that I was going to walk. He suffered me to leave him, without any further question. I strolled I knew not whither, till I found myself by the side of a little brook, about a quarter of a mile's distance from the house. The stillness of noon, broken only by the gentle murmurings of the water, and the quiet hum of the bees, that hung on the wild flowers around it; these gave me back myself, and allowed me the languor of thought; my tears fell without control, and almost without distress. I would have looked again on the picture of Savillon, for I could then have trusted myself with the sight of it; but I had leftit behind in my chamber. The thoughts of its being seen by my husband gave wings to my return. I hope he missed it; for I found it lying, as I had left it, on my dressing-table, in the midst of some letters of compliment, which had been thrown carelessly there the day before; and when I went down stairs, I discovered nothing in his behaviour that should have followed such a discovery. On the contrary, I think he seemed more pleased than usual, and was particularly attentive to me. I felt his kindness a reproach, and my endeavours to return it sat awkwardly upon me. There was a treachery, methought, in my attempts to please him; and, I fear, the greater ease I meant to assume in making those attempts, I gave them only more the appearance of con

straint.

What a situation is mine! to wear the appearance of serenity, while my heart is wretched ; and the dissimulation of guilt, though my soul is unconscious of a crime !-There is something predictive in my mind, that tells me I shall not long be thus; but I am sick of conjecture, as I am bereft of hope, and only satisfy myself with concluding, that, in the most fateful lives, there is still a certain point, where the maze of destiny can bewilder no more.

LETTER XXXIX.

Montauban to Segarva.

SEGARVA!-but it must be told-I blush even telling it to thee.-Have I lived to this? that thou shouldst hear the name of Montauban coupled with dishonour !

I came into my wife's room yesterday morning, somewhat unexpectedly. I observed she had been weeping, though she put on her hat to conceal it, and spoke in a tone of voice affectedly indifferent. Presently she went out on pretence of walking; I staid behind, not without surprise at her tears, though, I think, without suspicion; when turning over (in the careless way one does in musing,) some loose papers on her dressingtable, I found the picture of a young man in miniature, the glass of which was still wet with the tears she had shed on it. I have but a confused remembrance of my feelings at the time; there was a bewildered pause of thought, as if I had

VOL. V.

waked in another world. My faithful Lonquillez happened to enter the room at that moment; "Look there," said I, holding out the picture, without knowing what I did; he held it in his hand, and turning it, read on the back Suvillon. I started at that sound, and snatched the picture from him. I believe he spoke somewhat, expressing his surprise at my emotion; I know not what it was, nor what my answer:-He was retiring from the chamber-I called him back. I think," said I, "thou lovest thy master, and would serve him if thou could'st ?"—"With my life !” answered Lonquillez. The warmth of his manner touched me: I think I laid my hand on my sword-" Savillon !" I repeated the name.— "I have heard of him," said Lonquillez.— "Heard of him!"-" I heard Le Blanc talk of him a few days ago."-" And what did he say of him?"-"He said, he had heard of this gentleman's arrival from the West Indies, from his own nephew, who had just come from Paris: That he remembered him formerly, when he lived with his master at Belville, the sweetest young gentleman, and the handsomest in the province."-My situation struck me at that instant: I was unable to inquire further. After some little time, Lonquillez left the room; I knew not that he was gone, till I heard him going down stairs. I called him back a second time; he came: I could not speak.-"My dear master!" said Lonquillez-It was the accent of a friend, and it overcame me.

"Lonquillez," said I, "your master is most unhappy-Canst thou think my wife is false to me?"" Heaven forbid !" said he, and started back in amazement. "It may be I wrong her; but to dream of Savillon, to keep his picture, to weep over it!"-" What shall I do, sir?" said Lonquillez.-" You see I am calm," I returned, "and will do nothing rashly: Try to learn from Le Blanc every thing he knows about this Savillon; Lisette, too, is silly, and talks much. I know your faith, and will trust your capacity; get me what intelligence you can, but beware of shewing the most distant suspicion." We heard my wife below; I threw down the picture where I had found it, and hastened to meet her. As I approached her, my heart throbbed so violently, that I durst not venture the meeting. My dressing-room door stood a-jar; I slunk in there, I believe, unperceived, and heard her pass on to her chamber. I would have called Lonquillez to have spoken to him again; but I durst not then, and have not found an opportunity since.

I saw my wife soon after; I counterfeited as well as I could, and, I think, she was the most embarrassed of the two; she attempted once or twice to bring in some apology for her former appearance, complained of having been ill in the morning, that her head had ached, and her eyes been hot and uneasy.

2 M

She came herself to call me to dinner. We dined alone, and I marked her closely: I saw (by Heaven, I did!) a fawning solicitude to please me; an attempt at the good humour of innocence, to cover the embarrassment of guilt. I should have observed it-I am sure I shouldeven without a key; as it was, I could read her soul to the bottom.-Julia de Roubigné ! the wife of Montauban !-Is it not so?

I have had time to think.-You will recollect the circumstances of our marriage; her long unwillingness, her almost unconquerable reluctance. Why did I marry her?

Let me remember. I durst not trust the honest decision of my friend, but stole into this engagement without his knowledge; I purchased her consent, I bribed, I bought her; bought her, the leavings of another!-I will trace this line of infamy no further: there is madness in it.

Segarva, I am afraid to hear from you; yet write to me, write to me freely. If you hold me justly punished-yet spare me when you think on the severity of my punishment.

LETTER XL.

Montauban to Segarva.

LONQUILLEz has not slept on his post, and chance has assisted his vigilance. Le Blanc came hither the morning after our conversation: Lonquillez managed his inquiry with equal acuteness and caution; the other told every thing as the story of an old man. He smiled, and told it. He knew not that he was delivering the testimony of a witness-that the fate of his former mistress hung on it!

This Savillon lived at Belville from his earliest youth, the companion of Julia, though a dependant on her father. When they were forced to remove thence, he accompanied their retreat, the only companion of Roubigné, whom adversity had left him to comfort it—but he had his reward; the company of the daughter often supplied the place of her father's. He was her master in literature, her fellow-scholar in music and painting, and they frequently planned walks in concert, which they afterwards trod together. Le Blanc has seen them there, listening to the song of the nightingale.

I am to draw the conclusion. All this might be innocent, the effects of early intimacy and friendship; and, on this supposition, might rest the quiet of an indifferent husband. But why was this intimacy, this friendship, so industriously concealed from me? The name of Savillon never mentioned, except in guilty dreams? while his picture was kept in her chamber, for

the adultery of the imagination! Do I triumph while I push this evidence?—Segarva! whither will it lead me?

The truth rises upon me, and every succeeding circumstance points to one conclusion. Lisette was to-day of a junketting party, which Lonquillez contrived for the entertainment of his friend Le Blanc. Mention was again made of old stories, and Savillon was a person of the drama. The wench is naturally talkative, and she was then in spirits, from company and good cheer. Le Blanc and she recollected interviews of their young mistress and this handsome elevé of her father. They were, it seems, nursed by the same woman, that old Lasune, for whom Julia procured a little dwelling, and a pension of four hundred livres, from her unsuspecting husband. "She loved them," said Le Blanc, "like her own children, and they were like brother and sister to each other.”—“ Brother and sister, indeed!" said Lisette.-She was more sagacious, and had observed things better.-"I know what I know," said she; " but, to be sure, those things are all over now, and I am persuaded, my mistress loves no man so well as her own husband. What signifies what happened so long ago, especially while Mons. de Montauban knows nothing about the matter?”

These were her words: Lonquillez repeated them thrice to me. Were I a fool, a driveller, I might be satisfied to doubt and be uneasy; it is Montauban's to see his disgrace, and, seeing, to revenge it.

Lonquillez has been with me; his diligence is indefatigable: but he feels for the honour of his master, and, being a Spaniard, is entitled to share it.

He went with Le Blanc to see Lasune, whom that old man, it seems, never fails to visit when he is here. Lonquillez told her, that Le Blanc had news for her about her foster-son. "Of my dear Savillon?” cried she.—“ Yes," said Le Blanc: "You will have heard, that he arrived from abroad some weeks ago; and I am told. that he is worth a power of money, which his uncle left him in the West Indies."—"Bless him! Heavens bless him!" cried Lasune: “Then I may see him once more before I die.-You never saw him," turning to Lonquillez, “but Le Blanc remembers him well; the handsomest, sweetest, best conditioned-Your mistress and he have often sat on that bench there-Lord pity my forgetfulness! it was far from this place; but it was just such a bench-and they would prefer poor Lasune's little treat to all the fine things at my master's; and how he would look on my sweet child!-Well, well, destiny rules every thing; but there was a time when I thought I should have called her by another name

than Montauban."--Lonquillez was too much struck with her words to appear unaffected by them; she observed his surprise. "You think no harm, I hope," said she. He assured her he did not. 66 Nay, I need not care, for that part, who hears me; yet some folks might think it odd: But we are all friends here, as we may say, and neither of you, I know, are tale-bearers, otherwise I should not prattle as I do; especially, as the last time I saw my lady, when I asked after her foster-brother, she told me, I must not speak of him now, nor talk of the meetings they used to have at my house."

Such were her words: the memory of Lonquillez is faithful, and he was interested to remember.-I drew my breath short, and muttered vengeance. The good fellow saw my warmth, and tried to moderate it. "It is a matter, sir," said he, “of such importance, that, if I may presume to advise, nothing should be believed rashly. If my mistress loves Savillon, if he still answers her fondness, they will surely write to each other. I commonly take charge of the letters for the post; if you can find any proof that way, it cannot lie nor deceive you.'

I have agreed to his proposal.-How am I fallen, Segarva, when such artifices are easy to me!-But I will not pause on trivial objections -the fate of Montauban is set upon this cast, and the lesser moralities must speak unheeded.

LETTER XLI.

Montauban to Segarva.

Ir is something to be satisfied of the worst. I have now such proof, Segarva !-Inquiry is at an end, and vengeance is the only business I have left. Before you can answer this-the infamy of your friend cannot be erased, but it shall be washed in blood!

Lonquillez has just brought me a letter from my wife to Mademoiselle de Roncilles, a bosom friend of hers at Paris. He opened it by a very simple operation, without hurting its appear

ance.

It consisted only of a few hurried lines, desiring her to deliver an enclosed letter to Savillon, and to take charge of his answer.―That letter now lies before me.-Read it, Segarvathou wilt wish to stab her while thou read'st it -but Montauban has a dagger too.

"I know not, sir, how to answer the letter my friend Mademoiselle de Roncilles has just sent me from you. The intimacy of our former days I still recal, as one of the happiest periods of my life. The friendship of Julia you are certainly still entitled to, and might claim, without the suspicion of impropriety, though fate

has now thrown her into the arms of another. There would then be no occasion for this secret interview, which, I confess, I cannot help dreading; but as you urge the impossibility of your visiting Mons. de Montauban, without betraying emotions, which, you say, would be dangerous to the peace of us all, coniured as I am by those motives of compassion, which my heart is, perhaps, but too susceptible of for my own peace, I have at last, not without a feeling like remorse, resolved to meet you on Monday next, at the house of our old nurse Lasune, whom I shall prepare for the purpose, and on whose fidelity I can perfectly rely. I hope you will give me credit for that remembrance of Savillon, which your letter, rather unjustly, denies me, when. you find me agreeing to this measure of imprudence, of danger, it may be of guilt, to mitigate the distress which I have been unfortunate enough to give him."

I feel, at this moment, a sort of determined coolness, which the bending up of my mind to the revenge her crimes deserve, has conferred upon me; I have therefore underlined some passages in this damned scroll, that my friend may see the weight of that proof on which I proceed. Mark the air of prudery that runs through it, the trick of voluptuous vice to give pleasure the zest of nicety and reluctance." It may be of guilt." Mark with what coolness she invites him to participate it !-Is this the handwriting of Julia?-I am awake and see it.Julia! my wife! damnation!

I have been visiting this Lasune, whose house is destined for the scene of my wife's interview with her gallant. I feel the meanness of an inquisition, that degrades me into the wretched spy on an abandoned woman.I blushed and hesitated while I talked to this old doating minister of their pleasures. But the moment comes when I shall resume myself, when I shall burst upon them in the terrors of punishment.

Whether they have really imposed on the simplicity of this creature, I know not; but her answers to some distant questions of mine looked not like those of an accomplice of their guilt.Or, rather, it is I who am deceived; the cunning of intrigue is the property of the meanest among the sex-It matters not: I have proof without her.

She conducted me into an inner room fitted up with a degree of nicety. On one side stood a bed, with curtains and a bed-cover of clean

You caution me well as to the certainty of her guilt. You know the proof I have already acquired; but I will have assurance beyond the possibility of doubt: I will wait their very meeting before I strike this blow, and my vengeance, like that of Heaven, shall be justified by a repetition of her crimes.

I am less easily convinced, or rather I am less willing to be guided, by your opinion, as to the secrecy of her punishment. You tell me that there is but one expiation of a wife's infidelity.-I am resolved she dies-but that the sacrifice should be secret. Were I even to upbraid her with her crime, you say, her tears, her protestations, would outplead the conviction of sense itself, and I should become the dupe of that infamy I am bound to punish. Is there not something like guilt in this secrecy? Should Montauban shrink, like a coward, from the vindication of his honour?-Should he not burst upon this strumpet and her lover-the picture is beastly.sword of Montauban!-thou art in the right, it would disgrace it.-Let me read your letter again.

-The

I am a fool to be so moved-but your letter has given me back myself. "The disgrace is only published by an open revenge: it can be buried with the guilty by a secret one."-I am yours, Segarva, and you shall guide me.

Chance has been kind to me for the means. Once, in Andalusia, I met with a Venetian empiric, of whom, among other chemical curiosities, I bought a poisonous drug, the efficacy of which he shewed me upon some animals to whom he administered it. The death it gave was easy, and altered not the appearance of the thing it killed.

I have fetched it from my cabinet, and it stands before me. It is contained in a little square phial, marked with some hieroglyphic scrawls, which I do not understand. Methinks, while I look on it—I could be weak, very weak, Segarva-But an hour ago, I saw her walk, and speak, and smile-yet these few drops !—I will look on it no more—

I hear the tread of her feet in the apartment above. Did she know what passes in my mind! -the study in which I sit seems the cave of a demon!

Lonquillez has relieved me again. He has, this moment, got from her maid the following letter, addressed to her friend Mademoiselle de Roncilles. What a sex it is! but I have heard of their alliances of intrigue. It is not that these

"Is my friend too leagued against me? Alas! my virtue was too feeble before, and needed not the addition of Maria's arguments to be overcome. Savillon's figure, you say, aided by that languid paleness, which his late illness had given it, was irresistible-Why is not Julia sick? yet, wretched as she is, irretrievably wretched, she breathes, and walks, and speaks, as she did in her most happy days!

"You entreat me, for pity's sake, to meet him. 'He hinted his design of soon leaving France to return to Martinique.'-Why did he ever leave France? Had he remained contented with love and Julia, instead of this stolen, this guilty meeting-What do I say?—I live but for Montauban!

"I will think no longer-This one time I will silence the monitor within me-Tell him I will meet him. On Thursday next, let him be at Lasune's in the evening: it will be dark by six.

"I dare not read what I have written. Farewell."

It will be dark by six !-Yet I will keep my word, Segarva; they shall meet, that certainty may precede my vengeance; but, when they part, they part to meet no more! Lonquillez's fidelity I know: his soul is not that of a servant: he shall provide for Savillon. Julia is a victim above him-Julia shall be the charge of his master.

Farewell! when I write again, it shall not be to threaten.

LETTER XLIV.

Savillon to Herbert.

AFTER an interval of torture, I have at last received an answer from Madame de Montauban-Have I lived to write that name!—but it is fit that I be calm.

Her friend has communicated her resolution of allowing me to see her in the house of that good Lasune, whom I have mentioned to you in some of our conversations, as the common nurse of both. Were it not madness to look back, and that, at present, I need the full possession of myself, the idea of Lasune's house would recal such things—but they are past, never, never to return!

I have recovered, and can go on calmly. I set out to-morrow morning: Thursday next is the