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THE BARONESS.-A NOVEL.

BY PARISIANUS.

CHAPTER I.

THE CALAIS MAIL.

IT was in the middle of August, 1822, that the epoch of our tale commences. The clock of the General Post Office in Paris had struck the hour of five in the afternoon, and the passengers, who had secured places in the various mails for their different destinations, began to arrive. Hackney coaches, cabriolets, private carriages, and gigs, thronged opposite the gate of the extensive building, and encumbered the narrow street which has been dignified with the illustrious name of Jean Jacques Rousseau. The porters and numerous dependants on all public institutions were most assiduous in aiding, or rather embarrassing, the individuals who issued from their respective vehicles, with importunate assistance: and the often repeated cries of "Which mail does Monsieur go by-Brest-HavreStrasbourg-Calais-Lyon-Mezieres?" &c., were strongly mingled with the oaths of postilions, the shouts of hostlers, the authoritative commands of the government couriers or guards, and the harsh voices of the sentries patrolling in front of the portals of the postoffice.

The mails were drawn up in a long line across the wide court which is known as the Cour d'Horloge; and many an anxious eye was turned towards the large clock that stands upon the building at the extremity of the yard. It was Sunday afternoon, and the moment of departure on the Sabbath is fixed at half-past five instead of six, which is the ordinary hour during the week. The horses were already harnessed to the massive vehicles, the postilions stepped into their ponderous boots, ahd the passengers were requested to take

their seats.

A variety of questions and petulent replies now ensued.

"Is my baggage safely stowed away, porter ?" enquired a fat English gentleman in bad French.

"Certainly, my lord," was the reply; "do you think the people who attend upon the Lyons mail are robbers?"

"And my umbrella!" screamed an old lady, as she endeavoured to ascend the steps of the Orleans coach without assistance.

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Right as the flask of cognac I stowed away for you, madam, in the left hand pocket," returned an insolent fellow in a smock-frock. "Which is the Caen mail?" demanded an Italian refugee, taking the remnant of a cigar from his mouth, and throwing it upon the list shoe of a gouty Scotchman who was employed in paying the porter for having taken care of his trunk, which contained two shirts and a pocket handkerchief.

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"Cannot you use your eyes and read the names on the panels?" How ignorant some people are!" said a little English boy of

thirteen to his mother.-" Thank God! I have received a good edu cation, and should know where to look for C, A, E, N," added the urchin, as he spelt the word with a triumphant glance towards his parent.

"Send for a gendarme to take up that gentleman in the handsome coat and new hat, who is fumbling in this old lady's pockets," roared a postilion, as he pointed to an individual literally clothed in rags.

"The governor ought to complain to monseigneur, the minister of the interior," observed another beggar, scarcely better clad than the

one to whom his allusion was directed.

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At length the bustle ceased, the busy hum of voices dwindled into comparative silence, and the passengers were quietly ensconced in their respective places. The postilions were seated like statues upon their horses, waiting the signal for departure, and fixing their impatient glances upon the clock at the bottom of the court. sooner had the first stroke of the chimes announced the half-hour, than the mail which stood first in the rank, and which as long as we can remember has always been that of Mezieres, started from its station, and dashed out of the gates with the speed of lightning. The others followed with the same rapidity, and in five minutes not even the noise of their wheels met the ears of the loiterers in the Cour d'Horloge or the Rue Jean Jacques Rousseau.

The Calais mail was the fifth that issued from the post-office. The postilions cracked their whips as the four strong Normandy horses that were harnessed to the vehicle launched forth at full speed, and the equipage threaded the narrow streets with an astonishing velocity, despite of the crowds of carriages, coaches, waggons, carts, and cabriolets, which often threatened to bar its progress. At ten minutes past six the horses were changed at St. Denis, a distance of six miles from the post-office of Paris.

But the reader must not imagine that the remainder of the long journey of seventy leagues was to be performed at the same rapid rate. The first stage is called a Royal Post, and the postilions deem it their duty to accomplish it in as short a time as possible. When once St. Denis is passed, the mail relapses into the sober pace of about eight miles an hour.

The mail is separated into two divisions. The front department is occupied by the guard or courier and one passenger; and the body of the coach, or the interior, contained in 1822 three persons; this number is now reduced to two.

On the present occasion the interior was occupied by three gentlemen, who observed for a long time a reserve and taciturnity with regard to each other that showed the pre-occupation of their minds. One was an old man of seventy. His few thin locks were as white as snow-his forehead was covered with a thousand wrinkles-his mouth was drawn in---his cheeks sunken-his small dark eyes hollow and death-like. Still the ravaging hand of time had not robbed his countenance of a certain stern expression, nor his aspect of a noble and aristocratic air, that denoted the individual once habituated to command and to be obeyed. He was dressed in deep black-his clothes were cut in a peculiarly old fashion long ago exploded - and the ponderous cloak, with which he was more encumbered than ren

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dered comfortable, was lined with costly sables. A massive gold chain hung from his watch-pocket, and he occasionally regaled himself with a pinch of snuff from a box made of the same metal. But his hand was trembling, and his head shook with the feebleness of overburthening years. Still his countenance betokened that the energies of his mind had not failed in sympathy with those of his frame, the physical force of that old man did not involve the moral powers in their decay, nor did his memory cease to recal in glowing colours the deeds of his youthful day. The actions of his past years seemed to him but as the events of a few by-gone summers at a little distance.

This venerable personage had taken his place in the mail under the name of the Chevalier d'Altamont; a title, the cross of St. Louis, which he wore at his button-hole, seemed to corroborate.

The individual who occupied the second place in the Calais mail was a man who had probably seen fifty summers. His cheeks were florid, his hair still dark, his teeth well preserved, and his large black eye seemed capable of piercing to the very soul, and of scanning the secret thoughts of the most wary and the most skilful in concealing their intentions beneath a mask of hypocrisy. A certain satirical smile played around his lip and gave to his countenance an air of conscious importance and sovereign contempt for his inferiors, which failed to impress a new acquaintance or a stranger in his favour. He was dressed in the extreme of fashion, his clothes were evidently fabricated by the first Parisian tailors, and his eye occasionally glanced with a look of complaisance and satisfaction on the red riband of the legion of honour which he wore.

His name was entered upon the courier's way-bill as M. de Moirot, Notary Public of the Rue Vivienne, Paris.

The third seat of the interior was filled by a gentleman of about thirty. His features were regular and striking, the facial line was aquiline, the eye dark and fiery, the hair black and slightly curled. But his countenance bore evident marks of the inroads that dissipation and irregularity of life had made upon his constitution. His clothes were somewhat shabby, he possessed no cloak nor great-coat to envelope himself withal, and every now and then he pulled down his sleeves to conceal the holes that appeared in his dirty kid gloves. His double-breasted waistcoat was carefully buttoned up to the throat, and did not permit the smallest particle of linen to show itself about his person. His manners were free and easy, his impudence in addressing the most perfect stranger was unparalleled, and his good opinion of himself was only equalled by the bad one that others entertained of him.

This individual, whose name was Sans-gêne-and a very appropriate name it will eventually prove to be-had booked himself for Boulogne-sur-Mer, whither he was going to receive a considerable property left him by his father, who had just died in that town through a surfeit and consequent apoplexy occasioned by the deceased gentleman's unconquerable predilection for fried eels.

It was not till the mail had arrived as far as Chantilly that either of these three passengers ventured to break the silence they had so

rigidly maintained. At length M. de Moirot was wearied of that selfish taciturnity, and resolved to interrupt it. He turned for a moment towards the window on his side, looked in the direction in which the palace was situated, and pointing it out to his aged companion said, "The king is at this moment in yonder dwelling."

"I know it," returned the chevalier, “and let us thank a bountiful Providence for having restored an ancient dynasty to its rights, and established the former glories of France on a firmer basis than ever!".

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'You were then no friend to the emperor?" observed the notary. "An honest man is never a friend to tyrants," was the laconic

answer.

"Quite right, old fellow," said Sans-gêne, accompanying his approval with a familiar slap on the chevalier's knee.

And yet, messieurs," persisted M. de Moirot, with a peculiar suavity of voice and manner," and yet Napoleon has done more for France than ever was performed by the Bourbon family."

"He rendered her the most miserable country in the world—he covered her plains with slaughtered heroes."

"Sacrebleu!" cried Sans-gêne, totally unawed by the indignant glances of d'Altamont, "the old fellow does not preach badly."

"Still the fame of Napoleon's victories is undying on the page of history," said de Moirot, casting a look of contempt at Sans-gêne, who ran his fingers through his hair with the most ineffable non

chalance.

"Glory is an empty bubble, and peace conduces to the welfare of illustrious men. But let us change the conversation," continued M. d'Altamont; "and, in order to vary the topic, ere we dispute, allow me to ask whether you propose going as far as Calais?"

"Ah! that's it," cried Sans-gêne, helping himself to a copious pinch of the chevalier's snuff. Good dust this, old boy-bought at the Civet, of course-eh ?"

"I intend to stop at Amiens," said de Moirot.

"And I also," observed the chevalier.

""Tis a disagreeable hour to arrive at an hotel-three o'clock in the morning," observed Sans-gêne; "deuced tired, and obliged to shift for one's-self. No gentleınan can stand it, ou le diable m'emporte."

"Had not pressing business compelled me to visit the neighbourhood of Amiens," began M. de Moirot, without noticing Sans-gêne's observations, "I should not-”

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"Ah! it is not in the town, then," exclaimed the old man quickly, that the mail will put you down?"

"Mon pardon-I must endeavour to snatch a few hours of repose at Amiens, and then a hired carriage will speedily convey me to the chateau."

"A chateau near Amiens, in Picardy!" said the chevalier hastily. "I am about to visit the Baroness of Grandmanoir," observed the notary.

"Devilish high connexion that," exclaimed Sans-gène.

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Within a mile of Amiens," continued de Moirot," the two very

first objects that meet the eye are the tall spire of the cathedral, and the distant turrets of the ancient chateau."

“I have remarked them in former times," said the old man.

"The manor-house is surrounded by groves of lofty trees; but the turreted walls peep over that verdant enclosure. There is not a finer estate in all Picardy than that of Grandmanoir. Perhaps you have seen it yourself?"

"If my memory do not fail me," returned the chevalier slowly, "I think I have once or twice been an inmate of the noble mansion. But for many years I have not visited this part of the country. Of course the baroness is still alive?"

"And in good health," said de Moirot. "The excellent lady! she has seen many a change of season, many a political vicissitude! At this moment she cannot be less than sixty-five or sixty-six years of age. I have had the honour of transacting business for her during a quarter of a century, and my father-"

At this moment the wheels of the mail rattled on the pavement of the town of Clermont, and the conversation was dropped by the passengers in the interior. The chevalier d' Altamont did not exhibit any wish to renew it, Sans-gêne was fast asleep, and de Moirot became thoughtful. The night was dark, but not a breath of wind disturbed the tranquil leaf: the soft breeze of the morning had entirely subsided to a dead calin. The noise of the horses' hoofs, and the cracking of the postillion's whip, now alone interrupted the solemn silence, and the heavy vehicle rolled onward at an even and unwearied pace. Occasionally it made way to allow a diligence or a waggon to pass by, and then with the right wheels in the dusty road, and the left on the pavement, its deviation from the perpendicular appeared to threaten an overthrow. But in a moment it regained the middle of the wide route, and relaxed not an iota of its steady pace.

The clock of the town-hall had struck half-past three in the morning, when the mail entered Amiens at full gallop. The postilion urged on his four obedient horses with whip and spur, and the courier blew a loud blast upon his bugle to give due warning to the clerk at the post-office. In a minute the coach stopped at the door, and a hostler, who was employed in changing the horses, volunteered his services to convey the baggage of the two gentlemen, whose journey was completed, to the inn where they chose to put up.

The morning was cold and gloomy. A mizzling rain descended like a fog, and beat in the faces of the shivering travellers. In vain the chevalier drew his cloak more closely around him, he could not repel the frigid sensation that numbed him. M. de Moirot's teeth chattered as he walked up and down immediately opposite the post-office, while Sans-gêne thrust his hands into the great-coat pocket of the courier to warm them. But the horses were soon harnessed to the mail-Sans-gêne resumed his seat in the interior, the postilion mounted into his saddle, and the equipage again set forth upon its journey, carrying with it an individual who will soon become no unimportant nor unamusing character in the progress of

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