me of

me that you are indebted for all you have and are. But for my exertions, your old farmer would have died without troubling himself to know if you were in existence. But for me, you and your daughter would have yet been shivering by the corner of your scanty fire-side in Germany. out my assistance, you would never have again set foot in the castle of your ancestors. You know all this very well, but you feign not to be aware of it; and it is because of your ingratitude. No; your difficulty is not gratitude, but selfishness. To marry your daughter to the son of your late farmer, is your chief purpose, and the secret of your trouble. It wears upon and harasses you. You hate the people; you execrate Bernard; you comprehend and have comprehended nothing of what was going on about you. You are prouder, haughtier, more obstinate, more inaccessible, more exclusive, and, in a word, more incorrigible than any Marquis of song, vaudeville, or comedy. And your selfishness is even greater than your pride."

"Well! ventre-saint-gris! think what you please," cried the Marquis, with the resignation of despair. "There is one thing that I do know, and that is that I am tired of the part which you have made me play. I have been a long while indignant at such low wiles and base manoeuvres, and I am determined to have done with them at all hazards. By heavens! You have said it; my daughter shall marry Bernard!”

Careful! Marquis, careful!"

"Pour out the vials of your wrath and contempt; call me a cheat and an ingrate; charge me with selfishness and treachery; -do all these if you please; you have a right to do so. You are so disinterested, Madame, in all this affair! You have shown yourself so frank and open-hearted! You were so kind to poor old Stamply in his last days! You discovered towards him so much tenderness, and showed him so much attention! And so you were bound in conscience to do; for it was at your instigation that during his lifetime he deprived himself of all means of procuring the kind attentions of others."

"It was for your benefit, cruel man!" "For my benefit! for my benefit!" re

"It is you," cried the baroness," who drove your benefactor from your table and fireside!"

"It is you," returned the Marquis, "who after having meanly won the confidence of a credulous and defenceless old man, spurned him from you, and left him to die with chagrin."

"You banished him to his secluded chamber!"

"You hurried him to his tomb!" "This is war, Marquis!"

"Well, war it is, then!" shouted the Marquis, "I will fight once at least before I die."

"Think of it, Marquis! Pitiless, merciless war! War without truce!"

"War to the death! Madame la baronne," said the Marquis, with a very complaisant bow.

Hereupon Madame de Vaubert withdrew, threatening and terrible, while the Marquis was skipping for joy like a kid, alone in the room. On her return to the manor, after having paced her chamber for some time, knocking her forehead and pressing her bosom with rage, she abruptly opened the window, and like a cat watching for an opportunity to pounce upon a mouse, fell to gazing upon the opposite chateau de La Seigliére, whose windows were at this instant beaming in the clear light of the moon. In spite of the coolness of the air, she remained nearly an hour leaning over the balcony in mute contemplation. Suddenly her countenance lighted up, her eyes kindled, and like Ajax threatening the gods, throwing a gesture of defiance towards the castle, she exclaimed; "I will have it." She immediately returned to her chamber, and penned this single word to Raoul-" Return." then retired, and fell asleep with that smile upon her lips which the genius of evil wears when resolved upon the destruction of a soul.

She

FROM this memorable evening forward, Madame de Vaubert did not make her appearance at the chateau, to the special comfort and advantage of its inmates. During the few days which intervene between this and the denouement of this little and too long history, the relations between the Marquis and Bernard grew by degrees more and more agreeable and intimate. No longer irritated by the presence of the baroness, against whom Bernard, in spite of his efforts to the contrary, had nourished a vague sentiment of distrust and real hatred, the young man became more familiar and more tractable. On the other hand, the Marquis for several weeks had assumed towards his guest an attitude more cordial, affectionate, and even at times approaching tenderness. Both appeared to have modified and softened out of a mutual desire for conciliation, their opinions and language. As they sat by the fireside in the evening, they would chat and discuss together, but carefully avoided disputes. Besides, since the disappearance of Madame de Vaubert, their conversations had for the most part dropped politics, and taken a more familiar and domestic character. The Marquis ran upon family enjoyments, and the felicities of marriage; and occasionally he would let drop some observation which stirred the soul of Bernard, and swept over his heart like warm gusts of happiness. It so happened that one evening the Marquis gently insisted that his daughter should spend the evening with them in the parlor, and not return to her chamber as was her usual custom. The hours of that evening were full of enchantment after the embarrassment of the first few moments was worn off. The Marquis was lively, good natured, and talkative; Bernard was happy and grave; Helen was dreamy, silent, and smiling. The next day the two younger met in the park, and the charm recommenced, more disturbed it is true, and more mysterious, but for this reason all the more charming.

Meanwhile, how was Helen to be approached on the subject of her father's

purpose? By what by-ways, under cover of what disguises could he lead her to the desired end? This was now the study and the trouble of the Marquis. For no consideration in the world would he reveal to her the humiliating position in which for the last six months they had stood to Bernard. He knew too well her proud and noble nature, and that he had to do with a spirit which could never bear the thought of having been directly or indirectly connected with the chicanery of which the chateau de La Seigliére had been the scene. It was, nevertheless, this simple and noble spirit which it was now to be attempted to render the accessory of selfishness and treachery.

One day, while the Marquis was buried in reflection as deep as was possible for him, he suddenly felt two caressing arms gently clasping his neck, and on raising his eyes he perceived the countenance of Helen hanging like a lily above his head, and regarding him with an angelic smile. He drew her tenderly to his bosom, pressed her to his heart, and held her a long time thus, with one hand upon her head, frequently imprinting a kiss upon her shining forehead. When he had relaxed his grasp and arose, she saw two tears steal into her father's eyes, and only two. "Father," she exclaimed, seizing his hands with the utmost tenderness," you have sorrows which you do not impart to your child. I know it; I am sure of it; and to-day is not the first time I have noticed it. Dear father, what troubles you? Into whose heart, if not into mine, can you pour the sorrows of your own? When we lived in the depths of our own poor Germany, I had only to smile and you were consoled. Father, tell me, something is going on around us which is strange and inexplicable. What has become of that charming playfulness in which I so much delighted? You are sad; Madame de Vaubert seems dissatisfied, and I am agitated and troubled because you seem to suffer so much. But what is the matter? If my life can relieve you, you know it is at your disposal."

As the victim thus generously offered

herself upon the altar of sacrifice, the Marquis could no longer restrain himself. Her love was so true, and her tone so affectionate, that the old man burst into tears before the astonished Helen.

"Oh! Father! What has happened? Of all the misfortunes which can await you, is there one which my love cannot solace?" cried she, throwing herself into his arms, and in her turn bursting into tears. The Marquis was touched, but not so deeply as to be drawn from his purpose; for he thought the opportunity too favorable to be neglected, and the matter too well begun not to be pursued. For a moment he was upon the point of avowing all; but shame prevented, and the fear of offending the noble pride of Helen, who would inevitably revolt at the faint glimpse of the ignoble part which she was to be made to play in this adventure. He therefore made ready again to turn the flank of truth, since he did not dare to meet it in the face. Not that this manner of proceeding was in accordance with the nature of his character; far otherwise; but the Marquis was unhinged. Madame de Vaubert had led him into a bad way, from which he could extricate himself only by cunning and address. When once strayed from the main route there is no way of returning save by cross roads or through the fields. After having assuaged the tears of his daughter, and himself recovered from the emotion which he could not help feeling, he begun by recounting with some variations, the part which he had been made to play by the baroness; for although it is to be borne in mind that his imagination was not like that of Madame de Vaubert, fertile in expedients, nevertheless, thanks to the lessons which he had recently received, the Marquis could boast some dexterity in the art of deception. He lamented the hardships and difficulties of the times; he bewailed the misfortunes of the aristocracy which he represented a new as well as original figure-as a ship tossed by the revolutionary wave. Profiting by the inexperience of Helen, who had lived entirely careless of public affairs, he painted in sombre colors, which he well knew how to exaggerate, the uncertainty of the present, and the threatening aspect of the future. He made use of all the words of the vocabulary then in use; he caused

to defile and parade before her all the spectres and phantoms which the ultra-royalist journals were daily accustomed to marshal before their subscribers. The soil was mined; the heavens were charged with tempests; the hydra of revolution had reared again its seven heads; the cry, war to the castles! went echoing through the land; the people and the bourgeoisie, like two devouring hyenas, awaited only a given signal to rush upon the defenceless noblesse, gorge themselves with their blood, and divide among them their spoils. It was by no means certain that Robespierre was dead; the rumor went that the Corsican wolf had escaped from the island of his captivity. In short, he brought into play, and promiscuously crowded together, all the frightful artillery which would be likely to terrify her young imagination. When he had exhausted his armory

"Is that all, father?" said Helen, with a smile full of calmness and serenity. "If the soil is mined under our feet, if the heavens are threatening, if France, as you say, execrates us and wishes our destruction, why need we stay here? Let us depart and return to our dear Germany; let us go and live there as we did before poor, unknown, and undisturbed. If they cry, war to the castles!' they must also cry' peace to the cottages! What do we want more. Happiness does not depend on wealth, and opulence is not worth a regret."

;

But this was not to the purpose of the old gentleman, who, fortunately for himself, knew of a more certain route by which to arrive at her noble heart.

"My child," replied he, with a shake of the head, "these are noble sentiments; thirty years since mine were very similar. I was one of the first to give the signal of emigration; country, castle, hereditary fortune, domain of my ancestors-I abandoned all; and it cost me nothing to offer this proof of fidelity and devotion to royalty in danger. I was young then, and chivalrous. Now I am old, my daughter; the heart has outlived the body; the blood is not equal to the courage; the blade has worn out the scabbard. I am nothing but a poor old man, racked with gout and rheumatism, tortured with pains and infirmities. fact is, my daughter, that I am good for nothing. One would believe me hale and

The

"Far be it from me," replied the Marquis, with earnestness, "far be it from me to advise, or consent to treachery or perjury in any form! I only fear that you exaggerate the gravity and solemnity of the engagements into which you have entered. Raoul and you are affianced-nothing more. Now, as they say in the country, betrothal and marriage are two different things. Before the sacrament has been administered, the parties may always, by mutual agreement, withdraw from their engagement without impiety or dishonor. Before marrying your mother I was affianced nine times: the first, at the age of seven months; the ninth, at thirteen years. Still, my dear Helen, I have no intention of opposing your inclinations. I consider that you are bound to young de Vaubert. You were brought up together, in exile and poverty; it may seem pleasant to you both to return there together. At your age, my dear child, there is no prospect, however sad, over which love does not spread its enchanting, but, permit me to say, deceptive light. To suffer and to love is the bliss of youth. Nevertheless, I have remarked, that, in general, these connections, formed so near the cradle, are wanting in that mysterious something which constitutes the charm of love. I do not pretend to be an expert in the matter of sentiment; but I have come to the conclusion that love diminishes in proportion to the length of the acquaintance. Our young baron is, however, a pleasant and gentlemanly person—a little cold and stiff, perhaps and,

if you will pardon me, rather indifferent; negative in point of character; but then, he is handsome. He has not hardened his hands with toil, nor bronzed his visage in the fire and smoke of the enemy. He's handsome, and has a way of dressing his hair which has always ravished me. He's handsome-the lily with the rose. "Monsieur de Vaubert is a sensible man, father, and a gentleman," said Helen, gravely.

"To be sure he is; no doubt of it; and a worthy young man, who has never made any talk in the world, and has never tired anybody with relations of his achievements. Ventre-saint-gris!" cried the Marquis, abruptly changing his tone, "I am sorry to say it, but it is true, our young gentlemen of the present day seem to take it for granted that great things are only to be expected from the humble. In my time, the young noblemen thought differently, thank heaven! As for myself, I have never been in battle, it is true; but, by the sword of my ancestors! when my services were wanted I was always ready; and I am still cited, at court, as one of the first and most faithful who were eager to go and protest to foreign nations against the enemies of the old monarchy. This, my daughter, this is what your father has done; and if I have not won laurels in the army of Condé, it is because I thought laurels bedewed with the blood of France were won at too great a price."

But, father," said Helen, hesitatingly, "it is not the fault of M. de Vaubert, if he has lived till the present in inaction and obscurity; had he the heart of a lion he could not show his courage with no one to combat."

"Bah! bah!" cried the Marquis, "a soul that pants for glory will find ways enough to quench its thirst. Why, at the time of the emigration, I was upon the point of going to America to fight the Indians, and it was only because I recollected that I owed a duty to our glorious France that I chose Germany instead of America. Look at this young Bernard. He is not eight and twenty yet; but he wears the evidence of his bravery in his button-hole; he has paraded, as a conqueror, in some of the first capitals of Europe, and but just escaped death on the plains of Moscow. He was hardly twenty when the emperor