With firm step and head high, Linton entered a room where the dim half-light of the closed jalousies made each object indistinct. He halted for an instant, to cast a searching glance around, and then advanced to a door at the farthest end of the apartment; at this he tapped twice gently with his knuckles. He waited for an instant, and then repeated his summons. Still no answer, even though he rapped a third time, and louder than before. Linton now turned the handle noiselessly, and opened the door. For a moment or two he seemed uncertain whether to advance or retire; but his resolution was soon made,—he entered and closed the door behind him.

The chamber in which Linton now stood was smaller than the outer one, and equally shaded from the strong sunlight. His eyes were now, however, accustomed to the dusky half-light, and he was able to mark the costly furniture and splendid ornaments of the room. The walls were hung with rose-colored damask, over which a drapery of white lace was suspended, looped up at intervals to admit of small brackets of bronze, on which stood either “statuettes” or vases of rare “Sevres.” At a toilet-table in the middle of the room were laid out the articles of a lady's dressing-case, but of such costly splendor that they seemed too gorgeous for use. Trinkets and jewellery of great value were scattered carelessly over the table, and an immense diamond cross glittered from the mother-o'-pearl frame of the looking-glass.

The half-open curtains at the end of the room showed a marble bath, into which the water flowed from a little cascade of imitation rustic, its tiny ripple murmuring in the still silence of the room. There was another sound, still softer and more musical than that, there,—the long-drawn breathing of a young girl, who, with her face upon her arm, lay asleep upon a sofa. With stealthy step and noiseless gesture, Linton approached and stood beside her. He was not one to be carried away by any enthusiasm of admiration, and yet he could not look upon the faultless symmetry of that form, the placid beauty of that face, on which a passing dream had left a lingering smile, and not feel deeply moved. In her speaking moments, her dark and flashing eyes often lent a character of haughty severity to her handsome features; now their dark lashes shrouded them, and the expression of the face was angelic in sweetness. The olive-darkness of her skin, too, was tempered by the half-light, while the slight tinge of color on her cheek might have vied with the petal of a rose. Linton drew a chair beside the sofa, and sat down. With folded arms, and head slightly bent forward, he watched her, while his fast-hurrying thoughts travelled miles and miles,—speculating, planning, contriving; meeting difficulties here, grasping advantages there,—playing over a game of life, and thinking if an adversary could find a flaw in it.

“She is worthy to be a duchess,” said he, as he gazed at her. “A duchess! and what more?—that is the question. Ah, these women, these women! if they but knew their power! If they but knew how all the boldest strivings of our intellects are as nothing compared to what their beauty can effect! Well, well; it is better that they should not. They are tyrants, even as it is,—petty tyrants,—to all who care for them; and he who does not is their master. That is the real power,—there the stronghold; and how they fear the man who takes his stand behind it! how they crouch and tremble before him! what fascinating graces do they reserve for him, that they would not bestow upon a lover! Is it that they only love where they fear? How beautiful she looks, and how calmly sweet!—it is the sleeping tigress, notwithstanding. And now to awake her: pity, too; that wearied mind wants repose, and the future gives but little promise of it.”

He bent down over her, till he almost touched the silken masses of her long dark hair, and, in a low, soft voice, said,—

“MaritaÑa! MaritaÑa!”

“No, no, no,” said she, in the low, muttering accents of sleep, “not here,—not here!”

“And why not here, dearest?” said he, catching at the words.

A faint shudder passed over her, and she gathered her shawl more closely around her.

“Hace mal tiempo,—the weather looks gloomy,” said she, in a faint voice.

“And if not here, MaritaÑa, where then?” said he, in a low tone.

“In our own deep forests, beneath the liana and the cedar; where the mimosa blossoms, and the acacia scents the air; where fountains are springing, and the glow-worm shines like a star in the dark grass. Oh, not here! not here!” cried she, plaintively.

“Then in Italy, MaritaÑa mia, where all that the tropics can boast is blended with whatever is beautiful. In art; where genius goes hand-in-hand with nature; and where life floats calmly on, like some smooth-flowing river, unruffled and unbroken.”

A faint, low sigh escaped her, and her lips parted with a smile of surpassing loveliness.

“Yes, dearest—there, with me, beside the blue waters of the Adriatic, or lost amid the chestnut forests of the Apennines. Think of those glorious cities, too, where the once great still live, enshrined by memory, in their own palace walls. Think of Venice—”

The word was not well uttered, when, with a shrill scream, she started up and awoke.

“Who spoke to me of my shame? Who spoke of Venice?” cried she, in accents of wild terror.

“Be calm, MaritaÑa. It was a dream,—nothing but a dream,” said Linton, pressing her gently down again. “Do not think more of it.”

“Where am I?” said she, drawing a long breath.

“In your own dressing-room, dearest,” said he, in an accent of deep devotion.

“And you, sir? Why are you here? and by what right do you address me thus?”

“By no right,” said Linton, with a submissive deference which well became him. “I can plead nothing, save the devotion of a heart long since your own, and the good wishes of your father, MaritaÑa, who bade me speak to you.”

“I will not believe it, sir,” said she, proudly, as she arose and walked the room with stately step. “I know but too well the influence you wield over him, although I cannot tell how it is acquired. I have seen your counsels sway and your wishes guide him, when my entreaties were unheard and unheeded. Tell me nothing, then, of his permission.”

“Let me speak of that better reason, where my heart may plead, MaritaÑa. It was to offer you a share in my fortunes that I have come here,—to place at your feet whatever I possess in rank, in station, and in future hope; to place you where your beauty and your fascinations entitle you to shine,—a peeress of the Court of France; a duchess, of a name only second to royalty itself.”

The girl's dark eyes grew darker, and her flushed cheek grew crimson, as with heaving bosom she listened. “A duchess!” murmured she, between her lips.

“La Duchesse de Marlier,” repeated Linton, slowly, while his keen eyes were riveted on her.

“And this real—not a pageant—not as that thing you made of me before?”

“La Duchesse de Marlier,” said Linton again, “knows of no rank above her own, save in the blood royal. Her chÂteau was the present of a king,—her grounds are worthy of such a donor.”

“And the Duke de Marlier,” said she, with a look of ineffable irony, “who is to play him? Is that part reserved for Mr. Linton?”

“Could he not look the character?” said Linton, putting on a smile of seeming good-humor, while his lip trembled with passion.

“Look it,—ay, that could he; and if looks would suffice, he could be all that his ambition aims at.”

“You doubt my sincerity, Maritafia,” said he, sorrowfully; “have I ever given you cause to do so?”

“Never,” cried she, impetuously: “I read you from the first hour I saw you. You never deceived me. My training has not been like that of others of my sex and age, amidst the good, the virtuous, and the pure. It was the corrupt, the base-born, and the abandoned offered their examples to my eyes; the ruined gambler, the beggared adventurer,—their lives were my daily study. How, then, should I not recognize one so worthy of them all?”

“This is less than fair, Maritafia; you bear me a grudge for having counselled that career wherein your triumphs were unbounded; and now you speak to me harshly for offering a station a princess might accept without a derogation.”

“Tell me not of my triumphs,” said she, passionately: “they were my shame! You corrupted me, by trifling with my ignorance of the world. I did not know then, as now I know, what were the prizes of that ambition I cherished! But you knew them; you speculated on them, as now you speculate upon others. Ay, blush for it; let your cheek glow, and sear your cold heart for the infamy! The coroneted duchess would have been a costlier merchandise than the wreathed dancer! Oh, shame upon you! shame upon you! Could you not be satisfied with your gambler's cruelty, and ruin those who have manhood's courage to sustain defeat, but that you should make your victim a poor, weak, motherless girl, whose unprotected life might have evoked even your pity?”

“I will supplicate no longer; upon you be it if the alternative be heavy. Hear me, young lady; it is by your father's consent—nay, more, at his desire—that I make you the proffer of my name and rank. He is in my power,—not his fortune nor his future prospects, but his very life is in my hands. You shudder at having been a dancer; think of what you may be,—the daughter of a forÇat, a galley-slave! If these be idle threats, ask himself; he will tell you if I speak truly. It is my ambition that you should share my title and my fortune. I mean to make your position one that the proudest would envy; reject my offer if you will, but never reproach me with what your own blind folly has accomplished.”

MaritaÑa stood with clasped hands, and eyes wildly staring on vacancy, as Linton, in a voice broken with passion, uttered these words,—

“I will not press you now, MaritaÑa; you shall have to-night to think over all I have said; to-morrow you will give me your answer.”

“To-morrow?” muttered she, after him.

“Who is there?” said Linton, as a low, faint knock was heard at the door. It was repeated, and Linton approached and opened the door. A slight gesture of the hand was all that he could perceive in the half-light; but he understood it, and passed out, closing the door noiselessly behind him.

“Well?” said Rica, as he grasped the other's arm; “well?”

“Well?” echoed Linton, peevishly. “She is in her most insolent of moods, and affects to think that all the splendor I have offered her is but the twin of the mock magnificence of the stage. She is a fool, but she'll think better of it, or she must be taught to do so.”

Rica sighed heavily, but made no answer; at last he said,—

“It is over with the Duke, and he bears it well.”

“Good blood always does,” said Linton. “Your men of birth have a lively sense of how little they have done for their estates, and therefore part with them with a proportionate degree of indifference. Where is he?”

“Writing letters in the boudoir off the drawing-room. You must see him, and ask when the necessary papers can be signed and exchanged.”

Linton walked on, and passing through the play-room, around which in every attitude of slumber the gamblers lay, entered the boudoir, before a table in which the Duke de Marsac was busy writing.

“Fortune has still been obdurate, my Lord Duke, I hear,” said he, entering softly.

The Duke looked up, and his pale features were totally devoid of all emotion as he said,—

“I have lost heavily, sir.”

“I am sincerely grieved to hear it; as an old sufferer in the same field, I can feel for others.” A very slight movement of impatience on the Duke's part showed that he regarded the sympathy as obtrusive. Linton saw this, and went on: “I would not have invaded your privacy to say as much, my Lord Duke, but I thought it might be satisfactory to you to learn that your ancient dukedom—the chÂteau of your proud ancestors—is not destined to fall into plebeian hands, nor suffer the indignity of their profanation. I mean to purchase the property from Rica myself.”

“Indeed!” said the Duke, carelessly, as though the announcement had no interest for him.

“I had fancied, my Lord, this information would have given you pleasure,” said Linton, with evident irritation of manner.

“No, sir,” said the other, languidly, “I am ashamed to say I cannot appreciate the value of these tidings.”

“Can the contract and transfer be speedily made out?” said Linton, abruptly.

“Of course; there shall be no delay in the matter. I will give orders to my 'notaire' at once.”

“And where shall you be found to-morrow, my Lord Duke, in case we desire to confer with you?”

The Duke grew lividly pale, and he arose slowly from his chair, and, taking Linton's arm, drew him towards a window in silence. Linton saw well that some new train of thought had suddenly sprung up, and wondered what could so instantaneously have wrought this change in his manner.

“You ask me, sir,” said the Duke, with a slow emphasis on every word, “where am I to be found to-morrow? Is not Mr. Linton's knowledge of Paris sufficient to suggest the answer to that question?” There was a fierce boldness in the way these words were uttered Linton could not comprehend, any more than he understood what they might mean.

“I must plead ignorance, my Lord Duke. I really discredit the eulogium you have pronounced upon my information.”

“Then I will tell you, sir,” said the Duke, speaking in a low thick whisper, while his dark eyes glared with the fire of intense excitement. “You will find me in the Seine!”

Linton staggered back as if he had been struck, and a pallor spread over his features, making the very lips bloodless. “How do you mean, sir? Why do you dare to say this to me?” said he, in a voice broken and guttural.

“Since none should better know how to appreciate the news,” was the cold answer.

Linton trembled from head to foot, and, casting a wary look around on every side to see that they were alone, he said, “These words may mean much, or they may mean nothing,—at least nothing that has concern for me. Now, sir, be explicit; in what sense am I to read them?”

The Duke looked astonished at the emotion which all the other's self-command could not repress; he saw, too, that he had touched a secret spring of conscience, and with a calm reserve he said, “Take what I have said in the sense your own heart now suggests, and I venture to affirm it will be the least pleasing interpretation you can put upon it!”

“You shall give me satisfaction for this, sir,” said Linton, whose passion now boiled over. “I will not endure the tyranny of insinuations from any man. Here, before you quit the house,—if ever you quit it,—I will have full satisfaction for your insolence.”

“Insolence!” cried the Duke.

“Yes, insolence. I repeat the word, and these gentlemen shall hear a still stronger word addressed to you, if that will not suffice to arouse your courage.”

This speech was now directed to the crowd of gamblers, who, suddenly awakened by the loud talking, rushed in a body into the room.

Questions, and demands for explanation, pressed on every hand, their countrymen gathering round the antagonists on either side, both of whom maintained for some minutes a perfect silence. The Duke was the first to speak. “Gentlemen,” said he, “you have heard an expression addressed to me which no Frenchman listens to without inflicting chastisement on the speaker—I do not ask—I do not care in the least—who this person may be—what his rank and position in life; I am ready to admit him to the fullest equality with myself. It only remains that I should satisfy myself of certain doubts, which his own manner has originated. It may be that he cannot call me, or any other gentleman, to account for his words.”

Linton's face twitched with short convulsive jerks as he listened, and then, crossing the room to where the Duke stood, he struck him with his glove across the face, while, with a very shout of passion, he uttered the one word, “Coward!” The scene became now one of the wildest confusion. The partisanship of country surrounded either with a group, who in loud tones expressed their opinions, and asked for explanations of what had occurred. That some gross insult had been put upon Linton was the prevailing impression; but how originating, or of what nature, none knew, nor did the principals seem disposed to afford the information.

“I tell you, Frobisher,” said Linton, angrily, “it is a matter does not admit of explanation.”

“Parbleu, sir! you have placed it out of the reach of such,” said an old French officer, “and I trust you will feel the consequences.”

The chaos of tongues, loud in altercation and dispute, now burst forth again, some asserting that the cause of quarrel should be openly declared at once, others averring that the opprobrious epithet applied by Linton to the Duke effectually debarred negotiation, and left no other arbitrament than the pistol. In the midst of this tumult, where angry passions were already enlisted, and insolent rejoinders passed from mouth to mouth, a still louder uproar was now heard in the direction of the salon, and the crash of a breaking door, and the splintering noise of the shattered wood, overtopped the other sounds.

“The commissaire de police!” cried some one, and the words were electric. The hours of play were illegal,—the habits of the house such as to implicate all in charges more or less disgraceful; and immediately a general rush was made for escape,—some seeking the well-known private issues from the apartment, others preparing for a bold attempt to force their passage through the armed followers of the commissary.

Every avenue of escape had been already occupied by the gendarmes; and the discomfited gamblers were seen returning into the room crestfallen and ashamed, when the commissary, followed by a knot of others in plain clothes, advancing into the middle of the chamber, pronounced the legal form of arrest on all present.

“I am a peer of France,” said the Duc de Marsac, haughtily. “I yield to no authority that does not carry the signature of my sovereign.”

“You are free, Monsieur le Duc,” said the commissary, bowing respectfully.

“I am an English gentleman,” said Linton, stepping forward. “I demand by what right you presume to detain me in custody?”

“What is your name, sir?” asked the commissary.

“Linton!” was the brief reply.

“That's the man,” whispered a voice from behind the commissary; and, at the same instant, that functionary approached, and laying his hand on the other's shoulder, said,—

“I arrest you, sir, on the charge of murder.”

“Murder!” repeated Linton, with a sneer that he could not merge into a laugh. “This is a sorry jest, sir.”

“You will find it sad earnest!” said a deep voice.

Linton turned round, and straight in front of him stood Roland Cashel, who, with bent brows and compressed lips, seemed struggling to repress the passion that worked within him.

“I say, Frobisher, are you omitted in the indictment?” cried Linton, with a sickly attempt to laugh; “or has our buccaneering friend forgotten to stigmatize you for the folly of having known him?”

“He is in my custody,” said a gruff English voice, in reply to some observation of the commissary; and a short, stout-built man made a gesture to another in the crowd to advance.

“What! is this indignity to be put upon me?” said Linton, as he saw the handcuffs produced, and prepared to be adjusted to his wrists. “Is the false accusation of a pirate and a slaver to expose me to the treatment of a convicted felon?”

“I will do my duty, sir,” said the police officer, steadily. “If I do more, my superiors can hear of it. Tom, put on the irons.”

“Is this your vengeance, sir?” said Linton, as he cast a look of ineffable hate towards Cashel; but Roland made no reply, as he stood regarding the scene with an air of saddest meaning.

“You knew him better than I did, Charley,” said Linton, sneeringly, “when you black-balled him at the yacht club; but the world shall know him better yet than either of us,—mean-spirited scoundrel that he is.”

“Come away, sir,” said the officer, as he placed himself on one side of his prisoner, his fellow doing the same at the other.

“Not till I see your warrant,” said Linton, resolutely.

“There it is, sir, all reg'lar,” said the man; “signed by the secretary of state, and attested by the witness.”

“The rascality is well got up,” said Linton, trying to laugh, “but by Heaven they shall pay for it!” These words were directed to where Roland stood, and uttered with a concentrated hate that thrilled through every heart around.

As Linton was led forth, the commissary proceeded to arrest the different individuals present on the charge of gambling in secret. In the midst of the group was Rica, standing pale with terror, and overcome by the revelations he had listened to.

“I will be responsible for this gentleman's appearance,” said Cashel, addressing the commissary. “There is no need to subject him to the insult of an arrest.”

“He can only be liberated by a bail bond in the presence of the judge, sir. You can accompany me to the court, and enter into the recognizances, if you will.”

“Be it so,” said Cashel, bowing.

Rica made a sign for Roland to approach him. He tried to speak, but his voice was inarticulate from faint-ness, and the only audible sound was the one word “MaritaÑa.”

“Where?” said Cashel, eagerly.

Rica nodded in the direction of a small door that led from the chamber, and Cashel made a gesture of assent in answer.

With headlong speed Roland traversed the corridor, and entered the antechamber at the end of it. One glance showed him that the room was empty, and he passed on into the chamber where so lately Linton had spoken with MaritaÑa. This, too, was deserted, as was the bedroom which opened into it. Hastening from place to place, he called her name aloud, but no answer came. Terrified by a hundred fears, for he well knew the rash, impetuous nature of the girl, Roland entreated, in tones of wildest passion, “that she might come forth,—that her friends were all around her, and nothing more to fear.” But no voice replied, and when the sound of his own died away, all was silent. The window of the dressing-room was open, and as Roland looked from it into the street beneath, his eye caught the fragment of a dress adhering to the hook of the “jalousie.” It was plain now she had made her escape in this manner, and that she was gone.

Too true! Overcome by terror—her mind distracted by fears of Linton—without one to succor or protect her, she had yielded to the impulse of her dread, and leaped from the window! That small rag of fluttering gauze was all that remained of MaritaÑa.

Rica was to hear these sad tidings as he was led away by the commissary, but he listened to them like one whose mind was stunned by calamity. A few low murmuring words alone escaped him, and they indicated that he felt everything which was happening as a judgment upon him for his own crimes.

Even in his examination before the judge, these half-uttered self-accusings broke forth, and he seemed utterly indifferent as to what fate awaited him. By Cashel's intervention, and the deposit of a large sum as bail for Rica's future appearance, his liberation was effected, and he was led away from the spot unconscious of all around him.

As Cashel assisted the weak and tottering man through the crowded passages of the court, he felt his arm gently touched by a hand, at the same instant that his name was uttered. He turned hastily, and saw at his side a woman, who, youthful and still handsome, bore in her appearance the signs of deep poverty and still deeper sorrow. Her dress had once been rich, but now, from time and neglect, was disfigured and shabby; her veil, partly drawn across her face, was torn and ragged, and her very shoes were in tatters. A more sad-looking object it were difficult to conceive, and in the hurried glance Roland bestowed upon her, at a moment when all his thoughts were intent upon other cares, he believed she was one entreating charity. Hastily drawing forth his purse, he offered her some money, but she drew proudly up, saying, “This is insult, sir, and I have not deserved it.”

Cashel started with amazement, and drawing closer, stared eagerly at her.

“Great Heaven!” cried he, “is this possible? Is this—”

“Hush!” cried she. “Let me not hear my name—or what was once my name—spoken aloud. I see now—you did not know me, nor would I have brought myself to the shame of being recognized but for his sake. He is now before the tribunal, and will be sent to prison for want of bail.”

Cashel motioned her not to leave the spot; and having safely placed Rica in his carriage, returned to the court.

By the guarantee of his name, and the offer of any moneyed security which might be required, Cashel obtained permission for Lord Charles Frobisher to go free; and then hurrying outside, communicated the tidings to her who stood trembling with fear and anxiety.

With tearful eyes, and in a voice broken by sobs, she was uttering her thanks as Lord Charles joined them.

“This, then, was your doing?” said he, staring coldly at her.

“Say, rather, it was your own, my Lord,” said Cashel, sternly.

“Oh, Charles! thank him—thank him,” cried she, hysterically. “Friends have not been so plenty with us, that we can treat them thus!”

“Lady Charles is most grateful, sir,” said Frobisher, with a cold sneer. “I am sure the show of feeling she evinces must repay all your generosity.” And, with, this base speech, he drew her arm within his, and moved hastily away. One look towards Cashel, as she turned to go, told more forcibly than words the agony of her broken heart.

And this was the once gay, light-hearted girl,—the wild and daring romp, whose buoyant spirit seemed above every reverse of fortune. Poor Jemima Meek! she had run away from her father's home to link her lot with a gambler! Some play transaction, in which his name was involved, compelled him to quit the service, and at last the country. Now depending for support upon his family, now hazarding his miserable means at play, he had lived a life of recklessness and privation,—nothing left to him of his former condition save the name that he had brought down to infamy!