CHAPTER V.

The Italian singing-master was a peculiar man, and well worthy of a few

words in description. He was tall and thin, but well built; and his face

had probably once been very handsome, in that Italian style, which, by

the exaggeration of age, grows so soon into ugliness. The nose was now

large and conspicuous, the eyes bright, black, and twinkling, the mouth

good in shape, but with an animal expression about it, the ear very

voluminous.

He was somewhat more than fifty years of age, and his hair was speckled

with gray; but age was not apparent in wrinkles and furrows, and in gait

he was firm and upright.

At first Sir Philip Hastings did not like him at all. He did not like to

have him there. It was against the grain he admitted him into the house.

He did it, partly because he thought it right to yield in some degree to

the wishes of his wife; partly from a grudging deference to the customs

of society.

But the Signor was a shrewd and world-taught man, accustomed to overcome

prejudices, and to make his way against disadvantages; and he soon

established himself well in the opinion of both father and mother. It

was done by a peculiar process, which is well worth the consideration of

all those who seek _les moyens de parvenir_.

In his general and ordinary intercourse with his fellow-men, he had a

happy middle tone,--a grave, reticent manner, which never compromised

him to anything. A shrewd smile, without an elucidatory remark, served

to harmonize him with the gay and vivacious; a serious tranquillity,

unaccompanied by any public professions, was enough to make the sober

and the decent rank him amongst themselves. Perhaps that class of

men--whether pure at heart or not--have always overestimated decency of

exterior.

All this was in public however. In private, in a _tete-a-tete_, Signor

Guardini was a very different man. Nay more, in each and every

_tete-a-tete_ he was a different man from what he appeared in the other.

Yet, with a marvelous art, he contrived to make both sides of his

apparent character harmonize with his public and open appearance. Or

rather perhaps I should say that his public demeanor was a middle tint

which served to harmonize the opposite extremes of coloring displayed by

his character. Nothing could exemplify this more strongly than the

different impressions he produced on Sir Philip and Lady Hastings. The

lady was soon won to his side. She was predisposed to favor him; and a

few light gay sallies, a great deal of conventional talk about the

fashionable life of London, and a cheerful bantering tone of persiflage,

completely charmed her. Sir Philip was more difficult to win.

Nevertheless, in a few short sentences, hardly longer than those which

Sterne's mendicant whispered in the ear of the passengers, he succeeded

in disarming many prejudices. With him, the Signor was a stoic; he had

some tincture of letters, though a singer, and had read sufficient of

the history of his own land, to have caught all the salient points of

the glorious past.

Perhaps he might even feel a certain interest in the antecedents of his

decrepit land--not to influence his conduct, or to plant ambitious or

nourish pure and high hopes for its regeneration--but to waken a sort of

touch-wood enthusiasm, which glowed brightly when fanned by the stronger

powers of others. Yet before Sir Philip had had time to communicate to

him one spark of his own ardor, he had as I have said made great

progress in his esteem. In five minutes' conversation he had established

for himself the character of one of a higher and nobler character whose

lot had fallen in evil days.

"In other years," thought the English gentleman, "this might have been a

great man--the defender unto death of his country's rights--the advocate

of all that is ennobling, stern, and grand."

What was the secret of all this? Simply that he, a man almost without

character, had keen and well-nigh intuitive perceptions of the

characters of others; and that without difficulty his pliable nature and

easy principles would accommodate themselves to all.

He made great progress then in the regard of Sir Philip, although their

conversations seldom lasted above five minutes. He made greater progress

still with the mother. But with the daughter he made none--worse than

none.

What was the cause, it may be asked. What did he do or say--how did he

demean himself so as to produce in her bosom a feeling of horror and

disgust toward him that nothing could remove?

I cannot tell. He was a man of strong passions and no principles: that

his after--perhaps his previous--life would evince. There is a

touchstone for pure gold in the heart of an innocent and highminded

woman that detects all baser metals: they are discovered in a moment:

they cannot stand the test.

Now, whether his heart-cankering corruption, his want of faith, honesty,

and truth, made themselves felt, and were pointed out by the index of

that fine barometer, without any overt act at all--or whether he gave

actual cause of offense, I do not know--none has ever known.

Suddenly, however, the gay, the apparently somewhat wayward girl, now

between fifteen and sixteen, assumed a new character in her father's and

mother's eyes. With a strange frank abruptness she told them she would

take no more singing lessons of the Italian; but she added no

explanation.

Lady Hastings was angry, and expostulated warmly; but the girl was firm

and resolute. She heard her mother's argument, and answered in soft and

humble tones that she would not,--could not learn to sing any

longer--that she was very sorry to grieve or to offend her mother; but

she had learned long enough, and would learn no more.

More angry than before, with the air of indignant pride in which

weakness so often takes refuge, the mother quitted the room; and the

father then, in a calmer spirit, inquired the cause of her resolution.

She blushed like the early morning sky; but there was a sort of

bewildered look upon her face as she replied, "I know no cause--I can

give no reason, my dear father; but the man is hateful to me. I will

never see him again."

Her father sought for farther explanation, but he could obtain none.

Guardini had not said anything nor done anything, she admitted, to give

her offense; but yet she firmly refused to be his pupil any longer.

There are instincts in fine and delicate minds, which, by signs and

indications intangible to coarser natures, discover in others thoughts

and feelings, wishes and designs, discordant--repugnant to themselves.

They are instincts, I say, not amenable to reason, escaping analysis,

incapable of explanation--the warning voice of God in the heart, bidding

them beware of evil.

Sir Philip Hastings was not a man to allow aught for such impulses--to

conceive or understand them in the least. He had been accustomed to

delude himself with reasons, some just, others very much the reverse,

but he had never done a deed or entertained a thought for which he could

not give some reason of convincing power to his own mind.

He did not understand his daughter's conduct at all; but he would not

press her any farther. She was in some degree a mysterious being to him.

Indeed, as I have before shown, she had always been a mystery; for he

had no key to her character in his own. It was written in the unknown

language.

Yet, did he love or cherish her the less? Oh no! Perhaps a deeper

interest gathered round his heart for her, the chief object of his

affections. More strongly than ever he determined to cultivate and form

her mind on his own model, in consequence of what he called a strange

caprice, although he could not but sometimes hope and fancy that her

resolute rejection of any farther lessons from Signor Guardini arose

from her distaste to what he himself considered one of the frivolous

pursuits of fashion.

Yet she showed no distaste for singing; for somehow every day she would

practice eagerly, till her sweet voice, under a delicate taste, acquired

a flexibility and power which charmed and captivated her father,

notwithstanding his would-be cynicism. He was naturally fond of music;

his nature was a vehement one, though curbed by such strong restraints;

and all vehement natures are much moved by music. He would sit calmly,

with his eyes fixed upon a book, but listening all the time to that

sweet voice, with feelings working in him--emotions, thrilling, deep,

intense, which he would have felt ashamed to expose to any human eye.

All this however made her conduct toward Guardini the more mysterious;

and her father often gazed upon her beautiful face with a look of

doubting inquiry, as one may look on the surface of a bright lake, and

ask, What is below?

That face was now indeed becoming very beautiful. Every feature had been

refined and softened by time. There was soul in the eyes, and a gleam of

heaven upon the smile, besides the mere beauties of line and coloring.

The form too had nearly reached perfection. It was full of symmetry and

grace, and budding charms; and while the mother marked all these

attractions, and thought how powerful they would prove in the world, the

father felt their influence in a different manner: with a sort of

abstract admiration of her loveliness, which went no further than a

proud acknowledgment to his own heart that she was beautiful indeed. To

him her beauty was as a gem, a picture, a beautiful possession, which he

had no thought of ever parting with--something on which his eyes would

rest well pleased until they closed forever. How blessed he might have

been in the possession of such a child could he have comprehended

her--could he have divested his mind of the idea that there was

something strange and inharmonious in her character! Could he have made

his heart a woman's heart for but one hour, all mystery would have been

dispelled; but it was impossible, and it remained.

No tangible effect did it produce at the time; but preconceptions of

another's character are very dangerous things. Everything is seen

through their medium, everything is colored and often distorted. That

which produced no fruit at the time, had very important results at an

after period.

But I must turn now to other scenes and more stirring events, having I

trust made the reader well enough acquainted with father, mother, and

daughter, at least sufficiently for all the purposes of this tale. It is

upon the characters of two of them that all the interest if there be any

depends. Let them be marked then and remembered, if the reader would

derive pleasure from what follows.

TO BE CONTINUED.

[From "The Album." Manchester, November, 1850.]

THE POET'S LOT.

BY PHILIP JAMES BAILEY, AUTHOR OF "FESTUS," ETC.

Nature in the poet's heart is limned

In little, as in landscape stones we see

The swell of land, and groves, and running streams,

Fresh from the wolds of Chaos; or perchance

The imaged hint of antemundane life,--

A photograph of preexistent light,--

Or Paradisal sun. So, in his mind

The broad conditions of the world are graven,

Thoroughly and grandly; in accord wherewith

His life is ruled to be, and eke to bear.

Wisdom he wills not only for himself,

But undergoes the sacred rites whereby

The privilege he hath earned he may promulge,

And all men make the partners of his light.

Between the priestly and the laic powers

The poet stands, a bright and living link;

Now chanting odes divine and sacred spells--

Now with fine magic, holy and austere,

Inviting angels or evoking fiends;

And now, in festive guise arrayed, his brow

With golden fillet bounden round--alone,

Earnest to charm the throng that celebrates

The games now--now the mysteries of life,

With truths ornate and Pleasure's choicest plea.

Thus he becomes the darling of mankind,

Armed with the instinct both of rule and right,

And the world's minion, privileged to speak

When all beside, the medley mass, are mute:

Distills his soul into a song--and dies.

THE COUNT MONTE-LEONE: OR, THE SPY IN SOCIETY.[6]

TRANSLATED FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MONTHLY MAGAZINE FROM THE FRENCH OF

H. DE ST. GEORGES.

_Continued from Page 512._

[6: Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1850, by

Stringer & Townsend, in the Clerk's office of the District Court of

the United States, for the Southern District of New York.]

BOOK SECOND.--THE VIPER'S NEST.

Rightly enough had the young girl been called "The White Rose of

Sorrento." Monte-Leone had based on her his most ardent hopes and

tenderest expectations. Nothing in fact could be more angelic than the

expression of her face. She seemed the _virgo immaculata_ of Rubens, the

_virgo_ of divine love. What would first attract attention at Aminta's

appearance was a marble pallor, the paleness of that beautiful marble of

Carara, in which when Canova had touched it the blood seemed to rush to

the surface and circulate beneath the transparent flesh of the great

master.

We must however say that beneath the long lids of the young Neapolitan,

the observer would have discovered an expression of firmness and

decision rarely found in so young a girl. Any one who examined her

quickly saw that in her frail and delicate frame there was a soul full

of energy and courage, and that if it should ever be aroused, what she

wished must be, _God willing_. Nothing in nature is more persevering and

irresistible than woman's will, especially if the woman be an Italian.

Antonia Rovero, the mother of Aminta and Taddeo, was the widow of a rich

banker of Naples, devoted to the cause of Murat, and had been created by

the late king one of his senators and then minister of finances. In this

last office M. Rovero died, and his widow, after having received every

kindness from Murat, retired to Sorrento. Taddeo then felt an interest

in everything which had a tendency to overturn the government of

Fernando IV. The restoration of the latter had crushed his ambition and

broken his fortunes. On that account he had become one of the Pulcinelli

whom we have described in the last book.

While this well-beloved son of an affectionate mother, this brother so

idolized by an affectionate sister, languished perhaps like Monte-Leone,

Madame Rovero and her daughter in their quiet retreat fancied that

Taddeo was enjoying at Naples all the pleasures of the Carnival and

abandoning himself to all the follies of that day of pleasure.

Sometimes, however, as the sun set on the hills of Sorrento, Aminta said

to her mother, "Taddeo forgets us. It is not pleasant to enjoy this

beautiful day without him. Were we three together, how delicious it

would be!" Then Aminta would take a volume of Alfieri, her favorite

author, and wander alone amid the fields.

The day on which the scene we are about to describe happened was one of

those burning ones, which make us even in winter fancy that an eternal

spring exists in that heaven-protected land. We may add that the winter

of 1816 was peculiar even in Italy, and that the sun was so warm and the

heat so genial that nature under their influence put on the most

luxuriant vegetation. The favorite haunt of Aminta was a green hill,

behind which was a pretty and simple house, the cradle of one of the

most wonderful geniuses of the world. This genius was Tasso. A bust of

the poet in _terra cotta_ yet adorned the facade of the house, which

though then in ruins has since been rebuilt. At that time the room of

the divine yet unfortunate lover of Leonora did not exist--the sea had

swept over it. Admirers of the poet yet however visited the remnants of

his habitation. The tender heart of Aminta yet paid a pious worship to

them, and "The White Rose of Sorrento" went toward "The House of Tasso."

Aminta's mother was always offended when she indulged in such distant

excursions.

She did not however go alone. A singular being accompanied her. This

being was at once a man and a reptile. His features would have denoted

the age of sixteen. They were the most frightful imaginable. A forehead

over which spread a few reddish hairs; a mouth almost without teeth;

small eyes, sad and green, which were however insupportably bright when

they were lit up by anger; long and bony arms; legs horribly thin; a

short and square bust,--all united to make a being so utterly

ungraceful, so inhuman, that the children of the village had nicknamed

him _Scorpione_--so like that reptile's was his air. The _morale_ of

Scorpione was worthy of his _physique_. The true name of this child was

Tonio. Being the son of Aminta's nurse, he had never in his life been

separated from her, and seemed to grow daily more ugly as she became

more beautiful. He became so devoted to Aminta that he never left her.

This whimsical intimacy was not that of children, the attachment of

brother and sister, but that of the intellectual and brute being, of the

master and dog. He was the dog of Aminta. He accompanied and watched

over her in all her long walks. Did a dangerous pass occur, he took her

up and carried her across the pool or torrent, so that not a drop of

water touched her. If any one chanced to meet her and sought to speak to

her, he first growled, and then having looked at Aminta, made the bold

man understand that like a mastiff he would protect her against all

assailants.

During the winter evenings when Aminta read to her mother, Tonio lying

at the fair reader's feet, warmed them in his bosom, where she suffered

them to remain with as much carelessness as she would have let them rest

on the back of a dog. She became so used to his horrid features, that

she no longer thought them repulsive. No contrast was stronger than that

these two presented. It was like the association of an angel and a

devil.

The young girl had in vain attempted to impart some knowledge to

Scorpione: his nature did not admit of it. Had he been able to

comprehend anything, if the simple idea of right and wrong could have

reached his heart, Aminta would have accomplished much. This Cretin,[7]

however, knew but three things in the world, to love, to serve, and to

defend Aminta. Nothing more.

[7: The Cretins are a miserable, feeble and almost idiotic race,

found not infrequently in the south of France. They have sometimes

been horribly persecuted.]

Accompanied by her faithful dog one day, the fair creature had walked to

the house of Tasso. She had perhaps twenty times gone through those

magnificent ruins, and read over again and again the inscription every

tourist fancies himself obliged to engrave with his dagger's point on

the tesselated walls of the poet's home. One which seemed new attracted

her attention. Thus it read:

"One must have suffered as much as the lover of Leonora, to be unhappy

in the paradise of Sorrento."

These three lines were signed by the Marquis de Maulear.

Aminta read the inscription two or three times, without fancying that it

related to her. The simple style touched her heart, and with no slight

emotion, she left the wall.

At that moment the sun was at the height of its power, and shed its

burning rays over nature. Aminta's straw hat sheltered her from the

torrents of lava which seemed to fall from heaven and a few drops of

perspiration stood on her marble forehead. While she was seeking in the

ruined house for some shadowed nook, Scorpione amused himself behind a

wall in torturing a gray lizard he had found, and which had taken refuge

in a hole, from which it could not get out. The cruel child made

numerous blows at the timid animal whenever it attempted to escape. He

was perfectly delighted when he had beaten out the eyes of the animal,

and the poor creature, rushing out, surrendered himself. One thrust

completed the work, and it died in convulsions. Aminta found Scorpione

thus engaged.

"Fie, fie," said she, "you deserve to suffer as much pain as you have

inflicted on this poor animal."

"I am no lizard, but a scorpion, as the children of Sorrento say. I have

a sting always ready for those who seek to injure me." He showed his

dagger.

Aminta left, and Tonio, glancing at his mistress like a dog which has

been punished, placed his back against the wall and pretended to sleep.

Before long he really did sleep.

Not far from Tasso's house there was a grotto, beneath which ran a

little stream, overgrown with aquatic herbs, and which beyond doubt in

other days fed the fish-ponds of the house. It however had insensibly

dried up, and only a feeble thread could henceforth be traced. This was

the grotto which gave Aminta the refuge she sought. A mossy bench was

placed by the side of a stream. She sat on it, took her book, and

recited aloud the harmonious verses of her favorite bard. She gradually

felt the influence of the heat. For a while she contended against the

approach of sleep, which, however, ere long surrounded her with its

leaden wings. The sight of Aminta became clouded, and shadowy mists

passed before her eyes. Her brow bowed down, her head fell upon the

rustic pillow. She was in oblivion. It was noon. All at this hour in

Italy, and especially in Naples, slumber, "except," says the proverb,

certainly not complimentary to my countrymen, "_Frenchmen and dogs_."

The fact is, that Frenchmen, when they travel, pay no attention to the

customs of the country. A Frenchman who travels unfortunately insists

that everything should be done _a la Francaise_, in countries and

climates where such a life as ours is impossible.

A profound silence covered all nature. The indistinct humming of insects

in the air for a while troubled him; then all was silent. The wind even

was voiceless, and the wave which beat on the rock seemed to repress

every sound to avoid interrupting the repose of earth and heaven.

All at once, distant steps were heard. At first they were light, then

more positive and distinct as they resounded on the calcined rock which

led to Tasso's house. A young man of twenty-five approached. He was

almost overcome by the sultriness. A whip and spurs showed that he had

just dismounted. He had left his horse in an orange grove. Overcome, he

had sought a shelter, and remembering the ruins he had seen a few days

before, hoped to find freshness and repose there. The poet's mansion,

the roof of which had fallen in, did not answer his expectations. He

hurried toward the very place where Aminta slept. His eyes, dazzled by

the brilliant light, did not at first distinguish the young girl in the

darkness of the grotto. After a few moments, however, his sight became

stronger, and he was amazed at the white form which lay on the mossy

seat. Gradually the form became more distinct, and finally the young

stranger was able to distinguish a beautiful girl. Just then a brilliant

sunlight passed over the top of the crumbling wall and fell on her,

enwrapping her in golden light, and, as it were, framing her angelic

head like a glory round one of Raphael's pictures.

Henri de Maulear, such was the young man's name, fancied that an angelic

vision stood before him. Had the princess Leonora's ghost visited the

scenes Tasso loved so well? Had a great sculptor, Canova, in one of his

charming deliriums reproduced the features of Tasso's mistress and

placed his work in the grotto where the great poet sighed? Marble alone

could compete with Aminta's whiteness. Her round and waxen arms seemed

to have been formed of the purest Carara marble.

Aminta uttered a sigh and dissipated the illusion of the stranger. It

was not an admirable statue exhibited to him, but a work of nature. It

was such a woman as a poetic and tender heart dreams of--a woman not to

be loved, but adored. Love is earthly; adoration belongs to heaven.

Henri de Maulear, fascinated by increasing admiration, did not dare to

advance. He held his breath and was afraid, so great was his excitement,

that this wonderful beauty would faint away. Another sentiment, however,

soon took possession of him. A mortal terror filled his soul--death and

sleep were united. A fearful danger menaced the maiden, whence it seemed

no human power could rescue her. In the folds of Aminta's dress, in her

very bosom, Henri saw a strange object, whose whimsical colors

contrasted strangely with the whiteness of her dress. It was one of

those strange things known in Italy as _pointed-headed_ vipers. Their

bite takes effect so rapidly, their poison becomes so soon infused in

the blood, that victims die within a few minutes. Aminta had lain down

near a nest of these dangerous reptiles. The warmth of her body had

gradually attracted them to her, and while she slept they had nestled in

her very bosom. She had been motionless. They had not as yet moved. Any

change of posture however would bring on a terrible catastrophe, a

compulsory witness of which Henri de Maulear would from necessity be.

What assistance could he render her? How could he arouse her without

awaking the reptiles also? With a pale face and icy sweat on his brow,

he thought in vain to contrive a means to save her. What however was his

terror as he saw her make a slight movement! She reached out one of her

arms, held it in the air, and then let it fall on her breast which was

covered with reptiles. Her motion aroused the vipers. For a moment they

became agitated, then uncoiled themselves, and hid their heads in the

folds of her dress. One of them again coiled himself up, passed his thin

tongue through his lips like a _gourmand_ after a feast: the head was

drawn back and the creature assumed the form of a spiral urn, exhibited

all its rings of ruby and _malachete_, and then drawing back in a line

full of grace, disappeared among its fellows, and sank to sleep as if it

were exhausted with its own efforts.

During this terrible scene, Maulear could not breathe. The very

pulsation of his heart was stopped, his soul having left his body to

protect Aminta. For the nonce she was safe. But a terrible death yet

hung over her. Maulear did not lose sight of her. Ere long he saw her

bosom heave; he saw her gasp, and her face gradually become flushed. She

was dreaming. Should she make any motion, she would disturb the vipers.

This idea excited him so much that for a while he thought they were

awakened. Their hisses sounded in his ears, and he eagerly looked aside

to avoid the terrible spectacle. His glance however fell on an object

which as yet he had not perceived. So great was his joy that he could

with difficulty refrain from crying aloud. He saw an earthen vase full

of milk, in a dark portion of the cave, left there by some shepherd

anxious to preserve his evening meal from the heat of the summer sun. He

remembered what naturalists say of the passion entertained by reptiles

for milk. The well-known stories of cows, the dugs of whom had been

sucked dry by snakes, were recalled to his mind. Rushing toward the

vase, he seized it and bore it to the mossy rock. Just then Aminta

awoke.

II.--SCORPIONE.

Having looked around her, Aminta saw Maulear, pale and with an excited

face. He could not restrain his terror and surprise. By a motion more

rapid than thought, he pointed out to her the terrible beings that

nestled in her bosom, and said earnestly and eagerly: "Do not move or

you will die!" He could make no choice as to the means of saving her. It

became necessary for him to rescue her at once, to confront her with

danger, and rely on her strength of mind to brave it, by remaining

motionless. He thought possibly she might succumb beneath its aspect.

This was the result. She looked toward the terrible reptiles Maulear

pointed out to her. Horror took possession of her. Her heart ceased to

beat, and her blood curdled. She fainted. Luckily, however, this

happened without any motion, without even a nervous vibration sufficient

to awake the serpents. Henri uttered a sigh of happiness and delight,

for beyond doubt Heaven protected Aminta and himself. Approaching the

vase of milk, he placed it near her. Dipping his fingers in it, he

scattered a few drops over the reptiles.

They moved. The milk directly attracted their attention, and as soon as

they had tasted it they became aware of its presence. Lifting up their

pointed heads to receive what was offered them, they directed their eyes

toward the vase. When they had once seen it, they began to untwine their

coils and to crawl toward it, like young girls hurrying to the bath. The

mossy bench was near the rock. To remove her from the grotto Henri had

to displace the vase. He had courage enough to wait until the last viper

had gone into it. Seizing it then, he placed it gently on the ground.

Passing his arms under the inanimate body of the girl, he sought to

carry her away. Just then she recovered from her fainting. Aware that

she was in the arms of a strange man, she made a violent effort to get

away, and cast herself from her bed on the ground to escape from this

embrace. In her disorder and agitation, and contest with Maulear, who

sought to restrain her, in the half obscurity of the grotto her foot

touched the coil of vipers.

She fell shrieking on his bosom. He left the grotto with his precious

burden. Her cry had revealed to him the new misfortune, to which at

first he paid no attention, but which now terrified him. The cry awoke

Scorpione. His ear being familiarized with all the tones of his

mistress, he would have recognized this amid a thousand. Quicker than

the thunderbolt he rushed from the house, and stood at the door just

when Maulear seized her.

Scorpione fancied the stranger bore away his foster-sister, and rushed

on him as furiously as he would have done on a midnight robber. He

seized Maulear in the breast with his right hand, the nails of which

were trenchant as a needle, while with the left he sought to thrust the

dagger in his heart. Aminta herself was however a shield to his bosom,

and he clasped her closely. In the appearance of the horrid monster,

Maulear almost forgot the perilous situation from which he had just

extricated himself. For a time he fancied he was under the spell of some

terrible vision, being unable to believe one person could unite so many

deformities. With terror then he saw Scorpione seize on him and seek to

snatch the body of Aminta from him. A second cry of Aminta, less

distinct however than the first, changed the scene and recalled two of

the actors to their true interest.

"Wretch!" said Maulear to Tonio, "if you wish gold I will give it you.

Wait however till I resuscitate this girl."

"Aminta needs the care of none, when I am by!" said Scorpione. "She is

my mistress, my sister: I watch over her."

"At all events you watch over her very badly," said Henri, placing

Aminta on a broken stone. "I found her asleep here, with the vipers

nestling in her bosom."

A groan escaped from the throat of Scorpione as he heard these words. He

fell at Aminta's feet, with such an expression of grief, such cruel

despair, that Maulear despite of himself was moved. "Vipers!

pointed-headed! Have they stung her? tell me," said Tonio to Maulear. "I

will die if she does!"

He sunk on the ground, mad with rage and terror. The eyes of Maulear

glittered with somber horror. A nervous terror seized him, and,

paralyzed by fright, he pointed out to Tonio the white leg of Aminta,

around which a viper had coiled itself. Scorpione sprang forward and

tore the reptile away, throwing it far from him. This took place in less

than a second. Maulear would have done precisely what Scorpione had

done, but thought was not more rapid than the movement of Aminta's

foster-brother. Above the buskin of the girl a spot of blood appeared on

her silk stocking. This came from the bite of the serpent. It was death.

Maulear, kneeling before Aminta, reached forth his hand to touch the

wound. Tonio rudely pushed him aside. "No one," said he in a sharp harsh

voice, mingled with which was an accent of indignation, "may touch

Aminta!" Tonio alone has that right, and Madame Rovero would drive him

away if he permitted it!"

"But she will die unless I aid her!"

"And how can you?" said Scorpione, looking impudently at him. "What do

you know about pointed-heads? You do not even know the only remedy. But

I do, and will cure her."

There was such conviction in the words, that Maulear almost began to

entertain hope. What probability however was there that this kind of

brute would find means energetic and sure enough to restore the warmth

of life to one over whom the coldness of death had already begun to

settle, to stop the flow of poison which already permeated her frame?

Maulear doubted, trembled, and entertained again the most miserable

ideas. "If you would save her," said he to Scorpione, "there is but one

thing to do. Hurry to the nearest physician and bring him hither to

cauterize the wound and burn out the poison."

"Physicians are fools!" said Scorpione. "When my mother was thirty years

of age, beautiful and full of life, they let her die. Though she was

only my mother, I would have strangled them. If they were not to save

Aminta, however, I would kill them as I would dogs!" Nothing can give an

idea of his expression as he pronounced the words, "_though she was only

my mother_." It betokened atrocious coldness and indifference. The

glance however he threw on the maiden at the very idea of her death was

full of intense affection.

"Save her then!" said Maulear, seizing the idea that this half-savage

creature was perhaps aware of some secret means furnished by nature to

work a true miracle in favor of the victim. The features of Aminta began

to be disturbed; a livid pallor took possession of her; light

contractions agitated her features; her lids became convulsive, opening

and shutting rapidly. Scorpione observed all these symptoms. "Well,"

said he, placing his hand on her heart, "it beats yet. The poison moves

on: let us stop it."

Kneeling before her, he grasped the wounded limb, and took off the light

silk stocking. Then taking his dagger from his bosom, he made a slight

incision with the sharp point where the reptile had bitten her. She

uttered a cry of pain. "What are you about?" said Maulear, offended.

"Do you not see," replied Scorpione, "that I am opening the door for the

escape of the poison?"

Without speaking a word, he leaned over the wound, applied his lips, and

sucked the blood which ran from it. Twice or thrice he spat out the

blood and resumed the occupation of sublime courage. The ugliness of

Scorpione entirely disappeared from Maulear's eyes, and the monster

seemed to him a saving angel descended from heaven to rescue another

angel from death. A few seconds passed by in terrible and solemn

silence. Scorpione supported Aminta's head, and attempted to read in her

face the effect of his heroism. Henri de Maulear also knelt, and glanced

from heaven to the girl, invoking aid from one, and feeling profound

anxiety for the other.

Aminta sighed, but not with pain. An internal relief was already

experienced by her. Scorpione seized her hand in his, and feeling her

pulse, laughed aloud. He said, "_The Scorpion has overcome the viper_:

Aminta will live!"

"But you? you?" said Maulear, as he saw Scorpione's strength give way.

"Me? oh, I perhaps will die--that however is a different matter." Though

he did not know it, Scorpione might have been right. Felix Fontana, the

great Italian, one of the most distinguished physicians of the

eighteenth century, in his celebrated _Riserche Chemiche Sopra il Veleno

della Vipera_, affirms that to suck out the poison of the viper, even

when it does not touch the vital organs, suffices to cause such an

inflammation of the organs of the mouth that death always results from

it.

Boundless admiration and profound pity appeared in the heart of Maulear

when he heard the answer of Tonio. He even forgot Aminta, and hurried to

her generous liberator. He took him in his arms, and sustained his head,

which in nervous spasms he beat violently against the rock. This

deformed creature became really a friend and brother to Maulear; he had

saved one whom even Heaven abandoned. He had accomplished the most

admirable sacrifice, that equal almost to Christ, who gave his life to

ransom that of his fellows.

Just then steps were heard in the distance, and many persons approached

the solitude where such terrible scenes were occurring. A woman of about

fifty years of age, with dignified and beautiful features and

distinguished tournure, advanced with an expression of intense terror.

Looking all around, she seemed much terrified. She soon saw the three

characters of our somber drama. Passing hurriedly and rapidly as if she

had been a girl toward Aminta, who lay extended on the ground, she

seized and convulsively clasped her to her heart, without however being

able to utter a word. Her tearful eyes declared however that she was

aware some great misfortune had befallen her child. This woman was

Madame Rovero. Those who accompanied her were old servants of the

family, and surrounded Aminta. They were ignorant as Madame Rovero was

of the danger the young girl had undergone. Aminta however had begun to

recover, and pointed to Tonio, who lay in convulsions in Maulear's arms.

"What, monsieur, has happened?" said Madame de Rovero to Maulear.

"Having become uneasy at my daughter's prolonged absence, I have come to

her usual resort and find her dying and this lad writhing in your arms."

"Madame, excuse me," said Maulear, "if I do not now make explanation in

relation to the cruel events which have taken place. Time at present is

too precious. Your daughter I trust will live. But this poor fellow

demands all our care. He has sacrificed himself to rescue your child,

and to him you owe now all your happiness. Near this place I have two

horses. Suffer me to place your daughter on one, and do you return with

her to your house. I will on the other hurry with Tonio as fast as

possible to Sorrento."

Henri took a silver whistle from his pocket and sounded it. A groom soon

appeared with two horses. What he had proposed was soon executed, not

however without difficulty, for Aminta was much enfeebled, and Scorpione

contended violently with those who sought to place him in front of

Maulear, who had already mounted. Madame Rovero went sadly toward

Sorrento, bearing pale and bloody the young girl who had gone on that

very morning from her mother's villa so joyous, happy, and beautiful.

Maulear hurried to the house of the physician which had been pointed out

to him. While they were bringing in Aminta's foster-brother, Henri told

the doctor what had taken place. He examined the lad, and his brow

became overcast. Scorpione was speechless, and but for the faint

pulsations of his heart one might have thought him lifeless. No external

symptom betrayed the effect of the poison except the head of the

patient, which was terribly swollen. His mouth and especially the lower

jaw appeared the seat of suffering, and with a sensation of horror

Maulear saw between the violet lips of the patient a green and tense

tongue, at the appearance of which the physician exhibited much emotion.

"What do you think of his condition?" said Maulear.

"The great Felix Fontana says, in such cases there is no safety. Lazarus

Spallanzini, however, another savant of the eighteenth century,

published at Venice, in 1767, in the Giornole D'Italia, an admirable

dissertation on wounds caused by the bite of reptiles, especially on

those of the vipers. Treating of suction and its consequences, he points

out a means of cure for it. It is however so terrible and dangerous that

I know not if I should use it."

"Use it, sir. There is," said Maulear, "only the alternative of it and

death."

"The man will live, but in all probability will never speak again." He

waited for Maulear's answer.

"May I consult the family?" said the young man. "I will have returned in

an hour."

"In ten minutes," said the doctor, "he will be dead."

"Act quickly, then, monsieur: all his friends would act as I do."

The physician left: in a few minutes he returned with one of his

assistants, bearing a red hot iron. Maulear shuddered. The physician

placed the patient in a great arm-chair, to which he fastened him with

strong straps of leather. Then, when he was satisfied that no spasm or

motion of the unfortunate man would interrupt the operation, he placed a

speculum in his mouth. The speculum in its expansion tore apart the jaws

of Tonio, and kept them distended, so that the interior orifice of the

throat could be seen. Seizing the hot iron, he plunged it into the

throat of the unhappy man, turned back the palate from the tongue, and

moved it several times about, while the agonizing guttural cries of the

patient were mingled with the sharp hissing of the iron. Torrents of

tears filled his eyes. At this terrible spectacle Maulear fainted.

III.--THE CONCERT.

Henri Marquis de Maulear was scarcely twenty-six, and was what all would

have called a handsome man. A fine tall person, delicate features, and a

profusion of rich blond hair, curling naturally, justified the

appellation which the world, and especially the female portion of it,

conferred on him. To these external advantages, was united a brilliant

education, rather superficial than serious, and more graceful than

solid. He had dipped without examination in everything. He, however,

knew it to be essential to seem to understand all the subjects of French

conversation, in the saloons of Paris: nothing more.

The Prince Maulear, the only son of whom Henri was, had accompanied the

Bourbons in their exile, and been one of the faithful at Mettau and

Hartwell. After having undergone banishment with the Princes, his

illustrious friends, he returned to France with Louis XVIII. and shared

with Messieurs de Blacas, Vitrolles, d'Escars and others, the favor and

confidence of the king. A widower, and the recipient of a large fortune

from the restoration of the unsold portion of his estates, cold and

harsh in behavior, the Prince returned from exile in 1815, with the same

ideas he had borne away in 1788. The Prince de Maulear was the true type

of those unchangeable prejudices which can neither learn nor forget. He

was educated in France by a sister of his mother, the Countess of

Grandnesnil, an ancient canoness, a noble lady, who was a second mother

to the young Marquis after death had borne away his own. The Countess

had not emigrated like her brother-in-law. The care demanded by the

delicate health of the heir of the family could not admit of the fatigue

of endless travel, made necessary by emigration. Therefore, the heir of

the Maulears remained under the charge of the Countess. When he grew up,

beneath the aegis of the Countess, he completed his education, and at a

later day entered society. She exercised over his mind and heart that

influence which affection and the usage of familiar intercourse confer.

Watching over him with maternal care, seeking to ascertain his wishes

that she might be able to gratify them, making him happy in every way in

her power, she was beloved by the Marquis with all his heart. He could

not have loved a mother more.

The consequence of this education by a woman was that the moral had

somewhat stifled the intellectual. Besides, this kind of fanaticism of

the Countess for her nephew, her constant attention to gratify every

caprice, her readiness to excuse his faults, even when she should have

blamed them severely, made his education vicious as possible, and

brought out two faults with peculiar prominence. His character was very

weak; and he had great self-confidence. The Prince de Maulear found the

son he had left a child in the cradle, a man of twenty-six, and was

literally forced to make his acquaintance.

The noble bearing and distinguished manners of the young man pleased him

especially. He was also graceful, gallant and brave, and the Prince saw

himself restored to youth in the person of his son. He did not make

himself uneasy about his sentiments, being satisfied that his son was

learned in stable lore, a good rider, skillful in the use of weapons,

heroic and enterprising. He rejoiced at his fortune, as it would make

Henri happy, and anticipated a brilliant and fortunate career for his

son. Henri had no profession, and the Prince procured for him the

appointment of secretary of legation to Naples. He had held this post

six months when he appears in our history.

Henri had never loved. Much ephemeral gallantry, and many easy

conquests, which soon passed away, had occupied his time without

touching his heart, and this was his situation when for the first time

he saw the White Rose of Sorrento. As we have said, he became sick at

the terrible surgical operation. He did not revive until all was over.

The unfortunate Tonio had been placed in one of the rooms of the

doctor's house, and the latter declared, that in consideration of the

importance of the case, he would himself attend to the patient, and

would not leave him until he should have been completely restored,

unless, added he, death should remove the responsibility. The Marquis

being satisfied that the savior of Aminta would not be neglected,

hurried with the doctor to Madame Rovero's villa. Nothing could be more

simple and charming, and nothing in Italy had struck him so forcibly.

The very look of the house told how happy were its inhabitants. At the

extremity of Sorrento, it was surrounded by large trees, and winter

seemed never to inflict any severity upon it.

An old servant admitted the strangers. He recognized Maulear, for he had

been with Madame when she recovered her daughter.

"Madame expects you, gentlemen," said he, when he saw the young Marquis

and the Doctor. "I will accompany you to the room." He went before them

to a pretty room on the ground floor, where he left them a short time.

Maulear carefully examined it. All betokened elegant tastes in its

occupants. In the middle was an elegant grand piano of Vienna; on the

desk the Don Giovanna of Mozart; and on a pedestal near the window an

exquisite model of Tasso's house. A round table of Florentine

workmanship, of immense value, stood near one side of the apartment. The

valuable Mosaics were, however, hidden by a collection of albums,

keepsakes, and engravings. There were also on it vases of alabaster,

filled with perfumed flowers, and the whole room was lit up by the rays

of the setting sun, the brilliancy of which were softened as they passed

across the park. Madame Rovero entered with a servant. "Take the

Doctor," said she, "to my daughter's room, whither I will come

immediately. You, sir," said she, pointing Maulear to a chair, "will

please to tell me for what I am your debtor. I am sure your claims are

large." He gave Madame Rovero a detailed account of what had happened

since he met Aminta in the grotto, until the cruel devotion of Tonio.

"Tonio has told you the truth, Monsieur," said Madame Rovero; "the

terrible remedy he had the courage to employ is known in the country to

be infallible, though, as yet, few examples of such heroism have

occurred. The doctor alone can satisfy us of the safety of my daughter."

Madame Rovero moved toward the door to satisfy herself in relation to

this engrossing subject, when the doctor entered. She trembled before

him like a criminal before a judge, when he seeks to divine the nature

of a terrible sentence. "The young lady is in no danger. I have examined

the wound carefully; no trace of poison remains. The poor lad has

entirely exhausted it." The mother lifted her eyes to heaven in

inexpressible gratitude.

"What hopes have you, doctor, of the poor lad?"

"He will live, but that is all science can do."

"Do not neglect one who has so absolute a right to my gratitude."

Turning then to Maulear, she said, "In a few days, Monsieur, my daughter

and myself will expect you. She will soon be restored, and we will thank

you for your services."

Maulear bade adieu to Mme. Rovero, not as a stranger or acquaintance of

a few minutes, but as a friend who leaves a family with whom he is

intimate. He left them with regret, as persons to whom he was devoted,

and with whom he was willing to pass his life. Within a few hours, a

strange change had been wrought in him. Struck with admiration at

Aminta, the danger with which he found her surrounded, the successive

agitations of the scene, the sweet influence exerted by her on his

heart, the alternations of hope and fear, everything combined to disturb

the placidity of his withered and somewhat _blaze_ soul which scarcely

seemed plastic enough to receive a profound and tender expression. He

then experienced for Aminta what he had not amid all that terrible....

The features of the young girl he had borne in his memory, contracted as

they were by pain, did not seem to him less charming, and excited a

warmer interest than ever. Never before had the most beautiful in all

the eclat of dress and manners appeared so attractive as the pale Aminta

in her mortal agony. To sum up all, he was in love, and in love for the

first time.

Henri left Sorrento with a painful sensation, and returned to Naples,

where pleasure and warm receptions awaited him, from the many beauties

on whom he expended the "small change" of his heart. As he said himself,

he never was ruined by sensitiveness, keeping all the wealth of his

heart for a good opportunity. That opportunity was come. He returned to

the palace of the embassy, far different in his condition from what he

was when he left. With the most perfect _sang-froid_ therefore he read

the following note which his valet had given him when he came in--

"The Duke de Palma, minister of police, requests the Marquis de Maulear

to pass the evening with him."

Lower down in another hand was written--

_"Do not fail. La Felina will sing, and at two o'clock we will have a

supper of our intimate friends. You know whether or not you are one of

the number."_

The Duke of Palma, minister of police of the kingdom of Naples, was one

of the friends of Fernando IV. He was not a great minister, but was

young and intellectual. His principal merit was that he amused his

master, by recounting secret intrigues, whimsical adventures, and

delicate affairs, a knowledge of which he acquired by means of his

position. Thus he found favor with Fernando, who was not served, but

amused and satisfied. Sovereigns who are amused are indulgent. Maulear

hesitated a long time before he accepted the invitation. His soul was

occupied by new and delicious emotions. It seemed to him to be

profanity to transport them to such a different and dissipated scene. He

however shrunk from solitude, and the idea of living apart from Aminta

for whole days, made him desire the amusement and excitement promised by

the invitation. The entertainment was superb. All the noble, elegant and

rich of Naples were bidden. The concert began. The first pieces were

scarcely listened to, in consequence of the studiously late entries of

many distinguished personages, and of many pretty women, who would not

on any account enter _incognito_ either a drawing-room or a theater, and

were careful never to come thither until the moment when their presence

would attract attention or produce interruption. Silence however

pervaded in a short time all the assemblage. The crowd which a moment

before had been so agitated became at once calm and mute. A fairy spell

seemed to have transfixed them. A fairy was really come--that of

music.... The Queen of the theater of Italy, _La Bella Felina_--that

strange sibyl of the ball at San Carlo. The excitement to hear her was

great, and the prima donna had immense success. The young woman, by

coming to his soiree, did the minister of police a great favor: The

singer had during the whole year refused the most brilliant invitations

and the largest sums to sing any where but at San Carlo. Thrice she had

appeared on the concert gallery, and thrice descended amid immense

applause.

Great is the triumph of song. Yet its success is fleeting and ephemeral,

and may be annihilated by the merest accident. The glory is frail, the

fortune uncertain, of all that emanates from the human throat.

The concert was over and all left. Henri and the intimate friends alone,

of whom the Duke spoke, passed into an elegant and retired room into

which the minister led La Felina. "Messieurs," said he, "the Signora

honors me by partaking of our collation. Let us bow before the Queen of

Song and thank her for the honor she confers on us." The cantatrice

exhibited no embarrassment at being alone amid so many of another sex,

so notorious for the volatility of their manners. Her habitual calm and

dignity did not hide a kind of restraint from the observation of

Maulear. She replied by a few graceful words to the gallantries of which

she was the object. They then all sat down. Many witty remarks were made

by the guests. Champagne increased Neapolitan volubility, and heads were

beginning to grow light, when the minister seeing that La Felina was ill

at ease at the conversation, said, "The supper, Signora, of a minister

of police should be unique as that of a banker or senator. Where else

would one learn of piquant adventures, scandal, hidden crimes, but at my

house, for I am the keeper of all records and the compulsory confessor

of all. I wish then to give you another fruit and to tell you of a

strange adventure, the hero of which is a person all of you know. That

man is Count Monte-Leone."

The name of Monte-Leone, so well known in Naples, created the greatest

sensation. All were silent and listened to the Duke of Palma. La Felina

became strangely pale.

IV.--THE DUKE OF PALMA.

"You know," said the Duke to his friends, "that the Count Monte-Leone

has for a long time professed opinions entirely opposed to the

government of our sovereign king Fernando. The heir of the political

errors of his unfortunate father, he seems to travel fatally toward the

same sad fate. The king long ago bade us close our eyes to the guilty

conduct of the young Count. His Majesty was unwilling to continue on the

son the rigors to which his father had been subjected. A revelation of

great importance forced us to act, and we caused the offender to be

arrested for an offence of which he must make a defence before the

appointed tribunal. During many months the Count contrived to avoid all

efforts made to arrest him. At last, however, in consequence of a

youthful escapade in which he should by no means have indulged, his

retreat was revealed to us. The house which concealed him and his

accomplices was found out on the night of the last ball of San Carlo.

The countersign of his associates had been revealed to us by a traitor,

and our precautions were so skillfully taken, that the three friends of

Monte-Leone were arrested one after the other, at the very door of his

house, without in the least rendering the arrest of the Count doubtful.

Two hours after, Monte-Leone, arrested by our agents, was borne to the

_Castle del Uovo_, a safe and sure prison, whence as yet no prisoner

ever escaped. The report of the chief of the expedition," continued the

Duke, "states, that he saw a woman fainting on the floor. He adds, that

he thought he had nothing to do with it, his orders relating entirely to

the four of whom he obtained possession."

During this preamble La Felina more than once inhaled the perfume of her

_bouquet_. When, however, she looked up, her face expressed no trouble

or change.

"The three friends of Count Monte-Leone," said the Duke, "are a

Frenchman, a German, and an Italian. The first is the Count of Harcourt,

son of the Duke, one of the noblest and most powerful men of France. We

cannot fancy how the heir of so noble a family has become involved in

such a plot, where persons of his rank have all to lose and nothing to

gain. He is a brilliant young madcap, amiable and adventurous, like

almost all of his countrymen, and became a conspirator merely for

recreation and to while away the time he cannot occupy with love and

pleasure. The second is a graver character: the son of a Bohemian

pastor, imbued with the philosophic and political opinions of his

countrymen, Sand, Koerner, and the ideologists of his country, he dreams

of leveling ideas which would set all Europe in a blaze. He has become a

conspirator from conviction, is a madman full of genius, but one of

those who must be shut up, before they become furious. The fanatical

friendship of this young man to Monte-Leone involved him in the party of

which he is the shadow and the reflection. He is a conspirator, _ex

necessitate_, who will never act from his own motive, and who,

consequently, is a subject of no apprehension to us, as long as he has

no head, no chief to nerve his arm, and urge him onward. We have without

any difficulty exonerated Italy from the reproach of containing these

three men, without any scandal or violence.... The German on the very

night of his arrest was sent to the city of Elbogen, his native city,

with recommendations to the paternal care and surveillance of the

friendly governments through which he was to pass. The Count of Harcourt

has already seen the shores of France. When this brilliant gentleman

placed his foot on the deck of the vessel, he was informed that

henceforth he was forbidden ever to return to Naples, under penalty of

perpetual imprisonment. Young Rovero was confined in this identical

palace, until such time as the trial of Count Monte-Leone shall be

terminated. I am informed that he does nothing but sigh after a

mysterious beauty, the charms and voice of whom are incomparable."

La Felina again put her bouquet to her face.

"I am now come, Messieurs, to the true hero of this romance."

Just then he was interrupted by the sudden entrance of one of his

secretaries, who whispered briefly to him, and placed before him a box

mysteriously sealed, with this superscription--_"To His Excellency

Monsignore the Duke of Palma, minister of police, and to him alone."_

The countenance of the minister expressed surprise, as his secretary

said, "Read, Monsignore, and verify the contents of the box."

The Duke requested his guests' pardon, and unsealed the letter, which he

rapidly read. He then opened the box, examined it with curiosity, and

without taking out the objects it contained, said, "It is unheard of: it

is almost miraculous."

The minister's exclamations put an end to all private conversations, and

every eye was turned upon him, "Messieurs," said he with emotion, "I

thought I was about to tell you a strange thing, but all that I know has

become complicated by so strange an accident, that I am myself

amazed--used as I am to mysterious and criminal events."

At a signal, the secretary left, and the Duke continued: "The trial of

Count Monte-Leone was prepared. Vaguely accused of being the chief of

the secret society, the object of which was the overturning of the

monarchy, he might have been acquitted from want of proof of his

participation in this dark and guilty work, when three witnesses came

forward to charge him with having presided in their own sight over one

of the assemblages which in secret discuss of the death of kings by the

enemies of law and order.

"On this formal declaration made by three well-known inhabitants of the

town of _Torre del Greco_, devoted to king Fernando, the Count was

sought for by the police, arrested as I have told you, and imprisoned in

the _Castle del Uovo_. Every means was taken to make sure of the person

of the prisoner. The garrison of the castle was increased, lest there

should be some daring _coup de main_ to deliver him. The charge of him

was intrusted to the most stern and incorruptible of the jailers, who

was however carefully watched by the agents of the government. This

excess of precaution had nearly cost the life of the prisoner, from the

fact that he was placed in a dungeon into which the sea broke. Judge of

my surprise when yesterday, two of the accusers of the Count, the

Salvatori, came to my hotel insisting that two days before, just as the

population of _Torre del Greco_ was leaving church, their eldest brother

Stenio Salvatori had been poignarded at his door by Count Monte-Leone.

"'This evidence,' continued they, 'will be confirmed by all the

inhabitants of the town, in the presence of whom the affair happened.' I

refused to believe anything so improbable. I told them the Count had

been a prisoner several days, and assured them I would have been

informed of his escape. Overcome by their persuasions, shaken in my

conviction by their oaths, I determined to satisfy myself that the Count

was at the prison, and went thither."

The Duke had not deceived the auditors by his promises, for the interest

had rapidly increased, and every one listened to his words with intense

curiosity. A single person only seemed listless and uninterested. This

was La Felina, whose eye never lost sight of the box which the secretary

had given the Duke, and which he had shut, so that no one knew the

nature of the contents. The Duke resumed his story:

"The new governor of the Castle, whom I had appointed after the

inundation, was not informed of my visit. No one expected me, yet all

was calm and in good order.

"'Signore,' said I to the governor, 'I am informed that the prisoner I

have confided to your charge, the Count Monte-Leone, has escaped from

the fortress. If this be so, you know the severity of military law, and

must expect its utmost rigor.' As he heard this menace, the governor

grew pale. I fancied his change of color came because he was aware of

some error, and I awaited his answer with anxiety. 'If the Count has

escaped, Monsignore,' he replied, 'it must have been within an hour, for

it is not more than twice that time since I saw him.'

"I was amazed. Unwilling as I was to be face to face with the Count, the

violence and exasperation of whom I was aware of, I ordered myself to be

led to his cell. The jailer threw back the door on its hinges, and far

from finding the room unoccupied, I saw him stretched on a bed, and

reading a book, which seemed very much to interest him. He appeared

pale and thin. A year had passed since I had seen him, brilliantly and

carefully dressed, giving tone to the saloons, the cynosure of which he

was. Dignified and haughty, and always polite, even in the coarse dress

he wore, the Count rose, recognized, and bowed to me. 'I did not,' said

he, 'expect the honor of a visit from his excellency the minister of

police, and would have wished to receive him in my palace. As the state

of affairs is, however, he must be satisfied with the rude hospitality

of the humble room I occupy.' He offered me his only stool. I said, 'Not

I, Count, but yourself, have been the cause that you are thus situated.

If you had chosen, you might have lived happy, free, and esteemed, as

your rank and birth entitled you. Remember that all must be attributed

to yourself, if you exchange all these advantages for the solitude of a

prison and the dangers which your opinions have brought on you.' 'Shall

I dare to ask, Monsignore, is the visit I receive an act of benevolence,

or of official duty?' 'I am come hither, Count, from duty. The rumor of

your escape is spread everywhere. A crime committed on the day before

yesterday in the vicinity of Naples is attributed to you, and I am come

to ascertain here if there be any foundation for the accusation.' The

Count laughed. 'Monsignore,' said he, 'one never leaves this place

except under the charge of keepers. As for the new crime of which I am

accused, and of which I know nothing, I trust that the good sense of the

judges will think me innocent as of the imaginary offenses which brought

me hither.'

"The calmness and sang-froid of Monte-Leone, the improbability of the

story told me, excited a trouble and confusion which did not escape the

observation of the prisoner. 'Monsignore,' said he, 'we have met under

happier circumstances. I expect and ask a favor from no one. I can

however ask an indulgence from so old an acquaintance as yourself. Hurry

on my trial! The preliminary captivity I undergo is one of the greatest

outrages of the law. While a man is uncondemned he should not be

punished. God does not send any one to hell untried and uncondemned. My

life is sad here. This book, the only one allowed me,' said he,

presenting me with it open at the page where he had been reading when I

entered, 'this great book, _De Consolatione Philosophiae_ of Anicius

Severinus Boethius, does not console but afflicts me; for in spite of

myself I remember that the author, imprisoned by a tyrant at Pavia,

terminated in torture a life of glory. If such be my fate, signore,--if

I am guilty, the punishment is great enough: if I am not guilty, it is

too great.'

"I was touched by this logical reasoning. Far more influence however was

exerted on me by his noble tranquillity and the natural dignity

misfortune often kindles up in the noblest souls. 'Count,' said I, 'be

assured that within a few days you will be placed on trial,' and I

retired satisfied with the mistake or falsehood of Monte-Leone's

accusers.

"I found the Salvatori at my palace. I told them that they played a

terrible game. I said, 'If you had brought a false charge against a

young man at liberty, and on the head of whom there lay no accusation,

your crime would be capital, and you would be vulgar calumniators, such

as are too often made infamous by our criminal records. This matter is

however so complicated by revenge that it will excite general horror,

and draw on you all the severity of the law. Count Monte-Leone, whom you

accused of having poignarded your brother, is now in the _Castle del

Uovo_, which I left a few minutes ago, and where I saw him.'

"Nothing can describe the singular expression of the faces of the two

men as they listened. But they still persisted that they had spoken the

truth, and were sternly dismissed by me, affirming that they would prove

all they had said. They have kept their word, and here is the evidence,"

said the Duke, opening the box and exhibiting a glittering ring, on

which was engraved the escutcheon of Monte-Leone.

"This ring," said he, "is acknowledged to be one of the _chef

d'oeuvres_ of Benvenuto Cellini. It has an historical fame, and is

considered one of the most admirable works of that great artist. Twenty

times the government has sought to buy it, but the Monte-Leoni have

uniformly refused to part with it. This letter accompanied the precious

jewel:

"_Monsignore_: Heaven has come to our aid. Since our evidence,

corroborated by that of all _Torre del Greco_, could not convince you of

the truth of our accusation--since you refuse to believe that Count

Monte-Leone, to avenge himself, wounded our brother, we send you this

ring, engraved with his arms, which he lost in his contest with Stenio

Salvatori, and which God has placed in our hands to confound and to

punish him.

"Raphael and Paolo Salvatori."

"All is lost!" said La Felina.

"What now shall we believe?" said the Duke to his guests.

V.--THE VISIT.

The story of the Duke of Palma was concluded by the last question. All

seemed wrapped in doubt in relation to this singular incident. The night

was far advanced, and the company separated.

The Duke escorted La Felina to her carriage. Just however as the door

was about to close on him, he said: "Would you not like, beautiful

Felina, to know the name of the woman at Count Monte-Leone's on the

night of the ball?"

"Why ask that question?" said she.

"Because," he said, "I know no one more beautiful or more attractive."

"Her name?" said the singer, with emotion.

"Is La Felina!" said the Duke. "What surprises you?" he added; "a

minister of police, from his very office, knows everything." La Felina

said to herself, "But he does not!"

The spirited horses bore the carriage rapidly away.

In the story of Monte-Leone the name of Taddeo Rovero had especially

arrested the attention of Maulear. Was Taddeo a relation or connection

of Aminta? During the few minutes he had passed at Sorrento he had

learned nothing of the Roveri, and had asked no questions of Aminta.

Allied however by the heart to this family already, he naturally enough

took interest in the dangers its members incurred. He therefore

determined to return at once and ascertain this fact from the minister,

when a note handed to him drove the matter completely from his mind.

Thus ran the note:

"_Monsieur_: My daughter now knows how much she is indebted to you, and

the efforts you made to rescue her from the fearful danger which menaced

her. The heroic remedy employed by Tonio has luckily succeeded. Aminta

is entirely recovered and is unwilling to delay any longer the tribute

of gratitude. Let me also, Monsieur, again offer you mine. If you will

deign to receive them in our poor villa, we will be delighted to see you

there to-day.

Your grateful,

Antonia Rovero."

The heart of Maulear quivered with joy at these words. He would in the

course of a few hours see Aminta, the impression of whose beauty had so

deeply impressed his heart, and from whom he had fancied he would yet be

separated for days. He mounted his best horse and rapidly crossed the

distance which separated him from Sorrento. Two hours after the receipt

of the letter he knocked at the door of Signora Rovero. The old servant

again admitted him.

"The Signorina is in no danger," said he to Maulear, as soon as he saw

him. Nothing is more graceful than this familiarity of old servants, who

as it were are become from devotion a portion of the family of their

masters. "We know," added the good man taking and kissing Maulear's hand

respectfully, "that we owe all to your Excellency, who drove away the

vipers which otherwise had stung her on the heart, and allowed Tonio no

time to rescue her."

There was such an expression of gratitude in the features of the old

man, that Maulear was deeply moved.

"The Signora and the Signorina expect you, Count, to thank you." The old

man let tears drop on the hand of the Marquis.

"What noble hearts must the mistresses of such servants have," thought

Maulear as he stood in waiting.

Signora Rovero hurried to meet him, but not with a cold ceremony. The

stranger who had contributed to the salvation of her daughter henceforth

was a friend to her. "Come, come," said Signora Rovero, "she expects

you."

The door was opened, and they were in the presence of Aminta. The White

Rose of _Sorrento_ never vindicated more distinctly her right to the

name.

Half reclining on a sofa of pearl velvet, Aminta was wrapped in a large

dressing-gown, the vaporous folds of which hung around her. Her face,

become yet more pale from suffering, was, as it were, enframed in light

clouds of gauze. One might have fancied her a beautiful alabaster

statue, but for the two beautiful bandeaus of black and lustrous hair

which were drawn around her charming face.

"My child," said Signora Rovero, as she led Henri forward, "the Marquis

of Maulear proves that he is not insensible of the value of our thanks,

since he has come so promptly to receive them."

"Alas! Signora," said Henri to the mother of Aminta, "the true savior of

your daughter is not myself, but the generous lad who risked his own

life for hers. God, however, is my witness, that had I been aware I

could have thus saved her, I would not have hesitated to employ the

means."

The chivalric and impassioned tone with which these words were

pronounced, made both mother and daughter look at Henri. The latter,

however, immediately cast down her eyes, confused by the passionate

expression of his.

"Monsieur," said Aminta, with emotion, "I might doubt such devotion from

you, to a person who was a stranger, were I not aware of the nobility

and generosity of the French character."

For the first time Maulear heard Aminta speak. She had one of those

fresh and sweet voices, so full of melody and persuasion, that every

word she spoke had the air of a caress--one of those delicious voices

with which a few chosen natures alone are endowed, which are never heard

without emotion, and are always remembered with pleasure. If the head

and imagination of the Marquis were excited by her charms, his heart

submitted to the influence of her angelic voice, for it emanated from

her soul; and Maulear, as he heard her delicious notes, thought there

was in this young girl something to love besides beauty.

The physician had ordered the patient to repose. He feared the wound

made by Tonio's dagger would re-open if she walked. By the side of her

sofa, therefore, the hours of Maulear rolled by like seconds.

The father, an educated and dignified man, had superintended, in person,

the education of his two children. Wishing neither to separate nor to

leave them, for he loved them both alike, his cares were equally divided

between them, so that Aminta, profiting by the lessons given to her

brother, shared in his masculine and profound education, and acquired

information far surpassing that ordinarily received by her sex. The

seeds of science had fallen on fertile ground. A studious mind had

developed them in meditation and solitude, and this beautiful child

concealed serious merit under a frail and delicate form. These

treasures, vailed by modesty, revealed themselves by rare flashes, which

soon disappeared, leaving those lucky enough to witness them, dazzled

and amazed.

A few brilliant remarks escaped the young girl during Maulear's visit.

He could not restrain the expression of his admiration, and Signora

Rovero, when she saw her daughter confused, told Maulear, who had been

her teacher. In spite of this attractive conversation, one thought was

ever present to the mind of Maulear, who was the Taddeo Rovero of whom

the minister had spoken? The tranquillity the ladies seemed to enjoy,

might be little consonant with the situation of the accomplice of

Monte-Leone. Perhaps they did not know his fate. He resolved to satisfy

himself.

"Signora," said he to the mother, "there is in Naples a young man named

Taddeo Rovero."

"My son--the brother of my daughter; one of the pleasantest men of

Naples, whom I regret that I cannot introduce to you. Though he loves us

tenderly, our seclusion has little to attract him. City festivities and

pleasures often take him from us. Naples is now very brilliant."

The heart of Maulear beat when he heard the poor mother speak of her

son's pleasures.

"My brother is the soul of honor and courage," said Aminta, "but his

head is easily turned. I fear he is too much under the influence of his

best friends."

"My daughter means his best friends," said Signora Rovero, gaily, "the

brilliant Count Monte-Leone, one of the proudest nobles of Naples.

Taddeo loves him as a brother. But my Aminta has no sympathy with him."

The Marquis was glad to hear Signora Rovero speak thus--and he admired

the quick perception of the young girl, who thus, almost by intuition,

foresaw the danger into which Monte-Leone had tempted Taddeo.

The dislike of Aminta to Monte-Leone, thus referred to by the Signora

Rovero, brought the blood to her cheeks. She blushed to see one of her

sentiments thus displayed before a stranger. In the impenetrable

sanctuary of her soul, she wished to reserve for herself alone her

impressions of pain and sorrow, her antipathies and affections. Besides,

by means of one of those inspirations, the effect, but not the reason,

of which is perceived by us, Aminta was aware that Maulear was the last

man in the world before whom her internal thoughts should be referred

to. Maulear comprehended the cause of her embarrassment. He again spoke

of Taddeo. Once launched on this theme, Signora Rovero spoke of nothing

else but her adored son, of his youth, prospects, and of the hopes she

had formed of him. While she thus dreamed of glory and success for

Taddeo, the latter was a captive in a secret prison.

"I am astonished," said the Signora, "that my son is so long absent

without suffering his sister and myself to hear from him. For fifteen

days we have not heard, and I beg you, Marquis, on your return to

Naples, to see him, and inform him of the accident which has befallen

Aminta. Tell him to come hither as soon as possible."

"I will see him, Signora, and if possible will return him to you."

As he made this reply, Henri promised to use every effort and all his

credit to restore the son and brother of these ladies. Just then a sigh

was heard in the saloon, and Maulear looked around, surprised, and

almost terrified at the agony expressed. Aminta arose, hurried toward

the portico, and lifting up the curtain in front of it, cried out, "It

is he--it is he! Mother, he calls me! I must go!"

As soon, however, as her foot touched the floor, she uttered a cry of

agony. "It is nothing," said she, immediately. "I thought myself strong

enough, yet I suffer much; do not mind me, but attend to poor Tonio."

Signora Rovero passed into the next room.

"It is he," said Aminta to Maulear, with the greatest emotion. "It is my

savior, my foster-brother, whom we have sent for hither, contrary even

to the advice of the Doctor. We were, however, unwilling to confide the

duty of attending on him to any one. Besides, he would die of despair

did he think we forgot him."

Signora Rovero returned. "The sufferings of the poor lad are terrible,"

said she; "his fever, however, is lessened, his delirium has passed

away, and the physician assures me that he will live. Thanks for it are

due to God, for if he died Aminta and I would die."

The day was advancing, and Maulear would not leave without seeing Tonio.

His eyes were bloodshot, his lips livid and pendent, his cheeks swollen

by the cauterization he had undergone. All horror at his appearance,

however, disappeared when Maulear remembered what he had done. He looked

at him as the early Christians did at martyrs. His eyes were yet humid

when he returned to Aminta. The latter perceived his trouble, and gave

him her pretty hand with an expression of deep gratitude.

"Thank you, Monsieur," said she, "for your compassion for Tonio. A heart

like yours exhibits itself in tears, and I shall not forget those you

have shed." These words, at once simple and affecting, touched the heart

of Maulear. A great effort was necessary to keep him from falling at the

feet of Aminta. Placing his lips respectfully on the hand offered to

him, he bade adieu to Signora Rovero, and set out for Naples, bearing

with him a precious treasury of memories, hope, anticipation, and

wishes--of everything, in fine, which composes the first and most

adorable pages of the history of our loves: the charming preface to the

yet unread book.

On the next day Maulear visited the Duke of Palma. "Monsignore," said

he to the minister, "I am about to ask you a favor to which I attach

immense value. The pardon of young Rovero, who has been, your Excellency

tells me, rather imprudent than guilty." The Duke laughed. "His liberty!

On my word, Marquis, I would be much obliged if he would accept it."

"What does this mean, Monsignore?" said Maulear.

"That Rovero refuses liberty. The king, fancying that mildness would

cure his folly, ordered me to dismiss the _novice_ to his family. I told

Rovero. He replied, 'I refuse a pardon--I ask for justice: I am innocent

or guilty; if guilty, I deserve punishment; if innocent, let them acquit

me. I will not leave this prison except by force, as I entered it.' Thus

I have a prisoner in spite of my wish to release him."

"I will see him," said the Marquis, "and will speak to him of his

mother."

VI.--THE PRISONER.

The Hotel of the Minister of Police at Naples had been constructed on

the site and on the foundation of the old palace of the Dukes of Palma,

ancestors of the present Duke. Amid the vestiges of the old palace,

which still existed, was an ancient chapel, connected with the new

edifice. This chapel, abandoned long before, had been changed into a

prison, for the reception of persons arrested secretly by the Minister

of Police, into the offences of whom he wished to inquire personally,

before he turned them over to justice. Of this kind was young Rovero.

King Fernando wearied of foolish and ephemeral conspiracies which

disturbed, without endangering his monarchy, combated with all his power

the disposition of his ministers to be rigorous, and the Duke of Palma

to please his master suppressed the various plots which arose

everywhere. This indulgent and pacific system did not all comport with

the revolutionary ideas of Count Monte-Leone, and the deposition of the

brothers Salvatori, united to public rumor, made the arrest of the Count

unavoidably necessary beyond all doubt, much to the annoyance of

Fernando IV. and his minister. An example was needed. One criminal must

be severely punished to terrify all the apostles of dark sedition. The

more exalted the rank of the culprit, the greater the effect of the

example would be. Young Rovero, by refusing his pardon, subjected the

Duke of Palma to a new annoyance. His refusal made a trial necessary, or

he would be forced to release him, contrary to his own protestations,

and therefore subject the government to the odium of arbitrary injustice

and a criminal attack on the liberties of the people. This would be a

new theme of declamation for malcontents. The motives assigned by Taddeo

for insisting on a trial were specious and dignified. We will however,

soon see that they had no reality, and only masked the plans of the

prisoner. A strange event had taken place in the old chapel we have

mentioned, and in which Rovero was shut up.

Before we relate what follows, we must acquaint the reader with the

secret sentiments of young Rovero. All had done justice to the seductive

grace, which attracted so many adorers to the feet of the singer.

Rovero, the youngest of the band of four, felt far more than admiration

for the prima donna. His soul, hitherto untouched by passion, became

aware of an emotion of which it had not been cognisant, at the sight of

the great artist, the fire and energetic bursts of whom gave so powerful

expression to her glances. Rovero had hitherto thought of women only

under ordinary conditions, adorned with that timid modesty and grace

which seem to call on the ruder sex for protection,--as charming

creatures whom God has formed to command in obeying, to triumph by

weakness. The young and chaste girl, the seraphic reverie of lovers of

twenty, was effaced by the radiant beauty presented him by chance. The

native nobility of Felina, her elegant habits, the ardent imagination

which had expanded the love of her art, the very practice of her

profession which ceaselessly familiarized her with the works of the

great masters, with the royal sovereigns she represented, had enhanced

her natural dignity, with an almost theatrical majesty, which so

perfectly harmonized with her person, so entirely consorted with her

habits, form and queenly bearing, that she might have been fancied a

Juno or a Semiramis disguised as a noble Neapolitan lady, rather than

the reverse, which really was the case. Glittering with these

attractions to which Taddeo had hitherto been insensible, she appeared

to him: like an enchantress and the modern Circe, dragging an

enthusiastic people in her train, and ruling in the morning in her

boudoir, which glittered with velvet and gold, and in the evening making

three thousand people fanatical with her voice and magic talent, it was

not unnatural that she subdued him. The impression produced on Taddeo by

La Felina on the evening they were at the Etruscan house, was so keen,

so new, so full of surprise and passion, that the young man left the

room, less to ascertain what had become of the two friends who had

preceded him, than to avoid the fascination exerted on him by the eyes

of La Felina. He had not seen her since.

Like Von Apsberg and d'Harcourt, taken in the snare which had been set

for him by the police of Naples, Taddeo was captured after a brief but

violent contest. It seemed to him that his soul was torn from his body

when he was separated from La Felina. He had however previously heard

her at San Carlo. Though charmed by her talent and wonderful beauty, the

illusion was so perfect that he fancied he saw the Juliet of Zingarelli

or the Donna Anna of Mozart, but not a woman to be herself adored,--in

one word, the magnificent Felina. The fancy of the Neapolitan was

enkindled by the eyes of the Neapolitan. He did not love, but was

consumed. In the cold and solitary cell he had occupied for some days,

he forgot danger, his friends, and almost his mother and sister. Rovero

thought only of his love. Concentrating all power in his devotion, he

evoked La Felina, and in his mind contemplated her. Wild words wrested

from him by delirium declared to the phantom all his hopes and fears. In

his fancy he ran over all the perfections of this beautiful being. It

seemed to him that his idol hovered around the prison, shedding its rays

on him, and filling his heart and senses with an ardor the impotence of

which he cursed. Religious exaltation, like the enthusiasm of love,

assumes in solitude gigantic proportions unknown to the most pious man

and most devoted lover living in the world. Long days and endless nights

occupied with one idea, fixed and immutable, rising before us like the

ghost of Banquo in our dreams, and when we wake, are a sufficient

explanation of the martyrs of love, of the cloister, or of the Thebais.

Many days had passed since the Duke of Palma had imprisoned young

Rovero. We have already spoken of the ideas which occupied his mind.

Ever under the influence of one thought, the life of the young prisoner

was but one dream of love, which so excited his imagination that he

could scarcely distinguish fiction from reality, and after a troubled

sleep he asked if he had addressed his burning declarations to the

phantom of the singer or to La Felina herself.

Taddeo in his cell was not subjected to the malicious barbarities with

which Monte-Leone had been annoyed. The Duke of Palma wished the inmates

of his palace, though they might be prisoners, not to complain of their

fare. Taddeo had a bed and not a pallet. He could read and write, it is

true only by means of a doubtful light which reached him through the

stained windows of the antique chapel. This light however was mottled by

the blue cloak of St. Joseph and the purple robe of St. John. Sometimes

it fell on the pavement in golden checkers, after having passed through

the _glory_ of the Virgin. Still it was the light of day, which is half

the sustenance of a prisoner.

On the fourth night after Rovero's arrest, he reposed rather than rested

on the only chair in his cell, soothed by the wind which beat on the

windows. The rays of the moon passed through the high windows of the old

chapel, and the long tresses of moss which overhung them assumed

fantastic forms as they swung to and fro at the caprice of the wind. A

faint murmur was heard. A white shadow which seemed to rush from the

wall passed over the marble pavement toward the prisoner, looked at him

carefully, and said, with an accent of joy, "It is either he, or I am

mistaken."

The shadow moved on.

After the lapse of a few seconds it was about to disappear, when it was

seized by a nervous arm which restrained it. A cry was heard. Rovero,

who had at first seen it but vaguely as it approached him, and who had

convulsively grasped it, was now thoroughly awakened, and seeing the

visitant about to disappear, seized it forcibly. A dense cloud just at

that moment vailed the moon, and the cell became as dark as night.

"It is a woman!" said Taddeo, and his heart beat violently. A soft and

delicate hand was placed on his lips.

"If you are heard, I am lost!" said his visitor, in a trembling voice.

"Who are you? and what do you want?" said Taddeo, suffering his voice to

escape through the delicate fingers which sought to close his lips.

"I am looking for you: what I wish you will know in four days: who I am

is a secret, and I rely on your honor not to seek to penetrate it." Then

by a rapid movement, the visitor pulled the vail again over her face.

Just then the clouds passed away, and the moon shone brilliantly,

lighting up the old chapel, and exhibiting to Taddeo the tall and lithe

form of her who held him captive.

One need not like Taddeo have retained the minutest peculiarities of La

Felina to render it possible to distinguish her lithe stature and

magnificent contour. But his reason could not be convinced, and had not

the singer's hand been pressed on his lips he would have fancied that a

new dream had evoked the phantom of one of whom he had never ceased to

think. "Lift up your vail, Felina," said he. But at the evidence of

terror which she exhibited, he resumed. "Do not attempt to deceive me.

In your presence my heart could not be mistaken, for it meditates by day

and dreams by night of you alone. I know not what good angel has guided

you hither, in pity of the torment I have endured since I left you. An

hour, Felina, in your presence, has sufficed to enslave my soul forever.

Through you have I learned that I have a soul, and by you has the void

in my heart been completely filled."

"He loves me!" murmured Felina, with an accent of surprise and deep

pity. This however was uttered in so low a tone that the prisoner did

not hear her.

"Hear me," said Rovero. "You told us at Monte-Leone's that you loved one

of the four."

"True," said the singer, in a feeble voice.

"You said that for him you would sacrifice your life."

"True."

"That like an invisible providence you would watch over his life and

fate: that this would be the sacred object of your life."

"I also said," Felina answered, "that my love would ever be unknown, and

that the secret would die with me."

"Well," said Rovero, "I know him. This man, the ardent passion of whom

you divined, to whom you are come as a minister of hope, is before you,

is at your feet."

"How know you that I would not have done as much for each of your

friends?"

Taddeo felt a hot iron pass through his soul.

"Hear me," said she; "time is precious. Watched, and the object

everywhere of espionage, from motives of which you must ever be ignorant

I have penetrated hither, by means of a bold will and efforts which were

seconded by chance. I wished to satisfy myself that you were really the

person I sought for, and, hidden beneath this vail, and by a yet greater

concealment, that of your honor, to remain unknown, and accomplish my

purpose, with your cooperation, which otherwise must fail. I was

ignorant then of what I know now. I knew not your sentiments, or I would

have kept my secret."

"Why fear my love?" said Rovero; "think you I sell my devotion? A love

which hesitates is not love. Mine will obey for the pleasure of obeying

you. But let your requests be great and difficult to be fulfilled, that

you may estimate me by my deeds."

"You have a noble heart, Rovero, and in it I have confidence. God grant

your capacity fall not below your courage. In four days you will know

what I expect from you."

"And will you," said he, in a voice stifled with emotion, "tell me which

of the four you love?"

"You will then know. To you alone will I reveal the secret."

"How can I live until then!" said Rovero, with a sigh.

The sound of footsteps was heard. The sentinels were being relieved. It

was growing late, and while Rovero, at a motion from La Felina, went to

the door to listen to what was passing, she disappeared like a shadow

behind a column. Rovero looked around, and was alone. He examined the

walls, attempting to discover the secret issue. No fissure was visible,

there was no sign of the smallest opening, and a dumb sound only replied

to the blows of Rovero on the wall. He sunk on his chair, and covered

his face with his hands, that his thoughts might be distracted by no

external object. A few hours afterward the Duke of Palma caused him to

be informed of his pardon.

The presence of La Felina had changed everything. The dark walls of the

chapel appeared more splendid than those of the palaces of the Doria,

Cavalcante, Carafa, or of the Pignatelli. He would not have exchanged

the humid walls of his cell for the rich mosaics of the _Museo

Borbonico_, the rival of that of the Vatican. The pavement had been

pressed by the feet of La Felina, and Rovero yet fancied that he saw the

prints of her footsteps.

Two days after the nocturnal scene we have described, a stranger

appeared in the cell of the son of Signora Rovero. "Excuse me, sir,"

said he to the prisoner, "that I have thus intruded without an

introduction. The motive, however, which conducts me hither will admit

of no delay, and I am sure you will excuse me when you shall have

learned it."

Rovero bowed coldly, fancying that he had to do with some new police

agent.

"I am come to appeal to you in behalf of two ladies who worship you, and

are inconsolable in your absence."

"Two ladies!" said Rovero, with surprise. Yet, under the empire of

passion, he added--"Signor, I love but one." He paused and was much

confused by the avowal he had made.

"At least," said the stranger, "you love three; for in a heart like

yours family affections and a deeper passion exist together. The ladies

of whom I speak, Signor, are your mother and sister."

The prisoner blushed. His adored mother, his beautiful sister, were

exiled from his memory! In the presence of a stranger, too, this filial

crime was revealed; a despotic passion had made him thus guilty.

"Signor," said he, "you have thought correctly. Notwithstanding the

forgetfulness of my mind, with which though I protest my heart has

nothing to do, their names are dear to me, and I pray you tell me what

they expect from me."

"They expect you to return," said the stranger. "A service I rendered

them has made me almost a friend, and my interest in them has induced me

to come without their consent to speak to you in their behalf."

"Signor," said Rovero, "tell me to whom I have the honor to speak; not

that a knowledge of your name will enhance my gratitude, but that I may

know to whom I must utter it."

"Signor, I am the Marquis de Maulear. Chance has revealed to me your

strange rejection of the liberty which other prisoners would so eagerly

grasp at. The minister has informed me of your motives, and, though

honorable, permit me to suggest that you do not forget your duty. Did

your mother know your condition, her life would be the sacrifice."

Taddeo forgot all when he heard these words, admitting neither of

discussion nor of reply.

"Signor," continued Maulear, "what principle, what opinions can combat

your desire to see your mother, and to rescue her from despair? Bid the

logic of passion and political hatred be still, and hearken only to

duty. Follow me, and by the side of your noble mother you will forget

every scruple which now retains you."

Rovero for some moments was silent. He then fixed his large black eyes

on those of Maulear, and seemed to seek to read his thoughts.

"Marquis," said he, "I scarcely know you, but there is such sincerity in

your expression that I have confidence in you, and am about to prove it.

Swear on your honor not to betray me, and I will tell you all."

"I swear."

"Well," said Taddeo, hurrying him as far as possible from the door that

he might be sure he was not overheard; "I accept the liberty offered

me; but for a reason which I can reveal to no one, I must remain a few

days in this cell. Suffer the minister and all to think that I persist

in this refusal. In two days I will have changed my plans, and before

sunset on the third, _I will have returned with you to Sorrento_."

Henri, surprised, could not help looking at Rovero.

"Do not question me, Signor, for I cannot reply. I have told you all I

can, and not one other word shall leave my mouth."

"I may then tell Signora Rovero, that you will return."

"Announce to her that in me you have found another friend, and that in

three days, _you will place me in her arms_."

Taking Maulear's hand he clasped it firmly.

"Thanks, Signor," said Maulear, "I accept your friendship. With people

like you, this fruit ripens quickly. Perhaps, however, you will discover

that it has not on that account less flavor and value."

Maulear tapped thrice at the door of the cell; the turnkey appeared, and

Henri left, as he went out casting one last look of affection on Taddeo.

Never did time appear so long to Aminta's brother as that which

intervened between Maulear's departure and the night he was so anxious

for. That night came at last. The keeper brought his evening meal. He

did not wish to be asleep as he was on the first occasion, when La

Felina visited him. He was unwilling to lose a single moment of her

precious visit. Remembering that his preceding nights had been agitated

and almost sleepless, apprehensive that he would be overcome by

weariness, he resolved to stimulate himself. Like most of the

Neapolitans, he was very temperate, and rarely drank wine; he preferred

that icy water, flavored with the juice of the orange or lime, of which

the people of that country are so fond. He now, however, needed

something to keep him awake, and asked for wine.

He approached the table on which his evening meal was placed, he took a

flask of Massa wine, one of the best of Naples; he poured out a goblet

and drank it, and felt immediately new strength course through his

veins.

He sat on his bed and listened anxiously for the slightest sound, to the

low accents of the night, to those indescribable sounds which are

drowned by the tumults of the day, and of whose existence, silence and

night alone make us aware. The hours rolled on, and at every stroke of

the clock his heart kept time with every blow of the iron hammer on the

bell of bronze. At last the clock struck twelve. Midnight, the time for

specters and crimes, was come. A few minutes before the clock sounded,

he perceived that the sleep of which he had been so much afraid

gradually made his eyelids grow heavy--and that though he sought to

overcome the feeling, his drowsiness increased to such a degree that he

was forced to sit down.

I spoke in one of my preceding chapters of the tyrannical power

exercised by sleep over all organizations, and especially in those

situations when man is least disposed to yield to it. Never had this

absolute master exercised a more despotic power; this pitiless god

seemed to place his iron thumb on the eyes of the prisoner, and to close

them by force. A strange oppression of his limbs, an increasing

disturbance of his memory and thought, a kind of invincible torpor,

rapidly took possession of the young man. Then commenced a painful

contest between mind and body,--the latter succumbed. He felt his body

powerless, his reason grow dim, and his strength pass away. In vain he

sought to see, to hear, to watch, to live, to contend with an enemy

which sought to make him senseless, inert and powerless. His head fell

upon his bosom and he sank to sleep.

Just then, he heard a light noise, the rustling of a silk dress, and a

timid step. With a convulsive effort he opened his eyes, and saw La

Felina within a few feet of his bed. Tears rolled down his cheeks, and

fell upon the white hand of the singer. She touched Rovero's face to

assure herself that he was in reality asleep.

END OF PART II.

[From the Gem.]

"THE TWICKENHAM GHOST."

Come to the casement to-night,

And look out at the bright lady-moon;

Come to the casement to-night,

And I'll sing you your favorite tune!

Where the stream glides beside the old tower,

My boat shall be under the wall,--

Oh, dear one! be there in your bower,

With Byron, a lamp, and your shawl.

Oh! come where no troublesome eye

Can look on the vigil love keeps;

When there is not a cloud in the sky,

What maid, _but an old maiden_, sleeps?

And you know not how sweet is the tone

Of a song from a lip we have press'd,

When it breathes it "by moonlight alone,"

To the ear of _the one_ it loves best.

Oh! daylight love's music but mars,

(As it breaks up the dance of the elves!)

The moon and the stream and the stars,

Should hear it alone with ourselves:

And who'd be content with "_I may_,"

If they only would think of "_I might_?"

Or _who'd_ listen to music by day,

That had listened to music by night?

The Opera's over by one,

Lady Jersey's grows stupid at two;

I'll dance just one waltz, and have done,

Then be off, on the pony, for Kew!

My boat holds a cloak--a guitar,

And it waits by that dark bridge for me:

And I'll row, by the light of one star,

Love's own, to the old tower, by three!

I'll bring you that sweet canzonette,

That we practiced together last year;

And my own little miniature set

Round with emeralds--tis _such_ a dear!

You promised you'd love me as long

As your heart felt me close to it, there;

And, dear one! for that and the song,

_Won't_ you give me the locket of hair?

Farewell, sweet! be not in a fright,

Should your grandmamma bid you beware

Of a youth, who was murdered one night,

And whose ghost haunts the dark waters there:

For _you_ know, ever since his decease,

Of a harmless young ghost that's allow'd

To go, by the River Police,

Serenading about in his shroud!

[From the Dublin University Magazine.]

THE MYSTIC VIAL: OR, THE LAST DEMOISELLE DE CHARREBOURG.

I.--THE GAME OF BOWLS.

More than a century ago--we know not whether the revolution has left a

vestige of it--there stood an old chateau, backed by an ancient and

funereal forest, and approached through an interminable straight avenue

of frowning timber, somewhere about fifteen leagues from Paris, and

visible from the great high road to Rouen.

The appliances of comfort had once been collected around it upon a

princely scale; extensive vineyards, a perfect wood of fruit-trees,

fish-ponds, mills, still remained, and a vast park, abounding with cover

for all manner of game, stretched away almost as far as the eye could

reach.

But the whole of this palatial residence was now in a state of decay and

melancholy neglect. A dilapidated and half-tenanted village, the feudal

dependency of the seignorial domain, seemed to have sunk with the

fortunes of its haughty protector. The steep roofs of the Chateau de

Charrebourg and its flanking towers, with their tall conical caps, were

mournfully visible in the sun among the rich foliage that filled the

blue hazy distance, and seemed to overlook with a sullen melancholy the

village of Charrebourg that was decaying beneath it.

The Visconte de Charrebourg, the last of a long line of ancient

seigneurs, was still living, and though not under the ancestral roof of

his chateau, within sight of its progressive ruin, and what was harder

still to bear, of its profanation; for his creditors used it as a

storehouse for the produce of the estate, which he thus saw collected

and eventually carted away by strangers, without the power of so much as

tasting a glass of its wine or arresting a single grain of its wheat

himself. And to say the truth, he often wanted a pint of the one and a

measure or two of the other badly enough.

Let us now see for ourselves something of his circumstances a little

more exactly. The Visconte was now about seventy, in the enjoyment of

tolerable health, and of a pension of nine hundred francs (L36) per

annum, paid by the Crown. His creditors permitted him to occupy,

besides, a queer little domicile, little better than a cottage, which

stood just under a wooded hillock in the vast wild park. To this were

attached two or three Lilliputian paddocks, scarcely exceeding an

English acre altogether. Part of it, before the door, a scanty bit we

allow, was laid a little parterre of flowers, and behind the dwelling

was a small bowling-green surrounded by cherry-trees. The rest was

cultivated chiefly for the necessities of the family. In addition to

these concessions his creditors permitted him to shoot rabbits and catch

perch for the use of his household, and that household consisted of

three individuals--the Visconte himself, his daughter Lucille (scarcely

seventeen years of age), and Dame Marguerite, in better times her

nurse--now cook, housemaid, and all the rest.

Contrast with all this what he had once been, the wealthy Lord of

Charrebourg, the husband of a rich and noble wife, one of the most

splendid among the satellites of a splendid court. He had married rather

late, and as his reverses had followed that event in point of time, it

was his wont to attribute his misfortunes to the extravagance of his

dear and sainted helpmate, "who never could resist play and jewelry."

The worthy Visconte chose to forget how much of his fortune he had

himself poured into the laps of mistresses, and squandered among the

harpies of the gaming-table. The result however was indisputable, by

whatever means it had been arrived at, the Visconte was absolutely

beggared.

Neither had he been very fortunate in his family. Two sons, who,

together with Lucille, had been the fruit of his marriage, had both

fallen, one in a duel, the other in a madcap adventure in Naples.

And thus of course ended any hope of seeing his fortunes even moderately

reconstructed.

We must come now to the lonely dwelling which serves all that is left of

the family of Charrebourg for a palace. It is about the hour of five

o'clock in the afternoon of a summer's day. Dame Marguerite has already

her preparations for supper in the kitchen. The Visconte has gone to the

warren to shoot rabbits for to-morrow's dinner. Two village lads, who

take a pleasure in obliging poor old Marguerite--of course neither ever

thinks of Lucille--have just arrived at the kitchen door. Gabriel has

brought fresh spring water, which, from love of the old cook, he carries

to the cottage regularly every morning and evening. Jacque has brought

mulberries for "the family," from a like motive. The old woman has

pronounced Jacque's mulberries admirable; and with a smile tapped

Gabriel on the smooth brown cheek, and called him her pretty little

water carrier. They loiter there as long as they can; neither much likes

the other; each understands what his rival is about perfectly well;

neither chooses to go while the other remains.

Jacque, sooth to say, is not very well favored, sallow, flat-faced, with

lank black hair, small, black, cunning eyes, and a wide mouth; he has a

broad square figure, and a saucy swagger. Gabriel is a slender lad, with

brown curls about his shoulders, ruddy brown face, and altogether

good-looking. These two rivals, you would say, were very unequally

matched.

Poor Gabriel! he has made knots to his knees of salmon-color and blue,

the hues of the Charrebourg livery. It is by the mute eloquence of such

traits of devotion that his passion humbly pleads. He wishes to belong

to her. When first he appears before her in these tell-tale ribbons,

the guilty knees that wear them tremble beneath him. He thinks that now

she must indeed understand him--that the murder will out at last. But,

alas! she, and all the stupid world beside, see nothing in them but some

draggled ribbons. He might as well have worn buckles--nay, _better_; for

he suspects that cursed Jacque understands them. But in this, indeed, he

wrongs him; the mystery of the ribbons is comprehended by himself alone.

He and Jacque passed round the corner of the quaint little cottage; they

were crossing the bowling-green.

"And so," sighed poor Gabriel, "I shall not see her to-day."

"Hey! Gabriel! Jacque! has good Marguerite done with you?--then play a

game of bowls together to amuse me."

The silvery voice that spoke these words came from the coral lips of

Lucille. Through the open casement, clustered round with wreaths of vine

in the transparent shade, she was looking out like a portrait of Flora

in a bowering frame of foliage. Could anything be prettier?

Gabriel's heart beat so fast that he could hardly stammer forth a

dutiful answer; he could scarcely see the bowls. The beautiful face

among the vine-leaves seemed everywhere.

It would have been worth one's while to look at that game of bowls.

There was something in the scene at once comical and melancholy. Jacque

was cool, but very clumsy. Gabriel, a better player, but all bewildered,

agitated, trembling. While the little daughter of nobility, in drugget

petticoat, her arms resting on the window-sill, looked out upon the

combatants with such an air of unaffected and immense superiority as the

queen of beauty in the gallery of a tilting-yard might wear while she

watched the feats of humble yeomen and villein archers. Sometimes

leaning forward with a grave and haughty interest; sometimes again

showing her teeth, like little coronels of pearl, in ringing laughter,

in its very unrestrainedness as haughty as her gravity. The spirit of

the noblesse, along with its blood, was undoubtedly under that slender

drugget bodice. Small suspicion had that commanding little damsel that

the bipeds who were amusing her with their blunders were playing for

love of her. Audacity like that was not indeed to be contemplated.

"Well, Gabriel has won, and I am glad of it, for I think he is the

better lad of the two," she said, with the prettiest dogmatism

conceivable. "What shall we give you, Gabriel, now that you have won the

game? let me see."

"Nothing, Mademoiselle--nothing, I entreat," faltered poor Gabriel,

trembling in a delightful panic.

"Well, but you are hot and tired, and have won the game beside.

Marguerite shall give you some pears and a piece of bread."

"I wish nothing, Mademoiselle," said poor Gabriel, with a melancholy

gush of courage, "but to die in your service."

"Say you so?" she replied, with one of those provokingly unembarrassed

smiles of good-nature which your true lovers find far more killing than

the cruelest frown; "it is the speech of a good villager of Charrebourg.

Well, then, you shall have them another time."

"But, as your excellence is so good as to observe, I have won the game,"

said Gabriel, reassured by the sound of his own voice, "and to say I

should have something as--as a token of victory, I would ask, if

Mademoiselle will permit, for my poor old aunt at home, who is so very

fond of those flowers, just one of the white roses which Mademoiselle

has in her hand; it will give her so much pleasure."

"The poor old woman! Surely you may pluck some fresh from the bush; but

tell Marguerite, or she will be vexed."

"But, Mademoiselle, pardon me, I have not time: one is enough, and I

think there are none so fine upon the tree as that; besides, I know she

would like it better for having been in Mademoiselle's hand."

"Then let her have it by all means," said Lucille; and so saying, she

placed the flower in Gabriel's trembling fingers. Had he yielded to his

impulse, he would have received it kneeling. He was intoxicated with

adoration and pride; he felt as if at that moment he was the sultan of

the universe, but her slave.

The unconscious author of all this tumult meanwhile had left the window.

The rivals were _tete-a-tete_ upon the stage of their recent contest.

Jacque stood with his hand in his breast, eyeing Gabriel with a sullen

sneer. _He_ held the precious rose in his hand, and still gazed at the

vacant window.

"And so your aunt loves a white rose better than a slice of bread?"

ejaculated Jacque. "Heaven! what a lie--ha, ha, ha!"

"Well, I won the game and I won the rose," said Gabriel, tranquilly. "I

can't wonder you are a little vexed."

"Vexed?--bah! I thought she would have offered you a piece of money,"

retorted Jacque; "and if she _had_, I venture to say we should have

heard very little about that nice old aunt with the _penchant_ for white

roses."

"I'm not sordid, Jacque," retorted his rival; "and I did not want to put

Mademoiselle to any trouble."

"How she laughed at you, Gabriel, your clumsiness and your ridiculous

grimaces; but then you do make--ha, ha, ha!--such very comical faces

while the bowls are rolling, I could not blame her."

"She laughed more at you than at me," retorted Gabriel, evidently

nettled. "_You_ talk of clumsiness and grimaces--upon my faith, a pretty

notion."

"Tut, man, you must have been deaf. You amused her so with your

writhing, and ogling, and grinning, and sticking your tongue first in

this cheek and then in that, according as the bowl rolled to one side or

the other, that she laughed till the very tears came; and after all

that, forsooth, she wanted to feed you like a pig on rotten pears; and

then--ha, ha, ha!--the airs, the command, the magnificence. Ah, la! it

was enough to make a cow laugh."

"You are spited and jealous; but don't dare to speak disrespectfully of

Mademoiselle in my presence, sirrah," said Gabriel, fiercely.

"Sirrah me no sirrahs," cried Jacque giving way at last to an

irrepressible explosion of rage and jealousy. "I'll say what I think,

and call things by their names. You're an ass, I tell you--an ass; and

as for her, she's a saucy, impertinent little minx, and you and she, and

your precious white rose, may go in a bunch to the devil together."

And so saying, he dealt a blow with his hat at the precious relic. A

quick movement of Gabriel's, however, arrested the unspeakable

sacrilege. In an instant Jacque was half frightened at his own audacity;

for he knew of old that in some matters Gabriel was not to be trifled

with, and more than made up in spirit for his disparity in strength.

Snatching up a piece of fire-wood in one hand, and with the other

holding the sacred flower behind him, Gabriel rushed at the miscreant

Jacque, who, making a hideous grimace and a gesture of ridicule, did not

choose to await the assault, but jumped over the low fence, and ran like

a Paynim coward before a crusader of old. The stick flew whizzing by his

ear. Gabriel, it was plain, was in earnest; so down the woody slope

toward the stream the chase swept headlong; Jacque exerting his utmost

speed, and Gabriel hurling stones, clods, and curses after him. When,

however, he had reached the brook, it was plain the fugitive had

distanced him. Pursuing his retreat with shouts of defiance, he here

halted, hot, dusty, and breathless, inflamed with holy rage and

chivalric love, like a Paladin after a victory.

Jacque meanwhile pursued his retreat at a slackened pace, and now and

then throwing a glance behind him.

"The fiend catch him!" he prayed. "I'll break his bird-traps and smash

his nets, and I'll get my big cousin, the blacksmith, to drub him to a

jelly."

But Gabriel was happy: he was sitting under a bush, lulled by the

trickling of the stream, and alone with his visions and his rose.

The noble demoiselle in the mean time took her little basket, intending

to go into the wood and gather some wild strawberries, which the old

Visconte liked; and as she never took a walk without first saluting her

dear old Marguerite--

"Adieu, ma bonne petite maman," she said, running up to that lean and

mahogany-complexioned dame, and kissing her heartily on both cheeks; "I

am going to pick strawberries."

"Ah, ma chere mignonne, I wish I could again see the time when the

lackeys in the Charrebourg blue and salmon, and covered all over with

silver lace, would have marched behind Mademoiselle whenever she walked

into the park. Parbleu, that was magnificence!"

"Eh bien, nurse," said the little lady, decisively and gravely, "we

shall have all that again."

"I hope so, my little pet--why not?" she replied, with a dreary shrug,

as she prepared to skewer one of the eternal rabbits.

"Ay, why not?" repeated the demoiselle, serenely. "You tell me, nurse,

that I am beautiful, and I think I am."

"Beautiful--indeed you are, my little princess," she replied, turning

from the rabbit, and smiling upon the pretty questioner until her five

thin fangs were all revealed. "They said your mother was the greatest

beauty at court; but, _ma foi_! she was never like you."

"Well, then, if that be true, some great man will surely fall in love

with me, you know, and I will marry none that is not richer than ever my

father, the Visconte, was--rely upon that, good Marguerite."

"Well, my little pet, bear that in mind, and don't allow any one to

steal your heart away, unless you know him to be worthy."

At these words Lucille blushed--and what a brilliant vermilion--averted

her eyes for a moment, and then looked full in her old nurse's face.

"Why do you say that, Marguerite?"

"Because I feel it, my pretty little child," she replied.

"No, no, no, no," cried Lucille, still with a heightened color, and

looking with her fine eyes full into the dim optics of the old woman;

"you had some reason for saying that--you know you had!"

"By my word of honor, no," retorted the old woman, in her turn

surprised--"no, my dear; but what is the matter--why do you blush so?"

"Well, I shall return in about an hour," said Lucille, abstractedly, and

not heeding the question; and then with a gay air she tripped singing

from the door, and so went gaily down the bosky slope to the edge of the

wood.

II.--THE GENTLEMAN IN BLUE AND SILVER.

Lucille had no sooner got among the mossy roots of the trees, than her

sylvan task commenced, and the fragrant crimson berries began to fill

her basket. Her little head was very busy with all manner of marvelous

projects; but this phantasmagoria was not gloomy; on the contrary, it

was gorgeous and pleasant; for the transparent green shadow of the

branches and the mellow singing of the birds toned her daydreams with

their influence.

In the midst of those airy pageants she was interrupted by a substantial

and by no means unprepossessing reality. A gentleman of graceful form

and mien, dressed in a suit of sky-blue and silver, with a fowling-piece

in his hand, and followed closely by a bare-legged rustic, carrying a

rude staff and a well-stored game-bag, suddenly emerged from behind a

mass of underwood close by. It was plain that he and Lucille were

acquainted, for he instantly stopped, signing to his attendant to pursue

his way, and raising his three-cornered hat, bowed as the last century

only could bow, with an inclination that was at once the expression of

chivalry and ease. His features were singularly handsome, but almost too

delicate for his sex, pale, and with a certain dash of melancholy in

their noble intelligence.

"You here, Monsieur Dubois!" exclaimed Lucille, in a tone that a little

faltered, and with a blush that made her doubly beautiful. "What strange

chance has conducted you to this spot?"

"My kind star--my genius--my good angel, who thus procures me the honor

of beholding Mademoiselle de Charrebourg--an honor than which fortune

has none dearer to me--no--none _half_ so prized."

"These are phrases, sir."

"Yes; phrases that expound my heart. I beseech you bring them to the

test."

"Well, then," she said, gravely, "let us see. Kneel down and pick the

strawberries that grow upon this bank; they are for the Visconte de

Charrebourg."

"I am too grateful to be employed."

"You are much older, Monsieur, than I."

"No doubt."

"And have seen more of the world, too."

"True, Mademoiselle," and he could not forbear smiling.

"Well, then, you ought not to have tried to meet me in the park so often

as you did--or indeed at all--you know very well you ought not."

"But, Mademoiselle, what harm can the most ill-natured of human critics

discover----"