( 355 ) 



THE WATCH-TOWER OF KOAT-V.EN. 



[TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH OF M. EUGENE SUE.] 

 ( Continued from page 145J 



THE rose-tinged mist of early dawn announced the approach- 

 ing levee of the beaming sun. The stars still twinkled in the azure 

 vault; the keen invigorating breeze of morn played with the trem- 

 bling foliage ; all nature was lulled in silence and repose, and the 

 air wafted the redolent sweets of those delicious aromatic herbs 

 that yield their rich perfume only to the amorous breath of night. 

 In the outskirts of the little town of St. Renan, at the extremity of 

 its sombre tortuous streets, narrowed by tall dwellings which arched 

 their ancient fretwork across the road about a hundred yards from 

 the massive gate, stood an old gray wall, half curtained in the sweep- 

 ing foliage of luxuriant groups of trees. The gaping crevices and 

 time-worn hollows of the crumbling wall were now fringed with 

 creeping ivy, the variegated convolvolus, and bright green parietary, 

 which spread in clustering garlands upon its sides. A little worm- 

 eaten door, ensconced in the angle of the wall, led into a garden over- 

 frown by the luxuriant and neglected vegetation of a dense mass of 

 rambles, which every where spread across the path, in defiance of 

 the foot of curiosity. The view beyond this wild and formidable 

 barrier would well repay the lover of solitude for his exertions in 

 reaching it. 



In the midst of a beautiful lawn, bedecked with richest groups 

 of roses, jasmines, and honeysuckles, stood a small thatched cottage. 

 The dewy mist had fled before the radiant beams that now gilded 

 the highest cones of the stately trees, and fell in brightest rays upon 

 the bursting petals of awaking dew-bathed blossoms. The cho- 

 risters of the air broke forth their melodious worship to the return- 

 ing day, and the bright butterflies shook the feathery down from 

 their wings, as they hovered through the air mingling in the glitter- 

 ing circles of the dancing may-fly. 



The cottage door was opened by a man about forty years of age, 

 clothed in a dark camblet dress ; his hair, without powder, was tied 

 carefully in a crapand knot. His features were disfigured by the 

 countless scars of a severe small-pox ; he was thin, shrivelled, and 

 bent forward as if by age. In his hands he held a plate upon which 

 was a bowl filled with boiled milk, which he stirred with careful as- 

 siduity. He softly approached the door of the antichamber and 

 placed his ear to the key-hole ; then, hearing no movement within, he 

 withdrew on tiptoe to the kitchen. Three or four times he repeated 

 his enquiry; but each time his face expressed a fresh inquietude, and 

 his gestures displayed a rising impatience, which he endeavoured to 

 subdue lest he should create the smallest noise. 



As he advanced for the fifth time, still holding the bowl of milk in 

 his hand, the door suddenly opened, and he burst forth into an ex- 



