Chapter XXII: Part IV (2)

On hearing that such a brilliant marriage, which more than fulfilled her highest ambitions, was in store for her, Maritana clapped her hands joyfully; for though she had seen the capture of Don Cæsar the day before, and had even pleaded for his release, she had not heard his name spoken, and knew naught of his death-sentence; but when Don José added that for certain State reasons he could not explain to her she must go through the ceremony thickly veiled, and not behold her bridegroom until some days afterwards, she grew suspicious, and said she did not like such mystery.

Then the cunning Minister, to relieve her fears, said that it was the express command of the Queen that she should go through this ceremony and obey all his directions, however strange they might seem; and on hearing this, Maritana, who was grateful to the Queen for noticing her singing in the streets, now willingly gave her consent, thinking that even such an unusual marriage as this must be right if it was the royal lady's command. So she allowed herself to be dressed in a wedding robe, and so heavily veiled as to be completely blind-folded; and as soon as she was ready, Don José took her to the prison-house, together with a priest.

It was now about six o'clock; and they found Don Cæsar already carousing merrily with the very soldiers who were to shoot him an hour later. The doomed man was quite in his usual good spirits, and determined to enjoy the last minutes of his life; but the boy, Lazarillo, was sad, and refused to join in the feast. Such a strong feeling of gratitude and love for his generous, light-hearted protector had sprung up within the youth's heart that he could not bear to think of his quickly-approaching death, and he longed to discover some means of saving him. As he gazed helplessly round the prison chamber, his eyes fell upon the file of arquebuses leaning against the wall, with which the fatal volley was presently to be fired; and at the sight of the dreaded weapons, a sudden thought flashed across his quick brain. Creeping quietly along to the arquebuses, he dexterously managed to extract all the bullets, unnoticed by any of the merry feasters; and then, delighted with his clever trick, he awaited an opportunity to whisper to the intended victim what he had done.

When the Minister entered the room with the trembling, veiled Maritana, the revellers received them with gay acclamations, and quickly the bride and bridegroom were led to the prison chapel to be married. Neither could behold the other, because of the thick veil that enveloped Maritana; but Don Cæsar inwardly felt that his mysterious bride must be charming and fair to look upon, for several long locks of bright hair managed to escape the folds of her scarf, the hand she placed in his was small and soft, and her voice was full of music.

And Maritana also was thrilled at the touch and voice of Don Cæsar, and when after the ceremony she was hurried away by the exultant Don José, she longed for the time to come when she should see her husband face to face, for the cunning Minister had told her nothing of Don Cæsar's doom, but led her to suppose that she would see him very soon.

The hour had now arrived for Don Cæsar's execution, and he went forth to his mock death with a gay heart, for by this time Lazarillo had told him of his tampering with the arquebuses, and he knew that all would be well with him. But he decided to go through the whole performance just as though the guns were properly charged, knowing that this was the only means by which he might yet escape; so, though inwardly full of mirth, he bade a sorrowful farewell to all around him, and when the volley was fired, fell to the ground at once, feigning death.

The executioners did not approach to examine the supposed corpse, but returned to the prison immediately; and when they had gone, the bold Don Cæsar calmly got up and walked away! Having thus escaped with his life, he determined to find his mysterious bride and hurry from Madrid before recapture became possible; but as, knowing nothing of the pardon that had been accorded him, he dared not show himself in daylight, he kept in hiding until evening, when he issued forth cautiously in search of Lazarillo, whom he knew would now be in the service of the Minister.

Now Don José had laid all his plans with great skill; and knowing that a certain dependent of his, the Marquis de Montefiori, upon whom he had bestowed a remunerative appointment, was holding a grand reception that evening, he decided that Maritana should be introduced to this assembly as the Marquis's niece. Accordingly, when evening fell, he repaired with the gipsy-girl, splendidly attired, to the festive scene, and taking her into an ante-room off the salon where the guests were being received, he sent for the Marquis, and informed him that Maritana was his (the Marquis's) long-lost niece.

"But I _have_ no niece," exclaimed the puzzled Marquis.

"Pardon me, but _I_ say that this lady, the Countess de Bazan, _is_ your long-lost niece!" repeated Don José firmly. "And you must introduce her to your guests as such!"

On hearing this, the Marquis--a weak, foolish person, completely the tool of Don José, who made use of him for various unscrupulous purposes--pretended to suddenly remember his new-found relation, seeing that the Minister desired him to do so, and after welcoming her with exaggerated effusiveness, he led the bewildered Maritana to the salon beyond to be introduced to his wife and the assembly as his long-lost niece.

Don José was just about to follow, when a stranger, muffled in the robe of a monk, suddenly entered the ante-room; and to his surprise and dismay, he quickly recognised the handsome features of Don Cæsar de Bazan! Alarmed at this unexpected appearance of the man he had hoped and believed was dead, the Minister tremblingly asked how he came to be alive; and Don Cæsar gaily related the story of Lazarillo's trick, and of his own feigned death, adding: "And now I have come to demand my wife, the Countess de Bazan, who, I have been told, is here!"

For a moment Don José was nonplussed, knowing that if the bold Count took Maritana away now, his own base schemes with regard to the Queen would fall to the ground; but quickly thinking out a plan of escape, he sought the Marchioness de Montefiori, and bringing her into the ante-room, introduced her with much ceremony to Don Cæsar as the Countess de Bazan.

Now, the Marchioness was old, ugly, silly, and frivolous, and when Don Cæsar saw that he had been wedded to such an unattractive person, he was filled with disappointment and disgust, and gladly agreed to sign a contract suggested by the quick-witted Minister to relinquish his wife and quit Madrid for ever in exchange for a yearly sum of money paid in compensation.

Before the paper was signed, however, Maritana's voice was heard singing in the salon beyond; and instantly recognising the voice as that of his mysterious veiled bride, Don Cæsar, knowing now that he had been cheated, flung the pen away, and angrily declared that he would have his true wife at all costs.

At this moment a party of guests, with Maritana in their midst, entered from the salon; and knowing that all would be lost should the husband and wife meet face to face, Don José gave orders for the storming Count to be instantly arrested by the guards on duty, who dragged him off in triumph. At the same time, Maritana was seized and borne away also, that she might not behold the clamorous stranger; and seeing that she was now growing suspicious of her surroundings and treatment, Don José had her carried to a villa belonging to the King, close to the royal palace.

Here the young Gitana pined in lonely state for several days, guarded by the youth, Lazarillo; for although gorgeous attire and every luxury she could desire was heaped upon her, she felt that all was not well, and that her position was a false one.

"You have made me a countess, and given me wealth and a costly palace, but where is my husband?" she exclaimed anxiously to Don José, when after a lapse of several days he at last visited her; and the Minister replied with a triumphant wave of the hand towards the door: "He is here!"

At the same moment, the King of Spain entered the room; for Don José had kept his royal master fully acquainted with his movements regarding Maritana, and had now brought him to this gilded prison to amuse himself with the beautiful captive, whose fascinations had so completely enthralled him.

Having thus ensured, as he hoped, the accomplishment of the poor girl's dishonour, Don José went off to seek an interview with the neglected Queen, whom he now expected to convince of her husband's infidelity; but before departing, he gave strict orders to Lazarillo to permit no one to enter the villa, and to fire upon any intruder.

When the King entered her room, Maritana recognised him at once as the stranger who had admired her in the streets, and the knowledge of his true identity suddenly flashing upon her at the same time, she drew back in surprise and alarm; but Charles advanced eagerly, and taking her hand, began to pour forth passionate protestations of devotion, offering her dazzling prospects of wealth and luxury if only she would accept his love. But Maritana was pure, and seeing now into what danger she had been snared, she utterly disregarded the King's protestations, and endeavoured to restrain his advances; and presently she was greatly relieved at a sudden interruption--a shot that sounded from the entrance to the villa.

The King quickly hurried her into the next chamber, and on returning to the salon, found himself face to face with the intruder, who had now made his entry through the window.

This was none other than Don Cæsar de Bazan, who, having gained his freedom (the Chief Minister having no power to detain him owing to the King's pardon), had come to demand his wife once more, having learnt that she was shut up within this very villa; but on finding a stranger in the salon, he was greatly surprised and alarmed, especially when Lazarillo (who had followed him into the room, and recognised him with delight) in a whisper informed him that this stranger was the King of Spain. However, in spite of the difficulties he foresaw, the bold Count determined to rescue his unknown bride from the false position in which she had been placed, and to save his own name from dishonour; and addressing the King as a stranger, he serenely demanded his name.

Charles, having no idea of the true identity of his questioner, and thinking only of shielding himself from scandal, answered in a haughty tone: "I am Don Cæsar de Bazan! And pray, who are you?"

Instantly Don Cæsar, whose keen wit and happy resourcefulness never deserted him for a moment, replied promptly: "Oh Signor, if _you_ are Don Cæsar de Bazan, why, then, _I_ am Charles, King of Spain!"

The King was so much amused at the quick-witted boldness of the intruder (whom he soon gathered to be the real Don Cæsar), that for a short time he kept up the farce; but on seeing that he was known in spite of the name he had taken, he was just about to order Don Cæsar's arrest, when Lazarillo appeared again, saying that a messenger had arrived from the palace, where His Majesty's presence was immediately required.

Full of impatience at this second interruption to his love-making, the King hurried from the room; and no sooner had he gone than Maritana entered, drawing back at the sight of another stranger. But Don Cæsar, knowing that he was at last face to face with his bride, and full of joy on beholding her wonderful beauty and charm, hurried forward with outstretched arms, and explaining rapidly that he was her own true husband, he declared that they should never more be parted.

And when Maritana heard the rich voice of Don Cæsar she instantly recognised it as that of the unseen bridegroom with whom she had knelt at the altar; and since their love was mutual, the husband and wife embraced with great joy.

Maritana now begged her husband to seek an interview with the Queen, whom she had observed walking in the palace gardens close by, and to induce her to intercede on their behalf; and when he had gone, she knelt at the window to pray for his success.

A short time after, the King returned to the salon, having despatched his business at the palace; and he was immediately followed by Don Cæsar, who looked greatly disturbed, and began to tell a strange story in excited tones.

He declared that he had entered the palace gardens to seek an interview with the Queen, when on approaching some thick bushes he had heard the sound of voices from the other side, and on drawing nearer, had observed Don José de Santarem in close conversation with the Queen. "Your Majesty is being deceived," the Chief Minister was saying, "for the King meets his new charmer in yonder villa to-night!"

He next had declared his own passion to the Queen, and had begged her to accept him as a lover in order to avenge herself on the faithless King; but the royal lady had indignantly refused to listen to him, scorning the love he offered. Furious at this proof of the baseness and treachery of the trusted Minister, Don Cæsar had then sprung forward and challenged him to fight, and in a few moments Don José had fallen, to rise no more.

Now when the young King thus learnt how nobly his honour had been upheld by the very man whose own good name he was seeking to destroy, he felt heartily ashamed of the unworthy part he had just played; and immediately relinquishing all pursuit of Maritana, he appointed Don Cæsar to the Governorship of the wealthy province of Valentia, as a mark of his gratitude and regard.

So the base designs of the unscrupulous Minister were at last brought to naught; and Don Cæsar de Bazan, restored to favour and a high position, retired with honour to Valentia to live in great happiness with his beautiful bride, Maritana.

LURLINE

Beneath the billows of the great Rhine River dwelt the King of the Water Spirits, Rhineberg the Powerful, for whom the gnomes of the under-world and the sea had gathered together wonderful treasures of gold and jewels, such as were not even dreamed of by mortals; and here in his palace of crystal and pearl he held a mighty sway.

It was a merry court he held; for his beautiful daughter, Lurline, the fairest of all the river nymphs, loved to dance upon the sparkling floors with her attendant nymphs, and to sing to the music of the flowing waves.

But at last there came a change, and Lurline was merry no longer. One evening, as the fair nymph rested upon the Lurlei-berg, a rock that jutted over a whirlpool, playing upon her harp and singing the thrilling song of enchantment with which she lured her mortal victims to destruction at the bidding of her powerful spirit father, a handsome young nobleman named Rudolph sailed by in an airy skiff; and as Lurline gazed upon the exquisite beauty of this youth, a passionate love for him grew up in her heart, and, dropping her harp just as her song had begun to enthral him, she could no longer bear to lure him to his doom.

After this she grew sad, and sighed for the Count Rudolph with every breath; and when the Rhine King knew that his daughter loved a mortal, he was filled with dismay and anger. Finding, however, that in spite of his reproaches Lurline could not forget the beautiful youth she had seen, he gave her permission to seek him out in his own home, hoping that she would quickly discover mortal love to be but a frail, unworthy thing, and would then renounce it; and the water maiden gladly availed herself of her father's permission, and went forth to seek her earthly lover.

Meanwhile, the young Count Rudolph was passing through a time of difficulty and trouble; for, having spent his wealth on the gay pleasures of youth, he had no longer the necessary means to keep up proper state in his ancient castle home. Thinking to mend his fortunes by making a wealthy marriage, he began to pay his addresses to Lady Ghiva, the daughter of an old Baron, whom he believed to be very rich, but who was in reality quite as poor as himself; and his court was acceptable to the haughty Ghiva, who had long cherished admiration and affection for the handsome youth, believing him also to be rich enough to satisfy all her wants.

When, however, at a festive ball given by the Baron in his honour, Rudolph laid his heart at her feet, but declared that he had no great wealth to offer her, the disappointed lady refused him with disdain, and Rudolph returned to his castle in chagrin. His merry companions, however, sought to cheer his drooping spirits with lively songs and revelry; but Rudolph found comfort from another source.

There suddenly came into his thoughts the memory of that evening, when, as he rowed himself in his skiff upon the Rhine, he had heard the thrilling, enticing voice of a water nymph; and as the words of her sweet song now came back to him, he began to sing them to his companions, who listened to him in delight.

But soon their delight was changed into dismay; for as the young Count sang the words of this strange sweet song, Lurline herself suddenly appeared in the banqueting hall, as though in answer to his call.

The lovely water nymph at once approached Rudolph, and began to weave a spell of enchantment over him; and having placed a magic ring upon his finger as a talisman against all danger, she disappeared as suddenly as she had come.

But her thrilling voice, singing to the accompaniment of a magic harp, could be heard calling from the river; and Rudolph, on recovering from the stupor into which he had been thrown, now became so violently enamoured of the beautiful nymph that he sprang from his seat and rushed down to the shore, following the sound of her luring song with ecstasy.

His friends, fearing that he was being enticed to destruction, endeavoured to check his impetuous course, and to hold him back from danger; but Rudolph, reckless of what lay before him, and intoxicated with the charm of the water maiden's irresistible song, flung all detaining hands from him, and plunged eagerly into the river. The waves of the Lurlei-berg whirlpool flowed over him, but were powerless to harm him, because of the magic ring he wore; and Lurline, full of joy, conveyed him to her own palace of corals, where they spent together a period of delirious happiness.

But one day Rudolph heard the voices of his old companions mourning his loss, as they sadly rowed overhead in their skiffs; and, longing to greet them once again, he begged the lovely Lurline to permit him to leave her for a few days, promising to return to her.

Lurline, though fearful of being parted from the mortal lover she adored, yet could not bear to cause him pain by refusing his request; so she gave her consent, declaring that she would await his return at the end of three days on the Lurlei-berg.

Rudolph now desired to take back with him some of the lavish wealth he saw around him; and Lurline, having been given the keys of her father's treasure-chambers during his temporary absence, took him therein to take his fill.

As it happened, Rhineberg returned at that moment, and was enraged on discovering what the lovers were about; but when Lurline pleaded for pardon he could not resist her sweet charm, and ended by giving Rudolph vast treasures to take back with him to his castle.

The young Count then departed; and on his arrival at his home the news of his altered fortunes quickly spread. The Baron and his daughter Ghiva were now very anxious to encourage the suitor they had formerly rejected; and to them Rudolph revealed the secret of his newly-acquired wealth, showing them the magic ring he had received from Lurline, and singing the praises of the lovely water nymph so rapturously that the Baron's daughter was quickly died with a consuming jealousy, and snatching the ring from his finger, furiously flung it into the midst of the river.

With the loss of the magic ring the spell of Lurline departed also; and Rudolph, forgetful of his love for the fair nymph, began to find pleasure in the advances made by the cunning Ghiva, and to engage in revellings and feastings once more.

In the meantime, fair Lurline sat upon the Lurlei-berg rock, singing her sweet love-songs as she patiently awaited the return of the mortal she adored; but when one day a slave-gnome of her father's brought to her the magic ring which she had given to Rudolph, and which had been now found in the river, she could not help but believe her lover to be faithless.

Filled with woe, and yet enraged that her love should have been slighted by a mortal, she resolved to seek out Rudolph once more, and to reproach him for his faithlessness.

Accordingly, she appeared at a splendid festival which was being held on the banks of the Rhine, in honour of the young Count's birthday; and, quickly approaching Rudolph, she began to pour bitter reproaches upon him for deserting her loving arms for the sake of his mortal companions, some of whom, she informed him, were even now plotting his assassination that they might seize his treasures.

Her wrath, however, vanished when Rudolph explained how his magic ring had been taken from him by force, and declared that he still loved her with his whole heart; for the magic charm of her sweet presence had once more enveloped the young Count, and he felt that her love alone could satisfy the longings of his heart.

Meanwhile, his false companions, as he had been warned by Lurline, were even now hatching a plot to murder him and seize his wealth; and their plans were overheard by the Lady Ghiva and her father, who quickly informed Rudolph of his danger, and besought him to save his life by instant flight.

But the young Count declared that he would rather die by the side of his beloved Lurline than fly as a coward; and, boldly drawing his sword, he met his enemies undaunted.

Then Lurline, knowing that her lover's life was in utmost danger, took up her harp, and sang a wild song of invocation to the Spirits of the Rhine, so that the noble river suddenly rose in a mighty flood, and immersed the would-be murderers.

When the waters had once more returned to their accustomed bounds, Rhineberg, the River King, appeared; and, to the great joy of the lovers, he now gave his gracious consent to their union.

Thus did Lurline, the lovely Daughter of the Rhine, secure her heart's desire; and as she gazed into the eyes of her mortal lover, she knew that she had not lived in vain, since she had gained the greatest of all treasures--the jewel of Love.

COLONEL CHABERT
(_Oberst Chabert_)

It was summer-time in Paris; and late one night during the year 1817, lights still burned in the office of Derville, the famous lawyer, betokening that work was still proceeding in one spot of the gay city, in spite of the fact that thousands of pleasure-seekers paced the streets and filled the theatres, and that no reasonable person could possibly have the desire to be cooped up in a close room until midnight when the soft warm air of a June evening was to be enjoyed outside.

But Derville, the lawyer, was the fashion; and he had so many clients and so many interesting cases to conduct that his offices were often open until a late hour. Not that Derville himself was to be found there of an evening; for he was a young man, who, though clever and shrewd in his profession, yet desired to enjoy the good things of life and sought pleasure whilst he might. But his two clerks toiled on unceasingly, preparing deeds and documents against the return of their master at midnight, when they might retire to rest and Derville himself would take his turn, remaining up until early dawn to con the papers they had left for him.

Old Boucard, the elder clerk, would grumble now and again because of the late hours he was compelled to keep; but Godeschal, his companion, never complained, for he was an old soldier and afraid of no hardships. He was glad of the work to occupy his mind, after the troubles and vicissitudes he had been through as a sergeant in Napoleon's army.

Napoleon was now in exile at St Helena; but though peaceful days were at present his lot, Godeschal oft looked back with regret to the stirring past and sighed for the days when he had fought side by side with Chabert, his beloved Colonel. How he had loved Chabert; and how grief-stricken he had been when the brave Colonel had fallen at the battle of Eylau!

Nor was he alone in his grief--for when the news of Colonel Chabert's death was brought to Paris, there was general grief for the loss of so gallant a man; and his fair young wife, Rosine, became the chief object of sympathy in Parisian society, and, later on, its petted favourite.

In a very short time, however, Chabert was forgotten, and Rosine became the wife of the fascinating young Comte Ferraud, a peer of France. The pair had a deep love for one another; and when two children were born to them as the years went by, their happiness was complete.

And now, on this hot night in June, ten years after the battle of Eylau, their happiness was about to be shattered.

For Chabert was not dead, as had been believed; and he was even now entering Derville's office, with the object of proving his identity and claiming his wife. He had been struck down at Eylau, fearfully wounded, and after the battle his unconscious body had been taken up for dead and cast into a huge grave or charnel pit with the other slain; but later, on recovering consciousness and realising his awful position, he had managed by almost superhuman efforts to free himself. Then, as he lay on the top of the ground, he had been found by a poor peasant woman, who gave him shelter in her hut until his wounds were healed.

Better for him would it have been had he never effected so miraculous an escape from burial alive, for when at length, after many weary months, he went forth to tell his tale and seek assistance to return to his wife and home, no one would believe his story, and all laughed to scorn the idea that the gaunt, disfigured and ragged beggar before them could be the gallant Chabert, whom they knew to have been slain and buried at Eylau.

Stunned by the helplessness of his position, Chabert lost his senses for a time, and was locked up in a mad-house for declaring himself to be the dead Colonel; and then, finally securing his release by giving up his claim and calling himself instead Hyacinth the Beggar, he began to wander on foot through many towns and country wilds, frequently writing letters to his wife imploring her aid on his behalf, to none of which he received any reply.

Many further disasters fell upon him, for he was often imprisoned as a vagabond, since no one would believe his tale or give him help; but, at last, after ten years' weary wanderings, he earned sufficient money to enable him to make his way back to Paris--there to learn the despairing news that his beloved Rosine was now the happy wife of another man.

Though full of grief at this additional crushing blow, Chabert yet determined to establish his identity at all costs, and to claim his wife; and for this purpose he sought the assistance of the most famous lawyer in Paris.

Nearly a dozen times that day had he called at the offices of Derville, only to find the great man absent, or engaged; and when he finally appeared again as midnight was about to strike, old Boucard was highly indignant, and wished to deny him admission, since he did not approve of his wild and wretched looks and his beggarly garments.

Godeschal, however, was interested in the stranger, and bade him enter; and as the haggard client came forward with feverish eagerness, the ex-sergeant stared at him curiously, trying to chase some elusive recollection as to where he had seen those scarred and worn features before, since he felt sure the man was no stranger to him, though he could not yet place him in his book of memory. His musings, however, were cut short by the entrance of Derville, who sent both clerks into an adjoining room, and sat down at once to interview his strange client.

No sooner did the ragged late-comer declare himself to be the famous Chabert so long believed to be dead, than the young lawyer became intensely interested; for the beautiful Comtesse Rosine, the supposed widow of Chabert and the wife of Comte Ferraud, was also his client, and one of the most fascinating of his many lady admirers. He, therefore, invited the unhappy man before him to tell him his whole story; and by the time the heart-rending recital had come to an end, he felt entirely convinced that the stranger was indeed the Chabert who had been mourned as dead.

At this moment, Godeschal entered to inform his master that the Comtesse Rosine had unexpectedly arrived and desired an immediate interview; and upon hearing that his beloved one was about to enter the room, Chabert became violently agitated, forgetting, for the instant, that she was now the wife of another man, and only longing to clasp her in his arms.

Derville, however, though now more than ever satisfied as to the truth of the story which had been told to him, thrust Chabert into an adjoining chamber, bidding him to possess himself in patience a little while longer; and then he gave orders for the Comtesse to be admitted, at the same time scolding Godeschal for staring after the mysterious ragged stranger--for the old sergeant had started violently on hearing the raised voice of Chabert, and it had brought back to him a flood of recollections. Half dazed, he admitted the Comtesse Rosine, retiring from the room as she entered; and Derville turned readily to receive his beautiful client, kissing her hand with his usual charming courtesy and leading her to a seat.

That Rosine was agitated, he could easily perceive; and though she began her interview by an attempted flirtation with the handsome young lawyer, Derville skillfully evaded her advances and led her to relate her troubles to him.

He was not greatly surprised to learn that Chabert was the cause of her late visit; and he soon discovered that, though terrified, Rosine desired him to believe that she was merely annoyed by the threats of a blackmailer. She declared that an impostor calling himself Chabert had written to her many letters, in which he claimed to be her first husband who had had a wonderful escape from death and burial; and she added that this person had now come to Paris and begun to haunt her house.

Derville's quick brain instantly realised that the Comtesse secretly believed the so-called impostor to be indeed her first husband, since she had, doubtless, recognised his handwriting on the letters, but that she was determined to refuse to acknowledge his identity; and the truth of his surmise was instantly forthcoming, for Chabert, unable to restrain himself longer, now burst into the room, and seizing Rosine's trembling hands in his, greeted her as his wife in passionate tones of love.

Rosine turned deadly pale, and, thus taken unawares, unconsciously proved to the watchful Derville the identity of Chabert by her instant shrinking away from his embrace, and by the hoarse murmur of his name under her breath; but the next moment, full of despair at the thought of losing her beloved Ferraud, she passionately denounced him as an impostor and utterly repudiated the idea that she had ever beheld him before.

Chabert, crushed again by her unexpected denial of him, feverishly recounted to her all that he had done for her in the past--how he had found her, an orphaned, destitute young girl, on the banks of the Seine, about to drown herself; how he had saved her, and, loving her from the first, had married her; and how, until the time of his departure to the wars, he had loaded her with every kindness and sought nothing but her happiness.

To all this, Rosine still stubbornly refused to admit any confirmation whatever; but, in spite of her repudiation, undeniable proof of the stranger's identity was again accorded by the sudden entry of old Godeschal, who, full of emotion, flung himself at the feet of Chabert and tearfully addressed him as his beloved Colonel, whom he now completely recognised, in spite of his scars and haggard looks.

Finding herself thus defeated, Rosine uttered a distracted cry and rushed out of the office, determined to cling to her beloved Ferraud whilst she might; and when Chabert, now furious at her cruel denial of him, would have followed with intent to kill her, Derville held him back, and proceeded to calm his rage and to lay before him plans for his next action.

Meanwhile, Rosine reached her home, and passed a restless, anxious night, trying to seek a loophole from her terrible position. She dared not yet make any statement to Ferraud, without whose love she felt she could not exist; and next day, as she sat alone in one of the large palatial rooms of her beautiful home, she determined to make an appeal to Chabert himself to forego his claim, for she saw that he loved her still and selfishly thought that he might be willing to put her happiness before his own.

Elated by this idea, she was about to order her carriage and seek Chabert, when Derville entered the room, unannounced.

Rosine, though last evening willing enough to win to her side the handsome young lawyer by exercising her arts of fascination, now resented his intrusion; for she knew that he had never for an instant believed in her denial of Chabert's identity, that he even suspected her of further deceit, and she feared him accordingly.

Her fears were well-founded; for Derville declared that he had come to acquaint the Comte Ferraud with the fact of her first husband's existence. Once again, Rosine indignantly denied that his ragged client of last night was Chabert; but, next moment, she was completely nonplussed by Derville calmly accusing her of having received all the imploring letters which Chabert had sent to her during his wretched wanderings, and of even having been in possession of his first communication before her marriage with Ferraud took place.

Closely the lawyer watched the effect of his accusing words upon the white face of Rosine; then, seeking a proof from herself of the truth of his assertion, he added mercilessly: "I have proof of all this!"

Rosine fell into his trap at once; for, knowing that he spoke the truth, she quickly determined to purchase his silence by the offer of gold, and drawing from her writing-table a bag containing a thousand louis d'or, she entreated him to take it and leave her in peace.

But Derville was not to be bought; and he sternly bade the agitated woman to put back her gold, declaring that though he had held no proof before of his suspicions, she had herself now revealed to him the truth of his accusation by her foolish attempt to buy his silence.

The self-accused Rosine bowed her head in humiliation; but upon Ferraud's entry into the room at that moment, she still endeavoured to avert the blow she knew must fall.

Ferraud, young, handsome, and full of gaiety, had brought in flowers from the garden for his beloved wife, whom he greeted tenderly, at the same time extending a hearty greeting to Derville; but soon realising that something was wrong, he demanded an explanation. In reply, Derville, ignoring Rosine's imploring glances, asked for an interview; and as the two men retired into Ferraud's study and closed the door, the distracted wife listened outside, with her ear to the keyhole, for the words that should seal her doom.

She heard Derville relating the story of her first husband's return; and when the pair came out of the room, and the lawyer had departed to fetch Chabert, she hastened, sobbing, to Ferraud, who clasped her in his arms in a passionate embrace. To her joy, she found that Ferraud refused to believe the story he had been told; and the pair remained for a few happy minutes in their lovers' paradise, until interrupted by the return of Derville with Chabert and the faithful ex-sergeant, Godeschal, who refused to leave his newly-found and well-beloved Colonel, fearing lest some conspiracy might be made against his life.

Ferraud met the newcomers with dignity, and haughtily challenged Chabert to substantiate his claim to be the famous Colonel of whose death and burial definite reports had been received and believed; and upon Rosine again doggedly repudiating the fact that the changed man before them was indeed her first husband, old Godeschal sprang forward and furiously denounced the unhappy woman as a traitress, accusing her of having been in possession of Chabert's first letter announcing his escape before she was married to the Comte Ferraud.

Derville, out of pity for the harassed wife, had withheld the latter information from Ferraud, who was thunderstruck on hearing the terrible words of Godeschal; and seizing Rosine's hands in an agitated grip, he commanded her to answer on oath that the accusation was false. In vain Rosine, half-fainting, endeavoured to utter the words of denial that Ferraud longed to hear; but, conscience-stricken, she could not swear on oath that which she knew to be untrue, and, with bowed head, she now admitted that the returned stranger was indeed her first husband, Chabert, and that she had known him to be alive on the very day on which she had been married to Ferraud.

She entreated the latter to forgive her, since her deep love for him had been the reason for her guilty silence; but Ferraud, crushed by the blow which must lay his family honour and pride in the dust, and furious at the deception which had been practised upon him, flung the weeping Rosine into the arms of Chabert, announcing to the latter that he thus restored to him all that he had unwittingly robbed him of.

The wretched Rosine entreated him not to cast her off, again declaring her love for him; but Ferraud, though moved by her grief, rushed out into the open air, and Chabert and his despairing wife were left alone.

Rosine, half-dazed, remained silent for a long time; and then, on awakening to the full realisation of her awful position, she pleaded passionately to Chabert to resign his claim to her and to declare himself an impostor. Presently seeing her two children by Ferraud approaching, she called them in, fondling them with loving embraces, and, tearfully bewailing the dishonour that must fall upon their innocent heads should her own unhappy story become known, she entreated once more to be recognised as their father's wife.

Chabert was deeply moved at the sight of the pretty children; and Rosine, perceiving this, now used her last shaft and declared boldly that she had never loved him, but that her regard for him in the past had been merely gratitude for his kindness to her, and that the real love of her life had been given to Ferraud, the father of her children.

Entirely crushed by thus realising that his deep faithful love had never been returned, Chabert staggered from the room for a few moments to recover his senses; and Rosine seized the opportunity to take out from a secret drawer in her writing-desk a phial containing a deadly poison, determining to swallow it and die rather than be compelled to leave her beloved Ferraud.

Ere the poison reached her lips, however, Chabert returned, and seeing what she was about to do, snatched the phial from her trembling hand and thrust it into his breast pocket.

Rosine, baulked in her purpose, repeated again the cruel statement that she had never loved any man but Ferraud; and then taking her children by the hand, she hurried with them from the room.

Chabert, left alone, became a prey to the gloomiest thoughts; and, completely broken as he realised the fact that Rosine had never loved him, but that he must himself yet love her to the end of his days, he determined to go back to the oblivion of death and thus interfere with her happiness no more. Deliberately, he sat at the desk and wrote a note, in which he declared himself to be an impostor who had posed as Chabert for blackmailing purposes, but who was in reality merely Hyacinth the Beggar; and then, feeling for his pistol, he stepped out into the garden, cautiously hiding himself behind the bushes and keeping from the sight of the watchful Godeschal.

Meanwhile, Rosine had met with Ferraud once more, and had implored him again not to cast her off, but to keep her story from public knowledge for the sake of their children; but Ferraud, though deeply suffering himself, gently but firmly declared that his honour could only be satisfied by restoring to Chabert his rightful position.

Just then, a pistol shot rang out from the garden; and, fearing the worst, Derville and Godeschal, followed by Ferraud, hastened outside to look for Chabert, whose body they found amongst the bushes, slain by his own hand.

Reverently they bore the corpse into the house; and Rosine, horror-struck at the tragedy, was overcome with grief and remorse as she now realised that Chabert had died for love of her, and despairing because her own deceptions had alienated Ferraud's affections, she flung herself upon the prostrate body, and feeling for the phial of poison he had taken from her, swallowed the contents, before Ferraud could stay her hand.

Overcome with horror and grief, the Comte rushed forward to catch her swaying body as it fell; and Rosine, with Chabert's name on her lips, uttered a deep sigh and expired in his arms.

THE JEWELS OF THE MADONNA
(_I Gioielli della Madonna_)

It was the day of the Festival of the Madonna; and all the pleasure-loving folk of Naples had turned out to enjoy the holiday in honour of the event, quite early in the day taking up their stands in the best vantage-grounds, in order to get a good view of the great Church Procession and to join in the wild Carnival fun.

In one of the public squares facing the sea, a more than usually merry crowd had collected, to the great delight and amusement of old Biaso, the Scribe, and to the annoyance of young Gennaro, the blacksmith.

Old Biaso had brought his pens and paper to a table outside his mean little hut; and here he plied a busy trade, since many of the pretty girls in the crowd gladly gave him commissions to write love-letters for them to their various sweethearts.

Young Gennaro, however, found the boisterous crowd far from his liking, since he had no intention of joining in the Carnival pranks, and only desired to pursue his usual daily work in peace and quietness, having many disturbing thoughts to occupy his mind on this particular day.

For Gennaro was in love; and the object of his adoration was a wild, wilful maiden, whose beauty and charm enthralled him to distraction, but who could not be persuaded to look upon him in any other light than that of a brother--and as a brother, moreover, whose prudence and restraining authority she scorned.

The lovely Maliella longed for excitement and light pleasures; and her high spirit resented the wise restraints imposed upon her by Gennaro and his worthy mother, Carmela, with whom she had lived since earliest childhood.

Only too well did Gennaro know this; and he was just now torn between his brotherly sense of duty in keeping the madcap girl from the temptations of frivolity, and his lover's longing to grant her every desire. The former had prevailed to-day, so far, his mother and he having determined to keep Maliella within doors, so that she might not be exposed to the careless licence of the Festival crowds; but as Gennaro plied his work outside the house, he knew that Carmela had her hands full in keeping the disappointed and angry girl occupied with the domestic tasks she abhorred. He was, therefore, more than usually irritated by the amusing cries of the street-venders and by the pandemonium that reigned supreme amongst the giddy holiday folk, who, however, cared nothing for the harassed looks of the pale youth who seemed so determined to work whilst they played.

In the distance, the church bells were ringing merrily, and the sound of singing proclaimed the fact that the great procession of the Madonna was already formed and parading the streets; and presently some gaily-decorated boats drew up to the quay and disembarked a number of pretty little boys decorated in festival clothes as Children of St. John, who were followed by little flower-girls garbed in white, all marching through the square to the accompaniment of musical instruments.

The appearance of the children gave greater animation than ever to the scene; and most of the merry-makers followed in their wake to join the approaching procession.

The square was thus left somewhat quieter for a short time; and Gennaro, at last overcome by his conflicting feelings, had just seized this opportunity of a peaceful moment to sink upon his knees beside the anvil and offer up a short prayer to the Virgin for guidance in his dilemma, when the beautiful Maliella herself impetuously burst forth from the house beyond, closely followed by the distracted Carmela, who held in her hand a comb with which she had been endeavouring to straighten the girl's untidy locks.

But Maliella was in a rebellious mood and refused to allow her guardian to make her neat and presentable if her fair looks were to be kept hidden from the appreciative eyes of the outside world. She had roughly broken away from Carmela's restraining hands, and now appeared in the square with disordered dress and her jet-black hair streaming over her shoulders, calling out passionately:--"No! No! You shall not make me look fair for the benefit of my mirror only! I am beautiful, and I long for love and pleasure! This is a Festival Day, and I mean to enjoy myself with all these merry folk! I will be held in no longer!"

Shocked and pained, Gennaro ran to expostulate with the wilful girl, only to receive fiery words of scorn in reply; and in spite of his and Carmela's entreaties, Maliella flitted here and there about the square, sticking on her head a paper cap dropped by one of the holiday-makers, and, spurred on in her rebellion by the encouraging cheers of old Biaso and the lively youths who had now returned to behold the approach of the procession, she struck a coquettish attitude and called out audaciously:--"Here am I, young and pretty, and longing for kisses! Who will oblige me?"

Instantly, there was a rush to seize the seductive and mischievous young beauty, all the youths being eager to accept her invitation; but Maliella merrily eluded them all and ran out of the square, only to be closely followed by her new admirers.

A band of Camorrists now appeared on the scene, headed by a handsome youth, Rafaele, their dashing leader; and quickly taking in the enticing situation, they joined in the pursuit of the fair truant.

Gennaro sought comfort from his shocked and dismayed mother, from whom he learnt that Maliella had been adopted when a foundling baby by Carmela as a mark of her gratitude to the Virgin for having preserved the life of her beloved son when laid low by some childish complaint; and bidding him think no more about the unruly girl, Carmela advised him instead to seek guidance by praying before the approaching statue of the Madonna.

No sooner had Gennaro departed to join in the procession than Maliella appeared in the square once more, closely pursued by the handsome Camorrist leader, Rafaele, whose ardent nature had been instantly magnetised by her unusual beauty, and who was already in love with the pleasure-seeking girl, whose tantalising elusiveness fanned his sudden passion at every turn.

Hoping to please their leader, the Camorrist followers began to dance in a circle around the pair, calling merrily upon the girl to redeem the invitation she had given; but Maliella, now somewhat alarmed by the situation in which her saucy audacity had placed her, still tried to escape from the inevitable embrace of the enamoured Rafaele, even though at the same time elated and pleased by the hot words of love and admiration which he poured upon her when at last, by a skillful manœuvre, he seized her in his arms. Then, ere the victorious youth had time to snatch the kiss he hungered for, Maliella pulled out a long, dagger-like pin from her hair, and dared him to the deed at his peril.

Not to be put off by such a threat, Rafaele boldly seized her round the waist, only to receive a sharp stab in the hand from Maliella's stiletto-pin. The girl's daring, however, but inflamed his passion the more; and after kissing the bleeding wound in his hand, he seized the opportunity of Maliella's hands being engaged in replacing the pin in her hair, to thrust a red rose into the loosened bodice of her gown.

Determined not to admit herself won, even though secretly responsive to the advances of the handsome youth, Maliella plucked out the flower and flung it to the ground; but the procession at that moment appearing in the square, she allowed Rafaele to help her on to a chair that she might get a better view of the dazzling spectacle.

Rafaele never ceased his pleading for her to heed his words of love and to return his passion; and incensed by her haughty scorn and seeming indifference, he cried out passionately as the Statue of the Madonna was borne by: "What, then, can one do to please you? Must one thieve and do evil to win a kindly glance, since protestations of love and good-will are naught to you? I will do any deed to satisfy you, if you will but name it--even to the committing of sacrilege! Would you wear the dazzling Jewels of the Madonna? I will snatch them from the passing statue now, if it will cause you to smile on me!"

But Maliella was now terrified at this outburst, and uttered a cry of horror at this last daring suggestion made by Rafaele, who, however, only laughed aloud at her alarm; and at this moment the girl was again accosted by Gennaro, who once more begged her to return to the house, and upbraided her for holding converse with the Camorrist leader, declaring him to be the most notorious law-breaker in Naples and not a fit companion for a young girl.

Still resenting his interference, Maliella pertly bade Gennaro mind his own business; and yielding herself more and more to the fascination of Rafaele, she now permitted the Camorrist leader to see that his attentions were pleasing to her. Her unmistakable coquetries and roguish glances stung the already jealous Gennaro to madness; and he would have fought with Rafaele then and there had not the return of the procession with the Madonna statue in its midst compelled him, with the entire crowd of merry-makers, to sink upon his knees in prayer.

As the procession passed on its way to the accompaniment of the Carnival rejoicings, Rafaele flung his red rose a second time at the feet of Maliella, who now picked it up, kissed it, and flashing a tender glance at the eagerly expectant Camorrist, fled into the house with a joyous laugh, followed quickly by the unhappy Gennaro.