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I HE
BEAUTIFUL COUNTESS;
Or*,
A Horrible Mystery,
A Startling and Exciting Story
BY SHERIDAN LE FANUE.
CHAPTER VI.
When we got into the drawing-room, and had
aat down to our coffee and chocolate, although
Camilla did not take any, she seemed quite
herself again, and Madame, and Mademoiselle
De Lafontaine, joined us, and made a little card
party, in the coarse of which papa came in for
what he called his “dish of tea.”
When the game was over he sat down beside
Camilla on the sofa, and asked her. a little
anxiously, whether she had heard from her
mother since her arrival.
She answered “No."
He then asked whether she knew where a let
ter would reach her at present.
“1 cannot tell,” she answered ambiguously,
“but I have been thinking of leaving yon; you
have been already too hospitable and too kind
to me. I have given you an infinity of trouble,
and I should wish to take a carriage to-morrow,
and post in pursuit of her; I know where 1
shall ultimately find her, although I dare not
yet tell you.”
“But yon must not dream of any such thing,”
exclaimed my father, to my great relief. “We
can't afford to lose you so, and I won’t consent
to your leaving us, except under the care of
your mother, who was so good as to consent to
your remaining with us till she should herself
return. I should be quite happy if I knew that
\ou heard f^om her; but this evening the ac
counts of the progress of the mysterious disease
that has invaded our neighborhood, grow even
more alarming: and my beautiful guest, I do
feel the responsibility, unaided by advice from
your mother, very much. But I shall do my
best; aud one thing is certain, that you must
not think of leaving us without her distinct
direction to that effect. We should suffer too
much in parting from you to consent to it
easily.”
“Thank you, sir, a thousand times for your
hospitality,” she answered, smiling bashfully.
“You have all been too kind to me; 1 have sel
dom been so happy in all my life before, as in
your beautiful chateau, under your care, and in
the society of your dear daughter.”
Se he gallantly, in his old-fashioned way,
kissed her hand, smiling and pleased at her
little spei ch.
I accompanied Carmilla as usual to her room,
and sat and chatted with her while she was pre
paring for bed.
“Do you think," I said at length, “that you
will ever confide fully in me?”
She turned round smiling, but made no an
swer, only continued to smile on me.
“Yon won’t answer that?” I said. “You can’t
answer pleasantly; perhaps I ought not to have
asked you.”
“You were quite right to ask me that, or any
thing. Y’ou do not know how dear you are to
me, or you could not think any confidence too
great to look for. But I am under vows, no
nun half so awfully, and I dare not tell my
story yet, even to you. The time is very near
when you shall know everything. You will
think me cruel, very selfish, but love is always
selfish; the more ardent the more selfish. How
jealous I am you cannot know. You must come
with me, loving me, to death; or else hate me
aud still come with me, and haling me through
death and after. There is no such word as in
difference in my apathetic nature.”
“Now, Carmilla, you are going to talk your
wild nonsense again,” I said hastily.
“Not I; silly little fool as 1 am, and full of
whims and fancies; fer your sake I’ll talk like
a sage. Were you ever at a ball?"
“No; how you do run on. What is it like?
How charming it must be.”
“I almost forget, it is years ago.”
I laughed.
“Y*ou are not so old. Your first ball can hard
ly be forgotten yet”
“I remember everything about it—with an
effort. I see it all, as divers see what is going
on above them, through a medium, dense, rip
pling, but transparent. There occurred that
night what has confused the picture, and made
its colours faint. I was all but assassinated in
my bed, wounded here," she touched her breast,
“and never was the same since."
“Were you near dying?”
“Yes, very—a cruel love—strange love, that
would have taken my life. Love will have its
sacrifices. No sacrifice without blood. Let us
go to sleep now; I feel so lazy. How can I get
up just now and lock my door?”
She was lying with her tiny hands buried in
her rich wavy hair, under her cheek; her little
head upon the pillow, and her glittering eyes
followed me wherever I moved, with a kind of
shy smile that I could not decipher.
I bid her good-night, and crept from the room
with an uncomfortable sensation.
I often wondered whether our pretty guest
ever said her prayers. I certainly haa never
seen her upon her knees. In the morning she
never came down until long after our family
prayers were over, and at night she never left
the drawing-room to attend our brief evening
prayers in the hall.
If it had not been that it had casually come
out in one of my careless talks that she bad
been baptized, I should have doubted her being
a Christian. Religion was a subject on which I
had never heard her speak a word. If I had
known the world better, this particular neglect
or antipathy would not have so much surprised
me.
The precautions of nervous people are infec
tions, and persons of a like temperament are
pretty sure after a time to imitate them. I had
adopted Camilla’s habit of locking her bed-room
door, having taken into my head all her whimsi
cal alarms about midnight invaders and prowl
ing assassins. I had also adopted her precau
tion of making a brief search through her room,
to satisfy herself that no lurking assassin or
robber was 'enconsed’ therein.
These wise measures taken I got into my bed
and fell, asleep. A light was burning in my
room. This was an old habit, of very early
date, and which nothing could have tempted
me to dispense with.
Thus fortified I might have taken my rest in
peace. ■ Rut dreams come through stone walls,
light up dprk rooms, or darken light ones, and
their persons make their exits and their en
trances as they please, and laugh at locksmiths.
I had a dream that night that was the begin
ning of a very strange agony.
I cannot call it a nightmare, for I was quite
conscious of being asleep. But I was equally
conscious of being in mv room, and leying in
bed, precisely as 1 actually was. I saw, or fan
cied I saw, the room and its furniture just as I
had seen it last, except that it was very dark,
£ d I saw something moving round the foot of
e bed, which at first I could not accurately
distinguish. But I soon saw that it was a sooty-
black animal that resembled a monstrous cat,
It appeared to be about four or five feet long,
for it measured fully the length of the hearth
rug as it passed over it; and it continued toing
ana froing with the lithe sinister restlessness of a
in a cage. I could not cry out, although
ss you may suppose, I was terrified. Its pace
was growing faster, and the room rapidly darker
and darker, and at length so dark that I could
no longer see anything of it but its eyes. I
felt it spring lightly on the bed. Tbe two broad
eyes approached my face, and suddenly I felt a
stinging pain as if two large needles darted, an
inch or two apart, deep into my breast. I waked
with a scream. The room was lighted with the
candle that burnt there all through tho night,
and I saw a female figure standing at the foot of
the bed, a little at the right side. It was in a
dark, loose dress, and its hair was down and
covered its shoulders. A block of stone oould
not have been more still. There was not the
slightest stir of respiration. As I stared at it
the figure appeared to have changed its place,
and was now near the door; then close to it, the
door opened, and it passed out.
I was now relieved, and able to breathe and
move. My first thought was that Camilla had
been playing me a trick, and that I had forgot
ten to secure my door. I hastened to it and
found it locked as usual on the inside. I was
afraid to open it—I was horrified. I sprang into
my bed and covered my head up in the bed-
cloths, and lay there more dead than alive till
morning.
CHAPTER VII.
It would be vain my attempting to tell you
the horror with which, even now, I recall the
occurrence of that night. It was no such tran
sitory terror as a dream leaves behind it. It
seemed to deepen by time, and communicated
itself to the room and the very furniture that
had encompassed the apparition.
I could not bear next day tor be alone for a
moment. I should have told papa, but for two
opposite reasons. At one time I thought he
would laugh at my story, and I could not bear
its being treated as a jest; and at another I
thought he might fancy that I had been attacked
by the mysterious complaint which had invad
ed our neighbour-hood. X had mys<. If no mis
givings of the kind, and as he had been rather
an invalid tor some time, I was afraid of alarm
ing him.
I was comfortable enough with my good-na
tured companions, Madame Paradon, and the
vivacious Mademoiselle de Lafontaine. They
both perceived that I was out of spirits and ner-
vious, and at length I told them what lay so
heavy at my heart. . . A
Mademoiselle laughed, but I fancied that
Madame Paraiion looked anxious.
“ By-the-bye, ” said Mademoiselle, laughing,
" the long lime-tree walk, behind Carmilla’s
bedroom-window, is haunted ! ”
“Nonsense!” exclaimed Madame, who prob
ably thought the theme rather inopportune
“and who tells that story, my dear ? ’’
“ Martin says that he came up twice, when
the old yard-gate was being repaired, before
sunrise, and twice saw the same female figure
walking down the lime-tree avenue. ”
“So he well might, as long as there are
cows to milk in the river fields, ” said Mad-
*“•1 daresav; but Martin chooses to be fright
ened, and never did I see fool more frighten-
‘ Y’ou must not say a word about it to Gar-
milla, because she can see down that walk from
her room window,” I interposed, “and she
is, if possible, a greater coward than I. ”
Carmilla came down rather later than usual
that day. . , . „ . .,
“ I was so frightened last night, she said,
so soon as we were together, “ and I am sure I
should have seen something dreadful if it had
hot been for that charm I bought from the poor
little hunchback whom I called such hard names.
I had a dream of something black ooming round
my bed, and I awoke in a perfect horror, and I
really thought, for some seconds, I saw a dark
figure near the chimney-piece, but I felt under
my pillow for my charm, and the moment my
fingers touched it, the figure disappeared, and
I felt quite certain, only that I had it by me,
that something frightful would have made its
appearance, and, perhaps, throttled me, as it
did those poor people we heard of. ”
“ Well, listen to me, ” I began, and recount
ed my adventure, at the recital of which she
appeared horrified.
“And had you the charm near you? she
asked, earnestly.
“ No, I had dropped it into a china vase in
the drawing-room, but I shall certainly take it
with me to-night, as you have so much faith in
it. n
At this distance of time I cannot tell you, or
even understand, how I overcame my horror so
effectually as to lie alone in my room that night.
I remember distinctly that I pinned the charm
to my pillow. I fell asleep almost immediately,
and slept even more soundly than usual all
night.
Next night I passed as well. My sleep was
delightfully deep and dreamless. But I waken
ed with a sense of lassitude and melancholy,
which, however, did not exceed a degree that
was almost luxurious.
“ Well, I told you so, ".'said Carmilla, when
I described my quiet sleep, “I had such de
lightful sleep myself last night; I pinned the
charm to the breast of my night-dress. It was
too far away the night before. I am quite sure
it was all fancy, except the dreams. I used to
think that evil spirits made dreams, but our
doctor told me it is no such thing. Only a fev
er passing by, or some other malady, as they
often do, he said, knocks at the door, and not
being able to get in, passes on, with that
alarm. ” , ,
“ And what do- you think the charm is.
said I. , .
“ It has been fumigated or immersed in some
drug, and is an antidote against the malaria,
she answered. it
“Then it acts only on the body?’
“ Certainly; you don’t suppose that evil spir
its are frightened by bits of ribbon, or the per
fumes of a druggist’s shop ? No, _ these com
plaints, wandering in the air, begin by trying
the nerves, and so infect the brain, but before
they can seize upon you, the antidote repels
them. That I am sure is what the charm has
done for us. It is nothing magical, it is simply
natural. ”
I should have been happier, if I could have
quite agreed with Carmilla, but I did my best,
and the impression was a little losing its force. ^
For some nights I slept profoundly; but still
every morning.I felt the same lassitude, and a
languor weighed upon me all day, I felt my
self a changed girl. A strange melancholy was
stealing over me, a melancholy that I would not
have interrupted. Dim thoughts of death be
gan to open, and an idea that I was slowly
sinking took gentle, and, somehow, not unwel
come, possession of me. If it was sad, the tone
of mind which this induced, was also sweet.
Whatever it might be, my soul acquesed in it.
I would not admit that I was ill, I would not
consent.to tell my papa, or to have the doctor
sent for.
Carmilla became more devoted to me than
ever, and her strange paroxysms of languid
adoration more frequent She used to gloat on
me with increasing ardor, the more my strength
and spirits waned. This always shocked me
like a momentary glare of insanity.
Without knowing it, I was now in a pretty
advanced stage of the strangest illness under
which mortal ever suffered. There was an un
accountable fascination in its earlier symptoms,
that more than reconciled me to the incapacita
ting effect of that stage of the malady. This fas
cination increased for a time, until it reached a
certain point, when gradually a sense of the hor
rible mingled itself with it, deepening, as you
shall hear, until it discolored and perverted the
whole state of my life.
The first change I experienced was quite
agreeable. It was very pear the turning-point,
from which b£gan the descent of Avernus.
Certain vague and stlange sensations visited
me in my sleep. The prevailing one was of
that pleasant, peculiar cold thrill, whioh we
feel in bathing, when v|6 move against the cur
rent of a river. This was soon accompanied
by dreams that seemed interminable, and were
so vague that I could never recollect their
scenery and persons, or any one connected por
tion of their action. But they left an awful
impression, and a sense of ’exhaustion, as if I
had passed through a long period of great men
tal exertion and danger. After all these dreams
there remained, on waking, a remembrance of
having been in a place very nearly dark, and of
having spoken to people, whom I could not see;
and especially of one clear voice, of a'female’s,
very deep, that spoke as if at a distance, slowly,
and producing always the same Bensation, of in
describable solemnity and fear! Sometimes
there came a sensation as if a hand was drawn
softly along my cheek and neck. Sometimes
it was as if warm lips kissed me, and lingered long
er and more loving as they reached my throat, but
there the caress fixed itself. My heart beat fas
ter. my breathing rose and fell rapidly and full
drawn; a sobbing, that rose into a sense of
strangulation, superveped, and turned into a
dreadful convulsion, & which my senses left
me and I became unccAscious.
It was now three weeks since the commence
ment of this unaccountable state. My suffer
ings had, during the last week, told upon my
appearance. I had grown pale, my eyes were
dilated and darkened underneath, and the lan
guor, which I had long felt, began to display
itself in my countenance.
My father asked me often, whether I was ill;
but, with an obstinanev, which now seems to
me unaccountable, I persisted in assuring him
that I was quite well,
In a sense this was "true. I had no pain, I
could complain of no bodily derangement My
complaint seemed to be one of the imagination,
or the-nerves, and,horrible as my sufferings were,
I kept them, with a morbid reserve, very near
ly to myself.
It could not be that terrible complaint, which
the peasants called the oupire, for I had now
been suffering for three weeks, and they were
seldom ill for much more than three days when
death put an end to their miseries.
Carmilla complainefi of dreams and feverish
sensations, but by no means of so alarming a
kind as mine. I say that mine were extremely
alarming. Had I bedjt capable of comprehend
ing my condition, I would have invoked aid
and advice on mv khees. The narcotic of an
unsuspected influence was acting upon me,
and my perceptions were benumbed-
I am going to tell you now, of a dream that
led immediately to an odd discovery.
One night, instead of the voice I was accus
tomed to hear in the dark, I heard one, sweet
and tender, and at the same time terrible,
whioh said, “Your mother warns you to beware
of the assassin.” At the same time, alight un
expectedly sprang ftp, and I saw Carmilla,
standing near the foot of my bed, in her white
night-dress, bathed, from her chin to her feet
in one great stain of blood.
I wakened with a shriek, pos essed with the
onife idea that Camilla was being murdered.
I remember springing from my bed, and my
next recollection, is that of standing on the
lobby crying for help.
Madame and Mademoiselle came scurrying
out cf their rooms ipt-alarm; a lamp burned al
ways on the lobb^,-^ .seeing me, they soon
learned the cause oiialf terror, .
I insisted on oiil«"lt nocking at Carmilla’s
door. Our knocking was unanswered. It soon
became a pounding and an uproar. YVe shriek
ed her name, but all was vain.
We all grew frightened, for the door was lock
ed. We hurried back in panic, to my room.
There we rang the bell, long and furiously. If
my father's room had been on that side of the
house, we would have called him up at once to
our aid. But, alas! he was quite out of hearing,
and to reach him involved an excursion, for
which we none of us had courage.
Servants, however, soon came running up the
stairs; I had got on my dressing-gown and slip
pers, meanwhile, and my companions were al
ready similarly furnished. Recognizing the
voices of the servants on the lobby, we sallied
He had remained alone to fulfil Cadoudal’s or
ders, which were to barn all the papers, lists,
etc., and close the door. He was just through
his work and in a hurry to leave with his cursed
dog.”
“Why, did he take his dog?”
“Yes, indsrd. That dew ean eat up two or
three deteetves, but still I think he was wrong
in taking i/for it is known to the police, and*
might be tie cause of the oapture of its mast
er?”
“Why diln.t you tell him so?”
“I did.”
“What dd he answer ?”
“He hada strange air, and said 'nevermind;
I am all ri ht The General does not need me
any more,ind I might be in his way by follow
ing him. 1 prefer to see for myself, and I think
you’d bettr do the same. Now all is lost and
each man ipst look to his own safety. ’ ”
“This . not reassuring. I never had fnll | Georges Cadodal
conhdenc in this man. But what became of !
Georges
“Manebu did not tell me, for the General
did not 1# him know; still he thinks that he
will go frn house to house among the friends,
and neveBleep twice in the same place.”
“That mnot last long,” sighed Saint Victor,
“was he one ?”
‘No; Iridaii came for him, Leridan, who wss
“Neither shall they take me. I shall certain
ly kill half a dozen, before they get fcine.”
“ By Jove 1” exclaimed the gendarme who had
seen them first, and who was no other than Cap
tain Barbot—“ I have already seen those men at
the ford of Bouchervilliers r
“ Surrender!” cried the polioe.
“Willingly, my son, willingly,” answered Mala-
bry, “ only you will have to come here to get us.
You see, we cannot very well go down to you.”
So saying Malabry knelt down at a corner of
his wooden fortress and seized with his power
ful hands the end of a heavy scantling. As for
Saint-Y’ictor he stood erect, and going to the
other edge of the lumber pile, be orossed his
arms on his breast and cried to the officer, in a
thundering voice:
“Order fire! Captian, I want to die as a
soldier. Why are you waiting to shoot me ? I
am Coster de Saint-Victor, first Lieutenant of
Georges Cadodal. I came to France tor the
purpose of exterminating your General Bona-
part. Command fire, if you dare !”
The Captain turned towards his soldiers, but
the spy told him:
“Remember the orders, Captain; we must
have them alive.”
“Some volunteers to climb that pile !” cried
the officer.
, , . ... ‘The quay is our last hope, ” said George’s
out together; and having renewed, as fruitless- „tenant.
ly, our summons at Carmilla s door, I ordered Joing in that direction, they saw the bayonets
the men to force the lock. They did so, and j D j D g j n tlxe light projected by the street
, T , , , • , _ | - I am one of them,” said Barbot, jumping
lately se. to us from London and who bought j iece f lumber that protru ded at the angle
a horse id a hack and took a license as a hack- of tb ‘ -j” F
““oV JLSES We ^“ 1S { Three more gendarme* followed him, unfortun-
«dt is good idea. But where w!ll they go? ately for the ^ for M alabry’s powerful hand
r • a min'u in p «• t c ^ oic • 1 turning over a heavy scantling made it fall on
friends e many in Pans. I suppose he will ; th fo * r 8oldiers> throwing them down, and
go first Caron s; he may go to my house, or to j breaking the Bku ’ U of poor Barbot, who had
y °“Th« exactly what I fear. If he comes to
my W” heSha11 b6Captared immediately ” The soldiers, P excited d by the death of their
“Yodo not know what has transpired. I left ! commander, charged on all sides at once.
my hoe this morning coming here ”
“Anyou arrive at this time of night! You
must gat a snail's pace. ’’
“Doot interrupt me. Moments are precious. I
I want to see Georges, and I was bringing to j
him tlmeansof leaving Paris.”
“it very unfortunate you did not come any i
fasterpr I fear that neither Georges nor myself i
will er go out of the city now.”
“It not my fault; but it would be too long
to reli to you all that has happened. I must;
say tt my house is watched by the police, and \
if Geges goes there he is lost. Tamerlan is
Shoot me and then blow out your own
i brains," cried Saint-Victor to Malabry.
; “I have not my pistols,” answered the old
| ckouan, “ but I can do better. Come along with
me.”
Having said so he jumped inside the pile of
lumber.
“What do you want? ” *
“I want to show them a trick I learned at the
Sunday school from our pastor. I’ll show them
how Samson treated the Philistines.”
“Thank you, friend, the blue coats shall not
take us alive and we shall not die alone.”
per ha arrested now, unless he took up the idea h 4 Ridable hurrah from the gendarmes who
Of gc* to his room and remaining there.” 1 had reach f d * e . 8 ”“ mlt of the P lle > “ d then
\frTn *1 . . jumped i>ele-inele inside.
“1 all go there to-night, and if it is yet time I*/** ■ , v- , .. -a « i i
will t him know. But what to do for the I * A j e " J £“*.. V,otor ’ said Malabr r’ we
Ge “>iL o S n?o P v 0 es e t I hat a he t0 went 0 the;I ! A crash covered the voice of the old chouan.
^ ^ p W I The pile of lumber gave way under Malabry s
we a .8t ndt"go about too much. If our being ! borcuiean efforts, burying all together </*xfar»t»
arred could save Georges I woald go out and a ' l0luws '
denoce myself, but on the contrary it might
injuhim. Let us wait. Can you shelter me
temrarily ?”
“ course I can. ”
“it us go, then; this place is not safe, and
I dt see what kept you here after yon had
seelaneheu. ”
‘was going to leave, when I saw you com-
inpl took you for a scout of the police, and
I cd not resist the temptation to kill at least
onf them. ”
exclaimed Malabry.
coolly answered Saint Vic-
THE GHOST
-“OF THE—
we stood holding our lights aloof in the door- n p 8
way, and so stared into the room. “Surrounded !
We called her by name; but there was still no .. g 0 we are t*
reply. We looked round the room. Every- r
thing was undisturbed It was exactly in the “Shall we let them capture us like scared
state in which I had left it on bidding her good- kbb it 8 ? >»
night. But Carmilla was gone.
[to be continued, j
“There is one. Let us run through the ranks
ndifthe bayonets and bullets respect us we
rill jump into the river. ”
“That is pure folly; but I have a personal
•eason for preferring that death to the scaf-
Vild’s. ”
“I have no preference at all, myself; but if
we die here, our death will do no good to the
. ,T An miivmr mimnn Gener# l' Let us try something else; it may
AN EPISODE 0F FRENCH HISTORnot be too late yet. Come quick;"and Mala-
bry taking his officer's hand, they ran together
»— 'o'"**™"
bt chirles oailhabd. selves on the narrow place^ formed by the
, . 1 77* . _ lumber all around the pile. The soldiers were
[Most or the charactfs in this story are not flctltio onnrmchino and «nnn«atn« tn tho «il« nf In m
but real personages who took conspicuous parts approaenmg, ana soon came to tne pile ot ium-
eome of the most impqtant events which occurred dur ber.
the rebellion of the Wft of France—called Choutnnerie “Halt!” cried the commander’s voice.
The troops coming from the quay joined here,
CHAPTER* Jill.
Two days after, Gabrielle Roberts was waiting
for the visit of her brother in her room of the
Pavilion de Flore, at the palace of the Tuileries.
She had premised him an answer for Captain
Perlier, and she wanted to take advantage of his
visit to obtain the passport that could save Val-
reas. She thought him to be yet in his retreat
of the lottery office, and expected to see him
there if he was not found in the garden of the
Tuileries, where he said he would wait for her.
She was absorbed in her sad thoughts when
her brother entered the room and embraced her
tenderly. She noticed at a glance that he had
not his usual ease of manner.
“What is the matter with you, Robert ? ” she
asked, anxiously.
“Nothing, sister."
“You seem to have a secret you are afraid to
let me know.”
“Not at all,” said the Major with a look of im
patience,” I came, as you know to get an answer
from you for my friend Parlier, and have no
other object in view. It has been painful to me
to disagree with you on a matter that is nearest
my heart—your own happiness. I hope that
you have changed your mind. Be your decis
ion what it will, let me know it at once, clearly,
completely, and without any reticence.”
Gabrielle paused, and said in a choked voice:
“I know that he is not dead !"
“Who?” asked Robert.
“The man who has saved you life and mins ;
the man to whom I have plighted my faith.”
“How do you know that man is alive?”
“1 have seen him ?’’
“You have seen him!” cried the officer. “No,
it is impossible—my father’s daughter has not
sunk so low as to receive a chouan in her room—
a murderer.”
“I have seen him," repeated Gabrielle.
“Where and when?”
“Day before yesterday, in the retreat where he
hides himself."
“Imprudent child! how did you dare?—do
‘Y don't like it, but I don t see any alterna- ruin y» arself - to disgrace our
ve >■
CHAPTER CH.
iabry was still speaking, when a shrill
wile was heard at a distance.
ear it is too late, ” said Saint Victor to his i
coanion.
e sound was coming from the quay and
tl^ouurts started to run in an opposite direc- I
ti They could not mistake the whistle; a !
b' of police was evidently approaching to i
sound Georges Cadoudal's residence,
le few minutes the two chouans had been
Ug in conversation might cost them dearly.
£ they ran towards the Champs-Elysees, but
t had not gone fifty yards when they sud- j
dy stopped. They had perceived a long ,
1 of moving shadows coming in their di-
lion. A cordon of regular troops barred :
ir way.
Behind the house, the way must be free :
, ” said Saint Victor.
Let us try, ” answered Malabry; and they j
towards Chaillot
>n the hill another squad of men were stand- i
across the road. ,
MALM AIS ON
name?”
“Forgive me—I love him !” said Gabrielle,
throwing herself at her brother’s feet.
Fraternal love mastered the Major’s anger, and
taking Gabrielle in his arms, he kissed her and
said with deep emotion :
“It is not the first sorrow you have caused me
Gabrielle, but it is the most cruel. Look at my
eyes—I have not shed tears for fifteen years—
and I am crying now.”
(TO BE CONTINUED.)
CIAPTER CL
Saint Victor waj as self-possessed ashev cer stepped out of the ranks, to meet the new
a A. TT „ t A A. — 5 _ OAm OVC ft,. x f Vl nf A* nonArf r» l tka nni fo rivi
robust He gave i formidable kick to his
gressor, and twisid himself so skilfully t
the fingers that h^l hold of him slipped on
cravat. _ .
“Ah ! miscreant,'he cried, fixing for assail
the man in his hrn. But he restrained
blow, for in spite tf the darkness he recogn'
the uncouth face o Malabry, who realizing v
he had done, uttffed an exclamation of ref
“Are you crazy ir mad ?” asked Saint Vic
“No," muttered the Samson of the choii
“let me explain tqyou."
“Do you thinkthe bluecoats are not en*
for us, and that W* must fight between ours*
besides ?”
“I took you foia detective."
“Did you hear |e giving the signal?”
“Yes, but some <f the spies know now h®
imitate the hootn; of the owl.”
“Not as well as I, I suppose. You'! 0
almost throttled te.”
“No, for I did tit catch you right, forti*-
ly. Let me tell you that the signs and*-
words are. no mob of any avail, for the J®
know them alL"
“It may be; burwhat are you doing l*t
this time of night?”
“I came to see f eorges."
“Why don’t yo> go in, then ?”
“Because Georfes is no longer in this h»”
“What, George!—gone?"
“He has; Do/t you know Picot ip-
rested last night f
“No.” *
“How do you kow that?”
“I came here tiout half an hour bef(f®>
and after I had gwen the signals, PierrAe-
ban opened the dor for me.”
“Did you go in'”
“No, for all bulhe had left the house
those coming from Champs Elysees. The offi-
comers. Saint Victor recognized the uniform
of the gendarmerie d'elite.
“Light the torches,” ordered a voice.
In a moment eight large torches were burn
ing, and Saint Victor could ascertain that a
squad of police, commanded by the knife-grin
der, was with the soldiers; saw too, that a cap
tain, instead of Major Robert, commanded the
troops.
“Captain,” said the detective, “I will have
torches on three sides of the house, so that
J our men can see all around. With a few men
will force open the door in front of us. I
don’t believe we need any help; but if we do, I
depend on you for that. If the chouans try to
ru^, you will see them, as in day time; but al
low me to remind you, that you must not fire,
except in case of absolute necessity; they must
be taken alive.”
“Very well,” roughly answered the Captain,
“follow your trade, I shall fulfil my duty.”
It was evident that the brave soldier did not
want anything in common with the police, and
would strictly execute his superior's orders.
The police and their chief were already march
ing toward the house, when a soldier stepped
out of the ranks and said to his officer:
“Excuse me, Captain, but I think there is
somebody up there/’ pointing with his bayonet
to the top of the lumber pile.
“Indeed, it is true,” said the officer, looking
up. •
“Oh, oh,” put in the deteotive, gladly, “they
are two, at least. Come here boys, and raise
up your'torohes. ”
“All is over, now,” muttered Saint Victor, in
rage and despair.
“Do you mean to surrender?” asked Mala
bry.
“No, they shall never have me alive.”
Julia Kavanagh' the Novelist.
I was slightly acquainted with the late Miss
Julia Kavanagh, and knew very well some of
her few intimate friends. Where she got im
pressions for her novels, none of us were able
to make out. From girlhood to the time of her
death, which happened in her fifty-fourth year,
she hardly went into society of any kind. She
lived in a pretty little apartement with her moth
er, her flowers, her books, and piano, receiving
few visitors, and paying fewer visits. Every
summer she and Mrs. Kavanah went to a quiet
fishing-village an the cosuit of Normandy. There
Julia saw a little of the outer world, without
mixing in it. She used to talk, however, with
the fishers and their wives, and with a family
living in a romantically situated mill. In
speaking English there was no trace of Ireland
on her tongue; but the pitch of the voice was
Irish. Her French was the purest Parisian.
Ink-stains were not to be detected on her small
white hands, and she avoided talking literary
“shop.” The “shell” in which she lived, I be
lieve she thoroughly enjoyed. Miss Julia
Kavanagh dressed very plainly and neatly.
Anything looked well on her. She could wear
cotton gowns, when only silks were fashionable,
without passing for a dowd. One of her nega
tive qualities—and an unusual one it was in an
authoress—was the absence of literary jealousy.
In talking of Mrs. Henry Wood, George Eliot,
and a well-known mistress of sensational fiction,
her voice lost none of its softness. Miss Kava
nah was herself, incomparably superior to any
of her heroines. It was her misfortune to have
made her debut in literature when the “Keep
sake” was popular. She picked up early the
tone of that periodical, and mingled too little
with the active, busy world to perceive that a
more robust style whioh evenually left but small
spaoe for her in the book market, was ooming
in. Her best works were wayside sketches,
worked up from notes taken in oountry inns,
and published under various titles.
Says the Detroit Free Press: “It is stated that
a darkey waiter at a Boston hotel has read Hero
dotus through in Greek." Come now, wasn’t it,
merely stated that he had read it through in |
grease? 1