66 BEHOLD THE END OF VICE!"

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told of his anguish. Alas! how terrible to him, who knew the sad, the hideous cause of his friend's disaster.

The Jesuit had recognised the youth-the hopeful youth. He gazed upon him, as a tiger from some mountain summit espies his prey in the distant valley beneath, and licks his fangs at the sight.

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Young man," he solemnly entoned," you have come too late—too late to hear your friend's last words of counsel. But not too late to profit by his awful doom. Behold the end of vice! the retribution of crime! Only a few hours since he was the world's admiration; and now, what? The destined food of worms. The crawling things of corruption shall defile his beauty. Those lips, whose words. were so bewitching, shall soon be kissed by kindred befoulment: those eyes, so fascinating yesterday, will soon be filled by the ravenous insects that spare nothing; that pollute all, devour all.

"From the last words of advice which your poor friend enjoined me to repeat to you, I may conclude that you tread in his footsteps. Oh, behold the goal to which you hasten! Behold the doom, the doom of the libertine! He said, 'Tell my friend, that from the shadow of God's judgment-seat, in which I stand shuddering, I conjure him to repent and amend whilst he has time. Alas! I have seduced, perverted, ruined him! My only hope for pardon is in his repentance and amendment.' Oh, my young friend, pity the soul of your seducer. Repent whilst you have time. Reject not this awful warning.

The long-suffering of the Eternal is shortened by unrepenting guilt."

During this solemn address, Leonard remained kneeling by the corpse, giving vent to his grief in the broken accents of sudden anguish: he heeded not the Jesuit's exhortation. As if startled from other thoughts, he rose suddenly, and, turning to the Jesuit with ferocity, burst forth :—

Reserve your

"Sir, your presence annoys me. sermon for Sunday. I'll send some one to hear it.” He paced the room like a newly caged lion, his eyes indignantly flashing.

He struck his forehead, stopped, and again burst forth :

"How came you here, sir? Why did you intrude yourself into the presence of such a man as Valremy? You are a priest, perhaps a Jesuit; how could you dare to approach your living scourge? But the vile ass kicked the sick lion."

"Your friend sent for me, sir," replied the Jesuit, calmly.

"Sent for you? Allow me to say, the thing's impossible. No, no; Valremy has not belied himself."

"He has confessed his transgressions, and, God be blessed, died repentant."

"I do not believe it. You slander Valremy. Oh, that I had been present! This infernal adventure!"

"Then you do not believe me, sir?"

"How can I? Believe that Valremy confessed

to a priest-turned penitent! Impossible! Tell me that I am a Jesuit myself, and I'll believe you sooner. Look you, sir, he hated all your cloth, as the devil, you say, hates holy water. He hated you on principle; and never was principle better founded. Penitent! Delirious-mad, if you like; but penitent! Faith may move mountains; but it will never move me to believe that.

"One word will disabuse you, my poor young friend! I pity you. If I tell you one secret, perhaps you will believe that he told more in his repentant confession. Well, he solemnly declared Mlle. Duplessis innocent, and advised you to-to-" The Jesuit expediently hesitated at the unexpedient advice: Leonard took him up :

"Fiends and furies! and is it even so? By hell, priest, you bewildered the man-you mystified him -you cheated him into avowals, in his delirious agony; like the vile deceivers who put questions to those that talk in their sleep. What else have you wrung out of him? Respecting that lady, I mean." "He told me no more respecting Mlle. Duplessis."

The Jesuit spoke the truth; Valremy had said nothing respecting Leonard's disgraceful acquiescence in his stratagem; but he had confided to the Jesuit a message for Mlle. Duplessis, of which more anon. Leonard rejoined :

"Can I believe you?"

"I refer you to your confidence in your friend," said the Jesuit, meaningly.

M

"O hideous fate! Infernal mishap!"

Again Leonard grasped his friend's cold hand, and wept bitterly.

Meanwhile Valremy's relatives entered the room, and put an end to this most unsatisfactory meeting of Leonard with the Jesuit Provincial.

Leaving the corpse to the care of the Count's afflicted relatives, we will accompany Leonard to his apartments. He left after bewailing the catastrophe with the mourners, whose questions as to the probable hand that had killed the Count, he was unable to answer. As a matter of course, he did not state all that he knew of the circumstances; but the Jesuit interposed, and assured them "It was the Count's most solemn wish that no measures might be taken to punish his antagonist, even should he be discovered: he would not give his name."

In the solitude of his apartment Leonard's agitation increased. Compunctious visitings again assailed him; but, strange to say, the fact that Valremy had died penitent tended to confirm him in his evil dispositions, and seemed likely to make him more desperate in his perversity. Alas! does it not require a predisposing grace from on High to make us profit by good example? And is not good a stumbling-block to evil?

Leonard felt persuaded that some trick had been played on his deceased friend by the priest. His persuasion would have risen to conviction had he been aware that the priest was a Jesuit.

He scouted the idea of Valremy's repentance ; but after considering the priest's manner, his declaration, and recalling to mind the peculiar look of arrested anguish still lingering on the face of the dead, he inclined to believe the assertion; and the thought drew from him an imprecation against his friend's pusillanimity.

Then a thousand thoughts battled in his mind: a thousand remembrances brought tears to his eyes, as his fancy reproduced the scenes of their past pleasures the brilliant wit, the fund of anecdote, the flashing repartee, that so often delighted, enlivened, fascinated the boon companions of his departed friend.

The Temple of Pleasure-the gorgeous Chateau Valremy-had lost its genius!

The fashionable world was now but a mob without a leader.

Intrigue had lost its standard-its criterion: who could supply the place of Valremy?

The high-priest, the god of pleasure was no more. Desolating thought! Valremy is gone!

And then the upsurging, self-tormenting reflection-he was the cause proximate. It was to give him a lesson that had brought about the dismal catastrophe—the irreparable loss—the final disgrace of the "profession," the humiliating pusillanimity of their leader!

He reproached himself; he denounced the fatal curiosity which induced him to consent to the disgraceful temptation.