of despotism—the secret police, and the warning con veyed in Béranger's well-known song— "Parlons bas, Parlons bas, Ici près j'ai vu Judas, J'ai vu Judas, j'ai vu Judas,” can never be uttered with more truthful effect than at the present time, when "Monsieur Judas" walks the streets in safety-and men eye each other askance -doubtful whether the fair-spoken friend is not a spy, whose name is secretly enrolled among, "Les limiers de la Police." The story of "THE HOODED SNAKE" is laid in the days of Fouché; but, unless continental politics undergo a great change, such a treachery as it describes will soon find many a parallel in our own. CONTENTS. The Reader makes the acquaintance of Père Dominique, The Baron D'Aubigny and his daughter-The Chevalier de PAGE . THE HOODED SNAKE. CHAPTER I. THE READER MAKES THE ACQUAINTANCE OF PÈRE DOMINIQUE, IS INTRODUCED TO MONSIEUR ANATOLE CHIFFON, AND ALSO GETS A GLIMPSE OF THE BARON D'AUBIGNY'S GUESTS. THE scene of our story lies in Brittany. It is one of those stormy nights so frequent on the gloomy Breton coasts, upon which the very shadow of death seems ever to rest, when Nature puts on her fiercest aspect, and the sea, lashed into fury by the wind, tosses its gigantic waves against the rocks, as though it would overleap every barrier that stood between it and its prey-trembling and awe-struck man. The voice of the storm is heard for miles inland; and the peasant, hurrying homewards to his solitary hut across the savage and dreary landes, pauses to cross himself, while his blue lips move in prayer for help against the fiend that, as he believes, rides upon and rules the mighty blast; while the fierce inhabitant of the coast, whose home is perched among the rocks, like the nest B of the vulture and the osprey; and who, it is said, is as dangerous to the storm-smitten vessel as the rocks themselves, turns his scowling eye from the great fire of dried reeds and broom over which he is crouched, to the wall of his hut, where hangs a painted effigy of the Virgin, and prays that to-morrow's sun will rise on a wreck-strewn shore; while his rough helpmate fastens the shutter, shielding her eyes the while, lest she should glance without and be driven into madness by the sight of the spectral crierien-those phantom forms of shipwrecked men, who are ever driven onwards by a pitiless wind that mocks their cries for Christian burial. "None pass Cape Raz without hurt or fright," says the Breton proverb, and this night the grim features of those cruel rocks are hidden behind a shroud of blinding mist, as the bravo hides the dagger beneath his cloak, waiting for the coming prey. A wild night, a wild coast, and a wild people. Well may the Breton sailors pray, "Help me, great God, at Cape Raz; my ship is so small, and my need is so great!" "Why don't you open the door, some of you?" said Dominique Bonchamp, as a loud knocking was heard at the door of his farm. Upon ordinary occasions Père Dominique was not a man to be trifled with. A Breton farmer is king under his own roof, and at times, the government of farmer Bonchamp verged upon the despotic; but when superhuman influence is dreaded, mere human influence |