ment, took care to magnify them, and it was in search of the secrets of one recently denounced that the commissary-general was now on a visit to the province.

At dinner at the inn, M. the Baron met a Count de Montbar, a young man of seven or eight and twenty, who, despite his ancient family, and naturally-to-be-expected tincture of Bourbonism, resided in France, and bowed his head to Napoleon as if to the legitimate monarch of France. The count, whose manners were open and frank, and whose handsome, though sun-burnt complexion, spoke much in his favour, did not repel the advances of the baron. On the contrary, he made friends with him at once, and gave him every information he could desire relative to the country, without in the least suspecting the other's mission.

"Do you know the Marquis de Kerdougin?" presently asked the noble policeman, after considerable conversation.

"By name only; but so highly do I admire the remembrance of an old friend of my father, that this very evening I intend paying my respects to him."

"Indeed! and I myself intended before my departure to pay him a visit," replied the baron, eagerly.

"I shall be happy to present you, baron; and as the walk is not very short, what say you to walking at once?"

It was a fine summer's evening, and the commissary-general at once accepted the offer. Like the satellites of the prefecture of police in general, he was accommodating to the last degree; and when the young man rose to start, he followed with alacrity. Henri de Montbar lit a cigar with a certain laisser-allez which rather surprised the baron, who was at a loss to make him out. But, like a prudent and cunning man, he said nothing, hoping to find out any mystery in the usual way. The baron already expected to discover some thread of his conspiracy in this quarter, and he believed himself on the track.

The path followed by Montbar was along the sea, which was calm and lovely. The sun was setting, and the ever-vexed waters tossed and danced beneath its golden rays in such gentle and merry guise as left all thought of storm far behind. They walked along lofty rocks, and had leisure to admire the village now beneath their feet, and a brigantine that lay in the harbour.

"My eyes are not much practised in seafaring matters," said the baron, who had in reality been a naval officer, “but that vessel has all the cut of a corsaire."

"You are correct, baron; it is the privateer L'Empereur, Captain Sabord."

"Ah! ah! Is it that noted cruiser? A tough sailer that, M. le Count, and one who has been liberally mischievous to the English?"

"Tolerably, I believe," said the Count de Montbar. "I fancy the two countries do each other as much harm as possible."

At this moment the path turned a little from the sea, and in so doing brought them in sight of Kerdougin.

A pretty looking ruin enough," observed the baron.

It speaks pretty plain our relative position," said the count, a little drily.

"I have been told the marquis has refused a prefecture," continued the baron, musing, "but perhaps he is richer than we think, and hopes to shine at the court of Louis XVIII."

"I doubt if the marquis has not, like myself, given up the hope and the wish."

"The wish!" cried the baron, incredulously.

"The Bourbons can never return," said the count, "except at the price of the humiliation of France. For my own part, while respecting their memory, I have ceased to regard them as rulers. I am satisfied to know France to be glorious; I ask not the family name of him who makes her so."

"The emperor would be pleased to hear such sentiments from the mouth of a noble of other days."

"His Majesty the Emperor is fully aware of my sentiments," replied the count, coldly.

The baron started, a light flashed across his mind, and his manner became profoundly respectful. He thought he had

penetrated a secret, and that he was conversing with one who possessed the unlimited confidence of the emperor, and who dined at the Tuileries always when in Paris. But the secret was one acquired in the character of a police agent, and the baron did not think it wise to show his penetration.

"I doubt," he continued, "if Monsieur le Marquis is so patriotic. It would be rare for a devoted Buonapartist like my. self to meet with so much good fortune in one day."

"Should the occasion offer, you may make the discovery. But, for my own part, I have not walked thus far to talk politics."

They stood at this moment before the old castle. There was a moat and a drawbridge, which, rusty with age, had not been raised for years. Four towers flanked the corners of the building, and were yet intact, while dilapidated windows, crumbling walls, and thick overhanging ivy, marked the progress of decay. The young man crossed the ill-paved court followed by the baron, and rang at a large door. The bell sounded dismal and sullen in the long gloomy passages within, and then a shuffling of feet were heard, and the door was opened by Bastiat in person.

"Monsieur Henri," he exclaimed

"Monsieur Henri de Montbar" said the young man, checking him, "desires to present his respects to the marquis. Will you precede me, Monsieur le Baron"

The baron entered, and the count exchanged a look with M. Bastiat, who muttered "suffit," and advanced with his lamp along the gloomy corridor.

CHAPTER III.-THE DINING-HALL.

THE Marquis de Kerdougin and his daughter were seated in the vast dining-hall of the chateau, an antique room which looked completely as if it belonged to a past age. Its huge gaping fire-place, its furniture a century old, preserved in the cellar by M. Bastiat, its rusty armour and tapestries lit up by a blazing fire and a vast old-fashioned lamp, had a look about it which forbade all idea of poverty. A silver coffee-pot, and a set of cups of old china, religiously kept by the marquis through all his sufferings in England, gave a sign even of opulence, which the noble gazed proudly at as he heard the footsteps of visitors.

Heléne de Kerdougin sat at the table where lay the coffee, ready to offer her father his constant evening beverage.

The door was suddenly thrown wide open, and M. Bastiat announced in a voice which spoke of twenty years ago :

"Monsieur le Comte Henri de Montbar et Monsieur le Baron Dupuis."

The marquis started to his feet and stood still with astonish

ment.

"What, Henri, my old companion in arms! No! I knew it could not be. It is his son; and how like him! Count Henri, I am proud, delighted-" and then, he added, checking himself and speaking rather coldly, "your friend, I suppose." "A gentleman whom I met at dinner at the inn of Land who desired to pay his respects to you, my dear marquis." The noble took the young man's hand warmly, and then bade them be seated, after a formal introduction to his daughter.

"Hand the gentlemen coffee," said the marquis, in a kind tone, to his farmer and servant.

The coffee was accepted, and then the marquis with the exquisite politeness which always characterised him, addressed himself chiefly to the baron as a stranger, and left Helene de Kerdougin to entertain the young marquis.

replied the baron, who shivered at the idea of a night walk along the sea.

A few minutes later the baron had turned towards the town, accompanied by Guillaume, the solitary farm-labourer of M. Bastiat. Leaving the commissary-general to pump the cunning Bas-Breton, we remain at the chateau.

"The insolent mouchard," exclaimed the marquis, when the baron's back was turned; "where, my dear boy, could you have picked up with the inspector-general or commissarygeneral of the police of M. Buonaparte.'

"He a police agent," cried Henri, starting from an interesting conference with Heléne; "why I would have broken every bone in his body rather than have brought him here, if I had known what he was."

"No more of him," said the marquis; "I am too happy to see the child of an old friend to think of anything else. Only think, Heléne, that dark, bearded man, was once meant for thy husband, and but for my vow—”

"What vow," cried Henri de Montbar, eagerly, while Heléne blushed rosy red, and looked for Bastiat to take away the coffee.

"I am poor, Henri, very poor!" said the old man, mournfully, "and I have vowed that none shall wed my child, who shall not be both rich and noble. Noble you are, every inch, boy, but not rich enough, I doubt, to rebuild this castle, and purchase all its divided acres."

"No!" replied the young count, "I am not rich enough for that. Monsieur le Marquis, you have been suddenly and unexpectedly frank with me, I must be so with you. It was to ask your daughter's hand in marriage I came here."

“Think no more of it, boy-think no more of it; or if you would, tell me of millions. But where is Heléne?"

"She has fled sir, to avoid hearing our conversation. Ah! monsieur, you destroy very sweet illusions. I am rich for a noble of these days, I have thirty thousand francs of rente; I have gazed on your daughter in secret for a year, and now came to pour out my affection to her, my hopes to you."

“Henri!" exclaimed the marquis, with a strange roll of the eye, which showed how nearly mad he was upon this point, "I have said it. This castle must be rebuilt, and the land belonging to it repurchased, before I can give my daughter in marriage. Besides, I care little for weddings while our legitimate monarchs are absent."

"Ah! Monsieur le Marquis, if your daughter never marries until the emperor be overthrown, she will wait, I am afraid, a long time."

THE baron, who had been much struck by the beauty of Mademoiselle de Kerdougin, returned the next day, and according to an agreement between the two nobles met with a decent reception. Henri was absent, having ridden out on Bastiat's horse early in the morning. The marquis received his visitor with the same politeness as the night before, but Helene was cold and distant in her manner.

"What a sensation she would make in Paris, as the Baroness Dupuis!" he thought; "she would confound them all with her aristocratic ease and pride. And then to have

one's chateau in Brittany, and to be connected with half the old nobles in this part of the world."

But the baron, of course, spoke of things quite different-of Paris, of its charms, of a splendid review held by his majesty in the Champs de Mars, of his glorious campaigns, &c.

The marquis smiled a little bitterly, but was in truth much amused, and would have questioned the speaker, but that Bastiat suddenly announced that a sailor, bearing a letter, would speak with the marquis.

M. de Kerdougin looked at the baron.

"Business," said the baron, " always before politeness. I am sure mademoiselle will be kind enough to keep me company until your return."

The marquis bowed, and left them alone.

The baron was a clever man; his position, his education, his travels, had given him a certain knowledge of the world, and left alone he at once turned his conversation to the court, the empress, the splendid fêtes of Paris, and the gorgeous wealth of that city at a time when money was plentifully and lavishly spent.

Helene was a woman, and these details amused her. She did not like the baron, but she thought him a very lively and impudent personage. Now, clever as the baron was, he could not distinguish between a little attention paid to his rattling gossip and admiration for his person. His dangerous avocations had procured him easy conquests, and he felt not a little elated and flattered at the evident amusement of Helene.

The baron was in reality totally subjugated. His respect for birth was equal to his love of gold. His dream had always been wealth, and a real live aristocrat for a wife. He was rich, and Helene de Kerdougin seemed all that could be wished in a baroness of the empire.

M. Dupuis at once made up his mind. That very evening he would write a formal declaration to the father, and the thing would be settled. As to any obstacle which could interfere with his projects, he never dreamed of such a thing. A baron of the empire, rich and powerful, could not, he fancied, but be a glorious match for the poor daughter of a proud noble.

The marquis was absent some time; and when he returned, there was an air of uneasiness and anxiety about him which he in vain endeavoured to conceal. His daughter would have questioned him, but the presence of the Baron Dupuis kept her silent. The baron, who was an experienced man, saw that his presence just then was unpleasant, and, rising, bade adieu to the marquis.

"What is the matter, my dear father?" exclaimed the daughter, as soon as they were alone.

"Excuse me, child, I must speak to Bastiat. Is the messenger who brought this letter still here?"

"No, Monsieur le Marquis, he is gone."

"I wish Henri were here," said the marquis, musing. "As soon as he returns, send him to me. No! never mind." And the marquis reseated himself, while Bastiat left the

room.

"Child," said he suddenly, "great destinies are before us. Our legitimate and beloved sovereign is once more in the field; backed by England, that vast and mighty power, a landing is about to be effected on the coast of Brittany. I am chosen, child, as the agent of his majesty' "You, father!" exclaimed Helene, in a tone of deep alarm. "I, child," replied the marquis proudly. "Poor though I am, my loyalty and my devotion is known. Thank heaven, the Kerdougins have blood in their veins which dates back a thousand years in history."

"but your efforts

"I know it, father," exclaimed the girl; are vain. This man is too powerful, too popular, too great. All your gallant efforts will end in, will be a prison. England is great and mighty we know, she is hospitable too. But it is at home and on the sea she is so. She will never replace the Bourbons by force."

Child, you blaspheme without knowing it. The cause of the Bourbons is sacred and must prevail. If not now, at a future time. But I am the servant of my king, and I must obey. You will remain this evening alone at the chateau.

I write to the agent, who is concealed in the neighbouring village, to meet me at the cross of St. Eustache to-night at dusk.'

"You are going alone to-night to the cross of St. Eustache," exclaimed Helene. "Oh, father, let me go with you."

"Heléne;" said the marquis sternly, "I am now no longer a father, I am the agent of my king, and my will must be obeyed. My time is too precious to bandy words, even with my beloved child."

If Heléne, had been a more modern lady, and a wife instead of a daughter, she would have made the reflection, that politics make great bears of the men; but she was a dutiful and affectionate daughter, and retired to her room to leave her father quite free to pursue the current of his own reflections.

The old marquis seemed a changed man. He almost felt himself once more in the salons of the Tuileries, and in his delight at the prospect of ousting the usurper, forgot to remember, that to Buonaparte he owed his return to his country.

Henri returned to dinner, very much fatigued by a long ride. The marquis seemed uneasy at his presence, but disguised his feelings. As soon, however, as the dusk came on, he excused himself for an hour, and, forgetting his private wishes, left the young people together.

Henri and Heléne sat near one another, and for a while conversed of indifferent things; but this could not last long. Every now and then for a twelve month, it is true with intervals of some distance between, Heléne had noticed a handsome young man dogging her footsteps. His mien was respectful and humble. Whenever they met he bowed low, but never spoke; and Heléne, who was much struck by his appearance, could not fail to think a great deal of the unknown. This stranger was now before her, and young as she was, she guessed at the nature of the sentiments which had formed the tie which drew him to her.

66

Helene," said the Count de Montbar, after a battle with his doubts, "you must pardon me if I allude to a subject which, perhaps, I should not touch on. I came here yesterday to ask for your hand in marriage. Will you pardon me, if I asked for your hand without asking first for your heart?"

Helene held down her blushing face and made no reply. "Speak, Helene. I love you, I adore you. Your father has forbidden my love. I am not rich enough. Oh! tell me, Helene, if I could attain to the fortune your excellent father thinks needful, might I hope for your encouragement, your

"Monsieur de Montbar," said Helene, rousing herself-her sudden start when she heard that his love was forbidden itself was confession enough" it is a poor compliment to say, that since I was a mere girl I never saw a young man of my own rank save yourself, and that therefore

She hesitated.

"You would like to see others before you would decide?" "No! Henri," exclaimed the young girl, seeing the pained expression of his countenance, "if my consent was all that was wanting"

She said no more. The delighted Henri caught her hand to his lips, and for a whole hour they spoke of nothing but their mutual feelings. Then the present recurred to them, and Henri explained, that, perhaps, circumstances might arise which would remove the father's objection. He did not explain, he was very mysterious, but promised to be frank at no distant period.

Meanwhile the marquis, armed with a sword and a brace of pistols, had gone down to the cross of St. Eustache, a relic of a great wreck. The crew of an Indiaman having been saved, had, with the remnants of the ship, built this monument from gratitude. It stood on a lonely cliff behind a pile of rocks. Here the marquis found the person indicated. They held a long and animated conference. The noble, in answer to the inquiries of the other, who seemed one of those bold adventurers usually intrusted with such dangerous missions, furnished him with a list of royalists whose co-operation was

certain. By the light of a lantern the stranger pencilled these in a book.

The stranger explained that for six months past a great expedition had been secretly organising in an Irish port. England had found money, ships, and men, excepting the considerable body of emigrants who were to lead the van. All his accounts were warm and highly coloured.

The old marquis returned home a proud and happy man.

As he entered the house, the thought struck him that one who was not a staunch friend of his party was now its inmate, and he moderated his rejoicings to excite no suspicion in the mind of Henri.

He found the count and Helene at an open window, gazing on the sea. It was a beautiful moonlight, and they could clearly distinguish the brigantine, L' Empereur, as it lay on the heaving waves.

"A lovely night, and a lovely craft, is it not?" said Henri. "Such a night, and such a boat," replied Helene, in a low tone, as would tempt one to start round the world with one we loved."

66

66

"Child," cried the marquis, a little sharply, surely you

would not like to be the bride of a corsaire ?"

"A privateer," replied the confused girl, “is a kind of national servant. I see little between him and a naval officer."

"One, child, fights for glory and duty," cried the marquis, "the other for mere lucre."

"Not all," said the count, warmly; "there are privateersmen who choose that path in preference to the royal navy, because of its independence. They feel, too, a pleasure in injuring the commerce of their country's enemies. I hate the English, and I can understand the feeling with which a corsaire captures English merchantmen

"I fancy the English catch more than they lose."

"I doubt it," replied Henri. "The English do ten-fold more trade than we do. Our merchant vessels are rare, theirs come out by thousands, in spite of our luggers, schooners, and brigs."

"But I have heard," continued the marquis, "of many French corsaires starting and never returning."

"Of course, the English burn, take, and destroy, plenty of our cruisers; but, ma foi, plenty more are always found. That fellow, however, has yet escaped."

"He is lucky," said the marquis; "but here is Bastiat, with supper."

A loud ringing was here heard, a tramping in the passage, and then the Baron Dupuis entered, followed by a number of gensd'armes.

"Pardon this intrusion," exclaimed the baron, looking rather foolish, "but my duty is imperative. Monsieur le Marquis, I am afraid, unless you can explain certain suspicious circumstances, I must proceed to your arrest."

"The arrest of the Marquis de Kerdougin?" said Henri, advancing.

"What!" cried the marquis, like one thunder-struck. "Monsieur le Marquis, be calm. The affair hitherto has not gone beyond my cabinet. The fact is, monsieur, I—I— this is no time for ceremony-I wish to become your son-inlaw, I, the Baron Dupuis-you see a compromised father-inlaw would not suit me at all. Here is your letter. This could be"

"Your conditions, Monsieur le Baron," said the marquis, calmly.

"Monsieur le Marquis, accept me as your son-in-law:

"Monsieur le Count," said the baron, furiously, "you hear all this!"

"And fully believe it," replied Henri, coldly. "But Monsieur le Baron, we have no discussion to hold on the subject. What are your intentions ?"

"I arrest Monsieur le Marquis," continued Dupuis, who was backed by a dozen gensd'armes.

"Kerdougin," cried Henri, "you must submit. You can offer no resistance. But be assured this villainy shall be exposed."

"Take care, Monsieur le Count."

"Do you threaten me?" said the young man, warmly. "In my turn I say, take care."

"Gensd'armes, do your duty-Monsieur le Marquis, you have ten minutes to prepare."

"Father, I must go with you."

"Certainly," said Henri. "Heléne is quite right. She must with you to Paris. M. Bastiat will send his daughter with her; I will use what little interest I have to procure her free entrance to your prison. The emperor is absent; but be assured that your confinement will only last until his return. Trust to me, my friend."

This was said in a low tone, the baron having stepped on one side. The marquis spoke, Heléne looked gratitude. A quarter of an hour later the marquis was escorted to the village, and next morning started for Paris, under the guardianship of the police; while Helene, accompanied by her faithful attendant, entered a public conveyance which was to convey her to the capital.

CHAPTER V.-CAPTAIN SABORD AT LAST.

THE Marquis de Kerdougin was sent to one of the numerous prisons of the capital, and, though strictly in confinement, was treated with a certain amount of respect and decency. After some few days, an order came from the minister of police to allow the daily visits of Heléne. This was a great comfort to the old man, who never for one moment flinched from his determination to let no fate induce him to yield to the wishes of the unworthy baron. This individual, who had all the low cunning which characterises the French secret police, had at once guessed that he could not obtain the hand of Heléne by fair means. He had therefore hit upon the trick which we have detailed, to ensure the old noble's consent. He knew the terror usually inspired by the charge of being a conspirator, and had trusted to find it efficacious in this instance also.

A clever and experienced tool, who always followed him in the character of his valet, played the part of the royalist spy, and the marquis was caught. The trick, however, recoiled on the head of the trickster. At all events he had the satisfaction of being revenged, and he was determined that his vengeance should be felt.

The baron pushed forward the affair with energy and zeal. Every document necessary to the instruction of the affair was ready in ten days-marvellous rapidity, when in France it often takes ten months finding out what a man is in prison for-and sent to the proper officers. But, to the surprise of the baron, no further steps were taken. The marquis was not put upon his trial. The baron found that some secret influence, more VOL. I.-No. III.

powerful than his hate, was at work, and he did everything in his power to discover its agency.

But no one visited the Marquis de Kerdougin in prison save a lawyer, who brought papers to sign, by which the marquis made over his little property to his daughter, appointing Henri de Montbar her guardian and trustee.

The baron was at his wit's end.

Meanwhile, the marquis, decently lodged, well treated, having every day the society of his child, did not feel the misery of a prison to be so utterly hopeless as he at first thought it would be. He felt that he was innocent of anything more than a momentary indiscretion caused by enthusiasm. It was true that, having returned to France by the permission of the Emperor Napoleon, there was some amount of bad faith in his act, but then the suddenness of the proposition, his ancient loyalty a thousand excuses might be urged.

The marquis prepared a statement of his case, and placed it in the lawyer's hands who was charged with his defence.

Three months had elapsed, when, one evening, Heléne and the marquis were together. They were talking of old times, of England and the kind friends they had made in that hospitable country, of their hopes, and of all those things interesting to people in their position, when the door of the cell opened, and an officer of the prison entered.

"You are both wanted," said the man, politely.

The old marquis prepared himself, expecting to go before the tribunal which was to decide his fate. He had all the look of a picture of the days of Louis XIV. descended from its frame. Heléne was very simply dressed.

They went out. A carriage awaited them, surrounded by a military escort. They drove off, and saw nothing more until the door opened and they were invited to descend.

They were in a vast and brilliantly-lighted court, in front of a long heavy building.

My God!" said the marquis, trembling with agitation. "What is the matter, father?" asked Heléne as they were ushered into a small but well-lighted hall-that of a side stairs of the immense building they had reached.

"The Tuileries!" muttered the marquis.

The guard had left them, and a servant in livery preceded them up the stairs of the palace. The marquis could scarcely walk. The servant respectfully offered his shoulder to be leaned on.

After climbing up some distance, they passed across a superb gallery, and found themselves in a small room, in which were several servants. They had chairs offered them.

Next instant, they had passed through double folding-doors, and were in a room, which though small for a palace, was, in reality, large. It had but one window, and had shelves around it. A table, covered with papers, maps, and books, was in the middle.

With his back to the fire, and his arms folded as if he were warming them, stood a man of small stature, stout, rather handsome, though of heavy features.

The marquis bowed, and bent his knee; Heléne leaned trembling on her father's arm.

Both had recognised the Emperor Napoleon.

The marquis remembered only that he was in the presence of the monarch of France in his palace.

Napoleon, who, cunning, cruel, selfish, ambitious, and reckless by turns, could feign all sentiments, even love and friendship-which he never really seems to have experienced-spoke kindly to them, and bade them be seated. The marquis sank into the proffered chair, utterly unable to sustain himself.

With all his greatness, Napoleon was as vain as a pretty woman; and nothing delighted him more than to see men overwhelmed in his presence, especially when the sentiment was evidently real.

"Monsieur le Marquis," said he, kindly, "I have sent for you to say that I regret the error which occasioned your arrest. Dupuis is a careful man, but over zealous. Captain Sabord, a trusty and faithful servant, took care I should know the truth. You are free. I expect your presence at my dinner-table in half an hour."

L

A servant entered before the marquis could reply, and, at a sign from Napoleon, the old royalist and his daughter were led away. They were dazzled, surprised, fascinated. This was just what the emperor wanted. Throughout his whole career, he always looked upon attaching the old nobility to his person with as much anxiety as to winning a battle. He knew that, despite the Revolution, such men had influence; while deeply anxious for an aristocracy in his court, he preferred one old count, whose title descended from ancestors dead five hundred years before, to a dozen modern barons. Convinced of the real harmlessness of the marquis, he considered it as well to attach the old noble to his forces. He had found a dinner do this very often.

Heléne was overwhelmed. She was certainly elegantly dressed, having received a mysterious hint in the morning; but to her the position was new and trying. Her father's words, however, roused her.

"His majesty was really extremely condescending," said the old marquis, as he recovered himself.

His majesty thought Heléne. He was no longer General Buonaparte.

They were taken to bed-rooms for ten minutes, and then, again united, were led to the dining-room. The first person who advanced to meet them was Henri de Montbar, who did not seem the least surprised at seeing them. He pressed them by the hand, and told them the names of the brilliant company assembled. Most of them have since become historical.

Presently Napoleon and Josephine entered. They passed down the room with a word and a smile for all. Josephine spoke affectionately to Heléne, her story being familiar to her. But both father and daughter nearly fainted with emotion, when with a smile the emperor shook Montbar by the hand. "Bravo, Captain Sabord!" he said, "I hear good news of your ship. If I had many such privateers as you, the English would be a little less proud on the waters."

This was said with all the bitterness which characterised the Corsican when speaking of the country he hated and feared, but they only heard the revelation. Henri de Montbar was the notorious and terrible privateer who had, with so much audacity and good fortune, always escaped from the vigilance and courage of British cruisers. He was one of those French sailors, whom, even in the land of sailors, was admired by his enemies, and none can admire a brave enemy so well as a British sailor.

"Monsieur le Marquis," said Napoleon, turning to Kerdougin, "you owe your freedom to Captain Sabord. I hope to sign the wedding contract to-morrow."

"Your majesty's wishes are orders," replied the poor marquis, whom this last sentence finished quite. Napoleon smiled, and took his seat.

A few days later, the Marquis de Kerdougin, accompanied by the Count and Countess de Montbar, were on their way to the old castle. The marquis had remembered his vow, a little late it is true; but adversity had taught him much philosophy.

He thought unceasingly of his interview with the emperor, of his dinner with him, of the splendid marriage ceremony of his child, of the contract signed by Napoleon's name-and the old man, deprived of his ancient sovereigns, threw all his loyalty at the feet of him who had fascinated him so suddenly.

The happy couple, though in the same carriage, were truly alone, and it was only when in sight of Kerdougin that they roused the old gentleman.

They were galloping down the grand alley leading to the château, which the marquis could scarcely recognise.

The very day after the departure of M. de Kerdougin, Henri de Montbar had set to work. Money and good-will go a long way, and three months had sufficed to restore the castle to its ancient splendour. But Henri had done more: he had long before purchased much of the old estate, but now he bought every scrap which could be obtained. All his fortune was invested in this land, even the price of the good ship L'Empereur. But Napoleon was never niggardly of the riches of France, gorged with the plunder of Europe. When Henri de Montbar tendered his resignation, he received a munificent cadeau, which more than doubled his wealth.

The old marquis was in ecstacies. Heléne was happy and proud, and Henri equally so. He had loved the sea passionately as who does not who has revelled in its grandeur? but he found that a wife will draw a man away even from the dearest of earthly enjoyments. He found happiness in his marringe, and proved once more, that a brave and gallant servant of his country makes, almost always, the very best husband. He has seen and experienced the noise and bustle of life, and knows the value of a quiet and domestic fire-side. I can only add that, now that France and England are at peace, Henri has proved his admiration of his ancient enemies by marrying his second daughter to the son of a British officer, who once saved his life when he fell bleeding, wounded, and a prisoner on an English deck. From this gentleman's mouth I have the outline of this narrative, in which the names only are imaginary.

WE are not going to write the natural history of the peacock. It has been done over and over and over again; and although proverbial philosophy has taught us that a good story cannot be told too often, another equally wise saw, with the sharpest possible teeth, has assured us that too much of one thing is good for nothing. And then, again, supposing that we felt any disposition to write learnedly about this gay plumed bird, and to enter into an anatomical inquiry respecting his bony structure, his nervous system, and the rest of it,-our space would necessitate us so mightily to abridge, that we should ultimately become the modern illustration of an old Latin sarcasm, and labouring to be brief become obscure. And, lastly, we are not remarkable for our acquaintance with natural history, and although our knowledge of ornithology may be sufficient to teach us the difference between a hawk and a heron, yet we do not profess to be great upon the subject, and have no stray letters of the alphabet attached to our name, duly conferred at any time by any college anywhere. All we propose to do is to gossip about the peacock.

Oh, a gay gallant is the peacock as he struts about in the

sunshine: his bright beautiful coat resplendent in the light, his sharp eyes looking about as if he courted praise and felt that he deserved it; his form so graceful, as his long tail sweeps the ground like the train of a countess, or as he sometimes stands before his less-endowed brethren, and spreads that tail of his in a semicircle, all bright and gay, gleaming with its black disks and rings of gold. Oh, a noble fellow is the peacock: his small head crowned with a crest of feathers, choice and straight; his neck long and slender, tapering gracefully from the breast upwards; his back and wings of a light ash colour, mingled with black; his head and neck and breast of a greenish blue, with a gloss which, in the sunbeams, appears exceedingly brilliant; his eyes set between two stripes, of white; the feathers of his tail of a changeable mixture of green, blue, purple, and gold,-standing thus before us, he is one of the most beautiful objects imaginable.

The earliest mention which we can trace of the peacock is in the book of Job. At what period that book was written is itself uncertain, but there is little doubt that it is the most ancient book in the world. "All men's book" Carlyle calls it, and so