Five Cent Wide Awake Library (vol. 1) (1878 11 04)
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S THEFIVE CENT < Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1879, by PRANK’ TOUSEY, én the offloe of the Lébrarian of Congress, at Washington, D. @, Entered at the Post Office at New York, N. Y., as Second Class Matter. Vol. F soley sarah: j iy eo PAUL JONES. BY ALEXANDRE DUMAS, CHAPTER. f. A STRANGE SAIL. foarse o’er her side the rustling cable rings— Phe sails are furled—and anchoring, round sho swings ; 4m gathering loiterers on the land discern Mer boat descending trom the latticed stern, ‘Tis mann’d—the oars keep concert to the strand, . $l grates her keel upon the shallow sand.—ByYRon. _ fowarn the close of a fine evening in the _ month of October, 1779, the most inquisitive | curiosity of the a Fon. 1 the inhabitants of the small town of be j is, had assembled on the point of land , as FRANK TOUSEY, PUBLISHER, 18 Rose Srreet, N. Y. 8. Subscription Price $2.50 per yoar. Novenwent 4, 1878. +, and notwithstanding, always so in- rented é teresting in ° Seaport hap: the ‘uncertainty as compulsory decoration of . the ediately 0: tands | to the country in i nad been eve city of Lorient. The object which attract-) built ; for, haying all her sails clewec sp. mad Ammediately opposite to that on which stands. attention, and which was the subject | snugly stowed around PRICE } § CENTS, / of their iuquiries, was a noble. and beautiful frigate, carrying 32 guns, which had been an- chored for about a week, not in the port, but in asmall cove in the roadstead, and which had been perceived for the first time early one morning, like an ocean flower which had sud- denly blossomed during the night. From the elegant and coquettish appearance of this fri- gate, it was imagined that this was the first time of her putting to sea; she bore the French setting sun the graceful outline of her hull, and aminute elegance as to her running rigging, Some thought they could discern in her the bold and taut masts used by the Americans, but the perfection exemplified in the finish which distinguished the rest of her construc: tion, was in perfect contrast with the barbar- ous rudeness or those rebellious children of England. Others, deceived by the flag she had hoisted, were endeavoring to divine in what flag, for the three golden fleur-de-lis were seen | port of France she had been launched, but glittering in the last rays.of the setting sun. - That which, above’ all, appeared to excite the | dmizers of this spectacle, 80 | hich this yessel had her yards showed: i + their national pride soon gaye way to the con. ornamented with sculpture, which Bi te ern 0 ae st or ¢ Cm
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Seanse i i oe j were frequently used as a mask to hide the real face, maintained that the lion and the towers of Spain would have more properly been, placed upon the ensign waving from her peak,- than the three fleur-de-lis of France: but the latter were asked syhether the straight and elegant sides and quarters of the frigate at all resem bled the bulging build of Spanish galleons: In short, there were some among them who would | haye sworn that this beautiful faity of the waters had been brought to life among the fogs of Holland, had not the dangerous boldness of her mists and rigging fully contradicted the - suggestion that she could have been built by . those old but ‘prudent sweepers of the seas. But, as we have said, for eight whole days, and ever since the first appearance of this splendid _ vision upon the coast of Brittany, she had been | the constant theme of wonder and of conversa- tion, for nothing had happened to give them any positive information, as not an individual from the crew had landed from the ship, under any pretext whatever. They might, indeed, . haye doubted whether she hada crew or not, had not they now and then seen the head of a sentinel, or of the officer of the watch, peering ‘aboye the bulwarks. It appeared, however, that thisvessel, although she had not communi- cated with the shore, could not have any hostile intention; her arrival had not seemed to give the least uneasiness to the public authorities of PAUL JONES. Da 7 % i oars, jumped into the sea up to their knees. The young lientenant then rose up in a careless ‘way, walked to the bow of the boat, and al- lowed the twosailors to carry him in their arms to the beach, so that not a drop of salt water should soil his elegant uniform. He then ordered his men to double the’ point of land which adyanced about three hundred feet into the sea, and to go and wait for him on the oppostte side of the battery. As for himself, he stopped a moment on the beach to arrange his dress, which had been a little disordered by the rough mode of transport he had been com- pelled to adopt, and then he advanced, hum- ming a French air; towards the gate of »the small fort, which he passed, after haying slight- ly returned the military salute of the sentinel on duty. Although nothing could, in a seaport, be more natural than-that a naval officer should cross the roads and walk into a fort, the minds: of the lookers-on had been so much occupied with the foreign vessel, that there was hardly one among the crowd who did not imagine that this visit to the commandant of the fort had some relation to her, so that when the young officer issued from it, he found himself sur- rounded so closely by the crowd, that for a mo- ment he appeared half inclined to use the rattan which he carried in his hand, to make way | through it. However, after having flourished Lorient, for she had run under the guns of atit with impertinent affectation above the heads small fort, which the recent declaration of war between England and France had caused to be ut in ordér, and which displayed a battery of ong guns of heavy caliber. ; Among this crowd of idlers, however, there was & young man, who was remarked for the anxious eagerness of his inquiries :—without any one being able to divine the Cause, it was easily perceived that he felt some direct interest im, this mysterious . vessel. | His _ brilliant uniform was that of the mous- quetaites, and as these royal guards rarely left "the capital, he had, at first, directed a portion he public curiosity to himself, but it was ered that this person, whom’ they. anger, was the young Count d’Au- ion Of one of the most ancient tittany. ‘The castle inhabited by ni) se above the shorés of the Gulf of | ‘or n, ab six or seven leagues distance from | ' Fort Louis. The family consisted of the Mar: quis d’Auray, a poor insane old man, who for twenty years had never been ‘seen’ beyond ‘the boundaries of his estates; of the Marchioness “d@Auray, whose rigid morality, and whose an- bility, could alone excuse her haughty and aristocratic bearing; of the young Margue- rite, a sweet girl of seventeen or eighteen years of age, delicate and pale as the flower whose ' name she bore; and of Count Emanuel; whom we have mentioned above, and around whom _ the crowd had gathered, carried away, as it always is, by a sounding title, a brilliant. uni- form, and noble and lordly manners: _ However eager might have been the desire i hose he addressed to satisfy his curiosity, | ay could only answer his questions in a and undecided manner; all they knew -the frigate being mere conjecture. The ant ‘was about retiring from the jetty, when erceived a six-oared boat approaching it. moment when curiosity had been so much , this incidertt could not fail to attract all | Inthe'stern of the boat sata young man, k ‘ed to be from twenty to twenty-two: _and who was dressed in the uni- “cient | Sn cin, one of the ; the beach, there being a i Helgi ete of those who were nearest him, he appeared all at once to change his mind, and perceiving Count Emanuel, whose distinguished appear- ance, and whose elegant uniform, contrasted strikingly with the vulgar air and habiliments of the persons who surrounded him, he made a few steps towards him at the same moment that the count had advanced to meet him. ‘The two officers merely exchanged a ywapid glance, but | that.leok at once assured them «both that, they were persons of rank and station. They im- mediately saluted each other with that easy graceand atfable politeness which character- ized the young nobility of that period. 7 “By Heaven |” exclaimed tlte young midship- man; ‘my dear countryman, for 1 suppose that like myself you area Frenchman, although I mect you in a seemingly hyperborean land, and in regions which, if not absolutely savage, appear sufficiently barbarous—will yon have the goodness to tell me what there is so ex- traordinary about me, that I seem to cause quite a revolution in the country? Or is the, appearance of an officer of the navy ah event so rare and so extraordinary at Lorient, that his mére présence excites, in so singular a degree, the curiosity of the natives of Lower Brittany ! By solving this mystery, you will render me a service ‘hich Ishall be happy to reciprocate, should any opportunity present itself, in which IT can be use hi to you.” = ; “This will be so much the more easy,” re- founded in any feeling which you would con- sider offensive te your uniform,* or hostile to your person—and the proof of this is my, dear comrade—for I see by your epaulets that we are of equal rank in the service of his ma- jesty—that I participate with these honest Bre- tons in the curiosity which they evince, al- though, perhaps, my motives aremore weighty ‘than theirs, in endeavoring to obtain a solution of the problem which has occupied us,” © “Tf I can be of any assistance to you, in the ‘inquiries which you have undertaken, I place all the algebra I possess at your disposal. Only the position we are in is not a comfortable one ‘to carry out mathematical demonstrations. } Will it please you to remove to a small distance | from these honest people, whose presence would only tend to confuse our calculations.” hi 8 fide, NN ~~ oleae plied Count Emanuel, ‘Cas this curiosity is not}, board. than J am. Therefore, we will about ship, if such is your good pleasure.” “ Not at all; on the contrary, lef us go on, ‘the nearer we are to the beach the better we ean discuss the matter in question. Let us therefore, walk upon this strip of Ignd as fa as We can.’ f Boy ; The young seaman, without replying a word, continued to walk on, like a man to whom the direction he was to take was perfectly in. different, and these two young men, who had | thus met for the first time, walked arm in arm as though they had been friends from infancy, towards the end of the promontory. When they had» xeached the extreme: po.nt, Count Emanuel paused, and pointed towards the frigate, saying, ‘‘Do you know what ship that is?” ‘ The young seaman threw a rapid and serut inizing glance upon the mousquetaire, and then looked towards the ship: ‘‘ Yes,” re. plied he negligently, ‘‘it is a pretty frigate carrying two and thirty guns, with her sails bent and her starboard anchor atrip, ready to sail at the first signal given.” “Excuse me,” replied Emanuel, smiling ; “that is not what Task of you. It signifies little to me how many guns she Garries, or by what.anchor she is holding—is not that your technigal mode of speaking ?” . The lieutenant smiled inturm. ‘‘ But,” con- tinued Emanuel, ‘‘ what I wish to know is, to what nation she actually belongs, the port that she is bound to, and the name of her captain.” ‘‘As to the nation she belongs to,” replied the lieutenant, ‘“‘she has taken care to give us that information herself, or she is an outrageous liar, Do you not see the flag flying from her peak? It is the flag with- out stain, rather worn out from being too much used, that’s all. As to the place she is bound to,.it is as the commandant of the fort told you,. when you asked him—Mexico.” Emanuel looked with astonishment at the young lieutenant. ‘‘And, finally, as to her captain, thatisa much more difficult matter. There are some people who would swear he isa young ‘manabout my own age, or yours, for I believe we left the cradle ptetty closely the ome after may-place along interval between our graves. There are others who pretend he is of the same age with my uncle, the Count d’ Estaing, who, as you doubtless know, has just been made an admiral, and who is at this moment affording every assistance to the rebels of America, as some people, even in France, still call them. But, in short, as to his name, thisis quite an- other thing ; It issaid he doesnot know it him- self, and until some fortunate occurrence shall apprise him of it, he calls himself Paul.” “Daal fesse er ae Ee ale ia “Yes, Captain Paul.” ‘Paul; what??? >< AME “Paul, of the Providence, of the Ranger, of the Alliance, according to ‘the name of the ship he commands. Are there not also in France some of our young nobles, who, find- ing their family mame too short, lengthen it out by the name of an estate, arid surmount the whole with a knight’s casque, ora baron’s coronet; sothat their seals or their carriages | bear the evidence of belonging to some ancient in s0 it is with him. | At. this moment he calls ‘himself, I believe, Paul, of the Indienne, and he is proud of the appellation; if I may judga from my naval athies, I do not think. he to be found between the Port of Brest, and the mouth of the Rhone,” p ou the other, although the professions we follow — family, quite delightful to reflect.upon ?. Well! - sympe would Tchateoai Meats for the finest estate »
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PAUL JONES, posal all my knowledge of algebra, I didnot in- tend that we should enter into a research of the wnknown. His character! good heaven, my dear count, whocan speak knowingly of the character of aman, unless it be himself— and even then—but hold—I, myself, as you now see me, have ploughed for twenty. years, at one time with the keel of a brig, at another with that of a frigute, this vast expanse, which now extends itself before us. My eyes, for so I may express myself, discerned the ocean al- most at the same moment that they saw the sky above it; since my tongue was able to join two words together, or my comprehension could combine two ideas, I have. interrogated and - studied the caprices of the ocean, and yet I do not, even to this time, know its character—and there are only four principal winds. and _ thirty- two breezes which agitate it—that’s all, -How, then, can you expect that I should judge of man, torn as he is by his thousand passions.” *‘Nordo I ask you, my dear—duke—mar- - quis—count ?”—— ; : _ “Lieutenant,” replied the young sailor, bow- ing, as Emanuel had done before. “Twas about to say, then, my dear lieuten- ant, I do not ask a physiological lecture on the ' passions of Captain Paul. I only wished to in- _ formmyself upon two points. Firstly, whether you consider him a man of honor?” “We must first of all understand each other as to the meaning of words, my dear count— | what is your precise definition of the word honor ?” F ‘Permit me to remark, my dear lieutenant, that this question is a most singular. one. Honor! Why, honor—is—honor.” “That's it precisely—a word without a defi- _ nition, like the word God! God—is God! and everyone creates a God after hisown fashion. ‘The Egyptians adored him under the form of a -scorpidn—the Israelites, under that of a golden calf, So itis with honor. ‘There is the honor of Camillus, and that of Coriolanus—that of the Cid, and that of Count Julian. Define your ‘question better if you wish me to reply to it.” _ Task, then, whether his word may be re- _ lied wpon ?” “TY do not believe he ever failed:in that “regard. His enemies—and no one can arrive to his station without having them—even his : enemies, I say, have never doubted’ that he _ would keep, even unto death, an oath which ' he had sworn to. | This point is, therefore, be- lieve me, fully settled. In this respect, he is aman of honor. Let us pass, therefore, to your second question, forit Ido not deceive myself, you wish to know something farther,” “Yes, Twish to know whether he would faithfully obey an order given by his Majesty ?” _ What Majesty ?” : ak He ~ Really, my ‘dear lieutenant, you affect a difficulty of comprehension which would bet- ter suit the gown of a sophist, than a naval » uniform.” “Why so? You accuse me of cavilling, be- cause, before replying, I wish to know pre- cisely what I haye to “answer. We have, at this present time, eight or ten majesties, ‘seated securely or otherwise, upon the: difter- ent thrones of Europe. We have his Catholic -Majesty—a feeble majesty, who allows the in- _ heritance left him by Charles the Fifth, to be torn from him piece by piece; we have his Britannic Majesty—a_headstrong majesty, who 7 olinigs to his America, as Cyingetus to the Per- ‘sian ship, and whose hands we shall cut off, d Emanuel, ‘‘do you believe that Captain ul would feel disposed to obey an order ich I should deliver from him?” in-| peared, as it stoo mands, and from the way in which she is fitted. )He must haye then in some drawer of his cabin, a conmission signed by some power or | other. Well, should this commission bear the name of Louis, and be. sealed with the three fleur-de-lis of France, there can be no doubt | that he would obey any order sealed with the same seal, and signed by the same name.” “This is all then that I wished to be inform- edof,” replied the young mousquetaire, who began to grow impatient at the strange and evasive answers given by his companion. ‘‘I will only ask you one more question.” “Tam ready. to obey your wishes in that, as Thave in the rest, count,” returned the lieuten- ant,’ ‘Do you know any way of getting on board of that ship ?” “There is one,” replied the lieutenant, point- ing towards his own Fost which lay rocked by the waves, in a small creek ci\ose to them. *“That boat! why it is yours?’ ‘Well! T will take you on board.” “You know this Captain Paul, then ?” ‘*T? not in the least! But as nephew of an admiral, I am naturally acquainted with every officer of a ship, from the boatswain, who pipes | the hands aloft, to the rear admiral, who eom- mands a squadron. Besides. which we sailors have secret signs among us, acertain masonic | language, by. which we know one another as brothers in whatever part of the ocean we may meet. You may, therefore, accept my proposal with the same frankness in which I offer it.I, my rowers, and my boat are at your disposal.” ‘*Do me this service, then,” said Emanuel, ee and Sa ‘You will forgive me the annoyance I have caused you by my tergiversations, will you not?” said the lieutenant! ‘‘You cannot be surprised at it,” continued he,.smiling, ‘‘my dear count, the solitude of aseaman’s life has given | to us children of the seathe habit of soliloqui- | P zing. During a calm we.invoke the winds! During the tempest we invoke,the calm, and during the night we address ourselves to God.” Emanuel again looked doubtingly at his com- panion, who met his gaze with'that apparent good-tempered simplicity, which had appeared to spread over his features every time he had become the object of investigation. to the mos- quetaire. The latter was surprised at this mix- ture of contempt for. human things, and of poetic feeling towards the works of Ged. But finding that this smgular man was disposed. to render him, although in a strange manner, the service he had asked of him, he accepted ;his proffered assistance. Five minutes afterwards the two young men were advancing towards the unknown vessel with as much rapidity. as the vigor of six stout rowers could give tothe light bark in which they were, seated: _ Their oars rose and fell with so regular a movement, that it appeared rather impelled by some powerful machine, than by the combination of human strength. | ae CHAPTER IL ‘ THE FRIGATE, And oh the little warlike world within ! ‘The well reeved guns, the netted canopy; The hoarse Command, the busy humming din— When, at a word, the tops are mann’d on high, Hark to the boatswain’s call, the cheering cry; While through the seaman’s hands the tackle glides: Or schoolboy midshipman that, standing by, Strains his shrill pipe, as good or ill betides, And well the docile crew that skillful urchin guides. BYRON: As they advanced, the graceful form of the ship became more and more clearly defined, not lead him to admire beauty under such a form, yet he could not avoid being struck by the elegance of her a out against the richly. 1g ie. Artes, J tinted sky, be cc a yedd poted D and although the vocation of the count did. the graceful model of her construction, the loftiness and strength of her masts, and rigging, which ap- pproaches nearer to him, and salutes him with —_ n | more vivid light. . There are and they cs ment on board the ship, which seemed, either from inattention or -contempt, to care but lit- tle for the visit she was about to receive. The — yotng mousquetaire thought, however, at one moment, that he perceived the end of a tele- ~ scope peeping out of one of the portholes, near the muzzle of a gun, and which was | pointed towards the boat; but the ship being gently moyed round by the quiet heaving of the waves, presented her prow toward ‘them, his attention was attracted by the figurehead ® which generally bears some allusion to the name of the vessel that it decorates : it was a representation of one of the daughters of America, discovered by Columbus, and con- quered by Cortez, with a head-dress of many-. colored feathers, her bosom naked, and orna- mented with a coral necklace. As to the re- mainder of the figure, it was a curious com- bination, half syren, half serpent, attached to the forepart of the ship in a graceful though fantastic form. The nearer the boat approach- ed the ship, the more did the attention of the count appear attracted by this figure. It was, in fact, a sculpture, not only singular as to form, but very remarkable from the finish’ of /— execution; and it was easy to perceive, that it was not the work of yulgar hands, but had > been carved by a superior artist. he liewten- ant remarked, with the satisfaction of a sea- man, the increasing admiration which -ap- | peared in the countenance of the soldier ; and at last perceiving that his attention was con- centrated in the figure-head we have described, he seemed to wait with impatience that the latter should express his opinion upon it; but finding that he did not give any, although they were near enough not to lose any of its beau- ties, he took upon himself to be the first to speak, and to question his young companion ‘Well, count,” said he, concealing the inter- est which he took in his reply under an appar- ent gayety, ‘what do you think of this master. 1ece ? 2 f : “Tthink,” replied Emanuel, ‘‘that comparing _ it with works of the samé description, which [ have seen, it merits the appellation which you have given it.” <i ie: ** Yes,” said the lieutenant, carelessly, ‘it is the last work of William Coustou, who died be: fore he had completed it: it was finished by one of his pupils, named Dupre, a man of ge- nius, who is starving, and whois obliged to carye wood for want of marble, and to cut figure.’ heads for ships, when he ought to be employed — in sculpturing statues, See,” said he, giving an impulsion to the rudder which laid then: across her bows, ‘‘ it is a realnecklace of coral that she wears, and they are real pearls that are hanging from her ears. As to her eyes, each pupil is a diamond worth a hundred ‘guineas. . The captain who takes this frigate, will, besides the honor of capturing her, have a splendid wedding present to offer to his bride.” Voie. ** What an odd caprice,” exclaimed Emanuel, carried away by the singularity of the object he was gazing at, “‘ to ornament a ship in the same way that one would an animated. being, and to risk considerable sums to.the chances of © 2 battle, or the dangers of a storm,” a oe _ “Why should this astonish you?” said the lieutenant, with an accent of indescribable mel- ancholy ; ‘‘we seamen have no other family than our sailors, no country but the ocean, DO + gorgeous pageants but the tempest; no amuse- ment but a battle. We must attach ourselyes to something, having no real mistresses, for who would love us sea-gulls, who are always enthe wing ? We must therefore shape toourselyesan _ imaginary love. The one becomes enamored of wf some verdant and shady island, and every time he perceives one in the distance, rising from the o¢ean like a flower-garden, his heart becomes as joyous as that of a bird, when returning to its rest. Another selects some favorite star from out the firmament, and during the long lovely nights on the Atlantic, every time he to gta ti oy ‘passes the equator, it appears
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Ti cg ee eT pawn JONES. part of her, at every wound given by the shot! that strike her, and when she is at length sunk by the tempest or the combat, prefer to perish _ with her, rather than to save themselves with- out her, giving to landsmen a holy example of | fidelity. Captain Paul is one of the latter class, that’s all, and be has given to bis frigate the » Wedding present which he had intended for his | bride, Ah! I see they are waking up.” ‘‘ Boat ahoy !” cried some one from on board tho frigate, ‘‘ what boat's that?” “Wes want to come on _ board,” replied manuel ; ‘throw us'a rope that we may catch hold of.” “Go round to the starboard side and you will find the gangway ladder.” ; The sailors pulled round, and ina few seconds the two young men were going up the ship’s side. The officer of the watch came forward with an eagerness which appeared in Emanuel's mind to promise well. | “Sir,” said the lieutenant toa young man who was dressed in the same uniform as him- self, and appeared to be of the same rank, ‘(this is my friend, the Count ——. By the by, I forgot to ask your name?” ‘Count’ Emanuel d’Auray.” “Twas saying then, that this is my friend, the Cou.t Emanuel d’Auray, who anxiously de- ‘sires to speak to Captain Paul. Is he on board?” ‘‘ He has just this moment arrived,” replied | the officer. i «Jn that case I will go below and prepare him to receive you, my dear count. In the meantime, this is Mr. Walter, who will have the pleasure of showing you through the ship. It ‘is an interesting sight fora land officcr, and the | » more so, asI doubt whether you would find many ships kept in such order as thisis. The ‘people are at supper just now, I believe?” ** Ves, sir.” . “Ja that case it will be the more curious a y sight.” “But,” observed the officer, hesi ““itis my watch on deck.” ‘*Bah! you can’ easily find one of your brother officers who will relieve you for a short time. Iwill endeavor to manage so that the captain shall not make you kick your heels too Jong in the ante-room. Adieu, till I meet you again, count; I shall recommend you in such a way as will insure a zood ety Se for you.” With these words, the young lieutenant disap- peared down the companion ladder, while the ‘one who remained with Emanuel to show him over the ship, took him ’tween decks, As the lieutenant had presumed, the crew of ‘the frigate were at their supper. It was the first time that the young count had bgen_pres- _ent at such a repast; and however much he de- sired tospeak Mumediately to the captain, he felt. so curious to observe what was going on, that he examined everything with eager atten- tion. 4 _ Between every two guns, a table and benches _ were prepared, not standing on their feet, but elung by ropes from the deck above. Four men “were seated upon each of the benches, taking their portion of pieces of beef which seemed to ' resist the action of their knives, but which had _ to do with hearty fellows who did not appear at tating a little, pretty sample of every nation in the world, and if all at once a good deluge should carry off the children of Noah, as it formerly did those of Adam, our ark could furnish people who spoak every language. those three fellows who are exchanging a piece | of roast beef for a clove of garlick, they are lads from Galicia, whom we picked up at Cape Ortegal, and who would not go into action without having said a preyer to St. Jago of | Compostello, but who, when once their prayer is over, would rather allow themselves to be cut in pieces, like martyrs, than retreat a sin- gle step. Those two who are polishing their table at the expense of their jacket-sleeves, are honest Dutchmen, who still complain of the injury done to their commerce by the dis- covery of the Cape of Good Hope. You see them —at first sight they look like very beer- pots. Well, those brave fellows, the moment they hear the drum beat to quarters; become as active as monkeys. Go near them, and they willtalk to you about their ancestors ; they will tell you they descend from those famous sweepers of thesea, who, when going into action, hoisted a broom instead of a flag; but they will take good care not to inform you that one fine morning the English took their broom, and made rods of it to whip them with. ' That whole table, where they are chat- tering together at such a rate, but in an under tone, is oceupicd by Frenchmen, who would talk louder if they dared. The seat of honor is occupied by a chiet, elected by themselves ; ho is a Parisian by birth, a cosmopolite from taste, a great master at the small sword, single stick, and a dancing-master to boot. Always gay and contented, he sings when heis on duty, sings when he is fighting, and will die singing, unlessa hemp crayat should stop his voice, which may very likely happen to him should he havo the misfortune to fall into the hands of John Bull, Turn your eyes to the other side now, and observe that row of square and idle heads. These are strange faces to you, are they not? but which every American born between . Hudson’s Bay ahd the Gulf of Mexico, would recognize at once for bears born on the borders of Lake Erie, or*seals from Nova Scotia. There are three or four of them who are one-eyed—this arises. from their pecu- liar mode of fighting: they twist their fingers in the hair of their antagonist, and gouge out his eye with their thumbs. There are some of them who are very expert at this exercise, and who ,never miss their mark. So that when they are boarding’a ship, they almost invariably throw away their boarding-pike, or their cut- lass, and, seizing the first. Englishman they can catch hold of, they uneye him with a dexterity and quickness quite delightful tobehold. You will now comprehend that I did not deceive you in what 1 said, and that our collection is complete. : ‘* But,” asked Emanuel, who had listened to this long envmeration with a certain degree of | interest, “how does your captain manage to make himself understood by men brought together from such distant nations ?”’ , “First of all, our captain wnderstands a langueges—and although in battle and during stormy weather he speaks his mother tongue, he gives such an accent to it that everyone understands him and obeys him. But see, the Do you observe | regulations. It was a blue coat with | facings, a red waistcoat and breeches of the same color, gray stockings, with frilled shirt and ruffles. His hair, rolled upin large ours, sane scarlet and powdered quite white, was tiedintoa queue — by a ribbon, the ends of which floated upon his shoulders. . His eocked hat and his sword were i lying upon a table beside him. At the moment Emanuel centered the door, he was sitting upon tho ¢garriage of a gun, but when he perceived him, he rose up to receivo him, The young count felt intimidated by the as- pect of this man; there wasin his eye a search. ing look which appeared to peer into the very soul of tho person whom he gazed upon. Per. haps, also, this impr. ssion was the more power- ful, that he presented himself .before him with a conscience that reproached him with the act he was endeavoring to accomplish, and ct which — he was about to render the captain, if not an accomplice, at all events the executioner. | These two men, as though they felt a secret re- |pulsion, the one towards the other, saluted each other with politeness, but with cold re- Serve. D ; ‘Itis the Count d’Auray that I have the honor of addressing,” said the old officer.” — ‘And I, Captain Paul, I believe,” replied the young mousquetaire; they both bowed a second time. it “May I know to what fortunate chance I owe the honor,” rejoined the captain, ‘ of the visit which is now paid to me by the heir of one of the oldest and greatest families in Brit-” tany ?” ; Emanuel bowed again by way of thanks for this compliment, and then, after hesitating for a moment as if he found it difficult to open the conversation, he observed: ‘‘I am told, Cayp- tain Paul, that you are bound to the Gulf of Mexico ?”” ; f ‘‘And you have not been deceived, sir; I purpose sailing for New Orleans, calling on my — way at Cayenne, and at the Havana.” Bin “This falls out very fortunately, captain, — and you will not have toalter your coursé, in. case you should be willing: to undertake the execution of the order of which IT am the bearer. ” ; yy : ‘You have an order to communicate to me,” , and from whom?” : ‘From the Minister of Marine.” ** An order addressed to me personally?” re- iterated the captain doubtingly. et ‘Not personally to you, six; but toany cap- tain of the royalnavy, who may be about to ‘sail for South America.” pale “Of what nature is it, count?” Cagle ‘‘A state prisoner to be transported to Cayenne.” f #21 «And you have the order with you?! » ‘*Here it is,” replied Emanuel, taking | from his pocket and presenting it to the ca) tain, boi He took the paper, and going near the Ope ¥, window, that he might avail himself of the fast gleam of daylight, he read aloud: | ayshe Mie ‘‘The Minister of Marine and of the Colon-— ies, orders any captain or lieutenant, comma inga government vessel, who may be about to sail for South America, or for the Gulf of Mex- ico, to take on board his ship and. to land Cayenne, the person named Lusi, sir ¥ it aii we all disposed to be daunted by its toughness. - As to the bread, it did not appear to be distrib- _ uted by rations, but they could take as much as they wanted. The most profound silence ‘reigned throughout the crew, which was com- ‘osed of nob more than from one hundred and eighty to two hundred mea. _ Although none of those seated at the table, opened their mouths for any other purpose » con- larboard cabin door is opening, and I doubt| demned to transportation for life, — arin; ae not he is ready to receive you,” passage the convict shall take his meals. 2 his’ And instantly a boy dressed in a midship-| own cabin, and shell not be allowed to he ; man’s uniform came up to the two officers, and | any communication wtth the ship's company.” — asked Emanuel if he did not call himself the| ‘*Is the order in due form ?” asked im ie Count d’Auray ; and on his receiving an affirm.| ‘‘ Perfectly, sit,” replied the captain. ative reply, he requested him to follow him;| ‘And are you disposed to execute it?” | and the officer who had so conscientiously sus-| ‘‘Am I not under the orders of th tained the part of a cicerone, immediately | of Marine?” ; bi aie wont on deck to resume his duties there. As} ‘‘The prisoner may then be sent to yc to Emanuel, he advanced: towards the cabin| ‘‘Whenever you will; but had bette with a mixed feeling of anxiety.and curiosity. | this evening, or as soon as | He was at last about to be ushered into the | expect to be long in these. | presence of Captain Paul. = tis **T will take care that du _ Hewasa man who appeared to be between|used.” y-five years of age, and to whe m the | ~ Ts this between docks had given a| ‘Nod re the | emai 0 its s "Do
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ordersand I obey, that’s all. Itisa duty which I fulfill, and nota service that I am rendering.” Upon these words the captain and the count bowed to each other and separated, more coldly | re, “i even than they had met, When he reached the dock, Emanuel asked the officer of the watch for his friend who had accompanied him on board, but was informed that he had been detained by Captain Paul to | sup with him, and that being anxious to oblige ‘the count, he had placed his boat at his dis- sal. She was waiting alongside the ship, and the sailors were in readiness to accompany him. Emanuel had scarcely got into her when they “rowed him away with a rapidity equal to that with which they had conducted him on board. ' But this time she proceeded in sorrowful silence, for the young lieutenant was io longer there to animate the count with his practical philos- ophy. “ie That same nihgt the prisoner was conducted om board the Jndienne, and the next morning at daybreak the inquisitive inhabitants ‘of the coast no longer discerned the frigate which had given rise to so many ccnjectures, and whose unexpected drrival, her remaining there with- out any apparent object, and her ‘spontaneous departure, remained an inexplicable mystery to the inhabitants of —'v.t Louis. AE 4 OHAPTER II. THE SEA FIGHT. \The gallant vessels side by side did He, _ Yard-arm and yard-arm, and the murderous guns Belchied forth their flame and shot, ‘til the white decks hi like a sea with blood. Uncertain still e victory stood, till Perry, waving His bright sword o'er his head, cried; ‘Follow me.” at Gbandses shouts respondcd to t::e call, ' Then with one spring he bounded on the aeck Of his determined foe.—Oxp Pray. As the motives which had induced Captain Paul to visit the coast of Brittany iad no rela- tion with our history, exceping as far as regards ‘the events which we have related, we shall leave our readers in the same state of uncertainty as _ were the inhabitants of Fort Louis; and al- ; _ though our yocation and our sympathies natu- _ rally incline us to terra-firma, we must follow _ our hero for a few days in his adventurous - course upon the ocean. The weather was as ” beautiful as it generally is on the western coast of France, at the commencement of autumn. 6 Indienne sailed. gayly on with as fair a wind could blow for her. The ship’s erew, except- those few actually employed in mancuy- the vessel, were availing themselves of the weather and occupied in their own matters, ; caprice directed them, or were idly lounging ‘about the ship, when all at once a voice which Rppeared to descend from the sky, called out: “Below, there !” ‘Ffullo, there!” replied the quarternaaster, who was standing near the helm. ' “Sail, ho!” cried the seaman who was on the loc kout, at the mast-head, _ “Sail, ho,” repeated the quartermaster, ‘‘Of- ficer of the deck, be so good as to inform the there is a sail in sight.” tain i Oy . BS iter il! a sail!” re-echoed the crew from uh vA abd se ee will find'us ready to talk to her. Besides, our guns must be almost choked from having their | mouths stopped so long.” ; { Aftersome little time, the midshipman again | hailed the officer on deck, and told him that the strange ship had just set her mainsail, and had | altered her course a little, so as to cross their bow. ; ‘‘Sir,” said the captain, addressing the lieu- j tenant, ‘‘get ready to | shipman, ‘how does the ship seem to sail, Mr. Arthur? what do you think of her ?” ‘She seems to be a fast sailer, and is a man- | of-war, I should think, by the squareness of her | yards; and although I cannot see her flag I would wager that she bears King George’s com- mission.” ‘*T should not wonder,” observed the captain to his first lieutenant, ‘‘and that she has orders to give chase to e certain frigate called the In- dienne, and that her commander is promised | good promotion shonld he succeed in eapturing jher. Ha! ha! r yvsheis loosing her topgal- lant sails. The bloodhound has scented us, and is decidedly about to give us chase. Set our topgallant sails, too, Mr. Walter, and let us keep our course without varying a point. We shall see whether they will dare to come athwart our hawse.” The captain’s orders were instantly repeated by the lieutenant, and in a few minutes the ship which had been running under her topsails, felt the influence of her topgallant sails, over under this new pressure and bounded along as if animated by the sight of an enemy, and dashing away the spray from either bow with eager impetuosity. For some time there Was hardly a. word uttered on board, Everyone appeared to await anxiously the termination of this state of sus- ‘pense, and we shall profit by this momentary quiet, to call the attention of our readers to the person of the officer to whom the lieutenant had given the title of captain. It was no longer either the young and scep- tical lieuténant whom we have seen accompany- ing the Count d’Auray on board the ship, nor the old sea-wolf with his stooping gait, and harsh and snappish answers, who had received him in the cabin. He was a handsome young man, from twenty to twenty-five years of age, as we haye said before, who having thrown off all disguise, appeared at length in his own per- son, and dressed in the fanciful wniform which he always. wore when upon the wide ocean, It was a sort of great coat of black velvet, with gold shoulder knots and fastened with hooks and eyes of the same metal. Round his. waist he wore a Turkish belt, in which was placed a pair of elegant dueling pistols, richly inlaid and ornamented, apparently more for show than for | defense. His pantaloons were of white kersey- | mere, with boots which reached nearly to his knees. Round his neck, a cravat of transpa- rent India muslin, embroidered with flowers in their natural colors, was loosely tied; his hair, no longer disfigured by powder, and black as ebony, flowed about his cheeks, which were tanned by exposure to the sun; his eyes beamed with hope and animation. Near him, upon a gun, was placed a steel helmet which fastened by a curb chain under the chin. This was his battle dress, andthe only defensive armor which hewore. Some. deep indentations in this hel- met proved that it had more than once saved the head which it protected from those se- vere wounds inflicted by those terrible cutlasses |used by seamen when boarding. As to the ship’s company, they wore the elegant though plain uniform of the French navy. eombat sho: beat to quarters. We | must prepare for this fellow; he looks rather | v d p suspicious.” And then calling out to the mid- | behind her bulwarks, it was impossible to as- eeled | | The unknown. ship idtake place. There reigned then | on board the Indienne, that solemn and profound — silence, which in a ship of war always” recedes the decisive ers of the captain. inally, the hull of the strange sail appeared rising out of the water, as her sails at suc-- cessively done before. It was then clearly dis- cernible that she was a larger ship than the Indienne, and that she carried thirty-six guns. She, however, showed uo colors, and as hex crew were carefully and completely concealed certain, unless by some particular indications, to what nation she belonged. These two ob- servations were made almost at the same mo- ment by Captain Paul; the last, however, seemed to strike him the most forcibly. re “Itappears,” said he, addressing his lieuten- ant, “that we are going to haye a scene of q masked ball. Order Arthur to bring us a few flags, and let us prove to this unknown that the Indienne has several disguises at her dis- posal. And then, Mr. Walter, give orders that cutlasses and boarding pikes be distributed, for we can hardly expect, in these seas, ta. meet with any but enemy’s ships.” see? _The two orders were executed as soon aa — given. In an instant the young midshipman — had brought on deck a dozen flags of different — nations, and Lientenant Walter, having had the arn-chests opened, had boarding-pikes © piled in different positions throughout the » ship, and had distributed cutlasses and axes tothe ship’s company, he then returned to his place by the captain's side. Every man again resumed his post by instinct rather than — by order, for they had not yet beat to quar- ters; so that the apparent confusion sieht had existed for a moment, ceased at once, and — the frigate became once more, as it were, silent and attentive. 3 However, the two ships following their con. — verging directions, continued to approach — each other, When they were about the dis» tance of three gun shots, ‘‘Mr. Walter,” said — the captain, “I think it is time we should be- | gin to mystify our good friend here. Let us show him the old Scotch flag.” AY gti The lieutenant gave a sign to the quarters _ master, and the Red Lion of Sootland, — on a blue field, rose like a flame to — the peak of the Indienne; but nothing on — board the enemy’s ship gave evidence of their paying the slightest attention to this man-. euver, i , , “Yes, yes,” murmured the captain, ‘the three leopards. of England have so well filed — the teeth and pared the claws of the Scotch — lion, that they pay no! attention to him, be- © lieving that he is tamed because he is defense- less. Show him some other color, Mr: Walter, — and perhaps we shall succeed in loosening his — tongue.” ; . Ke ‘What flag shall I hoist, captain ?” 2 “Take the first that comes; chance may perhaps favor us.” This order was scarcely Z ‘ 3 } [ given, when the Scotch flag was hauled down, and thet of Sar- _ dinia took its place. The ship still femained — mute, “Well, well,” said the ce, eats jestingly, ‘it appears that His Majesty, King George, is on good terms with his brother of Cyprusand Jerusalem. Do not let us bring them to log- erheads by carrying our joke farther. Mr. alter, let us show the American flag, and prove that is really the right one by firingan — unshotted gun.’ 2 oN The same maneuver was repeated. ‘The Sardinian flag was hauled down, and the stars” Js sky, and were certified by firing # gun. _ What the captain had foreseen then’ th ol of rebellion rising insolently in the ‘ir, aay see oe petiray oA tte of the United States rose slowly towards th ‘ er immediately on the display ofthis s + . SS At Sirk ican ig fom th from.
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? fe, Gt aD 2 Le Pag foreee Z Bee Re ee rnd, hs am, PAUL JONES.” we have guessed rightly: Come, my boys,” eried he, to the crew, ‘* hurrah for America ! and death to England!” oe This was answered by a general shout, and ‘had not ceased, when they. heard them beat- ing to quarters on boar the Drake, for. that was the name of the ‘English ship. The drums of the Indienne immediately replied, and’ every man ran to his post. ‘The gunners ~ to their guns, the officers to their ‘stations, and , the sailors to their running rigging. As to the captain, he jumped upon the top of the com- panion, his speaking-trumpet in his hand—the supreme symbol, the scepter of nautical royal- ' ty, which the commander always wields in the hour of combat or during the raging of the tempest. ; They now seemed to have made an exchange of parts, for the English appeared impatient, i and the Americans affected calmness. The ships were hardly within gun shot, when a long line of smoke was seen issuing from the side of the English vessel, and a report similar to loud ' thunder was heard, and the iron messengers sent to deal death among the rebels, having in their impetuosity, miscalculated the distance, fell harmless before reaching the sides of the . frigate. The latter, however, as if refusing to reply to so premature an attack, continued to haul to the wind, as if to spare the enemy too long a course. At this moment the captain turned, as if to _ give a last look round his ship, and his astonish- éd gaze was attracted by the appearance of a mew personage on the deck, who had selected this dangerous and exciting moment to mgke his entrance upon the scene. | 4 It was a young man, somewhere about twen- ty-two or twenty-three yearsof age. His face was pale and mild; he was plainly, but elegant- ly dressed, and whom the captain had not be- fore seen on board. He was leaning against ths mizen-mast, his arms folded over his. chest, and looking with melancholy indifference at the ' English vessel which was approaching them 4 47 and sorrowful voice ; ‘‘ but under a heavy press of canvas. This calmness at such a moment, and in a man who appeared a stranger to nautical combats, forcibly. struck "the captain. Hethenremembered the prisoner, whom the Count d’ Auray had announced to him, and who had been brought on board dur- ing the last night he had passed at the anchor- age of Port Louis. “ Who allowed you to come on deck, sir ?” ~ gaid he, softening as much as possible, the tone of his inquiry, so that it would have been diffi- eult. to ascertain whether this was ad- dressed as @ mere question, or as a reproach. “No one, sir,” replied the prisoner, in a soft had hoped that under the present circumstances, you would less _. severely observe the orders. by which I became _»your prisoner.” _ Have you forgotten that you were forbidden _ to hold any communication with the ship’s com- ” any: ; ; ' **T did not come here for the purpose of ky : holding communication with your ship’s compa- ox ay, “ y: The ns ny, sir; Icame to see whether some friendly - cannon ball would do me a good turn.” “You may but too soon have your desire - accomplished, if you remain where you are now _ standing; therefore, believe me, you had better ‘remain below.” 5 _ Js this your advice, or an order, captain ?” “You haye full liberty to construe it as you please.” i “In that case,” replied the young man, ‘IT - thank you—I will remain here.” ' At this instant, another loud report was heard, but the two ships had by this time aeared each other so much, that they were within gun-shot, and the whole tempest of _ ‘shot passed through the sails of the Indienne. Two splinters fell from the masts, and the gtoans and stifled cries of some of the ship’s car and unmoved, in the same attitude as if he had | not felt the wing of the exterminating angel waft above his head. ‘The captain knew how to appreciate courage-—this incident was suffi- cient to assure him of the undaunted bravery of the man who stood before him. ‘OTis well, sir,” said he to him, ‘ remain where you are, and when we come to board- ing, if you should be tired of remaining with your arms crossed, take up a cutlass or an axe, and give us a helping hand. You will excuse my not paying you more attention at this moment, for I have other things to do.” “‘Pire!” cried he, in a voice of thunder, through his speaking-trumpes, ‘‘now, give it her :. fire !”” ‘‘Fire !”’ repeated the officers like an echo, at their different stations. At the instant, the Indienne trembled from her keel to her royalmast head, as she poured her -broadside into the enemy—a cloud of smoke spread itself like a vail, along the star- board side, which was soon carried to leeward. The captain, standing upon the companion, impatiently awaiting its clearing off, that he might ascertain the effect which the broadside had produced upon the enemy’s vessel. When his gaze could penetrate through the smoke, he perceived that the enemy’s main topmast had: fallen, and had, with its sails, encumbered the after-part of the Drake’s deck, and that her other sails were cut to ribbons. Then putting his speaking-trumpet to his mouth he cried: ‘Well done! my lads. Now watch her closely. ‘They will be too busy in clearing away the wreck of their mast, to think of raking us—fire—as you can—and this time shave close!” The crew hastened to obey this order—the frigate veered round, and as the guns were brought.to bear upon the enemy, they were discharged with terrible effect: and, as the captain had imagined, without any hindrance from the Drake. The Indienne once more trembled like avoleano, and, as a volcano, vomited forth her flame and smoke. This time. the gunners had followed the orders of their captain to the letter, and the broadside had been fired point blank, striking the hull and the lower masts. Both her masts were still standing; but on all sides the sails were hanging in tatters. It appeared that some moré considerable damage had been done, which it was impossible to ascertain at that distance ; for some time, the broadside was not returned ; at length it was, and instead of raking the Indienne, it struck her in a diago- nal direction, It was not the less terrible, for it swept off many a brave fellow from the deck; but by a chance which appeared positively mag- ical, touched neither of the masts. Some of the running rigging was cut, but’ nothing that prevented her nyaneuvering as before. At one glance, Paul ascertained that he had only lost some men. His heart bounded with joy. He once more placed the speaking trumpet to his mouth. ‘‘Tarboard the helm,” cried he, ‘‘and board heron the larboard side’! Boarders, to your stations—be ready! Give her one more broad- side.” At the first movement of the Indienne, the enemy at once perceived the intention, and en- deavored to neutralize it by a similar move- ment, but at the instant of attempting to exe- cute it, a dreadful crash was heard on board her, and the mainmast, which had been nearly cut through by the last discharge from the In- dienne, trembled for a few seconds like an up- rooted tree, and fell forward, covering the deck with the mainsailand the Hgping. Cap- tain Paulat once comprehended what had de- layed the return of the broadside. ‘Now, she is ours, my lads!” cried he, ‘‘ we have only to take her. One last broadside within pistol shot, and then we’ll board her. | centuries on the field of battle. It was with fore at the merey of her adversary, who, by re- _ maining at a distance and playing atlong bowls — might have riddled her and sank her; but dis- _ daining this too easy victory, sent in a last — broadside; and then, before seeing the effect it chad produced, the frigate ran in upon her lar. board quarter, and threw her grappling-irons — on board. -On the instant, the tops and fore- castle of the Indienne blazed as with fireworks _ on a holiday, and flaming hand-grenades were showered upon the deck of the Drake with the rapidity of hailstones, if “Courage, my lads, courage, lash the bow- sprit to her quarter rails. Well done! now, to your two forecastle carronades—fire !” All these orders were executed with magical celerity ; the two ships were as securely lashed’ together as if by iron chains—the two carron- ades which had not been fired during the com- bat, thundered in their turn, and swept the enemy’s deck with a cloud of grapeshot, and’ then another ery was heard, uttered by the same stentorian voice : ‘Now, board her!!!” t And, adding example to precept, the cap- tain of the Indienne threw aside his speaking- trumpet, now of no longer use, ined his - helmet on his head, fastening the clasp be- neath his chin’; placed the saber ‘which he usually wore in his belt between his teeth, — and rushed upon the bowsprit to jump thence upon the deck of the enemy. ‘ Although this movement followed the order he had given with as great rapidity as the thunder succeeds the lightning, he was only the second upon the English deck: he was preceded by the young prisoner with whom he had conversed, who had thrown aside his coat, and armed only with a hatchet, was the first to encounter death or victory, “You are not conversant with the discipline — of my ship,” said Paul, laughing, “if is my — place to be the first to board aship I am at- tacking. I forgive you this time, but take care it does not. again happen.” yes. At the same instant, the seamen of the Indienne rushed from thei own ship to the — enemy’s, taking advantage of every point of — contact, some from the bowsprit, others from — the end of the yards, the nettings, and fell — upon the deck, like ripe fruit falling from a trea when shaken by the wind. Then the — English, who had retreated to their forecastle, — unmasked a carronade which they had had ~ time to turn upon their enemy, A yolley — of fire and iron was vomited forth on the as- sailants. One-fourth of the crew of the In: dienne fell killed or mutilated on the enemy’s deck, in the midst of cries and maledictions. — But above the cries and blasphemous oaths, a voice resounded, crying: Rd “ Worward—all of you!” ( eas Then ensued a scene of appaling confusion — —a combat hand to hand—a general duel. To the roar of cannon, to the report of musketry, — to the explosion of hand grenades, had suc- ceeded the struggle with cold steel, loss noisy — but more sure, above all with seamen who have retained for their sole use this inheritance from the giants, proseribed for more than two — hatchets that they cleaved eagh other's skull ;— it was with cutlasses they wounded cach other's breast; it was with boarding pikes that th nailed each other to the deck and masts. From time to time, in the midst of this mute ca 4
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. } x 7 : \ Ay = out his hand, “and he who strikes another blow will have to deaf with me,” SiO ale, Then holding out his hand to his yonng prisoner, ‘‘Sir,” said he, ‘‘You will relate to me, to-night, how it was that you were made my prisoner, will you not? For there must le some cowardly machination in this affair. , The infamous only are transported to Cayenne, * and you are too brave to. be infamous.™ , \ pearance at Versailles. os return to pay her court to the queen. ny % CHAPTER IV. THE MARCHIONESS. . She was a woman Of virtue most austure ; noble in birth And of most royal presence—but sad thoughts Seemed to possess her wholly—her children, even, Seldom approached her, and when they did, No soft affection, motherly caress, Was e’er accorded to them—stern and cold, She looked a moving statue.—OLpD Pay. Axovt six months after the occurrence of the events we have just related, and in the early part of the spring of 1778, a post chaise, whose wheels and panels covered with mud and dust, clearly certified that it had performed a long journey, was dragging slowly along, although two powerful horses were harnessed to it, upon the road between Vannes and Auray. The tra- veler it contained, and who was roughly jolted intraversing the cross-roads, was our former acquaintance, Count Emanuel, whom we saw open the scene upon tho jetty of Fort Louis. He was coming from Paris with all haste, and proceeding to his ancient family mansion, with ‘regard to which it is now necessary to give some more precise and circumstantial details. Count Emanuel d’Auray was descended from one of the oldest families in Brittany—one of his ancestors had followed Saint Louis to the Holy Land, and from that time the name, of which he was the last inheritor, had been con- stantly blended with the history of our mon- archy, whether in its victories or defeats. His father, the Marquis of d’Auray, Chevalier of the order of St. Louis, Commander of the order of St. Michael, and Grand Cross of the order of the Holy Ghost, enjoyed at the Court of Louis XY., in which he filled the post of high stew- ard, that high distinction to which his birth, ‘his fortune and his personal merit, truly enti- tled him. His influence there had been in- ereased by his marriage with Mademoiselle de Sable, who was his equal in everything that regarded family or credit at court; so that a brilliant future was opened to the ambition of ‘the young people, when, after being married five years, a report was suddenly spread about the court, that the Marquis d’Auray had become ‘insane during a journey he had made to his es- tates. This report was fora long time disbe- lieved, Atlength the winter arrived, and nei- ther the marquis nor his wife made their ap- His place was kept open for him another year, for the king, still hoping he would regain his reason, refused to appoint a successor to it; but a second winter passed on, and even the marchiorfess did ge France people are soon forgotten ; absence is a ‘wearying malady, to which even the greatest |‘ “names sooner or later must succumb. The shroud of indifference was gradually spread _ over this family, immured in their old chateau, as in a tomb, and whose voices were not heard _ either soliciting or complaining. Genealogists ‘alone had duly enregistered the birth of a son and daughter, the only fruits-of this union ; the dAurays, therefore, continued to figure among Pathe names of the French nobility ; but not hay- ing mixed themselves up for more than twenty years either in court intrigues or in political i ieN Pik: a PAUL JONES. ry first time on the occasion of the young Count | tain objects irritated, and they had : ways been Emanuel’s being admitted in 1769, as one of the pages of Louis XV., and the second, when after having served his time as page, he entered the company of mousquetaries of the young King Louis XVI. He had, during this time, become acquainted with the Baron de Lectoure, a dis- tant relation of M.de Maurepas, who was fav- orably disposed towards him, and who enjoyed a considerable degree of influence with that minister. Emanuel had been presented to this old courtier, who having been informed that the Count d’Auray had a sister, one day let fall a few words upon the possibility of an union be- tween the two families. Emanuel, young and full of ambition, wearied with struggling be- neath the vail which had obscured his family name, saw in this marriage a@ means of regain- ing the position which his father had occupied at court under the late king, and had eagerly caught at the first overtures for this alliance. M. de Lectoure, on his side, under the pretext of uniting himself still closer by the bands of brotherhood, to his young friend, had urged his suit with an eagerness, which was so | much the more flattering to Emanuel, that the man who demanded the hand of his sister had never seen her. ‘The Marchioness d’ Auray had listened the more readily to this proposal, as it opened to her son the road to royal favor, and the marriage was agreed upon, if not between the two young people, at all events between the families. Emanuel, who preceded M. de Leetoure three or four days only, had hastened into the coun- try toinform his mother that everything had been arranged according to her desire. As to Marguerite, the intended wife, they contented themselves with informing her of the resolution they had taken without thinking it necessary to ask her consent to it, in about the same way that a criminal is informed of the sentence which condemns him to the seaffold. It was, therefore, thus cradling himself in the brilliant dreams of future exalted favor, and buoying himself up with the most-elevated projects of ambition, that young Count Eman- uel ve-entered the gloomy castle of his family, whose feudal towers, black walls, and court- yards, overgrown with grass, formed so strik- ing a contrast withthe golden hopes that agita- ted him. The castle was a league and a half distant from any other dwelling. The princi- pal facade overlooked that part of the ocean, which being so constantly swept by storms, has obtained the name of ‘‘the Wild Sea,” The other looked toward an immense park, which, being for twenty years abandoned and uncultivated, had become a complete forest. As to the apartments, they had remained con- stantly closed, with the exception of those in- habited by the family. The furniture, which had been renewed during the reign of Louis XIV., had, thanks to the care of a numerous household, retained a rich and aristocratic ap- pearance, which the more modern part of it had begun to lose, and which, although more elegant, was less magnificent. It had been supplied from the workshops of Boule, the ap- pointed upholsterer of the court. F It was into one of those rooms, with deep mouldings, sculptured chimney-pieces, and ceil- ing paintedin fresco that he Count Emanuel was ushered on alighting from his carriage. He was in such haste to communicate to his mothér the happy news of which he was the bearer, that without taking the time to change his dress, he threw his hat, his gloves, and travel- ing pistols on the table, and ordered an old servant to inform the marchioness of his ar- rival, and to ask her permission to present him- self, saying that he would await it in that room ; for such in this old family was the re- spect paid to parents, that the son, after an absence of five months, did not dare to present himself to his mother without in the first place consulting her desires upon the subject. As to ) kept from him with the greatest precaution. marchioness alone, a model of conjugal virtue, remained always with him, fulfiling towa¥ the poor lunatic not only the duties of a wife, but also those ofa servant. Consequently, her name was revered in the surrounding villages as that of a saint, whose devotedness on earth — has gained a place in heayen. Se In a few moments the old servant returned, and announced that the Marchioness d’Auray preferred’ coming down to him, and begged that the count would wait for her in the room — in which he then was. Almost immediately afterward the door of the room again opened, — and Emanuel’s mother entered it. She was about forty or forty-five years of age, tall and pale, but still handsome, whose calm, austere and melancholy features had a singular appear- She was in the costume of a widow, as adopted in 1760,'for since the time that her husband had lost his reason, she had never laid aside /auce of haughtiness, energy and command. | her mourning garments, Her long black gown © gave to her movements, cold and slow as those of a shadow, a solemn appearance, which shed — around this extraordinary woman afeeling of awe which even filial affectionhad never been* able to surmount. Therefore, on seeing her, Eman- uel started as at the sight of an unexpected — apparition, and instantly rising, he advanced three steps toward her, respectfully went down upon one knee, and kissed the hand she presented to him. ‘Rise, sir,” said the marehioness.. “I am — lappy to see you again.” ; : And she pronounced these words with as little emotion as if her son, who had been ab- sent five months, had left her but the day be- | fore. Emanuel obeyed, conducted his mother toa large arm-chair, in which she seated her- self, and he remained standing before her. ‘‘T received your letter, count,” she said, — “and I congratulate you on your skill. You appear to me born for diplofhacy, and even more so than for a military life. You ought if (i ti er to request the Baron de. Lectoure to obtain an embassy for you, rather than a regiment.” “Tectoure is ready to solicit anything we — may desire, madam; and what is more, he will obtain any peice may solicit, so great ‘M. Maurepas, and so great z is his power with is his love for my sister.” y “Tn love with a woman he has never seen?” ‘«Lectoure is agentleman, madam, and the 7] ei i) ’ $34 K portrait I have drawn of Marguerite, and per- haps the information he has receiyed as to our fortune, has inspired him with the most — earnest desire to become your son and to call himself my brother. And therefore — he has requested that all the Pe ceremonies may be gone through in his ab- — sence. You have obtained the publication of the banns, madame?” a “Ves,” : “The day after to-morrow, then, the mar- riage contract can be signed.” ; “ With the help of Go “Thanks, madam.” peak . “But tell me,” continued the marchioness, — leaning on the arm of her ¢hair, and bending toward Emanuel, “has he not qnaetinae? you regarding that young man, for whom he obtained from the minister an order of deport-_ ation ?” ¥e “By no méans, my mother. 5 vices which are asked without entering into any explanation, and which are granted in implicit. confidence. It is well understood between peo. ple who know the world, that they are to forgotten as soon as rendered,” - “Then he knows nothing ?” ‘No—but did he know all” —— - “ Well ?” ‘“Well, madame, I believe ‘he is Re * Bo anuch’ of « sate d, all will be ready.” 4 y Nee “4 ian ‘ : - 2a These are ser- philosopher, that the discovery would not in ‘any Way influence his determination.” _“T thought as much; he is a ruined spe .| thrift,” replied the marchioness, wi Fp eitnaoeed gitar, em >. oat
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PAUL JONES, uel anxiously, ** your resolution would be still; unchanged, I hope.” ‘Are we not an enough to repair his for- tape if he can restore our former influence ?” Then, there is only my sister ’’—— _. Do. you doubt that she will obey me, when é I inform her of my will?” e “Can you believe then, that she has forgot- 2H ten Lusignan ?” ‘For sever months at least, she has not dared to remember him in my presence.” ‘Reflect, my mother, that this marriage is the only means by which our family can. be re- ' stored to influence; for there is one thing I must not conceal from you. My father has been ill for fifteen years, and haying been ab- sent from court so long, was completely forgot- ten by the old king at his death, and by the young @ king on his accession to the throne. our yirtuous attention to the marquis has not permitted you to leaye him, even for a mo- ment, since the hour in which he was deprived of reason; your virtues, madam, are of that nature which God sees, and recompenses, but of which the world’ remains ignorant; and - while you are fufilling, in this old forgotten castle in Brittany, the holy and consolatory mission, which you call a duty, your former friends disappear, they die, or they forget you; _ his is a painful truth to people, who, like us, ' can.count six hundred years of illustrious no- bility,) for when I reappeared at court, our name, the name of the family d’Auray, was hardly known to their majesties, but as an his- torical recollection.” **¥es; I know full well that kings have but short memories,” murmured the marchioness ; but instantly, and as if. reproaching herself for such a blasphemy, she rejoined, *‘I hope that __ the blessing of God may always attend their _ majesties and France.” ‘‘And what can in any way affect their hap- piness?” replied Emanuel, with that perfect _ confidence in the future, which in those days was the distinctive characteristic of the hair- brained and unthinking nobility, ‘Louis XVI” is young and good; Marie Antoinette young - and lovely ; both of them beloved by a brave and loyal people. Fate has placed them, a ie be praised, panoPe the reach of every 178 ” _ **No one, my son,” replied the marchioness, <3 mournfully shaking ‘her head, ‘‘believe me, is a beyond the reach of human woes and uman frailty. No heart, however confidently . its owner may, believe that he can master it, firm as it may be, is proof against the passions; and - no head, were it even a crowned one, but, may Fh) DO blanched i in a si ngle night. The people, _ yousay, are brave and loyal.” The marchion- ess arose and slowly advanced to the window, af and with a solemn gesture pointed to the ocean. | aS Ibserve that sea; it is now calm and Rasen and yet to-morrow, this night, in an hour perhaps, the breath of the tempest may - bear us the cries of distress of unhappy beings i itis about to engulph. Although I am separa-' ted from the world, strange reports sometimes ‘xéach my ears, borne. as it . were by invisible and prophetic spirits. Does there not exist a sect of philosophers which has led away men pattie name, by the errors which it propo- gates? Do they not speak of a whole world, _ which is detaching itself from the mother coun- ' try, whose children refuse to acknowledge their father? Is there not.a people who style themselves nation? Haye I not heard it said that men of a birth have crossed the ocean, to offer o rebels swords which their ancestors never drew but at the call of their legitimate jovereigns ? And haye I not been told, more- over, or is it but the dream of my solitude, that King Louis XVI and the Queen Marie Antoinette herself, forgetting that sovereigns re a family of brothers, have authorized these wzmed emigrations, and have given letters of marque to. mow not what foreign pirate ?” eA this. is true,’ ” said pine: ‘much as ry. God then wateh | over their majesties, ised Gane, of France!” zsieied. the s she slowly retired from the peat May I be bold enough to ask, e said Eman- uel, in eens feaving manuel so saouce ab these painful forebodings, that he saw her withdraw without uttering a word or even making a ges- ture to retain her. Emanuel remained for some time pensive and serious, but soon his buoyant character surmounted these gloomy presages, and as if thinking to change his ideas by changing the view he had been gazing at, he left the window which opened towards the sea, and crossed the room to another, whence he could discern. the whole of the plain which extends itself between d’Auray and Vannes. He had been there but a few minutes, when he perceived two persons on horseback, following the same road he had just traveled over, and who appeared to be approach- ing the castle. As they drew nearer he could dis- tinguish that they were a gentleman and his servant. The first dressed in the costume of young men of fashion of thatday, that is to say, ina short green riding-coat with gold frogs, stocking-knit breeches, and top boots, wearing a round hat with a broad brim, and his hair tied with a large bow of ribbons, He was mounted on an English horse of rare beauty and great value, which he managed witha grace that proved he had made equestrian exercises a pro- found study. He was followed at a short dis- tance by a servant, whose aristocratic livery was in perfect harmony with the lordly air of the person whom he served, Emanuel imagined for a moment, on seeing them proceed so direct- ly towards the castle, that it was the Baron de Lectoure, who, having hastened his departure from Paris, intended to surprise him; but he soon found that he was mistaken ; and altho ugh it appeared to him that it was not the first time he had seen the horseman, he could not recol- lect where or under what circumstances’ he had met him, While he was racking his memory to discover the event in his life with which this vague remembrance was connected, the strang- | ers had disappeared behind an angle of the cas- | Five minutes afterwards Emanucl | tle wall. heard’ the sound of their horses’ feet in the courtyard, and, almost immediately the door was Opened, anda servant announced, ‘‘ Mr. Paul!” ©. CHAPTER V. DEVOTED LOVE, Woman's love Onée given, may break the heart that holds—but never Melts into air save with her latest sigh. | Betwer.—The Sea Captain. TuE namie, 2s well as the appearance of the person thus announced, awakened in their turn in the mind of Emanuela confused recol- lection to which he could not affix either date orevent, ‘The person, preceded by the servant, entered tle room by a door opposite the one through which the marchioness had retired. Although the moment was ill-timed for a visit, and though the young count, preoccupied by | his projects. for the future, would have pre- ferred meditating upon and ripening them, he was compelled, by the rules of etiquette, so severe in those days between well-bred people, to receive the visitor with courtesy and polite ness.. The deporti mt ofthe latter bespoke the man of distinction. After the usual saluta- tions, Emanuel, by a gesture, invited the stranger to be seated, who bowed and took a chair, and then the conversation commenced with ‘some common-place polite observations, ‘‘T am delighted to meet you, count,” said the stranger. ‘‘Ghance has favored me, sir,” replied Emanuel ; ‘fan hour sooner you would not| have found me here: I have just arrived from Paris.” “T am aware of that, count, for we have been traveling the same road. 'T set out an |hour after you, and all along the road I heard of you, by means of. the Postilions who had ‘the honor of driving you.” me which began 1 to vines a certai G stance I pe the interest you appear to evince concerning me.’ ‘‘This interest is perfectly natural between old acquaintances, and perhaps I might have reason to complain that it does not appear to be reciprocal. ‘Tn fact, sir, it does appear to me,” replied Emanuel, ‘‘that I have met you somewhere, but my recollection serves me but confusedly ; will you be kind enough to assist it ?”’ re “Tf what you say be the case, count, your memory must indeed be rather fugitive, for within the last six months on three separate occasions, I have had the’ honor of exchanging compliments with you.” , Even should I expose myself to further re- proach I am compelled to say that I still re- main inthe same state of uncertainty with re- gard to your person. Pray, therefore haye the goodness to fix my memory, by aid of more precise dates, on some event, and remind me under what circumstances I had the honor of meeting you fur the first time,” “The first time, count? it was on the jetty of Port Louis. You desired to obtain some in- formation with regard to a certain frigate, which I was'so fortunate as to be able to fur- nish you. I believe, even, that I accompanied you on beard, ‘Upon that occasion I wore the uniform of a lieutenant in the royal navy, and you that of a mousquetaire.” ““T now well recollect it, sir, and I was obliged to leave the vessel without offering the thanks I owed you.’ “You are mistaken, count ; I received those thanks during our second interview.” “And where did that take place?” , ‘On board the very vessel to. which I had conducted you—in the cabin. I then wore the uniform of the captain of the ship : blue coat, red waistcoat and breeches, with gray stock- ings, a three-cornered hat, and curled hair. Only the captain appeared tio you some thirty years older than the lieutenant, and it was not without motive that I had made myself appear so much older, for you would, perhaps, not have chosen to confide to a young man asecret of such importance as you then communicated to me,” ‘What you now say is incredible, sir, and + yet something tells me that it was really so, Yes, yes; I now remember that in.the shade in which you remained half concealed, I saw eyes sparkling similar to yours. I haye not forgot- ten them ; but this was only the time before | the last, you say, that I had the honor of see- jing you. Continue, sir, I beg, to assist my ~ memory, for I cannot recollect our third inter- view. ‘ “‘'The last, count, was only a week since, at Paris—at a fencing match, at Saint George's, in the Rue Chantereein. You remember, do you not, an English gentleman, with hair so ved that his powder could scarcely conceal its. brilliant color—a scarlet coat, and tightly fitting pantaloons. I even had’ the honor of © trying a bout with you, and I was fortunate: enough to hit you three times, while, on the — contrary, you were not lucky enough to touch me once. On that occasion I called aes, Jones.” “Tb is most singular—it was certainly the | same look, but it could not be the same man.” “The will of God has directed that the look — should be the only thing which cannot be dis- guised, and this is why he has thrown into the lopk a spark of his own light. Well, then, the — lieutenant, the captain, the Englishman, were one and the same person.” ‘ “And atthe present moment, sir, what ars. you, if youplease? For, with aman who can so perfectly disguise himself, that question, Rice 4 must admit, is not altogether unnecessary.” bs _ ‘At the present moment, count, as you ‘sea, Ihave no motive for concealment, and, ther ; fore, I have come to you in the simple costut 18 of the’ young nobility, when they vise b. other as neighbors in the country, I am what ever you gue lease | consider me ; English, Spanish, or even an American. these ‘Jang 1a 1 4 degree of cieeiteter aes bh to | which of t sy
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i “Although some of ise languages may be as familiar to me’as they are to you, sir, I pre- . ter tas itrench language 5 ; itis that of plain and - coacise ‘esplaaations.” Bo it so,” replied Paul, with an expression | _ of profound melancholy ; “the French is also ae language I prefer , I first saw the day upon French ground, for the sun of France was that venieh first’ gla idened my eyes; and although I wave often seau more fertile climes, and a more ofilliant sun, there has never been for me but "one country and one sun, the sun and the coun- try of France |” ‘* Your national enthusiasm,” said Emanuel, interrupting him ironically, ‘‘ causes you to for- get the motive to which [ am indebted for the ‘honor of this visit.” “You are right, sir, and I will return to it. it was, then, about six months ago, while walk- ing on the jetty of Port Louis, you saw in the Outer roads a fine sharp frigate, with tall masts and square yards, and you said to yourself: ‘The captain of that ship must have some mo- _ tive known only to himself, for carrying so much canvas, on masts so slight, ‘—and from that, sprung to your mind, that he must be some buccancer, a pirate, a corsair” —— . And was I mistaken?” “*T thought I had already expressed to you, count,” replied Paul, with a slight tone of irony, ‘‘ my admiration of the perspicacity with which, at the first glance, you sound the depths ' of men and circumstances” — __ Atruce to compliments, if you please, sir, and let us to facts.” “Tt was under this persuasion that you ' ecaused yourself to bs conducted on board the _ frigate, by a certain lieutenant, and that you found a certain captain in the cabin. You were _ $he bearer of a letter from the Minister of / Marine, ordering any officer, upon your requisi- tion,.and whose ship was under the French fing and bound for the Gulf of Mexico, to con- sae dact to Cayenne a person name Lusignan, ‘guilty of a crime against the state.” ‘Pat is true.” : ‘*T obeyed that order, for I was then ignor- ant that this great oulprit, thus transported, had committed no other crime than that of - baing the lover of your sister,” ; “ Sir!” cried Emanuel, starting up. _ #* These are very fine pistols, count,” care- jessly continued Paul, playing with the weapons ’ which the Count d’ Auray had placed upon the table, on alighting from his car riage. , & And they are ready loaded,” said Binanitel, in a tone which was not to be mistaken, -. * Are they so?” returned Paul, with affected ; ‘indifference. ; Sopeeels, if you will take a turn in the park “Phere is ‘no necessity for going out to do _ that,’ replied Paul, withoat pretending. to un- 8 derstand Emanuel’s proposal inthe sense which he meant to give to it; ‘here isa mark which is well placed, and ata ‘proper distance.” Saying these words, the captain cocked the J pistol and pointed it through the open window towards the top of a smill tres, A goldfinch tocking himself on the highest branch, ng forth his shrill and joyful notes, of the tree. tol onthe table. “You were perfectly right, count,” said he, i ‘they are excellent weapons, and I ‘advise you not to part with them.” «You have just given me an extraordinar y of of it,” replied Emanuel, “and I feel d to acknowledge that you haye a steady Paul coolly replaced the pis- ere is nothing extraordinary in that,” ned Paul, in that melancholy tone which eculiar "to him. when not a breath passes over that mirror upreme Boing, which is called the men, are “compelled - -to seek for neat you landsmen are ae i gated “During those long | ‘That isa matter of which you can. assure | Paul } and the poor bird, cut in two, fell at the | PAUL’ JONES. 2 imprudent tenants of the deep that rise to its surface; or, again, upon the swallows which, fatigued with a long flight, alight upon the royal masthead or om the yards and rigging. It is thus, count, that we acquire some dexter- ity in exercises which may appear 80 incom- patible with our profession.” “Go on, sir; and if it be possible, let us re- turn to the subject of our conversation.” ¢ ‘‘He was a handsome, brave young man, this Lusignan; he related his whole history to me. That being the son of an old friend of your father’s, who had died poor, he had been adopted by him some two years before the un- known accident occurred which deprived {him of reason. ‘That having been brought up with |you, he had inspired you with hatred—your sister with affection. He told me that during the long years they passed together in the same solitude, they never perceived the isolation from the world in which they lived, excepting when they were absent from each other. He recounted to me all the details of their youthful love, and how Marguerite had one day said to him, in the words of the tender maiden of Verona : «I will be thine, or else I'll be the tomb’s.’ ” ‘*She has but too truly kept her word.” «Yés—has she not? And you virtuous peo- ple call that shame and dishonor, when “a poor child, lost through her own innocence, is car- ried away by love. Your mother, whose du- ties estranged her from her daughter, and perpetually confined her to your father’s room —(for I know the virtues of your mother, sir, as well as I know your sister's weakness; she isan austere woman, more severe than one of God's creatures ought to be, whose only ad- vantage over others. is, that of never having fallen)--your mother, I say, one night heard some stifled cries ; she entered your sister's chamber, walked pale and silently up to her bed, and coldly snatchei from her arms a ‘child which had just been born, and left the room without addressing. even a reproach to her daughter, but oniy paler and more silent than when she entered it. As to poor Mar- guerite, she did not utter even acry—she made no complaint. She had fainted away .imme- diately on perceiving her mother. Was it so, sir? Have I been rightly informed, and is the whole of this dreadful story true?” ‘*You seem to be acquainted with every de- tail of it!” exclaimed Emanuel, with amaze- ment. - “Tt is because the whole of these details are eiven in these letters signed by your sister,” replied Paul, opening a pocket-book, “ and which Lusignan, at the time he was about to bo thrown amid robbers and assassins, through yourinstrumentality, confided to me, that I might restore them to her who had written them.” ‘‘ Give them to me, then,” said Emanuel, stretching forth his hand to ward the pocket- book,” and they shall bo faithfully, delivered to her who has had the imprudence” To complain to the only person who loved her in this world—is it not so?’ said Paul, withdtawing the letters and the pocket-book. “Tmprudent daughter, who's own mother snatched the child from her. heart, and who poured her bitter tears into the bosom ofthe father of her child! Impru- dent sister, who not finding any protection from this tyranny in her brother, has compro- mised his noble name by signing with the name | he bears, letters, which, in “the ‘stupid aad pre- judiced eye of the world, may—how is it you ‘term this in your noble class — dishonor ‘her family, is it not ?”” ‘‘Then,” eried Emanuel, reddening with im- patience, “since you are aware of the terrible tendency of these papers, fulfil the mission with which you have been charged, by deliver- ing them either “a me, to my mother, or my sister.” Lorient ; but about tenor twelve enterin a ehureh ieee! fe: ue oF “That was my intention bien I landed at) /met you in Saint George’s Rooms, and was in- much anxiety. You will, however, permit Tae “And for what purpose ?” ‘““Vo pray there.” a “Ah! Captain Paul believes i in God, then!” ‘Did I not believe in him, whom should | 1 invoke during the raging of the tempest ?” ; ‘* And in this church, then?” “Tn that church, sir, I heard a priest an- nounce the approaching marriage of the nobly Marguerite d’Auray with the very high an@ potent Baron de Lectoure. I immediately in quired for you, and was informed you were fer Paris, where T was myself compelled to go, to give an account of my mission to the king.” Pes “To the king !” é¢ “Yes, sit, to the king—Louis XVI; to hia. majesty, in person. I immediately set out, in- tending to return here as soon as you did. formed of your approaching departure. Tar- ranged mine in consequence, in order that we might arrive here at about the same time, and — here Lam, sir, with a very different resolution to that I had formed before landing in Brit- tany. “ And what is this new determination ? TAS ‘ me hear it, for we must come to some con- - ca clusion ‘Well, then, I think that as all the world, and °en his mother, seem to haye forgotten the pur orphan, it is highly necessary that I should remember it. In the position in which you are placed, sir, and with the disposition you have evinced of becoming allied to the Baron de Lectoure, (who in your view, is the — only person who can assist. the realization of your ambitious projects, ) these letters are wi worth a hundred thousand franes, are they not? and will make but a very trifling breach inthe _- income of two hundred thousand francs whick Sey your estates afford you.” “But you will prove to me that this hundred thousand francs ” “ You are right, sir, and therefore it will bei in exchange for a contract for an annuity upon the young Hector de _Lusignan, that I will deliver — up these letters.” ‘Ts that all, sir?” ‘«T will also ask that the child be confided ta me, and I will have him brought up, thanks to his little fortune, far from the mother who has” forgotten him, and far from his father whom you caused to be banished.” “te ‘Tis well, sir: had I known that it was for : so small a sum, and so trifling an interest j you had come, I should not have exhibited | 20 to speak to my mother on the subject.” ‘Monsieur le Comte,” said a servant, opening the door. ‘Tam not at home to anyone. — Leave the room,” replied Emanuel, impatiently. ‘e a i is your sister, sir, who wishes ‘to sea ‘ou.’ \ me Tell her to come by and by. i “She desires to speak to you this staal Aled “Do not put yourself out of ‘the wey on he account,” said Paul. ee But uy sister must not. see you, sit, —— comprehend it is important that she should an seé you.” ° “As you please ; but as it is important, also, — that.I should not leave the castle before con- cluding the affair which brought me here, pers mit ie to go into this side room.’ a “Phas will do,” said Emanuel, himself opens — ing the door; ‘‘ bat be quick, I beg: of you.” Paul went ‘into the small room, and Emanuel hastily closed the door upon ‘him, which* was a hardly done when Marguerite appeared: CHAPTER Bi Bg BROTHER AND SISTER. i Look kindly on me then; Tcannot Wohi: Severity; My eae sso tender, should you char sf should but weep and answer you with But use me gently, like a loving brot: 2 , aa search wR pe) aut oes seme: pore y ¥ soul em
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<p | iis rt Sy i ” PAUL JONES. : uel, ‘was one of those delicate, pale beauties, who bear impressed upon their features the characteristic stamp of high birth. At the first ‘glance, from the soft flexibility of her form, _ the whiteness of her skin, the shape of her hands and tapering fingers, with their thin, - rosy and transparent nails, it could be discerned _ that she was descended from an ancient race. It was evident that her feet, so small that both of them could have been placed in, the foot- mark of most women, had never walked except- ing on carpeted saloons, or on the flowery turf of a park. There was in her movements, graceful as they were, a certain degree of haughtiness and pride, the attribute of all her family ; in fine, she conveyed the impression that her soul, capable of making any sacrifice she had resolved upon, was very likely to rebel - against tyranny; that devotedness was an in- ‘stinctive virtue of her heart, while obedience, in her view, was only an educational duty, so that the tempest wind which blew upon her, might make her bend down before it asa lily, but not as a rose. And, yet, when she appeared at the door, her features depicted such complete discourage- ’ ment, her eyes had retained the traces of such nm asa reproach to others. burning tears, her whole frame seemed weighed down by such an overwhelming despair, that Emanuel saw at once that she must have sum- moned all her strength to assume an appearance of calmness. On seeing him she made a violent ‘effort, and it was with a certain degree of ner- ‘yous firmness that she approached the arm- 4 chair on which he was sitting. And then, see- ing that the features of her brother retained the expression of impatience which they had as- _ sumed on being interrupted, she paused, and these two children of the same mother looked at each other as strangers, the one with the “eyes of ambition, the other with those of fear. By degrees Marguerite resumed her courage. “You have come at last, Emanuel! I was ‘awaiting your return as the blind await the light, and yet, from the manner in which you ~ look pon. your sister, it is easy to perceive that she was wrong in placing her hopes in you. ” ‘Tf my sister has become, as she always ‘ought to have been,” replied Emanuel, ‘that is to say, a dutiful and respectful danghter, she will have understood what her rank and her position demand of her; she ‘will ave forgotten past events as things which never ould have happened, and which consequently he ought not to remember, and she will have repared herself for the new destiny which awaits her, If it is in this disposition that she n Ww comes before me, my arms are open to re- eive her, and my sister is still my sister.” _* Listen attentively to what I am about to say,” said Marguerite, ‘and above all, consider it as a justification of myself, and not intended If my mother—and God forbid that I should accuse her, for a holy ; fa ome her apart from us—if my mother ad been, X was about to say, towards me as mothers are towards their danghtors, I yuld constantly have opened my heart to her ‘2 book ; at the first word traced upon it by - stranger hand, she would have warned. me my danger, and I should have avoided it. ad I been educated in the world instead of being brought uplike a Beek wild flower beneath the Shade of this old castle, I should have learned om infancy the value of the rank and position 1 you speak of to-day, and should, per- laps, not have infringed the decorum they pre- cribe, or the dutiesthey impose. In short, had I been tutored amidst women. of the world, oe their sparkling wit and frivolous hearts, “ho ‘never knew; had I been guilty of the e faults from levity which love has caused ae Dols name I can well understand, I At the ‘have forgotten the past, have sown: ‘ace new, peng a as mui m Ihave so often heard you praise, but | “tegile nee! tin : the’ ‘danger. position in society, when I had already forfeited them, and I am now called upon to look forward to joy inthe future, when my heart is drowned in the tears and misery of the past.” “And the conclusion of all this,” bitterly re- joined Emanuel. ‘“‘The conclusion depends on you alone, Emanuel; it is in your power to render it, if not happy, at all events becoming. I cannot have recourse to my father. Alas! I know not even if he could recognize his daughter. I haye no hope in my mother; her glance alone freezes me, her words are death to me. You alone, Emanuel, were left to me to whom I could say, brother: you are now the head of the family; it is to you alone that we are answerable for our honor. Ihave fallen from ignorance, and I have been punished for my fault as if it had been a willful crime.” “Well! well!” murmured Emanuel impati- ently, ‘‘ what is it that you ask ?” ‘* Brother, I demand, since a union with the only being I could have loved, is said to be impossible, I demand that my punishment be regulated according to my strength to bear it. My mother, may heaven pardon her, tore my child from me‘as if she had never herself been a mother, and my child will be brought up far from me, neglected and in obscurity. You, Emanuel, removed the father, as my mother did the ehild, and you were more cruel to him than the case required; I will not say as man to man, but even as a judge toward a guilty erson. As to myself, you have both united to impose upon me a martyrdom more painful still, Well then, Emanuel, I demand in the name of our childhood spent in the same cradle, of our youth passed under the same roof, in the name of the tender appellations of brother and sister, which nature bestowed upon us—I demand that a convent be opened tome, and that its gates should close upon me for ever. And in that convent, I swear to you, Emanuel, that every day upon my knees, before God, my "forehead bent down to the stone pave- ment, weighed down by my fault, I will entreat the Lord as a recompense for all my sufferings, to restore my father to reason, my mother to happiness, and to pour on you, Emanuel, honor, and glory and fortune. Iswear to you I will do this.” ‘*Yes.; and the world will say that I hada sister whom I sacrificed to my fortune, whose property I inherited while she still lived! Why, this is sheer madness !” , ‘Listen to me, Emanuel,” rejoined Mar- guerite, supporting herself on the back of a chair, near which she was standing. “Well?” replied Emanuel. “When you have pledged your word, you keep it, do you not?” “Tama gentleman.” “Well, then! look at this bracelet.” “T see it—perfectly—what then ?” “Tt is fastened by a key—the key which opens it is attached to a ring, and with that ring I pledged my word that I would not be re- leased from a promise I had made, until the ring should be brought back and retumed to me.’ ‘« And he who has the key of *” ‘*Thanks to you, and to my mother, Eman- uel, he is too far from this for us to ask it of him. He is at Oayenne,” ‘‘Before you are married two months,” re- plied Emanuel, with an ironical smile, that bracelet will be so irksome to you, that you wilt be the first to wish to get rid of it.” ofall thought | that I had told you it is locked upon my arn.’ «You know what people do when they have lost a key and cannot.get into their house—they send for a locksmith.” “Well! in my case, Emanuel,” replied Mar- | guerite, raising her voice, and extending her arm with a solemn gesture, ‘‘ they must send mi aie executioner then, for this hand pea be| before I give it to peroneal ie manu ence !” They sole: to me of my rank and ‘And now I have said all I had to say,” joined Marguerite ; ‘‘my only hope was in fein ; Emanuel, for although you cannot eg en any deep-seated feeling, you are not cruel. came to you in tears, look at me and you will see that it is true—I came to you to say: ‘ Brother, this marriage is the misfortune, is the misery of my life—I would prefer a con- | vent—I would prefer misery—I would prefez death to it—and you have not listened to me, 4 or if you have listened, you have not. under- stood me. Well, then, 'T Will address myself to this man—-I will appeal to his honor, to his del-— icacy : if that should not be sufficient, I will telt him all; my love for another, my weakness, * my fault, my crime! I will tell him that I have a child; that although he was torn from me, although I have never since seen him, although I am ignorant of his abode, still my child exists. A child cannot die, -without his death striking some chord within its mother’s heart. Inshort, I will tell him, should it be necessary, that I still love another, that I can- not love him, and that I never will.” ‘¢ Well! tell him all this,” cried Emannel, irritated by her persistence, ‘and that evening © we will sign the contract, andthe next day you will be Baroness de Lectoure. 1 ‘‘And then,” replied Marguerite, “then, Ty shall be truly the most miserable woman inex. istence, for I should then have a brother whom — I should no longer love, and a husband for — whom I should have no esteem. Farewell, ee believe me, this contract is not yet, gned,” pees after siying these words, Manne’ withdrew with that deep and _ settled despair — upon her features, which could not for a mo-— ment be mistaken. And Emanuel, convinced — that he had not, as he had anticipated, obteisied 4 A a victory, but that the struggle was still to be continued, gazed after her with an anxiety which was not devoid of tenderness. After a few moments of silence, in which ke ; sat pensive and motionless, he turned round | and saw Captain Paul, whomhe hadcompletely forgotten, standing at the door of the study, 4 and then considering the vital importance it was to him to get possession of the papers, which the captain had offered him, he hurriedly sat down at the table, took a pen and Pepe and turning towards him said: “And now, sir, we are again alone, and there Ret is nothing to prevent our at once concluding © this affair. In what terms do you wish the — promise to be drawn up? Dictate them, I am ready to write them down.” ‘ “Tt is now useless,” coldly replied the Coe tain. “And why so?” Ne “I have changed my mind. ” “How is that?” said Emanuel, rising, alarmed at the consequences which he perceived might arise from these words which he was far from expecting. ‘“T will give,” replied Paul, with the calms: ness of a fixed determination, “the hundre thousand livres to the child, and I will find husband for your sister.” ; “‘ Who are you, then,’’ said Emanuel, advahes! ps ing a step towards him, ‘ who- are you, sir, who thus disposes of ‘a young girl who is my s: sister, who has never seen you, and who does” not even know that you exist.” “Who am I!” replied Paul, smiling ; my honor, I know no more upon that sub; than. you do, for my birth is a secret which is only to be revealed to me when I ne is attai ee my twenty-fifth year.” “And you will attain that age ?”—— ‘This evening, sir. I place mys disposal from to-morrow morning, to give all the information you may require and saying these words, Paul bow : “T allow you to depart, sir, you understand it is upon ‘the condition that meet again.” | Se : oT ‘was about to- pee e in ; ie yf ¢
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PAUL JONES. PO A aCe dee ARE RISE found his horse and servant, and resumed the route to Port Louis. When he had got out of sight of the castle, he alighted from his horse, and directed his steps towards a fisherman's hut, built upon the beach. At the door of this house, seated upon a bench, and in a sailor’s dress, was a young man so deeply absorbed in thought, that he did not observe Paul’s ap- proach. The captain placed his hand upon the young man’s shoulder, the latter started, looked at him, and became frightfully pale, although the open and joyful countenance of Paul, indi- cated that he was far from being the bearer of ‘bad news. : Well !” said Paul to him, ‘‘I have seen er?” ‘ ““ Who ?” demanded the young man, ‘* Marguerite, by heaven |” oe ‘And ‘plta sas “She is charming.” “T did not ask you that.” **She loves you still.” ‘Gracious heaven!” exclaimed the young man, throwing himself into Paul’s arms, and bursting into tears, CHAPTER, VII. THE FAITHFUL SERVANT. O good old man ; how well jin thee appears The constant service of the antique world When service sweat for duty, not for need. Thou art not for the fashion of these times Where none will sweat but for promotion ; And having that, do choke their service up Even with the having : it is notso with thee. SHAKESPEARE. Auruovex our readers must readily compre- hend, after that which we have just related to them, all that had passed in the six months during which we had lost sight of our hero, some details, are, however, necessary, in order that they should fully understand the new events about to be accomplished. On the evening after the combat between the Indienne and the Drake, and which, not- withstanding our ignorance in naval matters, we have attempted to describe to our readers, Lusignan had related to Paul the history of his whole life. It was a very simple one, and contained but few incidents. Love had formed the principal event in it, and this having been its only joy, it had become its greatest grief. The adventurous and independent life of Paul, his station, which had placed him beyond the trammels of society, his caprice which was superior to all laws, his habit of swpreme com- mand on board his own ship, had inspired him with too just a sense of natural rights to obey the order he had received with regard to Lusignan. Moreover, although he had an- chored under the French flag, Paul, as we have seen, belonged to the navy of America, whose eause he had enthusiastically espoused. He continued, therefore, his cruise along the Shores of England; but finding there was nothing to be done on the sea, he landed at Whitehaven, a small port in Cumberland, at the head of twenty men, among whom was Lusignan, took the fort, spiked the guns, and ' put to sea again, after having burnt the mer- chant vessels in the roads, Thence he sailed for the coast of Scotland, with the intention of earrying:off the Earl of Selkirk and taking hin asa hostage ‘to the United States; but this project had miscarried from an unforeseen circumstance, that nobleman having unex- pectedly gone to London. In this enterprise, - as in the other Lusignan had seconded him With the courage we have seen him exhibit in the battle between the Indienne and the Drake; so that Paul congratulated himself more than ever upon the chance which had en- abled him to oppose an injustice. But it was not enough. that he had saved Lusignan ' from transportation; it was necessary to re- Sk, ‘store his honor, and to our young adventurer, ‘in ‘whom our readers will doubtless have reeog- nized the celebrated privateersman, Paul Jones, it was a more easy matter than to any other per- #0n ; for having. letters of ise oF from Louis XVI, against the English, he had to: repair to Versaillés to give an account of his crnise. — waiting for yo > Paul determined upon runnfag into Lorient, | have been ?” 1a and for the second time cast anchor there, that he might be within a short distance of the Chateau @Auray. The first answer which the young men received to their inquiries regarding that family, was that Marguerite d’Auray was about to be married to M. de Lectoure. Lusignan thought himself. forgotten, and in the first paroxysm of his despair, insisted, even at the risk of falling into the hands of his former per- secutors, on once more seeing Marguerite, if it were only to reproach her for her infidelity ; but Paul, more calm and less credulous, made him pledge his word that he would not land until he had heard from him; then, being as- sured that the marriage would not take place in Jess than fifteen days, he set out for Paris, and was received by the king, who presented him with a sword, the hilt of which was of gold, and decorated him with the ordet of military merit. Paul had availed himself of the kind- ness of the king towards him to relate to him Lusignan’s adventures, and had obtained not only his pardon, but alsoas a reward for his late services, the appointment of. Governor of Gaudaloupe. All these cares had not prevented him from keeping sight of Emanuel. Beingin- formed of the count’s intended departure, he left. Paris, and having written to Lusignan, appointing a place of meeting, he arrived at Auray an hour after the young count. After their joyful meeting, Paul and Lusig- nan remained together until nearly twilight. Then Paul, who, as he had told Emanuel, had a personal revelation to receive, left his friend and again took the road to Auray. But this time he was on foot, and did not enter the cas- tle, but going along the park wall, he directed his steps towards an iron gate which opened into a wood belonging to the domains of ‘Auray. About an hour before Paul left the fisher- man’s hut, where he had found Lusignan, a person had preceded him on the road toward the cottage at which he was to ask the revela- tion of the secret of his birth; that. person was the Marchioness d’Auray, the haughty heiress of the mame of Sable. She was at- tired in her usual mourning garments, with the addition of along black yail, which en- veloped her from head to foot. Moreover, the habitation which our young adventurer, with the hesitation of ignorance, was seeking for, was to her familiar. It wasa sort of keep- er's house, situated ata few paces from the entrance to the park, and inhabited by an old man, in whose behalf the-Marchioness d’Au- ray had for twenty years fulfilled one of those acts of sedulous benevolence which had gained for her, in that part of Lower Brittany, the reputation of rigid holiness which she en- joyed. These attentions to age were given, it is true, with the same gloomy and solemn face which we have observed in her, and which the tender emotions of pity never softened ; but they were nevertheless afforded, and all knew it, with careful punctuality. The face of the Marchioness d’Auray was even more grave than it was wont to be, while she crossed the park to repair to the dwelling of a man who was said to be an old servant of the family. The dvor was standing open as if to allow the last rays of the setting sun to to old people in the month of May. The house was howeyer empty. The Marchioness d’Auray entered it, looked around her, and then as if certain that the person she was in search of would not be long absent, she re- solved to await his retum. She sat down. She had remained there about half an hour, motionless and absorbed in her reflections, when she saw, between her and the declining daylight, a shadow cast before the door. ‘ slowly raised her eyes and recognized the per- son she had been expecting. ‘They both started as though they had met by chance, and were Ave in the habit of seeing each other every ay. penetrate into the house, so sweet and balmy | She | ‘Had your ladyship walked fifty paces far- ther, you would have found me under the large oak, on the edge of the forest.” ‘“You know I never walk that way,” said the | marchioness with a visible shudder. ‘*And youare wrong, madam; there is one in heaven who hasa right to our joint prayers, and who, perhaps, is astonished to hear only those of old Achard.” | said the marchioness, with a certain degree of feverish agitation. ‘‘Do you believe that the dead require we should be constantly kneeling on their tombs ?” : “*No,” replied the old man, with a feeling of | profound sorrow; ‘‘no, I do not believe the dead are so exacting madam ; but I believe if any part of us lives under ground, it would thrill at the noise caused by the steps of those whom we have loved during our life.” But,” said the marchioness in a low and hollow tone, ‘‘if that loye were a guilty pas- sion ?” ; ‘« However guilty it may have been, madam,” replied the old man, also lowering his voice, £*do you not believe that blood and tears have expiated it? God was then, believe me, too severe a judge, not to haye now become an in- dulgent father,” ‘*Yes, God has perhaps pardoned it,”” murmur- ed the marchioness, ‘‘ but did the world know that which God knows, would it pardon as God has done ?” «« The world!” exclaimed the old man ; ‘the world! Yes, there is the great word which has again escaped your lips! The world! it, to that phantom you have sacrificed every thing, madam; your feeling as a lover, your feelings as a wife, your feelings as a mother! your own happiness, the happiness of others! The world! It is the fear of the world which has clothed you in perpetual mourning, beneath which you hope to conceal remorse! And in that you are right, for you have succeeded in virtue ?” The marchioness raised her head with some that she might look upon the person who ad- dressed her in such extraordinary language ; then, after a momentary silence, not being able features of the old man: > ‘*You speak to me,” she said to him, ‘‘ with a bitterness which would lead me to believe you have some personal reason for reproaching me. desired them to observe? You know, if thie should be the case, you have only to say @ ‘‘Porgive me, madam, it isin sorrow that I speak, not bitterness ; it is the effedt of solitude and of age. You must well know what it is to have’sorrows that you cannot speak of! tears which we dare not shed, and which fall back, to complain of any one, madam, since first, from a feeling for which I am truly grateful, you have been pleased to see personally that my wants were all supplied, and you have not fora single day forgotten your promise, but like the old prophet, I have sometimes seen an angel come as your messenger.” ; “Yes,” replied the marchioness, ‘‘I know. that Marguerite often accompanies the servant ) you, and the friendship she feels for you.” trust, in the promises I made. years I have lived far from the habitations men, I haye kepttaway every living being from this dwelling; so much did I fear on your ac- count, the delirium of my waking hours, or the “« And how know you that I do not also pray?” It is to deceiving it, for it has taken your remorse for — degree of agitation, and putting aside her vail ¢ to discover any sinister expression in the calm . Have I failed in any promise [ have made? . The persons who attend on you by my orders, ~ jare they wanting in that respect which I have - word.” a drop by drop, upon the heart. No, I have not | without seeking to know whence it emanated, — ‘But in my turn, I have not foie either, Des or twenty who is charged to wait upon you; audi haye seen with pleasure the attentions she has paid. « -
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——____ - : PAUL JONES. tive in my mind not to lose ina single day the | rising, ‘‘and thus this chain of fears will be fruit of twenty years, all more gloomy, more isolated, and more terrible than yours have been.” “Yes, I understand you perfectly; and you have shuddered more than once upon suddenly remembering, that there is roaming about the world, a man who may one day call upon me to reveal that secret, and that I have not the right % conceal it from that man. Ah, you tremble at the bare idea, do you not? But, tranquil- lize yourself; that man, when but a boy, fled from the school at which we had placed him in Scotland, and for ten years past, nothing has been heard of him. In short, destined to ob- scurity, ke, himself, rushed forward to meet his fate. He is now lost amid the millions that crowd this populous world, and not a soul knows where to find him ; this poor unit, with- out a name, is lost forever. He must have lost his father's ietter, have mislaid the token by which I was to recognize him; or, better still, ‘ ' perhaps he exists no longer.” Tt is oruel of you, Achard,” replied the taarchioness, ‘‘to utter such words to a mother. You cannot appreciate the strange feelings and singular contradictions contained in the heart of woman. For, in fine, can I not be tranquil un- less my child be dead? Consider, my old friend ; this secret, of which he has been igno- rant five and twenty years, has it become at the age of twenty-five, so necessary to his existence that he cannot live unless it be re- vealed tohim? Believe me, Achard, for him- self even it would be better he should still re- main ignorant of it, as he has been to this day. I feel assured that to this day he has been hap- py—old man, do not mar this happiness—do not inspire his mind with thoughts . which may induce him to commit an eyil action. No—tell him, in lieu of the dreadful tale you were desired to communicate, that his mother has gone to rejoin his father in heaven; and would to God that it were so! but that when dying (for I must see him whatever you may say to the contrary ; I will, even if it be but once, press him to iny heart), when dying, as I said, his mother had bequeathed him to her friend the Marchioness d’Auray, in whom he will find a second mother.” ‘*T understand you, madam,’’ said Achard, smiling. ‘‘Itis not the first time you have pointed out this path, in which you wish to lead me astray. Only to-day, you speak more openly, and if you dared to do so, orif you knew me less, you would offer me some reward to induce me to disobey the last injunctions of him who sleeps close by us.” The marchioness made a gesture as if about to interrupt him. “Listen to me, madam,’’ hastily said the old man, stretching forth his hand, ‘‘and let my words be considered by you as holy and irre- yocable, As faithful as I have been to the promise which I made to the Marchioness d’Auray, so faithful will I be to that I made to the Count do Morlaix, on the day when his son, or your son, shall present himself before me with the token of recognition, and shall de- mand to know the secret. I shall reveal it to him, madam; As to the papers which attestit, you mre aware that they are to be delivered to him only after the death of the Marquis dAuray. The secret is here,” said the old man, placing his hand upon his heart; ‘‘ no human power could haye extracted it before the time; no human power, that time having sarrived, can prevent me from revealing it. ‘Tho papers are there in that closet, the key of wich always have about me, and it is only by robbery or by assassination that I can be _ deprived of them.” ** But,” said the marchioness, half rising and supporting herself an the arm of her, chair, *#You might die before my husband, old man; - for although he is more dangerously ill than _ you are, you are older than he is, and then what would become of those papers? “The priest who shail attend my last -- moments will receive them under the seal of ~ eonfession.” dies . SAW ib48 that!” etied the tiarchioness, prolonged until my death! and the last link of it will be to all eternity riveted to my tomb. There is in this world a man, the only one perhaps, who is as immovable as a rock; and God has placed him in my path, not only as a remorse, but asa vengeance also. My secret is in your hands, old man—tis well!—do with it as you will—you are the master, and I am your slave ; farewell!” So saying, the marchioness left the cottage, and returned towards the chateau. CHAPTER VIIL. THE SECRET, More than ten years have passed since I beheld him. The noble boy now time annuls my And cancels all his wrongs. I took a solemn oath to vail the secret, Conceal thy rights, while lived her lord, And thus allowed thy youth to quit my roof. Buitwer.—The Sea Captain. ‘*'Yus,” said the old man, gazing after the marchioness as she withdrew, ‘‘yes, I know you havea heart of adamant, madam, insensible: to every sort of fear, with the exception of that which God has placed within your breast to supply the place of remorse. Butthatsuffices ; and it is dearly buying that reputation you have obtained for virtue, to’ pay the price of such eternal terrors ; it is true that the virtue of the Marchioness d’Auray is so firmly estab- lished, that if truth herself were to rise from the earth or to descend from heaven to arraign her, she would be treated as a calumnintor. But: God orders all things according to his will, and what he does ordain, his wisdom has long before matured. “Rightly reasoned,” cried a youthful and sonorous voice, replying to the religious ax- iom which the resignation of the old man had led him. to utter. ‘‘Upon my word, good father, you speak like Ecclesiastes,”’ Achard turned round and perceived Paul, who had arrived just as the marchioness left him, but. who was so absorbed by the scene we have just described, that she had not observed the young captain. The latter, seeing the old manalone, approached him, and on hearing the last words he had uttered, had spoken with his usual good humor. Achard, who was sur- prised by his unexpected appearance, looked at him as if he wished him to repeat that which he had said. grandeur in resignation that humbly bows it- self, than in philosophy that doubts. Thatis a maxim of our Quakers, which, for my eternal welfare I wish I had less often on my tongue, and more frequently in my heart.” » ‘*T beg your pardon, sir,” said the old man on seeing our adventurer, who was fixedly gaz- ing at him, while standing with one foot on the threshold of his door. ‘*May I know who you are?” ‘*For the moment,” replied Paul, giving, as usual, free course to his poetical and heedless gayety, ‘‘Lam a child of the republic of Plato, haying all human kind for brothers, the world for a country, and possessing wpon this. earth only the station [ have worked out for myself.” * And what are you in search of ?” continued the old man, smilingin spite of himself at the air of jovial good nature which was spread over the features of the young man. “T am seeking,” replied Paul, “at three leagues distance from Lorient, at five hundred i paces from the chateau d’Auray, a small house whick very much resembles this one, and in | which I am to find an old man, whom it is very likely is yourself.” “And what is the name of this old man?” “Louis Achard.” “That is my name.” Then may the blessing of heaven descend on your white hairs,” said Paul, in a voiee which, at once changing its tone, assumed that of deep feeling and respect; ‘‘ for here is a let- ter which I believe was written by my father, in which he says that you are an honest man.” “Does not, that letter inclose something ?” a ‘*T say,” resumed Paul, ‘‘that there is more ———— cried the old man, with sparkling eyes, and ad. vancing a step nearer to the young captain. “Tt does,” replied the latter, opening the letter and taking out of it one half of a tian sequin, which had been broken in two; “Tt seems to be part of a gold coin, of which I have one half, and you ought to be in posses- sion of the other.” Achard mechanically held out his hand, while gazing with intense interest at the young man. “Yes, yes,” said the old man, and his eyes gradually became more and more suffused with tears; ‘‘ yes, this is the true token, and more than that, the extraordinary resemblance ; and’ opening his arms, he cried, ‘‘ child!—oh! my ” God! my God!” ‘“What is it?” cried Paul, extending his arms to support the poor old man, who was quite overcome by his emotions. “‘Oh! can you not comprehend ?” replied the latter, ‘‘can you not comprehend that you are the living portrait of your father, and that TL loved your father—loved him so much that I would have shed my blcod, have given my life to serve him, as I would now for you, young man, were you to demand it.” : ‘‘Embrace me, then, my old friend,” said Paul, throwing his arms around the old man, ‘‘for the chain of feeling, believe me, is not broken which extended from the tomb of the father to the cradle of the son. Whatever my father may have been, if in order to resemble him it be only necessary to have a conscience with- out reproach, undaunted courage, and a mem- ory which never forgets a benefit conferred, although it may sometimes forget an injury ; if this be so, then am I, as you have said, my father’s living portrait, and more so in soul than in form,” “* Yes, he possessed all these,” replied the old man, with solemnity, and clasping Paul to his breast, looking at iin with affectionate though tearful tenderness; yes, he had the same commanding yoice, the same flashing eyes, the same nobleness of heart, But why was it that Ihave not seen you sooner, young man? Ihave, during my life, passed many gloomy hours, which your presence would have brightened.” \ ‘“Why ?—because this létter told me to seek you out only when I should haye attained the age of twenty-five, and because it is not long since I attained that age, not more than an | hour ago.” The old man bowed down his head with a pensive air, and remained silent for some time, seemingly absorbed by recollections of the past. his head, ‘‘can it be twenty-five years ago Good heavens! it appears to me only yester- day that you were born in this house, that you: first saw the light in that very room ;” and the old man raised his head, and pointed toa door which led into another room. ; then, looking around him, to strengthen by | the aid of objects which presented themselyes on his memory. “and I lived here till I was five years old, did I not ?” pepe Yes,” murmured the old man, fal to disturb the feelings which were taking possession of the young man’s mind. i * Well,” continued Paul, leaning his head on * both his hands, as if to concentrate his thoughts, ‘‘allow me for one moment to look back, in my turn, to the past, for I am recollectin which I had thought I had seen’ in a may be that one, Listen to me! Oh! how strange it is—remembrances -now rush upon me.” eit “Speak, my child, speak!” said the man. 4 ees bed with green hangings.” set oabiree . A crucifix * oad at the head of the bed.” ‘ ene- “Can it be so?” at length he said, raising ; Paul, in his turn; appeared to reflect, end ~ to his view, the recollections which crowded ~ a@ room ~— eami——it ha ‘Tf it be that room, there ought to be on the — right, as you goin, at the end of the room, a ok ; mths f ‘* In this cottage, in that room,” he repeated, ; . as if fear '
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Yes,” ESR, 4 closet opposite, in which were beoks, among the rest a large bible, with numerous _ engravings.” atta ~. * There it is,” said the old man, pointing to the sacred book which was lying open on a desk | - for priyer. / | ‘Oh? it is that— it is that,” cried Paul, press- ing his lips against the leaves. | “Oh! good and pious heart,” cried the - fold man, ‘I thank thee, oh ! my God— I thank thee.” _ ‘©Then,” said Paul, rising, ‘‘in that room there is a window, from which you can discern the sea, and on the sea, three islands?” » Yes, Houat, Hoedic, and Belle-leen-mer.” ‘eThen, it is really so,” said Paul, rushing towards the room, and then perceiving that the old man was about to follow him, he said: ‘‘No no! I must be alone—let me enter it alone—I! feel that I must be alone ;” and he went into _ the room, closing the door after him. He then paused a moment, impressed with that-holy respect which accompanies the re- membrance of our infancy. The room was as he had described it, for the -religious devoted- ness of the old servant had preserved it from any change. Paul, feeling doubtless that the eye of a stranger would have interrupted the expression of the feelings he experienced, and now certain of being alone, abandoned. himself tothem. He slowly advanced, and with clasped hands, towards the ivory crucifix; and falling ~ on his knees, which formerly he had the habit of doing, morning and evening, he endeavored to remember one of those. sim- _ ple prayers, in which a child, still on the; - threshold of this life, prays to God for those who have opened its gates to him. - What events had succeeded each other in the lapse of time which had passed between these genu- fiexions. Paul remained for a considerable - time absorbed in thought, and then slowly arose, and went to the window. The night was beautiful and calm, the moon was shining in the heavens, and tipped the ocean waves with silver. The three islands appeared on _ the horizon, like blue vapor floating on the ocean. He remembered how often in his in- fancy Je leaned against that window, gazing upor thatsame scene, following with his eyes some bark, with its snowy sails, which glided silently over the sea, like the wing of a night bird. Then-his heart swelled with sweet and tender recollection ; his head fell upon his chest, and silent tears ran down his cheeks. At that moment he felt that some one pressed his hands—it was the old man—he wished to conceal his emotions; but instantly repenting ‘this vain feeling, he turned toward Achard, and frankly let him see his face, down which the tears were streaming. y ¥ou weep, my child,” said the old man. “Yes, I weep,” replied Paul, “and why hould I conceal it? Yes, lookatme. And yet Lhave, during my life, witnessed dreadful ~ geenes. I have seen the tempest bear my ves- selto the summit of a mountain wave, and then sink her into an abyss, from which I ought she would never riso again; and I felt that she weighed no more upon the wings of the storm than does a dried leaf on the “ 2 ee breeze. I have seen men fall around * me like the ripe ears of corn before the sickle |. of the reaper. I have heard the cries of distress, and the dying groans of those whose meal I had partaken but the day be fore. In order to receive their last I have’ walked amid a shower of allets, and grape-shot, upon a plank ie with blood. And yet, amid all this, my soul was calm—my eyes remained unmoist- ned. But this room, see you; this, room, of ch Thad retained so holy a remembrance ; om, in which I had received the first f leaned his head upon his shoulder, and during some time nothing was heard but his sobs. At length the eld servant rejoined ; “Yes, youare right; this room is at once a eradle and a tomb; it was there that you were born;” he pointed to one corner with his hand; ‘and it was there that you received the last blessing of your father,” continued he, point- ing to the opposite side of the room. ‘*He is then dead?” said Paul. ‘He is dead.” ‘*You must tell me how he died.” “YT will tell yow ail.” ‘‘Defer it for a moment,” said Paul, as he reached a chair and seated himself, ‘‘for Iam now too weak to listen to you. Let me recover myself.” He placed his elbow on the window- sill, leaned his head upon his hand, ‘and once more cast his eyes upon the sea. “What a magnificent spectacle is the ocean when the moon shines upon it as brightly as it does now,” continued he, with that accent of soft melancholy which was habitual to him. ‘*Ttis as calm as God himself, and vast as eter- -nity. I do not believe that a man accustomed ‘to study such a scene can be afraid of death. My father met death bravely, did he not?” ““ Assuredly !” proudly replied Achard, “Tt could not be otherwise,” continued Paul, ‘“for I remember my father although I was only four years old when I last saw him.” ‘‘He was a. handsome young man, as you yourself are,” said Achard, looking sorrowfully at Paul, ‘‘ and just as old as you are.” ‘What was his name ?” “The Count de Morlaix.” «Then I also am of an old and noble family. T also have arms and an escutcheon as well as those young insolent nobles who ask me for my parchments when I show them my wounds ?” ‘Wait, young man, wait ; do not allow pride to carry you thus away, for I have not yet told you the name of her who gave you being, and you are still ignorant of the dreadful secret of your birth.” ‘Well, beitso. Ishall not with the less respect and. veneration hear the name of my mother, What was my mother’s name ?” ‘The Marchioness d’Auray,” slowly replied the old man, as if regretting that he was com- pelled to mention her name. “What is it that you tell me!” cried Paul, starting from his chair, and seizing the hands of the old man. ‘The truth!” replied Achard, sorrowfully. ‘“Then Emanuel is my brother—Marguerite is my sister ?” **Do you then already know them ?” exclaim- ed the old servant, much astounded. “Oh, you were right old man,” said Paul, throwing himself into his chair. ‘‘ God orders all things according to his will, and what he does ordain, his wisdom has long before matured.” They both remained silent for a time, when at length Paw) raised his head, and resolutely fixing his eyes on the old man’s face, said: ‘Now, Iam ready to hear all yon have to communicate—you may go on.” CHAPTER IX. FATAL LOVE. I shall a tale unfold Will harrow up thy soul; freeze thy young blood; Make Rac two eyes, like stars, start from their spheres ; : Thy knotted and combined locks to part, And each particular hair to stand on end, Like quills upon thedretful porcupine. ; SHAKESPEARE. night some ‘in knocked at this Ee tance which nature had placed between us. — The Marquis de Morlaix confided to nie the charge of watching over his son, for I loved him with all the love of a father. We remained _ two years under a tropical sun ; during that two | years, your father, lost amid the solitude of that magnificent island, a trayeler without an object — and without an aim, an ardent and indefatigable sportsman, endeavored to cure the griefs of the mind, by the fatigues of the body; but so ‘far from succeeding, one would have thought thet his heart became still more inflamed under that ardent sun. At length, after two years of trial and incessant struggles, his love conquered. He must either see her again or die. I yielded, and we set sail for France. Never was a voyage more beautiful, or more prosperous. The sea and sky seemed to smile upon us; so favorable were they that it would have induced one to be- lieve in lucky omens. Six weeks after our de-, parture from Port au Prince, we landed at Havre. Mademoiselle de Sable was married. The Marquis d’Auray was at Versailles, fulfill- ing at the Court of Louis XV. the duties of his charge, and his wife, who was too much indis- posed to follow him, was at the old chateau d@Auray, the turrets of which you see from this’ place. ps “Yes, yes,” said Paul, ‘‘I know it, py go — ” ae al on. : ‘As to myself,” rejoined the old man, ‘‘ dur- ~ ing our voyage, one of my uncles, an old ser-— vant of the house of Auray, had died, and left me this small house, with a small quantity of — land surrounding it. I took possession of it. nt Your father had left me at Vannes, telling me: he was going to Paris, and for the whole of the ~ first year that I inherited this house I did not / see him.” : “One night,—it is exactly twenty- five years ago,—some one knocked at. my door; I went to open it and found your father there, carrying in his arms a woman whose face was vailed. He brought her inte | his room, and. laid her on that bed. And then © returning to mein the adjoining room, where I. was waiting mute and motionless with, aston- ishment, he placed his hand upon my shoulder | and looked at me in a supplicating manner, al- though he had the right to command me, said, — ‘Louis, you can do more than save my life and — honor—you can sayé the life and honor of her Tlove—get on horseback, gallop’ to the next ~ town, and return here in an hour witha doc- tor.’ He spoke to me in that short and hasty tone, which indicated that there was not a — moment to be lost. I immediately obeyed. ~ The day was beginning to break when we re- turned. The doctor was introduced to the Count de Morlaix, into thisroom, the door of which was immediately closed; he remained — there during the whole day ; toward five in the afternoon the doctor left the house, and at nightfall your father also left the house, carry-_ ing in his arms the mysterious vailed lady whom he had brought the previous night. When they had gone, I came into this room and found you here—you had just been born.” “And how did you learn that this woman was the Marchioness @’Auray ?” 7 “Oh!” exclaimed the old man, in away — which was as terrible as it was unexpected; “Thad offered the Count de Morlaix to keep you here, and he accepted my proposal; from time to time he would come and spend an hour with you. ra AAR “ lone ?” anxiety. : ¥ “Yes, always; but as he had given me per mission to walk with you in the park, it would. sometimes happen that at the corner of one of the avenues I would meet the marchioness, d in demanded Paul, with. much Four years. passed o: 2 at a Fest
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_ the Marquis d’Auray. It is a duel in which - one of us must fall, and you are to be the only witness of it. The terms are agreed upon. ! text that he will not see b | keeps Emanuel and Marguerite from him.” his’ children, that she { neath the ‘ground, and how soon he is lost Rind rs _ | the world, should God turn his face from him | ‘*My poor sister,” said Paul, with an accent | Your father was young, full of courage, with a _ He sat down at this table, on the very chair in | that wretch Lectoure.” * which you are now seated.” "the back of the chair, without again sitting down upon it, | “He sat upall night. At daybreak he came | into my room and found me up—I had not | gone to bed. As to you, poor child, uncon- ‘scious of the passions and miseries of this life, | you were quietly sleeping.” ‘** And then—pray go on.” _ ** Your father bent down, slowly over you, _ supporting himself by the’ wall, and looking ' sorrowfully upon you: ‘Louis,’ said he to “me, in a hollow voice, ‘should I be killed, which may happen, woe to this child! You} ~~ will deliver him with this letter to Field, my | _ yalet de chambre, whom I have charged to} ' ¢onduct him to Selkirk, in Scotland, there to - Teave him in sure hands. When he is twenty- _ five years old, he will bring you the other half of this gold coin, and will ask you to reveal to - him the secret of his birth. You will commu- *nicate it; and then, perhaps, his mother will ' be alone and isolated. As to these papers ‘which prove his birth, you’ will not deliver them te him, until after the death of the mar- quis @’Auray. Now I have said all that is ‘necessary ; let us go, for it is the appointed hour. He then leaned over your bed, bent _ down towards you, and although he was a man | of fortitude, as I have told you, I saw a tear "fall upon your cheek.” _ '* Proceed,” said Paul, in a voice choked by emotion. ; “The rendezvous was in one of the avennes of the park, about a hundred paces from “this house. When we reached the place we found the marquis there; he had been waiting for some minutes. Near him, upon a bank, were pistols ready loaded. The adversaries |! bowed to each other without exchaging a word. “The marquis pointed to the weapons—they each took one, and then, according to the terms which had been agreed upon, as your fatherhad told me, they placed themselves mute and gloomily, at the distance of thirty paces, and then began to walk toward each other. Oh! it was a momentof agony for me, I can assure rou,” rejoined the old man, almost as much ‘moved'as if the scene were then actually pass- ing before him. ‘‘ When I saw the distance | _ gradually diminishing between these two men. When they were only at about ten paces, the marquis stopped and fired. I looked at your father; nota muscle of his face was moved, 80 that I thought him safe and unhurt. He continued to walk on till he came close to the marquis, and then placing the muzzle of the vistol to hig heart ’?—— ; ‘He did not kill him, I trust,” cried Paul, seizing the old man’s arm. _ He said to him, ‘ Your life is in my hands, sir, and I might take it, but I wish you to live, * that you may pardon me, asIdo you.’ And uttering these words, he fell dead at the feet of | the marquis, whose ball ‘had passed through hest.” \ hh! my father! my father!” cried Paul, és ing his hands. .‘‘ And the man who kill- ~ ed my father—he still lives, does he not? He is still young, and has strength enough to wield 1 sword or raise a pistol? We will go to him -day—instantly! You will tell him that 1 his son! that he must fight with me.” God has avenged your father,” replied ie Achard—‘‘ that man is mad.” at is true—I had forgotten that,” mur- Paul sprang up, but supported himself on | | “Yes, but that wretch Lectoure will take Marguerite with him to Paris, and give a regi- ment of dragoons to her brother, so that the marchioness will no longer have cause to dread the presence of her children. Her secret, there- fore, remains henceforward in the breasts of two old men, who to-morrow, this night even, may die. The grave is silent.” “But, J—1”——_ “You! Does she know that you still exist! , Has anything been heard of you since you es- caped from Selkirk? Could not some accident, have prevented you from coming to the ap- pointment, which fortunately you have done safely? It is certain that she has not forgotten you, but she hopes ”-—— ‘*Oh! can you believe that my mother”-—— “‘T beg your pardon, that is true. I do not believe it!” cried Achard, ‘“‘I was wrong; for- get what I have said.” ‘Ves, yes, let us speak let us speak of my father.’ “*Tt is necessary that I should tell you that his last wishes were fulfilled. Field came to fetch you during the day, and took you away with him. Twenty-one years have passed since then, and since then not a single day has passed without my putting up a prayer that I might see you at the appointed time. My prayers have been granted,” continued the old man, ‘‘and thanks be to God, you are here. Your father lives again in you—I once more seo him—I am speaking to him” I weep no longer, Iam now consoled.” “And he died thus; instantly, without a struggle; without a sigh ?” Vogt brought him here. I placed him on the bed on which you were born—I closed the door that no one might enter the house, and I went alone and dug his grave. I passed the whole day in this painful duty ; for, according to the request of your father, to noone was to be confided this dreadful secret. In the evening I returned for the body. .The heart of man is singularly constituted, and hope which God has planted in it, can with difficulty be eradicated. T had seen him fall —I had felt his hands grow cola—I had kissed his -ice-like: face—I had left him, to hollow out his grave, and that grave being made, that duty being accomplished, I returned with a beating heart, for it appeared to me, although a miracle would be required for such a change, that during my absence life had returned to him, and that he would rise from his bed and speak to me. I entered the house—alas! alas! the days of miracles had passed away. Lazarus remained lying on his couch—dead! dead! dead!” and the old man remained forsome time overwhelmed with grief, silent and voiceless, and tears rolled down his furrowed cheeks. ; “Yes, yes,” cried Paul, also bursting into tears, ‘yes, and you then fulfilled your holy mission. Good old man, let me kiss those hands which deposited my father in his last home. And you haye remained faithful to his tomb as you had been to him during life. Poor guardian of the sepulcher ; you have re- mained near him that your tears might water the grass which grew about the unknown grave. Oh! how little are those who think themselves great because their name resounds amid the tempest, and the ery of war, louder than the storm or the din of battle, in comparison with of you, my friend; you, old man, whose devotedness has been mute and noiseless. Oh! give me your bless- ing; lay those hallowed hands upon my head,’ since-my father is not here to bless me,” con- tinued Paul, throwing himself on his knees be- fore him. You must, therefore, give me shelter for this of undefinable tenderness. “‘And now she | brilliant career opening before him. |Your — night, and let me have materials for writing. | wishes to sacrifice her by forcing her to marry | father was the last descendant of an ancient line , he bore a noble name. His path seemed marked — with honors and distinction ; he had a family _ and powerful friends. Well, he suddenly ‘dis- | appeared, as if the earth had opened beneath — jhis feet. I know not: if some tearful eyes — sought for him till they lost all trace of him; — but this I know, that for one-and-twenty years — no one has sought out his tomb—no one knows that he lies beneath thatspot, where the grass is: greener and grows more luxuriantly than else- — where—and’ yet, vain, glorious, and miserable — as he is, man considers himself of some value.” “Oh! and my mother, has she not visited his grave ?” ; j The old man did not answer. peas 9 Ek “Well, then! there will be two of us who — henceforward will know the spot. where he re- — poses. Come, and show it to me; for] will — return to it, I promise solemnly, every time my ship returns to the coast of France.” Mae Saying this, he drew Achard into the outer room, but as they opened the deor they heard a slight noise in the park. It was a servant from the castle, who had accompanied Mar- — guerite. Paul hwriedly returned into the bed. room. a | bring him something from my mother.” “It is my sister,” said he to Achard, ‘‘leay me alone with her a moment. It is nec that I should speak to her. I have something — to communicate which will make her passa — happy night. We must haye compassion om — those who watch and weep.” ; Pha ‘* Reflect,” said Achard, ‘‘that the secret I~ have revealed to you is your mother’s.” : “Fear not—I will speak to her but of that which concerns herself.” ty ES At that moment Marguerite entered the — room. Re Hoey CHAPTER X. CONFIDENCE. Vea This ring I gave him when he parted from ‘To bind him to remember my good will ; The more shame for him that he sendsifme. __ SHAKESPEARE, Marcurnrire had come, as she frequently to bring some provisions for the-old man, anc it was not without astonishment that she pe: ceived in the outer room, where she usua found Achard, a young and handsome who looked at her with gladdened eyes, : with a kindly smile. She made a sign to the servant to put down the basket in a corner the room; he obeyed, and then went out to for his mistress in the park. Whe withdrawn, she advanced towards P. img: : a. I beg your pardon, sir, but I Paul pointed to the inner room, to let her know that the person she was seeking was within, for he could not reply to her; he felt ‘that the tone of his voice would betray the em tions he experienced. The young girl him, witha bow, and went into th find Achard. : Paul followed her with his eyes- 2 pressed upon his heart. That virgin so which love had never penetrated, now ex with fraternal tenderness. Isolated. as always been, having no friends but th children of the ocean, all that was’ in hisheart he had turned towar although in the eyes of rigid aa ligion might pot have appeared thodox, it is no iat tae the overflowed in every word he utte ing more than one vast an nates
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gs when she returns, and ‘from clasping her to my heart and saying to her, ‘‘Marguerite; my sister, no woman has _ yet felt love for me; love me then with sisterly affection. Oh! mother! mother! by lo _ me of your caresses, you have also deprive me of those of this dear angel. May God re- storeto you in eternity that happiness which | you hare driven from yourself and others.” » Farewell!” said Marguerite to the old man, opening the door, ‘‘farewell, I wished this ‘evening to come myself, for I know not when I may See you again.” ' And she went toward the outer door, pen- sive, and with her eyes cast down, without . seeing Paul, without remembering that a stranger was in that room. Paul remained gaz- ing at her with outstretched arms as if to pre- vent her leaying the house, with palpitating | Y heart and moistened eyes. At length, when he saw her placing her hand upon the door- latch, he cried aloud : “Marguerite !” She turned round amazed, but not being able to comprehend this strange familiarity, jn one who was totally unknown to her, she half-opened the-door. - ‘*Marguerite!” reiterated Paul, advancing a step towards his sister, ‘‘ Marguerite, do you not hear me call you?” ' «Jt is true that,my name is Marguerite, - gir,” she replied, with dignity; ‘‘but I could not imagine that word was addressed tome by a person whom I have not the honor of know- ing,” : m But I know you?” exclaimed Paul, going nearer to her, and then closing the door, he brought her back into the room. ‘I know that you are unhappy, that you have not one friendly heart into which you can pour your sorrows, notone arm from which you canask support.” “You forget the one which is on high.” re- plied Marguerite, raising her eyes and hand , toward heaven. i } No, no, Marguerite, I do not forget, for it >is He who sends me to offer you that which you most need; to tell you when all lips and nll hearts are closed toward you, ‘I am your _ friend, devotedly, eternally.’” “Oh! sir!” replied Marguerite, “these are picred and solemn words you have uttered ; vrords, unfortunately, to which it would be difficult for me to give credence without . proofs.” ~ _ ~ And should I give you one?” said Paul. Impossible !” murmured Marguerite, ‘‘Trrefragable !” continued Paul. “Oh! then!” exclaimed Marguerite with an ; indescribable accent, in which doubt began ~ to give place to hope. . _ & Well! and then.” «Oh! then—but no, no!” “Do you know this ring?” said Paul, show- ing her the one with the key that opened the bracelet. i «Gracious heaven !” exclaimed Marguerite, oy « have mercy upon me! he is dead!” -.-« He lives.” j ; } ‘“Thén he no longer loves me.’ “He loves you.” : «Tf he be living—ifhe still loves me—oh! Tshall go mad--what was itl was saying? If he be living—if he still loves me, how comes it that this ring is in your possession?” ‘ «Fe confided it to me as a token of recogni- tion.” | r e thought,” continued Panl, ‘he thought the prevent myself er the extent of the devoted-, he is forever which I have done for him,” replied Marguer- | ite, ‘* her only excuse is to love him eternally, mean to do.” : and it is that ‘Oh! you are an angel!” exclaimed Paul. “« Tell me!” rejoined Marguerite, seizing the young man’s hands, and looking at him with a supplicating air: ** What?” “ Have you seen him, then?” ‘Tam his friend, his brother.” ‘Speak to me of him, then !” she exclaimed, giving herself up entirely to the recollection of her lover, and forgetting that it was the first time she had seen the person to whom she was addressing questions of so delicate a na- ture. he? Poor unhappy man!” ‘‘He loves you—and he hopes again to see ou.” “What is he doing? what hope has ‘Then, then,” stammered Marguerite, and drawing back some paces—‘‘he has told _ “Oh!” she cried, looking down and’conceal. | ing her face, over which a sudden tinge of red | thing that may occur, only contrive to letme ‘©Your brother's sacred as your own, and rely confidently wpon me.” _ ‘Oh! I believe you, sir, and I implicitly con- fide in you,” said Marguerite, as if overwhelmed. by the contending feelings of confidence and — onis in my eyes as guerite. Fear nothing, — | mistrust which she had still labored under. “For what advantage could you derive from — endeayoring to deceive me? What interest could you have to betray me ?” f Digksok “None, undoubtedly ; but let us talk ofother pursue with regard to the Baron de “*T will tell him all!” : “Oh!” cried Paul, bowing profoundly, ‘ low me to adore yon.” i ‘* Sir!” murmured Marguerite, ‘‘ sir!” ‘As a sister! as a sister!” — Ach eae ‘“‘ Yes, you are indeed kind and good,” cried Marguerite, ‘‘and I believe it is God who sent you to my aid.” : te: = ‘* Believe it,” replied Paul. ; ‘“Then—to-morrow evening.” ws “Do not be astonished, nor alarmed at any- had cast itself, replacing for a moment its | know by letter, by a word, a sign, the result of habitual paleness. : a Paul approached her and clasped her to his breast, exclaiming : ‘*You are a miracle of devotedness !” ‘You do not then despise me, sir?” said Marguerite, yenturing to raise her eyes. ‘* Marguerite !” cried Paul, ‘“‘had Ia sister I would pray to heaven that she might resemble ou. “Oh! were it so you would have 2a most | unhappy sister,” she replied, leaning upon his arm and bursting into tears. ‘‘ Perhaps,” said Paul, smiling. ** You know not, then ??? — ** Proceed.” ‘That Monsieur de Lectoure is to arrive | yeturning to Paul, she held ont her to-morrow morning.” ‘ T have been informed of that.” ‘And that to-morrow night the marriage con- tract is to be signed.” ‘“‘T know that, too.” ‘Well! then! what can I hope for in such | duct me to my father’s grave.” extremity as this? To whom can I apply to prevent this hated union? Who can I interest to aid me? My brother? God knows that I forgive him, but. he cannot comprehend my Oh! sir, you do not She is a woman whose feelings. My mother ? know my mother. reputation is unsullied, of the most austere virtue, and her will inflexible, for never having failed in her duty, she does not believe that others can forget it, and when she has once said, ‘It is my will,’ all that remains to do is to bow down one's head, to weep, and to obey. My father? Yes, I well know that my father must leave the room from which he has never stirred for twenty years, to sign this contract. My father! for any one less unhappy and less culpable than I am might prove a resource; but you know not that he is insane—that he has lost. his reason,.and with it every feeling of paternal affection. And be- sides, it is ten years since I last sawhim. For the last ten years I have not pressed his frem- bling hands, nor kissed his snow-white hairs, He knows not that he has still a daughter; he knows not even whether he has a heart, and’ will not be able even to recognize me. And were he but to know me, and took compassion on me, my mother would place a pen in his hand and would say, ‘Sign that, it is my will!" and he would sign it—the poor feeble old man! and his daughter would be condemned.” : I know all this as well as you do, |my poor child; but be pacified, that contract “Yes, yes. never will be signed.” “And who ean prevent it?” eT will!” i : “You?” yg your interview with Lectoure!”™ ‘*T will endeavor f do so.” / “It is now late, and’ your servant may b surprised at the length of this interview. RK turn to the castle, and say not a word of me any one, Farewell ?” RARE ‘*Farewell,” reiterated Marguerite, “you ‘ whom I know not what name to give.” — ‘* Call me yfour brother.” “ Farewell, then, brother.” fae = ‘Oh, my sister! my sister!” cried Paul, clasping her Sonniiyele in his arms, ‘‘ your lips are the first from which I have heard sweet a word. God will reward you for it. The young girl drew back amazed; and thon hand to — him. Paul again pressed it, and Marguerite — left the cottage. ; a The young man then went to the door of ‘th inner room, and opened it. om ‘And now, good old man,” said he, ‘ CHAPTER XL THE OCOURTIER, hale Hamlet. Dost thou know this wa! Horatio.—No, my good lord. it eee Hamlet.—Thy state is the moro gracious ; for ’tis a to know him. SHAKESPEARE. Here on my knees by Heayen’s blest power I swet e of i If you persist, I ne’er henceforth will see yo' But rather wander through the world a begg: And live on sondid vg a at poor men’s doo: For, though to fortune lost, Pl still inherit My mother's virtues and my father's honor. Tue day following that on which P: been made acquainted with the secret birth, the inhabitants of the castle of awoke more than ever absorbed in the fes and hopes which their several interests had created, for that day must necessaril 2 decisive one to the whole of them. marchioness, whom our readers haye discovered was neither perverse nor but a haughty and inflexible woman, s the termination of those heart-rending: sions, which for so many years | daily companions; for it was above | eyes of her children, and that wished t serve that unsullied reputation, the usu of which had been purchased with ait su shee whom the minister, thanks to this promised to give a regitne en gone, her first-bo
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ee i@jeaned infallible The more “ temible hee fears, the more ardently did she desire this union; so that she not only encouraged the z “anxiety of Lectouré, but she also excited that of Emanuel. As to the latter, tired of living un- own at Paris, or immured in Brittany, lost in the crowd of brilliant young men who _ formed the household of the king, or shut up im the antique castle of his ancestors, having ' their portraits as his sole companions, he ‘knocked with impatient eagerness at the golden door which his intended brother-in-law was to -openfor himat Versailles. The grief and tears of his sister had, certainly, for atime aftlicted him; -forhe was ambitious, more from the dread of the live on his estate, and from the desire of parading at the head of his regiment, ‘captivating the hearts of all the ladies by the richness and good taste of his uniform, than from either “pride or hardness of heart. Being himself, Incapable of forming any serious attachment ‘and despite the fatal consequences of his sister’s - love, he considered that love merely as a child- ish fancy which the tumult and pleasures of the world would soon effgce from her memory, nd he really believed that before a year had apsed, she would be the first to thank him for laying thus done violence to her feelings. ‘As to Marguerite, poor victim, so irrevocably condemned to be immolated to the fear of the one and to the ambition of the other, the scene f the preceding day had made a profound im- pression on her mind. She could not at all ac- count to herself for the extraordinary feelings which the young man had who transmitted to her the words of Lusignan, had awakened in her ; who had tranquillized her as to the fate ‘the unhappy exile, and had concluded by } : ssing her to his heart, and’ calling her his ‘sister. A vague and instinctive hope whispered to her heart, that this man, as he had told_ her, received from heayen the mission to pro- ecther. But as she was ignorant of the tie ich bound him to her, of the secret which nade him master of her mothers’s will, of the ee fluence he might exercise over her future life, e did not dare allow herself to dream of hap- piness, habituated as she had been for six onths, to consider death as the only term to \isfortunes. : e marquis, alone, amid the various emo-. ms which agitated all around him, had re- vained coldly and impassibly indifferent; for, 0 him the world had ceased to move since the dreadful day on which reason had abandoned “him; ‘continually absorbed by one fixed idea, at of his mortal combat, without seconds. 1e only words he ever uttered, were those pro- 5 ced by the Count de Morlaix, when he for- Bhi. ive him his death. He was an old man, weak as n infant, and whom his wife could overawe by esture, and who received from her cold continuous will every impulsion which, twenty years, the vegetating instinct had re- ed, and which, in him, had usurped the ‘reason and free will, On this day, : however, a great change had taken place in his nonotonous mode of life. A valet de chambre entered his apartment, and had succeeded to _ the marchioness, in the cares of his toilette ; he ; dressed him in his uniform of steward of - the household, had decorated his breast. with _ the several orders that had been conferred upon “and then the marchioness, placing a pen hand, had ordered him to try to sign his 2m , and ho had obeyed, passively and neg- , Without imagining that he was study- part of an, executioner. Bia ae out three in the afternoon, a post-chaise, the sound of whose wheels had very differently. ed the hearts of the three, persons who i reese it, entered the courtyard of the bule to he his future. brother-in-law, whi 10 had arrived. Lectoure sprang “He had halted for Howse, to aire him. - ennui which would consume him if compelled to | had.eagerly run down to the |. toure was determined not to lose the advantage of a first favorable impression, by presenting | His inter-. himself in a dusty traveling dress. course with the fair sex had taught him, that they almost invariably judge from the first glance, and the effect which it produces upon their minds or hearts, let itbe favorable or un- favoraule, is with difficulty removed. More- over, itis but rendering justice to the baron, to acknowledge, that his person was graceful and elegant, and might have been dangerous to any woman whose heart was not already oc- eupied by another. ‘*Permit me, my dear baron,” said Eman- uel, advancing toward him, ‘‘in the n:om >nta- ry absence of the ladies, to do the honors of the mansion of my ancesters. She,” continued he, when they had reached the top of the stone steps leading into the hall, and pointing to the turrets and the bastions, ‘‘these date from the time of Philip Augustus, as to architecture, and from Henry IV., in point of ornament.” “Upon my honor,” replied the baron, in the affected tone which the young men Of that day had adopted, ‘‘it isa most charming fortress, and throws around it, to a distance of at least three leagues, a baronial odor, which would perfume even an army contractor. If ever,” continued he, as they passed through the hall and entered a gallery ornamented on each side with long lines of family portraits, ‘‘I should take a fancy to enter into a rebellion against His most Christian Majesty, I shall entreat you to lend me this jewel of a place; and,” added he, casting his eyes on the long rows of ances- tors which offered themselves to his view, ‘‘ the garrison with it.” “Thirty-three quarters—TI will not say in flesh and blood,” replied Emanuel, ‘‘for they are long since turned to dust—but in painting, as you see. They begin with a certain Cheva- lier Hugues d’Auray, who accompanied king Louis VII., to the crusades; that one, it is pre- tended, is my aunt Deborah, whom you see decked out as Judith; and all this eventually ends in the male line, in the last member of this illustrious family, your very humble and very obedient servant, Emanuel d’Auray.” “Tt is perfectly respectable, and nothing can be more authentic.” ‘Yes; but as I do not feel that I have, as yet, become sufficiently a patriarch,” rejoined Emanuel, passing before the baron to show him the way to the apartment which had been pre- pared for him, ‘‘to spend my days in such for- midable society, I hope, baron, that you have thought of the means by which I can withdraw from it?” ‘*Undoubtedly, my dear count,” said Lec- toure, following him. ‘‘I wished even to have been myself the bearer of your commis- sion, as my wedding gift to you. I knew of a yacancy in the queen’s dragoons, and called yesterday on M. de Maurepas to solicit it for you, when I heard that it had been granted, at the request of I know not what mysterious admiral, a sort of corsair, pi- rate, or fantastic’ being, whom the queen has made the fashion by giving him her hand to kiss, and whom the king has taken a great af- fection to because he beat the English, I know not where—so that his majesty has conferred upon him the order of military merit, and pre- sented him a sword with a gold hilt, just as he would have done to one of the nobility. In short, the game is lost on that side, but do not be alarmed, we will turn round to another.” “Very well, ” replied Emanuel, ‘IT care not what regiment it may be in; what I desire is, that it should be axank suitable to my name, and a position which would be becoming to our wealth.” : et Precisely—you shall have them.” the subject of “conversation, ‘how did you manage to get rid of the ‘thousand engagements you must Pea had on your hands?” which bel ‘strete | stating the fact 40. them. i ee, at the — queen's card table, I was going to be married.” # “Oh! good heaven! Why, this was perfect heroism! Above all, if you acknowledged you were pbout to seek a wife in the RSP of Lower Brittany.” fers “T did acknowledge it.” Diy “ And then,” said eee smiling, ‘come — passion stifled every angry feeling.” a ‘*Gad!. you will readily comprehend, my dear count,” said Lectoure, putting one knee over the other, and balancing his leg with a mo- tion as regular as that of a pendulum, ‘‘our wo- men of the court believe that the sun rises at Paris, and sets at Versailles—all the rest of France, is, in their idea, a Lapland, Greenland, Nova Zembla! So that they expect, as you” have hinted, my dear count, to see me bring back with me from my voyage to the pole some unknown sort of creature, with terrible large hands, and formidable feet! Fortunately, they — are mistaken,” he added, with an accent half timorous, half interrogatory ; ‘ig it not so, Emanuel? for you told me that your sister ’’—— ‘You will see her,” replied Emanuel. ; “Tt will be a dreadful disappointment tothat = poor Madame de Chaulne—it cannot be helped ' —and she must console herself. What is it?” This question was induced by the entrance of Emanuel’s valet-de-chambre, who had half- _ opened the door, and. remained upon the threshold, waiting, as was then the custom oft 50/58 all servants in great houses, till his master should address him. ‘¢ What is it?” repeated Emanuel. ‘‘ Mademoiselle Marguerite d’Auray requests — that Monsieur, the Baron de Lectoure, will honor her with a private interview.” ,‘‘Me!” said Lectoure, rising from the sofa, ‘certainly, with the greatest pleasure.” ‘But no! it is a mistake !” exclaimed Eman- uel; ‘you must be mistaken, Celestin.” “T have the honor to assure your lordship,” replied the valet-de-chambre, ‘‘that Ihave cor- rectly and faithfully executed the order which YF was given to me.” | | “tg ‘““Impossible!” said Emanuel, uneasy to the §. highest degree, at_the step his ‘sister had ven- © tured to.take: ‘‘Baron, if you will be advised by me, you will send the little simpleton about — ‘‘But how,” said Emanuel, wishing to change. the pies Aa pe ectis om her business.” yO “By no means! by no means,” replied Lec- toure. ‘‘ What does this bluebeard of a brother © ¥ Ms) mean? Celestin! Did you not call this lad ‘ Celestin ?” Enjanuel impatiently bowed his head in the: | affirmative, wai ‘*Well, then, Celestin, tell my 1ovaly ref trothed that I throw myself at her knees, ather feet, and that I await her orders either to go to a her or to receive her here; and there, take this for the charges of your embassy.” ) ‘<He threw him his purse. 5 ‘And you, count,” rejoined Lectoure, fe ye trust that you have confidence enough in me, to permit this tele-a- tete.” ‘But it is so perfectly absurd !” ae “ Not at all!” replied Lectoure; ‘‘ on the cons Mews trary, it is perfectly befitting, I am nota crowned head, that [ should marry a. woman upon her portrait, and by proxy. I wishtosee her in person. Come, Emanuel,” he con- tinued, pushing his friend toward a side door, — that he might meet his sister—‘‘ Come, now, tell me frankly—in confidence, between our- selyes—is there any—deformity ?” “Why, no, by heaven!” replied the youn, count, “no—on the contrary, she is lovely as. an angel.” ‘- Well, ide !” said the baron, ‘‘ what fe all this 0; opposition ano Come, now, begon or must I call my guards? f ‘No; but on my word, I am afraid bec little simpleton, who has not the slightest tion of the world, is coming to destroy a bs has been arranged between us.” : “Oh! ifthatis all you fear,” repli the: door, “you may be like the brother too an
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‘strange trick, (whom, I trust, is at this moment ;—hands perfectly royal in their shape—why, | ephemeral attachments are; and there is nota’ fully occupied in some other corner of the | tis enough to make me expire at once.” schoolgirl, who, after the holidays, does not world!) that Mademoiselle Marguerite V’ Auray, ‘‘T trust M. le Baron,” rejoined Marguerite, | return to her convent but with a little passion hall be Madame the Baroness ‘de Lectoure, | and making a last effort, she withdrew her hand in her little heart.” r eit aaa and that in a month you shall have your regi-| from his grasp, ‘that the words with which} ‘‘ Unfortunately for ma,” replied Marguerite. ment.” : you are now addressing me, are merely words | with a voice as sorrowful and grave as that of : This promise appeared in some degree to | of gallantry.” the baron was sarcastic and light; ‘ unfortu- _ pacify Emanuel, who allowed himself to be} ‘‘No, by my soul! they are the sincere nately, I ammo longer a schoolgirl, sir, and _ pushed out of the door without making further | truth.” although still young, f have long ago passed difficulty. Lectoure immediately ran toa look-| ‘‘ Well then, I hope, should it be, which I the age of childish games and infantine at-— _ ing-glass:to repair the slight traces of disorder, | much doubt, that you really “ink that which | tachments. When I speak to the man who which the jolting over the three last leagues | you have’ been pleases to say—I trust, I say, does me the honor to solicit my hand and to — had occasioned in his dress. He had scarcely | that such motives will not lead you to attach a offer me his name, cf my love for another, he } given to his hair and garments the most becom- | higher value to the union which has been pro- ought to understand that I am speaking of a — ‘ing turn and folds, when the door again opened, | jected ?” , peepne: epimers an love ap some of ‘and Celestin announced : “ Petty 9 : those passions, in fine, which leave their traces — - “Mademoiselle Marguerite d'Auray.” agree will, indeed, and thet I swear to} i. the heart, and imprint them there for. .. The baron tuned round, perceived his be-|" «And yet,” continued Marguerite, gasping |°V" 4. aovit 1 exclaimed Lectoure, as if bes trothed standing pale and trembling on the} for breath, so much was her heart oppressed, | |. : = threshold of dig duct) Although the promises} «and yet, sir, you consider iaviogs' ae sol. | SBning to attach som importance to Ma ee of Emanuel had inspired him with some degree’) emn matter?” ; guerite’s confession ; why, this is perfect) of hops, a cortain residue of doubt had stillre-|. «That is as it may happen,” smilingly re- pasta But let us see. Is *: ss oA ma: mained on his mind, if not as to the beauty, at | plied Lectoure ; for example, if I were about to whont ene oP Bg ne one’s house ?”" all events, with regard to the deportment of the | marry an old dowager.” ne ee BD i pare arene) catching at lady who was about to become his wife. His| ‘In short,” gejommed Marguerite in a more| ('¢ 2OnS ™ ri wth 56 at % econo to in- ef, surprise was therefore unbounded, when he saw | determined tone, ‘‘I beg your pardon, sir, if I thee bal : he AeyS re : a. t sheave. ‘that delicate and graceful creature standing be-| have been mistaken ; I thought, perhaps, that| "vw. Tam ne Pckie SNS oe foe fore him, and whom the most fastidious critic of | with regard to the alliance proposed between] 7 ya. 7, t® mat oe on. Fat ou ali ane : _ femal eleegance could only have reproached with | us, you had formed some idea of reciprocity of is haat ai aa thede “of a oe, that : being in a slight degree too pallid. Marriages, | feeling.” fectly understood: 1 ook yon. @fieiien aaa Z such as the one about to be contracted by “Neyer!” cried Lectoure, interrupting her. : ; : aa OR aa Lectoure, were by no means rarein an age in| for he appeared as eager to avoid the frank ex- see aa taut worl i, ae Mabry = 2 which questions as to rank and suitableness of | planation, which Marguerite desired, as she and that without degrading her hus and?” “fortune in general, decided alliances between | seemed to proyoke it. ‘Never! and above|.. q-; ’ 20 noble houses ; but that which was scarcely | all, since I have seen you, I could not hope to | alae bee Shp a eae que one i found once ina thousand times, was that a man | be worthy of your love. And yet my name, ie aia sulle at dhe anaes in the baron’s position should meet, immured ae Fae in ae aicultarbaprnes I ae ; ay ina distant province, a lady possessed of an im- | Should fail to influence your eart, may yet) ceowoia » 5 ) : mense fortune, and whom, at the first glayce, | sive mea title to your hand. : des Lanne one ae PB resepapere esis eg he could discern, was worthy, by her ‘de-| “But how, sir,” said Marguerite, timidly, | j.4¢, “T would rather it were otherwise --- meanor, her elegance, oa pe heaty, to shine seat can you separate the one from the|;.),, a knight of Malta, at least?! jin the most brilliant circles of the court. He, | Other i! “ astP} _ therefore, advanced towards her, no longer ‘As do three-fourths of the people who get jane he cones te a Scene with the feeling of superiority as a courtier ad- married, mademoiselle,” replied Leetoure, | yi, to give him rank and standing in society fressing a country girl, but with all the respect- with a carelessness which would have at once | yy, 5 1, that’s all arranged, and it is well. 5 hich distinguished good _societ; | deterred the confidence of a woman less candid | ;._ 7 oe : emt : . E89 PE Lhe Marguerite. ‘A’man marries in order listen to me; he will absent himself « Pardon me, mademoiselle,” said he, offer- to have a wife, the wife to have a husband; it ” Ing her his hand to conduct her to an arm-chair, | 15 2 social compact, an arrangement of conyen- but which she did not accept; “it was to mo |ience, What can love have todo in a matter ats sou have bestow: ./ of this nature?” y : : s ; m seen she sso yo, ns : ees eae “Your pardon, sir; perhaps I have xot tual friend, and then all will go on ge ing considered indisereet, which, alone, has oc. | Clearly expressed my meaning,” continued “JT do not understand you, sir, rep Gee 4 ; : -| Marguerite, making an effort to control her | Marguerite, looking at the baron with an ex- -easioned the apparent neglect of allowing my- feclings, and to conceal from the man upon| Pression of profound astonishment. tain leave of absence, no difficult matter now, — as we are not at war—he will get himself pre-” sented to you for form’s sake, by some — self ta. be forestalled.” : ei 2 ‘ ey ME gitesk ily appreciate this delicacy, sir,” replied whom her fature fate depended, the impres- ' What I have said to you is, notwithstand-_ Br Mangucrte, in trembling yoiee and retreating | 122 i Wore ae er eration, Wr | nee eke or anpatiences"™* you. have en ‘one step, omen pap Pe agi rr to the dmidity of a young girl, ‘compelled by apie at Ae ne Ragen ae that by ee i ee ine poss Fou, withiont pena Wie Con. nee circumstances to speak on such a| is no reason se preveanne an union which is Thad placed in your honor and good faith.” iy oe BSN ate oe Hie petal Tie perfectly suita ie a pei th respect ; ber onee - _ “Whatever aim this confidence may have | toure bowing and giving to ‘his eles a tone apoeme) ied, ts Ue as sy De or , boa 9 nage yy it, aa ee <a which neatly approached raillery; ‘fon the peghal na now ?” a A a = will endeavor to render myself worthy of it, ik “ssn Hie oe ia Be eae that onto atest yous (Senin, 8 spank ke Cis slows al)" On pardon, me, ai, pan sn” “Nothing, six, nothing,” replied Marguerite, | endowed me with a mind sufficiently quick- Marguerite, starting back, as though, +h _. endeavoring to overcome her emotion; but it| sisted perfectly to comprehend things which words had outraged her; ‘‘I, have been very +is—it is—that I have to tell you that—but—| aye but hinted at.” imprudent, very culpable perhaps ; but what- - zeally—I am not sufficiently mistress of myself | «< qow, sir!” cried Marguerite, “you com-| CY I may have been, I did not yeu ? ‘ prehend what I had the intention of saying, have merited so gross an insult. Oh! sir, She staggered, and appeared as if about to and you allow me to continue? How would it blush of shatne is now scorching my chee all; the baron sprang towerd her to offer his | he if on looking deeply into my heart and in- but more for you than for myself. Yes, pport, but he had scarcely touched her when terrogating all its feelings, I found it impossi- derstand you—an- apparent love and a concealed ¢ crimson suffused the cheeks of the | ple to loye—to love the person who had been one; the face of vice and the mask of virtue; ung girl, and with a feeling, which might'be | presented to me as my future husband ?” and it is to me—to me, the daughter of the - attributed as well to modesty as to repugnance, |” «: Why,” replied Lectoure, in the same sar- |Marquisd’Auray, that so shameful, so humil ed herself from his arms. Lec-|eastic tone in which he had before spoken, | ing, 80 infamous a bargain is proposed i mn her hand, and conducted her} ‘‘in my opinion the best course to pursue continued she, falling into an arm-c te to a chair, against which she leaned, but would | would be not to tell him of it.” hiding her face with both her han (aah | ‘not seat herself in it. ; « And why not, sir?” ; must then be a most unfortunate, most “Good God!” exclaimed the baron, still re-| «“Because—but—but—because it would re-|temptible lost creature | Oh! my her hand, ‘‘it must then be something | ally be too simple.” God!” Seba 5, cult to utter, that has bronght you| ‘And if that avowal were made, not from| ‘‘ Emanuel! Emanuel!” crie Or, without my at all suspecting’ it, If I added, | opening the door, at which he right m a ing affianced to youalready conferred erite’s brother had remained ; “the innposingt alr of a husband?” — y dear friend ; syour js. jerite made another effort spasms; these things o on, and whi become “s or they may b ectoure, é playing with th A.
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and rd me, if you please, news of your} » sister.” Saying these words, the Baron de Lectoure left the room with.miraculous calmness, leay- ing Marguerite and Emanuel together. * OHRAP TER MIL: eaten THE CHALLENGE, ‘Doas you will, heap wrongs on wrongs upon me, It shall not anger me—I tell thee, Claudius, ‘Thou art enshrined in a holy circle My foot can never pass—nor taunt, nor insult Can e’er induce, this hand to rise against thee. » Therefore be satistiod—Once more I tell thee » Iwill not fight with thoe. Oup Pray. Own the day on which the interview between arguerite and the Baron de Lectoure had en place, the result of which had proved so diametrically opposed to the hopes and expec- tations of the young girl, on that day at four - o’clock, the dinner bell recalled the baron to ie castle. Emanuel did the honors of the ‘table, fi ‘or the marchioness could not leave her ‘husband, and Marguerite had requested per- ion not to come down stairs. The other sts were the notary, the relations of the family, and the witnesses. The repast was a oomy one, notwithstanding the imperturbable ; yety of Lectoure ; but it was evident that by & joyous humor, so stirring that it appeared erish, he strove to stun his own feelings. m time to time, indeed, his boisterous live- liness failed all at once, like a lamp, the oil of ich is nearly extinguished, and then he sud- denly burst forth again, as doth the flame when ‘it devours its last aliment. At seven o’clock they rose from table, and went into the _ drawing-room. It would be difficult to form an idea of the strange aspect which the old castle then presented; the vast apartments of which were hung with: damask draperies, with _ , Gothic designs, and ornamented with furniture 5 f the times of Louis XII[. and Louis XIV. Thay had been so long closed that they ap- a0) ‘poared unaccustomed to the presence of living beings. And, therefore, notwithstanding the eae of chandeliers with which the ser- ants had decorated the rooms, the feeble and ‘vacillating light -of the wax candles was in- cient to illuminate the vast rooms, and in hich the voicé resounded as under the arches ; cathedral. The small number of the guests, who were to be joined during the even- ig by some three or four gentlemen of the ghborhood, increased the gloom which ap- red to hover over the emblazoned columns the castle. In the center of one of the ms, the same one in Which Emanuel, at pe i Hie ott? ee Shee eived Captain Paul, was placed a table pre- pared with much solemnity, on which was laid +a closed portfolio, which, to the eyes of a tranger ignorant of all that was preparing, ght as well have inclosed a death warrant as | arriage contract. Inthe midst of these grave ects and gloomy impressions, from time to e a shrill mocking laugh would reach the ears group of persons whispering to each other. oe, from Lectoure, who was amusing’ ‘at the expense of some good country been, without any respect for the feelings manuel, upon whom a portion of his rail- Jery yn cessarily recoiled. He would, however, every now and then cast an anxious glance : rownd. the room, and then a gloomy cloud father-in-law, or the marchioness, or ite enter the room. As we have already that neither of them had been present at table, and his interview with the lat- iowever careless he endeavored ae ated ih some uneasiness with pot the contract, which was @ evening. Neither was ty, and he had |: ervade ‘his features, for he saw not | | ne my dele aati a oad he to him, while ap- pearing to pay the greatest attention to a good country gentleman, who was talking to him, ‘and with whom he seemed on terms of perfect intimacy; ‘‘here is M. de Nozay, who is’ relat- ing to me some very curious things, upon my word! But do you know,” continued he, turn- ing to the narrator, ‘‘this is most admirable, and highly interesting. I also have marshes and ponds, and I must ask my steward as soon as I get to Pais, to tell me where they are situ- ated. And do Yyouateh many wild ducks in this way ?” ‘*An immense quantity,” replied the gentle- man, and with the accent of perfect simplicity, which proved that Lectoure could, without fear of detection, for some time longer sustain the conversation in the same tone. ‘“What, then, is’ this miraculous mode of sporting?” inquired Emanuel. ‘Only imagine, my dear friend,” replied Lectoure, with the most complete sangfroid, “that this gentleman gets into the water up to his neck,—at what time of the year, may I ask, without being indiscreet?” . **In the months of December and January.” Tt is impossible that nything can be m re picturesque. I was saying, then, that he gets into the water up to his neck, puts a large toad- stool over hig head, and conceals himself among the bulrushes, This so completely metamor- phoses him that the ducks do not recognize him, and allow him to come close to them. Did you not say so ?” ‘* As near as I am to you.” ‘Bah! really !” exclaimed Emanuel, ‘‘ And this gentleman kills just as many as he pleases.” ‘*T kill them by dozens,” said he, proudly, being enchanted by the ‘attention which the two young men were paying tothe recital of his exploits. “Tt must be a delightful thing for your good lady, if she be fond of ducks,” said Emanuel. ‘She adores them,” said M. de Nozay. ‘‘Thope you will do me the honor to intro- duce me to so interesting a person,” said Lec- toure, bowing. ‘* Undoubtedly, baron.” ‘‘T swear to you,” said Lectoure, ‘‘that in- stantly on my return to Paris, I will speak of this sport in the king's dressing-room, and I am persuaded that his majesty himself will make a trialof itin one of the large ponds at Versailles.” ‘*T beg your pardon, dear marquis,” said Emanuel, taking Lectoure’s arm, and whisper- ing in his ear, ‘‘this is one ,of our country neighbors, whom we could not do otherwise than invite on so solemn an occasion.’ “Tt requires no apology, my dear friend,” said Lectoure, using the same precaution not to be heard by the party in question: ‘‘you would have been decidedly wrong had you de- ee me of so amusing a companion. He is pendage to the dower of my futurd' wife, fat Me should have been greatly chagrined, not to have made his acquaintance.” ‘‘ Monsieur de la Jarry,” saida servant, open- ing'the door, . ‘A sporti«g companion?” said Lectoure. cy ‘No, ” replied M. de Nozay, ‘‘ he is a trayel- er.’ et ah !” exclaimed Lectoure, with an ac- cent which announced that the newly-arrived personage was to be the subject of a new attack. He had hardly made the ejaculation, when the person announced entered the room, muffled up in a Polish dress, lined with fur. ‘An! my dear Le Jarry,” cried Emanuel, advancing to meet him, and holding out his hand to him, ‘“‘but now yéu are befurred! Upon my honor, you look like the Czar Peter.” ‘Tt is,” replied Le Jarry, shivering, although the weather was by no_ means cold, ‘‘ because ae arrives from er Ee Otte i, a {URSA wah epee catae ‘‘No. Iwas satisfied with looking at from my window. And then,” continued the traveler, with a tone of contempt, most humili- ating to. the volcano, ‘‘ Vesuvius is not the — most curious thing that is to be seen at Naples. A mountain that smokes! my chimney does as much when the wind is in the wrong quarter —and besides, Madame La Jarry was dread. fully alarmed at the idea of an eruption.” “But of course you visited the Grotto del Cane ?” continued Lectoure. : “*To what purpose ?” rejoined La Jarry ; ‘to see an animal that has yapors—give a pillto the first poodle that passes and he will do as much, And then, Madame La Jarry has quite a passion for dogs, and it would have ' iven her pain to witness so cruel an exhibition,” “*T hope, however, that a man of science, like yourself,” said Emanuel, bowing, did not negiect the Solfatara.” “Who, I—I would not set my foot there. I | can very easily imagine what three or four — acres of sulphur looks like, the sole produce of which is a few millionsof matches, Moreover, Madame La Jarry cannot support the odor of © sulphur.” “What do you think of our new friend ?” said Emanuel, leading Lectoure into’ the room in which the contract was to be signed. f “T know not whether it is because I saw the other first, but I decidedly prefer Nozay.” The door: ‘again opened, and the servant loud- ly announced, ‘* Monsieur Paul.” “Eh! exclaimed Emanuel, turning round. ‘* Who is this ?”” inquired De Lectoure, list- lessly, ‘another country neighbor?” Kis “No; this one is tw another sort of per- son,” replied Emanuel, with agitation. ‘How — does this man dare to present himself here?” — «Ah! ah! a plebeian—eh ? a common fellow, is he not? but rich, I suppose. No—a poet? — musician ? painter? well, I can ‘assure you, Emanuel, that they are beginning to receive — this sort of people—that accursed philosophy — has confounded everything It cannot be — helped, my dear fellow, we must courageously make up our minds to it—we have come to that. An artist sits down by a great noble, elbows him, touches the corner of his hat to — him, remains seated when the other rises— — they converse together on court matters—they Ft jest, they joke, they squabble, it is ‘bon-ton, — though decidedly bad taste !” “You are mistaken, Lectoure,” replied Emanuel; ‘‘he is neither poet, painter nor musician; he isa man to whom I mugt speak _ alone. Just lead off Nozay, while T do the same with La Jarry.” i. Upon this, the two young gentlemen took each of the country neighbors by the arm, and drew them away into another room, talking of shooting and traveling. ‘Theside door through which they went out had scarcely closed — upon them, when Paul appeared at the princi- pal one. He went into the room he already Imew, each corner of which conéealed a door —the one led to a- library, the other to the — room in which he had been shut wp on his first visit, awaiting the result of the conference — between "Marguerite and Emanuel, and then approaching the table, he remained there for moment, looking attentively ab the two doors, : as though he had expected to see one of them | opened. His hope was not fallacious. In few moments that of the library was opene and he perceived a white form standing withi it; he rushed toward it. RS OTs it you, Marguerite ?” said he, “Yes,” replied a trembling voice, “Well?” We *T told him all!” , “And "—— “And in ten minutes the contract is signed.” rat ts hedge “T suspected as | much—he wretch.” — j to be dono?” i What’ is girl.
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£9 PAUL JONES. ‘* What does this letter contain ?” “The name of the village in which you will find your son, and the name of the woman in whose house he has been, concealed.” - “‘My son! oh! you are my guardian angel,”. cried Marguerite, endeavoring to kiss the hand which held the paper to her. ‘* Silence! some one is coming—whatever may happen, you will find me at Achard’s,” Marguerite suddenly. closed the door without replying to him, for she had heard the sound of her brother's footsteps. Paul turned round, and went to meet him, which he did near the table. “T expected you at another time, sir, and in less numerous company,” said Emanuel, who was the first to speak. ‘*Tt appears to me that we are alone at this moment,” said Paul, glancing around the room. “Vos, but it is here that the contract is to | be signed, and in instant this room will be full.” “But many things may be said in an instant, count.” “You are right, sir; but you must meet a man who’ does not require more than an instant | to comprehend them.” ‘*T am listening,” said Paul. ‘You spoke to me of letters,” rejoined Eman- uel, drawing nearer to him, and lowering his voice. ‘Tt is true,” said Paul, with the same calm- ness, ‘You fixed a price upon those letters ?” ‘That is also true.” ‘Well, then! if you are a man of honor, for | that price, for the sum inclosed in this pocket- book, you ought now to be prepared to give them up.” “Yes, sir, yes;” replied Paul, ‘the case stood thus, as long as I believed your sister, forgetful of the vows she had made, the fault she had committed, and even the child to which she had given birth, was seconding your ambi- tion by her perjury. Then, I thought it would be a sufficiently bitter fate for the poor child to enter upon life without a name and without a famly, not to allow him to enter it without a for- tune also, and I then demanded of you, it is true, that sum in exchange for the letters in my posses- sion. But now the state of things is altered, sir. I saw your sister throw herself upon her knees before you, I heard her intreat you not to force her into this infamous marriage, and neither prayers, nor tears, nor supplications could make any impression on your heart. It is now for m6, for me who hold your honor, and the hdnor of your family within my hands, it is for me to save the mother from despair, as I would have saved the child from penury and misery. Those letters, sir, shall be delivered to you, when you shall, upon this table, instead of signing the marriage contract of your sister with the Baron de Lectoure, sign that of Mademoiselle Margue- rite d’Auray with Anatole de-Lusignan.” ‘Never, sir, never!” “You shall not have them excepting on that condition, count.” “Oh! I shall perhaps find some mode of eompelling you to return them.” , ‘“‘T know not any,” coldly replied Paul. “ Will you, sir, deliver those letters to me?” ‘Oount,” replied Paul, with an expression of countenancy which, under the circumstances, was perfectly inexplicable to Emanuel, ‘‘ count, listen to me ?” “Will you return me thosé letters; sir ?” “ Count ”—— : “Yes,orno!? —, “No !” said Paul, calmly. ‘Well, then, sir, you wear a sword, as I do, we are both gentlemen, or rather I would be- lieve you to be such; let us leave the house to- gether, and one of us shall return alone, and he, being unfettered and powerful from the death of the other, shall then do as he best pleases.” ‘«T regret I cannot accept the offer, count.” “How? you wear that uniform, that cross |. “upon your breast, by your side that sword, and uu refuse a duel.” 1% AL he we Yes, Emanuel I do refuse it, because I can- not raise my sword against you, count—believe me, I entreat you.” “You cannot fight with me!” “‘T cannot, upon my honor.” ‘*You cannot fight with me, you say ?” At this moment a person who had entered the room without being perceived, burst into a loud laugh, close behind the youngmen. Paul and Emanuel turned hastily round. Lectoure was standing close to) them. ‘‘But,” said Paul, pointing to Lectoure, ‘I can fight with him, for he he is a miserable and infamous wretch.” A burning blush passed over Lectoure’s fea- tures, like the reflection of aflame. . He made a step toward Paul and then stopped. “Tt is well, sir,” said he; ‘‘send your sec- ond to Emanuel and they can arrange this matter.” 4) ; ; “You will\understand that between us the affair is merely deferred,” said Emanuel to Paul. ; ‘Silence !” replied Paul, ‘they are announ- cing yoursmothen,” “Yes, silence, and to-morrow we meet again, Lectoure,” added Emanuel, ‘‘let us go to re- ceive my mother.” , Paul looked silently at the young men as they retired, and then he entered the small room in which he had before been concealed. CHAPTER XII. THE CONTRACT. Listen to me and heed me! If thiscontract Thou holdst me to, abide thou the result } Answer to heayen for what I suffer! act ! Prepare thyself for such calamity ‘To fall on me, and those whose evil Have linked them with me as no past mishap, However rare and marvelously sad, - Can parallel. KNowLeEs.—The Hunchback, At the moment that Paul went into the study, the marchioness appeared at the door of the drawing-room, followed by the notary, and the several persons who had been invited to be present at the signing of the contract. Notwithstanding the nature of the meeting, the marcHioness had not considered it proper to lay aside, even for one evening, hér mourn- ing garments, and dressed in complete black, as she had been always during twenty years, she came into the room a few moments before the marquis. None of the persons present, not even his son, had seen the marquis for many years. Such attention was in those days paid to ancient forms, that the marchioness would not allow the marriage contract of her daughter to be signed, without the head of the family, although deprived of reason, being present at the ceremony. However little ac- customed Lectoure was to feel intimidated, the marchioness produced upon him the eftect which she did on every one that approached her, and on seeing her enter the room with so grave and dignified an aspect, he bowed to her with a feeltmg of profound respect. ; “Tam grateful to you, gentlemen,” said the marchioness, bowing to the persons who ac- companied her, ‘‘ for the honor you have been pleased to confer upon me, by pein. present at the betrothal of Mademoiselle Marguerite @’ Auray, with the Baron de Lectoure. I, in consequence, was desirous that the marquis, although suffering from illness, should also be present at this meeting, to thank you at least by his presence, if he cannot do so verbally. ‘You are all aware of his unfortunate malady, and you will, therefore, not be astonished, should some disjointed words ”—— : “Yes, inadam,” said Lectoure, interrupting her, ‘“‘ we know the misfortune which has be- fallen him, and we admire the devoted wife, who for twenty years has borne half the weight of this sad visitation.” “You see, madam,” said Wmanuel, address- ing in his turn, and kissing the hand of his mother, ‘‘all the world bows down in admira- tion of your conjugal piety.’ marchioness, in a half whisper. _ “She was here not a mom Emanuel, © aS ery er pute. oii Bp, “Where is Marguerite?” murmured the |’ mt ago,” said ‘‘Tet her know that we are all assembled,” _ rejoined the marchioness in the same tone. A servant then announced “the marquis d'Auray.” aa All present drew to one side, so as to leave free passage from the door, and all eyes were di- rected to the spot at which this new personage was toappear, It was not long before their curi- © osity was satisfied ; the marquis came in almost” immediately, supported by two servants, : He was an old man, whose countenance, not withstanding that the traces of suffering had deeply furrowed it, still retained that noble and dignified appearance which had rendered him ~ one of the most distinguished men of the court of Louis XV. His large, hollow, and feverish eyes, glanced around the assembly with a strange expression of astonishment. He was — dressed in his costume of steward of the House-— hold, wore the order’ of the Holy Ghost sus- pended from his neck, and that of St. Louis, at — his button-hole, He advanced slowly, and without utteringa word. The two servants — led him forward amid the most profound silence, to an arm-chair, in which he seated ~ himself, and the servants left the room. The marchioness then placed herself at his right — hand. ‘The notary opened the portfolio, drew — from it the marriage contract and read it aloud. — The marquis and the marchioness made over the sum of five hundred thousand francs to Lectoure, and gavea like sum to Marguerite as her dowry, j During the whole of the time oceupied the reading of the contract, the racebtpd K notwithstanding her great self.command, had betrayed some symptoms of wneasiness. But just at the moment when thenotary had placed — the contract open on the table, Emanuel ro~ turned and approached his mother. A sa ‘‘And Marguerite ?” said the marchioness. — ‘« She will be here instantly.” ; ‘‘Madam,” murmured Marguerite, half open. ing the door, and clasping her hands. The Marchioness pretended not to hear her and pointed with her finger at the pen. ‘* Baron, it is you whoare the dest to sign.” Lectoure immediately. approached the table and signed thé contract. 3 ¥" “Madam!” cried Marguerite in a tone supplication, and advancing one step towai her mother. , " ‘Pass the pen to your betrothed, Baron,” said the marchioness. bis The Baron walked round the table, and dre near to Marguerite. P : a “Madam |” again cried the latter, with an ac- cent so melancholy, that it struck to the heart of every person present, and even the marq himself raised his head. ‘Sion !” said the marchioness, pointing the marriage contract. Me ‘‘Oh! my father! my father!’ exelai Marguerite, throwing herself at the feet of marquis. : ‘* What does this mean?” said the marehio ess, leaning upon the arms of the marqu chair, and bending over him, ‘‘are you mad mademoiselle ?” oii ‘My father! oh! my father!” again eri Marguerite, throwing her arms around him, ‘‘my father, have pity, save your daughter?” _ ‘*Marguerite!” murmured the marchioness, in a threatening accent. Tea “Madam !” replied Marguerite, ‘‘I ca address myself to you—permit me, then, to i
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6 marquis whom Marguerite still held ped in her arms. — “And now,” said she, ‘that there is no one “present excepting those "who have the right to day their commands upon you, sign that paper, moiselle, or leave the room.” For pity’s sake, madam, for pity’s sake, , giving to her yoice an imperative tone, ’ she thought impossible to be resisted, sor must, I repeat my words? Sign, or leave be th om.’ “Oh! my father!” ‘mercy! mercy! No, it shall not be said, hat after having been banished from my ther’s presence for ten years, I was torn from is arms the first time I again beheld him—and cried Marguerite, braced me. Oh! father! father !—it is , it is your daughter !” “What is that voice that is imploring me?” - murmured the marquis. ‘Who is this child 20 calls me father? 3 : that voice,” said the marchioness, seizing arm of her daughter, ‘‘is a voice that is d against the rights of nature. That child ebellious daughter.” * cried Marguerite, implor- Oh! my father, save me! Tam Marguerite.” cate’ Marguerite?” stammered rquis, ‘“‘I had formerly a child of that is I! itis I!” rejoined Marguerite P Yeh t ur child—I am your daughter.” nere are no children but those who obey. yy! and you will then have, the right to urself our daughter,” rejoined the a tani ou, my father, yes—to you I am ready ey, “But you do not command this ce she you do not wish that I should be un- BPY even to despair— unhappy Be: “Come ! come |” said the marquis, holding in his turn, and pressing her. to his lieart. is is a delicious an unknown feeling . And now—wait! wait!” He pressed and to his forehead. ‘‘It seems to me a recollect. * Sir 1” cried the marchioness, ‘tell her that ought to obey; that the malediction of waits rebellious children. Tell her that, r than to encourage her in her impiety |” The marquis slowly raised his head, and 3 § piercing eyes aad his wife, and then owly pronounced the following words: ‘‘ Take are! madame, take care. Haye I not told you begin to remember?” and then again ing down his head to that of Marguerite, 5 gray hairs mingled with the dark ; of his daughter—‘ Speak! speak!” , “what is it that disturbs.you, my ‘‘ Bverybody, ae is ee here,” ex- eno Barat ‘whether their hair be yor black—an old man or a child. Oh! so--I am unhappy—be assured.” up stairs into your room again; you id the marchioness. es, that I may again be face to face with shut up like a prisoner! That may be V hen I am mad.” Yes, yes, my father, you are right. My ther has devoted herself to you long enough; hat your daughter should per- uty. Take me with you, father. I leading | into the “room, when, return- i ot eompel me to commit so infamous an | Have you not heard me ?” said the march- | efore he had recognized me, before he | PAUL JONES. 7 x ¥ =< “Because I was told that you would at see me, my father; because they told me that you did not love me.” ‘You were told that I would not see you— not see that angel face!” said he, taking her head between his hands, and looking at her with intense affection; ‘‘they told you that— they told you that a poor condemned soul did /not wish for heaven! Who was it, then, that | told you a father would not see his child. | has dared to say, child, your father loves you } not?” ““T!—” said the marchioness, again en- deavyoring to take Marguerite from her father’s arms. ‘* You!” exclaimed the marquis, interrupting her; ‘it was you? To you, then, has been confided the fatal mission of deceiving me in ;all my affections. All my eg then, must | find their source in you? You wish, then, now to break the father’s heart, as twenty years ago you did that of the husband, ¥ “You are delirious, sir,” said the marchioness, loosing the arm of her daughter ; and going to the right of the marquis, #e whispered—* be silent !” ‘No, madam, no, I am pr now delirious,” replied the marquis, ‘No! no! Say rather, | say that—and it will be’the truth—say that I am now between an angel, who would recall me to reason, and a demon who wishes me again to become insane. /No! no! Tam not mad, Do you wish that I should prove it to you?” He rose, Supporting himself on the arms of his chair. Must’ I speak to you of letters, of adultery, of a duel !” “*T say,” said the marchioness, grasping his arm. ‘‘T tell you that youare more forsaken by heaven than ever, when you utter such things, without reflecting as to whose ears are listening. Cast down your eyes, sir—look who is standing yonder, and then dare assert that you are not mad!” ‘‘You are right,” said the marquis, falling back in his chair, ‘‘ Your mother is right,” continued he, addressing Marguerite—‘'I am mad, and you must not believe what I say, but what she says. Your mother isdevotedness, virtue itself, and therefore she has not sleepless nights, nor remorse, nor madness. What does your mother wish ?” ‘*My misery, father; my everlasting misery.” ‘‘And how can I prevent this misery ?” said the old man, with a most heart-rending an- guish; ‘ how can I, a poor, insane old man, prevent it ? who thinks he always sees the blood issuing from a wound—who thinks he con- stantly hears a voice proceeding from a tomb !” “Oh! you can do all; say but one word and Tam saved! They wish me to marry” The marquis listlessly reclined his head on the back of his chair. ‘*Tisten to me! they wish to marry me to a man whom I do not love—do you understand me ?—to a wretch !—and you haye been brought here—placed in that arm-chair, before the ta- ble—you, you, my father! tosign this infamous contract—this contract which I now hand to ou. ” “ Without consulting me,” said the marquis, taking the contract; ‘‘ without asking me whether I will, or I will not! Do they believe me dead? And if they think me dead, do they fear me less than they would a specter? This marriage would cause your misery, you say ?” ‘“*My eternal misery ! !” exclaimed Marguerite. ‘‘The marriage then, shall not take place.” ‘‘T have pledged your word and mine,” said the marchioness, and with the more energy, that she felt her influence over her husband about to escape her. ou day or night. You will only 1, to utter a word, and I will my knees.” | yor would not have the. strength t to ia to , than that of his wife. “This marriage, I tell you, shall not take place!” replied the marquis in a tone louder Who | of the marchioness, for she at once saw fron i the violence of the expressions used by her hus band, and the terror depicted on his. features, e that his insanity was about to return. “This contract,” said the marquis, and ho raised it in his hands as if about to tear it.) : The marchioness eagerly caught his hand. Marguerite appeared to be hanging by a thread between heaven and hell. ‘«That which drives me.mad !”’ reiterated tha marquis, “‘is a tomb which widely opens, a specter that issues from the earth, it is a phan. tom that speaks to me and says ” : ‘Your life is in my hands !” muraurel the marchioness in his ear, repeating the last — words of the dying Morlaix ; ‘‘I could take it.” “Do you hear that?” cried the marquis rising, as if about to rush from the room. ‘“My father! oh! my father! recall your senses ; there is no tomb, there is no, specter, there is no phantom ; those words were uttered by the marchioness.” ‘‘But I wish you to live,” continued the latter, concluding the sentence she had begun, ‘to forgive me as I forgive you.” ‘Pardon, Morlaix, pardon!” cried the mar- quis, falling back in his arm-chair, his: hair — standing‘on end with terror, and the perspira- tion streaming from his forehead. ‘*Oh! father! father !” ‘*You see that your father is altogether de- | ranged,” said the marchioness triumphantly, “say no more to him.” ‘*Oh!’”’ cried Marguerite, ‘‘ God will, I trust, perform a miracle! my love, my caresses, my tears will restore him to reason.” ‘*Make the attempt,” replied the marchion- ess, coldly, abandoning to her care the marquis, - who. was powerless, speechless, and almost without consciousness. “‘Oh! my poor father!’ exclaimed Margue. rite, in a tone of agony. The marquis remained perfectly impassible, ‘Sir !” said the marchioness in animperativa — manner, ‘Eh! eh!” cried the marquis, shuddering, “Save me! oh! save me, father!” cried Marguerite, wringing her hands, and throwing _ herself back in despair. “Take this pen and sign,” said the mar- chioness, ‘‘ you must—it is my will.” ‘Now, I am lost indeed!” cried Marguerite, overwhelmed with terror, and feeling that sha had no longer strength to continue the ; struggle, RS But at the moment that the marquis, over. powered, had written the first letter of his. name; when the marchioness was congratulat. ing herself on the victory she had obtained, and Marguerite was about to leave the room in despair, an unexpected incident suddenly changed the scene. The door of the study opened, and Paul, who had been anxiously watching, though invisibly, the whole of this terrible conflict, issued from it. vats is too dreadful a “* Madam,” said he, ‘‘one word before ‘this contract is signed !” ‘* Who is it calls me ?” said the marchioness, ores endeayoring to distinguish in the distance that separated them, the person who had thus_ spoken, and who stood in a dark corner of = i room. as “I Imow that voice!” exclaimed the Niece : quis, shuddering, as if eto by a red-hot iron. Paul advanced three packs, and ‘the eres: from the luster hanging in the center of | ‘Ss room fell full upon him. ‘Ts it a specter ?” cried the marehioness in her turn, struck with the resemblance of tha — youth who stood before her to her former, lover. ~ ‘<T know that face!” cried the marquis, be. 4 lieving that he saw the man gee feb had killed. | ; 7 vi “My God! ig aie he mered con hs » hy
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Bonet At that moment: a y fathe his assistance. es servant entered the room, with terror in his looks, and addressing the marchioness, said: “‘Madam, Achard has sent to request that the priest and the doctor of the castle, may instantly be ordered* to attend him—he is dying.” “Tell him,” replied the Marchioness, point- ing to her husband, whom Marguerite was yainly endeavoring to restore to consciousness, “that they were both obliged to remain here to attend upon the marquis.” : CHAPTER XIV. RELIGIOUS CONVICTION, And this eur life, exempt from public haunt, Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, Sermons in stones, and good in ihe eh j : HAKESPEARE. As has been seen by the end of the preceding chapter, God, by one of those extraordinary combinations which short-sighted man almost always attributes to chance, had summoned to his presence and almost at the same moment, . the souls of the noble Marquis d’Auray, and the poor, low-born Achard. We have seen that the former, struck by the sight of Paul, the living portrait of his father, as if by a thunderbolt, fell at the feet of the young man, who was himself terrified at the effect his appearance had produced. ; ‘As to Achard, the circumstances which had hastened his death, although differing in their nature, and from very opposite feelings, had arisen from the same fatal causes, and had been brought about by the same individual. The sight of Paul had created direful emotions in the breasts both of the marquis and Achard. On the former from excess of terror, on the lat- ter from excess of joy. During the day which had preceded the in- , tended signing of the contract, Achard had felt himself more feeble than usual. Notwithstand- ing this, he had not neglected in the evening to crawl to his master’s grave, there to put up his accustomed prayer. hence he had observed with a devotion more profound than _ ever, that ever new and splendid spéctacle, the ' gun sinking into the ocean. He had followed the decline of its enpurpled light, and as though the vast torch of the world had drawn his soul toward it, he had felt his strength extinguished with its last rays; so that when the servant from the castle came in the evening at the ac- - eustomed hour, to receive his orders, not find- ing him in his house, had sought for him with- out the park, and as it was well known that he generally walked in that direction, found him lying extended at the foot of the great oak tree, upon the grave of his master, and deprived of consciousness. “Thus did he remain constant to the last in that religious devotedness he had yowed to his master’s tomb, and which had been the exclusive feeling of the last years of his life. The servant took him in his arms, and car- ried him into his house; and then, terrified at the unexpected accident, had hastened to the - marchioness to inform her that Achard required the attendance of a physician and a priest, which message was delivered to her, by the servant then in waiting, to which the marchion- ess refused to accede, under the pretext that they were required as urgently by the marquis as the old servant, and that superiority of rank, - powerful, even when at the point of death, gave her husband the right of first employing. ut the intelligence which had been an- ounced to tho marchioness at the moment of ~ Shat, dreadful agony, into which their varying interests and. varying passions had. thrown the ctors in this family drama, of which we have become the historian, this intelligence, we say, was heard by Paul,. Conceiving that the gnature of the contract had now become im- sible from the state of the marquis, he had d self time to whi: ot? cried Marguerite, ‘rushing to elt aie set pie eae Ss amid its serpentine. walks and thickets, ‘with the skill of a seaman, who reads his path in the starry firmament, he soon reached the house, entered it, panting from his rapid course, and found Achard just as he was recovering from his fainting fit, and clasped him in his arms. The delight of again seeing him re- newed the strength of the old man, who now felt certain of having a friendly hand to close his eyes, “Oh! it is you—it is you!” exclaimed the old man. ‘‘I did not hope to see you again.” ““And could you possibly believe that I should have been apprised of the state in which you were, and that I would not instantly fly to your assistance ?” ; ‘But I knew not where to find you—where I could send to tell you that I wished once more to see you before I died.” ‘*T was at the castle, father, where I learned that you were dangerously ill, and I hastened hither.” “And ‘how was it that you were at the castle?” said the old man, with amazement. Paul xelated to him all that had occurred. ‘Eternal Providence!” cried the old man, when Paul had concluded his recital, ‘‘ how hidden and inevitable are thy decrees. Thou, who, after twenty years, hast conducted this youth to the cradle of his infancy, and hast killed the assassin of the father, by the mere aspect of the son!” “Yes, yes, thus it happens,” replied Paul, “and it is Providence, also, who conducts me to you,-that I might save you. For I heard them refuse to send you the physician and the priest.” iS ‘According to common justice,” rejoined Achard, ‘‘they might have made a fair divis- ion. The marquis, who fears death, might haye retained the physician, while to me, who am tired of life, they might have sent the priest.” “T ean go on horseback,” said Paul, ‘‘ and in less than hour’”’ : “In an hour it would be too late,” said the dying man, in an enfeebled voice, ‘‘a priest! a priest only—I ask but for a priest.” : “Father,” replied Paul, ‘‘in his sacred functions, I know I cannot supply his place ; but we can speak of God, of his greatness and his goodness.” “Yes, but let us first finish with the things of this earth, that we may then be able to turn our thoughts wholly to those of heaven. You say that, like myself, the marquis is dying.” ‘* T left him at the last agony.” “You know, that immediately after his death, the papers which are deposited in that closet, and which prove your birth, are yours by right.” j ‘* T know it.” ; “Tf I die before the marquis, to whom ean I confide them?” The old man sat up, and pointedto a key hanging at the head of his bed. ‘You will take that key, you will open the closet—in it you will find a casket. You are a man of honor. Swear to me that you will not epee that casket, until the marquis shall be dead.’ : “I swear it,” said Paul solemnly, and ex. tending his hand toward the crucifix hanging at the head of the bed. ‘ ‘Tis well,” replied Achard, ‘‘now I shall die in peace.” “You may do so, for the son holds your hand in this world, and the father stretches out his toward you from heavon!”’ “Do you believe, my child, that he will be satisfied with my fidelity 2” ‘‘No king was ever so faithfully obeyed dur- ‘ing life, as he has been since his death.” “Yes,” murmured the old man in a gloomy tons, “Twas but too exact in following ‘his Oo) orders. I ought not to have suffered the duel to have taken place ; I ought to fuse it oma wwifeioes: be of doubt, during which, I have regarded th solitary duel as an assassination. In that case, Paul, oh! in that case, I have not o} been a witness, but an accomplice!" “Oh! my second father,” replied Paul, know not whether the laws of earth are alway in accordance with the laws of heaven, and whether honor as it is considered by man, would be a virtue in the eyes of the Lord; If know not whether our holy church, an enem to bloodshed, permits that the injured shor attempt with his own hands, to avenge the wrongs inflicted upon him by attacking hir in- jurer, and if in that case, thé judgment of heaven directs the pistol ball or the sword’s point. These are questions not to. be decide by reasoning, but by conscience. Well, then, my conscience tells me, that situated as you were, I should have done precisely as you di Should conscience in this case mislead me, i also misled you, and in this view of the ter, I have a greater right than a priest, to ab- solve you; and in my name, and in th : my father, I pardon you.” ithe “Thanks! thanks!” cried the old man, pressing the hands of Paul; ‘thanks, for these words pour consolation into the soul of — a dying man. Remorse is a dreadful th remorse would lead one to believe that th exists no God. For, without a, judge th can be no judgment.” td Rm «Listen to me,” said Paul, in that poe’ and solemn accent, which was peculia: him: ‘TI also have often doubted thi istence of a God; isolated and the wide world, without family, — without single friend, I sought — support in the Lord, and I asked of ev that encircled me, some proof of his exi: Often have I arrested. my steps at the one of these crosses, erected by the roadsi and with my eyes fixed upon the Saviour, | manded, and with tears, to be assured existence and divine mission; I pray: his eyes would deign to look upon m one drop of blood might fall from his or that.a sigh might issue from his The crucifix remained motionless, and I my heart being overcome with despair, —‘*did I but know where I could find father’s tomb, I would question him as Ha did: the ghost, and he would perhaps an me!” al ‘*Poor child!” length manifest his presence to me his glory, or by some dazzling pr power. But the church remained git the cross had remained motionless. A would then rush from its porches Ww sensate haste, crying, ‘Lord! Lord! exist, thou wouldst reveal thyself to is thy will then that men should do thou canst reveal thyself to them, but 4d not/ ” tot ier am : “Beware of what you are sayin cried the old man: ‘beware that thy heart contains do not attaint mit hast time left to thee to believe, w am about to die.” 4 ‘“‘ Wait, father, wait 1” continue softened yoice and placid featur not told you all. Et, was then myself, ‘the crucifix by the ro a. churches of the cities are but t God’ Let. us seek God that moment, | a) life, which »
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b often in those virgin forests, into which I was ‘perhaps the first who had ever penetrated, with no shelter but the heavens, no couch but the earth, absorbed by one sole thought, I have listened to the thousand noises of a - world about to sleep, and nature when awaken- ing. Fora long time did I still remain without _ comprehending that unknown tongue, formed by the mingling of the murmur of rivers, the _ yapor of the lakes, the rustling of the forest, ‘and the perfume of flowers. Finally, the vail . which had obscured my eyes, and the weight _ which had oppressed my heart, was little by little removed; and from that time I began to ’ believe that these noises of evening, and of ap- ane day, were but oné universal hymn, » which created things expressed their grati- » ‘tude to the Creator.” : “Almighty God!” cried the dying man, clasping his hands and raising his eyes to r: _ heaven, with an expression of holy faith, “I eried to you from the bettomless. pit, and you ¥ heard me in my distress; oh! my God! I Ei thank thee.” **Then,” continued Paul, with still increas- ing enthusiasm, ‘‘then I sought upon the -ocean that full conviction which earth had ‘refused tome The earthis but a span—the ocean is immensity! ‘The ocean is, after God himself, the grandest, the most powerful object ~ im the universe. I have heard the ocean roar ’ like a chafed lion, and then at the voice of its master, become tranquil as a submissive dog; I haye seen it rise like a Titan, to scale the heavens; and then, beneath the whip of the tempest, moan like a weeping infant. _ Ihave seen it dashing its waves to meet ' the lightning, and endeavoring to quench - the thunder with its foam ; | come smooth as a mirror, and reflect eyén the smallest star in the heavens. Upon the land, I had become convinced of Gods ex- istence; upon the ocean, I recognized his ower. In the solitary wilds, as Moses, I had ard the voice of the Lord, but during the tempest Isaw him, as did Ezekiel, riding upon the wings of the storm. 'Thenceforward, my ‘father, thenceforward, all doubt was driven ‘from my mind, and from the evening on which witnessed the first hurricane, I believed and prayed.” - ‘I believe in God, the Father Almighty, muker of Heaven and Earth,” said the dying man, with ardent faith; and he continued thus the symbol of the apostles to the last word. Paul listened to him in silence, with his eyes eh to heaven, and when he had concluded, ¢ “Tt is not thus that a priest would have jpoken to you, my father, for I have spoken / you as a seaman, and with a voice more accustomed to pronounce words of death than consolation. Forgive me, father, forgive me or it. You have made me pray, and believe as you do, ‘said the old man; ‘‘tell me then what - more could a priest have done? What you have said is plain and grand—let me reflect on What you have said.” _ *“Histen!” said Paul, shuddering. What is it?” _ §*Did you not hear ?” FS Mo;? **T thought that a voice of some one in dis- eas ealled to me—there again—do you not it f—n0W, again! It isthe voice of Mar- te. “ Go to her instantly,” replied the old man, need to be alone.” ‘aul rushed into the adjoining room, and as 6 entered it, he heard hisname again repeated, and. lose to the door of the cottage. Then, + ‘running to the door he anxiously opened it, ~~ and found Marguerite upon the threshold, her ength haying failed her, and she had fallen on her knees. ~ : ' of profoimd terror, i, and clasped his knees.” Patt gs ae rs Pak : . God's hand, I did not deceive myself. There, ; and then be- | jecs into his own room.” ve me! save me!” she cried, with an | there. 36 ) on perceiving | | but seen that which I have seen |” ling, PAUL JONES. CHAPTER XV. THE PAPERS. Mercy from him And how can I expect it? By what right Can I demand he should withhold his claim, The proofs once in his power? oy ANONYMOUS, Pavun ran to Marguerite and caught her in his arms; she was pale, and icy cold. He carried her into the first room, placed her in an arm-chair, returned to the door which had remained open, and closed it, and then has- tened back. ‘ “ What is it that so terrifies you? whois pur- suing you? and how does it happen that you come here at this unusual hour ?” “Oh!” exclaimed Marguerite, ‘‘ at any hour, whether by day or night, I should have flown as long as the earth would have borne me! I should have flown till I had found some heart in which I could have poured forth my sorrows, an arm capable of defending me. Paul! Paul! my father is dead!” ‘Poor child!” said Paul, pressing Marguerite to his heart, ‘‘who flies from one house of death to fall into another ; who leaves death in the castle, to find it in the cottage?” ° ‘Yes, yes,” cried Marguerite, rising, still trembling with terror, and convulsively press- ing Paul’s arm. ‘‘ Death is yonder, and I find death here! but yonder it is attended with de- spair and fear, while here it is met with tran- quility and hope. Oh! Paul! Panl! had you ‘* Tell me all that happened.” ‘You saw the terrible effect produced by your appearance, and the mere sound of your voice ?” t ‘Yes, I saw that.” ‘They carried him still fainting and speech- “Tt was to your mother that I spoke,” said Paul, ‘‘and he heard me ; I could not foresee it would so much have terrified him.” ‘* You full well know all that had passed, for you must have heard from the room in which you were concealed, every word we uttered. My father, my poor father had recognized me, and I, seeing him thus, could not repress my uneasiness: notwithstanding the risk I ran of | irritating my mother, I went up to his room— the door was locked; I knocked softly at it He had recovered his senses, for I heard a faint voice asking ‘who was there?’ ” ‘* And your mother?” said Paul, eagerly. ‘My mother,” replied Marguerite, ‘‘ was no longer there, and she had locked him in as she would have done to a child; but when he had recognized my voice, when I had told hin: that it was his dwughter, Marguerite, who wished to see him, he told me that I could get into the the room by going downstairs again, and thatin the study Lshould finda private staircase which led to it. A minute afterwards, I ‘was kneel- ing by his bedside, and he gave me his bless- Yes, Paul, I received his blessing before he died, his paternal benediction, which I trust will bring down the blessing of God upon my head.” “Yes,” said Paul, ‘God will pardon you ; you may now feel tranquil. Weep for your father, Marguerite, but weep no longer for | yourself, for you are saved.” “You haye heard nothing yet, Paul!” ex-| claimed Marguerite. ‘‘ Hear me still.” ‘* Proceed !”. “ At the very moment when I was kneeling, kissing the hand of my father, and thanking him for the relief he had afforded my afflicted | mind, I heard my mother’s footstep on the | staircase. I recognized her voice, and my father also recognized it, for he again embraced me, and made a sign to me to leave him. I obeyed him, but such was my terror and con- fusion, that I mistook the door, and instead | of the staircase by which I had ascended, I found myself in a small cabinet which had no issue. Ifélt all around its walls, but could ee find no door. I was compelled to remain. riest, entering my father’s room—lI re- by the 5 ‘my breathing, fearing that she should straine y 1 I then heatd my mother, accompanied | hear me. I saw then through the glass window of the door, and I assure you, Paul, that she — paler than my father who was about te ie.” “Gracious heaven !” murmured Paul, “The priest seated himself by the bedside,” continued Marguerite, so terrified that she pressed still closer against Paul ; ‘*‘my mothex remained standing atthe foot of the bed—I war there, just opposite to them, compelled to re- main a witness of that mournful spectacle, with- out the means of retreat !—a daughter, obliged. to hear the dying confession of her father ' —was it not horrible! I fell wpon my knees, closing my eyes that I might not see—praying that 1 might not hear—and yet in spite of myself—and this I swear to you, Paul--I saw and I heard. Oh! what I then heard can never be obliterated from my memory, Isaw my father, whose recollections seemed to im» spire him with a feverish strength, sit up in his bed, the paleness of death imprinted on his face. I heard him—I heard him pronounce the words, a duel—adultery—assassination -- and at each word he uttered, I saw my mother turn pale—and paler even than Lefore—and J ig her raisé her voice so that it might drown the yoice of the dying man, saying to the priest: ‘believe him not — believe him not, reverend father; what he says is false—or rather, he is mad, he knows not what he says—believe him not! Oh! Paul, it was a dreadful spectacle, an impious sacrilege,.a cold perspiration stood upon my forehead, and J fainted.” “‘Justice of Heaven !” cried Paul. “T know not how long I remained without consciousness. When I recovered my senses the room was as silent as the tomb. M. mother and the priest had disappeared, an two wax-lights were burning near my father. I opened the door of the cabinet, and cast my eyes on the bed; it appeared to me that I could distinguish beneath the sheet which complete- ly covered it, the stiffened form of a corpse. I divined that all was oyer! I remained mo- tionless, divided between the funereal: awe , which such a sight inspired, and the pious de- sire of raising the covering to kiss once more before he should be inclosed in his coffin, the venerable forehead of my dear father. Fear, however, overcame every other feeling—ap ice-like, mortal and invincible terror drove me from the room. I flew down the staircase, J’ know not how, but I believe without touching a single step—I fled across the rooms. and through the corridors till the freshness of the air convinced me that I had left the castle. Ji fled, completely unconscious of whither my steps were leading me, until I remembered. you had told me I should find you here. A secret instinct—tell me what it was—for I can- not myself comprehend it, had led me in this direction. It appeared to me that Iwas pursued by shadows, horrid phantoms. At the corner of one of the avenues I thought—(had I then loss my senses?)—I thought I saw my mother, dressed all in black, and walking as noiselessly asa specter. Oh! then, then! terror lent me wings—lI at first fled without knowing whither; after this my strength failed me, and it was then you heard my cries. I dragged myself along a few more paces, and fell motionless at this door; had you not opened it, I should*haye expired upon the spot, for I was so much terri. fied, that it appeared to me,”—then suddenly pausing, Marguerite trembled, and whispered. to Paul, ‘Silence! do you.not hear?” i “Yes,” replied Paul, instantly extinguishing the lamp, ‘yes, yes—footsteps—I hear them also.” “Look! look!” cried Marguerite, concealing herself behind the curtain of the window, and ~ throwing them around Paul at the same mo- ment—‘‘look! I was not mistaken—it was my mother!” : The door had been opened, and the marchion- ess, pale as a specter, entered the room slowly, closed the door after her, and locked it, and then, without observing Paul and Marguerite, — went into the second room, where Achard was. lying. She the walked up to his bed, as she ‘had only a short t me before to that of the mat” sf bet ye “4
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quis, only that she was not now accompanied by a priest. 4 ‘Who is there?” said Achard, drawing back one of the curtains of his bed. ; “Ts is I,” replied the marchioness, drawing back the other curtain. 4 P “You, madam!” cried the old man, with terror; ‘‘for what purpose have you come to tne bedside of a dying man.” “‘Thave come to make a proposal to him.” ** One that will lose his soul! is it not?” ‘To save it, on the contrary There is only one thing in this world, Achard, of which you stand in need,” rejoined the marchioness, bend- | ing down over the bed of the dying.man, ‘‘and | that is a priest.” ” : ‘‘You refused to allow the one who is at- tached to the castle to attend me.” “Tn five minutes, if you wish it, he shall be _ here.” “Let him be sent then,” said the old man, ‘‘and believe me there is not a moment to be lost. He must come quickly.” ‘‘But if I give you the peace of heayen, will you give me in exchange peace on earth.” “What can I do for you?” murmured .the dying man, closing his eyes, that he' might not see a woman whose looks chilled ** You stand in need of a priest, that you may die in peace,” said the marchioness; ‘‘you know the gift I require, in order to exist in tranquillity.” “You would close heaven to.me, by a Perjury.” TY would open it to you, by a pardon.” ‘« That pardon I have already received.” '“ And from whom ?”—— ‘From him, who, perhaps, had alone the _ right to grant it to me.” _ ** Has Morlaix then descended from heaven ?” asked the marchioness, in a tone in which there was almost as much terror as irony. ; + “No, madam,” replied he, ‘‘but have you forgotten that he left a son upon this ~ earth ?” ‘Then, you have also seen him?” exclaimed the marchioness. “Ves,” replied Achard. ‘And you have told him all ”——. se All 12? ~™® _ ‘And the papers which prove his birth?” asked the marchioness, with trembling anxiety. | “The marquis was not dead—the papers are there.” ‘“Achard!” cried the marchioness, falling upon her knees, by the bedside. ‘‘Achard! you will take pity on me ?” ‘ ‘You, on your knees, before me madam?” ‘Yes, old. man,’ replied the marchioness, in a supplicating tone, ‘tyes, I am on my ' knees before you—and I beg, I implore you, ' for you hold in your hands the honor of one of the most ancient families in France— _ my past, my future life! Those papers are - my heart, my soul—they are more than this— they are my name—the name of my forefathers —of my children—and you well know all that “Thave suffered to preserve that name unsullied. _ Do you believe that I had not a heart as other women haye ? the feelings of a lover, of a wife, and of a mother? Well! I have overcome them all, one by one, and the struggle has ' peen long. fam twenty years younger than “you are, old man; 1 am still in the prime of life, and you are on the verge of the grave. Look, then, upon, these hairs; they’are eyen whiter than your own. ; _ “What says she?” whispered Marguerite, who had softly crept to the door, and could see all that was passing in the inner room. ‘‘ Gra- heaven !” Y aston, listens’ dear otild." mat’ Pant,.**tbia : sag who permits that all shall be thus re- were about to cast stones at her—meh, who, The marchioness slowly raised her head, for twenty generations have been accustomed | listened with intense anxiety for some min- — to revere our name, to honor our family—did they but learn that which, thank heayen! has heretofore been hidden from them—would hear it uttered with shame and with contempt. have so much suffered, that God will pardon me—but man! men are so implacable, that they will not pardon—moreoyer, am I alone exposed to their insults—on either side, the cross I bear, have I not a child ?—and is not the other that we speak of, the first-born? In the eyes of the law, is"he not the son of the Marquis d’Auray? do you forget that he is the first-born, the ‘head of the family? Do you not know, that in order to possess himself of the title, the estates, the fortune of. the family of Auray, he has only to invoke the law? and then what would remain to Emanuel ? The cross of the order of Malta— and to Marguerite ?—a convent.” ‘‘Oh! yes, yes,” whispered Marguerite, and stretching out her arms towards the mar- chioness, ‘‘ yes, a convent, in which I would pray for you, my mother.” “Silence! silence!” whispered Paul. * “Oh! you know him not!” said Achard, whose voice was scarcely audible. “No, but I know human nature,’’ replied the marchioness, ‘‘he may recover a name, he! who has no name—a fortune, he, who has no fortune. And do you belieye he would re- nounce that fortune and that name ?” ‘© Should you ask it of him he would.” “And by what right could I demand it,’ gaid the marchioness; ‘‘by what right could I ask him to spare me, to spare Emanuel, to spare Marguerite? He would say, ‘I do not know you, madam—I have never seen you— you are my mother, and that is all I know.’” ‘In his name,” stammered Achard, whose tongue death was beginning to benumb, ‘‘in his name, madam, I engage, I swear—oh! my God! my God!” ‘The marchioness arose, observing attentively, by the old man’s features, the approach of death. : “You engage—you swear!” she said, ‘‘is he here to ratify this engagement—you engage! you swear! and on your word you would that I should stake the years I haye yet to live against the moments which. remain between you and death! I have entreated, I haye im- plored, and again I entreat and implore you to give up those papers to me.’ ‘Those papers now are his.” ‘*T must haye them! I repeat, I must have them,” continued the marchioness, gaining strength as the dying man became more feeble. “My God! my God! have mercy upon me,” murmured Achard. ; ‘No one can now come,” rejoined ths mar- chioness; ‘‘ you told me that you wore the key of that closet always about you”—— “Would you wrest it from the: hands of a dying man ?” ; “No,” replied the marchioness, ‘‘I will wait.” f ‘* Let me die in peace !” exclaimed Achard, tearing the crucifix from the head of his bed, and raising it between himself and the mar- chioness, he cried: ‘* leave me! leave me! in the name of Jesus Christ!” 2 The marchioness fell upon her knees, bow- ing her headto the ground. The old man, for a moment, remained in the same awful atti- tude; then, by degrees, his strength forsook him, and he fell back on his bed, crossed his ‘arms, amd pressed the image of his Saviour to his breast. The marchioness seized the lower part of the two curtains, and without raising her head, she crossed them in such amanner, as to con- ceal the last struggles of the dying man. i _ ‘Horror! horror!” murmured Marguerite. tl utes, and then, without opening the curtains, passed her hand between them, and after some — effort, withdrew her hand again—she had ob- — tained the key. She then silently arose, and | with her face still turned toward the bed, walked to the closet. But at the moment she — was about to unlock it, Paul, who was obsery- ing all her movements, rushed into the room, — and seizing her by the arm, said: — hin “Give me that key, my mother! forthe mar- quis is dead, and those.papers now belong te me.” : “‘ Justice of heaven!” exclaimed the ma chioness, starting back with terror, and fallin into a chair, ‘‘justice of heaven! it is my — son !”' ‘‘Merciful heaven!” murmured Marguerite. ‘Si throwing herself upon her knees in the outer — room ‘merciful heaven ! he is my brother!” Paul opened the closet, and took the casker — which contained the papers. ' Hate : CHAPTER XVI. RECRIMINATION. Thou canst Thou ought’st, thou must, I tell thee, Norwrrnsranprxe the dreadful nature events which had occurred during th: night, Paul had not forgotten thé morta fiance which had been exchanged between hi self and Lectoure. As ‘that young gentle would probably not know where to find him, he thought it only decorous to save Lectoure the trouble of seeking for him, and about seve in the morning, Lieutenant Walter presente himself at the castle, being charged on behal of Paul to arrange the terms of comb: found Emanuel in Lectoure’s apartment latter, on perceiving the officer, withdrew, an went down into the park, that the two young men might more freely discuss the matter. Walter had received from his commant ee directions to accede to everything thi ee: might be proposed. The preliminary term were, therefore, very speedily arranged ; was agreed between them, that the me ting should take place in the afternoon, at four o'clock. ‘The place of rendezyous the s near the fisherman’s hut, which was about half way between Port Louis and Auray castle. to the weapons, they were to bring their pisto and their swords ; it would be decide ; spot which they were to use, it bein understood that Lectoure, haying been the party insulted, should have the right to mak choice, pe 4 As to the marchioness, although in the : instance petrified by the unexpected appearan of Paul, she soon recovered all her natural ness, and drawing her veil over her fa withdrew from the chamber, and walked acer the outer room which had remained in ness. She did not, therefore, pereei guerite, who was kneeling in ‘one cor’ mute from astonishment and terror. § that, crossed the park, entered the castle, a repaired to the room in which the scene 0! contract had taken place. There, by th light of the wax tap@s, with both he ss resting on the table, her head supported mn her hands, ler eyes riveted to the pape hi Lectoure had already affixed his name, and marquis had signed the half of his, sh the remainder of the night refle
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at Marguerite, who er agitated spirit, torn by so many and conflicting emotions. Paul then fearing ps he marchioness might inquire for her daughter on her arrival at the castle, urged guerite to hasten thither; and seeing she still trembling at the recollection of. the any horrors she had witnessed, led her out of cottage, of which he locked the door, and _ accompanied her to within a few paces of the castle. During this walk, Marguerite had in a 21 “degree, recovered her composure. Paul stood gazing ather tillhe saw that she had safely entered the courtyard, and then returned < a © watch and pray beside the body of his fa- _ ther’s faithful servant. At seven o'clock, the marchioness, hearing the noise occasioned by Lieutenant Walter's arrival at the castle, reached a bell which was "standing on the table and rang it. A servant ‘ esented himself at the door in the grand liv- ery he hadsworn the previous evening—it was ; ES perceive that he had also not been in ee nform Mademoiselle d’Auray, that her other is waiting for her in the drawing-room,” id the marchioness. 4 servant obeyed, and the marchioness ed, gloomy and motionless, her previous In @ few minutes afterward, she slight noise behind her, and turned _ It was Marguerite. The young girl, more respect, perhaps, than she had ever evinced, held out her hand toward other, thas she might give her her hand - But the marchioness remained mo- as if she had not uriderstood the m of her daughter. Marguerite let x hand, and silently awaited her her’s pleasure. She also wore the same sas the night before. Sleep had hovered the whole world, but had forgotten the a vitants of ‘Anray ‘castle. ‘*Come nearer,” said the marchioness. - Marguerite advanced one step. “Why is it that you are thus pale and trem- bling?” continued the marchioness. _ Madam,” murmured Marguerite. _ “Speak,” said the marchioness. on ‘he death of my father—so suddea—so pected,” stammered Marguerite ; ‘‘indeed _Thavye suffered so much this night.” *Yes, yes,” rejoined the marchioness in a low tone, but fixing.on her daughter looks hich were not altogether void of affection: , the young tree bends before the wind, § stripped of its leaves. ‘The old oak ne, withstands every tempest. I, also, have Marguerite, and suifered much, I Jed'a dreadful night, and yet you see and firm.” ; , has endowed you with « soul, my 7m and austere ; but you should not same strength and firmmess in the thers. ‘You would destroy them.” heréfore is it,” replied the marchion- g her hand fall wpon the table, “‘that ‘ou is obedience. The marquis is arguerite, and Emanuel is now the head e family. You must immediately set out ennes with Emanuel.” ? exclaimed Marguerite, ‘I set out for “and for what purpose ?” 2 chapel of the castle is too nar- the same moment, the wed- e daughter, and the funeral f i aed ae e. re Fi Sk ¥, PEP EO MD ae .| should lead us to fulfil. the last/wishes of the. ties, and did he write them of his own free er, and the feelings of a mother need not to be -his conscience, pursued by a voice from the a Fae dead. Cast your eyes upon this contract and see the first letters of your father’s name.” “Oh! madam!” cried Marguerite, ‘ allow me to ask you whether my father, when he traced these letters, which death prevented him from finishing, was in possession of his fadul- will rks “Of that, I am ignorant, mademoiselle,” re- plied the marchioness, with that imperative and icy tone; which until this time had subjected all that approached her. ‘‘I am ignorant of that, but this I know, that the influence that made him thus act, he fully understood ; and I know, also, that parents, as long as they exist, should, in the eyes of their children, have the authority of God. Now, God has ordained me to effect things terrible in themselves, and { have obeyed. Do as I have done, mademoiselle, obey.” ‘‘Madam,” said Marguerite, who had_ re- mained standing, but who now seemed motion- less, with somewhat of that determined tone, which in her mother was so terrible, and which she had inherited from her; ‘‘madam! it is only three days ago, that with tearful eyes, I threw myself first at the feet of Emanuel, then at the feet of the man whom you would com- pel me to receive as my husband, and then at my father’s. Neither of them would or could listen to me, for grasping ambition, or reckless madness hardened their hearts, and drowned my voice, Atlength, Iam now at your feet, my mother, you are the last whom I can suppli- cate, but also, you are best capable of un- derstanding me. Listen then, attentively, to what Iam about to say. Had I only to sacri- fice my own happiness to your will, I would make that sacrifice: my love! I would sacrifice that also; but I must also sacrifice my son. You are a mother, and I also, madam.” ‘‘§ mother!—-a mother! cried the mar- chioness, ‘‘yes] a mother, but by a dreadful fault!” —— ‘Be thatas it may, madam, still Tam a moth- sanctified in order to be holy. Well, then, madam, tell me—for you should better comprehend these things than I—tell me if those who have given us birth, have received from heaven a voice which speaks to our hearts —have not those to whem we have given birth a voice as powerful, and when these two voices are opposed to each other, to which ought we to obey?” ‘“‘You will never hear the yoice of your child,” said the marchioness, ‘‘for you will never again see him.” ; ‘*T shall never again see my son!” exclaimed Marguerite, ‘‘and who, madam, can assert that positively ?” ‘He will himself be ignorant as to-whose son he is.” ; ‘‘And should he some day discove r it?” re- plied Marguerite, whose respect as a daughter was giving way before her mother’s harshgess ; “if he should then come to me and demafdan | account of his birth—and this may happer, madam,”—she took up the pen—‘‘and, with such an alternative awaiting me, tell me, ought I to sign this contract ?” ‘« Sion it,” said the marchioness. ‘But,’ observed Marguerite, placing her trembling and convulsed fingers upon the con- tract, ‘‘should my husband some day discover the existence of this child; should he demand an, explanation from my lover, of the wrong com- mitted against his name and honor? If in a desperate duel, alone and without seconds—a duelin which it is agreed that one must fall, he should kill that lover, and then, tormented by tomb, my husband should at length become deprived of reason”——- y ‘Be silent!” cried the marchioness, her fea- ering with terror, but still doubting 6 eh you would have mo then, in order 1 my Dame, and that of my other children, p and unsullied, thatI should immure myself Dy 1d that I may no longer feel—that my eyes sho never sheda tear! You would have me then, clothe myself in mourning as a widow, before my husband’s death? You would haye my © hair turn white, twenty years before the ac. customed time ?” A ; ‘* Be silent! say not another word !” cried the marchioness, in a tone which proved that men- aces were giving way to fear: ‘‘be silent!” : “You would have me then,” continued Mar- gureite, carried away by the bitterness of her grief, ‘‘you would have me then, in order that. the dreadful secret might die with those who have the keeping of it, that I should banish from their d ath-beds, both priest and physician —you would, in fine, that I should wander from one death-bed to another, that I might close, not the eyes, but the mouths of the dying.” ‘Be silent !in the name of heaven ! be silent!” again cried the marchioness, wringing her hands. r Mel ‘* Well, then,” continued Marguerite, ‘‘ tell me again, my mother, to sign this paper, and all this will happen. and then the malediction of the Lord will be accomplished, and the | faults of the fathers shall be visited upon the children, even to the third and fourth genera. tions,” i } ee “Ah! my God! my God!” exclaimed the marchioness, bursting into tears, ‘‘am I not — sufficiently humbled—am I not sufficiently punished ?” J es ‘Pardon! pardon! madam,” cried Mar. guerite, recalled to filial feeling by the first — tears she had ever seen her mother shed; ‘<I in:iplore you to forgive me.” : ee **Yes, pardon! ask for forgiveness, unnate ural daughter,” said the marchioness, advanc-, ing toward Marguerite, ‘you who have! wrenched the scourge from the handsof eternal vengeance, and haye yourself applied the lash eyen on your mother’s forehead,” Wrens ate ‘““Mercy! mercy!” reiterated Marguerite, “pardon me, my mother. I knew not what said, You had deprived me of reason—I wae _ mad !” rire “Oh! my God! my God!” said the march. ioness, raising both her hands above her daughter's head, ‘‘thou hast heard the words which have issued from my daughter’s lips. It would be too much to hope that thy merey will forget them, but atthe moment thou shalt pun- ish her, remember that Ihave not cursed her!* _ She then moved toward the door; her daugh. . ter endeavored to retain her, but the marchion. ess turned toward her with an expression of | — countenance so fearful, that without needing to 3 lay acommand upon her, Marguerite el : the skirt of her mother’s dregs, and remained _ with arms outstretched towards her, mute and — palpitating until the marchioness. had disap- — peared. And when she no longer saw her, she threw herself upon the ground with so piercing a shriek, that it might have been deemed that the heart which had so much suffered, had at length broken. % : : 7 d % t CHAPTER XVII. TEE BROTHERS. Be angry as you will, it shall have scope; Ah, Cassius, you are yoked with a lamb That carries anger, as the flint bears fire— ~ Who, niuch enforced, shows a hasty spark, And siraishtis cold again. And from henceforth When you are over earnest, with your brother, Holl think your mother chides, and leave y mu. Ovn readers will perhaps have bee that after the violent manner in which appointe eutenant
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¥ s, that Paul would not meet Lectoure until __ the afternoon. . The reason for this was, that the young cap- tain felt, that until the time arrived when he | should have wound up this strange drama, in | which, having in the first instance mingled only | _ as astranger, he at last found himself in the | '. position of the head of the family, his life be- ened not to himself, aud that he had not the right to risk it. Moreover, as we have seen, the delay he had fixed was not a long one ; and | Leetoure, who was ignorant.of the reason which could haye induced his adversary to require it, had acceded to it without much difficulty. Paul had, therefore, determined not to lose a moment, and therefore, as soon as the hour ar- rived at which he could, with propriety, pre- sent himself to the marchioness, he bent his steps toward the castle. The event; of the previous evening, and of that day also, had occasioned so much confu- ‘sion in the stately residence, that he entered it him. He nevertheless traversed the apartments, following the, direction he had before twice | taken, and on going into the drawing-room, found _ | Marguerite lying fainting on the floor, On seeing the contract lying on the table, and _ hissister deprived of consciousness, Paul readily imagined that a dreadful scene must have taken ' place between the marchioness and her daugh- ter. He ran to Marguerite, raised her in his arms, and opened one of the windows to give her air. ‘The state in which Marguerite then ‘was, proceeded more from a complete prostra- tion of strength, than an actual fainting fit; _ and therefore, as soon.as she felt that assistance was peing rendered her, and with a kindness, -.. which left no- doubt as to the feelings of the person who had thus endeavored to relieve her, she opened her eyes, and recognized her brother, that living Providence, whom God had | sent to sustain her every time she felt she was about to succumb. Marguerite related to Paul that her mother had endeavored to compel her to sign the con- . fract, in order to get her to leave the castle with her brother, and that having been over- come by her grief, and earried away by the dreadful situation in which she was placed, she had allowed her mother to perceive that she knew all. \ ; Paul comprehended at once the feelings which must have rent the heart of the mar- chioness, who, after twenty years of silence, isolation and anguish, saw, without being able to divine the manner in which it had been brought about, that in one moment her secret had been revealed to one of the two persons from whom she was most anxious to conceal it. Therefore, compassionating the sufferings of his mother, he resolved to terminate them as speedily as he could, by hastening on the inter- view he had come. to seek, and which would at once enlighten her as to the intentions of that ‘son, whose existence she was so unwilling to acknowledge. Marguerite, on her side, wished to obtain her mother’s forgiveness; she, there- fore, undertook to inform -the marchioness that _ the young captain waited her orders. ‘ Paul, therefore, remained alone, leaning against the high chminey-piece, above which was carved the escutcheon of his family, and began to lose himself in the thoughts, which the suc- cessive and hurried events of the last few hours gave rise to, and which had rendered him the _ sovereign arbiter of all that house, when one of the side doors suddenly opened, and Emanuel ‘appeared with a case of pistols in his hand. On hearing the door open, Paul turned his eyes y.4 ng man, bowed to him with that sweet and ternal expression, which reflected in his eatures the serenity of his soul. uel, on the contrary, although he re- at the salutation, owed those ho: the man w akened, to flus tly assumed a I Fe without meeting a single servant to announce | | behind my back to seek an adversary, who, al- de towards them, and immediately perceiving the | ‘for you, sir,” said Emanuel, placing the pistols | | upon the table, and reniaining at some distance | from Paul; ‘‘ and that, however, without pre- cisely knowing where to find you; for, like the | evil genii of our popular traditions, you appear | to have the gift of being everywhere and no | where. But a servant informed me that he had | seen you enter the castle, and I thank you for having saved me. the trouble Iwas about to take, im thus anticipating my desire.” ‘fam happy,” replied Paul, ‘‘ that my de- | | sire in this instance, although probably eman- ating froin a totally different cause, has so har- moniously chimed in with yours. Well, then, I am here—-what do you ask of me ?” “Cannot you divine even that, sir?” replied Emanuel, with increasing agitation. ‘‘In that case—and you will allow me to express my | | astonishment that it should be so—you are but | ill informed as to the duties of a gentleman and an officer, and thisis afresh insult that you put upon me.” “Believe me, Emanuel,” rejoined Paul, in a / calm tone —— ; ‘“*T yesterday called myself the count; to-day | I call myself the Marquis d’ Auray,” said Eman- uel, interrupting him with a gesture of haught- | iness and contempt, ‘‘ and I beg, sir, that you | will not forget it.” An almost imperceptible smile passed over the lips of Paul. | ‘*T was saying, then,” continued Emanuel, “that you but imperfectly comprehend the feelings of a gentleman, if you believed that I) would permit another to take up, on my behalf, a quarrel which you came here to seek. Yes, sir, for it is you who have thrown yourself across my path, and not I who have sought ou.” a His Lordship the Marquis a’ Auray,” said Paul, smiling, ‘forgets his visit on board the Indienne. **A truce to your cavils, sir, and let us at once ' proceed to facts. Yesterday, I know not from what strange and inexplicable feeling, when I propose to you that, which I will not say every | gentleman, every officer; but simply, any man of courage would instantly, and without hesita- | tion, have acceded to, you refused, sir, and evading my provocation, you went, as it were, { though not precisely a stranger to the quarrel, yet good taste should have dictated that he | ought not to have been drawn into it.” ‘ Believe me, that in this, sir,” replied Paul, of manner which had accompanied all he said ; ‘JT was compelled to yield to the exigency of the case, which did not leave me the choice of an adversary. You had proposed a duel, which I could not accept, you being my adversary, but which was perfectly indifferent to me with any other person. I am too much habituated fo | encounters of this description, and to encoun- ters of a far more murderous and mortal nature, to consider an event of this kind but as one of | the usual accidents of my adventurous life. You will, however, please to remember that it was not I who sought this duel; you yesterday, proposed it to me; but, as I could not, I again repeat it, appeur as your antagonist, I selected M. de Lectoure, as I would have done M, de Nozay or M. La Jarry, because he happened to be there, within my reach—and because if it were absolutely necessary that I should kill some one, I prefer killing a useless and inso- | lent fop, rather than a good and honest country gentleman, who would consider himself dis- honored, did he but dream that he had entered into a bargain of so vile and despicable a nature as that which the Baron de Lectoure has, in reality, proposed to you.” ; ‘Tis well, sir,” said Emanuel jeeringly, ‘‘continue to constitute yourself as the re- | first time, has shown herself. rebellions against | 5 with the same calmness and the same candor |, and I shall merely smile at it as it passes by me; but whenever this madness breaks out against me, as yours has done, sir; whenever, in the intimate concerns of a family of which ; am the head, I meet a stranger, who orders as a master where I alone have the right to raise — my voice, I shall present myself before him, as _ I now do before you, should I have the heppi- _ ness to meet him alone as I do you, and then — feeling assured, that no one will come to in- — terrupt us before I had obtained the necessary — explanation, I would say to him: ‘You have, if not insulted. me, \at all events wounded my - feelings, sir, by coming to my house, and injw- ing me in my interests, and my family affec- tions, It is then with me, and not withan- other, that you ought to fight, and you shall ~ fight with me.’” 5 PaaS ‘““You are mistaken, Emanuel,” replied Paul; ° . ‘*T will not fight, at all events with you; the thing is impossible.”’ eae ‘*Oh! sir, the time of enigmas is gone by,” cried Emanuel impatiently; ‘we live in the — midst of a world, in which at every moment ~ we elbow a reality. Let us, therefore, leave’ the poetical and the mysterious, to the authors of romances and tragedies. ein Bi Your presence in this castle, has been marked by circumstances too fata) to render it necessary to add that which + is not to that which is. Lusignan returned, notwithstanding the order which condenme him to transportation; my sister, who for th the orders of her mother ; my father, killed by your mere presence: these are the disaster which you have been accompanied, which h heralded you from another hemisphere, and ha’ formed your funereal escort: for all this, ave to account to me; therefore, speak speak es a man should to a man, tn the’ boon! daylight, face to face, and not as a phan gliding in the darkness, which escapes un thing to reveal to me, I will listex to you.” “The secret which you ask of me is 12 own,” replied Paul, whose perfect calmness strongly contrasted with the feverish exci ment of Emanuel; ‘‘ believe what T have said, and do not insist farther. Farewell!” . After pronouncing these words, Paul mo’ toward the door. * ‘*Oh!” cried Emanuel, rushing between | and the door, to prevent his passage; ‘ shall not leave me thus, sir! I have you now, we are alone in this room, without fear of any interruption, into which, it was not I tha ticed you, but you have come here of your 01 free will. Therefore, hearken to that w am about to say. ‘The person you have iz ed is myself! the person to whom you ow isfaction is myself! The person with you have to fight is””—— pa Ae 5 ‘You are mad, sir,” tranquilly replied Paul; ” “IT have already told you it is impossi Therefore, allow me to;withdraw.” “Take care, sir,” cried Emanuel, stretch out his hand to the box, and taking out the p tols; ‘‘take care, sir. After having do erything in my power to compel you to act: gentleman, I may treat you as a brigand. are here ina house, in which you are al. ek OW, aK » B's o)) ene stranger; you have entered it, I know eh nor for what purpose; if you have not into it to despoil us of our gold and jewe have entered it to steal the obedience daughter to her mother, and to cancel 1 cred ptomise given by a friend to a frien one case or the other, you are a violator, O
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‘permit so great a crime; -but you shall not force me to fight with you, I have before - told you so, and I repeat it.” he SEV eaee the pistol, sir!” eried Emanuel, ‘take it, sir, I tell you !. you believe that the _ threat I am making is but a vain menace; -wndeceive yourself! For three days have you fatigued my patience! for three days have you filled my soul with gall aad hatred ! for three days have I familiarized my mind with the idea of ridding myself of you; whether it a oa By by a duel or by murder! Pe that the dread of punishment withholds my hand; this castle is isolated, mute and deaf. The sea is there; and before you could be even laid in the tomb, I should be in England. Therefore, sir, for the last time, I say to you, tebe this’ pistol and defend yourself.” Paul, without uttering a word, gently put the pistol aside, ‘Well, then !” cried Emanuel, exasperated to the highest degreé by the sangfroid of his adversary ; “ag you will not defend yourself like a man, die like a dog!” ' And so saying, he raised the muzzle of the pistol to the level of the captain’s breast. At that moment a dreadful shriek was > Vv abi ve hs pitino piece. if My brother !” cried Marguerite, with one md, springing - ‘to where Paul stood, and “arms around him; te B . ess which he had evinced sit cane whole is painful scene; “do you now compre- vhy it was I could not fight with you?” that moment the marchioness appeared at or, pale as a specter, for she had heard the report of the pistol; then looking around Pit her with an expression ‘of infinite terror, and that no one was wounded, she silently her eyes to heaven, as if to ask if its an- “was at length appeased. She remained thus aa time in an attitude of mental thanks- _ givi When she again cast down her eyes, manus] and Marguerite were on their knees before her, each holding one of her hands, and covering it with tears and kisses. [thank you, my children,” said the mar- oness, after a short silence, ‘‘ and now leave = this young man.” erite and Emanuel bowed with an ex- Do not imagine | you where the words are 1} Mer tinre? fe wept—it was for joy— lot think of lands, of name, of birthright— id but: think these arms should clasp a mother. Burwer.— The Sea Captain. marchioness closed the door as soon as withdrawn, advanced into the middle dawent without looking at Paul, pon thé arm-chair in which the he night before; been seated to There she» remained stand- |. ound. Paul a. throw | him. ‘You dieised to see me, sir, and I have come to know your will—you wished to speak to me —I am listening.” These words were uttered without the mar- chioness making the least movement—her lips trembled, rather than opened—it seemed a marble statue that was speaking. ‘‘Yes, madam,” replied Paul, in a tone of | intense feeling, "ce yes, yes, I desired to speak y with you ;- it is long since first this desire was cherished in my heart, and it has never left me. Recollections of infancy preyed upon the mind of the grown man. I remembered a woman who would formerly glide to my cradle, and in my youthful dreams, I thought her the guardian angel of my infancy. Since that time, still so fresh in my memory, although so distant, more than once, believe me, I have awakened With a start, imagining that I had felt upon my fore- head, the impression of a maternal kiss: and then seeing that there was no one near me, | would call that person, hoping she would, per- haps, return. It is now twenty years since first I thus had called, and this is the first time she has replied to me. Can it have been, as I have often fearfully imagined, that you would have trembled at again beholding me? Can it be true, as [ at this moment fear, that you have naught to say to me?” ‘And had I feared your veturn,” said the "| marchioness i in a hollow tone, ‘‘ should I have been to blame? You appeared before me only yesterday, sir; and now the mystery which ought to have been concealed to all but God and myself, is known to both my children.” ‘Ts it.my fault that God has been pleased to reveal the secret to them? Was it I that con- | ducted Marguerite, despairing and in tears, to | the bedside of her dying father, whose protec- tion she had gone to ask, and whose confession she was compelled to hear? Was it I that led her to Achard, and, was it not you, madam, that followed her thither? As to Emanuel, the report you heard, and that shattered glass, attest that I would have preferred death rather than to have saved my life at the expense of your secret. No, no, believe me, madam, I am the instrument and not the hand; the effect, and not the cause. No, madam, it is God who has brought about all this, that you might see at your feet, as you have just now seen them, your two “children whom you have so long banished from your arms!” *‘ But there is a third,” said the marchioness, in a voice in which emotion began to evince itself, ‘‘and I know not what I have to expect from him.” “Let me accomplish a last duty, madam, and that once fulfilled, He will on his knees avvait your orders.” ‘And of what nature is this duty ?” “Tt is to restore his brother to the rank to which he is entitled, his sister to that happiness which she has lost—to his mother that tran- quility of mind which she has so long sought in vain.” ‘And yet, thanksto you,” replied the mar- chioness, ‘‘M. de Maurepas refused to M. de Lectoure, the regiment he had solicited for my son.” “Because,” replied Paul, taking the commis- sion from his pocket and laying it ou the table, ‘* because the king had already granted it to me for the brother of Marguerite.” The marchioness cast her eyes upon the com- mission, and saw that it was made out in the name of Emanuel d’Auray. ‘And yet you would give the hand of Mar- erite to a man without name, without for- tune—and what is more, to a man who is ban- ished.” “You are’ mistaken, madam; I would give Marguerite to the man she loves ; I would give te not to the banished ‘Lusignan, but Anatole de L | toure ?” ‘although Ido not believe that God would | awaiting her commands. After a few moments aiid saw that in tits ‘isda: asin the of ice-hke Balnce, the marchioness addressed - one, Paul had uttered but the truth. » ‘Yes, Lacknowledge it,” she replied, the will satisfy the ambition of Emanuel, and con- rE fer happiness on Marguerite.” ‘And atthe same time, secures your tenes quility, madam, for Emanuel will join his regiment, and Marguerite will follow her hus- band. You will then remain here alone, as you have, alas! so frequently desired.” The marchioness sighed. “Ts not this all you desire, or have I deceived myself,” continued Paul. ie But; ? said the marchioness, “how can» af recall the promise given to the Baron de Lec- “The marquis is dead, madam,” replied Paul; ‘tis not the death of a husband and a father a sufficient cause for the adjournment of ~ & marriage ?” The marchioness, without replying, seated herself in the arm- -chair, took a pen and paper, wrote a few lines, folded the letter, and putting on the address the name of the Baron de Lec- toure, she rang the bell for a servant. i waiting a few moments, duriag which time 'both Paul and herself remained silent, a ser- yant came into the room. ; ' ‘*In two hours from this time, you will de- liver this to the Baron de Lectoure,” anid the marchioness. , The servant took the letter and svithalieweri “And now,” continued the marchioness, looking at Paul, ‘‘ now sir, that you have done © justice to the innocent, it remains to you to pardon the guilty. You have papers which prove your birth, you are the elder—at all events, in the eyes of the law. ‘The fortunes of Emanuel and Marguerite, are yours by right. What do you require in exchange for these papers ?” aul took them from his pocket, and ene’, them to the marchioness, said, ‘‘Here are the — documents, look at them—they are the letters — you wrote to my poor father—look here, they — are moistened by my tears, for I read them Inst night, while watching by Achard’s corpse.”” Then approaching the fire-place, he held them over the flaming wood, saying, ‘permit me eyen but once to call you mother! call me but — once your son, and ”’—— =i “Gan it be possible!” exclaimed the mar- ' chioness, rising. “You speak of name, of fortune, » continued Paul, with an expression of ‘profound melan- choly ; ‘‘what need have I of them. I-haye by my own sword, gained a rank which few men of my age have ever attained—I have ae- quired a name, which is pronounced with | blessings by one nation, and with terror by — another. I could, did it so please me, amass 4 fortune, worthy of being bequeathed to a king. What then are your name, your fortune, and — your rank to me, if you have nothing else to. offer me—if you do not give me that which I _ have incessantly, and in every position | of my life most yearned for—-that which I have not the power to create—which God had granted — to me, but which misfortune wrested from me —that which you alone.can restore to me—a mother !” “My son !” exclaimed the marchioness, over- come at ch rence ks his tears, and Se a Lint Sead: to hear nelsoni a me. heaven! I thank thee.” chair, and Paul had thrown himself 3 knees, his head leaning upon her. length the marchioness gentl ae ae “me!” ee ase 5 , his majes- | make raudelou
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"either given or received. "These twenty years “have doubtless been my expiation, since God now pardons me, for he has restored to me the power of weeping, of feeling joy, and has per- mitted me toembrace my son. Thanks to God! ‘and thanks to thee, my son!” _ My mother!” eried Paul, ‘my beloved ; ‘mother!” 3 ‘And Itrembled at the thoughts of seeing you again—I trembled when J did see .you—I knew not —I could not have imagined that such feelings still existed in my heart. Oh! I bless thee! I bless thee!” } ‘At that moment, the tolling of the chapel belt was heard: the marchioness shuddered. The funeral hour had arrived. ‘The bodies of the noblear Mquis d’Auray, and that of the poor man Achard, were about to be returned to earth at the same moment. "5 “This hour must be consecrated to prayer,” said the marchioness ; ‘‘ I must now leave you.” **T must sail to-morrow, my mother,” said Paul, ‘‘shall I not. once more see you!” “Oh! yes, yes,” replied the marchioness, “ve must meet again.” ** Well then, my mother, this evening J shall be at the park gate. There isa spot which is sacred to me, and to which I must pay a last visit. I shall expect to meet you there. It is onthat spos, my mother, that we should say farewell.” — **T will be there,” said the marchioness, ‘‘Hoare, my mother, here,” said Paul, “take these commissions: the one for Emanuel, the other for the husband of Marguerite. Let the happiness of your children be conferred by yourself. Believe me, mother, you have be- stowed more on me, than I on them.” The marchioness retired to shut herself up in her oratory. Paul left the castle, and proceeded ‘toward the hut of the fisherman, CHAPTER XIX. THE FAREWELL. Hark! she has bless’d her son—I bid ye witness, Ye listening heavyens—thou circumambient air ; ‘the ocean sighs it back—and with the murmur Rustle the happy leaves. All nature breathes Aloud—aloft—to the Great Parent’s ear, ; The blessing of the mother on her child. On approaching the fisherman’s hut, the place appointed with Lectoure, Paul perceived Lusignan and Walter, who were waiting for im. Precisely at the hour agreed, Lectoure ap- peared on horseback; he had been obliged to find his way ashe best could, for he had no guide, and his own servant was as much a stranger as himselfin that part of the country. On seeing him at a distance the young men came out of the hut. The baron instantly put his horse into a gallop, to hasten to them. When within a few paces of them he alighted from his horse, and threw the rein to his servant. “T trust you will pardon me, gentlemen,” said he, ‘‘that 1 should have approached you - thus alone, like a forsaken orphan ; but the hour selected by. that gentleman,” he added, raising his hat to Paul, who returned the salutation, “ was precisely that fixed upon for the funeral -_ obsequies of the marquis; I have therefore left Emanuel to fulfill the duties ofa son, and have |’ come here without a second, trusting that Thad _ to deal with an cdversary generous enough to q yrocure some friend of his own to aid me in this dilemma.” i “We are entirely at your service, baron,” re- lied Paul; “here are two friends of mine. Bloct which you pleasé, and he who shall be honored by your choice, will instantly become ou eenns. - *T have no preference, I swear to you,” said Leetoure ; ‘please to designate which of these two gentleman you may desire should render 1is servies:” : ee ty ter,” said Paul, ‘‘ be so good as to offici- cond to the baron.” sant doen tenant assented ; the two adversaries Yebch athetis i ele Ker: ; Lised ran Mars reip a ‘fe few words to you, not of apology, but explana- tion.” ‘“ At your own pleasure, sir,” replied Lec- toure. fe ‘‘When I uttered the words which have been the cause of yourcoming hither, the events which have since occurred .at -the castle, were hidden in the womb of time, and these events might have entailed the misery | of a whole family. You, sir, had on your side Madame d’Auray, Emanuel, and the marquis — Marguerite had but me alone. Every chance was, therefore, in your favor. Jt was for this reason that I addressed myself directly to you, for, had I fallen by your hand, from circumstances which must forever remhin hidden to you, Marguerite could not have married you. If I had killed you, the case would have been still more sim- | plitied, and requires no commentary.” “This exordium is really most logical, sir,” replied the baron, smiling and tapping his boots with his riding-whip; ‘let us proceed, if you please, to the main body of the dis- course.” i “Now,” continued Paul, bowing, in sign of acquiescence, ‘‘every circumstance has changed; the marquis is dead, Emanuel has received his commision, the marchioness re- nounces your alliance, honorable as it may be, and Marguerite marries the Baron Anatole de Lusignan, who, for that reason, I did not name your second.” “Ah! ah!” exclaimed Lectoure, ‘‘ them that is the true meaning of the note which a ser- vant delivered to me atthe moment I was about to leave the castle. I had the simplicity to imagine that it was merely an adjournment. It appears that it was a dismissal in due form. Tis well, sir, and now to the peroration.” “Tt will be as simple and frank as the ex- planation, sir. I did not know you—I had no desire to know you; chance threw us in pres- ence of each other, and with opposing’ inter- ests—hence our collision. Then, as I have be- foretold you, mistrusting fate, I wished. in some measure to make sure of a result. But now affairs have become so altered that either my death, or yours, would be altogether use- less, and would merely add bloodshed to the winding up of this drama; and tell me can- didly, sir, do you think it would be worth while to risk our lives to so little purpose ?” “T might, perhaps, agree with you in opin- ion, sir, had I not performed so long a jour- ney,” replied Leetoure. ‘‘Not having the honor to espouse Mademoiselle Marguerite d’Auray, I should desire, at least, to haye the honor of crossing swords with you. It shall not be said that I have traveled all the way from Paris into Brittany for nothing. T am at your orders, sir,” continued Lectoure, draw- ing his sword, and with it saluting his adver- sary. *‘At your good pleasure, sir,” replied Paul, and replying to the salutation in the same manner. The two young men then advanced toward each other— their swords crossed—at the third parry Lectoure’s sword was twisted from his hand, and flew to a distance of twenty yards. “Before taking sword in hand,” said Paul, “‘T had offered an explanation, and now, ‘sir, I trust you will be pleased to accept my apology.” ‘And this time I will accept it, sir,” said Lectoure, in the same careless and easy manner, as if nothing particwlar had occurred. ‘' Pick up my sword, Dick.” rer ‘His servant ran to fetch it, handed it to his master, who very tranquilly put it into the spreading branches could be discerned fi ern) AE #7 And then thétwo young men again bowed to each other, ‘Lectoure remounted his horse, — and at about a hundred paces from the sea- shore, got into the high road leading to Van- nes, and galloped off ; while his servant went ‘to the castle to get his traveling carriage, with which Lectoure had ordered him to rejoin him - speedily. oi ‘CAnd ‘now, Mr. Walter,” said Paul, “you must send the long-boat to the nearest creek to © Auray castle, and have everything in readiness, to set sail to-night.” ; The lieutenant immediacely set out for Port Louis, and Paul and Lusignan returned into the fisherman’s hut. . Nate During this time Emanuel awd Marguerite; had fulfilled the mourmful duty to which — they had been: summoned by the chapel bell. | The body of the marquis had been depositedin the emblazoned tomb of his ancestors, and Achard’s in the humble cemetery outside the chapel, and then the brother and sister repairee to their mother's apartment. The marchioness — delivered to Emanuel the commission which he had so anxiously coveted, and gave to Mar- guerite her unexpected consent to her marriage — with Lusignan. She then handed to Marguerite — the king’s sign manual appointing Lusignan © governor of Guadaloupe. And then, in order that the emotions which they experienced should not be renewed, and which were the —__ more poignant because they were concealed within their. own breasts, for neither of them made any allusion to past events, the mother and the children embraced each other for the last time, each feeling the innate convicti that they should never meet again. ae The remainder of the day was occupie the necessary preparations for departure. ward the evening the marchioness left the castle — to meet Paul at the place which he had appointed. When passing through the courtyard she per- — ceived a carriage with horses already attached — ; to it, standing on one side of it, and the your midshipman, Arthur, with four sailors, on thi other. Her, heart was oppressed by the sight of this two-fold preparation. She, however, passed on, and went into the park, witho .: giving way to her emotions, so much had her be i long-continued restraint upon natural feelings given her the power of self-command. me However, when she had reached a small clearing, from which she could see Achard’s honse, she paused, for her knees trembled be neath her, and she was obliged to lean for sup- port against a tree, while she pressed her ‘ae to her breast, to restrain the violent beatings o: her heart. For there are souls which prese danger, however imminent, cannot cause quail, but which tremble at the remembran of perils past; and the marchioness recalled to mind ‘the agonizing fears and emotions to which she had been for twenty years a prey, and during which time she had daily that house, now closed never again to be o She, however, ge overcame the weaknes: PGs reached the park gate. i beter 2 There she again paused. Above all the trees rose the summit of agigantic oak, whose wide. — ¥ many places in the park. Often had the ¢ of the marchioness remained riveted for hours upon its verdant dome: but ‘never bad she dared to seek repose beneath its shade. I there, however, that she had promised ton Paul, and there Paul was awaiting her. length she made a last effort, and entered forest. ee bi From a distance she pereeived a ma) upon the ground in the attitude of pray slowly approached him, and kneeling his side, prayed also. When | ) concluded, they both rose, a ing a, word, the marchioness_ around Paul’s neck, and leane his shoulder. some mi they heard t ta distance
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~ Ss sis a ; had heard the noise, and | the marchioné 8s a boat gliding rapidly _ Jently upon the surface of the ocean ; it _. Marguerite going on board the frigate. ‘Phe marchioness listened to the noise of the @eceding wheels as long asshe could hear it, eactelinces with anxious eyes. the movements | of the boat, as long as she could distinguish it; | _ then she turnedtowards Paul, and raising her | - eyes to heaven, for she felt that the moment was approaching, when he, whom she was leaning upon would, in his turn, leave her, she exclaimed : _ May God bless, as I now bless the duteous - gon, who was the last to leave his mother.” Saying these words, she threw her arms ound his neck, pressed him convulsively to er heart, and kissed him ; then gazing at him itently, she seemed to be scaiining every out- ne of his face, and then, agam, rapturously mbraced him. _ “Yes,” she cried, ‘in eyery feature, he is the living resemblance of my poor lost Mor- ix;” then for some moments, she seemed to absorbed in thought; at last after a seem- igly violent struggle, she continued, ‘‘ Paul, "+ you have refused to accept my portion of that fortune to which you are legally entitled, although you know the wealth of the Auray family is unbounded—-and that the fortune ich I inherit in my own right, from the ily of Sable, is very large.” Paul shook his head. ‘‘ Well then, there is one thing that you | must receive from your mother, as her parting Sa It is twenty years since I have dared to _ look upon it, and yet, I have clung to its pos- _ session—it is your father’s portrait, presented fo me when I was authorized to receive it— ’ when, by the assent of both our families, he was to have become my husband—take it, my arson, for, although it tears my heart to art with it, yet I feel that I shall be more tran- quil when it is in your possession—to no one but yourself would I have given it. You will metimes look upon it, and then you will think your mother, who must now remain forever solated from the world. But it is better that it should be so—henceforward all my moments e@ spent in making my peace with =) # a 4 ile saying these words, she had drawn rom her pocket a case, which she put into ’s hands, and which he had eagerly opened, gazed with intent interest at the features lis father. The miniature was richly set in mds of great value. Then summoning all her fortitude, the mar- mess for the last time kissed her son, who knéeling before her, and tearing herself his arms, she returned alone to the castle. he ne&kt morning the inhabitants of Port ainly sought the frigate they had seen e evening before, and which, for fifteen d remained at anchor in the outer roads wient, As on the, former occasion, she disappeared without their being able to ehend the cause of her arrival, or the mo- f her so sudden departure. WT . EPILOGUE. Sah isi Last scene of all hat ends this strange, eventful history. ve years had elapsed since the occurrence ie events we have related. ‘The indepen- ‘of the United States had been recognized ; rk, the last stronghold of the English, en evacuated. The roar of cannon, ad resounded in the Indian seas, as the Gulf of Mexico, had ceased to the hostile attempts of Great Britain. Among these islands, Guadaloupe had been more par- ticularly threatened, in consequence of its military and commercial importance, but thanks to the vigilance of its new governor, the attempts of the enemy to land there, had | of | digal, asis everything that is always fuiled,.and France had not to mourn over any serious discomfiture in this important position, so that at the commencement of the year 1784, the island, without being altogether denuded of warlike appearance, which was maintained in it*more from custom than from necessity, the inhabitants generally had applied themselves anew to the cultivation of the numerous products which form its riches. If our readers will be pleased by a last effort of their complaisance, to accompany us to the other side. of the Atlantic, and land with us at the port of Basseterre, we will conduct them amidst fountains which jet on every side, through the street which leads to the promenade, called Champ d’Arbaud, then, after having availed ourselves of the cool shade of the tamarind trees, planted on each side of it, till we have proceeded about 'two- thirds of its length, we will turn upon the left up a small beaten road, which conducts to the gate of a garden, the upper part of which com- mands a view of the whole town. When we have arrived there, we will allow them for a few moments to inhale the evening breeze, so refreshingly sweet after the mid-day heat of the month of May, and they ‘can cast a glance with us over the luxuriant vegetation of the tropies. ' With our backs turned to the woody and yol- eanic mountains, which divide the, western part of the island, and amid which arise, crowned with their plumes of smoke and sparks, the two calcined pinnacles of the sulphur mountain, we have at our feét, sheltered by the hills, which have been named Bellevue, Mont-Desir, Beau Soliel, Esperance and Saint Charles, the city gracefully descending towards the sea, the waves of which, sparkling with the last rays of the setting sun, laves its white walls. ‘The ho- rizon, formed. by the ocean, lying like a yast and limpid mirror, and to the right and left, the most beautiful and richest plantation of the island ; large square fields of coffee trees, trans- planted originally from Arabia, with their knotty and flexible branches, covered with dark green glossy leaves, of an oblong and pointed form, and bearing clusters of flowers as white as snow; long rows of cotton plants, covering with a rich carpet of verdure, the dry, and stony soil on which they thrive best, and among which we see, like so many colossal ants, negroes occupied in reducing to two or three, the thou- sand shoots which sprout out from each stalk. And then again, but in more level and well- sheltered spots, in which the soil is richer and more argillaceous, we see plantations of cocoa trees, first introduced into the West Indies by the Jew, Benjamin Dacosta, with their lofty trunks and porous branches, covered with fawn- colored bark, from;which large oblong leaves are pending, among which we see fresh shoots of a soft rose-color which contrast strongly with the long curved and yellow fruit, which bends the branches with its weight. And further off, whole fields of the plant, discovered at Tabaco, first brought to France by the Ambas- sador of Francis Il, who presented it to Cath- erine de Medicis, from which circumstance it derived its name of Herbe-aela-reine.* This did not, however, prevent it from being, like ev- ery popular thing, in the first instance excom- municated and proscribed, in Europe and Asia, by the two powers who then divided the world, proscribed by the Grand Duke of Mus- covy, Michael Fedorowich, by the Turkish Washington, in the solemn meeting ss of the 28th December, 1783, had without slowed ip Sultan Amurath IV, by the Emperor of Per- sia, and excommunicated by Pope Urban VIII. e see springing up to a feet above all the ment of the first created woman, And finally, elevated above all the rest, and standing forth pre-eminent, whether backed by the azureof — the heavens, or by the dark green sea, the co- _ coanut, and the palm-tree, those twe giants of the western archipelago, graceful and pro- werful. Fi ure to yourselves then these beautiful hillg intersected by seventy rivers, cased in beds, ninety feet in depth; these mountains illumi-. nated during the day bya tropical sun, at night, by the volcano of the sulphur moun- tain ; that vegetation, which never is arrested, the new leaves of which succeed the leaves which fall ; this soil so salubrious, and air so pure, that, notwithstanding the insensate ex- periments that man, the real enemy of him- self, has made by transporting serpents from Martinique, and Saint Lucie, it was found that they could neither live nor reproduce there, and then judge after thesufferings they had endured in Europe, of the happiness which Anatole de Lusignan and Marguerite d’Auray must have enjoyed there. To a life agitated by the passions, to that struggle of natural rights against legal power, to that succession of scenes in which all earthly pains, from childbirth even to death, had played their part, had suceeeded a life of pure delights,, each day of which had passed on calmly and tranquilly; the only clouds that darkened it, arose from that vague uneasiness for distant friends, which as if borne upon the air, and which contracts the heart like a pain ful presentiment. However, from time te time, whether by newspapers or by vessels, touching at the island, Anatole and Marguerite had obtained some intelligende of the gener. ous being who had so powerfully served them as a protector; they had heard of his victories; that after he had left them, he had been ap- pointed to the command of a small squadron, and had destroyed the English establishment on the coast of Acadia, which had gained for — him the title of commodore; that in the en- gagement with the Serapis and the Countess of Scarborough after a combat yard-arm to * yardsirm, whichlasted four hours he had obliged the two frigates to strike to him, and — that finally, as a reward for the services he had rendered to the cause of American Independ- ence, he had received the public thanks of Congress, who had yoted him a gold medal, and had selected him to command the frigate _ America, to which that name had been given as being the finest in the service, and the: com- mand of which had been conferred on him as the bravest of its officers; but this splendid ship had been presented by Congress to the King of France, to replace the Mag- nifique, which had been lost at Boston. Paul Jones, after conducting this frigate to Havre, had joined the fleet of the Count de Vaudreuil, who had projected an at- tack upon Jamaica. This last intelligence had — overjoyed the hearts of Lusignan and Margue- rite, for this enterprise would bring Paul into their latitude, and they hoped, at last, they should soon see their brother and their friend ; but peace, as we have before said, had inter- — vened, andfrom that time they had heard no more of the adyenturous seaman. ‘ In the evening of the day on which we haye _ transported our readers from the wild shores of Brittany to the fertile coasts of Gaudaloupe, — the young family were assembled in the ver garden which we have entered, and whiel commands a view of the immense panorama we have before described; the foregronnd of which is formed by the city at its feet, the — ocean, studded with islands in the distance, Marguerite had promptly habituated herselt to the soft listlessness of Creole life; and he mind now tranquil and full of happiness, ‘she gave herself up to the dolee far niente which renders the sensual existence of the coloni half sleep, the incidents of which t dreams.
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2 oubixds ; her son was swinging her with a soft | end regular motion, and Lusignan was hold- | ing one of her hands between both his. | he had rapidly glided over the distance be- tween the anchorage ground and the port, and had sprung upon the jetty at the instant that doubled Cape Trois Pointes, Lusignan Marguerite had for an hour lost sight of the . ship, while Paul, thanks to theirlargaand bril- — She was still pale, but delicate and graceful as’ his friends arrived there. Such sensations as / liant fire, might still perceive them, when a — a wild lily. Her looks were vacantly wander- then filled their breasts cannot be expressed in | ing over the immense extent of ocean lying be- | fore her, and she felt her soul and senses en- raptured by all the bliss which heaven can | pramisé, and all the enjoyments which this | earth ean offe, At that moment, andas if every- | thing concurred to complete the magic specta- ele which every evening she came there to} contemplate, and which every succeeding zvening she found still more marvelously . veantiful there suddenly appeared, doubling the cape Trois Pointes, and looking ‘like an ocean king, a large vessel, gliding along the surface of the sea without more apparent effort than a swan playing upon the tranquil bosom of alake, Marguerite was the first to perceive it, and without speaking, for every action is a fatigue under that burning clime, she "made a sign with her head to Lusignan, who directed his looks to the spot she had indicated, and then, like her, silently followed with his eyes the rapidand graceful movements of the vessel. By degrees asshe approached, and. as the elegant and delicate porportions of her masts amidst the mass of sails which they sustained, could be discerned, which, in the first instance had seemed a cloud floating upon the ,horizon —they began to discover in one corner of her flag, the stars of America, equal in number to the States they represented. One same idea shot instantly through their minds, and they" exchanged a glance, radiant with hope that they were, perhaps, about to receive some news of Paul. Lusignan immediately ordered a negro to bring a telescope ; but before he had returned, ‘a hope still more delightful pervaded both their hearts. It appeared to Lusiguan and Margue- rite that they recognized an old friend in the frigate that was approaching. ‘To persons, however accustomed, it is so difficult to dis- tinguish, at a great distance, signs which speak at once to the eye of an experienced seaman, ‘that they did not yet dare to bave faith in his hope, and which, indeed was more an instinct- ive presentiment than positive reality. At last | the negro brought the so much longed for tele- scope. Lusignan uttered a ory of joy, andthen handed itto Marguerite: he had recognized the sculpture of Guillaume Coston upon the prow ofthe vessel, and it was really the In- dienne which was advancing toward Basseterre. Iusignan raised Marguerite fromthe ham- mock and placéd her on her feet, for their first impulse was to hasten to the harbor; but then ‘they reflected that Paul had left the Indienne nearly five years, at the time that his promotion } entitled him to the command of a larger vessel ; and that she might now be under the orders of another captain, and they paused with palpitating hearts and trembling limbs. During this time, their son Hector had taken up the telescope, and placing it to his eye, looked through it, and goon after exclaimed—‘' Father, see there— -' wpon the deck stands an officer, dressed in a fi black coat, embroidered with gold, just like the one in the picture of my dear friend, Paul!” Lusignan hastily snatched the glass _ from his son’s hands, looked through it for a . few moments, then again passed it to Mar- guetite, who, after directing it toward the _ vessel, let it fall, and then they threw, them- _ selves into each other's arms; they had re- | cognized their friend, who, as he was about to | visit them, had put on the dress which we have | before said, he had generally worn. At this | instant the frigate passed the fort, which it! m5 saluted with three guns, and the fort returned ' the salute with an equal number. in, follo ' devote all his attention to the land he was thus words; tears are their only interpreter... And thus their joy more closely resembled grief, for they all wept, even to the child, who wept be- cause he saw them weep. After giving some orders relating to the vessel, the young commodore, with his de- lighted friends, slowly ascended the hill down which they had rushed so rapidly to meet him. Paul told them that the expedition of Admiral Vaudreuil having failed, he had retuned to Philadelphia, and peace having been signed, as we have before mentioned, with England, the Congress, as a token of gratitude, had pre- sented him with the first ship he had com- manded as captain. : Upon hearing this, Lusignan and Marguerite experienced the most lively joy, for they hoped that their brother had come with the intention of taking up his abode with them; but the character of the young seaman was too ad-| venturous, and stood too much in need of ex- citement, to sink quietly down into the monot- onous and unvaried dullness of a life on shore. He informed his friends that he had but eight days to remain with them, after which he should seek, in another quarter of the globe, to follow the profession he had adopted. These eight days passed by as rapidly as a dream, and notwithstanding the reiterated en- treaties of both Lusignan and Marguerite, Paul would not consent to delay his departure even for twenty-four hours. He was still the same ardent, determined being; considering the ex- ecution of aresolution he had once formed as a ositive duty, and more austere with regard to himself than toward others. The hour of separation had arrived. Mar- guerite and Lusignan wished to accompany the young commodore on board his ship ; but Paul wished not.to prolong the grief of this leave- taking. When he reached the jetty he em- braced them for the last time, then jumped into his boat, which was rowed away as swiftly as an arrow. Marguerite and Lusignan fol- lowed him with their eyes until his boat had disappeared on the leeward side of the frigate, and they sorrowfully reascended the hill to watch the ship’s departure, from the same terrace from which they had before’ discerned its arrival. At the moment they reached it, they ob- served that activity and bustle on board the frigate which always precede the departure of a vessel. ‘The sailors had surrounded the eap- stan, and were employed in getting up the anchor, and thanks to the pureness of the atmosphere, the sonorous and lively cries of the seamen reached the ears of Lusignan and Marguerite; the anchor was soon apeak, and they saw it rising slowly under the ship's bogs; then the sails dropped successively from the yards, from the royals to the courses, and the ship seemingly endowed with an in- stinctive and animated feeling, gracefully turned her prow toward the harbor’s mouth, and beginning to move, cut through the waves with an easy motion as if merely gliding upon their surface. Then asif the frigate might be abandoned to her own will, they saw the young commodore spring upon the stern rails, and bright flame, like toa flash of lightning, ap- peared on the horizon, and in a few seconds — the report of a gun, similar to the prolonged sound of distant thunder, reached their ears, and all again was silent. Lusignan and Mar-— guerite had received Paul's last farewell. — 55 * * * * * * * cm And now, although the domestic drama — which we had undertaken to relate, has, in fact, terminated here, some of ourreaders may, perhaps, have felt sufficient interest in the — young adventurer, of whom we have made the hero of this story, to follow him in the secor part of his career; to these then, after thank- ing them for the kind attention they have been pleased to grant to us, we are about to— recount truly and plainly, facts which a most | minnte research have enabled us to lay before them. rae At the period we have reached, that isto say, in the month of May, 1784 the whole of Europe has fallen into that state of torpor, which un- thinking men imagined to be tranquility, but which minds more profound regarded as thie dulland momentary calm that precedes the tem- pest, America, by obtaining her independence, had prepared France for her revolution. Kin and people, mistrustful of each other, were each — upon their guard. One part of Europe alone, appeared active and agitated, while the rulers ‘had raised to the rank of a civilized state, and which Catherine II had commenced to inscribe — in the list of European powers. Peter II, who had become odious to the Russians, in cons quence of his ignoble character, the narrown of his political views, and-above all, for thé : cessive leaning to Prussian manners, and Prus-_ sian discipline, had been deposed without th thirty-two, mistress of an empire which extend ‘over one-seventh part of the globe; her: care was to compel the neighboring pow accept her as a mediatrix intheir quarrel thus become dependent upon her. Thus, she obliged the people of Courland to di from them their new Duke, Charles of Saxo and to recall Biren, she had sent her ambasss and her armies to Warsaw, there to crowned by the name of the Stanislaus A tus, her former lover Poniatowski; she. | formed an alliance with England; she h associated to her policy the Courts Vienna and Berlin; and notwithstanding these great projects of foreign policy, she. not neglected the internal government of own country, and in the interval of her am 80 fickle and so various, she still found ti reward industry, to encourage agricultur reform the laws, to raise a navy, to s into provinces the productions of wh till then unknown, Blumager into the noi Archipelago, and Bellings into the Indian O in fine, jealous of the literary reputation of h brother, the King of Prussia, she wrote the same hand that had ordered the erect L anew city, signed the order for the execution of young Ivan, and the dismemberment of Po. land, the refutation of the journey into Siberia, by the Abbe Chappe, a romance of thé TO+ wich Chlose, several plays, among which was a — translation into French of Oleg, a drama, ten by the Russian poet, Derse: , 801 oO! ast os ~ BS i ay U3 Voltaire proclaimed her the Semi amis North, and the King of Prussia, 1 nd Lyeargus, ii classed her between Solon a The effect produced amid and chivalric court by the arrival of such a as our adventurous seaman, can dr ra instant jmagined. The reputation for had rendered him the. terr .
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the Parthenon, he, who had assisted in es- tablishing the independence of America, dreamt of the re-establishment of the Republics of Sparta and of Athens. The old Ottoman empire was shaken to its foundations, the defeated Turks signed at reaty of peace at Kainardji. Catherine retained Azof, Taganrog, and Ken- ' burr, and Kenburn, compelled. the Turks to rant to her the free navigation of the Black Sea, and the independence of the Crimea; she then desired to visit her new possessions. Paul, ‘recalled to Saint Petersburgh, accompanied her on this journey, the route of which had “been drawn up by Potemkin. During the ( whole of it, all the attributes of triumph were Offered to the conquering Empress and her uite ; bonfires were lighted all along the road, cities were illuminated with the most fairy- like brillancy, magnificent palaces erected, as if _ by magic, for one day, amid desert countries, and which the next morning disappeared ; yillages, rising as if beneath the wand of an -enchanter, in solitudes, in which eight days before the Tartars fed their flocks; towns ap- earing on the horizon of which there existed ut the exterior walls; in every direction, omage, and songs of welcome, and dances of he people: during the day, a numerous tion crowded the road, and at night, while the Empress was sleeping, they would run to station themselves in the way she was to proceed on waking the following morn- 28 a king and emperor rode by her side, eallmg themselves not her brothers; not er equals, but her courtiers; finally, a tri- uumphal arch was erected at the last halt she ‘was to make on her journey southward, bear- ing the inseription: ‘‘ This is the road lo By- nium,” which if it did not reveal the ambi- tion of Catherine, demonstrated at least, the policy of Potemkin. Then Russia became which would haye overwhelmed the ambi- us, estates which would have consoled a - deposed king for the loss of his dominions ; “but it was the deck of his ship, it was the sea with its combats, and its tempests, it was the _ boundless immensity of ocean for which earned the heart of our adventurous and tie seaman. He, therefore, left the brilliant idst of our European wars and civil strug- $; while, with ‘one hand, we were seiz- foreign enemy by the throat, with the ve were tearing our own entrails. That om he had seen, ten years before, be- d, honored, powerful, was then a captive, despised and’ strengthless, All that had been exalted was abased, and great names fell as did high-born heads. It was the reign of equality, - and the guillotine ‘was the leveling instrument. oa aul inquired after Emanuel, and was told that “he was proseribed. Ho asked what had be- ~ come of his ‘mother, and was informed that she was dead. Then he felt an irresistible longing to ee ries Fest, before he himself might ao © nced emotions at once so sweet and e set out for Brittany, left his car- ves for he had tasted of sweet or bitter, had learnt to ‘6 l, both men and thin ; had , did seas, and beneath the ruins of Lacedemon and | THE BOY. DIVERS. 3 ne) gointo the forest, but the forest seemed to have vanished as by enchantment. Ithad been sold as national property to twenty-five or thirty farmers of the neighborhood, who had | cleared off the timber, and transformed it into alarge plain. The gigantic oak had disappeared, and the plough had passed over the unknown grave of the Count de Morlaix; and the eyes of his son even, could no longer recognize the spot. Then he returned through the park toward thé castle, now become even more gloomy and desolate than when he had last seen it. In it he found only an old man, a living ruin amidst these ruins of the past; it was at first intended | to have pulled down the mansion, but the repu- tation for holiness which the marchioness had left behind her, was regarded with such reli- gious veneration throughout the country, that the old walls, which for four centuries had been the abode of her ancestors, remained undese- crated. Paul went through the apartments, which for three years had remained closed, and which were now opened for him; He walked through the portrait gallery ; it was in the same state as he had formerly seen in; no pious hand had added the portrait either of the marquis or the marchioness, He went into the study in which he had been concealed—found a book lying in it which he had opened and placed upon the very spot on which he found it, and read the same passages which he had read so many years before. He then pushed open the door which communicated’ with the contract chamber, where had passed the chief scenes of that drama in which he was the principal actor. The table was still in the same place, and the Venetian ’ looking-glass | over the chimney-piece was there, shattered | as it had been by the ball from Emanvel’s pistol. Paul advanced to the fire-place, and placing his elbow on the marble mantle-piece, questioned the servant as to the last years of the marchioness. The account he received showed thatshe had remained austere and melancholy, as was her wont. Remaining secludedand alone at the castle, her hours were uniformly spent in three different places ; her oratory, the vault in which the body of her husband had been buried, and the spot sheltered by the oak tree, at the foot of which her lover had been interred. For eight years after the evening on which Paulhad taken leave of her, she had been seen to wander amid the old corridors of the castle, and in the gloomy ayenues of the park, slow and pale as a specter; then a disease of the heart, engendered by the agonies she had suf- fered, declared itself, and she daily became weaker. Atlength, one evening, when her fail- ing strength no longer permitted her to walk, she had ordered the servants to carry her to the foot of the oak tree, her fayor- ite walk, that. she might Once more see, she said, the sun setting in the ocean. When they had reached the spot, she desired the servants to withdraw, and to come back to her in half an hour. On their return they found her ly- ing fainting on the ground. They immediately bore her to the castle, but haying recovered her senses on the way, she ordered them, instead of conducting her to her own room, which they usually did, to take her dewn into the family yault, There she had still strength enough to kneel upon the tomb of her husband, and made a sign that she desired to be left alone. How- ever imprudent their doing so might be, the servants withdrew, for she had accustomed them.to obey her in everything at the first inti- mation of her will. They, however, remained at a short distance, concealed behind the corner of a tomb, that they might be ready to render her assistance, should it be necessary. Ina few minutes they saw her fall down upon the stone on which she had been praying; they forward, im was, 4 agining that she had again | ore ne Bema he knelt down and prayed. On the menumen-, tal stone were inseribed the following words, and which may still be seen in one of the chap- els of the church of the small town of Auray, to which it has since been removed. The in- scription had been written by the marchioness herself, and she had desired that it should be placed upon her tomb. nag wine | ‘* Here lies the very noble and very puissant. lady Marguerite Blanche de Sable, Marchionesr of Auray; born the 2d of August,’ 1729— died the 3d of September, 1788. ‘* Pray for her and for her children.” Paul raised his eyes to heaven -with. an ex pression of infinite gratitude: His mother, who, during her life, had for so long a time forgotten him, had remembered him for her , funeral inscription. ; Six months after this visit, the National Con- | vention decreedin solemn sitting, that they would attend in a body the funeral procession of Paul Jones, formerly a Commodore in the American Navy, and whose burial was to take place in the cemetery of Pere Ta Chaise. They had come to this decision, said the de- cree, in order to consecrate the establishment of religious freedom throughout France. i [tHE END | The Boy Divers Sarmive within pistol-shot of the Mexican . coast on the Pacific, the yoyager finds himself, when in about sixteen degrees of latitude, op- posite a bold, rock-bound shore, through which he perceives, but not unt] he is very near to it, a sort of gateway to the placid sheet of water that lies within. The wind being in the right quarter, which it usually is nine months in twelve, he need not. fear to steer his*bark into the harbor, however 5 deep her keel, for the bed of the channel will } — be found fathoms below it. Once within the gate (the promontory entirely shuts the great ocean from his view), by heading his vessel in a northeasterly direction and instantly furling sail and dropping anchor, he finds himself ina . small, cireular harbor, about a third of a mile in diameter, ~ et ‘Before him, almost hidden from view by th rich vegetable growths of the inner tropics, and lying at the foot of a rather abrupt rise of land, is the quaint town of Acapulco, re It was an important Indian settlement cen- turies before Balboa, while. standing, in 1513, on the summit of the Isthmus of Darien, looking out upon the waters of the Pacific. Acapulaco is very much in itsgeneral appear- ance now like what itewas three hundred and fifty years ago. Thé people, almost without admixture of blood, are of the old race. apa Here and there may be seen aman or woman of undoubted deseent from the old Spanish ad- yenturers who followed Fortune and Cortez; — and occasionally will be encountered a man who, being of both, belongs to neither race, The Indians of Acapulco are simple, good- natured,.and, it may be added, rather indolent. They are very religious. ' BPR IE Fast days and feast days aro strictly observed __ by them. ais ~, The fathers of the church (which, by-the- way, stands on the easterly side of the uf c t
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bie rc nee Be ho Sa ee £ es Hi THE cid DIVERS: deieel, hen! ide Dpehiair market in ‘the plea 1 dom her the bribe, itis just panei she would s makes an effort to look lively. - Like its channel, the bay of Acapulco is vey, deep. There is little or no tide. The water is pellucid. Its bed is covered with pebbles. There is no mud, and no vegetable growth in i6. Drop any white substance from your hands while standing by the side of your ship, and you “will see it gradually sink, yet appearing to. grow larger and prenter the further it goes from you. Wher it rests on the bottom, if you have fol- lowed it truly, yon will be enabled to select it | from a hundred objects, equally white, lying “near it. ___ As the bay is within the tropics—within the } torrid zone—it, of course, is frequently visited by monsters of every hue, shape and character of the great deep. "It is the favorite resort of the shark. “Indeed, 80 aceustomed are the people to the presence: ‘of this voracious creature, that their ppciiiity is rarely disturbed. f he comes too near them, and is very troub- “nals, they Will make an effort to beat him ' off or destroy him, not otherwise. The youths of Acapulco.are wonderful divers. You have read, doubtless, of the feats of Swimming of which the natives, men and women, old and young. alike of the Sandwich and Friendly and Society Islands are capable. It is, however, a question whether, there are hatatists who can surpass the Indian boys of Acapulco. To use a Western vaunt, they can ‘‘dive secees) stay under water longer, and come out ” than any other people of the Pacific, wheter. on continent or island. The writer of this sketch ‘‘speaks by the book” when he says that in the water their courage is unsurpassed, as the subjoined rela- tion will attest : One afternoon in the month of July, some years ago, a propeller, on board of which the writer was, while on his way to Panama, found it necessary, in eqnsequence of the derange- ment of the machinery, to make the nearest port and come to anchor -until it could ne be put in working order. ‘That port happened to be Acapulco. The vessel had not long cast anchor when she was surrounded by boats of various sizes, manned ‘by boys and men, and loaded with tempting vegetable growths, including fruits. There were three boats in which were youths of from: twelve to sixteen, naked as when they came into the world, except that each had a clout tied around his loins, “A lady, who was apassenger, had heard of the feats of the boys of the harbor as divers and swimmers, and she appeared desirous of putting some of them to the test. Advancing fo theside of the ship, and tak- ‘ng from her portemonnaie a florin, she held it in her dainty fingers, ‘and then pointed to the water, as if she would throw it in. The boys understood her, ‘They were on the alert. They ranged themselves on the . taffrail, as near as they could get to her, and awaited ‘her - pleasure. Had she dbtiea.t the water before casting } i | prize, and the Indian boys were clasping’ their |andthen to watch the divers struggle for its have changed her mind. As for the boys, they weré too eager to think of any other thing than the possession of the coin. While the lady was holding up her tempting hands over their heads preparatory to leaping, a school of shovel-nosed sharks swept into the bay, and went eagerly about mopping at every substance thrown from the ship. At this critical moment the lady dropped into the water the silver coin. ‘* Looking over to see it sink to the bottom, possession, was her promised feast. , Kt need not be described the horror she felt when she saw swimming around the vessel the voracious monsters whom seamen dread above all others. The divers, fortunately, recognized their pres- ence as they: were about to jump. One of the boys, who could not have been more than twelve, turned quickly to another standing near him, and giving some direction in low, quick sentences, sprang to the deck. Seizing asmall meat-axe that was on a horse- cask, together with a butcher's knife, he re- turned to his place, and on handing the axe to his friend, put the blade of the knife between his teeth. He then dropped in the water, His quickness and self-possession were won- | derful. Tn going down to the bed .f the bay, where ‘the silver coin had fallen, the boy had to pass between two of the sharks. So close. were they te him, that if he had stretched forth his arms he could haye touched them with his hands. One of the monsters followed him, while the other continued. near the surface, ‘nearly i im- movable—only his huge fins playing rapidly to and fro, The diver secuxed the silver. When the boy to whom he had spoken had satisfied himself of this fact, still holding the axe in his right hand, he flung himself over the taffrail. He struck the water near where the shark lay. He did not wait to be attacked. Raising the hatchet, he pushed close up. to the monster, and with its keen edge struck it vigorously on the nose. The blade had -evidently penetrated to the bone. From the quantity of blood which poured out of the wound, it was thought that an artery had been severed. The assailant retreated as quickly as he had advanced. He retained possession of the axe. The shark was evidently confused, Again the boy, apparently more determined than ever, swam towards his enemy. This time the shark sank, and on turning on his back, opened his ponderous jaws. The boy, however, was not deterred by this threatening demonstration. yaquick movement, he succeeded in get- ting under the monster. Standing almost upright in the water he, for the second time, buried the axe in the head of his enemy. This time it stuck fast, | with air. Finding ine could ae loosen ity thé!boy r rose to the surface and leaped into a boat. The wounded shark rushed blindly across the ‘bay, leaving apath of blood behind him, and, upon turning, he drove his head, the hatchet : still deep in it, against the hull of the pro: peller. From this it retreated feebly and slowly. It was stunned. A few minutes later it turned-over and lay on the water, dead. The boy who had gone to the bottom and picked up the silver was not, idle. The shark that had followed him sought. to get near and seize one of his limbs. To avoid this attack, he stretched himself. at full-length on’the pebble-lined bottom. The monster passed closely oyer him, but could not succeed in grasping any Dart’ of his 3 body, To do so it was necessary that the lad should be above the shark, and that it should have its ponderous jaws open to their widest. As the animalswam above the diver, he seized the butcher-knife, and on striking with it up- ward, buried it in its body. Again was the water stained with blood, ~ : The shore was lined with people; but only — those who were in the boats or propelles. could see it with any distinctness. : The fight was not of long duration. : The boy had struck terrible, if net mortal blows. f When it again came towards him, and th whole action of the scene was confined with about sixty seconds, the knife was ready, This time the young Indian ainied at on the eyes. The point of the weapon enter@the so whence it was driven upward into the sk It was sufficient for the time, The intrepid natatist rose to the surf: He rested for a moment, sti hi ‘When he had. sufficiently recoverec strength, he again descened to the bed of the harbor, and instantly and boldly renewed tha fight. $ The shark struggled blindly, but weakly. . The diver moved quickly, and’ struck home with the knife until it became mere butchery. When life was wholly extinct, the carcass rose to the surface and floated away. ‘s The divers were rewarded for their bravery 4 on returning to the propeller. Joachim, the youngest and the most yen. turesome, was presented with an onza in gold, | The second Ray. the hero of the ann was made happy with half that sum. As the passengers of the Henry Wilson were — not particularly interested in keeping the bay — of Acapulco clear of monsters; they respect- tS fully declined becoming a party to any special contract. They simply commended and. rewarded. the: boys for their courage and skill in fighting, and finally destroying, two dangerous man- eating sharks, and there the matter ended. f The boys could not understand it, however ; —not even Joachim and his brother. iy It was nothing, in their estimation, to killa shark, They ‘would like to’ do the same eve for any fee—even for the lady’s florin, ? ~4 Ys . u serul and Instructive Books. wow 7) BECOME A YENTRILOQUIST.—By Harr Harry ; given rie Every intelligent boy once fi Pade (asigiting Be ree The se- ing piatuedies ea Ts m j aster the art, and a4 the great wit, h rs, price. 10 cents ; uld obtain-a. and receive a sf. am f evn Py Reena eae MULDOON’S JOKES.—This fs» one of the most original j joke books published, and is brim fall of wit and humor, a contain collection of pone: Or pea,
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THE LARGEST, CHEAPEST, oe DSOMEST, AND MOST POPULAR LIBRARY 310 The Jolly Travelers; a Around the World for FUN—COMIC........ e000 eee ees ......By Peter Pad 711 The Haunted Pionéer; ‘or, Fighting for Texas By ‘* Noname”’ 712 Leaves From a Diary; or, A Young Clerk’s Downfall.,.......+.-++ By H. K. Shackleford 718 Boone and th egade; or, t ife in Ken- tucky.... rea Br Kit Clyde 714 Before the r, A Sailor Boy’s Travels in Many Seas.. ave y .. By Jas. D. Montague 715 Monaco, the Jagnar Hunte .By Hal Standish 716 From Page to Senator; or, Working his Way Up. asseveeeeees+ By H, K, Shackleford (Ti wudge Gleary’s | Country Court—comic. By Tom Teaser 718 Old Rough and Ready........-...By ‘* Noname ” 719 Fire Bell Dick; or, The Rival Hook and Ladders By Robert Lennox 720 Kidnapped; or, Forced on a Man o’ War.. By J. G@. Bradley 721 Jack o’ the Plains; or, The Meadless Mazeppa By Paul Braddon 722 The Prisoners of the Castle; or, A Blow for Freedom....-+++++ Ry Jas. D. 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