Chapter X: Part II: I. Clouds in the Horizon (1)

A month had rolled by since the Carbonari had met at the house of Von Apsberg. They were as prudent as possible. There was no meeting of the members of this vast society, yet such were the advantages of its mechanism, that communication and intercourse was never interrupted for a day. All action emanated from the high _venta_, which was known only to the presidents of the seven central ventas, through whom its instructions were communicated by means of _agents_ to the secondary ventas; a few men where thus enabled to discipline ten thousand. Count Monte-Leone was the soul of all this enterprise, and on him all the threads of this huge net united. The Count, the invisible providence of this invisible world, alone could give it external life and utter the _fiat lux_ of eternity. More pleasant and delightful ideas had possession of the Count. The future occupied him with a force and intensity he thought most contradictory to his political duties. Since Aminta had unveiled her heart to him, she had, as it were, returned to her usual bearing. The life of Monte-Leone, though, was entirely changed. The happiness he had long desired was about to dawn on him. In a few months he would be the husband of that Aminta he had so much loved and so regretted. The Count was received almost as a son by the Prince, and as a husband by Aminta. Taddeo looked on him entirely as a brother, and began to realize the happiest dream of his life--the marriage he had so desired. Gladly availing himself of the liberty accorded him, of coming familiarly to the hotel of the Prince de Maulear, the Count was perfectly happy. He passed the whole day there, and when night came mingled most unwillingly with society. The order of expulsion which he had received, and which had been so mysteriously revoked, added to the interest which had been entertained for him by all Paris. The opposition was especially attentive to him, for he was esteemed a decided enemy of the French Government, and of all monarchies. This ostracism which he had escaped, attracted the attention to him, for which the people of Paris were already prepared, by the history of his Neapolitan adventures. In 1850 he would have been called the lion of the day, and the greatest curiosity would have been paid to all his adventures. So great was the attention excited by the account of Monte-Leone's loss of fortune, that people were surprised to see him resume his usual mode of life, keep possession of his hotel, indulge in the same expenses of carriages, attendants, etc. He altered nothing, not even the luxury of his house, from what had been its condition before the papers and he himself had announced that the failure of Lamberti made him entirely poor, and forced him to sell his diamonds and other personal property to be able to live, as cheaply as possible.

The Count, who had been forced to conceal the manner in which his property had been restored, told his friends, Taddeo, d'Harcourt and Von Apsberg, that certain important funds had been recovered from the general wreck; and they, delighted with his good fortune, did not fail to congratulate him. The world was more curious; the enemies of the Count especially, who were ultra-monarchists, were numerous, active, and malicious. They wrote to Naples, and ascertained that the ruin of Monte-Leone was total, acquiring also certainty that he had no funds in any European bank, and no property. They therefore made an outcry of astonishment when they saw all the external appearance of opulence in the possession of one they knew without the means of so splendid and imposing an establishment. The Count knew nothing of this, and continued his old life. It is, all know, true that rumors of this kind reach their object last of all, when they are calculated to be injurious.

One of the dominant ideas which actuated us in the preparation of this history, we can here dwell upon, and we ask leave to do so briefly. There exists in French society, polished and elegant as it is, a hideous monster known to all, though no one disturbs it. Its ravages are great; almost incalculable. It saps reputations, poisons, dishonors, and defiles the splendor of the most estimable fame. This minotaurus, which devours so many innocent persons, is especially fearful, because its blows are terrible. It presents itself under the mildest and gentlest forms, and is received every where in the city. We find it in our rooms, in the interior of our families, in the palaces of the opulent, and the garrets of the poor. It has no name, being a mere figure of speech, a very word. It is composed of but one phrase, and is called--THEY SAY. "Do you know such a one?" is often asked, and the person is pointed out.

"_No_; but they say his morals are very bad. He has had strange adventures, and his family is very unhappy."

"Are you sure?"

"No, I know nothing about it. But they say so."

"This young woman, so beautiful, so brilliant, so much admired--Do you know her?"

"No. _They say_ that it is not difficult to please her, and that more than one has done so."

"But she appears so decent, so reserved."

"Certainly; but _they say_----"

"Do not trust that gentleman who has such credit and is thought so rich. Be on your guard--"

"Bah! his fortune is immense: see what an establishment he has."

"Yes! But _they say_ he is very much involved."

"Do you know the fact?"

"Not I. _They say_ though--"

This _they say_ is heard in every relation of life. It is deadly mortal, and not to be grasped. It goes hither and thither, strikes and kills manly honor, female virtue, without either sex being ever conscious of the injury done. Each as he reads these lines will remember cases illustrating the truth of what we say. The Count suffered from the influence of the evil we mention; and as all were ignorant whence his fortune came, each one adopted a thousand conjectures and suspicions, which, as is always the case, were most malicious. This is the way of the world. Now the consequences of this _they say_ are plain. By its means they had dared to attack a reputation which hitherto had been considered unassailable. This _they say_ came in the end. The Marquise de Maulear was the only person who knew whence came the resources of Monte-Leone; and after he had confided to her, the charming woman had said, "It was very wrong in you not to tell me previously of your good fortune. For instance, when I thought you a fugitive and ruined, I suffered you to read my heart. Had you told me this before, you would not have seen within it."

"Do not make me regret my misery which procured me such exquisite pleasure as knowing that you loved me."

In the long and pleasant conversations of the Count and Marquise, he was frequently embarrassed in relation to the duties imposed on him as chief of the _Carbonari_. Aminta never dared to speak to him in relation to that subject, though she was more anxious about it. On this point alone the Count was impenetrable, avoiding with care all that related to his political plans, and giving the Marquise no information about them.

One day Aminta, the Prince de Maulear, the Countess of Grandmesnil, and Taddeo, were in the drawing-room. The Countess did not love the young Marquise, whom she looked on as the indirect cause of her nephew's death. Neither did she love the Count, whose attentions to Aminta were by no means to her taste. The old lady was aware of Monte-Leone's opinions, and lost no opportunity to open all her batteries on liberals, jacobins and foreigners, who sought to make France the receptacle of the trouble and contests of which it had already drank so deeply. The Countess said--

"You know the news, brother?" The Prince de Maulear was then playing a game of chess with Monte-Leone. "We have now, thank God and M. Angles, one miserable Jacobin the less to deal with."

"Check to your king!" said the Prince to Monte-Leone.

"To be sure," said she, following out the tenor of her own thoughts, "it would be check to the King, if the opinions of those persons were to triumph. M. Angles, however, watches over them and us."

For an instant the Count neglected his game. He as well as Taddeo heard what she had said, and both seemed anxious to hear her out.

"May I venture to inquire, Countess," said the Count, holding his piece in his hand, and hesitating to place it on the board, "who is the terrible Jacobin from whom the world is delivered?"

"One of the most dangerous alive, Count," said the old lady, with an air of triumph. "The man, it is said, had his connections established through the whole army."

"Check to your king," said the Prince, who was weary of the delay.

"True," said the Count, with visible abstraction; and he played his game so badly that the Prince won it without difficulty. The latter said:

"Check-mate--victory--victory!"

"Yes, brother," said the Countess, "a great victory. For the Jacobin is a general. General B----, one of those vile Buonapartists, to whom, at a time like this, a regiment should never have been trusted."

The Count and Taddeo grew pale when they heard the General's name. He was one of the seven chiefs of ventas at the house of Von Apsberg.

"Why was the General arrested?" said the Prince.

"Oh, some plot. The Jacobins and Buonapartists are always at that business. The details are not yet known. It is certain, however, that he was arrested this morning at his hotel. I heard so at the Duchess de Feltre's, whom I visited to-day."

"Strange!" said the Prince; "on the day before yesterday he gave a ball. Were you not there, Count?" said he to Monte-Leone.

"Yes," said the Count; "I was one of the last to leave. It was then two o'clock in the morning."

"At noon his generalship was in the Conciergerie. A bad business for him, for the government has decided to use the greatest severity against all conspirators. Happily, the police is very expert, and it is said of every three conspirators one is a spy. A thing very satisfactory to society, but decidedly unfortunate for the plotters."

"I think," said the Count, indignantly, "that the conspirators are calumniated. They are bound by such oaths, and are so devoted to their opinions, that there can be but few traitors among them."

"My dear Count," said the Prince, "the spirit of Monte-Leone of Castle del Uovo is yet visible, and you do not seem to have recovered from your old disease. When you speak of conspirators you seem to defend your friends. I hope, however, for your sake, and for the sake of those who love you," said he, pointing to Aminta, "that you have renounced for ever your old enterprises. His Majesty, Louis XVIII., the other day spoke highly of you, relying much on your devotion, and he cannot have to do with an ingrate."

"Ah!" said Taddeo, with stupefaction, as he looked at his associate, "the King of France relies on the devotion of Monte-Leone!"

"I know not why," said the Count, not a little moved by this _brevet_ of royalism. "I confess, though, that I shall be surprised to give any chagrin or uneasiness to my friends."

These words were in a manner wrung from the Count by the paleness and agitation of Aminta since the commencement of the conversation. This new declaration increased Taddeo's surprise.

"Well, well," said the Prince, "there is pardon for every sin. We know, and we look on you as a wandering sheep returned to the fold. See, however, what are the consequences of a bad reputation. An insurrection breaks out in Italy, and you are at once thought to be its accomplice in France. You are about to be expelled from the country and treated as an enemy, when we acquire a certainty. What do I say? when the King of France and his ministers swear by you alone!"

This series of praises in relation to his royalty evidently increased the bad humor of the Count, as well as the astonishment of Taddeo. Monte-Leone was about to reply, even though he destroyed his influence with the Prince and Marquise. He was about to repel the fanciful compliments to his loyalty, when the Countess of Grandmesnil folded up her work. This was the usual signal for dispersion, and all were about to leave, when the Marquise said to Monte-Leone, "Count, will you remain here a few moments? I wish to speak to you of the charity in which you were kind enough to unite with me."

The Count went anxiously to Aminta's side.

The Prince said, with a smile, "No one ever refuses to speak with a pretty woman. That is even the weak side of our ministers. Talk, then, with my daughter-in-law, and neither the Countess nor I will trouble you." He then took the Countess's arm, and led her from the room. Taddeo remained, for his interest with the Count was too grave to permit him to leave thus. Aminta said but a few words to Monte-Leone. The deep emotion of the young woman, however, gave them a serious character. "Listen," said she. "I do not know what is about to happen, but your agitation, and that of Taddeo, when the Countess spoke of General B----, did not escape me. A painful presentiment assures me that you are involved in some secret plot, and that new dangers menace you. In the name of all that is dear to you, in the name of your love to me, I conjure you to abandon those ideas, or I shall die of terror and despair." She then, without speaking a word more, kissed her brother, and retired. The Count stood as if he were struck with a thunderbolt. Taddeo took his hand, and said, "Come, come," wresting the Count from the painful thoughts Aminta had called up. "Come, the arrest of General B---- may ruin all." They entered Monte-Leone's carriage, and drove to the Duke d'Harcourt. They hoped to find the Vicomte, and take him to Matheus, for the opinion of each of the four was necessary in considering the best means of warding off the peril which menaced the association. D'Harcourt was in, but Monte-Leone and Taddeo had not expected the spectacle which awaited them. The Vicomte had one of those sudden attacks, forerunners of the cruel disease which had devastated his family. The pleasures of the winter, in which the imprudent young man madly indulged, and perhaps also the cares and anxieties of his political relations, the nocturnal ventas he was often obliged to attend, had severely shaken his already feeble health, and caused a cough, every utterance of which sounded to his father like a funeral knell. The Count and Taddeo found him in bed. Von Apsberg was by his side, and opposite the doctor was the charming Marie, glancing alternately from the doctor to the patient. The Duke leaned on the fireplace, and gently scolded Rene for his folly and imprudence. The arrival of the two friends produced a cessation to this, but the Duke continued: "Come, gentlemen, and assist me to produce some effect on your friend; for, unassisted, even I cannot. Tell him that such an exposure of his life, in folly and dissipation, is a double crime, when his health is so dear to an old man who has no other son." Tears came into the Duke's eyes as he spoke, which Marie kissed away.

"Now, Rene," said she, "you see how unhappy you make us all. Promise, then, to be more reasonable."

"Father," said Rene, giving the Duke his hand, "I will promise you to do the impossible thing, to be prudent. Besides, you have a powerful auxiliary in my friend Monte-Leone, who has committed not a few follies in his time. He has however begun a new life, and will soon be entirely converted by Hymen."

"What," said Marie, "is the Count about to be married?"

"Mademoiselle," said the Count, "your brother is indiscreet, and you can never take half that he says as literal."

"Then," said Marie, "you are in love--that is about the half of his statement." And Marie blushed.

Von Apsberg said, as he remarked the embarrassment of the young girl, "Our patient needs the warmth and mildness of the south. Magnetism with the Vicomte will be powerless, and he must avoid cold and dampness. He must also be prudent, and that is the greatest difficulty. I however rely on his promise and his devotion to us. Adieu, Messieurs," said he, bowing to Taddeo and Monte-Leone. "Do not make him talk, or suffer him to sit up too long." The Duke left, accompanied by Marie, whose last look seemed to recommend her brother to the doctor. Perhaps, though, this glance had another signification, for the eyes of young women mean a great deal. As soon as the four associates were alone, the Count told Matheus of the arrest.

Von Apsberg thought: "The General cannot be in danger. Only one evidence of his participation could have been found, and that Monte-Leone gave me on the day before yesterday. I am sure I placed it in the secret drawer of my laboratory, the key of which I alone keep."

"What proof do you mean?" asked d'Harcourt, whose memory was troubled by illness.

"A proof," said Monte-Leone, "which would be overwhelming in the case of the General and a number of our brethren--the roll of the venta over which he presides. This roll he has signed. He gave it to me at two in the morning of the day before yesterday, and I gave it to Von Apsberg on the next day."

"Then it matters not. Though the General has been arrested, the mystery of ventas has not been penetrated. I am assured that skilful and incessant espionage hovers around us, and the time for action should be no longer delayed."

"But," said the Count, to whom this idea recalled what the Marquise had said, "we should not raise a flag we cannot defend. The forces the General controlled are indispensable to our success."

"To replace soldiers," said Von Apsberg, "we shall have opinion on our side. Our various ventas will be valiant soldiers, and will be encouraged when they see themselves so much more numerous than they expect."

"Do not let us be hasty," said Monte-Leone. "The six chiefs of the principal ventas, like the brave General, must give me the lists of ventas, and only when we are sure of their number will we act."

His three friends then adopted Monte-Leone's opinion, and they separated, mutually recommending prudence to each other. There remained, however, a species of surprise, and an injurious impression in relation to Monte-Leone's hesitation. He had usually been the most decided of the four.

When Von Apsberg returned home, he went to his laboratory, and opened the bureau in which the papers of the association were kept. He satisfied himself that the lists of the various ventas were safe. He breathed freely and slept soundly, without any trouble on account of the arrest of the General. On the next day, however, a letter, hastily written with a pencil, was brought him by a man who at once disappeared. It was from General A----, and was as follows:

"The list of our associates, certified by myself, is in the possession of the prefect of police. I saw it myself, and I am ruined."

Von Apsberg uttered a cry of terror. He was utterly confounded.

II.--THEY SAY.

The arrest of General A---- produced a double effect in Paris. The city began to have confidence in the vigilant police, which sought for and arrested the enemies of order every where and in every rank, while the chiefs of the great association of Carbonarism trembled when they saw the government on the track of their plans and projects. They then asked on all sides what could have been the motive of the incarceration of the General, and how they had discovered the criminal, or rather the criminals, for the principal associates of the _venta_ over which the General presided, were arrested after their chief. Still other arrests were subsequently made. Nothing, however, transpired, either in relation to the offence of which the General was accused, or the secret means by which the police had acquired information of them. The police acted prudently and with great skill, for the General and his associates were but a small part of an immense plot. Time and secret service alone would give the government a clue to follow all the secret labyrinths of this vast plot, which menaced France and Europe. A conspiracy and military plot was talked of, and the trial of the affair was understood to be postponed until time should throw more light on the matter. The authorities were not in a hurry, they needed other aims, and waited patiently to procure them. Thus passed a month; and as in Paris every thing is soon forgotten, people paid no attention to General A---- and his imprisonment. Public attention, however, was reattracted to this mysterious affair. The entertainments, concerts, and receptions of the court, made the city joyous. The gold of countless visitors from foreign nations gave activity to commerce, and there was an universal spirit of rivalry in luxury and opulence. Then the Duchess de Berri gave those charming balls, of which those who were admitted even now talk of.

The mystery of the note written to Von Apsberg by General A----, in which he assured him he had seen the list of the venta, he had himself certified to in the hands of the prefect of police, remained impenetrable to the supreme _venta_, for Von Apsberg had the list the Count had given him. The General was in close confinement, and no intercourse could be had with him. The six other chiefs of the ventas were ignorant of this incident of the arrest of their confederate. The four brothers of the central venta had resolved not to suffer the circumstance to transpire, because the Count fancied this circumstance would chill their zeal, and make them uneasy about the new lists. On these lists, as we have said, the decision of the time of action was made to depend, as it would reveal to the four chiefs the exact number of their confederates in Paris. According to the statutes of carbonarism, the signatures of the brethren were sacred engagements, which made it indispensable for them to give their aid to the undertaking when the hour and day should be appointed. The lists were, then, a kind of declaration of war against the government, in which they must either conquer or die. This is the prudence of all bad causes. Persons thus involved have no confidence that their associates will keep their oaths, and put remorse and repentance out of the question by allowing no alternative between ruin and safety. The Vicomte d'Harcourt, but slightly recovered from his indisposition, seldom left his father's house, and participated but slightly in the pleasures of the season. Taddeo, whose devotion to the Neapolitan ambassadress constantly increased, visited her every day, and went nowhere else. Though aware that she was constantly anxious to speak of the Count, he did not despair of being able some day to touch her heart. So great were his attentions, that in society he was looked on as the _cicisbeo_ of the Duchess. The Duke of Palma, devoted to his opera-loves, seemed not at all offended at the frequent visits of Taddeo Rovero, whose attentions did not at all shock his Italian ideas. Von Apsberg lived more retired than ever, and rarely left his laboratory except when he went to the Duke d'Harcourt's. There the intelligent doctor was kindly received by all the family, Marie included, and his fair patient's health seemed visibly to improve, as those flowers which have been too long neglected always do when attended to by a skilful horticulturist. Monte-Leone devoted to the society of Paris, of which he was passionately fond, all the hours which he passed away from the Marquise. This, however, was a duty, for there only could he meet the Carbonari who belonged to the upper class without giving rise to suspicion. The trial of General A---- was soon to take place, and the preparations for it had already been begun. Revelations or anxious inquiries might destroy the association. Concert was required to avoid this, and Count Monte-Leone gave this information to MM. C----, the lawyer B----, the baron de Ch----, the banker F----, and the rich merchant Ober, who was perhaps from his extended commercial relations, the most important of the Carbonari.

A great dinner was given by the banker F---- to enable the chiefs to confer with Monte-Leone. But in addition to these personages, and in order that public attention should not be fixed on them alone, F---- had invited the _elite_ of the capital, several peers of France, some illustrious soldiers, many deputies, and several women famous for their rank and beauty. Insensibly conversation assumed a political tone, as at that time every thing did. Monte-Leone, whom the abuses of the French government and the _camarilla_ of the Tuilleries made most indignant, gave vent to his opinions and complained bitterly of the acts of the ministry. He compassionated the people, whose liberties were being swept away, and reprobated the censorship of the liberty of the press and of freedom of speech--the only resource of the oppressed and the only means of reaching the oppressors. The master of the house, M. F----, agreed with the Count in the liberal opinions he had expressed. Led on by the example, B---- and C---- testified their sympathy with what the Count had said, and their wish to see a change in the fortune of a country where the institutions satisfied neither the wants nor the rights of the oppressed. This discussion, which had been provoked by the Count, was so bold and so decided that many of the guests looked on with terror, fearing they would be compromised by the expression of such revolutionary ideas. Just then many of the guests of M. F----, taking him aside from the table, asked anxiously if he was satisfied of the discretion of all the persons present, and also of their honor. M. F---- energetically repelled such fears, saying: "The people whom I receive are not all friends of the government. Nothing, however, said here will be repeated, for the minister of police has no representative at my table." The words of their host in a degree satisfied some of the most timid. It was then said openly that amid the most eminent persons met with in society were found individuals in the secret pay of M. Angles, and that many ruined and extravagant nobleman did not hesitate to exist in this manner. People said that in the drawing-room of M. F---- Monte-Leone had determined to defy the government, and they looked on his conduct under existing circumstances as most imprudent.

During the evening, and when all were engaged, the chiefs of _ventas_ took occasion, one by one, to isolate themselves from company and gave the Count the rolls. It was then agreed, also, that the last of these documents being complete, notice should be given without delay, and during the trial of the General, of the day for the commencement of the insurrectionary movement by which Carbonarism was to be revealed to France and to Europe. The terrible plan, however, was foiled by various events which attacked the society unexpectedly.

Four days after the dinner of M. F----, he, the lawyer B----, the baron Ch----, who had taken so decided a part in the discussion provoked by Monte-Leone, and who, on that very evening, had given him the fatal lists of his associates, were arrested. The first was taken in his office, the second just as he left his cabinet, and the third on his way to the opera. The capital was amazed at this news. All the other guests of F---- began to examine their consciences, and sought to recall whether or not they had given utterance to any governmental heresy at the fatal dinner, and whether they had not uttered something rash. They were doubtful if any opinion at all might not expose them to the resentment and vigilance of an adroit and secret police. It seemed beyond a doubt that the remarks of the persons who had been arrested had provoked this rigorous action, and that some ear in the pay of the police had heard their dangerous conversation, and noted the violent expression of their opinions. The conduct of all the guests was then passed in review, and the public and private life of each examined. Their domestic history and life were inquired into, and their weak points, habits, errors, and tastes, were scrutinized.

No rank, family, sex, or social position, was neglected, and not even intrigues, life, nor money, were considered sufficient to shield the informer. All were anxious to tear away the mask from the common enemy, to crush the serpent, who, sliding stealthily into society, gnawed its very heart and lacerated that bosom which sheltered it.

The arrest of General A---- then recurred to the memory of all. This event had taken place after a ball which the General had given. It was after an entertainment given by F---- that he, too, had lost his liberty. On this occasion two other important men had shared the fate of the rich banker, and, like him, they had both been energetic, violent, and pitiless denouncers of a ministry which defied public opinion and outraged the nation. People then remembered that Count Monte-Leone had provoked the conversation--that he had gone farther than any one else on the dangerous ground--and that his daring had surpassed that of the master of the house and his guests. All expected he would be arrested also. This fear was especially well founded, as Monte-Leone concealed neither his liberal opinions nor his revolutionary doctrines, and in fact every thing in his previous conduct pointed him out as one of the persons to whom the attention of the police would especially be directed. People were, therefore, amazed to see Monte-Leone preserve his liberty, and that one of the four speakers who had been most imprudent enjoyed entire impunity. Astonishment, however, was not all, for strange reports were soon circulated, and rumors were heard in every direction. The impunity of the Count became the universal subject of conversation. His private life was taken in hand, and his whole career, as it were, extended on the anatomical table of moral anatomy. The scalpel of public opinion, it is well known, pitilessly dissects every subject it wishes thoroughly to understand. The THEY SAY, that terrible creature to which we have already referred, began to play its part. It was heard every where. "THEY SAY Count Monte-Leone cannot be a stranger to what is passing. He was seen to talk to General A---- on the night of the ball for a long time."

"What! Count Monte-Leone?--a man of his rank?"

"Ah, these Italian noblemen are all suspicious."

"He--a liberal--a revolutionist!"

"Listen to me. People often change their opinions in this world, especially when fortune disappears, and want of money and care supervene. _They say_ he is completely ruined, yet he is still very luxurious in his mode of life."

"True--that is strange."

"Oh, no, not at all. _They say_ the strong box of the police enables him to maintain his style."

"That may be."

"_They say_, also, that the order to leave France given by the minister was but a trick to divert suspicion and keep him here usefully."

"Do you think so? Then he is a villain, and should be avoided. He is a----"

"Oh, I know nothing of it--but _they say_ so."

_They_ did say so, but when that awful rumor was first pronounced _they_ did not. These words were produced by the terror which the events of the day produced on the mind of every friend, even of the three imprisoned Carbonari. Perhaps some malevolent spirit disseminated them. This rumor was circulated from house to house, like a drop of oil, which though first scarcely perceptible, sullies the fairest fabrics utterly. A trifling fault is thus made to do the part of an atrocious crime. At first the rumor was whispered. It then grew bolder, and finally fortified itself by a thousand corroborations furnished by chance or gossip. Every person who detailed it added to its incidents and arguments. Within one month after the dinner all Paris heard of the terrible offence against society attributed to Count Monte-Leone. As is always the case, however, the three friends of the Count were the last to hear of this slander. Every one who was aware of their intimacy took care not to speak to them of the rumor, for no one wished to involve himself by repeating a story entirely unsubstantiated, and the origin of which was unknown. The consequence was that the three persons who could have refuted the calumny were entirely ignorant of the stigma attached to their friend. Monte-Leone had no more suspicion than his friends had in relation to the horrible fable.

The other chiefs of the principal ventas, who might have told him what was said, terrified at the fate of their associates, lived apart, refused to see any one, and thus heard none of the imputations against the high-priest of Carbonarism. Then commenced a series of mistakes, surprises, and mortifications, in which Monte-Leone would see no insult. His life, however, became an enigma, the explanation of which he could not divine. Certain rooms under various pretexts were closed to him. Often persons who once had been most anxious to secure his attendance at their entertainments pretended to forget him. The world did not dare, however, to brave an enemy whose secret power it was ignorant of, but it exhibited a certain coldness and oblivion which deeply wounded him. His most intimate acquaintances avoided him with studied care, and when they accepted his hand did so with a marked expression of annoyance. An immense void existed around him. His hotel was a solitude, and the houses of others were shut to him. The Count at first thought he found a motive for this in the apprehension all entertained of his affiliation with some secret association. When he saw that the police paid no attention to him, he was compelled to seek some other reason for his public proscription. What this cause was he did not divine and could not ask, for a position of this kind is such that an honorable man thinks it beneath him to ask for an explanation of merely natural occurrences. Wounded, disgusted, and grieved by the strange existence created for him, Monte-Leone felt himself at once a prey to the distrust which ostracism of this kind creates in the bosom of all who are subject to it. The world thought that by avoiding society Count Monte-Leone confessed the justice of its allegations. He became every day more attentive to the charming woman he adored, and who only waited the time when the proprieties of society would permit her to make him her husband. In her affection he found a consolation for all the external chagrin which annoyed him, for a mute terror had taken possession of the Carbonari since the occurrence of the many arrests, the motives of which were as yet wrapped in such impenetrable mystery. An event which was altogether unexpected made his position yet more complicated. He was one evening in one of the few houses to which he was yet invited. This was the house of M. L----, where the Marquis de Maulear had lost such immense sums to the Englishman who subsequently ruined him. M. L----, either more prudent or circumspect than others, had not listened to the reports which were circulated about Monte-Leone, and had invited him to his magnificent hotel in the Rue d'Antin.

Monte-Leone had avoided the crowd, and walked down the long avenue of exotic flowers and camelias, then almost unknown in Paris. He came upon a boudoir where several men were speaking. The Count was about to go back, when his name struck on his ear. "Yes, gentlemen," said one of the speakers, in a most indignant tone, "you may well be astonished at my presence here, while my family is in tears, and my prospects blasted and made desperate. Only eight days since I came to Paris, and am here to find Count Monte-Leone, my challenge to whom, to deliver which I have sought him every where, should be as solemn as the vengeance I will exact."

No sooner had the Count heard these words than he rushed into the boudoir, and stood face to face with the speaker, who was a young man of twenty-eight or thirty, wearing the uniform of the royal navy. His countenance was mild and noble, but bore an expression of perfect fury when he saw Monte-Leone.

"Monsieur," said the Count, "you will not have to look farther for the person of whom you have dared to speak thus. I am thankful that I am here to spare you farther trouble in looking for me, though why you do so I cannot conceive."

"He was listening to us," said the young man to his friends, in a tone of the deepest contempt. "Well, after all, that is right enough."

"Chance," said the Count, resuming his _sang-froid_ and control over himself, which he always maintained in such emergencies, "led me within sound of your voice. You and I also should be glad that this is the case, for it seems to me a ball is a bad place for such an explanation as you seem to wish."

"All places are good," said the naval officer, in a most insolent tone, "to tell you what I think of you. To repeat to you the epithet you have overheard, and which I am willing yet again to declare to all in these rooms."

"Sir," said Monte-Leone, with the same calmness, "will you tell me first to whom I speak?"

"My name is A----, and I am a lieutenant of the royal navy. My father is the person whom your infamous denunciations have caused to be imprisoned in the Conciergerie!"

"What!" said the Count, "are you the son of General A----?"

"What influences me I cannot and will not tell you; for then it would be out of the question for me to meet you."

"Gentlemen," said the Count, speaking to those who witnessed this scene, to which the attention of many others had now been called, "this young man is mad. I, more than any person, have pitied his father, and I wish to give General A---- a new proof of my sympathy, by granting his son a delay until to-morrow, to enable him to repair the incredible injury he has done me. Here is my card," said he, placing it on a table, "and I shall wait until to-morrow for an explanation of the unintelligible conduct of Lieutenant A----."

As soon as the Count had finished he left the boudoir, and the Lieutenant's friends kept possession of him, taking him out of the hotel. On the next day Monte-Leone received the following note:

"COUNT--Instead of making an apology to you, I maintain all I said. You are a coward and a scoundrel, and you know why. I repeat, that if my voice articulated or my hand traced, why I speak thus, it would be impossible for me to kill you and avenge myself. Do not therefore ask me to make an explanation of what you know perfectly well. If you are unmoved by what I now say, and if I do not bring you out, I will have recourse to other means. I will await you and your witnesses to-day at two o'clock, at the _bois de Bologne_, behind Longchamp. I have selected this hour in order that I might previously see my father.

"GUSTAVE A----,

"Lieutenant, Royal Navy."

"All hell is let loose against me," said the Count, as he perused this letter. "Why can I not penetrate the awful mystery which enshrouds me!"

Taking a pen, he wrote the following words, which he gave to the bearer of the challenge:

"I will be at the _bois de Bologne_ at two o'clock."

FOOTNOTES:

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

Continued from page 54.

[8] _Anglice._ Only the first step is troublesome.--TR.

From Fraser's Magazine.

POULAILLER, THE ROBBER.

Cartouche had been arrested, tried, condemned, and executed, some seven or eight years, and no longer occupied the attention of the good people of Paris, to whom his almost melodramatic life and death had afforded a most interesting and enduring topic. They were languishing, like the Athenians of old, for something new, when there arose a rumor that another robber, more dexterous, more audacious, more extraordinary, ay, and more cruel than Cartouche, was roaming about the streets of their city. What was his name? whence did he come? were questions in the mouth of every one, as each of his numerous daring acts was made public,--questions which no one could answer.

In vain was every arm of the police put in requisition--crime after crime was committed with impunity, and terror reigned supreme.

At last the criminal himself disdained concealment, and all Paris--nay, a considerable portion of Europe--trembled at the name of POULAILLER.

He appeared about the year 1730, and astonished the world by deeds, some of them so shocking, and at the same time so wonderful, that they gave some color to the belief of many that he was aided by supernatural agency.

This belief was supported by a history of the circumstances attending his birth.

There lived in a village on the coast of Brittany a man, poor but of good repute, and well beloved by his neighbors,--an intrepid mariner, but poor as Job himself when his friends came to comfort him. A robust and well-knit frame, combined with a fine frank countenance, well bronzed by the sea-breezes, was looked on favorably by all, and by none more than by the young lasses whose furtive glances rested with pleasure on the manly form and gallant bearing of Jacques Poulailler.

His strength was prodigious, and his temerity upon the ocean incredible.

Such qualities are appreciated in every country; and among the beauties of the village, one remarkable for her superiority in wealth, as well as natural gifts, was attracted by them, and Jacques Poulailler had the good fortune to find favor in the eyes of her who was known in her little world as _La belle Isabeau Colomblet_.

At no great distance from this maritime village, on the crest of a rock lashed by the waves, which at high tides was perfectly insulated, dwelt a personage of whose origin every one was ignorant. The building where he had established himself had long been of evil fame throughout the country, and was only known as _La Tour Maudite_. The firesides resounded with tales of terror enacted in this lonely and ominous theatre. Fiends, in the olden time had made it their abode, as was currently reported and believed. From that time, it was asserted that no human being could dwell there without having previously entered into a compact with the evil one. The isolation of the place, the continued agitation of the waves at its base, the howlings of the wind around its frowning battlements, the traces of the thunderbolts that from time to time had blackened and almost charred its walls, the absence of bush or tree, or any thing in the shape of blossom or verdure--for neither wall-flower nor even moss would grow there--had produced their effect on the superstitious spirit of the neighbors, and the accursed place had remained untenanted by any thing earthly for forty or fifty years.

One gloomy day, however, a man was seen prowling about the vicinity. He came and went over the sands, and, just as a storm was rising, he threw himself into a boat, gained the offing, and disappeared.

Every one believed that he was lost; but next morning there he was. Surprised at this, the neighbors began to inquire who he could be; and at last learned that he had bought the tower of the proprietor, and had come to dwell there. This was all the information that their restless curiosity could obtain. Whence did he come, and what had he done? In vain were these questions asked. All were querists, and none found a respondent. Two or three years elapsed before his name transpired. At last it was discovered, nobody knew how, that his name was Roussart.

He appeared to be a man above six feet in height, strongly built, and apparently about thirty years of age. His countenance was all but handsome, and very expressive. His conduct was orderly, and without reproach, and, proving himself to be an experienced fisherman, he became of importance in that country.

No one was more weatherwise than Roussart, and no one turned his foreknowledge to such good account. He had been seen frequently to keep the sea in such fearful tempests, that all agreed that he must have been food for fishes if he had not entered into some agreement with Satan. When the stoutest hearts quailed, and ordinary men considered it suicidal to venture out, Roussart was to be seen braving the tumult of winds and waves, and always returned to the harbor safe and sound.

People began to talk about this, and shook their heads ominously. Little cared Roussart for their words or gestures; but he was the only one in the commune who never went to church. The cure at last gave out that he was excommunicated; and from that time his neighbors broke off all communication with him.

Things had arrived at this point, when it was rumored that the gallant fisherman, Jacques Poulailler, had touched the heart of _La belle Isabeau_. Soon their approaching marriage became the topic of the village; and, finally, one Sunday, after mass, the bans were first published by the vicar. The lads of the village, congregated on the shore, were congratulating Poulailler on the auspicious event, when Roussart suddenly appeared among them.

His presence was a surprise. He had always avoided the village meetings as much as others had sought them; and this sudden change in his habits gave a new impulse to curiosity.

The stranger appeared to seek some one with his eyes, and presently walked straight up to the happy Jacques, who, intoxicated with joy, was giving and receiving innumerable shakes of the hand.

"Master Poulailler," said Roussart, "you are going to be married, then?"

"That seems sure," replied Poulailler.

"Not more sure than that your first-born will belong to the evil one. I, Roussart, tell you so."

With that he turned on his heel, and regained his isolated dwelling, leaving his auditors amazed by his abrupt and extraordinary announcement, and poor Jacques more affected by it than any one else.

From that moment Roussart showed himself no more in the neighborhood, and soon disappeared altogether, without leaving a trace to indicate what had become of him.

Most country people are superstitious,--the Bretons eminently so, and Jacques Poulailler never forgot the sinister prophecy of Roussart. His comrades were not more oblivious; and when, a year after his marriage, his first-born came into the world, a universal cry saluted the infant boy as devoted to Satan. _Donne au diable_ were the words added to the child's name whenever it was mentioned. It is not recorded whether or no he was born with teeth, but the gossips remarked that during the ceremony of baptism the new-born babe gave vent to the most fearful howlings. He writhed, he kicked, his little face exhibited the most horrible contortions; but as soon as they carried him out of the church, he burst out into laughter as unearthly as it was unnatural.

After these evil omens every body expected that the little Pierre Poulailler would be ugly and ill-formed. Not a bit of it--on the contrary, he was comely, active, and bold. His fine fresh complexion and well-furnished mouth were set off by his brilliant black eyes and hair, which curled naturally all over his head. But he was a sad rogue, and something more. If an oyster-bed, a warren, or an orchard was robbed, Pierre Poulailler was sure to be the boy accused. In vain did his father do all that parent could to reform him--he was incorrigible.

Monsieur le cure had some difficulty to bring him to his first communion. The master of the village exhausted his catalogue of corrections--and the catalogue was not very short--without succeeding in inculcating the first notions of the Christian faith and the doctrine of the cross. "What is the good of it?" would the urchin say. "Am not I devoted to the devil, and will not that be sufficient to make my way?"

At ten years of age Pierre was put on board a merchant-ship, as cabin-boy. At twelve he robbed his captain, and escaped to England with the spoil. In London he contrived to pass for the natural son of a French Duke; but his numerous frauds forced him again to seek his native land, where, in his sixteenth year, he enlisted as a drummer in the regiment of Champagne, commanded by the Count de Varicleres. Before he had completed his eighteenth year he deserted, joined a troop of fortune-telling gipsies, whom he left to try his fortune with a regular pilferer, and finally, engaged himself to a rope-dancer. He played comedy, sold orvietan with the success of Doctor Dulcamara himself, and in a word, passed through all the degrees which lead to downright robbery.

Once his good angel seemed to prevail. He left his disreputable companions and entered the army honorably. For a short time there were hopes of him; it was thought that he would amend his life, and his superiors were satisfied with his conduct. But the choicest weapon in the armory of him to whom he had been devoted was directed against him. A _vivandiere_--the prettiest and most piquante of her tribe--raised a flame in his heart that burnt away all other considerations; but he might still have continued in a comparatively respectable course, if the sergeant-major had not stood forward as his rival. The coquette had in her heart a preference for Pierre; and the sergeant, taking advantage of his rank, insulted his subordinate so grossly that he was repaid by a blow. The sergeant's blood was up, and as he rushed to attack Pierre, the soldier, drawing his sabre, dangerously wounded his superior officer, who, after lingering a few days, went the way of all flesh. Pierre would have tasted the tender mercies of the provost-marshal; but fortunately the regiment was lying near the frontier, which our hero contrived to cross, and then declared war against society at large.

The varied knowledge and acquirements of the youth--his courage, true as steel, and always equal to the occasion--the prudence and foresight with which he meditated a _coup de main_--the inconceivable rapidity of his execution--his delicate and disinterested conduct towards his comrades--all contributed to render him famous, in the _famosus_ sense, if you will, and to raise him to the first place.

Germany was the scene of his first exploits. The world had condemned him to death, and he condemned the world to subscribe to his living.

At this period, he had posted himself in ambush on the crest of a hill, whence his eye could command a great extent of country; and certainly the elegance of his mien, his graceful bearing, and the splendor of his arms, might well excuse those who did not take him for what he really was. He was on the hillside when two beautiful young women appeared in sight. He lost no time in joining them; and, as youth is communicative, soon learnt, in answer to his questions, that, tired of remaining in the carriage, they had determined to ascend the hill on foot.

"You are before the carriage, then, mademoiselle?"

"Yes, sir; cannot you hear the whip of the postillions?"

The conversation soon became animated, and every moment made a deeper inroad into the heart of our handsome brigand: but every moment also made the situation more critical. On the other side of the hill was the whole band, ranged in order of battle, and ready to pounce upon the travellers. Having ascertained the place of abode of his fair companions, and promised to avail himself of the first opportunity to pay his compliments to them there, he bade them politely adieu; and having gained a path cut through the living rock, known but to few, descended with the agility of a chamois to his party, whom he implored not to attack the carriage which was approaching.