"Then, my friend, I shall be re-united to Pauline-a violent lunge at his adversary, received himself a

for my daughter no longer lives; I cannot doubt it--or she would have returned long since to hide her shame in the bosom of her father. Besides, if there is justice in heaven, do you think it possible that in this duel I should be the sufferer ?"

"No-but the justice of heaven sometimes resembles the justice of man; we do not always understand

its decrees."

M. Guerreville, in return, merely presses the hand of his friend, and they proceed on their way in silence. The carriage reaches the gate of St. Mandé; they order the driver to stop. The two friends get out, and enter the wood. George is directed to follow them at a distance.

The quick glance of M. Guerreville is turned in every direction among the trees, in search of his adversary. Edward Delaberge had not yet arrived.

"The coward--I must wait his coming! He would insult me to the end," says M. Guerreville, as he walks to and fro impatiently under the trees.

"Be calm, my friend--try to compose yourself; you are ill prepared for a rencontre in so much agitation." "Ah! Jenneval, long has been the day that I have sighed for this meeting! Moments seem to me like ages!"

In four or five minutes Edward Delaberge arrives, with two of the young gentlemen who had been present in the morning at Madam Dolbert's.

"There he is! there he is!" cries M. Guerreville. "Ah, I breathe again: I feared that he would not come."

The three young men advance. Edward had a cold, undisturbed air. They direct their steps to a retired part of the wood. M. Guerreville soon pauses, with the exclamation-" This spot will answer!"

"I have brought pistols," says Edward. "As to that, however, if you prefer the sword, it is entirely indiffer

ent to me."

sword-thrust, which passed through his body.

He grew pale--he staggered-he still desired to continue the fight, but the sword fell from his hands. "The pistols!" mutters M. Guerreville, as he falls on the turf-" let them give us the pistols."

"You are no longer in a condition to hold one," says Edward, throwing his sword upon the ground. “I have washed out my affront-I have nothing more to do here-I will send you the carriage, and the servant who attends: let us go, gentlemen; I can now be married." As he spoke, Edward took the arm of one of his seconds, and the three young men left the field.

Jenneval was on his knees by his friend; he raised him and gave immediate assistance. M. Guerreville soon began to lose consciousness, still muttering"Pistols-give us pistols."

George soon arrived; seeing his master wounded and lying on the ground, the faithful servant uttered an exclamation of despair, and asked the doctor if his master would die.

"Alas!" says Jenneval, "the wound appears to be very deep and dangerous--I cannot answer for its consequences. Poor Guerreville! wounded-conquered-when he was fighting for his child, to avenge her honor--and the wretch who has wronged her, escapes unharmed. Ah! I had reason for saying that the justice of heaven sometimes resembles that of man."

The doctor and George take M. Guerreville in their arms, and bear him to the carriage.

Jenneval places himself there by the side of his friend, and the coachman drives as gently as possible to Paris.

Jenneval places himself by the bedside of M. Guerreville; he will not leave him for a moment as long as he considers him in danger; and if he cannot save him, he will at least be present to receive his last commands, and to close his eyes.

That night, at about eight o'clock, some one calls at "Very well," says M. Guerreville; "the sword- the house of the wounded man; it is Jerome, who had we shall have a nearer view." come to learn the result of M. Guerreville's visit to Madam Dolbert.

Jenneval presents to the two combatants the swords which he carried under his cloak; each takes one without examining the other.

"Sir," exclaims M. Guerreville, putting himself on guard, "I fight for my daughter whom you have stolen. One of us may fall in this combat. Before crossing our swords, I demand to know of you what has become of my child."

"Sir," replies Delaberge, in an insolent tone, "I have already told you that I knew neither your daughter nor yourself. I understood nothing of the scene that took place this morning at Madam Dolbert's; and these gentlemen are the witnesses that I fight you only for the blow which you have given me."

The doctor shows M. Guerreville, still lying sense less on his bed, to the water-carrier, and says to him:

"There is the result of his visit to Madam Dolbert. In this Edward Delaberge, who was about to marry the young Stephanie, my friend recognized a man who had deeply wronged him--a wretch, of whom he had been a long time in pursuit. He insulted him. They fought. The wrong-doer triumphed—that often happens.”

"Oh my God!" mutters the Auvergnese; “Wounded-mortally wounded perhaps! and it is I who have been the cause."

"You! oh, do not reproach yourself, Jerome; my poor friend, on the contrary, has blessed you, for hav"Wretch!" says M. Guerreville; "let us see if you ing led him to this man whom he has so long sought." will persist in your denial."

At the same moment their blades cross-the combatants assail each other with earnestness; but with M. Guerreville there was more ardor, more passion, than prudence--whilst Edward, who was a very skilful swordsman, applies himself merely to parrying the blows of his adversary, and exhausting his strength.

The combat continued for some time with equal advantage on both sides, when M. Guerreville, in making

"And this wound! oh, sir, is it possible that he will die of it?"

"I have great fears; but if I can save him at all, his recovery will be very slow."

"So brave a man! and the scoundrel who wounded him is unharmed-he-oh! it is not right-Monsieur Guerreville, my benefactor-a man so good, so gener ous! Adieu, good doctor, adieu; I shall come every day to inquire after him.”

"And what prevents, monsieur, the petit-maitre from managing a club as well as I? I am fifty years old, you are only thirty; it seems to me that this might equalize all the difference between us. Come on--come ontake a club,"

"Here are the weapons which I generally use," says Edward, drawing a pair of pistols from his pocket: "these will equalize all difference--for it does not require the strength of Hercules to draw the trigger of a pistol. Ah! ha-my good fellow, these stagger you a little-they don't please you so well as your clubs."

"Ah! you shall see if I shrink from any weapon," exclaims Jerome; "if I treated you as you deserve, I should begin by taking away your pistols and beating you with my cudgel; but I am not a coward like yourself, and accept your arms. Provided that I kill you and revenge M. Guerreville, how matters it with what weapon? Come--give me one of your pocket toys." Throwing aside the clubs, Jerome does not wait for Edward to present a pistol; he snatches one from his hand, and stepping back three paces, cocks and aims it, saying, "Are we ready?"

"It is not usual to fire at such a short distance," says Edward, whose courage seems to flag under the summary movements of the Auvergnese.

"Oh! we must make sure--it is growing very dark, and I have no disposition to fire at random; but, faith, we must despatch. I will strike the signal with my foot-the second time we will draw together."

They carry the wounded man to his bed; they run for a physician. But Edward demands immediately pen, ink and paper. He desires to profit by his little remaining strength, to trace a few lines; he succeeds so far in overcoming his sufferings, when he gives the note to Jerome, saying in a low tone:

"Carry this to M. Guerreville-you have avenged him, and you have also saved Stephanie Dolbert; for I was this night to have introduced myself into her chamber, in the hope of carrying her off by force. Before dying, however, I would have wished to bid her a last adieu-to have seen her once-"

"I shall pass by the house of these ladies," says Jerome, " and will tell them what has happened to you, and what you desire. Oh, I doubt not that they will come to take care of you. Adieu, sir-try to recover, if possible. For myself, I return to Paris, where I hope to restore completely the health of M. Guerreville."

In uttering these words, Jerome takes the billet which Edward extends to him, and leaves the inn at the moment a physician arrives there.

The water-carrier stops as he promised, at the house of Madam Dolbert; but at the moment of entering, he discovered the servant of M. Delaberge, who, in obedience to the orders of his master, was waiting for him under Stephanie's window.

"You wait for your master in vain," says Jerome, addressing himself to Dupré. "He has just received a pistol-shot in a duel, and has but a few moments to live; go, carry this news to Madam Dolbert's-M. Edward Delaberge would like to see them before be

Jerome raises his weapon, and gives the first signal; Edward cocks his pistol--the Auvergnese hardly raises his foot to give the second and last signal, when Ed-dies." ward pulls the trigger of his pistol; it misses fire.

"Ah! mine will not miss, I hope," cries Jerome, and at the same moment he fires. Edward receives the ball in his breast, and falls almost upon his adversary.

"I think he has settled his account," says Jerome, throwing his pistol to the ground; "but, faith, if his pistol had not missed fire, I believe that I should have danced for it as he was in a deuce of a hurry to draw. Monsieur, I will go and send your servant to carry you to the inn."

The valet is thunder-struck at this intelligence. Before he recovers from his surprise, Jerome is already on the road to Paris; for the Auvergnese is so anxious to arrive at M. Guerreville's, that he triples his strides, and leaves far behind him most of the carriages, which are on the way to Paris.

In spite of his utmost diligence, it was an hour to morning when he re-enters Paris. The Auvergnese hesitates as to his proper course: at so unseasonable an hour, shall he present himself at M. Guerreville's? "In Heaven's name, Jerome," says Edward in a He might be obliged to rouse the whole house to gain feeble voice, trying to raise himself "in Heaven's admittance; and he might disturb the repose of the name, carry me yourself. I feel that I am mortally good gentleman himself, who is hardly convalescent, wounded-I would wish for still time enough to write and to whom the doctor had recommended the most a few lines to M. Guerreville, whom I have so misera- particular care. Jerome perceives that notwithstandbly injured. You can say at the inn that you founding his anxiety to see M. Guerreville, he must defer his me in this road; and I promise you I will not mention visit to the next day. that it was you with whom I have been fighting." The water-carrier returns to his humble dwelling, "So be it-I am very willing. But I do not fear ex-but he does not close his eyes. He has the billet, which posing myself-oh, no-but if you repent, that is the Edward Delaberge had given him for M. Guerreville; chief thing, and I cannot refuse to assist you." but, though the letter was not sealed, Jerome did not suffer himself to look at it; he would have considered it a crime.

Jerome stoops, and taking the wounded man in his arms, raises him on his shoulder-thus loaded with this heavy burden, he sets out for the village; while Edward, with his handkerchief, tries to stay the blood which is flowing profusely from his wound.

The Auvergnese at length arrived at the inn. At sight of the traveller bathed in his own blood, every one assails Jerome with questions; Edward has still strength enough left to answer:

"I have been wounded in a duel—my adversary has fled. This brave man has found me, and has had strength enough to bring me here."

At length the day dawns. Jerome counts the minutes, the seconds. At six o'clock, he goes out and directs his course towards M. Guerreville's, saying to himself, "If he is still asleep, no matter—I can wait for him to wake up."

It is George who opens the door for the Auvergnese, and he cannot refrain from saying, “You are here somewhat early, Monsieur Jerome."

"True, Monsieur George-but do you see, when one has good news to tell, I think that he cannot arrive too

early. But first, how is M. Guerreville this morn- | berge in the country, near the dwelling of Madam Doling?"

bert, in a retired road. I began the conversation. He was unwilling to fight me, but I compelled him to it. I proposed clubs—he refused; he proposed pistols-I accepted them: we fired-near enough-and his busi.

"Very well. Oh, he is quite out of danger-he sat up a little yesterday, and now he is in a deep sleep." "He is asleep-then I will not disturb his repose. will wait till he wakes-but the moment he opens hisness was finished-he received a ball in his breast. If eyes, Monsieur George, you must tell me of it."

"Oh! I promise you."

I

Jerome seats himself in a corner of the dining room. More than an hour elapses, and M. Guerreville is still enjoying a sweet and tranquil slumber.

"Faith!" said Jerome, "I am glad that he sleeps so soundly; but I shall not be sorry when he wakes-but I will wait-I will wait-for this repose must hasten his recovery."

A half-hour still elapses; some one arrives; it is Dr. Jenneval, who comes to learn how his friend had passed the night. On seeing Jerome, he offers him his hand, and asks, "What are you doing here?"

"I am waiting for M. Guerreville to wake up." "You wish then to see him this morning?" "Yes-for I have done what I promised myself, and I am come to tell him something that will give him pleasure. That can do him no harm, can it, doctor?" "No, indeed."

At this moment, M. Guerreville's chamber bell is rung, and George enters a moment after to announce that his master is awake.

he is alive this morning, I should be much surprised to hear it."

"Jerome! Jerome! is it possible? You have avenged me!"

"Yes, sir; pardon me for having acted without your consent-but it was too much for me! I could not bear it."

Ah, you are a brave fellow," says Jenneval, taking the hand of the Auvergnese.

"Eh, good heavens, doctor, I have found an opportunity of repaying a favor which I long since received; was it not plain that I should profit by it?"

"Good Jerome," says M. Guerreville, "this Edward Delaberge was indeed very guilty; but before he died, I should have wished-oh! if he had only confessed his wrongs!"

"He has confessed them; his first words admitted that he had been guilty of deeply injuring you. Then he desired to write a few lines, and he charged me over and over again to give them to you. Here is his paper."

"Can it be possible! That Edward should confess at last-oh, give me the paper, Jerome, give it to me, quick."

"My friend," says the doctor approaching the bed, “I fear that any strong excitement

"No, Jenneval, no, fear nothing-I can endure any

worst; this suspense is the worst of torments."

"Let us go in," says Jenneval; and he enters the bed-chamber of his friend, followed by the Auvergnese, who is a good deal agitated and trembles like à child, who is on the point of some expected pleasure. "Good day, my dear Jenneval," says M. Guerre-thing--for a long time I have been prepared for the ville, extending his hand to the doctor; then perceiving Jerome, who approaches on tiptoe: "Ah! is it you, my dear Jerome! Come then, my friend, I am glad to see you; I know that you have often called to inquire after my health, and never understood why you refused to come in. Were you afraid of being troublesome? Do you think so ill of me as to believe that I should not have been most glad to see you?"

"Oh no, my dear sir, no, it is not that at all-but do you see, I had made an oath and I wished to keep it." "An oath, Jerome ?"

Jerome fumbled in his pocket, and drew out the paper which he had put away with great care. He gives it to M. Guerreville, who receives it in extreme agitation, and reads it, while big tears start from his eyes, and he exclaims in anguish :

"Oh, the wretch! I had well divined his abominable conduct."

"What does he write to you, at last?" says Jenne

val.

"I will read what he has traced in a trembling and "Yes, sir-for when you fought, and were wounded, hardly legible hand; but first, my friend, I desire that and were likely to die, I said to myself that I was the Jerome should know the full extent of his guilt-that cause of it--seeing that all this would never have hap- he should know the whole history of his connection pened, had not I asked you to call at Madam Dolbert's." with me. Listen, Jerome, and judge if my resentment "Jerome, never reproach yourself for that; it is a is just. I had a daughter whom I adored, who was great service that you have rendered me. You have the hope of my old age--she was my fortune--my hapfound for me a man whom I have been a long time pur-piness; in my daughter I had centred all my existence. suing. As to the duel, fortune has not been over fa- She was young, beautiful, intelligent. This Edward vorable this time, but at another I hope—" introduced himself to my family under an assumed "It's of no use, M. Guerreville; you will never find name. He undertook to seduce my daughter-to deit necessary to fight again with M. Edward Delaberge.lude her with the belief that I would never consent to I took it upon myself to revenge you-and thank hea- their union. The wretch! He did not wish to marry ven I have completely succeeded." her-he only intended her dishonor! At length, he "What do you mean to say, Jerome,” exclaims M. stole her from me—and all my search of them was in Guerreville, half-rising in his bed.

"I mean to say, that I made an oath not to see you again till I had revenged you on him, who, they say, has been the cause of your unhappiness. Oh, for fifteen days I pursued it, and it was only with great difficulty that I at length found the occasion I sought. But at length, last evening, it presented itself. I met M. Dela

vain. I could not discover what had become of my
child. During the first few days, my daughter wrote
to me-she promised to return, with her husband. Ah!
she doubtless flattered herself that her seducer would
marry her: but soon the letters ceased, and for nine
years I have had no intelligence of my child."
"Nine years!" exclaims Jerome, who seems every
VOL. III.-80

moment to take a deeper interest in the story; "nine they do not understand the conduct of the water-caryears! It is strange-" rier; but this only makes them more anxious for his return.

Without attending to the interruption of Jerome, M. Guerreville continues his story:

"You may judge of my grief-of my despair. I travelled in vain in all directions-nothing-no news of my child or her seducer-but judge of my surprise, of my indignation, in recognizing in this Edward Delaberge the man who, under the name of Daubray, had gained admittance to my house. The wretch! he was on the point of marriage. My first impulse was to demand the restoration of my daughter. The scoundrel pretended not to recognize me. I compelled him to fight; you know the issue of the encounter. To-day, in the moment of death, remorse has at length reached his heart. But he does not restore my daughter. Hold, here is what he has written to me. Listen, listen."

Ten minutes had not elapsed, before Jerome returns breathless, covered with dust and sweat. He runs and seats himself by the bedside of M. Guerreville, saying: "Now, sir, listen to me--I can explain myself better."

"It was about nine years ago-yes, it was in the month of October, while my poor wife was still alive; and we had just hired an upper story of a house in St. Martin street. One day as I returned home, my wife said to me, 'We have a neighbor under us, a young woman who is very genteel, but who seems very sad and unhappy-she is on the point of becoming a mother, and her eyes tell that she does nothing but weep. I have an idea that it is a young girl whom some worth

M. Guerreville takes the paper again, and reads in a less fellow has seduced, and then abandoned.'" voice, interrupted by tears:

"I have been very guilty, sir, but at the moment of death I acknowledge my crime. It is true that I seduced your daughter, and carried her secretly to Paris; but I had no intention of marrying her. At the end of six months, weary of her complaints, I abandoned her. But what is worst of all, it was when she was on the point of becoming a mother."

"Mother!" exclaims Jerome, striking his forehead. "And this sacred title made no impression on my heart. Ah! I am a monster! Since that time, I know not what became of your daughter-I never saw her more. To-day, retribution has overtaken me. I am on the point of death, and I feel that I am unworthy of pardon !"

"My poor daughter! My dear child!" cries M. Guerreville, as he finished reading the note. "Oh! doubtless she died in despair; but she was about to become a mother. Oh! my God! I should not have been left utterly desolate, if you had spared me her child."

'My friend, my friend, for Heaven's sake, compose yourself," says the doctor, taking the hand of M. Guerreville; "yes, the conduct of this Delaberge was horrible, but at last Jerome has revenged you; and--but see the agitation of this brave fellow-your story has made a deep impression upon him.”

In fact, Jerome could not keep a moment quiet; he walked to and fro-pronounced a few half-articulate words-looking on M. Guerreville in an air of the most compassionate interest-then, wiping away the drops of sweat that stood on his forehead, he tried in vain to restrain the tears which were dimming his eyes.

"Jerome, my friend, what ails you?" says M. Guerreville, fixing his eye anxiously on the Auvergnese; "you are shedding tears, I believe?"

"Ah! my good sir, do not blame me-they are so sweet-they are tears of joy, of happiness. Ah! my God! if it was possible! Oh! but I never shall be so happy; I dare not even hope it."

"Explain yourself, my friend."

"Ah! indeed I am unable-I choke-but before saying a word, I must go home-find the papers, the letters that will prove-oh! thank Heaven, I have preserved them all so carefully. Wait for me-wait for me-I shall not be long."

And Jerome disappears, running like a madman.
M. Guerreville and the doctor look at each other, for

"Oh! my God!" exclaims M. Guerreville, interrupting Jerome; "this poor girl-it was--perhaps—” "Wait-wait, and be of good courage, sir. I said to my wife: 'Go and see this young woman, and do not be afraid to offer your services to her if she has need of them-neighbors should help one another.' My wife desired nothing better. She went and offered assistance to her young neighbor-to get such things as she wanted. The young girl was very grateful for the little attentions of my wife, and, in conversing with her, used constantly to say, 'As soon as my infant comes into the world, and I recover my strength, I shall return to my father-my father whom I have abandoned! but who will forgive me-he is so good. Oh! yes, by his side I shall be no longer unhappy.'"

"Ah, Jerome, it was she--my Pauline--my daugh ter-oh, yes, it must have been she who talked thus." "My friend, cheer up," says the doctor; "so much excitement, I fear

"Oh, doctor, let him speak on-finish, Jerome."

"At length, my wife consoled this young lady as well as she was able. She was convinced that she wept for a wretch who had abandoned her, but whose name she never once pronounced. Some days elapsed. One night the young lady was in great suffering-she was about to become a mother. I ran out to call a midwife. At length, after the most cruel pains, our young neighbor was delivered of a daughter--very weak and feeble, and who seemed already to suffer like her mother; my wife never quitted the poor young lady. The day after her delivery, she was very ill, and desired to write to her father. Fearing that she should be a long time feeble, she desired to commit her child to him-to commend her daughter to his care. She began a letter, but she wept as she wrote. At length her strength failed her-her sufferings increased, and a delirium that never left her ensued-for on the morrow

"O my God! my poor child! but the letter--the letter, Jerome."

"Oh! I have it. It is that I have just been in search of at home-unfortunately the young lady had not strength to address it; otherwise, you know, I should have carried it to her father-but hold-hold-there it

is."

Jerome presents the unfinished letter to M. Guerreville, who had no sooner received it, than he uttered an