"I fear it," returned Clotilde, gazing steadfastly in her lover's face. "Who can have betrayed-how can he have divined— He has eyes like the lynx-his "Ah, you know not Adolphe! watchfulness is that of the alligator. But be calm, and hear me."

The calmness of Signor Tomkins resembled the smooth eddy on the surface of a pot-au-feu about to boil over, but he kept silent, while Clotilde continued:

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"I warned you," she said, "against Adolphe's ambition, little thinking how soon the moment would arrive when fresh evidence would be given me of its existence. You remember his mood of yesterday, so light, so gay, so joyous, so free from worldly care! He is no dissembler, but, alas, nature has implanted in his bosom feelings irresistibly volcanic! When the bright sun is shining, when the sweet flowers are springing, the pent-up lava suddenly bursts forth. I had barely reached my dressing-room last night, and thrown aside my dripping cloak-you recollect the pitiless storm-ah, nothing to that which sometimes rages in human breasts-when Adolphe abruptly entered. The sheeted ghost is not so pallid as were his features-burning coals are tame to the wild glow of his eyes! I saw that his dark hour was on him. Without a word of would see it expose you preface, he suddenly seized my arm-were I to the traces of his iron grasp and thus addressed me : Clotilde,' he exclaimed, we must trifle with destiny no longer! Too long have you Other scenes, other objects await you. been secluded from the world. You must prepare for your departure!' 'What mean you, my brother?' do words imply? Tear me not, I I asked. "What cruel purpose your Folly he answered. entreat you, from these delicious solitudes.' 'Think not for ever to waste your sweetness on the desert air. You who were born to grace the courts of kings!' Explain yourself, my brother,' I repeated, with as much composure as I could command-though a dark We had hitherto presentiment in my mind foreshadowed his intent. been standing, but now he motioned me to take a seat beside him, and Taking one of my hands in his, he resumed. we sat down on the sofa. 'Clotilde,' he said, in a tone of mild affection, strikingly contrasting with his previous passionate manner, you know you are my own dear sisterthe cherished object of all my care. To see you happy is my only desire. Ever since the period went by which you gave to decorous mourning, for I will not wrong you by deeming that your heart was touched by more than a natural regret-ever since that time, nay, long before, I had The hour approaches when your marked out for a brilliant career. you destiny must be fulfilled.' 'Still,' I returned, 'your speech is enigmatical'-and, shall I confess it, hope, for an instant, fluttered within me, as I thought of-you-and fancied-fondly fancied-that he might have looked on you with-with-feelings akin to-mine,-an illusion too rudely dispelled."

The jaw of Tomkins dropped at this announcement, and his eye grew fishy.

"I will no longer shroud my meaning,' returned Adolphe. I have agents all over Europe. They give me sure information. By their aid I penetrate the secret recesses of the thoughts of monarchs. A dual purpose is mine. To change my sister's coronet for a diadem: to grasp with my own hands, as Minister, the reins of empire. There is modern

precedent for the elevation of both. That which happened in our own country' (I must remark that this conversation passed in our native French) what took place, not twenty years ago, in the Duchy of Parma-are warrant for my words. At the present moment two thrones are open to female aspiration. On that of Belgium sits a widowed sovereign, on that of Italy another. With Leopold's nation I have little sympathy: he, moreover, is too old for you; my policy is all Italian. Čome closer to me, Clotilde, while I whisper my inmost aim. I mean to be the Prime Minister as you shall be the bride of Victor Emmanuel! Within a few days he will leave Turin to hunt the Ibex on the glaciers of the Cogne. I know his haunts. My plans are laid. I purpose to save his life or seem to save it. He asks me what reward I claim,—I name to him my beauteous sister, I fire his imagination, I excite his curiosity, I surprise him by my own intelligence; but how is this, you do not heed me! That stony glare, that ice-cold hand,-speak to me, Clotilde. Ha!-she swoons!' These were the last words Ì heard him utter. I fainted where I sat, dropping heavily, like a dead body, as my favourite Dante says. Essences were at hand, and I revived only to meet my brother's deeply-searching orbs. It was then, I fear, that he fathomed my secret. Throwing myself with clasped hands on my knees before him, 'Away with crowns,' I cried; 'sentence me not to such a doom!' And I burst into a flood of scalding tears. Adolphe raised me from the ground, but the gloom had returned to his brow. What!' he muttered, is it thus my offers are received, my sanguine hopes blasted? She who rejects a monarch for her partner, must love another! But let the presumptuous wretch beware! His blood-' He did not finish the sentence, but the gesture with which, like Macbeth, he clutched an imaginary dagger, sufficiently revealed his deadly purpose. Oh, my brother,' I exclaimed, 'recal that terrible menace.' It is then,' he said, as I suspected. Give me to know the name of the daring reptile who thus has crossed the path of my ambition.' Never! I cried, drawing myself up to my full height, and gazing on him with queenly pride-never! Think not, Adolphe, so meanly of me. If yours be the vengeful spirit to slay, it is mine to shield, though I writhe at your feet a livid corse!' My firm resolve appalled him. He suddenly grew calm. Forgive me,' he said, -I deemed not of this! I knew not that your affections were so deeply pledged. She who could speak as you have spoken must love indeed! But it is getting late; you need repose. Enough for the present. Tomorrow we will speak further. Longer to-night I will not vex your soul, -no, Heaven forefend, I will not vex your soul.' And with these words, which reminded me of what Othello remarked when he had made up his mind to murder Desdemona, he strode from the apartment. You may imagine, but, no, it is impossible to form any conception of the miserable night I passed; neither can you wonder that this morning found me reluctant to leave my couch, for not till daylight came did slumber weigh down these afflicted lids. I woke at last from unrefreshing sleep and saw Adolphe at my bedside. He, too, had evidently suffered. My poor Clotilde!' he said, 'you know not how long I have been a watcher!' He then inquired so tenderly after my health, exhibited so much real interest in my welfare, drew such touching pictures of our childhood's happy home, dwelt so pathetically on his own blighted expectations, that my

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resolution nearly failed me, and I was almost tempted to bid him, at whatever cost to my poor heart, do with me as he would. He noticed my weakness, my hesitation, but generously forebore to insist on his triumph -only, he exacted from me-a promise."

"And that promise," said Signor Tomkins, to whom no opportunity had before been given for putting in a single word, so rapid, so tragically vehement had been the Countess de Crèvecœur's stirring narration, "that promise was-to-to-sacrifice"-he was at a loss for a picturesque expression-your-your-Tomkins?"

"You little know the heart of your Clotilde," said the Countess, sadly. "Sooner would I resign my life. But this I did promise. 'Swear to me,' cried Adolphe, ' by the bones of our gainted grandmother'-she was a Princess of the House of Lubomirski-this diamond was her bequest while I was yet an infant"-here Clotilde extended her jewelled hand, which Signor Tomkins rapturously pressed to his lips-" by those bones which we both revere, never to marry without my consent.' I took the oath he exacted, on a relic which he always carries about his person!"

"But," said Signor Tomkins, after a moment's reflection, "does not that come to the same thing? If you can't marry without your brother's consent, and he has got his eye on the King of Italy, he's not likely to let you have a-a-private English gentleman."

"Oh," said Clotilde, smiling, for the first time since he entered the room, "there are ways and means of avoiding the strict tenor of this obligation. You see yonder prie-Dieu! Kneeling before it when Adolphe

was gone, I appealed to my patron saint. She heard my prayer, and gave me inspiration. I heard her voice distinctly say: Be at peace, my child! Your brother may consent afterwards-if not before. Fly with your lover, and trust to the chapter of accidents. When once the knot is tied, your brother cannot help himself.' I arose comforted."

The bright eyes of Clotilde flashed full on Signor Tomkins as she made this revelation. Could he falter for a single moment? Had he not himself tempted her the day before to adopt the course which was counselled now? Then came, too, a stimulus to his resolution, in the recollection that the Countess de Crèvecœur had, for his sake, declined the (probable) throne of Italy. He, Thomas Tomkins, simple as he stood there, was the favoured rival of kings! He did not falter, but, at the risk of upsetting the Countess's chocolate, rushed towards her, and clasped her in his arms! Scarcely had she disengaged herself from his embrace when a heavy footstep was heard in the corridor.

"It is HE! My brother! Dissemble!" cried Clotilde.

The Countess had just rearranged her hair, and Signor Tomkins was still fiddling with his neck-tie and getting up a cough, to account for the unusual glow on his features, when the Count de Manqued'argent entered the apartment.

PARISIAN NOTABILITIES.

IN these pages I have already given some interludes from a very chequered career in Paris, extending over ten years. I now purpose consulting my diary and telling my readers something about various strange characters whom I either met or heard of during the period. I cannot commence my picture gallery with a worthier type of the day than the most popular novelist who has stepped into the shoes of Alexander the Great, and is becoming more and more adored by the lovers of sensationalism with every romance his prolific pen produces.

The Vicomte Charles Dieudonné de Ponson du Terrail is a gentleman who earns his fifty thousand francs a year, and hence is a highly respected personage, who in the great gold balance, in which everybody is weighed in Paris, stands higher than a councillor of state, who has only twenty-five thousand francs a year. Since the new Empire it has been the fashion to give any man who distinguishes himself in any way the agnomen of Napoleon; and thus Ponson du Terrail is called, and not unfairly so, the Napoleon of the Feuilletons. He has really acquired the first place in the rez de chaussée of the daily papers. He rules there as an unbridled autocrat; everything is laid aside when he appears with a "To be continued," and many thousand readers, male and female, certainly read Ponson's Feuilleton before they turn to current events.

The great significance of the Parisian feuilletons dates from the time when the two most celebrated romance writers, Dumas and Sue, commenced the publication of their sensational and monstrous works, which, day by day, kept the readers in a state of excitement, and spread through Europe in wretched translations. It was stated with amazement that Dumas was paid a hundred thousand francs for his "Monte Christo," Sue an equal sum for his "Wandering Jew," and even double for his "Mysteries of Paris." Such a thing could not be comprehended, and such was the case with the romances themselves, which were nothing but a pot-pourri of impossibilities, absurd crimes, and eccentric scenes of virtue, but which pleased through their very eccentricity and impossibility, and were not merely read, but devoured.

From that period all French romances passed through the feuilleton, though not with the same success, and, only to mention one author, George Sand made her début before the public in this way, and in a few years laid the foundation of her present enormous fortune, though she wrote her first romance in a wretched garret on the Quai des Augustines. Such prospects were so tempting as to produce hundreds of imitators; but as in Paris only novelty draws so long as it is novel, the same was the case with the feuilletonists-the wares gradually fell in price, the gold mines were exhausted, and the dream of California was unattainable by the majority. After the February revolution politics exclusively occupied heads and pens, until the coup d'état put an end to the liberty of the press and political discussions, and turned the attention of the French once again to more innocent and less dangerous literary plea

sures.

But where to find the author who could satisfy the pampered public,

and undertake the tremendous task of daily amusing one hundred thousand readers? Dumas was certainly still alive, and working as of yore; he had reached something like his three hundredth volume, and had remained fresh and youthful-at least, so he said himself; but the charm had left, for since M. Maquet had been legally declared not alone the collaborateur of the great man, but the principal author of "Monte Christo," and the most popular of Dumas's works, the great man had fallen into decided discredit. At length the new sun rose, though it had been modestly shining in the firmament for some time, and had attracted some attention. The name itself was attractive and piquant; Vicomte Ponson du Terrail, a direct descendant of the great Bayard, who was a Sire du Terrail, and the first chevalier of his age. People also remembered having seen the name here and there, and in the Librairie Nouvelle lay the first fruits of the young author, "which justified the fairest reputation," as is conventionally said in France about every new writer.

But the vicomte did not care for a modest sphere of action; he did not bear in vain the sonorous name of his great ancestor, and what the latter gained with his sword on the battle-field, he wished to acquire with the pen upon paper. The bold resolution was soon crowned with success. He sent a grand romantic dramatic work, a picture of manners, a passage from contemporary history (or whatever you like to call it-the name is of no consequence), into the world, under the title of "Les Drames de Paris," and his reputation was established, his fortune made. Such a thing had never been before, in spite of Dumas, and Sue, and many others. The vicomte had really discovered a new gold vein in the exhausted mine of French novelistic literature. He worked it heartily, and made use of everything he found: glistening mica and stones, but at times, too, a grain of real gold. The latter, however small it might be, he took up and beat, and expanded, and gilded with it the other minerals, and everything succeeded beyond his expectations. The clever Parisians did not notice the thin electrotyping, and the vicomte was at once a head and shoulders taller than the other feuilletonists. Once seated firmly in the saddle, and being a practical rider in the bargain, it was an easy matter for him not only to keep on, but also to rise in the favour of the public. A year later, and Ponson du Terrail became what he still is, the darling of the mob. A certain mob, of course; but more is not needed, and Lamartine, the eagle among the sparrows, has his admirers, too, only in a certain class-at least, so people say. They are right from their stand-point, but it is a one-sided, low, and paltry one; but that is an argument they do not understand.

It is very characteristic that the vicomte himself does not know how he acquired his popularity: not that he did not strive zealously for it, but the ways and means presented themselves to him accidentally, and ere he could accurately account for it, the crowd had raised him on their shields in triumph. His romances are descriptions of Parisian life and manners, with the requisite intrigues, complications, emotional and horrifying incidents-all, of course, in the superlative. They are merely passing scenes and characters, like a phantasmagoria, in which the background, however, remains the same, and this background is Paris, or, to speak more accurately, le demi monde Parisien. Many a reader may turn up