crime. At lliut time they were making objec-
tions to niy remaining any longer in the court of the »
Holy Chapel. I left the shop aiid rental, at No. 4 Furs-
temberg street, a little room vacated by an old woman.
The first two nights passed in this, n)y new lodging, were ■
calm and silent, but in the midst ofthetliird one I was
awakened by sighs and smothered moans;, and from time
to time by distressful cries, the effects of pain. The fol-
lowing day it was said to me that tlie little apartment
near the room I occupied was inhabited by n young lady
at the point of death. '

" A few days had passed when one day, returning koime '
at about three o'clock, J was surprised to see the door of
the same apartment wide open. I looked into the first
room, — nobody was there, — no one in the second, — every-
where the same dreadful silence. I entered the last room,
and there, lying insensible on her bed, I saw a young
woman whose features, although altered by protracted
illness, showeil that she must have been }»eautiful wheu
she was happy.

" I followed the first impulse of pity. I replaced on
the pillow the head which hang off the bed. I caused
her to inhale from a smelling bottle whicJi I found on the
mantel and tried to restore her to cotisciousness. When
she opened her eyes, usli med to bo j.lone in a room with
a young wonmn, I apclogized ami hurriedly retired. The
porter, whom 1 questioned, told me that on the same day
her servant hud left her. Without in«|uiring what were
bar means, I lan for and brought with me a nurse to
watch over her. Happily, there was some gold in her
house. Mi<s Fanny Dusmenil was her name; I had for-
gotten to mention it before. "

At these words Julius rose. Ternisien, interrupting

"'tis narrative, sawliiih, Jiftle; subdued, Aii'l his face wet
with tears. Julius turned toward his wrilfe, and seeing her
trembling with a' profound grief, piciuxW i« her face^
going near to her, took her hand saying:

"Adele, my tears, which were flowing With«rAVt ii'y own''
will, are no offense to you. i'lease retire to your apart-
ments, I entreat you and forgive nie. "

She lowered her head and went away, saying in a low'
voice, but with fin energetic lone of despair:
" Well, I know that you yet love her. "
Ternisien had risen completely dumfounded and wlien,
after the scene which had taken place, he found himself
alone with Julius, he not longei- knew whether he (.ught
to remain silent or to continue. Valaberl, now free from
vrestraint, came to him and inquired;

" [s she dead? Is it true? "
> "Yes."

"And her child?"
(■ ' " Dead abo,.l>efore the mother. But how do you know?"
4 ^'I know; what matters the rest to you? And tell me,
was she calumniated?" ■

" Yes. "

" Who told you? "

" Herself, and then I have other irrefutable proof. "
"What is it?"- . - •

"Listen. Often,.in day time, I used to inquire about
her health. Her agony lasted long and I had time to win
her confidence. J used to pass days and nights at her
bedside, and cared for her as if I had been her father.
She narrated to m© her story. She told ine how, on the
day preceding her.. marriage, her lover had come like a
raging maniac; how, crediting an anonymous letter, he
had accused her. . Fancy my surprise and consternation
when handing me that letter, I recognized the one I had

JJg'MMJSH^l^^t&iy^

rnm^-"

1 face wefr

seeing lief

her ruce>

L 11' y own'
0ur apart-
ill a low

ui'l wlien,

(] liiniself

he ought

free from

511 know?"
I toll me,

iroof. "

lire about
line to Avin
tits at lier
3r father,
w, on the
me like a
letter, he
sternatiou
one I had

copied She swore that notwithstun«Hng aTpeurauces"
which seemed to condemn her. she was innocent; and T,
who had a wrong to repair, hastened to ask the name ci
him who had been deceived hy such infamous denuncia-
tion, and who woul-.l probably have time to aeknow!cMlge
and repair his fault. She obstinately refused to tell it.
« I wish ' she said, ' that ibis fearful misfortune might
have been delayed a few u.onlbs, that my child could havM.
l>een borne olive, and then T would have forced myself
to beg in his behalf the pity of the father; but now I am
alone and near to death, of what use it will be to impor-
tune him? Although for me, who loved him so much,
his forgetfulness may be pninful, 1 prefer let hi.n forget,
rather than perhaps to awaken in him a useless remorse
by letting him know how I am dying.' Her strenght
visibly left her. One evening the nurse and I were at
her bedside awaiting the fatal moment. For more than
an hour she had not spoken. I have always retained the
minutest details of that last evening, and a common and
childish fact, to which death has imparted a lugubrious
and dreadful character, will never be blotted from my
memory. Near the head of the table a candle was burn-
ing I tried to increase the light, but as my eyes were
darkened with tears and my hand trembled, I extinguished
the candle and we were plunged into darkness. ' It is
perhaps, the eternal night, ' she uttered with feeble voice.
These were the last words she pronounced. "

Julius had hidden his face in his hands and tears flowed
through his fingers. Suddenly, as if he would have kept
a doubt for his only excuse, lie approached X^rnisien and

said to him: . , , i, *

'• You told me that they had calumniated, her, but you

did not give me the proof, which you say: is .irrefutable. "
" She had already justified herself of haviiigreceived a

young man. W liul condenuied her was a ring which she
was accused of having given as a love token to her suitor.
Hew it had disappeared she was notahle to explain. Well,
it had heen stolen hy hor servant, a certain Marion, bribed
with gold to steal this ring from the secretaire. The same
day that for the first time, I entered Fanny's room,
Marion, owerpowored by remorse, had gone, after having
made a confession of the crime witliout naming the per-
son who had induced her to commit it. She had placed
such a written confession on the bed of her mistress while
she was asleep, not having had the courage to accuse
herself or to a«!c f;irgivcness. Fanny refused to search
for her. Ileouing this letter, she had fainted, alone,
without help, and chance brought me there a'ld happen
to see that cqnfes^sion. "

"Enough, enough!" said Julius," I received that
anonymous letUp-r. Fanny is dead, — I murdered her. Who
then, around mo, has plotted such a barbarous scheme?
Did Fanny confided it to you?"

" She named 1,10 one. She only spoke to me of propo-
sitions made to her hy a friend of her lover's familv. "

"Saint-Gillcs! Ah! him, him! — my mother's confidant!
Must I believe that they acted in concert, and that after

having given her consent to it? Oh! no, no! he acted

alone. Now I remember wliat he used to tell me. Him
him alone, I accuse. "

"If you were cahner, " suid Ternisien, "I would give
you the proof you need — the copy of the letter. "

"Have you it? "^

'• I have' kepi-rt. The boy who brought it to me had
received the order to destroy it, but as he did not know
how to read, I, instead of the copy, tore up another piece
of paper, without his noticing his substitution. This copy
must be at home."

ig which she

her suitor.
:plain. Well,
rion, bribed

The same
iny's room,
after having
iig the per-
had placed
istress while
e to accuse
d to search
ited, alone,
i!id happen

ceived that
}d her. Wbo
us scheme?

e of propo-
family. "
s confidaiit!

1 that after
no! he acted

me. Him

would give

to me had
d not know
lother piece

This copy

"To-morrow you will bring it to me; no, even to night
— now — I need it. Let us go! "

Noticing the convulsive joy which spread over the
features of Julius, Ternisien repented oflmving confided

such a thing to him.

"It is difficult to find it immediately, it is necessary
that I should search for it. Perhaps it exist no longer.
However, by no means will I give it to you unless you
first tell me for what purpose you intend to use it. "

"I would have a proof, nothing else. " replied Julius,
" a proof which would give to me th^ right to spuru the
author of that letter. "

" All right; I shall leave you now, and to morrow will
bring it to you. T hope to find it. "

Evening had arrived. Ternisien took leave of Julius
and returned to his room very much confused. He had
no trouble in finding the letter. He thought it right to
tahe precautions against the youth's anger, and his peace-
ful character made him believe contempt to be a sufficient
vengeance. Valabert, who could not believe in such
simplicity, exclaimed:

" He will not give me this proof, but do I really need it."

An hour afterward, a servant went out from his palace
with three letters. Two of them were addressed to friends
of Julius, the third to Saint-Gilles.

, ,.=,-.',ii.->>^L3Jfe:-i--"-i.'?>"^'"'''' ■■

V[.

THE llEVEllSi: OF THE CAUDS.

Nearly twenty minutes after Tornisieii huil entered hi*
room, lie heard u knock ut his door. This noise inter-
rupted the S3arch lie was already making among a bundle
of papers to fiiifl the autograph he had promised to Julius
the following day. As he did not expect visitors, and rs
iu his nre-oceupation he had not hcar>l the frontdoor shut,
so at ...st he thought the noise was eaused hy the wind
swinging an open window in the stairway, and, therefore,
without further notice, he pursued his work. After a
moment, he thouglit he heard a friction which ascended
and descended along the door as if produced hy a liand
wiiich searched in the darkness for the string of a bell, a
thing completely unknown among Ternisien's furniture.

The knocking was repeated a little stronger and with
greater energy.

" Who is there and what do you want? "asked Ternisien.
He received no answer, but the knocking was rejieated.

" Come again to-morrow, " said the good man, alarmed
at such persistency, and fearing to be tlie victim of some
snare. " Come again to-morrow; I am already in bed and
have no light. "

Unhappily, the candle, the light of which was seen
through the cracks of .his door, belied his words.

" Open the door, please, " asked a sweet and trembling
voice; "you have nothing to fear from the person speak-
ing to you. " Ternisien decided to open the door.

-•rKi■J,^J^3;4«^5^;^^ii(^J*;JiKJ>^3Hy^^^

itered h\fi
so iuter-
; a bundle

t(» Julius
s, au'i PS
loor shut,
the wind
herefore,
After u
ascended
' a Imnd

a bell, a
iniiture.
md with

(.•rnisien.

[•eated.

alarmed

of some

bed and

•as seen

embling
I speak-

A veiled woman quickly entered the room. Slio seemed
ft victim of the greatest agitation, and when she raised
lier veil to breathe at ease, the old professor uttered an
exclamation of surprise on obscrvinp the change which a
few hours had produced in her features.
" Close the door" said she.
Before obeying, Ternisien cast agl mce at the staircase.

" Alone? you are alone, madam 1 "

" Nobody knows nor ought to know of my visit to your
house. Swear to me, sir. that if yo\i should bo questioned,
you will not reveal that [ c\mo her'. "

" Madam," replied Ternisien, still more amazed by the
visit and by the mystery that this lady put in it, "madam,
it is not customary for me to pledge myself so easily to
such oaths, which sometimes be -ome painful and difficult
to keep. When you will have the kindness to explain the
causea which brought you here, I will try to make ymi
the promise you ask. "

" I understand your prudence, but have no fenrs, the
secret I ask is more necessary to me than to you. lie
yourself the judge. "

She cast her eyes around the room, and, aller a few
minutes, added: \' .

"Here we must talk low, must we not? (Jthers can
hear what is said. "

" Yes, madam, it was in this same room that, without
caring for it, I heard the smothered moans of the unhappy
Fanny. You were not in the parlor when I finished the
narration of that very sad story?"

"Yes, yes," interrupted Adele with an abrupt and
agitated tone of voice, " I know that Ma/ Fanny is dead."

"After my departure M. Valabert had the time to

tell you?" ;

" I have not seen him since. "

" Yet he is ignorant that you have come to see me? "

"Heia."

" But, madam, if this evening he should discover
your absence? "

"This evening? — O, this evening he will not think of
what may I hove done. Now he does not think of me
any more. "

In spite of his want of penetration and his absolute
ignorance of paasion, Tornisien began to guess the secret
grief which thus changed the features of Mrs. Valabert,
and gave to her eyes that insane expression and to her
voice that strange inflection. He recollected the tears
Valabert had not been able to hide from her, and with
what words he hud entreated her to retire. Jealousy was
gnawing her heart, but he could not yet guess the motive
which had brought her to his lodgings.

She motioned him to sit down beside her.

" Have you kept the copy of that anonymous letter? "

Ternisien stared at her with astonishement, not know-
ing whether she was questioning, or aflirming a fact well
known to her.

" You have kept it " she continued; to morrow you are
going to give it to my husband. Do not try to deny it;
from the next room I heard all, I know all. Even when
your voice or his had not reached me, my gaze would
have pierced through the thickness of the walls and guess-
ed your words from the simple movement of your lips.
You must give me the copy of that letter. "

" Madam, 1 promised to give it to your husband. "

" To him or to me, what matters it to you?"

** If you are here with his consent. "

" To-morrow you will write him that you have lost that
paper, and he will believe it. Have you not already made
its existence doubtful ?"

" Indeed, I fear I have told the truth. "

Bee me? "

d discover

»t think of
ink of me

is absolute
i tlie secret
1. Valttbert,
ind to her
1 the tears
and with
Bulousy was
the motive

3 letter?"
not know-
a fact well

3w you are

to deny it;

Even when

»aze would.

3 and guess-

your lips.

and."

ve lost that

'eady made

"No; at the beginning yfu quite assented that it was
yet in your hands, and you have bejijun the search. I
will have that copy. CJive it to me, sir; sell it to me, ask
for it whatever price you will; you are poor and I can
enrich you. "

Speaking so rapidly as not to leave him time to answer
she had opened her satchel.

Then she added: " Here are four bills of o thousand
francs each; these are not enough? — I know it — this is
what I had in the casket. I will give you more, much
more; I will treble the sum — twenty thousands francs —
and 1 have jewels — here, take."

Her color, before pale, had returned, her hands with a
movement so rapid as hardly to be followed by the eyes,
emptied the satchel. A pearl necklace, precious stones,
diamonds, rings, her own ear-rings, in a twinkling of an
eye, were thrown upon the knees of Ternisien.

The poor man, astounded, contemidated her. On the
flaps of his ragged coat was u sum tenfold larger than he
had before possessed in all his lifj-time, and this unex-
pected fortune was given him without reckoning; yes it
was his own. It was enough that he should extend his
arm and shut his hands to become the master of it. But
such were not the thoughts in Ternisien's mind. Between
the wealth he had never known and the misery which
was shortening his life, in that honest heart was no place
for speculation, however excusable it may be. With
trembling voice and tears in hia eyes, he addressed
Mrs. Valabert.

" Are you then very unhappy?"

"Yes. very unhappy," sLo answered, " and it is in your
power that 1 may be so no longer; you can give me peace
and insure my happiness. Do you accept it then? "

" The recital of that story has awakened in your husband

the remembrance of u former love. Is it not true? I ought
to have perceived this and broken it off when he entreat-
ed you to go out of the room; I ought not to have ro-opeued
a wound yet unhealed. You must forgive me, madam,
the evil that I have unwittingly done you. I had pres3nt
in my memory the death of that poor woman, who was
an angel of virtue — I could swear it, — and who has been
so baaely calumniated. If you had know her as I did, if
you bad heard her protest her innocence, you wuuld not
have required this irrefutable proof to have been cun-
vinced of it. But for^ 'Ve me, madam, if I again afflict
you in speaking of her, and forget what I learned but a
few minutes ago, namely, that love is jealous of a rival
who does not even exist any more. You are afraid that
your husband would become attached to that souvenir,
and that at your side he would remember her whom he
loved. How the possession of that letter could make you
happy is what I am not able to understand. What in-
terest causes you to wish so ardently for it as to be ready
to purchase it with you own fortune? "

Whether Adele had not a satisf^ictory answer ready or
whether the emotion by which she was agitated was too
strong, she remained silent.

Ternisien continued; ,

"When I saw that Mr. Julius wished for that letter, I
immediately told him that perhaps it would be impos-
sible for me to find it, because I was afraid that, recog-
nizing the handwriting, he would have gone to ask satis-
faction of him who had written it. He has re-assured
me. What ought I to 8Upt>ose, now that I see you troubled
by such a fear? "

" Well, yes, I fear that he may expose his life, " an-
swered Adele, as i^the last words of Ternisien had
given her the excuse she had been searching for. "Your

-'J»»>tiiiisi^edMW!«'ie^iSMsM^t^e%s^^

' I ought
) eritreat-
e-opeued
, madain,
il pres3nt
who was
lus heen
I did, if
uuld not
eeii cou-
in aftlict
ed but a
i a rival
raid that
30uvenir,
vhom he
iiake you
iVhat ill-
be ready

ready or
was too

letter, I
le i in pos-
it, recog-
ask satis-
■e-assured

troubled

lie, " an-
isien had
r. "Your

friendship for him has surmised the misfortune which
my lovo tries to prevent. That is why I come here at this
hitehour, and why I beg you not to speak to anyone
of my visit. I know,— do not ask how I know,— the
persou who wroto that letter ; my husband, too, will recog-
nize the handwriting; they will fight, be sure of it; perhaps
he will be killed.— Twice I will lose him ou account of
that unhappy woman. Give me that letiei— let me
destroy that proof— and when he has only suspicions;
when the guiltv one is able to deny, and, therefore, to
refuse to fight, then I wiU be happy or at least at ease
about my husband's life. This letter, I ask for it upon

my knees. " . ■

" Rise, madam, " said Ternisien. " I am too sorry for
what has happened not to give you back yourtranciuillity.
The oath y<m ask from me, I give you willingly. I will
hide your visit from Mr. Valabert, but take this money
again, take back these jewels; I will not accept them. In
returning you this letter, I intend only to repair a wrong
done and not to give you back a proof. "

In so speaking, Ternisien returned to Mrs. Valabert the

bills and jewel3°she had handed him. He went to the

table ou which some papers were scattered, searched a

little and afterward returned towards Adele. Seeing the

vellow paper he had in his hands, she sprang and seized

it with a convulsive movement. While she was reading,

a strange change was taking place in her, a change which

only th"e wish to prevent a challenge by destroying that

proof could not justify to eyes more expert than those of

Ternisien. In her joy was something of frenzy. One

would have said that of the two opposite natures existing

in her, the most violent— for a long timebriddled by an

. iron will— had finally burst forth and removed all obstacles

—overflowed by her violent passions. Her features, the

xtttsSm-f^sHMni^^

mirror of a new soul, seemed to have assumed another
character. She was no more the timid, submitting re-
signed, suppliant woman, but a lioness which roared
while devouring her prey. As if her hands were not
sufficient, she tore the sheet with her teeth, and then,
gathering up the pieces, burned them in the flame of the
candle, one by one. In proportion as they were consumed,
her eyes shone and followed the writhings of the flame as
if they were the sufferings of an agonized victim. As soon
as the fire had devoured all, she dispersed the blackened
ashes which flew around her with a puff.

" Nothing more" she cried. "Behold every trace has
disappeared! This letter never existed. I am saved!"

In her delirious joy, she twisted her hands, laughing
and crying at same time. She threw herself upon the
neck of Teraisieu before ho was able to express his
wonder at such unaccountable exuberance.

"To you I owe my happiness, "she replied; "I will
never forget it. You refuse my gifts but come to see me,
sir; as I have told you, my fortune is yours. I have your
own word that you will be discreet: is it not so? Good-bye.
Do not accompany me; I will find iuy way. The important
thing is that I do not stay hero any longer. "

She opened the door, rusheil to tlie staircase, and despite
the darkness, so nimble were her steps that Ternisien
scarcely heard the nuiso. The street door was shut,
Ternisitn placed himself at the window and by tlie un-
certain light of a street lamp saw her turning u coni»r
through the snow.

For some lime the old i.rofessor remained thunder-
struck at what had happened. A thousand different ideas
whirled in his pt.or head. The thought of evil was tlie
last one which could enter his niiad, but, upon thinking
of the offeid ho had refused, it seemed to him that if he

. i^tSSwiKsiftsiSsiSi^fca^^fev*** ■■

another
-ing re-
roared
ere not
1 then,
e of the
isuraed,
lame as
A^s soon
ickened

ice has
ed!"
.ughing
)on the

BS3 his

"I will
see me,,
ve your
od-bye.
portant

despite
rnisien
3 shut,.
lie un-
corn';r

under-
it ideas
'as tlie
inking
if he

had accepted them it would have been a heavy burden on
his conscience, and that he would have been obliged to
return the gifts. He wrote to Mr. Valabert that all his
researches had been useless; that for a long time he had
kept that paper, but that it existed no longer. Then he
went to bed, but was unable to sleep or to banish the
suspicions which incessantly presented themselves to
his mind.

Mrs. V'alabeit had returned home without having been
even inquired for by her husband in her absence. During
the night, no noise troubled the quietness of the house.
At dawn the following morning, Julius aroused from the
table where he had spent the whoJe night in writing. He
re-read and sealed some letters. A very long one was
addressed to his wife; another also of several pages con-
tained his lar.t dispositions, and was to be given to the
notary who had his fortune.

His wife's room was separated i'rom his own bv a
smaller one, the door of which opened between the two
divisions of the library. He directed his steps to that si.le,
and listened for a few minutes. All around was still
" She is asleep, " he said; " I can go out, and if Heaven is
just I shall return here without troubling her rest. In
two hours all will be ended. He or I. Let me go. " He
wrapped himself in a cloak, took the box which contained
lUS pistols, and softy turned the key ii; :"'3 lock.

At the same time, the door opercd rom vhe outside
and Julius found himself fate <o faji' v, ith li^s wife who
was pule, troubled and with a couut'iiuince which testified
that she, too, had been awake all i '^ht.

Surprise made Julius draw back. Adele entered, shut
the cabinet door violently and, without asking or giving
explanations, took away the cloak and snatched the pistol
box from her husband's hands.

" You were going out to fight," she said.

Julius scarcely recovered from his emotitm, replied:

" I must be second for a friend. Tliese piptols are for
him. Adele, do not be afraid, but let me go, "

"Oh! you cannot deceive me," she said; "you are
going to fight." _

"Adele!"

" No useless words! no false oaths! You go to fight. "

"To fight? Why? and against whom?"

Against whom? Against him who wrote that anony-
mous letter and whom you think you know. Why? Be-
cause you wish to avenge the death of whom you always
thought. I know it, I tell you. Does the heart need to
be taught that is forsaken? Does the jeolousy need to be
enlightened? Did I not see you yesterday, while that man
was speaking, forget that I was there, — I, a poor, forsaken
woman,— and only recollect it to pray me not to trouble
your grief with my presence? And because I retired you
thought I had not heard your sobs, or the questions you
asked, or the resolution you made? Julius, dare you
repeat to me that you are not going to fight?"

He turned his eyes toward her, and making an effort,
he replied with a grave and slow voice: Adele, it has
always been my sad fate to put to a trial your inex-
au;' I bio kindness, which made an angel of you. Once
you alone rendered justice to that woman whom you now
detest on account of the title of my wife. Later, when I
was very near dying, you again consoled me; for almost
two years you sorrounded me with attentions, and I swear
to you, without that unforeseen revelation which threw
me suddenly into the past, no moaning or sorrow, or
remembrance would have found place in my heart. Try
to find in that virtue which no other woman equally pos-
sesses, the necessary strenght to bear this last blow. Yes,
I will no longer deceive you. I go to fight. It is not a

replied:
ols are for

; "you are

to fight. "

lat anony-
Why? Be-
you always
rt need to

need to be
le that man
31, forsaken

to trouble
retired you
estions you
, dare you

; an effort,
lele, it has
your inex.^
^ou. Once
m you now
}r, when I
for almost
and I swear
lich threw
sorrow, or
leart. Try
qually pos-
blow. Yes,
[t is not a

question of love, as no vengeance can give life again to

her who no longer exists, but the infamous person who

calumniated the woman you yourself once defended, must

receive the price of his falsehood. To-day, to-morrow,

twenty years from now, so long as my hand can hold a

sword or direct a ball through the heart of an adversary,

I will demand satisfaction for that vile conduct; I will,

avenge Fanny's death. I wished to avoid meeting you,

Adele;I feared your tears, your pains, your reproaches,

but my last thoughts were for you. There, on the mantel

piece, is a letter I wrote you, in which I bade you the

last farewell. Receive it now, since a fatal chance has

brought you across my path, and do not try to detain me.

My resolution is taken. It is a reparation that I owe lier;

and in risking my life, I expiate, in my opinion, my

credulity and the error I ought to have repulsed far

from me. "

Adele had remained before him dumb, with a fixed
gaze and clasped hands, but when she saw that he again
prepared to leave, she seized him violently by the arm,
and exclaimed with an accent of subdued rage:

" Then I must again resign myself to be patient? This
everlasting duty 1 For others, the passion, the heart which
burns and confides itself,— for me the coldness of marble.
No, no! this must not be sol He asks me for another
virtue, while I— God! I beg thee to restrain the passion
which was ready to overflow. Let not the secret of my
heart come to my lips. Seal my mouth, and restrain my
voice before it shall narrate what I know. Let this
blindness which betrays me depart from me, and give me
back my former strong will. "

"Adele, what do you mean to say?" asked Julius,
" Whence this delirium? "

-Must I even explain to you the cause of my grief?

'82

Do you thing to deceive me? Was that woman, then so
beautiful that the simple remembrance of her is stronger
thfvn your love for me? In what way she loved, to love
you more than I do? You do not know, Julius, how, I
love you. You have only known in me a timid, reserved
woman, whom a simple glance was sufficient to make
happy, but I was waiting only for a single impassioneil
word, for a worm caress, to attach myself to you, to love
you — not as a wife, but as a lover. Oh ! tell me that you
were ignorant of these transports, of these secret desires,
of that love which dare not to burst forth, but which to-
day made me fall at your feet, confounded, suppliant, mad?
Is it not so? You will forget that woman for me, who
entreats; who, crying, kisses your hands, your knees.
Yes, she was beautiful; but I ? — I, too, arn beautiful; you
have told me so too often to ignore it, and happiness will
make me yet Hi ore beautiful; and you will look at me
with pride. Yes, she was innocent; and, am I guilty in
loving you? As she died,I will die too, if you forsake
me. Do you then desire to kill us both?"

Julius was moved, but not persuaded. He felt how
legitimate was Adele's sorrow, and how strong, to cause
her to speak in such an infatuated way, so destitute of
modesty. Her words affected his ears, not his heart, —
since the preceding day his heart had been wholly ab-
sorbed in the remembrance of Fanny. Freeing himself
from his wife, he made a few steps, as if to go out.

" So you will go, you will leave me? all that I have said
has been useless to detain you? "

"I mt/si go. "

" You will not return here ttnless avenged or dead! "

-rightly!"

"And during yoir. absence I, who know all, will cry,
tea my hair, strike my forehead against the wall— and

msm

lan, then so
r is stronger
ved, to love
lius, how, I
lid, reserved
ent to make
impassioned
you, to love
ne that you
^cret desires,
it which to-
)pliant,mad?
for me, who

your knees,
^autiful; you
ippiness will

look at me
1 1 guilty in

you forsake

He felt how
»ng, to cause
destitute of
his heart, —
n wholly ab-
eing himself
out.
t I have said

or dead!"

all, will cry,
le wall— and

'83

all that caunot detain you? On the field, facing your
adversary, nothing can affect you? nothing will prevent
your heart beating or your hand tr(^mbling^ This is
what is in store for me: You, if you, come, back, will re-
turn to cry for her beside me, or bebrought here a corpse,
or dying, and I shall cure you and restore your life to hear
you repeat tlie name of Founy. Oh! see, Julius, do you
know that you will drive me mad? that 1 woul \ prefer to
see yoa dead rather than alive? But you will not depart
from hence — you will not fight, — Who is your adversary?
Who killed your beloved? Saint-Gilles; it is not so? "

" Who else could have done it? "

" Aiid if he refuses to fight?"

" He will not refuse; 1 have his answer olreadj'. "

" His answer to an insulting letter. Yet one does not
risk his life for an insult that could be repaired. If he
refuses to fight; if he tells you that he did not write
that letter? "

I will tell him that he is a coward; I will take him by
the throat with one hand and with the other I will slap
his face. "

"But then perhaps, he will kill you; and yet — he did
not write that letter. "

" Who did then? "

•* Some one that you cannot strike — someone that does
not wish for your death." ' .

" Adele! "

" Some one who embraces your feet; a woman whom
jealousy made guilty, and who speaks now on account
of the fear of losing you. It was I Julius. " :

"You?" • ,.

At such a fearful revelation, JuliuS, remained as if
striken by a thunderbolt. . ' . ,

" Voi{ " he repeated iafter a few minutes. < ■.,..,

84 .-, ,,

'i Yes, I," she answered, trying lo seize his hands,
wliich he drew back. He was looking at her with amaze-
ment and terror. He was taken with dizziness in meas-
uring that profound falsity and the abysses of that -i^ort,

a buruin£ volcano covered with snow. Finally he

exclaimed: " What had that poor thing done to you? Oh!
if you have spoken the truth, do not approach me hence-
forth. I would feel only pity for you, but you excite

my horror. "

" Julius, you ask what she had done to me? But I loved
you from the first day I saw you, and she also loved you.
bo not ask mo how I happened to be acquainted with
Ernest's visits. I was jealous, an gold bought me aU
the secrets I wished to know. It was I that caused the
letter to be copied with all the precautions Teniisien nar-
rated. Yesterday I received from him and burned the
paper written by my hand. I bought Marion, and for me
she stole the ring whose disappearance was to serve as a
i)roof against Fanny. That is what I did, and it seems a
dream. I cannot believe it myself. My reason is wander-
ing, my head is feeble as my body.— Why have I spoken?
Ohl yes, I remember, because you were going to fight
with Saint-Gilles; because you were going to risk your
life and I desired to save you. "

"Have you yet that ring which Marion gave you?
Answer, answer! Give it to me. "

" I have it no more. "

" Give it to niel " he repeated with a fearful voice.

" Julius " she replied, I have it no more. Your looks
affright me; your voice makea me tremble. Have you
uo pity for me?"

" Had you pity for her? "

" Always hrrI "

'« Do you not remember that she is dead, and died
murdered by you? Pity for you? Never! "

zu his handd,
er with ainaze-
nuess ill meas-
3 of that .i^ort,
IT. Finally he
ne to you? Oh!
ach me hence-
nit you excite

le? But I loved
tilso loved you.
quainted with
bought me al'
lat caused the
I Teinisieu nar-
id burned the
'ion, and for me
is to serve as a
und it seems a
ason is wander-
have I si)okeu?
going to fight
; to risk your

ion gave you?

arful voice.

e. Your looks

)le. Have you

lead, and died

*' I, too, have suffered. \^'a8 I not jealous? Am 1 not
yet 80? llavo I not suffered when victim of a love whidi
could cause me to lose all modesty, I saw you going ont
to meet hor? Have I not silently concealed my tears?
Have I not sighed every night? Mute and impassible in
appearance, have I not staggered at the' noise of your
footsteps, at tlie sound of your voice, and, when your hand
touched mine? And during two years what has been my
lot? By diiy Fanny occupies your thoughts, and often
even at night in your dreams I have heard her name.
Did I complain? And to-day, because the fear of losing
you has made me speak, fool that I was, you reject mo
without pity. Your eyes have not a single tear for my
sufferings, your heart has not an excuse for my fault. She
could have died; she! you 'had loved her. What would
become of me if you will not see me any more? A word
only for pity; not a word of love. Now you cannot speak
it; I know it, and you would make me so happy. No, no!
it is not that which I ask of you. Only let fall a look
upon me as formerly, as yesterday, and I will leave you
in peace. You will think of her, you will cry for her, and

1 when your eyes shall be dry, I will return to you, I

will kneel and ask your pardon. Oh! my head burns. A
word, only a word, or I shall die! "

She had approached him; he pushed her back again.
"Infamous one!" he exclaimed, "if you, yet have it,

give me that ring. "

" What will you do with it? " she asked raising her head
and regaining an energy inspired by despair.

" I would in your presence cover it with; kisses and let
you know once again, before we part, how I love her who

had it. "

" To part? Oh! Juliu?, you defy me? You believe me
feeble an.l under your feet. To separate? But I am your

wife and will follow, you everywhere. What will you say
to obtain that separutiou? That foi jealousy I murdered
your mistress? And the proof wheie is it? That letter
was destroyed. I will answer titat you were lying. Ali!
you are without pity for no; you wiii punish nie for my
love for you with the remembrance you retain of the
other and then forsake me. Well, then! As your wife J
claim my right to remain with you; I will never leave.
Do you understand? "

"Madam, we shall not see each other again. "

" Wo will see each other every day. Everyday I will
importune yovi with my presence, with my love, v/ith my
distress and my jealousies. "

" Be silent, madam, be silent! "

"No, T will not; neither to-day nor to morrow. Ah!
you believe to have suffered by having lost your darling
while another woman whose reason you have destroyed
only receives from you the epithet of infamous and the
threat of a separation. No, no! AVe are united to each
other, and we will not be parted. Our existence will be
a hell, but I am used to suffering, and I accept my lot. "

Out of her mind, almost mad she had taken the arm of
her husband, whose rage had been increased by such
ioolish provocation. A fearful expression of contempt
and hatred shone in his eyes. The door of the room
opened with violence, and at the same time three gentle-
men entered. Julius made a last effort, and as he had not
seen the presence of the others, raised his hand against
his wife. She bent and fell, half fainting under the blow.

"Gentlemen," said he, "the hour I appointed for our
m ting is past. Without doubt you come to search for
nif. Mr. Saint-Gilles, I would not have delayed present-
ing my excuses to you and praying to forget the letter I
had addressed you. You can see the motive of my delay,

will you si\y
r I murdered
Thiit letter
■ lying. All!
1 nie for my
retain of the
your wife J
never leave.

ry day I will
ove, v/ith my

norrow. Ah!
youi' darling
ive destroyed
lous and the
lited to each
tence will be
jept my lot; "
en the arm of
Bsed by such
of contempt
of the room
three geutle-
1 as he had not
hand against
tider the blow,
tinted for our
to search for
layed present-
it the letter I
e of my delay,

a conjugal scene, that I cannot hide like the others.
Madam was asking for a separation which I was refusing
to her; now I do not object any longer, and the testimony
you will make in her favor will be the punishenient of a
brutality of which I feel ashamed, but of which it is too
late now to repent. "

He approached his wife, and in a low voice said to her:
" To dav you will lodge your complaint, otherwise be-
fore the' gentlemen I will dish' jr you by telling what
I know. "'

* EI'ILO(

A month after that scene •' alius and / dele were separat-
ed. Two month later Julius mourned his wife, and the
year was not ended when Ternisien in tears accompanied
a funeral retinue that went out from the palace of the
Rue de Lille.

•'"^^Sf^^^

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POKMS #

TRANSLATED FROM

fr9j)Q\), Italiai), apd Spai^isl?.

THIRD EDITION.

ON THE DEATH OF A GIRL.

TO MY BELOVKD MOTHER, KORTUNATA SORVILLO,
WIDOW NOBILE, (NEE NANS6).

Twelve springs had embellished her youth. Toor girl!
she could have lived longer. To her eyes the future was
opening full of delight, and her beautiful smile was pure
as a golden ray of the sun.

The life of this beloved one was the support of her mo-
ther's soul. Innocence supports, while virtue defends. She
was used to say, " This angel, one day, will become a
woman," and this child was the living incarnation of her

happiness.

And thou hast lived twelve years embellishing all on
thy passage, for twelve years thy mother found her bliss
la the looks of thy charming eyes; for twelve years she
had in her soul a continual happiness knowing that thou

wast living.

On the storm of life this girl was a calm, and in sorrows
was a ray of dawn, and thou, alas! suddenly left us, leav-
ing in our heart an everlasting sadness.

Her soul was the human embodiment of the virtues,—
the virtues, flowers of heaven, and perfumes of the elect.
Afterward a child was needed in the bands of the angels,
God* singled her out, Death came, and she was no more.

The mother thoughtful, dishevelled, stayed there to
look at the body, mute for ev er. Alas! for a mome nt it

~~ *God wanted one more angel child,

Amidst His shining band.
And 80 He reached, with loving smile,
And clasped our darling's hand !

1 02

-^ ■ .

seemed that her life had disappeared with that of the poor
girl for whom the funeral bell was tolling. Oh! I seem still
to see this girl with her rigid, silent form, and her pale
face! Oh! I see her cold and beautiful, lying in the bed
as she were sleeping in an angelic dream.

I see the light around her shed its reddish lustre in
the humble and sad room. I yet see the friendly hand
faithful to its duty, raise up and place her corpse in the
coffin. 0! when this little body was brought to the church-
•ard, the mother groaned for her lost happiness. One
would have said that her heart wished to follow the coffin,
so many were the sobs which poured from her oppressed
breast. The day was over, and gave place to another,—
and yet the mother has always in her heart her daughter,
and seems always to see her angel prostrated by death.

Vainly she is invited to many joyful feasts, — vain it is
to persuade her of the necessity of forgetting,— vainly it
is said that life has the same law for all, and that, by
death, hearts are united to God.

Vainly it is repeated to her that the flowers live only a
season; that the beautiful dawn which awokes the morning
cannot continue; that the children's souls, up in Heaven,
live attain, and at our own death they show themselves

to us.

The poor mother remains deaf to all these words. In
vain every one tells her that her daughter is an angel,—
that Death must extend its law over all,— that life is an
exile in this world, — that all must change. Alas! her heart
is broken,— her faith is extinguished. The mother cannot,
and will not believe that she is dead; and continually
with her tears asks for her daughter. She demands this
girl, who still lives in her mind, with her songs, with her
games, and with her gay smile. Sometimes her mind
wanders for a moment, and it seems that her soul has

of the pool*
[ seem still
1 her pale
n the bed

I lustre ill
ndly haiul
pse in the
he church -
iiess. One
c the coffin,
• oppressed
another, —
r daughter,
}y death.
— vain it is
, — vainly it
d that, by

live only a

he morning

in Heaven,

themselves

■ 93

risen to the clouds to see if her time had arrived to depart
f ir awav from the noise.-Thus she lives amidst our
l.uniun shadows, always faithful to her daughtei,-her
dearest love. Many weeks I have heard her cry, and
riiuce I have been told, that she is still weeping.

Brasseiir.

words. In
an angel, —
t life is an
isl her heart
;her cannot,
continually
nnands this
gs, with her
3 her mind
3r soul has

ir.

THE NIGHT OF OCTOBER.

TO MY BUOTJIER, (;aV. (ilOVANNI SORVILLO.

J'OKT.

The pain T suffered Ims vanished like a dream, and
the faint renuunbrance it lias left I can only compare to
those mists which rise with the dawn and disperse with
the dew.

MUSE.

What ailed thee, my poet, and what was the pain that
parted thee from me? Alas! I yet felt its sad effects.
What is this unknown grief I have so long bovailed?

POET.

It was a vulgar pain, well known to man, but when
our heart is grieved, we always believe, poor fools that we
are, that nobody before us has known sorrow.

MUSE.

Only the sorrow of a vulgar mind can be called vulgar.
Friend, reveal this sad misery of thy heart; believe me;
speak with confidence. The severe God of silence is one
of the brethren of death; complaint brings consolation,
and often a single word has spared remorse.

POET,

If I were to speak of my pain, truly I shall not know
by, what name to call it, — if it be love, folly, pride, ex-
perience, or if it could be of profit to anybody — but as we

r.o.

Iream, and
compare to
iperse witli

I pain that
sad effects.
miled?

but when
jols that we

illed vulgar,
believe me;
ence is one
consolation,

1 not know
, pride, ex-
■ — but as we

are now alone, seated by the fire, I will tell my story.
Take tliy lyre and let my memory awaken at the sound
of thy notes.

MUSE.

Before relating thy sorrows. Poet, art thou cured?
Think, that to-day thou must speak without love or hatred;
recollect that I have received the sweet name of consider,
and make me not the accomplice of the passions that
have ruined thee.

POET.

I am so well cured of my malady, that sometimes I
doubt if it ever existed; and where I risked my existenco,
instead of myself, I fancy I seethe fa»e of a stranger.
Muse, be without fear, we may both without danger con-
fido in the voice of thy inspiration. It is sweet to smile
at the remembrance of ills we might have forgotten.

MUSE.

Like a watchful mother at the cradle of a beloved child,
I trembling turn to thy heart which was closed to me.
Speak, friend, my attentive lyre already follows the accents
of thy voice, and in a ray of light, like a beautiful vision,
pass by the shades of other days.

POET.

Days of work, the only days in which I really lived.
Oh, solitude thrice beloved! God be praised, at last I have
returned to my old study! Poor room, walls so often de-
serted, dusty chairs, faithful lamp! Oh, my palace, my
little world, and thou young immortal. Muse, God be
praised, we are again going to sing! Yes, I will open my
soul, thou shalt know all, and I will relate thoe the ills

00 . ;.■/.: ■ •;

that a woman can do,— for a woman it was, my poor friend,
(alas! perhaps thou already kuowost it,)a woman to whom
I submitted as a serf submits to his master. Dotosted
yoke, it was there my lieartlost its force and its youth,
and yet near rny mistress I had fancied I should find
happiness. When in the evening near the brook we
walked togheter on the silvery sand, when the white
specter of the poplar showed us the road from afar, I can
yet see by the ray of the moon, her beautiful frame lean-
ing on my arm. Let us speak no more of it. I did not
foresee where fortune would lead me; doubtless the anger
of the Gods had needed a victim, for my attempt to be
liiii)py has been punished as a crime.

MUSK.

The imago of a sweet remembrance has just presented
itself to thy thoughts. Why fearest thou to retrace its
track? Young man if fortune has been cruel, do like her,
smile on thy first love.

roKT.

Mo, it is at my misfortune that I have acquired the
right to smile. Muse, I said I would without passion relate
my sorrows, my dreams, my madness, and that I would
tell thee the time, the hour, and the occasion. It was, I
recollect, a night of autumn, sad and cold, like to-night;
the murmur of the wind with monotonous noise nursed
dark cares in my troubled mind. I was at the window,
expecting my mistress, and listening in the obscurity, I
felt such a distress in my heart, that I conceived the
suspicion of an infidelity. The street where I lodged was
dark and deserted; seme shadows passed a lantern in
their hands. When the wind whistled in the half closed
door one heard in the distance what seemed a human

iiy poor friemi,
nnau to whom
ter. Detested
md its youth,
I should find
the brook we
leu the white
oui afar, I can
nl frame lean-
it. I did not
tless the anger
attempt to bo

just presented

to retrace its

uel, do like her,

B acquired the
it passion relate
i that I would
sion. It was, I
, like to-night;
s noise nursed
at the window,
he obscurity, I
conceived the
ire I lodged was
1 a lantern in
L the half closed
9emed a human

sigh. 1 know not— to say the truth— to what hikI pre-
BunliiiuMit lay restless spirit tlioii ubimdoiiod itself. 1
recalled in vain the remains of my courage, and 1 I'eit
a tremor when I hour the eloek strike. She came ni»t.
Alone with downeast eyes T looked anxiously at the walls
and the road; and I luive not told tlieo wliut a senseless
urdor that inconstant wonnui lighted in my bosmn. Her
alone I loved in the world, and to live a day witlu)ut lior
seemed to me a destiny more dreadful than dealli; still I
remember in that fearful uight I make a long effort to
break my chain. A hundred times I calleil her perfidious
and false. I remindel myself of all the illssho had caus-
ed me. Alas! at the recollection of her fatal beauty what
ills, what griefs were still unapi)eased? At length the day
broke. Tired with vain expectation, I fell intoa slumber
)U the rails of the balcony. I opened my eyes at tlie
rising dawn, and let my dazzled orbs wander around me.
Suddenly at a turuiug'of a narrow lane I heard on the
gravel stealthy footsteps. It is she. She enters. Whence
comest thou? Last night what hast thou done? answer,
what would'st thou? What brings thee at this hour?
Whilst I alone on this balcony watch and weep, in what
l)lace,to whom did'stthou smile? Peffidious, audacious
woman, is it possible thou come to me? What askest
thou? By what horrible thirst darest thou seek to draw
mo to thy exhausted arms? Go, retire, spectre of my
beloved — return to the grave if thou art risen from it —
leave me to forget forever the joy of my youth, and when
I think of thee to believe that I have dreamed.

MUSE.

Culm thyself; I conjure thee. Thy words make me
shudder; thy wound is near to re-open. Alas! it is very
deep, and the miseries of this world are so long ere they

lire offucc'd. Forj^cl, my i-liilil, iiml I'rotn tliy liourt drivo
tho luuiio of that wuimiii I will not prououuoo.

I'OKT.

Rljamc to iTioft who lirst tuuglit mo I macho ry, iitid
iiia<l(U!ii(Ml 1110 with horror iiiul rii>:e. Sliumo to thee
u-oinii!i of thcMlurk oycH, whoso fatal lovo buried in the
shade my spring airl my bright (hiys. Tliy voice, thy
.smiles, tliy corrupting gluncog tau;,'ht mo to curse even
the aiipoarunco of happiness: thy youth, thy rharma re-
duced mo to despair, und if 1 uo longer believe in tours
it is bocuuse I see thee weep. Shame on thee! I was us
simple us a child; like a flower at tho dawn my heart
openei! to thy love — sure thut heart without defense could
easily be abused — but to leave it its iunoeeneo was still
easier. Shame on thee I Thou wast the mother of my
lirst sorrows, und thou caused'nt a fountain of tears to flow
from my pyes — yetitflow^ and uothing will ever heal it,
but in that bitter source I wid bathe, and I shall forget, I
hope, thy abhorred remembrance.

MUSK.

Poet; it i3 enough. Though tho illusions with tho faith-
less (,ne lasted but a day, do not curse that day when
thou speakest of her— if thou desirest to be loved, respect
thy love — if the effort is too groat for human weakness to
pardon tho ills that come to us from others, spare thyself
at least the torments of hatred, und, in defau.t of pardon,
let oblivion coino. The dead sleep in peace in the bosom
of tho heart; and thus should sleep the feelings which are
extinguished; the relics of the heart have also their ashes.
Do not let our haiuls touch these sacred renuiins. Why
in this narration of a vivid suffering, wilt thou only see
a dream and a deluded love? Does Providence ac t with-

lic'urt (Irivo

ihory, iinl
ino to Ihoe
Liriod in tlio
' voice, thy
) curse even
cluinua rc-
svo ill tours
'el I was US
u my heart
lefeiiso could
ICO was still
other of my
r tears to flow
ever heal it,
ihall for{j;et, I

ilh the faith-
t day when
loved, respect
L weakness to
spare thyself
i.t of pardon,
in the hosom
igs which are
.0 their ashes,
nains. Why
lou only see
ace ac t with-

out a motive? or, tliinkest tliou that the (iud who siruek
thee, struck inadvertently? The hlow of whidi thou com-
phiinest has, perhaps, saved thee, child, hy that thy heart
wu9 openetl. Man is an apprentice, and sorrow is his
niasttM-, and no t)ne knows himself until he has suilered.
Hard is the law, hut supreme, old us the world and the
fate, that wo must receive tlio baptism of misfortune, ami
at such sad price everything must bo l)Ou^ht. The crops
to ri[)en have need of dew. The symbol of joy is a broken
plant wet with rain and covered with llowers. Did'st thou
not my that thou wast cured of thy folly? Art thou not
youny, fortunate, well received by all — and those light
I'leusures which nuiko life desirable — what would'st thou
care for them, if thou 1\ad'st not wept? When on the
decline of day, seated on the hearth thou drinkest to li-
berty, say, would'st thou raise thy glass so heartily if thou
had'st not paid the price of thy gayety? Would'st thou
lovo flowers, meadows, the green shade, the sonnets of
Petrarch, and the soiigs of the birds, Michel Angelo and
the arts, Shakespeur and nature, if thou di<lst not find
some of these old sighs in them? Would'st thou under-
stand the ineffable harmony of the heavens, the silence of
the night, the murmur of the waves, if in some other
jdaces fever and sleeplessness had not nnide thee think of
eternal retl? Hast thou not now a fair mistress — and,
when on going to sleep, thou pressest her hand, the distant
recollection of thy youth dqes not reader her divine smile
more sweet. Dost thou not walk together iu the midst of
flowering woods, on the silvery sand and in that palace
of verdure? Does the white spectre of the poplar no
longer show the road by the ray of the moon? Dost thou
not see, as then by the ray of the moon, a beautiful form
lean her hand on thy arm — and if in thy path thou
shouldst meet with fortune, would'st thou not follow her

100

gaily singing? Of what Ihoti dost thou complain? Im-
mortal hope is revived in thee by the hand of misfortune.
Oh, my child, pity her, the unfaithful one, who formerly
made the tears flow from thy eyes. Wherefore wouldst
thou hate the experience of thy youth, and detest an ill
which has rendered thee better? Pity her she is a
woman and God made thee, when with her, guess by
suffering, the secret of happiness. Her task was painful.
She, perhaps, loved thee, but destiny willed that she
should break thy heart; she knew life, and she made thee
know it. Another has culled the fruit of thy sorrow —
pity her — her sad love has passed like a dream; she saw thy
wound, but could not close it. Her tears were not de-
ceitful, and even though they were, pity her. Thou
now knowest how to love.

POET.

Thou speakest truth. Hatred is imi)ious, it is a shud-
dering, full of horror — when that viper, curled up in our
hearts unfolds itself. Hear me then, Goddess, and be
witness of my oath.— By the blue eyes of my mistress —
by the azure of the firmament — by that brilliant star w'hich
bears the name of Venus, and, like a diamond, shines
from afar on the horizon — by the tranquil and pure light
of the star, dear to the traveler — by the herbs of the
prairie — by the forests — by the green meadows — by the
powers of life — by the productive force of the universe, I
banish you from my memory, remains of an insensate
love; mysterious and dark history which sleeps with the
l^ast — and thou who formerly hast borne the fame and
sweet name of my beloved, the instant I forgot thee for-
ever ought also to be the moment of forgiveness. Let us
pardon one another. I break the chain which united vis
before God. With my last tear receive an eternal adieu;

plain? Im-
■ misfortune,
rho formerly
■ore wouldst
letest an ill
r she is a
r, guess by
was painful,
led that she
le made thoc
hy sorrow —
; she saw thy
i'ero not de-
her. Thou

it is a shud-
led up in our
doss, and be
y mistress —
lit star w^hich
nond, shines
nd pure light
iierbs of the
ows — by the
le universe, I

an insensate
eps with the
he fame and
;jot thee for-
iicss. Let us
ich united us
eternal adieu;

101

jind now, fair dreamer, now, Muse, t'^ our own love-
sing me some joyous song as in llie first times of otif
bright days. Alrea<ly the fragrant lawn feels the approach
of the morning. Como to walk my dearest, and to smell
the flowers of the garden; come to see immort:il nature
rise from the veil of sleep, wc shall revive with her, at the
first ray of the sun.

A. Dc Miisset.

^'5St?idF3«ic^.;

Id:

- Ill- , ■

THE NKillT OF DECEMBEU.

T.. MY l.llAR SISTKK JOSKIMIINK CAM-ICiK, (nKK SOUVILLO.)

At the time I was a school-boy odo evening I remain- ^
ed silting up in the lonely hall; there came to sit at my
table a poor child all dressed in black, who resembled me
as a brother. His face was beautiful and sad ; by the light ,
of my lamp he came to read in my open book, leaned his
forehead on my hand/and smiling, remained thoughtful

until the morrow.

When I was fifteen years old I was walking one day
with slow steps in a wood. At the foot of a tree a young
man dressed in black came to sit, who resembled me as a
brother. I asked him my way; in one hand he had a lute,
in the other a bunch of roses; he gave ine a friendly greet-
ing, and, turning away, with his finger pointed to the hill.

I had reached the age when we believe in love. One
day 1 was alone in my room with the tears of a first sor-
row At my fireside came to sit a stranger, all dressed in
black, who resembled me as a brother. He was sad and
thoughtful; with one hand he pointed me to heaven, and
with the other he held a poniard. It seemed that he
suffered from my pains, but he did not sigh, and vanish-
ed like a dream. , t • i

At the age when man is licentious, one day I raised my
glass to drink a toast at a feast; opposite to me come to
sit a guest, all dressed in black, who resembled me like a
brother. Under his mantle he shook a rag of purple torn
to pieces, on his head he had a wild myrtle, his thin arm
tried to press mine, and the drinking glass in my feeble

hand broke as soon as it touched his.

;k souvillo.)

iig I remaiii-
Lo sit at my
esombled me
; by tlie light
ik, leaned his
i thoughtful

ing one day
tree a young
bled me as a
he had a lute,
fieudly greet-
3d to the hill.
1 love. One
of a first sor-
all dressed in
was sad and
heaven, and
tned that he
1, and vanish-

ly I raised my
me come to

led me like a

of purple torn
his thin arm

in my feeble

A year after in the night 1 was on my krees at lliu Ix 1
where my father had first died, there, at tho bedside came
and sat an oridian nil dressed in black, win) resemblc.l
me as a brother. His eyes were moistened wilh tear;-:
like the angel of sorrow be wtis crowned with thorns, his
lute was lying »)n tho ground, his purple was the color of
the blood, and his poniard was in his breast.

I recollect him so well that always in every moment ci"
my life T recognized him. It was n strange, vision, and,
yet, angel or devil, I have seen everywhere his friendly

shade.

When later, tired of suffering, I tried to exile myself
from France to bo born again or to die, when impatient
of moving I went in search of the vestige of a hope, at
Pisa, to the feet of tho Apenines— at Cologne, opposite to
Ehine— at Nice, to the declivity of tho valley— at Floren-
ce, in the midst of palaces-atBrignes, in those old castles
in the midst of the desolate Alps— at Geneva, under the
cedars— at Vevey under the green apple trees— at Havre,
in front of the Atlantic— at Venice, on the arid Lido,
where on the grass of a grave has just died the pale Ad-
riatic; everywhere over this immense earth I have wan-
dered, my eyes bleeding from everlasting wounds; every-
where limping weariness, dragging my fatigue after it,
has dragged me in a hurdle; everywhere always thirsting
for tho knowledge of an unknown, 1 went after the shadow
of my dreams; everywhere, without having lived, I have
seen what I had already seen, the human face and its
illusions; everywhere I wished to live; everywhere I wish-
ed to die; everywhere I touched the land, always there
came across my path a wretched man, all dressed in black,
who resembled me as a brother.

Who art thou, whom in this. life I have met in my way?
Seeing thee so sad, I cannot believe thee to be my ev'

loi

j^ciiius; tliy sweet smile is full of iiilinite patience, and
thy tears show so grout pity. In looking at thee, thy sor-
row seems brother to my pain, and resembles friendship.

Who art thou? Surely thou art not my good angel.
Never thou comest to advise me. Thou seest my mis-
fortunes, and strange to say, thou indifferontly dost let
me sufTer. For twenty years thou hast walked on my road,
!ind until now T should not know how T ought to call
thee. Thou smilest, without partaking of my joy. Thou
pitiest me, without bringing me any consolation.

This evening also thou hast appear- 1 lo me. The
night was chilly. Alone bending on my l)C'd I was looking
at a place, yet warm with burning kisses, and was think-
ing how soon a woman forgets, and feeling apart of my
life pine away.

I collected letters of past days, and tresses remains of
our love. All this past repeated the eternal oaths of a
day. I was looking at these holy relics which made my
hand tremble. Tears of my heart, devoured by the heart,
and which to-morrow will not be known, even from the
eyes which have shed them.

I wrapped in a coarse covering the remains of happier
days, Methought that here below what lasts longest is a
lock of hair. Like the diver who goes down in a deep
sea I lose myself in such forgetfulness. On every side I
revolved the probe, and alone far from the eyes of theworld
I mourned o'er my poor burisd love.

Already I was prepared to seal in black those frail and
dear treasures. Already I was to restore it, and not being
able to believe it, I doubt it. Ah! feeble woman, proud^
senseless, in thy spite thou wilt remember me. Why, why
liest thou to thy own mind? To what purpose all this
weeping. t}ds heaving bosom, these sobs if thou dost not
love me?

atience, and
,hee,thy sor-
3 friendship,
good angol.
est luy mis-
itly dost let
. on my road,
)ught to call
y joy. Thou
tion.

lo me. The
[ was looking
d was think-
X part of my

remains of

I oaths of a

■h made my

hy the heart,

en from the

13 of happier
i longest is a
n in a deep
every side I
is of the world

ose frail and
^ndnot being
3man, proud ^
e. Why, why
pose all this
thou dost not

10.')

Yes thou laiiguirihest, thou sufferest, thou weopesl, but
ji dark shadow is between us. Well, then, good bye,
adieu. Thou wilt count the hours which separate thee
from me. Go, go, ami in thy cold heart satisfy tliy pride.
I feel my hea't yet young and strong, and many evils
could yet find a place among the evils that you luive
caused me.

Go! go! im!/iortal nature had not endowed thee with all
virtues. Ah: poor woman, who would be beautiful and
not forgive. Depart, depart, follow thy destiny. I who
love theo have not yet lost all. Throw to the winds our
exstinguished love. Is it possible? Thou whom I loved
so much? If thou wilt go, why lovest thou me?

But suddenly in the darkness of night I see a form
cross the room without making any noise. I see a shadow
apjiear on my curtains; it comes and sits on my bed.
Who art thou, pale face, sad portrait of myself dressed in
black? What wilt thou, wicked bird of passage? Is it a
dream? Is it my own image that I see in the glass? Who
art thou, ghost of my youth, pilgrim whom nothing could
tire. Tellme why I find thee on the shadow everywhere I go.
Who art thou solitary visitor,.assiduou3 host of my pains?
What hast thou done to be condemned to follow me
through the world? Who art thou, who art thou, my
brother who appears lo me only on the days of sorrow?

THK VISION

Friend, my father is also thine. I am not a guardian
angel, neither the evil genius of men. I do not know
where are directed the stejis which I love in this little
world in which we are.

Iain not God, neither devil, and thou hast called me
by my name when thou calledst me brother. Where thou
wilt go I will alwiiys follow till the last day in which I

will go to sit OP. thy grave. lIcuvtMi luith entrusled thy
heart tome. When tliou suffo rest, come to me without
uueasiiioss; I will come after thee on the road, but I can-
not touch thy hand, friend; I am

THE SOMTIDK.

.1. Dc Mitsset.

101

pulrusted thy
I me without
id, hut I cau-

sset.

IV.
INFAMY.

TO KEV. HAUTUCY (•AUMic-iiAKL,(//'"'"'^^''«. Ontario.)

Threo families, hungry, naked, shelterless, twelve
starved children, learning early in life huw much pity
exists in human hearts, wandering on every road, with-
out finding shelter, stopped one day on that corner which
once was called Switzerland the hospitable.

At the sight of them anger is suddenly shown. Rascals,
vagabonds, beggars away with you! Let us cast this ti-
resome burden on our neighbors! Moneyless tourists,
come, out of way! Off with you!! But our neighbors,
thank God, have police like us for such visitors.

You may sometimes have seen panting sheep, ceaseles-
sly worried by butchers' dogs with hungry jaws, bleating
in despair, hurrying and pushing, finding no place to run
to, to fly to, to escape this horrible torture, since on every
side they are ready to bite them. And the butcher's boy
gleefully chuckles and hounds them on, " Bite him, there's
a little one for you. " Jt is blood, it is flesh that the dog
tears. It is an eye torn out that hangs on the jowl. It is
a life in tatters; but close to the shambles it is quicker
work; and one gets through his business all the sooner.

So the poor wretches cast out on the frontier, twenty
times are roughly repulsed. Driven on and back, over
marshes, down ravines, through forests, caught, let go,
caught again, from twilight to dawn, from dawn to eve,
they go on again. Oh, horror! in vain with tears and cries
the little ones shew the tQrmentors their bleeding feet; in
vain the rain drenches them, freezes them; no christian
offers them a place under his roof; no hearth for a moment

wanus Iho pale and fleshless bodied of these wretched

croutures. ^ ^ ^

Exhausted, they complain in a voice scarcely audible,
" Mother, I am hungry, cold; mother my feet are bleeding;
oh, mother, wait a little. " But the orders nro steri). Living
or dead, they must leave the country without delay. They
mu^it tramp, still tramp; and the police have many other
cares, besides these cries and tears.

Drag them, beat them, if their spirits break down. No
doubt the rod will restore their strength. Let us see how
crders are carried out, and if to excel in this noble com-
petition the zeal of different districts is unequal, so that
wo may give the prize to the most brutal.

When there tomes to us, dragging on a useless life,
some worn-out millionaire, well taught the respect due to
money, we sniff him and require nothing more; we pass
him by as respectable, and humoring his whims, we find
a virtue in his every vice.

Scruples and morality we keep for the poor. Let us be
proud of our hospitality; it is like a tavern dog who
humbly fawns on his master's customers, loves good
clothes, hates tramps, and always bites rags and
licks velvet.

Poverty, poverty, how bitter is thy wrath, and what a
crushing burden is thy load of misery! Oh, mother of
insults, what gall, what hatred, what fear, dost thou pour
during thy long embraces, on those whom thou choosest,
cleaving to them like a hideous leprosy, more deadly

every day.

Never gaining a step, the poor man Iramps day by day,
wearing out his whole life in a fight with famine, to add
to the cares of to-day more racking than yesterday's, those
of tomorrow, which wake him at night; unless, indeed,
he spend the night in ruining his (yes in order that an-
other mav be amused, or glitter for an hour or two;tosee

lese wretched

rcely audible,
tare bleeding;
steri). Living
t delay. They
) inuiiy otlier

ak down. No
Let us see how
is noble com-
3qual, so that

I useless life,
respect due to
lore; we pass
irhims, we find

or. Let us be
ern dog who
3, loves good
es rags and

1, and what a
3h, mother of
iost thou pour
thou choosest,
more deadly

ipsday by day,
amine, to add
iterday's, those
jnless, indeed,
aider that an-
r or two; to see

109

his dear ones hopelessly hmgnish in want; to suffer in
their suffering; to have less rest than the cattle; and yet
to dread losing u thankle-s labour, and in order ti keep it,
to endure everythins, contouipt, hard words, I'roiu him
who iV.w'^H hiiu ii scrap of work.

That is his fate, and his mildest fate, too; that is what
he is when ho has food, when he is to bo envied. Ahl now
I understand knavery and cunning; the selling of soul
and body to avoid such misery; every means being good
to heap up money ; for all is forgiven except the crime of

an empty purse.

I feel myself shuddering with profound fear, for those
who have bread, for the world's lucky men, when I see
them teach the hideous lesson that there is no room in
the sunshine except for them, that for them grow the
flowers of this human life, for others the thorns and end.

less woe.

Ye rich! open your eyes, it is now or never! There are
noble hearts among you, I know there are, and pride has
always saved me from envy, but most of you have only
seen one aspect of life, onlj the laughing side of this two-
fold world; ah! you would tremble to see the other!

Find a quick remedy for this gnawing evil. In pru-
dence or in pity, come to help so many wretches whose
groans becoming evcrj moment more distinct, are chang-
ing into shrieks whi'di, deaf though you be, the noise of
your feasts cannot drown.

At least let feur loosen your finger:!. Sometimes after
ball or concert, you throw in this bottomless pit alms
which men applaud, and which fall like a drop of water
in a huge conflagration; then, fools, you think you have
satisfied this hungry crowd who gnash their teeth.

Apportion, then your balm to the horr.-r of the wound.
The workman, aghast at the future, must have a labor

110

leas thankless, so that ho may think of his chihlren, of his
old uge, without turning pulo; lio must live und musthavo
some joy, some little of tho hapi)ino3s which Heaven

sends you.

Make haste to woep for every moment! Some day
death will come, an unhidden guest, tosit at yourl)anriuet
Then for tho evil, which you have permitted, having heeu
able to prevent it,on earth, you, oh, ye rich, shall answer
for it tooth for tooth, eyo for eye, body for ho.ly.

For him whom poverty drags into crime, for the maiden
whom poverty defiles and throws into the street, for the
cheat, the groveler, the covetous, for all those whom fa-
mine ruins, the anger of God, taking shape before your
eyes, will ask of each of you, " Cain, what hast tliou done
with thy brother?"

lu the name of earth and heaven help the poor. Keep
a little money for his cup of wormwood. In your feasts,
vour balls, your games, let tho memory rise that elsewhere
some ore desolate! Give, before it is taken awi.y from you,
for fear lest tho flock who bleat to-day, mny roar to morrow.

A. Richard.

I J

lil

Idren, of his
(1 inusthuvo
icli Heaven

Some (lay
our banquet
having been
hull answer

r the maiden
reot, for the
le wliom fa-
beforo your
t tliou (h)ne

poor. Keep
yotir feasts,
Kit elsewhere
,'iiy from you,
ir to morrow.

■d.

SAIXT.SYLVESTER.

TU I'l.'ol'. n.VXII-.l- WILSON, M-. I>.

^President of I 'nivcrsity College, Toronto. )

The year is .lepartin-. When a mere Ix.y, ign.^r uit of Hie,
the.e .lays to n.e were so beautiful, and sueb hcdidays.
Gaily, with .ny soul full of hoi-e, I ascende.l those hard
steps built ui> with tombs.

Tbe pride of being, and of growing, shone on my hice;
u.ulern.v golden hair, I showed n.yselfafair flowering
^brub of\vhich the living sap drinks and oyerllowsjn

the sunlight. , . . f!^''

If 1 counted the days, it was not for complaining ol tbe

days, already past, which had fallen as dead branches;

without fear 1 coubl contemplate the future, and without

remorse I could enjoy tbe present.

Far very far from tbe ancestral hearth with empty

heart,'mournful spirit and broken body, forsaken amidst

the swarmhig city, sad, depressed, martyrized, to-day the

future frigthens me.
To me it is like a dream, in which the pains of the dny

come back in turn to persecute us with human face, and,

without rest, scourge us with love.

A. Richard.

^ •■i^!^^£i>a-:

112

VI.
THE TWO MOTIIKllS

TO HON. cllltlrt. H. I'ATTKliaON.

{Jiid^'C of the Court oj Appeal)

" I niiist go, anil imi.xt tiikc uway from tliy

arm-', nil, imor wretch, lliis my darling, j

who has iiiado thte m luipjiy. "

■^■■1.' ■■-■

On tho river Loire wliicli, liko n silv(M- thrciul, runs
over II hundred miles df liappy land, proud und gay, tlio
citadel of Sauniur raises its head.

Liko fresh beauties bathing themselves in the seu, lier
white houses extend along tho river, half naked and half
masked by vineyards and roses. Neither lieat nor frost.
It is an eternal spring. Oh, yes! beautiful and cheerful ii
the citadel of Sauniur.

And there near the walls, like a soft pillow, is a gentle
declivity with his maullo of verdure and the shadows of
its avenues. But this verdure, and these flowers are not
a complete paradise, and, mixed with uuch u celestial
smile, is a house of sorrows.

Yes, a mad-house is at the extremity of the avenue.
Amidst the silence of the night, amidst the gloomy wail-
ing of the wind, are heard, interrupted, plaintive and
deep sounds of lament, merry songs or strange voices,
blasphemies and atrocious laughs.

And a strong feeling, of which nobody dares to ask the
reason, forces every person to pay a visit to this living
churchyard.

11:5

thrciul, runs
uutl gay, tlio

I tlio sou, her
ike J and half
loat nor frost,
u 1 cheerful is

ow, i3 a gentle
le shadows of
Dwc-rs are not
ich u celestial

Df the avenue,
gloomy wail-
plaintive and
trange voices,

iros to ask the
. to this living

On tin* hist hour of ii siiliMulid sunset a heaulU'ul young
lady, giving hcT hand to In-r little daugliler, aHcendrt tho
hill. Jlow rhurniing was the little angel nf live years,
droHrto 1 iu white, fresh, HUiiling, handsome un<l niinble.

The shining fair hair disccnds on Ikt shoulder-i like
waves, au'l, with her provoking looks, <'all for kisses.
"Mother, euii you te'.l me liow those poor niadmeii live?
Oh! how anxious I am toseothem; mother, come."

Tho d tor is open, they ascend two stairs, they aro iu
tho asylum court. It was the lime of the daily walk, tho
hour of tho gaiety. Oi:e walks heavily, another reeites,
mid another sings. Some jump up and down, some sit
on the ground and others laugh.

A woman with loose hair and a dark petticoat, alone,
far nway iu tho cc .ner, sits on a bench as if tired hy long
work. On her pale cheeks there is an old trace of tears.
She turns around her stui)i<l and dull glazed eyes.

Go<l had given her us a token of a lirst love a gii' whoso
face was tis beautiful as that of a cherub. IIow she did
love her dear daughter, how she watched her white
cradle! Il.dy and deep aff-iction! For this hn[n>y mo-
ther her girl was tho world. A cruel illness had stolen
this gem of her life, ond heartbroken from the great
sorrow she became mad, and for five years the poor wretch
waited for her darling, and asked of all, if they hud seen
the lost one. Everybody who saw her with this iutense
pain engraved on her squalid forehead feels in his own
soul a charm forcing him to tears. The kind lady up-
proached near the unhappy mother, prob ibly moved by
such great sorrow.

Clinging to tho skirt of her dress her little daughter
thrusts forward her head, and with her eyes filled with

£:S>>.Wi£-QSi«E'"^>'V«6

J, ;^.i« .-;«».. '.!.U:v.

114

tears, she said: "Poor thing!" Then softly approached
the mad woman and with her little hand caressed her

dark hair.

Shaken at this touch the unhappy one turns a look to
the little ango!. and a strange light shines in hor eyes;
then fixedly looking at her, ,sho uttered u cry, opened her
arms, and with an impetuosity of affection pressed the
little one to his hreast.

" Oh, my daughter, my dear daughter, how strong is
this joy which overflows my heart! Almighty God, let
me die in such happiness! Die? Who speaks of death?
To live, I say, yes, I will live now that I have found thee
and I will live always near my child.

" Come, sit here on my knees; let ine kiss thy beautiful
eyes, let me forget these few years of horrid anguish.
From the very first day I lost thee, my eyes had no more
tears, but the excessive ecstasy of this hour makes me-

weep anew.

" Toll me, where, where thou hast been all these years
I was in search of tiiee? Hast thou perhaps been in the
joy of the other life? But even in heaven in vain (hou hast
asked my sweet kisses, and now thou comest back to the
loving embraces of thy mother. Thou comcst now and
wilt ffy no more from these arms. I would rather die. Oh,
yes, I Vcol that surely I would die, if again thou wert taken
uway from me."

. . III.

In such a way she spoke and convulsively pressed the
girl to her panting bosom, and, in the intoxication of her
deluded affection, kisses without number ca.ne from the
burning lips. It was a fever of infinite love that sweetly
melted her heart. The dear girl with her little hand
caressed the dark hair, and, in return, kissed the unhappy

115

tipproachecl
caressi'.l her

rns a look to

in hor eves;

', opened her

pressed the

OAV strong is
;hty God, let
aks of death?
'^e found the e

thy beautiful
rrid anguish.

had no more
ir makes me

dl tliese years
3 been in the
vain thou hast
t back to the
iicst now and
atlier die, Oh,
lou wert taken

y pressed the
xication of her
Liiue from the
'e that sweetly
L>r little hand
d the unhappy

woman and smiled at lier with love's smile, tlie young
mother not daring to trouble the joy of such a l)rief
enchantment.

In the meantime the falling evening's twilight Avas
shedding its pale light, and the dread band of guards
opened the door of the inner staircase, the clock of the
asylum calling the family of the lunatics to their respect-
ive cells. The kind stranger who feared to destroy the
joy of this holy mistake approached near the poor mad
woman, telling her in a pitiful voice of love, " 1 must go
and I must take away from thy arms, poor wretch this my
darling, who has made thee so happy!" Jumping up
the nuid woman with ferocious fear pressing the girl to
her breast, " Who art thou," she cried to her with harsh
voice, " who eomest to trouble my motherly affection? "

"Knowest thou not that neither Satan nor God could
ravish me of my little angel? Away, far from me. Woe
to him who will dare to touch only a hem of her dress.
Rather that permit her to be taken from my arms, I would
rather she should die, oh, yes, I will kill her rather than
lose 1

ur again.

Neither prayer nor threat could subdue the delusion of
her mind, and with her lean arm raising the little girl, if
anyone came forward, only a step, she meant to throw her
on the ground, and such was the strong resolution gleam-
ing from her gesture and from her accents, that it was
thought better to leave her alone, and to await the events
of tlie night.

Therefore all retired, and she with the girl ran into her
cell, and there, in haste putting in order the bed, laid her
child in it, and, arranging with care the folds of the rough
sheets, joyfully sits at the bedside looking at her, smiling
and kissing her.

Under the pressure of the hand which softly caresses

the girl, she shut her hirge eyes, and, yielding to weariness
and sleep, fell into a sweet slumber, whilst the mud woman
who was near her, soothed her repose with this song:

" Sleep, girl, my jealous eye as a guardian angel watches
at thy pillow, and the interminable kiss like music
soothes thy slumbers,

" Sleep, darling, and let me see thy moist brow, let me
in the pure ecstany of superhuman delirium intoxicatu
myself with thy warm breath.

" Beautiful thou art! thy cheek is rosy, thy head rests
upon thy snow-white arm, and the halo of thy fair hair
in a gentle disorder sorrouuds Ihy forehead.

" Beautiful thou art! in the quiet rest of thy face I seem
to see a ray of paradise, and in the celestial joy which
shines in thy looks, I see the image of happy dreams.

" Dream, and in thy sleeping may the rainbow ] our its
colors, the stars their rays, the flowers their perfumes,
and may the Holy Virgin* send from the paradise a com-
pany of angels to hover around thee."

IV.

There the voice become faint as the sound of a distant
harp, and her tired forehead fell on the pillow of the little
one. Once again the calm sleep of the happy days re-
turned to her tired eyes.

The young mother absorbed in that fear which surpas-
ses all fears, from the wicket of the iron door peeped into
the dark room, wiiere every movement, every kiss, every
noise was a stroke of a poniard which pierced her heart.

But when all was silent, and there was only heard the
cadence of two respirations, softly and gently a keeper
crept into the room, advanced silently and without awak-
ening the little one, who was sleeping, took her with him
and shut the door.

ng to weariness
[he mud woman
I this song:
a angel watches
iss like music

st brow, let mo
•ium intoxicate

thy head, rests
f thy fair hair
vd.

' thy face I seem
stial joy Avhich
ppy dreams,
rainbow jour its
their perfumes,
paradise a com-

und of a distant
illowof the little
happy days re-

ar which surpas-
door peeped into
very kiss, every
erced her heart.
; only heard the
gently a keeper
id without awak-
lok her with him

117

The mother uttered a cry of joy, which echoed in the
wide sonorous vaults, and kissing her dear lost angel,
pressed her to her heart, an<l ran through the dark cor-
ridor with her tightly clasped in her motherly arms.

The mad woman awakened at the sound of the strange
cry, perceived herself to be alone, looked around, and
from the hole in the door, by the light of a dying lamp,
she saw the white dress of the fugitive girl. A horrible
cry of rage was heard, her eyes were suffused with blood,
and with a foam on her livid lips she stretced forth her
arms and rushed forward. Thrice she shook the unyield-
ing door, then fell backwards a corpse.

Fi/sinafo.

■■r^ai^)i*:*H^^ *?i:s*va«i:*A

ir.

i
I

lis

VII.
THE PIIOGRESS.

TO MKS. MI MU'UX, {Buffdh, N. Y.)

Vainly «lo we mingle arts and sciences, never, Oh! Na-
ture, shall be able to reach thy magniHcence so great and
nt the same time to simple. Always we shall be out done
bv thy specimens, all our temples, all our palaces, all our
immJrtal works are not comparable to the immense dom(>

of the forests. , . , ,

The most beautiful colors prepared by mankind become
pale beside the pearly depth of four drops of water reflect-
ing the pure sk, . Color-changing mohair, fine laces,
gauze, nor satin doth equal the wings of a beautiful but-
tertly fluttering into space.

The steamer which we see hurling itself on his fiery
course, throwing into the air its thrilling voice, still nurtur-
ed the flames, and tamed by a gesture cannot follow the
bird, whose towering flight, without breaking the harm-
onious silence, soars through the expanse of blue.

Then thousand torches of serene light which electricity,
this new queen, has sent to human genius to fight with
darkness, are those wor.h a single ray of the sun whioli
glancing from a stream, gilds the branches; or the moon
on a beautiful evening, or a glittering star?

AH the bold dogmas, the dark systems invented at
random by men, and which one sees dominating by turn
here below, cannot eqi-al that sublime belief in a God who
must punish because lie is just and holy, and Who at the
same time well knows how to forgive because He is Love.

A. de Chambrlcy.

II.)

VIII.
THE STOUM AT THE SAINT- UEUNARD.

■)

ever, Oh! Na-
e so great and
allbeout (louo
palaces, all our
immense dome

inkind become
of water re fleet-
air, fine laces,
I beautiful but-

If on his fiery
ce, still nurtur-
not follow the
ing the harm-
of blue.

lich electricity,
J to fight witli
ihe sun which
s; or the moon

IS invented at
nating by turn
efin a God who
md Who at the
use He is Love.

nbr'ur.

TO J. I'KscrA M. ]).,(.S'<r« Francisco, Cal.)
lUit it i.-i <loiu',— ill! \vov<ls uri! idlp.

liYKOS.

Come, little ones, do not cry! Boon you shall sco your
father. Thou llie eldest say thy prayer! Couie, cliihlron,

do not cry.

"Mother, when will he return?"— ^" My son this time
surely he has set off later. A business is disrussod which
ends at the table, and afterward one leaves it hardly able
to see. At the table one has always something more to say."

" Mother it is dark "— " Child it is a cloud. The sky is
bright at the villaire. Besides thy father is a prudent
man; more than once he has made this journey. May
Saint-Bernard make calm the wind. "

Thus the mother, in her poor cottage, tries to hide the
fear to which she is a prey: and many times, in cruel
anxiety, stretches the ear, and thinking that son>el)ody is
walking, says to herself: why does he delay so long?"

Why docs he delay so long? Look at the valley woman!
Look at these whirlwinds and at the she-goat running
towards thy solitary hut, and at the obscurity darkening
the forests before the time.

Cross thyself, and listen to these creaking siiualls whose
doleful notes seem to S[)eak of death: and to the fall far
off which roars at intervals; and hoar the voice of the
torrents now swelling, now decreasing.

Dost thou not hear moaning the shivering leaves aiul
the wind ingulfed in the deep woods, and the hurricane,
curried on its powerful wings, plunging from the top of
the mountains in the gloomy valley?

.i.jjicj^i^jy.-i?^-^-jiv.^^K^(J!^g!cf!^4kt.'ls»i^

120

Poor woiniiii! — Tii S2)ite of so nniny signs cf storm a
I)casant at the fall of the day, was inaiching over the
fearful Saint-liernard. Iii the vigor of the age, ami in
order to see sooner again his rustic abode, he has despised
many wise advices. lie had left Aosta; alas! and the im-
prudent had passed before the hospice without entering it.

Cheerful he was going on through the mountain. Some-
limes sinking waist-deep in the snow, he was saying, so
little was he frightened, "It is nothing! " and laughed in
getting out of the snow, then without fear, courageous, as
he was in the middle of the country, he, careless of the
weather, lighted his pipe and whistled an old tune loved
by his children.

May God kee[. you friend May the propitious Virgin
drive back the storm to the extremity of the horizon and
avert thy foot from the precipice! But better, if thou
-fvishest to see again thy house, without delaying a moment
gv-^, return to the hosjdce! There are the guardian angels
of the traveior.s; at the risk of their own they will save

thy life.

The air became brisk. The sky covered. The clouds
before scattered which one had seen shine enflamed, now
lie close, black and full of havoc, like batallions formed for
an attack. The avalanche soon will hinder the road. Do
not go, do not go!

Already the snow whirls around him. He hears sounds
which usually render men i)ale, and that nameless voice
which continually resounds, now seeming to cry, now to
roar. It is the wind of the desert! It is the voice which
in this place of woe nobody hears without trembling,
which no other voice could resemble.

In the plain when the storm comes, the waters witli
their roars answers to its voice. The tree of which in its
rage it tries to bend the head, stirs and stands erect hiss-

121

of storm a
ng over tlio
age, ami in
has dc'siiiscd

and tlieini-
t entering it.
itain. Some-
s saying, so
1 ]anglied in
nrageous, as
reless of the
1 tune loved

ilious Virgin
horizon and
Iter, if thou
ng a moment
irdian angels
ley will save

The clouds
iiflamed, now
ns formed for
the road. Do

hears sounds
imeless voice
) crv, now to
3 voice which
ut trembling,

waters with
f which in its
ds erect hiss-

In the mountains instead nothing answers to the
storm, there nctthing stoi)s it. No rival roaring has ever
moderated there the horrible majesty of this dreaded voice.
The unfortunate insists. He marches. At the end of
an hour he begins to feel his leg <iall. " Pshaw! it is the
wind. Let us reaeh home! But I do not know why I am
growing cold. "

Wretch! What hast thou done? Who is able to pre-
serve Ihee to thy wife who cries, to thy eliildren? Do not
hope for any help here below: (Jod only can save thee.

He goes, goes. lie feels the great allurement of a
sleepiness which oppresses him and whieh he vainly tries
to drive back. "I wish to sleep a while to acquire
strength," says he, "in order to pursue my journey. " Go,
go on imprudent! Thou must endeavor not to yield to
the spell which lulls thee to sleej). Go on. To sleep here,
it is death.

lie sits. Ilis eyes soon close to the light. Confused
but attractive objects deceive him. He believes he sees
afar his hut, and hears walk his wife and his children.
" Well," says he opening his eyelids " I must go. I see
them. They come. 1 am better. " Then he gets up,
and falls, closing the eyes.

Later, in the savage little valley, a traveler, passing,
met, at the edge of the road, a pale-faced mother, whose
voung children were tendering the hands for alms, saying,
"God may help you in your journey!" He wished to
know their story. "Our father died, " they answered.

A. Richard.

;S=St}S*?,fnS»i3-'ak'«fiKSTI..'»«»--:

1 -ll

IX.
Till': UNKNOWN LUillT.

TO MISS FANNY LKK, {C/liat^'O, ILL.)

When (liirkiu'ss comes, be the nij,'lit. ch)U(ly or clear,
suddenly on the distant heights 1 see shining a light
which may he taken for a golden star. Every evening
without fail it glistens at the hour when the hills are
vanishing into the gloom, which slowly veils the world as

it goes to rest.

Often I contemplate this solitary ray, which reaches
me full of vague mysteries. Sometimes it seems to ii>e
that it lures me towards it. and a thousan<l strange desires
thrill my being. I should like to turn aside from beaten
tracks and direct my steps to this light which beams and
gleams. I let my heart wander at my fancy's pleasure,
and by turn a thousand visions pass before my eyes, soon

to vanish.

First it is a young golden-tressed maiden, with large
blue eyes filled with brightness so serene and pure that
they make one dream of heaven.

Thoughtful and diligent she sews unceasingly; she
wishes to finish her task this very evening, but often her
sweet sparkling eyes turn tow.u-ds the easy chair where
her grandfather is slumbering, while the lamp sheds a
reddish glow on the forehead of this noble white- haired

old nian.

Or it is a young shepherd who to rest himself from his
weary labor comes to meet his betrothed and sits down
beside her; he is strong and manly, she beautiful and
active, and near both, a mastiff their faithful companion
sleeps with his head resting on the ground.

In low tune they murmur sweet things to each other,

■"^^fSj'*Fj«*vTWia«aaWMyir5sat^*HW»'fl^ ^Bw ^ aw t fa

Mwmmm'ii0*^: ■*>«;». imi'fl«iTnlrnnT'-*«iif -3irrf1t*vu'*^-i^s*ii

)

idy or clear,
ling a light
ery evouiag
he hills are
I the world as

liich reaches
soeins to me
range desires
from beaten
ih beams and
y's pleasure,
ny eyes, soon

I, with large
id pure that

3asingly; she
)ut ofleu her

chair where
imp sheds a

white-haired

ist'lf from his
nd sits down
beautiful and
il companion

each other.

123

they expect to wed in the time of roses when birds make
their nests, and— what peals of laughter! The dog pricks
up his ears, and with his big, sleeny eyes half opon
watches them like an old and trusted iriend.

Perhaps it is a learned man, a thinker, an artist, who
seeks the calm, who is sad in the crowd, and wlio gives
the watches of the night to toil. He thinks himself for-
gotten in his severe retreat, not guessing that my hciirt
piercing earth's fogs, understands him, and that my eyes

follow him.

Or again in the depths of my memory, stumbling over
the remains of ancient history, 1 think of some gnome
seated near a tomb where sleeps a princess with ^long
raven black hair, her pale face strangely serene, waiting
to be awakened by a young and beautiful prince.

Alasl And it is thus that I preserve my dreams! I
remember them always without fatigue and without rest.
More than once I have said to myself: "To-morrow at
dawn I will go in person to search fot the last word of
this problem. ..." but the following day never finds me
on the road.

I am afraid of seeing my palace of chimeras crumble;
the sweet illusions of my heart are dear to mc I lovo so
much to dream alone in the darkness. Seeing thee near,
thou, modest lamp, surely I shouM say: "Alas! pour
poet, thy dreams are better than reality! "

A. de CUambrier.

^j^l^^^i^if^-Tyijft:^^-;:^^,'^^ .."^^£i?Si-:i5^?^'v^

124
X.

MONO LOCI UE
of

ClIHlSTorilKU COM MISL'S.
» TlIK COXSri, OK ITALY, I'AV. (i. M. (il A NX KM. I.

I um dying, old and wrctchod, tiiid it was right that I
should di'o in such uwayl My iifo, toiled through sillier-
ing, ends with grief; but amidst all, c;od granti'<l so great
and infinito a joy, that every pain coiniuire.l to it ca.jses a
smile. (Jod, ,vho, when He pours on the world a ray of
eternal light, ieconunends it to Italy, His beautiful Italy
thus spnke to me: " Daring Oenoese, try the sun's path! "

And I turned my eyes to the West, and I saw a new
world, as it were, rise from the wa-.-es; immense I'orests
of unknown trees, immense rivers, i.nmeu^ie plains. There
were the softs fruits which distant India ripens, which
Europe envies and desires; birds nameless with us, dif-
lerent wild beasts, seas lilled with pearls, and mountains
of gold— and the voice said: " Go; come back and tell the

story. "

But I am poor; sails do not spiead at my command. 1
liave nothing but a thought! And 1 brought my thought
to the crowned heads of the world and asked a little gold
for recompense. Alas! I was derided. For three long
lustres I was scorned and went wandering about, and no-
body understood me. I heard not, I saw not!

Here, bring me nearer to the balcony; for pity's sake
do not take away from me the sight of the sea! The sea !
the sea! my kingdom, the friend of my youth and of my
glory! let me greet it a last time, and let me depart on
that yourney from which nobody returns.

•:ii»CIfi%3w'-a-w«rKR*i.LV7Sv:*-J» <4i^w«*«>«M5:^^i*a^i>«Nt'ai-3fflKfnftiiie I-=a«r«Tfeiy*-S5*«

125

Ni; I.I.I.

ij:fht tlmt I
n\^\\ Hulfer-
;o(l so grt'iit

it ciiHos a
Id a ray of
lutiful Italy
un'spath! "
saw a now

Biise I'orests
aiiis. There
lens, which
ith us, dif-

1 mountains
and tell the

snimand. I
niy thought
a little gold
three long
out, und no-
I

pity's sake
a! The sea!
1 and of my
e depart on

I was HO glad, so .serene wlu-ii, >i he • -t time, I
(dialleuged it. Courageous, I pushed niydeh' on itd o|»eu
hoaoiu where nian'.s eye never yet reached. Foolish roward-
ice imagined it to ho fdled with monstord and terrors. I
was not afraid.

Fly my ship; if i ly heart heats it is not for fear of th»»
waves but of my follower.^. Fly, Hy my sship, let not mi-
schievous omens arrest thy swift course. Anew land is
there. Gaily and speedily let us make sail for the foreign
shore; let us follow. God protects the hold undertaki'.ig.
The wind is propilious, and the waves are gentle.

But already days go hy, mouths have passed away, and
no trace (*f new countries i.s perceived. Our life is always
between heaven and sea, and conlidence has disappeared
from every fiiee. What more can I do to encourage these
men who only understand ihe vily sound of gold? I see
other stars and other poles! " Three days more, and if
our hopes are vain, I surrender myself to you. "

Here we see flocks of birds rapidly fly from the West ;
sea-weeds and cleft from lands not distant. Land! land!
A panting cry breaks the etenuil silence of the sky. It
is the land! it is the land! ' Who could now describe my
joy? A light seen from afar in the dark air gives strength
to the assured heart and to the tired hand. Forward!
forward! Here is the dawn. Perhaps is my dream? No,
no, this is the longed-for laud, virgin, beautiful, dewy—
beautifullike a bride given as a reward to valour, fair
and flowery like the hope courted by me for so many years.
See the sun advances; see the land smiles with proud life!
Furls the sails, lower the boat. Oh, beloved land, at last
I kiss thee.

The great work is accomplished! Am I not now the
master of my laud and of my sea? Where is my royal
palace? Where are my camcillors, my jewels, my crown?
Ferdinand where is thy faith?

St* ^^afte^^it*

.,,.>fc/v'i.'.v-a*S«(G*to*? ■

120

Thou wa.st Hiltiii;,' proud in tlio conqucrrd Alliiimbrn.
(iriiiuula luy vanquialiea ut thy iwL A wunihjrinK Itiiliaii.
hurtlonod hy thought, whom .lUj^uish hi.d madc< Id heft>rf
liis tinio, leudiiij,' by tho hand a liltlo b»y, oaiuo to thy
throiu'. Around itwcro i)rin(e«, lords, captainn, and all
Spain'rt ancient splundur- What, powt-rful king, on that
day said tho unknown Gonoeso?

'• Siro, " 8ui<l he, and he spoko without trenilding, " for-
tune nuidtj thco sovereign of Aragon, love mudo thco
master of Castille, war gave thee the beautiful kingdom
of the Moors. Well I will do for thee more than fortune,
love and war already have done, I will give thee a world. "
And then Oh, king, when from tho far ocean unexopected
I roturnod and brought thee gold and jowola of thy now
kingdom, thino without a drop of bloodshod, and to thy
dunifoundod sagos and proud councillors haughtily 1 au-
riwered with facts, showing the proofs of the glorious
achievement; what sablst thou, Oh king? " Genius is tho
sparkle of an eternal idea, and is superior to every crown.
Grandees of Spain off with your hats! " Now, I am tho
same Columbus. In the gold, tho distant springs of which
I opened, Europe floats, and Spain is plunged up to the
neck. Poor and forgotten, I beg my living, crust by crust,
and the discoverer of a new world has not a roof, nur a
house where ho may die in peace.

Oh, do not toll my grand- children such au infamy! Oh,
do not say that these arms even yet keep the marks of
chains, and that, in tho place of my triumph, I Uved a
prisoner! Cruel storyl Kit was fated that such a re-
compense should follow the benefit, God be thanked, that
I have not done it for Italy.

It was right, it was right; see the beautiful country
streaming with blood and with massacre. Of the people
Vfho butcher, and the people who suffer, which is the

;;:;iH*»?3»^W»it«-*i<l«»t:-.'Mt3'*.*,ri-J>iP... /:.**».' ^=f*r^w.**iWi««**t«#--

-••J^iff%i^JiAKfrVii^i^iai # ■ =t -i.

127

Alhiiml)rr..
riiiK Ittiliaii.

•lUiio to thy
iiiH, aiiil nil
ing, oil thill

ihlin^', " for-
> mudo theo
Fill kinf^dom
hull fortiuu',
lee a world. "
uiioxi'pected
of thy iicnv
and to thy
iightily 1 aii-
tho glorious
Grenius is thu
every crown.
>\v, I am the
ugs of which
)d up to the
ruatby crust,
I roof, nor a

infamy! Oh,
,he marks of
[)h, I lived a
at such a re-
thanked, that

savage? Crime! crime! The sword is plunged into lh<'
breast of innocent hrethron, hut this was not my intention
when I undertook to guide you, ye wicked! It is not jxnM
that tempts wicki'dncss, hut vice is I'ollowe.l \>y useless
offen.-es; these faithless men have made tin- Cross a
pretext for butchery, the Cross, law t)f eternal piiy.

Cease, yo cruel ones, what rage madilens you? Is gold
not enough, that you wish even for blood? And cannot
blood (lueiudi your horrible thirst? If this is valor what
cowardice be? Shut out from my last moments this f tal
scene! Ijct me not see these horrors. Alreaily ■ '»h
vengeance is moveil, is awakened — it roars— '.I full
first on me.

It was right! it was right! I bow my heii '. >'■ \'.
The bight of thee is remorse to me. Thoug' .1. m a'c
are accomplices to great disasters! Thotim^ will come
when on blood and crime will rest the fMigetfuhiess 01'
centuries, and when from this new partnersliip will come
to theuniverse as mueli good as formerly evil was produeed,
then amidst far posterity my name may be blessed, and a
reward of honor more glorious, becaiiso longer delayod,
may comfort my weary bones.

Now cover my face — I die in peace.

'lazzoletti.

tiful country
Of the people
which is the

■^ -ei*t' - • -ii^if*'^**'®^ »^jis(rt.ydLifc.ii^terf»j.i8i^^ .^.>--'.'

1-28
XI.

THE PI RATE'S SONG.

TO A. s\\unyi,iSan Francisco, cal.)

With tea guns on eiich side, the wind right aft, and all
sails set, a brig does not plow the sea, but Aief- T»'«
pirato vessel, for her bravery called the " Feared, well
known \\\ the water from one shore to the other.

The moon shines on the sea, amongst the sails sighs
the wind, and by a slight movement raises waves of silver
and blue. And the pirate captain, gaily singing on the
poop beholds Asia on one side, Europe on the othor and
there before him Stambou^.

" Sail on my ship without fear, inasmuch as no un-
friendly sail, nor storm, nor calm is able t.» overtake tliy
stern or to conquer thy vulor. In spite of the English I
have taken twenty prize3 and a hundred nations have
lowered their flags at my feet.

'«Thatmyship is my treasure, liberty my God, the
force and the winds are my laws, and the sea my only

fatherland.

" Let blind kings move fiery wars belA-eeu themselves
for the sake of a si)au of lan.i, whilst here 1 have for mine,
all that is grasped by the wide sea to whom nobody has
dictated laws. And now, there is no shore, wherever it
be, nor a flag of renown which has not felt my right hand
and proclaimed my bravery,

"That my ship is my treasure, etc.

<' At the cry of ' Sail, oh! ' it is something to see how it
turns and takes measures to avoid every snare, inasmuch
I am the king of the sea, and my anger is to be feared.
In the prizes. I divide the booty equally, keeping for my-

^^^^j^,;i,^.j,^);,KJ^^,,j(,^^;,^^jy'<:.^,,,iU^ . i,:;i,V.-fP**«^*r«^*^^ti*5WifejS=iii^^

129

L.)

ht aft, and all
lit flies. The
Feared, " well
)ther.

he sails sighs
waves of silver
iiiging on the
:he other and

i.h as no un-

i overtake thy

the English I

nations have

my God, the
3 sea my only

een themselves
have for mine,
m nobt)dy lias
re, wherever it
my right hand

igto see how it
nare, inasmuch
3 to be feared,
ceeping for my-

self only a wealth, beauty without rivals.

"That my ship is my treasure, etc.

"I am sentenced to death; I laugh at it. Let fortune
not forsake me and regarding the one who cond.-mnsme,
perhaps I shall hang him tc the yard-arm of his own ship.
And if I fall? What is life I gave it up the same day,
when, like a brave man, I threw away from me the yoke

of a slave.

" That my ship is my treasure, etc.

" My best music is the northern wind, the trembling
and noise of grating cables, the roar of the blackened sea
and the thunder of my guns, and amid the violent dim
of the thunderbolts, mid the howhng wind, I sleep calm,
lulled by the sea. "

Don Jose dc Rsproncedii.

jsi:li«aJii»fae™S«3ii!f^i5i«4j.

^ «iBisL.w-=*:*S^;^:

130
XII.

CHARITY.

TO BKV. 1). .1- MACDONELL.

-8i. •
I

When the pining flower that summer causes to fade
leans toward the burning soil to die, and to quench th.
lire by which it is devoured, asks and begs only a drop ot
water; without rain or dew this dying complaint falls
with the wind's breath.

So when the unhappy being drags himself along, bent
from the cradle under troubles, oppressed by his burden,
if the arm of his brother does not support his misery, it
some sweet voice does not speak a word which raises and
comforts him, he must fall under its weight.

Oh, sublime charity, balm of grief, thou whose siglit
inspires courage, thou who driest tears; beloved daughter
of God! Pain and bitter complaint are silent before theo;
peace is in thy mouth, and those touched by thy hand
suddenly lose their fears. . , ,

He who lost in doubt and in despair has long ago stray-
ed from the right path, by thee is brought repentant to
God whom he had forgotten, and thou restorest hope lu

him who hope no more.

Oh. Supreme Majesty, thy sovereign order has said:
'« Love thy neigbor as thyself. " The man only to whoui
misery never is troublesome is just in thine eyes. If in
heart he U poor, by the good actions he has done, ho will

become rich in heaven.

A. Richard.

fr,i -■!^i?'fei-''B«SJ-

t':t.^J:'.-' .■^^r^•"-^C?-^^^'*^^:^■"f■^^^T^'^f*' -■.•"''•*■' -•""^'^' -''■^■^'

131
XIII.

WHY LOVEST THOU MK?

luses to fade
1 quench tht-
)nly a drop ol"
inplaint falls

f along, bent
y his burden,
lis misery, if
ich raises and
t.

whose sight
)ved daughter
t before theo;
by thy haml

ong ago stray-
repentant to
oresi hope iu

der has said:
only to whom
,e eyes. If in
I done, ho will

TO C. IJAHSOTTI, M. D.
I.

Why lovest thou me young girl? Dost thou know mOjo
I am? A young poet who always runs in the same road
amongst thorns and fluvvers, and never arrives at the
goal. The poor poet i.s a butterfly, and, like tliis one,
loves the pictured flower beds, and now rising uj), then
down, plays with the breeze and search the sun and
the flowers.

The little butterfly is happy with a few drops and with
a little fragrance; a drop of dew quenches its thirst, arose
leaf is its room.

Often foreign to what it hears or sees, it is pleased with
its golden wings and flowers, contented with the virtue
God gave it, thus passing its life in peace.

The lion passes, the king of the forest, and seeing it
going from flower to flower, "This is the happiest one,"
says he, " that flying, passes the time in making love. "

The fox passes, busy with its cunning, and scoffs Ht the
sincere butterfly, which without any snare or any offence,
goes flying alone, always alone.

The magpie passes, deafening the valley, the magpie
always slanderous and brating. The screech-owl passes,
found of ruins, enemy of love and peace. .

But the butterfly, which is born for other purfioses,
passing, does not look at them, and does not care for them,
and always flies, and it is always in love, such as naturt;
made it.

^■^ .^^^£^^" jei>^'*^*»e^$t&^-^

lo2
II.

With a few drops, with few perfumes, the poor poet also
nourishes himself. Amongst the flowers of his hopes, he
too is a happv and nimble butterfly.

He opens the little window at the first dawn, and sing-
ing, he salutes tbe ri.sing sun. The bree/.e repeats his
verses of love and the heart of any who listeu to him

trembles. .

Near the setting of the sun he moans and cries, and he
recites the verges thou singest; they are the songs of his
mountains, those songs which he never forgets.

The note of that sweet song trembles as the flower of
the land which gave him birth. There is the word, there
i.s the laugh, the weep, there are the eyes and the lips
of his girl.

III.

Like prophetic birds his verses go from sea to sea, from
bind to land. Diff"erent people repeat them in the time

of peace and war.

The poet is poor, and every one says so; but he has a
heart as great and as deep as the sea, and to lock at him
he seems the happiest and the richest man in this world.

So very pooi-; and so very rich, he passes among the
people humble and proud, and through his fatal journey
ho tires the light of free thought.

And he who meets him looks at him and greets him
with the most beautiful name that resounds in the world,
and that name which the world gives him is the prettiest
ornanient of his wreath.

Glances, smiles and courteous receptions are not denied
to him, and he smiles to all; but believe me, my Lina,
these are his only joy, these his only fruits. And these

t St-ii!«S*i,,A*fe..'^t!

loor poet also
his hopes, he

vn, and sing-
e repeats his
isten to him

cries, and he
songs of his
;ets.

the flower of
le word, there
and the lips

ea to sea, from
L in the time

but he has a
> look at him
in this world.
S3 among the
i fatal journey

id greets him
J in the world,
is the prettiest

are not denied
me, my Lina,
;8. And these

fruits will not be envied by the animals of shrewd and
doubtful faith, Rcreech-owls, foxes and lions, because they
know, too well they know, that the little butterfly, does
not desire anything else.

IV.

Yes, I too, oh! Lina, am like the butterfly, I that in
every road am searching for flowers: my amorous soul
runs after that desire which drags it.

It runs from morning to evening, and itself, poor thing,
does not know why it runs, and the more it pricks itsdt"
the more approaches to those roses which desire colorn.
And believes to suck in the lap of all the flowers drops dC
ambrosia to sweeten the song; but often, my Lina, thos(t
sweet humors are only drops of liis own weeping.

Yes, butterfly I am, my Lina, and the native clod is
generous of a hi'.iulred flowers; but these are perfum<H,
and the wiud wafts them, the favors of my native land.

Now thou knowest who I am, and I do not under8tan<l
how thou, my girl, lovest me so much. Is it my poor
name that is dear to thee, or perhaps is my plaintive song?
But name and song shall pass; my poor verses are flowers,
and thou well knowest it, that the sweetest odor of the
prettiest flower does not live longer than a day.

And then dost thou not see how much harmony of life
and love there is around us? Dost thou not see how in
the same day this universe almost is born and dies?
And perhaps there where now life dai res, death shall
raise her black tents, and the people of ■ ee hope may be
a heap of bones and bands.

And those roses, where now the nightingales warble
perhaps shall be turned into sprigs and amongst them

u^t,- **«»t; .'ir S.iiSii

104

there ahull only be hoard the sharp hissing of savage snakes.
And perhaps here where I am singing of affection, and
where so many others also will sing, this thy little blessed
village, which completely enraptures me with its beauties,
shall be changed into wood, and every thicket will give a
volume of doubtful stories, and the crow's song shall be
heard, the old sybil of the desert.

VI.

All falls and rises again, and everybody perceives this,
but love, love, Lina, does not die; his seat is in our soul.
Everlastiirg as the soul is love.

And thy love shall never change its intensity; that is
what I only wi.sh from thee. Of love, only of love, speak
always to me, inasmuch as ho who speaks of love speaks

of God.

With the elegance of a nod and a smile, thou awakest
in m ; sweet and new poetry. Through thy pretty blue
eyes, truly it seems to me, I see Paradise.

G. A. Costanso.

r.:i?.sSJ!61iS3E3!3isS,

i?iy'i^i&»:*^iKa^'tfW;i««t:k^Ao^*&45*^'-'*a«*J5'***-3e*^*-*««^^

lavage snakes,
affection, antl
|r little blessed
h its beauties,
cet will give a
song shall be

)erceives this,
i in our soul.

ensity; that is

of love, speak

of love speaks

thou awakest
y pretty blue

135

XIV.

POORBAIIDI

TO L. STKCCIIKTTr.

Ah a child in thy presence I lower-
ed my eyes, I cowered at thy knees
as fawningly as u whipped spaniel.
With my proud forehead bent I
kisHed the hem of thy garment. I
suffered, I cursed, I cried and thou
laughedest.

Now I rise from my cowardly ba-
seness, and break uiy chains, I feel
ashamed of me and my love , I rise,
and 1 despise thee.

sTECOiiETTi, (Anger.)

Poor poet! in what proud remorse of past cowardice con-
sumest thou thyself? Tliou risest and insultcst, and I
hardly say, if thou wert more coward then, or less proud
now. Thou risest and insultest. Ah! do not repeat the
insult which so imprudently came out from thy heart!
This is not pride, it is not courage, it is not freedom ....
on my word it is love!

Behold with what i>ai\i and blind rage thou throwest
mud on the once Avorshipped idol! How bleeds the heart
which 13 cursing! Cease thy scoffing. Woe if she hear
the sound of thy scoffs, woe if she sees thee! To-morrow
on going again to kiso her foot, perhaps thou shall pay
dear for her forgiveness.

If thou art a poet do not insult the sacred flame which
lightened thy heart if it dictated to thy dust a single poem
and gave a single spark to thy grief.

Do not insult her, do not cry out that the desire for

ft*,¥iS--t*^^il'ii''^'*'J^^^

Kiit i-'a »»*!■*■'• ■='tJ .\j-»' y,i 'ilt^^Wi--- Holfe. I ', St^i^UciS^i -=.- '

13G

•' vile mud " enflamed thee. Wretched one, how shalt
thou SJiy to the world " of that mud I hud mnde a God. "
Ah ! do not Bpeak of tills dreuin whicli is fixt'(l in thy
heurt, Oh, do not soil that shadow. In order to possess
that right thou oughtest have never placed her on the altar.
Until from thine eye and from thy suffering spirit shall
come but a single tear, respect the dreum which opened
an heaven for thee, respect the mud which inspired thee
with a song.

If truly thou art now strong and free, if thy insults are
born from a redeemed heart, I offer thee another trial.
Go to her, gaze on her face, without moving an eye.
Defy the old power of her eyes without experiencing
a chill in thy veins. Look at her face without desire or
anger, without scorn or hope. And try to breathe without
shock in the wake of her hidden perfumes. Approach
her, touch one of her hands without feeling a shudder iu
thy bones.

And when the heart shall no more give thee a shudder,
a tear or an oath, poor poet, oh, then, only then, thou
canst boast of having conquered love-
No! this roar of rage is not the comfort thou are search-
ing for. Poor poet! Thou shalt not be cured except on
the day thou shalt forgive.

F. Cavallotti.

~i^^o?*^^5^^^^5S^W ::sfU^KSJS;^52!^^^Eia5SC5SC^vJi?SEM&6fiW54SS3N^

[>, how shalt
lule n God. "
fixed ill thy
jr to possess
r on the altar,
ig spirit shall
hich opened
nspired thee

:iy insults are
mother trial,
ving an eye-
experiencing
out desire or
•eathe without
!3. Approach
; a shudder in

liee a shudder,
ly then, thou

louare search-
red except oa

llotti.

-i

i;;7
XV

ITOrKINCOD.

TO .1. DUNKiKLn, M. ii.{Cttna<ia.)

As long as n>y fcohlo heart, yet full of youth, shall not
have hid farewell to his Inst illusions, I avouM ahido hy
the old wisdom which has niado a deiui-god of the soher
Epicurus. I would live, love, accustom myself to my
equals, go in search of joy witlumt relying upon it, d<»
what has heen done, be what I am, and carelessly lifi my
eyes to heaven.

It is impossible. Infinity torments mc In spile of
myself I cannot think of it without fear or hope, and not-
withstanding all what has been said, my reason is fri^dit-
ened at seeing it, and not being capable of understanding
it. What is tills world? and what we come to do in it, if
to live in peace, it is necessary to veil heaven? To pass
like sheep with our eyes fixed on the ground and to for-
sake all else, can that be called happiness? No, it is to
cease to be a man, and degrades the soul. Chance has
put me in the world. Happy t.r unhai-py, I am born of
a woman, and I cannot throw of humanity.

What can I do then? "Be merry," says paganism,
"bo merry and die." "Hope" answers Christianity,
heaven always watches, and thou canst not die. "

Between these two roads I hesitate. I would wish to
follow a more easy path, but a secret voice tells me that
with regard to heaven one must believe or deny. This
is my opinion too. Tortured souls cast themselves, some-
times into one, soraetiuies into the other, of these two
extremes. The indifferent are atheists,— if they would
, doubt only for a day, they could not sleep. I yield, and
as the matter leaves in my heart a desire full of dread, I

138

will bend my kuces, T wIbIi to believe and to l»opo.

Iloro I iiMi in tbe bands of a God more dreadful tban
all evils of this world put to{j:ctlicr. Hero I am alone u
wandering, weak and miserable creature boncatb tbe eyo
of u witness wbo leaves me not. He watcbes me, be
follows me. If my boart beats too quick I offend bis
<lignity and bis divinity. A precipice is opened under
my steps. If I fall into it to expiate an bour, an eternity is
needed. My judge is a tyrant wbo daceives bis victim. For
me everytbing becomes a snare and cbanges its name.
Love becomes a sin, bappiness a crime, and all tbe world
is for me a continuous temptation. I bave notbing more
of bumanity about me. I await tbe recompense, I try to
avoid tbe punisbment; fear is my guide, and deatb is
my only aim.

Nevertbeless, it is said that an infinite joy will be tbe
sbare of some elect. Wbo are tbose bappy beings? If
tbou bast deceived me, wilt tbou again give me life? If
thou bast told me tbe truth, wilt tbou oj.'>n the heavens?

AlasI this beautiful country, i)romised by thy j)rophets,
if it really exists, must be a desert. Thou requirest those
choosen ones to be too pure, and when this bappiness
arrives they aiieady bave suffered too much. 1 am a man,
and I will no. be less, nor attempt more. Where should
I stop? If I cannot believe in tbe priest's promises shall
I consult those who are indifferent?

If my heart, wearied by the dream which troubles it,
returns again to reality for consolation, at the bottom of
tbe vain pleasures called into my aid I find a disgust that
kiUrt me. In the same day in which my thoughts are im-
pious, in which to end my doubts I wish to deny, even
though I possessed all that a man could desire, power
health, wealth, love, tbe only blessing of this world, though
tbe fair Astartft worshipped by Greece should come from

■/rt*^ -:->-.^^^7.^%iVi'iJ.i<.S<U*--S'i

^^^-mi ^ ^ .^:bhU.bK::«jM.Ui2u.

t^jtfuwilfe^in&us^e^^^J^^JsMMVt^ -^'^i&

Ijopo.
Ireadful than
[ am alone ti
ncatli the eye
itches me, he

I offend his
opened under
, an eternity is
i3 victim. For
iges it8 name.

1 all the world
nothing more
pense, I try to

and death ia

V will be the
; beings? If
e me life? If
. the heavens?
■ thy ))rophets,
requi rest those
his hapi^iness
1. I am a man,
"Where should
promises shall

!h troubles it,
the bottom of
a disgust that
oughts are im-
to deny, even
desire, power
world, though
lid come from

\:v.)

the azure islands, and hIiouM open lu-r anus, though 1
could come into possession of the secret of the earth's
fertility, and thus changing at my fancy living matter,
create a beauty for myself alone, though Horace, Lucre-
tius and old Epicurus seated near me, should call me
happy, and those great lovers of nature should sing the
l)raise3 of pleasures, and the contempt of the gods, I would
say to all, "In spite of our efforts I suffer, it is too late,
the world has become old, an infinite hope has crossed
Ihe earth, and against our will, we must raise our eyes
to heaven."

What else remains to mo to try. Vainly my reason
tries to believe, and my heart to doubt. Tho christian
ad'rights mo, and in spite of my senses I cannot listen to
what the atheist says to me. True religious people will
cull me an impious, the indifferent will call me r fool.
To whom shall I address myself, and what friendly voice
will comfort my heart wounded by doubt?

It is said that there exists a philosophy which can
explain everything without revelation. Granted. Where
are those makers of systems who, without faith know how
to find the truth? Weak sophists, who believe only in
themselves, what are their arguments, what th<Mr autho-
rities? One shows me, here below, two principles at war,
which alternatively conquered, are both everla8ting.(l)
Another, far away in the desert heaven discovers a useless
God Who will have no altar.(2) I see Plato dreaming,
and Aristotle thinking. I hear them, I praise them, but
I pursue my way. Under absolute kings I find a despot
God, now they spoke to us of a republican God; Pythagoras
and Leibnitz transfigure my being. Descartes leaves me
perplexed. Montaigne, after great examination cannot
understand himself. Pascal trembling tries to escape his

(,!• -Manicbeans.

(2) Theisui.

wf^A-rSiSH^-' ^<«&K^<

-^=^T^&fttig,X»X^

ow'u visions. Tyrr.) bliii.ls me uml Zeuo mukc'9 m« in-
aensiblo. Vultuiro thr.)\v« down all lie socs stun.] in;,'.
Spiuosatirodc.f trying the ii.ipodsible, vainly soarchin-
for his God, ends by seeing him ovorywhere. Willi tho
English sophist, (1) man is a machine, finally, out of tho
fogs cornea a Gorman rh.'torician, (2) who, finishing tho
ruin of philosophy, declares Heaven emi.ty an.l proves

that there is nothing.

Hero are the wrecks of human science! and after live

thousand years coulinually doubting, after sueh a great

and persevering work, behold there tho last result at

which we have arrived. Poor, foolish, miserable brai'^s,

who have explained all in sueh different ways, to rduch

Heaven you need wings. You had the desire, but faith

was not with you. I pity you; your pride came from a

wounded soul; you have felt the pangs of which my heart

is filled, and you well knew this bluer thought which

makes man tremble whenever he considers infinity. Well

come on, let us pray together, let us abjure the misery of

our childish calculations, of such vain worji. Now tnat

your bodies are dust I will i.ray for you on your gravec.

Come pagan rhetoricians, masters of sciences, christians

of old times, and thinkers of the present age, believe me,

prayer is a cry of hope. Let us ourselves address to (}o<l.

He is good, without doubt. Hi forgives you. All you have

suffered is forgotten. If Heaven is a desert, we shall

offend nobody, if there is Que Who hears us, may He

^pity us. ■ , ->;■ \,"^ •■•■-'■

■ PRAYER.

Oh, Thou, Whom nobody has been able to know,' and
whom none has denied without lying, answer us. Thou
Who hast niade me, and to-morrow shalt make mo die.

(1 ) Locke.

(Ll Uiint.

. ^Av=.,^*^^ii'-«iiH*--s7-^Ji»i-(^i^JSNSai'i*i*?Su ^4fe'

luikcs mt) in-
009 Htuinliiig.
ily sourchin'4
8. With tho
Ily, out of tho
fmi.shiiij; thn
y ttud proves

ml lifter livo

sufh a great
lust result at
erable brai'is,
iiys, to rdueh
lire, but fuitU

came from u
hich my heart
hou<;ht which
iuliuity. Well

the misery of
•y. Now ti\at
I your grttvei\
ices, christians
re, believe me,
.ildress to (iod,
I. All you have
sert, we shall

us, may llo

to know,' and

WOT us. Thou

make me die.

141

Since Thou lettest us to understand then, why, m.ik,-st
thou people doubt thee? Wliat siid pleasure canst thou
feel in templing our good faith? As soon as a man raises
his head he thinks that ho sees thee in heaven: llio crea-
lion, his conquest, in his eyes is only a vast toniph«. Ah
soon as ho descends into his inward he finds Thee. Thou
Lvest in him. If he sutlers, weeps or loves, it is his God
Who has so willed. The noblest intelligence, the most
sublime ambition is to prove Thy existence and in teach-
in ' Thy name. Whatever i-i the name given Thee,
liruhma, .Jupiter, Jesus, True I'.ternal .Iiistiee, all arms
are extended to Thoe. The hist of the soub of the earth
thanks thee from his heart as soon as to his misery is
uiLxed u simple appearance of happiness. All the world
glorifies Thee; the bird from his ner,t sings to Thee; and
thousands of beings have blesse.l Theo for a drop of
rain. Nothing has been done by Thoe that is not admir-
ed; none of thy gifts is lost to us; and Thou cannot smil-
est without we fall on our knees before Thee. Why then
Supreme Master, hast thon-reatcd evil so groat that reason
and even virtue tremble at its sight? Whilst so many
things in the world proclaim tho divinity, and seem to be
witnesses of the love, power and kindness of a father; how
is it that under the holy sky are seen actions so shocking
as to check the prayer on the lips ot the unhappy? How
is it that in Thy divine handiwork are so many elements
not in harmony? To what good are pestilence and crime?
•Just God, why death? Thy pity must have been great
when with all its good and evil this marvelous and beau-
tiful world, crying, emerged from Chaos! Since Thou
w.uldst submit it to the pains of which is replenished
Thou oughtest not to have permitted it to discern Thee.
Why lettest Thou our misery see and guess at a God?
Doubt has brought desolation on the earth. We see too

ili^V£>^^^^«i <-;-^u*(.v;

much or too little. If Thy creature is unworthy to ap-
proach Thee, Thou oughtest let nature veil and hide
Thee. Thy power would have been left to Thee, and w<'
chould have felt its blows; but quiet and ignorance would
have lessened our griefs.

If our afflictions ar.d pain-, reach not to Thy majesty,
keep Thy solitary grandeur, shut forever Thy immensity;
but if our mortal griefs can reaeh to Thee, and from the
eternal plains, Thou hearest our sighs, break the deep
vaults which covers creation, lift this world's veil, and
show thyself a just and good God. Tliou wilt see all over
this earth an ardent love of faith, and the whole maukin<l
will fall down before Thee. The tears which flow from
men's eyes as a light dew will disappear in heaven. Thou
shalt hear only Thy praises, and a concert of joy and love
like that with which the Angela gladden Thy everlasting
kingdom, and in this supreme hosanna, Thou shalt see
at the sound of our songs, doubt and blasphemy fly away,
whilst death itself will join its last accents to them.

A. t/t' Musset,

ivorthy to ap-
^eil and hi<ie
rhee, and w<'
lorance would

Thy niajestyj
ly iiniiiensity ;
and from the
eak the deep
Id's veil, and
ilt see all over
hole maukin<l
3h flow from
heaven. Thou
f joy and love
y everlasting
liou shalt see
eray fly away,
D them.

usset.

143
XVI.

THE COAT.

iO ANGICLO NICCOLAI,(A«mr.)

Thou reproachest me, Francis, and thou .sayest that I
forget my old friends. If, as before, poetry gives sweet
food to thy beautiful soul, read my coat, an<l see if I can
forget you, when I keep remembrance even of a very old
worn-out coat. No, while a drop of blood runs in my
veins, I would that we remain, " two souls with a single
thought, two hearts beating in one. "

TO MY COAT.

JOKE.

My poor coat, my sweet friend, it is true, thou art ragg.
ed, it is true, thou art old, but in happy as in hard times
I had thee, an inseparable companion, and, remembering
thee I love thee, nor I cast thee from me.
. Let those who, fond of change, follow the fashion and
let them admire my constancy. By experience, 1 have
learned that, in this century, dress is everything.

Look at that nobleman, who upon his coat wears sewn
a silk ribbon? If thou take off the dress, who, by his
manners would honor him as a knight? Where are his
grace and amiability? Where is the old time elegant
bearing? Formerly it was the usage to protect oppressed
ladies, now one strikes even his own wife.

Another is angi«y and raises row if people do not call
him doctor. But could he be known as such without his
gown? The ignoble crowd, wouldstthou believe? humbles
itsel f, bends, to whom? — to a robe. Like the donkey, who
was carrying the beautous imago of Cytherea, while the

144

frightened beast was passing, the people filled with devo-

tion used to bow.

Oh, my very dear coat, never did I wear thee out of
vanity, nor ever for debts wast thou pulled off, for even
thou art ragged, I have paid for thee, with the honest
fruit of niy^sweat, iiiasmuch as a noble soul is unused to
sell an object of affection, but he has not the usual luck
to find some one who pays clothes for him.

Under the sleeves one may see the threads, but that
recalls me mv glory, because I wore it when I, under the
influence of poetical fire, was writing the Nasc for you,

niv ladies.

Look, the collar, is already worn out on account of my
turning h(>re and there, and yet, it brings me no grief nor
pain, but it is my tender keepsake, because I do re mem-
^,er those joyous days in which I felt in love with a

vouiig girl.

Often when sitting between motiier '-.v\ daughter, for

tho sake of propriety, using the m^ - o ep and subtle
policy, I w:.3 convening now wiih th. .ue, now with the
other But when speaking to the young one low in her
ear, the cnning old lady would say, "What' that? "(with
her elbow nudging mine,) and I would answer, "Oh, no-
thing" and address myself to the girl, that everlasting
turnint' of my head was for my collar a great misfortune,
and yet it does not grieve or pain me, it is the tenderast
of my recollections. vi *

When I am sitting near to ladies, I cannot act like a
statue, I am arktinoI I like to speak, and I like to look,
and Hike to move as much as I choose, and, if my collar
must suffer on account of it, cannot be helped, the collar
will have to be renowned.

Here where the coat meets near the stomach a button
is missing. Of ten which were, now there remained nine,

- =fS4'iJsi!Steil«?S«Sa«E^-

lied with devo-
ir thee out of
1 off, for even
rith the honest
il is unused to
the usual luck
1.

reads, but that

Bu I, under the

Nasc for you,

account of my
me no grief nor
le I do remem-
n love with a

\ daughter, for
ep and subtle
I, now with the
one low in her
lat' that? "(with
iiswer, "Oh, no-
that everlasting
reat misfortune,
is the tenderast

mnot act like a
id I like to look,
and, if niy collar
elped, the collar

omach a button
•e remained nine,

ALICE DE CHAMBRIER

L .

^attfcaiM^ig^/»Ua Witt.» (k^a^ii'' P im i Lk .ii^tgkU

iimm^Hfiiaitiiii^'n. ,

your number, daughters of Jupiter. Wiinting some money,
often I put my hands into the pockets, but in vain and
yet that deficit iIogb not grieve me, but all the more awakens
the old vein, so that in my mind, I change my pamphlets
into money.

Oh, how delightful to be a poet! All subscribe for
friendship and all pay, how deligliLiulI Tlien my ragged
old coat, my ever faithful companion and friend, who
with me wast in great Rome, and with me when I was
admitted to the degree of doctor, (so that leaving thee, I
should fear to lose haif of my knowledge), thou art tiie sweet
and only cause of my most happy days. Life on iiccoui.t
of thee is to me dear and gay, since I learned to know
mankind.

When thou wert renowned for fashionable style, a-
midst a vain and gallant world, and hadst the merit of
being handsome, everybody took off his hat to me. In
the vestibules wherever I went I used to hear repeated
"Come in, come in." Great noblemen convened with
me and servants called me very illustrious. I lived dear to the
ladies, but, alas! Honor, kindness, all were addressed t;)
thee! and now that thou no more excitest easy pleasure
on account of thy shabby shapelessness, at balls, at clubs,
I hear said: " With that coat you cannot pass," and if I
go to visit any one, he sends words: " Nobody at home. "
Everybody avoids me, some shrewd ones, fear that I am
going to ask a loan wherewith to have another made. My
poor coat thou well seest that honors and kindnesses were
addressed to thee. Yet to live with thee is dear and joy-
ful to me, because I learned to know mankind.

Perish useless luxury, nor let me hear any more fashion
praised by fan&tics, fatal source of laziness and vexation.
True happiness lurks amid shabby clothes.

Guadagnoli.

McMBlifi:£W^aE»a^)M;u.'

.,»Wfc-<i^<t^-¥iii^a»«»^ f,;-=!-; Irfis

140

XVII.

THE JEANNETTE'S VICTIMS.

TO JOAN STOCKTON IIOUOII, M. D.

The other day, in opening a newspaper, my eyes by
chance fell on the following words: " the jkannkttk. "
Tlie Jeannette! and, for a long time, I remained thoi t-
fuUy gazing into the space, and sad at heart.

My mind, carried far away, with a hasty ramble, had
already rejoined those men, those sailors lost, feeble, tot-
tering in the snow amidst the floating ice-bergs.

These records daily M'ritten by your hands at the time
you saw all hope of help lost, when knowing perfectly
that safety was impossible, you were obliged to look upon
your best friends struck down by death, and withdraw
from you, after having consoled them with a last ray of
love and prayer.

You have not expressed in these records all that you
suffered. Yet neither pain nor the infinite dread of such
daily sad agony could conquer your courage or shako
your faith, brave and valiant souls. Honor to you! Honor

foreverl

Thus all of them yesterday were unknown, but to-day
are famous; they remained great at that dismal hour, and
when my heart searches for them in their quiet rest, if
they appear to me, it is only with the forehead encircled
by the martyr's wreath.

Oh, you saw them drawing near to merciless death, and
yet you have kept an ineffable hope. Grand it was to have
remained alone in such a horrid place /ar from their
home, from their country, without help and to have believ-
ed in God without murmuring and without complaining.

t_ ^

my eyes by

JKANNKTTK. "

lied thoi l-

ramble, had
t, feeble, tot-
rgs.

3 at the time
iug perfectly
to look upon
nd withdraw
a last ray of

all that you
ilread of such
ige or shako
)you! Honor

I, but to-day
nal hour, and
quiet rest, if
jad encircled

ss death, and
it was to have
r from their
ohavebeliev-
complaining.

117

Oh, how great were they! strugglers! heroes! martyrs!
Let us love the priceless offerings of these victims who
saciificed themselves to thy divine cause, light and

PROGUKSS.

A. lit' Cluxmbrier.

.^^

148
XVI 1 1.

DANTE.

TOTIIK HON. JOHN HKVKUI,KY UOIUN'rON

111 uridtt loiup Biiol.

DANTE.

It was evening. Deprived of its nmgnificence, the sun
now arrived at the dimmed liorizon, was departing silent-
ly, without strength, like an exiled king, who passes away
unknown. Upright upon a hill whence Florence could
he seen, leaning on hia sword still unsheathed and bloody,
a soldier, fierce in face, yet dusty from the battle scarcely
ended, all of whose companions were flying at random,
stood, casting on the distant city, a long and painful look.
A deep sigh heaved his breast, his eye sparkled, and his
voice made the hill tremble.

"Vanquished! exiled like a brigandl driven away by
the fate of the battlefield! without even having the fortune
to die fighting beneath our walls! Vanquished! ^ om
valley to valley to drag along my sad life, beggir.: .rom
half-hearted friends!— to eat the hard bread of alm^ until
my last hour comes! these are the rights I have won!

"I must flv, then, far from thee, dear and ungrateful
city— live and suffer far from thee without hope! Of all
the misfortunes which from this moment will weigh on
me, the greatest will be never to see thee again! Thou sun,
who art dying continue thy cours3 and illumine still the
roof of my ancestors, and the holy place where under the
black stone are sleeping in peace my mother and my
father. Oh, why could I not sleep near them! Thou
beloved Beatrice, who scarcely hast touched our world

:ON

[■E.

ence, the sun
)artiug silent-
[) passes away
lore nee could
d and bloody,
)attle scarcely
f at random,
1 painfullook.
tied, and his

ven away by
ng the fortune
ished! ^ om
beggir ,: .fom
I of almd until
liave won!
nd ungrateful

hope! Of all
will weigh on
lin! Thou sun,
imine still the
lere under the
other and my

them! Thou,
tied our world

149

while directing thy course toward heaven, in thy great
glory dost thou still remember thy friend? Vision so
short and so beautiful! Oh, bright day, what was thy to-
morrow? Watch over me, radiant, immortal one! Sweet-
eyed angel, cover me with thy wings! Happy star point
me out my way!"

Dante wua silent, and as in the tempest the oak lowers
the pride of its branches, the exile bent under the burden
of his misfortunes, lowered his face, and, with tormented
soul and eyes full of ten ra, tasted long the bitterness of
his pains. A noise came to draw him from his thoughts,
a noise feeble at first, but continually increasing, a terrible
mixture of saddened bells, of a nation's curse, of songs of
victors, and of cries of the vanquished.

This noise was the uproar of the people of Florence.
Humbled on account of their fears, to feast their victory,
they asked for vengeance, and without pity dragged to
the scaffold many prisoners spared by the sword in battle.

Like a lion awakened by a sudden noise, which with
flashing eyes rises and pricks up his ears, the soldier
started at the words which reached him with the echo,
and coming out from his sad repose for a moment listen-
ed to the brutal orgies; and then, with his arms extended
toward his native city, thus addressed her:

" Senseless populace! Go on, ye who curse the sacrific-
ed, and only help the strongest! Join death to thy pleas-
ure. Mingle blood with the wine of thy feast. Laugh at
the execution prepared for those who, moved by faith,
have risked their life for thee!

Go on with thy work, and make haste. Canst thou in
thy wisdom, know how many hours are needed to change
joy into dread, and grief into joy,— how long last so sweet
a power,— and if the oppressed remain long on their
knees?

150

" Without doubt, i)UircMl up by tlu'ir good fortune,
triuniphuntaud i'ullof bitteruess, the A^^n already say
'Our ndgii is sure!' Thiuking Ibis reign an easy task,
and the league of the Bianchi crushed, they strike our
remnants, and scoff at us with jest and sarcasm.

" Oh, Neri, know how to maintain yourselves kings of
the present. I have the future, and you, I dare to think,
will follow me thither. Ungrateful history may leave in
darkness your great exploits. I, in this terrified world,
just towards so great a glory, will immortalize you.

" Pouring Infernal light on your venal spirits, I will,
portray you to future ages, and will discover the niggard-
liness, the jealousy, the treachery, the hyi)ocrisy cf your
hearts, and upon your soiled names will throw torrents
of terrible verses. Oh, iuconsiant and deceitful peo}deI
I feel the day of vengeance coniingi Tremble! I am
the supreme wrath, bend thyself under its course, and
may misfortune break thy pride; every hour will bring a
new pain, and thou shalt torture thyself as a man alive

in a tomb."

The night had come. A blast of tempest roared pass-
ing through the air; the dark heaven was reddening, the
arm of the sad prophet seemed to threaten the perverse,
and the inspired forehead of the divine poet was sorround-
ed by lightning.

From nation to nation, from place to place, untamed,
uneasy, full of hatred and love, the great outlaw wandered
twenty years, far from his birth-place, always dreaming
of his return.

Until the last hour he cherished the hope of seeing this
happy day. Death only took pity on his long suflferings;
and the old Ghibelin never more saw Florence,— which
has not even his remains within her walls.

A. Richard.

I (

>o(l fortune,
already suy
I easy task,
r strike our

res kings of
[ire to think,
nay leave in
•ified world,
,e you.

)irits, I will,
the niggurd-
risy ct your
row torrt'uts
itful i>eo}del
nblel I am
course, and
will bring a
a man alive

roared pass-
Idunliig, the
ho perverse,
tras sorround-

co, untamed,
law wandered
y.s dreaming

of seeing this
ig sufferings;
ence, — which

ard.

XIX.

riTANTOMS.

TO WM. OI.DIIIOHT, Ar. A., M. I».

IIow many beautiful maidona have I soon die! It in
destiny. A prey is necessary to death. As the grass
must fall under the scythe, so, in the- ball, the quadrillo
must tramp rosy youth under its steps. The fountain by
irrigating the valleys must diminish its waters. The
lightning must shine, but only for a moment. Envious
April with its frosts must blight the applo tree, too proud
of its odoriferous flowers, white as the snow of the si>ring.
Yes, such is life. The darkness of the night follows the
dayiight. and to all will come the eternal awaking in
heaven, or the abys. A covetous crowd sits at tbo great
banquet, but many of the guests leave their places empty
and depart before the end.

II.

IIow many have I seen die! One was fair and bloom-
ing. Another seemed enraptured in a celestial music.
Another with her arms uphold her bended head — and as
the bird, which in taking flight, breaks the branch on
which it rests — her soul had broken her bodv.

One pale, lost, oppressed by sad delirium, pronounced
in a low voice a name forgotten by all, anotlur dies away
as a sound of a lyre, and another, expiring has on her
lips thd sweet smile of a young angel, returning to heaven.
All frail flowers — dead as soon as born — halcyons drown-
ed with their floating nests; doves sent from heaven to
earth, who, crowned with grace, youth and love, numbered
their years by the springs.

DpiuH VVIiiit? Already lying uikUt tho cold «tono!
So many charming boingH deprived of voice and life! So
many lightH extinguirthod! So many flowers fade<I away!
Oh, let niP trample the dried leaves and lose myself in tho
depth of tho woods.

Lovely phantoms! It is there in tho woods, when in
the dark I am thinking, it is there that by tnrn they como
to listen and to spcuik to me. Tho twilight at the same
time, shows and veils their number, but across the
branthes I perceive their glitteriig eyes.

My soul is a true sister to these beautiful shadows.
For me and for them life and death have no laws — some-
times I help their steps — sometimes I take their wings.
Ineffable vision in which I am dond ami they alive like
me. They lend their forms to my thoughts. I soe, oh,
yes I see them. They beckon mo to come, and then,
hand in hand, they dance around a grave, and, by degree
disappearing softly, draw away, and then after I think and
I remember.

III.

One especially — an angel — a young Spanish girl!
White hands, her breast swelled by innocent sighs. Black
eyes in which shone the looks of a Creole; and that in-
definite charm, that fresh halo, which generally crowns a
head of fifteen.

She died not for love. No, love had not yet brought
her joy nor sorrow; nothing yet had made her rebel
heart beat, and, when everyone, in looking at her, could
not repress tho words, " How beautiful she is! " none had
yet uttered secretly the word of love. Poor girl! She
loved dance too much — it was that which killed her. The
charming ball! The ball full of delight! Her ashes still
tremble with a gentle movement, if, by chance, in a fair

cold «tono I
uiul lifoi So
i fiidi'il ttwayl
myself ill the

»(ls, when in

rii thoy corao

at the same

it across the

fill sliadow'.s.
laws — some-
thi'ir wings.
ey alive like
i. I see, oh,
e, and then,
nd,hy degree
r I think aud

Ipanish girl I
sighs. Black
; and that in-
ally crowns a

yet brought
ule her rebel
ut her, could
is! " none had
or girl I She
lied her. The
ler ashes still
ice, in a fair

If).'}

night a whit(> cloud dances around the creHcent of the sky.

She loved dance too much! At the apjiroach of a festi-
val — three days before, she was continually thinking
and dreaming of i( — and for three nights ladies, music,
dancers never tired, tronblo<l her miiul in her sleep, and
laughed, and sliouted at her pillows.

Jewels, necklaces, silk girdles of waving reflections,
tissues lighter than beo'^ wings, festoons and ribbons to
buy a p"lace, all those things occupied her fancy.

Once Jio festival begun — full of gladness she comes
with her joyful sisters, furling and unfurling the fan in
her fingers, — then t its amongst the silk dresses, and her
heart bursts in( glad ' 'ains with the many-voiced
orchestriv. What a true » . ight was it to look at her when
she was dancing! Wcr ^^fn'inent tossed its blue spangles;
lier great dark *■■ ^ sparkled uw' : the black mantle like
a pair of stars i nde • a dark cloud. She v/as all daucc and
laughter and mad joy. Child!

Wo admire her in our sad leisure moments, sad, because
never at the ball our hearts were open, and in these balls,
as the dust flies on the silk dress, weariness is mixed
with pleasure. She, instead, carried by the waltzes or the
j)olkas, was going up and down, hardly breathing, excit-
ing herself with the sound of the renowned flute, with
the flowers, with the golden candlesticks, with the attract-
ive feast, with the music of the voices, with the iiois« of
thr =>teps.

"V! It happiness for her to move, lost in the crowd, to
feel her own senses multiply in the dance, so as not to be
able to know is she were being conveyed by a cloud, or
flying leaving the earth, or treading upon a waving sea.

At the approach of the dawn, she was obliged to depart,
aud to wait on the treshold till ths silken mantle was
thrown over her shoulders. Only then, this innocent

(lancer, chilled, felt the morning hreeze play over litr
hare neck.

Sad morrow those following a hall I Farewell dances
and dresses, and child-like laughter. In hei, the ohsti-
nate cough succeeded the songs; the fever with its hectic
color followed the rosy and lively delights, and the hright
eyes were changed into lack lustre eyes.

IV.

She is dead! Fifteen years old. beautiful, happy, ador-
ed! Dead corning out from a ball which immersed all
of us in mourning, dead, alas! And death, with chilly
hands wrested her yet dressed from the arms of a mother
mad with anguish, to lay her to sleep in the grave.

To dance at other balls she was ready, death was in
haste to take possession of such a beautiful body, and the
same ephemeral roses which had crowned her head and
which blossomed yesterday at a feast faded in a tomb.

The ui\happy mother, ignorant of her fate, had placed
so deep love on this frail stalk; to have watched her suf-
fering babyhood so long, and to have wasted so many
nights in lulling her when she cried, a tiny baby in her
cradle. To what purpose? Now the girl sleeps under the
coffin lid and, if in the grave where we have left her, some
beaudful winter's night a festival of the dead should
awaken her cold corpse, a ghost, with dreadful smile, in-
stead of hi? mother, will preside at her toilette, and will
tell her, "Now is the time," and with a kiss freezing her
blue lips, will pass through iier hair the knotted fingers,
of his skeleton hand, and will lead her trembling to the
ethereal chorus, flitting in darkness, and, at the same time
on the gray horizon the moon will shine pale and full

play over litr

irewell dances
lei, the obsti-
vvith its hectic
and the bright

I, happy, ador-
immerscd all
h, with chilly
;ns of a mother
le grave,
death was in
I body, and the
her head and
[ in a tomb.

ite, had placed
tched her suf-
isted so many
y baby in her
leeps under the
e left her, some
B dead should
dful smile, in-
lette, and will
S3 freezing her
notted fingers,
ambling to the
i the same time
pale and full

axi.(\. the rainbow of the night will color, with an ()});il re-
flection, the silver clouds.

Young maidens who are invited by the gay ball, with
its seductive jileasures, think of this Spanish girl. She
was gay, and with a merry hand was gathering the roses
of life, pleasure, youth and lovel Poor girl! Hurried
from feast to feast slie was sorting the colors of this
beautiful nosegay. How soon all vanished! Like Ophe-
lia, carried away by the river, she died gathering flowers.

V. Hugo.

'J' IF

XX.

TO MISS

DAVID.

SS SUSIK. K. WlTHFORl), (CHICAGO, ILL.)

To contend with tha giant Goliath, David had only his
sling, hut at the bottom of his boyish heart he had also a
strong faith. He was perfectly aware that in order to save
Israel, God would figth for him.

Calm and easy in mind, he set forth against the power-
ful Philistine who, with haughty and insolent look, smil-
ed at his youthful appearance, at the same time scoffing
at the Lord who had chosen David to save his people.

But the boy whom God directed, with a steady hand
and by a simple throw, inflicted on the colossus a deadly
wound, and thus the Lord was pleased to deliver Israel.

In the same manner as David, Thou, oh, Lord, -allest
U3 to great battles. To succeed in them in a way credit-
able to Thee, make us ^ithful as David, and then every
one would perceive that the Lord is with us as He was
with Israel.

And if evil sorrounds us, and if it become stronger than
ourselves, then, kneeling, we shall implore Thee, AVho
rejectest none, and then in answer to our prayers, Thou
shalt fight for us.

A. de Chambrier.

I
1 ■,-

XXI.

THE TWIN SPIRITS.

JO, ILL.)

d had only his
t he had also a
in order to save

linst the power-
'entlook, sinil-
) time scoffing
) his people,
a steady hand
lossus a deadly
deliver Israel.
I, Lord, ?allest

a way credit-
ind then every

us as He was

le stronger than

)re Thee, Who

prayers, Thou

nbrier.

' TO MISS NORA HILLAUV, TKACHER OF MUSIC.

I-

The sun was near the end of his journey,— thq air wiis
filled with mystery,— the violets send their odor to God,—
the murmur of the stream was more lively,— all creation
seemed to repeat the words of love, and my heart was
seized by a pious feeling which oweetly suggested prayer.

Prostrating myself before the rustic altar of the queen
of heaven, a divine pity moved my soul and I wept and
prayed.

11.

Whilst to the throne of the Almighty, like a cloud of
incense, joined to the sublime austere voice of the organ
rose the prayer of the worshippers so dear to Him, sud-
denly I heard a sweet, strong, harmonious voice which
troubled my heart and forced me to weep.

Raising my eyes there appeared before me a young
orator, beautiful and divine in appearance who struck
my heart.

III.

For many and many days already the fair young man
had turned and returned around my house, looked at me
and smiled, and every day I saw his sweet image; blush-
ing, I too had answered his salute,— and each time he
came I lost my peace.

God grant that he may understand me as I understand
himl And if he understands me and will give me his
heart I will adore him with an intense love.

158

IV.

He loves, yes,, he loves me! Oh, celestial delight! — In-
effable joy I — Supreme gladness! No, this, is not a dream,
he has told me and his words are words of divine consent.
Yes, my beloved, I will love thee,— to thee I will open the
most hidden recesses of my heart,— entirely thine will be
this my living soul. Sweetly, sweetly a breath of love
slighty touches my face. He has looked at me and placed
on my finger a ring,— a glittering circle of gold.

See, see how the torches shine! How beaut iml is the
altar festally adorned! How many garlands! How much
incense, and how many lights! Oh, what a>»olemn funct-
ion is this one! How bright a day, and how the heaven
smiles! I will adorn ray head with the nuptial crown.
I will appear beautiful under my veil. Already the
harmonious trumpet tunes joyful songs. Oh, my faithful
one! dost thou not hear the people's shouts. — "Hurrah!
for the bride! "

VI.

" Thou art married. " So said the priest, — the old man,
thou knowest, who loves me so much! Art thou then
mine? Wilt thou be always at my side? Is then ac-
complished the hope of my heart? But tell me, dear, wliy
so sadly lookest thou at the ground, and sighest? What
thought comes to abate the course of our joy? Thinkest
thou perhaps of thy mother whom thou hast left alone?
Wo will go to her, but do not weep any more.

VIT.

Three days are passed, and i.e has not returned! Al-
ready three days, three eternal days! and I am dying! Uy

1 delight!— In-
13 not a dream,
divine consent.
I will open the
ly thine will be
breath of love
b me and placed
• gold.

eautiml is the
^sl How much
a solemn funct-
ow the heaven
nuptial crown.
Already the
Oh, my faithful
ats. — "Hurrah!

I, — the old man,
Art thou then
? Is then ac-
1 rae, dear, why
sighest? What
oy? Thinkest
last left alone?
ore.

returned! Al-
am dying! My

159

treasure has told me nothing. At dawn he kissed me,
and quickly went away. Has he been to console his
mother? But then he ought to return without delay!
Pray, bright stars, bring him back to me. W.lhout my
beloved I am failing, and I will preserve alive for him the
only pride of my life, with whom I fell in so great a love.

VIII.

Alas! What are these melancholy voices, — this sad
sound of bells, — this grief which invades all tlie passers
by? What wants this yet distant crowd? Somebody is
dead . . . .and is accompanied to his home by weeping faces!
Alas! is it true this my horrid vision? No, it cannot be!
Eternal God, Thou art not an unjust punisher! My mind
is raving, and my thoughts are food for my sorrows.

IX.

Yes, my love is dead! The colored cheeks are now
pale and the heart is silent. The refulgent pupil which
before used to shine with divine ardor is now closed. God,
why hast now taken him, when scarcely thou hadst grant-
ed me his sublime love? Like a little flower, which in
the winter appears waving, and soon after is leafless and
dies, thou, my sweet-heart, hast passed away.

I am wretched, sad and alone, because they have taken
away my treasure, burying him under the green sod not
far from thy altar. Virgin Mary. They have laid on the
cofFin a few flowers, singing pious songs. Prepare for me
in the same place the nuptial bed. I come to thee, my
beloved, only comfort of my heart. United we shall
spread our wings on the celestial shore, the everlasting love.

At the last tollijig of the sad bell, well known to the

J-.-^.'-t^.t^rtli-i'* ■-■•v'3-'''^ifc'iJ-*^^^^Hi

JOO

village people, when the night has come, and the honest
prayer of tlie peasant singing to the Virgin, ascends to
the spheres, when in the lieaven raises the placid moon,
when the breezes become milder, and all around the uni-
verse is silent, adoring the Creator, when, on the branches
the feathered birds tranquilly hide their harmonious
throaths in their winged arms, and in the sky the most
distant worlds reappear, amidst the light vapors of the
churchyard, a flame towers alone and trembling for a
while, finally rests and waits.

Not long after, a sad and harmonious song is heard, and
in the meanwhile one can see alike flame coming toward
the first, and both mingled in one embrace, sweetly diss,
appeal, like twins, destined to the same fate, who felt
intense joy in meeting each other.

The firm belief of the people is that the apparition is
the souls of the two unhappy ones who prematurely died
in such great grief, and, on account of this, tlie believer
pained for so great a misfortune, bows, and weeping, says

AVE MAllIA.

C. A. Morpnrgo.

nd the honest
;in, ascends to
) placid moon,
iround the uiii-
)u the branches
ir harmonious
} sky the most
Vapors of the
:ombling for a

ig is heard, and

coming toward

e, sweetly diss.

fate, who felt

e apparition is
■ematurely died
is, tlie believer
1 weeping, says

■pnrgo.

DOTTOR T. ROSSINI,

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