University of Virginia Library

THE CHILD OF DESTINY.

BY PAUL CREYTON.

1. CHAPTER I.
THE TWO FRIENDS.

It was late at night. The good bourgeoisie
of the city of Paris had retired to
rest, and the strets were deserted and silent,
save that at intervals a fiacre or a carrosse
rattled over the pavements, and the
quick footsteps of an occasional passenger
fell upon the ear. The theatres and other
places of amusement were closed for the
night, and the swarms of pleasure-seekers
which they poured forth had time to reach
their homes.

The soirce of the beautiful Mademoiselle
Marie Duval had passed pleasantly away,
and the select few, who had been admitted
to her society, were now taking leave of her,
one by one, and sauntering into the streets.
Two alone lingered after the rest were gone,
and these were among the most favored of
the guests of M. Duval and his daughter.
Maurice Lambert had long been intimate
with the family, to which he had some time
before introduced Ernest Clairet, his bosom
friend; and as Maurice was held in high esteem
by both Marie and her father, Ernest
was, for his friend's sake, regarded rather as
an acquaintance, than one whom the family
Duval scarcely knew.

The two friends, we said, lingered after
the other guests were gone, but they, too, at
last, took their leave, and, arm in arm, sauntered
along the street. To have seen them,
one would scarcely have recognized in their
thoughtful features the two gay young men
who, an hour before, attracted the attention
of the entire party by their elegant address
and ready wit. Their gayety had passed
away, and a sort of pleasing seriousness had
taken possession of their hearts. For some
time neither spoke, but they walked on in
silence, absorbed in their own reflections.

`What ails you, Ernest?' cried Maurice
Lambert, breaking in upon his friend's meditations.

`I was thinking,' said Clairet, with a
smile.

`Very probable,' returned his friend; `for
I believe that every rational being thinks.
But may I ask what weighs upon your mind,
giving to your every look and action a tinge
of melancholy?'

`Diable! I do not know, myself, Maurice.
But somehow the look which our good friend
Duval gave me, as I took my leave, calls up
early associations, and it seems to me that I
have seen his face before.'

`Indeed?'

`Yes, Maurice, it is even so; although
where or when I cannot tell. It must have

been many years ago, however—perhaps
when I was a poor, forsaken orphan.'

`Dame, Ernest! tell me about that—when
you were the orphan you have so often mentioned
in my presence.'

`Not to-night, Maurice,' said Ernest,
shaking his head sadly, `for the recollections
Duval's strange look called up, are sad
enough without recurring to the details of
my early history. You know that I am an
orphan, that I was adopted at an early age
by the excellent M. Clairet, whose name I
have borne ever since, and that I have every
reason to consider myself a fortunate man.
But the wrongs I endured—the wrongs
which killed my mother, which I have since
sworn to revenge, if Heaven has not saved
me the task,—you know nothing of them,
my dear Maurice, and I hope you never
will!'

`Pardon me, Ernest, for questioning you:
I was not aware of the deep wounds in your
bosom, and am sorry to make you sadder
than before.'

`Parbleu!' exclaimed Ernest Clairet, vehemently.
`I am sad, and unless I seek
some stirring scene—some powerful excitement,
the melancholy of this night will stay
with me for days. It is what I cannot shake
off without assistance.'

`Then I will remain with you, Ernest;
we will seek some diversion together, and I
will help you to get rid of your melancholy
thoughts.'

`Thanks, thanks, dear Maurice; but
what do you propose?' asked Clairet.

`You are fond of play?'

`It is an amusement although I never play
for money, except through courtesy.'

`I know it is, Ernest. But the game
alone excites you. If you would forget your
own thoughts, you could do no better than
spend the remainder of the night—or at least
a part of it—at Jean Louis' saloons. The
company there is always of the first class,
the players generous, and the wine superb.
What do you say?'

`Sacrebleu! I accept your proposition,'
replied Ernest Clairet, quickening his pace.

2. CHAPTER II.
THE GAMESTERS.

Half an hour after, the two friends were
stationed in one of the most fashienable
gaming saloons in the great metropolis of
France. Foreigners from almost every
country were present. Russian counts,
Italian amateurs, English sportsmen, and
German speculators, were mingled with
dandies, blacklegs, artists, and even the
nobility of Paris. All appeared upon the
same footing there—all seemed moved by
one common impulse—the passion for gaming.

Ernest Clairet was engaged with an experienced
Parisian player, while Maurice, together,
with several strangers, stood by,
watching the progress of the game.

Although a moderate player, and what is
termed an amateur, for want of better or
more suitable phrase, Ernest was unusually
skillful at cards, being quick at observation,
and accustomed to all the games and tricks
of the day. On the present occasion, however,
he had his match. His adversary
played with great coolness and precision,
turning his whole attention to the game.
Ernest, at first, played carelessly; but when
louis after louis had passed from his purse,
over to the side of his adversary, he began
to pay greater attention to the game, although
he played with the same coolness as
before. His fortune, however, did not
change. Vibert—for such was his adversary's
name—continued to win from him
until he had but a single bill of fifty francs
remaining in his pocket. This Ernest staked,
played for—and lost.

`Morbleu, M. Vibert!' he exclaimed, `you
are in luck to-night! You have won from
me more than eight hundred francs, and I

havn't time to stop and recover my losses.
Another time, however—'

`It is not late, Mousieur,' interrupted
Vibert, politely.

`Not late, I know, but you will excuse
me for to-night,' began Ernest; but a murmur
of disapprobation among the spectators
checked him, and he cast a meaning glance
at Maurice Lambert.

Maurice understood him, and knowing
that the adopted son of M. Clairet was not
always flush with ready money, slipped a
billet de banque into his hands, unobserved
by the spectators.

Ernest glanced at it hastily, and a strange
smile played upon his lips—he saw that it
was equal in value to all that he had lost
that night.

`If then I am to be revenged on you, to-night,
M. Vibert,' said Ernest, gaily, `I
must do it at one stroke. There is my
stake.'

`Good!' exclaimed Vibert, and the cards
were again arranged.

The game was short, but played with the
greatest coolness and attention.

`You have lost, Monsieur,' observed
Ernest, carelessly. `Are you satisfied now?'

`Ah, Monsieur, you are very kind!' returned
Vibert. `But you will not surely
leave me so—'

`A votre service,' said Ernest, shuffling
the cards.

`The stake?' suggested Vibert.

`That billet de banque seems to be a
lucky one,' observed the other, with a smile.
`If you have no objection—'

`Not the least,' interrupted Vibert.

Once more they played, and once more
the billet de banque won.

`Sacrebleu!' muttered Vibert; `que fe
suis bete! Had I not played a diamond when
it should have been a trump;—but never
mind; we will try the game once more.'

Vibert studied the game until the perspiration
stood upon his brow; played with
the utmost caution: watched every move of
his adversary as the tiger watches his prey:
but all in vain. A third time Ernest was in
luck. Vibert said not a word, but wiping
the sweat from his forehead, proceeded to
shuffle the cards.

`The billet de banque again?' asked Ernest.

Vibert made no reply, save a gesture of
affirmation, and again the play went on.

`Pardieu!' the devil is in your fingers!'
muttered Vibert, forcing a smile as still another
thousand francs pased over to Ernest's
side.

`Only a momentary change of fortune,'
said Ernest; `you will recover in a short
time.'

Again they played, and again Vibert lost.
He became agitated at last, and played like
an insane man, clutching the cards with
desperate energy, and keeping his blood-shot
eyes fixed upon the game. Ernest, on the
other hand, was cool and self-possessed; he
appeared to regard his astonishing successes
with the utmost indifference. A group of
admiring spectators soon gathered around
them, greatly interested in the progress of
the play.

`My dear sir,' said Ernest, at length,
frightened by the desperate manner in which
his adversary played—`my dear sir, is it not
time to finish for to-night? Another time—'

`Play on—play on!' interrupted Vibert,
in a husky voice.

And they did play on; and in half an
hour Ernest had reduced his opponent to
the last franc.

A death-like silence prevailed for a moment,
as Vibert, with his ashy lips compressed,
and his pale brow resting upon his
hands, stared fixedly at the cards upon the
table.

`Let us away,' whispered Maurice, touching
Ernest upon the shoulder.

Ernest glanced at his friend, then at Vibert,
and finally at the pile of money ne
had won.

`Diable, Maurice, what shall I do?' he

murmured, passing his hand across his brow.
`Here have I been playing for more than
two hours without knowing what I was
about. I played for amusement, never once
thinking that I was ruining this poor devil,
in fact, when I look at the money here, it
seems that I have been dreaming. Tell me
if I have won it all in fair play—'

These last words alone reached the ear
of Vibert. He started up, as if a sudden
thought had flashed across his brain.

`Fair play!' he echoed, with a ghastly
smile. `Sacre dieu! I never lost like that
with an honest player!'

`Sir?' said Ernest, in a whisper, while
the hot blood mounted to his brow.

Vibert was desperate. While all the spectators
started back with a sort of savage delight,
he sprang forward, and glancing fiercely
at Ernest, exclaimed:

`You heard my words—all present heard
them too!'

Ernest had become perfectly calm. One
would not have observed the least emotion
in him, had not his features been a shade
paler than usual.

`Yes, Monsieur!' he said, politely, but
with a sarcastic smile, `I heard your words,
and beg to know when you deign to explain
them to me.'

`Morbleu! at any time—the sooner the
better!' replied Vibert, fiercely.

`Here is my address,' began Ernest—

`I care not for your address,' interrupted
Vibert. `It is better that our differences
should be settled on the spot—here—at this
very moment!'

Cela m'est egal,' returned the other coolly.
`It only remains for you to choose your
weapons.'

`They are chosen,' said the Parisian,
pointing with a ghastly smile, at a pair of
short swords that hung against the wall.

`Be it so!' said Ernest.

`Dame!' whispered Maurice, `you are
not going to fight the fellow?'

`Why not?'

`Why not?' He is beside himself—he is
desperate. Return him the money you have
won, and let us begone.'

`Maurice!' exclaimed Ernest, reproachfully,
`you, too, are beside yourself, are you
not? Consider that he insulted me before
a crowd of spectators, and that I could not
retreat if I would. I pity him, for in the
state you see him, I am confident he will
lose not only his money but his sword.'

`Be not too confident,' whispered Maurice,
`for I am told that Vibert is one of the ablest
swordsmen in Paris.'

`Tant mieux! tant mieux!' exclaimed
Ernest, gaily.

3. CHAPTER III.
THE DUEL.

As Maurice had said, Vibert was considered
one of the first lames in the French
capital. But Ernest was nothing daunted
by the intelligence. Confident of his own
skill—he having devoted much time to perfecting
himself in the practice of all weapons
used by duellists at that period—he
was even glad to learn that he had no undue
advantage over his adversary.

They crossed their swords. Ernest was
as cool as if merely going through with the
exercises with a companion. Vibert, although
heated with passion, and desperate,
also appeared self-possessed; but he began
the combat with an energy that contrasted
strangely with the careless defence of his antagonist.
An anxious group was collected
around them, not the least interested of
whom was Maurice Lambert.

For some time the weapons of the combatants
crossed, and wound about each other
so to speak, with that grace and dexterity
which bespeak the accomplished swordsman.
At first Ernest confined himself to
observing his adversary's mode of attack,
and to defending his own person, without

seriously returning his thrusts; but, at
length, as Vibert pressed him more closely
his weapon moved with greater rapidity and
force, and his eye flashed with a strange and
terrible meaning. The two blades clashed
and grated against each other in quick succession,
when Vibert made a masterly thrust
and grazed his antagonist's side.

`A hit!' murmured the spectators.

`A scratch,' said Ernest, with a fiendish
smile, `but there will be something worse
in a moment!'

He now changed his mode of defence into
a furious and skilful attack, thrusting with
such precision and rapidity that Vibert was
obliged to fall back.

Ernest darted forward, and with a skilful
movement wrenched his antagonist's weapon
from his grasp.

`Finish me!' said Vibert.

`Resume your sword,' returned young
Clairet, with a smile.

Vibert did so. Again the two were opposed
to each other in deadly strife. Twice
the cold steel touched the breast of Ernest.
Vibert was bleeding at half-a-dozen wounds.
feeling his strength failing fast, he thrust
fiercely at Ernest, regardless of the wounds
he himself received, and at last succeeded in
planting his blade directly beneath his ribs,
on the left side. No sooner did Ernest feel
the pang shoot through him, than summoning
all his remaining strength, he plunged
his sword into the bosom of his antagonist,
and fell with him to the ground.

Maurice sprang forward to assist his
friend. He had already fainted, and the
blood was gushing from his wound. Two
surgeons were at hand; one of them hastened
to Ernest's side; and while the other
was occupied with Vibert, proceeded to examine
the gash in his side. The blood was
staunched, and Ernest was conveyed to a
couch.

`The wound!' whispered Maurice, in an
agony of doubt.

`Is dangerous, if not mortal,' replied the
surgeon.

In a few moments the young man recovered
his consciousness.

`And Vibert?' he murmured: `have I
killed him?'

`Ernest!' exclaimed Maurice, `do not
speak—'

`But tell me if he is dead!'

`I do not know. But you must be quiet.'

`Quiet! how can I be quiet? Impossible,
until I know if he is dead.'

An attendant was sent to ascertain the
truth. When he returned, Ernest had fainted
a second time. On recovering, his first
words were concerning Vibert.

`He is not yet dead,' said Maurice.

`Thank God!' murmured the young man.
`I am the one to blame; and if he should
die, I am a murderer!'

`Hush, Ernest,' said Maurice. `Remember
it was in a duel—'

`A duel—yes! but it is unpleasant to
think of leaving the world responsible for
the death of a fellow-being, even though that
fellow-being at the same time caused your
own.'

`Ernest—what do you mean?'

`I mean that I feel what the surgeon
would conceal from me—that my wound is
mortal, and—'

`No, no!' interrupted Maurice, in broken
accents, `it is only a slight hurt.'

`Do not attempt to deceive me, my dear
Maurice,' replied Ernest, with a sad smile,
`for I feel that I am going fast. Is my
father, M. Clairet, sent for?'

`Yes.'

`Well, but if I die before his arrival, you
will say to him that I thought of him with
gratitude, until the last. And, Maurice—'

Then the voice of the young man became
so faint that his friend was obliged to incline
his ear to his lips to hear him.

`Go on,' said Maurice.

`Send the attendants away.'

`They are gone.'

`My dear friend,' pursued Ernest, pressing
his companion's hand, `I have but two
requests to make, which, if you love me, you
will fulfil.'

`Ernest!' exclaimed the other, in a voice
choked by sobs.

`In the first place, if you ever meet a man
named Laurence Belfont—a man of about
fifty years—ask him if he remembers Virginie
Lordilliere; and if he betrays the least
emotion, it is he!'

`Who?'

`The man whom I have sought since I
was able to wield a sword—the man I have
sworn to punish—the man whom you must
kill as you would kill the betrayer of your
sister!'

`But, Ernest—'

`Do not question me, but swear to fulfil
my request.'

`I swear,' said Maurice, firmly.

`It is well!' murmured his dying friend;
`and now, Maurice, I have a secret for your
heart alone. Take the locket you will find
upon my heart—if it has not been removed,
and I need say no more.'

Maurice took the locket, opened it, and
beheld the portrait of her he had long loved
in secret—Marie Duval! He turned pale
and started back.

`You love her?' he murmured.

`Do I love her?' sighed Ernest; `ah!
better than life itself!'

`And she—she loves you?' gasped Maurice.

`Alas! I fear not! She does not even
know of the passion that has consumed me
—consumes me still!'

Maurice breathed more easily. A feeling
of jealousy had, for a moment, rankled in
his bosom, but full of noble devotion to his
dying friend, he banished all unworthy
thoughts, and forgot that Ernest might have
been his rival.

`This portrait,' said Ernest, `you will
keep.'

Maurice raised the miniature to his lips,
at the same time pressing the hand of his
friend.

`Keep it,' continued Ernest, faintly, `as
the choicest jewel your friend ever possessed.
When you look at it you will remember
me, and for my sake you will regard
Marie as a sister. I can say no more—do
not forget Belfont—Maurice—Marie—'

At that moment M. Clairet entered, and
found his adopted son fainting in the arms
of his friend.

4. CHAPTER IV.
A FRIEND'S DEVOTION.

Contrary to the expectations of all, Ernest
survived his wounds. For several days
he lay, so to speak, on the brink of the
grave; but at last, thanks to the surgeon's
skill, youth, and a naturally strong constitution,
he began slowly to recover.

Several weeks after the events related in
our last chapter, when Ernest had nearly regained
his strength, Maurice Lambert was
seated one day alone with Marie Duval.
Little did the young girl suspect the feelings
she had inspired in the hearts of the two
young men, and still less did she dream of
the struggle in Maurice's breast between
love for her and devotion to his friend. Had
Ernest never confided to him his passion,
Maurice might have used every means to
win the hand of Marie for himself, even in
opposition to his friend; but, as it was, he
felt that to do so would be not only dishonorable,
but perfidious in the extreme. Nobly
did he oppose the dictates of his passion;
generously did he resolve to sacrifice his
own happiness to that of his friend; firmly
did he determine to conceal his love from
all. Any less noble than he might have regretted
that Ernest did not die; but Maurice,
far above such unworthy thoughts, was
the first to rejoice in the recovery of his
friend.

The young man, we said, was alone with
Marie Duval He had determined to do all
in his power to favor Ernest's interests, and
had resolved to speak with Marie upon the
subject.

The young girl had just been reading in
the works of the immortal Chateaubriand,
the description of Atala upon her death-bed;
and the passionate breathings of tenderness
which that fair and virtuous being addressed
to her afflicted lover, had sunk deep into
her heart. Tears of sympathy were still
glistening in her eyes; as, turning to Maurice
Lambert, she said in a voice tremulous
with emotion:

`How deep and holy must be that passion
which is triumphant even in death—which
can inspire the heart to struggle against dissolution,
and to feel itself immortal by the
strength of love alone![1] But I can scarce
believe in the existence of such love.'

`Indeed!' said Maurice.

`No—for it is too heavenly—'

`But I have witnessed it in a degree.'

`You!'

`Yes; only a few weeks ago, I was at the
death-bed of a friend, whose last thoughts
were of one whom he loved in secret, but
deeply—perhaps hopelessly.'

`A friend, do you say?' asked Marie, interested.

`Yes, and it is a friend of mine too whom
he loved.'

`And she never knew his sentiments towards
her?'

`No, for he feared lest she might despise
the poor offering of his heart.'

`Ah!' said Marie, `little did he know of
woman, if he judged her thus. She may
reject, but she cannot despise man's love,
though she may appear to do so to the
world.'

`But perhaps she whom he loved was an
exception—she might be more cruel than
her sex in general. But yet she is fair and
gentle.'

`Do I know her?' asked Marie.

`You have seen her, perhaps,' replied
Maurice with a smile. `And between us, I
will say that my friend, feeling himself about
to die, put into my hands the portrait of his
mistress, which he had procured unknown
to her, and worn next to his heart as a secret
treasure.'

`Have you it now?'

`It is this,' replied Maurice, producing a
locket. `Would you like to look at it?'

`Ah!' sighed Marie, affected by the reality
of the story her companion was relating;
if it should prove the miniature of one I
know, I fear that I could never look on her
again without regarding her as unnatural
and cruel.'

`But you forget that she knew not the
sentiments she inspired.'

`True. But the portrait.'

Maurice handed the locket to his companion,
who opened it and beheld—a likeness
of herself! She turned pale at first,
and then a tinge of crimson mounted to her
brow.

`How is this?' she murmured, `explain.'

`In the first place,' said Maurice, `you
must know that my friend, although dangerously
wounded, did not die.'

`And what you have said is true?'

`Every word,' except that he lives and
loves you still.'

Marie blushed, but it was not with shame
nor offence. Marie was a woman; and none
can deny that the thought of being the object
of sincere and pure affection, is dear to
woman's heart. But a pang shot through
her bosom, for she cherished a hidden affection
for another who she knew had not been
dangerously ill. But Maurice, when he revealed
to her the name of her lover, judged
by her appearance, that Ernest was the object

of her choice, and although his own
heart received a wound, hastened to impart
the intelligence to his friend.

5. CHAPTER V.
THE SECRET.

`She loves you!' cried Maurice, breaking
abruptly into the apartment of Ernest
Clairet—`she loves you!'

`Who?' demanded Ernest, his eyes sparkling
with joy—`you cannot mean—'

`Marie Duval—none other, I assure you,
dear Ernest.'

`But how is it possible—dear Maurice!'
murmured Ernest, clasping his friend warmly
by the hand; and he added, after a pause
`are you sure of what you say?'

`I have not a doubt.'

`But how did you learn such joyful
news?'

`I beg your pardon, Ernest,' said Maurice,
`for having been guilty of an indiscretion;
and I am sure you will forgive me
when I tell you all—my motives and my
success.'

`What do you mean?' cried Ernest turning
pale.

Maurice took his friend's hand, and related
all that had passed between him and
Marie Duval. Ernest listened eagerly, but
the intelligence seemed to cause him less
pleasure than pain. As his friend concluded,
his brows gathered darkly, and his features
became pale with agitation.

`Maurice,' he said in broken accents,
`you have done wrong—but you thought to
do me a service, and I forgive you—thank
you!'

`Morbleu!' exclaimed Manrice, astonished;
`are you mad? Explain yourself.'

`Not mad!' returned Ernest with a melancholy
smile, `but unfortunate. The
thought of being beloved by Marie Duval
would make my heart leap for joy, did I not
look upon our union as next to impossible.
As it is, the thrill of pleasure is accompanied
with a thrill of pain!'

Maurice was more astonished than before.

`Explain, for heaven's sake, Ernest!' he
exclaimed. `What mystery is this?—
Marie loves you—you love her—you are on
an equal footing in society—what is there
to prevent your union?'

`Prejudice!' replied Ernest.

`How prejudice?'

`Maurice,' said the adopted son of M.
Clairet, sadly. `I can never possess the
hand of Marie Duval without first revealing
the secret of my birth; and that once
known to her father, he is too proud to accept
me as a member of his family. True
I might perhaps marry her without revealing
the secret, but it would be a dishonorable
act. Alas! I feel that it were better
had Marie never known of my unhappy passion,
which I have long regarded as hopeless,
while yet I have allowed it to prey upon
my heart!'

As Ernest spoke strange thoughts crowded
the bosom of his friend. Curiosity to
know the mystery to which Ernest alluded,
pity for his unfortunate position, and bitter
reflections with regard to his own hopeless
passion for Marie, were mingled confusedly
in his breast.

`Ernest,' he said, after a pause, `may I
ask as a friend and adviser, the secret which
you say prevents your union with Marie?'

`Have you not divined it?'

`How could I?'

`Do you not remember hearing me speak
of one Laurence Belfont?'

`Of him you have sworn to punish—'

`The same.'

`And who is he?' asked Maurice.

`My father!' answered Ernest, covering
his face with his hands.

Maurice started back with a shudder of
horror.

`Your father—and you have sworn to
take his life—'

`I have sworn to be revenged on him!'
said Ernest, firmly; for betraying Virginie
Lordilliere, my mother, and for abandoning
her, and me, the offspring of her shame!'

Maurice regarded his friend with astonishment.
He had never suspected the secret
of his birth, and now the news came
like a clap of thunder.

`You are surprised,' said Ernest with a
sad smile, `and perhaps you hate me now
that you know my life began in infamy.'

`Ernest!' exclaimed the other, reproachfully,
grasping his hand; `you wrong me
with such suspicions. I know the generosity
of your heart—the nobility of your nature,
and care not for the rest.'

`You are above prejudice, Maurice,' exclaimed
Ernest, warmly, tears of gratitude
glistening in his eyes; `but they—Marie
and her father—'

His voice was choked with emotion, and
he was unable to proceed.

`Despair not,' said his companion. `If
you deem it your duty to reveal the secret
to them, do it boldly, as it is your custom to
do every thing else, and I doubt not but
they will be ready to overlook the circumstances
of your birth.'

`Ah! if I could only hope that M. Duval
would prove as noble-hearted as you!' exclaimed
Ernest. `But you must consider
that I scarcely know him; and how can I
except that he will regard me with favor?'

`Then we will leave it to time to teach
him the generosity of your nature; and then
if he be a man of reason, he will put aside
all prejudice. Only do not despair.'

So saying, Maurice embraced his friend,
and they parted.

6. CHAPTER VI.
M. DUVAL.

The father of Mademoiselle Marie Duval
was a man who had seen perhaps fifty winters—proud,
passionate, and headstrong.
During his youth he had been guilty of nearly
all the follies which are but too frequent
at that period of life; but, after giving way
to his passions for a season, he finally married,
and becoming attached to the fire-side
of home, led an irreproachable life, which
caused his youthful follies to be forgotten.
His domestic happiness, however, was not
destined to flow on without interruption, for
scarcely had he tasted of its delights, when
the partner of his bosom died, leaving him,
as a pledge of departed pleasures, Marie, an
only child. M. Duval did not marry again,
nor did he fall back into his former course
of life, but concentrating his entire affections
in his daughter, devoted his fortune
and his leisure to give her a finished education,
and to afford her all the happiness in
his power. It had been his chief delight to
see her grow up under his personal care,
and to watch the development of her mental
and physical powers; and now that she had
become a woman, all his happiness was concentrated
in her, as before it had been concentrated
in her mother, whose image was
so like her own.

It was several weeks after the interview
between Ernest and Maurice Lambert,
which we have just related, that the two
friends made their appearance at the residence
of M. Duval. Ernest, who had at
last resolved to ask the hand of Marie of her
father, was shown into the library of that
gentlemen, while Maurice remained in the
parlor with Marie.

M. Duval was not a little surprised at the
demand of Ernest, but yet he was not yet
displeased. The fortune the young man
would inherit from his adopted father, was
by no means inconsiderable; and moreover,

he knew Ernest to be every way qualified to
make his daughter happy. In effect, he
was on the point of giving his consent when
the young man interrupted him

`Before deciding,' said he, `you should
know something of my history.'

`What difference can that make?'

`None, perhaps, but yet it may. At all
events I deem it right for you to know who
I am before you accept me as a son.'

`What do you mean?' asked M. Duval
surprised.

`Perhaps you have not heard that I am
only the adopted son of of M. Clairet?'

`Indeed, I had not.'

`So it is. I was received under his roof
when I was seven years old.'

`Well?'

`Before that, I had suffered privation and
sorrow. `To be frank, M. Duval, I am the
son of a poor young girl, who loved, sacrificed
all to the man of her choice, and was
betrayed. In short, Monsieur, I am a natural
child.'

Having uttered this in a calm, low voice
Ernest remained with his arms folded upon
his breast watching the effect of his words
on his companion.

M. Duval started and turned pale. Perhaps
the recollection of his youthful vices
crossed his brain; or it may be that his regard
for Ernest was changed to contempt.

The two glanced at each other in silence
Duval was the first to speak.

`Your mother is dead?'

`My mother committed suicide?'

`Suicide!' echoed Duval.

`Ah!' exclaimed Ernest, `you are pale,
agitated—you are horror-struck, I see. But
if you knew my poor mother's history, you
could excuse her crimes, which heaven has
forgiven.'

`Go on,' murmured Duval.

`My mother was the daughter of respectable
parents, who brought her up in the patn
of virtue and rectitude. But she had a
woman's heart, and woman's weakness.
The temper came, and having made her his
own in heart, took advantage of her devotion
and love, to steal away the jewel of
honor. To hide her shame, she forsook her
home in the country, and fled hither with
her betrayer. A few months passed away,
and her lovers attention and kindness half
repaid her for the sacrifice she had made.
But he became tired of her at last, and
visited her only at long intervals. When I
was born into the world, his visits had ceased
altogether.

`I have never learned how or where she
lived during the first year after she left her
father's house. I only knew that her betrayer
supported her elegantly, for he was
a man of wealth. When he deserted her,
he sent her a purse of gold, with a note, informing
her that he should never come to
her again, and requesting that she should
never seek him out.

`Thus much of her history my mother
related to me when I was old enough to
comprehend the peculiarity of our situation,
and to have the curiosity to learn who she
was and if I had a father.

`After being abandoned by her betrayer,
my mother, ashamed to return to her father's
house, supported herself and me with her
needle. Soon the money he had left her
was gone, and she was obliged to labor day
and night to pay the rent of the little chamber
into which she had removed, and to procure
the necessaries of life.

`Although this was long ago, I have a
distinct recollection of seeing her sitting
over her work, which she plied with tears
of sorrow on her eyes. Her face was pale,
and when she looked at me, it wore an expression
of such hopeless woe, that, young
as I was, I could not refrain from throwing
my arms about her neck, and shedding
tears of sympathy upon her bosom, while I
resolved in my heart to take vengeance
some day on the author of her misfortunes.

`One day when I was about six years

old, she took me with her into the streets.
At no great distance from the house in
which she lived, we met a gentleman and a
lady, leading a little girl between them. I
should not have noticed them had not my
mother clasped my hand conclusively,
trembled violently, and sank fainting upon
the pavement.

`Alarmed, I fell by her side, and supported
her drooping head. In a moment
she recovered, and casting her eyes about
her saw the gentleman, at sight of whom
she had fainted, and who had drawn near to
learn the cause of her sudden illness.
Their eyes met. My mother uttered a faint
shriek; the gentleman started back. Dicu!
I was in the presence of my father! And
it was, doubtless his wife and daughter by
whom he was accompanied.'

At this portion of his recital, Ernest
paused and buried his face in his hands, lost
in gloomy reflection. Had he not done so
he would have heheld his companion agitated
and fearfully pale.

The young man continued.

`After this event, my mother became
more melancholy than she had ever been
before. I saw her so, and with painful solicitude
sought to drive away her sadness.
Alas! little did I dream that her reason,
having suffered so many and such terrible
shocks, was tottering from its throne!

`About two weeks after the day we met
my father in the street, I went one afternoon
to play with the children of a poor woman
with whom my mother had become acquainted.
After three or four hours' absence
from home, I returned, ran joyfully up the
stairs to meet my mother. I opened the
door: she was lying upon our miserable
bed, and I stepped softly, in order not to
awaken her. I was greatly surprised at finding
the window closed tightly, and a suffocating
smell of charcoal in the room. There
was a furnace in the corner; but the coal
had burned away to embers. I was alarm
ed, but knew not the terrible meaning
what I saw!

`As I had often done before, I crept noiselessly
to the bed in order to kiss my mother
as she slept. Heavens! how I
back with terror! Her features were
—distorted with agony! I touched
som—it was so cold that it sent
horror through my frame!

`How wildly then did I call her
name, and strive to awaken her!
did not answer me—she did not move
did not even breathe. She was dead!

`Wild with terror, I fled from the room.
A man was passing by the outer door
threw myself upon my knees before him.
told him that my mother was dying, and
besought him to come to her assistance. I
raised me up; spoke to me kindly: I knew
not what I said; but when I ran back to
my mother's room he followed me up the
stairs.

`We reached our little chamber.

`Here she is,' I said, throwing myself
upon the corpse, and covering its blackened
face with kisses.

`For several minutes I remained in
state of insensibility; I was half dead with
grief and terror. On recovering my consciousness
I looked up and saw the stranger
bending over the dead body of my mother
and gazing upon her livid features with a
glassy stare. God! why had I not noticed
his face before? It was he who caused my
mother to faint in the street—it was her betrayer,
and my father!

`With an exclamation of horror he rushed
from the room. I started after him
shook my little hand angrily to call him
back, ran to overtake him—but my strength
failed—he escaped, and I have never seen
him since!

`I returned to my mother's room; gazed
calmly upon the corpse, and, in the bitterness
of my grief and rage, swore to spare no
efforts to seek out my father—not to claim

him as such, but to take revenge on him for
my own and my mother's wrongs, when I
become a man!

`This is my history, M. Duval,' contin
Ernest, walking to and fro, excited,
I ask you frankly, if you can
your daughter's hand in mar

made no reply, but, like a per
with horror, remained gazing
man in .

`,' cried Ernest, anxiously. `Can
mine?'

M. Duval pressed his trembling hands
upon his brow, answered, in a husky voice:

`Impossible! for she is your sister!'

`My sister,' echoed Ernest, pale as death.

`Yes—for I am Belfont—your father!'

7. CHAPTER VII.
FATHER AND SON.

For a moment Ernest was stupified and
speechless, and his glaring eyes were fixed
upon M. Duval his father.

`Did I hear correctly?' he muttered,
stepping abruptly forward. `You say you
are my father?'

`I am, said Duval firmly.

`Then hear me!' pursued the young man,
in a passionate whisper. `I have sworn to
punish the betrayer of my mother; for he
acted basely, cowardly: and, Monsieur, if
you are he, I insult and defy you on the
spot!'

`How?' cried Duval, starting to his feet.

`You are a coward!' exclaimed Ernest,
fiercely.

The fiery blood of rage mounted to the
brow of M. Duval; he trembled with passion,
strode furiously towards Ernest, but
restrained himself because he was his son!

`Young man,' he said, calmly, after a
pause. `I see that you would seek a quarrel
with me, but insult me as you will, I cannot
forget that I am your father.'

`By heavens!' exclaimed Ernest bitterly,
`the memory of the relationship returns
upon your mind at a most happy moment,
since you can use it as a smooth excuse for
your cowardice. But why, may I ask, did
you never think of this when I was starving
with my mother in a miserable garret—
when your son, as you call me, was in want
of the necessaries of life?' Your son!' continued
the young man, striking the table
fiercely; `yes! and for that very reason,
your mortal enemy! now that I have
found you out, my mother's wrongs shall
not go unavenged!'

'Calm yourself, young man,' said Duval
recovering his self-possession. `This is a
subject which should not be handled rashly.
In the first place, consider that, in spite
of all your taunts and insults, I will never
raise my hand against you.'

`Because I am your son and because you
regard me with paternal tenderness!' said
Ernest, with a sneer.

`I repeat it: I will never fight with you,'
pursued Duval. `I will not take your life,
neither shall you take mine. Nay, do not
start, but hear me. I acknowledge that I
have done wrong, and that you have a right
to hate me—to punish me; but my blood
shall not be on your head. If heaven wills
it, I will die, but not by the hands of a
son.'

`If heaven wills it—'

`Yes; if heaven wills it, I will terminate
my own existence—punish myself. Here is
a chess-board; let us play a game. If you
win, in less than twenty four-hours I shall
be no more; if you lose, swear to pursue me
no farther with your vengeance.'

Ernest hesitated for a moment.'

`It is well!' he exclaimed, at length;
`let us play.'

The chess-men were soon arranged. Both
were excellent players, and now they exerted
all their skill, for it was a fearful game—
a game of life and death! Intensely did

Ernest study the position of the blocks, for
he thought of his mother's wrongs; but he
was less calm than Duval, and therefore
Duval won!

`Lost!' muttered the young man, after
contemplating the last and decisive move of
his adversary—`lost! and it is well, for now
that I think of it, I could not kill you, for
you are Marie's father!'

'Beware!' cried Ernest: 'for if you seek
thus to remind me of your relationship, I may
yet forget myself, and break my word. The
game is played. Adieu!'

8. CHAPTER III.
SUICIDE.

It was evening when Ernest reached
home. He spoke not to one of the family,
out hastened to lock himself up in his
room.

`So I have found my father!' he murmured
to himself, `and he is the father of
my Marie, too! God! is it possible that she
whom I love so madly is my sister! Then
our love itself is sinful—our bliss impossible!
Oh! would that we had never met!'

The unhappy young man paced rapidly to
and fro, nearly maddened by the dark
thoughts which crowded upon his brain.
He was interrupted by a knocking at the
door. A servant came to put a letter into
his hands. He recognised Maurice's handwriting
and breaking it hastily open, read
as follows:

`My dear Ernest:—Shame prevents me
from coming to you to-night, for I cannot
but feel that I have acted treacherously towards
you. Whilst you were with M. Duval,
I was alone with Marie. The conversation
as of you, dear Ernest. Judge of my surprise
when she told me that she could not
be yours—that she loved another. Then
I forgot my duty to you, and instead of
pleading for you, fell upon my knees before
her, and pleaded for myself; for you must
know that I too had loved her—long loved
her in secret. I told her how I had concealed
my passion for your sake—how I had
resolved to sacrifice my own happiness to
promote your bliss.

`But if you love him not,' said I,
not say that you love another! To
could yield, but with another I will
until the last. For I love you as
ever will or can.'

`Do not curse me, Ernest, for
do not hate me when I say that
her lovely hand upon my own, and
tears of joy chased each other down her
lovely cheek, confessed that, although she
loved another beside you, that other was myself!

`Heavens! how can I describe my joy—
intoxication! But then, dear Ernest, I
thought of you! Joy is no longer my lot—I
am miserable—dying with remorse.

`Write immediately, and say that you
forgive me.

Ernest read the letter twice, then sat
down and wrote an answer.

`Dearest Friend:—Accept my forgiveness,
my benediction, my love! You have
acted nobly—worthily of yourself.

`When you read this I shall be no more:
but do not think that either you or Marie
caused my death. Far from it! I wish you
happiness, and should have been content to
live for you, had not a circumstance happened
this afternoon, which drives me to put
an end to my existence.

`In my desk my friends will find the inscription
I desire to have engraved upon my
tombstone. You will see to it, my dear
Maurice—you, who have served me so faithfully
until now.

`I have but a word more to say. Marie
loves you, you say; her affection is worth
more than countless treasures. You will,

therefore, live for her, and make her happy.

With a steady hand the unhappy young
folded this farewell epistle; after
wrote a short note to his adopted father.
he burned a great number of use-
and letters, arranged those he
leave behind him, and wrote an
his tombstone.

carefully loaded a small pair
closed the window-blinds, bolted
door, and finally sat down to
, with his face buried in his hands,
on his past life, and on eternity.

Five minutes after, the report of a pistol
echoed through the house.

Ernest was no more!

CONCLUSION.

Thus ended the life of the unhappy Ernest.

But few knew the cause of his despair,
his fatal resolution, and his death. M. Du
val, his father, concealed the truth from his
laughter, and vainly strove to banish it from
his own bosom. But remorse and repentance
were his portion during the remainder
of his life. The memory of Virginie Lordilliere,
of the fruit of her dishonor, and of
their wrongs, was destined to rest like an
incubus upon his soul.

But the punishment of the father descended
not to his daughter. She was happy
with the man of her choice, never dreaming
that the unhappy Ernest was her brother.

Long did Maurice mourn for his friend;
and even after the first burst of grief was
passed, he went frequently with his young
and beautiful wife to shed tears of sorrow
over his grave.

The inscription Ernest requested should
be carved upon his tombstone was as follows: