Although St. Maur was angry with himself and with all around, and felt much chafed and disposed to quarrel, the astrologer did not afford a direct pretext; like two cautious generals, each contented himself with observing the motions of the other. The young man ofen looked round for the Sybil, but she did not return. The astrologer loitered on, apparently not inattentive to the motions of the busy revellers; he might be, as St. Maur imagined, endeavouring to penetrate the disguises, and amusing himself with conjectures on their identity, ever and anon casting an eye on the youth, and once or twice indicating an extreme impatience, as though waiting some one's approach.

In this state of mutual suspicion, they at length found themselves near the dice-tables; and the astrologer, suddenly casting aside his reserve, made signs, challenging the youth to a trial of fortune. One of the bystanders urged our knight of the Holy Order not to play with an astrologer, who assuredly would not venture on games of chance unless he had predicted his own success. A little monk, however, urged him by all means to win the astrologer's gold; that it was well known, from time immemorial, that the members of his profession were fools, and so far from being able to read the fortunes of their contemporaries, could never so much as get glimpse enough in the magic mirror of fate to avoid their own ruin, and make a timely escape from the scourge and house of correction.

The arguments, either for or against the venture, had but little weight with St. Maur; he already felt bitterly jealous of the mask and of the influence which he appeared to exercise over the Sybil. He accepted the challenge with as much determination and eagerness as he would have received an offer to measure rapiers with his antagonist. The stakes were at first very high, and fortune or victory, did not incline much to either side; gradually, however, the astrologer increased the ventures, doubling and treb ling them, whether he won or lost, so that the strife had at length sufficient interest to attract a large concourse of guests around the players.

It was very evident to the cool unimpassioned bystanders, that the object of the astrologer was, at any risk, to make bankrupt his opponent; and it was equally evident, that if his resources were but large enough, he would eventually in some happy throw succeed. It was thus apparent, that the contest would be finally decided in favour of him whose purse was deepest. Both were held, even in that gambling age, to be most daring and reckless gamesters;

but whatever were the character of the astrologer, the judgment was very false as regarded St. Maur, who, although deprived in youth of the admonitions and lessons of a loving parent or guardian, was by a happy temperament free from any tendency towards that vice. He staked his gold as resolutely against his opponent as he would have belaboured him with a cudgel, or thrust at him with a small sword, and he submitted to the heavy ventures, because it was the law of the contest they were engaged in.

The moment came at length which the experienced spectators had foreseen. The youth's velvet purse was drained to match the astrologer's desperate plunge, and his throw fell short of that of his bearded antagonist, who upon reaping this yellow harvest, threw down triumphantly another stake. St. Maur trembled with vexation; his blood chilled, and his limbs felt benumbed; he would have coined his very garments, his arms even, for gold, for one more throw. Suddenly he bethought himself, that he had not, in every instance deposited the winnings in his purse, but that on one or more occasions, a pocket had been the hasty receptacle. He felt for the stray pieces; all eyes glistened at him through their masks; the gold was found, and he threw down on the table some five or six pieces.

The stake was not one-tenth the amount of the astrologer's; but the masques cried out for fair play, and that he should reduce his risk to the capacity of the knight. Before time had been allowed to accede to, or reject the demand, a little monk, who in other instances had made himself conspicuous, drew the attention of the company to the condition of the knight's gold, declaring that such scurvy coin must have been carried by some pilgrim to purgatory as an intended bribe, and been well sweated in that hot region. And truly, six such crippled, maimed, and defaced pieces were never before seen together in company. St. Maur, distracted and ashamed of the circumstance, declared that the gold he had brought with him was all of one coinage, and bright as when issued from the mint.

"Then the white beard cannot object to play against his own gold!" exclaimed the monk, looking towards the astrologer, but the latter had disappeared, taking care, however, to carry away his stake. All present declared the astrologer an arrant cheat and impositor, to foist off such villainous pieces of money; St. maur was greeted with the empty honours of conqueror, as the other had forsook the battle ;-and gone off, as one of the maskers declared, with a vagrant sister in a robe of stars.

"And truly," cried the monk," that same piece of starlight covered a very pretty ankle !"

Here was more misery in store for the poor youth; he, who but a short hour since had been so radiant of hope, so blessed with expectation. The "purple light of love" was indeed now dead within him, paled by the yellow torch of jealousy. What a fair dream of romance was extinguished by the slighting conduct of the Sybil! He who had fondly traced a resemblance between his own fate and that of so many heroes of romantic lore-well-born, but poor, without friends, struggling with adversity, fed on unsubstantial day-dreams, yet revelling in the paradise of a luxuriant imagination-and yet more glorious-a fair reality dispelling the visionary scene, and beckoning on to love and fortune. This picture, so often drawn for the amusement of ardent youth-and which he, in his own person, had so seemingly realized-was now shivered in fragments; and he, again stood alone in the world, in his original poverty, humbled and humiliated, and yet more deeply struck in the anguish of a wounded heart. Youth often pays dearly for its joys and aspirations, and its fever of early love; and the man of maturer years and withered hopes, has yet some consolation, that—

His mind is such as may not move

For beauty bright or force of love.

The forlorn St. Maur, in his robes of knighthood, which he longed to fling aside as a bitter mockery, rushed from the observant gaze of the spectators, eliciting by his actions the remark, that for so bold and daring a player, he displayed a lamentable want of fortitude in illluck.

Escaping from the suite of saloons, and anxious for solitude, he gained the lobby or gallery which opened on the staircase, but the glare of light below, and the noise of lacqueys and grooms, caused him to refrain from descending. The comparative seclusion of the gallery, cut off from the scene of revelry by an ante-room, and by the intervening staircase, from the noisy tumult below, invited his steps, the more especially as an open window at the far end admitted the air freely. Thither he repaired, and was agreeably surprised to find that it overlooked a small garden, and was so constructed as to serve the double purpose of door and window. A small hanging staircase led to the parterre below. All here was quiet, and St. Maur, yielding to impulse, prepared to descend. The little staircase, a ladder, had evidently been an after-thought, and

formed no part of the design of the architect; viewed architecturally, it was a disfigurement to the garden-façade, and ran sloping across the windows of the floor beneath.

As the disconsolate youth passed slowly down the steps, his eye caught the reflection of light between the hangings which darkened the window of one of the lower apartments. Curiosity induced him to linger for a moment; stooping low to discover from whence the light proceeded; a very small opening between the edges of the damask curtains discovered a handsome chamber, well lighted. A high-backed, carved chair, of ample dimensions, with its back to the window, contained a lady; one foot alone was visible, and one fair hand glancing forth ever and anon, blessed the sight of the secret beholder. At her feet, on an ottoman, sat a man, whom St. Maur, to his surprise and indignation, recognised as the hated astrologer, the purloiner of gold and mistress both, and who paid his losses in light and defaced coin. Burning with revenge and jealousy, he doubted not whose fair form was hid behind the antique chair. The first impulse was to break in upon their interview, upbraid the lady for he scarcely knew what, and stigmatize the astrologer as a cheat and impostor; and fortune so far favoured this design, as to interpose no difficulty in finding the way to the door of the apartment. It was indeed, by some mischance, a little open; but the short interval of time which had elapsed, had been so far beneficial as to cool his frenzy ; and he had scarcely crept within the apartment, ere he felt all the awkwardness and impropriety of the proceeding, and suspicion arose that he might not be such an injured being as he had at first deemed himself. A screen which ran partly across the room and concealed his presence, afforded an opportunity of retreating unperceived; and the earnest conversation which was carried on by the lady and her swain, prevented them from discovering that their privacy had been broken in upon. He stood irresolute, anger still uppermost, ardently desirions of revenge on the astrologer, but towards the enchanting Sybil gentler feelings prevailed. What should he do? Chance, at this crisis, gave no further time for deliberation, for the lady suddenly rose from the chair; and as her voice swelled with the increasing passion which influenced this movement, he found, to his dismay, that he was mistaken in her person. It was not the voice of her he loved. He had barely time to take refuge between the screen and the wall, ere the lady came forward, talking vehemently the while; the astrologer arose from his footstool, and was preparing to follow, but she turned sharply round, and com

manded him to be seated, which was so far fortunate for St. Maur, that he gained his place of concealment unperceived; though his position was unhappy enough, in being forced to remain an unwill. ing listener to a conversation in which he believed himself to have no interest, and to run the risk, in addition, which a spy cannot fail to encounter on forbidden ground.

ST. MAUR had not been many minutes in his precarious retreat, ere the annoyance he felt was changed to dismay and extreme alarm for the imprudence he had been guilty of. The astrologer had thrown aside his mask, and disclosed features which could not but be well known, at least throughout the capital. It was the Cardinal Mazarin who sat thus lowlily at the feet of the lady; and she, by the language used, if other evidence were wanting, could be no other than the queen-regent, Anne of Austria, as she was popularly called.

By degrees, for the confusion of the young man was so great, that he could not readily connect his ideas, the mystery of the last twentyfour hours was disappearing. He heard enough to warrant the general opinion of the extreme regard, if not affection, entertained by her majesty for the minister; and by incidental remarks he learned the extreme caution adopted by the Queen in preserving their more private interviews a secret, even to the confidential members of her household. Often when it was believed in Paris, and even in the Palais Royal, that Mazarin was closely shut up in his hotel, afraid to venture out through fear for his personal stafety, and also, that his presence at the palace should not compromise his royal mistress in her pretended overtures to the party of the Prince of Condé ; and when it was supposed that the Queen herself, distracted with her perilous situation, and the imminent danger which hung over the young King, was at prayers in her oratory, or had retired for that holy purpose to the convent of the Val-de-Grace-a convent which she had removed from the valley of that name to Paris, build