FOOTNOTES:

FOOTNOTES:[G]Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1850, by G. P. R. James, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern District of New-York.

[G]Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1850, by G. P. R. James, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern District of New-York.

Does not the heart alone a God proclaim!Blot revelation from the mind of man!Yea, let him not e'en Nature's features scan;There is within him a low voice, the sameThroughout the varied scenes of being's span,That whispers, God. And doth not conscience speakThough sin its wildest force upon it wreak!Born with us—never dying—ever preachingOf right and wrong, with reference aye to Him—And doth not Hope, on toward the future reaching—The aspirations struggling from the DimUp toward the Bright—a ceaseless unreposeOf something unattained—a ceaseless teachingOf unfulfilled desire—the eternal truth disclose!

What if he loved me!—How the unwhispered thoughtComes o'er me, with a thrill of ecstacy!And yet, when constant eve his step hath brought,I timid shrink as he approaches me.Last night, when greeting words were on his lips,My ears grew deaf between my faint replies;And when he pressed my trembling finger tips,I felt me turn to marble 'neath his eyes.What if he loved me! If 'twere mine to shareHis thought! to be of his proud being part!Hush! lest the tell-tale wind should idly bearTo him this wild, wild beating of my heartFor should he guess—who in my soul hath name—That I, unsought, love him, ah! I should die of shame.

O full of Faith! The Earth is rock,—the HeavenThe dome of a great palace all of ice,Russ-built. Dull light distils through frozen skiesThickened and gross. Cold Fancy droops her wing,And cannot range. In winding-sheets of snowLies every thought of any pleasant thing.I have forgotten the green earth; my soulDeflowered, and lost to every summer hope,Sad sitteth on an iceberg at the Pole;My heart assumes the landscape of mine eyesMoveless and white, chill blanched with hoarest rime;The Sun himself is heavy and lacks cheerOr on the eastern hill or western slope;The world without seems far and long ago;To silent woods stark famished winds have drivenThe last lean robin—gibbering winds of fear!Thou only darest to believe in spring,Thou only smilest, Lady of the Time!Even as the stars come up out of the seaThou risest from the Earth. How is it downIn the dark depths? Should I delve there, O Flower,For beauty? Shall I find the Summer thereMet manifold, as in an ark of peace?And Thou, a lone white Dove art thou sent forthUpon the winter deluge? It shall cease,But not for thee—pierced by the ruthless NorthAnd spent with the Evangel. In what hourThe flood abates thou wilt have closed thy wingsFor ever. When the happy living thingsOf the old world come forth upon the newI know my heart shall miss thee; and the dewOf summer twilights shall shed tears for me—Tears liker thee, ah, purest! than mine own—Upon thy vestal grave, O vainly fair!Thou shouldst have noble destiny, who, likeA Prophet, art shut out from kind and kin!Who on the winter silence comest inA still small voice. Pale Hermit of the Year,Flower of the Wilderness! oh, not for theeThe jocund playmates of the maiden spring.For when the danceth forth with cymballed feet,Waking a-sudden with great welcoming,Each calling each, they burst from hill to dellIn answering music. But thou art a bell.A passing bell, snow-muffled, dim and sweet.As is the Poet to his fellow-men,So mid thy drifting snows, O Snowdrop, Thou.Gifted, in sooth, beyond them, but no lessA snowdrop. And thou shalt complete his lotAnd bloom as fair as now when they are not.Thou art the wonder of the seasons, OFirst-born of Beauty. As the Angel nearGazed on that first of living things which, whenThe blast that ruled since Chaos o'er the sereLeaves of primeval Palms did sweep the plain,Clung to the new-made sod and would not drive,So gaze I upon thee amid the reignOf Winter. And because thou livest, I live.And art thou happy in thy loneliness?Oh couldst thou hear the shouting of the floods,Oh couldst thou know the star among the treesWhen—as the herald-voice of breeze on breezeProclaims the marriage pageant of the SpringAdvancing from the South—each hurries onHis wedding-garment, and the love-chimes ringThro' nuptial valleys! No, serene and lone,I will not flush thy cheek with joys like these.Songs for the rosy morning; at gray primeTo hang the head and pray. Thou doest well.I will not tell thee of the bridal train.No; let thy Moonlight die before their dayA Nun among the Maidens, thou and they.Each hath some fond sweet office that doth strikeOne of our trembling heartstrings musical.Is not the hawthorn for the Queen of May?And cuckoo-flowers for whom the cuckoo's voiceHails, like an answering sister, to the woods?Is not the maiden blushing in the rose?Shall not the babe and buttercup rejoice,Twins in one meadow? Are not violets allBy name or nature for the breast of Dames!For them the primrose, pale as star of prime,For them the wind-flower, trembling to a sigh,For them the dew stands in the eyes of dayThat blink in April on the daisied lea?Like them they flourish and like them they fadeAnd live beloved and loving. But for thee—For such a bevy how art thou arrayedFlower of the Tempests? What hast thou with them?Thou shalt be pearl unto a diademWhich the Heavens jewel.Theyshall deck the browsOf joy and wither there. Butthoushalt beA Martyr's garland. Thou who, undismayed,To thy spring dreams art true amid the snowsAs he to better dreams amid the flames.—Athenæum.

Even as the stars come up out of the seaThou risest from the Earth. How is it downIn the dark depths? Should I delve there, O Flower,For beauty? Shall I find the Summer thereMet manifold, as in an ark of peace?And Thou, a lone white Dove art thou sent forthUpon the winter deluge? It shall cease,But not for thee—pierced by the ruthless NorthAnd spent with the Evangel. In what hourThe flood abates thou wilt have closed thy wingsFor ever. When the happy living thingsOf the old world come forth upon the newI know my heart shall miss thee; and the dewOf summer twilights shall shed tears for me—Tears liker thee, ah, purest! than mine own—Upon thy vestal grave, O vainly fair!

Thou shouldst have noble destiny, who, likeA Prophet, art shut out from kind and kin!Who on the winter silence comest inA still small voice. Pale Hermit of the Year,Flower of the Wilderness! oh, not for theeThe jocund playmates of the maiden spring.For when the danceth forth with cymballed feet,Waking a-sudden with great welcoming,Each calling each, they burst from hill to dellIn answering music. But thou art a bell.A passing bell, snow-muffled, dim and sweet.

As is the Poet to his fellow-men,So mid thy drifting snows, O Snowdrop, Thou.Gifted, in sooth, beyond them, but no lessA snowdrop. And thou shalt complete his lotAnd bloom as fair as now when they are not.Thou art the wonder of the seasons, OFirst-born of Beauty. As the Angel nearGazed on that first of living things which, whenThe blast that ruled since Chaos o'er the sereLeaves of primeval Palms did sweep the plain,Clung to the new-made sod and would not drive,So gaze I upon thee amid the reignOf Winter. And because thou livest, I live.And art thou happy in thy loneliness?Oh couldst thou hear the shouting of the floods,Oh couldst thou know the star among the treesWhen—as the herald-voice of breeze on breezeProclaims the marriage pageant of the SpringAdvancing from the South—each hurries onHis wedding-garment, and the love-chimes ringThro' nuptial valleys! No, serene and lone,I will not flush thy cheek with joys like these.Songs for the rosy morning; at gray primeTo hang the head and pray. Thou doest well.I will not tell thee of the bridal train.No; let thy Moonlight die before their dayA Nun among the Maidens, thou and they.Each hath some fond sweet office that doth strikeOne of our trembling heartstrings musical.Is not the hawthorn for the Queen of May?And cuckoo-flowers for whom the cuckoo's voiceHails, like an answering sister, to the woods?Is not the maiden blushing in the rose?Shall not the babe and buttercup rejoice,Twins in one meadow? Are not violets allBy name or nature for the breast of Dames!For them the primrose, pale as star of prime,For them the wind-flower, trembling to a sigh,For them the dew stands in the eyes of dayThat blink in April on the daisied lea?Like them they flourish and like them they fadeAnd live beloved and loving. But for thee—For such a bevy how art thou arrayedFlower of the Tempests? What hast thou with them?Thou shalt be pearl unto a diademWhich the Heavens jewel.Theyshall deck the browsOf joy and wither there. Butthoushalt beA Martyr's garland. Thou who, undismayed,To thy spring dreams art true amid the snowsAs he to better dreams amid the flames.—Athenæum.

The name of Count Monte-Leone produced great sensation in the numerous assemblage. The adventures of the Count and the report of his trial had been published in all the Parisian papers, and in the eyes of some he was a lucky criminal, and of others a victim and a martyr to his opinions, whom God alone had preserved. The women especially were interested in the hero of this judicial drama, on account of the exaggerated representations of his personal attractions. Received with general curiosity, which, however, he did not seem to notice, and crossing the rooms with his usual dignified air, Monte-Leone approached the Duchess of Palma and expressed his gratitude for her kindness in including him among her guests. The Duchess recognized the Count politely, and replied to him with a few meaningless phrases. She then left him to meet the young Marquise de Maulear, who came in leaning on the arm of her father, the old Prince. The Prince knew the Neapolitan Ambassador, whom he had often seen with the Duchess. He had been one of the first to visit the Duchess of Palma. A man of intelligence and devotion to pleasure, he thought he did not at all derogate from his dignity by civility to a young and beautiful woman, who bore so nobly the name which was conferred on her by love and hymen.

"Duchess," said the Prince, presenting Aminta, "you have often questioned me about my daughter-in-law, and know what I told you. I am, I confess, proud for you to be able now to judge for yourself." In theinterimLa Felina had taken in the whole person of Aminta at a single glance, and the result of this rapid examination exerted a strange influence on her. She grew pale, and her voice trembled, as she told the Prince that the praises he had bestowed on the Marquise were far less than the truth.

"The Marquis de Maulear," added she, "is an old acquaintance," and bowing kindly to him, she offered Aminta a seat and then left her, under the influence of an emotion which, actress as she was, she could repress with great difficulty.

The Prince sat by his daughter-in-law, and passing in review before her the distinguished personages of the room, described them with that skeptical wit, that courteous irony, of which the nobles of other days were so completely the masters. He spoke like the Duke d'Ayer of old, that caustic wit, of whom a lady of the court said that she was amazed that his tongue was not torn out twenty times a day, sofull of pointed needles was all he said. Aminta smiled at the pencil sketches of the Prince, or rather at his dagger blow. Had the old man, however, been twenty times as bitter, she would not have found fault with her father-in-law, for she knew he was kind and she was grateful to him—one day we shall know whence these sentiments originated in his mind. The Marquis de Maulear had left his young wife to speak to his numerous acquaintances: and while the Prince for Aminta's amusement flayed alive the various personages who were led before him by their evil fate, Count Monte-Leone, who had seen the Ambassador, sought in vain to pierce the crowd which surrounded him. The Duke was not in the room when Monte-Leone was announced. It was then with surprise and almost with terror that he saw the Count approach him.

"I have not had the honor," said he, "to approach your Excellency since the visit paid me at the CastleDel Uovo. And I am doubly gratified at being able to return it in your hotel amid so splendid a festival."

"Count," said the Duke, seeking to conquer the emotion caused by the unexpected presence of Monte-Leone, "I dared not hope that you would honor me by accepting my invitation; for you cannot be ignorant that an Ambassador represents his king. It is then, in some degree, as if we meet to-day in the palace of his Majesty Fernando King of Naples: and I think I may venture to tell you, in the name of my Sovereign, that if your conduct is a token of reconciliation offered by you to his cause, Fernando IV will acknowledge it as cheerfully as I do now."

Count Monte-Leone appreciated the graceful perfidy of the language of the Duke, and was ready to curse the secret motive which had led him to the Embassy. His eyes, however, turned, almost contrary to his wishes, to the other side of the room, and there he seemed to find something to sustain him. He replied to the Duke as naturally as possible, that in coming to his house, he had remembered only the urbanity of his host and his frankness, being aware that the Duke would never convert a mere visit of pleasure into a political question.

The Duke bit his lips when he heard this evasive answer, and saw that he had met his equal in diplomacy. A young man then approached and passed his arm into that of Monte-Leone's, thus putting an end to this annoying interview. This young man had an eloquent anddistinguéair, and handsome features, though they were delicate and betokened but feeble health.

"Do you know, my dear Duke," said the new comer to the Ambassador, "that one must have a very perfect character, and be invited to a very charming ball, to come as I do to your house, after the manner we parted eighteen months ago at Naples. Listen!—one goes for health-sake to Naples to pass the winter, to enjoy the Carnival in peace. After one or two intrigues with beautiful women having dark eyes, not, however, comparable with those of the Duchess of Palma, one fine night in the middle of a Pulcinello supper, you send us in place of a dessert a company of black-lookingsbirri, who rush like vultures upon us, and rust with dirty hands our Venetian daggers which they wrest from us. Twelve to three, they then separate Taddeo, Von Apsbury and myself, and placing us in rickety carriages, take one of us to prison, another to the frontier, and hurry me on board a miserable little vessel, from which they tumble me like a package of damaged goods on thequaiof Marseilles. I had expected to make the tour of Italy."

"Vicompte," said the Duke, with a smile, "the air of Italy was not healthy for you. Very excellent physicians told me your life was unsafe in that country, and that you should leave it as soon as possible. So complain to the faculty, but thank me for having followed their directions."

"Now what mistakes," said the young man, "people make. I have always heard that the climate of Naples was excellent for the chest."

"True," said the Duke, "but it is bad for the head."

"Of that I know something," said Monte-Leone, bowing to the Duke.

"Well, then, suppose it is," continued d'Harcourt, who wished at any price to avenge himself on thesbirriof his Excellency, in the person of the Duke himself. "It may be the climate exaggerates and sometimes destroys the head, but it is excellent for the heart—a suffering heart—a heart which is attacked is easily cured in Naples. True, the remedies are sometimes priceless, but patients in desperate cases do not hesitate on that account."

"I hope, Count," said the Duke, who would not understand the allusion of the young man to his marriage, "that the climate of Paris suits you better than that of Naples. Besides, the Duc d'Harcourt, your father, that most influential nobleman, will prevent you henceforth from endangering an existence you held too cheaply in Italy."

"Luckily," said D'Harcourt, with a smile, "your Excellency watched over me, and it is no slight honor to have as a physician the minister of police of a kingdom. Excuse me, however," added he to the Duke, "I hear the prelude of Collinet's orchestra, and I have a family duty to fulfil: my sister Mary has promised to dance this contradance with me, and I must humor the whim of a spoiled child."

The wild young man hurried to take his sister's arm, and to get into place with her. Marie d'Harcourt, René's sister, was a charming girl, with blonde hair and a rosy complexion, fair and lithe as a northern elf. The blue veins were visible beneath her transparent skin, so fair that one might often have fancied the blood was about to come gushing through it. The Duke d'Harcourt had lost two of his sons of that terrible pulmonary diseaseagainst which medicine, alas, is powerless. The distress of the father was intense, for two of the scions of this family had been cut off by death; and of the five offshoots from the family tree, but two remained. All his love was therefore centred in René, now his only son, and in Marie, the young girl of whom we have just spoken. From a sentiment of tender respect, the Duke had not permitted his last son to assume the title of those he had lost, and René continued to be called the Vicompte d'Harcourt. There were already apparent sad indications that René would become a prey to the monster which had devoured his two brothers: Marie, a few years younger, gave her father great uneasiness, on account of the excessive delicacy of her constitution and organization. All Paris had participated in the grief of the Duke d'Harcourt; for all Paris respected him. Rich, kind, and benevolent, in an enlightened manner, and within the bounds of reason, rejecting all social Utopias, popular as they might make all who sustained them, the Duke d'Harcourt was a Christian philanthropist, that is to say, a charitable man. Charity is the holiest and purest of earthly virtues, and that in which this patriarch indulged shunned noise and renown. He did not wait until misfortune came to him to soothe it, but sought it out. When this second providence was known to those whom he aided, the Duke imposed secrecy on them as a reward for all he had done. He was, so to say, an impersonation of French honor, and the arbiter of all the differences which arose between the members of the great aristocratic families of France. His word was law, and his decisions sovereign.

The Prince de Maulear had determined to marry his son to the daughter of this noble old man, and had been forced by the Marquis's marriage to abandon the plan. The Duke still remained the friend of the Prince, though he had not unfrequently blamed his somewhat lax principles. Whenever he discovered the Prince in any peccadillo, he used to say, "Well, we must be lenient to youth." Now, the Prince de Maulear was a young man of seventy. The beauty of Aminta, her extreme paleness alone, would have sufficed to fix attention, and created a very revolution in the saloons of the Embassy. The Duchess of Palma did not produce her ordinary effect. The animation she experienced in the beginning of the evening gradually left her, and the sadness under which she had previously suffered, but which she had thrown off during the early hours of the entertainment, began again to take possession of her features and person. One man alone remarked the Duchess, for he had never lost sight of her. Leaning against the door of the boudoir, his eye followed her wherever she went, and appeared to sympathize with all the constraint inflicted on her as mistress of the house. When, however, the Duchess thought she had paid sufficient personal attention, and was satisfied that the pleasures of the evening would be sustained without her, the man who examined her with such care, saw her come towards the boudoir where he was. He went in without being seen by her, and yielding to one of those promptings which a man in his cooler moments would resist, went behind a drapery which covered a door leading into a gallery of pictures, and waited motionless. The Duchess of Palma entered the boudoir, and assuring herself by a glance that she was alone, fell rather than sat on a divan, and suffered two streams of tears to flow from her eyes. "I was strangling," said she. "I would die a thousand deaths. My cruel experiment has succeeded.He loves her yet—I am sure of it. For her sake he came to this entertainment, to which he would not have come for mine. He would have made an excuse of his old difficulties with the Duke, of his political position. I would have believed him, and have sacrificed my wish to see him to propriety and his honor. He never ceases to look at her. He thinks of her alone. He is busied with her alone, yet he has no look, no thought for me." The Duchess began to weep again. Steps were heard in the gallery—the drapery at the door was agitated. "Oh, my God!" said the Duchess, "if met with here, and in this condition, what shall I do and say!" The steps approached. Hurrying then to one of the outlets of the boudoir, she opened it hastily, and went into the garden. The steps the Duchess had heard were those of two persons, who, after having been the rounds of the room, were about to go into the picture-gallery. The two persons were René d'Harcourt and Count Monte-Leone.

"Ah ha!" said the Count, "what the devil is Taddeo doing there against the drapery, there like a jealous Spaniard at a corner of Seville, listening to a serenade given by his rival?"

"True! true!" replied d'Harcourt, "but I think the serenade has been given, for his features express the most malevolent expression."

The emotion of Taddeo was so violent when he heard the words of the Duchess, that he had not strength to leave. He, however, restrained himself, and listened to the raillery of his friends.

"Like yourselves," said he, with a quivering voice, "I was in search of fresh air, for it is fearfully warm."

"Do not get sick here," said d'Harcourt, "for Doctor Matheus is not here to cure you."

"Silence," said Taddeo, changing his expression at once, "how imprudent you are to pronounce his name."

All three of them entered the boudoir.

"True," said d'Harcourt, "my tongue is always quicker than my mind. I will however try and make them keep time."

"When will there be a consultation?" asked Taddeo, trying to be calm.

"Eight days hence!"

"At what hour?"

"Midnight!"

"Are there many patients?"

"More than ever," said the Count, "and the poor devils are anxious as possible to be cured!"

"Then," said d'Harcourt, "the practice of the Doctor increases."

"Every day. He will soon be unable to turn around."

"That does not make me uneasy," said d'Harcourt, "our Doctor is a skilful man, a great philosopher, and fully acquainted with the new medicine."

"Yes, very new;—he treats the mind, rather than the body."

"Ah, that is its very essence," replied the Vicompte, "and I know some wonderful cures of his—so wonderful, indeed, that on the other day I presented him to my father."

"To the Duke?" said Monte-Leone,—"introduce Doctor Matheus to the Duke d'Harcourt?" Then in a low voice he continued, "Why did you present him to the Doctor?"

"For a reason which was important and very dear to my heart. My young sister was suffering; my father, who consulted in behalf of my brothers the most eminent practitioners of Paris, lost all confidence in the faculty when he lost his sons. He did not know whom to consult about his daughter; I spoke to him of Matheus, and told him several wonderful cures he had effected, and the Duke became very anxious to see him."

"And did the stern Matheus consent to go to your father's house?"

"He was anxious to do so, and as his house is not far from ours, I in a few minutes was able to introduce him into the patient's room; and would you believe it, a few of the simplest remedies possible exerted a great effect. The agitation of my sister was calmed—her cough arrested—and this evening you see her dancing and waltzing, pretty and gay as possible."

The conversation of the three friends was soon interrupted by the entrance of two other of the personages of our story. The Prince de Maulear entered with theMarquiseon his arm, seeking in this retired spot some repose from the fatigues of the ball, and a less heated air than that of the ball-rooms. Aminta leaned heavily on the arm of the Prince when she saw Monte-Leone thus unexpectedly. She had observed him during the evening, and in the course of the winter they had more than once met together. The Count, however, had never referred to their parting at Sorrento. Far from seeking her out, Monte-Leone seemed to avoid her. Satisfied with saluting her respectfully as often as they met, the Count used always to leave her. This reserved and proper conduct was sufficiently explained by the old rivalry of the Marquis de Maulear and the Count. Recollection of this rivalry, without doubt, caused in Aminta's mind the great emotion she always felt when in the presence of Monte-Leone.

"What," said the Prince, when he saw the Count, "are you here, my dear colleague? This chance delights me. My daughter," said he to the young Marquise, "let me introduce to you the Count Monte-Leone, a great traveller, to whom I am indebted for the best chapter of my Italian voyages; all action, I will read it to you one of these days! Ah! but for the Count, I would never have perfected it."

"Monsieur," said Monte-Leone, with a low bow, "I have the honor of theMarquise's acquaintance; and Signora Rovero, her mother, deigned sometimes to receive me at her house before the marriage of the Marquis de Maulear and Madame—"

The Count as he spoke felt as if his heart would burst. The Prince, however, did not perceive it.

"You know my daughter," said the Count, "yes, you have not called on her, you did not seek to see me, who am so glad to see you. This is bad, Count—you will not, however, remain away any longer, and I will not quit you until you promise me a speedy visit."

"I do not know if I should," said the Count, with a hesitation which was not natural to him—and looking timidly at Aminta.

"We shall be happy to receive the Count; but you know, Monsieur, I receive no one without the consent of the Marquis—"

"But the Marquis," said the Prince, "will be delighted to receive so charming a gentleman and erudite a traveller as Count Monte-Leone."

"But I also know M. de Maulear," said the Count.

"Indeed! then you know every one," said the old man. "Why then be so ceremonious? People of our rank easily understand each other. Besides, if the invitation of my son is all you need, here he comes to speak for himself."

D'Harcourt and Taddeo, especially the latter, who knew how devotedly Monte-Leone had loved Aminta, participated in the embarrassment of the scene. Aminta trembled. "Ah! you here at last, Monsieur," said the Prince to his son, as he appeared at the door of the boudoir. "You are a lucky fellow to have your father as your wife'scavalier servente, for you have not been near her during the whole evening." The Marquis turned pale, and said with agitation, "Excuse me, sir, but I met some old friends who kept possession of me all the evening."

"Ah!" said the Prince, "apropoof old friends—or old acquaintances, if you will, here is one of yours—the Count Monte-Leone, who wants only for a word from your mouth to renew his acquaintance and visit me."

Henri looked at Monte-Leone, whom he had not seen before.

Without trouble, without agitation, or any apparent effort, he said, "Count Monte-Leone will always be welcome whenever he pleases to visit me."

Aminta cast a glance full of surprise, grief,and reproach on the Marquis, and a secret voice repeated in her very heart:—"He is no longer jealous, and therefore does not love me."

"Very well," said the Prince to his son, and turning to Monte-Leone, and giving him his hand, he said, "We shall meet again, my dear colleague." He continued, "We will talk of our travels, and especially of the chapter of Ceprano."

Then taking the arm of Aminta, who could scarcely support herself, he returned to the ball-room.

The entertainment continued, and the joyous sounds of the orchestra reached the very extremity of the garden of the Hotel, where the Duchess of Palma had taken refuge to conceal her tears from all observers. She heard a faint noise beneath a neighboring hedge, and looking towards it, saw Taddeo gazing at her with an expression of great grief.

"Taddeo," said she.

"Yes," said the young man, "Taddeo, who pities and suffers with you because he knows all and suffers all that unappreciated love can inflict on the heart—"

This was said with an expression of deep pity.

"Who has told you," said the Duchess proudly, "that I suffered as you say?"

"Your tears," said Taddeo, "and the memory of the past. Better still, yourself. The words you uttered not long ago in the boudoir, and which by chance I heard."

"Signor," replied the Duchess with indignation, "do not attribute to chance what you owe to ignoble curiosity. To watch a woman—to surprise the secrets of her heart, is infamous, and betrays the hospitality extended to you. It shows a want of respect for me, and absence of honor in yourself."

"Signora, my only excuse is my ardent passion, which has lasted in spite of time and contempt. I have no motive for my fault but my sad interest in your suffering, the cruel progress of which I have read on your features since the commencement of the entertainment;—that is all——"

"But, Signor, what have I said? What words have I uttered?" said the Duchess, every feature being instinct with terror.

"Nothing, alas! that my heart has not long been aware of. He that you loved, you love still, and his coldness and insensibility for your devotion, makes you lament his ingratitude and indifference."

The Duchess seemed, as it were, relieved of an enormous burden which oppressed her. She breathed more freely and murmured these words with a burst of gratitude to God who had preserved her—"He knows nothing."

"Taddeo," said she, giving him her hand, "I pardon you, for I am myself guilty, very guilty in still preserving my old sentiments in the face of my new obligations, voluntarily contracted. I have, I am certain, lost the right to reproach you with a fault, which passion induced you to commit, while I commit one far greater. For pity's sake forget what you have heard, and to ask me to explain it would be an offence. Pity me in your heart. Ah! pity me, for I am most unfortunate." Then drying her eyes, she continued, "No more of this—be a friend to me as you promised six months ago, when we came to Paris. On this condition alone you know that I permitted you to see me. Now give me your arm, and let us return to the ball-room, whence, probably, our absence has been remarked." They walked in silence down the alley which led to the ball-room.

Two hours after, all was calm and silent where every thing had been gay and brilliant. The lights were out, and the darkness of night replaced the thousand lamps which a few minutes before were seen to glitter within the palace windows. But one person in all the Hotel of the Duke of Palma was awake. A woman sat alone, in a room of rare elegance, still wearing her ball attire, but with her hair dishevelled and her heart crushed. Her eyes were fixed and dry, and yet red with the tears she had shed. She was in all the brilliancy of youth and beauty, but which was already defaced somewhat, by the iron claws of sorrow, which by sleepless nights and the ravages of jealousy seemed resolved yet more to lacerate her. With her head resting on her hands, beautiful and touching as Canova's Magdalen, she looked with sorrow over the papers which lay strewn on a rich ebony desk before her. A lamp, the upper portion of which was shrouded in blue tulle, cast a pale and sad light over her brow. Her fine white hand rested on the papers which she seemed afraid to touch. "No," said she, "it is impossible; all that these contain are but falsehoods. No, this journal of my heart, written by myself, day by day, cannot be a romance created by the imagination in its delirium. No! all I wrote there was true. I felt the joys and bitternesses, yet it now seems to me a dream. A dream! can it be a dream?"

Taking up the papers convulsively she read as follows:—"It is he. I have seen him again and free. I thought that he, like myself, had contracted a life-long obligation. Is this joy or grief? The ties he was about to form, the ties the mere thought of which caused me a terrible anguish, were imposed on me by myself. Oh my God! what have I done? What perfidious demon inspired me when I yielded to another than to him therightto love me? When I promised a love I knew could be given to no other than to him? Why on the day of that fatal marriage did I see him only when I was about to leave the church? I would have broken off had I stood at the foot of the altar—I would have told him who was about to give me his name—ask me not to perjure myself! do not ask me to pledge you a faith I cannot keep! my heart, my soul, my love are his. I thought, alas! because he was not freethat I too might cease to be. I fancied my agony to be power, my spite to be courage. When, however, I saw him pale and sombre, leaning against the door of the temple, I felt the coldness of death take possession of me, and I doubted long after that sad day, if I had seen a shadow, if some hallucinations of my senses had not evoked a phantom of my vanished love, to inspire me with eternal regret. YetHEit was!HEit was! and when at the risk of my very life I would have flown towards that man, I was forced to follow another." The poor woman paused; for a mist obscured her sight, a distillation of burning tears. She resumed her task:—"I am a Duchess but of what value is that vain title which I sought, as an ægis against memory, to me? Have I found it such? For a long time, I thought so. I should, however, never have seen him again. I should have passed no happy days near him, and have been ignorant of the delirium and intoxication of his presence, which I never can forget. I had been the wife of the Duke of Palma six months, when a mission of the King of Naples forced him to leave me at a villa on theLago di Como, while he went in a foreign country to discharge the duties his monarch had imposed on him. I scarcely dared to confess to myself, in spite of the kindness of the Duke, how I was delighted during his absence, for it gave me a liberty of mind and thought which was absolutely necessary to my heart. Resolved to discharge all my duties, I lived, or rather vegetated, in this existence, so unoccupied and objectless as all marriages contracted without love must be. Amid, however, the dead calm of a marriage contracted without love, there glittered sometimes a burst of passion repressed, but alas! not stifled. Dark passions filled my bosom, and I felt the poison of regret. I found myself often longing for my independence, which, however, would not have contributed to my happiness, but would at least have permitted me to indulge in my secret sorrow. My temporary solitude, therefore, became precious to me, for I was about to abandon myself to sadness without annoying any one, and without exciting a curiosity which it was impossible for me to satisfy. When one evening I had been wandering alone on the banks of the lake, I was terrified by a terrible scene on the water. At a great distance a man made every effort to approach the shore—for his boat was evidently sinking beneath him. Some opening, beyond doubt, permitted the water to penetrate, and his danger became every moment more imminent. I was too far from the villa to send him any assistance, and as a secret presentiment was joined to the horror and pity caused by the spectacle, I felt the greatest anxiety about the stranger. The night was near, and the sky became darker every moment. By the flashes of lights here and there, I saw the bark almost sinking, and ere long, it was entirely gone—and the tranquil waves of the lake, calm as they are wont to be, rolled over it. My strength deserted me, and almost in a fainting condition, I fell on the strand. I did not absolutely lose consciousness; for far in the distance I heard the sound of sudden blows on the water, for which at the time I could not account. The noise approached, and grew every moment more distinct. I then heard the sound, as it were, of a body falling on the sand, accompanied by a painful cry. I heard no more. Soon I saw the light of the torches of my servants, who being uneasy, had come to look for me. They found me, and also a half inanimate body, dripping with water. It was doubtless the person whose boat had foundered in the water, and I ordered him to be taken to the villa and carefully attended to. It was late, and I returned. A few hours had passed since the event, and I was sitting alone at the piano. Fancy bore me back to my last appearance at San-Carlo, where a mad and infatuated public had bade me so enthusiastic an adieu. While all that crowd had eyes, for him alone I wished to be beautiful—for him alone to be worthy of the admiration I excited. Dreaming this, my fingers run over the keys, and joining my voice to the instrument, I sang almost unconsciously that touching air in which I had been so much applauded. My song was at first low and half-whispered, but gradually increased in power. I thought I spoke to him, and that his eyes were fixed on mine. At last I paused, pale with surprise, joy and terror. In the glass before me I saw Count Monte-Leone."

The memory of this event was so distinct and exciting, that the Duchess paused and looked around for the apparition which had caused her such keen emotion. Then, as if she delighted to place the knife in the wound, she took up the manuscript, and continued:—

"'Excuse me, Madame,' said the Count, 'for having thus introduced myself into your house; but I am come to thank you for the cares I have received in your name.'

"'You—you here?' said I, yet doubting my eyes. 'Is it a dream or vision? Speak, speak once more, that, I may be sure I do not dream.'

"'Felina,' said he, in a tone full of melancholy, 'I know not why our fate should thus constantly bring us together. But one might think, that still faithful to your old oath, you continue the providence you used to be to me. When a few months since, after the wreck of all my hopes of happiness, after having been misconceived by those for whom I had done so much, when sad and desperate, I cursed my egotistical and cold career, you appeared to me in the Church of Ferentino and cast on me, in the face of your marriage vows, one of those deep-loving looks which cheer the heart and attach it to life. And when on the lake, exhausted with fatigue and ready to yield under the struggle necessary to avert my threatened fate, you again came to my relief. You see, then,' continued he, smiling sadly, 'that in becoming the good angel of the Duke of Palma, you do not cease to be mine.'

"Never had the Count spoken thus to me. He had always been cold, and seemed most unwillingly to acknowledge the services I had rendered him. I had never received an affectionate word from his mouth before. He saw the trouble he gave me, and taking my hand, said, with a voice full of sensibility, 'Are you happy?' At this question, it seemed as if my heart would break, and I burst into tears.

"'Felina,' said he, 'why do you weep? what is the meaning of this?'

"'Do not question me,' said I. 'Let me keep the cause of those tears a secret, for you can neither dry up nor understand them. Tell me though about yourself, said I. Tell me of your marriage.'

"Monte-Leone grew pale, and said, 'I am not married, I am free.'

"I could not repress a feeling of joy.

"'Ah!' said he, bitterly, 'Do you enjoy my misfortune?'

"This word restored me to mysang-froid. I became more calm, and questioned him. The Count told me all.

"For many months, he had travelled and returned to Europe to arrange some pecuniary matters previous to his return to France, where he purposed to remain. Passing byla Tremezzina, he learned, indirectly, that certain malevolent reports had been circulated in relation to him by the brothers of the powerful association, of which he had been the chief. A venta was to meet on the opposite shore of Lake Como. Taking a rude costume—he had gone thither, for the purpose of protesting against the perfidious insinuations of his enemies. Afraid, however, of being watched by some agent of his enemies, he resolved to cross the lake alone and at night. Thus he became so near being lost. The Count wished to leave me that night, for he was aware of the absence of the Duke of Palma, and was afraid of compromising me. I, however, retained him for several days in the villa, for the purpose of throwing off the vigilance of his enemies. Alas! how have I regretted those days, the only happy ones of my life. How rapidly they passed away! The Count knew the mystery I wished to hide from him. He read it in my soul, the only thought of which he long had been. He knew why I had married, what tears and sorrow I had known, and what anguish it had caused me. Touched by this vast sacrifice, understanding the extent of my love, I saw the ice of his heart gradually begin to melt. But as his heart warmed to mine, a secret terror took possession of me. Tasting all the joy of seeing arise in the heart of the Count, sentiments which, when I was free I could not have heard without pride and satisfaction, I trembled at the idea of being able to listen to them only with crime. Soon it was I who besought the Count to fly—to leave me—to see me no more. Strange, however, is the human heart; the passion of Monte-Leone seemed to feed on my opposition. He forgot the past, he could not realize it to have existed.

"Sitting by my side during the long days, beneath the flowery bowers of the villa, the Count, as he said, saw through the darkness in which he had been enveloped—his eyes recovered their vision, and at last I appeared to him, for the first time, the most charming, the most adorable of women. Never was there a more eloquent tenderness than his—and to me who lived for him alone—whose image was ever before me, who had loved him in spite of his coldness and indifference, almost his contempt, to me he used this language of entreaty.... Yet he did so to a woman who loved him. A month passed in this cruel contest of love and duty. The contest was not equal, and passion triumphed. The Count had left the villa, but was concealed in the vicinity, and I saw him every day become more tender and affectionate. One must have suffered as I have to understand the intoxication of my happiness. To be loved by him had never seemed possible; and to possess this life-dream, to read in his looks a passion I alone had experienced hitherto, was a veil, thin indeed, but this prevented me from discerning how great was my fault. If it did become known to me, I loved it; for in my delirium I thought that I gave to this man a heart which belonged to him, and a person of which, in defiance of his rights, another was possessed. The other though, whom I doubly injured by this thought, had given me truly, loyally, and nobly, his heart, his rank, his name. So completely, however, was I led astray, that I censured the Duke for this very generosity. Sometimes, however, my life of love had its sorrows. The Count would be sad, and in his moments of melancholy, forgot my presence, and spoke slightingly on the volatility of women and of their caprices. I used to look at him with surprise, and seek to discover his secret thoughts. One day it was revealed to me.

"'When women are young,' said he, 'they suffer themselves to be led away by brilliant exterior, and by that studied gallantry of which the French make such a display.' A few words full of venom escaped him involuntarily in relation to a rival that she whom hehadloved preferred to him. So shocked was I, that I asked him, if ill-humor at his repulse alone had led him to my feet. Without knowing how he had done so, the Count saw he had wounded me, and by increased care and tenderness lulled a suspicion which ultimately was to rise in all its power and agony.

"One day, we were to separate. The Count was obliged to go to Naples, where he was impatiently waited for. My despair at this intelligence was terrible. How could I leave this sweet happiness which had grown around me in two months! It seemed above my power and ability. Nothing seemed to influence the Count. I knew him well, and was aware that he never yielded. I soon ceased to contend, and he left me—not, however, without the tenderest oaths of constancy. 'We will soon meet again,' he remarked, 'andin Paris: in that vast city where mystery is so easy, and where secret love finds an impenetrable shelter, we will reside—you still as beautiful, I devoted as ever.'"

This was the end of the manuscript.

"Vain promises," said La Felina, crushing the papers in her hands. "I wished to read these pages once more. I wrote them after he had gone, and they are the history of my fleeting happiness. I wished to be satisfied that I had been happy. I doubt it sometimes, for during the three months the Count has been here, I see him every day resume more and more his old coldness to me. Formerly, I could reproach myself with nothing. I had betrayed no one; and he, in his disdain, had violated no promise. Now, though, he has created eternal remorse and regret. He has revived in my heart a flame which was nearly out—yet has nothing but indifference and contempt for me. He forgets, though, how dangerous it is to offend an Italian woman. He has forgotten what he read in my letter to his friend: 'Had I been to the Count but an ordinary woman, the charms of whom would have fixed him for a time, but whom he would repudiate as he has his other conquests,I would have killed him.'"

At the time we write of, there was inla rue Babylonne, near the faubourg Saint-Germain, an old house, the owner of which was really to be pitied. In consequence of a kind of fate which overhung this house, no room had been occupied for many years, and the persons who went thither in search of room, terrified at their sombre air, heard, subsequently, such stories of what had happened within its walls, took good care not to take up their abode there, even if they had given thedenier-à-Dieu, an important matter in Paris, and a kind of bargain between the lodger and landlord, made in the presence of the porter, who is the notary, witness, and depository of the contract. If, however, any quiet family, led astray by the retirement of the house, established themselves in it, the servants soon heard such stories from their neighbors in No. 15, that they lived in perpetual terror—madame grew pale, and as often as monsieur sang louder than usual, or came in without noise, had nervous attacks. The unfortunate lodgers, menaced by jaundice or some other bilious complaint, in consequence of the repeated emotions to which they were subjected, were anxious always to go, even under the penalty of indemnifying the landlord. The latter saw himself again forced to submit to the reign of solitude in the old halls, which were gilt and paintedà la Louis XV., and saw the mildew and dust again rest on the windows and cells, as soon as the fires ceased to burn; not even the presence of a trunk, belonging to a chance sojourner in this desert isle, relieved the landlord from apprehensions of the recurrence of his old calamity. The Crusoe of this desert island had declared that he had rather pay the lodging three, six, or nine-fold, than live in such proximity with the miserable ideas which the house suggested. True, the Crusoe was an Englishman, predisposed to thespleen, and the sadness of his abode would soon have led him to augment by a new scene the dramas which had already happened in this house. The landlord, afraid that he would do so, hurried to conclude matters as soon as possible with the islander.

The following was the reason of the bad repute of No. 13:

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