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 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 LIGHT AND DARKNESS 
 
 MYSTERIES OF LIEE. 
 
 BY 
 
 MRS. CATHERINE CROWE, 
 
 AUTHOR OP 
 "the NIGHTSIDE of nature," "SUSAN HOPLEY," &C. 
 
 IX THREE VOLUMES. 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON: 
 HENRY COLBURX, PUBLISHER, 
 
 GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET. 
 
 1S50.
 
 LONDON: 
 
 Printed by Schulze and Co., 13, Poland Street.
 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 f Although most of the tales which these 
 
 volumes comprise have appeared in various 
 
 '« periodicals ; yet as each of these brochures only 
 
 preaches a circle or class, and there are many 
 
 si 
 
 •^persons who never see such publications at all, I 
 
 2 have thought it advisable to put forth my stories 
 
 J;^ in a collected form ; an honour of which I hope 
 
 ^they will not be found altogether unworthy ; 
 
 vj especially the Tales of Continental Jurispru- 
 
 ^ dence ; such as " The Tile Burner and his
 
 IV PREFACE. 
 
 Family/' ^' The Story of the Priest of St. 
 Quentin/' " The Bride's Journey/' &c. &c., 
 which appear to me to possess a peculiar interest 
 for the reader. 
 
 CATHERINE CROWE. 
 
 SEPTEMBER 25, 1850.
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 THE FIRST VOLUME. 
 
 THK ACCUSATION .... 
 
 THE MORNING VISITOR 
 
 THE TWO MISS SMITHS 
 
 THE TILE-BURNER AND HIS FAMILY 
 
 THE bride's JOURNEY 
 
 PAGE 
 1 
 
 . 215 
 
 . 237 
 . 267 
 . 299
 
 LIGHT AND DARKKESS. 
 
 L 
 
 THE ACCUSATION. 
 
 VOL. I,
 
 THE ACCUSATION. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 It is now nearly three centuries ago that 
 there existed in the south of France, not far 
 from Toulouse, a family called Chateauroux. 
 Like one or two other great families of that 
 nation, they counted up to the Deluge at 
 least : nothing could be more satisfactory 
 than their genealogical tree, root and branch ; 
 but, unfortunately, it was pretty nearly the 
 only one they possessed, and the parchment 
 it covered would almost itself have covered 
 the remnant of the patrimonial estate that
 
 4 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 remained to them. They had been rich in 
 their day ; but extravagances on the one 
 hand, and occasional confiscations and fines 
 for political offences on the other, had gradu- 
 ally reduced them from wealth to poverty — 
 the worst kind of poverty, that which is 
 accompanied by a sounding title and aristo- 
 cratic pretensions. 
 
 The possessor of these visionary grandeurs, 
 at the period at which our story commences, 
 was called Joachim — Count Joachim de 
 Chateauroux. Like all the nobility of 
 France in former times, he was in the 
 army ; and, unlike many, had seen a good 
 deal of service. He was a worthy man, 
 tenderly attached to his wife and to his only 
 son Philibert — these two names of Joachim 
 and Philibert being hereditary in the family ; 
 and he w^ould have been a happy and con- 
 tented one, had it not been for his own 
 pecuniary difficulties, and the painful future 
 he anticipated for this beloved child, whom
 
 THE ACCUSATION. 5 
 
 embarrassments, greater than those he was 
 himself the victim of, necessarily awaited; 
 for since it was beneath the dignity of so 
 distinguished a race to exercise any profitable 
 occupation, their circumstances inevitably 
 deterioratea with every generation, unless a 
 fortunate marriage happened to repair them. 
 Occasional alliances with wealthy heiresses 
 had indeed hitherto alone rescued the Cha- 
 teauroux from utter ruin ; but their family 
 pride, and the desire to maintain the purity 
 of their blood, had stood greatly in their way 
 in respect of these salutary infusions, since 
 they abjured all connection with fortunes 
 accumulated by commerce, and Were only 
 willing to accept for their sons the hereditary 
 heiresses of noble families, who were too 
 much in request to be easily obtained. 
 
 As for Count Joachim himself, he had 
 done nothing toward the redeeming the for- 
 tunes of his house. He had married while 
 absent from home on service, and his wife
 
 O LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 was never seen at Chateanroux till after the 
 death of his father. He was himself sud- 
 denly called home to see the old Count expire; 
 and sometime afterwards the lady arrived, 
 apparently ver}^ ill, and in great trouble. 
 And well she might be ; for she had under- 
 taken her journey at that most awful of all pe- 
 riods of French history, the massacre of St. 
 Bartholomew — had been attacked in the night 
 by the assassins at Limoges — had seen her 
 infant son torn from her arms and murdered, 
 whilst she herself had almost miraculously 
 escaped with her life, and through great 
 difficulties reached her husband's home. In 
 process of time, however, another son was 
 born to console them for the loss of the 
 first ; and in him all their hopes and anxie- 
 ties now centred. But his mother did not 
 long survive to share them. She never 
 recovered the shock she had received on that 
 fearful night, and the care of the boy soon 
 devolved wholly on the father.
 
 THE ACCUSATION. 7 
 
 Although no one knew exactly of what 
 family the lady was that Count Joachim had 
 married, it was generally understood that the 
 union had been very obnoxious to his con- 
 nections ; and it was very evident that she 
 had brought no fortune to compensate her 
 other deficiencies. She was extremely hand- 
 some and amiable ; but these qualities con- 
 cerned nobody but her husband, and counted 
 for nothing with the rest of his generation, 
 who accordingly hated her, and were ex- 
 tremely glad when she was dead. 
 
 The Count's difficulties, however, were by 
 no means diminished by this satisfactory 
 event, which to him, indeed, was a ver\^ griev- 
 ous one ; on the contrary, his affairs, as might 
 be expected, grew rather w^orse than better, 
 from the want of the superintending eye of 
 the judicious wife, and it was as much as he 
 could do to keep his head above water, and 
 educate his son; and as the only hope he 
 could anchor on was a union with an heiress,
 
 8 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 all his thoughts were directed to the accom- 
 plishment of that desirable object. But the 
 affair was difficult. Young Philibert, like 
 his father, had a fancy for youth and beauty, 
 and wanted to choose for himself; whilst the 
 old Count, who had outlived and forgotten 
 the foibles of his own youth, was both as- 
 tonished and indignant at his son's weakness, 
 more especially when the young man refused 
 to pay his court to Madame de Rosemont, 
 nee de la Rive, a lady of unexceptionable 
 blood, an heiress in her own right, in posses- 
 sion of a large jointure bequeathed by her 
 first husband, and, in short, one of the rich- 
 est matches in Languedoc. But young Phili- 
 bert, though he desired the fortune, extremely 
 objected to taking the lady along with it ; 
 and it was for a long time in vain that his 
 father dilated on the various good qualities 
 she possessed, and on the happiness he might 
 promise himself in such a union. He re- 
 presented that all this might be very true, but
 
 THE ACCUSATION. 9 
 
 that she was ten years too old, and had never 
 been handsome, and that, moreover, he was 
 in love with Emily de Preville, who had a 
 large fortune, and was also in love with 
 him. 
 
 "To what purpose," asked his father, 
 " when she is betrothed to the Due de Tre- 
 mouille ?" 
 
 And the question was a very pertinent one, 
 for young ladies in France do not even now 
 choose their own husbands, and still less did 
 so then ; and there was not the most remote 
 chance that the Marquis de Preville would 
 forego an aUiance with the wealthy Duke, to 
 give his daughter to a poor Count, though 
 the young people had been twenty times more 
 in love than they were. 
 
 However, two events occurred almost 
 simultaneously that sufficed to conquer the 
 young man's opposition to his father's wishes. 
 First, Emily de Preville married the gentle- 
 man she was affianced to. She would rather
 
 10 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 have married Philibert ; but if she had per- 
 sisted in saying so, she would have been shut 
 up in a convent till she was brought to a 
 more reasonable state of mind ; so she drop- 
 ped a few tears to the memory of her young 
 love-dream, and then gracefully submitted to 
 become a Duchess. Philibert was furiously 
 miserable for a month, and held frequent and 
 serious debates mth himself as to the judi- 
 ciousness of blowing out his brains at the gate 
 of the Duke's castle ; but before he had settled 
 this point to his mind, his father was taken 
 alarmingly ill, and when on his death-bed, 
 having disclosed to his son the amount of 
 the family embarrassment, he obtained a pro- 
 mise that he would lose no time in prose- 
 cuting his suit with the rich widow; and, 
 indeed, when the old Count was dead, and 
 the young one began to feel the weight of 
 the burden that had devolved on his own 
 shoulders, namely, the biu-den of maintaining 
 and feeding an establishment without any
 
 THE ACCUSATION. 11 
 
 adequate means of doing it, he was willing 
 enough to escape the dilenmma by so facile an 
 expedient. So he duly commenced his course 
 of love, which, as it was but a counterfeit, 
 naturally ran smooth enough — for it is only 
 real love that is doomed to encounter so 
 many rocks and shallows. Madame de la 
 Rive de Rosemont, though assuredly not 
 blind to the motives that prompted his suit, 
 was still weak enough to be pleased and flat- 
 tered by his attentions ; and was not a little 
 captivated by the graceful vivacity and agree- 
 able person of her lover. Thus, no long 
 siege was necessary ; the lady capitulated 
 after a month's feeble resistance, and at the 
 end of the second the marriage ceremony was 
 performed with all the splendour that became 
 their condition and her great wealth. 
 
 And now it seemed quite certain that, if 
 he pleased, the young Count de Chateauroux 
 might have been very happy. Youth and 
 beauty he had not obtained, it is true ; but
 
 12 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 Sophie de la Rive was an amiable, cheeri\il, 
 liberal woman, who sat no bounds to his 
 command of her fortune, and who was well 
 disposed to indulge him in all the whims and 
 caprices that sudden affluence is apt to gen- 
 der. She was fond of society, made all his 
 friends welcome to her house, and in fact was 
 extremely attached to him, and very well 
 disposed to make him a kind and indulgent 
 wife ; and thus, with all the elements of con- 
 tentment and prosperity, the first three 
 months passed very agreeably. But about 
 the fourth month light clouds began to flit 
 across the horizon. The first gloss of his 
 new possessions and way of life having some- 
 what worn off, Philibert, in the wantonness 
 of youth, and with that hungry appetite for 
 pleasures that ever asks for more, began to 
 seek variety and excitement in small flirta- 
 tions with the young and handsome visitors 
 of his wife. 
 
 Now, this Sophie could not suffer; jea-
 
 THE ACCUSATION. 13 
 
 lousy was her weak side; and indulgent as 
 she was upon all other matters, in the matter 
 of fidelity she was a dragon. So she pouted 
 and affected coldness; and when that plan 
 ceased to produce any effect, she expostulated 
 and wept. But tears have no eloquence to 
 reach the heart of man, unless they stream 
 from bright eyes and fall upon blooming 
 cheeks ; poor Madame de Chateauroux might 
 as well have seared up the sluices of hers as 
 hope to gain her point by them. Her com- 
 plexion at the best was but indifferent, and 
 when she wept, the point of her nose became 
 red, and her cheeks rough and spotty, defects 
 extremely offensive to the taste of Philibert, 
 and he was only driven by a spectacle so dis- 
 agreeable to direct his eyes more pertinaciously 
 to the youth and beauty around him, for the 
 purpose of avoiding the unpleasing and intru- 
 sive object. 
 
 Of course, this harshness reacted upon 
 her, and the stage that next ensued was
 
 14 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 still more critical. The disappointed and 
 neglected wife became angry ; complaints that 
 grew louder, and reproaches that gained bit- 
 terness from day to day and from week to 
 week, alienated and disgusted the thoughtless 
 husband in proportion to their violence, till 
 at length he began to seek his pleasures and 
 amusements where this persecution, as he 
 deemed it, could not follow him. He made 
 frequent journeys — sometimes to visit his 
 friends in the provinces, sometimes to Paris 
 on business ; and as in those days the 
 nobility of France were bound to serve 
 with the army at certain intervals, as vassals 
 to the Crown, he sometimes stayed away 
 months together on the plea of performing 
 this duty. 
 
 In the meantime, Madame de Chateauroux 
 passed her life in alternations of solitude and 
 society. Sometimes she would shut herself 
 up, and refuse to see any one, whilst she 
 mourned over the suspected infidelities and
 
 THE ACCUSATION. 15 
 
 real neglect of her Lothario ; and at others 
 she plunged into a vortex of company, in 
 order to dissipate her ennui, and banish the 
 recollection of her disappointment. But, of 
 course, the world found easily the key to all 
 these inconsistencies. It was known that th^ 
 menage of the Chateauroux was a very un- 
 happy one ; their squabbles and their recon- 
 ciliations formed the subject of frequent 
 discussion amongst their acquaintance, and 
 in due course of time their domestic dissen- 
 sions had become matters of such notoriety, 
 that the names of the ill-matched pair was in 
 everybody's mouth, high and low, and at 
 length had grown to be a proverb and a by- 
 word in the country. 
 
 Under these circumstances, it may readily 
 be conceived that the Count's absences grew 
 longer, and his ^dsits shorter ; and that when 
 he did come home, his reception was not 
 such as to induce him to remain there. In- 
 deed, the Countess, whose jealousy and irri-
 
 16 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 tation rendered her careless of what she said, 
 did not scruple to aver that she was quite 
 sure he never would come home at all, if it 
 were not that he wanted money; and per- 
 haps she was not far v^ong, for certain it 
 w^as, that M. de Francoeur, Madame de 
 Chateauroux's agent, intimated by frequent 
 hints and insinuations, that the Count's 
 drafts upon the revenue were increasing 
 to a very serious amount. 
 
 They had been married about five or six 
 years, and affairs had reached the unpleasant 
 position we have described, when one even- 
 ing, about nine o'clock, the Countess being at 
 table with a party of friends, whom she was 
 entertaining at supper, the gate bell rang, 
 and through the open window of the saloon 
 the sound of a horse's foot was heard upon the 
 gravel. The Countess turned pale, the guests 
 looked at each other; there was a rush of ser- 
 vants to the hall ; and before ^ny one at the 
 table had broken the ominous silence, the door
 
 THE ACCUSATION. 17 
 
 of the saloon was thrown open, and the cham- 
 berlain announced " Monsieur le Comte !" 
 Of course everybody rose to greet the master 
 of the house — everj^body but the Countess, 
 who sat still, affecting indifference, but in 
 reality struggling bet^^Txt joy and resent- 
 ment ; for in spite of all his misdemeanours, 
 she loved him still, and in her heart w^as glad 
 to see him ; but, as is unfortunately the cus- 
 tom of ladies on similar occasions, she ap- 
 peared exactly the reverse. In short, no 
 reception could be more ungracious, and the 
 spectators of the scene very generally came 
 to the conclusion, that, if that w^ere the wel- 
 come he met with at home, he could scarcely 
 be blamed for staying away from it. 
 
 However, he on his part seemed to take 
 no notice of his wife's demeanour. Having 
 silently saluted her, and exchanged a few 
 words with those of the party he was best 
 acquainted with, he took his seat at the table, 
 and endeavoured, by maintaining the current 
 
 VOL. I. c
 
 18 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 of conversation, to set the company at ease. 
 But it was in vain. This very attempt at 
 cheerfulness and sociality only irritated his 
 vdfe the more. She intei-preted every smile 
 into insult, and even her good breeding could 
 scarcely control the ferment of her feelings 
 from bursting into words ; till at length her 
 lowering brow and ominous silence having 
 completely defeated every attempt at resus- 
 citating the conviviahty of the meeting, the 
 embarrassed visitors, alarmed at the incandes- 
 cence, and dreading that, if they did not 
 hasten their departure, they might not escape 
 the conflagration, suddenly called for their 
 carriages, and wishing the unfortunate couple 
 — what they had little hopes of their enjoy- 
 ing — a very good night, they drove away 
 from the door, under the full persuasion that, 
 before they reached the park gates, this ill- 
 suppressed rage would explode into open 
 quarrel. 
 
 And they were right. A quarrel there
 
 THE ACCUSATION. 19 
 
 was, as it afterwards appeared; and many 
 high words were overheard by the servants. 
 For two hours after the company had de- 
 parted, the angry voices of the unhappy pair 
 resounded through the silent house — the 
 tones of the lady loud and passionate ; those 
 of the gentleman bitter and contemptuous ; 
 whilst the listening menials, half awed and 
 half amused, sat exchanging significant glances 
 in the hall. At length the dispute seemed 
 to have reached its climax ; chairs were 
 pushed back, the door of the saloon opened, 
 and the husband and wife were heard to come 
 out of the room. Upon this the Countess's 
 maid arose and prepared to attend her mis- 
 tress up stairs ; whilst one of the men ac- 
 companied her to wait upon the Count. As 
 they advanced along the passage which led to 
 the foot of the great staircase, they paused 
 a moment to allow the disputants to ascend 
 before them ; and as the Countess laid her 
 hand on the latch of her own door, they 
 
 C 2
 
 20 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 distinctly heard her bid her husband beware ! 
 for that ere long she would find a means of 
 vengeance he little thought of, and he should 
 he made to feel the consequences of ill- 
 treating a ivoman of her rank and con- 
 dition. The Count made her a short and 
 contemptuous answer, and then, turning in a 
 different direction, entered his chamber, and 
 closed the door. 
 
 The two servants now ascended the stairs, 
 and having performed their respective offices, 
 retired. The maid Clarice observed that the 
 countenance of her mistress bore an expres- 
 sion of concentrated rage ; her cheeks were 
 pale, her lips compressed, her eyes fixed ; 
 and she was so wrapt in intense abstraction 
 as to be apparently unconscious of the girl's 
 presence. Mechanically, and in silence, she 
 submitted to the accustomed operations of 
 the coucher — and the coucher of a French 
 Countess of that period, as well as the lever, 
 was a very elaborate affair — ever and anon
 
 THE ACCUSATION. 21 
 
 drawing a long, slow respiration from her 
 over-charged breast, raising her clenched fist 
 to her closed lips, or pressing the points of 
 her jewelled fingers firmly upon her brow, as 
 if her brain laboured with some portentous 
 thought — a birth too monstrous to take on a 
 definite shape. 
 
 Impressed with the demeanour of her 
 mistress, Clarice felt too much awed to in- 
 terrupt her meditations even by the accus- 
 tomed Bon soir, Madame ! And when her 
 service was accomplished, and she had closed 
 the door as silently as she could, she stept 
 along the vestibule on the points of her toes, 
 and shut herself into her own chamber, using 
 as much precaution to avoid any sound that 
 might break upon the stillness of the night, 
 as do the watchers of the dying or the 
 dead. 
 
 The behaviour of the Count during the 
 attendance of his servant Morel was different. 
 His countenance exhibited little trace of
 
 22 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 disturbance, and his behaviour none of ab- 
 straction. He asked a few questions about 
 general matters, gave some orders for the 
 next day, and desired to have breakfast in 
 his study at an earlier hour than usual, as he 
 expected his agent to be with him on busi- 
 ness. " You had better call me at nine," 
 said he ; " and if the morning is chiUy, make 
 a fire in the stove." 
 
 " Oui, Monsieur," answered Morel, as he 
 closed the door and retired to bed, wondering 
 that his mistress could not contrive to live 
 on better terms with so agreeable a gen- 
 tleman. 
 
 From that moment the Count de Chateau- 
 roux disappeared from the castle. When 
 Morel went to call him on the following 
 morning, he was not in his chamber ; when 
 he inquired for him below, nobody had seen 
 him ; and though the fire was lighted in the 
 study, and the breakfast prepared at the 
 appointed hour, still the Count did not
 
 THE ACCUSATION. 23 
 
 appear. They sought him in the grounds, 
 and rang the great bell of the tower to adver- 
 tise him that breakfast waited, but still he 
 came not; and after waiting a reasonable 
 time, the agent, M. de Francoeur, who, ac- 
 cording to appointment had come to break- 
 fast with him, having taken a cup of coffee, 
 went away, desiring the servants to let him 
 know when theii* master returned. But hour 
 after hour passed ; the afternoon, and even- 
 ing, and night came, and nothing was heard 
 of him ; and then the servants began to look 
 strangely in each other's faces. Clarice re- 
 membered the singular deportment of her 
 mistress on the preceding evening, and Morel 
 remarked that it was evident the Count had 
 quitted his bed in haste, for the clothes had 
 been thrown off with such violence, that they 
 lay almost all on the floor at the foot of it. 
 
 When the second day passed without any 
 intelligence of their master, their wonder and 
 amazement were proportionally augmented ;
 
 24 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 but when not only days but weeks had 
 elapsed, without any solution of the mystery, 
 strange murmurs began to circulate amongst 
 them. Morel and Clarice ventured to whis- 
 per that the sheet which lay on the floor had 
 been stained with blood ; and the latter de- 
 clared that, having laid her hand on the 
 balustrade as she descended the stairs on the 
 following morning, she had been struck with 
 horror at observing marks of blood upon it. 
 Then they combined with these circumstances 
 the Countess's long discontent, her uncon- 
 trollable irritation on the night of her hus- 
 band's return, together with the parting threat 
 overheard by Clarice and Morel ; and as their 
 suspicions grew stronger their voices grew 
 louder — till, ere long, these hints reaching 
 the outside of the castle, they gradually ex- 
 tended beyond the domain and dependents, 
 and began to circulate amongst the public. 
 Next, the authorities heard of them ; still for 
 some time the rank and character of the
 
 THE ACCUSATION. 25 
 
 Countess were looked upon as a sufficient 
 guarantee of her innocence ; but the public 
 voice grew louder and louder, the Count's 
 family began to stir in the affair, and at 
 length some of its members waited on the 
 Countess, and begged to know what she 
 could tell them in regard to her husband's 
 strange disappearance. 
 
 Madame de Chateauroux answered that 
 she saw nothing strange in the matter, and 
 that she could not conceive why anybody else 
 should. The Count had long been in the 
 habit of leaving her for weeks, and some- 
 times months, during which interv^als he never 
 wrote to her ; and that, in short, she did not 
 suppose he would ever return to her at all, if 
 it were not that he wanted money. 
 
 " When his funds are exhausted he will 
 come, no doubt ; and in the meantime I can 
 give you no information about him." 
 
 This was the sum of all they could extract 
 from her ; and when they gave her to under-
 
 26 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 stand that they were not satisfied, and that 
 further means must be taken to elucidate the 
 mystery, she only smiled, and seeming utterly 
 unconcerned, told them they were welcome 
 to take any means they pleased. 
 
 On the day succeeding this visit, intelli- 
 gence reached the castle that the authorities 
 were about to institute further proceedings ; 
 and on the ensuing night. Morel and Clarice 
 fled, at least they were nowhere to be found ; 
 and the Countess took refuge with her 
 friends. When the officers arrived, there 
 was therefore nobody to take into custody ; 
 but after examining the premises and inter- 
 rogating the servants, they went away, fully 
 persuaded that Madame de Chateauroux had 
 murdered her husband in the night, and that 
 Clarice and Morel had been her accomplices. 
 It is true, that these two people had been her 
 principal accusers, and that all the other wit- 
 nesses gave them up as their authority. They 
 had undoubtedly made very indiscreet use
 
 THE ACCUSATION. 27 
 
 of their tongues ; but the wan' officers looked 
 upon this apparent indiscretion as a cunning 
 manoeuvre to divert suspicion from them- 
 selves ; and certain it was that their flight 
 told more severely against their mistress than 
 their evidence could have done. 
 
 So powerfully indeed did this circumstance 
 operate against her, that in spite of the great 
 exceptions and consideration afi'orded by the 
 Legislature at that period to persons of rank 
 and condition, Madame de Chateauroux was 
 pursued to the house of her brother, M. de 
 la Rive, and in spite of her own declarations 
 of innocence, and the indignant protestations 
 of her family, she was there arrested and 
 conveyed in her own carriage to the prison of 
 Aries ; whilst the public gossip was to the 
 effect, that Madame de Chateauroux had not 
 only murdered her husband in his sleep, but 
 that, in order to conceal her crime, she had 
 also made away with the principal witnesses 
 against her, Clarice and Morel.
 
 28 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 CHAPTER 11. 
 
 We left Madame de Chateauroux in 
 prison ; and as, in the very anomalous state 
 of French judicature at that period, the pro- 
 duction of the corpus delicti, in trials for 
 murder, was not held necessary to conviction, 
 the step from the prison to the scaffold was 
 often a very short one ; whilst it not unfre- 
 quently happened that after the supposed 
 criminal was dead, the supposed victim was 
 found to be alive ; and had the suspected 
 oifender in the present instance been an un- 
 connected and obscure person instead of the
 
 THE ACCUSATION. 29 
 
 Countess of Chateauroux, there is little doubt 
 but that she would soon have been beyond 
 the reach of help ; but as it was, her family 
 and friends rallied around her in considerable 
 force, and, by their influence, obtained that 
 the trial should be delayed till they had had 
 time to ascertain what had become of her 
 husband. 
 
 The public journals, with their immense 
 circulation, which now afi^ord such facilities 
 to people who wish to recover their lost 
 friends, or to conjure them, if they do not 
 mean to return themselves, " to send back 
 the key of the tea-chest," did not then exist, 
 and, consequently, an inquiry of this descrip- 
 tion was one of time and difficulty ; but as 
 the lady was wealthy, and their honour as 
 well as their affections involved in the result, 
 no expense was spared nor any means neg- 
 lected that the machinery of society then 
 furnished for the discovery of the missing 
 gentleman ; but their efforts were vain ; no
 
 / 
 
 30 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 traces of him could be detected, dead or alive. 
 And now the friends and connections of the 
 Count began to raise their voices and to insist 
 impatiently that the trial should no longer be 
 delayed ; and their declamations were, per- 
 haps, the louder that their regrets for their 
 relative were somewhat aggravated by per- 
 sonal considerations. They were poor; the 
 Count was the only wealthy member of the 
 family, and, therefore, the only one to whom 
 each could refer for aid in his occasional ex- 
 tremities ; and as he was a good-natured, 
 liberal young man, he had not turned a deaf 
 ear to their applications. In consequence, 
 therefore, of their interference, the proceed- 
 ings were at length resumed and pushed 
 forward with so much vigour, that a con- 
 viction was obtained, and Madame de Cha- 
 teauroux was condemned to die, after being 
 first submitted to the rack for the purpose 
 of extracting a confession. 
 
 The grief and dismay of her adherents
 
 THE ACCUSATION. 31 
 
 may be easily conceived; couriers were des- 
 patched to her two brothers, who were still 
 travelling over France in search of the Count, 
 to desire their immediate return ; whilst 
 numbers of the most considerable gentlemen 
 and ladies of Languedoc crowded into Aries 
 from their respective chateaux, in order to 
 lend their countenance and support to the 
 unhappy Countess and her family, and at the 
 same time to gratify their own love of excite- 
 ment by witnessing so rare a spectacle as the 
 execution of a lady of quality. The prepara- 
 tions for this sad ceremony were commensu- 
 rate with the rank of the criminal and the 
 interest of the public. Scaffolds were erected, 
 enormous prices were paid for windows, and 
 the commandant of the garrison was ordered 
 to hold his troops in readiness in case there 
 should appear any symptoms of an emeute 
 or a rescue on the part of the De la Rive 
 faction. 
 
 Two days before that fixed for the execu-
 
 32 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 tion arrived M. Eugene de la Rive, the 
 Countess's youngest brother. He was in a 
 state of \dolent agitation, indignantly ar- 
 raigned what he called the precipitancy of 
 the proceedings against his sister, which he 
 openly attributed to the malice and undue 
 influence of the opposite party, and authori- 
 tatively demanded a respite for the purpose 
 of affording him time to memorialize the 
 King. But his demand was refused, upon 
 the plea that there had already been abun- 
 dance of time allowed for any such applica- 
 tions, and that the march of justice, as the 
 French call it, could no longer be impeded. 
 He was admitted to see his sister, who again, 
 standing on the brink of the grave, declared 
 that she was entirely innocent of the crime 
 imputed to her, and utterly ignorant of the 
 fate of her husband. 
 
 " My own conviction," she said, " is, that 
 in spite of all appearances, he is not dead, 
 and that the intelligence of these proceedings
 
 THE ACCUSATION. 33 
 
 has never reached him, or I am sure he 
 would have instantly appeared to justify me. 
 He has probably left the country !" 
 
 M. de la Rive, on the contrary, leant to 
 the opinion that the Count had committed 
 suicide, although the strict search that had 
 been made for his body in the neighbourhood 
 of the castle scarcely left any grounds for 
 that conjecture. 
 
 The eve of the fatal day had now arrived, 
 and they were hourly expecting the Coun- 
 tess's eldest brother, M. Adolphe, when, 
 towards midnight, the sleeping citizens were 
 disturbed by the sound of a horse's feet clat- 
 tering at iull speed over the pavement, and it 
 occurred to many who heard the noise that 
 the rider was probably a courier bringing a 
 respite from the Crown ; and this appeared 
 the more probable, as the horseman never 
 drew his rein till he reached the Hotel de 
 Ville, where he alighted, and having given 
 an authoritative pull at the bell was presently 
 
 VOL I. D
 
 34 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 admitted. In less than half an hour after 
 this, the chief jailor was roused from his 
 slumbers by a summons to conduct the 
 prefect to Madame de Chateauroux's cell. 
 Lights were procured, the heavy keys clanked 
 through the vaulted passages, the door was 
 thrown open, and the poor lady, who was 
 stretched on the couch in an agony of grief 
 and terror, was informed that a letter had just 
 amved from M. Adolphe, saying that he had 
 found her husband, whom a long and severe 
 illness had kept in ignorance of all that had 
 occurred — that they were follbwing the courier 
 with as much speed as his infirm health 
 would permit, and that they hoped to be at 
 Aries on the following morning. 
 
 Here was a happy reverse ! Here was a 
 redemption at the eleventh hour from a cruel 
 torture and an ignominious death. The joy 
 of the Countess and her friends, to whom 
 intelligence of the happy event was imme- 
 diately despatched, we need not dilate upon.
 
 THE ACCUSATION. 35 
 
 If she before could not sleep for grief, neither 
 could she now sleep for joy ; and although 
 the prefect could not open her prison doors 
 till the actual arrival of the Count, her sympa- 
 thizing visitors were permitted to stay with 
 her, and the remainder of the night was 
 passed in mutual congratulations on her 
 unexpected escape. 
 
 The glad tidings soon spread over the city, 
 and, at an early hour in the morning, the 
 people began to collect in such numbers 
 about the gate of the prison, that it was 
 thought necessary to call out the troops ; and 
 such was the excitement and eagerness of the 
 crowd, when, about nine o'clock, the sound 
 of rapidly revohing wheels announced the 
 approach of the expected carriage, that 
 without the aid of the military, the travellers 
 would not have been able to alight for the 
 dense mass that surrounded them. Every- 
 body pressed forward to get a sight of the 
 hero of this- strange romance, which, as the 
 
 D 2
 
 36 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 blinds were closely drawn down, nobody 
 could obtain, till a space being cleared by the 
 soldiers, he had an opportunity of alighting. 
 Then, on the door being opened, there 
 descended two gentlemen ; the first was M. 
 Adolphe de la Rive, the second M. de 
 Chateauroux ; at least so the spectators rather 
 concluded then saw, for he was wrapt in a 
 large cloak, and so muffled that very little of 
 his face was visible. What they saw of it 
 looked very pale, and he appeared extremely 
 feeble, M. de la Rive aiding him to descend 
 and giving him his arm, as to a person 
 unable to support himself without assist- 
 ance. 
 
 As those who were near enough to get a 
 view of his features assured the rest that it was 
 the right man, the mob was satisfied ; and 
 as the prison doors closed upon him, they 
 saluted him with a hearty cheer. Nor did 
 they then all disperse ; many who were not 
 imperatively called away by business still
 
 THE ACCUSATION. 37 
 
 lingered on the spot, in hopes of seeing the 
 lady and her husband emerge from the fortress 
 and depart in triumph ; but to avoid the 
 annoyance of public observation, their depar- 
 ture was deferred till midnight ; and it was 
 not till the shops were closed, and the streets 
 empty, that the emancipated lady and her 
 recovered husband stept into their carriage, 
 and were conveyed to their chateau, where 
 the servants, apprised of their approach, were 
 prepared to receive them. 
 
 Two days afterwards they removed to 
 Remy, another estate belonging to the Coun- 
 tess, situated at some distance from the one 
 they had hitherto resided at; and it was 
 understood that the indisposition of the Count 
 obliged them for the present to decline all 
 visits and live in retirement. For some 
 weeks this strange story furnished a very 
 agreeable subject of gossip to the good people 
 of Languedoc ; but in process of time, like all 
 other wonders, its interest died away, and
 
 38 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 the adventures of the Count and Countess of 
 Chateauroux were forgotten in some later 
 event. 
 
 But this impunity did not last long. By- 
 
 and-by a new rumour began to circulate 
 
 amongst the public, and it was whispered 
 
 from one to another that the gentleman 
 
 produced by M. de la Rive was not the real 
 
 Count, but a supposititious one, who had been 
 
 bribed by the lady's family to personate him 
 
 for the purpose of saving her life. At all 
 
 events, it appeared that M. de Chateauroux's 
 
 own family positively refused to acknowledge 
 
 the individual now living in the castle as their 
 
 relation ; and, moreover that Madame de Cha- 
 
 teauroux's behaviour gave great colour to the 
 
 suspicion that all was not right. It was not 
 
 simply that she did not inhabit the same 
 
 chamber — that French people frequently do 
 
 not — but the indifference she displayed 
 
 towards him was wholly unlike what her 
 
 demeanour to her husband had formerly
 
 THE ACCUSATION. 39 
 
 been. In short, there were no quan-els ; she 
 was never heard to reproach him with his 
 previous neglect, nor with his last cruel depar- 
 ture; and the ser\^ants affirmed that they 
 seldom met but at table. 
 
 Then, as his health improved, and visitors 
 were admitted, the people who went to pay 
 their respects and congratulations began to 
 talk too. Some said it was M. de Chateau- 
 roux; some, that it w^as not. The latter 
 declared that the present occupant of the 
 castle was a smaller man, that the voice was 
 not the voice of the young Count ; and that 
 his accent was that of the northern provinces 
 of France. The other party answ^ered, that 
 a man who had had an ilhiess of two years' 
 duration, which was said to have been the 
 cause of his prolonged absence, would na- 
 turally be very much altered in appearance, 
 and possibly somewhat in voice ; and that as 
 for the accent, they had always remarked 
 that the Count had a peculiar mode of
 
 40 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 speaking, which they supposed he might 
 have acquired from his mother, who had 
 been a native of Normandy. 
 
 But whilst the visitors and the servants, 
 and the public, were discussing this question 
 of identity, the family of M. de Chateauroux 
 filed an information against the stranger as 
 an impostor ; and against M. de la Rive, as 
 his aider and abettor; demanding that the 
 former should be arrested, and that Madame 
 de Chateauroux should be again arraigned 
 for the murder of her husband — a crime of 
 which they were more than ever persuaded 
 she was guilty. 
 
 But M. de la Rive had influential connec- 
 tions, and it was not easy to induce the 
 authorities to offer him and his family such 
 an affront without surer grounds to go upon. 
 So — in order, if possible, to satisfy one party, 
 without rashly bringing themselves into diffi- 
 culties with the other — they set on foot some 
 private inquiries and investigations, which
 
 THE ACCUSATION. 41 
 
 they hoped might enable them to see their 
 way before them. But the evidence was so 
 conflicting that this was no easy matter. 
 Almost as many were of one opinion as of 
 the other, whilst amongst those best qualified 
 to decide the question, the parties were also 
 balanced — the De la Rives as vigorously 
 supporting the pretender as the De Chateau- 
 roux opposed him. With respect to the 
 lady herself, her verbal evidence was scarcely 
 considered of any weight — she was too much 
 interested in the decision; whilst her tacit 
 and involuntary testimony was said by her 
 opponents to be all against herself. 
 
 But there was one witness whose evidence 
 was looked upon as so important, that it was 
 held by the authorities sufficient to strike the 
 balance in favour of Madame de Chateauroux 
 — this w^as M. de Francoeur, the agent or 
 factor on the estate. 
 
 He swore point-blank that the gentleman 
 whose identity they were disputing was M.
 
 42 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 de Chateauroux, and nobody else; and that 
 he was not only assured of it from recogni- 
 tion of his person, but from repeated con- 
 versations, wherein past circumstances and 
 transactions were alluded to, which no other 
 person whatever but himself, and the Count, 
 could by any possibility be acquainted 
 with. 
 
 Now, M. de Francoeur's character was 
 considered above all suspicion ; he was uni- 
 versally looked upon as a most respectable 
 man, who would not give false testimony 
 upon any subject whatever; and this was a 
 case in which he could hardly be mistaken, 
 whilst no conceivable reason could be 
 adduced for his violating the truth, unless it 
 were devotion to the Countess; but since it 
 was understood that they had not been lately 
 on the best of terms, such a sacrifice was 
 considered improbable. According to the 
 lady's opinion, M. de Francceur was some- 
 what accessory to the Count's irregularities,
 
 THE ACCUSATION. 43 
 
 from the facility with which he answered his 
 demands for money; so that, although she 
 entertained a very high esteem for his 
 character in general, they were by no means 
 cordial. The great weight, therefore, attached 
 to the agent's assertions, satisfied the autho- 
 rities, who consequently declined further 
 interference ; and whilst the pubhc continued, 
 ever and anon, to discuss the question, M. 
 and Madame de Chateauroux lived on 
 quietly and harmoniously together, receiving 
 few people, and going little into society. 
 
 But still the Count's family persisted in 
 their protest, and held themselves aloof from 
 the impostor, as they called him ; whilst the 
 ladv and her friends affected to treat their 
 objections with contempt, referring them to 
 motives of private enmity and interest, and 
 making such other allegations as tended to 
 account for these discrepant opinions, and 
 vindicate their own cause and cha- 
 racters.
 
 44 LIGHT AND DARKNESS 
 
 One concession, however, they did make, 
 for the purpose of conciliating public opinion, 
 which was, that they returned to the 
 residence they had previously inhabited ; their 
 enemies having taken advantage of their 
 removal from their former neighbourhood 
 and the retirement in which they lived, to 
 strengthen their own cause, alleging that the 
 motive of this violation was evidently the 
 desire to avoid the inquisitorial eyes that 
 might detect their fraud. So they came 
 back to Aries, and being immediately visited 
 by every creature who could advance the 
 slightest claims to their acquaintance, each 
 with the view of gratifying his own curiosity, 
 the dispute with respect to the Count's 
 identity was naturally revived, and that 
 with so much heat and acrimony, that there 
 is no saying what might be the consequence, 
 had not the Count and Countess bethought 
 themselves of giving a grand ball and fete 
 champ etre, to which all the persons of any
 
 THE ACCUSATION. 45 
 
 distinction or pretensions within their reach 
 were invited — an expedient which proved 
 entirely successful ; for certain it was, that 
 the sight of the cards they issued on this 
 occasion had a perfectly magical effect upon 
 the opinions of those w^ho received them; and 
 as no expense was spared to render the 
 entertainment brilliant and agreeable, it is 
 needless to say that these favourable impres- 
 sions were much fortified. A series of 
 pleasant parties, dejeuners at noon, and 
 soirees dansantes at night, confirmed them ; 
 and it was not long before the innocence of 
 the Countess, and the identity of the Count 
 were pretty generally admitted by everybody, 
 except the relations of the latter (w^ho 
 refused to be appeased by these hospitalities, 
 or even to accept them), and a few persons 
 of uncertain position, who had not been 
 included in the invitations, and who felt 
 themselves grievously affronted by the omis- 
 sion.
 
 46 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 Public opinion was thus pretty well gained 
 over, or at least, the public voice was 
 silenced; the only remarks that were now 
 indulged in being occasional sly little sar- 
 casms on the Count's manners, or rather his 
 want of usage ; for his- demeanour was 
 always modest, obliging, and inoffensive ; but 
 it was whispered amongst this elegant and 
 fastidious aristocracy that he frequently exhi^ 
 bited an ignorance of the customs of good 
 society that was truly marvellous in a person 
 of his birth. However, he had his defenders 
 too ; and these affirmed that the manners of 
 the Count de Chateauroux were always 
 exactly as they were now, and, moreover, 
 that they were just what his father's had 
 been. All these foolish observations and 
 strictures, they said, merely arose out of his 
 peculiar position, and the closeness with 
 which his behaviour was watched — a degree 
 of unpleasant surveillance that nobody could 
 endure unscathed,.
 
 THE ACCUSATION. 4? 
 
 One thing was certain, namely, that the 
 habits and character of the Count were ex- 
 tremely changed. His roving propensities 
 seemed quite cured; he never quitted his 
 home now, even for a day ; and, as the lady's 
 partizans suggested, there was little justice in 
 the objection that the -husband and w^ife had 
 ceased to quarrel — the fact being, that the 
 cause of quarrel no longer existed. 
 
 This state of affairs had lasted upwards of 
 eighteen months, when one fine morning it 
 was discovered, to the surprise of every body, 
 that M. de Chateauroux, w^eaiy of his good 
 behaviour, had again vanished. His room 
 was found empty ; this time, his bed had not 
 been lain in at all; and he had taken 
 nothing with him but the clothes he 
 wore. 
 
 It was now definitively settled that he 
 had either some liaison that lured him 
 from home, or that he was the 
 victim of temporary fits of insanity.
 
 48 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 There was no suspicion of foul play now 
 and instead of injuring the lady, his departure 
 was of great service to her. It was held to 
 be a triumphant proof of his identity and of 
 her innocence, which was no longer disputed. 
 She bore his absence with perfect equanimity ; 
 nd everybody said that he would no doubt 
 reappear when he had recovered his senses, or 
 was tired of roving. 
 
 But months flew away, till months became 
 years ; and it began to be apprehended that 
 neither of these desirable consummations 
 were likely to ensue. Whether from lunacy 
 or licentiousness, it was feared that the Count 
 de Chateauroux had abandoned his home for 
 ever. Little children grew to be men and 
 women, and the middle-aged became old, and 
 still he came not ; and at length Madame de 
 Chateauroux herself fell sick, and, after an 
 illness of some weeks' duration — died ; and 
 was buried with all the honours due to her 
 rank and fortune.
 
 THE ACCUSATION. 49 
 
 On her death-bed, she had a long interview 
 with her confessor, and there arose many and 
 strange reports as to what she had confessed ; 
 but, of course, no one could know the truth 
 on that subject but the reverend father him- 
 self. 
 
 But even now the interest of the public in 
 this affair was not suffered to die away ; for 
 as soon as the lady was laid in her grave, the 
 question arose on whom her estate devolved. 
 If her husband lived, it was his for the term 
 of his " natural life," as the lawyers have it ; 
 if he were dead, it reverted to Madame de 
 Chateauroux's family. 
 
 Now the De Chateauroux, who had before 
 asserted so pertinaciously that he had been 
 murdered, suddenly became equally confident 
 that he was alive ; whilst the De la Rives, 
 with nearly equal inconsistency, declared their 
 conviction that he was dead ; and as it was 
 found impossible to come to any agreement 
 
 VOL. 1. E
 
 50 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 between themselves on the subject, they had 
 recourse to the law, which, whilst it con- 
 sumed the revenues of the estate, seemed little 
 hkely to settle the question.
 
 THE ACCUSATION. 51 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 The suit between these contending in- 
 terests had lasted upwards of twelve years, 
 several of the parties concerned in it were 
 dead, and amongst the rest the Countess's 
 elder brother — that M. Adolphe de la Rive 
 who had saved her life by so critically pro- 
 ducing her husband — and still the truth of 
 the affair was as much in the clouds as ever. 
 Amongst the survivors, the one to whom the 
 decision was now most important, was M. 
 Eugene de la Rive, the seconi brother of the 
 
 E 2 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS
 
 5-2 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 Countess, for he had several children, and 
 was not rich. Madame de Chateaiiroux's 
 large fortune had descended to her from her 
 aunt, and the other members of the family 
 were by no means wealthy. 
 
 As time advanced, and there appeared no 
 prospect of obtaining a verdict one way or 
 the other, this gentlemen felt very desirous of 
 coming to a compromise with the adverse 
 party, an expedient which he had several times 
 suggested, but which had always been vehe- 
 mently opposed by M. de Francoeur, the agent, 
 who urged the folly of giving up a part when 
 ultimately he must inevitably obtain the whole ; 
 and as M. de Francoeur had a personal interest 
 in the question, he had hitherto, by his strong 
 representations, succeeded in dissuading M. 
 EuD-ene from what would have been considered 
 by most people a very judicious proceeding. 
 This interest arose from the probability of a 
 marriage taking place betwixt a daughter of 
 the agent and M. Eugene's youngest son.
 
 THE ACCUSATION. 53 
 
 The young people had been long attached; 
 and although such a connection was some- 
 what of a mesalliance for the son of a noble, 
 yet the father did not seem inclined to forbid 
 it. He had a large family to provide for, 
 and M. de Francoeur having been very for- 
 tunate in some, as it was understood, rather 
 hazardous speculations, had contrived to 
 amass a good deal of money, and was now the 
 possessor of one of the finest estates in Lan- 
 guedoc. He was, moreover, remotely con- 
 nected with the De la Rive family, and M. 
 Eugene had a particular regard for him, De 
 Francoeur having once, when they were both 
 young men, saved him from drowning at the 
 risk of his own life ; and altogether, being of 
 an easy, liberal temper, though he had never 
 yet formally given his consent, the young 
 people had happily proceeded with their court- 
 ship, countenanced by De Francoeur, and not 
 discouraged by De la Rive. The agent's opi- 
 nion had thus very considerable weight with
 
 54 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 M. Eugene, especially as he was universally 
 considered to be a man of wonderful sagacity 
 and knowledge of business, qualities of which 
 his prosperity was a standing testimony. He 
 was now rich, although he had begun the 
 world with nothing. 
 
 Under these circumstances, it surprised 
 nobody that M. de Francoeur's opinions had 
 always been coincident with the wishes and 
 interests of the De la Rive family. He had 
 formerly stoutly asserted his conviction that 
 M. de Chateauroux was alive, and that the 
 pretender, as the adverse faction called him, 
 was he. He now maintained with equal per- 
 tinacity that M. de Chateauroux was dead. 
 He did not deny that " the pretender" had 
 been the real M. de Chateauroux; at least, 
 he said he had believed so, although he could 
 not but admit that some circumstances during 
 the latter part of his residence in the castle 
 had somewhat shaken his opinion ; but 
 whether he had been right or wrong on that
 
 THE ACCUSATION. 55 
 
 occasion, he was now quite certain that the 
 Count no longer existed ; and having been 
 called upon in the course of the law-suit to 
 allege his reasons for his conviction, he 
 answered, that whenever M. de Chateauroux 
 was absent from home, he had always been 
 in the habit of sending to him for money. 
 " This custom was invariable," said he, " and, 
 indeed, how could it be otherwise, when he 
 had no other means of living, but what he 
 derived from the proceeds of the estate ?" 
 
 The only time the Count had ever failed 
 to do this, he averred, was when he had the 
 first time suddenly disappeared from his 
 chamber, and that circumstance, together 
 with the fact that he had never received any 
 application for funds since, not only satisfied 
 him that M. de Chateauroux was dead, but 
 considerably augmented his doubts concern- 
 ing the so-called pretender; and as it was 
 well known that the Count had no resources 
 but what were derived from his wife's
 
 56 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 property, this argument was not without 
 weight with the legal authorities. 
 
 Affairs had been some time in this 
 position, when M. Eugene, finding that as 
 his family grew up, the demands on his 
 pocket became more frequent, and the im- 
 portance of a final arrangement more urgent, 
 arrived one afternoon at the chateau, and 
 summoned M. de FranccEur to a conference. 
 Ever since the Countess's death, the house 
 had remained under the care of the agent, 
 and untenanted except by the old concierge 
 and his wife, who opened the windows and 
 kept it aired. One room only was in habi- 
 table order, and that was a small one, which 
 had formerly been the Count's study, or 
 room of business. It adjoined the salon, 
 and contained nothing but a writing-table 
 and chairs, except books and a full-length 
 portrait of Count Joachim de Chateauroiix, 
 the father of the last Count, attired in a 
 mulberry-coloured suit of clothes, short cloak,
 
 THE ACCUSATION. 57 
 
 and black stockings. A glass door led from 
 the salon to a fine terrace which overlooked 
 the park, and here M. de la Riv^e, with his 
 mind intent upon the affair that had brought 
 him to Aries, paced backwards and forwards 
 till the agent arrived. When he did, he re- 
 entered the salon by the glass door which 
 they left open, and proceeded to the study, 
 where, having seated themselves at the table, 
 they opened their conference by inspecting 
 and comparing certain letters and papers 
 appertaining to the cause, which De Fran- 
 coeur had brought with him. 
 
 " I am resolved," said M. de la Rive, '* to 
 put an end to this ruinous suit if any reason- 
 able sacrifice can do it. I agree with you in 
 entertaining no doubt of the Count's death ; 
 but what signifies that to us if we cannot 
 prove it, which it is clear we never shall be 
 able to do ? I would rather accept one-third 
 of the property, and let the Chateauroux
 
 58 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 have the rest, than pursue the thing any 
 further." 
 
 As was his custom when similar pro- 
 positions were offered, M. de Francoeur 
 shook his head, and observed that it would 
 be making a terrible sacrifice. 
 
 " No doubt," rephed De la Rive, " but a 
 part is less than the whole, and if we do not 
 come to some arrangement, the entire 
 property will be swallowed up by the suit ; so 
 that, even if we could obtain a verdict, by- 
 and-by it will be of no use — there would be 
 nothing left to inherit." 
 
 " If his death could only be substantiated!" 
 said the agent, speaking rather to himself 
 than to his companion. 
 
 " Ay, if it could ! But it cannot," replied 
 the latter. " There is the misfortune ! If 
 we could only find out what became of the 
 two servants, Clarice and Morel, perhaps they 
 might throw some light on the mystery !"
 
 THE ACCUSATION. 59 
 
 " They are probably dead," returned De 
 Francoeur ; " besides, if we could find them, 
 who knows which way their evidence might 
 turn— it might be exactly the reverse of 
 what we wish." 
 
 " Very well, let it be so !" answered De la 
 Rive, who was a man of high principle ; " let 
 it be so ! All I desire to get at is the fact of 
 whether Chateauroux is dead or alive. If he 
 is alive, let him take the estates — they are 
 his for bis life, beyond a doubt; but in the 
 meantime it is very hard that neither one 
 party nor the other can enjoy them, whilst 
 the property itself is melting away in the 
 heat of the dispute ; — but who is that in the 
 next room ? I hear a foot, and I believe we 
 left the window open to the terrace ; just see 
 who it is." 
 
 There was indeed a creaking of shoes, and 
 the sound of a heavy firm step, which 
 seemed to be crossing the saloon towards the 
 study. M. de Francoeur rose and turned to
 
 60 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 open the- door ; but before he could do so, it 
 was done by a hand on the other side. 
 
 " Ah ! M. de Francoeur, I think !" said an 
 elderly gentleman, advancing into the room 
 with his hat in his hand ; " in spite of the 
 years that have elapsed since we parted, you 
 are still recognisable." 
 
 Whilst the stranger was uttering these 
 words with the calmest countenance, the 
 most gracious smile, and the most com- 
 plaisant and self-possessed air imaginable, M. 
 de la Rive sat still in his chair, with his 
 mouth open and his dilated eyes fixed upon 
 him, whilst his right hand, which held a 
 pinch of snuff, suspended half-way betwixt 
 the snuff-box and his nose, denoted extreme 
 surprise. On M. de Francoeur the sudden 
 apparition of this visitor had a still more 
 powerful effect ; the moment he caught sight 
 of him, his limbs seemed to fail, and he had 
 staggered back against the wall, where he 
 now stood with his face of an ashy pale-
 
 THE ACCUSATION. 61 
 
 ness, his eyes fixed with a wild and ghastly 
 stare upon the stranger, and his whole 
 attitude and expression denoting as much 
 horror as amazement, whilst the occasion of 
 this extraordinary disturbance stood com- 
 posedly awaiting what was to follow. 
 
 The first person that made an effort to 
 break the charm that bound him was M. de 
 la Rive, who deliberately turned his head and 
 directed his eyes towards the picture of 
 Count Joachim that hung over the mantel- 
 piece. 
 
 " Nay, I am no ghost," said the stranger, 
 addressing the agent, " though," added he, 
 as he turned to M. de la Rive, " time has, I 
 believe, made me somewhat resemble my 
 father." 
 
 " I was looking if the picture had stept 
 out of its frame," replied De la Rive, rising. 
 " Is it possible I see M. de Chateauroux ?" 
 continued he, as he advanced towards the 
 stranger.
 
 62 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 " I have scarcely a right to be surprised at 
 your asking the question," returned the 
 latter ; *' so many years have elapsed since we 
 met. I have the pleasure of addressing M. 
 Adolphe de la Rive, I think?" 
 
 " I am Eugene," answered De la Rive ; 
 " my brother Adolphe is dead. But where, 
 in the name of Heaven, have you been all 
 these years ?" 
 
 " Ah, that would be a long history," 
 replied the old gentleman, smiling, as he 
 took his seat at the table without appearing 
 further to notice M. de Francoeur's de- 
 meanour ; "we must keep it for more leisure 
 moments ; but, tell me — relieve my im- 
 patience — how is my wife ?" 
 
 "Are you not aware that my sister is 
 dead?" answered De la Rive, with an air of 
 astonishment. 
 
 " Dead !" reiterated the stranger, covering 
 his face with his hands ; " dead, before I 
 have had the opportunity of asking her
 
 THE ACCUSATION. 63 
 
 pardon for my long desertion. Alas ! poor, 
 poor Sophie !" 
 
 *' Long, indeed !" returned De la Rive. 
 " But if you did not choose to return, why 
 in Heaven's name did you never write ? 
 Knowing the peril your first desertion en- 
 tailed upon my sister, it was surely mon- 
 strous to do the same thing again, and never 
 take the trouble of ascertaining the conse- 
 quences to her nor to us 1" 
 
 " My first desertion !" repeated the Count. 
 *' Peril to my wife ! What first desertion ? 
 What peril do you allude to ?" 
 
 " How !" exclaimed De la Rive ; " then it 
 really was not you that my brother brought 
 from Paris the night before my sister was to 
 have been executed ?" 
 
 " You speak in riddles !" said the Count. 
 " Your sister executed ! What can you 
 possibly mean ?" 
 
 " I mean that in consequence of your 
 unaccountable disappearance, and some ap-
 
 64 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 parently corroborating circumstances, your 
 wife was accused of having made away with 
 you ; and that she was only preserved from 
 an ignominious death by my brother's pro- 
 ducing you on the very evening preceding the 
 day that was to have been her last." 
 
 " Producing me !" reiterated the Count. 
 "How could he produce me ? I do not under- 
 stand you." 
 
 " Why, if it was not yourself, he produced 
 your double," answered the other; "for al- 
 though some people disputed the identity, the 
 person my brother brought was generally re- 
 ceived as the Count de Chateauroux." 
 
 " This is really a most extraordinary sto- 
 ry !" said the Count ; " but surely you were 
 not deceived, De Francoeur ?" added he, 
 turning towards the agent, who had never 
 resumed his seat, but still, stood with his back 
 against the wall, where his first surprise had 
 thrown him, although with a different ex- 
 pression of countenance to that he then ex-
 
 THE ACCUSATION. 65 
 
 hibited. The terror that had disturbed his 
 features had now given place to an air of 
 contemptuous incredulity ; his lip curled, 
 and his nostrils arched, as in reply to the 
 Count's question, he said that, "If he had 
 been deceived once, he would take care not to 
 be duped a second time/' 
 
 "Why, no," answered the Count, with a 
 careless smile, " cela serait trop fort ! — that 
 would be too much !" 
 
 He then addressed his conversation to M. 
 de la Rive, making many inquiries respecting 
 their mutual friends and relations, and asking 
 especially the most minute particulars re- 
 garding the latter days, and the death of the 
 Countess — a circumstance he appeared sin- 
 cerely to lament. 
 
 In this sort of discourse the evening wore 
 on, till, as it grew late, the Count remarked 
 that it was time for him to consider where 
 he should sleep. " Are there any beds pre- 
 pared here?" he inquired. 
 
 VOL. I. F
 
 ^6 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 " None/' replied De la Rive ; " I intend to 
 mount my horse and ride back to town, and 
 you had better go with me ; you will find a 
 bed at the inn." 
 
 " Why, I suppose I must," answered the 
 Count, " unless M. de Franooeur will lodge 
 me for to night. To-morrow I wlQ set people 
 to work to put things in order here ; and as 
 soon as I am estabhshed, De la Rive, I hope 
 you will come and make this your home for 
 some time, as we have a great deal to say to 
 €ach other, and a good deal of business to 
 discuss." 
 
 M. de la Rive bowed, and appeared tacitly 
 to accept this invitation ; and indeed it was 
 remarkable, that, so far from seeming to 
 participate in M. de Francoeur's scepticism, 
 he had rushed into the opposite extreme ;. as 
 if, by an excess of confidence on his own part, 
 he had sought to counterbalance the insulting 
 incredulity of the other. 
 
 The agent's immediate response to the
 
 THE ACCUSATION. 67 
 
 Count's request of a night's lodging was only 
 a disdainful smile ; but presently, seeming to 
 recollect himself, he changed his attitude for 
 the first time, and, advancing a step or two, 
 he said, " I have a bed at your service/' 
 
 " Well, then," said the Count with easy 
 gaiety, " I think, as it is getting late, we had 
 better adjourn for to-night. We will first 
 see you mount your horse, De la Rive, and 
 then De Francoeur and I will walk to Beau- 
 lieu," which was the name of the agent's 
 residence. *' By the bye, I must speak a few 
 words to the concierge before I go," added 
 he. "I suppose I shall see him in the lodge 
 as we pass ;" and thereupon, the Count taking 
 the precedence, they went forth to where M. 
 de la Rive's horses and groom were standing ; 
 and the equestrians having mounted their 
 steeds, the whole party proceeded towards the 
 lodge. At the gate, ready to open it, and 
 eager to salute the brother of their former 
 mistress, stood the concierge and his wife, on 
 
 F 2
 
 68 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 observing which De la Rive drew his rein to 
 speak to them. 
 
 "Well, Martin, how is your rheumatism 
 this year ?" he asked. 
 
 " But indifferent please your honour," 
 answered Martin ; " and I doubt it will never 
 be better. Old age and the rheumatics are 
 friends that, when they have once met, seldom 
 part till death divides them. I hope your 
 honoiu- and the young lords and ladies are all 
 well ?" added Martin with his best bow ; but 
 before his obeisance was completed, and he 
 had time to recover the perpendicular, he was 
 startled by a loud scream from his wife, and, 
 on looking round, he saw the old woman with 
 her face as white as her apron, leaning against 
 the gate-post. Her arms were raised in an 
 attitude of astonishment, and her eyes fixed 
 upon the newly-arrived Count : and no sooner 
 had the husband turned his in the same direc- 
 tion, in order to discover the cause of her 
 agitation, than he became equally disturbed.
 
 THE ACCUSATION. 69 
 
 Nor was this to be wondered at. The features 
 and the person of the Count not only bore 
 the most striking resemblance to the picture 
 of Count Joachim, but his dress was precisely 
 the same ; so that the worthy unsophisticated 
 couple, who were perfectly familiar with the 
 portrait, thought nothing less than that it 
 had really come to life, and walked out of its 
 frame, as De la Rive had jestingly insinuated. 
 When an explanation ensued — an expla- 
 nation in which, however, M. de Francoeur 
 took no part — though less terrified, they were 
 scarcely less surprised; and no sooner had 
 the gentleman left them than, after sundry 
 ejaculations of wonder and thanksgiving, the 
 old man seized his hat and stick, and hobbled 
 forth to carry the extraordinary news 
 amongst the tenants, who one and all agreed, 
 what a pity it was that the Countess had not 
 survived to see that day ! 
 
 In the meantime, whilst Martin was 
 spreading the unexpected tidings over the
 
 70 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 neighbourhood, and Madelon, his wife, much 
 against her own will, was obhged to stay at 
 home and relieve her excited mind by apos- 
 trophising the Countess's parrot (a bird that 
 enjoyed an easy fortune of a hundred francs 
 per annum, bequeathed to it by the 
 Countess, who, at the same time, appointed 
 this worthy couple its guardians), M. de la 
 Rive rode thoughtfully forward to the city of 
 Aries. He had reason to be thoughtful ; for 
 the re-appearance of his hale and healthy- 
 looking brother-in-law removed him to a 
 considerable distance from his sister's inherit 
 tance ; and the projects he had for some time 
 entertained for the advancement of his family 
 must be laid aside for others more consistent 
 with his means. The marriage of his son 
 Ernest with De Francceur's daughter Al- 
 phonsine was perhaps now more desirable 
 than he had formerly considered it ; but, on 
 the other hand, it was just possible that De 
 Francoeur might think otherwise; for the
 
 THE ACCUSATION. 71 
 
 agent, untitled as he was, had a de to his 
 name, and was a gentleman hy birth, though 
 the road by which he had passed from 
 poverty to wealth, being soiled by commerce, 
 or something like it, had considerably 
 damaged his pretensions. 
 
 With all the pride of poor nobility, De la 
 Rive resolved to take the initiative^ as the 
 French have it, and to bid his son imme- 
 diately relax his attentions till De Francoeur 
 declared himself ; and firm in this resolution, 
 he rode into the town, where he found a 
 crowd assembled round the inn door in con- 
 sequence of the rumour having got abroad 
 that M. de Chateauroux had arrived at the 
 Lion d'Or, the same afternoon in a handsome 
 carriage with four horses^ and that, having 
 taken a slight refreshment, without alighting 
 or saying a word to anybod}^ he had driven 
 forward in the direction of the chateau. He 
 had no servant, the postilions had been 
 perfectly silent, and moreover, had they been
 
 72 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 otherwise, they could have given no informa- 
 tion with respect to the traveller, of whom, 
 on their return, they declared they knew 
 nothing whatever, except that they had been 
 engaged to drive him. He paid them 
 liberally, and had sent them back to put up 
 at the inn, finding the stables at the chateau 
 quite unprovided. But the innkeeper him- 
 self had seen him whilst he was taking his 
 coffee at the door, and so had several other 
 persons ; and not one of them entertained a 
 doubt of his being the long lost Count. On 
 the appearance of M. de la Rive, the host 
 and a few others who thought themselves 
 entitled to question him, accompanied him to 
 his chamber, and having communicated their 
 own impressions with regard to the traveller, 
 they had the gratification of hearing them 
 confirmed. There was no doubt about the 
 matter — the long lost Count de Chateauroux 
 was come to light again, and had arrived to 
 claim the estate.
 
 THE ACCUSATION. i6 
 
 That was a glorious night for the host of 
 the Lion d'Or ! What potations, pottle deep, 
 were quaffed to the health and welcome of 
 that prodigal husband ! For, if in nothing 
 else, there is one particular in which man- 
 kind is apt to resemble the angels ; and as 
 heaven rejoices more over one sinner that 
 repenteth than over ninety and nine just 
 persons, so does the world not unfrequently 
 exalt a man into its hero for having simply 
 left oif behaving worse than other people; 
 and thus the good people of Aries lavished 
 more time and money in celebrating the 
 return of this peccant Count, than they had 
 ever done upon all the well-conducted 
 Counts of Languedoc put together, who had 
 been staying at home and attending to their 
 conjugal duties, whilst he had been dis- 
 solutely wandering over the world and 
 neglecting his. Gratitude, however, may 
 have something to do with this peculiarity. 
 Life is generally but a dull procession of
 
 74 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 events ; and at Aries, as elsewhere, it was not 
 unnatural to feel obliged to the man who had 
 broken its monotony by such startling eccen- 
 tricities and stirring interests. The news- 
 hunters and the gossips might now consider 
 themselves provisioned for a month's cam- 
 paign at least; and it behoved the host of the 
 Lion d'Or to count his wine casks, and see 
 that his larder was well filled.
 
 THE ACCUSATION. 75 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 In the meantime, the hero of all this 
 sensation had reached Beaulieu with M. de 
 Francoeur. When M. de la Rive rode away, 
 the Count had quietly turned his steps in 
 that direction, saying, " Now, I wiU have the 
 pleasure of accompanying you ;" and the 
 agent had silently acquiesced, and walked by 
 his side. 
 
 " I hope Madame de Francoeiu* stiU 
 survives," said the Count. 
 
 " She does," returned the agent.
 
 76 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 " Your children were but infants when I 
 saw them," observed the first. The agent 
 made no answer. " May I ask what family 
 you have ?" continued the Count. 
 
 "I have three daughters and one son," 
 returned De Francoeur, in an impatient, sulky 
 tone. 
 
 " Any of them married ?" inquired the 
 Count, who did not appear at all affected by 
 the ungracious demeanour of his companion, 
 and who, in spite of the almost fierce 
 negative granted to this question, pursued 
 his interrogatories with the most entire com- 
 posure. 
 
 "Ah, you have been building, I see, and 
 making great improvements here," he ob- 
 served, as they passed the farm where De 
 Francoeur had formerly resided. "I think, 
 if I remember rightly, where I now see a 
 garden there was formerly an orchard and a 
 well?" 
 
 At this last observation, De Francoeur
 
 THE ACCUSATION. 77 
 
 started, and looked hard at the Count. 
 "That well, I see, no longer exists — where 
 do you get your water now ?'* 
 
 " I opened another behind the house,'' 
 answered the agent, with a voice that 
 assumed indifference ; but it was evident 
 that something had given a shock to his 
 nerves. This discomposure did not escape 
 the Count, and he felt inclined to pursue the 
 subject further, when the new residence came 
 into view, and the appearance of an elderly 
 lady on the door-steps interrupted the con- 
 versation. 
 
 " Ah, mon Dieu ! mon Dieu 1" exclaimed 
 she, as she hastened towards them ; " surely 
 I cannot be mistaken — the person, the 
 dress. It must be the Count de Chateau- 
 roux !" 
 
 " Madame de Francoeur, I presume," said 
 the Count gallantly, taking her hand. 
 
 " Can it be possible ?" said she ; " returned 
 after so many years' absence ! I was at my
 
 78 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 chamber window, and I recognised you the 
 moment my eyes fell upon your figure." 
 
 " Yet years have made a great change in 
 it, since you and I danced together at my 
 wedding," said the Count. " You were then 
 not married." 
 
 " Ah, that's true !" replied the lady. 
 " However, you look wonderfully well for 
 your age." 
 
 The Count, of course, returned the com- 
 pliment, and thus they walked up the garden 
 towards the house, whilst De Francceur 
 quitted them and entered it, without uttering 
 a word or even informing his wife that their 
 visitor was to pass the night under their 
 roof. However, the Count, whom nothing 
 seemed to discompose or abash, took upon 
 himself to apprize his hostess that her 
 husband had been so kind as to promise him 
 a night's hospitahty — a communication that 
 evidently afforded her great satisfaction; so 
 having conducted him to the salon, and
 
 THE ACCUSATION. 79 
 
 introduced him to her daughters, she left 
 them together, whilst she gave orders for the 
 preparation of his chamber ; and so weU did 
 he contrive to please the young ladies, that 
 when he retired to dress, two of them at least 
 were voluble in his praises. 
 
 *' Oh, mamma," said Mademoiselle Laure 
 " I do not know what the Count was when 
 he was young, but he is perfectly charming 
 now." Laure was the eldest of the girls by 
 several years, and did not forget that this 
 agreeable elderly gentleman was a widower ; 
 a recollection to which her carefully studied 
 toilette^ when she appeared at dinner, bore 
 lively testimony. 
 
 " Do look at Laure 1" said Alphonsine, 
 " dressing at that grey-headed old profligate 
 in his chocolate coat I How eminently 
 ridiculous." 
 
 " Not if she admires him," answered 
 Rose ; " I really think he is very agreeable. 
 But you cannot view him indulgently, I
 
 80 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 know, Alphonsine, and T do not wonder at 
 it. His resuscitation, I fear, will be the 
 grave of your hopes." 
 
 "I do not know," answered Alphonsine. 
 " If papa is less willing, M. de la Rive will 
 have fewer objections to the match. No, 
 really I am disgusted with the utter selfish- 
 ness and want of feeling he has evinced all 
 through life. He made the misery of his 
 excellent wife, and nearly caused her to suffer 
 an ignominious death ; and now that he is 
 come back to suit his own convenience and 
 finds her dead, he evidently does not care 
 a sou about it; no, I cannot like such a 
 man." 
 
 But in spite of the justness of these ob- 
 jections, it was not easy to retain fast hold of 
 them in the Count's presence — his counte- 
 nance was so open, his manner so frank, and 
 they found his conversation at dinner so 
 extremely entertaining. There was not so 
 much travelling in those days as there is
 
 THE ACCUSATION. 81 
 
 now ; and as everybody that made a journey 
 did not write a book about it, people who 
 stayed at home knew much less of the w^orld 
 they did not see than we do. M. de Cha- 
 teauroux, it appeared, had been a great 
 traveller. He had not only crossed the Alps, 
 but he had been to the east and to the west 
 — could talk about those proud islanders 
 who ate raw beef and vegetables boiled in 
 water, which rendered them so savage that 
 they had actually cut off the head of the 
 most beautiful Queen in Europe ; and could 
 relate how the women in the East, as soon as 
 they were married, instead of enjoying that 
 liberty that French maidens sigh for, were 
 shut up in a harem for the rest of their lives, 
 with nobody to admire them but their own 
 tiresome husbands. Even Alphonsine's pre- 
 judices began to yield at last ; and when the 
 ladies took their leave, and had retired to 
 enjoy their nightly gossip, she scarcely dis- 
 puted the justice of their laudations. 
 
 VOL. I, G
 
 82 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 " But that papa does not like him," said 
 she, " is very clear. He cannot pardon his 
 unfeeling conduct, because he is agreeable and 
 entertaining, if we can." And so indeed it 
 appeared; for all the Count's addresses had 
 been met by a dogged silence on the part of 
 De Francoeur, and now that the gentlemen 
 were left alone, he still retained the same 
 discontented and sullen expression of counte- 
 nance, while on the other side of the table 
 sat M. de Chateauroux, with an air of the 
 most absolute comfort and complacence. 
 
 " I think I could name the vines that 
 grew this wine," said he, raising the glass to 
 his Ups ; " it has exactly the flavour of the 
 Burgundy I used to get from Lecoque. By 
 the bye, how ar€ the cellars at the chateau 
 filled ? Has the stock been kept up ?" 
 
 " Indifferently well," replied M. de Fran- 
 coeur, drily. 
 
 " I must have that looked into imme- 
 diately," returned the Count, "as it is my
 
 THE ACCUSATION. 83 
 
 intention to reside here chiefly for the rest of 
 my Hfe." 
 
 " Indeed !" said De Francoeur, lifting up 
 his eyebrows with a peculiar expression of 
 sarcasm. 
 
 " Yes, indeed," repHed the Count. " I 
 suppose you suspect that my roving propen- 
 sities win be too strong for my resolutions. 
 Is that the case, De Francoeur ? You think 
 I shaU be off again ?" 
 
 Whereupon M. de Francoeur, turning 
 slowly round upon his chair till he faced the 
 Count, placing his two arms upon the table, 
 and fixing his eyes upon those of his com- 
 panion, answered with a firm and significant 
 tone, " I do." 
 
 "You are mistaken, quite mistaken," re- 
 turned the Count, with perfect good humour 
 and equanimity ; " years have brought ex- 
 perience. I see the folly of my past life; 
 besides, age has changed my taste. I 
 languish for repose and a kittle quiet society." 
 
 G 2
 
 84 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 "Then I would advise you to seek them 
 elsewhere," replied M. de Francoeur, with 
 uncontrollable irritation. " The jest is stale, 
 sir," said he, turning away contemptuously; 
 " it may have answered once — it won't do a 
 second time." 
 
 " De Francoeur," returned the Count, 
 turning towards him a face of amazement, 
 but still with the utmost suavity of voice, 
 " you really surprise me ; you don't mean to 
 imply that you doubt my identity ?" 
 
 " Your identity," echoed the agent, with 
 an indescribable curl of the lip ; " your 
 identity ! Aux autres ! You may impose 
 upon M. de la Rive, sir, but you cannot 
 impose upon me ; be assured of that." 
 
 "Well, this is really singular," said the 
 Count, without the least appearance of dis- 
 pleasure — on the contrary, he laughed ; " you 
 believe an impostor when he comes here in 
 my name, and you won't believe me now I 
 am really before your eyes."
 
 THE ACCUSATION. 85 
 
 " / never believed in the impostor, sir, any 
 more than I believe in you now; but I 
 countenanced the imposition for a time, for 
 the sake of the Countess," answered De 
 Francceur. " But that motive no longer 
 exists, and I will not see her family de- 
 frauded of her estates by a scoundrel." 
 
 " Bravo !" said the Count, with an air of 
 lively approbation. " You really charm me, 
 De Francoeur. You are acting exactly as 
 you ought to do. Your doubts are extremely 
 natural, and so far from blaming your 
 caution, I admire it. It is certainly within 
 the range of possibility that that fellow 
 should have come here to try his luck a 
 second time, and it would be too much to let 
 him stand in my shoes for another eighteen 
 months, wouldn't it ? But never fear ; I am 
 the right man at last, depend upon it, and so 
 I shall be able to prove to you." 
 
 " Never, sir," returned the agent with un- 
 flinching firmness — " never ;" and as he
 
 86 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 uttered the last word, he forcibly struck the 
 table with his clenched fist. 
 
 " Ha, ha !" laughed the Count, " there is 
 something really comical in this." 
 
 " You may think so," answered De Fran- 
 coeur ; " but I fancy you will find the joke 
 not quite so good as you expected. It would, 
 no doubt, be extremely agreeable to step 
 quietly into so fine an estate ; and had I been 
 dead, you might probably have succeeded. 
 As it is, you cannot ; and if you will take a 
 piece of well-meant advice, you will mount 
 your horse to-morrow morning with the 
 earliest dawn, and disappear from this part of 
 the country for ever." 
 
 " A modest request, De Francceur, cer- 
 tainly," returned the Count ; " I am sorry I 
 cannot obhge you by complying with it. I 
 shall remain and establish my right and 
 identity beyond the possibility of con- 
 troversy." 
 
 " You cannot do it, sir ; you cannot do
 
 THE ACCUSATION. »/ 
 
 it," answered the agent, vehemently ; " you 
 cannot prove what is false. The Count de 
 Chateauroux is dead — dead, sir. Who you 
 are, I do not know; but you are no more 
 the Count de Chateauroux than I am my- 
 self!" 
 
 " But, De Francoeur," returned the Count, 
 " how can you possibly know that I am not 
 he, when not only De la Rive but your own 
 wife recognised my person at a glance ? I 
 thought I understood you to say that no 
 tidings of the Count w^hatever had reached 
 you since his departure. Is not that so ?" 
 
 " Precisely," answered M. de Francoeur, in 
 a less confident tone, and slightly changing 
 colour. 
 
 " Then, how can you be so well assured of 
 his death ?" asked the Count, fixing his eyes 
 on the agent's face. 
 
 "Because I — I have no doubt of it," 
 replied De Francoeur, with evident embar- 
 rassment. " I have no doubt he is dead."
 
 88 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 "Pooh!" said the Count; "is that all? 
 How will that serve you in a court of law ? 
 What will your 'no doubt' weigh there?" 
 
 "It does not matter," replied De Fran- 
 coeur, making an effort to recover the 
 assured and confident demeanour with which 
 he had commenced the dispute ; " you are 
 not the Count de Chateauroux, and you 
 know it. Resign a hopeless enterprise, sir — 
 one I am resolved to defeat; begone in peace, 
 and I will not impede your departure, 
 although I am aware that if I did my duty, I 
 should expose you to the chastisement you 
 merit ; but I countenanced your deception 
 once, and I am not perhaps entitled to be 
 severe. I give you till to-morrow morning ; 
 if you have not quitted this house, nay, and 
 this neighbourhood, before nine o'clock to- 
 morrow, beware the consequences. With 
 that, I wish you good night !" and thereupon 
 he summoned a servant, and bade him 
 conduct the visitor to his chamber.
 
 THE ACCUSATION. 89 
 
 The Count, quite unmoved, rose from his 
 seat, bowed courteously, retired to his room, 
 and carefully locked the door. 
 
 By nine o'clock on the following morning 
 he was gone — but it was no farther than the 
 chateau, where, ha\dng engaged the necessary 
 domestics, he quietly took up his abode, his 
 right to do so being unarraigned by the De 
 la Rives or anybody else. Not only so, but 
 to the extreme annoyance of M. de Fran- 
 coeur, M. de la Rive persisted in living on 
 the best possible terms with this, as the 
 agent asserted, impostor. It was in vain 
 that the latter argued the case, and re- 
 presented the extreme folly of relinquishing 
 the property to a mere adventurer. He went 
 farther than he had ever done before in 
 acknowledging, that he had not been duped 
 by the pretender even for a moment. 
 
 " How could I," he said, " when the 
 pecuniary transactions betwixt the Count and 
 me were unknown to everybody else ? The
 
 90 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 man, whoever he was, had been extremely 
 well tutored doubtless ; and by means of 
 silence and reserve contrived to act his part 
 very tolerably; but much fewer people were 
 deceived than affected to be so, and the 
 moment he was alone with me I detected 
 him. Why, you have confessed to me your- 
 self that your suspicions were very strong, 
 although, for your sister's sake, you never 
 admitted them." 
 
 " I had my suspicions certainly," returned 
 M. Eugene, '' but I had never seen much of 
 the Count de Chateauroux, and I had no 
 desire to trouble my sister by expressing 
 them; but I have none now. The extraor- 
 dinary resemblance, or rather identity of 
 feature, air, and voice, leave no doubt upon 
 my mind whatever." 
 
 "But this resemblance was just as extra- 
 ordinary before, yet the man your brother 
 brought was not the Count de Chateau- 
 roux," urged De Francoeur; "or if he
 
 THE ACCUSATION. 91 
 
 were, this man is not, by his own con- 
 fession." 
 
 " Very true, but take my word for it this 
 is the veritable man," still responded De la 
 Rive, to the infinite annoyance of the agent, 
 who, after an argument on this subject, 
 would go away in a state of undisguised 
 irritation at what appeared to him the extra- 
 ordinary infatuation of his friend ; and as the 
 belief of men in general is extremely apt to 
 be influenced by their interest, it certainly 
 did seem very extraordinary that M. Eugene 
 should so obstinately persist in a persuasion 
 that was so contrary to his own advantage ; 
 and in order to explain this seeming incon- 
 sistency, we must request our readers to 
 accompany us back to that night described in 
 our first chapter, when M. and Madame de 
 Chateauroux were overheard in high alterca- 
 tion by their servants. 
 
 When the young Count Philibert married 
 Madame De Rosemont, he had no intention
 
 92 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 of making her unhappy, for he was a good- 
 natured man in the main, but not loving her 
 so well as he loved his diversions, he wished 
 to make her happy at as small an expense to 
 his own inclination as possible, and he 
 might perhaps have conciliated both objects 
 — his own pleasures and her contentment — 
 if it had not unfortunately happened that she 
 fell in love with him ; as men are constituted, 
 the most injudicious thing a wife can do, 
 especially if she is older than her husband. 
 This unlucky passion was the destruction of 
 both. She could no longer control her own 
 feelings, or manage his selfishness — a woman 
 who wishes to manage her husband must 
 take care not to be in love with him — but 
 indeed a woman in love never desires to 
 manage the object of her affection, she only 
 aspires to please him, and poor Madame de 
 Chateauroux would have been too happy to 
 have rendered obedience for love ; but the 
 love was beyond her attainment, and by her
 
 THE ACCUSATION. 93 
 
 struggle to retain her volatile charmer, she 
 only disgusted and alienated him more and 
 more, till, as she justly upbraided him, he 
 never came home except when he was in 
 need of money ; and it was precisely the 
 necessity of replenishing his purse, together 
 with an unpleasant report regarding financial 
 affairs, that had brought him back on that 
 unlucky night. 
 
 The family of De Francoeur, though not 
 noble, were gentry, and, as we have said, 
 distantly connected with the De la Rives ; but 
 being without fortune, they had been obliged 
 to seek their subsistence in the law or the 
 church. Francois de Francoeur, who figures 
 in our story, had been educated for the 
 former ; but instead of pursuing his vocation, 
 when Sophie de la Rive inherited the im- 
 mense fortune bequeathed to her by her aunt, 
 he consented to undertake the agency of the 
 property. The entire management of it was 
 placed in his hands, and during her minority
 
 94 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 and the life of her first husband, she had every 
 reason to congratulate herself on this judicious 
 appointment. When she married M. de 
 Chateauroux, no alteration was made in this 
 particular. The young Count knew nothing 
 of the business, nor had any vocation to it, 
 and he had no desire to have anything more to 
 do with the estate than to draw what money 
 he wanted, and be left to spend it according 
 to his own pleasure. De Francoeur supplied 
 him to his heart's content, and thus at first 
 all went well. Gradually, however, his 
 demands increased ; he had taken to play, 
 and he drew to an amount that alarmed the 
 agent, who thought it right to give a hint of 
 the growing evil to the Countess, whose 
 money it was. But she was very fond of 
 her husband then, and had not resigned all 
 hopes of reclaiming him by indulgence. She 
 would not therefore risk offending him for 
 the sake of money. " How can I help it ?" 
 said she ; " he must spend what he likes."
 
 THE ACCUSATION. 95 
 
 " You might speak to him on the subject," 
 suggested the agent. 
 
 " Never," replied the lady ; " if it goes too 
 far, you can say you have no money. If there 
 is to be any restriction, you must manage it 
 yourself." 
 
 The agent objected that that would be a 
 very awkward thing for him to do ; and so, 
 between them both, nothing was done, and 
 the thingwent on as before, ultimately leading 
 to consequences much more serious than the 
 parties concerned had foreseen. 
 
 De Francoeur's prosperity had been growing 
 with his years, and as his means increased so 
 did his desires. He was no longer satisfied 
 with the profits of his agency and the gains 
 of agriculture, but was induced to embark in 
 speculations more dazzling, but also more 
 precarious. He meant no harm in the be- 
 ginning, and at first he played this game only 
 with his own money : but, from some unex- 
 pected turn of affairs, suddenly finding him-
 
 96 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 self in difficulties, he disentangled himself from 
 the immediate dilemma by borrowing from 
 the funds of his client, Madame de Chateau- 
 roux. When he took the money, he meant 
 to replace it ; but somehow or other, instead 
 of doing so he borrowed more. The first 
 infraction cost him a good deal of uneasiness ; 
 the second less ; and by degrees he got so 
 used to the thing, that one might have thought 
 the money was his own, he took it so com- 
 fortably. He had terrible facilities for doing it, 
 for the Countess never inspected his accounts, 
 nor ever doubted his integrity, although when 
 complaining of her husband's desertion, she 
 accused the agent of furnishing him the 
 means of staying away from her ; but she 
 had refused to interfere when he had honestly 
 recommended her to do so, and his own 
 interest and safety now forbade him to take 
 any step that might force on an expla- 
 nation. 
 
 A circumstance unexpectedly occurred, how-
 
 THE ACCUSATION. 97 
 
 ever, which seemed extremely likely to produce 
 this very alarming consummation. A property 
 which divided two of the Countess's estates, 
 and which she had on that account long 
 wished to possess, suddenly came into the 
 market, and De Francoeur immediately re- 
 ceived her injunctions to purchase it ; but he 
 had not the money, and the only excuse he 
 could make for not having it, w^as to lay the 
 deficit at the door of the Count's exorbitant 
 drafts on the revenue. This being an amount 
 of extravagance that she had not reckoned 
 upon, the Countess was both sm'prised and 
 angry, and she declared her determination to 
 put a stop to it, and to teU M. de Chateauroux 
 her mind on the subject the next time he 
 condescended to visit her. 
 
 Here was the crisis w^hich De Francoeur 
 had hoped to avert, but which sooner or later 
 overtakes everybody who ventures on a similar 
 course of dishonest appropriation. His per- 
 plexity was great ; to avoid the impending 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 98 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 exposure he would gladly have sold his own 
 estate, but there was no time to look for 
 a purchaser, and Madame de Chateauroux 
 missed the acquisition of the property she 
 desired. This vexed her extremely, and all 
 the agent dared to hope was, that it might be 
 long before a visit from her husband afforded 
 her an opportunity of arraigning his pro- 
 digahty, and that in the meantime something 
 might occur to relieve him from his embar- 
 rassment. Evil thoughts are sure to find 
 their way into the mind of a man so situated. 
 " What a good thing it would be if the Count 
 never came home again !" thought he ; and 
 his imagination painted all the possible casu- 
 alties that might befall him. Worse thoughts 
 still would intrude sometimes, and it seemed 
 to him as if the devil was at his ear, whis- 
 pering wicked suggestions of w^hat might 
 happen if they were riding over the lands to- 
 gether, through the tail fern and the lonely pine 
 forests, where a traveller is not seen twice in
 
 THE ACCUSATION. 99 
 
 a week ; but he cried avaunt ! and would not 
 listen and went away to the fields to see his 
 labourers at work and admire his crops. 
 
 But there came a pang again — how fine 
 and rich they looked as they waved in the 
 light breeze, or fell beneath the scythe of the 
 reaper ; but if everybody had their own, 
 whose were they ? Not his assuredly ; and 
 though they grew upon his land, they might 
 never be stacked in his yard ; for he lived 
 with a sword over iiis head, which, every day 
 he rose, he feared might fall ere night. His 
 life was wretched, and his brain teemed with 
 projects to escape from his misery ; but there 
 are many more roads for getting into trouble 
 than for getting out of it, and before he could 
 find one, M. de Chateauroux came home. 
 
 H 2
 
 100 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 It was evening, and being the anniversary 
 of his wedding-day, M. de Francoeur had 
 some friends at his house. He was at this 
 period a man of about five-and-thirty ; he 
 had been married some years to an agreeable 
 woman much younger than himself; he had 
 two little children on whom he doted, and he 
 had in short everything in the world to make 
 life happy, but one thing — the most important 
 of all — a clear conscience ; that one blessed
 
 THE ACCUSATION. 101 
 
 possession which enables us to live without 
 the fear of man. 
 
 There can be no manner of doubt that any- 
 body who has once played away this inesti- 
 mable treasure, and thereby sold himself a 
 bond-slave for life, would, unless he be so 
 sunk in brutality as to have forfeited his hu- 
 manity and be abandoned of conscience 
 altogether, give everything else he possesses 
 in the world to recover that one untarnished 
 gem. M. de Francoeur would have done so, 
 for he was a man still of sentiment and feeling, 
 loving his family and naturally courteous to 
 his friends. But this cruel memory that sat 
 with him at meat and forbade him to be 
 cheerful, marred his enjoyments and spoilt his 
 temper. However, to-day, he had determined 
 to be happy, come what might hereafter : 
 what was the use of meeting sorrow half-way, 
 and poisoning the present by the fear of a 
 future that might never arrive for him ? 
 Besides, it had more than once occurred to
 
 102 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 him that he might borrow money enough, by 
 mortgaging his own estate, to replace what 
 was deficient, and that then he would go to 
 the Countess, and tell her, that he had disco- 
 vered an extraordinory error in his own ac- 
 count with M. de Chateauroux ; that by a 
 mistake in figures he had in his book assigned 
 a much larger sum to him than he had 
 received, and that he, M. de Francoeur, now 
 found that he had all that money in hand. 
 She would be annoyed at missing the pur- 
 chase, and would accuse him of carelessness, 
 and there it w^ould end. 
 
 His project, which had sometimes appeared 
 feasible and sometimes not, according to 
 whichever side of it he surveyed, now pre- 
 sented its most smiling aspect. He felt sure 
 it would answer his purpose ; and although 
 the mortgage would straiten his own circum- 
 stances terribly, yet he might pay it off with 
 time and economy; and if not, what was the 
 restriction of his means to the anguish of his
 
 THE ACCUSATION. 103 
 
 mind! Nothing; he would do it; and in 
 the meantime, he would be happy for that 
 day at least. 
 
 His wife was delighted to see him more 
 cheerful than he had been for a long time, 
 and his friends took the occasion of its being 
 his wedding-day, to congratulate him on his 
 domestic felicity. When English and Scotch 
 people assemble together for the purposes of 
 enjoyment, their custom is to sit at a table 
 in a close room, and eat and drink for several 
 successive hours as much as they can, which 
 is generally much more than they ought, and 
 enough to make them somewhat uncomfort- 
 able the next morning, and unfit them for 
 their day's work, whatever it may be. When 
 French people assemble for the same purpose, 
 they dance — out of doors, if the season will 
 admit of it; and some light and simple 
 refreshments send them home with as clear 
 heads and good digestions as they brought. 
 When they are older and graver, and have no
 
 104 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 young ones in their society, a petit souper, 
 without any strong potations after it, is a 
 sufficient attraction to bring them together, 
 and is a very innocuous mode of entertain- 
 ment after their early dinner. 
 
 On this memorable night M. de Fran- 
 coeur's young wife and her friends were gaily 
 dancing on the lawn, and Madame de Cha- 
 teauroux, whose disappointment had made 
 her graver than her years, was pleasantly 
 entertaining half a dozen of her acquaintances 
 with a petit souper in her saloon, whilst on 
 the road from Aries to Beaulieu, which latter 
 lay on the way to the chateau, a fine black 
 horse was jogging gently forwards, bearing 
 on its back the person that was to mar this 
 harmony. However thoughtless, and im- 
 prudent, and selfish Philibert de Chateauroux 
 had shown himself since his marriage, he was 
 not a man altogether without conscience and 
 honour, and consequently when any circum- 
 stance occurred to place his own conduct be-
 
 THE ACCUSATION. 105 
 
 fore him in the broad hght of day and force 
 him to look at it, he was not insensible to its 
 deformity ; and such a circumstance was a 
 report that had just reached him that the 
 property so long desired by his wife had fallen 
 into other hands in consequence of his extra- 
 vagance and her inability to purchase it. But 
 two days before, he had written to De Fran- 
 coeur for suppHes to a rather large amount, 
 but on hearing this rumour, he resolved to 
 go and fetch the money himself, and at the 
 same time inquire into the state of affairs at 
 home. He had neglected his wife shockingly, 
 but to ruin her into the bargain was too 
 much ; and if he found it necessary, he must 
 resolve to pull in and retrench ; and as he 
 must needs pass Beaulieu, he would stop 
 there and have a little conversation with De 
 Francoeur before he met the Countess ; so 
 when he reached the gate, he alighted and 
 fastened his horse to it — for he never travelled 
 with a servant— having his own reasons for
 
 106 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 not carrying home with him a person who 
 might blab of his whereabouts. 
 
 As by this time the evening was closing in, 
 the dancers had just re-entered the house, and 
 their host was supplying them with re- 
 freshments, when a servant approached and 
 told him he was wanted by a gentleman, who 
 refused to come in. 
 
 " Say I am engaged," said he, " and bid 
 the person call to-morrow. I cannot see 
 anybody to-night." 
 
 The man, who was but an occasional 
 servant, was turning away with this answer, 
 when M. de Francoeur's own valet whispered, 
 " It is M. le Comte de Chateauroux that is 
 in the hall, sir." 
 
 Little thought he that said those words 
 what a significance they had for him who 
 heard them. They were like an immediate 
 sentence of death to a criminal who had 
 reckoned surely on a reprieve, if not a 
 pardon.
 
 THE ACCUSATION. 107 
 
 " Excuse me !" said he to a lady standing 
 beside him, and hastening out of the room — 
 for he felt his colour change and his knees 
 gi\dng way — and in a moment he was in the 
 haU face to face with his unwelcome visitor. 
 
 " Ah, my dear Count, how are you ?" he 
 said, affecting a hearty welcome. " I have 
 some friends here celebrating the anniversary 
 of my wedding ; come in and join us." 
 
 " I would with pleasure if I were suitably 
 attired," answered the Count; "but I have 
 ridden far in the dust and heat, and am not 
 fit to be seen in a baU-room." 
 
 " Oh, nonsense !" replied De Francceur, 
 taking refuge in a forced gaiety; " the gallant 
 Count de Chateauroux will be welcome to 
 the ladies in any dress. Come, come ;" and 
 he drew him by the arm towards the door of 
 the dancing-room. 
 
 " Excuse me !" said De Chateauroux ; 
 " not to-night ; besides, I am tired ; but I 
 want to talk to you about business, and I
 
 108 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 wish you would come to breakfast with me 
 to-morrow at ten o'clock, will you? I am 
 very much annoyed to learn that that 
 property my wife wanted to purchase has 
 fallen into other hands." 
 
 " Well, if you will not come in," said De 
 Francoeur, " I suppose I must let you go ?" 
 
 " You'll be with me at ten ?" rejoined the 
 Count. 
 
 " Certainly !" answered De Francoeur. 
 
 " Good night, then," said the former : " I 
 will not detain you longer from your friends. 
 A demain .'" and he quitted the hall to 
 remount his horse. 
 
 " Attend M. de Chateauroux !" said the 
 agent to one of the servants, whilst he 
 himself, instead of re-entering the ball-room, 
 strode hastily up-stairs to his own chamber, 
 in order to steal a few minutes from the 
 many eyes below that he feared might read 
 his secret in his face. Oh, blest, blest are 
 they who need fear no human eye !
 
 THE ACCUSATION. 109 
 
 But sitting alone, and reviewing his 
 situation in all its horrors, M. de Francoeur 
 found was not the way to enable him to 
 meet his company with more self-possession ; 
 so he returned amongst them and endea- 
 voured to forget himself and his troubles in 
 wine and revelry. His sober visitors were 
 amazed at the long draughts he swallowed 
 and at his noisy demonstrations of joy ; but 
 they accounted for it by the remark, that 
 when sober, quiet people do outstep their 
 customary bounds of discretion, they are apt 
 to rush into greater excesses than habitual 
 revellers. 
 
 " Pauvre homme r said one ; " it has 
 been evident for a long time past that he has 
 devoted himself too much to business and 
 been too anxious; he is like a child broke 
 loose from school, that manifests its hap- 
 piness by all sorts of absurd gam- 
 bols." 
 
 "He is an excellent man, M. de Fran-
 
 110 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 coeur," said another ; " so desirous of doing 
 well for his family !" 
 
 "And such an invaluable friend to Ma- 
 dame de Chateauroux," observed a third. 
 " I do not know what she would have done 
 without him." 
 
 " And with all his care and anxiety, I fear 
 the property is very much injured by that 
 scapegrace her husband. It is reported that 
 he has spent enormous sums," remarked a 
 fourth. 
 
 " They say it is that circumstance that has 
 been weighing so painfully on De Francceur's 
 mind for some time back," observed one of 
 the speakers. " He has certainly been very 
 much depressed of late." 
 
 " Allons ; messieurs et mesdames, dansons 
 la ronde r cried the host, clapping his hands, 
 and dispersing the little circle of gossips. 
 
 " Why, De Francoeur, you have shaken off 
 fifteen years to-night. You are a boy again,' 
 said one.
 
 THE ACCUSATION. Ill 
 
 "To be sure," cried the agent, "what is 
 the use of being sad ? Toujours gai, et 
 vive la bagatelle ! that is my motto." 
 
 " Bravo !" cried his friend. " De Fran- 
 coeur for ever ! Long live our noble host 1" 
 
 When the hour arrived at which his 
 company would naturally have dispersed, he 
 would not allow them to go ; and when they 
 tried to slip away, he locked the hall-door, 
 and threw the key out of the window ; and 
 by this and similar mad pranks, he contrived, 
 with or without their consent, to keep them 
 with him till the night was more than half 
 spent. But time, Hke death, is inexorable, 
 and it will not be defrauded of its prey, 
 which, amongst many other hollow things, 
 reckons aU factitious joys and iU-bascd 
 pleasures ; so that, defer their departure as 
 he would, the hour came that left M. de 
 Francoeur alone with his thoughts, his 
 memories, and hi« fears. The mom^ent the 
 doors closed upon the last of Ms party, he
 
 112 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 told his wife that he was quite exhausted, 
 and must go to bed. He could face the 
 visitors, but he could not face her that was 
 accustomed to read his features; so he hid 
 them upon his pillow, where, however, no 
 sleep came to smooth care's furrows, or to 
 bring back colour to the bloodless cheeks; 
 and whilst he lies there, waiting the unwel- 
 come morning, we wiU follow M. de Cha- 
 teauroux on his way to the castle. 
 
 As we have intimated above, the Count 
 was going home oppressed with a conscious- 
 ness that he was by no means blameless in 
 regard to his wife. He had hitherto excused 
 himself at her expense, attributing his own 
 errors to her want of youth and beauty, 
 and her injudicious reproaches. But he 
 could not help feeling that if she w^as not 
 wise, she was at least liberal, when he 
 reflected what unrestrained command he had 
 had of her money; a privilege which she 
 might have retracted at any moment she
 
 THE ACCUSATION. 113 
 
 chose, the fortune by her aunt's will being 
 entirely in her own power. Softened by this 
 penitent feeling, he resolved to meet her with 
 a more affectionate and genial manner than 
 he had done on his recent visits ; and though 
 he knew himself too well to promise that he 
 would reform his ways altogether, he deter- 
 mined to see his home more frequently, and 
 to be more friendly and agreeable to his wife 
 whilst he was there, than of late years had 
 been his custom. 
 
 But unfortunately all these good resolu- 
 tions were rendered nuU, and a long concate- 
 nation of unthought-of misfortunes, entailed 
 by the circumstance of finding his wife in 
 company. Without that contretems all might 
 have been well ; but her injudicious reception 
 and unhappy display of temper reacting upon 
 him, his good feelings of repentance were 
 stifled ; he returned to his former opinion 
 that the faults were hers, not his ; ana 
 instead of his heart being softened towards 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 114 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 her, it became harder than ever. She had 
 BOW, too, destroyed that motive which often 
 serves to keep people from extremes when all 
 better ones have failed; she had exposed their 
 domestic squabbles to her acquaintance, and 
 if she had no more delicacy, he thought there 
 was no reason that he should. He did not 
 betray so much ill-humour before the supper- 
 party as she did, both because he had more 
 command of himself, and because, having no 
 love to aggravate his vexation, his irritation 
 was less poignant ; but as soon as they were 
 gone, and the Countess broke forth into 
 complaints and reproaches, she found hinl 
 more hard and contemptuous than on any 
 former occasion. Instead of making the 
 slightest admission that he was wrong, he 
 told her that she had no right to expect he 
 would ever come home at aU when she made 
 that home so disagreeable to him ; and when 
 she reproached him with his extravagance, he 
 retorted by accusing her of meanness — a
 
 THE ACCUSATION. 115 
 
 reproof she certainly did not merit ; but in 
 domestic quarrels, above all others, people are 
 the least scrupulous with regard to the 
 weapons they use. 
 
 When they had exhausted their whole 
 repertory of bitternesses, they retired to their 
 chambers, separating with that vague threat 
 uttered by the Countess, and his con- 
 temptuous answer recorded in our first 
 chapter. It was not till the Count had lain 
 dow^n in bed and his servant had left him, 
 that he began to feel the sting of that 
 menace. She certainly could revenge herself 
 if she pleased, by stopping the supplies, and 
 that was probably what she contemplated. 
 This unpleasant anticipation, together with 
 the pre\dous excitement of his brain, very 
 naturally prevented his sleeping. He resolved 
 to banish the whole thing from his mdnd, 
 but that is a resolution more easily made in 
 similar situations than fulfilled ; he turned on 
 one side, then on the other; thought of a 
 
 I 2
 
 116 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 flowing stream, of a flock of sheep, and of 
 waving corn ; but it was all of no use — sleep 
 rejected his allurements, and would not visit 
 him. Now, most people have experienced 
 how very unpleasantly active the imagination 
 is apt to become under this sort of insomno- 
 lence ; how small evils swell into great ones, 
 and what a terrible gripe any disagreeable 
 fancy takes of the mind. It was so with the 
 Count ; he had no money at the time ; not a 
 sou ; probably on the following day she 
 would issue her commands to the agent to 
 give him no more. A pleasant situation he 
 would be in ! A prisoner for want of the 
 means of going elsewhere, and his wife his 
 jailor ! 
 
 Then another idea occurred to him. These 
 words, prisoner and jailor, awakened a new 
 fear ; how, if the Countess applied for a 
 lettre de cachet, and got him shut up in the 
 Bastile ! These terrible letters which might 
 deprive a man of his liberty for the rest of
 
 THE ACCUSATION. 117 
 
 his life, without his knowing why or where- 
 fore, were rife in those days; and Madame 
 de Chateauroux had many influential connec- 
 tions that might aid her to procure such an 
 order. Perhaps that was the revenge she 
 was meditating; it would certainly be the 
 most signal and bitter injury she could inflict 
 upon him. As these apprehensions and 
 suspicions got possession of him, he now 
 began to regret exceedingly that he had 
 come home, and, from wishing he had not 
 come, he naturally began to question with 
 himself how he could go. The first step 
 was to obtain some money in the morning 
 from De Francoeur ; but how, if she forbade 
 the agent to supply him? and unluckily M. 
 de Francoeur was to be at the chateau at ten 
 o'clock, which would afl'ord her the earliest 
 opportunity of doing it. 
 
 " I'll be beforehand with her," thought he, 
 suddenly flinging off the bed-clothes and 
 leaping to the floor. '* I'll be off to De
 
 1 1 8 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 Francoeur, get some money, and be out of 
 her reach before she is up. Then I'll write 
 to her, and propose terms of separation." 
 
 The dawn was just breaking when the 
 Count arrived at this determination, so he 
 dressed himself hastily, and was about 
 leaving the room, when, in throwing on his 
 cloak, he overthrew the glass that covered a 
 stuffed bird, and in the attempt to save it he 
 cut his hand severely. Having wiped the 
 blood on the sheet, he bound up his wounded 
 hand with a handkerchief, and then, after 
 softly opening his room door and listening, 
 he cautiously descended the stairs to the hall, 
 and let himself out. His horse he could not 
 get at without disturbing the grooms, so he 
 resolved to borrow one of De Francoeur, who 
 would send his own after him; and being 
 thus safely out of the house, he bent his 
 steps towards the agent's. 
 
 Now, as we have described, M. de Fran- 
 coeur's couch that night was no more a bed
 
 THE ACCUSATION. 119 
 
 of down than the Count's. Sleep, that loves 
 the cool and dewy brow and calm pulsations 
 of a heart at ease, shunned these hot, uneasy 
 pillows ; and as there is no place so wretched 
 as the bed that sleep refuses to visit, the 
 agent had also risen with the dawn, and had 
 descended to the garden to seek the fresh 
 morning air that his fevered skin was thirst- 
 ing for, and he was slowly pacing backwards 
 and forwards, weighing his fortune and 
 balancing his chances, when he was surprised 
 to behold the very person that chiefly oc- 
 cupied his thoughts coming towards him. 
 
 " Bless me !" he cried, for a moment 
 forgetting his dilemma in his amazement, 
 " what in the world has brought you 
 out so early. Count? Has anything hap- 
 pened r 
 
 " Why, nothing very new has happened," 
 answered the Count, " but I am going away, 
 and I want you to give me five thousand 
 francs immediately."
 
 120 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 " Going away !" reiterated the agent, 
 " going so soon ?" 
 
 " Yes," replied the other, " my wife and I 
 cannot agree, and it is much better for both 
 parties that we should separate. I dare say 
 I am in fault, but so is she ; and whenever I 
 come home there is inevitably a quarrel. 
 She accuses me of extravagance too, and I 
 dare say I have spent more money than I 
 ought, though not so much as she says I 
 have ; but women, when they are angry, 
 never stick to the truth. Now, you see, De 
 Francoeur, I cannot stand this any longer, 
 and I mean to bring matters to a settlement. 
 First of all, I want you to furnish me with 
 an exact statement of all the sums I have 
 drawn from you since our last winding-up of 
 accounts, so that at least she may not have it 
 in her power to misrepresent me ; and then I 
 shall request her to appoint some of her 
 friends to arbitrate betwixt us, and arrange a 
 separation. Do you not think I am right ?"
 
 THE ACCUSATION. 121 
 
 " But what made you come so early ? 
 Why are you in such a hurry ?" inquired De 
 Francoeur, rather pursuing his own thought 
 than attending to the Count's question. 
 
 '< Why, I did not sleep, and I wished to 
 be away before Madame de Chateauroux can 
 open her morning battery upon me." 
 
 " Then have you left the chateau without 
 taking leave of her ?" 
 
 " Certainly I have. I left it before any- 
 body was up, and even came away without 
 my horse, because I w^anted to avoid any 
 delay or chance of disturbing her. I believe, 
 De Francoeur, that you have no experience of 
 this sort of thing in your menage ; if you 
 had, you would not be so surprised at my 
 making this vigorous effort to escape it. 
 By the bye, you must lend me a horse." 
 
 " You had better stay and take your 
 breakfast here," said the agent. 
 
 " Not for the world," answered the Count; 
 " I mean to be ten miles off at least before
 
 122 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 breakfast time; but tell me, De Francoeur, 
 what is the reason you did not purchase the 
 La Roche property, which my wife was 
 always so anxious to possess ?" 
 
 " Why, we hadn't the money ready," 
 returned the agent, stooping to pluck up 
 some weeds from the gravel ; " and a cousin 
 of La Roche's who has long wished for 
 the land, just stepped in and snapped it 
 up." 
 
 *' But that is exactly what I do not under- 
 stand," returned the Count ; " what do you 
 mean by not having the money ready ?" 
 
 " If there had not been a purchaser on the 
 spot to anticipate us, I could soon have got 
 it together," replied the other; "but they 
 gave us no time." 
 
 " But why should you need time ?" in- 
 sisted the Count, who was not unobservant 
 of De Francoeur's confusion, and who, for 
 the first time in his life, was sensible of a 
 faint suspicion that the agent might not be
 
 THE ACCUSATION. 123 
 
 the mirror of integrity they had hitherto 
 thought him. " Do you not regularly collect 
 the rents ?" 
 
 "As regularly as the tenants will pay 
 them," answered the agent. 
 
 " But what are the arrears ?" inquired the 
 Count. 
 
 " I am sure I cannot recollect without 
 looking at my books," said the former. 
 " But you know last year some of the vines 
 failed." 
 
 " If the deficit arises from arrears of rent, 
 I should like to have it properly understood," 
 said the Count ; " because you see, De Fran- 
 coeur, I do not choose to have it in my wife's 
 power to complain to the world that she is 
 distressed by my extravagance, and that it is 
 owing to me that she has lost La Roche. 
 For my part, I am really very sorry the 
 property was not bought, and I confess I 
 cannot understand it." 
 
 " It came into the market so unex-
 
 124 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 pectedly," replied the other ; " but what is 
 the matter with your hand ?" 
 
 " A mere trifle; I cut it with some 
 glass." 
 
 *' You had better come in and let me get 
 something to bind it up ; it's bleeding." 
 
 " Nothing so good as a little cold water ; 
 I'll wash it here at the well." 
 
 *' And I'll fetch you a clean handkerchief," 
 said De Francoeur, returning into the house. 
 
 " I have half a mind to stay and breakfast 
 with him after all," thought the Count, as he 
 turned towards the well, which was in an 
 orchard on one side of the building. '* I 
 should like very much to make out what has 
 become of all the money ; I will stay too, I 
 am determined." 
 
 In the meamvhile, De Francoeur, glad to 
 escape into the house in order to avoid so 
 embarrassing a conversation, fetched a clean 
 white handkerchief to bind up the wounded 
 hand, and was returning to the orchard with
 
 THE ACCUSATION. 125 
 
 it when it occurred to him that he would also 
 take out the five thousand francs which he 
 happened luckily to have by him, as possibly 
 the Count, once provided with them, might 
 be disposed to depart immediately. So he 
 took a key out of his pocket, and opened the 
 door of a small apartment, w^here he kept his 
 money and valuables. " Ah, Bernard, Ber- 
 nard ! down, down !" said he to a fine young 
 dog pf the St. Bernard breed, who was always 
 left by night in that room as a guard. The dog, 
 dehghted to be set free, jumped and gamboUed 
 about him whilst he unlocked his escritoir 
 and took out the money ; and then when he 
 saw his master turn tow^ards the door, he 
 bounded before him into the garden. 
 
 At this moment the Count, w^ho had draw^n 
 up some fresh water for himself, w^as stooping 
 over the bucket bathing his hand, the dog, a 
 large and powerful creature, fuU of spirit and 
 activity, sprang forward, and leaped with his
 
 126 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 two forefeet upon his shoulders. The animal 
 was in sport, but it was death to the man ; 
 the sudden push caused him to lose his 
 balance, and he went head foremost into the 
 well. 
 
 De Francoeur, who was hastening forward 
 to prevent the dog alarming the Count, was 
 just in time to see the accident as he turned 
 the corner of the house ; he rushed forwards 
 a few steps — then he stopped short — there 
 was a voice from the deep water — then a 
 second — and he distinguished his own name ; 
 the dog stood looking down wistfully and 
 whined ; then there was another cry more 
 faint and stifled. The agent looked all around 
 him, and up at the windows of his own 
 house ; they were closed, and there was 
 nobody to be seen, and he stepped a little 
 nearer to the well. He heard the water 
 splashing, splashing ; but presently the sound 
 ceased — the water was still.
 
 THE ACCUSATION. 127 
 
 Then he drew nearer ; the dog looked at 
 him, and then whined again ; De Francoeur 
 turned his eye from the aperture, but with 
 his foot he pushed the board over it, and 
 covered it up.
 
 128 LIGHT AND DARKNESS, 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Upon what narrow chances our Hves 
 depend ! and not only our lives, but even 
 sometimes our guilt or innocence ! Had it 
 not occurred to De Francoeur to take out the 
 money as well as the handkerchief, the dog 
 would not have been released at that critical 
 moment, and the Count de Chateauroux 
 would not have been drowned in the well ; 
 and had De Francoeur been a little less rapid 
 in his movements, he would have escaped 
 witnessing the accident, nor was it probable
 
 THE ACCUSATION. 129 
 
 that he would have discovered what had 
 become of his visitor till it was too late to 
 afford him any assistance. It was certainly 
 possible that his efforts to save the Count 
 might have been unavailing ; though the 
 probabihties were that had he immediately 
 let down the bucket, the victim might have 
 extricated himself from the water ; but whilst 
 the result of what might have been done was 
 uncertain, there was one thing too certain — 
 he had done nothing ! he had suffered the 
 man to die whilst calling upon his name ; he 
 had not stretched out an arm to help him, 
 and he felt that he was guilty of his death. 
 
 It was not, however, immediately that he 
 was conscious of the weight of this conviction. 
 His first sensations were those of relief and 
 security — no one could arraign him now ; no 
 mortal lived that could prove or disprove 
 anything he had affirmed regarding the 
 Count's expenditure ; he was safe, safe, safe ; 
 nobody could touch him there. What a 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 130 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 release it was from a daily fear ! It is true, 
 there was a worse fear behind ; but that was 
 veiled, and he did not see it yet. 
 
 When De Francoeur had covered the well, 
 he whistled the dog to follow him, and 
 returned into the house, where he locked up 
 the animal in the same room he had released 
 him from; and then he retired to his chamber 
 and lay down, for no one in the house knew 
 that he had been astir thus early ; and as the 
 whole family had gone to bed fatigued, they 
 slept soundly and rose late. He would have 
 been glad to sleep too, but he had murdered 
 sleep ! and he lay restless and listening tiU he 
 heard the servants moving, and then he rose 
 and called for water to shave ; " for," said he 
 to his valet, " I have to be at the chateau at 
 ten, to breakfast with the Count !" 
 
 He did not dare to look at the man as he 
 said it ; he was afraid of what he might read 
 in his face ; but he might safely have done so 
 — the face was perfectly blank, and expressed
 
 THE ACCUSATION. 131 
 
 no interest whatever in the communication, 
 neither did he make any answer — there was 
 none to make. But De Francoeur felt his 
 silence as if it were something significant, and 
 glanced at him to see the reason of it; for how 
 did he know that some wakeful eye, undis- 
 cerned by him, had not witnessed that morn- 
 ing's tragedy ? 
 
 " No, not he, at least," thought De Fran- 
 coeur, as he saw the man, with an unconcerned 
 countenance, arranging the clothes his master 
 was about to put on. 
 
 He felt somewhat fortified by this ; he had 
 encountered one human countenance, and it 
 expressed no suspicion. Then he inquired 
 the hour, and what sort of morning it was, 
 and he spoke to the servant with unusual fa- 
 miliarity, for he was glad to keep him in the 
 room; the man seemed to stand betwixt 
 him and that other that was there too — there 
 for him, though the fleshly eye oould not 
 discern him. 
 
 K 2
 
 132 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 As soon as he was dressed, he called for 
 his hat and gloves, and sallied forth on his 
 way to the chateau. He was rather early for 
 his appointment ; and indeed there was no 
 need to hasten to keep it — he would he there 
 first ; but he was restless, and motion relieved 
 him ; besides, he did not wish to meet his 
 wife just then, nor to look upon the faces of 
 his young children ; and instead of going the 
 direct road, he w^ent a far way round through 
 the fields and meadows, and the clock struck 
 ten as he walked up the avenue to the castle. 
 Madelon, then a young woman, had opened 
 the gate for him, and said she supposed he 
 was aware that Monsieur had returned the 
 night before, and he answered, " Yes ; I am 
 come to breakfast with him ;" and walked 
 on to the terrace; where he rang the 
 bell. 
 
 " 1 hope I am not late," said he to the 
 servant who opened the door ; "is the Count 
 down stairs yet ?"
 
 THE ACCUSATION. 133 
 
 " Oui, Monsieur," answered the man, " my 
 lord is gone out." 
 
 " Gone out," repeated De Francoeur, '' I 
 came to breakfast with him." 
 
 " He expects you. Sir," returned the 
 servant, " and he will doubtless return im- 
 mediately." 
 
 " Good," said De Francoeur — and good it 
 appeared to him, for here was no suspicion 
 either, and he followed the man into the 
 breakfast room, where the table was laid for 
 two ; the servant closed the door, and there 
 he was alone — waiting for him that was to 
 eat with him. 
 
 He was in that very room where hung the 
 picture of Count Joachim, over the mantel- 
 piece — the father of him he waited for, and 
 who came not. Do what he would, he could 
 not keep his eyes from the portrait ; he felt 
 himself bewitched to stare upon it, and some- 
 times he fancied it returned his stare and 
 looked at him strangely. Allowing for the
 
 134 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 difference of age and dress, it was exceedingly 
 like the young Count ; and he saw that the 
 handsome features of Joachim were just what 
 those of Philibert would have become with 
 time — but he and time were divorced for ever, 
 and those handsome young features were 
 fixed in death. 
 
 De Francoeur passed his hand across his 
 brow, and turned to the window, which looked 
 out upon the broad gravel walk, and the soft 
 greensward beyond. There were a few sheep 
 with very white rich fleeces, and two extremely 
 handsome cows, selected for their beauty, and 
 placed there for the gratification of the 
 Countess. It was a calm and lovely scene ; 
 the trees that dotted the turf here and there, 
 and the innocent animals living their pure 
 life — and it brought a choking sensation into 
 the beholder's throat that made him suddenly 
 turn away from the sight of it. Presently 
 the servant entered, under pretence of ar- 
 ranging something on the table, in order that
 
 THE ACCUSATION. 135 
 
 he might have the opportunity of commu- 
 nicating that he had been looking for the 
 Count everywhere, but could not find him. 
 Having said this, he went out again, and 
 De Francoeur stayed on for another half 
 hour. 
 
 By this time the Countess had risen ; and 
 having been told by Clarice that M. de 
 Francoeur had been waiting below for a 
 considerable time to breakfast with Monsieur, 
 who had invited him to be there at ten, she 
 desired that the great bell sliould be rung, as 
 no doubt the Count was walking in the 
 grounds and had forgotten the appointment. 
 So they rung the bell which brought up 
 Madelon to ask what had happened. 
 
 But still the Count came not, neither had 
 she seen him pass the gate; wherever he 
 was, however, he must be on foot, and there- 
 fore at no great distance, for on inquiry it 
 was ascertained that his horse was in the 
 stable. The Countess now sent Clarice to
 
 136 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 M. de Francoeur to recommend him to take 
 his breakfast and wait no longer ; so he fol- 
 lowed her advice and went away. When he 
 reached home he found his wife in great 
 spirits, and very talkative about the preceding 
 evening's amusement, and he tried to listen 
 to her ; but do what he would, his thoughts 
 would wander away to that dismal well in the 
 orchard. Then, there was the dog ; he could 
 not keep the animal shut up in a room, and 
 he was somehow afraid that if he let him out, 
 he would bound away to that fatal spot and 
 draw attention to it. The best thing he 
 could do was to mount his horse and take a 
 ride, and let the dog go with him. 
 
 As he had expected, the animal ran to the 
 well the moment he was outside the door ; 
 but when he saw his master cantering off, he 
 left it and sprang after him. De Francoeur, 
 though he was fond of the dog, would now 
 have been very glad to get rid of him ; but 
 it was difficult to lose a large animal like that
 
 THE ACCUSATION. 137 
 
 whose owner was well known, and it being a 
 gift of Madame de Francoeur's brother, he 
 could not with propriety part with him. 
 For a few days, the inconvenience continued ; 
 the dog insisted on remembering what his 
 master wished to forget ; but by the end of a 
 week he had forgotten too, and left off running 
 to the spot. At the same time, M. de Fran- 
 coeur closed up the well, under pretence that 
 it was too near the garden, and dangerous 
 for his young children, who were now begin- 
 ning to run about alone, and he opened one 
 in another situation. 
 
 Meantime, the mystery of the Count's 
 disappearance was making a great sensation 
 amongst the servants and retainers of the 
 family, although the Countess herself evinced 
 neither alarm nor curiosity on the subject. 
 The fact was, she entertained no suspicion 
 whatever of any ill having befallen her hus- 
 band, nor did any such notion occur to her» 
 till the rumours that were circulating abroad
 
 138 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 were brought home by her own friends. For 
 her part, she concluded that he had never 
 intended to remain with her many days, and 
 the quarrel that succeeded his arrival was 
 quite enough, in her opinion, to account for 
 his sudden departure. Besides, the threat 
 she had used w^as very likely to have added 
 spurs to his speed. It had been indeed but a 
 mere vague menace uttered in a passion ; 
 but she comprehended that he might have 
 understood it as implying a deliberate design. 
 Her pride and the consciousness of her 
 innocence led her to treat the imputation with 
 contempt, and she had scorned to take any 
 steps in her own justification, till she was 
 seized by the authorities. 
 
 The first thing that led her to apprehend 
 the possibility that some mischief had occurred, 
 was the flight of her two servants — a pro- 
 ceeding she was quite at a loss to comprehend, 
 and which was itself, in the extremely ano- 
 malous state of French judicature, very fatal
 
 THE ACCUSATION. 139 
 
 to her case ; for as there was no robbery, nor 
 any conceivable reason to be assigned that 
 would have induced Clarice and Morel to 
 take the Count's life themselves, it was con- 
 cluded that they had been her accessories, or 
 at least the witnesses of her crime, and it was 
 thus that the disposal of his body was 
 accounted for. This suspicion was strength- 
 ened by the fact of all the servants testifying 
 that when they themselves retired to bed, 
 these two people went up stairs to attend on 
 their master and mistress. Moreover, 
 Clarice and Morel alone slept on the same 
 gallery as the Count and Countess ; all the 
 rest of the establishment lodged in another 
 part of the building, and quite out of hearing 
 of anything that might have happened. 
 
 While all this was going on, M. de Fran- 
 coeur kept as much as possible out of the way. 
 He took the opportunity of going to Paris to 
 transact some business he had on hand there, 
 and he professed his opinion that the fuss
 
 140 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 that was making about the Count was 
 absurd, and that he would doubtless appear 
 by-and-by to laugh at them. But although 
 affecting to treat the matter thus lightly, he 
 lived in anguish lest all these inquiries should 
 lead to a discovery of where the body was ; 
 in which case he would alnaost inevitably fall 
 under the suspicion of being the assassin. 
 But when he heard of the Countess's danger, 
 his situation became much worse. He shrank 
 with horror from the idea of allowing her to 
 suffer for a crime of which he knew her to 
 be innocent, when a word of his could vin- 
 dicate and save her. How gladly he would 
 have spoken the word if he had dared, and 
 how he regretted that he had not made 
 known the accident the moment he witnessed 
 it, instead of entailing by his silence a life of 
 constant terror on himself, and all this in- 
 justice and misery on others ! 
 
 But still the fear that then closed his lips 
 closed them still ; and, no doubt, the longer
 
 THE ACCUSATION. 141 
 
 the communication was deferred, the more 
 certain it was to bring down destruction on 
 himself. So he delayed and delayed till the 
 Countess's condemnation, and then he felt he 
 must save her, though it was at the expense 
 of his own life and honour. He wrote a 
 statement of the case, omitting, however, to 
 confess his dishonest appropriations of the 
 money intrusted to him, but narrating all the 
 circumstances of the accident as he had 
 witnessed them, dilating upon his own con- 
 fusion and terror, and attributing his silence 
 to the true motives, namely, as there was no 
 witness but himself, that he might be sus- 
 pected of the murder, and the difficulty he 
 had placed himself in by not making known 
 the circumstances at first. He made his will 
 and set his affairs in order ; and then, having 
 signed and sealed his confession, and em- 
 braced his wife and children on the pretence 
 of a journey to Paris, he bade adieu to his 
 home, as he believed, for ever, and started for
 
 142 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 Aries, in order to deliver his letter himself at 
 the door of the prefecture; after which, in 
 order to avoid the ignominy and misery that 
 awaited him if he lived, he had provided 
 himself with a sure and speedy means of 
 death. 
 
 The love of life, and the vague hope that 
 the Countess might escape, and so deliver 
 him from this fearful extremity, had induced 
 him to defer this step to the latest moment, 
 and it was now late in the evening of the 
 day preceding that fixed for her execution 
 that he entered the city on foot, for he sought 
 to avoid notice, and he did not wish to be 
 encumbered with a horse. There are few 
 people who are doing anything, although it 
 be an indifferent thing, consciously for the 
 last time, who are not sensible of a painful 
 feeling of regret ; and there was not a step 
 taken by M. de Francoeur on that evening 
 over the ground so often trod in happier 
 circumstances, nor an object on which his eye
 
 THE ACCUSATION. 143 
 
 fell, that did not bring a pang to his heart, 
 with the bitterness of self-reproach to sharpen 
 its sting. How happy he might have been 
 had he but have observed the simple rule of 
 honesty ! By how many blessings was he 
 surrounded ! Everj^thing that was required 
 to make life happy he possessed ; but he had 
 forfeited all by his unholy greediness for 
 more, and the beloved family whose aggran- 
 dizement he had sought would find the 
 fortune he left them tainted with suspicion 
 and disgrace. 
 
 Oppressed with these overwhelming re- 
 flections, he paced through the street of 
 Aries, unnoticed and unknown, till he 
 reached the one where the prefect resided. 
 As he approached the Hotel de Ville, and 
 was about to lay his hand upon the bell, the 
 consciousness that that paper once delivered, 
 the step was irrevocable, and the vague appre- 
 hension that he might be pursued and over- 
 taken before he had reached the lonely spot
 
 144 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 he had fixed upon for the closing scene of his 
 sad drama, caused him to hesitate and draw 
 hack a moment, more especially as the clatter 
 of a horse's feet denoted that some one was 
 approaching ; so he crossed over to the other 
 side just as the animal reached the gate, but 
 he was near enough to distinguish that the 
 rider was a government courier. 
 
 " See," said a pastrycook who was stand- 
 ing at the door of his shop with his apron 
 on, " that's a king's courier — what will you 
 bet it is not a pardon, or a reprieve for the 
 Countess ?" 
 
 '* I had rather bet with you than against 
 you," replied his companion ; " I never ex- 
 pected, for my part, to see the sentence put 
 into execution. Bah ! man, a Countess ! 
 They do not cut off the heads of such high 
 game if they can help it." 
 
 " It will be a terrible disappointment to 
 the populace," observed the pdtissier ; " I 
 shouldn't wonder if there w^as an emeute''
 
 THE ACCUSATION. 145 
 
 ** If the despatch regards the Countess, we 
 shall soon know it," observed the other, 
 " because the prefect wiU carry the news to 
 the prison himself" 
 
 So thought De Francoeur, who, with 
 burning ears, had been listening to this 
 dialogue. If it were as these men imagined, 
 he was saved ; he would have confessed and 
 died to rescue the Countess from death, 
 because he could not contemplate the horror 
 of living with her blood upon his soul; but 
 he was not equal to making so great a 
 sacrifice to vindicate her fame ; so that the 
 bearer of that despatch, supposing it to con- 
 cern Madame de Chateauroux, was the 
 herald of life or death to him. It may be 
 judged, therefore, with what eager interest he 
 observed the movements that ensued at the 
 gate of the Hotel de Ville. 
 
 Having rung the bell, the man alighted, 
 and throwing the rein to the porter, who 
 admitted him, he entered the court. The 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 146 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 horse was led in too, and the gate closed. A 
 quarter of an hour now elapsed without any 
 indication of what was going on within; 
 during w^hich interval the people of the 
 neighbourhood were gathering together on 
 the spot, whilst the news spread from mouth 
 to mouth that a royal pardon had arrived for 
 the Countess. A few who, for some reason 
 or other, were attached to her party, rejoiced 
 at her prospect of escape ; but the mass of 
 the people, disappointed at losing the spec- 
 tacle they had hoped to enjoy, vented their 
 vexation in strong expressions of indignation 
 at the favouritism shown to the rich. M. de 
 Francoeur stood silently amongst them with 
 his hat drawn over his brow and his eyes 
 fixed upon the gate, which at length opened, 
 and exhibited the prefect already mounted, 
 who rode forth accompanied by the courier, 
 and followed by the mob. De Francoeur fell 
 into the throng, and followed too to the door 
 of the prison, where, now feeling pretty
 
 THE ACCUSATION. 14? 
 
 secure that the conjectures of the people were 
 well-founded, he made an effort to disengage 
 himself from the crowd and advance, intend- 
 ing to address the prefect ; but before he 
 could push his way through, the great man 
 had entered, and the door was closed. He 
 paused, hesitating what to do betwixt his 
 anxiety to learn the truth, and his disUke to 
 enter those heavy gates, which open so easily 
 on one side and so hardly on the other ; and 
 before he could summon courage to ring the 
 bell, the courier came out alone. 
 
 " What is it ? What's the news ? Is the 
 Countess pardoned ?" cried the people, 
 pressing round him. 
 
 " What's that to you ?" said the man ; 
 " go about your business ! Disperse, ca- 
 naille r 
 
 But the canaille did not disperse ; on the 
 contrary, their numbers kept increasing every 
 moment ; and as it was in the nature of such 
 an assemblage to get riotous and make a 
 
 L 2
 
 148 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 noise about something, the mob, finding they 
 could obtain no satisfaction of their curiosity, 
 began to batter at the gates, and utter loud 
 murmurs against the court for pardoning all 
 manner of crimes to rich people, and hanging 
 up poor ones for nothing at all. As one 
 fortified another, and their increasing num- 
 bers gave them courage, the disturbance was 
 growing louder and louder every minute, 
 when again the gates opened, and the prefect 
 and the jailors were seen on the other side. 
 Silence instantly ensued, but there was a 
 general rush forwards as if they would have 
 entered the court. The prefect held up his hand. 
 *' My friends," said he, with a loud voice, 
 " disperse ! It is time that all good citizens 
 were in their own homes. The Countess de 
 Chateauroux has been falsely accused. Her 
 brother, M. de la Rive, has found her 
 husband, who is now on the road. The 
 Count de Chateauroux will be here to- 
 morrow morning."
 
 THE ACCUSATION. 149 
 
 An English mob would have given three 
 cheers for the Countess; the French one 
 turned away in silence from the gate, and it 
 was a minute or two before they recovered 
 their surprise sufficiently to comment on the 
 unexpected intelhgence. When they did, 
 most of them discovered that they " had 
 always thought so," and remarked severely 
 on the imperfect jurisprudence that was 
 constantly subjecting people to death for 
 crimes that had not been committed at all. 
 Those who had nothing particular to prevent 
 them, resolved to be at the prison the next 
 day betimes, in order to witness the arrival 
 of the Count and the lady's liberation; and 
 thus terminated the grand event of the 
 evening as far as the public were concerned. 
 
 But there was one amongst that throng on 
 whose ears the words of the prefect sounded 
 strangely ! M. de Chateauroux was found ! 
 He that was dead — that had lain for months 
 at the bottom of that deep well — would be
 
 150 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 at Aries to-morrow ! How could that be ? 
 It could not be the real Count de Chateau- 
 roux that was coming — that was impossible ! 
 Yet the prefect had said so ; and M. de la 
 Rive could not be deceived in the identity of 
 his brother-in-law ; his trying to deceive the 
 authorities would be too vain an attempt to 
 be thought of for a moment. Then wild 
 and fantastic thoughts invaded his brain. 
 Could the Count have escaped from the 
 well ? The notion seemed absurd ; but 
 every now and then impossible adventures 
 and miraculous escapes were heard of, that 
 nobody could have believed till they had 
 actually occurred. If this were the case, 
 there was nothing left for him but to fulfil 
 the intention with which he had left home 
 that evening ; but it could not be ; if any- 
 thing was certain on earth, the Count de 
 Chateauroux was dead, and no mortal knew 
 where the body lay but himself. 
 
 Distracted by these thoughts, and feeling
 
 THE ACCUSATION. 151 
 
 himself quite unable to determine whether he 
 should live and face the future, or die and 
 escape the sufferings it might have in store 
 for him, he resolved to make a bold step, 
 and go at once to the prison for the purpose 
 of ascertaining what was reaUy known re- 
 garding the Count's fate. He had but to 
 ring ; his name and connexion with the 
 heroine of the drama were his passport to 
 instant admittance, and he was met by the 
 congratulations of all the officials. The 
 prefect shook hands with him, and offered to 
 conduct him to the injured lady. 
 
 " But is it certain ?" inquired De Fran- 
 coeur ; " is the Count de Chateauroux really 
 found r 
 
 " Not a shadow of doubt of it ;" returned 
 the prefect. " He was found in Paris in 
 very bad health, a long and severe illness 
 having brought him to the brink of the 
 grave, whilst it prevented his hearing of the 
 strange suspicions his disappearance had 
 given rise to."
 
 152 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 "And he will be here to-morrow ?" 
 
 " He would have been here to-night, were 
 it not that his infirm health obliges them to 
 rest at Nimes, and so the prefect of Nimes 
 sent forward the courier to announce their 
 approach. But come, you must see the 
 Countess ; her brother, M. Eugene, and 
 several of her friends are with her." 
 
 " Excuse me," returned De Francoeur ; " I 
 must hasten home to inform my wife of this 
 good news; I cannot allow her to remain 
 ignorant of what will give her so much 
 pleasure. Present my congratulations to the 
 Countess." 
 
 De Francoeur, however, did not go home ; 
 these assurances of the prefect had only 
 served to make perplexity more perplexed, 
 and the agitation of his mind forbade repose 
 to his body. So he wandered forth to the 
 outskirts of the town till morning, and then, 
 muffling his face between his hat and hand- 
 kerchief, he re-entered the gates and joined 
 the throng that was already collected in front
 
 THE ACCUSATION. 153 
 
 of the prison. He was there when the 
 travellers arrived, and as they alighted from 
 the carriage, he saw what appeared to him 
 the pale and shrunken features, and the 
 attenuated form of the Count de Chateau- 
 roux. His intellect said, No ; it is im~ 
 possible ! but his eyes responded, Yes, it is 
 he. 
 
 Terrified and confounded, he fled from the 
 city, and made the best of his way to Paris, 
 there to await the disclosures he expected to 
 follow. But none ensued ; his wife wrote to 
 him that the Count had been found, that the 
 lady was liberated, and that the happy pair 
 were living together in the greatest harmony. 
 
 " So we hear, at least," she added, " for 
 they are not at Chateauroux, but are residing 
 at Remy, where they pass their days in great 
 retirement. Some foolish people refuse to 
 believe it is really the Count, and declare it 
 is some impostor whom M. de la Rive has 
 substituted to save his sister's life. Can
 
 154 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 anything be so absurd ? I had a letter from 
 the Countess yesterday. She inquires where 
 you are, and begs, with her best regards, 
 that you will pay them a visit as soon as you 
 return." 
 
 Upon this De Francoeur immediately re- 
 traced his steps to Beaulieu, where a pressing 
 invitation to Remy awaited him. Thither he 
 proceeded, and having the satisfaction of 
 finding himself extremely well received, after 
 a week's visit to the happy pair, he repaired 
 to his own home and resumed his former 
 mode of life.
 
 THE ACCUSATION. 155 
 
 CHAPTER VIL 
 
 From the details of our last chapter it will 
 not be difficult to comprehend, first, the 
 surprise and agitation of De FranccEur at the 
 appearance of the old gentleman ; and next 
 his obstinate incredulity with respect to his 
 being the person he claimed to be ; but it 
 was not an easy matter for him to bring the 
 rest of the world over to his conviction, or to 
 communicate the foundations on which he 
 rested it. He had countenanced and accre- 
 dited the first imposture for the sake of the
 
 156 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 Countess and his own safety, but these 
 motives no longer existed ; she was dead, and 
 time had placed him, as he considered, be- 
 yond danger, whilst on the other hand, he 
 had every motive for resisting the present 
 aggression. Not only was he attached to the 
 interest of the De la Rive family, but the 
 projected alliance gave him a personal one in 
 the property, and it was not to be expected 
 that he would tamely allow this stranger to 
 step in " and push them from their stools ;" 
 yet while M. Eugene was so infatuated as 
 to believe in him, how was he to be un- 
 seated ? 
 
 Nobody had discovered who the pretender 
 was, nor whence he came. M. de la Rive 
 had maintained an absolute silence with 
 regard to him, and had never, as far as was 
 known, made a single confidant. It was at 
 one time hoped that the priest with whom 
 Madame de Chateauroux had a long con- 
 ference before her death, might be able to
 
 THE ACCUSATION. 157 
 
 throw some light on the mystery, and as 
 during the law-suit it was considered that he 
 might justifiably disclose the secret, if he 
 knew it, he was sought out and examined. 
 But he had nothing to teU. Though very 
 old, he was perfectly capable of understanding 
 what was required of him, and the Countess 
 and M. Adolphe being dead, he had no 
 objection to communicate what he knew. 
 He said the lady had admitted in her confes- 
 sion, that the man her brother had produced 
 was not the Count, though she had not 
 given any indication of who he really was ; 
 but at the same time, with her dying breath, 
 she had declared to him her entire innocence 
 of the crime imputed to her. She lamented 
 the offence she had given to her husband ; 
 and said, that after they had parted on that 
 fatal night, she had become so conscious of 
 her error, that she had actually risen and 
 gone to the door of his room with the 
 intention of seeking a reconciliation ; but that
 
 158 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 her pride having got the better of her good 
 resolution, she had returned to her own 
 chamber without doing it — an error she had, 
 during the latter years of her life, continually 
 besought God to forgive her. 
 
 Thus the fact of the imposition was esta- 
 blished; but on the present occasion, this 
 success was of less value than might have 
 been expected ; because the old gentleman 
 himself asserted the same thing. Whilst he 
 assumed to be the real Count de Cha- 
 teauroux, he declared that he had never 
 returned since his first departure on the night 
 after the quarrel. Then the public were for 
 him decidedly. They urged that there was 
 no reasonable grounds whatever for con- 
 cluding that the Count was dead ; and that 
 it was utterly impossible that anybody could 
 be so like the portrait of the old Count but 
 his own son ; and as for M. Eugene, no 
 arguments that De Francoeur could use 
 seemed to make the least impression on him.
 
 THE ACCUSATION. 159 
 
 The more he talked to him, he said, the more 
 firmly he was convinced that there was no 
 deception. 
 
 " You have been deceived once, De Fran- 
 coeur, and that makes you suspicious ; but be 
 assured you are mistaken ; w^ho the pretender 
 was I know not; but this is the Count de 
 Chateauroux, I am certain." 
 
 " Impossible !" exclaimed De Francoeur. 
 
 '* But why impossible ? We have no 
 proof whatever that he is dead ; and if alive, 
 he was pretty sure to return sooner or 
 later." 
 
 " It is not always easy to prove a death," 
 answered the agent. 
 
 " Then, in the absence of such proof, I do 
 not see what we can do but admit the pre- 
 tensions of this gentleman ; whose person 
 certainly furnishes very remarkable testimony 
 in his favour." 
 
 " I am really suprised, su'," responded the 
 agent, " that you should be so willing to give
 
 160 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 up a fine estate, and allow yourself to be 
 gulled by a scoundrel !" 
 
 " It is very easy talking, De Francoeur," re- 
 plied M. Eugene, " but what can I do ? I am 
 no more willing to give up an estate than 
 other people are — I pretend to no such disin- 
 terestedness. Furnish me with adequate 
 proof that the Count de Chateauroux is dead, 
 and you shall soon see the measure of my 
 self-denial." 
 
 "Ah !" thought De Francoeur, as he 
 walked away ; " but how am I to do that 
 without criminating myself?" It was certainly 
 no easy matter. 
 
 It is not to be supposed that during all 
 these years, M. de Francceur's mind, with 
 that heavy secret weighing upon it, had been 
 very comfortable ; far from it. For a con- 
 siderable time the fear of detection had 
 haunted him day and night. Of late years, 
 that apprehension had subsided; but con- 
 science was not silent ; and if he had escaped
 
 THE ACCUSATION. 161 
 
 detection on the score of his embezzlements, 
 he had purchased his immunity very dearly. 
 Besides, all the strange events that had 
 arisen out of the Countesses danger had kept 
 him in continual hot water ; and even now, 
 after the lapse of so long a period, he was not 
 free from the persecution ! 
 
 He was like a man haunted by the spectre 
 of one he had mm-dered. Thirty years be- 
 fore he had seen M. de Chateauroux fall into 
 the weU — he w^as dead — and yet, here he was 
 returned upon his hands again ; and how to 
 lay the ghost he could not tell. The necessity 
 for doing this, however, became doubly urgent, 
 when one morning the old gentleman sent 
 him a summons to appear at the chateau on 
 a certain day to render an exact account of 
 his stewardship since the time he — that is to 
 say the Count — had quitted his home. As 
 Madame de Chateauroux had never lost 
 confidence in him, she had neither been in 
 the habit of inspecting his books nor inves- 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 162 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 tigating his statements. For years before 
 her death he had carried everything as he 
 liked, and now, although he had no plea for 
 refusing this demand, he was aware that he 
 could not comply with it without entailing 
 the risk of a ruinous exposure. 
 
 What was to be done ? Play for a great 
 game — aU or nothing ? If his books were 
 laid open, he would be deserted, and there 
 was no telling what suspicions might be 
 awakened by the discovery of his dishonesty. 
 But if, without betraying that, the Count's 
 death could be proved, the pretender would 
 be at once unseated, and losing aU credit, be 
 obliged to retire with ignominy ; whilst he 
 hoped that the advantages accruing to M. de 
 la Rive would indispose him to making too 
 curious inquiry into an affair that happened 
 so long ago. Besides, M. Eugene was his 
 most intimate friend ; and he trusted much 
 in his unwillingness either to harm him or 
 even suspect him of evil.
 
 THE ACCUSATION. 163 
 
 Having come to this resolution, without 
 making any demur, he appointed a day for 
 producing his accounts ; expressing himself 
 perfectly willing to do it, although protesting 
 against the authority that demanded the state- 
 ment ; at the same time, he begged permission 
 of both M. Eugene and the Count to make 
 some alteration in his old farm at Beaulieu, 
 where, by the bye, he no longer resided, having 
 erected a handsome new house on another 
 part of his property, w^hich was now very 
 considerable ; and his request being granted, 
 he took care that the job should be put in 
 hand without delay. 
 
 The plan proposed, however, involved one 
 inconvenience, which was that the well, the 
 new well, as it was called in contradistinction 
 to the one into which the Count had fallen, 
 must be filled up and built over. The ar- 
 chitect pointed out this, and there was a 
 consultation held as to the best site for 
 opening another. To this consultation M. 
 
 M 2
 
 164 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 Eugene was a party ; as in this, as well as in 
 all his other proceedings, the agent osten- 
 tatiously treated him as the real owner of the 
 estate. This naturally led him to inquire 
 w^hy they had filled up the old one ; and De 
 Francoeur answered that one of the reasons 
 was, that the water had become so offensive 
 that they could not use it. 
 
 "But that must have been from some 
 accidental cause," observed De la Rive. 
 " The water of that well was not very abun- 
 dant, but it was always excellent. Didn't 
 you send anybody down to see what was 
 wrong ?" 
 
 "I'm sure I forget, it is so long ago," 
 replied the agent. " But I rather think old 
 Gilles, who was alive then, did go down him- 
 self, and said that he could not discover any 
 cause, except that there was very little water 
 — it was an extremely dry season, I remember. 
 But the truth is, I did not spend much 
 trouble about it, because at that time I had a
 
 THE ACCUSATION. 165 
 
 notion of taking that part of the ground into 
 my garden, and I did not want to have a 
 well so near the house on account of my 
 young children." 
 
 " But now it would be no inconvenience to 
 you," said De la Rive ; " and it would be 
 much less expensive than digging a new well 
 — a little reparation would possibly set it all 
 right. I recommend you to send somebody 
 down to examine it." 
 
 De Francoeur made a few objections, but 
 yielded to the opinion of M. Eugene. " We'll 
 send to Aries for Lemoine," said he ; " he 
 understands these matters better than any- 
 body, and perhaps you wiU meet him and 
 hear what he says." 
 
 M. de la Rive did not seem to think his 
 own attendance necessary ; but as the agent 
 wished it, he promised to ride over. 
 
 This was an anxious crisis for De Fran- 
 coeur; but he carried it off wonderfully, 
 going about with a thoroughly disengaged
 
 166 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 air; calling upon his acquaintance, talking 
 gaily of his improvements on the farm, and 
 jesting freely on the pretender and his 
 claims. The day before Lemoine was to 
 descend the well, he actually had a party to 
 dinner ; walked with them over the grounds 
 — showed them the new well and the old 
 one, and discussed with them the relative 
 advantages of re-opening the latter, or 
 digging a third. 
 
 All this excited no attention at the time, it 
 seemed the most natural thing in the world ; 
 but it was remembered afterwards by M. de 
 la Rive and the Count, when they compared 
 their recollections, and discussed his character. 
 
 Well, the eventful morning arrived. De 
 Francoeur, as may be imagined, had never 
 closed his eyes during the night — but he 
 bathed his face with cold water, and endea- 
 voured to look as fresh and cheerful as he 
 could — indeed, it was subsequently thought 
 that he had rather over-acted his part in this
 
 THE ACCUSATION. 167 
 
 latter respect — he had been too facetious ; 
 and Lemoine, who had of late years found 
 him a reserved and silent man, was particu- 
 larly struck w^ith this deviation from his 
 usual demeanour. 
 
 When M. Eugene rode up to the gate, the 
 agent w^as not sorry to see him accompanied 
 by the lord of the chateau; who, for some 
 reason or another of his own, had never testi- 
 fied any indignation at De Francceur's insulting 
 incredulity, nor taken offence at his refusing 
 to acknowledge him. He had contented 
 himself with quietly asserting his rights and 
 assuming possession of the estate — rights 
 which it was nobody's business to dispute, as 
 long as the next heir raised no objections. 
 He came now, as lord of the soil, to inspect 
 the plans for the proposed improvements. 
 
 Whilst Lemoine w^as making some pre- 
 cautions to prevent accident from foul air and 
 so forth, the gentlemen walked over the 
 farm ; with every inch of which the Count,
 
 168 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 or pseudo-Count, whichever he was, showed 
 himself intimately acquainted. His fami- 
 liarity with the land might have deceived any- 
 body but M. de Francoeur ; and M. Eugene 
 evidently deferred to him as the owner of the 
 property. At length, the agent proposed to 
 return and see what Lemoine was doing. 
 When they arrived at the well, he had just 
 descended with lights, and De Francoeur, 
 stooping over, called out to know if there 
 were any water in it. 
 
 '' Not a drop — it's as dry as my hand,'* 
 cried Lemoine. 
 
 " Doubtless it dried up when you opened 
 the other well so near it/' said M. Eugene — 
 "the new one would draw off all the 
 water." 
 
 " Send down a basket," cried Lemoine. 
 
 " He has found a treasure, I hope 1" said 
 De Francoeur ; but as he spoke, his self- 
 command failed him — his cheek grew pale, 
 and his lip quivered. However, to hide his
 
 THE ACCUSATION. 169 
 
 confusion, he busied himself with lowering 
 the basket. 
 
 Lemoine's request had awakened curiosity, 
 and all the assistants drew round the aperture 
 to watch for what was to come. The signal 
 being given, the basket was drawn up first. 
 It appeared to be fiUed with a heap of dirt. 
 One of the labourers put in his hand and 
 took up something. 
 
 " What's that ?" said M. de la Rive. 
 
 " I think it's a bone," said the man. It 
 was a bone, perfectly black and much de- 
 cayed. 
 
 " Some dog, or sheep, or something, has 
 fallen into the well — probably it was that 
 that spoilt the water," observed M. de la Rive. 
 
 Whilst this conversation was going on, De 
 Francoeur was leaning over the aperture, 
 superintending the drawing up of the en- 
 gineer — but there was an eye upon his face 
 that watched every turn of feature or change 
 of colour with scrutinising curiosity.
 
 170 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 " What is this you've sent up ?" inquired 
 M Eugene, as Lemoine set his foot on terra 
 firma, 
 
 " I don't exactly know yet," replied the 
 engineer, stepping towards the basket. 
 
 "Is there any leak, or falling in, any- 
 where ?" asked De Francoeur, affecting to 
 have no interest in its contents. 
 
 " None whatever that I can see," replied 
 Lemoine ; "a few bricks out here and there, 
 that's aU. Was anybody ever missing in 
 these parts?" said he, turning out of the 
 basket ; "for if I'm not much mistaken 
 somebody has been lost in this well. Here 
 are the remains of clothes ; and I suspect 
 these are human bones." 
 
 " Here is a watch, too," said one of the 
 men, taking up what at first appeared clay, 
 till the outer covering of dirt was cleared 
 away. 
 
 " That may have been dropped in," said 
 M. Eugene.
 
 THE ACCUSATION. 171 
 
 " Disturb nothing more," said the lord of 
 the chateau, cutting short the discussion with 
 authority. " Place it aU in the basket again ; 
 bring out a cart, and it shall accompany me 
 home." 
 
 When De Francoeur entered upon this bold 
 enterprise — this neck-or-no thing expedient — 
 he had overrated his own powers of dissimu- 
 lation ; and when the crisis arrived, they 
 utterly failed him. Indeed, it was too severe 
 a trial for any man's nerves ; and what ex- 
 ceedingly added to his confusion, was the 
 demeanour of the Count from the moment 
 the basket was drawn up. There was some- 
 thing in that curious, inquiring eye, following 
 his every look and gesture, that put to flight 
 all his self-possession, and confounded all his 
 tactics. That eye seemed to read his soul; 
 and his own feU before its penetrating glance 
 convicted and abashed. 
 
 " Come, De la Rive, let us be gone," said 
 the Count ; " and you, Lemoine, wiU take
 
 172 ' LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 charge of the basket and accompany 
 us." 
 
 M. Eugene acquiesced in silence ; whilst 
 M. de Francoeur, making an effort to recover 
 himself, asked them to go into the house and 
 take some refreshment, but they declined ; 
 and he walked beside them to the gate, where 
 their horses and the cart awaited them. 
 
 " We will ride gently, and you will keep 
 near us with the basket," said the Count to 
 Lemoine in a low voice. " I must not lose 
 sight of it." 
 
 As the two gentlemen rode away, they 
 silently touched their hats to the agent, who 
 stood bareheaded on the footway. " I'll be 
 back," said Lemoine, who understood nothing 
 of what was going on, " as soon as I have 
 delivered the basket at the chateau, and tell 
 you what I advise about the water." 
 
 " I am lost !" said the agent, as he turned 
 from the gate. " Fool, fool, that I was to 
 attempt it. I have pulled down the roof
 
 THE ACCUSATION. 173 
 
 upon my own head, and must perish beneath 
 the ruins !" 
 
 " Didn't I tell you so ?" said the Count to 
 M. Eugene ; "I was certain that sooner or 
 later he would betray himself."
 
 174 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 " And now," said M. de la Rive, as they 
 sipped their wine on the evening of the day 
 that had betrayed M. de Francoeur's secret, 
 " fulfil your promise to tell me your story. 
 I cannot imagine how you came to suspect 
 what nobody else ever dreamt of." 
 
 " I will," said the Count, " but I must 
 begin with a sketch of my own history. 
 
 " The earliest thing I can recal, was living 
 with my mother, then a very pretty young 
 woman, in a square opposite to a large
 
 THE ACCUSATION. 175 
 
 church, and being visited by a gentleman, 
 whom I called father. He was a soldier; 
 and the men who came to the house with 
 messages from him, used to call him Le 
 Commandant. I conclude he was com- 
 mander of the garrison. Be that as it may, 
 he was evidently a person in authority. He 
 seemed very fond of me, and always told 
 me I should be a soldier and an officer; 
 and already in my childhood I began to 
 sigh for the fine clothes and fine horses I 
 saw in the possession of my father. I can 
 recal those circumstances and feelings per- 
 fectly, although I do not think I could be 
 more than four, or at the most five, years 
 of age, when I understood that my father 
 had lost some near relative, and was about 
 to quit us, and that I and my mother were 
 shortly to follow him. 
 
 " He departed ; and my mother busied 
 herself in preparing a quantity of clothes, 
 some of which were black. I remember
 
 176 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 being delighted when I was put into mourn- 
 ing myself. 
 
 " After an interval of, I fancy, some 
 weeks, I was placed on a horse in front of a 
 servant, and with my mother, and a girl 
 called Lucile, who had the care of me, we 
 started on a journey. My recollections of 
 this journey are very vague ; but I think we 
 must have travelled several days, when one 
 night I was awakened out of my sleep by a 
 great noise and the light of numerous 
 torches ; and on opening my eyes, I perceived 
 two or three men in the room with drawn 
 swords, and my mother, in whose bed I 
 slept, on the floor, in an attitude of supplica- 
 tion. She was on her knees, and holding up 
 her hands, as if entreating the assassins to 
 spare her. At this sight, I gave vent to my 
 terror in as loud a cry as my small lungs 
 could emit, by which means, I fancy, I first 
 betrayed my presence to the troop, for I 
 remember one of them immediately rushed to
 
 THE ACCUSATION. 177 
 
 the bed, and lifting me up in his arms, was 
 about to thrust his sword into my side, when 
 my mother, forgetting her own danger, flew 
 to my rescue ; and so sudden were her 
 movements, that she had snatched me from 
 the men, and had darted out of the open 
 door with me in her arms, before they could 
 stop her. 
 
 " Of what followed I have a very obscure 
 recollection. I remember that the whole 
 town was in a violent commotion ; that I saw 
 soldiers and naked swords in every direction, 
 and people flying as if for their lives; the 
 cries and screams I can never forget. 
 
 " Somehow, in this confusion, I cannot tell 
 by what means, I was separated from my 
 mother. I think a man took me from her 
 arms, and was going to kill me, when 
 another interfered and prevented him. At 
 aU events, 1 was cut by a sabre on the 
 shoulder, for I have the mark of it still. 
 
 '* From that hour to this, I never saw my 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 178 LIGHT AND DARKNESS 
 
 mother again ; and for many years, I 
 supposed she had been killed in that fray. I 
 have since made out, from a comparison of 
 dates, that it must have been the fatal night 
 of St. Bartholomew, and how she escaped I 
 cannot tell. For my own part, a number of 
 events are mixed up in such confusion in my 
 memory, that I have very little idea of 
 anything, till I found myself following a 
 troop of soldiers, with a drum tied to my 
 back, which I was regularly taught to beat. 
 In this way I went about the country for a 
 few years, till at length, for some reason or 
 other, my services being no longer required, 
 I was discharged, and a good-natured 
 Serjeant procured me a situation as errand- 
 boy with a relation of his own, who kept a 
 hair-dresser's shop in the Faubourg St. 
 Honore. My master taught me his trade ; 
 and in process of time I grew so expert, that 
 I was able to set up for myself; and by 
 degrees became the most fashionable artist in
 
 THE ACCUSATION. 179 
 
 my line in the city. I assure you," said the 
 old gentleman, quietly smiling, and tapping 
 his snuff-box, " I have dressed the perruques 
 of some of the greatest men of the age. 
 
 " Well, I was living contentedly enough, 
 and was making a very good living of it, 
 when I was one day sent for to wait on a 
 gentleman at the Croix d'Or. Though I 
 carried my tools in my pocket, I always 
 made a point of appearing in the street well 
 dressed ; and the servant of the inn, who did 
 not know me, I fancy, took me for a gentle- 
 man; so that I was shown into the saloon 
 instead of the bed-chamber, and my client 
 was informed a visitor was waiting to see 
 him. 
 
 " This client was your brother, M. 
 Adolphe de la Rive. You may judge of my 
 amazement, when on entering the room, he 
 first stood for a moment as if transfixed by 
 amazement; and then rushing towards me 
 and throwing himself into my arms, he burst 
 
 N 2
 
 180 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 into tears of joy, and poured forth a torrent 
 of mingled congratulations and reproaches 
 that confounded me. The expression of his 
 feelings was so vivid, that for some moments 
 I could not get in a word; but as soon as 
 his excitement was somewhat subdued and 
 he began to inten-ogate me, I discovered that 
 he was mistaking me for some connexion of 
 his family w^hom he had been anxiously 
 seeking, and had despaired of finding. But 
 even then, although I assured him of his 
 error, it was with much difficulty I convinced 
 him of it, especially as I could not deny that 
 I was called Phihbert; so extraordinary a 
 resemblance he declared he had never beheld, 
 except in the case of twins, whilst the coinci- 
 dence of name rendered the circumstance 
 stiU more inexplicable. 
 
 " When, however, I had satisfied him that 
 what I asserted was true, and that, instead of 
 being the Count de Chateauroux, I was only 
 a hair-dresser, he, after some inquiries into
 
 THE ACCUSATION. 181 
 
 my character and situation, sent for me 
 again; and told me that I had it in my 
 power to do him a great service, and save 
 the life of a most worthy lady, if, for a short 
 time, I would consent to personate the 
 gentleman he had taken me for. 
 
 " At first I refused positively ; not that I 
 wanted ambition or a taste for being grand 
 seigneur; on the contrar}', I should have 
 been very glad to have been in reality the 
 Count de Chateauroux or any other Count ; 
 but I had a conscience, and I recoiled from 
 the idea of the fraud ; besides which, I was 
 by no means insensible to the danger I 
 should incur if I were found out — a catas- 
 trophe I thought unavoidable. 
 
 " With respect to the danger, your brother 
 promised to hold me harmless, and to dismiss 
 me after a certain period undamaged in 
 person or character; and as regarded my 
 conscientious scruples, he took great pains to 
 convince me, that w^hilst I should be doing
 
 J 82 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 him and his family a considerable service, I 
 injui'ed nobody. He moreover, promised 
 that if 1 would listen to his entreaties, I 
 should not only receive a very handsome 
 reward, but that he would take care of my 
 fortunes for the rest of my life — this, he 
 observed, being but common justice, since so 
 long an absence from Paris might possibly 
 ruin my prospects in my present line of 
 business. 
 
 " Well, at length, I consented ; and as 
 there was no time to lose, we started for the 
 south; it being stipulated, both on his side 
 and mine, that we were to take nobody into 
 our confidence, except his sister. For all the 
 rest of the world, even his own family, I was 
 to be the real, bond fide Count de Chateau- 
 roux; if we do not adhere scrictly to this 
 precaution, he said, the truth will be sure to 
 ooze out in one direction or another. 
 
 For myself, I shut up my shop, and said I 
 was going into the country for a little while ;
 
 THE ACCUSATION. 183 
 
 and as I had no relations, it was nobody's 
 business to inquire what was become of 
 me. 
 
 "As we travelled along the road, your 
 brother, whilst he treated me as if I were 
 really the person whose character I was 
 about to assume, gave me such information 
 and instructions as he thought necessary to 
 enable me to support my part ; and he 
 always declared he had found me a very apt 
 scholar, and that I fully justified the appella- 
 tion by which I was known in Paris as The 
 Gentleman Barher. 
 
 " Well, everything went on prosperously 
 enough, till we drew near the end of our 
 journey, and then my courage failed me. I 
 told M. de la Rive, that I was certain I 
 should be detected and exposed; that he 
 would share the disgrace and infamy of the 
 imposture, and be not only imable to protect 
 me, but himself; and I entreated him to let
 
 184 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 me return and resume my old trade in the 
 Faubourg St. Honore. But he would not 
 hear of it, though it cost him a great deal of 
 argument, and indeed supplication, to over- 
 come my fears, and win me back to his 
 purpose ; and as I expressed a conviction 
 that the confusion of my countenance would 
 betray me, it was agreed between us that I 
 should bleed myself copiously on the morning 
 we were to arrive at Aries — an operation I 
 was very well able to perform for myself, as I 
 had often done it for others. This would 
 give me an appearance of sickness, and by 
 entitling me to mufEe my person, render dis- 
 covery more difficult. 
 
 " What followed you know — the cheers of 
 the mob, the congratulations of the governor, 
 and other authorities, and the reception given 
 to me by your sister. M. de la Rive had not 
 dared to write the truth to her — and at my 
 first introduction she was entirely deceived.
 
 THE ACCUSATION. 185 
 
 It was not till we were in the carriage on 
 our way to the chateau, that he ventured to 
 inform her of the real state of the case. 
 
 " I was now installed as the Count de 
 Chateauroux; and I fancy acted my part 
 tolerably well. Your sister and I lived very 
 peaceably together — though we seldom met 
 except at table, or when we drove through 
 the town occasionally to show ourselves, or 
 to repay or receive visits. We conversed 
 with few people, considering that our safety 
 depended much on retirement. 
 
 " In spite of my good acting, I was con- 
 scious that many persons doubted my iden- 
 tity, especially the servants, who must neces- 
 sarily be very difficult to deceive under such 
 circumstances ; and I was therefore not the 
 least surprised that De Francceur, who reso- 
 lutely supported me in public, gave me 
 clearly to imderstand, when we were alone, 
 that he was fully aware of the substitution.
 
 186 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 At first, I imagined him to be entirely ac- 
 tuated by his desire to serve the Countess ; 
 but gradually some doubts arose in my mind 
 with respect to the integrity of his motives. 
 The equivocal position in which I appeared 
 threw him off his guard, and as he took me 
 for an adventurer, he was indifferent to my 
 esteem. For the purpose of maintaining ray 
 character, it was necessary that I should occa- 
 sionally sign papers and transact business with 
 him ; and inexperienced as I was, I fancied 
 I could discern that he was not altogether 
 the disinterested, honest agent that Madame 
 de Chateauroux represented him to me. I 
 even ventured to give her some hints of my 
 opinion ; but, of course, it was hardly to 
 be expected that she would listen to the 
 representations of a person in so equivocal a 
 situation as I was, against a man she had 
 confided in for years. Seeing, therefore, that 
 I did myself harm, and her no good, I
 
 THE ACCUSATION. 187 
 
 forbore. My ovm opinion, however, was 
 rather confirmed than otherwise, by continued 
 obsers^ation. 
 
 " I suspected that he was in some degree 
 making a tool of me ; and I was often struck 
 by the certainty with which he pronounced 
 on the Count's death ; he always spoke of 
 him as actually dead -, there was never an if 
 in the case ; at least when he was alone with 
 me and off his guard. In the presence of 
 others he was more cautious ; and even with 
 me, after I had once turned suddenly towards 
 him, and inquired how he could be so well 
 assiu-ed of a fact that appeared buried in 
 mystery, he changed his tone and spoke of 
 the matter, if at all, hypothetically. Certain 
 strange suspicions did even then occasionally 
 glance across my mind, but they were too 
 vague to justify me in communicating them. 
 Besides, I was not in a situation to become 
 an accuser ; and I felt that I should probably
 
 188 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 bring myself and perhaps the Countess and 
 her brother into trouble by my interference, 
 and do no good to anybody. 
 
 " However, before I quitted the chateau 
 finally, I did venture to address a few lines 
 to your brother, recommending M. de Fran- 
 coeur to his surveillance. How he was af- 
 fected by them, I do not know, as he made 
 no response to that part of my letter. 
 
 " I can hardly say whether it was with 
 satisfaction, or the contrary, I learnt at the 
 end of eighteen months that the purpose of 
 the substitution being answered, I was at 
 liberty to depart when I pleased. I was not 
 dismissed, observe; I was only told that I 
 was free, that a certain sum of money would 
 be lodged in Paris for my use, and that a 
 situation had been procured for me in a 
 merchant's house, which would enable me 
 to rise to affluence and an agreeable position 
 in society, if I conducted myself prudently —
 
 THE ACCUSATION. 189 
 
 a point on which your brother and sister 
 were pleased to intimate tiiat they entertained 
 no doubt. 
 
 ''I confess the life I led was in some 
 respects too agreeable to be resigned without 
 regret; but, on the other hand, it was too 
 quiet and inactive to be quite satisfactory to 
 a young man; and my mind had, besides, 
 never become reconciled to the idea of the 
 imposition I was practising. So I resigned 
 my Countship with a good grace ; and after 
 privately taking leave of the Countess, I 
 departed in the middle of the night, as the 
 mode most consistent with my assumed cha- 
 racter, and without giving any notice of my 
 intention to the servants, carrying with me 
 the warmest assurances of good-will on the 
 part of your brother and sister. 
 
 " The promises they made me were amply 
 fulfilled. I had been recommended to the 
 Messrs. Colard as a distant connection of 
 your family. I found, beyond my hopes,
 
 190 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 that a junior partnership in the house had 
 been purchased for me ; and it would have 
 been my own fault if I had not prospered. 
 
 '* I was not guilty of this treason to 
 myself, and ingratitude to my benefactors ; I 
 rose rapidly, married well, and, to make a 
 short history of myself, I am now a rich 
 man." 
 
 " But still,'' said M. Adolphe, " I am in 
 the dark with respect to the motives of your 
 late sudden appearance here, and the source 
 of your augmented suspicions of the agent." 
 
 " That is the part of my story I am now 
 coming to," returned the old gentleman. 
 " About six years ago, business took me to 
 Normandy ; and when in the neighbourhood, 
 I thought 1 should like to take a peep at the 
 antique city of Rouen, of which I had heard 
 so much. I must tell you, that although I 
 remembered the few circumstances of my 
 infancy I have related to you, I had not the 
 smallest idea of the name of my birthplace,
 
 THE ACCUSATION. 191 
 
 or of the part of France in which it was 
 situated ; but I had no sooner set my foot in 
 the Cathedral Square of Rouen, than the 
 whole scene seemed to me like a vision of 
 the past — I recalled the very individual 
 houses, and felt sure I could point out the 
 one in which I had lived with my mother. I 
 cannot find words to express the sensations 
 this recognition awakened in me ; but having 
 discovered thus much, you may easily con- 
 ceive my anxiety to learn more ; and from 
 the circumstance of my father being called 
 Le Commandant, my inquiries were greatly 
 facilitated. My own age fixed the date of 
 the year, or nearly so, and I had no difficulty 
 in ascertaining that the commandant of the 
 garrison stationed at Rouen at that period 
 was the Count Joachim de Chateauroux."
 
 192 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 CONCLUSION. 
 
 On hearing the unexpected announcement 
 with which we closed our last chapter, M. 
 Eugene very naturally looked somewhat 
 surprised, and not a little disconcerted, and 
 we are afraid a slight suspicion crossed his 
 mind that this story might possibly be part 
 of a plot of the pretender's to possess himself 
 of the estate and title by hereditary right ; at 
 aU events, he was about to remind him that 
 the death of the Countess's husband being 
 now established, the property necessarily re-
 
 THE ACCUSATION. 193 
 
 verted to her family and not to his, when the 
 old gentleman, who probably read his thoughts 
 in his countenance, rendered this warning 
 needless. 
 
 "Do not suppose," said he, "I am come 
 here to lay claim to any property my brother 
 may have left, nor even to his name; although 
 of the relationship I am satisfied. Ha\'ing 
 secretly taken measures to ascertain the parti- 
 culars of Count Joachim's marriage, I, have 
 established, beyond a doubt, that he was 
 wedded at Rouen, whilst he commanded the 
 garrison there, to a daughter of a cloth mer- 
 chant ; but that, on account of the lady's 
 inferior condition, the union was kept secret 
 till the death of his father, when he quitted 
 Normandy, and that she shortly afterwards 
 bade adieu to Rouen, accompanied by her 
 little boy, avowedly to join her husband in 
 the south. 
 
 " I cannot entertain the most distant doubt 
 that I am that child, and that I am in fact 
 
 VOL. I. o
 
 194 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 the eldest son of that house ; but I have no 
 intention of establishing my claim. As a 
 private gentleman I am rich, and my son, 
 v^^ho is a partner in the business from which 
 I have now withdrawn, will be rich after me, 
 whilst my daughters are happily married to 
 respectable professional men. The discovery 
 that I was a Count would possibly disturb 
 their contentment, destroy the agreeable 
 equilibrium which my family affairs now 
 maintain, and would assuredly reduce me at 
 once to straitened circumstances. To be a 
 poor nobleman is a position I am far from 
 aspiring to. The name I have always borne 
 is that of Philibert Petit. The first was the 
 baptismal appellation by which my mother 
 always called me ; the second was given me 
 in the regiment, because I was a child 
 w^hen they picked me up. As Philibert Petit 
 I have hved, and as Philibert Petit I mean 
 to die. 
 
 " But to continue my story. Having thus
 
 THE ACCUSATION. 195 
 
 ascertained my birth and my near relationship 
 to him whom I had been personating, and 
 whom I may now, I think, venture to call 
 my brother, I naturally felt desirous of learn- 
 ing whether any tidings of his fate had 
 reached Aries. Through my mercantile 
 correspondents, however, I soon ascertained 
 that after my departure all inquiry had 
 ceased, the characteristic mode of my disap- 
 pearance having been generally accepted as 
 satisfactory proof of my identity with the late 
 lord of the chateau. 
 
 " For my own part, after the lapse of 
 so many years, I could entertain no doubts of 
 his death, and I confess my former suspicions 
 of De Francoeur not only revived, but often 
 gave me great uneasiness. I could not help 
 questioning with myself, how far I was 
 justified in my silence and inaction, especially 
 since I found myself a member of the family. 
 Still, on the other hand, the foundation of 
 these suspicions was so unsubstantial, and 
 
 o 2
 
 196 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 would probably appear so visionary to tbe 
 world in general, that I shrank from stirring 
 in the business, I had not the slightest 
 shadow of proof, nor could I devise any mode 
 by which I could attain any. Thus I de- 
 ferred moving in the affair from year to year, 
 and had grown pretty well reconciled to my 
 own inaction, when a circumstance happened 
 that suddenly roused me from my indif- 
 ference. 
 
 " I had often been invited to spend a few 
 days with a friend in the neighbourhood of 
 Fontainebleau ; and some business taking me 
 into the country, I resolved to avail myself of 
 the invitation, and spend the night at his 
 house. So I wrote, saying that I proposed 
 arriving to supper provided I heard nothing 
 to the contrary before a certain day. 
 Receiving no letter, I concluded I was ex- 
 pected, and made my arrangements accord- 
 ingly; but the distance was greater than I 
 had reckoned on, and as it was nearly
 
 THE ACCUSATION. 197 
 
 midnight when I drove up to the gate, I 
 was not a little disconcerted to learn from 
 the man who opened the door that his 
 master had been absent from home for some 
 weeks. 
 
 " I did not know what to do, for it was a 
 long way to go back to an inn at that late 
 hour ; and besides, I was very tired. I sup- 
 pose I appeared a good deal disappointed, for 
 the man, after a little reflection, said, that 
 if I would alight, he would speak to the 
 femme de charge, or housekeeper, and ascer- 
 tain what could be done for me ; so I got off 
 my horse, and was shown into a large saloon 
 hung with family pictures, where my friend, 
 the concierge, left me with a single candle, 
 that dimly lighted the apartment. 
 
 " I had taken the candle in my hand to 
 examine a portrait of my absent host, when, 
 hearing the door open, I turned round, and 
 saw a respectable-looking woman enter, who, 
 the moment she cast her eyes on me, uttered
 
 198 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 a laud scream, and rushed out of the room. 
 Supposing that her fright arose from seeing a 
 stranger where she had not expected to see 
 anybody, I ran after her, begging her not 
 to be alarmed, and assuring her I was a very 
 harmless traveller. But it was some time 
 before I could so far overcome her terrors as 
 to arrive at an explanation of them. She 
 sank into a chair in the hall, crying and sob- 
 bing like a child ; and every time she lifted 
 her eyes to my face, her emotion burst forth 
 afresh. 
 
 " ' It is he !' she said ; * it is his very self L 
 yes, yes, it is he ! it is he !' 
 
 " For some time this was all I could get 
 from her; but, at length, when she was 
 somewhat soothed, I learned what I had 
 indeed began to suspect, namely, that she 
 took me for my brother; and I did not 
 immediately undeceive her. She was now 
 all anxiety to accommodate me, and make 
 me comfortable; and I soon discovered her
 
 THE ACCUSATION. 199 
 
 to be that Clarice, Madame de Chateauroux's 
 maid, who, with the footman Morel, had 
 disappeared previous to the Countess's arrest. 
 Morel was dead, and she was now my 
 friend's housekeeper. 
 
 "You may suppose this was a very in- 
 teresting discovery; and T not only stayed 
 there that night, but the whole of the follow- 
 ing day, for the purpose of conversing with 
 Clarice, whom I found willing enough to teU 
 me all she knew, which indeed was not 
 much ; but little as it was, combined with 
 my own previous observations and suspicions, 
 it had a significance for me. 
 
 " What had become of the Count she knew 
 no more than the world in general. Both 
 she and Morel, to whom at the time she was 
 privately married, had overheard the quarrel 
 and the Countess's threat, when they parted 
 for the night. Clarice, who slept near her, 
 had also heard her rise from her bed, and go 
 towards her husband's chamber; and she
 
 200 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 confessed that her first idea, \^hen in the 
 morning they found the room empty, and 
 the bed stained with blood, was, that she had 
 murdered him. She also admitted that, 
 under the horror and excitement of this 
 suspicion, both herself and her husband had 
 spoken very injuriously of the Countess ; 
 and that, moreover, although various obser- 
 vations and reflections subsequently caused a 
 change in their opinions, they had not had 
 the honesty and courage to withdraw the 
 imputation they had flung upon their 
 mistress, from the apprehension that they 
 might be suspected themselves. 
 
 " ' We knew that some people entertained 
 suspicions of the servants/ she observed, 
 ' and M. de Francoeur alarmed us very much 
 by difl'erent things he said to us on the 
 subject, and we thought my Lady, with her 
 large fortune and great connexions, had a 
 better chance of getting justice than we had. 
 But when we heard that the marechaussee
 
 THE ACCUSATION. 201 
 
 were coming, we w^ere so frightened lest we 
 should be called upon to prove w^hat we had 
 said, that we took flight, and never returned 
 into that part of the country again.' 
 
 " The indications of my brother's fate that 
 I extracted by interrogating Clarice were but 
 small; yet I gathered enough to satisfy me 
 that he had not been murdered in the house ; 
 for it was utterly impossible the Countess, or 
 any other woman, had she taken his life, 
 could have removed his body without assist- 
 ance. It would not have been an easy thing 
 for a man to do. Now, not the smallest 
 suspicion attached to any one in the chateau 
 except it were the Countess and the two 
 people w^ho fled ; and of their innocence I felt 
 perfectly assured. Moreover, it seemed pretty 
 clear that the Count had withdrawn himself 
 voluntarily. I ascertained that the great 
 hall- door, which had been locked on the 
 inside when the servants retired, was found 
 only on the latch in the morning, and that
 
 202 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 the latch, as well as the ballisters of the 
 stall's, were stained with blood. These 
 stains had been supposed to be from the 
 hand of the murderer ; but I thought them 
 much more likely to have proceeded from my 
 brother's, when I learned that some broken 
 glass had been found on the floor of his 
 chamber. Then, although it was true that 
 he had left his cloak and horse behind him, 
 if he were bent on departing secretly, he 
 could not do otherwise; for the horse was 
 locked in the stable, and Morel had himself 
 taken away the cloak. The remainder of his 
 attire had vanished v\^th himself, and, I could 
 scarcely doubt, had been carried away on his 
 own back. 
 
 " Then, I must say, the more I questioned 
 Clarice, the more vivid my impressions 
 became with respect to De Francoeur. I 
 learnt from her that on the morning after 
 my brother's disappearance, when the agent 
 arrived to breakfast, he was in a state of such
 
 THE ACCUSATION. 203 
 
 visible agitation and confusion, that when 
 Madelon, on hearing the great bell ring, 
 came up to the house to know what had 
 happened, she said she was quite terrified 
 because she had seen from M. de Francoeur's 
 face, when she opened the gate to him, that 
 something dreadful had occurred. Every- 
 body had remarked his Hvid paleness and the 
 strange expression of his features ; and also 
 how his hand shook and his lip quivered. 
 Moreover, though he had waited long 
 enough to get an appetite, he had not eaten 
 a morsel of breakfast ; and when he left the 
 house, the footman observed that, instead of 
 making for the hall-door, he turned in an 
 opposite direction as if he had been a 
 stranger to the locality. 
 
 "These symptoms of disturbance, and many 
 other singularities that were subsequently 
 remarked, were attributed to his anxiety 
 about the Count ; but I placed another 
 construction upon them, especially when I
 
 204 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 learnt from Clarice that he had sought, by 
 various and repeated insinuations, to inspire 
 her and Morel with the apprehension that 
 they would be implicated in the danger if the 
 authorities interfered ; and that, in short, 
 though he had never directly counselled them 
 to fly, he it was that had suggested the idea 
 to them. I thought I could discern through 
 the whole of his proceedings the restless 
 interference and the tortuous path of a guilty 
 and anxious mind, desirous that suspicion 
 should affix itself somewhere lest it should 
 float about tiU it settled on himself, and yet 
 shrinking from the additional horrors of 
 allowing another to sufi*er for his crime. 
 Still, to come forward with an accusation of 
 this nature against a man whose character 
 had never been impeached, was a very 
 serious undertaking, the more so that my 
 own conviction was, on the whole, rather 
 instinctive than based on evidence ; and even 
 were it well-founded, I might not be able to
 
 THE ACCUSATION. 205 
 
 substantiate the allegation, whilst a failure 
 would, on all accounts, have been extremely 
 painful and embarrassing. 
 
 " I believe, under all these considerations, I 
 should have been tempted to let the matter 
 alone, had I not heard of the impending 
 alliance betwixt the families. That decided 
 me; I could not permit your son to marry 
 the daughter of an assassin, and it was then 
 I formed the plan I have executed — the 
 success of which has been considerably aided 
 by the frank unsuspicion with which you 
 received me on ray arrival. I felt pretty 
 confident that if you would allow me for a 
 few weeks, unquestioned, to pass for the 
 Count, that I could extract the truth from 
 De Francoeur, if he were not guilty of my 
 brother's death, or force him to betray 
 himself if he were ; and the result is as I 
 expected ; for I am satisfied that the dis- 
 covery of this morning has been planned as a 
 dernier ressort to get rid of me altogether
 
 206 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 and put you in possession of the property. 
 How it happened that M. de Chateauroux 
 placed himself in his power, and by what 
 means he effected his death, we shall never 
 know unless he confesses ; but I feel satisfied 
 that the motive which impelled him to the 
 act, was the desire to conceal his dishonest 
 appropriations." 
 
 It was not without considerable pain that 
 M. de la Rive yielded to the conviction of De 
 Francoeur's guilt thus forced upon him. There 
 was an intimacy, approaching to friendship, 
 subsisting between them, and the attachment 
 of his son to the agent's daughter, rendered 
 the matter doubly distressing. He had, 
 however, great reason to rejoice that this last 
 link had not been made faster before the dis- 
 covery. 
 
 The question now arose, what was to be 
 done ? The contents of the basket furnished 
 indisputable evidence that the remains found 
 in the well were those of the Count ; and it
 
 THE ACCUSATION. 207 
 
 never occurred to them to doubt that De 
 Francoeur had been instrumental to his death. 
 Still, for the sake of his family, M. de la 
 Rive felt great reluctance to accuse him, and 
 entail ineffaceable disgrace on his innocent 
 children. But justice demanded the expo- 
 sure of so great a criminal ; and Philibert 
 Petit enforced it as a duty not to be evaded. 
 
 Whilst the two gentlemen were deliberat- 
 ing on this affair at the chateau, the unhappy 
 agent was suffering tortures of suspense at 
 the farm. He was conscious that he had acted 
 his part badly, and he had read suspicion 
 in M. Petit's face. The veil had fallen from 
 his own for ever — it was laid bare to the 
 world's eye — and he knew that he could 
 never raise his own again to that of an 
 honest man. After some interval, he re- 
 turned home, where he passed the day and 
 night in inexpressible agonies. The sight of 
 his children, especially of his beautiful 
 daughter, the one beloved by Alexis de la
 
 208 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 Rive, tortured his soul. He wished he had 
 courage to rush upon death, but his spirit 
 quailed at the Beyond — there " what dreams 
 might come !" 
 
 We never write these sad records of crime 
 without being disposed to reiterate that, all 
 dread of human vengeance or Divine judg- 
 ment aside, could wretched man but realize 
 to himself for one moment the hell inalien- 
 able that he would thereafter carry in his 
 bosom, no such deeds of guilt could ever 
 be committed. Human vengeance, or even 
 discovery may be eluded, and the Divine 
 judgment may be deterred to the end of a 
 long life, but the fiery curse of an ill con- 
 science is born of the crime — its certain and 
 unfailing offspring — the bitter fruit that surely 
 blossoms, but never dies. 
 
 We do not deny that the lives and deaths 
 of some few criminals of the lowest classes, 
 who are steeped in ignorance and obduracy, 
 seem to contradict this assertion ; but these
 
 THE ACCUSATION. 209 
 
 are strange exceptional cases, on which let no 
 man reckon for his own exemption. They 
 are as strange and exceptional, as the 
 instances we sometimes read of insensibility 
 to physical pain; and one might as well 
 hope to undergo the amputation of a limb 
 without suffering, on the strength of these 
 few precedents, as expect to enjoy peace and 
 holy sleep with the blood of a fellow-creature 
 staining our souls ; and although it is true 
 M. de Francoeur had not murdered the 
 Count, the circumstance of the case made 
 him feel as guilty of his death as if he had. 
 He had reaped the harvest he had sown; 
 from the hour of the Count's death he had 
 been a miserable man, and not a whit the 
 less miserable for the success with which he 
 had deceived the world. No one ever bore 
 about a secret burden of woe, without feeling 
 how much its weight would be alleviated by 
 sympathy and participation ; and the deeper 
 
 VOL. I. P
 
 210 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 we need to hide it from our fellow-men, the 
 more inexorably it will press upon our- 
 selves. 
 
 It must be a bitter pang to a human being, 
 not sunk into the sloughs of utter corruption, 
 to feel, whilst associated with the virtuous 
 and upright, that every pure soul and friendly 
 face would be turned away from him for ever, 
 could they but read the records inscribed 
 on the black tablets of his own undying 
 memory. 
 
 Long years had those eating cares been 
 gnawing at the heart of M. de Francoeur, 
 and undermining his constitution. He was 
 not more than fifty years of age, but he 
 looked and felt seventy; and now that the 
 struggle was over and the game irretrievably 
 lost, nature collapsed, and sunk ex- 
 hausted. 
 
 When De la Rive and Philibert Petit rode 
 to the farm on the following morning, for
 
 THE ACCUSATION. 211 
 
 the purpose of having an interview with the 
 agent, and hearing what he had to say with 
 respect to the events of the preceding day, 
 they learnt that he was so ill that he was 
 unable to leave his bed, and that his wife had 
 sent to Aries for a physician. But no 
 earthly physician could help him. He never 
 rallied, and died on the third day. Before he 
 departed, he made a fall confession to a 
 priest ; and enjoined him, after he was dead, 
 to communicate the substance of it to M. de 
 la Rive, whom he conjured, for the sake of 
 their past intimacy, to spare his innocent 
 wife and family the horrors of exposure, 
 or the pangs of learning their father's 
 guilt. 
 
 It occasioned M. de la Rive as much 
 satisfaction as surprise to learn that De Fran- 
 coeur was less guilty than they had supposed 
 him, and he and Philibert willingly acceded 
 to his dying supplication — the young Alexis 
 
 p 2
 
 212 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 alone being made acquainted with the sad 
 secret; after which his father sent him to 
 travel, whilst he took upon himself to break 
 off the subsisting engagement betwixt him 
 and De Francoeur's daughter. Time, absence, 
 and change of scene, at length healed the 
 wounds of the lover; but the poor girl's 
 heart was of softer material, and a slow con- 
 sumption and a patient death were her share 
 of expiation of her father's guilt, and 
 the sad termination of her true love's 
 course. 
 
 His object being attained, M. Philibert 
 Petit returned to Paris, content with the 
 station that so strange an accident on one 
 side, and his own good conduct on the other, 
 had combined to place him in ; whilst the 
 intimacy thus originated, together with M. de 
 la Rive's conviction that he was reaUy of the 
 blood of Chateauroux, ultimately led to a 
 union betwixt Alexis and his youngest
 
 THE ACCUSATION. 213 
 
 daughter. So that the grandchildren of 
 Philibert Petit became the heirs and pos- 
 sessors of the estate that had formed the 
 fatal dowry of his unfortunate brother.
 
 11. 
 
 THE MORNING VISITOR. 
 
 OxE of the features of our time — as of all 
 times, each of which is new in its genera- 
 tion — is the character of its crimes. Every 
 phasis of human affairs, every advance in 
 civilization, every shade of improvement in 
 our material comforts and conveniences, gives 
 rise to new modes and forms — nay, to actual 
 new births — of crime, the germs of which 
 were only waiting for a congenial soil to 
 spring in ; whilst others are but modifications
 
 216 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 of the old inventions, accommodated to new 
 circumstances. 
 
 There are thus stages in the history of 
 crime indicative of ages. First, we have the 
 heroic. At a very early period of a nation's 
 annals crime is bloody, bold, and resolute. 
 Ambitious princes ' make quick conveyance' 
 with those who stand in the way of their 
 advancement ; and fierce barons slake their 
 enmity and revenge in the blood of their 
 foes, with little attempt at concealment, and 
 no appearance of remorse. Next comes the 
 age of strange murders, mysterious poison- 
 ings, and life-long incarcerations; when the 
 passions, yet rife, unsubdued by education 
 and the practical influence of religion, and 
 rebellious to the new restraints of law, seek 
 their gratification by hidden and tortuous 
 methods. This is the romantic era of crime. 
 But as civilization advances, it descends to a 
 lower sphere, sheltering itself chiefly in the 
 squalid districts of poverty and wretchedness ;
 
 THE MORNING VISITOR. 217 
 
 the last halo of the romantic and heroic fades 
 from it ; and except where it is the result of 
 brutal ignorance, its chief characteristic 
 becomes astuteness. 
 
 But we are often stiiick by the strange 
 tinge of romance which stiU colours the page 
 of continental criminal records, causing them 
 to read like the annals of a previous century. 
 We think we perceive also a state of morals 
 somewhat in arrear of the stage we have 
 reached, and certainly some curious and very 
 defective forms of law ; and these two causes 
 combined, seem to give rise to criminal 
 enterprizes which in this country could 
 scarcely have been undertaken, or, if they 
 w^ere, must have met with immediate detec- 
 tion and punishment. 
 
 There is also frequently a singular compli- 
 cation or imbrogUo in the details, such as 
 would be impossible in this island of daylight 
 — for enveloped in fog as w^e are physically, 
 there is a greater glare thrown upon our
 
 218 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 actions here than among any other nation of 
 the world perhaps — an imbroglio that appears 
 to fling the narrative back into the romantic 
 era, and to indicate that it belongs to a stage 
 of civilization we have already passed. 
 
 How thoroughly foreign and strange to us 
 was the history of Madame Lafarge ! How 
 unlike ours were the modes and habits of 
 life it disclosed, and how vividly one felt that 
 it was the tale of another land ! So of the 
 Priest Riembauer, noticed in a late number of 
 the " Edinburgh Review," who murdered the 
 woman he had outraged ; the details of whose 
 crime were as foreign to us as the language 
 he spoke. To what age or class our present 
 story might be properly assigned, we should 
 be puzzled to determine — the circumstances 
 of the crime being, as far as we know, with- 
 out precedent, and, we hope, not destined to 
 form one ; whilst the boldness of the enter- 
 prize on the one hand, and the veil of mystery 
 that still hangs over the motives of the
 
 THE MORNING VISITOR. 219 
 
 perpetrator on the other, seem to endue it 
 with the mingled hues of the savage and the 
 romantic. The question, however, we will 
 leave our readers to decide for themselves. 
 
 It was between ten and eleven o'clock on 
 the morning of the 28th of February, 1812, 
 that a gentleman presented himself at the 
 door of Mr. Schmidt, an affluent merchant 
 of Leipsic. Being admitted to an interview, 
 he informed Mr. Schmidt that he was from 
 Hamburgh, where, not finding affairs favour- 
 able to his objects, he had come to see what 
 could be done in Saxony ; and, describing 
 himself as especially recommended to Mr. 
 Schmidt's good offices, he requested that 
 gentleman's advice with respect to the most 
 advantageous mode of laying out his money. 
 
 In the course of this conversation, which 
 lasted upwards of half an hour, Mr. Schmidt 
 opened his desk, and took from it a biU to 
 the amount of one hundred dollars, which 
 the visitor begged leave to inspect. Having
 
 220 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 done so, he restored it to the owner, who, 
 whilst returning it to the place whence he 
 had taken it, suddenly sank to the ground, 
 deprived of consciousness. On recovering 
 his senses, he cried to the stranger to assist 
 him ; hut the stranger was gone. 
 
 When Mr. Schmidt arose from the floor, 
 which he did with much difficulty — for his 
 head was bleeding profusely — he saw the 
 chairs standing about in confusion, and his 
 desk open, and a moment's examination 
 showed him that bills to the amount of three 
 thousand dollars were missing. 
 
 By this time his cries had summoned to 
 his aid Vetter, the landlord of the house, and 
 his v^dfe, who, having bound up his bleeding 
 head as well as they could, the unfortunate 
 man, to whom indignation and despair lent 
 strength, rushed into the street, and, making 
 his way to the sheriff's office, there lodged 
 information against the stranger, giving the 
 best description of him he could. Notices
 
 THE MORNING VISITOR. 221 
 
 were immediately sent to all the banking- 
 houses in the city, together with the numbers 
 of the missing bills ; but, quickly as this was 
 done, it was too late. The house of Frege 
 and Company had already cashed them. 
 
 On learning this, Mr. Schmidt returned 
 home, took to his bed, and, after an illness of 
 some duration, died from the consequences of 
 the w^ounds in his head, which the surgeons 
 declared had been inflicted with considerable 
 violence, and by a blunt instrument. 
 
 Before he expired, he reiterated upon oath 
 the above particulars, adding, that he did not 
 know how or why he had fallen, nor whether 
 the stranger had struck him or not. An idea 
 seems to have prevailed at the time that he 
 had sank to the ground immediately after 
 taking a pinch of snuff from, the stranger's 
 box ; but this fact was not positively estab- 
 lished. Of the appearance of this ill-omened 
 visitor he could give very little description, 
 except that he believed him to be about forty 
 years of age.
 
 222 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 The account given by the bankers was, 
 that between the hours of ten and eleven on 
 the day in question, a stranger had presented 
 himself, requesting cash for the bills, which he 
 duly received, partly in gold, and partly in 
 silver. As far as they had observed, he 
 exhibited no appearance of haste or uneasi- 
 ness whatever. On the contrary, he had not 
 only counted the money and inspected the 
 various coins with great deliberation, but he 
 had returned some of them, requesting others 
 in their place. With respect to his appear- 
 ance, both they and Vetter, who had seen him 
 in Mr. Schmidt's office, agreed that he was 
 well dressed, and had much the air of a 
 country clergyman. 
 
 This scanty information furnished no clue 
 to the discovery of the assassin. The mur- 
 dered man was laid in his grave ; and after 
 causing much terror and excitement amongst 
 the inhabitants of Leipsic for a time, the 
 story sank into oblivion, and was forgotten, or 
 at least ceased to be talked of
 
 THE MORNING VISITOR. 223 
 
 A year had elapsed, and the month of 
 February had come round agam, when one 
 morning a rumour spread through the city 
 that a fearful miu-der had been committed on 
 the person of an elderly lady of property 
 called Kunhardt. It appeared that Madame 
 Kunhardt had sent out her maid between 
 eight and nine o'clock in the morning to 
 fetch a flask of wine from a house hard by. 
 The girl declared she had not been absent 
 five minutes, and that, on her return, she 
 was met in the entrance-hall by a clergyman, 
 who asked her if she were going out, and 
 whether she should be long. She told him 
 she was now returning ; whereupon he went 
 quickly forth at the street door. The girl 
 then ascending to her mistress, heard the old 
 lady's voice crying, " Hanne ! Hanne !" and 
 on entering the apartment, she discovered 
 her lying in one corner of the ante-room, with 
 her head bleeding. She told the maid that 
 a stranger, who had brought her that letter,
 
 224 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 pointing to one on the floor, had struck her 
 down. On being asked if she knew him, 
 she said she had never seen him before to 
 her knowledge. The letter, stained with 
 blood, proved, on examination, to be ad- 
 dressed to Madame Kunhardt, and purported 
 that- she should give the bearer one thousand 
 dollars. It was dated Hohendorf, 24th 
 January, 1813. 
 
 The walls and the floor were sprinkled 
 with blood, and from one spot the colouring 
 of the wainscot seemed to be rubbed ofl". 
 
 A Dr. Kunitz, who resided in the same 
 house, said that, just before he heard the 
 maid crying for help, he had seen a middle- 
 sized man, in a dark frock-coat and a black 
 cap, going out at the street door. His coat 
 was marked as if it had been rubbed against 
 the wall. 
 
 Of course suspicion fell upon this stranger; 
 the more so as the maid said that the same 
 gentleman had called two days before, and
 
 THE MORNING VISITOR. 225 
 
 inquired for her mistress, but had gone away 
 on learning she was engaged with company. 
 The coachman's wife also, who lived in the 
 low^er part of the house, had seen the stranger 
 on that occasion, and at his request had 
 directed him to the apartments of Madame 
 Kunhardt. She having business that way 
 herself, had followed him up stairs. Just, 
 however, as they reached the door, Hanne 
 opened it to let in the baker, whereon the 
 stranger turned down stairs again, saying it 
 was a mistake, and went straight out of the 
 house. 
 
 Meantime Madame Kunhardt died, and 
 the alarm became veiy general : people grew 
 extremely shy of receiving morning visitors ; 
 and several persons came forward laying 
 claim to the honour of having already been 
 favoured with the attentions of this myste- 
 rious stranger ; amongst the rest, the wife of 
 Dr. Kunitz, and a Demoiselle Junius, a lady 
 of considerable fortune. But on both of 
 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 2126 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 these occasions circumstances had been ad- 
 verse to the success of his object. 
 
 Presently a rumour began to circulate that 
 the maid had been heard saying that she 
 knew who the assassin was, and that he was 
 a clergyman whom she had often seen whilst 
 living in her last place, with a certain Dr. 
 
 H ; whereon being called upon to name 
 
 him, she fixed upon a gentleman, who was 
 immediately arrested ; but on being con- 
 fronted with him, neither she nor any of the 
 witnesses recognised him as the person whose 
 morning visits had become so notorious. 
 This mistake, however, directed attention to 
 another clergyman, who was in the habit 
 of frequenting her late master's house ; and 
 
 Dr. H remembered that a friend of his, 
 
 called Tinius, had slept at his house on the 
 night preceding the murder of Madame 
 Kunhardt ; had gone out about eight o'clock 
 in the morning; and had returned at nine, 
 after having read the newspapers, and bought
 
 THE MORNING VISITOR. 227 
 
 a book of a person named Rau, which he 
 brought in with him. 
 
 Dr. Tinius was a man on whom no 
 shadow of suspicion had ever rested. He 
 was minister of Posenna, an eloquent and 
 far-famed preacher; an author, amongst 
 other things, of his own biography ; a man 
 of deep learning; and one of the greatest 
 book collectors in Germany. His library 
 contained not less than sixty thousand 
 volumes. 
 
 Nevertheless, strange as the thing seemed, 
 suspicion attached itself to Dr. Tinius; but 
 in so delicate a matter, where the reputation 
 of so eminent a man was concerned, great 
 caution was felt to be requisite. Before they 
 ventured to accuse him, they carried the 
 maid Hanne to Posenna. Tinius, who hap- 
 pened to be just stepping out of his house, 
 turned pale at the sight of her. She de- 
 clared he was the man, and he was forth- 
 with arrested, and carried to prison. 
 
 Q 2
 
 228 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 Nothing could equal the surprise of the 
 citizens of Leipsic at this discovery, nor their 
 horror when further investigations brought to 
 light niany other attempted assassinations, 
 pesides the successful one of Mr. Schmidt. 
 When we say brought to light, we mean 
 broduced a universal persuasion that the, till 
 now, respected Dr. Tinius was the criminal ; 
 for to this day, although so many years have 
 elapsed since these events occurred, they are 
 shrouded in an impenetrable mystery; and 
 Dr. Tinius still lives, residing at a place 
 called Zeitz, under surveillance. Nor does 
 there appear much reason to hope that the 
 secret will be cleared up by a death-bed con- 
 fession, old age having hitherto brought with 
 it no appearance of remorse. 
 
 At the end of the first year, he was de- 
 graded from his clerical office, a ceremony 
 which appears to have been conducted with 
 great solemnity, and given over to the civil 
 power ; after which, by his talent and ob-
 
 THE MORNING VISITOR. 229 
 
 stinacy, the investigation or trial was spun 
 out nine years more. 
 
 The success with which many criminals in 
 Germany seem to elude conviction, frustrate 
 the law, and thus prolong their own lives, 
 forms a very remarkable feature in the cri- 
 minal records of the country, and appears to 
 indicate something extremely defective in the 
 judicial process: in short, the difficulty of 
 obtaining a conviction seems quite extraor- 
 dinary ; and we find numerous instances of 
 trials extending to ten or more years, where 
 no shadow of doubt could exist as to the 
 guilt of the parties arraigned. 
 
 Neither, as regarded Dr. Tinius, has any 
 reasonable motive for these extraordinary 
 assassinations been discovered : the one most 
 commonly suggested is that which romance 
 has attributed to Eugene Aram ; namely, an 
 inordinate desire to purchase books. Others 
 believe him to have been actuated by a diabo-
 
 230 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 lical hatred to mankind, more especially to 
 the prosperous portion of it. 
 
 He had had two wives, neither of whom 
 lived happily with him ; and there were not 
 wanting persons who declared that he had 
 always inspired them with an inexplicable 
 repugnance ; but this feeling had never been 
 heard of till after tiie crime. 
 
 Dr. Tinius endeavoured to prove an alihiy 
 but with very indifferent success; and it 
 goes far to establish his guilt, that several 
 letters were found in his house of a like 
 nature to the one he had presented to 
 Madame Kunhardt, and addressed to various 
 opulent people in the city, evidently intended 
 for the same atrocious purpose. A hammer, 
 with the handle shortened, so as to be con- 
 veniently carried in the pocket, was also dis- 
 covered ; and it was thought that the wounds 
 on Madame Kunhardt's head had been in- 
 flicted with such an instrument.
 
 THE MORNING VISITOR. 231 
 
 But amongst the most extraordinan" fea- 
 tures in tliis affair, are the numerous letters 
 he wrote to his friends — respectable men, 
 generally clerg}-men — whilst he was in prison, 
 and the investigation was pending : letters, 
 coolly requesting them to hide this, destroy 
 that, and swear the other, which, whilst 
 they furnish the strongest proof of his guilt, 
 betray at the same time either the entire 
 absence of all moral perceptions on his o^ti 
 part, or else a con\iction that these honour- 
 able men were in that condition themselves. 
 These lettei-s referred to certain mattei-s con- 
 nected with the murder of Mr. Schmidt, as 
 well as that of Madame Kunhardt. 
 
 It appeared that the tirst intimation he had 
 that he was suspected, was from a letter sent 
 to Posenna by some friend, dated February- 1 7. 
 It informed him of the maid-servant's de- 
 position; and at the bottom of the page 
 were these words : Deleatur et igni tradatur ;
 
 232 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 a piece of advice which, strangely enough, he 
 neglected to follow. 
 
 The murder of Mr. Schmidt was supposed 
 to be the first successful crime of this bold 
 assassin; though, doubtless, not the first 
 attempted. And a bold enterprise it cer- 
 tainly was : in broad daylight, in a frequented 
 street of a populous city, to introduce him- 
 self into the office of an affluent and well- 
 known merchant, and rob him of his life and 
 his money with so much adroitness, that the 
 people in the house heard no disturbance ; 
 and with so much self-possession, that he was 
 able immediately afterwards to present himself 
 at a banking-house, and not only coolly 
 demand cash for the stolen bills, but count 
 the money and select his coin with a degree 
 of deliberation and repose of manner that 
 would have been sufficient to disarm suspi- 
 cion, had any existed. 
 
 He does not appear, however, to have been
 
 THE MORNING VISITOR. 233 
 
 qiiite so much at his ease after the murder of 
 Madame Kunhardt. Circumstances there 
 had been less favourable ; and if booty were 
 his object, he had been disappointed. The 
 maid Hanne, to whom he spoke in the hall, 
 asserted that he looked very pale ; as did also 
 
 the cook at Dr. H 's. She said that 
 
 when he returned home that morning his face 
 was ashy white, and his step unsteady ; and 
 that when he entered the parlour, he stood 
 for some minutes with his hand, which visibly 
 shook, resting on the Bible. She had re- 
 marked the same symptoms of agitation at 
 table whilst he laughed and joked, and exerted 
 himself to appear cheerful and disengaged; 
 and although, during his several examinations, 
 the system of obstinate denial he had adopted 
 was never shaken, yet there were moments 
 wherein he betrayed an irrepressible confusion, 
 which he endeavoured to mask by pretending 
 a violent fit of yawning. 
 
 Whilst in confinement, he occupied himself
 
 234 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 chiefly in writing and corresponding with his 
 acquaintance. When he was released under 
 surveillance, his former congregation, disliking 
 to receive him amongst them, subscribed a 
 sufficient sum to provide him with a domicile 
 elsewhere. 
 
 He is described as a middle-sized man, of 
 pale complexion, and black hair, which he 
 wore combed straight down on each side of 
 his head. He was generally wrapt in a blue 
 cloak ; and thus he went about paying these 
 fearful morning visits, with his mysterious 
 snuff-box and deadly hammer in his pocket, 
 biding his opportunity. 
 
 The following remarkable passage was 
 found in his autobiography, written previous 
 to the occurrence of the events above 
 narrated : 
 
 " The fact that it is not customary to 
 publish the histories and motives of living 
 persons, is sufficient to exonerate me for 
 having omitted to treat openly on these
 
 THE MORNING VISITOR. 235 
 
 subjects. The picture which I now paint is 
 for posterity. The colours will remain un- 
 faded, and the drawing correct. Many men's 
 thoughts have been laid open to me, and their 
 words and deeds have pronounced judgment 
 upon them ; and, be it longer or shorter, we 
 shall one day stand before the great Judge, 
 where the secrets of all hearts shall be revealed, 
 and all that is hid in darkness be brought to 
 light. Meantime, I wait my justification in 
 patience, being so accustomed to calumny, 
 that it has ceased to affect me — especially 
 since I observe that it is not my honour, but 
 their own, that my enemies injure. To suffer 
 for righteousness' sake is pleasing in the eyes 
 of God and man. I will hold fast the truth 
 that is in Jesus, fight the battles of my God 
 unto the death, and rest my hopes on the 
 promise of the dying saint : * So, my son, 
 shall the Lord fight for thee.' "
 
 III. 
 
 THE TWO MISS SMITHS. 
 
 In a certain town in the West of England, 
 which shall be nameless, there dwelt two 
 maiden ladies of the name of Smith; each 
 possessing a small independence, each re- 
 siding, with a single maid- servant, in a small 
 house, the drawing-room floor of which was 
 let, whenever lodgers could be found ; each 
 hovering somewhere about the age of fifty, 
 and each hating the other with a restless 
 and implacable enmity. The origin of this
 
 238 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 aversion was the similarity of their names 
 each was Miss C. Smith, the one being 
 called Cecilia, the other Charlotte — a cir- 
 cumstance which gave rise to such innu- 
 merable mistakes and misunderstandings, as 
 were sufficient to maintain these ladies in a 
 constant state of irritability and warfare. 
 Letters, messages, invitations, parcels, bills, 
 were daily mis-sent, and opened by the 
 wrong person, thus exposing the private 
 affairs of one to the other; and as their 
 aversion had long ago extinguished every- 
 thing like delicacy on either side, any 
 information so acquired was used without 
 scruple to their mutual annoyance. Presents, 
 too, of fruit, vegetables, or other delicacies 
 from the neighbouring gentry, not unfre- 
 quently found their way to the wrong 
 house; and if unaccompanied by a letter, 
 which took away all excuse for mistake, 
 they were appropriated without remorse, 
 even when the appropriating party felt
 
 THE TWO MISS SMITHS. 239 
 
 confident in her heart that the article was 
 not intended for her; and this not from 
 greediness or rapacity, but from the 
 absolute delight they took in vexing each 
 othei*. 
 
 It must be admitted, also, that this 
 well-known enmity was occasionally played 
 upon by the frolic-loving part of the com- 
 munity, both high and low; so that over 
 and above the genuine mistakes, which were 
 of themselves quite enough to keep the 
 poor ladies in hot water, every now and 
 then some little hoax was got up and 
 practised upon them, such as fictitious 
 love-letters, anonymous communications, and 
 so forth. It might have been imagined, 
 as they were not answerable for their names, 
 and as they were mutual sufferers by the 
 similarity — one having as much right to 
 complain of this freak of fortune as the 
 other, that they might have entered into a 
 compact of forbearance, which would have
 
 240 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 been equally advantageous to either party ; 
 but their naturally acrimonious dispositions 
 prevented this, and each continued as angry 
 with the other as she could have been if 
 she had had a sole and indefeasible right to 
 the appellation of 0. Smith, and her rival 
 had usurped it in a pure spirit of annoyance 
 and opposition. To be quite just, however, 
 we must observe that Miss Cecilia was 
 much the worse of the two ; by judicious 
 management Miss Charlotte might have 
 been tamed, but the malice of Miss Cecilia 
 was altogether inexorable. 
 
 By the passing of the Reform Bill, the 
 little town wherein dwelt these belligerent 
 powers received a very considerable accession 
 of importance ; it was elevated into a 
 borough, and had a whole live member to 
 itself, which, with infinite pride and gratifi- 
 cation, it sent to parliament, after having 
 extracted from him all manner of pledges, 
 and loaded him with all manner of in-
 
 THE TWO MISS SMITHS. 241 
 
 structlons as to how he should conduct 
 himself under every conceivable circum- 
 stance ; not to mention a variety of biUs for 
 the improvement of the roads and markets, 
 the erection of a town-hall, and the reform 
 of the systems of watching, paving, light- 
 ing, &c., the important and consequential 
 
 little town of B . 
 
 A short time previous to the first election 
 — an event which was anticipated by the 
 inhabitants with the most vivid interest — 
 one of the candidates, a country gentleman 
 who resided some twenty miles off, took a 
 lodging in the town, and came there with 
 his wife and family, in order, by a little 
 courtesy and a few entertainments, to win 
 the hearts of the electors and their friends ; 
 and his first move was to send out in- 
 vitations for a tea and card party, which, 
 in due time, when the preparations were 
 completed, was to be followed by a ball. 
 There was but one milliner and dressmaker 
 
 VOL. I. R
 
 242 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 of any consideration in the town of B , 
 
 and it may be imagined that on so splendid 
 an occasion her services were in great request 
 — so much so, that in the matter of head- 
 dresses, she not only found that it would be 
 impossible, in so short a period, to fulfil the 
 commands of her customers, but also that 
 she had neither the material nor the skill to 
 give them satisfaction. It was, therefore, 
 settled that she should send off an order to a 
 house in Exeter, which was the county town, 
 for a cargo of caps, toquets, turbans, &c., fit 
 for all ages and faces — " such as were not 
 disposed of to be returned ;" and the ladies 
 consented to wait, with the best patience 
 they could, for this interesting consignment, 
 which was to arrive, without fail, on the 
 Wednesday, Thursday being the day fixed 
 for the party. But the last coach arrived on 
 Wednesday night without the expected 
 boxes ; however, the coachman brought a 
 message for Miss Gibbs, the milliner,
 
 THE TWO MISS SMITHS. 243 
 
 assuring her that they would be there the 
 next morning without fail. 
 
 Accordingly, when the first Exeter coach 
 
 rattled through the little street of B , 
 
 which was about half-past eleven, every head 
 that was interested in the freight was to be 
 seen looking anxiously out for the deal 
 boxes ; and, sure enough, there they were — 
 three of them — large enough to contain caps 
 for the whole town. Then there was a rush 
 up stairs for their bonnets and shawls ; and 
 in a few minutes troops of ladies, young and 
 old, were seen hurrying towards the market- 
 place, where dwelt Miss Gibbs — the young 
 in pursuit of artificial flowers, gold bands, 
 and such-like adornments — the elderly in 
 search of a more mature order of decoration. 
 
 Amongst the candidates for finery, nobody 
 was more eager than the two Miss Smiths ; 
 and they had reason to be so, not only be- 
 cause they had neither of them anything at 
 all fit to be worn at Mrs Hanaway's party, 
 
 R 2
 
 244 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 which was in a style much above the enter- 
 tainments they were usually invited to, but 
 also because they both invariably wore 
 turbans, and each was afraid that the other 
 might carry off the identical turban that 
 might be most desirable for herself. Urged 
 by this feeling, so alert were they, that they 
 were each standing at their several windows 
 when the coach passed, with their bonnets 
 and cloaks actually on — ready to start for 
 the plate! — determined to reach Miss Gibbs's 
 in time to witness the opening of the boxes. 
 But " who shall control his fate ?" Just as 
 Miss Cecilia was stepping off her threshold, 
 she was accosted by a very gentlemanly- 
 looking person, who, taking off his hat, with 
 an air really irresistible, begged to know if he 
 had " the honour of seeing Miss Smith" — a 
 question which was of course answered in 
 the affirmative. 
 
 " I was not quite sure," said he, " whether 
 I was right, for I had forgotten the number ;
 
 THE TWO MISS SMITHS. 245 
 
 but I thought it was sixty," and he looked at 
 the figures on the door. 
 
 " This is sixty, sir," said Miss CeciHa ; 
 adding to herself, " I wonder if it was six- 
 teen he was sent to," for at number sixteen 
 lived Miss Charlotte. 
 
 " I was informed, madam," pursued the 
 gentleman, "that I could be accommodated 
 with apartments here — that you had a first 
 floor to let." 
 
 " That is quite true, sir," replied Miss 
 Cecilia, delighted to let her rooms, which had 
 been some time vacant, and doubly gratified 
 when the stranger added, " I come from 
 Bath, and was recommended by a fiiend 
 of yours, indeed probably a relation, as she 
 bears the same name — Miss Joanna Smith." 
 
 " I know Miss Joanna very well, sir," 
 replied Miss Cecilia ; " pray, walk up stairs, 
 and I'll show you the apartments directly. 
 (For," thought she, "I must not let him go 
 out of the house till he has taken them, for
 
 246 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 fear he should find out his mistake.) Very 
 nice rooms, sir, you see — everything clean 
 and comfortable — a pretty view of the canal 
 in front — just between the baker's and the 
 shoemaker's; you'll get a peep, sir, if you 
 step to this window. Then it's uncommonly 
 lively ; the Exeter and Plymouth coaches, up 
 and down, rattling through all day long, and 
 indeed all night too, for the matter of that. 
 A beautiM little bed-room, back, too, sir — 
 Yes, as you observe, it certainly does look 
 over a brick-kiln ; but there's no dust — not 
 the least in the world — for I never allow the 
 windows to be opened : altogether, there can't 
 be a pleasanter situation than it is." 
 
 The stranger, it must be owned, seemed 
 less sensible of all these advantages than he 
 ought to have been ; however, he engaged 
 the apartments : it was but for a short time, 
 as he had come there about some business 
 connected with the election ; and as Miss 
 Joanna had so particularly recommended him
 
 THE TWO MISS SMITHS. 247 
 
 to the lodging, he did not hke to disoblige 
 her. So the bargain was struck : the maid 
 received orders to provision the garrison with 
 bread, butter, tea, sugar, &c., whilst the 
 gentleman returned to the inn to despatch 
 Boots with his portmanteau and carpet-bag. 
 
 " You were only just in time, sir," ob- 
 served Miss Cecilia, as they descended the 
 stairs, " for I expected a gentleman to call at 
 twelve o'clock to-day, who I am sure would 
 have taken the lodgings." 
 
 " I should be sorry to stand in his way," 
 responded the stranger, who would not have 
 been at all sorry for an opportunity of back- 
 ing out of the bargain. " Perhaps you had 
 better let him have them — I can easily get 
 accommodated elsewhere." 
 
 " Oh dear, no, sir ; dear me ! I wouldn't 
 do such a thing for the world !" exclaimed 
 Miss Cecilia, who had only thrown out this 
 little inuendo by way of binding her lodger 
 to his bargain, lest, on discovering his mis-
 
 248 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 take, he should thmk himself at liherty to 
 annul the agreement. For well she knew 
 that it was a mistake : !Miss Joanna of Bath 
 was Miss Charlotte's first cousin, and, hating 
 Miss Cecilia, as she was in duty bound to 
 do, would rather have sent her a dose of 
 arsenic than a lodger, any day. She had 
 used ever}^ precaution to avoid the accident 
 that had happened, by \M'iting on a card, 
 " Miss Charlotte Smith, No. 1 6, High Street, 
 
 B , opposite the linendraper's shop;'' 
 
 but the thoughtless traveller, never dreaming 
 of the danger in which he stood, lost the 
 card, and, trusting to his memory, fell into 
 the snare. 
 
 Miss Cecilia had been so engrossed by her 
 anxiety to hook this fish before her rival 
 could have a chance of thro^sing out a bait 
 for him, that, for a time, she actually forgot 
 Miss Gibbs and the turban ; but now that 
 her point was gained, and she felt sure of 
 her man, her former care rewed with all its
 
 THE TWO MISS SMITHS. 249 
 
 force, and she hurried along the street to- 
 wards the market-place, in a fever of ^ipre- 
 hension lest she ^oidd be too late. The 
 matter certainly looked ill ; for, as she anived 
 breathless at the door, she saw groups of 
 self-satisfied faces issuing fi:om it, and, 
 amongst the rest, the obnoiious l^ss Char- 
 lotte's physic^nomy appeared, looking mare 
 pleased than anybody. 
 
 " Odious creature !" tbooght Miss Cecilia; 
 '' as if she supposed that any turban in the 
 world could make her look tolenihle !" But 
 Miss Charlotte did suppose it; and, more- 
 oTer, she had just secured the Ycry identical 
 turban that, of all the turbans that ei^er were 
 made, was most like^ to aoocnnplish this 
 desideratum — ^at least so she opined. 
 
 Poor Miss Cecilia ! Up stairs she rushed, 
 bouncing into Miss Gibbs's little room, now 
 strewed with finery. "Wdl, Mks GSbbs, 
 I hope you hare something that will suit 
 mer
 
 250 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 " Dear me, mem," responded Miss Gibbs, 
 " what* a pity you did not come a little 
 sooner. The only two turbans we had are 
 just gone — Mrs. Gosling took one, and Miss 
 Charlotte Smith the other — two of the beau- 
 tifullest — here they are, indeed — you shall 
 see them ;" and she opened the boxes in 
 which they w^ere deposited, and presented 
 them to the grieved eye of Miss Cecilia. 
 
 She stood aghast ! The turbans were very 
 respectable turbans indeed ; but, to her disap- 
 pointed and eager desires, they appeared 
 worthy of Mahomet the Prophet, or the 
 Grand Sultana, or any other body, mortal or 
 immortal, that has ever been reputed to wear 
 turbans. And this consummation of perfec- 
 tion she had lost ! lost just by a neck ! missed 
 it by an accident, that, however gratifying she 
 had thought it at the time, she now felt was 
 but an inadequate compensation for her pre- 
 sent disappointment. But there w^as no 
 remedy. Miss Gibbs had nothing fit to
 
 THE TWO MISS SMITHS. 251 
 
 make a turban of; besides, Miss Cecilia 
 would have scorned to appear in any turban 
 that Miss Gibbs could have compiled, when 
 her rival was to be adorned with a construc- 
 tion of such superhuman excellence. No I 
 the only consolation she had was to scold Miss 
 Gibbs for not having kept the turbans till she 
 had seen them, and for not having sent for a 
 greater number of turbans. To which objur- 
 gations Miss Gibbs could only answer : " That 
 she had been extremely sorry, indeed, when 
 she saw the ladies were bent upon having the 
 turbans, as she had ordered two entirely with 
 a view to Miss Cecilia's accommodation ; and, 
 moreover, that she was never more surprised 
 in her life than when Mrs. GosHng desired 
 one of them might be sent to her, because 
 Mrs. Gosling never wore turbans ; and if 
 Miss Gibbs had only foreseen that she would 
 have pounced upon it in that way, she. Miss 
 Gibbs, would have taken care she should 
 never have . seen it at all," &c., &c., &c., — all
 
 252 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 of which the reader may believe, if he or she 
 choose. 
 
 As for Miss Cecilia, she was implacable, 
 and she flounced out of the house, and 
 through the streets, to her own door, in a 
 temper of mind that rendered it fortunate, as 
 
 far as the peace of the town of B was 
 
 concerned, that no accident brought her in 
 contact with Miss Charlotte on the way. 
 
 As soon as she got into her parlour, she 
 threw off her bonnet and shawl, and plunging 
 into her arm-chair, she tried to compose her 
 mind sufficiently to take a calm view of the 
 dilemma, and determine on what line of 
 conduct to pursue — whether to send an 
 excuse to Mrs. Hanaway, or whether to go to 
 the party in one of her old head-dresses. 
 Either alternative was insupportable. To lose 
 the party — the game at loo, the distinction of 
 being seen in such good society — it was too 
 provoking ; besides, very likely people would 
 suppose she had not been invited; Miss
 
 THE TWO MISS SMITHS. 253 
 
 Charlotte, she had no doubt, would try to 
 make them believe so. Bat then, on the 
 other hand, to wear one of her old turbans 
 was so mortifying — they were so very shabby, 
 so unfashionable — on an occasion, too, when 
 everybody would be so well-dressed ! Oh, it 
 was aggravating — vexatious, in the extreme ! 
 She passed the day in reflection — chewing the 
 cud of sweet and bitter fancies ; recalling to 
 herself how well she looked in the turban — 
 for she had tried it on ; figuring what would 
 have been Miss Charlotte's mortification if 
 she had been the disappointed person — how 
 triumphantly she, Miss Cecilia, would have 
 marched into the room with the turban on 
 her head — how crest-fallen the other would 
 have looked ; and then she varied her occupa- 
 tion by resuscitating all her old turbans, 
 buried in antique band-boxes deep in dust, 
 and trying whether it were possible, out of 
 their united materials, to concoct one of the
 
 254 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 present fashionable shape and dimensions. But 
 the thing was impracticable : the new turban 
 was composed of crimson satin and gold lace, 
 hel-s of pieces of muslin and gauze. 
 
 When the mind is very much engrossed, 
 whether the subject of contemplation be 
 pleasant or unpleasant, time flies with incon- 
 ceivable rapidity ; and Miss Cecilia was 
 roused from her meditations by hearing the 
 clock in the passage strike four, warning her 
 that it was necessary to come to some decision, 
 as the hour fixed for the party, according to 
 the primitive customs of B , was half- 
 past seven, when the knell of the clock was 
 followed by a single knock at the door, and 
 the next moment her maid walked into the 
 room with — what do you think ? — the identi- 
 cal crimson and gold turban in her hand ! 
 
 " What a beauty !" cried Susan, turning 
 it round, that she might get a complete view 
 of it in all its phases.
 
 THE TWO MISS SMITHS. 255 
 
 " Was there any message, Sue ?" inquired 
 Miss Cecilia, gasping with agitation, for her 
 heart was in her throat. 
 
 " No, ma'am," answered Sue ; " Miss 
 Gibbs's girl just left it ; she said it should 
 have come earlier, but she had so many 
 places to go to." 
 
 '' And she's gone, is she, Susan ?" 
 
 " Yes, ma'am, she went directly — she said 
 she hadn't got half through yet." 
 
 " Very well, Susan, you may go ; and 
 remember, I'm not at home if anybody calls ; 
 and if any message comes here from Miss 
 Gibbs, you'll say I'm gone out, and you 
 don't expect me home till very late." 
 
 " Very well, ma'am." 
 
 " And I say, Susan, if they send here to 
 make any inquires about that turban, you'll 
 say you know nothing about it, and send 
 them away." 
 
 " Very well, ma'am," said Susan, and 
 down she dived to the regions below.
 
 256 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 Instead of four o'clock, how ardently did 
 Miss Cecilia wish it were seven ; for the 
 danger of the next three hours was immi- 
 nent. Well she understood how the turban 
 had got there — it was a mistake of the girl 
 — but the chance was great that, before 
 seven o'clock arrived, Miss Charlotte would 
 take fright at not receiving her head-dress, 
 and would send to Miss Gibbs to demand it, 
 when the whole thing would be found out. 
 However, no message came : at five o'clock, 
 when the milk-boy rang. Miss Cecilia thought 
 she should have fainted; but that was the 
 only alarm. At six she began to dress, and 
 at seven she stood before her glass in full 
 array, with the turban on her head. She 
 thought she had never looked so well ; 
 indeed, she was sure she had not. The 
 magnitude of the thing gave her an air, and 
 indeed a feeling of dignity and importance 
 that she had never been sensible of before. 
 The gold lace looked brilliant even bv the
 
 THE TWO MISS SMITHS. 257 
 
 light of her single tallow candle ; what would 
 it do in a well-illumined drawing-room ! then 
 the colour was strikingly becoming, and 
 suited her hair exactly — Miss Cecilia, we 
 must here observe, was quite grey ; but she 
 wore a frontlet of dark curls, and a little 
 black silk skull-cap, fitted close to her head, 
 which kept all neat and tight under the 
 turban. 
 
 She had not far to go ; nevertheless, she 
 thought it would be as well to set off at 
 once, for fear of accidents, even though she 
 lingered on the way to fiU up the time, for 
 every moment the danger augmented ; so 
 she called to Susan to bring her cloak, and 
 her calash, and her overalls, and being well 
 packed up by the admiring Sue, who de- 
 clared the turban was " without exception 
 the beautifuUest thin^ she ever saw," she 
 started ; determined, however, not to take 
 the direct way, but to make a little circuit 
 
 VOL. I. s
 
 258 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 by a back street, lest, by ill luck, she should 
 fall foul of the enemy. 
 
 " Susan," said she, pausing as she was 
 stepping off the threshold, " if anybody calls, 
 you'll say I have been gone to Mrs. Hana- 
 way's some time ; and, Susan, just put a pin 
 in this calash to keep it back, it falls over 
 my eyes so that I can't see." And Susan 
 pinned a fold in the calash, and away went 
 the triumphant Miss Cecilia. She did not 
 wish to be guilty of the vulgarity of arriving 
 first at the party ; so she lingered about till 
 it wanted a quarter to eight, and then she 
 knocked at Mrs. Hanaway's door, which a 
 smart footman immediately opened, and, with 
 the alertness for which many of his order are 
 remarkable, proceeded to disengage the lady 
 from her external coverings — the cloak, the 
 overalls, the calash ; and then, without giving 
 her time to breathe, he rushed up the stairs, 
 calling out, " Miss Cecilia Smith ;" whilst
 
 THE TWO MISS SMITHS. 259 
 
 the butler, who stood at the drawing-room 
 door, threw it open, reiterating, "Miss Ce- 
 cilia Smith;" and in she went. But, O 
 reader ! little do you think, and little did she 
 think, where the turban was that she ima- 
 gined to be upon her head, and under the 
 supposed shadow of which she walked into 
 the room with so much dignity and com- 
 placence. It was below in the haU, lying on 
 the floor, fast in the calash, to which Susan, 
 ill-starred wench ! had pinned it ; and the 
 footman, in his cruel haste, had dragged 
 them both off together. 
 
 With only some under-trappings on her 
 cranium, and altogether unconscious of her 
 calamity, smihng and bowing, Miss Cecilia 
 advanced towards her host and hostess, who 
 received her in the most gracious manner, 
 thinking, certainly, that her taste in a head- 
 dress was peculiar, and that she was about 
 the most extraordinary figure they had ever 
 beheld, but supposing that such was the 
 
 s 2
 
 260 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 fashion she chose to adopt — the less asto- 
 nished or inclined to suspect the truth, from 
 having heard a good deal of the eccentricities 
 
 of the two spinsters of B . But to the 
 
 rest of the company, the appearance she 
 made was inexnlicable ; they had been accus- 
 tomed to see her ill dressed, and oddly 
 dressed, but such a flight as this they were 
 not prepared for. Some whispered that she 
 had gone mad ; others suspected that it must 
 be accident — that somehow or other she had 
 forgotten to put on her head-dress ; but even 
 if it were so, the joke was an excellent one, 
 and nobody cared enough for her to sacrifice 
 their amusement by setting her right. So 
 Miss Cecilia, blessed in her delusion, tri- 
 umphant and happy, took her place at the 
 whist table, anxiously selecting a position 
 which gave her a full view of the door, in 
 order that she might have the indescribable 
 satisfaction of seeing the expression of Miss 
 Charlotte's countenance when she entered the
 
 THE TWO MISS SMITHS. 261 
 
 room — that is, if she came ; the prohabilit}^ 
 was, that mortification would keep her away. 
 But no such thing — Miss Charlotte had 
 too much spirit to be beaten out of the field 
 in that manner. She had waited with pa- 
 tience for her turban, because Miss Gibbs 
 had told her, that, having many things to 
 send out, it might be late before she got it ; 
 but when half-past six arrived, she became 
 impatient, and despatched her maid to fetch 
 it. The maid returned, with " Miss Gibbs's 
 respects, and the girl was still out with the 
 things ; she would be sure to call at Miss 
 Charlotte's before she came back." At half- 
 past seven there was another message, to say 
 that the turban had not arrived ; by this 
 time the girl had done her errands, and 
 Miss Gibbs, on questioning her, discovered 
 the truth. But it was too late — the mischief 
 was irreparable — Susan averring, with tinith, 
 that her mistress had gone to Mrs. Hana-
 
 262 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 way's party some time, with the turban on 
 her head. 
 
 We will not attempt to paint Miss Char- 
 lotte's feelings — that would be a vain endea- 
 vour. Rage took possession of her soul; 
 her attire was already complete, all but the 
 head-dress, for which she was waiting. She 
 selected the best turban she had, threw on 
 her cloak and calash, and in a condition of 
 mind bordering upon frenzy, she rushed forth, 
 determined, be the consequences what they 
 might, to claim her turban, and expose Miss 
 Cecilia's dishonourable conduct before the 
 whole company. 
 
 By the time she arrived at Mrs. Hana- 
 way's door, owing to the delays that had 
 intervened, it was nearly half-past eight; 
 the company had all arrived ; and whilst the 
 butler and footmen were carrying up the 
 refreshments, one of the female servants of 
 the establishment had come into the hall.
 
 THE TWO MISS SMITHS. 263 
 
 and was endeavouring to introduce some 
 sort of order and classification amongst the 
 mass of external coverings that had been 
 hastily thrown off by the ladies; so, when 
 Miss Charlotte knocked, she opened the door 
 and let her in, and proceeded to relieve her 
 of her wraps. 
 
 " I suppose I'm very late," said Miss 
 Charlotte, dropping into a chair to seize 
 a moment's rest, whilst the woman drew off 
 her boots ; for she was out of breath with 
 haste, and heated with fury. 
 
 " I beheve everybody's come, ma'am," said 
 the woman. 
 
 " I should have been here some time 
 since," proceeded Miss Charlotte, " but the 
 most shameftd trick has been played me 
 about my — my — Why — I declare — I really 
 believe — " and she bent forward and picked 
 up the turban — the identical turban, which, 
 disturbed by the maid-servant's manoeuvres,
 
 264 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 was lying upon the floor, still attacked to 
 the calash by Sukey's unlucky pin. 
 
 Was there ever such a triumph ? Quick 
 as lightning, the old turban was oif and the 
 new one on, the maid with bursting sides 
 assisting in the operation ; and then, with a 
 light step and a proud heart, up walked 
 Miss Charlotte, and was ushered into the 
 drawing-room. 
 
 As the door opened, the eyes of the rivals 
 met. Miss Cecilia's feelings were those of 
 disappointment and surprise. " Then she 
 has got a turban too ! How could she have 
 got it ?" — and she was vexed that her 
 triumph was not so complete as she had 
 expected. But Miss Charlotte was in 
 ecstasies. It may be supposed she was not 
 slow to tell the stoiy : it soon flew round the 
 room, and the whole party were thrown into 
 convulsions of laughter. Miss Cecilia alone 
 was not in the secret ; and as she was sue-
 
 THE TWO MISS SMITHS. 265 
 
 cessful at cards, and therefore in good hu- 
 mour, she added to their mirth, by saying 
 that she was glad to see everybody so merry, 
 and by assuring Mrs. Hanaway, when she 
 took her leave, that it was the gayest party 
 she had ever seen in B . 
 
 " I am really ashamed," said Mrs. Hana- 
 way, " at allowing the poor woman to be 
 the jest of my company ; but I was afraid to 
 teU her the cause of our laughter, from the 
 apprehension of what might have fol- 
 lowed." 
 
 " And it must be admitted," said her 
 husband, " " that she well deserves the mor- 
 tification that awaits her when she discovers 
 the truth." 
 
 Poor Miss Cecilia did discover the truth, 
 and never was herself again. She parted 
 with her house, and went to live with 
 a relation at Bristol ; but her spirit was 
 broken; and, after going through all the
 
 266 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 stages of a discontented old age — ill temper, 
 peevishness, and fatuity — she closed her 
 existence, as usual with persons of her class, 
 unloved and unlamented.
 
 IV. 
 
 THE TILE-BURNER AND HIS FAMILY. 
 
 In the early part of last century, there 
 lived near the town of Pont de TAin, in 
 the South of France, a brick and tile-burner, 
 named Joseph Vallet. Joseph was an in- 
 dustrious man, skilful in his profession, and 
 his bricks and tiles were in great request in 
 the neighbourhood. No man does well in 
 life without exciting the envy and the enmity 
 of mean-spirited persons about him, and 
 Joseph was not exempted from the common
 
 268 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 fate. He had a few evil-wishers, and among 
 these was M. Frillet, who had no other 
 reason for hating Vallet than that he was a 
 rival in trade. Vallet's bricks and tiles 
 commanded a better market than those of 
 Frillet, and that was enough. This hostility 
 of Frillet might have been of little conse- 
 quence in ordinary circumstances. He 
 possessed, however, the power as well as 
 the inclination to torment his rival; being 
 the king's Attorney-General for the district, 
 a function which rendered him a dangerous 
 enemy to a poor man. 
 
 Some time in 1705, a peasant named 
 Dupler, a neighbour of Vallet's, died in what 
 were alleged to be suspicious circumstances. 
 He had been seen one night somewhat 
 intoxicated in the company of Vallet, who, 
 it was said, had given him a blow, which 
 led to his illness and death. How this 
 rumour arose no one could teU ; but having 
 become pubhc, the Attorney-General made a
 
 THE TILE-BURNER. 269 
 
 rigorous investigation into the subject. He 
 failed, however, to criminate Vallet in the 
 affair; and it finally appeared that Dupler 
 had died a natural death. Vallet fortunately 
 suffered nothing in character from this 
 attempt to injure him; nobody doubted his 
 innocence. He married, and had a family, 
 and his trade flourished as before. 
 
 Nineteen years had elapsed, and the story 
 of Dupler had been long forgotten, when 
 Joseph Sevos and Antoine Pin, two persons 
 of loose character and intemperate habits, 
 disappeared, after ha\dng been seen the 
 previous evening — February 19, 17*24 — in 
 a state of inebriety. They were nowhere 
 to be found ; and when a week elapsed 
 without their making their appearance, 
 the question arose, what had become of 
 them ? 
 
 After some inquiry, it was found that Pin 
 had gone to Dombes and enlisted — a thing 
 he had often threatened to do. But ot
 
 270 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 Sevos there were no traces. This was the 
 more strange, seeing he was in good cir- 
 cumstances, and was the possessor of a 
 small property. Some thought Pin must 
 have made away with his companion; but 
 others combated this idea, under the im- 
 pression that if Pin had committed murder, 
 he would have fled no one knew whither, 
 instead of enlisting as a soldier. 
 
 While public curiosity was on the stretch 
 to discover what had become of Sevos, a 
 rumour was propagated that all was not 
 right with the family of Vallet the tile- 
 burner. It was said they were very much 
 discomposed, as if conscious of having com- 
 mitted a grievous crime. The report spread 
 rapidly through the country, and the Attorney- 
 General, Frillet, lost no time in inquiring into 
 the facts. The result of his investigations 
 was, that on the 19 th of August, 1724, he 
 filed an information to the effect that, " On 
 Sunday evening, the i9th of February,
 
 THE TILE-BURNER. 271 
 
 Joseph Sevos, after eating and drinking in 
 Vallet's house, had suddenly disappeared, 
 and has never since been heard of. That 
 further, according to general belief, he had 
 been murdered in the tiler's house, and 
 buried under the stove ; but that afterwards 
 the body had been raised, and consumed in 
 the kiln." 
 
 Upon this information proceedings were 
 commenced by the authorities at Pont de 
 I'Ain, and witnesses summoned. The first 
 person was a man called Vaudan. He 
 averred that, on the night of the 19 th of 
 February, having been to Mastalion, he was 
 returning by Vallet's house, about three 
 hours before daylight, when he heard a great 
 noise, and clearly distinguished the words, 
 " Help ! help ! I will confess eveiy tiling ! 
 Forgive me this once, and spare my life !" 
 Whereupon a voice, which he knew to be 
 Joseph VaUet's, answered, "We want no 
 more confessing ; you must die 1" This
 
 272 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 sort of dialogue continuing some time, the 
 witness became alarmed ; but, anxious to 
 hear the end of it, he hid himself behind a 
 bush, whence he distinctly heard the blows 
 that were given to the victim. Suddenly, 
 however, all became still ; and presently 
 afterwards the door of the house opened, 
 and Vallet, accompanied by his wife and 
 two sons, came out, bearing a dead body, 
 which they carried to the brick-kiln, and 
 there buried, heaping a quantity of wood 
 over the spot to conceal it. He added, that 
 three or four days afterwards he made a 
 pretext to call on Vallet at the brick-kiln, 
 in order to see if he could recognise the 
 place ; but, from what he observed, he con- 
 cluded that the body had been removed; 
 and he had since learned that the murdered 
 person was Joseph Sevos ; and that on Good 
 Friday the Vallets had consumed the body in 
 the furnace. 
 
 There were several other witnesses exa-
 
 THE TILE-BURNER. 273 
 
 mined ; but on close inquiry, it appeared that 
 they had received their information from 
 Vaudan. However, the presumption ap- 
 peared so strong against the Vallets, that 
 their arrest was decreed, and executed with 
 all the aggravated circumstances that so 
 unnatural a crime seemed to justify. A 
 brigade of mounted police, followed by a mob 
 of the lowest class, proceeded to the tile- 
 burner's house, and, amidst hooting and 
 howling, dragged away the whole family to 
 Pont de I'Ain, and shut them up in prison. 
 
 It happened that at this time Vallet was 
 ill. He was suffering from a violent fever, 
 accompanied by ague fits. Nevertheless, he 
 was placed in a miserable dungeon, and 
 loaded with irons ; and his wife and sons 
 were exposed to equally harsh and unjusti- 
 fiable treatment. With not less injustice, 
 his house was given up to pillage ; the 
 authorities neither took an inventoiy of his 
 goods nor set a seal upon them. For eleven 
 
 VOL. L T
 
 274 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 days the doors stood open, and the neigh- 
 bours, quite willing to second the law, helped 
 themselves to what they liked. On the 
 twelfth, it occurred to the Attorney-General 
 that the premises should be searched for the 
 clothes of the murdered man; but by this 
 time it was useless to search for anything. 
 The chests were broken open; the clothes, 
 linen, &c. carried away, and doubtless the 
 clothes of Sevos with them. Francisca, Val- 
 let's sister, owned to having removed two 
 bundles of her brother's property, in order to 
 save them from the plunderers ; but she 
 declared that nothing belonging to Sevos or 
 any other stranger was in them. She was, 
 however, forced to produce them ; and though 
 nothing was found in them but what she had 
 said, she was cast in the costs of the pro- 
 ceedings against herself, and fined twelve 
 livres. 
 
 Whilst these things were going on, there 
 was a party who looked on the whole affair
 
 THE TILE-BURNER. 275 
 
 with dissatisfaction. They ventured to ex- 
 press doubts of the guilt of the Vallets, and 
 protested against treating them with so much 
 severity; whilst Antoine Pin, who was as- 
 suredly not free from suspicion, was allowed 
 to range the world at pleasure. At last the 
 matter got so public, that it reached Paris; 
 it was talked of at Court, and furnished a 
 subject for the salons ; and as the fine ladies 
 and gentlemen became curious to learn the 
 truth of the business, orders were forwarded 
 to Dombes to arrest Antoine Pin, and send 
 him forthwith to Pont de I'Ain. 
 
 No sooner did the fugitive find himself in 
 prison, than he volunteered a full confession. 
 He said that nobody knew better than he the 
 particulars of poor Sevos's murder ; and that 
 he was resolved, be the consequences what 
 they might, that he would disclose the whole 
 truth. 
 
 " On the evening of the 19 th of February," 
 said he, " I and Sevos were drinking in 
 
 T 2
 
 276 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 Vallet's house, when Sevos took it into his 
 head, being drunk, to reproach Vallet with 
 being the cause of Dupler's death; where- 
 upon, in a rage, Vallet took up a heavy tin 
 can that stood upon the table, and struck 
 Sevos such a blow on the head with it, 
 that he fell backwards to the earth, crying, 
 * Mercy, mercy ! Take all my money, but 
 spare my life !' But Vallet saying, ' Don't 
 talk to me of mercy !' continued to strike 
 him, whilst his wife, with a fire shovel, also 
 lent her assistance. Even Philippe, the eldest 
 boy, joined in the murderous work; and 
 amongst them, they soon put an end to poor 
 Joseph Sevos : young Pierre the while stand- 
 ing sentinel at the door to keep off intruders. 
 Vallet, when he saw that he had killed Sevos, 
 wanted me to strike him too," continued 
 Pin, " lest I should be a witness against him ; 
 but I would not. When Sevos was dead, 
 they carried him to the kiln, and there buried 
 him, covering the place with a heap of wood ;
 
 THE TILE-BURNER. 277 
 
 and on Good Friday they dug up the body 
 and burned it. I know this, because on that 
 day I called at the kiln, and not only smelt 
 the burning, but saw the burat bones in the 
 fiimace. Vallet told me that if ever I said 
 a word about the matter, he would serve me 
 as he had served Sevos; but, at the same 
 time, I must own he behaved very hand- 
 somely to me in the business, papng my 
 silence liberally both with wine and money." 
 This testimony chimed in wonderfully with 
 that of Vaudan ; and although the dead body 
 was not forthcoming, that circumstance had 
 little weight, when its disappearance was so 
 well accounted for, and when the story was 
 confirmed by the utter impossibility of 
 finding any traces of Joseph Sevos as a living 
 person. The Vallets, however, persisted in 
 denying the whole affair ; they declared 
 themselves innocent, and founded their 
 defence on two circumstances. The first 
 was, that, as they asserted, on the day after
 
 278 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 the disappearance of Sevos, blood was found 
 in his bed, upon his pillow, on the bedclothes, 
 and on the floor of his room, proving 
 decisively that he had been murdered in his 
 own house, and affording a strong presump- 
 tion that Antoine Pin was the murderer. 
 The second was, that on the night in question 
 Pierre Vallet, who, according to the evidence 
 admitted, had been so useful a coadjutor in 
 the business, had in fact been absent from 
 home, having slept at the house of his 
 schoolmaster at Poncin, in the same bed with 
 two other boys. 
 
 Strange to say, the authorities refused to 
 investigate the truth of these allegations. 
 On the contrary, they maintained that, being 
 accused by two person of the crime, the 
 strongest suspicion attached to Joseph Vallet, 
 and that his guilt was rather aggravated than 
 otherwise by his attempt to shift the load 
 from his own shoulders to those of Antoine 
 Pin — an attempt in which he had entirely
 
 THE TILE-BURNER. 279 
 
 failed; and the Attorney-General holding, 
 therefore, the crime proved against him, 
 demanded that sentence of death should 
 be passed against the father, whilst con- 
 fession should be wrung from the mother 
 and sons by the rack. The jurisdiction of 
 Pont de I'Ain, instead of complying with his 
 request, condemned the whole family to the 
 rack ; whereupon Frillet, dissatisfied with a 
 decision which gave the tile-burner a chance 
 for his life, appealed to the parliament or 
 high court of Dijon; who forthwith issued 
 an order transferring the prisoners to their 
 own fortress; whither they were removed, 
 followed by the hootings and execrations of 
 the excited multitude. 
 
 It was soon perceived that the authorities 
 of Dijon meant to treat the matter with more 
 earnestness and impartiality than those of 
 Pont de I'Ain had done. They began by 
 admitting the guilt of VaUet and his family, 
 which they considered established beyond a
 
 280 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 doubt ; but they looked upon Antoine Pin as 
 in all probability equally guilty, and therefore 
 to be treated as a criminal, and not as a wit- 
 ness, as had been hitherto the case. They 
 alleged, in support of this opinion, his bad 
 character, his suspicious flight, his avowed 
 presence at the murder, which he not only 
 made no attempt to prevent, but had since 
 concealed; and they also dwelt on certain 
 conditions he had made when he entered the 
 regiment at Dombes, all tending to his own 
 security in case of being pursued. In hopes 
 of eliciting the truth, he was put to the rack ; 
 but the torture he endured did not alter his 
 testimony ; it only recalled one additional cir- 
 cumstance — namely, that Vallet had given 
 him a louis-d'or to entice Sevos to his house 
 on the day in question. 
 
 The fate of the Vallet family seemed now 
 decided ; and their case was the more hope- 
 less, that by this last avowal Pin had brought 
 himself under the arm of the law ; but now,
 
 THE TILE-BURNER. 281 
 
 when least expected, conscience, that irre- 
 pressible witness, awoke and spoke for them. 
 No sooner had he returned to his cell, than 
 the thoughts of destroying a whole family by 
 his perjury overpowered him. He passed a 
 night of sleepless anguish, and when the 
 morning dawned, he requested that some 
 person qualified to receive his confession 
 might be sent to him. One of the barristers 
 engaged in the cause was immediately des- 
 patched to the prison, and Antoine Pin 
 made the following narration : 
 
 He confessed that his life had been a 
 series of crimes, and that at length, in 1722, 
 he had fallen upon young Philippe Vallet on 
 the high road, and, without being recog- 
 nised by the boy, had robbed him of his 
 money and clothes. Sevos, however, hidden 
 behind a bush, had witnessed the crime, and 
 had frequently reminded him that he had it 
 in his power to bring him to the scaffold 
 any day he pleased. He had shown no
 
 282 LIGHT AND DARKNESS, 
 
 signs of an intention to do it, but never- 
 theless the threat disturbed Pin, and he never 
 ceased wishing to get rid of so troublesome 
 an acquaintance. 
 
 On the 19th February, they had gone to- 
 gether to Vallet's house, where they drank 
 and chatted for some time. Sevos, he said, 
 liked idling and drinking as well as he did : 
 they repaired to various wine-houses after 
 leaving Vallet's, in the last of which they sat 
 till past midnight. There it was, that, in a 
 state of maudlin intoxication, Sevos pulled 
 a bag out of his pocket, containing about 
 forty dollars in silver, and exhibited the 
 money to Pin, who was immediately seized 
 with a desire to get possession of the booty, 
 and at the same time relieve himself of a dan- 
 gerous witness, who might turn against him 
 some day when he least expected it. With 
 this view, he accompanied Sevos home, and 
 when they got to the door, he represented 
 that although they had drunk a great deal,
 
 THE TILE-BURNER. 283 
 
 they had had nothing to eat, and proposed 
 getting something for supper. Sevos said 
 he was hungry too ; whereupon Pin went to 
 the house of Michel Morel, whom he knocked 
 up, and from whom he procured a loaf, which 
 he carried back to Sevos's, having on the 
 way slipped into the house of his own father, 
 and armed himself with a hatchet, which he 
 hid under his coat. 
 
 Meanwhile Sevos, overcome by liquor, had 
 lost sight of his hunger, and declared his 
 intention of going immediately to sleep, re- 
 questing Pin to pass the night with him, to 
 which the latter consented ; and just as the 
 unfortunate host was stepping into bed, Pin, 
 who was standing behind him, brought down 
 the hatchet with tremendous force upon his 
 head. " O, God ! I'm killed !" were the 
 only words that passed the lips of the victim, 
 before he sunk to the earth, bathed in his 
 blood. " After rifling his pockets, I carried the
 
 284 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 body on my back to the stable," continued 
 he, " where I covered it with manure ; and 
 then feehng that Bresse w^as no safe nest for 
 me, I started for Dombes, and enlisted as 
 a soldier." He added, that, before he 
 quitted the house, he tried, without much 
 effect, to efface the traces of his crime. 
 " This is the truth," said he, " and the 
 whole truth. I had neither aiders nor abet- 
 tors : no one living was in my confidence ; 
 and the Vallets, father, mother, and sons, are 
 innocent of the whole affair." 
 
 On being asked why, if this were the case, 
 he had persisted in accusing the Vallets, he 
 answered that his first intention when he 
 was arrested was to confess the truth, but 
 he had changed his mind; adding, that 
 Vaudan, the first witness against the Vallets, 
 was a good-for-nothing scoundrel, on whose 
 testimony no reliance whatever could be 
 placed ; and that, if they secured him, they
 
 THE TILE-BURNER. 285 
 
 would learn what weighty reasons he had for 
 giving false evidence. 
 
 As Pin persisted in this story, without 
 waiting to investigate the matter further, he 
 was at once condemned, on his own confes- 
 sion, to be broken on the wheel. He fully 
 admitted the justice of his sentence ; and 
 the only request he made was, to be per- 
 mitted to see the Vallets before he died ; 
 which being granted, he threw himself at 
 their feet, reiterating his assertions of their 
 innocence, and entreating their pardon. He 
 seemed really penitent; and, great as were 
 his crimes, the earnest desire he evinced in 
 the midst of his tortures to vindicate the 
 guiltless and promote the ends of justice, 
 won him the pardon and pity even of the 
 injured Vallets. 
 
 Thus died Antoine Pin : and when he w^as 
 dead, the authorities bethought themselves 
 of searching the stable for the body, and of 
 verifying his story by ascertaining what traces
 
 286 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 of the crime had been found about the house 
 by those who first entered it after the dis- 
 appearance of Joseph Sevos. But with re- 
 spect to the house, the bed was gone, the 
 place had been scoured, and nobody seemed 
 able or willing to give any accurate account 
 of what had been observed. Then with re- 
 gard to the body, which Pin said he had 
 hidden in the stable under a heap of manure, 
 there was not only no body, but not a single 
 bone to be found, nor any appearance to 
 justify the suspicion that a body had ever 
 been there. 
 
 Here was a puzzle ! But Antoine Pin 
 was silenced for ever, and who was to unravel 
 the mystery? Perhaps Vaudan, whom he 
 had arraigned : but as Pin was gone, if he 
 did not choose to tell the truth, there was 
 nobody to confront him. However, not 
 knowing what else to do, they arrested 
 Vaudan. He persisted in what he had said ; 
 " what he had heard he had heard ;" and his
 
 THE TILE-BURNER. 28? 
 
 evidence was true to a tittle. He felt it his 
 duty to confess to the judge that his character 
 was not unstained; he had once in his Hfe 
 committed a dishonest act — stolen three oxen 
 and a filly from his master. The ingenuous- 
 ness of this needless avowal told much in 
 his favour. Well-nigh at its wits' end, the 
 court was at length induced to call for the 
 records of the whole case, as it had been tried 
 at Pont de I'Ain. On looking over the 
 papers, they found such strange informalities, 
 so many unaccountable erasures, and so many 
 equally unaccountable interpolations, that the 
 affair took quite a new turn ; and that which 
 nobody had yet dared to suggest, began to be 
 shrewdly suspected — namely, that the Attor- 
 ney-General, Frillet, had been playing a part in 
 the drama, which as little comported with 
 his reputation as mth his office. A scrutiny 
 ensued; and the result was, the complete 
 justification of the Vallet family. Not only 
 had every witness against them been either
 
 288 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 deceivers, or themselves deceived, but the 
 evidences in their favour had been kept back 
 or suppressed. It even came out, and was 
 satisfactorily proved, that distinct traces of 
 the murder had been found in Sevos's room ; 
 and that several persons had sworn to the 
 facts before FriUet himself. Nay, not only 
 so, but even traces of blood were stiU dis- 
 tinctly visible on the floor; and the very 
 instrument with which Antoine Pin said he 
 had committed the murder was discovered in 
 the house. 
 
 Considering how very inexpert these offi- 
 cials appear to have been in extricating truth 
 from falsehood, it is fortunate that there 
 seems to have been something in the air of 
 their dungeons that disposed people to con- 
 fession. No sooner did Vaudan find himself 
 alone in prison, than he declared his intention 
 of clearing up the whole afl'air. He avowed 
 that his testimony was false from beginning 
 to end ; adding, that the officer who sum-
 
 THE TILE-BURNER. 289 
 
 moned him as a witness, had desired him to 
 wait upon the Attorney- General as soon as the 
 examination was over, and relate to him all 
 that had passed. 
 
 The Parliament of Dijon, who, when they 
 had got a criminal, seem to have proceeded 
 with uncompromising diligence, lost no time 
 in passing sentence on Vaudan, who was 
 forthwith conducted to the scaffold, and died 
 asserting the innocence of the Vallets. The 
 real motive of this injudicious haste, which in 
 this case and many others rendered the dis- 
 covery of truth so difficult, was the fulness of 
 the prisons. No sooner were they satisfied 
 of a man's guilt, than they put him out of the 
 way, to make room for the next comer ; fre- 
 quently thereby not only committing great 
 injustice, but depriving themselves of the 
 most important testimony. 
 
 Vaudan was executed on the 5th of Octo- 
 ber, and on the l"2th an order was issued for 
 placing another prisoner on the rack. This 
 was a man called Maurice, who had made 
 himself exceedingly busy in the whole affair, 
 in the case of Sevos as well as of Dupler, and 
 
 VOL. L U
 
 290 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 on whom suspicion had at length rested. 
 The moment Maurice felt the thumb-screws, 
 he avowed himself a false witness, in the pay 
 of the Attorney- General, who was the origi- 
 nator of the whole cabal against the Vallets. 
 He had desired him to revive the story of 
 Dupler. Maurice declared that he had at 
 first resisted, but that the threats and promises 
 of Frillet had at length prevailed. He added 
 that the Attorney- General had two assistants 
 in the affair ; namely, Torrillon, and a forester 
 called Mallet, who had given themselves ex- 
 traordinary trouble to bring in such wit- 
 nesses as suited the great man's purpose. 
 
 On the 13th, the day after he had made 
 this confession, Maurice was executed; and 
 he also died maintaining the innocence of the 
 Vallets. 
 
 They had now put three persons out of 
 the world on account of this affair : one for 
 the murder, and two for perjury. But where 
 was the greatest criminal of all ? Where 
 was the Attorney- General Frillet? He, the 
 suborner, the wors« than murderer, the per- 
 secutor of the innocent, the betrayer of his
 
 THE TILE-BURNER. 291 
 
 office and his oath, the ten times guilty — he 
 was at large, ' going to and fro upon the 
 earth, and walking up and down on it,* like 
 his great prototype ! And where were the 
 VaUets ? They were still in prison ! Three 
 persons had died declaring their innocence; 
 every witness against them had been con- 
 victed of perjury or delusion ; not a single 
 circumstance remained uncontradicted that 
 could in any way connect them with the 
 deaths of either Dupler or Sevos ; their jus- 
 tification was indisputable, clear, and tri- 
 umphant ; the whole accusation was proved 
 to be the fruits of a cabal, the offspring of 
 envy and malice : at least, if it were not, 
 what had Vaudan and Maurice died for? 
 And yet, on the 13th of October, Frillet was 
 at large, and the Vallets were in prison ! 
 
 However, they were at length restored to 
 liberty, with a recompense of 500 francs 
 (about £20), which Maurice had been made 
 to pay as an expiation : at the same time 
 measures were taken for arresting Frillet and 
 his two abettors, Torrillon and the forester ; 
 but the Attorney-General was too well in- 
 
 u 2
 
 292 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 formed of what was going on to allow him- 
 self to be taken. He fled into Savoy, and 
 found refuge in a cloister, where the arm of 
 the law could not reach him. 
 
 In the meantime the prosperity of the 
 Vallets was destroyed. Their healths had 
 been injured, their money had gone to the 
 lawyers, their house had been plundered, and 
 everything belonging to them, except the 
 bare walls, had either disappeared or been 
 knocked to pieces. The old man had to 
 begin the world again. It was up-hill work ; 
 but he did his best, and in time partially 
 recovered his former position. 
 
 Several years had thus elapsed, and the 
 VaUets had fought through the worst of 
 their difficulties, when one day, Pierre, the 
 youngest son, being on business at a town 
 called Boiu-g, met, as he was walking through 
 the market-place — who? why, Joseph Sevos ! 
 At first he thought it was a phantom of the 
 imagination ; but on a nearer approach, he be- 
 came satisfied that the person he looked upon 
 was no other than he, whose disappearance 
 had caused so much trouble. Perceiving
 
 THE TILE-BURNER. 293 
 
 himself to be recognised, Sevos attempted to 
 escape in the crowd ; but Pierre promptly 
 followed, and had the satisfaction of seizing 
 and bringing him before a magistrate, of 
 whom he demanded that both himself and 
 the resuscitated man should be held in cus- 
 tody till the mystery could be investigated. 
 The reserve and equivocations with which 
 Sevos sought to baffle inquiry, suggesting a 
 suspicion that he was not altogether inno- 
 cent ; he was accordingly removed to Dijon ; 
 but even there, it was not till he was thi'eat- 
 ened with the rack that the truth was elicited 
 from him. 
 
 "On the 19th of February, 1724," said 
 he, " Antoine Pin and I went out for a day's 
 drinking ; and when the wine-houses were all 
 closed, we went together to my house, where 
 I invited him to sleep. I undressed, and 
 was about to step into bed, when I received 
 a violent blow upon the head. I fell to the 
 ground, exclaiming that I was killed ; and as 
 I did not stir again, no doubt Pin thought I 
 was. However, I was only stunned. He
 
 294 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 then rifled my pockets, in which I had about 
 forty dollars, and afterwards dragged me to 
 the stable, and covered me with manure. 
 There I lay and listened till I heard Pin go 
 away ; then I went back to the house, and 
 fastening the door, I stanched the blood that 
 flowed from my head as well as I could with 
 old rags. In the morning I bound it up, 
 and bethought me what I should do ; but 
 the fear of Antoine so entirely overcame me, 
 that I durst not leave the house, nor even 
 open the door ; and for two whole days and 
 nights I sat there, listening for his return, 
 which I momentarily expected. However, 
 he came no more; and on the third I ven- 
 tured, before the day had well broken, to slip 
 out ; and I managed, without being seen by 
 anybody, to reach the Attorney- General's, and 
 to him I related what had happened. He 
 listened to my story with attention, and, after 
 some consideration, he advised me to quit 
 the place. * Pin,' said he, ' is a villain, 
 who will stick at nothing ; and if he finds 
 out you are alive, he will never stop till he
 
 THE TILE-BURNER. 295 
 
 has completed his work. Take my advice, 
 and leave this as fast as your legs can carry 
 you, and the farther you go the better.' " 
 
 Sevos was a timid and weak man : to be 
 once murdered he thought was enough. The 
 advice of so influential a person as Frillet, 
 one who must necessarily understand the 
 case so well, was not to be neglected. He 
 fled, and never stopped till he thought him- 
 self far out of the reach of his enemy. Acci- 
 dent had at length brought him to the 
 market of Bourg, where Pierre Vallet met 
 him. 
 
 The agreement between this story and that 
 of Antoine Pin, was sufficient to insure its 
 acceptance as far as it went; but it was 
 generally believed that Joseph Sevos, timid as 
 he was, had been influenced by something 
 more than fear to abandon his native place 
 and his little property. The Attorney-Generars 
 empty-handed recommendation was not likely 
 to have induced a man to condemn himself to 
 exile for such a length of time. However, 
 whether from the apprehesion of sufl^ering the 
 legal penalty, as a party in the plot, or from
 
 296 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 the dread of the great man's vengeance, Sevos 
 could not be brought to any further confes- 
 sion. On this occasion the rack was spared, 
 the desire for a further revelation not being 
 sufficiently strong on the part of the authori- 
 ties to induce them to have recourse to it. 
 
 As soon as the news of Sevos's reappear- 
 ance reached Frillet, he quitted his sanctuary, 
 and loudly arraigned the Parliament of Dijon, 
 not only for their proceedings against himself, 
 but also for having broken Antoine Pin upon 
 the wheel for the murder of a man who was 
 proved never to have been murdered at all. 
 In spite of this, however, they arrested him, 
 and instituted investigations, which led to the 
 conviction of several other persons as parties 
 in the conspiracy of which he had been the 
 contriver : and now that the tide was appa- 
 rently turning against him, there was no 
 telling how far the tongue of Joseph Sevos 
 might have been loosed, had he not, just at 
 this juncture, most unexpectedly died in 
 prison. Nevertheless, so strong was the 
 evidence against Frillet, that he was con- 
 demned to death, and his property mulcted to
 
 THE TILE-BURNER. 297 
 
 the amount of 8,000 li\Tes, for the benefit of 
 the Vallet family. 
 
 Great was the joy of the people at this 
 decision ! Nine hours had the Parliament of 
 Dijon sat before they could agree upon the 
 sentence. The whole town had been in 
 commotion for days ; and all seemed anxious 
 for the execution of a man who had proved 
 himself such an oppressor. This vengeful 
 feeling was doomed to be disappointed. The 
 sentence of death against Frillet was com- 
 muted by the Kmg into banishment for ten 
 years. He received the intimation with an 
 affectation of pious gratitude; for he seems 
 to have been as great a hypocrite as a sinner. 
 But it was the will of God, whose justice and 
 mercy he had outraged, that he should not 
 profit by the corruption that had spared his 
 life. On the day appointed for his quitting 
 the prison, that life was required of him by a 
 Judge incorruptible. He expired suddenly as 
 they were throwing open the gates to set him 
 free. His coadjutors in crime suffered various 
 degrees of punishment, and the injured Vallets 
 received the 8,000 Hvres.
 
 298 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 Perhaps a more extraordinary case of 
 criminal jurisprudence than this is not on 
 record, nor one that exhibits a more frightful 
 picture of the effrontery with which the strong 
 dared to oppress the weak, or of the careless- 
 ness, precipitance, and contempt for the most 
 ordinary principles of justice with which, at 
 one period, the judicial proceedings of France 
 were conducted.
 
 THE BRIDE'S JOURNEY. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 In the year 1809, when the French were 
 in Prussia, M. Louison, an officer in the 
 commissariat department of the imperial 
 army, contracted an attachment for the beau- 
 tiful Adelaide Hext, the daughter of a re- 
 spectable but not wealthy merchant. The 
 young Frenchman having contrived to make 
 his attachment known, it was imprudently 
 reciprocated by its object; we say impru- 
 dently, for the French were detested by her 
 father, who declared that no daughter of his 
 should ever be allied to one of the invaders 
 and occupants of his beloved coimtry. Thus
 
 300 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 repulsed, M. Louison had the good sense not 
 to press his suit, and proceeded to Vienna, 
 where he was installed in a lucrative office 
 suitable to his wishes and abilities. Here, 
 however, he could not altogether relinquish 
 the expectation of being one day married to 
 the fair Adelaide Hext, with whom he con- 
 tinued to correspond. 
 
 After the lapse of a few months, the aspect 
 of affairs underwent a material change. Hext 
 lay, as he supposed, and as the doctors told 
 him, on his deathbed, and, pondering on the 
 probable destitution of his family, he repented 
 of his rash vow, and stated to Adelaide that 
 he should no longer oppose her wishes. M. 
 Louison, procuring leave of absence for a few 
 days, was speedily on the spot, and, with as 
 little loss of time as possible, was united to 
 the daughter of the seemingly dying mer- 
 chant. As, in such circumstances, it would 
 have been cruel for Madame Louison to leave 
 the bedside of her aged parent, it was ar- 
 ranged that she should remain till the period 
 of his decease, and then join her husband, 
 who, in the meanwhile, was compelled to
 
 THE bride's journey. 301 
 
 return to Vienna. The old man, however, 
 recovered as soon as his son-in-law departed, 
 and he now almost wished the marriage were 
 undone; but as that was impracticable, he, 
 with as good a grace as possible, saw his 
 daughter set out on her journey to Dresden, 
 whence she was to be escorted to Vienna by 
 M. de Monge, a friend of her husband. 
 
 Nothing occurred to interrupt the journey 
 of Madame Louison, for the intermediate 
 country was tranquil, and she had the happi- 
 ness of arriving safely under the roof of her 
 husband's friend. This person, who held a 
 situation of trust under the Prussian Govern- 
 ment, connected with the establishments for 
 popular education, was one of those who \^ill 
 act conscientiously in aU situations of life, 
 until they encounter an irresistible temptation 
 to error. Such was the present occasion. 
 Overcome with the beauty of his unsuspi- 
 cious guest, he basely attempted to divert her 
 affections from her husband, and Adelaide 
 had not been many hours in his house, before 
 she ardently wished she had encountered 
 alone the perils of her journey rather than
 
 302 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 accept the protection of De Monge. His 
 attentions assumed a character that alarmed 
 her, and when he found himself repulsed, he 
 sought by calumny to undermine her con- 
 fidence in the man she had married. But 
 she repelled his insinuations with scorn, for- 
 bade him her presence, and insisted on being 
 allowed to depart alone : then he had recourse 
 to threats, declaring that he would accuse 
 her to her husband of the very crime he 
 vainly sued her to commit, till finding his 
 menaces no more efiicacious than his suppli- 
 cations, he condescended to other means of 
 detaining her under his roof, beginning by 
 feigning repentance, and an earnest desire to 
 conform to her washes in all respects. 
 
 " You refuse to travel with me," said he ; 
 " and I feel that you are justified in so doing. 
 I will not attempt to accompany you, but 
 you must forgive me for saying I cannot 
 permit you to go alone. The roads are not 
 secure. However quiet we are here, I know 
 that, in many parts, the country is in a state 
 of great disturbance, and you might en- 
 counter difficulties and dangers of a nature
 
 THE bride's journey. 303 
 
 you little anticipate! Wait but a few days 
 and I will engage to find you a safe and 
 suitable escort." 
 
 Alarmed by the representation of these 
 unknown perils, Madame Louison consented 
 to defer her departure, whilst De Monge 
 abstained from any open demonstration of 
 the sentiments he had previously evinced. 
 But she discerned the constraint he put upon 
 himself; he could not recover her confidence, 
 and her situation became daily more and 
 more unpleasant. Under these painful cir- 
 cumstances Adelaide was detained upwards of 
 a month under the roof of De Monge, whose 
 wife, being an invalid confined to her cham- 
 ber, had no suspicion of her husband's 
 treachery, whilst Madame Louison was de- 
 terred both by delicacy and compassion from 
 acquainting her with what had occurred. 
 But at length the promised escort not pre- 
 senting itself, and wearied out with anxiety 
 and expectation, she determined to set out 
 alone, without making known her intentions; 
 a resolution to which she was pushed by the 
 alarming circumstance of finding the frag-
 
 304 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 ment of a letter in her husband's handwrit- 
 ing, which had evidently been addressed to 
 herself under cover to De Monge, and by 
 him suppressed. 
 
 Whether or not her host became aware of 
 her resolution, remains uncertain ; but one 
 day, when her arrangements were nearly com- 
 pleted, after being absent some hours, he 
 entered the room congratulating her on 
 having at length heard of a party about to 
 start for Vienna with whom she might se- 
 curely travel. 
 
 " They are an Italian and his wife," said 
 he, " called Mazzuolo. He is the steward 
 and she the housekeeper of the Marchese del 
 Montebello, who has summoned them to join 
 him in Vienna. He seems an agreeable per- 
 son, and you could not have met with a 
 better opportunity. They start on Tuesday 
 if that will suit you." 
 
 Adelaide, much relieved, said it would suit 
 her perfectly, and cheered by the prospect of 
 escaping from her present annoyances and 
 of soon seeing her husband, she dismissed 
 her fears and became cheerful and happy.
 
 THE bride's journey. 305 
 
 On the evening preceding the day fixed 
 for her departure, De Monge said to her, " I 
 have been talking to Mazzuolo about your 
 journey, and he begged me to warn you not 
 to be surprized at seeing his wife in male 
 attire. In the present state of the country 
 he thinks it safer, as travelling with two 
 women and only one man to protect them, 
 might expose you to annoyance." 
 
 Madame Louison approved of the precau- 
 tion, and she bade good-night to her host 
 hoping it was the last time she should ever 
 have the pain of seeing him, although at the 
 same time she had secretly determined never 
 to mention to anybody what had happened, 
 unless some necessity for doing so should 
 arise. But so evident was his agitation when 
 he took leave of her that she felt half inclined 
 to tell him of her resolution, and, indeed, was 
 only deterred by the apprehension that he 
 might put a false construction on her for- 
 bearance and interpret it in his own favour, 
 when in fact she was wholly actuated by the 
 desire to defend her husband from the dan- 
 gers of a quarrel. 
 
 VOL. I. X
 
 306 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 So she retired to her room, leaving him, 
 as she believed, in all the agonies of his 
 guilty fears; for his cheeks were deathlike, 
 his ej'es were distended with a wild expres- 
 sion of horror, the hand he extended to her 
 was cold and clammy, and his white lips 
 moved as if he would speak though no sound 
 issued from them. As she closed the door 
 he sank into a chair, his two arms fell list- 
 lessly by his side, and he had all the appear- 
 ance of a man overcome by hopeless despair. 
 
 He had indeed undergone a fearful strug- 
 gle, and had arrived at a dreadful climax ! 
 Led astray by strong passions and weak 
 principles, he had imperilled not only his 
 reputation, but his position and his very 
 means of subsistence, for he was well aware 
 that the circumstances of the case once made 
 public, the best hope that remained to him 
 would be to fall by the sword of the man he 
 had injured. A prey to passion on the one 
 hand and terror on the other, his sentiment 
 for Adelaide had become a strange mixture 
 of love and hatred. He idolized her beauty, 
 but he trembled at her power to injure him ;
 
 THE bride's journey. 30 7 
 
 and whilst he ardently longed to press her to 
 his arms, he as ardently wished some thunder- 
 bolt would come to his aid and strike her 
 dead at his feet. 
 
 Beset by these contending feelings he had 
 detained her from day to day, hoping he 
 knew not what, when one night at the 
 theatre he fell in with Mazzuolo, a man who 
 had formerly been a courier, but who having 
 by some acts of dishonesty lost the confidence 
 of his employers, had fallen, step by step, till 
 he had no resource left but to live by swind- 
 ling. He had even been suspected of crimes 
 of a blacker die, but there existing no evi- 
 dence sufficient to convict him, he was still 
 at large, pursuing his vocation of preying 
 upon the public. Now it happened that De 
 Monge, who was bred to the law, had for- 
 merly been consulted by Mazzuolo in his 
 difficulties, and had had good opportunity of 
 knowing his real character. He was well 
 aware that the hands of the Italian were not 
 unstained by blood, and that there was no 
 crime of which he was not capable. The 
 sight of the means to do evil often suggests 
 
 X 2
 
 308 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 evil thoughts, and the sight of Mazzuolo 
 suggested to De Monge a wicked way out of 
 his embarrassment. A conference ensued, 
 the subject was broached with caution — a 
 handsome sum was tendered, and it was 
 intimated that the lady's wardrobe contained 
 articles of considerable value. Mazzuolo was 
 not slow to comprehend the hint. He said 
 it would suit him very well to undertake the 
 journey, only stipulating that his vnfe dressed 
 in male attire and a lad he could rely on, 
 should accompany them. The bargain was 
 struck and Adelaide naturally fell into the 
 snare : of course it was never intended that 
 she should reach Vienna, 
 
 De Monge had certainly now a fair pro- 
 spect of escaping from his difficulties ; but he 
 was not sufficiently hardened in guilt to take 
 such a stride into crime, without dreadful 
 pangs of conscience, and even of pity. There 
 she was — so young, so beautiful, so unsus- 
 pecting ! He was beset by a thousand hor- 
 rors and a thousand relentings; his breast 
 was a seat of war, wherein a good and evil 
 spirit fought out their deadly fight; but,
 
 THE bride's journey. 309 
 
 alas ! he had committed himself to Mazzuolo, 
 and the e\dl prevailed. Whilst Madame 
 Louison slept in peace, he passed a painful 
 night of agony; and when the morning 
 dawned he retired to his chamber, having re- 
 solved to spare himself the horror of seeing 
 his victim depart. 
 
 At an eai'ly hour the carriage arrived, and 
 Adelaide, who had not before seen her tra- 
 velling companions, was handed into it by 
 Mazzuolo, with all the deference her appear- 
 ance demanded. She wore a black velvet 
 bonnet, a Chantilly veil, a crimson silk pe- 
 lisse, profusely trimmed with sables, a boa of 
 the same costly material ; and over all, as the 
 weather was cold, she threw a green velvet 
 cloak, lined with rich furs. 
 
 Mazzuolo and his wife augured well of the 
 contents of her heavy trunks. 
 
 As they drove away from the door, she 
 felt grateful to De Monge for his non-appear- 
 ance. It was proper, it was delicate. Under 
 other circumstances, his absence would have 
 augured a want of good breeding; but, 
 considering tbe relation in which they stood>
 
 310 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 she thought his forbearance highly commend- 
 able : her spirits rose, she cast her cares be- 
 hind her, and prepared to make herself 
 agreeable to her companions, whose appear- 
 ance rather pleased her than otherwise. 
 Mazzuolo was a fme-looking, dark man, and 
 his wife extremely pleasing and prepos- 
 sessing. 
 
 The length of the journey, the dangers 
 of the road, and the goodness or badness 
 of the inns they should have to rest at, 
 formed the subjects of conversation for the 
 first hour or two. The stage was very long, 
 and it was eleven o'clock before they reached 
 their first relay of horses, by which time 
 the young traveller had decided that she 
 had much reason to be satisfied with her 
 escort. The Italian was polite and enter- 
 taining ; he had travelled a great deal, and 
 w^as full of anecdote ; and being naturally 
 lively and garrulous, the design he enter- 
 tained of taking away the life of his charge 
 did not prevent his making himself agree- 
 able to her in the meantime. With his 
 well-seared conscience, he neither felt nervous
 
 THE bride's journey. 311 
 
 nor saturnine at the prospect of what was 
 before him — why should he indeed? — for 
 the only part of the prospect he fixed his 
 eye upon was the gain ; the little operation 
 by means of which it was to be acquired, he 
 did not think very seriously of; besides, he 
 did not intend to perform it himself. 
 
 When they stopped to change horses, a 
 lad of about seventeen years of age, named 
 Karl, nephew of Mazzuolo's w^fe, came to 
 the carriage door: he seemed to have been 
 waiting for them. Mazzuolo spoke to him 
 aside for some minutes, and when they 
 started again, the youth mounted in front of 
 the carriage. The Italian said he was a lad 
 they had engaged to look after the luggage, 
 and be useful on the journey. He was, in 
 fact, one who was hired to do any piece of 
 work, good or bad. He possessed no moral 
 strength, could be easily led by the will of 
 his employers ; and, in short, was a very use- 
 ful ally. He had a broad, fair, stolid German 
 face ; and, from the glimpse she had of him, 
 Adelaide thought she had seldom seen a more
 
 312 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 unprepossessing-looking person ; his manners 
 were coarse and unpolished, and his dress 
 shabby. 
 
 The first day's journey passed agreeably 
 enough. When they arrived at their night's 
 station, Mazzuolo having handed out the 
 ladies, bade them go up stairs and order 
 supper, whilst he and Karl looked to the 
 putting up of the carriage. Agostina, or 
 Tina, as her husband commonly called her, 
 insisted very much on having a room for 
 Adelaide adjoining her own, alleging as her 
 reason that they were answerable for her 
 safety. The bride thanked her for her cau- 
 tion, but added, laughingly, that she did not 
 think she had much to fear. It was some 
 time before the two men joined them ; and 
 then they sat down to supper, the lad Karl 
 acting as waiter. As he stood behind his 
 aunt's chair, and exactly opposite Adelaide 
 she observed that his eyes seldom wandered 
 from her face. Rude as he was, her beauty 
 seems to have impressed him. When supper 
 was over, being fatigued, she retired to her
 
 THE bride's journey. 313 
 
 room ; and then the party that remained 
 closed the door, and bidding Karl sit down 
 and eat liis supper, they held a council on 
 her fate. 
 
 Mazzuolo opened the conference by men- 
 tioning that he had already given the lad 
 a hint of what was expected of him, and Tina 
 asked him if he thought he was equal to the 
 undertaking. Karl said he did not know ; 
 whereupon they encouraged him with pro- 
 mises of a handsome share of the booty, 
 telling him also that they would stand by 
 him, and help him if necessary. But the 
 question was, how was the thing to be 
 done, and where ? Whether on the road by 
 day, or in the night when they stopt ? In 
 either case, there were difficulties : many parts 
 of the road they had to pass were extremely 
 lonely, and fit for the pui'pose ; but then how 
 were they to get rid of the postilion ? And 
 as they had a fresh one at every stage, there 
 was no time to win him to their purpose. 
 Then, at the inns, the obstacles were also con- 
 siderable, especially as the houses were gene- 
 rally small.
 
 314 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 
 
 Tina suggested, that whenever the bride 
 dropt out of the party, she had only to re- 
 sume her female attire, and the people would 
 never miss her. " Karl can take my place in 
 the carriage," she said, " and I Madame 
 Louison's. Thus v/e shall appear to be as 
 many as we w^ere ; and there will be no dis- 
 crepancy with the passport." The hint was 
 approved ; but, after an hour's discussion, 
 they found it impossible to conclude upon 
 any plan : the execution of their projects must 
 be left to chance and opportunity — all they 
 had to do was, to be prepared to seize upon 
 the first that offered. 
 
 END OF VOL. L 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 Printed by Schulze and Co., 13, Poland Street.
 
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 M
 
 UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS-URBANA 
 
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