IV. Hear the tolling of the bells,— What a world of solemn thought their monody compels! How we shiver with affright At the melancholy menace of their tone! For every sound that floats From the rust within their throats Is a groan. And the people—ah, the people — And who tolling, tolling, tolling, In that muffled monotone, Feel a glory in so rolling On the human heart a stone: And their king it is who tolls,- Rolls a pæan from the bells! And his merry bosom swells Keeping time, time, time, To the sobbing of the bells; As he knells, knells, knells, To the rolling of the bells, To the moaning and the groaning of the bells. THE FATAL NUPTIALS. BY EUGÈNE SUE. (From "The Wandering Jew.") [EUGÈNE SUE, author, was born in Paris, France, December 10, 1804, son of a naval surgeon. He was educated to his father's profession, and spent six years in the navy, retiring in 1830. He published: "Kernock, the Pirate" (1830), "History of the French Navy" (1835-1837), "History of the War Navies of all Nations" (1841), "The Mysteries of Paris" (1843), "The Wandering Jew" (1845), "Martin the Foundling" (1847), "The Seven Deadly Sins" (1847-1849), "The Mysteries of the People" (1849), "The Jouffroy Family " (1854), "The Secrets of the Confessional" (1858), and other works less important. He died at Annecy, Hte. Savoie, France, July 3, 1857.] THE morning after Dupont's mission to Prince Djalma, the latter was walking with hasty and impatient step up and down the little saloon, which communicated, as we already know, with the greenhouse from which Adrienne had entered when she first appeared to him. In remembrance of that day, he had chosen to dress himself as on the occasion in question: he wore the same tunic of white cashmere, with a cherry-colored turban, to match with his girdle; his gaiters of scarlet velvet, embroidered with silver, displayed the fine form of his leg, and terminated in small white morocco slippers, with red heels. Happiness has so instantaneous, and, as it were, material an influence upon young, lively, and ardent natures, that Djalma, dejected and despairing only the day before, was no longer like the same person. The pale, transparent gold of his complexion was no longer tarnished by a livid hue. His large eyes, of late obscured like black diamonds by a humid vapor, now shone with mild radiance in the center of their pearly setting; his lips, long pale, had recovered their natural color, which was rich and soft as the fine purple flowers of his country. Ever and anon, pausing in his hasty walk, he stopped suddenly, and drew from his bosom a little piece of paper, carefully folded, which he pressed to his lips with enthusiastic ardor. Then, unable to restrain the expression of his happiness, he uttered a full and sonorous cry of joy, and with a bound he was in front of the plate glass which separated the saloon from the conservatory, in which he had first seen Mademoiselle de Cardoville. By a singular power of remembrance, or marvelous hallucination of a mind possessed by a fixed idea, Djalma had often seen, or fancied he saw, the adored semblance of Adrienne appear to him through this sheet of crystal. The illusion had been so complete, that, with his eyes ardently fixed on the vision he invoked, he had been able, with the aid of a pencil dipped in carmine, to trace, with astonishing exactness, the profile of the ideal countenance which the delirium of his imagination had presented to his view. It was before these delicate lines of bright carmine that Djalma now stood in deep contemplation, after perusing, and reperusing, and raising twenty times to his lips the letter he had received the night before from the hands of Dupont. Djalma was not alone. Faringhea watched all the movements of the prince, with a subtle, attentive, and gloomy aspect. Standing respectfully in a corner of the saloon, the half-caste appeared to be occupied in unfolding and spreading out Djalma's sash, light, silky Indian web, the brown ground of which was almost entirely concealed by the exquisite gold and silver embroidery with which it was overlaid. The countenance of the half-caste wore a dark and gloomy expression. He could not deceive himself. The letter from Mademoiselle de Cardoville, delivered by Dupont to Djalma, must have been the cause of the delight he now experienced, for, without doubt, he knew himself beloved. In that event, his obstinate silence toward Faringhea, ever since the latter had entered the saloon, greatly alarmed the half-caste, who could not tell what interpretation to put upon it. The night before, after parting with Dupont, he had hastened, in a state of anxiety easily understood, to look for the prince, in the hope of ascertaining the effect produced by Mademoiselle de Cardoville's letter. But he found the parlor door closed, and when he knocked, he received no answer from within. Then, though the night was far advanced, he had dispatched a note to Rodin, in which he informed him of Dupont's visit and its probable intention. Djalma had indeed passed the night in a tumult of happiness and hope, and a fever of impatience quite impossible to describe. Repairing to his bedchamber only toward the morning, he had taken a few moments of repose, and had then dressed himself without assistance. Many times, but in vain, the half-caste had discreetly knocked at the door of Djalma's apartment. It was only in the early part of the afternoon that the prince had rung the bell to |