bound to the same place. There is an excellent scene at a country inn,
where four ruffians, their hands reeking with Protestant blood, compel
the false Franciscans to baptise a pair of pullets by the names of carp
and perch, that they may not sin by eating fowl on Friday. Mergy at last
loses patience, and breaks a bottle over one of their heads; and a fight
ensues, in which the bandits are worsted. The two Huguenots reach La
Rochelle, which is soon afterwards besieged by the king's troops. In a
sortie, Bernard forms an ambuscade, into which his brother unfortunately
falls, and receives a mortal wound. Taken into La Rochelle, he is laid
upon a bed to die; and, refusing the spiritual assistance of Catholic
priest and Protestant minister, he accelerates his death by a draught
from Hornstein's wine flask, and strives to comfort Bernard, who is
frantic with remorse.

"He again closed his eyes, but soon re-opened them and said to Mergy:
'Madame de Turgis bade me assure you of her love.' He smiled gently.
These were his last words. In a quarter of an hour he died, without
appearing to suffer much. A few minutes later Beville expired in the
arms of the monk, who afterwards declared that he had distinctly heard
in the air the cries of joy of the angels who received the soul of the
penitent, whilst subterraneous demons responded with a yell of triumph
as they bore away the spiritual part of Captain George."

"It is to be seen in any history of France, how La Noue left La
Rochelle, disgusted with civil wars and tormented by his conscience,
which reproached him for bearing arms against his king; how the Catholic
army was compelled to raise the siege, and how the fourth peace was
made, soon followed by the death of Charles IX.

"Did Mergy console himself? Did Diana take another lover? I leave it to
the decision of the reader, who thus will end the romance to his own
liking."

By his countrymen, M. Merimee's short tales are the most esteemed of his
writings. He produces them at intervals much too long to please the
editor and readers of the periodical in which they have for some time
appeared,--the able and excellent _Revue des Deux Mondes_. Once in
eighteen months, or two years, he throws a few pages to the public,
which, like a starved hound to whom a scanty meal is tossed, snaps
eagerly at the gift whilst growling at the niggardliness of the giver:
and the publisher of the _Revue_ knows that he may safely print an extra
thousa