IN THE

DAYS OF MY YOUTH. 

A NOVEL. 

BYAMELIA B. EDWARDS

1874

[Illustration]

CAXTON PRESS OFSHERMAN & CO. , PHILADELPHIA. 

CHAPTER I. 

MY BIRTHPLACE AND PARENTAGE. 

 Dolce sentier, Colle, che mi piacesti, Ov'ancor per usanza amor mi mena!

 PETRARCH. 

Sweet, secluded, shady Saxonholme! I doubt if our whole England containsanother hamlet so quaint, so picturesquely irregular, so thoroughlynational in all its rustic characteristics. It lies in a warm hollowenvironed by hills. Woods, parks and young plantations clothe everyheight and slope for miles around, whilst here and there, peeping downthrough green vistas, or towering above undulating seas of summerfoliage, stands many a fine old country mansion, turreted and gabled, and built of that warm red brick that seems to hold the light of thesunset long after it has faded from the rest of the landscape. A silverthread of streamlet, swift but shallow, runs noisily through the meadowsbeside the town and loses itself in the Chad, about a mile and a halffarther eastward. Many a picturesque old wooden bridge, many a foamingweir and ruinous water-mill with weedy wheel, may be found scattered upand down the wooded banks of this little river Chad; while to the brook, which we call the Gipstream, attaches a vague tradition of trout. 

The hamlet itself is clean and old-fashioned, consisting of one long, straggling street, and a few tributary lanes and passages. The housessome few years back were mostly long and low-fronted, with projectingupper stories, and diamond-paned bay-windows bowered in with myrtle andclematis; but modern improvements have done much of late to sweep awaythese antique tenements, and a fine new suburb of Italian and Gothicvillas has sprung up, between the town and the railway station. Besidesthis, we have a new church in the mediæval style, rich in gilding andcolors and thirteenth-century brass-work; and a new cemetery, laid outlike a pleasure-garden; and a new school-house, where the children aretaught upon a system with a foreign name; and a Mechanics' Institute, where London professors come down at long intervals to expound popularscience, and where agriculturists meet to discuss popular grievances. 

At the other extremity of the town, down by Girdlestone Grange, an oldmoated residence where the squire's family have resided these fourcenturies past, we are full fifty years behind our modern neighbors. Here stands our famous old "King's-head Inn, " a well-known place ofresort so early as the reign of Elizabeth. The great oak beside theporch is as old as the house itself; and on the windows of a littledisused parlor overlooking the garden may still be seen the names ofSedley, Rochester and other wits of the Restoration. They scrawled thoseautographs after dinner, most likely, with their diamond rings, and wentreeling afterwards, arm-in-arm, along the village street, singing andswearing, and eager for adventures--as gentlemen were wont to be inthose famous old times when they drank the king's health more freelythan was good for their own. 

Not far from the "King's Head, " and almost hidden by the trees whichdivide it from the road, stands an ancient charitable institution calledthe College--quadrangular, mullion-windowed, many-gabled, and colonizedby some twenty aged people of both sexes. At the back of the college, adjoining a space of waste ground and some ruined cloisters, lies thechurchyard, in the midst of which, surrounded by solemn yews andmouldering tombs, stands the Priory Church. It is a rare old church, founded, according to the county history, in the reign of Edward theConfessor, and entered with a full description in Domesday Book. Itssculptured monuments and precious brasses, its Norman crypt, carvedstalls and tattered banners drooping over faded scutcheons, tell all ofgenerations long gone by, of noble families extinct, of gallant deedsforgotten, of knights and ladies remembered only by the names abovetheir graves. Amongst these, some two or three modest tablets record thepassing away of several generations of my own predecessors--obscureprofessional men for the most part, of whom some few became soldiers anddied abroad. 

In close proximity to the church stands the vicarage, once the Priory; aquaint old rambling building, surrounded by magnificent old trees. Herefor long centuries, a tribe of rooks have held undisputed possession, filling the boughs with their nests and the air with their voices, and, like genuine lords of the soil, descending at their own grave will andpleasure upon the adjacent lands. 

Picturesque and mediæval as all these old buildings and old associationshelp to make us, we of Saxonholme pretend to something more. We claim tobe, not only picturesque but historic. Nay, more than this--we areclassical. WE WERE FOUNDED BY THE ROMANS. A great Roman road, well knownto antiquaries, passed transversely through the old churchyard. Romancoins and relics, and fragments of tesselated pavement, have been foundin and about the town. Roman camps may be traced on most of the heightsaround. Above all, we are said to be indebted to the Romans for thatinestimable breed of poultry in right of which we have for years carriedoff the leading prizes at every poultry-show in the county, and haveeven been enabled to make head against the exaggerated pretensions ofmodern Cochin-China interlopers. 

Such, briefly sketched, is my native Saxonholme. Born beneath the shadeof its towering trees and overhanging eaves, brought up to reverence itsantiquities, and educated in the love of its natural beauties, whatwonder that I cling to it with every fibre of my heart, and even whenaffecting to smile at my own fond prejudice, continue to believe it theloveliest peacefulest nook in rural England?

My father's name was John Arbuthnot. Sprung from the Arbuthnots ofMontrose, we claim to derive from a common ancestor with the celebratedauthor of "Martinus Scriblerus. " Indeed, the first of our name whosettled at Saxonholme was one James Arbuthnot, son to a certainnonjuring parson Arbuthnot, who lived and died abroad, and was ownbrother to that famous wit, physician and courtier whose genius, myfather was wont to say, conferred a higher distinction upon our branchof the family than did those Royal Letters-Patent whereby the elderstock was ennobled by His most Gracious Majesty King George the Fourth, on the occasion of his visit to Edinburgh in 1823. From this JamesArbuthnot (who, being born and bred at St. Omer, and married, moreover, to a French wife, was himself half a Frenchman) we Saxonholme Arbuthnotswere the direct descendants. 

Our French ancestress, according to the family tradition, was of no veryexalted origin, being in fact the only daughter and heiress of oneMonsieur Tartine, Perruquier in chief at the Court of Versailles. Butwhat this lady wanted in birth, she made up in fortune, and the modestestate which her husband purchased with her dowry came down to usunimpaired through five generations. In the substantial and somewhatforeign-looking red-brick house which he built (also, doubtless, withMadame's Louis d'ors) we, his successors, had lived and died ever since. His portrait, together with the portraits of his wife, son, andgrandson, hung on the dining-room walls; and of the quaint oldspindle-legged chairs and tables that had adorned our best rooms fromtime immemorial, some were supposed to date as far back as the firstfounding and furnishing of the house. 

It is almost needless to say that the son of the non-juror and hisimmediate posterity were staunch Jacobites, one and all. I am not awarethat they ever risked or suffered anything for the cause; but they werenot therefore the less vehement. Many were the signs and tokens of thatdead-and-gone political faith which these loyal Arbuthnots left behindthem. In the bed-rooms there hung prints of King James the Second at theBattle of the Boyne; of the Royal Martyr with his plumed hat, lacecollar, and melancholy fatal face; of the Old and Young Pretenders; ofthe Princess Louisa Teresia, and of the Cardinal York. In the librarywere to be found all kinds of books relating to the career of thatunhappy family: "Ye Tragicall History of ye Stuarts, 1697;" "Memoirs ofKing James II. , writ by his own hand;" "La Stuartide, " an unfinishedepic in the French language by one Jean de Schelandre; "The Fate ofMajesty exemplified in the barbarous and disloyal treatment (bytraitorous and undutiful subjects) of the Kings and Queens of the RoyalHouse of Stuart, " genealogies of the Stuarts in English, French andLatin; a fine copy of "Eikon Basilike, " bound in old red morocco, withthe royal arms stamped upon the cover; and many other volumes on thesame subject, the names of which (although as a boy I was wont to poreover their contents with profound awe and sympathy) I have now for themost part forgotten. 

Most persons, I suppose, have observed how the example of a successfulancestor is apt to determine the pursuits of his descendants down to thethird and fourth generations, inclining the lads of this house to thesea, and of that to the bar, according as the great man of the familyachieved his honors on shipboard, or climbed his way to the woolsack. The Arbuthnots offered no exception to this very natural law ofselection. They could not help remembering how the famous doctor hadexcelled in literature as in medicine; how he had been not onlyPhysician in Ordinary to Queen Anne and Prince George of Denmark, but asatirist and pamphleteer, a wit and the friend of wits--of such wits asPope and Swift, Harley and Bolingbroke. Hence they took, as it wereinstinctively, to physic and the _belles lettres_, and were neverwithout a doctor or an author in the family. 

My father, however, like the great Martinus Scriblerus, was both doctorand author. And he was a John Arbuthnot. And to carry the resemblancestill further, he was gifted with a vein of rough epigrammatic humor, inwhich it pleased his independence to indulge without much respect ofpersons, times, or places. His tongue, indeed, cost him some friends andgained him some enemies; but I am not sure that it diminished hispopularity as a physician. People compared him to Abernethy, whereby hewas secretly flattered. Some even went so far as to argue that only avery clever man could afford to be a bear; and I must say that he pushedthis conclusion to its farthest limit, showing his temper alike to richand poor upon no provocation whatever. He cared little, to be sure, forhis connection. He loved the profession theoretically, and from ascientific point of view; but he disliked the drudgery of countrypractice, and stood in no need of its hardly-earned profits. Yet he wasa man who so loved to indulge his humor, no matter at what cost, that Idoubt whether he would have been more courteous had his bread dependedon it. As it was, he practised and grumbled, snarled at his patients, quarrelled with the rich, bestowed his time and money liberally upon thepoor, and amused his leisure by writing for a variety of scientificperiodicals, both English and foreign. 

Our home stood at the corner of a lane towards the eastern extremity ofthe town, commanding a view of the Squire's Park, and a glimpse of themill-pool and meadows in the valley beyond. This lane led up toBarnard's Green, a breezy space of high, uneven ground dedicated tofairs, cricket matches, and travelling circuses, whence the noisy musicof brass bands, and the echoes of alternate laughter and applause, werewafted past our windows in the summer evenings. We had a large garden atthe back, and a stable up the lane; and though the house was but onestory in height, it covered a considerable space of ground, andcontained more rooms than we ever had occasion to use. Thus it happenedthat since my mother's death, which took place when I was a very littleboy, many doors on the upper floor were kept locked, to the unduedevelopment of my natural inquisitiveness by day, and my mortal terrorwhen sent to bed at night. In one of these her portrait still hung abovethe mantelpiece, and her harp stood in its accustomed corner. Inanother, which was once her bedroom, everything was left as in herlifetime, her clothes yet hanging in the wardrobe, her dressing-casestanding upon the toilet, her favorite book upon the table beside thebed. These things, told to me by the servants with much mystery, took apowerful hold upon my childish imagination. I trembled as I passed theclosed doors at dusk, and listened fearfully outside when daylight gaveme courage to linger near them. Something of my mother's presence, Ifancied, must yet dwell within--something in her shape still wander fromroom to room in the dim moonlight, and echo back the sighing of thenight winds. Alas! I could not remember her. Now and then, as ifrecalled by a dream, some broken and shadowy images of a pale face and aslender hand floated vaguely through my mind; but faded even as I stroveto realize them. Sometimes, too, when I was falling off to sleep in mylittle bed, or making out pictures in the fire on a winter evening, strange fragments of old rhymes seemed to come back upon me, mingledwith the tones of a soft voice and the haunting of a long-forgottenmelody. But these, after all, were yearnings more of the heart thanthe memory:--

 "I felt a mother-want about the world. And still went seeking. "

To return to my description of my early home:--the two rooms on eitherside of the hall, facing the road, were appropriated by my father forhis surgery and consulting-room; while the two corresponding rooms atthe back were fitted up as our general reception-room, and my father'sbed-room. In the former of these, and in the weedy old garden upon whichit opened, were passed all the days of my boyhood. 

It was my father's good-will and pleasure to undertake the sole chargeof my education. Fain would I have gone like other lads of my age topublic school and college; but on this point, as on most others, he wasinflexible. Himself an obscure physician in a remote country town, hebrought me up with no other view than to be his own successor. Theprofession was not to my liking. Somewhat contemplative and nervous bynature, there were few pursuits for which I was less fitted. I knewthis, but dared not oppose him. Loving study for its own sake, andtrusting to the future for some lucky turn of destiny, I yielded to thatwhich seemed inevitable, and strove to make the best of it. 

Thus it came to pass that I lived a quiet, hard-working home life, whileother boys of my age were going through the joyous experience of school, and chose my companions from the dusty shelves of some three or fourgigantic book-cases, instead of from the class and the playground. Notthat I regret it. I believe, on the contrary, that a boy may have worsecompanions than books and busts, employments less healthy than the studyof anatomy, and amusements more pernicious than Shakespeare and Horace. Thank Heaven! I escaped all such; and if, as I have been told, myboyhood was unboyish, and my youth prematurely cultivated, I am contentto have been spared the dangers in exchange for the pleasures of apublic school. 

I do not, however, pretend to say that I did not sometimes pine for therecreations common to my age. Well do I remember the manifoldattractions of Barnard's Green. What longing glances I used to stealtowards the boisterous cricketers, when going gravely forth upon abotanical walk with my father! With what eager curiosity have I notlingered many a time before the entrance to a forbidden booth, andscanned the scenic advertisement of a travelling show! Alas! how thecharms of study paled before those intervals of brief but bittertemptation! What, then, was pathology compared to the pig-faced lady, orthe Materia Medica to Smith's Mexican Circus, patronized by all thesovereigns of Europe? But my father was inexorable. He held that suchplaces were, to use his own words, "opened by swindlers for the ruin offools, " and from one never-to-be-forgotten hour, when he caught me inthe very act of taking out my penny-worth at a portable peep-show, hebound me over by a solemn promise (sealed by a whipping) never to repeatthe offence under any provocation or pretext whatsoever. I was a tinyfellow in pinafores when this happened, but having once pledged my word, I kept it faithfully through all the studious years that lay between sixand sixteen. 

At sixteen an immense crisis occurred in my life. I fell in love. I hadbeen in love several times before--chiefly with the elder pupils at theMiss Andrews' establishment; and once (but that was when I was veryyoung indeed) with the cook. This, however, was a much more romantic anddesperate affair. The lady was a Columbine by profession, and asbeautiful as an angel. She came down to our neighborhood with astrolling company, and performed every evening, in a temporary theatreon the green, for nearly three weeks. I used to steal out after dinnerwhen my father was taking his nap, and run the whole way, that I mightbe in time to see the object of my adoration walking up and down theplatform outside the booth before the performances commenced. Thisincomparable creature wore a blue petticoat spangled with tinfoil, and awreath of faded poppies. Her age might have been about forty. I thoughther the loveliest of created beings. I wrote sonnets to her--dozens ofthem--intending to leave them at the theatre door, but never finding thecourage to do it. I made up bouquets for her, over and over again, chosen from the best flowers in our neglected garden; but invariablywith the same result. I hated the harlequin who presumed to put his armabout her waist. I envied the clown, whom she condescended to address asMr. Merriman. In short, I was so desperately in love that I even triedto lie awake at night and lose my appetite; but, I am ashamed to own, failed signally in both endeavors. 

At length I wrote to her. I can even now recall passages out of thatpassionate epistle. I well remember how it took me a whole morning towrite it; how I crammed it with quotations from Horace; and how I fondlycompared her to most of the mythological divinities. I then copied itout on pale pink paper, folded it in the form of a heart, and directedit to Miss Angelina Lascelles, and left it, about dusk, with themoney-taker at the pit door. I signed myself, if I remember rightly, Pyramus. What would I not have given that evening to pay my sixpencelike the rest of the audience, and feast my eyes upon her from someobscure corner! What would I not have given to add my quota tothe applause!

I could hardly sleep that night; I could hardly read or write, or eat mybreakfast the next morning, for thinking of my letter and its probableeffect. It never once occurred to me that my Angelina might possiblyfind it difficult to construe Horace. Towards evening, I escaped again, and flew to Barnard's Green. It wanted nearly an hour to the time ofperformance; but the tuning of a violin was audible from within, and themoney-taker was already there with his pipe in his mouth and his handsin his pockets. I had no courage to address that functionary; but Ilingered in his sight and sighed audibly, and wandered round and roundthe canvas walls that hedged my divinity. Presently he took his pipe outof, his mouth and his hands out of his pockets; surveyed me deliberatelyfrom head to foot, and said:--

"Hollo there! aint you the party that brought a three-cornered letterhere last evening!"

I owned it, falteringly. 

He lifted a fold in the canvas, and gave me a gentle shove between theshoulders. 

"Then you're to go in, " said he, shortly. "She's there, somewhere. You're sure to find her. "

The canvas dropped behind me, and I found myself inside. My heart beatso fast that I could scarcely breathe. The booth was almost dark; thecurtain was down; and a gentleman with striped legs was lighting thefootlamps. On the front pit bench next the orchestra, discussing a plateof bread and meat and the contents of a brown jug, sat a stout man inshirt-sleeves and a woman in a cotton gown. The woman rose as I made myappearance, and asked, civilly enough, whom I pleased to want. 

I stammered the name of Miss Angelina Lascelles. 

"Miss Lascelles!" she repeated. "I am Miss Lascelles, " Then, looking atme more narrowly, "I suppose, " she added, "you are the little boy thatbrought the letter?"

The little boy that brought the letter! Gracious heavens! And thismiddle-aged woman in a cotton gown--was she the Angelina of my dreams!The booth went round with me, and the lights danced before my eyes. 

"If you have come for an answer, " she continued, "you may just say toyour Mr. Pyramid that I am a respectable married woman, and he ought tobe ashamed of himself--and, as for his letter, I never read such a heapof nonsense in my life! There, you can go out by the way you came in, and if you take my advice, you won't come back again!"

How I looked, what I said, how I made my exit, whether the doorkeeperspoke to me as I passed, I have no idea to this day. I only know that Iflung myself on the dewy grass under a great tree in the first field Icame to, and shed tears of such shame, disappointment, and woundedpride, as my eyes had never known before. She had called me a littleboy, and my letter a heap of nonsense! She was elderly--she wasignorant--she was married! I had been a fool; but that knowledge cametoo late, and was not consolatory. 

By-and-by, while I was yet sobbing and disconsolate, I heard thedrumming and fifing which heralded the appearance of the _CorpsDramatique_ on the outer platform. I resolved to see her for the lasttime. I pulled my hat over my eyes, went back to the Green, and mingledwith the crowd outside the booth. It was growing dusk. I made my way tothe foot of the ladder, and observed her narrowly. I saw that her ankleswere thick, and her elbows red. The illusion was all over. The spangleshad lost their lustre, and the poppies their glow. I no longer hated theharlequin, or envied the clown, or felt anything but mortification at myown folly. 

"Miss Angelina Lascelles, indeed!" I said to myself, as I saunteredmoodily home. "Pshaw! I shouldn't wonder if her name was Snooks!"

CHAPTER II. 

THE LITTLE CHEVALIER. 

 A mere anatomy, a mountebank, A threadbare juggler. 

 _Comedy of Errors_. 

 Nay, then, he is a conjuror. 

 _Henry VI_. 

My adventure with Miss Lascelles did me good service, and cured me forsome time, at least, of my leaning towards the tender passion. Iconsequently devoted myself more closely than ever to mystudies--indulged in a passing mania for genealogy and heraldry--began acollection of local geological specimens, all of which I threw away atthe end of the first fortnight--and took to rearing rabbits in an oldtumble-down summer-house at the end of the garden. I believe that fromsomewhere about this time I may also date the commencement of a greatepic poem in blank verse, and Heaven knows how many cantos, which was tobe called the Columbiad. It began, I remember, with a description of theCourt of Ferdinand and Isabella, and the departure of Columbus, and wasintended to celebrate the discovery, colonization, and subsequenthistory of America. I never got beyond ten or a dozen pages of the firstcanto, however, and that Transatlantic epic remains unfinished tothis day. 

The great event which I have recorded in the preceding chapter tookplace in the early summer. It must, therefore, have been towards theclose of autumn in the same year when my next important adventurebefell. This time the temptation assumed a different shape. 

Coming briskly homewards one fine frosty morning after having left anote at the Vicarage, I saw a bill-sticker at work upon a line of deadwall which at that time reached from the Red Lion Inn to the corner ofPitcairn's Lane. His posters were printed in enormous type, anddecorated with a florid bordering in which the signs of the zodiacconspicuously figured Being somewhat idly disposed, I followed theexample of other passers-by, and lingered to watch the process and readthe advertisement. It ran as follows:----

MAGIC AND MYSTERY! MAGIC AND MYSTERY!

 * * * * *

M. LE CHEVALIER ARMAND PROUDHINE, (of Paris) surnamed

THE WIZARD OF THE CAUCASUS, Has the honor to announce to the Nobility and Gentry of Saxonholme andits vicinity, that he will, to-morrow evening (October--, 18--), hold his First

SOIREE FANTASTIQUE

IN

THE LARGE ROOM OF THE RED LION HOTEL. 

 * * * * *

ADMISSION 1s. RESERVED SEATS 2s. 6d. 

_To commence at Seven_. 

N. B. --_The performance will include a variety of new and surprisingfeats of Legerdemain never before exhibited_. 

_A soirée fantastique_! what would I not give to be present at a _soiréefantastique_! I had read of the Rosicrucians, of Count Cagliostro, andof Doctor Dee. I had peeped into more than one curious treatise onDemonology, and I fancied there could be nothing in the world half somarvellous as that last surviving branch of the Black Art entitled theScience of Legerdemain. 

What if, for this once, I were to ask leave to be present at theperformance? Should I do so with even the remotest chance of success? Itwas easier to propound this momentous question than to answer it. Myfather, as I have already said, disapproved of public entertainments, and his prejudices were tolerably inveterate. But then, what could bemore genteel than the programme, or more select than the prices? Howdifferent was an entertainment given in the large room of the Red LionHotel to a three-penny wax-work, or a strolling circus on Barnard'sGreen! I had made one of the audience in that very room over and overagain when the Vicar read his celebrated "Discourses to Youth, " or Dr. Dunks came down from Grinstead to deliver an explosive lecture onchemistry; and I had always seen the reserved seats filled by the bestfamilies in the neighborhood. Fully persuaded of the force of my ownarguments, I made up my mind to prefer this tremendous request on thefirst favorable opportunity, and so hurried home, with my head full ofquite other thoughts than usual. 

My father was sitting at the table with a mountain of books and papersbefore him. He looked up sharply as I entered, jerked his chair round soas to get the light at his back, put on his spectacles, andejaculated:--

"Well, sir!"

This was a bad sign, and one with which I was only too familiar. Naturehad intended my father for a barrister. He was an adept in all the artsof intimidation, and would have conducted a cross-examination toperfection. As it was, he indulged in a good deal of amateur practice, and from the moment when he turned his back to the light and donned theinexorable spectacles, there was not a soul in the house, from myselfdown to the errand-boy, who was not perfectly aware of somethingunpleasant to follow. 

"Well, sir!" he repeated, rapping impatiently upon the table with hisknuckles. 

Having nothing to reply to this greeting, I looked out of the window andremained silent; whereby, unfortunately. I irritated him still more. 

"Confound you, sir!" he exclaimed, "have you nothing to say?"

"Nothing, " I replied, doggedly. 

"Stand there!" he said, pointing to a particular square in the patternof the carpet. "Stand there!"

I obeyed. 

"And now, perhaps, you will have the goodness to explain what you havebeen about this morning; and why it should have taken you justthirty-seven minutes by the clock to accomplish a journey which atortoise--yes, sir, a tortoise, --might have done in less than ten?"

I gravely compared my watch with the clock before replying. 

"Upon my word, sir, " I said, "your tortoise would have the advantage ofme. "

"The advantage of you! What do you mean by the advantage of you, youaffected puppy?"

"I had no idea, " said I, provokingly, "that you were in unusual hastethis morning. "

"Haste!" shouted my father. "I never said I was in haste. I never chooseto be in haste. I hate haste!"

"Then why. . . "

"Because you have been wasting your time and mine, sir, " interrupted he. "Because I will not permit you to go idling and vagabondizing aboutthe village. "

My _sang froid_ was gone directly. 

"Idling and vagabondizing!" I repeated angrily. "I have done nothing ofthe kind. I defy you to prove it. When have you known me forget that Iam a gentleman?"

"Humph!" growled my father, mollified but sarcastic; "a prettygentleman--a gentleman of sixteen!"

"It is true, "' I continued, without heeding the interruption, "that Ilingered for a moment to read a placard by the way; but if you will takethe trouble, sir, to inquire at the Rectory, you will find that I waiteda quarter of an hour before I could send up your letter. "

My father grinned and rubbed his hands. If there was one thing in theworld that aggravated him more than another, it was to find his fireopposed to ice. Let him, however, succeed in igniting his adversary, andhe was in a good humor directly. 

"Come, come, Basil, " said he, taking off his spectacles, "I never saidyou were not a good lad. Go to your books, boy--go to your books; andthis evening I will examine you in vegetable physiology. "

Silently, but not sullenly, I drew a chair to the table, and resumed mywork. We were both satisfied, because each in his heart consideredhimself the victor. My father was amused at having irritated me, whereasI was content because he had, in some sort, withdrawn the expressionsthat annoyed me. Hence we both became good-tempered, and, according toour own tacit fashion, continued during the rest of that morning to berather more than usually sociable. 

Hours passed thus--hours of quiet study, during which the quicktravelling of a pen or the occasional turning of a page alone disturbedthe silence. The warm sunlight which shone in so greenly through thevine leaves, stole, inch by inch, round the broken vases in the gardenbeyond, and touched their brown mosses with a golden bloom. The patientshadow on the antique sundial wound its way imperceptibly from left toright, and long slanting threads of light and shadow pierced in timebetween the branches of the poplars. Our mornings were long, for we roseearly and dined late; and while my father paid professional visits, Idevoted my hours to study. It rarely happened that he could thus spend awhole day among his books. Just as the clock struck four, however, therecame a ring at the bell. 

My father settled himself obstinately in his chair. 

"If that's a gratis patient, " said he, between his teeth, "I'll notstir. From eight to ten are their hours, confound them!"

"If you please, sir, " said Mary, peeping in, "if you please, sir, it's agentleman. "

"A stranger?" asked my father. 

Mary nodded, put her hand to her mouth, and burst into an irrepressiblegiggle. 

"If you please, sir, " she began--but could get no farther. 

My father was in a towering passion directly. 

"Is the girl mad?" he shouted. "What is the meaning of this buffoonery?"

"Oh, sir--if you please, sir, " ejaculated Mary, struggling with terrorand laughter together, "it's the gentleman, sir. He--he says, if youplease, sir, that his name is Almond Pudding!"

"Your pardon, Mademoiselle, " said a plaintive voice. "ArmandProudhine--le Chevalier Armand Proudhine, at your service. "

Mary disappeared with her apron to her mouth, and subsided into distantpeals of laughter, leaving the Chevalier standing in the doorway. 

He was a very little man, with a pinched and melancholy countenance, andan eye as wistful as a dog's. His threadbare clothes, made in thefashion of a dozen years before, had been decently mended in manyplaces. A paste pin in a faded cravat, and a jaunty cane with apinchbeck top, betrayed that he was still somewhat of a beau. His scantgray hair was tied behind with a piece of black ribbon, and he carriedhis hat under his arm, after the fashion of Elliston and the PrinceRegent, as one sees them in the colored prints of fifty years ago. 

He advanced a step, bowed, and laid his card upon the table. 

"I believe, " he said in his plaintive voice, and imperfect English, "that I have the honor to introduce myself to Monsieur Arbuthnot. "

"If you want me, sir, " said my father, gruffly, "I am Doctor Arbuthnot. "

"And I, Monsieur, " said the little Frenchman, laying his hand upon hisheart, and bowing again--"I am the Wizard of the Caucasus. "

"The what?" exclaimed my father. 

"The Wizard of the Caucasus, " replied our visitor, impressively. 

There was an awkward pause, during which my father looked at me andtouched his forehead significantly with his forefinger; while theChevalier, embarrassed between his natural timidity and his desire toappear of importance, glanced from one face to the other, and waited fora reply. I hastened to disentangle the situation. 

"I think I can explain this gentleman's meaning, " I said. "Monsieur leChevalier will perform to-morrow evening in the large room of the RedLion Hotel. He is a professor of legerdemain. "

"Of the marvellous art of legerdemain, Monsieur Arbuthnot, " interruptedthe Chevalier eagerly. "Prestidigitateur to the Court of Sachsenhausen, and successor to Al Hakim, the wise. It is I, Monsieur, that have inventthe famous _tour du pistolet;_ it is I, that have originate the greatand surprising deception of the bottle; it is I whom the world doessurname the Wizard of the Caucasus. _Me voici!_"

Carried away by the force of his own eloquence, the Chevalier fell intoan attitude at the conclusion of his little speech; but rememberingwhere he was, blushed, and bowed again. 

"Pshaw, " said my father impatiently, "the man's a conjuror. "

The little Frenchman did not hear him. He was at that moment untying apacket which he carried in his hat, the contents whereof appeared toconsist of a number of very small pink and yellow cards. Selecting acouple of each color, he deposited his hat carefully upon the floor andcame a few steps nearer to the table. 

"Monsieur will give me the hope to see him, with Monsieur _son fils_, atmy Soirée Fantastique, _n'est-ce pas?_" he asked, timidly. 

"Sir, " said my father shortly, "I never encourage peripateticmendicity. "

The little Frenchman looked puzzled. 

"_Comment_?" said he, and glanced to me for an explanation. 

"I am very sorry, Monsieur, " I interposed hastily; "but my fatherobjects to public entertainments. "

"_Ah, mon Dieu!_ but not to this, " cried the Chevalier, raising hishands and eyes in deprecating astonishment. "Not to my SoiréeFantastique! The art of legerdemain, Monsieur, is not immoral. He isgraceful--he is surprising--he is innocent; and, Monsieur, he ispatronized by the Church; he is patronized by your amiable _Curé_, Monsieur le Docteur Brand. "

"Oh, father, " I exclaimed, "Dr. Brand has taken tickets!"

"And pray, sir, what's that to me?" growled my father, without lookingup from the book which he had ungraciously resumed. "Let Dr. Brand makea fool of himself, if he pleases. I'm not bound to do the same. "

The Chevalier blushed crimson--not with humility this time, but withpride. He gathered the cards into his pocket, took up his hat, andsaying stiffly--"_Monsieur, je vous demande pardon. _"--moved towardsthe door. 

On the threshold he paused, and turning towards me with an air of fadeddignity:--"Young gentleman, " he said, "_you_ I thank for yourpoliteness. "

He seemed as if he would have said more--hesitated--became suddenlylivid--put his hand to his head, and leaned for support againstthe wall. 

My father was up and beside him in an instant. We carried rather thanled him to the sofa, untied his cravat, and administered the necessaryrestoratives. He was all but insensible for some moments. Then the colorcame back to his lips, and he sighed heavily. 

"An attack of the nerves, " he said, shaking his head feebly. "An attackof the nerves, Messieurs. "

My father looked doubtful. 

"Are you often taken in this way?" he asked, with unusual gentleness. 

"_Mais oui_, Monsieur, " admitted the Frenchman, reluctantly. "He doesoften arrive to me. Not--not that he is dangerous. Ah, bah! _Pasdu tout_!"

"Humph!" ejaculated my father, more doubtfully than before. "Let me feelyour pulse. "

The Chevalier bowed and submitted, watching the countenance of theoperator all the time with an anxiety that was not lost upon me. 

"Do you sleep well?" asked my father, holding the fragile little wristbetween his finger and thumb. 

"Passably, Monsieur. "

"Dream much?"

"Ye--es, I dream. "

"Are you subject to giddiness?"

The Chevalier shrugged his shoulders and looked uneasy. 

"_C'est vrai_" he acknowledged, more unwillingly than ever, "_J'ai desvertiges_. "

My father relinquished his hold and scribbled a rapid prescription. 

"There, sir, " said he, "get that preparation made up, and when you nextfeel as you felt just now, drink a wine-glassful. I should recommend youto keep some always at hand, in case of emergency. You will find furtherdirections on the other side. "

The little Frenchman attempted to get up with his usual vivacity; butwas obliged to balance himself against the back of a chair. 

"Monsieur, " said he, with another of his profound bows, "I thank youinfinitely. You make me too much attention; but I am grateful. And, Monsieur, my little girl--my child that is far away across the sea--shethanks you also. _Elle m'aime, Monsieur--elle m'aime, cette pauvrepetite_! What shall she do if I die?"

Again he raised his hand to his brow. He was unconscious of anythingtheatrical in the gesture. He was in sad earnest, and his eyes were wetwith tears, which he made no effort to conceal. 

My father shuffled restlessly in his chair. 

"No obligation--no obligation at all, " he muttered, with a touch ofimpatience in his voice. "And now, what about those tickets? I suppose, Basil, you're dying to see all this tomfoolery?"

"That I am, sir, " said I, joyfully. "I should like it above all things!"

The Chevalier glided forward, and laid a couple of little pink cardsupon my father's desk. 

"If, " said he, timidly, "if Monsieur will make me the honor toaccept. . . . "

"Not for the world, sir--not for the world!" interposed my father. "Theboy shan't go, unless I pay for the tickets. "

"But, Monsieur. . . . "

"Nothing of the kind, sir. I cannot hear of it. What are the prices ofthe seats?"

Our little visitor looked down and was silent; but I replied for him. 

"The reserved seats, " I whispered, "are half-a-crown each. "

"Then I will take eight reserved, " said my father, opening a drawer inhis desk and bringing out a bright, new sovereign. 

The little Frenchman started. He could hardly believe in suchmunificence. 

"When? How much?" stammered he, with a pleasant confusion of adverbs. 

"Eight, " growled my father, scarcely able to repress a smile. 

"Eight? _mon Dieu_, Monsieur, how you are generous! I shall keep for youall the first row. "

"Oblige me by doing nothing of the kind, " said my father, verydecisively. "It would displease me extremely. "

The Chevalier counted out the eight little pink cards, and ranged themin a row beside my father's desk. 

"Count them, Monsieur, if you please, " said he, his eyes wanderinginvoluntarily towards the sovereign. 

My father did so with much gravity, and handed over the money. 

The Chevalier consigned it, with trembling fingers, to a small canvasbag, which looked very empty, and which came from the deepest recessesof his pocket. 

"Monsieur, " said he, "my thanks are in my heart. I will not fatigue youwith them. Good-morning. "

He bowed again, for perhaps the twentieth time; lingered a moment at thethreshold; and then retired, closing the door softly after him. 

My father rubbbed his head all over, and gave a great yawn ofsatisfaction. 

"I am so much obliged to you, sir, " I said, eagerly. 

"What for?"

"For having bought those tickets. It was very kind of you. "

"Hold your tongue. I hate to be thanked, " snarled he, and plunged backagain into his books and papers. 

Once more the studious silence in the room--once more the rustling leafand scratching pen, which only made the stillness seem more still, within and without. 

"I beg your pardons, " murmured the voice of the little Chevalier. 

I turned, and saw him peeping through the half-open door. He looked morewistful than ever, and twisted the handle nervously between his fingers. 

My father frowned, and muttered something between his teeth. I fear itwas not very complimentary to the Chevalier. 

"One word, Monsieur, " pleaded the little man, edging himself round thedoor, "one small word!"

"Say it, sir, and have done with it, " said my father, savagely. 

The Chevalier hesitated. 

"I--I--Monsieur le Docteur--that is, I wish. . . . "

"Confound it, sir, what do you wish?"

The Chevalier brushed away a tear. 

"_Dites-moi, "_ he said with suppressed agitation. "One word--yes orno--is he dangerous?"

My father's countenance softened. 

"My good friend, " he said, gently, "we are none of us safe for even aday, or an hour; but after all, that which we call danger is merely arelative position. I have known men in a state more precarious thanyours who lived to a long old age, and I see no reason to doubt thatwith good living, good spirits, and precaution, you stand as fair achance as another. "

The little Frenchman pressed his hands together in token of gratitude, whispered a broken word or two of thanks, and bowed himself out ofthe room. 

When he was fairly gone, my father flung a book at my head, and said, with more brevity than politeness:--

"Boy, bolt the door. "

CHAPTER III. 

THE EVENTS OF AN EVENING. 

"Basil, my boy, if you are going to that place, you must take Collinswith you. "

"Won't you go yourself, father?"

"I! Is the boy mad!"

"I hope not, sir; only as you took eight reserved seats, I thought. . . . "

"You've no business to think, sir! Seven of those tickets are in thefire. "

"For fear, then, you should fancy to burn the eighth, I'll wish yougood-evening!"

So away I darted, called to Collins to follow me, and set off at a briskpace towards the Red Lion Hotel. Collins was our indoor servant; asharp, merry fellow, some ten years older than myself, who desired nobetter employment than to escort me upon such an occasion as thepresent. The audience had begun to assemble when we arrived. Collinswent into the shilling places, while I ensconced myself in the secondrow of reserved seats. I had an excellent view of the stage. There, inthe middle of the platform, stood the conjuror's table--a quaint, cabalistic-looking piece of furniture with carved black legs and a deepbordering of green cloth all round the top. A gay pagoda-shaped canopyof many hues was erected overhead. A long white wand leaned up againstthe wall. To the right stood a bench laden with mysterious jars, glittering bowls, gilded cones, mystical globes, colored glass boxes, and other properties. To the left stood a large arm-chair covered withcrimson cloth. All this was very exciting, and I waited breathlesslytill the Wizard should appear. 

He came at last; but not, surely, our dapper little visitor ofyesterday! A majestic beard of ashen gray fell in patriarchal locksalmost to his knees. Upon his head he wore a high cap of some dark fur;upon his feet embroidered slippers; and round his waist a glitteringbelt patterned with hieroglyphics. A long woollen robe of chocolate andorange fell about him in heavy folds, and swept behind him, like atrain. I could scarcely believe, at first, that it was the same person;but, when he spoke, despite the pomp and obscurity of his language. Irecognised the plaintive voice of the little Chevalier. 

"_Messieurs et Mesdames_, " he began, and took up the wand to emphasizehis discourse; "to read in the stars the events of the future--totransform into gold the metals inferior--to discover the composition ofthat Elixir who, by himself, would perpetuate life, was in past ages theaim and aspiration of the natural philosopher. But they are gone, thosedays--they are displaced, those sciences. The Alchemist and theRosicrucian are no more, and of all their race, the professor ofLegerdemain alone survives. Ladies and gentlemen, my magic he is simple. I retain not familiars. I employ not crucible, nor furnace, nor retort. I but amuse you with my agility of hand, and for commencement I tell youthat you shall be deceived as well as the Wizard of the Caucasus candeceive you. "

His voice trembled, and the slender wand shivered in his hand. Was thisnervousness? Or was he, in accordance with the quaintness of his costumeand the amplitude of his beard, enacting the feebleness of age?

He advanced to the front of the platform. "Three things I require, " hesaid. "A watch, a pocket-handkerchief and a hat. Is there here among myvisitors any person so gracious as to lend me these trifles? I will notinjure them, ladies and gentlemen. I will only pound the watch in mymortar--burn the _mouchoir_ in my lamp, and make a pudding in the_chapeau_. And, with all this, I engage to return them to theirproprietors, better as new. "

There was a pause, and a laugh. Presently a gentleman volunteered hishat, and a lady her embroidered handkerchief; but no person seemedwilling to submit his watch to the pounding process. 

"Shall nobody lend me the watch?" asked the Chevalier; but in a voiceso hoarse that I scarcely recognised it. 

A sudden thought struck me, and I rose in my place. 

"I shall be happy to do so, " I said aloud, and made my way round to thefront of the platform. 

At the moment when he took it from me, I spoke to him. 

"Monsieur Proudhine, " I whispered, "you are ill! What can I do for you?"

"Nothing, _mon enfant_, " he answered, in the same low tone. "I suffer;_mais il faut se résigner_. "

"Break off the performance--retire for half an hour. "

"Impossible. See, they already observe us!"

And he drew back abruptly. There was a seat vacant in the front row. Itook it, resolved at all events to watch him narrowly. 

Not to detail too minutely the events of a performance which since thattime has become sufficiently familiar, I may say that he carried out hisprogramme with dreadful exactness, and, after appearing to burn thehandkerchief to ashes and mix up a quantity of eggs and flour in thehat, proceeded very coolly to smash the works of my watch beneath hisponderous pestle. Notwithstanding my faith, I began to feel seriouslyuncomfortable. It was a neat little silver watch of foreignworkmanship--not very valuable, to be sure, but precious to me as themost precious of repeaters. 

"He is very tough, your watch, Monsieur, " said the Wizard, pounding awayvigorously. "He--he takes a long time . . . _Ah! mon Dieu!_"

He raised his hand to his head, uttered a faint cry, and snatched at theback of the chair for support. 

My first thought was that he had destroyed my watch by mistake--mysecond, that he was very ill indeed. Scarcely knowing what I did, andquite forgetting the audience, I jumped on the platform to his aid. 

He shook his head, waved me away with one trembling hand, made a lasteffort to articulate, and fell heavily to the ground. 

All was confusion in an instant. Everybody crowded to the stage; whilstI, with a presence of mind which afterwards surprised myself, made myway out by a side-door and ran to fetch my father. He was fortunately athome, and in less than ten minutes the Chevalier was under his care. Wefound him laid upon a sofa in one of the sitting-rooms of the inn, pale, rigid, insensible, and surrounded by an idle crowd of lookers-on. Theyhad taken off his cap and beard, and the landlady was endeavoring topour some brandy down his throat; but his teeth were fast set, and hislips were blue and cold. 

"Oh, Doctor Arbuthnot! Doctor Arbuthnot!" cried a dozen voices at once, "the Conjuror is dying!"

"For which reason, I suppose, you are all trying to smother him!" saidmy father angrily. "Mistress Cobbe, I beg you will not trouble yourselfto pour that brandy down the man's throat. He has no more power toswallow it than my stick. Basil, open the window, and help me to loosenthese things about his throat. Good people, all, I must request you toleave the room. This man's life is in peril, and I can do nothing whileyou remain. Go home--go home. You will see no more conjuring to-night. "

My father was peremptory, and the crowd unwillingly dispersed. One byone they left the room and gathered discontentedly in the passage. Whenit came to the last two or three, he took them by the shoulders, closedthe door upon them, and turned the key. 

Only the landlady, and elderly woman-servant, and myself remained. 

The first thing my father did was to examine the pupil of the patient'seye, and lay his hand upon his heart. It still fluttered feebly, but theaction of the lungs was suspended, and his hands and feet were coldas death. 

My father shook his head. 

"This man must be bled, " said he, "but I have little hope of savinghim. "

He was bled, and, though still unconscious, became less rigid They thenpoured a little wine down his throat, and he fell into a passive butpainless condition, more inanimate than sleep, but less positive than astate of trance. 

A fire was then lighted, a mattress brought down, and the patient laidupon it, wrapped in many blankets. My father announced his intention ofsitting up with him all night. In vain I begged for leave to share hisvigil. He would hear of no such thing, but turned me out as he hadturned out the others, bade me a brief "Good-night, " and desired me torun home as quickly as I could. 

At that stage of my history, to hear was to obey; so I took my wayquietly through the bar of the hotel, and had just reached the door whena touch on my sleeve arrested me. It was Mr. Cobbe, the landlord--aportly, red-whiskered Boniface of the old English type. 

"Good-evening, Mr. Basil, " said he. "Going home, sir?"

"Yes, Mr. Cobbe, " I replied. "I can be of no further use here. "

"Well, sir, you've been of more use this evening than anybody--let alonethe Doctor--that I must say for you, " observed Mr. Cobbe, approvingly. "I never see such presence o' mind in so young a gen'leman before. Never, sir. Have a glass of grog and a cigar, sir, before you turn out. "

Much as I felt flattered by the supposition that I smoked (which wasmore than I could have done to save my life), I declined Mr. Cobbe'sobliging offer and wished him good-night. But the landlord of the RedLion was in a gossiping humor, and would not let me go. 

"If you won't take spirits, Mr. Basil, " said he, "you must have a glassof negus. I couldn't let you go out without something warm--particularafter the excitement you've gone through. Why, bless you, sir, when theyran out and told me, I shook like a leaf--and I don't look like a verynervous subject, do I? And so sudden as it was, too, poor littlegentleman!"

"Very sudden, indeed, " I replied, mechanically. 

"Does Doctor Arbuthnot think he'll get the better of it, Mr. Basil?"

"I fear he has little hope. "

Mr. Cobbe sighed, and shook his head, and smoked in silence. 

"To be struck down just when he was playing such tricks as themconjuring dodges, do seem uncommon awful, " said he, after a time. "Whatwas he after at the minute?--making a pudding, wasn't he, in somegentleman's hat?"

I uttered a sudden ejaculation, and set down my glass of negus untasted. Till that moment I had not once thought of my watch. 

"Oh, Mr. Cobbe!" I cried, "he was pounding my watch in the mortar!"

"_Your_ watch, Mr. Basil?"

"Yes, mine--and I have not seen it since. What can have become of it?What shall I do?"

"Do!" echoed the landlord, seizing a candle; "why, go and look for it, to be sure, Mr. Basil. That's safe enough, you may be sure!"

I followed him to the room where the performance had taken place. Itshowed darkly and drearily by the light of one feeble candle. Thebenches and chairs were all in disorder. The wand lay where it hadfallen from the hand of the Wizard. The mortar still stood on the table, with the pestle beside it. It contained only some fragments ofbroken glass. 

Mr. Cobbe laughed triumphantly. 

"Come, sir, " said he, "the watch is safe enough, anyhow. Mounseer onlymade believe to pound it up, and now all that concerns us is tofind it. "

That was indeed all--not only all, but too much. We searched everything. We looked in all the jars and under all the moveables. We took the coveroff the chair; we cleared the table; but without success. My watch hadtotally disappeared, and we at length decided that it must be concealedabout the conjuror's person. Mr. Cobbe was my consoling angel. 

"Bless you, sir, " said he, "don't never be cast down. My wife shalllook for the watch to-morrow morning, and I'll promise you we'll findout every pocket he has about him. "

"And my father--you won't tell my father?" I said, dolefully. 

Mr. Cobbe replied by a mute but expressive piece of pantomime and tookme back to the bar, where the good landlady ratified all that herhusband had promised in her name. 

The stars shone brightly as I went home, and there was no moon. The townwas intensely silent, and the road intensely solitary. I met no one onmy way; let myself quietly in, and stole up to my bed-room in the dark. 

It was already late; but I was restless and weary--too restless tosleep, and too weary to read. I could not detach myself from theimpressions of the day; and I longed for the morning, that I might learnthe fate of my watch, and the condition of the Chevalier. 

At length, after some hours of wakefulness, I dropped into a profoundand dreamless sleep. 

 * * * * *

CHAPTER IV. 

THE CHEVALIER MAKES HIS LAST EXIT. 

 All the world's a stage, And all the men and women merely players: They have their exits and their entrances. _As You Like It. _

I was waked by my father's voice calling to me from the garden, and sostarted up with that strange and sudden sense of trouble which most ofus have experienced at some time or other in our lives. 

"Nine o'clock, Basil, " cried my father. "Nine o'clock--come downdirectly, sir!"

I sprang out of bed, and for some seconds could remember nothing of whathad happened; but when I looked out of the window and saw my father inhis dressing-gown and slippers walking up and down the sunny path withhis hands behind his back and his eyes fixed on the ground, it allflashed suddenly upon me. To plunge into my bath, dress, run down, andjoin him in the garden, was the work of but a few minutes. 

"Good-morning, sir, " I said, breathlessly. 

He stopped short in his walk, and looked at me from head to foot. 

"Humph!" said he, "you have dressed quickly. . . . "

"Yes, sir; I was startled to find myself so late. "

"So quickly, " he continued, "that you have forgotten your watch. "

I felt my face burn. I had not a word to answer. 

"I suppose, " said he, "you thought I should not find it out?"

"I had hoped to recover it first, " I replied, falteringly; "but. . . . "

"But you may make up your mind to the loss of it, sir; and serve yourightly, too, " interposed my father. "I can tell you, for yoursatisfaction, that the man's clothes have been thoroughly examined, andthat your watch has not been found. No doubt it lay somewhere on thetable, and was stolen in the confusion. "

I hung my head. I could have wept for vexation. 

My father laughed sardonically. 

"Well, Master Basil, " he said, "the loss is yours, and yours only. Youwon't get another watch from me, I promise you. "

I retorted angrily, whereat he only laughed the more; and then we wentin to breakfast. 

Our morning meal was more unsociable than usual. I was too much annoyedto speak, and my father too preoccupied. I longed to inquire after theChevalier, but not choosing to break the silence, hurried through mybreakfast that I might run round to the Red Lion immediately after. Before we had left the table, a messenger came to say that "the conjurorwas taken worse, " and so my father and I hastened away together. 

He had passed from his trance-like sleep into a state of delirium, andwhen we entered the room was sitting up, pale and ghost-like, mutteringto himself, and gesticulating as if in the presence of an audience. 

"_Pas du tout_, " said he fantastically, "_pas du tout, Messieurs_--hereis no deception. You shall see him pass from my hand to the _coffre_, and yet you shall not find how he does travel. "

My father smiled bitterly. 

"Conjurer to the last!" said he. "In the face of death, what a mockeryis his trade!"

Wandering as were his wits, he caught the last word and turned fiercelyround; but there was no recognition in his eye. 

"Trade, Monsieur!" he echoed. "Trade!--you shall not call him trade! Doyou know who I am, that you dare call him trade? _Dieu des Dieux!N'est-ce pas que je suis noble, moi?_ Trade!--when did one of my raceembrace a trade? _Canaille!_ I do condescend for my reasons to take yourmoney, but you shall not call him a trade!"

Exhausted by this sudden burst of passion, he fell back upon his pillow, muttering and flushed. I bent over him, and caught a scattered phrasefrom time to time. He was dreaming of wealth, fancying himself rich andpowerful, poor wretch! and all unconscious of his condition. 

"You shall see my Chateaux, " he said, "my horses--my carriages. Listen--it is the ringing of the bells. Aha! _le jour viendra--le jourviendra_! Conjuror! who speaks of a conjuror? I never was a conjuror! Ideny it: and he lies who says it! _Attendons_! Is the curtain up? Ah! mytable--where is my table? I cannot play till I have my table. _Scélérats! je suis volé! je l'ai perdu! je l'ai perdu_! Ah, what shallI do? What shall I do? They have taken my table--they have taken. . . . "

He burst into tears, moaned twice or thrice, closed his eyes, and fellinto a troubled sleep. 

The landlady sobbed. Hers was a kind heart, and the little Frenchman'ssimple courtesy had won her good-will from the first. 

"He had real quality manners, " she said, disconsolately. "I do believe, gentlemen, that he had seen better days. Poor as he was, he neverdisputed the price of anything; and he never spoke to me without takingoff his hat. "

"Upon my soul, Mistress Cobbe, " said my father, "I incline to youropinion. I do think he is not what he seems. "

"And if I only knew where to find his friends, I shouldn't care half somuch!" exclaimed the landlady. "It do seem so hard that he should diehere, and not one of his own blood follow him to the grave! Surely hehas some one who loves him!"

"There was something said the other day about a child, " mused my father. "Have no papers or letters been found about his person?"

"None at all. Why, Doctor, you were here last night when we searched forMaster Basil's watch, and you are witness that he had nothing of thekind in his possession. As to his luggage, that's only a carpet-bag andhis conjuring things, and we looked through them as carefully aspossible. "

The Chevalier moaned again, and tossed his arms feebly in his sleep. "The proofs, " said he. "The proofs! I can do nothing withoutthe proofs. "

My father listened. The landlady shook her head. 

"He has been going on like that ever since you left, sir, " she saidpitifully; "fancying he's been robbed, and calling out about theproofs--only ten times more violent. Then, again, he thinks he is goingto act, and asks for his table. It's wonderful how he takes on aboutthat trumpery table!"

Scarcely had she spoken the words when the Chevalier opened his eyes, and, by a supreme effort, sat upright in his bed. The cold dew rose uponhis brow; his lips quivered; he strove to speak, and only aninarticulate cry found utterance. My father flew to his support. 

"If you have anything to say, " he urged earnestly, "try to say it now!"

The dying man trembled convulsively, and a terrible look of despair cameinto his wan face. 

"Tell--tell" . . . He gasped; but his voice failed him, and he could getno further. 

My father laid him gently down. There came an interval of terriblesuspense--a moment of sharp agony--a deep, deep sigh--and then silence. 

My father laid his hand gently upon my shoulder. 

"It is all over, " he said; "and his secret, if he had one, is in closerkeeping than ours. Come away, boy; this is no place for you. "

 * * * * *

CHAPTER V. 

IN MEMORIAM. 

The poor little Chevalier! He died and became famous. 

Births, deaths and marriages are the great events of a country town; theprime novelties of a country newspaper; the salt of conversation, andthe soul of gossip. An individual who furnishes the community with oneor other of these topics, is a benefactor to his species. To be born ismuch; to marry is more; to die is to confer a favor on all the oldladies of the neighborhood. They love a christening and caudle--theyrejoice in a wedding and cake--but they prefer a funeral and black kidgloves. It is a tragedy played off at the expense of the few for thegratification of the many--a costly luxury, of which it is pleasanter tobe the spectator than the entertainer. 

Occurring, therefore, at a season when the supply of news wasparticularly scanty, the death of the little Chevalier was a boon toSaxonholme. The wildest reports were bandied about, and the mostextraordinary fictions set on foot respecting his origin and station. Hewas a Russian spy. He was the unfortunate son of Louis XIV and MarieAntoinette. He was a pupil of Cagliostro, and the husband of Mlle. Lenormand. Customers flocked to the tap of the Red Lion as they hadnever flocked before, unless in election-time; and good Mrs. Cobbe hadto repeat the story of the conjuror's illness and death till, like manyother reciters, she had told it so often that she began to forget it. Asfor her husband, he had enough to do to serve the customers and take themoney, to say nothing of showing the room, which proved a vastattraction, and remained for more than a week just as it was left on theevening of the performance, with the table, canopy and paraphernalia ofwizardom still set out upon the platform. 

In the midst of these things arose a momentous question--what was thereligion of the deceased, and where should he be buried? As in the oldmiracle plays we find good and bad angels contending for the souls ofthe dead, so on this occasion did the heads of all the Saxonholmechurches, chapels and meeting-houses contend for the body of the littleChevalier. He was a Roman Catholic. He was a Dissenter. He was a memberof the Established Church. He must be buried in the new ProtestantCemetery. He must lie in the churchyard of the Ebenezer Tabernacle. Hemust sleep in the far-away "God's Acre" of Father Daly's Chapel, andhave a cross at his head, and masses said for the repose of his soul. The controversy ran high. The reverend gentlemen convoked a meeting, quarrelled outrageously, and separated in high dudgeon without havingarrived at any conclusion. 

Whereupon arose another question, melancholy, ludicrous, perplexing, and, withal, as momentous as the first--Would the little Chevalier getburied at all? Or was he destined to remain, like Mahomet's coffin, forever in a state of suspense?

At the last, when Mr. And Mrs. Cobbe despairingly believed that theywere never to be relieved of their troublesome guest, a vestry wascalled, and the churchwardens brought the matter to a conclusion. Whenhe went round with his tickets, the conjuror called first at theRectory, and solicited the patronage of Doctor Brand. Would he have paidthat compliment to the cloth had he been other than a member of thatreligion "by law established?" Certainly not. The point was clear--couldnot be clearer; so orthodoxy and the new Protestant Cemeterycarried the day. 

The funeral was a great event--not so far as mutes, feathers andcarriages were concerned, for the Chevalier left but little worldlygear, and without hard cash even the most deserving must forego "thetrappings and the suits of woe;" but it was a great event, inasmuch asit celebrated the victory of the Church, and the defeat of allschismatics. The rector himself, complacent and dignified, preached thefuneral sermon to a crowded congregation, the following Sunday. Wealmost forgot, in fact, that the little Chevalier had any concern in thematter, and regarded it only as the triumph of orthodoxy. 

All was not ended, even here. For some weeks our conjuror continued tobe the hero of every pulpit round about. He was cited as a shininglight, denounced as a vessel of wrath, praised, pitied and calumniatedaccording to the creed and temper of each declaimer. At length thecontroversy languished, died a natural death, and became "alms foroblivion. "

Laid to rest under a young willow, in a quiet corner, with a plain stoneat his head, the little Frenchman was himself in course of timeforgotten:--

 "Alas! Poor Yorick!"

 * * * * *

CHAPTER VI. 

POLONIUS TO LAERTES. 

Years went by. I studied; outgrew my jackets; became a young man. It wastime, in short, that I walked the hospitals, and passed my examination. 

I had spoken to my father more than once upon the subject--spokenearnestly and urgently, as one who felt the necessity and justice of hisappeal. But he put me off from time to time; persisted in looking uponme as a boy long after I had become acquainted with the penalties of therazor; and counselled me to be patient, till patience was well-nighexhausted. The result of this treatment was that I became miserable anddiscontented; spent whole days wandering about the woods; anddegenerated into a creature half idler and half misanthrope. I had neverloved the profession of medicine. I should never have chosen it had Ibeen free to follow my own inclinations: but having diligently fittedmyself to enter it with credit, I felt that my father wronged me in thisdelay; and I felt it perhaps all the more bitterly because my labor hadbeen none of love. Happily for me, however, he saw his error before itwas too late, and repaired it generously. 

"Basil, " said he, beckoning me one morning into the consulting-room, "Iwant to speak to you. "

I obeyed sullenly, and stood leaning up against the window, with myhands in my pockets. 

"You've been worrying me, Basil, more than enough these last fewmonths, " he said, rummaging among his papers, and speaking in a low, constrained voice. "I don't choose to be worried any longer. It is timeyou walked the hospitals, and--you may go. "

"To London, sir?"

"No. I don't intend you to go to London. "

"To Edinburgh, then, I suppose, " said I, in a tone of disappointment. 

"Nor to Edinburgh. You shall go to Paris. "

"To Paris!"

"Yes--the French surgeons are the most skilful in the world, and Chéronwill do everything for you. I know no eminent man in London from whom Ishould choose to ask a favor; and Chéron is one of my oldestfriends--nay, the oldest friend I have in the world. If you have but twoounces of brains, he will make a clever man of you. Under him you willstudy French practice; walk the hospitals of Paris; acquire the languageand, I hope, some of the polish of the French people. Are yousatisfied?"

"More than satisfied, sir, " I replied, eagerly. 

"You shall not want for money, boy; and you may start as soon as youplease. Is the thing settled?"

"Quite, as far as I am concerned. "

My father rubbed his head all over with both hands, took off hisspectacles, and walked up and down the room. By these signs he expressedany unusual degree of satisfaction. All at once he stopped, looked mefull in the face, and said:--

"Understand me, Basil. I require one thing in return. "

"If that thing be industry, sir, I think I may promise that you shallnot have cause to complain, "

My father shook his head. 

"Not industry, " he said; "not industry alone. Keep good company, my boy. Keep good hours. Never forget that a gentleman must look like agentleman, dress like a gentleman, frequent the society of gentlemen. Tobe a mere bookworm is to be a drone in the great hive. I hate adrone--as I hate a sloven. "

"I understand you, father, " I faltered, blushing. "I know that of lateI--I have not. . . . "

My father laid his hand suddenly over my mouth. 

"No confessions--no apologies, " he said hastily. "We have both been toblame in more respects than one, and we shall both know how to be wiserin the future. Now go, and consider all that you may require foryour journey. "

Agitated, delighted, full of hope, I ran up to my own room, locked thedoor, and indulged in a delightful reverie. What a prospect had suddenlyopened before me! What novelty! what adventure! To have visited Londonwould have been to fulfil all my desires; but to be sent to Paris was toreceive a passport for Fairyland!

That day, for the first time in many months, I dressed myself carefully, and went down to dinner with a light heart, a cheerful face, and anunexceptionable neckcloth. 

As I took my place at the table, my father looked up cheerily and gaveme a pleased nod of recognition. 

Our meal passed off very silently. It was my father's maxim that no mancould do more than one thing well at a time--especially at table; so wehad contracted a habit which to strangers would have seemed even moreunsociable than it really was, and gave to all our meals an air morepenitential than convivial. But this day was, in reality, a festiveoccasion, and my father was disposed to be more than usually agreeable. When the cloth was removed, he flung the cellar-key at my head, andexclaimed, in a burst of unexampled good-humor:--

"Basil, you dog, fetch up a bottle of the particular port!"

Now it is one of my theories that a man's after-dinner talk takes muchof its weight, color, and variety from the quality of his wines. Agenerous vintage brings out generous sentiments. Good fellowship, hospitality, liberal politics, and the milk of human kindness, may beuncorked simultaneously with a bottle of old Madeira; while a pint ofthin Sauterne is productive only of envy, hatred, malice, and alluncharitableness. We grow sententious on Burgundy--logical onBordeaux--sentimental on Cyprus--maudlin on Lagrima Christi--and wittyon Champagne. 

Port was my father's favorite wine. It warmed his heart, cooled histemper, and made him not only conversational, but expansive. Leaningback complacently in his easy-chair, with the glass upheld between hiseye and the window, he discoursed to me of my journey, of my prospectsin life, and of all that I should do and avoid, professionallyand morally. 

"Work, " he said, "is the panacea for every sorrow--the plaster for everypain--your only universal remedy. Industry, air, and exercise are ourbest physicians. Trust to them, boy; but beware how you publish theprescription, lest you find your occupation gone. Remember, if you wishto be rich, you must never seem to be poor; and as soon as you stand inneed of your friends, you will find yourself with none left. Be discreetof speech, and cultivate the art of silence. Above all things, betruthful. Hold your tongue as long as you please, but never open yourlips to a lie. Show no man the contents of your purse--he would eitherdespise you for having so little, or try to relieve you of the burdenof carrying so much. Above all, never get into debt, and never fall inlove. The first is disgrace, and the last is the devil! Respectyourself, if you wish others to respect you; and bear in mind that theworld takes you at your own estimate. To dress well is a duty one owesto society. The man who neglects his own appearance not only degradeshimself to the level of his inferiors, but puts an affront upon hisfriends and acquaintances. "

"I trust, sir, " I said in some confusion, "that I shall never incur thelast reproach again. "

"I hope not, Basil, " replied my father, with a smile. "I hope not. Keepyour conscience clean and your boots blacked, and I have no fear of you. You are no hero, my boy, but it depends upon yourself whether you becomea man of honor or a scamp; a gentleman or a clown. You have, I see, registered a good resolution to-day. Keep it; and remember thatPandemonium will get paved without your help. There would be noindustry, boy, if there was no idleness, and all true progress beginswith--Reform. "

CHAPTER VII. 

AT THE CHEVAL BLANC

My journey, even at this distance of time, appears to me like anenchanted dream. I observed, yet scarcely remembered, the scenes throughwhich I passed, so divided was I between the novelty of travelling andthe eagerness of anticipation. Provided with my letters of introduction, the sum of one hundred guineas, English, and the enthusiasm of twentyyears of age, I fancied myself endowed with an immortality of wealth andhappiness. 

The Brighton coach passed through our town once a week; so I started forParis without having ever visited London, and took the route by Newhavenand Dieppe. Having left home on Tuesday morning, I reached Rouen in thecourse of the next day but one. At Rouen I stayed to dine and sleep, andso made my way to the _Cheval Blanc_, a grand hotel on the quay, where Iwas received by an aristocratic elderly waiter who sauntered out from aside office, surveyed me patronizingly, entered my name upon a card fora seat at the _table d'hote_, and, having rung a feeble little bell, sank exhausted upon a seat in the hall. 

"To number seventeen, Marie, " said this majestic personage, handing meover to a pretty little chambermaid who attended the summons. "And, Marie, on thy return, my child, bring me an absinthe. "

We left this gentleman in a condition of ostentatious languor, and Mariedeposited me in a pretty room overlooking an exquisite little garden setround with beds of verbena and scarlet geranium, with a fountainsparkling in the midst. This garden was planted in what had once beenthe courtyard, of the building. The trees nodded and whispered, and thewindows at the opposite side of the quadrangle glittered like burnishedgold in the sunlight. I threw open the jalousies, plucked one of thewhite roses that clustered outside, and drank in with delight the sunnyperfumed air that played among the leaves, and scattered the waters ofthe fountain. I could not long rest thus, however. I longed to be outand about; so, as it was now no more than half-past three o'clock, andtwo good hours of the glorious midsummer afternoon yet remained to mebefore the hotel dinner-hour, I took my hat, and went out along thequays and streets of this beautiful and ancient Norman city. 

Under the crumbling archways; through narrow alleys where the upperstories nearly met overhead, leaving only a bright strip of dazzling skybetween; past quaint old mansions, and sculptured fountains, and statelychurches hidden away in all kinds of strange forgotten nooks andcorners, I wandered, wondering and unwearied. I saw the statue of Jeanned'Arc; the château of Diane de Poitiers; the archway carved in oak wherethe founder of the city still, in rude effigy, presides; the museumrich in mediæval relics; the market-place crowded with fruit-sellers andflower-girls in their high Norman caps. Above all, I saw the rare oldGothic Cathedral, with its wondrous wealth of antique sculpture; itsiron spire, destined, despite its traceried beauty, to everlastingincompleteness; its grass-grown buttresses, and crumbling pinnacles, andportals crowded with images of saints and kings. I went in. All wasgray, shadowy, vast; dusk with the rich gloom of painted windows; and sosilent that I scarcely dared disturb the echoes by my footsteps. Therestood in a corner near the door a triangular iron stand stuck full ofvotive tapers that flickered and sputtered and guttered dismally, shedding showers of penitential grease-drops on the paved floor below;and there was a very old peasant woman on her knees before the altar. Isat down on a stone bench and fell into a long study of the stainedoriel, the light o'erarching roof, and the long perspective of thepillared aisles. Presently the verger came out of the vestry-room, followed by two gentlemen. He was short and plump, with a loose blackgown, slender black legs, and a pointed nose--like a larger speciesof raven. 

"_Bon jour, M'sieur_" croaked he, laying his head a little on one side, and surveying me with one glittering eye. "Will M'sieur be pleased tosee the treasury?"

"The treasury!" I repeated. "What is there to be seen in the treasury?"

"Nothing, sir, worth one son of an Englishman's money, " said the tallerof the gentlemen. "Tinsel, paste, and dusty bones--all humbug andextortion. "

Something in the scornful accent and the deep voice aroused thesuspicions of the verger, though the words were spoken in English. 

"Our treasury, M'sieur, " croaked he, more ravenly than ever, "isrich--rich in episcopal jewels; in relics--inestimable relics. Ticketstwo francs each. "

Grateful, however, for the timely caution, I acknowledged mycountryman's courtesy by a bow, declined the proffered investment, andwent out again into the sunny streets. 

At five o'clock I found myself installed near the head of an immenselylong dinner-table in the _salle à manger_ of the Cheval Blanc. The_salle à manger_ was a magnificent temple radiant with mirrors, andlustres, and panels painted in fresco. The dinner was an imposing rite, served with solemn ceremonies by ministering waiters. There were aboutthirty guests seated round, in august silence, most of them very smartlydressed, and nearly all English. A stout gentleman, with a little knobon the top of his bald head, a buff waistcoat, and a shirt amplyfrilled, sat opposite to me, flanked on either side by an elderlydaughter in green silk. On my left I was supported by a thin younggentleman with fair hair, and blue glasses. To my right stood a vacantchair, the occupant of which had not yet arrived; and at the head of thetable sat a spare pale man dressed all in black, who spoke to no one, kept his eyes fixed upon his plate, and was served by the waiters withespecial servility. The soup came and went in profound silence. Faintwhispers passed to and fro with the fish. It was not till the roast madeits appearance that anything like conversation broke the sacred silenceof the meal. At this point the owner of the vacant chair arrived, andtook his place beside me. I recognised him immediately. It was theEnglishman whom I had met in the Cathedral. We bowed, and presently hespoke to me. In the meantime, he had every forgone item of the dinnerserved to him as exactly as if he had not been late at table, and sippedhis soup with perfect deliberation while others were busy with thesweets. Our conversation began, of course, with the weather andthe place. 

"Your first visit to Rouen, I suppose?" said he. "Beautiful old city, isit not? _Garçon_, a pint of Bordeaux-Leoville. "

I modestly admitted that it was not only my first visit to Rouen, but myfirst to the Continent. 

"Ah, you may go farther than Rouen, and fare worse, " said he. "Do yousketch? No? That's a pity, for it's deliciously picturesque--though, for my own part, I am not enthusiastic about gutters and gables, and Iobject to a population composed exclusively of old women. I'm glad, bythe way, that I preserved you from wasting your time among the atrociouslumber of that so-called treasury. "

"The treasury!" exclaimed my slim neighbor with the blue glasses. "Begyour p--p--pardon, sir, but are you speaking of the Cathedral treasury?Is it worth v--v--visiting?"

"Singularly so, " replied he to my right. "One of the rarest collectionsof authentic curiosities in France. They have the snuff-box of Clovis, the great toe of Saint Helena, and the tongs with which St. Dunstan tookthe devil by the nose. "

"Up--p--pon my word, now, that's curious, " ejaculated the thin tourist, who had an impediment in his speech. "I must p--p--put that down. Dearme! the snuff-box of King Clovis! I must see these relics to-morrow. "

"Be sure you ask for the great toe of St. Helena, " said my right handcompanion, proceeding imperturbably with his dinner. "The saint had butone leg at the period of her martyrdom, and that great toe is unique. "

"G--g--good gracious!" exclaimed the tourist, pulling out a giganticnote-book, and entering the fact upon the spot. "A saint with oneleg--and a lady, too! Wouldn't m--m--miss that for the world!"

I looked round, puzzled by the gravity of my new acquaintance. 

"Is this all true?" I whispered. "You told me the treasury was ahumbug. "

"And so it is. "

"But the snuff-box of Clovis, and. . . . "

"Pure inventions! The man's a muff, and on muffs I have no mercy. Do youstay long in Rouen?"

"No, I go on to Paris to-morrow. I wish I could remain longer. "

"I am not sure that you would gain more from a long visit than from ashort one. Some places are like some women, charming, _en passant_, butintolerable upon close acquaintance. It is just so with Rouen. The placecontains no fine galleries, and no places of public entertainment; andthough exquisitely picturesque, is nothing more. One cannot always belooking at old houses, and admiring old churches. You will be delightedwith Paris. "

"B--b--beautiful city, " interposed the stammerer, eager to join ourconversation, whenever he could catch a word of it. "I'm going toP--P--Paris myself. "

"Then, sir, I don't doubt you will do ample justice to its attractions, "observed my right-hand neighbor. "From the size of your note-book, andthe industry with which you accumulate useful information, I shouldpresume that you are a conscientious observer of all that is reconditeand curious. "

"I as--p--pire to be so, " replied the other, with a blush and a bow. "Im--m--mean to exhaust P--P--Paris. I'm going to write a b--b--book aboutit, when I get home. "'

My friend to the right flashed one glance of silent scorn upon thefuture author, drained the last glass of his Bordeaux-Leoville, pushedhis chair impatiently back, and said:--"This place smells like akitchen. Will you come out, and have a cigar?"

So we rose, took our hats, and in a few moments were strolling under thelindens on the Quai de Corneille. 

I, of course, had never smoked in my life; and, humiliating though itwas, found myself obliged to decline a "prime Havana, " proffered in thedaintiest of embroidered cigar-cases. My companion looked as if hepitied me. "You'll soon learn, " said he. "A man can't live in Pariswithout tobacco. Do you stay there many weeks?"

"Two years, at least, " I replied, registering an inward resolution toconquer the difficulties of tobacco without delay. "I am going to studymedicine under an eminent French surgeon. "

"Indeed! Well, you could not go to a better school, or embrace a noblerprofession. I used to think a soldier's life the grandest under heaven;but curing is a finer thing than killing, after all! What a deliciousevening, is it not? If one were only in Paris, now, or Vienna, . . . . "

"What, Oscar Dalrymple!" exclaimed a voice close beside us. "I should assoon have expected to meet the great Panjandrum himself!"

"--With the little round button at top, " added my companion, tossingaway the end of his cigar, and shaking hands heartily with thenew-comer. "By Jove, Frank, I'm glad to see you! What brings you here?"

"Business--confound it! And not pleasant business either. _A procés_which my father has instituted against a great manufacturing firm hereat Rouen, and of which I have to bear the brunt. And you?"

"And I, my dear fellow? Pshaw! what should I be but an idler in searchof amusement?"

"Is it true that you have sold out of the Enniskillens?"

"Unquestionably. Liberty is sweet; and who cares to carry a sword intime of peace? Not I, at all events. "

While this brief greeting was going forward, I hung somewhat in therear, and amused myself by comparing the speakers. The new-comer wasrather below than above the middle height, fair-haired and boyish, witha smile full of mirth and an eye full of mischief. He looked about twoyears my senior. The other was much older--two or three and thirty, atthe least--dark, tall, powerful, finely built; his wavy hair clippedclose about his sun-burnt neck; a thick moustache of unusual length; anda chest that looked as if it would have withstood the shock of abattering-ram. Without being at all handsome, there was a look ofbrightness, and boldness, and gallantry about him that arrested one'sattention at first sight. I think I should have taken him for a soldier, had I not already gathered it from the last words of their conversation. 

"Who is your friend?" I heard the new-comer whisper. 

To which the other replied:--"Haven't the ghost of an idea. "

Presently he took out his pocket-book, and handing me a card, said:--

"We are under the mutual disadvantage of all chance acquaintances. Myname is Dalrymple--Oscar Dalrymple, late of the Enniskillen Dragoons. Myfriend here is unknown to fame as Mr. Frank Sullivan; a young gentlemanwho has the good fortune to be younger partner in a firm of merchantprinces, and the bad taste to dislike his occupation. "

How I blushed as I took Captain Dalrymple's card, and stammered out myown name in return! I had never possessed a card in my life, nor neededone, till this moment. I rather think that Captain Dalrymple guessedthese facts, for he shook hands with me at once, and put an end to myembarrassment by proposing that we should take a boat, and pull a mileor two up the river. The thing was no sooner said than done. There wereplenty of boats below the iron bridge; so we chose one of the cleanest, and jumped into it without any kind of reference to the owner, whoeverhe might be. 

"_Batelier, Messieurs? Batelier_?" cried a dozen men at once, rushingdown to the water's edge. 

But Dalrymple had already thrown off his coat, and seized the oars. 

"_Batelier_, indeed!" laughed he, as with two or three powerful strokeshe carried us right into the middle, of the stream. "Trust an Oxford manfor employing any arms but his own, when a pair of sculls are inquestion!"

 * * * * *

CHAPTER VIII. 

THE ISLAND IN THE RIVER. 

It was just eight o'clock when we started, with the twilight coming on. Our course lay up the river, with a strong current setting against us;so we made but little way, and enjoyed the tranquil beauty of theevening. The sky was pale and clear, somewhat greenish overhead anddeepening along the line of the horizon into amber and rose. Behind uslay the town with every brown spire articulated against the sky andevery vane glittering in the last glow that streamed up from the west. To our left rose a line of steep chalk cliffs, and before us lay theriver, winding away through meadow lands fringed with willows andpoplars, and interspersed with green islands wooded to the water's edge. Presently the last flush faded, and one large planet, splendid andsolitary, like the first poet of a dark century, emerged from thedeepening gray. 

My companions were in high spirits. They jested; they laughed; theyhummed scraps of songs; they had a greeting for every boat that passed. By-and-by, we came to an island with a little landing-place where ascore or two of boats were moored against the alders by the water'sedge. A tall flag-staff gay with streamers peeped above the tree-tops, and a cheerful sound of piping and fiddling, mingled with the hum ofmany voices, came and went with the passing breeze. As Dalrymple restedon his oars to listen, a boat which we had outstripped some minutesbefore, shot past us to the landing-place, and its occupants, five innumber, alighted. 

"Bet you ten to one that's a bridal party, " said Mr. Sullivan. 

"Say you so? Then suppose we follow, and have a look at the bride!"exclaimed his friend. "The place is a public garden. "

The proposition was carried unanimously, and we landed, having firsttied the boat to a willow. We found the island laid out very prettily;intersected by numbers of little paths, with rustic seats here and thereamong the trees, and variegated lamps gleaming out amid the grass, likeparti-colored glow-worms. Following one of these paths, we camepresently to an open space, brilliantly lighted and crowded byholiday-makers. Here were refreshment stalls, and Russian swings, andqueer-looking merry-go-rounds, where each individual sat on a woodenhorse and went gravely round and round with a stick in his hand, tryingto knock off a ring from the top of a pole in the middle. Here, also, was a band in a gaily decorated orchestra; a circular area roped offfor dancers; a mysterious tent with a fortune-teller inside; alottery-stall resplendent with vases and knick-knacks, which nobody wasever known to win; in short, all kinds of attractions, stale enough, nodoubt, to my companions, but sufficiently novel and amusing to me. 

We strolled about for some time among the stalls and promenaders andamused ourselves by criticising the company, which was composed almostentirely of peasants, soldiers, artisans in blue blouses and humbletradespeople. The younger women were mostly handsome, with high Normancaps, white kerchiefs and massive gold ear-rings. Many, in addition tothe ear-rings, wore a gold cross suspended round the neck by a piece ofblack velvet; and some had a brooch to match. Here, sitting round atable under a tree, we came upon a family group, consisting of a littleplump, bald-headed _bourgeois_ with his wife and two children--the wifestout and rosy; the children noisy and authoritative. They werediscussing a dish of poached eggs and a bottle of red wine, to the musicof a polka close by. 

"I should like to dance, " said the little girl, drumming with her feetagainst the leg of the table, and eating an egg with her fingers. "I maydance presently with Phillippe, may I not, papa?"

"I won't dance, " said Phillippe sulkily. "I want some oysters. "

"Oysters, _mon enfant_! I have told you twice already that no one eatsoysters in July, " observed his mother. 

"I don't care for that, " said Phillippe. "It's my _fête_ day, and UncleJacques said I was to have whatever I fancied; I want some oysters. "

"Your Uncle Jacques did not know what an unreasonable boy you are, "replied the father angrily. "If you say another word about oysters, youshall not ride in the _manège_ to-night. "

Phillippe thrust his fists into his eyes and began to roar--so we walkedaway. 

In an arbor, a little further on, we saw two young people whisperingearnestly, and conscious of no eyes but each other's. 

"A pair of lovers, " said Sullivan. 

"And a pair that seldom get the chance of meeting, if we may judge bytheir untasted omelette, " replied Dalrymple. "But where's thebridal party?"

"Oh, we shall find them presently. You seem interested. "

"I am. I mean to dance with the bride and make the bridegroom jealous. "

We laughed and passed on, peeping into every arbor, observing everygroup, and turning to stare at every pretty girl we met. My own aptitudein the acquisition of these arts of gallantry astonished myself. Now, wepassed a couple of soldiers playing at dominoes; now a noisy party rounda table in the open air covered with bottles; now an arbor where half adozen young men and three or four girls were assembled round a bowl ofblazing punch. The girls were protesting they dare not drink it, butwere drinking it, nevertheless, with exceeding gusto. 

"Grisettes and _commis voyageurs!_" said Dalrymple, contemptuously. "Letus go and look at the dancers. "

We went on, and stood in the shelter of some trees near the orchestra. The players consisted of three violins, a clarionette and a big drum. The big drum was an enthusiastic performer. He belabored his instrumentas heartily as if it had been his worst enemy, but with so muchindependence of character that he never kept the same time as hisfellow-players for two minutes together. They were playing a polka forthe benefit of some twelve or fifteen couples, who were dancing with alltheir might in the space before the orchestra. On they came, round andround and never weary, two at a time--a mechanic and a grisette, arustic and a Normandy girl, a tall soldier and a short widow, a fattradesman and his wife, a couple of milliners assistants who preferreddancing together to not dancing at all, and so forth. 

"How I wish somebody would ask me, _ma mère_!" said a coquettishbrunette, close by, with a sidelong glance at ourselves. "

"You shall dance with your brother Paul, my dear, as soon as he comes, "replied her mother, a stout _bourgeoise_ with a green fan. 

"But it is such dull work to dance with one's brother!" pouted thebrunette. "If it were one's cousin, even, it would be different. "

Mr. Frank Sullivan flung away his cigar, and began buttoning up hisgloves. 

"I'll take that damsel out immediately, " said he. "A girl who objects todance with her brother deserves encouragement. "

So away he went with his hat inclining jauntily on one side, and, havingobtained the mother's permission, whirled away with the pretty brunetteinto the very thickest of the throng. 

"There they are!" said Dalrymple, suddenly. "There's the wedding party. _Per Bacco_! but our little bride is charming!"

"And the bridegroom is a handsome specimen of rusticity. "

"Yes--a genuine pastoral pair, like a Dresden china shepherd andshepherdess. See, the girl is looking up in his face--he shakes hishead. She is urging him to dance, and he refuses! Never mind, _mabelle_--you shall have your valse, and Corydon may be as cross ashe pleases!"

"Don't flatter yourself that she will displease Corydon to dance withyour lordship!" I said, laughingly. 

"Pshaw! she would displease fifty Corydons if I chose to make her doso, " said Dalrymple, with a smile of conscious power. 

"True; but not on her wedding-day. "

"Wedding-day or not, I beg to observe that in less than half an hour youwill see me whirling along with my arm round little Phillis's daintywaist. Now come and see how I do it. "

He made his way through the crowd, and I, half curious, half abashed, went with him. The party was five in number, consisting of the bride andbridegroom, a rosy, middle-aged peasant woman, evidently the mother ofthe bride, and an elderly couple who looked like humble townsfolk, andwere probably related to one or other of the newly-married pair. Dalrymple opened the attack by stumbling against the mother, and thenoverwhelming her with elaborate apologies. 

"In these crowded places, Madame, " said he, in his fluent French, "oneis scarcely responsible for an impoliteness. I beg ten thousand pardons, however. I hope I have not hurt you?"

"_Ma foi!_ no, M'sieur. It would take more than that to hurt me!"

"Nor injured your dress, I trust, Madame?"

"_Ah, par exemple_! do I wear muslins or gauzes that they should notbear touching? No, no, no, M'sieur--thanking you all the same. "

"You are very amiable, Madame, to say so. "

"You are very polite, M'sieur, to think so much of a trifle. "

"Nothing is a trifle, Madame, where a lady is concerned. At least, so weEnglishmen consider. "

"Bah! M'sieur is not English?"

"Indeed, Madame, I am. "

"_Mais, mon Dieu! c'est incroyable_. Suzette--brother Jacques--André, doyou hear this? M'sieur, here, swears that he is English, and yet hespeaks French like one of ourselves! Ah, what a fine thing learning is!"

"I may say with truth, Madame, that I never appreciate the advantages ofeducation so highly, as when they enable me to converse with ladies whoare not my own countrywomen, " said Dalrymple, carrying on theconversation with as much studied politeness as if his interlocutor hadbeen a duchess. "But--excuse the observation--you are here, I imagine, upon a happy occasion?"

The mother laughed, and rubbed her hands. 

"_Dâme_! one may see that, " replied she, "with one's eyes shut! Yes, M'sieur, --yes--their wedding-day, the dear children--their wedding-day!They've been betrothed these two years. "

"The bride is very like you, Madame, " said Dalrymple, gravely. "Youryounger sister, I presume?"

"_Ah, quel farceur_! He takes my daughter for my sister! Suzette, doyou hear this? M'sieur is killing me with laughter!"

And the good lady chuckled, and gasped, and wiped her eyes, and dealtDalrymple a playful push between the shoulders, which would have upsetthe balance of any less heavy dragoon. 

"Your daughter, Madame!" said he. "Allow me to congratulate you. May Ialso be permitted to congratulate the bride?" And with this he took offhis hat to Suzette and shook hands with André, who looked notoverpleased, and proceeded to introduce me as his friend Monsieur BasilArbuthnot, "a young English gentleman, _très distingué_"

The old lady then said her name was Madame Roquet, and that she rented asmall farm about a mile and a half from Rouen; that Suzette was her onlychild; and that she had lost her "blessed man" about eight years ago. She next introduced the elderly couple as her brother Jacques Robineauand his wife, and informed us that Jacques was a tailor, and had a shopopposite the church of St. Maclou, "_là bas_. "

To judge of Monsieur Robineau's skill by his outward appearance, Ishould have said that he was professionally unsuccessful, and suppliedhis own wardrobe from the misfits returned by his customers. He wore awaistcoat which was considerably too long for him, trousers which wereconsiderably too short, and a green cloth coat with a high velvet collarwhich came up nearly to the tops of his ears. In respect of personalcharacteristics, Monsieur Robineau and his wife were the most admirablecontrast imaginable. Monsieur Robineau was short; Madame Robineau wastall. Monsieur Robineau was as plump and rosy as a robin; MadameRobineau was pale and bony to behold. Monsieur Robineau looked the soulof good nature, ready to chirrup over his _grog-au-vin, _ to smoke a pipewith his neighbor, to cut a harmless joke or enjoy a harmless frolic, ascheerfully as any little tailor that ever lived; Madame Robineau, on thecontrary, preserved a dreadful dignity, and looked as if she could laughat nothing on this side of the grave. Not to consider the question toocuriously, I should have said, at first sight, that Monsieur Robineaustood in no little awe of his wife, and that Madame Robineau was thevery head and front of their domestic establishment. 

It was wonderful and delightful to see how Captain Dalrymple placedhimself on the best of terms with all these good people--how he pattedRobineau on the back and complimented Madame, banished the cloud fromAndré's brow, and summoned a smile to the pretty cheek of Suzette. Onewould have thought he had known them for years already, so thoroughlywas he at home with every member of the wedding party. 

Presently, he asked Suzette to dance. She blushed scarlet, and cast apretty appealing look at her husband and her mother. I could almostguess what she whispered to the former by the motion of her lips. 

"Monsieur André will, I am sure, spare Madame for one gallop, " saidDalrymple, with that kind of courtesy which accepts no denial. It wasquite another tone, quite another manner. It was no longer thepersuasive suavity of one who is desirous only to please, but thepoliteness of a gentleman to au inferior. 

The cloud came back upon André's brow, and he hesitated; but MadameRoquet interposed. 

"Spare her!" she exclaimed. "_Dâme_! I should think so! She has neverleft his arm all day. Here, my child, give me your shawl while youdance, and bake care not to get too warm, for the evening air isdangerous. "

And so Suzette took off her shawl, and André was silenced, andDalrymple, in less than the half hour, was actually whirling away withhis arm round little Phillis's dainty waist. 

I am afraid that I proved a very indifferent _locum tenens_ for mybrilliant friend, and that the good people thought me exceedinglystupid. I tried to talk to them, but the language tripped me up at everyturn, and the right words never would come when they were wanted. Besides, I felt uneasy without knowing exactly why. I could not keepfrom watching Dalrymple and Suzette. I could not help noticing howclosely he held her; how he never ceased talking to her; and how thesmiles and blushes chased each other over her pretty face. That I shouldhave wit enough to observe these things proved that my education wasprogressing rapidly; but then, to be sure, I was studying under anaccomplished teacher. 

They danced for a long time. So long, that André became uneasy, and myavailable French was quite exhausted. I was heartily glad when Dalrymplebrought back the little bride at last, flushed and panting, and (himselfas cool as a diplomatist) assisted her with her shawl and resigned herto the protection of her husband. 

"Why hast thou danced so long with that big Englishman?" murmured André, discontentedly. "When _I_ asked thee, thou wast too tired, and now. . . . "

"And now I am so happy to be near thee again, " whispered Suzette. 

André softened directly. 

"But to dance for twenty minutes. . . . " began he. 

"Ah, but he danced so well, and I am so fond of waltzing, André!"

The cloud gathered again, and an impatient reply was coming, whenDalrymple opportunely invited the whole party to a bowl of punch in anadjoining arbor, and himself led the way with Madame Roquet. The arborwas vacant, a waiter was placing the chairs, and the punch was blazingin the bowl. It had evidently been ordered during one of the pauses inthe dance, that it might be ready to the moment--a little attentionwhich called forth exclamations of pleasure from both Madame Roquet andMonsieur Robineau, and touched with something like a gleam ofsatisfaction even the grim visage of Monsieur Robineau's wife. 

Dalrymple took the head of the table, and stirred the punch into leapingtongues of blue flame till it looked like a miniature Vesuvius. 

"What diabolical-looking stuff!" I exclaimed. "You might, to allappearance, be Lucifer's own cupbearer. "

"A proof that it ought to be devilish good, " replied Dalrymple, ladlingit out into the glasses. "Allow me, ladies and gentlemen, to propose thehealth, happiness, and prosperity of the bride and bridegroom. May theynever die, and may they be remembered for ever after!"

We all laughed as if this was the best joke we had heard in our lives, and Dalrymple filled the glasses up again. 

"What, in the name of all that's mischievous, can have become ofSullivan?" said he to me. "I have not caught so much as a glimpse of himfor the last hour. "

"When I last saw him, he was dancing. "

"Yes, with a pretty little dark-eyed girl in a blue dress. By Jove! thatfellow will be getting into trouble if left to himself!"

"But the girl has her mother with her!"

"All the stronger probability of a scrimmage, " replied Dalrymple, sipping his punch with a covert glance of salutation at Suzette. 

"Shall I see if they are among the dancers?"

"Do--but make haste; for the punch is disappearing fast. "

I left them, and went back to the platform where the indefatigablepublic was now engaged in the performance of quadrilles. Never, surely, were people so industrious in the pursuit of pleasure! They poussetted, bowed, curtsied, joined hands, and threaded the mysteries of everyfigure, as if their very lives depended on their agility. 

"Look at Jean Thomas, " said a young girl to her still younger companion. "He dances like an angel!"

The one thus called upon to admire, looked at Jean Thomas, and sighed. 

"He never asks me, by any chance, " said she, sadly, "although his motherand mine are good neighbors. I suppose I don't dance well enough--ordress well enough, " she added, glancing at her friend's gay shawl andcoquettish cap. 

"He has danced with me twice this evening, " said the first speakertriumphantly; "and he danced with me twice last Sunday at the Jardind'Armide. Elise says. . . . "

Her voice dropped to a whisper, and I heard no more. It was a passingglimpse behind the curtain--a peep at one of the many dramas of reallife that are being played for ever around us. Here were all theelements of romance--love, admiration, vanity, envy. Here was a hero inhumble life--a lady-killer in his own little sphere. He dances with one, neglects another, and multiplies his conquests with all theheartlessness of a gentleman. 

I wandered round the platform once or twice, scrutinizing the dancers, but without success. There was no sign of Sullivan, or of his partner, or of his partner's mother, the _bourgeoise_ with the green fan. I thenwent to the grotto of the fortune-teller, but it was full of noisyrustics; and thence to the lottery hall, where there were plenty ofplayers, but not those of whom I was in search. 

"Wheel of fortune, Messieurs et Mesdames, " said the young lady behindthe counter. "Only fifty centimes each. All prizes, and no blanks--tryyour fortune, _monsieur le capitaine!_ Put it once, _monsieur lecapitaine_; once for yourself, and once for madame. Only fifty centimeseach, and the certainty of winning!"

_Monsieur le capitaine_ was a great, rawboned corporal, with a prettylittle maid-servant on his arm. The flattery was not very delicate; butit succeeded. He threw down a franc. The wheel flew round, the paperswere drawn, and the corporal won a needle-case, and the maid-servant acigar-holder. In the midst of the laugh to which this distribution gaverise, I walked away in the direction of the refreshment stalls. Herewere parties supping substantially, dancers drinking orgeat andlemonade, and little knots of tradesmen and mechanics sipping beerridiculously out of wine-glasses to an accompaniment of cakes andsweet-biscuits. Still I could see no trace of Mr. Frank Sullivan. 

At length I gave up the search in despair, and on my way backencountered Master Philippe leaning against a tree, and lookingexceedingly helpless and unwell. 

"You ate too many eggs, Philippe, " said his mother. "I told you so atthe time. "

"It--it wasn't the eggs, " faltered the wretched Philippe. "It was theRussian swing. "

"And serve you rightly, too, " said his father angrily. "I wish with allmy heart that you had had your favorite oysters as well!"

When I came back to the arbor, I found the little party immensely happy, and a fresh bowl of punch just placed upon the table. André was sittingnext to Suzette, as proud as a king. Madame Roquet, volubly convivial, was talking to every one. Madame Robineau was silently disposing of allthe biscuits and punch that came in her way. Monsieur Robineau, with hishat a little pushed back and his thumb in the arm-hole of his waistcoat, was telling a long story to which nobody listened; while Dalrymple, sitting on the other side of the bride, was gallantly doing the dutiesof entertainer. 

He looked up--I shook my head, slipped back into my place, and listenedto the tangled threads of conversation going on around me. 

"And so, " said Monsieur Robineau, proceeding with his story, and staringdown into the bottom of his empty glass, "and so I said to myself, 'Robineau, _mon ami_, take care. One honest man is better than tworogues; and if thou keepest thine eyes open, the devil himself standssmall chance of cheating thee!' So I buttoned up my coat--this very coatI have on now, only that I have re-lined and re-cuffed it since then, and changed the buttons for brass ones; and brass buttons for one'sholiday coat, you know, look so much more _comme il faut_--and said tothe landlord. . . . "

"Another glass of punch, Monsieur Robineau, " interrupted Dalrymple. 

"Thank you, M'sieur, you are very good; well, as I was saying. . . . "

"Ah, bah, brother Jacques!" exclaimed Madame Roquet, impatiently, "don't give us that old story of the miller and the gray colt, thisevening! We've all heard it a hundred times already. Sing us a songinstead, _mon ami_!"

"I shall be happy to sing, sister Marie, " replied Monsieur Robineau, with somewhat husky dignity, "when I have finished my story. You mayhave heard the story before. So may André--so may Suzette--so may mywife. I admit it. But these gentlemen--these gentlemen who have neverheard it, and who have done me the honor. . . . "

"Not to listen to a word of it, " said Madame Robineau, sharply. "There, you are answered, husband. Drink your punch, and hold your tongue. "

Monsieur Robineau waved his hand majestically, and assumed aParliamentary air. 

"Madame Robineau, " he said, getting more and more husky, "be so obligingas to wait till I ask for your advice. With regard to drinking my punch, I have drunk it--" and here he again stared down into the bottom of hisglass, which was again empty--"and with regard to holding my tongue, that is my business, and--and. . . . "

"Monsieur Robineau, " said Dalrymple, "allow me to offer you some morepunch. "

"Not another drop, Jacques, " said Madame, sternly. "You have had toomuch already. "

Poor Monsieur Robineau, who had put out his glass to be refilled, pausedand looked helplessly at his wife. 

"_Mon cher ange_, . . . . " he began; but she shook her head inflexibly, andMonsieur Robineau submitted with the air of a man who knows that fromthe sentence of the supreme court there is no appeal. 

"_Dâme_!" whispered Madame Roquet, with a confidential attack upon myribs that gave me a pain in my side for half an hour after, "my brotherhas the heart of a rabbit. He gives way to her in everything--so muchthe worse for him. My blessed man, who was a saint of a husband, wouldhave broken the bowl over my ears if I had dared to interfere betweenhis glass and his mouth!"

Whereupon Madame Roquet filled her own glass and mine, and MadameRobineau, less indulgent to her husband than herself, followedour example. 

Just at this moment, a confused hubbub of voices, and other soundsexpressive of a _fracas_, broke out in the direction of the trees behindthe orchestra. The dancers deserted their polka, the musicians stoppedfiddling, the noisy supper-party in the next arbor abandoned their coldchicken and salad, and everybody ran to the scene of action. Dalrymplewas on his feet in a moment; but Suzette held André back with both handsand implored him to stay. 

"Some _mauvais sujets_, no doubt, who refuse to pay the score, "suggested Madame Roquet. 

"Or Sullivan, who has got into one of his infernal scrapes, " mutteredDalrymple, with a determined wrench at his moustache. "Come on, anyhow, and let us see what is the matter!"

So we snatched up our hats and ran out, just as Monsieur Robineau seizedthe opportunity to drink another tumbler of punch when his wife wasnot looking. 

Following in the direction of the rest, we took one of the paths behindthe orchestra, and came upon a noisy crowd gathered round a woodensummer-house. 

"It's a fight, " said one. 

"It's a pickpocket, " said another. 

"Bah! it's only a young fellow who has been making love to a girl, "exclaimed a third. 

We forced our way through, and there we saw Mr. Frank Sullivan with hishat off, his arms crossed, and his back against the wall, presenting adauntless front to the gesticulations and threats of an exceedinglyenraged young man with red hair, who was abusing him furiously. Theamount of temper displayed by this young man was something unparalleled. He was angry in every one of his limbs. He stamped, he shook his fist, he shook his head. The very tips of his ears looked scarlet with rage. Every now and then he faced round to the spectators, and appealed tothem--or to a stout woman with a green fan, who was almost as red andangry as himself, and who always rushed forward when addressed, andshook the green fan in Sullivan's face. 

"You are an aristocrat!" stormed the young man. "A pampered, insolentaristocrat! A dog of an Englishman! A _scélérat_! Don't suppose you areto trample upon us for nothing! We are Frenchmen, you beggarlyislander--Frenchmen, do you hear?"

A growl of sympathetic indignation ran through the crowd, and "_à basles aristocrats_--_à bas les Anglais_!" broke out here and there. 

"In the devil's name, Sullivan, " said Dalrymple, shouldering his way upto the object of these agreeable menaces, "what have you been after, tobring this storm about your ears?"

"Pshaw! nothing at all, " replied he with a mocking laugh, and acontemptuous gesture. "I danced with a pretty girl, and treated her tochampagne afterwards. Her mother and brother hunted us out, and spoiledour flirtation. That's the whole story. "

Something in the laugh and gesture--something, too, perhaps in thelanguage which they could not understand, appeared to give the lastaggravation to both of Sullivan's assailants. I saw the young man raisehis arm to strike--I saw Dalrymple fell him with a blow that would havestunned an ox--I saw the crowd close in, heard the storm break out onevery side, and, above it all, the deep, strong tones of Dalrymple'svoice, saying:--

"To the boat, boys! Follow me. "

In another moment he had flung himself into the crowd, dealt one or twosounding blows to left and right, cleared a passage for himself and us, and sped away down one of the narrow walks leading to the river. Presently, having taken one or two turnings, none of which seemed tolead to the spot we sought, we came upon an open space full of piled-upbenches, pyramids of empty bottles, boxes, baskets, and all kinds oflumber. Here we paused to listen and take breath. 

We had left the crowd behind us, but they were still within hearing. 

"By Jove!" said Dalrymple, "I don't know which way to go. I believe weare on the wrong side of the island. "

"And I believe they are after us, " added Sullivan, peering into thebaskets. "By all that's fortunate, here are the fireworks! Has anybodygot a match? We'll take these with us, and go off in a blazeof triumph!"

The suggestion was no sooner made than adopted. We filled our hats andpockets with crackers and Catherine-wheels, piled the rest into onegreat heap, threw a dozen or so of lighted fusees into the midst ofthem, and just as the voices of our pursuers were growing momentarilylouder and nearer, darted away again down a fresh turning, and saw theriver gleaming at the end of it. 

"Hurrah! here's a boat, " shouted Sullivan, leaping into it, and we afterhim. 

It was not our boat, but we did not care for that. Ours was at the otherside of the island, far enough away, down by the landing-place. Just asDalrymple seized the oars, there burst forth a tremendous explosion. Acolumn of rockets shot up into the air, and instantly the place was aslight as day. Then a yell of discovery broke forth, and we were seenalmost as soon as we were fairly out of reach. We had secured the onlyboat on that side of the island, and three or four of Dalrymple'spowerful strokes had already carried us well into the middle of thestream. To let off our own store of fireworks--to pitch tokens of ourregard to our friends on the island in the shape of blazing crackers, which fell sputtering and fizzing into the water half-way between theboat and the shore--to stand up in the stern and bow politely--finally, to row away singing "God save the Queen" with all our might, were featsupon which we prided ourselves very considerably at the time, and therecollection of which afforded us infinite amusement all the way home. 

That evening we all supped together at the Chaval Blane, and of what wedid or said after supper I have but a confused remembrance. I believethat I tried to smoke a cigar; and it is my impression that I made aspeech, in which I swore eternal friendship to both of my new friends;but the only circumstance about which I cannot be mistaken is that Iawoke next morning with the worst specimen of headache that had yet comewithin the limits of my experience. 

 * * * * *

CHAPTER IX. 

DAMON AND PYTHIAS. 

I left Rouen the day after my great adventure on the river, and CaptainDalrymple went with me to the station. 

"You have my Paris address upon my card, " he said, as we walked to andfro upon the platform. "It's just a bachelor's den, you know--and Ishall be there in about a fortnight or three weeks. Come and lookme up. "

To which I replied that I was glad to be allowed to do so, and that Ishould "look him up" as soon as he came home. And so, with words ofcordial good-will and a hearty shake of the hand, we parted. 

Having started late in the evening, I arrived in Paris between four andfive o'clock on a bright midsummer Sunday morning. I was not longdelayed by the customs officers, for I carried but a scant supply ofluggage. Having left this at an hotel, I wandered about till it shouldbe time for breakfast. After breakfast I meant to dress and call uponDr. Chéron. 

The morning air was clear and cool. The sun shone brilliantly, and wasreflected back with dazzling vividness from long vistas of high whitehouses, innumerable windows, and gilded balconies. Theatres, shops, cafés, and hotels not yet opened, lined the great thoroughfares. Triumphal arches, columns, parks, palaces, and churches succeeded oneanother in apparently endless succession. I passed a lofty pillarcrowned with a conqueror's statue--a palace tragic in history--a modernParthenon surrounded by columns, peopled with sculptured friezes, andapproached by a flight of steps extending the whole width of thebuilding. I went in, for the doors had just been opened, and awhite-haired Sacristan was preparing the seats for matin service. Therewere acolytes decorating the altar with fresh flowers, and earlydevotees on their knees before the shrine of the Madonna. The gildedornaments, the tapers winking in the morning light, the statues, thepaintings, the faint clinging odors of incense, the hushed atmosphere, the devotional silence, the marble angels kneeling round the altar, allunited to increase my dream of delight. I gazed and gazed again;wandered round and round; and at last, worn out with excitement andfatigue, sank into a chair in a distant corner of the Church, and fellinto a heavy sleep. How long it lasted I know not; but the voices of thechoristers and the deep tones of the organ mingled with my dreams. WhenI awoke the last worshippers were departing, the music had died intosilence, the wax-lights were being extinguished, and the servicewas ended. 

Again I went out into the streets; but all was changed. Where there hadbeen the silence of early morning there was now the confusion of a greatcity. Where there had been closed shutters and deserted thoroughfares, there was the bustle of life, gayety, business, and pleasure. The shopsblazed with jewels and merchandise; the stonemasons were at work on thenew buildings; the lemonade venders, with their gay reservoirs upontheir backs, were plying a noisy trade; the bill-stickers were paperingboardings and lamp-posts with variegated advertisements; the charlatan, in his gaudy chariot, was selling pencils and penknives to theaccompaniment of a hand-organ; soldiers were marching to the clangor ofmilitary music; the merchant was in his counting-house, the stock-brokerat the Bourse, and the lounger, whose name is Legion, was sitting in theopen air outside his favorite café, drinking chocolate, and yawning overthe _Charivari_. 

I thought I must be dreaming. I scarcely believed the evidence of myeyes. Was this Sunday? Was it possible that in our own little church athome--in our own little church, where we could hear the birds twitteringoutside in every interval of the quiet service--the old familiar faces, row beyond row, were even now upturned in reverent attention to thewords of the preacher? Prince Bedreddin, transported in his sleep to thegates of Damascus, could scarcely have opened his eyes upon a foreigncity and a strange people with more incredulous amazement. 

I can now scarcely remember how that day of wonders went by. I only knowthat I rambled about as in a dream, and am vaguely conscious of havingwandered through the gardens of the Tuilleries; of having found theLouvre open, and of losing myself among some of the upper galleries; oflying exhausted upon a bench in the Champs Elysées; of returning byquays lined with palaces and spanned by noble bridges; of pacing roundand round the enchanted arcades of the Palais Royal; of wondering howand where I should find my hotel, and of deciding at last that I couldgo no farther without dining somehow. Wearied and half stupefied, Iventured, at length, into one of the large _restaurants_ upon theBoulevards. Here I found spacious rooms lighted by superb chandelierswhich were again reflected in mirrors that extended from floor toceiling. Rows of small tables ran round the rooms, and a double linedown the centre, each laid with its snowy cloth and glittering silver. 

It was early when I arrived; so I passed up to the top of the room andappropriated a small table commanding a view of the great thoroughfarebelow. The waiters were slow to serve me; the place filled speedily; andby the time I had finished my soup, nearly all the tables were occupied. Here sat a party of officers, bronzed and mustachioed; yonder a group oflaughing girls; a pair of provincials; a family party, children, governess and all; a stout capitalist, solitary and self content; aquatuor of rollicking _commis-voyageurs_; an English couple, perplexedand curious. Amused by the sight of so many faces, listening to the humof voices, and watching the flying waiters bearing all kinds ofmysterious dishes, I loitered over my lonely meal, and wished that thisdelightful whirl of novelty might last for ever. By and by a gentlemanentered, walked up the whole length of the room in search of a seat, found my table occupied by only a single person, bowed politely, anddrew his chair opposite mine. 

He was a portly man of about forty-five or fifty years of age, with abroad, calm brow; curling light hair, somewhat worn upon the temples;and large blue eyes, more keen than tender. His dress was scrupulouslysimple, and his hands were immaculately white. He carried an umbrellalittle thicker than a walking-stick, and wrote out his list of disheswith a massive gold pencil. The waiter bowed down before him as if hewere an habitué of the place. 

It was not long before we fell into conversation. I do not rememberwhich spoke first; but we talked of Paris--or rather, I talked and helistened; for, what with the excitement and fatigue of the day, and whatwith the half bottle of champagne which I had magnificently ordered, Ifound myself gifted with a sudden flood of words, and ran on, I fear, not very discreetly. 

A few civil rejoinders, a smile, a bow, an assent, a question impliedrather than spoken, sufficed to draw from me the particulars of myjourney. I told everything, from my birthplace and education to myfuture plans and prospects; and the stranger, with a frosty humortwinkling about his eyes, listened politely. He was himself particularlysilent; but he had the art of provoking conversation while quietlyenjoying his own dinner. When this was finished, however, he leaned backin his chair, sipped his claret, and talked a little more freely. 

"And so, " said he, in very excellent English, "you have come to Paris tofinish your studies. But have you no fear, young gentleman, that theattractions of so gay a city may divert your mind from graver subjects?Do you think that, when every pleasure may be had for the seeking, youwill be content to devote yourself to the dry details of anuninteresting profession?"

"It is not an uninteresting profession, " I replied. "I might perhapshave preferred the church or the law; but having embarked in the studyof medicine, I shall do my best to succeed in it. "

The stranger smiled. 

"I am glad, " he said, "to see you so ambitious. I do not doubt that youwill become a shining light in the brotherhood of Esculapius. "

"I hope so, " I replied, boldly. "I have studied closer than most men ofmy age, already. "

He smiled again, coughed doubtfully, and insisted on filling my glassfrom his own bottle. 

"I only fear, " he said, "that you will be too diffident of your ownmerits. Now, when you call upon this Doctor. . . . What did you say washis name?"

"Chéron, " I replied, huskily. 

"True, Chéron. Well, when you meet him for the first time you will, perhaps, be timid, hesitating, and silent. But, believe me, a young manof your remarkable abilities should be self-possessed. You ought toinspire him from the beginning with a suitable respect foryour talents. "

"That's precisely the line I mean to take, " said I, boastfully. "I'll--I'll astonish him. I'm afraid of nobody--not I!"

The stranger filled my glass again. His claret must have been verystrong or my head very weak, for it seemed to me, as he did so, that allthe chandeliers were in motion. 

"Upon my word, " observed he, "you are a young man of infinite spirit. "

"And you, " I replied, making an effort to bring the glass steadily to mylips, "you are a capital fellow--a clear-sighted, sensible, capitalfellow. We'll be friends. "

He bowed, and said, somewhat coldly, "I have no doubt that we shall become better acquainted. "

"Better acquainted, indeed!--we'll be intimate!" I ejaculated, affectionately. "I'll introduce you to Dalrymple--you'll like himexcessively. Just the fellow to delight you. "

"So I should say, " observed the stranger, drily. 

"And as for you and myself, we'll--we'll be Damon and . . . What's theother one's name?"

"Pythias, " replied my new acquaintance, leaning back in his chair, andsurveying me with a peculiar and very deliberate stare. "Exactlyso--Damon and Pythias! A charming arrangement. "

"Bravo! Famous! And now we'll have another bottle of wine. "

"Not on my account, I beg, " said the gentleman firmly. "My head is notso cool as yours. "

Cool, indeed, and the room whirling round and round, like a teetotum!

"Oh, if you won't, I won't, " said I confusedly; "but I--I could--drinkmy share of another bottle, I assure you, and not--feel theslightest. . . . "

"I have no doubt on that point, " said my neighbor, gravely; "but ourFrench wines are deceptive, Mr. Arbuthnot, and you might possibly suffersome inconvenience to-morrow. You, as a medical man, should understandthe evils of dyspepsia. "

"Dy--dy--dyspepsia be hanged, " I muttered, dreamily. "Tell me, friend--by the by, I forget your name. Friend what?"

"Friend Pythias, " returned the stranger, drily. "You gave me the nameyourself. "

"Ay, but your real name?"

He shrugged his shoulders. 

"One name is as good as another, " said he, lightly. "Let it be Pythias, for the present. But you were about to ask me some question?"

"About old Chéron, " I said, leaning both elbows on the table, andspeaking very confidentially. "Now tell me, have you--have you anynotion of what he is like? Do you--know--know anything about him?"

"I have heard of him, " he replied, intent for the moment on the patternof his wine-glass. 

"Clever?"

"That is a point upon which I could not venture an opinion. You mustask some more competent judge. "

"Come, now, " said I, shaking my head, and trying to look knowing;"you--you know what I mean, well enough. Is he a grim old fellow?A--a--griffin, you know! Come, is he a gr--r--r--riffin?"

My words had by this time acquired a distressing, self-propellingtendency, and linked themselves into compounds of twenty and thirtysyllables. 

My _vis-à-vis_ smiled, bit his lip, then laughed a dry, short laugh. 

"Really, " he said, "I am not in a position to reply to your question;but upon the whole, I should say that Dr. Chéron was not quite agriffin. The species, you see, is extinct. "

I roared with laughter; vowed I had never heard a better joke in mylife; and repeated his last words over and over, like a degraded idiotas I was. All at once a sense of deadly faintness came upon me. I turnedhot and cold by turns, and lifting my hand to my head, said, or triedto say:--

"Room's--'bominably--close!"

"We had better go, " he replied promptly. "The air will do you good. Leave me to settle for our dinners, and you shall make it right with meby-and-by. "

He did so, and we left the room. Once out in the open air I found myselfunable to stand. He called a _fiacre_; almost lifted me in; took hisplace beside me, and asked the name of my hotel. 

I had forgotten it; but I knew that it was opposite the railway station, and that was enough. When we arrived, I was on the verge ofinsensibility. I remember that I was led up-stairs by two waiters, andthat the stranger saw me to my room. Then all was darkness and stupor. 

CHAPTER X. 

THE NEXT MORNING. 

"Oh, my Christian ducats!" _Merchant of Venice_. 

Gone!--gone!--both gone!--my new gold watch and my purse full of notesand Napoleons!

I rang the bell furiously. It was answered by a demure-looking waiter, with a face like a parroquet. 

"Does Monsieur please to require anything?"

"Require anything!" I exclaimed, in the best French I could muster. "Ihave been robbed!"

"Robbed, Monsieur?"

"Yes, of my watch and purse!"

"_Tiens_! Of a watch and purse?" repeated the parroquet, lifting hiseyebrows with an air of well-bred surprise. "_C'est drôle. "_

"Droll!" I cried, furiously. "Droll, you scoundrel! I'll let you knowwhether I think it droll! I'll complain to the authorities! I'll havethe house searched! I'll--I'll. . . . "

I rang the bell again. Two or three more waiters came, and the master ofthe hotel. They all treated my communication in the same manner--coolly;incredulously; but with unruffled politeness. 

"Monsieur forgets, " urged the master, "that he came back to the hotellast night in a state of absolute intoxication. Monsieur was accompaniedby a stranger, who was gentlemanly, it it true; but since Monsieuracknowledges that that stranger was personally unknown to him, Monsieurmay well perceive it would be more reasonable if his suspicions firstpointed in that direction. "

Struck by the force of this observation, I flung myself into a chair andremained silent. 

"Has Monsieur no acquaintances in Paris to whom he may apply foradvice?" inquired the landlord. 

"None, " said I, moodily; "except that I have a letter of introductionto one Dr. Chéron. "

The landlord and his waiters exchanged glances. 

"I would respectfully recommend Monsieur to present his letterimmediately, " said the former. "Monsieur le Docteur Chéron is a man ofthe world--a man of high reputation and sagacity. Monsieur could not dobetter than advise with him. "

"Call a cab for me, " said I, after a long pause. "I will go. "

The determination cost me something. Dismayed by the extent of my loss, racked with headache, languid, pale, and full of remorse for lastnight's folly, it needed but this humiliation to complete my misery. What! appear before my instructor for the first time with such a tale! Icould have bitten my lips through with vexation. 

The cab was called. I saw, but would not see, the winks and nodsexchanged behind my back by the grinning waiters. I flung myself intothe vehicle, and soon was once more rattling through the noisy streets. But those brilliant streets had now lost all their charm for me. Iadmired nothing, saw nothing, heard nothing, on the way. I could thinkonly of my father's anger and the contempt of Dr. Chéron. 

Presently the cab stopped before a large wooden gate with two enormousknockers. One half of this gate was opened by a servant in a sad-coloredlivery. I was shown across a broad courtyard, up a flight of loftysteps, and into a spacious _salon_ plainly furnished. 

"Monsieur le Docteur is at present engaged, " said the servant, with anair of profound respect. "Will Monsieur have the goodness to be seatedfor a few moments. "

I sat down. I rose up. I examined the books upon the table, and thepictures on the walls. I wished myself "anywhere, anywhere out of theworld, " and more than once was on the point of stealing out of thehouse, jumping into my cab, and making off without seeing the doctor atall. One consideration alone prevented me. I had lost all my money, andhad not even a franc left to pay the driver. Presently the door againopened, the grave footman reappeared, and I heard the dreadedannouncement:--"Monsieur le Docteur will be happy to receive Monsieur inhis consulting-room. "

I followed mechanically. We passed through a passage thickly carpeted, and paused before a green baize door. This door opened noiselessly, andI found myself in the great man's presence. 

"It gives me pleasure to welcome the son of my old friend JohnArbuthnot, " said a clear, and not unfamiliar voice. 

I started, looked up, grew red and white, hot and cold, and had not asyllable to utter in reply. 

In Doctor Chéron, I recognised--

PYTHIAS!

CHAPTER XI. 

MYSTERIOUS PROCEEDINGS. 

The doctor pointed to a chair, looked at his watch, and said:--

"I hope you have had a pleasant journey. Arrived this morning?"

There was not the faintest gleam of recognition on his face. Not asmile; not a glance; nothing but the easy politeness of a stranger toa stranger. 

"N--not exactly, " I faltered. "Yesterday morning, sir. "

"Ah, indeed! Spent the day in sight-seeing, I dare say. Admire Paris?"

Too much astonished to speak, I took refuge in a bow. 

"Not found any lodgings yet, I presume?" asked the doctor, mending a penvery deliberately. 

"N--not yet, sir. "

"I concluded so The English do not seek apartments on Sunday. Youobserve the day very strictly, no doubt?"

Blushing and confused, I stammered some incoherent words and sattwirling my hat, the very picture of remorse. 

"At what hotel have you put up?" he next inquired, without appearing toobserve my agitation. 

"The--the Hôtel des Messageries. "

"Good, but expensive. You must find a lodging to-day. "

I bowed again. 

"And, as your father's representative, I must take care that you procuresomething suitable, and are not imposed upon. My valet shall gowith you. "

He rang the bell, and the sad-colored footman appeared on the threshold. 

"Desire Brunet to be in readiness to walk out with this gentleman, " hesaid, briefly, and the servant retired. 

"Brunet, " he continued, addressing me again, "is faithful and sagacious. He will instruct you on certain points indispensable to a resident inParis, and will see that you are not ill-accommodated or overcharged. Ayoung man has few wants, and I should infer that a couple of rooms insome quiet street will be all that you require?"

"I--I am very grateful. "

He waved down my thanks with an air of cold but polite authority; tookout his note-book and pencil; (I could have sworn to that massive goldpencil!) and proceeded to question me. 

"Your age, I think, " said he, "is twenty-one?"

"Twenty, sir. "

"Ah--twenty. You desire to be entered upon the list of visiting studentsat the Hotel Dieu, to be free of the library and lecture-rooms, and tobe admitted into my public classes?"

"Yes, sir. "

"Also, to attend here in my house for private instruction. "

"Yes, sir. "

He filled in a few words upon a printed form, and handed it to me withhis visiting card. 

"You will present these, and your passport, to the secretary at thehospital, " said he, "and will receive in return the requisite tickets ofadmission. Your fees have already been paid in, and your name has beenentered. You must see to this matter at once, for the _bureau_ closesat two o'clock. You will then require the rest of the day forlodging-seeking, moving, and so forth. To-morrow morning, at nineo'clock, I shall expect you here. "

"Indeed, sir, " I murmured, "I am more obliged than. . . . "

"Not in the least, " he interrupted, decisively; "your father's son hasevery claim upon me. I object to thanks. All that I require from you arehabits of industry, punctuality, and respect. Your father speaks well ofyou, and I have no doubt I shall find you all that he represents. Can Ido anything more for you this morning?"

I hesitated; could not bring myself to utter one word of that which Ihad come to say; and murmured--

"Nothing more, I thank you, sir. "

He looked at me piercingly, paused an instant, and then rang the bell. 

"I am about to order my carriage, " he said; "and, as I am going in thatdirection, I will take you as far as the Hôtel Dieu. "

"But--but I have a cab at the door, " I faltered, remembering, with asinking heart, that I had not a sou to pay the driver. 

The servant appeared again. 

"Let the carriage be brought round immediately, and dismiss thisgentleman's cab. "

The man retired, and I heaved a sigh of relief. The doctor bent low overthe papers on his desk, and I fancied for the moment that a faint smileflitted over his face. Then he took up his hat, and pointed to the door. 

"Now, my young friend, " he said authoritatively, "we must be gone. Timeis gold. After you. "

I bowed and preceded him. His very courtesy was sterner than thedispleasure of another, and I already felt towards him a greater degreeof awe than I should have quite cared to confess. The carriage waswaiting in the courtyard. I placed myself with my back to the horses;Dr. Chéron flung himself upon the opposite seat; a servant out of liverysprang up beside the coachman; the great gates were flung open; and weglided away on the easiest of springs and the softest of cushions. 

Dr. Chéron took a newspaper from his pocket, and began to read; soleaving me to my own uncomfortable reflections. 

And, indeed, when I came to consider my position I was almost indespair. Moneyless, what was to become of me? Watchless and moneyless, with a bill awaiting me at my hotel, and not a stiver in my pocketwherewith to pay it. . . . Miserable pupil of a stern master! luckless sonof a savage father! to whom could I turn for help? Not certainly to Dr. Chéron, whom I had been ready to accuse, half an hour ago, of havingstolen my watch and purse. Petty larceny and Dr. Chéron! how ludicrouslyincongruous! And yet, where was my property? Was the Hôtel desMessageries a den of thieves? And again, how was it that this same Dr. Chéron looked, and spoke, and acted, as if he had never seen me in hislife till this morning? Was I mad, or dreaming, or both?

The carriage stopped and the door opened. 

"Hôtel Dieu, M'sieur, " said the servant, touching his hat. 

Dr. Chéron just raised his eyes from the paper. 

"This is your first destination, " he said. "I would advise you, onleaving here, to return to your hotel. There may be letters awaitingyou. Good-morning. "

With this he resumed his paper, the carriage rolled away, and I foundmyself at the Hôtel Dieu, with the servant out of livery standingrespectfully behind me. 

Go back to my hotel! Why should I go back? Letters there could be none, unless at the Poste Restante. I thought this a very unnecessary piece ofadvice, rejected it in my own mind, and so went into the hospital_bureau_, and transacted my business. When I came out again, Brunettook the lead. 

He was an elderly man with a solemn countenance and a mysterious voice. His manner was oppressively respectful; his address diplomatic; his stepstealthy as a courtier's. When we came to a crossing he bowed, stoodaside, and followed me; then took the lead again; and so on, during abrisk walk of about half an hour. All at once, I found myself at theHôtel des Messageries. 

"Monsieur's hotel, " said the doctor's valet, touching his hat. 

"You are mistaken, " said I, rather impatiently. "I did not ask to bebrought here. My object this morning is to look for apartments. "

"Post in at mid-day, Monsieur, " he observed, gravely. "Monsieur'sletters may have arrived. "

"I expect none, thank you. "

"Monsieur will, nevertheless, permit me to inquire, " said thepersevering valet, and glided in before my eyes. 

The thing was absurd! Both master and servant insisted that I must haveletters, whether I would, or no! To my amazement, however, Brunet cameback with a small sealed box in his hands. 

"No letters have arrived for Monsieur, " he said; "but this box was leftwith the porter about an hour ago. "

I weighed it, shook it, examined the seals, and, going into the publicroom, desired Brunet to follow me. There I opened it. It contained afolded paper, a quantity of wadding, my purse, my roll of bank-notes, and my watch! On the paper, I read the following words:--

"Learn from the events of last night the value of temperance, the wisdomof silence, and the danger of chance acquaintanceships. Accept thelesson, and he by whom it is administered will forget the error. "

The paper dropped from my hands and fell upon the floor. Theimpenetrable Brunet picked it up, and returned it to me. 

"Brunet!" I ejaculated. 

"Monsieur?" said he, interrogatively, raising his hand to his foreheadby force of habit, although his hat stood beside him on the floor. 

There was not a shadow of meaning in his face--not a quiver to denotethat he knew anything of what had passed. To judge by the stolidindifference of his manner, one might have supposed that the delivery ofcaskets full of watches and valuables was an event of daily occurrencein the house of Dr. Chéron. His coolness silenced me. I drew a longbreath; hastened to put my watch in my pocket, and lock up my money inmy room; and then went to the master of the hotel, and informed him ofthe recovery of my property. He smiled and congratulated me; but he didnot seem to be in the least surprised. I fancied, some how, that matterswere not quite so mysterious to him as they had been to me. 

I also fancied that I heard a suspicious roar of laughter as I passedout into the street. 

It was not long before I found such apartments as I required, Piloted byBrunet through some broad thoroughfares and along part of theBoulevards, I came upon a cluster of narrow streets branching offthrough a massive stone gateway from the Rue du Faubourg Montmartre. This little nook was called the Cité Bergère. The houses were white andlofty. Some had courtyards, and all were decorated with pretty ironbalconies and delicately-tinted Venetian shutters. Most of them bore theannouncement--"_Apartements à louer_"--suspended above the door. Outsideone of these houses sat two men with a little table between them. Theywere playing at dominoes, and wore the common blue blouse of themechanic class. A woman stood by, paring celery, with an infant playingon the mat inside the door and a cat purring at her feet. It was apleasant group. The men looked honest, the woman good-tempered, and thehouse exquisitely clean; so the diplomatic Brunet went forward tonegotiate, while I walked up and down outside. There were rooms to belet on the second, third and fifth floors. The fifth was too high, andthe second too expensive; but the third seemed likely to suit me. The_suite_ consisted of a bed-room, dressing-room, and tiny _salon_, andwas furnished with the elegant uncomfortableness characteristic of ourFrench neighbors. Here were floors shiny and carpetless; windows thatobjected to open, and drawers that refused to shut; mirrors all roundthe walls a set of hanging shelves; an ormolu time piece that struck allkinds of miscellaneous hours at unexpected times; an abundance of vasesfilled with faded artificial flowers; insecure chairs of white and gold;and a round table that had a way of turning over suddenly like a tablein a pantomime, if you ventured to place anything on any part but theinlaid star in the centre. Above all, there was a balcony big enough fora couple of chairs, and some flower-pots, overlooking the street. 

I was delighted with everything. In imagination I beheld my balconyalready blooming with roses, and my shelves laden with books. I admiredthe white and gold chairs with all my heart, and saw myself reflected inhalf a dozen mirrors at once with an innocent pride of ownership whichcan only be appreciated by those who have tasted the supreme luxury ofgoing into chambers for the first time. 

"Shall I conclude for Monsieur at twenty francs a week?" murmured thesagacious Brunet. 

"Of course, " said I, laying the first week's rent upon the table. 

And so the thing was done, and, brimful of satisfaction, I went off tothe hotel for my luggage, and moved in immediately. 

 * * * * *

CHAPTER XII. 

BROADCLOTH AND CIVILIZATION. 

Allowing for my inexperience in the use of the language, I prosperedbetter than I had expected, and found, to my satisfaction, that I was byno means behind my French fellow-students in medical knowledge. I passedthrough my preliminary examination with credit, and although Dr. Chéronwas careful not to praise me too soon, I had reason to believe that hewas satisfied with my progress. My life, indeed, was now wholly given upto my work. My country-breeding had made me timid, and the necessity forspeaking a foreign tongue served only to increase my natural reserve; sothat although I lived and studied day after day in the society of sometwo or three hundred young men, I yet lived as solitary a life asRobinson Crusoe in his island. No one sought to know me. No one took aliking for me. Gay, noisy, chattering fellows that they were, theypassed me by for a "dull and muddy-pated rogue;" voted meuncompanionable when I was only shy; and, doubtless, quoted me to eachother as a rare specimen of the silent Englishman. I lived, too, quiteout of the students' colony. To me the _Quartier Latin_ (except as Iwent to and fro between the Hotel Dieu and the Ecole de Medicine) was aland unknown; and the student's life--that wonderful _Vie de Bohéme_which furnishes forth half the fiction of the Paris press--a conditionof being, about which I had never even heard. What wonder, then, that Inever arrived at Dr. Chéron's door five minutes behind time, nevermissed a lecture, never forgot an appointment? What wonder that, afterdropping moodily into one or two of the theatres, I settled down quitequietly in my lodgings; gave up my days to study; sauntered about thelighted alleys of the Champs Elysées in the sweet spring evenings, and, going home betimes, spent an hour or two with my books, and kept almostas early hours as in my father's house at Saxonholme?

After I had been living thus for rather longer than three weeks, I madeup my mind one Sunday morning to call at Dalrymple's rooms, and inquireif he had yet arrived in Paris. It was about eleven o'clock when Ireached the Chaussée d'Antin, and there learned that he was not onlyarrived, but at home. Being by this time in possession of the luxury ofa card, I sent one up, and was immediately admitted. I found breakfaststill upon the table; Dalrymple sitting with an open desk and cash-boxbefore him; and, standing somewhat back, with his elbow resting on thechimney-piece, a gentleman smoking a cigar. They both looked up as I wasannounced, and Dalrymple, welcoming me with a hearty grasp, introducedthis gentleman as Monsieur de Simoncourt. 

M. De Simoncourt bowed, knocked the ash from his cigar, and looked asif he wished me at the Antipodes. Dalrymple was really glad to see me. 

"I have been expecting you, Arbuthnot, " said he, "for the last week. Ifyou had not soon beaten up my quarters, I should have tried, somehow, tofind out yours. What have you been about all this time? Where are youlocated? What mischief have you been perpetrating since our expeditionto the _guingette_ on the river? Come, you have a thousand thingsto tell me!"

M. De Simoncourt looked at his watch--a magnificent affair, decoratedwith a costly chain, and a profusion of pendant trifles--and threw thelast-half of his cigar into the fireplace. 

"You must excuse me, _mon cher_" said he. "I have at least a dozen callsto make before dinner. "

Dalrymple rose, readily enough, and took a roll of bank-notes from thecash-box. 

"If you are going, " he said, "I may as well hand over the price of thatTilbury. When will they send it home?"

"To-morrow, undoubtedly. "

"And I am to pay fifteen hundred franks for it!"

"Just half its value!" observed M. De Simoncourt, with a shrug of hisshoulders. 

Dalrymple smiled, counted the notes, and handed them to his friend. 

"Fifteen hundred may be half its cost, " said he; "but I doubt if I ampaying much less than its full value. Just see that these are right. "

M. De Simoncourt ruffled the papers daintily over, and consigned them tohis pocket-book. As he did so, I could not help observing the whitenessof his hands and the sparkle of a huge brilliant on his little finger. He was a pale, slender, olive-hued man, with very dark eyes, andglittering teeth, and a black moustache inclining superciliously upwardsat each corner; somewhat too _nonchalant_, perhaps, in his manner, andsomewhat too profuse in the article of jewellery; but a very elegantgentleman, nevertheless. 

"_Bon_!" said he. "I am glad you have bought it. I would have taken itmyself, had the thing happened a week or two earlier. Poor Duchesne! Tothink that he should have come to this, after all!"

"I am sorry for him, " said Dalrymple; "but it is a case of wilful ruin. He made up his mind to go to the devil, and went accordingly. I am onlysurprised that the crash came no sooner. "

M. De Simoneourt twitched at the supercilious moustache. 

"And you think you would not care to take the black mare with theTilbury?" said he, negligently. 

"No--I have a capital horse, already. "

"Hah I--well--'tis almost a pity. The mare is a dead bargain. Shouldn'twonder if I buy her, after all. "

"And yet you don't want her, " said Dalrymple. 

"Quite true; but one must have a favorite sin, and horseflesh is mine. Ishall ruin myself by it some day--_mort de ma vie!_ By the way, have youseen my chestnut in harness? No? Then you will be really pleased. Goesdelightfully with the gray, and manages tandem to perfection. _Parbleu!_I was forgetting--do we meet to-night?"

"Where?"

"At Chardonnier's. "

Dalrymple shook his head, and turned the key in his cash box. 

"Not this evening, " he replied. I have other engagements. "

"Bah! and I promised to go, believing you were sure to be of the party. St. Pol, I know, will be there, and De Brézy also. "

"Chardonnier's parties are charming things in their way, " saidDalrymple, somewhat coldly, "and no man enjoys Burgundy and lansquenetmore heartily than myself; but one might grow to care for nothing else, and I have no desire to fall into worse habits than those I havecontracted already. "

M. De Simoneourt laughed a dry, short laugh, and twitched again at thesupercilious moustache. 

"I had no idea you were a philosopher, " said he. 

"Nor am I. I am a _mauvais sujet_--_mauvais_ enough, already, withoutseeking to become worse. "

"Well, adieu--I will see to this affair of the Tilbury, and desire themto let you have it by noon to-morrow. "

"A thousand thanks. I am ashamed that you have so much trouble in thematter. _Au revoir_. "

"_Au revoir_. "

Whereupon M. De Simoncourt honored me with a passing bow, and took hisdeparture. Being near the window, I saw him spring into an elegantcabriolet, and drive off with the showiest of high horses and thetiniest of tigers. 

He was no sooner gone than Dalrymple took me by the shoulders, placed mein an easy chair, poured out a couple of glasses of hock, and said:--

"Now, then, my young friend, your news or your life! Out with it, everyword, as you hope to be forgiven!"

I had but little to tell, and for that little, found myself, as I hadanticipated, heartily laughed at. My adventure at the restaurant, myunlucky meeting with Dr. Chéron, and the history of my interview withhim next morning, delighted Dalrymple beyond measure. 

Nothing would satisfy him, after this, but to call me Damon, to tease mecontinually about Doctor Pythias, and to remind me at every turn of thedesirableness of Arcadian friendships. 

"And so, Damon, " said he, "you go nowhere, see nothing, and know nobody. This sort of life will never do for you! I must take you out--introduceyou--get you an _entrée_ into society, before I leave Paris. "

"I should be heartily glad to visit at one or two private houses, " Ireplied. "To spend the winter in this place without knowing a soul, would be something frightful. "

Dalrymple looked at me half laughingly, half compassionately. 

"Before I do it, however, " said he, "you must look a little less like asavage, and more like a tame Christian. You must have your hair cut, andlearn to tie your cravat properly. Do you possess an evening suit?"

Blushing to the tips of my ears, I not only confessed that I wasdestitute of that desirable outfit, but also that I had never yet in allmy life had occasion to wear it. 

"I am glad of it; for now you are sure to be well fitted. Your tailor, depend on it, is your great civilizer, and a well-made suit of clothesis in itself a liberal education. I'll take you to Michaud--my ownespecial purveyor. He is a great artist. With so many yards of superfineblack cloth, he will give you the tone of good society and the exteriorof a gentleman. In short, he will do for you in eight or ten hours morethan I could do in as many years. "

"Pray introduce me at once to this illustrious man, " I exclaimedlaughingly, "and let me do him homage!"

"You will have to pay heavily for the honor, " said Dalrymple. "Of that Igive you notice. "

"No matter. I am willing to pay heavily for the tone of good society andthe exterior of a gentleman. "

"Very good. Take a book, then, or a cigar, and amuse yourself for fiveminutes while I write a note. That done, you may command me for as longas you please. "

I took the first book that came, and finding it to be a history of thehorse, amused myself, instead, by observing the aspect of Dalrymple'sapartment. 

Rooms are eloquent biographies. They betray at once if the owner becareless or orderly, studious or idle, vulgar or refined. Flowers on thetable, engravings on the walls, indicate refinement and taste; while awell-filled book-case says more in favor of its possessor than the mostelaborate letter of recommendation. Dalrymple's room was a monograph ofhimself. Careless, luxurious, disorderly, crammed with all sorts ofcostly things, and characterized by a sort of reckless elegance, itexpressed, as I interpreted it, the very history of the man. Richhangings; luxurious carpets; walls covered with paintings; cabinets ofbronze and rare porcelain; a statuette of Rachel beside a bust of Homer;a book-case full of French novels with a sprinkling of Shakespeare andHorace; a stand of foreign arms; a lamp from Pompeii; a silver casketfull of cigars; tables piled up with newspapers, letters, pipes, riding-whips, faded bouquets, and all kinds of miscellaneousrubbish--such were my friend's surroundings; and such, had I speculatedupon them beforehand, I should have expected to find them. Dalrymple, inthe meanwhile, despatched his letter with characteristic rapidity. Hispen rushed over the paper like a dragoon charge, nor was once laid asidetill both letter and address were finished. Just as he was sealing it, anote was brought to him by his servant--a slender, narrow, perfumednote, written on creamy paper, and adorned on the envelope with anelaborate cypher in gold and colors. Had I lived in the world of societyfor the last hundred seasons, I could not have interpreted theappearance of that note more sagaciously. 

"It is from a lady, " said I to myself. Then seeing Dalrymple tear up hisown letter immediately after reading it, and begin another, I added, still in my own mind--"And it is from the lady to whom he was writing. "

Presently he paused, laid his pen aside, and said:--

"Arbuthnot, would you like to go with me to-morrow evening to one or two_soirées_?"

"Can your Civilizer provide me with my evening suit in time?"

"He? The great Michaud? Why, he would equip you for this evening, if itwere necessary!"

"In that case, I shall be very glad. "

"_Bon!_ I will call for you at ten o'clock; so do not forget to leave meyour address. "

Whereupon he resumed his letter. When it was written, he returned to thesubject. 

"Then I will take you to-morrow night, " said he, "to a reception atMadame Rachel's. Hers is the most beautiful house in Paris. I know fiftymen who would give their ears to be admitted to her _salons_. "

Even in the wilds of Saxonholme I had heard and read of the great_tragedienne_ whose wealth vied with the Rothschilds, and whosediamonds might have graced a crown. I had looked forward to theprobability of beholding her from afar off, if she was ever to be seenon the boards of the Theatre Français; but to be admitted to herpresence--received in her house--introduced to her in person . . . Itseemed ever so much too good to be true!

Dalrymple smiled good-naturedly, and put my thanks aside. 

"It is a great sight, " said he, "and nothing more. She will bow toyou--she may not even speak; and she would pass you the next morningwithout remembering that she had ever seen you in her life. Actressesare a race apart, my dear fellow, and care for no one who is neitherrich nor famous. "

"I never imagined, " said I, half annoyed, "that she would take anynotice of me at all. Even a bow from such a woman is an event to beremembered. "

"Having received that bow, then, " continued Dalrymple, "and havingenjoyed the ineffable satisfaction of returning it, you can go on withme to the house of a lady close by, who receives every Monday evening. At her _soirées_ you will meet pleasant and refined people, and havingbeen once introduced by me, you will, I have no doubt, find the houseopen to you for the future. "

"That would, indeed, be a privilege. Who is this lady?"

"Her name, " said Dalrymple, with an involuntary glance at the littlenote upon his desk, "is Madame de Courcelles. She is a very charming andaccomplished lady. "

I decided in my own mind that Madame de Courcelles was the writer ofthat note. 

"Is she married?" was my next question. 

"She is a widow, " replied Dalrymple. "Monsieur de Courcelles was manyyears older than his wife, and held office as a cabinet minister duringthe greater part of the reign of Louis Phillippe. He has been dead thesefour or five years. "

"Then she is rich?"

"No--not rich; but sufficiently independent. "

"And handsome?"

"Not handsome, either; but graceful, and very fascinating. "

Graceful, fascinating, independent, and a widow! Coupling these factswith the correspondence which I believed I had detected, I grouped theminto a little romance, and laid out my friend's future career asconfidently as if it had depended only on myself to marry him out ofhand, and make all parties happy. 

Dalrymple sat musing for a moment, with his chin resting on his handsand his eyes fixed on the desk. Then shaking back his hair as if hewould shake back his thoughts with it, he started suddenly to his feetand said, laughingly:--

"Now, young Damon, to Michaud's--to Michaud's, with what speed we may!Farewell to 'Tempe and the vales of Arcady, ' and hey for civilization, and a swallow-tailed coat!"

I noticed, however, that before we left the room, he put the little notetenderly away in a drawer of his desk, and locked it with a tiny goldkey that hung upon his watch-chain. 

CHAPTER XIII. 

I MAKE MY DEBUT IN SOCIETY. 

At ten o'clock on Monday evening, Dalrymple called for me, and by teno'clock, thanks to the great Michaud and other men of genius, Ipresented a faultless exterior. My friend walked round me with a candle, and then sat down and examined me critically. 

"By Jove!" said he, "I don't believe I should have known you! You are aliving testimony to the science of tailoring. I shall call on Michaud, to-morrow, and pay my tribute of admiration. "

"I am very uncomfortable, " said I, ruefully. 

"Uncomfortable! nonsense--Michaud's customers don't know the meaning ofthe word. "

"But he has not made me a single pocket!"

"And what of that? Do you suppose the great Michaud would spoil the fitof a masterpiece for your convenience?"

"What am I to do with my pocket-handkerchief?"

"Michaud's customers never need pocket-handkerchiefs. "

"And then my trousers. . . "

"Unreasonable Juvenile, what of the trousers?"

"They are so tight that I dare not sit down in them. "

"Barbarian! Michaud's customers never sit down in society. "

"And my boots are so small that I can hardly endure them. "

"Very becoming to the foot, " said Dalyrmple, with exasperatingindifference. 

"And my collar is so stiff that it almost cuts my throat. "

"Makes you hold your head up, " said Dalrymple, "and leaves you noinducement to commit suicide. "

I could not help laughing, despite my discomfort. 

"Job himself never had such a comforter!" I exclaimed. 

"It would be a downright pleasure to quarrel with you. "

"Put on your hat instead, and let us delay no longer, " replied myfriend. "My cab is waiting. "

So we went down, and in another moment were driving through the lightedstreets. I should hardly have chosen to confess how my heart beat when, on turning an angle of the Rue Trudon, our cab fell into the rear ofthree or four other carriages, passed into a courtyard crowded witharriving and departing vehicles, and drew up before an open door, whencea broad stream of light flowed out to meet us. A couple of footmenreceived us in a hall lighted by torches and decorated with stands ofantique armor. From the centre of this hall sprang a Gothic staircase, so light, so richly sculptured, so full of niches and statues, slendercolumns, foliated capitals, and delicate ornamentation of every kind, that it looked a very blossoming of the stone. Following Dalrymple upthis superb staircase and through a vestibule of carved oak, I nextfound myself in a room that might have been the scene of Plato'ssymposium. Here were walls painted in classic fresco; windows curtainedwith draperies of chocolate and amber; chairs and couches of ebony, carved in antique fashion; Etruscan amphorae; vases and paterae ofterracotta; exquisite lamps, statuettes and candelabra in rare greenbronze; and curious parti-colored busts of philosophers and heroes, inall kinds of variegated marbles. Powdered footmen serving modern coffeeseemed here like anachronisms in livery. In such a room one should havebeen waited on by boys crowned with roses, and have partaken only ofclassic dishes--of Venafran olives or oysters from the Lucrine lake, washed down with Massic, or Chian, or honeyed Falernian. 

Some half-dozen gentlemen, chatting over their coffee, bowed toDalrymple when we came in. They were talking of the war in Algiers, andespecially of the gallantry of a certain Vicomte de Caylus, in whosedeeds they seemed to take a more than ordinary interest. 

"Rode single-handed right through the enemy's camp, " said a bronzed, elderly man, with a short, gray beard. 

"And escaped without a scratch, " added another, with a tiny red ribbonat his button-hole. 

"He comes of a gallant stock, " said a third. "I remember his father atAusterlitz--literally cut to pieces at the head of his squadron. "

"You are speaking of de Caylus, " said Dalrymple. "What news of him fromAlgiers?"

"This--that having volunteered to carry some important despatches tohead-quarters, he preferred riding by night through Abd-el-Kader's camp, to taking a _détour_ by the mountains, " replied the first speaker. 

"A wild piece of boyish daring, " said Dalrymple, somewhat drily. "Ipresume he did not return by the same road?"

"I should think not. It would have been certain death a second time!"

"And this happened how long since?"

"About a fortnight ago. But we shall soon know all particulars fromhimself. "

"From himself?"

"Yes, he has obtained leave of absence--is, perhaps, by this time inParis. "

Dalrymple set down his cup untasted, and turned away. 

"Come, Arbuthnot, " he said, hastily, "I must introduce you to MadameRachel. "

We passed through a small antechamber, and into a brilliant _salon_, thevery reverse of antique. Here all was light and color. Here werehangings of flowered chintz; fantastic divans; lounge-chairs of everyconceivable shape and hue; great Indian jars; richly framed drawings;stands of exotic plants; Chinese cages, filled with valuable birds fromdistant climes; folios of engravings; and, above all, a large cabinet inmarqueterie, crowded with bronzes, Chinese carvings, pastille burners, fans, medals, Dresden groups, Sévres vases, Venetian glass, Asiaticidols, and all kinds of precious trifles in tortoise-shall, mothero'-pearl, malachite, onyx, lapis lazuli, jasper, ivory, and mosaic. Inthis room, sitting, standing, turning over engravings, or grouped hereand there on sofas and divans, were some twenty-five or thirtygentlemen, all busily engaged in conversation. Saluting some of these bya passing bow, my friend led the way straight through this _salon_ andinto a larger one immediately beyond it. 

"This, " he said, "is one of the most beautiful rooms in Paris. Lookround and tell me if you recognise, among all her votaries, thedivinity herself. "

I looked round, bewildered. 

"Recognise!" I echoed. "I should not recognise my own father at thismoment. I feel like Abou Hassan in the palace of the Caliph. "

"Or like Christopher Sly, when he wakes in the nobleman's bedchamber, "said Dalrymple; "though I should ask your pardon for the comparison. Butsee what it is to be an actress with forty-two thousand francs of salaryper week. See these panels painted by Muller--this chandelier byDeniére, of which no copy exists--this bust of Napoleon by Canova--thesehangings of purple and gold--this ceiling all carved and gilded, thanwhich Versailles contains nothing more elaborate. _Allons donc_! haveyou nothing to say in admiration of so much splendor?"

I shook my head. 

"What can I say? Is this the house of an actress, or the palace of aprince? But stay--that pale woman yonder, all in white, with a plaingold circlet on her head--who is she?"

"Phédre herself, " replied Dalrymple. "Follow me, and be introduced. "

She was sitting in a large fauteuil of purple velvet. One foot rested ona stool richly carved and gilt; one arm rested negligently on a tablecovered with curious foreign weapons. In her right hand she held asingular poignard, the blade of which was damascened with gold, whilethe handle, made of bronze and exquisitely modelled, represented a tinyhuman skeleton. With this ghastly toy she kept playing as she spoke, apparently unconscious of its grim significance. She was surrounded bysome ten or a dozen distinguished-looking men, most of whom wereprofusely _décoré_. They made way courteously at our approach. Dalrymplethen presented me. I made my bow, was graciously received, and droppedmodestly into the rear. 

"I began to think that Captain Dalrymple had forsworn Paris, " saidRachel, still toying with the skeleton dagger. "It is surely a yearsince I last had this pleasure?"

"Nay, Madame, you flatter me, " said Dalrymple. "I have been absent onlyfive months. "

"Then, you see, I have measured your absence by my loss. "

Dalrymple bowed profoundly. 

Rachel turned to a young man behind her chair. 

"Monsieur le Prince, " said she, "do you know what is rumored in the_foyer_ of the Francais? That you have offered me your hand!"

"I offer you both my hands, in applause, Madame, every night of yourperformance, " replied the gentleman so addressed. 

She smiled and made a feint at him with the dagger. 

"Excellent!" said she. "One is not enough for a tragedian But where isAlphonse Karr?"

"I have been looking for him all the evening, " said a tall man, with aniron-gray beard. "He told me he was coming; but authors are capriciousbeings--the slaves of the pen. "

"True; he lives by his pen--others die by it, " said Rachel bitterly. "Bythe way, has any one seen Scribe's new Vaudeville?"

"I have, " replied a bald little gentleman with a red and green ribbon inhis button-hole. 

"And your verdict?"

"The plot is not ill-conceived; but Scribe is only godfather to thepiece. It is almost entirely written by Duverger, his _collaborateur_. "

"The life of a _collaborateur_, " said Rachel, "is one long act ofself-abnegation. Another takes all the honor--he all the labor. Thussoldiers fall, and their generals reap the glory. "

"A _collaborateur_, " said a cynical-looking man who had not yet spoken, "is a hackney vehicle which one hires on the road to fame, and dismissesat the end of the journey. "

"Sometimes without paying the fare, " added a gentleman who had till nowbeen examining, weapon by weapon, all the curious poignards and pistolson the table. "But what is this singular ornament?"

And he held up what appeared to be a large bone, perforated in severalplaces. 

The bald little man with the red and green ribbon uttered an exclamationof surprise. 

"It is a tibia!" said he, examining it through his double eye-glass. 

"And what of that?" laughed Rachel. "Is it so wonderful to find one legin a collection of arms? However, not to puzzle you, I may as wellacknowledge that it was brought to me from Rome by a learned Italian, and is a curious antique. The Romans made flutes of the leg-bones oftheir enemies, and this is one of them. "

"A melodious barbarism!" exclaimed one. 

"Puts a 'stop, ' at all events, to the enemy's flight!" said another. 

"Almost as good as drinking out of his skull, " added a third. 

"Or as eating him, _tout de bon_, " said Rachel. 

"There must be a certain satisfaction in cannibalism, " observed thecynic who had spoken before. "There are people upon whom one would supwillingly. "

"As, for instance, critics, who are our natural enemies, " said Rachel. "_C'est à dire_, if critics were not too sour to be eaten. "

"Nay, with the sweet sauce of vengeance!"

"You speak feelingly, Monsieur de Musset. I am almost sorry, for yoursake, that cannibalism is out of fashion!"

"It is one of the penalties of civilization, " replied de Musset, with ashrug. "Besides, one would not wish to be an epicure. "

Dalrymple, who had been listening somewhat disdainfully to this skirmishof words, here touched me on the arm and turned away. 

"Don't you hate this sort of high-pressure talk?" he said, impatiently. 

"I was just thinking it so brilliant. "

"Pshaw!--conversational fireworks--every speaker bent on eclipsing everyother speaker. It's an artificial atmosphere, my dear Damon--a sort offorcing-house for good things; and I hate forced witticisms, as I hateforced peas. But have you had enough of it? Or has this feast of reasontaken away your appetite for simpler fare?"

"If you mean, am I ready to go with you to Madame de Courcelles'--yes. "

"_A la bonne heure_!"

"But you are not going away without taking leave of Madame Rachel?"

"Unquestionably. Leave-taking is a custom more honored in the breachthan the observance. "

"But isn't that very impolite?"

"_Ingénu!_ Do you know that society ignores everything disagreeable? Aleave-taker sets an unpleasant example, disturbs the harmony of things, and reminds others of their watches. Besides, he suggests unwelcomepossibilities. Perhaps he finds the party dull; or, worse still, he maybe going to one that is pleasanter. "

By this time we were again rattling along the Boulevard. The theatreswere ablaze with lights. The road was full of carriages. The _trottoir_was almost as populous as at noon. The idlers outside the _cafés_ werestill eating their ices and sipping their _eau-sucré_ as though, insteadof being past eleven at night, it was scarcely eleven in the morning. Ina few minutes, we had once more turned aside out of the greatthoroughfare, and stopped at a private house in a quiet street. Acarriage driving off, a cab drawing up behind our own, open windows withdrawn blinds, upon which were profiled passing shadows of the guestswithin, and the ringing tones of a soprano voice, accompanied by apiano, gave sufficient indication of a party, and had served to attracta little crowd of soldiers and _gamins_ about the doorway. 

Having left our over-coats with a servant, we were ushered upstairs, and, as the song was not yet ended, slipped in unannounced and stationedourselves just between two crowded drawing-rooms, where, sheltered bythe folds of a muslin curtain, we could see all that was going on inboth. I observed, at a glance, that I was now in a society altogetherunlike that which I had just left. 

At Rachel's there were present only two ladies besides herself, andthose were members of her own family. Here I found at least an equalproportion of both sexes. At Rachel's a princely magnificence reigned. Here the rooms were elegant, but simple; the paintings choice but few;the ornaments costly, but in no unnecessary profusion. 

"It is just the difference between taste and display, " said Dalrymple. "Rachel is an actress, and Madame de Courcelles is a lady. Rachelexhibits her riches as an Indian chief exhibits the scalps of hisvictims--Madame de Courcelles adorns her house with no other view thanto make it attractive to her friends. "

"As a Greek girl covers her head with sequins to show the amount of herfortune, and an English girl puts a rose in her hair for grace andbeauty only, " said I, fancying that I had made rather a cleverobservation. I was therefore considerably disappointed when Dalrymplemerely said, "just so. "

The lady in the larger room here finished her song and returned to herseat, amid a shower of _bravas_. 

"She sings exquisitely, " said I, following her with my eyes. 

"And so she ought, " replied my friend. "She is the Countess Rossi, whomyou may have heard of as Mademoiselle Sontag. "

"What! the celebrated Sontag?" I exclaimed. 

"The same. And the gentleman to whom she is now speaking is no lessfamous a person than the author of _Pelham_. "

I was as much delighted as a rustic at a menagerie, and Dalrymple, seeing this, continued to point out one celebrity after another till Ibegan no longer to remember which was which. Thus Lamartine, HoraceVernet, Scribe, Baron Humboldt, Miss Bremer, Arago, Auber, and Sir EdwinLandseer, were successively indicated, and I thought myself one of themost fortunate fellows in Paris, only to be allowed to look upon them. 

"I suppose the spirit of lion-hunting is an original instinct, " I said, presently. "Call it vulgar excitement, if you will; but I must confessthat to see these people, and to be able to write about them to myfather, is just the most delightful thing that has happened to me sinceI left home. "

"Call things by their right names, Damon, " said Dalrymple, good-naturedly. "If you were a _parvenu_ giving a party, and wanted allthese fine folks to be seen at your house, that would be lion-hunting;but being whom and what you are, it is hero-worship--a disease peculiarto the young; wholesome and inevitable, like the measles. "

"What have I done, " said a charming voice close by, "that CaptainDalrymple will not even deign to look upon me?"

The charming voice proceeded from the still more charming lips of anexceedingly pretty brunette in a dress of light green silk, fastenedhere and there with bouquets of rosebuds. Plump, rosy, black-haired, bright-eyed, bewilderingly coquettish, this lady might have been aboutthirty years of age, and seemed by no means unconscious of her powers offascination. 

"I implore a thousand pardons, Madame. . . . " began my friend. 

"_Comment_! A thousand pardons for a single offence!" exclaimed thelady. "What an unreasonable culprit!"

To which she added, quite audibly, though behind the temporary shelterof her fan:--

"Who is this _beau garçon_ whom you seem to have brought with you?"

I turned aside, affecting not to hear the question; but could not helplistening, nevertheless. Of Dalrymple's reply, however, I caught butmy own name. 

"So much the better, " observed the lady. "I delight in civilizinghandsome boys. Introduce him. "

Dalrymple tapped me on the arm. 

"Madame de Marignan permits me to introduce you, _mon ami_, " said he. "Mr. Basil Arbuthnot--Madame de Marignan. "

I bowed profoundly--all the more profoundly because I felt myselfblushing to the eyes, and would not for the universe have been suspectedof overhearing the preceding conversation; nor was my timidityalleviated when Dalrymple announced his intention of going in search ofMadame de Courcelles, and of leaving me in the care of Madamede Marignan. 

"Now, Damon, make the most of your opportunities, " whispered he, as hepassed by. "_Vogue la galère_!"

_Vogue la galère_, indeed! As if I had anything to do with the _galère_, except to sit down in it, the most helpless of galley-slaves, andblindly submit to the gyves and chains of Madame de Marignan, who, regarding me as the lawful captive of her bow and spear, carried me offat once to a vacant _causeuse_ in a distant corner. 

To send me in search of a footstool, to make me hold her fan, tooverwhelm me with questions and bewilder me with a thousand coquetries, were the immediate proceedings of Madame de Marignan. A consummatetactician, she succeeded, before a quarter of an hour had gone by, inputting me at my ease, and in drawing from me everything that I had totell--all my past; all my prospects for the future; the name andcondition of my father; a description of Saxonholme, and the very dateof my birth. Then she criticized all the ladies in the room, which onlydrew my attention more admiringly upon herself; and she quizzed all theyoung men, whereby I felt indirectly flattered, without exactly knowingwhy; and she praised Dalrymple in terms for which I could have embracedher on the spot had she been ten times less pretty, and ten times lessfascinating. 

I was an easy victim, after all, and scarcely worth the powder and shotof an experienced _franc-tireur;_ but Madame de Marignan, according toher own confession, had a taste for civilizing "handsome boys, " and as Imay, perhaps, have come under that category a good many years ago, thelittle victory amused her! By the time, at all events, that Dalrymplereturned to tell me it was past one o'clock in the morning, and I mustbe introduced to the mistress of the house before leaving, my head wasas completely turned as that of old Time himself. 

"Past one!" I exclaimed. "Impossible! We cannot have been here half-anhour. "

At which neither Dalrymple nor Madame de Marignan could forbear smiling. 

"I hope our acquaintance is not to end here, monsieur, " said Madame deMarignan. "I live in the Rue Castellane, and am at home to my friendsevery Wednesday evening. "

I bowed almost to my boots. 

"And to my intimates, every morning from twelve to two, " she added verysoftly, with a dimpled smile that went straight to my heart, and set itbeating like the paddle-wheels of a steamer. 

I stammered some incoherent thanks, bowed again, nearly upset a servantwith a tray of ices, and, covered with confusion, followed Dalrympleinto the farther room. Here I was introduced to Madame de Courcelles, apale, aristocratic woman some few years younger than Madame de Marignan, and received a gracious invitation to all her Monday receptions. But Iwas much less interested in Madame de Courcelles than I should have beena couple of hours before. I scarcely looked at her, and five minutesafter I was out of her presence, could not have told whether she wasfair or dark, if my life had depended on it!

"What say you to walking home?" said Dalrymple, as we went down stairs. "It is a superb night, and the fresh air would be delightful after thesehot rooms. "

I assented gladly; so we dismissed the cab, and went out, arm-in-arm, along a labyrinth of quiet streets lighted by gas-lamps few and farbetween, and traversed only by a few homeward-bound pedestrians. Emerging presently at the back of the Madeleine, we paused for a momentto admire the noble building by moonlight; then struck across the Marchéaux Fleurs and took our way along the Boulevard. 

"Are you tired, Damon?" said Dalrymple presently. 

"Not in the least, " I replied, with my head full of Madame de Marignan. 

"Would you like to look in at an artists' club close by here, where Ihave the _entree?_--queer place enough, but amusing to a stranger. "

"Yes, very much. "

"Come along, then; but first button up your overcoat to the throat, andtie this colored scarf round your neck. See, I do the same. Now take offyour gloves--that's it. And give your hat the least possible inclinationto the left ear. You may turn up the bottoms of your trousers, if youlike--anything to look a little slangy. "

"Is that necessary?"

"Indispensable--at all events in the honorable society of _LesChicards. "_

"_Les Chicards_!" I repeated. "What are they?"

"It is the name of the club, and means--Heaven only knows what! forGreek or Latin root it has none, and record of it there exists not, unless in the dictionary of Argôt. And yet if you were an old Parisianand had matriculated for the last dozen years at the Bal de l'Opéra, youwould know the illustrious Chicard by sight as familiarly as Punch, orPaul Pry, or Pierrot. He is a gravely comic personage with a bandageover one eye, a battered hat considerably inclining to the back of hishead, a coat with a high collar and long tails, and a _tout ensemble_indescribably seedy--something between a street preacher and atravelling showman. But here we are. Take care how you come down, andmind your head. "

Having turned aside some few minutes before into the Rue St. Honoré, wehad thence diverged down a narrow street with a gutter running along themiddle and no foot-pavements on either side. The houses seemed to benearly all shops, some few of which, for the retailing of_charbonnerie_, stale vegetables, uninviting cooked meats, and so forth, were still open; but that before which we halted was closely shutteredup, with only a private door open at the side, lighted by a singleoil-lamp. Following my friend for a couple of yards along the dimpassage within, I became aware of strange sounds, proceeding apparentlyfrom the bowels of the earth, and found myself at the head of a steepstaircase, down which it was necessary to proceed with my body bentalmost double, in consequence of the close proximity of the ceiling andthe steps. At the foot of this staircase came another dim passage andanother oil-lamp over a low door, at which Dalrymple paused a momentbefore entering. The sounds which I had heard above now resolvedthemselves into their component parts, consisting of roars of laughter, snatches of songs, clinkings of glasses, and thumpings of bottles upontables, to the accompaniment of a deep bass hum of conversation, all ofwhich prepared me to find a very merry company within. 

CHAPTER XIV. 

THE HONORABLE SOCIETY OF LES CHICARDS. 

 "When a set of men find themselves agree in any particular, though never so trivial, they establish themselves into a kind of fraternity, and meet once or twice a week. "--_Spectator_. 

It was a long, low room lighted by gas, with a table reaching from endto end. Round about this table, in various stages of conviviality andconversation, were seated some thirty or forty men, capped, bearded, andeccentric-looking, with all kinds of queer blouses and wonderful headsof hair. Dropping into a couple of vacant chairs at the lower end ofthis table, we called for a bottle of Chablis, lit our cigars, and fellin with the general business of the evening. At the top, dimly visiblethrough a dense fog of tobacco smoke, sat a stout man in a green coatfastened by a belt round the waist. He was evidently the President, and, instead of a hammer, had a small bugle lying by his side, which he blewfrom time to time to enforce silence. 

Somewhat perplexed by the general aspect of the club, I turned to mycompanion for an explanation. 

"Is it possible, " I asked, "that these amazing individuals are allartists and gentlemen?"

"Artists, every one, " replied Dalrymple; "but as to their claim to begentlemen, I won't undertake to establish it. After all, the _Chicards_are not first-rate men. "

"What are they, then?"

"Oh, the Helots of the profession--hewers of wood engravings, anddrawers of water-colors, with a sprinkling of daguerreotypists, andacademy students. But hush--somebody is going to sing!"

And now, heralded by a convulsive flourish from the President's bugle, ayoung _Chicard_, whose dilapidated outer man sufficiently contradictedthe burthen of his song, shouted with better will than skill, a_chanson_ of Beranger's, every verse of which ended with:--

 "J'ai cinquante écus, J'ai cinquante écus, J'ai cinquante écus de rente!"

Having brought this performance to a satisfactory conclusion, the singersat down amid great clapping of hands and clattering of glasses, and thePresident, with another flourish on the bugle, called upon one MonsieurTourterelle. Monsieur Tourterelle was a tall, gaunt, swarthy personage, who appeared to have cultivated his beard at the expense of his head, since the former reached nearly to his waist, while the latter was asbare as a billiard-ball. Preparing himself for the effort with awine-glass full of raw cognac, this gentleman leaned back in his chair, stuck his thumbs into the armholes of his waistcoat, fixed his eyes onthe ceiling, and plunged at once into a doleful ballad about oneMademoiselle Rosine, and a certain village _auprès de la mer_, whichseemed to be in an indefinite number of verses, and amused no one buthimself. In the midst of this ditty, just as the audience had begun totestify their impatience by much whispering and shuffling of feet, anelderly _Chicard_, with a very bald and shiny head, was discovered tohave fallen asleep in the seat next but one to my own; whereupon mynearest neighbor, a merry-looking young fellow with a profusion of roughlight hair surmounted by a cap of scarlet cloth, forthwith charred acork in one of the candles, and decorated the bald head of the sleeperwith a comic countenance and a pair of huge mustachios. An uproariousburst of laughter was the immediate result, and the singer, interruptedsomewhere about his 18th verse, subsided into offended silence. 

"Monsieur Müller is requested to favor the honorable society with asong, " cried the President, as soon as the tumult had somewhat subsided. 

My red-capped neighbor, answering to that name, begged to be excused, onthe score of having pledged his _ut de poitrine_ a week since at theMont de Piété, without yet having been able to redeem it. This apologywas received with laughter, hisses, and general incredulity. 

"But, " he added, "I am willing to relate an adventure that happened tomyself in Rome two winters ago, if my honorable brother _Chicards_ willbe pleased to hear it. "

An immense burst of approbation from all but Monsieur Tourterelle andthe bald sleeper, followed this announcement; and so, after apreliminary _grog au vin_, and another explosive demonstration on thepart of the chairman, Monsieur Müller thus began:--

THE STUDENT'S STORY. 

"When I was in Rome, I lodged in the Via Margutta, which, for thebenefit of those who have not been there, may be described as a streetof studios and stables, crossed at one end by a little roofed gallerywith a single window, like a shabby 'Bridge of Sighs, ' A gutter runsdown the middle, interrupted occasionally by heaps of stable-litter; andthe perspective is damaged by rows of linen suspended across the streetat uncertain intervals. The houses in this agreeable thoroughfare aredingy, dilapidated, and comfortless, and all which are not in use asstables, are occupied by artists. However, it was a very jolly place, and I never was happier anywhere in my life. I had but just touched mylittle patrimony, and I was acquainted with plenty of pleasant fellowswho used to come down to my rooms at night from the French Academy wherethey had been studying all day. Ah, what evenings those were! Whatsuppers we used to have in from the _Lepre_! What lots of Orvieto wedrank! And what a mountain of empty wicker bottles had to be clearedaway from the little square yard with the solitary lemon-tree at theback of the house!"

"Come, Müller--no fond memories!" cried a student in a holland blouse. "Get on with the story. "

"Ay, get on with the story!" echoed several voices. 

To which Müller, who took advantage of the interruption to finish his_grog au vin_, deigned no reply. 

"Well, " he continued, "like a good many other fellows who, havingeverything to learn and nothing to do, fancy themselves great geniusesonly because they are in Rome, I put a grand brass plate on the door, testifying to all passers-by that mine was the STUDIO DI HERR FRANZMULLER; and, having done this, I believed, of course, that my fortunewas to be made out of hand. Nothing came of it, however. People insearch of Dessoulavy's rooms knocked occasionally to ask their way, anda few English and Americans dropped in from time to time to stare aboutthem, after the free-and-easy fashion of foreigners in Rome; but, forall this, I found no patrons. Thus several months went by, during whichI studied from the life, worked hard at the antique, and relieved themonotony of study with occasional trips to Frascati, or supper partiesat the Café Greco. "

"The story! the story!" interrupted a dozen impatient voices. 

"All in good time, " said Müller, with provoking indifference. "We arenow coming to it. "

And assuming an attitude expressive of mystery, he dropped his voice, looked round the table, and proceeded:--

"It was on the last evening of the Carnival. It had been raining atintervals during the day, but held up for a good hour just at dusk, asif on purpose for the _moccoli_. Scarcely, however, had the guns of St. Angelo thundered an end to the frolic, when the rain came down again intorrents, and put out the last tapers that yet lingered along the Corso. Wet, weary, and splashed from head to foot with mud and tallow, I camehome about seven o'clock, having to dine and dress before going to amasked-ball in the evening. To light my stove, change my wet clothes, and make the best of a half-cold _trattore_ dinner, were my firstproceedings; after which, I laid out my costume ready to put on, wrappedmyself in a huge cloak, swallowed a tumbler full of hot cognac andwater, and lay down in front of the fire, determined to have a sound napand a thorough warming, before venturing out again that night. I fellasleep, of course, and never woke till roused by a tremendous peal uponthe studio-bell, about two hours and a half afterwards. More dead thanalive, I started to my feet. The fire had gone out in the stove; theroom was in utter darkness; and the bell still pealed loud enough toraise the neighborhood. 

"'Who's there?' I said, half-opening the door, through which the windand rain came rushing. 'And what, in the name of ten thousand devils, doyou want?"

"'I want an artist, ' said my visitor, in Italian. 'Are you one?'

"'I flatter myself that I am, ' replied I, still holding the doortolerably close. 

"'Can you paint heads?'

"'Heads, figures, landscapes--anything, ' said I, with my teethchattering like castanets. 

"The stranger pushed the door open, walked in without further ceremony, closed it behind him, and said, in a low, distinct voice:--

"'Could you take the portrait of a dead man?'

"'Of a dead man?' I stammered. 'I--I . . . Suppose I strike a light?'

"The stranger laid his hand upon my arm. 

"'Not till you have given me an answer, ' said he. 'Yes or no? Remember, you will be paid well for your work. '

"'Well, then--yes, ' I replied. 

"'And can you do it at once?'

"'At once?'

"'Ay, Signore, will you bring your colors, and come with me thisinstant--or must I seek some other painter?'

"I thought of the masked-ball, and sighed; but the promise of goodpayment, and, above all, the peculiarity of the adventure determined me. 

"'Nay, if it is to be done, ' said I, 'one time is as good as another. Let me strike a light, and I will at once pack up my colors and comewith you. '

"'_Bene_!' said the stranger. 'But be as quick as you can, Signore, fortime presses. '

"I was quick, you may be sure, and yet not so quick but that I foundtime to look at my strange visitor. He was a dark, elderly man, dressedin a suit of plain black, and might have been a clerk, or a tradesman, or a confidential servant. As soon as I was ready, he took the lead;conducted me to a carriage which was waiting at the corner of aneighboring street; took his place respectfully on the opposite seat;pulled down both the blinds, and gave the word to drive on. I never knewby what streets we went, or to what part of Rome he took me; but the wayseemed long and intricate. At length, we stopped and alighted. The nightwas pitch-dark, and still stormy. I saw before me only the outline of alarge building, indistinct and gloomy, and a small open door dimlylighted-from within. Hurried across the strip of narrow pavement, andshut in immediately, I had no time to identify localities--no choice, except to follow my conductor and blindly pursue the adventure to itsclose. Having entered by a back door, we went up and down a labyrinth ofstaircases and passages, for the mere purpose, as it seemed, ofbewildering me as much as possible--then paused before an oaken door atthe end of the corridor. Here my conductor signified by a gesture that Iwas to precede him. 

"It was a large, panelled chamber, richly furnished. A wood firesmouldered on the hearth--a curtained alcove to the left partlyconcealed a bed--a corresponding alcove to the right, fitted with altarand crucifix, served as an oratory. In the centre of the room stood atable covered with a cloth. It needed no second glance to tell me whatobject lay beneath that cloth, uplifting it in ghastly outline! Myconductor pointed to the table, and asked if there was anything Ineeded. To this I replied that I must have more light and more fire, andso proceeded to disembarrass myself of my cloak, and prepare my palette. In the meantime, he threw on a log and some pine-cones, and went tofetch an additional lamp. 

"Left alone with the body and impelled by an irresistible impulse, Irolled back the cloth and saw before me the corpse of a young man infancy dress--a magnificent fellow cast in the very mould of strength andgrace, and measuring his six feet, if an inch. The features weresingularly handsome; the brow open and resolute; the hair dark, andcrisp with curls. Looking more closely, I saw that a lock had beenlately cut from the right temple, and found one of the severed hairsupon the cheek, where it had fallen. The dress was that of a jester ofthe middle ages, half scarlet and half white, with a rich belt round thewaist. In this belt, as if in horrible mockery of the dead, was stuck atiny baton surmounted by a fool's cap, and hung with silver bells. Looking down thus upon the body--so young, so beautiful, so evidentlyunprepared for death--a conviction of foul play flashed upon me with allthe suddenness and certainty of revelation. Here were no appearances ofdisease and no signs of strife. The expression was not that of a man whohad fallen weapon in hand. Neither, however, was it that of one who haddied in the agony of poison. The longer I looked, the more mysterious itseemed; yet the more I felt assured that there was guilt at the bottomof the mystery. 

"While I was yet under the first confused and shuddering impression ofthis doubt, my guide came back with a powerful solar lamp, and, seeingme stand beside the body, said sharply:--

"'Well, Signore, you look as if you had never seen a dead man before inall your life!'

"'I have seen plenty, ' I replied, 'but never one so young, and sohandsome. '

"'He dropped down quite suddenly, ' said he, volunteering theinformation, 'and died in a few minutes. 'Then finding that I remainedsilent, added:--

"'But I am told that it is always so in cases of heart-disease. '

"'I turned away without replying, and, having placed the lamp to mysatisfaction, began rapidly sketching in my subject. My instructionswere simple. I was to give the head only; to produce as rapid an effectwith as little labor as possible; to alter nothing; to add nothing; and, above all, to be ready to leave the house before daybreak. So I setsteadily to work, and my conductor, establishing himself in aneasy-chair by the fire, watched my progress for some time, and then, asthe night advanced, fell profoundly asleep. Thus, hour after hour wentby, and, absorbed in my work, I painted on, unconscious of fatigue--might almost say with something of a morbid pleasure in the task beforeme. The silence within; the raving of the wind and rain without; thesolemn mystery of death, and the still more solemn mystery of crimewhich, as I followed out train after train of wild conjectures, grew tostill deeper conviction, had each and all their own gloomy fascination. Was it not possible, I asked myself, by mere force of will to penetratethe secret? Was it not possible to study that dead face till the springsof thought so lately stilled within the stricken brain should vibrateonce more, if only for an instant, as wire vibrates to wire, and soundto sound! Could I not, by long studying of the passive mouth, compelsome sympathetic revelation of the last word that it uttered, thoughthat revelation took no outward form, and were communicable to theapprehension only? Pondering thus, I lost myself in a labyrinth offantastic reveries, till the hand and the brain worked independently ofeach other--the one swiftly reproducing upon canvas the outer lineamentsof the dead; the other laboring to retrace foregone facts of which nopalpable evidence remained. Thus my work progressed; thus the nightwaned; thus the sleeper by the fireside stirred from time to time, ormoaned at intervals in his dreams. 

"At length, when many hours had gone by, and I began to be conscious ofthe first languor of sleeplessness, I heard, or fancied I heard, a lightsound in the corridor without. I held my breath, and listened. As Ilistened, it ceased--was renewed--drew nearer--paused outside the door. Involuntarily, I rose and looked round for some means of defence, incase of need. Was I brought here to perpetuate the record of a crime, and was I, when my task was done, to be silenced in a dungeon, or agrave? This thought flashed upon me almost before I was conscious of thehorror it involved. At the same moment, I saw the handle of the doorturned slowly and cautiously--then held back--and then, after a briefpause, the door itself gradually opening. "

Here the student paused as if overcome by the recollection of thatmoment, and passed his hand nervously across his brow. I took theliberty of pushing our bottle of Chablis towards him, for which hethanked me with a nod and a smile, and filled his glass to the brim. 

"Well?" cried two or three voices eagerly; my own being one of them. "The door opened--what then?"

"And a lady entered, " he continued. "A lady dressed in black from headto foot, with a small lamp in her hand. Seeing me, she laid her fingersignificantly on her lip, closed the door as cautiously as she hadopened it, and, with the faltering, uncertain steps of one just risenfrom a sick-bed, came over to where I had been sitting, and leaned forsupport against my chair. She was very pale, very calm, very young andbeautiful, with just that look of passive despair in her face that onesees in Guido's portrait of Beatrice Cenci. Standing thus, I observedthat she kept her eyes turned from the corpse, and her attentionconcentrated on the portrait. So several minutes passed, and neither ofus spoke nor stirred. Then, slowly, shudderingly, she turned, grasped meby the arm, pointed to the dead form stretched upon the table, and lesswith her breath than by the motion of her lips, shaped out the oneword:--'_Murdered_!'

"Stunned by this confirmation of my doubts, I could only clasp my handsin mute horror, and stare helplessly from the lady to the corpse, fromthe corpse to the sleeper. Wildly, feverishly, with all her calmnessturned to eager haste, she then bent over the body, tore open the richdoublet, turned back the shirt, and, without uttering one syllable, pointed to a tiny puncture just above the region of the heart--a spot sosmall, so insignificant, such a mere speck upon the marble, that but forthe pale violet discoloration which spread round it like a halo, I couldscarcely have believed it to be the cause of death. The wound hadevidently bled inwardly, and, being inflicted with some singularlyslender weapon, had closed again so completely as to leave an apertureno larger than might have been caused by the prick of a needle. While Iwas yet examining it, the fire fell together, and my conductor stirreduneasily in his sleep. To cover the body hastily with the cloth andresume my seat, was, with me, the instinctive work of a moment; but hewas quiet again the next instant, and breathing heavily. With tremblinghands, my visitor next re-closed the shirt and doublet, replaced theouter covering, and bending down till her lips almost touched my ear, whispered:--

"'You have seen it. If called upon to do so, will you swear it?'

"I promised. 

"'You will not let yourself be intimidated by threats? nor bribed bygold? nor lured by promises?

"'Never, so help me Heaven!'

"She looked into my eyes, as if she would read my very soul; then, before I knew what she was about to do, seized my hand, and pressed itto her lip. 

"'I believe you, ' she said. 'I believe, and I thank you. Not a word tohim that you have seen me'--here she pointed to the sleeper by the fire. 'He is faithful; but not to my interests alone. I dare tell you nomore--at all events, not now. Heaven bless and reward you. In thisportrait you give me the only treasure--the only consolation of myfuture life!'

"So saying, she took a ring from her finger, pressed it, without anotherword, into my unwilling hand; and, with the same passive dreary lookthat her face had worn on first entering took up her lamp again, andglided from the room. 

"How the next hour, or half hour, went by, I know not--except that I satbefore the canvas like one dreaming. Now and then I added a few touches;but mechanically, and, as it were, in a trance of wonder and dismay. Ihad, however, made such good progress before being interrupted, thatwhen my companion woke and told me it would soon be day and I must makehaste to be gone, the portrait was even more finished than I had myselfhoped to make it in the time. So I packed up my colors and paletteagain, and, while I was doing so, observed that he not only drew thecloth once more over the features of the dead, but concealed thelikeness behind the altar in the oratory, and even restored the chairsto their old positions against the wall. This done, he extinguished thesolar lamp; put it out of sight; desired me once more to follow him; andled the way back along the same labyrinth of staircases and corridors bywhich he brought me. It was gray dawn as he hurried me into the coach. The blinds were already down--the door was instantly closed--again weseemed to be going through an infinite number of streets--again westopped, and I found myself at the corner of the Via Margutta. 

"'Alight, Signore, ' said the stranger, speaking for the first time sincewe started. 'Alight--you are but a few yards from your own door. Hereare a hundred scudi; and all that you have now to do, is to forget yournight's work, as if it had never been. '

"With this he closed the carriage-door, the horses dashed on again, and, before I had time even to see if any arms were blazoned on the panels, the whole equipage had disappeared. 

"And here, strange to say, the adventure ended. I never was called uponfor evidence. I never saw anything more of the stranger, or the lady. Inever heard of any sudden death, or accident, or disappearance havingtaken place about that time; and I never even obtained any clue to theneighborhood of the house in which these things took place. Often andoften afterwards, when I was strolling by night along the streets ofRome, I lingered before some old palazzo, and fancied that I recognisedthe gloomy outline that caught my eye in that hurried transit from thecarriage to the house. Often and often I paused and started, thinkingthat I had found at last the very side-door by which I entered. Butthese were mere guesses after all. Perhaps that house stood in someremote quarter of the city where my footsteps never went again--perhapsin some neighboring street or piazza, where I passed it every day! Atall events, the whole thing vanished like a dream, and, but for the ringand the hundred scudi, a dream I should by this time believe it to havebeen. The scudi, I am sorry to say, were spent within a month--the ringI have never parted from, and here it is. "

Hereupon the student took from his finger a superb ruby set between twobrilliants of inferior size, and allowed it to pass from hand to hand, all round the table. Exclamations of surprise and admiration, accompanied by all sorts of conjectures and comments, broke fromevery lip. 

"The dead man was the lady's lover, " said one. "That is why she wantedhis portrait. "

"Of course, and her husband had murdered him, " said another. 

"Who, then, was the man in black?" asked a third. 

"A servant, to be sure. She said, if you remember, that he was faithful;but not devoted to her interests alone. That meant that he would obey tothe extent of procuring for her the portrait of her lover; but that hedid not choose to betray his master, even though his master was amurderer. "

"But if so, where was the master?" said the first speaker. "Is it likelythat he would have neglected to conceal the body during allthese hours?"

"Certainly. Nothing more likely, if he were a man of the world, and knewhow to play his game out boldly to the end. Have we not been told thatit was the last night of the Carnival, and what better could he do, toavert suspicion, than show himself at as many balls as he could visit inthe course of the evening? But really, this ring is magnificent!"

"Superb. The ruby alone must be worth a thousand francs. "

"To say nothing of the diamonds, and the setting, " observed the next towhom it was handed. 

At length, after having gone nearly the round of the table, the ringcame to a little dark, sagacious-looking man, just one seat beyondDalrymple's, who peered at it suspiciously on every side, breathed uponit, rubbed it bright again upon his coat-sleeve, and, finally, held thestones up sideways between his eyes and the light. 

"Bah!" said he, sending it on with a contemptuous fillip of theforefinger and thumb. "Glass and paste, _mon ami_. Not worth five francsof anybody's money. "

Müller, who had been eyeing him all the time with an odd smile lurkingabout the corners of his mouth, emptied his last drop of Chablis, turnedthe glass over on the table, bottom upwards, and said very coolly:--

"Well, I'm sorry for that; because I gave seven francs for it myselfthis morning, in the Palais Royal. "

"You!"

"Seven francs!"

"Bought in the Palais Royal!"

"What does he mean?"

"Mean?" echoed the student, in reply to this chorus of exclamations. "Imean that I bought it this morning, and gave seven francs for it. It isnot every morning of my life, let me tell you, that I have seven francsto throw away on my personal appearance. "

"But then the ring that the lady took from her finger?"

"And the murder?"

"And the servant in black?"

"And the hundred scudi?"

"One great invention from beginning to end, Messieurs les Chicards, andbeing got up expressly for your amusement, I hope you liked it. _Garçon?_--another _grog au vin_, and sweeter than the last!"

It would be difficult to say whether the Chicards were most disappointedor delighted at this _dénoûment_--disappointed at its want of fact, ordelighted with the story-weaving power of Herr Franz Müller. Theyexpressed themselves, at all events, with a tumultuous burst ofapplause, in the midst of which we rose and left the room. When we oncemore came out into the open air, the stars had disappeared and the airwas heavy with the damps of approaching daybreak. Fortunately, we caughtan empty _fiacre_ in the next street and, as we were nearer the Rue duFaubourg Montmartre than the Chaussée d' Antin, Dalrymple set medown first. 

"Adieu, Damon, " he said, laughingly, as we shook hands through thewindow. "If we don't meet before, come and dine with me next Sunday atseven o'clock--and don't dream of dreadful murders, if you can help it!"

I did not dream of dreadful murders. I dreamt, instead, of Madame deMarignan, and never woke the next morning till eleven o'clock, just twohours later than the time at which I should have presented myself atDr. Chéron's. 

 * * * * *

CHAPTER XV. 

WHAT IT IS TO BE A CAVALIERE SERVENTE. 

 "Everye white will have its blacke, And everye sweet its sowere. "

 _Old Ballad_. 

Neither the example of Oscar Dalrymple nor the broadcloth of the greatMichaud, achieved half so much for my education as did theapprenticeship I was destined to serve to Madame de Marignan. Havingonce made up her mind to civilize me, she spared no pains for theaccomplishment of that end, cost what it might to herself--or me. BeforeI had been for one week her subject, she taught me how to bow; how topick up a pocket-handkerchief; how to present a bouquet; how to hold afan; how to pay a compliment; how to turn over the leaves of amusic-book--in short, how to obey and anticipate every imperious wish;and how to fetch and carry, like a dog. My vassalage began from the veryday when I first ventured to call upon her. Her house was small, butvery elegant, and she received me in a delicious little room overlookingthe Champs Elysées--a very nest of flowers, books, and birds. Before Ihad breathed the air of that fatal boudoir for one quarter of an hour, Iwas as abjectly her slave as the poodle with the rose-colored collarwhich lay curled upon a velvet cushion at her feet. 

"I shall elect you my _cavaliere servente_, " said she, after I had twicenervously risen to take my leave within the first half hour, and twicebeen desired to remain a little longer. "Will you accept the office?"

I thought it the greatest privilege under heaven. Perhaps I said so. 

"The duties of the situation are onerous, " added she, "and I ought notto accept your allegiance without setting them before you. In the firstplace, you will have to bring me every new novel of George Sand, Flaubert, or About, on the day of publication. "

"I will move heaven and earth to get them the day before, if that beall!" I exclaimed. 

Madame de Marignan nodded approvingly, and went on telling off myduties, one by one, upon her pretty fingers. 

"You will have to accompany me to the Opera at least twice a week, onwhich occasions you will bring me a bouquet--camellias being myfavorite flowers. "

"Were they the flowers that bloom but once in a century, " said I, withmore enthusiasm than sense, "they should be yours!"

Madame de Marignan smiled and nodded again. 

"When I drive in the Bois, you will sometimes take a seat in mycarriage, and sometimes ride beside it, like an attentive cavalier. "

I was just about to avow that I had no horse, when I remembered that Icould borrow Dalrymple's, or hire one, if necessary; so I checkedmyself, and bowed. 

"When I go to an exhibition, " said Madame de Marignan, "it will be yourbusiness to look out the pictures in the catalogue--when I walk, youwill carry my parasol--when I go into a shop, you will take care of mydog--when I embroider, you will wind off my silks, and look for myscissors--when I want amusement, you must make me laugh--and when I amsleepy, you must read to me. In short, my _cavaliere servente_ must bemy shadow. "

"Then, like your shadow, Madame, " said I, "his place is ever at yourfeet, and that is all I desire!"

Madame de Marignan laughed outright, and showed the loveliest littledouble row of pearls in all the world. 

"Admirable!" said she. "Quite an elegant compliment, and worthy of anaccomplished lady-killer! _Allons_! you are a promising scholar. "

"In all that I have dared to say, Madame, I am, at least, sincere, " Iadded, abashed by the kind of praise. 

"Sincere? Of course you are sincere. Who ever doubted it? Nay, to blushlike that is enough to spoil the finest compliment in the world. There--it is three o'clock, and at half-past I have an engagement, forwhich I must now make my _toilette_. Come to-morrow evening to my box atthe _Italiens_, and so adieu. Stay--being my _cavaliere_, I permit you, at parting, to kiss my hand. "

Trembling, breathless, scarcely daring to touch it with mine, I liftedthe soft little hand to my lips, stammered something which was, nodoubt, sufficiently foolish, and hurried away, as if I were treading onair and breathing sunshine. 

All the rest of that day went by in a kind of agreeable delirium. Iwalked about, almost without knowledge where I went. I talked, withoutexactly knowing what I said. I have some recollection of marching to andfro among the side-alleys of the Bois de Boulogne, which at that timewas really a woody park, and not a pleasure-garden--of lying under atree, and listening to the birds overhead, and indulging myself in someidiotic romance about love, and solitude, and Madame de Marignan--ofwandering into a _restaurant_ somewhere about seven o'clock, and sittingdown to a dinner for which I had no appetite--of going back, sometimeduring the evening, to the Rue Castellane, and walking to and fro on theopposite side of the way, looking up for ever so long at the darkenedwindows where my divinity did not show herself--of coming back to mylodgings, weary, dusty, and not a bit more sober, somewhere abouteleven o'clock at night, driven to-bed by sheer fatigue, and, even then, too much in love to go to sleep!

The next day I went through my duties at Dr. Chéron's, and attended anafternoon lecture at the hospital; but mechanically, like one dreaming. In the evening I presented myself at the Opera, where Madame de Marignanreceived me very graciously, and deigned to accept a superb bouquet forwhich I had paid sixteen francs. I found her surrounded by elegant men, who looked upon me as nobody, and treated me accordingly. Driven to theback of the box where I could neither speak to her, nor see the stage, nor achieve even a glimpse of the house, I spent an evening whichcertainly fell short of my anticipations. I had, however, thegratification of seeing my bouquet thrown to Grisi at the end of thesecond act, and was permitted the privilege of going in search of Madamede Marignan's carriage, while somebody else handed her downstairs, andassisted her with her cloak. A whispered word of thanks, a tiny pressureof the hand, and the words "come early to-morrow, " compensated me, nevertheless, for every disappointment, and sent me home as blindlyhappy as ever. 

The next day I called upon her, according to command, and wastransported to the seventh heaven by receiving permission to accompanyher to a morning concert, whereby I missed two lectures, and spentten francs. 

On the Sunday, having hired a good horse for the occasion, I had thehonor of riding beside her carriage till some better-mountedacquaintance came to usurp my place and her attention; after which I wasforced to drop behind and bear the eclipse of my glory asphilosophically as I could. 

Thus day after day went by, and, for the delusive sake of Madame deMarignan's bright eyes, I neglected my studies, spent my money, wastedmy time, and incurred the displeasure of Dr. Chéron. Led on from follyto folly, I was perpetually buoyed up by coquetries which meant nothing, and as perpetually mortified, disappointed, and neglected. I hoped; Ifeared; I fretted; I lost my sleep and my appetite; I felt dissatisfiedwith all the world, sometimes blaming myself, and sometimes her--yetready to excuse and forgive her at a moment's notice. A boy inexperience even more than in years, I loved with a boy's headlongpassion, and suffered with all a boy's acute susceptibility. I wasintensely sensitive--abashed by a slight, humbled by a glance, and soeasily wounded that there were often times when, seeing myselfforgotten, I could with difficulty drive back the tears that kept risingto my eyes. On the other hand, I was as easily elated. A kind word, anencouraging smile, a lingering touch upon my sleeve, was enough at anytime to make me forget all my foregone troubles. How often the mere giftof a flower sent me home rejoicing! How the tiniest show of preferenceset my heart beating! How proud I was if mine was the arm chosen to leadher to her carriage! How more than happy, if allowed for even onehalf-hour in the whole evening to occupy the seat beside her own! Todangle after her the whole day long--to traverse all Paris on hererrands--to wait upon her pleasure like a slave, and this, too, withouteven expecting to be thanked for my devotion, seemed the most naturalthing in the world. She was capricious; but caprice became her. She wasexacting; but her exactions were so coquettish and attractive, that onewould not have wished her more reasonable. She was, at least, ten ortwelve years my senior; but boys proverbially fall in love with womenolder than themselves, and this one was in all respects so charming, that I do not, even now, wonder at my infatuation. 

After all, there are few things under heaven more beautiful, or moretouching, than a boy's first love. 

Passionate is it as a man's--pure as a woman's--trustingas a child's--timid, through the very excess of itsunselfishness--chivalrous, as though handed down direct from the days ofold romance--poetical beyond the utterances of the poet. To theboy-lover, his mistress is only something less than a divinity. Hebelieves in her truth as in his own; in her purity, as in the sun atnoon. Her practised arts of voice and manner are, in his eyes, theunstudied graces that spring as naturally from her beauty as the scentfrom the flower. Single-hearted himself, it seems impossible that shewhom he adores should trifle with the most sacred sentiment he has everknown. Conscious of his own devotion, he cannot conceive that his wealthis poured forth in vain, and that he is but the plaything of her idlehours. Yet it is so. The boy's first love is almost always misplaced;seldom rated at its true value; hardly ever productive of anything butdisappointment. Aspirant of the highest mysteries of the soul, he passesthrough the ordeal of fire and tears, happy if he keep his faithunshaken and his heart pure, for the wiser worship hereafter. We allknow this; and few know it better than myself. Yet, with all itssuffering, which of us would choose to obliterate all record of hisfirst romance? Which of us would be without the memory of its smiles andtears, its sunshine and its clouds? Not I for one. 

CHAPTER XVI. 

A CONTRETEMPS IN A CARRIAGE. 

My slavery lasted somewhat longer than three weeks, and less than amonth; and was brought, oddly enough, to an abrupt conclusion. This washow it happened. 

I had, as usual, attended Madame de Marignan one evening to the Opera, and found myself, also as usual, neglected for a host of others. Therewas one man in particular whom I hated, and whom (perhaps because Ihated him) she distinguished rather more than the rest. His name wasDelaroche, and he called himself Monsieur le Comte Delaroche. Mostlikely he was a Count---I have no reason to doubt his title; but I choseto doubt it for mere spite, and because he was loud and conceited, andwore a little red and green ribbon in his button-hole. He had, besides, an offensive sense of my youth and his own superiority, which I havenever forgiven to this day. On the particular occasion of which I amnow speaking, this person had made his appearance in Madame deMarignan's box at the close of the first act, established himself in theseat behind hers, and there held the lists against all comers during theremainder of the evening. Everything he said, everything he did, aggravated me. When he looked through her lorgnette, I loathed him. Whenhe admired her fan, I longed to thrust it down his throat. When he heldher bouquet to his odious nose (the bouquet that I had given her!) Ifelt it would have been justifiable manslaughter to take him up bodily, and pitch him over into the pit. 

At length the performance came to a close, and M. Delaroche, havingtaken upon himself to arrange Madame de Marignan's cloak, carry Madamede Marignan's fan, and put Madame de Marignan's opera-glass into itsmorocco case, completed his officiousness by offering his arm andconducting her into the lobby, whilst I, outwardly indifferent butinwardly boiling, dropped behind, and consigned him silently to all thetorments of the seven circles. 

It was an oppressive autumnal night without a star in the sky, and sostill that one might have carried a lighted taper through the streets. Finding it thus warm, Madame de Marignan proposed walking down the lineof carriages, instead of waiting till her own came up; and so she and M. Delaroche led the way and I followed. Having found the carriage, heassisted her in, placed her fan and bouquet on the opposite seat, lingered a moment at the open door, and had the unparalleled audacity toraise her hand to his lips at parting. As for me, I stood proudly back, and lifted my hat. 

"_Comment_!" she said, holding out her hand--the pretty, ungloved handthat had just been kissed--"is that your good night?"

I bowed over the hand, I would not have touched it with my lips at thatmoment for all the wealth of Paris. 

"You are coming to me to-morrow morning at twelve?" she murmuredtenderly. 

"If Madame desires it. "

"Of course I desire it. I am going to Auteuil, to look at a house for afriend--and to Pignot's for some flowers--and to Lubin's for somescent--and to a host of places. What should I do without you? Nay, whythat grave face? Have I done anything to offend you?"

"Madame, I--I confess that--"

"That you are jealous of that absurd Delaroche, who is so much in lovewith himself that he has no place in his heart for any one else! _Fidonc!_ I am ashamed of you. There--adieu, twelve to-morrow!"

And with this she laughed, waved her hand, gave the signal to drive on, and left me looking after the carriage, still irritated but alreadyhalf consoled. 

I then sauntered moodily on, thinking of my tyrant, and her caprices, and her beauty. Her smile, for instance; surely it was the sweetestsmile in the world--if only she were less lavish of it! Then, what adelicious little hand--if mine were the only lips permitted to kiss it!Why was she so charming?--or why, being so charming, need she prize theattentions of every _flaneur_ who had only enough wit to admire her? WasI not a fool to believe that she cared more for my devotion than foranother's! Did I believe it? Yes . . . No . . . Sometimes. But then that"sometimes" was only when under the immediate influence of her presence. She fascinated me; but she would fascinate a hundred others in preciselythe same way. It was true that she accepted from me more devotion, moreworship, more time, more outward and visible homage than from any other. Was I not her _Cavaliere servente?_ Did she not accept my bouquets? Didshe not say the other day, when I gave her that volume of Tennyson, thatshe loved all that was English for my sake? Surely, I was worse thanungrateful, when, having so much, I was still dissatisfied! Why was Inot the happiest fellow in Paris? Why . . . . . 

My meditations were here interrupted by a sudden flash of very vividlightning, followed by a low muttering of distant thunder. I paused, andlooked round. The sky was darker than ever, and though the air wassingularly stagnant, I could hear among the uppermost leaves of the talltrees that stealthy rustling that generally precedes a storm. Unfortunately for myself, I had not felt disposed to go home at once onleaving the theatre; but, being restless alike in mind and body, hadstruck down through the Place Vendôme and up the Rue de Rivoli, intending to come home by a circuitous route. At this precise moment Ifound myself in the middle of the Place de la Concorde, with Cleopatra'sneedle towering above my head, the lamps in the Champs Elysées twinklingin long chains of light through the blank darkness before me, and novehicle anywhere in sight. To be caught in a heavy shower, was not, certainly, an agreeable prospect for one who had just emerged from theopera in the thinnest of boots and the lightest of folding hats, withneither umbrella nor paletôt of proof; so, having given a hasty glancein every direction from which a cab might be expected, I took valiantlyto my heels, and made straight for the Madeleine. 

Long before I had accomplished half the distance, however, another flashannounced the quick coming of the tempest, and the first premonitorydrops began to plash down heavily upon the pavement. Still I ran on, thinking that I should find a cab in the Place de la Madeleine; but thePlace de la Madeleine was empty. Even the café at the corner was closed. Even the omnibus office was shut up, and the red lamp above the doorextinguished. 

What was I to do now? Panting and breathless, I leaned up against adoorway, and resigned myself to fate. Stay, what was that file ofcarriages, dimly seen through the rain which was now coming down inearnest? It was in a private street opening off at the back of theMadeleine--a street in which I could remember no public stand. Perhapsthere was an evening party at one of the large houses lower down, and, if so, I might surely find a not wholly incorruptible cabman, who wouldconsent for a liberal _pourboire_ to drive me home and keep his farewaiting, if need were, for one little half-hour! At all events it wasworth trying for; so away I darted again, with the wind whistling aboutmy ears, and the rain driving in my face. 

But my troubles were not to be so speedily ended. Among the ten orfifteen equipages which I found drawn up in file, there was not onehackney vehicle. They were private carriages, and all, therefore, inaccessible. 

Did I say inaccessible?

A bold idea occurred to me. The rain was so heavy that it could scarcelybe expected to last many minutes. The carriage at the very end of theline was not likely to be the first called; and, even if it were, onecould spring out in a moment, if necessary. In short, the very daring ofthe deed was as attractive as the shelter! I made my way swiftly downthe line. The last carriage was a neat little brougham, and thecoachman, with his hat pulled down over his eyes, and his collar drawnup about his ears, was too much absorbed in taking care of himself andhis horses to pay much attention to a foot-passenger. I passed boldlyby--doubled back stealthily on my own steps--looked roundcautiously--opened the door, and glided in. 

It was a delightfully comfortable little vehicle--cushioned, soft, yielding, and pervaded by a delicate perfume of eglantine. Wondering whothe owner might be--if she was young--if she was pretty--if she wasmarried, or single, or a widow--I settled myself in the darkest cornerof the carriage, intending only to remain there till the rain hadabated. Thus I fell, as fate would have it--first into a profoundreverie, and then into a still profounder sleep. How long this sleep mayhave lasted I know not. I only remember becoming slowly conscious of agentle movement, which, without awaking, partly roused me; of a check tothat movement, which brought my thoughts suddenly to the surface; of astream of light--of an open door--a crowded hall--a lady waiting to comeout, and a little crowd of attentive beaux surrounding her!

I comprehended my position in an instant, and the impossibility ofextricating myself from it. To get out next the house was to bravedetection; whilst at the other side I found myself blocked in bycarriages. Escape was now hopeless! I turned hot and cold; I shrankback; I would have gone through the bottom of the carriage, if I could. At this moment, to my horror, the footman opened the door. I gave myselfup for lost, and, in a sudden access of desperation, was on the point ofrushing out _coûte que coûte_, when the lady ran forward; sprang lightlyin; recoiled; and uttered a little breathless cry of surprise andapprehension!

"_Mon Dieu_, Madame! what is it? Are you hurt?" cried two or three ofthe gentlemen, running out, bareheaded, to her assistance. 

But, to my amazement, she unfastened her cloak, and threw it over me insuch a manner as to leave me completely hidden beneath the folds. 

"Oh, nothing, thank you!--I only caught my foot in my cloak. I am reallyquite ashamed to have alarmed you! A thousand thanks--good-night. "

And so, with something of a slight tremor in her voice, the lady drew upthe window. The next instant the carriage moved on. 

And now, what was to be done? I blessed the accident which rendered meinvisible; but, at the same time, asked myself how it was to end. 

Should I wait till she reached her own door, and then, still feigningsleep, allow myself to be discovered? Or should I take the bull by thehorns, and reveal myself? If the latter, would she scream, or faint, orgo into hysterics? Then, again, supposing she resumed her cloak . . . Acold damp broke out upon my forehead at the mere thought! All at once, just as these questions flashed across my mind, the lady drew the mantleaside, and said:--

"How imprudent of you to hide in my carriage?"

I could not believe my ears. 

"Suppose any of those people had caught sight of you . . . Why, it wouldhave been all over Paris to-morrow! Happily, I had the presence of mindto cover you with my cloak; otherwise . . . But there, Monsieur, I have agreat mind to be very angry with you!"

It was now clear that I was mistaken for some one else. Fortunately thecarriage-lamps were unlit, the windows still blurred with rain, and thenight intensely dark; so, feeling like a wretch reprieved on thescaffold, I shrank farther and farther into the corner, glad to favor amistake which promised some hope of escape. 

"_Eh bien_!" said the lady, half tenderly, half reproachfully; "have younothing to say to me?"

Say to her, indeed! What could I say to her? Would not my voice betrayme directly?

"Ah, " she continued, without waiting for a reply; "you are ashamed ofthe cruel scene of this morning! Well, since you have not allowed thenight to pass without seeking a reconciliation, I suppose I mustforgive you!"

I thought, at this point, that I could not do better than press herhand, which was exquisitely soft and small--softer and smaller than evenMadame de Marignan's. 

"Naughty Hippolyte!" murmured my companion. "Confess, now, that you wereunreasonable. "

I sighed heavily, and caressed the little hand with both of mine. 

"And are you very penitent?"

I expressed my penitence by another prodigious sigh, and ventured, thistime, to kiss the tips of the dainty fingers. 

"_Ciel_!" exclaimed the lady. "You have shaved off your beard! What canhave induced you to do such a thing?"

My beard, indeed! Alas! I would have given any money for even amoustache! However, the fatal moment was come when I must speak. 

"_Mon cher ange_, " I began, trying a hoarse whisper, "I--I--the factis--a bet--"

"A bet indeed! The idea of sacrificing such a handsome beard for a merebet! I never heard of anything so foolish. But how hoarse you are, Hippolyte!"

"All within the last hour, " whispered I. "I was caught in the storm, just now, and . . . "

"And have taken cold, for my sake! Alas! my poor, dear friend, why didyou wait to speak to me? Why did you not go home at once, and changeyour clothes? Your sleeve, I declare, is still quite damp! Hippolyte, ifyou fall ill, I shall never forgive myself!"

I kissed her hand again. It was much pleasanter than whispering, andexpressed all that was necessary. 

"But you have not once asked after poor Bibi!" exclaimed my companion, after a momentary silence. "Poor, dear Bibi, who has been suffering froma martyrdom with her cough all the afternoon!"

Now, who the deuce was Bibi? She might be a baby. Or--who couldtell?--she might be a poodle? On this point, however, I was leftuninformed; for my unknown friend, who, luckily, seemed fond of talkingand had a great deal to say, launched off into another topicimmediately. 

"After all, " said she, "I should have been wrong not to go to the party!My uncle was evidently pleased with my compliance; and it is not wise tovex one's rich uncles, if one can help it--is it, Hippolyte!"

I pressed her hand again. 

"Besides, Monsieur Delaroche was not there. He was not even invited; soyou see how far they were from laying matchmaking plots, and howgroundless were all your fears and reproaches!"

Monsieur Delaroche! Could this be the Delaroche of my special aversion?I pressed her hand again, more closely, more tenderly, and listened forwhat might come next. 

"Well, it is all over now! And will you promise _never, never, never_ tobe jealous again? Then, to be jealous of such a creature as thatridiculous Delaroche--a man who knows nothing--who can think and talkonly of his own absurd self!--a man who has not even wit enough to seethat every one laughs at him!"

I was delighted. I longed to embrace her on the spot! Was there eversuch a charming, sensible, lively creature?

"Besides, the coxcomb is just now devoting himself, body and soul (suchas they are!) to that insufferable little _intriguante_, Madame deMarignan. He is to be seen with her in every drawing-room and theatrethroughout Paris. For my part, I am amazed that a woman of the worldshould suffer herself to be compromised to that extent--especially oneso experienced in these _affaires du coeur_. "

Madame de Marignan! Compromised--experienced--_intriguante_! I felt asif I were choking. 

"To be sure, there is that poor English lad whom she drags about withher, to play propriety, " continued she; "but do you suppose the world isblinded by so shallow an artifice?"

"What English lad?" I asked, startled out of all sense of precaution, and desperately resolved to know the worst. 

"What English lad? Why, Hippolyte, you are more stupid than ever! Ipointed him out to you the other night at the Comedie Française--a pale, handsome boy, of about nineteen or twenty, with brown curling hair, andvery fine eyes, which were riveted on Madame de Marignan the wholeevening. Poor fellow! I cannot help pitying him. "

"Then--then, you think she really does not love him?" I said. And thistime my voice was hoarse enough, without any need of feigning. 

"Love him! Ridiculous! What does such a woman understand by love?Certainly neither the sentiment nor the poetry of it! Tush, Hippolyte! Ido not wish to be censorious; but every one knows that ever since M. DeMarignan has been away in Algiers, that woman has had, not one devotedadmirer, but a dozen; and now that her husband is coming back. . . . "

"Coming back! . . . Her husband!" I echoed, half rising in my place, andfalling back again, as if stunned. "Good heavens! is she not a widow?"

It was now the lady's turn to be startled. 

"A widow!" she repeated. "Why, you know as well as I that--_Dieu_! Towhom I am speaking?"

"Madame, " I said, as steadily as my agitation would let me, "I beg younot to be alarmed. I am not, it is true, the person whom you havesupposed; but--Nay, I implore you. . . . "

She here uttered a quick cry, and darted forward for the check-string. Arresting her hand half way, respectfully but firmly, I went on:--

"How I came here, I will explain presently. I am a gentleman; and uponthe word of a gentleman, Madame, am innocent of any desire to offend oralarm you. Can you--will you--hear me for one moment?"

"I appear, sir, to have no alternative, " replied she, trembling like acaged bird. 

"I might have left you undeceived, Madame. I might have extricatedmyself from, this painful position undiscovered--but for some wordswhich just escaped your lips; some words so nearly concerning the--thehonor and happiness of--of. . . . In short, I lost my presence of mind. Inow implore you to tell me if all that you have just been saying ofMadame de Marignan is strictly true. "

"Who are you, sir, that you should dare to surprise confidences intendedfor another, and by what right do you question me?" said the lady, haughtily. 

"By no right, Madame, " I replied, fairly breaking into sobs, and buryingmy face in my hands. "I can only appeal to your compassion. I am thatEnglishman whom--whom. . . . "

For a moment there was silence. My companion was the first to speak. 

"Poor boy!" she said; and her voice, now, was gentle and compassionate. "You have been rudely undeceived. Did Madame de Marignan pass herselfoff upon you for a widow?"

"She never named her husband to me--I believed that she was free. Ifancied he had been dead for years. She knew that was my impression. "

"And you would have married her--actually married her?"

"I--I--hardly dared to hope. . . . "

"_Ciel_! it is almost beyond belief. And you never inquired into herpast history?"

"Never. Why should I?"

"Monsieur de Marignan holds a government appointment in Algiers, and hasbeen absent more than four years. He is, I understand, expected backshortly, on leave of absence. "

I conquered my agitation by a supreme effort. 

"Madame, " I said, "I thank you. It now only remains for me to explain myintrusion. I can do so in half a dozen words. Caught in the storm andunable to find a conveyance, I sought shelter in this carriage, whichbeing the last on the file, offered the only refuge of which I couldavail myself unobserved. While waiting for the tempest to abate, I fellasleep; and but for the chance which led you to mistake me for another, I must have been discovered when you entered the carriage. "

"Then, finding yourself so mistaken, Monsieur, would it not have beenmore honorable to undeceive me than to usurp a conversation which. . . . "

"Madame, I dared not. I feared to alarm you--I hoped to find some meansof escape, and. . . . "

"_Mon Dieu_! what means? How are you to escape as it is? How leave thecarriage without being seen by my servants?"

I had not thought of this, nor of the dilemma in which my presence mustplace her. 

"I can open the door softly, " said I, "and jump out unperceived. "

"Impossible, at the pace we are going! You would break your neck. "

I shook my head, and laughed bitterly. 

"Have no fear of that, Madame, " I said. "Those who least value theirnecks never happen to break them. See, I can spring out as we pass thenext turning, and be out of sight in a moment. "

"Indeed, I will not permit it. Oh, dear! we have already reached theFaubourg St. Germain. Stay--I have an idea I Do you know what o'clockit is?"

"I don't know how long I may have slept; but I think it must be quitethree. "

"_Bien_! The Countess de Blois has a ball to-night, and her visitors aresure not to disperse before four or five. My sister is there. I willsend in to ask if she has yet gone home, and when the carriage stops youcan slip out. Here is the Rue de Bac, and the door of her hotel is yetsurrounded with equipages. "

And with this, she let down a front window, desired the coachman tostop, leaned forward so as to hide me completely, and sent in herfootman with the message. When the man had fairly entered the hall, sheturned to me and said:--

"Now, Monsieur, fly! It is your only chance. "

"I go, Madame; but before going, suffer me to assure you that I knowneither your name, nor that of the person for whom you mistook me--thatI have no idea of your place of residence--that I should not know you ifI saw you again to-morrow--in short, that you are to me as entirely astranger as if this adventure had never happened. "

"Monsieur, I thank you for the assurance; but I see the servantreturning. Pray, begone!"

I sprang out without another word, and, never once looking back, darteddown a neighboring street and waited in the shadow of a doorway till Ithought the carriage must be out of sight. 

The night was now fine, the moon was up, and the sky was full of stars. But I heeded nothing, save my own perplexed and painful thoughts. Absorbed in these, I followed the course of the Rue du Bac till I cameto the Pont National. There my steps were arrested by the sight of theeddying river, the long gleaming front of the Louvre, the quaint, glistening gables of the Tuilleries, the far-reaching trees of theChamps Elysées all silvered in the soft, uncertain moonlight. It was amost calm and beautiful picture; and I stood for a long time leaningagainst the parapet of the bridge, and looking dreamily at the scenebefore me. Then I heard the quarters chime from belfry to belfry allover the quiet city, and found that it was half-past three o'clock. Presently a patrol of _gendarmes_ went by, and, finding that they pausedand looked at me suspiciously, I turned away, and bent my stepshomewards. 

By the time I reached the Cité Bergère it was past four, and the earlymarket-carts were already rumbling along the Rue du Faubourg Montmartre. Going up wearily to my apartments, I found a note waiting for me inDalrymple's handwriting. It ran thus:--

"MY DEAR DAMON:--

"Do you know that it is nearly a month since I last saw you? Do you knowthat I have called twice at your lodgings without finding you at home? Ihear of you as having been constantly seen, of late, in the society of avery pretty woman of our acquaintance; but I confess that I do notdesire to see you go to the devil entirely without the friendlyassistance of

"Yours faithfully, "OSCAR DALRYMPLE. "

I read the note twice. I could scarcely believe that I had so neglectedmy only friend. Had I been mad? Or a fool?--or both? Too anxious andunhappy to sleep, and too tired to sit up, I lit my lamp, threw myselfupon the bed, and there lay repenting my wasted hours, my misplaced loveand my egregious folly, till morning came with its sunshine and itstraffic, and found me a "wiser, " if not a "better man. "

"Half-past seven!" exclaimed I to myself, as I jumped up and plunged myhead into a basin of cold water. "Dr. Chéron shall see me before ninethis morning. I'll call on Dalrymple at luncheon time; at three, I mustget back for the afternoon lecture; and in the evening--in the evening, by Jove! Madame de Marignan must be content with her adorable Delaroche, for the deuce a bit of her humble servant will she ever see again!"

And away I went presently along the sunny streets, humming to myselfthose saucy and wholesome lines of good Sir Walter Raleigh's:--

 "Shall I like a hermit dwell On a rock, or in a cell, Calling home the smallest part That is missing of my heart, To bestow it where I may Meet a rival every day? If she undervalues me, What care I how fair she be?"

CHAPTER XVII. 

THE WIDOW OF A MINISTER OF FINANCE. 

"You are just in time, Arbuthnot, to do me a service, " said Dalrymple, looking up from his desk as I went in, and reaching out his hand to meover a barricade of books and papers. 

"Then I am very glad I have come, " I replied. "But what confusion isthis? Are you going anywhere?"

"Yes--to perdition. There, kick that rubbish out of your way and sitdown. "

Never very orderly, Dalrymple's rooms were this time in as terrible alitter as can well be conceived. The table was piled high with bills, old letters, books, cigars, gloves, card-cases, and pamphlets. Thecarpet was strewn with portmanteaus, hat-cases, travelling-straps, oldluggage labels, railway wrappers, and the like. The chairs and sofaswere laden with wearing apparel. As for Dalrymple himself, he lookedhaggard and weary, as though the last four weeks had laid four yearsupon his shoulders. 

"You look ill, " I said clearing a corner of the sofa for my ownaccommodation; "or _ennuyé_, which is much the same thing. What is thematter? And what can I do for you?"

"The matter is that I am going abroad, " said he, with his chin restingmoodily in his two palms and his elbows on the table. 

"Going abroad! Where?"

"I don't know--

 'Anywhere, anywhere, out of the world. '

It's of very little consequence whether I betake myself to the East orto the West; eat rice in the tropics, or drink train-oil at the Pole. "

"But have you no settled projects?"

"None whatever. "

"And don't care what becomes of you?"

"Not in the least. "

"Then, in Heaven's name, what has happened?"

"The very thing that, three weeks ago, would have made me the happiestfellow in Christendom. What are you going to do to-morrow?"

"Nothing, beyond my ordinary routine of medical study. "

"Humph! Could you get a whole holiday, for once?"

I remembered how many I had taken of late, and felt ashamed of thereadiness with which I replied:--

"Oh yes! easily. "

"Well, then, I want you to spend the day with me. It will be, perhaps, my last in Paris for many a month, or even many a year. I . . . Pshaw! Imay as well say it, and have done with it. I am going to be married. "

"Married!" I exclaimed, in blank amazement; for it was the last thing Ishould have guessed. 

Dalrymple tugged away at his moustache with both hands, as was his habitwhen perplexed or troubled, and nodded gloomily. "To whom?"

"To Madame de Courcelles. "

"And are you not very happy?"

"Happy! I am the most miserable dog unhanged?"

I was more at fault now than ever. 

"I . . . Judging from trifles which some would perhaps scarcely haveobserved, " I said, hesitatingly, "I--I thought you were interested inMadame de Courcelles?"

"Interested!" cried he, pushing back his chair and springing to hisfeet, as if the word had stung him. "By heaven! I love that woman as Inever loved in my life. "

"Then why . . . "

"I'll tell you why--or, at least, I will tell you as much as I may--as Ican; for the affair is hers, and not mine. She has a cousin--cursehim!--to whom she was betrothed from childhood. His estates adjoinedhers; family interests were concerned in their union; and the parents onboth sides arranged matters. When, however, Monsieur de Courcelles fellin love with her--a man much older than herself, but possessed of greatwealth and immense political influence--her father did not hesitate tosend the cousin to the deuce and marry his daughter to the Minister ofFinance. The cousin, it seems, was then a wild young fellow; notparticularly in love with her himself; and not at all inconsolable forher loss. When, however, Monsieur de Courcelles was good enough to die(which he had the bad taste to do very hastily, and without making, byany means, the splendid provision for his widow which he had promised), our friend, the cousin, comes forward again. By this time he is enoughman of the world to appreciate the value of land--more especially as hehas sold, mortgaged, played the mischief with nearly every acre of hisown. He pleads the old engagement, and, as he is pleased to call it, theold love. Madame de Courcelles is a young widow, very solitary, with noone to love, no object to live for, and no experience of the world. Herpity is easily awaked; and the result is that she not only accepts thecousin, but lends him large sums of money; suffers the title-deeds ofher estates to go into the hands of his lawyer; and is formallybetrothed to him before the eyes of all Paris!"

"Who is this man? Where is he?" I asked, eagerly. 

"He is an officer of Chasseurs, now serving with his regiment inAlgiers--a daring, dashing, reckless fellow; heartless and dissipatedenough; but a splendid soldier. However, having committed her propertyto his hands, and suffered her name to be associated publicly with his, Madame de Courcelles, during his absence in Algiers, has done me thehonor to prefer me. I have the first real love of her life, and theshort and long of it is, that we are to be privately married to-morrow. "

"And why privately?"

"Ah, there's the pity of it! There's the disappointment and thebitterness!"

"Can't Madame de Courcelles write and tell this man that she lovessomebody else better?"

"Confound it! no. The fellow has her too much in his power, and, if hechose to be dishonest, could half ruin her. At all events she is afraidof him; and I . . . I am as helpless as a child in the matter. If I were arich man, I would snap my fingers at him; but how can I, with a paltryeight hundred a year, provide for that woman? Pshaw! If I could butsettle it with a pair of hair-triggers and twenty paces of turf, I'dleave little work for the lawyers!"

"Well, then, what is to be done?"

"Only this, " replied he, striding impatiently to and fro, like a cagedlion; "I must just bear with my helplessness, and leave the remedy tothose who can oppose skill to skill, and lawyer to lawyer. "

"At all events, you marry the lady. "

"Ay--I marry the lady; but I start to-morrow night for Berlin, _enroute_ for anywhere that chance may lead me. "

"Without her?"

"Without her. Do you suppose that I would stay in Paris--herhusband--and live apart from her? Meet her, like an ordinaryacquaintance? See others admiring her? Be content to lounge in and outof her _soirées_, or ride beside her carriage now and then, as you orfifty others might do? Perhaps, have even to endure the presence of DeCaylus himself? _Merci_! Any number of miles, whether of land or sea, were better than a martyrdom like that!"

"De Caylus!" I repeated. "Where have I heard that name?"

"You may have heard of it in a hundred places, " replied my friend. "As Isaid before, the man is a gallant soldier, and does gallant things. Butto return to the present question--may I depend on you to-morrow? For wemust have a witness, and our witness must be both discreet and silent. "

"On my silence and discretion you may rely absolutely. "

"And you can be here by nine?"

"By daybreak, if you please. "

"I won't tax you to that extent. Nine will do quite well. "

"Adieu, then, till nine. "

"Adieu, and thank you. "

With this I left him, somewhat relieved to find that I had escaped allcross-examination on the score of Madame Marignan. 

"De Caylus!" I again repeated to myself, as I took my rapid way to theHotel Dieu. "De Caylus! why, surely, it must have been that evening atMadame de Courcelles'. . . . "

And then I recollected that De Caylus was the name of that officer whowas said to have ridden by night, and single-handed, through the heartof the enemy's camp, somewhere in Algiers. 

CHAPTER XVIII. 

A MARRIAGE NOT "A LA MODE. "

The marriage took place in a little out-of-the-way Protestant chapelbeyond the barriers, at about a quarter before ten o'clock the nextmorning. Dalrymple and I were there first; and Madame de Courcelles, having, in order to avoid observation, come part of the distance in acab and part on foot, arrived a few minutes later. She was very pale, and looked almost like a _religieuse_, with her black veil tied closelyunder her chin, and a dark violet dress, which might have passed formourning. She gave her hand to Dalrymple without speaking; then kneltdown at the communion-table, and so remained till we had all taken ourplaces. As for Dalrymple, he had even less color than she, but held hishead up haughtily, and betrayed no sign of the conflict within. 

It was a melancholy little chapel, dusty and neglected, full of blackand white funereal tablets, and damp as a vault. We shivered as we stoodabout the altar; the clergyman's teeth chattered as he began themarriage service; and the echoes of our responses reverberated forlornlyup among the gothic rafters overhead. Even the sunbeams struggled sadlyand palely down the upper windows, and the chill wind whistled in whenthe door was opened, bringing with it a moan of coming rain. 

The ceremony over, the books signed in the vestry, and the clergyman, clerk, and pew-opener duly remunerated for their services, we preparedto be gone. For a couple of moments, Dalrymple and his bride stood apartin the shadow of the porch. I saw him take the hand on which he had justplaced the ring, and look down upon it tenderly, wistfully--I saw himbend lower, and lower, whispering what no other ears might hear--sawtheir lips meet for one brief instant. Then the lady's veil was lowered;she turned hastily away; and Dalrymple was left standing in thedoorway alone. 

"By Heaven!" said he, grasping my hand as though he would crush it. "This is hard to bear. "

I but returned the pressure of his hand; for I knew not with what wordsto comfort him. Thus we lingered for some minutes in silence, till theclergyman, having put off his surplice, passed us with a bow and wentout; and the pew-opener, after pretending to polish the door-handle withher apron, and otherwise waiting about with an air of fidgetypoliteness, dropped a civil curtsey, and begged to remind us that thechapel must now be closed. 

Dalrymple started and shook himself like a water-dog, as if he would soshake off "the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. "

"_Rex est qui metuit nihil_!" said he; "but I am a sovereign in badcircumstances, for all that. Heigho! Care will kill a cat. What shall wedo with ourselves, old fellow, for the rest of the day?"

"I hardly know. Would you like to go into the country?"

"Nothing better. The air perhaps would exorcise some of theseblue-devils. "

"What say you to St. Germains? It looks as if it must rain before night;yet there is the forest and. . . . "

"Excellent! We can do as we like, with nobody to stare at us; and I amin a horribly uncivilized frame of mind this morning. "

With this, we turned once more toward Paris, and, jumping into the firstcab that came by, were driven to the station. It happened that a trainwas then about to start; so we were off immediately. 

There were no other passengers in the carriage, so Dalrymple infringedthe company's mandate by lighting a cigar, and I, finding himdisinclined for talk, did the same thing, and watched the passingcountry. Flat and uninteresting at first, it consisted of a mere sandyplain, treeless, hedgeless, and imperfectly cultivated with strugglingstrips of corn and vegetables. By and by came a line of stuntedpollards, a hamlet, and a little dreary cemetery. Then the landscapeimproved. The straight line of the horizon broke into gentleundulations; the Seine, studded with islets, wound through themeadow-land at our feet; and a lofty viaduct carried us from height toheight across the eddying river. Then we passed into the close greenshade of a forest, which opened every here and there into long vistas, yielding glimpses of

 "--verdurous glooms, and winding mossy ways. "

Through this wood the line continued to run till we reached ourdestination. Here our first few steps brought us out upon the Place, directly facing the old red and black chateau of St. Germain-en-Laye. Leaving this and the little dull town behind us, we loitered for sometime about the broad walks of the park, and then passed on into theforest. Although it was neither Sunday nor a fête-day, there werepleasure parties gipseying under trees--Parisian cockneys ridingraw-boned steeds--pony-chaises full of laughing grisettes dashing up anddown the broad roads that pierce the wood in various directions--oldwomen selling cakes and lemonade--workmen gambling with half-pence onthe smooth turf by the wayside--_bonnes_, comely and important, withtheir little charges playing round them, and their busy fingers plyingthe knitting-needles as they walked--young ladies sketching trees, andprudent governesses reading novels close by; in short, all the life andvariety of a favorite suburban resort on an ordinarily fine day aboutthe beginning of autumn. 

Leaving the frequented routes to the right, we turned into one of themany hundred tracks that diverge in every direction from the beatenroads, and wandered deeper and deeper into the green shades andsolitudes of the forest. Pausing, presently, to rest, Dalrymple threwhimself at full length on the mossy ground, with his hands clasping theback of his head, and his hat over his eyes; whilst I found a luxuriousarm-chair in the gnarled roots of a lichen-tufted elm. Thus we remainedfor a considerable time puffing away at our cigars in that sociablesilence which may almost claim to be an unique privilege of masculinefriendship. Women cannot sit together for long without talking; men canenjoy each other's companionship for hours with scarcely the interchangeof an idea. 

Meanwhile, I watched the squirrels up in the beech-trees and the dancingof the green leaves against the sky; and thought dreamily of home, of myfather, of the far past, and the possible future. I asked myself how, when my term of study came to an end, I should ever again endure the oldhome-life at Saxonholme? How settle down for life as my father'spartner, conforming myself to his prejudices, obeying all the demands ofhis imperious temper, and accepting for evermore the monotonous routineof a provincial practice! It was an intolerable prospect, but no lessinevitable than intolerable. Pondering thus, I sighed heavily, and thesigh roused Dalrymple's attention. 

"Why, Damon, " said he, turning over on his elbow, and pushing up hishat to the level of his eyes, "what's the matter with you?"

"Oh, nothing--at least, nothing new. "

"Well, new or old, what is it? A man must be either in debt, or in love, when he sighs in that way. You look as melancholy as Werter redivivus!"

"I--I ought not to be melancholy, I suppose; for I was thinking ofhome. "

Dalrymple's face and voice softened immediately. 

"Poor boy!" he said, throwing away the end of his cigar, "yours is not abright home, I fear. You told me, I think, that you had lostyour mother?"

"From infancy. "

"And you have no sisters?"

"None. I am an only child. "

"Your father, however, is living?"

"Yes, my father lives. He is a rough-tempered, eccentric man;misanthropic, but clever; kind enough, and generous enough, in his ownstrange way. Still--"

"Still what?"

--"I dread the life that lies before me! I dread the life withoutsociety, without ambition, without change--the dull house--the boundedsphere of action--the bondage. . . . But of what use is it to trouble youwith these things?"

"This use, that it does you good to tell, and me to listen. Sympathy, like mercy, blesseth him that gives and him that takes; and if I cannotactually help you, I am, at all events, thankful to be taken out ofmyself. Go on--tell me more of your prospects. Have you no acquaintanceat Saxonholme whose society will make the place pleasant to you? Noboyish friends? No pretty cousins? No first-loves, from amongst whom tochoose a wife in time to come?"

I shook my head sadly. 

"Did I not tell you that my father was a misanthrope? He visits no one, unless professionally. We have no friends and no relations. "

"Humph! that's awkward. However, it leaves you free to choose your ownfriends, when you go back. A medical man need never be without avisiting connection. His very profession puts a thousand opportunitiesin his way. "

"That is true; but--"

"But what?"

"I am not fond of the profession. I have never liked it. I would givemuch to relinquish it altogether. "

Dalrymple gave utterance to a prolonged and very dismal whistle. 

"This, " said he gravely, "is the most serious part of the business. Tolive in a dull place is bad enough--to live with dull people is badenough; but to have one's thoughts perpetually occupied with anuncongenial subject, and one's energies devoted to an uncongenialpursuit, is just misery, and nothing short of it! In fact 'tis a moralinjustice, and one that no man should be required to endure. "

"Yet I must endure it. "

"Why?"

"Because it is too late to do otherwise. "

"It is never too late to repair an evil, or an error. "

"Unless the repairing of it involved a worse evil, or a more fatalerror! No--I must not dream now of turning aside from the path that hasbeen chosen for me. Too much time and too much money have been given tothe thing for that;--I must let it take its course. There's no helpfor it!"

"But, confound it, lad! you'd better follow the fife and drum, or gobefore the mast, than give up your life to a profession you hate!"

"Hate is a strong word, " I replied. "I do not actually hate it--at allevents I must try to make the best of it, if only for my father's sake. His heart is set on making a physician of me, and I dare notdisappoint him. "

Dalrymple looked at me fixedly, and then fell back into his oldposition. 

"Heigho!" he said, pulling his hat once more over his eyes, "I was adisobedient son. My father intended me for the Church; I was expelledfrom College for fighting a duel before I was twenty, and then, soonerthan go home disgraced, enlisted as a private soldier in a cavalry corpsbound for foreign service. Luckily, they found me out before the shipsailed, and made the best of a bad bargain by purchasing me a cornetcyin a dragoon regiment. I would not advise you to be disobedient, Damon. My experience in that line has been bitter enough, "

"How so? You escaped a profession for which you were disinclined, andentered one for which you had every qualification. "

"Ay; but think of the cursed _esclandre_--first the duel, then theexpulsion, then my disappearance for two months . . . My mother was in badhealth at the time, too; and I, her favorite son--I--in short, theanxiety was too much for her. She--she died before I had been six weeksin the regiment. There! we won't talk of it. It's the one subjectthat . . . "

His voice faltered, and he broke off abruptly. 

"I wish you were going with me to Berlin, " said he, after a long silencewhich I had not attempted to interrupt. 

"I wish with all my heart that I were!"

"And yet, " he added, "I am glad on--on her account, that you remain inParis. You will call upon her sometimes, Arbuthnot?"

"If Madame De Cour. . . . I mean, if Mrs. Dalrymple will permit me. "

An involuntary smile flitted across his lips--the first I had seen thereall the day. 

"She will be glad--grateful. She knows that I value you, and she hasproof that I trust you. You are the only possessor of our secret. "

"It is as safe with me, " I said, "as if I were dead, and in my grave. "

"I know it, old fellow. Well--you will see her sometimes. You will writeto me, and tell me how she is looking. If--if she were to fall ill, youwould not conceal it from me? and in case of any emergency--anyannoyance arising from De Caylus . . . "

"Were she my own sister, " I said, earnestly, "she would not find mereadier to assist or defend her. Of this, Dalrymple, be assured. "

"Thank you, " he said, and stretched up his hand to me. "I do believe youare true--though there are few men, and still fewer women, of whom Ishould like to say as much. By the way, Arbuthnot, beware of that littleflirt, Madame de Marignan. She has charming eyes, but no more heart thana vampire. Besides, an entanglement with a married woman!. . . _cela ne sepeut pas, mon cher_. You are too young to venture on such dangerousground, and too inexperienced. "

I smiled--perhaps somewhat bitterly--for the wound was still fresh, andI could not help wincing when any hand came near it. 

"You are right, " I replied. "Madame de Marignan is a dangerous woman;but dangerous for me no longer. However, I have paid rather dearly formy safety. "

And with this, I told him the whole story from beginning to end, confessing all my follies without reservation. Surprised, amused, sometimes unable to repress a smile, sometimes genuinely compassionate, he heard my narrative through, accompanying it from time to time withmuttered comments and ejaculations, none of which were very flatteringto Madame de Marignan. When I had done, he sprang to his feet, laid hishand heavily upon my shoulder, and said:--

"Damon, there are a great many disagreeable things in life which wisepeople say are good for us, and for which they tell us we ought to begrateful in proportion to our discomfort. For my own part, however, I amno optimist. I am not fond of mortifying the flesh, and the eloquence ofSocrates would fail to persuade me that a carbuncle was a cheerfulcompanion, or the gout an ailment to be ardently desired. Yet, for allthis, I cannot say that I look upon your adventure in the light of amisfortune. You have lost time, spent money, and endured a considerableamount of aggravation; but you have, on the other hand, acquired easeof manner, facility of conversation, and just that necessary polishwhich fits a man for society. Come! you have received a valuable lessonboth in morals and manners; so farewell to Madame de Marignan, and letus write _Pour acquit_ against the score!"

Willing enough to accept this cheerful view, I flourished an imaginaryautograph upon the air with the end of my cane, and laughingly dismissedthe subject. 

We then strolled back through the wood, treading the soft moss under ourfeet, startling the brown lizards from our path and the squirrels fromthe lower branches of the great trees, and, now and then, surprising aplump little green frog, which went skipping away into the long grass, like an animated emerald. Coming back to the gardens, we next lingeredfor some time upon the terrace, admiring the superb panorama ofundulating woodland and cultivated champaign, which, seen through thegolden haze of afternoon, stretched out in glory to the remotesthorizon. To our right stood the prison-like chateau, flinging back thesunset from its innumerable casements, and seeming to drink in the warmglow at every pore of its old, red bricks. To our left, all lighted upagainst the sky, rose the lofty tree-tops of the forest which we hadjust quitted. Our shadows stretched behind us across the level terrace, like the shadows of giants. Involuntarily, we dropped our voices. Itwould have seemed almost like profanity to speak aloud while the firstinfluence of that scene was upon us. 

Going on presently towards the verge of the terrace, we came upon anartist who, with his camp-stool under his arm, and his portfolio at hisfeet, was, like ourselves, taking a last look at the sunset before goingaway. As we approached, he turned and recognised us. It was Herr FranzMüller, the story-telling student of the _Chicards_ club. 

"Good-afternoon, gentlemen, " said he, lifting his red cap, and lettingit fall back again a little on one side. "We do not see many suchsunsets in the course of the summer. "

"Indeed, no, " replied Dalrymple; "and ere long the autumn tints will becreeping over the landscape, and the whole scene will assume a differentcharacter. Have you been sketching in the forest?"

"No--I have been making a study of the chateau and terrace from thispoint, with the landscape beyond. It is for an historical subject whichI have laid out for my winter's work. "

And with this, he good-naturedly opened his folio and took out thesketch, which was a tolerably large one, and represented the scene undermuch the same conditions of light as we now saw it. 

"I shall have a group of figures here, " he said, pointing to a spot onthe terrace, "and a more distant one there; with a sprinkling of dogsand, perhaps, a head or two at an open window of the chateau. I shallalso add a flag flying on the turret, yonder. "

"A scene, I suppose, from the life of Louis the Thirteenth, " Isuggested. 

"No--I mean it for the exiled court of James the Second, " replied he. "And I shall bring in the King, and Mary of Modena, and the Prince theirson, who was afterwards the Pretender. "

"It is a good subject, " said Dalrymple. "You will of course findexcellent portraits of all these people at Versailles; and a livelydescription of their court, mode of life, and so forth, if my memoryserves me correctly, in the tales of Anthony, Count Hamilton. But withall this, I dare say, you are better acquainted than I. "

"_Parbleu!_ not I, " said the student, shouldering his camp-stool as ifit were a musket, and slinging his portfolio by a strap across his back;"therefore, I am all the more obliged to you for the information. Myreading is neither very extensive nor very useful; and as for mylibrary, I could pack it all into a hat-case any day, and find room fora few other trifles at the same time. Here is the author I chieflystudy. He is my constant companion, and, like myself, looks somewhat theworse for wear. "

Saying which, he produced from one of his pockets a little, greasy, dog-eared volume of Beranger, about the size of a small snuff-box, andbegan singing aloud, to a very cheerful air, a song of which a certainfaithless Mademoiselle Lisette was the heroine, and of which the refrainwas always:--

 "_Lisette! ma Lisette, Tu m'as trompé toujours; Je veux, Lisette, Boire à nos amours_. "

To this accompaniment we walked back through the gardens to the railwaystation, where, being a quarter of an hour too soon, our companionamused himself by "chaffing, " questioning, contradicting, and otherwiseingeniously tormenting the check-takers and porters of theestablishment. One pompous official, in particular, became so helplesslyindignant that he retired into a little office overlooking the platform, and was heard to swear fluently, all by himself, for several minutes. The time having expired and the doors being opened, we passed out withthe rest of the home-going Parisians, and were about to take our places, when Müller, climbing like a cat to the roof-seats on the top of thesecond-class carriages, beckoned us to follow. 

"Who would be shut up with ten fat people and a baby, when fresh air canbe breathed, and tobacco smoked, for precisely the same fare?" asked he. "You don't mean to say that you came down to St. Germains in one of thedens below?"

"Yes, we did, " I replied; "but we had it to ourselves. "

"So much the worse. Man is a gregarious animal, and woman also--whichproves Zimmerman to have been neither, and accounts for the brotherhoodof _Les Chicards_. Would you like to see how that old gentleman lookswhen he is angry?"

"Which? The one in the opposite corner?"

"The same. "

"Well, that depends on circumstances. Why do you ask?"

"Because I'll engage to satisfy your curiosity in less than tenminutes. "

"Oh, no, don't affront him, " said I. "We shall only have a scene. "

"I won't affront him. I promise not to utter a syllable, eitheroffensive or defensive. "

"Leave him alone, then, poor devil!"

"Nonsense! If he chooses to be annoyed, that's his business, and notmine. Now, you'll see. "

And Müller, alert for mischief, stared fixedly at the old gentleman inthe opposite corner for some minutes--then sighed--roused himself as iffrom a profound reverie--seized his portfolio--took out a pencil andsketch-book--mended the pencil with an elaborate show of fastidiousnessand deliberation--stared again--drew a deep breath--turned somewhataside, as if anxious to conceal his object, and began sketching rapidly. Now and then he paused; stole a furtive glance over his shoulder; bithis lip; rubbed out; corrected; glanced again; and then went on rapidlyas before. 

In the meanwhile the old gentleman, who was somewhat red and irascible, began to get seriously uncomfortable. He frowned, fidgeted, coughed, buttoned and unbuttoned his coat, and jealously watched every proceedingof his tormentor. A general smile dawned upon the faces of the rest ofthe travellers. The priest over the way pinched his lips together, andlooked down demurely. The two girls, next to the priest, tittered behindtheir handkerchiefs. The young man with the blue cravat sucked the topof his cane, and winked openly at his companions, both of whom werecracking nuts, and flinging the shells down the embankment. PresentlyMüller threw his head back, held the drawing off, still studiouslykeeping the back of it towards the rest of the passengers; looked at itwith half-closed eyes; stole another exceedingly cautious glance at hisvictim; and then, affecting for the first time to find himself observed, made a vast show of pretending to sketch the country through which wewere passing. 

The old gentleman could stand it no longer. 

"Monsieur, " said he, angrily. "Monsieur, I will thank you not to take myportrait. I object to it. Monsieur. "

"Charming distance, " said Müller, addressing himself to me "Wantsinterest, however, in the foreground. That's a picturesque tree yonder, is it not?"

The old gentleman struck his umbrella sharply on the floor. 

"It's of no use, Monsieur, " he exclaimed, getting more red and excited. "You are taking my portrait, and I object to it. I know you are takingmy portrait. "

Müller looked up dreamily. 

"I beg your pardon, Monsieur, " said he. "Did you speak?'

"Yes, Monsieur. I did speak. I repeat that you shall not take myportrait. "

"Your portrait, Monsieur?"

"Yes, my portrait!"

"But, Monsieur, " remonstrated the artist, with an air of mingled candorand surprise, "I never dreamed of taking your portrait!"

"_Sacre non_!" shouted the old gentleman, with another rap of theumbrella. "I saw you do it! Everybody saw you do It!"

"Nay, if Monsieur will but do me the honor to believe that I was simplysketching from nature, as the train. . . . "

"An impudent subterfuge, sir!" interrupted the old gentleman. "Animpudent subterfuge, and nothing less!"

Müller drew himself up with immense dignity. 

"Monsieur, " he said, haughtily, "that is an expression which I mustrequest you to retract. I have already assured you, on the word of agentleman. . . . "

"A gentleman, indeed! A pretty gentleman! He takes my portrait, and. . . . "

"I have not taken your portrait, Monsieur. "

"Good heavens!" cried the old gentleman, looking round, "was ever suchassurance! Did not every one present see him in the act? I appeal toevery one--to you, Monsieur--to you, Mesdames, --to you, reverendfather, --did you not all see this person taking my portrait?"

"Nay, then, if it must come to this, " said Müller, "let the sketch beevidence, and let these ladies and gentlemen decide whether it is reallythe portrait of Monsieur--and if they think it like?"

Saying which, he held up the book, and displayed a head, sketched, it istrue, with admirable spirit and cleverness, but--the head of an ass, with a thistle in its mouth!

A simultaneous explosion of mirth followed. Even the priest laughed tillthe tears ran down his cheeks, and Dalrymple, heavy-hearted as he was, could not help joining in the general shout. As for the old gentleman, the victim of this elaborate practical joke, he glared at us all round, swore that it was a premeditated insult from beginning to end, and, swelling with suppressed rage, flung himself back into his corner, andlooked resolutely in the opposite direction. 

By this time we were half-way to Paris, and the student, satisfied withhis success, packed up his folio, brought out a great meerschaum with asnaky tube, and smoked like a factory-chimney. 

When we alighted, it was nearly five o'clock. 

"What shall we do next?" said Dalrymple, pulling drearily at hismoustache. "I am so deuced dull to-day that I am ashamed to ask anybodyto do me the charity to dine with me--especially a _bon garçon_ likeHerr Müller. "

"Don't be ashamed, " said the student, laughingly, "I would dine withPluto himself, if the dishes were good and my appetite as sharpas to-day. "

"_Allons_, then! Where shall we go; to the _Trois Frères_, or the_Moulin Rouge_, or the _Maison Dorée_?"

"The _Trois Frères_" said Müller, with the air of one who deliberates onthe fate of nations, "has the disadvantage of being situated in thePalais Royal, where the band still continues to play at half-past fiveevery afternoon. Now, music should come on with the sweets and thechampagne. It is not appropriate with soup or fish, and it distractsone's attention if injudiciously administered with the made dishes, "

"True. Then shall we try the _Moulin Rouge_?"

Müller shook his head. 

"At the _Moulin Rouge_" said he, gravely, "one can breakfast well; buttheir dinners are stereotyped. For the last ten years they have notadded a new dish to their _carte_; and the discovery of a new dish, saysBrillat Savarin, is of more importance to the human race than thediscovery of a new planet. No--I should not vote for the_Moulin Rouge_. "

"Well, then, Véfours, Véry's, the Café Anglais?"

"Véfours is traditional; the Café Anglais is infested with English; andat Véry's, which is otherwise a meritorious establishment, one'sdigestion is disturbed by the sight of omnivorous provincials, who drinkchampagne with the _rôti_, and eat melon at dessert. "

Dalrymple laughed outright. 

"At this rate, " said he, "we shall get no dinner at all! What is tobecome of us, if neither Véry's, nor the _Trois Frères_, nor the _MoulinRouge_, nor the _Maison Dorée_. . . . "

"_Halte-là!"_ interrupted the student, theatrically; "for by my halidom, sirs, I said not a syllable in disparagement of the house yelept Dorée!Is it not there that we eat of the crab of Bordeaux, succulent androseate? Is it not there that we drink of Veuve Cliquot the costly, andof that Johannisberger, to which all other hocks are vinegar and water?Never let it be said that Franz Müller, being of sound mind and body, did less than justice to the reputation of the _Maison Dorée_. "

"To the _Maison Dorée_, then, " said Dalrymple, "with what speed andappetite we may! By Jove! Herr Franz, you are a _connoisseur_ in thematter of dining. "

"A man who for twenty-nine days out of every thirty pays his sixty-fivecentimes for two dishes at a student's Restaurant in the Quartier Latin, knows better than most people where to go for a good dinner when he hasthe chance, " said Müller, philosophically. "The ragoûts of theTemple--the _arlequins_ of the _Cité_--the fried fish of the Odéonarcades--the unknown hashes of the _guingettes_, and the 'funeral bakedmeats' of the Palais Royal, are all familiar to my pocket and my palate. I do not scruple to confess that in cases of desperate emergency, I haveeven availed myself of the advantages of _Le hasard_. "

"_Le hasard_. " said I. "What is that?"

"_Le hasard de la fourchette_, " replied the student, "is the resort ofthe vagabond, the _gamin_, and the _chiffonier_. It lies down by theriver-side, near the Halles, and consists of nothing but a shed, a fire, and a caldron. In this caldron a seething sea of oleaginous liquidconceals an infinite variety of animal and vegetable substances. Thearrangements of the establishment are beautifully simple. The votarypays his five centimes and is armed by the presiding genius of the placewith a huge two-pronged iron fork. This fork he plunges in once;--he mayget a calf's foot, or a potato, or a sheep's head, or a carrot, or acabbage, or nothing, as fate and the fork direct. All men are gamblersin some way or another, and _Le hasard_ is a game of gastronomic chance. But from the ridiculous to the sublime, it is but a step--and whiletalking of _Le hasard_ behold, we have arrived at the _Maison Dorée_. "

CHAPTER XIX. 

A DINNER AT THE MAISON DORÉE AND AN EVENING PARTY IN THE QUARTIER LATIN. 

The most genial of companions was our new acquaintance, Franz Müller, the art-student. Light-hearted, buoyant, unassuming, he gave his animalspirits full play, and was the life of our little dinner. He had morenatural gayety than generally belongs to the German character, and hisgood-temper was inexhaustible. He enjoyed everything; he made the bestof everything; he saw food for laughter in everything. He was alwaysamused, and therefore was always amusing. Above all, there was aspontaneity in his mirth which acted upon others as a perpetualstimulant. He was in short, what the French call a _bon garçon_, and theEnglish a capital fellow; easy without assurance, comic withoutvulgarity, and, as Sydney Smith wittily hath it--"a great number ofother things without a great number of other things. "

Upon Dalrymple, who had been all day silent, abstracted, and unlike hisusual self, this joyous influence acted like a tonic. As entertainer, hewas bound to exert himself, and the exertion did him good. He threw offhis melancholy; and with the help, possibly, of somewhat more than hisusual quantity of wine, entered thoroughly into the passing joyousnessof the hour. What a _recherché_, luxurious extravagant little dinner itwas, that evening at the Maison Dorée! We had a charming little roomoverlooking the Boulevard, furnished with as much looking-glass, crimson-velvet, gilding, and arabesque painting as could be got togetherwithin the space of twelve-feet by eight. Our wine came to table in asilver cooler that Cellini might have wrought. Our meats were servedupon porcelain that would have driven Palissy to despair. We had nothingthat was in season, except game, and everything that was out; which, by-the-way, appears to be our modern criterion of excellence withrespect to a dinner. Finally, we were waited upon by the most imposingof waiters--a waiter whose imperturbable gravity was not to be shaken byany amount of provocation, and whose neckcloth alone was sufficient toqualify him for the church. 

How merry we were! How Müller tormented that diplomatic waiter! Whatstories we told! what puns we made! What brilliant things we said, orfancied we said, over our Chambertin and Johannisberger! Müller knewnothing of the substratum of sadness underlying all that jollity. Helittle thought how heavy Dalrymple's strong heart had been that morning. He had no idea that my friend and I were to part on the morrow, formonths or years, as the case might be--he to carry his unrest hither andthither through distant lands; I to remain alone in a strange city, pursuing a distasteful study, and toiling onward to a future withoutfascination or hope. But, as the glass seals tell us, "such is life. " Weare all mysteries to one another. The pleasant fellow whom I invite todinner because he amuses me, carries a scar on his soul which it wouldfrighten me to see; and he in turn, when he praises my claret, littledreams of the carking care that poisons it upon my palate, and robs itof all its aroma. Perhaps the laughter-loving painter himself had hisown little tragedy locked up in some secret corner of the heart thatseemed to beat so lightly under that braided blouse of Palais Royal cutand Quartier Latin fashion! Who could tell? And of what use would it be, if it were told? Smiles carry one through the world more agreeably thantears, and if the skeleton is only kept decently out of sight in its ownunsuspected closet, so much the better for you and me, and societyat large. 

Dinner over, and the serious waiter dismissed with the dessert and theempty bottles, we sat by the open window for a long time, sipping ourcoffee, smoking our cigars, and watching the busy life of the Boulevardbelow. There the shops were all alight and the passers-by more numerousthan by day. Carriages were dashing along, full of opera-goers andball-room beauties. On the pavement just under our window were seatedthe usual crowd of Boulevard idlers, sipping their _al fresco_ absinthe, and _grog-au-vin. _ In the very next room, divided from us by only aslender partition, was a noisy party of young men and girls. We couldhear their bursts of merriment, the chinking of their glasses as theypledged one another, the popping of the champagne corks, and almost thevery jests that passed from lip to lip. Presently a band came and playedat the corner of an adjoining street. All was mirth, all was life, allwas amusement and dissipation both in-doors and out-of-doors, in the"care-charming" city of Paris on that pleasant September night; and we, of course, were gay and noisy, like our neighbors. Dalrymple and Müllercould scarcely be called new acquaintances. They had met some few timesat the _Chicards_, and also, some years before, in Rome. What storiesthey told of artists whom they had known! What fun they made ofAcademic dons and grave professors high in authority! What pictures theydrew, of life in Rome--in Vienna--in Paris! Though we had no ladies ofour party and were only three in number, I am not sure that themerry-makers in the next room laughed any louder or oftener than we!

At length the clock on the mantelpiece warned us that it was alreadyhalf-past nine, and that we had been three hours at dinner. It wasclearly time to vary the evening's amusement in some way or other, andthe only question was what next to do? Should we go to a billiard-room?Or to the Salle Valentinois? Or to some of the cheap theatres on theBoulevard du Temple? Or to the Tableaux Vivants? Or the Café desAveugles? Or take a drive round by the Champs Elysées in an open fly?

At length Müller remembered that some fellow-students were giving aparty that evening, and offered to introduce us. 

"It is up five pairs of stairs, in the Quartier Latin, " said he; "butthoroughly jolly--all students and grisettes. They'll be delightedto see us. "

This admirable proposition was no sooner made than acted upon; so westarted immediately, and Dalrymple, who seemed to be well acquaintedwith the usages of student-life, proposed that we should take with us astore of sweetmeats for the ladies. 

"There subsists, " observed he, "a mysterious elective affinity betweenthe grisette and the chocolate bon-bon. He who can skilfully exhibit thelatter, is almost certain to win the heart of the former. Where thechocolate fails, however, the _marron glacé_ is an infallible specific. I recommend that we lay in a liberal supply of both weapons. "

"Carried by acclamation, " said Müller. "We can buy them on our way, inthe Rue Vivienne. A capital shop; but one that I never patronize--theygive no credit. "

Chatting thus, and laughing, we made our way across the Boulevard andthrough a net-work of by-streets into the Rue Vivienne, where we laidsiege to a great bon-bon shop--a gigantic depot for dyspepsia at somuch per kilogramme--and there filled our pockets with sweets of everyimaginable flavor and color. This done, a cab conveyed us in somethingless than ten minutes across the Pont Neuf to the Quartier Latin. 

Müller's friends were three in number, and all students--one of art, oneof law, and one of medicine. They lodged at the top of a dingy housenear the Odéon, and being very great friends and very near neighborswere giving this entertainment conjointly. Their names were Gustave, Jules, and Adrien. Adrien was the artist, and lived in the garret, justover the heads of Gustave and Jules, which made it very convenient for aparty, and placed a _suite_ of rooms at the disposal of their visitors. 

Long before we had achieved the five pairs of stairs, we heard the soundof voices and the scraping of a violin, and on the fifth landing werereceived by a pretty young lady in a coquettish little cap, whom Müllerfamiliarly addressed as Annette, and who piloted us into a very smallbed-room which was already full of hats and coats, bonnets, shawls, andumbrellas. Having added our own paletots and beavers to the generalstock, and having each received a little bit of pasteboard in exchangefor the same, we were shown into the ball-room by Mademoiselle Annette, who appeared to fill the position of hostess, usher, and generalsuperintendent. 

It was a good-sized room, somewhat low in the ceiling, and brilliantlylighted with lots of tallow candles in bottles. The furniture had allbeen cleared out for the dancers, except a row of benches round thewalls, and a chest of draws in a recess between the windows which servedas a raised platform for the orchestra. The said orchestra consisted ofa violin and accordion, both played by amateurs, with an occasional_obligato_ on the common comb. As for the guests, they were, as Müllerhad already told us, all students and grisettes--the former wearingevery strange variety of beard and blouse; the latter in prettylight-colored muslins and bewitching little caps, with the exception oftwo who wore flowers in their hair, and belonged to the opera ballet. They were in the midst of a tremendous galop when we arrived; so westood at the door and looked on, and Dalrymple flirted with MademoiselleAnnette. As soon as the galop was over, two of our hosts came forward towelcome us. 

"The Duke of Dalrymple and the Marquis of Arbuthnot--Messieurs JulesCharpentier and Gustave Dubois, " said Müller, with the most _dégagé_ airin the world. 

Monsieur Jules, a tall young man with an enormous false nose of theregular carnival pattern, and Monsieur Gustave, who was short and stout, with a visible high-water mark round his throat and wrists, and curiousleather mosaics in his boots, received us very cordially, and did notappear to be in the least surprised at the magnificence of theintroduction. On the contrary, they shook hands with us; apologized forthe absence of Adrien, who was preparing the supper upstairs; andoffered to find us partners for the next valse. Dalrymple immediatelyproposed for the hand of Mademoiselle Annette. Müller, decliningadventitious aid, wandered among the ladies, making himself universallyagreeable and trusting for a partner to his own unassisted efforts. Formyself, I was indebted to Monsieur Gustave for an introduction to a verycharming young lady whose name was Josephine, and with whom I fell overhead and ears in love without a moment's warning. 

She was somewhat under the middle height, slender, supple, rosy-lipped, and coquettish to distraction. Her pretty mouth dimpled round withsmiles at every word it uttered. Her very eyes laughed. Her hair, whichwas more adorned than concealed by a tiny muslin cap that clung by someunseen agency to the back of her head, was of a soft, warm, wavy brown, with a woof of gold threading it here and there. Her voice was perhaps alittle loud; her conversation rather childish; her accent such as wouldscarcely have passed current in the Faubourg St. Germain--but what ofthat? One would be worse than foolish to expect style and cultivation ina grisette; and had I not had enough to disgust me with both in Madamede Marignan? What more charming, after all, than youth, beauty, andlightheartedness? Were Noel and Chapsal of any importance to a mouththat could not speak without such a smile as Hebe might have envied?

I was, at all events, in no mood to take exception to these littledefects. I am not sure that I did not even regard them in the light ofadditional attractions. That which in another I should have called_bête_, I set down to the score of _naïveté_ in MademoiselleJosephine. One is not diffident at twenty--by the way, I was nowtwenty-one--especially after dining at the Maison Dorée. 

Mademoiselle Josephine was frankness itself. Before I had enjoyed thepleasure of her acquaintance for ten minutes, she told me she was anartificial florist; that her _patronne_ lived in the Rue Ménilmontant;that she went to her work every morning at nine, and left it everyevening at eight; that she lodged _sous les toits_ at No. 70, RueAubry-le-Boucher; that her relations lived at Juvisy; and that she wentto see them now and then on Sundays, when the weather and her fundspermitted. 

"Is the country pretty at Juvisy, Mademoiselle?" I asked, by way ofkeeping up the conversation. 

"Oh, M'sieur, it is a real paradise. There are trees and fields, andthere is the Seine close by, and a château, and a park, and a church ona hill, . . . _ma foi!_ there is nothing in Paris half so pretty; not eventhe Jardin des Plantes!"

"And have you been there lately?"

"Not for eight weeks, at the very least, M'sieur. But then it coststhree francs and a half for the return ticket, and since I quarrelledwith Emile. . . . "

"Emile!" said I, quickly. "Who is he?"

"He is a picture-frame maker, M'sieur, and works for a great dealer inthe Rue du Faubourg Montmartre. He was my sweetheart, and he took me outsomewhere every Sunday, till we quarrelled. "

"And what did you quarrel about, Mademoiselle?"

My pretty partner laughed and tossed her head. 

"Eh, _mon Dieu_! he was jealous. "

"Jealous of whom?"

"Of a gentleman--an artist--who wanted to paint me in one of hispictures. Emile did not like me to go to his _atelier_ so often; and thegentleman gave me a shawl (such a pretty shawl!) and a canary in alovely green and gold cage; and. . . . "

"And Emile objected ?"

"Yes, M'sieur. "

"How very unreasonable!"

"That's just what I said, M'sieur. "

"And have you never seen him since!"

"Oh, yes--he keeps company now with my cousin Cecile, and she humors himin everything, "

"And the artist--what of him, Mademoiselle?"

"Oh, I sat to him every day, till his picture was finished. _Il étaitbien gentil_. He took me to the theatre several times, and once to afête at Versailles; but that was after Emile and I had broken it off. "

"Did you find it tiresome, sitting as a model?"

"_Mais, comme ci, et comme ça_! It was a beautiful dress, and became mewonderfully. To be sure, it was rather cold!"

"May I ask what character you were supposed to represent, Mademoiselle?"

"He said it was Phryne. I have no idea who she was; but I think she musthave found it very uncomfortable if she always wore sandals, and wentwithout stockings. "

I looked down at her little foot, and thought how pretty it must havelooked in the Greek sandal. I pictured her to myself in the gracefulGreek robe, with a chalice in her hand and her temples crowned withflowers. What a delicious Phryne! And what a happy fellow Praxitelesmust have been!

"It was a privilege, Mademoiselle, to be allowed to see you in socharming a costume, " I said, pressing her hand tenderly. "I envy thatartist from the bottom of my heart. "

Mademoiselle Josephine smiled, and returned the pressure. 

"One might borrow it, " said she, "for the Bal de l'Opéra. "

"Ah, Mademoiselle, if I dared only aspire to the honor of conductingyou!"

"_Dame_! it is nearly four months to come!"

"True, but in the meantime, Mademoiselle----"

"In the meantime, " said the fair Josephine, anticipating my hopes withall the unembarrassed straightforwardness imaginable, "I shall bedelighted to improve M'sieur's acquaintance. "

"Mademoiselle, you make me happy!"

"Besides, M'sieur is an Englishman, and I like the English so much!"

"I am delighted to hear it, Mademoiselle. I hope I shall never give youcause to alter your opinion. "

"Last galop before supper!" shouted Monsieur Jules through, a brassspeaking-trumpet, in order to make use of which he was obliged to holdup his nose with one hand. "Gentlemen, choose your partners. All couplesto dance till they drop!"

There were a dozen up immediately, amongst whom Dalrymple andMademoiselle Annette, and Müller with one of the ballet ladies, were thefirst to start. As for Josephine, she proved to be a damsel offorty-galop power. She never wanted to rest, and she never cared toleave off. She did not even look warm when it was over. I wonder to thisday how it was that I did not die on the spot. 

When the galop was ended, we all went upstairs to Monsieur Adrien'sgarret, where Monsieur Adrien, who had red hair and wore glasses, received us in person, and made us welcome. Here we found the supperelegantly laid out on two doors which had been taken off their hingesfor the purpose; but which, being supported from beneath on divers boxesand chairs of unequal heights, presented a painfully sloping surface, thereby causing the jellies to look like leaning towers of Pisa, and thespongecake (which was already professedly tipsy) to assume an air sounbecomingly convivial that it might almost have been called drunk. 

Nobody thought of sitting down, and, if they did, there were no means ofdoing so; for Monsieur Adrien's garret was none of the largest, and, asin a small villa residence we sometimes see the whole house sacrificedto a winding staircase, so in this instance had the whole room beensacrificed to the splendor of the supper. For the inconvenience ofstanding, we were compensated, however, by the abundance and excellenceof the fare. There were cold chickens, meat-pies, dishes of sliced ham, pyramids of little Bologna sausages, huge rolls of bread a yard inlength, lobster salad, and cold punch in abundance. 

The flirtations at supper were tremendous. In a bachelor establishmentone cannot expect to find every convenience, and on this occasion theprevailing deficiencies were among the plates and glasses; so those whohad been partners in the dance now became partners in other matters, eating off the same plate and drinking out of the same tumbler; but thisonly made it so much the merrier. By and by somebody volunteered a song, and somebody else made a speech, and then we went down again to theball-room, and dancing recommenced. 

The laughter now became louder, and the legs of the guests more vigorousthan ever. The orchestra, too, received an addition to its strength inthe person of a gentleman who, having drunk more cold punch than wasquite consistent with the preservation of his equilibrium, was stillsober enough to oblige us with a spirited accompaniment on the shoveland tongs, which, with the violin and accordion, and the comb _obligato_before mentioned, produced a startling effect, and reminded one ofTurkish marches, Pantomime overtures, and the like barbaric music. 

In the midst of the first polka, however, we were interrupted by asuccession of furious double knocks on the floor beneath our feet. Westopped by involuntary consent--dancers, musicians, and all. 

"It's our neighbor on the story below, " said Monsieur Jules. "He objectsto the dancing. "

"Then we'll dance a little heavier, to teach him better taste, " said astudent, who had so little hair on his head and so much on his chin, that he looked as if his face had been turned upside down. "What is thename of the ridiculous monster?"

"Monsieur Bobinet. "

"Ladies and gentlemen, let us dance for the edification of MonsieurBobinet! Orchestra, strike up, in honor of Monsieur Bobinet! One, two, three, and away!"

Hereupon we uttered a general hurrah, and dashed off again, like a herdof young elephants. The knocking ceased, and we thought that MonsieurBobinet had resigned himself to his fate, when, just as the polka endedand the dancers were promenading noisily round and round the room, thebombardment began afresh; and this time against the very door of theball-room. 

"_Par exemple_!" cries Monsieur Jules. "The enemy dares to attack us inour own lines!"

"Bolt the door, and let him knock till he's tired, " suggested one. 

"Open it suddenly, and deluge him with water!" cried another. 

"Tar and feather him!" proposed a third. 

In the meantime, Monsieur Bobinet, happily ignorant of these agreeableschemes for his reception, continued to thunder away upon the outerpanels, accompanying the raps with occasional loud coughs, and hems, andstampings of the feet. 

"Hush! do nothing violent, " cried Müller, scenting a practical joke. "Let us invite him in, and make fun of him. It will be ever so muchmore amusing!"

And with this he drove the rest somewhat back and threw open the door, upon the outer threshold of which, with a stick in one hand and abedroom candle in the other, and a flowered dressing-gown tied round hisample waist by a cord and tassels, stood Monsieur Bobinet. 

Müller received him with a profound bow, and said:--

"Monsieur Bobinet, I believe?"

Monsieur Bobinet, who was very bald, very cross, and very stout, castan irritable glance into the room, but, seeing so many people, drew backand said:--

"Yes, that is my name, Monsieur. I lodge on the fourth floor. . . . "

"But pray walk in, Monsieur Bobinet, " said Müller, opening the doorstill wider and bowing still more profoundly. 

"Monsieur, " returned the fourth-floor lodger, "I--I only come tocomplain. . . . "

"Whatever the occasion of this honor, Monsieur, " pursued the student, with increasing politeness, "we cannot suffer you to remain on thelanding. Pray do us the favor to walk in. "

"Oh, walk in--pray walk in, Monsieur Bobinet, " echoed Jules, Gustave, and Adrien, all together. 

The fourth-floor lodger hesitated; took a step forward; thought, perhaps, that, since we were all so polite, he would do his best toconciliate us; and, glancing down nervously at his dressing-gown andslippers, said:--

"Really, gentlemen, I should have much pleasure, but I am notprepared. . . . "

"Don't mention it, Monsieur Bobinet, " said Müller. "We are delighted toreceive you. Allow me to disembarrass you of your candle. "

"And permit me, " said Jules, "to relieve you of your stick. "

"Pray, Monsieur Bobinet, do you never dance the polka?" asked Gustave. 

"Bring Monsieur Bobinet a glass of cold punch, " said Adrien. 

"And a plate of lobster salad, " added the bearded student. 

Monsieur Bobinet, finding the door already closed behind him, lookedround nervously; but encountering only polite and smiling faces, endeavored to seem at his ease, and to put a good face upon the matter. 

"Indeed, gentlemen, I must beg you to excuse me, " said he. "I neverdrink at night, and I never eat suppers. I only came to request. . . . "

"Nay, Monsieur Bobinet, we cannot suffer you to leave us without takinga glass of cold punch, " pursued Müller. 

"Upon my word, " began the lodger, "I dare not. . . . "

"A glass of white wine, then?"

"Or a cup of coffee?"

"Or some home-made lemonade?"

Monsieur Bobinet cast a look of helpless longing towards the door. 

"If you really insist, gentlemen, " said he, "I will take a cup ofcoffee; but indeed. . . . "

"A cup of coffee for Monsieur Bobinet!" shouted Müller. 

"A large cup of coffee for Monsieur Bobinet!" repeated Jules. 

"A strong cup of coffee for Monsieur Bobinet!" cried Gustave, followingup the lead of the other two. 

The fourth-floor lodger frowned and colored up, beginning to besuspicious of mischief. Seeing this, Müller hastened to apologize. 

"You must pardon us, Monsieur Bobinet, " he said with the most winningamiability, "if we are all in unusually high spirits to-night. You arenot aware, perhaps, that our friend Monsieur Jules Charpentier wasmarried this morning, and that we are here in celebration of that happyevent. Allow me to introduce you to the bride. "

And turning to one of the ballet ladies, he led her forward withexceeding gravity, and presented her to Monsieur Bobinet as MadameCharpentier. 

The fourth-floor lodger bowed, and went through the usualcongratulations. In the meantime, some of the others had prepared a mocksofa by means of two chairs set somewhat wide apart, with a shawl thrownover the whole to conceal the space between. Upon one of these chairssat a certain young lady named Louise, and upon the other Mam'selleJosephine. As soon as it was ready, Muller, who had been only waitingfor it, affected to observe for the first time that Monsieur Bobinet wasstill standing. 

"_Mon Dieu_!" he exclaimed, "has no one offered our visitor a chair?Monsieur Bobinet, I beg a thousand pardons. Pray do us the favor to beseated. Your coffee will be here immediately, and these ladies on thesofa will be delighted to make room for you. "

"Oh yes, pray be seated, Monsieur Bobinet, " cried the two girls. "Weshall be charmed to make room for Monsieur Bobinet!"

More than ever confused and uncomfortable, poor Monsieur Bobinet bowed;sat down upon the treacherous space between the two chairs; went throughimmediately; and presented the soles of his slippers to the company inthe least picturesque manner imaginable. This involuntary performancewas greeted with a shout of wild delight. 

"Bravo, Monsieur Bobinet!"

"_Vive_ Monsieur Bobinet!"

"Three cheers for Monsieur Bobinet!"

Scarlet with rage, the fourth-floor lodger sprang to his feet and made arush to the door; but he was hemmed in immediately. In vain he stormed;in vain he swore. We joined hands; we called for music; we danced roundhim; we sang; and at last, having fairly bumped and thumped and hustledhim till we were tired, pushed him out on the landing, and left himto his fate. 

After this interlude, the mirth grew fast and furious. _Valse_ succeeded_valse_, and galop followed galop, till the orchestra declared theycould play no longer, and the gentleman with the shovel and tongscollapsed in a corner of the room and went to sleep with his head in thecoal-scuttle. Then the ballet-ladies were prevailed upon to favor uswith a _pas de deux_; after which Müller sang a comic song with achorus, in which everybody joined; and then the orchestra was bribedwith hot brandy-and-water, and dancing commenced again. By this time thevisitors began to drop away in twos and threes, and even the fairJosephine, to whom I had never ceased paying the most devoted attention, declared she could not stir another step. As for Dalrymple, he haddisappeared during supper, without a word of leave-taking to any one. 

Matters being at this pass, I looked at my watch, and found that it wasalready half-past six o'clock; so, having bade good-night, or rathergood-morning, to Messieurs Jules, Gustave, and Adrien, and having, withgreat difficulty, discovered my own coat and hat among the miscellaneouscollection in the adjoining bed-room, I prepared to escort MademoiselleJosephine to her home. 

"Going already?" said Müller, encountering us on the landing, with aroll in one hand and a Bologna sausage in the other. 

"Already! Why, my dear fellow, it is nearly seven o'clock!"

"_Qu'importe_? Come up to the supper-room and have some breakfast!"

"Not for the world!"

"Well, _chacun à son goût_. I am as hungry as a hunter. "

"Can I not take you any part of your way?"

"No, thank you. I am a Quartier Latinist, _pur sang_, and lodge only astreet or two off. Stay, here is my address. Come and see me--you can'tthink how glad I shall be!"

"Indeed, I will come---and here is my card in exchange. Good-night, HerrMüller. "

"Good-night, Marquis of Arbuthnot. Mademoiselle Josephine, _auplaisir_. "

So we shook hands and parted, and I saw my innamorata home to herresidence at No. 70, Rue Aubry le Boucher, which opened upon the Marchédes Innocents. She fell asleep upon my shoulder in the cab, and was onlyjust sufficiently awake when I left her, to accept all the _marronsglacés_ that yet remained in the pockets of my paletot, and to remind methat I had promised to take her out next Sunday for a drive in thecountry, and a dinner at the Moulin Rouge. 

The fountain in the middle of the Marché was now sparkling in thesunshine like a shower of diamonds, and the business of the market wasalready at its height. The shops in the neighboring streets were openingfast. The "iron tongue" of St. Eustache was calling the devout to earlyprayer. Fagged as I was, I felt that a walk through the fresh air woulddo me good; so I dismissed the cab, and reached my lodgings just as thesleepy _concierge_ had turned out to sweep the hall, and open theestablishment for the day. When I came down again two hours later, after a nap and a bath, I found a _commissionnaire_ waiting for me. 

"_Tiens_!" said Madame Bouïsse (Madame Bouïsse was the wife of the_concierge_). "_V'la_! here is M'sieur Arbuthnot. "

The man touched his cap, and handed me a letter. 

"I was told to deliver it into no hands but those of M'sieur himself, "said he. 

The address was in Dalrymple's writing. I tore the envelope open. Itcontained only a card, on the back of which, scrawled hastily in pencil, were the following words:

"To have said good-bye would have made our parting none the lighter. Bythe time you decipher this hieroglyphic I shall be some miles on my way:Address Hôtel de Russie, Berlin. Adieu, Damon; God bless you. O. D. "

"How long is it since this letter was given to you?" said I, withouttaking my eyes from the card. 

The _commissionnaire_ made no reply. I repeated the question, looked upimpatiently, and found that the man was already gone. 

CHAPTER XX. 

THE CHATEAU DE SAINTE AULAIRE. 

 "Mark yon old mansion frowning through the trees, Whose hollow turret wooes the whistling breeze. "

My acquaintance with Mademoiselle Josephine progressed rapidly;although, to confess the truth, I soon found myself much less deeply inlove than I had at first supposed. For this disenchantment, fate andmyself were alone to blame. It was not her fault if I had invested herwith a thousand imaginary perfections; nor mine if the spell was brokenas soon as I discovered my mistake. 

Too impatient to wait till Sunday, I made my way on Saturday afternoonto Rue Aubry-le-Boucher. I persuaded myself that I was bound to call onher, in order to conclude our arrangements for the following day. At allevents, I argued, she might forget the engagement, or believe that I hadforgotten it. So I went, taking with me a magnificent bouquet, and anembroidered satin bag full of _marrons glacés_. 

My divinity lived, as she had told me, _sous les toits_--and _sous lestoits_, up seven flights of very steep and dirty stairs, I found her. Itwas a large attic with a sloping roof, overlooking a bristling expanseof chimney-pots, and commanding the twin towers of Notre Dame. Therewere some colored prints of battles and shipwrecks wafered to the walls;a couple of flower-pots in the narrow space between the window-ledge andthe coping outside; a dingy canary in a wire cage; a rival mechanicalcuckoo in a Dutch clock in the corner; a little bed with stripedhangings; a rush-bottomed _prie-dieu_ chair in front of a plain blackcrucifix, over which drooped a faded branch of consecrated palm; andsome few articles of household furniture of the humblest description. Inall this there was nothing vulgar. Under other circumstances I might, perhaps, have even elicited somewhat of grace and poetry from thesesimple materials. But conceive what it was to see them through anatmosphere of warm white steam that left an objectionable clamminess onthe backs of the chairs and caused even the door-handle to burst into atepid perspiration. Conceive what it was to behold my adored onestanding in the middle of the room, up to her elbows in soap-suds, washing out the very dress in which she was to appear on the morrow. . . . Good taste defend us! Could anything be more cruelly calculated todisturb the tender tenor of a lover's dreams? Fancy what Leander wouldhave felt, if, after swimming across the Hellespont, he had surprisedHero at the washing-tub! Imagine Romeo's feelings, if he had scaled theorchard-walls only to find Juliet helping to hang out the family linen!

The worst of it was that my lovely Josephine was not in the leastembarrassed. She evidently regarded the washing-tub as a desirablepiece of furniture, and was not even conscious that the act of "soapingin, " was an unromantic occupation!

Such was the severity of this first blow that I pleaded an engagement, presented my offerings (how dreadfully inappropriate they seemed!), andhurried away to a lecture on _materia medica_ at the _École Pratique_;that being a good, congenial, dismal entertainment for the evening!

Sunday came with the sunrise, and at midday, true as the clock of St. Eustache, I knocked once more at the door of the _mansarde_ where myJosephine dwelt. This time, my visit being anticipated, I found herdressed to receive me. She looked more fresh and charming than ever; andthe lilac muslin which I had seen in the washing-tub some eighteen ortwenty hours before, became her to perfection. So did her pretty greenshawl, pinned closely at the throat and worn as only a French-womanwould have known how to wear it. So did the white camellia and themoss-rose buds which she had taken out of my bouquet, and fastened ather waist. 

What I was not prepared for, however, was her cap. I had forgotten thatyour Parisian grisette[1] would no more dream of wearing a bonnet thanof crowning her head with feathers and adorning her countenance withwar-paint. It had totally escaped me that I, a bashful Englishman oftwenty-one, nervously sensitive to ridicule and gifted by nature withbut little of the spirit of social defiance, must in broad daylight makemy appearance in the streets of Paris, accompanied by a bonnetlessgrisette! What should I do, if I met Dr. Chéron? or Madame deCourcelles? or, worse than all, Madame de Marignan? My obvious resourcewas to take her in whatever direction we should be least likely to meetany of my acquaintances. Where, oh fate! might that obscurity be foundwhich had suddenly become the dearest object of my desires?

[1] The grisette of twenty years ago, _bien entendu_. I am writing, beit remembered, of "The days of my youth. "

"_Eh bien_, Monsieur Basil, " said Josephine, when my first complimentshad been paid. "I am quite ready. Where are we going?"

"We shall dine, _mon cher ange_, " said I, absently, "at--let mesee--at. . . . "

"At the Moulin Rouge, " interrupted she. "But that is six hours to come. In the meantime--"

"In the meantime? Ay, in the meantime. . . What a delightful day for thetime of year!"

"Shall it be Versailles?" suggested Josephine. 

"Heaven forbid!"

Josephine opened her large eyes. 

"_Mon Dieu!_" said she. "What is there so very dreadful in Versailles?"

I made no reply. I was passing all the suburbs in review before mymind's eye, --Bellevue, Enghien, Fontenay-aux-Roses, St. Germains, Sceaux; even Fontainebleau and Compiègne. 

The grisette pouted, and glanced at the clock. 

"If Monsieur is as slow to start as he is to answer, " said she, "weshall not get beyond the barriers to-day. "

At this moment, I remembered to have heard of Montlhéry as a place wherethere was a forest and a feudal ruin; also, which was more to thepurpose, as lying at least six-and-twenty miles south of Paris. 

"My dear Mademoiselle Josephine, " I said, "forgive me. I have planned anexcursion which I am sure will please you infinitely better than a merecommon-place trip to Versailles. Versailles, on Sunday, is vulgar. Youhave heard, of course, of Montlhéry--one of the most interesting placesnear Paris. "

"I have read a romance called _The Tower of Montlhéry"_ said Josephine. 

"And that tower--that historical and interesting tower--is stillstanding! How delightful to wander among the ruins--to recall thestirring events which caused it to be besieged in the reign of--ofeither Louis the Eleventh, or Louis the Fourteenth; I don't rememberwhich, and it doesn't signify--to explore the picturesque village, andramble through the adjoining woods of St. Geneviève--to visit. . . "

"I wonder if we shall find any donkeys to ride, " interrupted Josephine, upon whom my eloquence was taking the desired effect. 

"Donkeys!" I exclaimed, drawing, I am ashamed to say, upon myimagination. "Of course--hundreds of them!"

"_Ah, ça_! Then the sooner we go the better. Stay, I must just lock mydoor, and leave word with my neighbor on the next floor that I am goneout for the day, "

So she locked the door and left the message, and we started. I wasfortunate enough to find a close cab at the corner of the _marché_--shewould have preferred an open one, but I overruled that objection on thescore of time--and before very long we were seated in the cushionedfauteuils of a first-class compartment on the Orleans Railway, andspeeding away towards Montlhéry. 

It was with no trifling sense of relief that I found the place reallypicturesque, when we arrived. We had, it is true, to put up with acomfortless drive of three or four miles in a primitive, jolting, yellowomnibus, which crawled at stated hours of the day between the town andthe station; but that was a minor evil, and we made the best of it. First of all, we strolled through the village--the clean, white, sunnyvillage, where the people were sitting outside their doors playing atdominoes, and the cocks and hens were walking about like privilegedinhabitants of the market-place. Then we had luncheon at the _auberge_of the "Lion d'Or. " Then we looked in at the little church (stillsmelling of incense from the last service) with its curious oldaltar-piece and monumental brasses. Then we peeped through the iron gateof the melancholy _cimetière_, which was full of black crosses andwreaths of _immortelles_. Last of all, we went to see the ruin, whichstood on the summit of a steep and solitary rock in the midst of a vastlevel plain. It proved to be a round keep of gigantic strength andheight, approached by two courtyards and surrounded by the weed-grownand fragmentary traces of an extensive stronghold, nothing of which nowremained save a few broken walls, three or four embrasured loopholes, anancient well of incalculable depth, and the rusted teeth of a formidableportcullis. Here we paused awhile to rest and admire the view; whileJosephine, pleased as a child on a holiday, flung pebbles into the well, ate sugar-plums, and amused herself with my pocket-telescope. 

"_Regardez_!" she cried, "there is the dome of the Panthéon. I am sureit is the Panthéon--and to the right, far away, I see a town!--littlewhite houses, and a steeple. And there goes a steamer on the river--andthere is the railway and the railway station, and the long road by whichwe came in the omnibus. Oh, how nice it is, Monsieur Basil, to lookthrough a telescope!"

"Do me the favor, _ma belle_, to accept it--for my sake, " said I, thankful to find her so easily entertained. I was lying in a shady angleof old wall, puffing away at a cigar, with my hat over my eyes, and thesoles of my boots levelled at the view. It is difficult to smoke andmake love at the same time; and I preferred the tobacco. 

Josephine was enchanted, and thanked me in a thousand pretty, foolishphrases. She declared she saw ever so much farther and clearer with theglass, now that it was her own. She looked at me through it, andinsisted that I should look at her. She picked out all sorts ofmarvellous objects, at all sorts of incredible distances. In short, sheprattled and chattered till I forgot all about the washing-tub, andagain began to think her quite charming. Presently we heard wanderingsounds of music among the trees at the foot of the hill--sounds as of aviolin and bagpipes; now coming with the wind from the west, now dyingaway to the north, now bursting out afresh more merrily than ever, andleading off towards the village. 

"_Tiens_! that must be a wedding!" said Josephine, drumming with herlittle feet against the side of the old well on which she was sitting. 

"A wedding! what connection subsists, pray, between the bonds ofmatrimony, and a tune on the bagpipes?"

"I don't know what you mean by bagpipes--I only know that when peopleget married in the country, they go about with the musicians playingbefore them. What you hear yonder is a violin and a _cornemuse_. "

"A _cornemuse!_" I repeated. "What's that?"

"Oh, country music. A thing you blow into with your mouth, and play uponwith your fingers, and squeeze under your arm--like this. "

"Then it's the same thing, _ma chère_, " said I. "A bagpipes and a_cornemuse_--a _cornemuse_ and bagpipes. Both of them national, popular, and frightful. "

"I'm so fond of music, " said Josephine. 

Not wishing to object to her tastes, and believing that this observationrelated to the music then audible, I made no reply. 

"And I have never been to an opera, " added she. 

I was still silent, though from another motive. 

"You will take me one night to the Italiens, or the Opéra Comique, willyou not, Monsieur Basil?" pursued she, determined not to lose heropportunity. 

I had now no resource but to promise; which I did, very reluctantly. 

"You would enjoy the Opéra Comique far more than the Italiens, " said I, remembering that Madame de Marignan had a box at the Italiens, andrapidly weighing the chances for and against the possibility ofrecognition. "At the first they sing in French--at the last, in Italian, "

"Ah, bah! I should prefer the French, " replied she, falling at once intothe snare. "When shall it be--this week?"

"Ye--es; one evening this week. "

"What evening?"

"Well, let me see--we had better wait, and consult the advertisements. "

"_Dame_! never mind the advertisements. Let it be Tuesday. "

"Why Tuesday?"

"Because it is soon; and because I can get away early on Tuesdays if Iask leave. "

I had, plainly, no chance of escape. 

"You would not prefer to see the great military piece at the Porte St. Martin?" I suggested. "There are three hundred real soldiers in it, andthey fire real cannon. "

"Not I! I have been to the Porte St. Martin, over and over again. Emileknew one of the scene-painter's assistants, and used to get tickets twoor three times a month. "

"Then it shall be the Opera Comique, " said I, with a sigh. 

"And on Tuesday evening next. "

"On Tuesday evening next. "

At this moment the piping and fiddling broke out afresh, and Josephine, who had scarcely taken the little telescope from her eye all the time, exclaimed that she saw the wedding party going through the market-placeof the town. 

"There they are--the musicians first; the bride and bridegroom next; andeight friends, all two and two! There will be a dance, depend on it! Letus go down to the town, and hear all about it! Perhaps they might inviteus to join them--who knows?"

"But you would not dance before dinner?"

"_Eh, mon Dieu_! I would dance before breakfast, if I had the chance. Come along. If we do not make haste, we may miss them. "

I rose, feeling, and I daresay, looking, like a martyr; and we went downagain into the town. 

There we inquired of the first person who seemed likely to know--he wasa dapper hairdresser, standing at his shop-door with his hands in hisapron pockets and a comb behind his ear--and were told that thewedding-party had just passed through the village, on their way to theChateau of Saint Aulaire. 

"The Chateau of St. Aulaire!" said Josephine. "What are they going to dothere? What is there to see?"

"It is an ancient mansion, Mademoiselle, much visited by strangers, "replied the hairdresser with exceeding politeness. "Worthy ofMademoiselle's distinguished attention--and Monsieur's. Contains oldfurniture, old paintings, old china--stands in an extensive park--one ofthe lions of this neighborhood, Mademoiselle--also Monsieur. "

"To whom does it belong?" I asked, somewhat interested in this account. 

"That, Monsieur, is a question difficult to answer, " replied the fluenthairdresser, running his fingers through his locks and dispersing agentle odor of rose-oil. "It was formerly the property of the ancientfamily of Saint Aulaire. The last Marquis de Saint Aulaire, with hiswife and family, were guillotined in 1793. Some say that the young heirwas saved; and an individual asserting himself to be that heir didactually put forward a claim to the estate, some twenty, orfive-and-twenty years ago, but lost his cause for want of sufficientproof. In the meantime, it had passed into the hands of a wealthyrepublican family, descended, it is said, from General Dumouriez. Thisfamily held it till within the last four years, when two or three freshclaimants came forward; so that it is now the object of a lawsuit whichmay last till every brick of it falls to ruin, and every tree about itwithers away. At present, a man and his wife have charge of the place, and visitors are permitted to see it any day between twelve and four. "

"I should like to see the old place, " said I. 

"And I should like to see how the bride is dressed, " said Josephine, "and if the bridegroom is handsome. "

"Well, let us go--not forgetting to thank Monsieur _le Perruquier_ forhis polite information. "

Monsieur _le Perruquier_ fell into what dancing-masters call the firstposition, and bowed elaborately. 

"Most welcome, Mademoiselle--and Monsieur, " said he. "Straight up theroad--past the orchard about a quarter of a mile--old iron gates--can'tmiss it. Good-afternoon, Mademoiselle--also Monsieur. "

Following his directions, we came presently to the gates, which wererusty and broken-hinged, with traces of old gilding still showingfaintly here and there upon their battered scrolls and bosses. One ofthem was standing open, and had evidently been standing so for years;while the other had as evidently been long closed, so that the deepgrass had grown rankly all about it, and the very bolt was crusted overwith a yellow lichen. Between the two, an ordinary wooden hurdle hadbeen put up, and this hurdle was opened for us by a little blue-blousedurchin in a pair of huge _sabots_, who, thinking we belonged to thebridal party, pointed up the dusky avenue, and said, with a grin:--

"_Tout droit, M'sieur--ils sont passés par là!_"

_Par là_, "under the shade of melancholy boughs, " we went accordingly. Far away on either side stretched dim vistas of neglected park-land, deep with coarse grass and weeds and, where the trees stood thickest, all choked with a brambly undergrowth. After about a quarter of a mileof this dreary avenue, we came to a broad area of several acres laid outin the Italian style with fountains and terraces, at the upper end ofwhich stood the house--a feudal, _moyen-âge_ French chateau, withirregular wings, steep slated roofings, innumerable windows, andfantastic steeple-topped turrets sheeted with lead and capped withgrotesque gilded weathercocks. The principal front had been repaired inthe style of the Renaissance and decorated with little foliatedentablatures above the doors and windows; whilst a double flight ofsteps leading up to a grand entrance on the level of the first story, like the famous double staircase of Fontainebleau, had been patched onin the very centre, to the manifest disfigurement of the building. Mostof the windows were shuttered up, and as we drew nearer, the generalevidences of desolation became more apparent. The steps of the terraceswere covered with patches of brown and golden moss. The stone urns weresome of them fallen in the deep grass, and some broken. There were gapsin the rich balustrade here and there; and the two great fountains oneither side of the lower terrace had long since ceased to fling uptheir feathery columns towards the sun. In the middle of one a brokenPan, noseless and armless, turned up a stony face of mute appeal, as ifimploring us to free him from the parasitic jungle of aquatic plantswhich flourished rankly round him in the basin. In the other, a stalwartriver-god with his finger on his lip, seemed listening for the music ofthose waters which now scarcely stirred amid the tangled weeds thatclustered at his feet. 

Passing all these, passing also the flower-beds choked with brambles andlong waving grasses, and the once quaintly-clipped myrtle and box-trees, all flinging out fantastic arms of later growth, we came to the upperterrace, which was paved in curious patterns of stars and arabesques, with stones alternately round and flat. Here a good-humored, cleanlypeasant woman came clattering out in her _sabots_ from a side-door, keyin hand, preceded us up the double flight of steps, unlocked the greatdoor, and admitted us. 

The interior, like the front, had been modernized about a hundred andfifty years before, and resembled a little formal Versailles orminiature Fontainebleau. Dismantled halls paved with white marble;panelled ante-chambers an inch deep in dust; dismal _salons_ adornedwith Renaissance arabesques and huge looking-glasses, cracked andmildewed, and mended with pasted seams of blue paper; boudoirs withfaded Watteau panellings; corridors with painted ceilings wheremythological divinities, marvellously foreshortened on a sky-blueground, were seen surrounded by rose-colored Cupids and garlanded withribbons and flowers; innumerable bed-rooms, some containing grimcatafalques of beds with gilded cornices and funereal plumes, someempty, some full of stored-up furniture fast going to decay--all thesein endless number we traversed, conducted by the good-tempered_concierge_, whose heavy _sabots_ awakened ghostly echoes from floorto floor. 

At length, through an ante-chamber lined with a double file of grim oldfamily portraits--some so blackened with age and dust as to be totallyindistinguishable, and others bulging hideously out of their frames--wecame to the library, a really noble room, lofty, panelled with walnutwood, floored with polished oak, and looking over a wide expanse oflevel country. Long ranges of empty book-shelves fenced in with brokenwire-work ran round the walls. The painted ceiling represented, asusual, the heavens and some pagan divinities. A dumb old time-piece, originally constructed to tell the months, the days of the year, and thehours, stood on a massive corner bracket near the door. Long antiquemirrors in heavy black frames reached from floor to ceiling between eachof the windows; and in the centre of the room, piled all together andfestooned with a thick drapery of cobwebs, stood a dozen or so of oldcarved chairs, screens, and foot-stools, rich with velvet, brocade, andgilded leather, but now looking as if a touch would crumble them todust. Over the great carved fireplace, however, hung a painting uponwhich my attention became riveted as soon as I entered the room--apainting yellow with age; covered with those minute cracks which arelike wrinkles on the face of antique art, coated with dust, and yet sosingularly attractive that, having once noticed it, I looked atnothing else. 

It was the half-length portrait of a young lady in the costume of thereign of Louis XVI. One hand rested on a stone urn; the other was raisedto her bosom, holding a thin blue scarf that seemed to flutter in thewind. Her dress was of white satin, cut low and square, with a stomacherof lace and pearls. She also wore pearls in her hair, on her white arms, and on her whiter neck. Thus much for the mere adjuncts; as for theface--ah, how can I ever describe that pale, perfect, tender face, withits waving brown hair and soft brown eyes, and that steadfast perpetualsmile that seemed to light the eyes from within, and to dwell in thecorners of the lips without parting or moving them? It was like a faceseen in a dream, or the imperfect image which seems to come between usand the page when we read of Imogen asleep. 

"Who was this lady?" I asked, eagerly. 

The _concierge_ nodded and rubbed her hands. 

"Aha! M'sieur, " said she, "'tis the best painting in the chateau, asfolks tell me. M'sieur is a connoisseur. "

"But do you know whose portrait it is?"

"To be sure I do, M'sieur. It's the portrait of the last Marquise--theone who was guillotined, poor soul, with her husband, in--let mesee--in 1793!"

"What an exquisite creature! Look, Josephine, did you ever see anythingso beautiful?"

"Beautiful!" repeated the grisette, with a sidelong glance at one of themirrors. "Beautiful, with such a coiffure and such a bodice! _Ciel!_ howtastes differ!"

"But her face, Josephine!"

"What of her face? I'm sure it's plain enough. "

"Plain! Good heavens! what. . . "

But it was not worth while to argue upon it. I pulled out one of the oldchairs, and so climbed near enough to dust the surface of the paintingwith my handkerchief. 

"I wish I could buy it!" I exclaimed. 

Josephine burst into a loud laugh. 

"_Grand Dieu_!" said she, half pettishly, "if you are so much in lovewith it as all that, I dare say it would not be difficult!"

The _concierge_ shook her head. 

"Everything on this estate is locked up, " said she. "Nothing can besold, nothing given away, nothing even repaired, till the _procès_is ended. "

I sighed, and came down reluctantly from my perch. Josephine was visiblyimpatient. She had seen the wedding-party going down one of the walks atthe back of the house; and the _concierge_ was waiting to let us out. Idrew her aside, and slipped a liberal gratuity into her hand. 

"If I were to come down here some day with a friend of mine who is apainter, " I whispered, "would you have any objection, Madame, to allowhim to make a little sketch of that portrait?"

The _concierge_ looked into her palm, and seeing the value of the coin, smiled, hesitated, put her finger to her lip, and said:--

"_Ma foi_, M'sieur, I believe I have no business to allow it; but--tooblige a gentleman like you--if there was nobody about--"

I nodded. We understood each other sufficiently, and no more was needed. 

Once out of the house, Medemoiselle Josephine pouted, and took uponherself to be sulky--a disposition which was by no means lessened when, after traversing the park in various directions in search of the bridalcompany, we found that they had gone out long ago by a gate at the otherside of the estate, and were by this time piping, most probably, in theadjoining parish. 

It was now five o'clock; so we hastened back through the village, cast alast glance at the grim old tower on its steep solitude, consignedourselves to the yellow omnibus, and in due time were once more flyingalong the iron road towards Paris. The rapid motion, the dignity ofoccupying a first-class seat, and, above all, the prospects of anexcellent dinner, soon brought my fair companion round again, and by thetime we reached the Moulin Rouge, she was all vivacity and good temper. The less I say about that dinner the better. I am humiliated when Irecall all that I suffered, and all that she did. I blush even now whenI remember how she blew upon her soup, put her knife in her mouth, andpicked her teeth with her shawl-pin. What possessed her that she wouldpersist in calling the waiter "Monsieur?" And why, in Heaven's name, need she have clapped her hands when I ordered the champagne? To saythat I had no appetite--that I wished myself at the antipodes--that Ilonged to sink into my boots, to smother the waiter, or to do anythingequally desperate and unreasonable, is to express but a tithe of theanguish I endured. I bore it, however, in silence, little dreaming whata much heavier trial was yet in store for me. 

CHAPTER XXI. 

I FALL A SACRIFICE TO MRS. GRUNDY. 

"A word with you, if you please, Basil Arbuthnot, " said Dr. Chéron, "when you have finished copying those prescriptions. "

Dr. Chéron was standing with his feet firmly planted in the tiger-skinrug and his back to the fireplace. I was busy writing at the studytable, and glancing anxiously from time to time at the skeleton clockupon the chimney-piece; for it was getting on fast towards five, and athalf-past six I was to take Josephine to the Opéra Comique. As perversefortune would have it, the Doctor had this afternoon given me moredesk-work than usual, and I began to doubt whether I should be able todine, dress, and reach the theatre in time if he detained memuch longer. 

"But you need be in no haste, " he added, looking at his watch. "That isto say, upon my account. "

I bowed nervously--I was always nervous in his presence--and tried towrite faster than ever; but, feeling his cold blue eye upon me, made ablot, smeared it with my sleeve, left one word out, wrote another twiceover, and was continually tripped up by my pen, which sputteredhideously and covered the page with florid passages in little roundspots, which only needed tails to become crotchets and quavers. Atlength, just as the clock struck the hour, I finished my task and laidaside my pen. 

Dr. Chéron coughed preparatorily. 

"It is some time, " said he, "since you have given me any news of yourfather. Do you often hear from him?"

"Not very often, sir, " I replied. "About once in every three weeks. Hedislikes letter-writing. "

Dr. Chéron took a packet of papers from his breast-pocket, and rufflingthem over, said, somewhat indifferently:--

"Very true--very true. His notes are brief and few; but always to thepurpose. I heard from him this morning. "

"Indeed, sir?"

"Yes--here is his letter. It encloses a remittance of seventy-fivepounds; fifty of which are for you. The remaining twenty-five beingreserved for the defrayal of your expenses at the Ecole de Médecine andthe Ecole Pratique. "

I was delighted. 

"Both are made payable through my banker, " continued Dr. Chéron, "and Iam to take charge of your share till you require it; which cannot bejust yet, as I understand from this letter that your father supplied youwith the sum of one hundred and five pounds on leaving England. "

My delight went down to zero. 

"Does my father say that I am not to have it now, sir?" I asked, hesitatingly. 

"He says, as I have already told you, that it is to be yours when yourequire it. "

"And if I require it very shortly, sir--in fact, if I require it now?"

"You ought not to require it now, " replied the Doctor, with a cold, scrutinizing stare. "You ought not to have spent one hundred and fivepounds in five months. "

I looked down in silence. I had more than spent it long since; and I hadto thank Madame de Marignan for the facility with which it had flown. Itwas not to be denied that my course of lessons in practical politenesshad been somewhat expensive. 

"How have you spent it?" asked Dr. Chéron, never removing his eyes frommy face. 

I might have answered, in bouquets, opera stalls, and riding horses; indress coats, tight boots, and white kid gloves; in new books, new music, bon-bons, cabs, perfumery, and the like inexcusable follies. But I heldmy tongue instead, and said nothing. 

Dr. Chéron looked again at his watch. 

"Have you kept any entries of your expenses since you came to Paris?"said he. 

"Not with--with any regularity, sir, " I replied. 

He took out his pencil-case and pocket-book. 

"Let us try, then, " said he, "to make an average calculation of whatthey might be in five months. "

I began to feel very uncomfortable. 

"I believe your father paid your travelling expenses?"

I bowed affirmatively. 

"Leaving you the clear sum of one hundred and five pounds. " I bowedagain. 

"Allowing, then, for your rent--which is, I believe, twenty francs perweek, " said he, entering the figures as he went on, "there will be fourhundred francs spent in five months. For your living, say thirty francsper week, which makes six hundred. For your clothing, seventy-five permonth, which makes three hundred and seventy-five, and ought to be quiteenough for a young man of moderate tastes. For your washing andfirewood, perhaps forty per month, which makes two hundred--and for yourincidental expenses, say fifteen per week, which makes three hundred. Wethus arrive at a total of one thousand eight hundred and seventy-fivefrancs, which, reduced to English money at the average standard oftwenty-five francs to the sovereign, represents the exact sum ofseventy-five pounds. Do I make myself understood?"

I bowed for the third time. 

"Of the original one hundred and five pounds, we now have thirty notaccounted for. May I ask how much of that surplus you have left?"

"About--not more than--than a hundred and twenty francs, " I replied, stripping the feathers off all the pens in succession, withoutknowing it. 

"Have you any debts?"

"A--a few. "

"Tailors' bills?"

"Yes, sir. "

"What others?"

"A--a couple of months' rent, I believe, sir. "

"Is that all?"

"N--not quite. "

Dr. Chéron frowned, and looked again at his watch. 

"Be good enough, Mr. Arbuthnot, " he said, "to spare me this amount ofuseless interrogation by at once stating the nature and amount ofthe rest. "

"I--I cannot positively state the amount, sir, " I said, absurdly tryingto get the paper-weight into my waistcoat pocket, and then putting itdown in great confusion. "I--I have an account at Monceau's in the RueDuphot, and. . . "

"I beg your pardon, " interrupted Dr. Chéron: "but who is Monceau?"

"Monceau's--Monceau's livery-stables, sir. "

Dr. Chéron slightly raised his eye-brows, and entered the name. 

"And at Lavoisier's, on the Boulevard Poissonnière--"

"What is sold, pray, at Lavoisier's?"

"Gloves, perfumes, hosiery, ready-made linen. . . "

"Enough--you can proceed. "

"I have also a bill at--at Barbet's, in the Passage de l'Opéra. "

"And Barbet is--?"

"A--a florist!" I replied, very reluctantly. 

"Humph!--a florist!" observed Dr. Chéron, again transfixing me with thecold, blue eye. "To what amount do you suppose you are indebted toMonsieur Barbet?"

I looked down, and became utterly unintelligible. 

"Fifty francs?"

"I--I fear, more than--than--"

"A hundred? A hundred and fifty? Two hundred?"

"About two hundred, I suppose, sir, " I said desperately. 

"Two hundred francs--that is to say, eight pounds English--to yourflorist! Really, Mr. Arbuthnot, you must be singularly fond of flowers!"

I looked down in silence. 

"Have you a conservatory attached to your rooms?"

The skeleton clock struck the half hour. 

"Excuse me, sir, " I said, driven now to the last extremity, "but--but Ihave an engagement which--in short, I will, if you please, make out alist of--of these items, ascertaining the correct amount of each; andwhen once paid, I will endeavor--I mean, it is my earnest desire, to--tolimit my expenditure strictly to--in short, to study economy for thefuture. If, in the meantime, you will have the goodness toexcuse me. . . . "

"One word, young man. Will the fifty pounds cover your debts?"

"Quite, sir, I am confident. "

"And leave you something in hand for your current expenses?"

"Indeed, I fear very little. "

"In that case what will you do?"

This was a terrible question, and one for which I could find no answer. 

"Write to your father for another remittance--eh?"

"I--upon my word, I dare not, sir, " I faltered. 

"Then you would go in debt again?"

"I really fear--even with the strictest economy--I--"

"Be so obliging as to let me have your seat, " said Dr. Chéron, thrustingthe obnoxious note-book into his pocket and taking my place at the desk, from which he brought out a couple of cards, and a printed paper. 

"This ticket, " said he, "admits the holder to the anatomical course forthe term now beginning, and this to the lectures at the Ecole Pratique. Both are in my gift. The first is worth two hundred francs, and thesecond two hundred and fifty. I ought, perhaps, in strict justice, tobestow them upon some needy and deserving individual: however, to saveyou from debt, or a very unpleasant alternative, I will fill them inwith your name, and, when you bring me all your bills receipted, I willtransfer to your account the four hundred and fifty francs which I must, otherwise, have paid for your courses out of the remittance forwarded byyour father for that purpose. Understand, however, that I must firsthave the receipts, and that I expect you, on the word of a gentleman, to commit no more follies, and to contract no more debts. "

"Oh, sir!" I exclaimed, "how can I ever--"

"No thanks, I beg, " interposed Dr. Chéron. "Prove your gratitude by yourconduct; do not trouble yourself to talk about it. "

"Indeed, sir, you may depend--"

"And no promises either, if you please. I attach no kind of value tothem. Stay--here is my check for the fifty pounds forwarded by yourfather. With that sum extricate yourself from debt. You know the rest. "

Hereupon Dr. Chéron replaced the cards and the printed form, double-locked his desk, and, with a slight gesture of the hand, frigidlydismissed me. 

I left the house quite chopfallen. I was relieved, it is true, from theincubus of debt; but then how small a figure I had cut in the eyes ofDr. Chéron! Besides, I was small for the second time--reproved for thesecond time--lectured, helped, put down, and poohpoohed, for the secondtime! Could I have peeped at myself just then through the wrong end of atelescope, I vow I could not have looked smaller in my own eyes. 

I had no time to dine; so I despatched a cup of coffee and a roll on myway home, and went hungry to the theatre. 

Josephine was got up with immense splendor for this occasion; greatly toher own satisfaction and my disappointment. Having hired a small privatebox in the least conspicuous part of the theatre, I had committed thecowardly mistake of endeavoring to transform my grisette into a woman offashion. I had bought her a pink and white opera cloak, a pretty littlefan, a pair of white kid gloves, and a bouquet. With these she wore adecent white muslin dress furnished out of the limited resources of herown wardrobe, and a wreath of pink roses, the work of her own cleverfingers. Thus equipped, she was far less pretty than in her coquettishlittle every-day cap, and looked, I regret to say, more like an_ouvrière_ than ever. Aggravating above all else, however, was her ownundisguised delight in her appearance. 

"Are my flowers all right? Is my dress tumbled? Is the hood of my cloakin the middle of my back?" were the questions she addressed to me everymoment. In the ante-room she took advantage of each mirror we passed. Inthe lobby I caught her trying to look at her own back. When we reachedour box she pulled her chair to the very centre of it, and sat there asif she expected to be admired by the whole audience. 

"My dear Josephine, " I remonstrated, "sit back here, facing the stage. You will see much better--besides, it is your proper seat, being theonly lady in the box. "

"Ah, _mon Dieu!_ then I cannot see the house--and how pretty it is! Everso much prettier than the Gaiété, or the Porte St. Martin!"

"You can see the house by peeping behind the curtain. "

"As if I were ashamed to be seen! _Par exemple_!"

"Nay, as you please. I only advise you according to custom and fashion. "

Josephine pouted, and unwillingly conceded a couple of inches. 

"I wish I had brought the little telescope you gave me last Sunday, "said she, presently. "There is a gentleman with one down there inthe stalls. "

"A telescope at the opera--the gods forbid! Here, however, is myopera-glass, if you like to use it. "

Josephine turned it over curiously, and peeped first through one tubeand then through the other. 

"Which ought I to look through?" asked she. 

"Both, of course. "

"Both! How can I?"

"Why thus--as you look through a pair of spectacles. "

"_Ciel!_ I can't manage that! I can never look through anything withoutcovering up one eye with my hand. "

"Then I think you had better be contented with your own charming eyes, _ma belle_" said I, nervously. "How do you like your bouquet?"

Josephine sniffed at it as if she were taking snuff, and pronounced itperfect. Just then the opera began. I withdrew into the shade, andJosephine was silenced for a while in admiration of the scenery and thedresses. By and by, she began to yawn. 

"Ah, _mon Dieu!_" said she, "when will they have done singing? I havenot heard a word all this time. "

"But everything is sung, _ma chére_, in an opera. "

"What do you mean? Is there no play?"

"This is the play; only instead of speaking their words, they singthem. "

Josephine shrugged her shoulders. 

"Ah, bah!" said she. "How stupid! I had rather have seen the _Closeriedes Gênets_ at the Graiété, if that is to be the case the whole evening. Oh, dear! there is such a pretty lady come into the opposite box, insuch a beautiful blue _glacé_, trimmed with black velvet and lace!"

"Hush! you must not talk while they are singing!"

"_Tiens!_ it is no pleasure to come out and be dumb. But do just see thelady in the opposite box! She looks exactly as if she had walked out ofa fashion-book. "

"My dear child, I don't care one pin to look at her, " said I, preferringto keep as much out of sight as possible. "To admire your pretty face isenough for me. "

Josephine squeezed my hand affectionately. 

"That is just as Emile used to talk to me, " said she. 

I felt by no means flattered. 

"_Regardez done!_" said she, pulling me by the sleeve, just as I wasstanding up, a little behind her chair, looking at the stage. "That ladyin the blue _glacé_ never takes her eyes from our box! She points us outto the gentleman who is with her--do look!"

I turned my glass in the direction to which she pointed, and recognisedMadame de Marignan!

I turned hot and cold, red and white, all in one moment, and shrank backlike a snail that has been touched, or a sea-anemone at the first dig ofthe naturalist. 

"Does she know you?" asked Josephine. 

"I--I--probably--that is to say--I have met her in society. "

"And who is the gentleman?"

That was just what I was wondering. It was not Delaroche. It was no onewhom I had ever seen before. It was a short, fat, pale man, with a baldhead, and a ribbon in his button-hole. 

"Is he her husband?" pursued Josephine. 

The suggestion flashed upon me like a revelation. Had I not heard thatM. De Marignan was coming home from Algiers? Of course it was he. Nodoubt of it. A little vulgar, fat, bald man. . . . Pshaw, just the sort ofa husband that she deserved!

"How she looks at me!" said Josephine. 

I felt myself blush, so to speak, from head to foot. 

"Good Heavens! my dear girl, " I exclaimed, "take your elbows off thefront of the box!"

Josephine complied, with a pettish little grimace. 

"And, for mercy's sake, don't hold your head as if you feared it wouldtumble off!"

"It is the flowers, " said she. "They tickle the back of my neck, whenever I move my head. I am much more comfortable in my cap. "

"Never mind. Make the best of it, and listen to this song. "

It was the great tenor ballad of the evening. The house was profoundlysilent; the first wandering chords of a harp were heard behind thescenes; and Duprez began. In the very midst of one of his finest andtenderest _sostenuto_ passages, Josephine sneezed--and such a sneeze!you might have heard it out in the lobbies. An audible titter ran roundthe house. I saw Madame de Marignan cover her face with herhandkerchief, and yield to an irrepressible fit of laughter. As for thetenor, he cast a withering glance up at the box, and made a marked pausebefore resuming his song. Merciful powers! what crime had I committedthat I should be visited with such a punishment as this?

"Wretched girl!" I exclaimed, savagely, "what have you done?"

"Done, _mon ami!_" said Josephine, innocently. "Why, I fear I have takencold. "

I groaned aloud. 

"Taken cold!" I muttered to myself. "Would to Heaven you had takenprussic acid!"

"_Qu'est ce que c'est?"_ asked she. 

But it was not worth while to reply. I gave myself up to my fate. Idetermined to remonstrate no more. I flung myself on a seat at the backof the box, and made up my mind to bear all that might yet be in storefor me. When she openly ate a stick of _sucre d'orge_ after this, I saidnothing. When she applauded with both hands, I endured in silence. Atlength the performance came to a close and the curtain fell. Madame deMarignan had left before the last act, so I ran no danger ofencountering her on the way out; but I was profoundly miserable, nevertheless. As for Josephine, she, poor child, had not enjoyed herevening at all, and was naturally out of temper. We quarrelledtremendously in the cab, and parted without having made it up. It wasall my own fault. How could I be such a fool as to suppose that, with afew shreds and patches of finery, I could make a fine lady ofa grisette?

 * * * * *

CHAPTER XXII. 

HIGH ART IN THE QUARTIER LATIN. 

"But, my dear fellow, what else could you have expected? You tookMam'selle Josephine to the _Opera Comique. Eh bien!_ you might as wellhave taken an oyster up Mount Vesuvius. Our fair friend was out of herelement. _Voilà tout_. "

"Confound her and her element!" I exclaimed with a groan. "What thedeuce _is_ her element--the Quartier Latin?"

"The Quartier Latin is to some extent her habitat--but then Mam'selleJosephine belongs to a genus of which you, _cher_ Monsieur Arbuthnot, are deplorably ignorant--the genus grisette. The grisette from a certainpoint of view is the _chef-d'oeuvre_ of Parisian industry; the bouquetof Parisian civilization. She is indigenous to the _mansarde_ and the_pavé_--bears no transplantation--flourishes in _the première balconie_, the suburban _guingette_, and the Salle Valentinois; but degenerates ata higher elevation. To improve her is to spoil her. In her white cap andmuslin gown, the Parisian grisette is simply delicious. In a smartbonnet, a Cashmere and a brougham, she is simply detestable. Fineclothes vulgarize her. Fine surroundings demoralize her. Lodged on thesixth story, rich in the possession of a cuckoo-clock, a canary, half adozen pots of mignonette, and some bits of cheap furniture in imitationmahogany, she has every virtue and every fault that is charming inwoman--childlike gaiety; coquetry; thoughtless generosity; the readiestlaugh, the readiest tear, and the warmest heart in the world. Transplanther to the Chaussée d'Antin, instil the taste for diamonds, truffles, and Veuve Clicquot, and you poison her whole nature. She becomes false, cruel, greedy, prodigal of your money, parsimonious of her own--avampire--a ghoul--the hideous thing we call in polite parlance a _Fillede Marbre. "_

Thus, with much gravity and emphasis, spoke Herr Franz Müller, lying onhis back upon a very ricketty sofa, and smoking like a steam-engine. Acup of half-cold coffee, and a bottle of rum three parts emptied stoodbeside him on the floor. These were the remains of his breakfast; for itwas yet early in the morning of the day following my great misadventureat the Opéra Comique, and I had sought him out at his lodgings in theRue Clovis at an hour when the Quartier Latin was for the most partin bed. 

"Josephine, at all events, is not of the stuff that _Filles de Marbre_are made of, " I said, smiling. 

"Perhaps not--_mais, que voulez-vous?_ We are what we are. A grisettemakes a bad fine lady. A fine lady would make a still worse grisette. The Archbishopric of Paris is a most repectable and desirablepreferment; but your humble servant, for instance, would hardly suitthe place, "

"And the moral of this learned and perspicuous discourse?"

"_Tiens_! the moral, is--keep our fair friend in her place. Rememberthat a dinner at thirty sous in the Palais Royal, or a fête withfireworks at Mabille, will give her ten times more pleasure than thedaintiest repast you could order at the Maison Dorée, or the choicestnight of the season at either opera house. And how should it beotherwise? One must understand a thing to be able to enjoy it; and I'llbe sworn Mam'selle Josephine was infinitely more bored last night thanyourself. "

Our conversation, or rather his monologue, was here interrupted by theringing of the outer bell. 

The artist sat up, took his pipe from his lips, and looked considerablydisturbed. 

"_Mille tonnerres_!" said he in a low tone. "Who can it be?. . . So earlyin the day . . . Not yet ten o'clock . . . It is very mysterious. "

"It is only mysterious, " said I, "as long as you don't open the door. Shall I answer the bell?"

"No--yes--wait a moment . . . Suppose it is that demon, my landlord, orthat archfiend, my tailor--then you must say . . . Holy St. Nicholas! youmust say I am in bed with small-pox, or that I've broken out suddenlyinto homicidal delirium, and you're my keeper. "

"Unfortunately I should not know either of your princes of darkness atfirst sight. "

"True--and it might be Dupont, who owes me thirty francs, and swore bythe bones of his aunt (an excellent person, who keeps an estaminet inthe Place St. Sulpice) that he would pay me this week. _Diable_! theregoes the bell again. "

"It would perhaps be safest, " I suggested, "to let M. Or N. Ring on tillhe is tired of the exercise. "

"But conceive the horrid possibility of letting thirty francs ringthemselves out of patience! No, _mon ami_--I will dare the worst thatmay happen. Wait here for me--I will answer the door myself, "

Now it should be explained that Müller's apartments consisted of threerooms. First, a small outer chamber which he dignified with the title ofSalle d'Attente, but which, as it was mainly furnished with old boots, umbrellas and walking-sticks, and contained, by way of accommodation forvisitors only a three-legged stool and a door-mat, would have been morefitly designated as the hall. Between this Salle d'Attente and the denin which he slept, ate, smoked, and received his friends, lay thestudio--once a stately salon, now a wilderness of litter anddilapidation. On one side you beheld three windows closely boarded up, with strips of newspaper pasted over the cracks to exclude every gleamof day. Overhead yawned a huge, dusty skylight, to make way for which afine old painted ceiling had been ruthlessly knocked away. On the wallswere pinned and pasted all sorts of rough sketches and studies in colorand crayon. In one corner lolled a despondent-looking lay-figure in amoth-eaten Spanish cloak; in another lay a heap of plaster-casts, gigantic hands and feet, broken-nosed masks of the Apollo, the Laocoon, the Hercules Farnese, and other foreigners of distinction. Upon thechimney-piece were displayed a pair of foils, a lute, a skull, anantique German drinking-mug, and several very modern empty bottles. Inthe middle of the room stood two large easels, a divan, a round table, and three or four chairs; while the floor was thickly strewn with emptycolor-tubes, bits of painting-rag, corks, cigar-ends, and all kinds ofmiscellaneous litter. 

All these things I had observed as I passed in; for this, be itremembered, was my first visit to Müller in his own territory. 

I heard him go through the studio and close the door behind him, andthen I heard him open the door upon the public staircase. Presently hecame back, shutting the door behind him as before. 

"My dear fellow, " he exclaimed, breathlessly, "you have brought luckwith you! What do you think? A sitter--positively, a sitter! Wants to besketched in at once--_Vive la France_!"

"Man or woman? Young or old? Plain or pretty?"

"Elderly half-length, feminine gender--Madame Tapotte. They are boththere, Monsieur and Madame Excellent couple--redolent of thecountry--husband bucolic, adipose, auriferous--wife arrayed in all herglory, like the Queen of Sheba. I left them in the Salle d'Attente--toldthem I had a sitter--time immensely occupied--half-lengths furiously indemand . . . _Will_ you oblige me by performing the part for a fewminutes, just to carry out the idea?"

"What part?"

"The part of sitter. "

"Oh, with pleasure, " I replied, laughing. "Do with me what you please, "

"You don't mind? Come! you are the best fellow in the world. Now, ifyou'll sit in that arm-chair facing the light--head a little thrownback, arms folded, chin up . . . Capital! You don't know what an effectthis will have upon the provincial mind!"

"But you're not going to let them in! You have no portrait of me to beat work upon!"

"My dear fellow, I've dozens of half-finished studies, any one of whichwill answer the purpose. _Voilà_! here is the very thing. "

And snatching up a canvas that had been standing till now with its faceto the wall, he flourished it triumphantly before my eyes, and placed iton the easel. 

"Heavens and earth!" I exclaimed, "that's a copy of the Titian in theLouvre--the 'Young Man with the Glove!'"

"What of that? Our Tapottes will never find out the difference. By theway, I told them you were a great English Milord, so please keep up thecharacter. "

"I will try to do credit to the peerage. "

"And if you would not mind throwing in a word of English every now andthen . . . A little Goddam, for instance. . . Eh?"

I laughed and shook my head. 

"I will pose for you as Milord with all the pleasure in life, " I said;"only I cannot undertake to pose for the traditional Milord of theBouffes Parisiens! However, I will speak some English, and, if you like, I'll know no French. "

"No, no--_diable_! you must know a little, or I can't exchange a wordwith you. But very little--the less the better. And now I'll letthem in. "

They came; Madame first--tall, buxom, large-featured, fresh-colored, radiant in flowers, lace, and Palais Royal jewelry; thenMonsieur--short, fat, bald, rosy and smiling, with a huge frill to hisshirt-front and a nankeen waistcoat. 

Müller introduced them with much ceremony and many apologies. 

"Permit me, milord, " he said, "to present Monsieur and MadameTapotte--Monsieur and Madame Tapotte; Milord Smithfield. "

I rose and bowed with the gravity becoming my rank. 

"I have explained to milord, " continued Müller, addressing himselfpartly to the new-comers, partly to me, and chiefly to the study on theeasel, "that having no second room in which to invite Monsieur andMadame to repose themselves, I am compelled to ask them into thestudio--where, however, his lordship is so very kind as to say that theyare welcome. " (Hereupon Madame Tapotte curtsied again, and Monsieurducked his bald head, and I returned their salutations with the samedignity as before. ) "If Monsieur and Madame will be pleased to takeseats, however, his lordship's sitting will be ended in about tenminutes. _Mille pardons_, the face, milord, a little more to the right. Thank you--thank you very much. And if you will do me the favor to lookat me . . . For the expression of the eye--just so--thank you! A mostimportant point, milord, is the expression of the eye. When I say theexpression, I mean the fire, the sparkle, the liquidity . . . _enfin_ theexpression!"

Here he affected to put in some touches with immense delicacy--thenretreated a couple of yards, the better to contemplate his work--pursedup his mouth--ran his fingers through his hair--shaded his eyes with hishand--went back and put in another touch--again retreated--again put ina touch; and so on some three or four times successively. 

Meanwhile Monsieur and Madame Tapotte were fidgeting upon their chairsin respectful silence. Every now and then they exchanged glances ofwonder and admiration. They were evidently dying to compare my augustfeatures with my portrait, but dared not take the liberty of rising. Atlength the lady's curiosity could hold out no longer. 

"_Ah, mon Dieu_!" she said; "but it must be very fatiguing to sit solong in the same position. And to paint. . . . _Oiel!_ what practice! whatperseverance! what patience! _Avec permission_, M'sieur. . . "

And with this she sidled up to Müller's elbow, leaving Monsieur Tapottethunderstruck at her audacity. 

Then for a moment she stood silent; but during that moment the eager, apologetic smile vanished suddenly out of her face, and was succeeded byan expression of blank disappointment. 

"_Tiens_!" she said bluntly. "I don't see one bit of likeness. "

I turned hot from head to foot, but Müller's serene effrontery was equalto the occasion. 

"I dare say not, Madame, " he replied, coolly. "I dare say not. Thisportrait is not intended to be like. "

Madame Tapotte's eyes and mouth opened simultaneously. 

"_Comment_!" she exclaimed. 

"I should be extremely sorry, " continued Müller, loftily, "and hislordship would be extremely sorry, if there were too much resemblance. "

"But a--a likeness--it seems to me, should at all events be--like, "stammered Madame Tapotte, utterly bewildered. 

"And if M'sieur is to paint my wife, " added Monsieur Tapotte, who had bythis time joined the group at the easel, "I--I. . . _Dame_! it must be agood deal more like than this. "

Müller drew himself up with an air of great dignity. 

"Sir, " he said, "if Madame does me the honor to sit to me for herportrait--for her _own_ portrait, observe--I flatter myself theresemblance will be overwhelming. But you must permit me to inform youthat Milord Smithfield is not sitting for his own portrait. "

The Tapottes looked at each other in a state bordering on stupefaction. 

"His lordship, " continued Müller, "is sitting for the portrait of one ofhis illustrious ancestors--a nobleman of the period of Queen Elizabeth. "

Tapotte _mari_ scratched his head, and smiled feebly. 

"_Parbleu_!" said he, "_mais c'est bien drôle, ça_!"

The artist shrugged his shoulders. 

"It so happens, " said he, "that his lordship's gallery at SmithfieldCastle has unhappily been more than half destroyed by fire. Twocenturies of family portraits reduced to ashes! Terrible misfortune!Only one way of repairing the loss--that is of partially repairing it. Ido my best. I read the family records--I study the history of theperiod--his lordship sits to me daily--I endeavor to give a certainamount of family likeness; sometimes more, you observe, sometimes less. . . Enormous responsibility, Monsieur Tapotte!"

"Oh, enormous!"

"The taste for family portraits, " continued Müller, still touching upthe Titian, "is a very natural one--and is on the increase. Manygentlemen of--of somewhat recent wealth, come to me for theirancestors. "

"No!"

"_Foi d'honneur_. Few persons, however, are as conscientious as hislordship in the matter of family resemblance. They mostly buy up theirforefathers ready-made--adopt them, christen them, and ask noquestions. "

Monsieur and Madame Tapotte exchanged glances. 

"_Tiens, mon ami_, why should we not have an ancestor or two, as wellas other folks, " suggested the lady, in a very audible whisper. 

Monsieur shook his head, and muttered something about the expense. 

"There is no harm, at all events, " urged madame, "in asking the price. "

"My charge for gallery portraits, madame, varies from sixty to a hundredfrancs, " said Müller. 

"Heavens! how dear! Why, my own portrait is to be only fifty. "

"Sixty, Madame, if we put in the hands and the jewelry, " said Müller, blandly. 

"_Eh bien_!--sixty. But for these other things. . . . Bah! _ils sontfierement chers_. "

"_Pardon_, madame! The elegancies and superfluities of life are, by ajust rule of political economy, expensive. It is right that they shouldbe so; as it is right that the necessaries of life should be within thereach of the poorest. Bread, for instance, is strictly necessary, andshould be cheap. A great-grandfather, on the contrary, is an elegantsuperfluity, and may be put up at a high figure. "

"There is some truth in that, " murmured Monsieur Tapotte. 

"Besides, in the present instance, one also pays for antiquity. "

"_C'est juste--C'est juste_. "

"At the same time, " continued Müller, "if Monsieur Tapotte were to honorme with a commission for, say, half a dozen family portraits, I wouldendeavor to put them in at forty francs apiece--including, at that verylow price, a Revolutionary Deputy, a beauty of the Louis Quinze period, and a Marshal of France. "

"_Tiens_! that's a fair offer enough, " said madame. "What say you, _monami_?"

But Monsieur Tapotte, being a cautious man, would say nothing hastily. He coughed, looked doubtful, declined to commit himself to an opinion, and presently drew off into a corner for the purpose of holding awhispered consultation with his wife. 

Meanwhile Müller laid aside his brushes and palette, informed me with aprofound bow that my lordship had honored him by sitting as long as wasstrictly necessary, and requested my opinion upon the progress ofthe work. 

I praised it rapturously. You would have thought, to hear me, that fordrawing, breadth, finish, color, composition, chiaroscuro, and everyother merit that a painting could possess, this particular_chef-d'oeuvre_ excelled all the masterpieces of Europe. 

Müller bowed, and bowed, and bowed, like a Chinaman at a visit ofceremony; He was more than proud; he was overwhelmed, _accablé_, etcaetera, et caetera. 

The Tapottes left off whispering, and listened breathlessly. 

"He is evidently a great painter, _not' jeune homme_!" said Madame inone of her large whispers. 

To which Monsieur replied as audibly:--"_Ça se voit, ma femme--sacre nomd'une pipe_!"

"Milford will do me the favor to sit again on Friday?" said Müller, as Itook up my hat and gloves. 

I replied with infinite condescension that I would endeavor to do so. Ithen made the stiffest of stiff bows to the excellent Tapottes, and, ushered to the door by Müller, took my departure majestically in thecharacter of Lord Smithfield. 

CHAPTER XXIII. 

THE QUARTIER LATIN. 

The dear old Quartier Latin of my time--the Quartier Latin of Balzac, ofBéranger, of Henry Murger---the Quartier Latin where Franz Müller hadhis studio; where Messieurs Gustave; Jules, and Adrien gave theirunparalleled _soirées dansantes_; where I first met my ex-flameJosephine--exists no longer. It has been improved off the face of theearth, and with it such a gay bizarre, improvident world of youth andfolly as shall never again be met together on the banks of the Seine. 

Ah me! how well I remember that dingy, delightful Arcadia--the Rue de laVieille Boucherie, narrow, noisy, crowded, with projecting upper storiesand Gothic pent-house roofs--the Rue de la Parcheminerie, unchangedsince the Middle Ages--the Rue St. Jacques, steep, interminable, dilapidated; with its dingy cabarets, its brasseries, its cheaprestaurants, its grimy shop windows filled with colored prints, withcooked meats, with tobacco, old books, and old clothes; its ancientcolleges and hospitals, time-worn and weather-beaten, frowning down uponthe busy thoroughfare and breaking the squalid line of shops; its grimold hotels swarming with lodgers, floor above floor, from the cobblersin the cellars to the grisettes in the attics! Then again, the gloomyold Place St. Michel, its abundant fountain ever flowing, eversurrounded by water-carts and water-carriers, by women with pails, andbare-footed street urchins, and thirsty drovers drinking out of ironcups chained to the wall. And then, too, the Rue de la Harpe. . . . 

I close my eyes, and the strange, precipitous, picturesque, decrepit oldstreet, with its busy, surging crowd, its street-cries, itsstreet-music, and its indescribable union of gloom and gayety, risesfrom its ashes. Here, grand old dilapidated mansions with shatteredstone-carvings, delicate wrought-iron balconies all rust-eaten andbroken, and windows in which every other pane is cracked or patched, alternate with more modern but still more ruinous houses, some leaningthis way, some that, some with bulging upper stories, some with doorwayssunk below the level of the pavement. Yonder, gloomy and grim, standsthe College of Saint Louis. Dark alleys open off here and there from themain thoroughfare, and narrow side streets, steep as flights of steps. Low sheds and open stalls cling, limpet-like, to every available nookand corner. An endless procession of trucks, wagons, water-carts, andfiacres rumbles perpetually by. Here people live at their windows and inthe doorways--the women talking from balcony to balcony, the mensmoking, reading, playing at dominoes. Here too are more cafés andcabarets, open-air stalls for the sale of fried fish, and cheaprestaurants for workmen and students, where, for a sum equivalent tosevenpence half-penny English, the Quartier Latin regales itself uponmeats and drinks of dark and enigmatical origin. Close at hand is thePlace and College of the Sorbonne--silent in the midst of noisy life, solitary in the heart of the most crowded quarter of Paris. A sombremediæval gloom pervades that ancient quadrangle; scant tufts of sicklygrass grow here and there in the interstices of the pavement; the dustof centuries crust those long rows of windows never opened. A littlefurther on is the Rue des Grès, narrow, crowded, picturesque, oneuninterrupted perspective of bookstalls and bookshops from end to end. Here the bookseller occasionally pursues a two-fold calling, and retailsnot only literature but a cellar of_ petit vin bleu_; and here, overnight, the thirsty student exchanges for a bottle of Macon the "CodeCivile" that he must perforce buy back again at second-hand inthe morning. 

A little farther on, and we come to the College Saint Louis, once theold College Narbonne; and yet a few yards more, and we are at the doorsof the Theatre du Pantheon, once upon a time the Church of St. Bénoit, where the stage occupies the site of the altar, and an orchestra stallin what was once the nave, may be had for seventy-five centimes. Here, too, might be seen the shop of the immortal Lesage, renowned throughoutthe Quartier for the manufacture of a certain kind of transcendentalham-patty, peculiarly beloved by student and grisette; and here, clustering within a stone's throw of each other, were to be found thosefamous restaurants, Pompon, Viot, Flicoteaux, and the "Boeuf Enragé, "where, on gala days, many an Alphonse and Fifine, many a Théophile andCerisette, were wont to hold high feast and festival--terms sevenpencehalf-penny each, bread at discretion, water gratis, wine andtoothpicks extra. 

But it was in the side streets, courts, and _impasses_ that branched offto the left and right of the main arteries, that one came upon the veryheart of the old Pays Latin; for the Rue St. Jacques, the Rue de laHarpe, the Rue des Grès, narrow, steep, dilapidated though they mightbe, were in truth the leading thoroughfares--the Boulevards, so tospeak--of the Student Quartier. In most of the side alleys, however, some of which dated back as far, and farther, than the fifteenthcentury, there was no footway for passengers, and barely space for onewheeled vehicle at a time. A filthy gutter invariably flowed down themiddle of the street. The pavement, as it peeped out here and therethrough a _moraine_ of superimposed mud and offal, was seen to consistof small oblong stones, like petrified kidney potatoes. The houses, someleaning this way, some that, with projecting upper stories andoverhanging gable-roofs, nodded together overhead, leaving but a narrowstrip of sky down which the sunlight strove in vain to struggle. Longpoles upon which were suspended old clothes hung out to air, and raggedlinen to dry, stood out like tattered banners from the attic windows. Here, too, every ground-floor was a shop, open, unglazed, cavernous, where the dealer lay _perdu_ in the gloom of midday, like a spider inthe midst of his web, surrounded by piles of old bottles, old iron, oldclothes, old furniture, or whatever else his stock in trade mightconsist of. 

Of such streets--less like streets, indeed, than narrow, overhanginggorges and ravines of damp and mouldering stone--of such streets, I say, intricate, winding, ill-lighted, unventilated, pervaded by an atmospherecompounded of the fumes of fried fish, tobacco, old leather, mildew anddirt, there were hundreds in the Quartier Latin of my time:--streets tothe last degree unattractive as places of human habitation, but rich, nevertheless, in historic associations, in picturesque detail, and inarchaeological interest. Such a street, for instance, was the Rue duFouarre (scarcely a feature of which has been modernized to this day), where Dante, when a student of theology in Paris, attended the lecturesof one Sigebert, a learned monk of Gemblours, who discoursed to hisscholars in the open air, they sitting round him the while upon freshstraw strewn upon the pavement. Such a street was the Rue des Cordiers, close adjoining the Rue des Grès, where Rousseau lived and wrote; andthe Rue du Dragon, where might then be seen the house of BernardPalissy; and the Rue des Maçons, where Racine lived; and the Rue desMarais, where Adrienne Lecouvreur--poor, beautiful, generous, ill-fatedAdrienne Lecouvreur!--died. Here, too, in a blind alley opening off theRue St. Jacques, yet stands part of that Carmelite Convent in which, forthirty years, Madame de la Vallière expiated the solitary frailty of herlife. And so at every turn! Not a gloomy by-street, not a dilapidatedfountain, not a grim old college façade but had its history, or itslegend. Here the voice of Abelard thundered new truths, and Rabelaisjested, and Petrarch discoursed with the doctors. Here, in the Rue del'Ancienne Comédie, walked the shades of Racine, of Molière, ofCorneille, of Voltaire. Dear, venerable, immortal old Quartier Latin!Thy streets were narrow, but they were the arteries through which, century after century, circulated all the wisdom and poetry, all theart, and science, and learning of France! Their gloom, their squalor, their very dirt was sacred. Could I have had my will, not a stone of theold place should have been touched, not a pavement widened, not alandmark effaced. 

Then beside, yet not apart from, all that was mediæval and historic inthe Pays Latin, ran the gay, effervescent, laughing current of the lifeof the _jeunessed' aujour d'hui. _ Here beat the very heart of that rare, that immortal, that unparalleled _vie de Bohème_, the vagabond poetry ofwhich possesses such an inexhaustible charm for even the soberestimagination. What brick and mortar idylls, what romances _au cinquième_, what joyous epithalamiums, what gay improvident _ménages_, what kisses, what laughter, what tears, what lightly-spoken and lightly-broken vowsthose old walls could have told of!

Here, apparelled in all sorts of unimaginable tailoring, in jauntycolored cap or flapped sombrero, his pipe dangling from his button-hole, his hair and beard displaying every eccentricity under heaven, the Parisstudent, the _Pays Latiniste pur sang_, lived and had his being. Poringover the bookstalls in the Place du Panthéon or the Rue desGrès--hurrying along towards this or that college with a huge volumeunder each arm, about nine o'clock in the morning--haunting the cafés atmidday and the restaurants at six--swinging his legs out ofupper windows and smoking in his shirt-sleeves in the summerevenings--crowding the pit of the Odéon and every part of the Theatre duPanthéon--playing wind instruments at dead of night to the torment ofhis neighbors, or, in vocal mood, traversing the Quartier with a societyof musical friends about the small hours of the morning--getting intoscuffles with the gendarmes--flirting, dancing, playing billiards andthe deuce; falling in love and in debt; dividing his time betweenAristotle and Mademoiselle Mimi Pinson . . . Here, and here only, in allhis phases, at every hour of the day and night, he swarmed, ubiquitous. 

And here, too (a necessary sequence), flourished the fair and frailgrisette. Her race, alas! is now all but extinct--the race of Frétillon, of Francine, of Lisette, Musette, Rosette, and all the rest of that toofascinating terminology--the race immortalized again and again byBéranger, Gavarni, Balzac, De Musset; sketched by a hundred pencils anddescribed by a hundred pens; celebrated in all manner of metres and setto all manner of melodies; now caricatured and now canonized; nowpainted wholly _en noir_ and now all _couleur de rose_; yet, howeveroften described, however skilfully analyzed, remaining for everindescribable, and for ever defying analysis!

"De tous les produits Parisiens, " says Monsieur Jules Janin (himself thequintessence of everything most Parisian), "le produit le plus Parisien, sans contredit, c'est la grisette. " True; but our epigrammatist shouldhave gone a step farther. He should have added that the grisette _pursang_ is to be found nowhere except in Paris; and (still a step farther)nowhere in Paris save between the Pont Neuf and the Barrière d'Enfer. There she reigns; there (ah! let me use the delicious present tense--letme believe that I still live in Arcadia!)--there she lights up the oldstreets with her smile; makes the old walls ring with her laughter;flits over the crossings like a fairy; wears the most coquettish oflittle caps and the daintiest of little shoes; rises to her work withthe dawn; keeps a pet canary; trains a nasturtium round her window;loves as heartily as she laughs, and almost as readily; owes not a sou, saves not a centime; sews on Adolphe's buttons, like a good neighbor; isnever so happy as when Adolphe in return takes her to Tivoli or theJardin Turc; adores _galette, sucre d'orge_, and Frederick Lemaître; andlooks upon a masked ball and a debardeur dress as the summit ofhuman felicity. 

_Vive la grisette_! Shall I not follow many an illustrious example andsing my modest paean in her praise? Frown not, august Britannia! Looknot so severely askance upon my poor little heroine of the QuartierLatin! Thinkest thou because thou art so eminently virtuous that she whohas many a serviceable virtue of her own, shall be debarred from hershare in this world's cakes and ale?

_Vive la grisette_! Let us think and speak no evil of her. "Elle netient au vice que par un rayon, et s'en éloigne par les mille autrespoints de la circonference sociale. " The world sees only her follies, and sees them at first sight; her good qualities lie hidden in theshade. Is she not busy as a bee, joyous as a lark, helpful, pitiful, unselfish, industrious, contented? How often has she not slipped herlast coin into the alms-box at the hospital gate, and gone supperless tobed? How often sat up all night, after a long day's toil in a crowdedwork-room, to nurse Victorine in the fever? How often pawned her Sundaygown and shawl, to redeem that coat without which Adolphe cannot appearbefore the examiners to-morrow morning? Granted, if you will, that shehas an insatiable appetite for sweets, cigarettes, and theatricaladmissions--shall she not be welcome to her tastes? And is it her faultif her capacity in the way of miscellaneous refreshments partakes of thenature of the miraculous--somewhat to the inconvenience of Adolphe, whohas overspent his allowance? Supposing even that she may now and thenindulge (among friends) in a very modified can-can at theChaumière--what does that prove, except that her heels are as light asher heart, and that her early education has been somewhat neglected?

But I am writing of a world that has vanished as completely as the lostPleiad. The Quartier Latin of my time is no more. The Chaumière is nomore. The grisette is fast dying out. Of the Rue de la Harpe not arecognisable feature is left. The old Place St. Michel, the fountain, the Theatre du Panthéon, are gone as if they had never been. Wholestreets, I might say whole parishes, have been swept away--wholechapters of mediæval history erased for ever. 

Well, I love to close my eyes from time to time, and evoke the dear oldhaunts from their ruins; to descend once more the perilous steeps of theRue St. Jacques, and to thread the labyrinthine by-streets that surroundthe École de Médecine. I see them all so plainly! I look in at thefamiliar print-shops--I meet many a long-forgotten face--I hear many along-forgotten voice--I am twenty years of age and a student again!

Ah me! what a pleasant time, and what a land of enchantment! Dingy, dilapidated, decrepit as it was, that graceless old Quartier Latin, believe me, was paved with roses and lighted with laughing gas. 

CHAPTER XXIV. 

THE FETE AT COURBEVOIE. 

"_Halte là_! I thought I should catch you about this time! They've beengiving you unconscionable good measure to-day, though, haven't they? Ithought Bollinet's lecture was always over by three; and here I've beenmoralizing on the flight of Time for more than twenty minutes. "

So saying, Müller, having stopped me as I was coming down the steps ofthe Hôtel Dieu, linked his arm in mine, drew me into a shady angle underthe lee of Notre Dame, and, without leaving me time to reply, went onpouring out his light, eager chatter as readily as a mountain-springbubbles out its waters. 

"I thought you'd like to know about the Tapottes, you see--and I wasdying to tell you. I went to your rooms last night between eight andnine, and you were out; so I thought the only sure way was to comehere--I know you never miss Bollinet's Lectures. Well, as I was saying, the Tapottes. . . . Oh, _mon cher_! I am your debtor for life in thatmatter of Milord Smithfield. It has been the making of me. What do youthink? Tapotte is not only going to sit for a companion half-length toMadame's portrait, but he has given me a commission for half-a-dozenancestors. Fancy--half-a-dozen illustrious dead-and-done Tapottes! Whata scope for the imagination! What a bewildering vista of _billets debanque_! I feel--ah, _mon ami_! I feel that the wildest visions of myyouth are about to be realized, and that I shall see my tailor's billreceipted before I die!"

"I'm delighted, " said I, "that Tapotte has turned up a trump card. "

"A trump card? Say a California--a Pactolus--a Golden Calf. Nay, hathnot Tapotte two golden calves? Is he not of the precious metal allcompact? Stands he not, in the amiable ripeness of his years, a livingrepresentative of the Golden Age? _'O bella età dell' oro_!'"

And to my horror, he then and there executed a frantic _pas seul_. 

"Gracious powers!" I exclaimed. "Are you mad?"

"Yes--raving mad. Have you any objection?"

"But, my dear fellow--in the face of day--in the streets of Paris! Weshall get taken up by the police!"

"Then suppose we get out of the streets of Paris? I'm tired enough, Heaven knows, of cultivating the arid soil of the Pavé. See, it's aglorious afternoon. Let's go somewhere. "

"With all my heart. Where?"

"_Ah, mon Dieu! ça m'est égal_. Enghien--Vincennes--St. Cloud--Versailles . . . Anywhere you like. Most probably there's a fêtegoing on somewhere, if we only knew where, "

"Can't we find out?"

"Oh, yes--we can drop into a Café and look at the _Petites Affiches_;only that entails an absinthe; or we can go into the nearest OmnibusBureau and see the notices on the walls, which will be cheaper. "

So we threaded our way along the narrow thoroughfares of the Ile de laCité, and came presently to an Omnibus Bureau on the Quai de l'Horloge, overlooking the Pont Neuf and the river. Here the first thing we saw wasa flaming placard setting forth the pleasures and attractions of thegreat annual fête at Courbevoie; a village on the banks of the Seine, amile or two beyond Neuilly. 

"_Voilà, notre affaire_!" said Müller, gaily. "We can't do better thansteer straight for Courbevoie. "

Saying which, he hailed a passing fiacre and bade the coachman drive tothe Embarcadère of the Rive Droite. 

"We shall amuse ourselves famously at Courbevoie, " he said, as werattled over the stones. "We'll dine at the Toison d'Or--an excellentlittle restaurant overlooking the river; and if you're fond of angling, we can hire a punt and catch our own fish for dinner. Then there will beplenty of fiddling and dancing at the guingettes and gardens in theevening. By the way, though, I've no money! That is to say, none worthspeaking of--_voilà!_. . . One franc, one piece of fifty centimes, anotherof twenty centimes, and some sous. I hope your pockets are better linedthan mine. "

"Not much, I fear, " I replied, pulling out my porte-monnaie, andemptying the contents into my hand. They amounted to nine francs andseventy-five centimes. 

"_Parbleu_! we've just eleven francs and a half between us, " saidMüller. "A modest sum-total; but we must make it as elastic as we can. Let me see, there'll be a franc for the fiacre, four francs for ourreturn tickets, four for our dinner, and two and a half to spend as welike in the fair. Well, we can't commit any great extravagance with thatamount of floating capital. "

"Better turn back and go to my rooms for some more money?" I exclaimed. "I've two Napoleons in my desk. "

"No, no--we should miss the three-fifty train, and not get another tillbetween five and six. "

"But we shall have no fun if we have no money!"

"I dissent entirely from that proposition, Monsieur Englishman. I havealways had plenty of fun, and I have been short of cash since the hourof my birth. Come, it shall be my proud task to-day to prove to you thepleasures of impecuniosity!"

So with our eleven francs and a half we went on to the station, and tookour places for Courbevoie. 

We travelled, of course, by third class in the open wagons; and it sohappened that in our compartment we had the company of three prettylittle chattering grisettes, a fat countrywoman with a basket, and aquiet-looking elderly female with her niece. These last wore bonnets, and some kind of slight mourning. They belonged evidently to the smallbourgeoise class, and sat very quietly in the corner of the carriage, speaking to no one. The three grisettes, however, kept up an incessantfire of small talk and squabble. 

"I was on this very line last Sunday, " said one. "I went with Julie toAsnières, and we were so gay! I wonder if it will be very gay atCourbevoie. "

"_Je m'en doute_, " replied another, whom they called Lolotte. "I came toone of the Courbevoie fêtes last spring, and it was not gay at all. Butthen, to be sure, I was with Edouard, and he is as dull as the first dayin Lent. Where were you last Sunday, Adéle?"

"I did not go beyond the barriers. I went to the Cirque with my cousin, and we dined in the Palais Royal. We enjoyed ourselves so much! You knowmy cousin?"

"Ah! yes--the little fellow with the curly hair and the whiskers, whowaits for you at the corner when we leave the workshop. "

"The same--Achille. "

"Your Achille is nice-looking, " said Mademoiselle Lolotte, with asomewhat critical air. "It is a pity he squints. "

"He does not squint, mam'selle. "

"Oh, _ma chère_! I appeal to Caroline. "

"I am not sure that he actually squints, " said Mam'selle Caroline, speaking for the first time; "but he certainly has one eye larger thanthe other, and of quite a different color. "

"_Tiens_, Caroline--it seems to me that you look very closely into theeyes of young men, " exclaims Adèle, turning sharply upon this newassailant. 

"At all events you admit that Caroline is right, " cries Lolotte, triumphantly. 

"I admit nothing of the kind. I say that you are both very ill-natured, and that you say what is not true. As for you, Lolotte, I don't believeyou ever had the chance of seeing a young man's eyes turned upon you, oryou would not be so pleased with the attentions of an old one. "

"An _old_ one!" shrieked Mam'selle Lolotte. "Ah, _mon Dieu_! Is a manold at forty-seven? Monsieur Durand is in the prime of life, and thereisn't a girl in the Quartier who would not be proud of his attentions!"

"He's sixty, if an hour, " said the injured Adèle. "And as for you, Caroline, who have never had a beau in your life. . . . "

"_Ciel_! what a calumny!--I--never had a . . . Holy Saint Geneviève! why, it was only last Thursday week. . . . "

Here the train stopped at the Asnières station, and two privates of theGarde Impériale got into the carriage. The horizon cleared as if bymagic. The grisettes suddenly forgot their differences, and began tochat quite amicably. The soldiers twirled their mustachios, listened, smiled, and essayed to join in the conversation. In a few minutes allwas mirth and flirtation. 

Meanwhile Müller was casting admiring glances on the young girl in thecorner, whilst the fat countrywoman, pursing up her mouth, and watchingthe grisettes and soldiers, looked the image of offended virtue. 

"Dame! Madame, " she said, addressing herself to the old lady in thebonnet, "girls usen't to be so forward in the days when you and Iwere young!"

To which the old lady in the bonnet, blandly smiling, replied:--

"Beautiful, for the time of year. "

"Eh? For the time of year? Dame! I don't see that the time of year hasanything to do with it, " exclaimed the fat countrywoman. 

Here the young girl in the corner, blushing and smiling very sweetly, interposed with--"Pardon, Madame--my aunt is somewhat deaf. Pray, excuse her. "

Whereupon the old lady, watching the motion of her niece's lips, added--

"Ah, yes--yes! I am a poor, deaf old woman--I don't understand what yousay. Talk to my little Marie, here--she can answer you. "

"I, for one, desire nothing better than permission to talk toMademoiselle, " said Müller, gallantly. 

_"Mais, Monsieur_. . . "

"Mademoiselle, with Madame her aunt, are going to the fête atCourbevoie?"

"Yes, Monsieur. "

"The river is very pretty thereabouts, and the walks through the meadowsare delightful. "

"Indeed, Monsieur!"

"Mademoiselle does not know the place?"

"No, Monsieur. "

"Ah, if I might only be permitted to act as guide! I know every foot ofthe ground about Courbevoie. "

Mademoiselle Marie blushed again, looked down, and made no reply. 

"I am a painter, " continued Müller; "and I have sketched all thewindings of the Seine from Neuilly to St. Germains. My friend here isEnglish--he is a student of medicine, and speaks excellent French. "

"What is the gentleman saying, _mon enfant_?" asked the old lady, somewhat anxiously. 

"Monsieur says that the river is very pretty about Courbevoie, _matante_, " replied Mademoiselle Marie, raising her voice. 

"Ah! ah! and what else?"

"Monsieur is a painter. "

"A painter? Ah, dear me! it's an unhealthy occupation. My poor brotherPierre might have been alive to this day if he had taken to any otherline of business! You must take great care of your lungs, young man. Youlook delicate. "

Müller laughed, shook his head, and declared at the top of his voicethat he had never had a day's illness in his life. 

Here the pretty niece again interposed. 

"Ah, Monsieur, " she said, "my aunt does not understand. . . . My--my unclePierre was a house-painter. "

"A very respectable occupation, Mademoiselle, " replied Müller, politely. "For my own part, I would sooner paint the insides of some houses thanthe outsides of some people. "

At this moment the train began to slacken pace, and the steam was letoff with a demoniac shriek. 

"_Tiens, mon enfant_, " said the old lady, turning towards her niece withaffectionate anxiety. "I hope you have not taken cold. "

The excellent soul believed that it was Mademoiselle Marie who sneezed. 

And now the train had stopped--the porters were running along theplatform, shouting "Courbevoie! Courbevoie!"--the passengers werescrambling out _en masse_--and beyond the barrier one saw a confusedcrowd of _charrette_ and omnibus-drivers, touters, fruit-sellers, andidlers of every description. Müller handed out the old lady and theniece; the fat countrywoman scrambled up into a kind of tumbril drivenby a boy in _sabots_; the grisettes and soldiers walked off together;and the tide of holiday-makers, some on foot, some in hired vehicles, set towards the village. In the meanwhile, what with the crowd on theplatform and the crowd outside the barrier, and what with the hustlingand pushing at the point where the tickets were taken, we lost sight ofthe old lady and her niece. 

"What the deuce has become of _ma tante_?" exclaimed Müller, lookinground. 

But neither _ma tante_ nor Mademoiselle Marie were anywhere to be seen. I suggested that they must have gone on in the omnibus or taken a_charrette_, and so have passed us unperceived. 

"And, after all, " I added, "we didn't want to enter upon an indissolubleunion with them for the rest of the day. _Ma tante's_ deafness is notentertaining, and _la petite_ Marie has nothing to say. "

"_La petite_ Marie is uncommonly pretty, though, " said Müller. "I meanto dance a quadrille with her by-and-by, I promise you. "

"_A la bonne heure_! We shall be sure to chance upon them again beforelong. "

We had come by this time to a group of pretty villa-residences with highgarden walls and little shady side-lanes leading down to the river. Thencame a church and more houses; then an open Place; and suddenly we foundourselves in the midst of the fair. 

It was just like any other of the hundred and one fêtes that take placeevery summer in the environs of Paris. There was a merry-go-round and agreasy pole; there was a juggler who swallowed knives and ribbons; therewere fortune-tellers without number; there were dining-booths, anddrinking-booths, and dancing-booths; there were acrobats, organ-boyswith monkeys, and Savoyards with white mice; there were stalls for thesale of cakes, fruit, sweetmeats, toys, combs, cheap jewelry, glass, crockery, boots and shoes, holy-water vessels, rosaries, medals, andlittle colored prints of saints and martyrs; there were brass bands, andstring bands, and ballad-singers everywhere; and there was an atmospherecompounded of dust, tobacco-smoke, onions, musk, and every objectionableperfume under heaven. 

"Dine at the Restaurant de l'Empire, Messieurs, " shouted a shabbytouter in a blouse, thrusting a greasy card into our faces. "Threedishes, a dessert, a half-bottle, and a band of music, for onefranc-fifty. The cheapest dinner in the fair!"

"The cheapest dinner in the fair is at the Belle Gabrielle!" criedanother. "We'll give you for the same money soup, fish, two dishes, adessert, a half-bottle, and take your photograph into the bargain!"

"Bravo! _mon vieux_--you first poison them with your dinner, and thenprovide photographs for the widows and children, " retorts touter numberone. "That's justice, anyhow. "

Whereupon touter number two shrieks out a torrent of abuse, and we pushon, leaving them to settle their differences after their own fashion. 

At the next booth we are accosted by a burly fellow daubed to the eyeswith red and blue paint, and dressed as an Indian chief. 

"_Entrez, entrez, Messieurs et Mesdames_" he cries, flourishing awar-spear some nine feet in length. "Come and see the wonderful Peruvianmaiden of Tanjore, with webbed fingers and toes, her mouth in the backof her head, and her eyes in the soles of her feet! Only four sous each, and an opportunity that will never occur again!"

"Only fifty centimes!" shouts another public orator; "the most ingeniouslittle machine ever invented! Goes into the waistcoat pocket--is woundup every twenty-four hours--tells the day of the month, the day of theyear, the age of the moon, the state of the Bourse, the bank rate ofdiscount, the quarter from which the wind is blowing, the price ofnew-laid eggs in Paris and the provinces, the rate of mortality in theFee-jee islands, and the state of your sweetheart's affections!"

A little further on, by dint of much elbowing, we made our way into acrowded booth where, for the modest consideration of two sous per head, might be seen a Boneless Youth and an Ashantee King. The performanceswere half over when we went in. The Boneless Youth had gone through hisfeats of agility, and was lying on a mat in a corner of the stage, thepicture of limp incapability. The Ashantee monarch was just about tomake his appearance. Meanwhile, a little man in fleshings and a cockedhat addressed the audience. 

"Messieurs and Mesdames--I have the honor to announce that CarabaRadokala, King of Ashantee, will next appear before you. This terrificnative sovereign was taken captive by that famous Dutch navigator, theMynheer Van Dunk, in his last voyage round the globe. Van Dunk, havingbrought his prisoner to Europe in an iron cage, sold him to the Englishgovernment in 1840; who sold him again to Milord Barnum, the greatAmerican philanthropist, in 1842; who sold him again to Franconi of theCirque Olympique; who finally sold him to me. At the time of hiscapture, Caraba Radokala was the most treacherous, barbarous, andsanguinary monster upon record. He had three hundred and sixty-fivewives--a wife, you observe, for every day in the year. He livedexclusively upon human flesh, and consumed, when in good health, onebaby per diem. His palace in Ashantee was built entirely of the skullsand leg-bones of his victims. He is now, however, much less ferocious;and, though he feeds on live pigeons, rabbits, dogs, mice, and the like, he has not tasted human flesh since his captivity. He is also heavilyironed. The distinguished company need therefore entertain noapprehensions. Pierre--draw the bolt, and let his majesty loose!"

A savage roar was now heard, followed by a rattling of chains. Then thecurtains were suddenly drawn back, and the Ashantee king--crowned with afeather head-dress, loaded with red and blue war-paint, and chained fromankle to ankle--bounded on the stage. 

Seeing the audience before him, he uttered a terrific howl. The frontrows were visibly agitated. Several young women faintly screamed. 

The little man in the cocked hat rushed to the front, protesting thatthe ladies had no reason to be alarmed. Caraba Radokala, if not wantonlyprovoked, was now quite harmless--a little irritable, perhaps, frombeing waked too suddenly--would be as gentle as a lamb, if givensomething to eat:--"Pierre, quiet his majesty with a pigeon!"

Pierre, a lank lad in motley, hereupon appeared with a live pigeon, which immediately escaped from his hands and perched on the top of theproscenium. Caraba Radokala yelled; the little man in the cocked hatraved; and Pierre, in default of more pigeons, contritely reappearedwith a lump of raw beef, into which his majesty ravenously dug his royalteeth. The pigeon, meanwhile, dressed its feathers and lookedcomplacently down, as if used to the incident. 

"Having fed, Caraba Radokala will now be quite gentle and good-humored, "said the showman. "If any lady desires to shake hands with him, she maydo so with perfect safety. Will any lady embrace the opportunity?"

A faint sound of tittering was heard in various parts of the booth; butno one came forward. 

"Will _no_ lady be persuaded? Well, then, is there any gentleman presentwho speaks Ashantee?"

Müller gave me a dig with his elbow, and started to his feet. 

"Yes, " he replied, loudly. "I do. "

Every head was instantly turned in our direction. 

The showman collapsed with astonishment. Even the captive, despite hisignorance of the French tongue, looked considerably startled. 

"_Comment_!" stammered the cocked hat. "Monsieur speaks Ashantee?"

"Fluently. "

"Is it permitted to inquire how and when monsieur acquired this veryunusual accomplishment?"

"I have spoken Ashantee from my infancy, " replied Müller, with admirableaplomb. "I was born at sea, brought up in an undiscovered island, twicekidnapped by hostile tribes before attaining the age of ten years, andhave lived among savage nations all my life. "

A murmur of admiration ran through the audience, and Müller became, forthe time, an object of livelier interest than Caraba Radokala himself. Seeing this, the indignant monarch executed a warlike _pas_, and rattledhis chains fiercely. 

"In that case, monsieur, you had better come upon the stage, and speakto his majesty, " said the showman reluctantly. 

"With all the pleasure in life. "

"But I warn you that his temper is uncertain. "

"Bah!" said Müller, working his way round through the crowd, "I'm notafraid of his temper. "

"As monsieur pleases--but, if monsieur offends him, _I_ will not beanswerable for the consequences. "

"All right--give us a hand up, _mon vieux_!" And Muller, havingclambered upon the stage, made a bow to the audience and a salaam tohis majesty. 

"Chickahominy chowdar bang, " said he, by way of opening theconversation. 

The ex-king of Ashantee scowled, folded his arms, and maintained ahaughty silence. 

"Hic hac horum, high cockalorum, " continued Müller, with exceedingsuavity. 

The captive monarch stamped impatiently, ground his teeth, but stillmade no reply. 

"Monsieur had better not aggravate him, " said the showman. "On thecontrary--I am overwhelming him with civilities Now observe--I condolewith him upon his melancholy position. I inquire after his wives andchildren; and I remark how uncommonly well he is looking. "

And with this, he made another salaam, smiled persuasively, and said--

"Alpha, beta, gamma, delta--chin-chin--Potz tausend!--Erin-go-bragh!"

"Borriobooloobah!" shrieked his majesty, apparently stung todesperation. 

"Rocofoco!" retorted Müller promptly. 

But as if this last was more than any Ashantee temper could bear, CarabaRodokala clenched both his fists, set his teeth hard, and charged downupon Müller like a wild elephant. Being met, however, by a well-plantedblow between the eyes, he went down like a ninepin--picked himselfup, --rushed in again, and, being forcibly seized and held back by thecocked hat, Pierre of the pigeons, and a third man who came tumbling upprecipitately from somewhere behind the stage, vented his fury, in atorrent of very highly civilized French oaths. 

"Eh, _sacredieu_!" he cried, shaking his fist in Müller's face, "I'venot done with you yet, _diable de galérien_!"

Whereupon there burst forth a general roar--a roar like the"inextinguishable laughter" of Olympus. 

"_Tiens_!" said Müller, "his majesty speaks French almost as well as Ispeak Ashantee!"

"_Bourreau! Brigand! Assassin_!" shrieked his Ferocity, as his friendshustled him off the stage. 

The curtains then fell together again; and the audience, still laughingvociferously, dispersed with cries of "Vive Caraba Rodokala!" "Kindremembrances to the Queens of Ashantee!" "What's the latest news fromhome?" "Borriobooloo-bah--ah--ah!"

Elbowing our way out with the crowd, we now plunged once more into thepress of the fair. Here our old friends the dancing dogs of the ChampsElysées, and the familiar charlatan of the Place du Châtelet with hischariot and barrel-organ, transported us from Ashantee to Paris. Next wecame to a temporary shooting-gallery, adorned over the entrance with aspirited cartoon of a Tyrolean sharpshooter; and then to an exhibitionof cosmoramas; and presently to a weighing machine, in which a great, rosy-cheeked, laughing Normandy peasant girl, with her high cap, blueskirt, massive gold cross and heavy ear-rings, was in the act ofbeing weighed. 

"_Tiens! Mam'selle est joliment solide_!" remarks a saucy bystander, asthe owner of the machine piles on weight after weight. 

"Perhaps if I had no more brains than m'sieur, I should weigh as light!"retorts the damsel, with a toss of her high cap. 

"_Pardon_! it is not a question of brains--it is a question of hearts, "interposes an elderly exquisite in a white hat. "Mam'selle has capturedso many that she is completely over weighted. "

"Twelve stone six ounces, " pronounces the owner of the machine, adjusting the last weight. 

Whereupon there is a burst of ironical applause, and the big _paysanne_, half laughing, half angry, walks off, exclaiming, "_Eh bien! tantmieux_! I've no mind to be a scarecrow--_moi_!"

By this time we have both had enough of the fair, and are glad to makeour way out of the crowd and down to the riverside. Here we find loversstrolling in pairs along the towing-path; family groups pic-nicking inthe shade; boats and punts for hire, and a swimming-match just comingoff, of which all that is visible are two black heads bobbing up anddown along the middle of the stream. 

"And now, _mon ami_, what do you vote for?" asks Müller. "Boating orfishing? or both? or neither?"

"Both, if you like--but I never caught anything in my life, "

"The pleasure of fishing, I take it, " says Müller, "is not in the fishyou catch, but in the fish you miss. The fish you catch is a poor littlewretch, worth neither the trouble of landing, cooking, nor eating; butthe fish you miss is always the finest fellow you ever saw inyour life!"

"_Allons donc_! I know, then, which of us two will have most of thepleasure to-day, " I reply, laughing. "But how about the expense?"

To which Müller, with a noble recklessness, answers:--

"Oh, hang the expense! Here, boatman! a boat _à quatre rames_, and somefishing-tackle--by the hour. "

Now it was undoubtedly a fine sentiment this of Müller's, and had we butfetched my two Napoleons before starting, I should have applauded it tothe echo; but when I considered that something very nearly approachingto a franc had already filtered out of our pockets in passing throughthe fair, and that the hour of dinner was looming somewhat indefinitelyin the distance, I confess that my soul became disquieted within me. 

"Don't forget, for heaven's sake, " I said, "that we must keep somethingfor dinner!"

"My dear fellow, " he replied, "I have already a tremendous appetite fordinner--that _is_ something. "

After this, I resigned myself to whatever might happen. 

We then rowed up the river for about a mile beyond Courbevoie. Mooredour boat to a friendly willow, put our fishing-tackle together, andcomposed ourselves for the gentle excitement that waits upon the gudgeonand the minnow. 

"I haven't yet had a single nibble, " said Müller, when we had beensitting to our work for something less than ten minutes. 

"Hush!" I said. "You mustn't speak, you know. "

"True--I had forgotten. I'll sing instead. Fishes, I have been told, arefond of music. 

 'Fanfan, je vous aimerais bien; Contre vous je n'ai nul caprice; Vous êtes gentil, j'en convien. . . . '"

"Come, now!" I exclaimed pettishly, "this is really too bad. I had abite--a most decided bite--and if you had only kept quiet". . . . 

"Nonsense, my dear fellow! I tell you again--and I have it on the bestauthority--fishes like music. Did you never hear of Arion! Have youforgotten about the Syrens? Believe me, your gudgeon nibbled because Isang him to the surface--just as the snakes come out for the song of thesnake-charmer. I'll try again!"

And with this he began:--

 "Jeannette est une brune Qui demeure à Pantin, Où toute sa fortune Est un petit jardin!"

"Well, if you go on like that, all I have to say is, that not a fishwill come within half a mile of our bait, " said I, withtranquil despair. 

"Alas! _mon cher_, I am grieved to observe in your otherwise estimablecharacter, a melancholy want of faith, " replied Müller "Without faith, what is friendship? What is angling? What is matrimony? Now, I tell youthat with regard to the finny tribe, the more I charm them, the moreenthusiastically they will flock to be caught. We shall have amiraculous draught in a few minutes, if you are but patient. "

And then he began again:--

 "Mimi Pinson est une blonde, Une blonde que l'on connaît. Elle n'a qu'une robe au monde, Landerirette! Et qu'un bonnet. "

I laid aside my rod, folded my arms, and when he had done, applaudedironically. 

"Very good, " I said. "I understand the situation. We are here, atsome--indeed, I may say, considering the state of our exchequer, at aconsiderable mutual expense; not to catch fish, but to afford HerrMüller an opportunity of exercising his extensive memory, and hislimited baritone voice. The entertainment is not without its_agréments_, but I find it dear at the price. "

"_Tiens_, Arbuthnot! let us fish seriously. I promise not to open mylips again till you have caught something. "

"Then, seriously, I believe you would have to be silent the whole night, and all I should catch would be the rheumatism. I am the worst angler inthe world, and the most unlucky. "

"Really and truly?"

"Really and truly. And you?"

"As bad as yourself. If a tolerably large and energetic fish did me thehonor to swallow my bait, the probability is that he would catch me. Icertainly shouldn't know what to do with him. "

"Then the present question is--what shall we do with ourselves?"

"I vote that we row up as far as yonder bend in the river, just to seewhat lies beyond; and then back to Courbevoie. "

"Heaven only grant that by that time we shall have enough money left fordinner!" I murmured with a sigh. 

We rowed up the river as far as the first bend, a distance of abouthalf a mile; and then we rowed on as far as the next bend. Then weturned, and, resting on our oars, drifted slowly back with the current. The evening was indescribably brilliant and serene. The sky wascloudless, of a greenish blue, and full of light. The river was clear asglass. We could see the flaccid water-weeds swaying languidly with thecurrent far below, and now and then a shoal of tiny fish shooting alonghalf-way between the weeds and the surface. A rich fringe of purpleiris, spear-leaved sagittarius, and tufted meadow-sweet (each blossom abouquet on a slender thyrsus) bordered the towing-path and filled theair with perfume. Here the meadows lay open to the water's edge; alittle farther on, they were shut off by a close rampart of poplars andwillows whose leaves, already yellowed by autumn, were now fiery in thesunset. Joyous bands of gnats, like wild little intoxicated maenads, circled and hummed about our heads as we drifted slowly on; while, faraway and mellowed by distance, we heard the brazen music of the fair. 

We were both silent. Müller pulled out a small sketch-book and made arapid study of the scene--the reach in the river; the wooded banks; thegreen flats traversed by long lines of stunted pollards; the church-topsand roofs of Courbevoie beyond. 

Presently a soft voice, singing, broke upon the silence. Müller stoppedinvoluntarily, pencil in hand. I held my breath, and listened. The tunewas flowing and sweet; and as our boat drifted on, the words of thesinger became audible. 

 "O miroir ondoyant! Je rève en te voyant Harmonie et lumière, O ma rivière, O ma belle rivière!

 "On voit se réfléchir Dans ses eaux les nuages; Elle semble dormir Entre les pâturages

 Où paissent les grands boeufs Et les grasses genisses. Au pâtres amoureux Que ses bords sont propices!"

"A woman's voice, " said Müller. "Dupont's words and music. She must beyoung and pretty . . . Where has she hidden herself?"

The unseen singer, meanwhile, went on with another verse. 

 "Près des iris du bord, Sous une berge haute, La carpe aux reflets d'or Où le barbeau ressaute, Les goujons font le guet, L'Ablette qui scintille Fuit le dent du brochet; Au fond rampe l'anguille!

 "O miroir ondoyant! Je rève en te voyant Harmonic et lumière, O ma rivière, O ma belle rivière!"

"Look!" said Müller. "Do you not see them yonder--two women under thetrees? By Jupiter! it's _ma tante_ and _la petite_ Marie!"

Saying which, he flung himself upon his oars and began pullingvigorously towards the shore. 

CHAPTER XXV. 

THAT TERRIBLE MÜLLER. 

La petite Marie broke off at the sound of our oars, and blushed abecoming rose-color. 

"Will these ladies do us the honor of letting us row them back toCourbevoie?" said Müller, running our boat close in against the sedges, and pulling off his hat as respectfully as if they were duchesses. 

Mademoiselle Marie repeated the invitation to her aunt, who accepted itat once. 

"_Très volontiers, très volontiers, messieurs_" she said, smiling andnodding. "We have rambled out so far--so far! And I am not as young as Iwas forty years ago. _Ah, mon Dieu_! how my old bones ache! Give me thyhand, Marie, and thank the gentlemen for their politeness. "

So Mam'selle Marie helped her aunt to rise, and we steadied the boatclose under the bank, at a point where the interlacing roots of a coupleof sallows made a kind of natural step by means of which they couldeasily get down. 

"Oh, dear! dear! it will not turn over, will it, my dear young man?_Ciel_! I am slipping . . . Ah, _Dieu, merci_!--Marie, _mon cher enfant_, pray be careful not to jump in, or you will upset us all!"

And _ma tante_, somewhat tremulous from the ordeal of embarking, settleddown in her place, while Müller lifted Mam'selle Marie into the boat, asif she had been a child. I then took the oars, leaving him to steer; andso we pursued our way towards Courbevoie. 

"Mam'selle has of course seen the fair?" said Müller, from behind theold lady's back. 

"No, monsieur, "

"No! Is it possible?"

"There was so much crowd, monsieur, and such a noise . . . We were quitetoo much afraid to venture in. "

"Would you be afraid, mam'selle, to venture with me?"

"I--I do not know, monsieur. "

"Ah, mam'selle, you might be very sure that I would take good care ofyou!"

"_Mais . . . Monsieur_". . . 

"These gentlemen, I see, have been angling, " said the old lady, addressing me very graciously. "Have you caught many fish?"

"None at all, madame!" I replied, loudly. 

"_Tiens_! so many as that?"

"_Pardon_, madame, " I shouted at the top of my voice. "We have caughtnothing--nothing at all. "

_Ma tante_ smiled blandly. 

"Ah, yes, " she said; "and you will have them cooked presently fordinner, _n'est-ce pas_? There is no fish so fresh, and so well-flavored, as the fish of our own catching. "

"Will madame and mam'selle do us the honor to taste our fish and shareour modest dinner?" said Müller, leaning forward in his seat in thestern, and delivering his invitation close into the old lady's ear. 

To which _ma tante_, with a readiness of hearing for which no one wouldhave given her credit, replied:--

"But--but monsieur is very polite--if we should not be inconveniencingthese gentlemen". . . . 

"We shall be charmed, madame--we shall be honored!"

"_Eh bien!_ with pleasure, then--Marie, my child, thank the gentlemenfor their amiable invitation. "

I was thunderstruck. I looked at Müller to see if he had suddenly goneout of his senses. Mam'selle Marie, however, was infinitely amused. 

"_Fi donc!_ monsieur, " she said. "You have no fish. I heard the othergentleman say so. "

"The other gentleman, mam'selle, " replied Müller, "is an Englishman, andtroubled with the spleen. You must not mind anything he says. "

Troubled with the spleen! I believe myself to be as even-tempered and asready to fall in with a joke as most men; but I should have liked atthat moment to punch Franz Müller's head. Gracious heavens! into what aposition he had now brought us! What was to be done? How were we to getout of it? It was now just seven; and we had already been upon the waterfor more than an hour. What should we have to pay for the boat? And whenwe had paid for the boat, how much money should we have left to pay forthe dinner? Not for our own dinners--ah, no! For _ma tante's_ dinner(and _ma tante_ had a hungry eye) and for _la petite_ Marie's dinner;and _la petite_ Marie, plump, rosy, and well-liking, looked as if shemight have a capital appetite upon occasion! Should we have as much astwo and a half francs? I doubted it. And then, in the absence of amiracle, what could we do with two and a half francs, if we had them? Amiserable sum!--convertible, perhaps, into as much bouilli, bread andcheese, and thin country wine as might have satisfied our own hunger ina prosaic and commonplace way; but for four persons, two ofthem women!. . . 

And this was not the worst of it. I thought I knew Müller well enough bythis time to feel that he would entirely dismiss this minorconsideration of ways and means; that he would order the dinner asrecklessly as if we had twenty francs apiece in our pockets; and that hewould not only order it, but eat it and preside at it with all thegayety and audacity in life. 

Then would come the horrible retribution of the bill!

I felt myself turn red and hot at the mere thought of it. 

Then a dastardly idea insinuated itself into my mind. I had myreturn-ticket in my waistcoat-pocket:--what if I slipped away presentlyto the station and went back to Paris by the next train, leaving myclever friend to improvise his way out of his own scrape as besthe could?

In the meanwhile, as I was rowing with the stream, we soon got back toCourbevoie. 

"_Are_ you mad?" I said, as, having landed the ladies, Müller and Idelivered up the boat to its owner. 

"Didn't I admit it, two or three hours ago?" he replied. "I wonder youdon't get tired, _mon cher_, of asking the same question so often. "

"Four francs, fifty centimes, Messieurs, " said the boatman, having madefast his boat to the landing-place. 

"Four francs, fifty centimes!" I echoed, in dismay. 

Even Müller looked aghast. 

"My good fellow, " he said, "do you take us for coiners?"

"Hire of boat, two francs the hour. These gentlemen have been outnearly one hour and a half--three francs. Hire of bait andfishing-tackle, one franc fifty. Total, four francs and a half, " repliedthe boatman, putting out a great brown palm. 

Müller, who was acting as cashier and paymaster, pulled out his purse, deposited one solitary half-franc in the middle of that brown palm, andsuggested that the boatman and he should toss up for the remaining fourfrancs--or race for them--or play for them--or fight for them. Theboatman, however, indignantly rejected each successive proposal, and, being paid at last, retired with a _decrescendo_ of oaths. 

"_Tiens_!" said Müller, reflectively. "We have but one franc left. Onefranc, two sous, and a centime. _Vive la France!_"

"And you have actually asked that wretched old woman and her niece todinner!"

"And I have actually solicited that excellent and admirable woman, Madame Marotte, relict of the late lamented Jacques Marotte, umbrellamaker, of number one hundred and two, Rue du Faubourg St. Denis, and herbeautiful and accomplished niece, Mademoiselle Marie Charpentier, tohonor us with their company this evening. _Dis-donc, _ what shall we givethem for dinner?"

"Precisely what you invited them to, I should guess--the fish we caughtthis afternoon. "

"Agreed. And what else?"

"Say--a dish of invisible greens, and a phoenix _à la Marengo_. "

"You are funny, _mon cher_. "

"Then, for fear I should become too funny--good afternoon. "

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that I have no mind to dine first, and be kicked out of doorsafterwards. It is one of those aids to digestion that I can willinglydispense with. "

"But if I guarantee that the dinner shall be paid for--money down!"

"Tra la la!"

"You don't believe me? Well, come and see. "

With this, he went up to Madame Marotte, who, with her niece, had satdown on a bench under a walnut-tree close by, waiting our pleasure. 

"Would not these ladies prefer to rest here, while we seek for asuitable restaurant and order the dinner?" said Müller insinuatingly. 

The old lady looked somewhat blank. She was not too tired to goon--thought it a pity to bring us all the way back again--would do, however, as "_ces messieurs_" pleased; and so was left sitting under thewalnut-tree, reluctant and disconsolate. 

"_Tiens! mon enfant_" I heard her say as we turned away, "suppose theydon't come back again!"

We had promised to be gone not longer, than twenty minutes, or at mosthalf an hour. Müller led the way straight to the _Toison d' Or_. 

I took him by the arm as we neared the gate. 

"Steady, steady, _mon gaillard_" I said. "We don't order our dinner, youknow, till we've found the money to pay for it. "

"True--but suppose I go in here to look for it?"

"Into the restaurant garden?"

"Precisely. "

CHAPTER XXVI. 

THE PETIT COURIER ILLUSTRÉ. 

THE _Toison d' Or_ was but a modest little establishment as regarded thehouse, but it was surrounded on three sides by a good-sized gardenoverlooking the river. Here, in the trellised arbors which lined thelawn on either side, those customers who preferred the open air couldtake their dinners, coffees, and absinthes _al fresco_. 

The scene when we arrived was at its gayest. There were dinners going onin every arbor; waiters running distractedly to and fro with trays andbottles; two women, one with a guitar, the other with a tamborine, singing under a tree in the middle of the garden; while in the air therereigned an exhilarating confusion of sounds and smells impossibleto describe. 

We went in. Müller paused, looked round, captured a passing waiter, andasked for Monsieur le propriétaire. The waiter pointed over his shouldertowards the house, and breathlessly rushed on his way. 

Müller at once led the way into a salon on the ground-floor looking overthe garden. 

Here we found ourselves in a large low room containing some thirty orforty tables, and fitted up after the universal restaurant pattern, withcheap-looking glasses, rows of hooks, and spittoons in due number. Theair was heavy with the combined smells of many dinners, and noisy withthe clatter of many tongues. Behind the fruits, cigars, and liqueurbottles that decorated the _comptoir_ sat a plump, black-eyed littlewoman in a gorgeous cap and a red silk dress. This lady welcomed us witha bewitching smile and a gracious inclination of the head. 

"_Ces messieurs_, " she said, "will find a vacant table yonder, by thewindow. "

Müller bowed majestically. 

"Madame, " he said, "I wish to see Monsieur le propriétaire. "

The dame de comptoir looked very uneasy. 

"If Monsieur has any complaint to make, " she said, "he can make it tome. "

"Madame, I have none. "

"Or if it has reference to the ordering of a dinner. . . . "

Müller smiled loftily. 

"Dinner, Madame, " he said, with a disdainful gesture, "is but one of theaccidents common to humanity. A trifle! A trifle alwayshumiliating--sometimes inconvenient--occasionally impossible. No, Madame, mine is a serious mission; a mission of the highest importance, both socially and commercially. May I beg that you will have thegoodness to place my card in the hands of Monsieur le propriétaire, andsay that I request the honor of five minutes' interview. "

The little woman's eyes had all this time been getting rounder andblacker. She was evidently confounded by my friend's grandiloquence. 

"_Ah! mon Dieu! M'sieur_, " she said, nervously, "my husband is in thekitchen. It is a busy day with us, you understand--but I will sendfor him. "

And she forthwith despatched a waiter for "Monsieur Choucru. "

Müller seized me by the arm. 

"Heavens!" he exclaimed, in a very audible aside, "did you hear? She ishis wife! She is Madame Choucru?"

"Well, and what of that?"

"What of that, indeed? _Mais, mon ami_, how can you ask the question?Have you no eyes? Look at her! Such a remarkably handsome woman--such a_tournure_--such eyes--such a figure for an illustration! Only conceivethe effect of Madame Choucru--in medallion!"

"Oh, magnificent!" I replied. "Magnificent--in medallion. "

But I could not, for the life of me, imagine what he was driving at. 

"And it would make the fortune of the _Toison d'Or_" he added, solemnly. 

To which I replied that it would undoubtedly do so. 

Monsieur Choucru now came upon the scene; a short, rosy, round-facedlittle man in a white flat cap and bibbed apron--like an elderly cherubthat had taken to cookery. He hung back upon the threshold, wiping hisforehead, and evidently unwilling to show himself in his shirt-sleeves. 

"Here, _mon bon_, " cried Madame, who was by this time crimson withgratified vanity, and in a fever of curiosity; "this way--the gentlemanis waiting to speak to you!"

Monsieur, the cook and proprietor, shuffled his feet to and fro in thedoorway, but came no nearer. 

"_Parbleu_!" he said, "if M'sieur's business is not urgent. "

"It is extremely urgent, Monsieur Choucru, " replied Müller; "and, moreover, it is not so much my business as it is yours, "

"Ah bah! if it is my business, then, it may stand over till to-morrow, "replied the little man, impatiently. "To-day I have eighty dinners onhand, and with M'sieur's permission". . . . 

But Müller strode to the door and caught him by the shoulder. 

"No, Monsieur Choucru, " he said sternly, "I will not let you ruinyourself by putting off till to-morrow what can only be done to-day. Ihave come here, Monsieur Choucru, to offer you fame. Fame and fortune, Monsieur Choucru!--and I will not suffer you, for the sake of a fewmiserable dinners, to turn your back upon the most brilliant moment ofyour life!"

"_Mais, M'sieur_--explain yourself" . . . Stammered the propriétaire. 

"You know who I am, Monsieur Choucru?"

"No, M'sieur--not in the least. "

"I am Müller--Franz Müller--landscape painter, portrait painter, historical painter, caricaturist, artist _en chef_ to the _Petit CourierIllustré_"

"_Hein! M'sieur est peintre_!"

"Yes, Monsieur Choucru--and I offer you my protection. "

Monsieur Choucru scratched his ear, and smiled doubtfully. 

"Now listen, Monsieur Choucru--I am here to-day in the interests of the_Petit Courier Illustré_. I take the Courbevoie fête for my subject. Isketch the river, the village, the principal features of the-scene; andon Saturday my designs are in the hands of all Paris. Do youunderstand me?"

"I understand that M'sieur is all this time talking to me of his ownbusiness, while mine, _là bas_, is standing still!" exclaimed thepropriétaire, in an agony of impatience. "I have the honor to wishM'sieur good-day. "

But Müller seized him again, and would not let him escape. 

"Not so fast, Monsieur Choucru, " he said; "not so fast! Will you answerme one question before you go?"

"_Eh, mon Dieu_! Monsieur. "

"Will you tell me, Monsieur Choucru, what is to prevent me from givinga view of the best restaurant in Courbevoie?"

Madame Choucru, from behind the _comptoir_, uttered a little scream. 

"A design in the _Petit Courier Illustré_, I need scarcely tell you, "pursued Müller, with indescribable pomposity, "is in itself sufficientto make the fortune not only of an establishment, but of a neighborhood. I am about to make Courbevoie the fashion. The sun of Asnières, ofMontmorency, of Enghien has set--the sun of Courbevoie is about to rise. My sketches will produce an unheard-of effect. All Paris will throng toyour fêtes next Sunday and Monday--all Paris, with its inexhaustibleappetite for _bifteck aux pommes frites_--all Paris with itsunquenchable thirst for absinthe and Bavarian beer! Now, MonsieurChoucru, do you begin to understand me?"

"_Mais_, Monsieur, I--I think. . . . "

"You think you do, Monsieur Choucru? Very good. Then will you please toanswer me one more question. What is to prevent me from conferring fame, fortune, and other benefits too numerous to mention on your excellentneighbor at the corner of the Place--Monsieur Coquille of the Restaurant_Croix de Malte_?"

Monsieur Choucru scratched his ear again, stared helplessly at his wife, and said nothing. Madame looked grave. 

"Are we to treat this matter on the footing of a business transaction, Monsieur!" she asked, somewhat sharply. "Because, if so, let Monsieur atonce name his price for me. . . . "

"'PRICE, ' Madame!" interrupted Müller, with a start of horror. "Graciouspowers! this to me--to Franz Müller of the _Petit Courier Illustré_!'No, Madame--you mistake me--you wound me--you touch the honor of theFine Arts! Madame, I am incapable of selling my patronage. "

Madame clasped her hands; raised her voice; rolled her black eyes; dideverything but burst into tears. She was shocked to have offendedMonsieur! She was profoundly desolated! She implored a thousand pardons!And then, like a true French-woman of business, she brought back theconversation to the one important point:--since money was not inquestion, upon what consideration would Monsieur accord his preferenceto the _Toison d' Or_ instead of to the _Croix de Malte_?

Müller bowed, laid his hand upon his heart, and said:--

"I will do it, _pour les beaux yeux de Madame_. "

And then, in graceful recognition of the little man's rights as owner ofthe eyes in question, he bowed to Monsieur Choucru. 

Madame was inexpressibly charmed. Monsieur smiled, fidgeted, and castlonging glances towards the door. 

"I have eighty dinners on hand, " he began again, "and if M'sieur willexcuse me. . . . "

"One moment more, my dear Monsieur Choucru, " said Müller, slipping hishand affectionately through the little man's arm. "For myself, as I havealready told you, I can accept nothing--but I am bound in honor not toneglect the interests of the journal I represent. You will of coursewish to express your sense of the compliment paid to your house byadding your name to the subscription list of the _Petit CourierIllustré_?"

"Oh, by--by all means--with pleasure, " faltered the propriétaire. 

"For how many copies, Monsieur Choucru? Shall we say--six?"

Monsieur looked at Madame. Madame nodded. Müller took out hispocket-book, and waited, pencil in hand. 

"Eh--_parbleu_!--let it be for six, then, " said Monsieur Choucru, somewhat reluctantly. 

Müller made the entry, shut up the pocket-book, and shook handsboisterously with his victim. 

"My dear Monsieur Choucru, " he said, "I cannot tell you how gratifyingthis is to my feelings, or with what disinterested satisfaction I shallmake your establishment known to the Parisian public. You shall beimmortalized, my dear fellow--positively immortalized!"

"_Bien obligé, M'sieur--bien obligé_. Will you not let my wife offer youa glass of liqueure?"

"Liqueure, _mon cher_!" exclaimed Müller, with an outburst of frankcordiality--"hang liqueure!--WE'LL DINE WITH YOU!"

"Monsieur shall be heartily welcome to the best dinner the _Toison d'Or_can send up; and his friend also, " said Madame, with her sweetest smile. 

"Ah, Madame!"

"And M'sieur Choucru shall make you one of his famous cheese soufflés. _Tiens, mon bon_, go down and prepare a cheese soufflé for two. "

Müller smote his forehead distractedly. 

"For two!" he cried. "Heavens! I had forgotten my aunt and my cousin!"

Madame looked up inquiringly. 

"Monsieur has forgotten something?"

"Two somethings, Madame--two somebodies! My aunt--my excellent andadmirable maternal aunt, --and my cousin. We left them sitting under atree by the river-side, more than half an hour ago. But the fault, Madame, is yours. "

"How, Monsieur?"

"Yes; for in your charming society I forget the ties of family and thelaws of politeness. But I hasten to fetch my forgotten relatives. Withwhat pleasure they will share your amiable hospitality! _Au revoir_, Madame. In ten minutes we shall be with you again!"

Madame Choucru looked grave. She had not bargained to entertain a partyof four; yet she dared not disoblige the _Petit Courier Illustré_. Shehad no time, however, to demur to the arrangement; for Müller, ingeniously taking her acquiescence for granted, darted out of the roomwithout waiting for an answer. 

"Miserable man!" I exclaimed, as soon as we were outside the doors, "what will you do now?"

"Do! Why, fetch my admirable maternal aunt and my interesting cousin, tobe sure. "

"But you have raised a dinner under false pretences!"

"I, _mon cher_? Not a bit of it. "

"Have you, then, really anything to do with the _Petit CourierIllustré_?"

"The Editor of the _Petit Courier Illustré_ is one of the best fellowsin the world, and occasionally (when my pockets represent that vacuumwhich Nature very properly abhors) he advances me a couple of Napoleons. I wipe out the score from time to time by furnishing a design for thepaper. Now to-day, you see, I'm in luck. I shall pay off two obligationsat once--to say nothing of Monsieur Choucru's six-fold subscription tothe P. C. , on which the publishers will allow me a douceur of thirtyfrancs. Now, confess that I'm a man of genius!"

In less than a quarter of an hour we were all four established round oneof Madame Choucru's comfortable little dining-tables, in a snug recessat the farthest end of the salon. Here, being well out of reach of ourhostess's black eyes, Müller assumed all the airs of a liberalentertainer. He hung up _ma cousine's_ bonnet; fetched a footstool for_ma tante_; criticised the sauces; presided over the wine; cut jokeswith the waiter; and pretended to have ordered every dish beforehand. The stewed kidneys with mushrooms were provided especially for MadameMarotte; the fricandeau was selected in honor of Mam'selle Marie (had henot an innate presentiment that she loved fricandeau?); and as for thesoles _au gratin_, he swore, in defiance of probability and all the lawsof nature, that they were the very fish we had just caught in the Seine. By-and-by came Monsieur Choucru's famous cheese _soufflé_; and then, with a dish of fruit, four cups of coffee, and four glasses of liqueure, the banquet came to an end. 

As we sat at desert, Müller pulled out his book and pencilled a rapidbut flattering sketch of the dining-room interior, developing aperspective as long as the Rue de Rivoli, and a _mobilier_ at leastequal in splendor to that of the _Trois Frères_. 

At sight of this _chef d'oeuvre_, Madame Choucru was moved almost totears. Ah, Heaven! if Monsieur could only figure to himself heradmiration for his _beau talent_! But alas! that was impossible--asimpossible as that Monsieur Choucru should ever repay this unheard-ofobligation!

Müller laid his hand upon his heart, and bowed profoundly. 

"Ah! Madame, " he said, "it is not to Monsieur Choucru that I look forrepayment--it is to you. "

"To me, Monsieur? _Dieu merci! Monsieur se moque de moi_!"

And the Dame de Comptoir, intrenched behind her fruits and liqueurebottles, shot a Parthian glance from under her black eye-lashes, andmade believe to blush. 

"Yes, Madame, to you. I only ask permission to come again very soon, forthe purpose of executing a little portrait of Madame--a little portraitwhich, alas! _must_ fail to render adequate justice to such a multitudeof charms. "

And with this choice compliment, Müller bowed again, took his leave, bestowed a whole franc upon the astonished waiter, and departed from the_Toison d'Or_ in an atmosphere of glory. 

The fair, or rather that part of the fair where the dancers and dinersmost did congregate, was all ablaze with lights, and noisy with brassbands as we came out. _Ma tante_, who was somewhat tired, and had beendozing for the last half hour over her coffee and liqueure, wasimpatient to get back to Paris. The fair Marie, who was not tired atall, confessed that she should enjoy a waltz above everything. WhileMüller, who professed to be an animated time-table, swore that we werejust too late for the ten minutes past ten train, and that there wouldbe no other before eleven forty-five. So Madame Marotte was carried off, _bon gré, mal gré_, to a dancing-booth, where gentlemen were admitted onpayment of forty centimes per head, and ladies went in free. 

Here, despite the noise, the dust, the braying of an abominable band, the overwhelming smell of lamp-oil, and the clatter, not only of heavywalking-boots, but even of several pairs of sabots upon an uneven floorof loosely-joined planks--_ma tante_, being disposed of in a safecorner, went soundly to sleep. 

It was a large booth, somewhat over-full; and the company consistedmainly of Parisian blue blouses, little foot-soldiers, grisettes (forthere were grisettes in those days, and plenty of them), with asprinkling of farm-boys and dairy-maids from the villages round about. We found this select society caracoling round the booth in a thunderinggalop, on first going in. After the galop, the conductor announced a_valse à deux temps_. The band struck up--one--two--three. Away wentsome thirty couples--away went Müller and the fair Marie--and away wentthe chronicler of this modest biography with a pretty little girl ingreen boots who waltzed remarkably well, and who deserted him in themiddle of the dance for a hideous little French soldier about four feetand a half high. 

After this rebuff (having learned, notwithstanding my friend'srepresentations to the contrary, that a train ran from Courbevoie toParis every half-hour up till midnight) I slipped away, leaving Müllerand _ma cousine_ in the midst of a furious flirtation, and MadameMarotte fast asleep in her corner. 

The clocks were just striking twelve as I passed under the archwayleading to the Cité Bergère. 

"_Tiens_!" said the fat concierge, as she gave me my key and my candle. "Monsieur has perhaps been to the theatre this evening? No!--to thecountry--to the fête at Courbevoie! Ah, then, I'll be sworn that M'sieurhas had plenty of fun!"

But had I had plenty of fun? That was the question. That Müller had hadplenty of flirting and plenty of fun was a fact beyond the reach ofdoubt. But a flirtation, after all, unless in a one-act comedy, is notentertaining to the mere looker-on; and oh! must not those bridesmaidswho sometimes accompany a happy couple in their wedding-tour, have adreary time of it?

CHAPTER XXVII. 

THE ÉCOLE DE NATATION. 

It seemed to me that I had but just closed my eyes, when I was waked bya hand upon my shoulder, and a voice calling me by my name. I started upto find the early sunshine pouring in at the window, and Franz Müllerstanding by my bedside. 

"_Tiens_!" said he. "How lovely are the slumbers of innocence! I washesitating, _mon cher_, whether to wake or sketch you. "

I muttered something between a growl and a yawn, to the effect that Ishould have been better satisfied if he had left me alone. 

"You prefer everything that is basely self-indulgent, young man, "replied Müller, making a divan of my bed, and coolly lighting his pipeunder my very nose. "Contrary to all the laws of _bon-camaraderie_, youstole away last night, leaving your unprotected friend in the hands ofthe enemy. And for what?--for the sake of a few hours' ignominiousoblivion! Look at me--I have not been to bed all night, and I am aslively as a lobster in a lobster-pot. "

"How did you get home?" I asked, rubbing my eyes; "and when?"

"I have not got home at all yet, " replied my visitor. "I have come tobreakfast with you first. "

Just at this moment, the _pendule_ in the adjoining room struck six. 

"To breakfast!" I repeated. "At this hour?--you who never breakfastbefore midday!"

"True, _mon cher_; but then you see there are reasons. In the firstplace, we danced a little too long, and missed the last train, so I wasobliged to bring the dear creatures back to Paris in a fiacre. In thesecond place, the driver was drunk, and the horse was groggy, and thefiacre was in the last stage of dilapidation. The powers below only knowhow many hours we were on the road; for we all fell asleep, driverincluded, and never woke till we found ourselves at the Barrière del'Étoile at the dawn of day. "

"Then what have you done with Madame Marotte and Mademoiselle Marie?"

"Deposited them at their own door in the Rue du Faubourg St. Denis, aswas the bounden duty of a _preux chevalier_. But then, _mon cher_, I hadno money; and having no money, I couldn't pay for the fiacre; so I droveon here--and here I am--and number One Thousand and Eleven is now at thedoor, waiting to be paid. "

"The deuce he is!"

"So you see, sad as it was to disturb the slumbers of innocence, Icouldn't possibly let you go on sleeping at the rate of two francsan hour. "

"And what is the rate at which you have waked me?"

"Sixteen francs the fare, and something for the driver--say twenty inall. "

"Then, my dear fellow, just open my desk and take one of the twoNapoleons you will see lying inside, and dismiss number One Thousand andEleven without loss of time; and then. . . . "

"A thousand thanks! And then what?"

"Will you accept a word of sound advice?"

"Depends on whether it's pleasant to follow, _caro mio_"

"Go home; get three or four hours' rest; and meet me in the Palais Royalabout twelve for breakfast. "

"In order that you may turn round and go to sleep again in comfort? No, young man, I will do nothing of the kind. You shall get up, instead, andwe'll go down to Molino's. "

"To Molino's?"

"Yes--don't you know Molino's--the large swimming-school by the PontNeuf. It's a glorious morning for a plunge in the Seine. "

A plunge in the Seine! Now, given a warm bed, a chilly autumn morning, and a decided inclination to quote the words of the sluggard, and"slumber again, " could any proposition be more inopportune, savage, andalarming? I shuddered; I protested; I resisted; but in vain. 

"I shall be up again in less time than it will take you to tell yourbeads, _mon gaillard_" said Müller the ferocious, as, having captured myNapoleon, he prepared to go down and liquidate with number One Thousandand Eleven. "And it's of no use to bolt me out, because I shall hammeraway till you let me in, and that will wake your fellow-lodgers. So letme find you up, and ready for the fray. "

And then, execrating Müller, and Molino, and Molino's bath, and Molino'scustomers, and all Molino's ancestors from the period of the delugedownwards, I reluctantly complied. 

The air was brisk, the sky cloudless, the sun coldly bright; and thecity wore that strange, breathless, magical look so peculiar to Paris atearly morning. The shops were closed; the pavements deserted; the busythoroughfares silent as the avenues of Père la Chaise. Yet how differentfrom the early stillness of London! London, before the world is up andstirring, looks dead, and sullen, and melancholy; but Paris lies allbeautiful, and bright, and mysterious, with a look as of dawning smilesupon her face; and we know that she will wake presently, like theSleeping Beauty, to sudden joyousness and activity. 

Our road lay for a little way along the Boulevards, then down the RueVivienne, and through the Palais Royal to the quays; but long ere wecame within sight of the river this magical calm had begun to break up. The shop-boys in the Palais Royal were already taking down theshutters--the great book-stall at the end of the Galerie Vitrée showedsigns of wakefulness; and in the Place du Louvre there was already adetachment of brisk little foot-soldiers at drill. By the time we hadreached the open line of the quays, the first omnibuses were on theroad; the water-carriers were driving their carts and blowing theirshrill little bugles; the washer-women, hard at work in their gay, oriental-looking floating kiosques, were hammering away, mallet in hand, and chattering like millions of magpies; and the early matin-bell wasringing to prayers as we passed the doors of St. Germain L'Auxerrois. 

And now we were skirting the Quai de l'École, looking down upon the bathknown in those days as Molino's--a hugh, floating quadrangularstructure, surrounded by trellised arcades and rows of dressing-rooms, with a divan, a café restaurant, and a permanent corps of cooks andhair-dressers on the establishment. For your true Parisian has ever beenwedded to his Seine, as the Venetian to his Adriatic; and the École deNatation was then, as now, a lounge, a reading-room, an adjunct of theclubs, and one of the great institutions of the capital. 

Some bathers, earlier than ourselves, were already sauntering about thegalleries in every variety of undress, from the simple _caleçon_ to thegaudiest version of Turkish robe and Algerian _kepi_. Some were smoking;some reading the morning papers; some chatting in little knots; but asyet, with the exception of two or three school-boys (called, in the_argot_ of the bath, _moutards_), there were no swimmers in the water. 

With some of these loungers Müller exchanged a nod or a few words as wepassed along the platform; but shook hands cordially with a bronzed, stalwart man, dressed like a Venetian gondolier in the frontispiece to apopular ballad, with white trousers, blue jacket, anchor buttons, redsash, gold ear-rings, and great silver buckles in his shoes. Müllerintroduced this romantic-looking person to me as "Monsieur Barbet. "

"My friend, Monsieur Barbet, " said he, "is the prince ofswimming-masters. He is more at home in the water than on land, andknows more about swimming than a fish. He will calculate you thespecific gravity of the heaviest German metaphysician at a glance, andis capable of floating even the works of Monsieur Thiers, if put tothe test. "

"Monsieur can swim?" said the master, addressing me, with a nauticalscrape. 

"I think so, " I replied. 

"Many gentlemen think so, " said Monsieur Barbet, "till they findthemselves in the water. "

"And many who wish to be thought accomplished swimmers never ventureinto it on that account, " added Müller. "You would scarcely suppose, " hecontinued, turning to me, "that there are men here--regular _habitués_of the bath--who never go into the water, and yet give themselves allthe airs of practised bathers. That tall man, for instance, with theblack beard and striped _peignoir_, yonder--there's a fellow who comesonce or twice a week all through the season, goes through the ceremonyof undressing, smokes, gossips, criticises, is looked up to as anauthority, and has never yet been seen off the platform. Then there'sthat bald man in the white robe--his name's Giroflet--a retiredstockbroker. Well, that fellow robes himself like an ancient Roman, putshimself in classical attitudes, affects taciturnity, models himself uponBrutus, and all that sort of thing; but is as careful not to get hisfeet wet as a cat. Others, again, come simply to feed. The restaurant isone of the choicest in Paris, with this advantage over Véfour or theTrois Frères, that it is the only place where you may eat and drink ofthe best in hot weather, with nothing on but the briefest of _caleçons_"

Thus chattering, Müller took me the tour of the bath, which now began tofill rapidly. We then took possession of two little dressing-rooms nobigger than sentry-boxes, and were presently in the water. 

The scene now became very animated. Hundreds of eccentric figurescrowded the galleries--some absurdly fat, some ludicrously thin; someold, some young; some bow-legged, some knock-kneed; some short, sometall; some brown, some yellow; some got up for effect in gorgeouswrappers; and all more or less hideous. 

"An amusing sight, isn't it?" said Müller, as, having swum several timesround the bath, we sat down for a few moments on one of the flights ofsteps leading down to the water. 

"It is a sight to disgust one for ever with human-kind, " I replied. 

"And to fill one with the profoundest respect for one's tailor. Afterall, it's broad-cloth makes the man. "

"But these are not men--they are caricatures. "

"Every man is a caricature of himself when you strip him, " said Müller, epigrammatically. "Look at that scarecrow just opposite. He passes foran Adonis, _de par le monde_. "

I looked and recognised the Count de Rivarol, a tall young man, an_élégant_ of the first water, a curled darling of society, a professedlady-killer, whom I had met many a time in attendance on Madame deMarignan. He now looked like a monkey:--

 . . . . "long, and lank and brown, As in the ribb'd sea sand!"

"Gracious heavens!" I exclaimed, "what would become of the world, ifclothes went out of fashion?"

"Humph!--one half of us, my dear fellow, would commit suicide. "

At the upper end of the bath was a semicircular platform somewhatloftier than the rest, called the Amphitheatre. This, I learned, was theplace of honor. Here clustered the _élite_ of the swimmers; here theydiscussed the great principles of their art, and passed judgment on theperformances of those less skilful than themselves. To the right of theAmphitheatre rose a slender spiral staircase, like an openwork pillar ofiron, with a tiny circular platform on the top, half surrounded by alight iron rail. This conspicuous perch, like the pillar of St. SimeonStylites, was every now and then surmounted by the gaunt figure of someambitious plunger who, after attitudinizing awhile in the pose ofNapoleon on the column Vendôme, would join his hands above his head andtake a tremendous "header" into the gulf below. When this feat wassuccessfully performed, the _élite_ in the Amphitheatre applaudedgraciously. 

And now, what with swimming, and lounging, and looking on, some twohours had slipped by, and we were both hungry and tired, Müller proposedthat we should breakfast at the Café Procope. 

"But why not here?" I asked, as a delicious breeze from the buffet camewafting by "like a steam of rich distilled perfumes. "

"Because a breakfast _chez_ Molino costs at least twenty-five francsper head--BECAUSE I have credit at Procope--BECAUSE I have not a _sou_in my pocket--and BECAUSE, milord Smithfield, I aspire to the honor ofentertaining your lordship on the present occasion!" replied Müller, punctuating each clause of his sentence with a bow. 

If Müller had not a _sou_, I, at all events, had now only one Napoleon;so the Café Procope carried the day. 

CHAPTER XXVIII. 

THE RUE DE L'ANCIENNE COMÉDIE AND THE CAFÉ PROCOPE. 

The Rue des Fossés-Saint-Germain-des-Près and the Rue del'Ancienne Comédie are one and the same. As the Rue desFossés-Saint-Germain-des-Près, it dates back to somewhere about thereign of Philippe Auguste; and as the Rue de l'Ancienne Comèdie it takesits name and fame from the year 1689, when the old Théâtre Français wasopened on the 18th of April by the company known as Moliêre'stroupe--Moliêre being then dead, and Lully having succeeded him at theThéâtre du Palais Royal. 

In the same year, 1689, one François Procope, a Sicilian, conceived thehappy idea of hiring a house just opposite the new theatre, and thereopening a public refreshment-room, which at once became famous, not onlyfor the excellence of its coffee (then newly introduced into France), but also for being the favorite resort of all the wits, dramatists, andbeaux of that brilliant time. Here the latest epigrams were circulated, the newest scandals discussed, the bitterest literary cabals set onfoot. Here Jean Jacques brooded over his chocolate; and Voltaire drankhis mixed with coffee; and Dorat wrote his love-letters to MademoiselleSaunier; and Marmontel wrote praises of Mademoiselle Clairon; and theMarquis de Biévre made puns innumerable; and Duclos and Mercier wrotesatires, now almost forgotten; and Piron recited those verses which areat once his shame and his fame; and the Chevalier de St. Georges gavefencing lessons to his literary friends; and Lamothe, Fréron, D'Alembert, Diderot, Helvetius, and all that wonderful company of wits, philosophers, encyclopaedists, and poets, that lit up as with a dyingglory the last decades of the old _régime_, met daily, nightly, towrite, to recite, to squabble, to lampoon, and some times to fight. 

The year 1770 beheld, in the closing of the ThéâtreFrançais, the extinction of a great power in the Rue desFossés-Saint-Germain-des-Près--for it was not, in fact, till the theatrewas no more a theatre that the street changed its name, and became theRue de L'Ancienne Comédie. A new house (to be on first opening investedwith the time-honored title of Théâtre Français, but afterwards to beknown as the Odéon) was now in progress of erection in the closeneighborhood of the Luxembourg. The actors, meanwhile, repaired to thelittle theatre of the Tuilleries. At length, in 1782, [2] the Rue deL'Ancienne Comédie was one evening awakened from its two years' lethargyby the echo of many footfalls, the glare of many flambeaux, and therattle of many wheels; for all Paris, all the wits and critics of theCafé Procope, all the fair shepherdesses and all the beaux seigneurs ofthe court of Marie Antoinette and Louis XVI. , were hastening on foot, inchairs, and in chariots, to the opening of the new house and theperformance of a new play! And what a play! Surely, not to consider ittoo curiously, a play which struck, however sportively, the key-note ofthe coming Revolution;--a play which, for the first time, displayedsociety literally in a state of _bouleversement_;--a play in which thegreed of the courtier, the venality of the judge, the empty glitter ofthe crown, were openly held up to scorn;--a play in which all the wit, audacity, and success are on the side of the _canaille_;--a play inwhich a lady's-maid is the heroine, and a valet canes his master, and agreat nobleman is tricked, outwitted, and covered with ridicule!

[2] 1782 is the date given by M. Hippolyte Lucas. Sainte-Beuve places ittwo years later. 

This play, produced for the first time under the title of _La FolleJournée_, was written by one Caron de Beaumarchais--a man of wit, a manof letters, a man of the people, a man of nothing--and was destined toachieve immortality under its later title of _Le Mariage de Figaro_. 

A few years later, and the Rue de l'Ancienne Comédie echoed daily andnightly to the dull rumble of Revolutionary tumbrils, and the heavytramp of Revolutionary mobs. Danton and Camille Desmoulins must havepassed through it habitually on their way to the Revolutionary Tribunal. Charlotte Corday (and this is a matter of history) did pass through itthat bright July evening, 1793, on her way to a certain gloomy housestill to be seen in the adjoining Rue de l'École de Médecine, where shestabbed Marat in his bath. 

But throughout every vicissitude of time and politics, though fashiondeserted the Rue de l'Ancienne Comédie, and actors migrated, and freshgenerations of wits and philosophers succeeded each other, the CaféProcope still held its ground and maintained its ancient reputation. Thetheatre (closed in less than a century) became the studio first of Grosand then of Gérard, and was finally occupied by a succession ofrestaurateurs but the Café Procope remained the Café Procope, and is theCafé Procope to this day. 

The old street and all belonging to it--especially and peculiarly theCafé Procope---was of the choicest Quartier Latin flavor in the time ofwhich I write; in the pleasant, careless, impecunious days of my youth. A cheap and highly popular restaurateur named Pinson rented the oldtheatre. A _costumier_ hung out wigs, and masks, and débardeur garmentsnext door to the restaurateur. Where the fatal tumbril used to laborpast, the frequent omnibus now rattled gayly by; and the pavementstrodden of old by Voltaire, and Beaumarchais, and Charlotte Corday, werethronged by a merry tide of students and grisettes. Meanwhile the CaféProcope, though no longer the resort of great wits and famousphilosophers, received within its hospitable doors, and nourished withits indifferent refreshments, many a now celebrated author, painter, barrister, and statesman. It was the general rendezvous for students ofall kinds--poets of the École de Droit, philosophers of the École deMédecine, critics of the École des Beaux Arts. It must however beadmitted that the poetry and criticism of these future great men wassomewhat too liberally perfumed with tobacco, and that into theirsystems of philosophy there entered a considerable element of grisette. 

Such, at the time of my first introduction to it, was the famous CaféProcope. 

CHAPTER XXIX. 

THE PHILOSOPHY OF BREAKFAST. 

"Now this, _mon cher_, " said Müller, taking off his hat with a flourishto the young lady at the _comptoir_, "is the immortal Café Procope. "

I looked round, and found myself in a dingy, ordinary sort of Café, inno wise differing from any other dingy, ordinary sort of Café in thatpart of Paris. The decorations were ugly enough to be modern. Theceiling was as black with gas-fumes and tobacco smoke as any otherceiling in any other estaminet in the Quartier Latin. The waiters lookedas waiters always look before midday--sleepy, discontented, andunwashed. A few young men of the regular student type were scatteredabout here and there at various tables, reading, smoking, chatting, breakfasting, and reading the morning papers. In an alcove at the upperend of the second room (for there were two, one opening from the other)stood a blackened, broken-nosed, plaster bust of Voltaire, upon thesummit of whose august wig some irreverent customer had perched aparticularly rakish-looking hat. Just in front of this alcove and belowthe bust stood a marble-topped table, at one end of which two young menwere playing dominoes to the accompaniment of the matutinal absinthe. 

"And this, " said Müller, with another flourish, "is the still moreimmortal table of the still more supremely immortal Voltaire. Here hewas wont to rest his sublime elbows and sip his _demi-tasse_. Here, uponthis very table, he wrote that famous letter to Marie Antoinette thatFréron stole, and in revenge for which he wrote the comedy called_l'Ecossaise_; but of this admirable satire you English, who only knowVoltaire in his Henriade and his history of Charles the Twelfth, haveprobably never heard till this moment! _Eh bien_! I'm not much wiserthan you--so never mind. I'll be hanged if I've ever read a line of it. Anyhow, here is the table, and at this other end of it we'll have ourbreakfast. "

It was a large, old-fashioned, Louis Quatorze piece of furniture, thetop of which, formed from a single slab of some kind of gray and yellowmarble, was stained all over with the coffee, wine, and ink-splashes ofmany generations of customers. It looked as old--nay, older--than thehouse itself. 

The young men who were playing at dominoes looked up and nodded, asthree or four others had done in the outer room when we passed through. 

"_Bonjour, l'ami_, " said the one who seemed to be winning. "Hast thouchanced to see anything of Martial, coming along!"

"I observed a nose defiling round the corner of the Rue de Bussy, "replied Müller, "and it looked as if Martial might be somewhere in thefar distance, but I didn't wait to see. Are you expecting him?"

"Confound him--yes! We've been waiting more than half an hour. "

"If you have invited him to breakfast, " said Müller, "he is sure tocome. "

"On the contrary, he has invited us to breakfast. "

"Ah, that alters the case, " said Müller, philosophically. "Then he issure _not_ to come. " "Garçon!"

A bullet-headed, short-jacketed, long-aproned waiter, who looked as ifhe had not been to bed since his early youth, answered the summons, "M'sieur!"

"What have you that you can especially recommend this morning?"

The waiter, with that nasal volubility peculiar to his race, rapidly ranover the whole vegetable and animal creation. 

Müller listened with polite incredulity. 

"Nothing else?" said he, when the other stopped, apparently from want ofbreath. 

"_Mais oui, M'sieur_!" and, thus stimulated, the waiter, having"exhausted worlds and then imagined new, " launched forth into a secondand still more impossible catalogue. 

Müller turned to me. 

"The resources of this establishment, you observe, " he said, verygravely, "are inexhaustible. One might have a Roc's egg à la Sindbad forthe asking. "

The waiter looked puzzled, shuffled his slippered feet, and murmuredsomething about "_oeufs sur le plat_. "

"Unfortunately, however, " continued Müller, "we are but men--notfortresses provisioning for a siege. Antoine, _mon enfant_, we know theeto be a fellow of incontestible veracity, and thy list is magnificent;but we will be content with a _vol-au-vent_ of fish, a _bifteck auxpommes frites_, an _omelette sucrée_, and a bottle of thy 1840 Bordeauxwith the yellow seal. Now vanish!"

The waiter, wearing an expression of intense relief, vanishedaccordingly. 

Meanwhile more students had come in, and more kept coming. Hats and capscropped up rapidly wherever there were pegs to hang them on, and thetalking became fast and furious. 

I soon found that everybody knew everybody at the Café Procope, and thatthe specialty of the establishment was dominoes--just as the specialtyof the Café de la Régence is chess. There were games going on beforelong at almost every table, and groups of lookers-on gathered aboutthose who enjoyed the reputation of being skilful players. 

Gradually breakfast after breakfast emerged from some mysterious netherworld known only to the waiters, and the war of dominoes languished. 

"These are all students, of course, " I said presently, "and yet, thoughI meet a couple of hundred fellows at our hospital lectures, I don't seea face I know. "

"You would find some by this time, I dare say, in the other room, "replied Müller. "I brought you in here that you might sit at Voltaire'stable, and eat your steak under the shadow of Voltaire's bust; but thissalon is chiefly frequented by law-students--the other by medical andart students. Your place, _mon chér_, as well as mine, is in the outersanctuary. "

"That infernal Martial!" groaned one of the domino-players at the otherend of the table. "So ends the seventh game, and here we are still. _Parbleu!_ Horace, hasn't that absinthe given you an inconvenient amountof appetite?"

"Alas! my friend--don't mention it. And when the absinthe is paid for, Ihaven't a sou. "

"My own case precisely. What's to be done?"

"Done!" echoed Horace, pathetically. "Shade of Apicius! inspireme. . . But, no--he's not listening. "

"Hold! I have it. We'll make our wills in one another's favor, and die. "

"I should prefer to die when the wind is due East, and the moon at thefull, " said Horace, contemplatively. 

"True--besides, there is still _la mère_ Gaudissart. Her cutlets aretough, but her heart is tender. She would not surely refuse to add onemore breakfast to the score!"

Horace shook his head with an air of great despondency. 

"There was but one Job, " said he, "and he has been dead some time. Thepatience of _la mère_ Gaudissart has long since been entirelyexhausted. "

"I am not so sure of that. One might appeal to her feelings, youknow--have a presentiment of early death--wipe away a tear. . . Bah! it isworth the effort, anyhow. "

"It is a forlorn hope, my dear fellow, but, as you say, it is worth theeffort. _Allons donc!_ to the storming of _la mère_ Gaudissart!"

And with this they pushed aside the dominoes, took down their hats, nodded to Müller, and went out. 

"There go two of the brightest fellows and most improvident scamps inthe whole Quartier, " said my companion. "They are both studying for thebar; both under age; both younger sons of good families; and bothdestined, if I am not much mistaken, to rise to eminence by-and-by. Horace writes for _Figaro_ and the _Petit Journal pour Rire_--Théophiledoes _feuilleton_ work--romances, chit-chat, and politicalsquibs--rubbish, of course; but clever rubbish, and wonderful when oneconsiders what boys they both are, and what dissipated lives they lead. The amount of impecuniosity those fellows get through in the course of aterm is something inconceivable. They have often only one decent suitbetween them--and sometimes not that. To-day, you see, they are at theirwits' end for a breakfast. They have run their credit dry at Procope andeverywhere else, and are gone now to a miserable little den in the Ruedu Paon, kept by a fat good-natured old soul called _la mère_Gaudissart. She will perhaps take compassion on their youth andinexperience, and let them have six sous worth of horsebeef soup, stalebread, and the day before yesterday's vegetables. Nay, don't look sopitiful! We poor devils of the Student Quartier hug our Bohemian life, and exalt it above every other. When we have money, we cannot findwindows enough out of which to fling it--when we have none, we startupon _la chasse au diner_, and enjoy the pleasures of the chase. Werevel in the extremes of fasting and feasting, and scarcely know whichwe prefer. "

"I think your friends Horace and Théophile are tolerably clear as towhich _they_ prefer, " I remarked, with a smile. 

"Bah! they would die of _ennui_ if they had always enough to eat! Thinkhow it sharpens a man's wits if--given the time, the place, and theappetite--he has every day to find the credit for his dinners! Show me amathematical problem to compare with it as a popular educator of youth!"

"But for young men of genius, like Horace and Théophile. . . "

"Make yourself quite easy, _mon cher_. A little privation will do themno kind of harm. They belong to that class of whom it has been said that'they would borrow money from Harpagon, and find truffles on the raft ofthe Medusa. ' But hold! we are at the end of our breakfast. What say you?Shall we take our _demi-tasse_ in the next room, among ourfellow-students of physic and the fine arts?"

CHAPTER XXX. 

A MAN WITH A HISTORY. 

The society of the outer salon differed essentially from the society ofthe inner salon at the Café Procope. It was noisier--it wasshabbier--it was smokier. The conversation in the inner salon was of ageneral character on the whole, and, as one caught sentences of it hereand there, seemed for the most part to relate to the literature and newsof the day--to the last important paper in the Revue des Deux Mondes, tothe new drama at the Odéon, or to the article on foreign politics in the_Journal des Débats_. But in the outer salon the talk was to the lastdegree shoppy, and overflowed with the argot of the studios. Some fewmedical students were clustered, it is true, in a corner near the door;but they were so outnumbered by the artists at the upper end of theroom, that these latter seemed to hold complete possession, and behavedmore like the members of a recognised club than the casual customers ofa café. They talked from table to table. They called the waiters bytheir Christian names. They swaggered up and down the middle of the roomwith their hats on their heads, their hands in their pockets, and theirpipes in their mouths, as coolly as if it were the broad walk of theLuxembourg gardens. 

And the appearance of these gentlemen was not less remarkable than theirdeportment. Their hair, their beards, their clothes, were of the wildestdevising. They seemed one and all to have started from a central idea, that central idea being to look as unlike their fellow-men as possible;and thence to have diverged into a variety that was nothing short ofinfinite. Each man had evidently modelled himself upon his own ideal, and no two ideals were alike. Some were picturesque, some weregrotesque; and some, it must be admitted, were rather dirty ideals, intothe realization of which no such paltry considerations as those of soap, water, or brushes were permitted to enter. 

Here, for instance, were Roundhead crops and flowing locks of Cavalierredundancy--steeple-crowned hats, and Roman cloaks drapedbandit-fashion--moustachios frizzed and brushed up the wrong way in thestyle of Louis XIV. --pointed beards and slouched hats, after the mannerof Vandyke---patriarchal beards _à la Barbarossa_--open collars, smoothchins, and long undulating locks of the Raffaelle type--coats, blouses, paletots of inconceivable cut, and all kinds of unusual colors--in aword, every eccentricity of clothing, short of fancy costume, in whichit was practicable for men of the nineteenth century to walk abroad andmeet the light of day. 

We had no sooner entered this salon, taken possession of a vacant table, and called for coffee, than my companion was beset by a storm ofgreetings. 

"Holà! Müller, where hast thou been hiding these last few centuries, _mon gaillard?_"

"_Tiens!_ Müller risen from the dead!"

"What news from _là bas, _ old fellow?"

To all which ingenious pleasantries my companion replied inkind--introducing me at the same time to two or three of the nearestspeakers. One of these, a dark young man got up in the style of aByzantine Christ, with straight hair parted down the middle, abifurcated beard, and a bare throat, was called Eugène Droz. Another--big, burly, warm-complexioned, with bright open blue eyes, curling reddish beard and moustache, slouched hat, black velvet blouse, immaculate linen, and an abundance of rings, chains, and ornaments--wasmade up in excellent imitation of the well-known portrait of Rubens. This gentleman's name, as I presently learned, was Caesar de Lepany. 

When we came in, these two young men, Droz and De Lepany, werediscussing, in enthusiastic but somewhat unintelligible language, themerits of a certain Monsieur Lemonnier, of whom, although till thatmoment ignorant of his name and fame, I at once perceived that he mustbe some celebrated _chef de cuisine_. 

"He will never surpass that last thing of his, " said the Byzantineyouth. "Heavens! How smooth it is! How buttery! How pulpy!"

"Ay--and yet with all that lusciousness of quality, he never wantspiquancy, " added De Lepany. 

"I think his greens are apt to be a little raw, " interposed Müller, taking part in the conversation. 

"Raw!" echoed the first speaker, indignantly. "_Eh, mon Dieu!_ What canyou be thinking of! They are almost too hot!"

"But they were not so always, Eugène, " said he of the Rubens make-up, with an air of reluctant candor. "It must be admitted that Lemonnier'sgreens used formerly to be a trifle--just a trifle--raw. EvidentlyMonsieur Müller does not know how much he has taken to warming them upof late. Even now, perhaps, his olives are a little cold. "

"But then, how juicy his oranges are!" exclaimed young Byzantine. 

"True--and when you remember that he never washes--!"

"Ah, _sacredie!_ yes--there is the marvel!"

And Monsieur Eugène Droz held up his hands and eyes with all thereverent admiration of a true believer for a particularly dirty dervish. 

"Who, in Heaven's name, is this unclean individual who used to like hisvegetables underdone, and never washes?" whispered I in Müller's ear. 

"What--Lemonnier! You don't mean to say you never heard of Lemonnier?"

"Never, till now. Is he a cook?"

Müller gave me a dig in the ribs that took my breath away. 

"_Goguenard!_" said he. "Lemonnier's an artist--the foremost man of thewater-color school. But I wouldn't be too funny if I were you. Supposeyou were to burst your jocular vein--there'd be a catastrophe!"

Meanwhile the conversation of Messieurs Droz and Lepany had taken afresh turn, and attracted a little circle of listeners, among whom Iobserved an eccentric-looking young man with a club-foot, an enormouslylong neck, and a head of short, stiff, dusty hair, like the bristles ofa blacking-brush. 

"Queroulet!" said Lepany, with a contemptuous flourish of his pipe. "Whospoke of Queroulet? Bah!--a miserable plodder, destitute of ideality--afellow who paints only what he sees, and sees only what iscommonplace--a dull, narrow-souled, unimaginative handicraftsman, towhom a tree is just a tree; and a man, a man; and a straw, a straw, andnothing more!"

"That's a very low-souled view to take of art, no doubt, " croaked in agrating treble voice the youth with the club-foot; "but if trees and menand straws are not exactly trees and men and straws, and are not to berepresented as trees and men and straws, may I inquire what else theyare, and how they are to be pictorially treated?"

"They must be ideally treated, Monsieur Valentin, " replied Lepany, majestically. 

"No doubt; but what will they be like when they are ideally treated?Will they still, to the vulgar eye, be recognisable for trees and menand straws?"

"I should scarcely have supposed that Monsieur Valentin would jest uponsuch a subject as a canon of the art he professes, " said Lepany, becoming more and more dignified. 

"I am not jesting, " croaked Monsieur Valentin; "but when I hear men ofyour school talk so much about the Ideal, I (as a realist) always wantto know what they themselves understand by the phrase. "

"Are you asking me for my definition of the Ideal, Monsieur Valentin?"

"Well, if it's not giving you too much trouble--yes. "

Lepany, who evidently relished every chance of showing off, fell into apicturesque attitude and prepared to hold forth. Valentin winked at oneor two of his own clique, and lit a cigar. 

"You ask me, " began Lepany, "to define the Ideal--in other words, todefine the indefinite, which alas! whether from a metaphysical, aphilosophical, or an aesthetic point of view, is a task transcendingimmeasurably my circumscribed powers of expression. "

"Gracious heavens!" whispered Müller in my ear. "He must have beenreared from infancy on words of five syllables!"

"What shall I say?" pursued Lepany. "Shall I say that the Ideal is, asit were, the Real distilled and sublimated in the alembic of theimagination? Shall I say that the Ideal is an image projected by thesoul of genius upon the background of the universe? That it is thatdazzling, that unimaginable, that incommunicable goal towards which thesuns in their orbits, the stars in their courses, the spheres with alltheir harmonies, have been chaotically tending since time began! Ideal, say you? Call it ideal, soul, mind, matter, art, eternity, . . . What arethey all but words? What are words but the weak strivings of thefettered soul that fain would soar to those empyrean heights whereTruth, and Art, and Beauty are one and indivisible? Shall I sayall this. . . "

"My dear fellow, you have said it already--you needn't say it again, "interrupted Valentin. 

"Ay; but having said it--having expressed myself, perchance with someobscurity. . . . "

"With the obscurity of Erebus!" said, very deliberately, a fat studentin a blouse. 

"Monsieur!" exclaimed De Lepany, measuring the length and breadth ofthe fat student with a glance of withering scorn. 

The Byzantine was no less indignant. 

"Don't heed them, _mon ami_!" he cried, enthusiastically. "Thydefinition is sublime-eloquent!"

"Nay, " said Valentin, "we concede that Monsieur de Lepany is sublime; werecognise with admiration that he is eloquent; but we submit that he iswholly unintelligible. "

And having delivered this parting shot, the club-footed realist slippedhis arm through the arm of the fat student, and went off to a distanttable and a game at dominoes. 

Then followed an outburst of offended idealism. His own clique crowdedround Lepany as the champion of their school. They shook hands with him. They embraced him. They fooled him to the top of his bent. Presently, being not only as good-natured as he was conceited, but (rare phenomenonin the Quartier Latin!) a rich fellow into the bargain, De Lepany calledfor champagne and treated his admirers all around. 

In the midst of the chatter and bustle which this incident occasioned, apale, earnest-looking man of about five-and-thirty, coming past ourtable on his way out of the Café, touched Müller on the arm, bent down, and said quietly:--

"Müller, will you do me a favor!"

"A hundred, Monsieur, " replied my companion; half rising, and with anair of unusual respect and alacrity. 

"Thanks, one will be enough. Do you see that man yonder, sitting alonein the corner, with his back to the light?"

"I do. "

"Good--don't look at him again, for fear of attracting his attention. Ihave been trying for the last half hour to get a sketch of his head, butI think he suspected me. Anyhow he moved so often, and so hid his facewith his hands and the newspaper, that I was completely baffled. Now itis a remarkable head--just the head I have been wanting for my MarshalRomero--and if, with your rapid pencil and your skill in seizingexpression, you could manage this for me. . . . "

"I will do my best, " said Müller. 

"A thousand thanks. I will go now; for when I am gone he will be off hisguard. You will find me in the den up to three o'clock. Adieu. "

Saying which, the stranger passed on, and went out. 

"That's Flandrin!" said Müller. 

"Really?" I said. "Flandrin! And you know him?"

But in truth I only answered thus to cover my own ignorance; for I knewlittle at that time of modern French art, and I had never even heard thename of Flandrin before. 

"Know him!" echoed Müller. "I should think so. Why, I worked in hisstudio for nearly two years. "

And then he explained to me that this great painter (great even then, though as yet appreciated only in certain choice Parisian circles, andnot known out of France) was at work upon a grand historical subjectconnected with the Spanish persecutions in the Netherlands--theexecution of Egmont and Horn, in short, in the great square before theHôtel de Ville in Brussels. 

"But the main point now, " said Müller, "is to get the sketch--and how?Confound the fellow! while he keeps his back to the light and his headdown like that, the thing is impossible. Anyhow I can't do it without anaccomplice. You must help me. "

"I! What can I do?"

"Go and sit near him--speak to him--make him look up--keep him, ifpossible, for a few minutes in conversation--nothing easier. "

"Nothing easier, perhaps, if I were you; but, being only myself, fewthings more difficult!"

"Nevertheless, my dear boy, you must try, and at once. Hey--presto!--away!"

Placed where we were, the stranger was not likely to have observed us;for we had come into the room from behind the corner in which he wassitting, and had taken our places at a table which he could not haveseen without shifting his own position. So, thus peremptorilycommanded, I rose; slipped quietly back into the inner salon, made apretext of looking at the clock over the door; and came out again, as ifalone and looking for a vacant seat. 

The table at which he had placed himself was very small--only just bigenough to stand in a corner and hold a plate and a coffee-cup; but itwas supposed to be large enough for two, and there were evidently twochairs belonging to it. On one of these, being alone, the stranger hadplaced his overcoat and a small black bag. I at once saw and seized myopportunity. 

"Pardon, Monsieur, " I said, very civilly, "will you permit me to hangthese things up?"

He looked up, frowned, and said abruptly:--

"Why, Monsieur?"

"That I may occupy this chair. "

He glanced round; saw that there was really no other vacant; swept offthe bag and coat with his own hands; hung them on a peg overhead;dropped back into his former attitude, and went on reading. 

"I regret to have given you the trouble, Monsieur, " I said, hoping topave the way to a conversation. 

But a little quick, impatient movement of the hand was his only reply. He did not even raise his head. He did not even lift his eyes fromthe paper. 

I called for a demi-tasse and a cigar; then took out a note-book andpencil, assumed an air of profound abstraction, and affected to becomeabsorbed in calculations. 

In the meanwhile, I could not resist furtively observing the appearanceof this man whom a great artist had selected as his model for one of thedarkest characters of mediæval history. 

He was rather below than above the middle height; spare and sinewy;square in the shoulders and deep in the chest; with close-clipped hairand beard; grizzled moustache; high cheek-bones; stern impassivefeatures, sharply cut; and deep-set restless eyes, quick and glancing asthe eyes of a monkey. His face, throat, and hands were sunburnt to adeep copper-color, as if cast in bronze. His age might have been fromforty-five to fifty. He wore a thread-bare frock-coat buttoned to thechin; a stiff black stock revealing no glimpse of shirt-collar; awell-worn hat pulled low over his eyes; and trousers of dark blue cloth, worn very white and shiny at the knees, and strapped tightly down over apair of much-mended boots. 

The more I looked at him, the less I was surprised that Flandrin shouldhave been struck by his appearance. There was an air of stern povertyand iron resolution about the man that arrested one's attention at firstsight. The words "_ancien militaire"_ were written in every furrow ofhis face; in every seam and on every button of his shabby clothing. Thathe had seen service, missed promotion, suffered unmerited neglect (or, it might be, merited disgrace), seemed also not unlikely. 

Watching him as he sat, half turned away, half hidden by the newspaperhe was reading, one elbow resting on the table, one brown, sinewy handsupporting his chin and partly concealing his mouth, I told myself thathere, at all events, was a man with a history--perhaps with a very darkhistory. What were the secrets of his past? What had he done? What hadhe endured? I would give much to know. 

My coffee and cigar being brought, I asked for the _Figaro_, and holdingthe paper somewhat between the stranger and myself, watched him withincreasing interest. 

I now began to suspect that he was less interested in his own newspaperthan he appeared to be, and that his profound abstraction, like my own, was assumed. An indefinable something in the turn of his head seemed totell me that his attention was divided between whatever might be goingforward in the room and what he was reading. I cannot describe what thatsomething was; but it gave me the impression that he was alwayslistening. When the outer door opened or shut, he stirred uneasily, andonce or twice looked sharply round to see what new-comer entered thecafé. Was he anxiously expecting some one who did not come? Or was hedreading the appearance of some one whom he wished to avoid? Might henot be a political refugee? Might he not be a spy?

"There is nothing of interest in the papers to-day, Monsieur, " said, making another effort to force him into conversation. 

He affected not to hear me. 

I drew my chair a little nearer, and repeated the observation. 

He frowned impatiently, and without looking up, replied:--

"_Eh, mon Dieu_, Monsieur!--when there is a dearth of news!"

"There need not, even so, be a dearth of wit. _Figaro_ is as heavyto-day as a government leader in the _Moniteur_. "

He shrugged his shoulders and moved slightly round, apparently to get abetter light upon what he was reading, but in reality to turn still moreaway from me. The gesture of avoidance was so marked, that with the bestwill in the world, it would have been impossible for me to address himagain. I therefore relapsed into silence. 

Presently I saw a sudden change flash over him. 

Now, in turning away from myself, he had faced round towards a narrowlooking-glass panel which reflected part of the opposite side of theroom; and chancing, I suppose, to lift his eyes from the paper, he hadseen something that arrested his attention. His head was still bent; butI could see that his eyes were riveted upon the mirror. There wasalertness in the tightening of his hand before his mouth--in thesuspension of his breathing. 

Then he rose abruptly, brushed past me as if I were not there, andcrossed to where Müller, sketch-book in hand, was in the very act oftaking his portrait. 

I jumped up, almost involuntarily, and followed him. Müller, with anunsuccessful effort to conceal his confusion, thrust the book intohis pocket. 

"Monsieur, " said the stranger, in a low, resolute voice, "I protestagainst what you have been doing. You have no right to take my likenesswithout my permission. "

"Pardon, Monsieur, I--I beg to assure you--" stammered Müller. 

"That you intended no offence? I am willing to suppose so. Give me upthe sketch, and I am content. "

"Give up the sketch!" echoed Müller. 

"Precisely, Monsieur. "

"Nay--but if, as an artist, I have observed that which leads me todesire a--a memorandum--let us say of the pose and contour of a certainhead, " replied Müller, recovering his self-possession, "it is not likelythat I shall be disposed to part from my memorandum. "

"How, Monsieur! you refuse?"

"I am infinitely sorry, but--"

"But you refuse?"

"I certainly cannot comply with Monsieur's request. "

The stranger, for all his bronzing, grew pale with rage. 

"Do not compel me, Monsieur, to say what I must think of your conduct, if you persist in this determination, " he said fiercely. 

Müller smiled, but made no reply. 

"You absolutely refuse to yield up the sketch?"

"Absolutely. "

"Then, Monsieur, _c'est une infamie_--_et vous êtes un lâche_!"

But the last word had scarcely hissed past his lips before Müller dashedhis coffee dregs full in the stranger's face. 

In one second, the table was upset--blows were exchanged--Müller, pinnedagainst the wall with his adversary's hands upon his throat, wasstriking out with the desperation of a man whose strength isovermatched--and the whole room was in a tumult. 

In vain I attempted to fling myself between them. In vain the waitersrushed to and fro, imploring "ces Messieurs" to interpose. In vain astout man pushed his way through the bystanders, exclaiming angrily:--

"Desist, Messieurs! Desist, in the name of the law! I am the proprietorof this establishment--I forbid this brawling--I will have you botharrested! Messieurs, do you hear?"

Suddenly the flush of rage faded out of Müller's face. He gasped--becamelivid. Lepany, Droz, myself, and one or two others, flew at the strangerand dragged him forcibly back. 

"Assassin!" I cried, "would you murder him?"

He flung us off, as a baited bull flings off a pack of curs. For myself, though I received only a backhanded blow on the chest, I staggered as ifI had been struck with a sledgehammer. 

Müller, half-fainting, dropped into a chair. 

There was a tramp and clatter at the door--a swaying and parting of thecrowd. 

"Here are the sergents de ville!" cried a trembling waiter. 

"He attacked me first, " gasped Müller. "He has half strangled me. "

"_Qu'est ce que ça me fait_!" shouted the enraged proprietor. "You are acouple of _canaille_! You have made a scandal in my Café. Sergents, arrest both these gentlemen!"

The police--there were two of them, with their big cocked hats on theirheads and their long sabres by their sides--pushed through the circle ofspectators. The first laid his hand on Müller's shoulder; the second wasabout to lay his hand on mine, but I drew back. 

"Which is the other?" said he, looking round. 

"_Sacredie_!" stammered the proprietor, "he was here--there--not amoment ago!"

"_Diable_!" said the sergent de ville, stroking his moustache, andstaring fiercely about him. "Did no one see him go?"

There was a chorus of exclamations--a rush to the inner salon--to thedoor--to the street. But the stranger was nowhere in sight; and, whichwas still more incomprehensible, no one had seen him go!

"_Mais, mon Dieu_!" exclaimed the proprietor, mopping his head and faceviolently with his pocket-handkerchief, "was the man a ghost, that heshould vanish into the air?"

"_Parbleu_! a ghost with muscles of iron, " said Müller. "Talk of thestrength of a madman--he has the strength of a whole lunatic asylum!"

"He gave me a most confounded blow in the ribs, anyhow!" said Lepany. 

"And nearly broke my arm, " added Eugène Droz. 

"And has given me a pain in my chest for a week, " said I, in chorus. 

"If he wasn't a ghost, " observed the fat student sententiously, "he mustcertainly be the devil. "

The sergents de ville grinned. 

"Do we, then, arrest this gentleman?" asked the taller and bigger of thetwo, his hand still upon my friend's shoulder. 

But Müller laughed and shook his head. 

"What!" said he, "arrest a man for resisting the devil? Nonsense, _mesamis_, you ought to canonize me. What says Monsieur le propriétaire?"

Monsieur the proprietor smiled. 

"I am willing to let the matter drop, " he replied, "on the understandingthat Monsieur Müller was not really the first offender. "

"_Foi d'honneur_! He insulted me--I threw some coffee in his face--heflung himself upon me like a tiger, and almost choked me, as all herewitnessed. And for what? Because I did him the honor to make a roughpencilling of his ugly face . . . _Mille tonnerres_!--the fellow hasstolen my sketch-book!"

CHAPTER XXXI. 

FANCIES ABOUT FACES. 

The sketch-book was undoubtedly gone, and the stranger had undoubtedlytaken it. How he took it, and how he vanished, remained a mystery. 

The aspect of affairs, meanwhile, was materially changed. Müller nolonger stood in the position of a leniently-treated offender. He hadbecome accuser, and plaintiff. A grave breach of the law had beencommitted, and he was the victim of a bold and skilful _tour de main_. 

The police shook their heads, twirled their moustaches, and looked wise. 

It was a case of premeditated assault--in short, of robbery withviolence. It must be inquired into--reported, of course, athead-quarters, without loss of time. Would Monsieur be pleased todescribe the stolen sketch-book? An oblong, green volume, secured by anelastic band; contains sketches in pencil and water-colors; valueuncertain--Good. And the accused . . . Would Monsieur also be pleased todescribe the person of the accused? His probable age, for instance; hisheight; the color of his hair, eyes, and beard? Good again. Lastly, Monsieur's own name and address, exactly and in full. _Très-bon. _ Itmight, perhaps, be necessary for Monsieur to enter a formal depositionto-morrow morning at the Prefecture of Police, in which case due noticewould be given. 

Whereupon he who seemed to be chief of the twain, having enteredMüller's replies in a greasy pocket-book of stupendous dimensions, whichhe seemed to wear like a cuirass under the breast of his uniform, proceeded to interrogate the proprietor and waiters. 

Was the accused an habitual frequenter of the cafe?--No. Did theyremember ever to have seen him there before?--No. Should they recognisehim if they saw him again? To this question the answers were doubtful. One waiter thought he should recognise the man; another was not sure;and Monsieur the proprietor admitted that he had himself been too angryto observe anything or anybody very minutely. 

Finally, having made themselves of as much importance and asked as manyquestions as possible, the sergents de ville condescended to accept acouple of-petits verres a-piece, and then, with much lifting of cockedhats and clattering of sabres, departed. 

Most of the students had ere this dropped off by twos and threes, andwere gone to their day's work, or pleasure--to return again in equalforce about five in the afternoon. Of those that remained, some five orsix came up when the police were gone, and began chatting about therobbery. When they learned that Flandrin had desired to have a sketch ofthe man's head; when Müller described his features, and I his obstinatereserve and semi-military air, their excitement knew no bounds. Each hadimmediately his own conjecture to offer. He was a political spy, andtherefore fearful lest his portrait should be recognised. He was aconspirator of the Fieschi school. He was Mazzini in person. 

In the midst of the discussion, a sudden recollection flashed upon me. 

"A clue! a clue!" I shouted triumphantly. "He left his coat and blackbag hanging up in the corner!"

Followed by the others, I ran to the spot where I had been sittingbefore the affray began. But my exultation was shortlived. Coat and bag, like their owner, had disappeared. 

Müller thrust his hands into his pockets, shook his head, and whistleddismally. 

"I shall never see my sketch-book again, _parbleu!_" said he. "The manwho could not only take it out of my breast-pocket, but also in the veryteeth of the police, secure his property and escape unseen, is a masterof his profession. Our friends in the cocked hats have no chanceagainst him. "

"And Flandrin, who is expecting the sketch, " said I; "what of him?"

Müller shrugged his shoulders. 

"Next to being beaten, " growled he, "there's nothing I hate likeconfessing it. However, it has to be done--so the sooner the better. Would you like to come with me? You'll see his studio. "

I was only too glad to accompany him; for to me, as to most of us, therewas ever a nameless charm in the picturesque litter of an artist'sstudio. Müller's own studio, however, was as yet the only one I hadseen. He laughed when I said this. 

"If your only notion of a studio is derived from that specimen, " saidhe, "you will he agreeably surprised by the contrast. He calls his placea 'den, ' but that's a metaphor. Mine is a howling wilderness. "

Arriving presently at a large house at the bottom of a courtyard in theRue Vaugirard, he knocked at a small side-door bearing a tiny brassplate not much larger than a visiting-card, on which wasengraved--"Monsieur Flandrin. "

The door opened by some invisible means from within, and we entered apassage dimly lighted by a painted glass door at the farther end. Mycompanion led the way down this passage, through the door, and into asmall garden containing some three or four old trees, a rustic seat, asun-dial on an antique-looking fragment of a broken column, and a littleweed-grown pond about the size of an ordinary drawing-room table, surrounded by artificial rock-work. 

At the farther extremity of this garden, filling the whole space fromwall to wall, and occupying as much ground as must have been equal tohalf the original enclosure, stood a large, new, windowless building, inshape exactly like a barn, lighted from a huge skylight in the roof, andentered by a small door in one corner. I did not need to be told thatthis was the studio. 

But if the outside was like a barn, the inside was like a beautifulmediæval interior by Cattermole--an interior abounding in rich andcostly detail; in heavy crimson draperies, precious old Italiancabinets, damascened armor, carved chairs with upright backs and twistedlegs, old paintings in massive Florentine frames, and strange quaintpieces of Elizabethan furniture, like buffets, with open shelves full ofrare and artistic things--bronzes, ivory carvings, unwieldy Majolicajars, and lovely goblets of antique Venetian glass laced with spiralornaments of blue and crimson and that dark emerald green of which thesecret is now lost for ever. 

Then, besides all these things, there were great folios leaning piledagainst the walls, one over the other; and Persian rugs of many colorslying here and there about the floor; and down in one corner I observeda heap of little models, useful, no doubt, as accessories inpictures--gondolas, frigates, foreign-looking carts, a tiny sedan chair, and the like. 

But the main interest of the scene concentrated itself in the unfinishedpicture, the hired model (a brawny fellow in a close-fitting suit ofblack, leaning on a huge two-handed sword), and the artist in hisholland blouse, with the palette and brushes in his hand. 

It was a very large picture, and stood on a monster easel, somewhattowards the end of the studio. The light from above poured full upon thecanvas, while beyond lay a background of shadow. Much of the subject wasas yet only indicated, but enough was already there to tell the tragicstory and display the power of the painter. There, high above the headsof the mounted guards and the assembled spectators, rose the scaffold, hung with black. Egmont, wearing a crimson tabard, a short black cloakembroidered with gold, and a hat ornamented with black and white plumes, stood in a haughty attitude, as if facing the square and the people. Twoother figures, apparently of an ecclesiastic and a Spanish general, partly in outline, partly laid in with flat color, were placed to theright of the principal character. The headsman stood behind, leaningupon his sword. The slender spire of the Hôtel de Ville, surmounted byits gilded archangel glittering in the morning sun, rose high against asky of cloudless blue; while all around was seen the well-known squarewith its sculptured gables and decorated façades--every roof, window, and balcony crowded with spectators. 

Unfinished though it was, I saw at once that I was brought face to facewith what would some day be a famous work of art. The figures weregrandly grouped; the heads were noble; the sky was full of air; theaction of the whole scene informed with life and motion. 

I stood admiring and silent, while Müller told his tale, and Flandrinpaused in his work to listen. 

"It is horribly unlucky, " said he. "I had not been able to find aportrait of Romero and, _faute de mieux_, have been trying for dayspast to invent the right sort of head for him--of course, withoutsuccess. You never saw such a heap of failures! But as for that man atthe café, if Providence had especially created him for my purpose, hecould not have answered it better. "

"I believe I am as sorry as you can possibly be, " said Müller. 

"Then you are very sorry indeed, " replied the painter; and he lookedeven more disappointment than he expressed. 

"I'm afraid I can't do it, " said Müller, after a moment's silence; "butif you'll give me a pencil and a piece of paper, and credit me with thewill in default of the deed, I will try to sketch the head from memory. "

"Ah? if you can only do that! Here is a drawing block--choose whatpencils you prefer--or here are crayons, if you like them better. "

Müller took the pencils and block, perched himself on the corner of atable, and began. Flandrin, breathless with expectation, looked over hisshoulder. Even the model (in the grim character of Egmont's executioner)laid aside his two-handed sword, and came round for a peep. 

"Bravo! that's just his nose and brow, " said Flandrin, as Müller's rapidhand flew over the paper. "Yes--the likeness comes with every touch . . . And the eyes, so keen and furtive. . . . Nay, that eyelid should be alittle more depressed at the corner. . . . Yes, yes--just so. Admirable!There!--don't attempt to work it up. The least thing might mar thelikeness. My dear fellow, what a service you have rendered me!"

"_Quatre-vingt mille diables_!" ejaculated the model, his eyes rivetedupon the sketch. 

Müller laughed and looked. 

"_Tiens_! Guichet, " said he, "is that meant for a compliment?"

"Where did you see him?" asked the model, pointing down at the sketch. 

"Why? Do you know him?"

"Where did you see him, I say?" repeated Guichet, impatiently. 

He was a rough fellow, and garnished every other sentence with an oath;but he did not mean to be uncivil. 

"At the Café Procope. "

"When?"

"About an hour ago. But again, I repeat--do you know him?"

"Do I know him? _Tonnerre de Dieu_!"

"Then who and what is he?"

The model stroked his beard; shook his head; declined to answer. 

"Bah!" said he, gloomily, "I may have seen him, or I may be mistaken. 'Tis not my affair. "

"I suspect Guichet knows something against this interesting stranger, "laughed Flandrin. "Come, Guichet, out with it! We are among friends. "

But Guichet again looked at the drawing, and again shook his head. 

"I'm no judge of pictures, messieurs, " said he. "I'm only a poor devilof a model. How can I pretend to know a man from such a _griffonage_as that?"

And, taking up his big sword again, he retreated to his former post overagainst the picture. We all saw that he was resolved to say no more. 

Flandrin, delighted with Müller's sketch, put it, with many thanks andpraises, carefully away in one of the great folios against the wall. 

"You have no idea, _mon cher_ Müller, " he said, "of what value it is tome. I was in despair about the thing till I saw that fellow this morningin the Café; and he looked as if he had stepped out of the Middle Ageson purpose for me. It is quite a mediæval face--if you know what I meanby a mediæval face. "

"I think I do, " said Müller. "You mean that there was a moyen-âge type, as there was a classical type, and as there is a modern type. "

"Just so; and therein lies the main difficulty that we historicalpainters have to encounter. When we cannot find portraits of ourcharacters, we are driven to invent faces for them--and who can inventwhat he never sees? Invention must be based on some kind of experience;and to study old portraits is not enough for our purpose, except wefrankly make use of them as portraits. We cannot generalize upon them, so as to resuscitate a vanished type. "

"But then has it really vanished?" said Müller. "And how can we know forcertain that the mediæval type did actually differ from the type we seebefore us every day?"

"By simple and direct proof--by studying the epochs of portraitpainting. Take Holbein's heads, for instance. Were not the people of histime grimmer, harder-visaged, altogether more unbeautiful than thepeople of ours? Take Petitot's and Sir Peter Lely's. Can you doubt thatthe characteristics of their period were entirely different? Do yousuppose that either race would look as we look, if resuscitated andclothed in the fashion of to-day?"

"I am not at all sure that we should observe any difference, " saidMüller, doubtfully. 

"And I feel sure we should observe the greatest, " replied Flandrin, striding up and down the studio, and speaking with great animation. "Ibelieve, as regards the men and women of Holbein's time, that theirfaces were more lined than ours; their eyes, as a rule, smaller--theirmouths wider--their eyebrows more scanty--their ears larger--theirfigures more ungainly. And in like manner, I believe the men and womenof the seventeenth century to have been more fleshy than eitherHolbein's people or ourselves; to have had rounder cheeks, eyes moreprominent and heavy-lidded, shorter noses, more prominent chins, andlips of a fuller and more voluptuous mould. "

"Still we can't be certain how much of all this may be owing to the meremannerisms of successive schools of art, " urged Müller, stickingmanfully to his own opinion. "Where will you find a more decidedmannerist than Holbein? And because he was the first portrait-painter ofhis day, was he not reproduced with all his faults of literalness anddryness by a legion of imitators? So with Sir Peter Lely, with Petitot, with Vandyck, with every great artist who painted kings and queens andcourt beauties. Then, again, a certain style of beauty becomes the rage, and-a skilful painter flatters each fair sitter in turn by bringing upher features, or her expression, or the color of her hair, as near aspossible to the fashionable standard. And further, there is the dress ofa period to be taken into account. Think of the family likeness thatpervades the flowing wigs of the courts of Louis Quatorze and Charlesthe Second--see what powder did a hundred years ago to equalizemankind. "

Flandrin shook his head. 

"Ingenious, _mon garçon_" said he; "ingenious, but unsound The cut of afair lady's bodice never yet altered the shape of her nose; neither wasit the fashion of their furred surtouts that made Erasmus and Sir ThomasMore as like as twins. What you call the 'mannerism' of Holbein is onlyhis way of looking at his fellow-creatures. He and Sir Antonio More werethe most faithful of portrait-painters. They didn't know how to flatter. They painted exactly what they saw--no more, and no less; so that everyhead they have left us is a chapter in the history of the Middle Ages. The race--depend on't--the race was unbeautiful; and not even thepicturesque dress of the period (which, according to your theory, shouldhave helped to make the wearers of it more attractive) could soften onejot of their plainness. "

"I can't bring myself to believe that we were all so ugly--French, English, and Germans alike--only a couple of centuries ago, "said Müller. 

"That is to say, you prefer to believe that Holbein, and Lucas Cranach, and Sir Antonio More, and all their school, were mannerists. Nonsense, my dear fellow--nonsense! _It is Nature who is the mannerist_. She lovesto turn out a certain generation after a particular pattern; and whenshe is tired of that pattern, she invents another. Her fancies last, onthe average about, a hundred years. Sometimes she changes the type quiteabruptly; sometimes modifies it by gentle, yet always perceptible, degrees. And who shall say what her secret processes are? Education, travel, intermarriage with foreigners, the introduction of new kinds offood) the adoption of new habits, may each and all have something to dowith these successive changes; but of one point at least we may becertain--and that is, that we painters are not responsible for hercaprices. Our mission is to interpret Dame Nature more or lessfaithfully, according to our powers; but beyond interpretation we cannotgo. And now (for you know I am as full of speculations as anexperimental philosopher) I will tell you another conclusion I have cometo with regard to this subject; and that is that national types wereless distinctive in mediæval times than in ours. The French, English, Flemish, and Dutch of the Middle Ages, as we see them in theirportraits, are curiously alike in all outward characteristics. Thecourtiers of Francis the First and their (James, and the lords andladies of the court of Henry the Eighth, resemble each other as peopleof one nation. Their features are, as it were, cast in one mould. Soalso with the courts of Louis Quatorze and Charles the Second. As forthe regular French face of to-day, with its broad cheek-bones and hightemples running far up into the hair on either side, that type does notmake its appearance till close upon the advent of the Reign of Terror. But enough! I shall weary you with theories, and wear out the patienceof our friend Guichet, who is sufficiently tired already with waitingfor a head that never comes to be cut off as it ought. Adieu--adieu. Come soon again, and see how I get on with Marshal Romero. "

Thus dismissed, we took our leave and left the painter to his work. 

"An extraordinary man!" said Müller, as we passed out again through theneglected garden and paused for a moment to look at some half-dozen fatgold and silver fish that were swimming lazily about the little pond. "Aman made up of contradictions--abounding in energy, yet at the same timethe dreamiest of speculators. An original thinker, too; but wanting thatbasis which alone makes original thinking of any permanent value. "

"But, " said I, "he is evidently an educated man. "

"Yes--educated as most artists are educated; but Flandrin has as stronga bent for science as for art, and deserved something better. Five yearsat a German university would have made of him one of the most remarkablemen of his time. What did you think of his theory of faces?"

"I know nothing of the subject, and cannot form a judgment; but itsounded as if it might be true. "

"Yes--just that. It may be true, and it may not. If true, then for myown part I should like to pursue his theory a step further, and tracethe operation of these secret processes by means of whichI am, happily, such a much better-looking fellow than mygreat-great-great-great-grandfather of two hundred years ago. What, forinstance, has the introduction of the potato done for the nosesof mankind?"

Chatting thus, we walked back as far as the corner of the Rue Racine, where we parted; I to attend a lecture at the École de Médecine, andMüller to go home to his studio in the Rue Clovis. 

 * * * * *

CHAPTER XXXII. 

RETURNED WITH THANKS. 

A week or two had thus gone by since the dreadful evening at the OpéraComique, and all this time I had neither seen nor heard more of the fairJosephine. My acquaintance with Franz Müller and the life of theQuartier Latin had, on the contrary, progressed rapidly. Just as theaffair of the Opera had dealt a final blow to my romance _à la grisette_on the one hand, so had the excursion to Courbevoie, the visit to theÉcole de Natation, and the adventure of the Café Procope, fostered myintimacy with the artist on the other. We were both young, somewhatshort of money, and brimful of fun. Each, too, had a certain substratumof earnestness underlying the mere surface-gayety of his character. Müller was enthusiastic for art; I for poetry; and both for liberty. Ifear, when I look back upon them, that we talked a deal of nonsenseabout Brutus, and the Rights of Man, and the noble savage, and all thatsort of thing, in those hot-headed days of our youth. It was a form ofpolitical measles that the young men of that time were quite as liableto as the young men of our own; and, living as we then were in the heartof the most revolutionary city in Europe, I do not well see how we couldhave escaped the infection. Müller (who took it worse than I did, andwas very rabid indeed when I first knew him) belonged just then not onlyto the honorable brotherhood of Les Chicards, but also to a smalldebating club that met twice a week in a private room at the back of anobscure Estaminet in the Rue de la Harpe. The members of this club weremostly art-students, and some, like himself, Chicards--generous, turbulent, high-spirited boys, with more enthusiasm than brains, and aflow of words wholly out of proportion to the bulk of their ideas. As Icame to know him more intimately, I used sometimes to go there withMüller, after our cheap dinner in the Quartier and our evening strollalong the Boulevards or the Champs Elysées; and I am bound to admit thatI never, before or since, heard quite so much nonsense of thedeclamatory sort as on those memorable occasions. I did not think itnonsense then, however. I admired it with all my heart; applauded thenursery eloquence of these sucking Mirabeaus and Camille Desmoulins asfrantically as their own vanity could desire; and was even secretlychagrined that my own French was not yet fluent enough to enable me totake part in their discussions. 

In the meanwhile, my debts were paid; and, having dropped out of societywhen I fell out of love with Madame de Marignan, I no longer overspentmy allowance. I bought no more bouquets, paid for no more opera-stalls, and hired no more prancing steeds at seven francs the hour. I bade adieuto picture-galleries, flower-shows, morning concerts, dress boots, whitekid gloves, elaborate shirt-fronts, and all the vanities of thefashionable world. In a word, I renounced the Faubourg St. Germain forthe Quartier Latin, and applied myself to such work and such pleasuresas pertained to the locality. If, after a long day at Dr. Chéron's, orthe Hôtel Dieu, or the École de Médecine, I did waste a few hours nowand then, I, at least, wasted them cheaply. Cheaply, but oh, sopleasantly! Ah me! those nights at the debating club, those evenings atthe Chicards, those student's balls at the Chaumière, those third-classtrips to Versailles and Fontainebleau, those one-franc pit seats at theGaîeté and the Palais Royal, those little suppers at Pompon's andFlicoteau's--how delightful they were! How joyous! How free from care!And even when we made up a party and treated the ladies (for to treatthe ladies is _de rigueur_ in the code of Quartier Latin etiquette), howlittle it still cost, and what a world of merriment we had forthe money!

It was well for me, too, and a source of much inward satisfaction, thatmy love-affair with Mademoiselle Josephine had faded and died a naturaldeath. We never made up that quarrel of the Opéra Comique, and I had notdesired that we should make it up. On the contrary, I was exceedinglyglad of the opportunity of withdrawing my attentions; so I wrote her apolite little note, in which I expressed my regret that our tastes wereso dissimilar and our paths in life so far apart; wished her everyhappiness; assured her that I should ever remember her with friendlyregard; and signed my name with a tremendous flourish at the bottom ofthe second page. With the note, however, I sent her a raised pie and ared and green shawl, of which I begged her acceptance in token of amity;and as neither of those gifts was returned, I concluded that she ate theone and wore the other, and that there was peace between us. 

But the scales of fortune as they go up for one, go down for another. This man's luck is balanced by that man's ruin--Orestes falls sick, andPylades returns from Kissingen cured of his lumbago--old Croesus dies, and little Miss Kilmansegg comes into the world with a golden spoon inher mouth, So it fell out with Franz Müller and myself. As I happilysteered clear of Charybdis, he drifted into Scylla--in other words, justas I recovered from my second attack of the tender passion, he caughtthe epidemic and fancied himself in love with the fair Marie. 

I say "fancied, " because his way of falling in love was so unlike myway, that I could scarcely believe it to be the same complaint. Itaffected neither his appetite, nor his spirits, nor his wardrobe. Hemade as many puns and smoked as many pipes as usual. He did not even buya new hat. If, in fact, he had not told me himself, I should never haveguessed that anything whatever was the matter with him. 

It came out one day when he was pressing me to go with him to a certaintea-party at Madame Marotte's, in the Rue St. Denis. 

"You see, " said he, "it is _la petite_ Marie's fête; and the party's inher honor; and they'd be so proud if we both went to it; and--and, uponmy soul, I'm awfully fond of that little girl". . . . 

"Of Marie Marotte?"

He nodded. 

"You are not serious, " I said. 

"I am as serious, " he replied, "as a dancing dervish. "

And then, for I suppose I looked incredulous, he went on to justifyhimself. 

"She's very good, " he said, "and very pretty. Quite a Madonna face, tomy thinking. "

"You may see a dozen such Madonna faces among the nurses in theLuxembourg Gardens, every afternoon of your life, " said I. 

"Oh, if you come to that, every woman is like every other woman, up to acertain point. "

"_Les femmes se suivent et se ressemblent toujours_, " said I, parodyinga well-known apothegm. 

"Precisely, but then they wear their rue, or cause you to wear yours, 'with a difference. ' This girl, however, escapes the monotony of her sexby one or two peculiarities:--she has not a bit of art about her, nor ashred of coquetry. She is as simple and as straightforward as anArcadian. She doesn't even know when she is being made love to, orunderstand what you mean, when you pay her a compliment. "

"Then she's a phenomenon--and what man in his senses would fall in lovewith a phenomenon?"

"Every man, _mon cher enfant_, who falls in love at all! The woman weworship is always a phenomenon, whether of beauty, or grace, orvirtue--till we find her out; and then, probably, she becomes aphenomenon of deceit, or slovenliness, or bad temper! And now, to returnto the point we started from--will you go with me to Madame Marotte'stea-party to-morrow evening at eight? Don't say 'No, ' there's agood fellow. "

"I'll certainly not say No, if you particularly want me to say Yes, " Ireplied, "but--"

"Prythee, no buts! Let it be Yes, and the thing is settled. So--here weare. Won't you come in and smoke a pipe with me? I've a bottle ofcapital Rhenish in the cupboard. "

We had met near the Odéon, and, as our roads lay in the same direction, had gone on walking and talking till we came to Müller's own door in theRue Clovis. I accepted the invitation, and followed him in. The_portière_, a sour-looking, bent old woman with a very dirty duster tiedabout her head, hobbled out from her little dark den at the foot of thestairs, and handed him the key of his apartment. 

"_Tiens_!" said she, "wait a moment--there's a parcel for you, M'sieurMüller. "

And so, hobbling back again, she brought out a small flat brownpaper-packet sealed at both ends. 

"Ah, I see--from the Emperor!" said Müller. "Did he bring it himself, Madame Duphôt, or did he send it by the Archbishop of Paris?"

A faint grin flitted over the little old woman's withered face. 

"Get along with you, M'sieur Müller, " she said. "You're always playingthe _farceur_! The parcel was brought by a man who looked like astonemason. "

"And nobody has called?"

"Nobody, except M'sieur Richard. "

"Monsieur Richard's visits are always gratifying and delightful--maythe _diable_ fly away with him!" said Müller. "What did dear MonsieurRichard want to-day, Madame Duphôt?"

"He wanted to see you, and the third-floor gentleman also--about therent. "

"Dear Richard! What an admirable memory he has for dates! Did he leaveany message, Madame Duphôt?"

The old woman looked at me, and hesitated. 

"He says, M'sieur Müller--he says . . . "

"Nay, this gentleman is a friend--you may speak out. What does ourbeloved and respected _propriétaire_ say, Madame Duphôt?"

"He says, if you don't both of you pay up the arrears by midday onSunday next, he'll seize your goods, and turn you into the street. "

"Ah, I always said he was the nicest man I knew!" observed Müller, gravely. "Anything else, Madame Duphôt?"

"Only this, Monsieur Müller--that if you didn't go quietly, he'd takeyour windows out of the frames and your doors off the hinges. "

"_Comment_! He bade you give me that message, the miserable old son of aspider! _Quatre-vingt mille plats de diables aux truffes_! Take mywindows out of the frames, indeed! Let him try, Madame Duphôt--that'sall--let him try!"

And with this, Müller, in a towering rage, led the way upstairs, muttering volleys of the most extraordinary and eccentric oaths of hisown invention, and leaving the little old _portière_ grinningmaliciously in the hall. 

"But can't you pay him?" said I. 

"Whether I can, or can't, it seems I must, " he replied, kicking open thedoor of his studio as viciously as if it were the corporeal frame ofMonsieur Richard. "The only question is--how? At the present moment, Ihaven't five francs in the till. "

"Nor have I more than twenty. How much is it?"

"A hundred and sixty--worse luck!"

"Haven't the Tapottes paid for any of their ancestors yet?"

"Confound it!--yes; they've paid for a Marshal of France and a FarmerGeneral, which are all I've yet finished and sent home. But there wasthe washerwoman, and the _traiteur_, and the artist's colorman, and, _enfin_, the devil to pay--and the money's gone, somehow!"

"I've only just cleared myself from a lot of debts, " I said, ruefully, "and I daren't ask either my father or Dr. Chéron for an advance just atpresent. What is to be done?"

"Oh, I don't know. I must raise the money somehow. I must sellsomething--there's my copy of Titian's 'Pietro Aretino. ' It's wortheighty francs, if only for a sign. And there's a Madonna and Child afterAndrea del Sarto, worth a fortune to any enterprising sage-femme withartistic proclivities. I'll try what Nebuchadnezzar will do for me. "

"And who, in the name of all that's Israelitish, is Nebuchadnezzar?"

"Nebuchadnezzar, my dear Arbuthnot, is a worthy Shylock of myacquaintance--a gentleman well known to Bohemia--one who buys and sellswhatever is purchasable and saleable on the face of the globe, from aship of war to a comic paragraph in the _Charivari_. He deals inbric-à-brac, sermons, government sinecures, pugs, false hair, lightliterature, patent medicines, and the fine arts. He lives in the Placedes Victoires. Would you like to be introduced to him?"

"Immensely. "

"Well, then, be here by eight to-morrow morning, and I'll take you withme. After nine he goes out, or is only visible to buyers. Here's mybottle of Rhenish--genuine Assmanshauser. Are you hungry?"

I admitted that I was not unconscious of a sensation akin to appetite. 

He gazed steadfastly into the cupboard, and shook his head. 

"A box of sardines, " he said, gloomily, "nearly empty. Half a loaf, evidently disinterred from Pompeii. An inch of Lyons sausage, savedfrom the ark; the remains of a bottle of fish sauce, and a pot ofcurrant jelly. What will you have?"

I decided for the relics of Pompeii and the deluge, and we sat down todiscuss those curious delicacies. Having no corkscrew, we knocked offthe neck of the bottle, and being short of glasses, drank our wine outof teacups. 

"But you have never opened your parcel all this time, " I said presently. "It may be full of _billets de banque_--who can tell?"

"That's true, " said Müller; and broke the seals. 

"By all the Gods of Olympus!" he shouted, holding up a small oblongvolume bound in dark green cloth. "My sketch-book!"

He opened it, and a slip of paper fell out. On this slip of paper werewritten, in a very neat, small hand, the words, "_Returned withthanks_;" but the page that contained the sketch made in the CaféProcope was missing. 

 * * * * *

CHAPTER XXXIII. 

AN EVENING PARTY AMONG THE PETIT-BOURGEOISIE. 

Madame Marotte, as I have already mentioned more than once, lived in theRue du Faubourg St. Denis; which, as all the world knows, is aprolongation of the Rue St. Denis--just as the Rue St. Denis was, in mytime, a transpontine continuation of the old Rue de la Harpe. Beginningat the Place du Châtelet as the Rue St. Denis, opening at its fartherend on the Boulevart St. Denis and passing under the triumphal arch ofLouis le Grand (called the Porte St. Denis), it there becomes first theRue du Faubourg St. Denis, and then the interminable Grande Route du St. Denis which drags its slow length along all the way to the famous Abbeyoutside Paris. 

The Rue du Faubourg St. Denis is a changed street now, and widens out, prim, white, and glittering, towards the new barrier and the new RondPoint. But in the dear old days of which I tell, it was the sloppiest, worst-paved, worst-lighted, noisiest, narrowest, and most crowded of allthe great Paris thoroughfares north of the Seine. All the countrytraffic from Chantilly and Compiégne came lumbering this way into thecity; diligences, omnibuses, wagons, fiacres, water-carts, and all kindsof vehicles thronged and blocked the street perpetually; and the soundof wheels ceased neither by night nor by day. The foot-pavements of theRue du Faubourg St. Denis, too, were always muddy, be the weather whatit might; and the gutters were always full of stagnant pools. Anever-changing, never-failing stream of rustics from the country, workpeople from the factories of the _banlieu, _ grisettes, commercialtravellers, porters, commissionaires, and _gamins_ of all ages hereflowed to and fro. Itinerant venders of cakes, lemonade, cocoa, chickweed, _allumettes_, pincushions, six-bladed penknives, andnever-pointed pencils filled the air with their cries, and made both dayand night hideous. You could not walk a dozen yards at any time withoutfalling down a yawning cellar-trap, or being run over by a porter with ahuge load upon his head, or getting splashed from head to foot by thesudden pulling-up of some cart in the gutter beside you. 

It was among the peculiarities of the Rue du Faubourg St. Denis thateverybody was always in a hurry, and that nobody was ever seen to lookin at the shop-windows. The shops, indeed, might as well have had nowindows, since there were no loungers to profit by them. Every house, nevertheless, was a shop, and every shop had its window. These windows, however, were for the most part of that kind before which the passer-byrarely cares to linger; for the commerce of the Rue du Faubourg St. Denis was of that steady, unpretending, money-making sort that despisesmere shop-front attractions. Grocers, stationers, corn-chandlers, printers, cutlers, leather-sellers, and such other inelegant trades, here most did congregate; and to the wearied wayfarer toiling along thedead level of this dreary pavé, it was quite a relief to come upon evenan artistically-arranged _Magasin de Charcuterie_, with its rows ofglazed tongues, mighty Lyons sausages, yellow _terrines_ of Strasbourgpies, fantastically shaped pickle-jars, and pyramids of silverysardine boxes. 

It was at number One Hundred and Two in this agreeable thoroughfare thatmy friend's innamorata resided with her maternal aunt, the worthy relictof Monsieur Jacques Marotte, umbrella-maker, deceased. Thither, accordingly, we wended our miry way, Müller and I, after dining togetherat one of our accustomed haunts on the evening following the eventsrelated in my last chapter. The day had been dull and drizzly, and theevening had turned out duller and more drizzly still. We had not hadrain for some time, and the weather had been (as it often is in Paris inOctober) oppressively hot; and now that the rain had come, it did notseem to cool the air at all, but rather to load it with vapors, and makethe heat less endurable than before. 

Having toiled all the way up from the Rue de la Harpe on the fartherbank of the Seine, and having forded the passage of the Arch of Louis leGrand, we were very wet and muddy indeed, very much out of breath, andvery melancholy objects to behold. 

"It's dreadful to think of going into any house in this condition, Müller, " said I, glancing down ruefully at the state of my boots, andhaving just received a copious spattering of mud all down the left sideof my person. "What is to be done?"

"We've only to go to a boot-cleaning and brushing-up shop, " repliedMüller. "There's sure to be one close by somewhere. "

"A boot-cleaning and brushing-up shop!" I echoed. 

"What--didn't you know there were lots of them, all over Paris? Have younever noticed places that look like shops, with ground glass windowsinstead of shop-fronts, on which are painted up the words, '_cirage desbottes?_'"

"Never, that I can remember. "

"Then be grateful to me for a piece of very useful information! Supposewe turn down this by-street--it's mostly to the seclusion of by-streetsand passages that our bashful sex retires to renovate its boots and itsbroadcloth. "

I followed him, and in the course of a few minutes we found the sort ofplace of which we were in search. It consisted of one large, long room, like a shop without goods, counters, or shelves. A single narrow benchran all round the walls, raised on a sort of wooden platform about threefeet in width and three feet from the ground. Seated upon this bench, somewhat uncomfortably, as it seemed, with their backs against the wall, sat some ten or a dozen men and boys, each with an attendant shoeblackkneeling before him, brushing away vigorously. Two or three othercustomers, standing up in the middle of the shop, like horses in thehands of the groom, were having their coats brushed instead of theirboots. Of those present, some looked like young shopmen, some were ofthe _ouvrier_ class, and one or two looked like respectable smalltradesmen and fathers of families. The younger men were evidentlysmartening up for an hour or two at some cheap ball or Café-Concert, nowthat the warehouse was closed, and the day's work was over. 

Our boots being presently brought up to the highest degree of polish, and our garments cleansed of every disfiguring speck, we paid a few sousapiece and turned out again into the streets. Happily, we had not far togo. A short cut brought us into the midst of the Rue de Faubourg St. Denis, and within a few yards of a gloomy-looking little shop with thewords "_Veuve Marotte_" painted up over the window, and a huge red andwhite umbrella dangling over the door. A small boy in a shiny blackapron was at that moment putting up the shutters; the windows of thefront room over the shop were brightly lit from within; and a little oldgentleman in goloshes and a large blue cloak with a curly collar, wasjust going in at the private door. We meekly followed him, and hung upour hats and overcoats, as he did, in the passage. 

"After you, Messieurs, " said the little old gentleman, skipping politelyback, and flourishing his hand in the direction of the stairs. "After you!"

We protested vehemently against this arrangement, and fought quite askirmish of civilities at the foot of the stairs. 

"I am at home here, Messieurs, " said the little old gentleman, who, nowthat he was divested of hat, cloak, and goloshes, appeared in a flaxen_toupet_, an antiquated blue coat with brass buttons, a profuselyfrilled shirt, and low-cut shoes with silver buckles. "I am an oldfriend of the family--a friend of fifty years. I hold myself privilegedto do the honors, Messieurs;--a friend of fifty years may claim to havehis privileges. "

With this he smirked, bowed, and backed against the wall, so that wewere obliged to precede him. When we reached the landing, however, he(being evidently an old gentleman of uncommon politeness and agility)sprang forward, held open the door for us, and insisted on usheringus in. 

It was a narrow, long-shaped room, the size of the shop, with twowindows looking upon the street; a tiny square of carpet in the middleof the floor; boards highly waxed and polished; a tea-table squeezed upin one corner; a somewhat ancient-looking, spindle-legged cottage pianobehind the door; a mirror and an ornamental clock over the mantelpiece;and a few French lithographs, colored in imitation of crayon drawings, hanging against the walls. 

Madame Marotte, very deaf and fussy, in a cap with white ribbons, cameforward to receive us. Mademoiselle Marie, sitting between two otheryoung women of her own age, hung her head, and took no notice ofour arrival. 

The rest of the party consisted of a gentleman and two old ladies. Thegentleman (a plump, black-whiskered elderly Cupid, with a vast expanseof shirt-front like an immense white ace of hearts, and a rose in hisbutton-hole) was standing on the hearth-rug in a graceful attitude, withone hand resting on his hip, and the other under his coat-tails. Of thetwo old ladies, who seemed as if expressly created by nature to serve asfoils to one another, one was very fat and rosy, in a red silk gown anda kind of black velvet hat trimmed with white marabout feathers andRoman pearls; while the other was tall, gaunt, and pale, with a longnose, a long upper lip, and supernaturally long yellow teeth. She wore ablack gown, black cotton gloves, and a black velvet band across herforehead, fastened in the centre with a black and gold clasp containinga ghastly representation of a human eye, apparently purblind--which gavethis lady the air of a serious Cyclops. 

Madame Marotte was profuse of thanks, welcomes, apologies, and curtseys. It was so good of these gentlemen to come so far--and in such unpleasantweather, too! But would not these Messieurs give themselves the troubleto be seated? And would they prefer tea or coffee--for both were on thetable? And where was Marie? Marie, whose _fête_-day it was, and whoshould have come forward to welcome these gentlemen, and thank them forthe honor of their company!

Thus summoned, Mademoiselle Marie emerged from between the two youngwomen, and curtsied demurely. 

In the meanwhile, the little old gentleman who had ushered as in wasbustling about the room, shaking hands with every one, and complimentingthe ladies. 

"Ah, Madame Desjardins, " he said, addressing the stout lady in the hat, "enchanted to see you back from the sea-side!--you and your charmingdaughter. I do not know which looks the more young and blooming. "

Then, turning to the grim lady in black:--

"And I am charmed to pay my homage to Madame de Montparnasse. I had thepleasure of being present at the brilliant _début_ of Madame's gifteddaughter the other evening at the private performance of the pupils ofthe Conservatoire. Mademoiselle Honoria inherits the _grand air_, Madame, from yourself. "

Then, to the plump gentleman with the shirt-front:--

"And Monsieur Philomène!--this is indeed a privilege and a pleasure. Badweather, Monsieur Philomène, for the voice!"

Then, to the two girls:--

"Mesdemoiselles--Achille Dorinet prostrates himself at the feet ofyouth, beauty, and talent! Mademoiselle Honoria, I salute in you thefuture Empress of the tragic stage. Mademoiselle Rosalie, modestyforbids me to extol the acquired graces of even my most promising pupil;but I may be permitted to adore in you the graces of nature. "

While I was listening to these scraps of salutation, Müller wasmurmuring tender nothings in the ear of the fair Marie, and MadameMarotte was pouring out the coffee. 

Monsieur Achille Dorinet, having gone the round of the company, nextaddressed himself to me. 

"Permit me, Monsieur, " he said, bringing his heels together andpunctuating his sentences with little bows, "permit me, in the absenceof a master of the ceremonies, to introduce myself--Achille Dorinet, Achille Dorinet, whose name may not, perhaps, be wholly unknown to youin connection with the past glories of the classical ballet. AchilleDorinet, formerly _premier sujet_ of the Opéra Français--now principalchoreographic professor at the Conservatoire Impériale de Musique. Ihave had the honor, Monsieur, of dancing at Erfurth before theirImperial Majesties the Emperors Napoleon and Alexander, and a host ofminor sovereigns. Those, Monsieur, were the high and palmy days of theart. We performed a ballet descriptive of the siege of Troy, and Iundertook the part of a river god--the god Scamander, _en effet_. Thegreat ladies of the court, Monsieur, were graciously pleased to admiremy proportions as the god Scamander. I wore a girdle of sedges, a wreathof water-lilies, and a scarf of blue and silver. I have reason tobelieve that the costume became me. "

"Sir, " I replied gravely, "I do not doubt it. "

"It is a noble art, Monsieur, _l'art de la dame_" said the former_premier sujet_, with a sigh; "but it is on the decline. Of the grandstyle of fifty years ago, only myself and tradition remain. "

"Monsieur was, doubtless, a contemporary of Vestris, the famous dancer, "I said. 

"The illustrious Vestris, Monsieur, " said the little old gentleman, "was, next to Louis the Fourteenth, the greatest of Frenchmen. I amproud to own myself his disciple, as well as his contemporary. "

"Why next to Louis the Fourteenth, Monsieur Dorinet?" I asked, keepingmy countenance with difficulty. "Why not next to Napoleon the First, whowas a still greater conqueror?"

"But no dancer, Monsieur!" replied the ex-god Scamander, with a kind ofhalf pirouette; "whereas the Grand Monarque was the finest dancer ofhis epoch. "

Madame Marotte had by this time supplied all her guests with tea andcoffee, while Monsieur Philomène went round with the cakes and bread andbutter. Madame Desjardins spread her pocket-handkerchief on her lap--apocket-handkerchief the size of a small table-cloth. Madame deMontparnasse, more mindful of her gentility, removed to a corner of thetea-table, and ate her bread and butter in her black cotton gloves. 

"We hope we have another bachelor by-and-by, " said Madame Marotte, addressing herself to the young ladies, who looked down and giggled. "Acharming man, mesdemoiselles, and quite the gentleman--our _locataire_, M'sieur Lenoir. You know him, M'sieur Dorinet--pray tell thesedemoiselles what a charming man M'sieur Lenoir is!"

The little dancing-master bowed, coughed, smiled, and looked somewhatembarrassed. 

"Monsieur Lenoir is no doubt a man of much information, " he said, hesitatingly; "a traveller--a reader--a gentleman--oh! yes, certainly agentleman. But to say that he is a--a charming man . . . Well, perhaps theladies are the best judges of such nice questions. What saysMam'selle Marie?"

Thus applied to, the fair Marie became suddenly crimson, and had not aword to reply with. Monsieur Dorinet stared. The young ladies tittered. Madame Marotte, deaf as a post and serenely unconscious, smiled, nodded, and said "Ah, yes, yes--didn't I tell you so?"

"Monsieur Dorinet has, I fear, asked an indiscreet question, " saidMüller, boiling over with jealousy. 

"I--I have not observed Monsieur Lenoir sufficiently to--to form anopinion, " faltered Marie, ready to cry with vexation. 

Müller glared at her reproachfully, turned on his heel, and came over towhere I was standing. 

"You saw how she blushed?" he said in a fierce whisper. "_Sacredie_!I'll bet my head she's an arrant flirt. Who, in the name of all thefiends, is this lodger she's been carrying on with? A lodger, too--oh!the artful puss!"

At this awkward moment, Monsieur Dorinet, with considerable tact, askedMonsieur Philomène for a song; and Monsieur Philomène (who as Iafterwards learned was a favorite tenor at fifth-rate concerts) wasgraciously pleased to comply. 

Not, however, without a little preliminary coquetry, after the manner oftenors. First he feared he was hoarse; then struck a note or two on thepiano, and tried his falsetto; then asked for a glass of water; andfinally begged that one of the young ladies would be so amiable as toaccompany him. 

Mademoiselle Honoria, inheriting rigidity from the maternal Cyclops, drew herself up and declined stiffly; but the other, whom thedancing-master had called Rosalie, got up directly and said she woulddo her best. 

"Only, " she added, blushing, "I play so badly!"

Monsieur Philomène was provided with two copies of his song--one for theaccompanyist and one for himself; then, standing well away from thepiano with his face to the audience, he balanced his music in his hand, made his little professional bow, coughed, ran his fingers through hishair, and assumed an expression of tender melancholy. 

"One--two--three, " began Mdlle. Rosalie, her little fat fingersstaggering helplessly among the first cadenzas of the symphony. "One--two--three. One" . . . 

Monsieur Philomène interrupted with a wave of the hand, as if conductingan orchestra. 

"Pardon, Mademoiselle, " he said, "not quite so fast, if you please!Andantino--andantino--one--two--three . . . Just so! A thousand thanks!"

Again Mdlle. Rosalie attacked the symphony. Again Monsieur Philomènecleared his voice, and suffered a pensive languor to cloud hismanly brow. 

 "_Revenez, revenez, beaux jours de mon enfance, _"

he began, in a small, tremulous, fluty voice. 

"They'll have a long road to travel back, _parbleu_!" muttered Müller. 

 "_De votre aspect riant charmer ma souvenance_!"

Here Mdlle. Rosalie struck a wrong chord, became involved in hopelessdifficulties, and gasped audibly. 

Monsieur Philomène darted a withering glance at her, and went on:--

 "_Mon coeur; mon pauvre coeur_" . . . 

More wrong chords, and a smothered "_mille pardons_!" from Mdlle. Rosalie. 

 "_Mon coeur, mon pauvre coeur a la tristesse en proie, En fouillant le passé". . . . _

A dead stop on the part of Mdlle. Rosalie. 

 _"En fouillant le passé_". . . . 

repeated the tenor, with the utmost severity of emphasis. 

"_Mais, mon Dieu_, Rosalie! what are you doing?" cried MadameDesjardins, angrily. "Why don't you go on?"

Mdlle. Rosalie burst into a flood of tears. 

"I--I can't!" she sobbed. "It's so--so very difficult--and". . . 

Madame Desjardins flung up her hands in despair. 

"_Ciel_!" she cried, "and I have been paying three francs a lesson foryou, Mademoiselle, twice a week for the last six years!"

"_Mais, maman_". . . . 

"_Fi done_, Mademoiselle! I am ashamed of you. Make a curtsey toMonsieur Philomène this moment, and beg his pardon; for you have spoiledhis beautiful song!"

But Monsieur Philomène would hear of no such expiation. His soul, touse his own eloquent language, recoiled from it with horror! Theaccompaniment, _à vrai dire_, was not easy, and _la bien aimable_Mam'selle Rosalie had most kindly done her best with it. _Allonsdonc!_--on condition that no more should be said on the subject, Monsieur Philomène would volunteer to sing a little unaccompaniedromance of his own composition--a mere _bagatelle_; but a tribute to"_les beaux yeux de ces chères dames_!"

So Mam'selle Rosalie wiped away her tears, and Madame Desjardinssmoothed her ruffled feathers, and Monsieur Philomène warbled aplaintive little ditty in which "_coeur_" rhymed to "_peur_" and"_amours_" to "_toujours_" and "_le sort_" to "_la mort_" in quite theusual way; so giving great satisfaction to all present, but most, perhaps, to himself. 

And now, hospitably anxious that each of her guests should have a chanceof achieving distinction, Madame Marotte invited Mdlle. Honoria to favorthe company with a dramatic recitation. 

Mdlle. Honoria hesitated; exchanged glances with the Cyclops; and, inorder to enhance the value of her performance, began raising all kindsof difficulties. There was no stage, for instance; and there were nofootlights; but M. Dorinet met these objections by proposing to rangeall the seats at one end of the room, and to divide the stage off by arow of lighted candles. 

"But it is so difficult to render a dramatic scene without aninterlocutor!" said the young lady. 

"What is it you require, _ma chère demoiselle?_" asked Madame Marotte. 

"I have no interlocutor, " said Mdlle. Honoria. 

"No what, my love?"

"No interlocutor, " repeated Mdlle. Honoria, at the top of her voice. 

"Dear! dear! what a pity! Can't we send the boy for it? Marie, my child, bid Jacques run to Madame de Montparnasse's _appartement_ in theRue" . . . 

But Madame Marotte's voice was lost in the confusion; for MonsieurDorinet was already deep in the arrangement of the room, and we were allhelping to move the furniture. As for Mademoiselle's last difficulty, the little dancing-master met that by offering to read whatever wasnecessary to carry on the scene. 

And now, the stage being cleared, the audience placed, and MonsieurDorinet provided with a volume of Corneille, Mademoiselle Honoriaproceeded to drape herself in an old red shawl belonging toMadame Marotte. 

The scene selected is the fifth of the fourth act of Horace, whereCamille, meeting her only surviving brother, upbraids him with the deathof Curiace. 

Mam'selle Honoria, as Camille, with clasped hands and tragic expression, stalks in a slow and stately manner towards the footlights. 

(Breathless suspense of the audience. )

M. Dorinet, who should begin by vaunting his victory over the Curiatii, stops to put on his glasses, finds it difficult to read with all thecandles on the ground, and mutters something about the smallness ofthe type. 

Mdlle. Honoria, not to keep the audience waiting, surveys the ex-godSeamander with a countenance expressive of horror; starts; and takes aturn across the stage. 

"_Ma soeur, _" begins M. Dorinet, holding the book very much on one side, so as to catch the light upon the page, "_ma soeur, voici le bras_". . . . 

"Ah, Heaven! my dear Mademoiselle, take care of the candles!" criesMadame Marotte in a shrill whisper. 

 . . . "_le bras qui venge nos deux frères, Le bras qui rompt le cours de nos destins contraires, Qui nous rend"_. . . 

Here he lost his place; stammered; and recovered it with difficulty. 

 _"Qui nous rend maîtres d'Albe"_. . . . 

Madame Marotte groans aloud in an agony of apprehension

"_Ah, mon Dieu!_" she exclaims, gaspingly, "if they didn't flare so, itwouldn't be half so dangerous!"

Here M. Dorinet dropped his book, and stooping to pick up the book, dropped his spectacles. 

"I think, " said Mdlle. Honoria, indignantly, "we had better begin again. Monsieur Dorinet, pray read with the help of a candle _this_ time!"

And, with an angry toss of her head, Mdlle. Honoria went up the stage, put on her tragedy face again, and prepared once more to stalk down tothe footlights. 

Monsieur Dorinet, in the meanwhile, had snatched up a candle, readjustedhis spectacles, and found his place. 

"_Ma soeur_" he began again, holding the book close to his eyes and thecandle just under his nose, and nodding vehemently with everyemphasis:--

 "_Ma soeur, voici le bras qui venge nos deux frères, Le bras qui rompt le cours de nos destins contraires, Qui nous rend maîtres d'Albe_" . . . 

A piercing scream from Madame Marotte, a general cry on the part of theaudience, and a strong smell of burning, brought the dancing-master to asudden stop. He looked round, bewildered. 

"Your wig! Your wig's on fire!" cried every one at once. 

Monsieur Dorinet clapped his hand to his head, which was now adornedwith a rapidly-spreading glory; burned his fingers; and cut afrantic caper. 

"Save him! save him!" yelled Madame Marotte. 

But almost before the words were out of her mouth, Müller, clearing thecandles at a bound, had rushed to the rescue, scalped Monsieur Dorinetby a _tour de main_, cast the blazing wig upon the floor, and trampledout the fire. 

Then followed a roar of "inextinguishable laughter, " in which, however, neither the tragic Camille nor the luckless Horace joined. 

"Heavens and earth!" murmured the little dancing-master, ruefullysurveying the ruins of his blonde peruke. And then he put his hand tohis head, which was as bald as an egg. 

In the meanwhile Mdlle. Honoria, who had not yet succeeded in uttering asyllable of her part, took no pains to dissemble her annoyance; and wasonly pacified at last by a happy proposal on the part of MonsieurPhilomène, who suggested that "this gifted demoiselle" should beentreated to favor the society with a soliloquy. 

Thus invited, she draped herself again, stalked down to the footlightsfor the third time, and in a high, shrill voice, with every variety ofartificial emphasis and studied gesture, recited Voltaire's famous"Death of Coligny, " from the _Henriade_. 

In the midst of this performance, just at that point when the assassinsare described as falling upon their knees before their victim, the doorof the room was softly opened, and another guest slipped in unseenbehind us. Slipped in, indeed, so quietly that (the backs of theaudience being turned that way) no one seemed to hear, and no one lookedround but myself. 

Brief as was that glance, and all in the shade as he stood, I recognisedhim instantly. 

It was the mysterious stranger of the Café Procope. 

CHAPTER XXXIV. 

MY AUNT'S FLOWER GARDEN. 

Having despatched the venerable Coligny much to her own satisfaction andapparently to the satisfaction of her hearers, Mdlle. Honoria returnedto private life; Messieurs Philomène and Dorinet removed the footlights;the audience once more dispersed itself about the room; and MadameMarotte welcomed the new-comer as Monsieur Lenoir. 

"_Monsieur est bien aimable_, " she said, nodding and smiling, and, withtremulous hands, smoothing down the front of her black silk gown. "I hadtold these young ladies that we hoped for the honor of Monsieur'ssociety. Will Monsieur permit me to introduce him?"

"With pleasure, Madame Marotte. "

And M. Lenoir--white cravatted, white kid-gloved, hat in hand, perfectlywell-dressed in full evening black, and wearing a small orange-coloredrosette at his button-hole--bowed, glanced round the room, and, thoughhis eyes undoubtedly took in both Müller and myself, looked as if he hadnever seen either of us in his life. 

I< saw Müller start, and the color fly into his face. 

"By Heaven!" he exclaimed, "it is--it must be . . . Look at him, Arbuthnot! If that isn't the man who stole my sketch-book, I'll eatmy head!"

"It _is_ the man, " I replied. "I recognised him ten minutes ago, when hefirst came in. "

"You are certain?"

"Quite certain. "

"And yet--there is something different!"

There _was_ something different; but, at the same time, much that wasidentical. There was the same strange, inscrutable look, the samebronzed complexion, the same military bearing. M. Lenoir, it was true, was well, and even elegantly dressed; whereas, the stranger of the CaféProcope bore all the outward stigmata of penury; but that was not all. There was yet "something different. " The one looked like a man who haddone, or suffered, a wrong in his time; who had an old quarrel with theworld; and who only sought to hide himself, his poverty, and his bitterpride from the observation of his fellow men. The other stood before usdignified, _décoré_, self-possessed, a man not only of the world, butapparently no stranger to that small section of it called "the greatworld. " In a word, the man of the Café, sunken, sullen, threadbare as hewas, would have been almost less out of his proper place in MadameMarotte's society of small trades-people and minor professionals, thanwas M. Lenoir with his _grand air_ and his orange-colored ribbon. 

"It's the same man, " said Müller; "the same, beyond a doubt. The more Ilook at him, the more confident I am. "

"And the more I look at him, " said I, "the more doubtful I get. "

Madame Marotte, meanwhile, had introduced M. Lenoir to the twoConservatoire pupils and their mammas; Monsieur Dorinet had proposedsome "_petits jeux_;" and Monsieur Philomène was helping him tore-arrange the chairs--this time in a circle. 

"Take your places, Messieurs et Mesdames--take your places!" criedMonsieur Dorinet, who had by this time resumed his wig, singed as itwas, and shorn of its fair proportions. "What game shall we play at?"

"_Pied de Boeuf_" "_Colin Maillard_" and other games were successivelyproposed and rejected. 

"We have a game in Alsace called 'My Aunt's Flower Garden'" said Müller. "Does any one know it?"

"'My Aunt's Flower Garden?'" repeated Monsieur Dorinet. "I never heardof it. "

"It sounds pretty, " said Mdlle. Rosalie. 

"Will M'sieur teach it to us, if it is not very difficult?" suggestedMdlle. Rosalie's mamma. 

"With pleasure, Madame. It is not a bad game--and it is extremely easy. We will sit in a circle, if you please--the chairs as they are placedwill do quite well. "

We were just about to take our places when Madame Marotte seized theopportunity to introduce Müller and myself to M. Lenoir. 

"We have met before, Monsieur, " said Müller, pointedly. 

"I am ashamed to confess, Monsieur, that I do not remember to have hadthat pleasure, " replied M. Lenoir, somewhat stiffly. 

"And yet, Monsieur, it was but the other day, " persisted Müller. 

"Monsieur, I can but reiterate my regret. "

"At the Café Procope. "

M. Lenoir stared coldly, slightly shrugged his shoulders, and said, with the air of one who repudiates a discreditable charge:--

"Monsieur, I do not frequent the Café Procope. "

"If Monsieur Müller is to teach us the game, Monsieur Müller must beginit!" said Monsieur Dorinet. 

"At once, " replied Müller, taking his place in the circle. 

As ill-luck would have it (the rest of us being already seated), therewere but two chairs left; so that M. Lenoir and Müller had to sitside by side. 

"I begin with my left-hand neighbor, " said Müller, addressing himselfwith a bow to Mdlle. Rosalie; "and the circle will please to repeatafter me:--'I have the four corners of my Aunt's Flower Gardenfor sale--

thee, and lov'd thee, and ne'er can forget. _'"

MDLLE. ROSALIE _to_ M. PHILOMÈNE. --I have the four corners of my Aunt'sFlower Garden for sale--

thee, and lov'd thee, and ne'er can forget. _'

M. PHILOMÈNE _to_ MADAME DE MONTPARNASSE. --I have the four corners of myAunt's Flower Garden, etc. , etc. 

MADAME DE MONTPARNASSE _to_ M. DORINET. --I have the four corners of myAunt's Flower Garden, etc. , etc. 

Monsieur Dorinet repeats the formula to Madame Desjardins; MadameDesjardins passes it on to me; I proclaim it at the top of my voice toMadame Marotte; Madame Marotte transfers it to Mdlle. Honoria; Mdlle. Honoria delivers it to the fair Marie; the fair Marie tells it to M. Lenoir, and the first round is completed. 

Müller resumes the lead :--

 "_In the second grow heartsease and wild eglantine; Fair exchange is no theft--for my heart, give me thine_. "

MDLLE. ROSALIE _to_ M. PHILOMÈNE:--

 "_In the second grow heartsease and wild eglantine; Fair exchange is no theft--for my heart, give me thine_. "

M. PHILOMÈNE _to_ MDLLE. DE MONTPARNASSE:--

 "_In the second grow heartsease_, " &c. , &c. 

And so on again, till the second round is done. Then Müller beganagain:--

 "_In the third of these corners pale primroses grow; Now tell me thy secret, and whisper it low_. "

Mdlle. Rosalie was about to repeat these lines as before; but he stoppedher. 

"No, Mademoiselle, not till you have told me the secret. "

"The secret, M'sieur? What secret?"

"Nay, Mademoiselle, how can I tell that till you have told me? You mustwhisper something to me--something very secret, which you would not wishany one else to hear--before you repeat the lines. And when you repeatthem, Monsieur Philomène must whisper his secret to you--and so onthrough the circle. "

Mdlle. Rosalie hesitated, smiled, whispered something in Müller's ear, and went on with:--

 "_In the third of these corners pale primroses grow; Now tell me thy secret, and whisper it low_. "

Monsieur Philomène then whispered his secret to Mdlle. Rosalie, and soon again till it ended with M. Lenoir and Müller. 

"I don't think it is a very amusing game, " said Madame Marotte; who, being deaf, had been left out of the last round, and found it dull. 

"It will be more entertaining presently, Madame, " shouted Müller, with amalicious twinkle about his eyes. "Pray observe the next lines, Messieurs et Mesdames, and follow my lead as before:--

 '_Roses bloom in the fourth; and your secret, my dear, Which you whisper'd so softly just now in my ear, I repeat word for word, for the others to hear!_'

Mademoiselle Rosalie (whose pardon I implore!) whispered to me thatMonsieur Philomène dyed his moustache and whiskers. "

There was a general murmur of alarm tempered with tittering. Mademoiselle Rosalie was dumb with confusion. Monsieur Philomène's facebecame the color of a full-blown peony. Madame de Montparnasse andMdlle. Honoria turned absolutely green. 

"_Comment!_" exclaimed one or two voices. "Is everything to berepeated?"

"Everything, Messieurs et Mesdames, " repliedMüller--"everything--without reservation. I call upon Mdlle. Rosalie toreveal the secret of Monsieur Philomène. "

MDLLE. ROSALIE (_with great promptitude_):--Monsieur Philomène whisperedto me that Honoria was the most disagreeable girl in Paris, Marie thedullest, and myself the prettiest. 

M. PHILOMÈNE (_in an agony of confusion_):--I beseech you, Mam'selleHonoria . . . I entreat you, Mam'selle Marie, not for an instant tosuppose. . . . 

MDLLE. HONORIA (_drawing herself up and smiling acidly_):--Oh, pray donot give yourself the trouble to apologize, Monsieur Philomène. Youropinion, I assure you, is not of the least moment to either of us. Isit, Marie?

But the fair Marie only smiled good-naturedly, and said:--

"I know I am not clever. Monsieur Philomène is quite right; and I am notat all angry with him. "

"But--but, indeed, Mesdemoiselles, I--I--am incapable. . . . " stammered theluckless tenor, wiping the perspiration from his brow. "I amincapable. . . . "

"Silence in the circle!" cried Müller, authoritatively. "Privatecivilities are forbidden by the rules of the game. I call MonsieurPhilomène to order, and I demand from him the secret of Madame deMontparnasse. "

M. Philomène looked even more miserable than before. 

"I--I . . . But it is an odious position! To betray the confidence of alady . . . Heavens! I cannot. "

"The secret!--the secret!" shouted the others, impatiently. 

Madame de Montparnasse pursed up her parchment lips, glared upon usdefiantly, and said:--

"Pray don't hesitate about repeating my words, M'sieur Philomène. I amnot ashamed of them. "

M. PHILOMENE (_reluctantly_):--Madame de Montparnasse observed to methat what she particularly disliked was a mixed society like--like thepresent; and that she hoped our friend Madame Marotte would in future beless indiscriminate in the choice of her acquaintances. 

MULLER (_with elaborate courtesy_):--We are all infinitely obliged toMadame de Montparnasse for her opinion of us--(I speak for the society, as leader of the circle)--and beg to assure her that we entirelycoincide in her views. It rests with Madame to carry on the game, and tobetray the confidence of Monsieur Dorinet. 

MADAME DE MONTPARNASSE (_with obvious satisfaction_):--Monsieur Dorinettold me that Rosalie Desjardin's legs were ill-made, and that she wouldnever make a dancer, though she practised from now till doomsday. 

M. DORINET (_springing to his feet as if he had been shot_):--Heavensand earth! Madame de Montparnasse, what have I done that you should sopervert my words? Mam'selle Rosalie--_ma chère elève_, believe me, I never. . . . 

"Silence in the circle!" shouted Müller again. 

M. DORINET:--But, M'sieur, in simple self-defence. . . . 

MULLER:--Self-defence, Monsieur Dorinet, is contrary to the rules of thegame. Revenge only is permitted. Revenge yourself on Madame Desjardins, whose secret it is your turn to tell. 

M. DORINET:--Madame Desjardins drew my attention to the toilette ofMadame de Montparnasse. She said: "_Mon Dieu!_ Monsieur Dorinet, are younot tired of seeing La Montparnasse in that everlasting old black gown?My Rosalie says she is in mourning for her ugliness. "

MADAME DESJARDINS (_laughing heartily_):--_Eh bien--oui!_ I don't denyit; and Rosalie's _mot_ was not bad. And now, M'sieur the Englishman(_turning to me_), it is your turn to be betrayed. Monsieur, whose nameI cannot pronounce, said to me:--"Madame, the French, _selon moi_, arethe best dressed and most _spirituel_ people of Europe. Their verysilence is witty; and if mankind were, by universal consent, to gowithout clothes to-morrow, they would wear the primitive costume of Adamand Eve more elegantly than the rest of the world, and still leadthe fashion, "

(_A murmur of approval on the part of the company, who take thecompliment entirely aux serieux_. )

MYSELF (_agreeably conscious of having achieved popularity_):--Ourhostess's deafness having unfortunately excluded her from this part ofthe game, I was honored with the confidence of Mdlle. Honoria, whoinformed me that she is to make her _début_ before long at the TheatreFrançais, and hoped that I would take tickets for the occasion. 

MDLLE. ROSALIE (_satirically_):--_Brava_, Honoria! What a woman ofbusiness you are!

MDLLE. HONORIA (_affecting not to hear this observation_)--

 "_Roses bloom in the fourth, and your secret, my dear, Which you whispered so softly just now in my ear, I repeat word for word for the others to hear_. "

Marie said to me. . . . _Tiens_! Marie, don't pull my dress in that way. You shouldn't have said it, you know, if it won't bear repeating! Mariesaid to me that she could have either Monsieur Müller or MonsieurLenoir, by only holding up her finger--but she couldn't make up her mindwhich she liked best. 

MDLLE. MARIE (_half crying_):--Nay, Honoria--how can you be so--sounkind . . . So spiteful? I--I did not say I could have either M'sieurMüller or. . . Or. . . 

M. LENOIR (_with great spirit and good breeding_):--Whether Mademoiselleused those words or not is of very little importance. The fact remainsthe same; and is as old as the world. Beauty has but to will andto conquer. 

MULLER:--Order in the circle! The game waits for Mademoiselle Marie. 

MARIE (_hesitatingly_):--

 "_Roses bloom in the fourth, and your secret_"

M'sieur Lenoir said that--that he admired the color of my dress, andthat blue became me more than lilac. 

MULLER: (_coldly_)--_Pardon_, Mademoiselle, but I happened to overhearwhat Monsieur Lenoir whispered just now, and those were not his words. Monsieur Lenoir said, "Look in". . . But perhaps Mademoiselle would preferme not to repeat more?

MARIE--(_in great confusion_):--As--as you please, M'sieur. 

MULLER:--Then, Mademoiselle, I will be discreet, and I will not evenimpose a forfeit upon you, as I might do, by the laws of the game. It isfor Monsieur Lenoir to continue. 

M. LENOIR:--I do not remember what Monsieur Müller whispered to me atthe close of the last round. 

MULLER (_pointedly_):--_Pardon, _ Monsieur, I should have thought thatscarcely possible. 

M. LENOIR:--It was perfectly unintelligible, and therefore left noimpression on my memory. 

MULLER:--Permit me, then, to have the honor of assisting your memory. Isaid to you--"Monsieur, if I believed that any modest young woman of myacquaintance was in danger of being courted by a man of doubtfulcharacter, do you know what I would do? I would hunt that man down withas little remorse as a ferret hunts down a rat in a drain. "

M. LENOIR:--The sentiment does you honor, Monsieur; but I do not see theapplication, MULLER:--Vous ne le trouvez pas, Monsieur?

M. LENOIR--(_with a cold stare, and a scarcely perceptible shrug of theshoulders_):--Non, Monsieur. 

Here Mdlle. Rosalie broke in with:--"What are we to do next, M'sieurMüller? Are we to begin another round, or shall we start a fresh game?"

To which Müller replied that it must be "_selon le plaisir de cesdames_;" and put the question to the vote. 

But too many plain, unvarnished truths had cropped up in the course ofthe last round of my Aunt's Flower Garden; and the ladies were out ofhumor. Madame de Montparnasse, frigid, Cyclopian, black as Erebus, foundthat it was time to go home; and took her leave, bristling withgentility. The tragic Honoria stalked majestically after her. MadameDesjardins, mortally offended with M. Dorinet on the score of Rosalie'slegs, also prepared to be gone; while M. Philomène, convicted ofhair-dye and _brouillé_ for ever with "the most disagreeable girl inParis, " hastened to make his adieux as brief as possible. 

"A word in your ear, mon cher Dorinet, " whispered he, catching thelittle dancing-master by the button-hole. "Isn't it the most unpleasantparty you were ever at in your life?"

The ex-god Scamander held up his hands and eyes. 

"_Eh, mon Dieu_!" he replied. "What an evening of disasters! I have lostmy best pupil and my second-best wig!"

In the meanwhile, we went up like the others, and said good-night to ourhostess. 

She, good soul! in her deafness, knew nothing about the horrors of theevening, and was profuse of her civilities. "So amiable of thesegentlemen to honor her little soirée--so kind of M'sieur Müller to haveexerted himself to make things go off pleasantly--so sorry we would notstay half an hour longer, " &c. , &c. 

To all of which Müller (with a sly grimace expressive of contrition)replied only by a profound salutation and a rapid retreat. Passing M. Lenoir without so much as a glance, he paused a moment before Mdlle. Marie who was standing near the door, and said in a tone audible only toher and myself:--

"I congratulate you, Mademoiselle, on your admirable talent forintrigue. I trust, when you look in the usual place and find thepromised letter, it will prove agreeable reading. J'ai l'honneur, Mademoiselle, de vous saluer. "

I saw the girl flush crimson, then turn deadly white, and draw back asif his hand had struck her a sudden blow. The next moment we werehalf-way down the stairs. 

"What, in Heaven's name, does all this mean?" I said, when we were oncemore in the street. 

"It means, " replied Müller fiercely, "that the man's a scoundrel, andthe woman, like all other women, is false. "

"Then the whisper you overheard" . . . 

"Was only this:--'_Look in the usual place, and you will find aletter_. ' Not many words, _mon cher_, but confoundedly comprehensive!And I who believed that girl to be an angel of candor! I who was withinan ace of falling seriously in love with her! _Sacredie_! what an idiotI have been!"

"Forget her, my dear fellow, " said I. "Wipe her out of your memory(which I think will not be difficult), and leave her to her fate. "

He shook his head. 

"No, " he said, gloomily, "I won't do that. I'll get to the bottom ofthat man's mystery; and if, as I suspect, there's that about his pastlife which won't bear the light of day--I'll save her, if I can. "

CHAPTER XXXV. 

WEARY AND FAR DISTANT. 

Twice already, in accordance with my promise to Dalrymple, I had calledupon Madame de Courcelles, and finding her out each time, had left mycard, and gone away disappointed. From Dalrymple himself, although I hadwritten to him several times, I heard seldom, and always briefly. Hisfirst notes were dated from Berlin, and those succeeding them fromVienna. He seemed restless, bitter, dissatisfied with himself, and withthe world. Naturally unfit for a lounging, idle life, his active nature, now that it had to bear up against the irritation of hope deferred, chafed and fretted for work. 

"My sword-arm, " he wrote in one of his letters, "is weary of itsholiday. There are times when I long for the smell of gunpowder, and thethunder of battle. I am sick to death of churches and picture-galleries, operas, dilettantism, white-kid-glovism, and all the hollow shows andseemings of society. Sometimes I regret having left the army--at othersI rejoice; for, after all, in these piping times of peace, to be asoldier is to be a mere painted puppet--a thing of pipe-clay and goldbullion--an expensive scarecrow--an elegant Guy Fawkes--a sign, not ofwhat is, but of what has been, and yet may be again. For my part, I carenot to take the livery without the service. Pshaw! will things nevermend! Are the good old times, and the good old international hatreds, gone by for ever? Shall we never again have a thorough, seasonable, wholesome, continental war? This place (Vienna) would be worth fightingfor, if one had the chance. I sometimes amuse myself by planning asiege, when I ride round the fortifications, as is my custom of anafternoon. "

In another, after telling me that he had been reading some books oftravel in Egypt and Central America, he said:--

"Next to a military life I think that of a traveller--a genuinetraveller, who turns his back upon railroads and guides--must be themost exciting and the most enviable under heaven. Since reading thesebooks, I dream of the jungle and the desert, and fancy that abuffalo-hunt must be almost as fine sport as a charge of cavalry. Oh, what a weary exile this is! I feel as if the very air were stagnantaround me, and I, like the accursed vessel that carried the ancientmariner, --

 As idle as a painted ship, Upon a painted ocean. '"

Sometimes, though rarely, he mentioned Madame de Courcelles, and thenvery guardedly: always as "Madame de Courcelles, " and never as his wife. 

"That morning, " he wrote, "comes back to me with all the vagueness of adream--you will know what morning I mean, and why it fills so shadowy apage in the book of my memory. And it might as well have been a dream, for aught of present peace or future hope that it has brought me. Ioften think that I was selfish when I exacted that pledge from her. I donot see of what good it can be to either her or me, or in what sense Ican be said to have gained even the power to protect and serve her. Would that I were rich; or that she and I were poor together, anddwelling far away in some American wild, under the shade of primevaltrees, the world forgetting; by the world forgot! I should enjoy thelife of a Canadian settler--so free, so rational, so manly. How happy wemight be--she with her children, her garden, her books; I with my dogs, my gun, my lands! What a curse it is, this spider's web of civilization, that hems and cramps us in on every side, and from which not all thearmor of common-sense is sufficient to preserve us!"

Sometimes he broke into a strain of forced gayety, more sad, to mythinking, than the bitterest lamentations could have been. 

"I wish to Heaven, " he said, in one of his later letters--"I wish toHeaven I had no heart, and no brain! I wish I was, like some worthypeople I know, a mere human zoophyte, consisting of nothing but a mouthand a stomach. Only conceive how it must simplify life when once one hassucceeded in making a clean sweep of all those finer emotions whichharass more complicated organisms! Enviable zoophytes, that live only todigest!--who would not be of the brotherhood?"

In another he wrote:--

"I seem to have lived years in the last five or six weeks, and to havegrown suddenly old and cynical. Some French writer (I think it isAlphonse Karr) says, 'Nothing in life is really great and good, exceptwhat is not true. Man's greatest treasures are his illusions. ' Alas! myillusions have been dropping from me in showers of late, like witheredleaves in Autumn. The tree will be bare as a gallows ere long, if theserough winds keep on blowing. If only things would amuse me as of old! Ifthere was still excitement in play, and forgetfulness in wine, andnovelty in travel! But there is none--and all things alike are 'flat, stale, and unprofitable, ' The truth is, Damon, I want but one thing--andwanting that, lack all. "

Here is one more extract, and it shall be the last:--

"You ask me how I pass my days--in truth, wearily enough. I rise withthe dawn, but that is not very early in September; and I ride for acouple of hours before breakfast. After breakfast I play billiards insome public room, consume endless pipes, read the papers, and so on. Later in the day I scowl through a picture-gallery, or a string ofstudios; or take a pull up the river; or start off upon a long, solitaryobjectless walk through miles and miles of forest. Then comesdinner--the inevitable, insufferable, interminable German table-d'hôtedinner--and then there is the evening to be got through somehow! Now andthen I drop in at a theatre, but generally take refuge in some plebeianLust Garten or Beer Hall, where amid clouds of tobacco-smoke, one maylisten to the best part-singing and zitter-playing in Europe. And so mydays drag by--who but myself knows how slowly? Truly, Damon, there comesto every one of us, sooner or later, a time when we say of life asChristopher Sly said of the comedy--''Tis an excellent piece of work. Would 'twere done!'"

CHAPTER XXXVI. 

THE VICOMTE DE CAYLUS. 

It was after receiving the last of these letters that I hazarded a thirdvisit to Madame de Courcelles. This time, I ventured to present myselfat her door about midday, and was at once ushered upstairs into adrawing-room looking out on the Rue Castellane. 

Seeing her open work-table, with the empty chair and footstool besideit, I thought at the first glance that I was alone in the room, when amuttered "Sacr-r-r-re! Down, Bijou!" made me aware of a gentlemanextended at full length upon a sofa near the fireplace, and of avicious-looking Spitz crouched beneath it. 

The gentleman lifted his head from the sofa-cusion; stared at me; bowedcarelessly; got upon his feet; and seizing the poker, lunged savagely atthe fire, as if he had a spite against it, and would have put it out, if he could. This done, he yawned aloud, flung himself into the nearesteasy-chair, and rang the bell. 

"More coals, Henri, " he said, imperiously; "and--stop! a bottle ofSeltzer-water. "

The servant hesitated. 

"I don't think, Monsieur le Vicomte, " he said, "that Madame has anySeltzer-water in the house; but . . . "

"Confound you!--you never have anything in the house at the moment onewants it, " interrupted the gentleman, irritably. 

"I can send for some, if Monsieur le Vicomte desires it. "

"Send for it, then; and remember, when I next ask for it, let there besome at hand. "

"Yes, Monsieur le Vicomte. "

"And--Henri!"

"Yes, Monsieur le Vicomte. "

"Bid them be quick. I hate to be kept waiting!"

The servant murmured his usual "Yes, Monsieur le Vicomte, " anddisappeared; but with a look of such subdued dislike and impatience inhis face, as would scarcely have flattered Monsieur le Vicomte had hechanced to surprise it. 

In the meantime the dog had never ceased growling; whilst I, in defaultof something better to do, turned over the leaves of an album, and tookadvantage of a neighboring mirror to scrutinize the outward appearanceof this authoritative occupant of Madame de Courcelles' drawing-room. 

He was a small, pallid, slender man of about thirty-five or seven yearsof age, with delicate, effeminate features, and hair thickly sprinkledwith gray. His fingers, white and taper as a woman's, were covered withrings. His dress was careless, but that of a gentleman. Glancing at himeven thus furtively, I could not help observing the worn lines about histemples, the mingled languor and irritability of his every gesture; therestless suspicion of his eye; the hard curves about his handsome mouth. 

"_Mille tonnerres_!" said he, between his teeth "come out, Bijou--comeout, I say!"

The dog came out unwillingly, and changed the growl to a little whineof apprehension. His master immediately dealt him a smart kick that senthim crouching to the farther corner of the room, where he hid himselfunder a chair. 

"I'll teach you to make that noise, " muttered he, as he drew his chaircloser to the fire, and bent over it, shiveringly. "A yelping brute, that would be all the better for hanging. "

Having sat thus for a few moments, he seemed to grow restless again, and, pushing back his chair, rose, looked out of the window, took a turnor two across the room, and paused at length to take a book from one ofthe side-tables. As he did this, our eyes met in the looking-glass;whereupon he turned hastily back to the window, and stood therewhistling till it occurred to him to ring the bell again. 

"Monsieur rang?" said the footman, once more making his appearance atthe door. 

"_Mort de ma vie_! yes. The Seltzer-water. "

"I have sent for it, Monsieur le Vicomte. "

"And it is not yet come?"

"Not yet, Monsieur le Vicomte. "

He muttered something to himself, and dropped back into the chair beforethe fire. 

"Does Madame de Courcelles know that I am here?" he asked, as theservant, after lingering a moment, was about to leave the room. 

"I delivered Monsieur le Vicomte's message, and brought back Madame'sreply, " said the man, "half an hour ago. "

"True--I had forgotten it. You may go. "

The footman closed the door noiselessly, and had no sooner done so thanhe was recalled by another impatient peal. 

"Here, Henri--have you told Madame de Courcelles that this gentleman isalso waiting to see her?"

"Yes, Monsieur le Vicomte. "

"_Eh bien_?"

"And Madame said she should be down in a few moments. "

"_Sacredie_! go back, then, and inquire if. . . . "

"Madame is here. "

As the footman moved back respectfully, Madame de Courcelles came intothe room. She was looking perhaps somewhat paler, but, to my thinking, more charming than ever. Her dark hair was gathered closely round herhead in massive braids, displaying to their utmost advantage all thedelicate curves of her throat and chin; while her rich morning dress, made of some dark material, and fastened at the throat by a round broochof dead gold, fell in loose and ample folds, like the drapery of a Romanmatron. Coming at once to meet me, she extended a cordial hand, and said:--

"I had begun to despair of ever seeing you again. Why have you alwayscome when I was out?"

"Madame, " I said, bending low over the slender fingers, that seemed tolinger kindly in my own, "I have been undeservedly unfortunate. "

"Remember for the future, " she said, "that I am always at home tillmidday, and after five. "

Then, turning to her other visitor, she said:--

"_Mon cousin_, allow me to present my friend. MonsieurArbuthnot--Monsieur le Vicomte Adrien de Caylus. "

I had suspected as much already. Who but he would have dared to assumethese airs of insolence? Who but her suitor and my friend's rival? I haddisliked him at first sight, and now I detested him. Whether it was thatmy aversion showed itself in my face, or that Madame de Courcelles'scordial welcome of myself annoyed him, I know not; but his bow was evencooler than my own. 

"I have been waiting to see you, Helène, " said he, looking at his watch, "for nearly three-quarters of an hour. "

"I sent you word, _mon cousin_, that I was finishing a letter for theforeign post, " said Madame de Courcelles, coldly, "and that I could notcome sooner. "

Monsieur de Caylus bit his lip and cast an impatient glance in mydirection. 

"Can you spare me a few moments alone, Helène?" he said. 

"Alone, _mon cousin_?"

"Yes, upon a matter of business. "

Madame de Courcelles sighed. 

"If Monsieur Arbuthnot will be so indulgent as to excuse me for fiveminutes, " she replied. "This way, _mon cousin_. "

So saying, she lifted a dark green curtain, beneath which they passed toa farther room out of sight and hearing. 

They remained a long time away. So long, that I grew weary of waiting, and, having turned over all the illustrated books upon the table, andexamined every painting on the walls, turned to the window, as theidler's last resource, and watched the passers-by. 

What endless entertainment in the life-tide of a Paris street, eventhough but a branch from one of the greater arteries! What color--whatcharacter--what animation--what variety! Every third or fourth man is ablue-bloused artisan; every tenth, a soldier in a showy uniform. Thencomes the grisette in her white cap; and the lemonade-vender with hisfantastic pagoda, slung like a peep-show across his shoulders; and thepeasant woman from Normandy, with her high-crowned head-dress; and theabbé, all in black, with his shovel-hat pulled low over his eyes; andthe mountebank selling pencils and lucifer-matches to the music of ahurdy-gurdy; and the gendarme, who is the terror of street urchins; andthe gamin, who is the torment of the gendarme; and the water-carrier, with his cart and his cracked bugle; and the elegant ladies andgentlemen, who look in at shop windows and hire seats at two sous eachin the Champs Elysées; and, of course, the English tourist reading"Galignani's Guide" as he goes along. Then, perhaps, a regiment marchespast with colors flying and trumpets braying; or a fantastic-lookingfuneral goes by, with a hearse like a four-post bed hung with blackvelvet and silver; or the peripatetic showman with his company of whiterats establishes himself on the pavement opposite, till admonished tomove on by the sergent de ville. What an ever-shifting panorama! What akaleidoscope of color and character! What a study for the humorist, thepainter, the poet!

Thinking thus, and watching the overflowing current as it hurried onbelow, I became aware of a smart cab drawn by a showy chestnut, whichdashed round the corner of the street and came down the Rue Castellaneat a pace that caused every head to turn as it went by. Almost before Ihad time to do more than observe that it was driven by a moustachioedand lavender-kidded gentleman, it drew up before the house, and a trimtiger jumped down, and thundered at the door. At that moment, thegentleman, taking advantage of the pause to light a cigar, looked up, and I recognised the black moustache and sinister countenance ofMonsieur de Simoncourt. 

"A gentleman for Monsieur le Vicomte, " said the servant, drawing backthe green curtain and opening a vista into the room beyond. 

"Ask him to come upstairs, " said the voice of De Caylus from within. 

"I have done so, Monsieur; but he prefers to wait in the cabriolet. "

"Pshaw!--confound it!--say that I'm coming. "

The servant withdrew. 

I then heard the words "perfectly safe investment--presentconvenience--unexpected demand, " rapidly uttered by Monsieur de Caylus;and then they both came back; he looked flushed and angry--she calmas ever. 

"Then I shall call on you again to-morrow, Helène, " said he, pluckingnervously at his glove. "You will have had time to reflect. You will seematters differently. "

Madame Courcelles shook her head. 

"Reflection will not change my opinion, " she said gently. 

"Well, shall I send Lejeune to you? He acts as solicitor to the company, and . . . "

"_Mon cousin_" interposed the lady, "I have already given you mydecision--why pursue the question further? I do not wish to seeMonsieur Lejeune, and I have no speculative tastes whatever. "

Monsieur de Caylus, with a suppressed exclamation that sounded like acurse, rent his glove right in two, and then, as if annoyed at theself-betrayal, crushed up the fragments in his hand, andlaughed uneasily. 

"All women are alike, " he said, with an impatient shrug. "They knownothing of the world, and place no faith in those who are competent toadvise them. I had given you credit, my charming cousin, forbroader views. "

Madame de Courcelles smiled without replying, and caressed the littledog, which had come out from under the sofa to fondle round her. 

"Poor Bijou!" said she. "Pretty Bijou! Do you take good care of him, _mon cousin_?"

"Upon my soul, not I, " returned De Caylus, carelessly. "Lecroix feedshim, I believe, and superintends his general education. "

"Who is Lecroix?"

"My valet, courier, body-guard, letter-carrier, and general _factotum_. A useful vagabond, without whom I should scarcely know my right handfrom my left!"

"Poor Bijou! I fear, then, your chance of being remembered is smallindeed!" said Madame de Courcelles, compassionately. 

But Monsieur le Vicomte only whistled to the dog; bowed haughtily to me;kissed, with an air of easy familiarity, before which she evidentlyrecoiled, first the hand and then the cheek of his beautiful cousin, andso left the room. The next moment I saw him spring into the cabriolet, take his place beside Monsieur de Simoncourt, and drive away, with Bijoufollowing at a pace that might almost have tried a greyhound. 

"My cousin, De Caylus, has lately returned from Algiers on leave ofabsence, " said Madame de Courcelles, after a few moments of awkwardsilence, during which I had not known what to say. "You have heard ofhim, perhaps?"

"Yes, Madame, I have heard of Monsieur de Caylus. "

"From Captain Dalrymple?

"From Captain Dalrymple, Madame; and in society. "

"He is a brave officer, " she said, hesitatingly, "and has greatlydistinguished himself in this last campaign. "

"So I have heard, Madame. "

She looked at me, as if she would fain read how much or how littleDalrymple had told me. 

"You are Captain Dalrymple's friend, Mr. Arbuthnot, " she said, presently, "and I know you have his confidence. You are probably awarethat my present position with regard to Monsieur de Caylus is not onlyvery painful, but also very difficult. "

"Madame, I know it. "

"But it is a position of which I have the command, and which no oneunderstands so well as myself. To attempt to help me, would be to add tomy embarrassments. For this reason it is well that Captain Dalrymple isnot here. His presence just now in Paris could do no good--on thecontrary, would be certain to do harm. Do you follow my meaning, Monsieur Arbuthnot?"

"I understand what you say, Madame; but. . . . "

"But you do not quite understand why I say it? _Eh bien_, Monsieur, whenyou write to Captain Dalrymple. . . . For you write sometimes, do you not?"

"Often, Madame. "

"Then, when you write, say nothing that may add to his anxieties. If youhave reason at any time to suppose that I am importuned to do this orthat; that I am annoyed; that I have my own battle to fight--still, forhis sake as well as for mine, be silent. It _is_ my own battle, and Iknow how to fight it. "

"Alas! Madame. . . . "

She smiled sadly. 

"Nay, " she said, "I have more courage than you would suppose; morecourage and more will. I am fully capable of bearing my own burdens; andCaptain Dalrymple has already enough of his own. Now tell me somethingof yourself. You are here, I think, to study medicine. Are you greatlydevoted to your work? Have you many friends?"

"I study, Madame--not always very regularly; and I have one friend. "

"An Englishman?"

"No, Madame--a German. "

"A fellow-student, I presume. "

"No, Madame--an artist. "

"And you are very happy here?"

"I have occupations and amusements; therefore, if to be neither idle nordull is to be happy. I suppose I am happy. "

"Nay, " she said quickly, "be sure of it. Do not doubt it. Who asks morefrom Fate courts his own destruction. "

"But it would be difficult, Madame, to go through life without desiringsomething better, something higher--without ambition, forinstance--without love. "

"Ambition and love!" she repeated, smiling sadly. "There speaks the man. Ambition first--the aim and end of life; love next--the pleasant adjunctto success! Ah, beware of both. "

"But without either, life would be a desert. "

"Life _is_ a desert, " she replied, bitterly. "Ambition is its mirage, ever beckoning, ever receding--love its Dead Sea fruit, fair without anddust within. You look surprised. You did not expect such gloomy theoriesfrom me--yet I am no cynic. I have lived; I have suffered; I am awoman--_voilà tout_. When you are a few years older, and have troddensome of the flinty ways of life, you will see the world as I see it. "

"It may be so, Madame; but if life is indeed a desert, it is, at allevents, some satisfaction to know that the dwellers in tents becomeenamored of their lot, and, content with what the desert has to give, desire no other. It is only the neophyte who rides after the mirage andthirsts for the Dead Sea apple. "

She smiled again. 

"Ah!" she said, "the gifts of the desert are two-fold, and what one getsdepends on what one seeks. For some the wilderness has gifts ofresignation, meditation, peace; for others it has the horse, the tent, the pipe, the gun, the chase of the panther and antelope. But to go backto yourself. Life, you say, would be barren without ambition and love. What is your ambition?"

"Nay, Madame, that is more than I can tell you--more than I knowmyself. "

"Your profession. . . . "

"If ever I dream dreams, Madame, " I interrupted quickly, "my professionhas no share in them. It is a profession I do not love, and which I hopesome day to abandon. "

"Your dreams, then?"

I shook my head. 

"Vague--unsubstantial--illusory--forgotten as soon as dreamt! How can Ianalyze them? How can I describe them? In childhood one says--'I shouldlike to be a soldier, and conquer the world;' or 'I should like to be asailor, and discover new Continents;' or 'I should like to be a poet, and wear a laurel wreath, like Petrarch and Dante;' but as one getsolder and wiser (conscious, perhaps, of certain latent energies, andweary of certain present difficulties and restraints), one can onlywait, as best one may, and watch for the rising of that tide whose floodleads on to fortune. "

With this I rose to take my leave. Madame de Courcelles smiled and putout her hand. 

"Come often, " she said; "and come at the hours when I am at home. Ishall always be glad to see you. Above all, remember my caution--not aword to Captain Dalrymple, either now or at any other time. "

"Madame, you may rely upon me. One thing I ask, however, as the rewardof my discretion. "

"And that one thing?"

"Permission, Madame, to serve you in any capacity, however humble--inany strait where a brother might interfere, or a faithful retainer laydown his life in your service. "

With a sweet earnestness that made my heart beat and my cheeks glow, shethanked and promised me. 

"I shall look upon you henceforth, " she said, "as my knight _sans peuret sans reproche_. "

Heaven knows that not all the lessons of all the moralists that everwrote or preached since the world began, could just then have done mehalf such good service as did those simple words. They came at themoment when I most needed them--when I had almost lost my taste forsociety, and was sliding day by day into habits of more confirmedidleness and Bohemianism. They roused me. They made a man of me. Theyrecalled me to higher aims, "purer manners, nobler laws. " They clothedme, so to speak, in the _toga virilis_ of a generous devotion. They mademe long to prove myself "_sans peur_, " to merit the "_sans reproche. "_They marked an era in my life never to be forgotten or effaced. 

Let it not be thought for one moment that I loved her--or fancied Iloved her. No, not so far as one heart-beat would carry me; but I wasproud to possess her confidence and her friendship. Was she notDalrymple's wife, and had not he asked me to watch over and protect her?Nay, had she not called me her knight and accepted my fealty?

Nothing perhaps, is so invaluable to a young man on entering life as thefriendship of a pure-minded and highly-cultivated woman who, removed toofar above him to be regarded with passion, is yet beautiful enough toengage his admiration; whose good opinion becomes the measure of his ownself-respect; and whose confidence is a sacred trust only to be partedfrom with loss of life or honor. 

Such an influence upon myself at this time was the friendship of Madamede Courcelles. I went out from her presence that morning morallystronger than before, and at each repetition of my visit I found herinfluence strengthen and increase. Sometimes I met Monsieur de Caylus, on which occasions my stay was ever of the briefest; but I mostfrequently found her alone, and then our talk was of books, of art, ofculture, of all those high and stirring things that alike move thesympathies of the educated woman and rouse the enthusiasm of the youngman. She became interested in me; at first for Dalrymple's sake, andby-and-by, however little I deserved it, for my own--and she showedthat interest in many ways inexpressibly valuable to me then andthenceforth. She took pains to educate my taste; opened to me hithertounknown avenues of study; led me to explore "fresh fields and pasturesnew, " to which, but for her help, I might not have found my way for manya year to come. My reading, till now, had been almost wholly English orclassical; she sent me to the old French literature--to the _Chansons deGeste_; to the metrical romances of the Trouvères; to the Chronicles ofFroissart, Monstrelet, and Philip de Comines, and to the poets anddramatists that immediately succeeded them. 

These books opened a new world to me; and, having daily access to twofine public libraries, I plunged at once into a course of new anddelightful reading, ranging over all that fertile tract of song andhistory that begins far away in the morning land of mediæval romance, and leads on, century after century, to the new era that began with theRevolution. 

With what avidity I devoured those picturesque old chronicles--thoseautobiographies--those poems, and satires, and plays that I now read forthe first time! What evenings I spent with St. Simon, and De Thou, andCharlotte de Bavière! How I relished Voltaire! How I laughed overMolière! How I revelled in Montaigne! Most of all, however, I loved thequaint lore of the earlier literature:--

 "Old legends of the monkish page, Traditions of the saint and sage, Tales that have the rime of age, And Chronicles of Eld. "

Nor was this all. I had hitherto loved art as a child or a savage mightlove it, ignorantly, half-blindly, without any knowledge of itsprinciples, its purposes, or its history. But Madame de Courcelles putinto my hands certain books that opened my eyes to a thousand wondersunseen before. The works of Vasari, Nibby, Winkelman and Lessing, theaesthetic writings of Goethe and the Schlegels, awakened in me, oneafter the other, fresher and deeper revelations of beauty. 

I wandered through the galleries of the Louvre like one newly giftedwith sight. I haunted the Venus of Milo and the Diane Chasseresse likeanother Pygmalion. The more I admired, the more I found to admire. Themore I comprehended, the more I found there remained for me tocomprehend. I recognised in art the Sphinx whose enigma is never solved. I learned, for the first time, that poetry may be committed toimperishable marble, and steeped in unfading colors. By degrees, as Ifollowed in the footsteps of great thinkers, my insight became keenerand my perceptions more refined. The symbolism of art evolved itself, asit were, from below the surface; and instead of beholding in paintingsand statues mere studies of outward beauty, I came to know them asexponents of thought--as efforts after ideal truth--as aspirationswhich, because of their divineness, can never be wholly expressed; butwhose suggestiveness is more eloquent than all the eloquence of words. 

Thus a great change came upon my life--imperceptibly at first, and bygradual degrees; but deeply and surely. To apply myself to the study ofmedicine became daily more difficult and more distasteful to me. Theboisterous pleasures of the Quartier Latin lost their charm for me. Dayby day I gave myself up more and more passionately to the cultivation ofmy taste for poetry and art. I filled my little sitting-room with castsafter the antique. I bought some good engravings for my walls, and hungup a copy of the Madonna di San Sisto above the table at which I wroteand read. All day long, wherever I might be--at the hospital, in thelecture-room, in the laboratory--I kept looking longingly forward to thequiet evening by-and-by when, with shaded lamp and curtained window, Ishould again take up the studies of the night before. 

Thus new aims opened out before me, and my thoughts flowed into channelsever wider and deeper. Already the first effervescence of youth seemedto have died off the surface of my life, as the "beaded bubbles" die offthe surface of champagne. I had tried society, and wearied of it. I hadtried Bohemia, and found it almost as empty as the Chaussée d'Autin. And now that life which from boyhood I had ever looked upon as thehappiest on earth, the life of the student, was mine. Could I havedevoted it wholly and undividedly to those pursuits which were fastbecoming to me as the life of my life, I would not have exchanged my lotfor all the wealth of the Rothschilds. Somewhat indolent, perhaps, bynature, indifferent to achieve, ambitious only to acquire, I askednothing better than a life given up to the worship of all that isbeautiful in art, to the acquisition of knowledge, and to thedevelopment of taste. Would the time ever come when I might realize mydream? Ah! who could tell? In the meanwhile . . . Well, in the meanwhile, here was Paris--here were books, museums, galleries, schools, goldenopportunities which, once past, might never come again. So I reasoned;so time went on; so I lived, plodding on by day in the École deMédecine, but, when evening came, resuming my studies at the leaf turneddown the night before, and, like the visionary in "The Pilgrims of theRhine, " taking up my dream-life at the point where I had beenlast awakened. 

 * * * * *

CHAPTER XXXVII. 

GUICHET THE MODEL. 

To the man who lives alone and walks about with his eyes open, the merebricks and mortar of a great city are instinct with character. Buildingsbecome to him like living creatures. The streets tell him tales. Forhim, the house-fronts are written over with hieroglyphics which, to thepassing crowd, are either unseen or without meaning. Fallen grandeur, pretentious gentility, decent poverty, the infamy that wears a brazenfront, and the crime that burrows in darkness--he knows them all at aglance. The patched window, the dingy blind, the shattered doorstep, thepot of mignonette on the garret ledge, are to him as significant as thelines and wrinkles on a human face. He grows to like some houses and todislike others, almost without knowing why--just as one grows to likeor dislike certain faces in the parks and clubs. I remember now, as wellas if it were yesterday, how, during the first weeks of my life inParis, I fell in love at first sight with a wee _maisonnette_ at thecorner of a certain street overlooking the Luxembourg gardens--a tinylittle house, with soft-looking blue silk window-curtains, andcream-colored jalousies, and boxes of red and white geraniums at all thewindows. I never knew who lived in that sunny little nest; I never saw aface at any of those windows; yet I used to go out of my way in thesummer evenings to look at it, as one might go to look at a beautifulwoman behind a stall in the market-place, or at a Madonna in ashop-window. 

At the time about which I write, there was probably no city in Europe ofwhich the street-scenery was so interesting as that of Paris. I havealready described the Quartier Latin, joyous, fantastic, out-at-elbows;a world in itself and by itself; unlike anything else in Paris orelsewhere. But there were other districts in the great city--now sweptaway and forgotten--as characteristic in their way as the QuartierLatin. There was the He de Saint Louis, for instance--a _Campo Santo_ ofdecayed nobility--lonely, silent, fallen upon evil days, and hauntedhere and there by ghosts of departed Marquises and Abbés of the _vieilleécole_. There was the debateable land to the rear of the Invalides andthe Champ de Mars. There was the Faubourg St. Germain, fast falling intothe sere and yellow leaf, and going the way of the Ile de Saint Louis. There was the neighborhood of the Boulevart d'Aulnay, and the Rue de laRoquette, ghastly with the trades of death; a whole Quartier ofmonumental sculptors, makers of iron crosses, weavers of funerealchaplets, and wholesale coffin-factors. And beside and apart from allthis, there were (as in all great cities) districts of evil report andobscure topography--lost islets of crime, round which flowed and circledthe daily tide of Paris life; flowed and circled, yet never penetrated. A dark arch here and there--the mouth of a foul alley--a riverside vistaof gloom and squalor, marked the entrance to these Alsatias. Such anAlsatia was the Rue Pierre Lescot, the Rue Sans Nom, and many more thanI can now remember--streets into which no sane man would venture afternightfall without the escort of the police. 

Into the border land of such a neighborhood--a certain congeries ofobscure and labyrinthine streets to the rear of the old Halles--Iaccompanied Franz Müller one wintry afternoon, about an hour beforesunset, and perhaps some ten days after our evening in the Rue duFaubourg St. Denis. We were bound on an expedition of discovery, and theobject of our journey was to find the habitat of Guichet the model. 

"I am determined to get to the bottom of this Lenoir business, " saidMüller, doggedly; "and if the police won't help me, I must help myself. "

"You have no case for the police, " I replied. 

"So says the _chef de bureau_; but I am of the opposite opinion. However, I shall make my case out clearly enough before long. ThisGuichet can help me, if he will. He knows Lenoir, and he knows somethingagainst him; that is clear. You saw how cautious he was the other day. The difficulty will be to make him speak. "

"I doubt if you will succeed. "

"I don't, _mon cher_. But we shall see. Then, again, I have another lineof evidence open to me. You remember that orange-colored rosette in thefellow's button-hole?"

"Certainly I do. "

"Well, now, I happen, by the merest chance, to know what that rosettemeans. It is the ribbon of the third order of the Golden Palm ofMozambique--a Portuguese decoration. They give it to diplomaticofficials, eminent civilians, distinguished foreigners, and the like. Iknow a fellow who has it, and who belongs to the Portuguese Legationhere. _Eh bien!_ I went to him the other day, and asked him about oursaid friend--how he came by it, who he is, where he comes from, and soforth. My Portuguese repeats the name--elevates his eyebrows--in short, has never heard of such a person. Then he pulls down a big book from ashelf in the secretary's room--turns to a page headed 'Golden Palm ofMozambique'--runs his finger along the list of names--shakes his head, and informs me that no Lenoir is, or ever has been, received into theorder. What do you say to that, now?"

"It is just what I should have expected; but still it is not a ease forthe police. It concerns the Portuguese minister; and the Portugueseminister is by no means likely to take any trouble about the matter. Butwhy waste all this time and care? If I were you, I would let the thingdrop. It is not worth the cost. "

Müller looked grave. 

"I would drop it this moment, " he said, "if--if it were not for thegirl. "

"Who is still less worth the cost, "

"I know it, " he replied, impatiently. "She has a pretty, sentimentalMadonna face; a sweet voice; a gentle manner--_et voilà tout_. I'm notthe least bit in love with her now. I might have been. I might havecommitted some great folly for her sake; but that danger is past, _Dieumerci!_ I couldn't love a girl I couldn't trust, and that girl is aflirt. A flirt of the worst sort, too--demure, serious, conventional. No, no; my fancy for the fair Marie has evaporated; but, for all that, Idon't relish the thought of what her fate might be if linked for life toan unscrupulous scoundrel like Lenoir. I must do what I can, my dearfellow--I must do what I can. "

We had by this time rounded the Halles, and were threading our waythrough one gloomy by-street after another. The air was chill, the skylow and rainy; and already the yellow glow of an oil-lamp might be seengleaming through the inner darkness of some of the smaller shops. Meanwhile, the dusk seemed to gather at our heels, and to thicken atevery step. 

"You are sure you know your way?" I asked presently, seeing Müller lookup at the name at the corner of the street. 

"Why, yes; I think I do, " he answered, doubtfully. 

"Why not inquire of that man just ahead?" I suggested. 

He was a square-built, burly, shabby-looking fellow, and was stridingalong so fast that we had to quicken our pace in order to come up withhim. All at once Müller fell back, laid his hand on my arm, and said:--

"Stop! It is Guichet himself. Let him go on, and we'll follow. "

So we dropped into the rear and followed him. He turned presently to theright, and preceded us down a long and horribly ill-favored street, fullof mean cabarets and lodging-houses of the poorest class, where, paintedin red letters on broken lamps above the doors, or printed on cardswafered against the window-panes, one saw at almost every other house, the words, "_Ici on loge la nuit_. " At the end of this thoroughfare ourunconscious guide plunged into a still darker and fouler _impasse_, hungacross from side to side with rows of dingy linen, and ornamented in thecentre with a mound of decaying cabbage-leaves, potato-parings, oyster-shells, and the like. Here he made for a large tumble-down housethat closed the alley at the farther end, and, still followed byourselves, went in at an open doorway, and up a public staircase dimlylighted by a flickering oil-lamp at every landing. At his own door hepaused, and just as he had turned the key, Müller accosted him. 

"Is that you, Guichet?" he said. "Why, you are the very man I want! If Ihad come ten minutes sooner, I should have missed you. "

"Is it M'sieur Müller?" said Guichet, bending his heavy brows andstaring at us in the gloom of the landing. 

"Ay, and with me the friend you saw the other day. So, this is your den?May we come in?"

He had been standing till now with his hand on the key and the closeddoor at his back, evidently not intending to admit us; but thus asked, he pushed the door open, and said, somewhat ungraciously:--

"It is just that, M'sieur Müller--a den; not fit for gentlemen like you. But you can go in, if you please. "

We did not wait for a second invitation, but went in immediately. It wasa long, low, dark room, with a pale gleam of fading daylight strugglingin through a tiny window at the farther end. We could see nothing atfirst but this gleam; and it was not till Guichet had raked out the woodashes on the hearth, and blown them into a red glow with his breath, that we could distinguish the form or position of anything in the room. Then, by the flicker of the fire, we saw a low truckle-bed close underthe window; a kind of bruised and battered seaman's chest in the middleof the room; a heap of firewood in one corner; a pile of oldpacking-cases; old sail-cloth, old iron, and all kinds of rubbish inanother; a few pots and pans over the fire-place; and a dilapidatedstool or two standing about the room. Avoiding these latter, we setourselves down upon the edge of the chest; while Guichet, having by thistime lit a piece of candle-end in a tin sconce against the wall, stoodbefore us with folded arms, and stared at us in silence. 

"I want to know, Guichet, if you can give me some sittings, " saidMüller, by way of opening the conversation. 

"Depends on when, M'sieur Müller, " growled the model. 

"Well--next week, for the whole week. "

Guichet shook his head. He was engaged to Monsieur Flandrin _là bas_, for the next month, from twelve to three daily, and had only hismornings and evenings to dispose of; in proof of which he pulled out agreasy note-book and showed where the agreement was formally entered. Müller made a grimace of disappointment. 

"That man's head takes a deal of cutting off, _mon ami_, " he said. "Aren't you tired of playing executioner so long?"

"Not I, M'sieur! It's all the same to me--executioner or victim, saintor devil. "

Müller, laughing, offered him a cigar. 

"You've posed for some queer characters in your time, Guichet, " said he. 

"Parbleu, M'sieur!"

"But you've not been a model all your life?"

"Perhaps not, M'sieur. "

"You've been a sailor once upon a time, haven't you?"

The model looked up quickly. 

"How did you know that?" he said, frowning. 

"By a number of little things--by this, for instance, " replied Müller, kicking his heels against the sea-chest; "by certain words you make useof now and then; by the way you walk; by the way you tie your cravat. _Que diable_! you look at me as if you took me for a sorcerer!"

The model shook his head. 

"I don't understand it, " he said, slowly. 

"Nay, I could tell you more than that if I liked, " said Müller, with anair of mystery. 

"About myself?"

"Ay, about yourself, and others. "

Guichet, having just lighted his cigar, forgot to put it to his lips. 

"What others?" he asked, with a look half of dull bewilderment and halfof apprehension. 

Müller shrugged his shoulders. 

"Pshaw!" said he; "I know more than you think I know, Guichet. There'sour friend, you know--he of whom I made the head t'other day . . . Youremember?"

The model, still looking at him, made no answer. 

"Why didn't you say at once where you had met him, and all the rest ofit, _mon vieux_? You might have been sure I should find out for myself, sooner or later. "

The model turned abruptly towards the fire-place, and, leaning his headagainst the mantel-shelf, stood with his back towards us, looking downinto the fire. 

"You ask me why I did not tell you at once?" he said, very slowly. 

"Ay--why not?"

"Why not? Because--because when a man has begun to lead an honest life, and has gone on leading an honest life, as I have, for years, he is gladto put the past behind him--to forget it, and all belonging to it. Howwas I to guess you knew anything about--about that place _là bas_?"

"And why should I not know about it?" replied Müller, flashing a rapidglance at me. 

Guichet was silent. 

"What if I tell you that I am particularly interested in--that place _làbas_?"

"Well, that may be. People used to come sometimes, I remember--artistsand writers, and so on. "

"Naturally. "

"But I don't remember to have ever seen you, M'sieur Müller. "

"You did not observe me, _mon cher_--or it may have been before, orafter your time. "

"Yes, that's true, " replied Guichet, ponderingly. "How long ago was it, M'sieur Müller?"

Müller glanced at me again. His game, hitherto so easy, was beginning togrow difficult. 

"Eh, _mon Dieu_!" he said, indifferently, "how can I tell? I haveknocked about too much, now here, now there, in the course of my life, to remember in what particular year this or that event may havehappened. I am not good at dates, and never was. "

"But you remember seeing me there?"

"Have I not said so?"

Guichet took a couple of turns about the room. He looked flushed andembarrassed. 

"There is one thing I should like to know, " he said, abruptly. "Wherewas I? What was I doing when you saw me?"

Müller was at fault now, for the first time. 

"Where were you?" he repeated. "Why, there--where we said just now. _Làbas_. "

"No, no--that's not what I mean. Was I . . . . Was I in the uniform of theGarde Chiourme?"

The color rushed into Müller's face as, flashing a glance of exultationat me, he replied:--

"Assuredly, _mon ami_. In that, and no other. "

The model drew a deep breath. 

"And Bras de Fer?" he said. "Was he working in the quarries ?"

"Bras de Fer! Was that the name he went by in those days?"

"Ay--Bras de Fer--_alias_ Coupe-gorge--_alias_ Triphot--_alias_Lenoir--_alias_ a hundred other names. Bras de Fer was the one he wentby at Toulon--and a real devil he was in the Bagnes! He escaped threetimes, and was twice caught and brought back again. The third time hekilled one sentry, injured another for life, and got clear off. That wasfive years ago, and I left soon after. I suppose, if you saw him inParis the other day, he has kept clear of Toulon ever since. "

"But was he in for life?" said Müller, eagerly. 

"_Travaux forcés à perpétuité_, " replied Guichet, touching his ownshoulder significantly with the thumb of his right hand. 

Müller sprang to his feet. 

"Enough, " he said. "That is all I wanted to know. Guichet, _mon cher_, Iam your debtor for life. We will talk about the sittings when you havemore time to dispose of. Adieu. "

"But, M'sieur Müller, you won't get me into trouble!" exclaimed themodel, eagerly. "You won't make any use of my words?"

"Why, supposing I went direct to the Préfecture, what trouble could Ipossibly get you into, _mon ami?_" replied Müller. 

The model looked down in silence. 

"You are a brave man. You do not fear the vengeance of Bras de Fer, orhis friends?"

"No, M'sieur---it's not that. "

"What is it, then?"

"M'sieur. . . . "

"Pshaw, man! Speak up. "

"It is not that you would get me personally into trouble, M'sieurMüller, " said Guichet, slowly. "I am no coward, I hope--a coward wouldmake a bad Garde Chiourme at Toulon, I fancy. And I'm not an escaped_forçat_. But--but, you see, I've worked my way into a connection herein Paris, and I've made myself a good name among the artists, and . . . And I hold to that good name above everything in the world. "

"Naturally--rightly. But what has that to do with Lenoir?"

"Ah, M'sieur Müller, if you knew more about me, you would not needtelling how much it has to do with him! I was not always a GardeChiourme at Toulon. I was promoted to it after a time, for good conduct, you know, and that sort of thing. But--but I began differently--I beganby wearing the prison dress, and working in the quarries. "

"My good fellow, " said Müller, gently, "I half suspected this--I am notsurprised; and I respect you for having redeemed that past in the wayyou have redeemed it. "

"Thank you, M'sieur Müller; but you see, redeemed or unredeemed, I'drather be lying at the bottom of the Seine than have it rise upagainst me now, "

"We are men of honor, " said Müller, "and your secret is safe with us. "

"Not if you go to the Préfecture and inform against Bras de Fer on mywords, " exclaimed the model, eagerly. "How can I appear againsthim--Guichet the model--Guichet the Garde Chiourme--Guichet the_forçat?_ M'sieur Müller, I could never hold my head up again. It wouldbe the ruin of me. "

"You shall not appear against him, and it shall not be the ruin of you. Guichet, " said Müller. "That I promise you. Only assure me that what youhave said is strictly correct--that Bras de Fer and Lenoir are one andthe same person--an escaped _forçat_, condemned for life tothe galleys. "

"That's as true, M'sieur Müller, as that God is in heaven, " said themodel, emphatically. 

"Then I can prove it without your testimony--I can prove it by simplysummoning any of the Toulon authorities to identify him. "

"Or by stripping his shirt off his back, and showing the brand on hisleft shoulder, " said Guichet. "There you'll find it, T. F. As large aslife--and if it don't show at first, just you hit him a sharp blow withthe flat of your hand, M'sieur Müller, and it will start out as red andfresh as if it had been done only six months ago. _Parbleu!_ I rememberthe day he came in, and the look in his face when the hot iron hissedinto his flesh! They roar like bulls, for the most part; but he neverflinched or spoke. He just turned a shade paler under the tan, andthat was all. "

"Do you remember what his crime was?" asked Müller

Guichet shook his head. 

"Not distinctly, " he said. "I only know that he was in for a good deal, and had a lot of things proved against him on his trial. But you canfind all that out for yourself, easily enough. He was tried in Paris, about fourteen years ago, and it's all in print, if you only know whereto look for it. "

"Then I'll find it, if I have to wade through half the BibliothèqueNationale!" said Müller. "Adieu, Guichet--you have done me a greatservice, and you may be sure I will do nothing to betray you. Let usshake hands upon it. "

The color rushed into the model's swarthy cheeks. 

"_Comment_, M'sieur Müller!" he said, hesitatingly. "You offer to shakehands with me--after what I have told you?"

"Ten times more willing than before, _mon ami_, " said Müller. "Did I nottell you just now that I respected you for having redeemed that past, and shall I not give my hand where I give my respect?"

The model grasped his outstretched hand with a vehemence that madeMüller wince again. 

"Thank you, " he said, in a low, deep voice. "Thank you. Death of mylife! M'sieur Müller, I'd go to the galleys again for you, afterthis--if you asked me. "

"Agreed. Only when I do ask you, it shall be to pay a visit of ceremonyto Monsieur Bras de Fer, when he is safely lodged again at Toulon with achain round his leg, and a cannon-ball at the end of it. "

And with this Müller turned away laughingly, and I followed him down thedimly-lighted stairs. 

"By Jove!" he said, "what a grip the fellow gave me! I'd as soon shakehands with the Commendatore in Don Giovanni. "

CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

NUMBER TWO HUNDRED AND SEVEN. 

Müller, when he so confidently proposed to visit Bras de Fer in hisfuture retirement at Toulon, believed that he had only to lodge hisinformation with the proper authorities, and see the whole affairsettled out of hand. He had not taken the bureaucratic system intoconsideration; and he had forgotten how little positive evidence he hadto offer. It was no easier then than now to inspire the official mindwith either insight or decision; and the police of Paris, inasmuch asthey in no wise differed from the police of to-day, yesterday, orto-morrow, were slow to understand, slow to believe, and slower stillto act. 

An escaped convict? Monsieur le Chef du Bureau, upon whom we took theliberty of waiting the next morning, could scarcely take in the barepossibility of such a fact. An escaped convict? Bah! no convict couldpossibly escape under the present admirable system. _Comment_! Heeffected his escape some years ago? How many years ago? In what yard, inwhat ward, under what number was he entered in the official books? Forwhat offence was he convicted? Had Monsieur seen him at Toulon?--and wasMonsieur prepared to swear that Lenoir and Bras de Fer were one and thesame person? How! Monsieur proposed to identify a certain individual, and yet was incapable of replying to these questions! Would Monsieur bepleased to state upon what grounds he undertook to denounce the saidindividual, and what proof he was prepared to produce in confirmationof the same?

To all which official catechizing, Müller, who (wanting Guichet'stestimony) had nothing but his intense personal conviction to putforward, could only reply that he was ready to pledge himself to theaccuracy of his information; and that if Monsieur the Chef du Bureauwould be at the pains to call in any Toulon official of a few years'standing, he would undoubtedly find that the person now described ascalling himself Lenoir, and the person commonly known in the Bagnes asBras de Fer, were indeed "one and the same. "

Whereupon Monsieur le Chef--a pompous personage, with a bald head and awhite moustache--shrugged his shoulders, smiled incredulously, had thehonor to point out to Monsieur that the Government could by no means beat the expense of conveying an inspector from Toulon to Paris on soshadowy and unsupported a statement, and politely bowed us out. 

Thus rebuffed, Müller began to despair of present success; whilst I, indefault of any brighter idea, proposed that he should take legal adviceon the subject. So we went to a certain avocat, in a little streetadjoining the École de Droit, and there purchased as much wisdom asmight be bought for the sum of five francs sterling. 

The avocat, happily, was fertile in suggestions. This, he said, was nota case for a witness. Here was no question of appearing before a court. With the foregone offences of either Lenoir or Bras de Fer, we hadnothing to do; and to convict them of such offences formed no part ofour plan. We only sought to show that Lenoir and Bras de Fer were intruth "one and the same person, " and we could only do so upon theauthority of some third party who had seen both. Now Monsieur Müller hadseen Lenoir, but not Bras de Fer; and Guichet had seen Bras de Fer, butnot Lenoir. Here, then, was the real difficulty; and here, he hoped, itsobvious solution. Let Guichet be taken to some place where, beinghimself unseen, he may obtain a glimpse of Lenoir. This done, he can, ina private interview of two minutes, state his conviction to Monsieur theChef de Bureau--_voilà tout_! If, however, the said Guichet can bepersuaded by no considerations either of interest or justice, thenanother very simple course remains open. Every newly-arrived convict inevery penal establishment throughout France is photographed on hisentrance into the Bagne, and these photographs are duly preserved forpurposes of identification like the present. Supposing therefore Bras deFer had not escaped from Toulon before the introduction of this system, his portrait would exist in the official books to this day, and mightdoubtless be obtained, if proper application were made through anofficial channel. 

Armed with this information, and knowing that any attempt to induceGuichet to move further in the matter would be useless, we then wentback to the Bureau, and with much difficulty succeeded in persuading M. Le Chef to send to Toulon for the photograph. This done, we could onlywait and be patient. 

Briefly, then, we did wait and were patient--though the last conditionwas not easy; for even I, who was by no means disposed to sympathizewith Müller in his solicitude for the fair Marie, could not but feel astrange contagion of excitement in this _chasse au forçat_. And so aweek or ten days went by, till one memorable afternoon, when Müller camerushing round to my rooms in hot haste, about an hour before the timewhen we usually met to go to dinner, and greeted me with--

"Good news, _mon vieux_! good news! The photograph has come--and I havebeen to the Bureau to see it--and I have identified my man--and he willbe arrested to-night, as surely as that he carries T. F. On hisshoulder!"

"You are certain he is the same?" I said. 

"As certain as I am of my own face when I see it in the looking-glass. "

And then he went on to say that a party of soldiers were to be inreadiness a couple of hours hence, in a shop commanding Madame Marôt'sdoor; that he, Müller, was to be there to watch with them till Lenoireither came out from or went into the house; and that as soon as hepointed him out to the sergeant in command, he was to be arrested, putinto a cab waiting for the purpose, and conveyed to La Roquette. 

Behold us, then, at the time prescribed, lounging in the doorway of asmall shop adjoining the private entrance to Madame Marôt's house; ourhands in our pockets; our cigars in our mouths; our whole attitudeexpressive of idleness and unconcern. The wintry evening has closed inrapidly. The street is bright with lamps, and busy with passers-by. Theshop behind us is quite dark--so dark that not the keenest observerpassing by could detect the dusky group of soldiers sitting on thecounter within, or the gleaming of the musket-barrels which rest betweentheir knees. The sergeant in command, a restless, black-eyed, intelligent little Gascon, about five feet four in height, with arevolver stuck in his belt, paces impatiently to and fro, and whistlessoftly between his teeth. The men, four in number, whisper together fromtime to time, or swing their feet in silence. 

Thus the minutes go by heavily; for it is weary work waiting in thisway, uncertain how long the watch may last, and not daring to relax thevigilance of eye and ear for a single moment. It may be for an hour, orfor many hours, or it may be for only a few minutes-who can tell? OfLenoir's daily haunts and habits we know nothing. All we do know is thathe is wont to be out all day, sometimes returning only to dress and goout again; sometimes not coming home till very late at night; sometimesabsenting himself for a day and a night, or two days and two nightstogether. With this uncertain prospect before us, therefore, we wait andwatch, and watch and wait, counting the hours as they strike, andscanning every face that gleams past in the lamplight. 

So the first hour goes by, and the second. Ten o'clock strikes. Thetraffic in the street begins perceptibly to diminish. Shops close hereand there (Madame Marôt's shutters have been put up by the boy in theoilskin apron more than an hour ago), and the _chiffonnier_, sure heraldof the quieter hours of the night, flits by with rake and lanthorn, observant of the gutters. 

The soldiers on' the counter yawn audibly from time to time; and thesergeant, who is naturally of an impatient disposition, exclaims, forthe twentieth time, with an inexhaustible variety, however, in thechoice of expletives:--

"_Mais; nom de deux cent mille petards_! will this man of ours nevercome?"

To which inquiry, though not directly addressed to myself, I reply, as Ihave already replied once or twice before, that he may come immediately, or that he may not come for hours; and that all we can do is to wait andbe patient. In the midst of which explanation, Müller suddenly lays hishand on my arm, makes a sign to the sergeant, and peers eagerly downthe street. 

There is a man coming up quickly on the opposite side of the way. Formyself, I could recognise no one at such a distance, especially bynight; but Müller's keener eye, made keener still by jealousy, identifies him at a glance. 

It is Lenoir. 

He wears a frock coat closely buttoned, and comes on with a light, rapidstep, suspecting nothing. The sergeant gives the word--the soldiersspring to their feet--I draw back into the gloom of the shop-and onlyMüller remains, smoking his cigarette and lounging against thedoor-post. 

Then Lenoir crosses over, and Müller, affecting to observe him for thefirst time, looks up, and without lifting his hat, says loudly:--

"_Comment_! have I the honor of saluting Monsieur Lenoir?"

Whereupon Lenoir, thrown off his guard by the suddenness of the address, hesitates--seems about to reply--checks himself--quickens his pace, andpasses without a word. 

The next instant he is surrounded. The butt ends of four muskets rattleon the pavement--the sergeant's hand is on his shoulder--the sergeant'svoice rings in his ear. 

"Number two hundred and seven, you are my prisoner!"

CHAPTER XXXIX. 

THE END OF BRAS BE FER. 

LENOIR's first impulse was to struggle in silence; then, finding escapehopeless, he folded his arms and submitted. 

"So, it is Monsieur Müller who has done me this service, " he saidcoldly; but with a flash in his eye like the sudden glint in the eye ofa cobra di capello. "I will take care not to be unmindful of theobligation. "

Then, turning impatiently upon the sergeant:--

"Have you no carriage at hand?" he said, sharply; "or do you want tocollect a crowd in the street?"

The cab, however, which had been waiting a few doors lower down, droveup while he was speaking. The sergeant hurried him in; the half-dozenloiterers who had already gathered about us pressed eagerly forward; twoof the soldiers and the sergeant got inside; Müller and I scrambled upbeside the driver; word was given "to the Préfecture of Police;" and wedrove rapidly away down the Rue du Faubourg St. Denis, through the archof Louis Quatorze, out upon the bright noisy Boulevard, and on throughthoroughfares as brilliant and crowded as at midday, towards the quaysand the river. 

Arrived at the Quai des Ortëvres, we alighted at the Préfecture, andwere conducted through a series of ante-rooms and corridors into thepresence of the same bald-headed Chef de Bureau whom we had seen on eachprevious occasion. He looked up as we came in, pressed the spring of asmall bell that stood upon his desk, and growled something in the ear ofa clerk who answered the summons. 

"Sergeant, " he said, pompously, "bring the prisoner under thegas-burner. "

Lenoir, without waiting to be brought, took a couple of steps forward, and placed himself in the light. 

Monsieur le Chef then took out his double eye-glass, and proceeded tocompare Lenoir's face, feature by feature, with a photograph which hetook out of his pocket-book for the purpose. 

"Are you prepared, Monsieur, " he said, addressing Müller for the firsttime--"are you, I say, prepared to identify the prisoner upon oath?"

"Within certain limitations--yes, " replied Müller. 

"Certain limitations!" exclaimed the Chef, testily. "What do you mean by'certain limitations?' Here is the man whom you accuse, and here is thephotograph. Are you, I repeat, prepared to make your deposition beforeMonsieur le Préfet that they are one and the same person?"

"I am neither more nor less prepared, Monsieur, " said Müller, "than youare; or than Monsieur le Préfet, when he has the opportunity of judging. As I have already had the honor of informing you, I saw the prisoner forthe first time about two months since. Having reason to believe that hewas living in Paris under an assumed name, and wearing a decoration towhich he had no right, I prosecuted certain inquiries about him. Theresult of those inquiries led me to conclude that he was an escapedconvict from the Bagnes of Toulon. Never having seen him at Toulon, Iwas unable to prove this fact without assistance. You, Monsieur, havefurnished that assistance, and the proof is now in your hand. It onlyremains for Monsieur le Préfet and yourself to decide upon its value. "

"Give me the photograph, Monsieur Marmot, " said a pale little man inblue spectacles, who had come in unobserved from a door behind us, whileMüller was speaking. 

The bald-headed Chef jumped up with great alacrity, bowed like a secondSir Pertinax, and handed over the photograph. 

"The peculiar difficulty of this case, Monsieur le Préfet" . . . He began. 

The Préfet waved his hand. 

"Thanks, Monsieur Marmot, " he said, "I know all the particulars of thiscase. You need not trouble to explain them. So this is the photographforwarded from Toulon. Well--well! Sergeant, strip the prisoner'sshoulders. "

A sudden quiver shot over Lenoir's face at this order, and his cheekblenched under the tan; but he neither spoke nor resisted. The nextmoment his coat and waistcoat were lying on the ground; his shirt, tornin the rough handling, was hanging round his loins, and he stood beforeus naked to the waist, lean, brown, muscular--a torso of an athlete donein bronze. 

We pressed round eagerly. Monsieur le Chef put up his double eye-glass;Monsier le Préfet took off his blue spectacles. 

"So--so, " he said, pointing with the end of his glasses towards awhitish, indefinite kind of scar on Lenoir's left shoulder, "here is amark like a burn. Is this the brand?"

The sergeant nodded. 

"V'là, M'sieur le Préfet!" he said, and struck the spot smartly withhis open palm. Instantly the smitten place turned livid, while from themidst of it, like the handwriting on the wall, the fatal letters T. F. Sprang out in characters of fire. 

Lenoir flashed a savage glance upon us, and checked the imprecation thatrose to his lips. Monsieur le Préfet, with a little nod of satisfaction, put on his glasses again, went over to the table, took out a printedform from a certain drawer, dipped a pen in the ink, and said:--

"Sergeant, you will take this order, and convey Number Two Hundred andSeven to the Bicêtre, there to remain till Thursday next, when he willbe drafted back to Toulon by the convict train, which leaves two hoursafter midnight. Monsieur Müller, the Government is indebted to you forthe assistance you have rendered the executive in this matter. You areprobably aware that the prisoner is a notorious criminal, guilty of oneproved murder, and several cases of forgery, card-sharping, and thelike. The Government is also indebted to Monsieur Marmot" (here heinclined his head to the bald-headed Chef), "who has acted with hisusual zeal and intelligence. "

Monsieur Marmot, murmuring profuse thanks, bowed and bowed again, andfollowed Monsieur le Préfet obsequiously to the door. On the threshold, the great little man paused, turned, and said very quietly: "Youunderstand, sergeant, this prisoner does _not_ escape again;" and sovanished; leaving Monsieur Marmot still bowing in the doorway. 

Then the sergeant hurried on Lenoir's coat and waistcoat, clapped a pairof handcuffs on his wrists, thrust his hat on his head, and prepared tobe gone; Monsieur, the bald-headed, looking on, meanwhile, with theutmost complacency, as if taking to himself all the merit of discoveryand capture. 

"Pardon, Messieurs, " said the serjeant, when all was ready. "Pardon--buthere is a fellow for whom I am responsible now, and who must be strictlylooked after. I shall have to put a gendarme on the box from here to theBicêtre, instead of you two gentlemen. "

"All right, _mon ami_" said Müller. "I suppose we should not have beenadmitted if we had gone with you?"

"Nay, I could pass you in, Messieurs, if you cared to see the affair tothe end, and followed in another _fiacre_. "

So we said we would see it to the end, and following the prisoner andhis guard through all the rooms and corridors by which we had come, picked up a second cab on the Quai des Orfèvres, just outside thePréfecture of Police. 

It was now close upon midnight. The sky was flecked with driving clouds. The moon had just risen above the towers of Notre Dame. The quays weresilent and deserted. The river hurried along, swirling and turbulent. The sergeant's cab led the way, and the driver, instead of turning backtowards the Pont Neuf, followed the line of the quays along the southernbank of the Ile de la Cité; passing the Morgue--a mass of sinistershadow; passing the Hôtel Dieu; traversing the Parvis Notre Dame; andmaking for the long bridge, then called the Pont Louis Philippe, whichconnects the two river islands with the northern half of Paris. 

"It is a wild-looking night, " said Müller, as we drove under themountainous shadow of Notre Dame and came out again in sight ofthe river. 

"And it is a wild business to be out upon, " I added. "I wonder if thisis the end of it?"

The words were scarcely past my lips when the door of the cab ahead flewsuddenly open, and a swift something, more like a shadow than a man, darted across the moonlight, sprang upon the parapet of the bridge, anddisappeared!

In an instant we were all out--all rushing to and fro--all shouting--allwild with surprise and confusion. 

"One man to the Pont d'Arcole!" thundered the sergeant, running alongthe perapet, revolver in hand. "One to the Quai Bourbon--one to the Pontde la Cité! Watch up stream and down! The moment he shows his head abovewater, fire!"

"But, in Heaven's name, how did he escape?" exclaimed Müller. 

"_Grand Dieu_! who can tell--unless he is the very devil?" cried thesergeant, distractedly. "The handcuffs were on the floor, the door wasopen, and he was gone in a breath! Hold! What's that?"

The soldier on the Pont de la Cité gave a shout and fired. There was asplash--a plunge--a rush to the opposite parapet. 

"There he goes!"

"Where?"

"He has dived again!"

"Look--look yonder--between the floating bath and the bank!"

The sergeant stood motionless, his revolver ready cocked--the waterswirled and eddied, eddied and parted--a dark dot rose for a second tothe surface!

Three shots fired at the same moment (one by the sergeant, two by thesoldiers) rang sharply through the air, and were echoed with startlingsuddenness again and again from the buttressed walls of Notre Dame. Erethe last echo had died away, or the last faint smoke-wreath had faded, two boats were pulling to the spot, and all the quays were alive with afast-gathering crowd. The sergeant beckoned to the gendarme who had comeupon the box. 

"Bid the boatmen drag the river just here between the two bridges, " hesaid, "and bring the body up to the Préfecture. " Then, turning to Müllerand myself, "I am sorry to trouble you again, Messieurs, " he said, "butI must ask you to come back once more to the Quai des Orfèvres, todepose to the facts which have just happened. "

"But is the man shot, or has he escaped?" asked a breathless bystander. 

"Both, " said the sergeant, with a grim smile, replacing his revolver inhis belt. "He has escaped Toulon; but he has gone to the bottom of theSeine with something like six ounces of lead in his skull. "

CHAPTER XL

THE ENIGMA OF THE THIRD STORY. 

 Who ever loved, that loved not at first sight?--MARLOWE. 

In Paris, a lodging-house (or, as they prefer to style it, a _hôtelmeublé_) is a little town in itself; a beehive swarming from basement toattic; a miniature model of the great world beyond, with all its lovesand hatreds, jealousies, aspirations, and struggles. Like that world, itcontains several grades of society, but with this difference, that thosewho therein occupy the loftiest position are held in the lowestestimation. Thus, the fifth-floor lodgers turn up their noses at theinhabitants of the attics; while the fifth-floor is in its turn scornedby the fourth, and the fourth is despised by the third, and the third bythe second, down to the magnificent dwellers on _the premier étage_, wholive in majestic disdain of everybody above or beneath them, from thegrisettes in the garret, to the _concierge_ who has care of the cellars. 

The house in which I lived in the Cité Bergère was, in fact, a doublehouse, and contained no fewer than thirty tenants, some of whom hadwives, children, and servants. It consisted of six floors, and eachfloor contained from eight to ten rooms. These were let in singlechambers, or in suites, as the case might be; and on the outer doorsopening round the landings were painted the names, or affixed thevisiting-cards, of the dwellers within. My own third-floor neighborswere four in number. To my left lived a certain Monsieur and MadameLemercier, a retired couple from Alsace. Opposite their door, on theother side of the well staircase, dwelt one Monsieur Cliquot, an elderly_employé_ in some public office; next to him, Signor Milanesi, anItalian refugee who played in the orchestra at the _Variétés_ everynight, was given to practising the violoncello by day, and wore as muchhair about his face as a Skye-terrier. Lastly, in the apartment to myright, resided a lady, upon whose door was nailed a small visiting-cardengraved with these words:--

MLLE. HORTENSE DUFRESNOY. 

_Teacher of Languages_. 

I had resided in the house for months before I ever beheld thisMademoiselle Hortense Dufresnoy. When I did at last encounter her uponthe stairs one dusk autumnal evening, she wore a thick black veil, and, darting past me like a bird on the wing, disappeared down the staircasein fewer moments than I take to write it. I scarcely observed her at thetime. I had no more curiosity to learn whether the face under that veilwas pretty or plain than I cared to know whether the veil itself wasShetland or Chantilly. At that time Paris was yet new to me: Madame deMarignan's evil influence was about me; and, occupied as my time andthoughts were with unprofitable matters, I took no heed of myfellow-lodgers. Save, indeed, when the groans of that much-torturedvioloncello woke me in the morning to an unwelcome consciousness of thevicinity of Signor Milanesi, I should scarcely have remembered that Iwas not the only inhabitant of the third story. 

Now, however, that I spent all my evenings in my own quiet room, Ibecame, by imperceptible degrees, interested in the unseen inhabitant ofthe adjoining apartment. Sometimes, when the house was so still that thevery turning of the page sounded unnaturally loud, and the mere fallingof a cinder startled me, I heard her in her chamber, singing softly toherself. Every night I saw the light from her window streaming out overthe balcony and touching the evergreens with a midnight glow. Often andoften, when it was so late that even I had given up study and gone tobed, I heard her reading aloud, or pacing to and fro to the measure ofher own recitations. Listen as I would, I could only make out that theserecitations were poetical fragments--I could only distinguish a certainchanted metre, the chiming of an occasional rhyme, the rising andfalling of a voice more than commonly melodious. 

This vague interest gave place by-and-by to active curiosity. I resolvedto question Madame Bouïsse, the _concierge_; and as she, good soul!loved gossip not wisely, but too well, I soon knew all the little shehad to tell. 

Mademoiselle Hortense, it appeared, was the enigma of the third story. She had resided in the house for more than two years. She earned herliving by her labor; went out teaching all the day; sat up at night, studying and writing; had no friends; received no visitors; was asindustrious as a bee, and as proud as a princess. Books and flowers wereher only friends, and her only luxuries. Poor as she was, she wascontinually filling her shelves with the former, and supplying herbalcony with the latter. She lived frugally, drank no wine, wassingularly silent and reserved, and "like a real lady, " said the fat_concierge_, "paid her rent to the minute. "

This, and no more, had Madame Bouïsse to tell. I had sought her in herown little retreat at the foot of the public staircase. It was a verywet afternoon, and under pretext of drying my boots by the fire, Istayed to make conversation and elicit what information I could. NowMadame Bouïsse's sanctuary was a queer, dark, stuffy little cupboarddevoted to many heterogeneous uses, and it "served her for parlor, kitchen, and all. " In one corner stood that famous article of furniturewhich became "a bed by night, a chest of drawers by day. " Adjoining thebed was the fireplace; near the fireplace stood a corner cupboard filledwith crockery and surmounted by a grand ormolu clock, singularly atvariance with the rest of the articles. A table, a warming-pan, and acouple of chairs completed the furniture of the room, which, with allits contents, could scarcely have measured more than eight feet square. On a shelf inside the door stood thirty flat candlesticks; and on a rowof nails just beneath them, hung two and twenty bright brasschamber-door keys--whereby an apt arithmetician might have divined thatexactly two-and-twenty lodgers were out in the rain, and only eighthoused comfortably within doors. 

"And how old should you suppose this lady to be?" I asked, leaning idlyagainst the table whereon Madame Bouïsse was preparing an unsavory dishof veal and garlic. 

The _concierge_ shrugged her ponderous shoulders. 

"Ah, bah, M'sieur, I am no judge of age, " said she. 

"Well--is she pretty?"

"I am no judge of beauty, either, " grinned Madame Bouïsse. 

"But, my dear soul, " I expostulated, "you have eyes!"

"Yours are younger than mine, _mon enfant_, " retorted the fat_concierge_; "and, as I see Mam'selle Hortense coming up to the door, I'd advise you to make use of them for yourself. "

And there, sure enough, was a tall and slender girl, dressed all inblack, pausing to close up her umbrella at the threshold of the outerdoorway. A porter followed her, carrying a heavy parcel. Havingdeposited this in the passage, he touched his cap and stated his charge. The young lady took out her purse, turned over the coins, shook herhead, and finally came up to Madame's little sanctuary. 

"Will you be so obliging, Madame Bouïsse, " she said, "as to lend me apiece of ten sous? I have no small change left in my purse. "

How shall I describe her? If I say that she was not particularlybeautiful, I do her less than justice; for she was beautiful, with apale, grave, serious beauty, unlike the ordinary beauty of woman. Buteven this, her beauty of feature, and color, and form, was eclipsed andoverborne by that "true beauty of the soul" which outshines all other, as the sun puts out the stars. 

There was in her face--or, perhaps, rather in her expression--anindefinable something that came upon me almost like a memory. Had I seenthat face in some forgotten dream of long ago? Brown-haired was she, andpale, with a brow "as chaste ice, as pure as snow, " and eyes--

 "In whose orb a shadow lies, Like the dusk in evening skies!"

Eyes lit from within, large, clear, lustrous, with a meaning in them soprofound and serious that it was almost sorrowful, --like the eyes ofGiotto's saints and Cimabue's Madonnas. 

But I cannot describe her--

"For oh, her looks had something excellent That wants a name!"

I can only look back upon her with "my mind's eye, " trying to see her asI saw her then for the first time, and striving to recall my firstimpressions. 

Madame Bouïsse, meanwhile, searched in all the corners of her amplepockets, turned out her table-drawer, dived into the recesses of herhusband's empty garments, and peeped into every ornament upon thechimney-piece; but in vain. There was no such thing as a ten-sous pieceto be found. 

"Pray, M'sieur Basil, " said she, "have you one?"

"One what?" I ejaculated, startled out of my reverie. 

"Why, a ten-sous piece, to be sure. Don't you see that Mam'selleHortense is waiting in her wet shoes, and that I have been hunting forthe last five minutes, and can't find one anywhere?"

Blushing like a school-boy, and stammering some unintelligible excuse, Ipulled out a handful of francs and half-francs, and produced thecoin required. 

"_Dame_!" said the _concierge_. "This comes of using one's eyes toowell, my young Monsieur. Hem! I'm not so blind but that I can see as faras my neighbors. "

Mademoiselle Hortense had fortunately gone back to settle with theporter, so this observation passed unheard. The man being dismissed, shecame back, carrying the parcel. It was evidently heavy, and she put itdown on the nearest chair. 

"I fear, Madame Bouïsse, " she said, "that I must ask you to help me withthis. I am not strong enough to carry it upstairs. "

More alert this time, I took a step in advance, and offered my services. 

"Will Mademoiselle permit me to take it?" I said. "I am goingupstairs. "

She hesitated. 

"Many thanks, " she said, reluctantly, "but. . . . "

"But Madame Bouïsse is busy, " I urged, "and the _pot au feu_ will spoilif she leaves it on the fire. "

The fat _concierge_ nodded, and patted me on the shoulder. 

"Let him carry the parcel, Mam'selle Hortense, " she chuckled. "Let himcarry it. M'sieur is your neighbor, and neighbors should be neighborly. Besides, " she added, in an audible aside, "he is a _bon garçon_--anEnglishman--and a book-student like yourself. "

The young lady bent her head, civilly, but proudly. Compelled, as itseemed, to accept my help, she evidently wished to show me that I mustnevertheless put forward no claim to further intercourse--not even onthe plea of neighborhood. I understood her, and taking up the parcel, followed her in silence to her door on the third story. Here she pausedand thanked me. 

"Pray let me carry it in for you, " I said. 

Again she hesitated; but only for an instant. Too well-bred not to seethat a refusal would now be a discourtesy, she unlocked the door, andheld it open. 

The first room was an ante-chamber; the second a _salon_ somewhat largerthan my own, with a door to the right, leading into what I supposedwould be her bedroom. At a glance, I took in all the details of herhome. There was her writing-table laden with books and papers, her desk, and her pile of manuscripts. At one end of the room stood a piano doingduty as a side-board, and looking as if it were seldom opened. Somewater-color drawings were pinned against the walls, and a well-filledbookcase stood in a recess beside the fireplace. Nothing escaped me--not even the shaded reading-lamp, nor the plain ebony time-piece, northe bronze Apollo on the bracket above the piano, nor the sword over themantelpiece, which seemed a strange ornament in the study of a gentlelady. Besides all this, there were books everywhere, heaped upon thetables, ranged on shelves, piled in corners, and scattered hither andthither in most admired disorder. It was, however, the onlydisorder there. 

I longed to linger, but dared not. Having laid the parcel down upon thenearest chair, there was nothing left for me to do but to take my leave. Mademoiselle Dufresnoy still kept her hand upon the door. 

"Accept my best thanks, sir, " she said in English, with a pretty foreignaccent, that seemed to give new music to the dear familiar tongue. 

"You have nothing to thank me for, Mademoiselle, " I replied. 

She smiled, proudly still, but very sweetly, and closed the door uponme. 

I went back to my room; it had become suddenly dark and desolate. Itried to read; but all subjects seemed alike tedious and unprofitable. Icould fix my attention to nothing; and so, becoming restless, I went outagain, and wandered about the dusky streets till evening fairly set in, and the shops were lighted, and the tide of passers-by began to flowfaster in the direction of boulevard and theatre. 

The soft light of her shaded lamp streamed from her window when I cameback, nor faded thence till two hours after midnight. I watched it allthe long evening, stealing out from time to time upon my balcony, whichadjoined her own, and welcoming the cool night air upon my brow. For Iwas fevered and disquieted, I knew not why, and my heart was stirredwithin me, strangely and sweetly. 

Such was my first meeting with Hortense Dufresnoy. No incident of it hassince faded from my memory. Brief as it was, it had already turned allthe current of my life. I had fallen in love at first sight. Yes--inlove; for love it was--real, passionate, earnest; a love destined to bethe master-passion of all my future years. 

CHAPTER XLI. 

A CHRONICLE ABOUT FROISSART. 

 See, Lucius, here's the book I sought for so! JULIUS CAESAR. 

 But all be that he was a philosophre, Yet hadde he but litel gold in cofre, But all that he might of his frends hente, On bokes and on lerning he is spente. 

 CHAUCER. &/

"LOVE-IN-IDLENESS" has passed into a proverb, and lovers, somehow, are not generally supposed to be industrious. I, however, worked none the less zealously for being in love. Iapplied only the more closely to my studies, both medical andliterary, and made better progress in both than I had madebefore. I was not ambitious; but I had many incentives towork. I was anxious to satisfy my father. I earnestly desiredto efface every unfavorable impression from the mind of Dr. Chéron, and to gain, if possible, his esteem. I was proud ofthe friendship of Madame de Courcelles, and wished to provethe value that I placed upon her good opinion. Above all, Ihad a true and passionate love of learning--not that love whichleadeth on to fame; but rather that self-abandoning devotionwhich exchangeth willingly the world of action for the world ofbooks, and, for an uninterrupted communion with the "soulsof all that men held wise, " bartereth away the society of theliving. 

Little gregarious by nature, Paris had already ceased todelight me in the same way that it had delighted me at first. A"retired leisure, " and the society of the woman whom I loved, grew to be the day-dream of my solitary life. And still, evermore and more plainly, it became evident to me that for thecareer of the student I was designed by nature. Bayle, Magliabecchiof Florence, Isaac Reed, Sir Thomas Brown, Montaigne--thosewere the men whose lot in life I envied--those the literaryanchorites in whose steps I would fain have followed. 

But this was not to be; so I worked on, rose early, studiedlate, gained experience, took out my second inscription withcredit, and had the satisfaction of knowing that I was fastacquiring the good opinion of Dr. Chéron. Thus Christmaspassed by, and January with its bitter winds; and February setin, bright but frosty. And still, without encouragement ornope, I went on loving Hortense Dufresnoy. 

My opportunities of seeing her were few and brief. A passing bow in thehall, or a distant "good-evening" as we passed upon the stairs, for sometime made up the sum of our intercourse. Gradually, however, a kind offormal acquaintance sprang up between us; an acquaintance fostered bytrifles and dependent on the idlest, or what seemed the idlest, casualties. I say "seemed, " for often that which to her appeared thework of chance was the result of elaborate contrivance on my part. Shelittle knew, when I met her on the staircase, how I had been listeningfor the last hour to catch the echo of her step. She little dreamed whenI encountered her at the corner of the street, how I had been concealed, till that moment, in the _café_ over the way, ready to dart out as soonas she appeared in sight. I would then affect either a polite unconcern, or an air of judicious surprise, or pretend not to lift my eyes at alltill she was nearly past; and I think I must have been a very fairactor, for it all succeeded capitally, and I am not aware that she everhad the least suspicion of the truth. Let me, however, recall oneincident over which I had no control, and which did more towardspromoting our intercourse than all the rest. 

It is a cold, bright morning in February. There is a briskexhilaration in the air. The windows and gilded balconiessparkle in the sun, and it is pleasant to hear the frosty ring ofone's boots upon the pavement. It is a fête to-day. Nothingis doing in the lecture-rooms, and I have the whole day beforeme. Meaning, therefore, to enjoy it over the fire and a book, I wisely begin it by a walk. 

From the Cité Bergère, out along the right-hand side of the Boulevards, down past the front of the Madeleine, across the Place de la Concorde, and up the Champs Elysées as far as the Arc de Triomphe; this is theroute I take in going. Arrived at the arch, I cross over, and come backby the same roads, but on the other side of the way. I have a motive inthis. There is a certain second-hand book-shop on the opposite side ofthe Boulevard des Italiens, which draws me by a wholly irresistibleattraction. Had I started on that side, I should have gone no further. Ishould have looked, lingered, purchased, and gone home to read. But Iknow my weakness. I have reserved the book-shop for my return journey, and now, rewarded and triumphant, compose myself for a quiet study ofits treasures. 

And what a book-shop it is! Not only are its windows filled--not onlyare its walls a very perspective of learning--but square pillars ofvolumes are built up on either side of the door, and an immensesupplementary library is erected in the open air, down all the length ofa dead-wall adjoining the house. 

Here then I pause, turning over the leaves of one volume, reading thetitle of another, studying the personal appearance of a third, andweighing the merits of their authors against the contents of my purse. And when I say "personal appearance, " I say it advisedly; forbook-hunters, are skilled Lavaters in their way, and books, like men, attract or repel at first sight. Thus it happens that I love a portlybook, in a sober coat of calf, but hate a thin, smart volume, in a gaudybinding. The one promises to be philosophic, learnedly witty, or solidlyinstructive; the other is tolerably certain to be pert and shallow, andreminds me of a coxcombical lacquey in bullion and red plush. On thesame principle, I respect leaves soiled and dog's-eared, but mistrustgilt edges; love an old volume better than a new; prefer a spaciousbook-stall to all the unpurchased stores of Paternoster Row; and buyevery book that I possess at second-hand. Nay, that it is second-hand isin itself a pass port to my favor. Somebody has read it before;therefore it is readable. Somebody has derived pleasure from it before;therefore I open it with a student's sympathy, and am disposed to beindulgent ere I have perused a single line. There are cases, however, in which I incline to luxury of binding. Just as I had rather have myhistorians in old calf and my chroniclers in black letter, so do Idelight to see my modern poets, the Benjamins of my affections, clothedin coats of many colors. For them no moroccos are too rich, and no"toolings" too elaborate. I love to see them smiling on me from theshelves of my book-cases, as glowing and varied as the sunset through apainted oriel. 

Standing here, then, to-day, dipping first into this work andthen into that, I light upon a very curious and interestingedition of _Froissart_--an edition full of quaint engravings, andprinted in the obsolete spelling of two hundred years ago. Thebook is both a treasure and a bargain, being marked up at fiveand twenty francs. Only those who haunt book-stalls andluxuriate in old editions can appreciate the satisfaction withwhich I survey

 "That weight of wood, with leathern coat overlaid, Those ample clasps of solid metal made, The close pressed leaves unclosed for many an age, The dull red edging of the well-filled page, And the broad back, with stubborn ridges roll'd, Where yet the title stands in tarnished gold!"

They only can sympathize in the eagerness with which I snatch up theprecious volume, the haste with which I count out the five and twentyfrancs, the delight with which I see the dealer's hand close on the sum, and know that the book is legally and indisputably mine! Then howlovingly I embrace it under my arm, and taking advantage of my positionas a purchaser, stroll leisurely round the inner warehouse, stillcourting that literary world which (in a library at least) always turnsits back upon its worshipper!

"Pray, Monsieur, " says a gentle voice at the door, "where is that old_Froissart_ that I saw outside about a quarter of an hour ago?"

"Just sold, Madame, " replies the bookseller, promptly. 

"Oh, how unfortunate!--and I only went home for the money" exclaims thelady in a tone of real disappointment. 

Selfishly exultant, I hug the book more closely, turn to steal a glanceat my defeated rival, and recognise--Mademoiselle Dufresnoy. 

She does not see me. I am standing in the inner gloom of the shop, andshe is already turning away. I follow her at a little distance; keep herin sight all the way home; let her go into the house some few seconds inadvance; and then, scaling three stairs at a time, overtake her at thedoor of her apartment. 

Flushed and breathless, I stand beside her with _Froissart_ in my hand. 

"Pardon, Mademoiselle, " I say, hurriedly, "for having involuntarilyforestalled you just now. I had just bought the book you wished topurchase, "

She looks at me with evident surprise and some coldness; but saysnothing. 

"And I am rejoiced to have this opportunity of transferring it to you. "

Mademoiselle Dufresnoy makes a slight but decided gesture of refusal. 

"I would not deprive you of it, Monsieur, " she says promptly, "upon anyconsideration. "

"But, Mademoiselle, unless you allow me to relinquish it in your favor, I beg to assure you that I shall take the book back to the booksellerand exchange it for some other. "

"I cannot conceive why you should do that, Monsieur. "

"In order, Mademoiselle, that you may still have it in your power tobecome the purchaser. "

"And yet you wished to possess the book, or you would not have boughtit. "

"I would not have bought it, Mademoiselle, if I had known that I shoulddisappoint a--a lady by doing so, "

I was on the point of saying, "if I had known that I should disappointyou by so doing, " but hesitated, and checked myself in time. 

A half-mocking smile flitted across her lips. 

"Monsieur is too self-sacrificing, " she said. "Had I first bought thebook, I should have kept it--being a woman. Reverse the case as youwill, and show me any just reason why you should not do thesame--being a man?"

"Nay, the merest by-law of courtesy. . . " I began, hesitatingly. 

"Do not think me ungracious, Monsieur, " she interrupted, "if I hold thatthese so-called laws of courtesy are in truth but concessions, for themost part, from the strength of your sex to the weakness of ours. "

"_Eh bien_, Mademoiselle--what then?"

"Then, Monsieur, may there not be some women---myself, for instance--whodo not care to be treated like children?"

"Pardon, Mademoiselle, but are you stating the case quite fairly? Is itnot rather that we desire not to efface the last lingering tradition ofthe age of chivalry--not to reduce to prose the last faint echoes ofthat poetry which tempered the sword of the Crusader and inspired thesong of the Trouvère?"

"Were it not better that the new age created a new code and a newpoetry?" said Mademoiselle Dufresnoy. 

"Perhaps; but I confess I love old forms and usages, and cling to creedsoutworn. Above all, to that creed which in the age of powder andcompliment, no less than in the age of chivalry, enjoined absolutedevotion and courtesy towards women. "

"Against mere courtesy reasonably exercised and in due season, I havenothing to say, " replied Mademoiselle Dufresnoy; "but the half-barbaroushomage of the Middle Ages is as little to my taste as the scarcely lessbarbarous refinement of the Addison and Georgian periods. Both are alikeunsound, because both have a basis of insincerity. Just as there is amock refinement more vulgar than simple vulgarity, so are therecourtesies which humiliate and compliments that offend. "

"Mademoiselle is pleased to talk in paradoxes, " said I. 

Mademoiselle unlocked her door, and turning towards me with the samehalf-mocking smile and the same air of raillery, said:--

"Monsieur, it is written in your English histories that when John le Bonwas taken captive after the battle of Cressy, the Black Prince rodebareheaded before him through the streets of London, and served him attable as the humblest of his attendants. But for all that, was John anythe less a prisoner, or the Black Prince any the less a conqueror?"

"You mean, perhaps, that you reject all courtesy based on mereceremonial. Let me then put the case of this _Froissart_ moreplainly--as I would have done from the first, had I dared to speak thesimple truth. "

"And that is. . . ?"

"That it will give me more pleasure to resign the book to you, Mademoiselle, than to possess it myself. "

Mademoiselle Dufresnoy colors up, looks both haughty and amused, andends by laughing. 

"In truth, Monsieur, " she says merrily, "if your politeness threatenedat first to be too universal, it ends by becoming unnecessarilyparticular. "

"Say rather, Mademoiselle, that you will not have the book on anyterms!" I exclaim impatiently. 

"Because you have not yet offered it to me upon any just or reasonablegrounds. "

"Well, then, bluntly and frankly, as student to student, I beg you tospare me the trouble of carrying this book back to the Boulevard. Yours, Mademoiselle, was the first intention. You saw the book before I saw it. You would have bought it on the spot, but had to go home for the money. In common equity, it is yours. In common civility, as student tostudent, I offer it to you. Say, is it yes or no?"

"Since you put it so simply and so generously, and since I believe youreally wish me to accept your offer, " replies Mademoiselle Dufresnoy, taking out her purse, "I suppose I must say--yes. "

And with this, she puts out her hand for the hook, and offers me inreturn the sum of five and twenty francs. 

Pained at having to accept the money, pained at being offered it, seeingno way of refusing it, and feel altogether more distress than isreasonable in a man brought up to the taking of fees; I affect not tosee the coin, and, bowing, move away in the direction of my own door. 

"Pardon, Monsieur, " she says, "but you forget that I am in your debt. "

"And--and do you really insist. . . "

She looks at me, half surprised and half offended. 

"If you do not take the money, Monsieur, how can I take the book?"

Bowing, I receive the unwelcome francs in my unwilling palm. 

Still she lingers. 

"I--I have not thanked you as I ought for your generosity, " she says, hesitatingly. 

"Generosity!" I repeat, glancing with some bitterness at the five andtwenty francs. 

"True kindness, Monsieur, is neither bought nor sold, " says the lady, with the loveliest smile in the world, and closes her door. 

CHAPTER XLII

THE OLD, OLD STORY. 

 What thing is Love, which nought can countervail? Nought save itself--even such a thing is Love. 

 SIR W. RALEIGH. 

My acquaintance with Hortense Dufresnoy progressed slowly as, ever, andnot even the Froissart incident went far towards promoting it. Absorbedin her studies, living for the intellect only, too self-contained toknow the need for sympathy, she continued to be, at all events for me, the most inaccessible of God's creatures. And yet, despite herindifference, I loved her. Her pale, proud face haunted me; her voicehaunted me. I thought of her sometimes till it seemed impossible sheshould not in some way be conscious of how my very soul was centred inher. But she knew nothing--guessed nothing--cared nothing; and theknowledge that I held no place in her life wrought in me at times tillit became almost too bitter for endurance. 

And this was love--real, passionate, earnest; the first and last love ofmy heart. Did I believe that I ever loved till now? Ah! no; for now onlyI felt the god in his strength, and beheld him in his beauty. Was I notblind till I had looked into her eyes and drunk of their light? Was Inot deaf till I had heard the music of her voice? Had I ever trulylived, or breathed, or known delight till now?

I never stayed to ask myself how this would end, or whither it wouldlead me. The mere act of loving was too sweet for questioning. Whatcared I for the uncertainties of the future, having hope to live upon inthe present? Was it not enough "to feed for aye my lamp and flames oflove, " and worship her till that worship became a religion and a rite?

And now, longing to achieve something which should extort at least heradmiration, if not her love, I wished I were a soldier, that I might winglory for her--or a poet, that I might write verses in her praise whichshould be deathless--or a painter, that I might spend years of my lifein copying the dear perfection of her face. Ah! and I would so copy itthat all the world should be in love with it. Not a wave of her brownhair that I would not patiently follow through all its windings. Not thetender tracery of a blue vein upon her temples that I would not lovinglyrender through its transparent veil of skin. Not a depth of her darkeyes that I would not study, "deep drinking of the infinite. " Alas!those eyes, so grave, so luminous, so steadfast:--

 "Eyes not down-dropt, not over-bright, but fed With the clear-pointed flame of chastity, "

--eyes wherein dwelt "thought folded over thought, " what painter needever hope to copy them?

And still she never dreamed how dear she had grown to me. She neverknew how the very air seemed purer to me because she breathed it. Shenever guessed how I watched the light from her window night afternight--how I listened to every murmur in her chamber--how I watched andwaited for the merest glimpse of her as she passed by--how her lightestglance hurried the pulses through my heart--how her coldest word wasgarnered up in the treasure-house of my memory! What cared she, thoughto her I had dedicated all the "book and volume of my brain;" hallowedits every page with blazonings of her name; and illuminated it, for loveof her, with fair images, and holy thoughts, and forms of saintsand angels

 "Innumerable, of stains and splendid dyes As are the tiger-moth's deep damask'd wings?"

Ah me! her hand was never yet outstretched to undo its goldenclasps--her eye had never yet deigned to rest upon its records. To her Iwas nothing, or less than nothing--a fellow-student, a fellow-lodger, a stranger. 

And yet I loved her "with a love that was more than love"--with a lovedearer than life and stronger than death--a love that, day after day, struck its roots deeper and farther into my very soul, never thence tobe torn up here or hereafter. 

CHAPTER XLIII. 

ON A WINTER'S EVENING. 

After a more than usually severe winter, the early spring came, crownedwith rime instead of primroses. Paris was intensely cold. In March theSeine was still frozen, and snow lay thickly on the house-tops. Quiet atall times, the little nook in which I lived became monastically still, and at night, when the great gates were closed, and the footsteps of thepassers-by fell noiselessly upon the trodden snow, you might have hearda whisper from one side of the street to the other. There was to mesomething indescribably delightful about this silent solitude in theheart of a great city. 

Sitting beside the fire one evening, enjoying the profound calm of theplace, attending from time to time to my little coffee-pot on the hob, and slowly turning the pages of a favorite author, I luxuriate in astate of mind half idle, half studious. Leaving off presently to listento some sound which I hear, or fancy I hear, in the adjoining room, Iwonder for the twentieth time whether Hortense has yet returned from herlong day's teaching; and so rise--open my window--and look out. Yes; thelight from her reading-lamp streams out at last across the snow-ladenbalcony. Heigho! it is something even to know that she is there so nearme--divided only by a thin partition!

Trying to comfort myself with this thought, I close the window again andreturn to my book, more restless and absent than before. Sitting thus, with the unturned leaf lingering between my thumb and forefinger, I heara rapid footfall on the stairs, and a musical whistle which, growinglouder as it draws nearer, breaks off at my door, and is followed by aprolonged assault and battery of the outer panels. 

"Welcome, noisiest of visitors!" I exclaim, knowing it to be Müllerbefore I even open the door. "You are quite a stranger. You have notbeen near me for a fortnight. "

"It will not be your fault, Signor Book-worm, if I don't become astranger _au pied de la lettre_" replies he, cheerily. "Why, man, it isclose upon three weeks since you have crossed the threshold of my door. The Quartier Latin is aggrieved by your neglect, and the fine artst'other side of the water languish and are forlorn. "

So saying, he shakes the snow from his coat like a St. Bernard mastiff, perches his cap on the head of the plaster Niobe that adorns mychimney-piece, and lays aside the folio which he had been carrying underhis arm. I, in the meanwhile, have wheeled an easy-chair to the fire, brought out a bottle of Chambertin, and piled on more wood in honorof my guest. 

"You can't think, " said I, shaking hands with him for the second time, "how glad I am that you have come round to-night. "

"I quite believe it, " replied he. "You must be bored to death, if theseold busts are all the society you keep. _Sacre nom d'une pipe_! how cana fellow keep up his conviviality by the perpetual contemplation ofNiobe and Jupiter Tonans? What do you mean by living such a life asthis? Have you turned Trappist? Shall I head a subscription to presentyou with a skull and an hour-glass?"

"I'll have the skull made into a drinking-cup, if you do. Take somewine. "

Müller filled his glass, tasted with the air of a connoisseur, andnodded approvingly. 

"Chambertin, by the god Bacchus!" said he. "Napoleon's favorite wine, and mine--evidence of the sympathy that exists between the truly great. "

And, draining the glass, he burst into a song in praise of French wines, beginning--

 "Le Chambertin rend joyeux, Le Nuits rend infatigable, Le Volnay rend amoureux, Le Champagne rend amiable. Grisons-nous, mes chers amis, L'ivresse Vaut la richesse; Pour moi, dès que le suis gris, Je possède tout Paris!"

"Oh hush!" said I, uneasily; "not so loud, pray!"

"Why not?"

"The--the neighbors, you know. We cannot do as we would in the QuartierLatin. "

"Nonsense, my dear fellow. You don't swear yourself to silence when youtake apartments in a _hôtel meublé_! You might as well live in apenitentiary!--

 'De bouchons faisons un tas, Et s'il faut avoir la goutte, Au moins que ce ne soit pas Pour n'avoir bu qu'une goutte!'"

"Nay, I implore you!" I interposed again. "The landlord . . . "

"Hang the landlord!

 'Grisons-nous--'"

"Well, but--but there is a lady in the next room . . . "

Müller laughed till the tears ran down his cheeks. 

"_Allons done_!" said he, "why not have told the truth at first? Oh, yously rogue! You _gaillard_! This is your seclusion, is it? This is yourlove of learning--this the secret of your researches into science andart! What art, pray? Ovid's 'Art of Love, ' I'll be sworn!"

"Laugh on, pray, " I said, feeling my face and my temper growing hot;"but that lady, who is a stranger to me". . . . 

"Oh--oh--oh!" cried Müller. 

"Who is a stranger to me, " I repeated, "and who passes her evenings instudy, must not be annoyed by noises in my room. Surely, my dear fellow, you know me well enough to understand whether I am in jest orin earnest. "

Müller laid his hand upon my sleeve. 

"Enough--enough, " he said, smiling good-naturedly. "You are right, and Iwill be as dumb as Plato. What is the lady's name. "

"Dufresnoy, " I answered, somewhat reluctantly. "Mademoiselle Dufresnoy. "

"Ay, but her Christian name!"

"Her Christian name, " I faltered, more reluctant still. "I--I--"

"Don't say you don't know, " said Müller, maliciously. "It isn't worthwhile. After all, what does it matter? Here's to her health, all thesame--_à votre santé_, Mademoiselle Dufresnoy! What! not drink herhealth, though I have filled your glass on purpose?"

There was no help for it, so I took the glass and drank the toast withthe best grace I could. 

"And now, tell me, " continued my companion, drawing nearer to the fireand settling himself with a confidential air that was peculiarlyprovoking, "what is she like? Young or old? Dark or fair? Plainor pretty?"

"Old, " said I, desperately. "Old and ugly. Fifty at the least. Squintshorribly. "

Then, thinking that I had been a little too emphatic, I added:--

"But a very ladylike person, and exceedingly well-informed, "

Müller looked at me gravely, and filled his glass again. 

"I think I know the lady, " said he. 

"Indeed?"

"Yes--by your description. You forgot to add, however, that she isgray. "

"To be sure--as a badger. "

"To say nothing of a club foot, an impediment in her speech, a voicelike a raven's, and a hump like a dromedary's! Ah! my dear friend, whatan amazingly comic fellow you are!"

And the student burst again into a peal of laughter so hearty andinfectious that I could not have helped joining in it to save my life. 

"And now, " said he, when we had laughed ourselves out of breath, "now tothe object of my visit. Do you remember asking me, months ago, to makeyou a copy of an old portrait that you had taken a fancy to in sometumble-down château near Montlhéry!"

"To be sure; and I have intended, over and over again, to remind you ofit. Did you ever take the trouble to go over there and look at it?"

"Look at it, indeed! I should rather think so--and here is the proof. What does your connoisseurship say to it?"

Say to it! Good heavens! what could I say, what could I do, but flush upall suddenly with pleasure, and stare at it without power at first toutter a single word?

For it was like _her_--so like that it might have been her veryportrait. The features were cast in the same mould--the brow, perhaps, was a little less lofty--the smile a little less cold; but the eyes, the beautiful, lustrous, soul-lighted eyes were the same--thevery same!

If she were to wear an old-fashioned dress, and deck her fair neck andarms with pearls, and put powder on her hair, and stand just so, withher hand upon one of the old stone urns in the garden of that desertedchâteau, she would seem to be standing for the portrait. 

Well might I feel, when I first saw her, that the beauty of her face wasnot wholly unfamiliar to me! Well might I fancy I had seen her in somedream of long ago!

So this was the secret of it--and this picture was mine. Mine to hangbefore my desk when I was at work--mine to place at my bed's foot, whereI might see it on first waking--mine to worship and adore, to weavefancies and build hopes upon, and "burn out the day in idle phantasies"of passionate devotion!

"Well, " said Müller impatiently, "what do you think of it?"

I looked up, like one dreaming. 

"Think of it!" I repeated. 

"Yes--do you think it like?"

"So like that it might be her por . . . I mean that it might be theoriginal. "

"Oh, that's satisfactory. I was afraid you were disappointed. "

"I was only silent from surprise and pleasure. "

"Well, however faithful the copy maybe, you know, in these things onealways misses the tone of age. "

"I would not have it look a day older!" I exclaimed, never lifting myeyes from the canvas. 

Müller came and looked down at it over my shoulder. 

"It is an interesting head, " said he. "I have a great mind to introduceit into my next year's competition picture. "

I started as if he had struck me. The thought was sacrilege!

"For Heaven's sake do no such thing!" I ejaculated. 

"Why not?" said he, opening his eyes in astonishment. 

"I cannot tell you why--at least not yet; but to--to confer a veryparticular obligation upon me, will you waive this point?" Müller rubbedhis head all over with both hands, and sat down in the utmostperplexity. 

"Upon my soul and conscience, " said he, "you are the mostincomprehensible fellow I ever knew in my life!"

"I am. I grant it. What then? Let us see, I am to give you a hundred andfifty francs for this copy . . . "

"I won't take it, " said Müller. "I mean you to accept it as a pledge offriendship and good-will. "

"Nay, I insist on paying for it. I shall be proud to pay for it; but ahundred and fifty are not enough. Let me give you three hundred, andpromise me that you will not put the head into your picture!"

Müller laughed, and shook his own head resolutely. "I will give you boththe portrait and the promise, " said he; "but I won't take your money, ifI know it. "

"But . . . "

"But I won't--and so, if you don't like me well enough to accept such atrifle from me, I'll e'en carry the thing home again!"

And, snatching up his cap and cloak, he made a feint of putting theportrait back into the folio. 

"Not for the world!" I exclaimed, taking possession of it withoutfurther remonstrance. "I would sooner part from all I possess. How can Iever thank you enough?"

"By never thanking me at all! What little time the thing has cost me isoverpaid, not only by the sight of your pleasure, but by my ownsatisfaction in copying it. To copy a good work is to have a lesson fromthe painter, though he were dead a hundred years before; and the man whopainted that portrait, be he who he might, has taught me a trick or twothat I never knew before. _Sapristi_! see if I don't dazzle you some daywith an effect of white satin and pearls against a fair skin!"

"An ingenious argument; but it leaves me unconvinced, all the same. How!you are not going to run away already? Here's another bottle ofChambertin waiting to be opened; and it is yet quite early. "

"Impossible! I have promised to meet a couple of men up at the Prado, and have, besides, invited them afterwards to supper. "

"What is the Prado?"

"The Prado! Why, is it possible that I have never yet introduced you tothe Prado? It's one of the joiliest places in all the QuartierLatin--it's close to the Palais de Justice. You can dance there, orpractise pistol-shooting, or play billiards, or sup--or anything youplease. Everybody smokes--ladies not excepted. "

"How very delightful!"

"Oh, magnificent! Won't you come with me? I know a dozen pretty girlswho will be delighted to be introduced to you. "

"Not to-night, thank you, " said I, laughing. 

"Well, another time?"

"Yes, to be sure--another time. "

"Well, good-night. "

"Good-night, and thank you again, a thousand times over. "

But he would not stay to hear me thank him, and was half way down thefirst flight before my sentence was finished. Just as I was going backinto my room, and about to close the door, he called after me fromthe landing. 

"_Holà, amigo_! When my picture is done, I mean to give a bachelor'ssupper-party--chiefly students and _chicards_. Will you come?"

"Gladly. "

"Adieu, then. I will let you know in time. "

And with this, he broke out into a fragment of Beranger, gave a cheerfulgood-night to Madame Bouïsse in the hall, and was gone. 

And now to enjoy my picture. Now to lock the door, and trim the lamp, and place it up against a pile of books, and sit down before it insilent rapture, like a devotee before the portrait of his patron saint. Now I can gaze, unreproved, into those eyes, and fancy they are hers. Now press my lips, unforbidden, upon that exquisite mouth, and believeit warm. Ah, will her eyes ever so give back the look of love in mine?Will her lips ever suffer mine to come so near? Would she, if she knewthe treasure I possessed, be displeased that I so worshipped it?

Hanging over it thus, and suffering my thoughts to stray on at their ownwill and pleasure, I am startled by the fall of some heavy object in theadjoining chamber. The fall is followed by a stifled cry, and then allis again silent. 

To unlock my door and rush to hers--to try vainly to open it--to cry"Hortense! Hortense! what has happened? For Heaven's sake, what hashappened?" is the work of but an instant. 

The antechamber lay between, and I remembered that she could not hearme. I ran back, knocked against the wall, and repeated:--

"What has happened? Tell me what has happened?"

Again I listened, and in that interval of suspense heard her garmentsrustle along the ground, then a deep sigh, and then the words:--

"Nothing serious. I have hurt my hand. "

"Can you open the door?"

There was another long silence. 

"I cannot, " she said at length, but more faintly. 

"In God's name, try!"

No answer. 

"Shall I get over the balcony?"

I waited another instant, heard nothing, and then, without, furtherhesitation, opened my own window and climbed the iron rail thatseparated her balcony from mine, leaving my footsteps trampled inthe snow. 

I found her sitting on the floor, with her body bent forward and herhead resting against the corner of a fallen bookcase. The scatteredvolumes lay all about. A half-filled portmanteau stood close by on achair. A travelling-cloak and a passport-case lay on the table. 

Seeing, yet scarcely noting all this, I flung myself on my knees besideher, and found that one hand and arm lay imprisoned under the bookcase. She was not insensible, but pain had deprived her of the power ofspeech. I raised her head tenderly, and supported it against a chair;then lifted the heavy bookcase, and, one by one, removed the volumesthat had fallen upon her. 

Alas! the white little hand all crushed and bleeding--the powerlessarm--the brave mouth striving to be firm!

I took the poor maimed arm, made a temporary sling for it with mycravat, and, taking her up in my arms as if she had been an infant, carried her to the sofa. Then I closed the window; ran back to my ownroom for hot water; tore up some old handkerchiefs for bandages; and sodressed and bound her wounds--blessing (for the first time in my life)the destiny that had made me a surgeon. 

"Are you in much pain?" I asked, when all was done. 

"Not now--but I feel very faint, "

I remembered my coffee in the next room, and brought it to her. I liftedher head, and supported her with my arm while she drank it. 

"You are much better now, " I said, when she had again lain down. "Tellme how it happened. "

She smiled languidly. 

"It was not my fault, " she said, "but Froissart's. Do you remember thatFroissart?"

Remember it! I should think so. 

"Froissart!" I exclaimed. "Why, what had he to do with it?"

"Only this. I usually kept him on the top of the bookcase that fell downthis evening. Just now, while preparing for a journey upon which I muststart to-morrow morning, I thought to remove the book to a safer place;and so, instead of standing on a chair, I tried to reach up, and, reaching up, disturbed the balance of the bookcase, and broughtit down. "

"Could you not have got out of the way when you saw it falling?"

"Yes--but I tried to prevent it, and so was knocked down and imprisonedas you found me. "

"Merciful Heaven! it might have killed you. "

"That was what flashed across my mind when I saw it coming, " shereplied, with a faint smile. 

"You spoke of a journey, " I said presently, turning my face away lestshe should read its story too plainly; "but now, of course, you must notmove for a few days. "

"I must travel to-morrow, " she said, with quiet decision. 

"Impossible!"

"I have no alternative. "

"But think of the danger--the imprudence--the suffering. "

"Danger there cannot be, " she replied, with a touch of impatience in hervoice. "Imprudent it may possibly be; but of that I have no time tothink. And as for the suffering, that concerns myself alone. There aremental pains harder to bear than the pains of the body, and theconsciousness of a duty unfulfilled is one of the keenest of them. Youurge in vain; I must go. And now, since it is time you bade megood-night, let me thank you for your ready help and say good-bye. "

"But may I do no more for you?"

"Nothing--unless you will have the goodness to bid Madame Bouïsse tocome up-stairs, and finish packing my portmanteau for me. "

"At what hour do you start?"

"At eight. "

"May I not go with you to the station, and see that you get acomfortable seat?"

"Many thanks, " she replied, coldly; "but I do not go by rail, and myseat in the diligence is already taken. "

"You will want some one to see to your luggage--to carry your cloaks. "

"Madame Bouïsse has promised to go with me to the Messageries. "

Silenced, and perhaps a little hurt, I rose to take my leave. 

"I wish you a safe journey, mademoiselle, " I said, "and a safe return, "

"And think me, at the same time, an ungrateful patient. "

"I did not say that. "

"No--but you thought so. After all, it is possible that I seem so. I amundemonstrative--unused to the amenities of life--in short, I am onlyhalf-civilized. Pray, forgive me. "

"Mademoiselle, " I said, "your apology pains me. I have nothing toforgive. I will send Madame Bouïsse to you immediately. "

And with this I had almost left the room, but paused upon the threshold. 

"Shall you be long away?" I asked, with assumed indifference. 

"Shall I be long away?" she repeated, dreamily. "How can I tell?" Then, correcting herself, "Oh, not long, " she added. "Not long. Perhaps afortnight--perhaps a week. "

"Once more, then, good-night. "

"Good-night, " she answered, absently; and I withdrew. 

I then went down, sent Madame Bouïsse to wait upon her, and sat upanxiously listening more than half the night. Next morning, at seven, Iheard Madame Bouïsse go in again. I dared not even go to her door toinquire how she had slept, lest I should seem too persistent; but whenthey left the room and went downstairs together, I flew to my window. 

I saw her cross the street in the gray morning. She walked feebly, andwore a large cloak, that hid the disabled arm and covered her to thefeet. Madame Bouïsse trotted beside her with a bundle of cloaks andumbrellas; a porter followed with her little portmanteau onhis shoulder. 

And so they passed under the archway across the trampled snow, andvanished out of sight. 

CHAPTER XLIV. 

A PRESCRIPTION. 

A week went by--a fortnight went by--and still Hortense prolonged hermysterious absence. Where could she be gone? Was she ill? Had anyaccident befallen her on the road? What if the wounded hand had failedto heal? What if inflammation had set in, and she were lying, even now, sick and helpless, among strangers? These terrors came back upon me atevery moment, and drove me almost to despair. In vain I interrogatedMadame Bouïsse. The good-natured _concierge_ knew no more than myself, and the little she had to tell only increased my uneasiness. 

Hortense, it appeared, had taken two such journeys before, and had, onboth occasions, started apparently at a moment's notice, and with everyindication of anxiety and haste. From the first she returned after aninterval of more than three weeks; from the second after about four orfive days. Each absence had been followed by a long season ofdespondency and lassitude, during which, said the _concierge_, Mademoiselle scarcely spoke, or ate, or slept, but, silent and pale as aghost, sat up later than ever with her books and papers. As for thislast journey, all she knew about it was that Mam'selle had had herpassport regulated for foreign parts the afternoon of the day beforeshe started. 

"But can you not remember in what direction the diligence was going?" Iasked, again and again. 

"No, M'sieur--not in the least, "

"Nor the name of the town to which her place was taken?"

"I don't know that I ever heard it, M'sieur. "

"But at least you must have seen the address on the portmanteau?"

"Not I, M'sieur--I never thought of looking at it. "

"Did she say nothing to account for the suddenness of her departure?"

"Nothing at all. "

"Nor about her return either. Madame Bouïsse? Just think amoment--surely she said something about when you might expect herback again?"

"Nothing, M'sieur, except, by the way--"

"Except what?"

"_Dame_! only this--as she was just going to step into the diligence, she turned back and shook hands with me--Mam'selle Hortense, proud asshe is, is never above shaking hands with me, I can tell you, M'sieur. "

"No, no--I can well believe it. Pray, go on!"

"Well, M'sieur, " she shakes hands with me, and she says, "Thank you, good Madame Bouïsse, for all your kindness to me. . . . Hear that, M'sieur, 'good Madame Bouïsse, '--the dear child!"

"And then--?"

"Bah! how impatient you are! Well, then, she says (after thanking me, you observe)--'I have paid you my rent, Madame Bouïsse, up to the end ofthe present month, and if, when the time has expired, I have neitherwritten nor returned, consider me still as your tenant. If, however, Ido not come back at all, I will let you know further respecting the careof my books and other property. "

If she did not come back at all! Oh, Heaven! I had never contemplatedsuch a possibility. I left Madame Bouïsse without another word, andgoing up to my own rooms, flung myself upon my bed, as if I werestupefied. 

All that night, all the next day, those words haunted me. They seemed tohave burned themselves into my brain in letters of fire. Dreaming, Iwoke up with them upon my lips; reading, they started out upon me fromthe page. "If I never come back at all!"

At last, when the fifth day came round--the fifth day of the third weekof her absence--I became so languid and desponding that I lost all powerof application. 

Even Dr. Chéron noticed it, and calling me in the afternoon to hisprivate room, said:--

"Basil Arbuthnot, you look ill. Are you working too hard?"

"I don't think so, sir. "

"Humph! Are you out much at night?"

"Out, sir?"

"Yes--don't echo my words--do you go into society: frequent balls, theatres, and so forth?"

"I have not done so, sir, for several months past. "

"What is it, then? Do you read late?"

"Really, sir, I hardly know--up to about one or two o'clock; on theaverage, I believe. "

"Let me feel your pulse. "

I put out my wrist, and he held it for some seconds, looking keenly atme all the time. 

"Got anything on your mind?" he asked, after he had dropped it again. "Want money, eh?"

"No, sir, thank you. "

"Home-sick?"

"Not in the least. "

"Hah! want amusement. Can't work perpetually--not reasonable to supposeit. There, _mon garçon_, " (taking a folded paper from his pocket-book)"there's a prescription for you. Make the most of it. "

It was a stall-ticket for the opera. Too restless and unhappy to rejectany chance of relief, however temporary, I accepted it, and went. 

I had not been to a theatre since that night with Josephine, nor to theItalian Opera since I used to go with Madame de Marignan. As I went inlistlessly and took my place, the lights, the noise, the multitude offaces, confused and dazzled me. Presently the curtain rose, and thepiece began. The opera was _I Capuletti_. I do not remember who thesingers were, I am not sure that I ever knew. To me they were Romeo andJuliet, and I was a dweller in Verona. The story, the music, thescenery, took a vivid hold upon my imagination. From the moment thecurtain rose, I saw only the stage, and, except that I in some sortestablished a dim comparison between Romeo's sorrows and my owndisquietude of mind, I seemed to lose all recollection of time andplace, and almost of my own identity. 

It seemed quite natural that that ill-fated pair of lovers should gothrough life, love, wed, and die singing. And why not? Are they not airynothings, "born of romance, cradled in poetry, thinking other thoughts, and doing other deeds than ours?" As they live in poetry, so may theynot with perfect fitness speak in song?

I went home in a dream, with the melodies ringing in my ears and thestory lying heavy at my heart. I passed upstairs in the dark, went overto the window, and saw, oh joy! the light--the dear, familiar, welcome, blessed light, streaming forth, as of old, from Hortense'schamber window!

To thank Heaven that she was safe was my first impulse--to step out onthe balcony, and watch the light as though it were a part of herself, was the second. I had not been there many moments when it was obscuredby a passing shadow. The window opened and she came out. 

"Good-evening, " she said, in her calm, clear voice. "I heard you outhere, and thought you might like to know that, thanks to your treatmentin the first instance, and such care as I have been able since to giveit, my hand is once more in working order. "

"You are kind to come out and tell me so, " I said. "I had no hope ofseeing you to-night. How long is it since you arrived?"

"About two hours, " she replied, carelessly. 

"And you have been nearly three weeks away!"

"Have I?" said she, leaning her cheek upon her hand, and looking updreamily into the night. "I did not count the days. "

"That proves you passed them happily, " I said; not without some secretbitterness. 

"Happily!" she echoed. "What is happiness?"

"A word that we all translate differently, " I replied. 

"And your own reading of it?" she said, interrogatively. 

I hesitated. 

"Do you inquire what is my need, individually?" I asked, "or do you wantmy general definition?"

"The latter. "

"I think, then, that the first requirement of happiness is work; thesecond, success. "

She sighed. 

"I accept your definition, " she said, "and hope that you may realize itto the full in your own experience. For myself, I have toiled andfailed--sought, and found not. Judge, then, how I came to leave the daysuncounted. "

The sadness of her attitude, the melancholy import of her words, theabstraction of her manner, filled me with a vague uneasiness. 

"Failure is often the forerunner of success, " I replied, for want, perhaps, of something better to say. 

She shook her head drearily, and stood looking up at the sky, where, every now and then, the moon shone out fitfully between theflying clouds. 

"It is not the first time, " she murmured, "nor will it be the last--andyet they say that God is merciful. "

She had forgotten my presence. These words were not spoken to me, but inanswer to her own thoughts. I said nothing, but watched her upturnedface. It was pale as the wan moon overhead; thinner than before she wentaway; and sadder--oh, how much sadder!

She roused herself presently, and turning to me, said:--"I beg yourpardon. I am very absent; but I am greatly fatigued. I have beentravelling incessantly for two days and nights. "

"Then I will wish you good-night at once, " I said. 

"Good-night, " she replied; and went back into her room. 

The next morning Dr. Chéron smiled one of his cold smiles, and said:--

"You look better to-day, my young friend. I knew how it was with you--noworse malady, after all, than _ennui_. I shall take care to repeat themedicine from time to time. "

CHAPTER XLV. 

UNDER THE STARS. 

Hoping, yet scarcely expecting to see her, I went out upon my balconythe next night at the same hour; but the light of her lamp was brightwithin, no shadow obscured it, and no window opened. So, after waitingfor more than an hour, I gave her up, and returned to my work. I didthis for six nights in succession. On the seventh she came. 

"You are fond of your balcony, fellow-student, " said she. "I often hearyou out here. "

"My room gets heated, " I replied, "and my eyes weary, after severalhours of hard reading; and this keen, clear air puts new life intoone's brains. "

"Yes, it is delicious, " said she, looking up into the night. "How darkthe space of heaven is, and, how bright are the stars! What a night forthe Alps! What a night to be upon some Alpine height, watching the moonthrough a good telescope, and waiting for the sunrise!"

"Defer that wish for a few months, " I replied smiling. "You wouldscarcely like Switzerland in her winter robes. "

"Nay, I prefer Switzerland in winter, " she said. "I passed through partof the Jura about ten days ago, and saw nothing but snow. It wasmagnificent--like a paradise of pure marble awaiting the souls of allthe sculptors of all the ages. "

"A fantastic idea, " said I, "and spoken like an artist. "

"Like an artist!" she repeated, musingly. "Well, are not all studentsartists?"

"Not those who study the exact sciences--not the student of law ordivinity--nor he who, like myself, is a student of medicine. He is theslave of Fact, and Art is the Eden of his banishment. His imagination isfor ever captive. His horizon is for ever bounded. He is fettered byroutine, and paralyzed by tradition. His very ideas must put on thelivery of his predecessors; for in a profession where originality ofthought stands for the blackest shade of original sin, skill--mereskill--must be the end of his ambition. "

She looked at me, and the moonlight showed me that sad smile which herlips so often wore. 

"You do not love your profession, " she said. 

"I do not, indeed. "

"And yet you labor zealously to acquire it--how is that?"

"How is it with hundreds of others? My profession was chosen for me. Iam not my own master. "

"But are you sure you would be happier in some other pursuit? Supposing, for instance, that you were free to begin again, what career do youthink you would prefer?"

"I scarcely know, and I should scarcely care, so long as there wasfreedom of thought and speculation in it. "

"Geology, perhaps--or astronomy, " she suggested, laughingly. 

"Merci! The bowels of the earth are too profound, and the heavens toolofty for me. I should choose some pursuit that would set the Ariel ofthe imagination free. That is to say, I could be very happy if my lifewere devoted to Science, but my soul echoes to the name of Art. "

"'The artist creates--the man of science discovers, " said Hortense. "Beware lest you fancy you would prefer the work of creation onlybecause you lack patience to pursue the work of discovery. Pardon me, ifI suggest that you may, perhaps, be fitted for neither. Your sphere, Ifancy, is reflection--comparison--criticism. You are not made foraction, or work. Your taste is higher than your ambition, and you lovelearning better than fame. Am I right?"

"So right that I regret I can be read so easily. "

"And therefore, it may be that you would find yourself no happier withArt than with Science. You might even fall into deeper discouragement;for in Science every onward step is at least certain gain, but in Artevery step is groping, and success is only another form of effort. Art, in so far as it is more divine, is more unattainable, more evanescent, more unsubstantial. It needs as much patience as Science, and thepassionate devotion of an entire life is as nothing in comparison withthe magnitude of the work. Self-sacrifice, self-distrust, infinitepatience, infinite disappointment--such is the lot of the artist, suchthe law of aspiration. "

"A melancholy creed. "

"But a true one. The divine is doomed to suffering, and under the haysof the poet lurk ever the thorns of the self-immolator. "

"But, amid all this record of his pains, do you render no account of hispleasures?" I asked. "You forget that he has moments of enjoyment loftyas his aims, and deep as his devotion. 

"I do not forget it, " she said. "I know it but too well. Alas! is notthe catalogue of his pleasures the more melancholy record of the two?Hopes which sharpen disappointment; visions which cheat while theyenrapture; dreams that embitter his waking hours--fellow-student, do youenvy him these?"

"I do; believing that he would not forego them for a life ofcommon-place annoyances and placid pleasures. "

"Forego them! Never. Who that had once been the guest of the gods wouldforego the Divine for the Human? No--it is better to suffer than tostagnate. The artist and poet is overpaid in his brief snatches of joy. While they last, his soul sings 'at heaven's gate, ' and his foreheadstrikes the stars. "

She spoke with a rare and passionate enthusiasm; sometimes pacing to andfro; sometimes pausing with upturned face--

"A dauntless muse who eyes a dreadful fate!"

There was a long, long silence--she looking at the stars, I upon herface. 

By-and-by she came over to where I stood, and leaned upon the railingthat divided our separate territories. 

"Friend, " said she, gravely, "be content. Art is the Sphinx, and toquestion her is destruction. Enjoy books, pictures, music, statues--rifle the world of beauty to satiety, if satiety bepossible--but there pause Drink the wine; seek not to crush the grape. Be happy, be useful, labor honestly upon the task that is thine, and beassured that the work will itself achieve its reward. Is it nothing torelieve pain--to prolong the days of the sickly--to restore health tothe suffering--to soothe the last pangs of the dying? Is it nothing tobe followed by the prayers and blessing of those whom you have restoredto love, to fame, to the world's service? To my thinking, thephysician's trade hath something god-like in it. Be content. Harvey'sdiscovery was as sublime as Newton's, and it were hard to say which didGod's work best--Shakespeare or Jenner. "

"And you, " I said, the passion that I could not conceal trembling in myvoice; "and you--what are you, poet, or painter, or musician, that youknow and reason of all these things?"

She laughed with a sudden change of mood, and shook her head. 

"I am a woman, " said she. "Simply a woman--no more. One of the inferiorsex; and, as I told you long ago, only half civilized. "

"You are unlike every other woman!"

"Possibly, because I am more useless. Strange as it may seem, do youknow I love art better than sewing, or gossip, or dress; and hold myliberty to be a dower more precious than either beauty or riches? Andyet--I am a woman!"

"The wisest, virtuousest, discreetest, best!"

"By no means. You are comparing me with Eve; but I am not in the leastlike Eve, I assure you. She was an excellent housewife, and, if we maybelieve Milton, knew how to prepare 'dulcet creams, ' and all sorts ofParadisaical dainties for her husband's dinner. I, on the contrary, could not make a cream if Adam's life depended on it. "

"_Eh bien!_ of the theology of creams I know nothing. I only know thatEve was the first and fairest of her sex, and that you are as wise asyou are beautiful. "

"Nay, that is what Titania said to the ass, " laughed Hortense. "Yourcompliments become equivocal, fellow-student. But hush! what houris that?"

She stood with uplifted finger. The air was keen, and over the silenceof the house-tops chimed the church-clocks--Two. 

"It is late, and cold, " said she, drawing her cloak more closely roundher. 

"Not later than you usually sit up, " I replied. "Don't go yet. 'Tis nowthe very witching hour of night, when churchyards yawn--"

"I beg your pardon, " she interrupted. "The churchyards have done yawningby this time, and, like other respectable citizens, are sound asleep. Let us follow their example. Good-night. "

"Good-night, " I replied, reluctantly; but almost before I had said it, she was gone. 

After this, as the winter wore away, and spring drew on, Hortense'sbalcony became once more a garden, and she used to attend to her flowersevery evening. She always found me on my balcony when she came out, andsoon our open-air meetings became such an established fact that, insteadof parting with "good-night, " we said "_au revoir_--till to-morrow. " Atthese times we talked of many things; sometimes of subjects abstract andmystical--of futurity, of death, of the spiritual life--but oftenest ofArt in its manifold developments. And sometimes our speculationswandered on into the late hours of the night. 

And yet, for all our talking and all our community of tastes, we becamenot one jot more intimate. I still loved in silence--she still lived ina world apart. 

CHAPTER XLVI. 

THERMOPYLÆ. 

 How dreary 'tis for women to sit still On winter nights by solitary fires, And hear the nations praising them far off. 

 AURORA LEIGH. 

Abolished by the National Convention of 1793, re-established in 1795, reformed by the first Napoleon in 1803, and remodelled in 1816 on therestoration of the Bourbons, the Académie Française, despite its changesof fortune, name, and government, is a liberal and splendid institution. It consists of forty members, whose office it is to compile the greatdictionary, and to enrich, purify, and preserve the language. It assistsauthors in distress. It awards prizes for poetry, eloquence, and virtue;and it bestows those honors with a noble impartiality that observes nodistinction of sex, rank, or party. To fill one of the forty fauteuilsof the Académie Française is the darling ambition of every eminentFrenchman of letters. There the poet, the philosopher, the historian, the man of science, sit side by side, and meet on equal ground. When aseat falls vacant, when a prize is to be awarded, when an anniversary isto be celebrated, the interest and excitement become intense. To thepolitical, the fashionable, or the commercial world, these events areperhaps of little moment. They affect neither the Bourse nor the Budget. They exercise no perceptible influence on the Longchamps toilettes. Butto the striving author, to the rising orator, to all earnest workers inthe broad fields of literature, they are serious and significantcircumstances. 

Living out of society as I now did, I knew little and cared less forthese academic crises. The success of one candidate was as unimportantto me as the failure of another; and I had more than once read thecrowned poem of the prize essay without even glancing at the name or thefortunate author. 

Now it happened that, pacing to and fro under the budding acacias of thePalais Royal garden one sunny spring-like morning, some three or fourweeks after the conversation last recorded, I was pursued by apersecuting newsvender with a hungry eye, mittened fingers, and a shrillvoice, who persisted in reiterating close against my ear:--

"News of the day, M'sieur!--news of the day. Frightful murder in the Ruedu Faubourg St. Antoine--state of the Bourse--latest despatches from theseat of war--prize poem crowned by the Académie Française--news of theday, M'sieur! Only forty centimes! News of the day!"

I refused, however, to be interested in any of those topics, turned adeaf ear to his allurements, and peremptorily dismissed him. I thencontinued my walk in solitary silence. 

At the further extremity of the square, near the _Galerie Vitrée_ andclose beside the little newspaper kiosk, stood a large tree since cutdown, which at that time served as an advertising medium, and was dailydecorated with a written placard, descriptive of the contents of the_Moniteur_, the _Presse_, and other leading papers. This placard wasgenerally surrounded by a crowd of readers, and to-day the crowd ofreaders was more than usually dense. 

I seldom cared in these days for what was going on in the busy outsideworld; but this morning, my attention having been drawn to the subject, I amused myself, as I paced to and fro, by watching the eager faces ofthe little throng of idlers. Presently I fell in with the rest, andfound myself conning the placard on the tree. 

The name that met my astonished eyes on that placard was the name ofHortense Dufresnoy. 

The sentence ran thus:--

"Grand Biennial Prize for Poetry--Subject: _The Pass ofThermopylæ_, --Successful Candidate, _Mademoiselle Hortense Dufresnoy_. "

Breathless, I read the passage twice; then, hearing at a little distancethe shrill voice of the importunate newsvender, I plunged after him andstopped him, just as he came to the--

"Frightful murder in the Rue du Faubourg Saint . . . "

"Here, " said I, tapping him on the shoulder; "give me one of yourpapers. "

The man's eyes glittered. 

"Only forty centimes, M'sieur, " said he. "'Tis the first I've soldto-day. "

He looked poor and wretched. I dropped into his hand a coin that wouldhave purchased all his little sheaf of journals, and hurried away, notto take the change or hear his thanks. He was silent for some moments;then took up his cry at the point where he had broken off, and startedaway with:--

--"Antoine!--state of the Bourse--latest despatches from the seat ofwar--news of the day--only forty centimes!"

I took my paper to a quiet bench near the fountain, and read the wholeaccount. There had been eighteen anonymous poems submitted to theAcademy. Three out of the eighteen had come under discussion; one out ofthe three had been warmly advocated by Béranger, one by Lebrun, and thethird by some other academician. The poem selected by Beranger was atlength chosen; the sealed enclosure opened; and the name of thesuccessful competitor found to be Hortense Dufresnoy. To HortenseDufresnoy, therefore, the prize and crown were awarded. 

I read the article through, and then went home, hoping to be the firstto congratulate her. Timidly, and with a fast-beating heart, I rang thebell at her outer door; for we all had our bells at Madame Bouïsse's, and lived in our rooms as if they were little private houses. 

She opened the door, and, seeing me, looked surprised; for I had neverbefore ventured to pay her a visit in her apartment. 

"I have come to wish you joy, " said I, not venturing to cross thethreshold. 

"To wish me joy?"

"You have not seen a morning paper?"

"A morning paper!"

And, echoing me thus, her color changed, and a strange vague look--itmight be of hope, it might be of fear--came into her face. 

"There is something in the _Moniteur_" I went on, smiling, 'thatconcerns you nearly. "

"That concerns me?" she exclaimed. "_Me_? For Heaven's sake, speakplainly. I do not understand you. Has--has anything been discovered?"

"Yes--it has been discovered at the Académie Française that MademoiselleHortense Dufresnoy has written the best poem on Thermopylæ. "

She drew a deep breath, pressed her hands tightly together, andmurmured:--

"Alas! is that all?"

"All! Nay--is it not enough to step at once into fame--to have beenadvocated by Béranger--to have the poem crowned in the Theatre of theAcadémie Française?"

She stood silent, with drooping head and listless hands, alldisappointment and despondency. Presently she looked up. 

"Where did you learn this?" she asked. 

I handed her the journal. 

"Come in, fellow-student, " said she, and held the door wide for me toenter. 

For the second time I found myself in her little _salon_, and foundeverything in the self-same order. 

"Well, " I said, "are you not happy?"

She shook her head. 

"Success is not happiness, " she replied, smiling mournfully. "ThatBéranger should have advocated my poem is an honor beyond price;but--but I need more than this to make me happy. "

And her eyes wandered, with a strange, yearning look, to the sword overthe chimney-piece. 

Seeing that look, my heart sank, and the tears sprang unbidden to myeyes. Whose was the sword? For whose sake was her life so lonely andsecluded? For whom was she waiting? Surely here, if one could but readit aright, lay the secret of her strange and sudden journeys--here Itouched unawares upon the mystery of her life!

I did not speak. I shaded my face with my hand, and sat looking on theground. Then, the silence remaining unbroken, I rose, and examined thedrawings on the walls. 

They were water-colors for the most part, and treated in a masterly butquite peculiar style. The skies were sombre, the foregrounds singularlyelaborate, the color stern and forcible. Angry sunsets barred by linesof purple cirrus stratus; sweeps of desolate heath bounded by jaggedpeaks; steep mountain passes crimson with faded ferns and half-obscuredby rain-clouds; strange studies of weeds, and rivers, and lonely reachesof desolate sea-shore . . . These were some of the subjects, and all wereevidently by the same hand. 

"Ah, " said Hortense, "you are criticizing my sketches!"

"Your sketches!" I exclaimed. "Are these your work?"

"Certainly, " she replied, smiling. "Why not? What do you think of them?"

"What do I think of them! Well, I think that if you had not been a poetyou ought to have been a painter. How fortunate you are in being able toexpress yourself so variously! Are these compositions, or studiesfrom Nature?"

"All studies from Nature--mere records of fact. I do not presume tocreate--I am content humbly and from a distance to copy the changingmoods of Nature. "

"Pray be your own catalogue, then, and tell me where these places are. "

"Willingly. This coast-line with the run of breaking surf was taken onthe shores of Normandy, some few miles from Dieppe. This sunset is arecollection of a glorious evening near Frankfort, and those purplemountains in the distance are part of the Taunus range. Here is an oldmediæval gateway at Solothurn, in Switzerland. This wild heath near thesea is in the neighborhood of Biscay. This quaint knot of ruinous housesin a weed-grown Court was sketched at Bruges. Do you see that milk-girlwith her scarlet petticoat and Flemish _faille?_ She supplied us withmilk, and her dairy was up that dark archway. She stood for me severaltimes, when I wanted a foreground figure. "

"You have travelled a great deal, " I said. "Were you long in Belgium?"

"Yes; I lived there for some years. I was first pupil, then teacher, ina large school in Brussels. I was afterwards governess in a privatefamily in Bruges. Of late, however, I have preferred to live in Paris, and give morning lessons. I have more liberty thus, and more leisure. "

"And these two little quaint bronze figures?"

"Hans Sachs and Peter Vischer. I brought them from Nuremberg. HansSachs, you see, wears a furred robe, and presses a book to his breast. He does not look in the least like a cobbler. Peter Vischer, on thecontrary, wears his leather apron and carries his mallet in his hand. Artist and iron-smith, he glories in his trade, and looks as sturdy alittle burgher as one would wish to see. "

"And this statuette in green marble?"

"A copy of the celebrated 'Pensiero' of Michel Angelo--in other words, the famous sitting statue of Lorenzo de Medici, in the Medicean chapelin Florence. I had it executed for me on the spot by Bazzanti. "

"A noble figure!"

"Indeed it is--a noble figure, instinct with life, and strength, andmeditation. My first thought on seeing the original was that I would notfor worlds be condemned to pass a night alone with it. I should everymoment expect the musing hand to drop away from the stern mouth, and theeyes to turn upon me!"

"These, " said I, pausing at the chimney-piece, "are _souvenirs_ ofSwitzerland. How delicately those chamois are carved out of the hardwood! They almost seem to snuff the mountain air! But here is a rapierwith a hilt of ornamented steel--where did this come from?"

I had purposely led up the conversation to this point. I had patientlyquestioned and examined for the sake of this one inquiry, and I waitedher reply as if my life hung on it. 

Her whole countenance changed. She took it down, and her eyes filledwith tears. 

"It was my father's, " she said, tenderly. 

"Your father's!" I exclaimed, joyfully. "Heaven be thanked! Did you sayyour father's?"

She looked up surprised, then smiled, and faintly blushed. 

"I did, " she replied. 

"And was your father a soldier?" I asked; for the sword looked more likea sword of ceremony than a sword for service. 

But to this question she gave no direct reply. 

"It was his sword, " she said, "and he had the best of all rights to wearit. "

With this she kissed the weapon reverently, and restored it to itsplace. 

I kissed her hand quite as reverently that day at parting, and she didnot withdraw it. 

CHAPTER XLVII. 

ALL ABOUT ART. 

 Art's a service. 

 AURORA LEIGH. 

"God sent art, and the devil sent critics, " said Müller, dismallyparaphrasing a popular proverb. "My picture is rejected!"

"Rejected!" I echoed, surprised to find him sitting on the floor, like atailor, in front of an acre of canvas. "By whom?"

"By the Hanging Committee. "

"Hang the Hanging Committee!"

"A pious prayer, my friend. Would that it could be carried intoexecution!"

"What cause do they assign?"

"Cause! Do you suppose they trouble themselves to find one? Not a bit ofit. They simply scrawl a great R in chalk on the back of it, and sendyou a printed notice to carry it home again. What is it to them, if apoor devil has been painting his very heart and hopes out, day afterday, for a whole year, upon that piece of canvas? Nothing, and less thannothing--confound them!"

I drew a chair before the picture, and set myself to a patient study ofthe details. He had chosen a difficult subject--the death of Louis XI. The scene represented a spacious chamber in the Castle ofPlessisles-Tours. To the left, in a great oak chair beside the bed fromwhich he had just risen, sat the dying king, with a rich, furred mantleloosely thrown around him. At his feet, his face buried in his hands, kneeled the Dauphin. Behind his chair, holding up the crucifix to enjoinsilence, stood the king's confessor. A physician, a couple ofcouncillors in scarlet robes, and a captain of archers, stood somewhatback, whispering together and watching the countenance of the dying man;while through the outer door was seen a crowd of courtiers and pages, waiting to congratulate King Charles VIII. It was an ambitious subject, and Müller had conceived it in a grand spirit. The heads wereexpressive; and the textures of the velvets, tapestries, oak carvings, and so forth, had been executed with more than ordinary finish andfidelity. For all this, however, there was more of promise than ofachievement in the work. The lights were scattered; the attitudes werestiff; there was too evident an attempt at effect. One could see that itwas the work of a young painter, who had yet much to learn, andsomething of the Academy to forget. 

"Well, " said Müller, still sitting ruefully on the floor, "what do youthink of it? Am I rightly served? Shall I send for a big pail ofwhitewash, and blot it all out?"

"Not for the world!"

"What shall I do, then?"

"Do better. "

"But, if I have done my best already?"

"Still do better; and when you have done that, do better again. Sogenius toils higher and ever higher, and like the climber of theglacier, plants his foot where only his hand clung the moment before. "

"Humph! but what of my picture?"

"Well, " I said, hesitatingly, "I am no critic--"

"Thank Heaven!" muttered Müller, parenthetically. 

"But there is something noble in the disposition of the figures. Ishould say, however, that you had set to work upon too large a scale. "

"A question of focus, " said the painter, hastily. "A mere question offocus. "

"How can that be, when you have finished some parts laboriously, and inothers seem scarcely to have troubled yourself to cover the canvas?"

"I don't know. I'm impatient, you see, and--and I think I got tired ofit towards the last. "

"Would that have been the case if you had allowed yourself but half thespace?"

"I'll take to enamel, " exclaimed Müller, with a grin of hyperbolicaldespair. "I'll immortalize myself in miniature. I'll paint henceforwardwith the aid of a microscope, and never again look at nature unlessthrough the wrong end of a telescope!"

"Pshaw!--be in earnest, man, and talk sensibly! Do you conceive that forevery failure you are to change your style? Give yourself, heart andsoul, to the school in which you have begun, and make up your mindto succeed. "

"Do you believe, then, that a man may succeed by force of will alone?"said Müller, musingly. 

"Yes, because force of will proceeds from force of character, and thetwo together, warp and woof, make the stuff out of which Nature clothesher heroes. "

"Oh, but I am not talking of heroes, " said Müller. 

"By heroes, I do not mean only soldiers. Captain Pen is as good a heroas Captain Sword, any day; and Captain Brush, to my thinking, is as finea fellow as either. "

"Ay; but do they come, as you would seem to imply, of the same stock?"said Müller. "Force of will and force of character are famous clays inwhich to mould a Wellington or a Columbus; but is not something more--atall events, something different--necessary to the modelling of aRaffaelle?"

"I don't fancy so. Power is the first requisite of genius. Give power inequal quantity to your Columbus and your Raffaelle, and circumstanceshall decide which will achieve the New World, and which theTransfiguration. "

"Circumstance!" cried the painter, impatiently. "Good heavens! do youmake no account of the spontaneous tendencies of genius? Is Nature amere vulgar cook, turning out men, like soups, from one common stock, with only a dash of flavoring here and there to give them variety?No--Nature is a subtle chemist, and her workshop, depend on it, isstored with delicate elixirs, volatile spirits, and precious fires ofgenius. Certain of these are kneaded with the clay of the poet, otherswith the clay of the painter, the astronomer, the mathematician, thelegislator, the soldier. Raffaelle had in him some of 'the stuff thatdreams are made of. ' Never tell me that that same stuff, differentlytreated, would equally well have furnished forth an Archimedes or aNapoleon!"

"Men are what their age calls upon them to be, " I replied, after amoment's consideration. "Be that demand what it may, the supply is everequal to it. Centre of the most pompous and fascinating of religions, Rome demanded Madonnas and Transfigurations, and straightway Raffaelleanswered to the call. The Old World, overstocked with men, gold, andaristocracies, asked wider fields of enterprise, and Columbus addedAmerica to the map. What is this but circumstance? Had Italy neededcolonies, would not her men of genius have turned sailors anddiscoverers? Had Madrid been the residence of the Popes, might notColumbus have painted altar-pieces or designed churches?"

Müller, still sitting on the floor, shook his head despondingly. 

"I don't think it, " he replied; "and I don't wish to think it. It is toomaterial a view of genius to satisfy my imagination. I love to believethat gifts are special. I love to believe that the poet is born a poet, and the artist an artist. "

"Hold! I believe that the poet is born a poet, and the artist an artist;but I also believe the poetry of the one and the art of the other to beonly diverse manifestations of a power that is universal in itsapplication. The artist whose lot in life it is to be a builder is nonethe less an artist. The poet, though engineer or soldier, is none theless a poet. There is the poetry of language, and there is also thepoetry of action. So also there is the art which expresses itself bymeans of marble or canvas, and the art which designs a capitol, tapers aspire, or plants a pleasure-ground. Nay, is not this very interfusion ofgifts, this universality of uses, in itself the bond of beauty whichgirdles the world like a cestus? If poetry were only rhyme, and art onlypainting, to what an outer darkness of matter-of-fact should we becondemning nine-tenths of the creation!"

Müller yawned, as if he would have swallowed me and my argumenttogether. 

"You are getting transcendental, " said he. "I dare say your theories areall very fine and all very true; but I confess that I don't understandthem. I never could find out all this poetry of bricks and mortar, railroads and cotton-factories, that people talk about so fluentlynow-a-days. We Germans take the dreamy side of life, and are seldom athome in the practical, be it ever so highly colored and highly flavored. In our parlance, an artist is an artist, and neither a bagman nor anengine-driver. "

His professional pride was touched, and he said this with somewhat lessthan his usual _bonhomie_--almost with a shade of irritability. 

"Come, " said I, smiling, "we will not discuss a topic which we can neversee from the same point of view. Doing art is better than talking art;and your business now is to find a fresh subject and prepare anothercanvas. Meanwhile cheer up, and forget all about Louis XI. And theHanging Committee. What say you to dining with me at the Trois Frères?It will do you good. "

"Good!" cried he, springing to his feet and shaking his fist at thepicture. "More good, by Jupiter, than all the paint and megilp that everwas wasted! Not all the fine arts of Europe are worth a _poulet à laMarengo_ and a bottle of old _Romanée_!"

So saying, he turned his picture to the wall, seized his cap, locked hisdoor, scrawled outside with a piece of chalk, --"_Summoned to theTuileries on state affairs_, " and followed me, whistling, down the sixflights of gloomy, ricketty, Quartier-Latin lodging-house stairs upwhich he lived and had his being. 

 * * * * *

CHAPTER XLVIII. 

I MAKE MYSELF ACQUAINTED WITH THE IMPOLITE WORLD AND ITS PLACES OPUNFASHIONABLE RESORT. 

Müller and I dined merrily at the Café of the Trois Frères Provençaux, discussed our coffee and cigars outside the Rotonde in the Palais Royal, and then started off in search of adventures. Striking up in anorth-easterly direction through a labyrinth of narrow streets, weemerged at the Rue des Fontaines, just in front of that famoussecond-hand market yclept the Temple. It was Saturday night, and thebusiness of the place was at its height. We went in, and turning asidefrom the broad thoroughfares which intersect the market at right angles, plunged at once into a net-work of crowded side-alleys, noisy andpopulous as a cluster of beehives. Here were bargainings, hagglings, quarrellings, elbowings, slang, low wit, laughter, abuse, cheating, andchattering enough to turn the head of a neophyte like myself. Müller, however, was in his element. He took me up one row and down another, pointed out all that was curious, had a nod for every grisette, and ananswer for every touter, and enjoyed the Babel like one to themanner born. 

"Buy, messieurs, buy! What will you buy?" was the question thatassailed us on both sides, wherever we went. 

"What do you sell, _mon ami ?_" was Müller's invariable reply. 

"What do you want, m'sieur?"

"Twenty thousand francs per annum, and the prettiest wife in Paris, "says my friend; a reply which is sure to evoke something _spirituel_, after the manner of the locality. 

"This is the most amusing place in Paris, " observes he. "Like theAlsatia of old London, it has its own peculiar _argot, _ and its ownpeculiar privileges. The activity of its commerce is amazing. If you buya pocket-handkerchief at the first stall you come to, and leave itunprotected in your coat-pocket for five minutes, you may purchase itagain at the other end of the alley before you leave. As for theresources of the market, they are inexhaustible. You may buy anythingyou please here, from a Court suit to a cargo of old rags. In this alley(which is the aristocratic quarter), are sold old jewelry, old china, old furniture, silks that have rustled at the Tuileries; fans that mayhave fluttered at the opera; gloves once fitted to tiny hands, and yetbearing a light soil where the rings were worn beneath; laces that mayhave been the property of Countesses or Cardinals; masquerade suits, epaulets, uniforms, furs, perfumes, artificial flowers, and all sorts ofelegant superfluities, most of which have descended to the merchants ofthe Temple through the hands of ladies-maids and valets. Yonder lies thedistrict called the 'Forêt Noire'--a land of unpleasing atmosphereinhabited by cobblers and clothes-menders. Down to the left you seenothing but rag and bottle-shops, old iron stores, and lumber of everykind. Here you find chiefly household articles, bedding, upholstery, crockery, and so forth. "

"What will you buy, Messieurs?" continued to be the cry, as we movedalong arm-in-arm, elbowing our way through the crowd, and exploring thissingular scene in all directions. 

"What will you buy, messieurs?" shouts one salesman. "A carpet? Acapital carpet, neither too large nor too small. Just the sizeyou want!"

"A hat, m'sieur, better than new, " cries another; "just aired by thelast owner. "

"A coat that will fit you better than if it had been made for you?"

"A pair of boots? Dress-boots, dancing-boots, walking-boots, morning-boots, evening-boots, riding-boots, fishing-boots, hunting-boots. All sorts, m'sieur--all sorts!"

"A cloak, m'sieur?"

"A lace shawl to take home to Madame?"

"An umbrella, m'sieur?"

"A reading lamp?"

"A warming-pan?"

"A pair of gloves?"

"A shower bath?"

"A hand organ?"

"What! m'sieurs, do you buy nothing this evening? Holà, Antoine!monsieur keeps his hands in his pockets, for fear his money shouldfall out!"

"Bah! They've not a centime between them!"

"Go down the next turning and have the hole in your coat mended!"

"Make way there for monsieur the millionaire!"

"They are ambassadors on their way to the Court of Persia. "

"_Ohe! Panè! panè! panè!_"

Thus we run the gauntlet of all the tongues in the Temple, sometimesretorting, sometimes laughing and passing on, sometimes stopping towatch the issue of a dispute or the clinching of a bargain. 

"_Dame_, now! if it were only ten francs cheaper, " says a voice thatstrikes my ear with a sudden sense of familiarity. Turning, I discoverthat the voice belongs to a young woman close at my elbow, and that theremark is addressed to a good-looking workman upon whose arm sheis leaning. 

"What, Josephine!" I exclaim. 

"_Comment_! Monsieur Basil!"

And I find myself kissed on both cheeks before I even guess what isgoing to happen to me. 

"Have I not also the honor of being remembered by Mademoiselle?" saysMüller, taking off his hat with all the politeness possible; whereuponJosephine, in an ecstasy of recognition, embraces him likewise. 

"_Mais, quel bonheur_!" cries she. "And to meet in the Temple, above allplaces! Emile, you heard me speak of Monsieur Basil--the gentleman whogave me that lovely shawl that I wore last Sunday to the Château desFleurs--_eh bien_! this is he--and here is Monsieur Müller, his friend. Gentlemen, this is Emile, my _fiancé_. We are to be married next Fridayweek, and we are buying our furniture. "

The good-looking workman pulled off his cap and made his bow, and weproffered the customary congratulations. 

"We have bought such sweet, pretty things, " continued she, rattling onwith all her old volubility, "and we have hired the dearest little_appartement_ on the fourth story, in a street near the Jardin desPlantes. See--this looking-glass is ours; we have just bought it. Andthose maple chairs, and that chest of drawers with the marble top. Itisn't real marble, you know; but it's ever so much better thanreal:--not nearly so heavy, and so beautifully carved that it's quite awork of art. Then we have bought a carpet--the sweetest carpet! Is itnot, Emile?"

Emile smiled, and confessed that the carpet was "_fort bien_. "

"And the time-piece, Madame?" suggested the furniture-dealer, at whosedoor we were standing. "Madame should really not refuse herself thetime-piece. "

Josephine shook her head. 

"It is too dear, " said she. 

"Pardon, madame. I am giving it away, --absolutely giving it away at theprice!"

Josephine looked at it wistfully, and weighed her little purse. It was avery little purse, and very light. 

"It is so pretty!" said she. 

The clock was of ormolu upon a painted stand, that was surmounted by astout little gilt Cupid in a triumphal chariot, drawn by a pair ofhard-working doves. 

"What is the price of it?" I asked. 

"Thirty-five francs, m'sieur, " replied the dealer, briskly. 

"Say twenty-five, " urged Josephine. 

The dealer shook his head. 

"What if we did without the looking-glass?" whispered Josephine to her_fiancé_. "After all, you know, one can live without a looking-glass;but how shall I have your dinners ready, if I don't know what o'clockit is?"

"I don't really see how we are to do without a clock, " admitted Emile. 

"And that darling little Cupid!"

Emile conceded that the Cupid was irresistible. 

"Then we decide to have the clock, and do without the looking-glass?"

"Yes, we decide. "

In the meantime I had slipped the thirty-five francs into the dealer'shand. 

"You must do me the favor to accept the clock as a wedding-present, Mademoiselle Josephine, " I said. "And I hope you will favor me with aninvitation to the wedding. "

"And me also, " said Müller; "and I shall hope to be allowed to offer alittle sketch to adorn the walls of your new home. "

Their delight and gratitude were almost too great. We shook hands againall round. I am not sure, indeed, that Josephine did not then and thereembrace us both for the second time. 

"And you will both come to our wedding!" cried she. "And we will spendthe day at St. Cloud, and have a dance in the evening; and we willinvite Monsieur Gustave, and Monsieur Jules, and Monsieur Adrien. Oh, dear! how delightful it will be!"

"And you promise me the first quadrille?" said I. 

"And me the second?" added Müller. 

"Yes, yes--as many as you please. "

"Then you must let us know at what time to come, and all about it; so, till Friday week, adieu!"

And thus, with more shaking of hands, and thanks, and good wishes, weparted company, leaving them still occupied with the gilt Cupid and thefurniture-broker. 

After the dense atmosphere of the clothes-market, it is a relief toemerge upon the Boulevart du Temple--the noisy, feverish, crowdedBoulevart du Temple, with its half dozen theatres, its glare of gas, itscake-sellers, bill-sellers, lemonade-sellers, cabs, cafés, gendarmes, tumblers, grisettes, and pleasure-seekers of both sexes. 

Here we pause awhile to applaud the performances of a company ofdancing-dogs, whence we are presently drawn away by the sight of agentleman in a _moyen-âge_ costume, who is swallowing penknives andbringing them out at his ears to the immense gratification of a largecircle of bystanders. 

A little farther on lies the Jardin Turc; and here we drop in for halfan hour, to restore ourselves with coffee-ices, and look on at thedancers. This done, we presently issue forth again, still in search ofamusement. 

"Have you ever been to the Petit Lazary?" asks my friend, as we stand atthe gate of the Jardin Turc, hesitating which way to turn. 

"Never; what is it?"

"The most inexpensive of theatrical luxuries--an evening's entertainmentof the mildest intellectual calibre, and at the lowest possible cost. Here we are at the doors. Come in, and complete your experience ofParis life!"

The Petit Lazary occupies the lowest round of the theatrical ladder. Wepay something like sixpence half-penny or sevenpence apiece, and areinducted into the dress-circle. Our appearance is greeted with a roundof applause. The curtain has just fallen, and the audience have nothingbetter to do. Müller lays his hand upon his heart, and bows profoundly, first to the gallery and next to the pit; whereupon they laugh, andleave us in peace. Had we looked dignified or indignant we shouldprobably have been hissed till the curtain rose. 

It is an audience in shirt-sleeves, consisting for the most part ofworkmen, maid-servants, soldiers, and street-urchins, with a plentifulsprinkling of pickpockets--the latter in a strictly private capacity, being present for entertainment only, without any ulteriorprofessional views. 

It is a noisy _entr'acte_ enough. Three vaudevilles have already beenplayed, and while the fourth is in preparation the public amuses itselfaccording to its own riotous will and pleasure. Nuts and apple paringsfly hither and thither; oranges describe perilous parabolas between thepit and the gallery; adventurous _gamins_ make daring excursions roundthe upper rails; dialogues maintained across the house, and quarrelssupported by means of an incredible copiousness of invective, mingle indiscordant chorus with all sorts of howlings, groanings, whistlings, crowings, and yelpings, above which, in shrillest treble, rise thevoices of cake and apple-sellers, and the piercing cry of the hump-backwho distributes "vaudevilles at five centimes apiece. " In the meantime, almost distracted by the patronage that assails him in every direction, the lemonade-vendor strides hither and thither, supplying floods ofnectar at two centimes the glass; while the audience, skilled in thecombination of enjoyments, eats, drinks, and vociferates to its heart'scontent. Fabulous meats, and pies of mysterious origin, are brought outfrom baskets and hats. Pocket-handkerchiefs spread upon benches do dutyas table-cloths. Clasp-knives, galette, and sucre d'orge pass from handto hand--nay, from mouth to mouth--and, in the midst of the tumult, thecurtain rises. 

All is, in one moment, profoundly silent. The viands disappear; thelemonade-seller vanishes; the boys outside the gallery-rails clamberback to their places. The drama, in the eyes of the Parisians, is almosta sacred rite, and not even the noisiest _gamin_ would raise his voiceabove a whisper when the curtain is up. 

The vaudeville that follows is, to say the least of it, a perplexingperformance. It has no plot in particular. The scene is laid in alodging-house, and the discomforts of one Monsieur Choufleur, an elderlygentleman in a flowered dressing-gown and a gigantic nightcap, furnishforth all the humor of the piece. What Monsieur Choufleur has done todeserve his discomforts, and why a certain student named Charles shoulddevote all the powers of his mind to the devising and inflicting ofthose discomforts, is a mystery which we, the audience, are neverpermitted to penetrate. Enough that Charles, being a youth ofmischievous tastes and extensive wardrobe, assumes a series of disguisesfor the express purpose of tormenting Monsieur Choufleur, and isunaccountably rewarded in the end with the hand of Monsieur Choufleur'sdaughter; a consummation which brings down the curtain amid loudapplause, and affords entire satisfaction to everybody. 

It is by this time close upon midnight, and, leaving the theatre withthe rest of the audience, we find a light rain falling. The noisythoroughfare is hushed to comparative quiet. The carriages that roll byare homeward bound. The waiters yawn at the doors of the cafés andsurvey pedestrians with a threatening aspect. The theatres are closingfast, and a row of flickering gas-lamps in front of a faded transparencywhich proclaims that the juvenile _Tableaux Vivants_ are to be seenwithin, denotes the only place of public amusement yet open to thecurious along the whole length of the Boulevart du Temple. 

"And now, _amigo_, where shall we go?" says Müller. "Are you for abilliard-room or a lobster supper? Or shall we beat up the quarters ofsome of the fellows in the Quartier Latin, and see what fun is afoot onthe other side of the water?"

"Whichever you please. You are my guest to-night, and I am at yourdisposal. "

"Or what say you to dropping in for an hour among the Chicards?"

"A capital idea--especially if you again entertain the society with atrue story of events that never happened. "

"_Allons donc_!--

 'C'était de mon temps Que brillait Madame Grégoire. J'allais à vingt ans Dans son cabaret rire et boire. '

--confound this drizzle! It soaks one through and through, like asponge. If you are no fonder of getting wet through than I am, I vote weboth run for it!"

With this he set off running at full speed, and I followed. 

The rain soon fell faster and thicker. We had no umbrellas; and being bythis time in a region of back-streets, an empty fiacre was a prize notto be hoped for. Coming presently to a dark archway, we took shelter andwaited till the shower should pass over. It lasted longer than we hadexpected, and threatened to settle into a night's steady rain. Müllerkept his blood warm by practicing extravagant quadrille steps andsinging scraps of Béranger's ballads; whilst I, watching impatiently fora cab, kept peering up and down the street, and listening toevery sound. 

Presently a quick footfall echoed along the wet pavement, and the figureof a man, dimly seen by the blurred light of the street-lamps, camehurrying along the other side of the way. Something in the firm freestep, in the upright carriage, in the height and build of the passer-by, arrested my attention. He drew nearer. He passed under the lamp justopposite, and, as he passed, flung away the end of his cigar, whichfell, hissing, into the little rain-torrent running down the middle ofthe street. He carried no umbrella; but his hat was pulled low, and hiscollar drawn up, and I could see nothing of his face. But the gesturewas enough. 

For a moment I stood still and looked after him; then, calling to Müllerthat I should be back presently, I darted off in pursuit. 

CHAPTER XLIX. 

THE KING OF DIAMONDS. 

The rain beat in my face and almost blinded me, the wind hustled me; thegendarme at the corner of the street looked at me suspiciously; andstill I followed, and still the tall stranger strode on ahead. Up onestreet he led me and down another, across a market-place, through anarcade, past the Bourse, and into that labyrinth of small streets thatlies behind the Italian Opera-house, and is bounded on the East by theRue de Richelieu, and on the West by the Rue Louis le Grand. Here heslackened his pace, and I found myself gaming upon him for the firsttime. Presently he came to a dead stop, and as I continued to drawnearer, I saw him take out his watch and look at it by the light of astreet-lamp. This done, he began sauntering slowly backwards andforwards, as if waiting for some second person. 

For a moment I also paused, hesitating. What should I do?--pass himunder the lamp, and try to see his face? Go boldly up to him, and inventsome pretence to address him, or wait in this angle of deep shade, andsee what would happen next? I was deceived, of course--deceived by amerely accidental resemblance. Well, then, I should have had my run formy pains, and have taken cold, most likely, into the bargain. At allevents, I would speak to him. 

Seeing me emerge from the darkness, and cross over towards the spotwhere he was standing, he drew aside with the air of a man upon hisguard, and put his hand quickly into his breast. 

"I beg your pardon, Monsieur, " I began. 

"What! my dear Damon!--is it you?" he interrupted, and held out bothhands. 

I grasped them joyously. 

"Dalrymple, is it you?"

"Myself, Damon--_faute de mieux_. "

"And I have been running after you for the last two miles! What bringsyou to Paris? Why did you not let me know you were here? How long haveyou been back? Has anything gone wrong? Are you well?"

"One question at a time, my Arcadian, for mercy's sake!" said he. "Whicham I to answer?"

"The last. "

"Oh, I am well--well enough. But let us walk on a little farther whilewe talk. "

"Are you waiting for any one?" I asked, seeing him look round uneasily. 

"Yes--no--that is, I expect to see some one come past here presently. Step into this doorway, and I will tell you all about it. "

His manner was restless, and his hand, as it pressed mine, felt hot andfeverish. 

"I am sure you are not well, " I said, following him into the gloom of adeep, old-fashioned doorway. 

"Am I not? Well, I don't know--perhaps I am not. My blood burns in myveins to-night like fire. Nay, thou wilt learn nothing from my pulse, thou sucking Æsculapius! Mine is a sickness not to be cured by drugs. Imust let blood for it. "

The short, hard laugh with which he said this troubled me still more. 

"Speak out, " I said--"for Heaven's sake, speak out! You have somethingon your mind--what is it?"

"I have something on my hands, " he replied, gloomily. "Work. Work thatmust be done quickly, or there will be no peace for any of us. Lookhere, Damon--if you had a wife, and another man stood before the worldas her betrothed husband--if you had a wife, and another man spoke ofher as his--boasted of her--behaved in the house as if it were alreadyhis own--treated her servants as though he were their master--possessedhimself of her papers--extorted money from her--brought his friends, onone pretext or another, about her house--tormented her, day after day, to marry him . . . What would you do to such a man as this?"

"Make my own marriage public at once, and set him at defiance, " Ireplied. 

"Ay, but. . . . "

"But what?"

"That alone will not content me. I must punish him with my own hand. "

"He would be punished enough in the loss of the lady and her fortune. "

"Not he! He has entangled her affairs sufficiently by this time toindemnify himself for her fortune, depend on it. And as forherself--pshaw! he does not know what love is!"

"But his pride----"

"But _my_ pride!" interrupted Dalrymple, passionately. "What of mypride?--my wounded honor?--my outraged love? No, no, I tell you, it isnot such a paltry vengeance that will satisfy me! Would to Heaven I hadtrusted only my own arm from the first! Would to Heaven that, instead ofhaving anything to say to the cursed brood of the law, I had taken theviper by the throat, and brought him to my own terms, after myown fashion!"

"But you have not yet told me what you are doing here?"

"I am waiting to see Monsieur de Simoncourt. "

"Monsieur de Simoncourt!"

"Yes. That white house at the corner is one of his haunts, --a privategaming-house, never open till after midnight. I want to meet himaccidentally, as he is going in. "

"What for?"

"That he may take me with him. You can't get into one of these placeswithout an introduction, you know. Those who keep them are too muchafraid of the police. "

"But do you play?"

"Come with me, and see. Hark! do you hear nothing?"

"Yes, I hear a footstep. And here comes a man. "

"Let us walk to meet him, accidentally, and seem to be talking. "

I took Dalrymple's arm, and we strolled in the direction of the newcomer. It was not De Simoncourt, however, but a tall man with a grizzledbeard, who crossed over, apprehensively, at our approach, but recrossedand went into the white house at the corner as soon as he thought usout of sight. 

"One of the gang, " said Dalrymple, with a shrug of his broad shoulders. "We had better go back to our doorway, and wait till the rightman comes. "

We had not long to wait. The next arrival was he whom we sought. Westrolled on, as before, and came upon him face to face. 

"De Simoncourt, by all that's propitious!" cried Dalrymple. 

"What--Major Dalrymple returned to Paris!"

"Ay, just returned. Bored to death with Berlin and Vienna--no place likeParis, De Simoncourt, go where one will!"

"None, indeed. There is but one Paris, and pleasure is the true profitof all who visit it. "

"My dear De Simoncourt, I am appalled to hear you perpetrate a pun! Bythe way, you have met Mr. Basil Arbuthnot at my rooms?"

M. De Simoncourt lifted his hat, and was graciously pleased to rememberthe circumstance. 

"And now, " pursued Dalrymple, "having met, what shall, we do next? Haveyou any engagement for the small hours, De Simoncourt?"

"I am quite at your disposal. Where were your bound for?"

"Anywhere--everywhere. I want excitement. "

"Would a hand at _écarté_, or a green table, have any attraction foryou?" suggested De Simoncourt, falling into the trap as readily as onecould have desired. 

"The very thing, if you know where they are to be found!"

"Nay, I need not take you far to find both. There is in this very streeta house where money may be lost and won as easily as at the Bourse. Follow me. "

He took us to the white house at the corner, and, pressing a springconcealed in the wood-work of the lintel, rung a bell of shrill andpeculiar _timbre_. The door opened immediately, and, after we hadpassed in, closed behind us without any visible agency. Still followingat the heels of M. De Simoncourt, we then went up a spacious staircasedimly lighted, and, leaving our hats in an ante-room, enteredunannounced into an elegant _salon_, where some twenty or thirty_habitués_ of both sexes had already commenced the business of theevening. The ladies, of whom there were not more than half-a-dozen, wereall more or less painted, _passées_, and showily dressed. Among the menwere military stocks, ribbons, crosses, stars, and fine titles inabundance. We were evidently supposed to be in very brilliantsociety--brilliant, however, with a fictitious lustre that betrayed thetinsel beneath, and reminded one of a fashionable reception on theboards of the Haymarket or the Porte St. Martin. The mistress of thehouse, an abundant and somewhat elderly Juno in green velvet, with aprofusion of jewelry on her arms and bosom, came forward to receive us. 

"Madame de Sainte Amaranthe, permit me to present my friends, MajorDalrymple and Mr. Arbuthnot, " said De Simoncourt, imprinting a gallantkiss on the plump hand of the hostess. 

Madame de Ste. Amaranthe professed herself charmed to receive anyfriends of M. De Simoncourt; whereupon M. De Simoncourt's friends wereenchanted to be admitted to the privilege of Madame de Ste. Amaranthe'sacquaintance. Madame de Ste. Amaranthe then informed us that she was thewidow of a general officer who fell at Austerlitz, and the daughter of arich West India planter whom she called her _père adoré_, and to whosesupposititious memory she wiped away an imaginary tear with anembroidered pocket-handkerchief. She then begged that we would makeourselves at home, and, gliding away, whispered something in DeSimoncourt's ear, to which he replied by a nod of intelligence. 

"That harpy hopes to fleece us, " said Dalrymple, slipping his armthrough mine and drawing me towards the roulette table. "She has justtold De Simoncourt to take us in hand. I always suspected the fellowwas a Greek. "

"A Greek?"

"Ay, in the figurative sense--a gentleman who lives by dexterity atcards. "

"And shall you play?"

"By-and-by. Not yet, because--"

He checked himself, and looked anxiously round the room. 

"Because what?"

"Tell me, Arbuthnot, " said he, paying no attention to my question; "do_you_ mind playing?"

"I? My dear fellow, I hardly know one card from another. "

"But have you any objection?"

"None whatever to the game; but a good deal to the penalty. I don't mindconfessing to you that I ran into debt some months back, and that. . . . "

"Nonsense, boy!" interrupted Dalrymple, with a kindly smile. "Do yousuppose I want you to gamble away your money? No, no--the fact is, thatI am here for a purpose, and it will not do to let my purpose besuspected. These Greeks want a pigeon. Will you oblige me by being thatpigeon, and by allowing me to pay for your plucking?"

I still hesitated. 

"But you will be helping me, " urged he. "If you don't sit down, I must. "

"You would not lose so much, " I expostulated. 

"Perhaps not, if I were cool and kept my eyes open; but to-night I am_distrait_, and should be as defenceless as yourself. "

"In that case I will play for you with pleasure. "

He slipped a little pocket-book into my hand. 

"Never stake more than five francs at a time, " said he, "and you cannotruin me. The book contains a thousand. You shall have more, ifnecessary; but I think that sum will last as long as I shall want you tokeep playing. "

"A thousand francs!" I exclaimed. "Why, that is forty pounds!"

"If it were four hundred, and it answered my purpose, " said Dalrymple, between his teeth, "I should hold it money well spent!"

At this moment De Simoncourt came up, and apologized for having left usso long. 

"If you want mere amusement, Major Dalrymple, " said he, "I suppose youwill prefer _roulette_ to _écarté_!"

"I will stake a few pieces presently on the green cloth, " repliedDalrymple, carelessly; "but, first of all, I want to initiate my youngfriend here. As to double _écarté_, Monsieur de Simoncourt, I needhardly tell you, as a man of the world, that I never play it withstrangers. "

De Simoncourt smiled, and shrugged his shoulders. 

"Quite right, " said he. "I believe that here everything is really _debonne foi_; but where there are cards there will always be danger. Formy part, I always shuffle the pack after my adversary!"

With this he strolled off again, and I took a vacant chair at the longtable, next to a lady, who made way for me with the most gracious smileimaginable. Only the players sat; so Dalrymple stood behind me andlooked on. It was a green board, somewhat larger than an ordinarybilliard-table, with mysterious boundaries traced here and there inyellow and red, and a cabalistic table of figures towards each end. Acouple of well-dressed men sat in the centre; one to deal out the cards, and the other to pay and receive the money. The one who had themanagement of the cash wore a superb diamond ring, and a red and greenribbon at his button-hole. Dalrymple informed me in a whisper that thisnoble seigneur was Madame de Ste. Amaranthe's brother. 

As for the players, they all looked serious and polite enough, as ladiesand gentlemen should, at their amusement. Some had pieces of card, whichthey pricked occasionally with a pin, according to the progress of thegame. Some had little piles of silver, or sealed _rouleaux_, lyingbeside them. As for myself, I took out Dalrymple's pocket-book, and laidit beside me, as if I were an experienced player and meant to break thebank. For a few minutes he stood by, and then, having given me someidea of the leading principles of the game, wandered away to observe theother players. 

Left to myself, I played on--timidly at first; soon with moreconfidence; and, of course, with the novice's invariable good-fortune. My amiable neighbor drew me presently into conversation. She had atheory of chances relating to averages of color, and based upon abewildering calculation of all the black and red cards in the pack, which she was so kind as to explain to me. I could not understand a wordof it, but politeness compelled me to listen. Politeness also compelledme to follow her advice when she was so obliging as to offer it, and Ilost, as a matter of course. From this moment my good-luck deserted me. 

"Courage, Monsieur, " said my amiable neighbour; "you have only to playlong enough, and you are sure to win. "

In the meantime, I kept following Dalrymple with my eyes, for there wassomething in his manner that filled me with vague uneasiness. Sometimeshe drew near the table and threw down a Napoleon, but without heedingthe game, or caring whether he won or lost. He was always looking to thedoor, or wandering restlessly from table to table. Watching him thus, Ithought how haggard he looked, and what deep channels were furrowed inhis brow since that day when we lay together on the autumnal grass underthe trees in the forest of St. Germain. 

Thus a long time went by, and I found by my watch that it was nearlyfour o'clock in the morning--also that I had lost six hundred francs outof the thousand. It seemed incredible. I could hardly believe that thetime and the money had flown so fast. I rose in my seat and looked roundfor Dalrymple; but in vain. Could he be gone, leaving me here?Impossible! Apprehensive of I knew not what, I pushed back my chair, andleft the table. The rooms were now much fuller--more stars andmoustachios; more velvets and laces, and Paris diamonds. Fresh tables, too, had been opened for _lansquenet, baccarat_, and _écarté_. At one ofthese I saw M. De Simoncourt. When he laid down his cards for the deal, I seized the opportunity to inquire for my friend. 

He pointed to a small inner room divided by a rich hanging from thefarther end of the _salon_. 

"You will find Major Dalrymple in Madame de Ste. Amaranthe's boudoir, playing with M. Le Vicomte de Caylus, " said he, courteously, andresumed his game. 

Playing with De Caylus! Sitting down amicably with De Caylus! I couldnot understand it. 

Crowded as the rooms now were, it took me some time to thread my wayacross, and longer still, when I had done so, to pass the threshold ofthe boudoir, and obtain sight of the players. The room was very small, and filled with lookers-on. At a table under a chandelier sat De Caylusand Dalrymple. I could not see Dalrymple's face, for his back was turnedtowards me; but the Vicomte I recognised at once--pale, slight, refined, with the old look of dissipation and irritability, and the samerestlessness of eye and hand that I had observed on first seeing him. They were evidently playing high, and each had a pile of notes and goldlying at his left hand. De Caylus kept nervously crumbling a note in hisfingers. Dalrymple sat motionless as a man of bronze, and, except tothrow down a card when it came to his turn, never stirred a finger. There was, to my thinking, something ominous in his exceeding calmness. 

"At what game are they, playing?" I asked a gentleman near whom I wasstanding. 

"At _écarté_, " replied he, without removing his eyes from the players. 

Knowing nothing of the game, I could only judge of its progress by thefaces of those around me. A breathless silence prevailed, except whensome particular subtlety in the play sent a murmur of admiration roundthe room. Even this was hushed almost as soon as uttered. Gradually theinterest grew more intense, and the bystanders pressed closer. De Caylussighed impatiently, and passed his hand across his brow. It was his turnto deal. Dalrymple shuffled the pack. De Caylus shuffled them afterhim, and dealt. The falling of a pin might have been heard in the pausethat followed. They had but five cards each. Dalrymple played first--aqueen of diamonds. De Caylus played the king, and both threw down theircards. A loud murmur broke out instantaneously in every direction, andDe Caylus, looking excited and weary, leaned back in his chair, andcalled for wine. His expression was so unlike that of a victor that Ithought at first he must have lost the game. 

"Which is the winner?" I asked, eagerly. "Which is the winner?"

The gentleman who had replied to me before looked round with a smile ofcontemptuous wonder. 

"Why, Monsieur de Caylus, of course, " said he. "Did you not see him playthe king?"

"I beg your pardon, " I said, somewhat nettled; "but, as I said before, Ido not understand the game. "

"_Eh bien_! the Englishman is counting out his money. "

What a changed scene it was! The circle of intent faces broken andshifting--the silence succeeded by a hundred conversations--De Caylusleaning back, sipping his wine and chatting over his shoulder--the cardspushed aside, and Dalrymple gravely sorting out little shining columnsof Napoleons, and rolls of crisp bank paper! Having ranged all thesebefore him in a row, he took out his check-book, filled in a page, toreit out and laid it with the rest. Then, replacing the book in hisbreast-pocket, he pushed back his chair, and, looking up for the firsttime since the close of the game, said aloud:--

"Monsieur le Vicomte de Caylus, I have this evening had the honor oflosing the sum of twelve thousand francs to you; will you do me thefavor to count this money?"

M. De Caylus bowed, emptied his glass, and languidly touching eachlittle column with one dainty finger, told over his winnings as thoughthey were scarcely worth even that amount of trouble. 

"Six rouleaux of four hundred each, " said he, "making two thousand fourhundred--six notes of five hundred each, making three thousand--and anorder upon Rothschild for six thousand six hundred; in all, twelvethousand. Thanks, Monsieur . . . Monsieur . . . Forgive me for notremembering your name. "

Dalrymple looked up with a dangerous light in his eyes, and took nonotice of the apology. 

"It appears to me, Monsieur le Vicomte Caylus, " said he, giving theother his full title and speaking with singular distinctness, "that youhold the king very often at _écarté_. "

De Caylus looked up with every vein on his forehead suddenly swollen andthrobbing. 

"Monsieur!" he exclaimed, hoarsely. 

"Especially when you deal, " added Dalrymple, smoothing his moustachewith utter _sang-froid_, and keeping his eyes still riveted upon hisadversary. 

With an inarticulate cry like the cry of a wild beast, De Caylus sprungat him, foaming with rage, and was instantly flung back against thewall, dragging with him not only the table-cloth, but all the wine, money, and cards upon it. 

"I will have blood for this!" he shrieked, struggling with those whorushed in between. "I will have blood! Blood! Blood!"

Stained and streaming with red wine, he looked, in his ghastly rage, asif he was already bathed in the blood he thirsted for. 

Dalrymple drew himself to his full height, and stood looking on withfolded arms and a cold smile. 

"I am quite ready, " he said, "to give Monsieur le Vicomte fullsatisfaction. "

The room was by this time crowded to suffocation. I forced my waythrough, and laid my hand on Dalrymple's arm. 

"You have provoked this quarrel, " I said, reproachfully. 

"That, my dear fellow, is precisely what I came here to do, " he replied. "You will have to be my second in this affair. "

Here De Simoncourt came up, and hearing the last words, drew me aside. 

"I act for De Caylus, " he whispered. "Pistols, of course?"

I nodded, still all bewilderment at my novel position. 

"Your man received the first blow, so is entitled to the first shot. "

I nodded again. 

"I don't know a better place, " he went on, "than Bellevue. There's afamous little bit of plantation, and it is just far enough from Paris tobe secure. The Bois is hackneyed, and the police are too much about it. 

"Just so, " I replied, vaguely. 

"And when shall we say? The sooner the better, it always seems to me, inthese cases. "

"Oh, certainly--the sooner the better. "

He looked at his watch. 

"It is now ten minutes to five, " he said. "Suppose we allow them fivehours to put their papers in order, and meet at Bellevue, on theterrace, at ten?"

"So soon!" I exclaimed. 

"Soon!" echoed De Simoncourt. "Why, under circumstances of suchexceeding aggravation, most men would send for pistols and settle itacross the table!"

I shuddered. These niceties of honor were new to me, and I had beenbrought up to make little distinction between duelling and murder. 

"Be it so, then, Monsieur De Simoncourt, " I said. "We will meet you atBellevue, at ten. "

"On the terrace?"

"On the terrace. "

We bowed and parted. Dalrymple was already gone, and De Caylus, stillwhite and trembling with rage, was wiping the wine from his face andshirt. The crowd opened for me right and left as I went through the_salon_, and more than one voice whispered:--

"He is the Englishman's second. "

I took my hat and cloak mechanically, and let myself out. It was broaddaylight, and the blinding sun poured full upon my eyes as I passed intothe street. 

"Come, Damon, " said Dalrymple, crossing over to me from the oppositeside of the way. "I have just caught a cab--there it is, waiting roundthe corner! We've no time to lose, I'll be bound. "

"We are to meet them at Bellevue at ten, " I replied. 

"At ten? Hurrah! then I've still five certain hours of life before me!Long enough, Damon, to do a world of mischief, if one were so disposed!"

CHAPTER L. 

THE DUEL AT BELLEVUE. 

We drove straight to Dalrymple's rooms, and, going in with a pass-key, went up without disturbing the _concierge_. Arrived at home, my friend'sfirst act was to open his buffetier and take out a loaf, a _paté de foiegras_, and a bottle of wine. I could not eat a morsel; but he supped (orbreakfasted) with a capital appetite; insisted that I should lie down onhis bed for two or three hours; and slipping into his dressing-gown, took out his desk and cash-box, and settled himself to a regularmorning's work. 

"I hope to get a nap myself before starting, " said he. "I have not manydebts, and I made my will the day after I married--so I have but littleto transact in the way of business. A few letters to write--a few toburn--a trifle or two to seal up and direct to one or two fellows whomay like a _souvenír_, --that is the extent of my task! Meanwhile, mydear boy, get what rest you can. It will never do to be shaky and paleon the field, you know. "

I went, believing that I should be less in his way; and, lying down inmy clothes, fell into a heavy sleep, from which, after what seemed along time, I woke suddenly with the conviction that it was just teno'clock. To start up, look at my watch, find that it was only a quarterto seven and fall profoundly asleep again, was the work of only a fewminutes. At the end of another half-hour I woke with the same dread, andwith the same result; and so on twice or thrice after, till at aquarter to nine I jumped up, plunged my head into a basin of cold water, and went back to the sitting-room. 

I found him lying forward upon the table, fast asleep, with his headresting on his hands. Some half-dozen letters lay folded and addressedbeside him--one directed to his wife. A little pile of burnt paperfluttered on the hearth. His pistols were lying close by in theirmahogany case, the blue and white steel relieved against thecrimson-velvet lining. He slept so soundly, poor fellow, that I couldwith difficulty make up my mind to wake him. Once roused, however, hewas alert and ready in a moment, changed his coat, took out a new pairof lavender gloves, hailed a cab from the window, and bade the drivername his own fare if he got us to the terrace at Bellevue by fiveminutes before ten. 

"I always like to be before my time in a matter of this kind, Damon, "said he. "It's shabby to be merely punctual when one has, perhaps, notmore than a quarter of an hour to live. By-the-by, here are my keys. Take them, in case of accident. You will find a copy of my will in mydesk---the original is with my lawyer. The letters you will forward, according to the addresses; and in my cash-box you will find a paperdirected to yourself. "

I bent my head. I would not trust myself to speak. "As for the letter toHélène--to my wife, " he said, turning his face away, "will you--will youdeliver that with your own hands?"

"I will. "

"I--I have had but little time to write it, " he faltered, "and I trustto you to supply the details. Tell her how I made the quarrel, and howit ended. No one suspects it to be other than a _fracas_ over a game at_écarté_. No one supposes that I had any other motive, or any deepervengeance--not even De Caylus! I have not compromised her by word ordeed. If I shoot him, I free her without a breath of scandal. IfI fall--"

His voice failed, and we were both silent for some moments

We were now past the Barrier, and speeding on rapidly towards the opencountry. High white houses with jalousies closed against the sun, andpretty maisonnettes in formal gardens, succeeded the streets and shopsof suburban Paris. Then came a long country road bordered bypoplars--by-and-by, glimpses of the Seine, and scattered farms andvillages far away--then Sèvres and the leafy heights of Bellevueoverhanging the river. 

We crossed the bridge, and the driver, mindful of his fare, urged on histired horse. Some country folks met us presently, and a wagoner with aload of fresh hay. They all smiled and gave us "good-day" as wepassed--they going to their work in the fields, and we to our work ofbloodshed!

Shortly after this, the road began winding upwards, past the porcelainfactories and through the village of Sèvres; after which, having but ashort distance of very steep road to climb, we desired the cabman towait, and went up on foot. Arrived at the top, where a peep of bluedaylight came streaming down upon us through a green tunnel of acacias, we emerged all at once upon the terrace, and found ourselves first onthe field. Behind us rose a hillside of woods--before us, glassy andglittering, as if traced upon the transparent air, lay the city ofpalaces. Domes and spires, arches and columns of triumph, softened bydistance, looked as if built of the sunshine. Far away on one sidestretched the Bois de Boulogne, undulating like a sea of tender green. Still farther away on the other, lay Père-la-Chaise--a dark hill speckedwith white; cypresses and tombs. At our feet, winding round a "lawnyislet" and through a valley luxuriant in corn-fields and meadows, flowedthe broad river, bluer than the sky. 

"A fine sight, Damon!" said Dalrymple, leaning on the parapet, andcoolly lighting a cigar. "If my eyes are never to open on the day again, I am glad they should have rested for the last time on a scene of somuch beauty! Where is the painter who could paint it? Not Claudehimself, though he should come back to life on purpose, and mix hiscolors with liquid sunlight!"

"You are a queer fellow, " said I, "to talk of scenery and painters atsuch a moment!"

"Not at all. Things are precious according to the tenure by which wehold them. For my part, I do not know when I appreciated earth and skyso heartily as this morning. _Tiens!_ here comes a carriage--our men, no doubt. "

"Are you a good shot?" I asked anxiously. 

"Pretty well. I can write my initials in bullet-holes on a sheet ofnotepaper at forty paces, or toss up half-a-crown as I ride at fullgallop, and let the daylight through it as it comes down. "

"Thank Heaven!"

"Not so fast, my boy. De Caylus is just as fine a shot, and one of themost skilful swordsmen in the French service. "

"Ay, but the first fire is yours!"

"Is it? Well, I suppose it is. He struck the first blow, and so--herethey come. "

"One more word, Dalrymple--did he really cheat you at _écarté?_"

"Upon my soul, I don't know. He did hold the king very often, and thereare some queer stories told of him in Vienna by the officers of theEmperor's Guard. At all events, this is not the first duel he has had tofight in defence of his good-fortune!"

De Simoncourt now coming forward, we adjourned at once to the woodbehind the village. A little open glade was soon found; the ground wassoon measured; the pistols were soon loaded. De Caylus looked horriblypale, but it was the pallor of concentrated rage, with nothing of thecraven hue in it. Dalrymple, on the contrary, had neither more nor lesscolor than usual, and puffed away at his cigar with as much indifferenceas if he were waiting his turn at the pit of the Comédie Française. Bothwere clothed in black from head to foot, with their coats buttonedto the chin. 

"All is ready, " said De Simoncourt. "Gentlemen, choose your weapons. "

De Caylus took his pistols one by one, weighed and poised them, examined the priming, and finally, after much hesitation, decided. 

Dalrymple took the first that came to hand. 

The combatants then took their places--De Caylus with his hat pulled lowover his eyes; Dalrymple still smoking carelessly. 

They exchanged bows. 

"Major Dalrymple, " said De Simoncourt, "it is for you to fire first. "

"God bless you, Damon!" said my friend, shaking me warmly by the hand. 

He then half turned aside, flung away the end of his cigar, lifted hisright arm suddenly, and fired. 

I heard the dull thud of the ball--I saw De Caylus fling up his arms andfall forward on the grass. I saw Dalrymple running to his assistance. The next instant, however, the wounded man was on his knees, ghastly andbleeding, and crying for his pistol. 

"Give it me!" he gasped--"hold me up! I--I will have his life yet! So, steady--steady!"

Shuddering, but not for his own danger, Dalrymple stepped calmly back tohis place; while De Caylus, supported by his second, struggled to hisfeet and grasped his weapon. For a moment he once more stood upright. His eye burned; his lips contracted; he seemed to gather up all hisstrength for one last effort. Slowly, steadily, surely, he raised hispistol--then swaying heavily back, fired, and fell again. 

"Dead this time, sure enough, " said De Simoncourt, bending over him. 

"Indeed, I fear so, " replied Dalrymple, in a low, grave voice. "Can wedo nothing to help you, Monsieur de Simoncourt?"

"Nothing, thank you. I have a carriage down the road, and must getfurther assistance from the village. You had better lose no time inleaving Paris. "

"I suppose not. Good-morning. "

"Good-morning, "

So we lifted our hats; gathered up the pistols; hurried out of the woodand across a field, so avoiding the village; found our cab waiting wherewe had left it; and in less than five minutes, were rattling down thedusty hill again and hurrying towards Paris. 

Once in the cab, Dalrymple began hastily pulling off his coat andwaistcoat. I was startled to see his shirt-front stained with blood. 

"Heavens!" I exclaimed, "you are not wounded?"

"Very slightly. De Caylus was too good a shot to miss me altogether. Pshaw! 'tis nothing--a mere graze--not even the bullet left in it!"

"If it had been a little more to the left. . . . " I faltered. 

"If he had fired one second sooner, or lived one second longer, he wouldhave had me through the heart, as sure as there's a heaven above us!"said Dalrymple. 

Then, suddenly changing his tone, he added, laughingly--

"Nonsense, Damon! cheer up, and help me to tear this handkerchief intobandages. Now's the time to show off your surgery, my little Æsculapius. By Jupiter, life's a capital thing, after all!"

 * * * * *

CHAPTER LI

THE PORTRAIT. 

Having seen Dalrymple to his lodgings and dressed his wound, which was, in truth, but a very slight one, I left him and went home, promising toreturn in a few hours, and help him with his packing; for we both agreedthat he must leave Paris that evening, come what might. 

It was now close upon two o'clock, and I had been out since betweenthree and four the previous afternoon--not quite twenty-four hours, inpoint of actual time; but a week, a month, a year, in point ofsensation! Had I not seen a man die since that hour yesterday?

Walking homewards through the garish streets in the hot afternoon, allthe strange scenes in which I had just been an actor throngedfantastically upon my memory. The joyous dinner with Franz Müller; thebusy Temple; the noisy theatre; the long chase through the wet streetsat midnight; the crowded gaming-house; the sweet country drive at earlymorning; the quiet wood, and the dead man lying on his back, with theshadows of the leaves upon his face, --all this, in strange distinctness, came between me and the living tide of the Boulevards. 

And now, over-tired and over-excited as I was, I remembered for thefirst time that I had eaten nothing since half-past five that morning. And then I also remembered that I had left Müller waiting for me underthe archway, without a word of explanation. I promised myself that Iwould write to him as soon as I got home, and in the meantime turned inat the first Café to which I came and called for breakfast. But when thebreakfast was brought, I could not eat it. The coffee tasted bitter tome. The meat stuck in my throat. I wanted rest more than food--rest ofbody and mind, and the forgetfulness of sleep! So I paid my bill, and, leaving the untasted meal, went home like a man in a dream. 

Madame Bouïsse was not in her little lodge as I passed it--neither wasmy key on its accustomed hook. I concluded that she was cleaning myrooms, and so, going upstairs, found my door open. Hearing my own name, however, I paused involuntarily upon the threshold. 

"And so, as I was saying, " pursued a husky voice, which I knew at onceto be the property of Madame Bouïsse, "M'sieur Basil's friend painted iton purpose for him; and I am sure if he was as good a Catholic as theHoly Father himself, and that picture was a true portrait of our BlessedLady, he could not worship it more devoutly. I believe he says hisprayers to it, mam'selle! I often find it in the morning stuck up by thefoot of his bed; and when he comes home of an evening to study his booksand papers, it always stands on a chair just in front of his table, sothat he can see it without turning his head, every time he lifts hiseyes from the writing!"

In the murmured reply that followed, almost inaudible though it was, myear distinguished a tone that set my heart beating. 

"Well, I can't tell, of course, " said Madame Bouïsse, in answer, evidently, to the remark just made; "but if mam'selle will only take thetrouble to look in the glass, and then look at the picture, she will seehow like it is. For my part, I believe it to be that, and nothing else. Do you suppose I don't know the symptoms? _Dame!_ I have eyes, as wellas my neighbors; and you may take my word for it, mam'selle, that pooryoung gentleman is just as much in love as ever a man was inthis world!"

"No more of this, if you please, Madame Bouïsse, " said Hortense, sodistinctly that I could no longer be in doubt as to the speaker. 

I stayed to hear no more; but retreating softly down the first flight ofstairs, came noisily up again, and went straight into myrooms, saying:--

"Madame Bouïsse, are you here?"

"Not only Madame Bouïsse, but an intruder who implores forgiveness, "said Hortense, with a frank smile, but a heightened color. 

I bowed profoundly. No need to tell her she was welcome--my face spokefor me. 

"It was Madame Bouïsse who lured me in, " continued she, "to look at thatpainting. "

"_Mais, oui!_ I told mam'selle you had her portrait in yoursitting-room, " laughed the fat _concierge, _ leaning on her broom. "I'msure it's quite like enough to be hers, bless her sweet face!"

I felt myself turn scarlet. To hide my confusion I took the picturedown, and carried it to the window. 

"You will see it better by this light, " I said, pretending to dust itwith my handkerchief. "It is worth a close examination. "

Hortense knelt down, and studied it for some moments in silence. 

"It must be a copy, " she said, presently, more to herself than me--"itmust be a copy. "

"It _is_ a copy, " I replied. "The original is at the Château de SainteAulaire, near Montlhéry. "

"May I ask how you came by it?"

"A friend of mine, who is an artist, copied it. "

"Then it was done especially for you?"

"Just so. "

"And, no doubt, you value it?"

"More than anything I possess!"

Then, fearing I had said too much, I added:--

"If I had not admired the original very much, I should not have wishedfor a copy. "

She shifted the position of the picture in such a manner that, standingwhere I did, I could no longer see her face. 

"Then you have seen the original, " she said, in a low tone. 

"Undoubtedly--and you?"

"Yes, I have seen it; but not lately. "

There was a brief pause. 

"Madame Bouïsse thinks it so like yourself, mademoiselle, " I said, timidly, "that it might almost be your portrait. "

"I can believe it, " she answered. "It is very like my mother. "

Her voice faltered; and, still kneeling, she dropped her face in herhands, and wept silently. 

Madame Bouïsse, in the meantime, had gone into my bedchamber, where shewas sweeping and singing to herself with the door three parts closed, believing, no doubt, that she was affording me the opportunity to make aformal declaration. 

"Alas! mademoiselle, " I said, hesitatingly, "I little thought. . . "

She rose, dashed the tears aside, and, holding out her hand to me, said, kindly--

"It is no fault of yours, fellow-student, if I remind you of theportrait, or if the portrait reminds me of one whom it resembles stillmore nearly. I am sorry to have troubled your kind heart with my griefs. It is not often that they rise to the surface. "

I raised her hand reverently to my lips. 

"But you are looking worn and ill yourself, " she added. "Is anything thematter?"

"Not now, " I replied. "But I have been up all night, and--and I am verytired. "

"Was this in your professional capacity?"

"Not exactly--and yet partly so. I have been more a looker-on than anactive agent--and I have witnessed a frightful death-scene. "

She sighed, and shook her head. 

"You are not of the stuff that surgeons are made of, fellow-student, "she said, kindly. "Instead of prescribing for others, you need some oneto prescribe for you. Why, your hand is quite feverish. You should go tobed, and keep quiet for the next twelve hours. "

"I will lie down for a couple of hours when Madame Bouïsse is gone; butI must be up and out again at six. "

"Nay, that is in three hours. "

"I cannot help it. It is my duty. "

"Then I have no more to say. Would you drink some lemonade, if I made itfor you?"

"I would drink poison, if you made it for me!"

"A decidedly misplaced enthusiasm!" laughed she, and left the room. 

CHAPTER LII. 

NEWS FROM ENGLAND. 

It was a glorious morning--first morning of the first week in the merrymonth of June--as I took my customary way to Dr. Chéron's house in theFaubourg St. Germain. I had seen Dalrymple off by the night train theevening previous, and, refreshed by a good night's rest, had startedsomewhat earlier than usual, for the purpose of taking a turn in theLuxembourg Gardens before beginning my day's work. 

There the blossoming parterres, the lavish perfume from geranium-bed andacacia-blossom, and the mad singing of the little birds up among theboughs, set me longing for a holiday. I thought of Saxonholme, and thesweet English woodlands round about. I thought how pleasant it would beto go home to dear Old England, if only for ten days, and surprise myfather in his quiet study. What if I asked Dr. Chéron to spare me for afortnight?

Turning these things over in my mind, I left the gardens, and, arrivingpresently at the well-known Porte Cochère in the Rue de Mont Parnasse, rang the great bell, crossed the dull courtyard, and took my usual seatat my usual desk, not nearly so well disposed for work as usual. 

"If you please, Monsieur, " said the solemn servant, making hisappearance at the door, "Monsieur le Docteur requests your presence inhis private room. "

I went. Dr. Chéron was standing on the hearth-rug, with his back to thefire, and his arms folded over his breast. An open letter, borderedbroadly with black, lay upon his desk. Although distant some two yardsfrom the table, his eyes were fixed upon this paper. When I came in helooked up, pointed to a seat, but himself remained standing and silent. 

"Basil Arbuthnot, " he said, after a pause of some minutes, "I have thismorning received a letter from England, by the early post. "

"From my father, sir?"

"No. From a stranger, "

He looked straight at me as he said this, and hesitated. 

"But it contains news, " he added, "that--that much concerns you. "

There was a fixed gravity about the lines of his handsome mouth, and anunwonted embarrassment in his manner, that struck me with apprehension. 

"Good news, I--I hope, sir, " I faltered. 

"Bad news, my young friend, " said he, compassionately. "News that youmust meet like a man, with fortitude--with resignation. Yourfather--your excellent father--my honored friend--"

He pointed to the letter and turned away. 

I rose up, sat down, rose up again, reached out a trembling hand for theletter, and read the loss that my heart had already presaged. 

My father was dead. 

Well as ever in the morning, he had been struck with apoplexy in theafternoon, and died in a few hours, apparently without pain. 

The letter was written by our old family lawyer, and concluded with therequest that Dr. Chéron would "break the melancholy news to Mr. BasilArbuthnot, who would doubtless return to England for the funeral. "

My tears fell one by one upon the open letter. I had loved my fathertenderly in my heart. His very roughnesses and eccentricities were dearto me. I could not believe that he was gone. I could not believe that Ishould never hear his voice again!

Dr. Chéron came over, and laid his hand upon my shoulder. 

"Come, " he said, "you have much to do, and must soon be on your way. Theexpress leaves at midday. It is now ten, you have only two hours left. "

"My poor father!"

"Brunet, " continued the Doctor, "shall go back with you to your lodgingsand help you to pack. As for money--"

He took out his pocket-book and offered me a couple of notes; but Ishook my head and put them from me. 

"I have enough money, thank you, " I said. "Good-bye. "

"Good-bye, " he replied, and, for the first time in all these months, shook me by the hand. "You will write to me?"

I bowed my head in silence, and we parted. I found a cab at the door, and Brunet on the box. I was soon at home again. Home! I felt as if Ihad no home now, either in France or England--as if all my Paris lifewere a brief, bright dream, and this the dreary waking. Hortense wasout. It was one of her busy mornings, and she would not be back till theafternoon. It was very bitter to leave without one last look--one lastword. I seized pen and paper, and yielding for the first time to all theimpulses of my love, wrote, without weighing my words, these few briefsentences:--

"I have had a heavy loss, Hortense, and by the time you open this letterI shall be far away. My father--my dear, good father--is no more. Mymother died when I was a little child. I have no brothers--nosisters--no close family ties. I am alone in the world now--quite alone. My last thought here is of you. If it seems strange to speak of love atsuch a moment, forgive me, for that love is now my only hope. Oh, thatyou were here, that I might kiss your hand at parting, and know thatsome of your thoughts went with me! I cannot believe that you are quiteindifferent to me. It seems impossible that, loving you as I love, sodeeply, so earnestly, I should love in vain. When I come back I shallseek you here, where I have loved you so long. I shall look into youreyes for my answer, and read in them all the joy, or all the despair, ofthe life that lies before me. I had intended to get that portrait copiedagain for you, because you saw in it some likeness to your mother; butthere has been no time, and ere you receive this letter I shall be gone. I therefore send the picture to you by the _concierge_. It is my partinggift to you. I can offer no greater proof of my love. Farewell. "

Once written, I dared not read the letter over. I thrust it under herdoor, and in less than five minutes was on my way to the station. 

 * * * * *

CHAPTER LIII. 

THE FADING OF THE RAINBOW. 

 I loved a love once, fairest among women; Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her-- All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 

 LAMB. 

Beautifully and truly, in the fourth book of the most poetical ofstories, has a New World romancist described the state of a sorrowinglover. "All around him, " saith he, "seemed dreamy and vague; all withinhim, as in a sun's eclipse. As the moon, whether visible or invisible, has power over the tides of the ocean, so the face of that lady, whetherpresent or absent, had power over the tides of his soul, both by day andnight, both waking and sleeping. In every pale face and dark eye he sawa resemblance to her; and what the day denied him in reality, the nightgave him in dreams. "

Such was, very faithfully, my own condition of mind during the intervalwhich succeeded my departure from Paris--the only difference being thatLongfellow's hero was rejected by the woman he loved, and sorrowing forthat rejection; whilst I, neither rejected nor accepted, mourned anothergrief, and through the tears of that trouble, looked forward anxiouslyto my uncertain future. 

I reached Saxonholme the night before my father's funeral, and remainedthere for ten days. I found myself, to my surprise, almost a richman--that is to say, sufficiently independent to follow the bent of myinclinations as regarded the future. 

My first impulse, on learning the extent of my means, was to relinquisha career that had been from the first distasteful to me--my second wasto leave the decision to Hortense. To please her, to be worthy of her, to prove my devotion to her, was what I most desired upon earth. If shewished to see me useful and active in my generation, I would do my bestto be so for her sake--if, on the contrary, she only cared to see mecontent, I would devote myself henceforth to that life of "retiredleisure" that I had always coveted. Could man love more honestlyand heartily?

One year of foreign life had wrought a marked difference in me. I hadnot observed it so much in Paris; but here, amid old scenes and oldreminiscences, I seemed to meet the image of my former self, andwondered at the change 'twixt now and then. I left home, timid, ignorantof the world and its ways, reserved, silent, almost misanthropic. I cameback strengthened mentally and physically. Studious as ever, I could yetcontemplate an active career without positive repugnance; I knew how tomeet and treat my fellow-men; I was acquainted with society in its mostrefined and most homely phases. I had tasted of pleasure, ofdisappointment, of love--of all that makes life earnest. 

As the time drew near when I should return to Paris, grief, and hope, and that strange reluctance which would fain defer the thing it mostdesires, perplexed and troubled me by day and night. Once again on theroad, the past seemed more than ever dream-like, and Paris andSaxonholme became confused together in my mind, like the minglingoutlines of two dissolving views. 

I crossed the channel this time in a thick, misting rain; pushed onstraight for Paris, and reached the Cité Bergère in the midst of a warmand glowing afternoon. The great streets were crowded with carriages andfoot-passengers. The trees were in their fullest leaf. The sun poureddown on pavement and awning with almost tropical intensity. I dismissedmy cab at the top of the Rue du Faubourg Montmatre, and went up to thehouse on foot. A flower-girl sat in the shade of the archway, tying upher flowers for the evening-sale, and I bought a cluster of white rosesfor Hortense as I went by. 

Madame Bouïsse was sound asleep in her little sanctum; but my key hungin its old place, so I took it without disturbing her, and went up as ifI had been away only a few hours. Arrived at the third story, I stoppedoutside Hortense's door and listened. All was very silent within. Shewas out, perhaps; or writing quietly in the farther chamber. I thought Iwould leave my travelling-bag in my own room, and then ring boldly foradmittance. I turned the key, and found myself once again in my ownfamiliar, pleasant student home. The books and busts were there in theiraccustomed places; everything was as I had left it. Everything, exceptthe picture! The picture was gone; so Hortense had accepted it. 

Three letters awaited me on the table; one from Dr. Chéron, written in abold hand--a mere note of condolence: one from Dalrymple, datedChamounix: the third from Hortense. I knew it was from her. I knew thatthat small, clear, upright writing, so singularly distinct and regular, could be only hers. I had never seen it before; but my heartidentified it. 

That letter contained my fate. I took it up, laid it down, pacedbackwards and forwards, and for several minutes dared not break theseal. At length I opened it. It ran thus:--

"FRIEND AND FELLOW-STUDENT. 

"I had hoped that a man such as you and a woman such as I might becometrue friends, discuss books and projects, give and take the lesserservices of life, and yet not end by loving. In this belief, despiteoccasional misgivings, I have suffered our intercourse to becomeintimacy--our acquaintance, friendship. I see now that I was mistaken, and now, when it is, alas! too late, I reproach myself for theconsequences of that mistake. 

"I can be nothing to you, friend. I have duties in life more sacred thanmarriage. I have a task to fulfil which is sterner than love, andimperative as fate. I do not say that to answer you thus costs me nopain. Were there even hope, I would bid you hope; but my labor pressesheavily upon me, and repeated failure has left me weary and heart-sick. 

"You tell me in your letter that, by the time I read it, you will be faraway. It is now my turn to repeat the same words. When you come back toyour rooms, mine will be empty. I shall be gone; all I ask is, that youwill not attempt to seek me. 

"Farewell. I accept your gift. Perhaps I act selfishly in taking it, buta day may come when I shall justify that selfishness to you. In themeantime, once again farewell. You are my only friend, and these are thesaddest words I have ever written--forget me!

"HORTENSE. "

I scarcely know how I felt, or what I did, on first reading this letter. I believe that I stood for a long time stone still, incapable ofrealizing the extent of my misfortune. By-and-by it seemed to rush uponme suddenly. I threw open my window, scaled the balcony rails, andforced my way into her rooms. 

Her rooms! Ah, by that window she used to sit--at that table she readand wrote--in that bed she slept! All around and about were scatteredevidences of her presence. Upon the chimney-piece lay an envelopeaddressed to her name--upon the floor, some fragments of torn paper andsome ends of cordage! The very flowers were yet fresh upon her balcony!The sight of these things, while they confirmed my despair, thawed theice at my heart. I kissed the envelope that she had touched, the flowersshe had tended, the pillow on which her head had been wont to rest. Icalled wildly on her name. I threw myself on the floor in my greatagony, and wept aloud. 

I cannot tell how long I may have lain there; but it seemed like alifetime. Long enough, at all events, to drink the bitter draught to thelast drop--long enough to learn that life had now no grief in store forwhich I should weep again. 

CHAPTER LIV. 

TREATETH OF MANY THINGS; BUT CHIEFLY OF BOOKS AND POETS. 

 Dreams, books, are each a world; and books, we know, Are a substantial world, both pure and good. 

 WORDSWORTH. 

There are times when this beautiful world seems to put on a mourninggarb, as if sympathizing, like a gentle mother, with the grief thatconsumes us; when the trees shake their arms in mute sorrow, and scattertheir faded leaves like ashes on our heads; when the slow rains weepdown upon us, and the very clouds look cold above. Then, like Hamlet theDane, we take no pleasure in the life that weighs so wearily upon us, and deem "this goodly frame, the earth, a sterile promonotory; this mostexcellent canopy, the air, this brave, overhanging firmament, thismajestical roof fretted with golden fire, a foul and pestilentcongregation of vapors. "

So it was with me, in the heavy time that followed my return to Paris. Ihad lost everything in losing her I loved. I had no aim in life. Nooccupation. No hope. No rest. The clouds had rolled between me and thesun, and wrapped me in their cold shadows, and all was dark about me. Ifelt that I could say with an old writer--"For the world, I count it, not an inn, but an hospital; and a place, not to live, but to die in. "

Week after week I lingered in Paris, hoping against hope, and alwaysseeking her. I had a haunting conviction that she was not far off, andthat, if I only had strength to persevere, I must find her. Possessed bythis fixed idea, I paced the sultry streets day after day throughout theburning months of June and July; lingered at dusk and early morningabout the gardens of the Luxembourg, and such other quiet places as shemight frequent; and, heedless alike of fatigue, or heat, or tempest, traversed the dusty city over and over again from barrier to barrier, inevery direction. 

Could I but see her once more--once only! Could I but listen to hersweet voice, even though it bade me an eternal farewell! Could I but laymy lips for the last, last time upon her hand, and see the tender pityin her eyes, and be comforted!

Seeking, waiting, sorrowing thus, I grew daily weaker and paler, scarcely conscious of my own failing strength, and indifferent to allthings save one. In vain Dr. Chéron urged me to resume my studies. Invain Müller, ever cheerful and active, came continually to my lodgings, seeking to divert my thoughts into healthier channels. In vain Ireceived letter after letter from Oscar Dalrymple, imploring me tofollow him to Switzerland, where his wife had already joined him. I shutmy eyes to all alike. Study had grown hateful to me; Müller'scheerfulness jarred upon me; Dalrymple was too happy for mycompanionship. Liberty to pursue my weary search, peace to brood over mysorrow, were all that I now asked. I had not yet arrived at that stagewhen sympathy grows precious. 

So weeks went by, and August came, and a slow conviction of the utterhopelessness of my efforts dawned gradually upon me. She was reallygone. If she had been in Paris all this time pursuing her dailyavocations, I must surely have found her. Where should I seek her next?What should I do with life, with time, with the future?

I resolved, at all events, to relinquish medicine at once, and for ever. So I wrote a brief farewell to Dr. Chéron and another to Müller, andwithout seeing either again, returned abruptly to England. 

I will not dwell on this part of my story; enough that I settled myaffairs as quickly as might be, left an old servant in care of thesolitary house that had been my birthplace, and turned my back once moreon Saxonholme, perhaps for years--perhaps for ever; and in less thanthree weeks was again on my way to the Continent. 

The spirit of restlessness was now upon me. I had no home; I had nopeace; and in place of the sun there was darkness. So I went with thethorns around my brow, and the shadow of the cross upon my breast. Iwent to suffer--to endure, --if possible, to forget. Oh, the grief ofthe soul which lives on in the night, and looks for no dawning! Oh, theweary weight that presses down the tired eyelids, and yet leaves themsleepless! Oh, the tide of alien faces, and the sickening remembrance ofone, too dear, which may never be looked upon again! I carried with methe antidote to every pleasure. In the midst of crowds, I was alone. Inthe midst of novelty, the one thought came, and made all stale to me. Like Dr. Donne, I dwelt with the image of my dead self at my side. 

Thus for many, many months we journeyed together---I and my sorrow--andpassed through fair and famous places, and saw the seasons change undernew skies. To the quaint old Flemish cities and the Gothic Rhine--to theplains and passes of Spain--to the unfrequented valleys of the Tyrol andthe glacier-lands of Switzerland I went, but still found not theforgetfulness I sought. As in Holbein's fresco the skeleton plays hispart in every scene, so my trouble stalked beside me, drank of my cup, and sat grimly at my table. It was with me in Naples and among theorange groves of Sorrento. It met me amid the ruins of the Roman Forum. It travelled with me over the blue Mediterranean, and landed beside meon the shores of the Cyclades. Go where I would, it possessed andfollowed me, and brooded over my head, like the cloud that rested onthe ark. 

Thinking over this period of my life, I seem to be turning the leaves ofa rich album, or wandering through a gallery of glowing landscapes, andyet all the time to be dreaming. Faces grown familiar for a few days andnever seen after--pictures photographed upon the memory in all theirvividness--glimpses of cathedrals, of palaces, of ruins, of sunset andstorm, sea and shore, flit before me for a moment, and are gone likephantasmagoria. 

And like phantasmagoria they impressed me at the time. Nothing seemedreal to me. Startled, now and then, into admiration or wonder, my apathyfell from me like a garment, and my heart throbbed again as of old. Butthis was seldom--so seldom that I could almost count the times when itbefell me. 

Thus it was that travelling did me no permanent good. It enlarged myexperience; it undoubtedly cultivated my taste; but it brought meneither rest, nor sympathy, nor consolation. On the contrary, it widenedthe gulf between me and my fellow-men. I formed no friendships. I keptup no correspondence. A sojourner in hotels, I became more and morewithdrawn from all tender and social impulses, and almost forgot thevery name of home. So strong a hold did this morbid love ofself-isolation take upon me, that I left Florence on one occasion, aftera stay of only three days, because I had seen the names of a Saxonholmefamily among the list of arrivals in the Giornale Toscano. 

Three years went by thus--three springs--three vintages--threewinters--till, weary of wandering, I began to ask myself "what next?" Myold passion for books had, in the meantime, re-asserted itself, and Ilonged once more for quiet. I knew not that my pilgrimage was hopeless. I know that I loved her ever; that I could never forget her; thatalthough the first pangs were past, I yet must bear

 "All the aching of heart, the restless, unsatisfied longing, All the dull, deep pain, and constant anguish of patience!"

I reasoned with myself. I resolved to be stronger--at all events, to becalmer. Exhausted and world-worn, I turned in thought to my nativevillage among the green hills, to my deserted home, and the greatsolitary study with its busts and bookshelves, and its vista ofneglected garden. The rooms where my mother died; where my father wrote;where, as a boy, I dreamed and studied, would at least have memoriesfor me. 

Perhaps, silently underlying all these motives, I may at this timealready have begun to entertain one other project which was not so mucha motive as a hope--not so much a hope as a half-seen possibility. I hadwritten verses from time to time all my life long, and of late they hadcome to me more abundantly than ever. They flowed in upon me at timeslike an irresistible tide; at others they ebbed away for weeks, andseemed as if gone for ever. It was a power over which I had no control, and sought to have none. I never tried to make verses; but, whenthe inspiration was upon me, I made them, as it were, in spite ofmyself. My desk was full of them in time--sonnets, scraps of songs, fragments of blank verse, attempts in all sorts of queer and ruggedmetres--hexameters, pentameters, alcaics, and the like; with, here andthere, a dialogue out of an imaginary tragedy, or a translation fromsome Italian or German poet. This taste grew by degrees, to be a rareand subtle pleasure to me. My rhymes became my companions, and when theinterval of stagnation came, I was restless and lonely till itpassed away. 

At length there came an hour (I was lying, I remember, on a ledge ofturf on a mountain-side, overlooking one of the Italian valleys of theAlps), when I asked myself for the first time--

"Am I also a poet?"

I had never dreamed of it, never thought of it, never even hoped it, till that moment. I had scribbled on, idly, carelessly, out of whatseemed a mere facile impulse, correcting nothing; seldom even readingwhat I had written, after it was committed to paper. I had sometimesbeen pleased with a melodious cadence or a happy image--sometimes amusedwith my own flow of thought and readiness of versification; but that I, simple Basil Arbuthnot, should be, after all, enriched with thissplendid gift of song--was it mad presumption, or were these thingsproof? I knew not; but lying on the parched grass of the mountain-side, I tried the question over in my mind, this way and that, till "my heartbeat in my brain, " How should I come at the truth? How should I testwhether this opening Paradise was indeed Eden, or only the mirage of myfancy--mere sunshine upon sand? We all write verses at some moment orother in our lives, even the most prosaic amongst us--some because theyare happy; some because they are sad; some because the living fire ofyouth impels them, and they must be up and doing, let the work bewhat it may. 

 "Many fervent souls, Strike rhyme on rhyme, who would strike steel on steel, If steel had offer'd. "

Was this case mine? Was I fancying myself a poet, only because I was anidle man, and had lost the woman I loved? To answer these questionsmyself was impossible. They could only be answered by the public voice, and before I dared question that oracle I had much to do. I resolved todiscipline myself to the harness of rhythm. I resolved to go back to thefathers of poetry--to graduate once again in Homer and Dante, Chaucerand Shakespeare. I promised myself that, before I tried my wings in thesun, I would be my own severest critic. Nay, more--that I would nevertry them so long as it seemed possible a fall might come of it. Oncecome to this determination, I felt happier and more hopeful than I hadfelt for the last three years. I looked across the blue mists of thevalley below, and up to the aerial peaks which rose, faint, and far, andglittering--mountain beyond mountain, range above range, as if paintedon the thin, transparent air--and it seemed to me that they stood by, steadfast and silent, the witnesses of my resolve. 

"I will be strong, " I said. "I will be an idler and a dreamer no longer. Books have been my world. I have taken all, and given nothing. Now I toowill work, and work to prove that I was not unworthy of her love. "

Going down, by-and-by, into the valley as the shadows were lengthening, I met a traveller with an open book in his hand. He was anEnglishman--small, sallow, wiry, and wore a gray, loose coat, with twolarge pockets full of books. I had met him once before at Milan, andagain in a steamer on Lago Maggiore. He was always reading. He read inthe diligence--he read when he was walking--he read all through dinnerat the _tables-d'-hôte_. He had a mania for reading; and, might, infact, be said to be bound up in his own library. 

Meeting thus on the mountain, we fell into conversation. He told me thathe was on his way to Geneva, that he detested continental life, and thathe was only waiting the arrival of certain letters before startingfor England. 

"But, " said I, "you do not, perhaps, give continental life a trial. Youare always absorbed in the pages of a book; and, as for the scenery, youappear not to observe it. "

"Deuce take the scenery!" he exclaimed, pettishly. "I never look at it. All scenery's alike. Trees, mountains, water--water, mountains, trees;the same thing over and over again, like the bits of colored glass in akaleidoscope. I read about the scenery, and that is quite enoughfor me. "

"But no book can paint an Italian lake or an Alpine sunset; and when oneis on the spot. . . . "

"I beg your pardon, " interrupted the traveller in gray. "Everythingis much pleasanter and more picturesque in books than inreality--travelling especially. There are no bad smells in books. Thereare no long bills in books. Above all, there are no mosquitoes. Travelling is the greatest mistake in the world, and I am going home asfast as I can. "

"And henceforth, I suppose, your travels will be confined to yourlibrary, " I said, smiling. 

"Exactly so. I may say, with Hazlitt, that 'food, warmth, sleep, and abook, ' are all I require. With those I may make the tour of the world, and incur neither expense nor fatigue. "

"Books, after all, are friends, " I said, with a sigh. 

"Sir, " replied the traveller, waving his hand somewhat theatrically, "books are our first real friends, and our last. I have no others. Iwish for no others. I rely upon no others. They are the only associatesupon whom a sensible man may depend. They are always wise, and they arealways witty. They never intrude upon us when we desire to be alone. They never speak ill of us behind our backs. They are never capricious, and never surly; neither are they, like some clever folks, pertinaciously silent when we most wish them to shine. Did Shakespeareever refuse his best thoughts to us, or Montaigne decline to becompanionable? Did you ever find Molière dull? or Lamb prosy? or Scottunentertaining?"

"You remind me, " said I, laughing, "of the student in Chaucer, whodesired for his only pleasure and society, "'---at his bedde's head A'twenty bokes clothed in black and red, Of Aristotle and his philosophy!'"

"Ay, " replied my new acquaintance, "but he preferred them expressly to'robes riche, or fidel or sautrie, ' whereas, I prefer them to men andwomen, and to Aristotle and his philosophy, into the bargain!"

"Your own philosophy, at least, is admirable, " said I. "For many ayear--I might almost say for most years of my life--I have been adisciple in the same school. "

"Sir, you cannot belong to a better. Think of the convenience of alwayscarrying half a dozen intimate friends in your pocket! Good-afternoon. "

We had now come to a point where two paths diverged, and the readingtraveller, always economical of time, opened his book where he had lastturned down the leaf, and disappeared round the corner. 

I never saw him again; but his theory amused me, and, as trifles willsometimes do even in the gravest matters, decided me. So the result ofall my hopes and reflections was, that I went back to England and to thestudent life that had been the dream of my youth. 

CHAPTER LV. 

MY BIRTHDAY. 

Three years of foreign travel, and five of retirement at home, broughtmy twenty-ninth birthday. I was still young, it is true; but how changedfrom that prime of early manhood when I used to play Romeo at midnightto Hortense upon her balcony! I looked at myself in the glass thatmorning, and contemplated the wearied, bronzed, and bearded face which

". . . Seared by toil and something touched by time, "

now gave me back glance for glance. I looked older than my age by manyyears. My eyes had grown grave with a steadfast melancholy, and streaksof premature silver gleamed here and there in the still abundant hairwhich had been the solitary vanity of my youth. 

"Is she also thus changed and faded?" I asked myself, as I turned away. And then I sighed to think that if we met she might not know me. 

For I loved her still; worshipped her; raised altars to her in the duskychambers of my memory. My whole life was dedicated to her. My bestthoughts were hers. My poems, my ambition, my hours of labor, all werehers only! I knew now that no time could change the love which had sochanged me, or dim the sweet remembrance of that face which I carriedfor ever at my heart like an amulet. Other women might be fair, but myeyes never sought them; other voices might be sweet, but my ear neverlistened to them; other hands might be soft, but my lips never pressedthem. She was the only woman in all my world--the only star in all mynight--the one Eve of my ruined Paradise. In a word, I loved her--lovedher, I think, more dearly than before I lost her. 

 "Love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds, Or bends with the remover to remove: O no! it is an ever-fixed mark, That looks on tempests and is never shaken. "

I had that morning received by post a parcel of London papers andmagazines, which, for a foolish reason of my own, I almost dreaded toopen; so, putting off the evil hour, I thrust the ominous parcel into mypocket and went out to read it in some green solitude, far away amongthe lonely hills and tracts of furzy common that extend for miles andmiles around my native place. It was a delicious autumn morning, brightand fresh and joyous as spring. The purple heather was all abloom alongthe slopes of the hill-sides. The golden sandcliffs glittered in thesun. The great firwoods reached away over heights and throughvalleys--"grand and spiritual trees, " pointing ever upward with warningfinger, like the Apostles in the old Italian pictures. Now I passed asolitary farm-yard where busy laborers were piling the latest stacks;now met a group of happy children gathering wild nuts and blackberries. By-and-by, I came upon a great common, with a picturesque mill standinghigh against the sky. All around and about stretched a vast prospect ofwoodland and tufted heath, bounded far off by a range of chalk-hillsspeckled with farm-houses and villages, and melting towards the westinto a distance faint and far, and mystic as the horizon of a Turner. 

Here I threw myself on the green turf and rested. Truly, Nature is agreat "physician of souls. " The peace of the place descended into myheart, and hushed for a while the voice of its repinings. The deliciousair, the living silence of the woods, the dreamy influences of theautumnal sunshine, all alike served to lull me into a pleasant mood, neither gay nor sad, but very calm--calm enough for the purpose forwhich I had come. So I brought out my packet of papers, summoned all myphilosophy to my aid, and met my own name upon the second page. For herewas, as I had anticipated, a critique on my first volume of poems. 

Indifference to criticism, if based upon a simple consciousness of moralright, is a noble thing. But indifference to criticism, taken in itsordinary, and especially its literary sense, is generally a very smallthing, and resolves itself, for the most part, into a halting andone-sided kind of stoicism, meaning indifference to blame and ridicule, and never indifference to praise. It is very convenient to thedisappointed authorling; very effective, in the established writer; butit is mere vanity at the root, and equally contemptible in both. For mypart, I confess that I came to my trial as tremblingly as any poorcaitiff to the fiery ordeal, and finding myself miraculously clear ofthe burning ploughshares, was quite as full of wonder and thankfulnessat my good fortune. For I found my purposes appreciated, and my bestthoughts understood; not, it is true, without some censure, but it wascensure tempered so largely with encouragement that I drew hope fromit, and not despondency. And then I thought of Hortense, and, picturingto myself all the joy it would have been to lay these things at herfeet, I turned my face to the grass, and wept like a child. 

Then, one by one, the ghosts of my dead hopes rose out of the grave ofthe past and vanished "into thin air" before me; and in their place cameearnest aspirations, born of the man's strong will. I resolved to usewisely the gifts that were mine--to sing well the song that had risen tomy lips--to "seize the spirit of my time, " and turn to noble uses theGod-given weapons of the poet. So should I be worthier of herremembrance, if she yet remembered me--worthier, at all events, toremember her. 

Thus the hours ebbed, and when I at length rose and turned my facehomeward, the golden day was already bending westward. Lower and lowersank the sun as the miles shortened; stiller and sweeter grew theevening air; and ever my lengthening shadow travelled before me alongthe dusty road--wherein I was more fortunate than the man in the Germanstory who sold his to the devil. 

It was quite dusk by the time I gained the outskirts of the town, and Ireflected with much contentment upon the prospect of a cosy bachelordinner, and, after dinner, lamplight and a book. 

"If you please, sir, " said Collins, "a lady has been here. "

Collins--the same Collins who had been my father's servant when I was aboy at home--was now a grave married man, with hair fast whitening. 

"A lady?" I echoed. "One of my cousins, I suppose, from Effingham. "

"No, sir, " said Collins. "A strange lady--a foreigner. "

A stranger! a foreigner! I felt myself change color. 

"She left her name?" I asked. 

"Her card, sir, " said Collins, and handed it to me. 

I took it up with fingers that shook in spite of me and read:--

MADLLE DE SAINTE AULAIRE. 

I dropped the card, with a sigh of profound disappointment. 

"At what time did this lady call, Collins?"

"Not very long after you left the house, sir. She said she would callagain. She is at the White Horse. "

"She shall not have the trouble of coming here, " I said, drawing mychair to the table. "Send James up to the White Horse with mycompliments, and say that I will wait upon the lady in about anhour's time. "

Collins darted away to despatch the message, and returning presentlywith the pale ale, uncorked it dexterously, and stood at the side-board, serenely indifferent. 

"And what kind of person was this--this Mademoiselle de Sainte Aulaire, Collins?" I asked, leisurely bisecting a partridge. 

"Can't say, sir, indeed. Lady kept her veil down. "

"Humph! Tall or short, Collins?"

"Rather tall, sir. "

"Young?"

"Haven't an idea, sir. Voice very pleasant, though. "

A pleasant voice has always a certain attraction for me. Hortense'svoice was exquisite--rich and low, and somewhat deeper than the voicesof most women. 

I took up the card again. Mademoiselle de Sainte Aulaire! Where had Iheard that name?

"She said nothing of the nature of her business, I suppose, Collins?"

"Nothing at all, sir. Dear me, sir, I beg pardon for not mentioning itbefore; but there's been a messenger over from the White Horse, sincethe lady left, to know if you were yet home. "

"Then she is in haste?"

"Very uncommon haste, I should say, sir, " replied Collins, deliberately. 

I pushed back the untasted dish, and rose directly. 

"You should have told me this before, " I said, hastily. 

"But--but surely, sir, you will dine--"

"I will wait for nothing, " I interrupted. "I'll go at once. Had I knownthe lady's business was urgent, I would not have delayed a moment. "

Collins cast a mournful glance at the table, and sighed respect fully. Before he had recovered from his amazement, I was half way to the inn. 

The White Horse was now the leading hostelry of Saxonholme. The old RedLion was no more. Its former host and hostess were dead; a breweryoccupied its site; and the White Horse was kept by a portly Boniface, who had been head-waiter under the extinct dynasty. But there had beenmany changes in Saxonholme since my boyish days, and this was one of theleast among them. 

I was shown into the best sitting-room, preceded by a smart waiter in awhite neckcloth. At a glance I took in all the bearings of thescene--the table with its untasted dessert; the shaded lamp; the closedcurtains of red damask; the thoughtful figure in the easy chair. Although the weather was yet warm, a fire blazed in the grate; but thewindows were open behind the crimson curtains, and the evening air stolegently in. It was like stepping into a picture by Gerard Dow, so closed, so glowing, so rich in color. 

"Mr. Arbuthnot, " said the smart waiter, flinging the door very wideopen, and lingering to see what might follow. 

The lady rose slowly, bowed, waved her hand towards a chair at somedistance from her own, and resumed her seat. The waiter reluctantlyleft the room. 

"I had not intended, sir, to give you the trouble of coming here, " saidMademoiselle de Sainte Aulaire, using her fan as a handscreen, andspeaking in a low, and, as it seemed to me, a somewhat constrainedvoice. I could not see her face, but something in the accent made myheart leap. 

"Pray do not name it, madam, " I said. "It is nothing. "

She bent her head, as if thanking me, and went on:--

"I have come to this place, " she said, "in order to prosecute certaininquiries which are of great importance to myself. May I ask if you area native of Saxonholme?"

"I am. "

"Were you here in the year 18--?"

"I was. "

"Will you give me leave to test your memory respecting some events thattook place about that time?"

"By all means. "

Mademoiselle de Sainte Aulaire thanked me with a gesture, withdrew herchair still farther from the radius of the lamp and the tire, and said:--

"I must entreat your patience if I first weary you with one or twoparticulars of my family history, "

"Madam, I listen. "

During the brief pause that ensued, I tried vainly to distinguishsomething more of her features. I could only trace the outline of aslight and graceful figure, the contour of a very slender hand, and theample folds of a dark silk dress. 

At length, in a low, sweet voice, she began:--

"Not to impose upon you any dull genealogical details, " she said, "Iwill begin by telling you that the Sainte Aulaires are an ancient Frenchfamily of Bearnais extraction, and that my grandfather was the lastMarquis who bore the title. Holding large possessions in the _comtat_ ofVenaissin (a district which now forms part of the department ofVaucluse) and other demesnes at Montlhéry, in the province of the Ile deFrance---"

"At Montlhéry!" I exclaimed, suddenly recovering the lost link in mymemory. 

"The Sainte Aulaires, " continued the lady, without pausing to notice myinterruption, "were sufficiently wealthy to keep up their socialposition, and to contract alliances with many of the best families inthe south of France. Towards the early part of the reign of Louis XIII. They began to be conspicuous at court, and continued to reside in andnear Paris up to the period of the Revolution. Marshals of France, Envoys, and Ministers of State during a period of nearly a century and ahalf, the Sainte Aulaires had enjoyed too many honors not to be amongthe first of those who fell in the Reign of Terror. My grandfather, who, as I have already said, was the last Marquis bearing the title, wasseized with his wife and daughter at his Château near Montlhéry in thespring-time of 1793, and carried to La Force. Thence, after a mocktrial, they were all three conveyed to execution, and publiclyguillotined on the sixth of June in the same year. Do you follow me?"

"Perfectly. "

"One survivor, however, remained in the person of Charles Armand, Prévôtde Sainte Aulaire, only son of the Marquis, then a youth of seventeenyears of age, and pursuing his studies in the seclusion of an old familyseat in Vaucluse. He fled into Italy. In the meantime, his inheritancewas confiscated; and the last representative of the race, reduced toexile and beggary, assumed another name. It were idle to attempt to mapout his life through the years that followed. He wandered from land toland; lived none knew how; became a tutor, a miniature-painter, avolunteer at Naples under General Pepe, a teacher of languages inLondon, corrector of the press to a publishing house inBrussels--everything or anything, in short, by which he could honorablyearn his bread. During these years of toil and poverty, he married. Thelady was an orphan, of Scotch extraction, poor and proud as himself, andgoverness in a school near Brussels. She died in the third year of theirunion, and left him with one little daughter. This child becamehenceforth his only care and happiness. While she was yet a mere infant, he placed her in the school where her mother had been teacher. There sheremained, first as pupil, by-and-by as governess, for more than sixteenyears. The child was called by an old family name that had been hergrandmother's and her great-grandmother's in the high and palmy days ofthe Sainte Aulaires--Hortense. "

"Hortense!" I cried, rising from my chair. 

"It is not an uncommon name, " said the lady. "Does it surprise you?"

"I--I beg your pardon, madam, " I stammered, resuming my seat. "I oncehad a dear friend of that name. Pray, go on. "

"For ten years the refugee contrived to keep his little Hortense in thesafe and pleasant shelter of her Flemish home. He led a wandering life, no one knew where; and earned his money, no one knew how. Travel-wornand careworn, he was prematurely aged, and at fifty might well have beenmistaken for a man of sixty-five or seventy. Poor and broken as he was, however, Monsieur de Sainte Aulaire was every inch a gentleman of theold school; and his little girl was proud of him, when he came to theschool to see her. This, however, was very seldom--never oftener thantwice or three times in the year. When she saw him for the last time, Hortense was about thirteen years of age. He looked paler, and thinner, and poorer than ever; and when he bade her farewell, it was as if underthe presentiment that they might meet no more. He then told her, for thefirst time, something of his story, and left with her at parting a smallcoffer containing his decorations, a few trinkets that had been hismother's, and his sword--the badge of his nobility. "

The lady's voice faltered. I neither spoke nor stirred, but sat like aman of stone. 

Then she went on again:--

"The father never came again. The child, finding herself after a certainlength of time thrown upon the charity of her former instructors, wasglad to become under-teacher in their school. The rest of her historymay be told in a few words. From under-teacher she became head-teacher, and at eighteen passed as governess into a private family. At twenty sheremoved to Paris, and set foot for the first time in the land of herfathers. All was now changed in France. The Bourbons reigned again, andher father, had he reappeared, might have reclaimed his lost estates. She sought him far and near. She employed agents to discover him. Shecould not believe that he was dead. To be once again clasped in hisarms--to bring him back to his native country---to see him resume hisname and station--this was the bright dream of her life. To accomplishthese things she labored in many ways, teaching and writing; forHortense also was proud--too proud to put forward an unsupported claim. For with her father were lost the title-deeds and papers that might havemade the daughter wealthy, and she had no means of proving her identity. Still she labored heartily, lived poorly, and earned enough to push herinquiries far and wide--even to journey hither and thither, whenever shefancied, alas! that a clue had been found. Twice she travelled intoSwitzerland, and once into Italy, but always in vain. The exile had toowell concealed, even from her, his _sobriquet_ and his calling, andHortense at last grew weary of failure. One fact, however, she succeededin discovering, and only one--namely, that her father had, many yearsbefore, made some attempt to establish his claims to the estates, butthat he had failed for want either of sufficient proof, or of means tocarry on the _procés_. Of even this circumstance only a meagrelaw-record remained, and she could succeed in learning no more. Sincethen, a claim has been advanced by a remote branch of the Sainte Aulairefamily, and the cause is, even now, in course of litigation. "

She paused, as if fatigued by so long talking; but, seeing me about tospeak, prevented me with a gesture of the hand, and resumed:--

"Hortense de Ste. Aulaire continued to live in Paris for nearly fiveyears, at the end of which time she left it to seek out the members ofher mother's family. Finding them kindly disposed towards her, she tookup her abode amongst them in the calm seclusion of a remote Scotch town. There, even there, she still hoped, still employed agents; still yearnedto discover, if not her father, at least her father's grave. Severalyears passed thus. She continued to earn a modest subsistence by herpen, till at length the death of one of those Scotch relatives left hermistress of a small inheritance. Money was welcome, since it enabledher to pursue her task with renewed vigor. She searched farther anddeeper. A trivial circumstance eagerly followed up brought a train ofother circumstances to light. She discovered that her father had assumeda certain name; she found that the bearer of this name was a wanderingman, a conjuror by trade; she pursued the vague traces of his progressfrom town to town, from county to county, sometimes losing, sometimesregaining the scattered links. Sir, he was my father--I am thatHortense. I have spent my life seeking him--I have lived for this onehope. I have traced his footsteps here to Saxonholme, and here the lastclue fails. If you know anything--if you can remember anything---"

Calm and collected as she had been at first, she was trembling now, andher voice died away in sobs. The firelight fell upon her face--upon theface of my lost love!

I also was profoundly agitated. 

"Hortense, " I said, "do you not know, that he who stood beside yourfather in his last hour, and he who so loved you years ago, are one andthe same? Alas! why did you not tell me these things long since?"

"Did _you_ stand beside my father's deathbed?" she asked brokenly. 

"I did. "

She clasped her hands over her eyes and shuddered, as if beneath thepressure of a great physical pain. 

"O God!" she murmured, "so many years of denial and suffering! so manyyears of darkness that might have been dispelled by a word!"

We were both silent for a long time. Then I told her all that Iremembered of her father; how he came to Saxonholme--how he fellill--how he died, and was buried. It was a melancholy recital; painfulfor me to relate--painful for her to hear--and interrupted over and overagain by questions and tears, and bursts of unavailing sorrow. 

"We will visit his grave to-morrow, " I said, when all was told. 

She bent her head. 

"To-morrow, then, " said she, "I end the pilgrimage of years. "

"And--and afterwards?" I faltered. 

"Afterwards? Alas! friend, when the hopes of years fall suddenly to dustand ashes, one feels as if there were no future to follow?"

"It is true, " I said gloomily. "I know it too well. "

"You know it?" she exclaimed, looking up. 

"I know it, Hortense. There was a moment in which all the hope, and thefulness, and the glory of my life went down at a blow. Have you notheard of ships that have gone to the bottom in fair weather, suddenly, with all sail set, and every hand on board?"

She looked at me with a strange earnestness in her eyes, and sighedheavily. 

"What have you been doing all this time, fellow-student?" she asked, after a pause. 

The old name sounded very sweet upon her lips!

"I? Alas!--nothing. "

"But you are a surgeon, are you not?"

"No. I never even went up for examination. I gave up all idea ofmedicine as a profession when my father died. "

"What are you, then?"

"An idler upon the great highway--a book-dreamer--a library fixture. "

Hortense looked at me thoughtfully, with her cheek resting on her hand. 

"Have you done nothing but read and dream?"

"Not quite. I have travelled. "

"With what object?"

"A purely personal one. I was alone and unhappy, and--"

"And fancied that purposeless wandering was better for you than healthylabor. Well, you have travelled, and you have read books. What more?"

"Nothing more, except--"

"Except what?"

I chanced to have one of the papers in my pocket, and so drew it out, and placed it before her. 

"I have been a rhymer as well as a dreamer, " I said, shyly. "Perhaps therhymes grew out of the dreams, as the dreams themselves grew out ofsomething else which has been underlying my life this many a year. Atall events I have hewn a few of them into shape, and trusted them topaper and type--and here is a critique which came to me this morningwith some three or four others. "

She took the paper with a smile half of wonder, half of kindness, and, glancing quickly through it, said:--

"This is well. This is very well. I must read the book. Will you lend itto me?"

"I will give it to you, " I replied; "if I can give you that which isalready yours. "

"Already mine?"

"Yes, as the poet in me, however worthless, is all and only yours! Doyou suppose, Hortense, that I have ever ceased to love you? As my songsare born of my sorrow, so my sorrow was born of my love; and love, andsorrow, and song, such as they are, are of your making. "

"Hush!" she said, with something of her old gay indifference. "Yourliterary sins must not be charged upon me, fellow-student! I have enoughof my own to answer for. Besides, I am not going to acquit you soeasily. Granted that you have written a little book of poetry--whatthen? Have you done nothing else? Nothing active? Nothing manly?Nothing useful?"

"If by usefulness and activity you mean manual labor, I certainly haveneither felled a tree, nor ploughed a field, nor hammered a horse-shoe. I have lived by thought alone. "

"Then I fear you have lived a very idle life, " said Hortense, smiling. "Are you married?"

"Married!" I echoed, indignantly. "How can you ask the question?"

"You are not a magistrate?"

"Certainly not. "

"In short, then, you are perfectly useless. You play no part, domesticor public. You serve neither the state nor the community. You are a merecypher--a make-weight in the social scale--an article of no value to anyone except the owner. "

"Not even the latter, mademoiselle, " I replied, bitterly. "It is longsince I have ceased to value my own life. "

She smiled again, but her eyes this time were full of tears. 

"Nay, " said she, softly, "am I not the owner?"

 * * * * *

Great joys at first affect us like great griefs. We are stunned by them, and know not how deep they are till the night comes with its solemnstillness, and we are alone with our own hearts. Then comes the seasonof thankfulness, and wonder and joy. Then our souls rise up within us, and chant a hymn of praise; and the great vault of Heaven is as the roofof a mighty cathedral studded with mosaics of golden stars, and thenight winds join in with the bass of their mighty organ-pipes; and thepoplars rustle, like the leaves of the hymn-books in the hands of thecongregation. 

So it was with me that evening when I went forth into the quiet fieldswhere the summer moon was shining, and knew that Hortense was mine atlast--mine now and for ever. Overjoyed and restless, I wandered aboutfor hours. I could not go home. I felt I must breathe the open air ofthe hills, and tread the dewy grass, and sing my hymn of praise andthanksgiving after my own fashion. At length, as the dawning light camewidening up the east, I turned my steps homewards, and before the sunhad risen above the farthest pine-ridge, I was sleeping the sweetestsleep that had been mine for years. 

The conjuror's grave was green with grass and purple with wild thymewhen Hortense knelt beside it, and there consummated the wearypilgrimage of half a life. The sapling willow had spread its arms abovehim in a pleasant canopy, leaning farther and reaching higher, yearby year, "And lo! the twig to which they laid his head had now become a tree!"

Hortense found nothing of her father but this grave. Papers andtitle-deeds there were none. 

I well remembered the anxious search made thirteen years ago, when noteven a card was found to indicate the whereabouts of his friends orfamily. Not to lose the vestige of a chance, we pushed inquiry farther;but in vain. Our rector, now a very old man, remembered nothing of thewandering lecturer. Mine host and hostess of the Red Lion were bothdead. The Red Lion itself had disappeared, and become a thing oftradition. All was lost and forgotten; and of all her hereditary wealth, station, and honors, Hortense de Sainte Aulaire retained nothing but herfather's sword and her ancestral name. 

--Not even the latter for many weeks, O discerning reader! for beforethe golden harvest was gathered in, we two were wedded. 

CHAPTER LVI. 

BRINGETH THIS TRUE STORY TO AN END. 

 Ye who have traced the pilgrim to the scene Which is his last, if in your memories dwell A thought that once was his, if on ye swell A single recollection, not in vain He wore his sandal shoon and scallop-shell. 

 BYRON. 

Having related the story of my life as it happened, incident byincident, and brought it down to that point at which stories are wont toend, I find that I have little to add respecting others. My narrativefrom first to last has been purely personal. The one love of my life wasHortense--the one friend of my life, Oscar Dalrymple. The catalogue ofmy acquaintances would scarcely number so many names as I have fingerson one hand. The two first are still mine; the latter, having beenbrought forward only in so far as they re-acted upon my feelings ormodified my experiences, have become, for the most part, mere memories, and so vanish, ghost-like, from the page. Franz Müller is studying inRome, having carried off a prize at the Ecole des Beaux Arts, whichentitles him to three years at the Villa Medici, that Ultima Thule ofthe French art-student's ambition. I hear that he is as full of whim andjest as ever, and the very life of the Café Greco. May I some day hearhis pleasant laugh again! Dr. Chéron, I believe, is still practising inParis; and Monsieur de Simoncourt, I have no doubt, continues toexercise the profession of Chevalier d'Industrie, with such failures andsuccesses as are incidental to that career. 

As for my early _amourettes_, they have disappeared from my path asutterly as though they had never crossed it. Of Madame de Marignan, Ihave neither heard, nor desired to hear, more. Even Josephine's prettyface is fast fading from my memory. It is ever thus with the transientpassions of _our première jeunesse. _ We believe in them for the moment, and waste laughter and tears, chaplets and sackcloth, upon them. Presently the delusion passes; the earnest heart within us is awakened;and we know that till now we have been mere actors in "a masquerade ofdreams. " The chaplets were woven of artificial flowers. The funeral wasa mock funeral--the banquet a stage feast of painted fruits and emptygoblets! Alas! we cannot undo that foolish past. We may only hope toblot it out with after records of high, and wise, and tender things. Thus it is that the young man's heart is like the precious palimpsest ofold. He first of all defiles it with idle anacreontics in praise of loveand wine; but, erasing these by-and-by with his own pious hand, hewrites it over afresh with chronicles of a pure and holy passion, anddedicates it to the fair saint of all his orisons. 

Dalrymple and his wife are now settled in Italy, having purchased avilla in the neighborhood of Spezzia, where they live in greatretirement. In their choice of such retirement they are influenced bymore than one good reason. In the first place, the death of the Vicomtede Caylus was an event likely to be productive of many unpleasantconsequences to one who had deprived the French government of sodistinguished an officer. In the next, Dalrymple is a poor man, and hiswife is no longer rich; so that Italy agrees with their means as well aswith their tastes. Lastly, they love each other so well that they neverweary of their solitude, nor care to barter away their blue Italianskies and solemn pine-woods for the glittering unrest of society. 

Fascinated by Dalrymple's description of his villa and the life he ledin it, Hortense and I made up our minds some few weeks after ourmarriage, to visit that part of Italy--perhaps, in case we were muchpleased with it, to settle there, for at least a few years. So Iprepared once more to leave my father's house; this time to let it, forI knew that I should never live in it again. 

It took some weeks to clear the old place out. The thing was necessary;yet I felt as if it were a kind of sacrilege. To disturb the old dustupon the library-shelves and select such books as I cared to keep; tosort and destroy all kinds of hoarded papers; to ransack desks that hadnever been unlocked since the hands that last closed them were laid torest for ever, constituted my share of the work. Hortense superintendedthe rest. As for the household goods, we resolved to keep nothing, savea few old family portraits and my father's plate, some of which haddescended to us through two or three centuries. 

While yet in this unsettled state, with the house all in confusion andthe time appointed for our journey drawing nearer and nearer day by day, a strange thing happened. 

At the end of the garden, encroaching partly upon a corner of it, andopening into the lane that bounded it on the other side of the hedge, stood the stable belonging to the house. 

It had been put to no use since my father's time, and was now sothoroughly out of repair that I resolved to have it pulled down andrebuilt before letting it to strangers. In the meantime, I went downthere one morning with a workman before the work of demolitionwas begun. 

We had some difficulty to get in, for the lock and hinges were rusted, and the floor within was choked with fallen rubbish. At length weforced an entrance. I thought I had never seen a more dreary interior. My father's old chaise was yet standing there, with both wheels off. Themouldy harness was dropping to pieces on the walls. The beams werefestooned with cobwebs. The very ladder leading to the loft above was sorotten that I scarcely dared trust to it for a footing. 

Having trusted to it, however, I found myself in a still more ruinousand dreary hole. The posts supporting the roof were insecure; the tileswere all displaced overhead; and the rafters showed black and bareagainst the sky in many places. In one corner lay a heap of mouldystraw, and at the farther end, seen dimly through the darkness, a pileof old lumber, and--by Heaven! the pagoda-canopy of many colors, and thelittle Chevalier's Conjuring Table!

I could scarcely believe my eyes. My poor Hortense! Here, at last, weresome relics of her father; but found in how strange a place, and by howstrange a chance!

I had them dragged out into the light, all mildewed and cob-webbed asthey were; whereupon an army of spiders rushed out in every direction, abat rose up, shrieking, and whirled in blind circles overhead. In acorner of the pagoda we found an empty bird's-nest. The table was small, and could be got out without much difficulty; so I helped the workman tocarry it down the ladder, and sending it on before me to the house, sauntered back through the glancing shadows of the acacia-leaves, musingupon the way in which these long-forgotten things had been brought tolight, and wondering how they came to be stored away in my own stable. 

"Do you know anything about it, Collins?" I said, coming up suddenlybehind him in the hall. 

"About what, sir?" asked that respectable servant, looking round withsome perplexity, as if in search of the nominative. 

I pointed to the table, now being carried into the dismantleddining-room. 

Collins smiled--he had a remarkably civil, apologetic way of smilingbehind his hand, as if it were a yawn or a liberty. 

"Oh, sir, " said he, "don't you remember? To be sure, you were quite ayoung gentleman at that time--but---"

"But what?" I interrupted, impatiently. 

"Why, sir, that table once belonged to a poor little conjuring chap whocalled himself Almond Pudding, and died. . . . "

I checked him with a gesture. 

"I know all that, " I said, hastily. "I remember it perfectly; but howcame the things into my stable?"

"Your respected father and my honored master, sir, had them conveyedthere when the Red Lion was sold off, " said Collins, with a sidelongglance at the dining-room door. "He was of opinion, sir, that they mightsome day identify the poor man to his relatives, in case of inquiry. "

I heard the sound of a suppressed sob, and, brushing past him withoutanother word, went in and closed the door. 

"My own Hortense!" I said, taking her into my arms. "My wife!"

Pale and tearful, she lifted her face from my shoulder, and pointed tothe table. 

"I know what it is, " she faltered. "You need not tell me. My heart tellsme!"

I led her to a chair, and explained how and where it had been found. Ieven told her of the little empty nest from which the young birds hadlong since flown away. In this tiny incident there was somethingpathetic that soothed her; so, presently, when she left off weeping, weexamined the table together. 

It was a quaint, fragile, ricketty thing, with slender twisted legs ofblack wood, and a cloth-covered top that had once been green, but nowretained no vestige of its original color. This cloth top was coveredwith slender slits of various shapes and sizes, round, square, sexagonal, and so forth, which, being pressed with the finger, fellinwards and disclosed little hiding-places sunk in the well of thetable; but which, as soon as the pressure was removed, flew up again bymeans of concealed springs, and closed as neatly as before. 

"This is strange, " said Hortense, peering into one of the recesses. "Ihave found something in the table! Look--it is a watch!"

I snatched it from her, and carried it to the window. Blackened anddiscolored as it was, I recognised it instantly. 

It was my own watch--my own watch of which I was so boyishly vain yearsand years ago, and which I had lost so unaccountably on the night of theChevalier's performance! There were my initials engraved on the back, amid a forest of flourishes, and there on the dial was that identicallittle Cupid with the cornucopia of flowers, which I once thought such amiracle of workmanship! Alas! what a mighty march old Time had stolenupon me, while that little watch was standing still!

"Oh, Heaven!--oh, husband!"

Startled from my reverie more by the tone than the words, I turned andsaw Hortense with a packet of papers in her hand--old, yellow, dustypapers, tied together with a piece of black ribbon. 

"I found them there--there--there!" she faltered, pointing to a drawerin the table which I now saw for the first time. "I chanced to pressthat little knob, and the drawer flew out. Oh, my dear father!--see, Basil, here are his patents of nobility--here is the certificate of mybirth--here are the title-deeds of the manor of Sainte Aulaire! Thisalone was wanted to complete our happiness!"

"We will keep the table, Hortense, all our lives!" I explained, when thefirst agitation was past. 

"As sacredly, " replied she, "as it kept this precious secret!"

 * * * * *

My task is done. Here on my desk lies the piled-up manuscript which hasbeen my companion through so many pleasant hours. Those hours are overnow. I may lay down my pen, and put aside the whispering vine-leavesfrom my casement, and lean out into the sweet Italian afternoon, as idlyas though I wore to the climate and the manner born. 

The world to-day is only half awake. The little white town, croucheddown by the "beached margent" of the bay, winks with its glitteringwindows and dozes in the sunshine. The very cicalas are silent. Thefishermen's barques, with their wing-like sails all folded to rest, rocklazily at anchor, like sea-birds asleep. The cork-trees nod languidly toeach other; and not even yonder far-away marble peaks are moremotionless than that cloud which hangs like a white banner in the sky. Hush! I can almost believe that I hear the drowsy washing of the tideagainst the ruined tower on the beach. 

And this is the bay of Spezzia--the lovely, treacherous bay of Spezzia, where our English Shelley lost his gentle life! How blue those cruelwaters are to-day! Bluer, by Heaven! than the sky, with scarce a ripplesetting to the shore. 

We are very happy in our remote Italian home. It stands high upon ahill-side, and looks down over a slope of silvery olives to the sea. Vineyard and orange grove, white town, blue bay, and amber sands liemapped out beneath our feet. Not a felucca "to Spezzia bound from CapeCircella" can sail past without our observation. 

 "Not a sun can die, nor yet be born, unseen By dwellers at my villa. "

Nay, from this very window, one might almost pitch an orange into theempty vettura standing in the courtyard of the Croce di Malta!

Then we have a garden--a wild, uncultured place, where figs and lemons, olives "blackening sullen ripe, " and prickly aloes flourish in rankprofusion, side by side; and a loggia, where we sit at twilight drinkingour Chianti wine and listening to the nightingales; and a study lookingout on the bay through a trellis of vine-leaves, where we read and writetogether, surrounded by our books. Here, also, just opposite my desk, hangs Müller's copy of that portrait of the Marquise de Sainte Aulaire, which I once gave to Hortense, and which is now my own again. How oftenI pause upon the unturned page, how often lay my pen aside, to look fromthe painting to the dear, living face beneath it! For there she sits, day after day, my wife! my poet! with the side-light falling on herhair, and the warm sea-breezes stirring the soft folds of her dress. Sometimes she lifts her eyes, those wondrous eyes, luminous from within"with the light of the rising soul"--and then we talk awhile of ourwork, or of our love, believing ever that

 "Our work shall still be better for our love, And still our love be sweeter for our work. "

Perhaps the original of that same painting in the study may yet be ourssome day, with the old château in which it hangs, and all the broadlands belonging thereunto. Our claim has been put forward some time now, and our lawyers are confident of success. Shall we be happier, if thatsuccess is ours? Can rank add one grace, or wealth one pleasure, to alife which is already so perfect? I think not, and there are momentswhen I almost wish that we may never have it in our power to testthe question. 

But stay! the hours fly past. The sun is low, and the tender Italiantwilight will soon close in. Then, when the moon rises, we shall sailout upon the bay in our own tiny felucca; or perhaps go down through thetown to that white villa gleaming out above the dark tops of yondercypresses, and spend some pleasant hours with Dalrymple and his wife. They, too, are very happy; but their happiness is of an older date thanours, and tends to other ends. They have bought lands in theneighborhood, which they cultivate; and they have children whom theyadore. To educate these little ones for the wide world lying beyond thatblue bay and the far-off mountains, is the one joy, the one care oftheir lives. Truly has it been said that

 "A happy family Is but an earlier heaven. "

THE END.