old blue bag, saying he travelled on commission for a stationer (an old friend), who had trusted him with these samples. I told him to be seated, regretting that I could not give him an order for things supplied regularly by my own stationer.

"My good friend," said he, feeling in his tattered waistcoat pocket, and producing a single halfpenny, I have walked all day with only that in my pocket. I have come two miles out of the way, with the hope that you would assist me."

I did so; but of what avail? I only gave him the power of sooner destroying himself.

Our next meeting was more extraordinary. I was sitting in an omnibus, close to the door, when a hand was thrust into the window with a small packet of polished cards, with steel engravings, and a voice in the most bland tone recommending the wares in the following style :

"Ladies and gentlemen, will you allow me to present to your notice a wonder even in this day of wonders? These cards, in themselves gems of art, represent the Houses of Parliament, St. James's Palace, the residence of her most gracious Majesty, the new Royal Exchange, and the statues of our glorious victors, both naval and military. You have no need, I assure you, now to travel far for wonders, when you can take these home at a penny each! Ladies, buy the residence of your Queen, who so well represents your amiable sex on the throne; we are governed by a woman, and who-"

Here his eloquence was cut short by the brown paw of the conductor grasping the window-ledge, and exclaiming in a rough voice, "Now, lushy Jim, come off the step; our time's up, so mizzle!" He shuffled away; but the voice could not be mistaken,-it was that of my unfortunate friend.

Passing up Fleet Street one wretched night, I beheld him fighting his way through a host of sturdy young fellows, to gain the door of a newspaper-office, to which there was a tremendous rush to get some second edition, his white hair streaming about his face as he anxiously looked round for a chance to obtain an entrance thither, whither, doubtless, as a newspaper runner, he had been dispatched for some paltry remuneration. He fought fiercely, for his darling bane would be the reward of his exertions. I stood for a moment in pity, remembering what he was, when one of the roystering boys, upon whom he pressed in his excitement, struck his tattered hat over his eyes. I turned sorrowfully away as I heard the boisterous mirth proceeding from the crowd at this exploit.

The great mystery of this man's present life is, that he lives from halfpenny to halfpenny day after day, appearing the same half-ragged object, but with a bearing as if his eye were stone-blind to his outward appearance. The gentlemanly demeanour, when sober, is natural; when intoxicated, brutal and unnatural as the excitement that causes it. Often have I seen him late at night crawling along, and talking to himself in a light and joyous tone, as if addressing persons about him in the solitary street. Perhaps the demon he worships transports him back to the scenes of his former happiness, in which he revels for the time, unconscious of his debasement, awaking only to the truth upon some cold door-step. Is it to be wondered at that he rushes back, when he has the means, into the embraces of his destroyer?

This man is only one of a large class who enter the fascinating ring from all quarters, high and low. Every day do we mysteriously miss some one; but soon another poor wretch starts up in his place, to toil for the few crumbs that were his portion. Where does he die-in the streets? No one knows him! He has outlived all friendship; or, perhaps, entering the workhouse, lays down his staff, losing for ever in the mass of wretchedness all traces where he lingered out the last remnant of his existence.

THE MARCHIONESS OF BRINVILLIERS,

THE POISONER OF THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY.

A ROMANCE OF OLD PARIS.

BY ALBERT SMITH.

[WITH AN ILLUSTRATION BY J. LEECH.]

CHAPTER XVI.

The Grotto of Thetis.-The Good and Evil Angels.

As the Marchioness and Sainte-Croix entered the covered room in the Bosquet de la Salle de Bal, it presented a most brilliant spectacle. The whole of the company had adjourned there from the theatre in the Allée du Roi, and many were now dancing on the almost polished turf of the circular parterre. Others were seated on the steps, also of turf, which surrounded the Salle in the manner of an amphitheatre, except for about an eighth of its circumference, where several fountains of sparkling water shot up nearly to the roof, falling back again to tumble over the steps, which here were of bright pebbles and shells, with an agreeable murmur, until they reached the basin beneath. The roof was of deep blue, strained tightly upon poles, which were high enough to overtop the tallest trees, and an artificial moon had been constructed in it with consummate skill; whilst stars of brilliant pieces of metal hung by short invisible threads from the ceiling, and as they caught the light on their different facets with the slightest vibration, had the appearance of twinkling.

Jean Blacquart was there, as well as the Abbé, who having found him a listener to his poem, had never once left him since the victim was caught in the foyer of the theatre. The Gascon, of course, did not dance, being only admitted to the Bosquet by virtue of his assumed office of guard, under the auspices of Maître Picard; but he talked so largely, and indulged in such remarkable rhodomontades as to whom he knew and what he had done, that the Abbé set him down for some distinguished officer, and was more than ever determined to keep by his side.

Louis was not dancing. He was seated on a platform, slightly elevated from the ground, at the edge of the fountain; and was dividing his attentions between Madame de Montespan, who was still at his side, on his right hand; and another lady on his left, who had now joined the royal party. She was very lovely, although a close observer might have perceived that she was slightly marked with the small-pox. Her skin was delicately fair, and her beautiful flaxen hair clustered in heavy ringlets, less showery than generally worn according to the fashion of the time, over her forehead and neck. Her eyes were blue, swimming in softened light; and her countenance was overspread by a regard so tender yet so full of modesty, that she gained at the same moment the love and esteem of all who gazed upon her and yet, when the occasional lighting up of her features as the King addressed her, died away, they became pale and sad. Her smile was followed by a pensive expression, which accorded but ill with the festivity around her.

VOL, XVII.

R R

"Ah, times are changing!" said the Abbé, as he gazed at her; " and that fair lady's reign is nearly over. I question whether La Montespan, with all her witcheries, will love him half so well though."

"Who is it?" asked Jean.

The Abbé appeared slightly astonished at the ignorance of his new acquaintance, as he replied,

"Who could it be but Louise de la Vallière? Ah! hers was a curious destiny. Picked out by Louis to cover his attention to his sister-in-law Henriette, she has supplanted her. But it does not seem likely that the liaison will last much longer. Montespan has his heart."

As he spoke, Mademoiselle de la Vallière rose from her seat, and crossed over to speak to Madame de Maintenon, who was sitting on the parapet of the basin that received the water from the fountain. She limped as she walked along, and Jean saw that she was lame.

"She seldom dances," continued the garrulous Abbé, "on account of her defect; and so she does not care always to be present at the balls. I can conceive the reason of her not being at the play." "How was that?" enquired the Gascon.

"Because the King's sentiments appear to be somewhat changed since our Molière was commanded to write the Princesse d'Elide. He was then madly in love with La Vallière, although at the time she resisted all his entreaties. What else could these lines mean?" And Jean flinched, as the Abbé again commenced a piece of declamation, quoting from the piece in question in a monotonous tone of dulness suited to the subject.

"The homage which is offer'd to a countenance refined

Is an honest indication of the beauty of the mind;

And scarcely possible it is, if love be not innate,

That a young prince should come to be or generous or great:
And this above all other regal qualities I love,

This sign alone the tenderness of royal hearts can prove!
To one like you, a bright and good career we may presage,
When once the soul is capable of loving, at your age.
Yes, this immortal passion, the most noble one of all,
An hundred goodly virtues training after it can call;
The most illustrious actions are engender'd by its fires,
And all the greatest heroes have experienced its desires."

Jean bowed respectfully at the termination of each line, as if he fully concurred in the sentiments it conveyed, but was very glad when it was over.

"Ha! the music has ceased," said the Abbé; " and there will be

"Le tribut qu'on rend aux traits d'un beau visage,

De la beauté d'une âme est un vrai témoignage;

Et qu'il est malaisé que, sans être amoureux,

Un jeune prince soit et grand et généreux.
C'est une qualité que j'aime en un monarque,
La tendresse du cœur est une grande marque ;

Que d'un prince, à votre âge, on peut tout présumer,
Dès qu'on voit que son âme est capable d'aimer.
Oui, cette passion, de toutes la plus belle,
Traine dans son esprit cent vertus après elle,
Aux nobles actions elle pousse les cœurs,

Et tous les grands héros ont senti ses ardeurs."

MOLIERE.

a masque, and some fire-works on the Bassin de Neptune, and the étang beyond. That will be also a trial for La Vallière. The last fêtes at night were in her honour, and they are going to use the old machines newly decorated. It will be a renaissance of the Ile Enchantée."

The company retired to the banks of turf which surrounded the Salle de Bal, Louis, and a few immediately attached to him, only remaining below, amongst whom were of course La Montespan and LaVallière. When the floor was cleared, a cavalcade of heralds, pages, and squires, all richly clad in armour, and dresses embroidered with thread of silver and of gold, marched into the Bosquet, the music of Lulli's band of twenty-four violins being exchanged for that of martial instruments. When they had taken their places, a large car, made to imitate the chariot of the Sun, was slowly moved into the ball-room by concealed means, conveying the Sun, surrounded by the four Ages of gold, silver, iron, and brass; the Seasons, the Hours, and other mythological characters. On arriving opposite the point where Louis was sitting, the colossal machine halted, and Spring addressed a complimentary oration to the King, involving also some flattering sentences for Madame de Montespan and Mademoiselle de La Vallière-but more especially for the former. When this had finished, the young person who had played the character of Spring, descended from the car, and having offered some rare bouquets to Louis and his favourites, took her place amongst the company. She was the only performer in the masque who did this, being the lovely Françoise de Sévigné--the daughter of Madame de Sévigné-now about eighteen years of age. She had been requested, on account of her extreme beauty and propriety of expression, to play the part,-since, in the fêtes at Versailles, it was not usual for the "dames de la cour" to figure.

This portion of the masque having finished, the various mythological personages descended as well, but it was only to bring in a number of long tables, which they placed before the company on the lowest turf-benches of the amphitheatre. These they spread with cloth of gold, and thus gave the signal for another large piece of mechanism to enter, representing a mountain, on which were seated Pan and Diana. When it stopped, these deities opened various parts of it, and, aided by the others, brought out an exquisite collation, which they placed upon the tables, the music playing all the time. At the first sight of the banquet the Abbé bustled off to find a place at the tables; and Jean Blacquart, not wishing to lose the caste which he imagined he had acquired, and knowing that he could not join the feasters, turned upon his heel into the gardens, to see if anywhere he could discover Maître Picard.

Few who had seen Marie de Brinvilliers, as she mingled in the dances which had been taking place before the appearance of the pageant, would have conceived that any other feelings but those of mirth and excitement amidst the glittering throng by which she was surrounded, were paramount in her bosom. There was the same kind expression-so terrible in its quietude had her heart at that time been laid open,-the same sweet features, almost girlish in their contour, (for although she was now thirty years of age, she could well have passed for eighteen,) which all admired so much. And when she smiled, the witchery that played around her rosy mouth,