Below is the OCR text representation for this newspapers page.

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