Chapter XXXVII (2)

The Count had been received by Aminta, in the early months of her widowhood, but he had refrained, from respectful motives, to allude to his feelings. His visits to the Marquise were short and ceremonious, feeling that love should not be veiled by the crape of mourning. Like the Prince de Maulear, and all Paris in fact, Aminta had heard of the Count's misfortune, and the blow made a deep impression on her. The absence of the Count became prolonged. He had not visited her since his misfortune, and she could not but feel a deep interest for him to whom fate reserved such severe trials. One evening, when she was more melancholy than usual, and sat in the saloon with her head leaning on her hand, and dreaming over the incidents of her life in which Monte-Leone had figured, she thought without remorse of scenes it had been once her duty to forget. A stifled sigh escaped from her bosom, and a kind of moan near her induced her to shake off her reverie. She saw Scorpione lying at her feet as he used to, and looking fixedly and sadly at her.

Tonio, whom, like the children of Sorrento, we have often called Scorpione, after having wandered along the sea-shore at the time of Aminta's marriage, had been found exhausted on the sands, and been taken to Signora Rovero, on the very day that Aminta set out for France. Since then, vegetating rather than living with the mother of Aminta, Signora Rovero was unwilling to trust her daughter's preserver to servants, when she heard of the death of her son-in-law. Signora Rovero had such delicate health as to be unable to bear the climate of Paris, and had six months before returned to Italy; but Tonio was unwilling to leave her, and yielding to his mute prayers, Aminta had consented for him to remain, for his sufferings to save her had made a deep impression on her. Tonio was in fact but the shadow of himself, the soul alone seeming to support him. Even his soul was changed. Fearful and timid when with Aminta, the passion the unfortunate boy had once experienced for her became humble and respectful submission. His very mind became extinct; and the only glimmerings of it now seemed to be a kind of instinctive sympathy with his mistress. He smiled when the Marquise did, and that was but rarely. He wept when tears hung on her eyelids. When he looked as we have described at Aminta, her sadness was perfectly mirrored on his face. Scorpione was, in fact, less than man, and more than a brute--he was an idiot.

"You suffer, because I suffer," said Aminta.

He replied, "Yes."

By one of those ideas which take possession of the time, but which it shrinks to confess, she said in a weak and almost tender voice to the idiot, as children do to toys, "If I were happy, would you be?" Scorpione looked fixedly at her, as if trying to understand her; and she added, "If any one loved me, and I loved him also, would you wish me to be happy?" blushing as she spoke.

Heavy tears rolled down his cheeks, and he said, taking Aminta's hand, "Yes."

"Poor child!" said she, with tears also, "once he loved me for his own sake--now he loves me for my own."

"Yes," said the idiot, hiding his face with his hands.

Just then the Prince de Maulear was announced.

XVIII. THE KING.

The Prince adored his daughter-in-law, and with tears in his eyes he besought Signora Rovero not to take her from him. "Remember," said he, "that I am old, and have but a few years more to live before I reach the end of my journey, to which the death of my unfortunate son has brought me years nearer. Do not, Signora, deprive me of the only being I love on earth. Make this sacrifice to Rovero's friend. In his name I ask you to do so. Have a little patience with the old man, and let Aminta close his eyes. I will soon restore her to you."

The mother made this sacrifice to the broken-hearted father, who almost on his knees besought her to give him her daughter to replace his lost son. In his suffering the Prince seemed to become doubly fond of the young woman. Her own father could not have been more anxious to spare her pain and to satisfy her least desires.

"She is my Antigone," said he, proudly, to all who met him leaning on the Marquise's arm. "I am, though, happier than Oedipus, for I can look at and admire her."

"When the Prince came into the drawing-room of his daughter he seemed excited. The Marquise bade Scorpione leave her, and the idiot crawled rather than walked to the door, through which he disappeared; not, however, until he had cast one glance on the young woman, as if to become satisfied that her features expressed neither menace nor anger.

"Good and kind as ever," said the Prince to Aminta; "you certainly appear to advantage with that hideous and deformed being. No one but a person generous as you are would keep so awful a being by you."

"To do so, father, I need only appeal to memory, and that will aid me. I cannot forget that I am indebted to him for my life, and above all, for the boon of being loved by you."

"Certainly," said the Prince, "I know all that; but you might take care of and watch over him, and make his life pleasant, without keeping him ever before you. I, who am not at all timid, assure you that I never see him without apprehension at your feet, hugging the fire like a serpent to quicken the icy blood in his veins."

"I will send him away if you wish me to."

"I wish you to do as you please. That you know well enough, my child. Keep the Scorpione, as you sometimes call him, and nurse up any horrible monster you please besides, and I will think it charming, or at least will not reproach you. My dear child, I have few amusements for you, and now your life must be sad indeed."

"No, no! dear father, I do not complain. The hotel is only sad when you are not here."

"Alas!" said the Prince, "there can be found but little interest in one as old as I am, and so unhappy too. Listen to me, Aminta, it is cruel to make children die before their parents. It reverses the order of nature to see the flower wither while the parent stem is green. I spoke to you of fate, because I was unwilling to mention God. Grief makes us pious. I dare not object to your decrees."

"Have you not yet a daughter?" said Aminta, passing her arm around the Prince's neck; "have you not a daughter who loves you?"

"Yes, yes, _my daughter_." The Prince laid an emphasis on the last word. "You are now my only child, and I wish to secure your happiness; and for that purpose will consecrate to you the remnant of my life. Yet I do not know what to do."

The young woman blushed--for perhaps she could have made a suggestion. The Prince, though, did not remark it, and continued:

"Our life is sadder even than it was. The friends of this world are like bees who hover only around flowers when they bloom, and scorn those which begin to wither. They avoid this house--"

"All friends do not act thus," said Aminta, concealing her emotion; "one of them, one who pleases you most, whom you love, Signor Monte-Leone, often comes hither to see you alone--"

"To see me?" said the Prince, looking shrewdly at his daughter-in-law; "perhaps he comes to see you. Since, however, his misfortune, the Count never comes near us. Perhaps he judges us incorrectly. He may have fancied the loss of fortune involved the sacrifice of our friendship. It is a bad judgment, and I say it with regret, of a bad heart."

"Ah father," said Aminta, "the Count must have had another reason to keep him away."

"Certainly," said M. de Maulear, "but these reasons have not kept him from seeing me. During the last fortnight, I have been ten times to his house. I am, however, glad he has acted thus, for his conduct will diminish my sorrow at his departure--"

"His departure?" said Aminta, unable to restrain an expression of surprise.

"His departure for Italy," said the Prince; "he was ordered this morning, by the French government, to leave France within twenty-four hours."

"And why?" said Aminta.

"He is accused," said Maulear, "of being concerned in some conspiracy contrary to the safety of the country."

"Ah, my God!" said the young woman, "then he is exiled and expelled from the kingdom."

"Decidedly; and he is forbidden ever to return."

Aminta, as she heard these words, felt as if her heart would burst. The Prince saw her agitation.

"What is the matter my child?" said he. "Why are you so sad?"

"Nothing, nothing, but a nervous attack, to which I am used."

Maulear looked at the Marquise for a few moments, and then said: "My child, there is no true love without confidence. My love gives me sacred rights over you. Do not be afraid to confide in me. Let not even the memory of the departed restrain you. You are twenty years of age; and your life has not approached its end. I am now about to tell you what I have often intended to: your happiness is the main object of my life, and never forget that, whatever may be your name, I shall always look on you as a daughter!"

Aminta threw herself into the Prince's arms and hid there her tears of gratitude and her blushes. De Maulear took his beautiful daughter-in-law on his knee, as he would have taken a child, and then lifting up Aminta's head with exquisite kindness, said: "Does he love you?"

"He did before I was married," said the young woman, looking down.

"And since then?"

"He has never spoken of love."

"He should not have done so," said the Prince; "often, though, the eyes say such things; and his, probably, are not inexpressive."

Aminta did not reply.

"All is clear," said the Prince; "the Count avoids us from a sentiment of delicacy which does him honor. He has no longer reason to hope, being ruined, for what, when rich, he would have given his life and fortune."

"He will go," said Aminta faintly.

"He will not, he shall not go. This conspiracy is, after all, only one of the phantoms ever arising before a terrified government. If the really revolutionary mind of Count Monte-Leone has involved him, I will promise to make him listen to reason, especially if you will aid me--as for this order to leave so abruptly, I hope my arm is long enough to interpose."

"What then will you do?" asked Aminta, anxiously.

"_Parbleu!_ I will go to the King himself--not to the ministers, but to the KING--to GOD, not to the saints. Mind, for the proverb's sake alone I apply that word to those gentry. The King is an old friend, a brother in exile. I never asked a favor of him, though he has often asked me to do so. We will see if he will refuse me."

"But," said Aminta, "time is short."

"Then," said the Prince, "to-morrow morning I will go to the Tuileries, and we will see what the minister will say when he hears Louis XVIII. say, _I will!_"

"Think you he will say so?"

"He must," said the Prince, kissing her; "for you and I say, _we will_. What a woman wills----To-morrow you shall have good news." He went away....

At that time the appearance of the Tuileries was very imposing. To the forms of the empire had succeeded the more luxurious and aristocratic ones of the restoration.

The stern military garb of the Imperial Guard, and of the Dragoons of the Empress, was replaced by the brilliant uniforms of the King's body-guards, of the _hundred Swiss_, an old name now replaced by the almost grotesque appellation of the _Gardes a pied ordinaires du corps du roi_, a species of giants, commanded by the Count of Tisseuil, a person only about four feet high, but an excellent soldier for all that. Then came the Swiss, the Royal guard, and on days of public ceremonies, the _Gardes de la Manche_, whose duty had special relation to the religious ceremonies of the chapel of the palace. The reception rooms, the great gallery, the hall of the marshals, glittered with embroidered dresses, _cordons_, collars and orders of every kind, both French and foreign. There were the stars of the empire--those of the monarchy--Russian, English, Austrian, Italian--the stars of all Europe. A large portion of the continent was in Paris. This portion was the most brilliant of all; for having tasted of Parisian refinement it was not at all anxious to return home. His majesty Louis XVIII., dressed in blue and wearing the royal cordon of the Saint Esprit, with his hair _a l'oisseu-royal_, and his legs hidden in broad pantaloons, which concealed their size, with his feet in shoes of buckskin, and pleasant and agreeable as ever, had been rolled by his footman from the room where he breakfasted, to his study. MM. de Blacas, d'Escars, and de Damas, his gentlemen in waiting, and many courtiers, had followed his majesty's chair to the very door of his study, where they paused. Then the human horses, who dragged the chair, having turned him around _on his own pivot_, bore him into the recesses of the room. The object of the manoeuvre we have described was to place the King vis-a-vis to his courtiers, to whom he bowed graciously. This was a signal for them to leave. The doors then closed with not a little noise, and this was all the public knew of royal life. Private matters, interviews with the ministers, audiences, had particular modes of entrance leading to the King's rooms and office. The latter was the sanctuary of royal thought, where great and petty acts were consummated, and where many confessions and audiences had been heard and given. There this literary King, better educated than half of his academy, had made commentaries on many learned Latins, especially on Horace. The King appropriated several hours of every day to study. To derange the distribution of this time, to take him from Juvenal, Tacitus, or Cicero, to discuss a plan of Villele or Angles, was almost high treason. One person alone dared to do this, and this person was above law. The reason was, he was more powerful than the King, having even majesty in subjection. The name of this man was Father Elysee. It was his business to keep the King alive. This was, as will be seen, a very important matter.

This man went into the King's room without notice, and without even tapping at his door. He did so, by virtue of the sovereign power of the patient over the invalid--by virtue of science over suffering humanity. The King, however, sometimes used to say, when Elysee made a very _brusque_ entrance: "_I only wish one thing, that disease may not break in on me brusquely as you do_."

As a fine and acute courtier, as an old slouth-hound of the palace with a keen scent, the Prince de Maulear went to Father Elysee for the purpose of obtaining a speedy audience.

"Is it you?" said the King, behind whom opened a door looking into the reception room.

"Yes," said the doctor, "I wish your majesty would not pay too much attention to your Latin and study. Nothing injures the digestive organs like study, especially after meals. Mind and matter then contend, and the body is almost always overcome."

"If I had to do only with my old friends, Horace and Petronius," said the King, "my digestion would be all right. Unfortunately I have found a few modern subjects well calculated to annoy Master Gaster--for the vermin of Juvenal and Persius would be honey of Hymethus compared with the bile of the books I speak of--"

The King pointed out to the doctor a few open pamphlets which lay about the table.

"_Norman Letters. The Man in the Grey Coat_--MINERVA," said the doctor, looking at them; "who dared to bring these books hither?"

"My majesty dared. I am as good a doctor as you are, but I have more patients. I have a whole nation to cure, and to administer a tonic we must at least be aware of the debility. Look hither," said the King, "here is an antidote to poison. _The Conservative_, edited by the most learned doctors of the political faculty--by de Chateaubriand, de Bonald, de Villele, Fievee. Castelbajac, and a certain Abbe de Lamennais, an eloquent, sharp, and able man, I am sure, who has, though, one fault, he is a greater royalist than his King."

"And may I venture to ask your majesty how the works of Etienne, Jay, Jony and company, came hither?"

"Smuggled in," said Louis XVIII., with a smile; "F----, one of my _valets de chambre_, whom I have placed at the head of what I call my secret ministry, brings them to me. The fellow has taste. He said to me the other day: '_I have something devilish good here. The scoundrels do not spare your majesty_.' But," continued the King, "no man can be great to his valet or his physician, and I will therefore confess that the works of these liberal gentlemen trouble my digestion not a little, and I wish my good friend the Duke d'Escars to bring me back that _puree de cailles truffees_, of which he is the inventor. He is the Prince of Gourmands."

"Then," said Pere Elysee, glad to be able thus to pass to the principal object of his visit, "I am just in time to amuse your majesty, and to announce the visit of one of your best friends--the Prince de Maulear."

"Just in time," said the King; "he is a gentleman of the old school, and has chosen _for fifty years_ to be such. He yet believes in a King of France, fully, perhaps more fully, than he does in God. He is a true enemy of the Jacobins and Revolutionists. Tell him to come in, doctor, and we will be able to bear up against the attacks of the authors of those books."

The doctor soon brought the Prince de Maulear, and then left.

"Come in, my dear Prince," said the King; "you do not spoil your friends, and I see you too rarely, as I see others too frequently, to be able to forget you."

Kings, however unpleasant they may be, have this analogy with the sun, all come to warm themselves by his rays.

"I thank your majesty for your kind reception."

"You were my friend and shared my exile."

"It was a sad season," said the Prince, sitting on the chair the King pushed towards him.

"Not so, Prince; then we had no cares and no enemies, above all we had no court. We were independent, calm, and happy."

"Perhaps you had health, but you had no crown."

"Think you that a great misfortune?"

"Perhaps not to your majesty, but it was to France."

"How? Does our friend the Prince de Maulear, contrary to every expectation, become a flatterer in his old age? In what part of the Tuileries did he contract that disease? Listen, my dear de Maulear. You as well as I know that _love of France_ is but a word. Once in France, people loved the King--now, though, France above all other things loves itself. This love is, if you please, egotistical, but after all it is the only real positive good in this selfish age. Mind I speak only of the owners, and therefore conservatives of the kingdom. The other portion of the kingdom, anxious at any risk to acquire, estimates the country cheaply. A few faithful hearts who welcomed me as a Messiah expected for twenty years, true and noble believers, looked on my return as the realization of their long and secret hopes. To the majority of my people the Bourbon lily has been only the olive-branch of peace purchased by twenty years of war. This peace I would not have brought back by the bayonets of the Austrians and Russians. But God, Buonaparte, and the Allies, so willed it. You see, my dear Prince, that I am not mistaken in relation to my subjects' love, and that the gems of a crown do not conceal its thorns."

"The King," said M. de Maulear, "at least deigns to reckon me among the faithful subjects of whom he spoke just now?"

"Yes, yes," said the King, "among the most faithful and most disinterested. When I came back, there was established a very partition of offices and places, or honors, titles, crosses and stars, in which you took no part. Now you know you are one of those to whom I could refuse nothing."

"Well," said the Prince, "your majesty gives me courage to make one request, to obtain which I come hither."

"Bah!" said the King, "speak out my old friend, if the matter depends on me--"

"Cannot the King do any thing?" said the Prince.

"The King can do very little," said Louis XVIII.

"When your majesty says 'I will--'"

"Others say, 'We will not.'"

"Who will dare to use such language?"

"The true Kings of France--the ministers--for they are responsible while I am not. To tell the fact, though, I have credit with them and will use it--"

"Yet the King is King," said the Prince.

"Ah, Prince!" said Louis XVIII, "I see plainly enough that you do not read my books. What could you say worse to an author? Open the charter and look--here it is: '_He reigns, but does not govern_.' This is my Bible, my code--and I can accuse no one but myself, if I do sigh sometimes. For all this emanates from me, and was conceived and written by my own hand. Unfortunately," said he, with bitterness, "in France every thing is interpreted literally."

"The favor I ask your majesty to grant me will I hope be within your reserved powers. Count Monte-Leone, a noble Neapolitan of my acquaintance, has been accused, beyond doubt unjustly, of political plots, and been abruptly ordered to leave France. I come to ask the king to remit this mortification."

"Ah, ah!" said Louis XVIII, gravely, "an anarchist. This is serious, very serious. Perhaps the safety of the monarchy depends on this, as the _Timid_[3] say. My dear brother retails a conspiracy a day to me; perhaps, after all, he is not far wrong. I will see, Prince. I will examine and consult a very important personage, without whom I cannot act."

"Will his Majesty," said the usher, who had just arrived, "receive the prime minister?"

"Exactly," said the King, "that is the person of whom I spoke."

"Go in there," said the King to the Prince, pointing to the waiting-room. "You shall have my, or rather his, answer, in a quarter of an hour. The result though will be the same."

The Prince obeyed, and his excellency the prime minister was received.

XIX. A REVELATION.

The audience the King gave his prime minister lasted nearly an hour. M. de Maulear began to grow impatient at his long delay, when the usher came to tell him the King waited for him....

When the Prince entered, Louis XVIII. had a smile on his lips. A skilful observer of countenances would however have remarked a shade of malice.

"You are then very fond of Count Monte-Leone?" said the King to the Prince, again telling him to be seated.

"Very, Sire," said the Prince. "Signor Monte-Leone is really a nobleman, with old blood, a kind heart, brilliant mind, and elegant manners. One of a race now rare. If your Majesty would but permit me to present him to you--"

"No, no," said the King; "I had rather not. Besides," continued he, "with his reputation as a dreamer and a revolutionist, as an enemy of our cousin Fernando of Naples--"

"The Count is in the way of conversion, Sire; and if the important person to whom your Majesty yields will suffer us to keep the Count in Paris, I am sure we will soon be able to restore him to favor."

"The _important person_," said Louis, with a smile, "was very much inclined to send your dear friend to his own country. New information in relation to this honorable and loyal noble," continued the King, "has completely changed the intentions entertained in relation to him."

"Indeed," said the Prince, with delight; "and will your Majesty deign to tell me what this information is?"

"No, no, my dear friend. This is strictly a political question, which cannot be divulged. One thing is certain, the Italian is no longer our enemy, but is devoted to us. He is a lamb in a lion's hide. Not only will we keep him in France, but will grant him immunity for all he may do in future and has done as yet. Thus you see," said the King, "I have done more than you asked."

"Such kindness," said the Prince, "overwhelms me with pleasure and gratitude."

"Ah, Prince," said the King, ironically, "how you love your friends! Yet distrust your heart in relation to these Italians. They are cunning, and sometimes treacherous, but always mild and winning, so as to lead astray our French honesty. They do not wear at their belt their most dangerous stiletto, but have another between their jaws which is often poisoned. God keep me from saying this of your dear Count. I would not hurt him at all, but on the other hand wish him to be well received and to be honored every where. This advice, however, I wish you to consider general, and not with reference to any particular case."

"Count Monte-Leone," continued the Prince, "is worthy of your Majesty's kindest wishes. He has only the noble qualities of his nation, energy, enthusiasm, and courage. His is an exalted mind, which a cruel family sorrow may for a time have led astray, but I will answer for him as I would for myself."

"Ah," said the King, "that is indeed saying much."

"Not enough for his merit. I would be proud if I resembled him."

At this the King could not repress his laughter, and the Prince looked at him with surprise, and almost with anger. The King soon resumed. "Excuse me, Prince, but you exhibited so extravagant an anxiety--no, no, virtuous as Monte-Leone may be, I like you as you are. Do not therefore envy his devotion, great as that may be to us. I like yours best."

"I will then tell the Count," said the Prince, "the favor your Majesty has deigned to grant him."

"No, no--not I. With affairs of that kind I have nothing to do. I leave that honor to the minister. Adieu, Prince," said he, "and come soon to see me again. Then ask something of me which may be worth granting." The Prince bowed respectfully, and left.

"Excellent man," said Louis XVIII., as he left. "He would have been surprised had I told him.... That Italian has bewitched him...."

On the evening before the day on which this scene took place, a man wrote in his office by the light of a shaded lamp, which made every thing but half visible. It was ten o'clock. A door opened, and an officer of one of the courts appeared. M. H...., the chief of the political police of whom we have already spoken, lifted up his head.

"What is the matter? and who is now come to interrupt me?" said he, with marked ill-humor.

The officer who had come in, and who was a _Huissier_, said, "'The Stranger,' and as Monsieur receives him always--"

"Let him come in," said M. H...., eagerly. "You were right to announce him."

The person whom we have previously seen with a mask at the house of M. H...., entered, and looked carefully around to see that he was with the Chief of Police alone. Many months had passed, and all we have described had taken place. For since then, we have gone, like a sound logician, backwards, in order to expose our _data_ distinctly before we proceed to define their consequences. Now the first appearance of the masked man in the cabinet of M. H.... coincided with the painful scene in which Taddeo Rovero had crushed the hopes of the Duchess of Palma by revealing to her the probability of the marriage of Monte-Leone and Aminta.

"Monsieur," said the stranger to M. H...., "have I kept my promise?"

"Yes," said H....

"Have I unfolded the plot of Carbonarism?"

"You have satisfied me of the existence of the French Venta, and of their identity with those of Italy and Spain. We have written to the police of those nations, and all was discovered to be exact, so that in a few days the governments of those countries will have acted."

"Have I named you the chief Carbonari in Paris?"

"You have."

"Have I given you their secret notes and books?"

"In relation to that, I am but partially satisfied, but I do not need the copies but the documents themselves, in the handwriting of their authors."

"You will have them--but there is an Italian proverb, _Chi va piano, va sano! e chi va sano, va lontano_. I told you the fruit was not yet ripe. I think, however, the time is approaching to gather it, and in a month I will--"

"But," said H...., "does not this delay endanger all? May they not act, while we pause?"

"Do you wish to know by your own observation who are the conspirators?" said the stranger.

"I do," said H....

"Do you wish to see--to hear them?"

"Yes, and to arrest them."

"Not yet--it is too soon. While your fowlers entrapped a few fledgelings the rest of the covey would escape."

"How can I see and hear them?"

"I alone can enable you to do so, or rather not I, but the person whose agent I am."

"And when?" said M. H...., impatiently.

"In three days. It is, however, first necessary to repair a grave error which endangers all our hopes."

"What fault?"

"The Minister of the Interior," continued the man, "has ordered three foreigners, a German, a Spaniard, and an Italian, to leave France. Those persons are Dr. Spellman of Berlin, the Duke D.... of Madrid, and Count Monte-Leone of Naples."

"True," said M. H.... "This is at the request of the ministers of those three nations."

"Well," said the mysterious man, "it must be at once revoked."

"Why?"

"Because, if one of these men leave Paris, you have nothing to expect from me."

"What say you?" asked H...., with surprise.

"I am," said the stranger, in a low tone, "as I told you, the agent of one of those strangers. In his name alone I can tell you what you are so anxious to know--without him I can do nothing. The elevated position of this man, his rank, his connection with Carbonarism, enable him to hear and know all. Without him I am reduced to silence and inertness; for I repeat to you, that he is the thought of which I am the action. Destroy him, and the other is valueless, and you return to ignorance--become especially dangerous as the time approaches for the mine to explode beneath your feet and those of the French monarchy."

"Why not name that man? why does he not name himself?"

"Because he wishes to preserve his reputation--because he would rather die than avow his services."

"Ah, indeed!" said H.... "The matter is difficult. The minister will not revoke these orders: for, while one of the men ceases to be an enemy of the country, the other two yet are."

"More than two--twenty of the most powerful, and two hundred thousand others to follow them."

"But what interest," asked M. H...., who hoped to arrive by a round about way at a discovery of the one of the three, the presence of whom was so necessary at Paris. "What reason can your _patron_ have to serve us, if he asks for neither gold, place, nor favor?"

"A far deeper interest than any of them. That I can confide to you--revenge."

"On whom?"

"His associates--ungrateful men, who have humiliated him in his self-esteem."

"How?"

"That is my secret and his."

"Well," said H...., "I can understand that. Hatred and revenge make as many informers as cupidity. Our criminal archives prove that."

"Well, to the purpose."

"All three will leave Paris to-morrow."

"Then with one of them will go the safety of France. His name must be a mystery. Revoke the orders, so that our man may remain, unless you prefer by their departure to break the only thread to guide you in this inextricable labyrinth."

"But you are here," said H...., unable to repress his anger, and wearied of the bravado and menaces of the man. "What can be obtained neither by money nor by persuasion, is often to be had by rigor."

"Very well, Monsieur," said the stranger. "I forgot I was in a country of treason, and you forget that you swore to use neither violence nor trickery. You can act as you please. I will however tell you what will be the result of your investigations. I am an humble man, and belong to my employer as the body does to the soul, as the hand does to the arm. It will be useless to follow me, for I have no objection to tell you whither I go. You may inquire into my past life; that will be vain, for I will tell you all. You may inquire into my resources, but you will lose your time, for I will satisfy you myself. There, however, you will lose your guide--all else will be a mystery to you, my relations with this man being of such a nature that God alone knows them. They can be penetrated only by my consent."

"Listen to me," said M. H...., changing his tone: "I was wrong--I was wrong to menace you, for I am weak, and you are strong. I have nothing, and you have every thing. I have only control of a few people whom I suspect, unauthenticated documents, and mere suspicions. In a time when party spirit runs as high as it does now, after the too frequent mistakes of our police, we must act on facts and evidence. I see that I need you. My power, however, gives way to that of another, and the minister alone can revoke the order of expulsion. Perhaps I may be able to cause him to revoke it, but I must enforce that demand by a serious motive, and must satisfy him of the necessity of resisting the demands of the allied sovereigns, and of keeping two dangerous men in Paris as the price of one useful one. I now understand the meaning of the mystery which surrounds your patron, and to prevent suspicion there must be three pardons. Give me then an argument which cannot be contradicted. Give me the name which you now keep secret. You know that I have kept my first oath with you, and I swear the minister alone shall be informed of the secret."

As he listened to M. H..., the stranger thought profoundly. He then seemed to adopt an energetic resolution, and uttered these strange words--"True, the higher the eminence from which a body falls, the more crushing the blow."

"What do you say?" said H...

"That your idea is correct, and changes my plan. When I came hither, I thought your will alone could correct the mistake which has been made. I now see it cannot, and have made up my mind. Sit there," said he to H...., who was astonished at his unceremonious tone, "sit there." He pointed out an arm-chair before the desk.

"What do you want now?" said H....

"What the favor you have asked from me authorizes me to demand. An arm," said he, "the blows of which cannot be parried. I wish you to sign me a letter of mark or a pass, as you please to call it, which permits those whom you employ to pass without disturbance."

"Beautiful!" said M. H...., with a smile; "now I understand you."

He wrote: "I recognize as a member of my police, employed by me, Monsieur...." He paused, and looked anxiously at the stranger. The latter leaned towards the Chief of Police, and in so low a tone that H.... could scarcely hear him, uttered a name which made the latter drop his pen. He however rallied himself, and wrote down the name. This document he afterwards authenticated by the seal of the police, and gave to the stranger.

"This is well," said the latter, as he received it. "Now be quick, for time presses, and the three persons will in a few hours have left Paris."...

When the man had left, and was alone, an atrocious smile appeared on his lips. This smile, however, was interrupted by an acute pain in his left arm. Then taking the paper which H.... had given him, he placed it on the wound, and said, "This is a cure for a wound I thought incurable--for steel and poison."

FOOTNOTES:

[2] Continued from page 504, vol. iii.

[3] At this time one or the ultra-royalist factions, called _Les Timides_.

From Fraser's Magazine.

A TROT ON THE ISLAND.

BY CHARLES ASTOR BRISTED.

Ashburner did leave Oldport, after all, before the end of the season, being persuaded to accompany a countryman and schoolmate of his (whom he had last seen two years before in Connaught, and who now happened to pass a day at Oldport, on his way Canada-ward from the south) in a trip to the White Mountains of New-Hampshire; though his American acquaintances, especially the ladies, tried hard to dissuade him from starting before the grand fancy ball, with which the season terminated, assuring him that most of "our set" would come back, if only for that one night, and that it would be a very splendid affair, and so forth. Nature had more charms for him than art, and he went away to New Hampshire, making an appointment with Benson by letter to meet him at Ravenswood early in September. But a traveller cannot make sure of his movements a fortnight ahead. On his return from the White Mountains, Ashburner had his pocket picked at a railway station (these little incidents of highly civilized life are beginning to happen now and then in America. The inhabitants repudiate any native agency therein, and attribute them all to the swell-mob emigrants from England), and, in consequence, was obliged to retrace his steps as far as New-York to visit his banker. Almost the first person he ran against in the street was Harry Benson.

"This _is_ an unexpected pleasure!" exclaimed the New-Yorker. "I never thought to see you here, and you, I presume didn't expect to see me." Ashburner explained his mishap. "Well, I meant to go straight over to Ravenswood after the ball, but we had to come home--all of us this time--on business. Lots of French furniture arrived for our town house. Mrs. B. couldn't rest till she had seen it all herself, and had it properly arranged. So here have I been five days, fussing, and paying, and swearing (legally, you understand, not profanely) at the custom-house, and then 'hazing'--what you call slanging upholsterers; and now that the work is all over, I mean to take a little play, and am just going over to see Lady Suffolk and Trustee trot on the island. Come along. It's a beautiful drive of eight miles, and I have a top-wagon. It is to meet me at the Park in a quarter of an hour." Ashburner assented. "I want to buy some cigars; you have no objection to accompany me a moment."

So they turned down one of the cross-streets running out of the lower part of Broadway (which, it may be here mentioned, for the benefit of English readers and writers, is not called _the_ Broadway), and entered a store five or six stories high, with two or three different firms on each floor; and Benson led the way up something between a ladder and a staircase into a small office, with "Bleecker Brothers" dimly visible on a tin plate over the door. Three-fourths of the apartment were filled up with all manner of inviting samples, every wine, liquor, and liqueur under the sun, in every variety of bottle or vial, thick with the dust of years, or open for immediate tasting; and through the dingy panes of a half glass door a multitudinous array of bottles might be seen loading the numerous shelves of a large store-room beyond. In a small clearing at one corner, where a small desk was kept in countenance by a small table, and three or four old chairs, with a background of shelves groaning under the choicest brands of the fragrant weed, sat the presiding deities of the place--the two little Bleeckers--the dark brother of thirty-five, and the light brother of twenty, like two sketches of the same man in chalk and charcoal; both elegantly dressed--white trousers, patent leather shoes, exuberant cravats, massive chains, and all the usual paraphernalia of young New-York--altogether looking as much in place as a couple of butterflies in an ant-hill.

"Good morning, gentlemen," said Benson. "Here's our friend Ashburner," and he pushed forward the Englishman. The brothers rose, laid down the morning journals over which they had been lounging, and welcomed the stranger to their place of business. "What's the news this morning?"

"Nothing at all, I believe," replied the elder. "South Carolina has been threatening to dissolve the Union again--and that's no news. Stay, did you see this about Bishop Hughes and Sam Thunderbolt, the Native American member of Congress from Pennsylvania?"

"I haven't seen even a newspaper for the last three days."

"Well, '+ John of New-York,'--_cross John_, as your brother Carl used to call him--was in the same rail-car with Thunderbolt, coming from Philadelphia to New-York; and the Congressman didn't know who he was, but probably suspected he was a priest."

"Yes, you can generally tell a priest by his looks. Even an intelligent horse will do that. Once I was riding with one of our bishops near Boston, and his nag shied suddenly at a man in a broad-brimmed hat. Says the right reverend (we don't call 'em 'my lord' in this country, you know, Ashburner), 'I shouldn't wonder if that was a Romish priest;' and we looked again, and it was. There was a Protestant horse for you! What a treasure he would have been to an Orangeman!"

"So Thunderbolt began to abuse the Roman Catholics generally, and the priests particularly, and that brawling bigot Johnny Hughes most particularly. Hughes, who is a wary man, polite and self-possessed, sat through it all without saying a word; till another gentleman in the car asked Thunderbolt if he knew who that was opposite him. He didn't know. 'It's Bishop Hughes,' says the other, in a half whisper. 'Are you Bishop Hughes?' exclaims the native, quite off his guard. 'They call me so,' answered the other, with a quiet smile, expecting to enjoy the humiliating confusion of his denouncer; and the other passengers shared in the expectation, and were prepared for a titter at Thunderbolt's expense. But instead of attempting any apology, or showing any further embarrassment, he pulled out an eyeglass, and after looking at the Jesuit through it for some time, thus announced the result of his inspection--'Oh, you are, are you? Well, you're just the kind of looking loafer I should have expected Johnny Hughes to be.'"

"I don't believe Hughes was much disconcerted either," said the elder brother; "he doesn't lose his balance easily. I never heard of his being put out but once, and that was when Governor Bouck met him. He was a jolly old Dutchman, Mr. Ashburner, who used to go about electioneering, and asking every man he came across--how he was, and how his wife and family were. When Bishop Hughes was introduced to him, they thought the governor would know enough to vary the usual question a little; but he didn't, and asked after the Romish bishop's wife and family with all possible innocence; and Hughes, for once in his life, was nonplussed what to answer."

"Ah, but you haven't told the end of that," put in Benson. "When the governor's friends tried to explain to him the mistake he had made, and the category the Romish ecclesiastics were in, he said, 'O yas, I see, I should have asked after de children only, and said nossing about de woman.' As you say, Hughes generally has his wits about him, no doubt. He played our custom-house a trick that they will not forget in a hurry. Soon after General Harrison and the Whigs came in, and Curtis was made collector of our port, there arrived a great lot of what the French call _articles de religion_, robes, crucifixes, and various ornaments, for Hughes' cathedral. Now these were all French goods, and subject to duty, and a notification to that effect was sent to the proper quarter. Down comes Hughes in a great rage. 'Mr. Curtis, Mr. Curtis, we never had to do this before. Your predecessor, Mr. Hoyt, always let our articles of religion in free of duty.' 'Can't help what my predecessor, Mr. Hoyt, used to do,' says Curtis; 'the law is so and so, as I understand it, and these articles are subject to duty. If you like, you may pay the duties under protest, and bring a suit against Uncle Sam[4] to recover the money.' (You see, the Loco Focos had always favored the Romish priests to get the Irish vote. The Whigs didn't in those days--it was before our side had been corrupted by Seward, and such miserable demagogues; and Curtis wasn't sorry to see his political opponent the Bishop in a tight place.) After Hughes had blustered awhile, and found it did no good, he tried the other tack, and began to expostulate. 'Is there no way at all, Mr. Curtis,' says he, 'by which these articles may be passed, free of duty?' 'None at all,' says the other, 'unless'--and he paused, hardly knowing whether it would do to hint at such a thing, even in jest--'unless, bishop, you are willing to swear that these are _tools of your trade_.' 'And sure they are that!' quoth Hughes, snapping him up, 'bring on your book;' and he had the goods sworn through in less than no time, before Curtis could recover himself."

"Not a bad hit," said the Englishman. "Tools of his trade! So they were, sure enough; but one would not have expected him to own it so coolly."

"Unless there was something to be got by it," continued Benson. "Now this is true--every word of it, though it _has_ been in the newspapers; and the way I came to find it out was this. One day I saw in the advertising columns of the _Blunder and Bluster_, a circular from the _Secretary of the Treasury_, stating that 'crucifixes, whether of silver or copper, images, silk and velvet vestments, and theological books, did not come under the head of _tools of trade_, but were subject to duty.' It was a funny looking notice, and there was evidently something behind it; so I took the trouble to inquire, and found that the cause of the order was this clever stroke of Hughes. Going to the trot to-day?"

The younger brother was going, and it was near the time when he expected his wagon. Dicky wasn't. He had given up trots ten years ago--thought them low.

"Give me a few cigars before we go," said Benson. "What have you here that's first rate? Carbagal, Firmezas, Antiguedad. H--m. I'll take a dozen Firmezas, and you may send me the rest of the box."

"Don't you want some champagne--veritable Cordon Bleu--only fourteen dollars a dozen, and a discount if you take six cases?"

"And if you wish to secure some tall Lafitte, we bought some odd bottles at old Van Zandt's sale the other day. You remember drinking that wine at Wilson's last summer?"

Benson remembered it perfectly, and would take the Lafitte by all means. "Put that down, Mr. Snipes;" and for the first time, Ashburner was aware of the clerk--a very young gentleman, who appeared from behind the desk, and booked the order at it. "And how about the champagne?"

"_J'y penserai._ Time to go. _Vamos._" And Benson carried off his friend.

"You were a little taken aback, weren't you?" he asked, as they went in quest of the wagon. "When you saw these men figuring in the German cotillion, and helping to lead the fashion at Oldport, you hardly expected to encounter them in such a place. Well, now, let me tell you something that will astonish you yet more. So far from its being against these brothers in society that they are, what you would call in plain English a superior order of grocers, it is positively in their favor; that is to say, they are more respected, better received, and stand a better chance of marrying well, than if they did nothing. They might do nothing if they chose. They had enough to live very well on _en garcon_. The Bleeckers are of our best known and most thoroughly respectable families. The sons had no taste for books; they have a very good taste for wine and cigars, and have undertaken what they are best fit for. It's better than being nominal lawyers?"

"Pecuniarily, no doubt; but is it as good for the whole development of the man? Was it you, or your friend Harrison, who instanced Richard Bleecker as a man who had made no progress in any thing manly for fifteen years?"

"That is the fault of his natural disposition, which would not be bettered by his making believe to be a professional man, or being an avowedly idle one. He is frivolous and ornamental for a part of his time--during the rest, he has his business to occupy him. If he had not that, he would spend all his time in elegant idleness, and know no more than he does now. His pursuits bring him in money, which will be a comfort to his wife and family when he marries--though, to be sure, he is rather ancient for that; a single man at thirty-five is with us a confirmed old bachelor. But his brother is in a fair way to form a nice establishment."

"Now tell me another thing. Suppose the Bleeckers had chosen to become jewellers, or merchant tailors--they might be good judges of either business, and make money by it--how would that affect their position?"

"Unfavorably, I confess," replied Benson. "But we Gothamites have so thorough a respect for, and appreciation of, good wine and cigars, that the importation of them is considered particularly laudable."

Any further discussion was stopped by their arrival at that dreary triangular square (_more hibernico loqui_) called the Park, where Benson's wagon awaited him--not the red-wheeled one; this vehicle was of a uniform dark green, furnished with a top (a desirable appendage when the thermometer stands 85 deg. in the shade,) and lined throughout with drab. The ponies were carefully enveloped to the very tips of their ears in white fly-nets. As the groom saw Benson approaching, he put himself and the top through a series of queer evolutions, which ended in the latter being lowered--a very necessary operation, to allow any one to get in with comfort; and after Benson and Ashburner were in, he put it up again with some ado, and then went his way, the concern only holding two. Then Benson turned the wagon round by backing and locking, and making it undergo a series of contortions as if he wanted to double it up into itself, and run over himself with his own wheels, and drove to the Fulton Ferry; for to arrive at the Centreville Course on Long Island--familiarly designated as _the_ island--you first pass through Brooklyn, that trans-Hudsonian suburb of New York, which thirty years ago was a miserable little village, and now contains upwards of ninety thousand inhabitants.

"And how did the ball go off?" asked Ashburner, as they rolled up the main avenue of Brooklyn, at the slowest possible trot, according to the well known rule, always to take a fast horse easy over pavement. On board the ferry-boat there had not been much conversation, the horses being so worried by the flies as to require all Benson's attention.