mind is driven out of its proper course anu is half inclined to believe that a more satisfactory issue may be found out of the beaten track, and a nearer approach to truth in the pages of a novel than in any of the archives.

History has been compared to stage decorations: where splendid buildings give every illusion of substantiality until one goes behind the scenes, when marble and granite are discovered to be simply paper and paint; and there are occasions when it may be safer to trust to fiction founded on fact than to a supposed fact founded on fiction.

A member of the French Academy affirms that, having carefully studied all the public documents relating to the flight of the royal family to Varennes, he found the only really satisfactory description of it in a chapter from the pen of Alexandre Dumas. The truth is scrupulously respected, the fugitives are followed step by step, and a lesson in narrative given by which the historian might safely profit were it not for the fact that no serious writer could hope to maintain his reputation but at the expense of brightness. An amusing historian must be at once discredited.

The "Chevalier de Maison Rouge," the most dramatic of all Dumas' entrancing novels may safely be taken as the best picture of the time. It could not fail to be the most sensational, since it treats of an epoch without parallel in horror and interest.

From the beginning of time there have been, doubtless, terrible crimes, revolts, rebellions-days in which there was no law, no security, no retribution-where there have been cruel martyrdoms, and where the innocent have been the chief sufferers; but there has only been one tragedy like the tragedy of 1793-only one Reign of Terror.

In years of order and quie.ness it is difficult to picture such a day; its deeds of violence seem like dreams of a disordered fancy; the wildest imagination could conceive no greater chaos, and le grand raconteur, only separated from the dramatis personæ of his story by the briefest space, was able to draw them as they were in real life-crea

tures of flesh and blood, with some of whom he had even spoken face to face.

Père Dumas, as the younger men were pleased to call him, was a republican, though not a communist, and had many acquaintances amongst the people: it has even been thought that one of the actors in the Plot of the Pink was personally known to him. The Tisons, the Simons, the Santerres of the Conciergerie were types which he had closely studied, and although he may have sometimes been accused of historic impossibilities, it is admitted that when he chose to be accurate he could be as accurate as anybody else.

His novel was just about to be published, under the title of "The Marquis de Rougeville," since that was the real designation of the queen's devoted adherent, when he received a letter from the son of his hero. It was as follows:"Monsieur:-My father's mark in the Revolution was so brief, and also so mysterious, that it is not without anxiety, being aware of your forthcoming romance. I would venture to ask with what incidents you have accompanied the bare facts which attach to his name, although I am well aware of the respect you profess for fallen greatness, and your sympathy with noble devotions.

"Accept, monsieur, etc., etc., "Marquis de Rougeville." Dumas at once replied that he was not aware of the existence of any descendant of the late Marquis, and that although the story was wholly in his favor, from that moment the Chevalier de Rougeville should cease to exist, and should become the Chevalier de Maison Rouge.

He then received a second letter:

"Monsieur:-Call your story what you will. I am the last of my family, and in another hour I shall have blown out my brains. De Rougeville."

Not altogether putting faith in this sensational announcement, Dumas sent his secretary for news of the marquis, and found that he had in fact destroyed himself; but still feeling bound to keep to his word, the novel was published

with the title of "Chevalier de Maison Rouge."

In the first weeks of the Revolution, the royal family still counted a large number of faithful adherents, who kept up the illusion of a court, whilst the patient king submitted to take a minor part and to be almost effaced in the terrible drama going on around him. He made no appeal, and even when the Temple-gates had closed upon him, refused to believe in the imminence of his danger. It was not until the drums had drowned his voice in the Place de la Revolution that the queen herself could realize the end.

That Europe should have stood still with folded arms before the appalling spectacle offered by France in 1793 is one of the historic secrets which have never yet been explained. The only sovereign prepared to take an active part against the Revolution was Gustavus of Sweden. He was about to put himself at the head of an invading army when he was shot through the breast, possibly a message from the Communists. At all events, the deed was extolled in Paris as noble and praiseworthy.

But there was a voiceless sympathy for Marie Antoinette in quarters where it might be least expected, and many tender hearts bled for her. It is a painful fact that it was not the associates of her prosperous days who showed any readiness to sacrifice personal safety for her sake; they might bitterly lament the insults and the tortures inflicted on her, but it was in silence and inaction, whilst her true partisans were to be found amongst the people.

The list is strange.

A dustman, a confectioner, three hairdressers, two masons, a lemonadeseller, a locksmith, and a tobacconist. There were even revolutionary fanatics who would have saved her. Toulan, whose confederacy with Monsieur de Jarjayes has never been denied, was a red republican elected by the Commune as one of the Temple guards on account of his animosity to the tyrants.

The failure of several badly-managed schemes had put a temporary check

Lo futile plots when De Rougeville, returning from abroad, determined on a more resolute venture. He managed, with extraordinary address, to make himself agreeable to Michonis, the inspector of prisons, to whose especial vigilance the care of the Temple prisoners had been confided. Vain of his functions, and particularly proud of his daily interviews with the Veuve Capet, he was easily induced to permit the companions of his social hours a sight of her in her captivity.

Even the most turbulent sansculottes and the most austere terrorists were unable to approach the fallen queen without an emotion they could not conceal. She was so imposing in her courageous resignation and the proud impassibility with which she met insolence and outrage that she was never approached without a certain sense of embarrassment; but Michonis, over the convivial cup, indulged himself in free remarks upon her appearance and surroundings. Her whitened hair, her terrible pallor, far from detracting from her beauty only enhanced it, and her gracious bearing he averred would in any case have rendered her fascinating.

De Rougeville, inwardly raging under the intolerable familiarity of such revelations, was careful to assume an air of indifference, and to appear simply led by the eloquence of the speaker into some slight curiosity concerning her. Finally a day was fixed when he should accompany Michonis on his tour of inspection.

And here comes the important discrepancy between history and fiction, for from police reports it would seem that the Plot of the Pink was to have been carried out in the Conciergerie, whilst Dumas lays the scene in the Temple.

In the former case the difficulties would have been insurmountable. To escape from that "ante-chamber of death" could not have been attempted with the faintest chance of success, yet this is the story given amongst several equally improbable ones in the state papers. It is there related that Michonis confessed that he ushered De

Rougeville on the day appointed into a low, dark, unfurnished chamber where two gendarmes were playing at cards; the woman Harel, who never for a moment lost sight of the queen, was seated at the window sewing.

Marie Antoinette herself stood erect, and whilst Michonis had turned his head for a moment, the chevalier made her a sign, and, taking a red carnation from his buttonhole, threw it behind the stove near which the queen was standing. As soon as they were gone, she picked it up and found a paper neatly folded in the petals, by which she was assured of the faithfulness of her friends and informed that the chevalier would return with money to bribe her a tendants, and full directions for her own conduct in the matter.

What then is said to have been the course pursued by Marie Antoinette? It is related that she wrote a reply by means of a pin, and calling one of the guards, confessed to him the means by which De Rougeville had communicated with her, and desired him to place in his hands the few words she had written in reply before she left the prison.

The soldier, Gilbert by name, had always treated her with respect, and although so unusual a thing might have misled her to think him a friend, it is beyond measure unlikely that she would have trusted him in a matter of such importance both to herself and her friends. It appears that Gilbert took the paper and carried it at once to his superior officer, who brought the affair before the committee of public safety. made very light of the affair as a mere act of gallantry on the part of a stranger who had no idea of interfering in politics.

The story told by Dumas is more interesting and easy of belief. It was in the spring of 1793. Paris, a vast beleaguered city was in the hands of the people. Besides the organized National Guard, bands of disorderly patriots patrolled the streets, to the terror of peaceable inhabitants. No one would venture abroad after dark who was not a well-known Communist at

the risk of having to pass a night at the section, to be followed as likely as not by the guillotine.

One of these roystering parties had come to a halt in the middle of a narrow street and stopped a young woman who was hurrying on, carefully muffled and evidently anxious to escape,observation. She was roughly interrogated, and being unable to produce a card without which, by the latest decree of the Commune, no one was permitted to move, they were about to convey her to the nearest post, when they were accosted by a young officer of the Municipal Guard. The woman, who was young and beautiful and evidently in the greatest terror and distress, was not long in obtaining his protection, although her appearance and manner could only be described by the popular word suspect; but being himself well known as an irreproachable Democrat he obtained her release and found himself escorting her along the deserted streets in the direction she indicated.

Her gratitude to the handsome young Municipale may well be imagined, but she maintained a complete silence as to her name and the nature of the business which called her abroad so late in such perilous times; and when they reached a quieter quarter she begged him to leave her.

It takes a good many of Dumas' dramatic scenes before Maurice Lindey succeeds in discovering the name and surroundings of the heroine of his adventure. She is the wife of a master tanner and dyer living on the outskirts of Paris, very quiet, homely people; Genevieve a model wife and citizeness, Dixmer, her husband, much occupied with his business, and not at all with politics, passing his days with his workmen, and his nights in his laboratory, assisted by a foreman-one Morand-a reserved and silent personage, always absorbed in some chemical problem, his eyes protected by large green spectacles, and his hands inordinately stained with pigments.

Maurice is soon made welcome to the quiet household. The oftener he ap peared the better they seemed to be

pleased, and he never for a moment suspected any ulterior motive in their excessive hospitality.

One day, at dinner, the conversation turned on passing events, which was not often the case, the Dixmers professing much ignorance of revolutionary matters; but a recent attempt to rescue the Temple prisoners could not fail to be mentioned.

"It only failed," said Morand, "because there was an aristocrat among the patrol who was imprudent enough to let the word Monsieur escape him." Maurice, better informed, replied that greater vigilance had been aroused by the discovery of the Marquis de Rougeville's return to Paris, who had safely crossed through France with his usual good fortune, and having waited till dark at one of the barriers, made his way in, under the disguise of a National Guard.

Immense surprise was manifested at this news, and Dixmer supposed that he had vanished again as soon as the enterprise had failed.

"Not at all, not at all," said Maurice. "He is lurking somewhere about, but will be recognized before he can manage to get away."

"What is he like?" asked Morand.

"He is a small slight man, but soldierlike and distinguished-magnificent eyes, which are alone sufficient to identiry him."

A profound silence followed this description.

"How can he be so rash as to remain!" presently exclaimed Madame Dixmer.

"Have you never seen her?" he inquired, with some surprise.

"I have not been long in Paris," she replied, "and the opportunity has never presented itself."

"Nor do I fancy would you take advantage of that which may soon unhappily occur."

"What do you mean?" she asked, breathlessly.

"Citizen Maurice alludes to the probable condemnation of Marie Antoinette and her death on the scaffold," said Morand quietly.

"Ah, no," she murmured.

"But," continued Maurice, "I am on duty at the Temple, and could place you any day where you could see her during exercise in the gardens."

The offer was gratefully accepted, and on one fine morning Maurice appeared in full civic uniform to escort his friends to the Temple prison. Dixmer declared himself too much occupied with his business for any such idle expedition, and Morand protested he could ill be spared, but was over-persuaded, and excusing himself for his working dress, prepared to make one of the little party.

The accustomed reader of romance already divines that the green spectacles were more than ever needful for complete disguise, that the pretended chemist was no other than the Chevalier de Maison Rouge, and that the Dixmers were both devoted Royalists.

Fassing over the bridge of Notre Lame, they were nearing the Hôtel de Ville when they were accosted by a flower-girl.

"Buy a bouquet, mon beau Municipale," she said; "buy a bouquet for the pretty citizeness." She held up a bunch of splendid red carnations, and Maurice presented them to Madame Dixmer. Morand had stood apart during this apparently trifling episode. He was pale as death, but Maurice observed nothing.

Arrived at the Temple he installed them at the end of a narrow passage through which the queen had to pass on her way to the gardens. At ten o'clock there was a call to arms, the clang of musketry upon the stones re

sounded through the courts, the iron gates opened and the royal family appeared.

The first two are the sister and daughter of Capet," whispered Maurice. "The last to come is Marie Antoinette." Morand, white as ashes, drew back against the wall, but Genevieve took a step forward. Her white dress and red carnations attracted the queen's attention, and she said, smiling: "Ah, madame, how happy you are to have such flowers."

Genevieve made a rapid movement to offer them, but Maurice laid his hand on her arm.

"Is it forbidden?" she exclaimed, with deep disappointment. He thought for a moment and then said: "No; give them."

"Oh, thank you, thank you," said the queen and with her thin white fingers she chose one of the flowers almost at random from the bouquet.

"Oh, take them, take them all," said Genevieve.

"Allons, allons, Citoyenne Capet," shouted the officer of the guard, and she passed on.

of the accidents which it was impossible to foresee.

The queen had dropped one of the carnations, in which there was a duplicate of the paper in her own, and a flower-girl had been noticed on one of the bridges flinging a whole basket of her wares into the river. In those days it required much less to cause misgivings, and there are suspicions which are quickly justified. The trap-door was observed; the Temple gardens were considered a source of danger, and Marie Antoinette was parted from her sister and her children, and driven in the darkness of a summer night to her cell in the Conciergerie.

C. E. MEETKERKE.

From The Saturday Review.

THE PASSING OF THE FUR SEAL. For fully two years before our government decided to despatch a party of naturalists to the Behring Sea to investigate, from the British point of

"But you saw her, Madame Dixmer?" said Maurice, intent on pleasing her and blind to everything else.

"Oh, yes, yes," she replied; “and if I were to live a hundred years I should never forget it."

The same evening in her prison, by the aid of a smoking lamp, her little daughter's arms round her neck, hiding her movements from the eyes of her guards, Marie Antoinette deciphered a few lines written on tissue paper, which was tightly folded between the petals of one of the carnations. These told her that a passage had been opened underneath one of the garden walks leading into the street into which she could easily pass through a trap door in one of the canteens opened for the use of the soldiers, and into which she must find some excuse to enter unobserved.

There was nothing impossible in this, but the plot was discovered through one

question, complaints had been made by both the United States and Russia that the operations of the pelagic hunters were leading to the extermination of the animals from all the breeding grounds on the Pribyloff and Commander Islands. It cannot be said, therefore, that we, who have a large stake in this pelagic branch of the sealing industry, have moved with undue precipitation in the investigation of what is a very important matter. Lord Salisbury might have chosen, and he may yet choose, if the commissioners so advise, to stand by the terms of the Paris award of 1893, when it was agreed that the regulations passed "for the proper protection and preservation of the fur seal in or habitually resorting to" the Behring Sea should be submitted every five years to a new examination. But this arrangement does not, of course, preclude an earlier reopening of the question if the parties concerned agree upon the necessity of