from my gate, and to tell them, if they came again, they should be beaten off!"

There was a general laugh through the box. The Duchess of Orleans alone turned away with an expression of deep mortification. Valentine Visconti, daughter of the Duke of Milan and Duchess of Orleans, was one of the most celebrated women of her time. Her graceful beauty seemed the impersonation of her lovely land-something quite foreign to the French court. As she sat by the gross queen, she inspired the idea of what humanity might become, when invested with the "glorified body" of the Saints. Her soul beamed with almost preternatural lustre from her eyes, and spoke in the musical accents of her beautiful lips. Her gentleness and sympathy, more than the intellectual power and accomplishments, that signalized her amidst a brutified and ignorant. race, gave her an ascendency over the mad King, which afforded some colour to the wicked imaginations of those who, in the end, accused her of sorcery !—an accusation very common against the Italians of that period, whose superior civilization and science were attributed to the diabolical arts of magic. The secret of Valentine's power over the maniac King has been discovered and illustrated by modern benevolence. She could lead him like a little child, when, for months, he would not consent to be washed or dressed, and when these offices were performed at night by ten men, masked, lest, when their sovereign recovered all the reason he ever possessed, he should cause them to be hung for this act of necessary violence!

The spectators, while awaiting the rising of the curtain, were exchanging the usual observations and salutations. “Valentine," whispered the beautiful young wife of the old Duke of Berri, "did not that man,—mon Dieu, how beautiful he is! -who stands near the musicians, kiss his hand to you?"

"Yes, he is my countryman."

"I thought so ;-he looks as if the blood of all your proud old nobles ran in his veins ;-the Confalonieris, Sforzas, Viscontis, and Heaven knows who."

"He has a loftier nobility than theirs, my cousin; his charter is direct from Heaven, and written by the finger of Heaven on his noble countenance. As to this world's honours, he boasts none but such as the son of a rich and skilful weaver of silks may claim."

"Mon Dieu! is it possible; he is a counterfeit, that well might pass in any King's exchequer. But he looks sad and abstracted, and, seeing, seemeth as though he saw not. Know ye, cousin, what aileth him?"

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Yes, but it is a long tale; the lady of his thoughts has strangely disappeared, and, though for more than a month he has sought her, day and night, he hath, as yet, no trace of her. He has come hither to-night at my bidding, for I deeply pity the poor youth, and would fain divert his mind;—but soft,— the curtain is rising !"

"Pray tell me what means this scene, Valentine ?"

"It is the interior of a chapel. You know this legend of St. Thérèse ?"

"Indeed I do not. I cannot read, and my confessor never told it to me."

"She was betrothed to one she loved. The preparations were made for the espousals, when, on the night before her marriage, she saw, in vision, St. Francis, who bade her renounce her lover, and told her, that she was the elected bride of Heaven; that she must repair to the convent of the Sisters of Charity, and there resign the world, and abjure its sinful passions. You now see her obedient to the miraculous visitation. She has concluded her novitiate. One weakness she

has as yet indulged. She has secretly retained the last gift of her betrothed. Hark! there you hear the vesper-bell. She is coming to deposit it at that shrine, yonder."

A female now entered, closely veiled and clad in a full, gray stuff dress, that concealed every line of her person. She held something in her hands, which were folded on her bosom, and walking, with faltering steps, across the stage to the shrine, knelt and made the accustomed signs and prayer. She then rose, and raising the little roll to her lips, kissed it fervently, and then, as if asking pardon for this involuntary weakness, again dropped on her kness, and depositing the roll, withdrew. It would seem, she had entered completely into the tender regrets of the young saint she impersonated, for a tear she had dropped on the last bequest of the lover was seen, as it caught and reflected the lamp's rays. Immediately, through an open window in the ceiling, a dove entered, the symbol of the Holy Spirit. It was not uncommon, in these mysteries, to bring the sacred persons of the Trinity upon the scene. The bird descended, and took the roll in his bill. As he rose with it, it unfolded, and the white silk scarf, given to poor Violette, represented the last earthly treasure of Saint Thérèse. The dove made three evolutions in his ascent, and disappeared. While the cries of" Bravo! Bravissimo! Petit oiseau! Jolie colombe!" were resounding through the house, the Duchess de Berri whispered to Valentine, "See your compatriot! he looks as if he would spring upon the stage! how deadly pale! and his eyes! blessed Mary! they are like living fires! Surely he is going mad!"

"Heaven help him!" replied the gentle Valentine. “I erred in counselling him to come hither! Would I could speak with him.”

"Never mind him now, cousin; the scene is changing ;tell me, what comes next?"

"Next you will see St. Thérèse praying before her crucifix,-ah, there she is! there is the coffin in which she sleeps at night, there the death's-head she contemplates all day."

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Shocking! shocking! I never would be a nun."

"It is but for the last days of her penitence. After her Vows are made, she, like all her order, will be devoted to nursing the sick, and succouring the wretched,—a happier life than ours, my cousin!" "Think ye so?

Methinks the next world will be soon enough to be a saint, and do much tiresome good deeds. But why has she that ugly mantle drawn over her head, so that one cannot see her hair, or the form of her neck and shoulders ?"

"Be not so impatient. You see the door behind her. The Devil is coming into her cell under the form of her lover. Ah, there he is !"

"Bless my heart, if I were the Devil, I would never leave that goodly form again. Now she'll turn! now we shall see her face! Pshaw! she has pulled that ugly mantle over, for a veil."

"Pray be still, cousin ;-this is her last temptation. I would not lose a word. Listen,-hear how she resists the prince of darkness."

The pretended lover performed his part so as to do honour to the supernatural power he represented. At first, he would have embraced the saint; but she shrunk from him, and, reverently placing her hand on the crucifix, stood statue-like against the wall. He then knelt and poured out his passion vehemently. He reminded her of their early

love, of the home, where he had wooed and won her; he besought her to speak to him, once to withdraw her veil, and look at him. She was still silent and immovable. He described the wearisome and frigid existence of a conventual life, and then painted, in passionate words, the happiness that awaited him, if she would but keep her first vow, made to him. He told her, that horses awaited them at the outward gate. The force of the temptation now became apparent. The weak, loving girl, was triumphing over the saint. Her head dropped on her bosom, her whole frame trembled, and was sinking. Her lover saw his triumph and sprang forward to seize her. But her virtue was re-nerved; she grasped the crucifix, and looking up to a picture of the Virgin, shrieked, "Mary, blessed mother! aid me!"

The Evil One extended his arm to wrest the crucifix, when, smitten by its holy virtue, he sunk through the floor, enveloped in flames. The saint again fell on her knees, the dove again descended and fluttered around her, and the curtain fell.

In those days, when conventual life had lost nothing of its sacredness, and men's minds were still subjected to a belief in the visible interference of good and evil spirits in men's concerns, such a scene was most effective. The spectators were awed; not a sound was heard, till the Duchess of Berri, never long abstracted from the actual world, whispered, " Valentine, did you see your Italian when she shrieked; how he struck his hand upon his head! and see him now, what a colour in his cheek! He will certainly go mad, and, knowing you, may dart hither before we can avoid him. Will ye not ask Orleans to order those men at arms to conduct him out?— you know," in a whisper, "I have such a horror of madmen."

he

"You need have none, believe me, in this case. My poor