"Mademoiselle de Montalembert ?" interrupting me; "I partly guess."

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'Well, Therese, you know, has been very kind to me in this affair-carrying letters I mean, and so forth and to-day she comes and puts this strange question-what I intend to do. She ought never to have doubted what I intended to do."

"She did not doubt, sir," said Madeleine, almost haughtily, "that you meant honourably by the heiress of Montalembert. Doubtless, she meant to ask you what course you meant to pursue with respect to her father."

"She called him her dreadful father."

"He is so, sir."

"Now, Madeleine, this is what I want to learn from you -I want to know something of this strange mystery that hangs round Mademoiselle de Montalembert and her father. How can I tell in what manner to proceed, ignorant as I am of all the circumstances and relations of those in whom I am so deeply interested?"

"How, indeed!" was all her answer.

There was a pause. I at last resumed, "You know Ma

demoiselle de Montalembert well?"

"Know her?-I took her, innocent lamb, into my arms, when she entered this troubled world; and may it please the great Being, that in her arms I may sink to rest, when my weary pilgrimage shall close. But you are not presuming,' almost with fierceness, "to ask questions about her, sir. If you have any doubts, if you cannot see-yes, at a glance, young man-all that she is the angel! the bright-haired angel! her mother all again!-you are no son of your father. He asked no questions about her mother, sir."

"Her mother!"

"He had a heart to worship, to idolize, to trust―he did not go sneaking about, asking questions. There was only one question he asked-would she love him? He got that

answered."

"Did my father love her mother so?"

"I did not say he did; did I?" was all I could get out of her.

Another pause.

At last I resumed-" It is my wish and my purpose, if I cannot be allowed to see M. de Montalembert immediately, to write to him, and beg his permission to address his daughter. Do you counsel this?"

"It is a cruel, cruel thing!" she burst forth: "she who would have been affianced before assembled princes; for whom nobles should have been proud to negotiate to be given away-betrothed, as it were, by two helpless old women, the menial dependants of her ancient house! It is a miserable thing to suffer her to be stolen away, like some

dishonoured foundling, unacknowledged, unknown-she who ought to have had the world at her feet! But, sir, she shall do no base act."

"I will pledge my life, nothing would engage her to it," cried I.

Yes, Eugene, laugh at me as you will, ridicule me, spurn me as a poor confiding imbecile-a weak, trusting foolI glory in the certainty, that, on such terms, she never, never would be mine.

What! Virginie, my pure, high-thoughted Virginie! steal from her father's house; elope, disgrace herself! She shall not tamper with disgrace, even for me -and I know the full force of that sentence, though you may pretend that you do not.

But I must learn something of this father, that I may understand how to approach him.

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"Well, Madeleine," I said, at length, we shall never get to business; you are so mysterious, with all your hints, and half sentences. Now do act, for once like a reasonable woman, and tell me the plain truth of the matter. What is there about this Marquis de Montalembert so very strange, or dreadful?"

"I don't know," said Madeleine, "who has put it into your head, that he is very strange or dreadful; people have no business to go about telling stories of great familiesfamily miseries, sir, should be kept secret-such curtains ought not to be lifted up. It is better to believe that all these painted, gewgaw puppets, we see performing their parts, are realities, not actors-it is better, sir, to believe that goodness is goodness, and happiness is happiness.

"It is enough to wither the young heart, to know what lies upon the old one. It is a fearful thing, young gentleman, to look back upon seventy years. Merciful Heaven! let but the next world, like the present, open with oblivion! Sir, the marquis is a-has been-rather an unfortunate man -and he is melancholy and disgusted with the world. Sir, he has had cause-he was to be pitied. It is a hard burden -it is a cruel fate-to love, to idolize one who but too well merited such devotion, and to be hated-it has driven wiser men mad. We must consider these things, sir, in judging him."

"Perhaps so-but my Virginie! Indeed, old woman, you will drive me wild. For Heaven's sake, do tell me at once to what cruel fate do I expose my love, if I ask her of her father? Do tell me, is this notion a mere whim of Therese? or what is it?"

"I believe, sir," said she, recovering her serenity, "that Therese suspects that it is the design of M. de Montalembert to persuade mademoiselle to enter a convent-to take the vows, sir, I mean."

"That is very unlikely," said I; “an only daughter; and so well endowed, as you say; and so richly endowed, as I say. Convents are usually for the poor, the deformedpour les disgraces de la nature, et de la fortune. Besides, times are gone by when young ladies were forced into convents; a little resolution on her part will do away with all danger of this sort."

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"I should think as you do, sir, but I do not like to see Therese so positive. Therese is rarely deceived."

"But what possible object can the marquis propose to himself by such a step? Does he ..... He really seems

to hate his daughter."

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Sir, it is very difficult to say how he feels towards her; he was never known to say a harsh word to her, and when he speaks to her, it is with a sort of pity; yet here he shuts her up, denying her every pleasure of her age, when she has plenty of friends at Paris who would be happy to introduce her. Yet, it is not that he may enjoy her society in his retirement, for he passes days, nay, even weeks, without even seeing her, nor indeed any one else, except his steward; and lately, Therese says, that a priest has been very much about the castle, and that monsieur has had him to dinner, and has introduced him to his daughter."

"And is this all the foundation upon which she goes?" cried I, quite angrily; "this is too ridiculous."

"I believe so," said Madeleine. "I wish you may not find it ridiculous."

This startled me again.

"And who is the priest ?"

"He is M. Bernard, sir; he serves this chapel."

"And what sort of a man is he? A jesuitical, intriguing fellow, likely to engage in such a scheme."

"He is a most pious and humble servant of the church, sir," said Madeline, with great respect. "It is not for a young man like you-an idle, fluttering, empty follower of the world-to speak lightly of one, who may not perhaps have counted many more years than yourself; but his are rich, and crowned with good works. Every autumn has brought its harvest to him; his treasury in heaven is full. No barns nor garners hath he here; but where his treasure is, there is his heart also. It is not for one like you-no, nor for one like me-to speak idly of him."

"I wonder that I have never seen him."

"Have you been much with the poor and the sick-the friendless, the miserable, or the castaway? There you might have seen him."

'But, Madeleine, it is impossible that one such as you describe, should lend himself to a scheme of this nature," reiterated I.

"Lend himself! no; but, what if he believe that these

paths are paths of peace? that the world is a vain, empty, rattling, hollow bawble? and that the holy peace of God is better than vanity, and strife, and passion, and sin?"

I was struck with her words; the sense of which, otherwise expressed, would have put me into a rage. I think I discern so well the falsity of such reasonings. Yet there is. an aspect under which things may be made so imposing, that even that worst of gloomy, unnatural prisons, a convent, appears, as she said, the abode of holy peace and tranquillity, of goodness, of God.

She gave me a long penetrating look; then slowly turning away her eyes

"If you can be thus affected may not she?"

Ah, Eugene! I have found it impossible to describe her to you, and but once have I attempted it--I have found it impossible to convey by words the faintest impression of the charm which attaches me so devotedly to her-that kind of ethereal, that more than virgin purity which surrounds her-the life may be, that she has led . .. There is a heaven in her eyes-a pure lambent light, not the fire of passion: oh! far from that!-yet a flame from withinimagination!-poetry!-religion!-what is it?-Something almost passionate in her tenderness, yet is it a passion of the soul--Pooh, nonsense! if you cannot comprehend me, I cannot make you comprehend me, though I were to write | volumes.

But alas! of such are virgin martyrs--of such, alas! of such-are some of those sweet faces, that one still sees immured behind the fatal grate; pent up with hypocrisy, gossip, and vulgarity, and all that makes a convent as odious as it is ridiculous. Pale, attenuated, the holy flame, flickering and expiring; victims of their own overwrought feelings.

I cannot tell you how uneasy I am made by this conversation. Filial duty, hesitating love-the imagination all the more excited by the very tenderness I have been such a happy wretch as to inspire-a really pious, Christian priest at hand, fanatic, but still sincere-persuaded that he is rescuing her from a dangerous world, to place her in the bosom of her God. So much innocence and purity! such a worthy sacrifice for the wretches! they dare to think, the more spotless and the more lovely, the fitter victim.

I am come home, for I could make no more of Madeleine, and here I sit writing. The more I think of what she said, and of my sweet, tender, innocent, imaginative treasure, the more I tremble. I wish I could see this priest, Eugene-I wish I could see this father. I feel completely perplexedyet to ask her to elope with me, to disgrace her!-it is impossible, I cannot bear to think of it. In this country, where, Heaven knows, we are careless enough about our wives, such immense importance is attached to the slightest devia

tion from the most strict propriety in the conduct of young women! To persuade her to take such a step!-to be the murderer of her good name !-and more than that, of her own self-respect of that maidenly dignity of words and actions, pure and spotless, that invests her!

CHAPTER VII.

"THIS is the first and I hope the last quarrel that we shall ever have, my Therese," said Virginie; and as she spoke she rose hastily from her chair.

The two friends had, indeed, been separated by the whole length of Virginie's apartment.

It was a long room, lighted by a succession of windows, that gave upon the green shrubberies and treillages of the garden; and in spite of its very old furniture, heavy, embroidered armchairs, grim pictures, and faded tapestry, the apartment was smiling and cheerful.

The windows, large paned, and opening at the centre from the ceiling to the floor, threw abundance of light upon the walls, chastened when the sun was too bright by the grateful and agreeable shade of the green Persian blinds.

The room was carpeted and curtained, had a modern-looking sofa, and a small table or two-a few embroidered footstools, with various elegant trifles befitting a young lady's apartment, were scattered about-frames for work-some pretty drawings, flowers in china vases, all mingling very pleasantly with those grotesque and antique forms, of which Retsch's illustrations have taught us the beauty.

Mademoiselle de Montalembert's apartment did not, how. ever, contain her bed; she had reached that step of refinement which banishes it from the sittingroom; but through the high folding doors, the leaves of which were now open, its blue curtains fringed with silver might be seen, depending from the ceiling to the floor; and the snowy drapery of the toilet table, the glass festooned with muslin and tied with knots of riband, with various elegancies which had survived the times when ladies received their visiters at their dressing tables. The windows were wide open, admitting the evening breeze and wafting the light curtains; but the Persiennes of the sittingroom were closed, diffusing a pleasant air of seclusion over the whole scene.

Therese was sitting at one end of the room, her arms clasped over the back of her chair; her head was turned away, half, as it were, in grief, half in resentment.