VERNEUIL, though born and brought up in France, at a distance, it is true, from the capital, towards the close of the seventeenth century, reached the age of manhood without learning that the golden age was a fable. Every thing, it must be acknowledged, contributed to deceive him. He had not arrived at that time of life when, in individuals of sensitive feelings and ardent temperament, the judgment controls the imagination; nor had he yet learned to prefer the lessons of experience to the brilliant visions which he thought as true as they were pleasing. He loved, or thought he loved, the young and lovely Helen. Educated in the country, unsuspecting and unsophisticated as if the world were yet in its infancy, Helen was not displeased to find herself the idol of his adoration, nor thought that maiden modesty required her to frown upon his vows. He told his passion; and the maid, blushing, but not ashamed, confessed that her heart was not ungrateful.

Verneuil had not yet breathed the dangerously delicious air of Paris; but Parisian belles were a favourite theme of his conversation. He thought himself familiar with their arts, and steeled against their charms, having studied them diligently in comedies and novels. He rejoiced that Helen had never visited the metropolis; and, still more heartily, that the earliest bloom of her beauty had been freshened by the breezes of the Valais. This alone, he thought, was the genial clime of faithful affection. The fascinations of interest or ambition should never allure him from its re

cesses.

"How sweet to talk of love beneath the shade of these lofty mountains; while nature, even in her most majestic garb, looks on and listens with the smile of an approving parent. Elsewhere the native graces of my Helen might possibly seem too rustic. Other eyes might not admire, like mine, the rose whose tints 'Nature's own sweet and cunning hand laid on,' the lilies fragrant as the breath of spring, and pure as the unfallen snow."

Bound to each other by a young and ardent attachment-dwelling together in the chateau of an amiable Baroness, somewhat advanced in years, sister to the father of Verneuil, and from youth the bosom friend of Helen's deceased mother day after day the youthful pair talked, uninterrupted, of their present enjoyments and their future happiness. The good lady approved their growing affection; not because they seemed born for each other, but because she designed them to be her heirs, and was pleased to think that her estate would not be divided at her death. This was the motive that induced her to encourage the mutual inclination of her young friends. Content with the result, they looked no further.

An incident at length occurred to disturb the repose of this happy family. A lawsuit of mate

rial consequence required the presence of the Baroness at the Capital. My children, said she, we must away to Paris.-To Paris! exclaimed Verneuil.-Aye, to Paris. Surely you are not averse to the visit.-Not for myself, but for Helen; perhaps, Helen will find the air of Paris the most delicious in the world. When I was young, nothing charmed me half so much; and I undertake to answer for her. Her silence speaks her wishes; so, not a word from you. I shall proceed at once, so prepare.

The Baroness left her nephew alone with Helen, who showed no uneasiness at the prospect of this sudden change.—I see, said Verneuil, that your silence was indeed intended to signify consent. I was not even consulted, was her reply. -The Baroness might well take your inclination for granted. If you felt repugnance to the expedition, why not show it, at least by some slight objection?-But why, dear Verneuil, should I have shown what I had no reason to feel?

Such was frequently the tone of their conversation on their way to the capital. The Baroness heeded them not; her thoughts being absorbed by her lawsuit.-Ah! she exclaimed, if my old friend the Duke is still living, I may count on his effectual aid.-Alas, sighed Verneuil, in Paris no one can dispense with a protector; and Helen will be assailed by offers from thousands.-So much the better, said the aunt.-So much the worse, said the nephew.-Helen, in entire simplicity of heart, enquired the meaning of all this. -Nothing, nothing; replied Verneuil, in a paroxysm of impatience. You will find every man of fashion-every hanger on about the courtfrom pure generosity, anxious to signalize himself as the patron of a beautiful young woman.— And what, asked Helen again, can be more natural or more generous?-Charming simplicity, thought Verneuil, but sadly out of place, except among the hills of the Valais.

It was yet broad day when they arrived; and the Baroness found that forty years had wrought sad changes in her darling Paris. The classic style of building, above all, shocked her taste; and she sighed for the outlawed Gothic.-What enormous windows! she exclaimed: the least of them large enough to light my whole chateau.

Helen, though too dutiful to say so, thought the modern fashion precisely what it ought to be. Her eyes wandered with admiration over the thousand objects that claimed her attention; and every moment presented new surces of delight. Verneuil wondered at nothing but the pleased astonishment of Helen.

The travellers alighted at the door of their relative, the Countess Derigney, where they found a large company awaiting their arrival. This was another cause of disquietude to Verneuil ; and his disconcerted air produced some whispered pleasantries. The women, however, decided

among themselves that he was worth forming; and more than one could gladly have taken him in hand. The gentlemen, without exception, felt the same good will for Helen; and doubted not that she would do honour to her tutor. In her most simple remarks they owned a charm which mere simplicity could never have communicated.

Several days elapsed before Verneuil seemed at ease amid the splendid scene in which he moved; but he saw, with indescribable gratification, that his Helen was unchanged. Her eyes glanced rapidly from that which was new to that which was still newer, but her heart never wandered.

Said the Countess Derigney to the Marquis de Sericour, her favoured admirer--Those two children are admirably formed for a country couple. They will be all in all to each otherthe best thing in the world for those who can do no better.

The lady spoke to one by no means disposed to contradict her. The Marquis looked on the world as a garden where every visitor should seize the fairest flowers within his reach, and on love as a game in which the winner and the loser should wear the same smile. In this temper he had for some time paid his devotions-if such they could be called, to the Countess. He would have blushed to own himself a woman's slave; nor did he aspire to the conquest of a heart, for this was a triumph the possibility of which he doubted. The wish that he felt, to change his own condition, sufficed to excuse a similar desire in the woman he professed to love.

His passion suited the Countess; a widow of two and twenty, with wit at will; naturally gay, systematically trifling, and a coquette by habit. Labelle passion, like every thing else, she treated with levity; and had no taste for any sentiment more decided than a mere preference. Love, with her, was but a matter of fashion; and an old lover, like a worn scarf, was thrown aside unceremoniously when a new one caught her fancy. She had no absolute principle of frequent change; but she changed frequently, notwithstanding.

The attachment of our young friends of the Valais was the most ridiculous thing in the world in the eyes of this brilliant couple.

Said the Countess to her admirer-A thought strikes me that I am sure you will approve. Here are two victims whom we ought to rescue. They love each other most lamentably. You and I-let us teach them to love less, but better. -A delightful scheme, cried the Marquis. The invention is yours; but in its execution you shall find me no contemptible rival. Take Verneuil into your care, and leave Helen to me. We undertake no easy task, but it cannot fail to amuse: and what else is worth living for?-But Marquis, said the lady, remember that an artless Valaisanne is less upon her guard than a Parisian belle. Trust me, madame, was his reply, her safety is in my honour.-He stopped for a moment, and added, with a smile-Verneuil, Countess, is from the Valais too; and Rousseau tells

us-You forget, said she, that we have no Chalet here.

They lost no time. The Marquis scized every opportunity of engaging Helen in conversation, and skilfully adapted his tone to her disposition. She spoke always with her natural frankness; and her ingenuousness amused him, while she laughed without reserve at his sallies.-You love Verneuil, said he, and you let him know it.True, she answered, from our infancy.-So much the worse; for he will care the less for you.

Helen declared that she had never detected the slightest symptom of neglect; to which Sericour replied-so much the better. You would else have betrayed your anxiety to please him; thus losing the advantage to which your sex is entitled. All this seemed strange to his unconscious pupil, and she did not hesitate to say so. He promised to explain; and she was ready to receive, with gratitude, any instructions that might teach her to secure the affections of Verneuil.

Verneuil, in the mean time, was in constant attendance on the Countess, who was pleased with his society, because it was next to impossible not to find him agreeable. Imperceptibly, his conversations with Helen became less and less frequent; and Helen, her thoughts drawn astray by the attentions of the gay and fascinating Marquis, failed to notice the comparative estrangement.

The Countess had a Chateau, about twelve miles from Paris, where the presence of the elderly Baroness authorised her to receive both Verneuil and Sericour. The Baroness, with her young friends, made it a point of duty to visit the At their return, they set out for the maison de campagne, which they reached in the usual time of a two league journey.

court.

With less to restrain them here than at Paris, the Countess and her coadjutor pursued their scheme as if it had been the main object of their lives; while Verneuil unconsciously lent himself to their designs. Scarcely understanding his own thoughts or feelings, he found them frequently in opposition to those of Helen; and often regretted to find his conscience assuring him that the fault was his own.

Why, Verneuil-said the Countess one morning-why so serious and contemplative? You return from the court with the air of a suitor whose petition has not even been retained for future consideration. And yet, madam, I had nothing to ask; and have been favoured with audiences more frequent even than I wished. What then can annoy you? The Baroness appears enchanted with her old friend the Duke; and your Helen seems to have absolutely won his heart. But why change colour? Surely you are not jealous of a man of seventy! A lover, replied Verneuil, finds cause of disquietude in every thing; and the Duke's honours outnumber his years; and has he not a son of two and twenty, accomplished and distinguished, and scarcely less devoted than his father? Yet you expect me to be at ease!-1 wish your attach

ment to be a source of delight and not of vexation. The Marquis and I, for instance, we love each other, but-you look astonished-why affect to conceal what is notorious?—I had imagined, I confess, that mystery was one of the charms of a mutual affection.-Nonsense, interrupted the Countess; the only sentiment that we need conceal is hate.-Another point, replied her pupil, of which I was profoundly ignorant. I have always been disposed to veil my love, and to proclaim my dislikes.-A natural consequence of your country education; but, with a reasonable share of docility, you may be taught better. Remember, however, she added with a smile, that my cares are perfectly disinterested. When I have made you what you ought to be, I resign you to your darling Helen.

The Countess's repeater, accidentally touched at this moment, reminded her that the hour of the toilette had arrived; and she summoned Verneuil to take his first lesson as a spectator, perhaps an assistant, at that magic ceremony. Sincerity supplying the place of gallantry, he protested that art could but impair the charms that nature had made so perfect. The Countess smiled at his compliment, but laughed at his inexperienced simplicity; and pledging herself to convince him he was mistaken, led him, half resisting, to the chamber where her maids were already waiting her arrival.

She unbound her long rich tresses, which floated over her shoulders in rich waves, and swept the floor. Verneuil admired their beautiful auburn, and their boundless profusion. He grasped them with a timid hand; the other followed unconsciously, and both scarcely enclosed them; while he wondered at his own boldness, and at the sensations he felt at the touch of those incomparable locks.

The Countess requested his advice in the choice of a coeffure for the day; and chided him for his ignorance when he avowed his want of acquaintance with each in the variety that she named. You should learn to value, she said, the illusion that occasional change produces. By the aid of a little well-applied invention, an admirer may be taught to feel as if he has sunned himself in the smiles, alternately, of each of the Graces and the Muses, while his Melpomene and his Aglae have differed from each other only in their head dresses.

She chose that to which caprice directed her; and Verneuil thought it incomparably becoming. Her diamonds were next produced. To these he objected strenuously, and urged the substitution of flowers, as more natural and simply beautiful.-No, no, she answered; flowers fade in an hour, but the diamond sparkles for ever; and the gem of the mine is not less than the leaf of the garden the gift of nature. My poor Verneuil, your notions are too romantic.-He yielded again, and remained silent till the work was done.

The Countess then proposed a visit to the Baroness and Helen; offering her hand, which he seized eagerly. To the lady's remark that the

Marquis was probably engaged at Helen's toilette, he replied that the session could not be a long one; as the maid of the Valais had not yet forgotten the simplicity of her early habits.

But, he added, it seems to me that I have been usurping the place that he ought to have occupied. Another of your rustic notions, said the Countess; you can imagine no pleasure more delightful than that of embellishing yourself the charms of your shepherdess. Not a flower should be entwined in her tresses but according to your taste; while I consult my own, and thus the Marquis seldom meets me without the pleasure of an agreeable surprise. You must learn, my young friend, to know the value of variety and novelty. -Then the taste of the Marquis has no influence on yours; returned Verneuil, in a half enquiring tone. You mistake again, said the Countess ;, I know how to please him without receiving his directions; and it is for him that you have spent half your morning in my service.

This last assurance piqued Verneuil sensibly; though he was surprised at the vexation it caused him. He had entertained a very different idea; and it is never agreeable to find one's self mistaken.

The Marquis joined them at that moment; admired the lady's appearance, and complimented Verneuil, whom he presumed to be the artist. The Countess was enchanted with his approbation; and Verneuil felt discontented without knowing why. Before the fashionable lovers had finished their salutations, Helen appeared, with the Baroness, Verneuil remarked that she was dressed less simply than when she was her only counsellor. At any other time he would have remonstrated freely; but now he was restrained by the consciousness of what was going on in his own heart. The Countess remarked his embarrassment, and exulted in the success of her arts. He contradicted Helen as often as she spoke to him; and, when she reminded him of the time when all their sentiments were in unison, he reasoned on the influence of circumstances. For instance, said he, the dress you now wear would have seemed extravagantly rich in our native vallies; while here, perhaps, you think it even plainer than it should be.-Helen asked him, with a smile of perfect and sincere simplicity, how such trifles could possibly influence the heart; and how the difference between flowers and pearls could change the feelings of those who loved each other truly. Still his air was cold and abstracted; and the Countess, who perceived this and knew the cause, felt a gratification far beyond that which she had promised herself. Few women can be indifferent to a triumph of this sort, no matter how resolute may have been their determination to remain so.

Our young friends were introduced to the opera and to the ball-room, where Verneuil saw many beautiful women, but none, in his eyes, so beautiful as the Countess. The Marquis, in describing to Helen the character of the society in which she now mingled, was thrown off his guard by her frankness; and found that he had been