The prophecy, as will be seen, astoundingly and suspiciously minute in

its details; but yet, when the predictions as to the future are

considered--to our eyes at present so vague and mysterious, and still

perhaps in their fulfilment, if so it should prove, as exact in

detail,--it may well be imagined that the portions which now refer to

the past, may in their day have appeared equally mysterious and vague.

It runs as follows, as it now stands:--

"At that time a young man, come from beyond the sea into the country

of Celtic Gaul, shows himself strong in counsel. But the mighty to

whom he gives umbrage will send him to combat in the land of

Captivity. Victory will bring him back. The sons of Brutus will be

confounded at his approach, for he will overpower them, and take the

name of emperor. Many high and mighty kings will be sorely afraid, for

the eagle will carry off many sceptres and crowns. Men on foot and

horse, carrying blood-stained eagles, and as numerous as gnats in the

air, will run with him throughout Europe, which will be filled with

consternation and carnage; for he will be so powerful, that God shall

be thought to combat on his side. The church of God, in great

desolation, will be somewhat comforted, for she shall see her temples

opened again to her lost sheep, and God praised. But all is over, the

moons are passed."

It must be remarked here, that the moons, continually alluded to in

the prophecy, may be found, by the calculation of thirteen lunar

mouths to a year, to arrive at an extraordinary accuracy of prediction

as to the date of the events prophesied: those which have been

mentioned above must be considered to refer probably to a period of

time alluded to in the portion of the "Previsions" supposed to be

lost.

"But all is over; the moons are passed. The old man of Sion cries to

God from his afflicted heart; and behold! the mighty one is blinded

for his crimes. He leaves the great city with an army so mighty, that

none ever was seen to be compared to it. But no warrior will be able

to withstand the power of the heavens; and behold! the third part, and

again the third part, of his army has perished by the cold of the

Almighty. Two lustres have passed since the age of desolation; the

widows and the orphans have cried aloud to the Lord, and behold! God

is no longer deaf. The mighty, that have been humbled, take courage,

and combine to overthrow the man of power. Behold, the ancient blood

of centuries is with them, and resumes its place and its abode in the

great city; the great man returns humbled to the country beyond the

sea from which he came. God alone is great! The eleventh moon has not

yet shone, and the bloody scourge of the Lord returns to the great

city; the ancient blood quits it. God alone is great! He loves his

people, and has blood in abhorrence; the fifth moon has shone upon

many warriors from the east. Gaul is covered with men, and with

machines of war; all is finished with the man of the sea. Behold again

returned the ancient blood of the Cap! God ordains peace, that His

holy name be blessed. Therefore shall great peace reign throughout

Celtic Gaul. The white flower is greatly in honour, and the temples of

the Lord resound with many holy canticles. But the sons of Brutus view

with anger the white flower, and obtain a powerful edict, and God in

consequence is angry on account of the elect, and because the holy day

is much profaned; nevertheless God will await a return to Him during

eighteen times twelve moons. God alone is great! He purifies His

people by many tribulations; but an end will also come upon the

wicked. At this time a great conspiracy against the white flower moves

in the dark, by the designs of an accursed band; and the poor old

blood of the Cap leaves the great city, and the sons of Brutus

increase mightily. Hark! how the servants of the Lord cry aloud to

him! The arrows of the Lord are steeped in His wrath for the hearts of

the wicked. Woe to Celtic Gaul! The cock will efface the white flower;

and a powerful one will call himself king of the people. There will be

a great commotion among men, for the crown will be placed by the hands

of workmen who have combated in the great city. God alone is great!

The reign of the wicked will wax more powerful; but let them hasten,

for behold! the opinions of the men of Celtic Gaul are in collision,

and confusion is in all minds."

It must here be again remarked that, as regards the accomplishment of

the events which follow immediately in the prophecy, the writer has

himself seen this record in a printed form--since the fulfilment, it

is true, but in a newspaper published in the year 1839.

"The king of the people will be seen very weak: many of the wicked

will be against him; but he was _ill-seated_; and, behold! God hurls

him down." How striking is the expression, "_mal assis!_" To proceed:

"Howl, ye sons of Brutus! Call unto you the beasts that are about to

devour you. Great God! what a noise of arms! a full number of moons is

not yet completed, and, behold, many warriors are coming!"

This advance of many warriors upon the capital is an event which,

according to the prophecy, must be accomplished before a full number

of moons is completed, or, it would seem, within the year from the

date of the outbreak of the Revolution. These warriors are not said to

come from any foreign lands. May they be supposed--in accepting the

truth of the prediction--to refer to the march of the national guards

of the departments upon Paris, from all parts of France, at the time

of the outbreak of June? or do the words remain still to be verified

in a more striking manner? The period of the "ten times six moons, and

yet again six times ten moons," of which mention is about to be made,

is peculiarly vague and uncertain, as are the predictions, as far as

time is concerned, of all the events to come. According to the

calculation adopted, this period of time would be that of about nine

years and a quarter. Is the accomplishment of the awful prediction

that follows, to be delayed for such a space of time? An enlightened

churchman has conceived that this calculation of moons refers to the

past period, during which the church was oppressed, and the anger of

the Lord excited in the first French Revolution, when the "measure of

wrath was filled." But, then, is the desolation to come to be

accomplished also, like "the advance of the many warriors," before "a

full number of moons is completed"--_i. e._, within a year? This is

one of the mysterious obscurities already alluded to, which are the

attributes of all prophecy, and of which time alone can give a

solution--if a solution is to be given. The details relative to the

more immediately ensuing events are precise enough: it is only the

date of their accomplishment that seems involved in the dimness of

insolvable obscurity. Thus runs the denunciation--the prediction of

desolation to be poured out like another "vial of wrath" over the

doomed city of Paris.

"It is done! The mountain of the Lord hath cried in its affliction

unto God. The sons of Judah have cried unto God from the land of the

foreigner; and, behold! God is no longer deaf. What fire accompanies

His arrows! Ten times six moons, and yet again six times ten moons,

have fed His wrath. Woe to the great city! Behold the kings armed by

the Lord! But already hath fire levelled thee with the earth. Yet the

faithful shall not perish. God hath heard their prayer. The place of

crime is purified by fire. The waters of the great stream have rolled

on towards the sea all crimsoned with blood. Gaul, as it were

dismembered, is about to reunite. God loves peace. Come, young prince,

quit the isle of captivity. Listen! from the lion to the white flower!

come!"

It may be well understood now why the republican government of France

attaches so much importance to the fact of the propagation of this

prophecy, which formally predicts the return of the last bud of the

white flower, or lily of the Bourbons. Its publication was looked upon

as a manœuvre of the Legitimist faction, to prepare the minds of

men for the advent of Henri V., and, by exciting men's imaginations,

to tend towards the accomplishment of the prediction--with the

foreknowledge that hazarded predictions will often help to accomplish

themselves by the very natural course of events which they, in

themselves, produce. At all events, the promulgators of such a

prophecy, which definitively predicted the overthrow of the republic,

were to be considered as being among its enemies, and were carefully

watched in their movements as such. The writer of the present paper,

however, who was in Paris during the period when the "Previsions of

Orval" first began to create a sensation, can confidently assert that

copies were handed about, even among the silenced Legitimists, as

curious and interesting documents only, and without the least pretence

of that _arrière pensée_, which the government of the republic chose

to ascribe to its circulation. The allusion to the "lion," is

peculiarly obscure. Belgium and England are the only countries that

bear a lion on their arms. A union with a daughter of the dynasty

reigning in the former, can scarcely be contemplated, since the young

prince alluded to is already married. A strict alliance with one or

the other country--or perhaps more especially with England, as more

generally typically represented by the lion--might be supposed to bear

out the fulfilment of the prediction. The Orval prophecy then goes on

to predict the firm establishment of the child of the "white flower"

on his throne.

"What is foreseen, that God wills. The ancient blood of centuries will

again terminate long struggles. A sole pastor will be seen in Celtic

Gaul. The man made powerful by God will be firmly seated. Peace will

be established by many wise laws. So sage and prudent will be the

offspring of the Cap, that God will be thought to be with him. Thanks

to the Father of Mercies, the Holy Sion chants again in her temples to

the glory of one Lord Almighty."

The future previsions of the prophecy become necessarily more and more

obscure; although those, which more immediately follow, are

sufficiently distinct, much as their accomplishment may be a matter of

very necessary doubt.

"Many lost sheep come to drink at the living spring. Three kings and

princes throw off the mantle of heresy, and open their eyes to the

faith of the Lord. At that time two third parts of a great people of

the sea will return to the true faith. God is yet blessed during

fourteen times six moons, and six times thirteen moons. But God is

wearied of bestowing his mercies; and yet, for the faithful's sake, he

will prolong peace during ten times twelve moons. God alone is great!

The good is passed away. The saints shall suffer. The Man of Sin shall

be born of two races. The white flower becomes obscured during ten

times six moons, and six times twenty moons. Then it shall disappear

to be seen no more. Much evil, and little good, will there be in those

days. Many cities shall perish by fire. Israel then returns entirely

to Christ the Lord. The accursed and the faithful shall be separated

into two distinct portions. But all is over. The third part of Gaul,

and again the third part and a half, will be without faith. The same

will be among other nations. And behold! six times three moons, and

four times five moons, and there is a general falling off, and the end

of time has begun. After a number, not complete, of moons, God will

combat in the persons of His two just ones. The Man of Sin shall carry

off the victory. But all is over! The mighty God has placed before my

comprehension a wall of fire. I can see no more. May He be blessed

evermore. Amen."

Thus terminates the reputed prophecy of the Solitary of Orval. The

conclusion has been supposed to imply a prediction of the end of the

world; and, by the calculation of the number of as many moons as are

mentioned, that event would thus take place within a period of fifty

years from the present time. But it does not appear absolutely to

follow that the "wall of fire" placed before the comprehension of the

inspired Solitary, that he should see no more, should be referred to

the "end of all things," because he has exclaimed just previously--"But

all is over!" This expression he has already used before in a different

sense. Any disquisition, however, upon the uncertain fulfilment of a very

uncertain prophecy, would be again a discursive ramble, that would lead

us much too far out of our beat.

The other French prophecy, to which allusion has been made, professes

to be only of a much later date. It is said to have emanated from a

Jesuit priest, who died towards the end of the last century at

Bordeaux, in the "odour of sanctity," and to have been communicated by

him to a novice residing with him in an establishment of the Jesuits

at Poitiers, some time previous to the outbreak of the first French

Revolution. It is supposed to have been transcribed and preserved by

the novice, who afterwards became himself a Jesuit priest, and by him

to have been given into the hands of several persons, who still

possess it, or who may have in turn given circulation to it. Not much

importance was attached to it until the events of the Revolution,

which confirmed so many of its predictions, were accomplished; and

again, since the events of the present year, it has been called to

men's minds. Like the Orval prophecy, its predictions, as regards what

is now past, have been wonderfully distinct, and, relative to the

events of this present year, no less so. With respect to its existence

previously to these latter events, the writer can also give testimony,

as in the case of the Orval prophecy, that it was transcribed as far

back as the year 1836, from the mouth of the _supérieure_ of a convent

in Lyons, who testified that she had heard it from the novice to whom

it was first delivered. The authenticity of its prophetic revelations

can thus be proved as far as regards the present day. It bears, in

many respects, a great analogy to the Previsions of the Solitary of

Orval, and the predictions it delivers coincide in most respects with

the latter: but it contains distinct references to other events, of

which the Orval prophecy makes no mention. As the revelation also of a

holy churchman, prophetically inspired, its contents naturally refer,

in a great measure, to the state of the church, or perhaps even to the

condition of the order of the Jesuits alone. The whole is necessarily

couched in mysterious language in this respect: and it ought, perhaps,

to be premised that the "counter-revolution" alluded to refers to the

triumph of the priesthood in general, or, as was before said, of the

Jesuit order. The portions of this prophecy which have fallen into the

writer's hands refer only to the events immediately following the fall

of Napoleon; although he has been assured that, in other copies, it

goes back to circumstances antecedent to the first Revolution.

"There will then be a reaction," says the portion now before us,

"which shall be thought to be the counter-revolution--it will last

during some years, so that people shall suppose that peace is really

restored: but it will be only a patchwork--an ill-sewn garment. There

will be no schism; but still the Church shall not triumph. Then shall

come disturbances in France: a name hateful to the country shall be

placed upon the throne. It will not be until after that event that the

counter-revolution shall take place. It will be done by strangers. But

two parties will first be formed in France, who will carry on a war of

extermination. One party will be much more numerous than the other,

but the weaker shall prevail. Blood will flow in the great towns, and

the convulsion shall be such that men might think the last day to be

at hand. But the wicked will not prevail, and in this dire catastrophe

shall perish of them a great multitude. They will have hoped to have

utterly destroyed the Church; but for this they will not have had

time, for the fearful crisis shall be of short duration. There will be

a movement when it will be supposed that all is lost; but still all

shall be saved. The faithful shall not perish; such signs will be

given them as shall induce them to fly the city. During this

convulsion, which will extend to other lands, and not be for France

alone, Paris shall be so utterly destroyed, that when, twenty years

afterwards, fathers shall walk with their children, and the children

shall ask, 'Why is that desolate spot?' they shall answer, 'My

children, here once stood a great city, which God destroyed for its

crimes.' After this fearful convulsion, all will return to order, and

the counter-revolution shall be made. Then shall the triumph of the

Church be such that nothing like it shall be ever seen again, for it

will be the last triumph of the Church on earth."

In one respect, at least, this prophesy has already taken a step

towards fulfilment. "Two parties shall be formed in France." Does not

the struggle between the Moderates and the Red-Republicans still

harass the land? "They will carry on a war of extermination." Have

they not already commenced it in June in the streets of Paris? "One

party will be much more numerous than the other." The Moderate party

is well known to have an immense majority throughout the country. "But

the weaker shall prevail"--for a time, that is--goes on to say the

fearful prediction. That result lies yet in the womb of fate. The

probabilities of its fulfilment we shrink from investigating--the more

so, as it is a conviction which has always instinctively forced itself

upon our minds. In all their previsions on this subject, the two

prophesies, as far as they go, perfectly agree. We do not even leave

the sceptical the pleasure of finding out that "doctors differ." The

collision of parties--the devouring beasts--and the eventual

destruction of the "great city" in the struggle--are circumstances

foretold in both, with a graphic force which gives them almost the

minuteness of details relative to a history of the past. The triumph

of the Church, after this great convulsion, is likewise prophesied by

both. The Orval previsions, more diffuse as to general history, alone

connect this event with the restoration of a Prince of the Lily. On

the contrary, however, the prediction of the Jesuit--as yet only

occupied with the interests of his Church--now goes on to foretell

historical events, of which the Orval prophecy makes no mention. The

two do not contradict each other, but each mentions circumstances of

which the other does not speak.

"These events shall be known to be at hand," continues the Poitiers

prophecy, "by the sign that England shall begin to suffer throes of

pain, even as it is known that the summer is nigh when the fig-tree

puts forth its leaves. England shall experience a revolution, which

will be of sufficient duration to give unhappy France time to breathe.

Then it shall be by the assistance of France that England shall be

fully restored to peace."

Certainly there appears at present no probability of any

accomplishment of this part of the prediction. And, whatever vague

faith we may place in our innermost hearts upon the authenticity of

these prophecies, we should be very glad to find ourselves, and avow

ourselves, and even proclaim ourselves, utter dupes, rather than

witness the slightest approach to a fulfilment of the last paragraph

of the Jesuit priest's oracular revolutions. He has given us, however,

a fair chance of learning the truth of his prediction, or of giving

him the lie in his coffin, by an answer, which the tradition preserved

by the excellent _supérieure_ of the convent of the Sacré Cœur at

Lyons reports that he made, when asked as to the period of the

fulfilment of his prophecies--for he had not, like the Solitary of

Orval, been at all precise in his arithmetical calculations of moons,

or other methods of bestowing dates, as we have seen. His answer is

said to have been, that those who saw the first French Revolution, and

who lived through this crisis, would bless God for having preserved

them to be witnesses of the great triumph of His Church. Consequently,

the events foretold ought to receive their fulfilment in a period of

time within the probable life of a man born before the epoch of 1789;

and thus, reckoning the "threescore years and ten" as the utmost limit

of man's natural life, before the year 1859. We ourselves, and all our

readers, it is to be hoped, have thus the probabilities before us of

testing the powers of prophecy of the good old gentleman of Poitiers.

And yet, if they are to be verified to the letter as concerns "Old

England," we cannot add "May we be there to see."

Beyond these two prophecies, there are others which at the present

time abound in France; but as we are unable to offer any evidence

whatever as to their authenticity of antiquity, we shall not enter

into their details, much less into any disquisition as to their

credibility. Most of them predict the utter destruction of Paris by

fire, during a convulsion occasioned by insurrection and civil war.

The best known are those of Bug de Thilas, a prophet of the Pyrenees

in the sixteenth century--a Breton traditionary prediction, which

enters into very minute and graphic details relative to the great fire

of Paris, and fixes the epoch for this disaster in the nineteenth

century; and the far better known and somewhat famous _Prophétie

Lorraine_, in verse, in which the same event is foretold. This latter

prophecy enters into very minute poetical descriptions of the great

catastrophe, and warns the Parisian that he will perish entirely by

his own fault. It is more especially curious, inasmuch as a

calculation has been made by a good, hearty, and sound believer in

such predictions, in which it is shown that, by taking the most

striking and important words of the prediction, and reckoning each

letter as a number, according to its standing in the alphabet--"a" as

1, "b" as 2, "c" as 3, &c.--the sum total of all the letters, thus

reckoned, will amount to eighteen hundred and forty-nine. Of course,

also, the prediction made by Lady Hester Stanhope to Lamartine, as

recorded by that author in his _Voyage en Orient_, and founded by

herself on cabalistic and astronomical calculations, found

enthusiastic commentators in France, when the poet at last reached the

object of his ambition, and became a statesman, by being placed at the

summit of power in the revolutionary government.

The other prediction, or rather prophetic deduction from analytical

interpretations of the Book of Revelations, to which allusion has been

made, is too singular not to take its place also among these supposed

"foreshadowings of coming events." At the same time, we do not attempt

to rank it in any way in the same category with those strange and

doubtful revelations already given. It is based upon a system of

reasoning and calculation: a key is given as the real and true one,

for the opening of the door of mysteries of acknowledged divine

origin. How far this key may be the right one or the wrong, or how far

it may be permitted to use it, are, once more, subjects for

disquisition into which it is not for us to enter. The contrast

between the nature of the revelations of the Roman Catholic ascetics,

and of those of the Protestant clergyman, is striking enough to

preclude any analogy between them. On the one hand, we have confident

predictions; on the other, the cool, calm, searching, calculations of

a system of minute reasoning;--on the one, the supposed bestowal of

the flash of light; on the other, the careful groping in the mystical

darkness of sacred writings, in order with true conscience to find the

right way;--on the one, the pictorial, graphic, highly-coloured

language of the presumed "_divine afflatus_;" on the other, the

deductions of speculative reasoning;--on the one, the supposed flame

coming from above; on the other, the cautious steps planted on the

earth;--in short, on the one, supposed inspiration; on the other,

evident and acknowledged reason. We do not pretend to class them

together; but as they all refer to the same periods of history, they

find mention together in this notice.

The Rev. Robert Fleming was the Protestant minister of the Scotch

churches at Rotterdam and Leyden, and afterwards of the Presbyterian

church of Lothbury, during the reign of William III.; he was renowned

for his piety as well as his learning, and was even much favoured by

the reigning monarch. His _Discourse concerning the Rise and Fall of

Papacy_, in which the prophetic deductions have been formed, was

published in the year 1701. The species of mystical history of the

Romish church, which forms the main subject of his work, is sought for

entirely, by the author, in the prophetic enunciations of the Book of

Revelations; and in order to attach a great interest to his

interpretations, and the deductions thence drawn, it is necessary to

accept _à priori_, as a matter of faith, those _postulata_, which the

author considers certain at his very outset, and which he sets down as

incontrovertible,--namely, that "the Revelations contain the series of

all the remarkable events and changes of the state of the Christian

church to the end of the world;" that "The mystical Babylon _doth_

typify Rome in an anti-Christian church state;" that "The seven heads

of the beast _are_ indubitably the seven forms of government that

obtained successively among the Romans;" and that, consequently, "The

grand apocalyptical question answers the great antichrist," which is

thus assumed to be Papal Rome. Once more, it is not our present

purpose to enter into any theological discussions: we do no more than

place before our readers the curious and interesting deduction of a

divine, celebrated for his piety, his learning, and his sacred

research. The key with which Fleming proceeds to open the mysteries of

what he calls "the dark apocalyptical times and periods," is certainly

of singularly ingenious construction. He commences by entering into a

proof that the different periods mentioned, of 1260 days, of forty-two

months, and of "a time, times, and a half," are absolutely

synchronical, and refer exactly to the same period of time, being

meant to describe the duration of the anti-Christian kingdom; and that

each day must be taken to mean prophetically a year, or Julian year of

that age. By a similarly ingenious calculation, relative to the dates

and times of days, he ascribes the period, as regards the church, to

the so-called rotations of the all-enlightening sun; and as refers to

the Beast, to the rotations of the unstable moon. Upon these

calculations he goes on, with singularly marvellous ability, and an

infinite patience of minute reckoning, to comment upon the apocalyptic

prophecies. He traces thus the regular series of the prophecy, in the

opening of the seven seals, which, in his application of historical

events, he refers to the condition of the Christian church during the

Roman empire;--of the seven trumpets, as bearing relation to the

gradual growth and increase of the anti-Christian enemies of the

church;--and, lastly, of the seven vials, as plagues and judgments

poured out upon that Babylon, which he assumes to be "Rome Papal;" and

the vials, more especially, he argues upon as types of the struggles

between the Roman and the Reformed parties, each vial typifying an

event, or conclusion of some new periodical attack of the former upon

the latter. It is not necessary to follow the ingenious and

indefatigable commentator through all his explanations of the other

vials; we only refer to his deductions as bearing upon "Prophecies for

the Present." Our business lies chiefly with his interpretation of the

fifth vial, inasmuch as, by his system of calculation, he predicts the

fulfilment of this vial for a period, which, by a singular coincidence

at least, he fixes between the two dates of 1794 and 1848. It is the

express mention of this latter year which naturally attracts the

attention as an extraordinary coincidence, at a moment when, in that

year, so many convulsions, and so many events important in the history

of the world, have taken place. There is no precise prophetic

deductions, however, attached by the interpreter to this latter

_datum_, except that he fixes it as the period of the fall, or at

least of the tottering and probable decline, of the Papal power; and,

in the present wavering condition of the temporal power of the

sovereign pontiff, the deduction has, at least, a singular bearing

upon the events of the latter year specified. It was at the period of

the former year, however, that the interpretations of Fleming, made

at a time when France was in the zenith of her power, and there seemed

no probability whatever of their justice, excited at first a great

sensation; probably at the time of their delivery they were looked

upon merely as matters of interesting and patient analysis. In

commenting upon the fourth vial of the Revelations, which he mentions

as likely to expire about the year 1794, he says--"the pouring out of

this vial on the sun must denote the humiliation of some eminent

potentates, whose influence and countenance cherish and support the

Papal cause. And these, therefore, may be principally understood of

the houses of Austria and Bourbon." In continuing to give his opinion

concerning the events connected with this vial, and much posterior to

the time in which he lived, we have the following striking expressions

also, which, even in their serious importance, are not without their

quaint humour:--"Perhaps the French monarchy may begin to be

considerably humbled about that time; for whereas the French king

takes the sun for his emblem, and this for his motto--'_Nec plurìbus

impar_,' he may at length, or rather his successors, and the monarchy

itself, (at least before the year 1794,) be forced to acknowledge that

(in respect to neighbouring potentates) he is even _singulis impar_."

The extraordinary coincidence between these intimations and the date

fixed by the interpreter, when the first French Revolution took place,

could not fail to strike the minds of those who were acquainted with

his work. Accordingly, the _Discourse_ was republished in 1792, and

was read and commented upon with avidity; and now that, in the year he

named as 1848, another of his prophetic intimations came to be more or

less exemplified, and another coincidence was destined to strike the

minds of men, after the sagacious and learned interpreter had been

dead nearly a century and a half, the whole discourse has been again

republished in a variety of forms, and very widely circulated.

It has been "in fear and trembling" that we have ventured to approach

any subject of so sacred a character, inasmuch as it refers to

undeniable divine revelations, and bears upon one of the books of the

Holy Scriptures: the matter, however, was so intimately connected with

our present subject, that it could not be well avoided. Upon the

absolute acceptance of Fleming's interpretations, and upon his

assumption, _à priori_, that the "scarlet woman of Babylon" and the

anti-Christ do verily typify the Papal power, we must needs be still

more cautious of entering into any argument: it is not for us to

reason upon the "how, when, and where" of the anti-Christian "denying

spirit."

As connected with "Prophecies for the Present," the writer may yet add

one other, which was known to him in Germany many years ago. The

latter part of it runs as follows:--"I would not be a king in 1848. I

would not be a soldier in 1849. I would not be a gravedigger in 1850."

There was an awful solemnity in these last words, that always struck

fearfully upon the imagination. "I would be any thing you will in

1851." Again, also, there is a vague ambiguous sense in this latter

expression, that gives a shudder to the whole frame. "What you will!"

Does the term refer to future hope in better days, or is it the

recklessness of despair? There were, attached to this prophecy, other

remarks respecting the preceding years: they referred to the

corn-blade and the vine-plant; but they have now passed too much out

of the writer's memory to be exactly recorded.

Before we quit the subject of the "Prophecies for the Present," it may

be as well to allude to a comparison of the coincidences between the

events of the revolution of July and that of the present year, which

has been ingeniously compiled by a certain M. Langlois. The analogy

between the circumstances of these different epochs forms a curious

page in modern history, and is not without its peculiar interest; and

also, as far as the events of the earlier epoch were singularly

prophetic of those of the latter, these striking coincidences may

almost be said to belong to the predictions of the day.

In the elder branch of the Bourbons, the Duke de Berri, the son of

Charles X., espoused a foreign princess, and had by her a son, who

was regarded as the heir to the throne: in the younger, the Duke of

Orleans, the son of Louis Philippe I., likewise espoused a foreign

princess, and had by her a son, likewise regarded as the eventual heir

of the dynasty. The father of the Duke de Bordeaux was assassinated on

the _13th_ of February 1820; the father of the Count of Paris died by

an accident on the _13th_ of July 1842. In both the years preceding

the fall of either monarch, the price of provisions was at an

excessive height, the want was great, and the cold such that the Seine

was frozen over--a circumstance which did not occur between the

winters of 1829 and 1847. In both instances, the anti-liberal

tendencies of the heads of the state, after most inviting promises,

called forth from their best friends remonstrances upon the course

they were pursuing, and warnings of an approaching crisis, which in

both instances were rejected. In both instances, the last speech of

the crown to the parliament assembled, contained words concerning the

"culpable manœuvres," or "blind inimical passions," of the

Opposition which created the discontent, and called forth the protest

of several deputies, and the resolution to hold the famous banquet.

The capture of the Dey of Algiers, and that of Abd-el-Kader, which

immediately preceded each catastrophe, were both in vain considered as

triumphs by the ministry of the day. The ordinances of July suspended

the liberty of the press; an ordinance in February prohibited the

banquet. In both cases these ordinances caused a commotion in the

capital, and a species of presentiment of revolution on the Monday

evening; on the following day the revolt broke out, and lasted during

three days, commencing on the Tuesday, and terminating on the

Thursday; and the power fell into the hands of the insurgents. The

gendarmerie in the one case, the municipal guard--another name for the

same corps--in the other, offered the chief defence of royalty, were

overcome, and finally disbanded. Charles X. fell from his throne at

the age of seventy-four, Louis Philippe at the same age; the one in

July, the month in which the Duke of Orleans died--the other in

February, the month in which the Duke de Berri was assassinated. Each

monarch abdicated in favour of his grandson; each was met by the fatal

cry, "_Il est trop tard_." In each case a provisional government was

established, and the royal family was obliged to quit the French

territory; both the monarchs sought a refuge in England. Here,

however, the "coincidences" offer a striking dissimilitude. The one

monarch was accompanied, in his departure, by his guards and numbers

of faithful servitors--the other fled poor, wretched, and in disguise,

abandoned by those who had called themselves his friends: the one shed

tears on landing in the country of exile--the other hailed it with

joy. In both cases, the ministers of the fallen king were impeached.

In even smaller circumstances, other coincidences have been recorded.

During the combats of both revolutions, the temperature was

excessively warm for the season of the year--a circumstance not wholly

without its weight, if the well-known barometric nature of the

Parisian temperament be considered; and a few days after, in both

years, an extraordinarily terrific tempest burst over the capital,

obscured it for many hours in darkness, and swept down the new flag

placed aloft upon the column of the Place Vendôme.

Coincidences, predictions, revelations--all may, perhaps, be looked

upon, by the sceptically reasoning mind of plain matter-of-fact, with

scorn. To such, then, they are here only given as curious matters of

historical interest. At the same time, in the uncertainty as to the

issue of the convulsions under the throes of which Europe is at

present writhing, the troubled mind may surely attach itself to the

obscure revelations of such strange announcements, and endeavour

clearly to see its way through their dimness, without too much

deserving the stigma usually attached to superstitious credulity.

SIGISMUND FATELLO.

CHAP. I.--THE OPERA.

It was a November night of the year 184-. For a week past, the

play-bills upon the convenient but unsightly posts that disfigure the

boulevards, had announced for that evening, in conspicuous capitals,

the first performance of a new opera by a popular composer. Although

the season of winter gaieties had scarcely begun, and country-houses

and bathing-places retained a portion of the fashionable population of

Paris, yet a string of elegant carriages, more or less coroneted,

extended down the Rue Lepelletier, and deposited a distinguished

audience at the door of the Académie de Musique. The curtain fell upon

the first act; and a triple round of applause, of which a little was

attributable to the merits of the opera, and a good deal to the

parchment palms of a well-drilled _claque_, proclaimed the composer's

triumph and the opera's success, when two men, entering the house at

opposite sides, met near its centre, exchanged a familiar greeting,

and seated themselves in contiguous stalls. Both belonged to the class

which the lower orders of Parisians figuratively designate as _gants

jaunes_; the said lower orders conscientiously believing primrose

gloves to be a covering as inseparable from a dandy's fingers as the

natural epidermis. The younger of these two men, the Viscount Arthur

de Mellay, was a most unexceptionable specimen of those _lions dorés_

who, in modern French society, have replaced the _merveilleux_, the

_roués_, and _raffinés_ of former days. Sleek of face and red of lip,

with confident eye and trim mustache, his "getting up" was evidently

the result of deep reflection on the part of the most tasteful of

tailors and scrupulous of valets. From his varnished boot-heel to the

topmost wave of his glossy and luxuriant _chevelure_, the severest

critic of the mode would in vain have sought an imperfection. Born,

bred, and polished in the genial atmosphere of the noble faubourg, he

was a credit to his club, the admiration of the vulgar, the pet of a

circle of exclusive and aristocratic dames, whose approving verdict is

fashionable fame. His neighbour in the stalls, some years older than

himself, was scarcely less correct in externals, although bearing his

leonine honours much more carelessly. Like Arthur, he was a very

handsome man, but his pale face and fair mustache contrasted with the

florid cheek and dark hair of his companion. The Austrian baron Ernest

von Steinfeld had acquired, by long and frequent residences in Paris,

rights to Parisian naturalisation. He had first visited the French

capital in a diplomatic capacity, and, after abandoning that career,

had spent a part of every year there as regularly as any native

_habitué_ of the club Grammont, the Chantilly race-course, and the

Bois de Boulogne. Although a German and a baron, he was neither

coarse, nor stupid, nor smoky. He did not carry a tobacco-pipe in his

pocket, or get muddled at dinner, or spit upon the floor, or

participate in any other of the nastinesses common to the majority of

his tribe. A nobleman in Austria, he would have been accounted a

gentleman, and a highly bred one, in any country in the world. He was

of old family, had been much about courts, held a military rank,

possessed a castle and fine estate in the Tyrol, mortgaged to the very

last _zwanziger_ of their value, was somewhat _blasé_ and troubled

with the spleen, and considerably in debt, both in Vienna and Paris.

He had arrived in the latter capital but a fortnight previously, after

nearly a year's absence, had established himself in a small but

elegant house in a fashionable quarter, and as he still rode fine

horses, dressed and dined well, played high and paid punctually,

nobody suspected how near he was to the end of his cash and credit;

and that he had sacrificed the last remnant of his disposable property

to provide ammunition for another campaign in Paris--a campaign likely

to be final, unless a wealthy heiress, a prize in the lottery, or an

unexpected legacy, came in the nick of time to repair his shattered

fortunes.

The second act of the opera was over. The applause, again renewed, had

again subsided, and the hum of conversation replaced the crash of the

noisy orchestra, the warbling of Duprez, and the passionate

declamation of Madame Stolz. The house was very full; the boxes were

crowded with elegantly dressed women, a few of them really pretty, a

good many appearing so by the grace of gas, rouge, and costume. The

curtain was no sooner down than de Mellay, compelled by the despotism

of the pit to silence during the performance, dashed off at a

colloquial canter, scattering, for his companion's benefit, a shower

of criticisms, witticisms, and scandal, for which he found abundant

subjects amongst his acquaintances in the theatre, and to which the

baron listened with the curled lip and faint smile of one for whose

palled palate caviar no longer has flavour, scarcely vouchsafing an

occasional monosyllable or brief sentence when Arthur's gossip seemed

to require reply. His eyes wandered round the house, their vision

aided by the double glasses of one of those tremendous opera-telescopes

by whose magnifying powers, it is said, the incipient wrinkle and the

borrowed tint are infallibly detected, and the very _tricot_ of

Taglioni is converted into a cobweb. Presently he touched the arm of

Arthur, who had just commenced an animated ocular flirtation with a

blue-eyed belle in a stage-box. The baron called his attention to a

box on the opposite side of the theatre.

"There is a curious group," he said.

"Oh, yes," replied de Mellay carelessly, levelling his glass for a

moment in the direction pointed out. "The Fatellos." And he resumed

his mute correspondence with the dame of the azure eyes.

Steinfeld remained for a short space silent, with the thoughtful

puzzled air of a man who suspects he has forgotten something he ought

to remember; but his efforts of memory were all in vain, and he again

interrupted Arthur's agreeable occupation.

"Whom did you say?" he inquired; indicating, by a glance rather than

by a movement, the group that had riveted his attention.

"The Fatellos," replied de Mellay, with a sort of surprise. "But,

pshaw! I forget. You were at Venice last carnival, and they have not

been twelve months at Paris. You have still to learn the affecting

romance of Sigismund and Catalina: how the red knight from Franconie

did carry off the Paynim's daughter,--his weapons adapted to the

century--bank-notes and bright doubloons, in lieu of couched lance and

trenchant blade. Why, when they arrived, all Paris talked of them for

three days, and might have talked longer, had not Admiral Joinville

brought over from Barbary two uncommonly large baboons, which diverted

the public attention. They call them beauty and the beast--the

Fatellos, I mean, not the baboons."

The persons who had attracted Steinfeld's notice, and elicited this

uncomplimentary tirade from the volatile viscount, occupied one of the

best boxes in the theatre. In front were two ladies, likely to be the

more remarked from the contrast their appearance offered with the

Parisian style of beauty. Their jet-black hair, large almond-shaped

eyes, and complexion of a rich glowing olive, betrayed their southern

origin. Behind them sat a man of five-and-thirty or forty; a tall,

high-shouldered, ungainly figure, with a profusion of reddish hair,

and a set of Calmuck features of repulsive ugliness. His face was of

an unhealthy paleness, excepting about the nose and cheekbones, which

were blotched and heated; and the harsh and obstinate expression of

his physiognomy was ill redeemed by the remarkably quick and

penetrating glance of his small keen gray eyes.

"Do you mean to say yonder ungainly boor is the husband of one of

those two beautiful women, who look as if they had stepped out of a

legend of the Alhambra, or of a vintage-piece by Leopold Robert?"

"Certainly--husband of one, brother-in-law of the other. But I will

tell you the whole story. Sigismund Fatello is one of those men born

with a peculiar genius for money-getting, who, if deposited at the

antipodes without a shoe to their foot, or a sou in their pocket,

would end by becoming _millionnaires_. Although little heard of in

good society till a year ago, he has long been well known on the

Bourse, and in foreign capitals, as a bold financier and successful

speculator. Two years ago he had occasion to go to the south of Spain,

to visit mines offered by the Spanish government as security for the

loan of two or three of his millions. Amongst other places he visited

Seville, and was there introduced to Don Geronimo Gomez Garcia

Gonfalon, (and a dozen other names besides,) a queer old hidalgo,

descended from Boabdil of the Bloody Crescent, or some such Moorish

potentate. The don dwelt in the shadow of the Giralda, and possessed

two daughters reputed fair;--you see them there--judge for yourself.

With one of these Fatello fell desperately in love, and asked her in

marriage. The lady, who had no wish to abandon her native land for the

society of so ugly and unpleasant a helpmate, demurred. But the suitor

was urgent and the papa peremptory. Old Boabdil had an immense opinion

of Fatello, was dazzled by his wealth and financial reputation, and

insisted on his daughter's marrying him, vowing that he himself was

poor as a poet, and that if she refused she should go to a nunnery.

After the usual amount of tears, threats, and promises, the marriage

took place. The descendant of the Saracen made an excellent bargain

for his child. Fatello, infatuated by his passion, would have agreed

to any conditions, and made immense settlements on the beautiful

Catalina. His father-in-law, like an old semi-African hunks as he was,

pleaded poverty, hard times, forced contributions, and so forth, as

excuses for giving his daughter no other portion than a few rather

remarkable diamonds, and some antiquated plate dating from the kings

of Granada, and better suited for a Moorish museum than a Christian

sideboard. Fatello, whose dealings with the Spanish government had

given him no very exalted idea of the opulence of Spanish subjects,

cared not for the old boy's maravedis, and credited his plea of

poverty. A few weeks afterwards, Fatello and his wife being still in

Seville, Boabdil retired for his usual siesta, but not reappearing at

the usual hour, a servant went to awaken him, and found him purple

with apoplexy. The unfortunate Saracen never spoke again. The next day

he was buried, (they lose no time in those warm latitudes); and

behold, when the will was opened, he had left upwards of three

millions of reals to his disconsolate daughters--about four hundred

thousand francs to each of them. When the decencies had been observed

in the way of mourning, and Fatello had finished his affairs, he

brought his wife and her sister to Paris, took a magnificent hotel in

the Faubourg St Honoré, and gave Lucullian dinners, and entertainments

such as are read of in the Arabian Nights, but rarely seen in the

nineteenth century."

"And were his fêtes well attended?"

"Not quite immediately. At first everybody asked who this Mr Fatello

was, and nobody could tell. All sorts of queer stories were got up

about him. Some said he was a Polish Jew, formerly well known in

Prague, and who had commenced his fortune by attending horse-fairs.

Others,--misled by his name, which has an odd Italian sound--swore he

was a Lombard, continuing the financial and speculative traditions of

his race. He himself claims to be of a good Alsatian family; and I

believe the truth is, that his father was a small proprietor in a

northern department, who sent his son to Paris, as a boy, to seek his

fortune, which, by virtue of industry and arithmetic, he has been

lucky enough to find. But people got tired of asking _who_, and

changed the interrogation to _what_. This was much more easily

answered--'The signature of Sigismund Fatello is worth millions upon

every Exchange in Europe,' was the prompt reply. You know our good

Parisians, or rather, you know the world in general. If John Law, or

Dr Faustus, returned upon earth, with wealth proceeding from the devil

or a swindle, and gave banquets and balls, their rooms would not long

be empty. No more were those of Fatello, against whom, however,

nothing improper was ever substantiated, except a want of

ancestors,--a venial offence, in these days, to be charged against a

millionnaire! With a citizen king, and Jews in the chamber, _or_ upon

_argent_ is the truest blazonry, my word for it."

"By their assistance, then, he has got into good society?" said

Steinfeld.

"Into almost the best. He has not made much progress beyond the Seine;

but on this side the water, he is every where in good odour. They make

much of him at the Tuileries and in diplomatic circles; and in the

Chaussée d'Antin, amongst the aristocracy of finance, his money gives

him right to a high place. And if he plays the Amphitryon this winter

in the style he did the last, there is no saying whether some of our

stiff-necked countesses of the _vieille roche_ may not relent, and

honour his halls with their transcendental presence. His

entertainments of all kinds are quite superlative; and if he be a

plebeian and a brute, his wife and sister, on the other hand, are

graceful as gazelles, and date from the deluge. He is an ugly-looking

monster, certainly," added the handsome viscount; "but fortune has

atoned for nature's stinginess. A man may forget his resemblance to a

chimpanzee, when he has millions in his strong box, one of the finest

houses, and best filled stables, and prettiest wives in Paris,--when

he possesses strength and health, and has every prospect of living

long to enjoy the goods the gods have showered upon him."

"Wrong in the last particular,--quite wrong, my dear viscount," said a

bland and unctuous voice behind de Mellay. The young men turned and

found themselves face to face with a comely middle-aged personage,

whose smug costume of professional black was relieved by a red ribbon

in the button-hole, and who, gliding into the stall in their rear,

whilst they were engrossed with their conversation, had overheard its

latter sentences.

"Ha! doctor," exclaimed the viscount, "you here, and eaves-dropping!

How am I wrong, most sapient and debonair of Galens?"

Dr Pilori was a physician in high practice, and of a class not

uncommon in Paris,--at once a man of pleasure and a votary of science.

With a fair share of talent and an inordinate one of self-conceit, he

had pushed himself forward in his profession, applying himself, in

conformity with the Parisian rage for rage for _spécialités_,

particularly to one class of complaint. The lungs were the organ he

had taken under his special protection: his word was law in all cases

of pulmonary disease. He was physician to an hospital, member of the

Legion of Honour, and of innumerable learned societies; his portrait

graced the shop-windows of medical booksellers, whilst his works, on

maladies of the lungs, occupied a prominent place on their shelves.

His patients were numerous and his fees large. So far the man of

science. The man of pleasure occupied a gorgeous apartment in the

vicinity of the Madeleine; gave smart and frequent soirées, (as one

means of increasing his connexion,) where singers of the first water

gave their notes in payment of his advice. He was frequently at the

opera,--occasionally at the Café de Paris,--lived on bad terms with

his wife, and on good ones with a ballet-dancer, and was in request as

an attendant at duels amongst the young dandies of the clubs, with

most of whom he was on a footing of familiarity amounting almost to

intimacy.

"How am I wrong, doctor?" repeated de Mellay.

"In your prediction of Fatello's longevity. Of course it is of him you

speak?"

"Of no other. What ails him?"

"He is dying of consumption," gravely replied Pilori.

The viscount laughed incredulously, and even Steinfeld could not

restrain a smile, so little appearance was there of a consumptive

habit in the robust frame, and coarse, rough physiognomy of the

financier.

"Laugh if you please, young gentlemen," said the doctor. "It is no

laughing matter for Monsieur Fatello, I can tell you. His life is not

worth a year's purchase."

"You have been prescribing for him then, doctor," said Arthur

maliciously.

"I have," said the physician, suffering the hit to pass unnoticed. "No

longer ago than yesterday he consulted me for a trifling

indisposition, and, in studying his idiosyncrasy, I detected the

graver disease. What do you think he called me in for? I ought not to

tell these things, but the joke is too good to keep. He was annoyed

about the blotches on his face--anxious for a clear complexion. In

what strange places vanity finds a corner! Poor fellow! he little

thinks how soon the worms will be at work upon his cuticle."

"You did not tell him, then?" said de Mellay, still doubtful of the

doctor's sincerity, and with a sort of shudder at his dissecting-room

style.

"What was the use? The seeds of decay are too deeply set to be

eradicated by the resources of art. Although to a non-medical eye he

presents little appearance of pulmonary derangement, the malady has

already taken firm hold. Probably it is hereditary. It advances slowly

but surely, and will not be turned aside. The forms of that terrible

disease are many and various, from the _pulmonia fulminante_ of Spain,

and the _galloping consumption_ of our island neighbours, to those

more tedious varieties whose ravages extend over years, to kill as

surely at last. But I do not tell you that I _shall_ not inform M.

Fatello of his condition. It is our duty to strive to the last, even

when we have no hope but in a miracle. I shall see him to-morrow and

break the matter to him."

"And send him to Italy or Madeira, I suppose," said Steinfeld, with an

appearance of greater interest than he had previously taken in the

conversation.

"What for? As well let him die in Paris, where he will at least have

all the alleviations the resources of art and high civilisation can

afford. But enough of the subject. And you, young gentlemen, say

nothing of what I have told you, or you will damage my reputation for

discretion."

The rise of the curtain put a period to the conversation, and, before

the act was over, a box-keeper delivered a letter to Dr Pilori, who,

after reading it, rose with a certain air of importance and

solicitude, and hurried out of the theatre,--his sortie provoking a

smile amongst some of the habitual frequenters of the stalls, who were

accustomed to see this manœuvre repeated with a frequency that gave

it the air of an advertisement. The opera over, Steinfeld and de

Mellay left the house together, and, whilst driving along the

boulevard, the sentence of death pronounced so positively by Pilori

upon Fatello, was the subject of their conversation. The viscount was

incredulous, took it for a hoax, and would have amused the club by its

repetition, and by a burlesque of Pilori's dogmatical and pompous

tone, had not Steinfeld urged him to be silent on the subject, lest he

should injure the indiscreet physician. Arthur promised to say nothing

about it, and soon forgot the whole affair in the excitement of a

_bouillotte_-table. Steinfeld, equally reserved, neither forgot the

doctor's prophecy, nor doubted the conviction that dictated it. De

Mellay's gossip about the Fatellos had doubtless excited his

curiosity, and given him a wish to know them,--for, two days

afterwards, his elegant _coupé_ drove into the court of their hotel,

and a dandified secretary of legation presented, in due form, the

Baron Ernest von Steinfeld to the wealthy financier and his handsome

wife and sister.

CHAP. II.--THE MASQUERADE.

Three months had elapsed, and Paris was in full carnival. Since the

beginning of the year, the town had been kept in a state of unusual

excitement by the anticipation of a ball, for which the rich and

fashionable Countess de M---- had issued invitations to her immense

circle of friends and acquaintances. The position of the

countess--who, herself the daughter of an illustrious house, and

reckoning amongst her ancestors and their alliances more than one

sovereign prince and constable of France, had married a man enriched

and ennobled by Napoleon--gave her peculiar facilities for collecting

around her all that was distinguished and fashionable in Paris, and

for blending the various coteries into which political differences,

as much as pride of descent on the one hand, and pride of purse on the

other, split the higher circles of Parisian society. Her invitations

included stiff-necked legitimists from the dull but dignified streets

of St Germain's faubourg, noble as a La Tremouille or a Montmorency,

and still sulking against the monarchy of the 7th August; wealthy

_parvenus_ from the Chaussée d'Antin, military nobles of imperial

fabrication, Russian princes, English lords, Spanish grandees,

diplomatists by the dozen, and a prince or two of the reigning family.

Under ordinary circumstances, Madame de M---- might have hesitated to

bring together so heterogeneous an assemblage--to have mingled in the

same saloons all these conflicting vanities, opinions, and prejudices;

but the character of her entertainment removed the inconveniences of

such confrontation. It was no ordinary ball or common-place rout of

which the palatial mansion of the countess was upon this occasion to

be the scene. She had conceived the bold idea of resuscitating, upon a

large scale, an amusement which in Paris has long since degenerated

into vulgar license and drunken saturnalia. Her entertainment was to

be a masquerade, to which no one was to come with uncovered face or in

ordinary costume. A mask and a disguise were as essential to obtain

entrance, as was the ticket of admission sent to each individual

invited, and which was to be delivered up at the door, accompanied by

the holder's engraved visiting card. This precaution was to guard

against the recurrence of an unpleasant incident that had occurred two

years previously at a minor entertainment of similar character, when

two ingenious professors of legerdemain, better known to the police

than to the master of the house, found their way into the ball-room

under the convenient covering of dominos, and departed, before their

presence was discovered, carrying with them a varied assortment of

watches, purses, and jewellery.

The night of the much talked-of fête had arrived; the tailors,

milliners, and embroiderers, who, for a month past, had slaved in the

service of the invited, had brought home the results of their labours:

the fashionable hairdressers had had a hard day's work--some hundreds

of wreaths and nosegays, which in June would have been beautiful, and

in January seemed miraculous, and whose aggregate cost was a

comfortable year's income, had been composed by the tasteful fingers

of the Parisian flower-girls. The hour was at hand, and many a fair

bosom palpitated with pleasurable anticipations. The hotel of the rich

Fatello, as the successful speculator was usually called, had its

share of the bustle of preparation; but at last, knotty questions of

costume were satisfactorily settled, and the ladies committed

themselves to the hands of their tire-women. In his library sat

Sigismund Fatello, opening a pile of notes and letters that had

accumulated there since afternoon. Some he read and put carefully

aside; to others he scarcely vouchsafed a glance; whilst a third class

were placed apart for perusal at greater leisure. At last, he opened

one by whose contents he was strangely moved, for, on reading them, he

started and turned pale, as if stung by an adder. Passing his hand

over his eyes, as though to clear his vision, he stood up and placed

the paper in the very strongest glare of the powerful Carcel lamp

illuminating the room. A second time he read, and his agitation

visibly increased. Its cause was a small note, containing but four

lines, written in a feigned hand. It was an anonymous letter, striking

him in his most vulnerable point. Again and again he perused it,

striving to recognise the handwriting, or conjecture the author. All

his efforts were in vain. Once, inspired by his good genius, he

crushed the treacherous paper in his hand, and approached the

fire-place to destroy it in the flames. But, as he drew near the logs

that glowed and crackled on the hearth, his pace became slower and

slower, until he finally stood still, smoothed the crumpled paper, and

once more devoured its contents. Then he walked several times up and

down the apartment, with a hurried step. The three months that had

elapsed since Arthur de Mellay and Baron Steinfeld had met in the

stalls at the opera, had not passed over the head of Fatello without

producing a certain change in his appearance. He was thinner and

paler, his eyes were more sunken, and a dark line was pencilled

beneath them. The change, however, was not such as an indifferent

person would notice; it might proceed from many causes--from mental

labour, uneasiness, or grief, as well as from bodily disease--the idea

of which latter was unlikely to enter the head of a careless observer

of his massive frame and features, and of the general appearance of

great muscular strength, still remarkable in the ill-favoured

financier. Now, however, he was unusually pale and haggard. The letter

he still held in his hand had worked upon him like a malevolent charm,

hollowing his cheek and wrinkling his brow. For nearly half an hour he

continued his monotonous walk, alternately slackening and accelerating

his pace. At times he would come to a momentary halt, with the absent

air of one absorbed in working out a puzzling problem. At last he

opened a secretaire, touched a spring which made a secret drawer fly

open, placed in this drawer the letter that had so greatly disturbed

him, closed the desk, and, lighting a taper, took the direction of his

wife's sitting-room, in the opposite wing of the hotel.

Madame Fatello and Mademoiselle Sebastiana Gonfalon were equipped for

the ball and in readiness to depart. Between the two sisters, in whose

ages there was a difference of two years, so strong a resemblance

existed that they frequently were taken for twins. Exactly of the same

stature, they had the same large dark eyes, abundant hair, and brown

tint of skin, and the same mouth, not very small, but beautiful in

form, and adorned with teeth of dazzling whiteness. Both had the grace

and fascination for which their countrywomen are renowned. The chief

difference between them was in expression. Catalina was the more

serious of the two: her gravity sometimes verged upon sullenness, and

this was especially observable since she had been compelled to a

marriage repugnant to her feelings, but which she had lacked energy

and courage to resist. Her father would have found it a far less easy

task to force Sebastiana to a union opposed to her inclinations. As

high-spirited as her sister was irresolute, Mademoiselle Gonfalon was

one of those persons whose obstinacy is increased by every attempt at

coercion. Laughing and lively, amidst all her gay coquetries there

still was a decision in her classically moulded chin and slightly

compressed lip, and a something clandestine but resolute in her eye,

which a physiognomist would have interpreted as denoting a degree of

intelligence and a passionate strength of character denied by nature

to her feebler sister. Upon this evening, however, it might have been

thought the two young women had exchanged characters. Sebastiana, in

general all smiles and sprightliness, was thoughtful and preoccupied,

almost anxious; whilst the listless and melancholy Catalina had an

unusual appearance of gaiety and animation. Her cheek was flushed, her

eyes were brilliant, and she looked repeatedly at a jewelled

bijou-watch, as though she would fain have advanced the hour at which

she could with propriety make her entrance into Madame de M----'s

saloons.

The door opened and Fatello came in. By a powerful exertion of that

self-command which he possessed in no ordinary degree, he had banished

from his countenance nearly every trace of recent agitation. He was

perhaps a shade paler than usual, but his brow was unclouded, and his

uncouth countenance was lighted up by the most agreeable smile it

could assume.

"So, ladies," he said, with a liveliness that sat but clumsily upon

him; "you are armed for conquest. Accept my compliments on the

excellent taste of your costumes. They are really charming. If you are

detected, it will hardly be by your dress. Those loose robes and that

convenient cowl are the best possible disguises."

"All the better!" cried Sebastiana. "Nothing like the dear black

domino, under which you can be impertinent as you like, with scarce a

possibility of discovery. There will be fifty such dresses as ours in

the room."

"No doubt of it," replied her brother-in-law, thoughtfully. And his

piercing green-gray eye scanned the dominos that shrouded the graceful

figures of his wife and her sister. They were of plain black satin;

but the art of the maker had contrived to impart elegance to the

costume which, of all others, generally possesses it the least. The

two dresses were exactly alike, except that Catalina's was tied at the

wrists with lilac ribbons, whilst nothing broke the uniform blackness

of her sister's garb. Black gloves and masks, and two bouquets of

choice exotics, the masterpieces of the celebrated bouquetière of the

Madeleine boulevard, completed the ladies' equipment.

"I am sorry," said Fatello, "to deny myself the pleasure of

accompanying you to the Countess's fête; but I am behindhand with my

correspondence, and have received important letters, which I must

answer by the morning's post. My night, a part of it at least, will be

passed at the desk instead of in the ball-room."

There was nothing in this announcement to excite surprise; the tone

and manner in which it was made were perfectly natural; but,

nevertheless, Sebastiana Gonfalon darted a keen quick glance at her

brother-in-law, as though seeking in his words a double meaning or

disguised purpose. Madame Fatello showed neither surprise nor

disappointment, but, approaching a table, she took from a costly

basket of gold filagree, overflowing with cards and invitations, an

envelope containing three tickets for the masquerade. Selecting two of

them, she threw the third into the basket, and again looked at her

watch. At that moment the door opened, and her carriage was announced.

"Come, Sebastiana," said Madame Fatello, impatiently. "Good-night, M.

Fatello." And, with a slight bow to her husband, she passed into the

ante-room.

"Good-night, Sigismund," said Sebastiana. "Change your mind and follow

us."

"Impossible," said Fatello, with the same smiling countenance as

before.

Sebastiana followed her sister. Fatello lingered a few moments in the

drawing-room, and then returned to his study. As he entered it, he

heard the roll of the carriage-wheels driving out of the court.

The masquerade given by the Countess de M---- was that kind of

magnificent and extraordinary entertainment which forms _the_ event of

the year in which it occurs; which is long held up as a pattern to

gala-givers, and as marking a red-letter epoch in the annals of

fashion and pleasure. Nothing was spared to make it in all respects

perfect. An entire floor of the Countess's vast mansion had been

cleared, for the occasion, of all superfluous furniture; three

splendid saloons were appropriated to dancing; two others, equally

spacious, to refreshments. In these, the appetites of the guests had

been richly catered for. One was the coffee-house, the other the

_restaurant_. In the former, on a multitude of small marble tables, a

regiment of attentive waiters served ices and sherbets, wine and

chocolate, coffee and liqueurs. In the latter, tables were laid for

supper, and upon each of them lay a printed bill of fare, where the

hungry made their selection from a list of the most delicate dishes,

whose appearance followed the order with a celerity that would have

done honour to the best-appointed hotel in Paris. A long, wide

gallery, and some smaller rooms, were used as a promenade, where the

company freely circulated. In a music-hall, a strong party of

professional singers kept up an unceasing concert for the

entertainment of all comers; and in a chamber fitted up as a tent, an

Italian juggler, with peaked beard, and in antique costume of black

velvet, performed tricks of extraordinary novelty and ingenuity. Every

part and corner of this magnificent suite of apartments was lighted _a

giorno_, draped with coloured silks and muslins, and enlivened by a

profusion of tall mirrors, multiplying tenfold the fantastical figures

of the maskers and the flame of the countless _bougies_. Many hundreds

of porcelain vases, containing the choicest plants, forced prematurely

into flower, and all remarkable for brilliancy of colour or fragrance

of perfume, lined the broad corridors and the recesses of the windows,

which latter were further filled by admirably executed transparencies,

forming a series of views from the Italian lakes. The whole resembled

a scene from fairyland, or an enchanted palace, raised by the wand of

some benevolent gnome for the delectation of the sons and daughters of

mortality. If the entertainment was of unparalleled magnificence, the

appearance of the guests did it no discredit. Tasteful and ingeniously

devised costumes crowded the apartments; history and romance had been

ransacked for characters; the most costly materials had been lavishly

employed in the composition of dresses for that one night's diversion.

All was glitter of jewels, wave of plumes, and rustle of rich

brocades. In diamonds alone, an emperor's ransom was displayed; and

more than one fair masker bore upon her neck and arms, and graceful

head, the annual revenue of half-a-dozen German princes.

As Sebastiana had predicted, there was a considerable sprinkling of

dominos amongst the motley throng; and as usual, of those who had

selected that dress, more favourable to concealment and intrigue than

to display of personal graces or costly ornaments, at least one half

had preferred black to any other colour. These latter seemed the

subject of the particular attention of one of their number, who, soon

after twelve o'clock, made his appearance in the ball-room. Impatience

to share in the much-talked-of fête, had rendered the invited

punctual; by that hour nearly all had arrived, and in such numbers

that the rooms, though so large and numerous, were crowded at least as

much as was convenient and consistent with circulation. Hence the

black domino was frequently impeded in the rapid movements he

commenced whenever one of his own species--that is to say, a domino of

the same colour--caught his eye, movements which had for their object

to meet or overtake the person of garb similar to his own. On such

occasions, so great was his impatience, that in a public ball-room he

would surely have incurred a quarrel by the somewhat too vigorous use

he made of his elbows. But Madame de M----'s well-bred guests merely

shrugged their shoulders, and wondered who the _man-ant_ could be who

thus imported into their élite society the unceremonious usages of an

opera-house masquerade. The black domino heeded not their mute

wonderment, nor cared for the unfavourable impression he might leave

upon the ribs and the minds of those he jostled. He was evidently

looking for somebody, and however discouraging the task of seeking one

particular black domino in a crowded masquerade, where there were two

or three score of them, he persevered, in spite of repeated

disappointments. At last it seemed as if success had rewarded his

constancy. With the suddenness and certainty of a well-broken pointer,

he came to a dead stop at sight of a black satin domino leaning on the

arm of an elegant Hungarian hussar. To the steps of this couple he

thenceforward attached himself. Whithersoever they went, he followed,

keeping at sufficient distance to prevent their noticing his pursuit;

regulating his pace by theirs, but occasionally accelerating it so as

to pass them, and lingering for a second when close at their side, as

if trying to distinguish the tones of their voices, or to catch a few

words of their discourse. Whilst thus engaged, he did not observe that

he had himself become an object of attention to a third black domino,

who, previously to him, had been dogging, but at greater distance, and

with still more precaution than he observed, the steps of the hussar

and his companion. The curiosity and caution of domino No. 3, appeared

to receive fresh stimulus from the apparition of a rival observer,

over whose movements he kept careful watch, but from afar, and

concealed as much as possible amongst the crowd, somewhat after the

fashion in which the Red Indian observes, from his shelter amidst the

trees of the forest, the movements of the hunter, who himself watches

from an ambush the course of a herd of deer.

The only portion of the apartments thrown open to the maskers that was

not rendered light as day by a profusion of wax candles, was a vast

conservatory, the entrance to which was through two large French

windows, opening out of one of the dancing rooms. Paved with a mosaic

of divers-coloured marbles and fanciful device, it contained a choice

collection of exotics and evergreens, of such remarkable size and

beauty, that the topmost leaves of many of them rustled against the

elevated glass roof. These trees and shrubs were so arranged as to

form a sort of miniature labyrinth, upon whose paths a mild light was

thrown by lamps of coloured glass suspended to the branches. This

illumination, although ample to guide the steps of the promenaders

between the verdant and flowering hedges, seemed but a twilight, from

its contrast with the broad glare of the adjoining apartments. The

change from a strong to a subdued light had been purposely contrived

by the judicious arrangers of the fête, as a relief for eyes wearied

by the brilliancy of the ball-room. As yet, however, few persons

seemed eager for the transition, and the conservatory was little

resorted to except at the close of a dance, when its comparatively

fresh atmosphere was gladly sought.

Quadrilles had just commenced in all the dancing-rooms, when the

Hungarian hussar and his domino, making their way slowly and with some

difficulty in rear of the dancers, took refuge in the conservatory

from the din of music and pressure of the crowd. They were evidently

so absorbed in their conversation, so much alone in the midst of the

multitude, that their eternal pursuer ventured unusually near to them,

and was close at their heels when they passed through the glass door.

Then, instead of continuing to follow them, he struck into another

path, which ran nearly parallel to the one they took. On reaching a

circle of beautiful arbutus, whose white bells and bright strawberries

gleamed like pearls and blood-drops in the light of the purple lamps

that hung amongst them, the hussar and his companion paused beside a

porphyry basin, supported by a sculptured pedestal of the same

material. For a few moments they stood silent, gazing at the goldfish

that swam their monotonous circle in the basin; and at the little

fountain that spouted up in its centre. Then, leaning upon the edge of

the vase, they resumed their conversation in tones less guarded than

before, for here they might almost consider themselves alone--the few

groups and couples sauntering in the conservatory being too much

engrossed in their own discourse to heed that of others. The Hungarian

removed his mask, still, however, holding it ready to apply to his

face in case of intrusion; whilst the domino contented herself with

raising the silken beard of hers, to allow the musical tones

proceeding from a pair of rosy and youthful lips to fall more clearly

upon her companion's ear. Thus they continued a conversation

apparently of deep interest to both, and which they suspended only

when some passing party of masks lingered for an instant beside the

fountain, until the end of the quadrille brought a throng of dancers

into the conservatory. Then they left the place, and sauntered back

into the ball-room.

Meanwhile the third domino watched the conservatory doors with a

lynx-eyed vigilance worthy a pupil of the celebrated Vidocq. Although

the loose black dress might have covered either a short man or a woman

of the middle stature, the delicacy of the gloved fingers, and of the

tiny foot that peeped from below its border, left little doubt as to

the sex of its wearer. From a convenient position on the steps leading

up to an orchestra, the fringe of her mask confined by her hand, so as

to prohibit even a glimpse of her ivory chin, she subjected to a rigid

scrutiny all who issued from the conservatory. Suddenly, from the door

nearest to her, the hussar and his companion made their appearance,

and, as they passed, she shrouded herself behind the portly figure and

sumptuous embroideries of a Venetian doge. Then she resumed her watch,

and a minute had not elapsed when she saw the tall black domino, whom

she had observed during the evening, re-enter the dancing-room and

make his way as fast as the crowd would allow him to the nearest door

of exit, with a hurried and irregular step, hardly to be explained

otherwise than by sudden illness or violent emotion. She followed him

to the head of the staircase, down which he rushed, disappearing at

its foot through the crowd of lackeys in the hall. Having seen this,

she re-entered the ball-room, sought out the hussar and his companion,

and soon afterwards was whirling with the former in the giddy circles

of a waltz.

Some hours later, as the Hungarian retired from the ball, almost

borne along in the dense stream of masks that now flowed through the

rooms, he felt a momentary pressure of his hand. A paper remained in

its palm, upon which his fingers mechanically closed. Amidst the

ever-moving throng it was impossible to detect the person from whom he

had received it. By this time a large portion of the company,

oppressed by the heat, had unmasked, but he knew none of the faces he

saw around him, whilst of those who had preserved their vizards he

could fix on none as object of suspicion. So soon as he could

extricate himself from the crowd, he unfolded the paper. It contained

the following mysterious words, hastily scrawled with a pencil:--

"One whom you think asleep wakes and watches. He is here; has followed

and overheard you, and will seek revenge. Be prepared. Proof is

difficult: denial may be safety. Adopt it at all risks. Masked, the

sisters are undistinguishable. Credit this warning from a sincere

friend."

* * * * *

Thrice the Hungarian perused this mysterious billet; and then,

thrusting it into the breast of his richly braided jacket, slowly left

the house.

CHAP. III.--THE ACCUSATION.

The house selected by Baron Ernest von Steinfeld, wherein to pass what

might possibly be his last season in Paris, was situated in the Rue St

Lazare. It was one of those buildings, of frequent occurrence in

modern Parisian architecture, which seem intended to gratify the taste

of such persons as prefer the English fashion of occupying an entire

house, to the French one of dwelling upon a floor. At the bottom of a

paved court-yard, around three sides of which was built a large

mansion containing many tenants, stood one of those edifices known in

French parlance as pavilions--not that they possess a dome, resemble a

tent, or, for the most part, have any of the qualities of a

summer-house, but because, in Paris, the term "house" is grudgingly

bestowed upon a building of less than five stories and thirty or forty

rooms. This pavilion had but three stories and a dozen rooms; it was a

particularly complete and independent habitation, standing well back

from the body of the house, under whose number it was included, and of

which, although detached, it was considered to form part; and having

two entrances, one through the court, the other from a lane running at

right angles with the street. The ground-floor contained, besides a

light and commodious vestibule and servant's offices, only one

apartment, a handsome dining-room, in which, however, it was

impossible, for three quarters of the year, to dine without lamps--the

daylight admitted by its one broad window being greatly limited by the

walls of a nook of garden, and by the impending branches of a laburnum

and acacia, which mingled their boughs in affectionate union, twin

lords of a square yard of grass, and of a fathom's length of

flower-bed, and in the spring-time rejoiced the inmates of the

pavilion with the odorous rustle of their yellow clusters and

rose-coloured blossoms. The first floor contained two pleasant

drawing-rooms and a boudoir; the second, bath, bed, and dressing

rooms. The roof, flat and surrounded by a parapet, commanded a view

over the adjacent gardens of an extensive bathing establishment and

_maison de santé_, and was no unpleasant resort, on a fine day, for

persons desirous to inhale the fresh air, or to scent it with the

fumes of Havana's weed. This pavilion, described by the _Petites

Affiches_ as _fraîchement décoré_--the said decoration consisting in

fresh paint and paper, and in a profusion of that cheerful French

luxury, large and excellent mirrors--was rented for six months by

Baron Steinfeld, who had hired, for the same period, from a

fashionable upholsterer--for a sum which would almost have furnished

the house permanently in a plainer manner--a complete set of

furniture, against whose perfect elegance and good taste not a

syllable could be breathed. His establishment was as correct as his

residence. It consisted, in the first place, of a French cook, with

whose sauces Arthur de Mellay had repeatedly expressed his willingness

to eat a fragment of his father; which offer--considering the worthy

count had been a guardsman in the time of Louis XVI., and,

consequently, was neither young nor tender--was certainly a high

testimonial to the merits of sauce and cook. Then came an Italian

valet, quite as skilful a personage in his way as the professor of

gastronomic science--speaking three or four languages, accumulating in

his own individuality the knowledge and acquirements of a legion of

hairdressers, tailors, perfumers, and the like--thoroughly versed in

the arcana of the toilet, a secretary in case of need, and a perfect

Mercury in matters of intrigue. The third person of Steinfeld's

household, the last, and also by much the least--physically speaking,

that is to say, but by no means in his own estimation--was one of

those miniature tigers, (copied from the English, and essential

appendages to the establishment of a Paris lion,) who look as if they

had been subjected to that curious Chinese process by which lofty

shrubs and forest trees are stunted to dimensions that permit the

plantation of a grove in a flower-pot--wizen-faced, top-booted

abortions, uniting the mischief and the proportions of a monkey, and

frightfully precocious in every species of villany. The house also

contained, during the day, an old Frenchwoman, of a species indigenous

and confined to Paris--the patient butt of the cook's ill-humours and

of the groom's pranks, with bearded chin and slipshod feet, and

willing for any sort of dirty work, from the scouring of a kettle to

the administration of the remedy renowned in French pharmacy.

It was an hour past noon on the day succeeding the Countess of M----'s

masquerade, and Steinfeld sat alone at breakfast. It were more correct

to say that he sat at the breakfast table; for the savoury meal before

him was still untasted, and he seemed in no haste to attack it. In

vain the green oysters from Ostend lay invitingly open, and one of

Chevet's pies displayed, through a triangular aperture in its crust,

the tender tints of an exquisite _foie-gras_--the result of the

martyrdom of some unhappy Strasburg duck; in vain a fragrant steam of

truffles oozed from beneath the covers of two silver dishes, fresh

from the laboratory of Macedoine the cook, and mingled its odours with

the flowery aroma of a bottle of Sauterne, from which Rufini the valet

had just extracted the long yellow-sealed cork. Apparently, none of

these creature-comforts dwelt in the desires of the baron, who sat

sideways to the table, his chin resting on his hand, gazing upon

vacancy with an intenseness bespeaking deep preoccupation. One

acquainted with Steinfeld's circumstances would have hesitated little

in conjecturing the nature of the unpleasant reflections in which he

seemed absorbed. They might very well have for motive the unprosperous

state of his exchequer, the heavy incumbrances weighing upon the

hereditary acres, the approaching decease of that convenient but

fickle ally, on whose succour half the world exist, and whose name is

Credit. The baron had been any thing but a prudent man. Too careless

of the future, he had neglected fortune when she offered herself to

his embrace; and now she revenged herself by averting her countenance.

Of high descent and fair estate, handsome person and fascinating

manners, for some years Steinfeld might have aspired to the hand of

almost any heiress in Vienna or Paris. Numerous were the matrimonial

overtures that had been more or less directly made to him, at a time

when, in love with his bachelorhood, and celebrated for his _bonnes

fortunes_, he looked upon the bonds of Hymen as the most oppressive of

fetters, intolerable even when sheathed in gold. The matchmakers,

repulsed without exception, at last renounced all further attempts

upon the hand of the handsome Austrian--as Steinfeld was generally

called in Paris--and declared him an incorrigible partisan of

celibacy. To the unmolested enjoyment of his bachelor bliss the baron

was for some years left, until one morning he awoke to the

disagreeable consciousness that profuse expenditure had done its

work, and that ruin or a rich marriage were the only alternatives left

him. He was fully alive to the difficulties placed in the way of the

latter by the change in his circumstances. His ancient name and

personal advantages remained, but his fair estate was in the hands of

the harpies; and however disposed romantic young ladies might be to

overlook this misfortune, prudent papas would deem it a serious

stumbling-block. Then it was that, roused by horrid visions of

approaching poverty from his usual state of happy _insouciance_, the

baron gathered together the relics of his past opulence, squeezed and

exhausted every remaining resource, and, assuming a bold front against

bad fortune, returned to Paris, with much the feelings of the soldier

who screws up all his energies to conquer or to die. It was no

apprehension, however, as to the result of this final struggle--no

nervous trepidation arising from the imminence of his situation, that

now clouded Steinfeld's brow and spoiled his appetite. On the

contrary, he deemed victory secure, and beheld himself, in no remote

perspective, emerging triumphantly from his difficulties, even as a

snake, casting its shabby skin, reappears in glittering scales of

gold. He had not wasted the three months he had passed in Paris, and

was well satisfied with the result of his exertions. His present

uneasiness had a different origin--one similar to the cause by which,

some fifteen hours previously, we saw Sigismund Fatello so deeply

moved. The baron turned and twisted in his hand a letter, to whose

contents he again and again recurred, pondering them intently. Like

that received by the banker, the billet was anonymous; like his, it

contained but three or four lines; but, despite its brevity and want

of authenticity, it proved, on the part of the writer, whoever that

might be, an acquaintance with the baron's most important secret, that

did not fail greatly to disquiet him. Who had thus detected what he

deemed so surely concealed? He strained his eyes and memory, in vain

endeavouring to recognise the handwriting; and, more than once,

fancying he had done so, he fetched notes and letters from a desk in

the adjoining boudoir, to compare them with the anonymous epistle. But

the comparison always dissipated his suspicion. Then, taking a pen,

and a diminutive sheet of amber-scented paper, he began a note, but

tore the paper after writing only three words, and threw the fragments

impatiently into the fire. Just then the pavilion bell rang loudly;

the next minute there was a knock at the room door, and Celestin the

tiger made his appearance, bearing a card inscribed with the name of

M. Sigismund Fatello, and an inquiry whether Monsieur le Baron was at

home and visible.

On reading the banker's name, Steinfeld made a slight and sudden

movement, almost amounting to a start, but, instantly recovering

himself, he bade his groom show the visitor up stairs. At the same

time he hastily seated himself, ordered Rufini to take off the covers,

poured some wine into a glass, and helped himself from the first dish

that came to hand; so that when Fatello, ushered in by the groom,

entered the apartment, he had all the appearance of one whose whole

faculties were concentrated, for the time being, in the enjoyment of

an excellent meal. Rising from his chair, with an air of jovial

cordiality, he hastened to welcome the banker.

"An unexpected pleasure, my dear Fatello," said he. "What favourable

chance procures me so early a visit? You are come to breakfast, I

hope. Rufini, a knife and fork for M. Fatello."

"I have breakfasted, M. le Baron," replied Fatello, with a dryness

amounting almost to incivility. "If my call is untimely, my business

is pressing----and private," he added, with a glance at the Italian,

who stood in respectful immobility behind his master's chair.

"Leave the room, Rufini," said Steinfeld.

The well-drilled valet bowed in silence, and glided noiselessly from

the apartment.

"Now then, my good friend," said the Austrian, in the same gay offhand

tone as before, "I am all ear and attention. What is up? Nothing bad,

I hope; nothing so serious as to spoil my appetite. I have heard a

proverb condemning discourse between a full man and a hungry one."

Fatello made no immediate reply. There was something very peculiar in

his aspect. His lips were pale and compressed, and his brows slightly

knit. He seemed constraining himself to silence until he felt he could

speak calmly on a subject which roused anger and indignation in his

breast. Whilst seemingly engrossed by his breakfast, Steinfeld lost

not a look or motion of his visitor's, not a line of his physiognomy,

or a glance of his small piercing eye. And the baron, notwithstanding

his assumed careless levity of manner, did not feel altogether at his

ease.

"You have not turned conspirator, I hope," said he, when Fatello,

after a short but awkward pause, still remained silent. "No

Henri-quinquist plot, or plan to restore the glorious days of the

guillotine and the Goddess of Liberty? No, no; a Crœus of your

calibre, my dear Fatello, would not mix in such matters. Your plotters

are hungry dogs, with more debts than ducats. Talking of hunger--I am

grieved you have breakfasted. This mushroom omelet does honour to

Macedoine."

The baron would have talked on,--for at that moment any sort of babble

seemed to him preferable to silence. But Fatello, who had not heard a

word he had said, suddenly rose from his seat, rested his hands upon

the table, and leaning forward, with eyes sternly fixed upon

Steinfeld, uttered these remarkable words, in tones rendered harsh and

grating by the effort that made them calm:

"Monsieur le Baron de Steinfeld, you are courting my wife!"

The most expert physiognomist would have failed to detect upon the

countenance of the ex-diplomatist any other expression than one of

profound astonishment, tinged by that glow of indignation an innocent

man would be likely to feel at an unfounded accusation, abruptly and

brutally brought. After sustaining for a few seconds Fatello's fixed

and angry gaze, his features relaxed into a slightly contemptuous

smile.

"The jest is surely in questionable taste, my dear M. Fatello. And the

severity of your countenance might alarm a man with a conscience less

clear than mine."

"I jest not, sir, with my honour and happiness," retorted Fatello,

with a rude fierceness that brought a flush to the baron's cheek--a

flame of anger which the next moment, however, dispelled.

"Then, my dear M. Fatello," said Steinfeld, "since, instead of a bad

jest, you mean sober earnest, I can only say you are grossly

misinformed, and that your suspicions are as injurious to Madame

Fatello, as your manner of expressing them is insulting to myself."

"I have no suspicions," replied Fatello, "but a certainty."

"Impossible!" said the baron. "Name my accuser. He shall account for

the base calumny."

"He desires no better," replied Fatello, sternly. "I myself accuse

you. No slanderous tongues, but my own ears, are evidence against you.

And yourself, sir, shall confess what you now so stubbornly deny. You

were at last night's masquerade."

"I was so."

"In hussar uniform--crimson vest and white pelisse."

Steinfeld bowed assent. "The uniform of the regiment to which I

formerly belonged."

"A black domino was on your arm."

"_Ma foi!_" cried the baron, with a laugh that sounded rather forced,

"if you demand an account of all the masks I walked and danced with, I

shall hardly be able to satisfy you. Dominos there were, doubtless;

and, of all colours, black amongst the rest."

"You equivocate, sir," said Fatello, angrily. "I will aid your memory.

The domino I mean was your companion early in the night. The domino I

mean danced once with you, (a waltz,) and afterwards walked with you

through the rooms, in deep conversation. The domino I mean stood with

you for more than ten minutes beside the fountain in the conservatory.

The domino I mean was my wife; and you, Baron Steinfeld, are a

villain!"

During this singular conversation Steinfeld had sat, leaning back in

his large elbow-chair, in an attitude of easy indifference--one

slippered foot thrown carelessly over the other, and his hands thrust

into the pockets of his damask dressing-gown. On receiving this last

outrageous insult, his lip blanched with passion, his whole person

quivered as with an electric shock, and he half rose from his

semi-recumbent position. But the baron was a man of vast self-command;

one of those cool-headed cool-hearted egotists who rarely act upon

impulse, or compromise their interests by ill-timed impetuosity. The

first choleric movement, prompting him to throw Fatello down stairs,

was checked with wonderful promptitude, and with little appearance of

effort. In reality, however, the effort was a violent one. As a

soldier at the triangles bites a bullet with the rage of pain, so

Steinfeld clenched his hands till the strong sharp nails almost cut

into the palm. As he did so, a paper in his pocket rustled against his

knuckles. It was the note so mysteriously conveyed to him at the

masquerade, and which he had been pondering when Fatello was

announced. To one so quick-witted, the mere touch of the paper was as

suggestive as a volume of sage counsels. In an instant every sign of

annoyance disappeared from his features; he rose quietly from his

seat, and with easy dignity and an urbane countenance, confronted

Fatello, who stood gloomy and lowering before the fire.

"I see, M. Fatello," he said, "that you are bent upon our cutting each

other's throats; but, strange as it may seem, after the terms you have

employed, I still hope to avert the unpleasant necessity. For one

moment moderate your language, and give me time for brief explanation.

If I rightly understand you, it is from your own observations you thus

accuse me; and I presume you did me the honour of a personal

surveillance at last night's ball?"

Fatello, his violence checked for the moment from further outbreak by

the baron's courtesy and coolness, made a gesture of sullen assent.

"And that you overheard a part, but not the whole, of my conversation

with the black domino in question?"

"I heard enough, and too much," replied Fatello, with a savage scowl

at his interlocutor. "This is idle talk, mere gain of time. Baron

Steinfeld!" cried the banker, in a voice that again rose high above

its usual pitch, "you are----"

"Stop!" interrupted Steinfeld, speaking very quickly, but with an

extraordinary and commanding calmness, which again had its effect.

"Descend not to invective, M. Fatello. There is always time for

violence. Hear reason. You are in error, an error easily explained. I

certainly saw Madame Fatello at the ball, saw and spoke with

her--patience, sir, and hear me! But the domino, of my conversation

with whom you heard a part, was _not_ Madame Fatello, but Mademoiselle

Gonfalon. You take little interest in the frivolities of a masquerade,

and are possibly unaware that the two ladies' dresses were exactly

similar. You can have heard our conversation but imperfectly, or you

would not have wronged me by this suspicion."

Whilst uttering these last sentences, Steinfeld redoubled the keenness

of the scrutiny with which he regarded the banker's uncomely and

agitated physiognomy. But although piquing himself, as a former

diplomatist, on skill in reading men's thoughts through their faces,

he was unable to decipher the expression of Fatello's countenance on

receiving this plausible explanation of the error into which he had

been led by the sisters' identity of costume. As he proceeded with it,

the banker's lips, slightly parting, gave his face an air of stupefied

wonderment, in addition to its previously inflamed and angry aspect.

When Steinfeld concluded an explanation uttered with every appearance

of sincerity and candour, and in that flexible and affable tone which,

when he chose to employ it, imparted to his words a peculiarly

seductive and persuasive charm, Fatello's lips were again firmly

closed, and curled with a curious and inexplicable smile. This faded

away; he struck his left hand against his forehead, and remained for

some moments plunged in thought, as if he hastily retraced in his

memory what he had heard the night before, to see how it tallied with

the explanation just given him. Thus, at least, Steinfeld interpreted

his manner; and although the Austrian's countenance preserved its

serenity, his heart throbbed violently against his ribs during the

banker's brief cogitation. The result of this was evidently

satisfactory to Fatello, from whose brow, when his hand again dropped

by his side, the lowering cloud had disappeared, replaced by

affability and regret.

"I see," he said, with better grace than might have been expected from

him, and taking a step towards Steinfeld, "that nothing remains for me

but to implore your pardon, baron, for my unwarrantable suspicions,

and for the harsh and unbecoming expressions into which they betrayed

me. Jealousy is an evil counsellor, and blinds to the simplest truths.

I scarce dare hope you will forgive my intemperate conduct, without

exacting the hostile meeting for which I was just now as eager as I at

present am to avoid it. If you insist, I must not refuse, but I give

you my word that if I have a duel with you to-day, nothing shall

induce me to depart from the defensive."

"I should be unreasonable," replied Steinfeld graciously, "if I

exacted ampler satisfaction than this handsome apology, for what,

after all, was no unnatural misconception. Ten years ago, I might have

been more punctilious, but after three or four encounters of the kind,

a duel avoided, when its real motive is removed, is a credit to a

man's good sense, and no slur upon his courage."

"No one will ever attack yours, my dear baron," said Fatello. "I only

hope you will always keep what has passed between us this morning as

profound a secret as I, for my own sake, certainly shall do. I am by

no means disposed to boast of my part in the affair."

Steinfeld bowed politely, and the two men exchanged, with smiles upon

their faces, a cordial grasp of the hand.

"Out of evil cometh good," said the banker sententiously, subsiding

upon the silken cushions of a _causeuse_ that extended its arms

invitingly at the chimney-corner. "I am delighted to find that the

leaden bullet I anticipated exchanging with you is likely to be

converted into a golden ring, establishing so near a connexion between

us as to render our fighting a duel one of the least probable things

in the world. My dear baron, I shall rejoice to call you

brother-in-law."

"It would be a great honour for me," replied Steinfeld, "but you

over-rate the probability of my enjoying it. Nothing has passed

between Mademoiselle Gonfalon and myself to warrant my reckoning on

her preference."

"Tush, tush! baron," said Fatello, apparently not heeding, or not

noticing the somewhat supercilious turn of Steinfeld's phrases, "you

forget the new and not very creditable occupation to which the demons

of jealousy and suspicion last night condemned me. You forget that I

tracked you in the promenade, and lay in ambush by the fountain, or

you would hardly put me off with such tales as these."

The baron winced imperceptibly on being thus reminded how closely his

movements had been watched.

"You are evidently new at the profession of a scout," said he

jestingly, "or you would have caught more correctly my conversation

with your amiable sister-in-law. Mademoiselle Gonfalon is a charming

person; the mask gives a certain license to flirtation, and a partial

hearing of what passed between us has evidently misled you as to its

precise import."

"Not a bit of it!" cried Fatello, with an odd laugh--"I heard better

than you think, I assure you; and what I did hear quite satisfied me

that you are a smitten man, and that Sebastiana is well disposed to

favour your suit."

"I must again protest," said Steinfeld, expressing himself with some

embarrassment, "that the thought of becoming Mademoiselle Gonfalon's

husband, great as the honour would be, has never yet been seriously

entertained by me; and that, however you may have been misled by the

snatches of our conversation you overheard, nothing ever passed

between us exceeding the limits of allowable flirtation--the not

unnatural consequence of Mademoiselle Sebastiana's fascinating

vivacity, and of the agreeable footing of intimacy on which, for the

last three months, I have found admittance at your hospitable house."

Sigismund Fatello preserved, whilst the baron waded through the

intricacies of his artificial and complicated denial, a half-smile of

polite but total incredulity.