jeered at the Lord of Kerguelen."
"Great heaven! and these were gentlemen!"
"They were called such, at least; gentlemen by name and descent they
were assuredly, but as surely not right gentlemen at heart. Many of
them, however, in cooler moments, spoke of the traitor and the
braggart with the contempt and disgust he merited. Some friend of
Kerguelen's heard what had passed, and deemed it his duty to inform
him. The most unhappy husband called the seducer to the field, wounded
him mortally, and--to increase yet more his infamy--even in the agony
of death the slave confessed the whole, and craved forgiveness like a
dog. Confessed the _woman's crime_--you mark me, Raoul!--had he died
mute, or died even with a falsehood in his mouth, as I think he was
bound to do in such extremity, affirming her innocence with his last
breath, he had saved her, and perhaps spared her wretched lord the
misery of knowing certainly the depth of his dishonor."
The boy pondered for a moment or two without making any answer; and
although he was evidently not altogether satisfied, probably would not
have again spoken, had not his father, who read what was passing in
his mind, asked him what it was that he desired to know further.
Raoul smiled at perceiving how completely his father understood him,
and then said at once, without pause or hesitation--
"I understand you to say, sir, that you thought the wretched man of
whom we spoke was bound, under the extremity in which he stood, to die
with a falsehood in his mouth. Can a gentleman ever be justified in
saying the thing that is not? Much more can it be his bounden duty to
do so?"
"Unquestionably, as a rule of general conduct, he cannot. Truth is the
soul of honor; and without truth, honor cannot exist. But this is a
most intricate and tangled question. It never can arise without
presupposing the commission of one guilty act--one act which no good
or truly moral man would commit at all. It is, therefore, scarcely
worth our while to examine it. But I do say, on my deliberate and
grave opinion, that if a woman, previously innocent and pure, have
sacrificed her honor to a man, that man is bound to sacrifice every
thing, his life without a question, and I think his truth also, in
order to preserve her character, so far as he can, scathless. But we
will speak no more of this. It is an odious subject, and one of which,
I trust, you, Raoul, will never have the sad occasion to consider."
"Oh! never, father, never! I," cried the ingenuous boy, "I must first
lose my senses, and become a madman."
"All men are madmen, Raoul," said the church-man, who stood in the
relation of maternal uncle to the youth, "who suffer their passions to
have the mastery of them. You must learn, therefore, to be their
tyrant, for if you be not, be well assured that they will be
yours--and merciless tyrants they are to the wretches who become their
subjects."
"I will remember what you say, sir," answered the boy, "and, indeed, I
am not like to forget it, for, altogether, this is the saddest day I
ever have passed; and this is the most horrible and appalling story
that I ever have heard told. It was but just that the Lord of
Kerguelen should die, for he did a murder; and since the law punishes
that in a peasant, it must do so likewise with a noble. But to break
him upon the wheel!--it is atrocious! I should have thought all the
nobles of the land would have applied to the king to spare him that
horror."
"Many of them did apply, Raoul; but the king, or his ministers in his
name, made answer, that during the Regency the Count Horn was broken
on the wheel for murder, and therefore that to behead the Lord of
Kerguelen for the same offence, would be to admit that the Count was
wrongfully condemned."
"Out on it! out on it! what sophistry. Count Horn murdered a banker,
like a common thief, for his gold, and this unhappy lord hath done the
deed for which he must suffer in a mistaken sense of honor, and with
all tenderness compatible with such a deed. There is nothing similar
or parallel in the two cases; and if there were, what signifies it now
to Count Horn, whether he were condemned rightfully or no; are these
men heathen, that they would offer a victim to the offended manes of
the dead? But is there no hope, my father, that his sentence may be
commuted?"
"None whatsoever. Let us trust, therefore, that he has died penitent,
and that his sufferings are already over; and let us pray, ere we lay
us down to sleep, that his sins may be forgiven to him, and that his
soul may have rest."
"Amen!" replied the boy, solemnly, at the same moment that the
ecclesiastic repeated the same word, though he did so, as it would
seem, less from the heart, and more as a matter of course.
Nothing further was said on that subject, and in truth the
conversation ceased altogether. A gloom was cast over the spirits of
all present, both by the imagination of the horrors which were in
progress at that very moment, and by the recollection of the preceding
enormities of which this was but the consummation; but the young
Viscount Raoul was so completely engrossed by the deep thoughts which
that conversation had awakened in his mind, that his father, who was a
very close observer, and correct judge of human nature, almost
regretted that he had spoken, and determined, if possible, to divert
him from the gloomy revery into which he had fallen.
"Viscount," said he, after a silence which had endured now for many
minutes, "when did you last wait upon Mademoiselle Melanie
d'Argenson?"
Raoul's eyes, brightened at the name, and again the bright blush,
which I noticed before, crossed his ingenuous features; but this time
it was pleasure, not embarrassment, which colored his young face so
vividly.
"I called yesterday, sir;" he answered, "but she was abroad with the
countess, her mother. In truth, I have not seen her since Friday
last."
"Why that is an age, Raoul! are you not dying to see her again by this
time. At your age, I was far more gallant."
"With your permission, sir, I will go now and make my compliments to
her."
"Not only my permission, Raoul, but my advice to make your best haste
thither. If you go straight-ways, you will be sure to find her at
home, for the ladies are sure not to have ventured abroad with all
this uproar in the streets. Take Martin, the equerry, with you, and
three of the grooms. What will you ride? The new Barb I bought for you
last week? Yes! as well him as any; and, hark you, boy, tell them to
send Martin to me first, I will speak to him while you are beautifying
yourself to please the _beaux yeux_ of Mademoiselle Melanie."
"I am not sure that you are doing wisely, Louis," said the lady, as
her son left the saloon, her eye following him wistfully, "in bringing
Raoul up as you are doing."
"Nor I, Marie," replied her husband, gravely. "We poor, blind mortals
cannot be sure of any thing, least of all of any thing the ends of
which are incalculably distant. But in what particular do you doubt
the wisdom of my method?"
"In talking to him as you do, as though he were a man already; in
opening his eyes so widely to the sins and vices of the world; in
discussing questions with him such as those you spoke of with him but
now. He is a mere boy, you will remember, to hear tell of such
things."
"Boys hear of such things early enough, I assure you--far earlier than
you ladies would deem possible. For the rest, he must hear of them one
day, and I think it quite as well that he should hear of them, since
hear he must, with the comments of an old man, and that old man his
best friend, than find them out by the teachings, and judge of them
according to the light views of his young and excitable associates. He
who is forewarned is fore-weaponed. I was kept pure, as it is
termed--or in other words, kept ignorant of myself and of the world I
was destined to live in, until one fine day I was cut loose from the
apron-strings of my lady mother, and the tether of my abbe tutor, and
launched head-foremost into that vortex of temptation and iniquity,
the world of Paris, like a ship without a chart or a compass. A
precious race I ran in consequence, for a time; and if I had not been
so fortunate as to meet you, Marie, whose bright eyes brought me out,
like a blessed beacon, safe from that perilous ocean, I know not but I
should have suffered shipwreck, both in fortune, which is a trifle,
and in character, which is every thing. No, no; if that is all in
which you doubt, your fears are causeless."
"But that is not all. In this you may be right--I know not; at all
events you are a fitter judge than I. But are you wise in encouraging
so very strongly his fancy for Melanie d'Argenson?"
"I'faith, it is something more than a fancy, I think; the boy loves
her."
"I see that, Louis, clearly; and you encourage it."
"And wherefore should I not. She is a good girl--as good as she is
beautiful."
"She is an angel."
"And her mother, Marie, was your most intimate, your bosom friend."
"And now a saint in Heaven!"
"Well, what more; she is as noble as a De Rohan, or a Montmorency. She
is an heiress with superb estates adjoining our own lands of St.
Renan. She is, like our Raoul, an only child. And what is the most of
all, I think, although it is not the mode in this dear France of ours
to attach much weight to that, it is no made-up match, no cradle
plighting between babes, to be made good, perhaps, by the breaking of
hearts, but a genuine, natural, mutual affection between two young,
sincere, innocent, artless persons--and a splendid couple they will
make. What can you see to alarm you in that prospect?"
"Her father."
"The Sieur d'Argenson! Well, I confess, he is not a very charming
person; but we all have our own faults or weaknesses; and, after all,
it is not he whom Raoul is about to marry."
"I doubt his good faith, very sorely."
"I should doubt it too, Marie, did I see any cause which should lead
him to break it. But the match is in all respects more desirable for
him than it is for us. For though Mademoiselle d'Argenson is noble,
rich, and handsome, the Viscount de Douarnez might be well justified
in looking for a wife far higher than the daughter of a simple Sieur
of Bretagne. Beside, although the children loved before any one spoke
of it--before any one saw it, indeed, save I--it was d'Argenson
himself who broke the subject. What, then, should induce him to play
false?"
"I do not know, yet I doubt--I fear him."
"But that, Marie, is unworthy of your character, of your mind."
"Louis, she is _too_ beautiful."
"I do not think Raoul will find fault with her on that score."
"Nor would one greater than Raoul."
"Whom do you mean?" cried the count, now for the first time startled.
"I have seen eyes fixed upon her in deadly admiration, which never
admire but they pollute the object of their admiration."
"The king's, Marie?"
"The king's."
"And then--?"
"And then I have heard it whispered that the Baron de Beaulieu has
asked her hand of the Sieur d'Argenson."
"The Baron de Beaulieu! and who the devil is the Baron de Beaulieu,
that the Sieur d'Argenson should doubt for the nine hundredth part of
a minute between him and the Viscount de Douarnez for the husband of
his daughter?"
"The Baron de Beaulieu, count, is the very particular friend, the
right hand man, and most private minister of his most Christian
Majesty King Louis the Fifteenth!"
"Ha! is it possible? Do you mean that?--"
"I mean even _that_. If, by that, you mean all that is most infamous
and loathsome on the part of Beaulieu, all that is most licentious on
the part of the king. I believe--nay, I am well nigh sure, that there
is such a scheme of villany on foot against that sweet, unhappy child;
and therefore would I pause ere I urged too far my child's love toward
her, lest it prove most unhappy and disastrous."
"And do you think d'Argenson capable--" exclaimed her husband--
"Of any thing," she answered, interrupting him, "of any thing that may
serve his avarice or his ambition."
"Ah! it may be so. I will look to it, Marie; I will look to it
narrowly. But I fear that if it be as you fancy, it is too late
already--that our boy's heart is devoted to her entirely--that any
break now, in one word, would be a heart-break."
"He loves her very dearly, beyond doubt," replied the lady; "and she
deserves it all, and is, I think, very fond of him likewise."
"And can you suppose for a moment that she will lend herself to such a
scheme of infamy?"
"Never. She would die sooner."
"I do not apprehend, then, that there will be so much difficulty as
you seem to fear. This business which brought all of us Bretons up to
Paris, as claimants of justice for our province, or counters of the
king's grace, as they phrase it, is finished happily; and there is
nothing to detain any of us in this great wilderness of stone and
mortar any longer. D'Argenson told me yesterday that he should set out
homeward on Wednesday next; and it is but hurrying our own
preparations a little to travel with them in one party. I will see him
this evening and arrange it."
"Have you ever spoken with him concerning the contract, Louis?"
"Never, directly, or in the form of a solemn proposal. But we have
spoken oftentimes of the evident attachment of the children, and he
has ever expressed himself gratified, and seemed to regard it as a
matter of course. But hush, here comes the boy; leave us awhile and I
will speak with him."
Almost before his words were ended the door was thrown open, and young
Raoul entered, splendidly dressed, with his rapier at his side, and
his plumed hat in his hand, as likely a youth to win a fair maid's
heart as ever wore the weapon of a gentleman.
"Martin is absent, sir. He went out soon after breakfast, they tell
me, to look after a pair of fine English carriage horses for the
countess my mother, and has not yet returned. I ordered old Jean
Francois to attend me with the four other grooms."
"Very well, Raoul. But look you, your head is young, and your blood
hot. You will meet, it is very like, all this canaille returning from
the slaughter of poor Kerguelen. Now mark me, boy, there must be no
vaporing on your part, or interfering with the populace; and even if
they should, as very probably may, be insolent, and utter outcries and
abuse against the nobility, even bear with them. On no account strike
any person, nor let your servants do so, nor encroach upon their
order, unless, indeed, they should so far forget themselves as to
throw stones, or to strike the first."
"And then, my father?"
"Oh, then, Raoul, you are at liberty to let your good sword feel the
fresh air, and to give your horse a taste of those fine spurs you
wear. But even in that case, I should advise you to use your edge
rather than your point. There is not much harm done in wiping a saucy
burgher across the face to mend his manners, but to pink him through
the body makes it an awkward matter. And I need not tell you by no
means to fire, unless you should be so beset and maltreated that you
cannot otherwise extricate yourself--yet you must have your pistols
loaded. In these times it is necessary always to be provided against
all things. I do not, however, tell you these things now because you
are likely to be attacked but such events are always possible, and one
cannot provide against such too early."
"I will observe what you say, my father. Have I your permission now to
depart?"
"Not yet, Raoul, I would speak with you first a few words. This
Mademoiselle Melanie is very pretty, is she not?"
"She is the most beautiful lady I have ever seen," replied the youth,
not without some embarrassment.
"And as amiable and gentle as she is beautiful?"
"Oh, yes, indeed, sir. She is all gentleness and sweetness, yet is
full of mirth, too, and graceful merriment."
"In one word, then, she seems to you a very sweet and lovely
creature."
"Doubtless she does, my father."
"And I beseech you tell me, viscount, in what light do you appear in
the eyes of this very admirable young lady?"
"Oh, sir!" replied the youth, now very much embarrassed, and blushing
actually from shame.
"Nay, Raoul, I did not ask the question lightly, I assure you, or in
the least degree as a jest. It becomes very important that I should
know on what terms you and this fair lady stand together. You have
been visiting her now almost daily, I think, during these three months
last past. Do you conceive that you are very disagreeable to her?"
"Oh! I hope not, sir. It would grieve me much if I thought so."
"Well, I am to understand, then, that you think she is not blind to
your merits, sir."
"I am not aware, my dear father, that I have any merits which she
should be called to observe."
"Oh, yes, viscount! That is an excess of modesty which touches a
little, I am afraid, on hypocrisy. You are not altogether without
merits. You are young, not ill-looking, nobly born, and will, in God's
good time, be rich. Then you can ride well, and dance gracefully, and
are not generally ill-educated or unpolished. It is quite as
necessary, my dear son, that a young man should not undervalue
himself, as that he should not think of his deserts too highly. Now
that you have some merits is certain--for the rest I desire frankness
of you just now, and beg that you will speak out plainly. I think you
love this young girl. Is it not so, Raoul?"
"I do love, sir, very dearly; with my whole heart and spirit."
"And do you feel sure that this is not a mere transient liking--that
it will last, Raoul?"
"So long as life lasts in my heart, so long will my love for her last,
my father."
"And you would wish to marry her?"
"Beyond all things in this world, my dear father."
"And do you think that, were her tastes and views on the subject
consulted, she would say likewise?"
"I hope she would, sir. But I have never asked her."
"And her father, is he gracious when you meet him?"
"Most gracious, sir, and most kind. Indeed, he distinguishes me above
all the other young gentlemen who visit there."
"You would not then despair of obtaining his consent?"
"By no means, my father, if you would be so kind as to ask it."
"And you desire that I should do so?"
"You will make me the happiest man in all France, if you will."
"Then go your way, sir, and make the best you can of it with the young
lady. I will speak myself with the Sieur d'Argenson to-night; and I do
not despair any more than you do, Raoul. But look you, boy, you do not
fancy, I hope, that you are going to church with your lady-love
to-morrow or the next day. Two or three years hence, at the earliest,
will be all in very good time. You must serve a campaign or two first,
in order to show that you know how to use your sword."
"In all things, my dear father, I shall endeavor to fulfill your
wishes, knowing them to be as kindly as they are wise and prudent. I
owe you gratitude for every hour since I was born, but for none so
much as for this, for indeed you are going to make me the happiest of
men."
"Away with you, then, Sir Happiness! Betake yourself on the wings of
love to your bright lady, and mind the advice of your favorite Horace,
to pluck the pleasures of the passing hour, mindful how short is the
sum of mortal life."
The young man embraced his father gayly, and left the room with a
quick step and a joyous heart; and the jingling of his spurs, and the
quick, merry clash of his scabbard on the marble staircase, told how
joyously he descended its steps.
A moment afterward his father heard the clear, sonorous tones of his
fine voice calling to his attendants, and yet a few seconds later the
lively clatter of his horse's hoofs on the resounding pavement.
"Alas! for the happy days of youth, which are so quickly flown,"
exclaimed the father, as he participated the hopeful and exulting mood
of his noble boy. "And, alas! for the promise of mortal happiness,
which is so oft deceitful and a traitress." He paused for a few
moments, and seemed to ponder, and then added with a confident and
proud expression, "But I see not why one should forebode aught but
success and happiness to this noble boy of mine. Thus far, every
thing has worked toward the end as I would wish it. They have fallen
in love naturally and of their own accord, and d'Argenson, whether he
like it or no, cannot help himself. He must needs accede, proudly and
joyfully, to my proposal. He knows his estates to be in my power far
too deeply to resist. Nay, more, though he be somewhat selfish, and
ambitious, and avaricious, I know nothing of him that should justify
me in believing that he would sell his daughter's honor, even to a
king, for wealth or title! My good wife is all too doubtful and
suspicious. But, hark! here comes the mob, returning from that
unfortunate man's execution. I wonder how he bore it."
And with the words he moved toward the window, and throwing it open,
stepped out upon the spacious balcony. Here he learned speedily from
the conversation of the passing crowd, that, although dreadfully
shocked and startled by the first intimation of the death he was to
undergo, which he received from the sight of the fatal wheel, the Lord
of Kerguelen had died as becomes a proud, brave man, reconciled to the
church, forgiving his enemies, without a groan or a murmur, under the
protracted agonies of that most horrible of deaths, the breaking on
the wheel.
Meanwhile the day passed onward, and when evening came, and the last
and most social meal of the day was laid on the domestic board, young
Raoul had returned from his visit to the lady of his love, full of
high hopes and happy anticipations. Afterward, according to his
promise, the Count de St. Renan went forth and held debate until a
late hour of the night with the Sieur d'Argenson. Raoul had not
retired when he came home, too restless in his youthful ardor even to
think of sleep. His father brought good tidings, the father of the
lady had consented, and on their arrival in Britanny the marriage
contract was to be signed in form.
That was to Raoul an eventful day; and never did he forget it, or the
teachings he drew from it. That day was his fate.
[_To be continued_.
THE LAND OF THE WEST.
BY THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.
Thou land whose deep forest was wide as the sea,
And heaved its broad ocean of green to the day,
Or, waked by the tempest, in terrible glee
Flung up from its billows the leaves like a spray;
The swift birds of passage still spread their fleets there,
Where sails the wild vulture, the pirate of air.
Thou land whose dark streams, like a hurrying horde
Of wilderness steeds without rider or rein,
Swept down, owning Nature alone for their lord,
Their foam flowing free on the air like a mane:--
Oh grand were thy waters which spurned as they ran
The curb of the rock and the fetters of man!
Thou land whose bright blossoms, like shells of the sea,
Of numberless shapes and of many a shade,
Begemmed thy ravines where the hidden springs be,
And crowned the black hair of the dark forest maid:--
Those flowers still bloom in the depth of the wild
To bind the white brow of the pioneer's child.
Thou land whose last hamlets were circled with maize,
And lay like a dream in the silence profound,
While murmuring its song through the dark woodland ways
The stream swept afar through the lone hunting-ground:--
Now loud anvils ring in that wild forest home
And mill-wheels are dashing the waters to foam.
Thou land where the eagle of Freedom looked down
From his eyried crag through the depths of the shade,
Or mounted at morn where no daylight can drown
The stars on their broad field of azure arrayed:--
Still, still to thy banner that eagle is true,
Encircled with stars on a heaven of blue!
GOING TO HEAVEN.
BY T. S. ARTHUR.
Whatever our gifts may be, the love of imparting them for the good of
others brings HEAVEN into the soul. MRS. CHILD.
An old man, with a peaceful countenance, sat in a company of twelve
persons. They were conversing, but he was silent. The theme upon which
they were discoursing was Heaven; and each one who spoke did so with
animation.
"Heaven is a place of rest," said one--"rest and peace. Oh! what sweet
words! rest and peace. Here, all is labor and disquietude. There we
shall have rest and peace."
"And freedom from pain," said another, whose pale cheeks and sunken
eyes told many a tale of bodily suffering. "No more pain; no more
sickness--the aching head will be at rest--the weary limbs find
everlasting repose."
"Sorrow and sighing shall forever flee away," spoke up a third one of
the company. "No more grief, no more anguish of spirit. Happy, happy
change!"