"We do not, Monsignore," replied Pignana, who was aware of the firmness of the Count, and saw at once that he had mistaken his course. "The association, which admires your excellency, especially since the trial, which looks on your excellency as a martyr, asks nothing except one favor, which will overwhelm it with gratitude and joy."

"And what is that favor?" rejoined the Count.

"That Monsignore will appear to-night at San Carlo in a box, the key of which I have with me. This box may be seen from every part of the house. All of our principal men will be present, and if Monsignore will advance, during the interlude, to the front of the box, placing his hand on his heart, all our friends will know that they may rely on him."

"By my faith, shrewd as the Duke of Palma is, suspicious as the police may be, I do not think this can be construed into an act of treason. It pledges me to nothing. The ladies to whom we make the gesture understand it. I will then make this exhibition of my person, as the English say, and I will increase the interest of the performance by my presence. In a word, I will appear for the benefit of La Felina. The brave girl and myself will not even then be quits."

"Thank you, Count," said Pignana, as he left—"and now, adieu, until we meet at San Carlo."

* * * * *

A few hours after the scene we have described, an immense crowd thronged every entry to the theatre of San Carlo. It was not, however, the joyous crowd intoxicated with folly which we have seen hurry into its precincts at the commencement of this story. On this occasion the public seemed rather busy than in search of pleasure. It was a matter of importance, indeed, to be present at the last appearance of La Felina. The keys of the boxes, therefore, according to the Italian custom, were sold at the door of the theatre, and at double the usual price. I speak only of the small number of boxes, the proprietors of which were absent from Naples. We may also as well add, that in Naples a box is often property. All the other boxes were occupied by illustrious personages, or by the wealthiest inhabitants of the great city. San Carlo on that night was brilliant as possible. The Count had just come. The women glittered with flowers and diamonds. As on the occasion of the masked ball, the theatre was illuminated a giorno. No detail of the festival, no beauty present could escape observation. Count Monte-Leone appeared in the box which had been reserved for him, which soon became the object of every lorgnette and the theme of every conversation. He bore this annoying attention with icy sang-froid, seeming even not to observe it. His vanity, however, was secretly gratified, and we have said that this was his weak point. The overture began, and the curtain was finally raised. During this time, and the first scenes of the opera, the private conversation was so loud and animated that the singers and orchestra were almost overpowered. Suddenly silence was restored—admiration as respectful as that which precedes a sovereign's arrival pervaded all.

The true Queen of Naples, at this moment, was La Felina. This complete calmness was soon succeeded by a thunder of applause. A thousand voices uttered a long shout of commingled bravos and hurras. La Felina was on the stage. This delirium produced by a single person, this passionate worship expressed by an almost furious admiration, those thousand hearts hung to the lips of a single person, is found only on the stage, and was one of the triumphs which Naples decreed to the greatest artist in Italy. A report was in circulation, also, which added to this almost furious admiration. It was said, that she was about to retire for ever, and that this was her last appearance. The eyes of love have a secret and admirable instinct, enabling them to see what persons who are indifferent cannot discover. Among this eager and compact crowd, the glances of La Felina were immediately attracted to a point of the hall, to a single box in which Monte-Leone sat. To him Felina acted and sang, and she was sublime. At the moment when Paer's heroine appeared, a single voice was heard above all others, and the person who had uttered it, having exhausted all the powers of his soul, during the whole time Felina was on the stage, stood with his eyes fixed on her, as if he had been fascinated by some charm he could not shake off.

"Poor Taddeo," said the Count, when he saw him, "why does she not love him?"

The first act was concluded by a torrent of bouquets, which the audience threw at the feet of their favorite actress. The curtain fell. This was the moment expected by the associate of Monte-Leone. Faithful to his promise, the Count leaned forward in his box, naturally as possible, and looked around the brilliant assembly. He then placed his hand on his heart, and disappeared in the recess of his box. Before, however, he left, he heard a confused and joyous murmur, which rose from the parquet to the boxes, and became lost in the arch of the gilded ceiling.

"They were there," said Monte-Leone, "and Pignana must be satisfied. I have done all he asked literally."

A few friends joined the Count in his box.

"Indeed, dear Monte-Leone," said one of these, with whom he was most intimate, a friend of his childhood, "You have resumed your old habits."

"What do you mean?"

"That, scarcely out of prison, I saw you from my box beginning a new intrigue by exchanging signs with some fair unknown. This, too, at San Carlo. This is bold, indeed, unless the hand on your heart is the resumption of an old intrigue, interrupted, perhaps, by your imprisonment."

"I do not understand you, Barberini," said the Count, not a little annoyed. "I made no sign to any one."

"Perhaps so: if you please, I was mistaken. But if I am, it is all the better; for it proves to me that you no longer adhere to the plans you once confided to me. I was delighted, too, at what I heard yesterday evening."

"Of what plans do you speak?" replied the Count, moved, in spite of himself, by this half-confidence.

"Mon Dieu! of your own. Did you not tell me that you were passionately fond of the sister of Taddeo de Sorrento, of the beautiful Aminta Rovero, daughter of the old minister of finances of Murat?"

"True," said the Count.

"Well," continued Barberini, "I hope you are cured of that love, for you have a rival."

"A rival!" said the Count.

"Yes, and perhaps a happy one."

"Signor," said Monte-Leone, restraining himself with difficulty, "let me tell you I purpose to make that lady my wife. All that touches her honor, touches mine also."

"I say nothing derogatory to it, but merely repeat what I have heard."

"What have you heard?" said Monte-Leone, and the blood rushed to his head.

"One of my young relations," continued Count Barberini, "was at an entertainment given on the recurrence of her daughter's birthday by Signora Rovero. He spoke to me of a Frenchman who is with them, and who seems passionately fond of the young Aminta."

"And then?" said Monte-Leone, with the same tone in which he would have asked the executioner to strike him with certainty.

"And then! why that is all," said Barberini, who had become terrified at Monte-Leone's manner. "I heard nothing more.... If I did, I would take care to be silent when you look so furiously. All this interests me very slightly. One's own love affairs are too troublesome to enable us to occupy ourselves with those of others.... There, too, is the Countess d'Oliviero, waving her bouquet so impatiently to and fro that I see she will break it to pieces unless I go. I must leave you, to save her flowers." The young man left.

"I was right," said he, "not to tell the story of the night affair of which my kinsman was a witness. I think he would have killed me at once."

III. A PATERNAL LETTER

On the day after the terrible night during which Aminta had strayed in her sleep to the room of Maulear, two ladies met at about nine in the morning in the saloon of the villa of Sorrento, and were locked in each other's arms.

"Yes, my child," said one of them, "your sleep has given an interpretation to all that has passed, and I understand all. Your honor cannot suffer, for you are chaste and pure."

"In your eyes, dear mother, I am; but in those of the world, which they tell me is so envious and malicious! Even last night, when every eye was fixed on me, I fancied that I read suspicion and contempt in the expression of more than one."

"No, my child," replied Signora Rovero, clasping her to her heart, "I saw almost all our guests this morning, immediately before they left. They had already heard of your somnambulism, and our servants had told how you suffered with it from your childhood. All are convinced of your innocence."

"Dear mother, do not think so. They spoke to you only with their lips, but believe me guilty."

"Mother," added she, with that strange emotion to which she was sometimes a victim, "I think that this unfortunate affair is but the beginning of the realization of the unfortunate fate which I know is reserved for me. It seems to me that on yesterday our evil days began."

She hid her head in her mother's bosom to conceal her tears, and to find a refuge against the misfortunes she feared.

A servant came in, and said, "The Marquis de Maulear wishes to wait on the ladies."

"Mother, mother," said Aminta, "how can I refrain from blushing before him?"

Signora Rovero bade the servant show the Marquis in. Then arranging Aminta's beautiful hair, she kissed her forehead, and said:

"Daughter, one never blushes in the presence of a husband."

Aminta, with great surprise, looked at her mother.

"Ah, ah!" said Madame Rovero, with a smile, "a parent's eyes see much."

Before Aminta had time to speak, the Marquis entered. He was pale and excited.

"Signora," said he to Aminta's mother, "I come to beg you to pardon me for a great fault."

"To what, Signor, do you refer?"

"Of the greatest of all faults, after the manner in which I have been received, and your kindness towards me—for not having confided in you, and said yesterday what I wish to say to-day. Yet only from you have I kept my secret. Yesterday, nothing obliged you to grant me the favor I am about to solicit: yesterday, you might have refused it. To-day, perhaps, it will be less difficult. A circumstance favorable only to myself," added he, with a timid glance at Aminta, "marks out my conduct, which assumes now the aspect of an obligation. It fulfils all my wishes, and makes me the happiest of men. In one word, signora, I come to beg that you will suffer me to become allied to your family."

"Marquis," said Signora Rovero, "I expected to hear you speak thus, for I was sure of your honor. But far from wishing that now for the first time you had informed my daughter of the sentiments with which she has inspired you, I rejoice that your course has been different. Without this motive, signor, neither my daughter nor I would accept the alliance you wish to offer us. No reparation can be exacted, where no fault has been committed. I wish to strengthen your conscience, by assuring you, that in my opinion nothing obliges you to the course you have adopted, if it interferes with your prospects and success."

The last expressions of Signora Rovero produced a deep sensation on Maulear, and a shadow of uneasiness passed over his brow. She had ignorantly touched a sensitive chord of the heart of the young lover. Led astray by his heart, seduced invincibly by charms which were so new to him, Maulear, under the influence of passion, had entered on the flowery route, at the end of which he caught a glimpse of happiness. In the delirium of passion, he had forgotten that a severe judge, that the imperious master of his destiny, that a father, with principles eminently aristocratic, like all fathers in 1768, awaited to absolve or acquit him, to receive or repel him, to unite or to sever—in one word, to make him happy or miserable. All these important ideas were at once evoked in the mind of Maulear by the last sentence Signora Rovero had uttered. It was this hidden and sombre apparition which arose between Maulear and her he loved, the sinister aspect of which was reflected in a manner by the expression of Aminta's lover.

Signorina Rovero perceived it, and with the acute discrimination she possessed to so high a degree, said, in the melodious tones which touched all who heard them:

"Marquis, my mother has spoken for her family, I will speak for myself. You have informed us of the noble family to which you belong. I know that your wife one day will be a princess, and I wish you to remember, that she, to whom you offer this title, is the daughter of 'a noble of yesterday;' the glory of whom is derived from her daughter's virtues. This, Marquis, I say not for you, but for others. Excuse me, too, for what you are about to hear. If I have need of courage to own it to you, perhaps you will require all your generosity to hearken to it." With a trembling voice she added: "As yet, I do not reciprocate the sentiments you have expressed. To the hope, though, which I permitted you to entertain yesterday, let me add, that I am additionally gratified by the offer of your hand; for in the eyes of many persons, signor, in the eyes of those who were witnesses of our presence together last night, you would not now marry her you were anxious to espouse yesterday.

"I shall marry an angel!" said Maulear, falling on his knees before Aminta, "an angel of candor and virtue. If your heart does not yet reciprocate the love you inspire, my care and tenderness will so delight you, that some day you will love me."

"Well, then," said she to Maulear, "grant me one favor. Suffer me to await that day. Take pity on a poor girl full of terror and apprehension, at a tie she has always feared. Grant her heart time to make itself worthy of you, Marquis, and remember that until then you are free. As my mother has told you, nothing binds you to me. Now you owe me nothing, nor will you, until I shall confide my destiny to your hands, when you will owe me the happiness you promise me."

"You do not consent? Then, Signorina, I will wait. Henceforth, however, I am pledged to you; and my hand and heart are yours."

Just then a servant told Maulear that a courier from Naples had brought him important letters. The Marquis bade adieu to the two ladies, and left.

"My child," said Signora Rovero, in a tone of affectionate reproach, "what must a man do to win your love?"

"I do not know; I am certainly foolish, but I am afraid!"

Maulear found the courier of the French embassy in his room. "An urgent letter from France," said he, to Maulear.

Henri read the direction and shuddered. It was from the Prince de Maulear. The Prince wrote rarely. What did he ask? The son who felt that he had acted incorrectly in disposing of his hand, without consulting the head of his family, trembled before he broke the seal. The character of Maulear was weak, as we have said, and, like people of this kind, the prospect of danger and misfortune annoyed him more than the reality itself. At last he resolved to know all, and with a trembling hand opened the letter. He read as follows:

"Paris, April 10, 1816.

"MY SON:—I often hear of you, not through your own letters, for you write rarely, but through other friends, whom I have requested to keep me au fait. I know what kind of life you lead at Naples, and am dissatisfied with you. The son of a shop-keeper and a banker would act more like a gentleman than you. People talk of you here no better than they do of the deputy of the hangman. I had hoped the Marquis de Maulear would behave more correctly in a foreign country. I was no older than you are, when I went as secretary of legation to Madrid. Three months afterwards I was recalled. I had run away with three women, fought four duels, and lost at cards fifty thousand crowns. That was something to be recalled for. It was an assurance that in future I would be reasonable. When our youth reasons, and does not laugh, things go wrong. The King spoke to me yesterday about you. He asked me, if you found any thing to amuse you at Naples. I replied that you found too much to amuse you. 'I am glad of it,' said the King, 'so our family honor at least is saved.' Since, however, you are most ignobly virtuous, I have tried to turn the affair to the best advantage. I have brought about a magnificent match for you, to supersede one I have heard you were making for yourself. The lady is rich, noble, and beautiful. She is the daughter of the Duke d'Harcourt, one of the gentlemen in waiting of his majesty. You may, perhaps, at Naples have seen Rene d'Harcourt, the brother of the lady. The marriage will take place three months hence. I trust I have surprised you not unpleasantly. Adieu, my son. Your aunt, the Countess, sends her love to you, and amuses herself with the preparation of your corbeille.

"LE PRINCE DE MAULEAR.

"P.S. You have three months' more folly before you, and for the rest of your life you must be prudent. I have opened a credit of one hundred thousand livres in your favor, with the banker Antonio Lamberti."

The letter fell from the hands of the Marquis, and he sank on his chair completely overwhelmed. Like a thunder-bolt, it aroused him from a happy dream. There are, in fact, in all love matters, certain moments of intoxication, when men, ordinarily sensible, become blunderers. For a month the Marquis had been in this condition, half reasonable, half mad. Living with one thought prominent, all others were indistinct to him. To him love was every thing. His father, with his antiquated obstinacy, imbued with retrograde principles, disappeared like a ghost before the brilliant reality of passion. Besides, fear of a rival, dread of the brilliant Count Monte-Leone, who, full of love, as Henri had heard, aspired to nothing more than to become the husband of Aminta left him no other alternative, than to do what another was about to—make an offering of his hand and faith. Lovers, too, see nothing but the object of their passion; and Henri sometimes thought his father would agree with him. The strange epistle of the Prince had however reversed all his dreams. The anger of the Prince when he should learn that a marriage had been contracted, contrary to his wishes, and in spite of his orders, might possibly exert a terrible influence on the fortune and future fate of the young couple; without regarding the chagrin and humiliation to which he would subject Aminta by bringing her into a family without the consent of its head.

Maulear passed three days in this cruel perplexity, sometimes hoping and then fearing that Aminta would yield to his prayer. His heart wished. His mind feared. If Signorina Rovero should accept his hand, it would be necessary for him to decide, to act; and then, from the weakness of his character, Maulear would be subjected to cruel uncertainty.

A few days after the scene which had occurred in his room, Maulear and the ladies sat together in a boudoir near the salon, which opened on the park, a view of which Aminta was taking. The Marquis had been reading to the ladies the trial of Count Monte-Leone from the Diario di Napoli. This curious story, full of surprises, the noble energy, the wonderful sang-froid of the Count, the remarks of the journalist on the character of the prisoner, and the unjust accusation to which he had been subjected, and which he had so completely refuted, and to which he had submitted with such nobleness and heroism, all was listened to with the greatest interest. Maulear had read all this much to his own dissatisfaction, because Signora Rovero had requested it. The praises of Monte-Leone were most unpleasant to him.

Aminta heard every word. Every detail of the Count's daring, every change of character in this judicial drama, awakened an inexplicable emotion in her. It seemed that Count Monte-Leone, to whose singular story she had listened, was a far different man from the one she had imagined him to be. His powerful mind, his exalted soul, all the powers of which had been developed by the trial, conferred on Monte-Leone new proportions hitherto not realized by her. Count Monte-Leone, whom she had seen at home, almost timid in the presence of her he adored, annoyed by his false position as a refugee, suffering from a passion he dared not own, was not the person of whom she had heard for the past month. Looking down on her drawing, which her increasing absence of mind made almost invisible to her, Aminta sought to recall the features of the Count which had been nearly effaced from her memory. Gradually, however, they arose before her. Had her mother then spoken, had her glances been diverted from the album on which they were fixed, a strange trouble and confusion would have been visible, when aroused from this meditation. The sound of wheels entering the court yard of the villa broke the charm which entranced Aminta, and made Signora Rovero utter a cry of joy.

"It is he," cried she. "It is he who returns, my son Taddeo. Daughter, let us hurry to meet him. Let us be the first to embrace him."

Accompanied by Maulear, the two ladies hurried into the vestibule, which they crossed, standing at the villa-door just as the carriage stopped. A man left it and bowed respectfully to Signora Rovero and her daughter. This man was MONTE-LEONE.

IV.—TWO RIVALS.

Much had passed since Count Barberini had told Monte-Leone of the love of Maulear for Aminta Rovero. Monte-Leone felt all the furies of hell glide into his heart at this revelation. The idea that Aminta could love any one had never entered his mind. Whether from confidence in her, or from that error so common to lovers that they are entitled to love because they love themselves, Monte-Leone flattered himself that he had left a pleasant recollection in Aminta's mind. We may therefore imagine how painfully the Count was disturbed by the half-confidence of Barberini. Yet Taddeo, his friend, whom, he loved as a brother, could not have deceived him, and have concealed what had taken place at Sorrento, when he had received so cordially the hand of his sister. Taddeo, then, was ignorant of it. Monte-Leone, a prey to a thousand thoughts, left his box, forgetful of the opera, his friends and companions, with but one object and wish. He was determined to see Taddeo, to question him and find out who was the rival that menaced his happiness, and whom Aminta probably loved. The Count went to that part of the theatre in which he had seen Aminta. The second act, however, was about to begin; and the efforts of Monte-Leone to get near his friend created such murmurs, complaints, and anger, that he was obliged to wait for a more favorable opportunity. La Griselda was singing the andante of her cavatina, and the artist's magnificent, powerful, and tender voice, echoing through the vastness of the hall, fell in pearly notes like a shower of diamonds on the ears of the spectators. After the andante came the caballeta, and then the coda-finale. For a while one might have thought the four thousand spectators had but one breath, and were animated by a single heart, that they restrained the first to prevent the pulsations of the other from being disturbed. This gem of the opera was at last concluded, and mad applause rose from every part of the room. We are constrained, however, to say, that from this time the accents of La Felina were less passionate and brilliant, and that a veil, as it were, was extended over all the rest of the representation, so that a person who had heard only the second act of La Griselda would have asked with surprise, if it was really the wonderful prima donna, the songs of whom were purchased with gold, and the wonderful talent of whom, had enslaved the audiences of the great Italian theatres. The reason was, that, after the second act, the star which shone on La Felina had become eclipsed. Monte-Leone had left his box—the box which had been the source of Griselda's inspiration from the commencement of the first act. Hope had sustained the singer during the cavatina, at the beginning of the second act. She fancied that he whom she loved possibly heard her from the recess of some other box. When, however, she was satisfied that he was gone, despair took possession of her. "Nothing touches his heart," said she, with pain. "Neither my love nor my talent are able to captivate him—to attach him to me for a time." Thenceforth, as she sang for him alone, she sang for no one. The holy fire was extinguished. Genius unfurled its wings and flew to the unknown regions of art, whence passion had won it. La Felina finished the opera, as a prima donna should, rendering the music precisely and distinctly, note for note, and as her score required. She neither added a single fioritura nor a single ornament which had not been noted by the composer. In one word, the audience at San Carlo on that day heard the opera of the Maestro Paer and not La Felina. During this, Monte-Leone, who had given up all hopes of reaching Taddeo, and whom Taddeo, paying attention only to the artiste, had neither heard nor seen, Monte-Leone walked in front of the opera-house, a prey to the greatest agitation, impatiently waiting for the conclusion of the representation, to see his friend and hear from him what he had to hope or fear at Sorrento.

The opera ended. The crowd slowly dispersed, and Monte-Leone, wrapped up in his cloak, watched with anxiety every spectator who left the theatre. Taddeo did not come. The doors of the theatre were closed, and the Count still waited. Surprised and impatient he went to his hotel, where Taddeo also lived, but he was not there. Night passed away, and he did not come. About three in the morning a stranger was shown in, and gave Monte-Leone three letters. One of them was addressed to the Count: he opened it anxiously.

"Excuse me, my dear friend, at quitting you thus. Excuse me, especially the uneasiness I have created in your mind"—wrote Taddeo—"I have learned that she left Naples to-night, and if I leave her I shall die. I will follow her by post and on horseback, without stopping, until I shall learn whither she has gone. What will I do then! I do not know,—but at least I will know where she is, and I will not fancy that she is lost to me for ever. 'To-morrow,' said she, when she left us, 'you will love me less.' She was mistaken, my friend, or she has deceived me; for to-day I love her better than I did yesterday. My heart suffers too much for me not to sympathize with yours, and I understand how impatient you are to go to Sorrento. I send a letter to my good mother—give it yourself to her. I beg her to receive you as a friend, and as she would receive a brother of mine. Stay with her until I come back. Say that in three days I will come back to ask her to give you Aminta's hand."

"Has the person who gave you these letters gone?" asked Monte-Leone of the messenger.

"He went an hour since from the post-house, on one of our best horses," said the messenger.

Monte-Leone gave him a piece of gold and dismissed him.

"Poor Taddeo!" said he, "to suffer as well as I do—no no, not so much as I do; for earthly love cannot be compared with heavenly passion. Jealousy such as I suffer can be compared to nothing; and all is derived from the serpent's stings, with which Barberini pricked my heart."

The time until day seemed interminable to Monte-Leone. It came at last. The Count rang for Giacomo and dressed himself elegantly. The old man on this occasion assisted him cheerfully and zealously, as he had previously shown repugnance on the night of the terrible expedition at Torre-del-Greco. Monte-Leone ordered his handsomest equipage. A few minutes afterwards the horses pawed impatiently in the court-yard, so that the driver could with difficulty restrain them. When the Count came down, he found Giacomo standing in the door of the saloon so as to bar his egress. Pale and agitated, the old man restrained the Count, and in a stern, quarrelsome voice said:

"What is the matter now? what new folly are you about to commit?"

"What the devil do you mean?" asked the Count, taking hold of the intendant's hand.

"No, Monsignore, you shall not go," said Giacomo, extending his arms so as completely to shut the door, "unless you serve me as you did Stenio Salvatori. Is it not a shame that the noblest of the gentlemen of Naples, that the son of my master, should walk abroad armed like the bravo of Venice—with a sword, poniard and pistol in his bosom? What, if you please, was that box of pistols, placed by little Jack, your groom, as those animals are called in England, in your carriage?"

"What is it to you?" said the Count, impatiently.

"What is it to me?" asked the old man with tears in his eyes. "Are you not again about to risk your life against I know not whom nor why? What is it to me? That you may live, that my last days may not be passed in uneasiness and despair, like those which have gone by—for I love you. Count," said the old man, kneeling before his master, "I love you as a father loves his son. I held you in my arms when you were a child. For heaven's sake renounce your dangerous plans, renounce the acquaintance of those rascally mysterious looking men who come so often to see you. Have nothing to say to that rascally Signor Pignana, whom I would so gladly see hung. Be again happy, gay, and joyous, as you used to he. True, we were ruining ourselves, but we were not conspirators."

The Count gave his hand to Giacomo.

"Giacomo, my good fellow," said he, "I am about to engage in no conspiracy."

"What then?"

"I am about to marry," said Monte-Leone, with a smile.

"Marry! with a case of pistols as a wedding present?"

"Why!" said the Count, moodily, "I may perhaps meet enemies on the road. Now I have more than life to protect: I have my honor."

Monte-Leone, making an affectionate gesture to the old man, descended gayly and sprang into the coach, which bore him rapidly towards Sorrento, and stopped at the door of Signora Rovero's house, as we have previously said.

When she saw Monte-Leone, instead of Taddeo, Signora Rovero trembled.

"Signor," said she to the Count, "for heaven's sake tell me what evil tidings you bear. What misfortune has befallen Taddeo?"

"In two days, Signora, Taddeo will be here, and I have the difficult duty to excuse his absence. He has, however, asked me to deliver you his letter, which explains all."

Signora Rovero took the letter and opened it with eagerness.

"Excuse me, Signor," said she to the Count, "but you must make allowance for a mother's anxiety."

"So be it," she observed, after having read it. "Taddeo is in no danger if we except that his fortune may be bad. A hunting party in the mountains will detain him for two days from us."

"Count," said Signora Rovero, "my son speaks so affectionately of you that I am led to offer you my own love."

"I have the advantage in that respect, Signora, for the kindness with which you treated me while here, and the memories I bore away, have ever since inspired the deepest affection for you."

They entered the saloon, and Signora Rovero introduced Maulear to Monte-Leone. They saluted each other with the most exquisite politeness, but without exchanging a glance.

Between love and hate there is this in common: it sees without the eye; it hears without the ear. Love has a presentiment of love, and hatred of hatred.

Monte-Leone approached Aminta. All his power and energy were insufficient to triumph over the violent agitation which took possession of him when he spoke to the young girl. His loving heart offered but faint opposition to the torrent of passion, which had been so long repressed that it was ready to bear away every obstacle. Aminta blushed and became troubled when she recognized in the vibration of his voice all the emotion Monte-Leone experienced. The conversation became general. Signora Rovero spoke to the Count of his trial, the incidents of which the Marquis had been kind enough to read. The Count bowed to the Marquis as if to acknowledge a favor. Maulear looked away to avoid the necessity of acknowledging it. The Count seemed not to perceive it. Aminta became aware that if he kept silent longer the circumstance would be remarked.

"During your imprisonment, Count, in the Castle Del Uovo, I have heard that a terrible episode occurred, the details of which the Diaro does not give."

"The reason was the Diario did not know them. True, like other journalists he might have invented them, but he did not do so; and, perhaps, acted well, for his fancies could not have equalled the truth."

The Count then simply, without exaggeration, and especially without that petition for pity which is so frequently met with, told the story of the terrible scene in the prison.

Aminta listened to every word. She suffered with the prisoner, hoped with him, and followed all the details of the story, exhibiting the most profound pity for the occurrence. Signora Rovero sympathized with her daughter, and, for the time, Monte-Leone was the hero of the villa. All the prejudices of Aminta disappeared in a moment in the presence of Monte-Leone, as the morning vapors are dispersed by the first rays of the sun.

Maulear, in icy silence, listened to the Count and looked at Aminta. As he did so, his brow became covered with clouds precisely as that of Aminta began to grow bright. The latter, perceiving the painful impressions of the Marquis, extended every attention to him, so that Monte-Leone began to grow moody. The two rivals passed the whole day in alternations of hope and fear, happiness and suffering. The state of things, however, was too tense to be of long duration. These few hours seemed centuries to the adorers of Aminta, and if any one had been able to look into the depths of their ulcerated hearts, he would have seen that a spark would have produced an explosion. Many of the neighbors of Signora Rovero, who had not visited her since the ball, ventured to return. Among others present was Gaetano Brignoli. All loved him for his frank and pleasant off-hand speeches, and all received him with good humor and confidence. Maulear, who had laid aside his dislike, received him kindly, as he had previously done distantly. The Rose of Sorrento reproached Gaetano with having forgotten his promise.

"You should yourself on the next day," said she, "have given me news of Taddeo and of Monte-Leone's trial. You, however, only wrote. Friends like you, and brothers like mine, are unworthy of the affection bestowed on them." Then, like a child making friends with a playmate, she took Gaetano into the embrasure of a meadow, and began to talk with him in a low tone. The night promised to be brilliant and serene, and the air to be soft and pleasant. The evening breeze penetrated into the saloon, refreshing the atmosphere with the respiration of the sea. "What a magnificent evening, Marquis," said Monte-Leone to Maulear, as he approached him, and looked at the stars which had begun to dot the sky.

It was the first time the Count had spoken to the Marquis directly. The latter trembled as a soldier who hears the sound of the first battle signal. His emotion was short, and saluting the Count affably as possible, he replied:

"It, is a winter evening in Italy, Count, but in France it would be one of summer."

"Do you not think," said Monte-Leone, "that this is the proper hour for exercise, in this country? The complete repose of nature, the eloquent silence of night, all invite us to confidence, and make us wish for isolation and solitude—"

"Count," said Maulear, "do you wish for a half solitude; a desert inhabited by two persons?"

"Certainly, that is what I mean."

"So do I, and would participate in yours."

"Come, then, I never saw a more beautiful night, and I shall be charmed to enjoy it with you."

These two men, with rage in their hearts, each being an impregnable barrier to the happiness of the other, loving the same woman in the same way, resolved to contend for her, to their last breath;—these two men left the saloon, with smiles on their lips, like friends about to listen to the secret thoughts of each other beneath the shadow of some beautiful landscape, in happiness and pleasure.

Aminta saw them go out. She grew pale, and suffered so that she leaned against the window-case.

V. THREE RIVALS.

Count Monte-Leone and the Marquis de Maulear entered together a vast and beautiful avenue, silvered over by a brilliant moon.

"Signor," said the Count to Maulear, "do you ever have waking dreams? Can you, by the power of your imagination, transport yourself into the future, and, as it were, read your destiny, with all its prosperous and unfortunate incidents, its pleasures and chagrins? This often happens to me, especially by day and when I am unhappy. For a long time, too, I have been unhappy. For instance, not long ago, when shut up in a dark prison, with no prospect before me but that of an unjust death, and the headsman's axe bringing to a close my sad and eventful career, my good angel certainly, for I believe in such beings, sent, two hundred feet below the surface of the earth, a vision of dazzling light and beauty. I was transported beneath the green shadows of myrtles and orange-trees; I breathed an atmosphere impregnated with intoxicating and balsamic perfumes, while near me, with her hand in mine, and her heart beating on my bosom, was a young girl, destined to be my guide through this life of misery; the angel, in fact, of whom I spoke just now. Sorrows, suffering, injustice, the dungeon, and the executioner, all disappeared, and I enjoyed all the luxury of this heavenly revelation; and I said, for the realization of this heavenly revelation, the heart's blood would not be too dear a price. Do you not think so, Marquis?"

"I do, Count," said Maulear, "and especially so, because what your rich imagination has created for you, chance, or my good genius—for I too have faith in them—has displayed before me, not in the delirium of a dream, but in reality. I have seen the myrtle groves of which you dreamed: I have breathed the perfumes you describe so well: I have found the woman your imagination has shadowed to me. I found her one day when I did not expect to do so. I found one more beautiful than I had fancied woman could be, gifted with such charms, grace, and virtue, that I ask myself frequently whether such a being can belong to earth."

"Marquis," said Monte-Leone, and as he spoke he led the Count towards a darker alley, lighted up only by a few rays of the moon, which penetrated the interstices of the branches, "would it not be best to conclude this conversation rather in the dark than in the light? Our words need not any light, and neither you nor I pay any attention to the expression of our faces."

"So be it," said Maulear, and they entered the dark alley.

"Marquis," said Monte-Leone, "the divinity of my dream and the object of your passion are so alike, that I am sure we worship the same idol, and kneel before the same altar. Fortune has led two men of soul and honor into the same route. We both struggle for an object which one only can reach. One of us must tread on a carcass, which must be either yours or mine."

"Count," said Maulear, "we understand each other. We adore the same idol, but you are not ignorant that our rights to offer it homage are different; that I have rights which you have not."

The Count trembled. A word might crush all his hopes. For a few moments he hesitated, and then in a calm voice said,

"Does she love you?"

Without replying to the question, the Marquis said,

"Signora Rovero, for her name is too deeply engraven on our hearts for it not to spring to our lips, is aware of my sentiments, of which I have already told her."

"And has accepted them?" said Monte-Leone, in yet greater trouble.

"No," said the Marquis, honorably; "but bade me hope that some day she would."

"Then," said the Count, with joy, "nothing is lost. Marquis, the past is yours, but the future is mine. Had I the mind and grace of a French nobleman, I would, perhaps, propose to you a contest of courtesy, and might rely on my hope, my love, my attention, to triumph. But the contest must be of a different kind; for I will expose myself to no risks." Lowering his voice, he continued: "Not one and the other can present his love to the Signorina Rovero, but one without the other. You or I alone; and, as I told you just now, there is a life too many."

"Very well, signor,—you wage your life against mine. I consent,—but must observe that this duel should, at least, accrue to the interest of one or the other of us; and yet I do not think that Signorina Rovero would touch a blood-stained hand."

"Signor," said Monte-Leone, "from the moment you accept my challenge, the mystery and secrecy with which it must be shrouded shall be my affair; and, if you please, I will tell you of my plans."

"Do so, signor," said Maulear, coldly.

"Let us leave this alley, and go towards that group of trees in that direction."

He led Maulear towards the sea. When they stood on the shore, he said, "Below there is a kind of cove, and in it a gondola like those of Venice—a pleasure-skiff—built formerly by the minister Rovero for his family. At this hour to-morrow, we will meet in this wood and go to the boat-house. We will then put to sea, and with no witness but the sea and sky, we will settle our affair. Two men will steer the bark to sea, and one wilt guide it back——"

In spite of his courage, Maulear could not but shudder at one who detailed with such coolness so horrible a plan. The manner of death frequently enhances our terror, and he who in a forest would bare his bosom to his adversary's ball, would shrink from it on the immensity of the ocean.

"But," said Maulear, "is all this romantic preparation, is this naval drama in which you insist on appearing, necessary to our purpose? Any other secret encounter would have the same effect, and would eventuate equally satisfactorily. At the distance of a few days' travel, would we not be able to fight more safely than here?"

"No, Marquis, I must remain in this villa until Taddeo de Sorrento shall have returned. Neither I nor you can leave it without arousing suspicions, and in two days hence, we would no longer be equals; for honor compels me to say that Taddeo has promised me his sister's hand, and that the influence he exerts over his mother will without doubt induce her to decide in my favor. If, however, you prefer to run that risk, I will not oppose you."

"No no," said Maulear, who remembered what Taddeo had said to him in relation to his sister, "I will fight for her I love at the very foot of the altar—"

"Signor," said Monte-Leone, "let us avoid all scandal. The death of him who falls may be easily accounted for; and as you said, we must never suffer her we love to think that the happiness of one of us has cost the other his life."

"So be it," said Maulear, "I accept your offer."

"To-morrow we will meet," said the Count.

The two enemies returned to the villa calm, and apparently undisturbed, as if they had been the best friends possible. When they came into the room again, Aminta sat by her mother. The eyes of the young girl, however, turning constantly towards the door, seemed to expect the return of the two young men with anxiety. Her cheeks became slightly flushed when they entered. The Count approached her and besought her to sing as he had often heard her. Aminta sat at the piano. Scarcely, however, had she sung the first bar, than the door of the saloon opened and Scorpione glided in and sat at the feet of the young girl, where he laid down as he used to do; not, however, daring to look at her. Since the scandal he had caused, he had been in disgrace with all the family, and his mistress did not speak to him. The Count, who had become acquainted with Tonio during his first visit to Sorrento, could not repress a movement of horror at the appearance of the wretch. Far, however, from being angry, Tonio seemed glad to see him, and testified his pleasure by various affectionate signs. Gaetano, who was absent from the room, just then returned, and at the request of Signora Rovero sang several duets with Aminta. An extraordinary feeling seemed to influence the young man, and only with the greatest difficulty could he get through his part. When the evening was over, all retired. The next day rolled by in embarrassing constraint to all the inhabitants of the villa. An atmosphere of sadness surrounded them, like the dark clouds which seem at the approach of a storm to overhang the earth. Count Monte-Leone alone seemed master of himself, and sought to cure the general atony in which even Maulear was involved. A sensible difference was remarked between the two men, each of whom loved the same woman, while one of them must lose her forever. The Count did not take his eyes from her, and seemed thus to lay in a provision of pleasure for eternity, which seemed ready to open before him. Maulear, on the other hand, was sad and pensive, and scarcely dared to lift his eyes to Aminta, fearing, beyond doubt, that he would thus increase his sorrow and distress, and diminish his courage when the crisis came. As the day wore on. Aminta, feeling unwell, retired to her room. Signora Rovero, accustomed to see her daughter have similar attacks, sat to play reversis with Count Brignoli and two other persons. Monte-Leone and Maulear exchanged a mysterious sign and left the room nearly at the same time. The night was not so beautiful as the preceding one had been. The disk of the moon sometimes was clouded, and the wind whistled among the trees of the park; all nature, deeply agitated, seemed to sympathize with the thoughts which agitated the minds of the two enemies. The dark and cloudy sky was a meet back-ground for such a picture.

Nine o'clock was struck by the bell of the Church at Sorrento, when two men met at the cove we have described. One of them wrapped in a cloak had a case under his arm. They went towards the bank and found the gondola there. This boat was long, like those of Venice, in imitation of which it had been made—had a little cabin in its stern, which now was closed. In it the ladies used to take refuge when bad weather interfered with their pleasure. The two men used all their strength to detach the gondola from the shore. At last they succeeded. The most robust then took one of the oars and pushed the boat from the bank. Just as they were about to put off, a burst of demoniac laughter rung in their ears. A very demon, a breathing spirit of evil, had witnessed all their preparations, and had learned, from its shape, the contents of the box; the idea of what they meditated caused him to utter this shout of laughter. This demon was Scorpione. This deformity was the rival of Monte-Leone and Maulear.

The blue and azure waves of the sea of Naples on that night seemed dark as ink. The wind agitated them. Calm as they usually are, and like a vast cemetery, the tombs of which open to receive the dead, they opened before the prow of the boat like a grave, as they were intended to be. At a distance of about three hundred fathoms the two adversaries ceased to row and replaced the oars in the gondola. Without speaking, they took out the pistols, examined their locks, and opened them.

"Signor," said Monte-Leone, "I thank you for the honor you have done me in deigning to use my arms."

"The arms of Count Monte-Leone are not to be refused."

"A true hand gives them."

"A true hand receives them."

Nothing more was said. They then proceeded to place themselves at the several ends of the boat. The Count uncovered himself. Maulear did also. They let fall their cloaks and opened the linen which covered their bosoms. They raised their pistols, took aim, and were about to fire.

* * * * *

The door of the cabin was thrown open, and Aminta rushed to the centre of the gondola. Gaetano followed her. The weapons fell from the hands of the rivals; and in terror and surprise they looked on this apparition. Not a cry escaped from their lips. Pale and motionless, they looked at each other without, at first, recognizing Aminta. Not a word passed their lips. Terror-stricken, they fancied themselves in the presence of some heavenly being, sent, like the angel of peace, to rescue them from death. The voice of Aminta, full of trouble and terror, echoed over the waves, like that of an angel, and alone aroused them from the ecstatic state in which they were plunged.

"Signori," said she, "I might sooner have put a stop to this atrocious duel, the very idea of which terrifies me; had it not have been so near its completion, you would, perhaps, have denied the intention to fight after all, within a few days. Thanks to the assistance of Gaetano, my childhood's friend, who yesterday evening became acquainted with your intention, I have by God's aid been able to prevent it. I wished my presence to be grave and solemn, that you might never renew the attempt; in order that, as it were, in the presence of God and of death, you might know my fixed determination. I would not be burdened with an existence which had cost the life of a fellow-being: you, Signor Monte-Leone, by the revered manes of your father; and you, Marquis de Maulear, by all you love, I conjure to swear that you will respect the life of him I shall accept as my husband."

"Impose no such oath on me," said Monte-Leone.

"Let me die first," said Maulear.

"Not you only, but I will die also. If I do not hear you swear, I will throw myself into the sea."

She placed her foot on the gunwale of the boat.

"We swear," said the rivals, rushing towards her.

"Thanks, Signori, I will trust your oath. Count Monte-Leone," said she, "the Marquis de Maulear saved my life; you will also learn, hereafter, how generously he resolved to save my honor when it was compromised. My heart is de Maulear's, and I give him my hand."

The Marquis fell at Aminta's feet.

"To you," she continued, "Count Monte-Leone, I can offer only my respect and esteem."

"Signorina," said Monte-Leone, with a voice full of dignity and despair, "I accept even the boon you offer me; and henceforth he whom you love is sacred to me."

By a violent effort over himself he extended his hand to Maulear. The waves had borne the bark towards the shore, and all who had participated in this scene returned safely to the villa. Signora Rovero, who did not know what had passed, on the next day received a letter from Monte-Leone, who, during the night, had left the villa.

VI.—MARRIAGE.

Nothing can describe the intensity of Count Monte-Leone's grief when he was again in the carriage, which, on the evening before, had borne him to happiness, and now took him back to Naples, sad and despairing. The Count had overcome his own nature, and this was a great victory to one who usually yielded to every prompting of passion. On this occasion he had restrained himself and overcome his rage at his rival's triumph. He overcame his agony at the wreck of his hopes. When he left Sorrento, and awoke, so to say, from the stupefaction into which he had plunged, the excitable brain and fiery heart again re-opened.

"I was a fool," said he, "I was a fool when I yielded my happiness to another. I was yet more mad when I swore to respect his life, when something far more violent than mine is wrested from me. Has he not crushed and tortured my heart? I regret even my place of imprisonment," continued he. "There I had dreams of love; and had death reached me in that abyss, I should have borne away hopes of the future which now are crushed for ever."

Two torrents of tears rolled down the cheeks of this iron-hearted man, over which they had rarely flown before.

On the morning after Monte-Leone's return to his hotel, he might have been observed sitting before the portrait of the victim of Carlo III., the holy martyr of conscience, as he called his father, looking on his noble brow with the most tender respect. We have spoken of the almost superstitious faith of the Count in the fact that his father protected him in all the events of his life. We have heard him call on his father when about to be buried in the waves of the sea, and then become resigned to death in the pious faith that his father waited for him. Whenever danger menaced Monte-Leone; whenever he was unexpectedly prosperous, or was involved in misfortune; whenever his life was lighted up with prosperity, or misfortune overwhelmed him, he always looked to this parent. He thought his pure spirit hovered above him; and encouraged by this celestial aid, he trusted to the mutations of fortune without fear or apprehension. When he looked at this adored image, consolation seemed always to descend on his soul. Overcome by the boundless love Aminta had inspired, he had forgotten the political duties to which he was devoted. It seemed to him that this cause, to which he had consecrated his life, had wonderfully diminished in importance since his trial.

"Can it be, oh my father, that you were unwilling for my love to interfere with the prospects of the duties imposed on me by your death? Or, is it that in your pity you have feared that, in my dangers, the angel to whom I have devoted my existence would be overwhelmed. If, oh my father, it be thy will that I suffer these cruel torments; if I am to reserve my energy for the cause I defend, be rejoiced at my sufferings, for I am able to bear them. Ere long I will again see those who have trusted me with their fate, and the suspicions of whom offend and wound me. They will know my resolutions, and I shall know whether I shall remain their leader or tread my weary way alone."

Just then the door of his cabinet opened, and a man appeared, or rather a spectre, so much had his appearance been changed by fatigue and suffering. He rushed into the arms of Monte-Leone.

"Taddeo," said he, "my God! what has happened? How pale you are! Why are these tears in your eyes."

"My friend, La Felina has deceived me only by a day. She was, however, mistaken herself. To-morrow, said she, you will love me less. To-day I love her no more. You see I have done better than she even hoped."

He fell, with his heart crushed, on a chair, and sobbed.

"Speak, speak to me," said Monte-Leone, forgetful of his friend's suffering in his own.

"As I wrote to you," said Taddeo, "I determined to follow her, and find out her retreat at all events. Had it been necessary, I would have followed her to the end of the world. Leaving the horse I had in a street near the theatre, I went to the door whence I supposed La Felina would come. I had been there an hour when I saw a post-carriage approach. A few moments had elapsed when a woman, accompanied by a servant, left the theatre, and after looking anxiously around, to be sure that she was unobserved, entered the carriage. The valet got up behind, and the postillion, who had not left the saddle, whipped up his horses and left in a gallop. I mounted my horse and followed the carriage, keeping just two hundred yards behind it. The carriage was driven towards Rome, and at every post-house the horses were changed, on which occasions I kept out of sight, and then resumed my pursuit. Thus we travelled about fifteen leagues; when, however, we reached the eighth post-house, the carriage spring became broken and the body was thrown into a ditch. I rushed towards it, opened the door, and, in a fainting condition, received the person it contained. I bore her to the road, and, to give her air, threw aside her veil. I uttered a cry of rage and agony. The woman in my arms was not La Felina. The sound of my voice aroused the stranger's attention, and she looked at me as if she were afraid. 'Who are you?' said she, trembling. 'What do you wish?' 'To save La Felina, whom I thought was here.' 'La Felina! You were in search of La Felina!' 'Certainly.' 'And you are the horseman whom Giuseppe, the courier, told me at the last relay, followed us, are you?' 'Certainly I am.' The woman examined her arms, etc., to see that she was not hurt, looked at me most ironically, and then bursting into laughter, said: 'Well, after all, the trick was well played.' 'What trick?' 'The one La Felina has played on all her lovers, the most ardent of whom you are.' I looked at the woman so earnestly, and sorrow seemed so deeply marked on my countenance, that I saw an expression of pity steal over her face. 'Poor young man!' said she, 'then you really loved her?' 'I did, and if I lose her I shall die.' 'Come,' said she, 'you will not die. If all who have told me the same thing died, Naples would be like the catacombs of Rome. Come with me,' she continued, 'to the post-house, for now I feel by the pain I suffer that my arm is out of place. There I will tell you all.' I went with the woman to the post-house, when a few drops of cordial soon invigorated her. 'This is the explanation of what is a matter of so much surprise to you. Perhaps I should be silent; but you seem to love La Felina so truly, and a young man who really loves is so interesting that I will tell you all.' The circumlocution of this woman almost ran me mad! She finally said: 'My mistress was afraid some of her lovers would follow her, and wishing to conceal the route she had gone, took the idea of substituting me for herself, and sent me to Rome, where she is to write me her destination. You followed me instead of her. She was right, and had good reason to act as she did.' 'Then she has not yet left,' asked I, thinking of a means to rejoin her. 'She was to leave Naples,' said the woman, 'an hour after me, and is, no doubt, now far from the city.' 'And does she travel alone on these dangerous roads?' said I. 'Oh, no, she travels with him.' 'With him! of whom, for heaven's sake, do you speak?' 'Ah,' said the woman, 'La Felina would never forgive me if I told you. He, too, might make me pay dearly for my indiscretion.' I begged, I besought the woman to conceal nothing from me, and gave her all the money I had, promising to increase the sum tenfold. She yielded at last, and told me that La Felina had left Naples with her lover. Her lover! do you hear?" continued Taddeo, in a delirium of rage, "and her lover is the minister of police, the Duke of Palma."

"More perfidious than the water!" said Monte-Leone, contemptuously. "Poor Taddeo!"

"Do not pity me," said the latter, in a paroxysm of terrible rage. "I was to be pitied when I loved her, when a divinity dwelt in my soul, when my love was ecstatic and endowed her with an innocence, which my reason told me she did not possess. I was fool enough to deceive myself. Now this woman to be sure is but a woman; she is less than feminine, as the mistress of a rich and powerful noble, the Duke of Palmo. Love might have killed me, but contempt has stifled love."

His head fell on his chest, and he wept. He wept as man weeps for a departed passion, which has vivified his heart, but which yields to death, or worse still, another passion.

"My friend," said Monte-Leone, "your grief is cruel, but I suffer more intensely!" Monte-Leone told Taddeo what had taken place at Sorrento.

The friends were again locked in the arms of each other, and mingled their tears—the one for the loss of an earthly passion, and the other for a celestial affection, as Monte-Leone characterized the two sentiments when he read a letter of Rovero's. Taddeo had appointed the following day for his return to Sorrento, and faithful to his promise he left Naples for the villa of his mother. The farewell of the two men was sad and touching, for a long time must elapse before they met again. Monte-Leone had resolved to leave Naples for some time. The proximity of Sorrento lacerated his heart, and to see her he loved the wife of another would to him be insupportable. Taddeo was aware of the reasons why the Count had determined to travel, and had he no mother he would also have been anxious to leave the country.

"Taddeo," said Monte-Leone to his friend, when the former was about to set out, "I have a favor to ask of you on which I place an immense estimate, and for which I must be indebted to your love. Here," said he, presenting the magnificent emerald wrought by Benvenuto Cellini, "take this ring, and beg your sister to accept it. Tell her, as she offered me her friendship, I have a right to send a testimonial to her of my devotion." Then with a voice trembling with emotion, he added, "Say this ring preserved my life. This will not add to its value in her eyes; but tell her in confidence the history of this ring, and some day," said he, with a bitter smile, "it may be looked on as a curious relic."

"Not so, not so," said Taddeo, kissing the ring. "To us it cannot but be a precious treasure."

Perhaps while he acted thus, Taddeo thought not only of his friend, but of the woman who had preserved him from death.

Taddeo left.

Fifteen days after his reaching home, all Sorrento put on its holiday attire. The church of the town, splendidly decorated, the lighted torches, the people in their gala dresses, all announced that some remarkable event was about to take place in the village. The bells rung loud peals, and young girls dressed in white, with flowers in their hands, stood on the church portico. Certainly a great event was about to take place. The White Rose of Sorrento was about to be married to a French nobleman of high rank, Henri Marquis de Maulear.

About noon there was a rumor among the crowd in front of the church that the bridal party were near. All hurried to meet them, and Aminta was seen leaning on her brother's arm, while the Marquis escorted Signora Rovero.

The appearance of the beautiful young girl, whiter than her veil, paler than the flowers which adorned her brow, produced a general sensation of admiration. Mingled with this, however, was a kind of sadness, when the melancholy on her brow was observed. The Marquis seemed also to be ill at ease, and to suffer under the influence of feelings which on such a day were strange indeed. All care, all anxiety should be lost in the intoxication of love. Maulear had purchased his happiness by an error, and this oppressed him. After the noble decision of Aminta, and the preference she had so heroically expressed at the time of his purposed duel with Monte-Leone, Maulear had not dared to mention the letter of his father. He had simply told Signora Rovero, that he was master of his own actions, and sure of his father's consent and approbation to the marriage he was about to contract. The Signora, who was credulous, was confident that a brilliant match was secured for Aminta, and suffered herself to be easily persuaded. Maulear, too, became daily more infatuated; and, listening to passion alone, had informed his father, not that he was about to marry, but that when the letter reached him he would be married. Yet when he had sent the letter, and the time was come, all his fears were aroused, and he shuddered at the apprehension of the consequences of what he was about to do. In this state of mind he went to the altar, and nothing but the beauty of his bride and the solemnity of the ceremony could efface the sombre clouds which obscured his brow. The priest blessed the pair, and a few minutes after the young Marquis of Maulear, with his beautiful Marquise, left the village.

Just when the venerable village priest, in God's name, placed Aminta's hand in Henri's, the terrible cry we have already heard twice echoed through the arches of the church, and a man was seen to rush towards the sea. The shout, though it filled the church, was uttered in the portico, and had not interrupted the service. Thenceforth Scorpione was never seen at Sorrento.

FOOTNOTES:

[N] Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1850, by Stringer & Townsend, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern District of New York.

[O] Anglice. Good day, my dear Pignana.

[P] The original of this sentence is Je vais vous donner la liste ... c'est a dire le compte de NOS HOMMES ... non de NOS SOMMES, etc., etc. It is scarcely probably that MONTE-LEONE and Pignana, speaking Italian, indulged in French jeux des mots.



THE ABBE DE VOISENON AND HIS TIMES.

From Frazer's Magazine

The province of Brie, in France, divided and subdivided since the Revolution of 1789, into departments, arondissements, and cantons, is filled with chateaux, which, in the reign of Louis XV., were inhabited by those gold-be-spangled marquises, those idle, godless abbes, and those obese financiers, whom the secret memoirs of Grimm and Bachaumont, and the letters of the Marquis de Lauraguais, have held up to such unsparing ridicule and contempt. This milky and cheese-producing Brie, this inexhaustible Io, was, at the epoch of the regent Orleans and his deplorable successor, a literal cavern of pleasures, in the most impure acceptation of the term; every chateau which the Black Band has not demolished is, as it were, a half-volume of memoirs in which may be read the entire history of the times. Here is the spot where formerly stood the chateau of Samuel Bernard, the prodigal, it is true, of an anterior age, but worthy of the succeeding one; there is the pavilion of Bourei, another financier, another Jupiter of all the Danaes of the Theatre Italien: on this side we see Vaux, the residence of that most princely of finance ministers, whose suddenly acquired power and wealth, and as sudden downfall, may surely point a moral for all ministers present and to come; on that side we have the chateau of Law, the trigonometrical thief; and Brunoy, the residence of the greatest eccentric perhaps in the annals of French history: in a word, wherever the foot is placed, there arises a sort of lamentation of the eighteenth century—that celebrated century, whose limits we do not pretend to circumscribe as the astronomers would, but whose beginning may be dated from the decline of the reign of Louis XIV., its career closing with Barras, whose immodest chateau still displays at the present day its restored foundations on the soil upon which Vaux, Brunoy, and Voisenon, shone so fatally.

It was in this last named little chateau that was born and educated the celebrated abbe, the friend of Voltaire, of Madame Favart, and of the Duc de la Valliere; and here it was, also, that in manhood its possessor would occasionally resort, though not the least in the world a man who could appreciate rural enjoyments, for the purpose of reposing from the fatigues of some of his epicurean pilgrimages to his friends at Paris or Montrouge, and which was his final sojourn when age and infirmities rendered it imperatively necessary for him to breathe the pure air of his native place, far away from the heating petits soupers of the capital, and the various other dearly cherished scenes of his earlier years.

Claude Henri Fusee de Voisenon, Abbe of Jard, and Minister Plenipotentiary of the Prince-Bishop of Spire, was born at Voisenon on the 8th of June, 1708. Biographers have, perhaps, laid too much stress on the debility of constitution which he brought with him into the world, inherited, they say, from his mother, an exceedingly delicate woman. Since the examples of longevity given by Fontenelle and Voltaire, of whom the first lived to the use of a hundred, and the second to upwards of four-score years, and yet both of whom came into the world with very doubtful chances of existence, it is become a very hazardous task to determine, or even to foretell, length of days by the state of health at birth. They add, that an unhealthy nurse, aggravating the hereditary weakness of the child, infused with her milk into his blood the germs of that asthma from which he suffered all his life, and of which he eventually died. These facts accepted—a delicate mother, an unhealthy nurse, an asthma, and constant spittings of blood—it follows that, even with these serious disadvantages to contend with, a man may live and even enjoy life up to the age of sixty-eight. How many healthy men there are who would be content to attain this age! And if the Abbe de Voisenon did not exceed the bounds of an age of very fair proportions, we must bear in mind that, though even an invalid, he constantly trifled with his health with the imprudence of a man of vigorous constitution; eating beyond measure, drinking freely, presiding at all the petits soupers—petit only in name—of the capital, passing the nights in running from salon to salon, and seldom retiring to rest before morning: a worthy pupil of that Hercules of debauchery, Richelieu, his master and his executioner. Terrified at the delicate appearance of his child, his father dared not send him to school, but had him brought up under his own eye, with all the patience of an indulgent parent and the solicitude of a physician. Five years' cares were sufficient to develop the intellectual capacities of a mind at once lively and clear, and marvellously fitted by nature to receive and retain the lessons of preceptors. At eleven years of age he addressed a rhyming epistle to Voltaire, who replied,—

"You love verses, and I predict that you will make charming ones. Come and see me, and be my pupil."

If Voisenon justified the prediction, he scarcely surpassed the favorable sense which it incloses. Verbose, incorrect, poor in form, pale and washy as diluted Indian ink, his verses occasionally display witty touches, because every one was witty in the eighteenth century; but to class them with the works of the poets of his day as poetry is impossible—they merit only being considered in the light of lemonade made from Voltaire's well-squeezed lemons.

In many respects the prose of the eighteenth century, not being an art, but rather the resource of unsuccessful poets, lent itself better than did the muse to the idle fantasies of the Abbe de Voisenon. His facetiae, his historiettes, his Oriental tales, reunited later (at least in part) with the works of the Comte de Caylus, and with the libertine tales of Duclos and the younger Crebillon, prove the facility with which he could imitate Voltaire, while his lucubrations must be considered as far inferior to the short tales of the latter author. For the most part too free, too indecent, in short, to show their faces beside some elaborately serious fragments which form what are called his works, they figure in the work we have just named under the title of Recueil de ces Messieurs; Aventures des Bals des Bois; Etrennes de la St. Jean; Les Ecosseuses; les Oeufs de Paques, &c. We know, by the memoirs of the time, that a society of men of letters, formed by Mademoiselle Quinaut du Frene, and composed of fourteen members chosen by her, had proposed to itself the high and difficult mission of supping well at stated intervals, and of being immensely witty and extravagantly gay. At the end of the half-year these effusions of wit and gayety were printed by the society at the mutual expense of its members, and given to the world under the title of Recueil de ces Messieurs.[Q] Deprived of the illusive accompaniments of the lights, the sparkling eyes, the tinkling glasses, and the indulgent good-nature engendered by an excellent dinner, good wines, and an ample dessert, these table libertinages, when read nearly a century afterwards, lose all their piquancy of flavor and become simply nauseous. The readings, and consequently the dinners, took place sometimes at the house of Mademoiselle Quinaut, sometimes at that of the Comte de Caylus.

Having conceived a disgust for the profession of arms—for which he had been originally intended—in consequence of having fought with and wounded a young officer in a duel, he determined upon embracing the ecclesiastical state; and shortly after taking orders was inducted by Cardinal Fleury to the royal abbey of Jard—an easy government, the seat of which was his own chateau of Voisenon.

As soon as he was actually a dignitary of the Church, he turned his thoughts entirely to the stage! In compliance with the request of Mademoiselle Quinaut, the new Abbe of Jard wrote a series of dramatic pieces, among which may be cited, La Coquette fixee, Le Reveil de Thalie, Les Mariages assortis, and Le Jeune Grecque, little drawing-room comedies, which have not kept possession of the stage, and to which French literature knows not where to give a place at the present day, so far are they from offering a single recommendable quality. The only style of composition in which the Abbe de Voisenon might have, perhaps, distinguished himself, had he been seconded by an intelligent musician, was the operatic. In this baladin talent of his there was something of the freedom and sparkle of the Italian abbes; and yet the Abbe de Voisenon enjoyed during his life-time a high degree of celebrity. Seeing the utter impossibility of justifying this celebrity by his works, we must presume that it proceeded chiefly from his amiable character, his pointed epigrammatical conversation, and in a great measure, also, from his brilliant position in the world. And, after all, did celebrity require other causes at a time when a man's success was established, not by the publicity of the press, but from the words dropped from his lips in the "world," and from the occasional enunciation of a sparkling bon mot quickly caught up and for a length of time repeated? Were we to protest against this species of illustration, as the French call it, we should be in the wrong: each epoch has its own; since then times are altered: now-a-days, in France, a man obtains celebrity through the medium of the press, formerly it was by the salons. In general, the French litterateurs, especially the journalists, may be said to write better now than they did then; but where, we should like to know, is there now to be found a young writer of thirty capable of creating and sustaining a conversation in a society consisting of upwards of a hundred distinguished persons? The lackeys of M. de Boufflers were, in all probability, more in their place in a salon than would be the most learned or witty writers of the present day.

If the Abbe de Voisenon was not exactly an eagle as regards common sense and intellectual attainments, what are we to think of M. de Choiseul, who wished to appoint him minister of France at some foreign court? The Abbe de Voisenon a minister! that man whom M. de Lauraguais called a handful of fleas! But if he became not minister of France, it was decreed by fate that he should be minister of somebody or other; he was too incapable to escape this honor. Some years after the failure of this ridiculous project of M. de Choiseul, the Prince-bishop of Spire appointed him his minister plenipotentiary at the Court of France. His admission into the bosom of the French Academy was all that was now required to complete his happiness, and this honor was shortly afterwards conferred upon him, for he was duly elected to the chair vacated by the death of Crebillon.

At the age of fifty-two, with the intention of getting rid of his asthma, his constant companion through life, he determined to try the effect of mineral waters upon his enfeebled constitution. His journey from Paris to Cautarets, and his sojourn in this head-quarters of bitumen and sulphur, as related by himself in his letters to his friends, may be considered as an historical portraiture of the method of travelling, as pursued by the grandees of the time, as well as being the truest pages of the idle, epicurean, pleasure-loving, yet infirm, existence of the narrator.

"We passed through Tours yesterday (writes he to his friend Favart, in his first letter, dated from Chatelherault the 8th day of June, 1761), where Madame la Duchess de Choiseul received all the honors due to the gouvernante of the province: we entered by the Mall, which is planted with trees as beautiful as those of the Parisian Boulevards. Here we found a mayor, who came to harangue the duchess. It happened that M. Sainfrais, during the harangue, had posted himself directly behind the speaker, so that every now and then his horse, which kept constantly tossing its head, as horses will do, would give him a little tap on the back—a circumstance which cut his phrases in half in the most ludicrous manner possible; because at every blow the orator would turn round to see what was the matter, after which he would gravely resume his discourse, while I was ready to burst with laughter the whole time. Two leagues further on we had another rich scene; an ecclesiastic stopped the carriage, and commenced a pompous harangue addressed to M. Poisonnier, whom he kept calling mon Prince. M. Poisonnier replied, that he was more than a prince, and that in fact the lives of all princes depended upon him, for he was a physician. 'What!' exclaimed the priest, 'you are not M. le Prince de Talmont?' 'He has been dead these two years,' replied the Duchesse de Choiseul. 'But who, then, is in this carriage?' 'It is Madame la Duchesse de Choiseul,' replied some one. Forthwith, not a whit disconcerted, he commenced another harangue, in which he lauded to the skies the excellent education she had bestowed on her son. 'But I have no son, monsieur,' replied the duchess quietly. 'Ah! you have no son; I am very sorry for that;' and so saying his reverence put his harangue in his pocket, and walked off.

"Adieu, my worthy friend. We shall reach Bordeaux on Thursday. I intend to feed well when I get there."

What an edifying picture of the state of the high and low clergy of France at this epoch is presented to us! The Abbe de Voisenon rolling along in his carriage, indulging in the anticipatory delights of some good 'feeds' when he shall get to Bordeaux; and a hungry priest haranguing right and left the first comers who may present themselves, in order to obtain the wherewithal to procure a dinner.

It is to Madame Favart that Voisenon writes from Bordeaux:—

"We arrived here at ten o'clock yesterday evening, and found Marshal de Richelieu, who had crossed the Garonne to meet the Duchesse de Choiseul. This city is beautiful viewed at a distance—all that appertains to the exterior is of the best; but what afflicts me most of all, is the sad fact that there are no sardines to be had on account of the war. I was not aware that the sardines had taken part against; however, I revenged myself upon two ortolans, which I devoured for supper, along with a pate of red partridges aux truffes, which, though made as long back as November last—as Marshal de Richelieu assured me—was as fresh and as parfume as if it had been made but the night before."

If the reader should feel astonished that an asthmatical patient could eat partridges and truffles without being horribly ill, his astonishment will not be of long continuance. The following day Voisenon wrote to Favart:—

"Oh, my dear friend, I have passed a frightful night. I was obliged to smoke and take my kermes. I shall not be able to see any of the 'lions' of the place. If I am three days following in this state after I get to Cauterets, you will have me back again with you by the end of the month."

One would suppose that after this gentle hint our abbe would be more prudent; not a bit of it. In the same letter he adds:—

"The dinner-table yesterday was covered with sardines. At the very first start I eat six in as many mouthfuls—a truly delicious morceau; despite my kermes, I reckon upon eating as many to-day, along with my two ortolans. We leave to-morrow, and on Wednesday we shall reach Cauterets."

Thus, ill on the 11th in consequence of a monstrous supper taken on the 10th, we find him, for all that, on the following day devouring sardines by the half-dozen, and ortolans again! On the 18th he writes from Cauterets to his friend Favart:—

"I arrived yesterday in good health, but have slept badly, because the house in which I lodge is situated over a torrent, which makes a frightful noise. This country I can only compare to an icy horror, like the tragedy of Teree."

Twelve days afterwards, Voisenon writes to Madame Favart:—

"Madame de Choiseul's uncle, who paid you so many compliments in the green-room, arrived yesterday: he lodges in the same house with me.... I introduced him this morning into one of the best houses in Cauterets—indeed the very best house—where, I must confess, I myself spend three parts of the entire day; in a word, it is the pastry-cook's. This learned individual compounds admirable tartlets, as well as some little cakes of singular lightness; but above all, certain delicious little puffs composed of cream and millet-flour, which he calls millassons. I stuff them all day long. This makes the waters turn sour on my stomach, and myself turn very yellow; but I am tolerably well notwithstanding."

This gormandizing Abbe de Voisenon, ever hanging, as it were, between pates and his grave, becomes now a rather interesting subject of study. We begin to speculate upon what it is that will finally carry him off: his asthma, or the confectionary he daily swallows.

He writes to Favart:—

"I bathe every morning, and during this operation I bear a striking resemblance to a match dipped in sulphur. I keep my health, however, tolerably well, though still suffering from my asthma, of which I fear I shall never be cured."

It would be a wonder if he should be cured, with his unfortunate table excesses, which would have killed half-a-dozen healthy men. In vain do we seek in his correspondence with Favart and his wife, a single thought unconnected with the pleasures of the stomach. We have read with what delight he sings the praises of a pastry-cook established at Cauterets, famous for his millet-cakes and cream-puffs. His happiness did not stop here:—

"A second pastry-cook (he cries), upon my reputation, has set up here. There is a daily trial of skill between the two artists; I eat and judge, and it is my stomach that pays the cost. I go to the bath, and return to the oven. I shall come here again in the thrush season. We have red partridges, which are brought here from all parts; they are delicious."

In short, he remained so long stuffing confectionary at Cauterets, where he had gone solely to take care of himself, and to live with the strictest regularity, that on the eve of his departure he wrote sadly to Madame Favart:—'I am just the same as when you saw me last: sometimes asthmatical, and always gormandizing.' The sufferings which he experienced during his sojourn at, Bareges, previous to his final return to Paris, are proofs of the deplorable effects of the mineral waters upon his health:—

"I am suffering dreadfully; and am now, while I write, laboring under so violent an attack of asthma, that I cannot doubt but that the air of this country is as bad for me as that of Montrouge. If I am as bad to-morrow, I shall return to pass the week at Cauterets, and on Saturday go on to Pau, where I shall wait for the ladies who are to pass through on Monday, on their way to Bayonne. I know I shall be in a miserable state during the journey."

Such were the benefits derived by the Abbe de Voisenon from his four months' sojourn at the baths of Cauterets and Bareges. He returned to Voisenon infinitely worse than when he left it. On the eve of his departure for home, where, as he said some time afterwards, he wished to be on the same floor with the tombs of his ancestors, he devoured a monstrous dinner on the Bareges mountains.

Finding that the mineral waters of the Pyrenees had failed in reestablishing his health—that is, if he ever had health—the Abbe de Voisenon abandoned physicians and their fruitless prescriptions, to seek elsewhere remedies for the cure of his asthma, which became more and more troublesome as he began to get into years. As he was constantly speaking of his disease to everybody, and as everybody—at least all those who wished to get into his good graces—spoke of it to him, he learned one day that there existed in some garret of Paris a certain abbe deeply learned in all the mysteries of occult chemistry, an adept of the great Albert, the master of masters in empirical art. Like all sorcerers, and all savants of the eighteenth century, this abbe was represented as being in a state of frightful misery and destitution. He who possessed the secrets of plants and minerals, of fire and light, of the generation of beings, had not the wherewithal to procure himself a decent soutane, nor even a morsel of bread. Though, by the efforts of his magic, he had reached a dizzy height on the paths of knowledge, it was, alas! a fact but too true, that he was unable to maintain himself more than a month in the same apartment—perhaps on account of his indifference to the interests of his landlords. For all that he was a marvellous being, inventing specifics for the cure of all diseases, and consequently of asthma among the rest. It was even whispered, but secretly and mysteriously, and with a sort of awe—for they were very superstitious, though very atheistical, in the eighteenth century—that all these specifics were comprised in one remedy, namely, the celebrated AURUM POTABILE, or fluid gold. Now every one knows, or at least ought to know, that potable gold, that is, gold in a cold and fluid state, like wine, triumphs over every malady to which the human frame is subject: it is health itself, perpetual youth, and would be no less than immortality had not Paracelsus, who, they say, also possessed the secret of potable gold, unfortunately died at the age of thirty-three, or thirty-five: thus establishing a fatal argument against its virtues in this respect. But one thought now possessed Voisenon—that of getting hold, somehow or other, of this magic abbe, and of enticing him to his chateau; but an insensate and monstrous desire was this—a desire almost impossible to be satisfied, for it was stated that this Prometheus repelled all advances. Persecuted by the faculty, censured by the ecclesiastical tribunal, maltreated by the police, who would not suffer anything in the shape of gold-making, he had, in his savage misanthropy, renounced all further thoughts of alleviating the pains of humanity at the cost of his repose and safety. Here was a terrible state of perplexity for our asthmatical abbe, who, for all that, did not lose courage, but set to work with all his might to discover the great physician.

But where, or how, was he to discover a sorcerer in Paris? To whom could he decently address himself? To what professional class? There are so many people in the world ready to ridicule even the most respectable things. Every time that Voisenon elbowed at the Tuileries, or in the Palais Royal, an individual in a seedy cassock, he fancied that he had discovered his man. Forthwith he would enter into conversation with him, his heart fluttering with hope, until the moment came which would convince him that he had been deceived. Though for the moment cast into despair, he did not lose hope, but would the next day recommence his voyages of discovery in search of potable gold. One morning he had a sudden illumination:—"Since the archbishop," thought he, "has censured the conduct of the abbe I have been so long in search of, the archbishop must know where he lodges." Just as if sorcerers had lodgings! That very day he repaired to the archbishop's court. If the reader wonders why our abbe did not give the clerks whom he interrogated the name of his mysterious priest, the answer is easy: it is simply because he did not know his name; magicians seldom make themselves known but by their works. This name, however, to his great and inexpressible joy, he was soon to learn. After some researches made in the register of the episcopal court, the clerk informed him that this abbe (a deplorable subject by all accounts) was called Boiviel, and, at the period when the acts of censure were passed upon him, lodged in the Rue de Versailles, Faubourg Saint Marceau. Voisenon was there almost as soon as the words were out of the clerk's mouth.

Voisenon knocked at every kennel of this deplorable street; not even a bark replied to the name of the Abbe Boiviel. At length, at a seventh floor above the mud, an old woman, who resided in a loft, to which access was obtained by means of a rope-ladder, informed him that the Abbe Boiviel had quitted the apartment about six months before, with the avowed intention of going to lodge at Menilmontant; she added, that this delay gave fair grounds for supposing that he must necessarily have changed his quarters at least five or six times in the course of these six months. Disappointed, but not discouraged, Voisenon descended from the dizzy height, reflecting upon the sad distress to which a man might be reduced, although possessing the secret of potable gold.

An almost incredible chance had so willed it, that the Abbe Boiviel had changed his abode but three times since his descent from the garret of the Rue de Versailles. From Menilmontant he had removed to Passy, and from Passy to La Chapelle, where he now resided.

At length the two abbes met; but to what delicate manoeuvres the seigneur of Voisenon was obliged to have recourse in accosting his rugged comfrere, who was at that moment engaged in eating his breakfast off a chair. He had sense enough to put off as long as possible the true subject of his visit; besides, what cared he for delays? He had found him at last, he was face to face with the mysterious, infallible physician, the successor of the great Albert. Boiviel was even more savage and morose than the Abbe de Voisenon had anticipated. He spoke of offering his services to the Missionary Society in order to get appointed to preach the Gospel in Japan, although, to tell the truth, he did not believe over-much in Christianity. "And I do not believe in Japan," might have perhaps replied the Abbe de Voisenon, had he been in a joking humor: but the fact is, he was thunderstruck at the enunciation of such a project. It was too provoking, when he, had at length found the Abbe Boiviel, to hear that the Abbe Boiviel was going to immolate himself in Japan.

Inspired by circumstance, that tenth muse which is worth all the nine put together, Voisenon said to Boiviel, that he was aware of all the persecutions which the clergy of Paris had made him endure for causes which he did not desire to know; he refrained also from entering on the subject of fluid gold. Touched by the exhibition of so much constancy in misfortune, he had come, he said, to propose to the Abbe Boiviel to inhabit his chateau of Voisenon, where, in the calm and repose of a peaceful existence, and with a mind freed from the harassing cares of the world, he would have leisure to meditate and write; that this proceeding of his, though strange in appearance, was excusable, and to be judged with an indulgent eye; he, the Abbe de Voisenon, was happy, rich, powerful even. The Abbe Boiviel would be quite at home at the chateau de Voisenon; his feelings of independence would not be outraged; when he should be tired of sojourning there, he might quit the chateau, remain absent as long as it pleased him, and return when it suited his fancy. It is hardly necessary to say that the wild boar allowed itself to be muzzled; that very evening a hired carriage conducted the chemist, the sorcerer, the magician Boiviel, to the Chateau de Voisenon. "I shall have my potable gold at last," thought the triumphant Abbe, radiant with hope and exultation.

Installed at the chateau, the Abbe Boiviel conformed himself with a very good grace to the monachal existence led by its inmates. The good regimen of the house tended also to considerably soften the former asperities of his demeanor; he spoke no more of Japan, but neither did he speak of the potable gold, although Voisenon on several occasions endeavored to obtain from him an explanation on this essential point. Whenever our asthmatical abbe would lead the conversation towards subjects relating to chemistry or alchemy, Boiviel would either avoid a direct reply or else fall into a state of profound taciturnity: and yet all his debts had been paid, including the various outstanding accounts due to his numerous landlords, and his dinners at the Croix de Lorraine—that memorable tavern, where all the abbes who received fifteen sous for every mass said at St. Sulpice were accustomed to feed daily. Several cassocks had also been purchased for him, several pairs of stockings, and many shirts.

After a three months' residence at the chateau he had become fat, fresh, and rosy, such as he had never before been at any previous epoch of his life. Emboldened by the friendship he had shown to his guest, Voisenon ventured one day to say to the Abbe Boiviel, that, skeptical and atheistical as they falsely imagined him to be in the world, he possessed, nevertheless, an absolute faith in alchemy; he denied neither the philosopher's stone, nor the universal panacea, nor even the potable gold. Now did he, or did he not, believe in potable gold? This was a home-thrust Boiviel could no longer recoil; he did believe in it; but according to his idea the audacious chemist committed a great sin in composing it: it was, so to speak, as though attacking the decrees of creation to change into liquid what had been ordained a metal. A sorcerer troubled with religious scruples appeared a strange spectacle to the Abbe de Voisenon and one, too, that rather embarrassed him. He did not, however, entirely renounce his conquest of the potable gold; he waited three months longer, and during these three months fresh favors were lavished on Boiviel, who habituated himself to these proceedings with praiseworthy resignation.

Treated as a friend, called also by that title, Boiviel justified the Abbe de Voisenon in saying to him one day, that he had no longer a hope in any remedy whatsoever, save the potable gold, for the cure of his asthma. Without the specific, as much above other remedies as the sun is above fire, the only course left him was to die. Boiviel was moved, his iron resolves were shaken, and his qualms of conscience ceded to the voice of friendship. He warned his friend, however, that in order to compose a little fluid gold much solid gold would be required. The first essay would cost ten thousand livres at the very least. Voisenon, who would have given twenty thousand to be cured, consented to the sacrifice, thanking heartily his future liberator, who, on the following day, commenced the great work. What sage deliberation did he bring to the task! and how slowly did the work proceed! Day followed day, month followed month, but as yet no gold, except that which the Abbe de Voisenon himself contributed in pieces of twenty-four livres each. The day at length arrived in which, the ten thousand livres being exhausted, Boiviel informed his patient that the fluid gold was in flasks, and would be ready for use in a month.

It was during this month that the alchemist Boiviel took leave of the Abbe de Voisenon, on the pretext of going to see his old father, who resided in Flanders. Before two months were out he would return to the chateau, in order to observe the beneficial effects of the liquified metal. Warmly embraced by his friend, overwhelmed with presents, solicited to return as speedily as possible, Boiviel quitted the Chateau de Voisenon, where he had lived for nearly a year, and in what manner we have seen.

After the time allowed by Boiviel for the fluid gold to be fit for use had elapsed, the Abbe de Voisenon began his course of the medicine. He emptied the first, the second, and the third flask, awaiting the result with exemplary patience; but an asthma is not to be cured in a week, especially an asthma of forty years' standing.

Boiviel had not yet returned; he had now been four months in Flanders; to these four months succeeded another four, but no Boiviel; the year revolved, the flasks diminished, but still no Boiviel.

It is scarcely necessary to say that the Abbe Boiviel never reappeared, and that he was nothing better than a charlatan and a thief. But the singular part of the matter is, that the Abbe de Voisenon found his asthma considerably relieved after a course of the fluid gold composed by Boiviel; and his sole regret at the end of his days was, not having foreseen the death, or disappearance—a matter quite as disastrous—of his alchemist, who could have furnished him with the means of compounding the elixir for himself as it might be wanted.

In order to show himself superior to the assaults of his enemy, our Abbe would often endeavor to persuade himself that he was every whit as active as he had formerly been; more active even than he had been in his youth. On these occasions he would jump up from his easy-chair, where he had been sitting groaning under an attack of the asthma; he would cast his pillows on one side, his night-cap on the other, would pitch his slippers to the other end of the room, and call loudly for his domestics. In one of these deceitful triumphs of his will over his feeble constitution, he rang one cold winter's morning for his valet de chambre.

"My thick cloth trousers!" cried he, "my thick cloth trousers!"

"Why, Monsieur l'Abbe," timidly objected his faithful servitor, "what can you be thinking of? you were very bad yesterday evening."

"That's very probable; I have nothing to do with what I was yesterday evening. My thick cloth trousers, I tell you—now, my furred waistcoat! Come, look sharp!"

"But, Monsieur l'Abbe, why quit your warm room, your snug arm-chair? You are so pale."

"Pale, am I! that's better than ever, for I have been as yellow as a quince all my life! Good, I have my trousers and waistcoat; fetch me my redingote!"

"Your redingote! that you only put on when you are going out?"

"And it is precisely because I am going out that I ask for it. You argue to-day like a true stage valet. Why should I not put on my redingote? Are you afraid of it becoming shabby? Do you wish to steal it from me while it is new?"

"I am afraid that you will increase your cough if you don't keep the house to-day. It is very cold this morning."