Assuredly there is something very exhilarating in the air of Paris, when compared with our heavier, smoky atmosphere; this, and a complete removal from painful scenes, were all sufficient causes for the change in Tremenhere and Minnie. They seemed indeed to have commenced a new life; all annoyances had ceased, her colour had returned, the frown had quitted his brow, the past seemed like a dream, as his confidence was restored, and not unfrequently he laughed with her, over those reasonless fears which had once agonized him so much. Many of their mornings were passed in the Louvre together, he copying the old masters, or the glowing sunset pictures in the Spanish gallery; whilst she sat beside him, either talking, reading, or working, and thus two very happy months passed, and Christmas drew nigh. They were residing in an apartment, not far from the Louvre, in one of the principal streets, Au TroisiÈme, where he found a room admirably adapted for him, having been used as a studio. Au TroisiÈme seems a frightful height to English ears; nevertheless, to the many who are acquainted with Paris, it has nothing extraordinary.

All suspicion even seemed lulled to rest on his part; for frequently Minnie went alone to visit Mary, who was, at all events, peaceful, if not happy, in her present successful path. Tremenhere talked of being obliged, very shortly, to revisit England, consequent on some paintings he was completing to order. A shudder crept over Minnie at the thought; she had almost hoped never to see it again, except perhaps some day to revisit Gatestone, but certainly not London; however, the patient loving wife said nothing, she was contented to go whither he went. They had not received any communication from Lady Dora, in short from no one but Dorcas and Skaife—all else was in quiet oblivion around them; and they, not the less happy, though sometimes Minnie would sigh when she thought of her cousin's unkindness. Marmaduke Burton, too, was lost to them, almost in thought; the truth was, he had made a tour to Italy, and so bitter had been his disgrace, consequent upon Miles's discovery of his wickedness, that he resolved to leave them in peace, despairing of success in separating them. In good, as unfortunately often in bad, when all human power has failed, fate steps in, and accomplishes in an instant that which years might else not have matured. Poor Minnie was one of those kindly-disposed creatures, full of thoughtfulness to surprise those she loved by some great joy—nothing had changed, or could chill her heart; and frequently some little quiet secret of her's to please Miles, tortured him once again into dormant, but not eradicated suspicion, until the perfection of her plot enabled her to give it to the light, and thus remove a weight from his mind, which had oppressed it for days perhaps. She never saw this,—she was a very child at heart, forgetting in her present happiness her past bitter suffering. For some days she had been in a state of much excitement, and her visits had been more frequent than usual to Mary's. Other friends she had in Paris; but though there existed a certain constraint and distance between herself and this unfortunate girl, still we often cling more kindly to the person we have served, whatever their station, than to the one who has obliged ourselves,—a noble nature loves better giving, than receiving. Thus Minnie delighted in watching her protÉgÉe's progress towards honest prosperity, for Mary was so humble and grateful. Miles noticed her frequent visits to Mary, her distraction of manner, followed by sudden lightness of heart, as of hidden joy. Then, too, she often made a plea of laziness to remain at home, and he went alone to the Louvre. This worried him; nevertheless he said nothing, but he was not at ease. Suspicions arose; but he chid them down—he would be happy. Sometimes Minnie looked sad and disappointed, still she said nothing; and he forebore questioning, though not a glance of her's escaped him. The cause of all this was as follows:—One day Mary Burns drew Minnie into the little quiet back room adjoining the shop, and exclaimed, "Dear Mrs. Tremenhere! I have been so anxiously looking for your arrival the last two days; I did not like calling, or I should have done so."

"Why not, Mary? we should have been glad to see you."

"I know, dear madam, you are always so kind; but I wished to see you alone—my motive is this. You must have heard from Mr. Tremenhere, of his meeting me one night at his cousin's?" She looked down, and spoke with difficulty and pain. "I am forced to allude to this, to explain how I became possessed of what I now wish to speak of. Have you ever," she cried, changing her tone, "heard Mr. Tremenhere mention any one named d'EstrÉes?"

"Never," answered Minnie, after a moment's pause.

"On that evening in question," continued Mary, "there were several torn papers scattered about the floor,—a sudden impulse induced me, unseen, to secure one—and here it is. I found it only to-day; for I shame to say, in my own selfish troubles, I had forgotten it sooner," and she placed the torn piece of letter, which we have seen in the first volume, in Minnie's hand.

"Oh!" exclaimed she, after carefully perusing it, "this must have been written by Miles's father, before his birth. Oh, Mary! how may we discover this man? he must have been the person who married them," and the delighted wife almost danced with joy, to think of Miles's rejoicing. "Shall we tell him yet?" asked she after a pause, "or wait—search every thing ourselves? Poor dear Miles will suffer so keenly should he be disappointed; and then, too, he is seriously occupied now with a painting which engages all his attention. Let us work unknown to him, Mary; and, oh! think of our joy if we can, some day, place the proof in his hands!"

"I think your idea will be the better one to pursue," said Mary quietly, after a moment's thought—she was less sanguine, and more cautious than warm-hearted Minnie; "but we must not too soon reckon upon success, we may not succeed—he may be dead. Oh! how I wish I had secured the remainder of the letter! we might then have told Mr. Tremenhere, and he could have directed us how to act, we are so powerless alone."

"Do not say that; we will inquire how we had better commence our research. I do not like telling dear Miles yet; it would be so happy a surprise!"

And this it was which caused a mystery in Minnie's manner, which raised the demon suspicion once more in Tremenhere. All her energies were exerted in this anxious search, and in consequence she became thoughtful and pre-occupied. Mary had some acquaintances, from whom she inquired which would be the better way of discovering a lost address, and she was told to search the passport-office at the Prefecture.

The most timid woman will find energy and resolution for all, when the happiness of one she loves is at stake. In the first instance, the two women employed a man to go to the office for them; but this did not satisfy Minnie when he proclaimed his want of success.

"How can we be quite certain he went, or searched as we should have done?" asked she. "I will go myself."

"You cannot do so alone!" cried Mary, "and I am unable to leave my shop."

"Why not? Oh, but I can! Miles will be all day to-morrow at the Louvre; I will not accompany him, and putting on a close bonnet and veil, lest I should meet any one, take a fiacre and go."

Mary tried to dissuade her for some short time, and then she relinquished the task herself, convinced that it would be the most secure and satisfactory thing to do. Minnie had no one to advise or assist her, and on Mary she almost looked as upon a sister, from the circumstances of her childhood passed with Miles and his mother; then again, they were mutually interested in this affair, and Mary was so humble and contrite in manner, it would have been impossible for the other not to love her. All this intimacy, however, did not pass without censure on Miles's part, not that he doubted Mary then; but he deemed, in worldly wisdom, that where Minnie's name had been in question, however innocent she had proved, too much caution could not be observed; then, too, the one dark spot in his happiness ever arose before him—her imprudence in flying with himself, which would ever leave one place in her fame open to animadversion; but he spoke to the least worldly woman ever created, and then at this moment she had so strong a motive in seeking Mary, that all his arguments terminated in a tacit consent on his part, however unwillingly given, when Minnie's arms encircled his neck, and her smiling cheek pressed itself like a child's to his, as she coaxed him into good temper; then, too, there was a fonder hope in his heart than any he had ever yet known, whatever he had once said of being even jealous of his own child.

Thus weeks crept on, and as disappointment followed disappointment in their search, Minnie grew saddened and uneasy; still, every day she rejoiced that she bore her trouble alone, and that Miles was exempt. Poor creature! she did not perceive that her unexplained, altered manner, was making him once again most unhappy. Doubts, fears, suspicions of all, arose in his mind, and he began to ask himself, "Could Burton be in Paris, and at some fiendish plot?" He resolved to verify this doubt by inquiry. He went to several of the principal hotels, without success. No such name was on their books; then, as a man perfectly acquainted with Paris and its habits, he went to the passport office, and searched; he was on the point of leaving, perfectly assured no Burton was in Paris, consequently it must be something else preying upon her mind and directing her actions, when a woman's figure flitted through the office, closely enveloped and veiled. But it was Minnie, and none other; for the second time, she had come to the prefecture to seek d'EstrÉes. Miles stood transfixed with surprise. Whom could she be seeking? Quietly he stole after her; without turning, she entered a fiacre and drove away. This was a day on which he was supposed to be engaged at the Louvre. He stood irresolute a moment, then, walking composedly back again, commenced a search after another passport and name—the act was the offspring of a moment's thought. "Yes, monsieur," answered the functionary, rather more civilly than these men generally speak in all public offices in France; "the gentleman, ce milord, is in Paris, I know—I remember the name—ah! here's the passport, and address, Rue Castiglione 7," and he gave the shuddering Tremenhere his own address.

This method of seeking persons is most common in France, where, within twenty-four hours of your arrival, your passport and address have to be left at the prefecture's, under the penalty of a fine, should it not be done. It is needless to say that Minnie had not been inquiring for Lord Randolph, but following up what she had hoped might prove a trace of her all-absorbing thought, d'EstrÉes. Tremenhere said nothing; but, calmly thanking the official, walked forth. There was no cloud on his brow—nothing of anger or sorrow—but a cold, stern, desolation, far more dreadful to behold. At last the blow had fallen; there could be no longer any doubt, still less hope, of reclaiming her. She must be wickedly, wilfully bad, and false as the falsest thing that ever breathed. His brain, nevertheless, was in a chaos of perplexity. For whom could she have been inquiring? No one, perhaps; but why there? The residence of Lord Randolph, even in his own hotel, in nowise astonished him after a moment's thought,—it was a part of her unparalleled audacity. Those who have resided in France will know, how easily families may live for months in the same hotel or house, and never meet. Lord Randolph had come to Paris for a short time, and, disliking a regular hotel, had taken an entresol in this most popular and fashionable street, without having an idea of meeting with the Tremenheres in any way. And thus an event, the most likely and commonplace, did more for Marmaduke Burton's revenge, than all his own plotting and scheming. Tremenhere returned home—he stopped carelessly in the loge de conciÈrge, and inquired, "If Lord Randolph Gray resided there?"

"Yes," answered the man, "milord has been here several days; but he does not go out much—he is not in good health, I think."

"Thank you," was the calm reply, and Tremenhere turned from his door, and entered the gardens of the Tuileries. Here he proceeded to the loneliest part, and, relaxing his quick pace, reviewed all the events of this fatal day. Not for an instant did he doubt Minnie's perfect knowledge of Lord Randolph's being in their hotel. Here was no Burton—no Dalby to entangle their victims in a snare. How he laughed aloud at his own folly and blindness, in having been so long deceived. "In the very house with me!" he cried—"O, fool!—mad, blind fool! And O, woman!—falsest, basest! what a shrine, too, hath the devil chosen for his abode! so much seeming candour and lovely purity—even in the look. I could find it in my heart to shed tears of blood for this perverted creature, on whom I have lavished my soul's love, for I can never love again."

People may laugh and say, "'Tis very well for fiction," but there are many circumstances in everyday life far more extraordinary, far more fatally organized by a genius of good or evil, than any things the mind could conjure up. Are they sent as trials? as punishments? or the mighty Hand directing all, though through pain and suffering, for our ultimate benefit? or is it, that there are moments in every one's life, wherein the spirit of evil has permitted sway? Who may divine this?

As Tremenhere turned again through the gardens, near the centre alley, half hidden by the trees, he saw two persons; they were shaking hands and parting: these were Minnie and Lord Randolph! She had quitted her fiacre on the Quay, and was hastening home across the gardens, when she most unexpectedly met this, to her, fatal man. Only a few words passed, and they parted, he in indifference and calm, she in almost terror at the meeting—but it was enough Tremenhere saw not hearts, but acts. He turned back again; a cold bolt of iron entered his soul; no anger was there, no passionate desire for revenge—nothing but calm resolution, which only became more intense, when he reflected on Minnie's position. At one instant he thought of returning to London, and suing for a divorce; then a bitterer feeling crossed his heart. "No!" he cried, "she has branded me for ever with infamy; she shall never become his wife, nor their child legitimate; this shall be my revenge—let her bear my name, blast it, degrade it, what care I? Name!" he exclaimed after a moment's pause, "I have no name; what am I? the castaway offspring of Helena Nunoz! All women are false; I believe in none, I am the blasted child of an impure woman—Nunoz—Nunoz—only this, and Marmaduke Burton has right, to carry him onward!" and the wretched man laughed aloud—laughed in the bitterness of a holy thought of childhood, and dream of manhood, desecrated—his mother. His last hope was gone; he could believe none pure, proving Minnie false. He was not a man to sit down, and pine, and regret over his fate; but one to act vigorously, a resolution once taken. His heart had turned to stone, there was no "if" in it—not for an instant did he pause to think, or hope, but sped away to act. He was determined to inquire into nothing, in this last hopeless affair; he felt some demoniacal artifice would be employed to persuade him against all reason; he would not degrade his reason farther by listening—guilty she must be. Her presence at the prefecture had something in it in connection with Lord Randolph, he scarcely cared to inquire how, for assuredly she must, before that day, have been privy to his residence under the same roof with herself; Mary, too, was a party to it! What a web had been, and was around him!—he shuddered as he thought of his deceived heart, for so long a time. When his mind had compassed all coolly and deliberately, he proceeded to the apartment of a friend, a brother artist, unfortunately not a Skaife, to breathe justice or patience to him, but a man to whom woman had ever been a merely beautiful creation for art to copy, soulless, and unworthy a higher place in man's thought. To him Tremenhere told all, coolly, dispassionately from the first, not to seek counsel, but to act for, and with him. His listener shrugged his shoulder and smiled.

"Well," he said, "'tis better thus, perhaps; for with your genius, you will rise to high things alone. Hampered with a wife and children, you would possibly have remained stationary, a good father of a family, fit only to paint a bonne mÈre and her bambins!—leave such positions to others—soar, mon ami—soar!"

Alas! he overlooked the fact, that to every one possessing real heart and soul—soaring is sorry work when there is no loving eye to mark our flight.

"Now, what can I do for you? command me," said his friend.

"See her!" answered Tremenhere sternly. "I would not leave that woman unprovided for; arrange how and where she will receive it; you will have tears and prayers—I have had them; disregard them, be firm, tell her we never meet again; do not say where I am; remove all my paintings—all—I will give you written authority to do so. Arrange every thing; and then I have other work for you. Stay, I will write one line to her; and that will be a warrant for all you may do."

And with a calmness, amazing to himself, he sat down and wrote coldly, dispassionately, to her; merely saying he knew all. He did not condescend even to tell her his accusations, adding, "of course, what I know, will reach you from another quarter. 'Tis vain to seek an interview; nothing shall induce me to see you—throw off all disguise, 'twill suit you better than this audacious duplicity. Farewell."

Minnie read this letter, and it did not kill her! yet her life seemed awhile to stand still. There was but one idea in her mind, that by that fatality which seemed to hang over her, Miles had witnessed her accidental meeting with Lord Randolph. A more than mortal fear oppressed her. There arose in her mind a belief in spiritual agency—spirits of evil around her. She became almost lifeless with this strange fear. She sat like a statue; and saw one after another, the paintings, depart, which had been commenced beneath her eye, her caresses, her love. She was totally speechless, thoughtless; all stood still, even to her very blood, for she was cold as marble. At last the easel was taken past her; then the man stood still, as if awaiting some questioning from her; but though she had watched every action of his with intense gaze, idea of what was passing—she had none. So he went forth, and closed the door of the outer apartment, mentally ejaculating, "What a cold, heartless creature! Evidently she is glad to be released from Tremenhere, for this freluquet de milord! What a blessing for her husband to lose such a woman!" And this man, so talented in portraying the human face, was powerless on it to read the breaking heart! When the door closed, Minnie fell back on the ottoman, not fainting; but the lifeless blood was insufficient to bid the heart beat above mere existence. She was living, but lifeless to the touch, or memory—and thus she lay for hours alone!