wards but too clear.” “What,” observed he again, “if this White Lady, as people call her, and my knowledge of the future were connected? You look astonished and doubtful: but so it is. Did you not remark the dates of the inscriptions at the foot of the veiled figure in the vault?” “I recollect the first two and the last,” said I, “and reflecting upon them, I was not a little struck to find that they marked the days of the death of Henry III., Henry IV., and Louis XVI. But what of this? The veiled figure”“Is the white Lady!” interrupted my aged friend. “Your curiosity shall be satisfied. But let us take our supper,—we will speak of this hereafter.” We entered the house and sat down to table. After a short pause he began of his own accord. “The sudden death of my dear Rosa, has extinguished the last lingering spark of life. I shall not see you again, although you will return in a few weeks. Your unexpected presence at this very juncture, and your extraordinary visit to the secret vault, seem an admonition of Providence, which I shall obey. I promised you an explanation of this mystery: you shall have it. It is contained in a packet of papers, which I will place in your hands, and which you are at liberty to copy. I found these papers in the family archives of the chateau, in the third year of my residence here. The existence of these records, as well as that of the vault, were unknown, even to the lords of the manor, till within this century. The Marquis of Mongomery is dead; and, before I die, I think it my duty to send these papers to the present Count of Limeuil.—I request a favour at your hands. I have some time since prepared a letter to the Count, and only waited for an opportunity to send it, together with the papers. He lives at a short distance from Paris; take these papers with you, and send them to him immediately after your arrival in the capital. However, do not go to see him,” added he smiling; “he belongs to a party, whose politics are strongly opposite to those of your court.” He rose at these words, went out of the room, and returned shortly after with the packet. One of the papers was inscribed: CLARA MONGOMERY, THE VEILED BRIDE. The others were sealed, and directed to Count Limeuil. “After you have read this,” said he, “and used your discretion, with respect to copying it, you will enclose the whole in a sheet of paper, and forward the packet to the Count. I will order paper to be placed in your room; and a family seal of the Mongomerys, which is in my possession, will serve you to seal the packet.” “But why,” inquired I, “is this wonderful being represented veiled? Were her features not deemed worthy of being known to posterity? and if deemed unworthy, why represent her at all?” “You will not find an answer to your question in the papers,” replied he; “but a tradition prevails, that it was known during her lifetime, that she would wander the earth after her death; and that, if an image of her was to be placed over her tomb, she would appear in the same shape: her countenance was deemed to be fatal to the beholder, and on this account she was represented veiled—and,” added he, “it is under this form that she really appears.” “Indeed!” exclaimed I, while a feeling of awe thrilled through my whole frame. “Yes, my son,” replied he, “it is even so: twice have these eyes of mine beheld the veiled Lady.—As to the two last inscriptions which you read, they were engraved by my own hand.” Did she ever speak?” inquired I. “No;” said he, “she was never known to speak, and I
