MISTAKEN ZEAL. (From the French.) From among the maids of honour of Catherine de Medicis, Marie de Nancey would have been selected as the fairest and prettiest. She had never known her mother, who had died in her infancy; and her father, a brave, but rude and inflexible warrior, knew not how to superintend her education. He loved his daughter, but esteemed still more his good sword and his old escutcheon. Fortunately the Queen saw Marie when a child, at the castle of her father, and, charmed with her beauty, solicited the Count to place her under her care. At court Marie received a brilliant education. She knew the whole history of France, and composed verses after the manner of her favourite poet-Clement Marot. Beside, she was well skilled in embroidery and tapestry, which at that period was considered necessary to the perfect education of a young lady. At eighteen, Marie de Nancey shone as a bright star amidst her companions. She was often visited by her father, who looked upon her as a miracle of beauty and erudition. The old Count had fought many battles under Henry the Second, and was deeply scarred and wrinkled. It was certainly time that he should say adieu to fighting, and retire to rest at ease. But he was a zealous Catholic, and always highly indignant at the unsubdued arrogance of the Huguenots, With foreign powers the country was at peace, but civil war was preparing internally. The Count gloried in his hatred of the protestants, and whenever be visited his daughter, his conversation usually turned on theology, with violent declamations against the followers of Luther and Calvin. Marie, young and gentle, trembled at expressions of hatred, and tried to turn her father from his opinions. She extolled the delights of peace and repose, and cited the charity of the Saviour. Happy was she if she could raise a smile on the countenance of her father, who looked on her with great affection; but if he did smile at her endeavours, he left her, always saying, “Look you, my darling daughter, my arm is still strong, and my sword is bright in its scabbard; the day will come when I shall again draw it in a good cause, in defence of our religion." The poor girl, left alone, prayed in purity of heart for her father, and those whom he called heretics. for I have already announced your presentation to many of our young nobles!" These words had filled the heart of the timid reflection she had been happy, but that cloud of girl with melancholy rather than joy. Without the soul was rising in her heart, and she thought of her appearance at a public ball with trembling. Was it a presentiment? FREDERIC. In a large chamber, gloomily furnished, several gentlemen were assembled. The hangings were of black velvet, and reflected not the pale light of the tapers with which the chamber was lighted. A bible and hour-glass were on a table, surrounded by the company, who conversed in subdued tones. They were the chief officers of the protestant army, who had assembled at the house of Coligny, their leader. It was ten at night. "What do you think of it, Sir?" asked a young man of the Admiral. "Think of it-what do I think of it," replied Coligni, whose prudence equalled his courageMy Lords, I know Medicis, and her perfidy: 'tis she who invites you to this ball. Would you attend the feast of one who thirsts for blood, and wears a poinard as an ornament?" The assembled protestants looked on their white-haired chief with veneration, but answered not. He continued, his grave voice becoming more animated as he proceeded "Yes, my valiant friends, I know the edict of 1559, which this perfidious woman dictated to Henry the Second that bloody edict which struck at the supports of our party! I saw the brave and innocent Montgomery dragged from the walls of Domfront; his blood was shed to appease the blind vengeance of Catherine, and his corpse is still lying without sepulture! Say, my comrades, should we join a festival to which we are invited by the Queen ?" By my faith I am for going," was heard from one voice; all eyes were turned to the bold speaker, who thus lightly responded to the ques tion. Coligni smiled, for he loved a frank and fearless spirit. And who was this person who hazarded an opinion so at variance with that of the wise Admiral? He was a young man, of a haughty, though not supercilious bearing. He stood up uncovered, and looked round upon the The Queen-mother now resolved that Marie, assemblage with an unshrinking eye. At a first who had been educated privately, should be in- glance he might have been thought light and unretroduced at court. Till this period she had lived flecting; but, on a close inspection, his counhappily ignorant of the world. Catherine had tenance presented the appearance of ability and been as a mother to the fair girl, who had no sus- experience. "Let us go, my lords," he resumed; picions of the real character of that hateful woman. "let us attend our King Charles the Ninth. A The dark Italian, when with her innocent pro- refusal might offend the imperious Catherine, and tegie, forgot her political schemes, and her con- let us not light the torch of discord by defiance. tracted brow relaxed as she listened to the artless Do you not see that the Catholics fear us, and words of Marie de Nancey. One day Marie left would fain be reconciled? Let us not reject the the Queen, thoughtful and almost sorrowful.hands that are held out to us. We are all FrenchCatherine had said, "My child, you must prepare to quit your youthful companions: in a few days your father will present you at a ball which the King will give to the principal subjects of his kingdom. Adorn yourself with care, my Marie, men; we may become brethren." Coligni, who knew the speaker (Frederic d' Harly) to be a brave officer, observed, "How little do you know our enemies! You confide because you are yourself good and loyal. But listen to the advice of a friend and father. Yes! | her on a seat beside her. The Count remained the Catholics do fear us, and therefore would de- respectfully standing. A cavalier advanced to feat us by stratagem and treason. It is Catherine, Marie, and entreated to be honoured with her not Charles who reigns; and her infernal politics hand for the dance. The old Count looked disstop at nothing which her fanaticism-' approvingly at the suppliant; Marie blushed, and was silent. Frederic repeated the request in an agitated tone, and Catherine placed the hand of the fair girl in that of the Protestant gentleman. "Go, my dear child," said she, "partake of the pleasure which at my age I can no longer enjoy. Take the arm of this young gentleman, and lose not one of those bright hours, so few of which are permitted to us in this uncertain world." And as the Count still preserved his air of scorn and displeasure, Catherine whispered, "We must caress those whom we hate the most!" "And what have we to dread?" interrupted the impetuous young man. "Have we not our swords? By Calvin, let them come on! the traitors shall feel that my blade is better tempered than the steel of an assassin?" As he spoke, Frederic drew himself up to his full height, and partly drew his sword. The young men of the company applauded him, and Coligni, warmed into enthusiasm, cried, "Be it so; we will go to this ball. Forgetting my station, I will be silly enough to consent. No matter; it shall never be said that I feared to face danger in any form, and prudence must yield to the suggestions of a youth that seems invincible." After this decision, the nobles, saluting their chief, departed. "Now, Marie, fair Marie," murmured Frederic, as he gained the street, "I shall at length be near you look fearlessly on your beauty-speak to you-if possible, tell you that I love!" THE BALL. There had been great rejoicings on the 10th of February, 1562, in the good city of Paris. Largesses had been distributed among the people for the purpose of celebrating the reconciliation of the Catholics and Protestants. Jousts, tournaments, and games of all sorts had been given during the day, and the citizens, fatigued with pleasure, retired to their homes, talking of the fête and the tolerance of their good King Charles. But with the nobility the gaiety was not yet over. Two vast saloons in the old Louvre had been superbly decorated by the order of Catherine. The most eminent musicians were engaged, and the most exquisite wines sparkled among various other refreshments. In the largest hall, on an elevated throne, the young monarch was seated; on his right sat the Queen-mother, on his left the good Chancellor Michel de l'Hopital. The dancers were forming, and several heralds at arms waited in the vestibules to announce the names of the visitors. His Eminence the Cardinal de Lorraine; My Lord Admiral Coligni; the Doctor Théodore de Béze, my Lord of Guise, the Chevalier Frederic d'Harly as each gentleman on his entrance saluted the King, Charles smiled graciously. Poor young Prince, already schooled in falsehood and dissimulation! It might be seen that Catherine had assembled all the principal nobles of each party. Was it to establish peace between them, or with the hope that a spark would be elicited from the contact that should again light the torch of war? He must have been gifted with great penetration who could on that evening have read the windings of that faithless soul! Again the voice of a herald sounded, "The noble Count de Nancey, and Mademoiselle his daughter." D'Harly started, and fixed an eager eye on the principal entrance. Marie entered, leaning on the arm of her father, and together they approached the throne. Catherine kissed the forehead of the timid girl, and placed The happy Frederic had led off the daughter of De Nancey, and was mingling in the groups of dancers. The Count followed them with his eye, and groaned in spirit; he raised his hand, and in an instant a man gravely clad approached him. His habit was something of the monkish order; his countenance Italian, with small, but searching black eyes. The Count addressed him as brother Antonio, and having spoken a few words in an under tone, be seated himself calmly near the Queen, while the monk approached the dancers, and was soon lost to sight amid the crowd. "Fair lady," said Frederic to the blushing Marie, "how do I envy the Queen, whose leisure is brightened by your presence! Indeed I flatter not when I say you eclipse all the other ladies of the court." And Marie was truly charming in her white dress, and with her bashful graces. She raised her eyes to D'Harly, whom she had never seen before, and her heart beat somewhat quicker as she gazed on his eloquent and manly countenance. "How can I credit such words," said she, "from a person who has never seen me before?" "You mistake, noble lady. Many times have I seen you returning from Catholic public worship with the Queen and her ladies, and never have I had eyes but for you; and if you doubt me, I have here a proof!" As the young man said this, he drew from beneath his pourpoint a small portrait, and presented it to her view. How great was her surprise to see a resemblance of herself, admirably painted! A tear rose to her eye, but a sensation of pleasure, hitherto unknown, pervaded her frame, and she almost pressed the arm that supported her as the admiring gaze of the chevalier met the trembling of her own. D'Harly turned quickly from the contemplation of her beauty; he fancied he heard something like a muttered curse, but he saw no one near him. A figure in a monkish dress stood at some distance, but it excited no uneasiness, and he proceeded. "You see, sweet lady, that I have known you long before to-night; and great has been my desire for such an opportunity as this fête affords me. Yes, I must tell you how much I love you! and you will forgive me, I know you will. Oh! why are you not my betrothed? It would be the business of my life to study your happiness and cherish your love!" "Cease, Sir!" said Marie, with dignity." I may not listen to this language: it is my father to whom you should address yourself." "But your father hates me-hates me without knowing me. Alas! he is a Catholic, and I a Calvinist!" said the young man, who had at once given words to his passion and his despair. "Were you to speak to him of Frederic d'Harly, he would perhaps invoke a malediction on your head! But hear me, lady, and give me hope before we part. To see you, I have exposed myself to death!-me and mine, for we are here surrounded by enemies. No matter; I love you, and brave ali! Oh, leave me not without some token of remembrance! Give me your bouquet, Marie, and tell me—for pity tell me, that I may again behold you! Where is your apartment in the palace? Oh, fairest maiden, pity and forgive me!" "Leave me, Sir!" said Marie, with great emotion. "We shall be observed; the company are dispersing; I must join my father. The flowers are yours!" And she dropped her bouquet as she sought to quit his arm. "Not yet-do not fly me yet!" cried Frederic despairingly. "I conjure you, by your most tender remembrances, tell me in what part of the palace are you to be found?" "Silence, I entreat you!" she replied; father waits for me. Well, if you will persist-the my left hand chamber of the seventh gallery." As she uttered these words, thoughtless of their consequences, the young girl disappeared. D'Harly picked up the bouquet, pressed it to his lips, and hid it in his bosom. But again he was startled by a smothered sound, and again he perceived the monk, whose piercing eyes were now fixed on him with a sinister expression, while a smile of contempt stole over his gloomy countenance. Frederic's brow contracted. "6 What," thought he, "can this mean? These babes of hell are everywhere!" But the figure was no sooner lost to his view, than the bright image of Marie rose to chase all others from his mind. He had her token of remembrance--he knew where she lodged. Happy are lovers who see only the azure of the sky, even when a storm is gathering. "And has not this been a real fête?" said Frederic, as he retired with the thoughtful Coligni. "Yes, young gentleman, it has been courteously conducted." Then, as if foreseeing the dreadful massacre of St. Bartholomew, the wise admiral added in a low tone, "Oh, Catherine! Catherine! what do you purpose by delay ?-revenge more studied and complete!" BROTHER ANTONIO. Day had begun to break on the following morning, and Marie was still seated on the couch that had afforded her no rest. Her father, after returning from the ball, had left her without any mark of tenderness, as was his custom; she thought of this with sadness, but her mind was more occupied with the young cavalier to whom she indiscreetly had named her apartment. He was so bold, and yet so tender. She felt her imprudence, yet had not courage to regret it: he seemed so unhappy and so much in love. He was so handsome too, and had such a noble air. Alas! the simple maid was no longer without care; love was intruding to banish her repose! She opened her window to admit the morning air; her head ached, her eyes were heavy. The atmosphere was thick, the air frosty; the roofs of Paris were scarce discernible through the fog; and the Seine under her window rolled its discoloured waters mournfully along. She leaned dreamingly on her arms, appearing to look from her window with great intensity, yet really seeing nothing, till disturbed by a knocking at her door. It was her father; her eyes sank before him. "Come in, Antonio," said he to the Monk, who followed him-" It is before you that I would speak." Marie raised her head when she found that her father was not alone; she placed seats, and her visitors occupied them with silent gravity. 66 66 My dear father," said the trembling girl, you appear sorrowful; you have not embraced me. Do you bring me bad news?" "My daughter," replied the Count, sternly, agreeable; on the contrary, if you are worthy of "what I have to tell you is neither sad nor disme, you will be happy in listening to what I have to say." Marie, secretly disquieted, looked from her but on the countenance of Antonio was an impenefather to the Monk; the Count looked troubled, trable smile. these times, when religions errors are propagated "Yes, daughter," continued the old man, "in with alarming energy-when our ancient faith is endangered, we who are heads of the people must prove our devotion by sacrifices and good example; therefore, my child, be not surprised if, after mature deliberation with our good Antonio, I have resolved to withdraw you from the world and deconvent of the Carmelites, and thank me, as well vote you to God. Prepare therefore to enter the as this excellent priest, who have thus decided for your welfare." drew towards the door; Antonio remained seated. As he concluded, the Count rose hastily and The astonished girl fell at her father's feet. thus withdraw your affection and throw me into "Oh, what have I done, my father, that you the seclusion of a convent! Do you wish my death? How can I live separated from those I love, deprived of sun and air? Ah, my father! shall I not tell you all? Since yesterday I have found that life has many charms, nor can it be necessary for the soul's health to bury youth in a cloister. Let me remain near you, my father, to cheer your declining years. And the chevalier with whom I danced last night-you saw himFrederic d'Harly, shall I confess that he loves me, and-" The old Count, who had at first been touched by the supplicating attitude of his daughter, started at the name of D'Harly; his eyes flashed fire. "Peace, profane girl! have I not devoted you to heaven? D'Harly, a wretch, a heretic." His rage would have known no bounds had not a look from the Monk restrained him. He stifled his reproaches, and again approached the door. "My father!" cried the afflicted girl, "then you no longer love me?" But But the Count had hastened his departure, that | dying hour, know that Marie loves you. Ah, ha! he might avoid the solicitations of Marie. The the imprudent beauty confessed it to me. unfortunate girl was left with Antonio; she re- I too love Marie-have loved her long without mained on her knees in silent prayer; the Monk hope, and have suffered the torments of the conrose and slowly paced the chamber. At length demned. I had resolved that if not mine, no Marie addressed him. mortal man should possess her; and thus have I fulfilled my vengeance and my vow." "Brother Antonio, I have now no hope, no refuge but in you. You are all powerful with my father. Intercede for me; I cannot enter a convent; it will be death to me, for my heart is in the world-I fear I love this heretic." The priest burst into a sardonic laugh, and the astonished girl trembled at the strange expression of his countenance. He approached and, inclining to her ear, whispered a few words; she recoiled, and drew herself up with indignation, but her strength forsook her, and she sank on her couch murmuring the name of Frederic. Antonio saw her faint, and for an instant withdrew as if troubled; but some new idea seemed to strike him ; he paused for a moment, and again approached the couch. At this moment one of the Queen's pages appeared at the chamber door with a summons for Mademoiselle de Nancey to attend her Majesty. SEQUEL. It was night; the lights in the Louvre gradually disappeared, and no sound was heard in the palace but the rolling of the Seine and the tread of the sentinel who guarded the chamber of the King. No one had perceived a man who stole noiselessly through the numerous galleries. He had mounted the staircase, fearing that the echo of his footsteps would betray him, or that he should be met by a party of the guard. At length he reached the upper vestibule and leaned against the wall to rest for au instant, and consider how he should proceed. It may be surmised that this man was D'Harly. "What would Coligni say if he knew of this venture of mine? He would call me a fool, and inveigh with some reason, on this occasion, against the young men of the present time. Well, if I do risk my life, it is for Marie, who perhaps expects me; and what is life without some one to love? I have no fond relations, no friend but my sword. But let me think-yes, this is the seventh gallery, and I am near her chamber; I have not forgotten. Let me endeavour to assure myself that shall not be interrupted." And the adventurous D'Harly drew his cloak closely round him and listened attentively. He fancied he beard his name gently pronounced, and, his heart beating with joy and hope, he drew to whence the sound proceeded, whispering, "Is it you, Marie?" But a vigorous hand was placed upon his arm; the light of a torch flashed suddenly in his eyes; three men masked appeared before him, and before he could draw his sword, he was struck down with a poniard. As he fell he tore off the mask of his assailant, and the same features were presented to his view which had met his gaze on the previous evening at the ball. "Again that Monk! and wherefore?" he feebly uttered. "Yes, again 'tis I," retorted the assassin, "and hear me," he cried, exultingly, "Now, in your | But the words of the Monk fell almost unheard on the ear of his victim, for the last thoughts of D'Harly were with Marie, and he expired sighing forth her name. Marie de Nancey became a willing inmate in the convent of the Carmelites. The Count was killed at the Siege of Rouen in 1565. Brother Antonio was one of those who presided at the massacre of St. Bartholomew, for remorse found no place in his satanic nature. ISABEL. It is, perhaps, difficult for those who have never committed any serious breach of the moral law, to enter into the feelings of one who, having indulged in every species of vice, is suffering the natural result of such pursuits. The bitterness of an accusing conscience-the evil passions contending for mastery-the agony of deserved ignominy: yet, such was the unenviable state of mind of Henry Wrington, as he drew near the village which had given him birth, and which, but for the evil course he had for some years pursued, would still have been to him as a sanctuary, however fortune might frown or the world betray. It was twilight-that peaceful season which seems to invite the soul to contemplation-to encourage pure and holy thoughts, and lead us from the grovelling cares of earth; but the sacredness of the hour had no effect upon the young man, except to determine him upon a purpose of villany he had projected. It was summer-a tranquil summer's eve, and a fresh breeze gently fanned the hot air, and agitated the leaves of the trees through which his road lay; but no zephyr could cool the fiery passions which raged with uncontrolled fury in that breast. The part of the country through which he urged his way, was singularly beautiful-diversified by hill and dale, wood and water; before him was the romantic village, embowered in summer's verdant foliage, with its church, with heaven-pointed spire, just peering above the thatched cottages, telling a tale of childhood's happy hours, when he was comparatively innocent. Yet these scenes, these recollections, presented a sad contrast to his present condition. Ten years ago he had quitted that peaceful village for the first time, full of visions of glory, and entered upon a soldier's life. His relative and patron, who had been as a father to him in his state of orphanage, had been his companion, and excited him to deeds of valour; he had now become a disgrace to his profession, and was an outcast, expelled from the service, and shunned by the virtuous portion of society: he was aware that that generous friend who had in so many instances overlooked his errors, would now turn from him with abhorrence, and consider his presence as a pollution: he felt assured that even his gentle cousin-a creature all tenderness and lenity, and the possession of whose love was once the height of his ambition-would shun him as she would one infected with a mortal contagion: he could not doubt but that another relative the vil lage contained, which was its pastor, would view his conduct as heinous in the extreme: yet he proceeded, consoling himself with the delusive balm, that desperate circumstances required des perate remedies. Evening had silently and gradually deepened into night, when the unhappy young man reached the dwelling which had once been his home. It was a cottage, but built in a superior style to the habitations bearing that name, occupied by the humbler classes of society; the lattice of the lower apartment was thrown open to admit the cool breeze, which was redolent with sweets from a beautiful flower-garden, cultivated by the hand of the lovely being who was the presiding genius of that small, but tasteful and elegant abode. The wanderer paused for a moment, and mused upon his purpose; he listened to ascertain if his uncle had yet retired; he knew him to be an invalid, and, although a soldier, a man of temperate and systematic habits; and he hoped that he might have sought his chamber, since, heartless as he was, he could not prosecute his vile intentions in the presence of his gentle daughter. As he removed the thickly clustering leaves of the vine which encircled the window, in the hope of being able to discover if the apartment was occupied, a form met his view; he quickly withdrew, but not before he had been seen and recognized. "Henry!" exclaimed a voice, whose gentle tones were still not without some charm, "Is it possible it can be Henry!" "Well, Mary, may you doubt the evidence of your visual organs in this instance," returned the young man, in a voice scarcely intelligible from emotion. "I wonder not that you should not recognize me readily, when I scarcely can believe in my own identity. But where is my uncle? I would see him, and that immediately." "Nay," she interposed, "he has just retired, and is at his devotions. Why did you make your visit so late?" "Ask rather why I came at all," he roughly answered, "for it would seem I am an unwelcome guest." "I know not why you should say so, Henry; or if it is so, surely your own conduct will give you an explanation. These doors were ever wont to be open to you." As she spoke she moved to the entrance of the cottage, and waved her hand in invitation of his approach. "Mary," cried Wrington, as he looked around the little apartment now dimly lighted by a single taper, but which served to shew those articles of furniture so familiar to his view; "Mary, I have business of importance with my uncle, and I must see him." The terrified girl looked at him in amazement. "What can you mean, Heury?" she asked, "We have heard of your unhappy dismission from the service; have you worse news to communicate? Surely you have committed no new crime to bring ruin and disgrace upon yourself and family?" The young man answered not, but moved towards the staircase, which led to the veteran's chamber. him of your arrival," cried Mary, placing herself "Stay but a few moments, and let me inform as a barrier between her cousin and the door; you know my dear father is an invalid, and your sudden appearance might seriously injure his health." "Let me pass, girl," Wrington wildly returned, the features of his countenance assuming an expression of desperation," and leave this spot till I return at your peril." The astonished maiden still maintained her position. "Dear Henry," she cried entreatingly, “hear reason, and let me first see my father. I will promise you to plead in your behalf if you imagine he will not admit you." The accents of the gentle being he had once loved, and the epithet she had been in the habit of coupling with his name, now only served to madden him; he knew himself to be pursuing an unworthy part, and that knowledge acted like a fresh incision to a wound. "I will see him," he cried, and with a slight effort of his strong arm he thrust aside the alarmed girl, and darted up the stairs. Upon entering the apartment which the veteran usually occupied, Wrington found his aged relative. A folio bible lay before him upon a small table, from which he was reading; his astonishment was only equalled by his alarm upon beholding his nephew, who no sooner entered the chamber and closed the door, than he presented a loaded pistol to the breast of the old man, demanding the sum of one hundred pounds, or, in case of refusal, threatening to pull the trigger and put a period to his existence. The veteran, though a brave man, and one who had met death on the field of battle unintimidated, felt a thrill of horror overspread his frame in the knowledge that he was in the power of a desperado, whose fierce countenance seemed to promise the execution of his threat. "Withdraw your weapon," he cried, " and I will comply with your request; but remember, Henry, you will have the curse which follows those who rob the fatherless for this act. Your cousin, whom you once professed to love, will soon, in the course of nature, become an orphan, and by basely depriving me of this sum, you are taking from the little I shall have to bequeathe to her." "Talk not to me of Mary," fiercely interrupted the young man, "I am driven to desperate resources, and I have no alternative. Give me the gold, Sir, and I will be gone." "I have not the sum in my possession,” replied |