A STORMY SKY.

BY C. C.

PART THE FIRST.

CHAPTER I.

IMAGINE one of those narrow, coquettish, apartments, cleverly contrived, and most ingeniously distributed, in a space, which would have hardly sufficed, a hundred years ago, for a middle sized drawing-room, arranged like a "necessaire de voyage," in which nothing is wanting, and where each article has its marked place. An autechamber, that is, "une entrèe," between two doors, a dining-room, with the chairs drawn closely round the table, and the seats underneath, so as to permit a free circulation; a drawing-room, for which those pretty, upright, yet dumb sounded pianos were made, and a bed-chamber, where two persons are admitted, on the condition of taking up the room of only one.

In this apartment, resided Madame de Louvet. She had just finished dressing, her toilette de campagne was remarkable for its lady-like simplicity and freshness. Amélie appeared pensive, her countenance betrayed something of irresolution and sadness, as she stopped for a moment opposite the mirror, that reflected her elegant shape in its full height.

Did she look upon this reflection of herself, with discontent? did not her white muslin dress set off her beauty to advantage? what could she be sorrowful about? what could she wish for? a sweeter face was not to be seen, nor a more graceful figure, hands August, 1847.-VOL. XLIX.—NO. CXCVI.

с с

of dazzling whiteness, tapered fingers, and a foot, whose least beauty was its smallness.

Nevertheless, her pre-occupation was so deep,-that her tears flowed fast and full, regardless of the presence of her maid, who after having put up every thing very neatly, still loitered about the room, affecting to dust, that which there was no dust upon,—at length, Madame de Louvet turned round, and said "What are you waiting for, Justine?"

"I wish to ask Madame something."

"What is it ?"

"Madame is going to St. Germains to-day?" "Yes, I am."

"Madame will not return until this evening, and may not want

me."

"I understand:-you wish to go out."

"Yes, madame, it is to-day, Sunday, and the servants of the Prémier are going on a party to Versailles, they invited me to go,

and

"And you accepted their invitation, for I perceive you are already attired in your best."

"I took time by the forelock, in case madame were so kind as to allow me to go."

Yes, yes, as soon as I am gone."

"Oh! but

"But what?"

"They are to set off in a quarter of an hour."

"There, you may go now, for I do not want you."

"Thank you, thank you, madame, I shall be back here in time to undress you."

"Very well."

Justine left the chamber, and Amélie after looking at the clock, which marked only ten, passed into the drawing-room and sank again into deep thought, whilst she mechanically settled the folds of her dress, smoothed down the luxuriant tresses of her jet black hair, and fastened on her bracelet,-Justine entered to say she was going."

"Very well," replied Madame de Louvet.

"As madame is going out the last, will she be so good as to close the door well, and to double lock it ?"

"Yes, I will; be so kind, Justine, as to see to the windows, for the weather seems very uncertain; if a storm should come, the drawing-room would be all in a flood."

"I shall not neglect it, madame;-shall I tell le portier to show up any one who may inquire for you ?"

"Certainly, for M. Dallais' first clerk, old M. Cambet, is coming to accompany me to St. Germain.”

"I suppose I may go now, and I hope madame will amuse her

self also." The young, gay, light-hearted Justine, went off,-a melancholy smile glided over Amélie's lips at Justine's recommendation! Amélie sat down alone, and cast another melancholy look upon her new dress. She had been fourteen months a widow, and this was her first white parure, since that dreadful

event.

At full length, and immediately before her, was the picture of a man, who might have attained his fiftieth year; she raised her eyes, and gazing on this almost living resemblance, which, at that moment, seemed more impressive than ever, Amélie exclaimed, "you were a noble friend, and a good husband to me, M. de Louvet. You met me an orphan, brought up by the bounty of an aunt, who thinking only of the rank she held in society, when she bestowed on me a brilliant education, forgot that the fortune she enjoyed would vanish at her death, and that, accustomed as I was to wealth and society, I should ill bear the humiliation of haughty poverty, and the forgetfulness of those, among whom a name is insignifi cant, when it is a lonely woman who bears it. But you, M. de Louvet, kind and generous, spared me the pangs of my dreadful fate, by offering me your humble fortune, and your honourable name, and amidst the glittering crowd, which my youth attracted, the voice of your paternal reason rose higher than that of adulation, and I dashed away the cup of pleasure, to listen on to you. Well did you reward me, for so doing, by the uninterrupted calm I enjoyed during the two years I so happily spent with you; when death separated us! you then secured to your widow, all that the revolution had left you of a large fortune. I am grateful, M. de Louvet, exceedingly grateful for such kindness, and this outward mourning, I am about to leave off, shall still be worn in my heart, where your remembrance has sunk deep! not, like that of a husband, forgotten when replaced by another, but, like that of a benefactor, of a beloved father whose memory can never be erased. Forgive me, then, if to-day I follow the advice of the friend you confided me to, if yielding to his entreaties, I consent to an interview with the man he wishes me to marry.

"Your honest friend spoke to me as you would have done; he made me understand, that if you had sheltered me from want, you had not from calumny, whilst I was young and handsome, -nor from solitude, when I should no longer be either one or the other; had I been blessed with a child, I would not have changed your name for worlds; a woman whose soul is in her child, that child is a protection for her; but I am without children, without a guide, assailed and wooed on all sides, watched by the malignant, who lend their venom to my words, and misinterpret my most innocent actions. The step I am going to take, is neither through forgetfulness, nor ingratitude towards you, my good and noble husband, and though they tell me, that the man selected for me is in every

respect like you, high minded, generous, and indulgent; yet he never will be to me what you were.

"After having deplored your loss, I shall deplore t at of your name, which will be a second painful separation,-and renew the pangs of the first. Forgive me, for thus consenting to it; my intentions are honourable, are they not? and you will not be displeased with your wife, your child, your Amélie."

Madame de Louvet, subdued by her emotion, had gently fallen upon her knees before the picturc; her tears, that were neither mingled with remorse nor despair, bathed her soft and beautiful face, she seemed to be waiting for an answer from that canvass, on which her anxious gaze was rivetted, when a loud ring at the bell tore her from her preoccupation; she rose hastily, wiped away her tears, and looked in the glass, to assure herself that no one could perceive she had been crying. The sensation she had just experienced, though deep, was calm, and of a serene nature; nothing externally could therefore betray Amélie, and she quietly awaited the expected arrival, but no one entered. A second ring at the bell recalled to her mind, that she was alone in her apartment; she went and opened the door. A young man, with a timid, respectful, bow, inquired for Madame de Louvet.

"It is I, sir."

He then handed her an unsealed letter, which Madame de Louvet took, and read what follows.

"MADAME,

"Letters of the greatest importance to M. Dallais, oblige me to remain in Paris, until three o'clock, at least; I am, therefore, necessitated to renounce the honour of accompanying you to Saint Germain, and I have sent you, though reluctantly, a substitute, in my friend M. Anselme Féron, who is going thither to communicate the letters I received, to M. Dallais; he will be delighted to be your cavalier, and will undoubtedly fulfil this mission much better than an old "loup de bureau" like me, ever awkward out of my chair, and away from my books.

I am respectfully,
MADAME,

Your very humble, very obedient,
And very affectionate servant,
P. P.

LOUIS CAMBET."

Amélie recognized M. Cambet's well known hand-writing, and his signature, for he was in the habit of sending her every three months the account of the funds she had placed in M. Dallais's

commercial establishment and bank,-but forgetting, this time, that he was writing for himself, and not upon business,-had still signed the famous "P. P." (par procuration,) which attested to the commercial world, at large, the unlimited confidence his employer placed in him.

CHAPTER II.

HAVING perused the letter, Amélie looked at the young man; she recollected having seen several times at the banker's soirées; it even occurred to her, that he had been remarkably assiduous in the quadrilles, when she figured, though he had not danced with her; and not until then, did she perceive that M. Anselme Féron, whose name she had just learned, was handsome and "distinguè," in his appearance, his fine countenance, to which soft black eyes and long lashes, gave a peculiar expression of gracefulness and melancholy sweetness; which, contrasted with his broad lofty brow, and the rich development of his manly figure, was delectable to behold.

His high bearing, and strong marked features, gave him the appearance of being about thirty; his down-cast, timid eyes, that of eighteen, the man himself was about twenty-five. He had stopped at the door, whilst Madame de Louvet was reading M. Cambet's letter:-she looked up and said :

"I beg you will excuse me for having caused you to wait, and to ring twice, but I am alone, my servant is gone out, and I had utterly forgotten it."

M. Féron bowed respectfully, and followed Madame de Louvet to the drawing-room, where she motioned him to a chair. She immediately proceeded to her chamber, for her shawl and bonnet, but her loves were hardly on, when tokens of an approaching storm became more and more visible. The sullen mass of clouds was rapidly broken, the vapours hurried fast, and down fell the black rain in torrents. Amélie entered the room, where she had left M. Féron, who was at the window, looking upon the Boulevards.