of the vilest monuments that ever disgraced a
Christian church, with all kinds of make-believe
mythological and allegorical beings capering
through their eternal stone antics, about as
much in character and keeping with the place
as if they were a fossilised ballet. Perhaps the
purer taste of the times will lead to a thorough
"restoration," and we shall once more have our
old Abbey completed, perfected, and the orbis
miraculum as of yore.

           A TRIAL AT TOULOUSE.

IN the city of Toulouse there is an old cemetery
called the Cemetery of Saint Aubin. One
out-of-the-way corner of the burial-ground is
surrounded by high and rugged walls. Of these,
one separates it from the garden of an adjacent
monastery; the other, from a street called the
Rue Riquet. The little oratory for mourners is
close by. The place is desolate, and shut out
from the merry world.

Early in the morning of a day in the new
spring of the year 1847, the porter and the
gravedigger of the cemetery as they go their
rounds, wander into this retired corner. Much
rain has fallen in the night; the tiny blossoms
of the young year gleam through the glittering
grass; the sun flings long purple shadows on
the ground; the birds chirp gaily. What a
time for the discovery of a crime! The men
look into the nook, and see in the far corner
what they fancy to be a young girl asleep.
Strange, for a girl to be asleep in a cemetery
at six o'clock in the morning! They go nearer.
Yes; she is asleep: but hers is the sleep from
which there is no awakening on earth. Her
attitude is as though she were praying. Her
knees are bent, and she leans on her elbows.
Her face is hidden on the ground. On a stake,
fixed in the ground close by, the discoverers
find a blue handkerchief with white spots, of
which the corners are knotted. The sexton,
forgetting how important will be every item
of evidence, however minute, alters the
position of the corpse in his anxiety to behold its
features, and to assure himself that no spark
of life remains. He and his companion then
hasten to inform the authorities of the place:
but an hour elapses before the authorities are
on the spot. In the mean time the news of the
tragedy has spread through the town. A curious
crowd besieges the dead girl's resting-place.
Some trample on the grass. Others clamber
on the wall of the monastery and of the Rue
Riquet, and sit staring at the unrecognised
body.

The body did not lie long unclaimed. The
neighbours said it was the corpse of Cécile
Combettes. Cécile's station in life was humble. Her
father worked in a manufactory of files. Her
mother added to the family store by lamp-lighting.
Cécile herself, nearly fifteen years of age,
was apprenticed to a bookbinder of the name of
Conte. Eager inquiries were made as to when
Cécile had last been seen alive, and who had
been her companions. On the eve of the
discovery of the corpse, Conte had to deliver at the
monastery certain books which he had bound.
He packed them in two parcels, and impressed
Marion Roumagnac, an old woman in his service,
and Cécile Combettes, to carry the burdens in
two baskets. On arriving at the dwelling of
the "frères," he dismissed the old woman, and
told Cécile to wait in the lodge to bring back
the empty baskets. He was absent some time
in the interior of the establishment unpacking
his books and receipting his bill. On his return
to the lodge there was no Cécile. The umbrella
Conte had left in her charge, was leaning against
the wall; but the girl had disappeared. The
porter had not seen her go out. Conte supposed
she had gone home. It was discovered
that she had not returned, and a search was
instituted. It is never easy for women to gain
access to a monastery, and it was now late at
night. Her friends could not hunt for her
among the "Brothers," till morning. They
hunted elsewhere in vain.

The next act of the tragedy is the medical
examination of the corpse. Cécile, said the doctors,
was still a mere child. She had been cruelly
ill-used. Her face was bruised and swollen;
her eyelids were swollen; the skin was torn.
Her mouth and neck, however, showed no sign
of strangling or suffocation. Her right cheek
was grazed, and stained by mould. The lobes
of her ears were torn, and caked with clotted
blood. Her hands were scratched and torn,
and had been strained in some violent struggle.
The examination of the exterior of the body
established nothing as to the immediate cause of
death. It was only evident that Cécile, after a
long conflict, had been subjected to brutal
treatment. A careful observation of the neck and
throat confirmed the opinion that she had not
been strangled or suffocated. But there were
marks of several frightful blows on the head,
and the faculty affirmed that of these any
one would have been sufficient to cause
immediate death. It was evident that murder in
its worst form had been committed; but by
whom?

Suspicion fell at once upon the "frères." The
corpse had been discovered at the foot of the
wall of their garden. Their enforced celibacy was
an accusation in itself. Before the public
authorities had apprehended any one as the
possible murderer, the voice of the populace
delared loudly that he could be no other than a
"frère."

The first step in the hunt for the assassin
was to discover by what means the body
bad been deposited where it was found. A
minute examination was made of the abbey—
cellars, garrets, stables, dormitories, were all
carefully searched. Had the murderer carried
his victim through their garden, it was hoped
that some traces of his passage would be left on
the soft ground. There was a broken place at
the top of the cemetery wall, near the oratory,
but it was supposed that this had been made by
he crowd, who climbed up to view the corpse. The
long grass at the foot of the wall, immediately