The sound of our steps crossing the terrace was heard within the chÂteau as we returned from our ineffectual search; and on entering the vestibule, the first object on which my eye fell was the form of Father Ferdinand, advancing to meet me. The natural clear brown of his complexion had now given way to a deadly paleness; and I saw by the haggard anxiety of the noble old man's eye, the tremulous eagerness of his lip, and the agitation that pervaded his whole frame, how deep and heartfelt was the interest which he took in the fate of those to whom he was attached.

"Have you found her?" he cried; "have you found her?"

A mournful silence was the only reply; and the Priest, clasping his hand over his eyes, remained for a moment or two apparently in prayer. When the hand was withdrawn, however, it was clear that tears had mingled with his orisons; and turning away from the gaze of the domestics, he took me by the hand and led me towards the library. There, closing the door, he cast himself into a seat, and gave way to a burst of feeling, which certainly did not lower him in my estimation.

"This is, indeed, terrible," he said, when he had somewhat recovered himself. "This is, indeed, most terrible; and even I, who am too well accustomed to witness scenes of death, and crime, and sorrow, am overpowered by this."

"Is Monsieur de Villardin dead, then?" I exclaimed, misunderstanding him. "Is he dead?"

"No, no," replied the Priest, "he is still alive, and likely to live; but I fear me," he added, "is likely to live only to wretchedness and remorse. Tell me, tell me, my son, how did all this happen? for it seems you were the only one present at the time this fatal catastrophe occurred."

To answer his question was more difficult than it would seem at first sight; for it required no small care to avoid mingling the dark suspicions that were in my own mind with the facts that I myself had seen, especially as I perceived that the Priest himself entertained many doubts of the event which had occurred having been purely accidental. All that he could positively know, indeed, must have been obtained from such information as the physician and the domestics had gleaned from the broken account I had given on first returning to the chÂteau; but it was evident to me that his own knowledge of foregone facts had led his mind to dark suspicions, for which he now sought, in his conversation with me, either confirmation or disproof. I replied, however, as cautiously as I could, telling him the simple facts as they had happened, but abstaining scrupulously from all remarks. My manner, beyond doubt, was embarrassed, for I would fain have spoken freely with the Priest, and fully believed, even at the time, that I might do so without danger; but I imagined that I had no right to give utterance to the slightest unascertained particular, and therefore evinced a backwardness to explain more than was absolutely necessary, which he instantly remarked.

"Are you deceiving me, my son?" he asked, gravely.

"No, indeed, Father," I answered; "I am telling you the simple truth; but for reasons of my own, you must let me do so without comment, and draw your own deductions from what you yourself know."

"Well, then," he said, after musing a moment, "you say that you were turning back to ask him where his carbine was placed when you saw the accident that occurred. Tell me now, my son, did your never-failing memory and attention abandon you in the present instance; or had you not forgotten, in reality, where he had told you that the weapon was to be found?"

"I had not forgotten," I replied, "and only turned back with that excuse, because I did not wish to leave him just at that moment."

"Then you must have apprehended something," said the Priest; "tell me what it was, and why you did so. You may do so safely, my son; for I pledge my word that your reply never passes my lips."

Thus pressed home, I replied, "Certainly I did apprehend something, good Father; but my apprehensions were quite vague and unformed, pointing to no particular object, and having no very definite cause."

"Then why did you entertain fears at all," demanded Father Ferdinand, "if you had seen nothing to excite them?"

"I had seen much to excite fears of every kind," I answered; "the whole demeanour of Monsieur de Villardin, his altered habits, his look, the fierceness of his manner, the wildness of his eye, all made me fear that he was hardly sane, and that surely was excuse sufficient for general apprehensions."

"It was," said the Priest, "it was; and your conduct was so just and proper in writing to me at first, that I will not believe you conceal anything from me now."

"Father Ferdinand, I will tell you the truth," I rejoined, as he was about to proceed; "I conceal from you no fact of any kind; but I do retain in my own bosom all those deductions which I have made from the same events that I have detailed to you."

"It matters little," he said, "it matters little! The truth of all I shall soon know from this unhappy man, if ever he recover the use of his reason, and in the meantime I will draw my own conclusions."

"Has he been roused from the stupor into which he had fallen?" I asked.

"Completely," answered the Confessor; "but he is now in a state of raving delirium, which is still more fearful. Of course, however, you are at liberty to go and see him; and I do not know that it will not be better for you and me, and old Jerome Laborde, with whom all secrets are safe, to take upon ourselves the entire tendance of the Duke during his illness, than to suffer others, on whose discretion we cannot rely, to wait upon him. Men in delirium often say fearful things, which, whether true or false--whether the breakings forth of long suppressed remorse, or the mere dreamings of a disordered imagination--make deep impression on the hearers, and are often transmitted to others with all the evidence of truth. We had better, perhaps, watch him alone. Do you understand?"

"Perfectly," I replied, "and will be guided in all things by your counsel, Father. Would that you had come before to direct us!"

"Would I had!--would I had!" replied the Priest, sadly. "But it was impossible. I set out from Rennes as soon as I received your letter, and travelled even with far more haste than beseemed my age and my profession."

We now repaired to the chamber of Monsieur de Villardin, and made arrangements with the physician--in whom the Confessor appeared to place full confidence--for carrying into execution what had been already proposed. It was at once determined that we should each watch six hours at a time by the couch of the sick man, whose ravings were certainly of a nature to be kept secret as far as possible. Now he would call upon the Count de Mesnil--now use harsh and cruel words, as if towards his wife--now speak of a cunningly devised scheme to end it all at once--now talk of a bloody grave beneath the oak; and, in short, he would let drop a thousand wild and whirling words, which, with all their incoherence, might very well have led to the discovery of much that he would willingly have concealed, and to the suspicion of other acts, of which, perhaps, he was innocent, though he never gave his mind time to remain long enough upon the fearful facts that busied it, to pour forth anything like a coherent tale in regard to either of them.

As the physician had now done his part, and as I bore on my face sufficient traces of fatigue and anxiety, the Confessor took upon himself the first six hours' watch, saying, that while he sat up he would write to the uncle of Madame de Villardin, whose domains were situated in the Orleanois.

I certainly never remember to have been more fatigued, and willingly took advantage of the good Priest's proposal. As I retired with the medical man, however, I asked him eagerly what was the state in which he had found the Duke when we brought him home; and, in reply, he explained to me that though his skull was not fractured, yet a severe concussion of the brain had taken place, from his head having struck, in the fall, either some projecting rock, or some piece of the broken bridge. From the ravings which had since come on, he feared, he said, that there was a tendency to inflammation; and on my pressing to know what would be the result, he shook his head doubtingly, saying, that the result was in the hands of God alone; he himself could not venture to give an opinion on the subject.

I did not sleep more than four or five hours, and on rising, proceeded towards the apartments of Monsieur de Villardin, in order to take my place by his bedside. I found old Jerome Laborde already there, however; who, having been made aware of the arrangements of the preceding night, had come about half an hour before to relieve the Priest. By this time, the Duke had fallen into a quiet sleep, from which I augured well; and leaving the old major-domo to hold out his watch, I descended to the saloon, feeling most oppressively that deep and shadowy gloom which always seems to fall over a house where such a sudden and fatal event has taken place as that which distinguished the foregoing evening. The low voice in which every one spoke when they met, the stealthy pace with which every one moved about the mansion, the stillness which pervaded the whole place, expressed the sense of awe that was felt by every bosom, and had something awful in itself.

All this struck me much as I descended the stairs; but on entering the saloon, there was something more painful still to be encountered. The little Laura de Villardin was playing near one of the windows with some trinkets of her mother's, but the moment I entered, she ran up to me with open arms, and holding up her fair face towards me, exclaimed, "Oh! tell me--tell me, where is mamma? Suzette says she is dead, and I shall never see her again. What does dead mean? Where is she gone to?"

It was impossible to hear such questions calmly; and for the first time since my father's death, I wept like a child. Suzette herself now entered the saloon, and for a moment her eyes and mine met. Whether what I felt towards her was very visibly expressed in my glance or not, I cannot tell, but she turned extremely red, and casting down her eyes, caught the little girl by the arm and drew her rudely out of the room. In truth, I was not sorry to be spared more questions; and taking my hat, I walked forth into the park.

The morning was as warm and bright as that of the preceding day; and a feeling of painful curiosity impelled me directly towards the spot where the accident had occurred on the night before. I followed the exact path which I had pursued with Madame de Villardin, and as I turned from the lateral alley where we had met the Duke, into the short path which led to the broken bridge, I suddenly saw the form of Father Ferdinand standing at the very point to which I was directing my steps. He turned round as I approached, and without any apparent surprise beckoned me towards him. I walked on at once; and for two or three minutes after I had come up, we stood gazing together in silence upon all that remained of the wooden arch which had there spanned across the river, and which I myself had passed over on horseback not five days before. Very little of it was now to be seen, for full twelve feet of the centre had fallen into the river and had been carried away; but enough still remained attached to the piles at the sides to show, in some degree, the manner of the accident, though not the cause. The nails which had fixed the cross supports to the rafters had either given way or had been drawn out; and the two main beams which upheld the whole, having been deprived of everything that strengthened them, had broken at the side nearest the chÂteau, and, dragged down by their own weight from the piles on the other bank of the river, had fallen with the rest of the wood-work into the current, and been carried away.

A part, however, of one of them remained, as I have said, attached to the side where we stood; and after contemplating the whole for some time in silence, the Priest laid his hand upon my arm, as he saw my eyes fixed upon the broken beams, and he asked, in a tone half stern, half sorrowful, "Do you remark nothing there, my son?"

I stooped down and looked more closely, but still kept silence; and he added, "Then I will ask you, in plainer terms, do you not perceive the marks of a saw?"

"I am afraid I do," replied I, rising up.

"It is enough," he said, and with his foot pushed the fragments of the beams over into the water, which was easily accomplished, as all that held them had already been nearly wrenched out by the breaking down of the rest of the bridge. Father Ferdinand and myself gazed at each other for several moments with sad and bitter hearts, and then, feeling that nothing more need be said between us, we each turned on our way without another word. Father Ferdinand took the path back to the chÂteau, but I walked on towards Juvigny, in the sad hope of hearing from good Jacques Marlot that the body of Madame de Villardin had been found. On my arrival, however, I learned that Madame Marlot herself, who, it seems, was in a delicate situation, had been so agitated and alarmed by all the disturbance and anxiety of the preceding night, as to be obliged to keep her bed that morning; and the large-nosed Bretonne servante, who gave me these tidings, added, that her master was gone over to the gate of the convent, and that I should certainly meet him there if I walked that way.

I did as she suggested, and met Jacques Marlot returning from the convent; but he informed me that no trace had been discovered of the body of Madame de Villardin; and as his wife was ill, I turned back towards the chÂteau. As I passed by the bridge again, I found Gaspard de Belleville, and one or two of the servants, examining the spot where the fatal event had occurred; and it was not difficult for me to perceive that the whole household looked upon the page and myself as irreconcilable enemies, by the manner in which the servants drew away from his side when I approached. As I had most scrupulously avoided mentioning even his name to any one when not absolutely called upon to do so, it must have been from Gaspard himself that the domestics had learned that any degree of enmity existed between us. At all events, their having discovered the fact was by no means to his advantage; for as my good will was of more value in the family than his, from the circumstances in which I stood in regard to the Duke, my favour was of course more courted, and it often happened that it was courted at his expense.

As I wished to be asked no questions upon the subject, I passed on, without noticing any one, and after an hour or two spent in the melancholy rooms of the chÂteau, I went to take the place of good Jerome Laborde. While I watched by Monsieur de Villardin, he woke from the sleep into which he had fallen; but so far from my anticipations of amendment being realized, he appeared infinitely more delirious than ever. His words, however, were now so incoherent and wild, that the most suspicious ear could have drawn no meaning from them; and thus luckily they continued through the rest of his illness. For nearly a fortnight he remained in the same condition, but at the end of that period a material change for the better began to manifest itself, and the ravings to which he had been subject ceased entirely; though by this time he was reduced to a state of infant weakness.

Innumerable visiters had presented themselves at the chÂteau, as the tidings spread through the country; and all who could hope to obtain anything by his death were most assiduous and tender in their inquiries. Shortly before he recovered his reason, also, the Count de Loris, the uncle of his late wife--warned of Madame de Villardin's death by a letter from Father Ferdinand, with whom he was well acquainted--appeared at the chÂteau, and took up his abode there for the time; but as he had never heard of any dissensions between his niece and her husband, and care was taken not to make him aware of the painful state in which they had lived for the last five or six months, the good old Count expressed, and I believe felt, as much anxiety in regard to Monsieur de Villardin as if he had been his own son. His manners were simple and kind to all around him, and when informed by Father Ferdinand of the share I had borne in several of the late events, he embraced me tenderly, and after thanking me repeatedly, made me relate every particular in regard to the accident which had befallen his unhappy niece. The warm tears coursed each other down his cheeks as I proceeded, and when I had ended, he said, "If ever I can serve you, young gentleman, let me know. I am a man of few words, but I mean what I say."

I gave him full credit for doing so, and I only did him justice. After the delirium had left Monsieur de Villardin, his health continued to improve every hour; but still it was the most painful convalescence that ever I beheld. He scarcely spoke a word to any one, and his eyes roamed round those that surrounded his bed with a searching and anxious glance, that was terrible to those who understood the feelings in which it arose. When he began to speak again, it was but one word at a time, and even then he confined himself to the name of any object that he wanted at the moment.

As soon as the physician judged it prudent, Monsieur de Loris was brought into his bed-chamber, and took his hand affectionately; but the Duke turned his head away, and pressed his eyes upon the pillows, as if to avoid the sight and all its concomitant ideas. The good old Count went on to comfort him in a kindly tone, but not knowing the truth, he followed the most painful track he could pursue, and by addressing a man who had destroyed his own happiness as he would have done one who suffered alone under the bereaving hand of fate, he poured gall and wormwood into all the consolations he offered.

The shock, however, though terrible, was not without a good effect, for it seemed to rouse the unhappy Duke from the dull despair that overwhelmed him, and, at all events, it broke the first dreadful feelings of returning to scenes which had each its own peculiar associations of agony to pour forth upon him.

Still, the day that he first came forth from his own chamber was full of misery. The sun was shining through all the windows, checkering the staircases and saloons with gay and gladsome light. Under the directions of Father Ferdinand, everything had been removed which had peculiarly belonged to the Duchess, and alterations had been made, in various ways, to break in every direction the chain of associations which we knew could alone prove painful. Monsieur de Villardin's eye, however, still wandered wildly over every object around, and I do not know that it was not really more distressing to him to miss all the objects he expected to see, than it would have been to find them in their accustomed places.

I heard him mutter to himself, "They are all gone!--they are all gone!" and sinking into the fauteuil in which he had been accustomed to sit when in the saloon, he covered his eyes with his hands, and remained musing for several minutes. At that moment the door of the room was gently opened, and Mademoiselle de Villardin, warned and persuaded by every means in our power to be careful of what she said and did, was led in by Monsieur de Loris. The Duke heard the door open, and withdrawing his hand from his eyes, saw his child for the first time since the death of her mother. He had scarcely been able to reach the saloon with the assistance of two people, but when his eyes fell upon his daughter, he started up without aid, sprang forward, and catching her to his heart, burst into a passionate fit of tears.

Father Ferdinand and myself supported him to a seat, but still he held his little girl in his arms, and weeping bitterly, every now and then drew back her head from his bosom to gaze upon her face, which that day bore--or seemed to me to bear--a more striking likeness to her mother than ever I had before remarked. She on her part was silent, but wept too, mingling the tears with which she bedewed her father's bosom with kisses pressed upon his cheek. The physician would fain have put an end to such a scene, but when he proposed to remove the young lady, the Duke turned round, saying mildly, but firmly, "She must remain! It does me good!"

I believe most sincerely that it did, and certainly from that moment his health improved much more rapidly than it had previously done. Each day he regained strength, and gradually, by walking out upon the terrace, and driving forth in a carriage, he acquired sufficient vigour to mount his horse, and thenceforward might be considered well, at least in body.

It was necessary, indeed, that he should recover strength, for there were still many painful things to do which could not be much longer postponed. M. de Loris had now been nearly a month at the chÂteau, and was of course anxious to return to his own dwelling; yet, as his niece had brought to Monsieur de Villardin, at her marriage, an estate called Virmont, in the Orleanois, which had been settled upon her with all the peculiar forms and agreements that enter into a French marriage contract, it became necessary to make some arrangements in regard to this property, which of course reverted entirely to her daughter. M. de Loris felt that to speak long upon such a subject would be inflicting much pain upon both the Duke and himself, and therefore he had procrastinated for some days, when, suddenly, one morning, as we were driving out in the neighbourhood, Monsieur de Villardin, who had been agitated by the same feelings, began the conversation himself, and concluded it in fewer words than it otherwise would have required.

"Monsieur de Loris," he said, with a degree of calmness which showed how he had tutored his mind to the point, "I have long thought of speaking to you in regard to Virmont. Although, of course, I am my beloved child's only guardian and protector, yet, under present circumstances, I do not choose to hold the property which is now hers any longer, even as her guardian. It is contiguous to your own land, and I have therefore to request that you would kindly take charge of it, manage the rents, invest them to the best advantage, and make the whole over to Laura when she marries or becomes of age."

The Count made some opposition, although he acknowledged that the confidence of the Duke was highly grateful and flattering to him.

Monsieur de Villardin sighed deeply, but replied, "You must, my dear Count, allow me to have my will in this respect. Accept the trust, I beseech you; and as we may all feel very sure that my remaining years will be few, I have named you in some papers that I drew up yesterday for a still more important charge, which I must entreat you to undertake. It is that of one of the guardians to my child when I am dead."

The reply was such as might be expected, but the conversation ended in Monsieur de Loris accepting both the offices which Monsieur de Villardin put upon him. A few days after, the necessary papers were brought, drawn up in legal form, and having been read in silence by both parties, were duly signed. The next morning the Count de Loris left us, pouring upon Monsieur de Villardin expressions of affection and esteem, every one of which went home to his heart like a dagger. The Duke seemed relieved when he was gone; but there seemed still another painful task to be performed; at least I judged so from the anxious expression of his eyes, as he sometimes turned them upon the face of the Confessor.

At length, one morning, after walking for half an hour upon the terrace, he turned to Father Ferdinand, who at the moment was coming forth into the garden to take his customary stroll with me, and said, "Now, good Father, I am ready, if you can do me the favour."

"It is one that must never be refused, my son," replied the Priest; "I follow you:" and they turned towards the chÂteau. Both had become somewhat paler as they spoke; and in about two hours afterwards I was joined by the Priest, with a countenance on which strong and terrible emotions had left traces which could not be mistaken. He tried to appear calm, indeed, and succeeded in a certain degree, by speaking for some time of indifferent things. At length, when he had obtained command of himself, he said, "In the letter which you wrote to me when I was at Rennes, and which brought me so suddenly back to the chÂteau, you said, my son, that you really doubted the sanity of Monsieur de Villardin, from the extraordinary change that had come over him. Now tell me truly, I beseech you, was that an expression hazarded without attaching to it its full meaning; or was it your real conviction at the time that the mind of your friend was unhealthily affected? It is of much consequence that I should know."

"I will tell you, my good Father, most sincerely,"--I replied, seeing that the feelings of the Confessor were, in truth, most deeply interested; "Indeed I will give you an answer that will show you I speak without reserve. Did I not believe, then, that during the four or five days preceding the dreadful accident which lately happened, the mind of Monsieur de Villardin was decidedly deranged, I would not stay in his house another hour."

"It is enough, my son, it is enough," replied the Priest. "So thinks the physician,--and so he thinks himself," added the Confessor, in a lower tone; giving what he said more the appearance of a reflection addressed to himself than to me. "And yet," he continued, "his mind must have been dreadfully worked upon by others: at least, it would seem so from all that I can hear in the house."

"The more reason, Father," I replied, "for supposing that their irritating suggestions had affected his brain. People seldom go mad without some cause, unless they are very madly disposed indeed."

The Priest mused; and, after a long pause, he replied, "Well, well, let us always lean to the side of charity. We are all too fallible to judge rigidly."

I saw that the fear of approaching, even in the slightest degree, the facts which had been confided to him under the seal of confession, prevented Father Ferdinand from speaking with me more candidly upon a subject which occupied so great a part in the thoughts of both at that time. Of course I did not press the topic, and the conversation turned to other matters.

What I had said to him was, nevertheless, true; for certainly had I not believed that, for several days before the death of Madame de Villardin, the Duke himself had been positively insane, I would, without hesitation, have restored to him all his gifts, and would have quitted for ever a man to whom I could not help attaching, in my own mind, the darkest of suspicions. But his whole previous conduct had so firmly impressed me with the idea, that at no period between my return from St. Malo and the death of his unhappy wife, had he possessed the complete command of his own reason, that I felt him to be more an object of pity than of censure. Even more--regarding his conduct in this light, and looking upon him as one whose happiness had been cast away for ever, under the influence of mental disease, all that had occurred proved a strong, though mournful tie, which bound me to him more firmly than ever; and when I remembered the promise which I had so shortly before made to this unhappy lady who was now no more, I determined that no time nor circumstances should ever induce me to quit entirely the child that she had left, till I saw her hand given to some one who would have the right and power to protect her. I say that my determination was not to quit her entirely, because the conduct of Monsieur de Villardin towards me, since his recovery had been such, that I knew not whether he either desired my longer abode with him, or whether it was to be upon such terms as I could now alone endure.

Although no son could have attended upon a father with more care and anxiety than I had done upon him, yet he had scarcely addressed ten words to me since his convalescence began. Those that he had spoken, indeed, had always been kind and affectionate; and I had often caught his eyes fixed upon me with a look of intense interest,--mournful, perhaps painful, but still full of regard and feeling. Nevertheless, the strangeness of his silence, which I ought to have attributed to other causes, made me anxious and unhappy; and, as I was not a person to express any of that loud indignation for ill-requited kindness, which is sure to pile contempt upon ingratitude, I frequently thought of asking his permission, calmly and tranquilly, but firmly and urgently, to return to Paris, and to mingle in the scenes of strife and turmoil which were again beginning to agitate the unquiet capital of France.

I was saved, however, from the pain which such a request would have occasioned to us both. On the day following that in the course of which I had reason to believe he had relieved his bosom of the load that weighed upon his heart, and had poured forth both his sorrows and his faults to the ears of the Confessor, he beckoned me immediately after breakfast towards his library, and led the way thither himself. I followed, and closed the door; and as soon as I had done so, he put his hand upon my shoulder, and gazing in my face with an expression of deep grief, he said, "Why--why, my dear boy, did you save my life?--why--why did you preserve me to daily sorrow and continual regret?"

Although I was seldom destitute of a reply, his question might have been a painful one to answer, had not my conversations with Father Ferdinand given me altogether a new view of human life from that which I had formerly entertained.

"My lord," I answered, boldly, "every man, I have heard, has something to repent of in this world, and it is always better to have time here, where repentance avails us, than to go where it is a punishment instead of a penance."

"You say true,--you say true," replied the Duke; "and I thank you for the life you have preserved, as well as for the kindness and the courage which prompted and enabled you to preserve it." He paused for a moment thoughtfully, and then proceeded: "You have thought me cold, unkind, ungrateful, since I have recovered life and health; but it has not been so. I have felt all that you have done for me; I have seen all that you have felt for me; and I have a thousand times longed to thank you for the whole; but ever, when I was about to speak, all the horrible memories which are in your heart and in mine, have risen up before me, and compelled me to silence. I have scarcely had courage even to address you, much less to speak with you on subjects connected with the terrible past."

Such an explanation was more than sufficient, and the pain of it once over, all further difficulty or reserve between us was at an end. He spoke some time longer with me in the library; and though he alluded but vaguely and remotely to the past, yet he did speak of it more than once with that sort of lingering tendency which a man always has to return, in conversation with others, to any subject that occupies all his thoughts when alone. At length, taking a key from the table, he said, "I have a fearful task before me, but one which I promised to execute myself. Nevertheless, I confess my heart so plays the coward with me that I am afraid to enter those rooms alone. You must go with me, at least as far as the ante-room, and wait for me there till my task is concluded."

Although he did not mention what rooms he meant, yet as I had heard from the old major-domo that Father Ferdinand had, with his own hands, closed and sealed the apartments of Madame de Villardin immediately after his arrival at the chÂteau, I easily divined that it was to those chambers that the Duke now alluded. I instantly prepared to follow, but still ventured to ask whether he had not better desire the good Priest to accompany him in the sad duty he was about to perform.

He shook his head gloomily, and replied, "No, no, I must go alone;" and then, with a pale cheek and wavering steps, took his way up the great staircase. His hand shook so fearfully that he could scarcely remove the seal, and turn the key in the lock of Madame de Villardin's chamber door; and sitting down in the ante-room he paused for several minutes, in order to gain strength for the undertaking. At length he started up abruptly, exclaiming, "Now!" and entering her bed-room, which communicated with a dressing-room on the other side, he closed the door behind him. Full of sad thoughts, I stood gazing out of the lattice for some time; but at the end of about a quarter of an hour, I heard the ante-room door open, and turning my head round without any noise, perceived Madame Suzette stealing quietly in, and looking about her. As soon as she perceived me she halted; and, with as much abhorrence as ever I felt towards any loathsome reptile in my life, I walked forward, and taking her by the arm, turned her quietly but firmly towards the door.

Thinking, probably, that I was there alone, she seemed about to take some noisy notice of my unceremonious ejection of her pretty person; but, pointing sternly towards the bed-chamber, I whispered, "The Duke is there;" and, glad to get off unobserved, she tripped away as quietly and speedily as possible. I kept my silent and now undisturbed watch in the ante-room for nearly two hours, and all seemed so still and quiet within the chamber beyond, that I began at length to feel alarmed lest the excitement and agitation which Monsieur de Villardin had evidently experienced when he entered, should have overpowered him in the course of his undertaking.

He came forth, however, just as I was about to open the door, and was evidently calmer and more firm than when he had left me, though I should say that the expression of deep, stern grief, which had now become habitual to his countenance, was, if anything, a shade deeper than before.

"Did I not hear another step than yours about an hour ago?" were the first words he spoke. I replied in the affirmative, and told him at once who it was that had intruded. He looked at me for a moment or two with a sort of inquiring glance, as if he sought to read something in my heart ere he himself spoke.

"Suzette!" he said, thoughtfully; "I have been thinking of keeping her here to take charge of Laura."

My feelings burst forth whether I would or not, and I exclaimed, "What! give the care of the daughter to her who calumniated the mother!"

The retort was so sudden and so unexpected that the Duke started; and gazed at me for a moment, with a look in which I thought I could trace no slight anger at my rash exclamation. I had spoken the truth, however, though I had spoken it too boldly and unadvisedly, and I was not to be abashed while such a conviction was at my heart; but casting down my eyes, I waited calmly for the rebuke that I doubted not was to follow. But Monsieur de Villardin paused, and for several moments uttered not a word; till at length, grasping my arm, he said in a low, but emphatic tone,--

"However you made the discovery, young man, you say true. She did calumniate her mistress! For though there is still much to be accounted for, which, probably, will never in this world receive an explanation, yet I were worse than base to doubt the proofs of virtue and of love with which those cabinets have furnished me. I heap coals of fire upon my own head by yielding to the conviction; I inflict the tortures of hell already on my heart by making the acknowledgment; but I own before you, who probably have seen more deeply into my weakness and my madness than any human being, that I did that beloved girl false and shameful wrong, and that from my soul I believe her--now that it is too late--to have been as pure as purity itself."

He trembled as he spoke with the very energy of his feelings, though every tone was as low as a lover's whisper, and when he had concluded, he sank down into a seat, and gazed at vacancy, giving way, I am sure, to all that longing, burning thirst to recal the past, which every one at some time feels amidst the errors and the faults of life.

It was long ere he recovered himself; but when he did so, he called my attention to a letter that he held in his hand, saying, that it concerned me as well as himself. The handwriting was that of Madame de Villardin, and the epistle covered two sheets of paper, one of which he gave me to peruse, after having made an ineffectual effort to read it to me himself. I remember the contents almost word for word, and put down here that part which most interested me at the time.

"I mean not to reproach you, my lord," it went on, after a broken sentence at the top of the page; "far, far from it; and I only thus assert my innocence of even one evil thought; I only thus attempt to prove that I could not have been guilty; I only thus depict all that I have suffered, in order that you may love our children when I am dead, and grant me, in dying, a few not very burdensome requests. I repeat again, that without knowing why, I am convinced that I shall not survive many months. Nor does this conviction arise in the common terror of women in my present situation. On the contrary, I fear not to die; and now that I am deprived of your affection, I have nothing to attach me to the world but the dear child that we both love, and the one which is yet unborn. Still I feel that death is not far from me; and therefore these lines, which will never meet your eye till I am dead, may well be looked upon as my dying words. Oh then, my lord, I beseech you to love the children that I leave you with tender and equal affection; and should a regret at any time cross your mind for sorrows inflicted on their mother, make me atonement by your affection for them. If ever the spirits of the dead be permitted to watch over those they loved while living, my soul shall follow you and our children through existence, and every kind word or deed towards them shall be received as wiping away some unmerited reproach or some harsh act towards myself.

"My next request is, that you would yourself confirm and sanction an engagement which I caused the young Englishman, who has since saved our daughter from a watery grave, to enter into in regard to our children. Your fate, my lord, is, of course, uncertain; and how long you may be permitted to guard and protect them no one can tell. I have heard much of this young gentleman and his history, both from yourself and from others, and I have myself seen that he is always prompt to succour and defend, and that his knowledge of the world, in all its changes and disguises, is extraordinary for one so young. As it is more than probable that he will grow up with our children as an elder brother, I have made him promise that he will never wholly leave them, but will always come forward to give them aid and assistance, wherever you may be, whenever they may need his help. In making this request to him I felt sure that I could not be doing wrong, as the person whom I besought to undertake the task, and whom I entreated, while you acted towards my children as a father, to act towards them as a brother, is one in whom you yourself seem to place the fullest confidence; but I have since been confirmed in what I have done by the opinion of our excellent friend and spiritual guide, Father Ferdinand, who not only assures me that this young gentleman's goodness of heart and rectitude of judgment may be depended on, but undertakes boldly that in case of my death, you shall sanction my conduct, induce him to repeat his promise, and give him every opportunity of executing it, both during your life and after your death.

"My requests, I think, are now all made, except that you would bestow upon my servants the sums which I have written down upon the paper attached to this letter, and that you would assign to the convent of Ursulines at Juvigny the thousand crowns of revenue which, with your consent, I promised them on the birth of our daughter, and which has never been formally made over to them. Besides this, I trust that you will give a thousand livres to the church of St. Peter at Rennes, to be expended in masses for my soul; and as my last request, I beseech you to think of me kindly, and when I am dead, to do that justice to my memory which you have not done to my faith and honour while living."

I could well conceive, as I read these words, how poignantly they must have gone home to the heart of Monsieur de Villardin; and even as I read them in silence before him, I could see from his eye,--which was fixed upon my face, scanning its expression from line to line,--that he again mentally ran over all which that paper contained, and inflicted on his own heart every gentle word as the most severe of punishments.

"Do you undertake the task?" he demanded, when I had done.

"I have already done so, my lord," I replied; "and I never forget my word."

"Your task may become a strange and a difficult one," he said, musing; "but never mind," he added, abruptly, and at the same time rising, "whatever comes of it, so it shall be. I on my part promise, before Heaven and before you, on my hope of pardon, and on my honour as a man, to give you every means of executing what you have undertaken, and to take such measures as will secure you the same opportunity should I die. She said right," he continued, holding out his hand to me; "she said right, poor girl; you do possess my confidence most fully; none ever possessed it so much; and would to God, would to God, that you had possessed it more! Oh, had I but trusted your words! oh God! oh God! that it should now be all beyond recall!" and he groaned bitterly under the torture of remorse.

"Tell me," he cried, after a long pause, "tell me! do you know of any cause which that woman--that Suzette had to hate her mistress?"

"Personally I know of none," I answered; "but, if I mistake not, good old Jerome Laborde could assign sufficient reasons for all her malice."

"I will inquire!" he rejoined, "I will inquire!" and carefully locking the doors, he turned away from the apartments of his dead wife.

The agitation and exertion he had gone through, however, had been too much for him; and ere he reached his library, towards which his steps were directed in the first instance, he was obliged to turn to his own chamber, and lie down to rest for the remainder of the day. The next morning early, good old Jerome Laborde was summoned to his master's presence, and I fully believe, in his fright,--for he held Monsieur de Villardin in great awe--he would either have prevaricated so desperately as not to obtain credence for his tale, or he would have denied any knowledge of Suzette's behaviour altogether. I luckily, however, saw him before he went, and exhorted him to tell the whole truth exactly as it was; and I conclude he did so, though I was not present.

Whatever took place, the result was but just; for no sooner was his conference over with Monsieur de Villardin, than the good major-domo came forth, armed with authority to send forth Madame Suzette, with all her moveables, without allowing her to sleep another night in the house.

Some time was, indeed, consumed in her preparations; but as I had notice from Jerome of the order he had received, and I intended to spend the greater part of the day in my own apartments, I certainly did not expect to see Suzette more. I was astonished, however, by the door of my little saloon being thrown unceremoniously open about two hours after; and in walked the soubrette, with an air of determined effrontery which I have seldom seen surpassed in man or woman.

"I have come, Monsieur l'Anglais," she said, making me a mock courtesy, "to take my leave of you before I go, and to thank you for all your kindness. I am not unaware of all your good offices, and as I shall not in all probability be very far off, I shall take good care to repay them. I do not doubt that some opportunity will occur; in the meantime, farewell!" and without waiting any reply, she walked out of the room, leaving all the doors open behind her as she went.