Marquis de Secqville, my future nephew." The old Visconte looked closely and dubiously for a moment in the young man's face. The Marquis, on the contrary, seemed to have some little difficulty in suppressing a smile. "But that I know I have not had the honour of meeting you before, I should -but no doubt it is a family likeness. I knew your father when he was about your age, and a very handsome fellow, by my faith. Is his brother, the Conte de Cresseron still living?" The old gentleman drew the Marquis away before he had had time to pay his devoirs to Julie, who had shrunk at his approach into the background, and left the little group to themselves. "What do you think of him?” whispered Julie, resuming her place by Lucille. "He is pretty well." "Monsieur le Marquis is a handsome man," said Blassemare, who at that moment joined them; and addressing Lucille, "You have seen him before?" "I?-no. He has just been presented to me for the first time." "And you think him "Rather handsome-indeed, decided ly handsome; but, somehow, without attraction-his melancholy spoils him. But I forgot, Julie-I ask your pardon, my pretty niece, for criticising your hero. Remember, however, I admit his beauty, though I can't admire him." There is no truth of which we have been reminded with such unnecessary reiteration, as the pretty obvious fact, that every human enjoyment must, sooner or later, come to an end. The fete at the Chateau des Anges had no exemption from this law of nature and necessity. Musicians, cooks, artists, and artisans of all sorts, gradually disappeared. At length the last equip age whirled down the great avenue, and a stillness and void, more mournful from the immediate contrast, supervened. "The windows were closed-the yawning servants betook themselves to their beds, and the angel of sleep waved his downy wings over the old chateau. The genius of Blassemare was of that electric sort which is not easily unexcited. He could no more have slept than he could have transformed himself into one of the stone Tritons of the fountain by which in the moonlight he now stood alone. Blassemare had had a magnificent triumph; so well-contrived an entertainment had never, perhaps, been known before; and like certain great generals, he felt desirous to visit the field of his victory after the heat of action was over. Monsieur Le Prun was also wide awake and astir from other causes. No vein of Blassemare's excitementnot even jealousy, nor conscience, nor any mental malady-kept him waking, The cause of his vigilance was, simply, his late supper and an indigestion. Now it happened that both these worthies were walking unconsciously almost side by side-Le Prun along the summit, and Blassemare along the base of the beautiful terrace which stretched in front of the windows of the chateau. There was a little receding court which lay in front of Madame Le Prun's windows, which were furnished with a heavy stone balcony. On the side opposite was a high wall, which divided the pleasure-grounds from the wild, wooded park that lay immediately beyond, and in this was a door with a private key and a spring lock. Now it happened that both Monsieur Le Prun and the Sieur de Blassemare, as they approached this point, amid the fumes of expiring lamps and the wreak of fireworks, heard certain sounds of an unexpected sort. These were, in fact, human voices, conversing in earnest but suppressed tones-so low, indeed, that were it not for the breathless stillness of the night they would have been unheard. "Sacre!" muttered Le Prun, looking up like a toothless old panther. "Ma foi! what's this?" whispered Blassemare, whose jealousy was also alarmed. The sounds continued-the eavesdroppers quickened their paces. Le Prun was, however, unfortunately a little asthmatic, as sometimes happens to bridegrooms of a certain age, and, spite of all his efforts to hold it in, he could not contain a burst of coughing. Its effect was magical. There supervened an instantaneous silence, followed by the dropping of a heavy body upon the ground, as it seemed, under Madame Le Prun's windows. The descent was, however, unfortunately made; a dog, evidently hurt, raised a frightful yelping, making the night additionally hideous. Blassemare hurried up the steps, and at the top encountered Le Prun, running and panting, with his sword drawn. There was a sound, as of hastily closing the casement above the balcony-a light gleamed from it for an instant, and was extinguished-and, at the same moment, they beheld the dim figure of a man hurrying across the court, and darting through the opposite door, which shut with a crash behind him. "Thieves! robbers!" shouted Le Prun, dashing at the door. "Robbers! thieves !" cried a shrill voice of alarm from Madame Le Prun's casement. "Horns! antlers!" halloed Blasse mare. "Robbers! robbers!" The lady screamed, Le Prun bawled, Blassemare laughed. "He is gone, however," said the latter, as soon as the explosion had a little subsided. "Suppose we get the key, madame. Please throw us your's from the window. I promise to pink the burglar through the body. Quick -quick!" Ay, ay," thundered Le Prun, "the key! the key!" Madame Le Prun was too much excited to get it in an instant. She ran here, and flew there-she screamed and rummaged. Le Prun stormed. A key was at last thrown out, amid prayers and imprecations. How provoking-it was a wrong one. Another effort a new burst of execration from Le Prun-another fit of laughter from Blassemare-more screaming and pressing from the window-and all accompanied by the sustained yelping of the injured lap-dog. "Here it is this must be it," and another key clangs and jingles on the ground. Yes, this time it is the right key. The door flies open-Le Prun rushes puffing among the bushes. Blassemare sees something drop glittering to the ground as the door opens-a button and a little rag of velvet; he says nothing, but pockets it, and joins the moonlight chase. It is all in vain. Le Prun, perspiring and purple, his passion as swollen VOL. XXXVI.-NO. CCXV. as his veins, knowing not what to think, but fearing everything, staggered back, silent and exhausted; Blassemare also silent-no longer laughing -abstracted, walks with knit brows, and compressed lips, beside him. "Of course," said Blassemare, "you have the fullest reliance upon the honour of your wife?" Monsieur Le Prun growled an inarticulate curse or two, and Blassemare whistled a minuet. "Come, my dear Le Prun," he resumed, let us be frank; you are uneasy." "Ah, she's in league with the thieves, maybe?" said Le Prun, with an agitated sneer. 66 Precisely so," answered Blassemare, with a cold laugh. "I know what you think, and I know what I think," replied Le Prun, with suppressed fury. His suspicions were all awake; he was bursting with rage, and looked truly infernal. "On the faith of a gentleman," said Blassemare, in a changed tone, "I cannot be said to think anything about the affair. I have my doubts, but that is all. We men are naturally suspicious; but, after all, there are such things as thieves and house-breakers." Le Prun said nothing, but looked black and icy as the north wind. "At all events," said Blassemare, "we men of the world know how to deal with affairs of this sort; so long as any uncertainty exists, put ostensibly the best possible construction upon it. Thus inuch is due to one's dignity in the eyes of the public; and in private we may prosecute inquiries unsuspected, and with the greater likelihood of success." "I know the world as well as you, Blassemare. I'm sick of your tone of superiority and advice. I know when to respect and when to defy the world. A man can no more make a fortune without tact than he can lose one without folly." "Well, well," said Blassemare, who was used to an occasional rebuff, and regarded a gruff word from his principal no more than he did the buzz of a beetle, "I know all that very well; 2 s but you, robust fellows, with millions at your backs, are less likely to respect those subtle and delicate influences which sometimes, notwithstanding, carry mischief with them, than we poor sensitive valetudinarians, without a guinea in our pockets; and if you will permit me, I will, when I return to-day, sift the matter for you. I understand woman; it is an art in itself, though perhaps not a very high one. A careless conversation with Madame Le Prun will let me farther into the mystery, than a year spent in accumulating circumstantial evidence. You may rely on the result." The Fermier-General uttered something between a growl and grunt, which might or might not convey assent; and waving Blassemare towards the house, walked along the terrace alone, and sate himself down upon the steps at the further end. The mental torpor which supervenes under sudden disasters was not, in the case of the Fermier-General, without its dreamy groups of ugly images in prospect. As the light broke, and the darkness began to melt eastward into soft crimson mists and streaks of amber, Monsieur Le Prun rose stiffly from his hard cold seat, and with the slow step of a man irresolute and oppressed with profound wrath and mortification, began to return homeward. "Robbers!-thieves !" he muttered bitterly. "How glibly the traitress echoed the cry. The rascal Blassemare gave the true alarm-she did not echo that. Dher, and d― him. Robbers, indeed! Thieves!very like. I know what they came a-thieving for. Upon her balconytalking in murmurs-the candle extinguished in such a devil of a hurry— the ready cry of Thieves'-the spring door open for his flight-and the long delay to find the key. Bah! what proofs are wanting?" He heard just at this point a cracked voice singing a gay love verse from an open window. He knew the voice; every association connected with the performance and the performer jarred upon his nerves. It was indeed the Visconte de Charre bourg, some of whose early gaiety had returned with his good fortune. He had, such was the pride of his rich son-in-law, a little household of his own, and kept his state and his own exorbitantly early hours in a suite of rooms assigned him, through one of whose windows, arrayed in a velvet cap and gown of brocade, he was rivalling the lark and greeting the rising sun, and, while sipping his chocolate in the intervals, moved, with the nimble irregularity of idle and active. minded age, about his apartment. “Well, sir, a pleasant affair this?" cried a harsh voice, interrupting his cheery occupation; and on looking round he saw the purple and sinister face of the Fermier-General looming through the window. "What affair?" asked the Visconte in unfeigned astonishment, for he had been quite certain that his worthy sonin-law was quietly in his bed. "Your daughter's conduct." "What of her?" "Just this-she is a - ;" and with the term of outrage, Le Prun uttered a forced laugh of fury. "I cannot have heard you aright; be kind enough to repeat that." There was a certain air of pomp and menace in this little speech, which drove Le Prun beyond all patience. He repeated the imputation in language still grosser. This was an insult which the ancient blood of the Charrebourgs could not tolerate, and the Visconte taunted him with the honour which one of his house had done him in mingling their pure blood with that of a "roturier." Then came the obvious retort, "beggar," and even "trickster," retaliated by a torrent of scarcely articulate scorn and execration, and an appeal to the sword, which, with brutal contempt (while at the same time, nevertheless, he recoiled instinctively a step or two from the window), the wealthy plebeian retorted by threatening to arrest him for the sums he had advanced. Le Prun had the best of it; he left the outraged Visconte quivering and shrieking like an old woman in a frenzy. It was some comfort to have wrapt another in the hell-fire that tormented himself. SNAP-APPLE NIGHT. Carrigbawn, Allhallow-E'en, at Midnight. MY DEAR ANTHONY,-If there is any zoological specimen more worthy than another of being hermetically sealed in a glass-case, or corked up in a bottle of spirits of wine, it is an old bachelor without bile or bitterness-one who is at the same time fond of children and of their grandmothers-the playfellow of the young, and the counsellor of the old-who flirts with young girls, and squires old ones who can dance, play whist, drink tea, talk scandal, or ride a fox-huntwho is all things to all men, and everything in the world to every woman. Just such a specimen is my good uncle, Saul Slingsby-the delight of all who know him for miles round-the grand projector of pic nics and steeple-chases-a steward at every subscription ball, and croupier at every club dinner. How Saul escaped matrimony is a marvel to every one, for he was a good-looking and a manly fellow. I think myself that he owed his safety to the immensity of his philogyny : the lover of all womankind could never afford to incarcerate his affections within the sphere of one of the sex. Had he lived in Turkey, he would have been the happy husband of a thousand wives. But he lives in Ireland, and is, therefore, a bachelor. The Slingsbys all cluster about Uncle Saul at all the great festivals, as bees about thyme flowers, or butterflies in a sunny meadow. He is the sole survivor of a multitude of younger brothers and sisters, and has a large ancient house all to himself as large as his heart, and as ready as that heart to take every mother's son of us into its warmest corners, and cherish us with true parental love. Of course, we all eat our apples and nuts with him; and I set out this afternoon to form one of the many friends around his festive mahogany. The day was a delicious one for the season, grey, breezeless, and full of repose; a slight, thin haze had succeeded a sharp hoar-frost, and the sun shone out with a shorn splendour; but there was a cool healthiness in the air that braced the limbs, and sent the blood flowing brisk and joyously through the veins, under the stimulus of exercise. The trees were now showing their leafless branches, exposing to view the birds' nests, which erst the summer foliage had sheltered; while here and there an odd tree still struggled to keep its leaves against frost and wind; the horse-chesnut and the elm, with their rich, sunny umber; the brown beech, the deep russet-coloured oak. How silent was all around! The fields no longer rang with the merry laughter of the reapers and corn-binders; here and there a few men and women were digging out the scant crop of diseased potatoes, but the voice of gladness did not cheer their labour; the solitary ploughman drove his horses through the stubble, breaking the silence ever and anon with his plaintive whistle; the groves were not now vocal with warblings of birds, for the winds had been busy in their leafy haunts; "The gusts of October had rifled the thorn. Had dappied the woodland, and umbered the plain," though at intervals the note of the blackbird and the thrush broke startlingly on the ear from some still sheltered dingle. But the little house-sparrow is still hopping and twittering and chirping, and rendered more bold by the sharp winds and the nipping frosts, he comes from the hedge, and picks up the grain at the barn door; or perching on threshold and window-sills, looks timidly into the cheery rooms, and watches the movements of the inmates; or sitting on the black thorn, "pipes plaintive ditties, with a low, inward voice, like that of a love-tainted maiden, as she sits apart from her companions, and sings soft melodies to herself, almost without knowing it." I strolled along, full of pleasant fancies, and as I looked around me, and watched the lengthening shadows on hill and plain, the beautiful verses of Keble, written for this very season, came to my mind: "Why blow'st thou not, thou wintry wind, Now every leaf is brown and sear, And idly droops, to thee resigned, The fading chaplet of the year? Yet wears the pure aerial sky, "How quiet shows the woodland scene! Like weary men when age is won. So musing, I stood, as the sun was setting, before the ancient entrance into Uncle Saul's demesne. In the apex of a semi-circle, which swept inwards from the road, rose two high, square, limestone pillars of rusticated masonry, surmounted by antique urns of the same material, but the stone, though unbroken and carefully preserved, had lost its original colour, and looked dark and weather-stained, and the tooth of time was visible in that appearance, which architects have denominated "vermiculated." From these piers swung an enormous gate of iron, the rails of which were all arrow-headed, and between the crossbars you could see many a fantastic scroll, elaborately wrought, according to the fashion of by-gone times. At either side, the sweep of coped stonework was terminated by a pier, similar in style to those I have mentioned, beyond which stood a square, stone lodge, with a high slated roof that ran to a point in the centre, topped by a wooden ornament. I swung open one valve of the gate and passed up the long, straight, formal avenue of beech trees till I reached the house. My approach was not unnoticed, nor unannounced, for a multitude of dogs, of all sizes, ages, and species, broke out into a clamorous salutation, ranging through every note of the canine diapason, from the deep bay of the house-dog to the shrill, snappish challenge of the little, wiry-haired terrier. But I was a friend amongst that honest-hearted population, and the storm soon sank down to pleasant whinings and caressing gambols. And thus escorted, I mounted the flight of broad, stone steps that led to the door of one of those fine old mansions which are still to be seen in the interior of the country-none of your gingerbread things, that you see at Kingstown and Dalkey, Anthony, with their gables and gazaboes, and little windows stuck in all sorts of queer places in the roof-young Elizabethans, just come from nurse, with their white, shining faces, and flaring green-painted doors but a noble, square pile of solid masonry, not ashamed to show its honest face without a mask of whitewash upon it, pierced with innumerable windows, too narrow, I admit, for more modern taste, yet large enough withal to afford a pleasant look out for a couple of young lovers (if they cared for a look out), and to let in sunbeams and air enough for the lowceiled rooms within. Well; the door opened, and there stood the worthy master, with outstretched hand and smiling face, welcoming "the last of the Slingsbys," for all the others had arrived before me. I shall not trouble you with an introduction to all the Slingsbys, nor detail all the good things that passed into our mouths or out of them during dinner. Imagine us, then, the last dish having disappeared, and the dessert laid on the table, sipping our wine and toying with the fruit in all the languid fastidiousness of sated appetite. If there is one half-hour in the twenty-four more delectable than another, believe me it is the half-hour that succeeds to a good dinner. If "the half-hour before dinner" is proverbially the most triste and formidable of the day, the half-hour after dinner is the most delightful. A delicious lassitude steals over the body. The beat of the pulse is full, regular, and tranquil, telling that every function plays smooth and cheerily, with as little creak or friction as the cranks and pistons of a steam-engine after the engineer has gone round them with his tin oil-kettle, and lubricated the joints and pivots. A pleasant haze rises around the brain, through which every external object is conveyed to the sensorium in colêur-de-rose, and every thought is mellowed in the intellect. And surely our after-dinner half-hour was a happy one. Jest and banter went round gleefully; incidents of former merry meetings were remembered with a smile, |