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yol. v. ,i. ti. & w it sea ijS,} jjgggs&S Atlanta ga.,
For the leaves so variegated
Of every hue and shade,
While squirrels on the tree-tops
Are on their grand parade.
While the nuts are sw iftly falling
From the lofty chestnut houghs ;
And from the withered pasture
We hear the lowing cows.
Anil now and then the trilling
Of some lone, straggling bird.
That has not yet flown southward,
Is in the distance heard.
And we hear the woodman chopping
And the haying of the hounds,
As they chase the startled game
With the wildest leaps and bounds.
Closely followed by the sportsmen
With their guns and cartridge box,
Apparently in wild pursuit
Of some poor, wily fox.
Then to see the slanting sunshite
Down through the branches peering
In the deep, shadowy forest,
Is a sight intensely cheering.
Such a scene is ne’er forgotten,
But makes a picture on life’s page
Which will never lose its lustre
Even in declining age.
Pittsfield, Mass., Oet. 187!).
THE HOUSE OF SECRETS;
OR; THE
Mystery of the Miser’s Den
By Hfvcrlj <>. Saxe, JI. D.
An old-fashioned Parisian mansion, in the Rue de
I’Hirondelle, generally known as the house of Fran
cis I, because he once had lived in it, was inhabited
about the middle of the eighteenth centurv, by
one Maitre Dumas, a retired lawyer. His house-
hold consisted of a wife and daughter, and a mid
dle-age Norman jieasant woman, formerly bonne,
or nurse, of the young lady, and who had lieeu re
tained ever since as the manager of the house.
It was reported and believed that Maitre Dumas
was rich, and the estimated amount of his wealth
was much larger than its actuality. Certainly, he
lived so much lietter than his neighliors, though he
kept only one servant-of-all-wnrk, that it was
puzzling to think how he could have become so rich
from his profession alone. But it was known that
he was a miser—that, although he lived well, he
made every sou go as far as possible, and never
gave a franc to charity. He was a silent, myste
rious man, had no confidents, shunned society, and
was as unojienable as ail oyster.
The old lawyer had a tolerable library, and read
a great deal, his study 1 icing a small turret-cham
ber at the top of the house, where he sometimes ole-
served the stars. It was said that be cast schemes
of nativity, its a fortune-teller, and was well paid
for them.
At three o’clock on every Friday, lie was accus
tomed to enter his sky-parlor and doubly lock the
door. Every Friday, too, a few moments after he
had thus retired to his secret cell, the heavy trot of
an unusually large horse was to lie heard in the
street, which ceased when the animal reached M.
Dumas’ old-fashioned mansion. This horse would
have lieen noticeable for its beauty of form and
fine grooming. The horse’s rider was a powerful
man, very richly attired, wearing a slouched hat
pulled well down over his face. On dism unting
at the door of the mansion, the mysterious cavalier
gave no notice of his arrival, but quickly entered
the house, dashed up stairs to the eyrie under the
roof, gave utterance to a peculiar hissing sound,
which was followed by the grating of a bolt and a
key, the ojiening and closing of a door, and lie was
closeted with the miser. At the end of precisely
one hour, the stranger would descend, mount his
steed, and ride off at, his familiar rapid trot.
For fifteen years this man and horse hail regular
ly arrived at that door, at the same hour of the
same day. Many had watched them when they de
parted, had followed them, but. bad always lost
them at one |K>int or another. Whence the rider
came, or whither lie went, remained a secret which
the most sharp-eyed curiosity vainly attempted to
penetrate.
This matter caused great atid continuous gossip
in the neighliorhooiL People magnified the myste
ry till it liegan to lie whispered about that Maitre
Dumas had familiar relations with the Evil One.
Madame Dumas was almost as reticent and se
cluded as her liege, while the solitary servant—tall,
strong, and brawny, as the Norman women usually
are—was elo-e and uncommunicative outside of
the family. But ilie daughter, Louise, was unlike
either of her parents-^ pretty, bright-eyed girl of
eighteen, without a trace of family resemblance in
her finely-cut f utures. She was gentle, simp e-
hearted as a child, with a disposition of unvarying
sweetness, and a guileless, affectionate nature, such
as no amount ol contact with a depraved and wick
ed world could contaminate.
Louise would have been a belle had she lieen per
mitted to go into societv, but her pretty face was
seldom seen out of the Hue de P Hirondelle. She
knew nothing of her father’s secrets He was as
much a mystery to her ash liad ever been to out
siders. She knew that a stranger came every Fri
day to the house, and was closeted with her father
for an hour in the turret-chamber, but who he was
and whi lie came, she had never lieen able to dis
cover She had once questioned her mother with
regard 1“ it, but that lady, mi far from enlightening
her, had charged her never to mention the subject
again.
The nilv tunes Louise ever went out alone was
when -lie took her morning walks, which she did as
regularly as the morning came.
It w iis h i one of tic sc occasions that lie first ne t
Basil Mu iiieau, a handsome and gallant youn
tin I. ne'iYTg iKiii inVerh,}’ ,triV c> 4 ifd liitid). He Vtf.W’
deeply impressed by her lieauty.and w!>"n asked per
mission to walk home with her. slu; was so confused
and frightened that she acquiesced. But when they
turned into the Rue de l’Hiroiidelle, Louise frankly
explained to her escort that her parents would lie
displeased if they saw her in the company of a
strange gentleman; and so they separated.
But they met again the next day, and many days
after that. It was always by design on Basil
Martineau’s part, and he was candid enough to con
fess it; yet Louise did not have the heart to censure
him. She wondered if it were very iniproi>er to
permit this gentleman to accompany her in her
A man sprang from behind a monument, and a handkerchief was tied over my friend’s eyes.
. < ie.-i a delicacy aoout plena- i cidedlv:
| ing against the innocent little things. | ,,^ T l u
Iliac lie knows more aiaai.^tiie'ni;"^,' , iggg'tii re’ ami
his child than he would care to tell.” '
“But what has all this to do with my father’s af
fairs!” asked Louise, as the young man paused.
“Perhaps nothing—perhaps a great deal. I tell
you this to let you know why I think the marquis
is a viIlian. But / have something more to tell.”
“Yes, monsieur."’
“I know positively that the strange horseman
who pays your father weeklv visits is the confiden
tial valet of the Marqus de Hautville!”
Louise looked up quickly.
“You know this?”
“Positively. I had it from his own lips. I have
Jacques, the confidential valet of the Marquis de
Hautville; the other was a stoutly-built man, some
forty years of age, with a handsome, noble face,
and wearing a heavy, fur-trimmed coat.
Basil sprung from the carriage, and heljied Louise
out. At the same time he whispered to her:
"This is your father.”
The man in the fur coat stepjied forward, an ea
ger light in his eyes.
“My daughter!” he exclaimed. “I xvould know
her among a million. She is the very counterpart
of her mother. Child! child! look at me; 1 am your
father!”
And Louise liewildered and astounded as she was,
knew that he spoke the truth. She hesitated hut an
instant—then, with a glad cry, she sprung into his
arms. , . , .,
"Thank God I have lived to see this hour! said
Pierre de Hautville, in a tremulous voice.
We will not dwell on the happy meeting.
After awhile the whole party entered the carriage,
including Jacques, the valet, and were driven rapid-
lv towards the Chateau de Hautville.
Arriving in the vicinity of the grand castle, Pierre
and his daughter stepped out, leaving Basil and
Jacques in the carriage. The father and child then
proceeded towards the huge iron gates that opened
into the chateau grounds. . .
“Where are we going now?” asked Louise, begin
ning to feel somewhat alarmed.
“We are going to inform the present occupant of
these domains that he has no right here—that I am
the real Marquis de Hautville, and he a would-be
murderer. Ah! yonder he comes. We will stand
here and wait for him.”
Three men were coming slowly down one ot the
shady avenues toward the gate. One of them, by
his dress and carriage, was easily identified as the
proud marquis. The other two were flashily-dressed
chevaliers, in swords and high-topped boots—evi
dently guests of the < Id noble.
Louise and her father stood outside the open gate,
waitin'-- The three men came down the walk—
came through the gate. Pierre stepped forward,
and took otf his hat, confronting the marquis.
“Monsieur,” he said, in a tone of mock deference,
“are you ready to relinquish your title, your for
tune, and your estates to their rightful owner ?”
The marquis looked him in the face—first with an
expression of haughty surprise, as he would have
looked at a beggar who dared to stand in his way;
then, with a gradual dawning of recognition in his
glance, accompanied by a perceptible whitening of
the lips. , ,
“You knoxv me!” continued the man, his voice
changing to one of bitter sarcasm. ’You recognize
the man whom you thought vou were well rid of—
wliose.ho »“i W ’I tbono-bt, were wmosimv,*" the boA )M , ar .
’ I civilization are as different from the American and
, T | European standard, as that of the African, and the
i tom of the Seine! Tremble, craven! You have cause
to tremb'e now, for Pierre de Hautville still lives!”
The marquis was thoroughly pale now. He stag
gered back as if he had been struck, and leaned
windows of the drawing-room, and mused vei the
occurrence.
YVheu the horseman left the house that day he
was not alone, but was accompanied by another
man, who walked in a half-stooping attitude, and heavily on tin- arm of one of the chevaliers for suje
walks, hut whatever her decision was, her gratitude ! known it for six months, but I never gave the mat-
would not all -w her to be rude to him. ~ Besides,
slie liked him. She learned to look for him when
ever she went out alone, and felt a pang of disap
pointment if he failed to meet her at a given point.
So, in time, her conscience ceased to reproach her
for indulging the one gleam of sunshine that had
broken into her clouded life, and the acquaintance
speedily ripened into friend-hip.
Basil’s manner betrayed unusual eagerness and
excitement one morning, when he met Louise.
“I have been thinking of sotn-thing since I left
you yesterday,” he said, tiying to speak in his
usual tone, "lam surprised that it has never oc
curred to me before.”
She looked up at him quest ioniugly. He had
dropped alongside her, and they were walking slow
ly toward the Cemetery of tin- Innocents.
“Will you answer me a question, mademoiselle,”
“Yes monsieur,” returned Louise, a little startled
by his manner.
lie hesitated a moment, drew a deep breath, and
then asked;
“What Ls-your father’s name?”
‘‘Maitre Dumas,” she replied.
His faee|hrightencd.
“My conclusion is the right one, then,” he said.
“Your father is a retired lawyer, i believe?”
“Yes, monsieur.”
“And a fortune-teller?”
“1—1 do not know.”
“At least he is regarded as such by liis neighbors,
who think lie is leagued with some supernatural
power?”
“Monsieur?”
“You need not hesitate to tell me this, madem
oiselle. I will explain all in due time.”
‘ But indeed I know nothing, monsieur, except
that my father is regarded as a very mysterious be
ing.”
“He divulges none of his secrets to his daughter,
then ?”
“None, monsieur.”
“But you surely know that a strange horseman
pays him a visit every Friday at t hree o’clock?”
“Yes; but I do not know who he is, nor why he
comes.”
“Did you ever see his face?”
“Yes;—that is, i have had glimpses of it, but he
always wears his hat drawn down over his eyes.”
"You would not know him then, if you met him
face to face in the street?”
"1 d" not know, I am sure.”
Basil relapsed into thoughtful silence. At the
end of a minute he spoke again.
“Louise, I know something about this mystery,
and I am going to know more. Will you keep a
secret if 1 tell you one?”
“Yes monsieur.”
“It is not n.ueh,” continued Basil,” but it will
show you that I have a clue to the mystery. I hap
pen to la- on friendly terms with the Marquis de
Hautville, who owns the grandest chateau in the
suburbs of l’aris. I cannot say that I admire him;
he is not a person that any one can love; besides, I
have reason to elieve that lie is a villian. He nice
liad a cousin named Pierre de Hautville. Pierre
was the nearest heir to the title and the fortune,
and the only person who stood between them and
the present marquis—whose name is Landre, by the
wav. Landre was a scapegrace, Pierre an honest
ana honorable man. While Pierre’s father was on
his (leathlied, Pierr e suddenly and mysteriously dis
appeared. Hi- infant daughter—a child only three
years old, whose mother had died in giving birth—
disapjieared at the same time; and neither of them
were ever heard of afterward. Of course Pier e’s
death ceased to he a matter of doubt after long and
. - ., „ , patient search for him, and Landre became the
man. win happened to In- cross ligone of the crowd- j Marqu-s de Hautville, a position which he has enjoy
ed thorongi lares jnst in time to save the young gjrl ed for fifteen years. There are those who believe
ter much thought until last night, when I began to
w-onder if you were related to Maitre Dumas.
Jacques, the valet, imagines himself deeply indebt
ed tome because it fell to my lot to save his life one
day. He told me what 1 have just related to you,
but nothing more. I am sure that he will tell me
more if 1 insist upon it—perhaps will even tell me
the object of his weekly visits to your father’s
house.”
“But why should we try to fathom the secret?”
inquired Louise, looking really alarmed.
“Because I am satislied that there is villiany at
the bottom of it,” replied Basil. “Do not imagine
that I will seek to get your father into trouble. If
my suspicions are correct, the culpable party is the
Marquis de Hautville, and Monsieur Dumas is sim
ply a tool. Listen, Louise; Pierre ile Hautville was
my dearest friend. I was n mere boy when he liv
ed, but 1 was strongly attached to him, and if it
lies in my power, to avenge his death, L shall feel
called upon to do it.”
The girl la-gged him to do nothing rash, and he
promised to exercise prudence in whatever he un-
’ dertook.
But she was not at all easy in her mind, and when
she returned home sue felt as if something was
aliout to happen which would change the whole
tenor of her life.
What would her father say if he knew of the con
versation that had passed between her and Basil
Martineau that morning? The bare thought of it
made her shudder; and whenever her father glanced
at her from under his shaggy brows, she instinct
ively shrank, half fearful that he would read her
thoughts.
What would Basil do? She put this question to
herself till it became a torture to her. Would he
bring to light the secret of the cavalier’s visits, and
would there lie villiany at the bottom of it? If so,
tile wicked plot, hail been going on for many long
years, for that same horseman hail arrived at her
father’s door on the same day of every week as far
back as she could remember; all i>er life in fact—or
at least, ever since she was a very small child.
She saw Basil no more for three days. The third
day was Friday, and sue felt more than ever as if
something dreadful was about ro happen. At 1 lire.-
o’clock M. Dumas locked himself in his study, as
usual. A few moments later the rapid trot of a
horse sounded in tile Rue de I’Hirondelle, and ihe
unknown rider stopoed at the door of • he in msi-m,
his slouched hat drawn so far down over his face
that scarcely a feature was v sihle. He dismount
ed, and entered the house in his usual unceremoni
ous fashion, and hurried up stairs to the turret-
chamber. At the door >.f tin seore cell he gave
utterance to the hissing signal, and was promptly
admitted.
None of the family paid the slightest heed to his
entrance; but, shortly afterwaid, Louise crept up
stairs, and stopped just outside the door of h a-
father’s study. She knew not. wli.at imjielled her;
she had never thought of doing such a thing before;
but now an inonlii ate desire to penetrate t a;
mystery of these Friday interviews held possession
of her. The moment she reached the sjwit she heard
strange sounds within—sounds of scuffling feet, as
if two men were wrestling—deep, husky breathing
—smothered curses—hissing ejaculations—a jostling
ef furniture, and an occasional bang against the
door.
Louise was so frightened by these unm stakable
sounds of strife, lhat she lieatah.sty retreat, fly
ing down stairs as swiftly as*her lit'le teet could
lie made to move. H- r first, excited impulse was m
run to her mother with ail account of what slit- had
lieanl, but by tlu- time she had reached the lower
rooms she hail changed her mind, and decided to
say nothing aliout it to any one. But she was so
terrified that she hid herself in one of the curtained
who was muffled in a long cloak which entirely con
cealed his face. The neighbors observed and mar
velled Louise observed and marvelled. Madame
Dumas and the old servant observed,and a gleam of
satisfaction lit up the hard features of the former.
“Thank God! they are taking him away at last!”
ejaculated Madame.
And nothing more was said on the subject.
Late that evening Maitre Dumas came down from
his sky-parlor, looking at least twenty-five years
older than when he went up. He was pale, hag
gard, hollow-eyed; he walked unsteadily, and trem
bled as with palsy; his nerves had evidently re
ceived a shock from which tbev would never recov-
port.
“Mon Dieu!” he gasped. “You—you here? I
thought—I thought you were dead!”
“But, as I said before, I still live. The fact is too
evident to be denied!” and Pierre gave vent to a
hollow laugh.
The marquis started up from his drooping posi
tion, with a wild gesture.
“What does this mean?” he cried, hoarsely. “It
is not true—it cannot be true! It is some trick—
some hellish jugglery—some foul plot to ruin me!
By St. Peter! somebody has played me false!”
“You are right,” returned the other; “your valet
has played you false—Maitre Dumas has played you
er. He had nothing to sav in the presence of Louise | false—an I to their weakness I owe my life. I was
and the servant, but he had a private interview ! hired to the old cemetery of St. Martin’s by the
with madame, after which inadame also looked pale j hope held out to me that I should there learn some-
anil unnerved. j thing of my child who had mysteriously disappeared.
The next morning Louise went out for her mom- j Fearful of some plot however, I took a friend with
alk, as usual. Basil Martineau met her at ] me. We were met by a muffled female figure who
the accustomed place, with an expression of coun
tenance such as she had never seen him wear before
— an expression of mingled triumph and joy.
“Louise,” lie said, eagerly, "come with me. I
have goo l news fur you. There is a carriage wait
ing for us around the corner.”
“A carriage!” faltered the girl. “What does
this mean? Where would you take me?”
“Can you trust nie, Louise?”
“But the carriage? Where—’’
“Louise, can you not trust me?”
“Yes, monsieur, but—”
“Then come with me. It is for your good that I |
do this. / would not harm you. No time is to be !
lost—come!”
He took her hand. She went with him, dazed
and bewildered. - He hi tided her into a close carri
age which was waiting at the corner of the street, !
and seated hims If beside her. Another second and
they were whirling away through the narrow I
streets towards the suburbs of the city.
“Where are you going, mo isieur?” pleaded Louise,
looking up into her companion’s face.
“To the Chateau de Hautville,” he replied.
The girl started.
“Why do vou take me there, monsieur?” she
asked.
“To see Monsieur the Marquis.” returned Basil,
with a .-anile. “ B t before we reach the chateau we
will stop and see your father.”
“My father!”
“Child, have you never suspected that Maitre
Dumas is not your father?—that Madame Dumas,
so far from b ing your mother, never hail any chil
dren of her own.' It is true, Louise. You remem
ber that 1 told you about the mysterious disappeur-
a ee of Pierre ile Hautville and his infant child?
Foil are that cli Id, Louise ”
The girl sank back among the cushions of the
carriage, pale and speechless, staring at the man as
if scarcely able to eredit bis statement.
“You saw the strange ho- sem m when he arrived
at the house yest rd.ay?” continued Basil.
"Yes ” she managed to reply.
“That horseman was no other than myself.”
“Foil?”
“1! Jasques, the valet, after imieh persuasion,
permitted me to personate him on ill it, one occa
sion. 1 disguise i mys If, sons to look us much like
him as possible. I d d not expect 'ofinil Pierre de
Hauntville there, aiive anil in the flesh
“What!”
“But I did, Luiis ; I did not find him there,
where he has line , k pt in close confinement for fif
teen years. Just think of it! In a seen-', cell, open
ing out of the turrot-chamlier, lie has been incar
cerated ever since you vver three y ■••u’s old. He
has endured t e t rture of kn w ng that his child
lived under the same roof with him. in utter igno
rance of his existence; that she was being brought
up in the belief that another man was her father.
T
1
I
said she could show me my child safe and well. I
followed her to a secluded corner of the cemetery.
Suddenly she stopped, straightened her bent figure,
threw off the cloak revealing a powerfully framed
man. At the same instant another man sprang
from behind a monument, a handkerchief was tied
over ray friend's eyes. I was knocked down anil
stunned, and the next tiling I knew 1 was confined
in a secret apartment in Maitre Dumas’ house.
Neither he nor Landre hail the courage to kill me as
you had ordered, but they have kept me confined
there for fifteen long years; while my daughter was
reared under the same roof, and 1 not allowed to look
upon her face in all that tune. I saw your yalet
every Friday, when he came to the house to deliver
the weekly sums of money, which you paid M. Dumas
for keeping my child Oh, it was a fiendish plot,
Landre, and cleverly conceived, but you never
dreamed that 1 was only a prisoner, instead of be
ing dead. Base, cowardly wretch! if I served you
right. I would shoot you dead iu your tracks.”
He thrust his hand iti his breast, as if he would
carry the thought into execution; but Louise saw
the movement, and ran forward.
“Don’t, father!” she cried. “Please don’t stain
your hand with blood.
He looked down into the distressed young face
lifted imploringly to his; then folded her in his arms,
and kissed her.
“No,” he said: “it is not for me to take his
wretched life. His punishment will be severe
enough.”
He put his lingers to his lijis, and gave vent to a
shrill whistle.
In a moment a half-dozen yens d'nrrnesappeared,
approaching from different directions.
“What does this mean!” demanded one of the
chevaliers.
“!t means that Monsieur the Marquis is a prison
er,” replied Pierre, with a scornful accent on the
title. "I have hail this house guarded ever since
la -t night, to prevent his escape in case he learned
that l was still alive. Men. do your duty!”
There was no help for it. The proud man who
liad gloried in the title for fifteen years was seized,
handcuffed, placed in the carriage with f. mr yens
tParmes, and driven to the Bast ile.
So ended the mystery cf the old house in the Rue
de l’Hirondelle. The weekly visits of the strange
horseman came to an end. Maitre Dumas commit
ted suicide, to escape the punishment he so richly
deserved. The wronged man regained his rights,
and was soon the acknowledged and highly-osi edit
ed Marquis de Hautville, while his daughter enjoyed
the. distinction of being the. most attractive young
hnly in Paris. It. proved to In; a ease of mutual love
between Louise and Basil Martineau, and'hey were
nmri ieil xvith the marquis’ blessing.
Landre died in prison.
1
the
here we are -and here is tour father, Louise.”
The carriage-topped in front of a small house.
Two men were standing 'here, waiting. One was
tli
tended. “Do if ;ue, ’ sni l
pardon—bring him in.”