"When the phantoms cease for a moment to pass and repass on the black veil which I have before my eyes, there are other tortures—there are overwhelming comparisons. I say to myself, 'if I had remained an honest man, at this moment I should be free, tranquil, happy, loved, and honored by mine own, instead of being blind and chained in this dungeon, at the mercy of my accomplices.'

"Alas! the regret of happiness, lost by crime, is the first step toward repentance. And when to this repentance is added an expiation of frightful severity—an expiation which changes life into a long sleep filled with avenging hallucinations of desperate reflections, perhaps then the pardon of man will follow remorse and expiation."

"Take care, old man!" cried Tortillard; "you are cutting into the parson's part! Found out, found out!"

The Schoolmaster paid no attention. "Does it astonish you to hear me talk thus, La Chouette? If I had continued to harden myself, either by other bloody misdeeds, or by the savage drunkenness of a galley-slave's life, this salutary change in me had never taken place, I know well. But alone—blind—and tortured with a visible remorse, what could I think of? New crimes—how commit them? An escape—how escape? And if I escaped, where should I go—what should I do with my liberty? No; I must henceforth live in eternal night, between the anguish of repentance, and the alarm of horrifying apparitions by which I am pursued. Yet sometimes a feeble ray of hope shines in the midst of the gloom—a moment of calm succeeds to my torments: yes, for sometimes I succeed in conjuring the specters which besiege me, by opposing to them the recollections of a past life, honest and peaceful—by carrying back my thoughts to the days of my childhood.

"Happily, you see the blackest villains have had, at least, some years of peace and innocence to offer in opposition to their long years of crime and blood. We are not born wicked.

"The most perverse have had the amiable simplicity of childhood—have known the sweet joys of that charming age. So, I repeat, sometimes I feel a bitter consolation in saying, 'Though I am at this moment the object of universal execration, there was a time when I was beloved and cherished, because I was inoffensive and good.'

"Alas! I must take refuge in the past, when I can; there alone can I find any repose."

On pronouncing these last words, the voice of the Schoolmaster had lost its roughness; the formidable man seemed profoundly affected; he went on: "Now, you see, the salutary influence of these thoughts is such that my rage is appeased; courage, strength, the will, all fail me to punish you; no, it is not for me to shed your blood."

"Bravo, old one! Now you see, La Chouette, that it was only a joke," cried Tortillard, applauding.

"No, it is not for me to shed your blood," resumed the Schoolmaster; "it would be a murder—excusable, perhaps, but still a murder; and I have enough with three specters! And then, who knows, you, even you! will repent some day."

Speaking thus, he mechanically relaxed his grasp.

La Chouette profited by it to seize hold of the dagger, which she had placed in her bosom, after the murder of the countess, and to strike a violent blow with it in order to disembarrass herself of him altogether.

He uttered a cry of great anguish. The savage frenzy of his rage, vengeance, and hatred, his sanguinary instincts suddenly aroused, and exasperated at this attack, made an unexpected and terrible explosion, under which his reason sunk, already much shattered by so many trials.

"Ah! viper, I felt your tooth!" cried he, in a voice trembling with rage, and tightly grasping La Chouette, who had thought to escape. "You crawl in the cellar," added he, more and more wandering, "but I am going to crush you, Screech-Owl. You waited, doubtless, the coming of the phantoms; my ears tingle, my head turns, as when they are about to come. Yes, I am not deceived. Oh! there they are; out of the darkness they approach—they approach! How pale they are, yet their blood, how it flows, red and smoking. They frighten you—you struggle. Oh, well! be tranquil, you shall not see them; I have pity on you; I shall make you blind. You shall be like me, without eyes!" Here he paused.



La Chouette uttered a yell so horrible that Tortillard, alarmed, jumped from his seat, and stood erect.

The frightful screams of La Chouette seemed to increase the insanity of the Schoolmaster.

"Sing," said he, in a low voice, "sing, La Chouette, sing your song of death. You are happy; you will never more see the phantoms of our victims; the old man of the Rue de la Roule, the drowned woman, the drover. But I see them, they come; they touch me. Oh! how cold they are, oh!"

The last spark of intelligence in this poor wretch was extinguished in this cry of horror. Then he reasoned no more, spoke not; he behaved and roared like a wild beast: he only obeyed the savage instinct of destruction for destruction's sake. Horrible, frightful events took place in the gloom of the cellar.

A quick, rapid tramping was heard, interrupted at frequent intervals by a dull sound, like that of a bag of bones which rebounded on a stone against which one wished to break it. Acute moans, and bursts of infernal laughter, accompanied each of these blows. Then there was a death-rattle of agony. Then nothing could be heard but the furious trampling; nothing but the heavy and rebounding blows, which still continued.

Soon a distant noise of footsteps and voices reached even to the depths of the cellar. Numerous lights appeared at the extremity of the subterranean passage. Tortillard, frozen with terror by the frightful tragedy which he had heard, but not seen, perceived several persons rapidly descend the staircase. In a moment, the cellar was invaded by several police officers, at the head of whom was Narcisse Borel; municipal guards closed the march. Tortillard was seized on the upper steps of the cellar, holding still in his hand La Chouette's basket.

Narcisse Borel, followed by some of his men, descended into the cellar. All stopped, struck with such a horrible spectacle. Chained by the leg to an enormous stone placed in the middle of the dungeon, the Schoolmaster, horrible, monstrous, his hair knotted, his beard long, his mouth foaming, clothed with bloody rags, turned like a wild beast around his dungeon, dragging after him, by the feet, the corpse of La Chouette, whose head was horribly mutilated, broken, and crushed. It needed a violent struggle to take from him the bleeding remains of his accomplice, and to secure him.

After a vigorous resistance, they succeeded in transporting him to the lower room of the tavern, a dull, gloomy apartment, lighted by a single window. There were found, handcuffed and guarded, Barbillon, Nicholas Martial, his mother and sister. They had been arrested just at the moment they were dragging off the diamond broker to murder her. She was recovering in another room. Stretched on the ground, and held, with great difficulty, by two officers, the Schoolmaster, slightly wounded in the arm by La Chouette, but completely insensible, roared and bellowed like a baited bull. At times he almost raised himself from the earth by his convulsive movements.

Barbillon, with lowered head, livid face, discolored lips, fixed and savage eye, his long black hair falling on the collar of his blouse, torn in the struggle, was seated on a bench; his arms, confined by handcuffs, rested on his knees. The juvenile appearance of this scoundrel (he was hardly eighteen), and the regularity of his features, rendered still more deplorable the hideous stamp with which debauchery and crime had marked his countenance. Unmoved, he said not a word. This apparent insensibility was due to stupidity or to a frigid energy; his breathing was rapid, and from time to time, with his shackled hands, he wiped the sweat from his pale forehead.

Alongside of him was placed Calabash; her cap had been torn, her yellowish hair, tied behind with a string, hung down her back in many tangled and disordered tresses. More enraged than dispirited, her thin and jaundiced cheeks somewhat colored, she regarded with disdain the affliction of her brother Nicholas, placed on a chair opposite.

Foreseeing the fate which awaited him, this bandit, sinking within himself, his head hanging, his knees trembling, was almost dead with affright; his teeth chattered convulsively, and he uttered low and mournful groans. Alone, among all, the widow, standing with her back to the wail, had lost nothing of her audacity. With her head erect, she cast a firm look around her. Her mask of bronze betrayed not the slightest emotion. Yet, at the sight of Bras-Rouge, who was brought into the lower room, after having assisted in the minute search which the commissary had just made throughout the whole house—yet, at the sight of Bras-Rouge, we repeat, the features of the widow contracted in spite of herself; her small eyes, ordinarily dull, sparkled with rage; her compressed lips became bloodless: she stiffened her manacled hands. Then, as if she had regretted this mute manifestation of rage and impotent hatred, she conquered her emotion, and became of icy calmness.

While the commissary drew up his report, Narcisse Borel, rubbing his hands, cast a complacent look on the important capture he had just made, which delivered Paris from a band of dangerous criminals; but feeling of what utility Bras-Rouge had been in this expedition, he could not help expressing to him by a glance his gratitude.

The father of Tortillard was obliged to partake, until after their judgment, the prison and fate of those whom he had denounced; like them, he wore handcuffs; still more than them, he had a trembling, alarmed air, uttering sorrowful groans, and giving to his weasel face every expression of terror. He embraced Tortillard, as if he sought some consolation in these paternal caresses.

The little cripple showed but little sensibility at these proofs of tenderness; he had just learned that, until further orders, he was to be sent to the prison for young offenders.

"What a misfortune to part with my darling son!" cried Bras-Rouge, feigning to weep; "it is we who are the most unfortunate, Ma'am Martial, for they separate us from our children."

The widow could no longer contain herself; not doubting the treason of Bras-Rouge, which she had prophesied, she cried, "I was sure that you sold my son who is at Toulon. There, Judas!" and she spat in his face. "You sell our heads; so be it; they will see handsome corpses-corpses of the real Martials!"

"Yes; we will not budge before the scaffold," added Calabash, with savage pride.

The widow, pointing to Nicholas with a withering glance of contempt, said to her daughter, "This coward will dishonor us on the scaffold!"

Some moments afterward, the widow and Calabash, accompanied by two police, were placed in a cab and sent to Saint Lazare. The three men were conducted to La Force. The Schoolmaster was transported to the depot of the Conciergerie, where there are cells destined to receive temporarily the insane.



CHAPTER XXXIX.

THE INTRODUCTION.

Some days after the murder of Mrs. Seraphin, the death of La Chouette, and the arrest of the band of malefactors surprised at Bras-Rouge's, Rudolph repaired to the house in the Rue du Temple.

We have said that—intending to overcome cunning by cunning, and to expose the concealed crimes of Jacques Ferrand to the punishment they merited, notwithstanding the address and hypocrisy with which he disguised them—Rudolph had caused to be brought from her prison in Germany a girl named Cecily.

She was a very beautiful quadroon, whose story ran briefly thus: Owned by a Louisiana planter, he had refused permission for her to marry another of his slaves, known as David, because he had, sultan-like, set his own choice upon her. David, by intelligence, and a long stay in France, had attained the position of surgeon on the plantation, and resisted his master with all the strength of his love for the girl. He was flogged, and Cecily locked up. At this juncture, Rudolph's yacht was off the plantation. He heard the story, and, landing in the night with a boat's crew, carried off David and Cecily in the planter's teeth, leaving him a large sum in indemnification. The slaves were wedded in France, but David won no happiness. He became Rudolph's physician-in-chief, worthily filling the post; but Cecily's three-part-white blood revolted at her union with a negro, and she flung herself into the first arms open to her. Her life was a series of scandals, so that David would have killed her; but Rudolph induced him to prefer her life imprisonment in Germany. Thence she is now brought.

Having arrived the evening previous, this creature, as handsome as she was perverted, as enchanting as she was dangerous, had received detailed instructions from Baron de Graun.

It will be remembered that after the last interview between Rudolph and Mrs. Pipelet, the latter having adroitly proposed Cecily to Mrs. Seraphin to replace Louise Morel as servant to the notary, the housekeeper had willingly received her overtures, and promised to speak on the subject to Jacques Ferrand, which she had done in terms the most favorable to Cecily, the very same morning of the day on which she (Mrs. Seraphin) had been drowned at Ravageurs' Island.

Rudolph went to learn the result of Cecily's offer. To his great astonishment, on entering the lodge, he found, although it was eleven o'clock in the morning, Pipelet in bed, and Anastasia standing beside him, offering him drink.

Alfred, whose forehead and eyes disappeared under a formidable cotton cap, not answering Anastasia, she concluded he was asleep, and closed the curtains of his bed. On turning she saw Rudolph. Immediately she carried, according to custom, the back of her open left hand against her wig.

"Your servant, my prince of lodgers. You find me overturned, amazed, grown thin! There are famous doings in the house, without counting that Alfred has been in bed since yesterday."

"And what is the matter?"

"Why ask?"

"Why not?"

"Always the same. The monster yearns more and more after Alfred; he alarms me so that I do not know what more to do."

"Cabrion again?"

"Again."

"He is the devil, then!"

"I shall begin to think so, M. Rudolph; for the blackguard always guesses when I am out. Hardly do I turn on my heels than he is here on the back of my darling, who does not know how to defend himself any more than a child. Yesterday again, while I was gone to M. Ferrand's, the notary's—there is the place to hear news—"

"And Cecily?" said Rudolph hastily. "I came to know—"

"Stop, my prince of lodgers; do not fluster me. I have so many things to tell you that I shall lose myself if you break my thread."

"Well, I listen."

"In the first place, as concerns this house; just imagine that yesterday they came and arrested Mother Burette."

"The pawnbroker on the second floor?"

"Yes. It appears that she had many droll trades besides that of a pawnbroker! She was a fencess, melter-downess, shoplifteress, smasheress, forgeress, coineress, everything that rhymes with dishonestness. The worst of all is, that her old beau, Bras-Rouge, is also arrested. I told you there was a real earthquake in the house."

"What! Bras-Rouge also arrested?"

"Yes; in his tavern on the Champs-Elysees. All are boxed, even to his son Tortillard, the wicked little cripple. They say there has been a whole heap of murderers there; that they were a band of assassins; that La Chouette, one of the friends of old Burette, has been strangled; and that if help had not arrived in time, Mathieu the diamond broker would have been murdered. Ain't this news?"

"Bras-Rouge arrested! La Chouette dead!" said Rudolph to himself, with astonishment. "Poor Fleur-de-Marie is avenged."

"So much for this. Without excepting the new infamy of Cabrion, I am going at once to finish with that brigand. You will see what impudence! When old Burette was arrested, and we knew that Bras-Rouge, our landlord, was trapped, I said to my old darling, 'You must trot right off to the proprietor, and tell him that Bras-Rouge is locked up.' Alfred set out. At the end of two hours he came back to me, in such a state—white as a sheet, and blowing like an ox!"

"What was the matter?"

"You shall see, M. Rudolph. Only fancy, that six steps from here is a large white wall; my darling, on leaving the house, looked by chance on this wall; what does he see written there with charcoal, in large letters? 'Pipelet & Cabrion!'—the two names joined by a short and. This mark of union with this scoundrel sticks in his stomach the most. That began to upset him; ten steps further, what does he see on the great door of the Temple? 'Pipelet & Cabrion!' always with the sign of union. On he goes; at each step, M. Rudolph, he saw written these cursed names on the walls of the houses, on the doors, everywhere, 'Pipelet & Cabrion.' He began to see stars; he thought every one was looking at him; he pulled his hat down to his nose, he was so much ashamed. He went on the boulevard, thinking that Cabrion had confined his indecencies to the Rue du Temple. All along the boulevard, on each place where there was room to write, always 'Pipelet & Cabrion,' to the death! Finally, the poor dear man arrived at the proprietor's so bewildered, that, after having stuttered and stammered for a quarter of an hour, he could not understand one word of all that Alfred said; so he sent him back, calling him an old imbecile, and told him to send me to explain the thing. Alfred retired, coming back by another route, in order to avoid the names he had seen written on the walls. But—"

"Pipelet and Cabrion that road too?"

"As you say, my prince of lodgers. In this way the poor dear man arrived, stupefied, amazed, wishing to exile himself. He told me his story; I calmed him as well as I could. I left him, and went with Cecily to the notary's. You think this is all? Oh, no! Hardly was my back turned than Cabrion, who had watched my departure, had the impudence to send here two great hussies who attacked Alfred. My hair stands on an end. I will tell you all this directly. Let us finish with the notary. I set out, then, in a coach with Cecily, as you are advised. She wore her pretty German peasant's costume, 'as she had just arrived, and had not time to change it,' as I was to tell M. Ferrand. You will believe me, if you please, my prince of lodgers, I have seen many pretty girls; I have seen myself in my springtime; but never have I seen (myself included) a young person who could hold a candle to Cecily. She has, above all, in the look of her large, wicked, black eyes, something—I don't know what; but, for sure, there is something striking. What eyes!

"Alfred is not tender, but the first time that she looked at him be became as red as a carrot; for nothing in the world would he have looked a second time—he wriggled on his chair for an hour afterward as if he had been seated on a thorn; he told me afterward that the look had recalled to his mind all the histories of that impudent Bradamanti about the savagesses, which made him blush so much, my old prude of an Alfred."

"But the notary? the notary?"

"Yes, M. Rudolph. It was about seven in the evening when we reached M. Ferrand's; I told the porter to tell his master that Mrs. Pipelet was there with the servant whom old Seraphin had spoken about, and told me to bring. Hereupon the porter uttered a sigh, and asked me if I knew what had happened to Mrs. Seraphin. I said no. Oh, M. Rudolph, here is another earthquake!"

"What now?"

"Old Seraphin was drowned in an excursion to the country which she had made with one of her relations."

"Drowned! A party to the country in winter?" said Rudolph, surprised.

"Yes, M. Rudolph, drowned. It astonishes me more than it grieves me; for since the misfortune of poor Louise, whom she denounced, I hated Seraphin. I said to myself, 'She is drowned, is she; after all, it won't kill me.' That's my character."

"And M. Ferrand?"

"The porter at first said he thought I could not see his master, and begged me to wait in the lodge, but at the end of a moment he returned for me; we crossed the court, and entered a chamber. There was only a single candle burning. The notary was seated at the chimney-corner, where smoked the remains of a firebrand. What a hovel! I have never seen M. Ferrand. Isn't he horrid? Here is another one who might in vain have offered me the throne of Araby to prove false to Alfred."

"And did he appear struck with the beauty of Cecily?"

"Can any one know, with his green spectacles? such an old sacristan ought to be no judge of women. Yet when we both entered, he made a kind of start from his chair; it was, doubtless, astonishment at seeing the Alsatian costume of Cecily; for she had (only ten million times better) the air of one of those little broom girls, with her short petticoats, and her pretty legs in blue stockings with red clocks! my eye, what calves! and such slender ankles! and the little foot! the notary was bewildered at seeing her."

"It was doubtless the strange costume which astonished him."

"Must think so; but the funny moment drew near. Happily I remembered the maxim you taught me, M. Rudolph; it was my salvation."

"What maxim?"

"You know: 'Hide your desire if you want it granted.' Then I said to myself, I must rid my prince of lodgers of his German, by placing her with the master of Louise; and I said to the notary, without giving him time to draw breath: 'Pardon me, sir, if my niece comes dressed in the costume of her country; but she has just arrived: she has no other clothes than these, and I have no means of getting her others, as it would hardly be worth while; for we came only to thank you for having said to Mrs. Seraphin that you would consent to see Cecily, from the good recommendations I had given her: yet I do not think she can suit, sir.'"

"Very well, Mrs. Pipelet."

"'Why will your niece not suit me?' said the notary, who, seated in the chimney-corner, seemed to look at us from under his spectacles. 'Because Cecily begins to be home-sick, sir. She has only been here three days, yet she wishes to return, even if she has to beg her way back, and sell brooms like her countrywomen.' 'But you, her relation, will not suffer this?' 'I am her relation, it is true; but she is an orphan; she is twenty years old, and she is mistress of her own actions.' 'Bah! bah! mistress of her own actions; at her age she should obey her relation,' answered he, roughly.

"Hereupon Cecily began to cry and tremble, pressing against me; the notary made her afraid, very likely."

"And Ferrand?"

"He grumbled and muttered: 'To abandon a girl at her age is to ruin her. To return to Germany as a beggar, it is fine! Do you, her aunt, allow such conduct?' 'Well, well,' said I to myself, 'you're right. I'll place Cecily with you, or I'll lose my name.' 'I am her aunt, it is true,' answered I, 'but it is a very unfortunate relationship for me; I have enough on my hands; I would be just as well pleased to have my niece go away as to have her on my hands. May Old Nick run away with such relations who send you such great girls as this without paying the postage.' To crown all, there was Cecily, who seemed to be up to trap, bursting into tears. Thereupon the notary assumed a sniveling tone, like a preacher, and said to me: 'You will have to account above for the trust that Providence has placed in your hands; it would be a crime to expose this young girl to perdition. I consent to aid you in your charitable work, if your niece promises me to be industrious, honest, and pious; and above all, never to go out. I will have pity on her, and take her in my service.' 'No, no, I would rather go back to my country,' said Cecily, still weeping."

"Her dangerous duplicity did not fail her," thought Rudolph; "the diabolical creature has, I see, perfectly comprised the orders of Baron de Graun."

Then the prince said aloud, "Did Ferrand appear vexed at the perverseness of Cecily?"

"Yes, M. Rudolph; he muttered between his teeth, and said to her hastily, 'It is not a question, mademoiselle, of what you prefer, but of what is suitable and decent Heaven will not abandon you, if you lead an honest life and fulfill your religious duties. You will be here in a house as strict as holy; if your aunt really loves you, she will profit by my offer; at first you will have but small wages, but if by your conduct and zeal you deserve more, perhaps I will increase them."

"Good! thought I to myself; the notary is caught! here is Cecily fixed at your house, you heartless old miser. Seraphin was in your service for many years, and you have not even the appearance of remembering that she was drowned the day before yesterday. And I said aloud: 'Doubtless, sir, the place is advantageous, but if the young woman is homesick?' 'That will pass away,' answered the notary; 'come, do you decide—yes or no? If you consent, bring your niece to-morrow night at this hour, and she can enter at once into my service—my porter will instruct her. As to wages, I commence by giving her twenty francs a month and board and lodging.' 'Oh, sir, you'll add five francs more?' 'No, by and by—if I am content—we shall see. But I must inform you, that your niece must never go out, and must have no one to come and see her.' 'Oh, sir, who would come to see her? She knows no one but me in Paris, and I have my own door to take care of; it has incommoded me enough to come with her to-day-you will never see me again-she will be as much of a stranger as if she had never come out of her own country. As to her not going out, there is a very simple way—let her wear her own costume; she would never dare go out in the street dressed in that outdacious manner.' 'You are right,' said the notary; 'it is, besides, respectable to dress in the costume of one's country. She may, then, remain in her Alsatian dress. 'Come,' said I to Cecily, who, with her head down, wept continually; 'you must decide, my child; a good place, in an honest house, is not to be found every day; besides, if you refuse, you must make your own arrangements; I'll have no more to do with them.' Then Cecily answered sighing, 'that she consented to remain; but on condition that if in a fortnight her homesickness troubled her too much, she might go away.' 'I do not wish to keep you by force,' said the notary; 'and I am not embarrassed to find servants. Here is your handsel; your aunt will only have to bring you to-morrow night.' Cecily had not ceased to weep. I accepted for her the advance of forty sous from the old screw, and we returned here."

"Very well, Mrs. Pipelet; I do not forget my promise. Here is what I promised if you should succeed in getting a situation for this girl, who embarrassed me."

"Wait until to-morrow, my prince of lodgers," said Mrs. Pipelet, refusing the money; "for, perhaps, he will change his mind when I take Cecily to him this evening."

"I do not think he will change his mind; but where is she?"

"In the cabinet belonging to M. Robert's apartments; in obedience to your orders she does not stir from them; she seems as resigned as a lamb, although she has eyes—oh! what eyes! But, apropos of M. Robert, isn't he an intriguer? When he came himself to superintend the packing of his furniture, did he not tell me that if there came any letters here addressed to Madame Vincent, they were for him, and to send them to No. 5 Rue Mondovi. He to be addressed under the name of a woman, the beautiful bird! how cunning it is! But this is not all; did he not have the impudence to ask me what had become of his wood? 'Your wood! why not your forest at once?' I answered. Now it is true, for two mean cart-loads of nothing at all—one of drift and the other new wood, for he did not buy all new wood—the save-penny made a fuss! His wood? 'I burned all your wood,' said I, 'to save your furniture from the damp; otherwise mushrooms would have sprung up on your embroidered cap, and on your glowworm robe de chambre that you wore so often while you were waiting for the little lady who quizzed you."

A heavy plaintive groan from Alfred interrupted. "There is my beauty dreaming, he is going to wake up; you will allow me, my prince of lodgers?"

"Certainly; I have, besides, some more questions to ask."

"Well! my sweet, how do you feel?" said Mrs. Pipelet to her husband, opening the curtains; "here is M. Rudolph! he knows the new infamy of Cabrion: he pities you with all his heart."

"Oh, sir!" said Alfred, turning his head in a languishing manner toward Rudolph; "this time I shall not get over it; the monster has stabbed me to the heart. I am the subject of the placards of the capital; my name can be read on all the walls side by side with this scoundrel's. 'Pipelet & Cabrion,' with an enormous and! I! united to this infernal blackguard in the eyes of the capital of Europe!"

"M. Rudolph knows it; but what he does not know is your adventure of last night with those two strapping women."

"Oh! sir, he kept his most monstrous infamy for the last; this passed all bounds," said Alfred, in a mournful tone.

"Come, my dear M. Pipelet, relate to me this new misfortune."

"All he had done previously was nothing to this, sir. He succeeded in his object—thanks to proceedings the most shameful. I do not know if I have the strength to relate it! confusion and shame will impede me at each step."

Pipelet being painfully raised in the bed, modestly buttoned up his flannel waistcoat, and commenced in these terms: "My wide had just gone out; absorbed in the bitterness caused by the prostitution of my name written on all the walls of the capital, I sought to distract myself by endeavoring to sole a boot, twenty times taken up and twenty times abandoned, thanks to the obstinate persecutions of my tormentor. I was seated before a table when I saw the door of my lodge open, and a woman enter. This woman was wrapped in a cloak, with a hood; I arose politely from my seat, and touched my hat. At this moment, a second woman, also enveloped in a cloak with a hood, entered my lodge, and locked the door inside.

"Although astonished at the familiarity of this procedure, and the silence which the two women preserved, I again rose from my chair, and again carried my hand to my hat. Then, sir; no, no, I never can—my modesty revolts."

"Come, Old Modesty, you are among men; go on then!"

"Then," resumed Alfred, becoming crimson, "the mantles fell, and what did I see? Two species of sirens or nymphs, with no other clothing than a tunic of leaves, the head also crowned with foliage; I was petrified. Then they both advanced toward me, extending their arms, if to invite me to precipitate myself into them."

"The hussies!" said Anastasia.

"The advances of these barefaced individuals revolted me," resumed Alfred, animated by chaste indignation; "and, following habit, which never abandons me in the most critical circumstances of my life, I remained completely immovable on my chair; when, profiting by my stupor, the two sirens approached me by a kind of slow whirl, spinning round on their legs, and moving their arms. I became more and more immovable. They reached me, they twisted their arms around me."

"Twisted their arms around an aged married man! Oh, if I had been there with my broomstick," cried Anastasia, "I'd have given a cadence, and spinning of legs to some purpose."

"When I felt myself embraced," continued Alfred, "my blood made one rush—I was half dead. Then one of the sirens—the boldest, a large, tall blonde—leaned on my shoulder, raised my hat, and uncovered my head, all to music, spinning on her legs and moving her arms; then her accomplice drew a pair of scissors from among the leaves, collected together an enormous lock of all the hair that remained behind my head, and cut it off. All, sir, all; always with the spinning around on her legs; then she said to me, singing, 'It is for Cabrion!' and the other impudence repeated in chorus, 'It is for Cabrion! It is for Cabrion!'"

After a pause, accompanied by a grievous sigh, Alfred went on with his story:

"During this scandalous spoliation, I raised my eyes, and saw looking through the window of the lodge the infernal face of Cabrion, with his beard and pointed hat. He laughed, he was hideous! To escape this odious vision, I shut my eyes. When I opened them again, all had disappeared. I found myself on my chair, my head uncovered, and completely devastated! You see, sir, Cabrion has gained his end by force of cunning, audacity, and obstinacy; and by what means! He wished to make me pass for his friend; he began by putting up a notice here that we would carry on a friendly trade together. Not content with that, at this very moment my name is connected with his on all the walls of the capital. There is not, at this moment, an inhabitant of Paris who can have any doubt of my intimacy with this wretch; he wished some of my hair, he has it; all thanks to the impudent exactions of these brazen sirens. Now, sir, you must see, there only remains for me a flight from France—ma belle France! where I thought to live and die."

Alfred threw himself backward on his bed, and clasped his hands.

"But just the contrary, old darling; now that he has your hair, he will leave you quiet."

"Leave me quiet!" cried Pipelet, with a convulsive start; "but you do not know him; he is insatiable. Now who knows what he will next want from me?"

Rigolette, appearing at the entrance of the lodge, put an end to the lamentations.

"Do not enter, mademoiselle!" cried Pipelet, faithful to his habits of chaste susceptibility. "I am in bed." So saying, he drew one of the sheets to his chin. Rigolette stopped discreetly at the threshold.

"I was just going to see you, neighbor," said Rudolph to her. "Will you wait one moment?" Then, addressing Anastasia, "Do not forget to conduct Cecily to-night to M. Ferrand's."

"Be tranquil, my prince of lodgers; at seven o'clock she shall be installed there. Now that Madame Morel can walk, I will ask her to stay in the lodge, for Alfred would not, for an empire, remain alone."

The rosy cheeks of Rigolette had become paler and paler; her charming face, until now so fresh, so round, had lengthened a little; her piquant countenance, ordinarily so animated and lively, was become serious and still more sad since the last interview between the grisette and Fleur-de-Marie at the gate of the prison of Saint Lazare.

"How happy I am to see you, neighbor," said she to Rudolph, when he came out of the lodge. "I have many things to tell you."

"In the first place, how do you do? Let me look at your pretty face. Is it still gay and rosy? Alas! no; I find you pale. I am sure you work too much."

"Oh! no, M. Rudolph; I assure you I am now used to this little increase of work. What changes me is grief. Every time I see poor Germain I become still more sad."

"He is then very much depressed?"

"More than ever, M. Rudolph; and what is annoying is, that everything that I do to console him increases his despondency; it is like a spell." A tear obscured her large black eyes.

"Explain this to me."

"For instance, yesterday I went to see him to take a book he wished to have, because it was a romance that we used to read together in our happy days. At the sight of this book, he burst into tears, which did not surprise me, it was very natural. Dear memento of our evenings, so quiet, so pleasant, seated by my stove, in my snug little room, to compare with this frightful life in prison. Poor Germain! it is very cruel!"

"Be comforted," said Rudolph to the young girl. "When Germain gets out of prison, and his innocence is acknowledged, be will find his mother and friends, and he will soon forget, in their society and yours, the terrible moments of trial."

"Yes, but until then, M. Rudolph, he is going to be still more tormented. And besides, this is not all."

"What is there besides?"

"As he is the only honest man among all these bandits, they are prejudiced against him, because he cannot agree with them. A turnkey, a very good man, told me to advise Germain, for his own sake, to be less proud, to try to be a little more familiar with the men; but he cannot. They are stronger than he is, and I fear that some day they will injure him." Then, suddenly, interrupting herself, she said, drying her tears, "But see now, I only think of myself, and forget to speak to you about La Goualeuse."

"La Goualeuse?" said Rudolph, with surprise.

"The day before yesterday, on going to see Louise at Saint Lazare, I met her."

"The Goualeuse?"

"Yes, M. Rudolph."

"In Saint Lazare?"

"She came out with an old lady."

"It is impossible!" cried Rudolph, astonished.

"I assure you it was she, neighbor."

"You must be mistaken."

"No, no; although she was dressed as a peasant girl, I knew her at once. She is still very handsome, although pale; and she has the same soft, melancholy manner as formerly."

"Come to Paris without my knowledge! I cannot believe it. What was she doing at Saint Lazare?"

"The same as I was; visiting a prisoner, doubtless. I had no time to ask more questions; the old woman who accompanied her had such a cross look, and was in such a hurry. So you know La Goualeuse also, M. Rudolph?"

"Certainly."

"Then, there is no more doubt that it is you of whom she spoke."

"Of me?"

"Yes. I related to her the misfortunes of Louise and Germain, both so good, so virtuous, and so persecuted by that villain Jacques Ferrand, taking care not to tell what you forbid, that you interested yourself in them; then La Goualeuse told me that if a generous person whom she knew was informed of the unhappy and undeserved fate of my poor prisoners, he would certainly come to their assistance. I asked the name of this person, and she named you, M. Rudolph."

"It is she, it is she!"

"You may suppose that we were both much astonished at this discovery, or resemblance of names. We promised to write if our Rudolph was the same person. And it appears that you are the same, M. Rudolph."

"Yes. I have also interested myself for this poor child. But what you have told me of her presence in Paris surprises me so much that if you had not given me so many details of your interview with her, I should have persisted in believing that you were mistaken. But, adieu, neighbor; what you have just told me about La Goualeuse obliges me to leave you. Remain still reserved toward Louise and Germain as regards the protection of unknown friends. This secrecy is more necessary than ever. Apropos, how are the Morel family?"

"Better and better, M. Rudolph. The mother is on her feet again; the children improve daily. All owe their life to you—their happiness. You are so generous to them!"

"And how is poor Morel?"

"Better. I had news from him yesterday. He seems occasionally to have some lucid moments; there is great hope of restoring him to reason."

"Come, courage: I shall soon see you again. Have you need of anything? Do you still earn enough to support yourself?"

"Oh, yes, M. Rudolph; I take a little from my hours of rest, and it is not much damage for I hardly sleep now."

"Alas! my poor little neighbor, I much fear that Papa Cretu and Ramonette will not sing much more if they wait for you to begin."

"You are not mistaken, M. Rudolph; my birds and I sing no more, for— now you are going to laugh! well, it seems to me that they comprehend that I am sad; yes, instead of warbling gayly when I arrive, they utter such low, plaintive notes, that they appear to wish to console me. I am foolish to believe this, am I not, M. Rudolph?"

"Not at all: I am sure that your good friends, the birds, love you too much not to perceive your sorrow."

"Really, the poor little things are so intelligent!" said Rigolette, naively, much satisfied at being assured of the sagacity of the companions of her solitude.

"Without doubt, nothing is more intelligent than gratitude. Come, once more, adieu. Soon, neighbor, I hope your pretty eyes will become sparkling, your cheeks very rosy, and your songs so gay—so gay—that Papa Cretu and Ramonette will hardly be able to follow you."

"May what you have said be true, M. Rudolph," answered Rigolette, with a heavy sigh. "Good-bye!"

"Good-bye, for the present!"

Rudolph could not comprehend how Madame George had, without advising him, sent or brought Fleur-de-Marie to Paris; he returned home, to send an express to the farm at Bouqueval. The moment he entered the Rue de Plumet, he saw a postchaise stop before the door of the hotel; it was Murphy, who had just returned from Normandy. The squire had gone there, as we have stated, to unmask the sinister projects of the step-mother of Madame d'Harville, and Bradamanti, her accomplice.



CHAPTER XL.

MURPHY AND POLIDORI.

Radiant with joy was the face of Sir Walter Murphy. On descending from the carriage, he handed to one of the servants a pair of pistols, took off his long riding, coat, and, without losing time to change his dress, he followed Rudolph, who, very impatient, had preceded him to his apartment.

"Good news, your highness, good news!" cried the squire, when he found himself alone with Rudolph. "The wretches are unmasked! Lord d'Orbigny is saved! You sent me off in time; one hour later, a new crime would have been committed."

"And Madame d'Harville?"

"She is overjoyed at regaining her father's affection, and at having arrived in time, thanks in your advice, to save him from certain death."

"Polidori?"

"Was once more the worthy accomplice of the stepmother of Madame d'Harville. But what a monster is this step-mother! what audacity! And Polidori! Oh, my lord, you have often been pleased to thank me for what you call the proofs of my devotedness."

"I have always had proofs of your friendship, my good Sir Walter."

"Well, never, your highness, never—no, never has this friendship been put to a severer test than in this affair," said the squire, in a half joking manner.

"How is that?"

"Disguises as coalheavers, and so on, were nothing, absolutely nothing, compared to the journey I have just made with this infernal Polidori."

"What do you say? Polidori—"

"I have brought him with me."

"With you?"

"With me. Judge what a companion! during twelve hours, side by side with the man I despise and hate the most in the world! I would as soon travel with a serpent; my antipathy—"

"And where is Polidori now?"

"In the house of the Allee des Veuves, under good, sure guard."

"Did he make no resistance to following you?"

"None. I left him the choice of being arrested on the spot by the French authorities, or being my prisoner in the Allee des Veuves. He did not hesitate."

"You were right; it is better to have him thus in our own hands. You are a man of gold, my friend; but relate to me your journey; I am impatient to know how this unworthy woman and her depraved accomplice have been unmasked."

"Nothing could be plainer. I had only to follow your instructions to the letter to terrify and crush these wretches. In this case, your highness has saved, as usual, people of worth, and punished the wicked; noble Providence that you are!"

"Sir Walter, Sir Walter, do you remember the flatteries of Baron de Graun?" said Rudolph, smiling.

"Well, let it pass. I will commence then; or, rather, you will first please to read this letter, from Madame d'Harville, which will inform you of all that occurred previous to my arrival."

"A letter? give it to me quickly."

Murphy, handing Rudolph the letter, added, "As it was agreed upon, instead of accompanying the lady to her father's I alighted at an inn, a short distance from the chateau, where I was to stay until her ladyship sent for me."

Rudolph read what follows, with tender and impatient solicitude:

"YOUR HIGHNESS,—To all I owe you already, I add the life of my father!

"I shall let facts speak for themselves; they will tell you better than I can, what new treasures of gratitude toward you I have collected in my heart.

"Comprehending all the importance of the counsels which you gave me through Sir Walter Murphy, who rejoined me on the road to Normandy, just as I left Paris, I arrived in all haste at the Chateau des Aubiers.

"I do not know why, but the features of the servants who received me appeared sinister; I did not see among them any of the old servitors of our house; no one knew me; I was obliged to announce myself. I learned that, some days before, my father was quite ill, and my stepmother had just returned from Paris with a physician. No more doubt—it was Dr. Polidori!

"Wishing to be conducted at once to my father, I asked where an old valet was, to whom he was much attached. This man had left the chateau some time before; this information was given me by a butler, who had conducted me to my apartments, saying 'that he would go and inform my step-mother of my arrival.'

"Was it an illusion or prejudice? it seemed to me that my arrival was disagreeable even to the servants. Everything in the chateau seemed mournful and sad. In the disposition of mind in which I found myself, one seeks to draw conclusions from the merest trifles. I remarked everywhere traces of disorder, of negligence, as if it had been thought useless to take care of a dwelling so soon to be abandoned.

"My anxiety increased each moment. After having settled my daughter and her governess in my apartment, I was about to go to my father when my step-mother entered. Notwithstanding her duplicity and the command which she ordinarily has over herself, she appeared uneasy at my arrival.

"M. d'Orbigny did not expect your visit, madame," said she to me. "He is so ill, that such a surprise might be fatal. I think it, then, suitable to leave him in ignorance of your presence; he cannot, in any way—" I did not allow her to finish.

"A great misfortune has happened, madame," said I; 'M. d'Harville is dead! victim of a fatal imprudence! After such a deplorable event, I cannot remain in Paris, and I have come to pass at my father's my mourning."

"You are a widow! Oh! what overpowering good fortune!' cried my step-mother, in a rage. From what you know of the unhappy marriage, which this woman schemed for me, your highness will comprehend the atrocity of her exclamation.

"It is because I feared that you would be also as overpoweringly fortunate as I am, madame, that I came here," said I, perhaps imprudently; "I wish to see my father."

"Your unexpected appearance may do your father much harm," cried she, placing herself before me, to bar the passage. 'I will not allow you to enter his chamber until I have informed him of your return, with all the precautions his situation requires.'

"I was in a state of cruel perplexity. A sudden surprise might, indeed, prove dangerous to my father; but this woman, ordinarily so cold, so much the mistress of herself, seemed so alarmed at my presence; I had so many reasons to doubt the sincerity of her solicitude for the health of him whom she had married from cupidity; finally, the presence of Dr. Polidori, my mother's murderer, caused a terror so great that, believing the life of my father to be threatened, I did not hesitate between the hope of saving him and the fear of causing him any serious emotions.

"'I will see my father at once,' said I to my stepmother.

"And although she caught me by the arms, I passed out.

"Losing her self-possession completely, this woman again endeavored to stop me. This incredible resistance redoubled my alarm. I disengaged myself from her hands. Knowing the apartment of my father, I ran thither rapidly; I entered. Oh, your highness! on my life, I shall never forget the scene presented to my view. My father, almost unrecognizable, pale, thin, suffering painted on every feature, with his head leaning on a pillow, was stretched out in a large arm-chair.

"At the chimney-corner, standing near him, was Dr. Polidori, prepared to pour in a cup, which a nurse presented to him, some drops of a liquid contained in a little glass bottle which he held in his hand.

"His long red beard gave a still more sinister expression to his face. I entered so precipitately, that he made a gesture of surprise, exchanged a look of intelligence with my step-mother, who followed in haste, and instead of giving my father the potion which he had prepared for him, he quickly placed it on the chimney-piece.

"Guided by an instinct which I cannot yet account for, my first movement was to seize the vial.

"Remarking the surprise and alarm of my step-mother and Polidori, I felicitated myself on my action. My father, stupefied, seemed irritated, at seeing me, as I expected. Polidori cast a ferocious glance at me; notwithstanding the presence of my father and that of the nurse, I feared that this wretch, seeing his crime almost discovered, would carry matters to extremities.

"I felt the need of help at this decisive moment; I rang the bell; one of the servants appeared; I begged him to say to my valet (who had his instructions) to go and bring some things I had left at the inn; Sir Walter Murphy knew that, not to arouse the suspicions of my stepmother, I would employ this subterfuge to bring him to me.

"The surprise of my father and my step-mother was such that the servant retired before they could say a word; I was reassured; in a few moments Sir Walter would be near me.

"'What does this mean?' said my father, at length, in a feeble but imperious and angry tone, 'You here, Clemence, without being sent for? And then, hardly arrived, you take possession of the vial which contains the potion that the doctor was about to give me; will you explain this folly?'

"'Leave the room,' said my step-mother to the nurse. 'Calm yourself, dear,' said she, addressing my father; 'you know the least emotion may injure you. Since your daughter comes here in spite of you, and her presence is disagreeable, give me your arm, I will conduct you to the little saloon; and leave our good doctor to make Madame d'Harville understand the imprudence (not to say anything worse) of her conduct.'

"And she cast a significant look at her accomplice. I comprehended the design of my step-mother. She wished to lead my father away, and leave me alone with Polidori, who, in this extreme case, would have doubtless employed violence to force from me the vial, which might furnish evident proof of his designs. 'You are right,' said my father; 'since she comes and persecutes me even in my own room, without any respect for my wishes, I will leave the place free to her importunacy.' And rising with an effort, he accepted the offered arm, and made some steps toward the small saloon. At this moment, Polidori advancing toward me, I drew nearer my father and said, 'I will explain to you the cause of my unexpected arrival, and what is strange in my conduct. I am a widow. I know your days are threatened, father.'

"He walked painfully, with his body bent. At these words, he stopped, stood erect, and looking at me with profound astonishment, cried, 'You are a widow? my days threatened? What does all this mean?'

"'And who dares to threaten the days of M. d'Orbigny, madame?' audaciously asked my step-mother. 'Who threatens them?' added Polidori.

"'You, sir; you, madame,' I answered. 'What an insult!' cried my step-mother, advancing toward me. 'What I say, I will prove, madame.' 'Such an accusation is frightful!' said my father.

"'I shall leave this house at once, since in it I am exposed to such atrocious calumnies!' said Dr. Polidori, with the assumed indignation of a man whose honor was outraged. Beginning to feel the danger of his position, he doubtless wished to fly. As he opened the door, he found himself face to face with Sir Walter Murphy."

Rudolph, stopping a moment, extended his hand to the squire, and said: "Very timely, my old friend; your presence must have been like a thunderbolt to this Wretch." "That is the word, your highness; he became livid, and retreated two steps, looking at me in a kind of stupor; he seemed astounded. To meet me in Normandy at such a moment! he thought it was a dream. But continue, my lord; you will see that this infernal Countess d'Orbigny had also her turn of a thunderbolt, thanks to what you told me of her visit to the quack Bradamanti Polidori in the house of the Rue du Temple; for, after all, it is you who act; or, rather, I was only the instrument of your thought."

Rudolph smiled, and went on with the perusal of the letter of Madame d'Harville.

"At the sight of Sir Walter, Polidori was petrified; my step-mother fell from one surprise into another; my father, alarmed at this scene, and weakened by sickness, was obliged to seat himself in a chair. Sir Walter double-locked the door by which he entered; and, placing himself before the one which opened into another apartment, so that the doctor could not escape, he said to my father, with the most profound respect:

"'I ask a thousand pardons, my lord, for the liberty I take; but imperious necessity, dictated solely by you? interest (as you will soon acknowledge) obliges me to act thus. My name is Sir Walter Murphy, as this wretch can testify, who, at my sight, trembles with fear; I am the confidential adviser of his Royal Highness, the Grand-Duke of Gerolstein.'

"'It is true,' said Dr. Polidori, confusedly, quite beside himself with alarm. 'But, sir, what do you come here for? What do you want?'

"'Sir Walter Murphy,' said I, addressing my father, 'comes to aid me in unmasking these wretches, to whose machinations you were near falling a victim.' Then, handing to Sir Walter the vial, I added, 'I have had the good fortune to become possessed of this at the moment Dr. Polidori was about administering to my father its contents.'

"'A chemist from the neighboring town shall analyze before you the contents of this bottle, which I am going to place in your lordship's hands, and if it be proved that it contains a slow poison,' said Sir Walter to my father, 'there can remain no more doubt of the danger you have run, which the affection of your daughter has happily prevented.'

"My poor father looked at his wife, Dr. Polidori, Sir Walter, and myself in a bewildered manner; his features expressed deep agony, I read upon his careworn face the violent struggle which tore his heart. Without doubt he was resisting with all his strength growing and terrible suspicions, fearing to be obliged to recognize the guilt of my step-mother; at length, concealing his face in his hands, he cried, 'Oh! all this is horrible—impossible! Is this, then, a dream?'

"'No, it is not a dream!' cried my step-mother, audaciously: 'nothing is more real than this atrocious calumny, previously concocted, to ruin an unhappy woman, whose sole crime has been consecrating her life to you. Come, come, my friend, let us not remain a second longer here!' added she, addressing herself to my father; 'perhaps your daughter will not have the insolence to detain you in spite of yourself.'

"'Yes, yes, let us go,' said my father, almost wild; 'this is not true—cannot be true; I wish to hear nothing further; my reason would give way; frightful suspicions would arise in my mind, empoison the few days remaining for me to live, and nothing could console me for such an abominable discovery!'

"My father seemed so suffering, so despairing, that at any sacrifice, I would have put a stop to a scene so cruel for him. Sir Walter divined my thoughts; but, wishing to do full and entire justice, he answered my father.

"'Yet a few words, my lord; you are about to experience the affliction, doubtless very painful, of discovering that a woman whom you believe attached to you by gratitude, has always been a monstrous hypocrite; but you will find certain consolation in the affection of your daughter, who has always been true."

"'This passes all bounds!' cried my step-mother, in a rage; 'by what right, sir, on what proofs, dare you utter such frightful calumnies? You say the vial contains poison. I deny it, sir; and I will deny it until you prove the contrary; and even if Dr. Polidori might have by accident mistaken one medicine for another, is that a reason to dare to accuse me of having wished, with him as an accomplice—oh! no, no, I cannot finish—an idea so horrible is already a crime. Once more, sir, I defy you to say on what proofs you and madame dare to sustain this frightful calumny,' said my step-mother, with incredible audacity. 'Yes, on what proofs?' cried my unfortunate father. 'The torture I suffer must be brought to a close.'

"'I have not come here without proofs, my lord,' said Sir Walter. 'And these proofs the answers of this wretch will furnish directly.' Then Sir Walter spoke to Dr. Polidori in German, who seemed to have recovered a little assurance, but lost it immediately."

* * * * * * *

"What did you say to him?" demanded Rudolph, laying aside the letter for a moment.

"Some significant words to this effect: 'You escaped by flight the sentence pronounced against you in the grand duchy; you live in the Rue du Temple, under the false name of Bradamanti; your present occupation is unknown; you poisoned the count's first wife; three days ago Madame d'Orbigny came to bring you here to poison her husband. His serene highness is in Paris, and has the proofs of all I advance. If you confess the truth, so as to convict this miserable woman, you may hope, not pardon, but some mitigation of the punishment you deserve; you must follow me to Paris, where I will place you in security, until his royal highness decides your fate. Otherwise two things; one, the prince will demand you from the government, or this moment I will send to the neighboring town for a magistrate; this vial containing poison, shall be placed in his hands; you will be arrested at once, your lodgings in the Rue du Temple searched; you know how much that will compromise you, and French justice shall follow its course. Choose then.' These revelations, accusations, and threats, that he knew well-founded, succeeding one another so rapidly, confounded this miscreant, who did not expect to find me so well informed. In the hope of lessening the punishment which awaited him, he did not hesitate to sacrifice his accomplice, and answered, 'Interrogate me—I will tell the truth concerning this woman.'"

"Well, well, my worthy friend, I expected no less from you."

"During my interview with Polidori, the features of Madame d'Orbigny changed their expression of assurance alarmingly, although she did not understand German. She saw, from the increasing dejection of her confederate, from his supplicating attitude, that I had him in my power. In great anxiety, she endeavored to catch the eye of Polidori, in order to give him courage or to implore his discretion, but he avoided her glances."

"And the count?"

"His emotion was indescribable; with his contracted fingers he clutched, convulsively, the arm of his chair, the perspiration standing on his forehead: he hardly breathed; his burning and glazed eyes were fixed on mine; his agony equaled that of his wife. The continuation of the letter of Madame d'Harville will instruct your highness as to the end of this painful scene."

Rudolph resumed the perusal of the letter. "After a conversation in German, which lasted for some moments, Sir Walter said to Polidori, 'Now answer, was it not madame,' and he pointed at my step-mother, 'who, at the time of the illness of my lord's first wife, introduced you in the house as a physician?' 'Yes, it was she,' answered Polidori.

"'In order to serve the fearful projects of madame, have you not been criminal enough to render mortal (by your homicidal prescriptions) the slight illness of the Countess d'Orbigny?' 'Yes,' said Polidori.

"My father uttered a heart-rending sigh, raised his two hands toward heaven, and let them fall, quite overwhelmed. 'Falsehoods and infamy!' cried my stepmother; 'all this is false; they conspire to ruin me!' 'Silence, madame!' said Sir Walter, in an imposing voice; then, continuing to question Polidori:

"'Is it true, that three days ago, madame went to seek you at No. 17 Rue du Temple, where you reside, concealed under the false name of Bradamanti?'

"'That is true.'

"'Did not madame propose to you to come here to murder the Count d'Orbigny, as you had murdered his wife?'

"'Alas! I cannot deny it,' said Polidori. "'At this overwhelming revelation, my father arose on his feet; he showed the door to my step-mother; then, extending his arms toward me, he cried, in a broken voice, 'In the name of your unfortunate mother, pardon me, pardon me! I have caused you much suffering; but I swear to you I was a stranger to the crime which has conducted her to the tomb.'

"And before I could prevent him, he fell at my feet.

"When Sir Walter and myself raised him, he had fainted. I rang for the servants. Sir Walter took the doctor by the arm, and went out with him, saying to my step-mother, 'Believe me, madame, you had better leave this house before an hour, or I will deliver you up to justice.'

"The wretched woman left the room in a state of alarm and rage which your highness will easily conceive.

"When my father recovered his senses, all that had taken place appeared like a horrid dream. I was under the sad necessity of relating to him my first suspicions concerning the premature death of my mother—suspicions which your highness's knowledge of the previous crimes of Dr. Polidori changed into certainty.

"I was obliged, also, to tell my father how my stepmother had carried her hatred even to my marriage, and what had been her object in causing me to marry M. d'Harville.

"As much as my father had shown himself weak and blind respecting this woman, just so much he wished to treat her without mercy; he accused himself, with despair, of having been the accomplice of this monster, in giving her his hand after the death of my mother. He wished to give her up to justice; I represented to him the odious notoriety of such proceedings. I engaged him to drive her away forever from his presence, allowing her just enough for her support, since she bore his name.

"I had great trouble in procuring my father's consent to this; he wished me to turn her out of the house. This mission would be doubly painful; I thought that Sir Walter, perhaps, would act for me. He consented."

"And I consented with joy," said Murphy to Rudolph; "nothing pleases me more than to give to the wicked this kind of extreme unction."

"And what did this woman say?"

"Madame d'Harville had carried her goodness so far as to ask from her father a pension of one hundred louis for this creature. This appeared to me not goodness, but weakness; it was bad enough to rob justice of such a dangerous woman. I went to find the count; he coincided entirely with me; it was agreed that we should give, in all, twenty-five louis to the infamous wretch, so that she might subsist until she found employment. 'And what kind of employment can the Countess d'Orbigny find?' demanded she, insolently. 'That's your business; you might be something like a nurse or housekeeper; but, believe me, seek the most humble and obscure calling; for if you have the audacity to tell your title, which you owe to a crime, people will be astonished to see the Countess d'Orbigny reduced to such a condition; they will inquire, and you can judge of the consequences, if you are fool enough to noise abroad the past. Conceal yourself in some distant place; cause yourself to be forgotten; become Madame Pier re or Madame Jacques, and repent—if you can.' 'And do you think, sir,' said she to me, 'that I shall not claim the advantages secured to me by my marriage contract?' 'Certainly, madame, nothing can be more just; it would be unworthy of M. d'Orbigny not to execute his promises, and not to recognize all that you have done for him, and all you would have done. Sue, sue; address yourself to justice; I have no doubt the decision will be against your husband. A quarter of an hour after our conversation, the creature was on the road to the neighboring town."

"You are right; it is painful to allow such a woman to escape with impunity; but the scandal of such a trial for this old man, already so much debilitated, is not to be thought of."

"I have easily persuaded my father to leave Les Aubiers to-day," resumed Rudolph, continuing to read the letter from Madame d'Harville: "too many sad recollections attend him here; although his health is delicate, the journey and change of air may be of service, as the physician says who has taken the place of Dr. Polidori. My father wished that he should analyze the contents of the vial, without informing him of what had passed; he answered that he could only do this at his own house, but that in two hours we should know the result. This was, that several doses of this liquid, prepared with infernal skill, would, in a given time, produce death, without leaving any traces.

"In a few hours I leave with my father and daughter for Fontainebleau; we will remain there for some time; then, according to the wish of my father, we return to Paris, but not to my own house; it will be impossible for me to live there after the deplorable accident which has taken place.

"Thus, as I have said, on commencing this letter, events show all that I owe to your highness's solicitude. Warned by you, aided by your advice, strong in the co-operation of your excellent and courageous Sir Walter, I have been able to snatch my father from certain death, and I am assured of the return of his tenderness.

"Adieu! it is impossible for me to say more, my heart is too full: too many emotions agitate it; I should badly express all that I feel.

"D'ORBIGNY D'HARVILLE.

"I open this letter in haste, your highness, to repair a neglect of which I am ashamed. In seeking, by your noble advice, to do some good, I went to the prison of Saint Lazare to visit the poor prisoners. I found there an unfortunate child in whom you are interested; Her angelic sweetness and pious resignation are the admiration of the matron who overlooks the inmates. To inform you where the Goualeuse (such I believe is her name) can be found is to request you to obtain her liberty. This unfortunate girl will relate to you by what a concourse of sinister circumstances, carried away from the asylum where you had placed her, she has been thrown into this prison, where she is appreciated for the purity of her conduct. Permit me also to recall to your highness's mind my two future protegees the unhappy mother and daughter—despoiled by the notary Ferrand, Where are they? Have you had any information concerning them? Oh, I pray you endeavor to discover them, so that on my return to Paris I can pay them the debt which I have contracted toward all unfortunates!"

"Goualeuse has, then, left the farm of Bouqueval?" cried Murphy, as much astonished as Rudolph at this new revelation.

"I heard but just now that she was seen coming out of Saint Lazare," answered Rudolph. "I am lost in conjecture; the silence of Madame George confounds and distresses me. Poor little Fleur-de-Marie, what new misfortunes have happened to you? Let a man on horseback be sent off at once to the farm, and write to Madame George that I beg her to come at once to Paris. Say also to M. de Graun, I wish an order to enter Saint Lazare. From what Madame d'Harville writes, Fleur-de-Marie is confined there; but no," said Rudolph, reflecting, "she is no longer a prisoner, for Rigolette saw her come out in company with an aged woman. Can it be Madame George? Otherwise, who is the woman? Where is the Goualeuse gone to?"

"Patience, my lord; before to-night you shall know all about it. To-morrow you will have to interrogate this scoundrel Polidori; he has, he said, important communications to make to you, but to you alone."

"The interview will be hateful to me," said Rudolph, sadly; "for I have never seen this man since the fatal day—when—"

Rudolph could not finish; he concealed his face in his hands.

"Why consent to what Polidori demands? Threaten him with the French courts, or an extradition on the Government; he must resign himself to confess to me what he is only willing to confess to you."

"You are right, my good friend; for the sight of this wretch would render still more torturing these terrible recollections, to which are attached so many incurable griefs; from the death of my father to that of my poor little girl—I do not know but that the more I advance in life, the more I feel the loss of this child. How I should have adored her! how dear and precious to me had been this fruit of my first love, of my first and pure belief, or, rather, my young illusions!"

"Stay, my lord; I see with pain the increasing sway which these regrets, as fruitless as cruel, have upon your mind."

After a pause, Rudolph said to Murphy: "I can now make a confession to you, my old friend. I love—yes, I love passionately a woman worthy of the most noble and devoted affection. Ah! it is since my heart is opened anew to all the delights of love, since I am predisposed to tender emotions, that I feel more vividly the loss of my daughter."

"Nothing can be plainer, my lord; and, pardon the comparison, but, in the same manner as certain men are joyous and benevolent in their intoxication, you are good and generous in your love."

"Yet my hatred of the wicked is also become deep; my aversion to Sarah increases, doubtless with my grief for the death of my child. I imagine that this bad mother has neglected her; that her ambitious hopes once ruined by my marriage, the countess, in her selfish egotism, has abandoned our child to mercenary hands, and that my daughter perhaps died from want of care. It is also my fault; I did not then know the extent of the sacred duties of paternity. When the true character of Sarah was suddenly revealed to me, I should have at once taken my daughter from her, to watch over her with love and solicitude. I ought to have foreseen that the countess could never be more than an unnatural mother. It is my fault, my fault!"

"Grief causes your highness to err. Could you, after such a fatal event had happened, defer for one day the long journey imposed on you—as—"

"As an expiation! You are right, my friend," said Rudolph, sorrowfully.

"Have you heard anything from the countess since my departure, my lord?"

"No: since her infamous accusations, which twice came near proving the ruin of Madame d'Harville, I have no news of her. Her presence here annoys me; it seems that my evil spirit is near me, that some new misfortune threatens me."

"Patience, your highness, patience. Happily, Germany is interdicted for her, and Germany expects us."

"Yes; we will soon depart. At least, during my short stay at Paris I shall have accomplished a sacred duty: I shall have made some steps more in the worthy path which an august and merciful will pointed out to me for my redemption. As soon as the son of Madame George shall be restored to her arms, innocent and free; as soon as Jacques Ferrand shall be convicted and punished for his crimes; as soon as I shall be assured of the future comforts of all the honest and industrious creatures who, by their resignation, their courage, and their probity, have deserved my interest, we will return to Germany—my journey will not have been fruitless."

"Above all, if you succeed in unmasking that abominable Jacques Ferrand, the corner-stone of so many crimes."

"Although the end justifies the means, and scruples should have no weight as regards this scoundrel, sometimes I regret having employed Cecily in this just and avenging reparation."

"She ought to arrive soon."

"She has arrived."

"Cecily?"

"Yes; I did not wish to see her. De Graun has given her very detailed instructions; she has promised to conform to them."

"Will she keep this promise?"

"Everything seems to promise it—the hope of a mitigation of her punishment, and the fear of being sent immediately back to Germany; for De Graun has her well watched; at the slightest misstep he will demand her of the government."

"It is just. She has arrived like an escaped convict: when they know what crimes caused her perpetual imprisonment, they would give her up at once."

"Besides, De Graun was almost alarmed at the sagacity with which Cecily comprehended, or rather, guessed the part, inflaming and yet platonic, she was to play at the notary's.

"But can she be introduced to him as early as you wish, through Mrs. Pipelet? People of the species of Jacques Ferrand are so suspicious."

"I had, with reason, counted on the appearance of Cecily to combat and conquer this suspicion."

"Has he already seen her?"

"Yesterday. From the account given by Mrs. Pipelet, I do not doubt but that he was fascinated by the Creole; he took her at once into his service."

"Come, my lord, our game is won."

"I hope so; a ferocious cupidity and a savage thirst have led the executioner of Louise Morel to the most frightful misdeeds. It is in them that he will find the punishment of his crimes. A punishment which will not be barren for his victims; for you see the aim of all the efforts of the Creole."

"Cecily! Never did greater depravity, never a more dangerous corruption, never a blacker soul serve to the accomplishment of a project of higher morality, or of a more equitable end; and David, my lord?"

"He approves of all. With all the contempt and horror which he has for this creature, he only sees in her the instrument of a just vengeance. 'If this cursed woman can ever merit any compassion after all the injury she has done me,' said he to me, 'it will be in devoting herself to the punishment of this scoundrel, for whom she must be an exterminating demon.'" A servant having tapped at the door, Murphy went out, and returned, bringing in two letters, one of which seemed intended for Rudolph.

"It is a line from Madame George!" cried he, reading it rapidly.

"Well, Goualeuse?"

"No more doubt," cried Rudolph, after having read the letter; "another mysterious plot. The same evening on which the poor child disappeared, at the moment Madame George was about to inform me of the event, a man, whom she did not know, arrived express on horseback, came to her, as from me, to reassure her, saying I was informed of the sudden departure of Fleur-de-Marie, and that some day I would bring her back to the farm. Notwithstanding this notice, Madame George, uneasy at my silence respecting her protegee cannot, she writes me, resist her desire to have some news of her cherished daughter, as she calls the poor child."

"This is strange, my lord."

"For what end should she have been carried off?"

"My lord," said Murphy, suddenly, "the Countess M'Gregor is no stranger to this affair."

"Sarah? What makes you think so?"

"Compare this with her denunciations to Madame d'Harville."

"You are right," cried Rudolph, a new light bursting upon him; it's evident: I comprehend now; yes, always the same calculation. The countess persists in believing, that by succeeding in breaking every tie of affection, she will make me feel the want of her. This is as odious as useless. Yet such an unworthy prosecution must have an end. It is not only against me, but against all who merit respect, interest, and pity, that this woman directs her attacks. You will send M. de Graun at once, officially, to the countess; he will declare to her that I am advised of the part she has taken in the abduction of Fleur-de-Marie, and that if she does not give me the necessary information, so that I can recover this unhappy child, I shall act without pity, and then it is to justice M. de Graun must address himself."

"From the letter of Madame d'Harville, the Goualeuse must be confined at Saint Lazare."

"Yes, but Rigolette affirms that she saw her free, coming out of this prison. There is a mystery to be cleared up."

"I will go at once and give your highness's orders to Baron de Graun; but allow me to open this letter; it is from my correspondent at Marseilles, to whom I recommended the Chourineur, to facilitate the passage of the poor fellow to Algiers."

"Well! has he gone?"

"Here is something singular."

"What is it?"

"After having waited at Marseilles a long time for a vessel to depart for Algiers, the Chourineur, who seemed every day more sad and thoughtful, suddenly declared, the day being fixed for his departure, that he preferred to return to Paris."

"How singular!"

"Although my correspondent had, as was agreed upon, placed a considerable sum of money at the disposal of the Chourineur, he only took what was absolutely necessary for him to return to Paris, where he will soon arrive, as they write me."

"Then he will explain to us himself why he has changed his mind, but send De Graun at once to the Countess M'Gregor, and go yourself to Saint Lazare to gain some information concerning Fleur-de-Marie." In an hour's time the Baron de Graun returned from the countess's.

Notwithstanding his habitual and official sang froid, the diplomatist seemed troubled; hardly had the usher announced him, than Rudolph remarked his paleness. "Well! De Graun, what is the matter? have you seen her?"

"Oh! my lord."

"What is it?"

"Will your royal highness pardon me for informing you so suddenly of an event so fatal, so unlooked for, so—

"The countess is dead?"

"No, my lord, but her life is despaired of; she has been stabbed with a dagger."

"Oh! it is frightful!" cried Rudolph, touched with pity, notwithstanding his aversion to Sarah. "Who has committed this crime?"

"No one knows, my lord; the murder was accompanied by robbery; some one entered the apartment and carried off a large quantity of jewels."

"And how is she now?"

"Her life is almost despaired of, my lord; she has not yet recovered her consciousness. Her brother is in a state of distraction."

"You must go every day to inquire after her, my dear De Graun."

At this moment Murphy returned from Saint Lazare.

"Learn sad news!" said Rudolph to him; "the countess has been wounded! her life is in great danger."

"Oh! my lord; although she is very culpable, yet I cannot but pity her."

"Yes; such an end would be frightful! And the Goualeuse?"

"Set at liberty yesterday, my lord, supposed by the intervention of Madame d'Harville."

"But it is impossible! Madame d'Harville begs me, on the contrary, to make the necessary arrangements to get her out of prison."

"Doubtless; and yet, an aged woman, of respectable, appearance, came to Saint Lazare, bringing the order to set Fleur-de-Marie at liberty. Both have left the prison."

"This is what Rigolette told me; but this aged woman, who is she? where have they gone to? what is this new mystery? The countess alone can enlighten us; and she is in a state to give us no information. May she not carry this secret with her to the grave?"

"But her brother, Thomas Seyton, could certainly throw some light upon the affair. He has always been her adviser."

"His sister is dying; some new plot is on foot; he will not speak; but," said Rudolph, reflecting, "we must find out the name of the person who applied for her release; thus we can learn something."

"Yes, my lord."

"Try, then, to know and see this person as soon as possible, my dear De Graun; if you do not succeed, put your M. Badinot on the trail; spare nothing to discover the poor child."

"Your highness may count on my zeal."

"My lord," said Murphy, "it is, perhaps, as well that the Chourineur returns; we may need his services for these researches."

"You are right; and now I am impatient to see arrive at Paris my brave deliverer, the gallant, 'Slasher,' for I shall never forget that to him I owe my life."

* * * * * * *

Forced to extend the unfoldings of the evil and good machinations of the Grand-Duke Rudolph and his enemies into another volume, we do so, promising that even more singular characters, even more striking actions and engaging scenes, will be found in "Part Third: Night."



THE END.