Bonnemain was a man of about forty years of age, of a strong

Transcriber's note:

Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).

Small capital text has been replaced with all capitals.

Text enclosed by equal signs is in bold face (=bold=).

* * * * *

THE KNICKERBOCKER.

VOL. XXII. SEPTEMBER, 1843. No. 3.

THOUGHTS AT NIAGARA.

'THERE'S nothing great or bright, thou glorious Fall!

Thou may st not to the fancy's sense recall.' MORPETH.

NUMBERS have labored to describe this imposing spectacle, but no

pen can exhaust the subject, or do full justice to its grandeur.

It is great, indescribable, mighty; and the sensations it produces

are indefinite, confused, and wholly unlike and above the emotions

raised by other scenes and other causes. It would be presumption

to offer a description; although the image of the passing moment

is so deeply fixed in the mind, that all else can be dismissed at

pleasure, and the imagination conduct us, as often as we will, to a

seat on Table-Rock where we can again see the dashing waters roll up

in billows above the verge, then gliding over, literally tumble into

myriads of particles before they are lost in the rising spray.

One idea impressed me strongly, while enjoying this triumph of

Nature's eccentricities; that the Canada Fall was to the American

as Great Britain to the United States. Both of the same majestic

pattern, equally lofty, created by the same stream, and side

by side; but the former more powerful, more irresistible, more

overwhelming; while the latter possesses another kind of beauty,

less angry, less furious, less threatening, but yet grand and

magnificent, and, take away the other fall, incomparable.

Undoubtedly in ages past this mighty tide rolled over in an unbroken

sheet; but having worn away in a slow retreat to its present

position, a rock unyielding and immovable separated the stream into

two unequal divisions; and, judging from the past, the future would

seem to forewarn changes equally great. The Canada Fall, however,

can gain nothing by the wearings of time. It can have no larger

proportion, no higher ledge; but on the other hand, some shifting

rock, some rupture in the bed of the river above, may direct the

larger share into the American channel, and the relative character

of the two be reversed.

The comparison to some extent will hold of the two governments.

Our ancestors were common. The same language, the same literature,

and the same religion supplied, and continues to supply us both;

and although a rock impassable has divided us, we continue in

civilization to stand side by side. Great Britain, however,

stretches her dominion through the world. The channel of her power

is deeper, and its full current sweeps along with irresistible

force. She has attained her full meridian, and stands forth the

mammoth power of the present age; with her ensign unfurled to every

breeze, and her ambassadors upon every isle. She draws within her

influence 'earth's remotest bounds;' but, if we rightly estimate

the indications of the times, her political meridian has no higher

degree; and when she moves from her present position, it is even

more probable that she will 'hasten to her setting' than be borne

along in her present attitude by the shifting currents of time.

Our republic, in contrast with it, presents the figure of aspiring,

expanding youth, and vigorous age. The youth of the parent stock;

but, being educated in a different school, and upon another

soil, and having shaped out a separate course, founded upon the

experience of the past, has formed juster estimates of the dignity

and independence of man; of his social immunities; of his inborn

liberty; of his equality of right with all mankind; and of his

constituting a part of the national sovereignty, rather than its

appendage. His free-born genius has unfolded while struggling for

these essential principles; and guided by their inspiration, he

stretches forward in the career of intellectual and moral expansion,

promising ere long to excel immeasurably the sturdy parent, whose

genius is encumbered by prejudice, aristocracy, and regalism, and

blunted by long and arduous toil.

Unlike the two Falls in extent, neither Great Britain, nor any

civilized nation, possesses such a valuable, continuous, and

available territory as constitutes the American republic. It

reaches, with hill and plain, river and mountain, from ocean to

ocean. The waters of the Missouri wander for five thousand miles

through its breadth, and yet find their source and discharge within

its limits. If, excepting Russia, we double all the kingdoms and

States of Europe, and suppose the area to be extended over the

Union, an empire as large as Spain would still be left: indeed it is

almost impossible to appreciate the territorial magnitude of this

grand confederacy, on the imposing scale on which its government is

instituted.

For the beautiful and grand in natural scenery, it is saying little

to assert that ours is unrivalled. From that variety which stirs

the milder feelings, up to that which rouses the highest emotions,

it seems to furnish the whole catalogue of the pleasing and the

sublime. It offers to us 'rivers that move in majesty;' the bright

and gentle scenery of the inland lake,

'On which the south wind scarcely breaks

The image of the sky;'

----'Antres vast,

Rough quarries, rocks, and hills whose heads touch heaven;'

and lastly, Niagara's rushing tide, the triumph of the grand in

nature.

The comparison might be continued in some other respects. The

American Fall presents a plain, bold, and widely extended front,

while the Canadian is sinuous, and bears deeper marks of the

surges' wild career. In like manner the English government has

been irregularly extended by the convulsions of time; enlarging

its empire by every vicissitude, and swelling its resources

even by calamity. Its institutions also have been essentially

modified, almost revolutionized, during the long struggles for the

emancipation of mind. On the other hand, ours exhibits the same

unbroken and formidable outline by which it was originally bounded.

Not a fragment has crumbled, but it has rather been rendered

geographically complete. Relying upon no foreign possessions for

its magnitude; upon no navy or army for its strength; it trusts

the future to the guidance of the American mind; those mighty

energies now unfolding in the sunny atmosphere of free institutions,

and cultivating in that republican school which recognizes no

degradation but ignorance, and no distinction save substantial and

virtuous worth.

Leaving any farther comparisons, which are idle except as a mere

matter of novelty, it may not be amiss to consider the _pretension_

so often reiterated, that our institutions are levelling. What does

this vague charge mean? Do they obstruct personal effort, or the

pursuit of happiness, or the cultivation of the mind? Do they draw

from the husbandman his earnings, from the artisan the fruits of his

skill, from commerce its reward? No; so far from shackling man, the

philosophy of all Americanism seems to be to open wide the gates to

the field of human exertion; inviting every citizen freely to enter

and reap according to his abilities; and emphatically to make the

utmost of the powers which the Deity has bestowed. Where then is the

prostrating tendency detected by the aristocrat in our institutions?

It must be because they do not establish and sustain a Patrician

race, exalted by territory, wealth, and prerogative. If this is the

levelling into which such charges may be resolved, it has precisely

a contrary effect, and is much more a matter of commendation than

reproach. Republicanism does not seek the elevation of a few, but

of all; and this principle is one of profound wisdom, guiding

more directly to national greatness than any other political

maxim, aside from its inherent justice to man. We have yet to

learn that intellect and moral worth require the sustenance of

hereditary wealth and place; while ignorance coupled with arrogance

would merit contempt, no matter how it was habited. On the other

side, aristocracies organized and sustained by law have in all

ages, without doubt, produced more misery among men than all the

desolations of faction, the rapacity of military commanders, and the

tyranny of kings combined. We need no American mandarins to wrest by

legitimatized oppression that free, unbroken spirit from the great

mass of citizens which must constitute the energy of the nation. Our

republic, however, does recognize an order of Patricians, though it

rises high above the region of factitious distinctions. Taking the

monument for its emblem, the corner-stone of the order is virtue.

The pedestal, intellect. The shaft, mental progress, and usefulness

to man. The summit, grandeur, sublimity of character. It is composed

of Franklins, Marshalls, WASHINGTONS, and the ascendancy of such

Patricians is founded on the grateful appreciation of the people

of eminent usefulness and exalted worth. If the Pisos, Antoniuses,

and Scipios of Rome, together, with the swarming host of Europe's

privileged characters shall fade even from the page of history,

our WASHINGTON and FRANKLIN will live 'through the still lapse of

ages,' with perpetual freshness in the minds of men. Such men need

no commemorative column, sculptured with their deeds or lineage;

and as Napoleon dated his patent of nobility from the battle of

Monte Notte, so does theirs bear date with the commencement of their

public usefulness.

Turning once more to the Falls of Niagara. Our national boundary

divides it, assigning a part to the British empire, thus forming

a natural but most remarkable division, the centre of a raging

river and a mighty fall. We can all cordially approve the poetical

exclamation of a distinguished Englishman:

'Oh! may the wars that madden in thy deeps,

There spend their rage, nor climb the encircling steeps;

And till the conflict of the surges cease,

The nations on thy banks repose in peace!'

AQUARIUS.

STANZAS TO A LADY.

BY W. H. HERBERT

I.

How sweet the time, when morning's prime

First brightens into day,

And fields of dew from skies of blue

Receive the glittering ray!

II.

More sweet the hour, when Passion's power

First sways the yielding frame,

And heart and soul, and mind and sense,

Dissolve in Love's soft flame.

III.

Oh! sweet the light, that gilds the night

From many a glorious star,

And bright the beam, whose golden gleam

The sun shoots forth afar!

IV.

But sweeter far than sun or star,

The light of that dark eye,

Whose dazzling glance and dreamy trance

The shining spheres outvie.

MOHAWK.

A CLUSTER OF SONNETS TOUCHING THAT VALLEY.

BY H. W. ROCKWELL.

IV.

HARK! how the cool wind shakes this tent-like screen

Of thick and rustling leaves. No sultry heat

Flames 'mid this spicy air and twilight sweet,

Or steeps the fresh moss, shaded by the green

O'erhanging branches. Let the hot sun beat

Upon the haze-filmed forest-tops; for me,

Amid this hush, inviolate sanctity,

Where all that's best and holiest seems to meet,

The noontide hours shall gently glide away

In quiet meditation. Thou, meanwhile,

That wearest 'mid thy banks through many a mile

Of wood and moorland the fierce beams of day,

Shall be the almoner of many a story,

Hallowed with daring deeds and ancient border-glory!

V.

THE MOHAWK GIRL.

'A NOBLE race! but they are gone,

With their old forests wide and deep!'--BRYANT.

WHERE are the painted skiffs that rocked between

These clumps of willow? 'Neath this twinkling shade

Of waving bushes, which o'erhead have made

For the smooth waters a light emerald screen,

Thick with young leaves, and mingling stems, that lean

Mid briers and grass-tufts where the wren hath laid

Her speckled eggs--the shell-decked Indian maid

Sees her wild costume in the trembling green

No longer. Haply by this mossy cove

Of rocking silver she hath twined her locks

With daisies and wild-roses from the rocks;

Roses, the summer growth of this dark grove,

And dewy violets from the splintered blocks

Of yonder bluff, with vines and weeds inwove.

VI.

CHEEKS olive-bright, o'er which the blaze of noon

Kindled a sweeter crimson; jetty braid,

And meek eyes where the summer heaven had made

Its bluest glory; speech, which like the tune

Of winds among the beechen boughs at noon,

Scattered soft music through the stooping shade;

She seemed some 'delicate Ariel' of the glade,

Whose life was one of sunshine. Fair, yet soon,

Too soon! that creature of fond romance passed

With the brief beauty of her gentle look,

Dark lock and wampum by the cool wind shook,

And all that I had deemed most sweet to last;

Yet not less fleetly have her race forsook

Those natural rights which once they held so fast.

_Utica, July, 1843._ H. W. R.

THE INNOCENCE OF A GALLEY-SLAVE.

BY 'THE BULWER OF FRANCE.'

ABOUT two o'clock one morning in the month of September, 1828, the

country houses situated on the banks of the Garonne, between Reole

and Cadillac were steeped in that profound stillness to which the

repose of the city is a stranger; and when, in the words of DELISLE,

'one sees only night and hears only silence.' A single villa

standing alone in the middle of a park of moderate extent, seemed to

form an exception to the general repose. From a window on the first

floor, at the eastern angle of this building, streamed forth a gleam

of light so faint that at a short distance it would be necessary to

regard it very attentively to be certain of its existence. A lover

of adventure, who would take the pains to scale the park-wall, climb

the balcony, and then support himself on the outside of this window,

might perchance deem himself sufficiently repaid for his trouble by

the mysterious picture there displayed to his curiosity. Between

two curtains of blue silk the eye might distinguish the interior of

a sleeping apartment, furnished with elegance and taste, and dimly

lighted by a night-lamp. Upon a bed in a recess of the room, a

female in the flower of youth and of surpassing loveliness was lying

in a slumber whose feverish agitation betrayed the presence of one

of those tenacious emotions, which not even the temporary suspension

of thought and sensation can interrupt. Near the bed, watched a

man mute and motionless, with forehead pale and furrowed with the

traces of old age. With head bent over the pillow, breathless, and

apparently attempting to restrain with one hand the throbbings of

his heart, he seemed to catch with sinister avidity the half-uttered

words which a painful dream apparently forced from the lips of the

sleeper.

'His name! she will not pronounce his name!' exclaimed the old man,

after a vain effort to distinguish the broken sounds, and casting

around him a look of impotent rage.

'Arthur!' murmured the fair sleeper, as if some fatal power had

suddenly broken the last seal which still guarded the half-betrayed

secret of her dreams.

'Arthur!' repeated the old man, starting as if this name had been a

dagger ready to pierce his bosom; 'Arthur d'Aubian! and I refused to

give credence to it. Arthur! blind fool that I have been!'

With a convulsive gesture he brushed away the moisture which stood

upon his livid brow, and leaning over the bed, more hateful to him

than a yawning sepulchre, he again put his ear close to the fresh

and rosy mouth from whence issued these empoisoning words.

'I can go no farther!' murmured the young female, making an effort

to rise; 'thy life is in peril; mine is nothing; but thine--No, I

can no more! He has suspicions; he will kill you!'

She uttered a stifled sob, trembled from head to foot, and suddenly,

with a painful exertion, started to a sitting position. The old

man, thinking she had awoke, glided behind the bed-curtains to

conceal himself from her view; but without opening her eyes, she

remained for some moments immovable in the position she had assumed.

Gradually the changes in her countenance betokened those of her

thoughts; the terror impressed upon her features gave place to an

expression of contemplation, which in turn changed to one of anxious

and profound attention. At length, as if the excitement of her

nerves had reached the degree of intensity at which the phenomena of

somnambulism commence, bending her head, as if to catch some distant

sound, she suddenly arose, threw over her shoulders a night-robe,

and gliding on tip-toe, cautiously approached the window.

'Midnight!' said she, in a low tone; 'there is not a drop of blood

in my veins; the wall is so high! Should he fall! Hark! I hear him

in the garden. How loudly he walks! It is the gravel they have put

upon the paths. Oh! this is, this _must_ be, the last time: I shall

tell him so. This fear is worse than death!'

With a precision in her movements manifesting that internal

clairvoyance, of which science has not yet offered us a satisfactory

explanation, the somnambulist, whose eye-lids were still closed,

extinguished the night-lamp and drew the bolt of the door. She

then drew aside the curtains, and opened the window, without the

slightest sound reaching the ears of her husband, who a few paces

behind her followed this pantomime with looks of sullen fury. She

next took from her work-box a long riband, which she unrolled

from the window, until it might be supposed to touch the ground;

a moment afterward she drew it in, and made a movement as if she

were attaching the hook of a rope-ladder to the balcony. Then,

breathless and palpitating, she withdrew into the interior of the

chamber. Suddenly she opened her arms, and threw them around an

imaginary being, murmuring in impassioned tones, 'My life! my life!'

She embraced but empty space, and remained for some time as if

confounded, with arms crossed upon her bosom.

'Arthur!' cried she at length, aloud, and rushed in a wild paroxysm

of terror toward the balcony. The feeble hands of her husband found

strength for the moment to hold her back.

'I am terrified! I must not be terrified!' exclaimed she, in a low

voice, as she struggled in his arms. The anxiety of the loving woman

had now given place to the instinct peculiar to persons subject

to somnambulism; who with an incomprehensible perception of their

situation, dread above all things being suddenly awakened. But the

paroxysm had been too violent for a peaceful termination. Those

mysterious filaments by which the soul extends itself during the

slumber of the organs which are its accustomed agents, were suddenly

severed; as the chords of a harp are snapped by the contact of too

rude a hand. The young woman awoke, and uttered stifled shrieks at

finding herself, in profound darkness, in the clasp of unknown arms,

which held her tightly in their embrace.

'It is I, Lucia,' said the old man, with a painful effort; 'it is I;

be not afraid.'

Releasing her from his grasp, he then lighted the candles, closed

the window, and with an air of composure approached his wife, who

was now seated on the bed, gazing around in silent amazement.

'What has happened?' demanded she, pressing her forehead with both

hands; 'I have a chaos, a volcano in my head! How came you here?'

'I heard you walking,' replied the husband, in a subdued voice; 'I

was afraid that you were ill, and came up.'

'Can you hear one walking here from your chamber?' replied Lucia,

with a secret terror.

'It is the first time it has happened. Your sleep has never before

been so disturbed.'

'What a dreadful thing to be a somnambulist!' said she, bending down

her head; 'and they say there is no remedy for it.' She then added,

faintly: 'Did I _speak_ while asleep?'

'No,' replied the old man, whose exterior remained cold, while his

nails were tearing his bosom. He then took a light, wished his young

wife a more peaceful remainder of the night, and descended to his

apartment. On entering the room his strength failed him, and he

sank into an arm-chair, where he remained for some time exhausted

and almost insensible. At length that moral energy which physical

decay does not always destroy, awoke fierce and implacable in the

old man's heart, which at first had seemed almost broken by the

discovery of his dishonor.

'How can I kill her!' exclaimed he, wringing his hands in agony.

'Her! I cannot; I have not the courage. But he! _he!_ the aggressor!

the spoiler! He will refuse to fight. He will talk of my years; and

every one will side with him. For it is allowable, ay, it is deemed

an honorable thing, to pluck from an old man the happiness of his

declining days; to hold up his name to ridicule and contempt; to

make him the victim of shame and despair; but to cross weapons with

him, _that_ would be to outrage his gray hairs! And have they not

reason? My sight is weak; my hand feeble; in a duel, I should fall

without avenging myself. He would spare me, perhaps! Ha! ha! No! no

duel; no uncertainty; no hazard. His death at all events, even if I

must assassinate him!'

The injured husband passed the remainder of the night in revolving

in his mind a thousand plans of vengeance. At day-break he arose,

and walked for a long time in the park before any one in the house

was stirring. At length a gardener whom he had employed in working

on the terrace, met him at a turn of the walk. At sight of the old

man the workman took off his cap and approached him with an air of

mystery.

'Monsieur Gorsay,' said he, 'I am glad that you have come out so

early; I have something to tell you, and I had as lief have none of

the others present.'

'What is it, Piquet?' demanded the old man, in a quick tone.

'It is this, Monsieur Gorsay: somebody has broken into the

little green-house where we keep our tools. Last night, through

forgetfulness, I left my jacket there, in which was my watch, a real

silver one, bran new, which cost me, 'pon honor, eighteen francs.

There were beside in one of the pockets four crowns, and at least

three francs in small change. I found the jacket--proof of which,

you may see it on my back--but the watch and the money, parbleu! not

a shadow of them to be seen.'

'Don't your workmen go into this green-house?' observed M. Gorsay.

'You have hit it; it is one of them that has done it; I'll put my

hand into the fire else.'

'Whom do you suspect?'

'Jean Pierre and Vacherôt are both natives here. I have known them

for twenty years, and would answer for them as I would for myself.

There is no one, saving your presence, but that sulky Bonnemain who

could have thought of such a thing.'

'Bonnemain!' repeated the old man, who seemed as if he was

reflecting deeply upon something.

'Yes, he; I have always mistrusted that town fellow,' replied

Piquet; 'beside, he spoils work so that I am ashamed of him. He

calls himself a gardener, and cannot make a graft!'

'But,' said Monsieur Gorsay, who seemed to take a greater interest

in this affair than might have been supposed, 'you have only

suspicions, and it is necessary to have proofs.'

'Proofs! here is one that I think clear enough,' replied the

gardener, taking from his pocket a little nail, which he held

between his fore-finger and thumb; 'look at this new nail which I

found under the green-house window. Nobody but Bonnemain has got

such as these in his shoes, which he bought the other day at La

Reole, and by my faith! there is one gone from the right foot; I

noticed it yesterday when he took them off to go down into the

fish-pond.'

'Have you mentioned this to any one?'

'No, no; I am not such a fool;' replied the gardener, with a knowing

air; 'I wished first to take your advice on the subject.'

'You have acted very prudently, Piquet. Say nothing of this until

you hear farther from me; and when you see Bonnemain, send him to

me: I will make him speak, I warrant you.'

Piquet shook his head, doubtingly. 'He is a stubborn dog; you will

find him the devil to confess, Monsieur Gorsay.'

The old man dismissed the gardener with an abrupt movement of the

head, and walked slowly toward the house. He entered his apartment,

and there waited with a strange feeling of impatience for the

presumed perpetrator of the theft, who was not long in making his

appearance at the room door, where he stopped, cap in hand, with an

air of respect.

Bonnemain was a man of about forty years of age, of a strongly built

frame, rather a mild countenance, and dressed with a sort of care

and pretence which seemed foreign to his occupation.

'Shut the door and come this way,' said M. Gorsay to him; at the

same time closing the window at which he was sitting.

After obeying him, the laborer remained standing upright and

motionless; his whole appearance and demeanor calm and collected.

'Bonnemain, or rather Baptiste Leroux,' said the old man, regarding

him with a fixed and piercing eye, 'a robbery has been committed

in my house. Innocent or guilty, you have been suspected, for your

previous course of life renders you liable to suspicion; beside,

there are proofs in the present case, and an investigation will

doubtless bring others to light. You have already suffered a severe

punishment, and as an old offender you are doubtless well aware of

the sentence that awaits you--the galleys for life.'

'My good Sir!' replied Bonnemain, with an air of astonishment which

might have deceived even a practised judge, 'you fill me with

amazement! I give you my word of honor, Monsieur Gorsay, that I am

innocent. It is true I have been in trouble, and I cannot deny it;

because when I came here to look for work, I had to show you my

passport. But because one has been caught in a foolish scrape in

his youth, that is no reason why he should be a rogue all his life.

As sure as there is a God who hears us, I know nothing at all about

this matter.'

'For what crime were you condemned the first time to the galleys?'

demanded Monsieur Gorsay.

'For a little faux pas I had the misfortune to commit when I was

in a mercantile house,' replied the freed convict, with an air of

contrition.

'For an assassination,' replied the old man, lowering his voice,

but with marked emphasis; 'for an assassination, committed upon the

person of a tax-gatherer, from whom you expected to get what he had

received, but which, happily for you, he chanced not to have about

his person at the time. I say happily for you, for the robbery not

having been committed, and the premeditation not proven before the

jury, you were only sentenced to the galleys. At Toulon your good

conduct gained you a commutation of punishment, and instead of

finishing your days in confinement, you were set free at the end of

ten years. You see I am well informed.'

'Ah! old fox!' thought Baptiste Leroux, alias Durand, alias Lejeune,

alias Bonnemain, 'if you and I were alone in some dark wood, your

business should soon be done for you, old fellow!'

Monsieur Gorsay seemed to divine the sanguinary thoughts of the man,

for he cast his eyes with an uneasy look toward the window. He was

reässured, however, by the presence of some men who were working in

the garden at a short distance. In broad day, in his own house, and

within reach of such assistance, he felt that he had nothing to fear

from the fury with which the convict seemed filled, notwithstanding

his efforts to conceal it. He therefore continued the conversation,

but it was rather with the familiarity of a friendly counsellor,

than the severity of a vindictive judge.

'Hitherto,' said he, 'you have experienced nothing but misfortune;

you have passed ten years in the galleys for a murder by which you

gained nothing; and here you are on the point of going back again

for life, for stealing a paltry watch, worth perhaps twenty francs.'

'It was not worth ten!' answered Bonnemain, who instantly bit his

lips till the blood sprang from them.

'Ten or twenty,' replied the old man, with an ironical smile, 'it

matters little; the main point is, that the robbery can be proved.

Indeed, it is so now, by your own confession. I shall be obliged to

have you arrested.'

'You will then arrest an innocent man,' said the convict, losing in

spite of himself somewhat of his assurance.

Monsieur Gorsay bent down his head, and remained for some time with

downcast eyes; raising them at length, he fixed upon Bonnemain a

look which seemed as if it would pierce the inmost recesses of a

soul degraded by habitual vice. 'Suppose,' said he to him, 'that

instead of giving you up to justice, I should furnish you with the

means of repairing to Bordeaux, and from thence of embarking for

a foreign port; St. Sebastian, or Bilboa, for instance; suppose

farther, that not content with saving you, I should remit you a sum

of money sufficient to set up an establishment somewhere out of

France, which would place you beyond the reach of want; ten thousand

francs, for instance. What would you think of such a proposal?'

All the emotion evinced by the galley-slave at this munificent and

unlooked-for proposition, was an almost imperceptible movement

of the lips. With the sagacity of that class of persons who gain

their livelihood by a criminal and not always bloodless industry,

he comprehended in an instant that a bargain and not a deed of

benevolence was in the wind. This conviction at once restored all

his wonted audacity; for to bargain with a superior is for the time

to become his equal.

'What should I think, Monsieur Gorsay?' replied he, after seeming to

reflect for a little while; 'by my faith! I should say, 'Bonnemain,

it is not for your beautiful eyes that ten thousand francs are

offered you. In truth, somebody has need of you for a job that is

worth the money. Egad! a fine _pour boire_ is ten thousand francs!'

'And this job; will you undertake it?' demanded the old man, in a

concentrated voice.

'That depends on circumstances,' said Bonnemain. 'I never turn my

back upon work. It is only your lazy dogs who refuse to work. But

still, one must know what the matter in hand is.'

'Suppose it is something of deep importance?'

'Something like the affair of the tax-gatherer, is it not?' demanded

the convict, with a significant smile.

'It is,' replied M. Gorsay, in a deep tone.

'Only this time,' continued the convict, 'instead of having an eye

upon the government money, the business in hand, perhaps, is to get

rid of a tall young fellow who scales walls and climbs into windows

as if he had been brought up to it?'

'You have seen him then?' exclaimed the old man, put off his guard

by this unexpected revelation.

'Listen to me, Monsieur Gorsay,' said Bonnemain, coolly; 'we must

be plain with each other in this matter. I will speak frankly, and

tell you all I know. Beside, I am not now afraid of your denouncing

me. That fool of a Piquet leaving his jacket, with his watch and

money, in the little green-house, put some notions in this noddle of

mine. And beside, I chanced just then to be a little cramped for the

needful. And after all, the best of us are but human. See me then in

the park, by the wall, behind the plane trees. On a sudden I hear a

noise just above me. At first I thought it was a cat or a marmot;

but no such thing; it is a man who lets himself down the wall, and

then marches straight toward the house. 'Good!' thinks I to myself;

'here's a comrade who has perhaps got a better idea than mine, and

may-be there will be shares for two.' It was near midnight, and as

dark as an oven. All's one to me; so I slip off my shoes and follow.

Behold him now just under your window. I lay me flat down on the

turf, so that in turning he might not see me. What then do I see?

A window opens above, something white appears, and up my gentleman

climbs in a twinkling. 'Excuse me,' says I to myself; 'it seems my

comrade has got a friend inside the house, and we are hunting for

different game.' And so, seeing that the affair was not in my line,

I set about my own little business.'

'Did you recognize this man?' demanded the old man, in a husky tone.

'I think,' replied the galley-slave with a grin, 'that you had

better ask that question of Madame Gorsay, who saw him nearer than I

did.'

'Did you recognize him?' repeated the husband of Lucia, in a tone of

thunder.

'Yes,' said Bonnemain coolly, 'I did; it was your neighbor, Monsieur

Arthur d'Aubian, who lives down by the river, about twenty minutes'

walk from here.'

'Well, it is he that must be put to death!' said the old man, rising

in a transport of fury.

'I do not say yes, I do not say no;' replied he of the galleys, with

an air of nonchalance. 'I risk my ball at this game; if I lose, I

know what I must expect; if I win----'

'You shall have ten thousand francs;' said M. Gorsay, interrupting

him.

'That is more than my carcase is worth, there is no doubt about it;

I do not find fault with the price. But the deed once done, who

will assure me that I get my pay? You may guess I shall not have

much time to wait; and, as they say, one does not find ten thousand

francs on horseback; you have not perhaps a quarter of that sum in

your house; for although one may be rich, yet that is no reason for

keeping so much ready money about him.'

Instead of replying to this objection, the old man approached a

secretary which stood near the chimney, opened it, displaced one

of the drawers, and drew out from a secret cavity a wooden bowl,

containing some twenty little rouleaus; he took three or four of

these in succession, and tearing off their coverings, let fall on

the writing-table a shower of gold. All the emotion evinced by

the convict at this sight, was a sudden sparkle of the eye, and

a gloating smile, which was instantly repressed by his thin and

colorless lips.

'You see your money is ready for you,' said M. Gorsay. 'Is the

bargain concluded?'

'When one does not pay in advance, it is the custom to give an

earnest,' replied Bonnemain, twisting his hands behind his back, to

resist the temptation.

'There then,' said the old man, giving him a dozen twenty-franc

pieces; 'when the business is done, you shall have twenty times as

much. You see it is gold; you will not have much trouble to carry

it.'

'Gold is never heavy,' replied the galley-slave, in a sententious

tone; and without farther discussion he thrust the earnest of his

bargain into his pocket.

Thus far the compact between the old man and him of the galleys

had been carried on without a difference. The two accomplices then

began to discuss the means of accomplishing the deed of which Arthur

d'Aubian was to be the victim. Listening only to the impatience

of his hatred, the outraged husband was eager for a vengeance as

prompt as terrible; to wait until evening seemed intolerable.

The subordinate assassin, upon whom was to fall the danger and

responsibility of the deed, soon convinced him that a murder in

broad day-light was out of the question.

'As he is in the habit of taking walks at midnight,' said he, with

the confidence of one who had maturely weighed the matter in hand,

'that must be the time for our purpose: between his house and yours

there is a little by-path, exactly suited for the deed; one may lie

hid behind the hedge. There is not a dwelling within half a mile,

and the Garonne is hard by. The moon does not rise till two o'clock;

and as my gentleman takes his stroll about midnight, we shall be

able to do his business for him without risk. The time of the

tax-gatherer's little affair, it was that cursed moon that caused me

to be detected; and since then I have made a vow never to do work

with that minx overhead. There is no way, see you, of putting her

out.'

'First of all, however,' said M. Gorsay, 'you must restore to Piquet

the watch and money you took from him. He has suspicions of you, and

if he enters a complaint will have you arrested.'

'And that will spoil your business, eh, old gentleman?' familiarly

interrupted the thief, about to become a murderer. 'I understand

you; they will cage me, and in the mean time this fine fellow

d'Aubian can climb over walls and scale balconies at his leisure.

Here goes, then, for restitution; it shall be done forthwith, and

Piquet shall see wonders. As for his cursed old warming-pan, I do

not value it a sous; it is not worth the trouble I have taken for

it.'

The plan being at length arranged, the two men parted. Before

leaving the chamber, however, Bonnemain examined every corner with

that close observation with which adepts in villany are usually

endowed. He noticed the secret place where the old man replaced the

bowl of gold, and the manner in which he fastened the secretary;

he also carefully observed the structure of the window, and noted

that there were no shutters on the inside. On the outside a simple

Venetian blind protected it from forcible entrance, which the small

elevation of the ground floor rendered easily practicable. Satisfied

with his examination, the convict respectfully saluted the man to

whom he had just sold himself, and then rejoined his companions in

the garden, with his usual tranquil and composed air.

In the course of the morning, as Monsieur Gorsay was slowly pacing

one of the alleys of the park, he was again accosted by his gardener.

'I am surely bewitched,' said master Piquet, whose sun-burnt face

seemed expanded to double its usual size with joy and amazement.

'Only to think, Monsieur Gorsay, that my watch and money should get

back into my pocket again, and I know nothing about it! If there

were such things as sorcerers, the thing would be plain enough; but

one does not believe in such nonsense now-a-days.'

'It is one of your comrades who has been amusing himself at

your expense,' replied the old man, shrugging his shoulders and

continuing his walk.

'It may be so,' thought Piquet, 'but they sha'n't drive it out of my

head that Bonnemain is an ugly dog, and if I were Monsieur Gorsay, I

should get rid of him in short order.'

About the middle of the following night a strange rencounter took

place upon the coping of the wall which surrounded the park of M.

Gorsay, on the side of the alley of plane trees. Two men who at the

same moment were scaling this enclosure, the one from the outside

and the other from within, suddenly found themselves face to face on

reaching its summit. Mutually startled at so unexpected a meeting,

both were on the point of letting go their hold. Instinctively,

however, they preserved themselves from falling by clinging to the

cope-stone of the wall, and bestriding it with a vigorous effort,

found themselves seated on a more secure resting-place. For a few

moments they remained motionless, face to face in this position,

bestriding the wall, to which they clung tightly with their legs,

so as to leave their hands at liberty for the contest which such a

rencounter seemed to render probable. They were so close to each

other that in spite of the darkness they could distinguish the

persons, and in a short time recognized each other. Presently the

one who came from without saw the arm of his adversary suddenly

raised, and at the extremity of the outline which it for the instant

formed with the dark back-ground of the heaven, he distinguished the

blade of a knife or dagger. Retreat was out of the question, and

the attack was a deadly one. Unarmed himself, he sprang upon his

assailant, seized the extended arm with one hand, and with the other

rudely grasped him by the throat.

'Bonnemain!' said he, in a low tone, 'throw down your knife, or I

will pitch you from the wall!'

Compelled under fear of strangulation to obey this mandate, the

convict dropped his weapon, which fell into the park.

'Monsieur d'Aubian,' said he, in a half-stifled voice, 'let me get

down; I will not prevent your going in, do not hinder me from going

out.'

'You have been committing a robbery,' said Arthur; 'people do not

scale walls in this manner without some evil intent.'

'But you yourself are climbing them; does it follow that you are a

robber?'

Rendered mute by this reply, the lover of Lucia reflected that even

had a robbery been committed, it would be impossible for him to

arrest the criminal without compromising the woman he loved.

'Best let him go,' thought he; 'it is doubtless his interest that I

should be silent, and he for his own sake will hold his tongue.'

Freed from the double grasp which confined his arm and almost

stopped his breathing, Bonnemain, without a word farther, stooped

down and groped along the outside of the wall. He soon found the

rope-ladder, of which Arthur had made use, and which a hook, thrown

by a strong and practised hand, had fastened to the edge of the

coping. The convict grasped it tightly, and swinging himself over,

began to descend with the agility of a squirrel. When half way down

he stopped short, and reäscended as quickly as he had gone down.

'Neither _seen_, nor _known_; you understand me!' said he, in

a significant tone to the young man; 'or if you choose to turn

informer, I shall have a story to tell, how a certain young man made

his way into the chamber of Madame Gorsay the other night!'

Without waiting for reply, Bonnemain let himself slip to the ground,

and fled across the fields, where, favored by the darkness of the

night, he quickly disappeared.

Arthur, without moving, remained for some time in the position in

which the convict had left him. The idea of the secret of his love

being at the mercy of such a miscreant, filled him with a sensation

of mingled chagrin and anger. He soon, however, tried to reässure

himself with the thought that he ought not to dread any indiscretion

on the part of one so much interested in keeping the secret. Still,

in spite of all his efforts to drive from his mind the impression

produced by this disagreeable incident, he felt a vague apprehension

of impending evil, which in all his previous nocturnal rambles he

had never experienced. Instead of descending rapidly into the park,

as had been his former custom, he now hesitated, and was on the

point of retreating; but the thought of Lucia awaiting his arrival,

decided the point, and love triumphed over prudence. He drew the

rope ladder to the inside of the wall, and then perceived that on

this occasion its services would not be required; for Bonnemain, to

facilitate his escape, had placed against the wall one of the large

ladders used in the garden. D'Aubian soon reached the ground, and

notwithstanding the darkness, bent his way through the trees, as

one to whom the obscure labyrinth was familiar. As he approached

the pavilion, his footsteps were arrested by an unwonted noise,

which broke the silence, till then undisturbed, save by the

monotonous sound of the rustling foliage. Hearing nothing farther,

he pursued his way; but presently a more distinct sound, like the

voice of a man calling to others, again caused him to stop. Many

shouts in rapid succession from different quarters were now heard

in reply. It was evident that the robbery which had been committed

by Bonnemain had aroused the inmates of the house, and that they

were now searching the park. With the fleetness of a deer when he

first hears the baying of the hounds, Arthur directed his course

toward the place at which he had entered. Just as he reached it,

he saw, flitting before him in the coppice, a light resembling a

will-o-the-wisp, and immediately afterward distinguished a man with

a lantern running hastily up the straight alley which bordered the

wall of the enclosure. On perceiving the ladder, the man suddenly

stopped, like a hound when he scents a track, and began to utter

shouts, which were answered by other voices at a distance. In

a short time two more lights, similar to the first, made their

appearance through the trees, and the lover of Lucia now saw that

his retreat was completely cut off. For a moment he hesitated, and

then decided that it was more prudent to confront the danger than

attempt to fly without the chance of escaping. He advanced therefore

toward the scouts, who were assembled at the foot of the ladder in

animated discussion. At sight of the young man, who emerged briskly

from the thicket, there was a general sensation. The more prudent

remained quiet; the bolder threw themselves upon d'Aubian, whom they

did not at the moment recognize.

'What's the matter, Piquet?' said Arthur, shaking off the leader of

the nocturnal expedition, who had seized him by the collar.

'How! what! is it you, Monsieur Arthur?' said the gardener,

astounded at this rencounter.

'What has happened? and what is the meaning of all this stir?'

replied the young man.

'Oh, good heavens!' said Piquet, 'poor Monsieur Gorsay has just been

assassinated!'

'Assassinated!' exclaimed d'Aubian, turning deadly pale.

'All bathed in blood! with a great gash in his side in which you may

put your hand! It is all over with him, poor gentleman! We are now

after the assassin, who you may see has got off at this place, for

here is my ladder which the gallows-bird has used. But how comes it,

Monsieur d'Aubian, that you are in the park at this time of night?'

continued he, regarding the young man with a look of suspicion.

Arthur had had time to invent a story to account for his unexpected

appearance on this occasion.

'From what you tell me,' said he, 'I am sure that I have seen the

assassin.'

'Seen him! Who is he? Did you recognize him?' demanded all at once

the three men, pressing round him.

'I was returning from Canderol,' said d'Aubian; 'on my way home I

passed along the foot-path on the outside of the park. Suddenly I

perceived a man letting himself slip down the wall. This excited

my suspicions, and I advanced toward him, but at sight of me he

instantly took to his heels, and disappeared in the fields. In his

stead I only found a cord hooked to the wall. Fearing lest some

mishap had befallen Monsieur Gorsay, I clambered over the wall by

means of this cord, in order to reach the house more quickly and

give the alarm; which I was about to do when I saw your lanterns.'

'And did you recognize him? this robber?' asked one of the domestics.

'No,' replied Arthur, calling to mind the threat of the convict.

'It could only have been Bonnemain who has done this deed,' said

Piquet; 'I always mistrusted that sulky wretch.'

One of the men who had been ferretting along the wall, now suddenly

raised himself. 'Here is a knife!' said he; 'and there is blood upon

it!'

The instrument of murder passed from hand to hand. It was one of

those poniards without a sheath, known as Catalonian knives, the

blade of which on opening is fastened by a spring. The steel had

been carefully wiped, but in the groove of the handle might be seen

traces of blood which had not been completely effaced.

'He cannot be far off,' said the head gardener; 'we must track him

like a villanous wolf as he is. Come on, boys! let us after him, all

hands! But you, Monsieur d'Aubian, will not you come in and console

poor Madame Gorsay a little? She is almost distracted. Think what

a shock this is to the poor lady! They have sent for the doctor,

the priest, and the king's attorney; all is in confusion; but I am

sure she will be glad to see _you_, who are so good a friend of the

family.'

Suspicious as all men are whose consciences are not free from

reproach, Arthur thought he perceived in these words an ironical

meaning, which was in reality very far from the simple mind of the

honest gardener. He feared also lest a refusal to go might awaken

suspicions; and beside, the calamity which had just befallen Lucia

inspired him with a mournful desire to see and assure her of his

eternal devotion; the only consolation he could offer at the moment

of so terrible a catastrophe. He accordingly accompanied Piquet, who

returned to the house, carrying with him as proofs the clasp-knife

and rope-ladder.

'The rascal laid his plans well,' said the gardener, as he trudged

along; 'he must have thought that the ladder would be too heavy

to drag over the wall, and this is why he has brought along this

rope-ladder; a true robber's instrument. A strong-wristed rascal to

climb up such a machine as that!'

'Is Monsieur Gorsay dead?' asked d'Aubian, with a thoughtful air.

'The poor old gentleman cannot be far from it,' replied the

gardener, quickening his pace.