lover, in order to fetter you by vows framed for your own misery and mine-promise me, solemnly, that you will not be misled, by reasoning or persuasion, to bind the future by irrevocable obligations. If the worst happen, only let me wait-time may do everything for us. That young priest-do not listen to him.”

"That young priest! Dear Victor, I assure you, he never said one word to me upon the subject in his life. Indeed, he has seldom exchanged a sentence with me, except in the way of common courtesy, when he has dined at my father's table. So far from there being any ground for the suspicions of that, dear Therese, this subject has never been mentioned before mescarcely at least. It is true, I have heard my father praise the tranquillity of monastic seclusion; but I never heard the priest say even so much as that: he was silent when my father ceased speaking-he is a very silent man.—I think, dear Therese, you exaggerate things. Dearest Victor, be at rest. Do what is right in such a case as ours: my father is very kind, he will not make us regret it. It is quite impossible, you must be sensible, dearest Victor, that I can meet you any more in this unavowed, clandestine manner. I only came once again to say this. Farewell! farewell! I shall hear from you................"

And two hours after this, Therese did accompany her young lady home.

But she was not so tired this time; for they had all three been sitting under the trees on a bank of moss and wood anemones, Virginie holding one of her little friend's hands fast clasped within her own.

It was agreed, before they parted, that De Vermont should endeavour to see the Marquis, the next morning, and lay his proposals before him-agreed between the lovers, it should be said; for Therese, far from yielding to their opinion, persisted in her melancholy anticipations, and at last, finding all she said without effect, took refuge in a gloomy silence.

TO EUGENE.

We sat together, last night, under the dark trees which terminate the little wood that hangs upon the side of the valley; for she had been out to meet me for the last time—that is, until I have a right to meet her. We seemed both to have but one mind upon this subject; but nothing that we could urge could re-assure Therese: she persisted in her evil prognostications. However, finding we were both resolved, after casting sundry very indignant looks at me, which seemed to say, "If I had known that you had been such a poor creature, I would have had nothing to do with you;"―at last she broke out with:

“Well, if it must be so, I must speak to Champagne......If any one can be introduced to Monsieur, it must be through Champagne. I'll speak to him about it."

This Marquis is a strange mystery, Eugene-that is certain; and, were I not so devoted to his sweet daughter, I should not be sorry to have done with him.

"I think," said Virginie, "my father is always more out of spirits, and inclined to solitude, at this time of the year. Autumn seems to sadden him; but I do not wonder at that. I think it is a melancholy season. Hope and expectation, for that year at least, are over; all the fruits of nature are gathered in-the labours of man at an end,—nothing left for him but to enjoy; and that, I suppose, we are too perverse to do at the appointed time. I cannot tell whether it was because my father was so gloomy, but I always felt melancholy too, at that time. I never was happy at this time of the year before."

The darling!

66

"Well," sighed Therese, "it is a thousand and a thousand pities: you might be as content always. The garden gate is open-you have nothing to do but to walk off to go to M. Bernard and be made one.

Monsieur would never mind-perhaps be very glad. What do we know ?"

"Therese! have done,” cried Virginie; and this last remark reminded her of what I had studiously avoided noticing that the evenings were becoming very short, and that the sun was setting. "Take us to the garden gate, Victor," said she.

"Well, then, to-morrow, Therese,” said I, "you will tell me M. Champagne's advice."

She has been here, and what do you think it pleases M. Champagne to say? Why, that of all days in the year, on the third of September there is the least chance of seeing his master.

"On the third of September, he says," continued Therese, "and, indeed, for some days before, the Marquis is in a state of indescribable agitation. It seems impossible for him to sit still; he paces from room to room, in irritable silence; he lies down on his bed, but seems unable to rest; his step may be heard in his bed-room, at every hour of the night. He most particularly shuns the sight of his daughter-never joins her at table, always sending down word that he is not well. As post-time approaches, he becomes more and more agitated -there is always a letter, written in a hand that Champagne knows very well, though he has not the slightest idea from whom it comes. Champagne is very reserved, sir; but he says, that when he goes in with letters, it is a terrible sight to see the Marquis: he turns pale as death, stretches out his hand, seizes the letter, looks at the address-then turns away with the air of one who has received a sentence of death.

"He never opens the letter before Champagne, but locks himself up in his library, where he is sometimes very violent, making strange work;—at others, he may be heard cursing and blaspheming in a low tone to himself, I believe. Champagne let out more than usual this evening. But, to-day is the third, sir, and it is impossible that you should see the Marquis.

"And this is the man," concluded she, in a mocking, ironical tone, "that you do not choose to steal a daughter from."

I was silent.

Why do you not write, Eugene? Do tell me what the world says of this man. If he be a madman, why, certainly, he is not to be applied to. I begin to have strange misgivings.

Here comes Pierre, however, with a letter, and from you.

"All you know is, that he lost his wife very soon after his marriage. The circumstances were thought odd, but are forgotten now. After that he travelled; then returned to Paris, where he led a very dissipated life, kept odd company, played high; and then, on a sudden, disappeared from the world, taking his daughter with him. And you wish to Heaven I would have done with the affair, and come back to Paris."

You must be sensible that it is impossible, Eugene. If you are perfectly incapable of appreciating the strength of the attachment which keeps me here, at least you are a man of honour. I am pledged to Mademoiselle de Montalembert.

You seem to think, to use your own words, "that this magnificent princess, who ought to be betrothed before princes, is a beggar!" It may be so. I suppose you do not mean me to be such a scoundrel, as to be influenced by this consideration. I heartily wish you would prove the fact to me; and I confess I should lose a good deal of the nicety that offends little Therese, and if possible persuade my prize to consent to visit England, in one of these luggers that, as I walk on the sea-beach, look so provokingly convenient for such a purpose.

CHAPTER VIII.

VICTOR TO EUGENE.

I WISHED, in one of my letters, to see either this father or this priest. I have seen this priest.

After writing, musing, worrying myself, I went out to walk. I wandered over the hills that lie to the eastward, the opposite way, for a wonder, from the Château de Montalembert; but I begin to be afraid of going there too often.

The evening was dark, and the wind blew in gusts; but I had paid little attention to it. At length a huge black cloud, which had been gradually rolling over the valley, burst suddenly in such a deluge of rain, that I was forced to run for it; and seeing a couple of miserable little hovels lying among the bare hills, I made for one of them, and, knocking at the door, I was admitted.

It is scarcely possible to imagine penury more complete than the interior of this little hut presented: a wretched bed; two or three half-broken chairs; the miserable fire dying on the hearth; the floor covered with dirt; the windows broken-a scene of wretchedness and disorder, rare, one must own, in this part of the country.

On the squalid pallet lay a man, lean, wasted, gaunt -his hollow cheek, and the dark yellow of his skin, his disordered hair, and the wildness of his eyes, at once telling the dreadful nature of his disorder. The woman who had let me in, had been sitting on one side of the bed; at the head of it stood M. Bernard.

He wore the long black dress and silk sash, the admirable costume, as I think it, of his profession; the three-cornered hat was laid upon the table. You know the way the young priests wear their hair-the locks, parted in front, and hanging in curls on the neck, aided by the close-shaved cheek, give an expression of primitive simplicity to the countenance, so completely in