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"But it only costs eight sous to ascend the towers," said Marcel.

"True; but on coming down we went to dine at Saint Germain. The 27th, nothing recorded. The 28th, to Baptiste on account, six francs. I am sure we cannot owe anything to Baptiste."

"Perhaps, on the contrary, he is indebted to us. We shall see.”

"The 30th. Ah, we had a dinner-party that day. Extra expenses, 55 francs. The 31st-that is to-day-we have spent nothing as yet. You see," said Marcel, as he concluded, "the account has been kept with great accuracy."

"Yes, but the total does not make 500 franes?"

"Then there must be some money in the chest."

"We can see," said Marcel, opening a drawer. "No, not a centime. But here is the receipt for rent. Oh, you paid for that, did you?"

"Me! Not at all, I assure you."

"What mystery is this?" Rodolphe and Marcel began to sing together from the finale of "La Dame Blanche." Baptiste, who was partial to music, made his appearance. Marcel showed him the receipt.

"Oh, yes," said Baptiste, "I forgot to tell you. The landlord called this morning while you were out, and I paid him, so that he might not have the trouble of calling again."

"But where did you get the money?"

"I took it out of the drawer which was open; I thought it might have been left open on purpose, and I said to myself, 'My masters have forgotten to say to me, on going out, Baptiste, the landlord will call, pay him what is due, and get a receipt.'"

"Baptiste," said Marcel, pale with anger, "you have trespassed; from this day henceforth you are no longer with us. Give up your livery, sir."

Baptiste took off his cap of waxed cloth which constituted his livery, and gave it to Marcel.

"It is well. Now you may go."

"But my salary?"

"What do you say, you rascal? You have had more than is due to you. I have given you fourteen francs within a fortnight."

"Shall I be abandoned, then," exclaimed the domestic, "without even shelter for my head!"

"Take back your livery," said Marcel, giving way to his emotion; and he gave the cap to Baptiste.

"Where shall we dine to day?" said Rodolphe to Marcel, as Baptiste withdrew from their service.

"Oh! we shall know that to-morrow," replied Marcel.

Life among the Bohemians is not always so cheerful, so self-sustaining, or so phoenix-like. There are episodes of dire distress and poignant suffering. Pangs of hunger and privation, followed by sickness and early death-always in the hospital-painfully depicted by the same author. There are also scenes of a less harmless character in Bohemian life than those we have selected, as more or less typical. The history of the manuscript of the famous drama, "Le Vengeur," sacrificed to procure an evening's warmth in a garret, so exposed that Rodolphe called it his Spitzbergen, and at other times, from the tedious and chilly ascent thereunto, his Mont St. Bernard; and the history of that renowned work of art, "The Passage of the Red Sea," which had been so often before the jury of the Louvre, and so often sent back again, that, had it been placed on wheels, it would have found its own way there; which met with equally bad success when converted into the "Passage of the Rubicon," and then into that of the Berezina; and which was ultimately purchased for 150 francs by the Jew Medicis, as a sign of the harbour of Marseilles; are at once clever and amusing sketches of Bohemian life. But there are also many chapters of M. Murger's work which depict the same life in a truly reprehensible form, and which we merely mention that it shall not be said we passed them by without a word of condemnation.

VELTHINAS; OR, THE ORDEAL OF SACRIFICE.

A BIOGRAPHY.

CHAPTER I.

THE SHRINE.

I WAS a father, and with the birth of my child I became a new man. The inspiration of parental feeling gave me power to combat selfish temptation, to direct my ambition into the noblest channels; and for a time I succeeded in my aim. Great was the rejoicing: there were banquets held at the castle, and its festivities extended many miles around; the wealthy and poor alike were regaled. Every means of amusement was put in requisition; music, dancing, the play, these took the place of toil, and filled up the intervals of festive hours.

And not without a ready acquiescence on my part, it was proposed that a drama, the production of my own pen, should be performed within the castle walls. The summer having passed rapidly away, when Angus, and other select friends returned, the proposal was again made, and ere many more weeks elapsed the rehearsal was begun. My pride was gratified; for what is so pleasing to a sensitive mind, in whose recesses lie dormant half their time the highest principles of thought, as an energetic rehearsal of its choice ideas by men of feeling and taste? The creations of the greatest writers contribute to our pleasure in a less degree than do our own ideas, so naturally do these re-enter their former home, however humble, and so accordant they once more prove with associations of old. Hence, indeed, are authors deceived by their own powers, unless possessed of judgment; and are led to regard their compositions as perfect for the world's use as well as for their own.

Here, then, was an opportunity of acquiring for myself that distinction which my heart had craved from youth-the unanimous applause of the best judges of tragic story. I was disposed to invite men of the subtlest minds, critics and scholars whose intellect and fancy were equally refiued, thus procuring to myself an opportunity of putting forward with success those spiritualisations which are rarely appreciated more than once, and that but for a season, in every age. The first and last to value me on

account of my ability was Ariosto, at this time among the departed: but there was one left whose good opinion I desired to gain yet more than that of the noble poet himself—this was the manly and mysterious Angus.

There are themes which, dissevered from the mass of history, by having been subjected to the crucible of analytical and refining thought, are not known again save to the alchymist to whose practised hands the process is familiar-to common observers appearing purely ideal, and without a link of sympathy with the actual world. Yet it is remarkable as a fact, that these very themes, and their treatment, are perfectly simple to a higher class of minds, the specially created few who can read off elementary truth at its source, whose philosophy, instead of freezing the imagination, elevates and receives from it a golden light.

A theme of this character, and one in harmony with a destiny which more and more allied me with the lesser saviours of my race, and in some

degree with the great One of mankind, had long rested upon me, and, as from airy tents, the spirits of a play had wandered through each avenue of fancy amid stately thoughts. My mind had dwelt upon it long and often, had slept to resume the subject, until at length the tragical procession paused, and its actors assumed the immovable attitudes of a by-gone time. The theme was not the great one, the immolation of virtue by the world, but the next in order, the sacrifice of genius by man; and on it I had dwelt until my nature appeared glorified, though under saddest prospects. No successes that I could myself reap, or had already gathered, could root out the shame I felt to think that most illustrious souls had struggled to impress their tendencies on man's nature without success, had suffered-but not to save.

Then let me depict the character of such a sufferer! Not as the silent soul who patiently bears all from his cradle to his grave, and has his name enshrined as a patient one, and meek example, instead of being recorded as the wonder of the intelligent handful which he should-or the light of the shaded multitude which he might-have been! No; I would not pause to lament-rather did I set to work to remedy his fate; and as I think of it now, I am fired again as an instrument of vengeance divine to scoff at human portraits and human names, and shout for the obscure and immortal. If as I perform this act of energetic love I am dechristianised by creatures whose looks weaken under the profession of a religious life, let my solitude be one of self-glorification, while, rather than live in communion with such passive fiends, let my hatred of them burst through the incrustations of Christian charity which have gathered round my heart, and leave them cracked as by an earthquake!

Yet how far it was possible to develop such a conception, was a matter of experiment; I felt, meantime, encouraged by the permanence of my emotions, and their consistency throughout. I needed no inspiration of man or heaven; the passion, to fully depict all that I contemplated, was strong and inexhaustible within myself.

I began by introducing a soul escaped from death, and speedily lodged in purgatory; its offence not moral, and consisting only in resistance to the conventional decrees of heaven. Submission chiefly was desired; by its means an act of oblivion being obtainable, its virtue such as not only to carry with it the pardon of an offended Godhead, but that of the offender towards himself-since to his release were to succeed pleasures eternal. Yet a conscience, thus easily supposed to convict and forgive itself what it deemed a virtue, is, in case of resistance, however true to prescriptive laws, unceremoniously consigned to a world less happy still; a place out of the reach of revolving suns, or even satellites, and at the idea of whose sombre vales the omnipresent bounty itself revolts. But what had been the career on earth of this soul in durance? The spirit of genius-he had sacrificed himself to the good of his own kind, the order of the thoughtful. He wished to save his successors, and procure them better terms, to effect which he stood aloof of good and evil powers alike, a conspicuous example of how tardy is justice even from above. It was the will, which is all that is immortal, reposing leisurely until the merits of truth should become a phrase; the will-which must survive though the heart of nature break, and justice has to be born again. The characters in the piece were few, consisting of the strong and resisting soul-Durante, who is discovered chained to the ruins of

the temple of Ægina, named Panhellenium; of Aculeus, the tempter and fiend; of Unice, an evil female spirit; of, finally, an Angel of Peace, and Chorus of Ancient Names.

It took a few days to commit my conception of the play to verse; the corrections which were required I made at the rehearsals. Not many alterations, however, were demanded, for the ideas, from having been so long dwelt on, had become words in my memory before they were written down.

It was not long before the loose sheets were submitted to Musonio and Angus, who were satisfied with their first glance at the production.

one.

The only difficulty was the distribution of the characters. Musonio was only willing to take the part of an ancient in the Chorus; Angus wished to personate Durante; and for the angel, Ippolito was the very Then came Unice, and Aculeus the fiend. For the former, in point of beauty and attractiveness, Adora was the being; but who was to be the fiend? This question was constantly asked, but never answered. It entered into no one's thoughts to propose me, and the only other capable of joining in the piece was Evadne. Ere long, it became part of every salutation when we met, Who is to be the fiend? which occasioned us a little merriment.

One evening, in the brief interval of twilight, I was seated in the recess of a Gothic window in a room opening upon the lawn, when Angus, Musonio, and Ippolito walked directly through the apartment to the terrace. Angus paused a moment before a mirror without seeing me, and displayed his fine countenance in the glass. Regarding himself with a peculiar seriousness, he repeated the words, "Who is to be the fiend?" and, remaining a moment with earnest look, as if he awaited a reply, passed on. Musonio followed, stopping as Angus had done, though with a less serious aspect, and repeating the same sentence, "Who is to be the fiend ?" Ippolito was one of the party, and he, too, thought it necessary to say the same, and with sweet, becoming looks, asked also, "Who is to be the fiend?" By this time the room was dark, and before the party could reach the open air, I exclaimed, in answer to their questions, and in a feigned and deep voice, "I!"

I could just observe that all stood still; then, without remark, stepped upon the terrace. I followed, and after I had overtaken them, Angus stopped before the window where I had sat, and said, "I see a figure gliding along the wall; it must be that of him who answered I.'" They turned, but, seeing me, started back: no remark was made; they were evidently puzzled to find that I should have been there, and not in the room whence the voice had issued, while I was uneasy at the thought that I could not have been alone in the apartment. Angus, perhaps, doubted whether he had seen a real personage, or one of our shadows only, for he made no further remark.

In the course of the evening there were signs of a storm, and the Signora Trivulzio was, as usual, alarmed for our safety: to a thunder-storm her whole life in the south had failed to reconcile her. She opened the windows and doors; then shut them, as if to try what would best allay her fears. In the interval of these movements, which somewhat interfered with our studies of "Il Durante," we were startled by a voice outside the window calling loudly, "Who is to be the fiend?" We were in an exciting scene of the drama at the time, and, before we had time to move,

the same voice distinctly answered, "I!" The word died away; then the thunder burst again with tremendous roar, as if glorying in the vast regions over which it moved.

We looked about; we gazed at the darkness outside; the next moment a vivid flash of lightning showed us the green lawn, the shadowy trees, the waters, the darkly mottled sky, and a human figure running. All was again dark.

CHAPTER II.

THE arts which I had studied in early life under my father's eye never ceased to engage my attention. Though at one time travelling, at another occupied in study, I did not forget the use of the brush or chisel. Since the scene hard by the convent, in which sorrow and penitence overcast me, some hours of my time had been daily devoted to the canvas; I strove to initiate into being a work to commemorate that hour.

From this employment I now rested for a time, in order to accomplish, with the assistance of a practised scene-painter from Florence, another task: to produce for the dramatic representation an appropriate scene, combining illustrations such as would sustain the effects of the performI also designed the costume of the characters.

ance.

It was determined that Evadne should enact the part of the noted fiend: there were portions of it certainly which might be objected to by a female actor, such as the advocacy, though unsuccessful, of wicked deeds; and this applied to the character of Unice too ;-but in a drama all cannot perform exalted parts.

We had our rehearsals every week: the Signora Trivulzio and I were the only spectators. The part of Durante prospered in the hands of Angus, who took an earnest pleasure in its study. The opening of the piece seemed to strike us all with force, as we heard Angus, who had come among us with all the familiarity of an old friend, commence with an air of solemn inquiry, as if he applied it to himself:

"What brings me here? Am I a spirit damned-who from the short repose of death arisen-pain for an instant soothed, do thus awake;—the fresh remembrance of a yester world-gushing upon me? And in this strange place-alone and calm, if courage unperplexed-be named tranquillity !"

The allusions to his presence there, though fortuitously applying to himself at Aula, had a force which in some degree increased the effect produced by the mere speech. His whole frame appeared to expand in triumph as he proceeded to descant on his accession to immortality; and gloomy as his prospect was, he felt the realisation of his faith; he made others partake it too.

"The anxious doubt-of lasting life can now no more perplex ;-the present is existence without end."

Changing his voice and manner, he pursued the subject:

"O soul eternal! thus I hail thee now,-since thou dost still on this side death endure;-where is thy seat, in hell? This is not heaven— though torment come not; but a heathen waste,-sad glory's last abode, whose might remains;-where sympathy, the fount of every soul,-in a sepulchral atmosphere congeals.'

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Sentiments like these Angus enjoyed, and he was conscious of his

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