FOOTNOTES:

FOOTNOTES:[9]Continued from page 201

[9]Continued from page 201

The singing spheresEntranced the very time they measured out;And memory drew me back to one sweet year,When, born anew to thought and love, the earthWas new, and music—fancy's dancing lightTill then—became a dazzling revelation.'Twas in a city, midway from the hymnsOf Trenton and Niagra. 'Twas an eveWhen a whole nation sighed, as hour by hour,The news electric ran that he was dying,The Palo Alto hero. Then and there,I hear the orchestra that once had wingedThe festal hours when first the hero stood,A nation's chief. To me, the hall, the crowd,Were not; I watched a window-square of skyDeepen from tender blue to night profound;And, as it deepened, heard the voice of Time,All Time, all joy and sorrow, madness, woe,And saw a thousand forms of light and gloom,From music born. Distorted faces glared;Long lines of star-browed angels circled down,And ages dead were summoned back to earth.The horn rang out the joy of happy souls;The viol screamed and laughed in scorn, and groansRose dread and deep from under gulfs of night.The past, the future life of self, of all.Before me crowded, wailed, entreated, warned,Battled, triumphed, or struggled wildly past,A long procession.Good for me the hourWhen music, erst a sylph or monster form,Assumed the glory that immortals wear,And sang to me the messages of Heaven.It nerved me newly for the war of life,Of truth, humanity. Now, a naked soul,I dwelt within the central court of space—No globe immense, but the aye changing point,Where centred, hangs the whole creation's weight,Light as a snow-flake, on the hand of God.The trill of myriad stars, the heavy boomOf giant suns that slowly came and went,The whistlings, sweet and clear, of lesser orbs,And the low thunder of more distant deeps,Ever commingling, grew to eloquenceNo earthly brain may bear. The universeHad found a voice: the countless souls that fillThe countless earths, were calling each to each,In tones as high as heaven, as deep as hell,And many as the many words. I feltWhat is existence, what the vast extent,The mystery, and the far result....

It was a morning of December, but one of those fitful days when, the sun shining and the sky cloudless, the weather might lead one to suppose it to be spring, were the temperature not so cold and sharp, or if the flowers would only open, and the sun were as warm as it was bright. The young Marquise de Maulear sat over her painting, with Scorpione at her feet, when the Count Monte-Leone was announced.

"Show him in," said Aminta.

The Count entered. He was very pale, and there was a secret emotion on his countenance which Aminta discovered at once.

"What is the matter?" said she; "why have you come so early to see me? I do not reproach you for this; but if you intend by what you do now to stay away this evening,I object to it. I protest against this, Monsieur."

"How beautiful you are!" said Monte-Leone, "and how I love to hear you thus calculate your moments of happiness."

"Ah, Monsieur, I am very exacting, I have already told you. I will, however, grant you one hour, especially as time passes so rapidly in your company." Then she said, sadly, "Life is so short!"

"Yes, very short," said the Count; "especially when the career you promise me is pleasant—enough so to make one wish it would never end."

"I should so wish it, but you, perhaps, would think it tedious."

"It should be eternal," said Monte-Leone, "and eternity itself would not suffice for me to prove my tenderness. Besides, my purgatory here has been long enough. Have I not suffered all the tortures of hell since the day I renounced you? Ah!" said he, passionately, "you will never know how I loved, and how I now love you."

"Yes, yes," said Aminta, with a smile, "a heart like yours, I think, can love but once. I speak seriously—do you hear, sir? This word means much—so much that I tremble to think of it. You love me, and always will. I have faith in you."

"The future," said the Count, with an expression of sorrow which he could not conquer, "is your own—at least, if such is God's will, for mine is in your hands."

"What mean you?" said the Marquise, fearfully, and looking again with anxiety at the Count. "What trouble now menaces you? Would you leave Paris and myself? Well, that is a small affair. The country you dwell in shall be my country—the climate you select shall be mine. I will love the climate you love, even if it be as sombre and icy as our Italy is warm and glorious. The true country is where we find happiness."

"Dear Aminta," said the Count, with a delight he could not repress, "it would be terrible to die now."

Scorpione drew near the Count, and looked at him with a strange expression. One might have fancied that like the idiots of northern lands, who, we are assured, have a strange prescience of the future, this poor being was seized on by an unfortunate presentiment.

The words she had heard echoed sadly in Aminta's heart. "My friend," said she "for some time I have seen that you suffered. You are no longer happy in my presence. For pity's sake conceal nothing from me. Something terrible and unknown exists in your heart. To whom else but me would you confide it? Who would you permit to share my torments? Who should suffer with you? Tell me, I beseech you, for doubt is worse even than misery."

The Count felt his very soul expand as he heard this expression of Aminta's interest. He was about to speak to her. Could he, however, reveal to a young and tender woman the fate which menaced him—the duel which as was said was to be merciless? Could he tell her of the prospect of death in the midst of his dreams of happiness. All this was barbarous and impossible, and the Count sought to lull the storm he had excited, to soften her fears, and to efface her suspicions.

"My noble and dear Aminta, no violent and arbitrary power forces me to leave you. Perhaps, however, I am about to undertake a journey—a long journey," he said, with feelings he sought in vain to repress. "An important and imperious duty forces me to do so, and you see that I am sad on account of the farewell I am about to bid you."

"Farewell!" said Aminta, growing pale; "a journey, a departure! Wait but a few months, and we will go together."

This thought, so full of love, seemed sad to the Count, and at once he said,

"No, no; I must make this journey alone. But," said he, "I will return, and thenceforth leave you no more. This will be my last separation and absence." The Count pronounced these words with such earnestness that a smile of joy flitted across Aminta's countenance.

"Well," said she, "at least I know what danger menaces. I know now the secret of your distress, and the cause of the melancholy which I could not before penetrate. Count," continued she, "you have sometimes seen me brave and courageous. Judge then of my affection by the tears which I cannot repress."

Monte-Leone took the young woman's hand, and covered it with kisses. In the interim, leaning against a wall, and with his features contracted by grief, the idiot shed tears, because he saw Aminta do so. A servant appeared, and told the Count that Taddeo Rovero asked to see him. Monte-Leone looked up, and glancing at the clock, thought it was one. Aminta stopped him as he was about to go. "Shall I see you again?" said she.

"Yes, yes," said the Count—"to-night—to-morrow."

"One word more," said she; "travel has its danger, and now I know you will take care of yourself; for henceforth your life does not belong to you alone. Every day I will pray for you. I should not, however, be an Italian woman if my heart had no tender superstition. Yours, my brother has told me, is not exempt from this feeling. You have one family superstition in particular," said she. "This is an heir-loom. Take it again," said she, and she placed on the Count's finger the ring of Benvenuto, which Monte-Leone long before had sent her through Taddeo. "They tell me it has always brought you good fortune. Do not part with it again, for my sake, as I once received it for yours."

"Aminta," said the Count, "again you restore confidence to me. I expected to leave you full of love—but you can yet once more make me happy."

"How so?" said she.

"Let this be our wedding-ring."

"So be it," said Aminta.

"Countess di Monte-Leone," said the Count, regaining his energy, and speaking with a transport of joy. "We will meet again—I swear we will."

He left, and the idiot followed the Count. Monte-Leone's brow became bright. He had made up his mind, and regained his firmness.

The countless indistinct voices of nature alone interrupted the silence of this solitude, the echoes of which had so often resounded with the cry of grief, or the last sighs of a dying man. It was two o'clock when Monte-Leone and his companions appeared at therendezvous. The place was as yet solitary, but in the course of a few minutes the distant sound of wheels reached their ears, and informed them that ere long their adversaries would be present. The latter, in fact, descended as they had themselves done at the round point which led to the ruins, and before many minutes had passed the two parties had met. Two officers, one of the navy and the other of the general's regiment, accompanied the Lieutenant. The Count and the Lieutenant stood aside. The witnesses approached each other. "Gentlemen," said Von Apsberg, "the Count Monte-Leone, as well as ourselves, is ignorant what could have given rise to the atrocious insult your friend has uttered, the latter having refused to explain it. Perhaps you will think it your duty to do so."

The naval officer said, "Monsieur, we are sorrow to say, that we know nothing more of the matter than you do. Lieutenant A—— is one of the most gallant officers of the royal navy. He has requested us to attend him here to-day, swearing that his cause was just and honorable, but that he would unfold its cause onlyin articulo mortis, or in case his adversary fell. We have such confidence in our comrade's honor and prudence, that we determined to do as he wished us."

"You, as well as we, gentlemen," said the other second, "have read the letter sent by Lieutenant A—— to Count Monte-Leone, and are aware that it was placed out of the power of the latter to refuse the challenge, even if he thought he had as yet received insufficient provocation."

"This is enough, Messieurs," said Von Apsberg. "I have made an appeal to you, and I see with sorrow that you disagree with me. I have hitherto considered the seconds in a duel as being charged with the soul of their friend. Without however pronouncing on the reasons which seem to have influenced Lieutenant A—— in his bearing towards such a man as Monte-Leone, we agree with you that he has given more than sufficient provocation for bloodshed. Let us therefore cut short this conversation, and proceed. We claim the choice of arms."

"Very well," said the officers.

"We select pistols," said Taddeo, "and rigorously using all our rights, claim the first fire; or that his adversary object by maintaining that he has received the first insult."

"Lieutenant A—— will maintain no such thing," said the naval officer.

"Then, gentlemen," said Von Apsberg, "we will not hesitate to take advantage of the benefit allowed us by the laws of duelling."

The seconds of A—— consented, and the weapons were loaded. When the terms were explained to Monte-Leone he said, "I wish that in this unfortunate and mysterious affair the right may be on my side. I insist, therefore, that the terms be equal, and that this gentleman and myself fire together, or when we please, advancing from a distance of twenty paces on each side. I take particular care, also, to say, not from bravado merely, but because I think proper to do so, that I am an extremely good shot."

"Were I not resolved to kill you," said the Lieutenant, "I would refuse this insolent generosity. I think I have such rights over your life, and my vengeance is of so sacred character, that I accept it without hesitation."

All then were silent—the ground measured and the pistols loaded. All this passed beneath a wall of the old monastery of Longchamps. The two enemies were placed opposite. The signal was given, and each lifted his arm. Without advancing towards his enemy, who walked rapidly towards him, Count Monte-Leone fired and his ball took effect on the body of the Lieutenant, who sank on the ground before him. He did not utter a complaint, did not close his eyes, but supporting himself on his elbow he fired on Monte-Leone. The ball would have struck the Count in the breast had not a man rushed rapidly as lightning from the thicket, and covering the Count with his body, received the ball in his own heart.

Four persons cried out at once. The seconds rushed towards the victim, who was Scorpione. The poor idiot thus died for Aminta, for he rescued one she loved. When they lifted up the unfortunate lad he was dead. It was afterwards learned from the people of the house that when he saw Taddeo with the pistol case, he had gotten into a hackney coach and followed the three friends. He beyond doubt remembered the box which he had seen in the hands of the Count at the time of the difficulty with the Marquis de Maulear. He had gone thus to the rendezvous and sprang from his concealment only to receive the mortal wound.

While Von Apsberg, Monte-Leone, and Taddeo sought to reanimate Tonio, the secondsof A—— supported him, and made useless efforts to staunch the blood which poured from his wound. Von Apsberg being satisfied that Scorpione was dead, offered his services to the Lieutenant. He, however, had fainted. Von Apsberg took out his case and cut two long straps of adhesive plaster for the purpose of healing the wound. He soon saw that his efforts would be useless. He said the ball is in the pylorus, and that noble organ being injured, death, unless a miracle ensue, must supervene. The seconds looked on with amazement. Just then the sound of the feet of several horses was heard, one of the officers said, "It is the forest keepers."

"Hurry away," said Von Apsberg to Monte-Leone, who yet held the hand of Scorpione and looked at him with great pity. "Hurry away. They will arrest you as the murderer of this man and what then will become of the association?"

The Count yet hesitated, for this sudden flight might seem injurious to his character. He was unwilling to shake off the responsibility of any act of his life.

"For Aminta's sake," said Taddeo, in a low voice; and the Count, rushing into the thicket, disappeared.

A few minutes passed and they waited for the horsemen, whose uniforms were seen in the distance. This was idle, for they passed within a few paces of the dead body without noticing it.

And another, too, in spite of all Von Apsberg's efforts, was dying. A convulsive whistle began to escape from the breast of the Lieutenant, his eyes rolled in his head, and his sight began to grow dim. The blood ceased to flow, and only a few black drops escaped from time to time. Suddenly the body which had become contracted, expanded, and by a last effort the eyes of the dying man began to expand and glittered strangely.

"Listen all," said he sharply and distinctly; "do not loose one word I say. These are the last words I shall ever pronounce. May God grant me power to unmask a traitor and prevent him from making new victims." All drew near, and paid attention to the words of one about to appear before his Creator. The respirations of the three auditors were distinct. "I said that I would reveal my secret onlyin articulo mortis, or in case my adversary fell, I will keep my promise. I did not tell you," and he turned with pain towards his seconds, "why I insulted this man who has killed me. The reason was that if I had spoken you would not have suffered me to meet him as being unworthy of the arm of an honest man. I wished to kill him first and unmask him afterwards. This brilliant Count Monte-Leone is a miserable hanger-on of the police. The people call such thingseaves-droppers, but men of higher rank give them another name: Monte-Leone is aSpy in Society."

"Horror! it is a slander," said Von Apsberg and Taddeo.

"By all that is dearest to me," said the Lieutenant, whose voice became every moment weaker and weaker, "by my father's life, by my own soul, this is true. Monte-Leone denounced the General, and my father himself gave me evidence of the fact, which is beyond a doubt. He will also satisfy you—men do not lie at the hour of death, and I am dying with these words on my lips."

He closed his eyes and died.

Nothing could describe the stupefaction of the four seconds of the duel at what A——said. Von Apsberg was the first to divest himself of the mute terror which seemed to have taken possession of all. "Gentlemen," said he, "I appeal to your honor. The truth of a dying man's assertions cannot be suspected. I am sure he was convinced of the truth of his assertion. This alone can palliate his statements. M. A—— would have soon recovered from his unfortunate impression in relation to the count, and it is a pity that he did not sooner impart it to us. We are able to furnish such evidence of Monte Leone's truth that he would have himself confessed that he was wrong. We will see at all risks the unfortunate young man's father and will attempt to discover the origin of this strange imputation. We will ask one favor of you, such as may be between people of honor, to suspend your judgments in relation to Monte-Leone until we are able to satisfy you this originated in some terrible mistake."

The naval officer then said: "We have no reason to be hostile to Count Monte-Leone, and his conduct in relation to the preliminaries of the duel rather inspire us with respect. We will, then, await your communications and say nothing of the circumstances."

"I thank you, sirs—all here has occurred as should between men of honor and courage. Let us now take care of the victims. Each take care of his own friend," pointing to the son of the General and to Scorpione.

A quarter of an hour afterwards there remained only a few drops of dried-up blood on the withered leaves and on the moss. When Taddeo returned with the body of Tonio, Monte-Leone was already with the Marquise. When the latter saw him, she thought in obedience to his promise he had come to bid her adieu. Then the Count told her what had happened, and the circumstances of Scorpione's death. Aminta wept.

All the self-denial of the poor lad appeared before her; his torture and suffering which began and ended his life. The arrival of Taddeo, therefore, distressed her. The Count, however, was there, and she had discovered the direction of his pretended voyage. TheCount, perhaps, regretted Tonio's death as much as she did, for he had been its involuntary cause and could not console himself for it.

A few hours after, Von Apsberg and Taddeo met at the bedside of the Vicomte, who was yet sick. They told him all the incidents of the duel, and they concurred in thinking the statements of the dying Lieutenant most atrocious. They determined not to speak of it to the Count whose anger and exasperation, they feared at such a statement. As Von Apsberg had said to the Lieutenant's seconds, they determined at all hazards to reach the General's cell, and thus explain the mystery. Three days passed in useless efforts to induce the authorities to accede to their request. At last the Procureur du roi relaxed in favor of Doctor Matheus who was introduced into the cell of General A—— whom he found completely overcome by the death of his son. To this grief, which was intense and terrific, was joined the most violent anger against the Count, whom he called the murderer and assassin of his son. "Yes," said the unfortunate father, "he is a villain, and coward, and has denounced the father and killed the son. What have I done to this man? why is he so enraged against me? why against mine?"

"General," said Von Apsberg, "I can understand how bitter a despair like yours must be: it should not, though, make you unjust towards a man of honor who was your associate and is ours." This was said in a low tone. "Count Monte-Leone fought honorably against your son, and but for an unforseen accident would have been killed by him. Resume, then, your coolness. Time is precious, and I beg you to tell me why you have accused Monte-Leone."

"Would to God I had kept that terrible secret to myself! would to God my son had never heard that charge! He would not then have been forced to meet him to avenge me; he would have been living now."

The sobs of the General increased. Von Apsberg suffered his grief to pass away, and asked, "Is this note yours, General?"

"What note?" asked he, and looking through his tears at a piece of paper which the Doctor gave him.

Von Apsberg whispered almost in his ear. "This note was given a few days after your arrest."

The General read it, and said: "Yes, an old servant who accompanied me to the prison, and who was afterwards taken away, was my messenger."

"And you say that you saw in the hands of the Prefect, as the basis of the charge against you, the list of the members of yourventesigned by you and given by you to Count Monte-Leone."

"I do."

"Well," said the Doctor, "repel this error, and do justice to the innocent name you have aspersed, for the Count gave me that very list, and here it is." The General took the document and looked minutely at the signature. He then said, "This is not the list I gave Monte-Leone. My signature is forged. Both the list and signatures have been imitated by a forger, skilfully indeed, but the true list, the one which beyond doubt will take me to the scaffold, this list, as I say and as my blood will prove, is in the hands of the Prefect of police."

Von Apsberg grew pale and leaned against the wall. An icy paleness ran through his veins and a cloud stood before his eyes. He shuddered at this distinct statement. The fact was this list must have been taken from his own papers and imitated in his own room which hitherto he had looked on as inviolable, or the Count was a traitor, and the General right. The unfortunate Lieutenant was not mistaken, he had proved all he said, and was correct in all he did. "General," said Von Apsberg, "for the sake of the honor of a man who is dear to me, for the sake of an association the dominant idea of which you have sustained so nobly and for which you now suffer, think well—make an appeal to your memory; let not chagrin lead you astray, I beg you; by your thirty glorious years of service, I ask you if that is not your signature?"

"On my conscience, and by the memory of my son, I vow that list is an imitation, a copy of mine, and that the original was given to Angles on the day of my arrest."

"It is a strange and incredible mystery," said Von Apsberg, who continued to repel with horror the idea of treason in Monte Leone. Some enemy must have taken this paper from the Count and copied it.

"Do not look so far for this traitor. I have pointed him out to you. The man you call your friend has denounced and betrayed me by means of that fatal document. I tell you, Doctor, he is a coward, and has betrayed the father and son." The old soldier wept. They came to tell the Doctor that the time allotted for his visit was past. He was about to leave when the General seized him and said, "Do prompt justice to that man,or the day of Carbonarism is gone." Von Apsberg could not restrain an expression of terror when he heard these words and saw the look with which they were accompanied. He clasped the General's hand and followed the turnkey who accompanied him to the outer gate of the conciergerie....

Two days before this scene, MM. Ober and professor C., the two other chiefs of the centralventes, who were yet at liberty, placed in the hands of Count Monte-Leone their lists certified to as those of General A——, F——, B——, and the Count de Ch——, had been. Monte-Leone at once took those important papers to Matheus, who shut them up with the others in a secret drawer of the old bureau, a print of the lock of which wesaw Mlle. Crepineau's lover take. Von Apsberg, when he returned home, found Taddeo and the Vicompte waiting for him. The latter was much changed, being pale and weak. He was so anxious, however, to learn the result of the Doctor's visit to A—— that he went to his house. Von Apsberg was struck by the agitation of his friends and the desperation of their countenances. Taddeo said: "We are betrayed and lost, and Carbonarism in France is dead. Ober and C—— were last night arrested and taken to prison." Von Apsberg sank on his chair without speaking. He then arose and rushed out of the room. "What is the matter with him?" said both Taddeo and the Vicomte. Von Apsberg went to his laboratory, opened the door and then the secretary. He took out a mass of papers, and descended again with rapidity. He said to the Vicomte, "you know the signature of Ober, having corresponded with him on business," and handed him the letter.

D'Harcourt took it, and went to the window, the curtains of which he threw aside. He looked carefully at the signature; and then, after a minute examination of every letter, said, "It is forged." He then took a letter from his pocket and added, "I can prove it by this." He then laid the letter which was written by Ober side by side with the roll and said, "This is but a coarse imitation."

Von Apsberg beat his breast and exclaimed: "As you said, my friends,Cabonarism is dead in France, and one of its sons, or rather its chief, who should have defended it with his body and mind, with his blood and life, has basely slain it."

"Do you mean Monte-Leone?" asked d'Harcourt and Taddeo.

"I mean Monte-Leone," and he told all that had passed between the General and himself.

"No!" said Taddeo. "I do not and can not think so. I will not. I will not think one I have esteemed honorable to a proverb, so debased. No! Count Monte-Leone is neither a spy nor a traitor. No! he shall be slandered by none; not even by you shall such a slander be uttered against a friend, countryman, and brother."

"Why," added he, with great vehemence, "why do you not ask for another version than that which condemns him? why may not these lists have been taken and copied while in his possession? why may they not have been thus treated, so that he gave you but counterfeits when he fancied he gave you originals? Indeed," said the noble-hearted young man, "you forget too easily the qualities of those you love, and are oblivious of years of courage consecrated to the cause we sustain, and for which he has periled his life. Truly your friendship turns now into hatred and contempt."

"Taddeo," said d'Harcourt, "We too, suffer—our hearts also repel what our reason tells us is true. As you do we seek to satisfy ourselves that hate not design had produced our ruin. We, like you, are unwilling to think our friend a villain; and God grant we may not be mistaken."

Von Apsberg added that his faith in Monte-Leone had been revived by Taddeo's energetic defence. Every thing must have a cause, a reason, a motive. Why then should Monte-Leone betray us.

"Well, well, my friends," said Taddeo, clasping their hands, "if you do not suspect you are not sure of what you say; you will soon be satisfied, and in a short time will deplore your unworthy suspicion. But I who repelled it will now fathom what it means. Our safety and a brother's honor depend on our doing so."

"Gentlemen," said Von Apsberg, "we should be guilty if we concealed any longer from Monte-Leone what we intended. Certainly a determined will is required to enable one to inflict such a blow on him. He alone can enable us to trace the traitors and criminals. He can give us light—otherwise we are in darkness."

Taddeo said, "Ask me to brave death, to risk my liberty for our cause, and I will not hesitate. Do not, though, ask me to say to a man whom I think honorable, 'you are accused of having sold your brothers, of having basely denounced their secrets—you are called a traitor and a spy—that I cannot do.'"

D'Harcourt said, like Taddeo, "I feel myself incompetent to make this revelation. My lips would quiver, and in spite of my efforts, my strength would fail when I looked into his lofty brow and frank countenance. On that brow fear and shame have never spread a blush."

"Then I will speak," said Von Apsberg, "I love the Count as well as you do, and accused him just now with deep regret, my heart refuting the imputation which my mouth uttered. I will see him, I will tell him of all, and will in my devotion accomplish the most cruel task ever imposed on me."

Just then several blows were struck on the pannel of the book-case through which we have seen S. Pignana enter, and also Signor Salvatori and M. H——. "This is some important information from Pignana," said Von Apsberg, and he touched the spring. The panel opened, but behind it was Monte-Leone instead of Pignana. All experienced great emotion when they saw him. Von Apsberg was the most agitated, for he was to speak, and had thus the most painful task to perform.

"I am just now come," said Monte-Leone, "but I did not think I should enter Frederick's house openly. Prudence is now more needed than ever. You have heard," said he, "of the arrests of the chiefs of the two other centralventes?"

"Yes," said Von Apsberg, "and we were seeking to discover who is our secret enemy."

"This misfortune," said the Count, "is tobe attributed rather to our friends than our enemies. One piece of indiscretion may have produced all this."

"Imprudence," said Matheus, "in a conspiracy, is a crime. It endangers all who participate in it."

"My friends," said the Count, "our association is menaced from all quarters. The journals of every day reveal to all Europe the misfortunes of the secret societies of Germany and Italy—the sisters of Carbonarism in France. The latter, attacked in the person of the chiefs of our centralventes, mortally wounded by the discouragement of a great number of our brothers, has now but one of two alternatives to take."

"Revolt?" said Von Apsberg.

"Violence?" said Taddeo.

"No, my friend, prudence and inaction."

All looked at him with surprise, and Von Apsberg felt again the strange feeling which the facts we have recounted had produced.

The Count resumed. "What I say, it is evident, astonishes you. Burdened, though, with a heavy responsibility by theventesof Europe, which await, as a signal for action, only my word, I can give it to this immense secret association, which is beneath the surface of society, only when force and number are aided by opportunity. Opportunity now is wanting; for the uneasy eye of government penetrates our ranks, and the iron hand of despotism decimates us. Force and numbers now are paralysed by fear, and I am sorry to say all our future hope is found in prudence and inactivity."

"This language is indeed strange in the month of Monte-Leone," said d'Harcourt.

"Far different," said Taddeo, "from that you used yesterday."

"Calm and cold," said Von Apsberg, "when we take into consideration the storm which howls around us—the shipwrecks which menace every day our vessels."

"Because the heavens are in a blaze—because the tempests howls around us, I would have you for the time seek a shelter."

"Once, though," said Apsberg, "you advised us to brave danger, to meet it face to face, to parry it with arms in our hands, to conquer or to die."

"Gentlemen," said the Count with dignity, "am I called on to rehearse again the offensive scene which took place at the abbey de San Paolo? Am I, as one in the supremeventeof Naples, the chief of which I was, an object of distrust to my brethren? Have I again lost the confidence of my dearest associates? If such be the case, if the pledges I have given to our cause are now valueless, if forgetfulness and ingratitude go together, say so, plainly and distinctly. I am willing to abandon the office, title, and rank, you have conceded to me. I will write to all theventesof Europe and will henceforth become the most humble but not the least devoted brother of the association."

The suspicions of the three friends at once passed away when they heard this energetic and loyal discourse. Von Apsberg gave his hand to the Count. "Excuse us," said he, "misfortune embitters even the best men. The misfortunes of our brethen, the mysterious enemy who denounces and seems anxious to effect our ruin, overwhelm and distress us. Look," added he, with the haste with which men often discharge a painful duty, "here are the lists of the six chiefs of the centralventes. Are these the papers given you by the imprisoned chiefs A——, Ch——, B——, C——, F——, and Ober? Are these the papers you gave me?"

"They are."

"Are these their signatures?" said Von Apsberg.

"They are."

"You are mistaken," said d'Harcourt, "at least in relation to that of Ober, for here is his true signature to this letter, written the day previous to his arrest. You can yourself see how poor the imitation is."

The Count grew pale, and the other conspirators watched him as if to read his thoughts.

"Do you think the other lists also forgeries?" said the Count.

"We do."

"Then," said the Count, "all is lost."

"Allislost," said Von Apsberg, "and we wish to ascertain from you who had charge of these papers; how is it that they have been copied, and how came the originals in the hands of the police?"

"If such be the case," said Taddeo, who suffered visibly from this species of examination.

"But," said Monte-Leone, who became more and more excited, "you ask me a question I cannot answer—which God alone can explain. All this is a mystery beyond my powers."

"Well," said Von Apsberg, growing every moment more nervous, for he saw the approach of the necessity of this terrible explanation; "well, in the absence of proof, our brethren indulge in conjectures." As he spoke, the words seemed riveted to his lips, and to break from them with difficulty.

"What are those conjectures?" said Monte-Leone, resuming hissang-froid;for the idea that there was a suspicion in relation to his honor, was not within the compass of his thought. He began to seek a remedy almost before he knew what was the evil which menaced him.

"They say," said Von Apsberg, with hesitation, "that some traitor has insinuated himself among us and betrayed us to the secret police—that he has sold us to our enemies, and that the arrests of our brothers are the fruits of his treason."

"Who is that man?" said Monte-Leone.

"Who is he?" said Von Apsberg, and his very heart grew cold.

"Yes! who? who is he?" said Monte-Leone.

Von Apsberg was about to speak; the bolt was about to fall. His two friends ceased almost to breathe, when the door of the room was rung violently.

"Who can it be at this hour?" said d'Harcourt.

"I cannot tell," said the Doctor, "I expect no one."

The bell was rung again.

"Some patient, perhaps," said Monte-Leone. "Go at once. A doctor should always be prompt to attend such calls."

"But," said d'Harcourt, "what if it be an officer?"

"Then there is an additional reason for answering the bell," said Monte-Leone.

Von Apsberg left the room, closing the door after him and hurrying into the anteroom, saw before him Mlle. Celestine Crepineau. The three friends listened at the door Von Apsberg had closed, to ascertain who called.

"Excuse me, Doctor," said Mlle. Crepineau, "but the matter was so urgent."

"What?"

"This note, which a very pleasant person, fair as you are, but not so handsome, asked me to deliver at once."

"Very well," said the Doctor, who took the note and shut the door in Mlle.'s face.

"Now that is not polite," said she. "After all, though, he may have been engaged in some operation when I rang, and he may have been very much annoyed by the interruption."

Von Apsberg read the letter which had been given him hurriedly and uttered an exclamation of joy. When he rejoined his friends, he said, "God has come to our assistance."

"What is the matter?" asked all of them.

"Nothing that concerns us," said the Doctor, seeking to disguise his trouble; "I have an appointment which is strictly private."

"Tell me, then," said Monte-Leone, "who is accused of having betrayed us."

"I do not know," said Von Apsberg, at once changing his tone. "No one can say who he is."

D'Harcourt and Taddeo looked at him with surprise. The Count said, "I thought our secret enemy, or the person pointed out as such, was known to you."

"He is not," said the Doctor, looking significantly at his friends. "None know who he is."

"Then," said Monte-Leone, "we must seek him out and reach him wherever he is."

"If we discover him," said Von Apsberg, "what shall be his fate."

"Our statutes provide for that case," said Monte-Leone; "he shall share his victim's fate. If our brethren die, so shall he."

"He shall die," said theCarbonari.

"Listen," said Monte-Leone, "the signature of Ober is false, but perhaps it is the only one which has been counterfeited. We must ascertain whether the others are. This point must be cleared up, and I will see to it. Gold and influence will open the dungeons of our friends, and I will see them. Besides, the papers were not out of my possession. Ah!" said he, as if he were utterly discouraged, "this is enough to make a man mad. To-morrow I shall have penetrated it, and then you will see me." He went out through the secret pannel.

When it had closed, Apsberg arose and repeating his last words, said, "Yes, my friends, to-morrow you shall know all." Taking from his bosom the letter Mlle. Crepineau had given him, he read as follows:

"To Doctor Matheus—If you would ascertain who has denounced your brethren, the miserable spy whose reports have ruined them and given to your enemies the original rolls, be to-night at 11 o'clock, p. m., at the back door of the Prefecture of Police, opening on thequai des Orfevres. You will there find the person you need. This is the hour of hisrendezvous. Stand in the angle of the door, and without being seen, you may recognize the informer.

"A Brotherof the thirdCentral Vente."

The night of January 5th, 1820, was one of the coldest of the winter. The snow fell heavily, and the Seine was covered with large crystallized flakes which, uniting together and lodging on each bank, narrowed the current and caused it to flow more rapidly.

The steps of the patrols, or of the benighted travellers, were unheard. The light of the lamps shone redly but indistinctly amid the snowy cloak which hung around them. They seemed like eyes of fire in the long solitary streets. All was sad and gloomy in this paradise of pleasure and festival. One might have fancied a vast white shroud to be extended over a city without souls.

A man walked rapidly down the port St. Nicholas, before that part of the old Louvre which had once witnessed such joy, love, crime, and splendor. His steps seemed, from their length, to testify great impatience and an anxiety to reach his destination.

"What can they be about?" said he. "All is lost if they do not come. The anonymous note is formal and the terms are precise, "Eleven o'clock and the quai des Orfevres." This secret enemy, whose name and features we are about to know, had only to hasten to the Prefecture of Police to deprive us of the only means of unmasking a scoundrel. Yet heaven protects us, for just as I was about to reveal to Monte-Leone the villainy imputed to him, this note closed my lips and veiled the indignation my words could not but have created in his noble soul."

The man stopped. The silence of thequaiwas broken, and he heard the sound of persons approaching him. Soon two shadows were seen by the light of the lamps which hung from the walls of the Louvre,and a voice was heard. "It is he: it is Matheus. He waits for us in thechiaro oscuroof the door." This was followed by a short dry cough, produced by the intense cold of the evening. The speaker was the Vicomte d'Harcourt, scarcely recovered from his illness. A few seconds passed and d'Harcourt and Taddeo stood by the side of Von Apsberg. The three friends had determined not to consult Monte-Leone, nor to inform him of what had taken place until they knew who had denounced them and who was to be punished.

"I came hither," said Von Apsberg, "alone, because three men together are greater subjects of remark than two; for the same reason two are more subject to comment than one; therefore, let us separate, and walking down the quai meet at the place appointed."

The clock of the Hotel de Ville struck eleven, when the three friends met in rear of the Prefecture of Police. They followed strictly the directions of the anonymous letter. They discovered the back door and stood in its shadow, being concealed by an angle in the wall. They waited there. Carriage after carriage passed, and their hearts beat violently as each approached. The carriages crossed thequaibut did not stop. At about a quarter after eleven came a carriage driven rapidly, but which relaxed its speed as it reached thequai de Orfevres; it then paused a few feet only from the angle of the wall where the Carbonari were concealed. The steps were let down and the person in the carriage descended and walked rapidly to the back door of the Prefecture. In spite, though, of his haste, the Carbonari could not but remark the stature, tournure, cloak, and bearing of the stranger. The door was opened. The three friends followed and were able to hear him say, "Count Monte-Leone."

"He—he—" said they.

"The scoundrel!" said Von Apsberg.

"The villain!" said D'Harcourt.

Taddeo hurried to the carriage which was on the point of leaving.

"All doubt is gone," said Taddeo. "The carriage is his."

"They arehishorses," said d'Harcourt.

"It is his driver," said Von Apsberg. Then speaking to the man who, while surrounded by the three men, began to tremble, "Who is the person who came in the carriage?" said he.

"My master," said the automaton, more dead than alive. "The Count Monte-Leone."

"Whence did your master come hither?"

"How?" said the driver, who did not understand the question.

"I wish to know, did you drive him from his hotel, or some other place?"

"My master was to-night at the Neapolitan embassy. I waited for him in the courtyard which was black as a fair on days when there is no reception. After having remained an hour there he got into the carriage and bade me drive to thequai des Orfevres, near the Prefecture of Police. Here I am, Monsieur, and so are you. Good night, then."

Whipping up his horses at the risk of driving over two of the young men who stood at their heads, he went away at a gallop.

Von Apsberg, d'Harcourt, and Rovero, were all as white as the snow, which had again begun to fall with violence, and looked at each other with that sympathy of a thousand sentiments which might have been expected in persons so terribly situated as they were. Terror, shame, and despair were all united in their glance. Then by one of those sudden and sublime emotions, they clasped each other's hands as if to say, that, henceforth they could rely on no others. Von Apsberg and the Vicomte, were about to speak, when Taddeo made them wait, and said, "No complaints, no insults.If it be he, contempt and death." As he spoke the last word his voice quivered.

"'If it be he?' what doubt can there be?" said Von Apsberg. "Have not our eyes seen? Have not our ears heard? Are we not satisfied?"

"Did you not hear the name?"

"May he not have used the name surreptitiously?"

"Was it not his form, dress, and air?"

"Did you see his face?" asked Taddeo, who was himself struck with the poverty of his reasons, and contended against his convictions.

"But, are not the driver and carriage his?"

"The driver may have been bribed," said Taddeo, who, like many others, became enthusiastic in favor of a bad cause. "I need something more, I must be certain, and will be. In two hours I will see you at Matheus's." He entered a hackney-coach and drove away; bidding the coachman go to the Neapolitan embassy.

"I know his plan," said Von Apsberg, "for if Monte-Leone was not at the embassy, the driver was mistaken, and it was not Monte-Leone we saw."

"What now shall we do?" asked the Vicomte, whose cough became more violent, and more frequent.

"Go home," said Von Apsberg, "for both your body and mind suffer. You remember I am accountable to your father, and to—your sister, for your health."

"But what will you do?" said the Vicomte.

"I will wait."

"Where—here? at this door?"

"Yes; at this door, deserted as it is. I will wait here, for the phantom or the reality. I will wait and tear off the hat which covers his brow, and read with my own eyes the shame there, and thus throw from mysoul the last remnant of faith in the honor of my friend."

"But if he resist?"

"So much the better: I will then kill him."

"And if he kill you?"

"His work will be complete; for, like Judas, he will have slain one he said he loved."

"I will stay," said d'Harcourt; and, despite of the entreaties of his friend and the orders of his physician, he wrapped himself more closely in his cloak, leaned against the wall, and waited. Von Apsberg followed his example....

Taddeo went to the embassy. Few persons had been there during the evening, but the rooms were brilliant with light, and contrasted with the darkness of the vast courtyard of which Monte-Leone's driver had spoken. It was almost midnight, but like most Italians the Duchess lived as much by night as day. The hour, too, at which Taddeo came was not unusually late, for at this hour he was in the habit of visiting the Duchess. Therefore, she was not surprised to see him. She lay negligently on an ottoman in that boudoir where we have already seen her receive Count Monte-Leone. There too she had probably received company during the evening, for the chairs were in a kind of ring around the ottoman. She said:

"Ah, Signor Rovero, you are welcome. I have been kept long waiting this evening for you and for one of your best friends, who expected to find you here."

"Who, Signora, is that friend?" asked Taddeo, with deep curiosity.

"Can you not guess?" said the Duchess. "Whom should we call Pylades' friend but Orestes?"

"Is it the Count you mean?"

"Yes."

"Has he been here?"

"Certainly," said La Felina.

"Certainly," repeated Taddeo, "you kept him a long time with you."

"Taddeo," said La Felina, "you are indulging in that villanous habit of jealousy. Ah!" said she, "I am learned in that." She did not give him time to reply. "It is a pity you yet love a poor woman that chagrin and suffering overwhelm, and whose heart is now as withered as her face."

"To me you are what you always were, and what you will ever be," said Taddeo. "Deign, though, to tell me, I beg you, when did the Count go?"

"The Count, again. Did you come hither to speak of him alone?"

"Not so; but an imperious reason forces me to know when he left the hotel."

"About an hour ago," said the Duchess, looking at Taddeo.

Taddeo grew pale and his fingers grasped the back of the ottoman convulsively. His head fell on his bosom, and his eyes became motionless and fixed upon the carpet. He was convinced, and in despair. From this dreary state he was aroused by the pressure of a soft hand.

"Taddeo," said a voice musical as the song of the angels, "you suffer."

"Yes," said the young man.

"I see you do. Can friendship do nothing to soothe you?"

"Nothing!"

"Thus it is with men," said La Felina; "they think of us in their pleasure and happiness, but never in their sorrow."

Taddeo looked towards the Duchess, whose features expressed so much sympathy and devotion that he felt his heart give way, and he was about to give vent to his secret—an innate and noble sentiment of generosity restrained him. It seemed to him that La Felina might fancy he took a base revenge, should he dishonor one she had loved so passionately, and, perhaps, was yet devoted to.

"Signor Rovero," said the ambassadress, after a long silence, "since you think me unworthy to share your secret, let us have done with it. Skilful physicians lull pains they cannot soothe. Let me then do as they do, and divert your mind from such bitter thoughts to present it a more pleasant prospect—that of your sister's happiness."

"What say you?" asked Taddeo, as if he were aroused from a dream.

"You understand me certainly—the approaching marriage of your sister with Count Monte-Leone is everywhere understood to be a fact."

"Never!" said Taddeo, losing hissang-froid.

A smile of triumph, which Taddeo did not observe, flitted across La Felina's face. She said, "What say you?—do you oppose the union?"

"It is no longer possible, signora," said Taddeo, giving way to his emotion—"it cannot be. Vice and virtue—the serpent and the dove—heaven and hell—may be mingled, but not Aminta and Monte-Leone. He is unworthy of her."

"Unworthy?" said La Felina—"your heroic friend unworthy of her?"

"My friend! I deny him. He was my friend, as Judas was Christ's. For he has sold his, as the recreant sold our Saviour."

"Taddeo! is it you who speak thus?"

"It is. I, whose soul has been crushed by his cruel deception—I, whose holy faith in his truth has perished—I, who must detest him whom I loved and honored!" Unable any longer to conceal the odious secret within his breast, he opened his bleeding heart to La Felina.

When the Duchess had heard him, she said, "No, it is impossible!—Monte-Leone is not a traitor, a coward, the basest of men."

"Ah! you say so; so did I. I repelled the charge with horror; yet I was forced to yield to reason and evidence."

"It is evident either that you saw or did not seehim."

"But the departure from your hotel," said Taddeo, "coincides so fatally with his arrival at the prefecture of police—the very answer of the driver proves all."

"All this is presumptive, yet terrible; but if you yield—if your faith in his honor is not great enough to triumph over it, do you believe that a true passion, that a deep love, such as he inspires, will also do so?"

"Ah, signora!" said Taddeo, with pain, "you have been generous long enough; you have had pity or time long enough to allow me at least to remain in doubt about your sentiments. It is cruel to choose such a time as this to own them."

"How know you what I feel?" said La Felina to Taddeo, who was about to go. "Think you the profound passion of which you speak can resist indifference and forgetfulness?—I spoke only of your sister."

"Is it true?" said the young man, forgetting all in his joy at this confession—"of my sister?"

"Yes; and her heart will not suffer her to be convinced as easily as you have been of the baseness of a man whose name and hand she was about to receive. To break the bonds which unite them, to change her love into contempt, the Marquise de Manlear will require evidence beyond dispute of a crime of which, as yet, you have only suspicions, and which my respect for Monte-Leone forces me to repudiate."

As she spoke, the Duchess, who sat on the ottoman yet, reached forth her arm to pick up a paper which lay on the carpet. Taddeo, following her motions, picked up the paper and handed it to her.

"What is that?" said she; "some letter I have dropped or which one of my visitors has lost."

"Count Monte-Leone sat there," and she pointed to a particular chair. She opened it mechanically, but scarcely had she done so than she uttered a cry of grief. Taddeo hurried to La Felina with a bottle of salts. She had let the paper fall, and it met his glance as it lay open. He saw a seal. Moved by a feeling of curiosity, which he could not repress, and hoping to discover the cause of La Felina's emotion, made confident also by the authentic character of the paper, Taddeo took and read it carefully. Scarcely had he done so than his strength gave way and he became pale as death. Sinking back in a chair he was crushed, as it were, by terror. The Duchess had recovered, and their countenances exhibited to each other the terrible feelings which filled their minds.

"Did you read?" said La Felina.

"I did," said Rovero. "Here it is."

"I recognize as anattachéof the Police Count Monte-Leone, who acts by my authority."

"This is awful," said she.

"Do you yet doubt?" said Taddeo, quivering with grief.

"What will you do with that paper?" said La Felina, also trembling.

"What people do with a decree which holds a man to public infamy—fasten it to the scaffold, that all may know who is the wretch society expels from its bosom. I will nail it to his brow."

"No, no! you will not do so; you will not be hard-hearted and cruel enough to act thus."

"I will do my duty," said Taddeo, sternly.

"And I," said Signora de la Palma, taking possession of the paper, "will not suffer you to do so." Then, quicker than thought, she crushed the paper in her hands, and threw it in the fire.

"What have you done?" said Taddeo. "You have destroyed the irrefragable proof of his guilt."

"You read it, that is enoughfor you—it is too much forhim." Then rushing from the room where she was alone, she said aloud—"It is enough, too, for me, for nowshe will never marry him."

What had occurred was a sufficient reason for the Duchess not to return to the room. Taddeo hurried to Von Apsberg's. D'Harcourt and the Doctor did not come until two o'clock. The door they watched did not open, and he they were so anxiously waiting for prudently left by some other egress.

"Well," said the Doctor to Taddeo, "was he at the Duchess's?—did he go out as his driver said?"

"May we yet doubt?" said D'Harcourt.

Taddeo was silent, and seemed not even to have heard them. With his head on his hands, he sat before a table in the centre of the room. His eyes were red with tears and watching, and he had written a few lines rapidly; at last he said:

"Read that, which is my answer."

They did so, and a painful sigh escaped their breasts.

He continued—"I, who defended, accuse him; I do so because I saw the proof of his infamy. I know not its object and motive, which confounds my reason; I cannot, however, doubt it, for I have read the letter, and devote this man to the hatred and vengeance of the brethren he has betrayed." He then told all that had passed.

Von Apsberg took the pen and wrote his name below Taddeo's. D'Harcourt did the same. This act, simple as it was, had a lugubrious and solemn character, for which it was indebted to the physiognomy and emotion of the three men whose hearts beat under the same emotion, and who shed tears together. At last it seemed that they had evidence which lighted up their future path of vengeance.

"My friends," said the Doctor, "Carbonarismin France is dead. The arrests of the chiefs of the central ventes tell you plainly enough what fate is reserved for us. We are free men only because our liberty contributed to the plans of our enemies. We cannot dissemble that we are sold and betrayed by a spy. Our retreats and plans also are revealed, and the dungeon, exile, or death, is the fate of our brethren and ourselves. I propose to you, therefore, no isolated vengeance, but one for all affiliated with us. By the terms of our association, a sentence has been passed on the traitor, and been signed." He pointed to the paper to which they had affixed their names. "Who will execute it? The supreme annualventewill assemble in a few days at the Masonic lodge of theFriends of Truth. The supreme vente will decide."

"No, gentlemen," said the Vicomte D'Harcourt, "my mind and education object to nocturnal vengeance. I prefer daylight and the sword to obscurity and the dagger. His sword is not worthy to be crossed with mine, but better thus than murder."

"So be it. But not your sword, but those of all of us will be directed to his heart. To-morrow, like three shadowy avengers, we will tell him of his crime and punish it."

"To-morrow be it," said D'Harcourt and Taddeo. Then, clasping each other's hand with a mingled feeling of anger, sorrow, and despair, they separated.

On the morning of the night after these scenes, Monte-Leone, immersed in reflection, sat in his hotel. It might be about ten o'clock. The snow, which had been falling since the evening before, intercepted the faint light of day, and added to the sadness of the vast room. By means of his anxious research and skilful investigations, Monte-Leone, since the previous evening, had ascertained beyond doubt that the true lists of members of the centralventeswere in the hands of the police. Thenceforth all seemed an impenetrable mystery to the Count, which his intelligence and the fertile resources of his mind could not fathom. "How had originals been replaced by copies?—how had the police obtained the originals?" This impenetrable enigma appeared to the Count as a new evidence of his evil genius, which had been for a long time apparently growing darker and darker before him, and seemed to hurry him to ruin and destruction. The defection of the world had become more and more sensible—the coldness every day became more marked and decided. The incredible and brutal challenge of Lieutenant A——, the causeless duel, and the death he had been forced to inflict on one who, for his father's sake, he almost loved, appeared before him. The embarrassment which he saw with sorrow supervene in the intercourse of his friends with him, caused a vague torment in his usually energetic and decided mind. The tenderness of Aminta, the esteem and affection of the Prince, opposed these impressions, but could not dispel them entirely. The Count was thus disturbed by this overwhelming trouble and fatigue, produced by painful and distressing reflection, when Giacomo appeared before him. He entered with such calmness and silence, that the Count did not perceive his intendent until he stood at his side, and said:

"A person is waiting to speak to your excellency in the cabinet."

"I am at home for no one."

"That is bad," said Giacomo, "for I have said you were in, and even bade the person wait in the next room. Really I think it was time to do so, for the poor woman trembled so she could scarcely stand."

"Who is she?" asked the Count.

"That I cannot give your excellency; in the first place, because she did not tell me her name, and, in the second place, because she wears a veil, which her little hand holds fast. This, too, is always the case: ladies never come at this hour to see a bachelor without a veil—this is the uniform of the sex."

"Who can it be?" thought he. The idea occurred to him that it might be the Duchess. The recollection of La Felina's disinterested kindness pleaded in her favor. Monte-Leone bade Giacomo show her in. The intendent left and soon returned, preceded by a veiled lady of an elegant and distinguished air. Scarcely had the old man retired, when the visitor lifted up her veil, and exhibited the features of Aminta. He was rejoiced indeed, and said:

"You here—at my house!" and Monte-Leone fell at her feet. "I never would have dared to ask you to grant me such a favor. I never would have hoped, you would concede such."

"Count," said Aminta, trembling as much, as possible, "I took this step for a reason which is imperious to me. Are we alone?" said she, looking timidly around her.

"We are alone," said the Count. "Speak to me, and tell me to what I am indebted for your presence here?"

"To my sorrow and despair," said the Marquise.

"What then is the matter?" asked the Count with terror.

"I do not know, but some danger menaces us.... The Prince, my second father, who, as you know, always treated me as a daughter—who hitherto always has received you with such kindness, and has acted so that our proposed marriage is no longer a secret, came yesterday to see me. His countenance expressed the greatest trouble, and his eyes sparkled with rage. He said, 'My daughter, I am about to grieve you greatly, and you must arm yourself with all your courage and resolution. Your marriage with Count Monte-Leone is now impossible, and I beg you, in the name of my love of you, to abandon him for ever.'"

"What do I hear?" said Monte-Leone, almostbeside himself. "What does this mean?—why this change?—whence did he obtain a right thus to ruin and crush me?"

"He did not pause there, that is but half of my sacrifice. He said, 'You must not again receive Count Monte-Leone's visits. The doors of this house henceforth are closed to him.'"

Monte-Leone said with vehemence, "Is it not enough to separate us?—would he add insult to cruelty? What is my crime? Of what am I accused? Why was I worthy of you yesterday, and am so base to-day?"

"My prayers and tears," said the Marquise, "could not induce the Prince to reveal this strange secret to me. He said, 'The Count has no longer a right to your hand, for he has deceived us. If he insists again on speaking of his passion, say to him, that I know all, and have heard it from one who cannot lie, and whom it is the duty of every Frenchman to have faith in next to God—from the King!'"

The Count stood silent and amazed. It seemed to him that an invisible net surrounded him, and that the iron threads perpetually closed around him. All grew darker and deeper; the mysteries amid which he walked seemed more intense, and his reason began to give way beneath the heavy hand which weighed on his brow. Aminta looked at him with deep distress. The silence of the Count appeared to acknowledge the Prince's words. He seemed stupified by an accusation, of the justice of which he was aware. Aminta trembled at the idea that she had loved a criminal. He, however, at last looked up, and his eyes bore only the expression of deep sadness. He said, "Aminta, by all that is most holy, by our own life, I swear that I know not the meaning of this. From the language, though, that the Prince has used, and from the King's name being, I know not why, involved in my affairs, it is clear that my honor has been doubted by the Prince. This I have hitherto allowed no one to do. However, one has been found bold enough to do this."

"The Prince is almost my father," said Aminta, timidly.

"He is my mortal foe, for he seeks to separate us."

"Listen," continued he, in a more gentle tone, and he sat beside her; "my love is so great, I dread so to bring any cloud across your brow, that hitherto I have concealed my sufferings."

"You have been unhappy and I ignorant of it!"

"I am in that terrible condition in which a man feels that his reason is about to escape from him. I hear my voice—I see my face, and seek to discover in their expression if there be any symptom of folly or not—I am not myself—I am not what I was—I am like the leper in the Bible, for all flee from me—I am repelled everywhere, as if death and disease followed in my train. French society, across which I strode like a king once, now seeks to make me atone for my fleeting triumph. To public esteem and universal consideration have succeeded distrust and coldness. I see hatred and fear in eyes that once shone with admiration and respect; and, when I look into my life, when I examine my most secret acts, I find no cause for this repulsion, and can not but ask myself if my fancy be not diseased, and calls not up the chimeras which distress me."

"No, no," said Aminta, with that womanly pride which always actuated her in relation to him she loved, "your reason and mind are yet the same. Some dark and odious calumny may perhaps have been circulated to your disadvantage."

"Who will tell me what it is?" said the Count; "who will exhibit it to my eyes? who will show me the phantom which robs me of name and fame, and secretly immolates my honor?"

Just then the bell of the hotel rang. The Count hurried to the door to exclude any one. He was, however, too late; for rapid steps were heard in the anteroom.

"Who is it?" said he to Giacomo.

"The three persons to whom these doors are never closed, M. Von Apsberg, d'Harcourt, and Rovero."

The Marquise uttered a cry of terror.

"They will come hither," said he, "in spite of both Giacomo and myself, and this room has no other egress."

The voices of the Carbonari fell on the ears of the Marquise.

"Go in there," said Monte-Leone to the Marquise; and he opened an elegant closet. "In a few moments I will dismiss them."

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