tance astern a boat, carrying a light, and to all appearance in the wake of the transport. "Idiots!" cried the Captain, "you should have watched, have dogged him. Why did you allow him to come on deck? Lieutenant, you will mark down the men of the watch for punishment; but first of all, the rascal must be brought back again; only let me get hold of him once more, and he goes down into the lower hold!" The sailors speedily obeyed his orders, and the shallop was quickly launched. The Lieutenant and boat's-crew manned her, and gave way with right good will. "Ah! swim as you will, abominable robber!" vociferated the Lieutenant, "you'll not reach yon boat, in spite of the signal she has been making this hour past. Swim, swim, rascal! we are close upon you! Give way! give way, my men," he cried continually to the rowers: "in the direction of the boat, the light guides us. I see Sauvegrain! there, that dark point! Give way! give way! We don't move the water!" The Captain spoke from on board with the trumpet-"The man! the man! Let the woman drown! Never mind her!" 66 'Have you water instead of muscle in your arms," furiously added the Lieutenant, "that you do not row?" And seizing on an oar, he worked away with the rest. They advanced rapidly, notwithstanding the wind, which was against them at the same time the boat, which was supposed to be favouring the evasion of Sauvegrain, gained fast upon them. "You are a parcel of cowards!" exclaimed the Lieutenant, seeing that the shallop did not get on according to his wishes. "That is easier said than proved," answered an old sailor, with the perspiration streaming down his face from exertion. The officer, exasperated by this rebellion, forgot his duty for an instant. To punish the insolence, he raised his hand, and gave the man a blow in the face that knocked out two of his teeth. This movement somewhat retarded the boat, and the sailor, thus roughly admonished, spit his teeth over the side, and bent to his oar. "You are all good-for-nothing," continued the Lieutenant, boiling with rage. "He's escaped! Do you see, the boat lays on her oars? She is waiting for him-there! he is getting up the side; but all is not lost: he must tack to lay her head shorewards, and then he will have the wind in his teeth. We are the best seaboat: we shall have him yet. Give way! give way, my men!" Stimulated to exertion, the men rowed bravely, and the shallop flew over the water. "Well done! well done! we shall catch him yet." But on a sudden the light which had served to guide them on the track was extinguished, and the "Emerald" boat, having no longer this signal, rowed at a venture. After trying in vain to make out the boat they sought after, and spending much fruitless time and toil, they returned on board, and the vessel lay on her course. CHAP. VII. If, leaving to the right, the picturesque elevation of Ingouville, which from its height overlooks at the same glance Havre, the sea, and the plain, and leaving the port behind, you continue on skirting the wave, you will arrive, after a short walk, at the lovely little village of Sainte Adresse. There is here a choice of two roads: one leads up into the village; the other continues faithfully following the bends of the ocean, and conducts you to a small cabin (built of boards) that trembles in the storm, and is the receptacle of fishing-tackle, and other implements belonging to a fisherman of Sainte Adresse, and who was in the exercise of his perilous profession the very same evening the "Emerald" put to sea. The good man went out to catch fish, but he caught something more than he expected; for it was precisely he who picked up Sauvegrain and poor Mauricette Fauvel. As soon as the convict bandit got hold of the boat-side with one hand, he raised up the burden sustained in the other. "Take your turn, my good friend," he said, "and relieve me of her, or my arm will drop off!" The fisherman leant over the side, and lifted up the woman, whom he laid in the bottom of the boat; which done, Dominick Sauvegrain climbed in himself, and immediately extinguished with his feet the light in the stern. The man was about to exclaim against this proceeding, when Sauvegrain, who had already possessed himself of the oars in order to stop the sound of the splash in the water, addressing him in an imperious voice, bade him not stir, speak, or call, as he valued his life. The fisherman, already sore amazed with the new and unexpected arrival, kept silence, and moved not, leaving his oars in the hands of his extraordinary visitor. By little and little our fugitive heard the voices and oar-strokes of his pursuers go off into distance, and having nothing further to fear, except from the wind and wave, he broke the silence he had both kept and enjoined, and taking the fisherman's hand, he gratefully pressed it between his own. "Thanks, my friend, said he to him; "you have saved us : you will not refuse to land us? You would not, I trust, stop half-way in a good action?" The man replied by taking the oars, to which he bent himself gallantly, and the little barque cut its way swiftly through the waters. For several hours the toil was undiminished, the boatman rowing, and Sauvegrain steering, with the inanimate form of poor Mauricette lying in the bottom of the craft; so that if any eye could have beheld them, they might have taken them for two murderers, going to conceal the body of their victim! At length their prow neared the shore, and then for the first time Sauvegrain appeared to take any notice of his companion in misfortune, who, drenched with water, and pierced with cold, seemed nearly dead where she lay; notwithstanding, female instinct made her recall all the strength she could muster to shrink from the bandit's touch: he, however, without giving the slightest attention to her movement of repugnance, roughly raised her, and walking in the water nearly knee-deep, reached the shore, carrying his wife in his arms. Here he stopped to take breath, and then continued following his guide, with undiminished vigour, till they gained the humble cabin, which served him for a dwelling-place. The fisherman quickly kindled a cheering fire, and the bandit, while thanking him for his shelter, observed they would remain till dawn, which, from the streaks in the eastward sky, could not be far off. Their host looked as if he would rather they went immediately; but Sauvegrain paid no more attention to his looks than he had to the repugnance of his bride The boatman then, with the consideration generally evinced by a sailor for suffering of any kind, more particularly the sufferings of a woman, spread his nets on one side the fire, and proposed that the lady should lie down and rest herself, that her clothes would dry in the blaze; " and no one," he said, "ever took cold from good sea-water!" Mauricette at first declined, saying she did very well for the short time they were to remain but Sauvegrain, in a rough tone, desired her to do as she was bid, and make no fuss about it. The trembling which seized her, however, as she made an effort to obey, was so evident, that the host handed him a bottle with a little brandy in it, desiring he would give his wife a little, as she seemed wholly done for, poor thing. Sauvegrain approached, and raising her as tenderly as a mother would her suffering child, he gently poured a few drops into her mouth, reminding her that in an hour they must be moving again. As he did so, he for the first time since his marriage bent his eyes upon her face, and remarked, for the first time, her extreme youth and loveliness; a sentiment unknown before rose in his heart, a something more than admiration; but suddenly a thought arose which checked the feeling, and a look of withering scorn passed over his features. "Then, madame, rest yourself as best you can, whilst our host and I sit by the fire. Ah! the bed is not of down, but you have not been accustomed to much better where you came from, I should think," he said, reseating himself. and while she gazed on him, she was obliged to confess to herself that he was not at all the sort of being her affrighted fancy had conjured up. The name of Dominick Sauvegrain, written on her memory in characters of fire, associated with it something horrible-frightful, and now for the first time, as she rested her eyes on the man whom the hand of destiny had given her for husband, she saw that he was young and handsome; his countenance presented an expression of nobleness; well defined, his wellshaped head and curling brown hair seemed belonging to another cast of character altogether, than a wretch to whom plunder was a pastime, and murder of no consideration. He suddenly turned, and seeing Mauricette's look of surprise fixed upon him, rose from the posture he had assumed, when, not knowing how to colour her curiosity, she said hurriedly, "You were praying, sir?" and turned herself to the window, seeming to note the clouds as they rolled past. "And since when," "demanded Sauvegrain, was a man forbidden to pray? Have you no religion, you?" 'Forgive me, sir," replied she, "I have been brought up a Christian too, and in my troubles it is to God alone I appeal.' "And you appeal rightly," he observed; "when one is fallen it is still a duty to pray; and who can tell what prayer may not bring? Man condemns, while God pardons!" Mauricette, overjoyed by such words, was about to reply accordingly; but he did not give her time; for, without looking at her, and resuming the rough tone he had for a moment abandoned, Come, Madame," he said, "we must move off; we are not secure so near Havre, and by the sea-shore." 46 So saying, he opened the door, and stepped forth, without taking the trouble of asking his wife to follow; and, pursuing the first road he saw, kept off from the shore. Mauricette, whose lips had been closed by the tone of Sauvegrain's last speech, followed behind passively, and unable to account for the attraction or fascination he exercised over her spirit. As for him, he continued rapidly striding onwards, seemingly careless whether she kept pace with him or not. They walked on thus for some considerable time; the morning broke beautifully, the sun shone out, and the birds warbled, while poor Mauricette felt so completely as it were dis little ragged child she saw at the cottage-doors. All at once Sauvegrain, looking over his shoul der, said, "You are not a native of this place?" "No, Sir," she timidly answered, Mauricette listened to the low, harsh voices near her, till sleep stole over her senses from physical exhaustion; but not to last long, how-inherited by the world, that she envied every ever, for she had scarcely attained that point which might be termed rest, when a slight noise | awakened her; she was instantly aware that the grey morning light replaced the lamp; but seeing no one by the fire, she conjectured that the fisherman. had departed to his occupation, and that Sauvegrain had taken the opportunity to decamp at least she hoped so; and raising herself a little, she peered round, as well as the yet uncertain light would permit; but what was her astonishment to behold the bandit on his kuces in the corner of the cabin, his hands lifted in humble supplication, while his lips moved in prayers! Amazement kept her silent; "So much the worse," he rejoined, and without vouchsafing to explain what he meant, continued walking on. After a little, Mauricette, exerting all her courage, hazarded the question, why he had asked her. Some time intervened between Sauvegrain's question and Mauricette's; but on hearing himself addressed, he turned round, and eyeing her from head to foot, with an expression of sovereign contempt, asked"Did I address you, Madam?" Such unspeakable scorn from such a man, even to the creature he supposed her to be, was almost more than she could bear; and, heartbroken, she remained silent. Scarcely had Sauvegrain finished speaking, when their ears were assailed by cries and feeble wailings from a thicket which bordered the road; he stopped, listened as if to certify the direction in which the sounds lay, then stepping hastily forward, entered the thicket; Mauricette, acting under the impulse of the fascination she experienced, still following. At some distance there was a high bank, and the plaints appearing to come from the other side, they both leant over, and perceived a child who had fallen, it appeared, from the top. "What are you doing there, my boy?" demanded the bandit. "Don't you see-on the bough of that tree the bird's-nest? I was trying to reach, and fell down; and I have torn my jacket. Oh, father will beat me so!" "Here, my man," said Sauvegrain, forcing down a bough; "hold on by that, and I will pull you up." "I cannot stand," answered the child; "my leg is broken." "Broken!" exclaimed Sauvegrain, in a tone of commiseration. "But perhaps you are mistaken, dear child; try to stand up, and cling to the branch I am holding. Don't be afraid; I am strong, and will not let you fall.” The child tried to do as he was bid, but on putting his foot to the ground, shrieked and fell. Mauricette, forgetting her own sufferings in those of the poor little being before her, was going to implore Sauvegrain to try and get down to carry him up; but before her words were formed he was already at the bottom of the ravine; and taking the child lightly in his arms, firmly and gently regained the summit with him, whilst the poor little fellow wept less for the pain of his leg than the hard treatment he expected from his father. "Do not cry," said his deliverer; "they will not beat you; they will be kind to you. Tell me where you live, and I will carry you home and speak for you." The child pointed to the cottage, and Sauvegrain took the direction; while Mauricette, astonished to find such a man accessible to pity and endued with religion, sought in vain a clue to so much contradiction. What then could be his nature? Dominick Sauvegrain, whose name alone caused terror whenever it was pronounced, had preserved her life at the hazard of his own; and now, in imminent peril of being discovered and retaken, the cries of an infant had found their way to his heart, and caused him to expose himself to the utmost peril, in order to give him help! But, above all, she wondered how a man who had committed so many crimes had not forgotten how to pray! He must have some good in him, thought she; and who knows, perhaps God has appointed me the instrument to bring him back to the right path! It would be a glorious mission! While Mauricette gave herself up to these thoughts, she almost trembled to find that her horror of him had passed away, and that softer sentiments seemed to rise in her heart towards this man, who, after all, was her husband! A husband, young, handsome, and courageous, and, despite his rough manner to her, gentle. She remained alone about a quarter of an hour, when the subject of her thoughts returned, and appeared surprised at finding her still there. What, are you there yet?" he cried. "However, Madam, we must separate; together, we should certainly be retaken. Let us each forget what has passed; we are both at liberty; we neither of us know the other. Now here two roads meet; take whichever you prefer, and I will depart by the other." At these words, which were a sad blow to Mauricette's vision, tears streamed from her eyes; she threw a despairing look down_cach path, and Dominick Sauvegrain, taking it for an indication, replied, "Be it so; if you go that, I take this." And without further adieu he turned on his way. Mauricette looked after him in mute stupefaction, and felt as if her heart was torn. Perhaps he will come back, thought she; or perhaps he will beckon me to follow--I, alone in the world, and united to him before God-where else can Í turn? And would it not be my duty? Vain hope. Sauvegrain turned not till he reached a bend in the road, when he suddenly turned his head. The poor girl immediately flew onward towards him, and held out her hands in supplication; but Sauvegrain stopped her with an imperious gesture, and taking a piece of money from his pocket-the only piece he possessed-he threw it on the ground to her. "Take that, and God help you!" Then pointing with his finger to the road, he turned the corner and was out of sight. CHAP. VIII. Nations, as well as individuals, have their moments of wisdom and folly. France was gone mad at the time we write of; every one lived in an illusion; the scenes of the theatre were not more changing than the scenes of real life. Such a one would get up in the morning a footmar, and go to bed a grandee; the intruding beggar you gave a cut of your cane to one day, would the next purchase your hotel, your carriages, and all you had to dispose of; a general fever had set the whole country in delirium! One gentleman remarked, "I like ladies better than horses, but I only esteem the latter." Another, the Prince of Conti, said to his chaplain, Mr. Priest, you know I do not hear mass;" to which he replied, "My lord, I do not say it." In one word, gambling was at its zenith: in some houses the footmen received no other wages than what they gained by furnishing the cards, and divided amongst themselves thirty thousand francs per annum. Paris reckoned many splendid hotels, respectable in ap pearances, where any one might go in and risk | rough tone of his voice, and something inde his fortune on a card: amongst the most distinguished of these were, the Hôtel Transylvania, the Rogotski Hotel, and above all, the Hotel d'Anglade, where we will introduce the reader; it was situated in the Rue Neuve des pétits Champs, and its directress was called Madame de Monclar. Latterly, her brother, the Baron, had come to reside with her, giving if required the sanction of his presence, and the service of his arm-not less valuable in such a place perhaps of Herculean stature and imposing mien, he bore a high name proudly. Monsieur le Baron had only returned to Paris within the last two months, having been (said Madame, his sister) residing abroad; and so desirous was she to see him on his return, that she left the concerns of her house in other hands, and went to Havre, where he had disembarked to meet her. As they returned from their journey, travelling post, Madame de Montclar stopped her carriage one day to speak to a young girl who sat by the road-side weeping bitterly. It was so long since the unfortunate being she addressed had seen a gleam of compassionate kindness shed upon her, that she would willingly have confided all her troubles to the noble lady, who had got out of her carriage to speak to her; a scruple, however, restrained her; she feared that, if she recounted her misfortunes, no one would believe her; indeed she almost doubted herself. Therefore she took care to say nothing of the Salpêtrière, nor of her marriage at Havre; she only said that, daughter to the Magistrate of Nantes, she had quitted her father's house, on commission of a slight fault, and come to Paris to join her brother; and that, not having found him, she still sought on. Madame de Montclar looked more at Mauricette than listened to her; she seemed struck with her beauty-something lessened, it is true, by grief and fatigue; but requiring only rest and care to shine out again resplendently. When Mauricette ceased speaking, the lady returned to the carriage to consult the Baron, who looked from the window with an air of indifference. They spoke some time rather warmly, as the gentleman seemed opposed to the lady's proposition; she carried her point, however, and returned to Mauricette, who, perceiving herself to be an object of debate between them, was preparing to continue her way. My dear child," said the lady, "dry your tears; you have found protectors; the Baron de Montclar is interested for you, and will serve you to the best of his power. You shall return with us to Paris, when you can write to your father; the Baron will add a postcript to obtain your pardon; and till it arrives you shall stay with me, and remain under my protection. You are too pretty, my child, to be left without a guide." Mauricette, grateful and confused, kissed the lady's hand and followed her into the carriage, and thought herself near the end of her troubles. True, she did not feel so much sympathy for the brother as the lady: his colossal stature, the finably unpleasant, inspired rather fear and respect than friendship. But if she felt uncomfortable with him, how happy che was with his sister! who showed her protegée such delicate attention, and such useful kindness during the remainder of their journey, that Mauricette's only fear was, she could not be sufficiently grateful. The evening of their arrival she felt a good deal surprised at the number of persons going in and out, and the numerous lights in all the windows and in the hall; but Madame de Montclar, seeing this expressed on her face, told her their friends had prepared a welcome for their return, but that she should not be required to join their festivities unless she pleased. Mauricette was too much in want of repose not to avail herself of this permission, and the lady herself conducted her, by a private stair-case, to a comfortable chamber, when, kissing her, she retired, saying, "I will send you a lady's maid. Good night, dear child!" In a few minutes the lady's maid appeared, bringing in linen of the finest description for present use, and a dress of the most elegant materials and newest fashion for the season. When once more alone, Mauricette's first action was to offer up an humble thanksgiving for her present happiness, and then before she slept to write a letter to her father. In the morning Madame de Montclar came to see her as soon as she waked, when Mauricette opened her letter, which the lady promised to take to the Baron for his P.S., and send it back again to her; but when, a few hours later, she asked to see what had been added, What," exclaimed Madame de Montclar, "has not Sophy brought it you?” "No, ma'am, I have not seen her." 66 "Dear me, that girl is very stupid. But as it is so, you must be content without seeing it; for, late as it is now, all the letters are posted, and yours among the number." "Posted!" said Mauricette; "but it was not directed." "I directed it," replied the lady. "At the end of a week, however, the letter was still unanswered, and Mauricette wrote again, the second letter passing by the Baron's hands for his postscript, obtained no more notice than the first. The poor girl wrote every week, without any more success, till two months had elapsed; during which time Mauricette had observed that the fete given to celebrate the Baron's return continued to be held every day; every evening the hotel was as brilliantly illuminated, and the guests appeared as numerous, as on the first of her arrival. Hitherto, timid and modest, she had declined appearing in the drawing-rooms; but Madame de Montclar pressed her so much to come down-if merely from curiosity for half an-hour; and," added she, "it will divert you from thinking of your father's unkindness in not writing. For my part, I should not send any more letters if I were you; I should renounce it altogether." "Renounce what?" asked Mauricette, who | speakers were close to her; while the Chevalier could not believe it possible any one would walked about impatiently, as if expecting some advise her to renounce her father's forgiveness. one to join him. "I should renounce writing," replied the lady, with some embarrassment. 66 In any other case Mauricette would have scorned to become an eaves-dropper; but a You are right, madam," answered she; feeling almost superhuman compelled her to "I ought to go myself and ask pardon; and listen to what was said of a person whom she you, who have been so kind to me, will not, I could not persuade herself was not her brother. hope, refuse to put me in the way of taking the One of the two speakers was the Baron de journey." de Montclar; he was giving directions, and "Better than that," returned Madame Mont-laying a plan. His directions were horror; his clar; "it is not impossible but we may all go plan, a crime! shortly to Nantes." When Mauricette had heard all, she again drew near the window; for she was determined, whether Edouard or Gloriette, to speak to the individual she had been watching. He was still there, but not alone; a lady had joined him, to whom he was saying "You have been lucky to me, love; I have won two thousand crowns more than enough to carry you off to-night, and reach Holland with; where, in spite of your brother, we can get married." Before such a hope Mauricette would have thought herself ungrateful to refuse any longer; and suffering herself to be dressed, under the direction of Madame de Montclar, she followed her to the reception-rooms. The looks that were fixed upon her, and the whispers of which she was evidently the object, covered her with confusion; she felt hurt and distressed. "I am wrong," thought she, "to feel thus; I do not know the world; and no doubt it is the same "Above all things," replied the lady, "take everywhere as at the Hotel d'Anglade." Never- care the Baron does not get a suspicion; if he theless, she could not prevail upon herself to only suspected, he would kill us both; he is so remain more than a few minutes; and, whisper-rigid in his ideas-Mons. de Montclar." ing to Madame Montclar that she was near fainting, that lady, fully satisfied with the success of her first appearance, permitted her to retire. It was not merely a pretext Mauricette had employed to escape from the offensive admiration she excited; but the blaze of light, the smell of perfumes, and the wonder of strangers, had caused a sensation of uneasiness that really amounted to indisposition, and obliged her to approach a window in the gallery which led to her room; this window, as well as that of her chamber, looked into the gardens; they were illuminated, and music was playing, while groups of visitors walked or listened about here and there amongst them. Mauricette beheld one whom she gazed on with restless curiosity; presently he stopped a moment in passing under the window, and the lights from the garden placed him in full view, and a likeness which had once before so cruelly deceived Mauricette came so forcibly to her memory that she dared not disbelieve; she felt she could not be mistaken. The elegant young gentleman moved on and beyond her sight, but she remembered there was another window at the further end of the gallery, where she might regain the sight of him. At that end there were no lights, as the guests were not admitted to that part of the house; Mauricette was certain that there she should be alone, and could contemplate at leisure the person it so behoved her to recognize. In an instant she saw him again and closer, and said to herself, "If that is not Edouard, good Heavens, how like he is to him!" She leaned forward to call him by name, when the sound of voices close at hand deterred her. The name of the Chevalier Gloriette caught her ear, and her mistake appeared to her the same as on her first arrival in Paris, when she had, as now, named the same individual "Edouard." The "Fear nothing; he shall not suspect. I will not quit the hotel, but at two o'clock, at the house on St. Michael's Bridge." "Yes, the house on St. Michael's Bridge." In the room adjoining Mauricette had heard also, "The house on St. Michael's Bridge, at two o'clock-this night!" Scarcely knowing what plan to pursue, and feeling herself incapable of coping with the owners of the hotel, Mauricette returned to the drawing-room. Madame de Montclar was already come back; the Chevalier de Gloriette had not entered. Since she had heard the two conferences of that night, a new and frightful light had burst upon her, and it required but the rapidity of a thought to explain all that had been mysterious to her since her arrival in the house. Mauricette's re-appearance in the drawingroom was hailed with rapturous admiration by the gentlemen, and great surprise by her protectress; she looked so delicately lovely with the colour heightened on her fair cheeks by the discovery she had made, and the dress she wore of white satin flowered with gold, and trimmed round the neck with a rich fall of lace, so became her, that it was no wonder many ladies were deserted by those who had been their faithful cavaliers all the evening. The Baron de Montclar was delighted to see her there, and, coming up to her, said (while inhaling a pinch of snuff from one of the gold boxes which he successively took from his pockets), at the same time giving his sister a significant look, “This is well, my child; I have hopes we shall humanize you yet, since you are already so tractable !" Mauricette made a violent effort to keep down the horror she felt at the sound of that voice which she had just heard utter such dreadful things; she had presence of mind, however, to reply by a graceful smile, and turning away her head she perceived the elegant Chevalier de |
