At length she returned to herself, and made an effort to collect her thoughts. The moments were passing away; the empress would be astonished at the time it took to accomplish her wishes. She therefore took up her pen, but had scarcely written a few words with a trembling hand, when a noise, unusual at that hour, was heard in the court—the sound of a drum, and the guards shouldering arms. Vera rose with surprise, and looked out of the window. The emperor had arrived in his sledge, alone and without any escort, according to his custom, though this was not his usual time of coming. Shortly after, the doors of the salon were thrown open—a signal for Vera to leave the room. She tore up the note, put the petition in her pocket, and, while the empress was advancing to meet her husband, the lady of honor disappeared through a side door, and hurried to her room next the empress' apartment.

A whole hour passed away, she could not tell how. She had been able to control and generally to effectually disguise the strong feelings which pique had not suppressed—feelings which gave her assurance of some day overcoming all obstacles. And then, what were these obstacles? It was not long since George, her chosen husband from childhood, plainly testified the attraction he felt for her, and seemed as much as she to regard the union arranged in their infancy as the realization of his wishes. It is true a cloud had since passed across that brilliant horizon, and, when she met George again, he was not the same.—Why was it so?—She had often sought the reason, but all she was able to ascertain was that a young girl, an obscure demoiselle de compagnie in his mother's service, fascinated him for a while, and some one had whispered the name of Gabrielle, but the haughty Vera was not disturbed by so trifling an affair. The future was hers, and she was awaiting it without any fear, when the news of George's crime and misfortune came like a thunderbolt, enabling her to estimate the depth of her affection for him by the very liveliness of her grief. From that time she had but one thought—to prevail over the emperor, obtain George's pardon, and win him back to herself. Her first repulse did not destroy all hope of success. But while her influence, her passion, and her efforts were still without any result, another—and what a rival! (for Vera, in spite of her pride, was not so vain or so stupid as not to recognize the redoubtable charm against which she had to struggle)—another, young, as beautiful as herself, and even more so, had eclipsed in an instant, by an heroic act, all her own devotedness had even dreamed of, and gone beyond the limits which she dare not cross! How could she doubt George's feelings when the young lady she had just seen appeared in his prison. How could she thwart her? What was to be done? Besides, who was this girl who suddenly appeared in their midst—who had the air of an angel, but whom she hated as if she were a demon? All at once an idea flashed into her mind. “Can this be Gabrielle?” she exclaimed aloud. But before Vera had time to dwell on this idea, and calm the fresh agitation which it caused, the sound of the little bell interrupted her painful reverie. She rose, but with some surprise, for she had not heard the usual signal of the emperor's departure, and she was very seldom admitted when he was present. But her hesitation was only momentary, for the bell again hastily repeated [pg 604] the summons. Vera hastened to answer it, but, confused at the sight of the emperor, she stopped at the door, and bowed profoundly. The empress, with mingled kindness and impatience, exclaimed:

“Why do you not come in, Vera? The emperor wishes to speak to you, and you are making him wait!”

George was not confined in a dungeon, but in a narrow cell lighted only by a high grated window. There was nothing in it but a bed, a table, and two straw-bottomed chairs. In his former visits, the marquis had found his friend sad, but always calm, courageous, and, as it were, contemptuous of the danger of his position. Though grown pale and thin, his features hitherto retained their lofty, noble character, and the disorder of his hair and even of his garments did not at all detract from the aristocratic appearance which, in the very best sense of the word, characterized his whole person. But this was no longer the case. He could not have been more changed by a long illness, or the inroads of time, than he was since they last met. Seated beside his table in an attitude of deep dejection, he hardly raised his head at his friend's entrance. After pressing his hand, the latter remained some moments too much affected himself to break the mournful silence. George waited till the warden who ushered the visitor in had left the cell.

“You have come at last, Adelardi,” said he at length, with an altered voice. “I have been surprised not to see you since—since everything was decided.”

“I could not obtain permission to enter any sooner; but, to make up for it, I am allowed to come every day, till—” He stopped.

“Till I give up the enjoyments of this place for those that await me when I leave it,” said George, with a bitter smile.—“Adelardi,” continued he, changing his tone, and rising abruptly, “can a friend like you come to me to-day with empty hands? Is it possible you have not divined my wants, and are here without bringing me the means of escaping my doom, and meeting death, which they have had the cruelty to refuse me?” He strode up and down his cell two or three times as if beside himself. “Answer me, then, Adelardi!” exclaimed he, in a violent manner. “Why have you not rendered me this, the greatest of services? In a similar position, you would have expected it of me, and I assure you it would not have been in vain.”

The marquis was not ignorant of the religious principles that should have inspired his reply, but he had long lost the habit of appealing to them. He therefore simply replied: “You know well, George, what you ask would have been impossible.”

“Ah! yes, I forgot.—It is just. They take precautions to prevent their victims from finding another way out of these walls than that opened by their murderers; but they do not consider all the resources of despair,” continued he, with agitation. “When a man is determined to die, they must be sharper than they are now to prevent him, and oblige him to accept the odious life they would inflict upon him.”

Adelardi allowed him without any interruption to give vent for some time to the despair that burdened his heart, but at last he turned to him with sudden firmness: “George, I have always found you calm and courageous till to-day, but now your language is unworthy of you.”

A slight flush rose to the prisoner's brow, and he resumed his seat. “You are right, my friend, I acknowledge. I am no longer what I was. I must indeed astonish you, for I no longer recognize myself.” He remained thoughtful for some moments, and then continued: “It is strange! for, after all, Adelardi, in saying that till now I never knew what fear was, or shrunk in the presence of danger or death, saying I had courage, was not laying claim [pg 606] to any extraordinary merit, for there are but few men who lack it. Yes, if any virtue fell to my lot, it was certainly that, it seems to me. Why, then, am I so weak to-day?—Courage,” repeated he, after a pause. “Is it true? Was it really courage, or was I merely brave, which seems to be another thing? What is the difference between them?”

“I know not,” replied the marquis, as if in a dream; “but there is a difference, certainly.”

Neither of them possessed the true key to the enigma; neither of them now thought of searching for it. But Adelardi, glad to see his friend's excitement somewhat allayed, continued the subject to which the conversation had led. Besides, he saw it would afford an opportunity of touching on a point he did not wish to introduce directly.

“No,” he resumed, “bravery and courage are not the same thing. What proves it is that the most timid woman can be as courageous as we when occasion requires it, and often more so.”

“Yes, I acknowledge it.”

“For example,” continued Adelardi, looking at him attentively, “more than one of your companions in misfortune have had a signal proof of such courage to-day.”

“How so?”

“Do you not know that their wives have fearlessly and unhesitatingly requested and obtained the favor of sharing their lot? Some are to accompany them in their sad journey; others will follow them.”

“And have their husbands accepted such a sacrifice?”

“They who inspire such great devotedness can generally comprehend and accept it. It was only yesterday, one of them conversing with a friend admitted to see him, as I to see you, said: ‘I can submit to anything now; I can endure my fate without murmuring; I shall not be separated from her. The only intolerable sorrow in life will be spared me. I am grateful to the emperor, and will no longer complain!’ I must add that he was recently married, and adores his wife.”

“The only sorrow,” repeated George slowly—“the only one!—that is really something I cannot understand. To love a woman to such a degree as to feel her presence could alleviate such a lot as ours, and that never to behold her again, would be a misfortune surpassing that which awaits us! No, I do not understand that, I frankly confess.”

“And yet,” said Adelardi, with some eagerness.—But he stopped and did not continue his thought—that one can accept and admire heroic affection, but not suggest it.

“And yet,” continued George, smiling, “how often you have seen me in love, you were going to say. Yes, I acknowledge it, though perhaps I was sincerely so but once, only once, and yet—shall I confess it, Adelardi? Love even then was a holiday in my life; it added to its brightness; it was an additional enjoyment, another charm. Her beauty; her rare, naÏve intelligence; even her virtue, which gave a mysterious attraction to the passionate tenderness sometimes betrayed, in spite of herself, by her eyes, so innocent and frank in their expression; Oh! yes, that time I was in love and ready to commit a folly I am now glad to have avoided. Poor Fleurange! If I had married her, what a fate I should have reserved for her, as well as for myself.”

“For her! Yes, indeed; it was a very different lot your affection promised her when you displayed it without any scruple; but if she—she, charming, devoted, and courageous, [pg 607] were there with you, do you not imagine she could sweeten yours?”

“Mine?—my lot?—the frightful lot that awaits me?” asked George, with a bitter laugh. Then he resumed the previous tone of their conversation.

“No, no; I am not one of those men whom love alone can suffice—stripped of all that outwardly adorns and adds to its value. In short, think of me as you please, Adelardi, but I do not resemble in the least my companion in misfortune you have just referred to. No human affection could make me endure the life I lead here; judge how it would be elsewhere.”

He rose, and began again to walk around in an excited manner. Adelardi remained silently absorbed in anxious, painful thoughts. George soon resumed, in a kind of fury: “Here, Adelardi, speak to me only of one thing; give me only one hope—death! death! that is all I desire.” And touching, with a gesture of despair, the black cravat negligently fastened around his neck, he said, in a hoarse voice: “This will be a last resort, if in a week I do not succeed in finding some means more worthy of a gentleman of escaping from their hands.”

His friend preserved a gloomy silence. What could he say? What reply could he make at a time when every earthly hope failed, and there was none felt in heaven? Adelardi was now fully conscious; he had a lively sense of what was wanting. He was born in a land where the impressions of childhood are always religious, and the longest period of indifference or forgetfulness seldom effaces them completely from the soul in which they were profoundly graven in early life.

“My dear friend,” said he, with a melancholy gravity not habitual to him, “to be of service to you at such a time, I feel I should be different from what I am. Yes, George; in the fearful temptation that now besets you, in your despair in view of the frightful lot that awaits you, there is only one resource, and but one. I feel unworthy of suggesting the only remedy.” His voice faltered, as he continued, with emotion: “George, you must believe—you must pray.”

George was for a moment surprised and affected. After a pause, which neither seemed disposed to interrupt, he said, in a softened tone: “Well, Adelardi, let it at least be permissible, in praying, to implore a favor not refused to a man more guilty than I: Fabiano is dying.”

“I know he cannot recover from his wound.”

“But perhaps he would not be in immediate danger had he not been violently attacked with typhus fever the day before yesterday. I hoped something myself from the contagion; but, doubtless afraid of shortening our heavy chain, they sent him last night to die at a hospital, I know not where.”

At that moment the bolt flew back, the hour had elapsed, and they were obliged to separate, but with an effort scarcely lessened by the thought that it was not a final farewell, and that this sad interview would be repeated more than once before the last.

As the marquis was about to leave the prison, the warden said in a low tone, as he was opening the last door:

“I do not think I am acting contrary to my duty in confiding this letter to you, sir. The dying prisoner who was taken away last night gave it to me one day, begging me to forward it to the address after his [pg 608] departure. He has gone away, and I wish to fulfil the poor fellow's request.”

“Give it to me,” said Adelardi, as he took it. “I will see that it is forwarded.”

After leaving the fortress, he looked at the letter confided to him, and was greatly surprised to find it addressed to Mademoiselle Gabrielle d'Yves, at Professor Dornthal's, Heidelberg.

Adelardi again extended his hand, and was about to leave the room when Clement stopped him. “Monsieur le Marquis, will you allow me now to ask you a question?”

“Certainly.”

“Well, may I ask if Count George has been informed of Gabrielle's arrival?”

“No, not yet.”

“But he is doubtless aware of her intentions?”

“No, my friend, he is likewise ignorant of them. Though I had no doubt as to Gabrielle's success in her interview with the empress to-day, nevertheless, before giving George such a surprise, I wished to be absolutely sure there was no uncertainty to apprehend.”

“Oh! yes, I comprehend you. To lose such a hope, after once conceiving it, would indeed be more frightful than death!” said Clement, with a vivacity that struck the other. He soon continued in a calmer tone:

“One more question, Monsieur le Marquis—an absurd question, I acknowledge, but one I cannot resist asking at such a time. You know my position with regard to Gabrielle is that of a brother. Can you assure me that he whom she loves, and is thus going to wholly immolate herself for—can you assure me on your honor that he is worthy of her?—that he loves her?—that he loves her as much as a man ever loved a woman? I certainly cannot doubt it, but then I must see her happy in return for so much suffering—I must!” repeated he almost passionately, “and I beg a sincere reply to my question.”

The marquis hesitated a moment. Clement's vehemence struck him, and under the impression of his recent interview with George, he did not at first know how to reply. Should he betray his friend? Ought he to deceive him whose noble, upright look was fastened upon him? He remained uncertain for some moments; at length, he decided to be frank, and reply as candidly as he was questioned.

“You ask for the truth, Dornthal. Well, it is not in my power to affirm that George's love is at this moment all you desire. According to my impression, Gabrielle is now only a sweet dream of the past. But be easy, my dear friend; as soon as this dream becomes a reality, as soon as she appears before him—is with him—his—oh! then there is no doubt but the almost extinguished flame will revive and become as brilliant as it once was, and this charming creature will have no cause to suspect a shadow of forgetfulness had ever veiled her image. What do you expect, Dornthal? As to love and constancy, women far surpass us, and they are not the less happy for that. Adieu! my dear friend, till to-morrow.”

Clement only replied by taking the hand the marquis again extended before going out. He listened to him, pale and shuddering, but, as soon as he was alone, he exclaimed, endeavoring with an effort to suppress the sobs that stifled his breast:

“Ah! my God!—my God!—Is that love?”

Clement and his companion passed rapidly by this group, not, however, without being assailed by some annoying words. A vigorous blow from Clement sent a curious winebibber flying back who attempted to lift Fleurange's veil. This lesson was sufficient, and they arrived without any further annoyance at the door of the building decorated with the name of hospital, which was only a long, spacious wooden gallery.

They entered. Passing thus suddenly from the light of the great fire, and the sharpness of the extreme cold, into the obscurity and warmth of the ambulance, their first sensations were caused by the darkness and stifling atmosphere. Fleurange hastily threw back her veil, then took off her hat and unclasped her cloak, for she could not breathe; she felt nearly ready to faint from the effects of this sudden transition, but she almost immediately recovered. Clement was alarmed at first, but soon saw she was able to continue their sad search. As soon as their eyes became accustomed to the dim light around them, they saw the long row of pallets on which lay, in all the frightful varieties of suffering, nearly two hundred human beings whose mingled groanings rose on all sides like one sad cry of pain, enough to chill the veins with horror, and excite the pity of the most courageous and most hardened heart.

That of Fleurange beat painfully as they slowly advanced through the obstructed space. Clement was remorsefully regretting his consent to bring her to such a place, when all at once a moan, followed by some words indicative of delirium, checked every other thought, and kept them motionless where they stood. They listened—which of these unfortunate beings had uttered those words? They looked around as well as the poor light permitted, but on all these sick-beds so close to each other they did not perceive one whose features bore the least resemblance to those of the unhappy man whose voice they thought they recognized.

“I beg you to lend me your light only for a moment,” said Fleurange, in a low, supplicating tone to an infirmarian to whom she had just heard some one speak in German, and who was rudely passing by her, lantern in hand.

The infirmarian stopped at hearing his language spoken, and looked at the young girl with surprise, then, as if softened by her aspect, he gave her the lantern, saying: “You can have it while I am gone to the other end of the ward; I will take it when I return.” As Clement took it, the light flashed across Fleurange's face and uncovered head. Instantly there was a cry, an almost convulsive movement, and Gabrielle's name was pronounced by the voice they had just heard. This indicated which of the miserable beds contained him whom they sought. They both approached with full hearts. By the aid of the lamp they gazed at the dying man. Was it really he?—was that Felix? His voice and words left no doubt, and yet there was nothing in that face, disfigured by agony and a horrible wound, to recall him whom they saw last in all the fulness of strength and the pride of youth. After his exclamation, he fell back almost lifeless, and Clement trembled as he bent down to ascertain if he still breathed. His heart was beating, though feebly and irregularly.

“Felix,” said he, “do you hear me? Do you know me?”

Felix opened his eyes. “What a strange dream!” murmured he. “It seems as if they were all here. That vision a moment ago, and now this [pg 614] voice—O my God, would I might never awake!”

Fleurange took the dying man's hand, and bent over him to catch his words. Her features thus became distinctly visible in the light, and his eyes fastened with frightful tenacity on those of the young girl.

“It is impossible!” said he. “But what illusion is this which makes me see and hear what cannot be?”

“Felix,” said Fleurange, with a penetrating accent of sweetness, “it is not an illusion. We are here. God has sent us that you may not die alone without a friend to pray for you, without begging and obtaining pardon and peace.”

A ray of perfect clearness of comprehension now lit up his eyes, hitherto fixed or wandering. He seemed to comprehend, but did not reply. Clement and Fleurange were afraid to break the solemn silence. Felix's eyes soon wandered from one to the other, and, taking the young girl's hand and that of Clement, he pressed them together upon his heart, saying: “O my God! what a miracle!” Then he added in a feeble voice: “What a comfort that it is he, and not the other!”

They both understood his mistake, but were not equally affected. Fleurange slightly blushed, and withdrew her hand with a faint smile, but Clement's face became almost as pale as that of the dying man. But graver thoughts prevailed over both at such a time. After a short silence, Fleurange again addressed Felix some words, but he made no reply, and his head, which she tried to raise, fell on his shoulder. He continued faint for some moments, then opened his eyes, and saw her beside him.

“God be praised!” said he. “The vision is still here!”

“Yes, I am here, Felix,” said Fleurange in a fervent tone: “I am here to pray with you. Listen to me,” continued she, speaking softly and very distinctly. “Say with me that you repent of all the sins of your life.”

“Of all the sins of my life!”—repeated the dying man.

“And if your strength were restored, you would make a complete and satisfactory avowal of them, with a sincere repentance. Do you understand me?”

The hand she held pressed hers. A tear ran down Felix's cheek. A voice which was a mere whisper repeated the words: “A sincere repentance”—another faintness seemed to announce his end. “O my God!” said Fleurange, fervently raising her eyes to heaven, “if the sacred absolving words could only be pronounced over him!”

At that moment the infirmarian returned and abruptly took the lantern from Clement's hand. “Excuse me, I need it for some one who has come to visit a patient.”

In the narrow space that separated the two rows of beds, there could be indistinctly seen a person of majestic, imposing appearance, whose long beard and floating hair, whose ample robes of silk and gold cross, clearly indicated his character; he was, in fact, a priest of the Greek Church. He had not, however, come to this sad place to exercise his ministry. One of the poor men suffering from the contagious disease was the object of his charity, and he had come to visit him. He was passing along without looking around, even turning his eyes away as much as possible from the sad spectacle that surrounded him, when Clement's hand on his arm stopped him as he was passing Felix's bed.

“What do you wish of me, young man?” he asked, with surprise.

“I implore you,” said Clement, [pg 615] “to come to this dying man who is truly contrite for his sins, with a sincere desire to confess them if he had the strength. Have the kindness to give him sacramental absolution!”

In spite of the place, the hour, the awful solemnity of the moment, the young Catholic girl started at hearing these words; her large eyes opened with an expression of the keenest surprise, and turned towards Clement with a mute glance of anxiety. He understood her, and, while the infirmarian was interpreting his words which had been heard but not understood, he replied: “This is a priest, Gabrielle, invested with all the authority of Holy Orders. In the presence of death, we can avail ourselves of it, without regard to anything else.”

He knelt down. Fleurange did the same. The dying man clasped his hands, and, whilst the word “forgive” once more trembled on his lips, the Greek priest raised his right hand with a majestic air, and pronounced over him the merciful, divine words of holy absolution!

To Be Continued.