"Your request is reasonable," replied the president, in a bland voice, "and if circ.u.mstances permitted, it would afford me the greatest pleasure to grant it. But the guillotine requires repair, and will not be in a condition to perform its functions until to-morrow, at which time, Citizen Beauvallon, at the hour of ten, A.M., you will have ceased to exist. Good night, and pleasant dreams!"

This sally was received with roars of applause, and the unhappy prisoner was reconducted to the place of confinement.

That night was a sleepless one. Beauvallon's arrest, his speedy trial and condemnation, the desertion of Eulalie, had followed each other with such stunning rapidity, that, until now, he had hardly time to reflect upon the dismal chain of circ.u.mstances--now they pressed upon his attention, and crowded his mind to overflowing. At midnight, as he lay tossing on his bed, upon which he had thrown himself without undressing, he thought he heard a confused noise in the apartment of the next house adjoining his. The noise increased. He placed his hand upon the wall, and felt it jar under successive shocks. Suddenly a current of air blew in upon him, and at the same time a faint ray of light streamed through an opening in the part.i.tion.

"Courage!" said a soft voice. "The opening enlarges. Now, Julie!"

Julie! Beauvallon was sure he heard the name, and yet uncertain whether or not he was dreaming.

"Julie!" he exclaimed, cautiously.

"Yes, monsieur--it is Julie--sure enough," answered a pleasant voice.

"Then you, at least, have not forgotten me."

"No one who has once known you can ever forget you. Courage! you will soon be free. Aid us if you can."

"Then you are not alone?"

"Have patience, and you will see."

His own exertions, added to those of his friends without, soon enabled the prisoner to force his way into the next house; but there disappointment awaited him. Two soldiers in the uniform of the _gensdarmerie_ stood before him.

"_On ne pa.s.se par ici_,--you can't pa.s.s here,"--said one.

"What cruel mockery is this?" cried Beauvallon. "Is it not enough that I am condemned to death, but you must subject me to an atrocious pleasantry? This is refinement of cruelty."

"It seems that our disguise is perfect, Julie," said the soldier who had not yet spoken. "Eugene does not know his best friends."

In an instant the speaker was folded in the arms of Beauvallon. It was Eulalie herself, as bewitchingly beautiful in her uniform as in the habiliments of her s.e.x. She hurriedly explained that the moment she heard of Eugene's arrest, she prepared to meet the worst contingency.

She had already converted her money into cash. Learning the place of his imprisonment, she had hired, through the agency of another person, the adjoining house, which happened to be unoccupied. The task of making an aperture in the part.i.tion was an easy one--the difficulty of pa.s.sing through the city was greater. The idea of military disguises then occurred. Julie and herself had already equipped themselves, and they were provided with a uniform for Beauvallon.

Secured by this costume, the three fugitives ventured forth. In the great square of the city, workmen were busily employed in repairing the hideous engine of death, and Beauvallon pa.s.sed, not without a shudder, beneath the very shadow of the guillotine, to which he had been doomed.

Seated on the cold ground, beneath the fatal apparatus, was an old woman muttering to herself.

"Good evening, citizens," said she. "We shall have a fine day for the show to-morrow. Look how the bonny stars are winking and blinking on the gay knife blade they've been sharpening. It will be darker and redder when the clock strikes ten again. Down with the aristocrats!"

The fugitives needed no more to quicken their steps. They reached the frontiers in safety, and beyond the Rhine, in the hospitable land of Germany, the lovers were united; nor did they return to France till the star of Robespierre had set in blood, and the master mind of Napoleon had placed its impress on the destinies of France.

THE OLD CITY PUMP.

Many evenings since, we were pa.s.sing up State Street late at night.

State Street at midnight is a very different affair from State Street at high noon. The shadows of the tall buildings fall on a deserted thoroughfare; save where, here and there, a spectral bank watchman keeps ward over the granite sepulchres of golden eagles, and the flimsier representatives of wealth. The bulls and bears have retired to their dens, and East India merchants are invisible. Newsboys are nowhere, and every sound has died away. There stands the Old State House, peculiar and picturesque, rising with a look of other days, a relic of past time, against the deep blue sky, or webbing the full moon with the delicate tracery of its slender spars and signal halliards. And there stands--no! there stood the old Town Pump. But it is no more--_Ilium fuit_ was written on its forehead--it has been reformed out of office, its occupation has gone, its handle has been amputated, its body has been dissected, and there is nothing of it left.

Yet on the evening to which we alluded in the beginning, the old pump was there, and crossing over from the Merchants Bank, we leaned against its handle, as one leans against the arm of an old friend, in a musing, idle mood. Presently we heard a gurgling sound and confused murmurs issuing from its lips--"like airy tongues that syllable men's names." Anon these murmurs shaped themselves into distinct articulations, and as we listened, wonderingly, the old pump spoke:--

"Past twelve o'clock, and a moonlight night. All well, as I'm a pump.

n.o.body breaking into banks, and n.o.body kicking up rows--watchmen fast asleep, and every body quiet. But I can't sleep. No! the city government has murdered sleep! There's something heavy on my buckets, and I fear me, I'm a gone sucker! They thought I couldn't find out what they were up to--the munic.i.p.al government--but I'm a deep one, and I know every thing that's going for'ard. What a jolly go, to be sure! They told me Mayor Bigelow hated proscription--but I knew it was gammon! He must follow the fashion, and Cochituate is all the go.

There ain't no pumps now--it's all fountain! Pump water is full of animalculae, and straddle bugs don't exist in pond water--of course not. n.o.body ever see young pollywogs and snapping turtles floating down stream in fly-time. Certainly not! I'm getting old--of course I am; that's the talk! I've been in office too long. Well, well, I know I'm rather asthmatic and phthisicky--but n.o.body ever knowed me to suck, even in the driest time. These living waters have welled up even from the time when the salt sea was divided from the land, and the rocks were cloven by the hand of Omnipotence, and the sweet spring came bursting upward from the fragrant earth, and light and flowers came together to welcome the birthday of the glad and glorious gift.

Here, many a century back, the giant mastodon trod the earth into deep hollows, as he moved upon his sounding path. Then came another time.

In the hollow of the three hills, the Indian raised his bark wigwam, and the smoke of his council fire curled up like a mist-wreath in the forest. Here the red man filled the wild gourd cup when he returned weary from the chase or the skirmish. And here, too, the Indian maiden smoothed her dark locks, and her l.u.s.trous, laughing eyes gazed upon the image of her own dusky beauty, mirrored on the surface of the wave. By and by the red man ceased to drink of my unfailing rill.

Beings with pale faces came to me to quench their thirst; bearded lips were moistened with my diamond drops; and I looked up upon iron corselet and steel hauberk, and faces harder than either. But the old Puritans gave me form and substance--a 'local habitation and a name.'

The spirit of the fountain was wedded to its present tabernacle. The dwellings of men sprang up around me in the place of the departing forest. I gave them all a cheerful welcome. If the colonists worked hard, I worked harder yet. I filled their pails and cups, and revived their failing hearts, and cheered their unremitting labors. They called me their friend. The pretty girls smiled upon me, as, under pretence of levying contributions on my treasures, they chatted with young men who gathered at my side. Then came a sterner period. I heard no more love tales--no more idle gossip. Men stood here, and spoke of deep wrong, of tyranny, of trampled rights, of resistance, of liberty!

That was a word I had not heard since the red man drank of my unfettered tide. One night, there was a great gathering here. There were men and boys, a mult.i.tude. There was much angry talk and much confusion. Then I heard the roll of the drum and the regular tramp of an armed force. A band of British soldiers, all resplendent with scarlet, and gold, and burnished muskets that glittered in the moonbeams, were formed into line at the command of an officer, and confronted the dark array of citizens. Then came an angry discussion--orders on the part of the commander for the mult.i.tude to disperse, which were unheeded or disobeyed. Then that line of glittering tubes was levelled. I heard the fatal word "fire!" the flame leaped from the muzzles of the muskets, and the volley crashed and echoed in the street. Blood flowed upon the pavement--the blood of citizens mingled with my waters, and I was the witness of a fearful tragedy. In after times, I heard it named the Boston Ma.s.sacre. Since then, I have seen hours of sunshine and triumph, of fun and frolic, of anger and rejoicing. My waters have laved the dust that it might not soil the uniform of Washington as he rode past on his snow-white charger, amid the acclamations of the mult.i.tude. I have seen Hull and his tars pa.s.s up the street, bearing the stripes and stars in triumph from the war of the ocean. I have heard long-winded orators spout over my head in emulation of my craft, "in one weak, washy, everlasting flood." I have seen many a military, many a civic pageant. The last I witnessed was, as d.i.c.k Swiveller remarks, a 'stifler.' It was that confounded Water Celebration. Republics _is_ ungrateful. I was forgotten on that occasion. n.o.body drank at the old city pump. People sat on my head and stood on my nose, just as if I had no feelings. I heard a young lady in the gallery overhead say, 'Well, that horrid old pump will soon be out of the way now.' And a city father answered her, 'Of course.' It was a workin' then--treason and fate, and all them things. I knew they were going to 'put me out of my misery,' as the saying goes. I'm getting superannuated--I heard 'em say so. Sometimes an office boy tastes a drop, and then turns up his nose,--as if it wasn't pug enough before,--and says, 'What horrid stuff! the Cochituate for my money!' General Washington's canteen was filled here--and he said, 'Delicious!' when he raised it to his lips. But he was no judge, of course not. Time was when I wasn't slow but I'm not fast enough for this generation. When folks write letters with lightning, and sail ships with tea-kettles, pumps can't come it over 'em. Well, well, I'll hold out to the last--I'll make 'em carry me off and bury me decently at the city's expense, and perhaps some kind old friend will write my epitaph."

The old pump was mute--the speech was ended--its "song had died into an echo." We pa.s.sed on mournful and thoughtful. Republics are ungrateful--old friends are forgotten with a change of fashion, and there is a period to the greatness of town pumps as well as the glory of individuals.

THE TWO PORTRAITS.

"Beautiful! beautiful!" exclaimed Ernest Lavalle, as, throwing himself back in his chair, he contemplated, with eyes half shut, a lovely countenance that smiled on him from a canvas, to which he had just added a few hesitating touches. It was but a sketch--little more than outline and dead coloring, and a misty haze seemed spread over the face, so that it looked vision-like and intangible. The young painter's exclamation was not addressed to his workmanship--he was not even looking at that faint image; but, through its medium, was gazing on lineaments as rare and fascinating as ever floated through a poet's or an artist's dream. Deep, l.u.s.trous blue eyes, in whose depth sincerity and feeling lay crystallized; features as regular as those of a Grecian statue; a lip melting, ripe, and dewy, half concealing, half revealing, a line of pearls; soft brown hair, descending in waves upon a neck and shoulders of satin surface and Parian firmness. Such were some of the external traits of loveliness belonging to

"A creature not too bright and good For human nature's daily food,"

who had completely actualized the ideal of the young Parisian artist, into whose studio we have introduced our readers. The fair original, whose portrait is before us, was Rose d'Amour, a beautiful actress of one of the metropolitan theatres, who had just made her debut with distinguished success. There was quite a romance in her history. Of unknown parents, she had commenced her career--like the celebrated Rachel--as a street singer, and was looking forward to no more brilliant future, when her beauty, genius, and purity of character attracted the attention of a distinguished newspaper editor, by whose benevolent generosity she was enabled to prepare herself for the stage, by two or three years of a.s.siduous study. The success of his protegee more than repaid the kind patron for his exertions and expenditure.

A word of Ernest Lavalle, and it shall suffice. He was the son of a humble vine dresser in one of the agricultural departments of France.

His talent for drawing, early manifested, attracted the notice of his parish priest, whose earnest representations induced his father to send the boy to Paris, and give him the advantages afforded by the capital for students of art. In the great city, Ernest allowed none of the attractions, by which he was surrounded, to divert him from the a.s.siduous pursuit of his beloved art. His mornings were pa.s.sed in the gallery of the Louvre, his afternoons in private study, and his evenings at the academy, where he drew from casts and the living model. The only relaxation he permitted himself, was an occasional excursion in the picturesque environs of the French capital; and he always took his sketch book with him, thus making even his pleasure subservient to his studies. Two prizes obtained, for a drawing and a picture, secured for him the patronage of the academy, at whose expense he was sent to Italy, to pursue his studies in the famous galleries of Rome and Florence. He returned with a mind imbued with the beauty and majesty of the works of those great masters, whose glory will outlive the canvas and marble which achieved it, determined to win for himself a niche in the temple of Fame, or perish in his laborious efforts to obtain it. At this time he was in his twenty-second year. A vigorous const.i.tution was his heritage; and his rounded cheek glowed with the warm color of health. His strictly cla.s.sical features were enhanced by the luxuriance of his hair, which he wore flowing in its native curls, while his full beard and mustache relieved his face from the charge of effeminacy.

Ernest was yet engaged in the contemplation of the unfinished work--or rather in dreaming of the bright original--when a light tap was heard at his door. He opened it eagerly, and his poor studio was suddenly illuminated, as it were, by the radiant apparition of Rose d'Amour.

She was dressed with a charming simplicity, which well became a sylph like form, that required no advent.i.tious aid from art.

"Good morning, Monsieur Lavalle!" said the beautiful actress, cheerfully, as she dropped gracefully into the _fauteuil_ prepared for her reception. "You find me in the best possible humor to-day, thanks to this bright morning sun, and to the success of last night. _Mon Dieu!_ so many bouquets! you can't think! Really, the life of an _artiste_ begins to be amusing. Don't you find it so, as a painter?"

"I confess to you, mademoiselle, I have my moments of despondency."

"With your fine talent! Think better of yourself. I hope, at least, that I have not been so unlucky as to surprise you in one of those inopportune moments."

"Ah, mademoiselle," said the painter, "if it were so, one of your smiles would dispel the cloud in a moment."

"Really!" replied the actress, gayly. "Are you quite sure there is no flattery in the remark? I am aware that flattery is an essential part of an artist's profession."

"Not of a true artist's," replied Ernest. "The aim and end of all art is truth; and he who forgets it is untrue to his high mission."

"True," said the lady. "Well, then, _faites votre possible_--as Napoleon said to his friend David--for I am anxious that this portrait shall be a _chef-d'oeuvre_. I design it for a present."

"With such a subject before me," replied the painter "I could not labor more conscientiously, if the picture were designed for myself."

The sitting pa.s.sed away rapidly, for the artist; and he was surprised when the lady, after consulting her watch, rose hastily, and exclaimed, "That odious rehearsal! I must leave you--but you ought to be satisfied, for I have given you two hours of my valuable time.

Adieu, then, until to-morrow."