ROMANCE OF A POOR YOUNG MAN.1 BY OCTAVE FEUILLET. [OCTAVE FEUILLET: A French novelist; born at St. Lô, August 11, 1821; died in Paris, December 28, 1890. He was educated at the College of Louis-le-Grand in Paris, and at the age of twenty-four began to write, his first marked success being the novel "Le Cheveu Blanc," produced in 1853. He was made an officer of the Legion of Honor, and in 1862 succeeded Scribe as a member of the French Academy. His published works include: "The Great Old Man" (1845); "Polichinelle" (1846); "The Redemption' " (1849); "Vieillesse de Richelieu," a play (1848); "The Romance of a Poor Young Man" (1858), afterward dramatized; "The History of Sibylla" (1862); "Monsieur de Camors" (1867); "Julie de Trécœur" (1872) ; “ A Marriage in High Life" (1875); "Le Journal d'une Femme" (1878); "L'Histoire d'une Parisienne," "La Veuve," and "La Morte "; besides many successful plays.] THE next day - that is, yesterday—I set out on horseback early in the morning, to oversee the felling of some timber in the neighborhood. I was returning toward four o'clock, in the direction of the château, when, at a sharp turn of the road, I found myself face to face with Mlle. Marguerite. She was alone. I bowed, and was about to pass, but she stopped her horse. "A beautiful autumn day, monsieur," said she. "Yes, mademoiselle. You are going to ride?" "As you see, I am using my last moments of independence, and even abusing them, for I feel a little troubled by my solitude. But Alain was wanted down there-my poor Mervyn is lame. You do not wish to replace him by chance?" "With pleasure. Where are you going?" 66 Why, I had the idea of pushing my ride as far as the Tower of Elven." She pointed with the end of her riding whip to a dark summit which rose within sight of the road. "I think," she added, "that you have never made this pilgrimage." "It is true. It has often tempted me, but I have put it off till now, I hardly know why." "Well, it is easily found; but it is already late, and we must make a little haste, if you please." I turned my horse's head, and we set out at a gallop. 1 Published by permission of L. C. Page and Company. I concluded whim, which I could not but think premeditated. that time and reflection had weakened in Mlle. Marguerite's mind the first impression made by the calumnies which had been poured into her ear. She had apparently ended by doubting Mlle. Helouin's veracity, and contrived to offer me, by chance, under a disguised form, a kind of reparation which might possibly be due me. In the midst of the thoughts that besieged me, I attached slight importance to the particular end we proposed to ourselves in this strange ride. I had often heard this Tower of Elven spoken of as one of the most interesting ruins of the country, and I had never traveled over either of the two roads which lead from Rennes, or from Jocelyn, toward the sea, without contemplating with an eager eye that uncertain mass which one sees towering upward in the middle of distant heaths like an enormous stone bank; but time and occasion had been wanting to me. A little distance beyond Elven we took a crossroad, which led us up a barren hill; we saw from its summit, although at some distance from us, the feudal ruin overlooking a wooded height in front of us. The heath where we were descended sharply toward marshy meadows, surrounded with thick young woods. We descended the slope and were soon in the woods. There we took a narrow road, the rough, unbroken pavement of which resounded loudly under our horses' feet. I had ceased for some time to see the Tower of Elven, the locality of which I could not even conjecture, when it rose out of the foliage a few steps before us with the suddenness of an apparition. This tower is not decayed; it has preserved its original height, which exceeds a hundred feet, and the regular layers of granite, which compose this magnificent octagonal structure, give it the aspect of a formidable block, cut yesterday by the purest chisel. Nothing more imposing, more proud and somber, can be imagined than this old donjon, impervious to the effects of time, and alone in these thick woods. The trees have grown close to its walls, and their tops reach to the openings for the lower windows. This growth of vegetation conceals the base of the edifice, and increases its appearance of fantastic mystery. In this solitude, surrounded by forests, and with this mass of extraordinary architecture in front of us, it was impossible not to think of enchanted castles where beautiful princesses sleep a hundred years. "Up to this time," said Mlle. Marguerite, to whom I tried to communicate this idea, "I have seen no more than what we now see; but if you wish to wake the princess, we can enter. As far as I know, there may be in the neighborhood a shepherd or shepherdess who is furnished with a key. Let us fasten our horses and seek for them—you for the shepherd, and I for the shepherdess." The horses were accordingly fastened in a little inclosure near the ruin, and we separated for a moment to search around the castle. But we had the vexation to meet neither shepherd nor shepherdess. Our desire to see the interior naturally increased with all the force of attraction which forbidden fruit has for us, and we crossed a bridge thrown over the moat, at a venture. To our great satisfaction, the massive door of the donjon was not shut; we needed only to push it open in order to enter a corner, dark and encumbered with rubbish, which was probably the place for the bodyguard in former times; from thence we passed into a vast circular hall, the chimneypiece of which still showed, on its coat of arms, the besants of the crusade; a large open window, traversed by the symbolic cross, plainly cut in the stone, lighted distinctly the lower part of this room, while the eye failed to pierce the uncertain shadows of the lofty, broken roof. At the sound of our steps, an invisible flock of birds flew out from the darkness, shaking down upon us the dust of centuries. On mounting up the granite steps, ranged one above the other round the hall, into the embrasure of the window, we could overlook the deep moat and the ruined parts of the fortress; but we had noticed on our entrance a flight of steps cut in the thick wall, and we felt a childish impatience to push our discoveries further. We therefore undertook to ascend this rude staircase; I led the way, and Mlle. Marguerite followed bravely, holding up her long skirts as well as she could. From the top of the flat roof the view was vast and delicious. The soft tints of twilight were creeping over the ocean of halfgolden autumn foliage; the dark marshes, and the green, mossy ground near us, and the distant ranges of hills mingling with and crossing each other. As we gazed down upon this melancholy landscape, infinite in extent, we felt the peace of solitude, the silence of evening, the sadness of the past, descend into our hearts. This charm was increased, for me at least, by the presence of a beloved being; all who have loved will comprehend this. This hour even of mutual contemplation and emotion, of pure and profound enjoyment, was, without doubt, the last that would be given me to pass near her and with her, and I clung to it with a sad earnestness. For Marguerite, I know not what passed within her; she was seated on the ledge of the parapet, gazing silently at the distance. I heard only the sound of her quickened breath. I do not know how long we remained thus. When the mists spread over the low meadows and the far-off hills became indistinct in the increasing darkness, Marguerite rose. "Let us go," said she, in a low voice, as if the curtain had fallen on some regretted pageant; "it is finished!" Then she began to descend the staircase, and I followed her. When we attempted to leave the castle, to our great surprise, we found the door closed. Apparently the young keeper, ignorant of our presence, had turned the key while we were on the roof. Our first impression was that of gayety. It was actually an enchanted castle; I made vigorous efforts to break the enchantment; but the enormous bolt of the old lock was solidly fastened in the granite, and I was compelled to give up the attempt to unfasten it. I then attacked the door itself, but the massive hinges and the oak panels, banded with iron, resisted all my strength. Two or three pieces of rough stone that I found amongst the rubbish, and that I threw against this insuperable obstacle to our egress, had no other result than to shake the roof, fragments of which fell at my feet. Mlle. Marguerite would not allow me to pursue an enterprise so evidently hopeless, and which was not without danger. I then ran to the window, and shouted for help, but nobody replied. During the next ten minutes I repeated these cries constantly, but with the same lack of success. We then employed the remaining daylight in exploring minutely the interior of the castle, but we could discover no place of egress except the door, as solid as the wall to us, and the great window, thirty feet. above the bottom of the moat. Night had now fallen over the country, and darkness invaded the old castle. Some rays of moonlight penetrated the window, and fell upon the stone steps beneath it. Mlle. Marguerite, who had gradually lost all appearance of sprightliness, ceased to reply to the conjectures, reasonable or otherwise, with which I endeavored to dispel her anxiety. She sat in the shadow of the window, silent and immovable, but I was in the full light of the moon on the step nearest the window, at intervals sending forth a cry of distress; but in truth the more uncertain the success of my efforts became, the more an irresistible feeling of joyfulness seized upon me. I saw suddenly realized the endless and almost impossible dream of lovers; I was alone in a desert with the woman whom I loved. For long hours there were only she and I in the world, only her life and mine. I thought of all the marks of sweet protection, of tender respect, that I should have the right and the duty to lavish upon her; I pictured her fears calmed, her confidence, her sleep; I said to myself that this fortunate night, if it did not give me the love of this dear girl, would at least assure to me her most lasting esteem. As I abandoned myself with all the egotism of passion to my secret ecstasy, some reflection of which was perhaps painted on my face, I was suddenly roused by these words, addressed to me in a tone of affected tranquillity: "Monsieur le Marquis de Champcey, have there been many cowards in your family before you? I rose, but fell back again upon my stone seat, turning a stupefied look in the direction where I saw the vague outline of the young girl. One idea alone occurred to me, a terrible idea, that fear and anxiety had affected her brain — that she was becoming crazy. 66 Marguerite!"I cried, without knowing even that I spoke. This word completed her irritation, doubtless. 66 My God! how odious he is! repeat it, what a coward!" What a coward, — yes, I The truth began to dawn upon me. I descended one of the steps. "Well, what is the matter?" said I, coldly. "It is you," she cried with vehemence, "you who have bribed this man or this child—to imprison us in this tower. To-morrow I shall be lost, dishonored in public opinion, and I can belong only to you; such is your calculation, is it not? But this plan, I assure you, will not succeed better than the others. You know me very imperfectly if you think I shall not prefer dishonor, a convent, death, — all, to the disgrace of uniting my hand, my life, to yours. And when this infamous ruse had succeeded, when I had had the weakness-as certainly I shall not have to give you my person, and what is of more importance to you, my fortune in return for this |