information I have conveyed to you, for the benefit of the prisoner, in any way that does not place me in the hands of the Chambre Ardente." It was no part of the lady's nature to spare any exertion where innocence was to be succored; and after this evidence of the truth of Olivier's statement, she determined on disclosing all to D'Andilly, under a promise of secrecy. D'Andilly received her information, and himself questioned the officer, particularly with respect to his knowledge of Cardillac's person, and of the man who followed him. The Count replied that it was light enough for him to see the goldsmith, whom he could not mistake; he had killed him with the very dagger he had since seen in the possession of La Regnie. The young man who came up as the jeweller fell, had his hat drawn over his features; but he saw enough of his face to be able to recognize him again. D'Andilly's opinion, after some deliberation, was, that the evidence, though sufficient to produce a moral certainty of Brusson's innocence, would not release him from the hands of the law. Even if acquitted of Cardillac's murder, suspicion would fasten upon him as the accomplice of his crimes. All they could hope was in delay. Count de Moisse must repair to the Conciergerie, identify the prisoner's person, and then relate before the tribunal what had occurred. Then it was the time to supplicate the King's mercy; and he would counsel that nothing be concealed from his majesty. In his sense of justice, in his internal conviction of the truth, lay the result. The Count did as he was advised to do; and Scuderi undertook to speak to the King. This was no easy matter, as the popular horror of the supposed crime rendered Louis unwilling to interfere with the execution of the law. Madame de Maintenon's resolution, never to speak to the King of disagreeable matters, placed her assistance out of the question. The prisoner's fate lay in the hands of M'lle de Scuderi. She appeared in the apartment of Madame de Maintenon, at the hour when the King was expected. In her rich dark dress and flowing veil, her noble figure had a dignity that commanded attention; and always observant of grace and majesty, the King noticed her as soon as he came in. M'lle de Scuderi told her moving story in as few words as possible, but omitting not a single circumstance. She related the incidents of Brusson's early life, his acquaintance with Cardillac, and domestication in his family; his discovery of the master's guilt, and the circumstances of his death. With a trembling voice, as she saw Louis listened with deep interest, she described the scene with La Regnie, with the prisoner, and with the Count de Moisse; concluding with a prayer for mercy, as she knelt at the King's feet. The King had heard her with great surprise and agitation; he raised her from her kneeling posture, and inquired more minutely into the evidence that substantiated Olivier's confession; also with regard to the secret entrance into Cardillac's house. "It is a strange story," said he, at length; and turning to the door, summoned Louvois, with whom he left the apartment for some minutes. Both Maintenon and Scuderi looked upon this absence as unfavorable to their hopes. But Louis soon returned; paced the room several times with his hands behind him; then coming towards Scuderi, he said: "I would see this young girl-this Madelon.” The lady almost shrieked with joy, for she now felt confident of success. She left the room, and ere long Madelon herself knelt at the King's feet. Never was entreaty more earnest and intense than that expressed in her clasped hands and tearful eyes, as in speechless supplication she raised them to the King's face. Louis seemed struck by her singular beauty. He raised her from the ground, and led her to a seat; and as he did so, Maintenon whispered to her friend, "See, how like she is to La Vallière !" It might have been that Louis heard this remark; a flush passed over his brow; he glanced at Maintenon; and turning to Madelon, said: "I can well believe, my girl, that you are convinced of the innocence of your lover; but let us hear what the Chambre Ardente says to it." At these words, which seemed the knell of her hopes, M'lle de Scuderi was ready to sink to the earth. She had no doubt they were owing to the ill-timed allusion of Madame de Maintenon. On such small things often hang the fate of men! But there was nothing now but patiently to abide the King's pleasure. Count de Moisse's deposition was speedily known among the people, and as it often happens, the multitude passed directly from one extreme to the other. Those who a few days before execrated the prisoner, and called the scaffold too mild a punishment, now were loudest in outcries for his release, and proclaimed him an innocent victim. The neighbors now remembered his mild and amiable deportment, his attachment to Madelon, and the fidelity and diligence with which he served his master. The multitude surrounded La Regnie's house from morning till night, crying out that Olivier Brusson must be set at liberty, and throwing stones at the window, so that the President was obliged to summon the police to protect his dwelling. Many days passed, during which M'lle de Scuderi heard nothing of Brusson's business. She went to Maintenon, but received no consolation from her; for she said the king observed silence upon the subject, and would doubtless be displeased if reminded of it. She then asked with a smile, "how the little La Valliére was?" Scuderi was convinced that in the bosom of that proud woman lurked a prejudice against her protégée-even because her mention of that name had caused emotion in the King. At length, through D'Andilly, she learned that Louis had had a long private interview with the Count de Moisse; also that Bontems, the king's confidential agent, had been to the Conciergerie, and conversed with Brusson; and lastly, that Bontems, with several others, had gone at night to examine Cardillac's house and the premises. He was certainly tracing each link of the evidence. But would La Regnie suffer any evidence to loosen his hold on the victim? All was in the dark. Weeks passed thus: when one morning Mille de Scuderi received a messenger from Maintenon, informing her the King wished to see her that evening in her (Maintenon's) apartments. Scuderi's heart beat, for she felt that the decisive hour was come. She comforted the poor Madelon, however, and desired her to occupy the time of her absence in prayer for the one dear to them both. When Louis joined the ladies, it seemed that he had quite forgotten the whole matter. He was cheerful, and talked gaily on many subjects, but said not a word of Brusson. At length Bontems entered, and whispered a few words in his ear. The king then rose, advanced towards M'lle de Scuderi, and said with a smile, "I wish you joy, Mademoiselle! your protégée, Olivier Brusson, is free!" Overcome by the surprise of joy, and unable to express her feelings in words, Scuderi would have sunk at the King's feet. He prevented her, saying, "Go, go! you should be parliament's advocate, and undertake all my causes; for, by St. Denys, nothing on earth can withstand your eloquence! Yet"pursued he more seriously; "it was a hard business! The protégée of virtue herself cannot be sure of acquittal before such courts!" The lady at length found words to thank the King for his clemency and generosity. Louis interrupted by informing her that much warmer thanks awaited her at her own house, where the lovers had met to part no more. "Bontems," concluded he," shall count out a thousand louis-d'ors, which you may give in my name to the maiden as her dower. She may marry Brusson, who really merits not so happy a lotbut they must both leave Paris. That is my will." As the good lady returned home, Martiniere came to meet her, followed by Pierre, and both crying joyfully "He is free-he is here!" The happy lovers threw themselves at the feet of their benefactress. "I knew-I knew," cried Madelon, "that you, and you alone would save him!" "I trusted in you from the beginning, my mother!" cried Olivier, and both kissed the worthy lady's hands, and bathed them with tears. And then they embraced each other, and protested that the rapture of that moment repaid them for all their past sufferings. They were united in a few days; and as, according to the king's will, Brusson was to leave Paris, he removed with his wife, after taking a tender farewell of M'lle de Scuderi, to Geneva. He would not have remained in Paris had it been left at his option; where everything reminded him of Cardillac's crimes. Madelon's dower was sufficient to set him up in business, and his skill in workmanship soon enabled him to earn a competence. About a year after Brusson's departure, a public proclamation appeared, drawn up and signed by Harry de Chamvalon, the Archbishop, and by the Advocate, Pierre Arnaud d'Andilly, announcing that a quantity of jewels stolen from different persons had been recovered from the house of a criminal removed by death from the punishment of human justice. All who had been robbed of jewels before the time specified of his death, the end of the year 1680, were summoned to appear at the house of D'Andilly, and claim and prove their property. If the proof was satisfactory, it was to be restored to them. Many who had been knocked down and robbed by Cardillac, came forward and recovered their treasures. The remaining treasure became the property of the church of St. Eustache. HAMPTON BEACH. BY J. G. WHITTIER. THE sunlight glitters keen and bright, Lies stretching to my dazzled sight Beyond the dark pine bluffs and wastes of sandy grey. The tremulous Shadow of the Sea! Of silvery light, rock, hill, and tree, With varying outline mark the coast for miles around. On-on-we tread with loose-flung rein Through dark-green fields and blossoming grain, And bends above our heads the flowering locust spray. Ha! like a kind hand on my brow Comes this fresh breeze, Cooling its dull and feverish glow, The breath of a new life-the healing of the seas! Now rest we, where this grassy mound In the great waters which have bound With long and tangled moss, and weeds with cool spray wet. Good-bye to Pain and Care! I take Here where these sunny waters break, All burdens from the heart, all weary thoughts away. I draw a freer breath-I seem Like all I see Waves in the sun-the white-winged gleam And far-off sails which flit before the South wind free. So when Time's veil shall fall asunder, No fearful change, nor sudden wonder, But with the upward rise, and with the vastness grow. And all we shrink from now may seem Familiar as our childhood's stream, Or pleasant memory of a dream The loved and cherished Past upon the new life stealing. Serene and mild the untried light And, as in Summer's northern night The evening and the dawn unite, The sunset hues of Time blend with the soul's new morning. I sit alone in foam and spray Wave after wave Breaks on the rocks which, stern and grey, Beneath like fallen Titans lay, Or murmurs hoarse and strong through mossy cleft and cave. What heed I of the dusty land And noisy town? I see the mighty deep expand From its white line of glimmering sand To where the blue of Heaven on bluer waves shuts down! In listless quietude of mind, I yield to all The change of cloud, and wave, and wind, I wander with the waves, and with them rise and fall. But look, thou dreamer!-wave and shore The night-wind warns me back once more Bends like an arch of fire the glowing sunset sky! So then, Beach, Bluff, and Wave, farewell! No token stone nor glittering shell, But long and oft shall Memory tell Of this brief thoughtful hour of musing by the Sea. Amesbury, 10th, 7th mo., 1843. ROGER MALVIN'S BURIAL. BY NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. ONE of the few incidents of Indian warfare, naturally susceptible of the moonlight of romance, was that expedition, undertaken for the defence of the frontiers in the year 1725, which resulted in the well-remembered "Lovell's Fight. Imagination, by casting certain circumstances judiciously into the shade, may see much to admire in the heroism of a little band, who gave battle to twice their number in the heart of the enemy's country. The open bravery displayed by both parties was in accordance with civilized ideas of valor, and chivalry itself might not blush to record the deeds of one or two individuals. The battle, though so fatal to those who fought, was not unfortunate in its consequences to the country; for it broke the strength of a tribe, and conduced to the peace which subsisted during several ensuing years. History and tradition are unusually minute in their memorials of this affair; and the captain of a scouting party of frontier-men has acquired as actual a military renown, as many a victorious leader of thousands. Some of the incidents contained in the following pages will be recognized, notwithstanding the substitution of fictitious names, by such as have heard, from old men's lips, the fate of the few combatants who were in a condition to retreat, after" Lovell's Fight." The early sunbeams hovered cheerfully upon the tree-tops, beneath which two weary and wounded men had stretched their limbs the night before. Their bed of withered oak-leaves was strewn upon the small level space, at the foot of a rock, situated near the summit of one of the gentle swells, by which the face of the country is there diversified. The mass of granite, rearing its smooth, flat surface, fifteen or twenty feet above their heads, was not unlike a gigantic grave-stone, upon which the veins seemed to form an inscription in forgotten characters. On a tract of several acres around this rock, oaks and other hard-wood trees had supplied the place of the pines, which were the usual growth of the land; and a young and vigorous sapling stood close beside the travellers. The severe wound of the elder man had probably deprived him of sleep; for, so soon as the first ray of sunshine rested on the top of the highest tree, he reared himself painfully from his recumbent posture, and sat erect. The deep lines of his countenance, and the scattered grey of his hair, marked him as past the middle age; but his muscular frame would, but for the effects of his wound, have been as capable of sustaining fatigue, as in the early vigor of life. Languor and exhaustion now sat upon his haggard features, and the despairing glance which he sent forward through the depths of the forest, proved his own conviction that his pilgrimage was at an end. He next turned his eyes to the companion who reclined by his side. The youth, for he had scarcely attained the years of manhood, lay, with his head upon his arm, in the embrace of an unquiet sleep, which a thrill of pain from his wounds seemed each moment on the point of breaking. His right hand grasped a musket, and, to judge from the violent action of his features, his slumbers were bringing back a vision of the conflict, of which he was one of the few survivors. A shout,deep and loud to his dreaming fancy,found its way in an imperfect murmur to his lips, and, starting even at the slight sound of his own voice, he suddenly awoke. The first act of reviving recollection was to make anxious inquiries respecting the condition of his wounded fellow-traveller. The latter shook his head. 66 Reuben, my boy," said he, "this rock, beneath which we sit, will serve for an old hunter's grave-stone. There is many and many a long mile of howling wilderness before us yet; nor would it avail me anything, if the smoke of my own chimney were but on the other side of that swell of land. |