Though boundless seas between us roll And keep our lips and eyes apart, Thou art not absent! for my soul Treasures thine image; and my heart In every throb thy name repeats. Ah! Mem’ry’s spell Awakes too well Its echoes as it beats. Thou art not absent! every thought Is thine alone! Thou art still with me; For my mind’s eye, by mem’ry taught, Looks back into my mind—ON THEE. In sleep, a voice, ah! not unknown My pillow seeks: ’Tis mem’ry speaks; That voice! ’tis all thine own. Before the song was concluded, a group of ladies had been formed in the centre of the room wondering what could possibly cause the singular agitation of Monsieur Louis. Some whispered that it was love—others that it was wine—and one or two audibly expressed a pious wish that it might not “prove something worse,” which many persons are ever ready to do whenever they happen to be profoundly ignorant. As Louis gave his arm to Mathilde to lead her from the piano, his brother whispered in his ear, “Courage for one hour more—It is all right; Lapin has returned.” A ray of joy shone over the pallid features of the youth, as he heard these words; yet he seemed to tremble. He had advanced as far as the group of ladies, with his brother on one arm and Mathilde on the other, when a sinister looking individual was seen to approach from the other end of the room. There appeared, for the moment, to be considerable excitement among the company, but every thing was as silent as the grave while the strange man marched slowly up to the chevalier. “Du par le Roi,” said he, as he approached, “I arrest you, Colonel Desart, on a charge of treason against the king.” “Colonel Desart, the Buonapartist!” shrieked the horrified ladies, in discordant chorus. “The same, ladies, at your service,” replied the colonel, with that look of quiet and sarcastic disdain which annihilates impertinence. “Du par le Roi,” continued the savage-looking individual, addressing Louis, “I arrest you Madame Louise Desart, née Plestours—” The storm of voices here interrupted the officer. “What! _Madame_ Desart! a woman!” “Yes, ladies,” returned the soft, sweet voice of the abashed lady, “I could not leave my husband in his danger.” She turned as she spoke, and fell fainting in the arms of the affectionate Mathilde, whose penetration had long since discovered the secret of her sex but whose prudence and good breeding had put a seal upon her lips on that subject. “You are my prisoners,” said the dark man, turning towards the colonel, who was quietly putting his whiskers and black wig into the fire; “you will, if you please, prepare for instant departure to Paris.” “Indeed,” coolly replied the colonel, “I shall not go to Paris to-night, nor yet to-morrow.”