Rome, enfin que je hais, parce qu'elle t'honore!
Puissent tous ses voisins ensemble conjurés
Sapper ses fondemens encore mal assurés,
Et, si ce n'est assez de toute l'Italie,
Que l'orient contr'elle a l'occident s'allie,
Que cent peuples unis des bouts de l'univers
Passent pour la'détruire et les monts et les mers,
Qu'elle-même sur soi renverse les murailles,
Et de ses propres mains déchire ses entrailles;
Que le courroux du ciel, allumé par mes vœux,
Fasse pleuvoir sur elle un deluge de feux.
Puissé-je de mes yeux y voir tomber la foudre
Voir les maisons en cendre et les lauriers en poudre;
Voir le dernier Romain à son dernier soupir,
Moi seal en être cause et mourir de plaisir!
From The Argosy.
THE STORY OF MONIQUE.
BY JULIA KAVANAGH.
Saint John the Baptist is the patron Saint of Manneville. On the twenty-fourth of June the little village wakens from its yearly quietness into clamorous life. High mass opens the festivities. White booths, that have sprung up in the night like so many mushrooms, are scattered on the place, and all Manneville gathers there.
On the twenty-fourth of June some years ago, a youth and a little girl stood foremost in the crowd that had gathered round a wonderful collection of beasts, birds, and fishes, called "Noah's ark." The youth, a tall, dark lad of seventeen, handsome and grave, looked on with stoic indifference, but the little girl was lost in admiration. She was about ten years old, fair as a lily, fresh as a rose, blue-eyed and fair-haired, a Norman blossom, with all the promise of Norman beauty in her delicate, refined features and her slender little figure.
"Come along. Monique, your uncle will be angry," said Sévère.
"Let me look at the bird, Sévère," entreated Monique. "It talks—oh!—so well."
"Only a magpie," was the curt answer.
"Oh! but such a magpie!"
"Monique, you know that Maître Louis David will be angry."
"Good-bye," said Monique to the magpie. The bird laughed shrilly, and answered "Bonjour" in a little treble voice, and hopped in its cage with a mocking air.
"When are you coming?" asked Sévère.
"When I please," answered Monique, pertly; but when he turned away at once the child stole after him with a demure air, and followed him silently to the old abbey, which was turned into a farmhouse in '93. They both lived there under the care of Maître Louis David, the uncle of Monique, and the fourth or fifth cousin of Sévère. Maître Louis had no daughters, and Monique, his brother's orphan child, was petted by him and his two stalwart sons after a fashion. Her elder brother Jean he had turned out of the house for bad conduct six months before this, and whenever he was out of temper—a frequent occurrence—he would say to his little niece, "Do you want to be sent after your brother, my girl?" Sévère, who was also an orphan, he had taken in more out of pride than from pity, not choosing that one who bore the name of David should be a servant in a strange house. The lad proved a good servant, but there was in him a haughty stubbornness which irritated his wealthy cousin. He was pitiless whenever he could him at fault, and every day of his life he reminded him that he had long eaten the bread of charity.
Sévère only grew up harder, prouder, and more stubborn for the taunt. He cared for no one save little Monique. She tyrannized over him, but she also admired him prodigiously. "You are so clever, Sévère," she would say; "and you are strong, too—as strong as my uncle. And, oh! Sévère, I do love you!"
When the old farm, with its high slate roof, its broad, arched gateway and its two turrets, appeared before them in the warm sunlight, Monique suddenly stood still, and said, in coaxing accents, "Sévère, go and get that bird for me! Here is the two-franc piece uncle gave me. Try and get the bird for one franc or for thirty sous; but if you cannot, why, give the two francs, Sévère!"
The lad laughed outright. "Two francs for a magpie!" But Monique had been a spoiled child in her father's house, and warmly said she would give ten francs if she had them. Severe, who held magpies cheap, thought her crazy. A fierce argument followed. He was worsted, of course, and taking Monique's silver coin, he went back alone to the place and to Noah's ark. Noah was refreshing himself with bread and cheese and a glass of cider when the canvas of his booth was raised, and Sévère's tall, straight figure appeared.
"How much will you take for your magpie?" said he, bluntly.
"Young man," answered Noah, incensed
