THE SILVER HAMMER.

The sun was sinking in the west, and gilding with its slant beams a pastoral landscape, as a young soldier, weary and footsore, slowly toiled along a lonely road that ran parallel with the course of the bright and winding Seine. A dusty foraging cap rested on his dark locks, and his youthful form bent beneath the weight of a well-filled knapsack. Pierre Lacour had served with honor in that glorious little band of heroes, which, under the leadership of the youthful Bonaparte, had crossed the snow-clad Alps, and fallen like an avalanche upon the plains of Lombardy, sweeping before it the veteran troops of Austria, and astonishing all Europe by unparalleled audacity and unexampled success. Pierre had marched farther on that day than he had ever done while following the colors of his regiment—but he was on his way home, and he longed to see his mother, his fair young sister Maria, and a lovely maiden, named Estelle, dearer to his heart than all beside. They had news of his coming,—at least, Maria and his mother had,—and he had sent them in advance, by a sure hand, a large amount of money, his share of the spoils of battle honorably won—enough, in short, to give a dowry to his sister, and enable him to demand the reward of all his toils and dangers—the hand of his betrothed.

His heart beat quick as he climbed the last vine-clad hill which separated him from his native valley. A few steps more would bring him to the summit, whence his eye would rest on the neat whitewashed cottage, with its surrounding palings, and trim garden; and there, perhaps, at the rustic gate, he should see the well-known figures of his mother and sister. Far as he had travelled, he sprang up the ascent with a buoyant step, and soon gained the eminence. The cottage lay full in view, but though it was the usual hour for preparing the evening meal, no blue smoke wreath curled upward from the chimney. A vague presentiment of evil weighed upon his heart. Hastening to dispel the dark and chilling fears that came thick upon him, he hurried down the slope, and soon passed through the garden and stood within the cottage. He called aloud—no voice responded to his cry. He rushed into the little room, which served at once for kitchen and parlor. It was empty—no fire burned upon the hearth. The humble furniture was in strange disarray. The casement, which looked out upon the garden was shattered. The walls and floor were charred and blackened with smoke, as if the house had taken fire and been saved with difficulty. Pierre sprang up stairs. In neither of the chambers could he find the loved ones whom he sought—only the same scene of confusion and desolation. Turning in dismay from the spectacle, he rushed out of the cottage to make his way to the nearest neighbors, and inquire into this appalling mystery. As he hurried along—his brain whirling, his footsteps uncertain and unsteady—he stumbled against an aged man of venerable appearance, who was coming in the opposite direction. The young soldier halted, and touching his cap, begged pardon for his involuntary rudeness.

"My poor Pierre," said the old man, "I know too well the cause of your forgetfulness."

The soldier looked up and recognized the familiar and benevolent features of the good priest of the village, his old tutor and pastor.

"Father," he said, pointing to the cottage, "you have been there—you know all—tell me—where are they?"

The old man's eyes filled with tears, as he shook his head, and laid his hand kindly on the young man's shoulder.

"Pierre," said he, "you have read 'whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth?'"

The soldier bowed his head.

"Pierre," exclaimed the good priest, "let us sit down on this bank. You are a good and brave boy. You can face danger, and I have sought to furnish you weapons to wage war against sorrow and trial."

"You have been a father to me, sir," replied the young soldier, complying with the invitation of his pastor, and taking a seat beside him. "I will endeavor to listen calmly to all you have to communicate. Where are my mother and sister?"

"Pierre," said the old man, "arm yourself with all your fortitude. You will never see your mother more till you meet her in that happier world, where the wicked cease from troubling and the weary are at rest."

Pierre groaned deeply, and covering his face with his hands, rocked his body to and fro as he burst into an agony of tears. The priest sought not to interrupt him, but turned away his own weeping countenance, for the anguish of the youth was too painful to contemplate.

At last the poor soldier looked up and spoke again: "What of my poor sister?"

"I know nothing," replied the priest; "she is gone whither, none can tell. A great crime has been committed. By whom, none knows, save God and the perpetrator thereof. You sent home a large sum of money to your mother. She was so overjoyed at your good fortune, that she made no secret of its reception, though I cautioned her against speaking of it. A fortnight ago, the village was alarmed by the cry of fire. Your cottage was seen to be in flames. The neighbors hastened thither and extinguished the blaze. In the smoke and confusion it was not perceived at first that murder, as well as incendiarism, had done its foul work." The priest paused, overcome with agitation.

"On! on!" shouted Pierre, "I can bear it all now!"

"Your poor mother was the victim," continued the priest; "she lay on the hearthstone dead and bleeding. Her bureau had been broken open and rifled of its contents."

"My sister! my sister!" cried the soldier.

"She was gone. The whole surrounding country was searched, but nothing was discovered."

"Maria! Maria! could gold have tempted you? No! no!—dog that I am, to suspect you! Misery has driven me mad!" cried the soldier, dashing his hand against his forehead.

"The whole dreadful crime," said the old priest, "is shrouded in a mystery as appalling as death itself. But God does not permit such deeds to slumber undetected or unavenged. Sooner or later they are brought to light."

"May I prove the instrument of detection!" said the soldier. "Some of the coins that I sent my poor murdered mother were marked—I could recognize them again. Father, you shall take me to my mother's grave. One prayer there—one word with Estelle—and then I will go to Paris; it is the resort of every criminal, and thence it sends forth its crime-blackened ruffians to desecrate this fair earth with horror. Come, father, come—my mother's grave—lead me there at once!"

Years passed away. Save by two or three persons, the crime which had desecrated the hearthstone of a humble village home was forgotten in those great historical events, of which Europe and France were then the theatres. In those days of bloodshed and battle, of victory and triumph, Pierre Lacour, who had commenced his military career as a brave young soldier, might have risen to the highest honors, had he followed the victorious eagles of his emperor. Why might not he rise as well as Murat, Ney, Lannes, or a hundred others? The epaulets of a colonel, nay, the baton of a marshal of France, were prizes within the reach of the lowliest, provided he had the head to plan and the heart to execute daring and chivalric deeds. But his heart no longer bounded like a war horse to the charge of the trumpet and the roll of the drum. He lived for one purpose—to discover the assassin of his mother and the sister, of whom nothing had been heard since the dreadful night of murder and conflagration. To facilitate his purposes, he had procured himself to be enrolled in the unrivalled police force of Fouché. That wily minister had no more able assistant under his command, and none in that fraternity (of which many were miscreants, who had purchased impunity for crime by selling the lives and liberties of former accomplices and comrades) who could compare with him for purity of life and elevation of motive. To punish evil for the sake of society, was the aim of the young police officer. None more untiring or intelligent than he in ferreting out the perpetrators of deeds of violence. In the criminals whose arrest he effected, and whose conviction he secured, he expected, constantly, to find some cognizant of the offence which had thrown so black a shadow over his life. He read with eager avidity the dying confessions of the condemned. He caught eagerly every syllable that fell from the lips of men, who, standing on the brink of eternity, seemed to be impressed with the necessity of revealing truth. But for years his expectations were baffled.

At last, all Paris was thrown into commotion by the murder of a Colonel Belleville, an officer who had served with distinction in the grand army, and who was found dead, one morning, in a room at house number 96 Rue La Harpe. The only mark of violence discovered by the surgeons was a dark, purple spot, about the size of a five-franc piece, on the left temple. The police were apprised that, on the morning of the day before, a slight young man, with fair hair and polished address, giving his name as Adolph Belmont, had hired the room at number 96 Rue La Harpe, and paid a week's rent in advance. It further appeared that, in the evening, just after the close of the performances at the opera, this young man had come home in company with an officer of the army. After the lapse of about an hour, the young man, Belmont, left the house, telling the porter he should return in a few minutes. But he never reappeared. About ten o'clock in the morning, the porter went up to his room, and found the door locked. He knocked and called, without receiving any answer. Looking through the keyhole, he saw the feet and legs of a man, in military boots and pantaloons, lying on the floor. Much alarmed and disturbed, he sought out a commissary of police, and that functionary, breaking open the door, discovered the body of Colonel Belleville. This tragedy excited an unusual sensation. Even the emperor heard of it, and, from his private purse provided a large sum of money to be paid as a reward to the discoverer of the perpetrator of this fearful crime.

Not many days after this occurrence, and while it yet remained shrouded in mystery, another murder roused the excitable population of Paris to a frenzy of anxiety and horror. An army commissary, named Captain Eugene Descartes, was found dead in his lodgings, in the Rue Richelieu, with the same fatal purple mark on the left temple.

Yet a third murder was perpetrated in the Boulevard des Italiens. A banker, named Monval, was, in this instance, the victim. His left temple bore the fatal discoloration of the size of a five-franc piece; but, although he had a large sum of money on his person, and wore a costly watch and many valuable trinkets, and though articles of high price abounded in his sumptuously-furnished apartment, not an article, as his steward testified, was missing.

On the morning of the announcement of this last crime in the Moniteur, the minister of police received a summons from the emperor to attend him. He found him in his private cabinet, pacing to and fro in high excitement. His face was more colorless than ever, except that an angry hectic spot burned upon each cheek. As the minister entered, the emperor turned upon him, and exclaimed,—

"Fouché, what is the meaning of all this? Is this Paris, and are we living in the nineteenth century? It appears that there is no security for life in our capital. Mr. Fouché, if such crimes can be committed with impunity, there is an end of all things; and if you cannot ferret out the perpetrators of such atrocities as these, it is time for you to vacate your position. I must appoint a new minister of police."

"Sire," replied the minister, "how much time will you give me to discover the assassin?"

"One week," replied the emperor.

"I thank your majesty," replied the minister, bowing. "In one week, you shall have the assassin's head, or my resignation."

"Good," said the emperor; "and to stimulate the activity of your people, I hereby authorize you to offer a reward of twenty thousand francs, for the detection of the assassin of the Rue La Harpe, the Rue Richelieu, and the Boulevard, if it prove, as I imagine, that one individual perpetrated these crimes, or five thousand francs each, if there were three criminals. Good day, Mr. Fouché; let me have a report of your doings without delay."

The secret of Mr. Fouché's confident promise to detect the assassin was the reliance he placed in the activity, daring, and intelligence of Pierre Lacour. He sent for him, and related his conversation with the emperor, enlarging on the munificent reward promised by Napoleon.

"I am poor," said Lacour, "but higher motives than hopes of reward stimulate me to perform this duty. Yet, should I be successful, a sum of money like this would enable me to wed one, who, though I voluntarily offered to release her from her engagement has loved me as well in my misfortunes as in happier times. In one week, therefore, Mr. Fouché, I will enable you to redeem your pledge to the emperor."

Four days passed away, and yet the minister of police heard nothing from Lacour. But the young man had not been inactive; and once or twice he had obtained, what he considered, traces of the person calling himself Belmont, the supposed assassin of the Rue la Harpe, and, by presumption, of the other murders; but these traces led to no result.

Whether in search of diversion, or that a vague hope whispered to him that he might obtain some intelligence by so doing, Lacour, on the fifth night after his interview with the minister, went to a masked ball at the grand opera house, in the costume of an officer of the Fusilier Guard, which chance led him to select. Weary of the noise and confusion, sad and discouraged, he had withdrawn from the crowded circle of dancers, when some one touched him on the shoulder.

"Captain Lassalle," said a sweet musical voice, "you are known, though the uniform you wear is not that of your own corps."

Lacour turned with the intention of correcting the mistake, when a secret impulse restrained the disavowal. The person who addressed him was a slight young man, fashionably dressed, with no other disguise than a half-mask of black velvet, which did not conceal his light hair.

"I perceive you know me," said Lacour, favoring the mistake; "though you have the advantage of me. I cannot possibly conjecture whom I am addressing."

The masked laughed lightly.

"Perhaps it would be of no use for me to unmask," was the reply; "but if I tell you I have something of importance to communicate to you—something in reference to your application to the emperor for preferment, you may be disposed to listen to me."

"With all my heart."

"I see you are tired of this noisy scene," said the mask, "and so in faith am I. Besides, this is no place to talk of business. What say you to a moonlight walk to my lodgings, in the Rue Montmartre? There we can discuss our affairs over a glass of champagne."

"I will willingly accompany you," said Lacour, "if you will give me a few minutes to speak to a friend, with whom I had a previous appointment."

"Make haste, then," said the mask; "you will find me here for fifteen minutes."

Lacour hastened to the nearest post, and made himself known to the commandant.

"Quick!" said he, "I want a sergeant and a dozen gens d'armes. In fifteen minutes I shall leave the opera house, in company with a young man, for the Rue Montmartre. Let the squad follow us without appearing to do so. Keep in the shadow of the houses. We shall enter a house. As soon as the door has closed, demand instant admittance of the porter. Let the sergeant follow hard upon my heels, and wait outside the door of whatever room I enter. At a call from me, let him be ready to burst in and secure the person with whom I am in company."

As soon as he had given these directions, the police officer hastened back to the opera house, where the mask was still awaiting him. Arm in arm they left the hall, and chatting familiarly, entered the Rue Montmartre, and soon arrived at an old house of seven stories, to which they were admitted by the porter. Lacour's heart beat as he accompanied his guide, in the dark, up three pairs of stairs—but before he had reached the head of the third flight, he heard the street door open and shut below, and knew that the sergeant had obeyed his directions, and that help was at hand in case his suspicions proved true.

The mask opened the door of a room, and ushered in his guest. It was a small, boudoir-like apartment, and exquisitely furnished. Silken hangings fell over gold arrows, from the ceiling to the floor. Tapestry carpets, soft as velvet, covered the floor. Rich ottomans, superb mirrors, marble tables, and pictures, were crowded together. A soft light was diffused through the apartment by an alabaster shade-lamp. An intoxicating perfume loaded the atmosphere, and even oppressed the senses. Lacour, as he sank upon the sofa, felt overcome by a strange languor. The mask sat close beside him.

"Captain," said the mask, in a musical, insinuating voice, "have you ever loved?"

"Before I answer this question," replied Lacour, "I must first know what prompts you thus to catechize me."

"Because," replied the unknown, "I have deceived you—because I am a woman—one who has long known and loved you, till an uncontrollable desire to make this confession has compelled her to a step that you will blame, and, perhaps, despise her for."

Lacour was puzzled, and remained silent for a few moments.

"I see," said the mask, with a sigh, "you despise me for my very boldness. Yet, I am a lady of rank and reputation, and my affection for you is as pure as that of maiden can be."

"Fair lady," said Lacour, "if such you be indeed, you must permit me to request you to remove that envious mask."

"It may not be," replied the stranger, with a laugh. "Ask that, or presume to remove this shield, and I vanish like a fairy or a phantom. But if you promise to be very obedient, I may give you hopes of disclosing my face—perhaps my name—at our next interview. But in reward for your submission to my behest, I will allow you, like a benignant sovereign, to do homage to my ungloved hand."

She withdrew her kid glove, and presented, playfully, a hand so white, so delicately veined, and small, that Lacour could no longer doubt that he was addressing a lady. He raised the hand respectfully to his lips. But he felt now that his suspicions were groundless, and that he did wrong in deceiving a person, who, however romantic and unjustifiable her behavior might seem, was still one entitled to respect and honor. But as he was framing an apology for taking advantage of her mistaking him, the stranger suddenly sprang upon him like a tigress. The delicate hand he had just kissed now compressed his throat like an iron vice; the other suddenly brandished in the air a small silver hammer, while a fierce voice hissed in his ear, "Lassalle! your hour has come! Belleville, Descartes, and Monval, have gone before you to answer for their crimes. You are the fourth, and last. Die, villain!"

But Lacour struggled free, and shouted for help. The door fell with a crash; the soldiers poured in, and the female assassin was secured and disarmed. Eager to unravel the mystery, the police officer tore the mask from the face of the unknown, and recognized in the wild and inflamed features of the assassin of the Rue La Harpe, the Rue Richelieu, and the Boulevard des Italiens, his sister, Maria Lacour!

But Maria Lacour died not on the scaffold. She was saved from that doom by unquestionable proofs of insanity. Her sad story was learned afterwards from various sources, and corroborated, in the most important particulars, by Captain Lassalle, who was arrested for a criminal offence shortly after the above incident, and made a full confession of his guilt. It appeared, then, that the house of the widow Lacour, a short time before the opening of our story, had been broken into by four villains, named Belleville, Descartes, Monval, and Lassalle. They were all men of bad habits, and urgently necessitous, but yet of decent education and family. Hearing a noise in the kitchen, Maria descended only in time to witness the death pangs of the mother. The three first-named ruffians, demons who had murdered to rob, wished to destroy this witness of their guilt, but the fourth interceded, and her life was spared. But the horror of the deed overthrew her reason. She fled from the house that night a maniac; whither she wandered, how she was cared for, for a long time was and must ever remain a mystery. She finally, it seems, became in a degree tranquillized, found her way to Paris, and there she supported herself by her extraordinary skill as an embroideress.

But it was conjectured that her memory of early events had gone. The casual sight of one of the assassins, all of whom had prospered and risen in the world, revived the recollection of that one fearful night of horror, and with it came to her disordered brain the thirst of vengeance. It did not appear that for a moment she had dreamed of appealing to the interposition of the law. To execute a summary vengeance, personally, was her terrible resolve. With a cunning that often supplies the loss of reason with the insane, she contrived snares, into which three of the assassins fell, and, with the singular implement her fancy had suggested, was the means of their death. Chance led to the failure of her plan for punishing the last of the assassins, Lassalle, and to her discovery by her brother.

Immediately after her arrest and examination, on proof of the condition of her mind, she was conveyed to a private asylum, and carefully attended to. Fortunately, her madness here assumed a happier phase. She took great pleasure in seeing her brother, and appeared to have forgotten that her mother was no more, asking him every day how soon their mother would come and take her back to the country. But the trials she had undergone had undermined her health. She sank very rapidly, and soon breathed her last.

Lacour only remained long enough in the service of the police to effect the arrest, and witness the condemnation of Lassalle, the last of the four assassins, who escaped the silver hammer of the maniac girl, to die by the hand of the executioner.

The sorrows he had experienced would have blighted the heart and sapped the life of Pierre Lacour, but for the love of one who had proved true to him through all his trials. Some months after the death of his sister, he married his faithful Estelle, and retired to a small and well-stocked farm, for which he was indebted to the generosity of the emperor; and he lived long enough, if not to forget his sorrows, at least to find consolation in the bosom of his family.