longer placed within her power. If he, in truth, despises not this hand, I lay it with pleasure in his, dear mother." And so saying, she extended it towards the Duke.

"From compassion!" said the Duke, hesitating, and yet overpowered.

"Let not our union be concluded in wrath, Gonzaga," she replied. "My compassion, as you term it, may well be placed against the looks of dislike and anger with which, since that hour, you have met every look of mine. Even then I did not so interpret them give me, in turn, credit for something better than compassion. To preserve your life, I would, indeed, endure death; but how much more gladly would I live, to save it and to render it happy!"

"Do I dream?" said the Duke, sinking at her feet. "Is my hour of darkest peril to be changed at once into the happiest of my life? Oh, Diana, never one instant did I cease to love you! My very uneasiness, my anger, my looks of dislike, what were they all but love?"

The mother, weeping tears of joy, laid their hands together, and hastily despatched a messenger to summon a priest, and to communicate to the Princess Renée that her friend would that night remain with her. The young pair remained alone, exchanging, in a lengthened confidence, all the hopes, fears, and suspicions which, during their long estrangement, had crossed and agitated their minds.

"Now, then," said Gonzaga, at its close," my faith in you is henceforth unalterable! Do what you will, I will believe in the heart you have bestowed upon me. Let circumstances be what they may, nothing shall hereafter shake my confidence. We are human beings, liable to mistake; but I feel that, from this hour, my belief in your fidelity and affection is impregnable. If such be your feeling also, we shall, indeed, be an enviable pair."

She extended her hand to him solemnly. "I at least am so, for I trust in you."

In these confiding communications the night flew by like a moment. The morning had scarcely dawned, when the Duchess-mother reappeared with the priest, and in a few minutes they were secretly united-a circumstance at this time, and in this Court, of no unfrequent occurrence.

No sooner had the hour of the King's levee arrived than the Duke entered the presence, dressed more sumptuously than usual; and, kneeling before Charles, requested his sanction and approbation to his marriage with the Princess Diana of Nevers, which had already been secretly concluded some time before. He took care, of course, to suppress the precise period of its celebration.

Charles listened to him with evident, and yet, on the whole, pleasing surprise. A new light seemed to have broke upon him. With a sudden return of good-humour and kindness, he wished the Duke joy. His displeasure vanished at once, and he acceded in all points to Gonzaga's wishes with regard to the solemnity. He lost no time in paying a visit to his sister, who had already been informed (and somewhat more accurately) of the whole circumstances by her friend; but, to his wonder, though her features, in answer to the triumphant glance of her brother, seemed to indicate surprise, he could perceive no traces of vexation or disappointment. He began to believe that the whole had, after all, been a mistake. He repented he was ashamed of the rashness with which he had sought the life of the Duke under this erroneous impression. He took the first opportunity of calling Caussade aside, and whispering to him,

tions with which the newly-married pair were received.

At the most splendid of these masked balls, Caussade, now high in favour at once with the Duke and the King, was present. Well acquainted with the Court, he had found little difficulty, while disguised himself, to detect most of the other maskers. His object was to procure, if possible, a short interview with the Princess, for in the ball-room alone he felt that, if possible at all, it was to be obtained; but Renée, whether from fear that Caussade, by some indiscretion, would bring destruction upon both, or from a resolution now to resign herself to her fate, excused herself, on pretext of sudden illness, at the commencement of the festival, and retired. It was only after Caussade had sought her through the crowd, with increasing impatience, that he learned her absence; he gnashed his teeth with vexation. All at once a sudden resolution seemed to suggest itself to him. Making his way up to the young Duchess of Gonzaga, he requested to be allowed to speak to her for an instant in private. He drew her into a retired corner of the room, took off his mask, and entered, with all the eloquence of love, on the subject of his distress. What arguments he employed-what disclosures he made during this animated conversation, did not appear; but the result was, that even the prudent and cautious Diana seemed to be so moved by his tale, and by his representation of the state of the Princess's mind, that she agreed to give him a secret audience next day in her apartment.

The cheerful sound of the horns once more announced a hunting party, an amusement which the increasing weakness of the King had for some time prevented. Renée was awakened by the entrance of her friend, who, throwing her arms round her, exclaimed "Be quick, slumberer! do you not hear the bugles? Rise, and let us once more see them depart, from the balcony. I, you know, must have eyes only for Don Lewis now. Nay, I will allow you to look on him too, provided only you spare a glance from him now and then to the fair Caussade."

"I comprehend you not, Diana," replied the Princess, gazing on her with surprise. "But be it so. To please you, I will go, though I have bid adieu to pleasure." But notwith

standing the apparent resignation of her answer, her hand trembled so that she could scarcely adjust her dress.

"When we were last seated here," said Diana, as they reached the balcony, "how different were then our views. You, reconciled to the unavoidable, and armed with courage to meet it, clung to the dreaming comfort of a love, which I (with despair in my own heart) would have denied to you. And yet you found time, amidst your own anxieties, to speak words of comfort and kindness to me. That, Renée, I can never forget. Now, I am cheerful and happy-while you-however little your fate may have really changed sinceyou have become melancholy. Once I might have thought you in the right; I might have lent my aid to encourage you in that feeling. Strange to say, however, since I became a wife, I am disposed to think less rigorously than before on these topics. But see, look, Princess, the train are departing. Caussade is looking up."

"O thoughtless being!" cried Renée, turning pale, and drawing back.

66

Why this terror?" said the Duchess, surprised at her vehemence.

"Can you ask that, Diana, when your lover so nearly atoned by his life for some slight attentions, perhaps a few unguarded glances? Ah! for two nights past I have dreamt that I saw Caussade rise up pale and bleeding from a grave."

"You were resolved, dear Renée, to bring back Gonzaga to me, and you did so no doubt through a little false play, but I am too happy at the end to scrutinize too nicely the means, now that it is past. Willingly would I show my gratitude-would console you-would actively assist you. Tell me, then, why are you more melancholy than before?"

"Why? Does not the day when I am to be sacrificed approach nearer and nearer. What have my resistance, my defiance availed? Has not my brother already pledged my consent against my will-is not this hated suitor on his way? O, friend, assist me, and I will adore you. Yes, I love him still, this fair Caussade, with those eyes of spirit and fire. But I am watched by jealous eyes-my glances can no longer meet his-and what, after all, are looks?-the longing heart asks for words-one hour of happy intercourse for a life of priva

tion. No, believe me, if I despair of my destiny, it is from no want of love. Let this bridegroom, whom they force upon me, come, I will refuse him. And what can my brother do? Deprive me of life!"

"Renée-if I am to assist you, be reasonable. Provoke not your brother. Rather avert his attention from you by submission. Act up to your rank, your dignity. Submit to the sacrifice with resolution: then leave to your friend to provide for your happiness with silence and fidelity."

"Do I understand you aright-may I venture to do as my heart would dictate? Shall I see him? Speak to him? Where? when?"

"Be calm-remember our conditions. When you shall appear before the world as a Princess, as the destined and consenting bride of the English Prince, that day you shall meet Caussade in my apartment."

"I am a princess," said Renée, lifting up her head proudly. "This day my consent shall be given. Diana, your friendship gives me courage for all. In your apartment, say you? Does then Gonzaga know?"-dropping her eyes, and almost terrified.

"Heaven forbid! This secret is not for him. I know the purity of my own intentions and yours; but of such matters men are no judges. No one, not even Gonzaga himself, shall learn of me aught regarding you, which might occasion in his mind a shade of suspicion: But I know the hours when his avocations demand his presence in the castle, and by means of the stair, which you know so well, you can easily pass into my chamber. If the matter is to be communicated to any one, rather let it be to the Duchess-mother."

Renée had, during this speech, pressed her glowing cheek to the bosom of her friend. "Oh! no-no!" she exclaimed-" and Caussade?"

"Be at ease; Gonzaga confides in me. Never will I unnecessarily subject his confidence in me to trial; but here, where the occasion is unavoidable, where a friend's happiness is at stake, I must run the risk."

These pages must not betray the secrets confided only to the seal of friendship. Thus far only we know, that more than one interview between the Princess and her lover took place in the apartments of Diana, interviews which Renée's consciousness of her own dignity would have rendered perfectly innocent, even if the presence

of Diana had not afforded an additional security. Renée regained her cheerfulness and bloom, like a flower reviving in the rays of the morning sun, after being bent to the ground by the heavy showers of evening. The violence of her feelings was softened: it is true that an occasional sigh would escape her when the subject of the English Prince was mentioned; but she proceeded to select her wardrobe, and to accept the congratulations of the Court with a pale countenance, indeed, but with the composure and dignity fitted to her rank. In the Court circles, where Caussade now invariably appeared in the train of the King, at the promenades, or at mass, her eye no longer sought her lover. She seemed to see his image in her heart, to which alone her looks were directed. sade, on the contrary, bore himself with a look of triumph. His eye sought her neighbourhood, if not herself; and if occasionally he thought he perceived that his glance was watched, he would direct it somewhat too boldly on Diana, who, as formerly, was generally to be found by her side.

Caus

There were not wanting many who watched these looks of Caussade, with all the jealous activity of hatred and envy. They were not slow to infer a secret understanding between him and the Duchess. Even before the honeymoon was over, rumours began to spread about the Court of secret visits paid by Caussade to the Duchess's apartment in the absence of the Duke; these rumours did not indeed reach the parties chiefly concerned, but hints were mysteriously given to the Duchessmother, which, however, she seemed resolved not to understand. then debated among the self-called confidential friends of the Duke, with great appearance of affectionate zeal, and in reality with secret satisfaction, whether it was not their duty to make him aware of the reports which prevailed. At last they did venture to give him a hint of them. He treated them with a calm smile of contempt.

It was

"Caussade," said he, when the subject had been alluded to with some warmth by an Italian Count, a relation of his own-" Caussade has been my page; he is bound to me by many ties. He has between ourselves— saved my life. I feel that in my own case I should be incapable of entertaining a thought of love towards the wife of him on whom I had conferred such an obligation. Shall I think more

meanly of him than myself? Must I suspect my wife because Caussade is the handsomest man at Court? I grant my own inferiority in that respect; but I rate myself too highly in others to yield to such fears."

"But Caussade," cried another, "it is said, has himself boasted of the favour in which he stands with the Duchess."

"I believe it not; but even that testifies in favour of my wife. She is too prudent to bestow her favour on any one who would be weak enough to boast of it."

Tranquil as the Duke appeared, he could not but feel secretly annoyed at these injurious reports, the more so that he could not disguise from himself that the conduct of the Duchess did in some measure appear to give countenance to them. He had himself occasionally observed glances on the part of Caussade too much resembling those which had annoyed him when he thought his passion unrequited; and yet had not Diana in that case convinced him of the groundlessness of his suspicions? was it not possible that, recollecting his vow, she was disposed to put his confidence in her faith to a test? And if so, was it consistent with his chivalrous conscientiousness to grieve her feelings by mistrust?

One

An incident, however, shortly after occurred, calculated to shake his confidence in his own firmness. afternoon after the banquet, when the King found himself somewhat better than usual, and was surrounded by a cheerful circle, a courier suddenly brought the intelligence that the English bridegroom had landed in France and might be expected the following evening. Charles, who had latterly been much pleased with the conduct of the Princess, and began to think, from her submission to his will, that the news of the arrival of her intended bridegroom would now no longer be disagreeable to her, invited several of the circle, and among others the Duke's Italian relation, to accompany him to the Princess's apartment to communicate the news. The plan was no sooner formed than executed; but on reaching her apartments they learned that she had gone to those of the Duchess. The King understood from this that she had gone to visit the Duchess Gonzaga. The party accordingly followed in that direction.

The anxiety of love had outstripped the courier. The Princess had

learned the painful intelligence an hour before the King, and had almost given way beneath this disaster. She had already communicated to her lover her resolve, that, from the moment her intended husband appeared, they should never meet again; but she felt she could not deny to him and to herself the consolation of a last interview before the actual arrival of the English Prince. She felt that for this purpose not a moment was to be lost. She foresaw that as soon as the intelligence of his arrival was publicly communicated, every hour, every instant of her time would be occupied with troublesome duties which would preclude the possibility of an interview. By means of the Duchess only, through whom Caussade had communicated the intelligence, could her purpose be effected; and though she felt that the hour was an uncommon and unseemly one, she determined to brave every thing, and once more to meet Caussade in the Duchess's apartments ere they parted for

ever.

Caussade was already waiting. Renée, crossing with stealthy step the apartment of the Duchess-mother, entered by the private stair what had been the former bedroom of the Duke, which Diana had now selected as her ordinary sitting-room, when the Duchess's attendant, knocking hastily at the outer door, announced that the King was approaching from the Princess's apartments. Both ladies stood for an instant confounded: the next moment the Duchess exclaimed, "Quick, Renée-back to the Duchessmother"-and almost pushed her out by the tapestry door.

"And you?-he?" stammered the Princess.

"I am conscious of no crime-only begone-away!"

"I must remain, generous friend," cried Caussade, "but fear no suspicion."

He had dropped on his knee in the excitement of his feeling, when the door opened. He sprang up, and with such rapidity, that although the King perceived his kneeling attitude, those who followed could scarcely say that they perceived his change of posture. The King cast a look of indignation on Caussade, and then an enquiring glance round the chamber. "Pardon, Duchess," said he, "this unceremonious intrusion, I thought to find my sister here."

"I am glad of that," said the King involuntarily, breathing more freely. "Your pardon-I go in search of her." He left the chamber quietly with his train; but as he went, the Italian Count found time to whisper to Caussade, with a sneer of contempt-" Behind the palace, after dusk, I shall avenge my cousin's honour.

"He himself, methinks, were the person to do so," replied Caussade, in the same tone: "No matter. I shall avenge the injuries of his wife." Notwithstanding her consciousness of innocence, Diana for the first time began seriously to feel that innocence itself must pay regard to appearances; and with the painful feeling that she had given her husband apparent cause for distrust, she anxiously awaited his arrival, determined to unload her heart, and to communicate to him all her anxiety. She waited, how ever, in vain; with every quarter of an hour her anxiety increased, but still he came not.

The scene in the Duchess's apart ments had awakened too strong a sensation, not to find its way speedily to the ears of the Duke. As he listened to the tale, the glow of indignation more than once flushed his face; he clenched his fists; but again resuming his composure" And yet," cried he, "I know she is innocent. I will not yield to mistrust. Tell me a hand

some woman in Paris, at whose feet some fool has not thrown himself when he found an opportunity. True, his presumption calls for punishment, and it shall have it."

"It has been punished by this time," cried the brother of the Italian Count. "My brother has challenged him, and by this time the contest is decided."

"I grieve on your brother's account," said Gonzaga, with a frown, “that such should be the case; for if Caussade's sword reaches him not, he must meet mine. I will teach him not to interfere uncalled for where my honour is concerned, and I am here to do myself right."

At this moment the brother entered enraged. Caussade had broke his appointment; and when his opponent

enquired after him at the palace, he was informed that he had just before mounted his horse and rode off; most probably he had taken to flight.

It is easy to conceive how the Duke was now besieged on all sides. The guilt of his wife seemed to be rendered in the highest degree probable by the flight of the alleged paramour. He was incited by his friends to every possible step-to revenge-to separation to imprisonment of the guilty. A thousand trifling occurrences, which had formerly appeared in a milder light, were now misrepresented, and exhibited to him under their most envenomed aspect. He felt, at length, that further wavering must appear unmanly delay, or the mere dotage of affection.

"Be it so," he exclaimed at once, "I will avenge myself. Away with divorce-imprisonment; these may suit the populace. The unsullied honour of a Duke demands blooddeath. Ere to-morrow's sun rises I shall have satisfaction. Ye shall be witnesses-judges, as well as me. Mean time," added he, with a wild look, "give orders for the banquet : let us have wine and revelry! To move to our revenge with a heavy heart would argue a consciousness that that vengeance was an unjust one. Why stare ye at me so? Am I not doing all ye ask of me-and

more?"

The Duke returned not this night to his residence, though never before, since his marriage, had Diana missed him from her side. She passed the night awake and in tears.

Mean time, in the noisy circle of relations and friends which surrounded the Duke, he appeared the gayest of all. To the rest, the wine seemed to have lost its relish, and an irresistible feeling of melancholy spread over the company. With the first glimmer of morning the Duke gave the signal to rise. They all followed him silently to his apartments in the palace and to his chamber. After contemplating, not without shuddering, but without speaking, for the earnest and imperious eye of Gonzaga awed them into silence-the preparations for his revenge, which he went about with a terrible composure, they advanced, headed by Gonzaga and two bearing torches, into the sleeping room of the Duchess. The Duke himself, in whose bearing not the slightest tre