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"You are childish to speak thus, Romayloff," answered the countess, with a smile in which triumph and disdain were strangely blended. "You must remain where you are a child only would be defeated by this first rebuff; but a man, if he merits that epithet, will struggle against greater difficulties before he dies. If you have nerve to meet the one, you must have sufficient to bear the other. It is not against my father I ask you to struggle, but against fate. Some months must yet elapse ere I attain my majority; during that time, great changes may take place. The emperor may die-the husband he has destined for me may die, or be disgraced; for Paul's favour hangs upon a hair; or it may be, which God forbid! that my father may be no more. You must abide these chances, and others I cannot now enumerate. Disguise your love for me. In my father's presence, appear resigned and cheerful; put up even with my disdain in public, and leave all the rest to Heaven, and my guidance. Should every hope fail, a last resource cannot be taken from me: the Neva flows a few paces from this spot-her waters are deep and silent."
It was some days after this private conversation, that the punishment of the barber Gregory took place, in consequence of a complaint lodged against him by the countess, of some disrespectful words he had uttered in a drunken fit against her.
(To be concluded in our next.)
THE PHILOSOPHER AND HIS PUPIL.
Ar the instant that the good mute snatched the child, Louise reached the spot; she tried in vain to revive her unfortunate friend; her efforts were useless; believing that life was fled, she uttered piercing cries. De Villars heard them, and springing over the palisades, flew to the spot. His endeavours were not more successful, she was carried senseless to the chateau, and a physician who was immediately sent for, declared that there was no hope
of her life.
It was impossible to keep from the unfortunate abbé the cause of her situation: To paint his grief would be impossible; he had lost in Frederic the support and stay of his old age, and the only being who could in any way Nov. 1845.
console him for that loss, was about to follow him to the tomb. He wept not— he complained not,--he met the blow as a christian should do, with humility and resignation; but his heart was broken by it; in two days he yielded up his pure spirit to Him that gave it.
During fifteen days, the dissolution of Adrienne was every instant expected. The physicians declared from the first moment that her recovery was next to impossible; the only chance she had, was by shedding tears, and every effort to make her shed them had been tried in vain.
The chateau was thronged with inquirers; rich and poor sorrowed for its lovely heiress; but particularly the latter, for she had been a bountiful patroness to all that needed her assistance. Marie, whom her benevolence had raised from despair to happiness, passed the greater part of the time both by day and night in the chateau. She was then suckling an infant, who suffered so much with its teeth, that she dared not leave it behind her, and she was forced to keep it with her during those hours she passed in Adrienne's antechamber.
On the fifteenth day, as she was about to return home, she entered softly the chamber of her benefactress, where she knew that at that moment Louise was alone with her. As she approached the bed beside which Mademoiselle de Clugny was seated, the child uttered a cry. Suddenly Adrienne, who till then appeared insensible to all that passed around her, sat up in the bed, and stretched her arms to the child. Marie, on a sign from Lousie, placed the infant in them. She looked at it fixedly for a moment, and then saying mournfully," It is not her," burst into a violent flood of tears. To these tears she owed her reason and her life; they flowed long and bitterly; those of Louise mingled with them. Adrienne spoke not, but she pressed the hands of her friend, and from that moment it was evident that her reason was restored.
The first words she uttered were, "Who has taken care of Celine, and how is she?"
"She is well, perfectly well," cried Louise, delighted to hear her speak rationally; "the baroness has seen her every day."
For several hours afterwards she did not speak, but she remained perfectly calm, and submitted to take the medicines which they offered to her. The fever abated, and her recovery was pronounced possible.'
She inquired the opinion of the physicians; when it was announced to her, she sighed. "I may then," said she, "be condemned to live; for now that reason has resumed its empire, I abandon for ever the rash thought of with drawing my infant and myself from a world where we are alike exposed to suffer obloquy and sorrow. But the former I will not suffer, not even for my
child; the moment that deprives me of my reputation will be the last of my existence." She paused" It is yet possible to preserve my fame; but how? -by a life of sacrifices a thousand times more painful than death. I must conceal in the deepest recesses of my heart that sorrow which henceforth must be my constant companion. At the mercy of beings whom I despise and abhor, I must conciliate them by an appearance of respect, and even of Oh that I regard. Whichever way I turn, I have but a choice of evils. dared escape them in the silence of the grave! But, no,-my Celine, my poor fatherless babe, I cannot-I will not abandon thee !"
No sooner was she pronounced out of danger, than she requested de Villars to beg the marquis would return to the chateau. "Tell him," said she, "that he need dread no reproaches from me; I shall never speak to him of the past, and I ask only that he also should be silent upon it."
The marquis agreed readily to these terms. He came, saw his daughter, and shuddered at the state to which he had reduced her. The baroness, who saw the state of his mind, and who had conceived a new plan by which she hoped to make the unfortunate Adrienne instrumental to her views, did her utmost to turn him from those salutary thoughts; and she soon succeeded. He began to reflect that he had only acted as became his rank; that it was not his fault if Frederic had rashly thrown away his life, and that he could not be answerable for an event which he had not had either the intention or the wish to cause. And he finished by believing that he had no reason to reproach himself. His manners to Adrienne were more tender than ever; it seemed as if he wished, by giving her daily new proofs of the love and respect which he had for her, to efface from her mind the remembrance of her sufferings.
THE PHILOSOPHER AND HIS PUPIL.
But it was soon evident that they were ineffaceable; her manners became entirely changed, grave, cold, and reserved. She lost both the vivacity and the warmth of feeling which had been in her so peculiarly attractive; but if her manners lost something of the winning charm which characterised them, thy became more dignified than ever; and the marquis frequently and proudly said she appeared more worthy than ever of the illustrious name she bore.
Two years had passed since the death of Frederic, and they had been years of ceaseless torment to Adrienne. She found that her worst presentiments were more than justified; for a new enemy sprung up, of whose knowledge of her secret she had till then been ignorant. Jacques de Clugny, judging from his own depraved heart, believed that she who had once been weak, was for ever fallen. He dared to speak to her of love: and the indignant scorn with which she heard him, fired his vindictive soul. He uttered the
most dreadful threats of vengeance, and emboldened by the terror which for the moment palsied the spirit of Adrienne, he seized her in his arms.
This last insult gave her back all the force of her spirit. She burst from his grasp. "Monster!" cried she, "dare to approach one step nearer, and I swear by the heaven that hears me, this instant releases me for ever from your malice." She stood as she spoke upon the banks of the river, upon that very spot where so many years before she had aided in saving the life of Marie.
The determination of her look, the haughtiness of her tone, awed the villain. "I could forget all that is past," said he, in an humble accent, “I could even make thee honourably mine, if
"Thine! unite my destiny to thine? rather, a thousand times rather perish. Hence, miscreant ! and know that Adrienne de Touranges defies thy power; for she will find always a sure means to escape it."
The traitor shrunk from her haughty and commanding air, and retired, muttering threats of vengeance. From that hour she considered herself lost; for she judged too truly, that it was the baroness alone who could have betrayed her.
"I know not which to wonder at most," said that shameless woman, when Jacques reported to her his unsucessful attempt,"-your folly, or her madness. Why, my good friend, what evil spirit possesed you to take the only effectual way to ruin your cause?"
"Curses on her haughty spirit! but I will bend it yet; or make her feel my vengeance."
"And what, I pray you, could you gain by forcing her to take the desperate resolution she has avowed, and which I believe her capable of? With a little prudence, you may still succeed by fair means.”
"Pshaw! you speak like one unskilled in reading the heart of woman. I tell you that if she were once married, your success would be almost certain ; and I have the project of marrying her very shortly, to a relation of my own." & "Indeed! he ought to think himself much indebted to you."
"And I have no doubt that he will too, though it is neither for his sake nor hers, but solely for my own, that I mean to bring about that marriage." "Which I vow already shall never take place."
"And pray why not? It will be the very thing for your own interest. Once she is married, and mixing with the society of Louis the XV.'s court who as we all know are not the most scrupulous people in the world, she, will lose her romantic prudence, and be very happy to preserve her secret upon the easy terms of being as kind to you as she was to Frederic. Besides
it is not to be doubted that she will obtain a very great ascendancy over her husband; and the man I have in view for her has considerable credit at court. See then what advantages you may derive from a step which in [the madness of your resentment you would oppose."
It was not, however, so easy as this detestable woman had flattered herself, to bring her accomplice into her views; it cost her much trouble and sonie time to make him yield to them; but at length she succeeded; and while she was so employed, she had been gradually preparing the mind of the marquis for her plan.
She began by representing to him, that her relation the Duke de Ormisson, at whose house de Villars had made such a long stay at Paris, was so high in the king's favour, that he could, if he wished it, obtain for himself the post of minister; but being void of ambition, he bounded his desires to the personal favour of the sovereign, which he believed himself more certain of retaining if he did not accept of office. "But," continued the baroness, "it is very certain that what he does not desire for himself, he might easily procure for another, especially if that other was like yourself, my dear marquis, distinguished alike by birth and splendid talents. But, in order to make the duke exert himself, he ought to have a powerful motive; and what could be so powerful as love? By bestowing Adrienne upon him, you could bind him for ever to your interest; and you would give her a husband worthy of her, and whose family, independent of all other motives, is suitable to your
The advice was too palatable to be rejected. All that either deemed necessary was to give the duke a sight of Adrienne; and it was agreed that this should be done, without any apparent design, by the baroness inviting him to pass some time with her.
The event answered their expectation, the first sight of Adrienne inspired the duke with the most violent passion; a passion which all the coldness of Adrienne could not check. Louise saw with terror the persecution which was preparing for her friend. "Be tranquil," said Adrienne calmly, “I can have nothing to fear from it. A convent will be my resource in case of ex tremity. The authority of my father would be powerless against a step which, in withdrawing me from the world, will still enable me to watch over the welfare of my child. As soon as she has attained her seventh year I will have her placed, under a feigned name, in the house which I inhabit : thus she will grow up under my eyes, and I may bestow upon her, without danger and without fear, the cares of a mother."
"You deceive yourself," cried Louise; never will your father consent to such a step. There is is but one way, if our fears should be, as I dread they