"From all that may be feared," was the whispered answer, "from God and man, father. I have profaned this sacred temple by the thoughts with which I entered it, and I tremble to think of departing. I came here, not to meet God. Oh, even on this blessed night, I forgot him. What

am I to be, if I have brought down his curse? What am I to be, if in his anger he forsake me? Who shall protect me against myself?"

And she sobbed vehemently. When her agitation had ceased, the confessor resumed

"Be composed, poor child, God is merciful, even to offence like yoursaccept your remorse as a proof of his favour; but see that you reveal yourself, that nothing which ought to be told, remain unspoken. You came here, you tell me, not with pious thoughts-not to meet God in prayer. You came to meet a sinner-one who, I assume is here, or was to be here, in no better frame of mind than your own; do you know is any such person now in the church ?"

"Oh, yes; but his sin is not great as mine," she answered, half turning her face round, as if to look behind her, and then, with a shudder, averting it again; "yes, he is here-I saw him! I saw him! How! oh, how shall I escape!"

There was a brief pause-the confessor remaining silent, as if in thought.

"Hear me, father," she re-commenced; "hear me with patience, for my heart is deeply wounded. Never, till now, did I know how dreadful God is. I entered into his holy house, to keep my promise to one who had conjured that I would meet him-I entered, father, with folly and fear in my mind-but oh! there is a presence here! there is an influence that fills the consecrated space! and even the heart of sin is sensible of it. My first thought was to fly; but I had entered eagerly, and as I looked round to retire, he was at a pillar near mehis face was averted, but I dared not pass him; I dropt on my knees, trembled, and bowed my head, striving with myself to pray; I dared not; I could not. Was I not alone in the whole congregation? Were not all raised and pure in their devotion? How painfully their hymns of joy sunk

on my guilty heart. But oh, when I lifted up my eyes, as if even I would seek pity from heaven, I saw above the altar, the mother and the crucified Son; then was my hour, not of darkness, but of light and terror; it was a vision, father, not a picture—and words were spoken in my heart, 'behold whom thou dost contemn and persecute.' Oh, father, I was sinking, dying—and in that moment, I saw you, and by an impulse, may heaven have sent it, I came to you for mercy."

She ceased, and the confessor, too, remained for some time silent. After, it would seem, deep reflection, he said

66

Daughter, you must be in a state of more composure and recollection before you can partake the sacrament of penance; you shall speak to me as a friend, a father, and I will counsel you. Hereafter, you may have the privileges of devotion; you must now be satisfied with humbler blessings. Retire, my child, I will speak with you presently."

She heard him with terror, not less than gratitude.

"I tremble," said she, "to be for a moment unprotected. I am observed and beset. Oh, father, counsel me."

"Did you," said the confessor, 66 come here alone, quite alone?"

"No, father; I have one faithful servant, she has accompanied me, but she is feeble. The sense of sin is very timid; and although I have good hopes that I would not yield again to idle thoughts, I shrink from the fear of trial-I cannot bear to be further shaken."

"Is your attendant near at handcan you discern her?"

The penitent looked hastily back. "She is near, father, I saw her this moment, her eyes are upon me."

"Rise, my child, let your companion attend you-pass instantly through the entrance next but one, on the right to this chair on the left you will find a door, which will open at a touch, enter, close the door, and do not open until you hear me ask admittance; let your attendant remain with you.'

She arose, and, at a sign, was joined by her attendant. Together, they passed rapidly through the doors designed by the confessor, and with beating hearts shut themselves into the

room where they were to remain for a brief space prisoners. The moment the penitent arose, Carleton was in motion, but he was late; the portal through which they passed conducted directly through a porch to one of the great gates of the church. Many persons were there, entering and departing, when he had reached the inner door, through which he passed eagerly, leaving her whom he sought behind, while he rushed forward through the crowd, first pursuing some receding groups, and then returning to take his place on the steps of the gate, and to examine in vain every passing figure. Foiled in his expectations, he was returning again to the church, and had reached the entrance, which he was about to pass, when De Mortagne arrested him.

"A little less passion in your speed, my friend, and a little more composure in your looks, would be in better keeping with the time and place; your most unserene highness is agitated -what wild purpose possesses you?"

"I am on my way to that dark friar's den."

"What!" exclaimed De Mortagne, interrupting him, "to drag the struggling monster in to-day? Not nowtake my word for it-such a thing will not do yet; all in good time. think of it at present."

Don't

"I am not quite so mad, but I must have a word with that same confessor." "So-is it so? I cry you mercyyou will amend-are you ready to confess."

"No, by heavens! but he shall confess.'

"Oh, now I understand. You will learn where he has spirited away that charming penitent."

"Yes; I shall post myself at his door, and it will go hard with me, but I shall have some satisfaction from him."

"It will go hard with you, of that you may be sure-for a stranger, you appear to be very little curious as to your lodging amongst us. What! force yourself upon an ecclesiastic, and call him to account for acts done in the confessional! To beard the lion in his den would be sobriety, in comparison with such a prank. Do you not know that we have laws of sacrilege? No, no, keep your passion down, and your courage up for a time

when it may be useful. No, do not interrupt me; I understand all you can say-and I feel, perhaps, as warmly as you do, but not so madly. I tell you, if you speak but one word to this formidable abbé, you will give him power over you; I mean, if you speak it to him here. He will provoke an explosion of temper; in half-an-hour, you will be in a dungeon; there tonight, and where to-morrow, as your wild poet says. I am sharing in your madness while I remain here. We are observed. Pray, walk a little out of the throng; let us leave this holy place, even for a few minutes, and you may return, if I do not satisfy you that it is useless and unwise to do so."

Stunned and overcome, rather than persuaded, Carleton at length gave way, and continuing their whispered dialogue, the two speakers left the

church.

The confessor, on whose seclusion no penitent dared to intrude, soon left the confessional, and joined Madeleine and her attendant, in the chamber to which he had directed them. The story disclosed to him was of a kind which the reader may so easily have anticipated, that he would not thank us for the details. That Carleton should have sought out Madeleine, until his perseverance was rewarded by success; that he should have gained over her attendant to his interest; that billets, serenades, followed, and all those fond attentions of a worship, which borrowed its devotions, more from the character of the lover than the habits of the times; all this, the reader will regard as matter of course. He can fancy, too, the pretty, but not very alarming petulance of Madeleine's chiding with her maid, when a perfumed billet was, from time to time, placed in her way, or when her slumber was broken, as Annette stole to her chamber, and wakened her to the serenade. He can fancy how the lady listened, although she chid; and however so small a portion of her curtain withdrawn, told that the rich voice of her obsequious lover was not unheard, or his attentions unregarded. All this, the reader has, no doubt, divined— and we think it better to leave it with him, we not having the grace or skill by which a twice-told tale would be recommended. Neither shall we enter into detail as to the tactique of an

ambitious aunt, to ensure that in this, as in other instances, "the course of true love never should run smooth."

Suffice it to say, that she tried a second time the experiment of a sudden removal; that Carleton's enterprise and perseverance were again successful; and that she sought to escape his importunities, by lodging herself and her fair ward in a quarter of Paris where they had not previously resided.

Scarcely had she become settled in this new abode, before Carleton reappeared, not in his proper form, but in a guise scarce less effectual, that of an epistolary form. It is not necessary to recite the expressions in which he strove to awaken interest and compassion in Madeleine's gentle heart. Only for a moment to see her—once to hear her voice-would be bliss ; even to be rejected, would have some touch of comfort; and memories would follow it, from which the brief term of life which was to follow would draw a solace. As the somewhat haughty aspect of the young lover rose before her at the spell of his billets, and seemed to soften into tenderness and humility before her influence, the young beauty softened too. Annette

was permitted to encourage him; to appoint a trysting-place on the bridge; to name the church where his prayer might be indulged.

All this was done, or suffered, rather, in the light-heartedness that thought no evil. If any thought looking beyond the moment, dawned on her mind, it was in the vague formwould her father recognise, or receive the suitor as an acquaintance? But this was so faint in the remote distance of her mental horizon, as to be scarcely discernible. No grave thought or purpose was in her mind, no passion in her heart she would speak a word of compassionate farewell, and acquit herself, by it, of every obligation to her persevering lover. With such feelings she entered the church of St. Germain-the revulsion of thought and heart which she experienced there, revealed to her powers of mental suffering, of which she had been wholly unconscious.

"I had hardly entered the church," said she, as she concluded her story, "when I felt that my sin was grievous; and if God himself had become visible, I do not think I could be more

agitated, than at the sight of that blessed picture. Oh, it may well be that he did appear; and that what was to others only an image, was the Lord himself, and his adorable mother, to my heart and spirit. In that moment of dismay, you appeared-a murmur of voices arose near me, in it I heard your name; I heard no more, but that was enough; often before I had heard my dear father mention you, and I felt that I could not be wrong in imploring your protection."

"I am known to your father? Have you any doubt or fear to say who he is? Do not fear, daughter-if you are unwilling that I should know more of you, keep your secret. What has passed to-night shall be forgotten. If you have confidence in my desire to do you service, and in my discretion, you will not suffer from it."

"I have no fears-my father is the Count Dillon O'Moore."

"A friend with whom I have often taken counsel-he is not yet arrived in Paris?"

"No, reverend father, but he has directed that I should await him."

"I hope to see him and you again. Now, I will have the happiness to escort you home. A carriage is in waiting at the outer gate, can you walk so far?"

When she had expressed her thankful readiness, the priest threw a cloak around him, over his robes, and conducted the lady and her attendant, walking by their side, to the carriage, handed them in, and entered after them. He was not unobserved. Carleton saw him and his escort-just as they reached their carriage, he had reached it also. "Perhaps," he said, when first he saw it, "the carriage is her's." Some such suspicion, scarce acknowledged, was in his mind, and he arrived in time to have it verified. The feeling it awoke was one of bitterness.

retired to rest at an early hour, and

was awakened to receive a letter from her brother, of which a special courier was the bearer. This she still held in her hand, and her mind was, as could he collected from her glances at the missive, evidently disturbed by it. The little embarrassment caused by the unexpected appearance of De Burgh gave way before the influence of his inanners and the remembrances recalled by his references to incidents of past days, and mysterious hints as to schemes in which they both still held an interest; and when Madeleine retired, Madame La Comtesse detained the confessor, and made him the depository of the secret that troubled her. She had attained, as she confidently believed, the point at which success in her great schemes was certain. The prince had received a miniature likeness of Madeleine, and vouchsafed to express, in the strongest terms, his royal admiration of her beauty. He had declared, too, his fixed determination to visit aunt and niece, in the coming week, at Fontainebleau ; and, after many disappointments at Varangeville, and elsewhere, when the meeting with his royal highness was now certain, and the result of it not doubtful, as, although now above such vanities, the Abbé de Burgh, having seen Madeleine, must be aware, when she expected the return that a rational man might make to a disinterested friend, who had spent almost a life in endeavouring to render him service" how was she confounded by an expression like that?" cried she

passionately, showing De Burgh the letter.

"I warn you against your insane and unfeminine expedition. If you disregard my warning, I forbid my daughter to accompany you. I am hastening to Paris, to relieve you from all further care of her."

Tears and sobs gushed forth in disordered abundance, as the lady thought of this rude rebuke. "I will retire into a convent," said she, in one of the intervals of her clamorous sorrow. and the confessor took his leave, with the usual professions of consideration, but without expressing condemnation or approval of her world-renouncing

intentions.

Madeleine did not experience, that night, the peace of mind which moralists insist waits upon a good action. Severe as was the struggle in which she conquered herself, repose did not follow it. Stranger still, her very conscience seemed to take up a tone of reproof against her, and to become an accuser on the part of Carleton. How must he feel and think of her? What must he have suffered ? What

desperate act may he have done? Poor Madeleine !-her night was not peaceful-nor her rest salubrious. At times she sunk into uneasy slumber, even from sorrow—and started, scared from sleep by the fearful visions it called up around her. Carleton's cause lost nothing in Madeleine's heart, by the wrong she thought herself guilty of having done him, in her transient paroxysm of conscientiousness.

Valmont was not quite deserted, nor did it wear that air of sadness which a modern lyrist has ascribed to such

upon them.

The fair hostess did not tread her hall alone. A few chosen friends remained; and a visitor, permit

ted to look in and listen, who saw a gay party grouped round an antique fire-place, while massive logs of resinous wood sent forth mellow gleams, that were to the light of the banquethour what the moon is to the clearer but more prosaic light of day, would be strongly disposed to believe the true enjoyments of the evening about to commence, when its more garish gaities had ended.

"What," said Madame de Valmont, "can explain your friend's absence? The Vicomte de Mortagne did not use to be a loiterer."

"I apprehend, Madame la Comtese, de Mortagne's early attendance was always choice rather than politeness. I would conclude his absence is compulsory."

"Monsieur de Beaumont defends the absent," said a beautiful Blonde, with a smile. "This is indeed a rare

benevolence."

"Do you not observe, dear Cecile," said the Countess, "that he contrives to makes his generosity a compliment to the present. His explanation of de Mortagne's usual homage attests his own sensibility to our attractions. It has another advantage. If the traitor can give no good excuse for his offence, his advocate has taught us to show no mercy; thanks, good sir, I mean to show none. I wished much for Monsieur de Mortagne, while the Rosicrucian was in his mysteries and revelations. A word or a look from our friend has a chill of his enchantment, that no enthusiasm feigned or felt can resist. He has failed us, but he has not frozen our good spirits, and he has left us, I hope, an appetite-here comes the summons.

A door opened at the end of the salon, and disclosed a smaller chamber brilliantly lighted. Thither the hostess and her fair friends were duly marshalled, and the select company took their places at a supper-table, where there was little of idle splendour, little of ornament that had not some obvious use, but where every thing was arranged with a simple elegance, and where, without preparation elaborately luxu rious-luxury was sufficiently consulted for those who are satisfied that at a small supper-table the second best thing shall be the good cheer.

It is well known that the petits soupers of Paris, before the disastrous

events in which the last century terminated, had acquired what in later days would have been termed an European reputation. If the salons set the tone of public opinion throughout France, the soupers governed the salons, constituting as it were an esoteric principle for them. Vanity, perhaps, never manifested its presence more amiably than in those charming re-unions. Literature, politics, religion, "the court, the camp, the grove," all things that be, tendered their contributions to enrich them-no subject so abstruse or grave, no sentiment so sacred, as to be exempt from their jurisdiction. Every man who hoped for success or distinction, felt that these were the arena in which he was to achieve it-his studies, his observations, his reflections, all had reference to them; and he acquired insensibly the habit of considering every thing that engaged his thoughts, with a view to the aspect in which it would be most presentable in the little coteries, where present celebrity was to be attained. As to posthumous renown, it was a species of limbo for which few would care to sacrifice a good reception in the circles where bright eyes reigned influence. They were the Parisian tournaments of the eighteenth centurytournaments where intellectual gladiators would often have been betrayed into vehemence, or confirmed in rancour, but for the power of an ascendancy equally conspicuous, perhaps, in times of old, but not conspicuous in the same salutary results. Under the graceful sway of female influence, the more odious passions were compelled to hide themselves; the excitement of competition was freely indulged, and jealousy or ill-will no further tolerated than as they could add zest to it. "Come, that is well on both sides""Who has been at a reading of the new tragedy?"-or, " Monsieur, will you oblige us by repeating that spirited epigram"-has often afforded a desirable pause to two impassioned rivals, who felt that they were committing and exposing themselves, and who, but for some such happy interposition could not have recoiled from an unseemly contest, and recovered their composure. Thus was the company a kind of orchestra, in which the hostess was found generally to preside with admirable taste and discretion. It was a compensation to woman for the law