Chapter XXXVII (1)

Solitude and silence, and bitter thought are great tamers of the human heart. "As ye sow, so shall ye reap," says the Apostle, and John Ayliffe was now forced to put in the sickle. Death was before his eyes, looming large and dark and terrible, like the rock of adamant in the fairy tale, against which the bark of the adventurous mariner was sure to be dashed. Death for the first time presented itself to his mind in all its grim reality. Previously it had seemed with him a thing hardly worth considering--inevitable--appointed to all men--to every thing that lives and breathes--no more to man than to the sheep, or the ox, or any other of the beasts that perish. He had contemplated it merely as death--as the extinction of being--as the goal of a career--as the end of a chase where one might lie down and rest, and forget the labor and the clamor and the trouble of the course. He had never in thought looked beyond the boundary--he had hardly asked himself if there was aught beyond. He had satisfied himself by saying, as so many men do, "Every man must die some time or another," and had never asked his own heart, "What is it to die?"

But now death presented itself under a new aspect; cold and stern, relentless and mysterious, saying in a low solemn tone, "I am the guide. Follow me there. Whither I lead thou knowest not, nor seest what shall befall thee. The earth-worm and the mole fret but the earthly garment of the man; the flesh, and the bones, and the beauty go down to dust, and ashes, and corruption. The man comes with me to a land undeclared--to a presence infinitely awful--to judgment and to fate; for on this side of the dark portal through which I am the guide, there is no such thing as fate. It lies beyond the grave, and thither thou must come without delay."

He had heard of immortality, but he had never thought of it. He had been told of another world, but he had never rightly believed in it. The thought of a just judge, and of an eternal doom, had been presented to him in many shapes, but he had never received it; and he had lived and acted, and thought and felt, as if there were neither eternity, nor judgment, nor punishment. But in that dread hour the deep-rooted, inexplicable conviction of a God and immortality, implanted in the hearts of all men, and only crushed down in the breasts of any by the dust of vanity and the lumber of the world, rose up and bore its fruits according to the soil. They were all bitter. If there were another life, a judgment, an eternity of weal or woe, what was to be his fate? How should he meet the terrors of the judgment-seat--he who had never prayed from boyhood--he who through life had never sought God--he who had done in every act something that conscience reproved, and that religion forbade?

Every moment as he lay there and thought, the terrors of the vast unbounded future grew greater and more awful. The contemplation almost drove him to frenzy, and he actually made an effort to rise from his bed, but fell back again with a deep groan. The sound caught the ear of good Jenny Best, and running in she asked if he wanted any thing.

"Stay with me, stay with me," said the unhappy young man, "I cannot bear this--it is very terrible--I am dying, Mrs. Best, I am dying."

Mrs. Best shook her head with a melancholy look; but whether from blunted feelings, from the hard and painful life which they endured, or from a sense that there is to be compensation somewhere, and that any change must be for the better, or cannot be much worse than the life of this earth, or from want of active imagination, the poorer and less educated classes I have generally remarked view death and all its accessories with less of awe, if not of dread, than those who have been surrounded by luxuries, and perhaps have used every effort to keep the contemplation of the last dread scene afar, till it is actually forced upon their notice. Her words were homely, and though intended to comfort did not give much consolation to the dying man.

"Ah well, sir, it is very sad," she said, "to die so young; though every one must die sooner or later, and it makes but little difference whether it be now or then. Life is not so long to look back at, sir, as to look forward to, and when one dies young one is spared many a thing. I recollect my poor eldest son who is gone, when he lay dying just like you in that very bed, and I was taking on sadly, he said to me, 'Mother don't cry so. It's just as well for me to go now when I've not done much mischief or suffered much sorrow.' He was as good a young man as ever lived; and so Mr. Dixwell said; for the parson used to come and see him every day, and that was a great comfort and consolation to the poor boy."

"Was it?" said John Ayliffe, thoughtfully. "How long did he know he was dying?"

"Not much above a week, sir," said Mrs. Best; "for till Mr. Dixwell told him, he always thought he would get better. We knew it a long time however, for he had been in a decline a year, and his father had been laying by money for the funeral three months before he died. So when it was all over we put him by quite comfortable."

"Put him by!" said John Ayliffe.

"Yes, sir, we buried him, I mean," answered Mrs. Best. "That's our way of talking. But Mr. Dixwell had been to see him long before. He knew that he was dying, and he wouldn't tell him as long as there was any hope; for he said it was not necessary--that he had never seen any one better prepared to meet his Maker than poor Robert, and that it was no use to disturb him about the matter till it came very near."

"Ah, Dixwell is a wise man and a good man," said John Ayliffe. "I should very much like to see him."

"I can run for him in a minute sir," said Dame Best, but John Ayliffe replied, in a faint voice, "No, no, don't, don't on any account."

In the mean while, the very person of whom they were speaking had descended from the up-stairs room, finished his breakfast in order to give the surgeon time to fulfil his errand, and then putting on his three-cornered hat had walked out to ascertain at what house Mr. Short had stopped. The first place at which he inquired was the farm-house at which the good surgeon had stabled his horse on the preceding night. Entering by the kitchen door, he found the good woman of the place bustling about amongst pots and pans and maidservants, and other utensils, and though she received him with much reverence, she did not for a moment cease her work.

"Well, Dame," he said, "I hope you're all well here."

"Quite well, your reverence--Betty, empty that pail."

"Why, I've seen Mr. Short come down here," said the parson, "and I thought somebody might be ill."

"Very kind, your reverence--mind you don't spill it.--No, it warn't here. It's some young man down at Jenny Best's, who's baddish, I fancy, for the Doctor stabled his horse here last night."

"I am glad to hear none of you are ill," said Mr. Dixwell, and bidding her good morning, he walked away straight to the cottage where John Ayliffe lay. There was no one in the outer room, and the good clergyman, privileged by his cloth, walked straight on into the room beyond, and stood by the bedside of the dying man before any one was aware of his presence.

Mr. Dixwell was not so much surprised to see there on that bed of death the face of him he called Sir John Hastings, as might be supposed. The character which the surgeon had given of his patient, the mysterious absence of the young man from the Hall, and the very circumstance of his unwillingness to have his name and the place where he was lying known, had all lent a suspicion of the truth. John Ayliffe's eyes were shut at the moment he entered, and he seemed dozing, though in truth sleep was far away. But the little movement of Mr. Dixwell towards his bedside, and of Mrs. Best giving place for the clergyman to sit down, caused him to open his eyes, and his first exclamation was, "Ah, Dixwell! so that damned fellow Short has betrayed me, and told when I ordered him not."

"Swear not at all," said Mr. Dixwell. "Short has not betrayed you, Sir John. I came here by accident, merely hearing there was a young man lying ill here, but without knowing actually that it was you, although your absence from home has caused considerable uneasiness. I am very sorry to see you in such a state. How did all this happen?"

"I will not tell you, nor answer a single word," replied John Ayliffe, "unless you promise not to say a word of my being here to any one. I know you will keep your word if you say so, and Jenny Best too--won't you, Jenny?--but I doubt that fellow Short."

"You need not doubt him, Sir John," said the clergyman; "for he is very discreet. As for me, I will promise, and will keep my word; for I see not what good it could be to reveal it to any body if you dislike it. You will be more tenderly nursed here, I am sure, than you would be by unprincipled, dissolute servants, and since your poor mother's death--"

John Ayliffe groaned heavily, and the clergyman stopped. The next moment, however, the young man said, "Then you do promise, do you?"

"I do," replied Mr. Dixwell. "I will not at all reveal the facts without your consent."

"Well, then, sit down, and let us be alone together for a bit," said John Ayliffe, and Mrs. Best quietly quitted the room and shut the door.

John Ayliffe turned his languid eyes anxiously upon the clergyman, saying, "I think I am dying, Mr. Dixwell."

He would fain have had a contradiction or even a ray of earthly hope; but he got none; for it was evident to the eyes of Mr. Dixwell, accustomed as he had been for many years to attend by the bed of sickness and see the last spark of life go out, that John Ayliffe was a dying man--that he might live hours, nay days; but that the irrevocable summons had been given, that he was within the shadow of the arch, and must pass through!

"I am afraid you are, Sir John," he replied, "but I trust that God will still afford you time to make preparation for the great change about to take place, and by his grace I will help you to the utmost in my power."

John Ayliffe was silent, and closed his eyes again. Nor was he the first to speak; for after having waited for several minutes, Mr. Dixwell resumed, saying in a grave but kindly tone, "I am afraid, Sir John, you have not hitherto given much thought to the subject which is now so sadly fixed upon you. We must make haste, my good sir; we must not lose a moment."

"Then do you think I am going to die so soon?" asked the young man with a look of horror; for it cost him a hard and terrible struggle to bring his mind to grasp the thought of death being inevitable and nigh at hand. He could hardly conceive it--he could hardly believe it--that he who had so lately been full of life and health, who had been scheming schemes, and laying out plans, and had looked upon futurity as a certain possession--that he was to die in a few short hours; but whenever the wilful heart would have rebelled against the sentence, and struggle to resist it, sensations which he had never felt before, told him in a voice not to be mistaken, "It must be so!"

"No one can tell," replied Mr. Dixwell, "how soon it may be, or how long God may spare you; but one thing is certain, Sir John, that years with you have now dwindled down into days, and that days may very likely be shortened to hours. But had you still years to live, I should say the same thing, that no time is to be lost; too much has been lost already."

John Ayliffe did not comprehend him in the least. He could not grasp the idea as yet of a whole life being made a preparation for death, and looked vacantly in the clergyman's face, utterly confounded at the thought.

Mr. Dixwell had a very difficult task before him--one of the most difficult he had ever undertaken; for he had not only to arouse the conscience, but to awaken the intellect to things importing all to the soul's salvation, which had never been either felt or believed, or comprehended before. At first too, there was the natural repugnance and resistance of a wilful, selfish, over-indulged heart to receive painful or terrible truths, and even when the obstacle was overcome, the young man's utter ignorance of religion and want of moral feeling proved another almost insurmountable. He found that the only access to John Ayliffe's heart was by the road of terror, and without scruple he painted in stern and fearful colors the awful state of the impenitent spirit called suddenly into the presence of its God. With an unpitying hand he stripped away all self-delusions from the young man's mind and laid his condition before him, and his future state in all their dark and terrible reality.

This is not intended for what is called a religious book, and therefore I must pass over the arguments he used, and the course he proceeded in. Suffice it that he labored earnestly for two hours to awaken something like repentance in the bosom of John Ayliffe, and he succeeded in the end better than the beginning had promised. When thoroughly convinced of the moral danger of his situation, John Ayliffe began to listen more eagerly, to reply more humbly, and to seek earnestly for some consolation beyond the earth. His depression and despair, as terrible truths became known to him were just in proportion to his careless boldness and audacity while he had remained in wilful ignorance, and as soon as Mr. Dixwell saw that all the clinging to earthly expectations was gone--that every frail support of mortal thoughts was taken away, he began to give him gleams of hope from another world, and had the satisfaction of finding that the doubts and terrors which remained arose from the consciousness of his own sins and crimes, the heavy load of which he felt for the first time. He told him that repentance was never too late--he showed, him that Christ himself had stamped that great truth with a mark that could not be mistaken in his pardon of the dying thief upon the cross, and while he exhorted him to examine himself strictly, and to make sure that what he felt was real repentance, and not the mere fear of death which so many mistake for it in their last hours, he assured him that if he could feel certain of that fact, and trust in his Saviour, he might comfort himself and rest in good hope. That done, he resolved to leave the young man to himself for a few hours that he might meditate and try the great question he had propounded with his own heart. He called in Mistress Best, however, and told her that if during his absence Sir John wished her to read to him, it would be a great kindness to read certain passages of Scripture which he pointed out in the house Bible. The good woman very willingly undertook the task, and shortly after the clergyman was gone John Ayliffe applied to hear the words of that book against which he had previously shut his ears. He found comfort and consolation and guidance therein; for Mr. Dixwell, who, on the one subject which had been the study of his life was wise as well as learned, had selected judiciously such passages as tend to inspire hope without diminishing penitence.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Continued from page 488, vol. iii.

THE CASTLE OF BELVER.

AN INCIDENT IN THE LIFE OF ARAGO.

The castle of Belver is the state prison of the island of Majorca. The Rev. Henry Christmas, F.R.S., has just published in London three volumes entitled _The Shores and Islands of the Mediterranean_, in which he gives the following account of the confinement within its walls of the illustrious Arago:

"Charged by the Emperor Napoleon with the admeasurement of
the meridian, Arago was in 1808 in Majorca, and occupying a
cottage on the mountain called Clot de Galatzo, when the
news came to the island of the recent events at Madrid, and
the carrying away of the king. The populace of Palma, never
very favorably disposed towards the French, and altogether
incapable of comprehending either the merits or the mission
of Arago, easily mistook the great astronomer for a
political spy, and exasperated at the insult offered to
their king and country, determined to take a signal
vengeance on the only Frenchman within their power. They
took their way in great numbers towards the mountain on
which Arago had taken up his abode, fortified in their
belief of his evil designs by the fact that he frequently
made fires on the mountain-side, and which they took for
signals to an imaginary French fleet just about to land an
army for the reduction of the island.

"The mountain rises just above the coast on which Don Jaime
the Conqueror made his descent, and thus it will seem that
the islanders were not destitute of some grounds for the
suspicions which they entertained, nor without some
palliating circumstances in the outrage which they
contemplated. It was, however, happily only a design, for M.
Arago, warned in time, left his mountain, and directed his
steps towards Palma. The person who advertised him of his
peril was a man named Damian, the pilot of the brig placed
by the Spanish Government at the disposal of the
philosopher. Himself a Majorcan, he was taken into the
counsel of the plotters, and was thus enabled to save the
life of his master.

"Dressed in the clothes of a common seaman, with which
Damian had provided him, he met on his way the mob, who were
bent on his destruction, and who stopped him to inquire
about that _maldito gabacho_, of whom they meant to rid the
island. As he spoke the language of the country fluently, he
gave them that kind of information which was most desirable
both to him and to them, and as soon as he arrived at Palma,
he made his way to the Spanish brig; but the captain, Don
Manual de Vacaro, a Catalonian, (his name ought to be known,
to his disgrace, as well as that of Damian to his credit,)
absolutely refused to take the astronomer to Barcelona,
alleging that he was at Palma for a specific purpose, and
could not leave without orders from his Government. When
Arago pointed out the danger which threatened his life, and
of which the captain was as well aware as himself, the
latter coolly pointed out a chest, in which he proposed
that M. Arago should take refuge. To this Arago replied by
measuring the chest, and showing that there was not room for
him in the inside. The next day a frantic mob was assembled
on the shore, and it became clear that it was their
intention to board the brig. Alarmed now for himself as well
as for his colleague, Don Manual assured Arago that he would
not answer for his life, and recommended him to constitute
himself a prisoner in the castle of Belver, offering to
conduct him hither in one of the ship's boats. Seeing what
kind of a man, as well as what kind of a mob, he had to do
with, Arago accepted the proposal, and just arrived time
enough to hear the castle gates closed against his furious
pursuers. It seems that all the motions of those on board
were watched from the shore, and as soon as the boat was
seen to depart, and to take the direction of Belver, the
populace poured forth, towards the castle, and had not Arago
been a little in advance, his life would have been
sacrificed.... He was there as a prisoner two months.

"During that time he was told, and he seems to have believed
the report, that the monks in the island had attempted to
bribe the soldiers to poison him, but that the latter would
not consent. It is likely enough that monks, considered as
monks, would think it rather meritorious than otherwise to
destroy a Frenchman, and a free-thinker, but it would be
less probable of Majorcan monks than of any other, and
poisoning is not the custom of the island. At the same time
the very vehement feeling of the people against him, might
put it into the minds of the monks to use monastic arts, and
there is an additional probability given to the notion by
the conduct of the Captain-general, who, after two months of
captivity, sent a message to the prisoner that he would do
well to make his escape, and that if he did, it would be
winked at. Arago took this excellent advice, sent for M.
Rodriguez, who had been appointed by the Spanish Government
to aid him in his scientific labors, and by his aid opened a
communication with Damian. This worthy man procured a
fishing-boat, and took him to Algiers, not daring to land
him in France or Spain, and absolutely refusing very large
offers made to him for that purpose."

THE COUNT MONTE-LEONE: OR, THE SPY IN SOCIETY.[2]

TRANSLATED FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MONTHLY MAGAZINE FROM THE FRENCH OF M. DE ST. GEORGES.

XVI.--MADEMOISELLE CREPINEAU'S LOVER.

About the end of May, 1819, on one of those bright sunny days which bring out the blossoms of the lilac, make invalids strong, and young girls healthy, the Duchess of Palma was sitting in the garden of her hotel, in the same place and under the same tree in which we saw her take refuge, to conceal her sorrow and tears, a few months before, on the evening of the brilliant festival when all the principal personages of our story met. A general languor and oppression with complete weakness, the ordinary consequences of her unhappy attempt to commit suicide, had ensued. The deep distress which gnawed at her heart added moral to physical tortures. The Duke of Palma at last perceived the deep indifference of La Felina towards him, and without divining the cause, said that having married without love, all his cares and tenderness had not sufficed to win her heart. He therefore said, that he should be a fool to devote himself any longer to her, and to consecrate his life to a woman to whom, notwithstanding the prejudices of the world, he had given his title and name, without having, as yet, received the most trifling acknowledgment in return!

Yet young, immensely rich, volatile and handsome, it was probable that the Duke would not look in vain for some one to console him for the severity of his Duchess. Like many other persons in Paris, the Duke lived _en garcon_ with two houses, two establishments, and, morally speaking, two wives. His second wife was a celebrated _danseuse_ of the Royal Academy of Music, Mlle. G., known as a very agreeably thin woman, and arms rather larger than the true academic proportions--which, however, enabled her to entwine her partner, with an _undulous grace_ that highly excited the old _habitues_ of the opera. The reign of Louis XVIII. was also emphatically the reign of the _danseuses_. Princes, marshals, generals, and nobles, selected their mistresses in the _seraglio_ of the opera. The reign of these ladies was, however, almost _emphyteotic_, that is to say, permanent, and often resulted in the consecration of illegitimate pleasures. MM. de Lauraguais, de Conti, de Letoriers, and others, would have laughed at this. The external life of the Duke was full of attention to the Duchess, with whom he dined regularly. He never, however, breakfasted at the embassy, nor was he there except at his regular receptions. The pious people who had been so shocked at his marriage, took care to say that the Duchess's conduct was the sole cause of her husband's misbehavior. There was nothing, though, in the world to sustain this; for no one had the slightest idea of the secret _liaison_ of Monte-Leone and the embassadress. That was a transient affair, and the shores of the _Lago di Como_ alone had been witnesses of it. Some excuse, however, was indispensably necessary for him.

La Felina, as isolated as ever, then sat in a beautiful garden which overlooked the _Champs Elysees_, on the morning we have described. Her face was pale and wearied, and her eyes red from want of sleep. With her head resting on her chest, she seemed a prey to the greatest sorrow. Just then they came to tell her of the visit of Taddeo Rovero.

"At last," said she, gladly, "I will know all."

Taddeo was close behind the servant who had announced him. He could not repress his surprise, when he saw how changed the Duchess was. The latter saw it and said, "You did not expect, signor, to see an old and ugly woman instead of her you once thought, so beautiful. I have, however, suffered a great deal during the three months you have been away. Without meaning to reproach you, let me say it is three months since I saw you."

"Ah! Signora, to me you may assume any guise you please; for neither my eyes, nor heart, distinguish any alteration."

"So much the better," said the Duchess with a smile, "for you are perhaps the only person who think me as beautiful as once was. It is something to be thought beautiful when we are not. What, though, is come over you? Why have you been so long in Italy?"

"Alas! Signora, bad inducements took me from Paris and from yourself."

"All they say, then, is true?" said the Duchess, making Taddeo sit by her; "the Marquise de Maulear has lost her husband? She is a widow?" said she, sadly, and with an effort.

"The Marquis died three months since at Rome," said Taddeo.

"It is terrible," said the ambassadress, "public rumor said so--I, though, live so much alone that I know nothing more. Excuse me, if I inquire into family secrets--were it not for the interest I entertain for your sister and yourself, I would not do so--"

"The death of the Marquis," said Taddeo, "is really a family secret. There is no reason, however, why you should not know it. I am aware to whom I confide it, and have no hesitation in doing so. My story will be brief. The Marquis and I set out for Rome three months ago, to receive the estate of my uncle, Cardinal Felippo Justiniani. We met with many difficulties, but eventually received it. The total was a million of francs, in bonds of the principal bankers of Rome. The half of this sum was paid in cash. I was in mourning, and did not go into society. Besides," added Taddeo, looking tenderly at La Felina, "I had left my heart in Paris--and society and the Carnival pleasures had no charms for me. The Marquis seemed more anxious for amusement than propriety permitted. A few days after having received the half of our inheritance, of which the Marquis had possession, I was surprised to hear that he had not returned home at night. I did not, however, dare to question him; for I thought that he had been tempted by some pleasure party and might be unwilling to answer me. I pretended not to be aware that he was away. For several successive nights this occurred, and at last I ventured to speak to him, telling him what danger he exposed himself to, by straying thus in the streets of Rome. 'I am well armed,' said he, 'and can protect myself against robbers.' Day after day the Marquis seemed more and more engaged. He avoided me, and scarcely ever returned home. One day he was absent. Afraid lest he might have been attacked in the night, I went to the French minister's and caused a minute search to be made--and learned that my brother-in-law had put an end to his own life. He had been enticed by some of his French friends into a gaming house, which foreign speculators had obtained leave to open during the Carnival, and had there lost the five hundred thousand francs which belonged to his wife. In his despair he had drowned himself in the Tiber."

"This is terrible," said the Duchess, "are you sure this is so?"

"Too sure," said Taddeo, "for not long after, the discovery of the body put all beyond doubt. These, Signora, are the facts of the case; though to save the Marquise's honor we attribute his death to a natural cause."

"I thank you, Signor, for your confidence; especially since it gives me a right to pity the sister you love so well, yet more--and also to console you for the death of M. de Maulear. But when did you return?"

"A few days ago. I was forced to remain yet longer in Rome to get possession of the remnant of the Cardinal's fortune. My mother also came to Rome to tell Aminta of her misfortune."

"How cruelly the young _Marquise_ must suffer," said the Duchess; "how she must need compassion and care!"

"She will have ours; and her father-in-law, overcoming his own sorrow, is as tender and fond of her as ever."

"Then," said the Duchess, concealing a distress she could not lay aside, "she yet has true and excellent friends--the Count Monte-Leone, for instance, who was so fond of her--"

"The Count," said Taddeo, looking strangely at the Duchess, who did not meet his glance, "was received a few days ago by the Marquise."

"He will make up for lost time," said La Felina, bitterly, "for now, or perhaps some day, his old hopes may again arise, and perhaps be realized."

Taddeo understood why she spoke thus. For a long time his forbearance had been pushed to extremities, and this passion of the Duchess for his friend had given rise to new tortures, too severe to repress the idea of vengeance. He was cruel and barbarous; but he had too severely suffered from La Felina. By a violent course, also, he perhaps wished to crush the love which tortured him.

He remarked: "Even though I afflict you, I must say your fancy is likely enough to be realized. The Count possesses rank and a spotless reputation--for without the latter--"

"With but the latter," said the Duchess, "he could not enter our family."

"Certainly, the Count prepares the Marquise for a future courtship by very constant visits now."

"He comes every day to the Hotel to see the Prince and myself. My sister loves to hear him speak of Italy, of which you know he talks so well."

La Felina could bear no more. She gave her hand to Taddeo, and with a voice trembling with emotion said: "For the present, adieu! You owe me some compensation for your long absence, and if the lonely life I lead does not afflict you, if you are not too much afraid of an anchorite, come to see me, and you will find me always glad to see you."

Taddeo kissed her hand and left her, almost repenting in his generous mind that he had spoken as he did. He was fully avenged, for the Duchess's grief was so great that she felt her heart grow chilled, her limbs stiffen, and her eyes close. Her conversation with Taddeo soon returned to her mind, and she uttered a cry of agony. Her _femme de chambre_ bore her to the Hotel. When alone in her room she said to herself: "He swore to me that he would never be her lover. She may now be his wife. Ah!" continued she, "with cruel and sombre fury, it would have been better for both of us had he let me die."

"Tell him who waits to come," said she to the servant.

The woman left, and soon after came in with a man whom the Duchess made sit beside her. The woman left the room. We will leave the Duchess with the stranger and go to No. 13 _rue de Babylonne_, where one month after we shall find Mlle. Celestine Crepineau, a prey to the tenderest emotions. We must say for about two months the heart of that lady had been speaking. This lady's heart, like that of old thorough-bred horses, of whom we read every once in a while, had a return of ardor, and laid aside all its ascetic devotion to become intense living and burning, as it had been in youth. This was the sure premonition of old age. If anything could justify this resurrection, it is what we are about to tell.

A new star shone in _la rue de Babylonne_. A beautiful stranger calling himself a Spaniard, a statement made probable by his dark complexion, sun-burnt brow, black hair, and brilliant eyes, established himself in a modest garret of No. 12, just opposite the house of the _hangman_, now occupied by Matheus. The charming Spaniard had no decided profession. His dress was that of an artisan in his Sunday best: and his velvet vest covered a prominent and Herculean _torso_. He was tall; and walked squarely on his large feet; a circumstance which made Mlle. Crepineau think him majestic. He said he was a bear-hunter from the Pyrenees, who had been forced to expatriate himself because _in a duel he had wounded the governor of his province_. It may be imagined that so rare a profession excited much admiration among the natives of _la rue Babylonne_, especially as the famous Nimrod passed his time at the door of No. 12, under the pretext that he was accustomed to the pure mountain air, and that he did not wish any of the neighbors anxious to make inquiries about his terrible profession, to have the trouble of asking for him. At one of these hall-door entertainments one summer night, the handsome Nunez saw and captivated Mlle. Celestine Crepineau. Do not let any one fancy the modest girl had given any encouragement to the stranger. They had restricted themselves to glances, _double entendres_, and the countless amiable pioneers of the army of Cupid. Mlle. Crepineau saw the stranger come every day to assist her in opening the heavy door of No. 13. Nunez took charge of the watering pot of which the commissaries are so fond, and dispersed an agreeable freshness in front of the house during the warm hours of the day, to protect, he said, the color and complexion of his mistress. Often Mlle. Celestine's nerves were refreshed by a delicate perfume which strayed through the bars of her lodge, and on inquiry saw a sprig of some sweet and odorous plant which had been placed there by the Spaniard. At last Mlle. Crepineau gave him permission to visit her. This was an important favor, and was the passage of the rubicon. By doing so, Celestine placed her reputation in the power of her evil-disposed neighbors. She was, however, in love. "Besides," said she, with noble pride, "my conscience sustains me, and envy will fall abashed before the sacred torch of hymen." This _respectable_ phrase was the last remnant of the romances of Ducray-Dumenil, the first books Celestine ever read when she was cook of the advocate her god-father.

But this interesting love passion was suddenly brought to a close by a very painful circumstance for the vanity of the young lady. Whether Mlle. Crepineau had laced herself more tightly even than usual, or that in aspirations after sylphic grace, she had been rather too active when Senor Nunez was by--she was seized one fine day with a pain in the small of her back, translatable only by the word rheumatism--a constant attendant of her delicate organization. A forced construction was put on the pain--which became a cold or a strain, but she had, in spite of the effort to get rid of it by an _euphonism_, to go to bed. Then the devotion of the Spaniard became heroic. He was unwilling that Mlle. Celestine should intrust any one else with her daily occupation, and undertook to replace her in the menage of Doctor Matheus. The proposition did not awaken much of the doctor's gratitude; and though he accepted the substitute, he promised to watch him very closely. One morning the doctor was forced to leave very suddenly, just as the Spaniard was cleaning and dusting the consultation room. Matheus had been sent for by the Duke d'Harcourt, and apprehending some new indisposition of his young patient, Von Apsberg, for the first time left the Senor Nunez in his room.

For a few moments, the Spaniard continued his occupation. When, however, he saw the doctor leave, and from the window saw him turn down the _rue de Bac_, he said, "Now what I have so long sought for is in my grasp." Looking on every side of the room, lifting up the papers, opening the portfolios and examining the furniture, he discovered a secret drawer in a bureau, within which he found a key.

"Here," said he, "is the key of the laboratory--of the mysterious room in which I shall find all I need. This is it," said he, looking anxiously at the key, "I know it by its shape." Hurrying to the third floor of the house, he paused at the door. His hand trembled--the key entered--turned--the wards moved, and the stranger entered the laboratory.

The table which, when we paid our first visit to Matheus, was covered with maps, pamphlets, etc., now had nothing on it. "All is locked up," said the man. "I have bad luck." He soon, however, aroused himself, and taking a ball of wax from his pocket, and pointing to a massive secretary, said, "There they are--there are their plans and papers, their lists and names." Approaching the secretary again, he took an exact impression of the lock, and also made a copy of the key of the laboratory. He then uttered a cry of joy. "I have them all," said he. "I am their master, and not one of the accursed Carbonari can escape me." He then left the room as expeditiously as he had entered, went to the first story, replaced the key where he had found it in the secret drawer, and hurried to find Mlle. Celestine Crepineau, who had become very uneasy about her lover.

XVIII. RUIN.

A few days after the pretended bear-hunter, the handsome Spaniard, adored by the amiable Mlle. Crepineau, had gone stealthily into the studio of Dr. Matheus to obtain possession of the secrets of the Carbonari, our three friends Taddeo Rovero, Von Apsberg, and the Vicomte d'Harcourt, were at the Count's hotel. The house of Monte-Leone was in Verneuil street. It was small, mysterious, and recherche. The court-yard was of modest size, with turf in the centre, and sanded walks around it. The steps had a balcony at the top and several marble vases, from which grew geraniums in summer and heath in the winter. It was a regular bachelor's house, having every thing demanded by the exigencies of a tenant of that condition. It had all the broad, tall, low, narrow, visible, and invisible doors, for troublesome cases and exits, for the actors and actresses of the every day drama of the life of a young, rich, and independent man. No love drama was ever performed, though, on this theatre. One of another and more brilliant kind was being prepared. He gave a dinner to young men, a regular one, without a single woman. Men alone were welcomed by the noble Amphytrion. The house was furnished as luxuriously as possible, for only recently have people conceived the happy idea of making dining-rooms comfortable. Of this our fathers were entirely ignorant. Once people eat much or little, well or badly; they breakfasted, dined, or took tea--that was all. They sat on straw or hair chairs; they were warmed by bad stoves, the smell of which was intolerable; the feet rested on marble blocks, bright, but cold as ice. Such was the gastronomical trilogy of Parisians. The large hotels, and even the smaller establishments of our renowned libertines had a more splendid refectory, which, however, was not more favorable to the comfort of the guests. The dark and rich tapestries which hung on the walls, the marble on the floor, the pictures, though by Boucher or Watteau, were artistic and costly, but nothing less than the eyes of La Guimard, the lips of Sophie Arnould, those of La Maupin or La Duthe, could warm those cold arenas, where Bernis, Larenaudie, Fronsac, Bouret, and Beaujon sacrificed to Comus in the company of the Loves. Now all is changed. Not only gastronomy, but the art of living well has been discovered not to exist alone in wines and cookery, and it has become a proverb, that "beans in china are better than truffles in earthenware." In 1819 Count Monte-Leone had a presentiment of our taste in 1848, and he was therefore spoken of as a foreign sybarite, whose extravagant tastes never would be imitated. Though people blamed, they envied, and _tried to imitate_.

The dining-room of the Count, therefore, glittered with lights, and around a table filled with the rarest glass, from which was exhaled the perfume of a dinner fit for Lucullus, were about a dozen men, some of whom, Matheus, Taddeo, and d'Harcourt, we know already. The others, of whom we will hereafter speak more fully, were famous Carbonari, the founders of the French order, General A...., the banker H...., Count de Ch...., the merchant Ober, the _Avocat_ C...., and the illustrious Professor C.... Two of these gentlemen had come from Italy, and brought to Monte-Leone new orders from the central Venta of Naples, and also curious details about the progress or rather maturity of Carbonarism in the Two Sicilies and the neighboring countries. It had however been by common consent determined among the guests that none of the grave secrets of the order should be revealed at their joyous repast--that political questions should be postponed to more serious conferences: not that the members were not satisfied of the prudence of each other, but inquisitive ears hovered around this table, and with the exception of those of the prudent old Giacomo none could be trusted. There was especial reason for this, as vague rumors had for some time made the Carbonari distrustful. It was said that the Minister of Police had placed Count Monte-Leone under the strictest surveillance in consequence of his previous history. The objects of this dinner, which beyond doubt was subjected to some particular notice, was to prove that all the persons assembled were men of pleasure, and not agents of discord or conspirators.

"To our host," said d'Harcourt, filling his glass, "to his loves and conquests!"

"You will get drunk," said one of the guests, "if you drink to all of his conquests."

"All calumny," said Matheus. "The conversion of St. Augustine is no miracle since that of Monte-Leone. The gallant Italian is now a fresh anchorite, avoiding the pomps of Satan and the opera in this _Thebais_. With his friends he atones for past errors."

"The fact is, no one knows any thing about the Count's amours," said one of the guests.

"Well, then," said another, "that for one in society, as Monte-Leone is, he makes bad use of his eyes. The very mention of his Neapolitan adventures would turn the heads of ten Parisian women."

"You are wrong, my dear B....," said the Count. "The women of Paris are not so headlong as you think. They reason with their hearts, and pay attention to convenances without regard to inclination. Besides, the man they love occupies only the second place in their hearts. _They_ come first and _he_ afterwards. Often, too, the toilette occupies the second place with amusements and pleasures. They prefer the attention of one to the love of all. _Liasons_ in France are elegant, _recherche_, and refined. They never violate good taste, and even in their despair French women are charming. They quarrel behind a fan, tear a bouquet to pieces, and shred the lace of a handkerchief. They weep, and stop soon enough not to stain the eyes, and when they have fainting-fits, are very careful not to disturb their curls. Great suffering just stops short of a nervous attack, and fury never breaks either china bracelets or jewelry, though it is merciless on lovers' miniatures. Three months after, if the offended lady meet the gentleman in a drawing-room, she will ask the person next her, 'Pray tell me who that gentleman is, I think I have seen him somewhere.' In Spain and Italy they avenge themselves, and do not pardon men who are inconstant until they too are false. Woe to him whose love is the first to end. He henceforth has but the storm and the thunder-bolt. Hatred and vengeance--the first is found in France--women in Italy kill. I tell you your countrywomen are not romantic, and suffer themselves to be led astray only after due reflection."

"Well, for my own part," said d'Harcourt to Monte-Leone, "I know a woman who adores you in secret, who never speaks of you without blushing, who looks down when your name is mentioned, and who looks up when she sees you."

Taddeo looked at the Vicomte with surprise. Two names occurred to him, that of the Duchess, and yet of another person. Monte-Leone, like Taddeo, was afraid that the young fool, whose greatest virtue was not temperance, would be indiscreet.

"Gentlemen," said he, "the Vicomte is about to be stupid. In the name of our friendship I beg him to be silent."

"Bah, bah!" said d'Harcourt, becoming yet more excited, and draining his glass of champagne, _in vino veritas_. "The proof of what I say is that Monte-Leone is afraid. I shall name the victim of the passion he has inspired. I wish to reinstate him in your eyes, for he has represented himself as deserted and abandoned by the fair sex, when one of the fairest adores him, and would sacrifice name and rank for him."

"Vicomte," said Monte-Leone, enraged and rising, "do not make me forget my intimacy with you of five years' duration."

"You will not forget it--you will like me all the better for what I am about to say. Besides it is nothing but humanity. You would not let the poor woman die when you can save her?"

"Again I ask you to stop," said Monte-Leone.

"You are too late," said the Vicomte, taking another glass of wine. "I drink to the Attala, the Ariana, the Psyche of our illustrious host, to a charming widow we all admire, to _Madame de Bruneval_."

One shout of joy burst from all. Monte-Leone felt a burden of trouble lifted from him, and Taddeo breathed more freely.

"Gentlemen," said Monte-Leone, resuming his _sangfroid_, "I protest that I was not aware of the happiness with which I am menaced. Though I do justice to the precious qualities of Mme. de Bruneval--to her lofty virtue, with which all of you are familiar--I should be afraid of following in the footsteps of the illustrious dead. Since, however, the widow has been spoken of, I will propose a toast to the speedy cure of her heart, provided I am not expected to become its surgeon."

All drank; and amid the sound of their laughter, Giacomo entered, and on a salver handed the Count a letter. "It is from Naples," said he; and having opened, he read it. As he did so he grew pale.

"Any bad news?" said Matheus.

"No," said Monte-Leone, with an effort to restrain himself; "no, my friends"--taking advantage of the temporary absence of the servants, who had placed the dessert on the table, and who then retired, as is the custom in all well regulated households--"No bad news to our cause. This letter is on private business. I have another toast," said he, in a lower tone. "To the brethren who are my guests to-day!"

"To the absent!" said Taddeo.

"Well, well," said Dr. Matheus, looking uneasily around; "let us have done with toasts. As a doctor, I may speak. Too many of this kind may endanger _our lives_," added he, emphasizing the last words. "Let us enjoy the pleasures heaven has granted us. Our first masters in good cheer, the Greeks and Romans, surrounded their tables with flowers and crowned their cups with roses. Let us laugh, then, my friends, at fools, intriguers, and apostates. Let us laugh at each other, and especially at unreasonable d'Harcourt, who can drown his own mind in a single bottle of champagne, and which makes him about as sensible as a fly."

The sallies and follies of after dinner followed this pompous harangue of Matheus. Had any one witnessed this scene, they would have fancied the actors a party of young mousquetaires of the regency, rather than conspirators who aspired to convulse the world. When the guests of Monte-Leone were gone, and only d'Harcourt, Matheus, and Taddeo remained, the Count took his dispatch out of his bosom, and bade the latter read it. It was as follows:

"NAPLES, September 10, 1819.

"COUNT:--I am sorry to inform you that the banker Antonio
Lamberti, to whom you had confided your fortune, and with
whom you bade me deposit the price of your palace, sold for
six hundred thousand francs, has failed, and fled with all
your fortune.

"Your respectful attorney,

"GUISEPPE FARNUCCI."

The three friends embraced Monte-Leone, and Von Apsberg said, "You knew this, yet could share our gayety. Did you not say yourself laughter is as necessary for digestion as it is to the heart?"

"I fulfilled my duties of host to the letter. I needed all my courage, though, having lost more than my fortune--my happiness. The morning's papers will announce the failure of Antonio Lamberti, and all Paris will know of the ruin of the brilliant Count Monte-Leone."

With fortune, the Count had also lost the hope of happiness. The widowhood of the Marquise de Maulear had revived all his hopes, as La Felina had foreseen, and his rank and title enabled him again to aspire to Aminta's hand. All this prospect his misfortune annihilated. What had he to offer now to Aminta? The name, the eclat of which he could sustain no longer--an existence endangered by a political plot, the triumph of which was far from certain--sumptuous tastes, which he would not be permitted to gratify--privations, especially cruel as they would follow closely on luxury and opulence, of which he had, so to say, built himself a temple.

Ten months had passed by since the Marquis's death, and the grief of his widow had been most sincere. Though Aminta had never entertained a very profound love for her husband, she had been much attached to him from a reason common enough: she was strong and he unusually weak. When, therefore, a terrible vice had seized on him, and sought, as it were, to wrest him from her arms, not a reproach had been uttered by Aminta against the sacrifice of her money and his neglect to an ignoble propensity. She forgave the gamester who was faithful to her, and had wept over him when she would have had no tears for the unfaithful husband. This soul so full of love was not slumbering in the arms of marriage. The energetical character which Aminta had often exhibited would, had it found traits of manhood properly expanded in her husband, have possibly modified her feelings, if he had possessed that burning imagination, that secret imagination which creates deep love, and for which too she seemed to have been created. She might have said this. She was too chaste to do so. Yet sometimes, in her long and dreamy solitudes, an image rose before her, especially when her husband was away. She dreamed of an exalted love, full of ardor and devotion, indomitable courage, sacrifice of life to duty, a noble and generous soul, which divined her own, and linked itself to it. All this assumed the form of the man she had rejected, of whom she had been afraid, and for her ingratitude to whom she now blushed.