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76 which was wrapped up in his ragged little valise to the celebrated queen of fashion. The officer reported what he had heard to his chief, and by his instructions took the fan from the old man, dressed himself in evening costume, secured a box next to the Duravel, and in the manner we have described carried out the old man’s wish. Very different from that which was anticipated was the discovery thereby elicited. They expected to detect some semi-political, semi-mercantile intrigue, and fancied the presentation of the fan a signal for some experiment on the funds. It really was the spell to give voice to a conscience long dumb—the key to unlock a fearful mystery! It had been proposed to confront the lodger at the cabaret with Corisande, but he breathed his last an hour before the examination was to have come on. His pocket-book, in the front page of which was written the name “Claude Duravel,” contained a diary, partly written, partly expressed in symbols. But from a few intelligible sentences the superintendent was enabled to put such questions to Madame Duravel as made her imagine him in possession of the whole truth, and led to a full confession of her guilt. Soon after her marriage she had speculated, as we know, most recklessly. There was no way to meet the claims upon her husband save to appropriate the money of the firm; this could not be done without Claude being a party to it, and Jerome, always a coward, was afraid to confess the truth to him. The demands for money grew each day more and more pressing. A fiendish idea possessed the adventuress, and the execution followed quick on the conception. She and her husband left Havre for a neighbouring watering-place, but returned secretly after proceeding half-way: they knew the habits of Claude, and timed their return so as to meet him in a secluded corner of the shrubbery. His brother struck him down with a heavy iron bar, and the wife buried a knife in his breast. They concealed the body in the disused bath-house near the orangery.

After the crime the two had lived a wretched life, the woman perpetually dreading lest her husband’s conscience should prompt him to some rash revelation. She had therefore laboured to get rid of him, and had succeeded in her object. He had for awhile depended on the supplies of money liberally forwarded on the condition of his keeping out of France; but at last he had become superstitiously fearful of receiving the wages of guilt, and had professed to toil for his bread. He had possessed, as we know, some talent as a painter, and had sustained himself by ornamenting hand-screens and fans. As a self-imposed penance he had painted one with the scene which was charactered in his memory in indelible lines, and he had hoped that he might by suddenly presenting this to his more hardened accomplice, alarm her into confession and repentance. It was, however, ordered that this new Clytemnestra should not escape with the punishment of conscience and the penances of religion. Public indignation, indeed, scarcely allowed the authorities to go through the forms of justice. Strong guards of chasseurs and gendarmes were required to restrain the mob from tearing the prisoner to pieces as she proceeded to and from the place of trial. The people waited in breathless excitement the answer to the message sent to the authorities at Havre. At last it came with all its fulness of confirmation. The stones of the bath-house had been removed, and beneath a mass of rubbish since accumulated were found the mouldering bones of a human skeleton.

Two days after the receipt of the message, Corisande Duravel was guillotined.



would not my boys give for the acquaintance of a weather-prophet? There are three kinds of Januaries; and the pleasures of schoolboys’ holidays depend more on which of the three we are to have than on any other general condition whatever.

There is the mild spring-like January, sure to be partly occupied with rain, but pleasant, in its way, for the rest of the time. The days then begin with a soft yellow sunshine, tempting us to long walks, during which we say, one after another, how like spring it is. We hear the wren and the titmouse singing in the hedges, and see the linnets swarming about the bushes, and the larks in flocks in the stubble fields. The grubs are all out on such days, feeding on the springing corn, and on the green part of any roots left on the soil. The worms come out and go in in the pastures, and on the sides of ditches. The missel-thrush whistles; the blackbird shows himself in picking up his full meal among the creatures which the noon warmth brings out. The nuthatch chatters, and the robin enjoys himself among the remaining berries in the hedges, though less important than usual, because so many other birds are abroad. The kingfisher exhibits a bit of gay colour above the brook, and is gone before we have seen half enough of him. The gnats go on with their mazy dance above the water, without caring for us. The pastures do not look very green; but there are horses gallopping in them, to stretch their limbs; and the calves are let out in the middle of the day. If there is a bit of grass in better condition than the rest, the ewes, big with young, are getting a bite there, in a quiet way. We hear the ploughman giving his orders to his horses on the other side the fence, or we see him and his team moving slowly along the hill-side, and leaving a track of brown fallow behind them. Here and there a dilatory cultivator is still sowing his wheat.

On the hedge banks the grass is dank and shabby; but there is chickweed in blossom, and the clusters of primrose leaves, among the roots of the hedgerow timber, look firm and healthy; and here and there we find a bud or flower,—very pale, and rather wet, and generally torn or imperfect; and then we agree that we had rather wait till March at least for primroses. The coltsfoot is in flower, and the winter aconite: and the early moss shows brilliantly green beside the draggled and faded grass. The hazels show their young catkins; and the buds on the honeysuckles are full, and even green. One can scarcely tell the colour of the sky, it is so veiled with yellow haze from the sunshine: but, if we stay out long