We will now put before the eyes of the reader the letters that Pog was reading with such painful attention.

The first had been written by himself, about twenty years before the period of which we now speak. So striking was the contrast between his life then,—a life calm, happy, and smiling,—and the life of a pirate and murderer, that one might be moved to pity the unhappy man, if only by comparing him as he was, to what he had been in the past.

The height from which he had fallen, the depth of infamy to which he had descended, must have moved the most obdurate heart to pity!

These letters will unveil also what mysterious tie united the Commander des Anbiez, Erebus, and Pog, to whom we restore his real name, that of Count Jacques de Montreuil, former lieutenant of the king’s galleys.

M. de Montreuil—Pog—had written the following letter to his wife on his return from a campaign of eight or nine months in the Mediterranean.

This letter was dated from the lazaretto, or pest-house, in Marseilles.

The galley of Count de Montreuil, having touched at Tripoli, of Syria, where the plague had been declared, was compelled according to custom to submit to a long quarantine.

Madame Emilie de Montreuil lived in a country house situated on the borders of the Rhone, near Lyons.

First Letter.

“Lazaretto de Marseilles, December 10,1612.

“On board the Capitaine.

“Can it be true, Emilie,—can it be true? My heart overflows with joy.

“I do not know how to express my surprise to you. It is an intoxication of happiness, it is a flowering of the soul,—a foolish exaltation which borders on delirium, if each moment a holy, grateful thought did not lead me to God, the almighty author of our felicities!

“Oh, if you only knew, Emilie, how I have prayed to him, as I have blessed him! with what profound fervour I have lifted to him my transported soul! Thanks to thee, my God, who hast heard our prayers. Thanks to thee, my God, who dost crown the sacred love which unites us by giving us a child.

“Emilie—Emilie, I am crazy with joy.

“As I write this word,—a child,—my hand trembles, my heart leaps.

“Wait, for I am weeping.

“Oh, I have wept with delight!

“What sweet tears! How good it is to weep!

“Emilie, my wife, soul of my soul, life of my life, pure treasure of the purest virtues!

“It seems to me now that your beautiful brow must radiate majesty. I prostrate myself before you, there is something so divine in maternity.

“Emilie, you know it, since the three years of our union, our love, never has a cloud troubled it. Each day has added a day to this life of delight.

“Yet, in spite of myself, doubtless, I have caused you, perhaps, not some pain, not some displeasure, but some little contrariety, and you always so sweet, so good, you have no doubt hidden it from me. Ah, well! in this solemn day I come to you on both knees, to ask your forgiveness as I would ask forgiveness of God for having offended him.

“You know, Emilie, that dear as you are to me, our ever reviving tenderness would change our solitude to paradise. Ah, well! this happiness of the past, which seemed then to go beyond all possible limits, is yet to be doubled.

“Do you not find, Emilie, that in the happiness of two there is a sort of egotism, a sort of isolation, which disappears when a cherished child comes to double our pleasures by adding to them the most tender, most touching, most adorable duties?

“Oh, these duties, how well you will understand them!

“Have you not been a model of daughters? What sublime devotion to your father! What abnegation! What care!

“Oh, yes! the best, the most adorable of daughters will be the best, the most adorable of mothers!

“My God! how we love each other, Emilie! And as we love each other, how we shall love it, this poor little being! My God! how we shall love it!

“My wife, my beloved angel, I weep again.

“My reason is lost. Oh, forgive me, but I have had no news from you in so long a time, and then the first letter that you write me, after so many months of absence, comes to inform me of this. My God! how can I resist weeping?

“I do not know how to tell you of my dreams, my plans, the visions that I caress.

“If it is a daughter, she must be named Emilie, like you. I wish it. I ask it of you. There can be nothing more charming than these happy repetitions of names.

“Do you see how I will gain by it? When I call an Emilie tenderly, two will come to me. That sweet name, the only name which now exists for me, will reach in two hearts at once.

“If it is a boy, would you wish to call it for me?

“And now, Emilie, we must not forget to put a little fence around the lake and on the border of the river. Great God! if our child should—

“You see, Emilie, as I know your heart, this fear will not appear exaggerated to you. It will not make you smile. No, no, but tears will fill your eyes. Oh, is not that true? is it not? I know you so well!

“Is there an emotion of your heart to which I am a stranger? But tell me, how have I deserved so much love? What have I done so good, so great, that Heaven should recompense me thus?

“You know that I have always had religious sentiments.

“You know that you have often said that, if I did not know exactly the feasts of the Church, I knew perfectly well the number of poor in the neighbourhood. Now, I feel the need, not of a more ardent faith, for I believe. Oh, I have so many reasons to believe,—to believe with fervour. But I feel the need of a life more soberly religious,—more serious.

“I owe all to God; paternity is such an imposing priesthood. Now no action of our lives can be indifferent. Nothing belongs to us any longer. We must not only look forward to our own future, but to that of our child.

“You think, Emilie, that what you desire so much, that what you dared not ask me, out of respect for the will of my father; you think that my dismissal from the service is not a question.

“There is not now an hour, a minute of my life, which does not belong to our child. If I have yielded to your entreaties with so much regret, poor wife, because I desired to follow the last request of my father faithfully, now it need be so no longer. Although our wealth is considerable, we must neglect nothing now which can increase it.

“Heretofore we have trusted to agents the management of our affairs; now I shall undertake them myself.

“That will be so much gained for our child. When the lease of our farms near Lyons has expired, we ourselves will put our lands in good condition.

“You know, my love, the dream of my life has been to lead the life of a country gentleman in the midst of sweet and sacred family joys. Your tastes, your character, your angelic virtues, fit you also for the enjoyment of such peaceful pleasures and associations. What more can I say, my Emilie, my blessed angel of God?

“I have just been interrupted. The lazaretto boat is leaving this moment.

“I am in despair when I think of the long mortal month which still separates me from the spot where I shall fall on my knees, and we shall join our hands in thanking God for his gift.”

This artless letter, puerile perhaps in its detail, but which pictured a happiness so profound, which spoke of hopes so radiant, was enclosed in another letter, bearing this address, “To the Commander Pierre des Anbiez,” and containing the following words, written in haste, and with a weak and trembling hand:

Second Letter.

“December 13th, midnight.

“He believes me—read—read. I feel that I am about to die—read, that his letter may be our torment here below, while we wait for that which God reserves for us.

“Now, I am ashamed of you—of myself; we have been base—base like the traitors we are.

“This infamous lie—never will I dare assert it before him—never will I allow him to believe that this child—Ah, I am in an abyss of despair!

“Be accursed! Depart, depart!

“Never has my sin appeared more terrible to me than since this execrable lie was made to impose upon his noble confidence in order to shield ourselves.

“May Heaven protect this unfortunate child.

“Under what horrible auspices will it be born, if it is born, for I feel now it must die before seeing the light—I can never survive the agony I suffer. Yet my husband is coming,—never will I lie to him. What shall I do?

“No, do not depart—my poor head wanders—at least—surely—you will not abandon me—no, no, do not depart—come—come—

“Emilie.”

Pog, the Count de Montreuil, as the sequel will show, had never been able, in discovering his wife’s guilt, to learn the name of the unhappy woman’s seducer. Nor did he know that Erebus was the child of this adulterous connection.

For a moment he was overwhelmed with conflicting emotions. Although such a bitterness of resentment might seem puerile, after the lapse of so many years, his rage reached its height when he saw this letter, written by himself............