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VOLUME I. |
UY C. R. IIANLEITER.
0 s ® S T K Y .
“ Much yet remains unsung .”
CONSTANCY,
When in love’s bewildering liour.
First I saw thy gentle face,
Smiling in thy garden bower
With such timid, blushing grace !
While the sunset rays declining,
Lent thy cheek a softer glow,
With a glorious halo shining
Round thy pure angelic brow—
Then, 0 then, I sighed to be
Master of thy heart and thee!
Since that time, each hour that stealeth
From our happy lives away,
Some new gentle charm revealeth,
And I bless thee day by day!
Yea, thy voice more sweetly soundeth
To my fond accustomed eari
And my heart more gladly boundeth
When thy footstep draweth near,
Than when first I sighed to be
Master of thy fate and thee !
SIIILIS® 1 ® 1 TPidLffi.’
From the Dublin University Magazine.
PAULINE BUTLER.
Chapter V.
The place which Pauline occupied in a
dark corner of the room made her suppose
site had escaped the observation of her hus
band, and running gaily to the Marquis,
she said,
“ Back already—l am so glad.”
“ We went a very short way,” replied La
Marquise, “ Ferdinand was so anxious to
return on your account. How ate you
now 1”
“ Much better.”
“lain glad to hear it. Do you know the
news I received or. my return ? My friend,
Madame de Lostanges, whose letter you
read yesterday, has arrived at Toulouse on
her way to Bayonne, about the affairs I told
you of.”
“Heavens !” murmured Pauline, turning
deadly [tale.
“She begs me to come and see her,” contin
ued the Marquise ; “ and I have a favor to
ask of you, my children ; Madame de Los
tauges is my dearest friend ; she remains
but two days at Toulouse to rest —can we
let her lemain at a hotel ?”
“ You must, of course, mother, ask her
to come to us.”
“And that your invitation may not be re
fused, would it not be well that one of you
should come with me ?”
“ 1 think so, too ; and since Pauline is so
much better she will go with you.”
“ Excuse me,” said Pauliue; “ but I have
something to do.”
“ Oh,” said M. de Livry, in a most natu
ral manner, “perhaps a letter begun ; it may
be the same you were writing when we
came in ; but it will be time enough when
you return.”
” Ferdinand,” murmured Pauline, trcm*
blingly.
“ Madame,” added Ferdinand, in a low
voice, “ accompany my mother, and on your
return I must beg a moment’s conversation
with you.”
Pauline looked timidly at her husband ;
but though he was pale she could not dis
cover any appearance of anger. She gave
her arm to the Marquise, and went out with
her.
Lett to himself, M. de Livry commenced
walking up and down the room in a state of
great agitation. He had not done so more
than three or four times, when he was sud
denly stopped by Clodion, who entered at
the moment, looking more sombre, more
morose, and more blood-thiisty than ever.
“ What do you want 1” said Ferdinand,
with a disagreeable presentiment.
“My dear fellow,” said he, *putting his
finger on his lips mysteriously, “ while you
were out, there happened such things.”
“ What things ! Speak—go on —can’t you
speak, man ?”
“ Let me recover myself a little, I am
wretched. Your mother was quite right
when she advised me not to marry Madame
de Melcouvt. She is an arrant flirt.”
“ have, then, fresh cause for anger?”
“Have 1? indeed, have I?” replied
Clodion, with a tragical air. “ You will not
say now that lam blinded by jealousy. —
W hen I left you this morning I went to the
Hotel where Madame de Melcourt stops. I
wish to see her—to speak to her—to re
proach her fur her deceitful conduct. I on
ly saw her maid, who told me she had a
headache. You know what a headache
means with ladies.
“ Well, and then.”
“ And then—nothing, but suspecting it to
be an excuse, I went to a friend’s just oppo
site and remained there watching. I had
not been there above three quarters of an
hour, when I saw my lady go out dressed
most coquettishly—her headache did not
Hst long it appears.”
“You followed her.”
“Exactly so; but guess the road she
took.”
“ W hat do I cave ?”
“ The road to your house, my dear fellow
—that is the fun j>f it. I was following her
ask an explanation of her conduct, when
1 saw the detestable M. de Fontenay.”
“ M. de Fontenay !”
J!cto.<oia£cv : Dcfeotctr to literature, ftsrtcuiture, Etrucattoiu JForeffiu autr Domestic fcutelUßewee, See.
“ Himself. He turned the corner of the
street, which changed my intention; and I
turned into the house of another of my friends,
and had scarcely time to run to the window
when I saw him enter your house.”
“ My house !”
“ Are you not indignant? but who did he
come for but Madame de Melcourt, as you,
your wife, and your mother were all out : it
was a meeting arranged between them.”
“ This is too much! This man had the
audacity———”
“ Thanks ! thanks ! my dear fellow. I
knew well your friendship for me would
make you take it up warmly.”
“Go on then,” interrupted M. de Livry,
with violence : “do you not see I wait the
end of your story. You remained watch
ing them ?”
“ Until Madame de Melcourt went out.”
“ She went out with M. de Fontenay.”
“ Not at all: she went out alone.”
“ But he—he remained until when ?”
“ Faith, Ido not know. I was more in
terested in Madame de Melcourt than him,
and I hurried after her. She turned her
head at the sound of my steps ; and to my
look of indignation she returned a good
morning, ‘ good morning, I am in a great
hurry,’ and walked on quickly.”
Ferdinand remained a moment silent, and
then said, “ Where does M. de Fontenay
stop ?”
At the Hotel de France.”
“ I will go to him.”
“ As my friend ?”
“ Withont doubt.”
“ What is the matter with you, Ferdinand,
you are so pale ?”
“ Nothing, nothing. Listen Clodion ;
there is not perhaps in all this, either fault
or ci ime, if her honor he touched, he pa
tient ; every tiling will be arranged as it
ought to be ; but in the mean time not a
word of jealousy to a human being, and above
all to Madame de Melcourt. Swear it to
me.”
“ Then you will tell me when I ought to
feel angry.”
“ Yes.”
“ Well then, I promise.”
“ Hush ! here is Pauline.”
Pauline had just returned, af;er leaving
her mother-in-law at Madame de Lostanges
who had declined their hospitality. On per
ceiving her husband and cousin apparently
in earnest conversation, she was about to
leave the room, but Ferdinand made a sign
to her to remain. Clodion, having nothing
more to say, rose to take leave, and pressing
Ferdinand’s hand, said in alow voice, “1
will go and look at my swords and pistols ;
nobody can tell what may happen.”
When M. de Livry found himself alone
with his wife, he no longer concealed his pas
sion. “ Now, madame,” said he, in a fero
cious manner, “ it is time to give me the ex
planation I demanded of you.”
“An explanation upon what subject?”
stammered Pauline; still more surprised
than frightened at language to which she
was unaccustomed.
“ Upon what subject!” replied the count,
with irony. “ You are quite right for there
are several ; hut I must hear all—the letter
that was given to you yesterday evening,
the visits you received this morning, and the
letter you were writing when I came in :
you see 1 know them all; do not attempt to
deny it, madame, but excuse yourself, if you
can.”
Pauline looked steadily at her husband,
and then replied gently ; “ I will deny noth
ing ; to deny would be a lie : and 1 see you
are well informed. You spy then after my
actions, Ferdinand ; you have no longer con
fidence in me.”
“ Ah !” replied Ferdinand, shaken by the
coolness with which Pauline replied to him,
“ the time is ill chosen to reproach me ; it
is your justification that I expect, not mine.
Excuse yourself for God’s sake; for I love
you so much 1 can believe you still. I)o
you acknowledge that Madame tie Melcourt
gave you a note yesterday evening from M.
de Fontenay !”
“ I acknowledge it.”
“ And that note asked an interview for
this morning ?”
“ It is true.”
“ And M. de Fontenay came ; and your
meeting was interrupted by some circum
stance of which I am ignorant; and you
were writing to him what you had wished
to say. Show me that letter, madame.—
Show it to me.”
“ I have not that letter—l feared you
might ask me for it, and 1 tore it.”
“ You tore it!”
“ Believe me, I did good service in doing
so.”
“ What was in the letter ?”
“ Nothing to blush for ; but nothing you
can know. 1 have nothing more to say,”
“ Very well, madame, M. de Fontenay
will be less discreet than you;” and in
speaking thus Ferdinand walked towards
the door.
“ Where are you going ?” stammered
Pauline tremblingly, and placed herself be
fore him.
“ I am going to ask this man at what peri
od he knew you, and by what right he dares
to write to you. I still respect you enough
to believe that he did not see you yesterday
for the first time.”
“ Ferdinand,” cried the unhappy Pauline,
catching her husband by the arm, if you
have any love or pity for me you will not go
to M. dc Fontcnay’s house. Listen to me;
MADISON, MORGAN COUNTY, GEORGIA, SATURDAY MORNING, OCTOBER 22, 1842.
I wish it. What! You took me when I
was lower than 1 ever should have been,
and raised me higher than I ever could have
hoped ; you have given a name and station
to my son; you have elevated me in the
eyes of the world, and in mine own ; and
you can believe that I decieve you : if! were
ca|>able of it there are not words to express
my infamy.”
“ That I should doubt you,” replied Fer
dinand, “ the strongest evidence was neces
sary. Great as is my love, I am not blind.
How can I explain the note—the interview
—the letter, when you cannot explain it
yourself. I have no greater wish than to
believe you innocent. Give me one proof,
but one proof, if not for you, at least for
me.”
“Alas!” replied Pauline, sorrowfully
shaking her head, “ I am obliged to be silent.
My justification would be worse than my
silence; but listen to me. Do you remem
ber one day, when refusing your hand for
the tenth time, I said to you : ‘ Ferdinand,
I would be yours, if in the moment of our
union we could forget the past —but 1 have
the past, the terriblejiast, against me, which
will follow us like a phantom to our graves
—you will be jealous some day, and then the
remembrance of my fault will raise suspi
cions, doubts, and . If you’re sus
picious, Ferdinand, I will never marry you;’
and then you threw yourself at my feet; and
do you remember what you said ?
“ It appears you have forgotten it, Ferdi
nand : let me remind you of it. You said;
‘ Pauline, you are right, no man should pro
mise more than he can perform ; it is possi
ble I may be jealous, but if ever I am un
happy enough to suspect —mad enough to
believe you guilty'—when appearances are
against you, do not justify yourself, but hold
your hand to me and say —I swear before
God I love you, and am innocent : then 1
will fall on my knees and ask pardon.’ Fer
dinand, it was on the faith of that promise I
consented to become your wife. The mo
ment 1 long feared and that you foresaw is
now come : our love can never go through
a severer trial. Ferdinand, here is my hand,
and I swear to you that I love you and am
innocent.”
As she spoke thus, an air of nobleness
and beauty almost angelic clotlied her fea
tures, and her every word bofe an impress
of truth. Ferdinand, moved to tears, fell at
her feet crying—
“ Pauline! my life! my love ! can you
forgive me ?”
Madame de Livry held out her hand to
him in token of forgiveness, which he took
and covered with kisses, while she murmur
ed humbly—
“ His mercy be praised ! I may yet be
happy.”
In her ecstasy as a wife, Pauline forgot
she was a mother, and that the day, which
already drew towards its close, could not
end without relinquishing to M. de Fonte
nay a blessing still dearer to woman than
honor itself.
Chapter VI.
The sun was setting in full glory and ma
jesty behind the church of St. Semin, in
Toulouse, when a young woman, wrapped
in a large shawl, and carefully veiled, enter
ed the church, and almost immediately quit
ted it, traversed hastily, but timidly, various
streets, at last stopped before a handsome
house, looked behind her once to assure her
self she was unobserved, entered quickly
the hotel, and asked, in a voice scarcely au
dible, for M. de Fontenay.
“M. de Fontenay is gone out,” replied
the porter.
“ Out!” replied the unknown, who was
obliged to lean against the wall to prevent
herself falling.
“Yes, madame; but if you would wish
to wait ”
“ I will wait! oh yes, I will wait!”
A servant passing at this moment, the
porter desired him to show the young lady
to No. i, the sitting room of M. de Fonte
nay.
The unknown had waited more than half
an hour before M. de Fontenay entered,
when, giving utterance to a faint cry of joy,
she rose from her beat. M. de Fontenay
hastened to her, saying—
Madame, may 1 know ”
But scarcely had he spoken when the veil
was raised, aud a voice, already well known
to him, said—
“ It is I, sir.”
The voice, is it necessary to say, was that
of Madame de Livry.
The old lover of Pauline remained oppo
site to her for some seconds in a kind of
stupor.
“ You here, madame!” stammered he.
“ You in my house, when I scarcely hoped
for a letter!”
“ I did not wish to write to you,” inter
rupted Pauline with a re-assumed manner ;
“ what I have to say is too important. Can
you insure our not being interrupted ? You
know to what I expose myself in thus com
ing to your house.”
M. de Fontenay, or rather D’Herbanne,
ran to the door and bolted it
“And that door?” said Paulino, pointing
to one opposite.
“ Opens into a room also occupied by me.”
“ And that room has another ?”
“ One only into tho garden, which has
been fastened up.”
“ My God !” said Pauline, covet ing her
face with her hands.
“ Be calm, madame, you run no danger.”
“ You see, sir, how the step I have taken
affects me; but it was necessary.”
“ I see in it a proof of confidence of which
I am proud ; but I repeat, a letter would
have been sufficient.”
“ No, no ; a letter might fall into the hands
of a stranger, and then I was lost—that
letter might make no impression upon you,
whilst, in coming myself, I hope you will
have pity on me. A letter, sir! I long
thought of it, but I knew it was impossible;
for in a letter I could not have told you all I
have suffered ; I could not have told you
how your unexpected presence has thrown
trouble into my home and despair into my
heart.”
“ How, madame ? does your husband,
then, know ”
“ Except your name, he knows all. He
watches me—the servants have told him. I
do not like to believe it, but still the note
Madame de Melcourt gave me —your visit
in his absence—nothing has escaped him ;
and it is a miracle how I could excuse my
self in his eyes without telling him the
truth.”
D’Herbanne gazed for some minutes on
her, who might be called his victim, with a
feeling of compassion which surprised even
himself.
“ But sooner or later you must tell him.”
“ Never, never!” replied Pauline with
j violence; “ and it is for that I have come
here in secret like a guilty woman. I
have deceived my mothei-in-law, my ser
vants—who believe me this moment at
church, aud in prayer. Listen to me, sir.”
“ I listen, madame, and am ready to take
any precautions you think necessary; but
you must not forget that it is absolutely ne
cessary that I depart to morrow with my
son.”
Pauline cast upon him the supplicating
look of a wretched mother; then, seeing he
turned away his head, she said, in a broken
voice—
“Oh ! but you ore cruel. You take ad
vantage of my position. You know I can
not avow to my husband that you still exist,
that I have seen von, without causing be
tween you a frightful meeting. You know
all that; and, instead of compassion for me
But perhaps you wish for this meet
ing.”
“ No, madame,” answered D’Herbanne,
coldly; “ I have r.ot the least wish to be
known to M. de Livry.”
“ Well, accept, then, my proposition ; it
is the only way to satisfy all parties.”
“ Explain yourself.”
“ You demand my son, to take him to
your uncle ?”
“ Exactly so.”
“ Your uncle intends to educate him and
make him his heir ?”
“ To educate him perhaps; but as to the
inheritance, he has solemnly promised that.”
“ Well, sir, Bayonne is a short journey ;
go and tell your uncle my secret, and entreat
him to come here. His name is not the same
as yours. I will prepare M. de Livry to ex
pect him as a relative of mine, who, on the
condition of being allowed to own, will pro
vide for our child.”
Our child! it was the first time Madame
de Livry called him so ; and it showed how
necessary she thought it to soften the man
who remained opposite to her cold and in
flexible as a judge.
“On this condition, arid, above all, that
your uncle should not say you are alive, I
can—oh !it is dreadful to say it—l can part
with my son. You cannot ask any more if
you have a remnant of humanity left.”
“Your plan is impossible,” replied D’Her
banne.
“ Impossible!” repeated mechanically the
unhappy mother. “ Why impossible ?”
“ Because my uncle is dangerously ill,
and could not come to Toulouse.”
“ Let him write, then,” said Pauline, ea
gerly ; “ a letter will do—yes, a letter will
he better; and M. de Livry himself will
fake his nephew to him. I promise you
that, by all that is sacred.”
“ But in the meantime,” replied the inex
orable D’Herbnnne, “ my uncle might die,
and then all would he lost.”
“ For you,” replied Madame de Livry,
bitterly.
“ And for my son, also. I tell you, ma
dame, there is hut one thing to do—that is
what I have already told you. You will
find every thing here necessary to write
with ; two lines to the master of the school
where you hove placed my boy, in your
writing, and I go, never to put foot again
while I live, in Toulouse. As to you, you
can easily justify yourself in the eyes of the
world, and also of your husband.”
At this moment someone knocked at the
door. Pauline joined her hands, and mur
mured in a low voice—
“ Do not open it—do not open it.”
“Do not he alarmed,” replied D’Her
banne ; “it is somebody who has mistaken
the room, for I do not expect any one.”
Another knock.
“ Who is there ?” said D’Herbanne.
A voice replied from the outside—that
was felt ut the bottom of Pauline’s heart,
said —
“ The Count de Livry.”
“ My husband !” stammered Pauline, al
most fainting. “He knows that lam here.
Where,can I fly to? where hide myself?
Oh ! do not open, do not open, if you do
not wish to sec mo dio before your eyes.”
“ Hush ! go in there.” said DTferhnnne,
■pointing to the other room ; “ all is r.ot lost
yet. Hide yourself—hide yourself:” at the
same time he pushed Pauline, half-dead, in
to the room, and shut the door ; and, with
his habitual coolness, went to open the door
for his rival, saying—“My dear sir, I am
shocked at keeping you waiting; but I was
so engaged in my preparations for my ap
proaching departure. Pray, won’t you sit
downs”
“Sir,” replied Ferdinand, in a maimer so
calm as to surprise him, “ I must beg you
to excuse my coming at so late an hour, and
particularly for insisting upon admission;
and, to speak frankly, I hesitated for some
time whether 1 should come or write ; but
I determined to come as a letter might com
promise you, instead of serving you. At all
events, 1 owed you a visit. You were at
my house this morning : nobody can he sur
prised at my being at yours this evening.”
“ Sii,” murmured D’Herbanne, more and
more perplexed, to find out the meaning of
this preamble.
“ Sir, you come from Spain,” said De
Livry, abruptly.
“ It is true.”
“ 1 do not ask for what reason you went
to that unhappy country; but it is said it
was in the Queen Regent’s cause.”
“ I do not deny, all my sympathy is with
the pretender, as he is called.”
“It was from supposing as much that I
came here to give you notice of something
that may he of importance tii you to know.
1 have just learned that a warrant has been
issued to search this house, which is suppos
ed to be the home of persons of the opinions
you defend in Spain. Your coming here
has increased that suspicion, and I fear you
may have an unwelcome visitor this even
ing”
“Good heavens!” cried D’Mcrbantie,
“ have you reason to believe it ?”
“ I have,” replied Ferdinand, “good rea
son to believe it. I was not told it in secre
cy, therefore I do not think it necessary to
be silent, and I wish to let you know, in
case you had any papers that might compro
mise you, to give you time to destroy them.”
“I have nothing to fear, sir; but 1 am
not the less obliged to you.”
“ 1 do not wish to know your secrets : I
have only done what l am sure you would
have done, were you in my place ; and now,
1 wish you good evening.”
“Many, many thanks,”said D’Herbanne,
taking a light off - the mantelpiece to conduct
M. de Livry to the door—when they were
stopped by a person who just entered, wrap
ped in a iarge cloak, though the evening
was line, arid in August: bowing coldly to
D’Hei banne, he turned towards M. de Liv
ry—
“Faith, Feidinand, I am glad to find you
here. 1 suspect what brought you ; and
you are the best witness to a conversation
that I am about to have with this gentle
man.”
At the same moment he drew from under
his cloak two swords and a pistol-case, which
he placed on the table.
“ Choose, sir,” said he, turning proudly
to D’Herbanne.
“ W hat is the meaning of this ?” demand
ed D'Herirdtine.
“ The meaning of it is,” said the unfor
tunate lover of Madame de Melcourt, “that
you have acted towards me in a most un
handsome manner.”
“ How ? in what way ?”
“ You are well aware, sir, that I present
ed you to my cousin, having previously told
you of my love for Madame de Melcourt,
after which you dared to make use of me in
your reconciliation with that coquette. You
thought it amusing! I deem it dishonorable;
theiefore, I demand satisfaction.”
“ If it be only that,” replied D'llerbarine,
smiling, “ I am ready to give you any satis
faction you wish for; hut 1 think it right
first to tell you that 1 have not the slightest
claim on Madame de Melcourt.”
“Oh, this is too much,” cried Clodion
violently. “ You dare deny it, when 1 know
she is here this moment.”
“ Here !” replied D’Herbanne, a little
confused. “ Yon are mad.”
“ Perhaps so ; hut I am not blind. A short
time since 1 saw Madame de Melcourt go
out of her own house, and enter Madame de
Livry’s, where she waited till dark, when
she went out hv the back gate of the gar
den, wrapped in a large shawl, and her face
hid in a close bonnet aud veil. She took the
way to St. Sernins, where she remained but
a moment, and then continued her way here,
where she entered, not suspecting that 1 had
followed her.”
“ ’Tis true,” thought M. de Livry ; “ he
was a long time opening the door for me.—
Poor Clodion!”
“ You see you are found out, sir,” said
Clodion passionately. Then, turning to Fer
dinand—“ You see, my friend, that this af
fair renders it unnecessary to wait for any
explanation. This gentleman leaves Tou
louse to-night, and has not a moment to spare,
as I am told ; so I went to fetch those wea
pons at once, not to lose time. Choose, sir,
the pistol or the sword. It is moonlight,
and the garden will do equally well for one
or the othc%”
“ D’HeibanneJremainad a moment irreso
lute, unwilling to fight, when th *re was real
ly no reason for so doing; hut, then, it was
the only menus of allowing Madame de
Livry to escape, and though a generous ac- I
tion was unusual to him, he acceded; and !
: said to Clodion—
j number 30.
W. T. THOMPSON, EDITOR.
“As you please, sir, lam ready. Let us
go to the garden; M.de Livry will be witness
for both. Only, I repeat, Madatne de Mel*
couit is tiot here.”
At this declaration, Clodion sieved him
violently by the arm, and pointing to a shawl
that lay across a chair—
“ M. de Fontenay,” said he with triumph,
“ deny that proof if you can. That is the
shawl the jilt wore when I followed her. I
remember it well:” saying which, he took
the shawl in his hands and crushed it pas*
sionately.
But another also Had seen that shawl, and
a cry of mingled rage end shame was scarce
ly stifled by him. He then stood before
D’Herbanne pale, breathless, his lip trem
bling, but unable to articulate a word.
“ Come, gentlemen,” said D’Herbanne,
hurriedly opening the door, “ I will show
you the way.”
“We will follow,” said Clodior, taking
the swords and pistols from the table, where
he had placed them ; hut a powerful hand
tore the instruments of death from his hands,
and a feverish voice muttered in his ear*—
“ Clodion ! Clodion ! you forget it is my
duty to take charge of the swords,”
At this moment was heard the sound of
approaching footsteps on the stairs, the door
opened, and a person entered the room, cry
ing in a solemn manner—
“ Gentlemen, I arrest you in the name of
the king.”
Chapter VII.
The person who entered the room thus
inopportunely was no other than the cotn
missaire de police, who had received an or
der to examine the apartments of M. D’Her
banne. It was, then, not without reason
that Ferdinand had warned D’Herbanne,
and, unfortunately, it was now more than
ever incumbent on Ferdinand to assist him,
as his own honor was implicated in his af
fairs.
M. de Livry was one of those men who
can, for the surer attainment of an object,
affect to have relinquished it, added to which,
he was rich, and of a family of great influ
ence; so taking the commissaire de police
aside, he explained to him who he was, and
told him he would be hail for M. D'Her
banne, and, to remove all responsibility from
him, he was ready at once to go with him to
a magistrate. To this proposal he could of
fer no refusal ; so ordering his people to re
main until his return, he went out with Fer
dinand, to wait the result of the steps taken
by him.
Clodion preferred remaining at the hotel;
more than ever determiued to see every
thing with his own eyes; but, as that was
impossible in the presence of him lie sup
posed his rival, he placed himself at the
bottom of the stairs, to make sure of con
fronting his deceiver on her way out. As
soon as D’Herbanne found himself alone,
he hastened to release Madame de Livry
from her place of confinement.
Poor Pauline was pale and trembling, for
she had not lost one word her husband bad
said, and, by his accent, suspected he knew
all.
“ Oh !” cried she, throwing herself on her
knees to D’Herbanne, “ will yon promise
me nevei, no matter wbat may occur, to
figbt with M. de Livry ?”
He before whom, for the sake of her bus
hand, she to.,k such a posture, assisted her
to rise, and replied coldly—
“ You know, madame, lam not in the ha
bit of refusing things 6f this kind.”
“ But in this case it would be horrible,”
replied Pauline iu despair. “ Remember
that if you kill him you kill me also. But
why do I speak of myself? You have a son
who is deal to you ; and if you were wound
ed yourself Oh ! do not expose your
life so foolishly. Take advantage of the
night—profit by the warning M. de Livry
gave you. You see the danger you run at
Toulouse. Go—go at once, and I will for
get all the wrong you have done me, and I
will bless you as long as I live.”
In speaking thus, Pauline had seized one
of his hands, and wet it with her tears.—
There was in her attitude, her movement,
the very sound of her voice, something so
affecting that any one but D’Herbanne must
have pitied her; but whether his false sense
of honor spoke more forcibly than his heart,
or whether he was occupied by thoughts of
himself alone, he drew his hand from hers,
and replied still more coldly than before—
“ They will say I was afraid.”
“ Do not think so,” said Pauline. “ I will
undeceive them—l will justify you to them;
but go—go 1 implore you.”
Poor Pauline saw but her husband’s dan
ger, and forgot her own. She forgot, inher
disinterestedness and affection, thalshe alone,
though innocent, was the only one who bad
cause to fear ; she forgot that it was all-im
portant that her husband should not find her
iu that house.
“ D’Hetbnnne, still impassive, contempla
ted her steadily fbr some seconds, and then
said slowly—
“ You wish it then 1 Well, I am rather
inclined to go without waiting the return of
your husband ; but you know my-decision-
I will not go alone. I must have ray son.”
“Oh ! my God ! my God ! but you are
inexornjble!” cried Pauline sobbing; and
there was n fearful struggle between the
mother’s love, and the wife’s. Which rnii. l t
eventually have conquered, it is impossible
lo say, for the door of the room opened sud
denly, and Pauline gave a heart-rending cry