il -- . . • "4 - . ••• . .:--.::: : ~ , , , ,,_T ~. ...... ... 1 . .. . ~ ~: , •-...---, `:- ~ , . i. . .., , ..,.,...•._ , • . .. - .. ... . ... " . . .„ • • . •_ - . .. . .' . .. , 4 1 • . _. •• . r- -... t .. • • ~. ~ - .. ..-.. ~ .. .-•. ...... ....:::::/-:‘\ ..... , 1 \ i , --:-:-;.:,4';3 -,,'..::-. • .r:. : : 4 ~.....e......., II SAMUEL WRIGHT, Editor and Proprietor. VOLUME XXIX, NUMBER 27.] .PUBLISUED EVERY SATURDAY ZORNDVD Office in Northern Central Railroad Con pany's Building, north-west corner Front and Wainut streets. Terms of Subscription. Tae Copy per anaum.if palate advance. • `• if not paid within three tmonthaframeommenecatentorthe year, 200 41 coats za , C7crzzs3r. No subscription received for a Ics.c time than six months; and no paper will be discontinued until nil sasearagesare paid, unlessat the optionof the pub lisher. lig-Aioneymay beremitted by mail atthepublish nuts oak. Rates of Advertising. square [45 lines] one week, 00 39 three week, 75 each tabeequeattnsertion, 10 [[2:ines) one week. 50 three week's. t 00 eueb , subsequentlttsertlen. 45 Lartroradvertisementmo proportion liberal discount will be made to Quarterly, half yatarly oryesrly tdvectlserawbo are strictl)conftmed o their business. ' grirg. My Little Daughter. I've 'darling little daughter, A dark-haired Fairy sprite, Whose tiny feet and bird-like voice Are heard from morn till night. iler eyes arc bright and dancing, And of swarthy Gipscy hue; A rogui-h smile plays o'er her face, As the turns her glance to you. 1 ask her if she loves me, But the answer know full well, As she lisps to accent. sweet and clear: - , 1 1 ,10re than nar tongue can tell." Sc'its the sunbeam of oar bou-ehold, Tho' the orphan's lot she bear,— Alay her young life nc'er shadowed be, lty the darkening wings of care! As I fold her to my throbbing heart, I gaze M her hue face; A. dream comes back of a loved one's form, And hlsimag,c there I trace. The eyes, the smile all, all are his; Why comes the murmuring cry— 't Why was his courses° quickly run? Why °nomads° young to die? Silence-0 rebel heart, be still' Neer more thy anguish tell, Remember Him who rules on bigh; lie doeth all things well. Then let him do wlint seemeth good; But spare my birdling gay, Whose prattling tongue is lisping sweet ^Tin three years old to-day:, Tho' few thy years. my darling, For thee long life I pray— A tranquil, cloudless future, As a sunny April day. garttigns, An _Eccentric Nan Among the persons who were in the habit of regularly frequenting the well-known Cafe de Foy in the Paleis Royal, about the year 1815, was a little old man, very care fully dressed, although his costume consti tuted a real anachronism. His head was enveloped in a warm Welsh wig, with a long thick queue depending from it, which ap peared, when viewed from the hinder aspect, to resemble a full-grown cabbage, with the stem rtill dangling from its circumference. His pantaloons were of black cloth, and were met midway down his stumpy legs by long Hessian boots, garnished with tassels, and 'bright as the surface of a polished mirror; a long green waistcoat fell downward in folds so as to cover in part a well developed paunch; a loose and capacious coat, of a dark manor' color, decorated with large bright metal but tons, and forcibly reminding one of the era of the Republic, incased the outward man; and a hat, beveled off into a sugar loaf form, surmounted the wig, and completed the equipment. After all, however, this costume was noth ing very extraordinary, or indeed very dif ferent front that of hundreds of antiquated men, who, about this epoch, were to be seen swarming forth in fine weather, like a host of innocent green frogs basking in the sun after a spring shower. The little old man in question visited the Cafe do Foy every morning at precisely one o'clock, called for a cup of coffee with cream, and a roll of bread, which ho always divided into the same number of circular slices. It was necessary, however, that this bread should be stale, and as they knew the peculiar fancy of the old gentleman in this respect, a roll was carefully reserved from each day's consump tion, and put nsido for his breakfast the fol lowing morning. From this practice the old gentleman became known amongst the .different waiters by the soubrique€ of "the man who always ate stale bread." The old gentleman's state of existence was so uniform, and his movements so reg ular, as to resemble, in no small degree, those of an automaton. Ile entered the .cafe every morning without looking to the right or left, and proceeded directly forward to a little round table, isolated and incom modious, and which, fur this reason, was nearly always vacant. After being served with his breakfast, he invariably alistracted two out of the five pieces of sugar which figured beside his cup,- and conveyed them into the dexter pocket of his green waistcoat; he next proceeded to blotter in succession each of the numerous morsels of bread, ad ding, if I mistake not, precisly the same number of grains of salt to eaoh, and then ate his breakfast, cautiously abstaining from looking at any or the journals or periodicals. Some of the ardent politicians who fre quented the cafe expressed astonishment and contempt atthis last habit, and regard ed the little old man as a very Vandal, care less of the honor and interests of his country. The more judicieus,• among them myself, were of a different opinion; we considered him, for precisely the same reason, a very paragon of prudence and wisdom. Inatten tive to both parties, "the man who always ate stale broad" pursued the quiet tenor of his way without change. Ile never at tempted to form any intimacies, or suffered any unnecessary expression to escape from his lips; hie breakfast was eaten in silence, and usually terminated with the finale of a march, beaten with his fingers upon the table; his next step consisted in pulling up the Hessian boots to their greatest altitude, after which he paid for his breakfast, gave the waiter a sou, and left the house without saluting the dame de comptoir. The worthy old gentleman's habits and peculiarities excited so much attention among the customers and waiters at the coffee-house, and his manners were so gen tle and docile, that some of the younger peo ple began to think he would prove as eligi ble butt for their pleasantries. A sub-lieu tenant, on half pay and in want of cheap amusement, determined one day to forestall the old gentleman in hia accustomed seat and take possession of the table to which be was attached. The little man arrived, and being disconcerted, took his place on the opposite aide. 52 50 For the Columbia Spy "There is no room here for two," said the young fire-eater, twirling his moustache. "I have used this table for months," re plied the old man, without moving, and in a deprecating tone of voice. The soldier could not resist the appeal, and retreated from the field. This occur rence encouraged one of the waiters to make a further trial of his equanimity; the old man, unwilling, as I have said, to waste words, was in the habit of holding out his forefinger to intimate the quanluin sufficit of coffee and cream. The waiter pretend ing inadvertence, directed the stream of boiling coffee over the finger of the original, at the instant that he waved it forth as a signal to cease pouring. The sufferer rose I silently from his seat, and, with alacrity, brought the point of his stout Hessian boot in contact with the person of the waiter, and sent the joker spinning asross the floor of the apartment. The waiter was exiled from. the coffee room as a punishment for the attack; the justice of the master condemned him to serve for a certain space in the laboratory, as the kitchen of the cafe restaurant is called. LEE In the end, "the man who always ate stale bread" triumphed over his tormentors, and generally had the laughter on his side. He did not, however, exhibit any appear ance of triumph; and after one or two addi tional attempts at mystification, finding him immovable, his enemies left him to enjoy in peace his little table at the Cafe de Foy. One day towards the close of the year 1817, the old man quitted the cafe without paying for hie breakfast; but as he made no observation in so doing, it was supposed that he had forgotten it, and would remember it the next morning. The coffee house keeper, however, reckoned without his host in this supposition, for the next day came, and the next, and the next—"the man who always ate stale bread" regularly pocketed his two lumps of sugar, beat his accustomed march, pulled up his Hessian boots, and did all that ho was accustomed to do, with tho exception of paying his bill. This change in his usual practice contin ued for a week, at the end of which time the proprietor of the coffee house, ignorant of the name or residence of his debtor, de termined upon presenting him with a. bill, the more especially as the little man gave nJ explanation of his conduct, or made any allusion to this remarkable change in his ancient habits. Dominic, the chief waiter of the establish ment, had become attached to the old man in consequence of the littlo trouble he gave and his quiet and gentle demeanor. Dom inic imagined, from the circumstance of his not diminishing the expense of Isis breakfast, that the good man was merely laboring un der temporary embarassment; so that, partly from calculation and partly from good feel•. ing, Dominic determined to become respon sible to the proprietor for the past and fu ture breakfasts, not doubting that the em barrassment would shortly cease, and that the little man would soon settle his arrears, and perhaps accompany the settlement with a gratuity for the s ccornrnodation. But Dominic was deceived in his calcula tion of time; ten months cloned without any allusion to the matter, or offer of payment. The coffee house keeper and his waiters be gan to shrug their shoulders and make long faces at the risk poor Dominic was running. Dominic himself, exposed to these daily doubts, began to think that be had acted too liberally in becoming responsible for a man whose debt seemed destined to go on accru ing forever, when one day the old man, with out any explanation, demanded his account, settled it in full, and after a careful calcu lation handed to the waiter, in addition, the ■um of fifteen francs six sous as his gratuity, at the rate of one sou a day for ten mouths, of which four contained each thirty-one days. If interest alone had guided the conduct of the head waiter, it must be confessed that he had lamentably failed in the result, fur in Franco the contributions to the waiters are all placed in one general cash box, and at the end of a certain period the proceeds are divided among all the servants of the house—the master first helping him self to the lion's share; at this rate, there fore, Dominic's recompense would probably amount to a solitary sixpence. Dominic knew this, but was satisfied with the re "NO ENTERTAINMENT IS SO CHEAP AS READING, NOR ANY PLEASURE SO LASTING." COLUMBIA, PENNSYLVANIA, SATURDAY MORNING, JANUARY 8, 1859. ward of his own heart; he thanked the old man graciously for the payment, placed the gratuity in the common receptacle, and transferred the other monies to his own stronghold, for he had previously paid, day by day, the expense of the breakfast from his own pocket. The little man followed Dominic's move ments with his eyes, at the same time beat ing upon the table a march, somewhat longer and a little more vehement than was his wont; but by no word or movement did he afford an indication of having under stood the liberal conduct of the waiter in his behalf. About the close of the same year—that is to say, three or four months after the liquidation of this singular debt—the pro prietor of the cafe, who had realized a fortune, announced his intention of dispo sing of establishment and retiring from trade. Hearing his intention announced in the cafe, the old gentleman made a sign to Dominic, who was in attendance, to ap proach, and began a conversation. Dominic was as much surprised at this sudden fit of loquacity as though ono of the stucco figures on the ceiling had opened its mcuth, and had asked for a cup of coffee. But 1 Dominic was destined to be even more sur prised at the nature of the conversation. "My friend," said the little gentleman to the head waiter, "you are a good fellow, and I wish you well." Dominic bowed, and elevated his shoul ders with that slight movement which may be interpreted ad libitum to mean, "I am much obliged," or "it is of little conse quence to me." The old man took the former explanation, and continued— " Dominic, I am sure you have been economical! I know this and much more of which I do nut speak, because I am too well acquainted with the value of words to throw them away—l know you have saved money." Dominic bounded back a step or two, and the action hardly need be interpreted. "De is about to ask me to lend him money," thought the head waiter. The questioner appeared to divine the thought of the waiter, his visage was for an instant distorted with a grimace, of which the model may be seen in the figures of the middle ages which decorate the porch of some Gothic church. "Dominic," he continued, "I see that I am right—you have money in the funds. This is excellent; and now reply to my question shortly and to the purpose. Do you think from your own knowledge that an intelligent man, desirous of improving his circumstances, would find this a favor able speculation in which to risk a capital so large as that demanded by your master for his business?" Dominic was pleased to have an opportu nity of talking on a subject which entirely occupied his thoughts. "If," said he, "the purchaser understood the business so as to be able to attend to his own interests, and if he was not compelled to borrow the pur chase money on extravagant terms, he would find the business a fortune." "Well, and why do you not purchase it?" "Mercy, I! with what?" "With your savings." "My savings! they do not altogether amount to ten thousand francs." "Ten thousand francs! how long have you been in service, Dominic?" "I have carried the napkin for twenty three years. lam now thirty-nine." "You are a good fellow, as I said; the man who could amass ten thousand francs by adding sou to sou would soon be worth a million at the head of a house like this. Decidedly, it must be so. Dominic, I know a person who would assist you with a loan; how much do you want?" "Nothing. I would not incur a debt of two hundred and twenty thousand francs— the risk is too great, and the interest would probably absorb all the profit. I would rather continue n waiter fur a few years longer, and retire upon a small annuity, than to run the risk of marching to prison in the shoes of a bankrupt." "You speak sense, my friend; but leave the matter to me." The old man then adjusted the folds of his boots, and departed without uttering another word. The next morning he came to the cafe half an hour earlier than was his custom. Dominic commenced arranging his table, but the old man arrested his arm. "Where is the proprietor?" said he "In his cabinet," said Dominic. "Conduct me to him." Dominic moved forward to show the old man the way; his heart beat with violence, for although he had passed the whole of the preceding day in trying to convince him self that the good man was weak in his in tellect, and was trifling with him, still his perplexity returned when be beheld the air of assurance and determination with which "the man who ate stale bread" procoedep about his business. When they both ar rived in the presence of the proprietor, the old man commenced the conversation with out further preamble. "How ranch do you demand for you es tablishment?" said he. "Before I reply to you inquiry," said the proprietor, who expected some mystification or scene of folly; "before I reply to your demand, and enter upon the affair with you, suffer rue to ask whom I have the honor to address?" "You are right. If two parties are abo u to enter into a contract, it is first of all necessary that they sheuld know and have confidence in each other. lam the Baron Rngelet, ex-commissary general of the armies of the empire." "Baron Rageletl" said the proprietor, bowing, "I know the name; I have seen it lately in the newspapers." "No doubt—in relation to an injunction obtained by my indigent family to prevent me from wasting my fortune. They say that I am a fool, and that my liberality has its origin in imbecility. During ten months, while the inquiry was going on, my pro perty was escheated, and I refused to touch the allowance offered me. Since then the inquiry has terminated in favor of my san ity, and having again entered upon the ad ministration of my property, I was enabled to refund to this excellent man the little sum he had the generosity to disburse for me. Now that we know each other, let us return to business. What sum do you de mand for your establishment?" "Two hundred and twenty thousand francs." "It is not, perpaps, too dear; and you would probably have no objection to leave some of the purchase money on mortgage. But listen to me. The times are unsettled, and the most solid establishments are at the mercy of revolutions, and two hun dred thousand francs now are better than two hundred and twenty thousand in prospective. Here, then," he continued, drawing an old portfolio from his pocket, "are two hundred thousand francs in the notes of the Bank of France. If these satisfy you, the affair is finished. This is my way of transacting businos, and in my time I have completed more important bar gains in fewer words." Dominic and his master both -seemed stn• pified with surprise. The BroSn appeared to enjoy their confusion, and 7 rubbed his hands and repented the grimaces to which wo have alluded. "I am willing to agree," said the pro_ prietor, "but it is necessary that the matter should be arranged by a notary," "Why so? Is not the sale emecuted in good form by the three parties present!" "But with respect to the interest," mur mured Dominic, in a smothered tone of voice, seizing the Baron's coat, "is it neces- sary—" "Bab!" replied the old man. "I do it to oblige a friend, and am no usurer. Give me your acknowledgement—l desire noth ing else. But as I have no intention of making you a present of two hundred thou sand francs, I will arrange it in such a manner that you shall not long remain my debtor." Dominic fell from his elevation, and "the man who always ate stale bread" descended to the coffee room, While the buyer and seller were preparing themselves to register the transfer of the property, he swallowed tranquilly his cup of coffee, without forget. ting the two pieces of sugar to be transferred to his pocket, beat a superb march on the table, drew np his boots and departed with his two friends to finish, by a dash of the pen, a transfer of the two hundred thousand francs. In a few days Dominic was installed in hie new dignity. The little old man contin ued to take his customary breakfast in his usual impassable manner, when, one day ns he was leaving the room, he deviated so far from his usual custom, as to approach Do minic, who was enthroned on the seat of honor, and addressed him with the follow ing words: "Dominic," said he, "I think you have warm affections." "Perhaps," said Dominic; fixing his eyes upon the Baron, as though he would read his thoughts. "I see," said the other, "you have them when occasion demands it; you aro right; I am pleased with the reservation. I find you have not lost your heart—marriage is the most important affair of a man's life.— Dominic, you must get married." "I have thought of it, sir," said Dominic; "a wife would be a great source of comfort and economy—it would save the expense of a dame du comptoir." "True," said the Baron; "you have need of aid and counsel—you shall have them.— Be ready at eight o'clock this evening; I will call for you, and we will make a visit together." The appointed hour arrived, and with it the Baron. Dominic was ready, and at.-- companied Monsieur Ragelet in a hackney coach to that quarter of decayed wealth— The Faubourg St. Germain. Here they stepped at the door of a house of mean air. penre.nce; and having ascended several flights of stairs, entered a small apartment, where they found two ladies, who received them with marked attention. "Madame Dupre," said the Baron to one of them, with an appearance of friendly fa miliarity, "this is the worthy man of whom I have spoken, and in whose welfare I hope to interest you. Dominic," continued he, turning towards the coffee-house keeper, "this lady is the widow of a man who hue rendered me an important service. She has promised to extend her fitvors to you, and will permit you to visit her at intervals!" While Monsieur Ragelet was making these introductions in due form, the daugh ter of Madame Dupre, whose name was Rose, and who, without being exactly beau tiful, possessed all the freshness and bloom of the flower whose name she bore, regard ted Dominic attentively, and he in ratite bestowed upon her a large share of his at tention. The result of this double investigation ap peared favorable to both parties; for Do minic: was well formed and with good fea tures, and his countenance reflected the goodness and gentleness of his heart. lie had also taken care at his first introduc tion, to set off his person to the best advan tage. But the meanness of the apartment, and the simple and unexpensivo dresses of the ladies, somewhat disappointed Dominic.— He was anxious at the earliest possible mo ment to return the Baron's loan, and indeed thought, from a hint that the Baron bad dropped, that it was his intention to intro duce him to a lady of property, with some sum towards the liquidation of this debt.— But, observing such obvious signs of want of wealth in the Dupres, he came to the con clusion that the Baron was now desirous of marrying him to a girl who had been under his protection, in return for the favors be had just bestowed. This thought occasioned Dominic great uneasiness, but, whatever the appearances might be, the conclusion was a wrong one. The next day, as the interview had been satisfactory between the young people, the Baron announced to Dominic his plans in full. Ile stated the nature of the obli gations conferred upon him by the elder Dupre, and his desire, as the family wore left in adverse circumstances, to return the obligation without alarming their delicacy. And this, he thought, he could best do by effecting a marriage between Dominic and the daughter of his friend. Dominic was satisfied with this explana tion turd arrangement; the young lady ap peared truly amiable, and desirable as a partner for life; and, before a week had elapsed; Dominic made a formal offer of his hand and heart, and was duly accepted by the protege of "the man who always ate stale bread." The marriage was soon after solemnized, and the same day, after his customary breakfast, the Baron beckoned Domiaie to approach. "You have done well," said he; "you have married, without interested motives, a woman desirous and capable of rendering you happy. I told you I should find the means to cancel the debt you owe me, it is the dowry of Rose. And here," continued he, tearing the two hundred thousand franc bill to pieces, "I destroy the acknowledge ment you gave fur the money. Enjoy it, and be happy." Dominic, full of gratitude, would have thrown himself at the Baron's feet, but he was already out of the door. "Two or three such acts," lie muttered to himself, as he walked swiftly away, "and shall die contented; and these are what my relations call prodigal dilapidations of my fortune." Dominic verified the prediction of the Baron, and became a millionaire. He im proved the establishment in the Palais Roy al, and, having brought it to the present state of perfection, sold the property for five hundred thousand francs. He is now a retired citizen, residing in a noble hotel in the Rue St. Vonore, distinguished chiefly fur the simple probity of his character.— Rose and he have never forgotten nor hesi tated to acknowledge their obligations to "the man who always ate stale bre.td." A Conspiracy Under the Regency The clock of St. Hoch was striking mid night on the 24th of December, 1749; the snow was falling in large flakes, the streets were silent and deserted, save by two men at the corner of the street of Anjou St. Hon ore, who, screened by the wall, were closely watching the lighted window of a large hotel near them. Suddenly a shadowy form moved from it towards them. "What newer asked the musketeers, for such they wore. "My master, the Count, will start to-mor row night, in a plain green carriage, which he will drive himself, dis.'uised as a servant." "And the casket?" "It bas been impossible for me to get it." "In spite of your promise, you scoundrel?" "On my salvation —" "Pshawl you have perjured yourself; that's your affair, and you must account for it to somebody beside me. We must go now, and T suppose you are too polite to refuse us the pleasure of your company." "How? Will you arrest me? Where are you going to take me?" "A very indiscreet question, that, my friend." "In that case I will not go." "Then, my brave fellow, I advise you to recommend your soul to Gud," said the mus keteer, with terrifSc coolness; "for I shall execute my orders, which are to perforate you, in the most conscientious manner." "Go on then," replied Lambert, and Heav en help me." The lighted windows were in a saloon hung with superb Abbeville tapestry, and furnished with all the poetio art of that era; the hangings were relieved by panels which bore amid delicately carved festoon■ and acanthus leaves, a Count's coronet and the symbolic attributes of the old and illustrious house to which the Count de Cherenon be longed. The Count was reading the following let ter attentively: "All your arrangements are approved and forever the Cardinal's police will be at fault; yet keep on your gnard. The fairy Ludoviso $1,50 PER YEAR IN ADVANCE; $2,00 IF NOT IN ADVANCE dreads your arrest, and not so much on her own account, as for the pain sho would fool in seeing a wan she esteems so highly in a bad position. Above all things, do not for get to burn the papers in the casket. They are of the utmost importance, and would compromise illustrious names." The Count then took up a little Chinese box, and was about to obey the above in junction, when a young girl came in. •'Oh, dear father," she exclaimed, "you arc going I do not know where or why; and I cannot help trembling for you." ':There is no danger, my dear daughter." "Then, why do you start to-night, when the roads are impassable with snow?" "Important interests require my depar ture. "I am afraid to understand you; but do not leave me in this cruel uncertainty? Tell me if your journey is not connected with the conspiracy which is just found ant'." "You have unluckily guessed aright, but my flight will be in safety, for my servant, Lambert, has engaged to watch me, by my own orders, and render an exact account of all my steps to the Cardinal's agents. Ile tells them that I mean to go to-morrow night; they postpone my arrest until that time, that they may be more certain of get ting this casket, which they suppose I shall carry with me." "But if they discover this stratagem?" "We must trust in Providence!" "Yes, Heaven only can save us;" and, clasping her bands, Ilenedicta began to pray with fervor. The next moment the door was thrown open, and an officer of the guards entered, with a file of musketeers. The Count coolly took up the casket; while the officer, after casting a glance around, said: "I am sorry, Count, for this unpleasant com mission, but you know a soldier must obey. Have the goodness to give up your sword." "As my conscience is clear of any offence against the King," replied the Count meas uring his words, "as I love him as every loyal gentleman should do—and, on the other hand, as I distrust the justice of man —you will pardon me if I take every possi ble means of avoiding it;" and, as he con cluded, he pressed a spring in the wuinscoat, a small door opened, gave him passage, and closed at once on the astonished soldiers.— The officer merely smiled, and, with n sign to his men, left the room, The Duchess of Maine, the grand-daugb ter of the great Conde, could not forgive the Duke of Orleans fur being Regent of France; and it was with the keenest vexation that she saw her husband, who, by the will of Louis XIV, was to hare been ono of the Su preme Council to administer the Govern ment during the young King's minority, sink into a mere cipher. She retired to the palace at Sceaux, where she created a min iature court, with poets and courtiers, the necessary accessories of that period. There she played the part of queen seriously, with all the hereditary energy of her family, and also with a lofty and brilliant wit which oc casioned Madame Lambert to write Ler— "Speech is only perfect when you speak, or we speak of you." All the time the Duch ess spared from politics she gave to pleasure, and the description of her festivals at Sceaux are like a page of the Thousand and One Nights. One day she would carry the shep herdess' crook of Estelle; and the next, as the fairy Ludovisa, institute the Order of the Honey Bee, and initiate knights, who swore by Mount Hymettus; but, amid this Arcadian life, she was always dreaming of pomp and power; and when the Duke wa• 4 deprived of his situation as preceptor of the King, and all the prerogatives of that high post, Madame de Maine at once conceised the idea of overthrowing the first power of the nation, the Regent, and substi tilting her husband. Accustomed to see everything yield to her will, she went to work, thinking it quite an easy matter; and knowing that her success must depend chiefly on the aid of Philip of Bourbon, King of Spain, she entered into correspondence with hint through Callamare; his embassader. Next, she busied herself with winning over the first gentlemen of France. Her ability per suaded some, the injustice of the Regent turned others. The plot throve so well in secret, that nothing more was to be done but transmit the plan to the Court at Madrid, which was to give the signal. But the Cardinal-Min ister, Dubois, equally skillful and realous for the Duke of Orleans, was watching the maneuvers of the little court of Sceaux, and aided by chance, discovered the depar- ture of dispatches for Philip of Bourbon. The courier was stopped and his papers seized. The conspirators were dismayed; some attempted flight, but were detected by the Cardinal's police and thrown into the Bastille. The dispatches, however, did not compro mise the Duke and Duchess of Maine, but the Cardinal, by adroitly interrogating per sons arrested, learned that the Count de Chevenon was the depositary:of a casket of papers, showing the actual part taken by the Duchess and her husband. Thencefor ward the hotel Chevonon was closely watch ed; the Cardinal supposed the Count would endeavor to cross the Pyrenees, taking the papers with him, and ho waited for that moment to seize him. Finding him slow in taking flight, he endeavored to bribe his servant Lambert, who accepted his offers by his master's direction.. But the Cardinal suspected the trick, and, on the evening of our account, terrified the unlucky Lambert into confessing the truth. [WHOLE NUMBER, 1,484 As the panel had hardly closed on the Count, he hastened to reach a private door opening into an obscure alley; but as he was about to go out, be heard noisy voi s ces land steps, and, quite bewildered, retraced his path, the cold sweat streaming from his temples, his heart beating to agony, and Lis I hands convulsively grasping the casket. • thus he re-entered the room be had left. Ilenedicta uttered a shriek of of her father placed his finger on his lips, and, rushing to the Ere, emptied the box on it; but the officer again entered, and, while the soldiers seized the Count, saved all the papers not yet burned. The next hour the Count do Chevenon was placed in the I3astille, in the most absolute secrecy. Benedicta was a Christian, and, with all the energy which filial love and trust in God could inspire, she resolved to save her I father. She immediately took refuge with her cousin, the Baroness of Vergennes, and both devoted themselves to the balm) tact:. Their first step was with the ItegeLt, who was really amiable and humane; but, pre ferring science to business, gave up every thing to his ministers—especially to Dubois, who had been his tutor—and would lather have let all Fiance conspilo against hint than to take the trouble to stifle one plot. Unluckily, when Madame de Vergennes ap plied to him, he was busy with some eheuti eel experiment, and told her she must go to the Cardinal. This was by no means the same thing to the Baroness, since with hint nll considera tions of humanity vanished before reasons of state; so their supplications were ineffec tual. Benedieta then resolved to see the Duchess of Maine at all risks; but was told that the Duchess and her husband had been arrested. The Court trembled, and won dered to what lengths a man would go who dared to lay hands on the blood royal. But Benedicta's courage increased with the danger. She discovered that the increase of prisoners at the Bastille required an in crease of domestics. One of theßaronese's friends was acquainted with the lieutenant, and through that medium Mademoiselle de Chevenon was installed in the laundry of the fortress as a skillful worLwoman. Here her difficulties began: fur, accustomed to the indul,gencies of rank and wealth, her aris tocratic pride revolted, and she became utterly discouraged. Fortunately she oc cupied a room with a young girl in whom she felt much interest; Madeleine, in turn, loved Benedicta like a sister. An entire confidence sprang up between them, and flenedicta, finding she could no nothing alone, finally revealed all her plans to Madeleine, who promised to .aid her. Her brother was a sergeant of the guards at the Bastille, and the very next day she contrived to find out, through him, in what part of the building the Count was kept. The Count's trial proceeded rapidly. To all questions he replied simply that he bad followed the dictates of his conscience and his heart. He was condemned to death. "I should have wished," he said, "to shed my blood for my king and country. God orders otherwise; His will be done!" But though dm.th could not shake him, he wept in thinking of his helpless daughter, whom he should perhaps never see again. While wrapped at night in these painful thoughts, there was it tap at the door of his cell. He listened, and next he heard Ben edicta's voice, suppressed and trembling: "It is I, my father, Denedietn; but do not be troubled; I am in no danger, and am working for your deliverance." "Thanks ter your holy affection, my child; thanks fir thir moment of happiness which God grants me; but in His name, my daughter, I entreat you to abandon so mad a pr“ ject; you will ruin yourself, too." "Be satiAe.l, father; a friend watches over us. I inapt leave you now; in two days I hope to embrace you." "have you the impression nf the key?" asked Madeleine, ns they re-enterel their I=l3 "Here it is;" replied Benedicta, allowing her a bit of was "Well, my dear young Indy, our first at tempt has succeeded. With this model, the Baroness can procure us a key. Te•morruw will get it suit of my brother's uniform here, and God will du the rest." The clock of the Bastille struck one in the morning, and the last round had been made, when a key turned in the door of the Count's cell; he thought it was the sum mons to execution. What was hie surprise to sec Bonedicta, pale and trembling. She signed to him to be silent and follow her.— , He obeyed, and they reached her room without hindrance. There she related her entrance to the Bastille, and the plan for his escape. The drawbridge was not low ered till' o'clock; at .9 the keepers made their tic;t. round. In the interval, the Count in the uniform of the sergeant of the guard, might go out unobserved; a plain carriage with past horses would be in waiting for him nut fax from the prison. At 7, there fore, he started under Madeleine', guidance. Every one thought he was her brother, and the doors were opened for them; at the post ern she parted front him, and thought him saved, when she saw the lieutenant of the Bastille place a hand on his shoulder. "See here, my friend, it seems to me you are go ing nut very early." "Pardon, Lieutenant; I am not en duty here, but was belated last night and staid with a comrade." lie went on, and, cros sing the drawbridge, hurried to the bank of the Seine, whore he found the poet-chaise
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