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TALLEYRAND.

BY F. EGO BROWNE, ESQ.

I.

MAURICE, dear Maurice, hear me-one word-nay, frown not so fierecly upon me. It is I, your poor Adéle, who, who, loves you too well to "

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Overcome by her passion, the fair speaker burst into tears. Covering her beautiful face with her hands, through which the bright drops gushed, she threw herself upon a sofa near, and sobbed as though her gentle heart would break.

The young man stood perfectly still; his keen eyes now bent upon the floor, and now wandering to the girl's reclining form, while his hand grasped tightly a bit of paper, evidently the object of his indignation.

"Weep not Adéle, mignonne," he said, "little cares Talleyrand, for such poor slights as these. Hush, hush thy sobbing; let me kiss away these tears. Now what think you is written here?" and he held up the ruffled and torn billet. "Here 'tis said, the house of Périgord, disdains to bequeath its ancient title to the owner of-what think you?-a club-foot !-Yes, look there -and he pointed to the deformed member-this banishes me from home; this deprives me of my hereditary rights, and 'tis this, chére Adéle, shall be my guardian deity, my household god. Convenient too, for wherever I go, I may bear it with me." He laughed scornfully.

"Cousin," replied Adéle, "I see no cause for your bitter words. You know well enough what reason, your father has for sorrow, nay even anger. No wonder, when he sees you, every night returning, with the marks of frays and tumult about you, and hears everybody speaking of you, as the adored hero of a thousand disorderly scenes, slanders though they be, 'tis no wonder, indeed it is not, that he should write thus unkindly. Now confess, Maurice,

But he interrupted her. "Unkindly! I tell you, my little cousin, I am discarded, disinherited. To night my father, yes, my father, gives a splendid féte, and my elegant and accomplished brother is to take my place at his right hand. Shall I behold him there? Yes, once, and then, hey for the Sorbonne! Will they recognize in the ardent and laborious student, in the reserved frequenter of libraries and halls of philosophy, the blasé, roué incarnate devil, Talleyrand. Ah! will they, belle ami ?"

"I could even laugh at the idea myself, Maurice," was the an

swer.

"Laugh if you will; things still stranger than this have happened. Gabriel Mirabeau, you know him, Adéle? well, he too has been forced to leave the home of his ancestors, and by his dear father, and he has told me of much, that may be done for their own advancement, by those who defy fortune, and can bring to the work, cool heads and bold hearts. Look out over the city. Every thing seems calm and peaceful. You can hear the sounds which betoken tranquility and the undisturbed occupation of the inhabitants. But, by and by, will come a new régime; the ball has already begun to roll, and its dimensions daily increase. When a few years have passed away, the present powerful lords of the realm may dwell in the humble cottages of those, who will then sit upon their golden thrones. Who knows but even

the discarded then may"

"Hush! for heaven's sake and mine, do not indulge these terrible fancies. Oh! when you have gone, what will become of Adéle ?"

"My brother"

"What of him?"

"Bestow your smiles there. He will know well enough their worth."

"Maurice."

"Adéle."

"Do you seek to wound the heart; that is all, all your own?" "No! no! but this cursed letter seems to clothe every object with the sad and sombre hues of disappointment."

"Shall you come to night?"

"Perhaps."

"O! come-banish that dismal frown from your brow, and be there as you were wont; cheerful and smiling. You will." "Dearest Adéle !"

"You will?”

"Yes, for the last time; and so, one soft, sweet kiss; nay, no struggle-here let me breathe my fond, fond Adieu.

II.

Ah! how little do we know, we poor republicans, whom fortune binds to our native land, of the splendor and magnificence of the nobility! And of all people under the sun, who doat so fondly upon pomp and display as Parisians?

The Prince de Périgord, gave a grand and sumptuous féte, and as a féte should always be-of masks. Aromatic perfumes filled the saloons, with a delightful fragrance; the halls glittered with light reflected from a hundred gemmed chandeliers. Soft, lulling music, such as we hear in dreams, marked the commencement of the festivity, but, anon, as the merriment of the revellers increased, as the stately pavanne gave way to the rapid

waltz, the minstrels sounded wild and stirring accompaniments. There were real princes and citizens, and false princes and citizens, priests and warriors, prophets and mountebanks; all appeared in appropriate costume. The mask covered all deformities; no, not all; but it could not conceal beauty. The dark veil might shroud the lustrous charms of the nun's countenance; but when she raised the white and glittering cross, suspended from her swan-like neck, she displayed the rounded fulness of her arm, the whiteness of her small hand, and the taper of the slender fingers, as well as the pretty little foot and ancle, peeping out from under the folds of the monastic robe.

The Prince de Périgord, unmasked, as the giver of the feast, passed through the apartments, and his bright eye glistened with pleasure, as he beheld the glitter of the revel and the gayety of his guests. He was tall and his form nobly proportioned. By his side, walked the pride of his family, his youngest son; far surpassing his father, in elegance and grace of demeanor. Worthy descendants of the sovereigns of Quercy! Worthy the title of the most handsome men in Paris, at a time when handsome men were not rarely seen.

But see! some one in the ermined robes of a Bishop approaches. A pair of star-like eyes glitter through the velvet loop-holes of his mask. Listen! his reverence speaks; his voice is low and tremulous, one would think, disguised.

"My son, if the blessings of a cowled monk can avail aught to the increase of your happiness, it is freely given."

"Thanks, reverend father, may we ever enjoy and merit the blessing of holy men."

"This young man by your side-who is he?"

"My son, the hope and stay of my house."

"Ha! this then is he of whom I have heard so much—the disturber of men's peace; he whose eye charms away the judgment, and whose tongue completes the victory. This is Maurice de Talleyrand!"

"Breathe not that name, holy sir, for it is accursed. He is no longer son of mine. The gambler-the adulterer-the fors worn, who seeks the society of the canaille, leaving his place vacant in the halls of his father, bears no longer the name of Perigord. You are mistaken in your guest; this is his brother."

"Tell me, my honored host, where now is he of whom you have spoken-the unhappy object of your anger?"

"He left my house this morning, for he was told that his presence was no longer desired, or to be endured. Whither he has gone, I know not."

"And did you feel no regret, no secret sorrow?" "Sorrow! ah no, poor boy,-he was défiguré."

The robes of the Bishop flutter, as extending his arm like a prophet, he muttered: "The time will be when the floods shall

come, and the winds blow, and beat about your house, and it shall not fall,-for the son you have disowned, true to his blood and birth, shall rescue you when there is no other arm to save. Farewell, and remember."

Drawing his robe more closely around him, the Bishop slowly retired. The father and son passed on.

Brighter and still more bright shine the lamps "o'er fair women and brave men." The instruments breathe harmonies more thrilling and celestial. Noiselessly the fair feet of the beauties glide in the swift and mazy dance. Bosoms are heaving, cheeks are burning, hearts are throbbing, hand meets hand, and all goes "merry as a marriage bell.”

"By my sword, Prince, Paris hath seen no gayer scene than this, thanks to your hospitality."

This was said by a young man in the dress of a French officer, whose rank might be that of Lieutenant. He was stoutly built and with little grace. He wore no mask. His head was uncommonly large. A pair of intelligent blue eyes redeemed his face from the charge of stolidity. He had one peculiarity in his features about the mouth, for his lips seemed to be painfully compressed, as if with an affectation of decision.

"And can the studious Napoleon desert his learned avocations to honor my poor festival with his presence?"

"The toils of the camp and the pleasures of the court are, thank Heaven, not incompatible, Prince. But, prithee, kind host, what has become of the gay Maurice? I see him not here. I always think of him with affection; he has often been my camarade." "Unhappy boy! he has left us forever."

"Whither has he gone?"

"I know not, his vices, his crimes have separated him from his family."

"Prince! mark me,-that boy will yet become a great and distinguished leader. I have noted him in our intercourse. His knowledge of the human heart, his keen perception, and his wonderful decision, will yet make him as resistless as”.

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Enjoy it-he was your friend."

"And is so still,-but hold; Junot is beckoning me. Prince, adieu !"

Then came a splendid display of fireworks. The grand illuminations of Tivoli were nothing so gorgeous. The gardens, bright with a soft and mellow light, needed no oriental perfumes, though they had them; for here were frail and fragrant exotics, all blooming and budding as joyously, as though wasting their fragrance on their own desert air.

What is more delicious than the shelter of a bower-softly lit— when the queen of stars is sailing up the sky, her glittering veil

floating over sea and subject land? But if it is a source of delight so exqusite to sit alone, will not joy become rapture when the dear one hides her blushes in the bosom of her betrothed!

So thought Adéle. She thought she was alone. She sighed for the voice and presence of her lover. She looked at her Nun's habiliments, and again she sighed for the dawn of the morrow was to separate her forever from the most loved being in the world.

"Will he not come to say, farewell?" she said. "Ah! should he be driven in despair to commit some crime or horrid outrage -this would be worse than death. Too well I know his wild nature, to think he will become the calm and sober student he told of. Grant, holy Mother! grant him peace and joy !"

The flowing robe of the Bishop darkened the door of the arbor. "Bless thee, fair sister, for thy prayer."

"Maurice! is it thou?"

"Even so, these sacred robes become me, do they not, Adéle ? No one under this disguise would detect the banished défiguré." "Forever brooding over that slight mishap!"

It has deprived me of a home."

"Whither will you go?"

"Into retirement-deep, deep solitude-there will I dwell and mature my plans. A new order of things may came round, and with it prosperity, and that which is still nearer my heart-Revenge."

"Will you never come to console Adéle for your desertion?”

"Yes, often, but thou must conceal my visits. Here, in the privacy of these bowers, we may meet undisturbed, till Talleyrand can bear you his, honored bride, to his own palace. Ha! some intruder approaches. Ever thus-ever doomed to disappointment. Farewell, Adéle; weep not so bitterly, dearest,soon shall you see me again. Once more, farewell!"

The guests begin to depart; for the morning dawn has surprised them in the midst of their festivity. The music ceases-the "lights are fled"-the merry maskers return their thanks to the Lord of the festival, who wearied with the excitement and toil of the entertainment, beholds with joy, his "banquet hall deserted."

III.

On the celebrated day of the Federation, the city of Paris presented a lively and striking scene. The Days of Terror had just passed by, and their horrors were still fresh in the recollection of the inhabitants. The star of Napoleon was now lord of the ascendant, and under his patronage exiles and refugees returned to their beloved France. But woe to him who cherished loyal affection for the ancien régime! The Bourbon no longer sat upon the throne. The Emperor and his Generals, and the

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