Chapter XLV (2)

"What can they be about?" said he. "All is lost if they do not come. The anonymous note is formal and the terms are precise, "_Eleven o'clock and the quai des Orfevres_." This secret enemy, whose name and features we are about to know, had only to hasten to the Prefecture of Police to deprive us of the only means of unmasking a scoundrel. Yet heaven protects us, for just as I was about to reveal to Monte-Leone the villainy imputed to him, this note closed my lips and veiled the indignation my words could not but have created in his noble soul."

The man stopped. The silence of the _quai_ was broken, and he heard the sound of persons approaching him. Soon two shadows were seen by the light of the lamps which hung from the walls of the Louvre, and a voice was heard. "It is he: it is Matheus. He waits for us in the _chiaro oscuro_ of the door." This was followed by a short dry cough, produced by the intense cold of the evening. The speaker was the Vicomte d'Harcourt, scarcely recovered from his illness. A few seconds passed and d'Harcourt and Taddeo stood by the side of Von Apsberg. The three friends had determined not to consult Monte-Leone, nor to inform him of what had taken place until they knew who had denounced them and who was to be punished.

"I came hither," said Von Apsberg, "alone, because three men together are greater subjects of remark than two; for the same reason two are more subject to comment than one; therefore, let us separate, and walking down the quai meet at the place appointed."

The clock of the Hotel de Ville struck eleven, when the three friends met in rear of the Prefecture of Police. They followed strictly the directions of the anonymous letter. They discovered the back door and stood in its shadow, being concealed by an angle in the wall. They waited there. Carriage after carriage passed, and their hearts beat violently as each approached. The carriages crossed the _quai_ but did not stop. At about a quarter after eleven came a carriage driven rapidly, but which relaxed its speed as it reached the _quai de Orfevres_; it then paused a few feet only from the angle of the wall where the Carbonari were concealed. The steps were let down and the person in the carriage descended and walked rapidly to the back door of the Prefecture. In spite, though, of his haste, the Carbonari could not but remark the stature, tournure, cloak, and bearing of the stranger. The door was opened. The three friends followed and were able to hear him say, "Count Monte-Leone."

"He--he--" said they.

"The scoundrel!" said Von Apsberg.

"The villain!" said D'Harcourt.

Taddeo hurried to the carriage which was on the point of leaving.

"All doubt is gone," said Taddeo. "The carriage is his."

"They are _his_ horses," said d'Harcourt.

"It is his driver," said Von Apsberg. Then speaking to the man who, while surrounded by the three men, began to tremble, "Who is the person who came in the carriage?" said he.

"My master," said the automaton, more dead than alive. "The Count Monte-Leone."

"Whence did your master come hither?"

"How?" said the driver, who did not understand the question.

"I wish to know, did you drive him from his hotel, or some other place?"

"My master was to-night at the Neapolitan embassy. I waited for him in the courtyard which was black as a fair on days when there is no reception. After having remained an hour there he got into the carriage and bade me drive to the _quai des Orfevres, near the Prefecture of Police_. Here I am, Monsieur, and so are you. Good night, then."

Whipping up his horses at the risk of driving over two of the young men who stood at their heads, he went away at a gallop.

Von Apsberg, d'Harcourt, and Rovero, were all as white as the snow, which had again begun to fall with violence, and looked at each other with that sympathy of a thousand sentiments which might have been expected in persons so terribly situated as they were. Terror, shame, and despair were all united in their glance. Then by one of those sudden and sublime emotions, they clasped each other's hands as if to say, that, henceforth they could rely on no others. Von Apsberg and the Vicomte, were about to speak, when Taddeo made them wait, and said, "No complaints, no insults. _If it be he_, contempt and death." As he spoke the last word his voice quivered.

"'_If it be he?_' what doubt can there be?" said Von Apsberg. "Have not our eyes seen? Have not our ears heard? Are we not satisfied?"

"Did you not hear the name?"

"May he not have used the name surreptitiously?"

"Was it not his form, dress, and air?"

"Did you see his face?" asked Taddeo, who was himself struck with the poverty of his reasons, and contended against his convictions.

"But, are not the driver and carriage his?"

"The driver may have been bribed," said Taddeo, who, like many others, became enthusiastic in favor of a bad cause. "I need something more, I must be certain, and will be. In two hours I will see you at Matheus's." He entered a hackney-coach and drove away; bidding the coachman go to the Neapolitan embassy.

"I know his plan," said Von Apsberg, "for if Monte-Leone was not at the embassy, the driver was mistaken, and it was not Monte-Leone we saw."

"What now shall we do?" asked the Vicomte, whose cough became more violent, and more frequent.

"Go home," said Von Apsberg, "for both your body and mind suffer. You remember I am accountable to your father, and to--your sister, for your health."

"But what will you do?" said the Vicomte.

"I will wait."

"Where--here? at this door?"

"Yes; at this door, deserted as it is. I will wait here, for the phantom or the reality. I will wait and tear off the hat which covers his brow, and read with my own eyes the shame there, and thus throw from my soul the last remnant of faith in the honor of my friend."

"But if he resist?"

"So much the better: I will then kill him."

"And if he kill you?"

"His work will be complete; for, like Judas, he will have slain one he said he loved."

"I will stay," said d'Harcourt; and, despite of the entreaties of his friend and the orders of his physician, he wrapped himself more closely in his cloak, leaned against the wall, and waited. Von Apsberg followed his example....

Taddeo went to the embassy. Few persons had been there during the evening, but the rooms were brilliant with light, and contrasted with the darkness of the vast courtyard of which Monte-Leone's driver had spoken. It was almost midnight, but like most Italians the Duchess lived as much by night as day. The hour, too, at which Taddeo came was not unusually late, for at this hour he was in the habit of visiting the Duchess. Therefore, she was not surprised to see him. She lay negligently on an ottoman in that boudoir where we have already seen her receive Count Monte-Leone. There too she had probably received company during the evening, for the chairs were in a kind of ring around the ottoman. She said:

"Ah, Signor Rovero, you are welcome. I have been kept long waiting this evening for you and for one of your best friends, who expected to find you here."

"Who, Signora, is that friend?" asked Taddeo, with deep curiosity.

"Can you not guess?" said the Duchess. "Whom should we call Pylades' friend but Orestes?"

"Is it the Count you mean?"

"Yes."

"Has he been here?"

"Certainly," said La Felina.

"Certainly," repeated Taddeo, "you kept him a long time with you."

"Taddeo," said La Felina, "you are indulging in that villanous habit of jealousy. Ah!" said she, "I am learned in that." She did not give him time to reply. "It is a pity you yet love a poor woman that chagrin and suffering overwhelm, and whose heart is now as withered as her face."

"To me you are what you always were, and what you will ever be," said Taddeo. "Deign, though, to tell me, I beg you, when did the Count go?"

"The Count, again. Did you come hither to speak of him alone?"

"Not so; but an imperious reason forces me to know when he left the hotel."

"About an hour ago," said the Duchess, looking at Taddeo.

Taddeo grew pale and his fingers grasped the back of the ottoman convulsively. His head fell on his bosom, and his eyes became motionless and fixed upon the carpet. He was convinced, and in despair. From this dreary state he was aroused by the pressure of a soft hand.

"Taddeo," said a voice musical as the song of the angels, "you suffer."

"Yes," said the young man.

"I see you do. Can friendship do nothing to soothe you?"

"Nothing!"

"Thus it is with men," said La Felina; "they think of us in their pleasure and happiness, but never in their sorrow."

Taddeo looked towards the Duchess, whose features expressed so much sympathy and devotion that he felt his heart give way, and he was about to give vent to his secret--an innate and noble sentiment of generosity restrained him. It seemed to him that La Felina might fancy he took a base revenge, should he dishonor one she had loved so passionately, and, perhaps, was yet devoted to.

"Signor Rovero," said the ambassadress, after a long silence, "since you think me unworthy to share your secret, let us have done with it. Skilful physicians lull pains they cannot soothe. Let me then do as they do, and divert your mind from such bitter thoughts to present it a more pleasant prospect--that of your sister's happiness."

"What say you?" asked Taddeo, as if he were aroused from a dream.

"You understand me certainly--the approaching marriage of your sister with Count Monte-Leone is everywhere understood to be a fact."

"Never!" said Taddeo, losing his _sang-froid_.

A smile of triumph, which Taddeo did not observe, flitted across La Felina's face. She said, "What say you?--do you oppose the union?"

"It is no longer possible, signora," said Taddeo, giving way to his emotion--"it cannot be. Vice and virtue--the serpent and the dove--heaven and hell--may be mingled, but not Aminta and Monte-Leone. He is unworthy of her."

"Unworthy?" said La Felina--"your heroic friend unworthy of her?"

"My friend! I deny him. He was my friend, as Judas was Christ's. For he has sold his, as the recreant sold our Saviour."

"Taddeo! is it you who speak thus?"

"It is. I, whose soul has been crushed by his cruel deception--I, whose holy faith in his truth has perished--I, who must detest him whom I loved and honored!" Unable any longer to conceal the odious secret within his breast, he opened his bleeding heart to La Felina.

When the Duchess had heard him, she said, "No, it is impossible!--Monte-Leone is not a traitor, a coward, the basest of men."

"Ah! you say so; so did I. I repelled the charge with horror; yet I was forced to yield to reason and evidence."

"It is evident either that you saw or did not see _him_."

"But the departure from your hotel," said Taddeo, "coincides so fatally with his arrival at the prefecture of police--the very answer of the driver proves all."

"All this is presumptive, yet terrible; but if you yield--if your faith in his honor is not great enough to triumph over it, do you believe that a true passion, that a deep love, such as he inspires, will also do so?"

"Ah, signora!" said Taddeo, with pain, "you have been generous long enough; you have had pity or time long enough to allow me at least to remain in doubt about your sentiments. It is cruel to choose such a time as this to own them."

"How know you what I feel?" said La Felina to Taddeo, who was about to go. "Think you the profound passion of which you speak can resist indifference and forgetfulness?--I spoke only of your sister."

"Is it true?" said the young man, forgetting all in his joy at this confession--"of my sister?"

"Yes; and her heart will not suffer her to be convinced as easily as you have been of the baseness of a man whose name and hand she was about to receive. To break the bonds which unite them, to change her love into contempt, the Marquise de Manlear will require evidence beyond dispute of a crime of which, as yet, you have only suspicions, and which my respect for Monte-Leone forces me to repudiate."

As she spoke, the Duchess, who sat on the ottoman yet, reached forth her arm to pick up a paper which lay on the carpet. Taddeo, following her motions, picked up the paper and handed it to her.

"What is that?" said she; "some letter I have dropped or which one of my visitors has lost."

"Count Monte-Leone sat there," and she pointed to a particular chair. She opened it mechanically, but scarcely had she done so than she uttered a cry of grief. Taddeo hurried to La Felina with a bottle of salts. She had let the paper fall, and it met his glance as it lay open. He saw a seal. Moved by a feeling of curiosity, which he could not repress, and hoping to discover the cause of La Felina's emotion, made confident also by the authentic character of the paper, Taddeo took and read it carefully. Scarcely had he done so than his strength gave way and he became pale as death. Sinking back in a chair he was crushed, as it were, by terror. The Duchess had recovered, and their countenances exhibited to each other the terrible feelings which filled their minds.

"Did you read?" said La Felina.

"I did," said Rovero. "Here it is."

"I recognize as an _attache_ of the Police Count Monte-Leone, who acts by my authority."

"This is awful," said she.

"Do you yet doubt?" said Taddeo, quivering with grief.

"What will you do with that paper?" said La Felina, also trembling.

"What people do with a decree which holds a man to public infamy--fasten it to the scaffold, that all may know who is the wretch society expels from its bosom. I will nail it to his brow."

"No, no! you will not do so; you will not be hard-hearted and cruel enough to act thus."

"I will do my duty," said Taddeo, sternly.

"And I," said Signora de la Palma, taking possession of the paper, "will not suffer you to do so." Then, quicker than thought, she crushed the paper in her hands, and threw it in the fire.

"What have you done?" said Taddeo. "You have destroyed the irrefragable proof of his guilt."

"You read it, that is enough _for you_--it is too much for _him_." Then rushing from the room where she was alone, she said aloud--"It is enough, too, for me, for now _she will never marry him_."

VI.--THE ACCUSATION.

What had occurred was a sufficient reason for the Duchess not to return to the room. Taddeo hurried to Von Apsberg's. D'Harcourt and the Doctor did not come until two o'clock. The door they watched did not open, and he they were so anxiously waiting for prudently left by some other egress.

"Well," said the Doctor to Taddeo, "was he at the Duchess's?--did he go out as his driver said?"

"May we yet doubt?" said D'Harcourt.

Taddeo was silent, and seemed not even to have heard them. With his head on his hands, he sat before a table in the centre of the room. His eyes were red with tears and watching, and he had written a few lines rapidly; at last he said:

"Read that, which is my answer."

They did so, and a painful sigh escaped their breasts.

He continued--"I, who defended, accuse him; I do so because I saw the proof of his infamy. I know not its object and motive, which confounds my reason; I cannot, however, doubt it, for I have read the letter, and devote this man to the hatred and vengeance of the brethren he has betrayed." He then told all that had passed.

Von Apsberg took the pen and wrote his name below Taddeo's. D'Harcourt did the same. This act, simple as it was, had a lugubrious and solemn character, for which it was indebted to the physiognomy and emotion of the three men whose hearts beat under the same emotion, and who shed tears together. At last it seemed that they had evidence which lighted up their future path of vengeance.

"My friends," said the Doctor, "Carbonarism in France is dead. The arrests of the chiefs of the central ventes tell you plainly enough what fate is reserved for us. We are free men only because our liberty contributed to the plans of our enemies. We cannot dissemble that we are sold and betrayed by a spy. Our retreats and plans also are revealed, and the dungeon, exile, or death, is the fate of our brethren and ourselves. I propose to you, therefore, no isolated vengeance, but one for all affiliated with us. By the terms of our association, a sentence has been passed on the traitor, and been signed." He pointed to the paper to which they had affixed their names. "Who will execute it? The supreme annual _vente_ will assemble in a few days at the Masonic lodge of the _Friends of Truth_. The supreme vente will decide."

"No, gentlemen," said the Vicomte D'Harcourt, "my mind and education object to nocturnal vengeance. I prefer daylight and the sword to obscurity and the dagger. His sword is not worthy to be crossed with mine, but better thus than murder."

"So be it. But not your sword, but those of all of us will be directed to his heart. To-morrow, like three shadowy avengers, we will tell him of his crime and punish it."

"To-morrow be it," said D'Harcourt and Taddeo. Then, clasping each other's hand with a mingled feeling of anger, sorrow, and despair, they separated.

On the morning of the night after these scenes, Monte-Leone, immersed in reflection, sat in his hotel. It might be about ten o'clock. The snow, which had been falling since the evening before, intercepted the faint light of day, and added to the sadness of the vast room. By means of his anxious research and skilful investigations, Monte-Leone, since the previous evening, had ascertained beyond doubt that the true lists of members of the central _ventes_ were in the hands of the police. Thenceforth all seemed an impenetrable mystery to the Count, which his intelligence and the fertile resources of his mind could not fathom. "How had originals been replaced by copies?--how had the police obtained the originals?" This impenetrable enigma appeared to the Count as a new evidence of his evil genius, which had been for a long time apparently growing darker and darker before him, and seemed to hurry him to ruin and destruction. The defection of the world had become more and more sensible--the coldness every day became more marked and decided. The incredible and brutal challenge of Lieutenant A----, the causeless duel, and the death he had been forced to inflict on one who, for his father's sake, he almost loved, appeared before him. The embarrassment which he saw with sorrow supervene in the intercourse of his friends with him, caused a vague torment in his usually energetic and decided mind. The tenderness of Aminta, the esteem and affection of the Prince, opposed these impressions, but could not dispel them entirely. The Count was thus disturbed by this overwhelming trouble and fatigue, produced by painful and distressing reflection, when Giacomo appeared before him. He entered with such calmness and silence, that the Count did not perceive his intendent until he stood at his side, and said:

"A person is waiting to speak to your excellency in the cabinet."

"I am at home for no one."

"That is bad," said Giacomo, "for I have said you were in, and even bade the person wait in the next room. Really I think it was time to do so, for the poor woman trembled so she could scarcely stand."

"Who is she?" asked the Count.

"That I cannot give your excellency; in the first place, because she did not tell me her name, and, in the second place, because she wears a veil, which her little hand holds fast. This, too, is always the case: ladies never come at this hour to see a bachelor without a veil--this is the uniform of the sex."

"Who can it be?" thought he. The idea occurred to him that it might be the Duchess. The recollection of La Felina's disinterested kindness pleaded in her favor. Monte-Leone bade Giacomo show her in. The intendent left and soon returned, preceded by a veiled lady of an elegant and distinguished air. Scarcely had the old man retired, when the visitor lifted up her veil, and exhibited the features of Aminta. He was rejoiced indeed, and said:

"You here--at my house!" and Monte-Leone fell at her feet. "I never would have dared to ask you to grant me such a favor. I never would have hoped, you would concede such."

"Count," said Aminta, trembling as much, as possible, "I took this step for a reason which is imperious to me. Are we alone?" said she, looking timidly around her.

"We are alone," said the Count. "Speak to me, and tell me to what I am indebted for your presence here?"

"To my sorrow and despair," said the Marquise.

"What then is the matter?" asked the Count with terror.

"I do not know, but some danger menaces us.... The Prince, my second father, who, as you know, always treated me as a daughter--who hitherto always has received you with such kindness, and has acted so that our proposed marriage is no longer a secret, came yesterday to see me. His countenance expressed the greatest trouble, and his eyes sparkled with rage. He said, 'My daughter, I am about to grieve you greatly, and you must arm yourself with all your courage and resolution. Your marriage with Count Monte-Leone is now impossible, and I beg you, in the name of my love of you, to abandon him for ever.'"

"What do I hear?" said Monte-Leone, almost beside himself. "What does this mean?--why this change?--whence did he obtain a right thus to ruin and crush me?"

"He did not pause there, that is but half of my sacrifice. He said, 'You must not again receive Count Monte-Leone's visits. The doors of this house henceforth are closed to him.'"

Monte-Leone said with vehemence, "Is it not enough to separate us?--would he add insult to cruelty? What is my crime? Of what am I accused? Why was I worthy of you yesterday, and am so base to-day?"

"My prayers and tears," said the Marquise, "could not induce the Prince to reveal this strange secret to me. He said, 'The Count has no longer a right to your hand, for he has deceived us. If he insists again on speaking of his passion, say to him, that I know all, and have heard it from one who cannot lie, and whom it is the duty of every Frenchman to have faith in next to God--from the King!'"

The Count stood silent and amazed. It seemed to him that an invisible net surrounded him, and that the iron threads perpetually closed around him. All grew darker and deeper; the mysteries amid which he walked seemed more intense, and his reason began to give way beneath the heavy hand which weighed on his brow. Aminta looked at him with deep distress. The silence of the Count appeared to acknowledge the Prince's words. He seemed stupified by an accusation, of the justice of which he was aware. Aminta trembled at the idea that she had loved a criminal. He, however, at last looked up, and his eyes bore only the expression of deep sadness. He said, "Aminta, by all that is most holy, by our own life, I swear that I know not the meaning of this. From the language, though, that the Prince has used, and from the King's name being, I know not why, involved in my affairs, it is clear that my honor has been doubted by the Prince. This I have hitherto allowed no one to do. However, one has been found bold enough to do this."

"The Prince is almost my father," said Aminta, timidly.

"He is my mortal foe, for he seeks to separate us."

"Listen," continued he, in a more gentle tone, and he sat beside her; "my love is so great, I dread so to bring any cloud across your brow, that hitherto I have concealed my sufferings."

"You have been unhappy and I ignorant of it!"

"I am in that terrible condition in which a man feels that his reason is about to escape from him. I hear my voice--I see my face, and seek to discover in their expression if there be any symptom of folly or not--I am not myself--I am not what I was--I am like the leper in the Bible, for all flee from me--I am repelled everywhere, as if death and disease followed in my train. French society, across which I strode like a king once, now seeks to make me atone for my fleeting triumph. To public esteem and universal consideration have succeeded distrust and coldness. I see hatred and fear in eyes that once shone with admiration and respect; and, when I look into my life, when I examine my most secret acts, I find no cause for this repulsion, and can not but ask myself if my fancy be not diseased, and calls not up the chimeras which distress me."

"No, no," said Aminta, with that womanly pride which always actuated her in relation to him she loved, "your reason and mind are yet the same. Some dark and odious calumny may perhaps have been circulated to your disadvantage."

"Who will tell me what it is?" said the Count; "who will exhibit it to my eyes? who will show me the phantom which robs me of name and fame, and secretly immolates my honor?"

Just then the bell of the hotel rang. The Count hurried to the door to exclude any one. He was, however, too late; for rapid steps were heard in the anteroom.

"Who is it?" said he to Giacomo.

"The three persons to whom these doors are never closed, M. Von Apsberg, d'Harcourt, and Rovero."

The Marquise uttered a cry of terror.

"They will come hither," said he, "in spite of both Giacomo and myself, and this room has no other egress."

The voices of the Carbonari fell on the ears of the Marquise.

"Go in there," said Monte-Leone to the Marquise; and he opened an elegant closet. "In a few moments I will dismiss them."

The young woman did so--and scarcely had the door been closed than the three young men entered the room. Their brows were stern and severe, and bore the impress of their feelings.

"What is the matter now?" asked Monte-Leone.

Not a sound was heard, but six eyes glared at him with disdain and arrogance. Von Apsberg took a paper from his breast, and without speaking, gave it to Monte-Leone.

"What means this?" said he. He read----

"STATUTES OF FRENCH CABONARISM.

"_Article 1._--Whosoever shall denounce or betray his brethren, confesses that he deserves death, and sentences himself for the crime at the time of its commission."

"Well," said the Count, looking at his friends, "I know all that. I signed that article as well as you."

"Go on," said Taddeo. The Count continued:

"We, chiefs of the central ventes, supreme judges of the members of the association, we to whom our brethren have confided the sacred right of life and death, declare, swear, and affirm, that a base traitor and informer is among us. Each of us therefore demands on this man the punishment which he has made himself liable to, which is death."

"His name? his name?" asked Monte-Leone.

"His name," said Von Apsberg, "we hesitated to tell you the other day, but do so no longer. His name is Count Monte-Leone!"

Monte-Leone stood mute at this reply, and cast glances of surprise and terror on his companions. His blood ran as if it would burst the arteries. His eyes became fiery, and the nails of his fingers drew blood from his palms. He was silent. One might have fancied him the animating spirit of a cloud charged with thunder. After the reading of the sentence, the silence was broken by Von Apsberg, who said:

"He who was our chief, who was our dearest friend"--his voice trembled at this sentence--"should not die like a common Carbonaro. We have therefore forgotten our aversion to his crime, and offer to risk our lives against his in strife."

The Count let the Doctor conclude, and then said, "I was right! I saw what I fancied I did. This is no dream--no hallucination. A man has dared to couple my name and the reproach of a denunciator together."

"There are three who dare, and their names are Rovero, D'Harcourt, and Von Apsberg."

"Gentlemen," said he, "sometimes one is forced to condescend to be affronted when dealing with people too low to reach their mark. I, however, cannot condescend to stoop to the gutters where such epithets are gathered up as you throw on me."

"These epithets," said D'Harcourt, "are not addressed merely by three men to Count Monte-Leone. All Paris does so."

"Public rumor," interrupted Von Apsberg, "accuses you of having betrayed A----, Ober, B----, and our other friends."

"Public rumor!" exclaimed the Count, whose eyes seemed ready to spring from his head.

"Public rumor says that Count Monte-Leone, ruined and desperate, obtains the money he now spends, most disgracefully. He has sold his brethren to enable him to continue his luxury."

The Count uttered an exclamation of horror.

"Count Monte-Leone, proscribed two months ago in France, owes the right of remaining in the realm to the fact that he is in communication with the French police, whose agent he is."

"Are you done?" said Monte-Leone, sarcastically.

"Count Monte-Leone has sold the secrets of his brethren in every land, and filled the prisons of France, Spain, and Italy, with his victims."

"Then," said Monte-Leone, with a far different accent from what might have been expected from an injured man or discovered criminal, for his tone was almost joyous, "this is the explanation of the obscurity amid which I have wandered. No, it is impossible! Paris may speak thus, but you do not! You do not think me such a being?"

"On our honor we do," said the three.

The ball which reaches the soldier's heart, the bolt which falls on the traveller, have not a more sudden effect than these words on Monte-Leone.

"They, too!" said he, "they, too!"

"Yes," said Von Apsberg, "we accuse you more distinctly even than the rest of the world. We have horrible proof."

"What is it?"

"General A---- swore on the soul of his son that you betrayed him; and that he saw the list he gave you in the hands of the Prefect of Police." "This one you gave me," said the Doctor, handing the document to him. "Here are the lists of the five other ventes, all of which are false and counterfeit. You alone had these lists, and could give them up."

"Horrible!" said Monte-Leone.

"A man," said D'Harcourt, "went yesterday, at eleven o'clock at night, into the Prefecture of Police. This man got out of a carriage which was your own. The man gave your name to the keeper of the gate. He did not however know that two of his brethren overheard him. Those who overheard him are now before you. Will you deny it?

"The carriage and name mine?" said Monte-Leone, beside himself.

"Finally," said Taddeo, "I saw the disgraceful brevet you received from the police. I saw the name of Monte-Leone linked with the infamous word 'SPY.'"

Taddeo had no sooner finished reading this letter than Monte-Leone hurried towards a press, and took out pistols, one of which he threw at Taddeo's feet.

"Take it," said he, "kill me before I shoot you; for I will not survive this insult one moment, or live with him who has pronounced it."

At that moment, a cry was heard in the next room. The door was thrown open, and the Marquise of Maulear fell between her brother and Count Monte-Leone.

VII.--DESCENT OF THE POLICE.

When the Marquise de Maulear regained consciousness her attention was directed to a woman who knelt before the sofa. This person was the confidential female servant of the Count Monte-Leone, who rendered to the Marquise cares he could not extend himself. Having retired into the next room he anxiously waited for an opportunity to see her again. Doctor Von Apsberg having become satisfied that the young woman had merely fainted, and that there was nothing serious in her condition, joined D'Harcourt in his efforts to hurry Taddeo from the hotel; and Monte-Leone's ideas having been suddenly changed by the apparition of the lady, which had effaced all his sufferings, scarcely perceived their sudden departure. The Marquise, when she recovered, remembered this terrible scene.

"My brother!--Taddeo!--Monte-Leone! where are they? For God's sake hide nothing from me--take me to them--let me terminate that terrible combat, the very idea of which makes me mad."

"Here is the Count, madame," said the woman, pointing to Monte-Leone, who drew near.

"One word--tell me where my brother is."

Count Monte-Leone bade the servant leave him; and when he was alone with her, he said bitterly, "Your brother is gone, madame, with his friends, after having overwhelmed me with insults."

"By your love to me," said Aminta, "falling on her knees, I ask his life."

"But you did not hear this terrible scene," said he.

"I did. Every word fell on my heart as if it would crush it. They were, though, the results of error and anger. The honor of Monte-Leone is above such imputations."

"Aminta," said the Count, "they are only the echoes of the world. My fury cannot reach the thousand mouths which dishonor me. I can speak only through their interpreters. Blood alone can wash out the insults they have subjected me to--ask me, then, for my own life, but not for the life of those who have thus insulted me."

"One of them is my brother,--is your friend."

"My dearest friend," said the Count, "one who knows my very inmost life, and has had a thousand opportunities to judge me. He was bold enough to repeat that odious calumny to me. Ah!" continued he, with sombre vehemence, "that this corrupt world, which knows me not, should have been able thus to heap suspicion on me! The world has judged me by itself; but Taddeo is the very reflection of my own soul. The name of friend seemed too little for him. I loved him as I would have loved my mother's son. He was the object of my second love on earth. Aminta, Taddeo has leagued himself with my enemies, and came hither to affront me mortally. This is too much for my heart and physical endurance." Count Monte-Leone, who in danger was so firm, wept at the idea that his friends had so misconceived him.

"My friend," said the Marquise, sobbing, and pressing the face of Monte-Leone to her bosom, "Taddeo would shed tears of despair and regret could he only see how you grieve. Certainly he is wrong to doubt your honor, but he will repair his wrongs, and expiate all by repentance. He will defend you, will convince and confound your enemies and will again be your friend."

"He has suspected me," said Monte-Leone, sadly, "and cannot be my friend again, even if he confessed his injustice on his knees before me. He is your brother, though, Aminta, and that imposes a sacrifice on me which my love for you alone can inspire. I will either not avenge the insult, or demand satisfaction for it from another. God grant that other may kill me, for then Taddeo will live without being called on to expiate this outrage."

"Ah!" said Aminta, "that misfortune was absent, but now he wishes to die."

"Yes, Aminta," said the Count, "I wish to die rather than drag out a disgraceful life, without the power of effacing from my brow the stigma placed there, rather than read suspicion in every eye, rather than see myself despised. All parts--all Europe--all the world, perhaps, will repeat this awful charge."

"I do not believe it," said the young woman; "I am sure there is no heart on earth more worthy than yours, and that you may challenge the esteem of all. What I know, though, all others must.----In eight days, Count Monte-Leone, you must marry me. I _will_ be Countess Monte-Leone."

"What!" said the Count, to whom that idea gave a glimpse of heaven amid the hell around him, "you Countess Monte-Leone!"

"Who then will dare to say that I married a disgraced man?"

"Aminta," said the Count, falling at the feet of the noble-hearted woman, "God knows my gratitude is equal to your love, but I cannot marry you. You know that I love you, that I would give my life for your hand, but my father's name I cannot confer on you, dishonored as it now is. Hear then my oath," said the Count. Aminta trembled, but he said, "I swear by the sacred soul of my father, not to accept your hand until my enemies are confounded, until the infernal imposture of which I am the victim be recognized as the basest and foulest of calumnies."

"So be it," said Aminta. "We will not wait long for that day, and my prayers will appeal to heaven for it. Let Taddeo's life, though, be sacred to you. I confide him to your love of me...." "No,--no," said she, seeing he was about to reply, and perhaps resist her; "do not speak, but remember that Taddeo is my brother, and that his death will separate us for ever."

A few moments after this scene, a carriage, which was standing at the end of the _quai_, bore the Marquise rapidly to her hotel. We need not say that she was completely overcome by the incidents of the day....

At about ten o'clock the next day, the Duke d'Harcourt, was at the breakfast table with all his family. The eyes of the old man were suddenly struck with the following passage in the _Journal des Debats_, which he was glancing over. He read it aloud:--

"The terrible secret association, on the track of which the police has very long been, has been discovered--even its name is known--the whimsical one of 'Carbonarism!' We are assured that every rank of life has representatives in this vast affiliation. Even young men of the most noble families of France have been found on its rolls, and they have been already pointed out to the attention of the government."

The Viscount d'Harcourt grew visibly pale as he heard his father read, and Marie called the Duke's attention to the fact. She hurried to his side.

"It is nothing," said he, "but a sudden spasm of pain. It will soon pass away, and in a few minutes I shall be better."

The Duke d'Harcourt had finished his paper, and looked sternly on his son. His glance was like that of the judge on the criminal, a mute appeal to conscience, which the young man could not be insensible of. "Rene," said the Duke, in his most penetrating tone, "if I did not know that you have overcome the influence of those political chimeras which produced your expulsion from Italy, the agitation caused by what you have heard read would make me think the cause of those conspirators your own." The Count's trouble increased. The old noble continued to speak in this tone, extolling, also, the advantages of a monarchical government, and pointing out the evils likely to result from the possible realization of the plans of the Carbonari. He, however, heard the sounds of many feet in the anteroom of the saloon, where he sat with his children. The secretary of the Duke, the brave D'Arbel, an old officer of the army of Conde, who had emigrated with the Duke, and never left him, appeared at the door. His features expressed the greatest agitation. He said:--

"The Duke does not know what is going on."

"What _is_ the matter, my dear D'Arbel?" said the Duke, taking a seat in the chair the old man handed to him.

"The door of our hotel has been broken open in the King's name, and is now in possession of the police. The chief has placed all the household under surveillance and is about to come hither."

"What means this?" said the Duke. "Why is my house thus invaded?"

"Ah, my God!" said Marie, trembling, "what do these people want?"

"What do they want?" said the Vicomte, completely beside himself. "They want vengeance on me."

"To arrest you! For heaven's sake, sir, tell me what you have been doing."

"What you censured so violently just now. Father, I have sought to overturn a government of which my opinions do not approve. I am now to experience the penalty of having failed. In such matters success makes great men, and failure criminals."

"Criminal or not, they shall not take away my son. I will defend him."

"Brother, brother," cried Marie, wildly, and embracing the Vicomte.

"Monsieur," said D'Arbel, "a few moments yet remain for you to attempt to enable the Vicomte to escape."

"Whither? how?" said the Duke, who was overcome with terror and distress.

"Through the garden. The gate on _la rue_ Baylonne perhaps is yet practicable."

"D'Arbel is right," said the Duke, "come, come;" and he took his son's hand, and led him to the end of the room where he opened the window fronting on the portico.

"Here," said the secretary, "is a cloak and hat with a broad brim which will somewhat conceal the features of the Vicomte." He placed his own hat and cloak on Rene's head and hurried him towards the outer door.

"Remain here, my daughter," said the Duke to Marie, "to detain them as long as possible, and enable us to escape."

"This way--this way, Duke," said the secretary to M. d'Harcourt and his son. "The principal alley is too much exposed for us to escape unseen." He led them close to the wall where the foliage was very thick, and thence to the gate. The Duke's eyes were so filled with tears, that he stumbled at every step, and his son was forced to guide him to the goal of all their hopes. At last they stood at the gate. The Secretary took a pass-key from his pocket, put it in the lock and opened the door. Here, though, were six officers of police. The Duke uttered a painful cry, and to keep from falling leaned against the wall.

"I am your prisoner," said D'Harcourt to these men. "I am the Vicomte."

"We know you well enough. You have long been pointed out to us, and we have had our eyes on you."

The Duke, when he heard these words, felt as if his heart would break, for a cruel idea occurred to him. His son had long been under surveillance, and had also for a long time deceived his father.

"Come, then," said the Vicomte, "I am ready to accompany you."

"You are acting correctly, M. le Vicomte," said the agent. "You submit without difficulty. Let us go, but not in this direction; if you please, we will go through the garden to the hotel."

"And why?"

"Because such are our orders. The chief intends to examine your papers and draw up the _proces verbal_ in your presence. M. H---- never puts himself out except on great occasions like this."

Without replying, the Vicomte took his father's arm, and followed by the old secretary, and surrounded by the police agents, went to the house. The Duke, during the whole route, did not speak, but sobbed audibly. From time to time, he clasped the arm of his son as if he would have retained possession of him. When they returned home, Marie, who thought her brother safe, uttered a cry of terror, and fainted. The Duke hurried to her side and sent for her women to take care of her. The Vicomte, in the interim, was taken to his room by M. H----, to be present at the examination of his papers. A few minutes after, the door was thrown open, and Count Monte-Leone entered. Faithful to the promise he had made to the Marquise to ask no explanation from Taddeo of the outrage he had received, he had come to obtain satisfaction from Rene. The appearance of the police in the vestibule of the house, the terrified air of the servants, made Monte-Leone apprehend some new disaster. He entered the room without being impeded, for the guards had orders to keep persons from going out, not from entering.

"Ah, Count," said the Duke, when he saw Monte-Leone, "you are come to share our trouble. My son is arrested and lost."

"Arrested?"

"Yes; as an accomplice in one of those awful plots in which you were yourself once involved. What sorrow to my house!"

"Where is he now--has he left the hotel?" asked the Count.

"No, sir," said the secretary, "the police is now examining his papers."

"His papers seized! You were right, sir, in what you said--your son is lost."

The Duke, with an activity and vehemence due entirely to the over-excitement caused by his misfortune, said, "And how, Monsieur, do you know any thing about my son's papers?"

"I know but too well," said the Count in despair; "for I shall doubtless ere long share his fate and captivity, as I have his hopes and anticipations."

"Alas!" said the Duke, "your antecedents, your exalted opinions, a powerful instinct which cannot deceive a father's heart, all tell me that you have led my son astray. You have ruined him."

Before the Count could reply, the Vicomte returned, followed by M. H----, chief of the political police, and his officers.

"My father," said the Vicomte, "I was unwilling to leave the hotel without imploring your pardon for the wrong I have done you." He knelt before the Duke, who could scarcely stand. "I forgive you, my son, for having thus wrung from me the only tears I ever shed on your account. They are bitter, though, indeed, and cannot but shorten my life."

Marie had recovered, and embraced her brother.

What the Duke said to his son, the tender and touching embrace of the young girl, appeared not to be observed by Rene. His glance was fixed, and stern, and full of horror. His features were discomposed by violent rage, and, pointing to Count Monte-Leone, he exclaimed:

"Ah! why look for the informer?--there he is. Father, father, that scoundrel has sold me to the persons who tear me from your arms. There is the man whose name henceforth is Judas."

The Duke and Marie shrank from the Count as from a reptile.

"Rene," said the Count, "thank God that my hand has no dagger to reach your heart for this new insult!"

"Ah! I believe you. One more crime would have cost you nothing. You would then slay the body as you did the soul. A coward is but a coward--a spy is but an assassin."

"A spy!" said Monte-Leone, rushing towards the Vicomte.

He then paused as if he had been seized by a new idea, and, turning towards the chief of police, said, pointing to Rene, "Tell this man that I am not one of your creatures. Tell him that I do not know you. If he needs proof, arrest _me_, for I am far more criminal than he is."

"We have no orders to arrest Count Monte-Leone," said M. H----, with a smile.

"Well," the Count said, "if you have no orders, I will give you reason to do so. Instead of being an agent of police, I am the head of the secret association you seek after. I am the leader of those who seek to ruin you, the soul of the invisible world which conspires against the throne of your king and hated government. Now, far from avoiding, I call on you to act. Earn your rewards, and arrest the most implacable enemy of your master--the chief of Carbonarism--arrest me!"

The Duke, the Vicomte, and the witnesses of this scene, looked with amazement at Monte-Leone, who, as it were, rushed to the block. Rene d'Harcourt felt something of remorse at what he had said. M. H----, piqued at the defiance, as it were, cast in his face, said to Monte-Leone, "Instead of admitting you guilty of the crimes with which you charge yourself, we protest against your statement: were you as guilty as you say, you would not dare thus to speak. Besides, this bravado is useless. We know to what your conduct is to be attributed, and that you have pursued a very different course from what you say. If you suffer, it is because you have forced me thus publicly to make an explanation." The Count was stricken down by this overwhelming statement, and by the attempt to establish complicity between himself and the police. His sight, his very thoughts became dim, and his lips, contracted by fury, gave vent only to indistinct mutterings. Before he recovered his _sang-froid_, before he could repel this disgraceful imputation, Rene, in obedience to a signal from M. H----, disengaged himself from his sister's arm, and, clasping his father to his bosom, went from the room. Pausing at the door, he pointed to H----, and said to Monte-Leone, "the words of this man tear away my last doubt; I maintain all I have said. May an old man and young woman's tears, may my blood rest on your head." The Vicomte left. When the old man saw his son depart, he went to Monte-Leone, and with a gesture of anger and contempt said to him: "Away! you have betrayed my son to the executioner; away, you will also kill me." He then sank in the arms of his servant.

FOOTNOTES:

[10] Continued from page 216.

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

From Fraser's Magazine.

CHAMOIS HUNTING.

I had been staying at Fend (one of the highest inhabited spots in Europe) for some days, existing on a light and wholesome regimen of hard-boiled eggs, harder baked rye bread, and corn brandy, exploring the magnificent scenery round me, and had returned the way I came, to a collection of brown packing-boxes, by courtesy called a village, which rejoiced in the euphonious name of Dumpfen, nestling cozily under the grand belt of pines that feathered the flanks of the mountains, which rose high and clear behind. In front roared, rattled, and grated, a wide glacier torrent, the color of ill-made gruel, and on the opposite side stretched, some quarter of a mile, a flat plain of gravel and worn boulders, here and there gemmed with patches of short sweet turf, till it reached the base of a noble range of cliffs, which rose gray and steep into the clear blue sky, so lofty, that the fringe of world-old pines along their summits could scarcely be distinguished.

On the narrow patch of turf between the village and the torrent I found--it being a fine Sunday afternoon--much mirth and conviviality. The rifle-butts were pitched on the opposite side of the torrent, with a small hut close to them to shelter the marker, a fellow of infinite fun, attired in bright scarlet, and a fantastic cap, who placed marked pegs into the bullet-holes, and pantomimed with insane gestures of admiration, contempt, astonishment, or derision, the good or bad success of the marksmen. And splendid specimens of men they were--firm, proud, yet courteous and gentle, well dressed in their handsome and handy costume, strong as lions, which, in fact, they "needed to be" to support the weight of those young eighteen pounders which they called rifles, with brass enough in the stocks to manufacture faces for a dynasty of railroad kings. Never did I see finer fellows. And the women! How lovely are those Tyrolese damsels, with their dark brown glossy hair braided under the green hat, with a brilliant carnation stuck over their left ear in a pretty coquettish fashion, enough to send an unfortunate bachelor raving. And their complexions! the very flower in their hair paling, looking dull beside their blooming cheeks; and their clear soft hazel eyes, with such a soul of kindness, gentleness and purity peeping through them, as one scarcely sees, even in one and another elsewhere.