the woman, followed her into the garden. When assured that no one was within sight or hearing, she began to weep, and in an agitated tone exclaimed: Holy father, I hardly know how to tell you what I fear — but my mistress the Marchioness d'Argevilliers has become deranged! quite out of her head! — and it will be impossible to conceal this dreadful calamity.'

'Holy mother! what do you mean, Genevieve?'

'No one yet knows it, not even Monsieur the First President; and I dare not tell him.'

'But what has been done? You should have sent for me; has not Madame the Marchioness asked for me?'

'Alas! no, reverend father, she will see no one, she does nothing but weep, day and night; it is almost a whole week that this has continued; but I think her malady has been a long time coming on. Since the death of Monsieur the Marquis, Madame has declined visibly. She is dying here in her large chamber hung with black. Monsieur the First President insisted upon her receiving all those visits of ceremony; from morning till night, Madame was surrounded by figures in deep mourning, who entertained her with nothing but her afflictions; this almost killed her. I thought she would recover when she had permission to go and pass a month at the pavilion. There she received no more company, and Monsieur her father-in-law was content to have tidings from her, without visiting her himself. Madame began to recover her spirits ; and was getting much better, when on Sunday last, the Advocate Loubet

came

'The Advocate Loubet? on Sunday? at the house of Madame d'Argevilliers?'

'He himself. He seemed in great trouble, and I immediately suspected that some misfortune had happened to him. Madame received him in the great hall he only staid a quarter of an hour, and I know not what passed, but when I returned to Madame I found her in a piteous taking, all bathed in tears, and moaning aloud. I closed the doors that no one might see her in this condition, and tried to comfort her.' 'And what did she say?

'Nothing. I could not get a word from her; sometimes she would weep until she became exhausted, and then she would remain motionless, with a look that frightened me. At last she fainted away, and fell as if dead in my arms. I called the other women who helped me put

her in bed. As soon as she recovered her senses, she forbade us to send for the physicians or to inform Monsieur the First President; since then all she has said has been to repeat these orders. She lays awake the whole night, and refuses all nourishment; one would say that she had made up her mind to die. If this lasts, I do not think a fortnight will pass before she is laid along side Monsieur the Marquis, in the vaults of Saint-Sauveur. There is something wonderful in this great affliction. I have no doubt the Advocate Loubet told Madame the Marchioness some bad news, some misfortune

'At any rate, it could only have concerned himself, and with all her great kindness, Madame the Marchioness ought not to take the matter so

much to heart. Has she heard of this terrible business in the city; and what has been discovered?'

'The death of the fair Loubette, and the crime of Catherine Loubet ? No, reverend father, I would not for the world speak to her of these things in her present condition, it would only make her still more gloomy. I have tried, on the contrary, to divert her by pleasant stories, and lively conversation; but nothing has succeeded. This melancholy which is devouring Madame the Marchioness cannot be concealed; company will come to the pavilion, and then what is to be done? Madame cannot remain shut up in this manner, not speaking to a living soul. In spite of her commands, I must inform Monsieur the First President of her situation. What do you advise me, reverend father?'

'I can say nothing before seeing Madame the Marchioness,' replied the monk after a moment's reflection: they are waiting for me at the confessional; but no matter, I will go at once to the pavilion.'

The windows of the Italian saloon were closed, and darkness, almost total, reigned in this spacious apartment, where no sound was heard but the pendulum of the large copper clock which stood over the chimney piece. The Marchioness d'Argevilliers was reclining upon a sofa, with eyes closed, and arms crossed upon her breast. There was in her attitude a degree of rigidity, accompanied with slight startings, which showed that the mind was still wakeful in the midst of this apparent slumber, and the expression of gloomy thoughts passed at intervals over the countenance of the sleeper, like the shadows of dark clouds flitting rapidly across the fields during a tempest. She had apparently been praying, for a small rosary of mother of pearl was entwined around her

arm.

'Madame,' said Genevieve, approaching with noiseless tread, the reverend father Athanasius desires to speak with you.'

Father Athanasius!' exclaimed the Marchioness with a sudden movement, 'he wishes alms for the poor probably; let him enter, and give me my purse, Genevieve.'

The monk advanced conducted by the waiting woman; his eyes could at first distinguish no object in the obscurity of the vast apartment. Groping along, he took a seat near Madame d'Argevilliers, and said without seeing her: May God's blessing be with you Madame the Marchioness! I hope the residence in the country has been conducive to your health.'

It has, reverend father; I feel much better, and think I shall remain here for some time.'

And yet, Madame, you should not keep yourself in total solitude; seclusion produces the greater part of the diseases of the mind, and saints only should dwell in a desert. I reproach myself for not having visited you sooner; but the duties of my profession leave me but little leisure! There are always the sick to confess, the miserable to succor. People of the world have time enough for their pleasures; but there is no repose for him who devotes himself to the relief of the wretched!'

"The miserable!-the poor! the wretched!' interrupted the Marchioness, they say God loves such, and that they find more favor in his sight than the rich and happy. I will give you money for them, reve

rend father; I have resolved to devote the greater part of my wealth to good works. It may be God will take account of it! We should think of our soul's welfare, even when far from death.'

As she finished these words Genevieve threw open the shutters of a window; daylight suddenly broke into the saloon, and the bright rays of the sun shone full upon the face of the Marchioness. She was of a livid paleness, faint tints of a darkish hue were visible around her discolored lips, and were it not for the gloomy fire which glowed in her hazel eyes, she might almost have been supposed dead. There was something fearful in her aspect. Disease in effacing the freshness and beauty of youth, had deepened the furrow which divided her eyebrows, and displayed the square and strongly marked conformation of her forehead; a physiognomist might have detected something lion-like in the contour of her head, around which, like a mane, a profusion of auburn hair fell in thick clusters. The monk was seized with vague terror at sight of so unexpected and fearful a change.

Heavenly powers!' exclaimed he, 'you are very ill, Madame the Marchioness, you must have suffered greatly!'

'I have been a little indisposed these few days past,' replied she with assumed indifference; Genevieve made me keep my bed, but I am much better now—indeed I am quite well.'

Resignation to the will of God is the only remedy for the troubles of this life; but it is not his will that the affliction he has sent should make you neglect your health. The physicians must be consulted, Madame the Marchioness.'

She shook her head, and giving the monk the purse Genevieve had brought her, said to him:

This is for the poor: let them pray for me. Spare not this supply, and whenever an opportunity of doing a deed of charity presents itself, come to me, reverend father: the poor are the members of CHRIST, and we secure our salvation by relieving their wants.'

From such christian sentiments, father Athanasius was satisfied that Madame d'Argevilliers was in full possession of her reason, and concluded that her mind, overwhelmed by her recent affliction, must be diverted and consoled by the performance of deeds of charity. Providence seemed to have directed him to a sure source of relief for poor Catherine, and he said devoutly: 'If you will vouchsafe me the aid of your charity, Madame, it may save the life of an unfortunate young girl.' The Marchioness raised her head as if to listen.

'The affair to which I allude,' continued the monk, 'is a deed of blood, a dreadful event, of which probably you have not yet heard; a terrible calamity has befallen one of the most respectable families of the townsmen of Aix, the family of Loubet. Clara Loubet, better known as the fair Loubette, has been assassinated, and her sister Catherine is accused of the crime'

The Marchioness at this sank back as if lifeless; her head fell upon the pillow, she stirred not a limb, while the monk related, without omitting a single detail, the discovery of the murder, and the accusation which hung over Catherine Loubet.

During this long recital, the Marchioness uttered not a word; her

eyes half open, gazed upon vacancy, her clenched hands were pressed against her bosom; a cold moisture bedewed her temples whose arteries throbbed with irregular pulsations, but her attitude remained calm, impassible.

'And now, Madame,' said the monk as he concluded his sad narrative,' will not your powerful influence be exerted in behalf of this poor girl? She is innocent; you would be convinced of it could you only see her in her prison, as I have done: she is tranquil, resigned; her thoughts are those of a saint; still there are proofs against her which to human justice seem conclusive, she will be convicted if her trial takes place before Jaques Loubet can get here to defend her. He alone knows the assassin; he alone can disclose the truth; for this purpose a delay of the trial is requisite; if Catherine obtains it, she is saved; will you not save her, Madame?'

The Marchioness again raised her head; the terrible position in which she found herself, restored for a moment all her presence of mind, and clearness of judgment.

'Yes, my father,' said she with energy, 'yes; I will save her: but the method you propose is uncertain, perhaps impossible. Are you sure of finding Jaques Loubet? Will he return? His life is in dangerno, no! it is not his testimony that will save Catherine. Let her confess the deed, and I will answer for her life with mine - with my own life! do you mark me, father? If escape shall be impossible, I will procure letters of pardon.'

'Life may be saved in this manner, Madame, but honor 'A delay of trial will save neither.'

reputation.'

Then is our hope in GoD alone! oh, heavenly Father, do thou come to the aid of this poor innocent!' exclaimed the monk in consternation. There was a long silence. The Marchioness, with fixed gaze, her head resting upon her hand, seemed again to be falling into a state of insensibility; and forgot the presence of Father Athanasius. He at length arose, saying:

I will return to-morrow, Madame the Marchioness, after I have informed Catherine Loubet what your charity proposes for her.'

Madame d'Argevilliers only replied by a motion of the head. As he was about leaving the room, the monk again turned back. The state in which he was leaving the Marchioness filled him with much uneasiness, and his piety saw but one method of affording prompt relief.

'My daughter,' said he, with simplicity; it is a long time since you have made confession; perhaps your mind has need of spiritual succor; you know what effectual consolation is found at the shrine of repentance.'

Madame d'Argevilliers shuddered, and replied with a broken voice: 'I will confess one of these days, father; I must first make examination of my conscience.'

Genevieve was waiting in the anti-chamber.

'Well! reverend father,' said she, 'what do you think of the situation of Madame the Marchioness? She has at last spoken, at sight of you!'

'She seems sound in mind, although very much cast down and changed by her malady.'

Must we, in spite of her orders, give notice to Monsieur the President and the physicians?'

'Wait 'till to-morrow, Geneyieve; I would first see her again.' Toward evening, Madame d'Argevilliers had her sofa placed before a window which looked into the garden. The day had been very warm; but the breeze which arose at sunset, blew at intervals with a gentle freshness, and murmured through the large chestnuts on the terrace. The flowers, whose blossoms had unfolded in the mid-day sun, exhaled delicious odors; the double jasmine, the heliotrope, the flamecolored carnation, waved their fragrant petals in the air. In the calmness of a beautiful night, and its vague harmonies, which float in the heavens, along the streams, and through the foliage, there are mysterious influences which can charm the deepest grief, and lull to temporary repose even fear and remorse. Madame d'Argevilliers experienced this relief; leaning upon the casement, she turned her face to the breeze, and inhaled its balmy sweets: for a moment; thought was suspended; she was severed from the past and from the future; she forgot the devouring anxieties of the present, and cruel memory preyed no longer upon her. A deep sigh escaped her burning bosom; she abandoned herself to this cessation from care, this respite from suffering, as the wretch on the rack, whose torture is for a moment suspended. She stretched forth her wasted arms, her head sank down in complete repose, and she murmured in a low voice, 'What a lovely night!' Genevieve, seeing her mistress thus composed, drew the shade over the lamp, and seated herself at a little distance. All the doors were open; there was no one in the anti-chamber; the domestics were keeping watch in the farm-house, about a hundred paces from the pavilion. Profound silence reigned in the hall; the rays of the lamp fell obliquely upon the squares of black and white marble; the figures painted in bas relief stood out like phantoms from between the panels; a faint noise was heard from without; it was the murmur of the evening breeze, and the gentle ripple of the streamlet through the herbage.

Suddenly the figure of a man appeared, like a shadow, at the door of the saloon. Genevieve started up with a movement of affright, and called out: Who is there?'

The

It was the Advocate Loubet. His disordered dress, his shaggy beard, his shoes covered with dust, gave him the appearance of a robber or a mendicant. His haggard, sun-burnt visage seemed to have grown ten years older. He advanced without speaking, close to the sofa. Marchioness remained motionless; her hair rose upon her brow; it seemed as if an iron hand was grasping her throat. After a moment, she said, Withdraw, Genevieve.'

The Advocate closed the door after her, and then returned toward Madame d'Argevilliers with folded arms, and a sad and terrible look. She raised herself, and placing her two hands upon her head, as if to insure its safety, exclaimed wildly:

You have come to denounce me! But there are no proofs. Who will believe you?'

'No one,' replied he; of that I am well assured. And therefore, it is not you, but myself, I am about to surrender. I also have a murder