Rubbing his eyes, he was some time before he could collect his thoughts, and as he did so it struck twelve at the church of Surgères.

The next moment he sprang up, for this time there was no dreaming in the matter, some one knocked at the door. Instinctively he looked towards the room in which the dead man lay. But again came the knock, and Malherbe recognised that it was at the door which gave upon the staircase, and he went and opened it.

A lady exceedingly well dressed, but her figure disguised by a velvet cloak, and her features hidden by a mask, much in use at that epoch and called a loup, walked in. She appeared to be much agitated, and carried a small lantern in her hand. The old man, astonished by such a visit at such an hour, attributed it to some mistake.

"Madame," he said, "you must be under an error."

But the lady only shook her head, and pointed with her finger to the adjoining room. Still more astounded, Malherbe looked at the lady from head to foot, and, after some hesitation, said:

"Do you know what there is in that room?"

"Yes, I know," replied the lady, in a tone of exceeding anxiety, her clear, sonorous voice indicating youth. "There is," she continued, "a dead man in that room, and there was no other way of getting at him than through yours. That must be my apology for thus trespassing upon you."

Malherbe stood as if petrified.

"And the man who is there ?" he faltered out.

"I want to see him," replied the lady-"to see him in order to rid myself of a terrible anxiety. A duel took place this evening, and one of the combatants is dead. That is all I know, and all that I have been able to learn. Now I loved one of the two. We were about to be married, and I do not know if he is not the victim. You will understand, then, my anxiety to see which it is."

The old poet bent his head in presence of such a terrible grief. The lady moved at the same time towards the door, but, arrived there, she hesitated, put her hand to her heart, and then turned a supplicating look at Malherbe.

"Monsieur," she said, "you see that I hesitate to meet the terrible sight I have come here to encounter. I tremble to go in alone."

66

Madame," said the poet, "I have been a soldier, and I am old; that means, that I have seen many deaths. I have even seen all my family perish, save an only son-Anthony de Malherbe-my sole consolation, my only hope. So you see I am not afraid of a dead man."

And so saying, the poet advanced with a light to go into the apartment of the dead with the lady, but when the lady heard the name uttered by the old man, she left the door, and, advancing towards him, took the light from out of his hands.

"Oh, Heavens!" exclaimed Malherbe, "wherefore this excitement? Why this terror at the mere mention of the name of Anthony de Malherbe! Oh! madame, here, at this very spot, I have just had a horrible dream. Suppose it were my son!"

"Your son!" interrupted the lady, in a tone of reproach. "I do not even know your son."

"But you knew the two combatants ?" persevered the old man. "Yes, I knew them both," replied the young lady, "but I do not wish you to be a witness to my grief. Leave me alone with the dead one."

The old man, touched with compassion, drew back, and allowed the lady to pass into the room alone, which she did with a firm step, but when she was alone with the dead, she took off her mask, for she was suffocating. Tears rolled down her cheeks, and her limbs gave way beneath her. Twice she approached the body to remove the shroud-twice her courage failed her. At length, as with the precipitancy of despair, she lifted the veil from the face of the dead, and uttered a terrible shriek, falling at the same time on her knees by the side of the corpse.

Hearing this, the old man rushed to the door, but, with almost superhuman energy, the lady rose up and stood before him.

"Do not go near!" she shrieked; "it is not him! it is not him!" And then, overcome by the effort, she fell at his feet, barring any farther progress. But, carried away by his anxiety, the old man stepped over the prostrate form of the lady, hastened up to the corpse, took it up in his arms, bore it to the window, threw back the curtains, and let the pale moonlight fall on its haggard features.

"My son! my son !" he exclaimed. And the poor old man pressed the dead body to his bosom, kissed its livid countenance, called it by endearing names, as if he could have called it to life again! Utter despair and madness are for the time being next of kin.

The next morning, at the king's levee, Captain Racan, who had previously obtained permission, presented himself before the monarch. King Louis XIII. held in his hands the ode addressed to him by Malherbe :

"To the King, going to punish the Rebellion of the Rochellois and drive away the English, who have made a Descent in their Favour on the Island of Ré."

Then, pointing with his finger to some lines in which Malherbe glorified Richelieu-whether he were jealous of his minister, or that he expressed his real sentiments-his majesty said:

"You will thank M. de Malherbe for his poetry; his verses are fine, but they are of ice. I should like more passion. Your master wants heart!"

At that very moment Cardinal de Richelieu made his appearance. He was manifestly excited, and held a letter in his hand, written in pencil.

"Sire," said the minister, as he held it out, "your majesty accuses Malherbe with deficiency of passion. I have sometimes made the same reproach to him, but I hold in my hand that which will make you change your mind. The unfortunate poet has just lost his son, and this is what he has written." And the cardinal read out aloud, in a clear voice, some lines in which the poet said that he would not have lamented his son's death on the field, or even in fair duel, but that he had been set upon by two villains and foully murdered, and he asked for justice to be done to his assassins by the monarch. This time the poetry was so good, and came so truly from the heart, that the king exclaimed: "Malherbe has a heart, and I will avenge him!"

"I will avenge him!" repeated Richelieu to himself. quite another thing."

"Oh! that is

The fact was, that M. de Pilles had so many friends at court, and especially around the person of the cardinal, that Malherbe never succeeded in obtaining satisfaction for this most atrocious crime. Failing to obtain justice from the king, he would himself have called out the miscreant, but his friend the Chevalier de Racan dissuaded him, saying it would only be making himself ridiculous at the age of seventy-three to challenge a young man of twenty-five. Deprived of even this consolation-that of avenging the murder of his son-he did not long survive him, dying only six months after, and in that brief interval he had one short moment's consolation.

One evening a lady in mourning presented herself before him. "Sir," she said, "I wished to see you once before bidding an eternal farewell to this world."

The poet shuddered at the sound of the voice.

"Madame," he faltered forth, "I have met you before ?"

"Yes, sir," she replied, "in an hostelry at Surgères, on that fearful night when we lost

Ce fils qui fut si brave et que j'aimais si fort!"

quoting one of the lines of the poet's address to the king. "Madame Arabelle ?" exclaimed the old man.

"Call me your daughter, and I shall bury myself in my convent, happy."

My daughter," replied the poet, contemplating her with truly paternal affection.

The young woman knelt, beautiful in her tears, at the feet of the old

man.

"And now, my father," she said, "your blessing!"

Malherbe, overcome by grief, held forth his hands over the young lady's head, but he could not utter a word.

Then both separated, never to meet again.

END OF VOL. CXXXIV.

LONDON:

PRINTED BY C. WHITING, BEAUFORT HOUSE, STRAND.