Paula Monti; or, The Hôtel Lambert

PAULA MONTI:

OR,

THE HÔTEL LAMBERT.

BY

M. EUGÈNE SUE

From the French

BY

THE TRANSLATOR OF THE "MYSTERIES OF PARIS," AND THE
"WANDERING JEW."

WITH TWENTY ENGRAVINGS,

UNDER THE SUPERINTENDENCE OF MR. CHARLES HEATH,

FROM DESIGNS BY JULES DAVID.

LONDON:

CHAPMAN AND HALL, 186 STRAND

1845

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

I. [THE OPERA-BALL]
II. [A RENDEZVOUS]
III. [THE DOMINO]
IV. [PAULA MONTI]
V. [THE EXPLANATION]
VI. [M. DE BRÉVANNES]
VII. [MADAME DE BRÉVANNES]
VIII. [THE RETURN]
IX. [THE RECITAL]
X. [THE PRINCE DE HANSFELD]
XI. [THE FATHER AND DAUGHTER]
XII. [THE FATHER-IN-LAW AND SON-IN-LAW]
XIII. [A FIRST REPRESENTATION]
XIV. [DRESS CIRCLE.—BOX NO. 7]
XV. [DRESS CIRCLE.—BOX NO. 29]
XVI. [FRIENDS IN THE STALLS]
XVII. [BETWEEN THE ACTS.—BOX NUMBER VII]
XVIII. [AFTER THE PLAY]
XIX. [THE "POSTE RESTANTE."]
XX. [THE EMISSARY]
XXI. [THE INTERVIEW]
XXII. [THE MEETING]
XXIII. [UNHAPPINESS]
XXIV. [DISCOVERY]
XXV. [ANGUISH]
XXVI. [THE BLACK BOOK]
XXVII. [DETACHED THOUGHTS]
XXVIIII. [ARNOLD AND BERTHA]
XXIX. [INTIMACY]
XXX. [RECITAL]
XXXI. [THREATS]
XXXII. [REFLECTIONS]
XXXIII. [THE INTERROGATORY]
XXXIV. [REVELATIONS]
XXXV. [CONFESSIONS]
XXXVI. [THE RENDEZVOUS]
XXXVII. [PROPOSITION]
XXXVIII. [CORRESPONDENCE]
XXXIX. [THE MARRIAGE]
XL. [THE BLACK BOOK]
XLI. [A CONVERSATION]
XLII. [RESOLUTION]
XLIII. [THE PIN]
XLIV. [DECISION]
XLV. [WILD-FOWL SHOOTING]
XLVI. [THE CHÂTEAU DE BRÉVANNES]
XLVII. [THE CHÂLET]
XLVIII. [THE DOUBLE MURDER]
XLIX. [EXPLANATIONS]

PAULA MONTI

CHAPTER I

[THE OPERA-BALL]

In 1837 the Opera-ball in Paris was not as yet entirely invaded by that mob of wild and crazed dancers, chicards[1] and chicandards (as they style themselves), who, in the present day, have almost entirely driven from these assemblies the old traditions for mystification, and that tone of good society which did not detract from the piquancy of adventure.

Then, as now, the fashionables of the day congregated around a large chest, placed in the corridor of the first circle of boxes, between the two doors of the Opera "crush-room."

The privileged made a seat of this chest, and frequently shared it with certain sprightly dominoes, who were not always of the haut ton, but who knew it well enough by hearsay to be able to chatter scandal as fluently as the most scandalous.

At the last ball in the month of January 1837, about two o'clock in the morning, a tolerably large party of men were collected round a female in a domino, seated on the chest to which we have alluded.

Loud bursts of laughter hailed the sallies of this lady. She was not deficient in wit, but certain vulgar expressions, and the manner of tutoiement which she employed, proved that she did not appertain to the leading circles; although she appeared perfectly well informed as to all that passed in the highest and most exclusive society.

They were still laughing at one of the last smart comments of this domino, when, looking towards a young man who was passing through the corridor with great haste to enter the "crush-room," this female said,—

"Good evening, Fierval! whither so fast? you appear in great haste. Are you seeking the lovely Princess de Hansfeld, to whom you pay such constant attention? You will lose your time, I can assure you. She is not the woman to come to an Opera-ball—her virtue is of the old-fashioned sort; and you will all but singe your wings in the flame, like delicate butterflies."

M. de Fierval paused, and replied, with a smile,—

"Lovely mask, I will own that I do greatly admire the Princess de Hansfeld; but I am too humble an individual to have the slightest pretension to be noticed by her."

"Ah, indeed, what a formal and respectful tone! why one would say that you were in hopes that the princess would hear you!"

"I never speak of Madame de Hansfeld but with that respect with which she inspires all the world!" was M. de Fierval's reply.

"Perhaps you think I am the princess?"

"To make that possible, charming mask, you require her figure, which you certainly have not yet attained."

"Madame de Hansfeld at an Opera-ball!" said one of the loungers of the group that surrounded the domino; "that would, indeed, be something singular!"

"Why so?" inquired the domino.

"She lives too far off—at the Hôtel Lambert, fronting the Ile Louviers—almost as far off as London."

"That jest on the forsaken quarters is worn threadbare," replied the domino. "The truth is, that Madame de Hansfeld is too great a prude to be guilty of such a folly; she whom one sees every day at church—"

"But the Opera-ball was only invented in order that once a-year, at least, it should conceal the folly of prudes," said a new comer who had mingled with the circle unnoticed.

This personage was accosted with loud exclamations of surprise.

"What you, Brévannes! why, where did you spring from?"

"Oh, no doubt, just arrived from Lorraine."

"Here you are again, eh, you sad fellow?"

"His first visit is to the Opera! but that is quite de règle."

"He comes to see his ancient rollicking acquaintances."

"Or to learn news of them."

"He has been out to grass on his country estates."

"And no doubt has greatly profited by the 'run!'"

"They will not know him again in the green-room."

"I'll bet a wager that he has left his wife in the country, in order that he may more easily lead a bachelor's life here."

"This is the usual termination to your love-matches."

"Brévannes, we have made all arrangements for a little supper this evening."

"You'll come, of course! for then we can tell you all that has been, and has not been, done in Paris during your exile."

M. de Brévannes was a man about five-and-thirty, of dark complexion, almost olive-coloured; his features, which were regular, had a singular expression of energy: his hair, his eyebrows, and his beard, were of jet-black, and gave his face an air of sternness; his manners were easy and gentlemanly; and he was dressed simply, but in the best possible taste.

After having listened to the numberless salutations with which his friends accosted him, M. de Brévannes said, laughingly,—

"Now I will try and reply, since you give me an opportunity at last, and my reply shall not be, by any means, a tedious one. I am just come from Lorraine, and I am a better husband than you give me credit for—I have brought my wife back to Paris with me."

"Perhaps Madame de Brévannes might have thought you a better husband still if you had left her in Lorraine," said the domino; "but you are too jealous to do that."

"Indeed!" replied M. de Brévannes, looking at the mask with curiosity; "I am jealous, am I?"

"As jealous as obstinate! and that's the fact."

"The fact is," said M. de Fierval, "that when this fellow, Brévannes, takes any thing in his head——"

"Why, it stays there!" said M. de Brévannes, laughing: "I deserve to be a Breton. And since, charming mask, you know me so well, you must know my motto, 'vouloir c'est pouvoir' (to will is to be able to do).

"And as you are afraid, that in her turn, your wife may also prove to you that vouloir c'est pouvoir, why you are as jealous of her as a tiger."

"Jealous?—I? well, now you are praising me. I really do not deserve such an eulogium."

"It is no eulogium, for you are as unfaithful as you are jealous; or, if you like it better, as haughty as you are inconstant. Oh! it was a fine thing to make a love-match, and marry a daughter of the middle classes! Poor Bertha Raimond! I am sure she pays dearly enough for what the fools call her elevation!" said the domino, with much irony.

M. de Brévannes frowned almost imperceptibly; but the cloud passed quickly, and he added, gaily,—

"Charming mask, you are mistaken; my wife is the happiest of women, I am the happiest of men, and thus our ménage offers no hold for the fangs of slander. But do not talk any more of one who was but a fashion of the year that is past."

"You are too modest. You are always, at least, so says slander, the very pink of fashion. Would you rather that we should talk of your journey to Italy?"

M. de Brévannes repressed a fresh impulse of impatience. The domino seemed to know precisely all the vulnerable points of the man she was mystifying.

"Come, cruel mask," replied M. de Brévannes, "at least be generous, and immolate a few other victims. You seem to be very well informed, be so kind as tell me the news of the day. Who are the women most in vogue? do their adorers of last season still sigh at their feet? have they undergone with impunity the proofs of absence, summer, and travel?"

"Well, I will have pity on you! or, rather, I will reserve you for a better opportunity," replied the domino. "You speak of fresh beauties! well, we were talking just now of the female who is most in fashion this winter—a handsome foreigner, the Princess de Hansfeld."

"By her name," said M. de Brévannes, "it is easy to guess that she is a German; fair, and full of conceits as a melody of Schubert, I am sure."

"You mistake," said the domino; "she is dark and wild as Othello's jealousy, to follow out your musical and high-flown comparison."

"Is there also a Prince de Hansfeld?" inquired M. de Brévannes.

"Most certainly."

"And to what school does this darling prince belong? the German or Italian school, or to the school of—husbands?"

"You ask a question which no one can answer."

"What! is this lovely princess wedded to a prince in partibus?"

"Certainly not," said M. de Fierval; "the prince is here, but no one has yet seen him, he never goes into the world. He is talked of as a whimsical, eccentric being, and some very extraordinary tales are told of him."

"It is said that he is quite an idiot," said one of the party.

"I have heard it stoutly maintained that he is a man of genius," said another.

"To reconcile the two assertions, gentlemen," said Brévannes, "it must be confessed they are somewhat similar, especially when the man of genius is in repose. Tell me, is this prince young or old?"

"No one knows," said Fierval; "some declare that he is kept from society for fear his whims should excite laughter."

"And others assert that he has so profound a contempt for the world, or so much love for science, that he never leaves the house."

"The devil!" said M. de Brévannes; "then this German must be a very mysterious personage—as a husband he must be very agreeable. Does any one know who plays the cavalier to the princess?"

"No one!" said Fierval.

"Every body!" exclaimed the domino.

"That's the same thing," resumed M. de Brévannes. "But this Madame de Hansfeld, is she really so very captivating?"

"I am a woman, and I must confess that nothing can be seen more strikingly handsome," said the domino.

"She has such eyes—such eyes!—oh! there never were such eyes!" said M. de Fierval.

"As to her figure," added the domino, "it is a perfection of contrasts—dignified as a queen, and as graceful as a Bayadère."

"Such praises are very like Scandal's damning breath," said Brévannes.

"But, in truth," continued Fierval, "there is no one comparable to the princess for shape, dignity, grace, and distinguished features. Her look has in it something sombre, enthusiastic, and proud, which contrasts with the habitual placidity of her countenance."

"I confess that there seems to me something sinister in Madame de Hansfeld's look; handsome as are her eyes, yet they are almost diabolic in expression."

"Peste! this becomes interesting!" cried M. de Brévannes; "the princess is the real heroine of a modern romance. After all I have heard of her countenance, I dare not ask you as to her mind. It is the custom to magnify certain miraculous qualities at the expense of the most marked imperfections."

"You are mistaken," said the domino; "those who have heard speak of Madame de Hansfeld, and they are few, say that she is as clever as she is handsome."

"It is true," added Fierval; "all that can be said against her is her prudery, which displays itself at the most harmless pleasantries."

"The princess must be on her guard," said the domino; "if her affectation of prudery lasts some time longer, she will find herself as entirely forsaken by the men as she will be sought by the women, who at this present time dread her very much, not knowing if her formality of manner is real or affected."

"But," said M. de Brévannes, "what can make you suppose the princess guilty of hypocrisy?"

"Nothing: for she is very pious," said M. de Fierval.

"Say dévote," said the domino, "which is, by no means, the same thing."

"When," said another, "one loves the church so passionately, one loves parties less, and one bestows less care on one's toilette."

"That is very unjust!" said M. de Fierval, with a smile. "The princess dresses always alike, and with the utmost simplicity. In the evening she wears a gown of black velvet, or dark, garnet-coloured silk, with her hair braided."

"Yes, but those gowns are admirably made! displaying faultless shoulders, arms exquisitely turned, the figure of a Creole, a foot like Cinderella,—and then such splendid jewels!"

"Another injustice!" exclaimed M. de Fierval; "she only wears a plain black or ruby velvet riband round her neck, matching the colour of her gown."

"Yes," added the domino, "and this poor little riband is fastened by a modest clasp, consisting of a single stone. But then that stone is a diamond, a ruby, or a sapphire, worth 1000 l. or 1500 l. The princess has, amongst other marvels, an emerald as large as a nut."

"That is still only the clasp to the velvet riband," said M. de Fierval, gaily.

"But the prince—the prince disquiets me!" continued M. de Brévannes. "Seriously, now, is he as mysterious as they say?"

"Seriously," answered M. de Fierval; "after having lived for some time in the Rue Saint-Guillaume, he has betaken himself to live on the Quai d'Anjou, at the Diable Vert, in the old and vast Hôtel Lambert. A lady of my acquaintance, Madame de Lormoy, went there to pay the princess a visit, but she did not see the prince, who, she was told, was indisposed. It appears that nothing can be more dull than this enormous palace, where one is lost, as it were, and where one hears no more noise than in the midst of a wide plain, so deserted are these streets and quays."

"Since you know persons who have penetrated this mysterious habitation, my dear Fierval," said another lounger, "is it true that the princess has always at her side a sort of dwarf male or female negro or negress, who is deformed?"

"What an exaggeration!" said M. de Fierval, laughing; "and this is just the way history is written!"

"Does the dwarf, male or female, exist or not?"

"I am distressed beyond measure, gentlemen, to destroy your delusions. Madame de Lormoy, who, I repeat to you, often visits at the Hôtel Lambert, has only seen a young girl, who is the companion of Madame de Hansfeld; she is very young, and not a negress, but her complexion is very dark, and her features are of the Arab cast."

"No doubt this is the source whence the black and deformed dwarf proceeded."

"What a pity! I do so regret the little negro dwarf; it was so completely of the middle ages!" said M. de Brévannes.

[1]These words have no precise synonyms in English, but they are nearly equivalent to our slang phrase of "out-and-outers."

CHAPTER II

[A RENDEZVOUS]

A tolerably large party of idlers congregated around the large chest on which was seated, as on a throne, the domino of whom we have spoken, listened eagerly to the strange versions which were buzzed about of the mysterious lives of the Prince and Princess de Hansfeld.

Fortunately for the inquisitive these tales were not yet at their conclusion.

"I must remark," said M. de Fierval, "that Madame de Lormoy, the only lady who visits Madame de Hansfeld on very intimate terms, speaks extremely well of her."

"For reasons plain enough," said M. de Brévannes; "the smallest bit of rock is always an America for the modern Columbuses. Madame de Lormoy has found her way into the Hôtel Lambert, and is, therefore, in duty bound to recite marvels of the princess. But à propos of Madame de Lormoy, what has become of her nephew, le beau des beaux, Leon de Morville? What happy woman now adores his archangelic face, since he has been obliged to break off with Lady Melford?"

"He remains faithful to the remembrance of his lovely islander," replied M. de Fierval.

"To the great displeasure of many ladies of fashion," added the domino; "amongst others of the little Marquise de Luceval, who affects originality, as if she were not sufficiently pretty to be natural. Being unable to carry, off Leon de Morville from his lady-love, whilst this affair was in existence, she now lives in hopes of the reversion."

"An attachment of five years is very rare."

"It is still more rare to find any one faithful to a recollection, I really cannot understand it," said M. de Brévannes.

"Especially when the constant swain is as much sought after as Morville is."

"As for me, I never could bear M. de Morville," said M. de Brévannes; "I have always endeavoured to avoid him."

"I assure you, my dear sir," said M. de Fierval, "that he is one of the best fellows in the world."

"That may be, but he seems so conceited of his pretty face."

"Fortunately this Adonis is as stupid as he is handsome!" said the domino.

"Charming mask, beware!" said a new comer who had made his way to the first rank of the auditors; "when you speak thus of Leon de Morville, one might be induced to believe that your seductions have failed to shake his fidelity to Lady Melford. You speak too maliciously of him not to have wished him—too well."

"Really, Gercourt," answered the domino, gaily, "you seem to me monstrously good-natured to-day. Are they going to perform your comedy to-morrow?"

"What, charming mask, do you believe that I have an interest in this matter?"

"Unquestionably. A man of the world like you, of fashion like you, of wit like you, who is bold enough to have more wit than his neighbours—a man of wit, you know, is condemned to all sorts of unpleasant manœuvres—yet if your comedy fails, you must not accuse your friends of its failure."

"Delightful mask, I should not be so unjust. If my comedy fail, I shall accuse no one but myself. When we have friends like Leon de Morville, of whom you speak such flattering unkindnesses, one may believe that there is yet such a thing as friendship."

"What, do you wish to recommence our quarrel?"

"Unquestionably."

"To assert that Leon de Morville has wit?"

"Unluckily for himself he is remarkably handsome, and so the envious like to have it supposed that he is very silly. If he squinted, stuttered, or was humpbacked, peste! people would not think for a moment of disputing his wit. It is incredible the advantages which ugliness possesses in our days."

"Do you mean this as a defence of the majority of statesmen of the present day?" retorted the domino. "The fact is we may now say, ugly as a minister!"

"Moreover, in this serious age, there is nothing more serious than ugliness."

"Without taking into consideration," said the domino, "that a hideous visage is always a sort of introduction and preparation for a future villainy, and in this sense it is very useful for certain statesmen to be ugly."

"To return to M. de Morville, I never heard of his wit," said M. de Brévannes, sarcastically.

"So much the better for him," replied M. de Gercourt; "I mistrust people whose bon-mots are cited, I should even doubt M. de Talleyrand's reputation if I had not heard him talk. Confess, however, my dear Brévannes, that Morville has not an enemy, in spite of the envy which his success must excite."

"Because he is a goose!" said the mask, doggedly; "persons who have really superior minds always have enemies."

"It seems to me, then, charming mask," retorted M. de Gercourt, "that your ferocious hostility proves Leon de Morville's superiority."

"Bah! bah!" replied the domino, without noticing this rejoinder; "the proof that M. de Morville is a poor creature is, that he always endeavours to produce an effect and make himself noticed; whether ridiculous or not, he does not care for the means by which he attains his desire."

"What do you mean?" inquired M. de Gercourt.

"We were just now alluding to the general admiration which the Princess de Hansfeld inspires," said the domino; "well, M. de Morville affects to do the reverse of all the world. He may be indifferent to Madame de Hansfeld's beauty;—granted. But it is a long way from indifference to aversion."

"Aversion! what do you mean?" asked M. de Brévannes.

"This is a fresh crime of which poor Morville is innocent, I will answer for it," said M. de Gercourt.

"Every body knows that he pretends a most decided aversion for Madame de Hansfeld," replied the domino.

"Morville?"

"Certainly. Although he goes very little into society, yet he now affects to fly from the places where he might be likely to meet the princess. To such a pitch does he carry this, that he is now but very rarely seen at his aunt's, Madame de Lormoy's, no doubt from a dread of meeting Madame de Hansfeld there. Now say, Fierval, you who know Madame de Lormoy, if this be not true?"

"Why, to say the truth, I very seldom meet Morville now at his aunt's."

"Do you hear that?" said the domino, triumphantly, addressing M. de Gercourt; "Morville's antipathy for the princess is remarked upon—people gossip and chatter, and thus the end of this brainless Apollo is attained."

"That is impossible," said M. de Gercourt; "for no one is freer from affectation than Morville, who is one of the most amiable men—the most naturally amiable man that I know; and I will say, that I fully believe, that in his life he never hated, feigned, or lied; indeed, he carries his respect for pledged faith to the utmost extent, even to exaggeration."

"I am decidedly of Gercourt's opinion," said M. de Fierval; "but the fact is, that De Morville, who has been for a long time wretchedly out of spirits, goes very little into society."

"That is easily explained," said one of the auditors of this conversation; "Lady Melford has left these eighteen months, and he has unceasingly regretted her."

"And then," added another, "M. de Morville's mother is in a very alarming state, and every body knows how fond he is of her."

"His love for his mother has nothing to do with what we are talking of," said the domino; "as to his fidelity to his souvenir of Lady Melford, he has changed from ridicule and exaggeration; that is generous of him, inasmuch as it varies our amusement: he has seen the folly of that exaggeration."

"What do you mean?"

"I am not the dupe of his affectation to avoid Madame de Hansfeld. I will bet a wager that he is enamoured of her, and desires to attract her attention by his calculating originality."

"That is impossible," said Fierval.

"It is too vulgar a mode," added Gercourt.

"The very reason that M. de Morville has recourse to it; he is too dull to invent any other."

"What!—would he have awaited the arrival of Madame de Hansfeld in order to be unfaithful, when, for nearly two years, he had nothing to do but to take his choice of the loveliest comforters?"

"Nothing more simple," said the domino. "The difficulty has tempted him; no one has succeeded with Madame de Hansfeld, and he would he jealous of this success; because De Morville is a fool, it does not follow that he is not a coxcomb."

"And because you have wit, charming mask," said M. de Brévannes, "it does not follow that you should be just."

A domino took M. de Gercourt by the arm, and put an end to this discussion about M. de Morville, who thus lost his stanchest defender.

"And how long has this enchanting princess been in Paris?" inquired M. de Brévannes.

"About three or four months," replied M. de Fierval.

"And who introduced her into society?"

"The wife of the Saxon Minister; the prince is a Saxon himself."

"The prince!" continued M. de Brévannes; "is it really possible that nothing more than you say is known of this mysterious stranger?"

"I can tell you," answered M. de Fierval, "that as inquisitive as the rest of the world to penetrate the smallest corner of this mystery, I have inquired of the minister of Saxony."

"Well?"

"He gave me an evasive reply. The prince, whose health was extremely delicate, lived in perfect retirement; he was obliged to submit to very strict regimen; his journey had fatigued him greatly; in fact, I saw that my questions decidedly embarrassed the minister, so I ended the conversation, and have since abstained from again mentioning M. de Hansfeld's name in his presence."

"It is really remarkably odd," said M. de Brévannes; "and no one amongst the foreigners here knows anything of the prince?"

"All I have been able to learn is, that he was married in Italy, and that, after a journey to England, he came and established himself here."

"As far as one may hazard an opinion on so obscure a matter," said another, "I should decidedly say that the prince was weak in his intellect, or something very like it."

"In fact," observed the domino, "the care that is taken to conceal him from all eyes——"

"The embarrassment of the Saxon minister, in replying to you," said M. de Brévannes to M. de Fierval; "the sombre and melancholy air of the princess.—But then, why does this melancholy beauty go into the world?"

"Do you wish to keep her constantly immured with her idiot—if idiot he be?"

"But she always has the melancholy and sombre appearance you speak of, what pleasure can she find in the world?"

"Ma foi, I really cannot tell," said M. de Fierval; "it is just this very mystery, which joined to Madame de Hansfeld's beauty, makes her so much the rage."

"Has she no intimate friend who could disclose something about her?" inquired M. de Brévannes.

"I heard Madame de Lormoy say, that, on going one morning to see Madame de Hansfeld, at the Hôtel Lambert, she suddenly heard, near the apartment in which she was, some notes of delicious harmony, played on a finger-organ with exquisite skill. The princess could not repress a movement of impatience; she made a sign to her companion with the dark countenance, who went out instantly, and a few moments afterwards the sounds ceased!"

"And did not Madame de Lormoy inquire whence those notes of the organ came?"

"She did."

"And what was the princess's reply?"

"That she knew nothing about them—that no doubt it was somewhere in the neighbourhood, that they were playing on this instrument, the sound of which quite unhinged her nerves. Madame de Lormoy remarked, that the Hôtel Lambert was perfectly isolated, and therefore the organ must be played upon in the house, and then Madame de Hansfeld talked of something else."

"Whence we may conclude," replied the domino, "that no one will unriddle this enigma. Ah, if I were a man, I would find it all out by to-morrow!"

The conversation was interrupted by these words of M. de Fierval, which attracted universal attention,—

"Who is that tall domino, evidently masculine in its gender, which is on the look-out for adventure? That knot of yellow and blue ribands on his head is no doubt a signal of rallying and recognition."

"Oh," said the domino, quitting the chest on which she had been sitting, "it is some serious rendezvous—I will prevent the meeting by following the steps of this mysterious personage."

Unfortunately for this malicious design, a crowd carried away with it the domino which wore the knot of yellow and blue ribands, and which rapidly disappeared.

Some moments afterwards, the same masculine domino who had just escaped the curious pursuit of the domino of the chest ascended the staircase which led to the second tier of boxes, and walked up and down the corridor for several minutes.

He was soon rejoined by a female domino who also wore a knot of yellow and blue ribands.

After a moment's examination and hesitation, the female approached, and said in a low voice,—

"Childe Harold."

"Faust," replied the male domino. These words exchanged, the lady took the arm of the gentleman, who led her into the anteroom of one of the stage-boxes.

"These words exchanged, the lady took the arm of the gentleman, who led her into the anteroom of one of the stage-boxes."

CHAPTER III

[THE DOMINO]

M. Leon de Morville (one of the two dominos who had just entered the anteroom) took off his mask.

The praises bestowed on his countenance were not exaggerated; his features, which were perfect as ideal purity can imagine, almost realised the divine type of the Antinous, only rendered more poetical (if the phrase may be allowed us) by a charming expression of melancholy, an expression completely wanting in the pagan beauty. Long black and curling hair enframed this noble and attractive physiognomy.

Very romantic in love-affairs, M. de Morville had a religious adoration for woman, which had its source in the passionate veneration which he felt for his mother. Of a kind and most considerate nature, a thousand things were told of his delicacy and devotion. When he appeared, the females had no look, no smile, no attention, but for him; and he knew perfectly well how to reply to this general show of admiration with so much tact and well-regulated demeanour, that he never wounded the self-love of any, whilst, but for his romantic fidelity to one whom he had madly loved, and from whom he was separated only by the force of circumstances, he might have had most brilliant and endless love-affairs.

M. de Morville was especially endowed with most delightful manners. His natural affability always inspired him with amiable and complimentary language. The charming equality of his temper was unalterable, even in spite of those deceptions, which, from time to time, came to wound his delicate and sensitive imagination.

Perhaps his disposition was somewhat deficient in its manliness; for, far from being boldly aggressive towards the contemptible and unjust—far from returning evil for evil—far from punishing the treacheries which his generosity often encouraged, M. de Morville had such a horror, or rather such disgust for human infamies, that he turned his eyes away from the culpable, instead of taking vengeance on them.

Instead of crushing a filthy reptile, he would have looked out for some perfumed flower—some white turtledove's nest—some smiling and clear horizon whereon to repose and console his gaze.

This system of constant commiseration continually exposes us to be again bitten by the reptile, whilst we are contemplating heaven in order not to see it. The best things have their inconveniences.

But we must not thus conclude that M. de Morville was deficient in courage. He had too much honour—too much frankness—not to be very brave; and of this he had given ample testimony; but, excepting the injuries which a man never forgives, he shewed himself of such inexhaustible clemency, that, if he had not painfully resented certain wrongs, this clemency would have passed for indifference or disdain.

This sketch of M. de Morville's character was necessary for the proper appreciation of the scene that follows.

We have said that in the anteroom to the box, M. de Morville had taken off his mask, and he awaited with, perhaps, more uneasiness than pleasure, the issue of this mysterious interview.

The female who had accompanied him was masked with extreme care; her hood so covered her, that it was impossible to see even her hair; her very full domino enveloped her figure, whilst large gloves and large shoes concealed her hands and feet, which otherwise are such certain evidences.

The lady appeared agitated: the words which she several times tried to utter expired on her lips.

M. de Morville first broke silence and said,—

"Madame, I received the letter which you were so obliging as to write to me, requesting me to be here and masked, with a signal and words of recognition. Your letter appeared so serious, that, in spite of the uneasiness with which my mother's health fills me, I am here at your bidding."

M. de Morville could not continue. With a hand trembling from emotion, the domino unmasked herself with an effort.

"Madame de Hansfeld!" exclaimed M. de Morville, in extreme astonishment.

It was the princess.

CHAPTER IV

[PAULA MONTI]

M. de Morville could scarcely believe his eyes.

It was no illusion: he was really in the presence of Madame de Hansfeld.

It would require the pencil of some great artist to depict the firmness, the decision of that queenly visage, as pale and as stern as a statue of antiquity—to describe that look, as piercing and as fascinating as that of the evil spirit of some German legend.

It is but by invoking the resemblance of Cleopatra or Lady Macbeth (our readers must excuse the bold comparison), that an idea can be formed of the mixture of seductive loveliness and sombre majesty displayed in the countenance of the Venetian, Paula Monti, Princess de Hansfeld.

Madame de Hansfeld had removed her mask. The hood of her domino projected a deep shadow on her forehead, whilst the rest of her face was strongly lighted up. Her eyes seemed to glow even more brightly than before from out of the chiaroscuro that enshrouded the upper part of her features.

With the exception of this look, sparkling like a star in the dark sky, the physiognomy of Madame de Hansfeld was utterly without expression.

The princess said in a firm and grave tone to M. de Morville,—

"I confide, monsieur, the secret of this interview fearlessly to your honour."

"I will prove myself worthy of your confidence, madame."

"I know it, but I required this certainty ere I risked the step to which unwittingly you have forced me."

"I, madame?"

"It is your conduct alone that has driven me to seek this interview."

"For Heaven's sake, madame, explain yourself!"

"It is now about two months since, monsieur, that you prayed your aunt, Madame de Lormoy, one of my intimate friends, to present you to me. I acceded with pleasure to this request. Some days afterwards, you informed Madame de Lormoy, that you would not, on any account, be presented to me."

M. de Morville cast down his eyes, and replied,—

"It is true, madame."

"From that instant, monsieur, you have affected to fly every place where you fancied there existed the least possibility of encountering me."

"I cannot deny it, madame," replied M. de Morville, sorrowfully.

Madame de Hansfeld continued,—

"Some time ago, not knowing that Madame de Senneterre had given me a seat in her box, you entered it; at the end of a quarter of an hour you left it under a pretence too ridiculous to deceive any one."

"That is also true, madame."

"Also, when Madame de Sémur invited you and a small party to attend a lecture you were most anxious to hear, you accepted the invitation eagerly; but no sooner had Madame de Sémur mentioned that I was expected, than you declined being present."

"That is equally true, madame."

"In a word, monsieur, you have manifested, I may say, affected, so decided a determination to avoid me, that it has been remarked by others as well as by myself."

"Madame, believe me that——"

"I hear the frankness of your character, your invariable politeness, praised every where; you must then have cogent reasons for thus studiously avoiding me. Let me assure you that your conduct would not occupy me for a moment, were it not for a circumstance with which I am bound to acquaint you."

"Madame, I am aware how strange—how rude, my conduct must appear to you; yet—"

Madame de Hansfeld interrupted M. de Morville with a bitter smile.

"Once for all, monsieur, let me assure you I am not here to upbraid you for thus shunning me; I have reason to believe that your resolution to avoid me is dictated by motives so imperative, that to make them known would endanger the happiness, if not the life, of two persons."

As she spoke, the princess darted a searching glance at De Morville.

The latter coloured and replied,—

"I assure you, madame, did I but know——"

"I do know, monsieur," interrupted the princess, "that there exists a secret between us. You have discovered that secret between the day when you asked to be introduced to me and that fixed for the introduction; from this moment arose your determination to avoid me. You are a man of honour. Tell me if I am mistaken; swear to me that you have had no motive for thus avoiding me—that chance, that caprice, alone, have occasioned this, and I will believe you; and then, thank Heaven, the purpose of this interview will be accomplished!"

After some moments of painful hesitation M. de Morville seemed to make a violent effort, and said,—

"Madame, I scorn falsehood, there does exist a secret of vital importance."

"I was not deceived," cried Madame de Hansfeld, interrupting M. de Morville; "you do possess the secret which I believed known but to two persons, one I thought dead, the other had good cause for secrecy, for his own honour was affected by it. It was for this reason that I requested this appointment, as I could not see you at my own house, and I never meet you in society. I care but little for the opinion you have formed of me after the revelation that has been made you. Your studied aversion shews me that it is horrible: be it so, Heaven is my judge. But enough of this. You are not aware, monsieur, perhaps, of the terrible importance of the secret that chance or treachery has placed in your hands. Osorio—is he not then dead? Is it really true that he did not perish at Alexandria, as was generally believed? For mercy's sake, monsieur, answer me. If that were the case, much would be explained to me."

"Osorio! I never heard the name uttered, madame."

"It was M. de Brévannes, then?" cried the princess, involuntarily.

M. de Morville regarded Madame de Hansfeld with increasing surprise; for the last few minutes he could not comprehend her meaning.

"I scarcely know M. de Brévannes, madame, and I am ignorant if he be now in Paris."

For the first time during this interview Madame de Hansfeld's real or assumed composure forsook her, she rose hastily, and her pale face became crimson as she exclaimed,—

"There is no one living except Osorio or M. de Brévannes who could have told you what passed three years ago at Venice on the night of the 13th of April."

"Three years ago?—at Venice?—the 13th of April?" repeated M. de Morville, more and more surprised; "I assure you, madame, it is not that I allude to. Not a word more on that head. I would not, for the world, surprise your confidence. Again, madame, I assure you the reason that forces me to fly you has nought to do with the names or dates, you have mentioned. This motive has not for a moment altered my sincere respect, my admiration, for your character. In avoiding you, madame, I fulfil a promise—a sacred duty."

"Oh, Heaven! what have I said?" cried Madame de Hansfeld, covering her face with her hands, and thinking of the half confession she had involuntarily made to M. de Morville. "No, no, this cannot be a snare to entrap me."

Then addressing De Morville, "I believe you, monsieur:—By a strange fatality, by a singular chance, when I knew you had urgent reasons for shunning me, I fancied you were actuated by sad, too sad circumstances, in which I might seem to prejudiced eyes to have acted an unworthy part, that would, indeed, have entitled me to your aversion. Your word relieves my fears, I was deceived without doubt, nought concerning this melancholy adventure has transpired. Now then, monsieur, the purpose of this meeting is attained. I came hither to relate to you what the probable consequences of your indiscretion might be. Fortunately my fears were vain, I care little now, whether all the world remark how you avoid me. As for the cause, that is equally indifferent to me. Adieu, monsieur, you are a man of honour, and I doubt not of discretion;" and Madame de Hansfeld rose to quit the box.

M. de Morville took her hand respectfully:—"One word more, madame; I shall never, probably, be alone with you again; hear, at least, some portion of my secret, you may then perchance pity me. Alas, you know not the struggle it has cost me to fly you! When a sentiment, the reverse of hatred—Oh! do not take this for a mere effusion of gallantry, but, I implore you, hear me."

Madame de Hansfeld, who had risen, resumed her seat, and listened to Monsieur de Morville in profound silence.

CHAPTER V

[THE EXPLANATION]

"Upon your arrival at Paris, madame," said M. de Morville to Madame de Hansfeld, "before occupying the spacious Hôtel Lambert in the Isle St. Louis, you resided for some time in the Rue St. Guillaume; you are not, perhaps, aware that the adjoining house belonged to my mother."

"No, sir, I was not aware of it."

"Permit me to enter into some details, puerile, perhaps, but yet indispensable. In my mother's house, a small window, wholly concealed by the leaves of the ivy, looked on to your garden; it was from that window that I first perceived you, madame, and without your suspecting it, for no one could imagine that any eye could penetrate the shady and retired walk which you frequented."

Madame de Hansfeld seemed to recall her recollections of the place and answered,—

"I certainly recollect the wall covered with ivy, but I did not know there was a window there."

"Forgive my indiscretion, madame; I have bitterly suffered for it."

"Explain yourself, sir."

"Closely attending upon my sick mother, I rarely quitted the house, my only pleasure was to gaze daily from that window, and the hope of seeing you kept me whole hours there. At last you came, sometimes your steps were slow, sometimes rapid, and you frequently threw yourself as if in agony on a marble seat, or stood motionless with your head buried in your hands. Alas, how often, when after these reveries you raised your head, was your countenance bathed in tears!"

At these words M. de Morville's voice faltered with emotion.

Madame de Hansfeld replied austerely,—

"We are not speaking, sir, of any moments of weakness you may have witnessed, but of a secret you are about to communicate."

M. de Morville regarded the princess with a sorrowful air, and continued,—

"After some few days,—forgive my presumption, madame,—I fancied I had penetrated the cause of your grief."

"Your penetration seems very great, sir."

"I was then suffering from the same cause (at least as I think) as that which at that moment tormented you. This was the secret I believed I had discovered."

"Surely, sir, you are not speaking seriously? and yet any attempt at pleasantry would be most unseasonable."

"I speak most seriously, madame."

"And so then," said Madame de Hansfeld, with a contemptuous smile, "you imagine I am a prey to grief, and that you have discovered the cause of it?"

"There are symptoms which are infallible."

"The outward marks of every kind of sorrow are the same, sir."

"Ah, madame, there is but one mode of lamenting the person we love."

"Is this mentioned in confidence? is this an allusion to your own regrets?"

"Alas! I, madame, have no more regrets; you have made me forget them all."

"I do not comprehend your meaning, sir; I expected you were about to tell me an important secret, and yet to the present moment——"

"One other word, madame. A sentiment that I believed unalterable, a long-cherished remembrance, spite of myself, was gradually effaced from my heart. In vain did I blame my weakness: in vain did I foresee to what this love would expose me. The charm was too powerful. I yielded before it. I had but one thought, one desire, one pleasure—that of seeing you. From constantly contemplating your features, I fancied I could read in them, so often overclouded with sorrow and melancholy, that despair, sometimes mute, sometimes so expressive, which the absence or loss of one dear to us invariably occasions."

Madame de Hansfeld shuddered, but remained silent.

"Each day I dropped at the foot of the set a memento," &c.

"Ah, madame, I repeat, I had suffered too much myself not to recognise the same sufferings in you by indescribable, yet manifest symptoms. With what eager curiosity did I strive to read your thoughts in your countenance! The part of the garden that you frequented most was separated from the rest by a gate which you opened or shut at pleasure. You alone could enter into this secluded alley. I ventured on a folly; each day I dropped at the foot of the seat where you were accustomed to repose, a sort of memento of the reflections which, as I believed, had agitated you on the previous evening. How shall I describe my suspense, my anguish, when I saw you first open my letter. Never shall I forget the expression of surprise you manifested after you had read it. Forgive these foolish recollections of the past; but I did not think you were offended, for, instead of destroying the letter, you retained it. One day your agitation was so great, that you did not perceive the letter—you seemed a prey to the most violent anger and grief. My own experience told me that your sorrow was not occasioned by any fresh event. It seemed to me rather some unhappy occurrence had been recalled to you. It was under this belief that I again wrote to you, and on the morrow, whilst you perused my letter, you wept."

Madame de Hansfeld made an impatient gesture.

"Oh, madame, do not blame me for dwelling on these recollections, they are my sole consolation. Thus encouraged by the anxiety with which you seemed to look for my letters, I wrote daily. Unhappily, my mother's illness assumed a threatening form; I never quitted her bedside for two nights—I thought but of her. The crisis was passed, she was out of danger. My first thought was then to hasten to my window. Soon after you entered the walk. I could scarcely believe my eyes when I saw you go quickly to the marble seat: there was no letter there. An exclamation of impatience escaped you. I dared to interpret it favourably."

M. de Morville glanced anxiously at Madame de Hansfeld. Her eyes were cast down, her arms folded, her face was devoid of expression. In thus speaking, in thus informing Madame de Hansfeld of the facts that he had discovered, De Morville cut off all hope of retreat; but he never expected to see the princess more, else he would not have been guilty of such a display of bad generalship.

"What can I say, madame?" replied he; "for two whole months I had the happiness of seeing you: every day when I learned you were on the point of quitting the house adjoining ours to inhabit the Hôtel Lambert, in the Isle St. Louis, oh, how sincere, how terrible was my emotion! Perchance it was only then that I really felt how much I loved you."

At these last words, uttered by M. de Morville in a tone of deep emotion, Madame de Hansfeld raised her head suddenly; her cheeks became deeply tinged, as she replied, with a satirical smile, "This strange confession, sir, is doubtless connected with the secret you are about to reveal to me."

"Yes, madame."

"I am all attention.

"Up to the period of your quitting the adjoining house to ours, I had often met you at the houses of my friends, and I had never made any effort to be presented to you. I found an indefinable charm in the mystery that enshrouded my love. I was utterly unknown to you—I who knew you so well—I who had been the unseen spectator of all the emotion and the sorrow you had suffered; and then to talk to you on those trivial and commonplace subjects that form every-day conversation, what pleasure would that have afforded me, after the hours, the days I have passed in silent and deep admiration! But, when your departure deprived me of this pleasure, then I acknowledged the value of those meetings that I had previously disdained, I determined to be introduced to you. You were on intimate terms with Madame de Lormoy, my aunt, who has the highest regard for you. As, in common with the rest of the world, she was ignorant of the strange chance that had linked me to you, I prayed her to present me to you. Unfortunately, the day after she had agreed to comply with my wishes, a revelation was made to me, that instead of seeking, I felt it my duty to avoid your society. Had it not been on account of my mother's health, I should have left Paris, in order to avoid you, and thus furnishing fresh fuel to my unhappy passion; for, know, madame, that if your indifference grieves me, your love would drive me to despair. You seem surprised—you do not understand me. Suppose then—and pardon the folly of the supposition—that you loved me as passionately as I love you, I should be the most miserable of men, for I could not return your affection without inflicting a death-blow on my mother, without trampling under foot the most sacred duty, the most solemn oath, without becoming forsworn and criminal."

"Criminal!" exclaimed Madame de Hansfeld, rising from her seat, her features convulsed by fear and grief. This involuntary cry of the princess was, in fact, an avowal that betrayed her affection for De Morville, hitherto so carefully concealed.

Had he been really indifferent to Madame de Hansfeld, would she have manifested this despair, this emotion?—No! but she saw an impassable barrier arise between herself and M. de Morville. Had he not said, "Did you love me, I should be the most miserable of men, for I could not return your affection without becoming perjured, without inflicting a death-blow on my mother?"

De Morville was proverbial for his love of truth and his affection for his mother.

Madame de Hansfeld understood his meaning perfectly. A look of joy irradiated De Morville's face; he fancied he was loved in return, but that first transport past, he shuddered as he thought of the abyss of misery and sorrow which the involuntary exclamation of Madame de Hansfeld opened before him.

The princess was too much mistress of herself not to subdue instantly all traces of her transient emotion. Hoping to deceive De Morville, she said with an air of gaiety that quite confused him,—

"You must allow, sir, that my surprise, I may say, my terror, was tolerably natural on hearing you declare that my love would plunge you into crime and perjury. Good heavens! I shudder; yet what happiness must it be, then, for you to hear that I am utterly indifferent to your mad passion? On my word, sir, you are really too fortunate, henceforth you have every thing to preserve you from the temptation of being in love with me; for you have not only the knowledge of my indifference, but also the strongest motives that can decide a man. Only permit me to observe that among the obstacles that seemed to cross your love for me so insurmountably, you might have reckoned my marriage with the Prince de Hansfeld; allow me to remind you of that obstacle, and to say that in my eyes that is the most serious impediment of all. And now let me speak of your letters which I have received, because I could not help it; and which I read, and sometimes preserved, because a series of thoughts admirably worded, and supposed to be those of some ideal creature, could not be called a correspondence. You have too much real merit, sir," continued the princess, "to be vain; I have, therefore, no dread of wounding your pride as an author, by telling you, that if I read these your productions with curiosity and sometimes with a strong emotion, it was partly because of the mystery that enshrouded you, and partly because chance sometimes sent you thoughts so poetical and touching as to call forth my tears; for I am so unfortunate, or rather fortunate, as to shed tears during the perusal of any romance in the least degree impassioned and affecting."

"Ah, madame, this satire is too cruel."

"I could wish, sir, that this interview, began under such gloomy auspices, should at least end gaily; for, after all, are we not at a masked ball at the Opera? Besides, why should we part in sadness? I believed that you were acquainted with an annoying secret; it is not the case, my fears were futile and are forgotten. I have the recollection of my duty, to defend me from your declarations, as well as my utter indifference as to the revelation that has been made to you. Our position is perfectly clear, what more could any one desire? Farewell, this interview convinces me, that your high reputation is well merited, I know that I need not recommend you to secrecy on the subject of a step that would painfully compromise me. For precaution's sake, I will leave the box first; you will have the kindness to wait here a short time."

As she spoke, Madame de Hansfeld rose, replaced her mask, and opened the door of the box.

"Ah, madame," exclaimed De Morville, "for Heaven's sake one word more."

Madame de Hansfeld made a gesture so proud, so dignified, that De Morville no longer endeavoured to prolong the interview.

The princess opened the door and disappeared; in a few minutes De Morville followed her example.

As he passed before the chest we have previously spoken of, he found a crowd, so great, that whilst waiting to pass it he had time to overhear these words:—

"My stars! Brévannes," said the malicious domino, who had been sitting all the evening on the chest, "what a sensation you produce! what a scream the domino with a knot of blue and yellow ribands gave when she passed you!"

"I don't claim the merit," replied M. de Brévannes, gaily; "I am no more responsible for the domino's scream than Fierval or Heronville."

"The domino could not have been more alarmed if she had seen the devil himself," said M. de Fierval.

M. de Morville listened with the greatest attention when he found that the princess formed the subject of their conversation (she wore, as our readers will recollect, a knot of blue and yellow ribands, which she had not removed; De Morville had had the precaution to take off his).

"It was one of your victims, perhaps," said Fierval, jestingly, to M. de Brévannes.

"The unhappy creature has suddenly recognised him," said another.

"Faithless man!"

"Perfidious monster!"

"Who knows?" said the domino, "perhaps it was your wife, Brévannes!"

A shout of laughter followed this pleasantry.

"That would be a capital joke. You have, no doubt, concealed from her that you were coming here, she has believed you in her candour, and in the same spirit come here herself."

Brévannes bore admirably all the jests levelled at him, with the exception of those relating to his wife. He could not conceal his vexation, and endeavoured to change the conversation by saying to M. de Fierval,—

"It's getting late, Fierval, let us go to supper."

"O the wretch!" said the domino; "it is more than probable, that he will get up a terrible scene with his wife on his return home, and all in consequence of the silly remark of a domino,—poor Bertha!"

"The best proof that I am not jealous, and that I bear no malice," said M. de Brévannes, with an air of forced gaiety, "is that I shall be delighted if you will come and sup with us."

"No, I am too amiable to do that; I could not refrain from telling you some unpalatable truths, and they would be unpleasant for the rest of the company. I might, perhaps, make amends to them by shewing you in a new and very disagreeable light, but it does not suit me yet to execute you publicly. If you are not discreet—if you come here again—I shall find you some of these Saturdays, and then mind, for this chest shall serve for the tribunal, and you shall hear some strange things if you dare come, but you will not venture."

"He? Brévannes, not dare?" said Fierval, laughing.

"You evidently don't know him, charming mask."

"You don't know that he can do all he chooses," said another.

"Don't back out of it, Brévannes, and mind you come next Saturday," said Fierval, "discreet or not."

"I have nothing better to say to you, engaging mask," replied Brévannes, "these gentlemen are my witnesses. On Saturday, if you defy me, I accept the challenge."

"'Saturday be it, then,' said the domino; 'but I warn you, you occasioned the scream the domino with the blue and yellow ribands uttered.'"

"Saturday, be it then," said the domino, "but I warn you again, that you occasioned the scream of surprise, almost of horror, that the domino with the blue and yellow ribands uttered."

"Nonsense! you are mad. If you won't come with us, I must leave you."

"Very well; but mind, Saturday."

"Saturday," repeated Brévannes as he walked away. M. de Morville had attentively listened to this conversation, and had not the smallest doubt in his mind but that the sight of Brévannes had occasioned the princess's alarm.

He recollected that during the interview he had just had with Madame de Hansfeld she had alluded to M. de Brévannes as one of the two persons who possessed the secret, whose disclosure she so much dreaded.

What circumstances could have brought M. de Brévannes and Madame de Hansfeld together?

Where had he known her? What was the secret which he possessed?

Was the cool raillery of Madame de Hansfeld at the termination of their conversation real or assumed?

These were the questions which passed through De Morville's mind as he returned sorrowfully home.

CHAPTER VI

[M. DE BRÉVANNES]

A few words are now necessary with respect to M. de Brévannes, an important actor in this history.

M. de Brévannes' father was named Joseph Burdin: born at Lyons, he had come to seek his fortune at Paris under the Directory. By his management, perseverance, and fitness for business, he had, in a few years, realised, by contracts for the supply of the forces, one of those notorious fortunes so common at this period.

Become rich, the name of Burdin appeared vulgar to him, and he bought the estate of Brévannes, in Lorraine, called himself for some time Burdin de Brévannes, then sinking the Burdin, became Brévannes only. His wife, the daughter of a wealthy notary, who had ruined himself by hazardous speculations, died a short time before the Restoration (1815).

M. de Brévannes did not long survive her, and the guardianship of his son, Charles de Brévannes, was intrusted to one of his old associates. Either from negligence or want of principle, this man did not manage his ward's interests faithfully; so that when the young man came of age, in 1825, he only inherited about 40,000 livres (1600 l.) a-year.

M. de Brévannes, renewing his acquaintance with several of his college friends whom he met again in society, passed during several years a gay bachelor's life, without, however, running into any excess of extravagance—he was too selfish and calculating for that.

About the end of the year 1831 he married Bertha Raimond.

To explain this marriage it is necessary to sketch the character of M. de Brévannes. Badly brought up, and having received but the barren education of his college, nothing had softened or abated the innate violence of his temper; the main, leading, and integral characteristic of which was a remarkable degree of energy and hauteur, united to an invincible obstinacy of purpose.

To achieve his end, M. de Brévannes did not hesitate at any sacrifice, any excess, any obstacle.

What he desired, he sought to possess as much to satisfy his taste and caprice of the moment, as to satisfy the sort of tenacious pride which he had in succeeding, by good means or bad—at any cost, any risk—in every thing which he undertook.

M. de Brévannes pushed his economy to the bounds of avarice, his personal ease to selfishness, and his want of sympathy amounted to decided harshness. If he determined to surmount any obstacle, he became devoted, generous, delicate, if it served his purpose; but his aim once attained, these ephemeral and assumed qualities disappeared with the cause which had elicited them; and then his real character resumed its usual tone and course, and his evil inclinations found their compensation for a temporary restraint in increased violence.

Unfortunately, persons of this strong and deeply marked stamp too often prove that with them (as M. de Brévannes had said—to will is to be able to do) vouloir c'est pouvoir.

We will now add a word or two as to his marriage.

M. de Brévannes occupied the first floor of a house in Paris, which was his own property. Two new lodgers came to live in two small apartments on the fourth story,—they were Bertha Raimond and her father; the mother had been dead for a considerable period.

Pierre Raimond, a copper-plate engraver by profession, had so weakened his eyesight that he could at this period engrave nothing but music. Bertha, who was an admirable musician, gave lessons on the piano; and, thanks to these resources, the father and daughter lived almost in easy circumstances.

Bertha was remarkably handsome, and M. de Brévannes, who frequently met her in the house, was so much attracted by her, that, in his capacity of landlord, he introduced himself to Pierre Raimond.

Brévannes had a detestable idea of human kind, and he confidently trusted, by the use of cajolery, and some presents liberally and propitiously made, to triumph over the virtue of Bertha and the scruples of Pierre Raimond. He was deceived: and, paying the quarter's rent for his humble apartments, the engraver gave notice to quit to M. de Brévannes at the end of the ensuing three months, requesting him, at the same time, in very plain terms, to cease his calls, which had been but very few, however, up to that period.

M. de Brévannes was piqued at his failure; this unexpected resistance irritated his desires and wounded his pride, and his caprice became love, or, at least, had all its ardour and impatience.

Having contrived to obtain certain short conversations with Mademoiselle Raimond, either by following her into the streets when she left her home to give lessons, or meeting her at the residence of one of her pupils, M. de Brévannes contrived to maintain a correspondence with Bertha, who soon became much attached to him. He was young, witty, and had a good address—a face, if not handsome, yet manly and expressive. Bertha did not resist these attractions, but her love was as pure as her imagination, and M. de Brévannes' evil hopes were utterly frustrated. Confessing to him, unaffectedly, that she was not ashamed to disclose her love for him, Bertha added that he was too rich to marry her, and that, therefore, the communication between them must cease—vain as it was for him, and distressing for her.

The end of the quarter came, and Bertha and her father went to reside in one of the most lonely quarters of Paris, in the Rue Poultier, Ile Saint Louis.

This removal gave a fresh wound to the pride and feeling of M. de Brévannes. He discovered the abode of the young girl, pretended a long journey, and went secretly and took a lodging in the Ile Saint Louis, near the street in which Pierre Raimond resided.

The first time Bertha again met M. de Brévannes, she betrayed, by her emotion, the intensity of her sentiments towards him; concealing nothing from him,—neither the joy which his return occasioned to her, nor the cruel tears—yet dear as they were cruel—which she had shed during his absence.

In spite of these avowals M. de Brévannes was not the more happy. Seductive persuasion, stratagems, promises, excitement, despair—all, all failed before the virtue of Bertha—virtue as pure and strong as her love itself.

Those who know the heart of man, and especially of men as proud and self-willed as M. de Brévannes, will understand the bitter resentment which sprung up in his mind against this young girl, as inflexible in her purity, as he in his corruption.

A man never pardons a woman who escapes by her address, instinct, or virtue, from the dishonouring snare which he has spread for her.

It would be impossible to describe the mental imprecations with which M. de Brévannes overwhelmed Bertha; and to such a pitch did he attain, that he actually believed that "by her calculating refusals, this chit of a girl had the impertinent hope that he—he would one day marry her,"—a most abominable machination, and, no doubt, planned with the old engraver.

M. de Brévannes shrugged his shoulders in pity when he reflected on a manœuvre as odious as it was ridiculous, and resolved to quit Paris. Before he went he had a final interview with Bertha. He fully expected a despairing scene; he found the young girl sad, calm, resigned. She had never given way to any illusion as to her love for M. de Brévannes, but had always anticipated the painful consequences of her ill-omened attachment.

It was, besides, singular that Pierre Raimond, a worthy artist,—austere, and even stoical, in his ideas of right and wrong,—should have educated his daughter in such ideas of wealth that the disproportion of fortune existing between M. de Brévannes and Bertha should seem to her as insurmountable as the distance which separates a king from a daughter of one of the lowest class in society.

Thus far from asking why he, being free, did not make her his wife—a simple and decided mode of reconciling love and duty—Bertha had ingenuously confessed to M. de Brévannes that their love was the more hopeless as Pierre Raimond, in his proud poverty, would never consent to marry his daughter to a rich man.

At the moment of her separation from M. de Brévannes, Bertha promised him to do all she could to forget him, in order to marry a man as poor as herself, and if not, she would never marry.

These words, free from any exaggeration, as simple and true as the poor girl that uttered them, made no impression on De Brévannes; who but saw in the angelic resignation of Bertha a flagrant and final proof of the plot that was laid for him in order to entrap him into a compulsory marriage.

M. de Brévannes set out for Dieppe, believing that he was completely freed from this love affair; and, proud of having escaped from a shameful snare, he awaited with irritating impatience for a humble prayer to return—which he had decided on receiving and treating with extreme contempt; but, to his vast surprise, he did not even hear from Bertha.

At Dieppe, M. de Brévannes met with a Madame Beauvoisis (the domino of the chest)—very pretty, very much the fashion in a certain circle, very coquettish, and who had made a very deep impression on a most agreeable and gentlemanly person.

To revenge himself on Bertha's silence, and certain compunctious prickings of conscience, as well as to elevate himself in his own eyes, after the check which the engraver's daughter had given him, M. de Brévannes determined to play the agreeable with Madame de Beauvoisis, and supplant her favoured lover. He succeeded.

M. de Brévannes was the more annoyed, the more humiliated for his want of success with Bertha, in proportion as the conquest of Madame Beauvoisis seemed more flattering to him. His self-love revolted at the fact of a poor little unknown girl having been able to resist the advances of a man whom a most desirable woman had selected.

We are not pretending that M. de Brévannes had no love for Bertha, but with him the tender impatiences, the "charming agonies" of love—its hopes and melancholy fears—were perverted into strong desires and irritated pride.

He summed up the matter in his mind bitterly and brutally thus:—

"I am determined this girl shall be mine—cost it what it may, mine she shall be!"

Enraged at not receiving any letters from Bertha during the six weeks he had been away, M. de Brévannes suddenly broke off with Madame Beauvoisis, the idol of the season at Dieppe, and returned to his hiding-place in the Ile Saint Louis. When he arrived there, Bertha, unable to overcome her grief, was dying.

Almost touched at this proof of love, and wishing, moreover, at any cost, to have possession of this young girl, M. de Brévannes, in spite of his resolutions never to be duped into a marriage, as he declared, went to Pierre Raimond and demanded his daughter's hand formally in marriage, anticipating an exuberant outpouring of gratitude on the part of the old engraver.

Incredible—unheard of—strange as it may appear (and it completely upset all M. de Brévannes' ideas), Pierre Raimond would not give his consent to this union.

"'M. de Brévannes was born rich, Bertha was born poor—there was no sympathy existing between them;' this was Pierre Raimond's unchanging theme."

"M. de Brévannes was born rich, Bertha was born poor: there was no sympathy existing between them, no similarity of position, or habits of life, education, and principles, which could offer or ensure any guarantee of happiness for the future."

This was Pierre Raimond's "unchanging theme." There was, in the absolute manner with which this stern old man regarded the distance which separates the rich from the poor, more pride than humility. He established between these two conditions, which he regarded as utterly irreconcilable and diverse, a line as entire and unsurpassable as that which republicans draw between themselves and aristocrats.

The determined obstinacy of M. de Brévannes would have failed before the haughty poverty of the old man, had not Bertha's life been compromised.

A father's instinct is almost always admirably clear-sighted, and when this instinct is allied with excellent common sense, it attains to divination.

Pierre Raimond anticipated his daughter's destiny. Still obliged to choose between the death of a beloved child, and a future, however dreaded, which might, perchance, be averted, the engraver consented at length to the marriage, which took place shortly after M. de Brévannes' return.

Bertha had not for a moment doubted the love of her husband.

Her heart—simple and good, noble and confiding—was unable to resist the unrelenting will of a man, whose energetic protestations had flattered and won her; and in her guileless vanity, the young girl asked herself, with a certain degree of pride, if M. de Brévannes must not have loved her to excess, when he pursued his suit with such unrelaxing tenacity.

Poor Bertha, alas! confounded the proud obstinacy of an uncontrollable temper, which could not endure opposition, with the self-denial, the devoted persistence, of intense passion.

M. de Brévannes was capable of employing every means—even those which had not apparently an honourable plea—to achieve his ends; but that attained, he was also capable of cruelly revenging those sacrifices which he had imposed on himself in order to triumph in a struggle in which his pride was more deeply interested than his love.

With such an intractable temper, the day that followed his victory was seldom one of happiness; the ruder the attack, the more the resistance had lasted, the more his vanity suffered. In the warmth of action he forgot the wounds of his self-love; but after success he felt intensely those bleeding wounds, and his disposition again resumed its ascendancy.

When the fever of his unbridled will, which had constrained M. de Brévannes to marry Bertha, had subsided, he began to regret his marriage very deeply. Yes, he was ashamed of his alliance with an obscure and poor girl, when he reflected on the wealthy alliances to which he might have aspired, and for which the charming qualities, the beauty, and pure mind of Bertha, were hardly a recompense. He believed that he was continually the butt of sarcastic comment, and could not find sufficient raillery to vindicate his ridiculous marriage of affection.

M. de Brévannes was deceived. Several persons, when they saw him marry a lovely, virtuous, and poor girl, gave him credit for a generous and noble spirit, and admired him, and vaunted his singular disinterestedness, and he was absolved, by anticipation, from all the torments which he would inflict on a woman for whom he had done so much.

Some regarded Bertha's conduct as a master-piece of trick and skill; others jeered at M. de Brévannes and his love-match, because they were of a class that mocks at all the world.

No one suspected the real motive of this marriage, and that M. de Brévannes' obstinacy had urged him to it, at least as much as his love.

One last trait of M. de Brévannes' disposition.

For the four years he had been married, Bertha, more loving, more resigned than ever, had not given him the slightest cause of complaint, although he had openly committed frequent infidelities, and sometimes given her rivals of very low degree; the wretched woman had wept her tears of bitterness in secret, but never made any complaint.

In spite of this patience—in spite of her perfect gentleness, M. de Brévannes sometimes gave himself up to inconceivable suspicions and jealousy, and under the most frivolous pretexts.

This violent jealousy was by no means a proof of De Brévannes' love. If he went into a rage at the mere thought (utterly false and unjust) that his wife might be faithless to him, it was because Bertha's fault would have covered (as he thought), with unextinguishable ridicule, this love-match, for which he had sacrificed so much. M. de Brévannes desired, at least, to be able to vaunt the irreproachable and exemplary conduct of the fair and obscure woman whom he had chosen.

After they had been eighteen months wedded, M. de Brévannes, becoming very tired of his happiness, had travelled in Italy for several months, leaving his wife under the care of Pierre Raimond, whose austere morality he fully recognised.

The old engraver would not consent to live with his daughter in M. de Brévannes' house during her husband's absence, and Bertha had, therefore, taken up her abode with her father in the Ile Saint Louis, and resumed, in the Rue Poultier, the room she occupied before she was married.

Since his journey to Italy, where he had formed Madame de Hansfeld's acquaintance (as we shall see hereafter), M. de Brévannes' temper had become much soured, and his disposition had grown sombre, irascible, and was often brutal; and Bertha had very frequently suffered acutely from it. These points enumerated, we will now follow M. de Brévannes to his residence after his return from the Opera-ball, where he had been so completely mystified by Madame Beauvoisis, the domino of the chest.

CHAPTER VII

[MADAME DE BRÉVANNES]

The house in which M. de Brévannes occupied the first floor was situated in the Rue Saint Florentin. Utterly indifferent to the enjoyments or little comforts of a well-arranged home, he had simply commanded the upholsterer who furnished them to see no expense spared; and with this unrestricted permission before him, the tradesman employed had done his best to produce the very beau idéal of a furnished lodging, that is to say, he had given to the residence of M. de Brévannes the most chill, comfortless, and commonplace aspect imaginable. Nothing that marked a taste, pursuit, or personal convenience, was to be seen in the dreary chambers; not a portrait, a picture,—not a vestige of the fine arts embellished the spacious rooms. The only one exempted from the triste vulgarity that predominated over the others was a small drawing-room especially appropriated to Bertha, and in which she passed her entire days.

Spite of the advanced hour of the night, or rather morning, for it was now four o'clock, it is into this very chamber we are about to introduce the reader.

Although the continual absences of M. de Brévannes might well have accustomed his gentle partner to them, yet Madame de Brévannes still experienced too much anxiety on his account ever to retire to rest until well assured of his safe return.

It was then four o'clock in the morning, and Bertha, seated in an arm-chair, her clasped hands reposing on her lap, was mechanically gazing on the expiring embers which flickered on the hearth. A lamp placed on a small table beside her, on which lay a half open book, shone full on the delicate features of the pensive wife, and cast a soft glow upon the glossy bands of her rich chestnut hair, which, braided so as merely to display the finely formed ear, with its roseate tip, was plaited in with the luxuriant masses, ornamenting the back of her small and classically shaped head.

The most striking characteristic of the lovely countenance of Bertha was its look of almost angelic sweetness, and when she raised her beautiful, large, blue eyes, it was impossible to resist their gentle influence. Her somewhat serious mouth seemed rather intended to express the smile of affection and universal benevolence than the noisy laugh of extreme gaiety, while the meditative attitude in which she sat displayed to advantage the graceful roundness of her long white throat.

Bertha wore a dress of light grey silk, whose subdued shade harmonised admirably with the delicacy of her transparent complexion. On one side of the fire-place stood a pianoforte loaded with music, and over the mantel-piece were suspended two portraits of unequal sizes, representing the father and mother of Bertha. A considerable number of plain black frames, containing copper-plate engravings, the works of Pierre Raimond, were hung around the small chamber, the walls of which were covered with embossed red paper, that gave it an air of lightness and cheerfulness very different from the rest of the apartments; and on the chimney-piece stood an old enamelled clock and two small blue and white candlesticks of Limoges enamel, which had once belonged to Bertha's mother, who had received them from her husband as a wedding present.

A tear which had long hung suspended from the thick lashes of Bertha's eyelid fell on her cheek like a liquid pearl. Her bosom heaved convulsively—a sudden tremor seized her frame, while a deep flush suffused her countenance, as again she sunk into her former gloomy abstraction.

Let us briefly explain the cause both of Bertha's sadness and utter dejection.

During her last residence in Lorraine, M. de Brévannes had bestowed the most marked attention on one of the female attendants belonging to his wife. The insolence displayed by the creature thus improperly distinguished opened the eyes of Madame de Brévannes as to its real cause, or, at least, infused into her mind such strong suspicions as to call for the immediate dismissal of the guilty woman.

This trying circumstance had occurred a few days before the return of M. de Brévannes to Paris, and had left a bitter feeling of injury in the mind of Bertha, who, however she might previously have smarted under her husband's infidelity, had never experienced a similar humiliation.

Four o'clock struck, and aroused Madame de Brévannes from her reverie. Absorbed in her deep and painful meditation, she had taken no note of the hours, and was surprised to find the night so completely gone.

At this moment a carriage stopped at the door, and Bertha began to regret having sat up so late. Her husband had peremptorily forbidden her ever awaiting his return. The servants, also, by his orders, retired to rest whether their master were in or not. He usually entered by a small side door, of which he alone had the key, but he was compelled to pass through Bertha's sitting-room in order to reach one of the two sleeping-apartments which communicated with it.

At the sight of her husband, Bertha rose to meet him, endeavouring, by a forced smile, to deprecate the storm she dreaded and anticipated.

The contraction of M. de Brévannes' features indicated the evil passions which at that moment possessed him. The few words spoken at random by Madame Beauvoisis respecting his journey to Italy had awakened within him a crowd of painful ideas, which he had been compelled to restrain during the hall and supper; it was, therefore, with considerable pleasure he promised himself a means of venting the wrath and bitterness with which he was filled, by quarrelling with his wife for sitting up for him.

"How is this, madam?" exclaimed he, as he entered; "four o'clock in the morning, and you not yet retired to bed! May I inquire the meaning of such strange conduct? Or is it that you may know at what hour I return home? Am I, or am I not, master of my own actions? Is your inquisitorial system to recommence the instant I set my foot in this place? Perhaps it may be as well, since we are upon the subject, to go into it at full length, in order that we may have no further occasion to revert to it during the whole of the winter."

So saying, he threw himself abruptly into the chair Bertha had just quitted, while she remained standing by the piano, utterly overcome with surprise at this abrupt torrent of reproach.

"You know," answered she, timidly, "your wishes are at all times mine; only tell me what you wish me to do, and rest assured of my implicit obedience. Indeed, it was with no thought of watching your conduct that I sat up so late; I was amusing myself by arranging this little apartment, and that occupied me so deeply that, before I was aware of it, I found it was one o'clock in the morning; then, fancying that you would soon be home, I thought I would wait for you. I slept a little, and so four o'clock struck before I was aware how the time had passed. That is how I came to offend you, Charles;" then smiling sweetly, and raising her lovely face towards her husband, she added, "And will you not forgive me for having unintentionally done so?"

But this angelic mildness disarmed not M. de Brévannes.

"What folly is this?" exclaimed he; "you really waste, a vast many fine words, madam, most unnecessarily. I am not arraigning your conduct as though you had committed a crime, and it is more than absurd to put such a construction upon what I did say; but of this be assured, I am not to be cheated as to the real motive that kept you from your bed to-night. Why not be candid, and admit that you chose to sit up that you might satisfy yourself as to the precise hour and minute I came home? You will oblige me, however, by not doing so again. I do not intend, I can tell you, to allow a repetition of the scenes of last year, or that, either by sullenness or assuming the air and appearance of a victim, you shall presume to imply a censure upon whatever I may think proper to do or to say."

"Oh, Charles! have I ever uttered one word?—except, indeed——"

"Upon my life," cried M. de Brévannes, interrupting his wife, "some persons possess the happy art of making their looks, and even silence, more expressive than words themselves."

"Alas, Charles, it is not always possible to prevent myself from being sad!"

"And wherefore should you be so? Do you want for any thing?—are you not elevated to a rank and station you never could have ventured to hope for?—have I not done all that human ability admits for you?"

"Charles, you well know I am not unmindful of all your benefits; my only regret is that I cannot better prove my gratitude to you."

"Yet all I require of you is simply to render my home agreeable to me, and to put on a smiling look of happiness instead of perpetually censuring my conduct by your melancholy and other affectations. If I thought fit to indulge my inclinations by marrying you, it was because, first, I was in love, and, secondly——"

"To have a wife submissive to your commands—I am perfectly sensible of that. You preferred me to a richer bride, because gratitude for the sacrifice you had made for me would necessarily render my duties still more binding and sacred in my eyes; and I should have been extremely sorry had you not so considered it, as it would have left me no means of repaying you for your kindness. But let me assure you, Charles, that you are greatly mistaken in ascribing my sadness (which is frequently involuntary) to any desire on my part to criticise your actions, which it becomes not me to question."

"But what is the meaning of this sadness?"

After a moment's hesitation, Bertha, with downcast eyes, replied,—

"There may be among your actions some that render me sad, without my venturing to complain of them."

"Upon my word, you are too deep a casuist for me! Come now, I will render the subject more clear, and disclose to you what your real thoughts are, though you dare not own them even to yourself. Why, instead of employing all these hypocritical circumlocutions, can you not come boldly to the point, and candidly confess that jealousy is the main-spring of your conduct?"

"Let me beseech you not to refer to that."

"And why not? On the contrary, I consider it most advantageous to weigh well our present position in all its relative bearings. And first, for the grand question you long to propose, but dare not, have I, or have I not, mistresses to occupy my time and thoughts? Now, that is the very thing of which you ought either to be entirely ignorant, or, at least, to feign ignorance. Such would be the conduct of a sensible woman, instead of tormenting herself to death with ridiculous jealousy."

"Charles, is it for you to assert that we may reason ourselves out of such a feeling as jealousy, no matter however unfounded, or whether the object that excites it be worthy or otherwise?"

"Capital, indeed, madam! Then it seems you accuse me of being jealous?"

"Oh, no!—I accuse you not—that would be to imply that jealousy were a crime, and Heaven knows I had need be indulgent towards a sentiment under whose bitterest torments I have myself writhed."

"You are under a gross error, madam, if you suppose that we stand upon equal grounds as regards the indulging such a passion as jealousy? Whether I am faithful to you or not, in no degree affects your consideration with society. But that I, who have sacrificed every thing for you, should be exposed to fresh ridicule!—I tell you," continued M. de Brévannes, rising from his chair, his teeth clenched, and his hands compressed with rage,—"that at the very supposition I can no longer command myself!" and as though unable to master the boiling rage which shook his frame and inflamed every feature, he commenced rapidly pacing the room.

"You speak truly, Charles," said Bertha, sorrowfully, "our jealousy is not the same. Mine springs from my heart, yours from your pride; but it matters not, and I respect it equally. Have you ever once heard me complain of the seclusion in which I live? Except my father, whom you permit me to visit twice a-week, and a few members of your own family it is your pleasure I should receive, I live entirely alone. Oh, let me hasten to thank you for granting me the happiness of communing with my own thoughts undisturbed by the great and the gay!"

"Yet all this enjoyment does not prevent your finding the time long and tedious; and every body knows the effects solitude and want of occupation produce in the minds of females."

"But I am never unoccupied—never for an instant. You know how passionately fond I am of music; then I draw, I read. As for the solitude, your being more at home does not depend upon me."

While Madame de Brévannes was speaking, her husband had approached the window, and mechanically opened the curtains drawn before it. He observed on the other side of the street, on the first floor of the house opposite his own, lights in the window corresponding to the one by which he stood, and through the glass he could discern the outline of a man attentively gazing from that window.

It was now nearly five o'clock in the morning, all was dark without, and the street was perfectly deserted; what object of interest, then, could the individual opposite have in thus keeping watch, unless it were to reconnoiter the windows of Madame de Brévannes' apartment, doubtless the only one throughout the house in which a light was burning at that unusual hour?

One of those absurd suspicions which enter only into the brain of jealous deceivers (a class essentially distinct from that of jealous deceived)—we repeat that a suspicion of the most absurd description all at once entered the mind of M. de Brévannes, who, turning quickly round towards his wife, and looking at her with angry glances and threatening countenance, exclaimed,—

"Madam, I insist upon knowing wherefore that light is burning in the opposite house."

"Madam, I insist upon knowing wherefore that light is burning in the opposite house?" then suddenly interrupting himself, to give way to a suggestion equally ridiculous with his jealousy, he abruptly drew back the curtain, opened the window, and went out upon the balcony, where he took up his station with an air of proud defiance.

At this unexpected apparition, the curtains of the opposite windows were hastily closed, the shadow disappeared, and almost immediately the light was extinguished.

Madame de Brévannes, wholly ignorant of her husband's fury, and still less able to comprehend his fancy for throwing open the windows in the month of January, was advancing towards the balcony, when M. de Brévannes turned sharply round, and, jerking the window-curtains back to their places, exclaimed,—

"So, madam, it is thus, then, you occupy your leisure hours while awaiting my return?"

"Indeed, Charles, I understand not what you mean."

"You do not? Ah, false woman, tell me why was the window of the first floor in the house facing this lighted up just now?"

"Just now?—the window?—in the opposite house?" repeated Bertha, with increasing surprise.

"Oh, you feign astonishment admirably, madam; but it will not do. Just this minute, some person opposite was attentively watching your window, but disappeared the instant I presented myself."

"Very probably, Charles. I know nothing about it: but why do you tell me of so trifling a circumstance?"

"Why?"

"Yes, I ask you again, why?"

"Because, doubtless there is a mutually good understanding between yourself and this person opposite, and that some disgraceful intrigue is carried on by means of signal-lights in your respective windows. I cease now to feel the smallest astonishment at your having kept watch to-night, instead of retiring to rest."

To an accusation so abrupt, so brutal, and so utterly incomprehensible, Bertha found it impossible to frame any reply: but, clasping her hands, she raised her eyes to heaven.

"All those tragedy airs are no answers to my question," cried M. de Brévannes, more and more excited; "and I ask you again, madam, why that light burned in the window directly facing yours; and wherefore that man gazed so attentively over here?"

"How is it possible I can know?" cried Bertha.

"Ah, madam, this is not replying, but meanly equivocating."

"But what other answer can I give?"

"Have a care! have a care!" exclaimed M. de Brévannes, almost foaming with rage, "do not imagine me fool enough to be duped by your hypocrisy. I have seen what I state with my own eyes. I am not blind, whatever you may think. I insist upon knowing who lives opposite to us?"

"For Heaven's sake, Charles, how should I know? We have only been here since yesterday morning——"

Interrupting his wife with increased fury, and violently striking his forehead, M. de Brévannes exclaimed,—

"I have it! Now, I remember, a post-chaise arrived almost at the same time we did, and stopped before the opposite house. We are followed—perhaps, even from Lorraine. Oh, I am sure—quite, quite sure, some disgraceful mystery is attached to all these circumstances; but depend upon it, wretched creature! that I will discover it, and drag the infamous participators to the shame and ignominy they deserve."

So much brutality and insult, expressed in a tone and manner so undeserved, stung Bertha to the quick. Spite of her quietness and habitual resignation, her self-pride, her delicacy, seemed outraged; and, with a firm and dignified manner, she said to her husband,—

"You are wrong, Charles, to speak to me thus. You may exhaust my patience, and force me to say things that, for the sake of your self-respect, I would fain be silent upon."

"Oh! oh! what! threats, too?"

"No, Charles, I utter no threats; but it is scarcely generous in you, who have given me so many just causes of complaint and sorrow, to accuse me, and treat me thus ignominiously, only from an absurd suspicion."

"Upon my word, madam, you are coming out quite a new character, as well as with language."

"Charles, I am weary of suffering your unjust reproaches in silence, when I might myself prefer against you causes of complaint, unfortunately too well founded."

"Better, and better, I protest!"

"You tell me, Charles, that I ought to shut my eyes to your conduct. I have always done so; but is it my fault if the account of your irregularities has reached my ears, even amid the solitude in which I live? Is it not the voice of public report, and the insolence of the wretched creature I drove from my house a week ago, that——"

"Not another word, madam!"

"Pardon me, Charles, but I must and will speak. I wish not to presume upon the position my devotion to my duties had obtained for me, I merely desire that you should respect it. I am willing to shut my eyes on errors so low, so degrading, that they are beneath my anger; but I will not suffer you thus unjustly to trample me in the dust."

"Upon my word, madam, your audacity confounds me. You, doubtless, wish me to understand, that four years of fidelity and respect for your duties have fully repaid all obligation to me, and that now you are free to act as you think proper. Is it possible that you can have effaced from your memory all I have done for you and yours; that I took you from absolute beggary; that your father exists upon my generosity; and that I have even carried my goodness so far as to have once offered to allow him to reside under my roof?"

"I have never forgotten, Charles, that you raised me from the poverty you speak of; and this recollection is the more meritorious on my part, as the poverty you allude to had no terrors for me: on the contrary, I neither felt nor heeded them, and ere I gave you, as a rich man, my heart, I had, perhaps, as many scruples to get over as you were obliged to vanquish, ere you could make up your mind to bestow your affections upon a poor girl like me."

"Really, what extreme condescension on your part to accept the hand, spite of my obnoxious 40,000 livres per annum!"

"As for your taunt of my father being maintained by your bounty! 'tis the first time you have uttered it—it shall be the last. For nearly the last twelvemonth, my poor father's sight has become so weakened, that he has been compelled to relinquish the labour by which he had hitherto supported himself; by dint of prayers and entreaties, I prevailed on him to accept a small annuity, he consented to receive it."

"In order not to be outdone by you in condescension, acting, no doubt, upon that principle, M. Raimond has also vouchsafed to honour me by accepting the means of living comfortably, instead of dying in an hospital."

"Say, rather, that my father was desirous of sparing your vanity by not going into an hospital. According to his notions, there would have been no dishonour in accepting such an asylum: old, infirm, unable to maintain himself, as he had hitherto done, by the work of his own hands, he would, without any feeling of degradation, have availed himself of the refuge public charity offers to the honest but unfortunate sufferer. However——"

"You would say that, since I so ill appreciate the great kindness of your respectable parent, he will no longer afford me the extreme happiness of maintaining him any longer, but will punish me by going and establishing himself in the hospital?"

"Most assuredly; for, certainly, I will not conceal from him the remarks you have made."

As she uttered these last words, the voice of Bertha, which, until then, had been firm and collected, began to falter; her powers of endurance were exhausted. She had for some time restrained the swelling tears which nearly choked her; but she could no longer retain her self-command,—she sank back into her chair, and, covering her face with her hands, wept bitterly.

M. de Brévannes was hard-hearted, selfish, and proud, yet he possessed considerable intelligence; and spite of the sarcasms on the singular principles of Bertha's father, with regard to the favours of the rich, he was perfectly well aware, that reasonable or otherwise, the conviction of his wife and Pierre Raimond on this subject was deep and sincere. His jokes had merely been a species of cruel sport.

The grief of Bertha touched him the more, as he remembered the recent wrongs he had done her, and all the humiliating things he had said to her rose in mental array; and he could not conceal from himself, that his conduct was by no means what it should he. The more she appeared dependent on him, the more incumbent was it on him to spare her delicacy, and not load her with coarse and cruel reproaches. And, if the whole truth must be told, we would endeavour to lay open one of the thousand hidden folds of the human heart, or rather of human organisation, and induce the reader to believe in one of those sudden brutal rekindlings of passion peculiar to man alone; and that, too, after the most bitter, degrading, and insulting recriminations.

Bertha, overwhelmed by the painful emotions produced by the late cruel scene, had fallen back into her chair. As she sat with drooping head, her beautifully formed shoulders, white and polished as ivory, yet tinged with the warm flush of her recently excited feelings, suddenly fixed the attention of M. de Brévannes.

As is frequently the case, he had a thousand times forgotten the lovely being he called his wife for creatures unworthy of a comparison with her, even as regarded the mere matter of beauty. Since the scene to which Bertha had alluded, when speaking of the femme-de-chambre she had been compelled to dismiss, the married pair had observed a mixture of coldness and restraint towards each other; but the love of Bertha for her husband had received its death-blow.

At the sight of his wife's deep distress, M. de Brévannes, by one of those gross ideas inherent in the minds of such men, imagined, that by complimenting the poor victim of his brutality, upon the power and brilliancy of her beauty, she would readily pardon him his late unfeeling conduct; he, therefore, silently approached his weeping wife, and, throwing his arm around her waist, exclaimed,—

"Come, my pretty Bertha, be a good girl—give me a kiss—and let's be friends."

It is impossible to depict the expression of mingled disgust, shame, and profound grief, exhibited in the countenance of the suffering wife; she, however, hastily freed herself from the hold of M. de Brévannes, and rising, exclaimed,—

"Surely I might have been spared this last insult! It is, however, one I neither can nor will endure." And with these words Bertha rushed into her chamber, doubly locking the door after her.

We shall not attempt to paint the rage of M. de Brévannes, or the mingled wrath and hatred with which he pursued his unfortunate wife.

CHAPTER VIII

[THE RETURN]

The immense and ancient Hôtel Lambert, occupied by the Prince and Princess de Hansfield, was situated in the Rue Saint Louis en l'Ile; and its garden-walls formed the boundary of the Quai d'Anjou, which is separated from the arsenal by the divisions of the Seine surrounding the Isle Louviers.

As we have already observed, nothing can be more wild and neglected than the present exterior of this palace, although the curious are still admitted to view those vast apartments so appropriate to the princely grandeur of past ages.

Still it is not without a feeling of mournful regret that one of the present day can contemplate these magnificent remains of ancient splendour, whose halls were once peopled with a gay phalanx of pages, guards, squires, knights, and gentlemen, with the innumerable train of satellites for ever revolving round those illustrious houses, whose leaders reflected so much glory and splendour on that period of French history. And to the meditative mind there is a fund of painful reflection in thus witnessing the triumph of time over the impotent designs of men, who, firm in their own possessions, believed they bequeathed them with equal certainty to their descendants.

Happily (thanks to the solitude of the desert spot in which it stood), the edifice of which we are speaking still retained a portion of its romantic and poetical character, and, when half veiled by the clouds of night, it shone forth in solemn majesty,—seemed to frown an awful lesson of monumental wisdom.

Night, solitude, and silence, change not with time; contemporaries of all ages, they are immutable and fixed as eternity itself. Thus, when the ravages of time are hid by the mists of night, and the massive building stands out in bold relief, the spectator beholding it at midnight, in silence and solitude, might believe nought had changed within or without, and the long lapse of years between the past and present be effaced from his recollection.

We shall conduct the reader to the Hôtel Lambert, about the time when M. de Brévannes quitted the opera.

Thick grey clouds, driven hurriedly along by the sharp north wind, floated rapidly across the face of the heavens; and, as the moon sunk in the horizon, she covered the fantastic edges of the broken clouds with a bright silvery glow, whilst, above, numerous bright stars glittered and sparkled in the dark azure of the firmament. The irregular mass of the old palace with its gable ends, high chimneys with their whimsical supporters, and its immense façade, stood out in bold relief against the clear transparency of the midnight sky, while an alley of evergreen pines raised their pointed and sombre-looking heads above the garden-walls that bordered the Quai.

The waters of the Seine, swollen by the rains of winter, dashed heavily on the shore, and by their mournful murmurs seemed replying to the prolonged whistling of the northerly breeze.

Save the rush of troubled waters, and the loud swelling wind, all was silent in this part of Paris.

Half-past four o'clock had just sounded from the distant arsenal clock, when a carriage stopped before the garden-wall.

A person wearing a large slouched hat, and wrapped in a cloak, descended from the carriage, opened a small door, and immediately afterwards Madame de Hansfeld, still dressed in a domino, also quitted the vehicle, and entered the garden.

The princess, with a rapid step, traversed the long alley of pines which led to one of the wings of the palace.

From time to time the clear moonbeams, struggling through the thick branches of the trees, chequered the ground with patches of light, and displayed the singular effect produced by the figure of the princess as she flitted along in her dark floating drapery, beneath the alternations of light and darkness.

The princely dwellings of that period had all, in common with the Hôtel Lambert, their small secret staircase leading to the private apartments.

The extreme ceremony always kept up, the exactions of full dress and etiquette, with the immense number of servants of all ranks, perpetually hurrying to and fro on their respective duties, left the occupants of these mansions so little at liberty during the day, that they were generally reduced to the necessity of availing themselves of nocturnal expeditions to effect any important business.

Thus, then, there will not appear any thing inconsistent with the custom of the period we are treating of in Madame de Hansfeld's pausing as she reached the left wing of the palace, opening a small door concealed among a clump of trees, and lightly ascending a narrow winding staircase, which quickly brought her to a large anteroom leading to her sleeping-apartment.

Scarcely had the princess entered, than she threw herself into an easy chair, as though exhausted with fatigue.

During this time, the individual who had followed her carefully bolted and secured the door conducting to the secret staircase, then, throwing off the large hat and cloak, discovered a female form.

Stooping towards the hearth, this person rekindled the half-expiring embers, lit the wax-lights, and proceeded into the chamber of Madame de Hansfeld, to satisfy herself that nothing had occurred by which her absence could have been suspected.

The princess, meanwhile, after a momentary languor and apparent depression of spirits, tore off her mask, then, abruptly rising, unfastened the girdle of her domino, which she threw on the ground, and trampled upon with rage.

Beneath the outer garment so rudely treated, the princess wore a black robe, with short sleeves, thus revealing arms, shoulders, and bust, worthy of the classic beauty of a Diana. Her countenance, so proud, chill, and imperturbable, while conversing with M. de Morville, was now agitated by a whirlwind of the most stormy passions. Her somewhat hollow eyes glittered like dark diamonds. Standing erect before the large glass which surmounted the chimney-piece, she appeared as though desirous of crushing the marble mantel-piece with the convulsive pressure of her clenched hands. Wholly absorbed by the stormy passions which raged within her, she perceived not the return of her companion. And a more singular person could not be seen. A deep brown, resembling the hue of Florentine bronze, tinged her colourless cheek, and displayed more strikingly the pearly whiteness of the eyeball with the clear blue of the pupil; her thick chestnut hair was cut short, curled, and parted on the forehead, after the fashion of many of the male sex, who in the present day wear their hair of an almost feminine length. Her well-formed and regular features had an undaunted and almost masculine expression, and when she unclosed her red thin lips, she displayed a set of teeth, white enough, indeed, to have disarmed all criticism, but standing at wide distances from each other.

This singular female was nearly as tall as Madame de Hansfeld, but considerably thinner. She wore a high dress of black silk, with a small handkerchief of the same material tied around her throat, to confine her closely plaited collar.

Dressed in a large flapped hat, and wrapped in a cloak, the female we are describing might easily pass for one of the opposite sex, and as such accompany Madame de Hansfeld, who feared to return alone during the night, in so lonely a place, and almost entirely at the mercy of a coachman.

During the interview at the Opera-ball, the young girl had awaited the princess in a fiacre, and afterwards accompanied her home.

Perceiving the deep reverie into which Madame de Hansfeld had fallen, she said,—

"Godmother, it is very late, you must go to bed."

"I have seen him!" exclaimed the princess, impetuously. "He may be my ruin!" continued she, turning with flashing eyes towards her god-daughter (whom we shall style Iris, entreating the reader's pardon for this little mythological fancy).

"Whom have you seen, godmother?" inquired the girl, terrified at the wildness and desperation of Madame de Hansfeld's manner.

"Charles de Brévannes!"

"He here?"

"I tell you I saw him—just now—at the opera! oh, it was he too surely! and as surely does the presence of this man portend some fresh misfortune to me."

"I do not know this man, godmother, or why you hate him so inveterately; but I, too, hate him with my bitterest scorn, because you have already told me that he formerly occasioned you great sorrow."

As Iris pronounced the words, "I know not why you hate him so inveterately," she could not repress a slight shudder, which, however, passed unnoticed by Madame de Hansfeld.

"You ask me wherefore I hold him in such detestation?" cried the princess, almost wildly.

"I said so but from curiosity, godmother. But, if you hate, you would also be avenged."

"Avenged! oh, yes, I would have vengeance great and startling as the ill he has done me."

"If I can serve you, speak."

"You, my poor girl?"

"Command, and I obey. Iris is yours—yours in all things; her life depends on yours—her breath is as your breath—she sees but with your eyes—she has no will but yours."

Without replying, Madame de Hansfeld extended her beautiful hand to Iris, who raised it to her moist red lips with an expression of respect and devotion more than filial; then, suddenly springing up, she exclaimed,—

"Gracious Heaven, godmother! your hand is cold as death!—you shiver, too! You must go to bed—indeed you must."

"Not yet—listen to me. I know not what occasions within me the foreboding that the arrival of Charles de Brévannes here is the certain precursor of great perils and dangers to myself. Your services may, probably, be more needful to me than ever,—you must know all. Yes, you must be made acquainted with the crime of this man; and then you will be able to comprehend that vengeance now becomes a sort of expiation on my part."

Having thus spoken, the princess seated herself beside the fire, while Iris, taking a mantle of velvet lined with ermine, wrapped it carefully and tenderly around her godmother; for, spite of the glowing fire which now blazed on the hearth, the piercing cold of a winter's night made these large chambers dreary and chill.

Madame de Hansfeld remained for several minutes plunged in a deep reverie.

Iris loved Madame de Hansfeld with a sort of tenderness at once respectful, passionate, and savage. It was, indeed, one of those blindly absorbing attachments which appear to shut the heart against every tender feeling, and to infuse an almost ferocity against all human creatures but the one beloved object.

The princess believed she had for ever attached this young girl to her by the profoundest gratitude, having taken her from an early age and entirely brought her up, and in this she was not mistaken. But she was wholly ignorant of the violence of this sentiment, or how completely it had occupied the heart of her young protégée, to the exclusion of all others. And Iris had sedulously concealed from her protectress the fits of jealous fury she experienced at the smallest preference bestowed by her mistress on any other than herself.

Gloomy, taciturn, and imperious, towards the other servants in the princess's establishment, Iris was either feared or detested throughout the Hôtel Lambert. Her position as companion to Madame de Hansfeld enabled her to keep quite aloof, and to devote herself to one fixed and exclusive idea, that of living or dying for her godmother alone. Her incessant regret was the not finding herself sufficiently useful and necessary to Madame de Hansfeld, who, rich, noble, and entirely free to act as she pleased, could easily dispense with the assistance or devotion of her god-daughter.

And, frequently urged by the fatal excitement of her overweening attachment, Iris would even form the most violent and unbounded wishes. In the excess of her wild and ungovernable fondness for her mistress, she would desire to see her wretched and miserable, in order to obtain the unspeakable happiness of consoling and succouring her—of devoting to her each hour of the day and night, the better to prove the full power and extent of her ruling passion.

From this slight sketch of the disposition of Iris, who, of either Bohemian or Moorish origin, had been early deserted by her natural protectors, it will be easily seen that she pursued with implacable hatred not only the enemies of Madame de Hansfeld, but also every person on whom her mistress bestowed marks of favour; and her animosity invariably kept pace with the degree of partiality with which Madame de Hansfeld beheld any acquaintance. Thus aware of the princess's extreme admiration for M. de Morville, she detested him as much—nay, even more, than M. de Brévannes, towards whom she even felt a species of singular gratitude for having inspired her mistress with such deep abhorrence. Almost ere Iris had passed her childhood, she enveloped herself in the veil of impenetrable dissimulation. Never for an instant had Madame de Hansfeld supposed her capable of such wild and frantic impetuosity—such ill-restrained fervour in her affections; and yet the ardent, though misguided girl, pursuing her aim with inflexible energy, and bewildered by her savage jealousy, had already struck at the dearest affections of her protectress's heart.

After reflecting for a considerable time, Madame de Hansfeld, rousing herself from the deep reverie into which she had fallen, made a sign to Iris to draw near to her.

"Iris remained heart, soul, and body, absorbed in the close observation of the adored object before her."

Her ever-watchful attendant instantly obeyed the signal; and kneeling and bending forwards, after the custom of the Spaniards in their churches, she crossed her arms, and fixed her large clear eyes upon the countenance of Madame de Hansfeld with that mixture of intelligence, submission, and devotion, peculiar to the canine race; and thus, hardly daring to breathe, lest she should lose a word, a gesture, or the smallest change in the expression of her mistress's features, Iris remained heart, soul, and body, absorbed in the close observation of the adored object before her.

CHAPTER IX

[THE RECITAL]

"You may remember when, two years since, before my marriage, I left you at Venice to go to Florence with my aunt Vasari, and Gianetta our waiting-maid. You had been an invalid for a long time, and were unable to accompany us."

"I remember it well. Gianetta wrote to me sometimes, by your desire, to tell me how you were."

"That Gianetta was very inquisitive, indiscreet, and faithless. I fear I kept her in my service too long."

"During your residence in Florence she wrote me but a few lines, just to say that you were well; and she seemed to do this very unwillingly," added Iris, with incredible assurance.

She lied, for Gianetta had, on the contrary, kept her constantly and fully informed of all that was going on at Florence during her godmother's absence.

"At the end of six months," resumed the princess, "I returned to Venice."

"It was then you had that long nervous attack which so nearly killed you."

"And during which you gave me so many proofs of your devotion and affection; and from that time, Iris, I loved you like a sisterlike a daughter."

Iris took her godmother's hand and silently placed it to her lips.

"My aunt Vasari," continued Paula, "went to Florence to attend to a lawsuit she had there. She went out every day, being able, as she thought, to influence her judges. In the evening we went out to walk, and there I frequently met a Frenchman named M. Charles de Brévannes. He was very soon my constant shadow; his pursuit of me became incessant and troublesome, and from that time my indifference was changed to aversion."

"Was he a man likely to cause such a sentiment?" "Why do you ask?" inquired the princess, scrutinising Iris's features; then adding, "You were so young then, you could not have remarked. Yes, at your age, that is natural. You recollect my cousin, Raphael Monti, the son of my father's brother?"

Iris imperceptibly contracted her eyebrows, and replied in a short manner,—

"Yes; each time he returned from sea he came to pass his leisure at Venice. Isn't he in the East? Have you had any news of him lately? When we left Italy his mother was becoming very anxious about his absence."

"He is dead," said Madame de Hansfeld, with desperate calmness.

"Raphael dead!" exclaimed Iris, with feigned astonishment.

"Charles de Brévannes killed him."

"And your aunt is ignorant of this?"

"Listen—the hour is come to disclose every thing to you. I had been, as you know, brought up with Raphael. When a child, I loved him as a brother; as a young girl, as my betrothed husband; or, rather, these two sentiments united themselves into one. You were then young and giddy, and our mutual affection, no doubt, escaped you."

"Why, to tell you the truth, godmother, now I remember some circumstances which ought to have enlightened me on that subject. But is it possible—is Raphael dead? And when and where did this happen?"

"Listen. I was to hare been married to him on my return to Florence. You may now comprehend why M. de Brévannes inspired me with so much aversion."

"I understand."

"His pursuit of me redoubled. Informed of our residence in Florence, he, by dint of perseverance and encouragement, contrived to form a connexion with those persons who would be of so much service to my aunt in her process, and obtained such influence with them, that he was very soon in a position to be of the greatest possible use to us.

"His way thus cleared, he one day boldly announced himself at my aunt's under the plea of lodging in the same hôtel. Our reception of him was very chilling, but the man soon proved himself so insinuating, such a flatterer, and so clearly shewed my aunt how greatly he could aid the progress of her suit, that she begged him to visit us as frequently as he pleased. As he left the room, he cast at me a very significant look. He had only done this in order to be able to approach me.

"I told my aunt all my suspicions, and her reply was that I was crazy; that it was requisite we should avail ourselves of M. de Brévannes' kind offices, since he could be so advantageous to us. You know my aunt had been very handsome, and at this time she was only forty years of age. M. de Brévannes saw one day that she took in earnest some little gallantries which he addressed to her in jest. He increased his attentions, so that, in a very short time, she could really not do without him. He accompanied us every where, walking, or to the theatre. I remarked to my aunt that he was young and rich, and that this intimacy might compromise me. She then told me, with as much joy as pride, that I was quite wrong to alarm myself. She was a widow and free; M. de Brévannes had avowed his love for her, adding that he only took so deep an interest in our lawsuit because it gave him an opportunity of being so constantly near her. I wished to make some observations to my aunt, but she would not even allow me to finish them, but broke out into a tirade as to the vanity of young girls, and reproached me with ever having believed for a moment that M. de Brévannes bestowed a thought on me. He saw us every day, often sent minstrels under our windows, and continually presented us with similar bouquets, in order (as he told my aunt) that my self-love might not be wounded.

"One day, finding me alone, he made me a declaration of love, considering as a merit in my eyes the ability with which he had deceived my aunt, and taken off from me the gaze of the world by appearing smitten with her, and for this enormous sacrifice he considered I should admire and feel kindly disposed towards him."

"And was your aunt informed of this avowal of Charles de Brévannes?"

"That very evening she was told all."

"Then he was unmasked?"

"Child, you do not comprehend the weakness and vanity of women!"

"What!—she would not believe you?"

"Yes, at first; and that same evening our door was closed against M. de Brévannes. He guessed the fact, and wrote a long letter to my aunt. The very next day he was received even more kindly than usual. When she left me, my aunt came and scolded me severely. Jealous, as she declared, of M. de Brévannes' love for her, I had calumniated him in order to have him excluded from the house."

"Unhappy woman! she was mad!"

"Matters resumed their usual course. Charles de Brévannes did not utter one other word of love to me, but he passed whole days with us. On the 13th of April—ah! I shall never forget that date—my aunt said to me after breakfast, that the noise of the court-yard of the hôtel disturbed her so much, that she would, from that evening, change apartments with me. My room looked into the street, and had a balcony. What I have to add is fearful. That day we had been out for a long drive in the carriage, accompanied by M. de Brévannes. On our return we sat together until very late in the evening, my aunt appearing very much preoccupied. At length he retired, and I went to bed."

The princess turned horribly pale, shuddered, and then continued in a broken voice:—

"The next morning I wished to go as usual to wish my aunt good morning, when Gianetta, with an embarrassed air, told me that Madame Vasari was much indisposed, and could not see me.

"At the moment I was returning towards my own apartment, a stranger inquired for me, and a dark, pale man handed me a letter without uttering a syllable. I knew not why, but a tremor ran through my veins. I opened the letter—it inclosed a ring which I had given to Raphael."

"And the letter, godmother,—the letter?"

"Was from Raphael, who was dying."

"From Raphael?"

"Yes, and contained these words, which seemed to me written in characters of blood:—"

"'I have been in Florence for two days. I know all. This very night I saw Brévannes descending from your balcony; after which you closed the window. I fought with him instantly, as we both agreed. I sought death, and he has given it to me. Be thou accursed! Osorio will tell you when you return to Venice. Conceal from my mother. My sight is——'

"And nothing more," added Madame de Hansfeld, with agonising expression, "nothing but some shapeless letters."

"What a mystery!" said Iris, clasping her hands. "Who then could have appeared at your chamber-window?"

"Have I not told you that my aunt had occupied the chamber that very evening which I had before slept in? No doubt, Charles de Brévannes had obtained a rendezvous from her in order to serve his wicked designs, you will see how. She is my height—dark as I am; and thus was Raphael fatally deceived."

"Oh! how horrible!"

"After I had read this letter I was almost mad. I believed I was in a dream. Osorio told me the rest. Raphael, on his return from a voyage to Constantinople, had reached Venice. He only passed a day in that city, but, misled by some abominable calumny which had reached thither from Florence, he left that city suddenly with Osorio, to whom he said,—

"'They tell me that Paula has betrayed me shamefully; if that be true, I will kill my rival or he shall kill me.'"

"But who could thus have slandered you in Venice?"

"How do I know? Raphael had not even seen his mother. Every body was in utter ignorance of his short stay in Venice. In vain did I question Osorio on this point: he was mute."

"That is very strange."

"Unfortunately he shared Raphael's suspicions. What I foresaw arrived. The attentions of M. de Brévannes, explained by shameful scandal, had compromised me most fatally. I passed in Florence as his mistress, and, when Raphael inquired of me, I was accused by one common voice. However, determined not to be misled by appearances, he had gone straight to M. de Brévannes, had told him of his love for me, and that we were betrothed, that young girls being frequently giddy and coquettish, without being culpable, and that the world was slanderous,—and then entreated M. de Brévannes, in the name of honour, not to conceal the truth, and, whatever it was, he would believe it."

"And Charles de Brévannes?"

"Far from being touched by this language, he treated Raphael with hauteur, and said to him,—

"'Since you have watched Paula Monti for two days, you must know which is her chamber.' 'I know it; for, without being perceived by her, this very morning I saw her in the balcony.' 'Well, be this night at three o'clock in front of that balcony, and you shall have my reply.' You know the rest. Brévannes then said insolently to Raphael, 'Are you satisfied?'

"In his rage, Raphael struck him in the face; a duel ensued at break of day, and he fell. His last wish was to conceal his death from his mother. He preferred leaving her, in that uncertainty in which people remain for many years with respect to sailors, to allowing her to learn that my treachery had killed him. Osorio told me all this; and, his sad mission fulfilled, he went away without listening to a word of my assurances and protestations. I have since heard that he died in the East; and Raphael's mother is continually expecting her son. He died cursing me—died in calling and believing me infamous and perjured—dead—killed by Charles de Brévannes, that calumniator and murderer!"

"Ah, it is horrible! and your aunt Vasari?"

After a moment's silence, during which the princess appeared borne down by the weight of a painful recollection, she thus resumed:—

"The laws of duelling were of excessive severity. Charles de Brévannes went away that same day. Raphael was unknown in Florence: neither Osorio nor the second of M. de Brévannes appeared again. No one, therefore, could betray this fatal secret. My aunt was the more inconsolable for the sudden departure of Charles de Brévannes, as for want of his support she lost her suit, and was completely ruined. We returned to Venice, when I became so very ill."

"And in a year afterwards you were the Princess de Hansfeld?"

"Yes, to save my family from dire misfortune, I resigned myself to this marriage, for which I could hardly have looked. Thanks to the kindness, the cares, and delicacy of the prince, I saw before me a prospect of happy days once more; and to gratitude there was gradually succeeding a sentiment more tender and delightful, when, suddenly, M. de Hansfeld, affected in some most extraordinary manner, forgot his kindness and his accustomed gentleness; and," added Madame de Hansfeld, with a deep sigh, "then began the life I now lead. Sometimes I ask myself, how my reason can have received such shocks and not have broken down beneath them? The fear and amazement caused in me by the singular and alarming behaviour of the prince follow me even into the world when I go sometimes to seek, not amusement, but forgetfulness. For nearly six months had I dragged on this wretched existence, in appearance so splendid and happy, when I accidentally met M. de Morville. I remarked him, because I had heard so much said of his fidelity, which he had, like myself, vowed to an adored remembrance. Every where they talked of his devotion, his delicacy, and above all, his tender constancy for a lady from whom he had been forcibly separated. Rendered sad by his love, entirely devoted to his invalid mother, he went out but very little. He resided near us in the Rue Guillaume. One day I found a letter on the bench in the most lonely part of our garden. Without at all comprehending the means by which that letter had reached there, my first impression, as you know, was to believe that it came from him.

"I was confirmed in this idea the next day, when I remained for some hours concealed in a clump, and towards evening saw another letter fall, dropped out of a window concealed by ivy.

"M. de Morville seemed to penetrate the causes of the thoughts which agitated me. Gay, if I were gay, sad, if I were sad, dull and despairing, if I were so, his letters seemed the echo of my most deep or light impressions."

"How could he guess them?"

"By observing me, he read in my countenance the situation of my mind."

"He loves you well," said Iris, with a voice deeply agitated.

"You see, as I do, that M. de Morville regretted a lost love; and, strange, fatal event! our common regrets served, as it were, as a link between the past love and the new love."

"You may love,—the prince has given you liberty."

"I know it,—I know it; but he has often recurred to those harsh words. How often has he passed from the most chilling, most disdainful, most overwhelming cruelty, to language of most affectionate tenderness. But what avails it now! his cruelties, and his tenderness, alike find me unmoved; my love gives me courage to brave them; my love! and still my conscience reproaches me for forgetting Raphael!

"Since I have seen M. de Brévannes again, it seems to me, that in redoubling my hatred against this murderer, I seek to expiate my inconstancy; it seems to me, indeed, that if I obtained a sweeping revenge against this man, my fresh love would be excused; and then, again—wretch that I am!—has this fresh love need of any excuse? An insurmountable barrier separates me for ever from M. de Morville."

"An insurmountable barrier?" said Iris.

"Yes, some fatality pursues me; my soul was being renewed; the most delightful future was opening to me; I believed myself assured of the love of M. de Morville. I had contrived to form an intimacy with Madame de Lormoy, one of his relatives; he had begged to be introduced to me, when, suddenly, he appeared to feel towards me the most intense hatred, and avoided a meeting with so offensive a pertinacity, that I resolved on the step which I have to-day put into execution."

"And what was the cause of his hatred, godmother?"

"Oh, it is not hatred,—he loves me, my girl—loves me as passionately as I love him, although I have concealed my infatuation from him. But, I repeat to you, an insurmountable obstacle separates us for ever. To tell you what I have suffered at this disclosure, and the energy it required to maintain my composure, would be impossible. Well! still I might have accepted this position almost with happiness, but for this infernal Brévannes."

"How?"

"Devoted entirely to this sad and pure love, I would never again have seen M. de Morville; but, at least, I should have known that he loved me as I love him. Human nature is so fantastical, that the reasons which opposed themselves to this love being happy would, perhaps, have assured its permanency; but if M. de Brévannes speaks, misery—misery for me! Then contempt would succeed to the adoration now in the heart of M. de Morville; and he, so frank, so noble, would not then find sufficient disdain to overwhelm me. Despised by him, ah! I know what I have suffered when I thought myself the sole possessor of this fatal secret; and to think that Brévannes could direct this heavy blow at me by again spreading the infamous calumny which caused Raphael's death,—it is enough to drive one mad!"

"From all this, godmother, two things result. You must learn the mystery which impels Morville to avoid you, and you must reduce Charles de Brévannes to silence."

"Yes, it must be done; but how?—alas!—how: I am indeed wretched!"

"Then Iris is nothing with you?" said the young girl, with great bitterness.

The princess was struck with it, and replied kindly,—

"Yes, my dear child, I can tell all to you, and that is consolation to me."

At this moment a solemn, sonorous, and powerful sound, full of sweetest harmony, but rendered faint by the distance, reached the ears of the two women. It was the notes of an organ, touched with an exquisite finger and saddened expression.

At these tones the princess shuddered, and then cried,—

"Ah, 'tis he! He is still watching. Ah! Now, my head is so weak that the sound of this organ appears to me fearful and supernatural; they are not the sounds of this instrument I hear, but the mysterious voices of an invisible world replying to the prince who questions them. Oh, mercy, mercy! it terrifies me!"

By a singular chance, and as if the entreaty of the princess were heard, the sound of the organ slowly died away in the silence of the night, like a complaint that gradually subsides.

"This conversation overpowers me. I tremble all over," said Paula.

"You must go to bed, godmother."

After having aided her in undressing with the utmost care, and respectfully kissed Madame de Hansfeld's hand, Iris closed the door of her godmother's chamber, drew a sofa across the sill, which, opening, formed a bed, and, having carefully bolted the entrance of the secret staircase, threw herself on the couch, and was soon in a deep slumber.

CHAPTER X

[THE PRINCE DE HANSFELD]

An immense chamber, occupying the whole of one wing in the Hôtel Lambert, formed the entire dwelling-place of Arnold de Glustein, Prince of Hansfeld, the mysterious personage, concerning whom so many strange conjectures and varied rumours were afloat.

And well might the aspect of the long gallery or chamber we are about to describe warrant the many charges of whimsical originality.

The moment chosen for introducing the reader to this strange abode is shortly after the sounds of the organ had ceased (to the extreme satisfaction of the princess), that is to say, about the hour when the pale light of a winter's day began to dissipate the mists of the morning.

Let the reader picture to himself a room nearly one hundred feet in length, with a ceiling crossed by large projecting beams, once painted and gilded, as well as the spaces between them. By a caprice of the prince all the windows had been closed up, except one high, long, and narrow Gothic casement, placed at the extremity of the gallery, and filled with panes of painted glass. The light thus admitted through this narrow opening produced a singular effect by struggling against the blaze of six wax-lights, burning in an ancient brazen candelabrum suspended from one of the joists by a silken cord, close to the window itself. Thanks to this method of lighting the place, that portion of that vast gallery was, day and night, supplied with a clear, soft light, while the remainder of the spacious chamber was lost in obscurity.

Nothing could be more singular than the gradual shading off of the light, which, at first entering all the more brilliantly as the rays were in a manner filtered through the high window with its variegated panes, decreased insensibly until it wholly disappeared in the distant recesses of the chamber, while the different objects it encountered on its passage, sharing in the effect of the diminishing brightness, assumed all manner of wild and fantastic forms; for instance, as the expiring light struggled towards the end of the gallery, its fading beams, striking against the designs wrought upon various suits of Damascus steel armour, seemed to send forth a shower of bright, scintillating sparks.

Almost beside the only small door which gave admittance into this gallery, and in one of its gloomiest corners, might be discerned a white mass resembling a human form. This was a skeleton attired in the most whimsical manner. On its head it wore a bishop's mitre; one hand leaned upon a beautifully ornamented sword, of the time of the Renaissance, while the other held a seven-stringed ivory lute, the base of which was supported on the knee; by a fanciful caprice, a wreath of roses (a great rarity at that time of year) of surpassing beauty and exquisite perfume, surmounted this lute. A mantle of white cloth, studded with the letters X and M, interwoven and embroidered in gold, hung in majestic folds over the hollow chest of the skeleton, and, falling in long-flowing drapery, allowed no part of its figure to be seen, with the exception of the lower part of the thigh and the whole of the right foot. This foot, remarkable for its smallness, was clad, as though in mockery, in a white satin shoe, whose silken sandals floated in long-streaming bows on the leg-bone, white and polished as ivory.

But if the eye of the spectator, becoming sufficiently accustomed to darkness, should thoroughly investigate the more minute parts of this singular object, he might be able to discern beneath the silken sandals and slipper of satin various dark-coloured spots, easily recognised as those formed by blood.

This strange and awful memento of mortality was placed upon a pedestal of ebony, exquisitely ornamented with bas-reliefs and inlayings of silver and ivory.

By one of those striking contrasts which abounded throughout the whole of this strange apartment, the ornamental part of the pedestal by no means assimilated with the osseous spectacle it supported. On the contrary, the perfection of Florentine art, as it was in the fifteenth century, seemed expended on this master-piece of carving and sculpture. Nevertheless, the pure and exquisite style of the ornaments, charming as they were, bore reference to the gloomy object whose base they decorated. The figure of the skeleton, leaning one hand on a naked sword, and with the other supporting a lute, its head bearing an episcopal crown, and its foot a woman's shoe, was to be seen amidst all the varied and artistical combinations of design.

Thus Cupids, supported by the fabulous birds so much in favour during the Renaissance, resembling the eagle in the head and wings, and the syren in the capacious folds of their tail, were introduced as bearing the hideous skeleton in their tiny arms.

In another part was represented a group of nymphs, whose chastely elegant attitudes would have reflected no discredit on the sculptors of Greece itself, sporting beneath the walls of the richest and most splendid salons, while busying themselves in preparing the toilette of the grisly phantom; one graceful creature holding the sword, another the lyre, and a third presenting the mitre.

In a corner of this exquisite specimen of Florentine skill, two nymphs, gracefully designed, were represented as holding between them the sandals of the shoe, while a little Cupid, nestled in this Cinderella's slipper, was employing it as a swing.

During these fanciful preparations the skeleton, reclining on a Grecian couch, and half hidden by its flowing draperies, looked on, smiling with a ghastly smile at the sportive dances of the nymphs, whilst with its bony fingers it grasped a bouquet of roses presented by a group of lovely children. A small tripod of silver gilt, most elaborately wrought, was placed at the base of this pedestal, for the double purpose of serving as a lamp, and, likewise, a burner of perfumes.

If the remainder of the furniture of this spacious gallery was less remarkable for its incongruous mixture of gloomy and sportive ideas, it was not less worthy of notice from its singular combination; some of the articles meriting close attention from their extreme rarity, the others claiming observation from the extraordinary mutilation they had undergone.

A painting, placed in one of the divisions of the gallery, where but a dim, religious light stole in, represented a female of exquisite beauty, and by the freshness of the colouring, the half-concealed light, the perfect grace of the design, and softness of touch, it was easy to recognise the masterly hand of Leonardo da Vinci; but, alas! instead of the liquid, clear, expressive eye, to which that unrivalled artist had doubtless almost communicated life, two sharp, fine stilettos, or sharp, glittering blades of steel, shot forth from the sockets whence the eyes had been ruthlessly, barbarously torn. Could this fearful mutilation have been a mournful, yet ferocious jest, upon the ancient maxim in mythology, that "the eyes of beauty dart forth mortal arrows?"

It was impossible to view this outrage to a work of art, in itself a master-piece, without considerable indignation; but this sentiment was quickly forgotten in the admiration excited by a small white monument close adjoining, the ornaments of which were borrowed equally from the pagan and Christian mythology.

In a scroll, supported by Loves and Angels, were traced in letters of gold the names of Phidias and Raphael, beneath a sort of Prie-Dieu, the worn state of whose velvet cushion sufficiently attested its constant use, as though some fervent admirer of those two great and immortal geniuses was in the frequent habit of invoking their mighty inspirations in humble, supplicating entreaty, or of pouring forth his gratitude for the ineffable enjoyments which a taste for the sublime and beautiful is calculated to bestow upon man. And, indeed, various copies or engravings of the most celebrated cartoons of Raphael, placed side by side with fragments from the Parthenon, selected with perfect taste and correctness of judgment, gave evident proofs of an intimate acquaintance with, and a passion for, the fine arts, wholly irreconcilable with the barbarous mutilation of which we have before made mention.

But, in proportion as the enlightened part of the gallery was approached, so did the objects in this so singularly selected abode of the Prince de Hansfeld change their character; the nearer they drew to the light, the greater was their splendour. For instance, near the window was to be seen a rare collection of Indian and Eastern arms, sabres of silver encrusted with coral, poniards, whose hilts were studded with precious stones, were sheathed in scabbards of crimson velvet, richly wrought in gold. The blue steel of Damascus bent beneath its golden case, glittering with emeralds and rubies; while Indian bucklers, bearing bas-reliefs of silver gilt, sparkled with the dazzling constellations of bright gems they presented, forming one bright, glowing, scintillating, luminous mass, to which the light admitted by the painted window added still more glowing and varied hues, while language would fail in describing the splendidly curious articles of gold, enamel, and carving, piled in gorgeous confusion upon the mother-of-pearl shelves placed immediately in the close vicinity of the window.

The flood of light let down by the many-coloured window, and reflected back by the dazzling objects on which it fell in rainbow hues, resembled a cascade of sparkling brilliancy to which the sun lends every prismatic shade.

This comparison seemed so much the more striking, as, immediately beneath the window, and occupying the arched space under it, stood a large organ. Two figures, three feet high, of angels, sculptured in ivory, supported the keyboard of the instrument, which was also of ivory. The rest of the body of the organ, whose summit reached the window itself, was composed of Gothic panels of finest ivory, carved with the fineness and delicacy of lace, without in any way detracting from the sonorous depth of the instrument. Four light and graceful Caryatides, adorned with golden crowns and ornamented with precious stones, separated the panels and supported a frieze of solid stones, represented a garland of flowers, fruit, and leaves, the cherries being formed of cornelian, the plums of amethyst, the apricots of topaz, blue-bells of lapis, with leaves of malachite and hyacinths of aqua marines,—shone with all the brilliancy and natural look of the fruits and flowers so skilfully imitated.

This organ, ten feet high and five wide, occupied the entire space beneath the long painted window, let into one end of the gallery.

The space which remained at each side of the window was filled up to the ceiling with the innumerable rich and gorgeous articles we have elsewhere described.

Seated before this ivory organ was the Prince de Hansfeld. He wore a long tunic of black woollen, loosely confined round the waist, a sort of black velvet cap but half concealed his hair, portions of which, escaping, fell in long, light locks upon his shoulders, which were somewhat bent. His long, loose sleeves were thrown back almost to the elbows during the rapid passage of his long thin fingers over the keys of the instruments, displaying hands and arms while and polished as marble, but unnaturally small and wasted. The finger-nails, even though well shaped, hard, and polished as agate, possessed not that roseate tint so sure a harbinger of good health, but were surrounded by a pale, blue circlet; while the head of the prince, slightly thrown back, proved that his eyes were cast upwards towards the ceiling.

After having paused for some time, the Prince de Hansfeld recommenced playing, but in an extremely low key.

Whether it were the superior excellence of the mighty organ or the skilful hand that touched it, it is certain that never did sounds so full, so soft, yet so sonorous, breathe forth in notes of melancholy sweetness, amounting almost to passionate expression.

It would be wholly impossible to trace the source of those feelings which found vent in passages at once so thrilling, yet soul-saddening, now plaintive as a sigh, yet sweet and touching as the smile bestowed by a mother on her infant, then breaking forth again in strains harmonious, vague, unfinished, capricious as the thought which, flitting through the mazes of a saddened imagination, suddenly glows with the pure, rapturous whispering of hope, whose finger points from troubled clouds to the clear, serene azure of summer skies. And the hardest heart must have owned the influence of those delicious sounds, descending in gentle melody like a flood of happy tears. In the solemn stillness of the night the rich, full sounds of the organ pealed forth in grander majesty, and ascended unto heaven itself, even as the incense of the heart.

There was one particular strain which occurred frequently and at regular intervals during these inspired performances. To convey a notion of the ideas which were called up by this enchanting passage, played on the highest and most glassy notes of the instrument, it will be requisite to evoke the most youthful, smiling, and joyous images, such as these.

Like each pearly drop as it hangs on the soft, green moss, or the roseate colours of an early spring morning.

All that is soft and gently soothing in the mild silver beams of the moon, as during a delicious summer's night she plays amid the dark shadows of the thick woods, whose wavy branches keep time to the delicious warbling of the nightingale.

All the happiness, pure joy, and innocent hope, poured forth by the innocent maiden of sixteen summers, as in the fulness of her youthful delight she warbles her pleasure at seeing, in company with her adored mother, the rising sun gild the summit of the tall trees at the moment when the flowers unfold their leaves and expand their perfumed blossoms.

All the pleasing, yet serious reveries, which possess our minds as we contemplate the countless scintillations of the starry worlds revolving in their course in unlimited space.

But no words can adequately describe the poetical images invoked by that sweet and gentle melody which, stealing in at intervals, appeared to cast a bright and serene charm over the gloomy style of the compositions performed by the prince.

The descriptions of pieces chosen by the prince savoured, indeed, of his own peculiar character; they breathed, indeed, the very ideality of German moodiness, the soft fancies of Mignon, not altogether that which conjured up so many graceful fantasies, but, rather, the gloomy whisperings which invoked the pale shade of Leonora.

The sadness of Arnold was so far peculiar to himself that, although perfectly resigned to his sorrow, he harboured neither anger nor bitterness of spirit.

His greatest delight seemed to be in modulating the exquisite passage we have alluded to; to it he clung with the fondness and tenacity we are apt to feel for some dear object of our early recollections.

The sharp, shrill, and prolonged sound of a bell made the prince start as though painfully aroused from his reverie.

At the harsh sound of the bell he suddenly discontinued his strain. And the last vibrations of the organ died away in the vast gallery like an expiring sigh.

Arnold bent his head with deep dejection on his bosom, while his thin, white hands, quitting the keys of the organ, fell listlessly on his lap. His slight, fragile form stooped languidly forward, the fictitious, feverish strength which had hitherto sustained him disappeared, and left him weak and powerless.

The first dawn of a winter's morning, mingling with the light of the wax-candles burning in the Gothic chandelier, formed a sort of artificial glare, gloomy as that of tapers burning in daytime around the bed of death. This unnatural light fell direct on the forehead and cheekbones of Arnold, who still sat with his head drooping on his breast; while through his long downcast eyelashes might be observed the fixed eyeball lose the clear lustre of its limpid blue, and become motionless and rigid. His fingers, too, were stiffened by the intensity of the frost, for the fire had long since been extinct in the vast chimney.

Again the bell rang forth its shrill summons, but this time the call was more imperative and repeated twice.

The prince seemed to start from a lethargic slumber. He rose as though by a powerful and painful effort, and proceeded to the other end of the gallery, the only entrance to which was by a low and thick door, heavily barred with iron.

With an air of mistrust and suspicion, Arnold half opened a small wicket formed in the door, then asked, in a feeble voice,—

"Is that you, Frank?"

"Yes, Arnold, 'tis I. This is the day. Here, my dear child," answered another and somewhat cracked voice,—"take the box, will you?"

"You are quite sure 'tis you, Frank?" repeated the prince.

"Why, in the name of all the saints, who should it be if not old Frank? Open the door—you shall see me from head to foot."

"Oh, no, no!—not to-day."

"Come, come, my dear boy, you are low-spirited—I know it. But take the box; I bought the bread at one place and the fruits at another."

The prince stretched forth his hand and eagerly took a small mahogany casket bound with steel, which was passed to him through the wicket.

"Good night, or, rather, good day, Arnold."

"Adieu, Frank."

And with these few, hasty words, the wicket was quickly closed.

Not far from the door was a bed composed of two thick and silky bear-skins, spread over a large divan. On this couch Arnold seated himself, placing the box on a small, curiously wrought ebony table, on which lay a pair of loaded pistols. Taking a key, which was also on this table, he opened the casket, which contained merely a small loaf just fresh from the oven, and some winter fruits.

"Arnold de Hansfeld threw himself back on his bed, and wept bitterly."

The prince regarded these eatables, worthy of an anchorite, with a species of mistrust, as though his suspicions struggled with his appetite. However, he broke the loaf in half, and after closely examining it, and even smelling it, he lifted it to his lips, but suddenly changing his intention, he threw it from him with terror, then, concealing his face in his hands, Arnold de Hansfeld threw himself back on his bed, and wept bitterly.

CHAPTER XI

[THE FATHER AND DAUGHTER]

Bertha de Brévannes usually passed every Sunday and Thursday morning with her father, Pierre Raimond, who still dwelt in the Isle Saint Louis, Rue Poultier, near to the Hôtel Lambert, the residence of the Prince de Hansfeld.

Since his daughter's return to Paris, the old engraver had not once seen her, but, informed of her arrival, he awaited her coming on the Sunday morning, for the different scenes we have related took place during the night of Saturday.

Full of joy at the prospect of embracing his beloved child, Pierre Raimond, according to usual custom, bestowed all possible care to give an air of festivity to his humble abode, which consisted of a small sitting-room and two chambers, up four pairs of stairs. From the windows of these small apartments a view might be obtained of the quay and river Seine, while, in the horizon, the tops of the tall trees in the Jardin des Plantes were discernible, and, farther still, appeared the lofty dome of the Panthéon.

The chamber formerly occupied by Bertha was almost worshipped by the engraver, who had not permitted the least change to be made in any of its arrangements. The little painted bedstead, with its white cotton curtains, the old walnut-tree chest of drawers, which had formerly belonged to Madame Raimond, the small, rickety pianoforte, on which Bertha had acquired her musical proficiency, were all there as she left them; and there, too, safe under a glass frame, were the wreaths of victory gained by the youthful aspirant during the course of her studies at the Conservatoire de la Musique.

Pierre Raimond could not be less than seventy years of age. His tall figure, bent beneath the pressure of his years, his bald head, white beard, which he had ceased for many years to touch with a razor, added considerably to the stern severity of his features; his eyelids were nearly always half closed, and proved but too painfully how much his sight had suffered from his incessant labour. This infirmity, added to a slight nervous tremor which had settled upon him after a long and severe illness, had compelled him to relinquish his occupation of engraving music, and, sorely against his will, to accept a pension from M. de Brévannes of twelve hundred francs.

The chamber of Pierre Raimond, which had formerly been his studio, was scrupulously neat and clean; beneath the window stood his work-table, with the implements of his now abandoned profession laid in exact order, as though for immediate use, upon some metal plates, prepared for the engraving of music. A small iron bedstead, a table, four chairs of walnut-tree wood, composed the almost anchorite-like simplicity of the fittings up of the apartment.

Over the recess, where stood his bed, hung an ancient sword of honour, obtained by Pierre Raimond during that period of his youth when he had served as a volunteer in the Republican army.

Above the sword was a framed copy of the celebrated appeal made by the Convention to the people upon the occasion of the assassination of the French envoys.

The 9th Floréal of the 7th year,
at 9 o'clock in the Evening,
The Austrian Government caused the Assassination of
the Ministers of the French Republic,
BONNIER, ROBERJOT, and JEAN DEBRY,
Charged by the Directory to negotiate the Peace of Rastadt,
THEIR SMOKING BLOOD DEMANDS AND WILL
OBTAIN JUST VENGEANCE."

Pierre Raimond religiously preserved this curious specimen of the savage eloquence of that terrible period, which, however blood-stained, was still not wholly without glory. It is scarcely necessary to say, that the engraver remained firm to the Republican Utopia only as far as its views were generous and patriotic.

Honest though unpolished—just and conscientious—the only fault to be found with Pierre Raimond was his somewhat overstrained notions as to the moral distinctions which, in his opinion, existed between the rich and the poor. And, if he carried the pride of poverty too far, he might fairly be excused on the score of his noble and unaffected disinterestedness.

Acting upon these principles, he had refused the proffered hand of the daughter of a rich engraver, because he loved the mother of Bertha, who was poor as himself.

After thirty years of incessant application, hard labour, and economy, Pierre Raimond had succeeded in amassing the sum of 25,000 francs, which he destined for the future provision of his daughter; the bankruptcy of the lawyer in whose hands he had placed the money deprived him of the dear gratification of seeing his child independent, and left him no help but to redouble his exertions, in order to bestow on his daughter, then quite young, some profession, by which she might honestly earn her bread.

From this slight sketch the reader may form some notion of the intense eagerness with which Pierre Raimond awaited his beloved Bertha.

At length his watchful ears were gladdened with the sound of a vehicle stopping on the quay, then a quick, light, and well-known step sounded up the staircase. A few seconds more, and Bertha, rushing into the room, threw herself into her father's arms, who, tenderly embracing her, cried, in tones of deep emotion,—

"At length, then, my child, I embrace you once again."

"Dear, dear father!" replied Bertha, weeping tears of joy.

The tender parent himself disencumbered his child of her bonnet and cloak, which he carefully placed on his bed; then, seating her in an arm-chair beside the fire, he took her chilled hands in his.

"Poor dear!" said he, "you are quite frozen,—there, try and warm yourself."

"Ah, dear father, you spoil me, as you ever did."

Without replying to her remark, the old man gazed with intense delight on the sweet face before him, then murmured, "Once more,—once more, after six long weary months of absence."

"Dearest father, the time, then, has seemed to you very long."

"But you have been quite happy, my child, have you not?"

"Oh, yes—quite—quite."

"Perfectly happy?"

"Yes, indeed, as much so as ever."

"And the thoughts of your felicity have armed me with courage to endure your absence. And your husband is still kind, good, and devoted to you?"

"Certainly, my dear father."

"And, during the six months you have passed in Lorraine, no doubt the constant enjoyment of each other's society has been far more congenial to your mutual tastes than your mode of life in Paris."

"Yes, father."

"And you still rejoice in being his wife?"

"I do, indeed. But, dearest father, why these questions?"

"Brévannes, in fact, is precisely what you thought him when you assured me that you would wed none other than he?"

"Assuredly he is," answered Bertha, more and more surprised at the close questioning pursued by her father, but which will sufficiently shew how scrupulously she had concealed her unhappiness from her father.

"You find him worthy of inspiring such a passion as that which you assured me would cause your death, unhappy child, if I still refused my assent to your union?"

"Indeed, father, Charles has not changed since then."

"Heaven be praised! then I confess, I am deceived."

"Deceived, dear father! and in what respect?"

"Can you guess wherefore this year I have awaited your return to Paris with so much more impatience than in previous years?"

"No, dear father, indeed I cannot."

"And you know not either, why my joy at welcoming you to-day exceeds that I have hitherto experienced?"

"Father, I beseech you, explain to me the purport of all these strange inquiries; you know not how they pain me—but, gracious Heaven, you weep—father, dearest father, what mean these tears?"

"Can you not guess? can you not perceive that they flow from joy—oh, yes, heartfelt, overwhelming joy."

"Oh, so much the better."

"My child, the trial has been a severe one."

"What trial do you speak of?"

"It cost me so much, old and infirm as I am, to pass my days alone; I, who from the hour of your birth had never passed a morning or evening without embracing you,—you who absorbed the love that was once shared between you and your mother, think what a painful thing it must be for me only to see you for a few hours each week, and to lose sight of you for months together."

"Dearest father, be assured that I suffered equally with yourself."

"That is not all; the time you passed here, while your husband was in Italy, rendered our separation still more painful; it was like losing you a second time."

"But, my dear father——"

"I know what you are going to say—when you were first married, Brévannes offered me a small suite of rooms in his house, and you yourself subsequently reiterated the proposition, which I, however, constantly refused to accept."

"Alas, yes!"

"Because, Bertha, I doubted this Brévannes, and the duration of his at first so violent love, I could not have remained a passive spectator of your unhappiness; my very anxiety might have disturbed your domestic comfort: for these reasons, then, I imposed a severe restraint on my inclinations. No, said I, I will wait, Bertha has never deceived me, and if, after four years of marriage, she still proclaims herself happy, I shall then feel satisfied as to the future, and be equally persuaded of the goodness of Brévannes' nature — that moment has arrived—I find your husband worthy of you, and this very day will I say to him, 'I have doubted you, I have proved myself wrong, and I am here to solicit your pardon. Now that my faith and confidence in you are well established, I accept the offer you once made me, and I will never again quit Bertha or yourself.'"

"What are you saying, father?" exclaimed Bertha.

"I say, my beloved child, that my years upon this earth are too few to be passed at a distance from you. No, no, henceforward I will enjoy the happiness permitted me by Providence, and henceforward your husband, yourself, and your old father, shall live in indissoluble union."

Bertha's only reply was to throw herself weeping on the neck of the old man, who, mistaking both the movement and the tears which accompanied it, tenderly pressed his daughter in his arms, saying, "Why, you little simpleton, if joy thus agitates and overcomes you, what effect would grief have? To tell you the truth," added Pierre Raimond, and smiling, "though I affect all this stoicism and resolution, I am as much delighted and moved as yourself at the thoughts of our never again being parted from each other;" and with these words he passed his trembling hand across his humid eyes.

The situation of Bertha was most cruel.

Not content with filling up the measure of her own injuries, M. de Brévannes had just taunted her with the trifling pittance granted by him to her father, and now, at this moment, was Pierre Raimond, deceived by the generous deception of his daughter, preparing to take up his abode with M. de Brévannes, promising himself uninterrupted harmony and domestic happiness.

Until then Bertha had contrived to conceal her bitter sorrows, and to attribute her dejection of spirits to her regret at living away from him; but the cruel contrast presented by the hopes and expectations of Pierre Raimond with the scene of violence and outrage which had occurred but the previous night between Bertha and M. de Brévannes, overthrew the fortitude of the miserable wife, and left her almost paralysed with fear and bewildered ideas. Instead, therefore, of receiving her father's announcement with all the delight it merited, she involuntarily threw herself into his arms, bedewing his venerable countenance with her tears.

To Pierre Raimond the heart of his child was like an open book, and at first he ascribed her tears to joy at so unexpected a surprise; but when these fast-falling tears became quick, convulsive sobs, and Bertha, resting her aching temples on her father's shoulders, wrung the old man's hands in piteous agony, then did Pierre Raimond begin to comprehend the truth:—his former suspicions returned, and, putting his daughter almost rudely from him, he exclaimed in a severe tone, "Bertha, you have deceived me—you are not happy!"

The poor girl, recalled to a sense of her duty by these words, shuddered at her own imprudence, and bitterly, though too late, regretted the emotion she had been unable to restrain or conceal. But, as she strove for words to reassure her parent, the door was suddenly opened: "Gracious heavens!" cried Bertha, in extreme terror, "my husband!"

And M. de Brévannes, without knocking, or any other announcement, abruptly entered the apartment of the engraver.

CHAPTER XII

[THE FATHER-IN-LAW AND SON-IN-LAW]

The unexpected appearance of M. de Brévannes was followed by an unbroken silence of several instants, neither of the three actors in the scene uttering a single word.

Poor Bertha's heart sunk within her, as at the first glance she read the hard-hearted mockery impressed on the features of her husband.

The stern countenance of Pierre Raimond, which, until then, had relaxed into an expression of gentleness and kindness, suddenly assumed a look of proud energy. Drawing up his tall figure, and placing his daughter behind him, as if for protection, he advanced a few steps towards M. de Brévannes, saying briefly, "What is your pleasure here, sir?"

"My pleasure is to know whether or not Madame de Brévannes has told me the truth in saying she was coming to pass her morning with you; and, having my own reasons for doubting the veracity of her statement, I have thought fit to come hither to substantiate the fact."

"Charles!" murmured Bertha, in a tone of gentle reproach.

"I desire, sir, that you will not presume to accuse a child of mine of falsehood," retorted old Raimond.

"Father!" cried Bertha.

"I do not consider myself responsible to you, M. Raimond, or any other person, for my actions. And, if I suspect my wife of uttering that which is not true, it is because——"

"If she has spoken untruly," cried Pierre Raimond, fiercely interrupting his son-in-law, "it has been to me, not you."

"In what manner?" inquired the latter, regarding Bertha with extreme astonishment.

"Charles, I beseech you!—and you too, dear father!"

"She spoke falsely but now," exclaimed the old man, in a loud, stern voice, "when she assured me she was happy."

"Ah, now I understand," replied M. de Brévannes, coldly: "Madame de Brévannes came hither amid hypocritical tears and sighs to dwell upon her domestic felicity,—a clever idea! I give her much credit for it."

"M. de Brévannes," cried Pierre Raimond, "four years ago, when my daughter was lying at the point of death in this very chamber, I told you I would rather lose her then than see her perish one day through the wretchedness you would occasion her. I spoke truly. You will be her death!"

"Father!" said Bertha, "I must not allow you to remain under so fatal an error; and, at whatever sacrifice, I will speak the truth, nor warrant by my silence those reproaches I pledge myself are undeserved by my husband. 'Tis true I concealed from you some of those trifling disagreements from which the happiest unions are not exempt; but you were so delighted to learn, that in all essential points I was perfectly, unqualifiedly happy, that I was unwilling to dispel the illusion which could do no person any harm, but which I trusted would be the means of still more attaching you to him. You judge too severely."

"My child! I can make allowances for your weakness, which renders it the more imperative in me to evince a necessary degree of severity."

"Severity!" cried M. de Brévannes, with a burst of sardonic laughter—"severity! Upon my word I like the word vastly. It seems then that I am here to be lectured by you into a right understanding of my duties. May I ask if you are aware to whom you are speaking?"

"Too, too well!—to the destroyer of my good, my innocent child."

"You use strong language, my good sir; your revolutionary reminiscences disturb your brain."

"Bertha!" said the engraver, with stern hauteur—"take this man from my sight!"

"Come—come, Charles, I pray—I beseech you! adieu, dearest father, till Thursday next,—pardon me for quitting you so abruptly now—possibly I may come and see you again to-morrow," added poor Bertha, anxious at all risks to terminate so painful a discussion as the present.

"Since, sir, you have taken upon you to dispense advice," interrupted M. de Brévannes, "perhaps you might judiciously recommend your daughter not to adopt the unwise plan of treating her husband with coldness and contempt, after having justly awakened his jealousy."

"Bertha!" said old Raimond, "what am I to understand by these words?"

"Ah, Charles, is it well of you to recall the scene of——"

"Be assured, madam, whomever else you may impose on, I am not the dupe of your affected delicacy—your over-strained scruples—you are carrying on some base, some disgraceful intrigue, but rely upon it, I will detect it."

"For mercy's sake, Charles, talk not thus in my father's presence! Adieu, dear father, adieu."

After a momentary silence, Pierre Raimond approached his daughter, and, gazing steadfastly on her, said, in a deep solemn voice,—

"Bertha, do you merit this charge?"

"No, father," answered Bertha, with all the dignified simplicity of truth.

"I believe you, my child. And now, sir, listen to me, for four years have I been deceived by the belief that my daughter was happy. I now know the truth, Bertha has no other support than myself, a poor, old and infirm man; but still there is strength enough left me to bid you beware."

"Oh, then to advice and lectures succeed threats and menaces? What next, sir?"

"At least, henceforward, we plainly understand our relative situations; and, first, from this hour I reject the pecuniary aid I accepted at your hands, solely at the solicitations of my daughter."

"You find it more convenient to be ungrateful?"

"Ungrateful! for having sacrificed my own notions to spare your pride?"

"Father, I conjure you——"

"Thus, then, sir," continued Pierre Raimond, "we meet upon equal grounds, as man and man; as such you shall account to me for the misery heaped on my gentle my unoffending child; I give you a fortnight to repair the wrongs you have done her."

"Really, a fortnight; can you not make it more?"

"And if, at the end of that period, you do not conduct yourself as honour and justice require, towards Bertha——"

"Well, sir, and what then?"

"You shall see."

"Come, madam," said M. de Brévannes, taking his wife by the arm.

"Farewell, dearest father; I pray you calm yourself; I will soon come again."

"That is, if I think proper to permit you," said M. de Brévannes, with bitter irony.

"Make yourself easy, my child; your father will watch over and protect you," cried Pierre Raimond, weeping bitterly. Bertha followed her husband out, and the old man was left alone.

CHAPTER XIII

[A FIRST REPRESENTATION]

The Comédie Française had announced for the present evening the first performance of "The Seducer," a five-act comedy in verse. This piece was the first literary effort of the Vicomte de Gercourt. Still extremely young and quite the fashion, possessed of a highly prepossessing and agreeable person, he justly passed in the world for a man of talent, an agreeable and entertaining companion, and a person of unquestioned honour in every transaction in which he was concerned. Consequently the first representation of his comedy had attracted all the higher circles of Paris, to which he belonged.

Thanks to his natural amiability and known benevolence of disposition, added to some severe reverses of fortune he had sustained, envy and malice were content to let him alone; and for some time M. de Gercourt possessed not a single enemy, but unhappily his literary ambition (the only really noble, great, and praiseworthy ambition a man can indulge in) created for him, after a time, a host of petty and hostile jealousies. Some friends still remained firm and unaltered; but only a fall, at once striking and humiliating, from the high position he then occupied, could have restored him to universal good-will. The majority of the literati of the time viewed with angry mistrust the introduction of this fresh pretender within the arena of their own triumphs. For ourselves, we have never been able to comprehend the bitter feeling let loose upon a man, by all the public writers of the day, against whom nothing more injurious could be adduced, than that he sought to improve and employ his leisure hours by the ennobling study of literature in general.

The reader will now find himself introduced into several boxes of the Comédie Française, where he will meet many of the personages of our history, attracted, by universal curiosity, to witness the first representation of this dramatic effort.

CHAPTER XIV

[DRESS CIRCLE.—BOX NO. 7]

Bertha de Brévannes occupied one of the places in this box; her husband was behind her. The two other seats were vacant.

Bertha had her hair plainly, but most becomingly arranged, and wore a gown of black crape. Her beautiful chestnut locks, her delicate and transparent skin, her ivory neck and shoulders, were all admirable, and even brilliant. Her features were impressed with melancholy, for, three days before, her husband had had that distressing interview with Pierre Raimond which we have narrated. She wished to have remained at home, but, fearing to irritate M. de Brévannes, had consented to accompany him.

He, by one of those contrasts very natural to men, was deeply galled at the coldness of his wife, and had resolved to overcome it, less by any repentance for the past, than in order to follow out the inherent obstinacy of his own disposition. In vain did he try, however, to make her forget the wrongs which ought to have made him blush. She had been too cruelly wounded to be so easily appeased.

M. de Brévannes had taken a box for this representation so much talked about, with the intention of being agreeable to his wife.

The Dress Circle Box No. 7

The curtain had not yet been drawn up, and the house was filling rapidly. Bertha went very seldom into society, but in spite of her sadness she looked awhile with childish curiosity at the persons as they entered their boxes, and then relapsed into her painful reverie.

M. de Brévannes, annoyed at the silence of his wife, said to her, whilst with difficulty he repressed his temper,—

"Bertha, what is the matter?"

"Nothing, Charles."

"Nothing,—nothing! and yet you are as dull and melancholy as death. Supposing I have been wrong, you are making me sensible of it in the most cruel manner."

"I am trying to forget it; and, perhaps, one day——"

"The perspective is agreeable."

"That is no fault of mine; but do not let us talk about it. You know that I have plenty of cause for sorrow."

"Are you referring now to your father? You must at least confess that he was excessively violent with me."

"He loves me so tenderly, that he even exaggerated what you had done. He has but me in the whole world; and so, Charles, I cannot believe that you really mean in future to refuse me permission to go and see him as usual."

"My dear little Bertha, you are so pretty, that I must lay some conditions on my promise."

"Ah, Charles, be generous without stipulations."

"What you say is very flattering," said M. de Brévannes abruptly; then, he continued, in a milder tone, "Well, well, we will see. You do with me just as you like, and I consent."

"Really, really, I may go to my father," said Bertha, turning towards him with her eyes sparkling, and her countenance almost restored to happiness.

M. de Brévannes glanced at the back of the box, placed his hands on his eyes, and said laughingly,—

"If I am to keep my promise, I must not look at you."

"Ah, thanks, a thousand thanks, Charles, and now I shall be so happy all the evening."

"That is to say, so handsome. So much the better, for my self-esteem as a husband will have nothing now to apprehend from the vicinity of Madame Girard."

"I do not pretend to rival with her; but how late she is. Are you sure she received the coupon you sent her two days ago?"

"Yes, for I gave it to Girard himself; but to keep up her character as the 'observed of all observers,' Madame Girard will not come until after every one else, in order to produce an effect."

"Charles, you are slanderous."

"Because Madame Girard is so ridiculous, and spoils a really pretty face by the most absurd pretensions. She has but one thought, that of imitating, or rather parodying with silly minuteness, the costume of Madame de Luceval, because she is the most fashionable woman in Paris."

"Yes, you have before spoken to me of this peculiarity of Madame Girard. I should very much like to see Madame de Luceval—the Marquise de Luceval, I think. They say she is a very charming woman."

"Very charming, very original; dressing as no other woman but herself could venture to dress; and yet that little fool Madame Girard copies her to her very shoe-tie, under the pretext of being very much like her."

"And is she?"

"Yes," replied De Brévannes, "as a goose resembles a swan."

At this moment the door of the box was opened, and Madame Girard came in, followed by M. Girard, a rich manufacturer, carrying her fan and smelling-bottle; he had, besides, as a cuirass between his coat and greatcoat, a small chancelière of morocco, lined with ermine, for Madame Girard always had cold feet, she said, which was not true; but she had seen one of the Patagonian and powdered footmen of the Marquise de Luceval follow her with such a foot-warmer in his hands; and in the absence of a Patagonian and powdered lacquey, poor Girard carried the affair for his wife.

Madame Girard was a little woman, brunette, high-coloured, very well made, and would have been pretty but for her intolerable affectation. Poor Bertha could not conceal her surprise at Madame Girard's singular head-dress.

Our readers may, perhaps, be equally astonished when we describe the thing.

Imagine a sort of Polish cap, of black velvet, with a small peak, ornamented with a bunch of white feathers fastened to the side by a large boss of poppy-coloured satin, and the whole jauntily placed a little on one side of Madame Girard's head; her hair, which was brown, being crepéd in great bunches.

With this thing Madame Girard wore a high velvet gown of bright orange colour, with tight body, like a riding-habit, and decorated with silken brandebourgs to match.

This attire had nothing absolutely ridiculous in itself, but completed by the cap and feathers, it looked so extremely odd, that it actually created quite a sensation in the theatre, and all the lorgnettes were directed towards Madame Girard, who did not feel herself entirely at ease, whilst Bertha blushed with confusion.

M. de Brévannes was so much annoyed, that he bit his lips, when he saw himself and his wife as it were stared at in consequence of Madame Girard's inconceivable head-gear, and he could not help saying to Girard, in a low voice, "What a devilish strange head-dress your wife has selected, Girard; she who is usually such a remarkably good dresser."

The poor spouse gave M. de Brévannes a nudge with his elbow, and said, in a whisper, and with a look of alarm, "Hush!"

During this time Madame Girard, leaning out of her box, looked all round the house with an expression of impatience.

"Alphonsine," cried M. Girard to her with an affectionate look, "are you looking for any one?"

"Of course, I am," replied the dear Alphonsine, with a simpering, self-sufficient air, in which a triumphant feeling joined. "I am looking for the Marquise de Luceval. Oh! how furious she will be!"

"Why, madame?" said Bertha, hardly knowing what to say or do.

"Oh! such a capital joke!" answered Madame Girard; "I have played the marquise such a trick. You know how anxious she always is to take the lead in the fashions, and how every body follows her. I went, two days since, to Barenne, who is dress-maker to the marquise and myself, and asked her, as I always do, if the marquise had given her any orders for this evening, when all the world was to be here at the Théâtre Français. After innumerable difficulties, I extracted the secret from her. The marquise had ordered a most original, delicious head-dress; such an one as suited her alone.—Her alone!" said Madame Girard, tossing her head proudly beneath her head-dress. "Well, at last, by dint of promises and coaxing, I obtained from dear Barenne a sight of this exquisite coiffure, and a promise to make me one like that of the marquise; and this is it. Look, it is called a sobieska. You may judge of Madame de Luceval's annoyance, when, expecting to have the first of this head-dress, she will see me wearing it."

"Allow me, madame, to differ from you," said Bertha, with a gentle smile; "I should rather think that she will be very glad not to be the only person whose head is thus attired."

"Oh! I assure you, my dear, that she will be furious," replied Madame Girard.

"I think with you, my love," said M. Girard.

"Monsieur Girard, I entreat you will not tutoyer (thee-and-thou) me," said Alphonsine, with a dignified gesture; "you are just like a porter."

"I meant to say, Alphonsine, that you will, perhaps, have to reproach yourself with having caused the milliner to lose the custom of the Marquise de Luceval; for, I must observe, my dearest love, that this is a breach of trust. Is it not, Brévannes,—is it not a breach of trust?"

"Timoléon," said Madame Girard to her husband, without any other reply, "there are but three empty boxes in this circle; go and ask if one of them is not let to the Marquise de Luceval?"

Timoléon arose as if he had been moved by a spring, and went out of the box in great haste.

"Do you know M. de Gercourt, the author of the new piece? I hear he is a most delightful person."

"I have often met him, and always found him very agreeable."

"But why does he trouble himself with writing?"

"If it were only," replied De Brévannes, "to have the pleasure of seeing you at the first representation of his piece, with so delicious a sobi—sobe——"

"Sobieska," added Madame Girard, quickly.

At this moment the box-door opened, and M. Girard entered.

"Well?" said his wife.

"Alphonsine, you are not mistaken. One of these boxes is let to the Marquise de Luceval."

"Bravo!" said Alphonsine.

"That is not all. You, who are always curious for news, I have a famous bit for you."

"What?"

"Whilst I was interrogating the box-keeper, there came up a servant, all over gold-lace, who asked for the box let to the Princess de Hansfeld. It turned out to be that next to Madame de Luceval's—there—just in front of us."

"How lucky! I have never met the princess, and they say she's such a splendid woman," said Madame Girard.

"Ma foi! I am as pleased as you are," said M. de Brévannes, "to see at last this mysterious beauty. The other day, at the Opera-ball, they were talking of nothing else but this princess, and the strange conduct of her invisible husband."

"At least he will not be invisible this evening," said M. Girard.

"What do you mean?" inquired his wife.

"Why, simply, my dearest love, that the servant asked if he could not have an arm-chair for his eminence, who is, they say, terribly out of health, and comes out to-night for the first time after a very tedious illness."

"What an idea to come to a theatre!" said Madame Girard.

"An invalid's whim, doubtless," replied Brévannes.

"The box-keeper replied to the servant that he must ask the controller," replied M. Girard; "whereupon the man went downstairs, and I came as quickly as I could, to tell you, my dear love, my little budget of news."

"Well, it is fortunate," said De Brévannes; "we shall now see this singular, strange, and fantastic couple."

"Who is this princess, then, Charles?" asked Bertha of De Brévannes.

"Why, they say, a very lovely and striking woman, quite the fashion this winter, and in whose presence all our dandies have displayed their gallantries in vain. As to the prince, one is lost in the most extraordinary and contradictory suppositions with respect to him; but——"

"Oh, heavens!" exclaimed Madame Girard, interrupting M. de Brévannes, "there, I declare, is the Marquise de Luceval in her box, and she has not got on her sobieska!"

We will conduct the reader to the Marquise de Luceval's box, where they will, perchance, learn why she did not wear her sobieska.

CHAPTER XV

[DRESS CIRCLE.—BOX NO. 29]

Truth to say, the Marquise de Luceval had not her sobieska.

She was dressed with equal taste and simplicity. The only innovation which she had allowed herself consisted in a very high tortoiseshell comb, à l'Espagnole, which confined a half-veil of black blonde to her splendid chestnut tresses. The marquise was in mourning.

This coiffure, worn by the women of Andalusia, was charming, and gave additional attraction to the piquant physiognomy of Madame de Luceval. She was accompanied by her brother-in-law and sister-in-law, M. and Madame de Beaulieu.

"Alfred! look, I have won my wager," exclaimed the marquise gaily; and, addressing her brother, "Madame Girard has on my sobieska. My dear Alix, your lorgnette, I beg of you," she said to her sister-in-law.

"What wager, then, had you with Alfred?" inquired Madame de Beaulieu; "and who is Madame Girard?"

"Alix, I beg of you not to laugh too loud, and look exactly at the box in front of us—a female in a high bright orange-coloured gown."

Naturally Madame de Beaulieu was a great laugher, and the contracted features and the angry frown of Madame Girard, whose brows looked very gloomy beneath her casquette à plumes, gave her so burlesque an appearance, that the sister-in-law of Madame de Luceval could hardly restrain her mirth.

"No doubt this Girard, when she leaves the theatre, will be ready to represent Poland in a patriotic, fantastic, and allegorical ball," said M. de Beaulieu.

"But, my dear Emilie," remarked Madame de Beaulieu, repressing her desire to laugh, "what has your wager to do with that adorable head-dress?"

"Nothing sooner explained;" said Madame de Luceval; "I cannot have a coiffure without being instantly imitated, or rather parodied, by this Madame Girard. This annoyed me so, that I betted with Alfred, that I would devise a head-dress the most ridiculous possible, which Mademoiselle Barenne should shew secretly to Madame Girard, as intended for me, and that Madame Girard should beg and pray of her to make her the fellow to it. I invented the sobieska, and Mademoiselle Barenne joined in the conspiracy. Now you see Madame Girard decorated with the sobieska. I have gained my wager, and my dear brother owes me an ornament of real flowers."

"Capitally managed, really; and as the piece has not begun," said M. de Beaulieu, "I will go and spread about this little malicious manoeuvre, in order to double the effect of Madame Girard's sobieska."

"But do you know," replied Madame de Luceval, "that there is a very lovely person in the box of that absurd Girard? Alfred, try and discover who she may be."

"Really," said Madame de Beaulieu, looking attentively at Bertha, "she is remarkably pretty, and dressed in such simple but good taste. What a contrast with the sobieska! I cannot understand why every body does not like simplicity, and consequently good taste. It is so convenient, and people are obliged to give themselves unending trouble to be ridiculous."

"Do you say that à propos of M. de Gercourt and his comedy, my dear Alix?"

"Wicked woman!—One of your friends—one of your old adorers."

"It would have been so easy for him not to have written this play."

"But at least better wait and see in order to decide."

"By no means; for then I should speak with prejudice, whilst now my judgment is much more independent."

"Giddy pate that you are; and you encouraged M. de Gercourt in his attempt."

"It is such a pleasing office to have to console one's friends in their misfortune."

"You are something like those persons who, at the risk of drowning you, throw you in the water to have the pleasure of saving you."

"Your comparison is not just, my dear Alix; for I could not save the comedy of poor M. de Gercourt."

"Emilie, Emilie, take care," said Madame de Beaulieu, with a smile; "M. de Gercourt has long admired you. You will have us believe that you are a little spiteful, and——"

"Well, the truth to say, I am not quite pleased with him for giving up his attempts to please me so suddenly. His attention really amused me. A'n't I candid, my dear?"

"Oh! you incurable coquette! never to forgive the man whom even she rejects. What! must the poor victim remain and suffer?"

"Alas! M. de Gercourt will have his revenge this evening. I have not ordered my carriage until eleven o'clock."

This charitable conversation was interrupted by M. de Beaulieu and M. de Fierval.

"My dear Emilie," said M. de Beaulieu to his sister, "I bring you living information as to the lovely creature beside the sobieska."

"Do you know that charming creature, M. de Fierval?" inquired Madame de Luceval.

"I do not know her, madame; but I know her husband, M. de Brévannes."

"Brévannes?—Is he not the son of a man of business."

"Something of the kind; the father was a contractor—a dealer."

"And that young lady?"

"A poor girl without fortune; she lived by teaching the piano."

"Yet it is impossible to have a more distingué air," said Madame de Luceval.

"She is so delightfully dressed!—It was then a love-match?"

"Decidedly; but they say Brévannes is very unfaithful."

"What! that fat man in spectacles?"

"No, my dear, that must be, I should say, the sobieski of the sobieska," said De Beaulieu to his sister.

"M. de Brévannes," added Fierval, "is a dark man, with a very expressive countenance. Madame de Girard's casquette hides him. Now——."

"What an unprepossessing physiognomy! I don't like the looks of the man."

"You are wrong, I assure you. De Brévannes is what is called a very good fellow, only his temper is of iron, inflexible. What he will he will."

At the noise of some chairs which were being moved in the next box, Madame de Luceval put her head forward, and recognised Madame de Lormoy, aunt of M. de Morville.

"Ah, madame, how fortunate to be so near you!" said Madame de Luceval. "Are you alone in your box? I shall pay you a visit."

"I am expecting Madame de Hansfeld; and, strange to say, her husband accompanies her," said Madame de Lormoy.

"Really?—How unlucky!—From here I cannot see this mysterious personage. Try and make him stay until it is over."

"If he had seen you, my dear Emilie, there would have been no occasion to ask him; but, unfortunately——"

Madame de Lormoy, hearing a noise, paused, turned her head, and said to Madame de Luceval, "Here he is!" The Prince and Princess de Hansfeld entered the box at that instant.

Friends in the stalls.

CHAPTER XVI

[FRIENDS IN THE STALLS]

"What a crowd!—What a crowd!"

"If I were De Gercourt, at this moment, what an awful fright I should be in!—What say you?"

"I should most decidedly."

"What fancy is this that has taken hold of him?"

"Oh! he can do nothing like any one else."

"Ah!—bah! Is his comedy really something so extraordinarily good?"

"No, no, I meant to say that the stylish people of the present day do riot write plays. He had nothing to do but follow their example, and keep himself quiet."

"I thought you had been present at a full rehearsal."

"So I have."

"Well, I came in at the third act, and, ma foi, I found myself beside Mademoiselle ***, whom I had never seen off the stage: I talked with her for a long while, and heard nothing at all of De Gercourt's piece. She is a very nice person is Mademoiselle ***."

"Then you know nothing of the play?"

"Saint-Clair has seen two rehearsals, and says it is very weak. As for me I hope the thing may succeed most decidedly; but as to applauding like a claqueur, why, you see——"

"Heaven defend us from that!"

"Nothing can be in worse taste than to applaud."

"All the club will be here."

"Then they will come in after dinner. That will be droll."

"Ah! there is the Turkish ambassador."

"Ah! and there is that nice Marquise de Luceval, who is displaying her neck to catch a glimpse of the ambassador, or be seen by him."

"Pardieu! and she who aims at every thing eccentric must have a great desire to coquet with this Turk."

"I hate that woman: she turns every thing into ridicule."

"And such a tongue!"

"Do you really think her so very pretty?"

"Why, why, she is nice and piquant, and her features are really good, but that's all."

"Very different from Madame de Longpré, who is just entering her box! There is a really lovely woman."

"She's with that silly little doll Madame Dinville."

"Oh! that simpleton always hooks in with some fashionable woman."

"Talking of Madame de Longpré, where can Maubray be?"

"Just entering their box.—Can Monsieur de Longpré do without him?"

"Unfortunate Longpré!"

"And there is Mademoiselle Dumoulin with her baron. How handsome she is! You must confess that there are very few women like her in society."

"True."

"It is much less wearying, much more convenient. One need not be at any trouble, and is not compelled to make any display of attention."

"No doubt; but men are so weak—vanity will predominate."