The Liverpool Standard and General Commercial Advertiser.
Liverpool, Merseyside, England, 1844-02-13 00:00:00

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POETRY.

LOVE'S SNARE.

(For the Liverpool Standard.)

As o'er the lawn ,tie lovely morn I strayed,
Within a snare I caught two linnets grey;
The captive Son ,tens oft in vain essayed
To burst their treach'rous bonds, and By away.

" Poor birds ! why throb your plumy breasts with fear ?
Or why against the wires your pinions beat?
At home a guardian will ye fondly rear,
And all your little wants with kindness treat."

Beside a grove of elms, where lay concealed
My rustic cot beneath the sylvan shade,
A heay'nly form before me stood revealed,
And JAne her charms unconscion ly displayed,

Persuasion's mildest tones were all in vain,
To soothe the fair to lend a gracious ear;
She turned aside, and tripped across the plain,
Nor even deigned my luckless suit to hear.

Repulsed with scorn, and smarting with the pain,
Which cruel love had darted through my breast;
I thus, in sympathy's soft melting strain,
With accents sad the feathered pair addressed :

" Ye spotted warblers I now exult with glee,
Nor dream ye ever wantoned through the air;
Fur my poor heart which I had thought so free,
Is worse than you entrapped in Cupid's snare ! "

CARDINAL DE RETZ,

THE COUR IER'S PLOT.

BY PETER. POPJOY, Esq:

(For the Liverpool Standard.

CHAPTER XII.
Contains a description of what is called "a scene."

•
IN spite of the presence of the Regent, Fabien could no
longer restrain his anger —" Infamous spy and eaves-
db ropper, to betray the conversation of a gentle lady !
ut'
Suddenly recollecting where and before whom he
stood, he stopped short, making a bow of submission to
the Queen, colouring deeply.
Albert de Croissi replied to his brother but by a dis-
dainful gesture, and quietly withdrew, mingling with the
courtiers, who awaited half terrified the conflict of pas-
sion that appeared to be warring in the mind of the
Queen.
The Coadjutor seemed about to speak; but such was
the wrath with which the Queen was excited, that he
dared not throw himself before his Royal mistress in
defence of the helpless girl who stood half dead with
fright before him, like some dove awaiting the pounce of
the eagle fluttering over-head.
" Come hither—come hither," said Anne of Austria,
her words but half intelligible from rage; " I—l am
willing to doubt what has been but now revealed to me.
Tell me it is false, and that I have been deceived ; tell
me that those whom I love—have trusted—in whom I
have placed so much contidence—have not betrayed me ;
tell me, miserable girl, the truth," stormed the Queen,
stamping her foot, " or I will crush thee—like this paltry
vase."
The Regent seized one of the splendid ornaments which
stood in the room, dashing it to the earth in a paroxysm
of passion.

This excess of anger appeared to give Elizabeth the
calm courage of despair. She again threw herself at the
Regent's feet, and addressed her in a firm but respectful
manner—
" I will not aggravate by a lie a fault of which I sin-
cerely repent, my gracious mistress. What Mons. de
Croissi has just said is true."
All the baneful passions that held a tenancy in the
heart, of Anne of Austria were at once revealed.
" barest thou to avow it ?" cried she, in a voice
of thunder, " darest thou to tell me this—here, in my
presence ? Away ! away ! or 1 will"—
The Regent raised her hand as if to strike the pros-
trate tr,:,iden before her, but suddenly her arm fell as if
powerl to her side, and she sank on the seat near her,
sobbing bitterly, hiding her face in her handkerchief;
exclaiming—

" Oh, unhappy--unhappy queen, that I am ! betrayed
by those nearest and dearest to me ; by my friends, my
servants, my followers—by all."
This scene appeared to have a strong effect upon the
conspirators. Some seemed struck with terror; others
shrunk back, daring scarcely to breathe. For several
minutes the sobs of the Queen were alone heard in the
oratory. The plaintive voice of Elizabeth at length
mingled its sweet tones with the royal grief.
" Madame !" said she, still kneeling, "my crime is so
great that I cannot hope nor expect for pardon, never-
theless I trust I may be allowed to explain if not to ex-
cuse the treason of which I have been accused before
you. Deprived of my aunt—my only relation—alone in
the world, I had no help to look for but in the noble lady
who placed me near your majesty. I owed her a debt of
gratitude without limit ; 1 was nothing without her ; and
what must have become of me Heaven only knows, if
she had withdrawn from me the fostering hand that so
kindly upheld me. She was imperious, haughty, and at
the same time crafty and skilful, besides being profoundly
versed in the art e.f seeking the truth from the inmost re-
cesses of the heart. Was it then difficult for her to de-
ceive a poor simple inexperienced girl like myself, who
could not comprehend for the most part the words or the
actions of which she compelled me to give her an account?
I always believed her to be devotedly attached to your
Majesty, and I saw no crime in making her acquainted
with that which perhaps your Majesty would make her
acquainted yourself. For a long time my protectress
thus abused my candour, before I was warned of my fault
by a vague whisper of conscience which the excitement
of a life at court made me slow to hea: and understand.
My eyes were not opened until that day when Mons. de
Croissi, by listening at my chamber door, heard a con-
versation which took place between Mlle. de Chevreuse
and myself • this circumstance at once revealed to me the
frightful part I had been made to play. I was ashamed
of myself; then fear took possession of every faculty, and
that man, who now comes to accuse me, did not blush to
propose to me a horrid bargain' which I could not refuse
to ratify : he threatened to tell all to your Majesty, if I
did not consent to assist him in a project which he then
meditated, and in which a young cavalier over whom I
was supposed to have some influence, he wished to induce,
to take a part. What could I do, without a friend to give
advice, without one to look to for support? I would rather
have died than forfeited your Majesty's regard, and I
feared perhaps that I might be degraded at court, and
banished your presence, should my folly become
known. At length I was requested to write to M. Fabien
de Croissi. In this I saw no great harm, since your Ma-
jesty, I was led to believe, gave your concurrence in
what was going forward. But when the whole truth
was revealed to me, oh ! what bitter tears did I not shed
for this odious bargain. This is the truth, madame ; and
now I am ready to submit to the chastisement which your
most just indignation has reserved for me. My life alone
can expiate the mischief which it seems I have uncon-
sciously done, and I shall smile at death if it can atone
for my crime."
This recital, emprinted with the glowing beauty of
truth—the touching tones of that low soft voice, so pre-
cious in woman—made a deep impression upon many of
the courtiers. The Coadjutor turned away, to hide his
emotion. Fabien approached Elizabeth, and raising her
from the ground, said in a whisper---
This, then, dearest, is your secret—one villain has
betrayed us both Oh ! Elizabeth, the court has been a
fatal place to us ; would that we had remained poor and
obscure at Montglat !"
While the Countess was speaking the Queen became
calmer, and perhaps had not heard one word of Eliza-
beth's justification. Suddenly she rose up and said, with
an abstracted air, as if but just aroused from a deep
sleep—
" What think you, gentlemen, of an evening so well
employed for the good of the state ? In truth, we have
lost our time in occupying ourselves with the love affairs
of a gallant and his mistress. But we have had enough,
and perhaps too much of this. Gentlemen, I will detain
you no longer; we must for the present—l say for the
present —abandon our enterprise. You, Mons. le Coad-
jutor, remain here, I pray ; I. wish to speak with
you."
At the same time the Regent made a courteous sign
to those assembled, signifying her wish to be left alone
with the ecclesiastic, without recollecting that she had
not decided the fate of the two unhappy young people
who had incurred her anger. Such was the character of
Anne of Austria ; , thus changing and inconstant was her
temper. This forgetfulness might have saved the cul-
prits, but there were too many persons interested in their
safe custody and future disposition not to remind the
Queen of the strange error she was committing.
They therefore remained. De Croissi undertook to
express their wishes.
" Madame," said he, bowing low, " these gentlemen,
before they depart from the royal presence, await your
Majesty's orders respecting this young man upon whom
their future peace of mind depends."
" Well thought of," said the Queen, colouring as she
spoke ; " I had nearly forgotten. But go in peace, gen-
tlemen ; I will take care that M. de Croissi shall be a
hostage for your safety as well as his own. Be sure,"
she continued, with an air c,f contempt, as she looked at
the Baron, " that it will not be to him I shall confide the
sate keeping of his hold pupil."
The courtiers one by one saluted the Queen, and de-
parted in silence. Hocquincourt would have still made
an attempt to save Fabien, but Anne closed his mouth
by a dry refusal, and the kind-hearted marechal departed,
casting upon Fabien and Elizabeth a glance full of re-
gret. The Queen then called the Baron de Croissi
to her, and spoke to him in a low voice. .
While the noblemen were taking their leave, the Co-
adjutor gradually drew near the two young people, who
now occupied an obscure corner of the oratory, near the
altar. At the moment he found no one was observing
him, he approached Fabien, and quickly whispered—
" They are about to convey you to the Bastille. Re-