With that she made a _pirouette_, and in three bounds was out of the

room. I ran, I flew, but Zephirine was too nimble for me, and I reached

the street just in time to see her jump lightly into the carriage of

the rich Englishman, and drive off at a gallop. To follow them--to

overtake the ravisher and force him to resign his prey, was my first

impulse; but, alas! I had no money, nor the means of borrowing any,

and stood, moreover, in need of the kind intervention of the Prince de

Beauveau between me and my importunate creditors. There was nothing

for it, therefore, but to digest the affront as well as I could. When

my mind became somewhat calmer, and I had pretty well got over the

jeers of my acquaintance, I began to ask myself if I had really loved

Zephirine, and if there had not been more vanity than passion in all

the follies she had led me to commit? The response was, that I had

_not_ been in love with her, nor she with me. We both loved a jolly,

rackety life--that was all; she was too flighty for affection, and I

too dissipated for serious attachment. Besides, a man rarely allows

his whole mind and thoughts to be entirely engrossed by any woman; he

courts distraction in the variety of other occupations and tastes; all

pursuits, all channels of employment, are open to him; and if he be a

soldier, he is exposed to so many vicissitudes and dangers, and meets

with so many adventures, that all the passions are brought into play,

and each in its turn so blunts and weakens the influence of the other

that none makes any durable impression. He abandons without scruple, a

beloved mistress for a wealthy wife, and speaks of it openly without

shame or reserve, whilst a woman would blush at the bare idea of such

an act. Woman's love lives on self-denial, grows by sacrifices, and

expands under the pressure of misfortune. I do not say that such is the

love of all women, but it is of that chosen few with whose feelings it

is dangerous to trifle, and who are not to be cast off with impunity. I

have dwelt the more at length on my connection with Zephirine, because

her name will re-appear in the course of the history of my first _real_

love. I was, however (continued M. de Marigny), more cut up by my

misfortune than I cared to confess, and had thoughts of quitting my

lodgings in the Place Beauveau, and of having no other residence than

the barracks of the Gardes du Corps at Versailles, when one evening,

at about eleven o'clock, as I was returning home, pondering upon the

urgent importunities of my creditors, and my brother's slackness in

carrying into effect his promises and good intention towards me, I

heard piercing shrieks proceeding from the very place whither I was

going, and from the spot where it is crossed by a narrow street which

leads into the Champs Elysées, then, neither paved, nor, as now,

ornamented by good houses on each side. I need hardly add that this

street was as dark as pitch, whilst even the place itself was only

dimly lighted by the flickering gleam of the one poor lamp which hung

before the hotel of M. le Prince de Beauveau. I drew my sword, and ran

towards the spot whence the cries proceeded, but had scarcely gone

twenty yards before I stumbled over a lifeless body. I stretched out my

hands, and caught by the arm a fainting female, who at the same moment,

seemed to come to herself only to redouble her cries and lamentations.

"Help! help!" cried she, in a voice choked by tears.

"Here is help, madame," said I; "what is the matter--tell me?"

"Help! they have slain this unhappy gentleman by my side."

My lodging being close by I ran and shook the great gate by repeated

knocking, until I roused the porter and my own servant, cried murder,

and, as at that hour of the night many of the inmates were not yet gone

to bed, a light was soon procured, and all hastened to the scene of

the murder. There we found, stretched in a pool of blood, a young and

handsome female, her face whiter than the kerchief which encircled her

blood-stained neck, her ears torn, her hands wounded, and close beside

her the dead body of a man, somewhat older than herself, and which the

neighbors speedily recognized as that of M. de Fosseux, a gentleman

of some distinction at the bar, and who lived in the Place Beauveau,

right opposite to my house. A general cry of horror burst from us

all. The victim had been stabbed to the heart by a strong and steady

hand, and the dagger--the instrument with which the crime had been

perpetrated--had dropt from the wound, and was bathed in blood.

"There were two of them," cried the young lady, sobbing; "one seized my

hands, tore the ear-rings from my ears, and snatched my necklace from

my neck, whilst the other stabbed M. de Fosseux, who fell without a

groan. Ah! if they had but been content only to rob us!"

Then were the lamentations of the unhappy lady renewed, and she fell

into repeated swoons, from which she was recalled only to weep more and

more bitterly. We raised her up and carried her to her own house, or

rather to that of M. de Fosseux, whither we also carried him, and sent

for a surgeon; but his help was useless; M. de Fosseux had long ceased

to breathe. On receiving information of the occurrence, a lieutenant

of police came instantly, and very speedily and satisfactorily decided

on a very evident fact, namely, that the sole object of the assassins

had been plunder, for M. de Fosseux had been robbed of his watch,

his purse, a valuable ring, the mark of which was still visible on

one of his fingers, and a pair of diamond buckles. Having satisfied

himself on this point, the officer next proceeded to the apartment

of the young lady, whom he interrogated most strictly as to all the

details and circumstances attending the commission of the deed. She

replied to all his questions with much self-possession, and the most

exact precision--"stated her name to be Eugenie d'Ermay, by birth a

gentlewoman, and a native of Poitou; twenty-five years of age, and

an orphan, without any private fortune; and," added she, casting her

eyes on the ground, "I have lived for seven years with M. de Fosseux,

without the sanction of the marriage tie." He, her sole protector, and

the only friend to whom she could look on leaving the convent where she

had been educated, had also been her seducer; but he introduced her to

society and to the families of his friends, and that very evening they

had been supping with Madame la Comtesse de T----, and were returning

on foot, when, close to their own door, the above tragical event took

place. As to the deed itself, all had been effected with the utmost

rapidity. Two men whom they had for some time observed to be following

them, suddenly rushed upon them--one of the two had seized her and held

her fast, whilst he stripped her of her trinkets; the other laid hold

of M. de Fosseux, had struck him a too sure and fatal blow, and robbed

him with a dispatch and address which showed an experienced hand; all

this had been but the work of an instant, and the two assassins had

fled towards the Champs Elysées with such speed that they were already

far beyond pursuit before the unhappy lady suspected that he whom she

loved was at all hurt, much less that he was killed.

"Did you observe," asked the police officer, "if one of the men was

tall and strongly made and had red hair, and the other short and

high-shouldered?"

Mademoiselle d'Ermay could not answer these questions; she felt

certain, however, that the man, who had killed M. de Fosseux was

tall, and her impression was confirmed by the fact of the blow having

evidently been struck from above downwards. There were at that time

in Paris two highwaymen, one of whom was called Pierre le Mauvais,

and the other Guillaume le Bossu. These worthies were the theme of

market-places and wine-shops, and as every robbery and murder committed

in the capital was attributed to them, this was of course laid at their

door.

Whilst listening attentively to this examination, and marking the

profound grief of Eugenie--her deathlike paleness and her silent

despair--I could not but pity M. de Fosseux, whom cruel fate had thus

severed at the early age of thirty-two, not only from life, but from so

young and lovely a companion. As Mademoiselle d'Ermay had mentioned

the name of the Comtesse de T----, the officer of police called upon

this lady in order to ascertain the truth of the statement as to her

supper party, and found it to be perfectly correct. The comtesse, as

soon as she heard of the sad event, hastened to assure Mademoiselle

d'Ermay of her sympathy by every demonstration of kindness and

affection, and, determined not to leave her in a house now become one

of mourning, with the corpse of M. de Fosseux for her sole companion,

insisted on taking her instantly to her own. Mademoiselle d'Ermay

consented on one condition, namely, that she should be permitted once

more to look on him who had been the only object she had loved on

earth. I was present at this last scene of this sad drama. Mademoiselle

d'Ermay said nothing, but throwing herself on her knees by the side of

the bed on which they had laid M. de Fosseux, her hands convulsively

clasped together and her head sunk on her breast, she was absorbed for

some minutes in fervent prayer, when, suddenly rising and turning to

Madame de T----, she said, "I am ready, madame." She then immediately

quitted the house in that silence which is the surest sign of profound

affliction, and having seen her safely conveyed to Madame de T---- 's,

I took my leave.

On reaching my own abode, I fell into a reverie in which I could not

help contrasting the attachment of such a woman as Mademoiselle d'Ermay

with the light and heartless nature of my connection with Zephirine.

Yet all my feelings revolted at the odious comparison. What? could I

for a moment, even in thought, place a young lady of good family, well

educated, and whom the arts of a seducer, under the guise of a friend,

had betrayed into her first and only error--could I for an instant

allow myself to place her in the same class with an opera-dancer? I

hated myself for the very thought, which could never have suggested

itself but to one who had never known any other sort of tie than such

as had bound me to Zephirine--who had never been loved, nor ever felt

the genuine passion. I slept not that night, nor did I wish to sleep;

my mind was too fully occupied in recalling every movement, every

gesture, every word that fell from the lips of Mademoiselle d'Ermay;

her gentle countenance, her angelic look, and that brow so fair and

so open, whose polished surface even terror the most appalling had

not been able to ruffle. Still I was not in love with her; I merely

tried to recall her features, which the darkness of the night and the

uncertain glimmer of candles had not enabled me to see and examine so

perfectly as I could have wished. However, I promised myself better

success the next day, when I resolved to observe her with the closest

attention, although I felt that in so doing I was rashly exposing

myself to that undefinable and seducing something which hung around her

like a charm.

II.

It was, perhaps, the consciousness of the wish formed overnight that

determined me to see Mademoiselle d'Ermay. Neither had I any desire to

resist its power, but rather to feel it and succumb, for I was well

assured, that if such a one could be won, she was worth winning. I

shuddered when I reflected how few hours had elapsed since she had been

exposed to the dagger of an assassin, and could not conceive how it had

happened that till that time I had never seen Mademoiselle d'Ermay,

though she was living close by me.

In the mean time the family of M. de Fosseux caused seals to be placed

on all the property of the deceased, and with some difficulty allowed

the unfortunate lady to take away her clothes and some few trinkets,

and a small sum of money, which beyond dispute was her own, it being

found in a desk on which her name was engraved, and of which she had

the key. That the family of M. de Fosseux should look upon her with no

friendly eye was, perhaps, natural enough. However, in a few days, the

heir-at-law of the deceased waited upon her, and said,

"Mademoiselle, M. de Fosseux having been cut off thus suddenly, has

left no will; had he been able to foresee his death, there can be no

doubt that he would not have forgotten to make due provision for you;

it therefore devolves on me, as a duty, to supply that defect, and to

fulfil his intentions."

"No, sir," replied Mademoiselle d'Ermay, "I never asked anything from

M. de Fosseux, nor ever expected anything; our connection was free

from all pecuniary considerations, present or future; excuse me from

accepting any thing."

In this refusal Mademoiselle d'Ermay was immovable. But to return to

myself. The next day I ventured to call on Mademoiselle d'Ermay, was

admitted, and became thoroughly aware how necessary was this second

interview, and better light to a due conception of her beauty. I have

said beauty, but she was, in fact, what might be called lovely rather

than beautiful, sweetness being the leading characteristic of her

countenance, across which, calm and innocent as it was, an expression

of archness would occasionally flit and vanish again into one of

softness and repose. An acute physiognomist, perhaps, might have been

led to suspect, from the form of the mouth and the compression of the

lips, that the repose of Mademoiselle d'Ermay's features was the result

of a strong will and a haughty spirit rather than a natural quality. Be

that as it may, to eyes untutored in that science this slight symptom

was not visible, and had no existence; whilst the simplicity and

modesty of her demeanor, and the perfect propriety of all her actions,

won every heart. Her grief was sincere, and her tears unaffected,

yet she did not wear mourning for M. de Fosseux; and whilst none

doubted that she deeply regretted him, all applauded the good taste

which restrained her from rendering her situation yet more remarked by

assuming the outward trappings of woe.

Some few days after the events of which I have just been speaking,

Mademoiselle d'Ermay hired a small room on the sixth floor in this very

house. When I heard (continued M. de Marigny) that the woman who for

the last ten days had never been absent from my thoughts was living

under the same roof with myself, I experienced a sensation of pleasure,

which was only alloyed by the necessity I was under of setting out that

very night for Versailles, whither my duty called me, and would detain

me for some time. I was even on the point of resigning my commission;

and but for the Prince de Beauveau, I really believe I should have

added this to the already pretty long list of my follies. Mere chance,

however, enabled me to make my stay at Versailles serviceable to my

passion, for, I must confess it, I loved Mademoiselle d'Ermay. I

happened one day to meet, in one of the ante-rooms of the palace, the

Comtesse de T----, who having an intimate friend amongst the queen's

ladies of honor, often came to Versailles. I seized the opportunity

to ask her a multitude of questions about Mademoiselle d'Ermay, and

ascertained the following facts:

Mademoiselle d'Ermay, though originally of Poitou, was born at Noyou;

her father, a man of rank, having spent his fortune at court, emigrated

to America, leaving a young wife and his daughter Eugenie, then only

six years old, with very slender means of support. Death, ere long,

bereft the daughter of her mother's care, when an old aunt brought

her desolate condition under the notice of the Archbishop of Paris,

by whose recommendation and influence she was placed in a convent

in this capital, and received the usual education of a nun, which,

though it failed to stifle generous feelings in her bosom, it taught

her to conceal them. Trained to keep the secrets of others she became

impenetrable as to her own, and hid a proud and resolved spirit under

the meekest possible exterior. Mistress of herself, her calmness and

presence of mind never for an instant forsook her.

"You have seen," continued Madame de T----, "how far Mademoiselle

d'Ermay carries disinterestedness, and may thence infer how faithful

and devoted a friend she is capable of being; but," added she, "I have

a notion she _could_ be a most implacable foe.

"The superior of the convent where she was educated was a relation

of M. de Fosseux, who often visited her, and thus had opportunities

of seeing her youthful charge, and of ascertaining how much she was

neglected and even ill-treated. Touched with compassion for her forlorn

condition, and smitten by her beauty, he found means of communicating

with her, avowed his sentiments, and won her heart. Nothing was easier

than to elope from the convent, as M. de Fosseux proposed; but the

young lady at once rejected so romantic a mode of proceeding, and went

to the superior and simply demanded her liberty. It might have been

expected that she would be asked what she was about to do, and whether

she was going; but as the old aunt had ceased to pay for her board, and

Eugenie was therefore a burden on the establishment, they allowed her

to depart unquestioned. She immediately repaired to the house of M. de

Fosseux, and their connection was one of unmixed happiness until the

late fatal accident dissolved it. I have now told you all I know."

"Then, madame," said I, "your friend is, in fact, penniless?"

"I cannot say," answered the comtesse; "it is a point on which Eugenie

is obstinately silent; she has refused to stay with me, and I think she

has had too much experience of convent life ever to go there again; but

I believe she has some secret but honorable resource which affords her

a decent maintenance. I have already told you that her father went to

America, where he died, and his daughter probably got whatever he left

behind him."

As soon as I was off duty at Versailles I hastened back to Paris; and

the first thing I did on reaching my old lodging was to mount to the

sixth floor, and present myself to Mademoiselle d'Ermay. I found her

occupying three small rooms, one of which served her for kitchen, and

the one in which she received me was simply, and would have appeared

poorly, furnished, but for the exquisite cleanliness and neatness,

which gave it an air of elegance. After due inquiries concerning her

health, I proceeded to congratulate myself on my good fortune in having

the happiness to be under the same roof; begged she would command my

services in any way in which they could be useful, and then hastened to

change the subject, for I saw refusal trembling on her lips.

"I am sorry," said I, "to see you in such apartments as these."

"They are quite consistent, sir," said she, "with my slender means and

the state of my mind."

I cast my eyes towards the window; she understood me, and, bursting

into tears, withdrew into the adjoining room to hide her emotion. In

fact, from this window not only the Place de Beauveau and the house of

M. de Fosseux, but even the windows of his apartments, were visible.

In a few minutes she reappeared, perfectly calm, with a serene and

even smiling countenance. Never have I known a woman who had so much

command over herself, or whose composure lent her such a charm. To see

her and resist her sway was beyond the powers of mortal man, and I

quitted her presence deeply in love, and resolved to leave no means

untried to gain her affections. At the same time I was quite aware that

I could not hope for success under a considerable length of time, even

if she had not really loved M. de Fosseux. To make a woman forget a

faithless lover is an easy task; to render her fickle, under ordinary

circumstances, is an enterprise in which many succeed; but to efface

the recollection of so bloody a catastrophe, whilst pressing my suit

in perhaps the self-same well-remembered words and expressions of its

lamented victim, seemed so all but hopeless an undertaking, that it

required the stimulus of the most ardent passion not to shrink from

it in despair. I had, however, some chances in my favor; I was young,

though some years older than Mademoiselle d'Ermay; and as time has now

shorn me of personal attractions, I may perhaps be allowed to boast

that I was considered a good-looking fellow; finally, in the eyes of

such a woman as I then loved, I had one special recommendation--I

was poor. Now Mademoiselle d'Ermay, though caring little for the

conventional rules of society, was scrupulous to the last degree in all

that related to sentiment, generosity and disinterestedness, insomuch

that the only circumstance which annoyed her in her connexion with

M. de Fosseux was, that he was rich. All she required was the like

absolute devotion as that which she herself rendered. It was to such

a woman as this that, three months after the death of, M. de Fosseux,

I hazarded a declaration of my passion. That I really felt what I so

warmly and so earnestly avowed, it required not a woman's sagacity to

perceive. I had given up all my favorite amusements--no more riding

and driving, no more evenings at the theatre, no more supper parties.

I had become pale and thin, and felt assured that Mademoiselle d'Ermay

was at no loss to what cause to attribute such a change in my person

and pursuits; neither did she affect to doubt the reality of a passion

of which the proofs were so evident, nor did she attempt to deny that

the human heart was not made for eternal sorrow, or that time could not

heal its deepest wounds, but she pleaded the very peculiar position in

which her lot had placed her.

"Chevalier," said she, "do not, I pray you, press me to return your

passion. Love can no more find entrance into my bosom, and you know its

dire consequences if it could: it is fatal--it is mortal."

"Banish," said I, in return, "such sad recollections. Why regard

yourself as the cause of an unhappy event to which you yourself had so

nearly fallen a victim? I can understand your repugnance hereafter to

wear, or to see worn by your friends, diamonds, or such valuables as

tempt the plunderer, but to renounce love at your age, and with your

beauty, that were indeed too much, especially when you have inspired

such a passion as mine; and oh! consider the difficulties, the trials,

the dangers inseparable from your present position, and tell me if,

instead of rejecting, you ought not, on the contrary, to seek some

one to whom you may look for assistance, and on whom you may rely for

support?"

Mademoiselle d'Ermay acknowledged all this to be true; nevertheless

she hesitated. At length, however, by dint of love and perseverance, I

succeeded in weakening her objections, and in satisfying her scruples,

and she consented to receive my addresses. She even confessed that I

was not indifferent to her; but when with expressions of love I mingled

promises and oaths of eternal fidelity.

"Have a care," said she. "I ask nothing; I require nothing; but

promises are, in my eyes, sacred matters. You are lavish of oaths--if I

accept them, I shall look on them as binding. Is there not some ancient

poet who says that "Jove laughs at lovers' perjuries?" I am more severe

than Jove. I give you fair warning, M. le Chevalier."

"Where is the lover," added M. de Marigny, "who, under like

circumstances, does not redouble all the oaths his mistress seems to

doubt? Where is he who would hesitate to swear that he is the most

truthful and constant of men? Who would not vow _eternal_ love to

_such_ a woman?"

My old friend here raised his hands and his eyes to the picture before

us, and remained for some moments in an attitude of deep and silent

admiration. At length he slowly withdrew both, and with a deep sigh

resumed his narration.

Mademoiselle d'Ermay consented, but reluctantly, and with the ill grace

of a woman who yields in spite of herself; however she did yield,

and quitted her apartments on the sixth floor for mine on the first.

From that moment, my friend, I knew the bliss of being loved, and

loved too without jealousy or quarrels, but with a sweet, constant,

and equable flow of affection which I had not hitherto believed to be

possible. No thought of the past, no anxiety for the future, seemed to

have any place in Eugenie's mind; but happy in the conviction of my

love, she manifested towards me as much attachment and even passion as

she had exhibited hesitation and reserve on consenting to my wishes.

Never, by any chance, did she allude to past events, nor did the name

of M. de Fosseux ever escape her lips. I was proud of my conquest;

prouder of the passion I had inspired--a passion which she did not

feign, but feel. There was no pouting, no jealous freaks, none of

those ebullitions of temper which so disturb the peace and harmony of

even the most attached couples: she was always in the same mood; her

countenance always serene, her words always sweet and soothing; nay,

more, my circumstances were, as I have told you, embarrassed; and I was

so deeply in debt, that I owed even the freedom of my person to the

interposition of the Prince de Beauveau, when Mademoiselle d'Ermay

undertook the management of my affairs, called on my creditors in

person, examined their claims, obtained time for payment, struck out

usurious demands; and, when my brother at length thought proper to come

to my aid, paid the stipulated sums to each with such business-like

accuracy, that my creditors gave me no further trouble, and in a

very short space of time I was completely free from all claims and

incumbrances. She held that a gentleman's word should be his bond,

and that no other security ought to be necessary or required. When I

reflected on the change which had taken place in the course of my life,

and on the growing ascendancy which Eugenie exercised over me, and

when I saw my foolish fancies and ill-formed plans give way, as they

continually did, before the influence of her firm and well-regulated

mind, I blushed to think how poor a figure I made, and what a mere

puppet I was in the hands of a clever but imperious woman. Far from

seeing love in all the care she bestowed upon me, I saw only a spirit

of domination which hurt my pride. Even Zephirine, the opera-dancer,

deceiving and abandoning me as she did at the very moment when I was

harassed by debts contracted for and by her, had less deeply wounded my

self-love than did Mademoiselle d'Ermay in thus devoting herself to my

interests. Such is man! vain and ungrateful! Such, however, were her

powers of fascination, that I could not help loving her, and whilst I

thus yielded to her sway, I had, as you see, this one secret feeling in

my bosom which I could not impart to her. How soon was I to be guilty

of other wrongs towards her! My elder brother died, and I became the

head of the family. I became rich, too, and might also lawfully claim

the title of marquis instead of that of chevalier. Will you believe

that I said nothing of all this to Mademoiselle d'Ermay? I sighed for

liberty; I wanted to enjoy my accession of fortune without her privity,

and to spend my money unrestrained by her good sense and unchecked by

her prudence. I went secretly to my agent and gave him instruction as

to my affairs, and all without saying one word to the woman who, till

that moment, had known my most secret thoughts, and was accustomed to

read my very looks. I thought of the figure my fortune would enable me

to make at the gaming table, which Mademoiselle d'Ermay had prevailed

on me to give up, and in all those pleasures which a Garde du Corps

of fortune can enjoy with his comrades. For these purposes it was

necessary that I should resume my duty, from which I had been absent on

leave for nearly a whole year, and I announced my intention accordingly.

"You choose your time ill," said Eugenie, in a quiet tone; "if you

resume service you must be less with me, and it is not prudent to quit

the citadel at the very time it is attacked."

When I asked an explanation of these last words, this was (continued

M. de Marigny), the substance of what she told me; and, that you may

understand their import, I must tell you, that before the year 1789,

the higher classes of our clergy were composed of the younger sons

of noble families, who were in the receipt of large incomes from the

Church; and the bishops and canons of those days, endowed as they were

with fat livings and rich abbeys, did not think themselves at all

called upon to reside on their several preferments, but lived in Paris

and about the court, where their course of life was not always strictly

evangelical. One of them, whose name I shall not mention, as it is

not material to my story, had remarked Mademoiselle d'Ermay. What had

particularly taken his fancy, as he said in a letter which Eugenie put

into my hands, was her youthful and ingenuous countenance, her retiring

manners, her love of seclusion, and her modest yet animated style

of conversation. He made her splendid offers, to which he attached

this one condition only, namely, that their intercourse should be a

profound secret; and, he added, that in leaving me she would, moreover,

silence the scandalous reports which had so long been circulated to her

disadvantage.

"It was Tartuffe," said M. de Marigny, with a bitter laugh; "trying

to wean Elmire from the gallants of the court, by offering her love

without scandal, and pleasure without danger."

"You know," said Eugenie, when she showed me this letter, "that even

if I were free to accept an offer, and this right reverend gentleman

pleased me, I could never stoop to such a mere bargaining as this; but

I love you, my friend, and you alone, and I show you this letter only

because we have no secrets from each other."

Thus, at the very moment when she was sacrificing for my sake an ample

and secure provision, I, on my part, was concealing from her my new and

altered position in life; yet at the same time I knew she had nothing,

for her father was not dead, as Madame de T. supposed, and had never

sent her a single _sou_. I was on the point of confessing all; but

false shame restrained me, and I set off for Versailles. I was like a

man who vainly endeavors to break his bonds.

When I quitted Eugenie and galloped through the Champs Elysées and up

to the quarters of my troop I breathed freely. I felt I was at liberty;

but twenty-four hours had hardly elapsed ere I grew weary of this same

liberty and longed to see Eugenie again, and to resume that yoke of

which I was ashamed I knew not why, for it was easy, and had become

necessary to me. What would have become of me if Eugenie had accepted

the offers of that libertine priest and left me! So in the middle of

the night I mounted my horse and went back to Paris. I found her, as

usual, thinking of me, and hoping, if not expecting, my speedy return.

I then took to play, but its chances failed to excite me. I suffered

myself to be dragged out to those supper parties which I had once found

so pleasant, but it was only to cast my eyes round the circle in search

of _her_, and when they found her not, nor ever rested on a face so

beaming as hers, weariness soon crept over me, and I found the dishes

tasteless, the wine vapid, and the conversation dull.

In the mean while, I had reached that period of life at which ambition

becomes a ruling passion, and mine was to be rich. Without rendering

me avaricious, Mademoiselle d'Ermay had taught me to know the value

of money. I had known poverty and endured most of its attendant

privations, and I was now in the possession of a large and unexpected

fortune, but I wanted more. Just at this time I received a letter from

my mother.

M. de Marigny here paused for a moment and appeared lost in thought;

he was like a man who hesitates to finish the story he has begun, and

who, having disclosed one half of his secret, has some misgiving as to

telling the other half, when, suddenly seizing my hand and looking me

full in the face.

"Sir!" said he, in a tone of voice so solemn that it sent the blood

back to my heart, and caused my not very weak nerves to tremble; "I

was considering whether I ought not to require you to swear that you

will never reveal to any mortal ear what I am about to relate (the

perspiration stood in large drops on his venerable forehead); but 'tis

no matter--I have begun and I will finish--my story may be useful as a

lesson and a warning to others."

He went on.

My mother suggested, that as the period of mourning for my brother

was over (alas! wishing to conceal that event from Eugenie I had not

worn any), it was time to look into the affairs of a family of which

I was now become the head. She advised me to resign my commission in

the Gardes du Corps as an idle sort of life without any chance of

promotion, and, as if she had read my thoughts, added, that I had

nothing to do but to enjoy my wealth and at the same time increase

it, for which there was a ready mode and present opportunity. It was

this. She had selected for my brother the best match in the county--the

marriage was fixed, the settlements agreed upon, and the contract

drawn, when his death deranged all; why should not I carry into effect

so well-formed and advantageous a plan? The young lady in question

had known but little of my brother; she had no attachment to him, and

merely married him because her family wished it. She was, moreover,

young, pretty, and very rich. My mother urged me to quit Paris without

delay, and come and secure a match which would double my fortune. Being

thirty years of age, and completely my own master, I did not consider

obedience, especially in such a matter, a duty I owed to the commands

even of a mother; but I saw in the proposal an opportunity which might

never again offer of breaking bonds which every day became tighter,

and more and more wounded my pride. Besides, the _money_, the _money_

tempted me. "Why," said I to myself, "should I not be able to love

this pretty girl whom they propose I should marry? She is, perhaps,

even handsomer than Mademoiselle d'Ermay; and who knows but she may

love as well, and without subjecting me to that sort of sway I feel

so onerous?" I reflected, too, on the false position in which I was

placed. I lived with a mistress, of whom I was not the first lover, but

only the second. Nevertheless, I knew Mademoiselle d'Ermay's character

so well, was so fully assured of her inviolate fidelity, and still

felt so much attached to her, that I could not make up my mind one way

or the other, and was in a most lamentable state of indecision. I had

without much difficulty thus far concealed from her the death of my

brother; but if I absented myself and went into Dauphiné, though only

just to look at the lady proposed for my wife, she would guess all,

and, on my return, my contemplated abandonment would be repaid by her

taking leave of me for ever. Some plausible pretext for leaving her

was therefore necessary--a mission, or something of the sort, from

government, on business in the north of France, whilst I hastened to

the south, and tried to find in the love beaming from other eyes a

release from that which had hitherto chained me to Paris. The absolute

necessity of concealing this new secret made me a totally different man

to what I was wont to be. I became moody and abstracted; and, whilst

brooding in silence over my own thoughts, and fondly fancying that I

never betrayed myself by even a gesture or hasty word, Mademoiselle

d'Ermay had divined the whole, and was tracking with unerring sagacity,

and into the inmost recesses of my soul, all my wavering resolves. She

saw my timid spirit halting between herself and a rich wife, whilst

harboring, perchance, some vague fancy for change. For so it is; we

are never content with that which we have, but we want more, or we

want something else, and are always wanting to be happy in some other

way than that in which we are so. Eugenie, herself impenetrable,

read my heart as if a book; yet she lavished upon me the same tokens

of affection, and always received me with the same sweet and calm

demeanor. At length, one day, when I was in my study, debating with

myself how and where I should answer my mother's letter, Mademoiselle

d'Ermay entered, every feature of her sweet round face elongated and

sharpened and fixed in frightful rigidity; her soft eyes glared, her

rosy lips were bloodless. I thought she was suddenly seized by illness,

or that some cruel accident had affected her reason. She appeared to

stagger, and I was rising from my seat to support her, when her hand,

laid on my shoulder, pressed me back again into my chair. The skirt of

her dress was turned up as high as her waist, and within its folds her

clenched hands held something which, at each movement she made, sounded

like the small stones in a child's rattle.

"Is it you, Eugenie?" said I.

"Yes, it is I. Do not you know me? _I_ am not changed; _I_ am still the

same."

So she said; but it was no longer the same woman. Her very voice was

altered, a Gorgon, a Megæra stood before me.

"Eugenie! Eugenie!" cried I.

She looked at me steadfastly, and as though the innermost thoughts of

my mind were written on my forehead; and the first words she uttered

fully apprised me that she knew one of my secrets.

"M. le Marquis," said she: she knew my brother was dead. "M. le

Marquis," she continued, in hoarse accents; "listen to me. I have never

mentioned M. de Fosseux to you, and you do not know his story. I must

tell it you. I was the inmate of a convent, young and fair, unhappy

it is true, but pure of heart and discreet in conduct. I might, like

my companions, have taken the veil and passed my life in a cloister,

without either pain or pleasure. M. de Fosseux saw me, and fell in love

with me. You can never know what pains he took, what arts he practised

to seduce me, for I was then a virtuous girl, and my reputation, was

without spot; and though I do not reproach myself for what I have

done--yet I well know that in the world I have judges more severe than

my own conscience."

I made a second attempt to rise; not that I at all foresaw what was

coming, but merely for the purpose of saying a few words to calm her,

but she promptly shut my mouth by fiercely commanding me to listen.

"So pressing were his instances, so solemn his oaths, that they

convinced me of the violence and sincerity of his passion. I listened

and believed, and he prevailed. Yes, M. le Marquis, I believed his

oaths of fidelity. I loved him; not so well as I love you; still I

loved him. Alas, marquis! I ask you, for you know well, be it pride or

be it self-devotion, what have I ever required in return for my love?

Nothing but a steadfast observance of the faith pledged to me, and you

have not now to learn how I have kept that which I myself plighted. I

ask no contract; I demand no guarantee. I live upon the present without

one thought of the past, or one anxiety for the future, confiding in

the _honor_ of the man I love with a feeling of security, which is at

once my joy and my pride; faithful, I never asked but for faith; and,

poor as I am, have I not rejected offers to be rich? Thus much then

have I done for you and for M. de Fosseux; but M. de Fosseux deceived

me; he ceased to love me, he was in treaty for a wealthy bride, and,

cowardly as perfidious, heaped upon me the outward signs and tokens of

a love he no longer felt; and why? Because he wished not to abandon me

till the last moment--because he wished to deceive me until he could no

longer wear a mask. This, marquis, was what M. de Fosseux intended to

do, and this was what he would have done had he lived one week longer.

I knew the name of his betrothed; and I knew the amount of the dowry to

which the cupidity of my lover was about to sacrifice me. Now, marquis,

what did such perfidy deserve? What was a woman to do who had asked

nothing, exacted nothing, and to whom so much had been promised? Her

prospects blasted and her honor lost--a cherished inmate of your home,

whilst the fancy lasts; but appetite once satiated, turned out without

one----. This the return for all her constancy and devotion: disgrace,

base desertion, and, as if injury were not enough, you add mockery and

insult, by smiling in her face whilst you are preparing to pierce her

to the heart."

Whilst thus speaking (continued M. de Marigny), the looks of

Mademoiselle d'Ermay assumed a yet more fierce expression, her voice

became hoarser, her gestures more violent, and, with her increased

agitation, whatever she had folded up in her dress returned a yet more

alarming sound.

As for me, frightened, appalled, my hands trembling, and my forehead

bathed in a cold sweat, I attempted to mutter something, I knew not

what. No, never did Clairon, nor Dusmenil, nor your Siddons, whom I had

seen some years before in England, so freeze my blood in the deepest

tragedy. Struck by the resemblance between my own conduct and that of

M. de Fosseux, I at length exclaimed,

"Eugenie! Eugenie! of whom are you speaking? What do you mean?"

"Of whom am I speaking? Of M. de Fosseux to be sure. What other man

could be capable of a similar crime--of such base perfidy? Do you

imagine it to be possible that there can be in the world two men so

heartless--so utterly devoid of honor?"

"No, Eugenie," exclaimed I again; "No! I will never abandon

you--_never_----"

"And who is talking of _you_, marquis?" retorted she sharply; "I am

speaking of M. de Fosseux."

I could not believe my eyes; my ears, too, nay all my senses seemed in

combination to deceive me. I would have given all I was worth for some

of the servants to enter and dissolve the spell.

"I am speaking to you of M. de Fosseux," repeated she. "Do you

remember, marquis, the day--or rather the night--on which we met for

the first time? _That_ man dead at my feet--myself stretched in the

gory mire of the Place Beauveau--the dagger yet in the dead man's

breast--the blood with which I was covered--my cries, my tears, my

bruised neck, my torn ears, my story of two robbers, my swoons, my

sobs.... Do you remember all this, marquis? Well, then, 'TWAS I--'TWAS

I, I tell you!"

At these last words I uttered a loud cry, and was about to rush out of

the room, but she held me fast.

"'Twas I, I tell you; _alone_ I struck the traitor, and here are my

proofs."

"Saying this, she opened her hands, and shook her dress, when brilliant

buckles, a necklace of rubies, diamond rings, and a gold watch, rolled

glittering on the floor, and seemed to hem me in on all sides with

their sparkling points, whilst in the midst of these bloody relics lay

a letter, which I instantly recognized as my mother's!

"Mr. D----," said the old man to me--who was motionless, and scarcely

dared to draw my breath--"I have been an old soldier, and, thank God!

was never looked upon as a coward; many is the time I have boldly faced

danger, and have, too, exposed my life through mere fool-hardiness; but

a man may have courage, yet not all kinds of courage; I was frightened,

Mr. D----; the blood rushed to my head, my hair stood on end, my

temples throbbed audibly, and I fell senseless on the floor."

When I came to myself (continued M. de Marigny) I found myself in bed;

a copious bleeding had removed all immediate danger, and I seemed as

though awaking out of a troubled sleep, in which I had been haunted by

some fearful dream. Mademoiselle d'Ermay was at my side, with her sweet

countenance, her words of love, and her tender and affectionate looks,

and held both my hands in hers. Tears were stealing down her fair

cheeks, and as soon as I opened my eyes she threw herself into my arms.

"Oh! chevalier," said she, "what an alarm you have caused me! Cruel

man! to go into your own room without saying you were ill, and remain

there alone and without help! Oh, my friend! however troublesome you

may think me, I will never leave you again--I will follow you even

into your study; but, my dear chevalier, I hope you will believe me in

future."

Believe you! (exclaimed I) starting up. She laid me down again, and

replaced my head on the pillow. Ah! said she to herself, there is still

some delirium here; and then, addressing me.

"Yes, my chevalier, _believe_ me. What has been my advice to you for

these several days past? Has it not been to lose a little blood this

spring time?--yet you would not be prevailed on to follow it. Your

physician himself says that one bleeding would have saved you your

illness, and me my fright. I do hope, chevalier, you will be more

docile next spring."

I shut my eyes, and essayed to retrace in thought all the circumstances

of the scene under which I had so recently sunk. Though my head was

confused, and my body weak, I recalled every thing present and past. My

memory carried me back to the Place Beauveau--again I saw the features

of M. de Fosseux pale in death, and Mademoiselle d'Ermay's look of

despair. Moreover, as a principal witness in the unhappy business,

having been the first person who arrived at the spot where the murder

was committed, I was examined by the magistrate, and had read over

Mademoiselle d'Ermay's deposition, in which she had described the

several articles of the stolen jewelry with the greatest accuracy. I

then mentally compared this careful and exact description, as given

in the said deposition, with the articles which Eugenie had thrown

down before me, and I seemed to see and recognize them all: a gold

enamelled watch, a necklace of rubies, diamond ear-rings, rings set in

brilliants, and ... my mother's letter! I had hidden that letter in a

secret drawer in my desk, which the maker of it had shown me alone how

to open, and he was dead before I knew Eugenie; yet that letter had

fallen at my feet! I saw the black seal, and thought I read the address

in my mother's handwriting. It was impossible I could have dreamt all

this! Another idea dwelt painfully on my mind: I have already told

you the murder of M. de Fosseux was generally attributed to two men

of desperate character, Pierre le Mauvais and Guillaume le Bossu. The

police had diligently followed this scent, and, after tracing them to

various haunts, at last succeeded in capturing both; but they proved,

most clearly and incontestably, that they were both at Ronen on the

night of the murder, and all the other researches of the police had

been in vain. Knowing all these circumstances as I did, they now

recurred to my mind in such force as to bring on a fresh attack and

another fit, which had obliged them again to call in my surgeon. What

he found it necessary to do I know not; I only know that the result was

long doubtful, and that nothing could equal the sorrow and assiduous

care of Mademoiselle d'Ermay so long as that doubt lasted. At length

I came to myself.... She was at the foot of my bed, and in that sort

of half-sleep which will sometimes overtake even the most wakeful

and indefatigable nurses. I but partly opened my eyes, and carefully

avoided making the slightest noise or movement. Her head rested on

one of her hands, leaving somewhat more than the side-face and her

fair cheek, now blanched by anxiety and watching, and the beautiful

hair that hung in clustering curls over her white forehead, open to my

view. Sleep often betrays our most secret thoughts, and the stuff of

which dreams are made is sometimes revealed by involuntary movements.

I narrowly watched her countenance; but no, there was nothing--she

slept as calmly as a child. "_She! she!_" said I to myself--"_she_

commit a murder! Could that white and delicate hand grasp a poniard,

and strike the man she loved a deadly blow, and that too in the middle

of the night, and in the open street? Why, the most practised villain,

the commonest stabber, is not so sure of his aim as to be certain that

his victim will fall without uttering one cry, and expire without

knowing the hand that slays him; and that Eugenie should dare to feel

more confidence in herself than such men do! and that she should

never exhibit any symptoms of remorse! That I, who was so constantly

with her, should never by any chance have detected any signs of a

guilty conscience! never have found her low-spirited or absorbed in

thought!" ... But I had seen her in my study--I had heard her terrible

confession--the rattling of the jewelry as it fell from her dress on

the floor, still sounded in my ears! Perhaps, however, I had dreamt all

this--perhaps this cruel vision, this horrible phantasmagoria, instead

of being the cause, had been the first symptom of my disorder? If so,

from what source had my imagination drawn these bloody horrors? How

had my heart and mind been able to engender such frightful calumnies

against the best of women? True, I was thinking of emancipating

myself from Eugenie's yoke, and of leaving her, in order to marry

advantageously; but even whilst I was planning our separation I did

justice to the angelic sweetness of her nature; and so far was I from

supposing her capable of committing a crime, that I thought with regret

of how many good and noble qualities I was about to deprive myself the

contemplation and example in leaving her.

Some days before the occurrence I have just narrated (added M.

de Marigny), one of my servants cut himself in moving a piece of

furniture, and Eugenie, who happened to be present, nearly fainted at

the sight of the blood; and when I joked her about her weakness, the

wound not being at all serious, "Chevalier," said she, "do not laugh

at me; you know I cannot bear to see even a chicken killed." I had,

indeed, remarked that, though in housekeeping affairs she was always

active and vigilant, she never went into the kitchen. I was in a

dreadful state of uncertainty, for, in spite of all my reasonings on

the subject, there was still the fact--I _had_ seen her--I _had_ heard

her; it was _herself_ beyond all doubt. Twice had her hand, pressing on

my shoulder, pushed me back into my chair. The more I tried to banish

these recollections, the more they crowded upon me; and whilst thus

tortured by these anxious speculations, I made a hasty movement as she

awoke.

"You then, of course," said I, interrupting his narrative for a moment,

"demanded an explanation of her terrible confession?"

"Impossible, my good friend," replied he; "I was by no means sure of my

own sanity, and Mademoiselle d'Ermay would have treated such a demand

as the ravings of delirium."

"You are very ill, my dearest chevalier," said she; "your mind has

often wandered since yesterday, and as the dreams of a sick man

commonly take their color from his waking thoughts, I have discovered,

whilst listening to the indistinct mutterings which fell from you

in sleep, that there is one sore place in your heart. You love me,

chevalier, truly and sincerely. I know you do,--but you are jealous!"

"Jealous!" cried I, in a feeble voice.

"Yes--but of the past; you have no doubt of my feelings towards you

now,--you do me that justice; but you are afraid that I loved M. de

Fosseux yet better."

"M. de Fosseux! M. de Fosseux! for God's sake, Eugenie, do not

pronounce that name."

"Why? Since yesterday it has been continually in your mouth, and you

have scarcely ever ceased to utter it and speak of him with bitterness.

Ah! my friend, let the dead rest in peace: you must have observed that

from the first moment of our connection, I never mentioned or alluded

to M. de Fosseux,--you must have made me forget him. Oh! believe me,

my chevalier, I swear--and you know how sacred I hold an oath--I never

loved M. de Fosseux as I love you. Do not then allow such painful

fancies to harass you; think how happy we are--as happy as it is

possible to be in this world,--so happy that every body envies us."

In saying this, her lovely face lighted up with a heavenly smile,

expressive of love and contentment; and if a small but almost

imperceptible cloud did rest for an instant on her calm brow, it was

easily accounted for by her anxiety for me. At length one morning I

awoke, and, not without a certain degree of satisfaction, perceived

that I was alone. She was not there. I rang the bell, and a servant

came.

"Your mistress?"

"Mademoiselle?"

"Yes, mademoiselle; where is she?"

"Mademoiselle is at church; it is Sunday," answered the servant.

She was attending divine service at the church of St. Roch, as she

never failed to do both on Sundays and saints' days.

I dismissed the servant, rose hastily, threw on my dressing-gown, and,

with unsteady step, hurried to the desk in which I had locked up my

mother's letter. The desk was untouched. At the very part of it where

the drawer was so skilfully contrived, and of which I alone possessed

the secret, there were some grains of dust, clearly proving that the

mysterious spring had not been touched for a long time. I opened it,

and there lay my mother's letter, exactly as I had, with my own hands,

placed it! Astonished and confounded, I went to Mademoiselle d'Ermay's

room. Her keys were on her dressing-table; _she_ had neither suspicions

nor secrets! I searched every where, turned every thing topsy-turvy.

Not a hole nor corner did I omit to rummage; and I shuddered the while,

for I was every moment expecting to find the watch, the rubies, and the

diamonds which I had seen, or fancied that I saw, scattered before me

on the floor of my study. But no, there was nothing of the sort. Was

it, then, a dream--a frightful illusion, and the mere forerunner of my

illness? By some strange contradiction, or some magnetic power which a

strong will exercises over a feeble one, I felt that I loved Eugenie

a hundred times better than ever, and crawled back again to my bed,

convinced that I had been mistaken, and the victim of a fearful dream.

I then considered the case in another point of view, and asked myself

whether, even supposing Mademoiselle d'Ermay to be guilty, she had not

some excuse for her crime? What could be more base and dishonorable

than to abandon so fond and devoted a woman? Had not M. de Fosseux

deserved his fate? And I, who had entertained the same design, and had

been on the point of committing the very same act of treachery, and for

the very same vile motive of adding to an already large fortune, what

was _I_, then? Had she meant to give me an awful warning of the fate

which awaited me if I proved as faithless as M. de Fosseux? I was lost

in conjectures. There was, perhaps, one way of extricating myself from

this labyrinth, or, at least, of throwing some light on the darkness

by which I was surrounded. I might ascertain from the family of M. de

Fosseux if at the time of his death he was engaged to be married. I,

however, rejected this idea; for, whether it proceeded from love or

from infirmity of purpose, I preferred darkness to light, and blindness

to perfect vision. "Yes," said I to myself, "I have dreamt it all; my

imagination has mixed up M. de Fosseux with the wrong I was myself

about to inflict, and, whilst meditating a crime, I have also imagined

its cruel punishment. Truly, I have had a shocking dream!"

My reflections had led me thus far, when Mademoiselle d'Ermay returned

from church. She came and took her accustomed place at my bedside.

"Eugenie," said I, "I have much to tell you."

"Do not talk, chevalier; you are still too weak for conversation."

"No, Eugenie, I am better. My head is clear, and my delirium past; so

listen. In the first place, my brother is dead."

"Accept my condolences, and allow me to congratulate you on your

accession to wealth and a higher title."

"My dear friend," said I again, "my mother has written to me. She

requires me to do two things; one is to go for a time to my estate

in Dauphiné, and the other to get married. Surely, then, this is the

auspicious moment to obtain the sanction of the Church to our union?"

"You are right, marquis," she answered, quietly, "for the king and

queen" (Louis XV. was dead), "and especially the Princess Elizabeth,

his majesty's sister, are very strait in their notions, and might

otherwise possibly look coldly upon you when you are presented."

Within a week we were married.

"She became your wife?" exclaimed I.

"Yes, and I am still in mourning for her, and shall continue to wear it

to the end of my life."

There was no change in our domestic arrangements; all went on as usual,

except that my friends and acquaintance, and my people, instead of

calling Eugenie Mademoiselle, addressed her as Madame la Marquise. In

the world my marriage was not blamed; on the contrary, it was approved.

It was an event which every body seemed to have expected, and, taking

place, as it did as soon as I became rich, was voted to be alike

honorable to Mademoiselle d'Ermay and myself. I must tell you a trait

which will enable you to judge how my wife--for so I must now call

her--interested herself in the events of my former life. A few days

after our marriage she said to me,

"My dear marquis, I used formerly to go sometimes to the theatre of

Audinet--did you?"

"Yes, marquise, often."

"There was at that time a young _danseuse_ on those boards who

attracted my attention: she was called, I believe, Zephirine; do you

remember her?"

"I had forgotten her, marquise, and but for your recalling her to my

mind I should never have thought of her again."

"She was a giddy girl, I understand," continued she, "and from

mere love of change left Paris and France some years ago with a

wealthy Englishman, through whose indulgence and her own indolence

she neglected her dancing--a talent soon lost without constant

practice--and she has grown fat and lost her agility. The Englishman

has become tired of her and turned her off, and she cannot get an

engagement even in London; would you now be so kind as to make her some

small allowance?"

I did so, and my wife would never listen to the confession I begged

her to hear. I then took my wife into Dauphiné, and presented her to

my mother, who at first received her very coldly, as I expected--for

this marriage had marred all her plans--but she was soon so won by the

unvarying sweetness of her temper, and the irresistible fascination

of her manners, that she conceived the warmest affection for her,

and no mother-in-law ever loved a daughter better. My good fortune

excited some jealousy, and the beauty of my wife much admiration. A

gentleman in the neighborhood fell in love with her, and was bold

enough to declare his passion; she instantly, and without the smallest

hesitation, informed me of the insult she had received, and I, as

promptly, decided on calling him out; a resolution which Eugenie at

first opposed, but on my insisting that as I had in former days fought

for a mistress I could not do less for a wife, she said, "Go, then, and

avenge me; if you fall, I will not survive you."

My antagonist was severely wounded; and this proof of spirit obtained

me the more credit in my neighborhood, as my cause was so just. The

revolution broke out whilst we were in Dauphiné, and I wished to return

without delay to Paris; but my wife dissuaded me. "You are no longer

in the army," said she; "you left it when you married me, and you

therefore owe no personal service to the king; stay here, where you may

perhaps be useful to others, and certainly so to yourself."

I followed counsels which had long since become the only guide of my

will, and it was well I did so, for we passed in peace and retirement

that period which was so fatal to our aristocracy; and when the storm

was over, "Now," said she, "let us go to Paris."

Here we lived in the enjoyment of happiness which nothing ever alloyed,

and of a mutual affection which age neither cooled nor impaired. Thus,

you see, my friend (continued M. de Marigny), I have been led through

life by my wife; but she strewed the path with flowers, whilst the

circumstance which, as it were, compelled me to marry her saved me from

the commission of a base and unworthy act, for which I should never

have ceased to reproach myself, and which would have rendered my life

miserable. Yes, all has been for the best.

"You mean by that," said I, "that you have had sufficient strength of

mind to control your imagination and to become thoroughly convinced

that preceding events were the mere dream of a delirious man?"

Wait awhile (quietly pursued M. de Marigny). Two years ago, my wife was

seized by sudden and severe illness; she had up to that moment enjoyed

invariable good health, and though she was upwards of fifty, her smile

retained all its sweetness, and her countenance was as serene as ever.

When she found herself unable to leave her bed, she gave herself up for

lost.

"I feel that I shall die, my dear friend," said she to me one day, "and

I have some few requests to make of you; you will not marry again--will

you?"

At these words I burst into tears, and poured forth again all my former

oaths, and which, considering our long attachment and my advanced age,

it was no longer difficult to keep.

"I know," said she, "you will never give your name to another woman;

I feel sure of that. What I wish is, that you should retire to your

estate in Dauphiné, and there, in peace and tranquillity, end your days

where your father and mother died and are buried; and, that you may

have no inducement to remain in Paris or ever return to it, sell your

house; and then, having no interest in the capital, you will find it

the more easy to perform what I have now requested, and what I feel

assured you will promise me to do."

I promised all she required; and in so doing it appeared to me that I

was adopting the wisest and most prudent course. There was, moreover,

in the idea of going to die amidst the tombs of my ancestors and of

mingling my ashes with theirs, a feeling of piety which melted me to

tears. Eugenie, once feeling assured that her last wishes would be

obeyed, asked for the attendance of a priest, and died with the same

courage and composure as had marked her whole life.

"Sir," said her confessor to me, "God is just and merciful. He pardons

the repentant sinner--your wife is a saint in heaven."

I will not attempt to describe my grief, my despair, and the state of

utter loneliness into which this sad bereavement plunged me: I have

other matters to talk of. When Eugenie was no more I had no longer any

will but my own to consult; and though deeply regretting the absence

of that sway I had been so long accustomed to, I nevertheless followed

inclinations which were no longer controlled. It was a feeling of piety

which had first made me promise to retire into Dauphiné, and it was

now a similar feeling which determined me to remain where I was. Why

should I go and die amidst ancestral tombs? Why make it a point of duty

to mix my ashes with theirs? I lost my father when I was a mere child;

I scarcely remembered him; and I had lived very little with my mother,

whereas, my whole life had been spent with Eugenie. It was therefore

near her that I ought to end my days, and in her grave that I ought to

find my final resting place; nor could I understand how it was that she

had not expressed a wish to that effect, and I persuaded myself that if

she could now see me she would approve of the change in my resolution.

When I had once made up my mind to remain in Paris, it was no longer

requisite or convenient to sell my house; and to tell you the truth,

I was very desirous to keep it. I had inhabited it from my youth; I

had improved and embellished it, and it recalled to my remembrance the

only woman that I had ever sincerely loved. My whole life had been

spent in it; in it had been acted the whole drama of my existence, and

there was not a corner nor a piece of furniture in it which did not

awaken some thought or recollection. I resolved then to live and die

in Paris. But, my friend, though our dwellings of brick and mortar are

more durable than those of our own mortal clay, they, nevertheless,

from time to time require repair, or they would fall into a state of

utter dilapidation. Several months ago, my people told me that some

tiling was wanted to the roof, and that the flooring of the rooms on

the sixth story was sadly out of condition. These were the rooms of

which Mademoiselle d'Ermay had been the last occupier; in fact, my wife

had always taken to herself these three rooms which she had occupied in

her poverty, and the keys of them remained in the hands of my people

till after that my grief had somewhat subsided. I wished to revisit the

scene of my wooing, and the hallowed spot where Eugenie had responded

to my passion. My first visit was made alone, and I gave way without

restraint to the feelings which the scene was calculated to excite.

On this occasion, however, I went up with the workmen. Time, and the

dampness of a room always kept closed, had almost entirely destroyed

the flooring. They set to work in my presence, and scarcely had they

raised up the mouldy boards and decayed joists, than I saw diamonds

glitter, and rubies, and gold--those dreadful jewels which had caused

me so much terror and such a severe illness--there they were, the very

same....

"Great God!" cried I; "then she _had_ killed M. de Fosseux!!!"

The old man NODDED.

From Household Words.

THE SPENDTHRIFT'S DAUGHTER. IN SIX CHAPTERS.

CHAPTER THE FIRST.

"Frugality is a virtue which will contribute continually and most

essentially to your comfort. Without it, it is impossible that you

should do well; and we know not how much, or how soon, it may be

needed."

So writes Southey to his son, Cuthbert, just then starting at Oxford.

The proposition might have been expanded from the particular to the

universal. Southey might have said, that in no condition of life, from

that of her who sitteth upon the throne, to that of the handmaiden who

grindeth behind the mill, can frugality--in other words, system and

self-denial as regards the expenditure of money--be dispensed with.

Self-denial and diligent attention in the management of this great

talent are necessary in all.

No one of the gifts of Providence appears to the casual observer to be

bestowed with less regard to individual merit than wealth. It would

almost seem, as an old divine has written, as if God would mark his

contempt of mere material riches by the hands into which he suffers

them to fall. Although, fall where they will, and on whom they will,

one thing is certain;--that they will prove but a delusive snare to

those who know not how to order them;--when to husband, and when to

spare; when to spend, or when to bestow.

These reflections arose from a story with which, not long ago, I became

acquainted. A common tale enough--one among a thousand illustrations of

what Butler affirms to be the indispensable condition upon which it has

pleased our Creator that we should hold our being:--that of controlling

our own actions; either by prudence to pass our days in ease and quiet;

or, by rashness, ungoverned passion, wilfulness, or negligence, to make

ourselves miserable.

He is sitting on the bottom stone of a magnificent flight of steps,

which lead up to a handsome door, situated in the centre of a large

many-windowed house, which, fronted with handsome iron rails round

the area, is built of fine brick, and ornamented with abundance of

stone-work, in cornices and architraves. This house stands in one of

the best streets in the neighborhood of Grosvenor Square.

He is clothed in garments that once were fashionable; but now are

discolored with much wear and long exposure to wind and weather; so

much so, that, in several places, they are falling into tatters. His

face--the features of which are very finely cut, and still bear the

traces of a once very remarkable beauty--is wan, attenuated, and

begrimed with dust, dirt, and neglect. His eyes are haggard; his hair

dusty and dishevelled--his beard ragged and untrimmed.

He is the picture of physical decay, and of the lowest depths of

moral degradation. He sits there upon the stone, sometimes watching

the street-sweeper--a little tattered boy cheerily whistling over his

work--now and then casting up his eyes at the closed windows of the

handsome house, upon which the beams of the rising sun are beginning

to shine; but to shine in vain at present; for it is only about six

o'clock in the morning, and life has not yet begun to stir within the

mansion.

His cheek rests upon his thin, withered, and unwashed hand, as he casts

his eyes first upwards, then downwards, then slowly, and with a sort of

gloomy indifference, around.

He looks upward. Is it towards the sky; where the great lord of

earthly light--type of that more Glorious Sun which should arise "with

healing on its wings"--is diffusing the cheering effulgence of the

dawn, calling forth the fresh and wholesome airs of the morning, and

literally chasing away the noisome spirits of the night? Is he looking

there?

No; he is no seeker of the light; he feels not its blessed influence;

he heeds not the sweet fresh rising of the morning as it breathes over

the polluted city, and pours, for a few short moments, its fresh,

crisp, cheering airs into the closest and most noisome of her quarters.

He cares not for that delicious brightness which gives to the vast town

a pure and peculiar clearness for a few half hours, whilst all the

world are asleep, and the streets are yet guiltless of sin and sea-coal.

What has light; the pure breath of the morning; the white rays of the

early sun; and the soft, quiet, and refreshing stillness of the hour,

to do with him? He only lifts up his eyes to examine a house: he only

casts them around to observe what goes on in the streets; he is of the

earth, earthy,--the sacred odor exists not for him.

Yet, in the deep melancholy, the expression of harrowing regret with

which he _did_ look up at that house--even in the very depths of his

moral degradation and suffering--the seeds of better things might be

germinating. Who shall say? He has sounded the very base-string of

misery: he touches ground at last--that may be something.

The sparrows chirped in the rays of the sun, and the little sweeper

whistled away. Different figures began sparingly to appear, and one

by one crept out; objects of strange aspect who seem to come, one

knows not whence;--the old clothes-man, with his low and sullen

croak; country carts; milk-men, rattling their cans against area

rails; butcher-boys swinging their trays. Presently were heard,

immediately below where the man was sitting, the sounds of awakening

life;--unlocking of doors, opening of windows, the pert voices of the

women servants, and the surly responses of the men; shutters above

began to be unfolded, and the eyes of the large house gradually to

open. The man watched them--his head resting still upon his hand,

and his face turned upwards--until, at length, the hall-door opened,

displaying a handsome vestibule, and a staircase gay with painting and

guilding. A housemaid issued forth to shake the door-mat.

Then he arose and slowly moved away; every now and then casting a

wistful glance backwards at the house, until he turned the corner, and

it was lost to his sight.

Thus he left a place which once had been his own.

With his head bent downwards, he walked slowly on; not properly

pursuing his way--for he had no way nor object to pursue--but

continuing his way, as if he had, like a ball once set in motion, no

motive to stand still. He looked neither to the right nor to the left;

yet seemed mechanically to direct his footsteps towards the north. At

length, he slowly entered one of the larger streets in the neighborhood

of Portland Place. His attention was excited by a bustle at the door

of one of the houses, and he looked up. There was a funeral at a house

which stood in this street a little detached from the others. The

plumes were white. It was the funeral of an unmarried person. Why did

his heart quiver? Why did he make a sudden pause? Had he never seen a

funeral with white plumes before in his life?

Was it by some mysterious sympathy of nature that this reckless,

careless, fallen man--who had looked at the effigies of death, and

at death itself, hundreds and hundreds of times, with negligent

unconcern--shuddered and turned pale, as if smitten to the heart by

some unanticipated horror?

I cannot tell. All I know is, that, struck with a sudden invincible

terror, impelled by a strange but dreadful curiosity, he staggered,

rather than walked forward; supporting himself as he went against the

iron rails, and thus reached the steps of the house just as the coffin

was being carried down.

Among the many many gifts once possessed, and all misused, was one of

the longest, clearest, and quickest sights that I ever remember to have

heard of. His forlorn eye glanced upon the coffin; it read:

"ELLA WINSTANLEY,

Died June 29, 18..

Aged Twenty-three."

And he staggered. The rails could no longer support him. He sank down

upon the flagstones.

The men engaged about the funeral lifted the poor ragged creature

up. A mere common beggar, they thought; and they were about to call

a policeman, and bid him take charge of him; when a lady, who was

standing at the dining-room window of the house, opened it, and asked

what was the matter?

"I don't know, Ma'am," said the undertaker's man; "but this here gent

has fallen down, as I take it, in a fit, or something of the sort.

Policeman, hadn't you best get a stretcher, and carry him to the

workhouse or to the hospital?"

"No," said the lady, "better bring him in here. Mr. Pearson is in the

house, and can bleed him, or do what is necessary."

Upon which the insensible man was carefully lifted and carried by two

or three of the men up the steps. At the door of the hall they were

met by the lady who had appeared at the window. She was evidently a

gentlewoman by her dress and manners. She was arrayed very simply. Her

gray hair was folded smoothly under her bonnet-cap; her black silk

cloak still hung upon her shoulders; her bonnet rested upon a pole

screen in the dining-room. It seemed by this that she was not a regular

inhabitant of the house in which she exercised authority. Nothing could

be more gentle and kind than the expression of her calm, but firm

countenance; but upon it the lines of sorrow, or of years, were deeply

traced. She was, evidently, one who had not passed through the world

without her own portion of suffering; but she seemed to have suffered

herself, only the more intimately to commiserate the suffering of

others.

They laid the stranger upon the sofa in the dining-room; and, at the

lady's desire, sent for Mr. Pearson, who was the house apothecary.

Whilst waiting for him, she stood with her eyes fixed upon the face of

the stranger; and, as she did so, curiosity, wonder, doubt, conviction,

and astonishment were painted in succession upon her face.

Very soon Mr. Pearson appeared, and advised the usual remedy of

bleeding. The lady walked to the window, and stood there, watching the

proceedings of those without, until the arrangements of a very simple

funeral were terminated, and the little procession, which attended the

young Ella Winstanley to her untimely grave, gradually moved on, and

disappeared at the turning of the street.

The countenance of the lady, as she returned to the sofa, showed that

she had been very much moved by the sight.

Having been bled, the stranger opened his eyes; which now, as he lay

there, extended upon the sofa, displayed a gloomy but remarkable

beauty--a beauty, however, arising rather from their form and color,

than from their expression, which was more painful than interesting.

Again the lady fixed her eyes upon his face, and again she shuddered,

and half turned away. Pity, disgust, and regret, were mingled in her

gesture.

The stranger's eyes followed her, with a dreamy and unsettled look. He

seemed to be as mazed with wonder as she was.

She turned again, as if to satisfy her doubts. His eyes met hers; and,

as they did so, recollection seemed to be restored.

"Where am I, and what is it?" he muttered.

"You are where you will be taken good care of until you are able to be

removed," said the lady. "Is there any one you would wish to have sent

for?"

The man did not speak.

"Any one you would wish to be sent for?" she repeated.

"No," he answered.

"Any thing more you would wish to have done?"

"Nothing."

He lay silent for some time, with his eyes still fixed upon her.

At last he said, "Tell me where I am?"

"Where you are welcome to be until you can gather strength enough to

proceed to the place to which you were going when this attack seized

you. And that was--?"

"Nowhere. But what house is this?"

"A house only destined for the reception of ladies," she answered.

"Ladies! what ladies?"

"The sick who have no other home."

"A house of charity, then?"

"Partly."

"And that one--that one--that young creature, whose funeral--Do you

know her? any thing about _her_--?"

"Yes," answered the lady, with gravity, approaching to severity, "I do

know _much_ about her."

"Why--why did she come here?"

"Because she was friendless and deserted; poor, sick, and

miserable. She had given up what little money she had to supply the

wants--perhaps--who knows?--the vices of another. Happily there were

found those who would befriend her."

"And she accepted the charity; she received the alms?"

"She had learned to submit herself to the will of God."

He shut his teeth together with a something between bitterness and

contempt at these last words, and turned his head away.

"You are her father?" said the lady.

"I am--"

"Then you are a very wretched man," she added.

"Yes," he replied, "I am most miserable."

"You are one who have reaped from seeds, which might have produced a

rich harvest of happiness, nothing but black and blighted misery."

She spoke with unusual severity, for her soul recoiled at his aspect:

she saw nothing in it to soften her feelings of indignation.

"I have lived," he answered.

"How?"

"How! as others of my temper have lived. It was not my fault that I

was born with an invincible passion for enjoyment. I did not make

myself. If pleasure be but the forerunner of satiety--if life be

but a cheat--if delight be but the precursor of misery--a delusion

of flattering lies,--_I_ did not arrange the system. Why was virtue

made so hard, and self-indulgence so enticing? I did not contrive the

scheme."

"Such excuses," the lady replied, "the honest consciousness within us

rejects; such as your own inner conscience at the very moment you utter

them disclaims. She who is gone--a broken-hearted victim of another's

errors--hoped better things when she exhausted almost her last breath

in prayers for you."

"Prayers!" in a tone that spoke volumes.

"Yes, prayers."

"What is become of my other daughter?--I want to go to _her_."

"She died, I believe, about twelve months ago."

"Then I am alone in the world?"

"You have no children now."

"Are you going to turn me out into the street?" he suddenly asked,

after a short silence.

"The rules of this house--which is dedicated to the assistance of sick

and helpless women--will not admit of your remaining."

"I am going. You will hear of me next as one past recovery; picked up

out of some kennel by the police. You would have done better not to

have restored me. I should have died quietly."

"But without repentance."

"Repentance!" he said fiercely. "Repent while my whole soul is writhing

with agony? Ella! Ella! if I could only have kept my Ella, she would

have tended me--she would have soothed me--she would have worked for

me."

"Yes," said the lady, "she would have done this, and much more--but God

has taken her; has rescued her from your heartless selfishness." To

herself she added--for her heart was glowing with indignation--"Even in

this supreme moment, he thinks of nothing but of himself."

"She would have been more gentle with me than you are," he said, with

a half-reproachful sigh.

"Yes, yes--she would have felt only for you--_I_ happen to feel for

her."

"Which I never did."

"Never--"

"You say true," said he, musing.

CHAPTER THE SECOND.

"Julian Winstanley----"

"He who won the steeple-chase yesterday? Who, in the name of goodness,

is Julian Winstanley? A name of some pretension; yet nobody seems to

know where he came from."

"Oh dear, that is quite a mistake. I beg your pardon--_everybody_ knows

where he came from. This bird of gay plumage was hatched in a dusky

hole and corner of the city; where his grandfather made a fabulous

fortune by gambling in the funds."

"He is as handsome a young fellow as ever was hatched from a muckworm."

"He is a careless, dashing prodigal, whatever else; and I never look at

him without thinking of Hogarth's picture of the 'Miser's Heir.' What

say you to him, Blake, with your considering face? Come, out with your

wisdom! You can make a sermon out of a stone, you know."

"May be so. A stone might furnish matter for discourse, as well as

other things; but I am not in the humor for preaching to-day. I can't

help being sorry for the scapegrace."

"So like you, Contradiction! Sorry for him! And, pray, what

for?--_because_ he is the handsomest, most aristocratical-looking

person one almost ever met with--_because_ he is really clever, and

can do whatever he pleases in no time (might have taken a double-first

at Oxford easily, Penrose says, if he would)--or _because_ he has got

countless heaps of gold at his banker's; and nobody to ask him a why or

a wherefore; may do, in all things, just what he likes--or _because_ he

can drink like a fish, dance like Vestris, ride like Chiffney; be up

all night and about all day, and never tire, be never out of spirits,

never dull? Harry Blake! Who'll come and hear Harry Blake? He is going

to give his reasons, why a man who has every good thing of the world is

most especially to be pitied."

"I am going to do no such thing. The reasons are too obvious. I deal

not in truisms."

"Well, all I know is, that he won the steeple-chase yesterday, and

to-day he beat Pincent, the champion, at billiards. To-morrow he goes

to the ball at Bicester; and see if he does not beat us all at dancing

there, and bear away the belle, whoever the belle may be--though the

blood of a stockbroker does run in his veins."

"His blood may be as good as another's, for aught I know," said the

philosopher; "but I doubt whether the rearing be."

"It is the blood, depend upon it. Blake, you are quite right," said a

pale, affected young man, who stood by, and was grandson to an earl;

"the blood--these upstarts are vulgar, irremediably, do what they will."

"That not quite," said Harry Blake. "I have seen as great cubs as ever

walked behind a plough-tail who would call cousins with the Conqueror,

Warndale. But a something there is of difference after all; and, in

my opinion, it lies in the tradition. Wealth and distinction are like

old wine, the better for keeping. Time adds a value, mellows, gives

a certain body--an inappreciable something. Newly-acquired wealth

and distinction is like new wine--trashy. I rather pity the man who

possesses them, _therefore_."

"And I do not"--"And I do not,"--and "A fig for your philosophy!"

resounded from all sides of the table.

The philosopher looked on with his quiet smile, and added:

"I do not mean to say that I should pity any of those here present

in such a case, for we all know, by experience, that new wine, in

any quantity, has no effect upon them; never renders their heads

unsteady--was never known to do so. But you must allow me to pity

Julian Winstanley; for I think his wits are somewhat straying, and I

fear that he has already mounted upon that high horse which gallops

down the road to ruin."

And so away they all went to the ball at Bicester that night. Most

of them were somewhat more elaborately dressed than the occasion

required. Julian Winstanley was, undoubtedly. It had been his mother's

injunction, never to spare expense in any thing that regarded his

toilette; and dutifully he obeyed it.

I am not going to give you a description of his dress. Fancy every

thing most expensive; fancy, as far as a natural good taste would

allow, every habiliment chosen with reference to its costliness; and

behold him waltzing with a very pretty girl, who is, upon her side,

exquisitely dressed also. She wears the fairest of white tulles, and

the richest of white satins, and has a bouquet of the flowers from

the choicest of French artists in her bosom, and another negligently

thrown across her robe. Hair of remarkable beauty, arranged in a way to

display its profusion, and the very expensive ornaments with which it

is adorned.

Although the young lady--who is the daughter of a very fashionable

and extravagant man, celebrated in the hunting and racing world--is

well known to be portionless, yet she is the object of general

attraction;--a thing to be noted as not what usually happens to young

ladies without sixpences, in these expensive times. But it is the

caprice of fashion, and fashion is all-powerful. So Julian, who is

only starting in the career of extravagance, and in its golden age

of restless profusion, and far removed, as yet, from that iron age

which usually succeeds it--namely, that of selfish covetousness--is

quite prepared to cast himself at her feet--which with a little good

management of her and her mother's, he soon actually did. Having, as

yet, more money in his pocket than he knew how to get through, he was

exceedingly pleased with what he had done, and not a little proud in

due time to incarcerate this fair creature in solitary grandeur within

his carriage, whilst he and his boon companions rejoiced outside.

The connections formed by his marriage occasioned additional incentives

to expense. Introduced into a more elevated circle than he had as

yet moved in, and impelled by the evil ambition of outshining every

one with whom he associated, Winstanley soon found innumerable new

opportunities for spending money. He became a prey to imaginary

necessities. His carriages, his horses, his villas and their furniture,

his dinners, his wines, his yachts;--her _fêtes_ in the morning and her

balls in the evening, her gardens (which were for ever changing), her

delicate health, which required the constant excitement of continental

travel, and yachting excursions;--the dress of both; the wild

extravagance of every thing,--I leave you to picture to yourselves.

CHAPTER THE THIRD.

What is five thousand a year, when a man spends six? Make it ten, and

he will spend twelve. There is an old story I have heard my mother

tell:--

A man had a legacy left him, so large, that upon the strength of it

he was enabled to change his plan of life. He sat down and calculated

the style in which it would henceforward become him to live. His

arrangement of income and expenditure would have been perfect, only

that the income fell short a certain, not very large, sum. This was

a sad business. A few hundreds more, and he would have been quite at

ease--he had them not--he began to feel rather poor. A letter arrives

from his man of business. There has been a mistake; the legacy is of

twice the amount it had been at first stated at. How will it become

him to live now? That is easily settled--he has only to double all his

expenses. Alas! And he remains twice as poor as he was before.

There is no limit to extravagance--it is a bottomless chasm which is

not to be filled.

The income does not exactly suffice--and no man ought to exceed his

income. True, but there are unexpected expenses--things that perhaps

may never recur. The prudent man economizes something else; the

imprudent man goes to his capital. He unlocks that sacred door of which

he holds the enchanted key in his hand--and ruin rushes out upon him as

a flood.

Julian soon began to touch upon his capital. It was but in small sums

at first, and yet it is astonishing how rich and easy (for the time) it

made him feel. A thousand or two thus added to a man's income makes all

mighty smooth, and the consequent diminution of his future revenue is a

trifle, not felt, and not worth thinking of. Desires increase with the

means to gratify them. He who takes a thousand or two from his capital,

soon finds it necessary to take more. Income diminishes as desires gain

strength; the habit of indulgence grows as the means to gratify it

decline.

What with borrowing, and giving bills, and drawing larger bills to pay

the former bills when they became due, Julian and his wife had, by

the nineteenth year of their marriage, eaten out the whole core and

marrow of their fortunes. The edifice now stood, to all appearance, as

splendid as ever--but it had become a house of cards over a bottomless

pit.

And yet they had children; they had not wanted those best incentives to

a better course. Their possessions in this way were not very numerous;

people of this description have seldom overflowing nurseries; the

mother is usually too fine a lady to look after her children herself.

She is contented with hiring some head nurse, taking her on trust from

some other young woman as heedless and negligent of her duties as

herself; and to her tender mercies she leaves her babies.

Such a nurse had lorded it in Mrs. Winstanley's family; an ill-governed

family in every respect, where each servant, from the highest to the

lowest, measured his or her consequence by the money which was spent

or wasted. Under this nurse's care two lovely boys had died in their

infancy. One little girl had tumbled somewhere or in some way--or had

been made to stand too long in the corner when she was naughty, or to

walk too far when she was tired, or what. I know not. All I know, is,

there was some internal injury, the cause of which no medical man who

was consulted could detect. The other, and only remaining child, was

a fine, handsome, spirited girl, of whom Mrs. Nurse thought proper

to be excessively proud and fond. And how were these little children

educated? Educated is an inappropriate word. There was no capacity for

education on the part of Nurse; but Mr. and Mrs. Winstanley, though

their dinners were just as numerous and profuse as ever, saw not the

slightest necessity, whilst the little girls were young, for the

additional expense of any better governess; and Mrs. Nurse was left to

give all the elementary instruction that was thought needful--a task

which she undertook with alacrity; having become somewhat apprehensive,

now the two little boys were dead and the two young ladies getting

bigger, that she might be superseded.

Her teaching consisted, first in shaking and scolding Miss Clementina,

and keeping her, with her poor aching hip, prisoner in her chair

till she had learned, a lesson--which, for want of comprehending the

absurdly long words of which it seemed purposely composed, it was

almost impossible she should learn; and secondly, in laughing at Miss

Ella's odd blunders as she read, and telling her every word as it

occurred, before she had time to pronounce it.

As for religion, morality, or knowledge of right and wrong, Mrs. Nurse

thought too little about such things herself to impart them to others.

I suppose she taught the children to say their prayers; but I am sure

I know no more than the mother did, whether it was so or no. Sometimes

the children were taken to stare about them in church; but not often,

for Mrs. Winstanley was in the habit of fulfilling the commandment very

literally, and making Sunday a day of rest. Commonly she spent the

forenoon in bed; only getting up in time to dress for a dinner party

which Mr. Winstanley made an especial point of having on that day. He,

as yet, paid this trifling respect to it; he abstained from going on

Sunday evening to a certain club which he frequented, to play cards, or

roulette, for unknown sums.

The elder of these children grew up, suffering, and spiritless; the

younger was proud, insolent, overbearing, and tyrannical--as much so

as such a little creature could be. They were fast growing up into all

this, and would have been confirmed in it, had not an accident arrested

the fearful progress.

Spoiled, flattered, allowed to indulge every evil temper with impunity,

Ella's faults were numberless; more especially to her helpless sister,

whose languid health and feeble spirits excited little sympathy, and

whose complaints seemed to irritate her.

"I declare you _are_ the most tiresome, tormenting thing, sitting there

looking as miserable as ever you can, and with that whining voice of

yours, enough to drive one mad. Why _can't_ you brighten up a little,

and come and play? You really _shall_ come and play, I want to play!

Nurse! O! she's not there! Do _make_ Clementina come and play."

"Don't, Ella! don't tease me so; pray don't! My hip hurts me; I can't.

Do let me alone, pray."

"Nonsense. You make such a fuss about your hip! I don't believe any

thing's the matter with it; only you're so ill-natured, you _never_

will do any thing I ask. Nurse, I say," as the door opened, "do make

her.--O, it's only Matty! Matty, where's Nurse?"

"She's just stepped out, Miss, and told me to come, and stay in the

day-room with you till she was back."

And Matty, the new maid, hired but a day or two before, came in with

her sewing in her hand, and sat down quietly to her work at the window.

"Matty!" cried Ella, imperiously, "don't sit there, looking so stupid;

but come and make this tiresome girl play with me. There she sits,

mooning over the fire. If Nurse were here, she'd soon have her up."

"Don't, pray, Matty," as Matty was rising from her chair. "Pray, don't.

I'll go and play; but indeed, indeed, it hurts me very much to move

to-day."

"Nonsense! Make her get up, Matty, You must mind me, Matty; you came

here to mind me; so do as you are bid, you ugly thing."

Matty indeed merited the title of ugly. She was rather tall, but of a

most ungainly figure, with long bony limbs, ill put together. It was

difficult to say what the features of her face might have been: they

were so crumpled, and scarred, and seamed. Not a feature had been

left uninjured, except her eyes: and they were remarkable both for

intelligence and softness.

She put down her work and went up to Clementina, saying, "What ails

you, Miss? I hope it isn't true that you feign sickness not to play

with your sister?"

The poor girl looked up, and her eyes were filled with tears. "Feign! I

wish I did!"

"Then your hip _does_ hurt you?"

"To be sure it does. So badly! At night, sometimes, when I'm in

bed--so, so badly."

"And do you know that, Miss Ella?"

"Know it! Why, who does not know it? She's always talking of it; but,

for my part, I don't believe it's half so bad as she pretends."

"I don't pretend, Ella; you are always saying that. How cruel you are

to set Nurse against me, by always saying I pretend."

Thus it went on for a minute or two, whilst Matty stood silently by,

her eyes wandering from one sister to the other.

At last she sighed, and said, "If it had pleased God to spare me my

sister, I wouldn't have served _her_ so."

Ella turned at this, and lifting up her eyes, measured Matty from head

to foot with indignant contempt. It would seem as if she thought it

almost too great a presumption in one so humble to have more care for a

sister than she had.

"Who cares how such as _you_ serve their sisters?"

"There is One who cares!" said Matty.

Clementina looked at Matty with puzzled wonder as she spoke. Ella

haughtily turned away, saying, "I should like, for my part, to hear who

this important _one_ is, that you mention with such a strange emphasis.

Some mighty fine personage, no doubt."

"Miss Clementina! Miss Clementina! only hear how shocking your sister

talks. Do stop her!"

"Stop me! I should like to see her, or any one, attempting to stop

me. And why, pray--and what, pray, am I saying so mighty bad, Mrs.

Matty? You? A charity girl? I heard Nurse say, but yesterday, that

she wondered her mistress would put up with such rubbish, and that

she loathed the very look of you, for you put her in mind of the Blue

Coat."

"I thank God," returned Matty, mildly, "that he raised up that

great charity for me, and many perishing like me, and saved us from

wickedness, and taught us to know His holy name. For He looks alike on

rich and poor, and will judge both you and me, young lady."

Both girls were a little awe-stricken at this speech.

But Ella soon recovered herself, and said, "she hated to hear people

talk like Methodists."

"What _are_ you talking about, Matty?" asked Clementina, gently; "I

don't quite understand."

"Not understand!--why, sure--heart alive!--it can't be as you are

ignorant of who made and keeps you and all of us! Sure! Sure!" Matty

kept repeating in a tone of much distress, "I can't believe my own

ears."

"I suppose we know about all that," said Ella, haughtily.

_She_ to teach her!--the child of charity to presume to insinuate a

want in her! The idea was intolerable.

She went and sat down at a table at some little distance, and pretended

to be busy playing with her bird, whose golden cage stood upon it;

but, as she did so, she listened in spite of herself to the following

conversation, passing between Clementina and Matty.

"I am so uncomfortable," the young girl was saying, rather fretfully;

"I don't know what to do with myself. I try this thing and try that

thing, and nothing gives me any ease or amusement; and I think it very

hard--I can't help thinking it hard--that I should have to suffer every

thing, and Ella, there, nothing; and then, Nurse makes such a favorite

of _her_, and nobody in the wide world cares for me. Oh, I am so

miserable, sometimes!"

"I used to be like you, once, Miss," said Matty.

At which Ella gave a contemptuous shrug of the shoulders.

But Matty did not regard it; and she went on and said, "Look at my

face, Miss Clementina; it's very horrid and ugly, I know, and I don't

wonder as Nurse calls me rubbish, and hates to see me in her nice

nursery. Many can't help feeling like that. Do you know how this was

done?"

"No. I suppose small-pox; but it's not like that, for your face is all

cut to pieces. I don't know how it was done."

"It was done by the dreadful agony of fire. When I was but a little

creature, living, O Miss! in such a place--five families of there were

in one low, dark, nasty room, and, O Miss! it was like the bad place,

indeed it was--such swearing and blasphemy when the men come home

drunk, and worse, worse, when the women did so too! Such quarrelling,

and fighting, and cursing, and abusing--and the poor children, knocked

about at such times anyhow. But my mother never got drunk. She was a

poor feeble creature, and mostly sat at home all day crooning, as they

call it, by the fire--for they kept a good big fire in winter in the

room. And then, when father come home he was generally very bad in

liquor, and seeking a quarrel with anything--for something he must have

to quarrel with. Well! One evening--O! I shall never forget it--a cold,

sleety, winter day it was, and the wind rushing up our court, and the

snow falling thick, and the blackened drops, and great lumps of snow

coming splashing down, and the foul water oozing in under the doorsill,

and all such a mess; and the poor, tired, or half-drunk creatures

coming in splashed and dripping, and quarrelling for the nighest places

to the fire, and swearing all the time to make one's hair stand on end;

and father coming in, all wet and bedabbled, and his hat stuck at the

top of his head, and his cheeks red, and his eyes staring, though he

was chattering with the cold. Mother was at her place by the fire, and

he comes up in a rage, like, to turn her out; and she sitting sulky

and wouldn't move; and then there was a quarrel; and he begun to beat

her, and she begun to shriek out and cry, and the women to scream and

screech. O Miss! in the scuffle--I was but a little thing--somebody

knocks me right into the fire, and my frock was all in a blaze. It

was but a moment, but it seemed to me such a time!--all in a blaze of

fire! And I remember nothing more of it, hardly, but a great noise, and

pouring water over me, and running this way and that. When I come to

myself, where was I?"

Ella turned from her bird, and her attention seemed riveted upon the

story. She forgot her pride and her insolence in the pleasure of

listening. Clementina seemed hardly to breathe.

"It was very bad being burned," she said, at last.

"Horrible, Miss!"

"Go on," cried Ella, impatiently; "what became of you?"

"When I got out of my daze--for I believe it was some time before I

came to myself--I was lying on father's knee, and he had made a cradle

for me, like, of his great strong arms: and his head was bent down, and

he was a looking at me, and great big hot scalding tears were dropping

fast upon my poor face.

"'My poor--poor little woman,' I heard him say."

"Then--for my eyes had escaped--I was aware that there was a beautiful

young lady--at least, I thought her more beautiful than the angels of

heaven--standing on the other side of me, right opposite my father, and

doing something to my poor arms."

"The lady was very young--seemed scarcely more than a child herself,

though she was a young married lady. She was beautiful dressed, all in

snow-white muslin, with white satin sash, and bows to her sleeves, and

a white rose in her hair. She had thrown a large bonnet over it--but

now it was tossed off, and lay with her shawl upon the floor. Bad as

I was--O! in such horrid pain--the sight of that beautiful dear angel

was like a charm to me; it seemed to chase away the pain. And then she

touched me so delicately, and spoke so soft and kind! It was music;

heaven's own music was her voice."

"Who was she? who could she be?" cried Ella.

"Why, Miss, who should she be, but Mr. Stringer, the apothecary's young

bride, as he had just brought home, and all ready dressed to go out to

her first dinner."

Ella turned away contemptuously, with a gesture that expressed "was

that all?"

Clementina said,--

"How nice of her to come to a poor little burnt child like you! and

into such a dreadful place too! But I wonder she came in her best gown!"

"As I heard afterwards, it happened that Mr. Stringer had been sent for

out, and was not come back; and when they ran screeching and screaming

to the shop, crying a child was burnt in the court hard by, and Mr.

Stringer was wanted, as there was no one to go but a little mite of

a shop-boy--for Mr. Stringer had but just begun business--what does

she do, but catches up a bottle of stuff for burns, claps her bonnet

over her pretty white rose, throws her shawl on, and, dressed in her

beautiful new wedding-gown, comes to this horrid den of dirt and

wickedness. She did me up as best she could, and then seeing my poor

father crying too, and all the people standing round, and yet not a

word to comfort him, she said, very gently and kindly, to him,--

"'Pray don't grieve so: she will be better by-and-by, poor dear. Don't

groan so badly, poor child! You are very sorry for her, poor man--but

don't take on so.'

"But the more she spoke in this kind way, all the more he cried, till

at last he seemed as if he could contain himself no longer, and he

groaned, and almost roared out.

"'Are you the father?' said the young lady. 'Where is the mother?'

"'Oh! here--here--here--my precious child, my sweet baby!' cried

my poor mother--and then went on, 'It was all of you--you big

brute--you--you pushed your own baby into the red-hot flames, as you

were atrying to get at me!--yes, my baby--my poor--'

"'Don't speak so loud, good woman,' said the young lady, gently. 'Lay

the child upon the bed,' turning round--'Bless me!--why, there is not a

bed!'

"'We are very poor people, ma'am,' a woman began; 'not a penny to bless

ourselves with. If you'd please to--'

"I remember my father's voice to this day--

"'Silence!' he called out, in such a passion, 'would you beg money from

the lady to spend in more gin? Give 'em nothing, ma'am--give none of us

nothing--only tell me what's to be done to save the poor little thing's

life.'

"She hesitated, turned, and looked round the miserable apartment. Too

true, there was not an apology for a bed; there was not even clean

straw.

"'Take her up in your arms,' said she to my father, 'and follow me.'

And she stooped and picked up her bonnet, and gathered her great shawl

around her, and stepped out into the rainy, sleety, windy night; and

my father--for some poor creature had lent an old shawl to throw over

me--took me and carried me after her: and a turn of the alley which led

into the court, brought us out into the street, where the apothecary's

shop stood. I was carried through, and up two pair of stairs, and into

a little mite of a room--but all so clean and nice--and laid, oh! in

such a delicious bed--and oh! it felt so comfortable--it soothed me,

like--and I fell fast asleep."

The two girls were silent for some time. Ella spoke first.

"What a good woman!" was the remark she made; "but was she only an

apothecary's wife," she went on; "and was her name Stringer? What a

horrid ugly name! Are you sure it was Stringer?"

"Yes, Miss--Stringer and Bullem--that was the name over the shop-door."

"What! did they keep a shop?"

"To be sure they did."

"How long did you stay there?"

"I never went away no more, Miss. When I got better, the lady began to

talk to me. I was a little mite of a thing, but I was quick enough. She

found what bad ways I was bringing up in; that I had never once heard

of Our Saviour--not even of my Maker--far from ever hearing of the

Bible--or having it read, or being taught to pray, or--"

The two young girls looked at each other, but said nothing. Matty, in

broken and interrupted sentences, went on:

"So she kept me; for she could not bear to send me back to that pit of

iniquity in which she had found me. And as I lay in my bed, one day,

and they thought I was asleep, I heard her arguing the point with her

young husband--

"'Why, child, you cannot pretend to adopt all the poor neglected

children in this bad town?' he said.

"'Oh no! I know one can do little--little enough: it is but one drop of

water in the vast ocean--only one little, little drop; but the oyster

took it into its shell, and it became a pearl. Let me keep this poor

little one. I don't mean to be foolish--indeed I don't--I will only

clothe her, and feed her, and send her to the charity school: indeed,

they will half clothe her there. Do--do, dear John--she is such a

miserable object! What is she to do? Let her be taught her duty--let

her not be a poor ruined wretch, body and soul at once.'"

"The young lady would have moved a stone with her talking. Her husband

was not very persuadable; he was not like her. He was rather a

cold-hearted, selfish young man, but he couldn't refuse her; and so,

when I got better, I was sent to one of the great charity schools in

the city, where I learned a deal; but my sweet Mrs. Stringer took a

pleasure in teaching me herself, and so I learned a deal more."

Enough of Matty's tale.

Mrs. Stringer, when she devoted such means as she could command to the

rescue of one poor child from the misery in which she was living, and

raised her from deplorable ignorance, as regarded all higher things,

to a knowledge of the supreme and only real good, little thought how

extensive her good deed would prove; and that in providing for the

religious and moral education of this wretched child, she was preparing

the means of a religious education--imperfect, yet still in some sort

a sound religious education--for two children of wealth and luxury, as

to such things, most entirely destitute. But so it proved--and this was

the only religious education they either of them could be said ever to

receive; so utterly, so entirely, were all relations of this nature

forgotten and neglected in this house of profusion, where not one

single thing, but the one thing needful could be said to be wanting.

The story first beguiled the attention, and then awakened the deep

interest of the two girls. From this day, a sort of acquaintance arose

with Matty, which ripened into true affection; for Matty was, in fact,

a woman of no common order.

She gradually awakened their sympathies with regard to subjects to her

the most deeply interesting. She led them, not unwilling, in those

paths which are indeed paths of pleasantness and peace. She read the

Bible with them, and to them, and she taught them the vital principle

of effectual religion--the need and the faith to pray.

I want space to follow the course of these influences upon the soul.

Imperfect they were. Such a teacher could not lead them very far; but

she brought them on Our Saviour's way. And though much remained of

wrong, inexperienced and unconverted--the change was as from darkness

to light.

CHAPTER THE FOURTH.

And now several years have elapsed, and these two girls are grown up to

be two beautiful young women. They had been taken out of the nursery

when it was time to be thinking seriously of accomplishments; and

the reign of Mrs. Nurse had closed. She was superseded by a regular

governess--a foreigner. A French lady was chosen to undertake the task

of forming two English girls to become English wives and mothers. The

French lady did well all that she was required to do; for neither Mr.

nor Mrs. Winstanley desired that their beautiful daughters should

receive any thing approaching to what is usually called a solid

education.

Mrs. Winstanley had not ten ideas beyond the arrangement of a party,

and the keeping of good society. As for Julian Winstanley himself, he

detested reflection, abhorred every thing approaching to seriousness,

only desired to get through life as brilliantly and as thoughtlessly as

he could.

He was not much at home; but when at home he required to be constantly

amused, or he found home intolerable. It was not long before his

daughters discovered this.

Till they were what is called introduced, these fair girls passed

their time secluded in the school-room, and saw very little of their

parents; but when they were once brought out, and when Mademoiselle was

dismissed and they lived in the drawing-room, they were soon initiated.

The plan of life was one not unusual among married people of a certain

class. A large and splendidly furnished house, in a fashionable square

in London, was _home_--at which about six months of every year were

passed; the remaining six being spent either in travelling, or at

watering-places, or at some hired house in the country. They lived as

a privileged order, severed, as by a gulf impassable, from the lowest

orders around them, and in little communication with the highest. The

last condition was not of much importance, but the other was fatal.

What can grow out of such a life, that is really wholesome and good?

Many, many residents in London, escape this mischief. They have broken

down the wall of separation which used to hide the very existence

of want and misery and sin from the happier and the better; and the

obscure dwellings of the London poor have their visiting angels, as

well as those in the country. But a great many families still neglect

this weighty duty, and live without thought of such things.

Mrs. Winstanley had led the regular party-going London life for the

last sixteen or seventeen years. She was beginning to get rather tired

of it, when the new excitement arose of having to "bring out" her

daughters.

This bringing out of her daughters became an excuse for all kinds of

amusing changes and improvements. Her receiving-rooms had to be newly

furnished, a new open carriage to be bought, the Queen's drawing-rooms

to be attended with more assiduity than ever.