their indulgence, as Mademoiselle her daughter had been taken suddenly and dangerously ill.

This communication immediately broke up the cabinet-council; and her friends, briefly condoling with Madame's distress, retired. De Retz, after requesting the Secretary not to quit the hotel, left him to make inquiries after the health of Isabelle de Chevreuse.

CHAPTER XXI.

If ever after-times should hear

Of our fast-knit affections, though perhaps
The laws of conscience and of civil use

May justly blame us, yet when they but know
Our loves, that love will wipe away that rigour.

FORD.

THE absence of Mademoiselle from the levee of the Duchess had been remarked by St. Maur as rather extraordinary, but not so much so as to lead to any inquiries. It might have been, he thought, out of pique against de Retz. But the alarm manifested by her mother, on receiving the intelligence of her illness, led him to believe that, whatever might have been the original cause of her staying away on an occasion in which it is natural to suppose she would have been desirous of assisting-whether it were slight indisposition, or jealous feeling-she was now in a state of severe or dangerous illness.

Musing alone in a picture-gallery which formed a part of the suite of state chambers of the hôtel, his mind was occupied in contrasting its present solitude with the gay appearance it exhibited when filled with the visitors of Madame. Often he thought of Isoline, of the disastrous news of Noirmoutier, and of the result awaiting Jules's inquiries; occasionally his thoughts strayed to de Retz: the influence exercised by Isabelle de Chevreuse over the prelate, and how his spirits would be affected by her illness or death.

Finding solitude irksome, yet obliged to wait the pleasure of the Coadjutor, he made inquiry of the domestics respecting Mademoiselle, and each report received was of more alarming import. She had, he learned, been seized with a strange and unaccountable illness, without warning or previous indication, and in a few moments, from a state of sound health, had been brought to the point of death.

The skill of the physicians was baffled in accounting for the disease, and in attempting the cure; it was whispered through the hôtel that her life was despaired of.

De Retz was in the chamber, watching over the sufferer; no longer the gallant, gay ecclesiastic, but the minister of religion, praying for the repose of the parting soul, ministering the rites of the church, his own grief and despair subdued by the effort to afford spiritual assistance to the sufferer, and consolation to the distracted mother.

St. Maur, whose own troubles were great, could not refuse sympathy to de Retz, and in this softened mood, viewed him, as the victim of circumstances, placed in a false position, from which there was no extrication. He was the priest of a religion whose sacredness he felt in his heart, though he knew his temperament wholly unfitted him for the duties of his office. Falling desperately in love with Isabelle, instead of deserved rebuke, he had met with encouragement from this self-willed and uncontrolled fair one, and had been permitted the society of the damsel by her mother, who looked only to the worldly advantages derivable from the prelate's political power, and weighed not the evil and unhappiness which must be the fruit of hopeless affection, opposed both to religion, and to the moral notions of the world.

A terrible retribution had now fallen on the Duchess, and blameable, culpable as she was, St. Maur reflected that she was nevertheless becoming herself an object of pity.

Deep silence reigned throughout the mansion; carriages were forbidden the street; the servants within walked on tiptoe and spoke in whispers; doors opened and closed noiselessly; and every face betrayed anxiety and gloom. St. Maur felt himself forgotten by the Coadjutor, yet did not feel at liberty to leave the house, and felt still more delicacy in sending a message to the prelate whilst engaged at the bed-side of the dying girl.

From this unpleasent predicament he was at length relieved, by a request from the Coadjutor that he would follow the messenger, a female upper servant of the household. St. Maur obeyed in silence. The domestic opened and closed upon him the door of the sick chamber. On the bed, which stood opposite, lay Isabelle de Chevreuse, her pallid features rendered more ghastly by the white linen and drapery which surrounded her. The dark eye was still brilliant and restless, gleaming for a moment on the intruder, and turning coldly away as from a stranger. The Duchess sat at the

bed-side, regardless of St. Maur's entrance; two ladies, kinswomen, hovered about the couch, their attention divided between Isabelle and her more distressed mother. De Retz, in his canonicals, calm, tearless, yet pale as death, stood at the foot of the bed, watching the movements of the poor lady; his chaplain, who had assisted him in administering the extreme unction, stood apart, looking on in silence.

St. Maur paused, anxious not to attract attention by approaching nearer the bed; and as the Coadjutor came forward, he saw the damsel's eyes follow his steps. The youth, with pardonable presumption, if it were such, extended his hand, which the Coadjutor grasped in silence. Recovering himself in a few moments, he told St. Maur, in a low voice, that he saw them all in affliction; that he felt, for himself, that he deserved the retribution. He should not, he said, leave the hôtel till Mademoiselle was either released from her sufferings, or, what he had scarce hope of, had passed the crisis of her fate. He should, therefore, make the Secretary the deposi tory of the keys of his treasure, that he might disburse what was essential to the daily craving interests of the Fronde and his own establishment. He would have also at his disposal the private papers and documents of the faction, that he might to a certain extent act in the place of the Coadjutor. For himself, de Retz added that he could hear nothing of temporal concerns till the soul of Isabelle had fled, or that the family were blessed beyond their hopes.

"Monsieur de Retz," said the moribund, in a voice which startled them, "why have you forsaken me after so many vows?”

166

Peace, Isabelle !" cried the Prelate; "remember you have partaken of the last holy rites of the church; after them, there should be no thought of earth.”

"But do you deny the vows ?" rejoined the damsel, exhibiting somewhat of her former pertinacity.

"Sister Isabelle !" said the Coadjutor, «I will not forsake you till you fall asleep, and will watch over your sleeping; but if my présence recalls wordly thoughts, I must, for your soul's sake, quit the chamber."

The youth understood by the prelate's responses, if such evidence were wanting, that ail hope of the damsel's recovery had been given up; the extreme unction having been administered, there remained only to compose the parting soul to meet death serenely; all worldly discourse, all interviews with parties tending to withdraw the mind from the contemplation of the approaching awful change,

were forbidden by the discipline of the church. He saw that the task of the Coadjutor was hard and severe; feeling that each passing moment might carry on its wings the soul of her he loved, yet forced to assume a serenity and composure befitting his priestly functions.

Knowing that the only motive for his being admitted a witness of the sad scene was the reluctance of de Retz to entrust the keys of his archives to any third party, he was anxious to withdraw. The Coadjutor walked with him to the door; his hand was on the handie, when Isabelle, whose mind was far from being composed, cried, in a sepulchral tone which thrilled through his frame,

66

Stay! It is St. Maur! I wish to talk with him."

A shade passed over the pale face of de Retz; he slightly knit his brows with vexation, but more in sorrow than in anger; and whispering to the youth that it was wrong to indulge her wandering fancy, yet beyond his nature to refuse, he led the Secretary to the bedside.

Her large dark eye rested on him as she said slowly, and with a voice which seemed to be re-echoed in the still chamber,

"It used to be talked of and laughed at-but never by me-that you were in love with Madame du Plessis, and she returned your affection-was that the truth!"

This was a very plain question, and he felt all the awkwardness which a young man would naturally feel in being so questioned; but he could not bring himself to any equivocation with one in the state of the damsel, and answered that the report was true.

"And would you ever break faith with her?" inquired Isabelle. This stroke was so unexpected, and came with such force, like a voice from the dead, that he was fairly staggered. His countenance became deadly pale, he trembled, and could not speak.

Isabelle rose from her pillow, crying, "Begone! begone!" then adding in a lower tone, as she sank back exhausted, "They are all alike!"

The Coadjutor, his eyes filled with tears, hurried the youth to the door, and bidding him act up to the spirit of the Fronde, as agreed in the morning conference, returned to the bed-side.

St. Maur quitted the hôtel, and found himself in his own chamber in the archiepiscopal palace, ere he could recover his scattered thoughts, or shake off the horror of the scene. He had that very morning, in his own mind, sat in judgment on the actions of the Coadjutor, and judged him, in the true spirit of charity, leniently.

He now stood himself judged, condemned, and was not disposed to urge the same leniency for himself as he had felt for his patron. The words of the dying Isabelle haunted him; he tried to shake off the melancholy impression, but could not. They were, he told himself, again and again, but the wild thoughts of one who in her short earthly career had proved untameable; and who in dying could not be brought to throw off the consideration of her earthly affections, upon which she still lingered, and which was scarcely to be wondered at, as their object was ever in her presence. Still, with his weakened spirits, he was awed by the circumstance, which spoke to his fears almost supernaturally.

The long hours of a summer's day had slowly rolled away; night was at hand; he was restless, but could not sleep, and went to the library, intending to read, or watch through the darkness. He tried several books, but could not fix his attention long; he felt drowsy, but would not return to his chamber; and placing the taper on a small table, he reclined in the capacious library-chair, watching the flame stirred gently by the wind, till he fell asleep.

He knew not how long he had slept; but waking with the cold, he found his own taper burnt out, but was startled at beholding a stream of light issuing from the closet. As he approached, he heard a voice praying, and on reaching the closet, beheld the Coadjutor on his knees. The noise of St. Maur's footsteps was heard by the Prelate; he sprang startled to his feet, as though he expected to confront something more than mortal.

"Ah! who is that?" he cried. "St. Maur!-your presence relieves me!"

The Secretary had not courage to inquire how fared Isabelle; he saw by the Coadjutor's looks that her earthly struggles were over, and felt regret in breaking upon his privacy. He was proceeding to explain the accident of his appearance, but was stopped short by de Retz, who told him that Isabelle de Chevreuse was no

more.

The aspect and appearance of de Retz betrayed the deepest afflic tion; he could not have been himself aware of the depth of his passion for the deceased damsel. But it was not alone her death which he now bewailed; there was mixed with his grief remorse for the irregularities of a dissolute life. Her sudden dissolution had awakened him to the reality of truths which he had often preached but never felt. He experienced all the sinfulness of his passion, and upbraided himself for the recklessness of his career. Bitterly he