fter the blades had
been crossed, there was a semblance of fight and of defense; but at the
third pass, Monsieur George fell pierced through the chest.

I threw myself upon him; he was already in the grasp of death.
Nevertheless he pressed my hand feebly, smiled once more, then gave vent,
with his last breath, to his last thought, which was for you, sir:

"Tell Paul that I love him, that I forbid him seeking to avenge me, and
that I die--happy." He expired.

I shall not attempt, sir, to add anything to this narrative. It has
already been too long and too painful to me; but I deemed this faithful
and minute account due to you. I had reason to believe, besides, that your
friendship would like to follow to the last instant that existence which
was so justly dear to you. Now you know all, you have understood all, even
what I have left unsaid.

He lies in peace by her side. You will doubtless come, dear sir. We expect
you. We shall mingle our tears over those two beloved beings, both kind
and charming, both crushed by passion and seized by death with relentless
rapidity in the midst of the pleasantest scenes of life.

[THE END.]

THE SPHINX;

OR,

"JULIA DE TRECOEUR."

CHAPTER I.

"A BALEFUL AFFECTION."

All those who, like ourselves, knew Raoul de Trecoeur during his early
youth, believed that he was destined to great fame. He had received quite
remarkable gifts from nature; there are left from him two or three
sketches and a few hundred verses that promised a master; but he was very
rich, and had been very badly brought up; he soon gave himself up to
dilettanteism. A perfect stranger, like most men of his generation, to the
sentiment of duty, he permitted himself to be recklessly carried away by
his instincts, which, fortunately for others, were more ardent than
hurtful. Therefore was he generally pitied when he died, in the flower of
his age, for having loved and enjoyed immoderately everything that he
thought pleasant.

The poor fellow, they said, never did any harm but to himself; which, in
point of fact, was not the exact truth. Trecoeur had married, at the age
of twenty-five, his cousin, Clotilde Andree de Pers, a modest and graceful
person who had of the world nothing but its elegance. Madame de Trecoeur
had lived with her husband in an atmosphere of unhealthy storms, where she
felt out of place, and, as it were, degraded. He tormented her with his
remorse almost as much as he did with