"Charles, get my carriage, and see Lady Rivers home," again interrupted her words, as the speaker hurried from her into an adjoining room. Presently he heard the carriage drive to the house-the door opened-a foot was on the step-the door closed-and away it flew.

Lucien Andeli was one of those characters very seldom to be met with in the present times. He was a castle builder, and it is perhaps better that but few such now exist. With him everything was bright, and fresh, and joyous. Earth, with its chilling and blighting cares, was to him an unweeded paradise ; for he had passed through the flowery portals, and dwelt in the land of dreams. A shadow had not dimmed the sunshine-a falsehood had not plucked the rose-plume. The heart-the spirit

"Ever in motion-that plays

Like the lightning in autumn's shadowy days,"

he possessed, and with them moved calmly and sweetly along, extracting from every object that met his attention a new freshness and gaiety. He lived in the golden-we in the iron age. He had not left, as it were, the bright and glowing heavens for the obscure and shadowy earth. No! He lived in the enchanting moonlight of the by-gone-when poetry was a wanderer from the heart-when music was sweeter than the song of stars. No wonder that, in the glaring daylight of the present, such as him have no abiding place. I would as soon think of beholding the bright-plumed bird of paradise wandering along the dreary desert, or the rosy star of twilight shedding its beams at mid-day upon the blessed earth!

Yet with all those qualities, which had rendered him unfit to mingle with men-with all of his high and ennobling aspirations-Andeli was linked with a band of low and sordid adventurers. Revenge is not choice in its means; so that the goal is achieved, we scan not the way through which we passed to gain it. Love itself, with all of its strong and high-toned impulses, is not stronger than the deep, unchanging, irresistible current of revenge.

That fair young artist had suffered feelings to enter his breast, that would taint the heart, as does poison, the most sparkling stream. And now that I think of it, were I a blood-thirsty monarch upon his throne, instead of a pale, sickly student, with tintless cheeks and streaming eyes, I would just as quickly unfurl the "star-spangled banner of the free," or let the shout of freemen drown the groans of abject slaves, as permit an artist to mingle with my courtiers. It

may be a queer notion, but I have always thought there's something in the profession, in the impulses that it draws forth, in the dreams that it weaves around the mind, in the revelations that it throws about the heart, that renders it averse to slavery. Is it but a dream that haunts my couch ?is it but a shadow that has risen in the silence of my chamber? No! The tyrant may forge the chain, but the artist wears it not, until the high imaginings have departed from the mind's sanctuary, or the stamp of thought and soul is stolen from its inward altar.

It was Andeli who rescued Francis Armine. Not, as may be supposed by accident; but to screen the conspirators, whose proceedings hereafter, as far as concerns this narrative, shall be developed. In the popular tumult, he had turned the tide to suit their purposes, without themselves being known or suspected, as schemers against the state. The seeds of a mighty revolution had been scattered abroad by invisible hands, and Paris had witnessed, without knowing it, the rise of the curtain, which, ere it fell, might usher in one of the most fearful tragedies ever enacted upon the arena of scathed and bloody Europe —and that too, in a country where the footsteps of war had scarcely been erased, and where the tracery of blood had scarcely been dried-in France-gloomy, crushed, yet illustrious France!

Andeli had left his studio-had wended through the streets of Paris, and from where he walked, they could scarce be seen in the perspective. All around him was becoming more and more silent and dull, and as he moved along, the clocks of the city struck twelve, which could scarce be heard through the heavy air. The stars were still standing on high, like sentinels of Time, and the moon was still pouring its light upon the earth. Andeli gazed upon the heavens, and these were his thoughts-these were the memories that the hour and the place drew forth:

"Blessings on his memory. Never did the moon smile so brightly as on that remembered night. Three summers have passed since then, yet how well I remember that deed. At my father's door we sat-a shriek called our attention, and even as I turned, a minion of the tyrant plunged his poniard to my brother's heart, and disappearing, left that brother's form almost nailed to the green turf on which he lay-the blood oozing out, and the young and beautiful countenance locked in the stern pang of death. Wildly, madly, did I cry for justice -but I was scoffed and derided; and the voice of revenge

that I then vowed, ascended through the silence of nature, and was recorded on the book of heaven. My lost but unforgotten brother, have I not kept the vow-for ere that moon smiles its last rays again, you will have been fearfully avenged. I may die-the same mystic and unwavering light may whiten upon my stiffened bones-but, thank heaven, they will not know of the grief that gnawed at my heart, and bid me concentrate all my thoughts of love, and hope, and ambition-in revenge."

He paused in the train of his reflections. It was a fit hour for man's communion with his own heart, and long and calmly did that young artist do so. He scanned the past and the present, and as he did so, sternly, but without a pang, did he look forward to that one dread but fixed aim. If he faltered a moment, the bloody form of his brother would appear before him and urge him on to a deed which would sweep the murderers from the ground which they cumbered, and reinstate France in her former glories-though it would bathe her vineyards with blood, and stamp his name as a butcher of war.

CHAPTER IV.

"She came !

A lovely being, scarcely formed or moulded

A rose with all its sweetest leaves yet folded."-BYRON.

Paris rested in the distance, as silent as when, centuries before that time, the wanderer had passed through the wilderness from which it had sprung. The Seine was calm and serene, as the stars glittered along its motionless waters; and with outstretched arms, in its unbroken sleep, seemed sheltering the vessels that lay on its bosom. Along the shores could not even be seen the torch of the fisherman, that was wont to flash upon the tideless stream, through the dun obscurity and gloom of night's solemn noon. No sound came through the immoving air from the city. Its very heart seemed to have ceased its vibrations. But a short time had passed since it beat with care, and toil, and crime; it was now still-but the dark thoughts, the low appetites, the fierce passions, yet dwelt there, to awaken again, refreshed and invigorated. Paris lay, like a mighty giant, whose iron limbs, and strong hands, and hardened nerves, no force could tame and no power withstand; but who, at the voice of nature, sank quietly down to rest, and arose again to curb, or crush, or overthrow.

The young artist whom we have thus far followed, had paused, and with feelings

"Heavy as frost and deep almost as life,"

he gazed upon the distant city, so lately the scene of strife, and now so silent; thoughts of the past and the future were flitting by him; and strange to say, that with his future, even then he linked the fortunes of him, the mysteries of whose life form the principal feature of this narrative. Stranger still, that unknown as was Francis Armine to him, the very thought of him should be accompanied with a dread and a warning. Are we not the ministers of our own fate? Is it then strange, that although the vista of the future is untrod, its shadows should rest upon the present? No, it is not. That same power which permits us not to throw back the veil, sends to us dreams and omens to warn us of the mysteries which it conceals. We are prophets, yet of what avail is our knowledge. We approach the precipice, yet shun it not.

"It was a well-timed blow," said Andeli, as with an effort he again adverted to the events of that evening. "It was a well-timed blow, and it must be quickly followed-for ere the conspiracy is known, my revenge must be consummated. The hurricane has yet to come; a few drops have fallen from the overcharged cloud, heralds alone of the coming stormand when it comes in its wrath, wo-wo to them on whom it falls!"

Forgetful of all but the feelings which had for years mastered every hope and aspiration of his younger days, he was recommencing his walk, without observing that to his incoherent exclamations he had a listener. On looking up, he beheld a dark form towering above him. The intruder is known to our readers, and a few of the neighbouring peasantry, as the hermit of the cave, and had been standing near his retreat when he heard the words of Andeli. He had scarcely caught his attention, before he leaped from the rock on which he stood, and stood before the artist. His dark featured face, his long and matted beard, his gray and uncombed hair, and his dirty and ragged dress, together with his bold swaggering manner, rendered him an object of disgust.

"Who dares intrude thus upon my walk?" inquired Andeli, in a menacing tone, as he drew back at the approach of the hermit, who, leaning over the artist, whispered in his

ear

"Andeli, hast thou forgotten Montanvers?"

The young man started. The blood left his cheek, and the cold perspiration stood on his forehead. It could not be. He looked again, and almost shuddered beneath the ardent gaze that met his own. Those few words bad rolled back the veil

of past years, and brought to his memory one whom he had met but once since his boyhood. Again stood before him the once gifted and brilliant Montanvers now, as his appearance indicated, the shunned and pitied, if not abhorred outcast.

"lla! I see you remember me," exclaimed he, not withdrawing his fixed gaze.

"I do, although you have altered much," replied Andeli. "Yes, time has passed over me rather roughly since we met last. The world and myself, Andeli, have wrangled much. But I am wearied now, and would ask a favour at your hands," said he, as he scanned, with an inquiring look, the features of his companion. He could read nothing there, for they were cold and stern, though not pitiless. With a firm composure, Andeli motioned to him to proceed.

I

"Lucien Andeli, I wish to go and shake hands with the world again. Nay, start not, nor deem it strange. They who have stepped between me and happiness-who have changed the current of my being-who would have trampled upon me, when I fell to their own level-must again receive me. have shrunk from their intercourse for years, and now I wish again to mingle with them. The name of Montanvers must not be forgotten-it must again be on the lips of men, who feel and dread its influence. It must again be sighed by the soft voices of your women. I have a fit resting place in yon cave-the earth my bed-the rock my pillow; yet neither so pleasant as the downy couch. My clothes are worn and ragged, and food I have not tasted for two days. I see you understand my wishes, and will meet them ?"

"Montanvers, do you remember how and why we last parted?" asked Andeli, after listening with a feeling of contempt to his remarks.

"Let that be forgotten with the past. You have money and friends, and must reinstate me in the world."

"Must!" echoed Andeli.

'Ay, must!" returned he. "If our former friendship will not influence you, know that I have that which will. You are in my power. Your schemes are open to me. Have I in vain attended your secret meetings, and heard your pleading and your advice? Have I in vain listened but now to your words, spoken, as you thought, to the winds? No! not in vain. One word, if I but speak, it consigns you and your friends to a disgraced and miserable grave. Andeli, are we or are we not friends?" Sternly did he rivet his eye upon the face of the young artist, to inquire, before words could speak it, the