the same he had ever worn, with its notches, rust-spots, and marks of carnage: it was himself who had changed.

He sought the old remedy for mental distress-that of bodily exercise; he betook himself to the necessary ablutions and purifications called for by a soldier reeking from the battle-field, before he is fitted to enact the gallant of the boudoir. He dressed elaborately, with unusual care, paying attention to the minutest matters of personal equipment. But in vain ;-the visions would not depart. He would have summoned Jules for the sake of company, but dreaded the subjects on which his valet would doubtless dilate. When prepared for the visit, the mirror reflected the rich dress, adorned with jewels and lace; the hat, with its drooping, feathery fringe, shading an anxious haggard face, picture of the despair which reigned within.

He took the goblets from the drawer, the war-prize with which he should triumph over du Tremblay. His hand trembled as he looked at the rich chasing which encircled the royal arms. He sighed on reflecting with how much pleasure he should have presented the offering at the feet of Isoline; 'twas with despair he sought to banish the picture of her rewarding smiles. Whither was his fate tending? He likened his destiny to that of one in a' frail bark, borne by an irresistible current away from the object of his dearest hopes; with eye cast back to where she stands despairing, whilst each moment the lengthening distance gradually shuts her from view.

A trumpet sends its shrill, echoing notes over the waters of the Seine; he flew to the window; it was a detachment of his own re-giment marching along the quay, greeted with the applauding shouts of the Parisians for the late victory. He laughed himself to scorn to think of his own pitiable state-he, the premier captain of the regiment, often the officer in command. Placing the goblets beneath his mantle, he sallied forth, resolved to dissipate the secret horrors which shook his soul.

and the chilliness Though leaving the house of the

The sun was losing its power in declining day, of a late autumnal wind was beginning to be felt. the palace with the intention of passing direct to President, he lingered irresolute; he felt that he was taking a step beyond recovery; so wavering were his feelings, that on crossing the Pont Notre Dame he turned towards the left instead of towards. the Hôtel-de-Ville, strolling in the direction of the Quay of the Louvre, and the garden of the Tuileries, before he could summon courage to proceed to de Broussel's.

Walking along amongst the trees in the garden of the Tuileries, in a cold evening of declining autumn, the rising enthusiasm inspired by the trumpet's martial sound was soon dissipated. The wind whistled through the crisp leaves which fell at his feet, or were driven eddying across the path; the clouds lay piled up in their cold-tinted shrouds in the far east, and the edifices that were visible, looked forlorn and miserable-miserable as the youth himself. He had often walked on the same spot on his first arrival in Paris, braving, as he best could, the horrors of poverty, present and in store, but he never felt till now the extreme of misery. And why, he asked himself, should it be so? Whilst pining in the obscurity of an attic in the Golden Angel, the post of Secretary to an archbishop was beyond his hopes; the prospect was too dazzling to realize even to the imagination. And now that he had tasted the sweets of office-eaten the bread of royalty—been connected with cardinals, princes, and archbishops, the mighty of the land; known their secrets; gained their confidence; attained in some degree, in his own person, a name and a reputation; was he more happy?

It was with humiliation and in sorrow that he was forced to admit that he was happier in the Golden Angel, a half-famished loiterer, rich only in hope, than now, pillowed to rest in a luxurious chamber in the well-appointed palace of the lordly de Retz. He was then independent of caprice, master of himself, unhurt by love's shafts, the treasure of hope's golden urn all unspent. Now-a slave to other's biddings-obnoxious to commissions, if not of positive dishonour, far removed from the simplicity of conduct he desired to pursue; and what was worse, bankrupt of peace of minda renegade of love-distracted with remorse.

Why not quit his present occupation ?-would it not be preferable to make pilgrimage to Isoline's cloistral retreat-there learn from her own lips, though bars of iron stood betwixt him and his for ever lost mistress, his doom? It would be consolation, it would be happiness, to hear her loved voice once more, though upbraiding and resentful. But what would avail such a course? It could not draw her from the cloister; it could not restore that which had been, but which could never be again; but it might increase her grief, if it did not add to his own.

His thoughts reverted to Louise, happy, gay, innocent, and as he thought, a trifle unfeeling in her cheerfulness; the smiling home which witnessed her mirth, and the fond circle to which he was ever a welcome addition.

These thoughts were tranquillising and soothing, though they did not reassure him; it was a bright oasis in the dreary mental vision of his present lot; but a spell was upon his spirits, and he could only look back; he had eyes only for the past.

Making an effort to shake off his distress, he quitted the gardens, walking briskly towards the Rue St. Antoine. He passed the Hôtel de Chevreuse, and caught himself lingering at the portal, as though willing to enter, and delay his appearance at the residence of the President. Every step which brought him nearer the end of his Journey increased his agitation; for he could not conceal from himself, or even banish for a moment, the reflection, that the present visit would not pass like others, but would be attended with consequences, irretrievable by any after-proceedings or steps of his own.

Should he present Louise with his golden spoil; it would be equal in her own eyes, in the eyes of the family, to a formal declaration of affection. It was this consideration, which at first lurking at the bottom of his heart, speaking through conscience, in a low, almost unheeded voice, was now, by the aid of the self-same monitor-finding its admonitions disregarded-threatening in a louder tone, making itself felt till his frame vibrated with terror.

A dreadful struggle began to tear his soul; each step was an agony, from which he sought relief. A street-quarrel occurred; swords were drawn; he threw himself in the way, that his aid might be sought by either party; but the combatants were separated and led off by the passengers.

He was now at the Hôtel-de-Ville; the little shop where Jules once dwelt, was in view; he thought of his loquacious valet, and envied him his fate: all men he thought were happier than himself. He could see de Broussel's house in the darkening perspective; light shone in the windows of the principal floor; the family, he knew, were there assembled, perhaps expecting him; for the fame of Gourville's exploit and his own share in the adventure, had been talked of, throughout Paris, all the day long. By that light sat Louise; in a few minutes he should be by her side! So spake conscience, scorching his heart with words of fire. His face was bedewed with cold perspiration, his joints trembled, and he could scarcely drag himself onward. But slowly as he moved, though each house, each window he passed was noted, engraved on his memory, as never objects had been imprinted before, the distance was at last accomplished, and he stood at the gate of de Broussel's old mansion.

He lifted up his.hand, but let it fall; he could not summon courage to knock. Fly while there is yet time! cried the secret monitor. 'Tis the eleventh hour, and but one chance remains!

Striving to disembarrass himself of this feverish excitement, he prayed for a moment's repose, that he might commune with himself calmly, and be no longer the sport, as it were, of unnatural, perhaps, demoniac influence. What was wanting now to revive his drooping withered heart?-Was there no relief at hand; no trumpet's sound, no warlike inspiriting blast to breathe fresh courage into a sinking soul? 'Twas but to knock at the portal, and the rubicon was passed; and yet his arm was withheld, as by the charm of a talisman.

If the space before the old gray-haired functionary's house had been suddenly lit up with supernatural glare, the arena for two legions of terrific, embodied spirits, each enforcing its commands with dreadful tortures in the event of disobedience, the one counselling his entry into the Presidant's domicile, the other forbidding himhe could not have suffered more agony than he did now, stretched on the racking wheel of torturing doubt.

Powerless, enfeebled, he burst into tears; his softened nature gave way in sobs and cries; and the agony brought its own relief. His heart was melted; Isoline herself seemed to speak, bidding him hope, and gently enticing him away. He yielded to the influence: without daring to look back, or cast one glance at the window of the chamber where the joyous, innocent Louise was perhaps, at that .noment, talking of his military exploits, and expecting momentarily his appearance, he retraced his almost tottering steps, with mind enfeebled, but not devoid of consolation.

He had gained the victory over doubt and irresolution; his happiness was in ruins, for Isoline was lost; but he resolved to dedicate himself to her memory, do penance at the shrine where she immured herself, seek her forgiveness, or, if not permitted, pass the sad hours in hovering near where he knew his Isoline was lodged.

Each moment his heart grew lighter, resigning itself to, and possessed by, a feeling, saddened into melancholy, yet not wholly embittered. 'Twas the calmness of a wrecked heart, which had made peace with its own sorrow.

In spite of all, he knew not why, there was a glimmering of hope, but he did not dare entertain it; a feeling of extreme thankfulness, as though he had escaped imminent peril; a devout gratitude for a providential rescue from aims that were dishonourable, thoughts that ought never to have been encouraged.

He now felt firmness to sustain reflection, to point his thoughts inward, to probe and analyze his mind, to dwell even on his own conduct to Isoline. He was fast recovering from the mental disease which had so long preyed upon his spirits. He walked on rejoicing in the change, full to overflowing of gratitude to the Mercy to whom he had prayed for relief.

On crossing the Pont Notre Dame, the quietness of the scene arrested the footsteps of St. Maur; he leaned over the balustrade, listening to the dark waters of the Seine, which eddied round the buttresses with a low gurgling sound. The moon struggling through the clouds, flashed on the rippling current; the indistinct outline of tower and palace grew more visible; the city's noise was hushed, save a low murmur which stole upon his ear, breaking the charm of silence. Sometimes the sleeping pulse of the city's life beat quicker; the rumbling of wheels, cry of lacqueys, and clatter of hoofs, indicated festivity and dissipation; whilst the distant glare of torches, seen for a few seconds on the bridges and far-stretching quays, accompanying the homeward-bound equipage, gave momentary activity to the scene.

The night was cold, yet he felt not the chill, but stood musing over the events of his past life; upbraiding himself for weakness, forming wise resolves for the future, and seeking to reconstruct the shattered fame of his hopes. Severely he blamed his conduct in not repairing to St. Cloud immediately after the assault on the Palais Royal. Even if he had incurred the suspicion of deserting the Fronde, or been taken prisoner by Mazarin's forces, and suffered confinement in a fortress, or met a worse fate, he would have proved his constancy to Isoline, merited her sympathy, and prevented the rash resolution which she had since formed and put in exe'cution.

When he thought of Louise, he shuddered to think how nearly he had been brought to losing himself for ever in his own estimatisn-of outraging the fond memory of du Plessis. Turning in his emotion, he felt the pressure of the fatal goblets: those evidences of perjury should distress his senses no more; he cast them into the dark stream; and as he heard the splash, wished that he could so easily bury in his own heart the emotions to which they had given rise.

Slowly moving from the bridge, he approached the old towers of the cathedral, which threw their deep shadowing gloom over his footsteps. The door was closed; but he entered the porch, and re