ONE evening in the month of November, 1793, the principal personages of Carentan were assembled in the saloon of Madame de D, whose soirées were the nightly resort of the society of the place. The accustomed gathering had on that particular evening awakened an unusual interest, in consequence of some circumstances, which in a large city would have attracted no notice, but in a small town strongly excited the general attention.

The evening next but one before, Madame de D- had closed her doors against all the world; and on that immediately previous, she had again, on the plea of indisposition, declined to receive her customary visits. Even in ordinary times these two events would have produced at Carentan the same effect which in Paris attends a suspension of all the theatres,-on those days human existence is, as it were, incomplete; but in 1793, the course of Madame de D might have the most sinister influence upon her destiny. At that period, the slightest step of an unusual character hazarded by the nobles became to them a question of life and death.

Now, to understand properly the lively curiosity and the watchful keenness which this evening gave animation to the Norman physiognomies of all these personages, and especially to sympathize with the secret perplexities of Madame de D, it is necessary that the part she was playing at Carentan, and the critical position she that moment occupied, should be explained.

Madame de D, who was the widow of a lieutenant-general of high rank and distinction, had quitted the court at the commencement of the emigration. Owning a large property in the neighborhood of Carentan, she had taken refuge at that place, in the hope that the influence of the Terror would there be scarcely sensible. This calcu

lation, founded on an exact knowledge of the country, was correct; for in reality the Revolution inflicted but few of its ravages upon Lower Normandy. Although Madame de D had formerly associated with none but the noble families of the country round, on her visits to her estates, she had now, from policy, thrown open her house to all the principal townspeople of the place and to the new au thorities, aiming to make them proud of her conquest, and carefully to avoid awakening on their part any feeling of hatred or jealousy.

Affable and kind, and gifted with that inexpressible sweetness which knows the art of pleasing without recourse either to humiliation or entreaty, she had succeeded in conciliating the general esteem, by an exquisite tact, whose adroit sagacity taught her to maintain always that delicate line where she could satisfy all the claims of this mixed society, with out mortifying the touchy self-love of the parvenus, or shocking that of her old former friends.

About thirty-eight years of age, she still preserved, not the fresh and full charms of the young girls of Lower Normandy, but a slender, and, as it were, aristocratic beauty. Her features were delicately cut, her form graceful and easy. When she spoke, her pale countenance seemed to light up, and to become instinct with life. Her large black eyes were full of affability, but their calm and religious expression seemed to announce that the principle of her existence dwelt not within herself.

Having been married in the flower of her youth to a military man who was both old and jealous, the falseness of her position in the midst of a dissipated court, greatly contributed to shed that veil of grave melancholy over a countenance once doubtless radiant with all the charms and vivacity of love.

Compelled constantly to repress every spontaneous impulse, every emotion of the woman's heart at theperiod when she still feels rather than reflects, passion had reposed unawakened in its purity at the bottom of her heart. Her principal attraction indeed proceeded from that pervading spirit of youthfulness which at some moments was revealed in her physiognomy, and which gave to her ideas a certain innocent expression of desire. Her aspect commanded restraint; but there were still in her bearing, in her voice, hopes and promises as in a young girl; and the man of the most insensible temperament soon found himself in love with her-but always with the maintenance of a respectful fear of her displeasure, from the imposing dignity of her polished manners, and because her soul, strengthened by cruel trials, seemed too far removed above the reach of vulgar minds, and forced men to feel their own inferiority. To such a soul some great and noble passion was a necessity. The affections of Madame de D were accordingly concentrated on one single sentiment-that of maternity. All the happiness and all the pleasure which life had denied to her woman's heart, she found again in the intense love she bore to her son. She did not love him merely with the pure and profound devotion of a mother, but with the coquetry of a mistress, with the jealousy of a wife. She was unhappy away from his side, anxious whenever he was absent; she could never satiate her eyes with gazing upon him; in him and for him alone did she live.

The full force of this sentiment will be appreciated, even by men, when it is added that this son was not only Madame de D's only child, but her last surviving relative-the one single being to whom could cling the fears, the hopes, and the joys of her life; for the late Comte de Dwas the last scion of his family, as she was left the sole heiress of his.

Everything had combined to kindle to an extraordinary intensity in the heart of the Countess a sentiment which is at all times so powerful a one with woman. She had succeeded in raising her son only through infinite difficulties, which had yet more tenderly endeared him. Twenty times had his physicians prophesied to her that she

must lose him; but trusting to her own presentiments, her own hopes, and in spite of the decrees of the faculty, she had reaped the inexpressible joy of beholding him pass in safety through the perils of childhood, of witnessing with delight the progress of his constitution; then, thanks to her incessant care, he had grown up, and so gracefully had his youth developed itself, that at twenty he passed for one of the most accomplished cavaliers of Versailles. The whole was crowned by a happiness which does not reward the efforts of every mother, and she was herself in return adored by her son. Their spirits blended together in fraternal sympathies. Even if they had not been already united by the bonds of nature, they would have instinctively experienced for each other that friendship of manhood so rarely to be met with in life. Appointed to a second-lieutenancy of dragoons at eighteen, the young count had obeyed the point of honor of the times by following the princes in their emigration.

And so Madame de D, noble, rich, and mother of an emigrant, was not insensible to the full danger of her cruel position. Absorbed in the aim of preserving for her son her large fortune, she had renounced the happiness of accompanying him. As she read the rigorous decrees by which the republic every day confiscated the estates of the emigrants at Carentan, she congratu lated herself upon this act of courage. Was she not preserving the treasures of her son at the peril of her life? And as she heard of the terrible executions ordered by the Convention, she would sink to sleep happy in the consciousness that her sole treasure was in safety far from all these dangers, from all these scaffolds. then took delight in the belief that she had adopted the best course to secure at once the safety of all that she held precious.

She

Yielding to this secret purpose all the concessions commanded by the unhappy necessity of the times, yet without compromising either her dignity or her opinions, she wrapped her grief in a mantle of cold mystery. She had foreseen all the difficulties which awaited her at Carentan. To come there to occupy the first position in society, was to brave the scaffold every day; but sustained by the courage of a mother,

she knew how to win the affections of the poor by relieving without distinction every case of suffering, while she made herself necessary to the rich by watchfully ministering to their enjoy

ments.

Among the society she entertained were the procureur of the commune, the mayor, the president of the district, the public prosecutor, and even the judges of the revolutionary tribunal. The first four of these personages, who were unmarried, addressed their court to her in the hopes of winning her hand, whether by the terror of the evil they had it in their power to do her, or by the offer of the protection they could extend over her. The public prosecutor, who had formerly had the charge of the business of the Countess, strove to inspire her with affection by a course of conduct full of devotion and generosity;-dangerous cunning!-he was the most formidable of all her suitors. He alone knew the full extent of the large fortune of his former client; and his passion was stimulated by all the longings of an avarice which rested on the support of an unbounded power, the power of life and death in the district.

This man, who was still young, infused into his conduct such an air of nobleness, that Madame de D had not yet been able to decipher him. But, despising the danger that attended a contest of adroitness with the Normans, she tasked the inventive resources of that subtlety which nature has bestowed on woman, to play off all these rival suits against each other. By gaining time, she trusted to be able to reach in safety the end of the trou bles; for at that period the royalists of the interior flattered themselves every day with the expectation of seeing the revolution brought to an end on the morrow-a conviction which wrought the destruction of many a one of their number.

In spite of all these obstacles, the Countess had maintained her independence skilfully enough, down to the day when, by an unaccountable imprudence, she had undertaken to close her doors. She inspired so deep and so sincere an interest, that everybody that came that evening was filled with an anxious alarm on learning that she had suddenly found herself unable to receive visitors; and with that open

ness of curiosity which characterizes provincial manners, they made particular inquiries about the misfortune, the trouble, or the illness by which Madame de D was afflicted. But to every question an old housekeeper, named Brigitte, made no other reply than that her mistress had confined herself to her own room, and would not admit even the servants of the house.

The kind of conventual life led by the inhabitants of a little country town, gives rise to a habit of analyzing and explaining their neighbors' actions, so natural and invincible, that after first bestowing their pity on Madame de D, without knowing whether she was happy or distressed, everybody set to work to find out the meaning of her sudden retirement.

"If she had been sick," said one of the inquirers, "she would have sent for the doctor. But the doctor spent the whole day with me playing chess. He remarked to me jokingly, that in these times there is but one complaint

and unluckily that is one that is incurable." This little jest was cautiously hazarded.

Men, women, old and young, all then set about exploring the vast field of conjecture. Everybody espied a secret at the bottom of the affair, and this secret tormented every imagination. The next day the general sus picion became more and more inflamed. As there is no such thing as privacy of domestic life in such a place, the women were the first to find out that Brigitte had made more ample provision than usual at market. This fact was be yond dispute, for Brigitte had been seen early in the morning abroad on the square, and, what was very extraordinary, she had bought the only hare that was to be got. All the world knew that Madame de D― was not fond of game. The hare became a new text for an infinity of guess-work.

The old men in their walks remarked a kind of suppressed bustle about the house of the Countess, which betrayed itself by the very precautions resorted to by the servants to conceal it. The footman was seen shaking a carpet in the garden. The day before, no one would have taken any notice of this; but now the carpet became a powerful piece of testimony in support of the stories all the world was weaving,-for everybody had his own.

On the second day, when the news spread that Madame de D was said to be indisposed, the principal personages of Carentan assembled in the evening at the house of the brother of the mayor, an old merchant who was married, a man of integrity, and the object both of general public esteem and of the particular regard of the Countess. There all the aspirants to the hand of the rich widow had their own stories to tell-more or less probable as the case might be. Each of them thought to turn to his own advantage the secret circumstance which led her thus to compromise herself. The public prosecutor imagined a whole drama of events to bring Madame de D's son by night to her house. The mayor believed in a recusant priest from La Vendée seeking refuge there, but then the purchase of the hare, on a Friday, was rather embarrassing. The president of the district made up his mind for some fugitive Chouan or Vendean chief closely pursued. Others were for a noble escaped from the prisons of Paris. All, in a word, suspected the Countess of one of those acts of generosity which the laws then called a crime, and which might lead her to the scaffold. As for that matter, the public prosecutor remarked in an under tone, that they must keep quiet,and endeavor to save the unfortunate lady from the abyss towards which she was thus rushing.

"If you make a noise about this affair," he added, "I shall be obliged to take it up-to have a search of her house-and then!

He did not finish the sentence, but everybody understood that terrible meaning that was left unspoken.

The sincere friends of the Countess became so alarmed for her, that on the morning of the third day the procureursyndic of the commune had a line sent to her by his wife, to beg her to receive her company that evening as usual.

The old merchant ventured further, and called in person on Madame de D in the morning. Resolute on the strength of the service he wanted to render her, he insisted on being admitted to see her; but he was struck dumb with astonishment when he saw her in the garden, engaged in gather ing the last flowers of the season for the ornament of some vases.

"She has no doubt given shelter to

a lover," said the old man to himself, seized with compassion for the lovely woman before him. The singular expression on the features of the Countess confirmed him in his suspicion.

Deeply moved by that devotion so natural to women, but which always touches our hearts, because men are always flattered by the sacrifices that one of them makes for a man, the merchant informed the Countess of the reports which were in circulation through the town, and of the risk she was running.

"For," said he, as he concluded, "if among our functionaries there may be some liberally enough disposed to pardon in you a heroism that should have a priest for its object, none of them will have any pity for you if they should come to find out that you are sacrificing yourself to a sentiment of the heart." At these words Madame de Dlooked up at the old man with an expression of bewilderment and despair that made him shudder, old as he was.

Come with me," said she to him, taking him by the hand. She led him to her chamber, and there, drawing from her bosom a letter all soiled and torn

"Read that!"-she cried, with a violent effort to give utterance to the words, and sinking back into her chair as though entirely overcome.

While the old merchant was looking for his spectacles and wiping them, she raised her eyes to his and gazed at him for the first time with curiosity; then with an altered voice

"I trust myself to you!"-she said in a gentle tone.

"And have not I come to make myself a participator in your crime?" answered the worthy old man with an air of simplicity.

A thrill shot through her frame. It was the first time that in that little town her generous spirit had sympathized with that of another.

The old merchant understood at a glance both the affliction and the delight of the Countess. Her son had taken part in the expedition of Granville. He wrote to his mother from his prison. He gave her a melancholy and happy hope. In full confidence in his means of escape, he fixed three days within which he was to make his appearance at Carentan in disguise.