dead, bequeathed all she had to me. But now, of what use is all this to me? My jewellery is sufficient to pay those charities which I promised to bestow. I have already sold all my trinkets, in order to make over the amount to the hospital of the convent I am to inhabit. You, my dear friend, are poor, and this poverty may be a serious obstacle to your marriage. I entreat you, therefore, to accept my whole fortune—it is wholly at your disposal-take it for my sake."

Madame de Beaumont, however, firmly refused this generous offer. She represented to her that all her projects were, as yet, but in embryo; that she might still change her mind; and that it would be extremely imprudent to surrender up a fortune unadvisedly, the loss of which might afterwards be a subject of eternal regret. But Mademoiselle de la Fayette insisting, Madame de Beaumont at length accepted her offer, on one condition-that whenever she wished to resume her fortune, it was always to remain at her disposal.

The maid of honour kissed her cautious friend, and the next day signed the papers, by which she made over to her, in testimony of the friendship she bore her, the full and entire possession of all she possessed in lands, castles, and houses.

Everything being arranged, Mademoiselle de la Fayette found herself for a moment alone. A kind of horror came over her-she dreaded reflecting on the vast sacrifice she was about to make. "Alas!" said she to herself, "it is no real feeling of religion that leads me to embrace a life of holiness-mine is not a sincere call-worldly and profane feelings have induced me to take this measure; but at least my life has been innocent-my conscience, I hope, is still pure-religion will, I trust, heal the wounds of my lacerated heart, and once within the sacred walls of that holy retirement I shall hope to reap the fruits of the sacrifice I make to my love. Yes, I can no longer deceive myself; what I feel for the king is love-pure, it is true, but no less ardent and passionate love. Oh, my God!" she cried, "I feel too plainly that worldly motives, however noble or generous they may be, are not sufficient to elevate the mind above vain and worldly regrets. But do Thou bless my resolves, grant that religion may henceforth in reality become my aim, faith my support, and that a holy peace may be my recompense!"

A few days after, Mademoiselle de la Fayette begged for a few moments' audience with the queen. It was at once granted. When they were alone, the maid of honour entreated her royal mistress not to divulge for forty-eight hours the secret she was about to reveal. Anne of Austria pledged herself to do as she requested, and Mademoiselle de la Fayette then told her that before the expiration of that time she would be in a monastery. The sorrow of the queen was only equalled by her surprise. The maid of honour did not mention the king's letter, and the queen fancied that she was induced to make such a sacrifice from the doubts she entertained of her own powers of resistance. Anne of Austria did not utter a syllable, but tenderly embracing her, held her for some moments in her arms-a mute but eloquent expression of her admiration and of her gratitude.

Nevertheless, the queen felt herself called upon to recapitulate every possible argument against the sudden resolution she was about to adopt; and perhaps did so the more willingly, seeing beforehand that every word

she uttered, and every representation she made, would be useless. Their interview was tender and affectionate; the queen, no longer jealous of the influence of this sweet girl, saw in her only the generous, disinterested friend of her husband. She implored her, with the utmost sincerity, to receive the king at the convent, and to continue to give him those counsels which had hitherto been so serviceable to him. She also promised to go and see her herself. This interview raised the spirits of Mademoiselle de la Fayette; for nothing is more gratifying than marks of esteem from those we respect and honour.

Mademoiselle de la Fayette returned to her room to write a few lines to the king, appointing to meet him the next day in the parlour of the convent of St. Mary, at Paris, where he knew that, according to the custom of that day, she often retired for devotional purposes.

The king was surprised, and annoyed; the austerity of the convent, and the idea that a double lattice of iron would separate him in this tête-à-tête from his love, was excessively disagreeable to his feelings; but he could not but admire her ingenious modesty in the choice of a rendezvous so divested of all scandal. He never dreamed of anything further; he never entertained the slightest suspicions of the sacrifice she meditated; he already anticipated the pleasure he should experience in an unreserved conversation with her, and flattered himself that, in time, he might persuade her to meet him elsewhere.

Everything was arranged for the departure of Mademoiselle de la Fayette. All at once she recollected that one last sacrifice yet remained to be performed—the letters of the king remained still untouched. She took a taper, opened the casket which contained them, and set fire to the whole her heart was ready to break as they lay burning before her. It seemed as if all her dreams of happiness, all the chimeras on which she had so long lived, perished with them. She sat immovable-statue-like -before the burning pile, contemplating its destruction with a mute despair. After some time she broke silence. "Thus," cried she, “do L consummate the sacrifice! These tender protestations, these vows of eternal love and constancy, have ended in nothing but flames and smoke! Nought remains but a few ashes. Such are, alas! but too often the fate of all the happiest delusions of this world!"

Mademoiselle de la Fayette remained absorbed in grief until the break of day. As soon as the sun rose she descended from her room without making any noise, found the carriage which was in waiting to receive her, and departed for the convent she had selected as her future home. She was fully expected, and all was prepared for her reception. She passed the remainder of the night in prayer, and in endeavouring to calm the mental agony she endured. She was overcome by fatigue and agitation, but her resolution was unchanged. It was no consciousness of guilt that had led her to take refuge within those sacred walls. Pure in mind, and unblemished in reputation, she felt inspired by all the dignity of the sacrifice she was making to her sense of duty. The peace of mind that gradually came to her relief increased after she had received the veil and the dress of a nun. She felt as if delivered from all her fears and anxieties; an immense weight was taken away. On looking back, her life appeared as if passed in the midst of a stormy and dangerous ocean filled with rocks and quicksands impossible to. avoid; but now she looked forward with delight to the calm and peaceful

path that lay before her, ending only in the certain hope of everlasting happiness.

At mid-day the king arrived, utterly unsuspicious of the misfortune awaiting him. Mademoiselle de la Fayette, informed of his approach, descended to the parlour. When she appeared, she was so beautiful, her lovely and composed countenance bordered by the white veil, and her elegant form clad in a garment of brown stuff, the king was positively stupified with surprise, and stood speechless, with his eyes fixed upon her. "Forgive me," said she, in a voice full of sweetness, forgive my having acted thus secretly. But, sire, a too lively attachment had conducted us both in a dangerous path. That letter, in which your majesty proposed establishing me at Versailles-that fatal letter-when, for the first and only time, you forgot your own duty and the respect due to my situation-opened my eyes. I had promised to grant your request, and I could only redeem my word by burying myself in a cloister. This morning I received the veil: the irrevocable vow that will bind me for ever will in a year be publicly pronounced, and has been already solemnly registered in my heart."

"Great Heavens !" cried Louis, "Is this some vision? Are angel already glorified ?"

you an

"I am your friend," replied she, "whose future life will be passed in prayers for you and for the glory of France. I live now but to invoke for you and with you the mercy of the Eternal, to remind you of Him, of your duties; to see no one but you and the holy virgins whose lives are dedicated to His service; to forget all the vain and worldly pleasures, all the frivolous cares, which have hitherto occupied me; to think only of my God, my religion, and of you. This will be my sole delight, my pleasure, and my occupation. Is this not a life that ought to make me happy?"

"But," exclaimed the king, in a voice inaudible from emotion, "these iron bars that separate us for ever

"The tomb even shall not divide us. By mutually purifying and elevating our souls, their union shall be perfected."

At these words the king, with a countenance bathed in tears, fell on his knees before her :

"Oh thou,” said he, "sole object of all the affection of my solitary, my distracted heart-thou whom I have long adored in secret-at thy feet I now abjure every profane and unholy sentiment which hitherto, in spite of myself, has seduced my feelings. Thy heroic virtue, sweet angel, triumphs even over love itself; and I see in thee no mortal, but a celestial creature descended from on high. Yes, that gentle look, that angelic expression, those holy weeds, are indeed formed for Heaven, and all that earth could offer would only sully their purity. To gaze on thee is enough; in thy form innocence is personified. But, alas! what will become of me in the midst of that detestable court, tolerated only for thy sake? I can only find consolation in following the holy example thou hast set me, in regulating my life on the same model as thine, and in burying myself for ever in the profoundest recesses of a monastery."

"Good Heavens! what do I hear ?" interrupted Mademoiselle de la Fayette.. "You, sire-a king, a father, a husband-you bury yourself in a monastery! Do you not see that what in me was a disinterested self-sacrifice, would in you become a shameful desertion of the holiest

duties? Remember, that if I had pleased, I might equally have preserved my reputation and tranquillised my conscience by retiring for some years and living in the solitude of the country; but I wished to be still your friend, and to afford you at all times those counsels so necessary for your welfare. To perform this I have renounced home and liberty. Your glory, your happiness is now my sole aim, and can alone reward me for my unbounded devotion."

"Alas!" replied the king, "dispose of my life as you please; but at least believe that I can never again be happy."

"No!" cried Mademoiselle de la Fayette, "I will not believe it, for the happiness of a sovereign should never depend on any private attachment. Your career is too elevated to be attached to anything save the public prosperity. The eyes of all Europe are on you, sire. France places all her hopes in your courage. Deign to forget me in order to consecrate yourself entirely to the cares of government; and let your own actions, your own exertions, ensure the happiness of your subjects."

The king returned to St. Germain with tears in his eyes and despair in his heart. Accustomed to the engaging conversation of the young maid of honour, and to the gentle influence of a cultivated mind united to a bewitching person, Louis fell a prey to profound melancholy, which betrayed itself in a mournful, despairing countenance and morose manners, now that she whom he loved was separated from him. After he left the convent, several days passed without his speaking to any one. He sought in vain amongst his courtiers for a trusty friend to whom he might communicate the sorrows of his heart; but, finding no one, he remained wrapt in the same moody silence. Overcome by chagrin and ennui, he consoled himself by visiting, almost daily, in her monastic retirement, her who had abandoned him, and whose counsel and confidence he unceasingly desired. Mademoiselle de la Fayette never saw him excepting at the grate; but her conversation was the greatest solace to the agitated mind of the feeble monarch, and the power she exercised over him appeared only to increase. The cardinal, well informed of everything the king did, trembled for the loss of his own power as the result of this attachment. He knew that Mademoiselle de la Fayette was no friend to his policy, and he perceived from time to time such a determination and independence in the king's deportment as made him fear that he would end by at last shaking off his authority altogether. The artful minister imagined an expedient by which he hoped to weaken the influence one fair lady possessed in the heart of the king by awakening a fresh passion. With this view he determined on the return of Mademoiselle de Hautefort to court, whose beauty, far from having diminished, seemed to have rather increased during her temporary exile.

It was not possible for the king to meet his old favourite without emotion. She certainly did not possess the mind of Mademoiselle de la Fayette, but her beauty was more regular. She was more lively, and, although perfectly virtuous, she was less rigid in her ideas of propriety. The charms of the lady in waiting insensibly superseded the recollection of the poor recluse. Her lively sallies and girlish gaiety made the somewhat severe and serious character of her rival appear more striking. The cardinal gained his end. Mademoiselle de Hautefort's reign lasted two years.

NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.

OMAR PASHA'S CAMPAIGN IN ASIA.

Road from Trebizond to Kars-Pass of the Suvanli Tagh-Kars-Country of the Lazi-Valley of the Juruk Su-The Russians at Baibut-Disastrous Invasion of the country of the Adjars by the Russians-Batum-Roads to Kars-Kulah, the chief place of the Adjars-Ardahan-Province of Akhaltsikh-Siege of Akhal-Kalaki and of Akhaltsikh by the Russians-Attempt of the Adjars to recapture the latter-Treaty of Adrianople-Road by Kutais to Tiflis-Colchis and the Phasis-The Iberian Pass-Redut-Kalah-Sugdidi, capital of Mingrelia -Kutais, capital of Imeritia-Fortress of Surama-Mzketha, capital of Georgia-Tiflis-Policy to be pursued towards the Transcaucasian States aud

Peoples.

AMONG the most remarkable and inexplicable features in the retreat of the ten thousand Greeks, as narrated by Xenophon, were the long and devious journeys performed and the time consumed between the period when they left the Araxes to ascend the Coraxian Mountains-now the Suvanli, or Soghanli Tagh (Onion Mts.)—and when, to their infinite joy, they first perceived the sea from Mount Theches. Between these two points the foot-weary heroes of antiquity wandered some 400 miles in the space of twenty-seven days. This was in the limitrophal country, in which lie Kars, Akhaltsikh, Batum, and Trebizond. It comprises the mountain districts of the Lazi; the valley of the Juruk, or Acampsis; the district of Kars, with the upper waters of the Aras-the Araxes of old; the secluded, woody, and mountainous region of Kulah, Ardahan, Akhaltsikh, and Gumri, leaving only between them and the Caucasus the limited principalities of Mingrelia and Imeritia, with the renowned valley of the Phasis.

It is difficult to form an idea of the impracticable character of this rocky, wooded region, without roads, and intersected by rapid rivers that become mountain torrents on the melting of the winter snows, and which promises to be the theatre of oft-renewed warfare. It is equally difficult to understand, from a mere glance at the map, why Erzerum,* the capital of Armenia, should be spoken of as on the road from Kars to the sea. The reason is, that in alpine regions the nearest way is often closed by insurmountable obstacles, and so it is in the present instance. Not only is the mountainous, wooded, and almost pathless region that lies between Kars and the sea utterly impracticable to artillery, but insuperable difficulties would have had to be encountered in the transport of supplies of all descriptions. Add to this the important consideration that the Russians held the province of Akhaltsikh by the treaty of Adrianople, and

* Erz-el-Rum. Anatolia is still called Rum by the people to the eastward. Feb.-VOL. CVI. NO. CCCCXXII.

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