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(For the Sunny South.) THE FIRST RAINBOW OF SPRING. The Foft warm rain had feller all day— The aky overhead was leaden and gray— A rope-tree> bdantifal crimson treasure ]j»y scattered and stained at the Ham-King s pleacnre, While Ihe lowlier violet that bloomed in his path. By meekly yielding escaped his wrath. I stood by a window and watched in vain For the wished .surcease of the riotous rain. At last it came. The sinking sun A victory over the storm-clouds won. All things into beauty and brilliance waking, Cjystal drops into diamonds making, Kissing to life the rain-beaten flower, Sending a song from every bower. And lo ! in the east a radiant how, Spanning the cloud so dark below. Bathing in splendor a distant spire. Lighting a forest with colored lire, As an end slopes down to its still, green breast. While the other finds its shining rest Behind a hill, far blue and bold: And T tbinK of the tale in my childhood told, That the rainbow’ ends in a pot of gold : I wept when I found that it was untrue, But now’ more sadly yet do I rue That fancy no more her webs can weave, That life has lost the power to deceive. (For The Sunny South.) Cosmopolitan Stories; —OR.— UNDER SIX FLAGS. “Oh ! I t-hall be so glad lo see him again. Don’t you think he is the most interesting per son -we have met in our travels, Charles?” “Yes, I believe he is,” answered the Doctor. “ But my chatting -with yon makes me forget an engagement I have this morning. So good-bye, Mary.” And he left her rather suddenly. In due time Signor Marelli arrived, was re ceived with unieigned cordiality by his old friends, and introduced in the professor’s fam ily and its circle of acquaintances, upon whom the handsome and polished Italian made an un usually lavorable impression. The most of his time he spent in the company of the Doctor and Mary, however, viewing the town and discuss ing past events and future expectations; and when he made his departure, after a sojourn of five days, it caused great regret to his friends and awakened a feeling of disappointment in them, in whose society he had whiled away many pleasant hours during his short stay. Mary, who after Marelli’s departure was anx ious to continue her German studies, which had come to such an unexpected termination by the disloyalty of her teacher, succeeded in prevail ing upon the old professor in whose house she lived to become her instructor, and resumed her work with increased eagerness. But again her old melancholy disposition, that had been par tially dispersed by recent events, returned to settle on her mind. She showed less and less interest in wbat occurred around her, took not so much pleasure in the social gatherings of her friends as she used to do, and plunged deeply into the Geiman literature with great ardor and perseverance, to the delight of the old professor, as if she wanted to take refuge among its rich lore from some phantom that hunted and an noyed her. She commenced to languish, the roses on her cheeks faded, and her movements lost their wonted elasticity, so that her friends on several occasions anxiously inquired after her health, which she, however, always declared to be very good. When this state of things had continued for some time, the Doctor, who felt very anxious about her, decided to talk candidly to her concerning the matter, and find out its cause, if possible. Consequently he said one day, when she looked more pining and spiritless than useless: “ Dear Mary, 1 have noticed with anxiety for some time past that you have been suffering under a depression of spirit from some cause or other, which I have not been able to fathom. Will you not relieve my solicitude by telling me unreservedly what troubles you ?” She blushed scarlet as she looked up at him and answered with a forced smile, which could not, however, conceal her confusion: “What put such an idea into your head ? I am perfectly well and happy, thanks to all your kindness towards me.” “No, Mary; do not let us dismiss the matter so lightly. If your health is impaired in any way, you surely would not hesitate to confide it to your physician ?” “No, I would not; hut I feel as well as ever.” “Then it must he something that disturbs your mind?” “No, nothing that I know of.” A silence ensued, during which the Doctor was sunk in thought, and Mary looking at him with a long, wistllul glance. “ Ah ! well, well,” he said at last, “I suppose, then, we must attribute it all to the excess of mental labor with which you have applied your self to your studies lately. You are very fond of German literature ?” “ I love it” “And very natural that you should, with your cast of mind. But, my dear girl, you must not allow this predilection to make a female hookworm of you—a thing that might easily happen in this atmosphere so impregnated with scientific malaria. You must rouse yourself and try to rise from out of this mystical and meta physical quagmire in which I am afraid you are slowly settling; and if you will permit me, being your physician, to give you a prescription against your malady, it would be couched in these terms: TiFrFTPT'V *• Salt exhalations from the ocean, Freeh republican breezes; Antipoclial notions—(janrtftim salts. Dr, Sr.—to he taken at discretion:” or, in other words let us go back to America.” This being the first attempt at a joke that Mary ever had heard from her husband, it evoked one of the hearty, silvery laughs which had con stituted one of her pecultar attractions before she became a woman of Ihe world, and learned how to tone them down into smiles; and when her own and her husband’s ideas had been wafted on for seme time over the surface of un restrained communication, ruffled by the gentle breezes of an unwonted jocularity, they finally landed on the shore of a eheerlul agreement to leave the old world behind them as soon as cir cumstances would allow. Accordingly, they took leave of their friends and,acquaintances shortly alter this decision,and set out for Bremen, trom whence they intended to go by steamer to New York. Early in May, about a year from the com mencement of their bridal tour, they left Bre men, and Mary soon lound herself rocked on the broad bosom of tbe blue Atlantic. The nov elty of floating cn a little speck in tbe vast ex- pause of sky and water, the tresh, exhilarating j sea-breezes and the cbeeriul company of the pas- j stngers caused an agreeable sensation in Mary j that no other mode of traveling had been able j to awaken, and made the days pass in rapid and | pleasant succession. She had no time during j the day to indulge in reveries, and it was only . late in the evening, when all had retired and j everything was silent, that she sometimes re- j lapsed into her absent, musing mode. Late one evening, when everybody had gone i to rest, she was sitting alone cn the deck, with j her chin resting in her hand, looking back pen- ■ sively along the silvery lnrrow which the vessel ! ploughed in the blue deep, the watery particles j of which sparkled and glistened like diamonds j in the bright moonlight, when her husband ap- I preached Eottly end took a seat beside her with- j out her perceiving him. He looked for some time at the dreamy eyes and pale features, and said at last in a low, gentle voice: “Mary.” She started and turned towards him with a smile, but without giving any answer. After a few moments of silence, the Doctor re sumed: “ I have been sitting here watching you for a while, whilst your thoughts, probably, were far away.” “No, Charles,” she said, turning towards him with an unusual expression of tender sweetness in her fa«e; “ they were not very far away.” Her husband gazed at her in mute admiration. He thought he had never in his life seen any thing so surpassingly beautiful in the shape of a woman. Presently he said to her: “ 1 lound you again this evening in one of your sad reveries. If you knew how uneasy it makes me to see you thus, dear Mary T , I am sure you weuld tell me the cause of it, for it has a cause—that you know as well as I now do.” She looked down in silence. “Can it be,” continued the Doctor, “that your heart has awakened at last? Is it love, Mary, that has worked* this change in you?” Without looking up, stie answered in a soft, scarcely audible whisper: “Yes.” A sharp pang shot through the Doctor’s breast, (For the Sunny Souths THE GALLEY SLATE. Not far from the pleasant little town of Bien- la-Gaillarde, in the southwest of France, is the village of St. Prevenx, a hamlet of perhaps thirty houses, the inhabitants of which support them selves by wine-making and the culture of vege tables. In 1818, shortly after the return of the Bour bons to France, there lived in this village one Pierre Poisson, a young man about twenty-seven years of age, formerly a non-commissioned ofli pitchers filled with wine standing before them; and while they did not neglect doing honor to the wine, were discussing the news which the Maire read to them from the Messenger de Cor- rize. At that time not three words could be spoken about the current topics of the day without an allusion to the campaigns of Napoleon, and the the Marquis de Chambreuil”—Pierre’s face dark ened at this name, but she hurried on without noticing him—“at the inn, where he stopped a few minutes with some gentlemen, say they would have a hunt by torchlight to-night. Take care, or you will meet them.” “ Tranquilize vourself, ma chere," he replied. “I thank you for your warning, but Pierre .... Poisson is no child, and can protect his flanks, j same was the case on this occasion in the inn of Has M. le Marquis communicated anything else j St. Breveux. to you ?” | The Maire, as soon as the wine mounted to Annette was mortified at this mocking ques- : his head, commenced a violent tirade against tion. I the Emperor, who, he said, had been nothing “I do not converse with the Marquis de Cham- but a bungler in military affairs, whom any lieu- breuil,” she replied, and shut the windo w hast- tenant might have surpassed in generalship, and cer in the Emperor’s Old Guard, and now a ily, while Pierre went on his way humming one | who had gained so many battles only by reason quiet peasant who handled his rustic imple- of his favorite camp-songs, “Bon voyage, cher du \ of his compact with the evil one, whose repre- plements with the same energy in the cultiva- Mollet," and was soon lost to sight. j sentative had been the Mameluke Kustan; and tion of his vineyard and garden as he had dis- After having proceeded a short distance, he re- | wound up by declaring his firm belief that after * ‘ ■ " ‘ ' ...... pented having asked Annette that question. It is true, he had often noticed that the Intendent, when riding by the house, would kiss his hand to Annette, when she was standing at the win dow. He had even surprised him once in try played in the use of the musket on the battle field, who was as good a farmer as he had been a soldier, and who did his duty now as he had then. That he had been a good soldier was shown not only by the red ribbon of the Legion of j ing to commence a conversation with her, when Honor, which on gala days he wore in the but ton-hole of his blue coat, but also by a broad scar which extended across his forehead to his left eye—the mark of a wound received at Wa terloo from the sabre of a Prussian hussar, when the few surviving battalions of the old and she was standing at the door, waiting for her his death he would be burning in hell to all eternity. Pierre, who was seated by the side of Ber trand. had at first, in order to avoid getting in to difficulty, feigned not to hear what the Maire said, and had continued his conversation with the former; hut his deep drinking and the man- husband. Iteally, however, Pierre had no ground ner in which he moved about in his chair showed and it was only after a few moments that he ! young Guards were still fighting for the honor for jealousy of the Marquis, for, although An nette occasionally was a little coquettish, still she loved her husband too well to deceive him. The clock of the village church struck eight. “Zounds!” Pierre muttered to himself, “I could compose himself sufficiently to continue ° of the French arms, although victory had be- j must hurry, if I want to furnish Papa Bertrand • 1 come an impossibility. a roast for to-morrow. In a few minutes, the Another circumstance no less honorable to i moon will be up, and then it will he *qui vice. 1 him than the red ribbon and the scar, was the j as on the advanced posts, for the huntsmen of respect with which he always spoke of the valor j the Marquis de Chambreuil would rather catch of his former enemies, the Scotch and the Prus- j Pierre Poisson than any other game.” sians, as well as old Marshall Blucher, who, he | While thus soliloquizing, he had arrived at stoutly maintained, had fought with the same j the edge of the woods adjoining his vineyard. without agitation: “ May 1 know w'bo is the object of your affec tion ?” Mary now looked up at him and said, with an expression of solicitude not unmingled with pain: “ Charles, I have never yet had a secret from yon in my innermost heart, but please let me make an exception for this once. I will tell you his Dame before long.” “ Well, let it be as you wish. I shall never revert to this subject again, unless you volunta rily reveal who he is. But are you sure that your affection may not fade ? Are you sure that you love him from the depth of your heart?” “ Sooner shall the sun change its course than I my love !”she exclaimed, with enthusiastic de votion. “ He is far, far dearer to me than my life.” “ I see the the die is cast,” rejoined the Doc tor, seriously, “and I shall be true to my word. But it is getting late, Mary ; so good night, and happy dreams." Be offered her his hand, which she held firmly for a few short momentB as if she wished to retain him, but then let it go and turned away. Dr. Blackburn did not sleep very well that night. The next day and the days following passed without any notable events, and after a smooth and agreeable passage the vessel soon arrived in New York. Here new objects attracted Mary’s attention and diverted her thoughts, when, after a few days of sight-seeing, the Doctor asked her what impression this metropolis had made on her. She answered: “ It looks very much like an English city, on ly the people are leaner and seem to be in a greater hurry.” They did not remain long in New York, but continued their journey to the South, according to their programme. When they had crossed into Virginia, Mary remarked that it seemed to her as if she bad come back to Europe, the peo ple walked so muen slower and steadier, and showed so much more courtesy and refinement in their manners. The open and frank cordial ity with which they were received in Kichmond, the courtly, eliivalric elegance that met them in Charleston, and the hearty and sincere welcome j they found everywhere throughout the Southern country, made Mary express a wish to live and die among its people. They traveled through several of the Southern States, and at last reached New Orleans, where they took passage on a steamer up the Missis sippi. Afterwards they established their head quarters in Indianapolis, that city being a cen tral point from which they could make excur sions through the adjoining States and on the great lakes. gt Their time was mostly spent on those excur sions, and they were often accompanied by Mr. Evans, a courteous, gentlemanly American, whose acquaintance Dr. Blackburn had made shortly after his arrival in the capital of Indiana. Mr. Evans had enjoyed a liberal, collegiate edu cation, hut turned his attention to mercantile pursuits after his course was finished, and was now a well-to-do merchant, highly respected in his community. By-and-by it became evident to the Doctor that Mary’s attractions had a great deal to do with the increasing frequency of Mr. Evans’ visits; but as he showed his attentions in a del icate, respectful manner, and was besides a great favorite of the doctor; the latter had never at tempted to raise any impediments to his suit. It was now nearly two months since the Doc tor and Mary had arrived in Indianapolis, when Mr. Evans one day paid the Doctor a visit, and asked him, in a frank, straightforward manner, if he would grant him permission to address Miss Blackburn. The Doctor answered that he would cfo so cheerfully, but added that he in no way would try to influence his niece’s choice. With this answer Mr. Evans was perfectly sat isfied, and he and the doctor parted with a cor dial shake of the hands. When twilight fell that evening, Mary was standing at a window of her and her husband’s sitting room, when the latter entered and took his place at her side. “Mary,” he said, “I have some important news for you this evening.” “ Ah ! and what may that be, Charles ?” “Mr. Evans has asked me to-day for permis sion to sue for your hand.” Mary turned to him in utter surprise. “Yes,” the Doctor continued, “and I think he is a worthy man, whom any woman might be proud to call her husband.” “Charles, I have told you once that my heart is no longer my own. I love one man devoutly, and all others are less than nothing to me.” The Doctor felt a spasmodic stroke contract ing his heart, hut mastering his emotions with a strong effort, he said calmly: “Is he in America?” “Yes, he is in America.” “I think I can guess who it is.” Mary shot a quick glance at him. After a minute’s pause he resumed: “And so your love is irrevocable?” “Irrevocable!” “Well, then it only remains for me to fulfill my premise. I will go to a lawyer immediately and take measures towards effecting our divorce, which is easily obtainable here, so that all ob stacles may be removed when the object of your choice, who I have no doubt is worthy of yon, once makes his appearance.” The Doctor, with an expression of acute pain bravery as his idol Ney, “the bravest of the j and after having put fresh powder on the pan brave,” who had been shot at Paris ten years be- ! of his carbine, h# squatted down behind a fore our tale begins. clump of bushes, keeping a sharp lookout in This shows that Pierre Poisson’s heart was in j the direction from which he expected the ani- the right place. Sometimes the Maire or the field-guard or the gensd'arme reproached him with not being a faittiful subject of the old royal house, because he had on his mantelpiece at home a small plaster bust of Bonaparte, and no likeness of King Louis or the Count of Artois. But this could not be counted as a great crime in one of the Old Guard who never had seen King Louis with his velvet boots or his rolling chair, and more than a hundred times had seen the “Little Corporal” on his white horse, un disturbed by the horrors of the battle-field. Howbeit, the best of men have their faults, and Pierre Poisson was do exception to the gen eral rule. He had two bad habits, which more than once subjected him to great inconvenience. When on Sundays he found himself in the vil lage tavern, it was his wont to entertain the as sembled peasants with his personal reminis cences. He told stories of the Emperor, of Wa- gram, of Smolenski, and of Moscow, and warming with his theme, would carry his glass of Limage wine to his lips oftener than was nec essary to moisten his tongue, and coming finally to the misfortunes of Leipzig and Belle Alliance, the glass was emptied at a draught, and filled again as long as a drop remained in the jug. At such times the scar on his forehead would darken, nor was it advisable for any one to trifle with him then, though generally he was good nature itself. This bad habit could at the worst only involve him in a quarrel with some saucy fellow who might indulge in a feeble witticism at the expense of the “Little Cor poral;” hut the other was more dangerous. Of his former habits, he had carried with him into his new sphere an ineradicable .passion for shootiDg. As he confix no longer blaze away at the enemies'of the Ei^s-erar, Xing Louis being on the best ot tern)® with the conquerors of France, nothing wak left to him but to kill the king’s rabbits, which abounded in the neighbor hood. This passion involved him in frequent troubles with the rangers and game-keepers, who called his sport by/ the ugly name of poaching. Pierre called it “ carrying on war on a small scale,” and said as he could not fight the Bour bons, the friends of the enemies of France, he had at least the satisfaction of warring on their game. He was not, however, driven by lust of gain to take down his carbine from its peg, and then away to the forest to carry on his little war, for he never kept the spoils for himself. These were always given away to the poor of the vil lage. Many a peasant who, perhaps, had seen no meat on his table for a whole year, found in the early morning a hare or pheasant thrown by Pierre, into the house or yard when on his re turn from some nocturnal excursion. While buying his powder and tobacco at the grocery store in Bieve-la-Gaillarde, Pierre had been smitten with the charms of the storekeep er’s daughter, Annette, and as she at the same time discovered his good looks and excellent character, they soon became man and wife. An nette was a charming young woman, with bright, black eyes, cheeks blooming as roses, a slender waist, and feet and hands that a princess might have envied; and as Pierre was a remarkably handsome man, they suited each other in that respect most admirably. But there was one drawback. Annette was rather too proud of her pretty face and graceful form. A number of young noblemen who came occasionally to hunt with Monsieur de Cham breuil, the Intendant of the royal forest, gener ally breakfasted at the “Dauphin,” in St. Pre- veux, and the little coquette enjoyed their ad miration of her rather more than was compatable with Pierre’s peace of mind. Whenever he saw their admiring looks, he fulminated terrible im precations against these powdered and pomat umed Marquises, “who,” said he, “entered Paris with the Cossacks, and are beginning now where they left off in ’89, trying to seduce the wives and daughters of the citizens and peas ants.” At such times, Annette kept as still as a mouse, for his face wore a gloomy look and the scar on mal to come. Five, ten minutes passed, but no buck made his appearance. Pierre became im patient, and cautiously raised his head, but could not discover anything. Meanwhile, the moon had risen, aDd threw a clear, silver light over the surrounding country. Pierre’s sharp eye could easily distinguish every object at a couple of hundred paces distance. Suddenly, he hears a crackling in the under growth on the edge of the wood. He raises his bead, and the barrel of his carbine, and sees, hardly twenty paces distant, a splendid buck, just entering the clearing. At this sight, his eyes sparkle, he scaacely dares to breathe, and, putting his carbine to his shoulder, takes aim. Forgetting everything about him, he sees only his prey, which comes nearer and nearer. The buck is now hardly ten paces from him, on a line with the muzzle of his carbine, and he is in the act of touching the trigger, when a hand is put on his shoulder, and a loud voice ex claims : “Ha! fellow, you are meddling with our trade!” As if struck by lightning, Pierre remained kneeling about a minute without turning round to see who it was that had thus surprised him. Then, suddenly jumping to his feet, he turns towards the speaker, whom he immediately rec ognizes, and towards his two companions, and says: “ Yes, Monsieur l’lntendant, I was meddling with your trade, in order to put a roast on the table ot a poor devil of a comrade, who has been sick for three weeks, and cannot earn a sou.” “ For this humanity you will nevertheless have to suffer in prison. You know, the King’s attorney at Brive-ia-Gaillarde, is a very particu lar friend of poachers,” sai$l Monsieur de Cham breuil, in a sneering tone. “ But the law requires that poachers, as proof of their guilt, must be carried with their guns in their hands before the Maire of the nearest place.” “You are quite right, my good friend,” sneered the Intendant, “and therefore you shall have the honor, this very evening, of being intro duced to the Maire of St Preveux. And now, advance, my brave fellows !” he shouted, turn ing to the foresters, who had thus far remained mute spectators of the scene, “take away the carbine from that lubber, for whom a flail is a fitter instrument than a gun.” The contemptuous language and demeanor of the Marquis de Chambreuil made Pierre furious, and leveling his gun he shouted to the foresters who were advancing upon him: “If you advance another step I shall fire, and then you will find out that Pierre Poisson knows how to handle a gun somewhat better than a flail.” “Oh! you are Pierre Poisson,” the Marquis exclaimed, not quite as sneeringly as before. “ You are the husband of pretty Annette, yonder at St. Preveux; well, that is excellent, Now, I can make your acquaintance likewise.” Somewhat astonished, Pierre looked at the Marquis, who, turning to the two foresters, or dered them to withdraw. He then approached Pierre, who had lowered his carbine, and said to him, almost kindly: “You know, Pierre Poisson, that after all it would not be necessary for me to carry you be fore the Maire with your gun in your hand; my deposition and that of my men would be suffi cient to send you to jail for a couple of years. However, I shall be silent for the present if I find you sensible in regard to other matters. But go home now to your wife (to whom you may give my compliments) before my company arrive; some of these days I will pay you a visit, and see whether you know how to be grateful. Till then, adieu.” With these words he turned his back upon Pierre, and in a few moments disappeared with his attendants. Pierre looked after him for a while, and then he stamped on the ground with the butt of his carbine and muttered: I understand you, Marquis de Chambreuil; son knows how to defend his honor perhaps better than many noblemen.” He then slung his carbine over his shoulder and, with quick strides, hurried to the village. his forehead darkened as when he spoke of i 1 understand you; but take care ! Pierre Pois- Leipzig or Waterloo. 1 — u l '"~ Ju; ° ^ It was in October, the time of the vintage and about six weeks after their marriage, that Pierre came home from the vineyard in excellent humor and took down his carbine, saying to his wife: “ You will have to eat your supper by your self to-night, mon chere. I saw a fat roe-buck this afternoon in the wood close by the vineyard. You know the Maire yesterday levied on the goods of Father Bertrand, yonder in the village, for the paltry sum of ten francs, and I think a piece of roast venison will be a rich treat for his sick wife and poor little children. It often hap pens they do not see any warm food for days together. ” Annette pouted at this, for she hated to see Pierre with a gun in his hand. “What need you care for Bertrand, Pierre? plainly that his calmness was only assumed. Bat on the Maire finishing his harrangue with the words, “Bonaparte and his soldiers were nothing but a band of robbers,” Pierre could stand it no longer, and, jumping up, he shouted: “Guard your tongue, Babillard, and speak more respectfully of the Emperor and his sol diers, who fought for you while you were pull ing your nightcaps over your long ears !” At these words the peasants burst into laugh ter, and the Maire, scarlet with anger, started up and made for Pierre, shrieking: “ What! you dare insult me, the Maire of St. Preveux, and to defend Bonaparte, the usurper. Must we suffer that, Roquet,” turning to the gensd'arme, “from that brigand?” “ Unsay that word, scoundrel! unsay the word brigand !” yelled Pierre, furious at this renewed insult, and took the Maire by the throat. “Ho, there! stop in the King’s name!” ex claimed Roquet, the gens d'arme, bristling with importance and lifting up the scabbard of his sword to strike Pierre. Bat Bertrand arrested his arm, saying: “Strike the Maire, who commenced the quar rel.” The other peasants had meanwhile arisen, crowded in between Pierre and Babillard, and separated the antagonists, partly by force and partly by persuasion. A friend took Pierre by the arm and led him outside the door, to pacify him in the open door. While they were standing there, Colas, Pierre’s neighbor, came up the street, and seeing Pierre, called out to him: “Zounds! what are you standing there for? Do you not know what fashionable company there is at your home ?” “ What do you mean, Colas?” asked Pierre. “What do I mean?” Colas answered. “Noth ing but that the Marquis de Chambreuil, with two servants, drove up to your house about a quarter of an hour ago. “You can see the car riage at your door. ” At these words Pierre changed color, disen gaged himself from his friend's arm, and rushed towards his house, in front of which the Mar quis’ carriage was still standing. With savage violence he burst open the door and entered the room, just as the Marquis was putting his arm around the waist of his weeping and struggling wife, softly whispering: “But, my dear, I have told you that one ser vice deserves another, and do you regaad it as a trifle that I did not send your husband to jail ? Will yon not give rue one single kiss for it ?” “Monsieur le Marquis,” thundered Pierre, trembling with passion, and flinging him away from Annette, “every honest man pays his own debts; however, we are even now, I believe. You found me,” he added, laughing bitterly, “trespassing on your ground, and now I have caught you on mine.’’ The Marquis had been amazed by the sudden intervention of Pierre, but, soon regaining his presence of mind, and opening the window, he called his servants. “Jean, George, come in, you rascals.” The door was opened hurriedly and the two servants rushed into the room, whilst Pierre, who had taken his wife’s hand, was endeavoring to calm her agitation. “Take hold of that bumpkin,” commanded the Marquis, “who has dared to lay hands upon me, the royal Intendant, and give him a sound drubbing to teach him better manners.” “Alonsieur lTntendant!” Pierre exclaimed, beside himself with passion, “ leave my house immediately with your attendants, or, by the Almighty, I will do some mischief!” “I believe, on my soul, the fellow dares to threaten me !” shouted the Marquis, full of fury. “By St. Louis, you shall pay dearly for that V’ With these words, he seized his riding-whip and advanced on Pierre, who, on seeing this motion, quickly grasped his carbine and said: “A shot for a blow ! Marquis de Chambreuil, beware!” “For mercy’s sake, stop !” screamed Annette, falling at the feet of the Marquis; but the latter, regardless of consequences, roared: “What, scoundrel! you dare to speak to me, as if you were my equal ? Take that 1” and lifted his riding-whip for a blow. “You will have it so!” thundered Pierre, and discharged his carbine at the Marquis. The room was filled with the smoke of pow der, and the Marquis fell backward into his ser vants’ arms, exclaiming: “ The wretch has killed me !” The report of the shot had startled the entire neighborhood. From the inn and from the houses, men and women came running and crowded into the room. Pierre, with his carbine still in his hand, stood like a statue, not noticing anything that passed around him, and looking fixedly at the Marquis weltering in his blood, and at his wiio who was lying on the floor in a swoon. The peasants stood there mute, and with deep concern expressed in their countenances. The silence was at last interrupted by the entrance of the gensd'arme and the Maire, who was in vested with the badge of office. When the ser- A week had elapsed since the occurrence in the forest, and the Marquis de Chambreuil had not shown himself in Pierre’s house. The latter I vants of the Marquis saw these persons making had not mentioned hi3 meeting with the Mar- their way througU the assemblage, they set up quis to Annette, but had only told her, in case a great cry, and denounced Pierre as the ran? that Monsieur de Chambreuil should come to derer of their master. the house during his absence, to dismiss him j rhe officers of the law approached the unfor- politelv, but firmly and decisively; whereupon i tunate man, and taking the carbine from him, Annette regarded him with astonishment, and I the Maire addressed him sneeringly: asked him what the Marquis wanted with them, j “Did I not say so—that all of you who served Pierre, however, feigned not to hear her ques- j under Bonaparte were a pack of robbers ? AV ell, tion, and left the house whistling a tune. ; y° u will come to a robber s end. Come on, Bat from that evening he did not go to the ! Koquet; carry Poisson to the lock-up.” He is only a poor carpenter who works for j forest, and his loaded carbine remained stand- j .The, gensd'arme obeyed, and having bound thirty sons a day. You need not be so anxious j ing unused in a corner of the room. When j Pierre s hands -to which proceeding the latter i to fall into the clutches of the law for his sake.” j eight more days had passed, and nothing had i quietly submitted—he carried him, accompanied w BL-uic uam i This daughter of a grocer, with her dowry of j be'en seen of the Marquis, Pierre’s secret uneas- | by a few peasants, to the village lock-up for cn his features, which he could not whollv sub- I a few t . honsand francs, was a little high-minded, I in ess gradually disappeared, and he became safe-keeping until he could be sent on to the due, walked slowly towards the door. When he I an ^ did not admire Pierre’s familiarity with I again as cheerful as he had been before. He i Distriet Court at Brive-la-Gaillarde. had reached ihe middle of the room he heard a I those low P eo P le - 1 had had a prosperous season, and on the last The Marquis was carried off in his carriage trembling voice Ircm the window utter almost “Annette,” said her husband, in a tone of j market day had brought home from Brivet-la- j after his wound had first been dressed by the in a whisper: ’ ; grave rebuke, “do not speak disdainfully of i Gaillarde nearly a thousand francs, the proceeds j village surgeon, and a few kind neighbors re- “Charles !” ! our old sapper-sergeant, Bertrand. But for him, j of the sale of his produce. mained to take care of Pierre s unfortunate wife. He turned around and confronted Marv. She 1 stoul d have perished with cold at Wilna; and j The following day was Sunday. Pierre, who j The majority of the peasants, however, who had advanced two or three steps, and then stopped now *d*ey have stopped his pension because, ! was one of the notables of the village, had of- ; lost all inclination to return to the inn, dis- ’ ’ ’ ’ ' - ■’ ■- — - forsooth, he marched with his Emperor in To.” [ fered to treat his neighbors in the afternoon at ; persed quietly and sadly to their homes, while Then more cheerfully, he added: “But I must I the village inn to a keg of Limage wine. On j Bertrand, the carpenter, on leaving the ill-fated be off before the morn rises. Good-bye, ma j this occasion the Maire and gens darmes, sta- ! house, said with a sigh: chere. I shall be home by ten o’elack.” I tioned in the village, were present. They did ! “Poor Pierre ! the W hites”—by that name the i • He had gone but a few paces, when his young j not like Pierre on account of his adherence to j partisans of the Bourbons were called—“ the 7 "* | wife called him back. i the Emperor, yet did not disdain to drink his j A) hites will never forgive you for this.” That man is a philosopher and a hero who, ; “ What is the matter?” he asked, impatiently, j wine. when his wife calls him a brute, has the courage “Pierre,” she whispered, “take care. I had; The peasants were seated around a large round Truth would be popular with ns if it pronosed to sing “Call me pet names, darling.” j nearly forgotten it; but this afternoon, I heard ' table, smoking their clay pipes, with large stone only to correct the faults of others. ^ aBd locked him full in the face. She was "pale as a ghost, and remained motionless lor a few moments. (TO BE CONTINUED.) DISTINCT PRINT