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paper, or any thing else. There are others, of younger lineage, who came in with the Declaration, and with the visit of Washington, and with the War of 1812, if I remember right, and I doubt not with every other national event worth marking in so good a way.

The grandfathers always planted trees and protected them with severity, especially one who had a notion about English parklandscape. He looked after his saplings, his monarchs, and his copses, all over the great estate, with the eye of an artist and the rigor of an owner. Before he died, the place was a marvel of beauty; its soft slopes were adorned with a grace that made them famous.

But another grandfather, who had penetrated into the Old World as far as Holland, brought back notions about Dutch gardening which were nearly entirely opposite to those of the gentleman who had gone before. He got axes and began to hew right and left, and to plant a lot of trees of shorter kinds, and to make curious bush-houses and walks, which set the whole family by the ears.

But there was one onslaught upon the treasured trees that no one took offense atindeed, it was esteemed an honor that they should be so maltreated. The patriot army established their camp in such a way that it became necessary to cut a road for the transportation of supplies straight through the broad domain, taking in its course a magnificent grove. The thing was done with the hearty consent of the ardent rebel owners, and to this day they point to the honorable scar upon the place, and would like to believe that the trees did not grow again out of regard for the sacrifice; that the gods of the woods said, "Here is a tolerably heroic concession to love of country-suppose we make a monument to it by not making a monument at all!" So there are no trees whatever upon the old road, and romance is the richer for it.

But of the great elms, pines, sycamores, that tower up everywhere, a gazer can say nothing except in verse. Poetry demands poetry. The number of trees that have been made famous by divine imaginings are altogether too few, and these, for their shapes and heights, are worthy to swell the list. They rise out of groves as a man rises above his group of children, and their grand, green boughs of verdure swing in the strong wind with the same motion that a ship swings upon the sea; one beholds them far up in the air with something very like veneration.

The members of the Stockton family who emigrated from England were Quakers, and were strict members of the sect. Love stepped in, however, and made little work of overturning notions. Some of the marriageable men took Southern maidens to themselves for wives, though not until the house had become possessed of enormous tracts of land by purchase from William Penn.

Up to the time when Episcopalian girls began to marry the sons, the plain customs of the simpler religionists were naturally followed; but after the invasion matters took a kindlier aspect, and there was a very different sort of jollity, and a different sort of gravity, for that matter, in the hospitable mansion.

With a good old fidelity to family precedent, all the christenings, marriages, and funerals of the branch of the family that has occupied the house, took place in one of the main parlors, a room which it is not likely that one can enter without feeling the weight of its history. It is by no means a grand parlor, yet it has the air of immense dignity.

There are a score of engravings that illustrate scenes in the life of Washington, the experience of the rugged settlers of the country, and the battles of the early wars, that find welcome places upon such walls as these. For instance, in this old-fashioned parlor there is that florid picture of Washington surrounded by ladies and trampling upon flowers, riding on the Battery, with his head uncovered, and the old, wellknown look of supreme calm upon his broad features; also that Lexington battle-scene, with the handsome patriots fiercely loading and fiercely firing at a file of British a little below, while handsome, patient wives, young and old, come flying down to their goodmen's sides with outstretched arms, and with all the fire of love and agony in their blazing eyes; also the death-bed of Webster, shadowy and sad, with the grand figure of the dying man expounding yet a little more in the glow of the failing sun. In a little frame is a fine engraving of Commodore Stockton in full dress, erect, warlike, with his sword upon his left arm, and his huge gold epaulets swelling out a figure already fine and commanding. This little picture of a warriorand a family warrior-suggests to one that wide-spread romanticism that is attached to what we may now safely call our old times. It is to be found in all of the old thirteen States, and it is sweetly and tenderly cherished, often with reminders that are homely, but always sincerely and lastingly. There is hardly a township, certainly no county, of two hundred years of age, that has not within its limits some ancient mansion set amid ancient trees, where live, in stinted grandeur, perhaps, some white-haired remnant of an old-time house, proud of some war-record made in the days of the Indian fights, or the Revolution, or the days of '12, or in the hot

*Commodore Richard Field Stockton was born under this roof in 1796. His career was specially interesting. He entered the navy in 1811 as a midshipman, and became the aid to Commodore Rodgers on board the frigate President, winning honorable notice for gallantry in several battles while yet a mere boy. At nineteen years of age he was first-lieutenant of the Spitfire in the Mediterranean, and distinguished himself by boarding with a boat's crew an Algerine war-vessel. His life was a succession of daring and successful exploits. He was one of the first to advocate a steam-navy; he had given much attention to gunnery and naval architecture, and finally originated a war-steamer, which was built under his immediate supervision in 1844, and, although pronounced impracticable by the naval constructors, it proved to be superior to any war-vessel at that time afloat, and furnished substantially the model for numerous others, not only in this but in foreign countries. The next year he was sent to the Pacific, where, with a small force and amid many romantic and thrilling adventures, he conquered California, and established the government of the United States within her boundaries. He was afterward a member of the Senate of the United States, where, among many other noble deeds, he procured the passage of a law for the abolition of flogging in the navy.

battles in Mexico by some brave son, whose

yellow letters and strange attire kept in some honored room, have long since grown to be household gods.

That one great, towering hero of armsthe hero whom we are now being taught to love and regard more deeply than ever-paid this house one of those consecrating visits of his, and left a glow behind him that shines in the venerable faces of the relators even to this day, when they allude to the general. The grandmother of the Revolution sent many letters to Washington, and when he achieved a success she wrote him an ode, which he invariably answered sometimes in a jolly verse, but more frequently in a fair prose which did credit to his sense as well as his industry. It is indeed touching to

learn of these little evidences that the anx ious and harassed general-in-chief was surrounded by a protecting and encouraging atmosphere of support. It must have been a grateful intrusion upon his rougher duties when there arrived such reminders that the nicer sentiments of his friends were all alive, and that the struggle he was making was invested with something besides the bearty interest of men alone. That the secretly foreboding man needed all such sustaining is painfully clear; and that he could stop in the hurry of his camp, and with his own hand pen a reply to such kindly messages, is suf ficient proof that there were hidden places in his breast that craved a different solace from that he derived from the thanks of Congress or the praise of soldiers.

There was in the house a "Signer." It would not have been complete without him. Richard Stockton had a smooth, finely-colored portrait taken of himself, with his face wrought wonderfully high on the canvas, a position that enabled the painter to make a tremendous deal of his body, and, when the British entered the town and overran the Stockton place, they cut the throat of the painting in lieu of that of the real gentle. man, who was absent.* This barbaric injury,

Richard Stockton had rendered himself ex cessively obnoxious to the British by his participa tion in the Declaration of Independence. It is said that he was at first doubtful of the policy of such a course, but in the end cordially supported the movement. He was appointed the same year one of a committee to inspect the Northern Army and report its condition to Congress, and, after his return to New Jersey, was captured by the enemy, and confined in the common prison in New York. Congress interfered and procured his exchange, bat the severity of the treatment to which he had been subjected was the cause of his death, which oc curred in 1781. He was one of the most brilliant lawyers at the American bar, and one who would never engage in a cause except upon the side of justice and honor. He was of the notable seven who composed the first class that graduated from Princeton College on the memorable day when Rev. Aaron Burr was elected its president. He studied law with Judge David Ogden, of Newark. In 1766 he visited England, where he was the recipient of distinguished courtesies, and where he succeeded in performing valuable services for the province of New Jersey. Upon his return he was escorted with great ceremony to his residence by the people, by whom he was much beloved. He was shortly afterward made a member of the governor'e council of New Jersey, and appointed Judge of the Supreme Court. His son Richard (the father of the commodore), born in this house in 1764, was a distinguished lawyer and statesman. For more than

inevitably suggesting as it does a real act upon the flesh, lends a very curious interest to the placid and handsome face as it gazes down a little superciliously, one may fancy, upon a poor generation who run no risks, and who are not called upon to jeopardize their heads for their country's sake.

Alas for human vanity! how quickly does this treasure, the "Signer," come to the surface in all chat in these old houses! How softly yet how plainly is the pearl dropped into the stream of talk, and how delightful is the satisfaction when the visitor, startled by the brilliant fact, awakens and says with a true reverence, "Ah, tell me-tell me about him!"-gently running ashore upon his curiosity, and at once sticking there in spite of himself! He knows that there is enough to hear, yet, being too ignorant to draw out the tale, simply arouses all his faculties, and learns how the man dared at Philadelphia, and the wife dared by post, and the daughters dared by postscripts, and the sons dared by oaths, and by whipping out old swords that had done bloody work on the border long before. Indeed, a "Signer" is a grand figure, and to pose a little in his shadow does not come amiss in the bravest of his descendants; to be sure, every act must pale a little before his one act, yet there is no weeping mother to-day who treasures perhaps a cap with a shattered visor, and a rusty sword, and a letter of praise from "the commander of his corps," as she does her life, who does not think twice lest she wrongfully award the meed of praise for the sake of love.

breath, it may be hoped, stole every file and scrap of paper she could find, made off with them, and hid them effectually.

After the storm had blown over, the unhappy Whigs raised a hue and cry, for it was reasonably clear that the history of all their enormous transactions was afloat in the air. But forward came sweet Miss Annis, with every thing complete, inviolate.

It is to be fancied, however, that the unlucky Whigs, instead of being transported with joy, were dashed into the bottomless pits of consternation-although they doubtless smiled-for had not their papers been in the hands of one of the whispering kind? There was no guarantee-there could be none that she had not 66 peeked." What did they do? They lamented a while, and then acted like diplomats. They begged Miss Annis to become a Whig! Magnificent concession-not to the sex, but to gaunt suspicion! She laughed with delight, and they made her a member in very hot haste, lest she should run off and tell her neighbors all about it, and blow the venerable society, with its relics and ceremonials and all its appurtenances, into the sky.

But she stood firm against all temptation during her brief career, and they tell stories of the delight with which she used to receive deputations from the club, and, leading them away from her curious companions, listen with ostentatious delight to their "society secrets," which they told her as in honor bound.

Upon a few little quiet annals such as these does the romance of the house rest. There is a good, strong list of very prominent men-men of the professions and men of war-who give it its honor, and its personal graces are plenty enough. There are many such grave and retired spots all up and down the Atlantic coast, perched upon headlands looking far off upon the sea, or standing upon the brow of wooded hills, showing broad and pillared fronts to the country around and beor half hiding, as the Stockton House does, in the midst of a town, with the world's people at its very gates. Search for them, friend stroller, and fill up your book with rare notes, and walk awhile in the atmosphere of your country's earlier history-it is amazingly good for one dizzied with change and progress.

Bound up with the events of the Stockton family is the Princeton College. The influence of the one runs all through the other, and there is a little back-light thrown upon the venerable school from the private house, and in a very curious way, too. When the dread regulars approached the town, young Annis Stockton, naturally dwelling upon secrets, bethought her of Whig Hall, one of the two great fraternity buildings of the col-low, lege. There is another fraternity building, cold, impenetrable, Doric, like the first, and it is said that no man, living or dead, ever went into both structures. The secrets of both are rigidly kept, and the archives must rot in the closets. But it occurred to the venturesome young lady that the Britishers, though by no means women, should not be permitted at least to act like men. So, in the dead of night and quaking with fear of patriots as well as rebels, for she would be likely to make but a sorry face were she detected in her mingled sin and heroism, she obtained admittance to the gloomy hall, and, with bated

a quarter of a century he was at the head of the bar of New Jersey, and was esteemed one of the most eloquent orators of his day. He was in Congress for many years, and was several times talked of for the presidency. In 1825 he was a commissioner from New Jersey, to negotiate the settlement of an important territorial controversy between that State and New York, and penned the proposed agreement appended to the report. He was an elegant gentleman of the old school, witty and charming in conversation, and abounding in reminiscences of wild scenes of terror, of which the destruction of his father's carefully-chosen and costly library in this ancient dwelling was but one of many.

SUSANNE GERVAZ;

A MAID OF THE GEVAUDAN.

THE

A STORY IN THREE CHAPTERS.

CHAPTER III.

HE report was soon circulated that Costerousse and his man Perondi had quarreled, and the cause of the quarrel was said to be money. What remained a more absorbing and far less agreeable topic was the increasing intimacy between Susanne and Perondi. The peasants were furious, and the report ere long reached M. d'Estérac, who had just arranged a hunting-party to meet at Jacques Boucard's house, up to this time locked.

On the same day Susanne left home and

began her wanderings. A white frost silvered the fern; the thrushes were grouped on the ash-trees, and the jays flew from tree to tree, fluttering their blue feathers in the sunshine. The girl went as usual toward the farm-house of Anselme Costerousse, her eyes fixed before her, but her ears listening. When she thought that she heard the steps of a shepherd or wood-cutter, she glided behind a bush, and evidently wished to conceal her movements. All at once Matteo Perondi came out of a thicket and stood before her, the place being midway between the "Priest's Inclosure" and the farm. He was the picture of passionate love.

Susanne," he said, "I am going in three days. This evening I intend to settle my business with Costerousse, and, if he don't act as he ought to, enough said! And now -I am not going alone-am I to live or die?"

He stopped, breathing heavily. His eyes were hollow and his cheeks burning. She made no reply, and turned away indifferently -at which his love seemed to become a wild sort of frenzy.

"You trifle with me!" he cried, "and think you can brave me! I am as crazy as you are! You shall not escape me! I would rather have you hate me than despise me in this way! I am lost!-this is worse than death!"

He seized her arm violently. At the same moment a carbine-shot was heard in the thicket, and a bullet flattened itself on the treetrunk above them.

"That was meant for me!" exclaimed the Piedmontese; "why did it miss me?"

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He fled, and Susanne hastened to the spot from which the shot had issued. It had been fired by Pierre Vialat, who hated Pcrondi bitterly.

"Wretch-so you tried to kill me!" Susanne exclaimed.

"To kill you!-no, Susanne! Didn't you see that my ball struck ten feet above your head? I intended to warn that scoundrel what he had to expect-and he had caught hold of your arm! O Susanne! think what you are doing! As to this Piedmontese, if I meet him alone, I'll settle my account with him!"

"I order you not to touch him!" cried Susanne, with violence.

"Ah! you love him!-this is frightful!" he added; "her weak-headedness has turned in that direction!-Susanne," he continued, addressing her directly, "you have friends, true friends, as much mortified as I am. They sent me to say—”

"Friends? Whom do you mean?" "M. d'Estérac, and his brother-in-law, M. de Ribière, and madame. They are at the hunting-lodge."

"I will go there!" she exclaimed, and went along rapidly, followed by Pierre. She soon reached the house, and entered proudly, with her head erect-Pierre whispering to the company what had just occurred. Madame de Ribière shook her head.

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"And the farm of Anselme Costerousse is near-is near-"

"Ah, I understand," whispered M. de Ribière; "she imagines these people may know something of the crime Jacques was charged with!"

This explanation produced a sudden revulsion in Madame de Ribière's feelings, and she threw her arms around the girl, tenderly pressing her to her breast.

"Pardon me, my child!" she said, "now I understand every thing. Your deep love for that poor young man-the horrible catastrophe-the cruel scenes which have dethroned your intellect-these have left you but one idea, one luminous point in the general chaos-to show that Jacques was innocent! Attracted by the vague hope of discovering at the scene of the crime some trace of the real assassin, you have persisted in haunting the vicinity, and have there met this man Perondi. You perhaps fancy him the guilty one-your poor brain takes suspicion for evidence! You seek proofs, but do you know, my child, the danger you expose yourself to ?"

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66

Why not this evening?"

Perhaps," she said, feverishly, and, leaving the apartment abruptly, she disappeared. "It is a miracle!" exclaimed Madame de Ribière.

"Alas, no!" returned her husband; "it is merely a dream of this poor girl. She is possessed by a fixed idea-her monomania reasons admirably up to a certain point, but then a single word, a breath, again obscures all!"

As he spoke, a pure and musical voice was heard singing beneath the window

"These mountains will not let me see

They will not let me see my lover!"

M. d'Estérac remembered that wild song when Susanne escaped from him into the Margeride. He hastened to the window. She was passing along the terrace, and her beautiful eyes flashed as she gazed at him over her shoulder. He saluted her with a wave of the hand and turned to his companion.

"Ribière," he said, "I told you a year ago that Jacques was innocent. I now tell you that Susanne is not insane!"

Let us now follow the young girl. Where was she going? What was her design? She scarcely knew, but a secret voice whispered that the supreme hour was approaching.

In spite of the November chill, the day had been beautiful. The sun was smiling; the country seemed deserted; Susanne encountered not a single human being; but, as she approached the spot where she was accustomed to meet Perondi, he issued from a

M. d'Estérac had remained silent, listening thicket, and stood before her. His face was keenly to all that was uttered.

"Pierre Vialat!" he now called. The man hastened into the room.

gloomy, and his hollow eyes burned.

"Which of your lovers was it that was watching and fired on me to-day?" he said,

"What is the character of this Matteo fiercely. Perondi?"

"I know nothing about it," she said, in a

"O monsieur! a wretch-a go-barefoot! cold tone. -a gallows-bird!"

"Well-and this Anselme Costerousse?" "No better than his man, sir." "What are his circumstances?" "Well, last year, before the murder of Simon Vernon, he was as poor as a mouse; now they say he is buying horses, and paying all his back rents."

"That will do, Pierre; you can go." And, turning to M. de Ribière, he added, "What do you say to this, my dear Ribière ?"

"What do I say to it?" said the judge, evidently a prey to great agitation; "what can I say? Why has no one thought of these two men? Why has no one suspected them? And yet what can we do? Are there any grounds to proceed upon? There is the process, the trial, the verdict of the jury; and,

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"And where are you going? "Going? I am going nowhere. Yes, the evening is bright, I am going to ramble; come with me."

He looked at her in astonishment, for she spoke with suppressed animation. Following a path, and accompanied by the Piedmontese, she came to a clump of pine-trees and filberts, and suddenly stopped.

"Do you see these trees?" she said. "The day after the murder of Simon Vernon, his friends met me here, and insulted me, and nearly stoned me. They said Jacques murdered Simon, and that I was his sweetheart."

Perondi turned pale, and gnawed his lip, but said nothing.

"They followed me," continued the girl,

"crying, 'Down with her! It was for love of her that Jacques murdered Simon!'"

The Piedmontese shrunk back, but Susanne caught him by the arm, and they thus reached Jacques Boucard's house.

"I remember this place," she said, dreamily; "it was here that he was arrested, and I was confronted with him; they followed him with cries of hatred; they made me lie and dishonor myself!”

The Piedmontese did not raise his eyes from the ground. His brows were knit, and he remained silent.

"Here they found the footprints under the window," she went on; "they said they were of different sizes, but that was a mere fancy. There is the room where-under a lounge-they found-what was it they found? Oh, yes, a bloody belt."

The man again shrunk from her, and she wandered on, Perondi mechanically following her. The sun was now near the horizon. Dark clouds had risen, and chased each other across the sky, driven by the chill wind of the autumn evening. The red light bathed the summits of the pines, and threw long shadows on the mountain. All at once the path which they were following stopped at a rough wall, overshadowed by cypress-trees they had reached the "Priest's Inclos ure."

Susanne entered the inclosure through a breach in the wall, rather dragging Perondi than merely leading him. His strength seemed exhausted. His limbs shook under him, and he closed his eyes, as though to shut out some horrible vision. At the end of the inclosure, at a few paces from the wall, was seen a slight swelling of the earth, upon which had been erected a cross of black wood. The girl dragged Perondi to the spot -he moved like a machine rather than a man.

The shadows of the great cypress-trees slept like a mourning-veil over the place-there was a noise of wings in the air above-the night-birds began to utter their funereal cries.

"This is the Priest's Inclosure," said Susanne. "Do you see this cross of black wood? It marks the spot where Simon Vernon fell under the blows of his assassins."

Perondi trembled from head to foot, and his pale face grew livid. He uttered a gasp, but, making a violent effort, exclaimed hoarsely and threateningly :

"Why have you brought me here? What do you want? What have I to do with this 'Priest's Inclosure,' or the murder of Simon Vernon?"

His eyes blazed, and he looked at the girl with the expression of a wild beast. She seemed to feel her danger, and said, coolly:

"Nothing. I have brought you here to make you understand that I, too, hold ali this country in horror. Do you think I look forward to happiness in the midst of these scenes that I wish to spend years of ter ture surrounded by such terrors? I will leave them forever."

"Leave them!" cried Perondi, suddenly flushing as he gazed at her. "But not alone." She fixed her eyes upon him, and said, dreamily:

“Did you not tell me of another country where the sky is blue, and the sunshine is

bright not like these vile mountains, with their gray tints and their cypress-trees?" Perondi thrilled with a wild joy. "You will go with me, then?"

"I will go with you."

"And the arrangements, Susanne !-order,

I will obey!"

"Have you money?"

"Yes," he said, starting slightly.

"I have money, too," she said, in a singular tone, rattling in her apron pocket the gold obtained from Marianno Bedares. "Well, listen to me now. No one must know my intention. You know the village of Chastagnier-about six leagues from here? There is a tavern called the Black Ball in the place. I will be there at noon to-morrow. Then by way of Valence and Nyons to Italy." | Perondi glowed with love and triumph. "I will be there at noon," he said. "No, come an hour later. You must not be seen with me in the village. I shall be at the Black Ball. Now I will go home. Why did I come to this accursed spot?"

She went back over the path with Perondi toward the farm-house. When near it, they separated. Perondi was drunk with joy. "I will see you to-morrow again," he exclaimed.

"Yes, to-morrow."

"I wish it had already come."

"And I," was the girl's response, with an imperceptible tinge of irony. The Piedmontese then turned and went toward the farmhouse, while Susanne disappeared down the path which led toward Villefort. Her face wore a strange expression-one of utter disgust, but of gloomy pleasure. Her eyes burned with a resolute fire; any one seeing her at that moment would have said that she was dangerous.

Susanne had scarcely gone a hundred yards, however, when she stopped. A sudden thought seemed to arrest her she glanced over her shoulder, hesitated, knit her brows, and ended by turning into a small path which led through a thicket back to the rear of the farm-house of Anselme Costerousse.

As she approached the house she looked before her, and to the right and left, evidently fearful of being seen. Her light step scarcely troubled the silence. The wind had ceased to blow, and the vague murmur which issued from the summits of the fir resembled the breathing of a child asleep. She was now within ten yards of the rear of the house, and suddenly caught the sound of voices, evidently those of Costerousse and Perondi. She acted promptly; they seemed to be quarreling, and would not hear her steps. Holding her breath, she reached the house, passed along the ruined terrace, concealed herself in the thick shrubbery at the end of the farmhouse, and, putting carefully aside the creepers around the low window, looked into the kitchen from which the voices came.

Costerousse and the Piedmontese were seated at a pine table, on which were two tin cups, two wine-bottles nearly empty, and a bag of money. The master seemed to be irritated and anxious; the man irritated and threatening.

"Once more, that is not the whole amount

due me," said Perondi. "You owe me, in the first place, my four years' wages-I hope you acknowledge that?"

with the exception of her face, entered the apartment.

"You, my child!" exclaimed M. de Ri"Yes," muttered Costerousse, in a gloomy bière-"you come to visit me at so late an hour as this!"

tone.

"At fifty crowns a year-and they have been earned-that makes six hundred francs. Six hundred and fourteen hundred make two thousand-pay me my two thousand francs, I say!"

"For a few moments only, dear M. de Ribière," said the young girl, in a voice which made the Judge of Instruction start.

Every trace of mental alienation had disappeared. Her eyes were calm, clear, and radiant with intelligence. With this expresmingled another-one of fixed resolution. It was impossible not to see that this human being was in the fullest possession of her reason, and that she had formed some determination which she meant to adhere to under all circumstances.

"Impossible!" cried Costerousse, in a
voice of anger and distress. "I thought-sion
yes, I was certain-that your wages were a
part of the amount we agreed upon. In
that bag is all I owe you-all I have left."

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Perondi filled his tin cup, raised it to his lips, and, when he had emptied it of its contents, struck it violently on the table. He then exclaimed, in a threatening and sarcas tic voice:

"Bah! and that's the way you look at matters, is it? Why don't you tell me at once that the little affair we both had a hand in was also to be paid for in my regular wages? That's a different matter altogether, my worthy friend!"

"Hush! hush!" cried Costerousse, with greater anger and apprehension than before. "And if I don't mean to hush-what then? If I take a little walk and see the chief of police at Mende! If I only utter the words, Simon Vernon-Anselme Costerousse—the Priest's Inclosure—the 28th of November, 1825! '—what then, my good friend?"

Costerousse had raised his cup to his lips. It fell suddenly, clattering on the floor.

"If I am caught in the trap, you, too, will be!" he muttered, hoarsely.

"What matter? It was you who put me up to it. I am not afraid-come, end this!" "I ask nothing better-yes, to end every thing!"

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"Well, good luck to you, companionand now, the bottle is empty, to bed."

Susanne had heard enough. She glided out of the shrubbery, and, passing like a shadow along the dilapidated terrace, disappeared in the thicket, through which a path led toward Villefort.

On the same night M. de Ribière was seated in his study examining some papers, when he heard light steps without, and a low tap came at the door.

"Come in!" he said, somewhat surprised at having so late and mysterious a visitor.

The door opened, and Susanne, enveloped in a cloak which concealed her whole person

"That is the Penal Code on the table-is it not, sir?" she now said.

Yes, my child," he said, with an expression of great astonishment.

"I wish to ask you a single question, dear M. de Ribière."

And, taking the arm-chair which the gal lant old judge hastened to offer her, the girl pushed back her dark hair and the interview began.

An hour afterward it had terminated, and Susanne hastened back to her father's house. M. de Ribière looked after her as she left him with an air of overwhelming astonishment.

"After all, madame was right," he mut tered; this is, indeed, a miracle!"

46

On the morning after her interview with M. de Ribière, Susanne rose before daylight, made a rapid toilet, threw a cloak over her shoulders, took a small bundle, and, slipping out of the house, walked rapidly on, and soon found herself on the road leading in the direction of Chastagnier, the village where she had given rendezvous to Matteo Perondi.

Her rambles in the fields had made her active and enduring. She went on rapidly through the chill morning - continued to walk steadily hour after hour, and at last saw the houses of the village beneath her.

She entered the village, and went straight to the inn of the Black Ball, where she asked for breakfast and a room. The fat old hostess nodded, and, taking a key, conducted her to an apartment. It opened on a gallery, and from the window you looked into a garden in the rear.

"Will mademoiselle have her breakfast now?"

"Yes-no; in half an hour, madame," said Susanne. "I am waiting for another person-you will see him when he arrives, a man of bad appearance. He will ask for me, for Mademoiselle Susanne. Then bring up breakfast, and tell him I am waiting. will come up; you will then say, 'The carriage will soon be ready;' then close the door, but do not go far, and, when you hear me say to the man, Do you still disbelieve in God?' come in."

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The puzzled hostess nodded-she had no time to reply. Steps were heard on the stair case, and Perondi rushed up, his face glow ing with joy.

Susanne remained calm.

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