seized one of her hands in his before she was quite aware of who it was who had come in.

"I have brought what you asked," said he, hurriedly, and putting his other hand into the breast pocket of his coat; "here it is; now give me what you promised."

"So, Monsieur le Marquis," replied coolly Mlle. de Mourjonville, "you find it at last not too dear, do you?"

"Oh! never mind what I find it !" rejoined he, showing her a very thick pocket book.

"Well! let me see."

"Look!" said M. de Beauvoisin, opening the pocket book, but not giving it out of his hand, as with nervously-trembling haste he counted a certain number of bank-notes, and showed a written order to his notary to pay the rest to the bearer.

Mlle. de Mourjonville followed the operation with glances, the rapacity whereof was hard to conceal; but even then she could master herself, and when she had distinctly seen the sum she had aspired to within her immediate reach,

"Some days have passed, M. le Marquis," said she, "since I named that price, which then you called 'too dear'; suppose I were, now, in my turn, to call it too cheap ?"

“Don't, Aspasie!" replied the Marquisand it was all he said; but the tone, the expression of countenance, the whole aspect of the man were such that even Mlle. de Mourjonville was compelled by it. She no more dared, at that supreme crisis, trifle with that man, than she would have ventured to try her tricks upon a bear at bay.

"Make haste!" added Olivier. "Look-it only wants eight minutes to seven,-for God's sake bring me what you promised, or some one will be coming! go! go quick."

And she did go, though not quickly; on the contrary, she went saunteringly to the door, protesting that she humoured him out of her great good nature; but when she had closed the door she flew.

Olivier fastened his eye upon the clock, and when, at the end of three minutes, Mlle. de Mourjonville re-entered the room, it was to him as though three hours had passed.

"Giving, giving !"* said she, as she held out one hand to receive the pocket-book, and showed in the other the envelope of a letter. "Here it is," said Olivier; and, as she took it,

"Let me count, first," observed she, not yet tendering to him the paper she held in her hand.

* A translation of the French, donnant—donnant.

How he chafed, not allowing himself to snatch it from her.

“All right!” fell at last from her lips, as quietly depositing the little morocco case in her pocket, she offered to M. de Beauvoisin that for which he had paid so high a price.

His fingers grasped the paper twitchingly, and with a sort of convulsion his eyes closed.

"You had better see that all is straight on your side," suggested Aspasie, with a curious smile. “It would be a pity to make for the second time the mistake you made once before."

M. de Beauvoisin drew a slip of paper from the envelope he held in his hand, looked at it for a second or two scrutinizingly, and yet as with a feeling of repugnance, and then advancing towards the fire prepared to cast the slip of paper into it. At that moment a door opened; quick as lightning Mlle. de Mourjonville passed between him and the fire, covering him with the folds of her silk dress and whispering,

"Your uncle! take care! burn it at home!" Olivier had hidden the slip of paper in the breast pocket of his coat, before his uncle had had time to perceive anything, and as guests began to arrive at the same time he had leisure to recover his self-possession.

But self-possession was perhaps not strictly what Olivier de Beauvoisin recovered that night. He drank more than usual, and was alternately boisterously gay (as was not his wont) or abstracted; and during his fits of abstraction had anyone watched him they would have seen his fingers steal into the breast-pocket of his coat, as though to be assured of the presence of something very precious.

After dinner his uncle took occasion to inform him, while they stood a few minutes together and alone, that Fourchon had so immensely benefited Madame Claudine that her cure was to be considered almost certain with time and care, and that that being the case, the banns were to be published in a couple of days, the advertisement at the mairie being to be posted up on the morrow.

Olivier expressed delight at the announcement. (Everything delighted him!)

When the last guest was departing (it was between eleven and twelve), "Stay, Olivier," whispered his uncle; "I mean you to shake hands with your future aunt. I wish you to tell her your satisfaction at what I have just told you; it will be graceful as coming from my nearest relative."

Mlle. de Mourjonville objected-said that it would disturb the patient, and was visibly

annoyed at the notion of the visit. But M. de Moranges, like all selfish men, was not to be gainsaid. He said he had seen Madame Claudine five minutes ago, that she was up and in very good spirits, and that his nephew's act of kind attention would please her far too much to do her harm.

"You are too careful, my dear friend," said, blandly, M. de Moranges, laying his hand upon Aspasie's arm. "If excess were possible in such ceaseless, tender care, I should say your's was absolutely excessive. But I will answer for no harm coming from this little infraction to your regulations."

Mlle. de Mourjonville yielded; but her vexation, nay, distress, was evident.

"Nay, then, I will set you at ease," said M. de Moranges, gaily. "Watch the clock here for exactly ten minutes, and if, at the tenth, we are not back in this room, I authorise you to come and turn us both pitilessly out. Ten minutes' quiet talk can injure no one."

The uncle and nephew went; and, when they entered Madame Claudine's room, they found her seated in a huge arm-chair with her feet upon the fender, and though with all the marks of severe recent illness still upon her face, looking handsomer than usual, and full of peaceful contentment.

M. de Beauvoisin kissed the hand of his future aunt, imparted to her the welcome news intrusted to him by his uncle, and talked with a fluency that his hearers were wholly unaccustomed to on his part.

"You are a good fellow, Olivier,” exclaimed M. de Moranges, putting his hand on his nephew's shoulder; "and I shall not forget how you have received the announcement of the event which so nearly touches me: many another would have run sulky, whereas you, on the contrary, I never saw you in such spirits in all your life."

"Well, I do feel outrageously happy, uncle," rejoined Olivier, looking just what his words described; "and I'm sure I wish you and my aunt every comfort in life."

"Yes, but I dare say, for all that, neither of you thought of drinking my health at dinner," observed Madame Claudine, with gentle reproachfulness. "Confess that that was not thought of."

"I grant the omission," replied M. de Moranges.

"I grant it too," added Olivier; "but I'm so ashamed of my neglect that I'll drink it now in anything you choose! More than that," said he, laughing, "I'll drink it in the glass of physic at your elbow ;" and he put |

out his hand towards a large glass standing on the table, close to the Sphinx's arm-chair, and filled with a pale red liquid. She smiled.

"Oh, that punishment you might undergo," she remarked, cheerfully. "It's only my pomegranate syrup which Aspasie has just prepared for me-dear, thoughtful Aspasie !" "Yes, we may well say that," murmured M. de Moranges.

"Here goes then for pomegranate syrup," cried Olivier, seizing the glass and emptying it at a draught. "To your health, happiness, and long life, my dear aunt."

As he replaced it, empty, upon the table, Mlle. de Mourjonville opened the door.

What her look said it would be impossible to describe, and she stood for one instant motionless and as though transfixed. It was, however, really only the affair of one instant; after which, she came forward into the room, with much of her usual air.

CHAPTER LX.-THE NIGHT OF THAT DAY.

TWE

WELVE o'clock had not long struck, and Claire was sitting in her own room, alone, listlessly letting the hours pass by, not knowing why she had not yet gone to bed, but already wrapt in the vague half-consciousness of a dream.

The night was one of those warm, cloudy, gusty nights towards the end of March, when puffs of smoke issue from the most unexceptionable of chimneys, and the silence is broken by sudden slaps against doors and windows, and by the fall to the earth of tiles or tree branches-a thoroughly uncomfortable night.

The apartment occupied by the young Marquise was on the first-floor, and had no window to the front. It was situated immediately under the nursery of her child, in which we have once seen Claire established during a slight illness of little Pierre's. The apartment consisted of three rooms, a spacious bedchamber, a tolerably large saloon, and out of the latter a boudoir. All looked into the garden. Claire was seated in the boudoir, but the door into the saloon stood open, and the soft light shed by one lamp showed dimly the blue damask hangings of the larger room, and a beautifully arranged jardinière filled with ferns and pink cactus. An inner staircase communicated with the saloon; and any one wishing to reach the boudoir must first come through the latter room.

Claire's seat was by the fire, on a low chair, right opposite to the door in question, which

she had opened on account of the occasional whiffs of smoke that the wind forced from the chimney. How long she had sat there she scarcely knew, taking, as she did, but small note of time.

All was very still, except for the sounds that were now and then called forth by the winds' caprices. It was not the continuous wailing and moaning of the melancholy autumn wind, it was the unequal puffing and panting of young winds awakening beneath the touch of spring, and disporting themselves fitfully in their caves. Long lulls were suddenly broken by whirling blasts, and when they had done their mischief they subsided.

She

One heavy flap came against the boudoir window, accompanied by a wheezing, creaking noise. It aroused Claire's attention. rose, opened the window, and looked out. A branch of a very old acacia-tree had been wrenched almost entirely off from the trunk, and rested helpless against the wall of the house. The wind was apparently satisfied with its work, for it had again sunk down to rest, and all was still and silent. The night was an unquiet one, and the heavy masses of cloud tossed about restlessly over the calm depths of the firmament, now showing a patient star in the distant heavens, and now letting a white ray of the moon struggle forth.

The night, as I said, was warm, and Claire was surprised at the mild breath that came to her cheek from such a troubled atmosphere. She closed the window, saddened instead of refreshed by the contact of the air, and once more took her place upon the low chair by the side of the fire. She lent forward, her two elbows resting on her knees, and her head supported by her hands, fixing an intently vacant gaze upon the fire.

It was not that she was a prey to despair, or to even active misery; she was purposeless in life, and she did not know how to fight against that. The torn branch of the acacia seemed to have fallen upon her heart, and to lie there with oh! such a heavy load; and in the vexed rollings of the drifting clouds she saw a kind of image of her own restless darkened years to

come.

At dinner at her mother's, some hours before, it had been stated that M. de Lancour was leaving for Algeria the next week. Was not that as she wished it to be? Did not the very secret of her repose lie in his absence? could she be pained by any material severance? and what distance could divide hearts so eternally one?

And yet, in spite of herself, her woman's nature felt that when Victor's presence should have ceased in the place where she dwelt, there would fall a chill and a gloom upon that place. She did not need to see him. No! honestly, no! neither would he seek her—that she knew, and the knowledge pleased her. And yet-yet what?—she was on the verge of reasoning, of inquiring, and withdrew alarmed, throwing herself back into her dream.

Again a sound struck Claire's ear: it was not from without this time. It was as though there were footsteps on the inner stairs leading to her drawing-room. There was at the bottom of that staircase a cloth-covered door; it seemed to her that she heard the muffled flap of that door, as when suddenly opened and shut. But at this hour who should open or shut that door? who should want to mount that staircase leading only to her own private apartment?

The young Marquise had dismissed her maid at an early hour, and every one had now retired to rest in the hotel. From her side of the house nothing was heard of what passed in the court, and the porte-cochère might swing on its hinges, and carriages roll in and out, and the inmate of the rooms facing the garden be none the wiser.

She had been mistaken; it was only the wind.

And yet she seemed again to hear footsteps, and then the turning of the handle of a door. Claire was brave to excess-naturally brave,— but her mind was not just then attuned to facts; she was wrapt in her dreamy thoughts, or she would at once have risen and walked towards the noise; but her senses dreamt also, and what they perceived was perceived dreamily.

This time, however, there was reality in the sounds. The drawing-room door had opened, there was some one in that room; and, before this impression had become thoroughly clear to the watcher, a shadow fell obliquely upon the wall of the boudoir, and a figure stood in the doorway leading into the salon. It was that of a man.

Claire looked up at him-awed, not frightened, and did not for the first half-second re

cognise who it was; then she rose, and went, speechless, up to the unsteady form, stretching out both her hands, and gazed in horror upon the livid face, before her parted lips could say, "Olivier ! "

"Oh Olivier! my poor Olivier!" exclaimed Claire, bending down her head with an uncontrollable sob upon her husband's knee, for in the face of death there was about this dull inferior nature a solemn simplicity, a plain

"Lock the doors," said he, very low, but with a strange utterance, "and come back to mequick."

Claire did as she was bid, and when she had locked all the doors on the inside, came back to the boudoir.

Olivier had sunk down upon a sofa, and lay with his head resting on a cushion, and with his eyes closed. His features were drawn and pinched, and dark blue and violet lines were visible round the nose and mouth and under the eyes. There was a dreadful awe round that head which made Claire sink, she knew not why, upon her knees and draw close to her husband.

was called, that touched her and made her quiver to the very centre of her being.

Olivier laid his hand tenderly on his wife's head, and, through the thick masses of her hair, the chill of those marble fingers reached her brain.

"The past is past, dear," said he, "but we must save all we can in the future. I see, as it seems to me, clearly, all the terrible mistakes that it is too late to think of now. I have nothing to forgive you, my wife, and you have forgiven me any harm I may ever have done. I sinned in ignorance, dear, for nothing was taught me that I should have been taught— but I count upon you for help. Don't cry, but listen. What the world must believe is, that I

He opened his eyes slowly, and with an evident effort, answered, while his icy fingers pressed heavily upon her wrist,—

"Pay attention to my words, Claire, nowbe quite quiet-I have strange things to tell you-be calm above all," and his fingers closed upon her arm. "I am poisoned, Claire!"

She uttered no word, neither did she start; for the words sank down like lead upon her senses, crushing her into silent rigidity.

"I have a great deal to say," continued M. de Beauvoisin; "more than I shall have time for in the first place, mind, that to-morrow, when the man comes to examine the body"

:

But the numbness of Claire's faculties had passed away, and making a sudden movement as though to rise to her feet,

"What madness it is," she exclaimed, “to be losing time in this way!—a doctor can be sent for instantly."

The weight of Olivier's hand held her down in movably.

"No one must be sent for," replied he; "but you must listen to me, Claire, and you must obey me; for I can waste no words. I know what has happened, but I shall not have time to tell you that-I shall be dead in less than an hour. Don't shrink so; be steadfast, and look it in the face. I do, Claire and I assure you it's not at all what I fanciedmy lower limbs are dead already, but I don't feel any fear-it's far less difficult to die than people think."

-one man only is necessary, one man only must be secured at no matter what cost. As soon as all is over call Leroux, and tell him to go for the doctor who lives over the way—he is the man who has to report deaths at the mairie | —him you must see the moment he enters the house, and mind, Claire, whatever be the sum needed, you must give it to induce that man to report my death as natural—all the rest is easy." He gasped for breath, and leaned back.

Claire bowed her head and reverently kissed the hand that hung heavily over the arm of the sofa, but the cold swollen fingers seemed not to feel the caress.

It cost him a visible struggle to open his eyes, raise his head, and begin again to speak, and the glance of the eye was dim, and the speech was thicker than before.

continued, more distinctly, and with a look she never more forgot, "not even a priest dare enter here. I believe in God with all my soul, and hope in His mercy; but that is in spite of those who taught me. Oh, there too, my wife, mind our child take care; teach him to love God, and to know why he believes. Untie my cravat, dear," he added, with a kind of earnestness; "and take from my neck a ribbona little blue ribbon; there is a medal, a silver medal- there, you have it now."

Claire had followed the dying man's instructions, and held in her hand a medal on which was the image of the Virgen del Pilar of Seville. She knew it but too well; a Spanish lady had given it her at Biarritz when she was a child.

"My God! Olivier," she exclaimed, trembling from head to foot, and forgetting everything in her horror at what seemed this frightful coincidence," is that woman the? has she committed this crime?"

He stared at her for a moment vacantly, and then, with a strange smile.

"Poor thing," he muttered; "she !-oh no, poor girl! I understand it all clearly; but there's no time to tell; she was to have been the victim-she was," he reiterated, as though wanting to clutch tightly the sense of his words, "only I instead-I drank-_”

Claire let her head droop upon her husband's shoulder and hid her face. He seemed to be uneasily struggling against something that overpowered him.

"No inquiry, Claire," he muttered, "none. My mother must give all her money rather all; tell Victor that-and Henri-shut it all up-hide it-no noise," and then, suddenly, he made a desperate effort to raise his head, and to force a look from under his heavy eyelids, as he said, "And Gaston!"

Claire could not divine his meaning, for there was an indescribable expression of terror in his glazing eye.

THE BOSTON SLEIGH.

WAS awoke from my delicious morning

sleep by the tinkling of many little bells. At first I thought that all the inmates of the Parker-House were ringing for their boots, ignorant of the ways of servants in that excellent hotel. I gave a smile of commiseration, and was turning round to dose again, when Í became aware that the sound proceeded from the street. Tinkle, tinkle, tinkle went the bells, now vibrating sharply beneath the window, now dying away in metallic murmurings afar off. The bells were evidently moving, and with rapidity; yet unaccompanied by any other sound. What could they be? Was it an illusion? I became distressed. A ringing of bells in the ears often precedes an epileptic seizure. Perhaps I was going to have a fit. I became broad awake. Jingle, jingle, jingle, chink, chink, chink went the bells. I rushed to the window, and the mystery was at once explained. There had been a heavy fall of snow during the night, and the streets were filled with sleighs gliding noiselessly along the snow, while the horses covered with bells warned foot-passengers of their approach.

It was a pretty sight, and I gazed upon it for some time trying to remember the first verse of Poe's celebrated poem, till a peculiar numbness of the extremities reminded me of the scantiness of my costume.. In a quarter of an hour I was almost ready to go down stairs. But I wanted my boots; and to get them would not be easy. To ring I knew by sad experience was useless. In American hotels the chambermaids do not wait upon guests, as the hotel keepers politely call their customers; that office is ostensibly performed by the hall-boys, so called because they herd together in the hall, and show their republican independence by refusing to answer bells. However, I had a resource. Putting my head

Claire vainly sought for the purport of these words; but suddenly the aspect of the features changed, a smile passed over the lips, and in an almost inaudible whisper, —

66 No matter," he said; "we were boys together-never mind Gaston."

And, as she watched, she felt the weight of the head that rested on her arm increase, and she knew that clay had returned to clay, the spirit having departed.

A corpse was there where a living man had been.

maid came by; I had insinuated myself into her good graces by conversing with her upon the wrongs of Ireland, and by agreeing with her about everything she said. This female patriot forgave me for being an Englishman, on account of the indignant manner in which I denounced the treason of my forefathers; and on the present occasion she sent one of the hall-boys, who appeared to be her property, for my boots, which he brought and deposited scowling at my door.

As I sat in the spacious eating-room of the Parker-House consuming buck-wheat cakes,