of his lively little Suzette acquired a tone of melancholy so foreign to her nature, that Pierre felt it his duty to go and aid her with his counsels, or console her with his tenderness. Of any anxiety he might experience to be once again by the side of his own Madelaine-his dear Madelaine--his betrothed Madelaine-he said nothing to himself, even in the strictest confidence.

But his task of brotherly consolation proved a harder one than he was prepared for. It was no easy matter, in the first place, for Pierre to extort from his sister the secret cause of all the tears she must have been shedding, to have made her blooming cheeks so pale, her bright eyes so hollow. It was not love that caused her grief, for Suzette's love was prosperous. She was betrothed to the son of a wealthy relative, who was serving his apprenticeship in one of the factories of S: Etienne, at the end of which period they were to marry, and be established. It was not hate, for her heart was soft with feminine virtues. It was no vain repining, for she was fondly cherished by her surviving parent, and beloved by her village companions. What cause, then, moral or physical, had lodged the worm i' the bud? Alas! the mischief was only too easily explained: the young girl's reserve was solely occasioned by apprehensions that an explanation might tend to involve in danger her father or her brother. The young Count St Aignan was pursuing her with the importunities of an illicit passion; the young Count, who, having recently paid the tribute to society exacted by his rank in life, of marrying, sorely against his inclination, the ugly heiress provided as a fitting wife for him even in his very cradle, considered himself doubly entitled to profit by his privileges of cast, by insulting and molesting every woman, tolerably attractive, within the boundaries of his father's estates. But lately married, he seemed to seek the charms he had a right to look for in his bride, in every other female form within reach of his insolent libertinism.

For a moment the young soldier's heart waxed hot within him, as he listened to his sister's complaints; and, fiercely twisting his mustachios, he talked of vengeance. But the next, Suzette's gentle voice contrived to meet his ear, reminding him of the religious regard in which the house of St Aignan was held by their parents, and of the misfortunes which the resentment of the Count might bring down on the gray heads they were bound to cherish.

"It

is some mistake in all that has been going on at Luzières during my absence. You have been cheated by ill-advisers into regarding the daughter of your father's ancient servitor, and the sister of his Majesty's soldier, as you would some wanton of the Boulevarts of Paris. But think better of us, and think better of yourself, Monsieur le Comte, than to be thus easily misled; or nom d'une bombe! the next time we meet in the greenwood there will be no parting till the grass smokes with the blood of one or both of us!"

Great as was Alphonse de St Aignan's astonishment at this unparalleled effrontery, amazement was not the feeling that predominated in his countenance while he parried the fierce glances lavished on him by the young soldier. Irony and bitter scorn were in the courtier's smile the scorn of a low mind-the irony of an irritated temper. With an obeisance of mock humility, he owned himself fitly admonished; professed penitence; and even affected to offer thanks to Peter the Hussar, for having edified him with so valuable a lesson of morality. There was a significance in his mode of uttering a parting promise to Pierre, that never again would he attempt to exchange a syllable with Suzette, which filled the young man with consternation ; and, before rejoining his regiment, he succeeded in persuading his own family and the family of his sister's lover to accelerate her marriage with Vincent, in order to secure the bride from all further molestation from such a rampant Tarquin as Alphonse, Comte de St Aignan.

Once again among his comrades, Peter strove to forget what had passed, and to remember only the happy moments he had enjoyed at Etiolles in the presence of his bright and beautiful Madelaine. Suzette, now Madame Vincent, was safe at Lyons; Bertin, the father of his betrothed, was no retainer of the St Aignans, to be intimidated by the insolence of Count Alphonse ; and Pierre was satisfied that nothing now could go wrong," au pays.” At headquarters, meanwhile, some guignon seemed to pursue him. Whatever he did was done amiss : whatever he left undone, was heavily visited. There was a new colonel-a colonel of two-andtwenty, who had been a captain in his leading strings, and a field-officer when at fourteenhe was the co-mate of Alphonse de St Aignan at the Collège des cadets nobles; and to this young man the gallant conscrit of Etiolles appeared to be peculiarly obnoxious. Pierre was often laugh

Having accordingly followed the young Count the next time he went on a shooting expedition into the forest, Pierre watched for a favourable moment, when the impetuous Alphonse had outstripped the gardes de chasse in attendance; and stepping forth from the underwood, suddenly stood before him.

"Not'ancien !" said he, with a military salute, and the abruptness of a soldier's diction, "There

din; over-choice in the powdering of his Cadogan and the pomatuming of his side curls, either when a grand review by the Count d'Artois was in preparation at Versailles, or when some fête at Ville d'Avray induced him to scale the walls of the barrack-yard, after hours, to make one in the Boulangère. On one of these occasions, Count Miroméuil, his colonel, having chanced to encounter him by the way, accosted him with the unholiday terms of "gredin" and "freluquet," and requited his maccaroni-ism by a week's arrest. On his release, Pierre was heard to

murmur, and the dose was repeated; again he was rash enough to complain that the measure of his punishment exceeded that of his offence, and this mutiny of tongue was rewarded by ten days' confinement, au cachot.

But a critical hour, in her day of retribution, had already struck for France. The States' General had assembled; the situation of the King and Queen was every moment becoming more critical. The impetuous loyalty of the royal Flanders regiment, in garrison at Versailles, had unfortunately been formed into such rash demonstrations, by the indiscreet concessions of the lovely but misjudging Marie Antoinette, as to cause perpetual altercations between the men and those of the hussar corps of which Peter formed a part. Scarcely a day passed but the revilings and tauntings of the Royal Flanders, imputing disaffection to their less turbulent comrades, produced some disastrous result. An imputation was by this means created against the loyalty of the hussars, and the dissatisfaction of the royal family tacitly but visibly expressed against them: an estrangement of the favour of their Majesties, which naturally begat, the very feelings it was intended to chastise. Count Miroméuil, unable to conjecture why his men should be heard at the estaminets of Versailles bawling the Carmagnole, while the Royal Flanders chanted in defiance

"Y-eut-il cent Bou'bons chez nous,

Ya du pain, du laurier p'r tous !" and grievously mortified by his want of influence over the corps, imputed all to his bête noire-to Peter of Etiolles, surnamed Le Gaillard :—and though Peter was at heart as loyal as the brave Dunois, and as chivalrous in the cause of royalty as Bayard himself-a trifle-a nothing-was laid hold of in proof of his Jacobinical tendencies. He was degraded, the lace torn from his uniform, and himself drummed forth from the regiment. The Royal Flanders triumphed; and it happened (the coincidence could be scarcely accidental) that at the very moment the degraded soldier, bareheaded, tattered, over-heated, still pursued at a distance by the outcries of the rabble, was making his way along the by-road leading from Versailles to Bougival, he was passed by Count Alphonse de St Aignan, (who occupied a confidential post about the person of the Queen,) mounted on his favourite Arabian, and wearing on his brow that same expression of profound and bitter scorn which had long dwelt in the memory of the brother of Suzette.

And what was now to become of the outcast? To return to his village under such a cloud of shame was impossible: father, grandsire, nay, even Madelaine herself, could scarcely have faith enough in his good faith, to believe he had been wantonly sacrificed. Blame must be imputed to him. No! he would stay at Pariswould seek employment in some calling open to all, where colonels of two-and-twenty had no authority, nor vindictive aristocrats the privilege of mischief. Despite his hereditary principles of passive obedience-despite the demoralizing

influence of the meretricious pageantry of the Court, Peter was forced into democratic associations. Expelled from the ranks where he would fain have shed the last drop of his serf-engendered blood in the service of the king, the trampled worm could not but turn on its oppressors. He began to frequent the popular meetings at the Faubourg St Antoine, the place where his scanty bread was toiled for and eaten in solitary bitterness; to herd with the discontented-to murmur with the disaffected-to threaten with the

desperate. The bonnet rouge was speedily adopted by the gallant hussar of Etiolles.

But when the summer came, and even the lime trees of the Palais Royal became fragrant with flowers, Peter could no longer resist his inclination to take a furtive peep at the village, and learn, if possible, what report of his disgrace and its origin had reached the farm of Luzières. To Madelaine, he trusted, he might in safety discover himself. From her he might ascertain in what light his misfortunes were viewed by his father. Taking a cast, accordingly, from the Quai de la Grève, (already the Golgotha of the capital,) in a homeward bound Bourgogne winebarge, he threw himself on shore near Ris, and, in the dusk of the evening, made his way to Etiolles.

His first impulse was towards Bertin's cottage. It was already dark; but he knew he should see, even from a distance, the bright light burning on Madelaine's work-table. But no light appeared! He drew nearer; and, with gigantic strides, overstepped the vineyard clothing the Côte that separated him from the dwelling of his beloved. Alas! the shutters were closed. Nay! the little pathway leading to the door was so overgrown with weeds and streamers of the Bengal rose-trees, with which his own hands had adorned it, that there needed no voice to tell him the house had been long deserted! *

A boy came whistling by. "Where are they gone?" cried Pierre, catching him by the shoulder.

"They?""They?" replied the lad, suspending his tune.

"Bertin and his daughter?"

"Who are Bertin and his daughter?"
"The people who lived in this cottage."

"Him? I don't know-I am not of the pays-I am of Ris. Let me go; I am in haste to get home."

Pierre wrung his hands in despair.

"If you are uneasy to know about the place," said the lad, coming back good-naturedly after going a few steps along the road, "ask at the next cottage. Or stay-you seem to be in trouble-I will inquire for you."

And he hurried off to an adjacent house, while Pierre sunk down on a large stone beside the door, his own heart within him as heavy and as cold! He was preparing himself to hear the worst.

"This is the man who wants to hear about Bertin and his daughter," said the Ris boy, pointing out Pierre as he sat in the shade of the

house, with his face covered with his hands, to an old woman, whom he had half-persuaded, half-dragged, from her household occupations, and whom Pierre recognised at once as a motherly well-wishing neighbour of his dear Madelaine. He had, however, no inclination to accost her; and the new-comer, like most people summoned to impart information, began by exacting it. "And who are you who want to hear about Madelaine and Bertin?" she demanded.

"Don't plague him-don't you see that he is weeping!" said the lad, in a low voice; and unable to stay out the issue of the colloquy, he went his way, leaving them together.

"And good cause for weeping to those who have any regard for the unlucky family!" ejaculated Marthon, seeing that her companion was unequal to interrogation or reply. "Old Bertin has been in his last bed these seven months, poor soul! And what sent him thither is best known to those who, high as they are, may find their own day of reckoning in the calendar. Only I know, that if a young lord, like some that I could name, were to come lurking about my premises, nightfall after nightfall, hungering like a wolf after a child of mine

no safe place for you. Take my advice; and, out of the little money you have gathered from the good man's strong box, pay your way in the fourgon that passes yonder through Essonne to Lyons, and go to Madame Vincent, (Suzette of Luzières that was,) who, for Pierre's sake, will give you bread or employment. Unless I am much mistaken, you will find she has news to tell you of persecution borne from the same quarter which has killed your father, and sent you an orphan into the wide world."

Marthon paused a moment-for she heard the stranger grinding his teeth beside her. "But Madelaine would not listen."

"She chose to stay here?" exclaimed Pierre"She did?"

"Not she; she chose, foolish girl, to go off to Paris, where she has an aunt, poor enough I am afraid, and little able to protect her. But it was no love for her aunt, nor any idle hankering after Paris that took her yonder down the river. It was that she had a mind to get nearer to Versailles to make inquiries after that unhappy Pierre of hers; for though the old folks at Luzières had contrived to learn all that was to be learned of him, (and bad enough it was for a father to learn,) Madelaine fancied she should

"I would meet his villanies as Père Bertin (rest his soul!) met those of-but motus !” "And the old man is no more ?" interrogated Pierre, in a suppressed voice.

"He was carried out, feet foremost, just a fortnight and a day after the struggle they had together, no farther off than yonder old shed, where the Count was lying in wait for pretty Madelaine, on the eve of the assumption. And most people say," continued Marthon, lowering her tone, most people who have any skill in bruise-ailments and herb-cures, (like poor Pierre of Luzières, who is gone-ay! and may be dead too, for aught we know about the matter,) that a heavy blow, a heavy fall, such as Père Bertin had to bear with, is no easy matter to survive at threescore years and sixteen. And so, you see, his gray hairs were laid under the sod."

"And Madelaine?" faltered Pierre. "Oh! Madelaine; there was but one thing for Madelaine to do, if she had listened to my counsel. She might have sheltered with me, poor child, as long as she listed; or she would have been welcome up yonder at Luzières to bed and board. But was it safe for her, sir, I ask you, to be maundering on here at Etiolles, a poor, defenceless, fatherless girl of eighteen, betrothed to a lad who may have been with the dead this twelvemonth, while a villain's eye was fixed upon her, and a villain's arm strong over her?

haps discover his place of hiding; for Madelaine could never be taught to believe him turned to wickedness

"Blessings on her."

"And so, to make a long story short, to Paris, sir, she went; and not a word more have I ever heard of Madelaine, which is a wrong thing of the girl, considering that

"Is Count Alphonse at Luzières, now?" inquired Pierre, in a stern voice.

"Count Alphonse-who said anything of Count Alphonse?" cried Marthon.-"No! he is not here, he is at court, as such knaves should be ! But who are you, that know so much, yet would fain appear to know so little of the family?

"I am Pierre, mère Marthon," said he, timidly offering his hand.

"Pierre!" she reiterated, bestowing a sonorous salute on either cheek. "And talking to me out here in the dew, when there is a good chair and a good chioppine of wine yonder within."

"I have no time to drink, I have no time to rest!" cried he. "Tell me, however, before I go : -my father-my grandfather-do they believe in the slanders to which I have been sacrificed?"

"Not at heart, not at heart; and yet the doubt troubles them, as you will see when you arrive at Luzières."

"I am not going to Luzières," answered the young man. "I will never return there till I have made way in the world, and can present myself with as good a face as when I left the farm. But see them for me to-morrow, my dear good Marthon and give my duty and obedience to my father; and tell him I am alive, strong, industrious, working hard to prove myself worthier