Suddenly he paused, and grasped the arms of the chair. A shudder pervaded his whole body, and, with a convulsive gasp, he fell hack, apparently insensible.

The assembly broke up in confusion. Physicians were summoned, and, at their bidding, the duke was slowly borne back into his chamber. His head was enveloped in damp cloths, his temples were rubbed with stimulants, and, after various restoratives had been applied, he slowly opened his eyes, and looked bewildered about him. Nobody was near except Doctor Mirazzi. The other physicians had retired to the embrasure of a bay-window, and the lackeys had gathered about the door, where they were awaiting further orders from their superiors. All this the duke had seen at a glance. He closed his eyes again, but, as he did so, he made a sign to Doctor Mirazzi.

The latter bent his head to listen, but in such a manner as to convey the idea that he was watching his patient's fluttering breath.

"Dismiss them all," whispered the sick man.

The doctor gave no ostensible sign of having heard. He still kept his ear to the patient's mouth; then, after a while, he placed it close to his heart. The examination at an end, he went on tiptoes toward the window where his colleagues were standing.

"He sleeps," whispered he. "When he awakes, his malady will probably declare itself. I will remain here to watch him; it is unnecessary for you to confine yourselves with me in this close sick-room. Will you oblige me by returning this evening for a consultation?"

"Certainly," was the reply of the others, who were grateful to be relieved from duty. "Shall we appoint seven o'clock?"

"Yes," answered Mirazzi; "and we will hold our consultation in the duke's sitting-room. Our presence, here might be prejudicial."

And, with injunctions for silence, the doctor accompanied his colleagues to the door, which was noiselessly opened by the lackeys; but, before they had time to close it again, Mirazzi shut it with his own hands, loosening simultaneously a thick velvet portiere, through whose heavy folds no sound could penetrate without.

Victor Amadeus, meanwhile, lay motionless in his arm-chair.

"Your highness." said Mirazzi, "we are now safe and alone."

The duke arose, kicked off his coverlet, and stood erect. "My dear doctor," said he, "you must prove to me that I may trust you."

"For thirty years I have served your royal highness's family, and I am ready to do so, be it with my life," replied Mirazzi.

"I believe you, Mirazzi; and therefore I, who am insincere toward everybody else, am honest in my intercourse with you. Now listen to me. In the science of medicine there are many remedies for diseases. Are there any potions, known to physicians, that have power to PRODUCE maladies?"

"That is a dangerous inquiry, your highness; for it regards the most tragic secrets of the craft. There are many, many things known to us that will produce sickness, followed by death, immediate or remote; but unfortunately there are not as many as you suppose, that will restore the vital energies where they are impaired by disease."

"But, doctor, surely you have some way of simulating disease without injuring the patient. Cutaneous maladies, for instance, must be very easily induced."

"They can more easily be induced than simulated. I can raise a scarlet eruption on a man's skin; but when it appears, it will bring with it fever and thirst."

"So much the better, so much the better!" exclaimed Victor Amadeus, eagerly. "How long will the symptoms last?"

"If proper remedies are administered, they will disappear in five or six days, your highness."

"Good, good," murmured the duke to himself; and then he began to pace forth and back the length of the apartment. After a while he came and stood directly in front of the doctor, who with his sharp eyes had been watching him as he walked, and perfectly apprehended the nature of the service he was expected to render to his distinguished patient.

"Doctor," said the sick man, "I feel the premonition of some serious illness. My head swims, my limbs ache, and cold chills are darting through my body. My fever will be high, and perchance I may grow delirious. Let me then use the rational interval left me, to make such dispositions as might be necessary in case of my demise."

"Then let me advise your highness to get to bed as speedily as possible," replied the doctor, solemnly. "This done, I will call in our consulting physicians—"

"By no means: I hate consultations. Nobody shall come into my room but yourself, and, when you need the advice of your coadjutors, you must assemble them in some other part of the castle."

"I thank your highness for so signal a proof of confidence," said Mirazzi, "but I am not at liberty to assume the undivided responsibility of your nursing; for you may become really sick, and you must have all needful attention. Were we in Turin, her highness your noble spouse would suffer no one to attend you except herself; but here—"

"Here she shall not come; and to make sure of this fact, I will write her a letter in my own hand that will allay any anxiety she might feel on my account. Write yourself to the duchess, and ask her to send my old nurse—her that has always tended me in sickness. But I feel very ill, doctor. Call my valet to undress me. When I am comfortably arranged in bed, I will send for my secretary, and afterward for my staff-officers. They must receive their orders from me, before I lose my senses."

"To bed, to bed, your highness—that is the main thing!"

"Yes, that is the main thing," echoed the duke, falling into his arm-chair, and drawing up his velvet coverlet. "Now, doctor," added he, in a very faint voice, "call my valets, or I shall swoon before they get me to bed."



CHAPTER IV.

THE DUKE'S DANGEROUS ILLNESS.

The news of the duke's terrible illness spread through the castle, over the town, and reached the barracks of the soldiers, who, like their officers, received the intelligence with blank looks of disappointment.

The staff-officers hastened to the castle, and some of them made attempts to penetrate the sick-chamber. But all in vain. Doctor Mirazzi's orders were stringent, and the nerves of his patient were not to be tried by the presence of any man, were that man his own brother.

"We can determine nothing, nor can we administer any remedies," said he, "until the malady declares itself. We must wait."

"We must wait," said the duke's physician, and the whole army was doomed to inaction, while urgent and more urgent grew the necessity for active operations.

Throughout the castle reigned profound stillness: not the least sound was permitted to reach the duke's ears. The officers that called were kept at a distance from his apartments, and to all their inquiries there was but one and the same reply—the duke was delirious, and incapable of giving orders.

Finally, after three days of mortal suspense, it was announced that his highness of Savoy had malignant scarlet fever.

During the four days that followed this announcement, nobody was allowed to enter the room except Doctor Mirazzi, and the old nurse that sat up with the duke at night. But, on the fifth day, two persons were admitted. Of these, one was the marshal of the duke's household, the other was his cousin Eugene.

They were received with mysterious whisperings, and were warned not to excite the patient. He had, in the incipiency of his illness, insisted upon making his will, and these two confidential friends had been summoned to witness it.

The old nurse now joined them to say that his highness was awake, and would see Prince Eugene.

"My dear cousin," said the duke, languidly, "come and receive my last greeting."

Eugene entered the alcove, and stood at the bedside. The bed was curtained in purple velvet, and the hangings were so arranged as to leave the duke's face in obscurity. Eugene perceived, nevertheless, that there was no emaciation of features, nor any alteration in the expression of the sharp, restless eye.

"My dear kinsman," continued the invalid, "it is all over with me. I die without fame; I have fought my last battle and am vanquished by invincible death."

"No, your highness, you have not the aspect of a dying man; and I have strong hope that you will live to perform great deeds yet. Young, wise, and brave as you are, your strong will may vanquish not only death, but our common enemy—the King of France."

"May your words prove prophetic!" sighed the duke, "but something tells me that I must prepare for the worst. I have made my will, and—"

He paused, gasped for breath, and closed his eyes. Then motioning to Eugene to come nearer, he whispered: "I have appointed you my executor until the majority of my heir. Promise me to do all in your power to make my subjects happy."

"Your royal highness amazes me, and I know not—"

He was interrupted by a loud groan which brought Doctor Mirazzi to the bed in a trice. The duke was trembling; his teeth were clinched, and his hands were pressed upon his temples.

Restoratives were used, and at the proper time the patient unclosed his eyes. With a great effort he raised himself in bed, beckoned to the marshal of the household to approach, and, supported by Mirazzi, he put his name to the will.

"I request my minister and the marshal of my household to approach and witness the signing of my will."

They came in, and, taking up a document which lay on a table close by, the duke raised himself in bed, and, supported by the doctor, gave his signature.

"Take it," said he, "to Turin. Place it in the archives, and when I am dead let it be opened in the presence of the duchess and of my well-beloved kinsman here present, the Prince of Savoy. And now," said he, "farewell. My strength is exhausted! The end is nigh!"

And with these faintly-articulated words, Victor Amadeus fell back upon his pillow and swooned.

Eugene returned to his quarters in a state of extreme perplexity.

"How is the duke?" cried De Commercy, who shared his lodgings.

"I do not know," said Eugene, moodily. "But this I know. we march, not to Grenoble, but back to Turin."

"Indeed!"

"Yes; such are the duke's latest orders, and, as he has appointed no one to represent him, the army is still under his sole control. I told you, we should get no farther than Embrun!"

"But the duke? It is not possible that he is acting the sick man all this while?"

"Not possible! Nothing is impossible to such a crafty, vulpine nature as his!"

"The bulletins say that he is attacked with scarlet fever, and you must have seen whether he bears its marks on his skin or not."

"He has them, but—this shrewd kinsman of mine has many a secret unknown to such as you and myself, Commercy. Perhaps I do him injustice; for, in good sooth, I am provoked, and in a humor to suspect everybody. His voice is very weak, and indeed, Commercy, I would feel very uncomfortable should he prove to me, by dying, that I have suspected him unjustly. I must go again; I MUST satisfy my doubts."

The duke's condition was declared to be so precarious that sentries were stationed at every entrance of the castle, to prevent so much as the lightest footstep from being heard by the noble patient. He was passing a crisis, and, during the transition, not a soul must be admitted within the castle gates.

Prince Eugene, nevertheless, at dusk, betook himself thitherward. The sentry saluted him, but barred the entrance.

"You do not know me," said the prince. "I am the duke's nearest kinsman, and, unless you have orders to exclude me personally, I have the entrance to his chamber."

"We have no orders with reference to your highness," was the reply.

"Then I must pass, and I shoulder the responsibility."

The officer signed to the sentry to stand aside, and Eugene entered the castle, crossed the tessellated vestibule, and ascended the wide marble staircase. Here he was stopped a second time, but he referred the guards to the officer below, and was again allowed to pass. "I must try to solve this riddle," thought he. "The emperor's interests hang upon the solution. Luckily, I have a pretext for my unexpected visit in these dispatches."

He had now traversed the long, lofty hall; had entered a smaller one that led to the duke's antechamber, and had reached the opposite end of the room, where stood two more sentries, one before each door that opened into the duke's chamber. They had seen him in the morning, and taking it for granted that, having penetrated thus far, he had authority to go farther, they saluted him, and stepped aside.

Eugene whispered, "Is this the door by which I entered this morning?"

The sentry bowed.

"Whither does it lead?"

"To his royal highness's alcove, my lord."

"Right," said Eugene, laying his hand on the lock. It turned, and he was in a small recess which opened into the alcove. The portiere was down, and Eugene stood irresolute before it. He felt a nervous dread of he knew not what, and almost resolved to retrace his steps. He thought he could not bear the shock of the duke's treachery, should the illness prove—as he feared it would—a sham. He wondered what he would do; and began to think it better not to penetrate into the secrets of his kinsman's acts, but—

No, no! He had gone too far to lose his opportunity, and, ashamed of his irresolution, he raised the portiere. The alcove was darkened by draperies, but as soon as Eugene's eyes had accustomed themselves to the obscurity of the place, he drew near the bed, opened the curtains, and beheld—nobody! nothing!

"I was right," muttered he, grinding his teeth; "it was a comedy!" As he retreated, he stumbled against the little table, and the chink of the phials that stood upon it was audible.

"Is that you, my good Annetta?" said the voice of the duke.

Eugene emerged from the alcove, and entered the sitting-room. There, in an arm-chair, before a table laden with viands, fruits, and rare wines, sat the expiring patient that had made his will in the morning.

The duke was in the act of raising a glass of wine to his lips. He laid it hastily down, and his keen eyes darted fire at the intruder.

"What means this?" asked he, in a voice that was somewhat uncertain.

"If I may be permitted to interpret what I see before me," replied Eugene, "I should say that your highness is merely carrying out military customs. We were at a funeral this morning, to the tune of a dead march—we return, this afternoon, to that of a quick-step."

"I hope you are agreeably surprised to find that instead of being left behind, I have come back with the music," said the duke, recovering his self-possession. "Come and join me in a glass of good wine. I am as yet too weak to do the honors of my house, but I shall enjoy my repast twofold, now that I have a guest. Sit down. My physician, having ascertained that what I mistook for approaching dissolution was a favorable crisis, has prescribed a generous diet for me, and I do assure you that, with every mouthful, I feel my health return. Ah, Eugene! life is a great boon, and I thank God, who has generously prolonged mine. I hope that you, too, are glad to see me revive; the army, I know, will rejoice to hear of my recovery."

"I do not doubt their joy," replied Eugene, "for your highness's quick convalescence will spare them the mortification of a retreat to Piedmont. I presume you will now march to Paris."

"My fiery, impetuous Eugene," replied Victor Amadeus, with an air of superiority, "you forget that convalescence is not health. I am here for three weeks at least, and by that time the season will be too much advanced to make a second invasion of France. So, God willing, we shall return to Piedmont, there to prosecute the war against Catinat and his incendiaries, whom I hope to drive ignominiously from Italy."

"That is—we are to hold ourselves on the defensive," replied Eugene, bitterly. "Your highness is truly magnanimous! All France lies within your grasp, and, instead of taking advantage of your good fortune, you lay it humbly at the feet of Louis. We have it in our power to dictate terms, while this retreat exposes us to have them dictated to ourselves."

"Field-marshal," said the duke, haughtily, "you forget that you speak to your commander-in-chief."

"Yes—to remember that I speak to the Duke of Savoy—"

"With the head of your house," interrupted the duke, "to whom you owe respect."

"I accord it with all my heart. Precisely because the Duke of Savoy is the chief of our house, do I implore him not to turn his back upon the road which lies open to fame and renown, but to advance bravely to the front, as becomes the friend and ally of the emperor."

Victor Amadeus put his hand up to his head. "Excuse me—I am not equal to the holding of a council of war, nor do I intend to have my commands discussed. We go back to Piedmont."

"Then I must submit," said Eugene, mournfully. "But I crave permission to ask one question of my kinsman."

"Say on," answered the duke, wearily.

"Does your highness propose to desert the cause of the emperor, and renew your alliance with France? Ah, you smile! You smile to think that I should be so unpractised in the art of diplomacy, as to expect a direct answer to such an inquiry. But I entreat you to remember, that your defection concerns not only your honor but mine also."

"My dear Eugene," said the duke, mildly, "you are anxious without any grounds for anxiety. At your solicitation, and from my own convictions of duty, I became the ally of the emperor; I have never reaped any advantage from the alliance, and yet I have remained perfectly loyal. France has made me many offers, every one of which I have rejected. So, make yourself easy on the score of my good faith, and let us change the subject. To what chance do I owe the pleasant surprise of this visit from you?"

"I have the honor to bring letters to your royal highness from the emperor," answered Eugene, presenting his dispatches. "I owe it to my relationship with your highness, that I was allowed by your sentries to effect my entrance here."

"Of course, of course. Everybody knows in what high esteem I hold Prince Eugene. Verily I believe you to be the most popular man in the army, and your brown cassock to inspire more respect than my field-marshal's uniform. And now to study the emperor's letter. I say study, for his majesty will write to me in Latin, and I am no great scholar."

"While your highness is occupied," said Eugene, rising, "I will retire to the window." He crossed the room, and, entering the embrasure, was completely lost to view behind its hangings.

There was a silence of some duration. The duke studied his Latin, while Eugene looked out of the window. Suddenly, without any previous formality of knocking, the door leading to the antechamber flew open, and the voice of the old nurse was heard.

"Your highness," said she, as though communicating a most agreeable piece of news, "your highness, here is the French ambassador. I—"

"Peace, Annetta, peace!" cried Victor Amadeus. But Annetta was too much interested to hear, and she went on with great volubility:

"Here he is; I passed him through. Everybody mistook him for Prince Eugene—"

"Annetta, hold your tongue!" cried the duke, in a thundering voice.

"Ay, your highness, ay," was the reply of the old woman, who, stepping back, opened the door and called out:

"Count Tesse, his highness expects you; come in."

And, to be sure, there walked in a gentleman wearing the identical brown cassock, with its brass buttons, which was known as the costume of Prince Eugene of Savoy!

Victor Amadeus, in despair, sprang from his chair, and made a deprecatory movement by which he hoped to prevail upon the count to retreat. But he only looked bewildered; and his bewilderment increased to positive consternation, when the curtains opened, and the veritable Eugene stepped out and surveyed him with undisguised contempt.

"My dear Eugene," said the duke, in a conciliatory voice, "you see how pertinaciously I am besieged by these Frenchmen. Here, for instance, is Count Tesse. This is his third attempt to force an interview with me, and he has gained his end by bribing my silly old nurse to admit him under the garb of one to whom no one here would dare deny entrance. Count Tesse is an envoy of the King of France, and in your presence I intend to show him that no offer, however brilliant, can induce me to forsake my imperial ally of Austria."

"I am perfectly convinced of your loyalty," said Eugene, with an ironical smile, "and, to prove my trust, I beg permission to withdraw. I have the honor to bid you good-evening."

So saying, Eugene inclined his head to the duke, and, paying no attention whatever to his double, passed on.

With a saddened heart he returned to his barracks. He was met by the Prince de Commercy, holding aloft a huge placard. "The bulletin! The bulletin!" cried he. "The crisis is past, and the duke is safe."

"We, however, my friend, are in great danger. We are not driven from French territory by our enemies, but by our pretended friends. Ah! Victor Amadeus has this day inflicted upon me a wound more painful than that of the Janizary's arrow at Belgrade. He has withered my laurels at the very moment when my hand was extended to pluck them."

"Then he abandons us, and declares himself for France?" asked De Commerey.

"If that were all, we could bear his defection, for we would have one enemy more—that is all. Instead of which, we have a double- faced friend who will have far more power to injure us by his treachery in our own camp, than by his hostility in that of the enemy. I will warn the emperor, as it is my duty to do; but he will be dazzled by the fine promises of the duke, and disregard my warning. [Footnote: Every thing happened exactly as Eugene predicted. The Duke of Savoy retained command of the imperial army for three years, during which he played into the hands of Louis XIV., condemning the allied forces to total inaction, until France had complied with all his exactions, when he declared himself for Louis, and accepted the rank of a general in the French army. The Prince de Commercy was so exasperated that he challenged the duke, but the challenge was refused.] Meanwhile, as long as Victor Amadeus wears his mask, should we even wrest a victory in spite of his intrigues, he will manage to deprive us of all its advantages. He will sell us to France, of that you may be sure."



CHAPTER V.

THE MARQUIS STROZZI.

"Then you think that Strozzi will not recognize me?" asked Barbesieur de Louvois.

"I know it," replied Carlotta. "His memory is a blank from which every image, except that of his wife, has been effaced."

"Does he love her still?"

"Unhappily he does," sighed Carlotta.

"My good girl," said Barbesieur, trying to look amiable, "pray don't be so concise. Tell me the condition of the marquis, at once: I did not come to this old owl's roost for pastime. I came to see what could be done to restore its unhappy lord to reason. That you are observing, I remember; you proved it by the good care you took of my sister Laura."

"My lord, you jest; but the flight of the marchioness has disgraced me. She outwitted me, and I shall hate her to the end of my days."

"Verily I believe you," laughed Barbesieur, as he saw the glitter of her pale-green eyes. "I see in your face that you know how to hate. But you must excuse me if I am amused when I think I see you watching the doors like a she-Cerberus, while that sly creature was flying out of the chimney. But never mind her: I want to talk with you of her husband. I know that he was confined in a mad-house; but, having occasion to see if he was sane enough to do me a service, I found out that he had been discharged as cured, and had retired within himself. Now, good Carlotta, tell me his veritable condition."

"He never has been sane since the flight of the marchioness. The morning after, when, in spite of our knocking and calling, we received no answer, I set Julia to watch the doors (for I thought she was merely trying to frighten us, and would make her escape while we were away), and went to consult the marquis as to what we must do. When we returned, Julia assured us that she had not heard a breath since I had been away."

"And I suppose that the marquis forced the doors?"

"Oh, no, my lord," replied Carlotta, bitterly. "He was so fearful of displeasing her that he resisted all my importunities to break them open. He knocked and begged so humbly for admission, that I fairly cried with rage. This lasted for hours. Finally he fell on his knees and cried like a child, promising, if she would open the door, to give her her freedom, and never imprison her again. Then he swore by the memory of his father that he would go to Rome and get a divorce for her. It was shameful; and at last I cried out for passion, and told him to get up and behave like a man. But all in vain. Suddenly Julia came running to say that, while the marquis had been lying before the parlor door, she had forced the one that led to the sitting-room, and that the marchioness had escaped."

"What did Strozzi do when he heard this? Whine louder?"

"Oh, no! He sprang up, rushed into the rooms, and began to search for her."

"I suppose you helped, like good dogs after their game?"

"Of course, for it seemed impossible that she should have gotten out by any but supernatural means. But at last we were obliged to accept the fact of her flight, wonderful as it was, and we sat down. Not so the marquis. He appeared to think that she had been transformed into a mouse, for he ran about, opening boxes, looking under tables, occasionally stopping to roar like a wild beast, or falling on his knees and weeping. Then he would begin his hunt again, and this lasted the whole day. We asked him to take some rest, and let his servants be sent out to search the woods, but he gave us no answer, still going round and round until dusk, when he called for lights. He kept up his search the whole night; and when the sun rose, and we awoke, we found him running to and fro, from one room to the other. In vain we pressed him to eat or to rest, he spoke not a word to any of us. Finally, one of the men laid hands on him to force him to sit down, when he drew back and struck him with such force that the blood spirted from his face, as he fell full length on the floor. The marquis went on in this manner for a week, each day growing paler and feebler, until at last he staggered like a drunken man."

"Unhappy lover!" exclaimed Barbesieur, with a shrug.

"Finally, the physician we had sent for came from Turin. By this time the marquis had fallen from exhaustion, and lay asleep. He was lifted to bed, and four men were set to watch him; for the doctor expected him to be violent when he waked. And so he was. He tried to leap out of bed, and was finally bound hand and foot. After a while, came his cousin from Venice, who took charge of him and of his property."

"Yes, to my cost," growled Barbesieur. "for he swindled me out of my pension."

"The Marquis Balbi-Strozzi inherits the estate, if the Marquis Ottario dies without heirs," said Carlotta.

"The Marquis Ottario will not be such an ass as to die without heirs," cried Barbesieur, impatiently. "He shall be reconciled to his wife, or he shall marry some other woman, and beget children. The devil! He is a young man, and nobody dies of love, nowadays."

"He looks like a man of eighty," said Carlotta.

"He is much changed, then?"

"You would not know him, my lord."

"Perhaps not, but he will recover his youth with his health. What does he do all day, Carlotta? What does he say?"

"My lord, he says nothing, except an occasional word to his valet. As for what he does, he is forever shut up in his laboratory."

"Laboratory? What sort of a laboratory?"

"A room which, immediately after his return, he had fitted up like a great kitchen. When the alterations had been made, he went to Turin, and came home with the entire contents of an apothecary shop, with which the shelves of his laboratory are filled. I helped him to place his jars and phials, but much against my will, for he calls me ugly names."

Barbesieur laughed. "Do tell me what he calls you?"

"My lord, you may laugh, but you would not like to answer to the name of 'Basilisk.'"

"To be sure, 'Floweret' would be much more appropriate to your style of beauty, Carlotta; but let that pass, and go on with your narrative. What is Strozzi about, in this laboratory?"

"How do I know, my lord? He cooks and evaporates his messes; then runs to his table and reads in some mouldy old parchments; then hurries back to the chimney and stirs his pipkins—then back to the table—and so on, all day long."

"But, my angelic Carlotta, if nobody is allowed to enter the laboratory, how came you to be so admirably posted as to Strozzi's movements?"

Carlotta looked perplexed. "My lord, there is a little hole in the door that leads out to the corridor, and sometimes I have thought it but right to watch our dear lord, that he might do himself no harm."

"Which means that you bored a hole in the door by way of observatory. Nay—do not deny it; I respect your thirst for knowledge. Does he never leave his laboratory?"

"Oh, yes, my lord. He writes a great deal in his cabinet. All his orders are transmitted in that way. Last week the steward made a mistake in his accounts—"

"To his own prejudice?"

"My lord," said Carlotta, with a hoarse laugh, "no, to that of the marquis. When he discovered it, he wrote underneath, 'Two thousand florins unaccounted for. If this occurs a second time, you are discharged.'"

"Good, good!" cried Barbesieur. "Then he is returning to his senses. He receives no company?" added he.

"How should he? He knows nobody, and has forgotten every thing connected with his past life."

"But you told me that he still remembered the marchioness?"

"As for her, my lord, he loves her as madly as ever. He stands before her portrait, weeping by the hour, and the table is always set for two persons. Every morning he goes into the garden and makes a bouquet, which, he lays upon her plate before he takes his seat."

"Poor Strozzi! Sane or mad, he will always be a dreamer!" said Barbesieur. "Where is he now?"

"In the garden, my lord; for it is almost the hour for dinner, and he is in the conservatory gathering flowers for the empty plate."

"Show me the way. I am curious to know whether he has forgotten his brother-in-law and benefactor."



CHAPTER VI.

INSANITY AND REVENGE.

Barbesieur followed Carlotta to the garden. They were walking silently down the great avenue that led to the conservatory, when, at some distance, they beheld advancing toward them the figure of a man. His step was feeble and slow; his black garments hung loosely about his shrunken limbs; his face was bloodless, like that of a corpse, his cheeks hollow, his large eyes so sunken that their light seemed to come from the depths of a cavern. His sparse hair, lightly blown about by the wind, was white as snow; his long, thin beard was of the same hue.

"Who is that strange-looking old man?" asked Barbesieur.

"That, my lord, is the Marquis Strozzi!"

"Impossible!" cried Barbesieur, with a start.

"I told you. my lord, that he looked like a decrepit old man," said Carlotta.

"And truly he is not a very seductive-looking personage," answered Barbesieur. "But we must try if, in this extinguished crater, there be not a spark by which its fire may be rekindled. Leave me, Carlotta. I must have no third person here to divert Strozzi's attention from myself."

"Shall I not announce you, my lord?" asked Carlotta, who was dying of curiosity to see the meeting.

"Not at all, my angel. Go back to the castle—not by that winding path, if you please, but by this wide avenue. And—be alert in your movements, for I shall watch you until yonder door closes upon your youthful charms, and hides them from my sight."

Carlotta looked venomous, but dared not tarry, and Barbesieur followed her with his eyes until he heard the clang of the ponderous castle-door behind her. He then confronted the living spectre that, by this time, was within a few feet of him.

"God's greeting to you, brother-in-law," cried he, in a loud, emphatic voice, while he grasped Strozzi's poor, wan hands, and held them within his own.

The marquis raised his dark, blank eyes, then let them fall again upon the bouquet which Barbesieur had so unceremoniously crushed.

"Sir," said he, gently, "do release my hand, for see—you are bruising my flowers."

"Sure enough, he does not recognize me," said Barbesieur, relaxing his hold; while Strozzi, unmindful of his presence, caressed his flowers, and smoothed their crumpled leaves.

"She loves flowers," murmured the poor maniac.

Barbesieur took up the words. "Yes," said he, "yes; my sister Laura loves flowers. Pity she is not here to see them."

The marquis shivered. "Who speaks of my Laura?" said he.

"I,—I, her brother," bawled Barbesieur, looking straight into Strozzi's eyes. "I spoke of her, and, by G-d, I have a right to call her, for I am her brother Barbesieur!"

Strozzi extended his hand, and an imbecile smile flitted over his ghastly face. "Ah! then, you love her?" asked he, mournfully.

"Of course I love her," was the lying response. "You remember—do you not—that you were indebted to me for your marriage with Laura Bonaletta?"

"Bonaletta!" screamed Strozzi. "There is no Laura Bonaletta; her name is Laura Strozzi, the Marchioness Strozzi, my wife! Remember that, sir—remember it."

"To be sure, to be sure," murmured Barbesieur; "he has forgotten everybody but that tiresome Laura. Let us see if we cannot stir up his memory to another tune."

Strozzi meanwhile had passed on, and, with his eyes fixed on his flowers, was slowly making his way to the castle. Barbesieur followed, though the poor lunatic seemed to have no consciousness of his presence. They walked on together in silence, until they had reached the castle, and entered the dining-room, where dinner was served.

Strozzi went up to the table, laid his offering on the plate, and bowed:

"Will you allow me to take my seat?" said he, humbly, while he took a chair opposite, which old Martino had drawn back for his accommodation.

"Do you see, my lord?" said Martino to Barbesieur; "he imagines the marchioness present at all his meals."

"He must be undeceived," said Barbesieur, roughly.

"I beseech you, signor," said the old man, "leave him in error; for, if you undeceive him, you will rob him of the only glimpse of happiness that remains to him."

"I shall make the attempt, nevertheless," replied Barbesieur, in a tone that admitted of no further remonstrance, while he advanced to the table, and seated himself in the empty chair.

The marquis started, and his brow darkened. "Sir," said he, "that is the head of the table—the place of the Marchioness Strozzi."

"I know it," was the reply, "and, as soon as she makes her appearance, I will give it up.—Martino, serve the soup; I am hungry." So saying, he tossed the bouquet to the valet, and poured out some wine.

At this, Strozzi sprang up, and, staring at Barbesieur, with eyes that glowed like the orbs of a wild animal—"Sir," exclaimed he, "you are an insolent intruder!"

"I know it," cried Barbesieur—"and what next?"

The marquis gazed in bewilderment at the threatening face of his self-invited guest, and then, slowly turning around, prepared to leave the room. Barbesieur rose and followed him.

At the door of his cabinet he stopped and cried out:

"Let the marshal of the household see to it that no one intrudes upon my privacy!"

And, with a gesture of offended dignity, he entered the room. Barbesieur, however, was immediately behind him, and they had no sooner crossed the threshold than he locked the door, and put the key in his pocket.

"Now, I have him," thought he, "and I shall begin my experiments."

"Sir," said Strozzi, alarmed, "why do you persecute me?"

"I want you to say if you know me," answered Barbesieur, dominating the madman with the calm, powerful glance of reason.

Strozzi shook his head, murmuring, "No, sir, no. I do not know you."

"But I know YOU, Strozzi, my good fellow. You are my beloved brother-in-law, the husband of my sister Laura, who forsook you so shamefully, because she did not love you."

The shaft had pierced. A gleam of returning reason shot athwart Strozzi's face, and a faint color rose to his cheek.

"Not love me!" echoed he, tearfully; "whom, then, does she love?"

Barbesieur laid the weight of his great hands upon Strozzi's shoulders, and looked steadfastly in his eyes. Raising his voice to the utmost, he shouted: "I will tell you whom she loves, and mark me well, Strozzi. She loves Prince Eugene of Savoy!"

"Eugene of Savoy!" shrieked the wretched creature. "Eugene of Savoy! Ah, yes, I remember. I hate him, and he must die!"

"Ay, that's it!" cried Barbesieur, cheerily, "that's it. He must die; and when he is dead, Laura will love the Marquis de Strozzi."

"You think so?" asked Strozzi, laying his tremulous hand upon Barbesieur's, great firm arm.

"I know it. The very moment Prince Eugene dies, Laura's heart is yours."

"He must die! He must die!" murmured Strozzi, clasping his attenuated fingers, and looking imploringly into Barbesieur's face.

"Ay, that must he, and you are the man that shall take his life. Your honor demands it of you."

"Yes, my honor," repeated Strozzi, "my honor. I thank you, sir, for your goodness to me. You are the first person that ever advised me to avenge myself on Eugene of Savoy. You are the only person that ever advised me to take his life, and I believe you, and trust you. Yes, sir, take my word for it, Eugene of Savoy shall die!"

"How will you go about it?" asked Barbesieur.

An expression of cunning was seen to steal over the face of the madman, as he replied, "That is my secret, sir."

"I will tell you how to make an end of him," cried Barbesieur, patting him on the shoulder. "Poison him!"

Strozzi gazed with astonishment at his brother-in-law, and forthwith conceived a profound respect for his cleverness. "Did you know that?" said he, with a silly smile. "Did you know that I meant to poison him?"

"To be sure I did, and I came here to work with you in your laboratory, until we concoct the right dose for him."

"Did you know that I had a laboratory?" asked Strozzi, in a whisper. "And did you know that I was trying to find a brave, beautiful poison that would kill him like a pistol-shot, or a good stab under the ribs?"

"I knew it all, and I came to help you."

"I thank you, sir, I thank you! Give me your hand. I take you for my friend, and trust you. Come with me to my laboratory."

So saying, he passed his arm within that of his brother-in-law, and led him to the opposite end of the room. Barbesieur laid his hand on the bolt, but the door was locked.

"You see," said Strozzi, waxing confidential, "I keep this door always locked, for let me tell you, my dear friend, that Eugene of Savoy has surrounded my castle with a regiment of dragoons, who are his spies. That is the reason why I never talk to anybody—I am so afraid that my people will betray me to Prince Eugene's dragoons. Luckily, they have never found out the secret of my laboratory, for I always carry the key in my pocket. Here it is." He took out his key and unlocked the door, but before opening it he addressed Barbesieur in a solemn whisper:

"My dear friend, before you enter my sanctuary, swear to me, by the memory of my dear departed wife, that you will not betray its secrets to Prince Eugene's dragoons."

"I swear, my dear Strozzi, by sun, moon, and stars—"

Strozzi shook his head, and folded his hands reverently. "No, no; swear by the memory of my sainted Laura."

Barbesieur swore, and the door was opened.

"Come in," said Strozzi.

"And may all the gods of vengeance bless my entrance hither!" muttered Barbesieur, between his teeth.

The room was as Carlotta had described it. Its long shelves were filled with jars and phials, and over the chimney was a wide mantel, with porcelain pipkins, retorts, glass tubes, and flasks.

"Ah," cried Barbesieur, taking a phial from its shelf, "this is a precious beverage, that lulls one to sleep or to death, as one's friends may prescribe."

"Yes—it is laudanum," replied Strozzi. "A painless dagger, an invisible sword of justice in the hands of the elect. It was the basis of all the wonderful preparations of Katherina de Medicis. There was a woman! Why did I not know her, and learn of her the precious secrets of her laboratorium? From my youth, I have studied chemistry, and I had a beautiful room in Venice, where I used to work with the famous Chiari. But we never discovered Katherina's secret."

"What secret, dear Strozzi?" inquired Barbesieur.

"The secret of killing people by fumes, which left no trace whatever of their action on the body," answered Strozzi, with an awakening gleam of wickedness in his eyes.

"And you believe that there are such delicate, ethereal little ministers of vengeance?"

"Do I believe it?—Why, to their agency Katherina owed her elevation to the throne of France. Nobody knows this better than I, for my ancestor Filippo Strozzi was her friend and relative, and their correspondence now is in the archives of the family, at Venice. I am indebted to the letters of Katherina for much of my knowledge of chemistry."

"And so you found out from her correspondence how she managed to become Queen of France?" asked Barbesieur, anxious to indulge Strozzi's sudden fit of garrulity.

"I did," was his complacent reply, while he nodded his head repeatedly, and stroked his long, white beard. "When Katherina came to France, she came as the bride of the Duke of Orleans, the second son of Francis I. There seemed no chance for HER to be a queen, for the dauphin was a lusty young fellow who was already betrothed to the beautiful Infanta of Spain. But Katherina had no mind to let the infanta reign in France, so she invited the dauphin to her castle of Gien, and took him to her conservatory. There was a beautiful rare flower there, which had a strong perfume. Katherina directed his attention to it, but advised him not to hang over it too long, as it never failed to give HER the headache, if she approached it too closely. The dauphin laughed, and was not to be frightened away from a flower, because of the headache. Moreover, the odor was delightful, and he would not be warned. That day he had a headache; the next, he was pale and feeble, and in less than a week, he died, and nobody the wiser, except Katherina."

"And he died, really from the odor of a flower?"

"Yes. from a flower which Katherina had perfumed for his use, my dear friend. And do you know how she made away with Joanna of Navarre, who had guessed the secret of the dauphin's death, and had already hinted her suspicions to her brother Francis?"

"No, I never heard of it. Upon my word, Strozzi, you interest me exceedingly."

"Do I? Well, I will tell you more, then. Katherina made a present to Joanna of a pair of embroidered gloves. The day after she wore them she was dead. What do you think of that?—And did you ever hear how the Prince of Porcia died—he who advised the dauphin to divorce his wife because she had been married for eight years and had borne him no children?" continued Strozzi, with increasing volubility.

"I confess my ignorance, Strozzi; do enlighten me."

"I will, sir. The prince received a present from Katherina (she was a great hand to make presents). This time it was a flask of fine Italian oil for his night-lamp, which oil, in burning, emitted a delicate perfume. By the time the flask was emptied, the prince had gone the way of all flesh."

"And all this because of Queen Katherina's science?"

"And all this because of Queen Katherina's science!" echoed Strozzi.

"But you have not yet hit upon her secret yourself?"

"Not yet; but I think I am on the track, and hope to discover it in time to try it on Prince Eugene."

Barbesieur rose from his seat, and, coming toward Strozzi, struck him on the shoulder. "Now, Strozzi, look at me attentively, and try to understand what I am about to say to you. I will help you to seek this poison. Do you hear?"

"Yes," said Strozzi, with a cunning leer. "Yes, I hear. You will help me to seek the poison for Prince Eugene."

"Good," replied Barbesieur. "Now, look at me full in the eyes. Look, I tell you!" repeated he, as Strozzi's face began to relapse into imbecility. "I have found the poison."

Strozzi uttered a triumphant yell, but Barbesieur silenced him. "Pay attention while I tell you how I became possessed of it. I was by, when La Voisin was put to the torture in La Chambre ardente, and I heard her confession. I was deputed to search for her papers; and before I delivered them up you may be sure that I examined them, to see what I could make out of them for my own profit. I found various receipts for love-potions, as well as for the renowned poudre de succession of the Countess Soissons; but of that anon. Do you mark me, Strozzi?"

"Oh, sir," cried Strozzi, trembling in every limb, "speak—speak quickly, or I shall die of suspense!"

Barbesieur then, emphasizing each word, replied: "I found a parchment on which were inscribed these words: 'Receipt for procuring death by inhalation. Queen Katherina de Medicis.'"

"That is it, that is it," howled Strozzi, and in his ecstasy he flung his arms around Barbesieur's great body. But suddenly his countenance became expressive of distrust, and his eye had a deadly glitter, like that of a snake.

"But will you give it to me? Where is it? I warn you, do not trifle with me, for you never shall leave this laboratory until I have it!" Meanwhile he made a furtive movement toward his breast.

But Barbesieur had seen the gesture, and with his powerful grasp he clutched Strozzi's hand, and withdrew it armed with a poniard of fine, glistening steel. Flinging it with such force against the wall that it buried itself in the masonry, Barbesieur gazed for a moment at the poor fool whose teeth were chattering with fear; then leading him to a seat—

"Come," said he, "let us talk like men. We are neither enemies nor rivals; we are brothers, having one and the same interest at stake."

"Yes, sir," murmured Strozzi, obsequiously.

"Well, then, look at me. Did you ever see me before?"

Strozzi raised his obedient eyes and looked—for a while, in blank amazement. But gradually his black orbs dilated, and a sudden flash of intelligence crossed his face. He breathed hard.

"I think, sir, I think you are—are—ah, yes! I know. You are Count Barbesieur de Louvois."

"Right, right," cried Barbesieur. "Laura Strozzi's brother."

"Are you the brother of my darling Laura?" cried Strozzi. "If you are, you are welcome, sir. Oh, if she were but alive to see you!"

"Alive? What do you mean? Where do you suppose her to be?"

"She is dead," replied Strozzi, his eyes overflowing with tears. "Dead—my own, my precious angel!"

"Of what did she die?" asked Barbesieur, highly amused at poor Strozzi's grief.

Strozzi shook his head. "No one on earth knows, sir. She must have dissolved in a sunbeam, and gone back to heaven, for her corpse was never found here below."

"Strozzi, you are mistaken," exclaimed Barbesieur, with an authoritative gesture. "Mark my words, and believe them, or I shall be very angry. The Marchioness Laura is not dead. She lives here on earth, not far away from you."

"She lives!" repeated Strozzi, starting from his seat and falling at Barbesieur's feet. "Tell me where she is. Let me go, let me go, and bring her home. Come—come with me!"

"Wait a minute. She is living with Eugene of Savoy, disgracing you and me both. Before you bring her home, you must take the life of her paramour, and just as soon as you have done that, she will be freed from the spell that binds her, and will love nobody but you."

"Ah, he shall die," muttered Strozzi.

"Yes, he must die, and you must kill him. But I shall furnish the means. And now to work, to prepare the ambrosia that shall give him immortality!"



CHAPTER VII.

THE AMBROSIA.

Thanks to the illness of the Duke of Savoy, the summer campaign of 1692 was of short duration. The allies had dispersed and retired to winter-quarters; the imperial army had retreated to Piedmont; and the officers in command of the several divisions had betaken themselves to Turin to enjoy the festivities that followed the recovery of Victor Amadeus.

Eugene had been invited with the rest; but he gave his health as an excuse for avoiding the changeable winds of Turin, and seeking the balmy atmosphere of Nice, where, having found comfortable quarters for his troops, he proposed to pass the coming winter.

Victor Amadeus made great pretence of regret at Eugene's absence; but, truth to tell, he was not sorry to escape the scrutiny of his clear-sighted cousin, who, for his part, was happy beyond expression in the devotion of his men, and the companionship of his Laura.

Here in the peaceful seclusion of the obscure little village of Nice, Eugene and Laura enjoyed unalloyed happiness. The fishermen and sailors, that formed the principal part of its population, knew nothing of the history of the grand Austrian officer that had come to live among them. In their eyes, the beautiful signora was his wife, as a matter of course; and they sunned themselves in the radiance of her beauty, without ever giving a thought to the nature of the ties that bound her to the field-marshal.

They were without an obstacle to their happiness. Eugene, sitting at a table covered with paper and charts, wrote dispatches, and planned his next campaign; while, on an ottoman at his side, Laura read or embroidered, often interrupting her occupation to gaze at his beloved countenance.

As for him, his mind was clearer, his hand was firmer, his spirit seemed to dominate every subject of its contemplation, when she was by. Oftentimes he paused in his labors to watch the delicate outline of her sweet face, and, when their eyes met and they exchanged a loving smile, he felt that there was a communion of hearts that beggared language, and would have no interpreter but a glance.

They were sitting together on the perron of their villa, which looked out upon the shores of the Mediterranean. The door leading to the drawing-room was open, exposing to view a harp from which Laura had just risen. Before them lay the boundless expanse of the ocean, blue with reflected azure from heaven; and, like some soft, weird melody to their ears, was the murmuring of the waves, that kissed the smooth, white beach before them. Elsewhere all was silent, for Nature seemed to listen—unwilling, by a sound of stirring leaf, to break the delicious stillness.

On a sudden, a wild scream was heard in the air above, and a vulture, cleaving the clouds, flew over their heads. Laura's smiling face was upturned to reply to some loving expression of Eugene's; but when the vulture's scream was heard, she rose to her feet, and with a slight shudder followed its flight until it lessened to a dim speck on the horizon.

"What has disturbed you, dearest?" asked Eugene.

"Nothing," whispered she. "And yet I am a miserable coward. Even this vulture's scream has startled me. It seems like an ill omen."

"Why, my darling, why should a vulture's scream be ominous?"

"Do not laugh at me, Eugene; but my old nurse used always to cross herself when a vulture was in sight, and if it screamed, she wept, for she said it betokened the approach of misfortune."

"Why should you share the superstition of your nurse, dearest?"

"Because I myself once heard the scream," said Laura, growing very pale. "I was standing with my nurse on a balcony of Bonaletta Castle, and she was making wreaths of pomegranate and orange from the blossoms I plucked. Meanwhile she was telling me a tale about some enchanted princess, to which I was listening with my whole heart. Suddenly I heard the cry of a vulture, the old woman dropped her flowers, clasped her hands, and cried out: 'Oh, my God! there is woe at hand! Come, child, come to the chapel, and pray the Lord to avert it,'"

"And it was averted by your dear prayers, was it not?" asked Eugene, kissing her.

"Alas, no! Not many hours afterward, I was called to my mother's room. She lay on her bed, dying,—in her hand, a crumpled letter. The letter was from Barbesieur, and its contents were her death- blow! Eugene, she never opened her eyes again!—And oh, how she loved me—that dear mother!"

"Who that knows you can help loving you?" said Eugene, tenderly. "Look at me, my treasure—look at me, and smile. What—tears?"

"I am thinking of my mother, dear, and of her wretched life. It humiliates me to remember that she, who was a saint, suffered so many sorrows, while I, her child, who have done nothing to merit it, am too, too happy."

"Nothing to merit happiness? You, whose constancy and heroism I could not dare to imitate? Ah, Laura, remember that before I knew you, I was without hope, without trust, without love. You crossed my path, and then my soul began to soar to God; for God is love, and he that knows not love knows not what it is to adore his Creator. You are not only the architect of my happiness, beloved, but that of my religion."

Laura flung her arms around his neck, and rested her cheek against his. "And you—you are my sun—the luminary of my life! Without you, all is dark and void. Oh, Eugene! be prudent, love, and beware of your enemies; they encompass you with snares. Do not go unarmed to the barracks, for not long ago the soldiers saw a man following you after dusk. They searched him, and found on his person a poniard, and in his possession a purse of gold."

"We cannot deny that the dagger and bowl seem to be the order of the day, in this land of bravi," returned Eugene, "and I am continually warned that, dead or alive, the French are resolved to possess themselves of my body. But between intention and execution there lies a wide path, and in spite of prison and steel, I hope to tread it safely. [Footnote: Eugene's own words.—See Armath, "Life of Prince Eugene," vol. i, p. 51. ] So do not be unhappy on my account, sweet one. Let me look in those dear eyes, and there read the poem of our love—a love that death itself shall not overcome."

"No, not death itself," said Laura, repeating his words, and nestling close to his heart. He laid his hands upon her head, and blessed and kissed her.

"So would I love to die—so—resting on thy heart, and gazing into thy face," murmured she, her eyes filling with tears of joyful emotion.

"Die!" exclaimed he, shuddering. "Love cannot die. Through all eternity, its choral hymn—"

He unclasped his arms, for steps were heard along the corridor, and presently, within the frame of the open door, was seen an orderly attached to the household. Laura retreated to the parlor, while Eugene demanded the reason of an intrusion so untimely upon his privacy.

"Your highness, a courier has arrived, with dispatches from the Duke of Savoy. They are so important as to require immediate attention, and he will deliver them to no hands but your own."

"Admit him," said Eugene, entering the drawing-room, and joining Laura, who had taken a seat before her easel, and was preparing to paint. "Shall I see the courier in my cabinet, or receive him here?" said he.

"Remain here, my dearest, and let me hear the sound of your voice." So saying, she drew the hangings together, and, in the deep embrasure of the bay-window, was entirely concealed from view. Gliding back into her seat, she raised her loring eyes to the canvas whereon she was painting a portrait of her Eugene.

"I shall never, never catch the expression of those wonderful eyes," said she to herself. "This is their color, but where is their heavenly light? How shall I ever transmit—"

She started, let fall her palette, and gazed, horror-stricken, at the hangings. She had heard a voice, the tones of which, she knew not why, made the blood freeze within her veins. These were the words she heard: "Here, your highness, are my dispatches." Words without significance, but Laura shivered from head to foot. With trembling hand, she parted the hangings and looked out.

There, in the centre of the room, stood Eugene, in the act of opening a sealed paper. For one moment, her eye rested tenderly upon the beloved image; then she glanced quickly at the person who stood by the door. He wore the Sardinian uniform, and stood in a respectful posture, his eyes cast down.

But Laura? She stared at his swarthy face and bloodless lips, the sunken cheeks, and beetle brow, with a strange repugnance that almost shaped itself into some old, forgotten dislike.

"I must have seen him somewhere," thought she, "and the dim remembrance of the countenance pains me terribly. If he would but speak again! I surely would recognize that voice—that voice which sounds to my ear like some retrospective agony of which I may have dreamed long years ago."

Eugene still held the paper. He had opened it, and was turning it in and out, with an expression of great surprise. "What am I to understand by this mystification?" said he.

"Your highness," returned the courier, "the dispatches are secret, and written with sympathetic ink. If you will hold them over a light until a vapor begins to rise from them, the writing will appear."

Eugene rang and ordered a light. He stood smilingly, scrutinizing the blank pages of his letter; the courier kept his eyes on the floor, and Laura behind the hangings stood contemplating the scene, her heart throbbing as though it would burst. She saw the orderly place the wax-light upon the table, and Eugene advance and hold the dispatch above it. She turned unconsciously toward the courier. His eyes, no longer riveted on the floor, glared horribly at Eugene; and in their glance were written manifest hatred and exultation.

For one moment Laura felt as though she were stiffening to stone: then, dashing aside the curtains, she bounded to the table, crying out with all the strength of her love:

"Eugene, 'tis Strozzi!" And, tearing the poisoned paper from his hands, she flung it at the feet of the courier.

He sprang forward, and seized her in his arms. Eugene darted to her rescue, and strove with all his might to free her from Strozzi's grasp. But despair and insanity had lent him strength, and vain was all striving to unlock his hands as they clutched her slender throat, and threatened her with speedy death.

Eugene made one bound to the table, and snatched up his pistols. At the same moment, a dagger gleamed in the air. Laura fell back with a piercing cry. and Strozzi, kneeling over her prostrate body, covered her face with kisses.

The sharp report of the pistol was heard—the murderer leaped up into the air, and then dropped dead upon the floor. And close beside him lay Laura with a poniard in her breast, whose hilt of diamonds rose and fell with her quick breathing, and glistened brightly in the rays of the setting sun that gilded the terrible picture.

Instinctively Eugene would have withdrawn the murderous weapon from his darling's heart, but he felt his arm withheld, and turning beheld Doctor Franzi.

The doctor shook his head, sadly. "Do not touch it," whispered he, "or her life-blood will gush out, and she will die at once."

With a look of despair, the wretched man arose, and beckoned to the doctor to follow him to the balcony.

"The truth," gasped he, while his eyes glared as if they would have started from their sockets. "Must she die?"

"She will die instantaneously if the dagger is withdrawn. I am familiar with the thrusts of these Venetian bravi—when they aim at the heart, death follows the stroke immediately; but when they strike the breast, it ensues with a gush of blood, at the withdrawal of the weapon."

"Is there any—hope?"

The doctor knew not how to shape an answer to this heart-rending appeal. He turned away his face, and Eugene understood the mute reply.

"How long?" asked he, almost inaudibly.

"If it were any other woman, I should expect internal hemorrhage to ensue within half an hour; but the strong will of the marchioness will ward off death for the space of an hour."

Eugene stifled a groan. "O God! is there no, no help?"

"None. Science cannot prevail against the well-directed blow of a Venetian dagger. But the marchioness will not suffer."

"No," sobbed Eugene, "for she dies; but I—I—"

"Go to her, my dear friend—go before she calls, for every exertion she makes will hasten the end."

Eugene wrung his hands. "Not yet—I cannot. I must have a moment to conquer this overwhelming anguish. Go to her yourself, doctor—tell her—I—"

But the doctor was already in the parlor, and Eugene was alone. He leaned over the balcony and stared out at the sea; the breeze had freshened, and the sound of the waves as they dashed against the shore seemed to mock at his agony. He looked above: the skies were serene and indifferent to his misery. The sun was setting in a flood of red and gold. Alas! alas! For Laura, it would rise no more!

But Eugene remembered that she had but an hour to live, and, shuddering, he overcame his weakness and approached the dying girl. She held out her hands, and smiled.

"Eugene," said she, "I long for air and light. May I be lifted out upon the balcony?"

Eugene looked at Doctor Franzi, who beckoned to the servants. They rolled a divan to the spot where the marchioness lay, and she was placed upon it, and gently removed to the balcony. She thanked them all for their kindness, and each member of her household kissed her hand, and went away weeping. No one now remained with her save Eugene and the doctor.

"Step aside for a moment, beloved," said she. "I would speak a few words with our dear friend."

He obeyed, and retired out of hearing, but not out of sight. He could not do that. They had but half an hour!

"Doctor," said Laura, "I must die, must I not?"

"All things are possible with God, but—"

Her eyes filled with tears. "Does Eugene know it?"

"Alas, he does!"

"Doctor, promise me that if in his grief he should forget to care for his own welfare, you will watch over it as I would have done, had Heaven permitted. As long as sorrow predominates over reason, you will enter his room every morning, and speak these, my dying words: 'Laura sends you her greeting, and bids you do all that you can to preserve your health, and to overcome your sorrow.' Promise me this."

"I promise," replied the doctor.

"And now, tell me. Is my enemy—is Strozzi dead?"

"The bullet went through his brain."

"May God forgive him, as I do!" murmured she. "And now, dear friend, farewell! I thank you for all my happiness on earth, and bless you with my latest breath for your kindness to Eugene and to me." [Footnote: This attempt to poison Prince Eugene is historical.]

She gave him her hand, which he kissed, and, no longer able to restrain his tears, he went back to the parlor. There on the floor lay Strozzi stark and dead, his glazed eyes staring, as if in defiance, to heaven. Doctor Franzi had the corpse removed, and threw himself wearily upon a sofa. Presently he saw Laura's Italian greyhound, with a piece of paper between its teeth, with which it seemed to be playing. He was watching its motions, as people whose minds are preoccupied with a great sorrow, are apt to watch some particular object within view, when suddenly it howled, made a leap into the air, and fell panting on the floor. The doctor stooped to examine it. It was dying.

"Why, the poor little brute has been poisoned!" said he to Conrad.

Conrad shook his head. "Impossible!" replied he. "It has been with me this whole day, and came with me hither not half an hour since."

"Stay," replied the doctor, picking up the bits of paper that lay scattered over the carpet. He took them to the light, and held them above it. In a few moments a white vapor mingled with green was seen to rise in the air, and an odor of garlic pervaded the apartment.

"Come, Conrad," exclaimed the doctor; "leave the room quickly! Happy it is for us that all these doors and windows are open, or my curiosity would have cost me my life."

"And the marchioness?" asked Conrad, sadly.

The little French clock on the mantel struck the hour. "You hear," said the doctor. "She has not a half an hour to live."

Not half an hour to live! And Eugene knew it! For above the breaking waves, above the tumultuous beating of his bleeding heart, even above the tones of her dear voice, he heard the striking of that clock.

But one half hour!—He was on his knees, her little hand locked in his, and her eyes fixed upon his face, with a look of love such as no human tongue had power to speak. But he could not bear to see her so motionless; he feared that she was about to expire.

"Speak to me, my angel; say thou lovest me," sobbed he.

"I love thee!" said she, with a joyful smile. "Ah, Eugene, I have spoken these words so often that earth and air, sky and sea, will echo them forever."

"But thou—thou goest from me!"

"God has willed it thus. But, beloved, how beautiful to me is the death that giveth life to thee! Ah, my sovereign! lord of my heart! weep not for her who dies as woman loves to die!"

"Weep not for thee! Alas! shall I have courage to bear the burden of the life thou hast purchased with thine own?"

"Yes, God will give thee strength to fulfil thy heroic destiny, my Eugene. We have been very happy on earth, and in heaven He will perfect our imperfect union. Farewell, beloved, farewell!"

"Oh, look at me once more!" cried Eugene. "Laura, Laura, speak to me! O God! it cannot be that thou must die!"

She made no answer, but her fast-closing eyes were fixed upon his. He bent closer and closer, and opened his arms, with a vain longing to fold her to his heart. But he durst not! His embrace might extinguish the feeble spark of life that glimmered yet for his momentary consolation.

But his tears fell upon her face, and awakened her failing senses. She spoke again, and the melody of her voice was like the faint notes of an AEolian harp.

"Do not weep," murmured she. "I was happy. I will be near to thee in spirit. I—"

A last sigh fluttered from her lips, and the AEolian harp was silenced forever!



CHAPTER VIII.

THE BETROTHAL.

The Duchess of Orleans sat weeping in her cabinet, and yet she had been several times reminded by her tire-women that monsieur awaited her in the drawing-room. She held in her hand a letter—the apparent cause of her unwillingness to move.

"It has terminated as I feared," thought she; "her short-lived happiness has been purchased with her life. To think that her relentless foe should have had no mercy upon her youth and beauty! And so it is—to the good are apportioned tribulation and trials—to the wicked, prosperity and long life! God is merciful, and allows to those who are destined to burn in hell their short season of triumph on earth. But I, who am no saint, will avenge my dear child's murder, by exposing its instigators to public scorn. My poor, darling Laura! God only knows how I am to bring it about, but He will surely prompt the right words at the right moment. And now to discharge the tiresome duties of the sacrifice I made to the shameless exaction of Louis XIV.! Now for the act that befouls the escutcheon of France with the blood of De Montespan's bastard!"

She folded her letter, and, putting it in her bosom, called with her stentorian lungs, for Katharina.

The tire-woman, who had been anxiously awaiting the summons, appeared immediately, and approached her mistress, in great haste to commence.

"Katharina," began the duchess, "do not be provoked if I reject the magnificent attire you have prepared for me to-night. I cannot wear it."

Katharina drew back in terror. "So your royal highness does not intend to appear at court to-night?"

"I intend to appear there, because I am compelled to do so," returned the duchess; "but I do not know that it is incumbent upon me to be as gay as a peacock, on the occasion of my poor Philip's betrothal to that girl of De Montespan's. To me it is more like a funeral than a festival, so you may get out my suit of court mourning. The skirt of black velvet, the train and head-dress of purple."

"Is the Empress of Austria dead, that your royal highness should wear purple?" asked Katharina. [Footnote: At the court of Louis XIV., purple velvet was worn in the deepest mourning only.]

"A personage of more consequence to me than the Empress of Austria is dead—an angel has taken her flight to heaven, and no royal princess can replace her here below. Hush, Kathi—you need not open your mouth to remonstrate, for my purple mourning I will wear, and nobody in France shall hinder me."

Katharina knew this so well, that she inclined her head, and went off in search of the costume, which, as Elizabeth-Charlotte never lingered before her looking-glass, was donned in less than a quarter of an hour. She returned to her cabinet, and gave a quick glance at her image, as she passed before a large Venetian mirror, that reached from floor to ceiling. She smiled, and began an apostrophe to herself, after the following manner:

"You are unquestionably a homely woman; and, in the finery that decks royalty, you look somewhat like the scarecrows I have seen in gardens at home. But, soberly clad as you are at this moment, you are not an unsightly or undignified woman, nor would my poor murdered darling despise me, were she to see me now. Ah, Laura! would that the battle of life were over for me, as it is for thee! For the world has apportioned to me much vexation, but little happiness."

She turned away from the mirror, with a sigh. "Well, I may not mourn any longer. I must put on my court-face, and sing with old Luther:"

"It must be so, That pain and woe Will ever follow sin; Then go your ways—"

The duchess was singing out this doggerel in a rough, loud contralto, when her chamberlain appeared at the door, and announced that his royal highness was waiting for her to descend.

"Tell monsieur not to let me detain him," replied she. "I will be escorted to the Louvre by the Duke de Chartres. Hey, Kathi! come with my wrappings!"

Kathi had just enveloped her highness's stout, robust form in a cloak of purple velvet, when the little duke came skipping into the room.

"Here I am, chere maman," cried he; "here is Cupid, ready to attend on Venus."

The duchess replied with a glance of displeasure, and took his arm. As they were crossing the corridor, she said: "Cupid was a fractious and rebellious boy, and I remember that Venus had many a time to box his ears for his misbehavior. You are quite right to liken yourself to Cupid, for you are just as contrary as he—"

"And just as handsome?" asked the duke, coaxingly.

The duchess tried to suppress a smile. "You are a little puppy," said she; "and if I resemble Venus in no other way, I shall imitate her maternal corrections, and let you feel the weight of my hand, if you provoke me, sir." And so saying, she tumbled herself into the coach.

"I have already felt its weight," sighed the young duke, "and a right heavy hand it is, when it is lifted to chastise."

"Then take care not to deserve its chastisements. But now, Philip, listen to me, and be serious. It is understood between us, that you refuse to sign the contract—that you avow loudly your aversion to marriage in general, and to Mademoiselle de Blois in particular; and that you throw yourself at the feet of the king, and ask for two years' delay."

"Oh, yes, maman, yes, of course," replied Philip, hurriedly. "I understand it all perfectly. Ah, here we are at the Louvre! Allow me to assist you to alight."

And the duke, vastly pleased that the maternal lecture was at an end, leaped from the coach, and escorted his mother to the palace.

The royal family, with the nobles and dignitaries that were to witness the signing of the contract, were in the king's cabinet. The court awaited them in one of the magnificent rooms of state.

On a marble slab, supported by three gilded dolphins, lay a long roll of parchment, and close by was an inkstand of gold, set with sapphires and diamonds. The king was in an adjoining apartment, anxiously waiting the arrival of the Duchess of Orleans and the bridegroom-elect.

"Methinks," said Louis to monsieur, "that madame makes me wait."

As these words were uttered with great severity, the duke was abashed, and scarcely knew what he way saying. "Your majesty," stammered he, "you know how—may I entreat of you—"

"Her royal highness the Duchess of Orleans, and the Duke de Chartres," cried the gentleman usher.

Louis rose from his arm-chair, and advanced to greet his eccentric sister-in-law. Suddenly he drew back, and looked like a Jupiter Tonans.

"Madame," said he, eying the duchess from head to foot—from her purple feathers to the very edge of her long purple-velvet train— "madame, what means this extraordinary attire? Have you forgotten, in one of your fits of absence, that you were invited, not to a funeral, but to a betrothal?"

"Sire," replied the undismayed duchess, "I am not subject to fits of absence; but I beg to apologize for my dress. It is appropriate to my feelings, for I have just experienced a most painful loss."

"What member of your family is dead?" asked his majesty.

"Not a member of my family, but a beloved friend, has been foully murdered."

"Murdered!" echoed Louis. "Who has been murdered!"

"Sire, I will tell you, but Monsieur Louvois must be by to hear the recital."

Monsieur Louvois was summoned, and while awaiting his arrival, Louis expressed a wish that the duchess would make her story as short as possible; he was anxious to have this ceremony over.

"Sire, I shall do my best," was the reply.—"Ah," continued Elizabeth-Charlotte, "here is Monsieur Louvois—Perhaps he can tell your majesty why I am in mourning."

"I—I" said Louvois, with a defiant stare at his enemy. "I have not the honor of being in the secrets of madame."

"But she has the misfortune to be in yours," cried the duchess.

"Sire, a few years ago, there appeared at your majesty's court a young girl of extraordinary beauty and worth. She was one of my maids of honor, and was as dear to me as my own child. Lovely, innocent, and virtuous, as she was, she was an object of aversion to her own kindred. She became ardently attached to a youth of rank equal—I mean to say, superior to hers, against whom her relatives entertained a prejudice that manifested itself by every species of persecution. There could be no reasonable objection to the alliance, but the lovers knowing that, for very hatred of them both, the maiden's father would oppose their union, agreed to be married in secret. They were betrayed, and you will scarcely believe me, your majesty, when I tell you that the poor girl's own father and brother deceived her by forged letters, and so arranged matters that they came by night, and, substituting a man whom she detested, for her lover, they obtained her signature to a fraudulent marriage."

"Her father did his duty," interrupted Louvois. "He had a right to select her husband, and exercised his right. I hope that his majesty is of the same opinion."

"Madame," said the king, taking no notice of Louvois' remark, "pray continue your narrative."

"Your majesty, the miserable girl refused ever to acknowledge the marriage. The man they had forced upon her imprisoned her for years, giving out to the world that she was insane, but holding out to her a promise of release, whenever she would recognize him as her husband. She never would—she never did."

"But her lover—what was he about all this time?" asked Louis.

"He believed himself forgotten, nor could he discover whither his betrothed had been conveyed by her tyrant. Finally by means that seem almost miraculous, she effected her escape, and joined him; and, believing herself to be his spouse before God, they lived together as husband and wife."

"I should have regarded them as such," was the remark of the king. "I hope that her unprincipled relatives did not seek to repeat their sacrilege by any attempt to part her from him to whom she had veritably plighted her faith."

Louvois could not contain himself. "Your majesty," cried he, "the sacrilege was hers and not her father's. She was legally married, and the tie that bound her to her lover was a crime!"

Louis contemplated his own illegitimate children, there present, and Louvois' words roused his ire. "Sir," said he, "you mistake human prejudices for principles. How can you presume to contend for the sanctity of an infamous falsehood like that of a marriage ceremony fraudulently performed?"

"Thanks, your majesty, thanks for those generous words," exclaimed the duchess, joyfully. "They rehabilitate the memory of my darling, who was as pure and chaste as she was constant and loving. In her case, endurance of the world's contumely was heroism. She felt it to be unjust, but bore it for the sake of her lover, and was happy. Her relatives, however, urged, by their hatred of the poor child, made use of her demented husband to avenge what they pleased to term their outraged honor. They armed him with dagger and poison, and her own brother brought him to the town where she was living, and led him to her villa."

"What an unnatural and wicked brother," exclaimed the young Duke of Maine, who had edged himself in to listen.

The duchess gave him a grateful smile, and continued her story:

"The murderer made an attempt to poison his rival. He was recognized under his disguise by his wife, who darted forward to save her lover's life. As she did so, the assassin drew from his bosom a poniard and stabbed her to the heart,"

"Horrible!" was the exclamation of all the bystanders.

"Sire." resumed the duchess, "the woman so foully murdered by the tool of her father and her brother,—she, whom I loved so dearly, and whom your majesty's self honored by your attention, was Laura Bonaletta—the daughter of Monsieur Louvois, and the sister of his depraved son—Barbesieur."

"The Marchioness Strozzi!" cried the king, turning his indignant eyes upon Louvois, who was vainly trying to effect a retreat.

"Sir," said Louis, "I hope you will be able to disprove this dreadful charge, and convince her royal highness that she has been misinformed."

"Sire, I am not aware that any guilt attaches to my actions as a father. I married my daughter to the man whom I chose should be her husband, and I hastened the marriage that I might save her from the artful snare which Prince Eugene was laying for her large fortune."

"Sire," cried the duchess, "the whole world knows Prince Eugene to be above mercenary considerations, and it also knows that had Monsieur Louvois not driven him away from France, he would not now be the most distinguished officer in the army of a foreign prince."

"Very true," returned the king.—"Louvois never showed himself to have less penetration than when he undervalued the genius of Prince Eugene. But this blunder we can pardon, so he but clear himself of participation in the assassination of his daughter."

"That I can easily do, your majesty," replied Louvois. "I knew nothing whatever of the attempt on Prince Eugene's life."

"Then how comes it that this intercepted letter from your own hand speaks so knowingly of it to your son?—Sire," continued the duchess, "this letter was sent to me by Victor Amadeus. The courier to whom it had been confided was arrested by a vidette of the duke's, and the letter forwarded to his highness. From my step- daughter, the Duchess of Savoy, I hold my information; and it was imparted to me at her husband's desire, that I might transmit it to your majesty, and Louis XIV. might hear how Louvois vanquishes the heroes that are opposed to him in war. Sire, not only your friends, but your enemies, know that you hold such warfare in abhorrence."

"I do, indeed," cried Louis, "and I thank not only Victor Amadeus, madame, but yourself, who have not shrunk from the ungrateful duty of accusing a man whom many another would have feared, because he was high in my estimation. I thank you that you have given me occasion to vindicate my honor from the foul blot which this man would have cast upon it. I say nothing of his cruelty to his unhappy daughter, for that I leave to his Maker. But, as regards the attempt on the life of Prince Eugene, it shall be investigated;—and woe to him, should he be inculpated by the examination of these papers!— Go, sir, and until your fame is cleared, consider yourself a prisoner in your own house."

Pale and trembling, Louvois retreated from the royal presence. Around the door of the cabinet were groups of high-born dames and titled lords, who all drew back to let him pass. No one wished to breathe the atmosphere that was tainted by the presence of a suspected murderer; and the rumor of his disgrace spread so rapidly through the palace, that it reached the room where the court was assembled, and every man there turned his back upon the favorite who, an hour before, had been greeted with courtesy and respect by the proudest nobles in the land.

The king's eyes followed the bowed figure of his fallen minister until it passed out of sight; then, as if nothing had happened, he smilingly addressed the Duchess of Orleans:

"Madame, will you take the bride by the hand? I, myself, will escort the bridegroom."

Elizabeth-Charlotte, who, in her sorrow for the tragical death of Laura, had forgotten the occasion of her coming, gave a sudden start, and her heart died within her. She turned her sharp eyes with a searching look upon the Duke de Chartres, hoping for some significant glance that would reassure her as to his intentions. But the young duke's eyes were turned another way: he was following the master of ceremonies, and making a profound inclination before the king.

Madame dared no longer hesitate: she gave her hand to Mademoiselle de Blois, and led her forward to the table where lay the dreaded document.

At a signal from the king, the keeper of the seal advanced, and, taking up the parchment, read the marriage contract of his royal highness the Duke de Chartres with Mademoiselle de Blois. The duke's marriage with the king's daughter entitled him to the grandes entries du cabinet, and the entrees de derriere,—privileges highly prized by the members of the royal family. The contract also recognized Mademoiselle de Blois as a daughter of France, and gave her a dowry of two millions of livres, several large estates, and a complete parure of costly diamonds.

With the exception of madame, everybody was enraptured with the royal munificence. Again she tried to meet her son's eyes, but they were steadfastly fixed upon the hand of the king who had signed the contract, and was in the act of placing it before his daughter.

Mademoiselle de Blois scribbled her name under that of her father, and passed the pen over to the bridegroom. The decisive moment was at hand. With fast-throbbing heart, the duchess bent forward to hear her son's rejection of this insulting mesalliance, when lo! that son, with a placid smile, accepted the pen, and signed!

A cry had well-nigh burst from his mother's lips, as, with every show of respect, he presented her the pen. Speechless with anger, she advanced her hand, but it was not to take the instrument of her humiliation: it was to administer to her rebellious son a box on the ear which resounded like a pistol-shot through the apartment, and created considerable astonishment among the aristocratic guests therein assembled. [Footnote: Historical.—See "Letters of the Duchess of Orleans to the Princess of Wales."]

The young duke uttered a howl, and, rubbing his cheek, jumped behind the hooped dress of his bride-elect.

"Madame!" exclaimed the king, "what means this violence?"

"Your majesty, I was killing a fly that had lit upon Philip's cheek."

"It must be a robust fly, if it is not crushed to atoms," replied the king, much amused.

The court, unable to withstand their merriment, burst into out— simultaneous shout of laughter, under cover—of which Elizabeth- Charlotte, with tearful eyes, signed the fatal document which mingled the noble blood of Orleans with the muddy stream of illegitimacy.



CHAPTER IX.

VENGEANCE.

So great had been the haste of the courtiers to spread the news of Louvois' disgrace, that the very usher who opened the door that led into the vestibule, performed his office with a superciliousness which proved him to have heard it as well as his betters.

Louvois felt as if his grave were yawning before him. He had forgotten that his carriage could not possibly have returned so soon; and now he stood alone on the perron of the palace, staring up and down the street in the vain hope of concealing himself in a fiacre from the gaze of the curious. No sentinel saluted him, no soldier presented arms, as, ashamed of his rich dress and sparkling orders, which rendered him conspicuous, he walked on and on, an object of curiosity to every passer-by. At length, on the Pont Neuf, he met a dilapidated old hackney-coach, amid whose threadbare cushions he was glad to retreat from observation.

On his arrival home, nobody came out to assist him to alight; for how could the lackeys who were idling around the porte-cochere surmise that the occupant of that shabby vehicle was their haughty master?

He entered the hotel, and, without vouchsafing a word to the astounded valets, ascended the staircase that led to his own private apartments. But they came after him to ask whether he was indisposed, and whether they could be of service.

Their offers were rejected with scorn; but Louvois thought it politic to inform his own valet that, having been attacked with sudden indisposition, he had been forced to leave the court-ball, and return in a fiacre. While he was being divested of his rich dress and long curled wig, the valet went on to announce that Count Barbesieur had arrived from Italy, and was desirous of seeing his father as soon as possible. A lady also had called to see his excellency; and, having been told that he was at the great court- festival, she had replied that he would be apt to return home early, and she would await his arrival, for she had important business to transact with him.

"Where is the lady?" asked Louvois.

"She is in her carriage at the side door of the hotel. Shall I ask her in the drawing-room, your excellency?"

"Later," said Louvois. "I must first speak with my son."

"I am here," cried Barbesieur, who had silently entered the room.

"Leave us," said Louvois to the valet, "and when Count Barbesieur has retired, admit the lady. I—"

He paused, and caught at the arm-chair for support. He had become suddenly dizzy, his face grew scarlet, his eyes blood-shot, and his breathing oppressed.