Waverley Library (Quarto Edition) (no. 70) (1881 03 15)
The text was read from the page scans by machine (OCR), so it has mistakes and its columns may run together. See the pages · About this title · At the Internet Archive
Page 1
The Only Young La dies’ Library of First-Class Copyright Novels Published! Price, but 5 cents each. No. 70. VoL. IIIf. PUBLISHED WEEKLY BY BEADLE AND. ADAMS, 98 WILLIAM ST., N.Y. PRICE, 5 CENTS. “Three o’clock in the afternoon is not an early hour for Lafleur, monsieur,” p 0 I als replied that worthy, as he availed himself uf the permission to be seated. é ‘People who have such vile taste as to retire at night, must expect to be out 4 vit of their beds at an unreasonable hour; but tell me what oe you here?** “‘Monsieur has heard of the beauty of the girls of Normandy?” BY D’ENERY. “Yes; what of that?” asked De Presles, listlessly. —— “There are two young girls from Normandy who are to arrive in Paris this CHAPTER L. evening. They are without relatives, except you call the cousin of their FROM NORMANDY TO PARIS. mother, who, by the war is my brother-in-law, a relative,’’ answered Lafleur, as Tae dusty diligence which rolled over the bard road from Evreux to Paris, | he watched the face of his employer carefully, and as he saw it light up at his on a certain warm summer’s day, in the year 18—, contained but two passen- | information, he added: " gers, and they, young girls. ‘My brother-in-law is in Lyons, and I have opened the letter sent by the two As they sat on the hard leathern seats, weary from the effects of the long sh pee advising him of their intended arrival to-night. Therefore, I shall be ride which would cause more mature persons to look jaded, one can see that | obliged to meet them.” so engrossed are they with the thoughts of their arrival at Paris, that they ** And you propose what?”’ forgot the discomforts of their reception. ** Anything monsieur the marquis is pleased to wish." ‘“* And are you quite sure that the kind Monsieur Martin will meet us, sister?’ |. ‘“‘ How old are these girls?” asked the younger, for at least the twentieth time since the commencement of “The oldest is seventeen, and the blind one—’’ the ride. **Ts one of them blind?” ; ‘‘He must be waiting our arrival, Louise; for did I not write to say that we “*She is.” b were coming?’’ replied Henriette, as she smoothed her sistér’s fair hair with ** Ah, then I do not see how she could interest me.” a caressing motion which was unusually tender even for a sister, and as one “But the other might, monsieur.”’ looks into the young girl’s face, they can see the reason of the watchful care “You are right!” exglaimed the marquis, after a short pause; ‘but what which Henriette exercises over her sister. | should we do with the blind one?” ; Louise is blind. : “‘ Never fear for her. She can go wherever she chooses,” said Lafleur, in a “ But if he should not be there?”’ persisted the blind girl. ‘ _» | careless tone, “Blindness is a good stock in trade in this city. Before I knew “Then we will go to his house. I have the address. We will not think of his | of the liberality of the Marquis de Presles, I was often temp to wish that I not being there, but rather enjoy the ride. I will describe to you everything | was blind myself; for it is said that God has such under his especial keeping.”” we meet,”’ t . : “Tam afraid, Lafleur, that if you were deaf and dumb as well as blind, the For answer, Louise nestled close beside her sister, and laid her head with its | Lord would show Ca very little favor,” said the marquis, with a laugh. wealth of golden hair on her shoulder. m “Perhaps not. But have you any commands for me?” rejoined Lafleur, While Henriette was thus engaged, let us explain why the two young girls | quickly. were thus journeying alone to the great city. “Yes. If you bring me the girl—without the blind one, remember—I will Nearly six months previous to the opening of our story, the girls were bereft | pay you one hundred louis. If you fail, I will not—” of their only protector by the cold hand of death, and had been offered a home ‘* We do not think of failure, my dear marquis,” quickly interrupted Lafleur, in Paris by Monsieur Martin, who was a cousin of the deceased mother. é ‘* Where shall I take the girl?” For several months the girls had remained with their kind friends in “T am to have a party of friends at Bel-Air this evening and you may Normandy, lingering near their take her there. Be sure you take childhood’s home, asifintuitionhad _ , = = S y = Z = - EE her in such a condition that she can warned them of the long train of | ; 5 g E make no disturbance.” evils which would attend them at “T will use the old remedy, and the capital. p then you can awake her whenever _ They had started for Paris, think- you wish, as you have the antidote,” ing that no other warning to their replied Lafleur, as he arose to go. © relative save a letter that was dis- “You feelsure that you will sue- patched the day previous to their ceed?’ asked the marquis, who had departure was necessary. grown considerably interested in the much for the reason of their scheme, journey, and before they arrive in “Feel sure? I am as certain as if A \ aris, we will visit the hotel occu- the Marquis de Presles’s louis were pied by the Marquis de Presles, alread Jingling in my pocket,” an- whose vile scheming caused so much ZA swere eur, in a confident tone. : misery to our heroines. The marquis was the representa- tive of one ofthe oldest families in Paris; but unlike his ancestors, he was notorious as a libertine and a roue. Every pleasure that wealth or sin could purchase was his, and in that city of crime and pleasure, none so ready as he to adopt any scheme, however vile, to attain some new | erie which should gratify his epraved taste. ated before a breakfast-table loaded with every delicacy which could tempt an appetite already blunted by dissipation, the marquis was partakin, sparingly of his morning meal, when his valet entered and waited leave to speak. ** What is it, Antoine?” “Monsieur Lefleur has some im- portant—”’ “Admit him,’’ ordered the mar- quis, who saw in this early visit some new scheme; for Lefleur was one who, for the sake of a liberal reward which the marquis was ever ready to give his tools, pandered to the nobleman’s vices. Lefleur entered with a cringing bow, and remained standing in a respectful attitude until his pa- tron should allow him to unfold 3 budget of villainy. “Sit down, Lafleur, and tell me Bast erings you here at this early “Very well, T shall expect you this evening,” > **T shall be there, my lord.” And with a low bow, the villain who was ready to sell more than hig soul for gold, departed, leaving his atron to gloat over the surprise he had in store for his friends. Lest our readers should thinx this an exceptional case in the city of Paris at the time of which we write we will refer them to the history of France for the latter part’ of the Seventeenth and the oy St 9 of the Eighteenth century, and they will find that abduction, murder and all manner of crime stalked abroad boldly through that beautiful city, setting the law, and those whose dus ty it was to enforce the law, at de- ance, \\’ pr CHAPTER IT, MOTHER AND SONS, “Knives to mend, scissors to grind, knives to grind!” Among the large class of people who get their living from the street, as it were, none seem to have as few customers as the scissors-grinders,al- though they are the most useful of their class, and it is not strange that on the day when the Normandy coach was to bring a new victim to i. re de oon i Pierre : SX SV Nig NEN . WN BS chard, the crippled scissors- SEES \G tase FA NEON 7 grinder, should have traversed a THE TWO ORPHANS—HENRIETTE AND LOUIS large portion of the city without
Page 2
_» it with sympathy for his sufferings. The poor creat- ‘wre, although he had a mother and brother, had ~ mever known what it was to receive one word of pity: or consolation from a human being, and what wonder ea, and ‘ sg eo nothing save a confusion of guttural sounds. 2 @ THE TWO ORPHANS. o* ‘ having an opportunity of adding much to his little plaintive ery, “Knives to mend, scissors to grind,” was unlike a great majority of the street cries, inasmuch as it seemed to be the cry of a wound- ed soul striving for something beyond its reach, in- stead of the rough, unmeaning jargon which venders give utterance to in a sing-song nianner, and which rre Frochard was a young man of about twenty ars of age, but his sufferings caused him to have te appearance of ane many years older. His face 4 as pale and distorted, his form bent and miss-shap- et he was one whom the careful observer would have become deeply interested in, and the charitably disposed to have bestowed alms upon, had Pierre not been one of those few whom alms hurt worse than a curse, Weary and footsore, the poor scissors-grinder had, toward the close of the day, found himself near the Pont Neuf, and after ascertaining that there were mone near who were in need cf his services, he placed his machine near one of the buildings, and was rest- ing his aching limbs. Chance had brought hirz near the Normandy coach house, and he resolved to await the coming of the diligence in the hope of,ezrning a few sous by carry- ing the baggage of some traveler. There was a in the vicinity a drinking saloon, filled with noisy revelers, and whenevera fresh burst % ke from within was heard, Pierre shuddered aibly. t The cripple leaned re his machine; as though long association with the wood and iron had endowed he should cling affectionately to the rude macfline that accompanied him everywhere, even if it was the work of his own hands, and endowed with. action oor” when his poor, withered foot pressed the treadle, orsome time he had remained in this position, when he was aroused from his reverie by the closing of the door of the cabaret; and looking up, he saw a stout, middle-aged woman approaching him. She was in manner and appearance an exact oppo- site to the cripple. Her cluthes were whole, and en- veloped the stout form in a manner indicative of great comfort to the wearer: A pair of small, hard, grey eyes twinkled from the fat, round face, which was bordered with short, black hair, that formed a ‘distinct beard, and one, on seeing La Frochard for She first time, would have judged her to be an easy, | tappy old soul, whose only care in life wee to provide “good dinner, and whose only want was the material dur a good dish of gossip. ; A change came over Pierre’s face as he saw her. A change which plainly told that. his poor, bent form was to receive some insult which would, cut deeply the great, honest heart which it held. in a painfully limping manner ‘he approached the woman, and in a tender, imploring voice, said: “Why, mother, is that you?” * Yes, it’s me, you lazy good-for-nothing!”’ replied the affectionate mother, as she.gazed at her deformed boy, while a look of scorn passed over her face, com- % ah pletely changing her intu a bard, grasping old wo- a Se in ¥ * beh Se. ee =: +”) CCS “a “hy i pe out his hand as if to ward o words. . + - i geet he repeated. ‘‘ Why, mother, I do all the ‘A look of sorrow came over the poor cripple’s face the cruel «ork I can. “Work!”’ exclaimed the old woman, as she smiled incredulously. ‘ You call that work? Bah! why did heaven nerd you with such a beautiful deformity? Why, to earn your living by, you puny, limping crip- ou need to do is to sit make your fortune.” And as La Frochard finished yet she turned away with a gesture expressive of disgust at the hon- taught me to repeat begging prayers I did not under- e Fy money into y : ut now it is out, and bade misfortune wit shame choked my utterance, and I was overcome} | by anger at my own humiliation. A passer by looked on me with pity and put a trifiing coin in my hand. A great lump came in my throat and my_eyes filled with tears. No, mother, 1 cannot beg—I cannot—I e@annot!” And as Pierre finished speaking he returned to his machine, and leaning over it, seemed to pour out his grief to the rude structure. “You undutiful son!’ exclaimed the old woman, ina burstof anger. “You had rather leave your poor brother and me to starve,” bed unkind thrust aroused Pierre, and he answered, Ly: - bar My brother need not starve. He has health and strength, and yet you support him in idleness.” ‘“*Why should my beautiful. Jacques work?” de- manded the old woman, with a look of disdain at the cripple. ‘My handsome boy, the very image of his poor, dead father that those scoundrels of the law robbed me of.” “He suffered death for a murder of which they found him guilty,” timidly suggested Pierre, ‘** And can I look to you to avenge him?” asked the old woman, in derision. ‘‘ No—no; my handsome Jacques will do that one of thesedays. He’s no milk- sop. Nothing frightens him.” ‘No, not even the sight of blood!” answered Pierre, with a shudder. “Shut up! You are good for nothing but to be honest!’ screamed Mother Frochard, in a fury. “I hate honest people! scum that impose on the poor At this moment the old women’s tirade was inter- rupted by the appearance of several people who were coming toward them, and changing her voice suddenly from one of thé deepest anger for a whining tone habitual to professional beggars, she went to- ward them with outstretched hands, repeating the ae me had so vainly endeavored to force Pierre repeat. “Charity, good people. Charity, for the love of heaven!” > The poor cripple went back to the machine with a despondent air, and poured out his troubles in an un- dertone to that companion. *Perhaps sheisright. I am good for nothing except to be honest. Alas! I have never had any one to teach me,” Pierre's musings were destined to be disturbed on this evening, for he heard a loud, rough voice behind him which caused him to start with fear. It was that of his brother Jacques. The handsome Jacques, as his mother had called him, and if a good specimen of a rufflan may ba called handsome, then Jacques was a perfect beauty. He was a tall, strong, well formed fellow of some twenty-four years, with a face that betokened bru- tality in every feature. He was dréssed with a view to effect, wearing the flowered waistcoat so much in vogue at that period; a red handkerchief was bound around his head, and on it was a wide-brimmed hat, blue stockings reaching to his knees, and in his ears hung large gold hoops, which were supposed to lend an air of istinction. to the whole costume, In his mouth was a black clay pipe, and his whole bearing was that of a man who is well satisfied with himself, and who expected the rest of the world to admire im. “Hallo! Here is the old woman and her precious abortion of*a son,’ was his first greeting, as he laughed heartily at the sight of poor Pierre, bend- ing, over his work. “Has Marianne come yet, moth- e ” **Not yet, my son,’”’ replied the old woman, gazing at him Ps adaairation: ~ ‘“ Never mind, she’ll come in time,” he said, half to himself and half to his mother, Then as he hearda noise from the crowd he had just left in the cabaret, he cried out: “ You can order everything you want, wine, brandy, anything, I'll stand it,” Alarmed at this outbreak of liberality on her, son's part, Mother Frochard asked, sect pe $s ay poms are you going to pay? Have you founda purse **No, but Marianne has. I have ordered her to bring me some money, and she'll do it.” This answer a eri to please the old woman, for she clasped her hands as if in ecstasy of joy and ad- miration, and exclaimed, in a low voice: ‘Isn't he in good humor®” ° " ; Come here, Pierre,” ordered Jacques, in a stern voice. f The eripple looxed up, and for an instant seemed hesitating whether to ory or not; but a warning look from his brother decided him, and he went slowly to- wards the man who knew neither pity nor love for his afflicted brother. ; ‘Look here, cripple! Good children pind: vean account of their earnings to their parents,’’ said Jacques, in a sarcastictone. Then Mae to the old woman, he asked: ‘‘Isn’t that so, mother?” “Certainly, my lamb. You have excellent princi- ples,’ and again the old woman compared one son with the other, as she had done hundreds of times every day since their birth. But poor Pierre looked up piteously at his brother, and said: bs bye I give you an account of my earnings you et all,” “Well, what if I do?’ was Jacques’ brutal an- sw Tits unjust,’ said Pierre. ‘It’s so like——"’ ‘“That’s enough,” interrupted Jacques. “I want your money, but none of your fine speeches. How much have you got?” And he made a gesture as though to strike his bro- ther, oe his demand not be complied with quick- enough. ” Barre: saw that it was useless to resist, and drawing al a handful of small coin he proceeded to count em. “Twenty-two livres, seven sous, and six den- iers,” he answered, as soonas he ascertained the amount. Jacques took the money from Pierre's hand with a motion which caused the cripple to wince with pain, and as he put them in his capacious pocket, he said, with the tone of a man who has been defrauded of his just dues: ae all this fuss about that. ee what have you been doing for a whole week with those spindle legs and arms?” “‘T have walked the streets from morning until ht, with my wheel upon my back,” answered erre, as if eager to convince his brother that he had not beenidle. “I nave lived upon bread and water. T could do no more,” ‘*Well your trade don’t pay,’’ was Jacques rough answer. I must find you something better.” “Something better? You? No—no!” exclaimed V4 ni Pierre, as ho moved away, trembling inevery limb at the very dani of being obliged to work after his brother’s fashion. Jacques did not fancy Pierre’s rejoinder, and would have heaped some fresh insult upon the ae had not La Frochard come forward, anxious to show her favorite how well she had done. “*T have saved three livres and eight sous. Put thena with Pierre’s, and that makes——” “Oh, never mind how much it makes,” said Jacques, impatiently, as he took the money from his mother’s unwilling grasp; ‘but I'll take it on principle.” Then turning to his brother, he said, ina voice which was intended to betray his good feelings: * Come, cripple, let’s drink,”’ and at the same time he moved towards the cabaret, “No,” answered Pierre, sadly; “drink always af- fects my head.” aa: gave utterance to-a coarse laugh, as he said: vs oe who would think that we are brothers. You have the blood of a sheep in your veins. You're a disgrace to. the family, while I boast the blood of a Frochard, and the Frochards have been outlaws for a hundred and fifty years.” This burst of boasting was again too much for Mother Frochard. . She was obliged to give vent to her feelings by raising her hands to Heaven, and exclaiming: “Ah, what a man! I love him so—so like his fath- **Come along, then, if you.love me,” said Jacques, who had heard his mother’s fervent exclamation, ‘*for I am thirsty.”’ As they opened the door of the cabaret he turned again to Pierre, who was again bending over hig wheel, and asked: ‘Are you coming with us?” *‘No—no,”’ answered the cripple, and as he heard the sound of wheels, he added, but not until his brother and mother had le ag sir within the shop where they would spend hard earnings for drink: ““There’s the Normandy coach just arriving. I will run and see if there’s not a chance to make a few sous.”” And Pierre hastened towards the coach as fast as his crippled limbs would admit of, little thinking what the diligence would bring that day, and how closely Ber oer ahaa be connected with one of the oceupants, at least. CHAPTER UI. THE OUTCAST. _As Pierre said, the Normandy coach had just ar- rived; but the poor cripple saw at a glance that his chance of earning a few sous was hopeless. - The only passengers that alighted from the rickety old coach were the two young girls whom we have seen in our first chapter. They alighted in a dazed sort of manner, as if the bustle and din of the great city had confused them, and Henriette, leading Louise by the hand, entered the open space in front of the coach-office. A bench (which from the numerous marks of knives and pencils upon it, showed that it served as a restin, place for the loungers who always cluster aroun places of this kind and talk horsey slang while ad- miring the noble brutes that form the establishment of the proprietor) was on outside the office door, and was to this Henriette led her blind sister, _ “Sit here, Louise,’’ she said, ina low, sweet voice a told all the love she felt for the afflicted rl. Henriette looked vainly around for the relative whom they expected to meet; but not a person was tu be seen. She could not repress a feeling of anxiety; but she bravely strove to hide her feelings from Louise. Fis the blind girl was anxious as wellas Henri- ette, “Tam surprised that monsieur Martin is not here to meet us,” she said, half to herself, Henriette’s quick ear caught the murmur, and she endeavored to divert her sister’s mind. ‘Oh, he'll come soon!" she said, reaseuringly. Then aeuey. the blind girl's mind with other mst- ters than their own condition, she added: “Oh Louise! Paris is so beautiful! Oh, my poor sister, if you could only see its wonders!” “Tell me what yousee. Where are we?’ asked Louise, excitedly. “In an open square at the end of a beautiful bridge,’’ answered Henriette, looking around her, ‘* which has a magnificent statue in the middle.” “That must be the Pont Neuf,’’ said Louise, as she remembered the picture Henriette had called up to her mind. ‘‘ Papa used to speak of it.” “‘ And on this side I can see two great towers," con- tinued the beautiful girl, who was thus supplying the lace of her sister's sight, ‘It must be Notre ame,” “Notre Dame,” repeated Louise, sadly, as she arose from her seat. ‘* How I wish I could seeit. It was on that spot, that I, a helpless infant, was left to rish,” and as the blind girl thus recalled the houghts of the past, the tears, unbidden, came to her eyes, and the sightless orbs were turned towards the spot she would see, as if they would burst their filmy veil, and, forced by her grief, gaze upon the spot where she had been left to die of cold or starva- tion. “It was there your dear father found me. But for himI should have died—perhaps—perhaps that would have been better,”’ she added, in a tone of anguish that was almost a wail, so much misery wag there embodied in it: , * My darling sister!” exclaimed Henriette, “why de you say that?” “* Because,” replied Louise, in the same sad ten¢,
Page 3
“Tshould not have lived to become blind and un- happy.” “Louise, do not speak thus!’’ said Henriette, as she clasped her sister in her arms. ‘‘Ourdear parents loved us both alike—you were their consolation and happiness, and it was their first grief when Heaven deprived you of your sight.” “Misfortune pursues me, sister,” said Louise, re- fusing to be comforted, ** for scarcely had this afflic- tion befallen me when we were left orphans, without help or friends.” “‘No—no, dear Louise!’ interrupted Henriette, “not without friends, I hope. I have turned all we possessed into ep? © and we are in this great Paris, where there are skilful doctors who will soon restore my poor Louise’s eyes to their old time brightness,” and there was in Henriette’s voice something which ever had the power to cheer her afflicted sister, “Heaven grant that your hopes may be realized,” THE TWO ORPHANS. Among the voices which could be heard from the drinking saloon, Jacques Frochard's coarse, brutal tones could be distinguished ; and as she heard it, the poor woman started as though stung by a viper. “Yes, it is his voice,” she said, as she turned so as to face the door of the cabaret, ‘* his voice sing- ing and laughing. Aye! drink and carouse ! forget her whose heart you have broken. Enjoy yourself, while the victim of your brutality seeks the only refuge left her—death! The river is near, one plunge and it will ali be over. May my dying shriek of despair ring in your ears as a never-end- ing curse !” And in the extremity of her anguish, the wan- derer rushed toward the wall and the sudden death she sought. Goaded by despair, the unhappy wo- man was about to yield up her \ife to her Maker in all its sin, forgetting that if it was too vile for this table action; but her sister’s words caused her.to re double her efforts to assist the poor woman, “Madame, have confidence in us,"’ she said, kindly. “We are not rich, but we can help you——” “TL have already told you,” interrupted the wom Eepeely, “that I want nothing. There are griefs tha cannot be consoled; sufferings that cannot. be allevi- ated, Lonly wish to—to——”’ “You wish to die!’ exclaimed Louise, as she cl ed her hands in an agony of grief at the thought of the other’s suffering. “ Who told you that?” added the woman, passion: ately. ‘‘ How do you know I want to die?” ‘*T feel it while I listen to you,” answered the blind irl, who, standing with her hands clasped, resem- led more one of Raphael’s Madonnas than a simple country girl. ‘Do you not know that we who are. blind—whom no external object distracts, listen. with our whole being?” RENRIETTE. aaid Louise, more hopefully, Then, thinking of their present situation again, she asked: “But where can Monsieur Martin be? Why does he mot come for us?” For a moment Henriette had forgotten the for- @aken condition in which they were. Alone in Paris, without friends, or even acquaintances, and unless the relative whom they were expecting should come for them, what could they do? Heriette hardly dared to think of such an alterna- tive, and more to satisfy her sister than from any ex- tation of finding him, she proposed to go and look ‘or Monsieur Martin. As Henriette wert to look for Monsieur Martin, a Young woman of about twenty years of age entered open space in front of the cabaret, and stood gazing sadly at the swift-running river. Her face was that of a woman who had onco deen beautiful; but who was now pursued by re- morse and sorrow. Her garments were scrupu- lously clean and neat; but with no attempt at dis- play, andshe wandered about like one having no aim or purpose save to escape from her own thoughts, She stood silent and motionless as if she were some quaint figure of wood or stone, rather than ® wqman in whose breast love and hate could wage eternal conflict ; so absorbed was she in her bitter thoughts, that her face expressed her feelings &s well as words could have done. Henriette returned to her sister with che inform- ation that their relative could not be seen, and just at that moment a burst of laughter and music eame from the half-open door of the cabaret, which prevented the vanderer from hearing Henriette’s a@pproach or ber voice. world, what would be its appearance thete where all was holy. As she was about to commit this rash act, her wild and almost maniacal gaze rested on several per- thes who were passing near, aud sho drew back, shud- ering. “No, itis not yet dark enough,” she muttered, ‘I should be seen and perhaps saved,”’ As she said this she elasped her hands on her head, and seemingly bewildered by the conflict of passions, sank down upon the cold, damp pavement. Henriette, who had been regarding the strange ap- pearing woman, exclaimed, as she felt: “What can be the matter with that woman? She has fallen, she must be ill!” ‘Go to her and see if you can aid her; go—go, sis- ter!” exclaimed Louise, quickly, and in her excite- ment, rising from the seat and endeavoring to grope her way to the prostrate woman. Like some angel of mercy Henriette went to the world-weary woman, and in a voice that resembled a silvery chime of vesper bells, so gratefully did they fall upon the wanderer’s ears, asked: + rye me, madame; can I do anything for you “You can do nothing.” “You seem exhausted; are you suffering?” “ Yes—yes, I am suffering?” As she said this, thus inviting the pity, as it were, af the good angel beside her, she arose from the ground, and Louise, who had been listening to the short con- versation, eagerly said to Henriette—and there was a world of pathos in her voice: “She said that with a voice full of misery and des- pair. Help her, sister.” Henriette needed not to be prompted to do a chari- BLIND LOUISE. “Tellus your troubles,” said Henriette, soothingly. ‘* Perhaps we can relieve them.” The woman gazed sadly at the fairgirl who would thus take another's sorrows upon herself, in the hope of lightening the unhappy one’s burden, “Why should I tellyou when you do not even know me?” she said, slowiy, and at the same time as if she wished to pourout all her troubles. “ You have never seen me before, and yet you pity me. No—no; there is no help forme. Leave me—leave me, and do not attempt to save me!” As she finished speaking, the unhappy woman turn- ed away and would have left the place, but that she heard Henriette’s voice, “Stay!” she said, in a pleading tone. ‘For the love of Heaven, do not leave me thus!” entreated Louise, The poor woman was not proof against these pleadings, and yet she hesitated to open her heart, wicked as it was, to these pure girls. ‘*IT am pursued by the officers of the law.” she said, hurriedly. ‘ft have not strength to fly farther, and they will arrest me.”’ ‘‘What have you done?” asked Henriette, pityingly. “T have stolen!” answered the woman, and as she saw the young girls shudder, she added, quickly, as ifinextenuatian: ‘I have stolen money committed to wih eare. All the savings of a poor working girl; Istole it for him, for a wretch whomI fear, but whom, alas, I love!” At this moment Jacques’ voice was heard from the cabaret, and it sounded like some mocking fiend exulting over his triumphs. ‘* Good joke—a capital joke!” What demon could have put into his mouth those words, which probably would have expressed ex-
Page 4
r me 9) eh, do you?” cried Jacques, g THE TWO ORPHANS. Be ig . - » ¥p. bs , is SSS ee a ‘actly his iden of the repentance ofthe girl whom he | would give way. ‘‘NowI wish to deliver myself to] ‘‘ We began tobe very anxious,” said Henriette, had so wronged. justice.” as the man waited for her to speak. “Listen,” said the woman, quietly, while a look of pain passed over her face, ‘‘that is his voice. He is there wasting in debauchery the money purchased by my crime. When lam away from him my reason returns, and I only feel the hate his baseness inspires. Alas! when he speaks to me, my hate disappears; I cower and tremble before him, and am his slave. I have stolen for him, andI believe = would kill at his bidding!” J She remained silent for a moment, and then, hid- ing her face im her hands, burst into an agony of tears, and exclaimed: ‘ ‘* No—no! it is better that I should die!” “You cannot atone fora fault by committing a crime,” said Henriette. ““Tf I am found they will i laa me!” ex- claimed the woman, clasping her hands. ‘“*And repentance will pay the debt you owe to Heaven,” added the blind girl’s low voice, like a song, sweet and veiled. ‘* Heaven! Do you believe there is a Heaven?” ask- ed the woman, aimost roughly, hiding her real feel- ing behind a mask of bruset a he twogirls started as if they had received a blow, and their faces expressed the sorrow they felt at this implied atheism, “Do I believe there is a Heaven?” asked Henriette, in astonishment. ; _ “T cannot believe that there is a Heaven for out- _ eastsJike me.” ‘Oh, unhappy woman?” exclaimed Louise, in tones of pest sorrow, en drawing some money from her little store she $ “handed it to the woman. _. But although she could receive wordsof encourage- Shen and advice from the orphans, and be grateful, she could not take their money, and she drew back quickly, ae petulantly: -” “No—nol” **Do not refuse, I implore you!” entreated Louise, e turned towards the woman, with an imploring ok upon her face. hus entreated, the woman could do no less than ply with their request, and as she took the small nt of money, which was more valuable than celess ied it, she said: - Now I know that you are right. There must bea eaven, for has it not sent two angels to succor and to saye me?” And turning aside, the unha the’ tears away, which this kin to, flow. woman wiped PE had eatued ourage, have courage laid her little hand earessingly on the woman’s arm, “ Ah—ah!’? he chuckled. ‘“ Madame Marianne, at fast.” Then, as he saw the woman moving quickly away, he cried: _ he ; ‘‘Marianne!’’ The sound of that voice was too potent for that " poor, woman. ‘ Wh 1 are yon going?” demanded Jacques, Leg y from you, whom I hope never to see ! answered Marianne, cei B acques went toward her quickly, and laid his roughly epee her trembling arm. “Baht!” he said, savagely, ‘‘you don’t want to see me? Then why did you stop when I called? What “ aE: J hand _ makes‘your hand tremble?” “Tt does not tremble,” answered Marianne, trying to th ee firm. ‘‘I have found strength to resist ou. [am ashamed of the life I lead, and of the into which you have plunged me,”’ onsense!”’ exclaimed ues, as he want to- rds the door of the cabaret. ‘‘ Put allof that stuff y t of your head, and follow me,” “T will not!” said the poor woman, as che turned ‘Qgaintogo. | ‘You must!” insisted Jacques, with an engry ges- ture; and then, as she did not move, he added: “*Come—do you hear?” ‘or @ moment Marianne was on the point of obey- ing him; but one glance at the two young girls, who were anxiously awaiting her decision, seemed to give her strength, and she answered, boldly: “Yes, Lhear, and I refuse. Iwill not obey you!’’ “\You want me to persuade yen. in the usual way, rutally, as he went quickly towards the shrinking woman. ‘\ You shall not—never again!” exclaimed Marianne, as she endeavored to escape from his cruel grasp. But she was too late; Jacques grasped her by the hair with one hand, while with the other he clasped her siender throat, and in. a moment his brawny hands would have choked her senseless, but that he heard the heavy, tramp of armed men approaching. In an instant he had released her, and Marianne, rushing up to the guard, exclaimed; *‘ Monsieur, arrest me, I am. a thief!” Jacques was petrified with astonishment, while the two, orphans awaited with beating heart the denoue- ment oF this strange drama. ’ * Arrest you? ho are you?” asked the officer, in no little surprise. : “My name is Marianne Vauthier. Officers are in search of me, I escaped from them an hour ago,”’ said, Marianne, hurriedly, as if she feared her courage ns ‘ ms because of the sympathy which ac- | “She has gone crazy!’ ejaculated Jacques, as he moved to a convenient distance, in order to make his escape should she denounce him. ** Marianne Vauthier,” said the officer, reading from a paper which he had taken from his pocket, ‘ ac- cused of theft——”’ “Of which I am guilty,” interrupted the woman. ““Well, if you confess it, I must take you to La Sal- petriere,*’ said the officer, half doubting her sanity, as he motioned her between two files of soldiers, ““My expiation begins,’ said Marianne, as she passed by where the two orphans were standing. Pain that Heaven may yive mre courage to com- plete it. The soldiers moved on, bearing the self-convicted woman with them, while Henriette and Louise could only pray silently that her expiation might be the means of restoring her to the place she had lost through her Lei t x love, Jacques remained looking after the departing pris- oner for a few moments, and then giving vent toa low whistle, expressive of surprise, regret, and per- a , shame, disappeared into the cabaret, saying, as he entered: “To Salpetriere. She’s a fool!” And in afew minutes he was joining his comrades in their debauchery, with not a thought of the unfor- tunate girl who, for his sake, had committed a crime for which she must now suffer long, weary months, perhaps years. ; ¢ And while he was thus occupying ,his time, the two orphans awaited the coming of their relative. CHAPTER IV. THE ABDUCTION, For a few moments after Marianne had been car- = Re od by the guards, the two orphans stood ent. They had,in the few moments that had elapsed since their arrival in Paris, seen more misery in one al girl’s life than they had thought could exist, rom evil causes, in the whole city. Having been born and reared in the quiet Norman town, they:-knew none of that misery which arises from sin, and judging others by their own pure and tless lives, were shocked beyond measure by rianne’s brief confession of ere Fora moment nothing could have presented so touching a sight as the two young girls, standing clasped in each other's arms, and striving to com- fort each other in their grief at Marianne’s sad fate. Although, as the poor outcast had said, they had never before seen her, nevertheless, from out their pure, tender hearts went a great flood of sympathy and sorrow for the poor creature who, forsaken in her hour of trouble by the man for whose sake she had set upon herself the brand of infamy, had now com- menced her life of expiation.”’ Louise was the first to break the silence. Her quick ear had caught the sound of Pierre’s foot-steps as he came back from a neighboring*street, and she trembled involuntarily. ; “ Henriette, where are you?” she said, in a yoice which betrayed her emotion. 5 “* You are htened, sister,’ answered Henriette, ooking ly at the blind girl. i your am, indeed!” exclaimed Louise, as she grasped her sister’s arm, as if to receive some assurance of her aprety **And the night is falling fast,” said Henriette to herself, beginning to feel seriously alarmed on ac- count of the non-appearance of their relative. nay 8 time Pierre had remained by his whee busying himsef in performing some trifling work, an listening intently to the conversation, that he might know if it was not possible for him to render them some assistance, Those to whom fate had been unkind are ever more ready to assist their suffering fellows than they who have received all the gifts a kind Providence can be- stow upon them. ’ The unprotected condition of the two girls had to the poor cripple something touching in it, and he longed to assist them; or at least tosay some com- forting word. “Why does not Monsieur Martin come?” exclaimed Louise, giving herself up entirely to her fears. As she spoke, and almost in response to her ques- tion, a man advanced toward them, coming, appar- ently, from out of the shadow of the buildings. We have no need to describe him, for the reader has met him before. It was Lafleur. “Here I am, mademoiselle,”’ he said, as if in an- swer to Louise's agonized question. Henriette gave utteranee toa cry which was at the same time expressive of relief and fear. She disliked even the appearance of the man, and instinctively she recoiled from his approach. Louise’s ‘‘.At last!’’ was as significant as her sis- ter’s exclamation. She could notsee the approaching man’s form, but she could hear his voice, and she could distinguish a peculiar tone which caused her to fear this man on whom she believed that she was dependent for sup- port. ; q Pierre saw that the friend whom the girls were ex- pecting had arrived,and taking up the water can from his wheel, he ape’ slowly down the long flight of stone steps which led to the river, to fill it. e could netrepress a sighas he went, thinking that he should never again see the fair young giris who were so pure and so holy, that whilein their presence it seemed to him he was standing in a bright, glorious ray of suntight. Lafleur could not meet the gaze of the pure girl against whom he was about to commit so great and deadly a wrong, and holding his head in such a position that his eyes might not meet hers, he said: ‘You must excuse me, for I live at a great dis- tance from here.”’ ‘A great distance?’ exclaimed Henriette, in sur- prise. ‘‘ Why, we were told that your house was but a few steps from the bridge,”’ said Louise, excitedly, at thus receiving such direct confirmation to the fears which his voice had aroused in her mind. Lafleur saw atonce that he had made a mistake. He was thinking of Bel-Air, and had, for the mo- ment, forgotten the part he was playing. And inbis endeavor to rectify his error quickly, he made mat ters very much worse by the hesitating, nervous man‘ ner in which he spoke. ‘*Yes—yes,”’ indeed it was—that is, I did live but a short cistance from here; but you see I have moved: Come—come, let us go, mademoiselle,”’ “You have moved?” replied Henriette, still tos much surprised by her relative’s appearance to bo able fully to collect her ideas. _“ Yes—yes, only yesterday,” replied Lafleur, egiars iia df as he felt he could not keep up the very thin semblance of honesty which he had assumed, much i before the searching eyes of these innocent rls, ‘‘And you said nothing of it in your letter?” queried Henriette, as she shrunk back from any contact with the base wretch who stood before her. “ No,” answered Lafleur, quickly. I did not men- tion it because—because, in short, I did not know that Iwas going to move, but if you doubt me, here are some neighbors of mine, good, honest citizens, who will vouch for me.” Ashe spoke he made a sign which was unseen by Henriette, and atthe same instant three men came out from the same angle of the building at which Lafleur emerged, and came toward the little group. It was impossible to see one sign of honesty about. these citizens of Lafleur’s; but, on the contrary, their appearance and manners proclaimed them to be men who, for the sake of a few francs, would not hesi- tate at any action, however vile. — - Had honest Pierre been sent by fate just at that peroutas moment, he would have had _no difficulty n recognising them as cutthroats who were known to be ready for any species of villany which promised to bres them in money. As Henriette saw the men advancing towards her she looked into their faces, and in an instant had read their characters as plainly as if she were reading the es of a book, ee Louise felt intuitively that some trouble impended, for she caught her sister by the arm, and exclaimed: “ Henriette, do not leave me!” “Henriette had no time to answer her sister’s en- treaty, for the men whom habeus pet called up had approached very near, and one stepped between her and Louise. “What is the meaning of this?’ she asked, pant- ing with fear, By a he received no reply; but Lafleur turned quickly to his men, and cried: er Ex: $$ Come—come, we have lost time enough. T'o the carriage This was evidently the al which the scoundrels were waiting to hear, for they at onee sprang upon Henriette and grasped her wre Struggling impotently in their elute she got her head free long enough to ery in animplo voice: “No—no! Help—help!” and vainly tried to - vent the villians from covering her face witha bane: pag which was saturated with some pungent. odor. The ae was very brief. In less than thirty seconds the dastardly deed was done, and Henriette pa mee rapidly away, leaving Louise petrified with fear. CHAPTER V. BLIND AND ALONE, For an instanf the blind girl stood in an anxious, listening attitude, hoping to hear her sister’s voice again; but no familiar sound met her ear, only the rushing of the water, or the footsteps of some pedes- trian in the distance. She was alone in Paris. Blind and alone, without relatives or friends. No one to whom she could go. save to Him who watches over the sparrow, and His ways are not man’s ways. “T hear nothing,” said Louise, in a terrified whis- per, as she again bent her head to listen. Then, in a voice trembling with fear, she cried: “t Henriette, where is that man! Sister, why do you not answer me? But no reply came to her agonized cries. “Henriette! Henriette! Speak to me, speak one nek. Answer me, Henriette! No answer, no res ply?’ At this moment she heard a half stifled cry in the distance, an: recognized the tones of the voice. ** Louise,’’ was the ery, and the poor blind girl knew that her sister was beyond her reach, and in the power of cruel men who knew no mercy, “Ah, ’tisshe. They have dragged her away from me!’ exclaimed Louise, in a tone which would have thrilled the hearer’s heart with pity. “Oh, what shall Ido! Alone—alone! abandoned!” And with the last word the full measure of her sit- nation surged across her brain withirresistible force and she burst into a torrent of tears. Would that it | were possible to express through the cold medium of
Page 5
THE TWO ORPHANS. letters, all the intense suffering which came from the poor girl’s heart with that one word “ abandoned.” The reader, sitting in his or her cozy home, sur- rounded by friends, can have no idea of what the word may express; no idea of how a loving heart may be wrung when that word portrays their situation as fully as it did in Louise’s position. ‘“ What will become of me?” she cried, between her sobs. ‘‘ Alone in this great city; helpless and blind— my God! what shallI do? WhereamlItogo? Ido mot know which way to turn!”’ The poor child knew that she was standing in the street, and in danger of being rudely Ba Hy about by any party of revelers, or so-called gallants, that might pass her, and her instinct, for her brain was in such a whirl thaf she could not think, warned her to try and reach some place less exposed. She groped her way around; but her hands touch- ad no’ , until unwittingly she approached the rail- have seemed natural. But Pierre! why, the girl | tlemen, or common people?” asked Pierre, with the must be crazy, was her first thought, and then with | faint.hope that he might aid her to find her sister. her masculine stride she went up to them, and peered curiously in Louise’s pale and frightened face. “How can I tell?’ asked Louise, mournfully. ( “You could see their clothes,’’ said Mother Fro- “Why, what is the matter?’ she asked. ‘‘ What.| chard, impatient at what she believed the stupidity of are you doing there, Pierre?” But Pierre was too much occupied with his charge to make any reply, and La Frochard seized Louise by the arm with no gentle force, and asked in her shril rasping voice: “Young woman, did you fall?” Harsh and coarse as the voice was, it was a welcome sound to Louise, for she knew it was one of her own sex who had spoken. : She took hold of the hard, dirty hand, and because it was @ woman’s touch that met her’s, she could have kissed it. “Oh, madame,” she cried, in an imploring tone. “Do not leave me, I beg. Ientreat you not to leave me here all alone.” the girl. ‘Alas, madame, I am blind,” said Louise, sadly. **You are blind!” exclaimed Pierre, pityingly, as he | gazed at her sightless ores. Mother Frochard looked at the young girl much as one would Jook at some newly discovered treasure, and she saw in a moment. many ways of turning her prize to account. ‘“Ah, ha!” she thought. ‘ Blind, without relations friends, or acquaintances in Paris; and young an pretty. P st Ibis true,’’ said the re, as he finished his ex- amination of the poor girl’s eyes, and turned aa 1” “So young and pretty, too,” he said, half to himsel&.. $y *) EPR, a i i ty i *Zeave me! Leave me! and do not attempt to save me!” fing or well which served as a guard tothe steep bank descended to the river. Along this she felt her way until suddenly her hands met the empty air. It was the angle formed by the long flights ef rough stone steps which led to the water, and all unconscious of her danger, she was about to pursue her way. Another step and she would have been dashed upon the ge shore below, when, without having heard a sound, she felt herself clasped in a man’s arms. It was Pierre, who, having filled his water-can, had toiled laboriously to the top of the steps just in time to save the life of her who, to him, had seemed little ess than an angel, “Great Heavens!” he exclaimed, as he bore her to the center of the small square, ‘‘' what were you go- ing to do?” * Nothing—nothing—what was it?’ cried Louise, in- coherently, as, pale and trembling, she tried to com- prehend all. * Another step and you would have fallen in the river!” answered Pierre,in a tone of horror at the thought of what might have happened. “Oh, save me—save me?” cried Louise, grasping Pierre by the arm, as though fearful of being separat- ed from one who could assist her. By a singular chance, Pierre’s mother had finished er drinking bout with her beautiful son Jacques, which was paid with the cripple’s scanty earnings, just at this moment, and she merged from the cabaret just in time to see her sou supporting a beautiful young girl on his arm. i was seldom that Mother Frochard allowed her- self to be surprised by anything she saw; ‘but in this ance she was astonished. Had it been Jacques would not have wondered; indeed, it only would Mother Frochard prided herself. upon not being weak, and she did not deign to answer Louise's pray- er. But Pierre hastened to reassure her, “Calm yourself, mademoiselle, there is no danger now,” he said, soothingly, as he gazed upon her beau- tiful face, ‘“What is it!” asked the old woman, impatiently. ‘* Have you lost your head?” Andin the last question there was a sneer in the tones of the voice which were growing harder and harder every moment. ‘“ Yas—yes,’’ answered Louise, hardly knowing what she said. ‘I believe I shall go mad. Alas! madame, a few moments ago my sister was here with me and they have stolen her away from me.” “Stolen her?"’ replied Pierre, in tones of the deep- est com miseration, which peaneutod a striking con- trast to his mother's remark. “Well, you must let your parents know,” she said, coldly, asthough having a child stolen were nothin wer thana bit of pleasantry which was easily rect ed, ‘*Our parents!’’ exclaimed Leuise, sadly, breaking once more into tears. ‘“ Alas, madame, we are or- phans!” 3 “You have acquaintances—friends?” said Pierre. ‘*We have only just arrived in Paris, and I know no one here.” To Pierre this intelligence was sad; but his mother seemed to view the matter differently, for she asked, eagerly: . **No one—no one at all?” Louise shook her head ers ‘Were the people who took your sister away, gen- wiping away a tear that, despite all his efforts, would make its appearance. , “Go! leave me alone with her,” said the old wo- man, ‘“T’ll take care of her.” | But Mother Frochard’s promise to “ take care”’ of the poor girl meant a greatdeal more than the words oenteaed Her care was something to be shunned, and God have mercy on the unfortunate whom. the old woman should take under her protecting care. “Yes, mother,” said Pierre, signifying his readi- ness to es his mother’s commands, ** we must help her to find her sister.’ “That’s all right !’’ exclaimed the old woman, in a voice which she meant should be kind and motherly; but at the same time darting a furious look at Pierre, who still lingered. ‘I know what to do.” Pierre stood gazing at the blind girl, who still re- tained her hold of the old woman's arm,andit seemed as if he was unable to leave her charmed presence. “You get out!” exclaimed the old woman sudden- ly, in a fierce whisper, asshe unloosed the girl’s grasp, and went towards the cripple. Fearing lest she was about to be deprived of her ha tectress, Louise said, as she vainly endeavored to touch her arm again: ‘You will not leave me, madame!” “Never fear, my dear, Iam here,” replied Mother Frochard, cheeringly. Pierre went slowly towards his wheel, and raising it on his back, started to go. He could not resist a last glance at the young girl. “Blind!” he exclaimed, as he gazed upon her ay 4 form. ‘So young and so pretty.’’ Then, as thought of his own deformity, a bitter smile over his face, which in its bitterness was painful, a
Page 6
a THE TWO ORPHANS. a ee eause of the misery which it served to portray, ~nd hhe added: “Pretty! what is that to you, miserable cripple!” And as if he had convinced himself that he must not think of beauty, or anything but his own wretch- edness, he walked wearily away, while his cry of **Knives to grind! Scissors to grind!’ was doubly eeamitcd in the intensity of the despair that seemed eome with it. **Come—come, my pretty child, don’t be down- east,” said Mother Frochard, as she Jaid her hand on the b¥nd girl’s shoulder, and took menta) note of the clothing which the poor girl wore. ‘* Alas! to whom shall I go for help?’ asked Louise, sadly. Ro me,’’ said La Frochard, throwing all the dig- nity and maternal tone possible into her words. “I am an honest woman, and mother of a family. I will give you a home until you find your sister.” “Ah, madame, you are very good to have pity on me,” said Louise, thankfully. “But we will find my sister, will we not?’ ' “Oh, yes, certainly, in tie,” said the old woman, thinking that she would t¢ «ce plenty of time to it— **come, then, come along "vith me.”’ Louise, without a fear of what she was to suffer through the old woman’s fiendishness, said,confiding- “T trust myself to-you, madame.” ‘You couldn’t do better, fur you have fallen into »good hands. : _ And the old woman led the blind girl to her vile den, and the sister, who had been stolen, was still in the hands of her abductors. CHAPTER VI. THE HOME OF THE FROCHARDS, ~ Morser Frocnarp led Louise along the streets in acareful manner, although, had the or girl not been so engrossed with the thoughts of the loss she had just sustained, she would have noticed that al- though they walked in a leisnrely manner through those streets that were evidently deserted, the old man quickened her pace ve perceptibly when- ever they approached any traveler. ; _ For some moments neither La Frochard nor Louise - spoke, The one was thinking of the prize she had found, and of the best means of making herserve her purpose, while the other was thinking of the sister she had lost. Now it was not Mother Frochard’s custom to walk through the streets in this quiet manner; for she was a professional ar, and her monotonous, nasal ery of “Charity, good people, Charity for a poor oid woman,” was well known in the quarters which she frequented. But on this occasion she. did not wish to let Louise know what her business was, and again she did not wish to attract attention, as she feared it might excite suspicion if she was observed are the neatly dressed, innocent-looking country girl. ‘“‘Have you always been blind, m asked, in what was intended to be a voice, “Oh, no, madame,” replied Louise. ‘‘I have only been blind two years.” “Two years!’ replied La Frochard; “and what caused you to lose your sight?’ “T was very with a fever and something scemed to grow over my eyes,” replied Louise, sadly as she thought of the time when she was thus shut ves oa) the world and imprisoned, as it were, with- n herself. 4s “I don’t suppose there is any chance of your ever being cured, is there?” the old woman, with the view of finding out whether there was any chance of the girl’s being able to leave her rly care. ‘Henriette thinks that I may be cured; there are 80 nee} skilful physicians in this great city,” an- _ swered Louise, with the tears filling her eyes again as . she was thus so vividly reminded of her sister. ‘She sold all we possessed to raise money enough to pay iar So Thad rty, then?” “Se you property, then A very little, madame. When our dear parents _ died they left us the little cottage in which we lived. _ But how much further have we to go?” _ And Louise's voice, as she asked the question, told “plainly how weary she was. a of a few steps, dear. We are poor Pcie cannot live in ‘fine houses, so we have a little house by the river. But courage,” said the old woman, pat- t ng her on the shoulder. ‘‘ We siall soon be there.” earily the blind girl followed her guide. She was entirely worn out by the excitement and fatigues of the day, and any shelter, however humble or poor, would have been gladly welcomed by her. “We shall find my sister in’ the morning, shall we not, madame?” asked Louise, for the second time. “It may take some days,” replied Mother Frochard, nan “You must try not to think of her to- nigh : , A prayer went up from the poor girl’s heart that her sister might be speedily restored to her, and she silently followed the old woman. After they had walked, as it seemed to Louise, many miles, Mother Frochard stopped before a house which, from outside appearance, had formely been a boat-house. It was in the last stages of decay, and the whole surroundings seemed a fit abode for crime, “Here we are, my dear; here we are at last!” said the old woman, as she led Louise through a long, dark passage, and then down several damp, mouldy steps, and left her standing in a small entry, reeking with noisome odors, while she fumbled in her ‘caypacious pockets for the key. - The door was opened at last, and the two entered a ‘“arge, square room, the furniture of which was of the dear?” she ind, motherly rudest description. Twolarge, barn-like doors which opened on the water-front, and which were barred with heavy wooden bars, showed that at some very remote time the building had been used, as its outside appearance indicated, for a boat-house. flight of steps led from the center of the room to what was probably the garret; but several straw beds in one corner of the room showed that the lower floor was the only portion of the house which was used, Louise shuddered as she entered the damp, dis- agreeable-smelling room; but her feelings would have been much worse could she have seen the vile place, and the gleam of triumph which shone in the old wo- mat eyes as she saw thatshe had her prize securely caged. “Sit down here,” said La Frochard, ‘‘and I will get you something to eat.”’ ’ And the old woman led Louise to a chair, where, by apes : il hands on her shoulders, she forced her to seated. “T donot care to eat, madame,” said Louise, pit- eously. “If you will allow me to go to my roomI will retire.”’ “Go to your room?” cried Mother Frochard. in a hard, shrill voice, from which all the assumed tender- ness had fled. - “Do you think we keep an inn?” And the old wretch stood. with her hands on her hips, before the poor girl, who shrank from before the mocking words as from a blow. ‘*T_-did—did not know, madame,” she faltered, ‘*I was very weary, and wanted to retire.” ‘Well, if you want to go to sleep, you can do that over here,” and the old woman led her towards the beds in the corner, ‘'These are good enough for my handsome Jacques, and I guess they will do for you, my fine lady.” ‘Anything will do for me, madame,” said Louise, in a conciliatory tone. “I did not know you were so a2 3 but Henriette will pay you to-morrow, when we er. And with a sigh of thankfulness for the resting place, poor and wrerched asit was, Louise sank upon one of the dirty straw beds, dressed as she was, and after having uttered her child-like prayer, sank into a profound slumber, “Yes, your sister will pay me for my trouble after we have found her, my fine lady,” muttered Fro- chard, as she seated herself by the side of a rude ta- ble, and from some one of its drawers produced a bot- tle of brandy. Several copious draughts had the effect of changing the old woman completely, and she muttered to her- self while she cast threatening glances at the young girl, who, calmly sleeping, w sall unconscious of the anger which surrounded he '. i In about half an hourafter La Frochard and Louise entered the house, and while the old woman was still communing with the brandy pottle, a loud bustle was heard in the p: 6 just outside the door. Mother Frochard listened intently,and gazed toward the bed, as if tosee whether the noise would awake the girl, until several loud curses in a well-known voice caused a complacent smile to paaeens upon her face, and she leaned back in her chair, saying: “It’s Jacques, my handsome Jacques." At the same moment, with a drunken swagger, Jacques entered the room. — he worst of luck,”’ answered Jacques, sullenly, as he seated himself upon a low stool, and began fill- ing his pipe. ‘ Marianne has deceived me,” “ Deceived you! Oh, the wretch!” exclaimed the old woman, in a tone that told plainly what Marianne might expect if she should get her in her grasp once. **But how did she deceive you?” ** She gave herself up to the guard. I told her to find & purse, and after she had done it, she gave herself up to get away from me, as she said,” Just then Louise made a movement in her sleep, which attracted Jacques’ attention. “Hallo! What have you got here?” he asked, as he went toward the bed. Mother Frochard related the story of how she found Louise, and when she had concluded, Jacques gave vent to bis satisfaction in a prolonged whistle. ** What do you mean to do with her?”’ he asked, at length, still gazing upon the beautiful face of the pret girl. “She shall go out with me and sing; the money will come in fast enough then, I'll warrant,” re- lied the old woman, betaking herself once more to er bottle, “Hallo! it’s full again, is it?’ said Jacques, as he reached over, and taking the bottle from his moth- re hand, took a draught which was both long and eep. Mother and son, as they sat there, with all the brutality in their hard natures aroused by the fiery liquid they had drank, were a well-mated couple, and Louise seemed as much out of place in their ye! as alily of the valley would be in the midst of ungus, The evening meal had been prepared and nearly dispatched when Pierre, looking faded and. sorrow- ing hed the hut with his wheel strapped upon his ack, Neither his mother nor Jacques paid any attention to him as he entered, and he went quietly to the fur- ther end of the room to leave his wheel. when he was arrested by the sight of the sleeping girl. With a low cry expressive of delight he stooped and azed at the iovely face. Then leaving his wheel in its accustomed place he returned to the bedside, and kneeling down, looked at her muca asa pilgrim might at the Mecca of his faith. ‘** Look at the eripple,”’ said Jacques to his mother, and tien both broke into a coarse laugh which arous- ed him from his worship He eat the fragments which had. been left by hia mother and Jacques, silently, and then commenced todo some work which he had brought home with him, while the other two began a night of drinking, which was the rule rather than the exception, The morning came, and with it the first intimation to r Louise of what her life would be. he was aroused by the heavy hand of Mother be aha who pulled her roughly to a standing po- sition. “Get up, ay fine lady, get up and try to earn your own living. You don’t think that we can keep you in idleness, do ye?” said the old wretch, in a voice which was yet thick from the effects of the previous night's dissipation. For a moment Louise could not understand where she was, or what had ne Eh tig and then like a flood the remembrance of her loss rusheg over her. She could make no reply; indeed she only half understood what had been said to her, and sitting down on the edge of the bed she commenced to ery, Pierre and Jacques were watching the proceedings The former with a look of pity and compassion, and the latter with amusement. ‘“Now, then!” exclaimed the old woman, as she dragged the girl to her feet again. ‘‘Can you sing?” Louise did not reply, but wept more violently. “Can you sing?” screamed the old hag, at the same time grasping the poor girl by the arm ina manner which caused her to wince with pain. “Yes—yes, madame!” replied Louise, in affright. “Well, I want you to come out with me, and earn your living.” ‘* How, madame?” } ue How? Why, by singing in the streets, to be oT eannot, madame, I cannot!” exclaimed the poor girl, piteously. ‘You said we should find my sister a “Tt will take many days to find your sister, I’m thinking!” snarled La Frochard, ‘and you’ve got to help your friends.” “You mean for me to beg?" gasped Louise. ; “No, my lady, You dothe singing, and I’ll do the begging.” Louise cowered down upon the bed like one strick- en with a blow. ; “You'll have to take that out of her,” laughed Jacques, who was ni fee the spectacle, ‘But you promised her that you would find her sister,”’ said Pierre, hastily wiping the tears from his alive: and starting to his feet. **Oh, ho, master cripple, who told you to speak? Gosit down!” said Jac ues, dealing the lame boy a violent blow which sent him re 2ling to the further end’ of the room. ““Now, then,” said Moth@ Frochard, who had brought an old dress and a pal ‘of shoes tothe weep- ing girl, ‘‘ you will take off y@ :r fine clothes and put these on. They will become y umuch better,” “Madame!”’ exclaimed Low e, falling on her knees before the old woman, “I prajf you to help me find my sister. Madame, for the love of Heaven help me, or I shall go mad!” A coarse laugh from La Frochard and Jacques drowned Pierre’s pitying exclamation. “Don’t waste any time with her, mother,” said Jacques, rg That Iwon't,” said the old woman, ‘ Now, look here, Iam willing to help you find your sister; but tlfat will take time, and you've got to go with me to do something towards supporting the family first.” And the fiend in woman’s form began to unloose the blind girl’s clothes, preparatory to changing them for the rags which she intended for her to wear. igen’ bed force her to beg, mother,” pleaded the “Shut up!’ wag Jacques’ brutal order, at the same. time threate: > hay wih his hand. ‘The girl has got to beg, and that’s the end of it; we'll find her sis- ter when we get a These words, and the tone in which they were ut- tered, showed Louise why these Pes had takem her to their home, and she resolved not to submit to the aoe Sa “T will not beg!” she exclaimed, while the color arose to her cheeks, ‘You may kill me, but I wilh not beg! I will ask the first ~erson I meet to save me from your vile hands.”* ‘“‘She’s got quite a temper,’’ sneered Jacques, “and when it’s roused, she’s quite decent Jooking.” “Very well, my lady-—very well. I'll soon break you of that. You'll want to beg or do something else fore youve been in the garret very long.” And seizing the poor girl as though she had been an Times she carried her to the filthy hole under the roof, “Oh, do not leave me here alone!” screamed Louise in affright, as her quick ear caught the sound of the enormous .ats as they ere away at their approach, and the odors as if of decayed flesh greeted her. ‘I shall die—I shall die!” And she struggled vaiuly in the old woman’s strong grasp. = On, mother, have mercy upon her, Do not shut her up in that filthy place. It will kill her!” im- plored Pierre, as he endeavored to rush up the steps to the poor girl’s aid. “Go back, ag hie laughed Jacques, at the same time giving the boy a blow which laid him senseless on the floor. ‘‘Go on, mother,” be said to the old, hag. ‘‘A few days there will do her good,” La Frochard had no idea of what the word pity meant, and she thrust the blind girl, who was nn oe, nearly dead with fright at the horrors she could not reel so only imagine, into the vile hole, and looked? the door,
Page 7
CHAPTER Vi. GARDEN OF BEL-AIR. Tux Marquis de Presles had told Lafleur to carry Henriette to Bel-Air, and we will visit those gardens on the same evening that the beautiful orphan was abducted. The scene there was a brilliant one, well illustrating the pleasures of the nobles of F. rance about the be- ginning of the present century. A small garden had been made in the midst of a natural grove, which was shut out from the curious aze of the world by several small cottages or cha- ets, decorated in the highest style of art, and which served the Marquis de Presles as a retreat, where free from intrusion, that profligate nobleman could pei the society of boon companions, who, like him- f, lived only for the present and its pleasures, On this particular evening the gardens were illu- tl ‘ I eee vy cor he | Mh woe | i) Hi ari ay a | H i a Fr THE TWO ORPHANS. As no one heard anything particularly new for the | past two hours, she continued by saying: Pe They say that the new minister of police is as hard as a Cine and cold asa fish. He is going to put a stop to all our amusements, and marquis, this eg pe the last entertainment you will give at Bel- ir. ‘* Nonsense!”’ exclaimed the host. “I'd like to see the minister of police who would dare to interfere with the pleasures of a French nobleman, Whoand what is he?” ‘“He is from Touraine; is called the Count. de Linieres, and is the uncle of the Chevalier Maurice de Vaudrey.”” * Where is the chevalier?’ suddenly asked one of the ladies, as she was thus reminded of one whom report had described as rather an eccentric, and on whom she wished to exercise her charms, ‘You promised & me I should see him, marquis,” did, and I expect him, as well as another i J | | nlc : i) ‘ale — | i | | other of his sweeping bows, ‘“‘ Most excellent marquis, and most. beautiful la- dies,’’ said he, in an affectionate tone, and with alow bow, which was received with laughter, ‘I am very sorr , but my master asks you to excuse him.”’ xcuse him?” echoed one of the Jadies, ‘‘ why. he promised——”’ “I did the promising,"’ answered Picard, with an- “ He said he did not know whether he could come or not, but thinking { could persuade him, I promised for him,” “Then you took a great liberty,’’ said De Presles, “ and he ought to punish you for it,” ‘Certainly he ought,’ answered Picard, blandly; “T wish he would; ut alas! my master is not like other masters, In fact, be is no master at all,” Seeing locks of incredulity at this statement, Picard continued, in a mostsolemn manner; “It is so, gentlemen. He spends his nights in pleasure, asa young nobleman should; but his days - what do you suppose he does with his days?” ‘ = i . <a ree ~~ ik : — MM ou Wahllit fr i cn ie ig i ( in ri . Hilts 1h mi ee i : i i i Another step, and the poor, blind Louise would have been dashed upon the rocks below, minated, and a large party of so-called ladies and guest. I warn you, ladies, that she will be a rival to gentlemen were assembled to do full honor to the |-you all.’ entertainments for which the marquis was celebra- As we attempt to pass within the inclosure, we are stopped by a numerous crowd of lackeys, who de- mand to see our card of admission, and failing to produce such a passport, we are told that we are not allowed even mear the gardens, while all efforts to in- duce any of them to present our cards to the master of this retreat are equally unavailing, as they declare that their orders are most positive, and we must go quietly away or be forced to gu. Thus jealously does © marquis guard his retreat from importunate creditor or unwelcome friend. Inasmuch as we only visit Bel-Air in fancy, we can bid defiance to the marquis’ orders, and enter with- out his permission. Around the tables which are placed in the garden, a number of ladies and gentlemen are seated, drink- ing wine while they discuss the latest court news, or the most interesting scandal. “‘Well, what do you think of my retreat from the whirl and bustle of Paris?’ asked the marquis of his vis-a-vis, who was a dashing sort of beauty. “My dear marquis,’ replied that lady, ‘*I am de- lighted, It is a satisfaction to find a gentleman who maintains the customs of his rank.” “And yet there are foots who want to change them!’’ akelaimed a young nobleman from the oppos- ite table. “You are right—fools—fools,” answered De Pres- eS) AS he motioned to the servants for more wine. By the way,” asked the lady who had first spoken, have you heard the news?” ‘Who is the other guest?” was the question that assailed him from all quarters. “A young lady,” answered the marquis, as if en- raptured at the thought. ‘Sweet sixteen, beautiful as a rose, and innocent as an angel.” ‘“*Where did you find such a pearl?’ asked one of the ladies, banteringly. ‘In Normandy.” : ue announcement was followed by a general augh ** Yes, I know these Normandy beauties, with caps six feet high,” laughed one of the ladies, betraying in spite of herself a tinge of pi Oa eae A in her voice. ‘In wooden shoes,” added another of the fair ones, “and hair plaited down her back.” ‘Laugh away, ladies,” said De Presles, gaily. “You shall seea Norman beauty ina tet cap, wood- en shoes and all, and then see how jealous you will all become at sight of her.” At this moment a voice was heard from the outside, and in the midst of some confusion, a rather singular voice was heard saying: “T tell you I must goin, and I will. to your master.’ n hearing this the marquis went toward the en- trance, and demanded of the servants who this was who was so importunate. “Picard,” answered the owner of the singular voice. ‘Picard, valet to the Chevalier de Vau- I must speak er marquis immediately gave orders that he be admitted, and asharp, wiry-looking fellow, wearing the De Vaudrey livery, stood before the gay party. oe Sleeps, of course,” said the marquis, in a positive ne. “Gentlemen, allow me to tell you confidentially,” said the valet. *mysteriou sly, as the gentlemen ga ered around him, fully expecting to hear of some treason. “He works! actua ally works. He sits down —_ coe, and writes as though he were a lawyer’s cler “Bah!” exclaimed one, believe that?” ‘* Yes, and more, too,” answered Picard, who en- joyed immensely being able to impart some informa- tion to his superiors. ‘“ Why, how do you suppose he acts to the common peop e, who want to see him? His creditors, for instance?” ‘“ Why, if they are importunate, he beats them, I suppose,” answered De Presles, with whom this method of settling his bills was a common occur- rence. “Yes, he beats them,’ sneered Picard; “he pays them! Yes, gentlemen, he pays his trades-people.” And the valet surveyed the group, enjoying the sur- prise he had given them. * Oh, the poor fellow is lost!” exclaimed one of the party, who XS the age of twenty had spent a large for- tune, and was now living on his wits. “Completely,” affirmed Picard, “ and all owing to the company he keeps. He won't be guided by me.’ ‘Perhaps he is right in that,’ said De Presles, “ But where is the attraction elsewhere to-night ?” I bre tell trap Bape oie € — eninge voice near e entrance € gardens, and lo up, all saw the Chevalier de Vasdney himself, He was a noble-looking: nan, with none of the fep “ You don't expect us to
Page 8
6 ae geen and evident attempt at display which charac- some of his companions,jand a careful obsery- er would instantly have said that he was, in mental endowments, far above the he “What is all this that Picard has been telling us, that you were not coming?” asked De Presles, in sur- rise. ie I did not expect to come, so sent him with my regrets,” answered the chevalier, as he accepted a glass of wine which was handed to him. ; ; * And now he brings them himself,” said Picard, in a low voice, as he left the garden hastily, lest his mas- ter should hear of the disclosures he had been mak- fing. The conversation became general. and before long the orgie was at its sa when a noise was heard at the entrance, and Lafleur appeared. : After whispering a few words to the marquis, he received the order: : ‘* Let her be brought in here.” Lafleur immediately retired, and returned in a few minutes, followed by four men who bore a sort of lit- ter, on which wasthe inanimate form of Henriette. She lay like one dead; without motion or color, and save for the sound of stertorous breathing, she was to all appearances dead. Into the midst of some of the most dissolute Paris- ian society, had the poor, innocent, unprotected girl been brought; with no one to aid her, and even those of her own sex who Were by, would enjoy her suffer- ing rather than do anything to save her from the fearful doom that was so near. What a terrible change for the two orphans, who, scum twenty-four hours previous, were light- hearted maidens, setting out from their childhood’s home to visit the beautiful city about which they had heard so much. ; Now one was in the power of low, vile wretches, and the other in the hands of those who called them- selves gentle people; but who had no more mercy, in fact, not as much as the Frochards. CHAPTER VII. SAVED FROM DISHONOR. Lixe a lily half broken from its stem lay Henriette upon the litter, surrounded by the revelers who had gathered to see the Norman beauty. Under the influence of the drug which had been ad- ministered, she remained unconscious of the rude jests which were uttered, and the coarse laugh of tri- umph which ted her arrival. Only one of the gay party was without curiosity reer her appearance. at one was the Chevalier Maurice de Vaudrey. pana by her as she was brought in, and seeing was that lay upon the litter, contented him- H ae if - remarki self by r : “A ‘young it The sport has been ae? resuming his seat he waited fistiessly until some ition should be made:of the game which bad been so bravely captured. Ah, is this our threatened rival?’ asked one of females, after looking, not without a feeling of | the pale features of the abducted girl. , she has fainted,” remarked another,in a an honest, noble-minded man should have believed wo- manly purity to be a fable of the past. “* What do you think of my treasure?’ asked De Presies, who had been gloating his sensual eyes upon the form of the fair girl who was thus in his wer, **She has a very ordinary face,’ said one of the ladies, (?) who prided herself upon her beauty. “ An exceedingly common person, as you can tell by her feet,’’ said another, as she tried to display her own dainty foot, which she took the greatest delight in showing. “Her arms and hands are like a washerwoman's,”’ was the kindly remark of a bold-looking blonde, who had exposed as much of her own arms as possible. “ Chevalier, your opinion?’ .asked the bankrupt nobleman, who liked a bit of sarcasm, and not being able to say it himself, knew that it would be sure to come from the eccentric De Vaudrey. “It’s a lovely face; distinguished air; with the hands and feet of a duchess,” replied the chevalier, without taking the trouble to look at the object of his criticism. ; “ But you have not seen—’’ De Presles eagerly be- gan to say. * No,” answered De Vaudrey, coolly. ‘* But I have heard those young ladies,” The yo nobleman who had provoked this re- mark was delighted; but the ladies who had thus freely given their opinions, fa7ored him with a glance which lacked not the will to wither and® blast the instigator of this reflection upon their remarks. “Isn't she going to wake up?” asked one, in order to cover her confusion. “Oh, yes,” said the marquis, as he took a small, delicately chased silver flask from his pocket. “A few drops of this on the handkerchief will be suffi- cient to revive her.” The marquis poured a few drops of the liquid upon the priceless lace handkerchief which he held in his hhand, and was about to apply it, when the desire to hhighten the effect caused him to stop “7G TWO ORPHANS. ‘What will she say when she comes fo her senses ?’ he asked, much as though he were speculatin upon the probable actions of some strange animal, -| rather than a weak, defenceless girl. The young bankrupt nobleman looked at the chevalier, as if hoping that he would answer ’ that question, and he was not disappointed. “What will she say when she comes to her | senses ?”’ repeated De Vaudrey, as though it was a } useless question, the answer of which every one |knew. “As though we did not know by heart the everlasting phrases of these willingly abducted maidens. When the proper moment arrives she will wake up and go through it all.” Bursting into a flood of imaginary tears, the che- valier proceeded to give an imitation of the kind of cries indulged in by maidens who, as he said, had been abducted by their own wishes. ‘* Where am 1?” he continued, in a crying voice. “Why have you brought me here? What is it you wish ?—Great Heavens—ah ! my mother !” Then resuming his natural tone, he added: “Then by slow degrees this profound and virtuous despair, which commenced in a torrent of tears, will be drowned in—a flood of champagne.” All present joined in a hearty laugh at De Vaudrey’s eltasion of what they themselves had seen many Ames, “Let us seo whether the chevalier has remem- bered the exact words,” said the eoane lady who had expressed such an ardent wish to see the che- valier, ‘‘Let me wake her, marquis.”’ De Presles gave her the handkerchief which he had saturated with the liquid, and she proceeded to try its effects upon the unconscious Henriette. All present, except De Vaudrey, gathered around to enjoy the confusion of the Norman beauty, when she should awake to find herself in the midst of the gay ake and the young lady who had received the handkerchief from the marquis applied the re- storative, 2 Henriette had inhaled the pungent odor but a moment when she showed signs of returning con- sciousness, “Look ! her eyes open,” exclaimed the one who was thus bringing her to a sense of her misery. Henriette opened her eyes ina dazed sort of way, y like one who, accustomed to the darkness, is sudden pe ge to the blinding gaslight. he arose to a sitting posture mechanically, and surveyed those around her. For some moments she did not seem to understand where she was, or what had happened. : “Am I mad?” she asked, in amazement at the view which met her gaze. ‘Do I dream ?’’ and clasp- ing her hands to her head, she endeavored to recall the events which had passed. as. z : gu suddenly to her feet she confronted the ma “Monsieur,” she said, “has this ou been com- mitted by your orders? Is this your house?” With a thin smile upon his simpering lips, the b Pecad approached the now thoroughly enraged “ Ah, mademoiselle, T recognize me,”’ he said, bo to the poor girl, in mockery. “Tt was I who—” . ‘Not another word, sir,” said Henriette, firmly, and at the same time as though she believed her wishes would be obeyed, “I wish to return this very instant to the place where my sister awaits me, Come, sir, at once give your servants orders to take me back.” De Presles made no movement towards necessary orders, and Hentriette continu of command : “You must—do you hear me, sir? you shall!” and from tones of command her voice unconscious- aiereg into a plaint, that was at once thrilling and piti It would require something more than thetone of the voice, touching as it was, to move the marquis from his pact oy and with his courtly grace, which seemed in the present case a mockery, he said to Henriette: “Mademoiselle, after all the trouble we have taken to bring you here, you can scarcely suppose we will let you go so soon,’ ‘ora moment Henriette regarded him earnestly, while the tears, unbidden, came into her eyes. ‘‘T see the horrible trap you have laid for me; but vile as you are, you.can scarcely understand the ex- tent of your own villany,” said she, in a voice which she vainly tried to render firm. ‘* You have separated me from a poor child whose only help in life 1 am, whose misfortune commands the respect of crimi- nals, even worse than yourself. She is dependent on me alone; without me she cannot take a single step, for sheis blind!” And the wail of utter desola- tion which accompanied these words would have touchedthe heart of a savage. ‘*Blind!” they exclaimed, as the words arrested the merry laugh and broad jest, while the females expressed in their faces the compassion they now began to feel for the poor girl. “Yes, blind and alone!” continued Henriette, now so carried away by the intensity of her feelings that her voice resembled more the wail of a lost soul than anything human. ‘Alone in Paris, without money, without help, wandering through the streets, sight- less, homeless, wild with despair!" see you do me the honor to wing lew, and gis @oentiod ving the ,in a tone The picture which her mind had conjured up was too much for Henriette; she could control herself ne longer, and she burst into a flood of tears, ‘“What will become of_her?’’ she sobbed, half to herself, and with the question came again the mad- dening thought that she was powerless to assist her, and she turned again to the almost stupefied revei- ers. “She is blind!” repeated Henriette, with veho- be Aa “Gentlemen, do you hear me? She is ind!” ‘*Oh, this is too horrible!” exclaimed the Chevalier de Vaudrey, who, still seated by the table, was greatly moved by Henriette’s words of despair and entreaty. The marquis read from the faces of his guests that their sympathies were going out toward his victim, and as far as his small soul would permit he became generous. “Oh, well, compose yourself, mademoiselle,”’ he said, in astudied voice. ‘‘I will give orders to have search made for her. My people will find her and bring her here,” “Bring her here!’’ exclaimed Henriette, while all theanger of her gentle nature was aroused by the insulting proposal. “She in this house? never!” Then clasping her hands, she asked, piteously: ‘Is this the only answer you have to my prayer?’ The poor girl saw no signs of relenting on the cold hard face before her, and with all the dignity and emer of a pure woman who is insulted, she turned or a last appeal to those around her. “Ts there no one here,” she asked, ‘“‘ who dares to raise a voice against this man?’’ “You are mistaken, mademoiselle,” said De Presles, in a voice whieh he vainly endeavored to make digni- fied. ‘‘ We are all noblemen and gentlemen.” The utter hollowness of these terms, as used by the marquis, in comparison with his present mode of action, aroused all of the chevalier’s scorn and contempt. He dashed his glass, which he was just raising to his lips, tothe ground, and arose to his feet. “Then among all these noblemen and gentlemen,’ oneé more appealed Henriette, ‘is there not one man of honor?’ wx id a “There is, mademoiselle,’”’ exclaimed De Vaudrey, going towards her with an angry flush upon his face, caused by De Presles’ brutal conduct. “Take my hand; we will leave this place.” Canad ts Oh, thank you—thank you, monsieur, a thousand thanks!’ exclaimed Henriette, as she took the pro- ferred hand and grasped it fervently, as a drowning man would the friendly rope thrown to save him. The marquis was so astonished by De Vaudrey's interference, that for a moment he was unable to offer any objection to this answer tc hts victim's prayer, and the chevalier had conducted Henriette neatly to the garden entrance, before De Presles ro- covered from his stupor. “5 Rtg rushed in front of the two and barred their exit. ‘Excuse me, chevalier, this is my house,” he said, in‘ a voice hoarse with rage, “and I do not per- mit——” “Give me room, sir,” said De Vaudrey, ina haughty voice, - “T will not allow this insult. Do you hear?’’ he asked, asthe loud chimes of a clock proclaimed the hour of midnight. ‘ After twelve o’clock no one ever leavés this house.”’ oy Si _ ‘Then we shall be the first to do so,” answered De Vaudrey,inacooltone. “ aside, ee “Do you know, chevalier,” said the marquis, white and trembling with rage, “‘that you speak to me as though I were your lackey?” ec “T would not speak to a lackey who acted as you do,” replied the’ chevalier, in a contemptuous tone, ‘*T would cane him.” ‘Enough, monsieur; you are more than insolent!"* exclaimed De Presles, drawing his sword and stand- ing on the defensive, ‘ Attempt to pass me——” “I certainly shall,” interrupted De Vaudrey, ‘‘ and this young lady with me.” Henriette clung to the arm of her protector in af- fright, while the other occupants of the garden gath- ered around the two men, agd vainly attempted to quell the impending duel. “Stand back, gentlemen!” commanded the mar- quis, in a rough voice. ‘ After such an insult’ there is but one course!”’ and stepping into a cleared space at the back of the garden, he awaited the cheva- lier. Pale with terror, Henriette saw these preparations; but she could only clasp her hands, oa th a whis- io rayer to him who said; ‘Thou shalt not kill,’ reathlessly awaited the result of the duel, — Both men were experienced swordsmen; but from the first De Vaudrey had the advantage, owing to his coolness, and he contented himself with parrying the wild thrusts of the marquis. At length a lunge more careless than the others gave the chevalier the opportunity he awaited, and with a quick, rapid thrust. he ran his sword through the body of his antagonist. The marquis reeled for a moment as the sword was withdrawn, and then with a low groan sank into the arms that were outstretched to receive him, Without deigning to cast a look upon his fallen foe De Vaudrey rai his hat with courtly grace, and offered his hand to Henriette, who was almost bewild- ered by the rapidity with which the combat bad been finished. Never before had she seen a human being stricken down by a violent death, and she could not repress a passionate look upon the body of the young man who had so lately been her worst enemy, but whose life blood was now slowly welling out from the narrow ini rer in his chest, and dropping upon the gravéled walks.
Page 9
- . THE TWO ORPHANS. De Vaudrey took the girl's band kindly in his own, * mademoiselle, we are now free to go,” led her out of the vile place from which she had been re- jeaged only by the interposition of death. — CHAPTER IX. THE BLIND GIRL’S SUFFRRINGS. Tx garret into which La Frochard's cruelty and Yove for gain had consigned Louise, was 4 piace to make even the stoutest heart quail. Imagine a low, narrow room, reeking with odors from decaying wood and rags, and damp firem the mists which arose from the Seine, and penetrating Pied Bde en and crevice, causing the unhappy jmnatie to shiver with dread, as if struck by ablast froma ‘@harnel house. The blind girl’s snfferings were fearful Fora mo- Pale with terror, Renriette could only clasp her hands and breathlessly await the result of the duel, eye all would be quiet as the tomb, and then, start- some noise, the rats which infested the place would acampet, from their_hiding- pl causing Louise to shrink with fear from the almost unearthly noise of which she knew not the meaning. : raecimasinstion, vivid as itis in the blind, peopled the fearful place with terrors which were intensified by being en. During the hours of the day, and the yet more dreary ones of the night, poor Louise crouched close to the low roof, trem at every new noise caused by the, wind or waves, andeven praying that she might be visited by her brutal captors; for much as #he dreaded them, the sound of a human voice would he a relief to her over-taxed nerves, After what seemed to her, tobe many days, but was in reality little more than twenty-four hours, Louise heard the sound of heavy footsteps on the stairs, and immediately after, the door was unlocked, and aman entered, The voice which she heard told her plain! ‘was Jacques who had visited her, and muc feared him, she gladly weleomed his coming. _ Instinctively, she knew that he wasgazing upon her, and before he spoke, she sank upon her knees before him in an attitude of supplication. “Tf you have any pity in your heart—if Mien what it was to suffer—take me from that it as she ou ever his fear- tears which rolled down her pale cheeks showed w intense was her agony; but it had no effects upon A. coarse, brutal laugh was the ir answer to her and she sank upon the floor almost life- eee ty . ae. : s Yr «RA a » ine * od . the wretch before her. Villain as he was, J ee ed saw that their victim | of the beautiful girl whom he had rescued from such could not survive her mprisoment many hours |a fearful fate; but in reply to the probable fate,of longer, for even as it was, her day of terror ha: | her sister, he could not conscientiously lighten her changed the rosy-cheeked Normandy girl as much as would many days of severe sickness. The pallid cheeks, the deep, dark circles :nder the eyes, and the marks of suffering that were to be read in every feature of her delicate face, told how severe had been her anguish. “You are better fitted for your. business now than ree were before you came here,”’ said Jacques, as ne exulted over the misery, and delighted in the pain he had been the means of causing. “Oh, take me away—take me away! you tell me!’ she pleaded. “Will you beg?” “Yes—yes!" * Well, come along then,” and he grasped her by the arm, which was protected only by a thin cover- I will do as ing of coarse cotton, with a force that caused her to seream with pain. “ Devilish tender, ain't. you?” he asked, witha chuckle, as-he brutally dragged her toward the door- way. ‘Well, is. she willing to help, her friends, now?” asked the shrill tones of Mother Frochard's voice, ‘as Louise and Jacques appeared in the doorway, *T guess she'll behave herself. now,” laughed Jacques, as he forced.the blind girl to descend the stairs without any assistance from him, “Oh, very well—very well, my fine lady,” said the old woman, as she led Louise toa seat near the table, ‘If you haye been there long enough, I sup- | pose you’d like to have something to eat, you un- grateful huzzy.” “Iam very hungry, madam,” faltered Louise. “Well, it’s a good thing,” snarled theold woman, Mi you'll know how to appreciate what, you get after this. Jacques, seated astride of the chair, with his arms resting on the back, enjoyed the scene with evident zest, while Louise listened anxiously for Pierre’s sympathizing voice, Let us leave this scene for awhile, and follow Henriette, while she accompanies her deliverer from the beautiful, but vile garcéen of Bel-Air, They had reached the street before Henriette ventured to speak to the chevalier of her gratitude for the assistance he had rendered her. Then, ina voice trembling with emotion, she thanked him for his interference, and be; ged him to show her the way tothe place where she had been robbed of her sister The distance was very great, and. the walk the Chevalier ibe Vaudsey ae eres history * tty | Henriette, looking heart. “Rut T shall find her, shall I not, monsienr?” asked x up into his face with an imploring gaze. For a moment De Vaudrey thought he would tell her how little chance there was for finding a lost girk immediately, unless some kind, honest people had taken compassion on her, and even then it would re- guna several days. But as he looked into her beauti- ul eyes, and saw there the hope and longing that was mirrored in them, he could not speak these words which would plunge her into despair. Therefore he assumed a hopeful air which was very far from being sincere,'and replied; “ We shall find your sister, mademoiselle, but_ you must not get discouraged if it takes several days, ia tAs a) Cpl, yryst t he! Aad N iy teen? = for, we can hope to find no ¢lue to'where she has gone.” ; Henriette was not satisfied with the answer, butshe said nothing, and in a few moments more they had reached the Normandy coach office, oii The most persistent inquiry revealed nothing ‘rel- ative to Louise’s whereabouts, No one had seen her except when she was with her sister, and it was with a heavy and sorrowful heart that. Henriette waa forced to relinquish the search until thé morrow. The chevalier conducted her to a; boarding house, where, after a brief recital of Henriette’s history, she was allowed to remain. oor & il Need we recount theimany long and. fruitless searches of that faithful-sister for the blind wrphan? Can the reader not guess that, charmed by the beauty of face and mind.of the beautiful Henriette; the Chevalier de. Vaudrey was ready to fling away all dreams of wealth and kingly favor, and entreat the young girl to become his wie? [aus 4 _ And why should we describe'all of Louise’s suffer- ings for three months? Thoy were surely such as would melt che heart of a stone to pity, and yet her cruel captors showed no mercy, dd Ysa Therefore we will pass over three months, during which each day, to both the sorrowing orphans, brought the same sad story of misery and despair, satihees our next chapter present a new scene to the reader, ; t hac CHAPTER X. THE MINISTER OF. POLICE, Tax newly appointed minister of police the om de Linieres, as we heard at shat geen Bel r. |}
Page 10
oem 'noblé name, it must: 10 rn ree He was the uncle, and until that young gentleman attained his majority, the guardian of the Chevalier Maurice de Vaudrey. Count de Linieres was of a very old and proud family, but the hope of distinction induced him to accept of the high office tendered him by the king, who honored him for his sterling worth. It is shortly after his accession to office, and before he is well acquainted with the intricate workings of the vast and complicated body over which he is the acknowledged head, that we present him to our readers. A tall, portly old geritleman of some sixty years of age is he, and one who as a friend would be true, and as an enemy, implacable, On this particular afternoon: he has just dismissed several of his subordinates, and is now giving some necessary instructions to the chief clerk. “*]- desire,’’ said the count; ‘that there should be no relaxation in the severity of the police towards gam- bling dens, low drinking places, and other haunts of. crime. Professional beggars, too, must be driven from the streets.” 7 These orders were delivered in the tone of a man who, having weighed what heis aboutto say, expects to be obeyed, : E “Their number increases daily,” replied the clerk, with a gesture expressive of humility and deference. “The king is desirous that a stop should be put to the scandals shee disgraced the administration of the during the preceding reign,” continued De , speaking slowly. “‘Night brawls went un- t , and Sediclons, a in oo and dis- grace upon 0 onest families, were of common SOCHrnebee, ren | apropos of that subject, I have here a report which needs an explanation. How is it possible that a young girl could.be abducted in the ro) streets at eight o'clock in the evening, and there” ould be no one to op: such an outrage?’” “There are scoundrels in Paris audacious and dex- terous enough to doanything,” replied the clerk, as if that were sufficient excuse for the shortcomings of ape tonsives. “Where were the police?” asked the count, stern- “They have discovered the accomplices of the peat i. said the ge tie ib idee os an- er to. "3 ve inent: , * and com- Sith | _“ Three months have elapsed since that most dar- pot Bt Ades pt and the really guilty ones, the instiga- tors of the crime, have not been punished,” said De Linieres, with a look o iosee at his subordinate, “That's due, my lo . certain circumstances,” was the answer, or perhaps, we should say excuse, tg hae apcemmbucaswiotid resent cee su at any cire’ es should prevent the baat ar ont f ories on the cast of a die, or the fa sword in a drunken brawl. But the girl— he duel what became of her?” She wa carried off by—by—by the antagonist of arquis,” was the hesitating answer that aroused uspicions at once, and he asked, quickly, distrust: ¢ nent, What is it?” ‘he Che audrey,” replied the “Wy 7 49 Watney i Ly, My n replied the old gentleman, in sur- rise, while an expression Of pain passed over Li ‘ace at the thought that his nephew, whom he loved 80 dearly, and whom he had puppoted to be the soul of honor, should be engaged in what hesupposed to be & drunker. brawl After a moment’s reflection he turned to the old clerk, who was regarding his chief with a look of sor- row, and said, in a voice that was singularly soft and sweet for a man: 5 sai! appreciate the sentiment that caused you to hesitate.” « Theclerk bowed low, and was turning away, when the count stopped him. ‘Hor the future, sir, remember that justice is no ter of persons.” e chief's voice wasnow as harsh and command- ias it Was before low and'soft. \ — yousuré that it was the Chevalier de Vau- t * Quite sure, Woe havo a list of all\who were pres- entboth ladies and gentlemen.” 1“ These gentlemen,” said ‘De Linieres, in an angry pS oe ed my to anderstand that such orgies will be tolerated no longer. It is not’enough to bear 1” ' born worthily; and these ladies must choose between Salpetriere and exile,” ) “Do you wish, my lord, that this affair should be mesa in the secret archivés of the police?” | “The secret archives of the police, asked the count, in great eg ae that there should be anything of the kind. ‘ Base ceny na ri Certainly, m sai © clerk, wondering not a little et eheienotincs of his chief The secret and completé history of every noble'family in France may be found there. You have but: to mention a ‘mame, and in five minutes, the desired volume will be in your hands. : “Phe count remained in deep thougbt for a few mo- ts. There had been in his house, as in every man’s, a skeleton in the closet, and that skeleton was some gecret sorrow that preyed upon his wife, who was a De Vaudrey. If the old clerk's words were truo, then here was tw for hima to discover what he had so jong vainly sought, THE TWO ORPHANS. Here he could, without humbling himself, to an one, penetrate that mystery in his wife’s life whic she had so long and successfully concealed. But it must be done at. the expense of his honor, and at the moment there was a great struggle going on in his mind. Should he avail himself of this information which his position entitled him to possess, but which his manhood revolted at? At last it was decided in his mind. He would have the volume completed, and at some future time, when he should be more accustomed to the idea, he would refer to it. : ‘*Tf the history of the house of De Vaudrey is there, let that history be completed,” he said, quickly, as if afraid to linger near the temptation any longer. The clerk bowed low, and departed upon his mis- sion, and at the same time he went out, Picard, the magnificent, who allowed himself to be called valet to the Chevalier De Vaudrey, entered. “Ah, Picard, Iam glad that you have come. I wish to speak to you about your master. How is he behaving himself?” : : Here was a chance for Picard which he was not dis- posed to let slip him, and after his extravagant bows, he. answered.in his peculiar voice: 5 “With all due respect, my lord, his conduct. .scan- dalous,. perfectly scandalous, and unbecoming a nobleman of his rank.”’ Picard looked for some expression of ee upon his listener’s face, and failing to see it there, con- tinued, in an injured tone, as if his master’s behavior was a reflection upon him as a servant: “Formerly he had afew gentlemanly pois ot with whom he iy gaye Ree himself,” sai Picard, slowly, “*and saw life, thereby giving me some opportunities, Alas! it is different now. For the last three months he has changed entirely, In- deed, my lord, my life has become so monotonous, ae aman of spirit like myself cannot stand it any onger. “Am I to understand that you wish to leave his service?” asked the minister, with a preoccupied look upon his face, “Yes, my lord!” exclaimed Picard, eagerly. ‘The chevalier, your nephew, has principles whichI can no longer accept. They clash with all my opinions, and although the chevalier thinks proper to compromise his nobility, I cannot compromise my_livery,” and a look of virtuous indignation was upon Picard’s round face, giving a very comical appearance “*Very well,” said Linieres, back into my service.” ‘* You will!” exclaimed Picard, in delight, and then giving asigh of relief, and straightening himself up as far as his diminutive stature would permit, he added: ‘*Ah, my lord, you have relieved me, and I resume my personal dignity.” » “T will do as L have said, on one condition,’’ added the count, and at this, Picard’s face lengthened won- derfully. “*I wish you to remain for a time with my nephew. It is important that I should know his movements I could opty, the police, but I have preacy learned too much from them, and through gon. who are attached to him, I desire to know the rest, ; “The rest?” echoed Picard, in amazement. ‘What has he been doing?” and now his face brightened as he thought himself upon the verge of discovery of an escapade of his master’s, which was all the faithful valet hungered for. “They know that after the duel—” “The duel! What duel?’ interrupted Picard, for- retting in his eagerness to know all, the respect due the minister of police, “Do you pretend not to know thathe killed the Marques De Presles in a duel about a woman?” asked the count, while he regarded the valet with a piercing gaze. “He fought a duel, and dangerously wounded his antagonist, and on account of a woman!” exclaimed Picard, in an ecstasy of delight that his master should be concerned in such affairs, which Picard considered the only proper thing for a nobleman to do, ‘* Oh, the sly dog! and I wanted to leave him!” *“*No—no! not yet,” said the count, quickly, catch- ing the last of the valet’s remark, without hearing the first. ‘I desire that a remain with him, and discover where he hides himself.”’ * Of course I will!” exclaimed Picard, now per- fectly willing to remain with the chevalier any length of time, “I thought he would not disgrace the blood of a French nobleman. Certainly, I'll find out this saucy little beauty for whom he neglects all his friends,” and he added, in a tone of a connoiseur: ““Of course she must be little and saucy, with a jaunty, pi uantair. That’s the style I like.’ us Oh, eed!" said the count, in’surprise, ‘Doubtless he has done everything in good style,” continued Picard, who in his ectasy was impervious to everything but the one satisfactory idea that now engrossed all his thoughts. ‘ He has probably taken some elegary quiet little house, the rooms hung in velvet, and furnished in silk and laces, with every- thing of the sort.” “Why, at that rate you will ruiri your master,” said the count, surprised’at this phase of Picard’s charac- ter, which he had never seen before. “Tf she’s worth the trouble, where's the harm ina little ruin?’ asked the valet, innocently. How much longer Pieard would have continued to express his delight, and what he might not have said to further surprise the count, is a matter of conjec- ture, for at this moment the Countess de Linieres was announced, and the count at once dismissed Picard, with an injunction not to forget his orders. * TL will a peo my Lord,’ said the vadet, as he bowed himself out, and during his walk to his mas- ter’s house, he muttered, to the infinite “FE will take you | so. delight of the! for the ——- re gamins who heard him, ‘Oh, Master Chevalier; you are a sly dog, and I thought you asaint,” . As the countess entered, her husband gréeted her affectionately, and conducted her toa Beal “I was about to come to you,” said the count, ‘‘ but you have anticipated me. I desire to spéak with you on the subject of your nephew, the Chevalier de Vau- drey, and to ask you to prepare him for the marriage which the on. a ‘Wishes to impose on him,” interrupted the count- ess, bitterly. _. “Impose on him?” repeated de Linieres. “It is a magnificent alliance, which will complete the measure of the distinguished honors with which his majesty deigns to favor us.”” ‘Have you spoken to the chevalier yet?” : “No; but I am expectipg him every moment, and I wished to talk with him in your presence,” : As if this conversation had some influence oy: him, De Vaudrey entered at this moment. “Ah, chevalier!” exclaimed the count, “I am glad to see you... The countess and myself nave an im- portant communication to make to you.” De Vaudrey looked at his uncle in surprise. “My dear Maurice,” said the count, after.a mo- pec Ss pair sg a ane did the ‘honor to re- ceive me yesterday, and he spoke ou. “Of me?” poten De Vaudrey, in surprise. “He takes a great interest in you, continaed De Linieres, speaking quickly, and in aforced tone, ‘‘He wishes you to accept a position at court, and desires, at thesame time, that th should marry.” As the count said this, he watched De Vaudrey’s face with an intentness that was almost . oe expected to know by this means whether the stories which appeared to beso well authenti were true, and he sincerely hoped that he might be able to be- lieve them the fabrications of Some enemy. hie 4 cou “Marry?” asked De Vaudrey, as thoug not believe his uncle really meant what he 4 " » countess waited as anxiously for De V: a v as did her husband, although from a, re 1. _ She loved the young man bef and wis happiness and well being were very er. { ‘My dear nephew,” she said, kindly, IT this news sw s you. Yet there is no the king’s choice do violence to your a The y whom his majesty has chosen has youth, beauty and fortune.” : “In proof of which, I have only to tell you that his choice is Mademoiselle——” the count attempted to y but was interrupted by the chevalier. ‘Do not name her,” he said, excitedly, “Why not?” askedshis uncle, in ast “* Because I refuse to marry!” CHAPTER XI, THE SECRET, hment, our That often in their right mind should refuse to accept of the means of advancement to the royal fa- vor, wher. it was to be purckased by ‘simple, andin the present case, such an ag eans, was past the old ema’s comprehensio ‘ It required some little time for him to understand that his Leino had rejected the king’s flatter ro- and then his anger began to get the b Ey of is raat phone The Countess de Linieres, with a woman’s ready wit, understood that there could be but one eause for such a decided refusal, and that must be that he was already in love. « it The chevalier was the son of her sister, who had died several years previous to the opening of our story, and for that reason, as well as for his own no- ble qualities, she loved him as she would had he been her Own son. Understanding her husband’s quick and variable temper, the countess darted a warning glance at De Vaudrey, which, if it was seen, was not heeded, ** Before committing yourself irretrievably, Cheva- lier de Vaudry, reflect,” said the count, im an angry tone, “I know the weakness of youth, andthe tem tations to which it is ex also know that wi in certain limits it is well to close the eyes to faults, provided they are not too serious. This marriage is an honor which his fen desires to confer upon you, and when the king has n—"" “T will go to the king!’ interrupted the chevalier, and ae with great rapidity and earnestness, he added: ‘Iwill thank him for his goodness, I will lace my services at his disposal, My devotion, m ife are his; but my affections are my own, and I w to remain—free.” , “Free!” exclaimed the count, scornfully, ‘Free to! lead a life of dissipation which you may not always be able to hide from the world.” These words which implied so much, stu ble-hearted De Vaudrey more than any wo ger or reproach could have done. “There is nothing in my life to hide,” he said, proudly, but impatiently, “nothing for which I have reason to blush.,”’ “ Are you sure of that, chevalier?’ asked the count, in a tone that plainly said the speaker knew different- ly. Conscious of his own uprightness, this doubt cast upon his word was more than the chevalier could pes agen he advanced toward his uncle with a menac- air. R Monsieur?” he began, hotly, “I cannot——” ‘“‘Maurice! my husband!" exclaimed the countess, as she stepped between the two men to prevent those words from being spoken which both would have af- terwards ‘deeply regretted. ‘‘ Defer the conversation present, Permit me to speak to Maurice.’ the no- of an-
Page 11
——— “Very well,” said De Linieres, sternly, Then turn- fime to the chevalier, he said, in a voice which he had never before used to his nephew: ‘We will return to this another time. You will remember that, as head of the family, its honor is confided to my care, and I will not suffer any one to sully it pa a Stain,” De Vaudrey had nearly lost all control of his tem- per, and in a,moment the outbreak which the count- €85 Was SO.anxious to avoid would have broken forth, had not the count, without giving his nephew time to peak, said, quickly: “T leave you with the countess, and I hope that our respect and affection for her will cause you to end more weight to her counsels than you are dis- posed to give to mine.” : As if fearing that he might have tried the young man’s temper too far, or that he did not wish to pro- Jong a useless controversy, the count left the room as he finished the sentence, and De Vaudrey was alone with his aunt. F The countess went up to the noble-looking young man, and taking his hand in hers, asked, in a sweet, winning voice: ‘‘ Who is this woman you love? What obstacle pre- vents the avowal of your passion? If it is only a mat- ter of fortune, take mine; it is all at your disposal, and I will give it to you cheerfully.” ‘‘ Ah! where shall I finda heart like yours?” ex- claimed the chevalier, in a voice trembling with emo- tion. ‘* You have divined my secret. I lovea young irlas charming as she is pure. I love her, yet my ips have never sought hers. I adore her, yet I have never dared to whisper my passion.” “Her name—her family?” asked the countess, eagerly. rs one was born of the people,’’ said De Vaudrey, rouc ly, vet pene erly. ‘“She is an orphan, and lives y the r of her hands.” The countess, who had never for a moment imagin- ed such an answer to her question, was surprised, ane she showed plainly that grief was mingled with er su y * An ae would make such a woman your wife?’ she asked, reproachfully. “Do not judge heruntil you have seen her,” en- treated the chevalier. ‘* Consent to see her, and then advise me.” And the oung man took the countess’ handsin his, and looked imploringly into her face. But his aunt turned away from him with a gesture of sorrow. ‘In such a marriage,” she said, sadly, ‘ there can be no happiness for you, and for her, only misery. Believe me, I know the result of those unequal unions, You must renounce her. You owe obedience to your family, and to yourking.” ‘As the countess said these words, which, if they were obeyed, would doom the young man to give up ali that the world held for him, she turned wearily | h away, and sank into a chair, as if the advice came only from the echo of her husband’s words, and not from her own loving heart. “Can you tell me that?” asked the chevalier, in a tone of surprise. ‘* You who havesuffered so much, and who have been a victim to a blind obedience wel has sacrificed yourlife, and made you miser- able’ ; “How do you know?’ exclaimed the countess, springing from her chair as if De Vaudrey’s words struck directly to herheart and in their passage had torn open wounds that the poor woman thought no one save herself and the good God knew of. “‘Who 4old you this? Who has torn aside the veil from my secret, and revealed to you the cause of the anguish mY aye suffered for eighteen long years?” The chevalier looked sadly npan the woman he had moped so deeply by his words. ““There was but one soul in the world tender and moble enough to aupresiake and sustain your own in its trials,’’ he said, a gentle voice, that seemed to carry a balm with it, “ Your dearly beloved sister— my mother, In her lastmoments she exacted from me the promise to devote myself to you should misfor- tune ever come, and I gladly gave my word,” For & moment the countess stood as one suddenly deprived of speech, and then, in a low voice, as if Speaking to herself, she said: “ And she told you of my reap ord despair. person vow speak the truth; my lite bas been one long sacrifice to duty.” And resting her head on her hands, she allowed her thoughts to wander through all the dark and dreary avenues of the past, disturbing memories that slept only toc ‘tightly, and awakening sad recollections that _ Bhe had struggled co bury, but which were ever ready torise up against her, and assert their right to inflict sorrow with all the keenness of oid. “Twas young and mad,” she exclaimed, as rising to her feet, she paced the long, magnificently-fur- nished rooms with a nervous step, while her rich robes trailed after her, ryscling as if in mockery of her rief. ‘ 1 loved and was loved,”’ she continued, hast- y, much as though she was excusing herself to the young man who gazed in pity upon her, ‘‘ and in my ove Iknew no wrong. I consented to a secret mar- riage with a man beneath me in rank,” e chevalier attempted to speak. He wished to clock the tale of woe and sorrow which he knew she Was about to relate; but she heeded him not, and con- Sous in a voice which told of the anguish in her *‘Our secret was soon discovered,” she said. “They thought him my lover, and killed him al- most under my very eyes, and I became a mother.” De Vaudrey Could not restrain the tears which over- res, as the sorrowing woman, in a voice. his © douhiy touching by the pent-up emotion it betrayed, spoke those worts which 6 she had never before daved »-" The family honor demanded that my child should THE TWO ORPHANS. disappear,” she continued, while her voice grew hard and cold again. ‘‘ Because my hand was promised to the Count de Linieres, the family honor demanded that I should deceive an honorable man, or sacrifice tne life of my child. I bowed to the inflexible will of my. father.” he mother’sleye and sorrow overpowered her, and her eyes, which had been so dry and hard, were now made tender by the blessed boon of tears. “IT prayed that God would,have pity on the life of the little creature whom Lhad scaree embr, when they cruelly tore it from me,” she continued, while the sobs escaped with the words... ‘‘I consoled my- self with the hope that perhaps I should see it again some day. Alas! the days have passed into months, the months into years, and all my. prayers are in vain,’ ‘“‘ My poor aunt,’’ said the chevalier, as he took her hand tenderly in his and endeavored, in the caressing touch he bestowed upon it, to impart some of the sympathy and love he felt, & ‘So cruel—cruel, that I often asked myself ifit would not have been better had they killed me too,” said the poor woman, again pacing restlessly ae and down the room, ‘ Yes—yes, far more merciful than to have inflicted the punishment I have suffered for so many years, Idare not think she lives; for if she does, into what abyss may not my criminal abandon- ment have plunged her!” “Try not to let your mind rest upon those things, my poor aunt,” said the chevalier, in a voice as low and sweet as a woman’s, The countess did not heed him, The past had full power over her now, and her voice was strained as though it were not powerfnl enough to sustain the weight of emotion she put upon it. “The horrible thought that, if living, she may ac- cuse me of her misery, perhaps her shame, ay she not cry out from the depths of her despair: ‘ Ac- cursed be my unnatural mother!’ Ah, Lhear that frightful curse now ringing in my ears; it pursues me in my Ere am always,” and her voice ended in such @ wail of misery as could come only from a hearc wrung to it utmost tention by despair. And her last words were heard by one other, whom in her wanderings in tle past she had forgotten —her husband, The Count de Linieres had waited in an adjoining room until he thought his wife must have said all she wished to, to the chevalier, and he returned, hoping that by adding some kind advice as to what the coun- tess had a’ y said, he might be able so to influence his nephew, that he would accede to the king’s wishes, The heavy car had deadened the sound of «is footsteps, and ifly had made any noise, both the int were too much engrossed to chevalier and his 4 ave heard it. As he heard his: ife’s last words, uttered in such accents of doapat: ie started in alarm,and aston- pee roo hip tothe floor, unable to move or speak, “What was this, nothing ?”* was_the hhought that flashed over him in an instant, and he: emained, not in the attitude of a listener, but ofa mun paralyzed with fear, while, all unconscious of his presen¢e, the two continued their conversation, ’ v CHAPTER XII. “] HAVE SAVED YOUR HONOR.” So carried away with his argument was the Chev- alier de Vaudrey, that the words came from his lips in an irresistible tide, carrying with them sorrow and “~ to the woman whose past life was thus brought efore her, and shame and anger tothe man whohad thus unconsciously learned of the one dark time in the history of the woman he loved, “Then do you, who haye suffered so much, who suffer still, counsel me to obey?” asked the chevalier, eagerly. “*Wcuid you have me chain my life to one woman, while my heart is filled with the image of another? will you advise me to do this?” Hare words were these for a husband to hear, es- pecially when it was the first intimation he had of such suffering, and he showed, in the deeply furrowed brow, the clenched hand, and the white, trembling lips, how deeply the blow had struck, 6 picture De Vaudrey had presented to his aunt, the thought that her words might be the means of consigning the young man to the samesad fate which had been hers, swept away all the barriers of opposi- tion, and she resolved that, if it laid in her power, the aaeee should Shep be ears is 2s ‘No—no, never!” she exclaim passionately. inn shall not marry other than the woman you ove The count, who had recovered from the first stupor of surprise, now came towards his wife, and had she not been insuch extreme agitation, she would have seen that her husband had aged many years in the few moments he had been absent from the room. When the countess saw him, she thought not of what he might have heard; she did not notice his ap- pearance; but, so deeply was her woman’s heart moved, that she thought only of her nephew. ‘Oh, monsieur, have pity on him,” she almost beg- ged, as, clasping her hands before her, she went to- wards her husband; “do not ask him to stifle the ery of his conscience, His heart revolts against the sac- rifice youask. Do not imitate those parents whose pride condemns their children to lives of falsehood and despair.” She would have said many things which would have Suuntisiacoashihadnct the glisealen mepuigabbs count’s ; ate) to her, whispered; Saat sarful sorrow of which he knew | to 11 “Take care!” “Madame!” exolaimed De Lini —— her in surprise. ‘*To whom do you refer? Of what are hte speaking, when you use the words, ‘pride, false- ood, despair?’ Her husband’s cool, sarcastic words, uttered in a voice which chilled, recalled her to a sense of; what she had said, and a deathly feeling came.over her, causing her to seek the ray! oa of the'chair, The count looked at her fixedly, and ‘she saw that some answer was)required of her. In a voice scarce- ly audible, the unhappy woman faltered: “T meant—I spoke of ——” ‘*Monsieur,” said the chevalier, anxious to shield the poor lady, ‘‘the words of the eountess are but the echo of those she just heard me utter, They are the irrevocable revolt of my heart against the mar- riage and thesuffering you would impose upon me,’”? e Count de Linieres was far from being satisfied with the chevalier’s a Looking at his wife ina manner which showed that he did not believe what had just been told him, he asked, ina cold, stiff voice: ‘Had your words no other meaning, madame?” ““No—no!” answered the countess, confusedly, as though she knew not the meaning of the words she heyy: “Tam agitated, faint—you see, monsieur, am ill. ‘That is evident,” answered the count, in a voice which had in its tones no sympathy or emotion. Then turning to his nephew, he ordered, rather than requested: ‘“‘ Chevalier, conduct the countess to her room, and return immediately. Idesire to speak with you. With a compassionate look at. his aunt, the cheva- lier offered her his arm and conducted her to her apartments, ; Hardly had he left the room, when the minister, seating himself at his table, wrote a few words on * ere and after having sealed it, rang the bell arply. The old clerk answered the summons, and to him the count handed the paper, ra ty , “Take this to the keeper of the secret records, and return with what he gives you,” Like a well-made automaton, the clerk took the paper, made a stiff bow, and with & precise, - manner, left the room, Left to himself, the envied minister of police gave way to the passion wave that had threatened to over- whelm him in the preserice of his wife, He paced the room in the same wild way that his wife had done but a few moments before, and waited impatiently for the return of his nephew. t last the chevalier returned, and the look upon his face showed plainly that he | merved himself for the struggle which was inevitable, ied “Chevalier!” said the old gentleman, going up to De Vaudrey in an angry, nervous manner, ** you can readily understand that propriety and considerations for my own dignity, induced me to accept the expla-. nation made by Fu on behalf of the countess.” “Monsieur!” interrupted De Vaudrey, in an angry ne, “You also understand that that explanation did not satisfy me,’’ continued the count, not heeding the angry exclamation. af “Well, sir!” said the chevalier, in a cool, irritating tone, ‘ what are you pleased to think?” ts “I think, sir,” answered De Linieres, now almost be- side himself with rage, ‘that the countess not for you, but for herself. You spoke of her own griefs, of her early life, which is shrouded in some dark se- cret, perhaps a guilty one, which weighs upon her conscience, and is the torment of her life and mine, Speak, chevalier, what is it?” : 7 It was impossible for De Vaudrey to tell how much of the conversation the count had heard, and what re to make. z . e4 soe shield his aunt from all suspicion of wrong; ut how 5 There was now but one way, and ‘that was to'deny sah oe until hecould know what had been over- eard, - “Monsieur de Linieres,”’ he began, in an angry tone, and purposely dropping the title. : “Il command you tospeak!” interrupted the count, in a loud voice. ‘“‘T know nothing, monsieur,” was the young man’s brief answer. a ee : “ Very well, sir,” was the angry rejoinder. “You choose to forget all you owe me, Twice have you refused obedience to my wishes, nay, to my commands. Nevertheless, I will Know the secret which you refuse to disclose,” “Iam ignorant of the yt eed to which you refer,” said De Vaudrey, in a haughty voice. The count was about tomakean angry reply, which would, perha have opened a_ breach in their friendship which even time would be powerless to heal, when the clerk returned with the answer to the note. He had with him’a heavy volume, bound with hea clasps of steel, and dark with age. It was a noel, which even to look at, would convince the beholder that within its heavy covers were written dark and terrible secrets, A book, the result of despotisi which, if opened, would carry misery to thousan and one from which no good could come, = As noiselessly as he had entered, the automaton of the police office departed, and again the two men were left alone, “If you.do not slready know the secret,” said the count, as he seated himself before the ponderous volume, and began turning the leaves with a nervous haste, “* we will learn it together.” It was with the greatest anxiety that De Vaud saw these preparations, the meaniag of which could not imagine, Never for a moment did he think of any such re.
Page 12
mC * firey, and each member has a rn id item atee ss re wiesnane sa ome @ords as tlie one he now saw, and he could only rack his braii im-vain for some:solution to his uncle's But he was soon enlightened. “ Here, here, in the archives of the police, are en- tered the secrets of every noble family in France,” Said the count, seeking some. particular fing tA “and here willl iearn the secret of Diane de Vaudrey, Countess:de binieres.”’ )oForatime-the chevalier was stunned by his uncle’s words, and looked on, unable to move or ¢ ‘* Why, that would be shameful! it would be infe- mous!” he exclaimed at last, going towards the count as if.to prevent his carrying his purpose into ef- " ect. * Here it is,’ said De Linieres, eagerly, as he found the page he was seeking, and not giving heed to the thevaller’s angry exclamatiou. ‘* House of De Vau- age. Ah! Diane oor daughter of the Count Francois de Vau- rey.” ; 4 e minister had read the head of the page. in an exultant tone. Now would he wrest the secret which hig = Had sojealouslykept froni him, andhe began * Monsieur, you must not, read!” cried De Vau- drey, as he laid his hand upon the open page to pre- - vent his uncle from seeing what was written. Lhe count looked at ‘the chéyalier’ in’ surprise. Never, had he known the young man to act. in such utterdisregard to his authority, and he asked, in an angry tone: / ‘ s*~What do you mean?” “JT mean,” answered De Vaudrey, in a ringing voicé, “that the act you are about to commit is un- worthy of you; unworthy: of any gentleman. You must not, shall not.” ~-& deep red flushsurged over the count’s face, that protended an outburst of rage. »* Who will prevent it?” he asked, in a voice hoarse with passion. .o Your owmhonor, which will revolt against such treason!” said the young man, excitedly, and then, seeing thai; his:words had no effect upon the angry man before him, and forming a sudden resolve, he added: “And, sir, if your own honor does not speak loud enough, Iwill.” And in an instant he had grasped the page. which ‘ore the fatal secret, tearing it from the book with anangry wrench. — . Mastered by. his anger and astonishment, the count ould onlyask, ina ‘hesitating way: {What have you done?” “T warn you, sir,” said'De Vaudrey, as De Lin- deres Came towards him, “‘that you can only wrest this paper from! me with my life. You shall kill me before I part with it., Remember, sir, that itis not alone her secret I have saved you from violating, *tis cpeaecoern Signicy Vand ‘self-respect: I have saved your Donor.) oo t LFSA-BS3 3999 _. CHAPTER XM. me . _SQNS, OF ONE FATHER, _ Yo how many thousand homeless, shelterless be- Ings in agreat city,does the very name of winter send a shudder over their attenuated frames, and them to think with fear and dread of the suf- - which must’ be theirs before nature shall dis- pF Fine ‘mantle, and the sun cheer them with its generous warmt h. ~e after day do they crouch and shiver in the cold streets, begging for the pittance which is with- held for fear they may be impostors, while the wealthy man, who would not hesitate to spend thous- ands for his own pleasure, goes on his way congratu- ating himself thxt he has not been im d upon, while the poor wretch, who had hoped to receive a few ies, draws his rags closer around him, and - ‘wonders how many hours willelapse ere gauntstarv- ation. claims him as his victim. ———— 1A may » 3 _ Should that poor bese, starving for the want of the few crumbs which fall unheeded from the rich man’stable, ask himselfyand not without reason, whether there is one who watches thesparrow’s fall, the godly would turn away with horror at the sen- ‘timent, and rejoice again that they did not give oie toone who refuses to believe, or questions the existence of a kind God. ; » Day after day do we read, and in a moment for- t, of some one who was tashioned in God’s own _ fikeness lying dead for want. ; i Dead—for the want of a crust! Dead—in the cold night air! hea Dead—and under the dust, Without ever a word of prayer; In 'the heart of the wealthiest city, In the most Christian land, Gd ‘Without ever a word of pity g 4 Or the touch of a kindly hand, . Althoug our story necessitates our giving the his- tery of the lives of some of those persons who beg ‘gather than work, believe that such wage are the ex- at rather than the rule, and let not the history the Frochards deter anyone from a charitable "Had the reader been in Paris on this winter day, and one to. the Church St. Sulpice, they would have seen fre poor cripple Pierre gazing around in the hope of seeing Louise. _ - The day was bitterly cold, and the snow, which has fallen all night, is still covering the cold earth with its é oud. aw, thd {tj pe Pierre, clothed in rags, limps painfully along, sto ping every now and then to. breathe upon his purple 5 eit pb ang is arms to infuse some warnith in chille y. _ Offering a strong contrast to him is the well-dressed. i a thinking that his brother had relented, and was about THE TWO ORPHANS. well-fed Jacques, who meets him with a look of scorn. “ Have the women not come yet?” asked Jacques, in the tone of a man speaking to his inferior. “No, not yet; mother and Mademoiselle Louise are busy, elsewhere, no doubt,” replied Pierre, while he gazed on his comfortably-ciad brother, and wondered why they, sons of one father, should be in such differ- ent circumstances. “They ought to be here,” said Jacques, the hand- some, impatiently. “‘ The services will soon be over, and they will miss the char‘table idiots.” “They will be here in gooa time,” said the cripple, as if to excuse their absence. ‘ You need not worry about them.” “Tt will be none too soon if they come now,” was the angry exclamation, as the loving son went to seek some shelter from the storm, where he could wait un- til the coming of his mother, from whom he expected to get money enough to pay for his night's carousal .at the nearest cabaret. Pierre moved away, as though expecting a blow (which was not uncommon) from his brother He seemed to be trying to make up his mind tosay some- thing to his brother, and judging from the length of time it took him, he did not expect a favorable an- swer to his prayer. $ At last he went toward Jacques, and in a slow, hes- itating way, said: ** Jacques, Lhave gota favor toask of you.” “Tf. it is money, 1. haven’t got any,’ answered the elder brother, moving away. “No—no,” answered Pierre, quickly; “it is not mo- hime look here, Jacques, when: you are angry with me, curse me, beat me, if you want to, but do not call me cripple—not—not when Louise is present.”’ Jacques looked at his brother, as if doubting whether hée’had heard aright, and then, as hesaw the te pene look upon the deformed boy's face, he broke out into a coarse laugh. ‘“Indeed!’? he sneered. “We must speak to mon- sieur respectfully; take off our hats, I suppose. why. we will dress you up in silk and velvet. You would like to wear gloves and carry a sword, I suppose.”’ The picture which his coarse taunts had called up was so comical to his mind that’he was obliged to stop speaking and indulge in another hearty laugh. An expression of pain passed over Pierre’s face. He had hoped that his brother would grant him this simple favor, and his sneering words cut the poor fel- low to the heart. “ Jacques!” he said, ina tone of sadness and re- proach. ‘ “So it hurts your feelings to be called cripple, does it?” continued Jacques, in a voice that hurt his bro- the? more than his blows would. “‘ Well, look at yourself, what are you?” “Tama as he brushed away the rising tear. ‘‘ And to whom do Lowe it? Who, when I was but an infant, beat me, and broke and twisted my limbs because I re- fused to steal a coat for him?” “You lie! it was a cloak,” interrupted Jacques, ercely, j “That is always your way,”’ continued the cripple, ‘to make some one else steal for you. That was what forced poor Marianne——”’ “Marianne!” exclaimed Jacques, as he raised his hand to strike the one who thus brought up the past. “Don’t you dare to mention that ay mg ool’s name to me again. She was a heartless jade, who would rather go to prison than give me her apap Mh and Jacques turn gl with an, expression of dis- gust at the idea of such ingratitude. “She saved you from punishment,” said Pierre, who was ever ready to plead for the cause of the un- fortunate. “That is enough!” cried the rufflan, stamping his foot angrily. ‘‘{ don’t want to hear anything more about her. I have found another, who is better look- ing and more useful. As for you, as you don’t want to be called cripple any more——’ And Jacques hesitated a moment, as if he were searching his brain for some name, while Pierre, to answer his prayer, exclaimed anxiously: “Well?” “Tl re-christen you—Cupid.” Again a look of intense pain passed over Pierre’s face, as his brother's laugh rang out loud and shrill. ‘Do as you like,” he said, wearily, as if resigning himself to all the insuits his brother might see fit to heap upon him. * Now Lcome to think of it,’’ said Jacques, con- temptuously, “it is only when Louise is about that ‘ou object to be called cripple: perhaps——”’ and as if he was no longer able to control himself, be burst out into his fiendish laughter again, at some thought which had entered his wicked brain. Then, chuck- ling to himself, he said, shaking his head in a mock- ing way: ‘Ah, that would be ood,” ‘What do. you mean?” asked Pierre, not under- standing the reason for his brother’s mirth. **You are not so stupid after all,” laughed Jacques. “‘Sheis blind, and doesn’t know the difference be- tween a handsome man like me, and a miserable abortion like you,” and again his mirth resulted in laughter, while he exclaimed: ‘‘You’re in love—in love with a blind girl.” ‘*T?’ said Pierre, in surprise, as if hardly under- standing what his brother had said, and at the same time looking down upon his mis-shapen form. ‘I? In love?” ‘Why, then, are you ashamed of being called crip- ple before her? Afraid she'll find out your beautiful — eh?” ‘Yes—yes, it is so,” said the poor boy, as if the words came from him involuntarily. ‘I want to think there is one in the world who does not regard me with disgust. If she thought I was like others, know or care anything about her after a short her beauty, I r, deformed cripple,’? answered Pierrre,. she might have some feeling of hee od for me, But in love—in love with her, whois beautifal to be an angel?” enough And there was upon Pierre’s face, as he spoke of the blind girl, alight whick is rarely seen, and them only when it is lit by a soul pure and noble. Jacques looked upon his brother in surprise. He saw in that pale face something that he had never seen before, and could hardly repress his astonish- ment. “* How the devil did you find that allout? I don’t goodness,” he said, use. ‘Bosh, for all that—and as to now that her eyes are more use to her now, than if she could see with them.” “Yes— es, she is blind,” said Pierre, sadly, “ but her face is so sweet that it would move a stone to pity. and her great, beautiful eyes look at me so truth- fully that I almost fear she can see me.” ‘*There—there,”’ said Jacques, who had not heard the latter part of the sentence, but who had started towards some drinking saloon. where he would find more congenial companions, “stop your muttering and come along with me. I want you, Cupid; come!’ For once Pierre determined to resist his brother's tyranny. “JT will not go,’ he said, in a voice he vainly en- deavored to make sound firm, “Eh!” cried Jacques, in amazement, ‘‘ What's this? rebellion, eh? now do as I order you, or look out for a beating,” and tha brute in human shape went towards the cripple with hand uplifted to strike, Just at this moment the sad, sweet voice of & young girl was heard not far off, and Pierre started with de- light; he recognized the tones of that, to him, angel ey hs and his purpose was changed immediately, Like & voice from heaven did the notes, welling over with despair, speak to the deformed lad, filling his heart with peace and love. “ Jacques,” he said, softly, ““you are older than I, you're ‘traight and strong, anil must submit to you; but when I see the use you make of your strength, Iam satisfied with my uglyshape and miserable weakness.” And as he finished speaking, he turned in the direc- tion from which the sound proceeded, and stood in anxious esi awaiting the approach of the ome oa who had so entirely changed the course of is life. CHAPTER XIV. THE POWER OF THE LAW. Tar minister -of police was so astonished by the sudden action on the part of his nephew, thathe was for afew moments unable to speak. His anger struggled for the mastery with his sur- prise, and as De Vauérey saw the deep red flush mantling his uncle’s face, he’ well knew what: por- tended. Heheld the leaf upon which was written the secret of the countess, but how long he might be permitted to retain it was still an open question. Vaudrey knew that the count would not hesitate to call upon the police, and order them to wrést the Les ot from him, and he deemed it the wisest course to leave the room while his uncle was yet stupefied, as it were, at his conduct. ) 3 With a low bow to the now thoroughly an the chevalier left the room, and proceede to the apartments of the countess, Meeting a servant as he went through the lofty halls, he directed him to wait upon the Count de Linieres; for De Vaudrey had serious fears that, upon one of his uncle’s temperament, the passion which had control of him might prove fatal. is first movement as he entered the ante-chamber of his aunt’s apartments was to commit the paper he had torn from the book to the flames, and not until he had seen the last smouldering vestige of it reduced to ashes, did he seek the presence of the countess. De Vaudrey treated the u:terview with the count, in his conversation with the countess, as nothing serious, and assured hev, w’thout relating any of the particulars, that her secret was safe. Indeed, so moved was the countess by the cheva- lier’s argument in favor of the girl whom he loved, that, terrible asshe believed would be the conse- quences if her secret was made knowr to her hus- band, she hardly thought of what she had said, and consequently believed that the count’s order for his nephew to return to him after escorting his sunt to her apartments referred only to the quesmun of the mar which the king desired. It was an exceedingly simple task for the chevalier now to induce the Countess de Linieres to call upon the young girl whom he loved, and after giving Ter Henriette’s address, and receiving her assurance that she would visit the young girl on her return from church, the chevalier took his departure, leav- ing the countess to wander back in the dark and ter- rible mazes of the past, while he should seek Hen- riette’s society, and be happy as he basked in the sunlight of the loved one’s smiles. The servant whom De Vaudrey had sent to tha as- sistance of the count, found that gentleman in the greatest state of excitement, consequent upon the behavior of his nephew. “Send the chief clerk to me,’’ said De Linieres to the servant. When the clerk entered, he found his chief in a more quiet frame of mind; 7ut from his manner of speaking, the clerk knew that his superior was in no enviable mood. VF AEDES ¥ ** You will find out immediately where the Cheval- ier de Vaudrey has concealed the givl whom ke car- ried from the garden of Bel-Air!" ; The clerk’s movements were just as mechanical and automaton-like as ever. and he wonld have pre connt, directly
Page 13
THE TWO ORPHANS. 8B gerved the same mavhine-like movements had he found the minister of police dead in his chair, instead of situply in a rage. In a few moments the clerk returned. » “The young woman is residing in the Faubourg St. Honore,’ ‘he said, stiffly, ‘but there is reason to believe that the chevaker does not contribute to her support.”’ “Have a guard ready to accompany me. I, myself, will arrest this girl.” Nota look of surprise on the subordinate’s face. He evinced nosurprise, if he felt any, but left the room to execute the count’s commands. “J willsee if this insane idea cannot be driven out of the boy’s head,” said De Linieres, talking half to himself. ‘The girl must;be taken to La Salpetriere, and the chevalier may cool his ardor in the Bastile mintil he can look at the matter in a sensible light.” Tus did the worthy minister of police imagine that he could separate two loving hearts, and cause one to be false to the other. His own marriage had been one of blind obedience with a heart that beat only in the his parents, an pe of royal favor, he could not understand the eC 4 ty of born love, 7 CHAPTER XV. ' HE STREET BEGGAR'S LIFE. Tar angelic voice of Louise, which sounded to Pierre as the harbinger of love and peace, drew a sigh ot relief from Jacques. He had deferred his carousal at the cabaret because he had no money; therefore he had waited until he could take from his mother the scanty amount earned by the blind girl, who was so cruelly forced to pee. “‘Here they are at last,” said Jacques, joyfully, adding, in a tone of undisputed proprietorship: 1 ter voice ought to be worth louis a day, at east. «Mother Frochard’s shrill cry of ‘“‘ Charity, good peo- ple, ty a poor unhappy child. Charity, if you ease,’ was heard before the two came in sight, and whe shrill tones of that harsh voice sounded doubly urd in the cold, frosty air. ..“ How the poor child must suffer!’ exclaimed Pierre, sympathetically. Good!” was Jacques’ unfeeling rejoinder; ‘that’s Part of the business. Look out, Master Cupid, no getting soft, I tell you.” : t this moment the two came into the square, and soon as the old woman saw that it was unoccupied, nie by her two sons, she dropped her cry of ‘ Char- » and exelaimed, in an angry voice; “ Ah, there's nothing to = eb from those miser- able common feople! They willstop and listen quick prot a but when you ask them for a sou, they clear out, ‘*It will be better when the churchis out,” said Jacques, patronizingly, as he lighted his pipe, and went towards his mother. ‘We'll go back, then,”’ said the old woman, as she grasped the thinly-clad arm of Louise in her hard, rough hand. ‘‘Come—come, let us be moving.” “T am tired, madame,” said the poor girl, in tones of deepest distress, and her looks and actions bore evidence of the truth of her words, Although the day was bitterly cold, and the snow fal.'ng fast, the young girl was clad only in thin cot- ton garments, and the wretched shoes that were upon her feet afforded very little protection. During all of that Sabbath day, which was intended as a day of rest for man and beast, she had walked the streets, singing as well as she was able, and forced along by lia iy You must not, Pierre,—you must not—you will freeze.” the old hag at her side, until now she reeled with fa- tigue as she walked, and many times would she have fallen had it not been for the relentless grasp of the wicked woman who was thus forcing this life of misery upon her. When, worn out by fatigue and suffering, “Louise ventured to say that she was tired, Mother Frochard looked at her With as much astonishment in her face as though Pierre’s wheel had complained. ‘Well, you can sleep to-night,” shesaid, roughly. “Oh, madame! Iam so tired Ican scarcely stand, we have walked so much to-day,’ said Louise, in a piteous tone. “Well, didn't you want to walk?” asked La Fro- chard, angrily. ‘‘Didn’tyou say that you wanted to look for your sister?” “Yes; but you always walk in the same part of the city,” was the low answer of the blind girl. “Bah!” interrupted the old woman, ‘ How do you know?’ You can’t see.” “T know that, madame, but when you found me you_promised——” ‘* Tpromised Ae to find your sister. Ain’t I doin it?’ and the old hag’s voice took a tone of injured innocence. “I ain’t rich, and youmust earn your bread. -You must sing, and I'll do the beeging.” “Ti sing, madame,” said Louise, in a voice full of resignation, ‘* if you wish it.” “Yes; but how do you sing?” asked the old wo- man, brutally. ‘‘ Like a mourner ata funeral.” “Tsing as well as I can,” waded the blind girl, piteously. “I cannot help it, I cannot, indeed I can- not. 1en L think of what lam—of what I am do- -—_I—I—Iam so unhappy—so miserably unhappy!” nd nolonger able to restrain her feelings she sank down upon the cold, wet snow, and gave her- * self — toanagony of grief that plainly told how near the poor heart was to breaking. During this affecting scene the two brothers stood looking on, but with entirely different feelings. To Jacques it was a scene which aff him great enjoyment, and nothing ever gave him half the pleasure that the sight of grief or suffering did. But Pierre was different. He could never look upon another’s sorrow unmoved; but when it was Louise's grief that he was a witness of, his héart was deeply touched, and despite his efforts to restrain — them, the tears rolled down his cheeks, and invol- untarily he stretched his hands out toward her, and in a voice which expressed the sympathy he felt, he called: ** Louise:” He would have gone toward her, but Jacques caught him roughly by the shoulder, and hurled bh some distance away. “Well, what are you upto, Master Cupid?” he ask- ed, as he savagely surveyed his fallen brother, ‘Nothing—nothing!”” said Pierre, as he slowly arose from the ground, and then, as 8 came over him at his own helpless condition, he muttered: “JT am so hel ¥ Jacques went toward the weeping girl, and after g at her admiringly for a few moments, he said, in a coarse, unfeeling voice: ‘*She is pretty when she cries,’” “Come—come,” said Mother Frochard, seizing Louise brutally by the arm, and ng her to her ae enough of this, let us be mo’ te “ Very well, madame, I will,” said the poor girt, striving to repress her tears, and holding on by the old woman’s armin order to stand, while the same time she wiped away the tears which were streaming down her cheeks, “ Don't do that!’ exclaimed La Frochard, catchin een oe . rome would you wipe away rea tears , that isthe very t. to catch your Ny ov fools.” io povers “ At moment a gentleman passed by, and see- ing the evident suffering of the benutifal girl, he drew a coin from his pocket and put it in the girl’s unwilling palm, and passed on his way. Like a hawk pouncing upon a dove dia Mother Frro- chard grasp the hand which held the money, and in an instant it was transferred to her capacious pocket. “There, what did I tell you?’ she said, triumph- antly. Then giving the poor girla hard shake, she said: “ Go on oF oo As she saw others approaching she raised her mor otonous cry: “ Charity, good people, if you p " x
Page 14
not ge a oe Let me see Q 14 THE TWO ORPHANS. Among the people who were coming toward the ehurch was the good-natured doctor of the hospital ef St. Louis and La Salpetriere, and to him did Mother Frochard direct her cries for charity. _ “t Ple my good sir,” said the old woman, going towards him, and Boing out her dirty hand. Pierre and Jacques had moved away as soon as the ehurch-goers came up, and now Mother Frochard, hér charge, and the doctor, were the only ones in the square. The physician paid no attention to the old woman’s en an oor walking away, but La Frochard was not to be shaken off so easily. She stepped in front of him, and cried, in a whining tone; “Charity, if you please.” “Oh, clear out!” exclaimed the doctor, whose pa- tience was ex)austed. "Pity for a Pook, blind child, if you please, char- ity!’ persisted the old woman. ’ As the old woman spoke of .the misfortune of Lonise, the doctor’s professional feelings, if not his charitable ones, were aroused, and he turned quickly around, asking: ‘Blind! Who?” and seeing Louise for the first time, pointed to her as he asked: “Is this young girl blind?” | “* Alas! yes, my good sir, have pity on her,” whined Mother Frochard, in her professional voice, as she earefully by bam behind her. * Poor, un. ee said the good doctor, sym- pathetically. *‘ Let me look at your eyes,” and as he oke he went towards the poor orphan. It was charity that La Frochard wanted, and not sympathy. Sh ear peaa services, therefore she did not wish the doctor to see the poor girl, for fear that sher be taken to the hospital, and thereby de- prive the worthy Frochards of the amount she could earn by begging. The old woman sprang towards Louise, and roughly pushed her away, at the same time confronting the physician with the question: f do you want to see her for?’ she uttered in an angry to *Come here, child,” continued the doctor, ee lL eee ey, aw ; me Ww oyfully, as she “i gta eieieg fe ind saat wie bedithee ie terested himself in her fate. But. Frochard caught the poor girl by the arm, h “a vicious thump with her elbow at Louise’: si 6, and a cruel pinch of her arm prevent- a es » and Pp P she sai in low voice of rage, so low as not to be heard etic doctor, and then, in a shrill voice which she tried to make sound resigned, she said e Ln eae “They can’t be cured; it fs nou id clutching Louise more firmly by the 4 her in her wrath, she said: the doctor, firmly. ‘You are Iwill hand you over to the police.” ‘ fe ge fiercely for a moment, it was useless for her to resist, for ise once get under’ the protection of the ‘ould never 60 back to t. e old boat house vale. seid, as she rudely pushed Le him, “see for yourself if she is not biind unable to restrain her anger, she muttere herself: ‘ Curse him! I know him, he is that whining doctor at.the hospital.” An } soon as she had thus given vent to some of heranger, she stood by the side of Louise to ES vent her telling the doctor anything that might Fe ane tormentor’s motherly care. “Ah you are a doctor,” began Louise, eager- ly, but she had concluded the sentence, Mother Frochard pie her such acruel pinch on the arm that she did not dare to say anything more. _ * Well, do you see,” asked the old woman, shrilly, after the doctor had examined the poor girl’s eyes “foramoment. ‘ She’s blind, ain’t she?” _/* You have not always been blind, my child, have bid . asked the doctor, not heeding the old woman’s qu On, *: No, monsieur,”’ said Louise, timidly, asshe invol- untarily shrank from the blow, or pinch, which she expectvd to receive. ‘I was fourteen years old win ids misfortune befell me.” * Fourteen!’ qxcletmed the doctor, in astonish- mie:'t, ‘ind you have had no treatment?” “Mor, eur——-’’ began Louise, eagerly, forgetting for tue +.oment the old wretch that stood beside Mother Prochard saw in a moment that Louise was aborl.1opeak of her past life, and. she adroitly ad-' ministe;o\: a blow in the poor girl’s side, unperceived by th: \‘ovtor, chat prevented her from speaking, and peters \..o interruption could be noticed, she said, quickly: “We «re so poor, good doctor, we have not the money iv——”’ *“Oh, monsieur!”* interrupted Louise, who would mot thus be deprived of one chance to regain her sight, and who resolved to speak, regardless of what the old woman piight sayordo, * if you have any pity, speak to me, tell me. is there any hope for me? oh, if you knew from what misery your words t save me!” Set did the old woman give the poor orphan a crue] blow, and hastened to speak, lest Louise should try to say more. * Yes—yes, indeed,” she said, in her whining voice, as she tried to push Louise away, ‘there can’t be any worse misery than to be blind, If she could see,she could werk, and would not have to.beg, Isn’t thatso, ormercy’s sake, |. ““Yes—yes,”’ said the poor girl, eagerly. “I would work—I would—I—I would——”’ # i; She was about to say that she would then find her sister; but Mother Frochard, ever on the alert, under- stood what the poor orphan would say, and a wicked one of the arm caused her to change her words. Lg yourself, my child, calm yourself,” said the good doctor, deeply moved by the sufferings which was evident from the young girl’s words. Then beck- oning.to the old woman, he moved a few steps away from Louise, and said: ‘+ Come here.” The old woman pushed Louise some distance from her, so that she could not, by any means, hear what was said, and then, in a servile voice, asked, as she went towards the physician: ‘What is it, doctor?’ ‘“Listen,”’ said the medical man, in a low tone. ‘You must not excite her, and you must not tell her suddenly what I hope; but bring her to me at the hospital St. Louis.’ ** Yes—yes,”’ said the old woman, quickly, but at the same time with an ugly scowl upon her hard face. **I know, I have been there often,’ : er bis i I ara Se A said the doctor, hae garding her thoughtfully. * mesee, youare call ed Mother—2” : “Widow Frochard, monsieur,’’ said the old woman, drawing herself up indignantly. “Yes, I remember,” said the doctor, with a smile upon his face at the old hag’s assumption of dignity. ** Well, when she is calmer, you can tell her gently that I think there is ho for her, and then, when she is more accustomed to the idea, bring her to me,”’ “* Yes—yes, I will,” replied the old wretch, with a wicked smile upon her face. ‘I'll tell her gently. Teust me, doctor, for that. You can depend on me, Had the man known how gently the old wo- man would have told the poor girl of the good news, he would not have left her as he did; but he believed Louise to be Frochard’s daughter, and like many others, was deceived by the old hag’s whining voice. ‘Here, my poor child,” said the doctor, going to- wards Louise, and giving her some money, while to the poor girl the words which followed was of more value than all the money he could have given her. ‘** Courage,” he added, in a pee voice, “courage, my dear, I will see you again.” hese words carried hope with them to the afflicted girl’s heart, and in the excess of her joy she was un- able to speak, but stood trembling with excitement. As the doctor walked away, Mother Frochard called after himin hershrill, cracked voice: oe 1 ie Heaven bless you, good doctor. Heaven bless you And as the physician turned the corner, and was out of hearing, her blessings turned to curses, and in a voice full of hate and anger, she exclaimed: “Curses on you fora meddling old fool!” “What did he tell you, madame!” asked Louise, eagerly, as she went towards the old woman, expect- ing to hearthe words of encouragement which the doctor’s kind words assured her she would hear. . “ He said it was not worth the trouble,” said the old hag, in ahard voice, ‘‘There is no hope for you. These cruel words struck Louise with harder force than a blow would have done, and she staggered against one of the buildings for support. ** Alas—alas! what can I do?” she wailed, and there was a depth of despair in her cry, such as seldom epee fromthe human lips. ‘“ t will become of me?’ The encounter with the doctor wasin the highest degree dangerous to the old woman's pians, and she resolved that it should not occur again. “If I bring her here every day, he will see her Pall she said to herself. ‘*No—no; that will not 0. ” For afew moments she remained in deep thought, and then a smile of triumph came over her face which was fiendish, and she said to Louise: “Look here, child, lam a good woman. You have been complaining that I always take you to the same places. Now, to-morrow, we will look for your sister in some other part of the city.” “Ah, madame,’’ said Louise, gratefully, ‘I thank you. Ihave but one hope left, to find my dear sister, my dear Henriette.” ‘Now that all hope of ever recovering her sight, which had been so suddenly raised, was taken from her, her soul cried out more anxiously than ever, if such a thing could be ble, for the sister who had been so cruelly taken from her, CHAPTER XVI, SYMPATHY AND LOVE. Pierre and Jacques returned as soon’as the doctor had gone'away, and Jacques, who had waited long for some money, said: ** Well, mother, howis business?” + ¢ This question had reminded the old woman of the oar the doctor had given Louise, and: she said quickly asshe opened the poor girl’s hand with no gentle force. ““Yes—yes; what did the doctor give you?’ ‘That, madame,’’ replied Louise, as the old hag took the money. This was Jacques’ opportunity and he was not a man to let such a charce miss him. _Before his mother could tell of what amount the coin was, he had taken it from her, and after exam- my dear?” and again the cruel hand reminded Louise | ing it, exclaimed: how she must speak. f Gold! «What thieves these doctors must be; it’s a ‘ } : ey i ue k oe < ¥ oS ee ae me wn i | i “ ok EE 7 ‘covered gold piece,” and he coolly put tt into his poek and was about.to go away, when his. mother cri ont; “But that is mine," ‘*Eh? never mind, mother,” he said, as he put his arm around her neck, and forced her to go with him, “Tl treat you to some brandy.” “With my own money, brigand,” said the old wo- man, completely mollified by her son’ssmall show of affection, and perfectly willing to accompany her villain of a son on his orgie, But a thought of business came over her justas she was leaving, and she turned long enough tosay in her shrill, angry voice, to Louise: “Look you, they will be coming out of the church soon; now sing out loud. No laziness, mind what I say, for I'll be watching you.” ‘Yes, madame,” pee Louise, meekly. “Pierre! Where is that lazy scamp?”’ cried the old woman, who had not seen ghee cripple who stood in the angle of one of the buildings, until her voice called him to come forward. ‘Here, put her on the church steps.” “Yes mother,” said oe ta orp towards the blind rl, thankful of an cpportunity even of touching the nocent girl's hand. But Jacques was opposed to his doing even that, for as Pierre was about to take hold of Louise's wasted hand, he pushed him rudely aside, and in a ae mage said; ‘* Never mind, Cupid, you need not trouble your self. [ll take care of her.” ise shrank from his touch, but he never let such trifles as that deter him; in fact, he pref that even the sound of his voice should Z pain, and taking her rudely by the hand, he led her to the “y of the church, and stood for a moment looking at her. ‘Yes—yes,”’ he said, half to himself, “she is devil- ish good-looking, considering she’s blind.” “You stay here, and see that no one speaks to her,’’ said the old woman to Pierre. : ‘‘T will watch her!” replied the cripple, with a look of devotion to the poor gir! such as one might give to the picture of the onna, an ae gt oy a cre) he'll iat any one run pd w er, is there, Cup’ laug. ues, as he started off with his mother, aby For some time after mother and son had gone away. the Pierre stood fering at the wasted form or blind itl, while the great tears of pathy and ove filled his eyes,and trickled down distorted face. Seated upon the cold stone steps, which were cov- ered with snow and ice, and with scanty clothing to shield her from the piercing wind and falling snow, and os poor girl shook with the cold like one in an e fit, t was a sight which cut the honest, tender Pierre to the heart, but_yet he had nothing with which to. cover her, save the ra coat which he wore, and the loss of that would leave his body ‘naked. bigs 8 for a moment did he hesitate, then, draw- ing off the only nes in which there was any warmth, he went towards Louise. “Tam so very cold,” shivered the poor girl, as she tried to wrap the miserable sack she wore more close- ly around her. Pierre covered her with the coat, and stood exposed to all the merciless of the storm, thankful that he was able to do her this service. “Ts that you, Pierre?’ asked the young girl, as she felt him covering her with the garment. r = -; mamzelle,” replied the cripple, breathing u on his fingers, which were rapidly becoming purp from the intense. cold, “Yes, it must be you, Pierre, you are the only one who is kind tome. But this is your coat,” she said, as she felt the garment, ‘* What will you do without it, Pierre?” “Oh, I'll do very well without it, mamzelle,”’ re- plied Pierre, vainly trying to keep his teeth from chattering, and at the same time telling a falsehood in order to induce the girl to keep the coat. “I a jacket, and a woolen waistcoat, and my—oh, that only my overcoat. Besides, | am very warm, very warm, indeed!” Even while the honest fellow was ing, he was obliged to move around to keep the blood in circula- tion, he was so rapidly becoming chilled. “Pierre,” said uise, earnestly, ‘without you I should die; without your help I shouldn't have strength to endure my sufferings,’’ Again the tears came into the ¢ e's eyes; but this time they were tears of joy as well as sorrow, He was happy at the words which Louise uttered, for they showed him that she thought of him, de- nded on him, and his heart, which was so hungry or the love of some one, rejoiced. “T know they make you wretched,” he said, sadly. ‘*My heart bleeds at the sufferings they inflict om you a but I am helpless—helpless. I can do nothing— nothing!’ These despairing words, which the thought of his own weakness wrung from Pierre’s heart, touched Louise deeply, and she tried to comfort him, : “Is your sympathy, your compassion nothing?” she asked, in a tender voice, and as she took hold of the coat he had placed upon her shoulders, she add- ed: “Even now i have to thank you. es, your pity, your kindness sustains me.” As she said this, she arose and took Pierre’s hand in her own, In doing so, she touched his arm, which was y his thin, ragged shirt, and in an in she understood what he had done. “Oh, how selfish I am!” she said, as she took the coat from off her shoulders. ¥ ‘* No—no!” cried Pierre, trying to vets her frema doing so, and refusing to take it bac ry
Page 15
(Oe * Pierre, do take it,” she almost begged him. “ M dear Pierre, for my sake take it!"’ ( f Pierre could not resist the entreaty,and very re- inctantly did he again put his coat on. “Tam not cold now,’’ she said, struggling not to betray the intense suffering which was hers, as the chilling snow again fell upon her almost unprotected shoulders; “and if I were, am I not accustomed to suffering? Did they not leave mein the coli garret to starve, because I refused to beg? But, alas! 1 must beg, or die and lose all my hope of seeing my dear Henriette once moret”’ The wail of sorrow which accompanied the words 80 ere Pierre, that for a moment he was unable to ! Bpeak. ‘* Have you never thought of escaping?’ he asked, atlast. “I can assist :you. Let me inform the po- lice, and they will protect you.” ** No—no,”’ replied Louise, quickly, ‘* you must not. Lhave thought of it, but that would deprive me of * Do you pity me ?"”" said blind Louise, little dreaming of the right she had to claim pity of the lady who addressed her. the only chance of finding my sister. They wonld = THE TWO ORPHANS. 15 out of the church, brushing, without thought, the poor blind girl with their elegant robes. The feeble, but sweet voice attracted none of the worshippers; they were so much occupied’ with the thoughts of God, which the good priest had’ instilled into their minds, that they did not see one of His children who was singing her life away. Among the last who came from the house of God was the Countess de Linieres, nd upon her face was the same look of sadness which seemed habitual to it. “ Thave prayed to Heavento restore me my child,” she said, half to herself. \** Will my prayer never be answered ?”’ The sad song which Louise was singing arrested her attention, and stirred strange emotions in her breast. “What a voice! How tender and how sad. It awakens pity akin topain, Gracious Heavens! what And bending is\ the meaning of that’ fixed look?’ | over the poor beggar, she asked: ‘ My child, can ghut me up inan asylum for the blind, and then I | you not see me?” should be lost to her forever. Besides, I have an idea which sustains me, and is my only hope. If they take me from one quarter of the city to the other, per- haps some day my voice may reach my sister's ears, I will sing the same songs we learned together, and when I finish, I will cry ont, ‘Henriette! ‘tis I, your ei Louise! Do you not hear me, Henriette, sis- As the poor girl thus repeated the ery which sho hoped would lead her to her dear sister, her voice unconsciously arose to a louder pitch, until the last words were uttered with all her strength, and she Seemed to think that even there she might be heard by her sister. At the same time the organ from the church swel- led out a hymn of praise to God that seemed almost like mockery, for here, at the very steps of God's temple, was there not one of His children in deepest @espair, which had been caused by man, and suffer- ingan affliction which God had visited upon her, per- haps for the sins of her father? : But the ways of God are past finding out, and in his own good time he will pour his balm upon.the stricken one’s heart, andin the fullness of his love aoe dag sorrow and care from her pure and spot- 8. Pierre feared lest his mother should hear her cry, and he knew by the sound of the organ that the ser- vice was ae Bh ae he said, ge ae ] , Louise, they w ear you, @ service is over, and mother will be coming back to watch you. mat" if. she does nct hear me sing she will beat And the poor creature commenced to sing in a low ‘voles, just as the richly dressec throng began to pour at. “No, madame,” was. Louise’s low, sad answer. ‘Poor child ’’ exelaimed the countess. “Do you pity me, madame?” and Louise asked the question almost wonderingly, little dreaming how much right she had to claim pity and love from the aristocratic lady who was bending over her. As the blind girl spoke she felt a hard her.arm, and she knew that Mother Froc Lstening to whatever she might say. The Countess de Linieres saw the hard-featured old hag, and she could not but wonder at the marked contrast between tiie two. upon Pa Was CHAPTER XVIL CHARITY AND PITY, Tae blind girl’s question, “Do you pity me, mad- ame ?” aroused all the great flood of sympathy that the countess was so well known to have, and % was with evident emotion thatshe answered : “Pity you? indeed I do, ny child.” These words fell with a sweet sound upon the poor ad eager ears, and she stepped nearer the Xind ady, regardless of the Proimly of the old hag, who was TAGs all she could to make the poor young life wretched,. “You pity me because I_am blind,” she said, in a touching voice, “ Alas, madame, haf is not my great- est misfortune.”’ ' “What do you mean?” asked the kind-hearted ledy, in surprise, “Speak, child, I am rich, perhaps can— “Ah Lif T dare |" exclaimed Louise, bracing herself to tell her story to this lady who spoke toher in such pitying accents, and who could ‘do so much to wards aiding her to find her sister. But Mother Frochard, who’ had» heard. Louise’s words, had no intention of allowing the couversa- tion to proceed any further, and she axe the blind girl’s tender arm between her hard and wicked fingers, inflicting a hurt which ecauséd the poor girl toery out with pain. “Eh—eh ? what is it 2” asked the old hag, as she pressed her fat, dirty face close to the aristocratic features of thie countess, while her small grey eyes watched the lady’s ace asif to find out what Louise had already told. ‘You have a relative—a mother ?” asked the coun” tess, of Louise, utterly ignoring La Frochard’s im- pertinent interruption, “Mother !” exclaimed the blind girl, in tones of deepest despair. In that one word all the wretchedness of her haré lot was embodied, and her very soul seemed to go ow’ with the word. : Louise had spoken before her tormentor could prevent her; but the old woman avenged herself another wicked pinch, and at the same time s ing quickly, as if to prevent the lady from noticing the blind girl's tone. ‘ “Yes, my beautiful lady,’ she said, in her shrill, coarse tones, while she screwed her face up inte what she intended as a most humble smile, “she has a good mother, if I do say so,” “Is this your daughter?” asked the countess, great surprise, as she gazed at the two, now side side, and compared the slight, shrinking, beaut girl with the fawning, fat and coarse old woman who thus claimed to be the mother of one who resembled her as little as do the angels resemble those imps of Satan that torment Jost souls, ’ “The youngest of seven that Heaven has blessed me with, my lady,” replied the old woman, as she dropped a stiff courtesy, and tried to put ona ré- signed and contented look. ‘‘ That is what the darling was going to tell you—isn’t it, dreary?” A fierce, sly blow in the back warned the treme bling Louise what her fate would be if she did not answer as the old hag'told her to; but in spite the old woman’s threats, the poor girl could not thus tella falsehood, and in addition, destroy the faint hopes of seeing her sister that the countess’ kind words had caused tospring up in her bosom, ‘“‘J—I—” she stammered, in her attempt to reply, but another vicious blow from La Frocoard caus her to reel, and almost lose her breath. Asif she was afflicted with an excess of mother! love, the old woman went towards the trembling gir’ and under pretense of supporting, took her by the arm in & manner that caused Louise the most
Page 16
rhs THE TWO ORPRANS. pain, and at the same time almost prevented her rom i gaorong ve :. Then, with her false smile and affectation of ten- derness, she asked—or, it would be more proper to Bay, answered for Louise: ‘Certainly. Isn’t it so, my dear?” ‘“‘Bhe seems to be ill and suffering,” said the count- ess, as she saw how badly the poor girl trembled, and attributing it. to _physical weakness, rather than emotion, feared that she was sick, and concluded that that was the reason why Louise had not an- svwered her question. “Ah! g charitable souls like you my lady, have pity on her,”’ replied the old woman, in her whining ‘voice, pres A, on Louise’s ears, and even caused her tos! away, as if with pain.’ ‘‘ She hasa nice, home, Haven't you, my dear?” ? As the old hag asked this question of Louise she hispered: Pa a out!” ; ““Yes—yes,” faltered Lo’ Fearful lest the countess should begin to have some suspicion of the real state of affairs, La Frochard stepped in front of Louise, and thus prevented her mabey tang: mitoses further. to your ee pray for me,” said the countess, as she handed poor girl a gold piece, and poet her sedan chair, and in a toby agencnns gr was outo sight. _ Until the chair in which the countess was seated was out of sight Mother Frochard watched it narrow- » and in am ly sort of attitude near ise; but as soon as the last one of the servants he ais Se ‘De Linieres’ livery had turned. the cor- ted grasped the money eagerly, and with no gen- Ah, a louis, another gold piece! It has been a good day, after all.” ore And placing the money in her capacisus pecket, the woman ked anxiously around to see which one of the many streets that met at the offered the best facilities for her business. .tlength slie decided upon her route, and going u to Louise, she seized hed souunly by the hens than gore her arm a an by way of reminder, and said, oul”? her hard, stern voice: ‘Seen apmendel, thatscot pit keoven ta a} : e r n in a low £ trembled with suppressed emotion, and the ed slowly away, while the old hag continued voice her shrill, monotoneus ery of: = , good people; charity for a poor blind Jacques and Pierre had been silent witnesses of the e che countess and Louise, and nothing le that were passin: count- Pierre started to follow them, in order that he might |, in an angry tone, “I have a word For an instant the cripple did not heed the voice; but the thought of what his brother might do ca 7 61967 5 to follow Louise!’ exclaimed Jacques, in an ee ?” asked Pierre, as if he doubted 1 aright. forbid you to even think of her!" sc EEE ener pecs ak cortce upon. bia de- loo as if he was abou spring upon his de- Bin brother, and kill him henand thete, becay fared to cast his eyes in the direction | It was evident that this brute of a man, who knew no other pleasure than drinking or making others suf- his own brutal way, fallen in love with the | m - * Jacques, I cannot help it,” said Pierre,in an almost ploring tone. ‘‘ You would not be so cruel, No—no, acques. Why are you so cruel?” | “Neyer mind why, I forbid you, that is enough; if ‘you dare to aisobey me, I’ break those misshapen over again, Cupid.” | hé said thishe dealt the poor cripple a cruel low, which knocked him down, as a mild way of en- forcing his commands. * Ahf kill me—kill me if you will,” said Pierre, as he slowly arose from the Lge and in a low voice he added: “ButI love her, aud you cannot forbid » Jacques cast alook of scorn and contempt at the pede the who stood shivering like one in an ague fit, and then lighting an inseparable com on—a short clay pipe—moved away in the direction of the near- ‘est cabaret. « For afew moments the — boy, whohad been de- formed by the brother whe should have. protected Lace of beaten him, stood in a dejected attitute. e knew fuli' well why Jacques had forbidden i.m ‘to think of Louise, and he shuddered as he thought ‘of additional cruelty which the poor girl would ‘have tosuffer, because of the love which Jacques— veruel, hard-hearted Jacques—had conceiv for ‘fer, i girl whom he delighted to torment, CHAPTER XVIII. AN HONEST LOVE. Wz will return to Henriette, who, like her ‘sister. of meeting the one who had m her by the rude hands of un- use the | ai She is seated in a rly-furnished attic room en- at sewing, while her thoughts wander back to the fatal night when, strangers in the city, the two unprotected girls were doomed by a hard, unyielding fate to wander apart, seeking, but never finding the other. While she was thus engag heard at the door, and the tered. a low knock was evalier de Vaudrey en- A careless observer would have seen that he was a pies and that the object of his adoration was be- ore him. “ Henriette,” he said, tenderly, taking her hands and pressing them to his lips. ‘Have you heard any- thing? You seem agitated.” “Twas ting you, I mean—I thought perhaps ; you would sees J me news of Louise,” replied the | fair a in pretty confusion. “No, I have heard nothing,”’ replied the chevalier, regretful . ‘Yet youknow Lhave occupied myself unceasingly for the past three months in vain en- deavors to ascertain her fate, But to-day, Henriette, OS tospeak to youof something else—of my- ‘*T know, monsieur, all that you would say to me,”’ replied Henriette, in a low, sweet voice. “I know that you rescued me atthe risk of your own life, fe s ee peril, and believe me, Iam not un- ateful’ “* Henriette, do you feel no other sentiment than gratitude? Do you not understand heart? Until yesterday, I was bound in honor to impose silence on my life;circumstances have released me, and to- day Jf can, and dare, avow with pride that I love you, ; The young man for a moment, as if eo ing the F hae = o speak; but, as she kept nt, he con ane 4 a deep, gaa Pea “* Henriette, mine is not a trifling, frivolous love. I loved you from the moment when I first saw you cou usly defending your_ honor with prayers, with threats, and with tears. I loved you from the moment your innocence ed to my manhood and I swear to you before Heaven, that this love, born in an instant, shall end only with my life.” “Oh, this is wrong—wrong,” said Henriette; as the great tears of gratitude came welling up in her eyes. “T have known too long that your heart was oe | to hide from me, and I have been guilty to allow it to distract me fromthe only duty I have in life. rou should not compel me to confess my weak- ness. punt Henriette!” exclaimed the chevalier, reproach- 7 me to my sacred task, and when Louise is restored to my arms, I shall have earned the right to prevent- | be ha PPy. “Henriette, dear Henriette——” began De Vau- drey, but he was interrupted by a knock at the dour, stan xr the round, smiling, inquisitive face of Picard was seen at the half-opened door. “Picard!” exclaimed the chevalier, in surprise at seeing his valet. “Yes, monsieur, it is Picard, only Picard,” said the valet, as he entered the room. “What do you want? Whatbrings you here?” and Ho Ae tas 8 voice, usually so soft, was now harsh and angry. “The fellow is my valet,” he added, in a low tone, to Henriette. “Yes, mamzelle,”’ said the valet, with an equivocal bow. “Iam Picard, the discreet,” and he thought to himself, ‘* this must be the } d, and he is inherroom. Oh, he is doing well.” om Bae brings you here?” asked the chevalier, im- atiently, : Pee A comin tileation for you, sir, of the greatest importance,” answered Picard, with an important os “T must take my work down stairs, they are wait- ing for’ it,” said Henriette, thinking that the valet had something of a private nature to say to his aster. ; - — will return?” asked De Vaudrey, very anx- ously, “Oh, yes, in a few minutes.” She will return,” said Picard, to himself; “ well, that is Mistress below stairs, and a pretty chambermaid up here. This is the young man who was studyi osophy,” and a self-satisfied smile passed over his face as he thought that his master was walking in the way he admired. © ‘** Well, sir,” said De Vaudrey, as soon as the door closed and they were alone, “we are alone now, what brings you here?” Y “Ttook the liberty of following you, monsieur,”’ replied Picard, in a saucy tone, ? ‘Follow me, you scoundrel!’ exclaimed the cheva- lier, in an an tone, “Scoundrel is good, very good,” said Picard, in a low voice. ‘Now he issomething like a master.” “What doyousay?” - “was saying, monsieur, that scoundrel is not half strong enough, particularly when I come to find out that, after all~—”’ ** After all! What?’ ; And De Vaudrey was fast losing his temper, 4 bem in which the valet seemed most anxious to see im, “Good, he will kick me in a minute,” thought Pic- ard, as he said, in an impudent sort of way: “You must know, monsieur, that I had become so disgusted with your conduct that’ I begged your uncle to relieve me-of ‘serving you any longer, and if ne had not. insisted on my remaining and watching you—— “So you have become a spy, Master Picard, have you?’ interrupted De Vaudrey, in-ana voice... _* Yes, sir, @ spy on you. y, ma not, how should I have found out that you was a gel- lant and a roue?” ‘ Poue!” exclaimed the chevalier, who was now regaining his temper and becoming amused, ‘ Well, how did you find that out?” ‘* By obeying the instructions of your unele, I fol- low ou to the house of your inamorata, and in- stead of finding you with that much-honored lady, I acer you enjoying the society of her chamber- m a ‘s “ Chambermaida'” exclaimed De Vaudrey, not un-. derstanding at first what his valet meant. “Oh, you have the fairest of excuses,” said Picard, ina light tone. ‘‘Sheis as pretty as——” “Look you, Master Picard,” cried the chevalier,. now thoroughly enraged, ‘‘another word, and I w: throw you out of that window.” “Oh, that is going further thanI bagiaes for,” said Picard, getting a little alarmed, ‘Thrown out of a sixth story window.” ‘* Listen to me, sir,’’ said De Vaudrey, sternly, “T am all ears, monsieur, but please remember that we are very high up and Picard made a grim- ace that was inexpressibly comical. Zc foie aooat to tae ovees ge Boh} Bim that af- r having dog my footsteps day ay, you tae at last found me in the presence of the otnen love. “You mean the chambermaid of the woman you love. Same sg Ow said Picard, flippantly. ‘Silence, sir! Itell you that you have seen the we man I love, and you ry Adin the count that she is to be my wife,” and Vaudrey’s voice rang out loud and clear, while a proud light in his eyes showed how much of honor he felt it would be for him if the woman of his choice should consent to marry him. “Eh, your wife?’ exclaimed Picard, in surprise, “Silence, sir, she is coming.”’ As he spoke the door opened and Henriette entered the room. Her beautiful eyes were filled with tears, and her face was expressive of the deepest ° With that abandon which grief imparts, she threw herself into a chair, and la; fog her head on the table, sobbed as though her heart would break, Y e—shame! Iam sure Ido not deserve to be so insulted,” she sobbed, half to herself. “What is it, Henriette? Who has insul youy’ asked De Vaudrey, while the fire that ed from his eyes boded no good for the insulter, “‘T am ordered to leave the house,” replied Henri- ette, still sobbing. “Ordered to leave the house! Why?” and the chevalier seemed to bein a perfect whirl of amaze- ment. ‘ Alas, monsieur, they tell me that a young girl, ati, wn has not the right to recéive the visits o gentlemen such as you.” : “Such asI? Iwhohave always treated you with the respect due a sister!”’ **A moment ago she was his wife,” 74 Picard, who had been eagerly listening to the pees to himself, ‘“‘ now she is his sister. Oh, it's all , “The mistress of the house, who until now has been so kind to me, says she cannot permit me to remain, for she has a good name to proces which my con- duct scandalizes,” continued Henriette, in a low, sad voice, ‘*WhatcouldI say? She has ordered me to leave at once.”’ si “Poor. thing!” said Picard, eur, I say this Fe a ogra voice. * Mol “ Henriette,” said the chevalier, tenderly, “dry your tears. ‘You shall leave this house enter mine. “That is pretty cool!” exclaimed the valet, in sure ey ray aed low a tone that his master did not ear him. ; “*Not mine alone,” continued De Vaudrey, ‘but pours. - well, for you shall enter it on the arm of your us ihe “Your wife!” exclaimed the weeping girl. ‘* No~ no, that is impossible.” . “T agree with you perfectly,’ thought Picard, whose ideas as regards birth and position were very decided. “Think of the immeasurable distance which se rates us,” continued Henriette, in a firm voice. * lieve that I appreciate the generosity which inspires you, yet my duty impels me to refuse.” “Refuse!” repeated the chevalier, in surprise. » “‘ Spoken like a sensible girl,” was Picard’s mental comment upon Henriette’s decision. * How could I i the will of your family?’ said the poor girl, ee ng half to herself. ‘They are rich arid powerful. A marriage with me would entail their enmity, even their persecution.” ; ; “If my family will not give their consent, T will find means to compel them,’’ was De Vaudry’s angry ex elamation. : ' “Certainly, we'll compel them,” said Picard, sud- denl eepqusing. the young girl’s cause. aes “Picard, my hat,” ssid the chevalier, in an imperi- ous tone. ‘We must go.” “Yes, monsieur, we must g0,’’ was Picard’s com- ment, as he handed his master his hat, and then he: said, half tohimself: **I shal’ want to marry her my- self.in.a few minutes.” Se “Henriette, I go to find the means of ng our happiness,” said De Vaudrey, going towards the ur, if I had | door. _— oe
Page 17
ML NA Hi idiotic es chee exclaimed the r again bursting into tears. Pern. Henriette, I will not say farewell, I cannot part with all my hopes, I need them to give me cour- age. Awrevoir!” “Au revoir!’ exclaimed Henriette, as the door closed behind the man she loved, Picard had waited in order to sgy some comfortin svord to the poor girl, and as soo his master h left the room, he said, in what he intended to be a pt jite tone, but which failed most signally, owing to his emotion: *“Mamzelle, 1 admire you. I esteem you, I-I— au revoir /” and he rushed out of the door to hide his confusion. Left alone, Henriette gave herself up to deep re- flection. Should she throw her Jove aside for duty? was the uestion she asked herself many times, and hard in- d was the struggle in the poor girl’s heart. \ i i | | | a T | On one side she saw wealth and happiness, and on the other misery and privation; but theduty she owed her sister at last decided her, “No, I will not. see him again. I have not the strength to continue this conflict between love and duty,” she said, in an audible voice. ‘He loves me! Oh! is it not a beautiful dream? Ah! itis buta dream, and the awakening has come to remind me of my guilty neglect, Iam justly punished, insulted, driven m this house, I must go—go wherel s never see him again.” And as she concluded, thus deciding between her love and duty, she bowed her fair head, and wept hot, bitter tears of sorrow and blighted love. CHAPTER XIX, * FOUND AND LOST, ITE remained in her grief-stricken position time; but she was suddenly aroused from by a knock at the door, and the entrance of a ar A gichly dressed, and bearing evident marks of one in the first circles of society. It was the Countess de Linieres. “ This is Mademoiselle Henriette Girard, I believe?” e asked, in a kind tone. “‘That is my name, madame,” replied Henriette, in great astonishment. You have been warmly recommended to me, 4nademoiselle.” “Recommended to | en madame?” “‘Lam one of a society of charitable persons who, if the good report I have heard of you is true, can as- sist you,”’ said the countess, thus hiding the real pur- port of her visit. *T am not in need, madame—alas! I do not mean I mean that I am not in want—I can work.” **Can I do nothing for you?” “Nothing,” replied Henriette, and then, as if sud- ¢ ecol ting Reena: she added, coy : o I sa madame, J acee) our Rey, implore he om Py : HENRIE for some THE TWO ORPHANS. ‘What isit you wish?’ asked the countess, in a kind tone. “Madame,” said Henriette, earnestly; ‘I do not need money, I ask for some shelter where I can live and work, far from falsehood and calumny, and away from him,” “From him? Do you wish to escape from the per- secutions of some one?” **From one who wishes to make. me his wife,”’ re- replied Henriette, sadly. y ‘ ‘His wife?’ repeated the countess, with a view of causing the young girl to say more. “T have refused that title,and yet I distrust my courage to resist his entreaties.” *You have done well, mademoiselle, and it is my duty tospeak frankly to you, Iam a near relative of the chevalier’s. I have known for some time of the attachment which exists_ between you, and I de- fended him against the wrath of his uncle, my hus- band, But reflection hasshown me my duty to both Henriette prevented from going to her sister's rescue. of you. The opposition of his family renders this marriage impossible,” ‘*Madame,”’ pg oe: Henriette, with a tinge of pride in her voice, ‘I had determined on my course before seeing you, The path of sacrifice and duty.” “T shall not prove ungrateful,” replied the coun- tess, touched by the young girl's words. “Iam rich | ishl and powerful.” ** Powerfull” exclaimed Henriette, thinking perhaps she might interest her in Louise's fate. “Tf at any time Ican show my appreciation of your noble and disinterested conduct——” mt 6, you can!” exclaimed the young girl, eagerly, not noticing that she was interrupting the countess, So eager was she, “ Now, at this very in- stant you can!’ “ How 7 “Use your power to find the poor child who has been torn from my protection. Restore her to me and you can ask no sacrifice I will not make, I will tear my love from my heart, and disappear with her | lad. where you and yours shall never see me more. Dol ask too much ?”’ ‘“No—no!” answered the countess, quickly. “I promise you not alone my aid, but that of the great- | her. est power in Paris. Give me her name, age and de- scription,” cA domain dyes alas! madame, too easily given. She is but sixteen. and blind.” “Blind—blind!”’ repeated the countess, while her thoughts went back to the blind girl she had met a short time previous, “Her name is Louise.” * Louise!” exclaimed the lady, “that name is very dear tome. Be comforted, my child, we will find your sister.” ‘She is not my sister, madame!” “Not your sister?” ““No, madame! but I owe her the love and tender- ness of a mother and sister combined, for she saved us all from misery and want, my father, my mother and myself.” r blind child do that?” asked the “ How could a countess, in great surprise; “My father found heron the steps of the church” Henriette was interrupted by a low cry from the countess, and she saw that she had turned as pale = = She stopped; but the countess said, fever- shly; “On the steps of a church? Tell me when and Rhee, You say she saved you all from misery— how?”’ “From poverty so terrible that my father had not even bread to give us. Anxious to save at least, the life of his child, he took me, while my mother slept, and set out toward Notre Dame. Snow covered the steps.of the church, and my father stood weeping and irresolute, when suddenly he heard a.plaintive cry. He approached and saw alittle baby half buried under thesnow. He took her to his breast to warm her benumbed and frozen limbs, when the thought came to him, as this child would have died had he not arrived in time to save it, so his own might die before help could reach her. ‘I will leave neither of them, he said, and he returned, carrying both infants in his arms.’” The countess’ eager attention to Henriette’s words was painful, so anxious did she appear to hear more. “Oh, go on, mademoiselle, go on!”’ she cried, fever- ¥ Entering his home,” said Henriette, continuing her story, “hesaid to mother, ‘we only one child, heaver: has sent us another,’ and he was right; Heaven did reward his Dry action, for on open- ing the clothing of the child a roll of gold was foun together with these words written on a scrap paper; ‘Her name is Louise—save her.’ gain a low cry as of pain burst from the countess” quivering lips, and had she not da chair for support, she would have fallen to the floor, Are you ill, madame?” asked Henriette, in sur- rise, PM No—no—I—it is nothing,” ped the stricken the infants fell atieds mood aoe worthy pemple, ala 1e infant fell amon and wo she not? Tell me all—all.” é ; Ne 6, I cannot tell you how we loved ” “Yes,” said the countess, with a world of ten- derness in her voice, ‘‘ you havea noble, loving-hearf. Now I know why Maurice loves you. I will love you too, Indeed, I love you now.” And she elaspéd the young girl in her arms. 4 “ x en you wil! help me to find her?”’ pleaded Hen- ette. ‘Help you!” exclaimed the countess, in excite- ment. ‘All Paris shall be searched from end to end, But, gracious Heaven, she is biind! How is that, and how did you lose her? Tell me all,” At this moment a low, sad, sweet voice could be heard in the street, and so strangely familar did the voice sound to Henriette, that she could hardly con- tinue ber story. ‘Yes, madame, it was—one evening ——"* * Go on, my child," said the countess, as Henrietés paused, and listened anxiously. “ About—about tw vears age—"
Page 18
a a ae a i al ea ali lel eee ‘Btreet below. - phe could clasp her THE TWO ORPHARS. Again the voice was heard, and again Henriette’s tation me most intense. years ago, well?’ repeated the countess, won- dering at the young girl’s hesitation. ““Yes—two years ago—Louise—was there——” “Henriette could not talk; it seemed that she ‘must go to the window, and yet it would not do to offend the lady who had it in her power to save her sister. “Go on,” said the countess, looking at Henriette in astonishment. She had heard the voice, but it was one that of a street beggar, and could not interest er. “She—was then fourteen—we were playing to- gether one evening—when——”’ Henriette could proceed no further. The voice had approached nearer, and could now ag oe very distinctly. enriette had recognized the voice of her sister— her sister who had been lost to her so long, and she gave utterance to a low scream. ** What is it,’ asked the countess, in alarm. “ Hush! listen!” exclaimed the young girl. Louise’s song could now be heard plainly. “I think I remember that song,” said the countess, half to herself. “It is she, madame! it is she!” exclaimed Henri- is | running to the window and looking out, At this moment Louise's plaintive voice could be heard calling, in a tone of despair: “ Henriette—Henriette! do you hear me?” **Louise, I am coming--I am coming!’’ screamed Henriette, in reply, as she rushed towards the door. “It is I, Louise, your sister,” answered the voice of ber iy street singer, and then her voice ended in a wail, as though cruel hands were clasping her by the throat to prevent her speaking. P “JT come!” screamed Henriette, as she opened the oor, But her exit was barred by a troop of guards, with the Count de Ligjeres at their head, who were just entering the chamber, and one of them grasped Hen- riette firmly, thus preventing her from going to her sister's aid. The agony of the poor girl who had seen her sister 50 near, but who was prevented from going to her, = be ror ray but not written. e had, in the same instant, faund and lost her. CHAPTER XX. WITHOUT PITY, For several moments Henriette could not under- #tand why she was prevented from going out. She knew that Louise was at that moment in the She had seen that sister for whom she had searched so long, and just at that moment when her arms once more, she found herself prevented by a guard of armed men, In her frenzy, she struggled with the stalwart men, thinking that she might force a passage, and regain the street in time to meet her loved sister. The countess sank half fainting into a chair, as she saw her husband enter upon an errand which she could guess concerned her, and she at once con- jectured that the Count de Linieres had discovered er secret which for so man; years she had guarded, ‘Gentlemen ntlem not stop me!” exclaim- ed Henriette, as saw how useless her struggles were. The men looked at the count as if to ask for orders, and he, rightly interpreting their looks, said, in a cold, stern voice: “Do your duty.” In a moment more Henriette was seized firmly by two of the guards, who awaited De Linieres’ orders to carry her away, : **In the name of heaven, let me go!” implored the poor girl, turn towards the count. “I tell you I must go to her; it is she,do you not hear? Her voice ows fainter, Oh, for heaven's sake have pity, let e go, or I shall lose her in!’ “Take this girl to Salpetriere!” exclaimed the count, wlio was not moved from his purpose by Henriette’s : % passionate pleadin “Oh, no—no!” afaplobe the poor girl, as the rough soldiers forced her away. The countess seemed to recover a portion of her self- on as Henriette was forced away. She “understood now that she must rescue Louise before it was too late, and she rushed towards the door; but her husband barred the ary >idkua ““ At least, let me go, I must go!” she exclaimed, excitedly. “You will remain where you are, madame,” said the count, taking her almost roughly by the arm. * You have not yet told ine what brought you here.” * Monsieur, I will, later,” frantically exclaimed the poor woman, almost beside herself with anxiety. “I will tell you all; but now let ine go before she ——” ‘Of whom are you speaking, madame?” was the stern interruption. : * Of whom?’’ almost shrieked the countess. ‘‘ Why, of—of—my ——”’ The poor woman could say no more. In her ex- eitement she had almost said, ‘‘my child;’’ but she saw the count’s stern, angry gaze fixed upon her, and she sank back in her chair in a dead swoon, Count De Linieres gave a hard, cold look at his wife, without attempting to aid her, and then turning, left the room, _ : Ashe reached the street, he heard a sad, sweet voice singing in the distance; but to him it meant nothing, save the song of a street-beggar, and he paid no attention to it. To two it would have spoken in tones of deepest _ |] the dreary inaction of priso: misery had they heard it; but one was on her way to] As he entered, Sister Genevieve went eagerly to Salpetriere, and the other, in that attic-room, uncon- scious of all that was passing around her, CHAPTER XXI. PRISON LIFE. We have for a time lost sight of Marianne Vau- thier, the poor outcast, whom we saw in the the third chapter, and now as we go tothe prison of La Sal- petriere, in which Henriette is confined, we see her ain. Mariano, the prisoner, is different from Marianne, the outeast.. Prison life has enabled her to exercise all that was good in her nature, without giving any opportunity for the use of those traits which were perverted by the ruffian Jacques. During her imprisonment she has won the hearts of her keepers and fellow prisoners, and all regard her with love. Indeed, so exemplary has been her life for the past three months, that Sister Genevieve, the tenga has used every endeavor to procure her pardon, Before we again speak of the principal character of our story, a glimpse of the life of the inmates of La Salpetriere may not prove uninteresting. In those days no work was furnished the unhappy prisoner, and day after day the weary mOneere?, of cell and court-yard was only broken by the religious teachings of the good sisters who were in charge of the place, or a conversation with each other in which the probable term of their imprisonment was the principal topic. It was during a similar conversation that we enter the court-yard of the prison, and find Marianne, with .cme light work which has been given, by re- quest, to her, talking and trying to cheer several others, who are dragging out the weary term for which they are confined. One of the womenis seated a, little apart from the rest, weeping over her hard lot, and it is to her that Marianne addresses herself. “Do not greive so, Florette,” she says, soothing- ly. ‘ ! * Oh, I can never live such a life as this!’’ replied the poor girl, giving way anew to grief. ; ae ry to work, it will make you forget your trou- es. “Tecan’t work. Idon'teknowhow. Ihave never had any harder work to do than amuse myself. ; “That would be precious hard work in this place,” remarked another, who had eer several years of e. : ‘Our paths in life have been very different,” said Marianne, with « sigh, as she thought of her own hardlife, “I was compelled to work fora thief.” “Scores of admirers crowded around me, willing to ruin themselves for my amusement,” said Florette, drying her eyes, and s ing in a vivacious man- ner, as she thought of her past triumphs. ‘And it all comes to a prison, and eating gruel with 4 wooden spoon,”’ said Julie, the one who:had passed so many years in prison. * But you get aceustomed to that,” said Marianne, in a quiet, resigned voice. “But it does not end there,” F shee Julie; “some day we shall be treated as those poor crea- tures were yesterday; hurried off with a guard of soldiers to see us safe on our way to exile.” * And oF egies) crowd insulting and maltreating us,” added Florette, “Does the idea of exile frighten you?” asked Mari- anne. ‘‘ Who would not be frightened at the idea of a two months’ voyage in the vilest company, and at the endof it to be landed in a wild country,” replied Julie, with a great show of feeling. © “ What will you-doif they send you away?’’ asked Florette of Marianne. “ T shall try tobe resigned. Perhaps I shall find some satisfaction in being sent away out of the Aes of temptation, One can find plenty of work ere. ‘They say that women are scarce out there in Louisiana,” said Julie, complacently, ‘'t Maybe I shall find @ husband, and revenge myself in that way, “You may not be sent.to exile,’’ said Marianne, hopefully. ‘Show yourself repentant, and the BSis- ter Superior will interest herself in your behalf.” Just at this time Sister Genevieve appeared at the door of the prison, and looked towards her in a man- ner that plainly showed how much love they enter- tained for her. ‘She has been attending to the sick, now she comes to console the afflicted,” said Marianne, ina low voice, “Well, for so good a woman, she is the meekest I ever saw,”’ said Julie, in a decided tone. ‘What do I not owe her?” continued Marianne. “Her gentle words first awoke feciiaga in my heart that I thought long since dead. hen I see those pure and humble wonien, who have nothin but virtues to confess, daily kneeling in prayer, wha’ can I pepet sh who am so guilty.” ** And I, too,”’ said Florette. “But they have taught me that I can atone for the ast,” said Marianne, still in. a half musing tone, {neh every good deed will efface a fault commit- “T am afraid I couldn’t live long enough to balance the account,” said Julie, in a voice that expressed both jest and sadness. The conversation was interrupted by the entrance of the physician of the prison, who was none other than the same charitable doctor whom wesaw at the Place St. Sulpice, when he would have benefited Louise so greatly, had he been allowed to do so, som him, displaying a nervousness that was very strange. “Ah, doctor, I have been waiting impatientry for you,” she said, in a marvelously wees voice, “tam not late, I believe,” replied the oe ty orry ag he glanced at his watch to assure himself that he was punctual to the time appointed, “No,” answer@ the sister, ‘‘but you led me te hope that when” you came to-day you would bring me—” “Good news,” added the doctor, while a smile of satisfaction and pleasure passed over his_ face. “Well, Lhave done everything in my power. I have spoken of the interest you e in this unfortunate woman, of her sincere repenta and I even went so ky to add a few good qualities on my own ac- count,” “You did wrong, doctor,” said the good sister, in. a tone that showed plainly that she was hurt at any subterfuge having m used, even though it was done to effect. a purpose which she had very much as. heart. ‘There is no cause sacred enough to justify the violation of the truth.’’ “You will thank me, nevertheless, sister,’’ replied: the doctor. a ‘‘Then you have succeeded?’ was the eager ques- ion, “Completely.” ‘““Heaven be praised!” said Sister Genevieve, piously, as she clasped her hands and breathed a pre i thankfulness, Then turning to Marianne, she said: “Marianne, come here, my child. Here is our good doctor, who will tell you what he has done for “For me?” asked the surprised girl, as she went slowly towards them, , “You must thank Sister Genevieve, not me,”’ said the physician. ‘‘Touched by your repentance, she has solicited your pardon and release. “For an instant, Marianne did not understand all that the doctor’s words meant; but when it flashed upon her mind that she was free, that now, thanks to Pe hadi garry oF er sister, she _ onger a prisoner, no longer in danger o sent into exile, she threw herself on her knees Hefore Sister Genevieve, and clasping her hand, rained. kisses and tears on it in the fulness of her gratitude. **My benefactress! my mother!” she ex ed, im a voice almost choked with emotion. “No—no,” said Sister Genevieve, quickly. ‘It was he who obtained it for you.” She pointed to the doctor, who was standing near, wiping away the tears which filled his eyes at such. an exhibition of gratitude as Marianne furnished. “No,” he said, gravely, “‘ your release is ated to the good Sister Genevieve, To that and noble woman, who, born within the walls of La Salt triere, has never consented te cross its threshold; who has made this prison her country, and its unfor- tunate inmates her family; who brings to you all her daily blessings of consolation and prayer, so that the vilest here respect and love her—”” _ The doctor SG ot pee oat because on looking around upon the faces of the Inmates who had. gath- ered near them, he saw their cheeks bedewed with tears—tears of gratitude and love for the pure wo- man who was devoting her life to their welfare, and. as his own eyes were not free from moisture, he thought it time to bring his remarks to a close. Marianne still held the good sister’s hand, and azed up into her face as though she would impress st calm and placid features upon her heart in- elibly. They stood around the sister, silent and tearful, when the prison bell was rung loud and sharp. It was the signal for the prisoners'to retire to their cells, and they began to move towards their narrow, cheerless rooms. ‘It is time to goin,” said Sister Genevieve, cheer- fully, and then taking Marianne’s face between her hands, she imprinted a loving kiss upon her fore- head, and said, gravely: “This evening you will be free. Do not forget that I am responsible for Se Society has sent me a guilty woman; I return it a repentant one, I hope, Marianne, CHAPTER XXIL PICARD IN A NEW ROLE, AttTHoven Henriette had .been in La Salpetriere twenty-four hours when the events narrated in our last chapter occurred, Marianne had not seen her, for the reason that the poor orphan had been ill, Her sufferin of sickness, and, happily for the poor girl, she had been bern 377 not even mowing that she wasin a rison, Instead of being confined in a cell she was taken tothe prison hospital, and had just escaped from her keepers, and came running into the courtyard as Sister Genevieve spoke the words to Marianne which closes our last chapter. With her hair unbound, a wild light in her Pe by and a hectic flush upon her cheeks, she rushed to the sister and knelt before her, Although the appearance of the young meee entirely different from what it was when Marianne last saw her, she knew her almost immediately. ‘* Good heavens! is it possible?’ she exclaimed, im a tone of surprise, of almost fright. ; “Oh, madame!”’ cried Henriette, in imploring <a “if you are the mistress here, have pity on: = and order them to set me free, Task you on my nees!” The voice of the young girl convinced Marianne that she was indeed none other than one of the twe had brought on a severe attack
Page 19
THE TWO ORPHANS. whe #0 menerousy befriended her on the night when she gave herself iP to the police. “Be calm, my child,’”’ said Sister Genevieve, ten- erly, as she stroked Henriette’s long hair with a gentle, loving touch. ‘You are ill.” “Oertainly you are,” added the doctor, going to- ward her, ‘Why have you left your bed without my rmission ?”’ h, monsieur!’’ said the poor girl, turning to- wards the gentle-voiced, pleasant-faced man who spoke so kindly, ‘have you attended me in my ill- ness Yes—yes, and I cannot permit you to act in this way. But, monsieur, I am well now,” said Henriette going towards the doctor. “Thanks to your care, i am well again. They left me alone fora few mo- ments, and I arose and dressed myself. Now that yousee I am quite well, you will tell them to let me g0, will ed not?” ; The doctor gazed at her compassionately for a moment before Soarernig “That is impossible. To release you from this place requires a fre preter power than mine.” “This place?” ed the young girl, in surprise. ““Why, whatisit? Is itnota pert) ae ? ge A howpiys! and a prison,” replied the physician, gravely. “A prison!’ exclaimed Henriette, in terror, and Sag toremember how she came to be insucha ace. At last the events of the past few hours came back to her mind, until gradually she understood all, “* Ah, I remember,” she said, at length. ‘ Yes, I rémember the soldiers who dragged me hither, and he who commanded. Oh, my God, what have I done to be crushed like this!” And falling prone upon the earth, the poor, strick- en one wept scalding tears of anguish, She knew not that her sister was in the power of unscrupulous wretches, and her cup of sorrow seem- ed to be running over with the knowledge that she was unable to render her poor blind sister any as- sistance, even if shehad known exactly where she was at that moment, For an instant the three gazed in pity at the grief- stricken girl before them, and then turning away to hide his tears, the doctor said: ** Sister, this is not a case for my care, You must be the physician here.” ““T have seen many guilty women,”’ said Sister Genevieve, ‘‘ but this one —’ “Is not guilty, sister,” interrupted Marianne, quickly. “‘Do you know her?” ““When I came here,” said Marianne, “‘Itold you that on that very day, overwhelmed with despair, I had attempted to destroy myself.” on beet I remember.” ** And how I had been prevented from adding that crime to my many sins by two young girls, angels of virtue and ess. This is one of them.” “* How is it possible that she should be here?” asked Sister Genevieve, half to herself, “Misfortune may have overtaken her, but Tam sure that vice has never sullied her life,” replied Marianne, with great assurance. The good sister raised Henriette from the ground, and attempted to soothe her grief. pa , my child, look up,” she said, kindly, Henriette made no sign of recognition, and Mari- anne went more closely to her. “Look at me, mademoiselle. Do you not remem- ber the woman who wished to drown herself?” ** You—you,”’ faltered the poor girl, striving to re- all the events which had passed, and which, in her misery, seemed to have occurred years before, in- stead of only a few weeks. ‘‘ Ah, yes, I remember ou too well!’ she exclaimed, as the events of that tal night when she was separated from her sister came upon her like some pestilence-laden blast of air. “Alas! we were together then—that was before they drags od me away front her. You saw her—my poor ister?” " I told madame that you were as pure as an an- gel.” “Yes, madame, I'am innocent!’ exclaimed Henri- ette, earnestly, andin a manner that could not but carry conviction withit, ‘Icall heaven to witness. T swear ——” “Do not swear, daughter,” said Sister Genevieve, ina mildly reproving voice. ‘‘I believe you would not be guilt of the shameful sin of falsehood,” * No—no!” answered Henriette, quickly. While the conversation was going on a man had spproached the prison gates, and after showing the ster in charge a paper signed by the minister of po- lice, giving him permission to visit the prison was ad- tted, and proceeded directly to Sister Genevieve. hap iti who just entered was our old friend, Picard the magnificent. “By whose orders were you sent here?” asked the r, as she looked earnestly at the rather singular Onpgaring yout man, “By order of the Count de Linieres, madame.” “Who are you, sir?” she asked, rather surprised at the messenger the count had sent. “First valet-de-chamber to his excellency, the minister of police,” replied Picard, laying his hand on his heart in an affected manner, and making a very low bow. “Then it is by his orders,” said the usually very rine sister, in A stern voice, “that the poor child “Alas, madame, interrupted Picard, “the honor of @n illustrious house must be protected.” ou are a witness that I refused the hand of the chevalier,” said Henriette, passionately, and ap- tsi to the valet with all’ the force of her gentle > » * Is that.so, monsieur?"’ asked Sister Genevieve. “That is true, Iam compelled to admit it,”’ replied Picard, with another and a lower bow. ‘*Madame, I told you she was innocent,” said Mari- anne, overjoyed at this proof of Henriette’s guiltless- ess. “Tf Madame the Superior will allow me to inform the young lady of the further wishes of his excel- lency,the minister of police, I think I can make her un- derstand,” said Picard, seeing that this interview was not tending to give those around him that exalted idea of his dignity which he was ever careful to pre- serve, oe wishing to terminate the interview as soon as ible, *“You may do so," said the sister, ‘eyed Then, turning to Henriette and kissing her, she said: ‘‘ Have cou , my child, and trust in Heaven.” As the Sister Superior left the courtyard and enter- ed the hospital, Marianno pressed close to Henriette, and whispered: . “ Courage—courage, mademoiselle,” and then fol- lowed Sister Genevieve. “We are alone,’’ said Henriette, as soon as Mari- anne had gone. ‘‘What new misery do you bring me, you whom I thought devoted to your master, and yet come here to betray him?” *Come—come, mademoiselle,”’ said Picard, grow- ing confused, strange to aay, at the words of the yourg girl, ‘‘that is too bad to have you reproach me too. Because the master I deceive isthe minister of police.” “But Monsieur de Vaudrey—what of him?” “He refused to obey his uncle—and—and yesterday he was sent to the Bastile.”’ “ He, too, is a prisoner, then!” exclaimed Henri- ette, in despair.. The chevalier was the only one to whom she could look for assistance in escaping from the dreadful place in which she was confined, and now that she knew that he was unable to assist her, all hope fled, and she could see no way of escape from the meshes that were being drawn so closely around her, “Yes, he is in the Bastile,” said Picard, in a mourn- ful tone. ‘“‘He made me swear to come to this prison, and tell you that if, at the worst, they decided to send you into exile to Louisiana--—” “Exile! Louisiana! Why, that would be death!” exclaimed the poor girl, in distress. “Wait a little, mademoiselle,’’ said Picard, confi- dently, “if my pretended master comes to that de- cision he will release my real master from the Bas- tile, and once he gets out of there, why off he goes, followed by your humble servant. We overtake the guard having you in charge; with the gold with which we will take care to be provided, my real master will bribe the servants of my other master, and if they should be incorruptible—that is, if we have not money enough with us to buy them, why then we will share your exile, and we will be happy in spite of the treachery of my other master.”’ In order that the reader may fully understand Pic- ard's speech, we will briefly state how it was that while appearing at the prison as the Count de Lin- lame d valet, he was still obeying the chevalier’s com- mands. When Picard and his master left Henriette’s cham- ber, the day on which she was arrested, the valet’s sympathies were aroused in her cause, and as soon as the chevalier was sent to the Bastile Picard pro to him that it would be better if he (Picard) ae or, again enter the service of the minister of Poren: by that meafs, he would be enabled to be of some service both to the chevalier, whom he considered to bene a Sec ypiek belge 2 i si " en Picard spoke of their yet being happy again, Henriette said, sadly: “You speak to me of happens But Louise, my darling sister, who will search for her?” rs ere am I?” asked Picard, with a show of wounded vanity. ‘“ DoIcount for nothing? Do you ee fa that a member of the secret police of his ex- cellency, the minister, is going to fold his arms quiet- ly? No, indeed. Come—come, mademoiselle, don’t worry yourself, I will arrange By OEYMRINE. Then, if they want my head, they can come and take it. Lam And Picard struck an attitude of courage and self- sacrifice. Just at this moment, as if summoned by the valet's boasting words, an officer, attended by a file of sol- diers, presented himself at the gate, and after show- ing his order for admission, entered. ecard was so engrossed by his bold defiance to the minister of police that he did not notice anything around him, and therefore he did not see the guards nee he heard an exclamation of alarm from Hen- riette, “Good Heavens! Look there!” Surprised by her ery, Picard looked in_the direc- tion designated by her extended finger, and as he saw the soldiers he lost all outward signs of bravery. “*Good gracious! have they taken me at my word?” he asked, in affright, and at the samo time putting his hand on his head, as if to assure himself that it still rested securely on his shoulders. Hearing the noise of the opening gate, sister Gene- vieve, accompanied by Marianne and the doctor, came out of the hospital, and seeing her, the officer of the guard advanced, and after making a low salute, said: ‘** Sister Superior, I have the honor to hand you the list of prisoners who are condemned to exile, Ifyou will permit me to order the prisoners to be assem- bled here, we can proceed to identify them.” *“-You may do so, monsieur,” said Sister Genevieve. ““T will follow you.” Several imes she attempted to pp and read the fatal list which she held in her hands, and each time she was prevented by the intensity of her feelings. At last, with an effort, she opened the packet, and gave one quick glance af the names it contained, Then, with a suppressed cry, she fixed her eyes on Henri- ette in.an unutterably sad look. . ‘\ Madame,” cried the poor girl, warned by the look that the paper boded no good to her, * why do you look at me so? Answer me, for pity’s sake, but. ave mercy!” ‘‘Ah, my poor ehild!" sighed the sister, but she could say no more, for Henriette’s eyes were fixed upon her face in the most beseeching manner. The few words which Sister Genevieve had uttered were enough to show the r orphan that the worst. which could be done by the minister was now to be: executed against her. She had clung to the hope that the chevalier might. assist her in her hour of trial,and Picard’s words. had strengthened that belief; but she saw now that all hope was vain. The pitying looks cast upon her by Sister Genevieve, Marianne and the ductor, spoke: her doom too plainly, There was no hope for her. She must go into exile, and all hope of ever seeing her blind sister was at an end. As these thoughts flashed over her, her stre! ; gave way, and again she sank helplessly upon ground, murmuring: “ Alas! lam condemned! I am lost—lost!”” CHAPTER XXIII. “GREATER LOVE HATH NO MAN THAN THIS,”’ HENRIETTE’s cry of despair, as she understood that. she was condemned to exile, rang through the oorri- dors of the prison, causing all who heard it to shud- der involuntarily - In the intensity of her grief, which had caused the ery, it sounded more like the wail of a strong man in. his agony, rather than that of a young girl Picard evinced the greatest consternation, ‘I'Ii 50 0.508 Bastile and inform the chevalier,” he thought. Henriette, turning to Marianne, who was standing~ near in the hopes that she might be able to render some assistance, said, in a world-weary voice: Pr Abt! now I can understand why one may wish to: ie. “Do not. speak so, mademoiselle,” entreated Ma- rianne, “Remember the words of hope you spoke to me.’ “Tf you have a family, think of them,’’ said the good doctor, anxious to turn the thoughts of the poor girl to something beside her own misery. “Think of master, the chevelier,” said Pic in. a tone which plainly said; ‘‘Remember the plan. which we have formed for your escape.” “Ah, monsieur!”’ said Henriette tothe physician,, “ exile has no terrorsfor me. I donot weep for my own_misfortunes.” “She has a sister of whom she was the sole sup- por s Pe lained Marianne, ‘‘A sister who is blind,’ ed me,” added Henriette, sorrowfully, ‘\I heard her- voice. Isaw her, She was covered with rags, anc her beautiful golden hair fell in disorder on her shoulders. She was being Gragged along by a horri- ble old woman, who I know ill-treats her—beats her,, paler gid and they would not let me goto her. Now’ have lost her forever—forever!”’ tried girl burst into a flood of arianne supported the slight cian, as a sudden thought ‘exclaimed the physi- a ol lieve I have met that very same girl.” flashed over him. My You, moensieur?” exclaimed Henriette, in sur- se. ‘ PM Yes—yes, a young girl led by an old woman, who- ae ig? herself eae t ceatet “Yes— at’s her name,” an oung girk now adarta reach hens with excitement, ° “IT know the old woman, too, She is called La. F ard,’ continued the doctor, while Henriette lis— tened anxiously to every word he spoke. ‘‘La Froehard!" exclaimed Picard, quickly. “Am old hag who goes about whining foralms in thename: 3 Heaven and seven small children? Where does she ve ; Marianne shuddered. She knew full well what mercy any one might ex— pert at the hands of the Frochards, and she ee hat the blind girl should be rescued from. rasp, : “She lives in a hovel by the river side,” she said, quickly, and as if it pained her even to be te s of the family, ‘tit was form as & boat-house; but has long been occu y and the worst class of criminals, ere is a secret entrance from the Rue Noir; but it is difficult to find, and always carefully guarded,” i “Never mind that,” said Picard, contemp x ‘the police of Paris can find their secret entranees; if not, we will Saphire the main one, I must go tothe Bastile first, and try to effect nyy master’s release. Then we will go to this boat-house.” And away Picard darted in the greatest haste, full of the importance of the task he had and resolved to accomplish it at any cost. __ : “You are sure she lives there?” asked Henriette, eagerly, and forgetting for the moment that she was: a prisoner, hurrying towards the gate. “Then _we will go at once, ank God, I have found my dear sister again]”’ As she reached the gate she suddenly remembe her cruel position, and how im ible it was for to take a single step towards liberatin her sister, The shock was a great one, and she sank down cowering and trembling, while she murmured, in a choked, stifled voice: “Oh, I'm to be sent away—-away from her," And again the sorel bitter tears, while form in her arms. “Wait a minute, my chil “No—no, mademoiselle!” exclaimed ae, passionately, as she caught Kenriette’s hand, pen 5; “ % +. ound her at the moment when they arrest-. a se Pe - — a»
Page 20
gre intend 30 P kes it to her lips; “you need not—you shall not sent away!” “What do you mean?” asked the doctor, as soon vas he could wipe away his tears, for Marianne’s posi- ‘tive assurance startled him. “IT need not be sent away!’’ repeated Henriette, “Look at these guards who have been sent to take ame, who wait for me,” and she pointed to the sol- <diers, who stood like oie statues ranged along the wide of the yard. And as she looked upon their stern ‘faces thatseemed never to have known what pity was, her grief broke out anew. “Oh, Louise! my sister,my poor darling!” she “wailed, while she covered her face with her hands as af to shut out the sight of those who were to force ther to leave France and hersister, branded as a fallen “woman, “T tell you that you need not go,” insisted Mari- <anne. rly. “What do you mean?” was the unhappy girl's question, At this moment, the unfortunate prisoners whose mames were on the list of those condemned to exile entered the court-yard, accompanied by the officer of the goard The kind-hearted Sister Genevieve, whose duty it “was to inform the unhappy creatures of their hard fate, had remained within the prison walls, as if to «@pare herself the pain of seeing the poor creatures as y were away. ‘ In order not to be overheard by the officer, Mari- anne went close to the doctor, and whispered: i Doctor, have pity on her, and consent to help Before she could say more, or even hear the phy- @ician’s reply, the officer who had been consulting his “Tneed another prisoner to complete the list. Henriette Gerard!”’ ; Henriette started as fhough she had received a blow, but before she could speak, Marianne ran to- wards the guard, saying: “Here, monsieur.”’ The act took Henriette so atrenyg by surprise, that she could only give utterance to a low cry, which sounded more like a groan. In an instant the doctor had comprehended all that Marianne would do, and although the sacrifice ‘was greater than seemed possible for a human be- fing to make, he did not attempt to prevent it, but ereeed Henriette by the arm to prevent her from speaking. : “Your sister’s fate depends upon your silence !” he whispered, and under the influence of that magic mame she was silent. The officer motioned Marianne to take her place with the other prisoners, but she said, eek ett ; “Permit me, monsieur, to bid her a last farewell.’ He motioned an impatient consent, and Marrianne, phn over to Henriette, folded her in a last em- race Now did the poor orphan fully understand all ‘the outcast had consented to do for her, and much as she loved her sister, she could not accept the ** No—no,”’ she murmured. “I cannot, I will not consent !” “Hush !” exclaimed Marianne, placing her hand ‘over her companion’s mouth. “Tt is no you whom i save, Henriette, it is myself. If I remain, Jacques will find me again, and once in his power I should be lost. You will remain, you will find Louise, and you wil! both be saved.” Again did the ge which Louise’s name cast over Henriette prevent her from protesting against the fearful sacrifice which was being made for her, and she murmured her sister’s name in a dazed, happy way. “ Here, take this,” said Marianne, as she handed her the paper which only a short time before she hhad received with so many expressions of delight, It was the pardon which allowed her to go out of riere a free woman, and now she was t to give it up that Henriette might be saved, and of her own free will, she was about to go intoa voluntary, life-long exile. “A greater love hath no man than this, that he lay down his life for his friend,” it is written in the Book; ut-surely Marianne’s love and gratitude far exceed- a this, for she was dooming herself to a whole life- time of misery. Henriette could not take the pardon so freely of- ( and Marianne looked at the doctor, as if to im- plore him to induce the poor girl to do so, - “Take it,” he said, in alow voice. ‘“ Your sister's Yate depends upon it.” After some hesitation, Henriette took the paper which Marianne had thrust into her hand, and then flinging her arms around the woman who had thus saved her, sobbed out her thanks. At this most a eagati moment, Sister Genevieve eame slowly out of the prison, towards the two weep- ing girls. i fhe Sister a ejaculated the physician, in dismay. ‘‘ Allis lost!” ; : “Heaven would not permit iv!” exclaimed Hen- wiette. All felt that Marianne’s generous action could not fe consummated, for there was no hope that the good sister, who looked upon deception as a heinous crime, could be persuaded to tell a falsehood. “‘Madame,”’ said the officer, to the sister, *‘ will you _ please roety this list, and identify the prisoners who forexile?”’ Now, indeed, was all lost, since Sister Genevieve myst identify each one. a slow, monotonous voice, the officer read over the name of each one, and waited until the sister had declared that they were among the condemned, Fhe name of Henriette Gerard was the Jast on the of al ane: fae ae THE TWO ORPHANS. list, and when the officer pronounced it, Marianne ran and knelt at the sister's eet, exclaiming: ‘‘ Here, mother!” * You?" exclaimed the sister, in sarprise; but be- fore she could say any more, the doctor stood before her, and pointing to Henriette, who was uttering a silent prayer, not daring to look towards either of the Broup, made &@ most gg get gesture, “Mother--mother, have pity!” cried Marianne, earnestly, ‘‘ bless mé@, and I:t me go, for this exile will purify a guilty soul, and save an innocent one!” Several times did Sister Genevieve attempt to speak, and each time did her tongue refuse to do its duty. Gladly would she have made any sacrifice, but she could not tell a lie. “Well, sister?” said the officer, who had grown weary with the singular delay. The struggle was most intense, but at last she plac- ed her hands on either side of Marianne’s face, and stooping over, kissed her fervently, Then raising her eyes to Heaven, as if imploring divine forgiveness for the sin she was about to com- mit, she said, in a voice which trembled, despite her avy strenuous efforts to make it appear firm: “Yes! Thus did Heaven interpose to save Henriette from the dreadful fate that threatened her, but it demand- ed asa sacrifice that another should suffer in her lace, and that a pure, almost holy woman, should ake upon herself the sin of a falsehood, as she re- arded it; but whoshall say, that in the last - Ramee ay, any record of that falsehood shall be found? CHAPTER XXIV. CRUELTY AND SUFFERING. AGAIN do we find the be blind girl -in the squalid hut of the Frochards. Their cruelty has so worn upon the young girl, that she has wasted away to buta shadow of her former self, and now seems hardly able to walk. We find her lying upon her miserable straw bed, in alight, troubled sleep, while over her bends Pierre, the honest-hearted cripple. As he gazes upon her attenuated features, the tears of pity and love flood his eyes, and he murmurs: **Poor child! so young #9 weak—so lovely, and yet condemned to so hard a fate. Ah, me! Ican do nothing. Jacques suspects and watches me. If I were to gain courage enough to make one step to- wards her release, he would discover it and kill me. to ie hana would become of her? I shudder to think of it.” He had unconsciously spoken the last words quite loud, and they awoke the poor sirl, Raising herself upon her arm, she asked, in a timid voice: “Who is there?” ** It is I, ma’amzelle—Pierre,” * Ah, Pierre!’’ she exclaimed, with a sigh of relief and thankfulness. ‘‘Ilam glad itis you. I may sleep a little longer, may I not?’ 7 pri mamzelle, sleep, don’t be frightened, I will not leave you.” In the greatness of Pierre’s sympathy he reached out and stroked the miserable rags which served the poor girl as a dress. “Oh, I am so tired!”? she exclaimed, as she laid down again a the hard bed, and tried to cover herself with the few pieces of cloth that served her as a covering, — As tenderly as could a mother cover her darling, did Pierre draw the scanty clothes over Louise's wast- ed form, and with tender solicitude did he watch over her until she lost herself in sleep again. *Yes, sleep, poor child!” he said, as he watched her, “‘and forget your misery. She seems calmer now; perhaps she is dreaming of happier days, of those she loves, and who love and weep for her now. Jacques has forbidden me to think of her; but I can defy him there, I will think of her; eee and save her too, even if it costs me my life. Yes—yes, that would be better--die for herif I can save her, I can weaken these bolts, and Jacques willnot discover it. As Pierre thought of this chance for escape, he caught up a screw driver, and running to the door, began taking out the screws. hile he was thus engaged, the thought flashed over him that the act he was committing was equiva- lent to signing his own death warrant, and he hesi- “What am I doing?” he exclaimed. ‘“ Alas! I shall ee to pay for this wita my life; no—no, I can- not.” Just as he arrived at this conclusion Louise moved uneasily in her sleep, and ina low, sweet voice, she murmured; “ Henriette—sister—sister!”’ Peirre went hastily toward her, thinkin, heard something; but he soon unders had teas “She was dreaming of her sister,” he said. ‘A smile lights up her pallid face. She never smiles when she is awake. Oh,ifI help herto escape, and her happy dreams become a ghiereip she would re- member me with pity. perhaps with love,”’ These thoughts incited him to action, and he re- solved to continue his labors. “Thave begun my work,” said he, resolutely, ‘‘and I will finish it!” But it was destined that he should do no more to- ward it on that night; for just as he had spoken his mother entered. She gave a ganic, suspicious look around, and then in her shrill, metallic voice, ex- claimed: “ Hello! master knife-grinder; what brings you here so early? No work outside, eh?” she had why she ~ 4 _ ~~ ae” ‘It is growing dark so I brought my work home with me,” answered Perre, going-to his wheel and commencing to work, ** So as to be near Ma’amzelle Louise, you mean,” sneered the old woman. ‘Ihave my eye on you.” “It would be better to have your eyeon Jacques; but you never find fault with him,” ““Why should I? he is the oldest, and master here,” replied the old hag, as she began her preparations for dinner. “‘ Where is he now?” asked Pierre. ‘* At his work, tobe sure,” answered Mother Fro- chard, with a touch of pride in her voice. ‘ He has worked two days this week, think of that! Isn’tit a shame that a handsome fellow like him should have to work?” “Don’t I work every day in the week?” asked Pierre, who could not see why it should be shameful for his brother co have to work, and a matter of course pect arghas be busy from early morning until late at night, aa What else are you fit for?’ sneered the old wo- man, as she surveyed her son’s deformed body witha look almost of disgust. The tears gathered in the cripple’s eyes, but he managed to restrain them, and as Jacques entered, he had turned round and resumed his work, There was a deep frown on Jacques’ brow as he en- tered the hut, with anangry gesture tore off the leathern apron he had been wearing at his labor, flung himself down on the nearest chair, and witha growl of displeasure, exclaimed: “T have had enough of it—no more work forme, I am tired of it.”’ “Tt is tiresome, isn’t it, my son?” remarked the old woman, soothingly. “It’s disgusting!” assented Jacques. And turning to light his pipe, he saw Pierre, who leaning against his wheel, was listening to the dif- ference between his mother’s reception of her two sons, , “Hello, Master Cupid! Are you there?” he cried, in his rough commanding voice, ‘* Gosh nm degre "You'll find it at the wine shop in the bac street. ‘“* Very well,” answered Pierre, ina quiet way, “What is thist” asked Li pep as he arose and went towards the bed where uise lay. ‘* Asleep, eh? Why isn’t she at work?” “That’s whatI want to know,” chimed in the old momar “She's sleeping instead of working for a ng.’ “Why she isso used to it thatshecries when she is asleep,”* laughed Jacques, as he saw the great tears rolling down the poor girl’s wasted cheeks, “Is she. crying?” asked Pierre, anxiously, as he went towards the bed, : “What's that to you?” flercely demanded Jacques. “She is an obstinate, lazy hypocrite,’ replied the old woman, producing each word with an em- phasis, as _she sliced the vegetables for the evening soup. ‘This morning I had to push her along to make her walk at all, and as to singing, she had no more voice than a crow.”” “IT will make her sing if I try,” exclaimed Jacques, coarsely, and at the same time making a motion as if he would drag her from the bed. “You will kill her!’ exclaimed Pierre, springing towards his brother, as eee he would prevent him frcm touching the poor girl. ‘'Can’t you see that she is sick?” *“ Nonsense!"’ exclaimed Mother Frochard. ‘ She isshamming; I know her tricks,” ‘“* What is the matter with her?” asked Jacques. “‘ She has got some new notion in her head, I can’t tell what,’’ said his mother, “‘T can tell you,” said Pierre, ‘ You remember the night of the snow storm? After Seshing her song, she cried out atthe top of her voice, ‘ Henri- ette! Henriette! my sister-——” “Yes, and I stopped her mouth head quick,” said the oid woman, chuckling to herself, bd Yes—yes, you_twisted her arm until you nearl. broke it,’’ and as Pierre thought of the brutal trea’ ment to which Louise was subjected that night, the sobs came 680 fast as to almost prevent his speaking. “Well, why didn’t she mind me?” asked La Fro- chard, unconcernedly. “ You’re killing her.” ‘I can’t afford tosupport her in idleness, She must work, or if she won’t—” ‘*T'll find the way to make her,” said Jacques, fin- ishing the sentence his mother had n, ‘““You! What would you do?” asked Pierre, trem- bling with fear. “That is my business.” By this time the old woman had finished her pre- parations for dinner, and after put the food over the fire to cook, she went to the poor blind girl, wh« | entirely exhausted by the long walks she was obli to take, had remained sound asleep during the time they, ned heen. conversing, ak i no gentle hand, the old hag the y girl by the arm, and pulled her.to free Sn el “Come, get up, my fine lady,”’ she said. ‘‘ No more airs, you must go out and earn your living. Here, make your toilet first. Let down this hair,” and the old wretch gave Louise’s hair a sudden wrench, and it fell rippling about her form. “Give me that shawl, and take off this scarf, they keep you too warm,” and as she spoke, La Frochard took the articles she had spoken of from the girl and put them on herself, tying the scarf carefully around er own throat, “You'll shiver more comfortably Witinnd ‘tase iy whet thoy call “mahi ibe” tolllea.* SVAN atis what the muttered Pierre to himself. ee
Page 21
CHAPTER XXV, TORTURE. Lovtse stood trembling with fear and cold, as the old woman was thus preparing her to go out begging, and she had need of all her strength even to stad much less walk. She could hardly be worse off than she was now, and she resolved to brave the power of her torment- ors. “Eh—eh? What next?” asked the old woman, sharply, and turning to Peat ee she said, with a sneer: ‘'Do you hearthat? She does not wish to go out.” “We'll see about that,’ and the threat implied in Jacques’ brutal tones caused the poor girl to tremble asif in an ague fit. Pierre saw the storm that was gathering, and knew that it must soon break upon the blind girl's defence Mea HZ Ay diteatll wena ba sien ————— ip ‘ll ly i WNIT tl it | - UA Ll THE TWO ORPHANS. **Nonsense!”’ wasthe sneering reply. ‘She will get tired of that soou reams oa ‘Never!’ cried the blind girl “‘Well, we'll see if locking you upin the grret won't bring you to your senses.” And the old woman laughed, as she saw the flush of fear that passed over the poor girl’s face, and she noticed that her attitude was not so defiant. “If I enter that place I shall never leave it, alive,” said Louise, piteously. * Poor child—poor child!’ exclaimed Pierre, as he turned away to hide his tears. “Why, she is magnificent,” said Jacques, in ad- miration. ‘I'd never have believed that she had so much spirit.” As he spoke he went towards the trembling girl, and tried to kiss her; but she managed to escape from him. As Jacques attempted this outrage, Pierre rushed forward as though he would strike him to the earth; fl UT } | | h Le : A Will i { IL tit Y ba He finished whispering justin time to hear Jacques: say to his mother: “Lock her up securely. I have my reasons fordis- trusting Master Cupid,” “Yes—yes, I understand,” replied the old woman. shaking her head knowingly. “Come, my innocent, hard working brother,’’ or-. dered Jacques, in a sneering tone, “come with me, I want you,’ “ T have work here,”’ answered Pierre, as he went to his wheel, and commenced to work. * And Ihave work for you elsewhere,” exclaimed Jacques, inan angry tone, and witha menacing gese- ture. “I told you to sharpen my cutlass, Come: with me, and keep your whining for this blind beauty” until another time; come along, I say.” The cripple did not dare to disobey. his brother's: orders when they were given in that inanner, and hes started slowly towards him, murmuring: ae Sea j, ccc i yt (sit J A | AA "A woman |” she exclaimed, in accents of deepest terror. “She is cold—she is dead.”* legs head. Anxious to save her all the trouble he sould, he went close to her, and whispered, warn- Bly: “Take care!” “Come here, my little beauty,” said Jacques, Coarsely, as he attempted to take her hand. “TI forbid you to touch me!”’ exclaimed the poor rl, recoilingin horror from his villainous touch. **Oh, ho!’ sneered the brute in human form, “then We are no longer friends.” “You! Friends!” exclaimed Louise. ** You’re cruel wretches!”’ ““Yet you were glad enouzh to share our home when We picked you up in the streets.” “Yes. Iwas grateful to you then, because you of- fered me a-shelter, Alas! I learned too soon that it was not pity for my misfortunes that moved you. No —no, you wanted to make use of my affliction. You have Starved, tortured, beaten me; but now, feeble 8s I am, my will shall be stronger than your violence. I will beg no more!” As Louise thus declared her intention of penne | no longer to the demands of her tormentors, she stoo erect, and her slight form seemed viel ga pat and for he moment she undoubtedly had thé strength to re- Sist; but alas! only for a moment could she expect to pet strength enough even to permitof her standing ct. “‘When her blood is up she is superb,” said Jacques, Gazing with admiration upon her. Oh, well—well,” laughed the old woman, “‘ that is all mighty fine; but where is the bread and butter to Some from?” at care not!’’ said Louise, firmly. _ 4 you hear?’ asked Pierre. of his mother, while #azed at Louftwe in alarm. ‘* Do you know what 28 means? She will starve rather than beg.” “sabe but he checked himself, and exclaimed, in a voice filled with reproach: “Jacques!” “Well, what is it? You don't like it, I suppose, Master Cupid, Well, forbid it, why don’t you?” “- T do.”’ And Pierre was about to rush forward again; but Jacques’ threatening attitude caused him to stop, and he went to a further corner of the room, mutter- ing to himself: **Oh, miserable, cowardly wretch that I am!’ and ot sobbed like a child as he thought of his own cow- ardice. “Come—come along,” said the old woman, taking Louise again by the arm, and dragging her towards the steps. ““ You're strong enough when you want to be. p into the garret with you,” and the old wretch half-carried, half-dragged. the poor girl along, until at the steps Louise fell from her grasp, on lay upon the stairs, seemingly too feeble to ove “Yes, that is right, mother, take her. up,’ said Jacques, encouragingly, “eet her out of the way. Oh, come _ here, I want to speak to you,” he added, as he suddenly thought of some messagethat he had forgotten. The old woman hurried down to hear what her darling son had to say, and as slie left Louise where she had fallen upon the stairs. Pierre took the op- portunity of slipping around on the opposite side of the stair-case, and whispering: “You can escape. I have unscrewed the lock. The key to the street door is under your mattress. Trust to heaven to guard you. Nothivg worse can ‘happen than threatcus you here,” “ Abl if I had anything but waterin my veins, P& do something mio that’ whine!” CHAPTER XXVL VISITORS, As the door closed upon her two sons, the old wo man gave way to ker feelingsof admiration for her handsome Jacques. / Louise lay on the stairs as rigidas ifshe had beer carved from stone, La Frochard seated herself by the table, and com-. muned with herself, “Ab! what a splendid fellow Jacques is. The very image of his dear father. There was a man for you; but they cut off his head. Ah! it makes me sick to think of it. Imust take something to strengthen e. Mother Frochard had great faith In the virtue of brandy as a means of strengthening herself, and she commenced to search in her capacious pocket for the brandy bottle which she always carrie: “ Yes—yes, young woman,” she said threatening- ly, as she continued her search, “T’ll attend to you in a minute,” She had found the bottle, and takinga lone draught, she exclaimed: *‘ Ah! that warms my heart!” Then after another drink, she said, much as she would have said had Louise been before her instead of lying on the stairs in nearly a swoon: ‘ We'll see how youenjoy a couple of days’ starvation. Yes, Jacques is right, we must break your obstinate spirit. Then when yor come out you won’t refuse to help your friends maka an honest living,
Page 22
v s 7 _ ments, es a 4” - ba *-* al ee ws a hd ht ee Another deep pull at the bottle, and the old hag was weady for any work, however wicked, With a fiend. ash look upon her face, she went to the blind girl, and, taking her by the arms, forced her to stand. “Shamming again, are you? Stand up and come ‘with me,” and the old wretch began to pull the poor girl up the dilapidated stairs. * Oh, madame!” screamed Louise, in an agony of terror, as she fully understood that she was about to ‘be confined again in the garret, “have you no soul, mo pity? Do not killme!” “I don’t intend to, you’re too valuable,” replied the old woman, who had succeeded in getting Louise to the door, and opening it; she thrust herin. ‘‘ There, get.in with you, I’lisee you safe inside.” So frantically did the terrified girl cling to the old ‘woman’s garments, that she found it impossible to shake her off, and was obliged to goin with her, un- til she could treat her into something approaching a tate of submission. 2 * s * * * * * * * While La Frochard is thus pleasantly engaged, we will, in a few brief words, explain what happened after Marianne was carried away into exile, Henriette remained at La Salpetriere until night- fail, and in the meantime the Count de Linieres had received 1otice that she had embarked in the prison- ship. Heat once gave Picard the necessary orders ‘for the release of the chevalier, and at dusk, he and Henriette and De Vaudrey were together, discussing ‘plans for the release of Louise, Picard proved a valuable aid in the matter, and be- ‘fore Henriette had been out of prison an hour, she -wag on her way to find the blind girl from whom she ‘had been so long. They had no difficulty in ring a warrant for ues and his mother, and a guard ‘to execute it, and thus armed with the power of the Jaw, they anticipated ne trouble. ; The boat-house by the Frochards had, as the reader will remember, an entrance opening on the Seine which was seldom used, and the only other means of entering the house was through a long, rane of passage ee RR DS ce 0 e rescuing a it was then ed that Picard should lead the guards around to the door on the river side, while the cheva- Yier should proceed through the passage, contriving to the house at the same time the soldiers aid, ; It was thought necessary that the chevalier should go to the next street where he could watch the move- ments of and thus.time his own move- advance of the others, and thus have the pleasure of clasping her sister in her arms a fow moments sooner, ? Alone she threaded the dark, noisome passage. Alone she p sa) 0 ral tien il te by her reas love for her sister, braving the horrors of viper’s den in order that she might meet her sis- ‘@ few moments sooner. » bd * * ° » * Mother Frochard descended from the garret; she had left Louise ag tiaema rg having thus perform- ed her duty, betook herself to the consolation which cou ve from her brandy bottle, Aigo hc heard a knock at the door, and start- ing in aff: anh she hid her bottle among some of the cooking utensils that littered the table, and advanc- ing to the door, asked: Who’sthere? What do you want?” It was ennieste!s voice that said from the outside: “I am king for some one—for me Fro- “ What do you want of her?” asked the old woman, suspiciously, and making no motion towards opening the door. “TI must speak with her.” 7“ Are you alone?” Henriette entered, a lid place frightened her. The whole house look- ed a fit abode for murderers and ste hight the ap- | J: nce of the old woman seemed to ‘hten that pression, “ Great heavens! can this be the place?” she asked herself, in astonishment. she stood in the center of the room, gazing with fear and trembling upon every object, Mother Fro- was favoring her with suspicious looks. “Well, young woman," she said, after waiting a few moments for Henriette to speak, ‘‘ you want to see M © Frochard—what have you got to say to Still Heuriette hesitated, and placed her hand upon her heart to still its tumultuous beatings. “Come, what _ is it?” again asked the old woman, impatiently. “‘ What are P Sie looking for? Do you expect tofind anyone here?” is question aroused Henriette to the sense of the mission which had brought her to this fearful place, and she answered, nerd **Yes—yes. I am looking for the person who lives mere with you.” “What person?’’ and Mother Frochard’s metallic voice was harder and shriller than ever, “A young girl,” answered Henriette, ee . SS . THE TWO ORPHANS. ** Ah, ha!” thought the old woman, ‘‘this must be the sister.”” Then she said, in an indifferent voice: “IT don’t know anything about aby vounes girl.” **You don’t know her?’ asked Henriette, in aston- ““Am I mistaken? This house answers the descrip- tion, and your name is Frochard, is it not?” “Elphremie Frochard. What then?’ You beg in the streets with a young girl whosings, do you not?” ‘* Me beg in the streets!"’ replied the old woman, in a highly indignant tone, as if the idea of such a thing was aninsult to her. “Why should I beg? Haven’t I two sons who work for me? One of them isa knife- grinder—look, there is his wheel, and the other one is —oh, if he were only here now!” “You must be the one,” said Henriette, half to her- self, ‘ the doctor told me that he knew you, and-——” Henrictre stoppec talking, and gave utterance to a scream, expressive of surprise and fear. She had noticed the shawl and scarf which the old woman had taken from Louise, and fastened upon f. What is the matter?” asked the old hag, in no lit- tle surprise. , ~“That shawl—I know it! It is hers—it is hers, I tell he acreamed Henriette, as a thousand fears 3 ‘ sister's satety presented themselves to her nd, “Not abit of it; it is mine,” boldly asserted La Frochard, thinking she couid make the young girl believe her. r “ And this scarf around your neck?”’ * Well, what of it?’ ‘*It was made for her by nry own hands!” exclaim- ed Henriette, cearing it from the old woman's neck. “Oh, wretch! you have lied to me!” Foran instant La Frochard was astonished. She had thought to persuade Henriette that she know nothing about her sister; but it was impossible. Her round, wicked face grew perfectly fiendish with rage, as she hissed through her set teeth, the single e * Caught!’’ ; Then, after a mhoment's thought, she turned to rcs oe with a smile that was intended to be sym- Pathetic. } “ Well—well,”’ she said, in a sorrowful voice, “if you must know the truth, I'll tell you. When ac came in, you were so excited and frightened, I didn’t dare to tell you all—” “All—all what?” interrupted Henriette, in an agony of apprehension. ‘Speak quickly.” “One evening about three months ago,”’ continued pas’ | Mother Froechard, “I met the girl you are looking for,. wandering about the streets. I had pity on her, and gto gd er home with me, where I took good care’ of her, 8 old woman stopped to wipe away imaginary tears, but the agonized alti exclaimed:. “Go on, for Heaven’s sake, go on!" “Well,” whined the old hag, “she knew I was poor and couldn’t afford to keep her for nothing, so she sang sometimes in the street—just t> help me—and she sang like a little bird.” Again the old woman's feelings overcame her, and she was obliged to stop. : _ “ And then, what then?’ * And then, why you see the poor child wasn’t very strong, and what with the life we lead, and the sor- row she felt, she couldn't stand it, and the r little bird broke down entirely. She said she couldn’t sing any more, and that was the end of it. For two days she has been dumb, ‘She'll no more--no more.’ As Mother Frochard finished, her voice, which at first had had the professional whine in it, sank al- most to a whisper, and sitting herself in a chair, she covered her face with her apron, and simulated an agony of grief. “Dead!” exclaimed Henriette, while every vestige of color left her face, and she stood like one petrified, ‘dead, my sister, my Louise is dead!’’ and overcome by her intense sorrow, she sank insensible on the r. “ Fainted, eh?” cried the old woman aye up uickly, and gazing at the prostrate girl. “What am todo with her? Oh, if Jacques were only here! I must go for him.” She started toward the door; but the thought flash- ed over her that she had forgotten to lock the garret door, and she ran back and performed that duty. “There,” she said, with a sigh of satisfaction “there is nothing to fear now, and I'll go and call acques, - The old woman departed in search ef her son, leav- ing Henriette lying upon the floor. CHAPTER XXVIL_ THE RECOGNITION. Not many minutes after Mother Frochard went in search of ues, Louise, recovering her conscious- ness, which she had lost through the beating the old woman. had given her, to force her to remain in the gore’ pushed with all her feeble strength against he door of her. prison, and, as Pierre had loosened the screws, it yielded to her pressure, and she was freed from her place of torture. For a moment she stood at the head of the stairs, with her ears strained to the utmost tension to catch any sound that would betokenthe presence of any- one in the hut. 4 But all was still, and she commenced to descend the stairs, feeling her way carefully, lest she should stumble on some of the decayed boards, z == “es “They are all gone,” she murmured, ‘Pierre told me the truth, the lock would not hold. Yes, I will follow his advice. If Ican find my way to the street through that long passage, 1 will ask the first ser by to take me to that good doctor at the Hospital St. Ouis."’ Trembling with excitement, she felt her way to the foot of the stairs, where one step further in the'same direction would have brought her in contact with the insensible body of her sister; and then groping for the wall, she reached the door, With a cry of joy she reached it, she felt, with eager feverish hands, for the rude latch. agerly she tried to open it, but it resisted all her efforts, and as the truth flashed over her mind, her hands dropped by her side, and she sank to the floor, like one smitten with the palsy. * Locked—locked! What shall I do?” The sudden change from hope that was almost a certainty, to deep despair, overpowered her for the moment, But at last she remembered what she should have thought before. ** Pierre told me he had made another key for it," and starting, she groped her way across the room to- ward her bed, almost brushing the garments of that sister she was so anxious to meet as she sed, With hands trembling so that shecould hardly con- trol them, Louise felt for the precious key that should assure her of freedom. A ery of joy burst from her pahid, quivering lips as her fingers came in contact with the precious object. ‘Good, brave Pierre!’’ she exclaimed, thankfully. “Now I will go at once.” She arose to her feet, and made two or three at- tempts in the right direction, when her foot came in contact with the clothing of Henriette, on she stooped down, and felt of the inanimate cK woman!” she exclaimed, in accents of deepest terror. ‘She is cold—she is dead!” Terribly alarmed at what she could not see, the Be gir), believing herself to be in the presence of eath, covered her face with her hands, and crouch- ed close to the floor. “Oh, heavens!” she cried, “they have: committed some terrible crime and fled!” She timidly stretched out her hand, and passed i¢ once more over the still form. In so doing she felt the heart beat, and with a glad cry she raised the head of the person before her. “She is not dead! madame, madame, , spoak tome. She does not hear me, What shallI do? 1 cannot leave her thus.” Dear as was her liberty to the poor blind child, she could not leave a fellow creature in distress, and she ~— sok ed means in her power to awake the in- sensible girl, ' : While she was thus engaged Mother Frochard and Jacques entered, For a single instant they stood transfixed with sur- po and then, with a single thought, they rushed ward the two girls. “ Separate them at once—quick!”’ shouted Jacques to his mother, who was afew steps in advance, La Frochard did not need this warningery to in- duce her to rush towards Louise, and grasp her roughly by the arm. : weed you doing?’ she cried. ‘“ Howdidyou t ou eT ouige clung to the body of Henrietta, to prevent the old woman from carrying her away; but her bre strength was of no avai nst the old oy bs ae : rmination, and she was rudely flung against t rease, Asif roused by the noise, Henriette ie her eyes, and showed signs of returning consciousness. a Quick!” shou Jacques, as he saw this move- ment of Henriette’s, “get her out of the way—quick, I tell you, the other one is coming to.”’ “Get back with you—at once!” cried the old we man, at the same time dragging Louise up the stairg, and accompanying each word with a cruel blow. Just at this moment Pierre entered, and seeing Henriette lying upon the floor, and Louise ie nn gling upon the stairs, he understood at once that was er sister whom Louise had so earnestly prayed to meet. “ But the woman who is lying there?” cried Louise, to the old woman. “That's our business,and none of yours. Get along with you,” As rochard got Louise to the head of the stairs, Henriette, who b',d risen to her feet, saw the blind pith and runniag towards her, she exclaimed: * Ah, Louise--Louig 4!” Jaeques seized her instantly, and putting his hand over her mouth, prevented her from speaking again, or risa any farther. But the blind girl had caught the sound of her sis- ter’s voice, and that lent her additional strength. Uttering a cry of surprise and joy, she endeavored. to escape from the old wretch who was nearly chok- ing her to death. Go in-—I tell you; get in with you!” cried La Fro- chard, as she nee uise in the room, and releas- ed her hold o throat in order to shut the door, Just then Henriette had succeeded in pushing Jacques’ hand from her mouth, and running to the foot of the stairs, cried, in a loud voice: “Louise! Sister!” The cry gave Louise the strength of a lioness for a moment, and pushing the old woman b she ram down the stairs, and the two, so long separated, met in a close, loving embrace. “ Henriette—Henriette!”’ exclaimed Louise, joyful- y; ae ng her sister's face with kisses. “Tt is you —it is you 7 hs ay poor Louise—my poor Louise!"’ said Hen- riette, caressing her sister’s face. “How you must ! Ed
Page 23
we ' * ‘y jhave suffered here among these miserable wretchesi Yes, miserable wretches that you are,” she continu- ed, turning to Jacques and his mother, who, now that the sisters were aware of each other’s presence, felt that it would make their own case more desperate to ae sd to part them, “I willhave you punished.” She led Louise toward the door; but Jacques, see- ing her movement, darted past her, and placed him- self directly in front of the door. . it us go at once!” commanded Henriette. ‘ Let us ” fy ou shall not go!” replied Jacques, in a rage. “What! would you dare to prevent us?” ** Mother," said Pierre, going toward La Frochard, and speaking in a low voice, “you had better warn him against violence, It is dangerous.” ? **We must keep them,”’ i the old woman, im- patiently, “if they escape, they will denounce us.” “You cannot leave here!’ reiterated Jacques. “T will cry out,” said Henriette, firmly; ‘I willcall for help!"’ . “Pry it,” was the fierce reply, “‘ and see what good it willdo. Besides, I warn you we come of a family who kill.” As he said this, he rushed towards Louise, and seizing her roughly by the arm, dragged her to- wards him. a a as is mine,’”’ he exclaimed, “and I will keep er ah] Louise uttered a scream which pierced Pierre’s very heart, and infused into it that courage which he thought he was so deficient in. “Oh, this is infamous!” he cried, as he rushed be- tween Jacques and Louise. ‘Do you dare to interfere against me?” cried Jacques, almost beside himself with rage. “T dare!’ answered Pierre, and there was that in his eye which Jacques had never seen there before. * Against me?” he exclaimed again, as though in doubt that he had heard aright. “Yes, against you,” said Pierre, boldly. ‘‘ I have acted the cow: long enough. rd thought because you were big and strong that you were brave; but you are not. You fight with women—you are a cow- ard! In their defense ef courage will be more than a match for your strength.” “Brave Pierre!’’ exclaimed Louise, encouraging- ly, “Depend on me, mademoiselle,” replied the crip- ‘ple, who seemed to have grown less deformed, and more of a man through his new-born courage. ‘“ What do you want?’ demanded Jacques, whom this new phase of Pierre’s character had astonished, and he could hardly believe what he saw. ** Let these two women go!” was the cripple’s firm eS ‘Indeed!’ sneered Jacques. ‘Suppose I refuse, what then?’ As he asked the question he looked at his brother 28 if he would intimidate him with a glance, as had en his wont in da: 8 ; But Pierre’s new Baon courage was deep. He drew it from a source that could still cause it to remain, |- — that source was the trembling, pallid girl by his e. “What then?’ ‘you have said it: repeated Pierre, ** what then? Well, We come of a family who kill.’”’ CHAPTER XXVIII. REPARATION. Ler us for a few moments visit the private office of ‘the minister of police, : The Count de Linieres isseated at his writing table, engaged in deep Mas he Around him are all the evidences of luxury which wealth can Rene and yet he does not appear comfortable. e has just re- ceived word of commendation from the king, and yet he is not satisfied with himself. Picard had calléd at the office of the minister a few hours previous, and by asserting that Henriette Gir- ard had been taken from La al gilt and was then on her way to the prison ship in company with the other condemned prisoners, and also by produc- ing the certificate of the guard, the valet had received an order for the release of the Chevalier de Vaudrey from the Bastile. The count had asserted the authority of the family, and the power of his office, and ro there were many things on his mind which he could not banish. He reviewed his conduct towards Henriette, and in his heart he could not congratulate himself for “wight he bad taken in the prosecution of the poor He had arrested Henriette and sent her to La Sal- petriere as a fallen woman, and now she was on her nek toa life-long exile, branded with a crime of which he knew she was innocent, and for which she suffer- ed because of his pride and ambition. hile he was thus indulging in these gloomy thoughts, his wife entered, She had not heard that Henriette was condemned Pa exe; and had come to intercede for the unhappy wt a@ few words she explained the object of her “It is too late,” replied the count, abruptly. “Too late! Why?” i use she ishow on her way to the place of her exile,” replied De Linieres, in a low voice, asif half med to alicw his wife to know how far his pride could control his official duties. “ Exile!” exclaimed the countess, sinking into a chair, while a aeathly pallor came over her face, alarming the count more than he cared to snow, y have you done this wicked thing?” er husband made her no answer, and for many moments the countess remained with her face cover- ed by her hands, shuddering with horror at the most THE TWO ORPHANS. unjust deed that had been committed against a de- fenseless, innocent girl. A great struggle was going onin her mind. Should she at this time confess all of her past life to her husband—show what Henriette h done_ for her own child, and for that reason urge her pardon? She trembled as she thought of what her , hus- band’s wrath might be when he learned all, and for some time she couldnot bring herself to say those things which would alienate herself forever from him, ‘““When was she sent away?’ asked the countess, in a voice trembling with emotion. “Two hours yo “Then there is yet time tosave her from being carried to that dreadful place!”’ “There is time, if | wish to use it,’’ replied De Linieres, in a significant tone. “She must be sent for!” exclaimed the lady, ina firm tone. ; ‘*Must be?” and the count elevated his eyebrows in a manner peculiar to him when displeased. “Yes, must be,” repeated his wife. ‘Iwill tell you why, if you will not interrupt me;for in that casé my courage might fail me,” and ina rapid manner she continued: “Before I met you, Count De Linieres, I married without my parents’ consent and secretly, a poor man, My parents discovered our secret, and almost before my very eyes they murdered my husband, Soon atterI became a mo- ther. My child was taken from meand left on the steps of Notre Dame. or man, Henriette Girard’s father, found the child, carried it to his humble house and brought iv upas one of hisown. That child is the blind sister that Henriette was separated from, and whom we should have found had you not pre- vented us from leaving the house in the Faubourg St. Honore. Henriette hastaken care of, and loved gi darling as her own sister.”’ or moment the countess paused,as if overcome by emotion, and. then throwing herself at the count’s feet, she said, “T pray yor, on my bended knees, to save this girl from the fearful and unjust doom you have pro- nounced against her. For my sake, who has suffer- ed untold misery at being obliged to be separated from my child, and in keeping the secret from you, I beg of you to save her who has been a mother to my child, and who, for the sake of that child, re- fused the offers made to her by the chevalier. I bez— — But the poor woman could say no more. Overcome by her feelings, she burst into a flood of tears, still kneeling at her husband’s feet. Very tenderly did the count raise and support her toa chair. His countenance showed traces of the deepest agitation, and the gaze which he fastened upon his wife was mild and sympathetic. Turning to his table, he wrote a few lines on the paper which bore the official seal of the office, and then Peat oes bell. The automaton which acted as clerk appeared, and to him the count handed the paper, saying: “See that this order is executed without a mo- ment’s delay, and bring the person named therein to me immediately upon her arrival.” The clerk bowed and withdrew. As soon as they were alone again, the minister ap- Negi} his wife, and laying his hand upon her | ette sna said, ina voice which was siugularly gentle and sweet: ‘‘My poor Diane, how you must have suffered!” In an instant the countess had flung her arms around her husband's neck, and was weeping happy tears upon his bosom. Now was the secret which had existed so long be- tween them, and poisoned the lives of both, cleared away, and for the first time since their married life | hi began, they were united. CHAPTER XXIX. THE RESCUE. For a moment Jacques was almost petrified with astonishment, That Pierre, the poor, spiritless crip- should dare thus defy him, was past his compre- sion. But only for a moment did he remain inactive, and eee he went towards the young girls as if toseparate em. “Dare to lay a hand on either of them,” shouted Pierre, as he ran to his wheel and took therefrom a long knife which he had been sharpening, “and I will plunge this knife into your heart!” Jacques recoiled from before the Lhe! a and Pierre placed himself before Henriette and Louise, who, clasped in each other’s arms, were awaiting the result of the struggle which was now inevitable. “Your life shall pay for this !’’ cried Jacques, davis his cutlass and going towards the brave crip- e. ‘““Remember that you are brothers!” cried the old woman, who was now thoroughly frightened. “Yes, brothers as of old,’’ said Pierre, bitterly, as he thought of the brother ly love that Jacques had ever shown towards him, “the sons of Adam, onl ret time the parts are changed, and Abel will kill ain,’ “ Very well, if you will have it,” exclaimed Jacques, savagely, as he made a pass at Pierre. The struggle had now commenced, and for a few moments nothing could be heard but the clashing of the steel, and Jacques’ fearful oaths, , Butit was not possible for the cripple to hold out ong. His brother’s weapon was nearly three times as long as his, and Jacques had every advantage in the point of size and strength. a : Sates % In a short time Pierre had received a fearful blow on the shoulder, from which the blood flowed freely. “He is wounded!’ exclaimed Henriette, in a terri- fied voice. ‘‘No!”’ shouted Pierre, hoping to deceive them as to his fast failing strength. : “Isn't that enough, cripple?” asked Tacs, ina eS tone, as he stopped for a moment to gain reath, ‘No!’ shouted the brave boy, “cut for while she is in danger you may slash my fi in rib- bons; I shall feel nothing!” Enraged by his words, Jacques sprang upon him with the ferocity of a tiger,and it at once became { apparent that, however brave the boy might be, he could not withstand such a furious assault, and that in a very few moments the young girls would n bein the power of the villanous Jacques, with no one to defend or protect them. Hoping that De Vaudrey ine dd hear her, Henriette capes in a 1OBe, despairing voice: o rs) p— e p ” That cry seemed to arouse La Frochard from the apathy into which she had fallen, and rushing to- wards Henriette, she placed her hand over the girl’s mouth to PReveph a repetition of the cry. But that one cry had reached the ears of the man | who would have rushed into certain death at the bid- ding of that voice, and just as Jacques had borne Pierre to the ground, and was about to run him through the heart, the door was flung open, and De Vaudrey entered in time to strike Jacques’ weapon up from its aim. { “What is this?” he exclaimed, angrily. “Aruffan | attacking a cripple? Down with your weapon, you ‘ villain, or by heaven! I'll beat it out of your hand, | and spit you, asI would a dog.” Jacques could read but very little mercy in the chevalier's countenance, and he retreated out of the reach of his weapon. ‘‘What right have you to interfere?” he cried, sav- __ agely. ‘‘ You shall pay for this.” B. As the chevalier entered, the old woman, seeing that all was discovered, had gone towards Lo ‘gt and was trying to drag her away. pone for wha por or what she could hope to effect by it, would ) dmpgeainia to af But Pierre, who had not allowed Louise to escape from his sight a moment, lest in his rage at being | baffied Jacques should attempt to wreak his venge- ance on the be girl, now sprang to her assistance, and forced his mother to the further end of the room. The chevalier turned his head for a moment to discover the cause of the disturbance, and Jacques, thinking that he had an opportunity for revenge, raised his sword to strike. Another moment and De Vaudrey would have re- ceived his death blow; but a low, warning cry from | Henriette caused him to turn his head justin time te — ward off the blow. i? Jacques sprang back to avoid a pass that thechey- tiie Bee at him, and thus escaped for the mo- ment, : “Now, villain, down with your weapon I say, and permit these ladies to leave this place before you compel me to punish you as you deserve!”’ As he spoke, De Vaudrey moved towards Henri- Aa “Ha—ha!” laughed Jacques, now grown furious. | ‘You punish me! So you are the lover of the other | one, ell, take her and go; leave the little one to { me.’ And Jacques placed himself before the door with ae ga weapon, to prevent Louise from leaving ouse, “Scoundrel!” cried De Vaudrey, advancing towards % | Again the clash of steel rung out in that squalid ye but this time if was not Jacques who was the : : victor: He was no match for the chevalier in sword play, and a well-directed blow made an ugly enap on . wrist, and sent his weapon flying out of his hand. Almost at the same moment a noise was heard juss outside of the door teading to the river, and Picard’s well-known voice was heard, saying: . ““Open—open in the king’s name!” That cry, 50 Sees, to criminals, seemed te < . strike terror to the heart of Jacques and his mother. | Pierre ran to the door and was unbarring it, when La Frochard -ohstey Bat him with a howl of rage. | She grasped him by the throat, and weak and ex- | hausted‘as he was by the loss of blood, she had no difficulty in throwing him against the stairs, where she held him firmly. “Then in the king’s name I will open it for you,” 4 again cried Picard, and immediateiy sounds were . heard as if some heavy object were being used to batter it down. Two blows were sufficient to shatter the worm- eaten timbers, and a file of soldiers entered, with | Picard at their head. The old woman cowered in the further corner of the room, and Jacques shrank back as far as possible aa ps ete Sr a latiiod “Picant ““Ah, master,’ exclaim icard, somewhat sur- rised to find De Vaudrey there before him. ‘You ound your way along that passage before me, and Meo teal ag ‘ Bi “Yes, and in g time, Picard. Here, some o} you guards, bind this ruffian.” ; E | Jacques was soon bound, and not until then did De 4 Vaudrey approach Henriette, and bared her in a | loving embrace, exclaimed, in a voice conveyed | the world of love he felt for her: | “Henriette, my love, my own.” “A second time Lowe my life to you,” said Henri ette, in a voice choking with emotion. “No, not to me,” replied De Vaudrey, unwilling te
Page 24
%. L- % _ tice of our lord, the king.” ‘3 ay ~ 2% er eer receive any praise for what he haddone. ‘Thank card, there,whose bravery left me to defend the end of a e where there were no foes, while he stormed the front of the castle. Your erles for hap guided me to the rescue.” “*Louise, my a aat sister,’’ said Henriette, takin her by the hand and leading her forward, ‘than your preserver!”’ The blind girl’s eyes filled with tears, as clasping her hands, and turning her_sightless orbs towards where De Vaudrey stood, she said, in a trembling voice, which carried greater meaning with it than words could: “*Ah, monsieur, you do not know from: what a frightful fate you have saved us.”’ . While this conversation was going on, all eyes were turned towards the two orphans, and Mother Fro- chard was unnoticed. 4 ae her opportunity, and she resolved to em- race She had no wish to taste the reward which jus- tice had in store for her, and she resolved to es-} Stealin cautiously Mess the soldiers, she had reached the door in safety. In another moment she would have been free; but there was one in the room who had counted on taking this same Mother Frochard under his care, and that one was Picard. Although his attention had been diverted from her for a moment, his eyes sought the place again where it was last standing, and to his surprise, she was not ere. A rapid glance around the room showed the old woman in the act of opening the door, and in an in- stant Picard’s hand was on her shoulder. ** Oh, no you don't, old lady!” he exclaimed, as he obliged her to come back, ‘‘ You must not run away from your dutiful son because he is in a little trou- ble. i e’ll need your motherly care now, more than ever,’ Seeing that escape was impossible, and punishment for her many sins near at hand, the old hag broke pas iy Aaa pitiably, and ina most sorrowful voice, whined: “Tm only a rold woman. Idon’t know any- thing about their evil ways.” But the appeal was lost on all save poor Pierre, who stood bending over his wheel in an attitude of deep Er, As his mother spoke, he held out his hands to er, as though he would bear her troubles as he had borne his own uncomplainingly. “ Picard,” said the chevalier, “ tako charge of this worthy couple, motherand son, “ly uncle, the count, will see to their punishment. Off with them!” Authority was sweet to Picard, and he made the most of it. Turning to the guards, he said, in a most pompous tone; “ake that male, and likewise that female villain, - to the prison of La Roquette, there to await the jus- _ _ The guards. closed around the prisoners, and were about to march them off, when the old woman, with a whine that was more natural than her habitual one, and with the tears rolling down her villanous face, said. a “Please, good gentleman, I am only a poor old woman!” She had forgotten the many prayers for mercy that had. been mpde to her by the peer blind girl, and which she had answered only with blows. As she had sowed, So must she reap;, but in the time of her sow- ing she had forgotten the harvest that ‘she must sur FF ion and she who had shown no mercy wh ‘e would ruin body and soul, now prayed for mercy. To Jacques’ brutal n such signs of weakness were disgusting, and ill-befitting a Frochard. He turned upon her with a savage look. your whining!” he coarsely. ‘* Re- that you are a Frochard!”’ eal seemed to find a response in the old eart, Perhapsshe say pS pete that when her husband was led to the scaffold, not a word of fear e him; but he meet his doom with curses upon his lips, until they were hushed by death, ithout another word, ard turned to go, and asshe passed Pierre tte held out his hands im- 0) most piteous voice, said: Maks «) ember a ringly, and in er ome Tore: mother, onc word before you go.” - His mother did not notice his appeal. Her mother- ly irstincts were long since dried upin her bosoim, ond she did not deign to. bestow one glance upon But Jacques favored him with a‘savage look, and exclaimed, gruffly: _ .# Not one word! Go to your fine friends, and .~ fold!” Ss 4 _ remember that you sent your brother to the scaf- AS Aas these words did not convey enough of the hate that.was raging in his bosom, Jacquessprany towards his brother and bent him like a reed over the * wheel, In another instant the poor cripple would have re- ceived his death, as he had his distorted limbs, at the hands of his brother; but Picard, ever watchful, in- terrupted him,.and like a wild beast baffled of his Prey Jacques was led, cursing, away. itha hynan of praise in her heart did Louise leave the house t had been the scene of so much suffer- ing to her, and fervent was the silent prayer that Henriette uttered; as with her arm around her sis- ter, and hand clasped in thatof the chevalier, she wentfrom that noisome place to reap the reward of gil her sufferings. CHAPTER XXX, CONCLUSION, Pecan dressed the crivple’s wounds, and conducted THE TWO ORPHANS. him, with the rest of the party: to De Vaudrey’s house, where it was their ntention to form some plan of action; fcr they believed that should the connt learn that Henriette was still in Paris, he would attempt to separate her from the chevalier. But vt hieal change had taken placein the minis- ter’s feelings, and they were soon to learn it. Hardly had they entered, when a servant brought a letter for the chevalier, and from the seal he knew that it was from his uncle. He opened it, and read aloud the following words: “T understand now why you and Picard asked for a guard. You will come directly to me as soon as you have finished your work, and bring with you those whom you have rescued. ** Linreres, Minister of Police,” De Vaudrey hardly knew how to interpret the tenor of the letter. Was it written in a friendly spirit, or was his uncle still incensed against him? It could hardly be the latter case, and he resolved tc obey the letter ia § Inafew moments the party were at the hotel of the minister of police, and leaving the two orphans and Pierre with the valet in one of the drawing rooms, the chevalier entered his uncle’s presence, The count and countess were together, and the affectionate welcome which he received from both showed him how idle were his fears that his uncle had not relented. “Have you succeeded?’ asked the countess, in a Mair ohocte betrayed all the agitation she felt. I have.’ “Thank God!’ replied his aunt, fervently. De Vaudrey gave her a warning glance, which was observed by the count. “Within the past hour,’’ he said, gravely, ag he pressed the chevalior’s hand, “I have learned the truth, The countess has confessed the secret which has clouded our married life.’’. De Vaudrey clasped the hands of both, and was about to speak, when the count interrupted him. “T ask your eat chevalier, for all I have made you suffer, Ihave done all in my power to repair the wrong I have done you, and within an hour Hen- riette Girard will be here.” . De ekg looked at his uncle in surprise. He could not tell the meaning of his words; but at last a light broke over him. nder the belief that Marianne was Henriette, the count had sent for her, and the chevalier now saw an me gaa beef of rewarding her for the noble sacrifice she had made in behalf of the woman he loved. “*My child!” exclaimed the countess, “have you brought my child?” *“T have, and she will be here immediately.” And as he spoke De Vaudrey left the room, and re- turned, Jeaging Louise by the hand, Of the meet: Ce Oe that mother and the child from whom she had been separated so long we will draw the veil. Such scenes are too sacred for the writer to profane Ly trying to describe them through the cold medium of letters. While it was taking place the chevalier explained to his uncle the sacrifice which Marianne had made, and ina few moments all were assemblod together. Assoon as the first burst of joy was over Lou turned to the chevalier, and said, in a voice that, to Pierre’s hungry soul, sounded like music from the spheres; ; _ “Monsieur, we are all so happy, yet we must not forget poor Pierre. Noble, brave Pierre! Pierre, Pierre—where is he?” “TI remained, mademoiselle,” said Pierre, coming forward, while tears bedewed his cheek, and his voice became painfully husky and tremulous, ‘to ask the privilege of saying farewell. Your good heart will not forget the poor cripple?” : ‘‘ Never—never, Pierre!’ replied Louise, fervently, as she pressed his hard, labor-stained hands between her thin, wasted ones, ‘“‘A mother thanks you with more than words,” said the countess, in an earnest tone. ‘‘Let his reward be my care,"’ quickly added the chevalier, and then turning to Picard, he said: “I look to you to see that Pierre wants for nothing until I shall have time to provide for him to-morrow.” W_ will leave the party in their happiness, and close our story by briefly relating a few incidents which took place immediately afterward. Lo was at once under the care of the octor who would have cured her even when she was pay a charity vented by Mother Frochard, and he gave her mother every reason to hope for her recovery. ' At lost the day came when the operation was to be peropaee which would show whether she was to avo the uso of her eyes or not, and the blind girl bore the pain, as she had borne her sufferings in the home of the Frochar:+, bravoly. ; A few weeks passed swiftly away, thanks to a kind mother’s and Henriette’s care, in a darkened room, and aes she emerged her sight was comletely re- stored. } Marianne, ey for fear that her deception was discovered, anc that Henriette. was to be made to suffer in her stead, was brought back by the ucrds, and hér fears were changed to joy when she earned the joyful tidings of. Louise’s restoration to her mother, and Henriette’s happiness. De Vaudrey settled a comfortable income upon her. but she insisted on serving Henriette as maid until such time as she went to gladden the home of a worthy man. : Pierre—good, honest Pierre had his reward here on.earth, as we know he had it hereafter. The Count de Linieres insisted on being allowed to provide for him, and now the happy cripple received s ise 128 Sypru CHASE. atient, had he not been pre- |54 an education such as few could boast of in those dayg,- ene arose to be one of the most noted advocates in aris, For his sake the sentence of death a his mother and Jacques was changed to exile, and we will hope that ina new country they changed their manner of living, and endeavored to atone for the nee Papa they ~ Pe ae te { 4 card never again occupied the ition of valet. to the Chacaiarea Vaudrey. si A The chevalier pleaded so earnestly with iis uncle for him, that within a month after the closing scenes at the boat-house, he received his commission as captain of the guards, and although he never rose any higher, he passed his life very happily, especially after he conceived a violent passion for the repent- ant Marianne, and married her, : _Of Henriette and the chevalier we can say vei little that the reader bas not already imagined. In answer to. De Vaudrey’s prayer that she would be- come his wife, she answered: “To be near Lonise, my sister, and to be your wife, seems too great a joy!” Our story is finished, and as we write the closing lines a great hope comes up in our heart, that in presenting this tale in this form, we may have in- duced some reader not to pass by anyone dese of charity; but to give a kind word and pleasan smile to those whose lives are dreary and miserable, even if they cannot give sary § Remember that he who possessed one talent was held as responsible as he who had a hundred, and that a kind word hag saved many a soul from the mire of despondency. [THE END.) Waverley Library. 1 Tax Maskep Bring. By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell. 2 Was Ir Love? By Wm. Mason Turuer. 8 THe Girt WIFE. BY Bartley T. Campbell. 4 A Brave Heart. Arabella Southworth. 5 Bessiz Raynor, THE WorRK Girt Wm. M ; 6 Tare Secrer MARRIAGE. Sara Claxton, 7 A DavesTer or Eve. By rs. Mary Reed Crowell. § Heart TO Heart. By Arabella Southworth. ; 9 ALONE IN THE WoRLD. By Author of ‘ Clifton.” 10 A Parr or Gray Eyes. By Rose Kennedy. 11 Enranciep. By Henrietta Thackeray. 12 His Lawrut Wirs. By Mrs. Ann 8. Stephens. 18 Mapcap, Tar LITTLE QUAKERESS. Cushman. 14 Wuy I Marriep Him. By Sara Claxton. 15 A Far Face, By Bartley T. Campbell. 16 Trust Her Nor. By Margaret Leicester. By Arabella Southworth. Sara Claxton. 24 Hor Fack Was Fortune By Eleanor Blaine. 25 OnLy A ScHooLmistrESss, Arabella Southworth, 26 Wirnour A Heart. By Col. Prentiss Ingraham, 27 Was SHE A UETTE? By Henrietta Thackeray, Mrs. Ann 8. Stephens. By Sara Claxton. ile Penne. 23 Leap Yrar. B 29 For Her DrarR SAKE. 80 Tur Bouguer GIRL. LA 31 A Map MarriaGe. B A. Dennison. 82 Mrrianna, THE Prima Donna. By A, Southworths 83 Toe THREE SIsTERS. By Alice Fleming. 34 A. MarrisAGE oF Convrentence. By Sara Claxton, 85 SInNED AcarinstT. By Clara Augusta. 86 Str ARcHER’s Bripg. By Arabella Southworth, 37 Tue Country Cousin. y Bee Kennedy. 38 His Own AcAin. _By Arabella Southworth, 39 Furrtation. By Ralph Royal. 40 Puxperp To Marry. ie See Claxton. 41 Buinp Drvorion. By Alice Fleming. 42 Bearrice, THE BravrTiFuL. By A. Southworth. 43 Tue Baronet’s SmcreT.. By Claxton. 44 Tur ONLY DaveuTeR. . By Alice Fleming, 45 Her Hippen For. By Arabella Southworth, 46 Tae Lirrite. Herress... By Mrs. M, A. Denison. 47 Brocause Sue Loven Him, By Alice Fleming. 48. In Sprrz or Hersexr, By §, R. Sherwood, 49 His Heart's Mistress, By Arabella Southworth. 50 Tae Cupan Hurress. By Mrs, Mary A. Denison; 51 Two Youne Girus.. By Alice Fleming, 52 Tue WINGED MessenapR. By Mrs. M. R. Crowell. 53 Aanus Horr, THE AcTRESS. By Wm. M. Turner. Ont Woman’s Huart. By George S. Kaime. 55 Saxe Dip Nor Love Hi. A. Southworth. 56 Loyze-Map. By William Mason Turner, M, D. 57 A Brave Girt, tag 5 Fleming. 58 Tam Enon Mask. By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell, 59 A Wipow’s WIzEs. By Rachel Bernhardt. 60 Cxcr’s Decurr. By Mrs, Jennie Davis Burton, 61 A Wickep Hear. By Sara Claxton. 62 Toe Maniac Brive. we Margaret Blount, 63 Tum CrroLte Sisters. By Mrs. Anna E. Porter. 64 Wuat JmAtousy Dip. By Alice Fleming. 65 Toe ,Wirn’s, Secret. ay ol Juan Lewis. 66 A Brotuer’s Sin. By Rachel Bernhardt. 67 FornrppEn Bans, By Arabella Southworth. 68 WEAVERS AND Wert. By Miss M. E. Braddon. 69 Camiuty. By Alexander Dumas. 70 Tar Two OrpHans. By D’Ennery. ‘ 71 My Youne Wire. By My Young Wife’s Husband. 72 Tas Two Wipows. By Annie Thomas, 73 Rose Micagsn, By Maude Hilton, A new issue every week. i For sale by all Newsdealers, price five cents each, or sent, postage paid, on receipt of six cents. BEADLE AND ADAMS, Publishers. 98 William street, N. ‘X. ee ee ee ee