an elated soul, created to command, and proudly fulfilling its destiny; while her wandering glance sought every where for homage, and every where received it. But what-what to thee, O child of sentiment! child of passion! over whose sensible and glowing heart nature still preserved her sweet and boundless influence even in the empire of art-what to thee was the adulations of worlds or the homage of kings, compared to that look which met thy unfixed eye, arrested its varying glance, thrilled over thy heart's vital nerve, and awakened in thy soul a feeling more poignant, more extatic, more powerful, than all ambition, vanity, or pride, ever inspired in their warmest paroxysm of fruition? The triumph of the Novice of St. Dominick was now, and now only, complete, for the Minstrel of Province was its witness! The too-frequently illusive senses did not now impose this always-welcome cheat; it was now no vision of enamoured fancy that roused

1

every pulse to rapture's wildest throb; it was the friend of her soul, the object of her heart's first love, the hero of her imagination, who now, after an absence of near two wearisome and lagging years, presented himself before her. But oh! how changed from the blooming bard of Montmorell-the gallant victor of Laon! Imogen first beheld him leaning against a pillar; his arms folded, his glance fixed on her, the rose of health withered on his cheek, the fire of youth extinguished in his eye but when in the communion of a look their souls held momentary intercourse, a lambent flame floated on his gaze, and his cheeks seemed to catch the truant crimson that fled from hers. At that moment the king approached him, and twining his arm in that of his favourite's, they passed on through the door that led to his majesty's private apartments. Many were the eyes that pursued the object of this enviable distinction; but Imogen, pale, trembling, and breathless, turned her's another

way; a secret joy thrilled through her whole frame, and poured its crimson tide over the snow amazement the most powerful had shed on her cheek and bosom, which now again flushed with the tints of love's proper hue." To conceal the perturbation of her feelings, which every feature betrayed, Imogen turned her glance from that point to which the gaze of the multitude was directed; and encountered the all-observing, all-searching look of the chevalier de Sorville. The warm flow of blissful emotion chilled in every vein, a convulsive start shook her frame, a deadly faintness diffused its languor over every nerve, and she clung to the arm of the marchioness de Belleisle for support; who, observing her emotion, inquired into its cause, and furnished Imogen with an excuse by supposing the heat of the court had overcome her; then, leading her to an open window, she presented her some reviving drops. Imogen, recovered by the air, endeavoured to collect

some presence of mind; and, still more recovered by observing the chevalier, de Sorville had just left the audience chamber, attempted to answer the inquiries which poured in on every side, not only with ease but gaiety.

"Mere mortality," said she to de Sancy, who stood next her, "could support it no longer;-one should at least have the for❝titude of a primitive saint to sustain the intoxicating flattery of you courtiers, or "the constitution of a salamander to exist "in your atmosphere. Is not the heat in"supportable, my lord?"

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"I am glad you find it so," said de

Sancy, laughing; "for it is but just your "crime should become your retribution; "and that you, who have kindled a glow "in so many hearts to-day, should share "in the sufferings you have created."

As the court was now beginning to thin, Imogen presented her hand to de Sancy; who led her to her carriage; and, as they crossed the great hall of the palace, Imogen again beheld the object of her still

agitated thoughts; he was leaning on the arm of the chevalier de Sorville, and slowly ascending the steps of Charles the Ninth's gallery, which joined the Thuilleries to the Louvre. Imogen's hand trembled in that of de Sancy's, who, fixing his eyes on her face, demanded, "Do you know the duke "de Beauvilliers ?"

"No," faintly replied Imogen, while her head, her heart, her imagination, were full of the baron de Montargis.

"No!" repeated de Sancy, with a smile of seeming incredulity: " but indeed he is "better known as the gallant baron de

De

Montargis, whose venturous and roman"tic spirit has made him the idol of the "women, and the favourite of the king, "who has himself much of the preux che"valier in his amiable character. "Beauvilliers is certainly the most enviable "of all human beings. You perceive by "his habiliments he has just obtained "his emancipation from the matrimonial "shackle." Imogen started; the colour