CHAPTER HI. Et plus quam vellem jam meus extat amor. Sed male dissimulo; quis cniin celaverk ignem, • Lumine qui semper proditur ipsc suo? Qv.—Efist. The catastrophe of the preceding chapter is easily ex plained. The trunk which the false Le Gendre had brought with him was found open, and partly filled—the rest of its contents being, probably, the valuable articles of clothing which were discovered packed up, together with a casket containing a necklace of noble pearls (doubtless, originally intended as a present to Nannette), in a small portmanteau, which the gardener and coachman, on going t the stable with the purpose of preparing the carriage to fetch the surgeon from Paris, found fastened on the finest of Mr. Le Bonhomme's horses,—the thief having saddled the animal and tied him to the stable-door ready for flight. The horrible suspicions excited by these circumstances were all confirmed the next day, in the following manner. Two young boys, in wandering through a wood, some miles distant from Mr. Le Bonhomme's residence, were surprised to find a deep cylindrical hole, which had long been their favourite place of amusement, and which they had themselves partly dug, filled up, apparently with earth. Their curiosity induced them to throw off the earth for some inches, when they discovered a dead body buried, with its head downwards. This was identified, by many particulars, with the person of the real Charles Le Gendre. Moreover, the body of the robber was sworn to by an innkeeper, and several of his family. as that of a man whom they had seen set out in company with Le Gendre, having heard the latter imprudently offer him, though not an hour's acquaintance, a seat be. side him in the little carriage. It is probable, that, during the ride, the unfortunate youth boasted, in the gayety of his heart, of the wealth he had with him and his prospects ot approaching happiness, and shewed his companion the letter to Mr. Le Bonhomme—which, by inspiring the villain with the hope of a second spoil, was the means of bringing him to a just punishment. The surgeon had not overrated Mademoiselle Le Bonhomme's abilities as a nurse ;—she was, indeed, but too attentive for her own happiness. 1 had not been many days under her care, when I discovered certain peculiarities in Nannette's deportment, which forced me to conclude, that the poor girl had unfortunately conceived a strong attachment for me. Generally, one or other of her parents passed the greater part of the day in my company, and, not unfrequently, in the afternoon the whole little family—father, mother, and daughter—would be seated in my apartment, endeavouring to divert me by every means which their grateful hearts suggested. On such occasions (—when the old man, perhaps, was reading aloud for my amusement, or conversing with me, and his wife sewing as she listened—) whenever I suffered my attention to stray to Nannette, I invariably found her eyes fixed on mine with a tenderness of expression I could not but understand; and then, when thus detected, she would depress them, in a confusion apparently most distressing. At other times, when she brought me in some little delicacy, which she herself had made, thinking I might relish it,—if, in extending it to me, her fingers happened to touch mine, I could perceive her whole frame quiver with delight, while a blush, partly of shame, would mantle her cheeks with the richest crimson. Again—whenever I addressed her particularly (which, from the terms of intimacy and affection that now existed between me and the family, I always did by her Christian' name, as though she were a sister), her face would become radiant with pleasure; and if at such times I added any endearing epithet, her dark eyes would sparkle for an instant, and then, by a rapid change, become quenched in tears. I saw these indications of attachment with sorrow—not that I affect to say I was not flattered by them; for whom, dear Reader, would they not have flattered ?—but because such attachment could only be productive of misery to the unfortunate girl, in as much as it was out-of my power to make her any return However, it occurred to me that the conclusion I have above mentioned might have been too hastily adopted, being drawn from no other premises than mere suspicions. I therefore endeavoured to forget it. But it soon proved.to be reasonable. One afternoon Nannette remained alone with me.—Her mother was confined to her room by sickness, and the old man, being obliged to visit the metropolis, had desired his daughter to stay and find me amusement.—After talking on many trifling subjects, on all of which Nannette appeared unusually dull, it struck me to sound her feelings on the marriage which her father had proposed for her, and which had been so awfully prevented when almost on the point of celebration; and, without stopping to reflect to what the question might lead, I said to her, "Tell me, Nannette—did you ever see the ill-fated young man who was betrothed to you?"' She replied in the negative. "No? And yet you were prepared to love him?" "Love him?" she answered, with a look and an emphasis I but too well understood, "O, no! never!" "And why not?" .' . "Because, monsieur, love is not made at pleasure. • It depends upon the will of neither father nor mother—nor upon our own wishes. I would have married Mr. Le Gendre, because by so doing I should render my father happy.— Besides, I could never be miserable with a man of my father's choosing.—But to love him! O, no! never, monsieur—never!" "And pray," I asked, with a smile, "what may be Miss Nannette's notions of love?" "You jest," answered my fair nurse, pouting her beautiful lips half playfully, half in anger,—"I will not tell you." "Well then, Nannette, I will be serious." "Love, monsieur—but you must not laugh'at me !— Love, real love, is that one passion within whose vortex all others of the heart are swallowed. These may rule with divided power, or alternately; but love, the moment it enthrones itself in the soul, treads all other feelings in the dust, and sways us with a tyrant's sceptre. The source of virtue or of crime, love raises us above our nature, or sinks us below the brutes. It is a fire—which, if it be not quenched at once, consumes every thing within its reach, and burns until the fuel that maintained it be exhausted,—-when nothing is left, save the dead ashes, to mark the spot where it once raged." This was singular language for Nannette. I knew her mind to be of no vulgar order; but I had never heard her speak before with so much energy. Her eloquence was alarming; for it marked the strength of the passion that had set it in motion. "You are very romantic, Nannette; yet you talk like a philosopher." "You laugh at me, monsieur; I have done." "Nay—but proceed. Only tell me whence you derive those sentiments." "From their fountain-head—the heart. That is," she added, in some confusion, " I know—I feel such must be love when it has once crept to the breast." "And could you feel such love, Nannette?" "Could I?" she exclaimed—Nature resuming all her former supremacy—" could 1 feel such love, you ask me? 0! for him I love—him, whom I hold enshrined in this little heart, the idol before whose altar all my thoughts and feelings bow,”—and as she spoke, she folded her small hands upon her bosom and raised her glowing eyes to heaven—“for him 1 there is no sacrifice I would not make, with him, there is no toil I could not undergo. Leaning on his loved bosom, I could wander through a desert, nor feel the hot sands that scorched my footsteps; by his side, I could toil amid rocks, nor grudge the suf. fering which must earn from their scanty soil our meagre subsistence. For him I could forsake everything—father, mother—heaven —all, all, for him “His people should be my people, and his gods my gods.’” The enthusiast paused gasping, and, turning her eyes upon me, became deadly pale. But it was for an instant only ; the next, with electrical quickness, she had assumed the air of a coquette ; and she added—“But you shall have no more of this fanciful picture ; for I cannot see, monsieur, what right you have to twist her secret thoughts from a silly girl like me.” And she danced, or rather ran, from the room. —My God!— I exclaimed inwardly, -has it al. ready come to this? Can I be indeed loved by this poor girl with a fervour that is almost madness?— and, for a moment, reason, and the image of Mary sunk before the thought; but H shut my eyes to the dangerous fascination, shuddering to think of the precipice, down which a moment's dizziness might tumble me. —Psha – I said, -It cannot be The girl is an enthusiast !—she is young, and has read too many novels.- I was yet to learn. In about an hour Nannette returned, with a cup of tea in her hand. As I had just laid myself upon the bed, it occurred to me, that, by counterfeiting sleep, I might perhaps discover some less equivocal evidence of the real nature of her sentiments than any 1 could gather from her language. Accordingly, as she approached, I shut my eyes in such a manner, that, while I could see suffi. |