ther declarations to make, the magistrates are ready to receive them at the Hôtel de Ville.”

“Monsieur,” replied the Marchioness, “how much oftener am 1 to tell you that you know all For pity's sake do not further persecute me. I have confessed everything."

Drouet turned his horse away, and rode up to the scaffold to exchange a few words with some of the officials who were standing near it. At the same moment the executioner descended from the cart, and with his man went up the steps of the scaffold.

Do you leave me?" gasped Marie hurriedly, as she seized Pirot's hand. “Be with me on the scaffold, even when—. He is coming. It will soon be over."

“I will not leave you,” said Pirot, rising," until you are no more." “Stop!” cried Marie. "One word more. I may not speak to you again. Let me tell you how deeply I feel your patient kindness throughout this fearful trial. They are ready-keep by my side: and when we are on the scaffold, at the moment of my death, say a De Profundis. You promise this."

Pirot bent his head, and squeezed her hand in token of compliance. He tried to speak, but his voice failed him. His whole frame appeared convulsed, and he offered a strange contrast to the strange calm of his companion.

The executioner came down from the scaffold, and assisted the Marchioness to descend; whilst Pirot also got out, and she went with him up the ladder, hurriedly, as though she was anxious to bring the scene to a conclusion. As she reached the platform, her beauty evidently made an impression on the crowd. They turned one to the other, and murmured; but this soon died away into the same deep, awful silence—so perfect, that the voices of the executioner and Pirot could be plainly heard. Throwing herself upon her knees, Marie submitted to the second dreary toilet she had been obliged to undergo. The assistant cut off the whole of her beautiful

hair, throwing the long ringlets carelessly about on the scaffold; and next, tearing down the collar of her dress, rudely turned it back, so as to leave bare her neck and shoulders. Then bandaging her eyes

with a small scarf, he retired.

fell

The sun was shining brightly; and at this moment its rays upon the glittering blade of a long sword which the headsman had heart sank within him,-so much so, that his utterance was choked,

thus finished his prayer. And then, as if aware of the cause, she exclaimed rapidly,

"Holy Virgin, pray for me, and forgive me! I abandon my body, which is but dust, to the earth. Do thou receive my

soul!"

The executioner drew near, and the good Pirot closed his eyes, as with the greatest difficulty, in broken and quivering words, he commenced the De Profundis. But in a few seconds his voice was again checked by the noise of a dull heavy blow at his side, and a strange and werden wound from the crowd,-not a cry of alarm, or triumph, Per ese expiration of the breath, almost like a hiccough, terribly da te sex stant a hand was laid on his shoulder. He and ground with an effort, perceived the headsman

"It was well done, monsieur," said the man; " and I hope Madame has left me a trifle, for I deserve it."

Almost mechanically following the direction of the man's finger as he pointed to the platform, Pirot's eyes fell upon a ghastly head lying in a pool of blood. He saw no more; but fell insensible on the scaffold.

This was scarcely noticed in the terrible excitement of the minute. The executioner calmly took a bottle from his pocket, and refreshed himself with its contents; and at the same time a cloud of smoke rose from the back of the scaffold, which was the part furthest from the river. He raised the head, and, pulling the gory scarf away, shewed it to the people; then taking up the body as he would have done a sack, he threw them both down upon the pile of faggots which his assistant had just lighted. The wood was dry, and the flames were further fed by resinous matter sprinkled amongst them; and in twenty minutes some charred ashes alone remained, which the crowd nearest the scaffold struggled violently to collect, as the Garde kicked and dispersed them as well as they were able about the Place de Grêve.

And in this manner terminated the dark career of the Marchioness of Brinvilliers.

CHAPTER XXXIX. AND LAST.

Louise Gauthier.--The Conclusion.

Ir frequently occurs that after a day of stormy darkness-when the elements appear to have combined the whole of their power against the earth, splitting the tossed and dismantled branches of the trees from their parent trunk, beating down the produce of the fields, and deluging the valleys with a sudden and rapid inundation, whilst the fire-laden clouds obscure the sun, lighting up the heavens in his stead by lurid flashes-the wind subsides, the clouds disperse, and the calm sunset beams over the now tranquil landscape.

True it is, the vestiges of the mischief wrought remain; but their importance is diminished by the general quietude that reigns around. The foliage is fresh and green; the cleared air is breathed gratefully, and imparts its lightness to the spirits; feeding hope, and kindness, and all good aspirations. The odours of the flowers are more fragrant, and the colours of their petals brighter; and the torrent which rushed darkly in its overcharged course, reflecting only the glooming heavens above, now once more murmurs over its bed of bright pebbles, sparkling in the warm rays of eventide.

Our scene changes, and now for the last time, from the fearful Place de Grêve to the most charming district of the teeming and sunny Languedoc. It is noon; and the stillness of a summer midday reigns around. But everything is not hushed. Birds are singing, and the hum of bees blends pleasantly with their minstrelsy, coming in soft murmurs from the floating aviaries lying upon the surface of a glassy river, which would seem at perfect rest but for the quivering of the buds and lilies that struggle with its gentle stream, or the hanging flowers that droop from the bank to kiss up the clear water. The sky is deep-blue, and cloudless; and the sum

mer foliage of the trees waves in pleasant relief against its light, causing the dancing shadows to quiver on the spangled turf below, as though even the sunbeams were sporting for very gladness.

And now and then sounds of laughter, and snatches of old Provençal melodies are heard near a cottage which forms part of a smail homestead on the banks of the river. On a table at the door, and beneath the shadow of a huge chesnut-tree-of which many more are visible on the land,-is spread a repast of honey, bread, cheese, and wine; and seated at this table we have little difficulty in recognising Benoit, Bathilde, and Louise Gauthier. The two first are plump and merry as ever-perhaps more so: and Louise appears to have lost some of her sadness. Her cheek is scarcely so pale as it was in Paris when Benoit first knew her, and now and then a faint smile may be detected on her lips, which it appears to be Benoit's ceaseless endeavour to call up.

“Ah!” exclaimed the honest ex-keeper of the boat-mill, with the expression of one whose stomach is comfortably filled; "this is better than the great cities, after all. To think after staying in Paris so long we should come back with less than we went."

"You forget Louise," replies Bathilde, as she takes their friend kindly by the hand.

"Not at all," continues Benoit, as he rises and kisses the Languedocian with a smack that quite echoes again. "There, ma femme, you may be jealous of that if you like, and I don't care; nor more does Louise, as I would wager my life. Eh! Louise?"

"You would find it a difficult task to offend me," replies Louise, "for I owe you too much kindness, —even if you kiss me before Bathilde."

"You owe us nothing. I think the debt is on our side. Whose are these things? Whose is this bit of ground? — yours, all yours! and you shall turn us out when you like.”

"I do not think I shall do that," is Louise's answer; "now, we must never part again. I know I am at times but a sad companion for such kind hearts as yours; but if you will bear with me, although I cannot forget the past, yet your goodness shall do more than aught else in the world to alleviate the memory of what has been."

Reader, our story is over; and for the third time we come forward to bid you farewell. We lay aside the fearful chronicles of the romance; and advance, alone, and in our own proper character, to say good-bye.

For a certain recess our interviews will be less regular than heretofore; we shall not so continuously intrude upon you. But we still trust that you will allow us to pay you a visit often-very often; that you will give us a general invitation to drop in upon you when we like; which, unlike most general invitations of that class, we shall decidedly avail ourselves of. And this, we hope, will keep up our acquaintance until present affairs will permit us to renew a more lengthened intimacy. Believe us that we shall be too happy to avail ourselves of the opportunity.

HOW MR. STUBBY DID NOT DANCE WITH THE QUEEN AT THE OPENING OF LINCOLN'S INN HALL.

BY A LAW-STUDENT.

"It's worth the sacrifice," said I.

"Who are you, and what is the sacrifice? and what is worth the sacrifice?" say you.

A very few words will answer these questions, as far as the present narrative requires them to be answered.

I am Alfred Stubby, law student, and member of the Honourable Society of Lincoln's Inn. The sacrifice is that of at least four days' enjoyment of a society quite as honourable, as far as any intentions of mine are concerned, as that I have just mentioned, and far more agreeable,—namely, walking, riding, polking, waltzing, chattering, laughing, and charading, with some of the prettiest women in Brighton (not a Jewess among them), and especially with Lucy Jones, the prettiest of them all; and that which was worth so great a sacrifice was the glorious event of my having been chosen one of the deputation of students who were to hold one corner of the address to be presented to her Majesty at the opening of the new Hall.

For this piece of luck I was indebted to no greater a person than my laundress, a tolerably honest old woman, who had cleanliness enough not to wipe up my tea-things with my pocket handkerchiefs, and was honest enough not to carry away my coals in my best tablecloths. This rara avis was also the fair spirit who ministered to a certain old Bencher, by name Fusty, and hence my good fortune; for the old Bencher, having neither kith nor kin, had yet refused to give up one iota of his privileges in the way of places, admission tickets, etc., but having secured his full proportion, in the teeth of many of his unfortunate brethren, who were torn to pieces by applications from all whom they did, and many whom they did not know, had made over his rights to Mrs. Tibbs for her especial use and advantage. Now Mrs. Tibbs, however eligible she might have been as an old woman, was clearly ineligible as a student, and was therefore pleased to make out a patent in my favour within five minutes of her presenting Mr. Todes, the greengrocer in Bell Yard, and Mr. Chump, the butcher in Clare Market, with tickets of admission to the Inn for themselves and a little army of sprouts and cutlets, upon the eventful morning.

"It's worth the sacrifice," said I, taking my cigar from my mouth and slowly emitting a long spiral puff of smoke. "I may not have such another chance of winning the smiles of Royalty till I am Solicitor-General, and, after all, I must have come to town for the beginning of 'term.'"

It was now about ten o'clock on the night of the 29th inst. I had only the same morning received the good news in a communication, which I subjoin.

SIRR, Aving bin aloud By Mr. Fusty wich i does For To mak yewse of his tikkets wich He says They is onley a Bother If yew wud lik to adres The Chare wen the all Is opunned i Sends yew the admishun wich he as filed it Up with yewre name Hand i opes yew may Like It. "From yewre respektabbul "MARY TIBBS."

"P.S. yewre Shets is haired."

As soon as I had succeeded in deciphering and translating this, I left Brighton, reached town in time for dinner, and had now pretty nearly finished my second cigar thereafter in the solitary comfort of my own chambers. I was in a happy enough state of mind, upon a calm review of my personal and mental qualifications. I felt that I had a right to expect some important consequence would follow this, the first opportunity I had ever had of distinguishing myself. The reader shall judge for himself. I am nearly six feet two inches in height, upright, and excessively slim, with a waist like a wasp's, and without that drayman-like breadth of shoulder which sometimes deteriorates from these advantages; my hair, which I part in the middle, is abundant, and of a light sunny auburn; my complexion, in which there is no vulgar red and white, an artist might give by a wash of the same colour, but of course many degrees lighter, with which he would paint my hair; my nose is prominent, extremely prominent, but in no degree aquiline; my eyes blue, yes, certainly blue, but not of so intense a colour as to interfere with the harmony of my tout ensemble. I can dance against any one, played the cornetà-piston till I found it was likely to injure my lungs, sing, and accompany myself on the instrument, and write verses, as to which I may some day allow the public to form their own opinion.

Vague anticipations of coming greatness, of the distinguished part I should play in the next day's festival-(pageant will be the word, thought I, when, three centuries hence, some future Scott selects it as the opening scene of his "romance of the olden time,” and, who knows? perhaps myself as the hero) - presented themselves to my mind, as, watching the thin smoke of my cigar curling upwards, I sat there, the lord paramount of that snug room, with its quaint old mantelpiece and wainscoted walls, hung round with-no! — I was nearly getting into the romancing vein myself-not with grim portraits of old ancestors, but with one mezzotint of Lord Eldon, bought the day I entered myself at Lincoln's Inn; a partie carrée, consisting of two Derby winners and two opera dancers, transferred from my rooms at Oxford; and Chalon's Pas de quatre, newly installed in the place of honour over the fire, for, as I am not to be called to the Bar for two years, there is no reason why my chambers should not be the abode of elegance as well as learning in the mean time. It was, indeed, something to be proud of, that duty of mine, in which I was to be associated with so many legal worthies.

It seemed to take one back, to those good old days of yore when it was something to be a law-student, when the brisk Templar was one, and not the least, of the component parts of that charmed circle, the Town; was recognised by the wits of Will's and Button's, who clustered round Addison or Steele, as a licensed associate, and by the women as a pretty fellow; or, earlier still, when at Childermas the King of the Cockneys was enthroned in Lincoln's Inn, with many a jest and peeling laugh; or when, in 1602, the students at the Middle Temple acted at their feast at Candlemas "a play called 'Twelve Night, or What you will,' much like the Comedy of Errors' or Menachmis in Plautus,' but most like and neere to thatte in Italian called Inganni."

And for myself,- what prospects might it not open to me? Ra

Diary of John Manningham, a student of the Middle Temple, from the Harl. MSS.