Chapter XXIX (2)

"During the early portion of my residence in Paris, I lived
amid a whirlwind of pleasures, balls, and entertainments,
which soon resulted in satiety and lassitude. The attention
I attracted, the homage paid to me, flattered my vanity, and
pleased me; for they seemed to increase the Marquis's love,
and to make me more precious to him. After the winter came a
calmer season, and I welcomed it gladly, thinking the
Marquis and myself, to a degree, would live for each other,
and that this feverish, agitated and turbulent life, would
be followed by a period of more happiness. Three months
passed away in that kind of retirement in which those
inhabitants of Paris, who do not leave the city, indulge.
The Prince left us to visit his estates in another part of
France, and the Marquis and myself were alone. The Countess,
it is true, was with us; but her society, instead of adding
to our pleasures, was as annoying as possible. Accustomed
during my whole life to out-door existence, to long
excursions in the picturesque vicinity of our villa, I was
sometimes anxious to take morning strolls in the beautiful
gardens of Paris. The Countess said to my husband, one day,
that a woman of my age should not go out without him. As the
Marquis often rode, an exercise with which I am not
familiar, and as he had friends to see, and political
business to attend to, I was unable to go out but rarely.
Then I will say he offered me his arm anxiously, but this
exercise neither satisfied my taste, nor the demands of
health. There was also a perpetual objection to dramatic
performances, of which I was very fond; Henri did not like
them. The Countess, also, from religious scruples, was
opposed to them, and by various little and ingeniously
contrived excuses, I was utterly deprived of this innocent
amusement. My toilette was also a subject of perpetual
comment. The Countess said that I exaggerated the fashions,
that I looked foreign, and that the court was opposed to
innovations in the toilette, or again that the court
preferred the severe forms of dress. A young and brilliant
princess, though, gives tone to her court, and by her
elegance, luxury and taste, procures a support for crowds of
the Parisian work-people. Henri, over whom his aunt has
never ceased to exercise the same influence she did in
childhood, while he wished to support my ideas, really
supported hers. I saw with regret that the chief defect of
the Marquis was weakness of character, and perpetual
controversies about little matters produced a state of
feeling between us, which subsequently required a kind of
effort for us to overcome. This, however, dear mother, is
nothing; for I have not come to the really painful point of
my confessions. The gay season has returned, and the
principal people of Paris have returned to their hotels. I
liked to see Henri jealous, because this passion was, in my
opinion, an assurance of his love. Henri, who during the
early period of our marriage, would not have left me alone
for the world, now confides me exclusively to the care of
his father. The first time this took place, his absence was
a plausible excuse. He does not now even seek a pretext; a
whim, an appointment, are sufficient motives for him to
leave me. Whither does he go? How does he occupy himself?
This is the subject of my uneasiness and torment--yet he
loves me, he says, but a heart like mine, dear mother, is
not easily deceived. He does not love me as he used to. A
magnificent ball was given during the last month, by the
Neapolitan Ambassador, the Duke of Palma, who married the
famous Felina. Henri left the Prince and myself, as soon as
we came to the rooms; the whole night nearly passed away
without our seeing him. At last, however, he returned, pale
and exhausted. The Prince, who was unacquainted with what
had transpired at Sorrento, between his son and Monte-Leone,
introduced me to him, and asked me to receive him at our
hotel. I hesitated whether I should consent or not; when the
Marquis, with an air which lacerated my very heart, asked
the Count to visit me, assuring him that he would always be
welcome.

"_Welcome to him!_ dear mother. You understand that this man
had been his rival, and loved me. I will confess to you,
dear mother, as I do to God. He loves me yet, I am sure,
though he never told me so; for his looks are what they
were, and when he spoke, his emotion told me that he was
unaltered. Since that ball, Monte-Leone, thus authorized by
the Marquis, has visited me. My husband is not at all
displeased at it; tell me, do you think he loves me still?
Yesterday, dear mother, I went into my husband's room, to
look for a bottle of salts I had forgotten. The Marquis was
absent, and his secretary was open, a strange disorder
pervaded the room; a few papers were lying about, and among
others, I saw a column of figures; I was about to look at
them, and had already extended my hand towards it, when I
heard a cry, and on turning around saw my husband, pale and
alarmed. He advanced towards me, and seizing my arm
convulsively, said, Signora, who gave you a right to examine
my papers? It is an abuse of confidence which I never can
forgive. I grew pale with surprise and grief. 'Sir, said I,
such a reproach is unmerited, if there be any thing
improper, it is your tone and air.' I left the room, for I
was overpowered, and did not wish to weep before him. One
hour afterwards, on his knees, he besought me to pardon him
for an excitement which he would never be able to pardon
himself. He was once more, dear mother, kind as he had ever
been; he repeated his vows of eternal love, and exhibited
all his former tenderness. His looks hung on me as they used
to, and I began to hope he would continue to love me. A
cruel idea, however, pursued me, what was the secret shut up
in the paper he would not suffer me to read? Why did he,
usually so calm and cold, become so much enraged?"

Just then the letter of the Marquise de Maulear was interrupted by the bell which announced the coming of visitors. Aminta remembered that it was reception day, and persons came to say that several visitors awaited her. She went down stairs. On the evening of the same day she resumed her letter.

"I resume my pen to tell you of a strange circumstance which
occurred to-day. When I broke off so suddenly, I found some
visitors awaiting me. Visiting in Paris is insignificant and
meaningless, performed on certain fixed days. Conversation
on these occasions is commonplace. People only talk of the
pleasure of meeting, and slander is so much the vogue that
it is not prudent to leave certain rooms until every one
else has gone, lest you should be hacked to pieces by those
left behind. My father-in-law came into the room and gave
some life to the conversation. The Prince was not alone, for
Count Monte-Leone came with him. Why, dear mother, should I
conceal from you, that the presence of the Count causes
always an invincible distress? This man is so decided and
resolute that he never seemed to me like other people. He
seems half god and half demon. His keen and often expressive
glance, his firm voice made mild by emotion, the _tout
ensemble_ of his character, seems to call him to great
crimes or sublime actions.

"The Prince said, 'Do you know, Aminta, that the Count is
the only person in Paris whom I have to beg to come to see
you? I have absolutely to use violence. I had just now
almost to use violence to bring him hither.'

"'The Prince, Madame,' said the Count, respectfully, 'looks
on respect as reserve. The pleasure of seeing you is too
great for me to run the risk of losing it by abusing the
privilege.'

"'Bah! bah!' said the Prince, 'mere gallantry, nothing more.
We _emigres_, from associating with the English, have lost
some of our peculiarities; and I, at least, have contracted
one excellent custom. When an Englishman says to a man, "my
house is yours," he absolutely means what he says, and the
privilege should be used. Your host looks on you as a part
of his family, and people of the neighborhood esteem you as
much a part of the household as the old grandfather's chair
is. You go, come, sit at the table, eat and drink, as if you
were at home. This generous hospitality pleases me, because
it recalls that of our own ancestors.'

"'Brother,' said the Countess, 'this hospitality can never
be acclimated in France, especially in households where
there are as pretty women as in ours.'

"'Sister, such privileges are accorded only to people of the
honor of whom we are well-assured, like the Count. Besides,
travellers like ourselves are hard to please in beauty. Not
that the Marquise is not beautiful; but if you had been as
we were at Ceprano, if you had only read the interesting
chapter I have written in relation to that country, you
would see that many perfections are needed to wound hearts
that are so cosmopolitan as ours.'

"The Count was about to reply, when the doors were opened
and the Duchess of Palma was announced. I looked at
Monte-Leone just then, and he changed countenance at once. I
saw him immediately go to the darkest part of the room. This
was the first time I had ever received the Duchess of Palma.
There seemed no motive for her visit. I had paid mine after
the ball, and there was no obligation between us. The
Duchess is a beautiful, elegant, and dignified woman. It is
said she is of a noble family; and her manners evidently
betoken high cultivation. The Duchess told me kindly that
she had not seen enough of me at the ball, and that I must
take the visit as an evidence of her devotion and
admiration. The Prince of Maulear approached. 'We are
especially flattered, Duchess,' said he, and he emphasized
the word, looking at the same time at some ladies I
received; 'we are especially flattered by the honor you
confer on us. We know how careful you are in the bestowal of
such favors. It is a favor, as pleasant as it is honorable.'

"'I have been suffering, Prince,' replied the Duchess, 'with
deep distress, and I will not reflect on any one the burden
of my sorrows.'

"'You are,' said the Prince, 'like those beautiful tropical
flowers, the source of the life of which is the sun, and
which grow pale on their stems in our land. Neapolitans need
Naples, the pure sky, the balmy air, the perfume of orange
groves, and the reflection of the azure gulf. I am
distressed, Duchess, at what you say, and hope you will
content yourself with our country. We will not permit you to
leave it.'

"'But I am dying,' said the Duchess, in a strange tone.

"'You are now alive, though,' said the Prince.

"The uneasy eyes of the Duchess passed around the room, and
when she saw the Count, became strangely animated. 'Ah!' she
remarked, 'here is Count Monte-Leone.' The Count advanced.

"'The Count,' said the Prince, 'is your compatriot, and one
of your most fervent admirers.'

"'Do you think so?' said the Duchess, almost ironically.

"'One,' said the Prince, 'to be any thing else, must neither
have seen nor heard your grace.'

"'Once, perhaps,' said she, 'I had some means of attraction,
but now all is forgotten; for I am a Duchess like all
others--less even, because I am indebted to chance for my
rank and title.'

"'You owe thanks to yourself alone,' said the Prince, 'and
the Duke was a lucky man to have it in his power to lay them
at your feet.'

"'Madame,' said I to the Duchess, 'since you deign to remind
us of your deathless talent, may I venture to ask you to
sing once more?'

"'Never!' said the Duchess, 'I left my voice on the banks of
the _Lago di Como_, and have not forgotten my last song.'

"''Twas indeed a sad epoch,' said the Prince, 'If it was the
funeral of your talent.'

"'I will never sing again!' said the Duchess, 'I remember
that day as I do all the unhappy ones of my life. Ah! they
are far more numerous than our happy days. It was evening,
and in a gay room of my villa, whither I had come still
trembling at having seen a traveller nearly drowned in the
lake. I know not what sad yet pleasant memory was nursed in
my heart, but I went to my piano and sung an air I had sung
for the last time at San Carlo. Tell me, Count
Monte-Leone--you were there--what was it?'

"'_La Griselda._'

"'It was. On that evening all my enthusiasm returned to me.
While singing, however, a strange fancy took possession of
me. I thought I saw in the mirror in front of me, the
features of one who had long been dead--dead at least to me.
My emotion was so instinct with terror and happiness, that
since then I have not sung.'

"'That is a perfect romance,' said the Prince, 'like those
of the dreamy Hoffman I met at Vienna.'

"'No, sir, it is a fact, or rather the commencement of a
series of facts, which, however, will interest no one here.
For that reason I do not tell it.'

"The Duchess of Palma rose to leave. The Prince offered her
his hand.

"'No, Prince,' said she, 'I will not trouble you, for I am
about to ask the Count to accompany me. Excuse me,' said
she, 'excuse me for taking him away, but I need not use
ceremony with a countryman.'

"Without giving him time to reply, she passed her arm
through his, went out, or rather dragged him out with her.

"I do not know why, dear mother, I have told you all this
long story, which has led me to write far differently from
what I had intended. I like, though, to talk so much with
you; and then the visit of the Count and that Duchess
agitated me, I know not why. Some instinct tells me those
mysterious beings exert an influence over my life. You think
me foolish and strange--but what can I do? I am now so sad
that I seem to look at life through a dark veil. I am wrong,
am I not? Reassure yourself and tell me what you think of my
husband's conduct. That, most of all, interests

"Your own AMINTA.

"P.S.--The Prince, the Countess and myself in vain waited
all day for the Marquis. It is now midnight and he has not
yet come."

X.--JEALOUSY.

A month had passed since the Marquise had written to her mother, during which time the Marquis, more sedulous in his attentions to Aminta, had begun to make her forget her fears and suspicions. A new event, though, aroused them again.

A magnificent ball had been given by Madame de L----, in her splendid hotel in the _rue_ d'Antin. M. de L---- aspired to the ministry; and the fact of his having received the Duke de Bevry at his magnificent entertainments, the favor he enjoyed at the _chateau_, and his frequent entertainments to the _corps diplomatique_, seemed to make his final success certain. M. de L---- aspired to popularity by attracting around him all who seemed likely to advance his views. He delighted to receive and mingle together in his drawing-room all the political enemies of the tribune and the press, who, meeting as on a central ground, thought themselves obliged to boast of the wit of their Amphitryron, beneath whose roof they exchanged all the phrases of diplomatic politeness to the accompaniment of Collinet's flageolet, sat together at the card-tables, and courteously bowed at the door of every room. On this account they did not cease to detest each other, though their apparent reconciliation being believed at court, contributed in no little degree to the advancement of M. L----'s views.

The Marquis and Aminta were at the ball--and Henri left his wife for several hours in charge of his father, who was proud of her, and exhibited her with pride in all the rooms. The Prince heaped attention on her, as all well-bred persons love to on those who are dear to them. He carefully waited on her during every waltz and contra-dance; and with paternal care replaced the spotless ermine on her whiter shoulders. Then resuming his task of cicerone, he explained to her the peculiarities of French society, which seemed so brilliant and singular to a young Italian. The Marquis rejoined his wife about one o'clock. He was very gay, and Aminta had not for a long time seen him so amiable and lively. The Prince expressed a desire to return home, and the young people gladly consented. As they were about to leave the last room, an Englishman of distinguished air, but pale and agitated, passed close to the Marquis, and as he did so, said in his native tongue, "all is agreed." The Marquis replied in the same words, and the Englishman left. Aminta asked what the stranger had said, "Nothing of importance," said Henri, "a mere commonplace."

A quarter of an hour after, the carriage of the young people entered _rue_ Saint Dominique. The Prince embraced the Marquise and retired to his room, which was in the left wing of the hotel, and exactly opposite the apartments of the young couple. About two all the hotel was quiet. Aminta, though, from some peculiar presentiment, could not sleep, yet, with her eyes half closed, she fell into that dreamy torpor in which every passion is exaggerated. In this half-real, half-fantastic state, Aminta saw pass before her all the important events of her life, the horrible episode of the _casa di Tasso_, the coming of Maulear, and the heroic devotion of _Scorpione_. Another shadow, that of Monte-Leone, glided before her. The looks of this man were fixed on hers, as if to read the depths of her soul. There came also a thousand chimeras and countless mad and terrible fictions. La Felina, pale and white as a spectre, sang, or sought to sing, for though her lips moved no sound was heard. With her hand raised towards Aminta, the ducal singer seemed to heap reproaches on her. Alarmed at these sombre visions, the young woman sought to return to real life, and arose from her bed; just then she thought she heard a door open. Terrified, she reached toward a bell near her, but paused. The door which was opened could be no other than that of the Marquis, for their apartments, though separate, were side by side. She thought, too, that the _valet de chambre_ had been detained later than usual with the Marquis, and unwilling to make an alarm, she repressed her agitation.

No noise disturbed the profound silence. The clock above struck the several hours with that slow and monotonous regularity, which is so painful to those who cannot sleep; she did not, however, win the rest she was so anxious for. All the fancies which had occupied her just before had disappeared, but were replaced by a newer fancy, occasioned by the remark of the Englishman, which she had not understood. The features of the stranger, so deathly pale, constantly returned to her. She fancied some danger menaced the man to whom she had devoted her life; that a strange danger menaced him, and, yielding to a feverish agitation, which she could not repress, wrapping herself in a shawl, and afraid almost to breathe, she went to the Marquis's room, when at the door she paused and thought.

"What would Henri say, and how could she excuse this strange visit?" She hesitated and was about to return, when she saw that the door was not closed, and that she could thus enter his room and satisfy herself without disturbing him. She decided--the door turned on its hinges, and Aminta entered. Crossing the antechamber, she had reached the bedroom, which was separated from it by a curtained door. She advanced to the bed, which she found had not been slept in. With a faint cry of terror she sank on an arm-chair. The clock struck four, and when she had heard the noises which had disturbed her it was nearly two; since then, therefore, the Marquis had been away. Yet this had occurred when he was within a few feet of her, and the care and secrecy with which it was accomplished showed that it had been premeditated. Not a sound except the opening of the door had reached Aminta's ears. The Marquise felt the most agonizing distress--no thought of perfidy, however, annoyed her; the idea of danger only occupying her mind. Just then her eyes fell on an open note which had doubtless been dropped by Maulear amid his hurry and trouble. She took it up, saying to herself, this note doubtless contains a challenge--a rendezvous--she approached the night lamp, and with difficulty suppressing her agitation, read as follows--"Dear Marquis, do not fail to come to-night. You know how anxiously you are expected,

"FANNY DE BRUNEVAL."

The letter was indeed a rendezvous, but not of the kind she had expected. The terms of the note were clear and precise; and the woman's name dissipated the mist from before her eyes, Maulear had deserted her and his home in the silence of night for such a person. She it was whom he deceived--she who had been so loyal and true, she who sought, even when Maulear asked her hand, to protect him--who begged him to distrust his impressions and not to act in haste. "I was right," said she, "to fear the bonds he wished to impose on me--I was right to object to a marriage which could not make him happy--only two years," said she, with a voice of half stifled emotion, "and he is already cold and indifferent to me. He has already abandoned me--and worse still, he has done so with treachery. Mother! mother! why did you not keep me with you? This then, is the reward of my generous devotion. Alas! when I accepted him--when I wrested him from the death which menaced him--when I gave myself to him, I did not love him, I did not hesitate when perhaps----" Aminta blushed amid her tears. "Above all," said she, "I do not wish him to find me here--I do not wish him to reproach me as he has done with seeking to penetrate his secrets." She returned to her room, and from exhaustion and tears sank on her bed.

Day came at last, and Aminta dressed herself. She wished to conceal from her servants all that she suffered. Above all, she did not wish the conduct and disorder of the Marquis to be made a subject of discussion. When her _femme de chambre_ entered her room, she found her mistress on her knees at her morning devotions before a crucifix. Had any persons, however, approached the Marquise, they must have seen the tears falling on the delicate fingers which covered her face, and heard her sobs. The bell rang for breakfast. Aminta started as if from a dream; being thus recalled to real life, she saw that while the evening before she had been happy and gay, one night had converted all to sorrow and suffering. Aminta, though ordinarily of strong nerve, sank beneath the blow. She felt herself wounded in her heart, her dignity, and in her confidence, by one for whom alone she had lived. Henceforth her life would be uncertain, and circumstances might lead her she knew not whither.

When the Marquise entered, the Prince and Countess were about to go to the table. The former said, "It is evident, my child, from your face, that you are fatigued; and that balls are to you what the sun is to roses. It does not detract from their beauty, but it makes them pale." And finally, the Countess added, "it withers them completely. That is the fate of all young women who turn night into day, and who, like my beautiful niece, only really live between evening and morning."

"Come," said the Prince, "that will not do. My sister is like the fox in the fable, she finds the ball too gay to suit herself, or rather herself too sombre for the ball."

"A witticism," said the Countess, "is not a reason, but often exactly the reverse. The one, my brother is familiar with; to the other, I am sorry to say, he is more a stranger."

"You see, my child," said the Prince, with an air of submission and resignation, "it is not well to have any trouble with the Countess, for she returns shot for shot; though she fires a pistol in reply to a cannon. Luckily for us, she is not a good shot. But my son does not come down. Can it be that, though he did not dance, he is more fatigued than his wife?"

"A letter for Madame la Marquise, from the Marquis," said a servant.

Aminta took the letter from the plateau, and looked at the Prince, as if to ask whether she should read it.

"Read, my child, read," said her father-in-law, affectionately. "The letter of a husband loved and loving, for thank God both are true, should be read without any delay."

Aminta unsealed the letter, and glanced rapidly over it. Then succumbing to emotion, deprived of strength and courage, and especially revolting at what she had read, felt her sight grow dim, and finally fainted. The Countess, whose mind alone was embittered for the reasons Aminta had explained to her mother, but whose soul and heart were generous as possible, ran to the Marquise, took her in her arms, and was as kind as possible. The Prince, paler than Aminta, rushed towards the window, which he threw open, and pulled away at the bell-ropes to call the servants, and send them for the physicians. The old nobleman exhibited the greatest alarm. The young Marquise was taken to the drawing-room, and a few moments after she opened her eyes. Her heart, however, was crushed; and she wept bitter tears. The Prince was struck with terror and distress. He was alarmed for his son's sake, and a father's anxiety was apparent.

"What has happened to my son?" said he, rushing to find the letter, which Aminta had let fall. He read it anxiously, and when he had concluded, laughed loud and long. "Indeed," said he, "we have come back to the days of the Astraea. All reminds us of the _Calprenede_, of _Urfe_, or _Scuderi_ herself. We are on the _Tendros_. This kind of love would make that of Cyrus and Mandane trifling. Cyrus writes to Mandane, that he went out to ride in the Bois de Cologne, and therefore has to deprive himself of the pleasure of breakfasting with her. Mandane therefore is suddenly taken ill. This is magnificent and touching; but my precious child, it is a little exaggerated."

"What, then, is the matter?" said the Countess, as she handed her niece the salts. "What a singular man you are! One never knows what the facts of any thing are from you. You are either in the seventh heaven or in despair. Your very gayety is enough to destroy our niece's nerves."

"Ah!" said the Prince, "how sorry I am for the nerves. Read, however, the letter yourself, Countess," and he gave it to Mademoiselle Grandmesuil. "You will see the Marquise is too fond of her husband. Her love has really become a dangerous passion. She is really _love-mad_, and if it continues, we shall have a rehearsal of Milon's ballet, with the exception of _Bigotini_."

The Countess read as follows:

"MY DEAR WIFE: I am unwilling to disturb your slumbers, and
have therefore left for the wood at five o'clock, having a
rendezvous with some sportsmen. We will probably breakfast
together, and I will not return until dinner-time. Remember
me affectionately.

"HENRI."

The habitual coldness of the Countess returned while she read the letter. "I will say that I think my nephew very likely to inspire deep love. I cannot however conceive how there can be cause for such despair. We Frenchwomen have not such an exaggerated devotion as our niece has. I beg her not to use it up now, for in the career of life she will find it difficult to do without it." As if regretting that she had soothed sorrows in which she had no sympathy, the Countess sent for her prayer-book, and went to mass. As soon as the young Marquise was alone with the Prince, she arose, threw herself in the old man's arms, and said: "My father, I am very unhappy." The face of the Prince at once became serious, and taking Aminta to a sofa, bade her sit down, and said, kindly as possible, "Excuse my gayety and irony, my child. _Non est hic locus_, as the sublime Horace, the favorite of our good king Louis XVIII., once wrote. I repent of my volatility and trifling, for I should have remembered, when I think of the elevation of your mind, that something more important than the absence of your husband for a few hours annoyed you. Speak to me--open your heart to me--for I love you too well not to have a right to your confidence and your secrets."

"He does not love me," said Aminta, leaning her head on the Prince's shoulder.

"Alas! my daughter," said M. de Maulear, "I am about to make a strange confession to you. I am not acquainted with my son. His soul, sentiments, inclination, and moral nature, are unknown to me. When, four years ago, I saw the child now twenty-six, whom I had left an infant, and found his air, manners, and appearance distingue as possible, and was pleased with him, I was assured that his soul was exalted, his character true, and his sentiments honorable. I was therefore satisfied. Two years after, he went to Naples, where I procured a diplomatic post for him; and consequently I have neither studied nor fathomed his instincts and habits. What I apprehend in relation to you, my child, is a capital fault. I have discovered in my son an extreme weakness of character, which may lead him into error. For that reason, I wrote to him, that I would have preferred that he had tasted of the pleasures of life before marriage. I would thus have had an assurance of his subsequent prudence. Believe me, though, my child, I will watch over him and you, and if I was able to forgive his marrying without my consent, when I knew whom he married, I never will pardon him if he make her unhappy. The deuce! we did not bring you hither from Italy to break your heart."

Fearful lest his father should become angry with Maulear, Aminta restrained the secret which seemed ready to burst from her lips. She spoke of vague suspicions and anxiety at the Marquis's uneasiness, but said nothing particular. The Prince, who never in his life had known what jealousy was, had some difficulty in understanding how it could create such despair. His attention, however, was not the less vigilant in relation to the affairs of the young couple. A circumstance which occurred soon after enabled him to ascertain much. A number of persons assembled one night at the rooms of the Marquise de Maulear. Count Monte-Leone had become one of Aminta's most assiduous visitors. The tacit permission he had received from Aminta, the formal authority of the Marquis, the sympathy of the old Prince, to whom the pleasant, energetic character of the Count, and his noble bearing, made him every day more attractive--all taken in connection with the intimacy of Taddeo and Monte-Leone, authorized him to visit the Marquise freely. The devotion of Monte-Leone to Aminta had never been diminished. He had felt only an inclination towards La Felina, an error of the senses and imagination, excited by mortified love, and favored by the isolation of the Lago di Como. His heart had little share in it. When, therefore, he saw the Marquise de Maulear more attractive than ever, he discovered that in his whole life he had loved her alone. The Marquis de Maulear appeared but rarely at the hotel, coming home at a late hour and going out early.

Monte-Leone and Taddeo were talking together, and this fragment of their conversation struck the ear of the old Prince, who seemed entirely absorbed by a game of whist.

"Will not the Marquis be here to-night?" said the Count to Taddeo.

"I doubt it: sometimes the master of the hotel is here less frequently than any one else."

"Perhaps he is now," said the Count, "where he goes almost every night, they say."

"You jest," said Taddeo; "I think he is here every night."

"He should, but he is not. All I can say is, that on the night of M.L.'s ball, he was ... where I saw him."

"Where was he?" asked Taddeo, impatiently.

"I will tell you--but come away from the whist-table."

* * * * *

"But you do not return my lead," said the Prince's partner, "you should play hearts."

"True," said the Prince, musing; and he led hearts. His eyes, though, followed Taddeo and Monte-Leone.

The Prince lost five points, much to his partner's discontent. He played very badly that night, breaking up his suits, mistaking the cards, and violating every rule, much to the surprise of the lookers-on, who knew how well he played the game, which the emigres had imported from England. At last they stopped, and the Prince sought for Monte-Leone through all the rooms. The Count and Taddeo, however, had both left. The Marquis, though, had returned, and the company soon dispersed. The Prince went to his room, but soon left, well wrapped up, and with his hat over his face. "Pardieu!" said he, "I will settle things, and find out where my son passes the nights. Can any place be more pleasant than the bedchamber of a pretty woman?" Standing at a little distance from door, he waited about half an hour. His patience was nearly exhausted, when the Marquis came out. Henri went to the Rue de Bac, took the quai, crossed the pont Royale, the Carousel, and entered la Rue de Richelieu. The poor Prince panted after him, and kept him in sight all the time, cursing his curiosity. Sustained by a deep interest for his daughter's happiness, he kept on.

When the Marquis came to the Rue de Menors, he paused, and turned to see that no one followed him. The Prince had barely time to get behind a coach which stood at the corner. The Marquis went some distance down the Rue de Menors, and stopped at No. 7. The door was opened, and Henri entered. "On my honor," said the Prince, "I would not have come so far before bed, unless I could also have found out _why_ the Marquis visits No. 7." The Prince then stopped at the door, and knocked. The door was opened.

"What do you want?" said the porter, rather surlily.

"I wish," said the Prince, and he put a louis d'or in the porter's hand, "to know why that man has come hither."

"Indeed," said he, pocketing the louis, "it is a great deal to pay for so little. The gentleman has gone, as many others go, to see Mlle. Fanny de Bruneval."

FOOTNOTES:

[4] Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1850, by Stringer & Townsend, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern District of New-York.

A FESTIVAL UPON THE NEVA.

TRANSLATED FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MONTHLY MAGAZINE FROM THE FRENCH OF KAUFMANN.

On the banks of a majestic river, where, in later times, has arisen a city of eight thousand houses, of granite causeways, monuments, obelisks, and palaces, nothing was to be seen at the commencement of the eighteenth century but a few huts scattered over a marshy waste.

On one of those days, when the intense cold had transformed the river into a plain of ice, a numerous crowd were hastening through the streets of the young St. Petersburg. Some directed their steps towards a little cottage; and others, over the frozen waters, towards a fortified island. Every one looked with a curious eye at the cottage, and the numerous sledges that were gathering for the escort at hand. Presently, a sledge drawn by three horses covered with bear-skins, dashed up to the cottage-gate. It was quickly opened, and an old man of a high stature and proud bearing came forth, wearing a blue sable. He slowly advanced and took his place.

"Pardon me, sir," said one of middle age, who hastened to take a seat by the side of the former, "the gracious Czar had--"

"It is sufficient," prince Menzikoff, interrupted the first, in a quick and stern tone; "I am not much accustomed to wait, but I know, however, that it is the Czar only who can be the cause of this delay."

"You see the boyard, Alexis Nicolajewitz Tscherkaski," said one of those present, in a whisper to his companion.

"You are not the first to tell me that," replied Nikita. "It is not sixty years since his grandfather traversed the Caucasus with his savage Tschetschences. He would be a little surprised if he saw his son to-day decorated with the golden key of chamberlain, and enjoying himself at festivals in sacred Russia. But they give the signal of departure, for they are tying a tame bear to the sledge. Indeed, it is a strange animal!"

"I must see him nearer," said the first. "Come, Andyuschka, let us survey the whole train."

* * * * *

They came at last to an edifice such as was never seen before or since. It was built upon the Neva--but not of stones. The walls, roof, and partitions, were of solid ice; and the steps leading to the entrance cut out of one enormous block. Two large cannons made of ice, pierced with the greatest care, and which they were foolish enough to charge with powder, were placed in front of this singular palace. The interior presented an appearance not less novel. A long table, formed of a single piece of ice, and covered with a hundred exquisite dishes, was the principal object--oysters, in silver plates, excited the appetite--sea-fish, of every species, from the gulf of Finland and Pont-Euxin to the Caspian and frozen seas, disputed the supremacy with shell-fish from the Istar and Volga. By the side of the hams of Bayonne were roasts of bear surrounded with citron; and the sturgeon was placed in the middle of delicious preserves. Many sledges were filled with bottles.

But all these cold dishes composed but half the feast. Four kitchens, built of wood, at some distance from the palace, threw up constantly clouds of smoke. There boiled stags and elks, pullets of Archangel, and boars of Podolie. But that which particularly attracted the attention of the spectators were the large fires where whole oxen turned round upon spits, for the benefit of the people, to whom were to be also given tuns of brandy.

The sun shone yet above the horizon when the great hall of the palace of crystal was lighted with wax candles in chandeliers of sparkling ice. A thousand lights were thus reflected and broken upon the transparent walls and windows. It seemed a fairy scene in the approaching night.

While a legion of cooks, with their assistants, worked without cessation, the two personages, the boyard Tscherkaski and the prince Menzikoff, were not less busy in the interior of the palace. It was readily seen that they had the charge of directing the festival about to commence. The last-mentioned, spreading a bear-skin upon each of the seats of ice, was addressed by his companion.

"Truly, Alexandre Michailowitz, the Czar could not have selected a better manager of the feast than yourself. If I had any thing to do but to take exclusive charge of the bottles, I am afraid I should oblige every one to sit upon the naked blocks. What grimaces those hungry foreign guests would make, such as the Frenchman Lefort, and those like him, whom the west is ever sending to fatten upon the blood of Russia. I should like to see them shivering to death, and at the same time politely struggling to appear pleased in the presence of the Czar."

"But do you know how the Czar would regard such pleasantry? You remember Dimitri Arsenieff?"

"Arsenieff! I hope you do not compound me with that herd whom a single glance of the Czar made tremble in their shoes. There was a time, it is true, but all is changed now--there was a time when those submissive slaves who filled the courts of the Kremlin, disappeared when they heard the steps of the old Alexis Nicolajewitz. His services were once required. He was not idle during the massacre of the Strelitz; they had need of Tscherkaski then. But all this has passed away. I have but one wish; it is, that in the hour of trial the swords of those Frenchmen, or of other foreigners, may leap as slowly from the scabbard as mine on that day when men of a nobler spirit were assassinated."

"The Czar has not forgotten that you have--"

"O, truly," replied the boyard, with a bitter smile, "the gracious Czar has made me the first chamberlain. He must have been in a good humor at that time; for Poliwoi--you know him--he is skilful in sealing bottles--he was a _valet de chambre_ in his youth--and that English Melton or Milton, who has imported some good dogs--both of them, at the same time with myself, received the key of the chamberlaincy."

"But you cannot deny, Alexis, that in general the choice of our sovereign--"

"Is the best. But what is strange about it is, that he finds so many excellent men, and that he selects from so large a circle, when others who, in times of calamity, are no longer considered unworthy, never obtain their turn for preferment."

"You appear to be not in a very good humor, to-day, boyard.... Would you fall into disfavor with the Czar?"

"Why," exclaimed the boyard, "should I not tell a friend what probably he will learn to-day, if indeed he is ignorant of it now? You know," he continued with an affected calmness, "the domain of the crown adjacent to my lands in Tula?"

"I do not," said the embarrassed Prince.

"Indeed you do, Alexandre Michailowitz; or at least you ought to. It separates my property from yours."

"Ah! the manor."

"The same. It is not very extensive, containing only three villages and a thousand serfs. But its situation suits me and I desire its possession."

"Well, you ought to propose to the Czar to sell it. He will not refuse you."

"He has already refused. 'I am sorry,' he coldly said, 'that I cannot grant you the lands you ask; I have disposed of them to another.' I was about to reply, but turning to speak to some one, he closed our conversation."

"And do you know to whom he granted the domain?"

"Who? Perhaps a vicious flatterer--an intrusive coward--some fellow from abroad who comes among us to appease his hunger; or, what is worse, an upstart, whose only pleasure is to overturn my dearest hopes to fulfil his own. Who is he? One of those who daily make fortunes by hundreds in our Russia, in place of meeting with the rope which they merit--one of those who drive out honest men to occupy their places--a rustic bore, a cobbler, a pastry-cook!"

The features of the boyard took an expression of the most violent anger; the muscles of his mouth contracted by a convulsive movement, and his fiery eye gave sign that he was remembering the sanguinary vengeance of his brethren, the sons of the Caucasus.

The countenance of Menzikoff grew dark. The word "pastry-cook," in bringing to his recollection his former condition, awoke sentiments whose expression it was difficult for him to restrain. "I had intended," he said, "to ask the Czar to give me those very lands; but I am glad that I have not done so. I would have been unhappy in interfering with your projects, if it were even for the sake of your amiable daughter, who, in your old days, will reward you largely for all the grievances you experience at the Court."

"You think so, eh, Michailowitz? But you are a Russian. You belong not to those foreign plebeians. Alexis Tscherkaski is a man who never hides what he thinks, and I confess frankly that I do not love you; I have never loved you. Yet I do not confound you with those vile favorites of whom I have spoken. You are the first who has ever said to my face that I was not born to walk in the slippery paths of a court. You will have the honor also of offering the first counsel that I have ever followed. Yes, Prince Menzikoff, I am firmly resolved to leave the capital in a few days. In my solitude, accompanied only by my Mary, I hope to forget the Czars, their favors, and all that I have done to obtain them. Since the death of my Fedor--but let us stop here--with him all my hopes are buried. My daughter only remains--"

"Who will be a glory to you in the evening of your life. She will bloom as the rose, she will be a mother of sons who--"

"Yes, I desire to see her happy. She will freely choose her husband; and if she wishes to unite her destiny with none, she shall live with me, and one day close my eyes in death. It is among the descendants of the boyards that she will find her beloved. He shall be a noble son of old and sacred Russia. And I swear by all the saints interred in the convent of Kiew, that no will, not even that of the Czar, but her own, shall influence the choice of my daughter."

The Prince was about to reply, when loud voices were heard in front of the house. "They come! they come!"

A long train of sledges took the direction of the Isle of the Neva, and presented as strange a spectacle as one could well imagine. Instead of couriers who, according to the usages of the time, took the lead in this description of festivals, there was a sledge drawn by four horses of different colors. In it were four men dressed in white with a red girdle, having in their hands a staff ornamented with ribbons, and upon their heads a bonnet decorated with plumes. The oddest thing in this group was, that the youngest was not less than seventy; two of them wanted a leg; the third was without an arm; and the fourth, blind.

Then came two sledges filled with musicians who joyously sounded their instruments. They were divided into two sections; the first would have pleased the ear by their performances, if it were not for the second section, every one of whom was deaf. They could not follow the movements of the director, and he himself, also deaf, was constantly behind the time, so that the two companies, although playing the same air, produced one which we might imagine proceeded from mischievous demons in a concert prepared in Pandemonium for the benefit of condemned musicians.

In a third sledge came a patriarch of eighty years. His long white beard and hair carefully dressed, the precious ornaments with which he was covered, and the priests seated at his side, all announced that the old man was going to celebrate some solemn ceremony. As he was an intolerable stammerer, who had been released from the public services of the church during the greater part of his life, he was fitly chosen to deliver a discourse upon the present occasion.

The sledge following that of the patriarch's, gave to the cortege the unmistakeable character of a nuptial festivity; for, of the four individuals who occupied it, two wore crowns, such as those prescribed by the Greek church to the newly married. The couple who sat in the place of honor, and for whom this fete had been prepared were indeed very curious looking persons. The bridegroom was an old and wrinkled dwarf, hardly four feet high. His enormous head seemed to weigh down his slender body, and to bend his legs into the form of sabres. His toilette was according to the French mode of that period. A frock coat of silver cloth, a sky blue vest and crimson velvet pantaloons, and immense ruffles covered his long, sepulchral hands. A perruque with a long tail, the nuptial crown, and a silver sword, which completed his dress, confirmed the remark of one of our friends, who compared the unfortunate bridegroom to a monkey on the rack.

The dwarf and his affianced resembled each other as two drops of water. Upon the head of the hump-backed bride also shone the marriage crown. Her dress was of gold cloth of the most recent Parisian mode. Their exterior, however, presented a single contrast which rendered them still more ridiculous; for upon the wide face of the future wife was a presumptuous smile, while the husband, suffering under some recent sorrow, made the most frightful grimaces.

In order better to distinguish the ugliness of this deformed couple, there were placed upon the second seat of the sledge two children of angelic beauty--one a girl of five years; the other, a boy of six to eight. They both wore the ancient Russian costume, which in its simplicity so well became the celestial sweetness of the countenance of the rosy-cheeked girl, and the spiritual gayety which beamed from the large black eyes of the boy. These children appeared destined to serve as bridesboy and bridesmaid; and certainly Hymen could not have made a better choice.

"It is the daughter of the boyard Tscherkaski! It is the little Fedor Menzikoff!" cried the crowd.

A large number of sledges passed on. All those who occupied them were disguised in the strangest manner. By the side of a coarse Kirghese was a fashionable Parisien. Behind them a Chinese mandarin waited upon a maiden Tyrolese. In the cortege could be seen not only the costumes of all the tribes under the sceptre of Peter the Great, but of almost every nation of Europe and Asia. The masquerade extended even to the trappings of the horses and sledges. Some of the horses' heads wore gilded horns of the stag and the elk, and others great wings, which made them resemble the poet's idea of Pegasus. The last sledge in the train worthily closed this fantastic procession. It was drawn by three horses, and contained a single personage. Two horsemen, habited as Turks, galloped by his side, and announced his high rank. His thick-set figure was of the ordinary height, his face was full of a spirit of gayety and frolic, and in the smile with which he responded to the acclamations of the people could be perceived his satisfaction in the preparations for the fete of the day. His dress was that of a northern countryman, and he who had ever seen one would be at a loss to say whether Peter the Great was an original or a copy.

The countryman held in his hand a large gold-headed cane, and tormented a tame bear, which, standing erect upon its hind feet, and fulfilling the functions of lackey, was from time to time punished for his unskilfulness, to the amusement of the people.

The train arrived at the crystal palace; and although all had descended from the sledges, none had crossed the threshold. Every one appeared desirous to yield the first entrance to the bridegroom and his partner, or to him who gave the feast. Prince Menzikoff and the boyard at last advanced, bare-headed, into the presence of the Czar, who was still occupied in teasing his bear to divert the multitude.