So great had been the haste of the courtiers to spread the news of Louvois' disgrace, that the very usher who opened the door that led into the vestibule, performed his office with a superciliousness which proved him to have heard it as well as his betters.

Louvois felt as if his grave were yawning before him. He had forgotten that his carriage could not possibly have returned so soon; and now he stood alone on the perron of the palace, staring up and down the street in the vain hope of concealing himself in a fiacre from the gaze of the curious. No sentinel saluted him, no soldier presented arms, as, ashamed of his rich dress and sparkling orders, which rendered him conspicuous, he walked on and on, an object of curiosity to every passer-by. At length, on the Pont Neuf, he met a dilapidated old hackney-coach, amid whose threadbare cushions he was glad to retreat from observation.

On his arrival home, nobody came out to assist him to alight; for how could the lackeys who were idling around the porte-cochere surmise that the occupant of that shabby vehicle was their haughty master?

He entered the hotel, and, without vouchsafing a word to the astounded valets, ascended the staircase that led to his own private apartments. But they came after him to ask whether he was indisposed, and whether they could be of service.

Their offers were rejected with scorn; but Louvois thought it politic to inform his own valet that, having been attacked with sudden indisposition, he had been forced to leave the court-ball, and return in a fiacre. While he was being divested of his rich dress and long curled wig, the valet went on to announce that Count Barbesieur had arrived from Italy, and was desirous of seeing his father as soon as possible. A lady also had called to see his excellency; and, having been told that he was at the great court- festival, she had replied that he would be apt to return home early, and she would await his arrival, for she had important business to transact with him.

"Where is the lady?" asked Louvois.

"She is in her carriage at the side door of the hotel. Shall I ask her in the drawing-room, your excellency?"

"Later," said Louvois. "I must first speak with my son."

"I am here," cried Barbesieur, who had silently entered the room.

"Leave us," said Louvois to the valet, "and when Count Barbesieur has retired, admit the lady. I—"

He paused, and caught at the arm-chair for support. He had become suddenly dizzy, his face grew scarlet, his eyes blood-shot, and his breathing oppressed.

The valet hastened to his assistance, and offered him a glass of water. He emptied it at a draught, but his hands shook so, that he could scarcely hold the goblet, Barbesieur had thrown himself full length on a sofa, whence he contemplated his father with the most consummate indifference.

"You ought to be bled," said he, carelessly.

"I will do so. It may relieve me," replied he, panting. "Go," added he to the valet, "go for Fagot."

The valet hurried off, and the father and son were left alone together. The former lay gasping with his head flung back on a cushion; the latter watched him closely, but without the merest appearance of sympathy or interest.

After a pause, he spoke: "Father, have you forgotten my presence?"

Louvois opened his eyes wearily. "No; I have not forgotten it."

"You do not ask me about the result of my expedition," said
Barbesieur.

"Nor do you seem to think it incumbent upon you to ask wherefore I suffer, or why I am here instead of being where I ought to be, at the fiancailles of Mademoiselle de Blois," replied Louvois, whom his son's indifference had stung to returning energy.

"What care I for the fiancailles of Mademoiselle de Blois?" answered Barbesieur. "And as regards your indisposition, it is not the first time that I have seen you similarly affected. These congestions invariably leave you stronger than they find you; so let us pass on to affairs more momentous. I have to inform you that my expedition to Italy has resulted in a disastrous failure. Have you seen my courier?"

"No, I have not seen him, but I know that you were guilty of sending me written dispatches on a subject which pen should never have recorded."

"Oh!" sneered the dutiful son, "you are better, I see, for you grow abusive. Then I suppose my courier has been arrested?"

"Ay, and your letters are in the hands of Louis XIV."

"Can it be possible?" cried Barbesieur, anxiously. "How came he in possession of them?"

"They were given him by the Duchess of Orleans."

"But she—"

"She received them from her step-daughter, the Duchess of Savoy. Not only them, but your imbecile-written promise to Strozzi that his wife would return to him as soon as Prince Eugene was dead."

"It was a blunder, I admit," returned Barbesieur. "But the idiot had so set his heart upon it that I was forced to yield to his whims; there was no other way of controlling him. I had no sooner given him this paper, than he became as plastic as clay."

"Nevertheless, Laura is dead, and Eugene of Savoy lives."

"Oh, yes—the thing miscarried, but how, I cannot conceive. I was close at hand, waiting with horses for Strozzi, who was to seize Laura, and make all speed for Italy. I waited so long, that at last I ventured to creep up to the house, and there I learned how Strozzi had stabbed Laura, and Eugene had shot Strozzi. As soon as I found out that all had gone awry, I galloped off to Bonaletta, to get my share of Strozzi's and Laura's property. But the covetous relations would not let me lay a finger on Laura's estates, without your written authorization. That brought me hurriedly to Paris. I want it at once, that I may return to Bonaletta to-day."

"You must remain for a while longer," said Louvois.

"And why, pray?"

"Because you must at least wait until my funeral is over," replied the unhappy father.

Barbesieur began to laugh. "Oh, papa! pray don't get sentimental. People are not apt to die of these little vexations. I suppose the king was rude, as he has been many a day before this—was he?"

"He was more than rude; in presence of all his nobles he accused me of participation in Laura's murder, and banished me from court until I returned with proofs of my innocence."

"H'm—" muttered Barbesieur. "The affair looks ugly."

"Insulted before the whole court," murmured Louvois.

"Pshaw! Don't take it so much to heart. It is not your first affront. You know full well that if old women get the better of you to-day, you will outwit them to-morrow. Witness your feud of years with De Maintenon."

"I shall not outwit them this time, Barbesieur. The duchess has played her cards too dexterously for me to escape. Nor would the king befriend me; he is under too many obligations to me not to desire my humiliation and my ruin. Moreover, he is anxious to propitiate the Duke of Savoy, and will give him full satisfaction for the attempt on the life of his kinsman. I am lost—irretrievably lost!"

"Then so much the more imperative is it for us to lay the foundation of some new structure of fortune elsewhere.—Luckily, Laura's large estates in Italy are all-sufficient to make you a very rich man yet. So give me authority to act for you; I will go at once and take possession, while you arrange your affairs at home, and then follow me to Italy."

"He thinks of nothing but wealth," murmured Louvois; "he has no shame for loss of reputation or good name."

"Nonsense!" said Barbesieur, with a coarse laugh; "no man that has money loses reputation. Poverty is the only crime that the world cannot pardon, and you, thanks to the Marchioness Bonaletta, have just inherited a fortune."

Louvois shuddered. "A fortune through the murder of my child!"

"For which we are not accountable," said Barbesieur, carelessly. "We owe that obligation to Strozzi. and I must say it Was the only sensible thing I ever knew him to do."

"Silence!" cried Louvois, incensed. "If you have no respect for the living, have some reverence for the dead!"

Barbesieur rose with a yawn. "I see that my honored father is not in a mood for reasonable conversation. Here comes the surgeon with his lancet. Perhaps, when you have lost a few quarts of your bad blood, you may see things in a better light." So saying, he sauntered out of the room. With scorn and hatred in his eye, Louvois watched him until he disappeared from sight; then turning to the surgeon, who had entered by another door—

"Be quick, and take some blood from my veins, or I shall suffocate!"

A half an hour later, the operation was over, and Louvois felt much relieved. His face was pale, his eyes no longer bloodshot, and the surgeon having prescribed rest, the disgraced favorite was left alone.

He sat propped up in his arm-chair, staring at vacancy—his solitude embittered by the recollection of what he was, and what he had been. The stately edifice of greatness, which he had spent a lifetime in erecting, had fallen like a chateau de cartes, leaving nothing behind but the stinging recollection of a glorious past. He could not outlive it—he could not retire to obscurity—he—

Suddenly he shivered, and gazed with eyes distended at the figure of a woman that now stood against the portiere opposite. Great God! had delirium seized upon his senses? Were the memories of his youth about to take shape and form, and mingle their shadowy images with the tangible realities of life! He knew her—tall, beautiful, pale as she was—and the recognition filled him with terror indefinable.

He knew her well! In her youth he had loved her, but she had scorned his love, because she was cherishing the hope of becoming Queen of France! This triumph had been denied her, and she had hidden her disappointment by a marriage with another. And fearfully had Louvois avenged her rejection of his love! He had cited her as a criminal, before the highest tribunal in France, and had driven her into exile. Destiny had also given him power to crush her son—to blast his life as a lover, and his good name as a man. But ah! that daughter whom Eugene had loved! He had blasted her life also, and had given her over to a monster that had murdered her! So young, so lovely, so attractive! She had died to gratify the malice of her own father!

Like a lightning-flash these thoughts glanced athwart his brain, while, breathless and terror-stricken, he gazed upon the spectre that stood against the portiere!

Was it a spectre, or some delusion of his disordered mind? She stood motionless as a marble statue of Nemesis; but those eyes—those glowing eyes—there was life and hate in their fiery depths!

Louvois had not the power to look away; he was as spellbound as a bird under the glance of the basilisk.

"Olympia!" cried he, at last, with a supreme effort to dissolve the spell.

She threw back her proud head, and came directly in front of his chair. "You recognise me," said she, in tones of icy hauteur. "I was waiting before I spoke, to see whether you had forgotten me."

"What brings you hither?" stammered he, confusedly.

"Destiny," replied she, sternly. "Louvois, God is just, for He has chosen me to be the instrument of your destruction. I was travelling through Turin to nurse my son, who was not expected to live. I learned that his illness was of the heart—not of the body. His Laura had been murdered before his eyes, and, for love of her, he was in danger of dying. Ah, Louvois! it was the second time you had almost robbed me of my child! But God is just! To my hands were confided the proofs of your participation in the crime of your daughter's assassination, and it was I that delivered them to the Duchess of Orleans. She had her Laura's death to avenge, I—great God! what had I not? The humiliation of my flight from France—my persecution by strangers in a foreign land—my son's lifelong sorrow!—But ah! you, that drove him from his native country, have fallen, to rise no more, while Eugene's name is but another word throughout the world for genius and valor."

Louvois' teeth chattered with fear. He raised his hand, as if to implore forbearance. She gave him, in return, a look of scorn.

"All Paris rings with your disgrace. The populace are before your windows, ready, at a signal, to assault your palace, as, at your son's instigation, they once assailed mine. Your servants are stealing away, and you are forsaken! Poor, fallen, powerless Louvois!"

"Not so," screamed Louvois, "not so! If I am powerless it is because I am dying!" And, with a passionate gesture, he tore the bandages from his arm.

The blood gushed out like water from a fountain, and Olympia looked on for a while in cruel enjoyment of her enemy's mortal agony. But her hatred was unclouded by passion.

"It were a kindness to suffer you to die now," said she; and her words fell like sharp icicles upon his poor, lacerated heart. "But you shall live to endure the contumely you forced upon me and mine! Farewell! I go to call for help."

She crossed the room, and, as she entered the antechamber, Louvois swooned, and fell upon the floor.

"Go to your lord," said Olympia to the valets who were waiting. "The bandage has become loosened, and he will bleed to death if you are not prompt."

Crossing the antechamber, she opened the door that led to a corridor where her own valet was awaiting her return.

"Can you tell me where I may find Count Barbesieur?" asked she.

"Yes, my lady. He is in his own room, to which I was directed by his valet."

"Show me the way," said the countess, following the man to the farther end of the long corridor.

"Here, my lady," said he, pausing, "is his anteroom."

"Go in and announce me."

The valet opened the door and crossed the antechamber. It was empty; for Barbesieur's valet was, with the other servants, in the vestibule, discussing the mysteries of the evening. Seeing that no one was there to announce the countess, the lackey knocked until he heard a voice from within. He then threw the door wide open, and cried out—

"The Countess de Soissons!"

Barbesieur, who was seated before a table, deep in the examination of the title-deeds of the Bonaletta estates, started up in amazement at the unceremonious interruption. As he turned around to chastise the insolence of the servant, he encountered the stately figure of the Countess de Soissons,

"It is long since we met," said she. "Do you remember the occasion of our meeting?"

"No, countess," replied he, awed by her queenly bearing into momentary courtesy.

"I will refresh your memory. When last I saw you, you were at the head of the rabble that mobbed the Palace de Soissons, and had just received a wound in your arm from the pistol of my son, Prince Eugene. I had not the satisfaction of being present at the horsewhipping he administered to you at Long Champs, for I was obliged to fly from your persecutions, and I have never set foot in France until now."

Barbesieur laughed. "I have had my revenge. I owe him nothing. The very grief that is sapping his life at this moment is the work of my hand."

"I know it, and I, in my turn, have avenged his woes."

"You must have done it secretly, then, for I have never felt any inconvenience from your vengeance."

"You will experience it before long. Did one of your servants bring you a fine peach on a salver, about half an hour ago?"

Barbesieur turned very pale, and stammered, "Yes."

"Did you eat it?"

"Yes," murmured he, "I did."

"Then, Barbesieur, that peach avenged Eugene and Laura both. I sent it to you."

"You!" cried Barbesieur, with a shudder.

"Yes," replied Olympia, her black eyes darting fire as she spoke. "I sent you the peach, and if you have eaten it (it will be very slow in its effects), you have just four years longer to live!"

As he heard these terrible words, Barbesieur dropped, like a felled ox, to the floor.

"Count Barbesieur," cried a voice in the antechamber, "your father is dying of apoplexy."

Barbesieur started up with an oath, and darted from the room. The Countess de Soissons followed him to the corridor. No one was there, for the servants had all congregated, as near as possible, to the chamber of the dying statesman. Olympia passed on, unchallenged, reached her carriage, and set off at full gallop for Nice.

She found Eugene improved, and sitting up. He was in his arm-chair, gazing with tearful eyes at a portrait opposite—a portrait of Laura, as Sister Angelica. His thoughts were so far, far away from the weary present, that the door had opened, and his mother had put her arms around his neck, before he became aware of her entrance.

"Eugene, my beloved son," said she, "I have avenged you."

"Avenged? Dear mother, what can you mean?"

"I mean that Louvois is dead—dead of humiliation. And that Barbesieur lives; but lives in the knowledge that, in four years, he must die. His life, then, unto the bitter end, will be one long agony. Eugene, you avenged my wrongs. I have now paid the debt."

Eugene sighed heavily. "You have erred, mother. You should have left further vengeance to God. What does it profit me that Barbesieur suffers—his sufferings cannot recall my Laura."

"Ah," said Olympia, disappointed, "if you were in health, you would not be so pusillanimous, my child. 'Tis easy to see that you are sick."

"No, mother, I am no longer sick. At Laura's command, I have wrestled with bodily weakness, and have overcome it."

"I do not understand you, my son."

Eugene pointed to the figure of Doctor Franzi, who just then entered the room. "Listen, mother, and you will understand."

The doctor advanced, and, taking Eugene's extended hand, repeated
Laura's dying words. Eugene looked at his mother, and smiled.

"This message has been the medicine that has restored me to health.
My Laura speaks from beyond the grave, and I must obey."

"Who but a hero could have obeyed a mandate at once so loving and so cruel!" exclaimed Doctor Franzi. "Countess, I am rejoiced to see you, but more especially rejoice that you should have arrived to- day."

"I travelled night and day to return in time," said Olympia, looking fondly at her son.

"Is it a festival?" asked he.

"Yes, dear child," replied his mother, kissing him, "It is your thirtieth birth-day."

"My thirtieth birth-day!" murmured Eugene. "My youth is no more; I enter upon the stern epoch of mature manhood."

"Youth, with its sweet visions of love, has passed away; but manhood will indemnify you, prince, for the sorrows of the past. Before you lies a future of usefulness and heroism.—Congratulate your son, countess, for he yesterday received from the Emperor Leopold the chief command of his armies in Italy. The troops are on their way now, to greet their general. Hark I Do you not hear the drums? Every brave heart in the army is beating with joy at the prospect of seeing him again."

"And I, too, am joyful at the anticipation," replied Eugene, rising from his chair. "You are right, Franzi. I have been sorely grieved, 'tis true; but I bear about my heart the knowledge of my Laura's love—as veritable now as when I saw and felt her mortal presence. This blessing shall make me a hero. So help me God! I will strive hereafter to do my duty as a man, a soldier, and a Christian."

The drums rolled, the trumpets sounded, and thousands of voices responded without:

"Long live our general! Long live Prince Eugene!"

THE END.