Chapter XLIX (1)

I must now follow the groom on his road, first to the cottage of good Jenny Best, where he learned that Mr. Atkinson had gone away some five minutes before, and then to the house of the neighboring farm, where he found the person he sought still seated on his horse, but talking to the tenant at the door.

"Here, Mr. Atkinson," cried the groom as he came up; "here's a note for you from Mr. Short the surgeon--a sort of warrant, I believe; for he's a justice of the peace, you know, as well as a surgeon. Read it quick, Mr. Atkinson, read it quick; for it won't keep hot long; and if that woman isn't caught I think I'll hang myself."

"Bring us a light, farmer," said Mr. Atkinson, "quickly. What is all this about, John?"

"Why, Madam Hazleton has poisoned my lady, and she's as dead as a door nail," said the groom, "that's all; and bad enough too. Zounds, I thought she'd do some mischief; she was always so hard upon her horses."

"Good heaven!" exclaimed Mr. Atkinson, "you do not mean to say that she has certainly poisoned Lady Hastings?"

"Why, Mr. Short believes it, and every one believes it," answered the groom.

Mr. Atkinson might have endeavored to reduce the number comprised in the term "every body" to its just proportions; but before he could do so, the farmer returned with a light shaded from the wind by his hat; and the good high constable of Hartwell, bending over his saddle, read hurriedly Mr. Short's brief note.

"What's the matter? what's the matter?" cried the farmer; and great was his surprise and consternation to hear that Lady Hastings was dead, and that strong suspicion existed of her having been poisoned by Mrs. Hazleton. There is a stern, dogged love of justice, however, in the English peasant, which rises into energy and excitement; and the farmer was instantly heard calling for his horse.

"Zounds, I'll ride with you, Atkinson," he said. "This great dame has got so many servants, she may think fit to set the law at defiance; but she must be taught that high people cannot poison other people any more than low ones. But you go on; you go on. I'll catch you up, perhaps. If not, I'll come in time, don't you be afraid."

"I'm going along too," said the groom, "and two others are coming; so if her tall men show fight, I think we'll leather their jackets."

Away they went as fast as they could go, and to say truth, Mr. Atkinson was not at all sorry to have some assistance; for without ever committing any one act which could be characterized as criminal, unjust, or wrong, within the knowledge of her neighbors, Mrs. Hazleton had somehow impressed the minds of all who surrounded her with the conviction, that hers was a most daring and remorseless nature. The general world received their impression of her character--and often a false one, be it good or evil--by her greater and more important actions: the little circle that surrounds us forms a slower but more certain judgment from minute but often repeated traits.

On rode Mr. Atkinson and the groom, as fast as their horses could carry them. Wherever there was turf by the roadside they galloped; and at the rate of progression made by carriages in that day, they made sure they must be gaining very rapidly upon the object of their pursuit. When first they set out it was very dark; but at the end of twenty minutes, in which period they had ridden somewhat more than four miles, the edge of the moon began to appear above the horizon, and her light showed them well nigh another mile on the road before them. Still no carriage was in sight, and the groom exclaimed, "Dang it, Mr. Atkinson, we must spur on, or she will get home before we catch her."

It is impossible to run after any thing without feeling some of the eagerness of the fox-hound, and it is not to be denied that Mr. Atkinson shared in some degree in the impetuous spirit of the chase with the groom. He said nothing about it, indeed; but he made his spurs mark his horse's sides, and on they went up the opposite slope at a quicker pace than ever. From the top was a very considerable descent into the bottom of the valley, in which Hartwell is situated; but the moon had not yet risen high enough to illuminate more than half the scene, and darkness, doubly dark, seemed to have gathered over the low grounds beneath the eyes of the two horsemen.

Mr. Atkinson thought he perceived some large object below, moving on towards Hartwell; but he could not be sure of it till he had descended some way down the hill, when the carriage of Mrs. Hazleton, mounting a little rise into the moonlight, became plainly visible to the eye. The groom took off his cap and waved it, saying, "Tally ho!" but neither he nor his companion paused in their rapid course, but went thundering down at the risk of their necks, and of their horses' knees. The carriage moved slowly; the pursuers went very fast: and at the end of about four minutes they had reached and passed the two mounted men-servants, who, as customary in those days, rode behind the vehicle. Robberies on the highway were by no means uncommon; so that it was the custom for the attendants upon a carriage to travel armed, and Mrs. Hazleton's two men instantly laid their hands upon the holsters of their pistols, when those too rapid riders passed them at such a furious pace. Mr. Atkinson, however, was not a man to be easily frightened from anything he undertook, and wheeling his horse sharply when in a little advance of the coachman, he exclaimed, "In the King's name I command you to stop. I am James Atkinson, high constable of Hartwell. You know me, sir; and I command you in the King's name to stop!"

"Why, Master Atkinson, what is all this about?" cried the coachman. "There is nobody but Mrs. Hazleton here. Don't you know the carriage?"

"Quite well," replied Mr. Atkinson; "but you hear what I say, and will disobey at your peril. John, ride round to the other side, while I speak to the lady here."

Now Mrs. Hazleton had heard the whole of this conversation, and had there been sufficient light, Mr. Atkinson, whose eye was turned towards where she sat, would have seen her turn deadly pale. It might naturally be supposed that in any ordinary circumstances she would have directed her first attention to the side from which the sounds proceeded; but so far from that being the case, she instantly put her hand in her pocket, and was almost in the act of throwing something into the road, when John the groom presented himself at the window, and she stopped suddenly.

"What is it, Mr. Atkinson?" she exclaimed, turning to the other window, and speaking in a tone of high indignation. "Why do you presume to stop my carriage on the King's highway?"

"Because I am ordered, Madam, by lawful authority, so to do," replied Mr. Atkinson. "I am sorry, Madam, to tell you that you must consider yourself as a prisoner."

Mrs. Hazleton would fain have asked upon what charge; but she did not dare, and for a moment strength and courage failed her. It was but for a moment, however, and in the next she exclaimed in a loud and more imperious tone than ever, "This is a pretence for robbery or insult. Drive on, coachman. Mathew--Rogerson--clear the way!"

She reckoned wrongly, however, if she counted upon any great zeal in her servants. The two men hesitated; for the King's name was a tower of strength which they did not at all like to assail. Their mistress repeated her order in an angry tone, and one of them, with habitual deference to her commands, went so far as to cock the pistol which he now held in his hand; but at that moment the adverse party received an accession of strength which rendered all assistance hopeless. The other two servants of Sir Philip Hastings came down the hill at full speed, and a gentleman, followed by a servant, rode up from the side of Hartwell, and addressed Mr. Atkinson by his name.

"Ah, Mr. Marlow!" said Mr. Atkinson. "You come at a very melancholy moment, sir, and to witness a very unpleasant scene; but, nevertheless, I must require your assistance, sir, as this lady seems inclined to resist the law."

"What is the matter?" asked Marlow. "I hope there is no mistake here. If I see rightly this is Mrs. Hazleton's carriage. What is she charged with?"

"Murder, sir," replied Mr. Atkinson, who had been a little irritated by the lady's resistance, and spoke more plainly than he might otherwise have done. "The murder of Lady Hastings by poison."

It was spoken. She heard the words clearly and distinctly. She had been detected. Some small oversight--some accidental circumstance--some precaution forgotten--some accidental word, or gesture, had betrayed the dark secret, revealed the terrible crime. It was all known to men, as well as to God, and Mrs. Hazleton sunk back in the carriage overpowered by the agony of detection.

"Oh, ho; here come the other men," said Mr. Atkinson, as the two servants of Sir Philip Hastings rode up. "Now, coachman, drive on till I tell you to stop. You, John, keep close to the other window, and watch it well. I will take care of this one. The others come behind. Mr. Marlow, you had perhaps better ride with us for half a mile or so; for I must stop at the house of Widow Warmington, as I have orders to make a strict search."

"Oh, take me to my own house--take me to my own house," said Mrs. Hazleton, in a faint tone.

"I dare not venture to do that, Madam," said Mr. Atkinson; "for we are nearly three miles distant, and accidents might happen by the way which would defeat the ends of justice. I must have a full search made at the very first place where I can procure lights. That will be at Mrs. Warmington's; but she is a friend of your own, Madam, and you will be received there with all kindness."

Mrs. Hazleton did not reply; and the carriage drove on, Mr. Atkinson keeping a keen watch upon one window, and the groom riding close to the other.

A few minutes brought them to the house of the shrewd widow, and the bell was rung sharply by one of the servants. A woman servant appeared in answer to the summons, and without asking whether her mistress was at home, or not, Atkinson took the candle from her hand, saying, "Lend me the light for a moment. I wish to light Mrs. Hazleton into the house. Now, Madam, will you please to descend.--John, dismount, and come round here; assist Mrs. Hazleton to alight, and come with us on her other side."

Mrs. Hazleton saw that she could not double or turn there. She withdrew her hand from her pocket where she had hitherto held it, resumed her forgotten air of dignity, and though, to say the truth, she would rather have met her "dearest foe in heaven," than have entered that house so escorted, she walked with a firm step and dauntless eye, with the high constable on one side, and the groom on the other.

"They shall not see me quail," she said to herself. "They shall not see me quail. I know the worst, and I can meet it--I have had my revenge."

In the mean time, the maid had run in haste to tell her mistress the marvels of the scene she had just witnessed, and Mrs. Warmington had gathered enough, without divining the whole, to rejoice her with anticipated triumph. The arrest of Shanks the attorney on a charge of conspiracy and forgery, had set going the hundred tongues of Rumor, few of which had spared the name of Mrs. Hazleton; and Mrs. Warmington, at the worst, suspected that her dear friend was implicated in the guilt of the attorney. That, however, was sufficient to give the widow considerable satisfaction, for she had not forgotten either some coldness and neglect with which Mrs. Hazleton had treated her for some time, or her impatient and insolent conduct that morning; and though upon the strength of her plumpness, and easy manners, people looked upon Mrs. Warmington as a very good natured person, yet fat people can be very vindictive sometimes.

"Good gracious me, my dear, what is the matter?" exclaimed Mrs. Warmington, as the prisoner was brought in, while Mr. Atkinson, speaking to those behind, exclaimed, "Let no one touch or approach the carriage till I return."

Mrs. Hazleton made no answer to her dear friend's questions, and the high constable, taking a little step forward, said, "I beg pardon, Mrs. Warmington, for intruding into your house; but I have been ordered to apprehend this lady, and to have her person and her carriage strictly searched, without giving the opportunity for the concealment or destruction of any thing. It seems to me that Mrs. Hazleton has something bulky in that left hand pocket. As I do not like to put my hand rudely upon a lady, may I ask you, Madam, to let me see what that pocket contains?"

Without the slightest hesitation, but with a good deal of curiosity, Mrs. Warmington advanced at once and took hold of the rich silk brocade of the prisoner's gown.

"Out, woman!" cried Mrs. Hazleton, with the fire flashing from her eyes; and she struck her.

But Mrs. Warmington did not quit her hold or her purpose. "Good gracious, what a termagant!" she exclaimed, and at once thrust her right hand into the pocket, and drew forth the vial which had been sent by the surgeon to Lady Hastings.

"Dear me!" exclaimed Mrs. Warmington. "Why, this is the very bottle I saw you mixing stuff in this morning, when you seemed so angry and vexed at my coming into the still-room.--No, it isn't the same either; but it was one very like this, only darker in the color."

"Ha!" said Mr. Atkinson. "Madam, will you have the goodness to put a mark upon that bottle by which you can know it again?--Scratch it with a diamond or something."

"Oh, poor I have no diamonds," said Mrs. Warmington. "My dear, will you lend me that ring?"

Mrs. Hazleton gave her a withering glance, but made no reply; and Marlow pointed to two peculiar spots in the glass of the bottle, saying, "By those marks it will be known, so that it cannot be mistaken." His words were addressed to Mr. Atkinson; for he felt disgusted and sickened by the heartless and insulting tone of Mrs. Warmington towards her former friend.

At the sound of his voice--for she had not yet looked at him--Mrs. Hazleton started and looked round. It is not possible to tell the feelings which affected her heart at that moment, or to picture with the pen the varied expressions, all terrible, which swept over her beautiful countenance like a storm. She remembered how she had loved him. Perhaps at that moment she knew for the first time how much she had loved him. She felt too, how strongly love and hate had been mingled together by the fiery alchemy of disappointment, as veins of incongruous metals have been mixed by the great convulsions of the early earth. She felt too, at that moment, that it was this love and this hate which had been the cause of her deepest crimes, and all their consequences--the awful situation in which she there stood, the lingering tortures of imprisonment, the agonies of trial, and the bitter consummation of the scaffold.

"Oh, Marlow, Marlow," she cried--in a tone for the first time sorrowful--"to see you mingling in these acts!"

"I have nothing to do with the present business, Mrs. Hazleton," replied Marlow, "but I am bound to say that in consequence of information I have procured, it would have been my duty to have caused your apprehension upon other charges, had not this, of which I know nothing, been preferred against you. All is discovered, madam; all is known. With a slight clue, at first, I have pursued the intricate labyrinth of your conduct for the last two years to its conclusion, and every thing has been made plain as day."

"You, Marlow, you?" cried Mrs. Hazleton, fixing her eyes steadfastly upon him, and then adding, as he bowed his head in token of assent, "but all is not known, even to you. You shall know all, however, before I die; and perhaps to know all may wring your heart, hard though it be. But what am I talking of?" she continued, her face becoming suddenly suffused with crimson, and her fine features convulsed with rage. "All is discovered, is it? And you have done it? What matters it to me, then, whose heart is wrung--or what becomes of you, or me, or any one? A drop more or less is nothing in the overflowing well. Why should I struggle longer? Why should I hide any thing? Why should I fly from this charge to meet another? I did it--I poisoned her--I put the drug by her bedside. It is all true--I did it all--I have had my revenge as far as it could be obtained, and now do with me what you like. But remember, Marlow, remember, if Emily Hastings marries you, she does it with a mother's curse upon her head--a curse that will fall upon her heart like a milldew, and wither it for ever--a curse that will dry up the source of all fond affections, blacken the brightest hours, and embitter the purest joys--a dying mother's curse! She knows it--she has heard it--it can never be recalled. I have put that beyond fate. Ha ha! It is upon you both; and if you venture to unite your unhappy destinies, may that curse cling to you and blast you for ever."

She spoke with all the vehemence of intense passion, breaking, for the first time in life, through strong habitual self-control; and when she had done, she cast herself into a chair, and covered her eyes with her hands.

She wept not; but her whole frame heaved and shivered, with the terrible emotion that tore her heart.

In the mean time, Marlow and Mrs. Warmington and the high constable spoke upon it, consulting what was to be done with her. The prison system of England was at that time as bad as it could be, and those who condemned and abhorred her the most, were anxious to spare her as long as possible the horrors of the jail. At length, after many difficulties, and a good deal of hesitation, Mr. Atkinson agreed, at the suggestion of Mrs. Warmington, to leave her in the house where she then was, under the charge of a constable to be sent for from Hartwell. There was a high upper room from which there was no possibility of escape, with an antechamber in which the constable could watch, and there he was determined to confine her till she could be brought before the magistrate on the following day.

"I must have her thoroughly searched in the first place," said Mr. Atkinson; "for she may have some more of the poison about her, and in her present state, after all she has confessed, she is just as likely to swallow it as not. However, Mr. Marlow, you had better, I think, ride on as fast as possible to see Sir Philip Hastings, and tell him what has occurred here. If I judge rightly, your presence will be very needful there."

"It will indeed," said Marlow, a sudden vague apprehension of he knew not what, seizing upon him; "God grant I have not tarried too long already;" and quitting the room, he sprang upon his horse's back again.

FOOTNOTES:

[2] Continued from page 327.

TWO SONNETS.

WRITTEN FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MONTHLY MAGAZINE.

TRUTH.

For constant truth my aching spirit yearns,
And finds no comfort in a glorious cheat;
On the firm rock I wish to set my feet,
And look upon the star that changeless burns;
Yon gorgeous clouds that in the sunset glow,
With fire-wrought domes for angel-palace meet,
Beneath my gaze their surface beauties fleet;
With parting light how dull their splendors grow.
I cannot worship vapors, and the hue
That on the dove's neck flickers, as it veers,
Bewilders, but not charms me; whilst the blue
Of the clear sky gives comfort 'mid all fears,
And but to think on that unshadowed white,
The angels walk in, makes my dark path bright.

THE FUTURE.

Eternal sunshine withers; constant light
Would make the beauty of the world look wan;
The storm that sleeps with dark'ning terror on,
Leaves verdant freshness where it seemed to blight;
Most dreary is the land where comes no night,
For there the sun is chill, and slowly drawn
Round the horizon, spreads a sickly dawn,
No promise of a day more warm and bright.
Bless then the clouds and darkness, for we can
Discern with awe through them what angel faces
Watch and direct, and from their holy places
Smile with sublime benignity on man;
And dearly cherish sickness, pain, and sorrow,
As gloomy heralds of a bright to-morrow.

V.

THE COUNT MONTE-LEONE: OR, THE SPY IN SOCIETY.[3]

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

VIII.--THE GARRET.

Half demented, Monte-Leone left the Duke's Hotel. His existence had become a terrible dream, a hideous nightmare, every hour producing a new terror and surprise. D'Harcourt was gone. He went to find Von Apsberg. "He at least will speak. He will say something about this atrocious accusation. He will explain the meaning of the perfidious reply of the chief of police. If he repeated this atrocious calumny, if he persisted in thinking him guilty, his heart would be open to Monte-Leone's blows. He would at least crush and bury one of his enemies."

A new misfortune awaited him. The doctor was not to be found. The police had occupied the house at the time that the Vicomte was being arrested. The doctor had beyond a doubt been previously informed of their coming and escaped, but his papers were seized. All the archives and documents of Carbonarism fell into the hands of M. H----. One might have said some evil genius guided the police and led them in their various examinations into the invisible mines of their prey. Furniture, drawers, and all were examined. Count Monte-Leone, when he heard of the disappearance of the Doctor and of the seizure of his papers, felt an increase of rage. The discovery of the archives ruined for a long time, if not for ever, the prospects of the work to which Monte-Leone had consecrated his life. The flight of Matheus also deprived him of any means of extricating himself from the cloud of mystery which surrounded him, and made futile any hope of vengeance. Taddeo alone remained, and he was protected by the oath he had taken to the Marquise. One other deception yet awaited him. A devoted member of the Carbonari, on the next day, came to Monte-Leone's house and informed the Count that on the day after the Vicomte's arrest and the escape of Matheus, a similar course had been adopted against Rovero, who was indebted for his liberty only to information from Signor Pignana on the night before the coming of the police. A note from Aminta told Monte-Leone of the disappearance of Rovero. The Count was then completely at sea, and he was abandoned by all to a horrible imputation which he could neither avenge nor dispute. He could, therefore, only suffer and bide his time. Resignation, doubt, and delay, were terrible punishments to his energetic and imperative character. One hope remained, which, if realized, would enable him to contradict all the imputations on his honor. This was, that he would be able to share the fate of his comrades, not of Von Apsberg and Taddeo, who had escaped, but of those who languished in the cells of _la Force_ and the _Conciergerie_. The Count knew that the police, from the perusal of the archives, must be aware of his position, and awaited hourly and daily his arrest. This did not take place, though he perpetually received anonymous letters of the most perplexing and embarrassing character, charging him, in the grossest terms of the language, with being a spy and a traitor to the association to which he had pledged his life and his honor. He resolved at last to play a desperate game--to exhibit an unheard of energy and power. He repudiated the disdainful impunity which apparently was inflicted on him intentionally. He surrendered himself to the police....

While Count Monte-Leone acted thus courageously, the following scene took place in a hotel whither our readers have been previously taken.

A man apparently about thirty years old sat pale and downcast at a table, writing with extreme rapidity. Occasionally he rested his weary head on his hand, and his eyes wandered across the sky which he saw through a trap-window, so usual in that room of houses known as the garret.[4] He then glanced on the paper, and wrote down the inspirations he seemed to have evoked from the abode of angels. He was the occupant of a garret, which, though small, seemed so disguised by taste and luxury that the narrow abode appeared even luxurious. The table at which the writer sat was of Buhl, and was ornamented by vases of Sevres ware. The wooden bedstead was hidden by a silken coverlet, and a large arm-chair occupied a great portion of the room. On the small chimney-piece of varnished stone was a china vase filled with magnificent flowers from hot-houses, above which arose a superb camelia. A curtain of blue shut out the glare of the sun. It was easy to see that female taste had presided over the arrangements of this room. A beautiful woman really had done so. The inmate of the room was Doctor von Apsberg. The girl of whom we have spoken was Marie d'Harcourt.

On the day of Rene's arrest, a fortnight before the one we write of, the Doctor was alone when the secret panel was opened. Pignana suddenly appeared before the Doctor and told him that his house as well as the Doctor's was surrounded by suspicious looking people. Pignana therefore advised him to go at once. Von Apsberg was about to go to his bureau and take possession of his papers. The police did not allow him time to do so; they knocked at that very moment at the door and entered the house before Von Apsberg had time to leave. It will be remembered that the studio of the Doctor in which the archives were kept, was in the third story of the house. Matheus was, therefore, forced to fly through the opening, into Pignana's house, and with his ear to the wall listened to the noise made by the police, with thankfulness for the secret passage. He heard a deep voice say, "If your Jacobin Doctor has escaped, you shall answer for it." This was said to Mlle. Crepineau. The good maiden swore the Doctor was absent, as she thought, or feigned to think. Another voice, with a deep southern accent, said the following words, which the young Doctor heard with surprise and fear:

"The one you seek is gone. If, though, you would find him, press that copper nail which you see on the third row of books. You will find the means of his escape into the next house."

A cry was heard from the interior of the room. A female voice thus spoke to the man who had just spoken: "Senor Munez, it is abominable for you thus to betray the poor fellows. You are a bad and heartless man."

When the Doctor heard thus revealed the secret of his retreat, he had pushed through the inner door, and it was well he did, for it gave him time to leave the room. The door of the library offered but a feeble resistance, which was soon overcome, and Pignana's house was carefully entered and searched.

He at once conceived an idea of a plan of escape. He said to Pignana, "Not a word; but follow me." Von Apsberg, accompanied by Pignana, left the place where they were concealed, went into the yard, and proceeded to a shed which was separated from his house by a few badly joined planks. One of these he removed, passed through the opening, and stood in an outhouse where he remembered he had once made some anatomical inquiries.

"But you are going back," said Pignana, "you will again fall in the hands of the enemy."

"You would be a bad general, Pignana," said Von Apsberg; "this is a common _ruse de guerre_, and is known as a counter-march. These places have been explored by the enemy, and consequently they will return no more. While the agents are looking where we are not, we will return where they have been."

When night came, and at this time of the year it was at four o'clock, Pignana told his companion of his plan. He purposed to scale the wall of the yard by means of the trellices of the vines. When once on the other side they would be in the garden of the Duke d'Harcourt, from which the young physician expected to go to the hotel to obtain protection from the Vicomte. The execution of this plan was easy for one as thin as d'Harcourt, but was impracticable to a person with an abdomen like Pignana. As soon as night had come, the latter said to Von Apsberg, "Go through the air, Doctor, if you can. I intend to adopt a more earthly route--through the door of the house, even if, much to Mlle. Crepineau's terror, I have the audacity to assume the guise of the suicide, and terrify her into opening the door for me. Besides, I am but slightly compromised, and will extricate myself. Adieu, then, Doctor," said he, "and good luck to you amid the clouds!" Von Apsberg clasped his hand, hurried from his retreat, ascended the wall, passed it, and a few minutes after was in the Duke's garden. Taking advantage of the darkness he went to the hotel, every window of which, to his surprise, he found closed. He went without being seen to the door of the reception rooms on the ground floor. The window had not been shut since the arrest of the Vicomte. The Doctor entered it. At the back of this room was a boudoir a la Louis XIV., of rare elegance, and appropriated to Marie d'Harcourt. Amid the darkness he heard a strange sound of sighs and sobs. The Doctor drew near, expecting that there was some pain for him to soothe. "Who is there?" said the Duke d'Harcourt.

"It is I, my lord, Doctor Matheus."

"You here, sir!" said the Duke; "they told me that, like my unfortunate son, you were arrested; and for the same offence."

"What say you, sir?" said Von Apsberg, with deep distress; "Rene, dear Rene, arrested?"

"Yes, sir," said the old Duke; "arrested and torn from his father's arms. Yet the blow did not overwhelm me. This, though, will take place ere long, and the executioner's axe will strike father and son at once."

A footman appeared with lights, and the Doctor saw the whole family weeping. His head rested on Marie's shoulder, and the long white hair of the old man was mingled with the young girl's dark locks, and seemed like the silvery light of the moon resting on her brown hair. The Duke saw at a glance how the Doctor participated in all his sorrows, and how the fate of his son lacerated the heart of his visitor. He gave his hand to the Doctor.

"I forgive you," said he, "the part you have had in my son's error, when I remember how you love him, and the care you have taken of Marie."

"Alas! Monsieur," said Von Apsberg; "that duty I can discharge no longer. The fate of Rene must be mine, to-morrow, to-day, in a few moments--for I came to seek for concealment. If, though, he has lost his liberty; if all his plans are destroyed, why should I any longer contend against misfortune? Adieu, Duke! I will rejoin Rene, share his misfortune, and defend his life; if not against men, at least against the cruel disease which menaces his career."

As she heard these words, the cheeks of Marie d'Harcourt became pale as marble, and she said, in tones of deep distress, "Father, will you suffer him to go thus?"

Von Apsberg looked at her with trouble and surprise.

"No, my child," said the Duke, "the Doctor will not leave us; and we will protect him." Von Apsberg then told the bold means by which he had entered the house.

"No one saw," said the Duke, "_how_ you came hither?"

"No one."

"There is no suspicion?"

"None."

Assisted by Marie, the Duke contrived a plan for an impenetrable asylum for the Doctor. In the right wing of the hotel were many rooms intended for servants, and uninhabited; for, since the death of his other sons, the Duke had greatly reduced his household. In one of these rooms, carefully decked and furnished, by Marie's care, Doctor Matheus was fixed. The old secretary of the Duke d'Harcourt alone was in the secret, and this worthy man took charge of the food of the Doctor, who saw no one except Marie and her father. The young girl gradually became bolder, and touched with pity at the loneliness of the prisoner, obeyed the dictates of her own heart and went frequently to the young Doctor's room to be sure that he was in want of nothing. Like a consoling angel, she came with her celestial presence to adorn the captive's retreat, and restore something of happiness to his heart. Von Apsberg, who had been for some days left alone, had reflected deeply on his political opinions and on their consequences. The immense difference between all old principles and the innovating ideas of Carbonarism caused him to doubt the triumph of the latter; the great discouragement which Monte-Leone's _apparent treason_ had produced, and the fate of his associates, produced a deep impression on him. Amid all these gloomy thoughts, one fresh and prominent idea reinvigorated his mind, and gave him ineffable joy.

Without wishing to analyze his feelings towards Marie, the Doctor was under their influence. He did not dream of ever possessing that aristocratic heart from which he was separated by rank, birth, and fortune. The heart of man, nevertheless, is so constituted, that the most honest and loyal man is never exempt from a shadow of egotism. Perhaps, therefore, in the Doctor's mind there was a feeble hope of approaching that class whose position he so envied. Let this be as it may, abandoning himself to the luxury of seeing always by his side this beautiful creature, whose health his care had already revived, the Doctor blessed his captivity, and lived in anxious expectation of the hours when Marie used to visit him. Von Apsberg possessed that Platonic heart which enabled him to look on Marie as a creature of pure poetry. He entertained so respectful a tenderness for the young girl, that he distrusted her no more than she did him.

On the day we found the Doctor writing in his retreat with such ardor, he was writing out a _regime_ for his patient. He told her what to do, and, as if gifted with prescience, provided for her future life.

"If," said he, "I be discovered--if the future have in reserve for the heiress d'Harcourt"--and his heart felt as if a sharp iron had transfixed it--"if a noble marriage separate me from her; at least in this painful study of her health she will be able to contend against her family disease, and perhaps will be indebted to me for life, happy and unsuffering." The idea seemed too much for the strength of the young physician as he saw thus fade before him all hope of a union with Marie. Steps just then were heard outside his room just as he was concluding the sad _memoire_ we have spoken of.

The Doctor, in obedience to the request of his host, answered no knock, and gave no evidence of life, except at a concerted signal known only to three persons--the Duke, his daughter, and D'Arbel. Therefore he listened. The person who advanced paused for a time before his door, and then left rapidly as it had come. Von Apsberg, however, by means of that lover's intuition, guessed who it was. The eyes of his heart pierced the opacity of the door, to enable him to admire the charming angel who had alighted at his door and flown away. Before this angel had disappeared from the long corridor which led to the Doctor's room, the door was opened, and he paused to glance at the young girl who was ready to escape. Marie returned to the Doctor, and advanced slowly towards him.

"Ah! Monsieur," said she to Matheus, "it is wrong in you not to keep your promise better. You promised my father never to open the door without a signal--"

"Why then, Mademoiselle, did you not give the signal?"

"I did not come to see you," said Marie; "but I brought you books and flowers. I am so afraid you will grow weary in this little room, where you are always alone and sad."

As she spoke, the angel girl went to the Doctor's room, as she would have done to her brother's, without any hesitation or trouble. She was robed in innocence; and if her heart beat a little louder than usual then, the child attributed it entirely to the rapidity with which she had ascended the stairs. The Doctor took the books and flowers which she had placed at his door, and put them in the vase on the mantle. He was glad to be able to look away from Marie's face, for he felt that his countenance told all he thought.

"I took the most amusing books from my little library," said she. "One learned as you are, always immersed in study, may not approve of my choice. Perhaps though, Monsieur, as you read them you will think of your patient--"

"Ah! I do so always," said Von Apsberg. "I was thinking of you when you came."

"You were writing," said Marie, as she looked at the sheet Von Apsberg pointed out to her.

"Ah! Mademoiselle, I wrote for you. You must follow one rule of conduct in relation to your health, when you are separated from your father--when you are married."

"Married!" said Mlle. d'Harcourt, and she grew pale. "I never thought of being married."

"But marry you must. You will marry rich; and, Mlle., a husband worthy of you. Ere long you will have many suitors."

"Monsieur," said the girl, "our house now is hung with mourning. The life of my brother is in danger, and my health, as you said, is frail and feeble. All this you know is altogether contradictory to what you say. As for myself," said she, with an emotion she experienced for the first time, "I am happy as I now am, and desire no other position, I must leave you, though," added she: "for now my father must have come from the prison where he obtained leave to visit my brother. I am anxious to hear from him. The Duke and myself will soon tell you about him."

Light as a vapor, rapid as a cloud, the young girl left the Doctor's room, to his eyes radiant with the lustre she left behind her.

IX.--THE CONCIERGERIE.

Eight days after the conversation between Von Apsberg and Marie, the Doctor heard a knock at his door. The latter was reading over for the twentieth time one of the books which had been brought him. This book was Telemachus, the poetical romance one might have fancied Homer himself had dreamed of, and which Virgil and Ovid had written--the book in which morals are enwrapped in so dense a covering of flowers, that a reader often refuses to glance at the serious part of the work, and pays attention only to the graceful superficies. Von Apsberg, however, read the book, not for its own sake, but for the sake of her who had given it to him. Marie had read every page, and her hands had turned over every leaf. This fact gave the history of the son of Ulysses an immense value in the eyes of the young Doctor, and made Telemachus, not Fenelon's, but Marie d'Harcourt's book. The knock at the Doctor's door was followed by the concerted signal. He opened it, and saw the Duke's old secretary. "Monsieur," said he, "as the Duke is absent, I am come to say that Mlle. Marie is ill. I know your care will be useful. She does not, though, send for you, being too feeble to come up stairs, and afraid to ask you to come down."

"Monsieur d'Arbel, let no one into the hotel; and tell Mlle. I will visit her.

"She will see you, Monsieur, in the window next to the drawing-room. I will send the servants out of the way, so that you can see Mlle. Marie without fear of discovery."

All the Secretary's arrangements were carried out, and a few minutes after Matheus waited on his fair patient. She was ill. Since her conversation with the Doctor, her health had really changed. Something mental seemed to influence it. Her complexion, sullied by the tears she had shed since her brother's arrest, was faded, and a flush was visible on her cheeks alone. These symptoms made the Doctor unhappy. He, therefore, approached Marie with great uneasiness.

She said: "How kind you are, Doctor, to risk your liberty: I could not otherwise have seen you. I have not strength enough."

"I will try soon to confer it on you, if God grants me power to attend to you."

"I shall die," said she with an anxious voice, which penetrated the Doctor's very heart, "if you cannot."

"For your sake," said Matheus, "I will defend my liberty by every means in my power, for I wish to restore your health, and preserve an existence indispensable to your father's happiness."

"How I suffer," said Marie, placing her hand on her snowy brow. "I have an intense pain, which passes from temple to temple, and gives me much suffering."

"Do you sleep well?" asked Matheus.

"No, no, for many days I have not slept, or if I have, phantoms have flitted across my slumbers." She blushed as she spoke. This the Doctor did not see, for he was searching out a remedy.

"Well," said he, "I think we must use a remedy which has hitherto succeeded. Magnetism will enable you to sleep, and perhaps will soothe your sufferings." Rising, then, he placed his hand on the patient's brow, as he had done a few months before when the Marquise had experienced such good effects from it. He placed his hands on the young girl's temples, and then made passes across her face, the result of which was that she sank softly to sleep. The state of somnambulism ensued, and Marie unfolded the condition of her heart to the young physician. While he was thus engaged the Duke entered.

"You here, Doctor?" said he; "how imprudent!"

"_She_ was suffering," said the physician; "now she sleeps." The Duke thanked Von Apsberg for his care, but seemed to centre all his hope in the young Doctor, as the sailor devotes himself to the lord of storms and waves. Now, though, every word the Duke said seemed a reproach. He shuddered as he thought of the confessions of Mlle. d'Harcourt, and asked himself if he participated in her sentiments or had suffered her to divine his. All his delicacy and loyalty revolted from the idea that this confession would cost the unfortunate father the life of his daughter.[5] Von Apsberg saw that henceforth it would be impossible for him to remain longer at the Duke's hotel, and that it would be criminal to remain with one the secret thoughts of whom he knew. He, therefore, made up his mind to speak to the Duke. Just then Marie, who had been for some time free from any magnetic influence, awoke calm and smiling. "How deliciously I have slept," said she; "how well I am!"

The Duke kissed her affectionately. He said, "All this you owe to the Doctor; and I thank heaven amid our misfortunes that he has been preserved to us. I am glad I have been able to rescue him from his persecutors, and preserve my daughter's health by means of his own watchful care."

Marie gave the Doctor her hand. The young girl did not remember what she had said while she slept. This slumber of the heart, however, could not last, and the young Doctor knew it. He resolved on the painful sacrifice which, but for the waking of his patient, he would at once have communicated to the Prince.

The reflections of the night confirmed the Doctor in the course he had resolved to adopt. On the next day he put on a long cloak, which disguised his stature, and went to the room of the Duke, after having also put on a wig which Rene often wore when he visited Matheus, and which the Duke had sent for to enable him in case of a surprise to leave unrecognized.

The distress of the Duke at the Vicomte's imprisonment increased every day. He had only once been able to reach his son, and had contrived to inspire the captive with hopes of liberty he was far from entertaining himself. The Vicomte was actively watched, and his most trifling actions were observed. Ever alone in the sad cell in which he had been confined, ennui and despair took possession of him, and his brilliant mind, to which mirth and activity had been indispensable, became downcast and miserable. Since the visit of his father, also, his delicate chest had begun to suffer. What the Doctor especially apprehended for his friend was the possibility of cold and dampness producing a dangerous irritation of the respiratory organs. This took place; for nothing could be more humid and icy than the cell of Rene. He had a dry and incessant cough. The keepers paid no attention to it, and the keeper of the Conciergerie treated it as a simple cold of no importance. The Vicomte was unwilling to inform his father of it lest he should be uneasy, and the mere indisposition rapidly became a serious and terrible disease. This was the state of things when Von Apsberg presented himself before the Duke. "What is the matter?" said the old man. "Are you discovered and forced to leave us?"

"Duke," said the Doctor, "let me first express my deepest thanks for your generous hospitality. Let me tell you how much your kindness has soothed the cruel suffering to which I have been subjected day and night for three weeks. I would, had it not been for your kindness, have weeks ago shared the captivity of Rene; and the hope I entertained of being of use to your daughter, alone prevented me from surrendering myself to despair at the prospect of a crushed and prospectless life, when I saw my brethren arrested in consequence of one whom I had always looked on as a devoted friend."

"Do not speak to me of that man," said the Duke in a terrible tone, "for my son, in my presence, charged him with having betrayed him."

"I have spoken to you of my gratitude," said the Doctor, "that you might not doubt it now at our separation."

"What danger now menaces you?" said the Duke, "why do you leave us?"

"To avoid being ungrateful," said Von Apsberg. "That you may never accuse your guest of selfishness, and that he may always deserve the esteem with which you honor him."

"What is the meaning of this mysterious language?"

"Grant me," said the young physician, with a trembling voice, "the boon of being permitted to keep the cause of my departure a secret. You would be as sorry to hear as I would be to tell you."

"No," said the old man, "I will not consent to this. You shall not quit the house which shelters you from your enemies: no, you shall not. Ah! sir," continued the Duke, "if you will not remain for your own sake do so for mine, for you alone have preserved the life of my daughter thus far." The Doctor said, as he gave a paper to the Duke: "Here is the result of my study, in which I have traced out all the means known to science calculated to strengthen the health of your daughter, and to parry the dangers which menace her."

"Doctor," said the Duke, "do not distress me by leaving the hotel. Do not make me perpetually miserable, Doctor, I am already unfortunate enough."

"Well," said the young man, unable to resist his prayers any longer, "you shall know what forces me to go, and shall yourself judge of my duty." He fell at the Duke's feet, and told him all he had learned during Marie's slumber, his combats with himself, and his resolution.

"You are an honest man," said the Duke, with an expression of poignant grief, and lifting him up: "but I am a most unfortunate father."

D'Asbel just then came in with a letter.

"From my son," said the Duke, and he opened it. The features of the old man assumed, as he read, such an expression of terror, that Von Apsberg and the Secretary advanced towards him and sustained him, for he seemed ready to faint. "Read," said he, with a voice half indistinct, and he gave the Doctor the letter. It was as follows:

"MY DEAR FATHER:--I can conceal no longer that I am dying. One man alone, who has often soothed me by his care and advice, can now save me. This is Von Apsberg. I cannot, though, ask him to accompany you, for he would endanger his own liberty. Come, then, dear father, to see me for the last time."

"Let us go, sir," said the Doctor. "Let us not delay a minute, for in an hour--it may be too late."

"But you expose your life, Doctor, by going among your enemies," said the Duke.

"But I will save his," said Von Apsberg. The Duke rushed into his arms.

Half an hour afterwards two men entered the Conciergerie. They were the Vicomte's father and an English doctor whom the Duke brought to see his son. The Director of the prison did not dare to refuse a father and physician permission to see a sick son and patient. With the turnkeys they passed an iron grate, beyond which was seen a vaulted passage, which, in the darkness, seemed interminable. On the inner side of the grate sat a morose looking man, whom nature seemed to have created exclusively to live in one of these earthly hells. His only duty was to open and shut the grate, to which he seemed as firmly attached as one of its own bars. His duty was not without danger, for in case of a mutiny, the Cerberus had orders to throw on the outside the heavy key he was intrusted with, and thus expose himself, without means of escape, to the rage of the criminals. They showed this man their pass. The key turned in the lock, and the grate permitted them to enter. It then swung to, filling the vaulted passage with its clash. Near this was a dark room, in which were several dark-browed jailers and gend'armes.

The Duke and the Doctor were minutely examined. One of them, whose features hidden by a dirty cap might recall one of the persons of this history, left the group, opened the grate, and disappeared rapidly, just as a new jailer guided the visitors to a long corridor in one of the cells, on opening which was the Vicomte D'Harcourt. On a miserable pallet, in a kind of dark cellar, into which the day seemed to penetrate reluctantly, through a grated window, was Rene D'Harcourt, the last hope of an illustrious house, without air or any of the attentions his situation demanded. The Duke wept to see him. Rene, with hollow cheeks, and eyes sparkling with a burning fever, arose with pain and extended his arms to his father, who embraced him tenderly.