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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