"Ah!" said Joan, rolling in the convulsions of agony; she had recognised the cardinal Aimeric.

He remained a few moments plunged in the fervid inspiration of a sombre ecstacy. He then threw himself on his knees, saying in a loud tone:

"Andrew of Hungary, my son, art thou content? And you, my God, father of all men, have I done well?"

Nothing was talked of at the Court of Avignon, for eight days afterwards, but the sudden disappearance of the Cardinal Aimeric. After having accomplished under the purple, the vow pronounced under the sack-cloth, he became once more the Dominican monk.

THE GOLD MINE.

BY ÉLIE BERTHET.

NOTHING can surpass the sublime beauty and terri ble grandeur of that por tion of the French Alps which rises between Grenoble and Briançon, not far from the frontiers of Pied mont, situated in a country almost inaccessible to man.

In our youth we often visited Mont Pelvoux, the king of these rocky regions, which rears its lofty head to nearly an equal height with Mont Blanc. In the perilous country which surrounds this giant of nature, the piety of man has erected a convent similar to those on Mont St. Bernard and St. Cenis; where the traveller, surprised by the tempest, may find shel ter and security.

This convent, called the Lauterat, still exists, and is situate in a rocky valley, at the foot of an immense gla cier, hemmed in by deep ravines and steep precipices. Until within the last century there were few roads in this savage country, and these, during eight months of the year, it was absolutely impossible, and the other four scarcely prudent, to traverse, on account of the fearful force of the winds, and the heavy, deluging rains, which caused

many persons were saved by their timely aid from a dreadful and certain death.

In the year 1780, during the month of June, when the roads are less dangerous in the defiles of Pelvoux than at any other period of the year, and at the close of an oppressively hot day-of frequent occurrence in these elevated regions-the convent presented a less sombre appearance than usual. The little valley around it was cleared from the snow, vari ous flowers flourished in the crevices of the rocks, and several fruit trees, planted in the garden of the convent, although they bore no fruit, were cover ed with green foliage. It was summer at Lauterat. The sun had sunk behind Mont Genèvre, and its last rays threw a roseate hue upon the tops of the Alps Except a few white clouds and the light mist which clung to the sides of Mont Pelvoux, the sky was bright and clear, the air soft and serene-all was calm in the valley.

Despite this deceitful quiet, the monks of Lauterat knew from certain infallible signs that the evening would not pass without a storm; they therefore prepared for their ordinary duties. The bell had already sounded to call

The wind at first sighed through the old pine forests, and moaned sadly in the gorges when it reached the end of the valley; but an hour after sunset it blew a perfect hurricane-tearing up the trees-roaring with dreadful violence-lifting whirlwinds of snow, and scattering the foam of the torrents-accompanied in its devastating career by the noise of the falling avalanche and the rumbling of distant thunder.

On the evening we are describing, and shortly after nightfall, a solitary traveller sought refuge at Lauterat, and placed himself before the fire in the general reception-room. Judging from his appearance, he was a native of the country, and had entered the convent unattended, where he appeared well known. Having led his horse to the stable, he spoke kindly and familiarly, as he passed, to the monk who was ringing the bell. The stranger was evidently well acquainted with Lauterat, and his visit did not appear to have been occasioned by the storm, which still raged unregarded by him. The continued absence of several monks showed, however, that the good fathers did not yet despair of saving those benighted travellers who might be exposed to the fury of the elements.

The stranger, on his arrival, gave himself up for a few moments to the pleasure of having found shelter from the storm, and with his feet before the blazing fire patiently awaited the return of those pious monks who usually did the honours of the house.

He appeared to be a mountaincer, of about forty five years of age, with a frank and open countenance, strong frame, and dressed in the costume of the inhabitants of a neighbouring valley. He wore a large square cloth coat, a striped waistcoat which half covered his body, and loose brown nether garments tied at the knees with red worsted strings. His long fair hair floated on his shoulders from under a large hat which he had forgotten to remove from his head. Despite the shadow this threw upon his face, tanned frora exposure to the atmosphere, one might see that he possessed in an eminent degree that air of grave intelligence and rough cordiality peculiar to the Alpine people. His exterior was much in his favour, and in any more cultivated country, he would have passed for some honest farmer of the neighbourhood. The room, of which he was the sole occupant at present, was built of large pieces of solid rock simply whitewashed, and embellished with no ornaments except a large black wooden cross and a few pictures and scriptural sentences, written on the walls by the monks. Near the door a small box was sunk in the wall to receive the offerings of those who found shelter at Lauterat. The air of grave simplicity, and of remarkable austerity, which hung over this humble establishment, constituted one of its most peculiar features.

After some time had elapsed, and he had become sufficiently warm-first seeing to the safety of a large leathern bag which he placed by his side, as a necessary precaution in a house open to all travellers-the good man leant back in his chair, and with his arms crossed upon his portly chest, fell into a reverie.

He probably thought of supper, and perhaps felt that he should be more inclined to pardon the delay if the return of the monks brought companions whose society would reward his patience.

At length the sound of horses' feet was heard approaching the stone porch, and soon after two young men wrapped in cloaks, soaked with rain, were conducted by a monk into the apartment. As the new comers advanced towards the bright light of the fire, the mountaineer threw upon them a rapid and investigating glance. They were dressed in a simple, yet ambiguous style, which defied penetration..

the wooden crucifix which ornamented the wall, and kneeling himself, signed for them also to render thanks to God for their recent preservation. The elder of the two slight'y inclined before the emblem, and this, more to please his host than from any religious feeling; but the other, after standing motionless for a few seconds, and looking fixedly at the cross, suddenly fell on his knees by the side of the monk, and bursting into a passion of sobs and tears, murmured, in a suffocated voice-"God is offended-God will punish."

His friend quickly raised him in his arms, and spoke, with a suppliant air, in words that none could hear; at the same time gently leading him, deeply sighing, towards the fire, where they seated themselves near the unknown traveller.

All this had taken place in less time than is required to describe it. The young men, recovered from their emotion, looked around, and the elder one observed the eyes of the mountaineer fixed intently upon them. This examination, however natural, did not please him; he frowned slightly, like a man unaccustomed te contradiction; then, turning to the monk, said, in a tone of exquisite politeness--Reverend father, you know well my brother is exhausted by fatigue; would it be abusing your goodness to request that his room be prepared, and that refreshments be served us there, if the rules of the house permit?"

The monk bowed assent, and quitted the apartment to attend to the young man's wishes.

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There was a moment's silence during which the new comers. scarcely appeared to breathe. The mountaineer, who sat on the other side of the fireplace, did not cease to regard them, and finding it impossible to restrain his curiosity, commenced by saying to the elderYour brother was too weak to undertake a journey among the defiles of Pelvoux, and he does not appear accustomed to travel." The younger traveller did not move or open his mouth to reply, but his companion turned sharply towards the questioner; then, repressing an evident feeling of irritation, said, in a dry tone, which showed that conversation was not agreeable—“In truth, Sir, he travelled to day for the first time."

This answer admitted no reply, but still the stranger was not easily silenced. "Pardon me,' said he, with the air of a man determined to speak; "you must have had urgent reasons for travelling with this pretty boy who appears so delicate. The danger was great in the pass of Casset, and by a miracle only have you escaped the fury of the storm."

"Yes, yes," replied the young man with warmth, perhaps for getting to whom he spoke, "it is really a miracle; but I was not brought here through any fear of the snow, the rain, the thunder, and the wind raging in that infernal gorge which leads hither. My poor brother fell from his horse, aud without the aid of the monk who came to our succour, I do not know what would have become of us, for I frankly avow that the dreadful confusion of the elements began to affect my senses. But he is better now," continued he, turning affectionately towards his companion, you not, Ernest?"

"Are

Ernest stammered a few words which the mountaineer could not comprehend. He only remarked that the voice was sweet and soft as a child's, and without making any observation, replied with cordiality-"Oh! it is nothing; a night's rest, and to-morrow he will be well. In truth, these good monks render the country great. service, and if their aid had not been given, there would have been much grief between La Grave and Briançon to-day. For myself, I never pass Lauterat without stopping, and the honest fathers are not displeased with my visits. The treasurer can always find something there"-and he pointed to the alms-box, to remind him that Martin Simon had slept a night in the convent.

At the same time Martin Simon, for that was the name of the mountaineer, smiled complaisantly, unremarked by his companions, who were occupied with their own reflections.

The good man, however, would rather speak to himself than not speak at all, and continued without being offended at the inattention of his audience

"Ah, ah, my friends, you appear strangers in our mountains. Will it be rude to inquire on which side you intend travelling to

morrow?"

This offer evidently struck the brother of Ernest with a certain degree of pleasure, although a contemptuous feeling appeared to be mingled with the joy it inspired.

"I thank you for your good intentions, friend," replied he, " and I begin to think that your guidance would be acceptable in this infernal country of winter and summer, heat and cold combined They spoke of its perils at Grenoble, but I could not tell, or I would have taken the other road at the risk of-the risk of all-for the sake of this poor child. But tell me, is it usual in this country to offer services to strangers?"

"It is, Sir," said Martin Simon, harshly; " and when we see two young hair-brained gallants travelling in our perilous regions, it is my duty, and that of every mountaineer, to succour them, and avert the dangers to which they are exposed, from ignorance, as you have already been."

"It is true," replied the young man sadly, "we were imprudent in taking this road to Piedmont, but we had no choice."

The mountaineer quickly raised his head. "You go to Piedmont?" he demanded.

"Yes; and if you could conduct us by an unfrequented route, your trouble would be ensured by some recompense.'

It was now Martin Simon's turn to look indignant. "You would quit France, my young friend," said he, in a severe tone; "you would travel secretly and cross the frontier without passports. It is possible I might be able to assist you in this hazardous project, but before doing so, I must know why these precautions are necessary. I much fear your motives, despite your haughty bearing." Saying this he bit his lips, while the young man made a movement of passion

"For what do you take us, rustic?" cried he, impetuously; "do we look like thieves ?"

His brother caught his arm.

"For pity's sake, be calm Marcellin," said he, in a soft voice and pleading tone; "and you, Sir," he continued, turning his beautiful blue eyes filled with tears towards the mountaineer, "do not think ill of us because we are obliged to fly like criminals; we are more to be pitied than blamed, and believe me, an honest man need not regret rendering us a service."

This suppliant manner affected Martin Simon, and he was going to reply, when the monk, who had been to prepare Ernest's apartment, returned, and announced that all was ready. Marcellin quickly placed his finger on his lips, to impress upon the mountaineer the necessity of silence.

"I hope, my good friend, that we shall see you in the morning," said he in a loud voice. "We shall be glad to travel in your company as far as Briançon."

"At your service, Sirs," replied Martin Simon with a smile of intelligence.

The young men then rose to follow the monk who was to lead them to their respective dormitories, when the sound of voices and trampling of horses' feet were heard at the outer door despite the howling of the storm. The brothers trembled and stood still. At the same moment two soldiers of the police and a man dressed in black, who looked like an officer of justice, entered the saloon, accompanied by the monks who had conducted them. On seeing them, the brothers turned pale; the eldest placed his hand in his belt to feel for his pistols, and Ernest with difficulty restraining a cry, sunk back on the seat from which he had just risen. All these signs of fear did not escape the mountaineer, whose opinion of his new friends was not improved thereby.

The individual in black, whom we shall call a magistrate, limped along, supported by the soldiers who appeared to obey his orders. In person he was tall, with grey penetrating eyes, about fifty years of age, and ordinarily possessed a degree of dignity befitting his position, but now his official costume was in laughable disorder. His knee-breeches and silk stockings had left his legs exposed to the drenching rain. The curls of his wig fell in moist clusters upon his short black cloak, streaking it with white veins like marble. The man of the law had evidently lost no time-as is generally the case with his class-in preparing against the inconveniences of a long journey, and his precipitation had caused him to brave a storm in the Alps in a dress suited only to a court of justice. Altogether his appearance was calculated to excite both pity and laughter. The spurs attached to his shoes, ornamented with gold buckles, got between his legs, and caused him to stumble at every step; he shivered in his wet clothes, covered with the rapidly-melting snow; and as he traversed the apartment a stream of water was left upon the floor. Indeed he looked so pitiful, so amazed, and at the same time so ridiculous, that the gendarmes who supported him, could scarcely refrain from jesting upon his appearance. A magistrate in this state could not hope to command respect; however, when he approached the fire, the two brothers

drew back precipitately, as though to give place to the new comer, but really to retire into the darkest corner of the room.

"It is the Justice Michelot, the detested friend of my father," murmured Ernest in his brother's ear; "we are lost."

Marcellin quickly caught his hand, and attempted to lead him away, but Ernest was quite incapable of moving, and they were compelled to remain in the presence of those whom they had every reason to fear.

In the meantime Michelot had been sitting on a wooden stool in front of the fire. At first, he appeared half dead with cold, and almost insensible to what was passing around him; but after drinking a cordial-for the making of which the monks were cele brated-he began to revive. Throwing back the masses of damp hair which partly covered his face, raising his head and fixing his eyes upon Martin Simon with the half stupid stare of returning consciousness, he pointed his lean and withered finger, and demanded in a broken and trembling voice-" Who is this man? Arrest him!”

The gendarmes, surprised at this unexpected order, hesitated, and the magistrate trying to assume an air of dignity, repeated, in a feeble tone-" No, no, wait; we must be cautious. Those whom we seek may have sought refuge here, and it is only with them we can interfere. Holla, fellow! who are you? where do you come from? whither are you going?"

"Who are you?" demanded the mountaineer fiercely, "and by what right do you question me?"

"By what right!" replied the poor justice, vainly endeavouring to conquer his weakness, and still shivering and shaking in his half-dried clothes. "I am-I am deputed by the lieutenant of the Lyons police to arrest—but that matters not; let it content you to answer my questions; and reverend fathers-interrupting himself and turning round on the stool-would you oblige me with a little more of your cordial? I find that I am still very ill." The monks hastened to bring the required draught, in the hope of soothing him, but such was not its effect, for he again demanded in a firmer tone"Come then, speak, fool-who art thon?"

"I am not a fool," replied the mountaineer, whom that single word had made the foe of the insolent justice. "I am Martin Simon, owner of the village of Bout-du-Monde, situate some miles distant. These reverend fathers know me," continued he, (indica ting the monks who were then entering the apartment,) and will convince you that I am no impostor.”

The superior, who was present, advanced and spoke in a decided tone. "You must, indeed, Sir, be a stranger not only to our country, but to all Dauphiny, never to have heard of Martin Simon. Myself and brothers will gladly answer for him, the benefactor of this pious house; he who is called――!"

Enough, enough," said the mountaineer, with an air of authority, tempered by a smile of satisfaction. "It is unnecessary to repeat to this stranger the name given me by the good people of the valley: it is sufficient for him to know who I am not of no importance who I am."

The superior bowed respectfully, and murmured a few words of apology. The justice was in such a state of feverish impatience that he but imperfectly comprehended this explanation, and in a milder tone still interrogated Martin Simon.

"A thousand pardons, Sir," said he, stopping between each word to take breath; "I know you are not one of those I am looking for. I would only ask-I would but inquire from whence you came?"

From Grenoble, where I have been upon business of my own," quietly replied Martin Simon. The word Grenoble appeared to restore the energies of the justice.

Ah, you came from Grenoble! 'Tis well. By chance you may have seen a young man-a young gentleman, tall and well made, yes, I know he is tall; fierce looking, with black eyes. His eyes, are they black ?" he continued, speaking to himself. "Well, the colour does not matter. And with him a lady, small and delicate, dressed in green satin I think, or blue, or pink, one or the other. They travel in a carriage, or a litter, on horseback, or on foot. I am not sure. However, have you met two people of this description?"

"Zounds, your description is perfect," said the mountaineer good humouredly; "but for your young lily of the valley, and little runaway in satin, be assured they could not have traversed the gorges of Pelvoux on such a night; and our present resting place would not tempt lovers to meet here."

"What you say is true," cried Michelot; "it is a frightful country, and I shall never survive this journey. The lieutenant ought to appreciate my zeal in his service! Four-and-twenty hours have I been without food, running after these wicked ones-I, that am so careful of my health in Grenoble, and--but what am I

seen them?"

saying? my senses are leaving me. I do not know where I am, what I say, nor to whom I speak." He groaned heavily, and, after & moment's silence, again demanded-" Well, then, you have not "We might look a long time in the mountains to find such as you describe," answered Martin. " Believe me, Sir, a gentleman and lady would not be able to remain in the neighbourhood of Pelvoux when the wind blows as it does to-night; if they did, they would certainly perish."

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pale and trembling from thinking of the danger to which they had been exposed. Martin Simon, having assured himself against the possibility of listeners, advanced quickly towards them. You are not yet saved!" he whispered; "they are evidently in pursuit of you; and since I have compromised myself in your behalf I must knowErnest seized his large hand, and pressed it to his lips.

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The mountaineer was astounded. Michelot, whose suspicions were confirmed by the silence of the young men, made a sign to the gendarmes.

"If they do not answer," cried he, "seize them; they are doubtless friends of the chevalier we are seeking, and may know something."

The guard hesitated. This order might be the effect of the feverish excitement from which the poor justice was suffering. Besides, the first who advanced was a doomed man; for Marcellin, with a pistol in either hand, stood forward in an attitude of fierce determination. Martin Simon, recovered from his surprise, regained his presence of mind.

"Well, well, Mr. Justice, Mr. Bailiff, or whatever your title may be, what have my nephews done that you should seize them like criminals? By the Holy Virgin of Ernbrun I will not allow it! I know a little law myself, and I am certain that my nephews-—-” "Your nephews!" repeated the justice. The monks and the young men were equally surprised.

"Yes, certainly," replied Simon,with imperturbable gravity, "the sons of my good brother John; two brave lads, who never left their native village until yesterday, when I took them with me to Grenoble. If you doubt," continued he, at the same time casting a stern and significant glance around-ask the reverend fathers.” Martin Simon must have possessed a singular power over the monks, for on their austere countenances no sign of contradiction was visible, albeit the superior inwardly groaned at the deception. Michelot fell easily into the trap, which, considering his sufferings, was not surprising. Had it been otherwise, his natural cunning would have prevented his being so easily duped. As it was, he contented himself by saying-" Well, then, why don't they speak?"

"For very good reasons," gaily replied the mountaineer; "they do not understand a word of French, and speak but the language of their native valley. Besides, the poor children are quite exhausted, and would have been in bed at the farm two hours ago. With your permission, I will attend them to their sleeping room, and then return to empty a bottle with these brave military gentlemen."

While saying this he somewhat rudely pushed his pretended nephews out of the apartment, and spoke a few words in a dialect neither they nor the justice could comprehend.

Michelot still suspected all was not right, and as Martin Simon followed the two brothers, he stretched forth his hands to detain them, murmuring, in a trembling voice-"It is not clear; I must know--I will-yes-will question them myself-to-morrow." But fever and fatigue combined were too much for the poor man, who fell back in a kind of stupor; and the monks, after administering proper remedies, bore him to bed.

CHAPTER II.

THE CONFESSION.

MARTIN SIMON and the two young men, conducted by the superior, who carried a lamp, traversed the long passage, on either side of which were the dormitories reserved for travellers. They entered the one destined for the younger brother, and the monk retired after exchanging a few words in a low voice with Martin Simon, who closed the door after him. The cell presented a truly monastic appearance; the white walls were without ornament of any kind, and the furniture simply consisted of a small wooden bedstead, a chair, a stool, and table, upon which was a prayer-book. But neither the mountaineer nor the fugitives paid much attention to these details. Ernest threw himself into the chair, and covering his face with his hands, wept unrestrainedly. Marcellin was still

"It is my wish," replied Marcellin, with vivacity;" for without him I should have slain that miserable Michelot or one of his com panions, and that would have made matters worse. Yes," said he, addressing the mountaineer, "you have rendered us an immense service, and I do not know how to repay you. It is, indeed, us they are looking for, and we should certainly have been discovered but for your cleverness."

At the same moment the pretended brother threw aside his hat, and exposed a fair face covered with blushes, which only served to heighten her beauty; the long hair fell in curls upon her shoulders, and the sighs, the tears, and soft voice, were no longer a mystery to Martin Simon.

"You now know our secret," said Marcellin, with warmth; "we are not two brothers, but lovers, flying from those cruel parents who refuse to unite us. I am sure you will not think of blaming us for an action to which we were driven by despair."

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"I cannot answer at present," said Martin Simon, gravely, seating himself. Let me hear more, and doubt not I shall be sufficiently indulgent. Speak."

The person whom we have hitherto called by the simple name of Marcellin did not feel particularly flattered at the mingled air of authority and sternness assumed by their self-constituted judge. However, considering that something was due to his kindness in screening them, he replied in a complaisant tone-

"This lady, by name Ernestine de Blanchefort, is the only child of the Marquis de Blanchefort, lieutenant of the Lyons police; and I am Marcellin de Peyras, the last representative of a noble and once affluent family."

The mention of these titles produced a far greater effect than the young men anticipated. Martin Simon bounded from his seat, and regarded the youth with a bewildered air.

"De Peyras!" he cried, in an agitated voice. "Without doubt you are the son of Philip de Peyras, the elder brother of. But tell me, young man, are you really the son of Philip de Peyras?" "I am," replied Marcellin. May I know, Sir, how you became acquainted with the name of my father?"

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The mountaineer looked steadfastly at him, but did not reply. "Sir," again said Marcellin, "from your words and astonishment, I should imagine you are related to some member of my family."

Me! no," shortly replied Martin Simon; "and what is there surprising in my wishing to know whether you are the son of a man I have once or twice heard spoken of. It is long since. But," he continued, trying to appear calm, "go on with your history, that I may see how I can serve you. Time presses."

The chevalier, recalled to a sense of his present position-which he had forgotten in his curiosity to know why his name should interest Martin Simon-proceeded with gravity.

"Our story is short and simple. Ernestine de Blanchefort was the richest, the loveliest, and the most envied of all the ladies in Lyons. I still held the rank in which I was born, that is, 1 lived extravagantly as a gentleman. To tell you that I saw Ernestine, loved, and had the happiness of being beloved in return, is needless. I demanded her hand of her father, and was refused, on the pretext that I was dissipated, had spent my own fortune, and would do the same with my wife's. Some part of this accusation was true, but real love disregards these obstacles. I insisted, and was driven from the house. What was to be done? I had tried promises and threats-Ernestine tears and prayers. The old man continued inflexible. We then determined to elope. I realized the wreck of my fortune, hired a post-chaise, and the night before last we quited Lyons, intending to be married in Savoy. In consequence of an accident to the carriage, and the fatigue of travelling on such dreadful roads, we were compelled to remain at Grenoble; and this morning a trustworthy servant (whom I had left in Lyons to report what occurred after