CHAPTER X.

"Be good enough to stoop your head, madame."

Yielding immediate obedience to the request, the widow said:

"We have been good customers to you; you have had my husband in your hands, and now you have his wife and daughter!"

Without making any reply, the executioner began to cut the long gray hairs of the prisoner very close, especially at the nape of the neck.

"This makes the third time in my life," continued the widow, with a dismal smile, "that I have had my head dressed by a professor: when I took my first communion the white veil was arranged; then on my marriage, when the orange-flowers were placed there; and upon the present occasion; upon my word, I hardly know which became me most. You cannot guess what I am thinking of?" resumed the widow, addressing the executioner, after having again contemplated her daughter.

But the man made her no sort of answer, and no sound was heard but that of the scissors, and the sort of convulsive and hysterical sob that occasionally escaped from Calabash.

At this moment a venerable priest approached the governor, and addressed him in a low, earnest voice, the import of which was to express his desire to make another effort to rescue the souls of the condemned.

"I was thinking that at five years old my daughter, whose head you are going to cut off, was the prettiest child I ever saw, with her fair hair and red cheeks. Who that saw her then would have said that—" Shewas silent for a moment, and then said, with a burst of indescribable laughter, "What a farce is destiny!"

At this moment the last of her hair was cut off.

"I have done, madame," said the executioner, politely.

"Many thanks; and I recommend my son Nicholas to you," said the widow; "you will cut off his hair some day." A turnkey came in and said a few words to her in a low tone. "No,—I have already said no!" she answered, angrily.

The priest hearing these words, and seeing any further interference useless, immediately withdrew.

"Madame, we are all ready to go. Will you take anything?" inquired the executioner, civilly.

"No, I thank you; this evening I shall take a mouthful of earth." And after this remark the widow rose firmly. Her hands were tied behind her back, and a rope was also attached to each ankle, allowing her sufficient liberty to walk. Although her step was firm and resolute, the executioner and his assistant offered to support her; but she turned to them disdainfully, and said, "Do not touch me, I have a steady eye and a firm foot, and they will hear on the scaffold whether or not I have a good voice." Calabash was carried away in a dying state.

After having traversed the long corridor, the funereal cortège ascended a stone staircase, which led to an exterior court, where was a picquet ofgens-d'armes, a hackney-coach, and a long, narrow carriage with a yellow body, drawn by three post-horses, who were neighing loudly.

"We shall not be full inside," said the widow, as she took her seat.

The two vehicles, preceded and followed by the picquet ofgens-d'armes, then quitted the outer gate of Bicêtre, and went quickly towards the Boulevard St. Jacques.

Before we proceed we have a few words to say as to the acquaintance recently established between the Chourineur and Martial.

When Germain had left the prison, the Chourineur proved very easily that he had robbed himself; and making a statement of his motive for this singular mystification to the magistrate, he was set at liberty, after having been severely admonished.

Desirous of recompensing the Chourineur for this fresh act of devotion, Rodolph, in order to realise the wishes of his rough protégé, had lodged him in the hôtel of the Rue Plumet, promising that he should accompany him on his return to Germany.

The Chourineur's blind attachment to Rodolph was like that of a dog for his master. When, however, the prince had found his daughter, all was changed, and, in spite of his warm gratitude for the man who had saved his life, he could not make up his mind to take with him to Germany the witness of Fleur-de-Marie's fallen state; yet, determined to carry out the Chourineur's wishes, he sent for him, and told him that he had still another service to ask of him. At this the Chourineur's countenance brightened up; but he was greatly distressed when he learned that he must quit the hôtel that very day, and would not accompany the prince to Germany.

It is useless to mention the munificent compensations which Rodolph offered to the Chourineur,—the money he intended for him, the farm in Algeria, anything he could desire. The Chourineur was wounded to the heart, refused, and (perhaps for the first time in his life) wept. Rodolph was compelled to force his presents on him.

Next day the prince sent for La Louve and Martial, and inquired what he could do for them. Remembering what Fleur-de-Marie had told him of the wild taste of La Louve and her husband, he proposed to the hardy couple either a considerable sum of money, or half the sum and land in full cultivation adjoining the farm he had bought for the Chourineur, believing that by bringing them together they would sympathise, from their desire to seek solitude, the one in consequence of the past, and the other from the crimes of his family.

He was not mistaken. Martial and La Louve accepted joyfully; and then, talking the matter over with the Chourineur, they all three rejoiced in the prospects held out to them in Algeria. A sincere good feeling soon united the future colonists. Persons of their class judge quickly of each other, and like one another as speedily.

The Chourineur accompanied his new friend Martial to the Bicêtre and awaited him in the hackney-coach, which conducted them back to Paris after Martial, horror-struck, had left the dungeon of his mother and sister.

The countenance of the Chourineur had completely changed; the bold expression and jovial humour which usually characterised his harsh features had given way to extreme dejection; his voice had lost something of its coarseness; a grief of heart, until then unknown to him, had broken down his energetic temperament. He looked kindly at Martial, and said:

"Courage! You have done all that good intentionscould do; it is ended. Think now of your wife, and the children whom you have prevented from becoming criminals like their father and mother. To-night we leave Paris never to return to it, and you will never again hear of what so much distresses you now."

"True—true! But, after all, they are my sister and mother!"

"Yes; but when things must be, we must submit!" said the Chourineur, checking a deep sigh.

After a moment's silence, Martial said, kindly, "And I ought, in my turn, to try and console you who are so sad. My wife and I hope that when we have left Paris this will cease."

"Yes," said the Chourineur, with a shudder, "if I leave Paris!"

"Why, we go this evening!"

"Yes,—you do; you go this evening!"

"And have you changed your intention, then?"

"No! Yet, Martial, you'll laugh at me; but yet I will tell you all. If anything happens to me it will prove that I am not deceived. When M. Rodolph asked if we would go to Algeria together, I told you my mind at once, and also what I had been."

"Yes, you did; let us mention it no more. You underwent your punishment, and are now as good as any one. But, like myself, I can imagine you would like to go and live a long way off, instead of living here, where, however honest we may be, they might at times fling in your teeth a misdeed you have atoned for and repented, and, in mine, my parents' crimes, for which I am by no means responsible. The past is the past between us, and we shall never reproach each other."

"With you and me, Martial, the past is the past; but, you see, Martial, there is something above,—I have killed a man!"

"A great misfortune, assuredly; but, at the moment,you were out of your senses,—mad. And besides, you have since saved the lives of other persons, and that will count in your favour."

"I'll tell you why I refer to my misdeed. I used to have a dream, in which I saw the sergeant I killed. I have not had it for a long time until last night, and that foretells some misfortune for to-day. I have a foreboding that I shall not quit Paris."

"Oh, you regret at leaving our benefactor! The thought of coming with me to the Bicêtre agitated you; and so your dream recurred to you."

The Chourineur shook his head sorrowfully and said, "It has come to me just as M. Rodolph is going to start,—for he goes to-day. Yesterday I sent a messenger to his hôtel, not daring to go myself. They sent me word that he went this morning at eleven o'clock by the barrier of Charenton, and I mean to go and station myself there to try and see him once more,—for the last time!"

"He seems so good that I easily understand your love for him."

"Love for him!" said the Chourineur, with deep and concentrated emotion. "Yes, yes, Martial,—to lie on the earth, eat black bread, be his dog, to be where he was, I asked no more. But that was too much,—he would not consent."

"He has been very generous towards you!"

"Yet it is not for that I love him, but because he told me I had heart and honour. Yes, and that at a time when I was as fierce as a brute beast. And he made me understand what was good in me, and that I had repented, and, after suffering great misery, had worked hard for an honest livelihood, although all the world considered me as a thorough ruffian,—and so, when M. Rodolph said these words to me, my heart beat high and proudly, and from this time I would go through fire and water to serve him."

"Why, it is because you are better than you were that you ought not to have any of those forebodings. Your dream is nothing."

"We shall see. I shall not try and get into any mischief, for I cannot have any worse misfortune than not to see again M. Rodolph, whom I hoped never again to leave. I should have been in my way, you see, always with him, body and soul,—always ready. Never mind, perhaps he was wrong,—I am only a worm at his feet; but sometimes, Martial, the smallest may be useful to the greatest."

"One day, perhaps, you may see him."

"Oh, no; he said to me, 'My good fellow, you must promise never to seek nor see me,—that will be doing me a service.' So, of course, Martial, I promised; and I'll keep my word, though it is very hard."

"Once at Algeria, you will forget all your vexations."

"Yes, yes; I'm an old trooper, Martial, and will face the Bedouins."

"Come, come, you'll soon recover your spirits. We'll farm and hunt together, and live together, or separate, just as you like. We'll bring up the children like honest people, and you shall be their uncle,—for we are brothers, and my wife is good at heart; and so we'll be happy, eh?" And Martial extended his hand to the Chourineur.

"So we will, Martial," was the reply; "and my sorrow will kill me, or I shall kill my sorrow."

"It will not kill you. We shall pass our days together; and every evening we will say, 'brother, thanks to M. Rodolph,'—that shall be our prayer to, him."

"Martial, you comfort me."

"Well, then, that is all right; and as to that stupid-dream, you will think no more of it, I hope?"

"I'll try."

"Well, then, you'll come to us at four o'clock; the diligence goes at five."

"Agreed. But I will get out here and walk to the barrier at Charenton, where I will await M. Rodolph, that I may see him pass."

The coach stopped, and the Chourineur alighted.

The Chourineur had forgotten that it was the day after mid-Lent, and was consequently greatly surprised at the sight, at once hideous and singular, which presented itself to his view when he arrived at the exterior boulevard, which he was traversing to reach the barrier of Charenton.

He found himself suddenly in the thickest of a dense throng of people, who were coming out of the cabarets of the Faubourg de la Glacière, in order to reach the Boulevard St. Jacques, where the execution was to take place.

Although it was broad daylight, there was still heard the noisy music of the public-houses, whence issued particularly the loud echoes of the cornets-à-piston. The pencil of Callot, of Rembrandt, or of Goya is requisite to limn the strange, hideous, and fantastical appearance of this multitude.

Almost all of them, men, women, and children, were attired in old masquerade costumes. Those who could not afford this expense had on their clothes rags of bright colours. Some young men were dressed in women's clothes, half torn and soiled with mud. All their countenances, haggard from debauchery and vice, and furrowed by intoxication, sparkled with savage delight at the idea that, after a night of filthy orgies, they should see two women executed on the scaffold prepared for them.

The foul and fetid scum of the population of Paris,—this vast mob—was formed of thieves and abandoned women, who every day tax crime for their daily bread, and every evening return to their lairs with their vicious spoils.[1]

[1]It is calculated that there are in Paris 30,000 persons who have no other means of existence but theft.

[1]It is calculated that there are in Paris 30,000 persons who have no other means of existence but theft.

[1]It is calculated that there are in Paris 30,000 persons who have no other means of existence but theft.

The crowd entirely choked up the means of circulation, and, in spite of his gigantic strength, the Chourineur was compelled to remain almost motionless in the midst of this compact throng. He was, however, willing to remain so, as the prince would not pass the barrier of Charenton until eleven o'clock, and it was not yet seven; and he had a singular spectacle before him.

In a large, low apartment, occupied at one end by musicians, surrounded by benches and tables laden with the fragments of a repast, broken plates, empty bottles, etc., a dozen men and women, in various disguises and half drunk, were dancing with the utmost excitement that frantic and obscene dance calledLa Chahut.

Amongst the dissipated revellers who figured in this saturnalia, the Chourineur remarked two couples who obtained the most overwhelming applause, from the revolting grossness of their attitudes, their gesticulations, and their language. The first couple consisted of a man disguised as a bear, and nearly covered with a waistcoat and trousers of black sheepskin. The head of the animal, being too troublesome to carry, had been replaced by a kind of hood with long hair, which entirely covered his features; two holes for his eyes, and a long one for his mouth, allowed him to see, speak, and breathe.

This man—one of the prisoners escaped from La Force (amongst whom were Barbillon and the two murderers arrested at the ogress's at thetapis-franc, at the beginning of this recital)—this man so masked was Nicholas Martial, the son and brother of the twowomen for whom the scaffold was prepared but a few paces distant.

Induced into this act of atrocious insensibility and infamous audacity by one of his associates, this wretch had dared with this disguise to join in the last revels of the carnival. The woman who danced with him, dressed as avivandière, wore a round leather cap with ragged ribands, a kind of bodice of threadbare red cloth, ornamented with three rows of brass buttons, a green skirt, and trousers of white calico. Her black hair fell in disorder all about her head, and her haggard and swollen features evinced the utmost effrontery and immodesty. Thevis-à-visof these dancers were no less disgusting.

The man, who was very tall, and disguised as Robert Macaire, had so begrimed his features with soot that it was impossible to recognise him, and, besides, a large bandage covered his left eye; the white of the right eye being thus the more heightened, rendered him still more hideous. The lower part of the Skeleton's countenance (for it was he) disappeared in a high neckcloth made of an old red shawl.

Wearing an old, white, napless hat with a crushed side, dirty, and without a crown, a green coat in rags, and tight mulberry-coloured pantaloons, patched in every direction, and tied around the instep with pieces of packthread, this assassin outraged the mostoutréand revolting attitudes of theChahut, darting from right to left, before and behind, his lanky limbs as hard as steel, and twisting and twining, and springing and bounding with such vigour and elasticity, that he seemed set in motion by steel springs.

A worthy coryphée of this filthy saturnalia, his lady partner, a tall and active creature with impudent and flushed features, attireden débardeur, wore a flat cap on one side of a powdered wig with a thick pigtail, a waistcoat and trousers of worn green velvet, adjustedto her shape by an orange scarf, with long ends flowing down her back.

A fat, vulgar, coarse woman, the brutal ogress of thetapis-franc, was seated on one of the benches, holding on her knees the plaid cloaks of this creature and thevivandière, whilst they were rivalling the bounds, and jumps, and gross postures of the Skeleton and Nicholas Martial.

Amongst the other dancers there was a lame boy, dressed like a devil, by means of a black net vest, much too large for him, red drawers, and a green mask hideous and grotesque. In spite of his infirmity, this little monster was wonderfully agile, and his precocious depravity equalled, if it could not exceed, that of his detestable companions, and he gambolled as impudently as any of them before a fat woman, dressed as a shepherdess, who excited her partner the more by her shouts of laughter.

No charge having been raised against Tortillard (our readers have recognised him), and Bras Rouge having been for the while left in prison, the boy, at his father's request, was reclaimed by Micou, the receiver of the passage of the Brasserie, who had not been denounced by his accomplices.

As secondary figures in this picture, let imagination conceive all there is of the lowest, most shameful, and most monstrous, in this idle, wanton, insolent, rapacious, atheistical, sanguinary assemblage of infamy, which is most hostile to social order, and to which we would call the attention of all thinking persons as our recital draws to a close.

Excited by the shouts of laughter and the cheers of the mob assembled around the windows, the actors in the infamous dance cried to the orchestra for a finale galop. The musicians, delighted to reach the end of their labours, complied with the general wish, and played a galoppade with the utmost energy and rapidity. Atthis the excitement redoubled; the couples encircled each other and dashed away, following the Skeleton and his partner, who led off their infernal round amidst the wildest cries and acclamations.

The crowd was so thick, so dense, and the evolutions so multiplied and rapid, that these creatures, inflamed with wine, exercise, and noise, their intoxication became delirious frenzy, and they soon ceased to have space for their movements. The Skeleton then cried, in a breathless voice, "Look out at the door! We will go out on to the boulevard."

"Yes, yes!" cried the mob at the windows; "a galop as far as the Barrière St. Jacques!"

"The two 'mots' will soon be here."

"The headsman cuts double! How funny!"

"Yes, with a cornet-à-piston accompaniment."

"I'll ask the widow to be my partner."

"And I the daughter."

"Death to the informers!"

"Long live the prigs and lads of steel!" cried the Skeleton in a voice of thunder, as he and the dancers, forcing their way in the midst of the mass, set the whole body in motion; and then were heard cries, and imprecations, and shouts of laughter, which had nothing human in their sound.

Suddenly this uproar reached its height by two fresh incidents. The vehicle which contained the criminals, accompanied by its escort of cavalry, appeared at the angle of the boulevard, and then all the mob rushed in that direction, shouting and roaring with ferocious delight.

At this moment, also, the crowd was met by a courier coming from the Boulevard des Invalides, and galloping towards the Barrière de Charenton. He was dressed in a light blue jacket with yellow collar, with a double row of silver lace down the seams, but, as a mark of deep mourning, he wore black breeches and high boots; hiscap also, with a broad band of silver, was encircled with crape, and on the winkers of his horse were the arms of Gerolstein.

He walked his horse, his advance becoming every moment more difficult, and he was almost obliged to stop when he found himself in the midst of the sea of people we have described. Although he called to them, and moved his horse with the greatest caution, cries, abuse, and threats were soon directed against him.

"Does he want to ride us down, that vagabond?"

"He's got lots o' silver on his precious body!" cried Tortillard.

"If he comes against us we'll make him alight and strip the 'tin' off his jacket to go to the melter's," said Nicholas.

"And we'll take the seams out of your carcase if you are not careful, you cursed jockey!" added the Skeleton, addressing the courier and seizing the bridle of his horse,—for the crowd was so dense that the ruffian had given up his idea of dancing to the barrier.

The courier, who was a powerful and resolute fellow, said to the Skeleton, lifting the handle of his whip, "If you do not let go my bridle I'll lay my whip over you. Let me pass; my lord's carriage is coming close behind. Let me go forward, I say."

"Your lord!" said the Skeleton; "what is your lord to me? I'll slit his weasand if I like! I never did for a lord; I should like to try my hand."

"There are no more lords now.Vive la Charte!" shouted Tortillard; and as he said so he whistled a verse of the "Parisienne," and clinging to one of the courier's legs nearly drew him out of his saddle. A blow with the handle of his whip on Tortillard's head punished his insolence; but the populace instantly attacked the courier, who in vain spurred his horse,—he could not advance a step.

Dismounted, amidst the shouts of the mob, he wouldhave been murdered but for the arrival of Rodolph's carriage, which took off the attention of these wretches.

The prince's travelling carriage, drawn by four horses, had for some time past advanced at only a foot pace, and one of the two footmen had got down from the rumble and was walking by the side of the door, which was very low; the postilions kept crying out to the people, and went forward very cautiously.

Rodolph was dressed in deep mourning, as was also his daughter, one of whose hands he held in his own, looking at her with affection. The gentle and lovely face of Fleur-de-Marie was enclosed in a small capot of black crape, which heightened the dazzling brilliancy of her skin and the beautiful hue of her lovely brown hair; and the azure of this bright day was reflected in her large eyes, which had never been of more transparent and softened blue. Although her features wore a gentle smile, and expressed calmness and happiness when she looked at her father, yet a tinge of melancholy, and sometimes of undefinable sadness, threw its shadow over her countenance when her eyes were not fixed on her father.

At this moment the carriage came amongst the crowd and began to slacken its pace. Rodolph lowered the window, and said in German to the lackey who was walking by the window, "Well, Frantz, what is the meaning of this?"

"Monseigneur, there is such a crowd that the horses cannot move."

"What has this assemblage collected for?"

"Monseigneur, there is an execution going on."

"Ah, frightful!" said Rodolph, throwing himself back in his carriage.

"What is it, my dear father?" asked Fleur-de-Marie with uneasiness.

"Nothing—nothing, dearest."

"Only listen,—these threatening cries approach us! What can it be?"

"Desire them to reach Charenton by another road," said Rodolph.

"Monseigneur, it is too late, the crowd has stopped the horses."

The footman could say no more. The mob, excited by the savage encouragement of the Skeleton and Nicholas, suddenly surrounded the carriage, and, in spite of the threats of the postilions, stopped the horses, and Rodolph saw on all sides threatening, furious countenances, and above them all the Skeleton, who came to the door of the carriage.

"Take care, my dear father!" exclaimed Fleur-de-Marie, throwing her arms around Rodolph's neck.

"Oh, you are the 'my lord,' are you?" said the Skeleton, thrusting his hideous head into the carriage.

Had it not been for his daughter's presence, Rodolph would have given way to the natural impetuosity of his character at this insolence; but he controlled himself, and coolly replied:

"What do you want, and why do you stop my carriage?"

"Because we choose," said the Skeleton. "Each in his turn. Yesterday you trampled on the mob, and to-day the mob will crush you if you stir."

"Father, we are lost!" murmured Fleur-de-Marie.

"Take courage, love! I understand," replied the prince; "it is the last day of the carnival,—these fellows are tipsy; I will get rid of them."

"I say, my 'covey,' come, get out, and your 'mot' with you!" cried Nicholas; "why should you trample upon a parcel of poor people!"

"You seem to have drunk a good deal, and to desire to drink more," said Rodolph; "here, take this, and do not delay my carriage any longer," and he threw out his purse, which Tortillard caught.

"Oh, what, you are going to travel, eh? Well, then, you've got your pockets well lined, no doubt. Come, shell out, my blade, or I'll have your life." And he opened the door suddenly.

Rodolph's patience was exhausted. Alarmed for Fleur-de-Marie, whose alarm increased every moment, and believing that a display of vigour would daunt the wretch, whom he believed to be only drunk, he sprung from the carriage, intending to seize the Skeleton by the throat. The latter suddenly receded, and then, drawing a long knife-dirk from his pocket, rushed at Rodolph. Fleur-de-Marie, seeing the dirk raised to stab her father, gave a shriek, sprung from the carriage, and threw her arms around him.

Her father's life must have been sacrificed but for the Chourineur, who at the commencement of this tumult, having recognised the livery of the prince, had contrived, by superhuman efforts, to reach the Skeleton; and at the moment when that ruffian menaced the prince with his knife the Chourineur seized on his arm with one hand, and, with the other grasping his collar, threw him backwards.

Although surprised, and from behind too, the Skeleton turned around, and, recognising the Chourineur, cried, "What! the man in the gray blouse from La Force? This time, then, I'll do for you!" and rushing furiously at the Chourineur, he plunged his knife in his breast. The Chourineur staggered, but did not fall. The crowd kept him on his legs.

"The guard! Here come the guard!" exclaimed several voices in alarm.

At these words, and at the sight of the murder of the Chourineur, all this dense crowd, fearing to be compromised in the assassination, dispersed as if by magic, and fled in every direction; the Skeleton, Nicholas, Martial, and Tortillard amongst the earliest.

When the guard came up, guided by the courier (who had escaped when the crowd had let him go to surround the prince's carriage), there only remained in this sad scene, Rodolph, his daughter, and the Chourineur, bathed in his blood. The two servants of the prince had seated him on the ground, with his back to a tree.

All this passed more quickly than it can be described, and at a few paces from theguinguettefrom which the Skeleton and his band had issued.

The prince, pale and agitated, held in his arms Fleur-de-Marie, half fainting, whilst the postilions were repairing the harness broken in the scuffle.

"Quick!" said the prince to his servants engaged in aiding the Chourineur, "convey this poor fellow to the cabaret; and you," he added, turning to the courier, "get on the box, and gallop back for Doctor David at the hôtel; you will find him there, as he does not leave until eleven o'clock."

The carriage went away at a great speed, and the two servants conveyed the Chourineur to the low apartment in which the orgies had taken place; several of the women were still there.

"My poor, dear child!" said Rodolph, to his daughter, "let me take you to some room in this place where you can await me, for I cannot abandon this brave fellow, who has again saved my life."

"Oh, my dearest father, I entreat you do not leave me!" exclaimed Fleur-de-Marie, with alarm, and seizing Rodolph's arm. "Do not leave me alone! I should die with fright! Where you go I will go!"

"But this frightful spectacle?"

"Yes, thanks to this worthy man, you still live for me, my father, and therefore allow me to join you in thanking and consoling him."

The prince's perplexity was very great. His daughter evinced so much just fear of remaining alone in a room in this low haunt that he made up his mind to allow herto enter with him into the apartment, where they found the Chourineur.

The mistress of the tavern and many of the women who had remained (and amongst whom was the ogress of thetapis-franc) had hastily laid the wounded man on a mattress, and then stanched and bound his wound with napkins. The Chourineur opened his eyes as Rodolph entered. At the sight of the prince his features, pale with approaching death, became animated. He smiled painfully, and said in a low voice:

"Ah, M. Rodolph, it was very fortunate I was there!"

"Brave and devoted as ever!" said the prince, in an accent of despair. "Again you have saved my life!"

"I was going to the barrier of—Charenton—to try and see you go by—see you for the last time. Fortunately—I was unable to get in for the crowd—besides—it was—to happen—I told Martial so—I had a presentiment."

"A presentiment?"

"Yes, M. Rodolph—the dream—of the sergeant—last night."

"Oh, try and forget such ideas! Let us hope the wound is not mortal."

"Oh, yes, the Skeleton struck home! Never mind—I told Martial that a worm of the earth like me—might sometimes be useful—to a great lord—like you."

"But my life—I owe my life again to you!"

"We are quits, M. Rodolph. You told me—that I had—heart and honour. That word, you see—oh, I am choking! Sir, without—my asking—do me the honour—to give me your hand—I feel I am sinking."

"No, no! Impossible!" exclaimed the prince, bending towards the Chourineur, and clasping in his hands the icy hand of the dying man, "no—you will live—you will live!"

"M. Rodolph, there is something, you see, above—I killed—with a blow of a knife—I die from the blow of a knife!" said the Chourineur, who was sinking fast.

At this moment his eyes turned towards Fleur-de-Marie, whom he had not before perceived. Amazement was depicted on his dying features; he made a movement, and said:

"Ah!—the Goualeuse!"

"Yes, my daughter, who blesses you for having preserved her father!"

"She—your daughter—here? That reminds me of how our acquaintance began—M. Rodolph—and the blows—with the fist; but this blow with a knife will be the last—last blow. I slashed—and in my turn am slashed—stabbed. It is just." He heaved a deep sigh—his head fell back—he was dead.

The sound of horses without was heard; Rodolph's carriage had met that of Murphy and David, who, in their desire to rejoin the prince, had anticipated the hour fixed for their departure.

"David," said Rodolph, wiping his eyes, and pointing to the Chourineur, "is there no hope?"

"None, monseigneur," replied the doctor, after a moment's examination.

During this moment there passed a mute and terrible scene between Fleur-de-Marie and the ogress, whom Rodolph had not observed. When the Chourineur had uttered the name of La Goualeuse, the ogress had raised her head and looked at Fleur-de-Marie. The horrid hag had already recognised Rodolph; he was called monseigneur—he called La Goualeuse his daughter. Such a metamorphosis astounded the ogress, who obstinately fixed her stupid, wondering eyes on her former victim.

Fleur-de-Marie, pale and overcome, seemed fascinated by her gaze. The death of the Chourineur, the unexpected appearance of the ogress, which came to awakenmore painfully than ever the remembrance of her former degradation, appeared to her a sinister presage. From this moment, Fleur-de-Marie was struck with one of those presentiments which, in dispositions like hers, have most frequently an irresistible influence.

A few days after these events and Rodolph and his daughter quitted Paris for ever.

Prince Henry of Herkaüsen-Oldenzaal to the Count Maximilian Kaminetz.

Oldenzaal, 25th August, 1840.I am just arrived from Gerolstein, where I have passed three months with the grand duke and his family. I expected to find a letter announcing your arrival at Oldenzaal, my dear Maximilian. Judge of my surprise—of my regret, on hearing that you will be detained in Hungary for several weeks.For more than four months I have been unable to write to you, not knowing where to direct my letters, thanks to your original and adventurous manner of travelling. You had, however, formally promised me at Vienna that you would be at Oldenzaal the first of August; I must then give up the pleasure of seeing you, and yet I have never had greater need of pouring forth my sorrows to you, Maximilian, my oldest friend, for although we are both of us still very young, our friendship is of long standing, as it dates from our childhood.What shall I say to you? During the last three months a complete revolution has taken place in me. Iam at one of those moments that decide the existence of a man. Judge, then, how necessary your presence and your advice are to me. But you will not long be wanting, whatever motives you have for remaining in Hungary. Come! Come! I entreat of you, Maximilian, for I stand in need of you to console me, and I cannot go to seek you. My father, whose health is daily declining, has summoned me from Gerolstein. Each day makes so great an alteration in him that it is impossible for me to leave him.I have so much to say that I shall become tedious, but I must relate to you the most important—the most romantic incident of my life. Why were you not there, my friend? Why were you not there? For three months my heart has been a prey to emotions equally sweet and sorrowful, and I was alone—I was alone. Sympathise with me, you who know the sensibility of my heart, you who have seen my eyes filled with tears at the simple recital of a noble or generous action, at the simple sight of a splendid sunset—of the sky studded with bright stars.Do you recollect last year, on our excursion to the ruins of Oppenfeld, on the shore of the vast lake, our reveries during that evening, so full of calm, of poesy, and of peace? Strange contrast! It was three days before that bloody duel, in which I would not accept you for my second, for I should have suffered too much for you had I been wounded before your eyes,—the duel in which, for a dispute at play, my second unhappily killed the young Frenchman, the Comte de Saint-Remy.Apropos, do you know what has become of the dangerous siren whom M. de Saint-Remy brought with him to Oppenfeld, and whose name was, I think, Cecily David?You will doubtless, my friend, smile with pity at seeing me thus losing myself amongst idle recollections of the past, instead of coming at once to the grave disclosures that I have announced my intention ofmaking; but, in spite of myself, I delay the time from moment to moment. I know how severe you are, and I am fearful of being blamed. Yes, blamed; because, instead of acting with reflection and prudence (prudence of one and twenty, alas!), I have acted foolishly, or, rather, I have not acted at all as—I have suffered myself to be carried away by the stream that urged me on, and it is only since my return from Gerolstein that I have been awakened from the enchanting vision that has lulled me to sleep for the last three months, and this awaking has been a sorrowful one.Now, my friend, my dear Maximilian, I take courage. Hear me indulgently; I begin with fear and trembling—I dare not look at you, for when you read these lines, how grave and stern will your face become, stoic that you are!After having obtained leave of absence for six months, I left Vienna, and remained some time with my father. His health was then good, and he advised me to visit my aunt, the Princess Juliana, superior of the abbey of Gerolstein. I think I have already told you that my grandfather was cousin-german to the present duke's grandfather, and the Duke Gustavus Rodolph, thanks to this relationship, had always treated my father and myself as his cousins.You also know, I think, that during a long stay the prince made recently in France my father was left at the head of the affairs of the duchy. It is not any feeling of ostentatious pride, as you well know, Maximilian, that makes me recapitulate all these circumstances, but to explain to you the causes of the extreme intimacy that existed between the grand duke and myself during my stay at Gerolstein.Do you recollect that last year, after our voyage on the banks of the Rhine, we heard that the prince had found and married,in extremis, the Countess Macgregor, in order to legitimise the daughter he had had by herby a previous and secret marriage, afterwards annulled, because it had been contracted against the consent of the late grand duke?This young girl, thus formally recognised, this charming Princess Amelie, of whom Lord Dudley, who had seen her at Gerolstein about a year ago, spoke to us with an enthusiasm that we suspected of exaggeration, strange chance! who would have said then—But although you have doubtless penetrated my secret, let me pursue the progress of events.The convent of Ste. Hermangeld, of which my aunt is abbess, is scarcely a quarter of a league from Gerolstein, for the gardens of the abbey touch the outskirts of the town. A charming house, perfectly isolated from the cloisters, had been placed at my disposal by my aunt, who has, as you know, the affection of a mother for me. The day of my arrival she informed me a grand drawing-room would be held the next day, as the grand duke was going formally to announce his intended marriage with La Marquise d'Harville, who had just arrived at Gerolstein with her father, the Comte d'Orbigny.The duke was blamed by some for not having sought an alliance with some royal house, but others, and amongst them my aunt, congratulated him on having chosen, instead of a marriage of ambition, a young and lovely woman to whom he was deeply attached, and who belonged to one of the first families in France. You know, too, that my aunt has always had the greatest regard for the grand duke, and has always appreciated his fine qualities."My dear child," said she to me, speaking of the drawing-room, to which I was going the next day,—"my dear child, the most astonishing sight you will see to-morrow will be the pearl of Gerolstein.""Of whom are you talking, my dear aunt?""Of the Princess Amelie.""The grand duke's daughter? Lord Dudley spoke of her at Vienna with warmth we suspected of exaggeration.""At my age and in my position," replied my aunt, "people do not exaggerate, so you can trust to my judgment, and I assure you I never knew any one more enchanting than the Princess Amelie. I would speak of her beauty were it not for an indefinable charm she possesses, superior even to her beauty. From the first day that the grand duke presented me to her, I felt myself irresistibly drawn towards her; and I am not the only person. The Archduchess Sophia is at Gerolstein, and is the most proud and haughty princess I know.""Very true, aunt; her irony is terrible, very few persons escape from her sarcasms; at Vienna every one dreaded her. Can the Princess Amelie have found favour in her eyes?""The other day she came here after visiting the asylum placed under the princess's direction. 'Do you know,' said this redoubtable archduchess to me, 'that if I resided long with the grand duke's daughter I should become quite harmless, so contagious is her goodness!'""Why, my cousin must be an enchantress!" said I, laughing, to my aunt."Her most powerful charm, at least in my eyes," replied my aunt, "is the mixture of sweetness, modesty, and dignity that I have told you of, and which gives a most touching expression to her face.""Indeed, aunt, modesty is a rare quality in a princess so young, so beautiful, and so happy.""Reflect that the princess is still more deserving of praise for her modesty, as her elevation is so very recent.""In her interview with you, aunt, did the princess make any reference to her early life?""No; but when, notwithstanding my advanced age, I addressed her with the respect due to her rank, sinceher royal highness is the grand duke's daughter, her ingenuous confusion, mingled with gratitude and veneration for me, quite overpowered me; for her reserve, full of dignity and affability, proved to me that her present elevation did not make her forget her past life, and that she accorded to my age what I accorded to her rank.""It must require," said I, "the most perfect tact to observe those nice differences.""My dear boy, the more I see of the princess, the more I congratulate myself on my first impression. Since she has been here the number of charitable acts she has done is incredible, and that with a reflection and a judgment that in a person of her age quite surprises me. Judge yourself. At her request the grand duke has founded at Gerolstein an establishment for orphans of five or six years, and for young girls (who are either orphans or abandoned by their parents) of the age of sixteen, that age so fatal to those who are not protected against the temptations of vice or the pressure of want."The good sisters of my convent teach and direct the children of this asylum. During my visits there I have had ample opportunities of judging of the adoration that these poor, unfortunate creatures have for the princess. Every day she spends several hours at this place, which is placed under her protection, and I repeat that it is not merely gratitude and respect that the children and nuns feel towards the princess, it almost amounts to fanaticism.""The princess must be an angel," said I to my aunt."An angel, indeed!" replied she, "for you cannot conceive with what touching kindness she treats her young protégées. I have never seen the susceptibility of misfortune meet with more delicate sympathy. You would think some irresistible attraction drew the princess towards this class of unfortunates. Will you believeit? she, the daughter of a sovereign, only addresses these poor children as 'my sisters!'"At these last words of my aunt I confess I felt my eyes fill with tears. Do you not also admire the admirable and pious conduct of this young princess?"Since the princess," said I, "is so marvellously gifted, I shall be greatly embarrassed when I am presented to her to-morrow. You know how timid I am; you know, also, that elevation of character imposes upon me more than high birth, so that I am certain to appear both stupid and embarrassed to-morrow; so I make up my mind to that beforehand.""Come, come!" said my aunt, smiling, "she will take pity upon you, the more readily as you are not quite a stranger to her.""I am not a stranger to her, aunt?""Certainly not.""How so?""You recollect that when at the age of sixteen you left Oldenzaal, to travel with your father through Russia and England, I had your portrait painted in the costume you wore at the firstbal costuméthe late duchess gave?""Yes, aunt, the costume of a German page of the sixteenth century.""Our famous painter, Fritz Mocker, whilst he painted a faithful likeness of you, not only produced a page of that century, but even the style of the pictures of that time."Some days after her arrival at Gerolstein, the Princess Amelie, who had come with her father to visit me, remarked your portrait, and asked what was that charming picture of olden times. Her father smiled, and said, 'This is the portrait of a cousin of ours, who would be, were he now alive (as you see by his dress), some three hundred years old, but who, although very young, made himself remarkable for his courage and goodness of heart; has he not bravery in his eyes and goodness in his smile?'"Do not, I entreat you, Maximilian, shrug your shoulders with disdain at seeing me write these puerile details of myself, which are, alas, necessary to my story."The Princess Amelie," continued my aunt, "deceived by this innocent pleasantry, after a long examination of your portrait, joined with her father in praising the amiable and determined expression of your face. Some time after, when I went to Gerolstein, she questioned me playfully about 'her cousin of the olden time.'"I then explained the trick to her, and told her that the handsome page of the sixteenth century was really the Prince Henry d'Herkaüsen-Oldenzaal, a young man of one and twenty, captain in the guards of his majesty the Emperor of Austria, and in every other respect than the costume very like his picture. At these words the princess," continued my aunt, "blushed and became serious, and has never since spoken of the picture. However, you see that you are not quite a stranger to your cousin; so take courage, and maintain the reputation of your portrait."This conversation took place, as I have already told you, the evening previous to the day on which I was to be presented to the princess my cousin. I left my aunt, and returned to my own apartments.You have often told me, my dear Maximilian, that I was totally free from vanity; I must therefore trust to that to prevent my appearing vain during this recital.As soon as I was alone I reflected with a secret satisfaction that the Princess Amelie, after seeing my portrait, painted five or six years ago, had inquired after "her cousin of the olden time."Nothing could be more absurd than to build the slightest hope on so trivial a circumstance, I acknowledge; but I always treat you with the most perfect confidence, and I acknowledge that this trifling circumstance delighted me.No doubt the praise I had just heard bestowed on the princess by so grave and austere a person as my aunt, by raising her in my estimation, rendered this circumstance more agreeable.Why should I tell you? The hopes I conceived from this trifling event were so mad that, now that I look back more calmly on the past, I ask myself how I could have indulged in ideas that must have ended in my destruction.Although related to the grand duke, and always treated by him with the greatest kindness, yet it was impossible to entertain the slightest hope of a marriage with the princess; even had she returned my affection it would still have been impossible. Our family holds an honourable position, but it is poor when compared with the grand duke, the richest prince of the German confederation; and besides, I was only one and twenty, a simple captain in the guards, without any reputation or any position. Never could the grand duke think of me as a suitor for his daughter.All these reflections ought to have saved me from a passion I did not as yet feel, but of which I had a strange presentiment.Alas! I rather gave way to fresh puerilities; I wore on my finger a ring that Thecla (the countess of whom I have so often spoken) had given me, although this souvenir of a boyish love could not have much embarrassed me. I sacrificed it to my new flame, and, opening the window, I cast the ring into the waves of the river that flowed beneath.I have no need to tell you what a night I passed, you can imagine; I knew the princess was very beautiful; I sought to picture to myself her features, her air, her manner, her figure, the sound of her voice; and thinking of my portrait which she had noticed I recollected that the artist had flattered me excessively, and I contrasted the picturesque dress of a page of the sixteenthcentury with the simple uniform of a captain of the Austrian guards.But amidst all these absurd ideas some generous thoughts crossed my mind, and I was overcome,—yes, overcome by the recollection of the tenderness of the princess for those poor girls whom she always terms "my sisters."The next day the hour for the reception came. I tried on several uniforms one after another, found them all to fit me very ill, and departed very dissatisfied with myself.Although Gerolstein is only a quarter of a league from Ste. Hermangeld, during the short journey all the childish ideas that had so occupied me during the night had given place to one sad and grave thought.An invincible presentiment told me I was approaching one of the crises of my life. A magical inspiration revealed to me that I was about to love, to love as a man loves but once in his life; and, as if to complete my misfortunes, this love, as loftily as deservedly bestowed, was doomed to be unhappy.You do not know the grand ducal palace of Gerolstein. In the opinion of every one who has visited the capitals of Europe, there is, with the exception of Versailles, no royal residence that has a more regal and imposing appearance.If at this time I speak of this, it is because, thinking over them, I wonder how they did not recall me to myself; for the Princess Amelie was the daughter of the sovereign of this palace, these guards, and of these riches.You arrived at the palace by the marble court; so called, because, with the exception of a drive for the carriages, it is paved with variegated marble, forming the most magnificent mosaics, in the centre of which is a basin of breccia antique, into which a stream of water flows from a porphyry vase.This court of honour is surrounded by a row of beautiful marble statues, holding candelabras of gilt bronze, from which sprung brilliant jets of gas. Alternately with these statues are the Medicean vases, raised on richly sculptured pedestals, and filled with rose laurels, whose leaves shine in the lights with a metallic lustre.The carriages stopped at the foot of the double staircase leading to the peristyle of the palace. At the foot of this staircase were stationed on guard, mounted on their black horses, two soldiers of the regiment of the guards of the grand duke. You would have been struck with the stern and warlike appearance of these two giants, whose cuirasses and helmets, made like those of the ancients, without crest or plume, sparkled in the sun.These soldiers wore blue coats with yellow collars, buckskin breeches, and jack-boots. To please you who are so fond of military details, I add, that at the top landing of the staircase were stationed, as sentinels, two grenadiers of the foot-guards of the duke. Their uniform, with the exception of the colour of the coat and facings, resembles, I am told, that of Napoleon's grenadiers.After traversing the vestibule, where the porters of the duke were stationed, halberd in hand, I ascended a splendid staircase of white marble, which opened upon a portico, ornamented with jasper columns, and surmounted by a painted and gilt cupola. There were two long files of domestics.I then entered the guard-room, at the door of which I found a chamberlain and an aide-de-camp, whose duty it was to present to his royal highness those persons who were entitled to this honour. My relationship, though distant, procured me a special presentation. An aide-de-camp preceded me into a long gallery, filled with gentlemen in full court dress or uniform, and splendidly attired ladies.Whilst I passed through this brilliant assembly, I heard here and there remarks that augmented my embarrassment. Every one admired the angelic beauty of the Princess Amelie, the charming appearance of the Marquise d'Harville, and the imperial air of the Archduchess Sophia, who, recently arrived from Munich with the Archduke Stanislaus, was about to depart for Warsaw; but whilst rendering their just tribute of admiration to the lofty bearing of the duchess and to the charms of the Marquise d'Harville, every one agreed that nothing could exceed the loveliness of the Princess Amelie.As I approached the spot where the grand duke and the princess were I felt my heart beat more and more violently. At the moment that I entered the salon (I forgot to tell you there was a concert and ball at court) the famous Liszt sat down to the piano, and instantly the most profound silence succeeded to the conversation that was going on. I waited in the embrasure of a door until Liszt had finished the piece he was playing with his accustomed taste.It was then that I saw the Princess Amelie for the first time.I must tell you all that passed, for I feel an indescribable pleasure in writing it.Picture to yourself a large salon furnished with regal splendour, brilliantly lighted up, and hung with crimson silk, embroidered with wreaths of flowers in gold. In the first row, on large gilt chairs, sat the Archduchess Sophia with Madame d'Harville on her left, and the Princess Amelie on her right. Behind them stood the duke in the uniform of colonel of the guards. He seemed scarcely thirty, and the military uniform set off his fine figure and noble features. Beside him was the Archduke Stanislaus in the uniform of a field-marshal; then came the princess's maids of honour, the ladies of the grand dignitaries of the court, and then the dignitaries themselves.I need scarcely tell you that the Princess Amelie was less conspicuous by her rank than by her extraordinary beauty. Do not condemn me without reading this description of her. Although it falls far short of the reality, you will understand my adoration. You will understand that as soon as I saw her I loved her; and that the suddenness of my passion can only be equalled by its violence and its eternity.The Princess Amelie was dressed in a plain white watered silk dress, and wore, like the archduchess, the riband of the imperial order of St. Nepomucenus recently sent to her by the empress. A diadem of pearls surrounded her head, and harmonised admirably with two splendid braids of fair hair that shaded her delicate cheeks. Her arms, whiter than the lace that ornamented them, were half hidden in long gloves, reaching nearly to her elbow.Nothing could be more perfect than her figure, nothing more charming than her foot in its satin slipper. At the moment when I saw her her beaming blue eyes wore a pensive expression. I do not know whether some serious thought came over her, or whether she was impressed with the grave melody of the piece Liszt was playing; but the expression of her countenance seemed to me full of sweetness and melancholy.Never can I express my feelings at that moment. All that my aunt had related of her goodness crossed my mind.Smile if you will, but my eyes became full of tears when I saw this young girl, so beautiful and so idolised by such a father, seem so melancholy and pensive.You know how scrupulously etiquette and the privileges of rank are observed by us. Thanks to my title and my relationship to the grand duke, the crowd in the midst of which I stood gradually fell back, and I found myself left almost alone in the embrasure of the door. It was, no doubt, owing to this circumstance that the princess,awaking from her reverie, perceived, and no doubt recognised me, for she started and blushed.She had seen my portrait at my aunt's, and recognised me; nothing could be more simple. The princess's eyes did not rest upon me an instant, but that look threw me into the most violent confusion. I felt my cheeks glow, I cast down my eyes, and did not venture to raise them for some time. When I dared at last to steal a glance at the princess she was speaking in a low tone to the archduchess, who seemed to listen to her with the most affectionate interest.Liszt having paused for a few moments between the pieces he was playing, the grand duke took the opportunity of expressing his admiration. On returning to his place he perceived me, nodded kindly to me, and said something to the archduchess, fixing his eyes on me at the same time. The duchess, after looking at me a moment, turned to the duke, who smiled and said something to his daughter that seemed to embarrass her, for she blushed again. I was on thorns; but, unfortunately, etiquette forbade my leaving my place until the concert was over.As soon as the concert was finished I followed the aide-de-camp; he conducted me to the grand duke, who deigned to advance a few steps towards me, took me by the arm, and said to the Archduchess Sophia:"Permit me to present to your royal highness my cousin, Prince Henry of Herkaüsen-Oldenzaal.""I have seen the prince at Vienna, and meet him here with pleasure," replied the duchess, before whom I inclined myself respectfully."My dear Amelie," continued the prince, addressing his daughter, "this is Prince Henry, your cousin, the son of one of my most valued friends, Prince Paul, whom I greatly lament not seeing here to-day.""Pray, monseigneur, inform the prince that I equally regret his absence, for I am always delighted to know any of my father's friends."I had not until then heard the princess's voice, and I was struck with its intense sweetness."I hope, my dear Henry, you will stay some time with your aunt," said the grand duke. "Come and see us often about three o'clocken famille; and if we ride out you must accompany us. You know how great an affection I have always felt for you, for your noble qualities.""I cannot express my gratitude for your royal highness's kindness.""Well, to prove it," said the grand duke, smiling, "engage your cousin for the second quadrille; the first belongs to the archduke.""Will your royal highness do me the honour?" said I to my cousin."Oh, call each other cousin, as in the good old times," replied the duke, laughing. "There should be no ceremony between relations.""Will you dance with me, cousin?""Yes, cousin," replied the princess.I cannot tell how much I felt the touching kindness of the grand duke, and how bitterly I reproached myself for yielding to an affection the prince would never authorise.I vowed inwardly that nothing should induce me to acquaint my cousin with my affection, but I feared my emotion would betray me.I had leisure for these reflections whilst my cousin danced the first quadrille with the Archduke Stanislaus. Nothing was more suited to display the graces of the princess's person than the slow movements of the dance. I anxiously awaited my turn; and I succeeded in concealing my emotion when I led her to the quadrille."Does your royal highness sanction my calling you cousin?" said I."Oh, yes, cousin, I am always delighted to obey my father.""I rejoice in this familiarity, since I have learnt from my aunt to know you.""My father has often spoken of you, cousin; and what may, perhaps, astonish you," added she, timidly, "I also knew you by sight; for one day the Abbess of Ste. Hermangeld, your aunt, for whom I have the greatest respect, showed me your picture.""As a page of the sixteenth century?""Yes, cousin; and my father was malicious enough to tell me that it was an ancestor of ours, and spoke so highly of his courage and his other qualities that our family ought to be proud of their descent from him.""Alas, cousin, I fear my resemblance to my portrait is not great!""You are mistaken, cousin," said the princess. "For at the end of the concert I recognised you immediately, in spite of the difference of costume." Then, wishing to change the conversation, she added, "How charmingly M. Liszt plays!—does he not?""Yes. How attentively you listened to him!""Because there is to me a double charm in music without words. Not only you hear the execution, but you can adapt your thoughts to the melody. Do you understand me?""Perfectly; your own thoughts become words to the air.""Yes, you quite comprehend me," said she, with a gesture of satisfaction. "I feared I could not express what I felt just now.""I thank God, cousin," said I, smiling, "you can have no words to set to so sad an air."I know not whether my question was indiscreet or whether she had not heard me, but suddenly she exclaimed, pointing out to me the grand duke, who crossed the room with the archduchess on his arm, "Cousin, look at my father, how handsome he is! how noble!how good! Every one looks at him as if they loved him more than they feared him.""Ah," cried I, "it is not only here he is beloved. If the blessing of his people be transmitted to their posterity, the name of Rodolph of Gerolstein will be immortal.""To speak thus is to be, indeed, worthy of his attachment.""I do but give utterance to the feelings of all present; see how they all hasten to pay their respects to Madame d'Harville!""No one in the world is more worthy of my father's affections than Madame d'Harville.""You are more capable than any one of appreciating her, as you have been in France."Scarcely had I pronounced these words than the princess cast down her eyes, and her features assumed an air of melancholy; and when I led her back to her seat the expression of them was still the same. I suppose that my allusion to her stay in France recalled the death of her mother.In the course of the evening a circumstance occurred which you may think too trivial to mention, perhaps, but which evinces the extraordinary influence this young girl universally inspires. Her bandeau of pearls having become disarranged, the Archduchess Sophia, who was leaning on her arm, kindly readjusted the ornament upon her brow. Knowing, as we do, the hauteur of the archduchess, such condescension is almost inconceivable.The next morning I was invited, together with a few other persons, to be present at the marriage of the grand duke with Madame la Marquise d'Harville. I had never seen the princess so radiant and happy.Some days after the duke's marriage I had a long interview with him. He questioned me about my past life, my future career. He gave me the most admirable advice, the kindest encouragement. So much so thatthe idea crossed my mind that he had perceived my love and wished to bring me to confess it.But this idea was soon dispelled. The prince concluded by telling me that the great wars were over, that I ought to avail myself of my name, my connections, the education I had received, and my father's friendship with the Prince de M——, prime minister of the emperor, in order to follow a diplomatic instead of a military career. In a word, he offered me his sovereign protection to facilitate my entry in the career he proposed to me.I thanked him for his offers with gratitude, and added that I felt the weight of his advice and would follow it.I at first visited the palace very seldom; but, thanks to the duke's reiterated invitations, I was soon there almost every day. We lived in the peaceful retirement resembling that of some English mansions. When the weather permitted we rode out with the duke, the duchess, and the grand personages of the court.When we were forced to remain at home we sang, and I accompanied the grand duchess and my cousin, who had the sweetest and most expressive voice I ever heard. At other times we inspected the magnificent picture galleries and museums, and the library of the prince, who is one of the most accomplished men in Europe. I often dined at the palace, and on the opera nights I accompanied the duke's family to the theatre.Could this intimacy have lasted for ever I should have been happy, perhaps, but I reflected that I should be summoned to Vienna by my duties. I reflected, also, that the duke would soon think of finding a suitable alliance for his daughter.My cousin remarked this change in me. The evening before I quitted Gerolstein she told me she had for several days remarked my abstracted manner. I endeavoured to evade this question, saying that my approaching departure was the cause."I can scarcely believe it," replied she. "My father treats you like a son; every one loves you. It would be ingratitude if you were unhappy.""Alas!" said I, unable to restrain my emotion, "it is grief I am a prey to!""Why, what has happened?""Just now, cousin, you have told me your father treated me like a son, and that every one loved me; and yet, ere long, I must quit Gerolstein. It is this that grieves me.""And are the recollections of those you have left as nothing?""Doubtless; but time brings so many changes.""There are affections, at least, that are unchangeable; such as that of my father for you, such as that I feel for you. When you are once brother and sister you never forget each other," added she, looking up, her large blue eyes full of tears.I was on the point of betraying myself; however, I controlled my feelings in time."Do you think then, cousin," said I, "that when I return in a few years this affection will continue?""Why should it not?""Because you will be probably married; you will have other duties to perform, and you will forget your poor brother."This was all that passed; I know not if she was offended at these words, or whether she was like myself grieved at the changes the future must bring; but, instead of answering me, she was silent for a moment, then, rising hastily from her seat, her face pale and altered, she left the room, after having looked for a few seconds at the embroidery of the young Countess d'Oppenheim, one of her maids of honour.The same evening I received a second letter from my father, urging me to return. The next morning I took leave of the grand duke. He told me my cousin wasunwell, but that he would make my adieux; he then embraced me tenderly, renewed his promises of assistance, and added that, whenever I had leave of absence, nothing would give him greater pleasure than to see me at Gerolstein.Happily, on my arrival, I found my father better; still confined to his bed, and very weak, it is true, but out of danger. Now that you know all, Maximilian, tell me, what can I do?Just as I finished this letter, my door opened, and, to my great surprise, my father, whom I believed to be in bed, entered; he saw the letter on the table."To whom are you writing so long a letter?" said he, smiling."To Maximilian, father.""Oh," said he, with an expression of affectionate reproach, "he has all your confidence! He is very happy!"He pronounced these last words in so sorrowful a tone that I held out the letter to him, almost without reflection, saying:"Read it, father."My friend, he has read all! After having remained musing some time he said to me:"Henry, I shall write and inform the grand duke of all that passed during your stay at Gerolstein.""Father, I entreat you not!""Is what you have written to Maximilian scrupulously true?""Yes.""Do you love your cousin?""I adore her; but—"My father interrupted me."Then, in that case, I shall write to the grand duke and demand her hand for you.""But, father, such a demand will be madness on my part!""It is true; but still, in making this demand, I shall acquaint the prince with my reasons for making it. He has received you with the greatest kindness, and it would be unworthy of me to deceive him. He will be touched at the frankness of my demand, and, though he refuse it, as he certainly will, he will yet know that, should you ever again visit Gerolstein, you cannot be on the same familiar terms with the princess."You know that, although so tenderly attached to me, my father is inflexible in whatever concerns his duty; judge, then, of my fears, of my anxiety.I hastily terminate this long letter, but I will soon write again. Sympathise with me, for I fear I shall go mad if the fever that preys on me does not soon abate. Adieu, adieu! Ever yours,Henry d'H.-O.

Oldenzaal, 25th August, 1840.

I am just arrived from Gerolstein, where I have passed three months with the grand duke and his family. I expected to find a letter announcing your arrival at Oldenzaal, my dear Maximilian. Judge of my surprise—of my regret, on hearing that you will be detained in Hungary for several weeks.

For more than four months I have been unable to write to you, not knowing where to direct my letters, thanks to your original and adventurous manner of travelling. You had, however, formally promised me at Vienna that you would be at Oldenzaal the first of August; I must then give up the pleasure of seeing you, and yet I have never had greater need of pouring forth my sorrows to you, Maximilian, my oldest friend, for although we are both of us still very young, our friendship is of long standing, as it dates from our childhood.

What shall I say to you? During the last three months a complete revolution has taken place in me. Iam at one of those moments that decide the existence of a man. Judge, then, how necessary your presence and your advice are to me. But you will not long be wanting, whatever motives you have for remaining in Hungary. Come! Come! I entreat of you, Maximilian, for I stand in need of you to console me, and I cannot go to seek you. My father, whose health is daily declining, has summoned me from Gerolstein. Each day makes so great an alteration in him that it is impossible for me to leave him.

I have so much to say that I shall become tedious, but I must relate to you the most important—the most romantic incident of my life. Why were you not there, my friend? Why were you not there? For three months my heart has been a prey to emotions equally sweet and sorrowful, and I was alone—I was alone. Sympathise with me, you who know the sensibility of my heart, you who have seen my eyes filled with tears at the simple recital of a noble or generous action, at the simple sight of a splendid sunset—of the sky studded with bright stars.

Do you recollect last year, on our excursion to the ruins of Oppenfeld, on the shore of the vast lake, our reveries during that evening, so full of calm, of poesy, and of peace? Strange contrast! It was three days before that bloody duel, in which I would not accept you for my second, for I should have suffered too much for you had I been wounded before your eyes,—the duel in which, for a dispute at play, my second unhappily killed the young Frenchman, the Comte de Saint-Remy.

Apropos, do you know what has become of the dangerous siren whom M. de Saint-Remy brought with him to Oppenfeld, and whose name was, I think, Cecily David?

You will doubtless, my friend, smile with pity at seeing me thus losing myself amongst idle recollections of the past, instead of coming at once to the grave disclosures that I have announced my intention ofmaking; but, in spite of myself, I delay the time from moment to moment. I know how severe you are, and I am fearful of being blamed. Yes, blamed; because, instead of acting with reflection and prudence (prudence of one and twenty, alas!), I have acted foolishly, or, rather, I have not acted at all as—I have suffered myself to be carried away by the stream that urged me on, and it is only since my return from Gerolstein that I have been awakened from the enchanting vision that has lulled me to sleep for the last three months, and this awaking has been a sorrowful one.

Now, my friend, my dear Maximilian, I take courage. Hear me indulgently; I begin with fear and trembling—I dare not look at you, for when you read these lines, how grave and stern will your face become, stoic that you are!

After having obtained leave of absence for six months, I left Vienna, and remained some time with my father. His health was then good, and he advised me to visit my aunt, the Princess Juliana, superior of the abbey of Gerolstein. I think I have already told you that my grandfather was cousin-german to the present duke's grandfather, and the Duke Gustavus Rodolph, thanks to this relationship, had always treated my father and myself as his cousins.

You also know, I think, that during a long stay the prince made recently in France my father was left at the head of the affairs of the duchy. It is not any feeling of ostentatious pride, as you well know, Maximilian, that makes me recapitulate all these circumstances, but to explain to you the causes of the extreme intimacy that existed between the grand duke and myself during my stay at Gerolstein.

Do you recollect that last year, after our voyage on the banks of the Rhine, we heard that the prince had found and married,in extremis, the Countess Macgregor, in order to legitimise the daughter he had had by herby a previous and secret marriage, afterwards annulled, because it had been contracted against the consent of the late grand duke?

This young girl, thus formally recognised, this charming Princess Amelie, of whom Lord Dudley, who had seen her at Gerolstein about a year ago, spoke to us with an enthusiasm that we suspected of exaggeration, strange chance! who would have said then—

But although you have doubtless penetrated my secret, let me pursue the progress of events.

The convent of Ste. Hermangeld, of which my aunt is abbess, is scarcely a quarter of a league from Gerolstein, for the gardens of the abbey touch the outskirts of the town. A charming house, perfectly isolated from the cloisters, had been placed at my disposal by my aunt, who has, as you know, the affection of a mother for me. The day of my arrival she informed me a grand drawing-room would be held the next day, as the grand duke was going formally to announce his intended marriage with La Marquise d'Harville, who had just arrived at Gerolstein with her father, the Comte d'Orbigny.

The duke was blamed by some for not having sought an alliance with some royal house, but others, and amongst them my aunt, congratulated him on having chosen, instead of a marriage of ambition, a young and lovely woman to whom he was deeply attached, and who belonged to one of the first families in France. You know, too, that my aunt has always had the greatest regard for the grand duke, and has always appreciated his fine qualities.

"My dear child," said she to me, speaking of the drawing-room, to which I was going the next day,—"my dear child, the most astonishing sight you will see to-morrow will be the pearl of Gerolstein."

"Of whom are you talking, my dear aunt?"

"Of the Princess Amelie."

"The grand duke's daughter? Lord Dudley spoke of her at Vienna with warmth we suspected of exaggeration."

"At my age and in my position," replied my aunt, "people do not exaggerate, so you can trust to my judgment, and I assure you I never knew any one more enchanting than the Princess Amelie. I would speak of her beauty were it not for an indefinable charm she possesses, superior even to her beauty. From the first day that the grand duke presented me to her, I felt myself irresistibly drawn towards her; and I am not the only person. The Archduchess Sophia is at Gerolstein, and is the most proud and haughty princess I know."

"Very true, aunt; her irony is terrible, very few persons escape from her sarcasms; at Vienna every one dreaded her. Can the Princess Amelie have found favour in her eyes?"

"The other day she came here after visiting the asylum placed under the princess's direction. 'Do you know,' said this redoubtable archduchess to me, 'that if I resided long with the grand duke's daughter I should become quite harmless, so contagious is her goodness!'"

"Why, my cousin must be an enchantress!" said I, laughing, to my aunt.

"Her most powerful charm, at least in my eyes," replied my aunt, "is the mixture of sweetness, modesty, and dignity that I have told you of, and which gives a most touching expression to her face."

"Indeed, aunt, modesty is a rare quality in a princess so young, so beautiful, and so happy."

"Reflect that the princess is still more deserving of praise for her modesty, as her elevation is so very recent."

"In her interview with you, aunt, did the princess make any reference to her early life?"

"No; but when, notwithstanding my advanced age, I addressed her with the respect due to her rank, sinceher royal highness is the grand duke's daughter, her ingenuous confusion, mingled with gratitude and veneration for me, quite overpowered me; for her reserve, full of dignity and affability, proved to me that her present elevation did not make her forget her past life, and that she accorded to my age what I accorded to her rank."

"It must require," said I, "the most perfect tact to observe those nice differences."

"My dear boy, the more I see of the princess, the more I congratulate myself on my first impression. Since she has been here the number of charitable acts she has done is incredible, and that with a reflection and a judgment that in a person of her age quite surprises me. Judge yourself. At her request the grand duke has founded at Gerolstein an establishment for orphans of five or six years, and for young girls (who are either orphans or abandoned by their parents) of the age of sixteen, that age so fatal to those who are not protected against the temptations of vice or the pressure of want.

"The good sisters of my convent teach and direct the children of this asylum. During my visits there I have had ample opportunities of judging of the adoration that these poor, unfortunate creatures have for the princess. Every day she spends several hours at this place, which is placed under her protection, and I repeat that it is not merely gratitude and respect that the children and nuns feel towards the princess, it almost amounts to fanaticism."

"The princess must be an angel," said I to my aunt.

"An angel, indeed!" replied she, "for you cannot conceive with what touching kindness she treats her young protégées. I have never seen the susceptibility of misfortune meet with more delicate sympathy. You would think some irresistible attraction drew the princess towards this class of unfortunates. Will you believeit? she, the daughter of a sovereign, only addresses these poor children as 'my sisters!'"

At these last words of my aunt I confess I felt my eyes fill with tears. Do you not also admire the admirable and pious conduct of this young princess?

"Since the princess," said I, "is so marvellously gifted, I shall be greatly embarrassed when I am presented to her to-morrow. You know how timid I am; you know, also, that elevation of character imposes upon me more than high birth, so that I am certain to appear both stupid and embarrassed to-morrow; so I make up my mind to that beforehand."

"Come, come!" said my aunt, smiling, "she will take pity upon you, the more readily as you are not quite a stranger to her."

"I am not a stranger to her, aunt?"

"Certainly not."

"How so?"

"You recollect that when at the age of sixteen you left Oldenzaal, to travel with your father through Russia and England, I had your portrait painted in the costume you wore at the firstbal costuméthe late duchess gave?"

"Yes, aunt, the costume of a German page of the sixteenth century."

"Our famous painter, Fritz Mocker, whilst he painted a faithful likeness of you, not only produced a page of that century, but even the style of the pictures of that time.

"Some days after her arrival at Gerolstein, the Princess Amelie, who had come with her father to visit me, remarked your portrait, and asked what was that charming picture of olden times. Her father smiled, and said, 'This is the portrait of a cousin of ours, who would be, were he now alive (as you see by his dress), some three hundred years old, but who, although very young, made himself remarkable for his courage and goodness of heart; has he not bravery in his eyes and goodness in his smile?'"

Do not, I entreat you, Maximilian, shrug your shoulders with disdain at seeing me write these puerile details of myself, which are, alas, necessary to my story.

"The Princess Amelie," continued my aunt, "deceived by this innocent pleasantry, after a long examination of your portrait, joined with her father in praising the amiable and determined expression of your face. Some time after, when I went to Gerolstein, she questioned me playfully about 'her cousin of the olden time.'

"I then explained the trick to her, and told her that the handsome page of the sixteenth century was really the Prince Henry d'Herkaüsen-Oldenzaal, a young man of one and twenty, captain in the guards of his majesty the Emperor of Austria, and in every other respect than the costume very like his picture. At these words the princess," continued my aunt, "blushed and became serious, and has never since spoken of the picture. However, you see that you are not quite a stranger to your cousin; so take courage, and maintain the reputation of your portrait."

This conversation took place, as I have already told you, the evening previous to the day on which I was to be presented to the princess my cousin. I left my aunt, and returned to my own apartments.

You have often told me, my dear Maximilian, that I was totally free from vanity; I must therefore trust to that to prevent my appearing vain during this recital.

As soon as I was alone I reflected with a secret satisfaction that the Princess Amelie, after seeing my portrait, painted five or six years ago, had inquired after "her cousin of the olden time."

Nothing could be more absurd than to build the slightest hope on so trivial a circumstance, I acknowledge; but I always treat you with the most perfect confidence, and I acknowledge that this trifling circumstance delighted me.

No doubt the praise I had just heard bestowed on the princess by so grave and austere a person as my aunt, by raising her in my estimation, rendered this circumstance more agreeable.

Why should I tell you? The hopes I conceived from this trifling event were so mad that, now that I look back more calmly on the past, I ask myself how I could have indulged in ideas that must have ended in my destruction.

Although related to the grand duke, and always treated by him with the greatest kindness, yet it was impossible to entertain the slightest hope of a marriage with the princess; even had she returned my affection it would still have been impossible. Our family holds an honourable position, but it is poor when compared with the grand duke, the richest prince of the German confederation; and besides, I was only one and twenty, a simple captain in the guards, without any reputation or any position. Never could the grand duke think of me as a suitor for his daughter.

All these reflections ought to have saved me from a passion I did not as yet feel, but of which I had a strange presentiment.

Alas! I rather gave way to fresh puerilities; I wore on my finger a ring that Thecla (the countess of whom I have so often spoken) had given me, although this souvenir of a boyish love could not have much embarrassed me. I sacrificed it to my new flame, and, opening the window, I cast the ring into the waves of the river that flowed beneath.

I have no need to tell you what a night I passed, you can imagine; I knew the princess was very beautiful; I sought to picture to myself her features, her air, her manner, her figure, the sound of her voice; and thinking of my portrait which she had noticed I recollected that the artist had flattered me excessively, and I contrasted the picturesque dress of a page of the sixteenthcentury with the simple uniform of a captain of the Austrian guards.

But amidst all these absurd ideas some generous thoughts crossed my mind, and I was overcome,—yes, overcome by the recollection of the tenderness of the princess for those poor girls whom she always terms "my sisters."

The next day the hour for the reception came. I tried on several uniforms one after another, found them all to fit me very ill, and departed very dissatisfied with myself.

Although Gerolstein is only a quarter of a league from Ste. Hermangeld, during the short journey all the childish ideas that had so occupied me during the night had given place to one sad and grave thought.

An invincible presentiment told me I was approaching one of the crises of my life. A magical inspiration revealed to me that I was about to love, to love as a man loves but once in his life; and, as if to complete my misfortunes, this love, as loftily as deservedly bestowed, was doomed to be unhappy.

You do not know the grand ducal palace of Gerolstein. In the opinion of every one who has visited the capitals of Europe, there is, with the exception of Versailles, no royal residence that has a more regal and imposing appearance.

If at this time I speak of this, it is because, thinking over them, I wonder how they did not recall me to myself; for the Princess Amelie was the daughter of the sovereign of this palace, these guards, and of these riches.

You arrived at the palace by the marble court; so called, because, with the exception of a drive for the carriages, it is paved with variegated marble, forming the most magnificent mosaics, in the centre of which is a basin of breccia antique, into which a stream of water flows from a porphyry vase.

This court of honour is surrounded by a row of beautiful marble statues, holding candelabras of gilt bronze, from which sprung brilliant jets of gas. Alternately with these statues are the Medicean vases, raised on richly sculptured pedestals, and filled with rose laurels, whose leaves shine in the lights with a metallic lustre.

The carriages stopped at the foot of the double staircase leading to the peristyle of the palace. At the foot of this staircase were stationed on guard, mounted on their black horses, two soldiers of the regiment of the guards of the grand duke. You would have been struck with the stern and warlike appearance of these two giants, whose cuirasses and helmets, made like those of the ancients, without crest or plume, sparkled in the sun.

These soldiers wore blue coats with yellow collars, buckskin breeches, and jack-boots. To please you who are so fond of military details, I add, that at the top landing of the staircase were stationed, as sentinels, two grenadiers of the foot-guards of the duke. Their uniform, with the exception of the colour of the coat and facings, resembles, I am told, that of Napoleon's grenadiers.

After traversing the vestibule, where the porters of the duke were stationed, halberd in hand, I ascended a splendid staircase of white marble, which opened upon a portico, ornamented with jasper columns, and surmounted by a painted and gilt cupola. There were two long files of domestics.

I then entered the guard-room, at the door of which I found a chamberlain and an aide-de-camp, whose duty it was to present to his royal highness those persons who were entitled to this honour. My relationship, though distant, procured me a special presentation. An aide-de-camp preceded me into a long gallery, filled with gentlemen in full court dress or uniform, and splendidly attired ladies.

Whilst I passed through this brilliant assembly, I heard here and there remarks that augmented my embarrassment. Every one admired the angelic beauty of the Princess Amelie, the charming appearance of the Marquise d'Harville, and the imperial air of the Archduchess Sophia, who, recently arrived from Munich with the Archduke Stanislaus, was about to depart for Warsaw; but whilst rendering their just tribute of admiration to the lofty bearing of the duchess and to the charms of the Marquise d'Harville, every one agreed that nothing could exceed the loveliness of the Princess Amelie.

As I approached the spot where the grand duke and the princess were I felt my heart beat more and more violently. At the moment that I entered the salon (I forgot to tell you there was a concert and ball at court) the famous Liszt sat down to the piano, and instantly the most profound silence succeeded to the conversation that was going on. I waited in the embrasure of a door until Liszt had finished the piece he was playing with his accustomed taste.

It was then that I saw the Princess Amelie for the first time.

I must tell you all that passed, for I feel an indescribable pleasure in writing it.

Picture to yourself a large salon furnished with regal splendour, brilliantly lighted up, and hung with crimson silk, embroidered with wreaths of flowers in gold. In the first row, on large gilt chairs, sat the Archduchess Sophia with Madame d'Harville on her left, and the Princess Amelie on her right. Behind them stood the duke in the uniform of colonel of the guards. He seemed scarcely thirty, and the military uniform set off his fine figure and noble features. Beside him was the Archduke Stanislaus in the uniform of a field-marshal; then came the princess's maids of honour, the ladies of the grand dignitaries of the court, and then the dignitaries themselves.

I need scarcely tell you that the Princess Amelie was less conspicuous by her rank than by her extraordinary beauty. Do not condemn me without reading this description of her. Although it falls far short of the reality, you will understand my adoration. You will understand that as soon as I saw her I loved her; and that the suddenness of my passion can only be equalled by its violence and its eternity.

The Princess Amelie was dressed in a plain white watered silk dress, and wore, like the archduchess, the riband of the imperial order of St. Nepomucenus recently sent to her by the empress. A diadem of pearls surrounded her head, and harmonised admirably with two splendid braids of fair hair that shaded her delicate cheeks. Her arms, whiter than the lace that ornamented them, were half hidden in long gloves, reaching nearly to her elbow.

Nothing could be more perfect than her figure, nothing more charming than her foot in its satin slipper. At the moment when I saw her her beaming blue eyes wore a pensive expression. I do not know whether some serious thought came over her, or whether she was impressed with the grave melody of the piece Liszt was playing; but the expression of her countenance seemed to me full of sweetness and melancholy.

Never can I express my feelings at that moment. All that my aunt had related of her goodness crossed my mind.

Smile if you will, but my eyes became full of tears when I saw this young girl, so beautiful and so idolised by such a father, seem so melancholy and pensive.

You know how scrupulously etiquette and the privileges of rank are observed by us. Thanks to my title and my relationship to the grand duke, the crowd in the midst of which I stood gradually fell back, and I found myself left almost alone in the embrasure of the door. It was, no doubt, owing to this circumstance that the princess,awaking from her reverie, perceived, and no doubt recognised me, for she started and blushed.

She had seen my portrait at my aunt's, and recognised me; nothing could be more simple. The princess's eyes did not rest upon me an instant, but that look threw me into the most violent confusion. I felt my cheeks glow, I cast down my eyes, and did not venture to raise them for some time. When I dared at last to steal a glance at the princess she was speaking in a low tone to the archduchess, who seemed to listen to her with the most affectionate interest.

Liszt having paused for a few moments between the pieces he was playing, the grand duke took the opportunity of expressing his admiration. On returning to his place he perceived me, nodded kindly to me, and said something to the archduchess, fixing his eyes on me at the same time. The duchess, after looking at me a moment, turned to the duke, who smiled and said something to his daughter that seemed to embarrass her, for she blushed again. I was on thorns; but, unfortunately, etiquette forbade my leaving my place until the concert was over.

As soon as the concert was finished I followed the aide-de-camp; he conducted me to the grand duke, who deigned to advance a few steps towards me, took me by the arm, and said to the Archduchess Sophia:

"Permit me to present to your royal highness my cousin, Prince Henry of Herkaüsen-Oldenzaal."

"I have seen the prince at Vienna, and meet him here with pleasure," replied the duchess, before whom I inclined myself respectfully.

"My dear Amelie," continued the prince, addressing his daughter, "this is Prince Henry, your cousin, the son of one of my most valued friends, Prince Paul, whom I greatly lament not seeing here to-day."

"Pray, monseigneur, inform the prince that I equally regret his absence, for I am always delighted to know any of my father's friends."

I had not until then heard the princess's voice, and I was struck with its intense sweetness.

"I hope, my dear Henry, you will stay some time with your aunt," said the grand duke. "Come and see us often about three o'clocken famille; and if we ride out you must accompany us. You know how great an affection I have always felt for you, for your noble qualities."

"I cannot express my gratitude for your royal highness's kindness."

"Well, to prove it," said the grand duke, smiling, "engage your cousin for the second quadrille; the first belongs to the archduke."

"Will your royal highness do me the honour?" said I to my cousin.

"Oh, call each other cousin, as in the good old times," replied the duke, laughing. "There should be no ceremony between relations."

"Will you dance with me, cousin?"

"Yes, cousin," replied the princess.

I cannot tell how much I felt the touching kindness of the grand duke, and how bitterly I reproached myself for yielding to an affection the prince would never authorise.

I vowed inwardly that nothing should induce me to acquaint my cousin with my affection, but I feared my emotion would betray me.

I had leisure for these reflections whilst my cousin danced the first quadrille with the Archduke Stanislaus. Nothing was more suited to display the graces of the princess's person than the slow movements of the dance. I anxiously awaited my turn; and I succeeded in concealing my emotion when I led her to the quadrille.

"Does your royal highness sanction my calling you cousin?" said I.

"Oh, yes, cousin, I am always delighted to obey my father."

"I rejoice in this familiarity, since I have learnt from my aunt to know you."

"My father has often spoken of you, cousin; and what may, perhaps, astonish you," added she, timidly, "I also knew you by sight; for one day the Abbess of Ste. Hermangeld, your aunt, for whom I have the greatest respect, showed me your picture."

"As a page of the sixteenth century?"

"Yes, cousin; and my father was malicious enough to tell me that it was an ancestor of ours, and spoke so highly of his courage and his other qualities that our family ought to be proud of their descent from him."

"Alas, cousin, I fear my resemblance to my portrait is not great!"

"You are mistaken, cousin," said the princess. "For at the end of the concert I recognised you immediately, in spite of the difference of costume." Then, wishing to change the conversation, she added, "How charmingly M. Liszt plays!—does he not?"

"Yes. How attentively you listened to him!"

"Because there is to me a double charm in music without words. Not only you hear the execution, but you can adapt your thoughts to the melody. Do you understand me?"

"Perfectly; your own thoughts become words to the air."

"Yes, you quite comprehend me," said she, with a gesture of satisfaction. "I feared I could not express what I felt just now."

"I thank God, cousin," said I, smiling, "you can have no words to set to so sad an air."

I know not whether my question was indiscreet or whether she had not heard me, but suddenly she exclaimed, pointing out to me the grand duke, who crossed the room with the archduchess on his arm, "Cousin, look at my father, how handsome he is! how noble!how good! Every one looks at him as if they loved him more than they feared him."

"Ah," cried I, "it is not only here he is beloved. If the blessing of his people be transmitted to their posterity, the name of Rodolph of Gerolstein will be immortal."

"To speak thus is to be, indeed, worthy of his attachment."

"I do but give utterance to the feelings of all present; see how they all hasten to pay their respects to Madame d'Harville!"

"No one in the world is more worthy of my father's affections than Madame d'Harville."

"You are more capable than any one of appreciating her, as you have been in France."

Scarcely had I pronounced these words than the princess cast down her eyes, and her features assumed an air of melancholy; and when I led her back to her seat the expression of them was still the same. I suppose that my allusion to her stay in France recalled the death of her mother.

In the course of the evening a circumstance occurred which you may think too trivial to mention, perhaps, but which evinces the extraordinary influence this young girl universally inspires. Her bandeau of pearls having become disarranged, the Archduchess Sophia, who was leaning on her arm, kindly readjusted the ornament upon her brow. Knowing, as we do, the hauteur of the archduchess, such condescension is almost inconceivable.

The next morning I was invited, together with a few other persons, to be present at the marriage of the grand duke with Madame la Marquise d'Harville. I had never seen the princess so radiant and happy.

Some days after the duke's marriage I had a long interview with him. He questioned me about my past life, my future career. He gave me the most admirable advice, the kindest encouragement. So much so thatthe idea crossed my mind that he had perceived my love and wished to bring me to confess it.

But this idea was soon dispelled. The prince concluded by telling me that the great wars were over, that I ought to avail myself of my name, my connections, the education I had received, and my father's friendship with the Prince de M——, prime minister of the emperor, in order to follow a diplomatic instead of a military career. In a word, he offered me his sovereign protection to facilitate my entry in the career he proposed to me.

I thanked him for his offers with gratitude, and added that I felt the weight of his advice and would follow it.

I at first visited the palace very seldom; but, thanks to the duke's reiterated invitations, I was soon there almost every day. We lived in the peaceful retirement resembling that of some English mansions. When the weather permitted we rode out with the duke, the duchess, and the grand personages of the court.

When we were forced to remain at home we sang, and I accompanied the grand duchess and my cousin, who had the sweetest and most expressive voice I ever heard. At other times we inspected the magnificent picture galleries and museums, and the library of the prince, who is one of the most accomplished men in Europe. I often dined at the palace, and on the opera nights I accompanied the duke's family to the theatre.

Could this intimacy have lasted for ever I should have been happy, perhaps, but I reflected that I should be summoned to Vienna by my duties. I reflected, also, that the duke would soon think of finding a suitable alliance for his daughter.

My cousin remarked this change in me. The evening before I quitted Gerolstein she told me she had for several days remarked my abstracted manner. I endeavoured to evade this question, saying that my approaching departure was the cause.

"I can scarcely believe it," replied she. "My father treats you like a son; every one loves you. It would be ingratitude if you were unhappy."

"Alas!" said I, unable to restrain my emotion, "it is grief I am a prey to!"

"Why, what has happened?"

"Just now, cousin, you have told me your father treated me like a son, and that every one loved me; and yet, ere long, I must quit Gerolstein. It is this that grieves me."

"And are the recollections of those you have left as nothing?"

"Doubtless; but time brings so many changes."

"There are affections, at least, that are unchangeable; such as that of my father for you, such as that I feel for you. When you are once brother and sister you never forget each other," added she, looking up, her large blue eyes full of tears.

I was on the point of betraying myself; however, I controlled my feelings in time.

"Do you think then, cousin," said I, "that when I return in a few years this affection will continue?"

"Why should it not?"

"Because you will be probably married; you will have other duties to perform, and you will forget your poor brother."

This was all that passed; I know not if she was offended at these words, or whether she was like myself grieved at the changes the future must bring; but, instead of answering me, she was silent for a moment, then, rising hastily from her seat, her face pale and altered, she left the room, after having looked for a few seconds at the embroidery of the young Countess d'Oppenheim, one of her maids of honour.

The same evening I received a second letter from my father, urging me to return. The next morning I took leave of the grand duke. He told me my cousin wasunwell, but that he would make my adieux; he then embraced me tenderly, renewed his promises of assistance, and added that, whenever I had leave of absence, nothing would give him greater pleasure than to see me at Gerolstein.

Happily, on my arrival, I found my father better; still confined to his bed, and very weak, it is true, but out of danger. Now that you know all, Maximilian, tell me, what can I do?

Just as I finished this letter, my door opened, and, to my great surprise, my father, whom I believed to be in bed, entered; he saw the letter on the table.

"To whom are you writing so long a letter?" said he, smiling.

"To Maximilian, father."

"Oh," said he, with an expression of affectionate reproach, "he has all your confidence! He is very happy!"

He pronounced these last words in so sorrowful a tone that I held out the letter to him, almost without reflection, saying:

"Read it, father."

My friend, he has read all! After having remained musing some time he said to me:

"Henry, I shall write and inform the grand duke of all that passed during your stay at Gerolstein."

"Father, I entreat you not!"

"Is what you have written to Maximilian scrupulously true?"

"Yes."

"Do you love your cousin?"

"I adore her; but—"

My father interrupted me.

"Then, in that case, I shall write to the grand duke and demand her hand for you."

"But, father, such a demand will be madness on my part!"

"It is true; but still, in making this demand, I shall acquaint the prince with my reasons for making it. He has received you with the greatest kindness, and it would be unworthy of me to deceive him. He will be touched at the frankness of my demand, and, though he refuse it, as he certainly will, he will yet know that, should you ever again visit Gerolstein, you cannot be on the same familiar terms with the princess."

You know that, although so tenderly attached to me, my father is inflexible in whatever concerns his duty; judge, then, of my fears, of my anxiety.

I hastily terminate this long letter, but I will soon write again. Sympathise with me, for I fear I shall go mad if the fever that preys on me does not soon abate. Adieu, adieu! Ever yours,

Henry d'H.-O.

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